1 - 20 of 37 Works by outofbuck
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After New Mexico, four times Buck and Eddie share a bed for comfort, and one time they share it for something more.
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Buck adjusted his apron, pulling the string around the waist a little bit tighter. It made the curve of his waist just that much more obvious, the fabric loosening out around his pecs enough to make his build look even more unreal. “How do I look?”
Eddie almost choked on his own tongue. “Biteable.”
“Huh?”
“Buyable!” Eddie said quickly. “Super buyable! No one’s going to be able to keep their auction paddles down. You’ll be the most expensive charity date on record.”
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Buck asked Eddie to record some video to play behind him during the firefighter auction. Eddie agreed, promptly regretted it, and tried his hardest not to bite Buck's biceps.
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Buck had explained to him once, before they started this, that there were all sorts of creatures like him, humans who half-belonged to the water. Buck came from the depths, something so warm born out of a place so cold. He needed the pressure every so often to maintain his equilibrium, needed to greet darkness to be able to step into the light.
And Eddie would dive to any depth for Buck; that much is certain.
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The world should have ended. The priest should have run out of words to say, the mahogany framing her body as a prison should have marked the final trees to collapse on earth, the cushion under her head from the last sprig of cotton to be picked. Eddie would have gladly bled out, allowed them to use his blood to stain the wood, his bones to fortify the metal locks, his skin to make the leather adornments.
But no one asked that of him. The coffin had been pre-fabricated, the priest's speech routine, the grave pre-dug. And so the grass grew around the disturbance, and so it would continue growing, until no one could even tell that Isabel Diaz had been more than a fable, until the tangled roots of the grass and weeds locked her in as a final toll of the bell.
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Eddie needs glasses. Buck reacts normally.
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It was obvious now, looking at Eddie, that time had passed like a friend, grazing his features with the sort of tenderness only a loved one could manage. It was his Eddie, the same one who sauntered into the 118 decades prior, just softened.
Buck burst into tears.
Eddie, alarmed, cupped Buck's face, thumbing lightly at the swell of his cheeks. "Buck? Buck, baby, what's wrong?"
Buck sniffled, straining against the burn in his throat to answer. "You're getting old."
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Buck is concerned for Eddie's pleasure. Eddie doesn't seem to mind.
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"And for you?" Buck asks, transfixed. "What about for your pleasure?"
"I still got to come," Eddie says. "It was fine, you know? I'd get her off, and then there wasn't a ton of friction for me, but I could—" he gestures vaguely, "—cross the finish line."
"You don't—" Buck says sharply. He looks bothered. Eddie can't figure out what's upsetting him. He's not the one with the micro. "Eddie, you deserve to feel good, not just fine. You should fuck something tight, so you know how it feels! You should—" his eyes go wide, before his expression hardens into determination. "Eddie, you should fuck me."
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Eddie is a thoughtful man. He waits, considers, and lets all possibilities cross his mind before opening his mouth. That is to say, he is always aware, always thinking and thinking and thinking until the words run dry.
Except now, with Buck's hard cock burrowed firmly in his ass, Buck's hand wrapped loose as a promise around his neck, back pressed firmly into the mattress as Buck's hips grind sultry into his own.
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Buck was totally fine, thank you very much, until Eddie decided to save some fish, and now Buck can't get how perfect he is out of his head.
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"And it was like—" Buck zoned out at the memory, only coming back to himself when Maddie snapped her fingers in his face. "Maddie. He was picking up fish from the ground. And he knew what types of fish they were and what fish they could safely be put with. He saved them."
"So, you're all—" she gestured vaguely at his face, “—because Eddie picked up fish off the ground and put them in tanks."
"Well, when you say it like that, it doesn't sound so impressive," Buck said stubbornly.
"It sounds so impressive, honey," Maddie said patiently. "Not just anyone can pick up fish."
"Maddie," Buck whispered conspiratorially, "I think I might want Eddie to pick me up, too."
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Buck Buckley never called out sick. So, when he didn't show up to work one day, Eddie knew something fishy had to be going on.
He just didn't realize just how fishy it would be.
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Sometimes Eddie's brain ran on autopilot, and sometimes that ended with his best friend's finger in his mouth.
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Buck gets this feeling in his gut whenever he sees two people who are meant to be together. That's how he knows he's made for Eddie; he only wishes that Eddie were made for him.
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Buck is pretty sure his fear of needles would be slightly less of a problem if it weren't for the fact that he's pretty sure his tattoo artist is his future husband.
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He hears the tattoo gun turn on and flinches.
Well, Buck would say he flinches. Other people may say he fully spasms and falls off the bench. But this is Buck's story, so therefore it's just a flinch.
"Whoa–shit, are you okay?" Eddie calls.
Buck, from his position on the floor, tries to maintain his dignity. "Yeah, totally fine. Completely fine. Just, uh, thought I saw a spider."
"Right," Eddie says slowly. "A spider. It had nothing to do with the sound of the tattoo gun, and how that might relate to your fear of needles."
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"Any reason why you're sitting pretty on my lap today?"
Buck shrugs. It's not something he consciously thinks about. Sometimes he just wakes up and craves it, longing for the way it makes him feel to be wrapped like a present, pretty and finished with a bow. At times, he just needs the softness. "It's not a crime," he says instead, because he likes to tease Eddie.
Eddie takes the bait, shifting slightly underneath Buck, enough that Buck can feel how much this affects him. "Sitting on my lap, or looking pretty?"
"Both."
Eddie snorts. "I don't know about that. I think it might be entrapment."
Eddie's hands slide up Buck's thighs, settling just under his skirt. His fingers dig into the flesh, rubbing slightly. The drag of his nails against him, blunt yet just enough to pique flames in his muscle, makes Buck groan. "Is it working?" he asks, his own hands tightening around the back of Eddie's neck. "Do you feel entrapped?"
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When Buck is between Eddie's legs, he can be the dog he truly is.
Or, Buck and Eddie's foray into Pup Play.
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"Whatcha doin' there, bud?" Buck asked, amusement lacing his tone.
Eddie would love to give him an answer. The problem, however, is that he had been trying to give voice to the feeling in his chest for weeks now, the one that cursed and writhed every time Buck went to a listing, rearing its head every time Buck even suggested he was working towards moving out.
Of course, he hadn't said anything up until this point, just letting the feeling fester and grow and bubble until it was inseparable from him.
So yes, he would love to tell Buck why he had seen fit to nab a pair of Athena's department-grade handcuffs and lock Buck to the headboard of their shared bed. But that would require words he did not have, so Buck would have to settle for disappointment.
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Buck tries to move out. Eddie reacts accordingly.
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Eddie stands up off the couch and pats the newly vacated cushion twice. "Come on."
Buck looks at him, confused. He tilts his head before very slowly scooching himself down the couch until he's seated in Eddie's old spot.
"No – you know what? I should have specified. Lay down, Mister Leg Model. Stretch out the goods for me."
Buck obeys, because he's good like that and he definitely knows when Eddie's being serious. This knowing each other thing goes both ways. It's one of the things that makes knowing Buck feel so easy.
When Buck is fully laid out, Eddie drops to his knees in front of the couch and cracks his knuckles dramatically. It actually kind of hurts and he regrets it immediately, but he refuses to let Buck know that. "Alright, Buckley. Get ready for the best massage you've ever had in your whole life."
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OR, Buck Buckley can't hide anything from Eddie Diaz, no matter how hard he tries, and Eddie Diaz can't put his hands on Buck Buckley's ass and have it be platonic.
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Eddie is only too eager to provide all he can to Buck.
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Eddie pulled his finger from Buck's mouth and brought it down to his rim, pushing at the puffy skin and drawing another wretched whimper out of him. "You poor thing," Eddie sighed. "You want and you need. I know you wish this was a real cock, don't you? You'd love it if I could just fuck you for hours and hours, wouldn't you, baby?"
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Something about Howard Han made Bobby forget he was supposed to be grieving, just for a moment.
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Or, Bobby hurts a little bit less around Chimney, and it makes him want to hate him.
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When Eddie was seven years old, he fell in love for the first time. True, deep, unimaginable love that he was certain he would never top again. This was it, he thought. This was the love of his life, and he was so lucky to have discovered it so soon.
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Eddie Diaz falls in love again and again and again. Maybe one of these times, it'll stick.
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"There's something out there that can make you blush like that?" Eddie asked casually. He pulled Buck's lip down before releasing it, hand moving to rest on his chest. "I didn't know that was even possible."
"Shut up," Buck groaned. He dropped his forehead against Eddie's and just breathed for a moment, eyes screwed tightly shut. "There's something I want to try."
"Okay?"
"And I haven't done it before."
Now that piqued Eddie's interest. He had been folded in enough ways that he figured there wasn't much Buck hadn't tried. For him to look so nervous about trying something in bed, Eddie thought it must have been out there.
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Buck and Eddie try something new in bed. Or, affectionately, the scissoring fic.