#writing challenge: fluffebruary

[kingmlem]

Crooked, Penciled, Perfect

Submission for Day 7 of @bucktommyfluffebruary: Love Notes/Love Letters Also readable here

Summary: Evan draws his hearts crooked, Tommy draws his like sketches. Each one is kept, a small hoard of papers and receipts that radiate affection and care.

Evan draws his hearts crooked.

It’s one of the little tidbits of information that Tommy has stashed away, tucked neatly in a ‘Reasons to Love Evan Buckley’ folder in his brain, followed by every instance of lopsided doodled hearts he can remember. It’s adorable, the way that he’ll try so hard for them to come out perfectly even, only for one side to be bigger or cocked at an angle. The resulting pout usually earns him a rain of playful kisses that Tommy is powerless to stop himself from giving.

Evan’s bright laughter is also filed in that same ‘Reasons to Love Evan Buckley’ folder.

It’s something he doesn’t take notice of at first, paying no mind to the little motif penned onto the back of the picture Maddie had kindly printed out after the medal ceremony.

Tommy and Evan

Medal Ceremony ’24

Simple, written in black ink, with a cock-eyed heart next to their names, the left side bigger and more angular than the right. He’d almost thought it was intentional, before the pattern truly revealed itself.

Each scribbled note on the tiny whiteboard magnetized to Tommy’s fridge is signed with one, some nicer than others, some lost to the heavily smudged surface where Evan would erase one and try again. There’s a folder on Tommy’s phone dedicated solely to pictures of the small illustrations, acting as his own little museum of silly little lopsided hearts. He looks forward to each and every one, hoards them like precious gems.

The sticky notes get added into the mix the day after Evan ‘officially’ moves into the house. Tommy’s almost sure someone had given Evan a literal zoo of the things, because each day he finds one it ends up being a different animal, each one carries its own cheesy- but thematically relevant- pick-up line.

His favorite is tacked to the fridge with a simple black magnet, right next to the stained whiteboard.

That’s one fine ass!!!

~Ev

It’s written, predictably, on a cartoon, sunglasses wearing donkey head. He’d found it, also predictably, in the back pocket of his jeans, right before getting ready for work. Evan’s warped doodle heart sits right above his signature, bleeding into the ‘v’ so much it looks like there are two bottom halves right on top of each other.

Most of the other notes end up taped up in his locker at Harbor, small reminders that bring a smile to his face whenever he opens the door.

Tommy’s hearts are stylized.

Usually doodled in times of boredom or anxiety, all serving the same purpose.

Each one seems like its own little sketch, some pulled from the graffiti that litters train cars, some pulled from the most museum-worthy paintings.

They end up on Evan’s windshield, tucked neatly under the wipers like a ticket, or posted to the bathroom mirror so he sees it while he brushes his teeth. They show up on the coffee pot, the lamp on his side of the bed, his coat pocket- anywhere and everywhere.

There’s one in the Jeep’s glovebox, drawn in geometric shapes on a cocktail napkin while they were waiting for their drinks in an overcrowded bar. One’s tucked into the back of his phone case, a flowing piece drawn absently on the back of a grocery receipt. Evan’s trapped so many against his locker, either by magnet or tape, he can’t see the metal anymore.

They all scream a level of detail- attention, adoration- that Evan can almost feel the emotion behind every line. Each one radiates the amount of love poured into it, no matter how small, no matter how absently drawn they were. They were drawn for Evan, deliberate in their creation and dedication.

There’s a colored version of one tacked up on the fridge, something that Tommy had sketched out while Jee had him cornered, coloring. It’s bright, marker-thick lines over pencil shaded cells, interspersed with shaky wiggles where his niece had tried to help. Jee’s additions aren’t colored over, but simply added in among the more deliberate ones, highlighted as the focus in some areas, even. It’s Evan’s favorite piece, by both artists involved, and he’s made it the focus of their fridge, right next to the stupid donkey sticky note he'd jokingly put in Tommy's pocket. 

[thefixations-ofmine]

🌹Bucktommy Fluffebruary Masterlist🌷

Challenge masterpost

Challenge going through the month of February, the goal is to share some love for Bucktommy and focus on gross fluffy love.

Feb 1 : Non-sexual intimacy + AO3

Feb 2 : Cooking together

Feb 3 : Spiderman kiss

Feb 4 : Clingy boyfriend

Feb 5 : Mundane chores

Feb 6 : Stargazing

Feb 7 : Love notes/letters

Feb 8 : Surprise

Feb 9 : Moving in together

Feb 10 : Sleepy cuddles

Feb 11 : Double date

Feb 12 : A day at the beach

Feb 13 : Love declarations

Feb 14 : Valentine's Day

Feb 15 : Babysitting

Feb 16 : Didn't know they were dating AU

Feb 17 : Big romantic gestures

Feb 18 : Trying something new

Feb 19 : Slow dancing

Feb 20 : Baby fever

Feb 21 : Road trip

Feb 22 : Grumpy x sunshine

Feb 23 : Pillow talk

Feb 24 : Working out together

Feb 25 : Sharing a blanket

Feb 26 : Picnic date

Feb 27 : Affectionate bantering

Feb 28 : Wedding proposal

[kingmlem]

Time Honored Recipes

For day 2 of @bucktommyfluffebruary: Cooking together. Rated: T, bucktommy, fluff. Also readable here

There’s a pot simmering lowly on the back burner, the robust smell of onions and garlic breaking free from the steam dappled lid. The kitchen around them is a mess of bowls and cutting boards, the empty tomato cans littering the sink adding to the debris. The space is quiet, music turned low and distant from the living room- though the occasional hum does break the silence when one of them just can’t help themselves.

“I’m amazed you can still read this,” Evan laughs, holding up a stained and battered index card. The poor thing is taped together in the middle, a tear forming there as result of folding and unfolding it too much over the years. Tommy eyes it fondly, grabbing it with gentle fingers as he places a chaste but lingering kiss against his boyfriend’s lips.

“It’s not that bad,” He fidgets with one of the folded corners, the paper worn and fuzzy under his thumb. “It’s well loved.”

To put it mildly.

Tommy can’t even begin to count the number of times he’d clawed the recipe from the ancient box on the counter, seeking the comfort of making something so familiar.

The box itself comes with many bittersweet memories- raised voices, bullshit compromises- but the recipes it held carried only the best. There was comfort in that little wooden box, written on hundreds of index cards, each stained or streaked to hell and back.

It was comfort he hadn’t shared with anyone else, not before Evan, at least. It felt too personal- too close- to let anyone else see that part of him, read that nostalgic look on his face and ask for deeper glimpses into his life. This- the small, ornate, wooden box that sat on his countertop, right next to his coffee pot- was his family, and what he had left of them.

“These sound good,” Evan’s eyes skim over another card, hands light on the fragile stock, not even bothering to pull it from the rest. “They seem simple enough to make.”

There’s something about the mix of casualness in Evan’s tone and the hope in those pretty blue eyes that threatens to steal Tommy’s breath. He could lie to himself, say that it’s because in the warm lights of his kitchen Evan looks practically angelic, or that he’s just so captivated by the blonde’s looks that it takes his breath away sometimes. In truth, Evan looks like he belongs here- not just in his own domain of the kitchen, but here: entrenched in Tommy’s life among empty tomato cans and discarded bowls caked in flour. He has a momentary vision of what his grandfather used to talk about- something about soft, filtered light and an easy smile as his grandmother worked away on whatever recipe she’d pulled that day. It used to make him scoff, or laugh, because things like that weren’t real.

Tommy takes a moment to silently apologize for never believing in that. He can practically hear the old man laughing at him in turn.

Fair enough.

“Let’s see,” Tommy obliges, clearing his throat in order to settle the ball of emotions that had settled there. Evan’s smile echoes the warmth blooming in his too-full chest, recipe pulled from the box and set against the counter.

“It is baking, and I know we’ve kind of sworn off baking, but they sound amazing-“

“Sure,” It is a simple recipe, something Tommy could do in his sleep by this point, but the prospect of doing it with Evan? They can bring the extras to the station, it’s not like they’ll go to waste. “Grab the flour, and the larger mixing bowl. I’ll get the butter started.”

“Make sure to stir that sauce,” Tommy’s smile turns brilliant at the order, the phrase ingrained into his bones by now. He moves into action with a quick peck against plush lips. “I don’t want it to burn like last time.”

“To be fair, we were a bit distracted last time?” Evan bats at his hands when they crawl up his waist, playing with the apron strings tied there. His innocent look is met with one of feigned annoyance, Evan’s birthmark doing amusing things with his expression. Tommy relents after a moment, Evan’s hands still batting at his attempts to untie the stained green apron.

“And who’s fault was that?” The bag of flour makes its way back to the counter with a solid thump, a stainless-steel bowl following behind it moments later.

“In my defense,” The front burner clicks to life under a small saucepan, two sticks of butter falling into the warming metal. “There was a leggy blonde in my kitchen.”

“’Leggy blonde?’ Can’t you do any better than that?” Evan’s hands make quick work of the rest of the eggs, shells discarded into the empty carton before it too is thrown away. “’Leggy blonde.’ I honestly prefer ‘himbo-‘”

“I didn’t mean to call you a himbo-“

There’s an intimate sense of familiarity bouncing around the kitchen- something old, but true- not so much and echo, but a mirror. The sauce doesn’t burn this time, the pasta dough that had been chilling for hours finally gets cut, and there are enough cookies decorating the countertops that they could feed at least three different stations. Eggs, flour, and butter get added to the shopping list posted on the fridge, dishes are cleaned and put away amidst a downpour of kisses and casual touches.

His grandmother’s recipe box sits next to his coffee pot, in between the machine and a new binder labeled with a large ‘K.’

Man, I haven't posted my writing to tumblr in so long?

[kingmlem]

With Roots

For @bucktommyfluffebruary Day 9: Moving in Together Can also be read here

Rated: M Summary: Ceramic mugs clink together once again in the quiet, a celebratory windchime that's been played on repeat ever since everybody had gone home. It's slowly becoming one of Evan's favorite sounds. After everyone heads home, Evan and Tommy enjoy the gifted bottle of wine on their back porch, complete with ceramic coffee mugs.

The literal castle of unsorted boxes sits abandoned in the openness of the main room, all decorated with individual color-coded sticky notes, all brandishing the same-colored label ‘just in case the other one fell off in the truck.’ The combination foyer-dining room still sits largely empty, walls still blindingly devoid of color aside from the swatch cards pinned up with a bit of painter’s tape.

The door hiding the kitchen swings lightly against the evening breeze, the first hint of summer adding a touch of warmth to the moving air. Paper and bubble wrap rustle in their opened boxes, wrapped glasses and plates decorating the otherwise bare countertops. More paint cards sit attached to the fridge, fanned out and held by a reused chip clip, prospective colors for the kitchen and small breakfast nook.

A few stray leaves tumble across the kitchen floor, making their way inside through the open sliding glass door only to get stuck in the bundle of trash bags and empty pizza boxes.

Ceramic mugs clink together once again in the quiet, a celebratory windchime that's been played on repeat ever since everybody had gone home. It's slowly becoming one of Evan's favorite sounds.

That, and hearing people refer to the house as theirs. It might just be that theirs has become his favorite word, the meaning held in that one little pronoun.

Their space.

Their new house.

Their future.

It awakens something deep, soothes it into contentment, makes the gnawing beast purr. He has roots- they have roots. Together and entangled, metaphorically, emotionally, physically.

With both of their names on the house, Evan mentally checks off 'legally (but not that way... yet.)' It probably means more paperwork later on, getting his name changed and put on the deed properly, but all in time.

He hasn't even asked yet.

Or rather, he hasn't been asked yet.

He's still warring over whether to tell Tommy he'd found the ring box that had been stashed in his old mess uniform while packing the apartment closet into boxes. It's still there, tucked into the side pocket like it had been before Evan found it, housed in the third box of the second stack in their new walk-in. Through all of the moving and planning, the chaos of trying to close on the house, and getting moved in before the lease was up on Tommy's old rental the ring acted as a nice little reminder that they were in this together.

Root systems entangling more and more.

It was wonderful.

"Add plumber to the phone call list," Tommy's voice breaks the silence, mug set next to his thigh on the back porch. His eyes are locked onto the landscape of their backyard, assessment giving way to a scheming twinkle in his eye. "Get the outside spigot working again."

"Should probably do that before the cable company- unless of course you'd like to argue with the machine for me." Tommy's chuckle jostles Evan's head from its comfortable perch on a plaid-clad shoulder.

"Not a chance," The pilot's chuckles turn into full laughter a moment later at Evan's over-exaggerated puppy eyes, complete with batting eyelashes.

"You use your pilot voice and they practically give you what you want. It would be so easy for you." Not to mention there would be no later name change, which would save them both the agony of another phone call. Really, it'd be for the best. Sure, he'd be taking one for the team, but it would also mean a massive win in Evan's book.

"My pilot voice?" He really kind of wants to kiss that arched brow, as awkward as it is to try and catch it from this angle, but he's pretty comfortable against Tommy's side. Their hands naturally find each other, almost unconsciously twining together against the smooth wood of the porch. "Yeah- not the mouth static part though. Promise you won't do mouth static-" Evan laughs at the light shove that finally dislodges him from Tommy's shoulder.

The wind rustles once again, shaking loose leaves from their neighbors' trees into their- their- backyard.

"We have a house," Evan whispers into the night, clutching the hand in his tighter. Joy bubbles around the words, tone reverent and laced with barely concealed wonder.

This was excitement, this was the first big step into making his own happiness and making it with the person he saw himself growing old and wrinkled with. This was the joy of knowing there was more to come, that there are two bedrooms upstairs they don’t need, yet. This was the love and contentment he’d been feeling finally settled, made into physical form and set on a residential street in L.A., just needing someone to come and call it home.

Apparently that someone had been one Thomas Kinard: badass, hot ass, firefighter-pilot of LAFD’s Harbor Station.

Now it even says so.

Right on the legal deed, right next to his own name, like it’s belonged there all along.

"Come on," Stretching already tired muscles, Evan stood, wincing at the audible pop of his shoulder. "We can at least get the kitchen started."

Tommy accepted the offered hand, using the anchor to do his own standing and stretching. Through the whole process, he never dropped Evan’s hand. Not when he’d bent to retrieve their empty mugs, only to hand them off when he was upright again. Not even when he’d stretched his arms high over his head, Evan’s eyes catching on the bar of skin it exposed just above the cut of Tommy’s jeans, hand and arm just following Tommy’s movements automatically.

“Or,” A wave of heat burst under Evan’s skin at the drop in his boyfriend’s voice, following the movement as Tommy reeled him closer using their interwoven fingers, other hand settling warm against his hip. It should be illegal that Tommy can have him practically panting from just one word, in that deep tone that’s just one octave lower than that stupid pilot voice.

Evan also completely understands how his boyfriend has exceptional luck with call center agents, and how woefully unprepared they must be to face that.

His heart goes out to them, at least he gets the real thing at the end of the day. The real thing currently encouraging the little subconscious grind of his hips against the muscled thigh between his legs, the hand on Evan’s hip clutching and releasing in time with each movement.

“Or?” Their breathing the same air, being this close. That’s definitely the reason he’s already feeling a bit hazy, lack of oxygen contributing to the light-headedness and his own breathy tone. The breeze picks up and he can just barely catch a whisper of fading cologne, Tommy’s hand tightening on his hip at a particularly rough thrust. The resulting amused huff has his knees threatening to liquify.

It’s damning how easy Evan is for his boyfriend.

It’s even worse because Tommy knows it.

But the best part of it all is that Tommy’s just as easy for him.

“Or,” Tommy starts again, lips just barely brushing against the blonde’s as he speaks. He pulls back when Evan tries to chase the connection, hungry for the little disappointed moan that it gets him. “We can start unpacking tomorrow. Work on breaking the house in now?” Evan doesn’t let him pull away this time, surging forward while pulling against their joint hands to keep him stuck there.

The kiss is messy- off center and a little too hard- Evan nodding into it immediately, little hums vibrating through their lips.

They make it through the sliding door, Tommy leading them through the threshold only to trip on the slight step into the house. It’s enough to break them apart, matching amusement reflected on their faces.

Right, new place. Their new house.

That’s currently a maze of boxes and plastic totes. The counters, that are littered with their glass and dinnerware, pose more of a risk than temptation, not even accounting for the curtain-free, blind-free sliding glass door.

They just moved in. Probably not a good idea to scar them this early. Or worse, get the cops called and have Athena show up.

It’s Evan’s breathless chuckle that breaks the moment, reconnecting their hands and pulling Tommy into the house properly. He uses their tethered hands to pull his boyfriend toward the stairs after disposing of their mugs in the sink.

“Unpack tomorrow,” Evan confirms with a laugh, the burst of want still reverberating through him, only now tinged with a fondness to temper the desperation.

“Unpack tomorrow, we’ve got time.” Tommy follows up the stairs, face gone crinkly with his smile.

The expression embeds itself in Evan’s chest, further cementing the idea that yeah, this is the one he’s gonna grow old with. This is the one he’s going to spend forever with.

[thefixations-ofmine]

Make me write!

I have so many challenges going on, and I am in a writing funk. Here are a few things that I have nothing written for yet but really like. All of these are Bucktommy centric.

Winter fest

👨‍🚒 Tommy in the firefighter calendar and/or Buck 1.0 meets closeted Tommy

💌 Valentine’s day and/or secret(s)

Fix it Bingo

👻 “Buck is dead” via Chimney (x)

👀 Seeing them everywhere (x)

Fluffebruary

🏝 A day at the beach

💕 Double date

Kink week

🕵️‍♂️ Voyeurism (x)

🎞 “This looks so much easier in the movies”

Send me an emoji!