So, guess I'm making a little series out of this. I keep thinking of bucktommy moments I wish I could see, so why not write them. Post S8, wishful S9 thinking. No Plot, just vibes. I'm going for fluffy and wholesome but can't promise some angst or smut will sneak in eventually.
Part 1 |
It was a Saturday, a rare day off for the both of them. Tommy sat at the dining table with his old-man newspaper—as Evan loved to tease him about—glasses slipping down his nose as he flipped through the sports section when a sharp bang on the counter made him glance up.
On the counter top sat a neat little row of ingredients and he watched, curious, as Evan rooted around in the the lower cabinets, until he popped up with the Kitchen-Aid in his hands.
Uh-Oh.
Tommy’s stomach twisted. On one hand—whatever sweet dessert Evan had planned was bound to rock his world. On the other—he’d heard all the stories by now. Evan baked when he needed to keep his hands busy, when he was trying not to think too hard.
Tommy sifted through the last few days, searching for anything he might’ve missed or done. Nothing came to mind.
There was Evan’s grief over losing Bobby, an ever present wound, but these days he usually resorted to cooking when he was really missing his father figure. As for them, they hadn’t argued recently. Most of their so-called arguments—towels left on the floor and a puddle of water by the shower (Tommy) or forgetting to do the laundry and take out the trash in time for collecting (Evan)—were less about conflict and more about winding each other up until they landed in bed for some very effective “make-up” sex. This wasn’t one of those times, though.
“Sweetheart?” he asked, clearing his throat to get the other man’s attention.
“Hmm?” Evan answered, distracted as he muttered over his recipe notebook.
“Everything okay?”
“Yup.” Evan’s reply was quick, a little too bright. He set a bowl down and started measuring out flour.
Tommy waited him out, patient, until Evan finally set the flour down.
“Alright, no. Everything is not okay.”
Tommy’s eyebrows shot up. That wasn’t ominous at all. It could mean anything from we're out of sugar to the world is ending. “Wha—”
“I invited Eddie and Christopher over for dinner today.”
“Okay,” Tommy said slowly, confused. “That’s great, babe. I haven’t seen Christopher in ages.”
“Yes, right” Evan exclaimed before his face dropped into a scowl. “Except not great.” He huffed, cracking an egg too hard against the counter and spilling it into a bowl.
“It’s…not great?” Tommy echoed, officially baffled.
“No, Tommy. Because this is the fifth time I’ve invited him over and he’s come up with some bullshit excuse not to. First time, fine. Second time, okay, bad luck. Third time, I could still tell myself it was coincidence. But five times, Tommy? Five?”
“Um…”
“I just—I thought,” Evan worried his bottom lip before looking at him. “I thought we were fine. Sure, things are awkward sometimes, and we really haven’t talked about… well that. (Tommy had strong opinions about Eddie’s anger but now wasn’t the time) “But we’ve been slowly getting somewhere. I don’t get it.”
Evan looked so crushed, Tommy almost wanted to rush out and drag Eddie back to the house, kicking and screaming if he had to.
“Did I do something?” Evan asked in a small voice, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
Tommy was out of his chair before he’d even thought about moving. He turned Evan gently toward him. “Hey, no. Sweetheart, you haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Then why?”
Tommy took a deep breath. They’d promised to be open, even when it was scary. He weighed his words, then decided to just say them.
“I think…maybe it’s me.”
Evan’s head snapped up. “What?”
Tommy sighed. “You’ve hung out once or twice after work, right? Been to his place and out for drinks. So what’s the common denominator?”
“You think—” Evan swallowed hard. “You think he doesn’t want to come to our house.”
“More that its because I live here too, yeah.” Tommy kept his voice soft, careful not to sound reproachful. It wasn’t something he was hung up on anymore. It had hurt at first—how easily Eddie had dropped him, and then never bothered again—but Tommy had made his peace with it, for Evan.
Evan’s face crumpled. “He—he hasn’t reached out at all since we got back together, has he?'“
“No,” Tommy admitted. “But to be fair, neither have I.”
“I just wanted us all to spend time together, like we used to. And, I—I wanted you to see there’s nothing there. I know we’ve talked about it, I don't have to prove it, but—”
“Baby.” Tommy framed Evan's face in his hands. “Back then, I shouldn’t have said what I did. It wasn’t that I thought you had feelings for him. I was jealous of the place he had in your life. Afraid I didn’t matter as much to you as you did to me. But you set me straight—so to speak.” He said dryly.
That earned him a chuckle.
“Well, you were being dumb,” Evan pouted, before sighing. “And so was I.”
Tommy hummed. “But we got there in the end. That’s what matters. Hey, I love you.”
Buck made a happy little sound, cheeks pink as always when Tommy said those words. He leaned in, resting his forehead against Tommy's. “I love you too.”
Tommy brushed his thumb along Evan’s jaw. “I’ll text Eddie, invite him over for some Muay Thai. Think the guy just needs to let out some steam.”
“T—Tommy, you don’t have to—”
“I know. I want to. Besides, it won’t be free. You'll be playing nurse and taking care of the bruises.” He pressed a quick kiss to Evan’s forehead and headed off to find his phone.
From behind him came Evan’s alarmed voice. “Wait—whose bruises? Tommy?”
Tommy chuckled under his breath, already thinking of all the ways he was going to make Eddie pay for some of his past transgressions.
This is probably my most planned out fic yet, it's a yandere inspired psychological horror/romance fic! I love Gumrob and I love writing out the thought processes of characters, so far this has been a blast despite the dark subject matter.
I will warn you, this is not going to be a light fic. There will be depictions of mental breakdowns, mental illness, panic attacks, obsessive behavior, and things of that sort.
Still, if you are not deterred, I encourage you to give it a read and leave your thoughts in the comments over there! Thanks yall!
HEAR ME OUT. Foreman and Chase animatic about House after Wilson dies and House exits life early cuz I do not believe that man could live the rest of his life without Wilson to the song When He Died by Lemon Demon. Are you guys seeing this or am I just crazy
Lance knows they’re in for it the second his brain decides to wake him up, because there’s no way he’s up on time. Simulated light shines brightly on their bed, lighting the whole room up, and Lance is groggier than he usually is. They’ve most definitely slept in.
He squeezes his eyes shut, allowing himself three seconds of peace before dragging himself upright, sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the mattress, blankets still pulled up to his hips. There’s a low groan from beside him, despairing almost, and the sign of it makes Lance’s lips quirk up despite his morning grouchiness.
“Time to get up,” he says quietly, trying to blink the bleariness out from his eyes. He glances at his slippers, trying to convince himself that it’s worth getting up and facing the day. (It does not go well.)
He boyfriend grunts again, then shifts slightly, dragging his arms out from under his pillow and clamping them around Lance’s waist instead. He squeezes for a moment then relaxes, breath huffing on Lance’s bare skin. Lance places his hand on Keith’s head, brushing through the tangled mullet without looking. Keith makes several pleased noises, muffled by Lance’s hip, where he has decided to keep his face until further notice.
“We’re late for training, baby.”
Keith hums, tightening his hold. “Mhm. Tragic.”
Lance huffs, grin getting a little wider. He tries to look back at his slippers, really convince himself — they are the leaders of Voltron, after all, what kind of example does it set for the rest of the Atlas crew if they don’t bother waking up in the mornings — but he can’t pull his gaze away from Keith.
He doesn’t get the chance, often, to stop and stare. Keith gets self conscious, rarely allowing it, and they’re so busy besides. To have the chance now is a treat. A luxury. A gift, really.
And who is Lance to turn away a gift?
He settles back into the pillows with a sigh, upright enough that he won’t fall back asleep, but reclined enough that it’s clear he’s not getting up, either. The position isn’t lost on Keith, who smiles widely enough that Lance feels it, the slightest press of crooked incisors on the soft skin of his hip.
“Don’t get used to this,” Lance warns. “It’s not happening again.”
Keith kisses him slightly, not moving. “Sure, sweetheart. Whatever you say.”
Lance tugs on his hair, rolling his eyes. Keith’s shakes slightly as he laughs, completely unintimidated, then settles back in to the bed. His breathing evens, and he’s out within seconds.
“I hate how you can do that,” Lance mutters. “Goober.”
He sits for a while, contemplative, as Keith’s snores full the room again. He traces the shape of Keith’s bare shoulders, the curve of his rins and waist, the jut of his hipbone, the bend of his knee. With his eyes, first, then with light, careful fingers; running along the heat of his boyfriend’s skin, over the sheer just barely covering his backside, as far as he can reach. Not to start something, for once, although he wouldn’t be opposed to it, but to feel his chest expand with every breath, the coarseness of short black hairs covering his skin, the bumps and stutters of scars crisscrossing everywhere he can look. The ridges of a map he’s studied thousands of times before, worshipped, noted and re-noted again and again and again, committed to memory.
“You are the most beautiful thing in this goddamn universe.” It’s a breathless kind of awe, the way he says it, like he’s just discovered it. He hasn’t — he’s known Keith was beautiful for as long as he’s known Keith — but he’s reminded every day, every morning they wake up together, every time they train and Keith’s grace and power is entrancing. He never forgets, but every time he looks at him he’s reminded.
His eyes start to grow heavy. He’s not tired — not really — and he’s only just woken up from hours of sleep, but Keith is so warm. He slides down the headboard of their bed, adjusting himself in Keith’s arms, resting his head on his chest and sliding his hands up his back until they’re resting almost on his shoulders, hooked under his underarms, gripping him like a buoy in deep water. He presses his ear right above his heart, closing his eyes as the steady beat pounds, and matches his breathing to his boyfriend’s snores.
