we have hope or we have nothing

Riesling | 40s | She/Her | My other blorbo slaughtered half of Europe

[anancientheart]

there’s something about becoming older where everything feels finite. summer isn’t endless, love isn’t eternal. you move homes, your favorite boots fall apart, your dog dies. everything feels consuming and beautiful when it is believed to be eternal. now it is all precious. everything. and there is a melancholy that comes with it.

[peppermintquartz]

Something @hardly-an-escape posted about how Tommy likely went easy on Eddie has reminded me how I really wanna see Tommy and Eddie fight for real

Like it didn't start off as a fight, just a practice spar, and then one of them puts his foot in his mouth, and it ticks off the other one, and the sparring gets a little aggressive

It's like Tommy's going, I trusted you guys to take care of Evan, and Eddie is all, because you're too much of a coward to do it yourself

and they have unresolved anger about the things they have done to Buck and the things they have not done for him, and the easy friendship they started that collapsed, and throwing words at each other is harder than throwing punches

So the spar turns into a fight, and they only hold back enough that it doesn't become a fight to maim or kill, but the intention to hurt is there

And much much later they are in their respective corners, there are bruises and blood and they will definitely need some first aid and perhaps a day or two off to lick their wounds, and Eddie is like, call him, you fucking idiot, you guys are perfect for each other, and Tommy's like, don't care about him only when he's hurting, you moron, he's your best friend

Bonus:

Buck chews Eddie out when he sees how beat up he is, berating him for causing Chris to worry, and finds out it was in a fight with Tommy

He goes to Tommy, about to chew him out too, but the second he sees Tommy's bruising he forgets all the anger and instead insists on taking care of him

Tommy is a little smug when he realizes that Eddie didn't get the Evan Buckley TLC package

[kitty-tommykinarddefender]

Do you think Tommy will jump off the bed after 10 seconds or will he bear the extremely suffocating heat from big sticky Buck?

@daughterofscotland thank you so much for this fun request, I hope you like it🥰

[trilliath]

Mountain Pose Ch. 5

WIP - 12k chapter - M - Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard

Additional Tags: Buck goes to yoga, I would also go to yoga if Tommy Kinard was the instructor, Queer Identity Development, Community is complicated

Hey, look at that, Buck actually does some yoga this week!

Snippet:

Buck is torn between ducking away and pretending he wasn't staring like an idiot, or just waving hello, but Tommy is already straightening and touching a hand to his conversation partner's elbow as he murmurs something and then comes striding over to Buck, concern on his face. "Evan, I wasn't expecting to see you today," he says, brows pinching together as he searches his face. "I - sorry?" Buck tries, stopping trying to get the buckles loose. "Was… is there not a spot in the class anymore? Should I not have-" "No - no, sorry, that's -" Tommy says, his face tightening in a frustrated scrunch as he reaches out and squeezes his arm just above his elbow like he doesn't want to risk him trying to run away again. "That's not how I meant it. I just meant I didn't think you'd be feeling up to it so soon."

Read on Ao3

[polytrixaf]

dont forget that YOU 🫵 are the backbone of this fandom. oh but im not a- DONT CARE. write a bad fic, draw that silly art, make that tumblr post with your headcannon. oh but i have nothing to share- DONT CARE. kudos that fic, write a nice comment, gush in the tags of a reblog.

YOU 🫵 ARE CREATING A FANDOM SPACE BY EXISTING AROUND AND ENCOURAGING CONTENT CREATION

what YOU 🫵 say has impact. make it a good one.

[hawt-me33]

Coming into a fandom late

[baxterdamus-deactivated20130513]

Coming into a fandom early and watching it become an angry clusterfuck

[valorious]

Being in a dormant fandom that suddenly comes alive again after a new book/movie

[leatherpatches-deactivated20150]

Don’t forget about those who come in the midst of a fandom war. 

[fauxmoux]

Accuracy at its best

[street-of-mercy]

Being in a fandom and not even knowing there’s a war going on…

[my-reylo]

all of this shit…lol

[nerdsagainstfandomracism]

When You’re Not In The Fandom But You’re Nosy AF

[not-so-secret-nerd]

When you get into a fandom only to discover it’s dead

[jupiter235]

This gets better every time I see it. 

[sageblackrose95]

@fuboos-mess

[inverted-mind-inc-sideblog-deac]

Being in a dead fandom…

[illogicalarchive]

Or being in such a tiny fandom that it feels like youre the only one

[erilias]

The accuracy hurts.

[fanfic-yes-please]

Being in a fandom that had a shit ending.

[it-is-bugs]

When you’ve been fangirling long enough, you’ve experienced all of the above.

[sweetferalbaby]

Being in a fandom meant for kids.

[teaganvamp]

This just gets better..

[hamboj2]

@mi-kleos

[thatcrazysonicchick]

When you realize that joining the fandom has ruined you

[knightofbloodcancer]

Fandom hell in general

[morathavictoria]

Yes.

[marvelanimelover]

This^^^ just… ALL OF THIS.

[stop-talking-babe-deactivated20]

Being in so many fandoms that you don’t even know what’s going on

[raise-cain-archived]

THIS IS THE SKULDUGGERY FUCKING PLEASANT FANDOM IN ONE POST!!

[crochanblackbeak]

Trying to recruit people to your fandom

[kateriverameliawolfe]

Annnnnnndddd it’s back

[ishipwhatiship247]

Being in a fandom which has so many antis

[ravenhilarious]

I’ve probably reblogged this before, but that was before these great additions.

[swanqueen-author]

Being in a fandom that actually works together

[commanderunhingedmongoose]

Why is this so true? All of it.

[pillowprincesslexa]

being in a fanbase but all your mutuals suddenly turn into Kpop blogs

[hangingfire]

I always enjoy it when a good post comes around again and has been improved by the reblogs like the years for a fine wine.

[priory-of-stars]

Being in a fandom when shit goes down and everyone has different opinions

[marianagmt]

When you are in a fandom and don’t care for others people opinion…..even if they are right…(believe me, I have met several of those)

[batbyte-alghul]

Being in a fandom you never meant to join

[tirnel-sutcliff-spears]

I love this. and it’s gotten better

[cartoonjessie]

After abandoning a fandom you’re still a little bit emotionally invested in….

[brit-is-bookish]

All of these are me. Lol

[thehikingastronomer]

Being in a fandom on Tumblr

[julietsemophase]

And it reached its epic conclusion

[isa-ghost]

I CHOKED ON FUNDIP

[van-arts]

HISTORY HAS BEEN ENGRAVED INTO THIS POST

[nosecrinklewrites]

it wasn't my intention to post the whole thing on here, but looks like i'm doing that again. i think there will be one more part after this. parts one & two.

Tommy dropped his bank card. ”What're we gonna do on our second date, primal play?”

”That sounds fun.”

”You know what it is?”

”That's the one where you chase each other through the woods, right?” Buck asked. The bartender eyed both of them, but took Tommy's card. ”Or is that a different one? I get the animal ones mixed up.”

Tommy put his massive, and surprisingly warm, hand on Buck's shoulder. ”I need you to stop talking for a minute.”

Buck pouted a little, but bit his tongue until Tommy got his receipt. Tommy stood up and Buck's eyes went wide, as he leaned in.

”How about we go somewhere where other people can't hear us?”

Tommy was so funny. ”Are we doing the kidnapping thing?”

”Evan,” Tommy said. ”I don't know, but what I do know, is that I don't want to get arrested, and things are getting a little indecent here.”

”I can stop?”

”Please, don't.” Tommy stepped behind him and bodily pulled Buck out of his seat, steering him toward the door.

”Sounds like we're doing the kidnapping thing,” Buck threw over his shoulder and did his best not to let his knees buckle, when Tommy's hands travelled from his shoulders, down his back, and settled on his hips.

Once outside, Tommy didn't stop leading him by the hips. ”Where are we going?”

Tommy didn't reply. Instead, he led them around the corner and spun Buck around. His hand came up to grab the back of Buck's head, so it didn't hit the bricks behind him. Oh. Oh, Tommy was kissing him. Buck closed his eyes and moaned softly.

Tommy broke the kiss, even though Buck tried to chase him. ”Don't ever stop talking,” Tommy breathed and leaned back in. His whole body surged forward, pressing Buck into the wall.

Buck was going to come in his pants. He wrapped his arms around Tommy's neck, pulling himself up on his tiptoes, and Tommy held him. Oh, fuck, Tommy could carry him. Tommy was huge and a firefighter and he could definitely carry him.

”Are you gonna have your way with me?”

Tommy turned his head and laughed. ”I'm sorry, I didn't drive. I'd have to plan it.” He sounded genuinely sorry.

”Wait, you'd actually do it?”

”I would do an– I would, yes.”

”Tommy,” Buck cupped his face and pulled him back in. ”We need to get an Uber,” he said in between kisses. ”I need to get my hand down your pants.”

Tommy put a hand on the middle of Buck's chest, pinning him, so he could step away. He dragged a hand across his mouth and got out his phone. ”Where to?”

Buck pointed, ”I live ten, fifteen minutes up the road.” Tommy handed over his phone, so Buck could put his address in.

Their eyes met over the phone. They smiled, then grinned, until they laughed. Tommy dragged his hands through his hair, his cheeks charmingly pink.

”You said second date, earlier. That makes this is our first.”

”You told your mom you'd call her back. Might as well get a few of them out of the way, so you don't have to lie as much.”

”Oh, so we're working on the cover story?”

”Is it a cover story, if we've actually been on a date?”

Buck was about to lay one on him for being so smart, when their driver pulled up and leaned on the horn.

Buck caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview and plastered himself to the door, so he wouldn't do unspeakable things to Tommy, and earn him a bad rating. He thought he was doing OK, until Tommy's hand clamped down on his knee. ”Sorry,” he muttered and stopped bouncing it.

The walk from the curb to his front door was agony. There was barely a foot between them, but Buck couldn't get himself to close the distance, in the brightly lit hallway, lest one of his neighbours walked in on them.

His keys were already jingling in his hands, when he said, ”This is me.” Tommy just smiled at him.

Inside, Buck closed and locked the door, before nearly walking face first into Tommy's chest.

”Listen, it's OK if we got ahead of ourselves. I don't mind slowing down,” Tommy said, ”or heading out.”

Buck didn't have the patience to get them somewhere comfortable. He pushed Tommy backwards, until they collided with the kitchen island. This time, he got to be the one to initiate. Tommy was such a good kisser.

”I need to get my hands on you,” Buck said, mostly to himself. He pulled on Tommy's belt, getting it undone, and pulling the fly apart, and sticking his hand down the front of Tommy's jeans. ”Oh, fuck.” That was a dick. Tommy definitely had a dick. He didn't manage to catch the waistband of Tommy's underwear, so that was still between them, but he could feel Tommy through them. The shape and the weight of him.

He needed to pace himself, he was getting too worked up. Buck tipped forward, resting his head in the crook of Tommy's neck. He was almost panting.

”You OK?”

”Yeah,” Buck nodded. ”Got too excited, but I'm OK.”

Tommy chuckled and rested his hands on Buck's hips. They felt like oven mitts, but Tommy's bare hands were just that big. His fingers were teasing at the hem of Buck's shirt.

It would've been easier, less restricting, if he got his hands on Tommy's skin, but it was hot having to do it through his underwear. He never imagined having a dick in his hand would feel this good – someone else's dick.

”I like this so much,” he muttered, and pressed his mouth to Tommy's neck.

”Me, too,” Tommy said. His hand wasn't down Buck's pants, so they probably weren't talking about the same thing.

”What's your favourite thing?”

”My what?”

”Sex with men. What's your favourite thing to do?”

Tommy's hands went up under Buck's shirt. His nails were short, but long enough to scritch a little. Buck's whole body shivered at the sensation. ”Depends on the guy,” Tommy said.

”Cop out,” Buck teased.

”Not everyone likes getting eaten out. If they don't like it, it's not fun.”

”Eat– We need to do that,” Buck said. ”Right now.” He took a step back, and did everything he could not to whine, when he pulled his hand out of Tommy's pants. God, he looked good standing there, with his pants undone and Buck's spit all over his neck. ”You need to send me so many nudes. You need to be the background on my phone.”

Tommy laughed and hiked his pants up, where they were sagging around his hips. ”Before or after the rim job?”

Buck grabbed his hands. ”My bed is upstairs.”

They tumbled up the stairs, where Buck was confronted with his unmade bed . He should've done a bit of tidying. But the kitchen sink was full of dishes and Tommy hadn't said a thing – probably hadn't noticed.

Buck kicked off his shoes and got rid of his shirt, before crawling onto the bed. He pushed the duvet aside, so it didn't bunch under them. ”Come on,” he made grabby hands at Tommy.

Tommy shook his head, grinning, and got off his shoes and his overshirt. How he looked broader in a tanktop, Buck had no idea. Tommy climbed on. Buck held his breath, as Tommy's weight came down on him in increments. Legs first, then hips, chest. Tommy's body covered every bit of his. Buck moaned at the feeling of Tommy's thigh between his legs. If Buck's thigh felt half as good as this, Buck didn't know how Tommy managed to stay quiet.

They kissed until neither one of them could breathe. Buck thought they broke apart to catch their breath, when he was flipped over onto his stomach. Tommy laughed at his yelp.

There was nothing to hold on to, so Buck's hands clenched uselessly in the air, when Tommy's face met the middle of his back. He was lying there, panting, as Tommy's mouth kissed a line down his spine.

”Get your belt,” Tommy said into his lower back.

Buck only lifted his hips as much as he needed to, to get his hands under himself. The belt was barely undone, before Tommy yanked his jeans down, without waiting for the button or the zipper. His own question from earlier played in his head,

Are you gonna have your way with me?

Tommy's mouth continued its path down. Buck tried to part his legs, but his jeans were keeping them together. Tommy had seemingly given up around his knees. He felt Tommy's nose between his asscheeks and breathing became very difficult.

He may have shrieked a little, at first contact, but in Buck's defense, it had been a while and he'd kind of forgotten what it felt like. Tommy laughed against his asshole, which Buck did not know would feel like that. He didn't hate it.

Buck lost all sense of time. He was pretty sure he was drooling. He had been eaten out before, but not with this level of enthusiasm. He was wet from his taint to his tailbone, not counting the mess he was making himelf.

”Tommy. Tommy. I'm gonna come.”

”Then come.”

Buck craned his neck and looked over his shoulder. ”You sure?”

”Well, Thirty-Two, if you can't go again, I'll find your prostate. You don't need to get hard for that.”

”Oh, my god,” Buck whimpered into the sheets.

Tommy sat up and yanked Buck's jeans the rest of the way off, but it was hardly a reprieve, his tongue was back in no time.

[judymarch15]

“Hold my hand?” With Buck and Tommy

Some BuckTommy for you @sunnywithachanceofbi!

Tommy rolled his shoulders and stretched out his neck before knocking on Evan’s door. He was stiff and achy after a long shift to end a long week. The hot shower he’d taken after work had mostly served to make him more tired, but there was no way in hell he was gonna cancel on Evan. 

They’d only recently decided to give things another chance. They’d gone on a handful of dates, but tonight was the first time they were spending the evening in one of their homes.He was trying to go into it without expectations. Physical chemistry had never been their problem. Emotional intimacy, however, hadn’t kept up at the same rate. And there was something intimate about being in someone’s space, having a meal they prepared. He’d really missed having that with Evan, and not just because he was incredible in the kitchen.

Evan pulled open the door and his face lit up in a way Tommy strived to actually deserve. Tommy soaked up the warmth of it like a sponge.

“Hey Tommy. Come in,” Evan smiled, stepping aside. He was wearing an apron over his jeans and sweater, which looked so much hotter than it had any right to be.

Tommy stepped inside and greeted Evan with a kiss. Evan let his hand rest on Tommy’s waist for just a moment before he shut the door. The casual touch left a lingering warmth against his skin.

“So, should I start with the tour?” Evan asked, gesturing around himself at the house. It was the first time Tommy had been past the front door of Evan’s new place. 

The tour only took a few minutes. It wasn’t a huge place. They didn’t even cross the threshold into the primary bedroom, like it just wasn’t the right time to do so. 

Evan’s new place was so different from the loft. Tommy had always loved Evan’s loft. The location had been great - right in the heart of everything. The view was gorgeous. It held the sentimental value of being the first place they’d kissed. It held a lot of firsts. 

Unfortunately, Tommy’s last memory of it would always be the night he walked away.

This house was different. It was warm, full of life and art, pictures and books in a way the loft just wasn’t set up to be. It felt settled and lived-in with the clutter and knick-knacks. There was a reassurance permanence to it that he didn’t feel at the loft.

He didn’t like to think much about where Evan had lived in between. That night they’d run into each other at the bar, sex on a mattress on the floor that Tommy wasn’t so sure his back ever recovered from, and a morning that had started so full of hope crumbling around them. It was something they’d since talked about  - picked apart, explained, apologized - but it wasn’t a memory Tommy would ever be fond of.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Evan offered as they went back to the kitchen, the meal Evan had been preparing still safely simmering on the stove. “I have water, soda….oh and I found a non-alcoholic beer that’s pretty decent if you wanna try it.”

“Water’s fine,” Tommy said, yawning once Evan’s back was turned. He leaned tiredly against the countertop. Maybe he should have opted for something with caffeine to wake him up. He’d probably be fine once he ate something. 

“Your neck okay?” Evan asked, holding the water glass out to Tommy. He hadn’t even realized he was rubbing it again. 

“Uh, yeah,” he said, unconvincingly. 

Evan gave him a look, but didn’t push it, just handed over the water glass. 

*****

Buck was going to ask Tommy if he’d make the salad, but the guy seemed exhausted. He leaned heavily against the counter, yawning when he thought Buck wasn’t looking. He was clearly trying, for Buck’s sake. And while Buck appreciated it, he was ready to pack the food up to go and send Tommy home to sleep.

“How was your shift?” Buck asked while he chopped some lettuce and dropped it into a salad bowl.

“Hmm?” Tommy asked, looking over at him.

“Your shift,” Buck repeated gently. “Was it okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, putting the water glass down on the counter. He squinted a bit at the light and rubbed his eyes.

Buck put his knife down and frowned. Something was off. “Are you feeling okay? You…you don’t seem okay.”

“No,” Tommy said quietly, with sudden honesty. “I think I’m getting a migraine.”

Buck’s heart sank with sympathy. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry. You should go home and rest. We can do this another time.”

Tommy paused, looking unsure, embarrassed. “I don’t…can I lie down here for a bit?” he asked, squeezing his eyes shut. “I don’t think I can make it home.”

God, he’d probably been feeling it since he arrived and Buck hadn’t noticed. “Of course. Yeah. Come on,” he said. 

Buck quickly turned off the stove, then turned off the kitchen lights. He’d never had a migraine himself but he knew light didn’t help. And with the way Tommy’s shoulders relaxed a small amount indicated he’d made the right call.

Tommy started toward the living room to lie down on the couch, but Buck gently put an arm around his back, which made Tommy wince. “You’ll be more comfortable in my room.”

Thankfully, Tommy didn’t protest as Buck led him back to the bedroom. It was already dark, so Buck carefully guided him onto the bed to lay down. Tommy sighed heavily, his body still tense.

“D-do you have any medication? Does this happen a-a lot?”

“No, and no,” Tommy said, his voice low and tight, like he was in pain. “Maybe some ibuprofen? Or whatever you have.”

Buck went into the bathroom and closed the door before he turned the lights on. He pulled out a bottle of ibuprofen and shook a couple out into his hand, filled the water glass he kept in the bathroom, then turned off the light before he came back out. 

Tommy sat up enough to take the pills, then lay back down. Buck sat on the edge of the bed, not sure what else to do. He reached out to touch Tommy’s hair, but Tommy pulled away.

“Hurts too much,” Tommy said, as if through clenched teeth. 

“Sorry,” Buck said helplessly. “Does….does ice help?”

“Yeah.”

“O-okay,” Buck said. “I’ll get you some.”

Buck looked through his supply of ice packs in the freezer until he found the one he wanted. It was gel, soft and pliable, not too heavy. He wrapped it in a clean towel and brought it back into the bedroom. With steady, gentle hands, he placed the ice pack over Tommy’s forehead. 

Tommy let out a soft noise, something like thanks. 

“I wish I knew what to do,” Buck said quietly, more to himself. 

Tommy shivered, so Buck picked up the throw blanket from the foot of the bed and lay it over Tommy. He could tell Tommy was in pain, that it was getting worse instead of better, and he felt utterly helpless. He wanted to wrap his arms around him and hold him tight, because that’s what he would want. There was no better feeling than being in Tommy’s arms.

He’d missed him so damn much and he knew Tommy had missed him the same. They’d both tried dating other people but nothing had felt right, not the way they’d felt to each other. 

Buck wanted to do it right this time. They both did. Part of that was slowing down, talking, asking questions, and listening. Slowing down was hard. Buck had wanted to jump in again with both feet.

Tonight felt so important. Buck had agonized over what to cook and second guessed himself. He’d thrown that anxious energy into cleaning his house, top to bottom. He wanted to show Tommy who he’d become over the last year and share the life that he was so proud of. 

Of course, he’d had other hopes too. He’d missed the feeling of Tommy’s skin against his and the weight of Tommy’s body on top of him. 

None of that was on his mind now. He just wanted to take Tommy’s pain away.

“Do you want to be alone?” Buck asked.

“No.”

“What else can I do for you?”

“Hold my hand?” Tommy said, his voice quiet and strained. “Everything hurts but…I want to feel you here.”

Buck immediately reached for Tommy’s hand. He kept his touch soft, just a light press of his fingertips against the inside of Tommy’s wrist. Gently reassurance that he wasn’t alone. Something in Tommy uncoiled with relief and he sighed. 

Buck stayed, watching Tommy’s features relax in the dark, the gentle beat of his pulse slowing beneath Buck’s fingertips as he drifted off to sleep.

send me a hurt/comfort prompt!

[26-cats-in-a-trenchcoat]

I STILL JUST DON’T GET IT*

*bucktommy breakup

[26-cats-in-a-trenchcoat]

a couple weeks after the funeral, buck writes tommy a letter. well. he writes a few. the first draft is stiff. the second isn’t much better. the third is basically his heart bleeding out on paper. the fourth also is not much better. the fifth is angry. the sixth is a blank page that he crumples before even trying to write anything. a few days later, after a long hike and a drive along the coast and a shift that’s just really fucking wrong, he gets it right in draft seven.

or so he thinks.

tommy’s house is dark and his truck isn’t in the driveway when buck stops by and drops the envelope in tommy’s flip-top mailbox beside his front door. just as well, buck thinks. if he had to go off-script because tommy suddenly appeared and said hello, there’s no telling how bad he’d mess things up. this way, he’s said what he means and means what he said, and he can live with that.

except: there’s no word from tommy the next day, or the next, or by the end of the week.

or by the end of the month.

or by buck’s birthday.

or by tommy’s.

or by buck’s birthday again.

a lot can change in a year, he reasons as he tries to smile when maddie and theo carefully carry in a cake with 35 lit candles on it and place it in front of him.

19 days later, he’s in the middle of making apple-cinnamon pancakes for breakfast for theo and himself when there’s an insistent knock at the front door.

his heart catches in his throat when he’s trying to wash off batter he’d sloshed on his hands and the knocking stops and he hears theo yell, “who are you?”

“theo!” buck calls, wiping his trembling hands on his apron. “what did i say about opening the—”

there, in the doorway, staring bewildered at theo in dinosaur pajamas, is the familiar figure of tommy kinard.

in the year and change since they’ve seen each other, tommy’s gone a little sharp around the edges, as far as buck can tell. his eyes are a little more worn; there’s more silver at his temples. his tan jacket hangs a little more loosely. he looks uncertainly between theo and buck, nervously crumpling the paper in his hands before jamming it and his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

buck feels like this moment is superimposed over the tommy he remembers from the time he toured harbor, or maybe the other way around. similar outfits, similar gestures, but a chasm of everything between them.

tommy clears his throat. “i can—i’d better go,” he says nervously.

“theo, my dude,” buck says calmly, “how about you go get dressed, then we’ll have some breakfast?”

theo fixes him with a mulish expression.

“it’s apple cinnamon pancakes,” buck negotiates. theo stares. buck sighs. “you can have whipped cream from the can.”

theo grins impishly. “deal.” he sticks a—aw, gross—sticky hand out for buck to shake, then runs off to change.

“and please wash your hands,” buck calls after him, cringing when he registers the wheedling note in his voice and remembers his visitor.

he’s angry, he wants, he wants to cry, he wants to slam the door in tommy’s face ‘cause where does he get off showing up here after a year of radio silence, he wants to smooth tommy’s creases and anxious edges under his hands and lean in and see if he still smells the same.

“i’ll, uh, i’m sorry for disrupting your morning routine,” tommy says as he shifts from one foot to the other. “i didn’t—i didn’t know. you didn’t mention it.” he pulls the paper he’d been fretting with back out of his pocket. “i got your letter, but i don’t know…”

“my letter?” buck breathes through a wave of nausea. “tommy, that—that was a year ago, i don’t—”

“MISTER POOP, THE PANCAKES ARE SMOKY!”

“shit!” buck exclaims. “can you—will you come in?”

“MISTER POOP SAID A BAD WORD!”

“how—never mind,” buck groans. “will you get in here?”

tommy hesitates. “evan, i don’t want to get in the way, if you—if you have people over.”

if you’ve moved on, says the tilt of his head and the emotion in his eyes.

“MISTER POOP!”

“i thought he’d gotten over that,” buck mutters. “tommy, it’s good to see you, but are you in or out? i have to—just—”

tommy gulps. “i’m in.”

“BUCK!”

“got it, thee-bee, hold your horses,” buck says as he strides toward the kitchen. to his relief, he hears the front door close, then careful footsteps follow the sound of chaos into the kitchen.

over breakfast, theo makes a fast friend in tommy, who, to buck’s chagrin and delight, is still so cool. he learns that in the past year, tommy has traded his coffee habit for a tea habit, grown a bumper crop of potatoes, and, oh, by the way, been working some out-of-town desk job for the state forestry service, of all things.

“you’re not—you’re not flying?” buck gasps after he manages to reroute a mouthful of pancakes down the correct pipe.

“flying?” theo shrieks, waving his fork in the air. “you can fly? oh! you’re tommy?”

tommy chuckles, keeping it light, but a shadow crosses his still-, always-beautiful face. “yeah, kiddo, that’s me. though i don’t do much flying these days.”

buck’s blood runs cold; he’s lost his appetite.

theo doesn’t drop it. “why not?”

tommy smiles sadly. “it’s complicated.”

theo scowls. “comple-cated.” he pushes a pancake around. “grown-ups is always comple-cated. is there anything not comple-cated when you’re a grown-up?”

tommy hums. “a few things.” he looks at buck then, eyes bright and jaws clenched. “but probably not as much as we’d want.”

“that’s dumb,” theo grumbles.

“theo,” buck warns without any heat.

theo burps. “can, i mean, may i be excused to go make my bed now?”

buck signs fondly. this kid. “wash your hands and face first?”

theo nods soundly. “you got it, dude!” he clambers out of his chair and hops over to tommy. “nice to meet you, poop king!”

“sorry about him,” buck says reflexively. he stands to clear the table. theo usually helps by carrying his own plate to the sink, but—today’s a special occasion, buck reasons.

“no, he’s—” tommy laughs softly. “he’s something else.” a beat passes, then suddenly, he’s beside buck, standing by the kitchen sink. “is he—”

buck ensures the stopper’s in place, then squirts soap into the sink and turns on the faucet. “it’s been a helluva year, tommy.”

tommy lets out a tiny pained noise and slumps against the counter. “a year? i thought—evan, why didn’t you—i don’t know, call, or text?”

buck throws a scrubby wash cloth into the soapy slosh in the sink. “because every time i talked to you, tommy, i hurt you. i couldn’t—i couldn’t trust myself to say the right thing at the right time. so i wrote you a letter. i wrote you a letter a year ago, a few weeks after the—after i saw you last. i wrote you seven letters, and only took the last one to your house because the first six were crap. i don’t—i don’t know why you’re here now, tommy, but i don’t think this is going to work if you’re blaming me for not reaching out the way you wanted me to.”

“i rented out my place,” tommy blurts. he slaps the letter, wrinkled and sweaty, on the counter. “i got in late last night. my mail was forwarded, but…”

“that wasn’t mail,” buck realizes.

tommy smiles ruefully. “after i put clean sheets on my bed last night, i noticed my copy of long dark tea-time of the soul on the nightstand with this marking my tenant’s spot, about 1/3 of the way through.” he shudders through a breath. “i can’t believe—evan, it’s been a year.”

buck’s hands still in the soapy dishwater as he blinks away his own emotions about the past year. his voice is small when he asks, “why didn’t you tell me you were leaving? i would have—i would have wanted to know, tommy. i g-get why you wouldn’t, after e-everything. but i wanted to know.”

“i sent you a text, evan,” tommy says gently, maybe more gently than either of them deserve, or maybe just-right. “but i see now, maybe it was just another thing. too much.”

“not—not too much,” buck contests, shaking his head. his shoulders slump. “just—”

tommy digs the palms and heels of his hands into his eye sockets. buck wonders if his calluses are the same, or if they’ve changed in the past year, like buck has, like they both have.

“yeah,” tommy agrees, muffled behind his wrists.

what a mess, buck laments. what a mess of crossed wires and missed chances and stupid. anger burns behind his breastbone, but it dawns on him that as angry as he is with tommy, and himself, he’s angry most of all about lost time.

the few dishes and utensils he’d dirtied for breakfast rest in the drainer now, and he wipes his hands on his apron. “feel free to say no,” he hedges, “but—would you like to stick around for a while? i’m sure you, uh, you’ve got a lot to do today, now that you’re back in town, but—”

“yeah?” tommy breathes. “yeah, i’d—i’d love that. you’re sure it’s ok, with your, uh, theo?”

buck sighs. in for a penny; in for a pound. “yeah, he, uh, we’re kind of a package deal, now. it’s kind of—”

tommy smiles. “comple-cated?”

buck wonders if tommy’s ever been more attractive. “yeah. comple-cated.”

“i can—well, i want comple-cated,” tommy says earnestly. “with you.”

buck remembers. he remembers it all. but despite everything, he wants tommy more. he always has.

a few hours later, theo’s tired himself out after a rigorous game of—well, buck’s not really sure what, something that was part basketball and part tennis and part being a pirate, and 100% something tommy came up with—and is resting in his room. buck and tommy took the offering of a q-word morning to lay their cards on the table, if not in total, then enough to inform their next steps.

tommy, knowing what it would mean, stayed.

now, buck’s laying out their lunch on the patio table; tommy brings out their drinks.

“it’s funny,” he remarks, wringing his hands once they’re free of cups. “i didn’t think this sort of thing happened in real life.”

he’s nervous. buck wants to hold him. tommy allows it.

“what sort of thing?”

tommy’s laundry detergent is different, but everything else seems to be the same. buck can’t help but sigh deeply, content.

“heh,” tommy squirms. “the letter thing. it sort of reminds me of this one episode of frasier.” before buck can ask, tommy continues, “that’s the one with the pretentious brothers and curmudgeon dad in seattle.”

buck smiles. “and not the show about nothing with the new yorkers.”

“got it in one.”

buck lets the quiet settle for a few moments. “so what happened on frasier?”

tommy sighs. “well, before he moved to seattle, frasier left a letter for his ex-wife, lilith, saying he still loved her. except, the letter fell behind a piece of furniture, and lilith didn’t find it for a year. and in that year, frasier changed. they tried to give it another go—”

buck, recalling the time he and tommy tried to give it another go, says, “they hooked up, didn’t they.”

tommy snorts. “yeah, they hooked up, and lilith says, ‘oh, this is a mistake,’ and frasier runs his mouth about oh, thank goodness, they’re in agreement, it was absolutely a mistake, they’re different people now, they got it out of their system, now they know, that sort of thing. except lilith was talking about the, the eggs or the toast or some mistake with the room service order.”

oh. that’s bad. buck says as much. tommy hums in agreement.

“so? did they ever figure it out? were they endgame?” buck asks, the are we doomed thinly-veiled underneath.

tommy hums non-committally, obviously evading the question. buck huffs with fond annoyance.

“i think we’re more niles and daphne,” tommy murmurs. “i don’t know if you know how much chill i don’t have about you.”

buck does not, in fact, know. “you’ll have to tell me sometime.”

to his surprise, tommy replies, “you might regret that, evan.”

“never,” buck says fiercely, tightening his grip around tommy’s back. “i only regret not having you.”

tommy sags against him in relief.

inside the house, the tell-tale clatter of an awake theo resumes, lively and bright.

it’s not new, what they have, but it’s not what they had before, either.

for the first time in over a year and a half, buck feels like he can really breathe.

[sad-girl-hours23]

All they were—all they had ever been—was a pair of sunflowers who each believed the other was the sun.

― Micah Nemerever, These Violent Delights

[sassycurse]

one of the best feelings tbh

[aichu-dechu]

[mossdftba]

[Transcript: a tweet from kristelxo.

Being 43 is wild. People your age are living completely different lives.

Some are grandparents. Some are raising toddlers. Some are newly divorced. Some are newly engaged. Some haven't slept in three years. Some are in St. Tropez posting Aperol spritzes from a yacht

Some look 25

Some look like they personally remember the invention of Tupperware.

Nobody got the same assignment. End transcript.]

[sizzlingsandwichperfection-blog]

i think what makes tumblr great now is that nobody gives a shit? Like, there is NOTHING to be gained from being on here except the pure joy of making stuff for people and with people?

If you're on twitter or threads or reddit, and you say, "Oh, I had a terrible experience with Delta Airlines. They canceled my flight and then booked me into a hotel room with a stranger," and you tag Delta, there's a chance Delta Airlines itself will come and apologize. Maybe even give you some SkyMiles or something.

But if you complain about a terrible airline experience on tumblr, all you can hope for is that someone might come along and write slash fiction about two guys who get booked into the same hotel room by Delta Airlines.

You can't gain social capital by being here. Nobody knows who you even ARE because your user name is, like, some randomly generated phrase or else an obscure reference to hockey sex books.

I'm not saying it's perfect, of course. It's a super toxic hellsite that eats the ashes of its former self to survive. But it beats twitter any day, and not only because twitter is owned by a raving mad white supremacist fuckchild.

[sad-girl-hours23]

I don’t think I’ve ever had Tommy call Buck honey in a fic, I think I should change that 🤔

[sad-girl-hours23]

Yay or nay. Under cut for thigh fucking 😏

Tommy parts his thighs—just enough for Buck to slide his cock between them—and puts his hand over Buck's. "I was going to ask if you need lube, but you're wet enough already, aren't you, honey?"

[pluralityofaxes]

i love how Tommy's expression turned out here but i'm constantly reminded the reference is a tv screenshot where he's out of his mind on coke

[otp-after-dark]

The Myth of “Fans Killing Shows”: Here’s the thing I fundamentally disagree with. It wasn’t the fans who “killed the shows.” It was the writers who killed it.

I came across this Tumblr post and here's why people blaming the fans for the writers fatal flaw is just wrong.

And now I'll get to the most unpopular opinion I've ever shared online - fully aware that what I've already said very few people on here would agree with: I don't think it's Rob Thomas who killed the show with his ill-adviced decision, it's the fans who did that. Not that they are not aware of it, but they still refuse to take the blame for it, as if there could not have been any other reaction. And clearly they don't regret it. After they paid to bring Veronica Mars back once before. They collectively decided that season 4 was a crime against the fandom and that it never happened. Therefore making it impossible for anyone who did not feel the same way to get more content and have some closure. I know I don't get to be mad about that, but it is sad. And I've been on the other side of this a few times and stopped watching a show after a certain point, but that never triggered a cancellation. I've seen favorite characters killed off many times without it ever leading to a fandom turning hostile like that, sometimes even ripping everything else apart about the show. And it's not even like Veronica Mars was a cosy show where people didn't die. It was neo noir. It started out with her solving the murder of her best friend ffs. So, how did this happen? How did one character's death kill the show? Was it because he was the main love interest over more than a decade? Why does it now feel like he was more important than the protagonist? Or was it maybe because the fans campaigned for it's return and even funded the movie? Was it because they felt more invested in a way and later betrayed although they did not pay for the last season to get made?

I know this take circulates a lot: “The fans killed Veronica Mars. If they hadn’t reacted so strongly to Season 4, we’d have gotten more.”

But after watching this happen over and over, across shows I love, shows that shaped me, shows that built entirely new corners of fandom culture. I just don’t buy it.

Fans aren’t killing shows. Writers are breaking the emotional contract, torching the narrative spine, and then blaming the audience for the smoke.

And if Veronica Mars were the only example, maybe we could write it off. But this specific heartbreak, this implosion of trust, has now happened on too many shows, in too many fandoms, with too similar a pattern to chalk up to “one overreacting audience.”

It didn’t start with Season 4. It didn’t start with Logan Echolls. And it didn’t end there.

It’s The Handmaid’s Tale. It’s Game of Thrones. It’s The 100. And on and on.

This is a cultural pattern. A breaking point between audiences and creators, and VM is just the case study where people still argue about who struck the match.

The pattern is the same every time: the writers kill the relationship they spent years telling us mattered most.

This is the part critics pretend not to understand.

Fandom doesn’t melt down because a character dies. Characters die constantly in television, and people grieve them, yell about them, move on. They melt down when a character dies in a way that breaks the story’s thesis. Let's take a deeper look:

Veronica Mars: Logan Echolls

Years of storytelling, marketing, PR, revival hype, and arc-building told us:

Logan is Veronica’s person. He’s the love story that grows with her. This relationship is the heart of the show.

Season 4 then kills him in the last 90 seconds as a plot device. Not a turning point, not a thematic evolution, just a twist that contradicts everything the show told us about her healing.

The Handmaid’s Tale: Nick Blaine

Four seasons of narrative work (and two books) told us:

Nick is June’s equal, mirror, moral counterweight, and match. Their love is radical, raw, complicated, feminist, and central.

Then Seasons 5 and 6 decide:

Actually, punish him. Actually, flatten him. Actually, the story is about motherhood, not womanhood or desire. Actually, June belongs with the safe man.

That isn’t a character arc. That’s an ideological pivot.

Game of Thrones: Daenerys Targaryen

Eight seasons told us:

Daenerys is the heart of the myth. She breaks chains. She frees people. She’s the emotional and moral center of the show’s grand design.

The final three episodes say:

Forget that. She snaps because… trauma? lineage? vibes? The woman who liberated millions is actually a tyrant.

A series that built itself on emotional logic ends on plot logic. The single most disorienting pivot a story can make.

When the ending contradicts what the story was, fans don’t feel shocked. They feel gaslit.

Killing the love interest isn’t the issue. Killing the thesis is.

This is the part nobody wants to talk about, because it forces a reckoning with the power and legitimacy of fandom interpretation.

Logan wasn’t just Veronica’s boyfriend. Nick wasn’t just June’s romantic partner. Daenerys wasn’t just another lead.

These characters were:

thematic mirrors

emotional anchors

narrative engines

symbolic structures

the emotional grammar of the show

and the embodiment of the protagonist’s arc

You don’t just rip those out. Not without re-breaking everything around them. It’s like pulling the keystone from a bridge and then blaming drivers for falling into the river.

Why does this keep happening? Because TV writers mistake cynicism for prestige.

This is the actual disease that keeps killing fan-beloved shows:

Prestige = tragedy

Prestige = subversion

Prestige = women alone

Prestige = punishing love

Prestige = nihilism masquerading as maturity

It’s a worldview that sees romance arcs, emotional continuity, loyal love interests, or morally gray partners as “cheap,” “fan service,” or “too soapy.” And because of that mindset, writers keep doing one of two things:

1. They kill the love interest to seem edgy or surprising.

2. They rewrite the protagonist or their partner beyond recognition.

And sometimes both. Either way, the show loses the very thing that made it groundbreaking. The fans didn’t kill Veronica Mars. They mourned what the creator killed first. If a fandom was powerful enough to:

campaign for a return

fund a movie

keep the discourse alive for a decade

pull the show into the 2010s streaming era

…then maybe, just maybe, they had a point about the story’s emotional core.

People didn’t walk away because Logan died. They walked away because his death dismantled the show’s moral vocabulary.

Just like:

People walked away from The Handmaid’s Tale, especially 6x10, because they dismantled the show’s feminist thesis and punished the very arc they built around love, agency, and liberation. (Ahem Hulu's TT because I will be shocked if it's not heading for a similar exit.)

People walked away from Game of Thrones because the finale dismantled eight years of character logic and replaced it with plot convenience.

This isn’t “toxicity.” This is narrative literacy.

Fans understood the assignment better than the people writing the final chapters. The truth is this: fans don’t kill shows. Shows kill themselves when they decide the audience was wrong about what mattered.

And here's the irony that never gets talked about: Writers taught us what mattered.

They built these love stories. They crafted these arcs. They centered these relationships. They marketed these dynamics. They put these characters in promos, posters, finales, interviews, season-long narratives. They told us these bonds mattered.

So when they then turn around and say:

Actually, wrong. Actually, silly of you to care. Actually, this was never the point.

Of course people walk.

It’s not immaturity. It’s not entitlement. It’s not “fandom killing the show.”

It’s the audience refusing to be told that the story they meaningfully engaged with for years was a mistake.

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

^ If you cultivate a specific audience for multiple years and then they all abandon your work en masse because of a writing decision in the work then they didn't fuck up, you did. Skill issue. Gaining and losing some audience over time is normal but a mass exodus like this is the result of (borrowing some lingo from Brandon Sanderson) a creator failing to keep their promises.