chiaroscuroverse
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“You got a problem with my technique?” Cas was quiet while fluffy snowflakes landed on his hair, but his head slowly tilted. His eyes dropped to Dean’s lips. “No. I do not.”
The team is sequestered in the mountains, you know the scenery, and Dean isn't dealing with his feelings, go figure.
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She didn’t know what had gotten into him all of a sudden, but Rose Tyler had learned not to miss opportunities.
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“What’s day or night to us, anyway?” Post-Dalek, some time for earthly beauty and healing touch.
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"What do you want to live like, Doctor?" A story of cats and denial.
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Love Always, The Doctor by chiaroscuroverse, fleurdeneuf for SelenaTerna
Fandoms: Doctor Who (2005)
23 Feb 2018
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Rose Tyler-Foreman has been running her cafe and taking care of her daughter, Susan, on her own since the death of her husband, and never thought she’d be in love again. But when Susan writes a letter to Father Christmas, that just might change everything.
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- Words:
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"I'd have let you," Eddie says.
"Let me what?" Buck mumbles.
"Touch it."
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Buck becomes obsessed with uncircumcised dicks. Eddie helps him satisfy his scientific curiosity. Platonically, of course.
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"Are you okay?"
"Dunno," Buck says in a rough whisper.
"Let me take care of you," Eddie says, almost begging.
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- Part 3 of tumblr fills
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“How come you’re still awake?” Buck asks, antsy. He pulls at a loose thread inside one pocket with pinched fingers, rapidly picking apart the stitching. Better to unravel that than eight years of friendship all because said friend’s shorts have ridden up agonizingly at the thigh.
“I was waiting for you to get back. You’re kind of early, though.” Eddie’s eyes are tracked to the TV, but they dart over at Buck when he asks, “You strike out with Dixie?”
Which… Buck doesn’t even know where to start. He desperately needs to buy a vowel.
“Huh? Why—what—did I miss a text?”
Eddie, sat cross-legged on top of pearly-white cotton sheets, a vision so soft it’s making Buck dizzy, has the audacity to look puzzled. “Not from me. Why?”
or: Eddie leaves a light on for Buck.
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Someone exclaims in the background, but Buck’s voice cuts through louder when he asks, “You… you want to borrow my…?”
“Flashlight,” Eddie supplies with patient emphasis. It is not, strictly speaking, a leap of faith to assume Buck of all people would have one, but he did move recently, so— who knows what’s still lost in Packed Box Limbo. “Please tell me you have one I can use.”
“I…” there’s a lengthy pause on the other end, Buck’s voice weak and tapering off at the end. “Y-Yeah, okay.”
Or: Eddie just needs to borrow some tools. Fleshlight, flashlight, what’s the difference? The distinction has never been more illuminating.
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“Alright,” Eddie shrugs, laissez-faire. He pulls Buck’s plate to the center of the table; pushes his own forward in kind. Then he begins a drawn-out circus routine of plucking an olive at a time up and out of the bowl and plopping them onto their respective dishes, one by one.
The delicate, repetitive movement of Eddie’s pinched fingers reminds Buck of picking the petals off of flowers. He loves me. He loves me not. He love—
An olive hits him square in the forehead.
“There,” Eddie says, resolute, as the pitted projectile tumbles to the ground at Buck’s feet. “Equal treatment.”
Or: Buck, Eddie, and the olive theory. Well, in theory.