the world would be a better place if we all took five minutes to think about needy top buck. who's so desperate to get his dick wet like a mindless little animal but tommy is just not letting him

tommy keeps teasing him with "god, you're such a pervert" "just be patient, puppy" and "can you wait for five minutes or do you need a cock ring" as buck leaks and aches. by the time he's finally allowed to bottom out, he's so ashamed that he's flushed head to toe and his one arm flies over his eyes just so he can hide his burning face and cracked sob

EVAN BUCKLEY in 9-1-1 ↳ 4x12: Treasure Hunt

The ADHD urge to not

To just not

don’t

His hands.

You know what I love about Lou? That he actually likes Tommy. He seems to genuinely enjoy playing Tommy and all the little quirks that make that character so great. And I could just go on and on about all the ways Lou makes Tommy come alive and so interesting, but for now, I’m just happy that our hot pilot is in such wonderful hands.

Idea: Buck tries to keep his fellow academy recruits from disrespecting a sacred firefighter bar and catches the attention of Tommy Kinard, an off-duty Air Ops pilot... I also can't get Navy Seal Evan Buckley out of my head. So.. yeah.

..

The bar’s quiet, just past the dinner rush. Warm light spills over old brick and burnished wood. Firehouse patches cover nearly every inch of wall space, layered like battle scars some faded, others framed in reverence. The air smells like beer, sweat, and stories too heavy to tell sober.

Tommy’s nursing the second half of his pint near the end of the bar, half-listening to some guy from Station 42 complain about budget cuts.

When the door swings open loud, careless and his head lifts automatically.

A group of recruits spills in. Too clean, too loud, all baby faces and swagger. Academy shirts still creased down the middle, like they haven’t been broken in yet. Tommy exhales through his nose.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, more to his glass than anyone else. “Again?”

But something’s off.

One of them the youngest-looking, sharp-jawed, sun-bleached hair isn’t strutting. He’s trailing after the group, clearly mid-argument.

“Guys, come on,” he says. “This isn’t some college bar crawl. You can’t just walk in here like you belong.” His tone isn’t loud, but it’s tight. Controlled. Like he’s used to being listened to, even when he’s not in charge.

The others ignore him. One’s already circling the pool table like a shark. Another punches buttons on the jukebox with the kind of intensity usually reserved for defusing bombs.

Tommy watches the kid, Buck, based on the half-yelled name someone throws over their shoulder follow reluctantly, jaw tight. He’s not scared, Tommy realizes. He’s watching. Clocking exits. Reading the room like someone expecting this to end badly.

There’s a tension in the way he moves. Coiled, but quiet. Like he’s halfway between fight and freeze and doesn’t trust either.

He’s younger than the rest. Brown hair lighted by the sun, skin still raw with that too-clean edge of someone trying too hard to look like they don’t care. But his blue eyes, they’re older. Watchful.

Tommy doesn’t peg him as a follower. Not with that jaw. Not with the way he keeps scanning the room, subtly placing himself between his group and the memorial wall like he’s already accepted what he’ll need to do if someone crosses a line.

And then someone does.

The tallest of them, all broad shoulders and zero sense reaches toward a framed patch in the center of the memorial. Fingers lifted, joking with the guy beside him, clearly not reading the tone of the place.

Tommy’s breath catches. He’s already pushing his glass away when it happens.

Tommy's moving to stand when Buck’s voice cuts through the bar. “Don’t touch the memorial wall,” he snaps. Sharp. Clear. “McDaniel,” Buck adds, lower now, voice a warning. “Don’t even breathe near it.”

His buddy pauses mid-reach, startled. Looks at him like he just got scolded by an instructor. “Dude, chill,” he mutters, hand dropping immediately.

Tommy watches as Buck’s shoulders stay tense, eyes still fixed on the wall. Not the guy. Not the group. Just the wall, the names and patches and stories nailed into it like bones. His hands are clenched into loose fists at his sides, and there’s something in his gaze, reverent, maybe protective.

Like he’s stood guard before.

Like he’s already lost people.

Tommy leans back in his stool. Something cold prickles down his arms, chased by the burn of curiosity curling in his gut. “You always the designated conscience?” Tommy asks, voice low, amused.

Buck blinks, startled. “What?”

“You’re not drinking. You’re not letting your guys be idiots. You’re either the best friend ever… or the guy who’s gonna get blamed when they get tossed out on their asses.”

Buck shifts, straightening a little. “I’m just trying to make sure nobody gets kicked out of the academy for acting like a dumbass their first weekend off.”

“That’s noble.” Tommy tilts his head. “Also, pointless."

“I know,” Buck mutters, glancing over his shoulder at the others. “But I figured someone should at least try.”

There’s a beat. The jukebox blares something too loud for the room, too fast for the mood. Buck winces.

Tommy offers a hand. “Kinard. Air Ops.”

Buck takes it, his grip firm. “Buckley. Academy Class 312.”

Tommy nods toward the door. “You wanna keep them out of trouble?”

“I’m trying.”

“Then buy them one round and get them out of here in thirty. That way they feel like they won, and the regulars don’t feel disrespected.”

Buck studies him, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You come up with that yourself?”

Tommy grins. “Nah. I was your idiot once.”

Buck huffs a quiet laugh, low and unguarded. Tommy feels it hit somewhere low in his gut. He hadn’t expected that sound to mean anything but there it is. And now he wants to hear it again.

Tommy watches him herd them. Buck was the kind of man you don’t want to underestimate. The kind that lingers in your head long after the conversation ends.

Buck disappears down the hallway toward the bathrooms, and Tommy’s on his feet before he makes the conscious choice to follow. His boots move before his brain does. Something under his ribs says go. He slips down the hall, casual, unhurried, until the bathroom door swings open under his hand.

Buck’s at the sink, hands braced on the edge, head bowed like he’s catching his breath. He sees Tommy’s reflection in the mirror and freezes.

Neither of them speaks.

Tommy steps forward slowly.

Buck turns to face him.

And then they crash

Mouths collide, no soft lead-up, no hesitation, just heat and need and the sudden crack of control breaking. Tommy pushes him back into the stall, the metal door banging behind them, and Buck’s hands are already at his collar, dragging him down like this is the first inhale after surfacing from too long underwater.

Tommy grunts, low in his chest, as Buck kisses like he’s desperate not to feel alone. It’s all teeth and breath, mouths opening against each other, hungry, almost reckless.

They don’t say anything. They don’t have to.

Tommy presses Buck against the wall, hands sliding up under the edge of his academy-issued t-shirt, dragging fingers over warm skin. Buck gasps into his mouth, fingers curling in the collar of Tommy’s jacket like he needs something solid to hold onto.

And Tommy is solid, all heat and weight and intent, pressing in like he can read the fault lines in Buck’s bones and wants to learn them by feel.

Their hips grind together, and they break apart just enough to breathe.

Buck’s panting, pupils blown wide, jaw tight.

Tommy leans his forehead against Buck’s for a beat.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough but steady.

Buck nods and swallows as Tommy undoes his pants. “Yeah. Just don’t stop.”

Tommy doesn’t.

Later, when their hands finally slow and Buck’s shirt is mostly back in place, he exhales hard and slumps against the wall like it’s holding him up.

Tommy lingers in the quiet, watching the way Buck doesn’t move to leave. Doesn’t laugh it off. Doesn’t bolt. He pulls out his phone, taps the screen, and holds it out.

“Your number.”

Buck hesitates for a half-second, then takes it. His fingers fly over the screen, entering digits, then pause just long enough to type: Evan.

No last name. Just Evan.

He hands the phone back.

Tommy taps out a single word: Hey.

Buck’s phone vibrates in his pocket a moment later. He doesn’t look at it.

But he knows what it means.

He meets Tommy’s gaze, and for a second, neither of them smiles. They pause in the hallway.

Tommy jerks his chin toward the door. “There’s a place two blocks down. Daley’s. Still lets recruits feel cool, but it doesn’t have a wall honoring fallen firefighters, so it’s a little harder to piss people off.”

Buck shifts, glancing toward the main room where one of the guys is now doing an exaggerated dance to the beat of some early 2000s throwback.

“Go,” Tommy adds, brushing his fingers lightly against Buck’s wrist before stepping back. “Get them out before the bartender call and you’re all scrubbing engines for the next three weeks.”

Buck turns back to him, eyes a little softer now. “You always this helpful?”

Tommy lifts an eyebrow. “Only when someone’s trying hard not to be an asshole.”

Buck considers that, then gives a small, sharp nod, like he’s tucking Tommy away in the same place Tommy’s already filed him. “Thanks,” he says.

Buck steps back into the main room, jaw set, spine straight. His crew is halfway through another round of terrible decisions when he puts himself in their orbit.

“I swear to fuck, none of you have any goddamn life experience whatsoever,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone but loud enough for the older firefighter sitting at a booth next to them to look up.

Buck catches his eye. “My apologies.”

The man just grunts, “You’re a goddamn infant.”

Buck laughs surprised by it, a little breathless from everything and that earns him a second glance. A slower one. Assessing.

“But you’ll make the cut,” the man says finally, like a verdict. “Now get outta here, kid.”

Buck nods, still smiling, then turns to his crew and claps his hands once. Loud. Sharp. “Alright, dumbasses. That round was it. There’s another place two blocks down that doesn’t require me to beg forgiveness from half the LAFD.”

Groans follow by they all head on out.

Tommy watches from the hall, just out of sight. Buck lead his classmates out the door. The way he pauses on the threshold, looks back just once, gaze flicking toward the hallway.

Just for a second.

Then he’s gone.

of course evan buckley loves getting dicked down, but something he discovers from being with tommy is just how much he likes getting fingered. like it's always been a necessary chore before, minimally interesting and a stepping stone to the main event. when his exes pegged him they only took as long as they needed to get some lube in him and get him relaxed enough to get going - at his own insistence. why bother lingering on the appetizer?

but tommy makes his living with his hands, with maintaining razor sharp control over complex and sensitive machinery. he likes to fine tune buck when he's got his fingers slick and warm inside him, monitoring buck like he monitors his instrument panel. he tests and experiments; if he pulls on buck's rim with the pad of his thumb how hard will buck clench? how far can he get from buck's prostate to still make him writhe?

and it's not that women's hands are too small to enjoy but tommy's are so big it's impossible to ignore, it's all buck can think about as he feels those long, thick, blunt fingers slide into him one by one. they don't smoothly insinuate into him, it's not a gentle upward climb of pressure. tommy's fingers demand space inside him - space buck readily cedes only to squeeze tight around them, just to feel how they fit.

every time tommy makes buck come on his fingers alone buck feels held. like tommy can reach up into his chest and curl them around his heart. like in the relentless fullness, in the brutal and persistent focus on the exact spot that makes his toes curl and his head spin, there's an unambiguous sort of care. there's tommy saying this is you - let me care for you.

so buck lets him.

isn’t that how outlaws usually die? or: the welcoming committee

an afterlife shenanigans comedy coda to 8x15, in which bobby is reassured, in his ethereal soul-self, by an unlikely ally

entirely under the cut, because while this is written with love, it’s also a bit irreverent and a lot absurd, and understandably, you may not be into that right now.

"Tell me about your old captain," Bobby says. It's not a question. It's not a suggestion - or if it is, Tommy doesn't have the ability to view it as anything but a demand.

Bobby's eyes catch the bob of his throat as he swallows.

They're in Bobby's office. Tommy's pretty sure he's been in this office twice since Bobby took over - he doesn't do things in any sort of official capacity, seems to hate the four walls and the door like a man with experience stuck in tight spaces.

"Off the record, of course."

Tommy's a grown ass man who's been through more Captains and Sergeants and other miscellaneous authority figures than Bobby can count on fingers and toes.

There's just something about Bobby that makes him feel wrong-footed. Like he's simultaneously the most comfortable he's ever been and the most terrified he'll ever be. Like he has to get this right.

"Sir?"

Bobby tosses a balled up piece of paper at Tommy's forehead. That's fair. That's absolutely fair. Tommy blinks, and the nerves sort of just... fall away.

Lou appreciating them letting Tommy have his reaction shot 🥺🫶

Honestly yeah it’s GOOD to have a journalist that actually wants to ask about the canon romance happening on our screen and not throw in unwarranted questions about the same clickbait every damn time. It’s GOOD we have someone who actually cares about asking about THE SHOW and the characters and not BUT BVDDIE THO?????????

babygirl