queercasserole
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By the dumpster: a pair of bright red, latex-clad feet sticking out. Eddie hesitates, then steps forward.
Fuck.
There’s someone there, leaning against the brick wall in—some sort of superhero costume. Okay.
Weird.
Not the weirdest thing Eddie’s ever seen—but the bleeding gash across the guy’s side definitely rockets it up the list. He’s pressing shaky hands against the wound, shrapnel jutting out in ugly pieces.
There’s one very visible large piece, but Eddie thinks even through the darkness that he can spot a few smaller pieces around it.
“Jesus Christ,” Eddie mutters. The man’s head jerks up.
“E—” He stumbles on the syllable, sucking in a trembling breath. “Uh—Eek.”
Eek?“Are you a mouse?” Eddie tries not to sound bitchy. He fails.
“No, I’m—” Oh. There’s some kind of voice distorter. That’s strange. This guy seems involved in something far above Eddie’s pay grade. As far as he’s concerned, everything but the open wound is none of his business.
“I’m Spider-Man.”
OR
SPIDER-BUCK and GAY-EDDIE
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Bookmarked by queercasserole
16 Feb 2026
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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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Bookmarked by queercasserole
16 Feb 2026
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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.
Bookmarked by queercasserole
16 Feb 2026
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“I’m trying not to make it about me.”
The words seem to stop Eddie in his tracks—but only for a fleeting moment. Then, “Okay, then let me.”
Buck blinks, ignoring the feeling of a single tear fighting past the edge of his lashline. Instantly, he swipes it away. “What?”
“Let me make it about you. Talk to me. I want to know what’s going on with you. I’m not gonna be able to focus on this god awful dinner if I’m worried that you’re alone, and upset, and—”
“I miss you,” Buck confesses, abruptly, because anything else he wants to say right now is too raw, too real.
Eddie exhales into the microphone of his phone. “Yeah. Yeah, I—I know. I miss you, too.”
“No, I miss you. More than I’m supposed to, I think.”
“I’m your best friend, bud,” Eddie tells him. “I think you’re supposed to miss me. We’re eight hundred miles apart.”
Miserably, Buck shakes his head. “Not like this.”
Or: Buck finally unpacks and stumbles across a box Eddie left behind, full of sketchbooks that Buck didn’t know he owned. He’s confronted, suddenly, with the fact that his best friend has been drawing him for years.
Series
- Part 4 of cjo + 911
Bookmarked by queercasserole
16 Feb 2026
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Bookmarked by queercasserole
14 Feb 2026