#*grammar and spelling!

[byakuyasdarling]

I hate when people nitpick how others speak (specially pronunciation) — because you’re clearly just correcting them on minor, understandable issues to feel superior.

[stingrayextraordinaire]

Another year, another group of my delightful ninth graders trying to spell the word "tragedy" for their Romeo and Juliet assignment.

Last year's collection

[aethersea]

Grammar PSA

the expression you're looking for is reining in. it is NOT reigning in. it comes from horseback riding.

you REIN IN your horse when you pull on the rein to tell him to slow down.

similarly, you GIVE HIM FREE REIN when you loosen your grip on the reins and let him run as fast as he likes.

that's where the metaphor comes from. you can rein in your evil vizier when he proposes a little too much child murder, or you can give him free rein when you need your enemies obliterated and only underhanded treachery will do. but unless he actually pulls off that nefarious coup he's plotting, the only one reigning here is you.

[fox-and-the-hound]

What if Rainbow Dash and Fluttershy swapped cutie-marks, but their personalities stayed the same?

[thunderc1an]

Hollypaw, Jaypaw, and Lionpaw.

These golden hues remind Brambleclaw so much of his mother, Goldenflower. He sees his mother in his children; this pleases him.

In actuality, the gold came from Sandstorm.

Though, they were never his to begin with. And these traits he believed to have seen were simple illusions of a cat whose features he had already started to forget.

But oh, how her fur would shine in the sun, a lovely shade of gold. It must be a match for their fur shined in the sun as well.

Fool's gold.

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

Continuation to This Post :]

------

It was always so strange to hear adults argue.

Grown up fights never seemed quite the same as the trivial spats her and Dipper sometimes had. They were similar in some aspects, yes; Adults and children weren't as different as people liked to think. Mabel had seen adults verbally lash at one another with vicious words just as low hanging and petty as the ones she'd sometimes see kids the same age as her use. Adults arguing was essentially just a louder, angrier version of children fights.

And yet, there was somehow... more to it. Grown up arguments always seemed to weigh so much heavier in the air, and for so much longer than she'd ever thought possible.

Sometimes, the weight would leave quick and early, practically gone by the next morning. However, occasionally, the weight would stay; and grow heavier, and heavier over the years. Until it came to a point when the weight was nothing but a choking, stifling presence that seemed to fill every room in the house and buzz deafeningly in your ears like an unpleasant static that made your head pound.

Then, one day, the pressure would burst with a loud yell, a slam, and a bang, and start building up all over again. It was a cycle Mabel was much familiar with.

Her Grunkle Ford's "Mystery Shack" didn't have that air.

The shack's air smelled like burnt out candles and cheap discount Halloween fake blood, with a hint of real blood underneath the stinging scent of old wood and aged parchment. It wasn't necessarily a very nice air, certainly not in any way the fresh, crisp, clean air of the streets of Piedmont, but it smelled more like home than she'd ever felt back in California. It just smelled like... Grunkle Ford.

She liked her Grunkle Ford. He was super weird; with an even weirder Uncle as his roommate. He checked her and Dipper's arms and legs every morning "just in case someone broke in at night to steal a sample of their bloods"; he despised overly sweet foods (baffling, truly); and he had exactly 27 locks installed on the front and back door respectively that he could unlock all in under a minute with his really fast extra fingers. He reminded her a little of Dipper on some occasions, no matter how much the latter liked to deny the similarities (although, bar the demonic obssession).

However, last night, the air suddenly grew heavy.

Grunkle Ford had a fight.

Mabel hadn't heard it, and she hadn't seen it, but she knew there had been one. She was an expert recognizing the signs; she could always tell.

When she had awoken that late morning, the stuffy summer air had taken an even more sour note than usual, and had become a touch heavier than it should have been. Either that meant Grunkle Ford had just recently finished up a ritual, or a particularly rowdy argument had taken place; and Mabel knew that Grunkle Ford only performed his rituals between 2 to 4 AM, when he thought the twins were well asleep.

It was strange, to feel that same heavy air push down upon her temples and pound that same painful rhythm of a mounting headache as it used to do so often back when Mabel was in California. It had already happened a few times at the shack, but this one felt... heavier, than usual. She didn't think she would have to encounter the discomforting weight again this summer, away from her parents. Yet here she was. Aching.

She knew Gunkle Ford and Uncle Bill fought and bantered. With Bill being a permanent resident trapped within her Grunkle's mind, she couldn't imagine how they wouldn't. She didn't think even she could keep her cool if she had Uncle Bill as her brain roommate 24/7.

In any case, their interactions in front of the twins were mostly a mixture of exasperated resignation, or irritated tolerance, mostly from Grunkle Ford. Their occasional volleying exchanges of vitriol doused insults and words were short lived, and brief most of the time, especially when in front of the kids. They were nothing like the long, loud ones that could go on for hours back at her house in Piedmont.

Even so, there were some times when Mabel would see Grunkle Ford late in the evening, red faced and tight fisted, stomping down to the basement and disappearing into his lab there with a deafening slam of the rickety wooden door. She recognized that slam. He didn't want the twins to hear the argument.

Even if they could hear anything, what little they could glean always seemed to be only side of the argument, with Grunkle Ford yelling curses at Uncle Bill inside his head. She always did wonder what happened inside Grunkle Ford's head. Although, she wasn't sure if she wanted to know the answer. She couldn't imagine the state of the mind of someone who sometimes forgot to eat or sleep for almost a full week until someone reminded him.

The entire day passed with that same, tense air choking the atmosphere. Dipper had dragged Mabel and himself to some adventure in the forest, but it seemed to her that he was just trying to find excuses to stay out of the shack for the time being. Even he seemed to feel the unnerving heaviness of the air.

That night, underneath her sheets, Mabel pulled out the worn and well used wooden art mannequins Dipper and Grunkle Ford seemed to keen on using to summon Bill rather than their own shadows. With her trusty golden glitter pen (that she knew Uncle Bill loved despite what he claimed), she gently drew a closed eye upon the blank wooden face of the little model.

The eye opened, and she spoke:

[21cha]

Little sunset duo comic I really wanted to make because you know, Mikey deserves Raph's praise and recognition as much as Leo does (honestly, they all do). Given their relationship and Raph's habit of babying Mikey, I think he'd be proud of his little brother for what he accomplished on Staten Island.

(Also, I know Raph is a leftie, but for the sake of this comic let's all just pretend he's ambidextrous okay)

[actual-changeling]

welcome back to alex's unhinged meta corner, today's topic: the chest touch at the pub. that scene has me in a chokehold for some reason and i still cannot stop thinking about it.

the first thing i wanna talk about is crowley's reaction, since this is the shorter part. he did not expect aziraphale to reach out to him like this and freezes for a second while aziraphale happily chatters away.

they were both walking and the hand on his chest stops him, so he comes to a stop right next to him while he was slightly behind him before that. his gaze also snaps to aziraphale's face, who is very much not looking at him.

they were having a conversation, but the touch essentially shuts crowley up and zira leaves him to get their drinks.

now, my question is why aziraphale does it. sure, it could just be an absent gesture since they're in a crowded place, just that he has never really done so before. i think it was very much planned, like asking crowley to dance and grabbing his hand later on.

a second before he actually reaches out, he also looks back to check whether crowley is where he thinks he is. that is the only time he does that, he was busy looking for a free table and miracles them one when he cannot find one - the look back is deliberate. especially since crowley is practically glued to his side, he has no need for confirmation, he can feel him brushing against him while walking.

the hand motion he does gets me, too. he is busy fidgeting with his hands like normal and has them clasped in front of him. aziraphale lifts them once he gets to "that is precisely the point", yet also already moves it slightly towards crowley, realizes he miscalculated where exactly he/his chest is, looks to check, then looks away again before actually touching him. am i reading too much into it? maybe.

i think it is his version of a little temptation. not only does it make crowley's brain short-circuit for a second, he also gets them their drinks and is now (or so aziraphale hopes) a bit calmer and will take the news aziraphale is about to give him better. the conversation at the cafe did not go entirely as planned, after all.

additionally, something i am not sure if other people have noticed or not is that aziraphale does not just touch crowley, it is a caress. he moves his hand down his chest.

the movement in order:

bar girl unfortunately moves in front of them, but you can clearly see the way his hand takes. to give you a direct comparison of the starting and end point:

a good point of reference is crowley's bolo tie but also the angle of aziraphale's arm while it is still visible.

the best part, in my opinion, is that aziraphale puts his hand right on top of crowley's heart. i think the symbolic importance of that is pretty clear and does not require any more explanation, although it makes me want to throw myself into a river. but that's by the by.

to summarize, aziraphale caresses crowley's heart chest to get him to calm down and not go insane over the news he is about to give him. he is also simply a bastard and knows exactly what he is doing to crowley.

as always, this is me going nuts with analysis, but i'm also curious to hear other people's thoughts on this.

don't tell my therapist about my unhinged meta posts or she will probably be very concerned for my mental wellbeing

[adziedoodle]

⚢ ⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖ ♡ yurifies your phan ♡ ⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖ ⚢

—- more phan doodles here | commissions open ♡

[identitty-dickruption]

every single person without dyslexia needs to answer for their crimes immediately

[fabuloustrash05]

Some of my Dragon Ball headcanons <3

[evilboygir1]

just saying i’ve never met a good bowler who’s not a lesbian

[noxemma]

Parts 1&2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 |

@colorlessjay thank you so much for the awesome story idea and the inspiration for the title, I really dig the idea of a romance in reverse (I'm not a phenomenal artist but this came to me in a vision, so I had to give it a go 😂). Hopefully you enjoy this next installment (Cas POV this time) as much as the last ones

---

Steering through the Rearview: A Romance in Reverse

First comes love a kid(napping), then comes a marriage ... Yeah, they're definitely doing things in the wrong order, but maybe, if they're lucky, they can figure out how to reverse their way into something real.

---

Castiel takes the hint when Dean turns up the music. Not that he minds; he's not sure what had possessed him to say those words to Dean.

That's not entirely true, Castiel mentally chastises himself. Dean's words may have been gruff and stained with anger, but his eyes. His eyes had been sad and full of ... Caged hope? No, that doesn't sound quite right. It's not caged exactly, more like ... Castiel looks at Dean, searching for the right words to describe the beautiful and complicated man beside him.

Dean must feel him staring because he darts a quick, nervous smile his way. Hobbled, maybe. Unable to run free, but still wild and wanting inside.

"What? Do I have somethin' on my face?" Dean asks, turning the music down and letting out a chuckle that sounds forced.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stare, I just got ... lost in thought," Castiel rushes to explain, trying to will the heat back down that he feels rushing to his cheeks. "Sam's written several stories about traveling. Lovely pieces full of nostalgia and wonder. I assume those were trips taken in this car, with you and your father?" "Uh," Dean starts, one hand coming off the wheel to rub at the back of his neck. A nervous habit, Castiel is quickly learning. "Yeah. I guess they must be. This was the most stable home we had for a good chunk of our childhood." Dean shoots a glance at Castiel, magnificent green eyes wide, like he's confessed something he shouldn't have, or didn't mean to. "That would make sense, then," Castiel responds with a warm smile that he hopes is reassuring.

He understands not wanting to talk about rocky childhoods. Or fathers, for that matter. So, while Dean's admission only stokes his already blazing curiosity about the man, he forces himself to let it go and let whatever band Dean has playing take over the conversation. To his surprise, Dean doesn't take the out, choosing instead to continue talking.

"Uh, Sam told me he, um, well, whenever I agreed to this, he told me that he wrote a lot about our childhood for your class. He also said you were ridiculously smart, so you'd probably be able to put some stuff together." Dean's not looking at him, but Castiel can see his hands tighten on the wheel and his shoulders tense. "He did," Castiel admits. "Although it is a creative writing class so I can't be sure how much is real and how much is fictional. But, well, we tend to write what we know. I try not to read too much into them, unless of course I'm worried a student might harm themselves or someone else. However, one story of his in particular does stand out."

"Yeah?" Dean's answer is breathless and high, compressed fear dampening the sound.

"It was about a boy and his brother and their father. They lived on the road, chasing down supernatural entities, trying to get revenge for their dead mother," Castiel tells him slowly, verbally approaching with his hands raised to show he means no harm. "It was really wonderful, best in the entire class, though I'm sure it was written with a heavy dose of creative license. Or did you really hunt monsters across the United States?"

Dean lets out a whoosh of air, relaxing back into the seat and letting color come back into his knuckles. "No. And, yes, kind of. Man, Sam has one hell of an imagination," Dean lets out a relieved laugh before continuing. "Mom died just a few months after Sam was born. House fire, or well, arson. The guy they think did it was a criminal who skipped out on his bail, but the police could never track him down. I think that's part of the reason why Sam is going into criminal law. Anyway, Dad took it hard and became a bounty hunter. It gave him a sense of purpose and resources to work on Mom's case in his spare time, for a little while anyway. But, as the years went by, and the leads went cold, he started taking comfort in a bottle. He was drunk when he totaled Baby. Nearly killed Sam and I." "You were in the car with him? How old were you?" Castiel manages to bite his tongue after the second question escapes his lips. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't pry." "Nah, it's okay. It's practically ancient history now. I was seventeen, Sam was thirteen. Dad kept insisting he was fine to drive, and I tried to argue. And I know I should have tried harder, or hidden his keys or something but, but there was just no getting through to him when he got that way ..." Dean's eyes go far away and Castiel is pretty sure he's seeing something other than the road. His jaw clenches and he gulps before he blinks, eyes refocusing. "Anyway, can't change the past. Sam was in the backseat, so he was the least hurt, which was a fucking miracle." "And you?" Castiel breathes, riveted and horrified as more pieces of Sam's writing slot into place; the pretty paint facade of fiction washing away from the story, revealing the uglier truth behind it. Dean rubs his neck again, hesitating before admitting, "I was in the hospital for over a week. Bobby and his wife Karen fostered us until I turned eighteen. Gave me a job at his junkyard and taught me how to be a mechanic. Helped me get my GED and paid for me to go to trade school and get my ASE certification. Not to mention he helped me petition the state for custody of Sam once I had full-time employment and an apartment in my name." Before he realizes what he's doing, Castiel's hand is on Dean's knee, squeezing reassuringly as he says, "I'm so sorry, Dean. No child should have to go through that. I'm glad you had someone like Bobby to help you." "Thanks, Cas. Me too. But, like I said, it's all ancient history now." They both know he's lying but Cas doesn't call him on it because he's too busy trying to remain calm when Dean lowers his hand to cover his own.

"Cas?" Castiel asks, cursing how breathy his voice sounds and pulling his hand slowly back into his own space before he does something irrational like skipping the wedding and just driving around for the next few days. "You've called me that a few times now."

"Yeah. Cas. You know, the shortened version of your name or, as it's more commonly known: a nickname," Dean rolls his eyes, laughing like Cas has made some great joke. He stops when Cas just stares at him in confusion. "Hang on, has no one really ever called you that before?" "Um. No?" Dean's mouth drops open, and he stares at Cas in the passenger seat for long enough that Cas is worried they might start to drift off the road if he doesn't snap him out of it. "My parents were, um, very formal and ... strict," Cas explains quickly, pitching his voice high in a poor imitation of Naomi, "'Castiel, if I wanted you to be called something else, I would have put it on your birth certificate.'" Dean let's out a snort and the cold dread, which had begun squeezing its icy fist around Cas' chest at the memory of the woman who gave birth to him, recedes at the sound. "Seriously? Man, I can't imagine if I had to run around calling Sam 'Samuel' for the rest of his life. What kind of name is Castiel anyway? European?"

"Biblical. My parents were also extremely religious. They named all of us after angels. Michael, Gabriel, Lucifer." "Damn, and here I was feeling bad about myself for being named after my grandmother, Deanna. Although at least you aren't Lucifer. Does he really go by that?"

"He went by Nick until he died few years ago. Or at least that's what Gabriel told me," Cas admits.

Dean shoots him another look but doesn't press. Instead, he mimics Cas' action from earlier, right hand coming off the wheel to squeeze his leg. He knows the action is supposed to be comforting, but knowing doesn't stop the heat sizzling up his veins.

Cas closes his eyes to fight against the feeling. It doesn't help; green eyes and freckles emblazon against the back of his eyelids.

How long has it been since someone, besides Charlie or my students or Jack, touched me, intentionally? Months? Years?

Cas stifles a groan. Because it doesn't matter. It's clearly been long enough that his body is responding disproportionately, and he has to stop it. Now. So, he starts talking about the one thing he knows for sure will kill any errant desire he's feeling.

"My parents disowned me when I came out to them. Gabriel is the only one who still speaks to me. He would have probably been disowned too if he hadn't kept the family name and become so successful so quickly. This wedding is actually the first time I'll be seeing any of them beside him in well over a decade now." "Shit, sorry, Cas," Dean blurts before chewing his lip and darting more glances his way, clearly debating something. "You can ask whatever it is you're wondering," Cas encourages, welcoming the distraction. "Uh, why are you going to this wedding then? I mean, I get that they're family, but well, to quote Bobby, 'family don't end in blood. And it don't start there either.'"

The voice Dean puts on when quoting his surrogate father wrings a laugh out of Cas and the dangerous heat of attraction is replaced with an equally dangerous, though less embarrassing, warmth centered father up his body.

"I'm getting the idea that Bobby was a very wise man. But, to answer your question: I'm going because Jack is actually my biological nephew. I was friends with Kelly, his mother, and I raised him like my own when she died from complications shortly after giving birth. She never put Lucifer on his birth certificate and her parents never contested her choice to name me his as his godfather and legal guardian. But, somehow, Naomi and Chuck have found out about him, and they are threatening to petition for custody of him if I don't show up."

"Why? On what grounds?" Dean explodes, barely contained fury adding a growl to the words that sends a tingle up his spine and forces him to shift in his seat. "I'm a single father and a man who wouldn't be able to afford the house I'm living in if it wasn't paid for by my more successful brother, and gay on top of that," Cas ticks off, "Plus a few others, I'm sure."

Dean stays silent, but rage radiates off him in heavy waves. Cas is just about to try and call off the whole ridiculous idea, sure Dean will agree now that he knows what he'll be up against, when Dean's face brightens and he pins Cas with a wild stare, stealing the breath he was about to use to speak.

"Hey, Cas. How do you feel about being fiancés?"

Cas, ever a pillar of grace and decorum, chokes on his own spit.

"Shit, sorry. You're Sam's favorite professor and I'm pretty sure he can kill me without leaving a trace, so please don't die!"

"Why-" Cas starts, coughing and gasping a few more times before managing to get the rest of the question out, "Why would you want to be my fiancé?" "Well, you're gorgeous and kind for one, so who wouldn't want to be your fiancé," Dean says with a wink at him and Cas is grateful that his face is already red from nearly choking to death on his own saliva. "But I was thinking, we were already going to pretend to be boyfriends, right? So why not go for gold? We can knock off at least two of those reasons you mentioned. I practically raised Sam so I'm no stranger to the whole parent thing. We become fiancés and suddenly you're a two parent, dual income household. I mean, I'm not rolling in wealth by any means, but I do okay enough, though most of the money I make doing restorations goes to helping Sam out with tuition, but they don't need to know that."

"But we don't know anything about each other, how would we be able to convince my parents that we're planning on getting married?" Cas challenges, not quite daring to hope that they might have a chance at pulling this off. "Well, we've got approximately five hours to figure it out. Plenty of time, plus we already know a lot about each other." Cas tilts his head and opens his mouth, but Dean answers his question before it can escape.

"You know that I have a younger brother who I raised, that I work as a mechanic and a car restoration expert, not to mention you apparently already described me to 'Uncle Gabe,'" Dean takes a breath and hurries on before Cas can interrupt, not that he would, "I know that your parents are mega douchebags who don't appreciate what an amazing son they have. I know that you're an English professor at Stanford and that you're an amazing dad, aside from a slight oversight in the stranger danger department. But most importantly, I know that Jack belongs with you and I'm willing to do whatever I can to help make that happen."

Cas' heart thuds in his chest at Dean's vehement declaration. "I- Thank you, Dean," Cas manages before his throat closes up entirely and he's blinking rapidly to keep the moisture forming in his eyes from falling onto his cheeks. "Great!" Dean chirps, flicking on his turn signal and changing lanes to speed around a slow-moving truck. "So, babe. How did we meet? Because, somehow, I feel like telling your folks that I accidentally kidnapped your son will be counterproductive."

[crystalshard]

Because I keep seeing this mistake:

It’s free rein. Not free reign. Free rein is when you give the horse a choice in where to go; it implies you have the freedom to choose your path.

It is NOT free reign. Ruling is one of the least free things you can do.

[thunderc1an]

how to love a stranger

[playedwright]

please do 4 or 28 or 36 for buddie my beautiful stunning wife 💕 whichever you like 😘

YIPPEE YIPPEE thank u my love<3 bc i am crazy i somehow managed to work all prompts in. don't ask me how my brain is lava now.

4. "How long do we have?" + 28. "Is that a threat?" 36. "I wasn't going to mention it."

"So," Eddie says, settling into the couch. Buck's face is beaming at him from his phone screen--he looks nice, in the way he has in most of their calls recently, wearing a hoodie and an apron because he calls Eddie when he cooks, and Eddie loves it. He loves it. He loves--

"So?" Buck prods. He's making some fancy dessert, tarte au chocolat, he'd told Eddie, saying the words slowly to keep from messing up. Maddie's pregnancy is bringing chocolate cravings this time around, he'd said, and she had finally worn him down into making something for her.

"So," continues Eddie, "you're making Maddie a French dessert because she's craving chocolate. What's wrong with good old-fashioned chocolate cake?"

Buck laughs a little, shaking his head. There's a small streak of melted chocolate on his cheek, so faint Eddie can barely see it through the camera. For some reason Eddie can't make sense of, it's all he can focus on. "I owe her something big. I've been, uh... ignoring her, kind of. Dodging something she keeps trying to bring up. But as she not so subtly pointed out, I've been the asshole ignoring his pregnant sister. So, fancy French dessert to make up for it."

Eddie hums. In the past couple of weeks that he's been gone, that he's spent calling Buck every day, he's grown used to watching Buck cook. Watching him measure ingredients carefully when he's baking, or substituting when he's cooking, watching him mouth along to the recipe as he double checks that he's got it right, watching the way he lights up as it all comes together. He thinks he could spend the rest of his life watching Buck cook and never grow tired of it.

"What were you ignoring?" he asks.

Buck seems focused on the eggs he cracks into a bowl. "Hm?"

"Maddie. What's the subject you kept trying to avoid?"

Eddie and Buck worked side by side for years--so close that Eddie grew to know what every push and pull of Buck's movements meant. So he knows, by the way Buck's face goes carefully blank, by the way his eyes tighten as he refuses to look away from the bowl, by the way his hands move a little too quickly for someone who has been taking his time up until this point.

"Oh," Buck says, voice light. Eddie's still staring at that damn streak of chocolate on his cheek, wanting suddenly--shockingly--to press his lips there to taste. "It was nothing."

"Buck, c'mon, clearly it wasn't nothing. You know you can tell me anything. Don't make me fly out there and force it out of you."

The laugh that bursts out of Buck sounds almost strangled, surprising Eddie. "Is that a threat?"

Eddie shrugs. "If it needs to be."

"Jeez, don't waste your money," Buck mutters. "It's really not that big of a deal. It's just--look, a few weeks ago, I saw Tommy again. Don't--don't make that face. The point is, he kind of... implied that I have feelings for you. And when I told Maddie about it, she took that as her invitation to talk it to death. I told her there wasn't anything to talk about."

Eddie--

He thinks he blue-screens. He doesn't really know how else to describe it, except that one second his systems are running as normal and then the next someone has force-quit the entire thing. He's not even sure he's blinking.

Because--

"Did we lose connection?" Buck says, laughing nervously. "Eddie--"

"Feelings for me?" Eddie blurts out. "You--"

"No," Buck interrupts quickly. Too quickly. Eddie thinks he might be having a heart attack. His face is numb. "No, it's not--no, Eddie, it's just that, we're close, and Tommy was threatened by that, or something. And you know how Maddie gets, once she gets an idea in her head it's impossible to get out. So it's just. Like I said, it's nothing."

"It's not nothing," Eddie says a little hysterically. "Do you...?"

Buck hesitates for just a second too long.

And that--

After years of system reboots and struggling to feel normal and never really feeling like he knew himself, everything comes back online. Every stray wire connects.

Buck has feelings for him.

And Eddie--Eddie has been in love with him for years.

"I wasn't going to mention it," Buck murmurs. His ears are pink, and he shifts his weight from foot to foot, and he's one of the most beautiful things Eddie has ever seen.

"Buck," Eddie breathes.

"Don't," whispers Buck, eyes downcast. Eddie wants to be there with him, wants to cradle Buck's face in his hands, wishes he could look him in the eye as they talk about this. He wants, desperately, to kiss the chocolate off of Buck's cheek. "It's fine, Eddie. You don't have to say anything."

"Buck," Eddie says insistently. "Mention it, baby. Never stop mentioning it. Say it so I can tell you that I feel the same."

Buck blinks in shock. There's a bowl in front of him, with a dessert he's still in the middle of making for his sister, and there's eight hundred and sixteen miles between them, and Eddie loves him. A forever kind of love. He can't believe that five minutes ago, he didn't even know it existed.

"You--" Buck starts. His jaw works slowly as he processes.

"We aren't going to tell each other for the first time over FaceTime," Eddie decides, and in that moment he starts wondering how quickly he can pack a bag for him and Chris and get them to the airport for a weekend trip. Or, he thinks a little crazily, spring break. It's soon enough. "Because I'm flying out to see you, and I'm gonna say it then, but--Buck. Please, just. Mention it, okay?"

Buck's smiling from ear to ear. Beaming, really, so bright it's glowing through the screen, and Eddie loves him and loves him and loves him. All he says is, "Okay," and then Eddie knows his returning grin is just as bright.

"When Chris gets home, we're gonna look at flights," Eddie tells him, a little hysterical with how giddy he suddenly feels. "I'll text you all the details. He should be home soon."

"Okay," Buck says again. His eyes light up. "What about until then?"

"What do you mean?"

Buck steps back from the camera a bit, giving himself space to put the dessert in the oven. Eddie had almost forgotten that's what he'd been doing at all. When he's done, he leans against the island and puts a hand on his belt. There's a smirk on his face that sends a rush of want right down Eddie's spine. "I mean, this dessert has to bake for a while. And Christopher isn't home. What should we do until then?"

Eddie is powerless to do anything else. He swallows and says thickly, quietly, "How long do we have?"