UnleashTheMish

Elle. She/her. Destiel and Bucktommy trash through and through.

[sunwornink]

here is your daily reminder to COMMENT ON THE AO3 FICS YOU READ! it goes such a long way, especially if it’s a multi-chapter work and you can only leave kudos once. ANYTHING is an acceptable comment—emojis, keyboard smash, screaming, in-depth analysis! i promise you, the writers want it ALL

[fandomsedit]

Lou ferrigno jr Headers

Reblog if you use or save.

[klaasje]

writer’s block (dry) = no desire to write, no ability to write (bearable)

writer’s block (wet) = HUGE desire to write, no ability to write (very evil)

[azuremist]

“Unfinished Painting” — Keith Haring

This painting was left intentionally incomplete. Haring began it when he was dying due to complications from AIDS, and knew he didn’t have much time left. The piece represents the incomplete lives of him and many others, lost to AIDS during the crisis.

“AIDS Memorial Quilt” — Multiple

This quilt is over 50 tons heavy, and one of, if not the, largest pieces of community folk art. Many people who died of AIDS did not receive funerals, due to social stigma and many funeral homes refusing to handle the deceased’s remains, so this was one of the only ways their lives could be celebrated. Each panel was created in recognition of someone who died due to AIDS, typically by that person’s loved ones.

“Untitled” (Portrait of Ross in L.A.) — Felix Gonzalez-Torres

This pile of candy weighs the same amount as Gonzalez-Torres’ partner, Ross Laycock, did. Ross Laycock had died due to AIDS-related complications earlier that same year. Visitors who see this piece are encouraged to take some of the candy. As they do so, the pile of candy weighs less and less, like how AIDS had deteriorated the body of Ross Laycock.

The SF Gay Men's Chorus

This photo was taken in 1993. The men in white are the surviving original members. Every man in black is standing in for an original member who lost their lives to AIDS.

“Electric Fan (Feel it Motherfuckers); Only Unclaimed Item from the Stephen Earabino Estate, 1997” — John Boskovich

After the death of his lover, Stephen Earabino, from AIDS, Boskovich discovered that his family had completely cleared his room, including Boskovich’s own possessions, save for this fan. An entire person, existence and relationship had been erased, just like so many lives during the AIDS crisis. Boskovich encased the fan in Plexiglass, but added cutouts so that its air may be felt by the viewer, almost like an exhalation. In a sense, restoring Earabino’s breath.

“Blue” — Derek Jarman

This was Jarman’s final feature film, released four months before his death from AIDS-related complications. These complications had left him visually impaired, able to only see in shades of blue. This film consists of a single shot of a saturated blue color, as the soundtrack to the film described Jarman’s life through narration, intercut with the adventures of Blue, a humanization of the color blue. The film's final moments consist of a set of repeated names: “John. Daniel. Howard. Graham. Terry. Paul". These are the names of former lovers and friends of Jarman who had died due to AIDS.

“Untitled” (Perfect Lovers) — Felix Gonzalez-Torres

Created by the same man who created the previous untitled piece, this piece was also inspired by his lover’s deterioration and death due to AIDS. This piece consists of two perfectly alike clocks. Over the course of time, one of the clocks will fall out of sync with the other.

In a letter written to his lover about the piece, before his lover’s passing, Gonzalez-Tourres wrote, “Don't be afraid of the clocks, they are our time, the time has been so generous to us. We imprinted time with the sweet taste of victory. We conquered fate by meeting at a certain time in a certain space. We are a product of the time, therefore we give back credit were it is due: time. We are synchronized, now forever. I love you.”

Please feel free to reblog with more additions

[blood-and-breath]

"Dear God" - Derek Jarman. Mixed media, (1987)

My favourite of Jarman's "black paintings" created on the first anniversary of his diagnosis with AIDS.

[stellamortem]

Untitled (Sometimes I Come to Hate People) - David Wojnarowicz (1992)

The last work of art created by East Village multimedia artist and activist David Wojnarowicz. Originally intended to be part of a series of 3, Wojnarowicz became too sick to finish the 3rd work in the series. Featuring red text sourced from his diary superimposed on a black and white photograph of wounded, bandaged hands, Wojnarowicz confronts his deterioration and impending death due to AIDS. He died on July 22, 1992 at the age of 37; the public demonstration held in the wake of his death would be one of the first political funerals of the AIDS crisis. In 1996, his ashes were scattered on the White House lawn.

“Every time somebody dies of AIDS, I think their lover, their friends, should drive with their bodies 100 miles an hour down to the White House, and throw their body over the White House fence.” - David Wojnarowicz, Close to the Knives

[queercripintersex]

There's no General Idea in this thread, time to rectify this!

AIDS - General Idea (1987)

One Year of AZT - General Idea (1991)

Felix, June 5, 1994 - AA Bronson (1994). Bronson is the only member of the collective still alive today. The painting is of Felix Partz, one of the group's core members, who died of AIDS that year. Jorge Zontal, the other core member of General Idea, also died of AIDS in 1994.

[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

[station18908]

Sometimes I read a fic and realize I never ever could've written anything like this. And I'm okay with that. I'm just absolutely amazed by what the author did. With nothing but words. In their free time.

[louferrignojrofficial]

hi 😄🖐️

[v88sy]

Remember when dispatch had an LAFD liaison?

Who wants to write the awkward story about Tommy taking a temporary spot at dispatch after he gets hurt on the job, and now he has to dodge running into Maddie everyday, while trying to hide how sad and wet cat pathetic he's been the past year?

Bonus points for meddling Josh.

[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

[forestgreenlesbian]

Water For The People, Paul D’Amato

[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.

[anyrava]

Saw my recent rock tutorial blow up a bit, wanted to also share this mountain painting tutorial I‘ve made!

You can find more tutorials on my Ko-Fi Shop if you've found this helpful and would like to support me in making more! 🫶🍃

[evanzbuck]

He’s always gonna feel responsible for his team. Especially Buck.

OLIVER STARK as EVAN BUCKLEY & PETER KRAUSE as BOBBY NASH in 9-1-1 | 6.11 “In Another Life”

[xofemeraldstars]

— happy valentine's day @pinkdean 💕

( in collaboration with @destielvalentineexchange2024 )

[louferrignojrofficial]

lou + the beard

[threedollarsdotcom]

the flesh is weak and the mind? also not so strong

[lengthofropes]

Bucktommy + "I Refuse" by Five Finger Death Punch for @do-androids-dream-ao3acc

🚑 💉❤️‍🩹 health fundraiser commissions