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"I’m not getting banned from Aquarium of the Bay because you’re horny.”
Eddie pinches his wrist. “Fuck off. You’re horny.”
Buck leans in, brushing their mouths together, a barely there sensation—Eddie can feel Buck’s breath intermingling with his. He chases it, leaning forward to close the short gap, but Buck pulls away again. Eddie chases him further, leaning into his space, stopped by a hand planted on his sternum. Asshole.
“Yeah. And you’re completely unaffected, right?” Buck asks, smug.
Eddie rolls his eyes, dragging Buck the dozen or so steps to the men's room, before shoving his pretty boyfriend into a stall. Buck pulls out his phone, scrolling for a second, much to Eddie’s displeasure. He leans in, kissing at Buck’s jaw, nose dragging along his cheek.
“You’ve got four and a half minutes, Diaz,” Buck tells him, setting the phone down on top of the toilet, an alarm counting down on the screen. “Come in my mouth before the timer goes off, or you gotta wait till we get home.”
Jesus Christ. “Guess you better get to work then, huh?"
OR 5 times Eddie has to come within a time constraint + 1 time Buck does.
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“Can you see a window?” Buck asks.
Eddie glances around. Nothing. Just darkness. “Ceiling caved in where a window probably used to be. No other doors. I’m—” he rests his head against the cement between them, sighing. “I’m stuck, bud.”
Silence ensues. For a few long seconds, neither of them says anything. Eddie is so tired of not saying anything. If he’s going to die here, he’s going to say the shit he’s been pushing down for years, even if Buck hates him for it. Buck deserves to know. Eddie deserves to have said it. Just once. Just fucking once.
He can’t die a coward. He already lived like one.
“I love you,” Eddie says, voice too quiet. On the other side of the wall, Buck’s breathing stutters. Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, heart hammering. “I love you. I’m sorry I— I’m sorry I’m telling you now. Like this.”
Or: in what Eddie Diaz thinks are his final moments, he finally confesses.
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Buck holds his gaze for a beat before nodding slowly. Eddie guides him back toward the sink, stepping aside at the last second and tipping Buck’s head up to expose the dark mark blooming on his throat to the mirror.
“Should do a whole line of ’em sometime,” Eddie says quietly. “Make a pretty collar out of it.”
Buck looks dazed, already slipping under. “Uh-huh.”
Eddie shifts his grip, cradling Buck’s jaw instead, leaning in until their noses brush. “Wanna fuck you here. Remind my puppy who he belongs to. That okay?”
Their heads almost collide violently with how hard and quick Buck nods. “Yeah, y-yeah. Fuck me. I’m yours, you know that,” he agrees, easily. “Holy shit, Eddie. What has gotten into you?”
Eddie hates the possessiveness. The jealousy. It twists something ugly in his gut every time it surfaces. But this isn’t about reminding Buck. Not really. It’s about reminding himself—Buck is his. He isn’t going anywhere. There’s no one Buck wants more than him.
His hand glides down the side of Buck’s neck, landing on his shoulder, before nudging him downward to his knees. “Down.”
OR Eddie is jealous. He fucks Buck against a wall of mirrors about it.
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“So,” Ilya says, dragging the word out. He’s swiping at non-existent crumbs on the counter, avoiding his eyes. “You have dinner at parents on Christmas, yes?”
“Yeah.”
Ilya nods. “I can house-sit while you are away. Make place pretty, if you have decorations. Make it less boring.”
Shane’s eyebrows fly up. “What? You don’t want to come with?”
Finally, Ilya looks up at him. Hesitantly, he asks, “You want me to come with?”
Frowning, Shane says, “I– yeah. Yeah, of course. You think I invited you here just so you could spend Christmas alone?”
Looking away, Ilya shrugs. “I am intruder here, Hollander. You have family. I do not. Makes situation… difficult, maybe. You forget the world thinks we are rivals.”
“Not difficult,” Shane says immediately. “You want to come, you’re coming.”
Or: Ilya's in Montreal alone during the week leading up to the Winter Classic. Shane doesn't let him spend Christmas alone.
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Ilya picks up on the third ring, breathing heavily into the phone. Shane hears a door slam shut through the device. “Do not yell at me.”
Shane stares at the half-empty bottle of vodka on the coffee table. “You suck.”
“I suck? I scored hat-trick! In your stupid body! I have not eaten in six hours, Hollander. I have not pissed. I have not laid down. I want to go home.”
“Rozanov–”
“Your mother has called twenty times. Your manager has called thirty times. Your father text me picture of crossword puzzle and ask for help. Clue is about American President from the 1980s. I cannot help!”
OR: the hollanov bodyswap fic.
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i’ve got one foot in the golden life, one foot in the gutter by beetlesandstars, kryptonian
Fandoms: Heated Rivalry (TV)
13 Dec 2025
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“You broke up with her,” Ilya says, arms loosening against his chest.
“No, she, uh—” Shane ducks his head, avoiding Ilya’s eyes. “We slept together. And she kind of … she didn’t confront me, I guess. But she talked to me. Kind of hinted that she thought I might not be…”
“Into girls?” Ilya finishes for him.
“Something like that.”
“You denied it?”
“No, I— I told her. About me. About—us,” Shane’s head snaps up, a hand lifted in Ilya’s direction. “Not about us, us. That I’d been sleeping with someone. Another player. I didn’t tell her about you.”
OR: Shane comes out to Rose and runs toward the safest pair of arms he knows: Ilya’s.
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“So,” Ilya starts, drumming his fingers on his knees. “You want tuna melt when we get home?”
“What?” Shane says, distracted. “We just had dinner.”
“Yes,” Ilya says. “But you had children’s portion.”
Shane sends him an incredulous look. “I had two servings.”
“Of baby food.”
“Ilya.”
“Shane.”
Shane sighs. “Can we not do this? Please.”
Unfortunately for Shane, they must do this.
Or: Shane's restrictive eating versus Hayden Pike and Ilya Rozanov.
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Ravi: just got eddie diaz a date
May: oh no
May: buck crashout pending
Albert: unless it was with buck?
Ravi: no :)
May: buck crashout pending
Albert: buck crashout pending
Ravi: buck crashout pending
Or: Buck copes with Eddie and Hen working together in a really normal way.
Series
- Part 10 of 9-1-1 chat fics
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He nuzzles against the exposed skin of his neck, inhaling the scent that clings to his suit jacket collar. It’s perfect.
“...Hollander,” He hears Rozanov say, urgent like it’s not the first time he’s said it. “Shane,” he follows it up with, and that snaps him out of it. He’s never called him that. Shane, reluctantly, lifts his face a little, eyes glazed over as he meets Rozanov’s eyes.
“What?”
“You stink,” Rozanov says, concern dripping. “No, you—fuck. You reek. What is—” Ilya’s fingers lift up, tugging at the scent patch, revealing more of the spot beneath it. Even Shane can smell himself at that point. He does reek. Reeks of heat, of Omega, of honey and sweetness, of something that would melt on your tongue.
Shane reefs himself back. The Omega inside him aches, mourns, whimpers at the loss of contact. It’s needed, though. He scrambles back, hand slapping at his neck to force the peeled patch back down over his scent gland. He backs up till his spine knocks against the bathroom stall.
“You are in heat at award show? Why would you hide this? Why would you not call out sick? Are you—are you insane? You care this much about trophy?”
OR Shane goes into heat in Vegas
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Lily: He get under your skin? That why you fought him?
Jane: Yeah. I guess so.
Lily: That is my job. He is stealing my thing too.
Lily: Maybe you are getting easier to piss off. Am I not special?Jane: You’re such an asshole.
Lily: So much attitude, Hollander. Would fuck it out of you if I was there. Bet your adrenaline is still high from fight. Fuck that out of you too.
Okay. That—is a change of tune.
Shane exhales. His dick is already twitching with interest, which is not really surprising; it doesn’t take a lot of this kind of attention from Rozanov to get him ready to go. He thinks about Ilya pressing him into the mattress, strong hand between his shoulder blades, fucking into him like he’s trying to drill him through the mattress, and it’s hot, it’s—not right.
Shane wants to kiss him.
He imagines himself in Ilya’s lap, kissing him as best he can between bounces, panting heavily into his mouth, tasting him on every press of their lips.
Jane: No. I’d ride you.
OR Shane and Ilya do not talk about what Scott said. They do jerk off
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“I’ve never—with a trans dude. Am I doing it wrong?”
Of course, he knows. Of course, despite Eddie trying to push through it, like he always has with sex, Buck notices.
Eddie feels bad, feels like he’s ruining the mood, feels—guilty. Shameful. For being greedy. For being picky. It feels good. It’s objectively good. It’s with Buck, anything would feel good; he shouldn’t be so wrapped up in the specifics.
“Buck, it’s okay, just—” Eddie props himself up on an elbow, hand moving to knock Buck’s wrist away before guiding it by the wrist to rest on the outside of his thigh. “Don’t worry about it. Just fuck me.”
Buck’s thrusts come to a halt completely. Eddie groans, his pussy clenching around Buck’s dick, frustrated at the lack of movement.
Buck studies him for a beat. “Do you want me to not worry about it ‘cause you just wanna get fucked, or because you don’t want me to feel bad? ‘Cause I’m not gonna feel bad, Eddie. I-I wanna make you feel good.”
This is a lot of talking, and Buck is still nestled deep inside him, cock stretching him out. It's hard to focus.
“Tell me how to make you feel good,” Buck all but pleads. “Teach me.”
OR learning how to fuck your best friend
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“Hello?” His neighbour says, looking confused and honestly a bit concerned at Buck’s dishevelled presence.
“Hi, I’m—next door. Buck,” Buck says.
The guy just raises an eyebrow, hand still on the door handle. “Okay? Nice to meet you, Buck. I’m Eddie.”
Eddie. It’s a beautiful name. Simple. Short. Sweet. Buck thinks he might have hearts in his eyes. Or maybe they’re floating around his head. Is he delirious?
“I’m a firefighter,” Buck explains.
Eddie glances down at Buck’s hoodie, a navy LAFD-issue hoodie that hangs loosely over his frame. “I can tell.”
Buck exhales. He’s not explaining this correctly. He’s so tired he might just curl up and fall asleep right here, right now, on Eddie’s front door step. Maybe the saxophone will lull him to sleep.
“Sorry, I’m—I just got off a forty-eight-hour shift from hell. I’m just—I’m dead on my feet, man. Is there any chance you can just—not—” Buck makes vague gesturing of playing a saxophone, cheeks puffed out and fingers pressing vaguely where he imagines saxophone buttons are. He makes quiet little tooting noises. “I hate to be this guy, I just—please. Just tonight.”
OR Buck pleads with his evil saxist neighbour for peace
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“You don’t want to be my girlfriend.”
“I already said that.”
“But you want to be my—my something else?”
Eddie’s breath catches. Her eyes fly open, stinging and damp.
She doesn’t answer. Her throat constricts, trapping breath inside, trapping a response inside. Silently, she prays to a god she’s not sure she believes in that the floor will open up and swallow her whole. She can’t hear him say what she thinks he’s about to say; she can’t hear it, not even once. She can’t come back from that. She just—she can’t.
Buck pushes on, hesitant. “...My boyfriend?”
OR
Eddie doesn’t know how to be the man his heart yearns to be. Buck waits for him to learn.
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“Rav, I’ll just be—”
He glances up, and that is not Ravi Panikkar. Instead, it’s Eddie Diaz who stands there in full goalie gear, grinning down at him like they’re old friends. “Hey, man. Just thought I’d say hey. Gonna be fun being on the same team for once, yeah?”
Buck scoffs, standing and grabbing his stick. “Right.”
“C’mon, man. We’re teammates now.” Eddie tugs off a glove and holds out his hand. “Fresh start?”
Fresh start. Sure. Like he’s not stepping into Chimney’s spot, acting like they’re not massive boots to fill. Like, he hasn’t spent years being a massive dick every time they’ve gone head-to-head. Like Buck is supposed to just—
Buck shakes his head, huffing before pushing past him, shoulders colliding roughly as he makes his way out of the locker room.
OR
Buddie Hockey AU
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“You get wet like a girl,” Ilya murmurs, sliding his thumb across the slit of Shane’s dick, tracing through the pre leaking from him like a faucet. “Soft hands like a girl, wet like a girl,” his head ducks, mouthing at his jaw, grinning, then he hears Shane whimper. “Get fucked like a girl.”
“I’m not—” Shane huffs, frustrated, but despite that, his hips twitch upward, chasing Ilya’s touch.
“No, no. You are not a girl, sweetheart,” A nip to the sensitive skin just below his jaw, quickly soothed by a swipe of tongue. He tastes like clean sweat, freshly showered before coming to the hotel room, he’s sure, but glistening with sweat now that he’s beneath Ilya’s hands, beneath his mouth, wrapped in his words. “But you are my girl. You want to be a good girl, hm? Yes?”
Within his grasp, Hollander’s cock twitches, another pulse of slick mess dripping down the side of him, smeared across the pad of Ilya’s thumb. “Rozanov.”
OR
Shane isn't a girl, but he sure doesn't mind when Ilya calls him one.
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“He was dead in my coma dream,” Buck says. “When I woke up, he told me he couldn’t believe I’d leave a world where everything was perfect. But it wasn’t perfect, because he was dead. So I came back. For him. For myself, sure. But for him. I came back because he was dead there.”
Eddie doesn’t speak, but Buck feels the hitch in his breathing. No one’s talked about the coma in a long time—least of all Buck. He shut the door on it fast, terrified of what it meant, of what lingered after. But now he thinks of that list he kept, the one he used to test reality.
He thinks of calling Bobby. He thinks of the phone ringing and ringing and ringing with no answer. The world isn’t real because Bobby doesn’t answer. Bobby always answered. He can’t now. He can’t. The phone rings, and Bobby is still dead. The line goes dead. The line is always dead.
“Now he’s dead here too. And I can’t wake up.” Buck laughs—thin, brittle, empty. He turns his face into Eddie’s shoulder, forehead pressing against warm cotton as another tear slips free and burns a path down his cheek.
“I can’t—I can’t call him, Eddie. I can’t—I can’t talk to him. I can’t wake up.”
OR Eddie doesn't let Buck grieve alone
Series
- Part 2 of Prompt series.
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“Buck, it’s a Thursday. We’re not getting drunk on a Thursday.”
Buck shrugs a shoulder, pulling out his shaker and cocktail-making equipment and placing them amidst the chaos of supplies. “We don’t have work tomorrow.”
“Okay, but Chris needs to be picked up at 8 am from Camp and—”
“And I will set a dozen alarms.” Buck beams at him. He already knows he’s won. He knows when Eddie is about to concede. He knows Eddie better than he knows the back of his own hand.
“Buck,” Eddie says warningly, shaking his head like he’s setting his foot down, but Buck knows better.
He leans down on his elbows on the counter, his head placed atop his hands, matching Eddie’s tone with a mock-serious, “Eddie.”
A beat passes. Eddie’s lips twitch up into a half-smile despite himself. Got him.
“...Fine. Prove your point.”
OR
Buck and Eddie get a little (very) tipsy and end up taking Buck's brand-new hot tub for a spin.
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“She hates me,” Eddie tells him, refusing at this juncture to provide any further explanation. Buck will understand. He always does.
Buck snorts. “Eddie, the cat does not hate you. She’s just weird around men. You know that.” Buck seems to stop whatever task he’s doing, the whirring of what he assumes is Buck’s stand mixer coming to a pause. He hears shuffling as Buck drops himself into a chair, a soft huff escaping him. “What’s going on?”
Eddie sighs, pushing his chair back and standing—admitting defeat. “I was drinking my coffee at the table, and then she jumped up and got mad that I was there. It’s my table, Buck.”
He hears Buck trying to smother a laugh, and he does not appreciate it.
“She’s a cat, Eddie. She’s settling in—maybe a little bit asserting dominance.”
“Dominance? Buck, it’s my house. She’s a guest.”
OR
Eddie babysits a cat.
Series
- Part 1 of Prompt series.
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Summary
In walks Evan Buckley, a bright red plastic firefighter’s helmet perched on his head. His shirt—if you could call it that—is charcoal with bold yellow stripes; it clings across his torso while leaving far more skin and cleavage bare than covered.
Below that—his legs. Jesus Christ, his legs are almost entirely on display. The matching skirt doesn’t even reach mid-thigh, giving way to thick, tree-trunk thighs before the eye catches on fishnet stockings. Each is topped with a reflective yellow band, the kind that is usually seen across their turnouts.
And then, finally, the look is polished off at his feet—a pair of plain, dark sneakers. Apparently, he hadn’t been able to handle heels after all.
Eddie nearly slips off his barstool, over-rotating in his need to track Buck’s walk toward them.
“Oh, god,” Chimney mutters behind him, but Eddie barely hears it.
Eddie’s brain and eyes are focused entirely and stuck on the plush spill of thigh over the top band of Buck’s thigh-highs. Eddie is fighting tooth and nail against every instinct that tells him to drop to his knees in the middle of the bar and sink his teeth into the flesh there.
OR
Kinktober day 31: Foreplay
Series
- Part 20 of Kryptonian Fictober 2025
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Eddie’s never felt as insane and torn apart at the seams as he does when he’s been edged a few times; it’s like he’s been unstitched at the joints, thread by thread, all shame fallen apart, and all that’s left is—
“Please—please, Buck—” Eddie grinds out, every muscle in his body taut. The head of the wand is pressed right against the underside of the tip of his dick, turned up high, and it’s so, so fucking much. He’s so close, his orgasm creeping up his spine, crawling far too quickly up his spinal cord, setting his nerves alight. “I’m—don’t stop, d-don’t—please. I’m gonna come, I’m gonna—”
The words spill from him, and then, suddenly—nothingness. The sound of the whirring toy cuts off completely, and it’s pulled away from Eddie’s body. The only remaining physical touch is Buck’s fingers that now circle around the base of his cock, fist clenching tight around it to starve off any orgasm that might threaten to spill out.
Frustrated tears spill over flushed, blood-warm cheeks.
OR
Kinktober day 29: Vibrator.
Series
- Part 19 of Kryptonian Fictober 2025