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rcmclachlan · 3 months ago

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On this week's episode of Things I Think About While Driving, I was having myself a grand ol' time thinking about all the different times and ways Buck could've met Tommy earlier, and the one I kept coming back to was S4xE5.

Like, right after Buck walks out of Maddie's apartment having learned about Daniel...

He drives.

He drives and drives and drives with no actual destination in mind, operating completely on autopilot, for hours. No music, no podcasts, just the rush of wind through all the open windows of the Jeep and the echoing refrain in his head of so they made one.

It would've been an allogeneic transplant. He'd looked it up once when he was watching a 60 Minutes special on Myelodysplastic Syndrome. They would've taken the stem cells from his umbilical cord if the timing was right. Unless they tried it a little bit later, maybe waited a few months before they scraped Daniel's homegrown defense system right out of Buck's bones. He would've been too young to remember the pain and discomfort that came after. He wonders if he cried as a baby more than he would've if he'd been wanted for anything other than the hellfire missiles in his marrow.

And then it didn't work. Defective, right out of the gate. No wonder they've always treated him like a massive disappointment—he is one. He had one job and he couldn't even manage to do that much.

So he drives. He drives and he's furious. He drives and he's inconsolable. He drives and he's sorry. With every street he turns down at random, he moves onto another emotion, and by the time the gas gauge is nudging close to empty and the evening is giving way to night, the only thing he's capable of feeling is tired.

And hunger. He'd only had an apple before he went over to Maddie's.

So he circles back to Glendale Boulevard and decides on the place with a red lion on their sign solely because it doesn't look busy for 8:30pm on a Tuesday. There's even a free space in the little lot next to the building. Thanks, COVID.

It's pretty quiet inside, with a substantial bar set against old wood paneling on the walls, making it feel like an old tavern. He takes a seat at the far end of the bar where the lighting's kind of dim.

Turns out it's a German bar, so he orders a glass of Warsteiner, which he's never had before, and it's got a strong, malty backbone for a lager. The bartender tells him there's a Biergarten in the back if he wants to take his drink outside.

Buck doesn't want to move from his little corner. It feels safe here, even with his mask off. At least two of the one hundred thousand knots in his back muscles have relaxed since he sat down. He quietly declines the offer, but he does order himself the sausage plate and a glass of Augustiner Maximator once he's done with the Warsteiner, which goes down so good he can't believe it's got an ABV of 7.5%. He orders a second.

He's in the middle of robotically eating a smoked bockwurst he can't taste, thinking so they made one, when the door to the biergarten opens up. A guy walks over to the bar and Buck throws him a cursory glance. Then he looks again.

The guy is exactly who you'd find on the cover of the LAFD charity calendar: big and beefy, with the kind of high cheekbones that belong on a runway in Milan. Effortlessly handsome. Buck wants to tip his beer toward him, because, respect. He also wants to poke his biceps and ask what his regiment is, if he P90X's or something. Buck isn't a small man by any stretch of the imagination, but this guy looks like he could throw Buck around like a grizzly bear.

Buck lets himself be distracted by watching the guy lightly tap his fingers against the bar to the beat of whatever 80s song is playing softly over the speakers. He's always loved people watching; it's a great way to get out of his head after tough calls. This guy is a particularly fascinating specimen. There's just something magnetic about him. Buck's known people like that: they draw the eye even if they're not doing anything to warrant attention. Without even being called, the bartender wanders over to the guy, no doubt drawn to whatever invisible light is coming off him. Buck can't hear what they're saying, but then the bartender turns and points right at Buck, who freezes, caught.

The guy flashes Buck a thumbs up and asks just loud enough to be heard through his face mask, "How was the Warsteiner?"

Swallowing, Buck lifts the empty glass and says, "Uh, g-good. Full-bodied."

With a thoughtful nod, the guy turns back to the bartender and says something too quiet for Buck to hear, but he figures it out when the bartender goes and comes back with a glass of what is clearly Warsteiner. The guy takes a sip, pauses, and then moves toward Buck, stopping before he gets too close. "Thanks for the recommendation. Hey, Jay, put his next one on my tab."

The bartender—Jay—gives him a thumbs up and goes to the register. Buck, mortified at the thought of being a charity case, of this guy pitying him enough to buy him a beer, opens his mouth to tell Jay he can pay for his own beers, thanks, when the guy holds up a hand to forestall the protest.

"German beer's not usually my thing. I'm more of a craft beer kind of guy, so really, I appreciate the assist. If it makes you feel better, pay it forward." His cheeks curve up, and in the bar lighting Buck can see there are long legs attached to the guy's crow's feet. He clearly has spent his life smiling. Buck would bet this man has never once curled up in the dark on his birthday knowing for a fact his parents weren't going to even text him and was still disappointed when the clock ticked past midnight and he had nothing to show for it. This guy's parents probably had a golden statue of him erected in their front yard.

Buck musters up a smile that feels like one of the little, weak waves that just sort of roll over the shoreline without any fanfare before dissolving back into the sea, and the guy tilts his head.

"Rough day?"

"Rough life," Buck says, utterly pathetic, and feels like he's betrayed all his friends for even saying it. "No, that's—that was incredibly ungrateful. My life isn't—I-I have a good life. I just learned something today about my parents that, uh, clarified a few things for me about our relationship. It... wasn't great."

The guy taps his finger against the bottle of Warsteiner in his hand, staring at Buck with deep consideration, flaying Buck from head to toe without a word. Then he gives a nod that smacks of commiseration and walks around the bar until he's only two chairs away. When the guy opens his mouth and inhales, Buck can already hear what's coming: surely it's not that bad. You should talk it out with them. You're being too hard on them. C'mon, they're your parents, they love you.

"That sucks," the guy says, simple as anything.

Out of nowhere, heat starts prickling in Buck's nose and the corners of his eyes, and he looks at this guy and the calm, earnest expression on his face, and... yeah. Yeah. It does suck. It sucks so hard and it has for so long, and all his life he's wanted someone to tell him that, to hear him list every injustice and offer a crumb of support without any pretense or judgment. Buck gasps a laugh that sounds more like he's been stabbed, and he opens his mouth to thank the guy for telling him exactly what he needed to hear, but instead what comes out is... everything. The whole story comes out of him like an unraveling firehose, pulling longer and longer the more he talks, stretching from the day he crashed his bike—"But it wasn't my bike, it was his."—to sitting in Maddie's living room and finally learning the truth: that he hadn't been crazy, that something had been wrong his entire life and the something was him.

"They'd made a box for her—full of all these memories and little trinkets and pictures—and I bet you he had one with baseball cards and his first, like, pacifier, and Skittles, and whatever, but when I asked them where mine was, they looked at me like I had three heads, because human junkyards full of scrap metal and defective blood cells don't get baby boxes," he finishes on a shout. Panting like he just sprinted to Santa Monica and back, he finds himself deflating into his folded arms on top of the bar now that he isn't filled to the brim with 29 years worth of bottled-up grievances. This must be what bulldozed graveyards feel like: scraped clean and ready to be filled up again. Buck is surrounded by five empty glasses, a little mountain of twisted-up napkins, and a complete stranger who hasn't said a word since Buck began, and it's as a good place to start again as any.

Buck closes his eyes and stews in embarrassment for about thirty seconds, then turns his head to look at his audience of one. At some point, the guy had gravitated into the chair right next to him and took his mask off, revealing a stupidly handsome face, and his wide-eyed, slack-jawed stare makes Buck want to throw up a little. It may have been the cleansing Buck'd needed, but the poor guy didn't ask to be part of any of it. Buck doesn't know why he told him in the first place. This is the kind of thing he'd hesitate to blurt out to Eddie, never mind a complete stranger, but there had been something so oddly steady and compassionate in the guy's gaze that Buck had felt like he could trust him with anything. It had been so easy to just... talk. And to his credit, the guy had listened to Buck's entire rant—stopping Buck only twice to ask a quiet, clarifying question—without making a face, snorting, rolling his eyes, or getting up and just leaving.

Face warm, Buck shifts in his seat to try and get feeling back into his left ass cheek, then he opens his mouth to apologize for dumping all that on the him instead of at his next session with his fucking therapist.

But the guy just blinks out of his stupor and flags down Jay, who wanders over sedately. He taps the bar counter twice and says, "Yeah, can you just put the rest of his bill on my tab?"

When Buck sits up with an outraged squawk, the world spins a little, and the guy places a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder to steady him. He doesn't take it back right away and Buck doesn't shrug it off. The weight feels good.

"N-No, that wasn't—you can't do that, man," Buck mumbles, face hot. His mouth feels a bit gummy.

"I can and I did," the guy says. "Someone should treat you to dinner for putting up with all that shit for all this time. I don't know your parents from a hole in the ground, but I would happily drop 3,000 pounds of water on their house. Jesus Christ, and I thought my issues with my parents were bad."

"I never should've—"

But the guy shakes his head and tightens his hand on Buck's shoulder. "You absolutely should've, actually. If that had built up any longer, I probably would've seen you literally explode on the 6 o'clock news."

Buck snorts a laugh, rubbing his disbelieving smile against his sleeve. "Believe me, it wouldn't be the first time you saw me on the 6 o'clock news."

The guy gives Buck a curious tilt of his head, so Buck clarifies, "Do you remember a few years back when that kid was mailing bombs to people and he rigged that fire engine to explode? And it fell on that firefighter?" At the guy's slow, wary nod, he continues, "I was the, uh, firefighter."

At that, the guy sits up and his gaze goes so sharp that Buck wants to call Jay over and have him slice up some bratwurst on it. "You're with the 118."

Buck blinks, and then the guy introduces himself... as LAFD firefighter pilot Tommy Kinard, who'd gotten his start at Buck's own damn station. Who knew both Chimney and Hen when they were probies, and who watched Bobby walk in and turn the place into a house Tommy could be proud to be part of. Who had been their air support during the Doheny Park gas leak incident.

"That was you?" Buck glances down at the bar counter to make sure it hadn't cracked when his jaw hit it. "Chimney told us afterwards he'd called in a favor from an old friend."

Tommy grins and jauntily points to himself with his glass. "Except Howie was cashing in on a favor I owed him, which means I only owe him like 973 more now."

Over a round of drinks—another Maximator for Buck and a seltzer with lime for Tommy—Buck tells Tommy about who's at the 118 now and confirms which of "the most batshit insane stories I've heard about you guys" are true. He tells Tommy about the rollercoaster ride that was his recovery from the explosion, and then follows that up with being caught in the tsunami and being struck by lightning. In return, Tommy regales him with army stories, including the time he landed a burning helicopter under enemy fire, and his favorite calls from his time with the 118—the fucking rooster has Buck practically crying laughing into his arms. He also tells Buck about Hen's fearlessness in standing up to their asshole captain who was voted the LAFD's Most Likely To Have Been At The White House On January 6th, and how Chimney saved Tommy's literal life. He tells Buck that without Bobby showing up and making them into a family of sorts, without him being in their corner even when they didn't trust him not to abandon them like all their other captains, Tommy never would've found his way back to the sky.

Then Tommy gleefully drops a pipe bomb into the scant space between them with, "And you never would've joined the 118."

Buck squeezes his eyes shut to try and make his brain stop feeling so swimmy. "W-What? What does that mean?" His tongue is too big for his mouth. His words taste a bit funny, like they're mushy. He hopes Tommy hasn't noticed.

"You said you joined in 2017. That's when I left," Tommy says, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I'm pretty sure you were the one who took my spot."

Buck untucks one of his arms so he can reach up to touch the hills and valleys running down Tommy's cheeks, then realizes that probably would be rude and tries to play it off like he was going to scratch the back of his own head. All he does is knock over one of his empty glasses. It takes a few clumsy tries before he successfully stands it back up.

"We missed each other," Buck mumbles. He thinks of what it might have been like walking into the station that day, seeing Tommy sitting between Hen and Chimney, smiling wide as he dished up more spaghetti. Maybe he would've turned that warm light on Buck as he passed him the tongs. Maybe Tommy would've shown him the ropes, got him through his first shifts, and even stopped him from stealing the engine for a booty call. Maybe they'd have met up for drinks just like this after their shifts were over, or as a way to distract themselves from bad calls the way Tommy's distracted Buck all night. Maybe they'd have been a two-man unit, and then when Eddie showed up they'd be a tri...something. Buck can't remember what it's called, but it means 'three'. Maybe Tommy would've been every bit as important to Buck as Eddie, Hen, and Chim.

He's hit with the realization that if he doesn't tell Tommy this, he might die, so he garbles out, "You're important. W-Wait, no. I mean, you could've... you were important... I—y'get the gist."

And Tommy must, because Tommy's smart and quick witted and a good listener, and he's looking at Buck fondly, like he might've done if he'd stayed at the 118 and they'd come through fire together, but he's also rolling his lips inward and his cheeks are trembling.

Buck whines, aggravated, because, "Y-You're laughing at me."

Tommy ducks his head and does, in fact, start laughing.

"'s so rude. Don't laugh at me, 's not my fault I'm defective." Buck buries his face in his arms in embarrassment. The cradle of it is so warm and comfortable he just stays there.

"You're not defective, Evan." Even though it sounds like Tommy's suddenly on the other side of the room, Buck can hear the matter-of-factness in the words. He says it like he'd said that sucks. "But you are drunk."

He's not. He's just really tired and his arms make for a great pillow. He also feels heavy and tight, which isn't good for a firefighter. What if he's called onto a massive scene? What if City Hall's on fire and he can't pull the mayor out because he's slow and weirdly full? What if his career as a firefighter is over?

"That's just bloat from all the beer and sausage," Tommy says from even farther away than he'd been a second ago. "Jay, can I settle up? I'm so sorry we kept you this late. You're getting a helluva tip, I promise."

His name's not Jay. It's Buck. But he'd introduced himself as Evan and... forgot to tell Tommy he goes by something else. But he likes that Tommy doesn't know that, because when Tommy says 'Evan' it sounds like how 'Buck' feels. He wants Tommy to keep 'Evan' in the warmth of his mouth, like how some alligators carry their young. For them, it's the safest place to be.

Buck wants to tell Tommy about the alligators, because they are super cool and only exist in two places in the whole world. He blinks his eyes open and finds his face pressed to something hard and cool. The bar stool feels a lot softer than it did a second ago. And it's vibrating.

There's a weight on his knee, shaking it gently.

He must've fallen asleep while watching Celebrity Death Match in the TV room again. Mom's going to kill him when she finds out. "Mads, five m're min's."

"Evan, you need to give me a building number."

"Hmmm...?"

"Your apartment building. I've been driving up and down South Spring for ten minutes. You gotta help me out here. What's your building number?"

"Mmm..." Buck rolls his forehead to chase the coolness. It feels so nice against his skin. He could just sink right into it.

"Evan, c'mon. You can do it. Tell me where you live."

"27 P'plar Road," he mumbles. He blinks his eyes open and catches sight of the rush of lights and road ahead, which blend together like they're about to jump into hyperspace. He's not in Hershey. He knows this road. Sighing, he closes his eyes again. "Oh. 's rowing. 409 at th' rowing."

He blinks awake when he suddenly trips over nothing, and he tries to stop himself from falling but there's nothing except the gaping maw of open space. But he doesn't actually go anywhere. Someone's got an arm around his waist. There's a name for that kind of rude awakening. He can't remember it.

"Two more stairs," the person with him mutters in his ear. "I'm begging you, lift up your feet before we both end up in the ER."

That's fine. He has his own bed there.

"Yeah, let's try to get you into the bed you have here first."

Strong hands lower him onto something soft, and he buries his face in sheets that are cool and smell familiar, his entire body smoothing out like the surface of a lake. Something tugs at his foot, and he rolls onto his back and tries to lift his leg to help, but he's comfy and cocooned in the dark. His sneakers get taken off anyway.

"Evan." Tommy's voice hangs in the air, soft and warm and invisible, and his name sounds like it's precious where it sits in Tommy's mouth. He read somewhere that alligators do that. "I'm going to get you some water and then head out. Do you need anything else?"

In the dark, he somehow lost his body, and he can barely see the outline of Tommy, but he can hear him step closer when Buck reaches out for him. When Buck's hand is caught, he's suddenly so aware of himself, of his blood and bones and every nerve trapped under his skin, and arches a little into the feeling with a quiet moan of relief.

Tommy knows about him. He knows Buck's cells are defective and he still bought Buck dinner and spent the night making him feel like he was made correctly from the start.

"D'nt go," he whispers. He's starting to float away, and he tugs on the hand holding his, trying to bring that steadfast presence on top of him, use it to keep him here. "Stay."

"I absolutely can't do that," Tommy murmurs. His thumb strokes over Buck's palm and it feels like he's dragging his tongue along the length of a nerve. Buck gasps. Something pulls tight and sweet between his legs, and he tilts his head back on the pillow, lips parting so he can suck in air desperately. So he's ready.

"Kiss me," he breathes.

He wants it so bad he almost gags. He wants all that weight and strength to hang over him like a bough, keeping him together, feeding his body what it's screaming for. He inhales deeply and the smell of indelible man fills his nose and the back of his throat, along with the faint hint of smoke and something sharp like snow. He wants a mouth on his. He wants strong, sure hands to run over his ribs. He wants to say I'm full of broken cells and I need you to fill me up with something better, but he's breathing too hard and the words keep blowing out of order. His legs slide open and the sound of them moving on the sheets is deafening. He's so hot, and so hungry. He thinks he's hard. He thinks he's dying.

The hand in his squeezes gently, but then it lets go.

Without it, Buck's going to dissolve. He's going to disappear. He squeezes his burning, wet eyes shut and pulls in a breath that is all wheeze, every part of him a live wire, unsteady and shivering and thwarted. So they made one.

"No. No," Buck sobs. "Y're just like them. You don't want me—no one... why. 's not fair."

The bed suddenly dips right next to Buck's thigh, right on the edge, and the hot press of a thumb against his chin stops him from howling his sorrow and disappointment. When it slides up and just barely brushes against his bottom lip, his mouth falls open. Yes. Yes.

"I'll tell you what." It's whispered so closely that Buck thinks he can feel the wash of breath over his tongue. "You remember any of this tomorrow? Call me, and I'll kiss you as much as you want. I'll kiss the idea you're unwanted right out of you."

Buck exhales in utter relief and sinks into the comfort of the bed as the weight next to him lifts away. He's going to do that. He's going to call and then let Tommy kiss him until he forgets he was ever unloved. But persistence pays off, so he tries one more time, even though he's suddenly so tired he can barely get the word out. "Stay."

"Sleep well, Evan."

When Buck wakes up, he immediately wants to crawl into a hole and die. His mouth tastes like there's roadkill in it and there's an egg beater trying to escape his skull by way of his left eye. Whimpering, he tries to bury his face into the pillow but half of it is wet with drool, so he reaches up and throws the stupid thing on the floor. His mattress is comfy. He can just plant his face there and suffocate, no problem.

He has no idea how he got home last night, which is terrifying. Everything after the third Augustiner is a bit hazy. He was talking to some guy who made him laugh, he knows that much. His mind conjures bits and pieces of his mysterious drinking companion: a wide, white grin; large hands; a voice he can hear the cadence and depth of but can't remember a single word it said. After that, he's got nothing.

It takes a few tries to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth and he rolls onto his side to put his back to where the sun is starting to filter through the curtains. The move puts the nightstand right in his line of sight, and when his vision focuses, he pauses.

There's a glass with water on top of it, but it's not the cup he usually chooses. It's one of the textured acrylic ones he picked out when he moved in that he absolutely hates using. Even though they're impossible to break, he feels like he's ten years old when he's forced to drink out of one. All that's missing is a sippy-cup lid.

Although he has to hand it to himself: the acrylic cup was a pretty solid idea, considering he might've knocked a real glass onto the floor sometime in the night and then cut himself when it shattered. Chimney forced Buck to watch Die Hard last year and it was a fun movie, but Buck has no desire to recreate the "shoot the glass" scene.

He slides his face a little closer to the edge of the bed so he can find his phone. It's sitting on the top of the nightstand, plugged in, which is almost as surprising as the acrylic cup. He never remembers to plug his phone in when he's sober, but there it is, charging away. His wallet and keys are also laying next to it. It's such a neat and tidy tableau that, for a second, he thinks he's still asleep and this is one of those dreams where only one or two things is out of place and he spends the entire dream wondering if he's dreaming.

If he were dreaming, though, he wouldn't feel like hard-boiled ass, so someone else had been here and got him squared away. Maybe he called Eddie for a ride home? Buck reaches for his phone and his fingers brush up against the edge of a piece of paper. A receipt? Maybe he took a taxi instead.

Buck squints at it, and he has every intention of grabbing it to look for clues, but he ends up dozing for almost two hours. By the time he wakes up, the sun has invaded every part of the loft, but he doesn't feel so much like he's about to slip this mortal coil. He'll take the wins where he can.

It only takes a minute or two of psyching himself up before he's able to roll into something resembling sitting, and after that he gives himself five minutes to drop his head into his hands and regret his life choices. Once he promises God, the Devil, Zeus, and the purple laser ghost of Prince that he will never drink to such excess again as long as he lives, he finally looks over at the nightstand where his phone is.

It's been set to Do Not Disturb, which is nice. It's not something he ever does, because he's afraid he'll miss something important, and when he turns it off the screen fills with dozens of missed calls and texts from Maddie and Chimney. He takes great pleasure in dismissing all of them. Nothing from his parents, of course. There's also one from Eddie asking if everything's okay because "Chim called me asking if I'd heard from you and he sounds like he's about to start climbing the walls using only his teeth."

It's followed by a text that reads "Bobby says to take your time coming in. What happened?"

He taps open the message to reply when he glances up and sees the receipt on the nightstand. Abandoning his phone in favor of learning just how much he spent on a DD, he learns it wasn't a taxi at all. It's a note written in an unfamiliar hand on a small piece of drafting paper.

Your car is parked at the Red Lion. Jay said it was OK to leave it there because you weren't in any shape to drive.

Underneath that is a phone number, and underneath that is a single line: Remember—as much as you want. But only if you want.

It's signed "TK".

Baffled, Buck brings a fist to his mouth, because he's not sure what else to do, and when his thumbnail presses against his bottom lip, something hot and shivery pops low in his belly. It's how he realizes he's got to pee so bad he's going to wet the bed if he waits any longer.

After he pisses for what feels like an eternity, downs four Advil, showers the sweat and shame off, he stumbles back up the stairs feeling wrung out but definitely more human. Once he's in a pair of clean boxers, he surveys the room.

There was a stranger here last night, but it doesn't look like anything's missing. He checks his wallet, but all his cards and cash are still there. His sneakers were neatly placed against the wall, out of the way where he wouldn't trip on them if he got up during the night. And there's of course his phone, fully charged for once, and the note.

He sits on the edge of his bed and reads the note four more times. Then he looks up the Red Lion's operating hours, but it doesn't open for two more hours.

Which leaves him with the number and As much as you want. But only if you want.

His mind immediately takes a swan dive into the gutter. It's probably not meant to be as sexual as it reads, but... he's not sure how else he's supposed to take it. TK's blocky penmanship reveals nothing.

Maybe after he was done talking to the guy at the bar he met some woman? Maybe she was the one to take him home, although considering how drunk he must've been, it couldn't have been an easy feat. That she didn't help herself to his money and was thoughtful enough to plug his phone in and get him a glass of water really warrants a thank you.

He looks down at the phone number.

He grabs his phone—100%, what an absolutely wild concept—and taps in the number, double checking it like four times while his finger hovers over the CALL button like an anvil.

What the hell. He's got nothing left to lose.

He taps CALL and brings the phone to his ear. It takes two rings before someone picks up.

"Hello?"

Not a woman. Buck sits up so straight they could use his spine as an I-beam level.

"Uh, h-hey," he stutters, looking around his room, trying to divine any lingering atoms this person might've left behind. "Um, I think you—I have a note with this number on it and—"

Thankfully, the mysterious "TK" stops Buck before he gets a good ramble going, his voice friendly as he breaks in with, "Evan! Hey. Glad to hear the Maximator couldn't keep you down for long. How're you feeling this morning?"

Buck's entire body goes warm as it relaxes from its ramrod-straight pose. "I, uh, a little confused. I don't remember getting home, but I guess I have you to thank for that." Buck pauses. "So, thank you."

"Well, you didn't make it easy." TK laughs, and it shivers down the line right into Buck's ear canal. "It took me a lot longer to figure out you were saying 'Rowan' and not 'rowing' than I care to admit, but we got there in the end. Your place is insane. Did you get a signing bonus when you joined the 118 or something?"

Buck blinks. An image of Bobby winning a fight against a rooster comes winging out of the back of his mind. "That—that's right. You're a firefighter. Uh, do you really fly with Harbor One or am I making that up?"

"You made me promise four times to give you lessons," TK says warmly. "I had to stop you from slicing your palm open so we could shake on it."

Ducking his head with a helpless chuckle, Buck nods, even though TK can't see him. "Yeah, that, uh, sounds like something I'd do. Sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I'd love to take you up."

He doesn't know how he got lucky enough that the person he made a fool out of himself in front of was one of the chosen few who are able to handle The Full Buck without too much of a fuss, but he's so grateful for it. They're a rare breed.

"Anytime you want, just tell me when."

Buck's gaze immediately shoots to the piece of paper he's still clutching in his other hand, and for no reason he can think of his heart rate picks up. His cheeks start tingling with blossoming warmth.

He curls a little into himself, cupping the phone closer to his mouth. "I-Is that what you meant in your note?"

There's a little pause on the line, and then when TK's voice comes back, it's softer. "No. That's not what I meant."

Buck swallows a mouthful of saliva and asks, just as softly, "What does 'TK' stand for?"

"Tommy Kinard."

Exhaling a shaky breath, Buck's eyes fall closed. He thinks of cool sheets under him, and feeling heavy and safe in the dark. His belly clenches with something like hunger. He bites his bottom lip and then licks it.

"... Evan? You still there?"

He doesn't know why his body feels like it's being pulled in a million different directions, or why the first thing he thought of when Tommy said "Evan" was baby alligators, but he does know this: on the worst day of Buck's life, Tommy Kinard made it easier to bear. He kept Buck company, kept him distracted, and then kept him safe.

I told you not to go, he thinks out of nowhere.

"Look, Evan, it's completely fine, and I promise I won't be offended if you don't want—"

Evan Buckley was born to fix someone else. He has defective cells and has never once been enough for anyone, and that sucks. But he's still here and this life is his whether it was meant to be or not, and he does want.

Buck opens his eyes.

"Hey, so, what are you doing Saturday?"

#bucktommy #this started out as a bulleted list in the tumblr text editor i have no idea wtf happened but now i'm gonna be LATE for a lunner meetup #bucktommy fic #tevan fic #911 #rc's 911 fics

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kinley-cafe · 3 months ago

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Drinks

🔥 "You Still Owe Me that Beer" Float A deliciously tart and creamy root beer float made with quality craft beer and decadent French vanilla ice cream. This delightful treat comes with one turnout straw and one flight suit straw. 🔥 Fake Mouth Static Sparkling Tea Extra fizzy kshhh butterfly tea ksshhh with honey, berries ksshhh and a helicopter ice cube 🔥 Cat 5 hurricane Cappuccino A rich and creamy cappuccino in a (possibly stolen) LAFD Helicopter themed mug. 🔥 “I took a guess” Mystery Coffee Not like that. It’s definitely not what you want, but Buck tried his best and that’s all that matters. It's a random coffee with undisclosed, completely random ingredients, served in a green to-go coffee cup wrapped in a cardboard coffee cup sleeve, decorated all over with brown hearts and flames. 🔥“That Fire Was A Beast” thirst quencher Hydrating strawberry dragon fruit, topped with whipped cream and soot colored chocolate drizzle. Served in a fire hydrant cup.

🔥 “You’re a vision” Birthday Cake Hot Chocolate A flirty and festive Belgian hot chocolate served in a red and blue cup, topped with a cloud of confetti whipped cream.

🔥 Buck’s Cozy Cup of Tea A nice, hot cup of black tea with lemon and honey. Each cup is wrapped securely with an (un)official LAFD crocheted cozy.

🔥 Harbor Station Pumpkin Spice Latte A mix of delicious traditional fall spices, topped with whipped cream and cinnamon. It’s served in a special Air Ops Winged Cup with a golden pumpkin stirrer.

🔥 Saturday Sparkling Cider A warm malted cider, with all the Saturday Night craft flavor, and none of the alcohol. Served at room temperature so it’s not too hot, and not too cold. It’s just what you’re ready for.

Desserts

🔥 118 Cream Donut Bavarian Cream Donuts with fire engine red strawberry frosting and ember sprinkles.

🔥 Flying Lessons Fudge Bon Bons Delicious fudge-filled bon bons molded with a headset and wrapped in a pilot jumpsuit colored wrapper.

🔥 Are We Still Talking About Cake? Layered Vanilla cake with Strawberries, buttercream icing and a candy LAFD logo. Go ahead and take it to your table. So you can eat it.

🔥 Open Channel Chocolate Muffin Chocolate muffins topped with cream cheese frosting and chocie talkies (chocolate walkie talkie shaped chips) 🔥“I’m An Ally” Cookie Bar Delicious copycat Italian cookie bars with bisexual flag layers. Made for any ally, or…more than an ally.

🔥 Date Night Cookie Pizza A delicious skillet cookie pizza topped with ice cream strawberries and. A perfect treat for your (hopefully) uninterrupted first date.

🔥 “Be With Your Man” Brown Sugar Mug Cake This warm and delicious brown sugar mug cake captures the ambiance of Buck and Tommy’s cozy dinner at home. The patterns on the cup are inspired by items from Buck’s dinner table.

🔥 Adorable Apple Pie Super sweet mini apple pies baked by Tommy as an ode to Buck and just how adorable he is. Each one is baked in a turnout tin and brushed with strawberry jam to resemble Buck’s birthmark.

🔥 Firefighter’s Flaming Candy Apple A sweet, sugar candy coated California grown Gala apple, decorated with a blazing flame.

Buck’s Happy Hour

🔥“I am free” This eye opener cocktail is a refreshing and invigorating beverage that features rich coffee with deep, malty notes of stout that lingers in your mouth, much like the sweet taste of a first kiss. It combines vodka, cold-brew coffee, coffee liqueur, stout beer, and a sweet brown-sugar syrup. Garnished with heart shaped mint.

🔥The 24 Hour Shift A highly caffeinated, creamy cocktail with sweet and smooth flavors, made to keep you going for hours. This cocktail is blended with nitro brew, bourbon, brown sugar, and half and half, topped with whipped cream and a cinnamon stick. 🔥Intermittent Showers This cocktail is excitement in a glass. A rush of sweet, smooth and fizz, made with cold-brew coffee, club soda, berry infused rum, simple syrup, topped with silver storm cloud whipped topping and a mini chocolate helicopter.

🔥The “Tommy, Actually” Made with craft beer and espresso to combine strong, bold coffee with the rich flavors of beer, featuring the unexpected sweetness of the heavy cream, coffee liqueur, and whipped topping. Topped with whipped cream and Edible gold Air Ops Pilot Wings.

Anytime Menu

🔥 The Q Word Have you been jinxed? Order one of these special to-go combos to help you get through the chaos ahead.

🔥 “Badass Coffee Mug” Ready to go up? Order this combo whenever you’re in the mood for a Harbor Station tour from a hot pilot to put a smile on your face.

🔥 “I Need Mo Joe” Looking for a little comfort? Maybe a certain adorable firefighter can whip up a firehouse family combo for you

Call Dispatch (send an ask) anytime you’re looking for a little pick-me-up and put in an order for one of these combos.

#.kinley cafe current menu

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machveil · 2 months ago

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Simon “Ghost” Riley and König being beer snobs (well, alcohol in general). Simon refuses to drink anything too fruity or sweet and König hates anything that has a bitter aftertaste or is malty

#ghost #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #konig #könig #könig cod #könig call of duty #cod #cod thoughts #call of duty #hit post

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lunaasolstice · 2 years ago

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Rebel With A Cause

Summary: Chishiya doesn’t like it when you play games.

Pairings: Chishiya x Fem!Reader

Warnings: NSFW! Smut (18+), Kinky

A/N: Possessive Chishiya with Y/N being a bad bitch lmao.

To say Chishiya wasn’t getting on your last nerves was an understatement. For the past three days he’s been avoiding you with no explanation. The two of you weren’t dating per se, but you guys were mutually exclusive. So of course not finding him would be a huge deal for you. Was he just using you? Whatever it was you could care less at this point.

You meet up with Kuina at the bar in the Beach. Grabbing the cold beer she got for you, the two of you cheered and took sips of the bitter, malty liquid. While you guys were talking, you look around and recognize a figure leaning up against the wall making out with some red-headed chick.

Oh, well that’s not mutually exclusive. The sight made you furious, but if he wants to play this game then so be it. You tell Kuina you would be right back and make your way to your room.

In your room you find and put on the best bikini top top you own; a black lacy top showing more cleavage than normal with a black mini skirt. You fix your hair into a high ponytail and put on some liquid eyeliner winging out your eyes. Taking one last look in the mirror, your smile widened. That’ll teach him.

Kuina’s jaw dropped when you walk into the room. “You look hot as hell Y/N, I could make out with your right now.”

“I’ll remember that for next time.” you wink.

Looking around the room you see that he was still with that other chick. Rolling your eyes you take two tequila shots and head to the dance floor. The loud bass filling your ears, closing your eyes you let the music and the alcohol kick in. The beat of the music gets more intense, and your body moves along, your hips swaying faster, and your arms out matching the rhythm of your moves while you mouthed the lyrics. Catching the eye of a cute stranger in front of you, you signaled him a come here with your fingers and start dancing with him. You seductively start spinning around while swaying your hips and start grinding on him. His hands go for your waist and the two of you continue dancing. As you make your way up you look around and see Chishiya glaring at you.

You give him a smirk, the one he always gives you. Bet you like that, huh? You turn around and continue dancing with the cute stranger. When you tried to wrap your arms around his neck you felt an immediate grasp on your arm that pulled you back, dragging you out of the room.

“Hey let go of me!” you yelled. The grip was too tight and he kept you dragging you through the corridors. “Chishiya, let go!”

He continues to ignore you. He was really getting on your nerves tonight and you were not going to deal with it. “Let fucking go Chishiya I don’t have time for this!!”

The two of you finally get to your room and he throws you against your bed. His eyes had full on rage in them. “You know that guy in the dance floor was trying to fuck you, right?”

Is he dumb? “Yeah no shit, why do you think I was dancing on him?” you smirk.

He puts his hand around your neck, not with too much force but enough to give you a warning, “Are you really trying to test me, Y/N? Only I’m allowed to fuck you.”

You smirk, “Is that so?”

He flips you over, your stomach now laying on the soft blanket of your bed. He aggressively pulls down your mini skirt and slaps your ass hard. Lowering his pants he’s now fully exposed. His hands make your way to your pussy, feeling the wetness against your folds.

“Already wet, hm?”

You laugh, “Yeah but not for you.”

He smacks your ass harder again and then pulls on your ponytail hard, sliding his dick into your pussy before thrusting you hard balls deep from behind.

“Say that again?”

The moans escaped your lips as his cock fit perfectly inside you as he was going in and out. He starts to thrust harder and repeating, “Say that again?”

“It’s for you.”

Speeding up his pace made you more aroused, causing your moans to get louder. You tried to cover your mouth but he immediately smacks your hand away. “Let them hear your moans, I want everyone to know that you are mine,” he groans against your ear. Unable to keep yourself quiet, the moans only grew louder and you were practically screaming his name.

“Chishiya don’t stop.” You were on the edge of having an orgasm and he knew how to bring you to that edge. He start thrusting right into your g-spot, the sensation feeling so great your walls start clenching against his shaft. He groans, soft moans coming out of his lips, thrusting harder into your g-spot until the two of you reach your highs.

Turning around you look at him with those doll like eyes of yours, “We aren’t done yet.”

He raises his eyebrows, before realizing you were carefully grabbing his dick and slowly started licking his shaft. Your tongue makes its way to his tip, gently licking and sucking it. Looking up you see his head rolled back. You admired looking at him this way; his beautiful white hair going off his shoulders while he has his eyes closed enjoying the pleasure you were giving him.

You get up and chuckle, “Actually I’m done now. That’s what you get for easily replacing me with some random chick. Why don’t you ask her to have her lips wrapped around your dick, yeah?” Giving him that condescending smirk, he then returns that same look.

“Get on the bed now.”

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qveerthe0ry · 3 months ago

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HAPPY BIRTHDAY @for-a-longlongtime 🎊🎈🎂

You are the best Tumblr friend anyone could ask for. I’m so grateful for you and your incredibly supportive (enabling) tendencies, your insanely beautiful fic writing brain, and the ear you always lend to me to vent to.

Also for the gif of Oscar Isaac’s Dick and Balls that you sent me earlier today that inspired me to write a little FishPope blurb 😌 This is my gift to you and I hope you enjoy 💕 Love you!!

Smush

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Santiago Garcia Rating: 18+ mdni Warnings: bulge worship, cock worship, cock warming

Sometimes Frankie just gets a little restless.

He wants to relax. After a long day of work, and whatever project Santi’s got him working on in their garage, and making and/or eating dinner, all he wants to do is relax.

He grabs a shower, sometimes with Santi, sometimes alone. He’ll change into pajamas— now that it’s summer, pajamas consist of underwear and a baggy old shirt. Then he grabs an ice cold beer and settles on the couch for some mind-numbing television while Santi reads or scrolls on his phone.

But sometimes not even the most outlandish reality show can’t settle his restless mind.

Usually Santi notices it even before he does himself. A ‘knock it off’ grumbled at him above his reading glasses cues him in on the way he’s bouncing his leg up and down.

Tonight, he’s grinding his teeth to some unidentifiable rhythm in his head. He only notices because he pinches his cheek between his molars and winces. His jaw aches a bit, he must’ve been at it for a while.

He glances over to Santi. He’s got a really boring looking book in his hands, nestled in the corner of the couch.

His thick thighs are spread open, inviting. Almost as inviting as the soft bulge protruding from his tight gray boxer briefs.

Frankie’s mouth starts to water, alleviating that little nick his teeth caused.

He shifts slowly at first, inconspicuous, and Santi doesn’t notice. So he moves again, lying out on their couch, so his head rests on Santi’s leg.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting comfy.”

“Hmm.”

Santi lifts one hand away from his book to ruffle Frankie’s curls and god, he’s got magic hands, the way one simple touch has his mind going pleasantly empty.

He’s staring at Santi’s bulge now, shamelessly, since the man’s obstructing his view with his book.

He knows it’s a mouthful, even completely flaccid. God, he bets it’s so warm and smooth. He shifts a little closer and takes a slow but deep breath and fuck.

He smells so good. Even freshly showered, there’s always a hint of Santi’s natural musk, something so malty and deep that seeps through the fancy, expensive body wash he likes.

Frankie wonders if it makes him a freak, that he likes it so much. Not that he really cares.

He wants more of it. He wants the smell and feel and taste of him all at once, to overwhelm him and just shut his brain off.

So he adjusts up onto an elbow, and cranes his neck a bit, and smushes his face right at the apex of Santi’s thighs.

“The fuck, Fish?”

Frankie inhales a big breath and hums it out before responding.

“‘M restless.”

His voice is muffled by Santi’s bulge, twitching now as the hot air from Frankie’s breath engulfs it.

“Shit, yeah?”

“Mmmhm.”

Frankie hears a book page turn, and then Santi’s hand is back on his head once more. His nails scrape his scalp before his fingers really tangle and twist.

“Wanna keep it warm for me, papi?”

Frankie’s prick pulses where it’s trapped between his stomach and the couch. He nods, which only grinds his face against Santi’s package.

It feels good, the softness of his underwear gently scraping the soft skin of his nose and cheeks. There’s and impossible heat radiating off of him, and Frankie seeks more of it, nuzzling around, rearranging his dick and balls as his face rubs against them.

Santi hums and tilts his hips, nearly crushing Frankie’s nose as he seeks more friction, but even that sting is good, great.

“Take it out.”

The nonchalant, commanding tone makes Frankie shiver. He whimpers a little, gives Santi’s package one more good smush before the fingers in his hair tug in warning.

Frankie gets his fingers around the waistband, and Santi lifts his hips to help. Frankie licks his lips at the sight of his balls resting over the elastic, all warm and loose.

He nudges Santi’s half-hard cock out of the way to nose at the base and lick the pronounced seam of his sac, to take a deep breath and inhale his intoxicating scent that’s even stronger now. He groans and grinds his own cock into the cushion under him for the smallest amount of relief.

“Put it in your mouth, Fish.”

And he can’t protest, not with the way he has to swallow all the drool that’s pooled just from rubbing his face all over him.

He tastes familiar. It settles him more than he’ll ever admit to anyone. The stretch of his jaw, the weight of Santi’s cock on his tongue, the tickle in the back of his throat. The novelty has never worn off, it just eggs him on.

He starts to bob his head. Santi’s grip on his hair tightens.

“Stop. Just keep it there.”

And even though he’s still a bossy prick, Santi’s murmur is softer and sweeter and less domineering than normal.

Even so, Frankie obeys.

He settles his head back down on his thick, fuzzy thigh and rests there.

He suckles, still. More reflex than anything else. His tongue lies heavy on Santi’s frenulum as he swallows now and then.

The noisy static in his brain fizzles out as Santi’s dick fully inflates. His jaw stretches slowly in a welcome ache, and the scent of him is so heady and overwhelming as he shuts his eyes, and Santi’s hand in his hair pets and smooths and everything is quiet.

Santi can’t wait until the next time Frankie’s restless.

#Happy birthday Adi I love you sm I'm kissing you so hard #frankie morales x santiago garcia #gift fics

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feelslksugar · 5 months ago

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drinking with anakin <3

A/N; this is so self-indulgent LOL. I wanted to get this out immediately. I love this idea so much and I for sure want to expand on this in the future.

warnings; dark content, forced drinking, she/her used, dubcon, anakin calls reader a good girl, fem reader.

It had been a long day. Unfortunately, one of many this week. With college starting up again, you were constantly swamped with work that seemed to have no end. Adjusting to college life all over again proved to be a lot more difficult than you had initially anticipated.

Coming straight home, studying and doing homework for hours, buying some cheap takeout, showering, and sleeping was all you knew. You hardly had time for yourself, and even less time for Anakin.

And he didn’t like that one bit, but luckily, your boyfriend knew just how to make you relax and enjoy yourself after such a rough week.

“Come on baby, just drink it, it'll make you feel so relaxed I promise,” Anakin said while shoving the tip of the cold glass beer bottle to your glossy lips. You knew you couldn’t even protest, if you so much as even tried your clothes would end up ruined. You didn’t exactly want to drink the beer but you didn’t want to be soaked with the yeasty liquid either.

You wanted to make your boyfriend happy. He just wants to help his girlfriend relax, and you’re going to deny him the chance to help you?

“Swallow. Now.” Anakin’s tone was a lot more stern now.

His sudden tone shift startled you. You knew you had to bite the bullet and just drink.

The second you sipped from the cold bottle the bitter liquid invaded your mouth.

Impulsively you wanted to spit the malty liquid out and rinse your mouth with water for hours, but you knew you couldn’t. It was overwhelming and nauseating, Anakin knew you weren’t a drinker.

From the corner of your eye you could see how he smiled to himself watching his precious little girl try to keep the drink she hated so much in. He loved watching you struggle.

The only thing you could do was swallow immediately. Desperate to not even taste it, but you were unsuccessful. The taste was absolutely disgusting and you hated every second of it.

“That’s it, baby, there you go.” He praised you while filling your mouth with even more beer.

“See, you’ll feel better in no time.” He says moving the bottle away from your lips before kissing you. "Good girl,"

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gilverrwrites · 10 months ago

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Supernatural Taste and Smell Headcanons

I included a lot of characters (I think 24?), but if your fave didn't make the cut, just send me an ask!

Dean

Smell: Leather, cinnamon, and the kind of musk that only comes from an axe body spray, cause you know what man only buys whatever is quick and easy at the gas station. He’d also smell like gasoline.

Taste: Malty like beer, but sweet in the way bbq sauce is sweet.

Sam

Smell: I just feel like (when he’d not hunting) he smells clean, ya know? Citrusy and woody, kind of like D&G light blue, with undertones of like a ‘fresh’ scented fabric softener.

Taste: Kind of fruity but tart, like a berry smoothie. Also just a little bit of like garlic, or mustard.

John

Smell: That man is a smoker, and you can’t tell me otherwise – at least later in life, way after the marines, and losing Mary. He always has a stale smoke smell on his clothes and lips. I recon he uses old spice or similar as an aftershave, so also like cloves/sage.

Taste: Again smoky, ashy, but also oaky and malty like bourbon.

Mary

Smell: Citrusy like Sam but darker, smokier (joke not intended) with hints of like jasmine, bergamot, and a little bit of vanilla. 100% the kind of smell that wraps you up if you come in for a hug.

Taste: Chocolate, specifically the kinds with nuts and caramel, woman has a sweet tooth.

Castiel

Smell: I feel like all angels smell at least a little like parma violets, or some kind of sweet and subtle floral smell, be especially Cas. On top of that, he’d have like other earthy scentes, like honey, patchouli, maybe a bit of amber.

Taste: Coffee, always coffee. When human/when he eats; grape jelly, and honey.

Jack

Smell: Like Cas he has the sort of clean, floral scent to him. I also think he would smell of peppermint and like a yankee candle version of warm vanilla. He just has a cosy, familiar smell to him.

Taste: Again I think minty, additionally like white chocolate and rose/flora flavours.

Bobby

Smell: Like old books, burnt candle wicks, motor oils, and nose hair singing whisky.

Taste: More than anyone else on this list (including Crowley) Bobby tastes like whisky. Not the good stiff though, that’s only for special occasions. He taste like Jim Beam and Jack Daniels.

Crowley

Smell: Like a bonfire!!! Smokey, warm, woody, with a hint of burnt sugar.

Taste: 100% Whisky, and dark chocolate.

Charlie

Smell: Charlie smells like she just stepped out of a fantasy book, like wildflowers, and peppercorn. Like strawberry and blackcurrant wine.

Taste: Like a vegan alternative to Nutella, creamy, chocolatey, nutty.

Meg

Smell: Surprisingly soft and clean. Milky, with almond and peach. Just a hint of leather and cedarwood underneath.

Taste: Salty and sweet, anise: like a strawberry liquorice.

Ruby

Smell: Like cedarwood, ginger, and pink pepper. Pleasant but sharp, and strong. Like it pulls you in from across the room.

Taste: Bold and sweet like cabernet sauvignon, starkly contrasted by pepperoni and cheesy pasta.

Lucifer

Smell: Similar to Jack, in that he smells clean and minty. However, his is sharper, harsher. There is lime, and moss, and mahogany.

Taste: Like pure Moroccan mint, with that like sweet sourness you get on things like a tangfastics or a sourpatch kid. Like if you’re not expecting it, or you taste it for to long it will make you squirm.

Gabriel

Smell: Like walking into the kitchen of a bakery just before opening and they’re prepping everything. Mocha, malted sugar, rich caramel, creamy vanilla.

Taste: All of the above again! Just so sweet and creamy. Like a spoonful of sugar.

Raphael

Smell: Very similar to Cas, floral, but less earthy, and more sterile. Like aloe vera and antiseptic.

Taste: Again, very clean. He has a flavour the way cucumber has flavour? Refreshing, clean, but not notable.

Michael/Adam 😍

Smell: Kind of like the ocean, meets the forrest. Musk, white lilies, salt, collided with pine, sandalwood, and cedar. Cold, but familiar, ya know?

Taste: Hear me out: Fruit loops, and Dr Pepper. Like Michael has little say over what they eat, that’s all on Adam. And after the initial, ‘I haven’t eaten in 1200 years, I’m gonna eat everything I craved’ has worn off. He’s just like, a normal guy (who does not need to eat because he shares his body with an immortal angel). So, I can see him mostly reaching for snacks that make him feel good, that remind him of his mum, or his childhood, something comforting; like sugary cereals and fizzy drinks. I love them, I will take no criticism.

Rowena

Smell: Like an apothecary. Rich and indulgent. Very aromatic with lots of deep woody tones, sweet cherry, dark rose and other florally scents.

Taste: Like a bottle of mataro, or Nebbiolo wine. Spice, cherry, plum, smoke. She both smells and tastes intoxicatingly expensive.

Chuck

Smell: Kind of musky, cottony, leafy. I don’t really imagine him smelling too strongly of anything.

Taste: Summary and tart, like a sea breeze cocktail. (Grapefruit, cranberry, lime – an acquired taste)

Amara

Smell: Similar to Chuck, I sort of envision an absence of smell. Maybe just hints of amber, sandalwood, and a musky citrusy scent.

Taste: Like a white dessert whine, like Riesling. Dry but sweet. Honey, and pears.

Billie

Smell: Bergamot, rose, silk, and cocoa. Inviting and pleasant, but with an undertone of darkness.

Taste: Very similar to scent, sweet and warm but with an aftertaste of something bitter; blackcurrant and dark chocolate

Benny

Smell: Robust (Copper, ginger, tobacco,) but enticing (amber, cardamom, cinnamon).

Taste: I mean, I have tried really had to not add blood to any of the previous entries, but Benny undeniably tastes like blood.

Kevin

Smell: Not good. Pre-prophethood, not so much; I imagine like mint, green tea, jasmine, the kind of smell you would expects from a reasonably priced aftershave. During prophethood, the aftershave is long forgotten; its more fried chicken, old paper, and forgetting to shower for 9 days.

Taste: Like redbull, chexmix, and mouthwash.

Eileen

Smell: Like peaches, and roses, rich chocolate, and strong coffee.

Taste: Chocolate and coffee again, but hints of sparkly summer fruits.

Ketch

Smell: Like high end British aftershaves only the royal family know off, something with notes of fig, and oud, and other pretentious smells. The small of cigar smoke, and leather follow him around too.

Taste: Like earl grey tea, and dry gin.

Balthazar

Smell: Kind of like ketch, some high end and expensive (if he actually had to pay for it). But woodsier, and fresh. He would also have that hidden undertone of violet.

Taste: Creamy and hazelnutty, but there’s a constant aftertastes alcohol, and something metallic to him, no matter what comes first.

#supernatural #spn #supernatural headcanon #supernatural headcanons #spn headcanon #dean winchester #sam winchester #supernatural angels #supernatural archangels #supernatural demons #gilverrwrites

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tigertofu · 1 year ago

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HIIII IM LITERALLY OBSESSED W YOUR WORK LIKE OMFG KEEP IT UP <3 Can you write trevor x shy! chubby/fat reader smut 😼

hi hiiii !! i could not have asked for a better first nsfw request than this one 😭😭 i had SO MUCH fun with this prompt........ trevor/shy, chubby girl is licherally my specialty so tysm for sending it in 💕💕💕!

i have got to start remembering to add gifs to these posts......

pairing: chubby and shy fem reader/Trevor

summary: One night, the raunchy pickup lines of a strange man lure you from the bar you two met in to his trailer. Your nerves make your attempt at hooking up a bit difficult at first, but he knows just how to put your mind at ease.

cw's: explicit smut

wordcount: 2,747

ao3 link

“C’mon, sugar. Don’t get shy on me now.”

Your eyes darted up to meet those of the man who’s lips you’d just unlocked your own from. But even in the dim of his cluttered room, you couldn’t meet his gaze. It was so intense it felt like it would burn straight through your retinas.

“S–Sorry,” you muttered, staring at the cover of a porn mag on his crumpled comforter. A blonde woman in a red bikini, her long limbs perfectly posed, her stomach flat beneath the hint of ribcage under her impossibly round, perky breasts, graced the cover. The apprehension in your stomach quitched. You wondered if, despite Trevor’s interest in getting you out of the Yellow Jack and into his trailer the moment you acquiesced to his raunchy pickup lines, that was the type of woman he was into.

He groaned beside you. Flopped down with his back against the headboard of his bed.

“And stop fucking apologizing,” he said, tugging at the back of your shirt. You relented and scooted yourself back to sit beside him.

You knew the “sorry”’s were getting repetitive at this point. You’d squeaked one when you’d tripped over an empty pizza box on the way to his bed and caught yourself against him. You’d murmured another when you’d miscalculated which way to tilt your head when he’d first gone in for a kiss, causing the tips of your noses to bump against each other.

“I’m—” Your sentence got cut off by him reaching over to fondle one of your breasts. The warmth of his calloused palm seeped through your shirt and bra. Your nipple, which had perked up to attention the second his mouth had come down on yours a few minutes earlier, rolled beneath his hand. You made a whimpering sound in the back of your throat before refinding the strength to breathe out: “I–I’m just kinda nervous is all.”

“Nervous? Why?” He cupped your tit from below now, lifting it away from your chest, feeling out its weight and the way the soft flesh conformed to his hand. “You scared? ��Cuz I promise I’m not gonna hurtcha, sweetheart. Unless you want me to. Orrr… Maybe you’d wanna hurt me? I’m always down for any of that kinky shit.”

“I–I don’t know why,” you huffed. As you spoke, Trevor’s free hand snaked its way to your thigh. He gave it an experimental squeeze. “I just am.”

But you did know why. It was the same type of shyness that dewed your forehead with sweat and cinched your vocal chords shut, making your words shaky, whenever you found yourself in an intimate situation. Anxiety that you’d do or say something awkward. That your partner wouldn’t like what they found underneath your clothes. It had increased tenfold the usual tonight though, because you’d found yourself here, in the bed of a man with years more experience than you, who you’d already sensed had a hair–trigger temper.

Trevor didn’t catch onto your lie, thankfully.

The hand on your thigh nudged upwards, leveraging your legs apart by a few inches.

“Don’t be nervous,” he cooed against the side of your head. His breath, malty with the half dozen beers he’d drank at the Yellow Jack while trying to woo you, curled warm against the shell of your ear. “Just relax… Relax and let Uncle T take care of ya.”

The nickname made your stomach roll over itself. In a bad way or a good way, you couldn’t be sure. Maybe both. What you were sure of, was that the moment Trevor finished with undoing the zipper of your jeans, he would find a pair of panties that’d already been soaked through with excitement.

A rolling growl came out of him when he made this little discovery.

“Nervous but wet as hell,” he said, clearly proud of himself for eliciting this reaction.

He squeezed your sex, testing the plushness of the area. The wetness spread underneath the cotton of your panties. You let out an airy moan.

With one hand still shoved down your pants, he moved to tug at the neckline of your shirt with his other.

“How about we get all these pesky clothes off, eh?” he crooned.

“W–Wait,” you suddenly cried, grabbing his wrist.

He jerked his head away from its spot beside yours. Flashed you an annoyed glare. You swallowed.

“I… Can I… I–Is it okay if I keep my shirt on?”

Trevor guffawed with sheer disbelief, as if you’d just told him to forget all the flirting and the brief makeout session you’d already shared, you’d actually changed your mind about fucking and would rather just watch a movie together.

“Why the fuck would you wanna do that?” he asked gruffly. “C’mon. I wanna see those tits bounce while I’m fucking you.”

“I’m…” Worried you won’t find me attractive. Worried you’ll say something mean. Worried you’ll change your mind about doing this. “…Nervous.”

He continued his confused glare. You ducked your head down, staring again at the porn magazine by your foot. A painful, silent minute spun out. Then, Trevor clicked his tongue against his teeth.

“Listen to me. You are sexy as hell. You know that?” he said, his voice more low and even than it’d been a moment ago. You felt a bit embarrassed that he’d caught on to your need for validation, but overwhelmingly glad that he was freely giving it. “The, ah, ancient peoples… Greeks or Romans or whatever… They used to make statues of Venus—y’know, the goddess of fucking—with your type of figure.”

You glanced up at him. “Really?”

“They sure as shit did. Know why? ‘Cuz they had good taste. They knew that the more a woman has, the more there is to love.” He grabbed at your tits again, this time manhandling as much as he could with just one hand. “I mean—look at these puppies! And you’re so fucking soft… All over. Christ. I could just eat you right up, sugar.”

You sucked your bottom lip into your mouth, feeling your cheeks warm. Nobody had ever complimented you like this before. It felt good. It felt genuine.

It didn’t feel quite good enough to quell your shyness, though.

You bowed your head again and watched your hands worry at the hem of your shirt. Trevor let out a harsh sigh as you retreated back into yourself.

Suddenly, he let go of you and clambered out of bed. You looked up and watched as he stumbled over the same pizza box you had earlier, which made you giggle a bit. The giggle stopped when he reached for the fly of his jeans the second he was on his feet and, in one hard yank, pulled them and his briefs down. Your head snapped back to the familiar sight of your own lap. There was a moment of clothing rustling as he stripped himself.

“Look at me,” he said firmly once he was finished.

By the sound of his voice, you expected to see another glare pinching his features when you followed his command. But he was actually smirking. You tried to keep your eyes pinned to his, but they were far too intense and you were far too flustered. So, you let your gaze schlep down his bare body as he stood before you, restlessly shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his arms outspread in presentation.

Your attention caught on certain parts. His broad chest covered in a smattering of dark hair. The hard muscle filling out his shoulders. The way his waist tapered slightly inwards. A couple–inch–long scar just below his left ribs. His lean but not entirely flat stomach. The trail of hair that started just above his navel and ran down to—

You flicked your attention back up, settling on the ridge of his collarbone.

“Your turn now, princess,” he purred. “Don’t you know it’s weird to be the only fully–dressed person in a room?”

You looked him in the face and gave him a smile now.

“I… Well. O–Okay.” You added, a bit more demurely: “If you help me.”

“Atta girl,” he muttered, stepping up to the edge of the bed again.

He grabbed at the hem of your shirt and tugged up, encouraging you to straighten your arms over your head.

Being undressed by him was oddly comforting. The way he struggled with unclasping your bra and unzipping your jeans, growling curses at himself as his fingers slipped in his excitement, made you feel wanted. Desired. Needed. He grabbed random palmfuls of the softest parts of your body as he went, kneading them with shaky appreciation.

After he’d hooked his thumbs under the waistband of your panties and pulled them down and off of your legs, he paused for a moment. Standing over you as you sat on the edge of his bed, he drank in the full sight of your naked body. His dilated pupils jittered as they traced your soft curves.

“Look at you.” There was hunger in his voice, the corners of his mouth rising into another predatory smirk. You closed your eyes and tilted your chin to your chest, bashfully smiling. “Even fucking better than I imagined.”

A hand cupped your chin. Your head was thrown back and suddenly, his mouth was on yours again.

He shoved his tongue against yours. Breathless groaning leaked out from between his lips. You tasted them; drank in his desperate exhales and the bitterness of smoked cigarettes and downed beers and burned crystal. Part of you knew you should be disgusted. The other part, which was quickly ballooning into not just a part but a whole, told you to enjoy this—to enjoy all of him as he was enjoying all of you.

Before you knew it, you were on your back. He hunched over you, his broad silhouette blocking the weak light of the bare bulb hung from his ceiling. As he got closer, bending further, you felt something hot and hard and slick bump against one of your knees. You reached out blindly as you continued to kiss him, feeling for his erection. Your hand instinctively wrapped around it the moment your fingertips brushed against its head. Heavy and solid and wrapped with surprisingly soft skin, his cock completely filled your palm. You found that it was quite short, too, as you began to lazily pump it. Didn’t matter. Your fingers couldn’t even close all the way around him, he was so thick. A throb that felt both tightening and loosening at once travelled through your sex when you thought about just how far he would stretch you out.

Trevor hissed against your mouth, his frame suddenly drawing up tight. He bit at your bottom lip; tugged at it and growled around it.

“Fuck the foreplay. I think we’re both plenty ready.”

You murmured an affirmative sound against his lips, and he straightened himself up from you.

This time, you shamelessly admired his whole body as he moved to his bedside table and rummaged around in its drawer for a condom. A trickle of precum had leaked from the bulbous, red tip of his cock. There was a slight curve to his erection that you knew would press against that sweet spot tucked up inside of you just perfectly. It twitched against his fingers as he shakily rolled a condom down its length.

When he turned to you, he was grinning again. Your lower abdomen felt like it’d been turned to liquid. And as he grabbed you by the hips and yanked your ass to the very edge of his bed, spreading your thighs for himself, you felt that liquid seep from you. You briefly wondered if you’d ever been wetter; quickly decided you hadn’t.

Trevor reached down between the two of you to guide his cock. You felt him bump up against your sex. He made a few jerking passes up and down your slit, teasing you, nudging maddeningly briefly up against your throbbing clit before going back down to press against your entrance.

Your mouth dropped open when he finally eased his cock into your pussy. As your body stretched to accommodate him, pain bloomed deep inside you. He buckled forward, planting his hands outside your shoulders. You watched him wince and felt yourself grimacing, as well.

“Fuck,” he hissed through grit teeth. “You’re so fucking tight.”

You tried to say that no, maybe he was just big, but then he canted hips further, fully sheathing himself with a quiet squelch. Your words turned into a mewl. He chuckled.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah… Thaaat’s it, sugar,” he breathed, straightening himself up again and yanking you even closer to him by your hips, until you could feel his balls pressing warm and soft against your ass. “Make those pretty little sounds for me.”

And then he was fucking you. And it was good. Really good. So good that even if you didn’t want to make “pretty little sounds for him,” they would’ve involuntarily bubbled up out of you anyways.

Every thrust of his hips sent a burst of achey pleasure coursing through your insides. He was so close—perfectly painfully, utterly pleasurably close—to being too thick for you to handle, and yet the generous slick your sex had sopped itself with made it easy for him to piston in and out of you. Each jab into you knocked a grunt from his scarred, parted lips and a wet whimper from your own.

His pace quickly became messy. Faster. Jagged. You clutched at the threadbare comforter beneath you. Watched, and adored, the faint ripple of hidden muscle flexing and unflexing beneath the fat of his stomach as he fucked you while he watched every tantalizing bounce of your breasts. The heady scent of sex quickly filled the room, mingling with the wet sounds of your bodies smacking against each other, making your head swim.

Just a minute into it, Trevor suddenly drove forward as far as he could. You let out a keening moan as you felt him fully bury himself inside of you, your core on the verge of completely melting down from the sheer goodness of being so incredibly full of him.

“You look so fucking good at the end of my boy,” Trevor growled, moving his hands from the bed to your tits. He greedily filled each hand with one, your plush skin overflowing from the spaces between his fingers. “Like a fucking dream, baby. Shit, shit, shit, I–I love you. I love you so, so fucking much.”

His voice warbled over the sentiment. He began to thrust again, going hard, his movements shallow but primal, keeping his cock almost entirely buried inside of you. Itching, hot tension moved through your guts. You threw your head back. Reached out and grabbed at his forearms as his hold on your breasts turned crazed and almost painful. Felt the hard muscle under his scar–spattered skin as he held onto you and you onto him.

As quickly as it’d appeared, the tension inside of you mounted up. Every swing of his hips, every huffed breath, every gravelly groan, inched you closer and closer to a climax that was approaching with reckless abandon.

“Trevor,” you managed to gasp out. “I–I’m gonna cum.”

“Good, good, g–good girl,” Trevor rasped above you. “C’mon, c’mon. Cum for me; cum all over that dick, sweetness.”

The tension swirled and condensed, cinching up every aching muscle of your pussy. With one drawn–out moan, Trevor thrust into you as deep as he could once more and you came completely undone.

Climax ripped through you. Your back, damp with sweat, arched off the bed. Static burst behind your closed eyes. Your pussy clenched and unclenched around his cock with the strength of a coiled spring shooting out then being pressed down again, over and over. In the white–hot haze of orgasm, you didn’t even notice that Trevor had stopped his thrusting until you felt his cock begin to pulsate right against your sweet spot, milked by the fluttering walls of your sex.

“I love you, I love you, I love you!” he whined.

He collapsed atop you once he was finished.

The two of you raced to catch your breaths. For how long, you didn’t know. All you knew was that, with his chest pressed against yours, the sweat of his skin mingling with yours and his cock slowly going soft inside of you, you felt more satisfied than you ever had before.

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