Buck+Eddie
(Open, Unmoderated)
Recent bookmarks
-
Tags
Summary
“You want any cockporn?”
Buck’s pretty sure he must’ve heard wrong, except— Eddie sucks in a sharp breath. Buck rolls over to stare at him, open-mouthed. Eddie blinks, face suddenly unreadable.
“Cockporn?” Buck asks, only barely holding back a guffaw.
“Cock…porn. I meant popcock— oh my God,” Eddie slaps at his own face, squeezing his eyes shut. “Cockp— no, popcock— shit!”
“Take your time,” Buck tells him. Knows his voice is full of mirth.
Eddie exhales, relaxing his face. “P-O-P-C-O-R-N.”
“There you go.”
Face beet-red, Eddie mumbles, “Shut the fuck up. I’m gonna get– that. The corn, in its popped, um… form.”
Pursing his lips, Buck nods along sagely. “You do that.”
Or: the boys at college.
-
Tags
Summary
Buck works at a small smoothie shop, keeping life simple and routines predictable. Eddie Diaz, a professional hockey player, starts showing up every day after practice, always ordering the same smoothie. What begins as casual interactions slowly turns into playful rivalry competing over who can make the better smoothie, teasing, and subtle flirting.
But when Eddie realises he doesn’t like seeing other people flirt with Buck, the tension turns into something undeniable.
-
Tags
Summary
Every fiber of his being screams for Buck. Screams with want and need for safety. With a bone deep need to find him.
Whatever it takes.
With adrenaline keeping his pain at bay, Eddie throws a real punch. His knuckles hit right up and under her ribs. His eyes track the gun as her hands fly to the pain, gripping and clawing at her stomach. She folds clear in half, falling to the ground as the gun slips from her fingers. She tries to recover, pushing one shaky hand out in an attempt to grab the gun as she slips to the ground, but Eddie is faster.
It skitters across the dirt and rock and stops barely a foot from where he stands.
Without a second of hesitation, he grabs it.
It’s been a while since he’s held a gun in his hands. The weight isn't a particularly comforting one, but neither is the desert sun. Both sting of bitter memories and bile. Of a life lived before he became himself.
He needs to get to Buck.
Aka the Mother's Boy coda/canon divergence fic no one asked for
-
Tags
Summary
"Hello?" he says to the clothing rack, and wow, okay, so this is his life now, he's a guy who talks to clothing racks in public, that's who he is, that's what he's doing.
"Hi," says the clothing rack again.
Buck peers between the hangers to get a better look—oh. Oh, there's a very small human in there, blinking up at him from inside what appears to be a nest made entirely of women's cardigans.
So that's good, he's not losing his mind, that's a relief.
"Um," Buck says. "Hi?"
The kid has curly hair and big eyes and crutches propped up against the inside of the rack, and he's looking at Buck like Buck is the weird one here, as if Buck is the one who's chosen to make a home inside a department store display instead of living in a house like a normal person.
Or,
Buck trips over a clothing rack and into a sexuality crisis. -
Tags
Summary
Buck is about to walk out of the airport. He can’t do this. He won’t. But then a hand—a big, warm hand—settles on his shoulder.
“Hey, uh—”
Buck turns, and standing there is the most beautiful man Buck’s seen in his entire life. A week’s worth of stubble across his jaw and cheek, a strong nose, and the deepest, prettiest brown eyes he’s ever seen, framed by mile-long lashes. Buck’s breath catches. Buck’s not into men, but holy shit, if he was—he’d be into this guy.
Well. He is kinda into this guy. Well. That’s—
“I’m here with my kid,” the guy continues, throwing a thumb over his shoulder and pointing toward where a blonde-haired, smiling kid with red glasses and crutches is standing. The kid lifts a hand and waves. Okay. Even if Buck is into the guy—kid usually means wife. Damn. “He’s got CP. We’ve done this song and dance a thousand times. You want a hand?”
“Sir,” the man cuts in, “this is a private discussion—”
Buck, who really was trying not to cry before, feels like he’s fighting a losing battle now. His eyes are a little wet, and his hands, gripping his crutches, are shaking just a little. “Fuck. Yeah. Please.”
OR Eddie Diaz vs American Airlines.