Work Text:
**
Three weeks after Buck and Tommy fizzle out, and Buck’s not sleeping. Not properly. Eddie knows. He can tell - after years of knowing Buck, he knows his moods almost better than Buck does. Eddie can recognize a hungry Buck from ten paces back, can spot a tired Buck from three miles away, can tell when Buck is pent up, when he’s frustrated (which is most days, these days - Gerrard is good for team building the way the various natural disasters they’ve worked have been good for team building: ultimately, they come out on the other side stronger, but it’s hell getting through it), when he’s sore, when he’s a little insecure (when he’s a lot insecure, but usually a blind man can see that), when he’s sad. He knows Buck gets a little divot between his brows when he’s concerned or confused (or both), and the difference is in the eyes , which sounds like Eddie spends hours gazing into Buck’s eyes. He doesn’t - they’re just partners, and it’s Eddie’s job to know Buck - to know how he operates.
Buck’s got a sheen to his eyes that says he’s exhausted - like he’s worked three 24 hour shifts with very little sleep, instead of just the one they’re coming off of. They get off at 9, when B-shift gets there, and usually they go for breakfast as a team (sans Gerrard), but Hen and Chim say something about a family double-date at the park with bagels, and Eddie claps Buck on the shoulder. “Come on,” he says. “You look dead on your feet. How about a couple breakfast tacos from that truck over by Trader Joe’s, the 24 hour one? You don’t look safe to drive, man.” It’s a testament to just how tired Buck is that he doesn’t even protest, just pours himself into the passenger seat of Eddie’s truck and leans his head against the window.
So that’s how Buck ends up on Eddie’s couch, asleep before he can eat his breakfast tacos, the four egg, chorizo, and cheese with double meat and a side of guac (jesus, Buck) tacos still in their foil packages, lined up neatly on the coffee table. Eddie should get up and put them in the fridge, but the problem with that is that Buck had kicked his tennis shoes off, collapsed into his corner of the couch, stretched his abnormally long legs out over Eddie’s thighs, leaned his head back, and promptly started snoring. Eddie’s been nap-trapped, and it’s not the first time - probably won’t be the last - that he’s been pinned down by Buck while he catches up on sleep.
Eddie isn’t tired - not in the way Buck is, anyway - so he takes a minute to watch the sun streaming in through the windows, lighting Buck up golden, just - thinking. About Buck. About Chris. About Tommy. About the way he and Buck both managed to detonate two very different bombs in their own lives, and still cling to each other. Platonically. Eddie hasn’t drawn in years, but he has the sudden urge to sketch, and he rubs his palm on the arm of the couch, looking away, like he can rub the tingle off of his hands.
Buck looks soft like this, fuzzy around the edges, like a slightly unfocused picture. Eddie shakes his head to dispel those thoughts, because what ? Who looks at their best friend and thinks he looks soft like this, I should draw him like this ? Not Eddie Diaz. Eddie takes a sip of the beer (who has beer at 9:30 in the morning? Eddie Diaz after a 24 hour shift, that’s who) he’d gotten out of the fridge and tosses the foil wrapper from his own three tacos over in the general vicinity of the trash can. He’ll get it later. He sighs, leaning his own head back, intending to join Buck in his nap, but then Buck makes a noise in the back of his throat, and Eddie sits up, because if Buck’s awake enough for Eddie to put the tacos in the fridge, he should really do that. The tacos are going to cause enough intestinal discomfort as it is - they don’t need to add salmonella to the mix. But Buck’s just adjusting in his sleep, turning his face away from the sun, settling deeper into the couch, his calves flexing over Eddie’s thighs, the muscle of Buck’s thigh bunching and releasing under the fabric of his gray sweats, his tshirt riding up just a little bit, and Eddie’s mouth goes suddenly, abruptly dry.
His eyes are drawn to the little strip of skin he can see, where Buck’s tshirt has ridden up, the band of the sweats riding a little low, settled into the curl of Buck’s pelvis. Eddie can see the curve of Buck’s belly, the little pouch he’s bemoaned in the gym a couple times, twisting this way and that in the mirror, and then, with a regretful little shrug like what can you do? , moving onto his next set. Buck shifts again and the shirt lifts - jesus, does Buck just have slutty little fairies that follow him around and inch his shirt up bit by bit? - catching on the curve of Buck’s waist, on the love handles that have developed over the last couple of months, a byproduct of, Eddie’s pretty sure, Buck trying to perfect the recipes he has of Bobby’s, like he can bring him back to the 118 by getting the recipes exactly right and -- shit. Eddie can’t stop looking at -- at Buck. Buck who is three weeks out from a breakup, Buck who might be into men, but definitely isn’t into Eddie, and Eddie who -- who -- well, that’s complicated, and it’s made more complicated by the way Eddie feels about Buck in general, but specifically about Buck sprawled out on his couch, sleeping, Buck and his troupe of slutty little fairies getting him half-naked on Eddie’s couch.
Because, look, if they’re speaking strictly objectively, Buck is, objectively , a very attractive person. Eddie isn’t blind nor is he stupid; he’s seen the way people look at Buck. Buck’s seen the way people look at Buck. He’s tall and he has curly hair and a smile that won’t quit, and long cow eyelashes, and he’s built like a tank-- Eddie’s seen more than one person swoon a little when Buck carries them out of a burning building, or pulls them - gently, because Buck is gentle , too - out of a crushed car, or scales a ladder to scoop them gently out of whatever situation they happen to be in. Buck is conventionally attractive, and he’s strong, and more than that -- he’s kind . He’s a good person - he’s the best person Eddie knows.
Buck shifts again, and he’s definitely waking up in that slow, Buck way of his - like each part of his body has to come back online slowly, on its own. That’s good - Eddie can put the tacos in the fridge, or maybe heat them up so Buck can eat them before they both get some proper sleep, the potential-salmonella crisis avoided. Eddie glances at Buck and the sunlight catches Buck’s lashes, long against the shadow of his cheek, and Eddie’s breath catches in his chest, and shit. Okay. Maybe he’s just tired. Maybe these are the kind of thoughts you have about your best friend when you’re both sleep deprived, and your best friend is an objectively attractive person who may have recently come out as not-straight. But Buck’s legs are heavy in the best way across Eddie’s thighs, and there’s that strip of skin that's making Eddie have thoughts , and okay, fuck, so maybe - maybe -
Buck’s face wrinkles and he stretches, body unspooling, and he was sprawled out before, but now he’s kind of hanging off both ends of the couch, and his legs are still across Eddie’s lap, and that’s usually - look, usually that’s fine, and it’s not that Eddie has a problem with that, necessarily, it’s that Buck’s sweatpants are leaving very little to the imagination, and Buck’s slutty little fairies are working overtime, and Buck just looks soft and sleepy and gorgeous and -- and --
“Eds?” Buck’s voice is wrinkled, slow and syrupy. “Sorry.” He stretches, back popping, making a face as he sits up, dragging his legs out of Eddie’s lap, reaching for the first of the tacos. “Fell asleep.”
“You want me to heat that up for you?’ Eddie asks, and his voice sounds unnatural. A little wobbly, a little too loud for the situation. Buck glances at him, and there’s a little divot between his brows that Eddie knows means he’s a little confused and a little concerned.
“Nah, it’s fine,” Buck says with a wave of his hand, turning his attention back to the tacos. He sighs, and Eddie watches his shoulders rise and fall in his tshirt, and oh shit . It hits him like a bullet, like a tsunami, like lightning: he is in love with Evan Buckley.
“Uh --” Eddie says, very eloquently, and Buck is just eating his tacos like Eddie’s whole world hasn’t just stopped and started spinning in the other direction. “I -- water? You want some water?” Eddie wants water, and he stands, suddenly enough that Buck looks up at him, mid-bite, still holding the taco up to his mouth. That little confused concerned divot is still between his brows and Eddie knows he’s acting fucking weird , but -- “I’ll grab you some water,” he says, and he turns and leaves the room, bracing his hands on the sink in the kitchen, breathing deep. He is in love with Evan Buckley. He is in love with his best friend. He is in love with Buck. It doesn’t matter how he repeats it in his head - each time it’s like the world starts and reverses, and Eddie maybe feels a little dizzy with it. He has a horrified flashback to Ana being assumed as Chris’ mother and a panic attack in a suit shop, and he takes a slow deep breath in, because he does not need another ER visit for a fucking panic attack . “Right,” Eddie says out loud, to the empty kitchen, like a completely sane person. “Right. This is fine. I -- this is fine.” He glances down, and he has a situation and holy shit he’s in love with Buck. He’s in love with Buck. The world starts, stops, reverses. Stops again. Reverses again. “This is -- shit . Shit.” He gets two water bottles out of the fridge, thinks, hysterically, about pouring one down his pants because what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck . “Shit,” he repeats, just for good measure, bracing himself on the counter, trying to will himself into jello. He is jello. All of him is jello. All of him is --
“Eds?”
All of him is very much not jello . He can’t look up. He can’t meet Buck’s eyes, knowing what he knows now, because he knows Buck, and he knows that he’s probably blown any chance of brushing this off as any kind of normal reaction to, well, anything, but if he turns around right now, if he faces Buck, he can probably get away with -- something. The tacos. He can blame the tacos, or something. Only, he can’t turn around, because he’s in sweatpants, and apparently realizing he’s in love with his best friend comes with a very inconvenient side effect, because Eddie’s hard. He’s the kind of hard that all the jello in the world can’t fix. In fact, he might actually need medical intervention because --
“You alright?” Buck’s voice is soft, still sleep-wrinkled, concerned. Buck is so, so good.
No . “Fine. I’m fine. I, uh -- I’m fine. Uh -- the tacos ---” Buck is there . Buck is next to him, smelling like his toothpaste and the soap they keep at the firehouse - Old Spice, Fiji, which is what Eddie also smells like, but this is definitely Buck because it has a hint of spice - Buck’s deodorant. Buck’s hand is on his back, right between his shoulderblades. Eddie’s knees are jello, but nothing else is. Traitors.
“Shit, are you sick?” Buck’s voice is concerned. “You’re shaking , Eds, here --” is he? Is he shaking? It must be the realized he’s in love with his best friend of it all.
And it would be so easy to say yes - to let Buck fuss over him and get him soup and let this -- whatever it is -- turn into him being sick, turn into him being -- being -- being anything other than hopelessly , completely in love with his best friend. His best friend . Fuck. But the words get lost and he says: “No, I’m -- I’m not sick, I’m --” hard as a fucking rock thinking about you sprawled out asleep in the sunshine like some kind of angel also where did you get your troupe of slutty fairies they need a pay raise or they need to be fired or --
But Buck turns him, presumably to get him in the chair, still operating under the Eddie is gravely ill assumption, but then -- “Oh,” Buck says, and it’s a little strangled, a little wobbly, not unlike Eddie asking about water. “I - uh - shit.” Because it’s not like Eddie’s fucking dick being hard is easy to ignore. Not even in a he has a huge dick way; he’s in sweats and little else, and he’s harder than he’s ever been in his entire life. It’s not exactly subtle .
Yeah , Eddie thinks, a little hysterical, that about sums it up. “I -- it -- just -- just -- fuck. Just--” Eddie doesn’t know just what -- he doesn’t know, he feels like he might pass out or throw up. “Just -- ignore -- I’m sorry, I -- shit. Shit.” He rubs a hand over his face, and dares to look up at Buck, who -- isn’t moving. Is just kind of staring down at Eddie, this look on his face, that’s almost hungry, and almost -- scared. Like --
“I - it’s perfectly - perfectly natural,” Buck says. “I just -- uh -- do you -- wanna, like, take a shower? Handle - handle that?”
Together? Eddie’s brain supplies, helpfully. “No,” Eddie says, and he blows out a breath, and decides -- fuck it. In for a penny, in for a pound, he supposes. “No -- sorry, I -- you were napping. I -- shit, I’m sorry, you’re --”
“Were you watching porn while I was napping?” Buck is confused, but he isn’t judgemental, and Eddie loves him. He loves him, he loves him, he loves him.
Yes , Eddie thinks, because Buck sprawled out in the sunshine, shirt rucked up, sweats low on his hips is basically porn. “What? No. I -- why would you -- because--?” Of course that’s what Buck would think - he wakes up to Eddie with an erection in the kitchen and he thinks, Eddie was bored, Eddie was watching porn, I’ve interrupted . “I -- no, Buck, I -- I’m --” he gestures. “This is because of you.”
Buck’s frown deepens, and shit . Shit. “Because of… me?” he repeats, like he can’t quite make the connection between Eddie’s raging erection and himself.
“I -yes. I was -- look.” Eddie blows out a breath, rakes a hand through his hair. This isn’t how he wanted this to go, but -- this is how it’s decided to go anyway. “Look. You were asleep, on the couch.” It sounds so stupid to say it out loud. “And you’re -- you’re really fucking hot, Buck,” he says finally, because Buck doesn’t seem to be getting it , that Eddie having an erection is directly tied to Buck and how attractive Eddie finds him and how in love with him Eddie is. “You’re -- I mean --” Eddie shouldn’t be doing this now. Buck and Tommy broke up three weeks ago -- Buck is his best friend . “Buck, you’re -- I saw you, stretched out on the couch, and -- you’re -- that’s why I’m --” he gestures. “I --” Eddie doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because Buck is suddenly on him , kissing him, pressing him back into the fridge, and all the air goes out of Eddie’s lungs, but Buck is kissing him, so he doesn’t need to breathe anyway, and holy shit Buck is kissing him, and Buck is kissing him . Something in his brain short circuits and just repeats it over and over -- fuck fuck fuck fuck - the world stills. Slows down, settles into a stop -- and then Buck pulls back, eyes searching Eddie’s face, breathing like he’s run a marathon, and the world starts spinning again, twice as fast. “Fuck,” Eddie says, like a normal human person who’s just been kissed by their best friend who they have a raging erection for.
Buck’s face falls, and he peels himself off of Eddie carefully, slowly, and Eddie realizes three things very suddenly. One, Buck read that as rejection; two, Eddie wants more kissing, right now, immediately; three, Buck is also hard in his sweats.
“Wait.” The word is a little hysterical - almost yelped. Eddie winces. He has a hand on Buck’s arm, on his bicep. The muscle flexes under his palm. Eddie’s mouth goes dry, and if he gives the bicep a little squeeze, well. That’s between Eddie and the troupe of slutty fairies. “I - wait. I -- that’s not -- I didn’t mean stop. I. That was.” He swallows, heavy. “I want -- again.” It’s so stupid, and it’s, objectively, a terrible idea. Buck’s his best friend. Christopher is still in Texas. (Not that Eddie wants him here at this exact moment, but it’s more like a contribution to the general vibe.) Buck’s three weeks out from a breakup. Buck is his best friend. They should separate, lay down and take some deep breaths, maybe a cold shower or seven, and sort this out when they’re both rested. But Eddie gives Buck’s bicep another squeeze and Buck is looking at him, chest rising and falling, and — fuck. “Again,” Eddie says. Whispers, almost. “Please. Kiss -- kiss me again.”
Buck licks his lips. “Ed-Eddie.” There’s something in his voice, something a little hesitant and dammit, Eddie does not want to talk . He wants to be kissed stupid by Buck, he wants to feel Buck hard and pressed up against him, he wants to squeeze his bicep, and bite his pecs, and rub his face into the soft curve of his belly, and watch his thigh muscles move as he wraps his legs around Eddie’s waist and —
“Please,” Eddie says, instead of any of that, because he can’t feel his face, and he thinks, maybe, if Buck kisses him again — “ please .”
There’s a moment, long and charged between them, that Buck uses to study Eddie’s face, and Eddie uses to actively try not to spontaneously combust. It isn’t awkward, not really - more just charged . Electric. Like they’re creating their own static. Then Buck shifts, the bicep under Eddie’s hand flexing as his hand comes up, and for one hysterical moment, Eddie thinks Buck is going to wrap his hand around his throat, but Buck slides his hand behind Eddie’s head, carding into his hair, tilting his face up, and — oh.
He’d been too overwhelmed by the Buck of it all to appreciate it the first time, but Buck’s lips are soft and dry against his own, and he smells like Buck , but specifically post-shift Buck — the Old Spice, the toothpaste, the deodorant — and Buck makes a very quiet noise, and settles against Eddie, pressing him into the door of the fridge. Buck is big . That isn’t a dick joke. Eddie hasn’t seen Buck’s dick (yet), not aside from, like, accidental flashes in the shower or the locker room, but that’s in a work context (Eddie has seen Buck’s dick in a work context) and that’s different than this . Buck is just large , pressing Eddie into the fridge, one hand at Eddie’s waist, one still cupping the back of his head, and Eddie’s hand has fallen off of Buck’s bicep, and both of his hands are splayed out on either side of him, like he’s a magnet on the fridge, or a bug pinned to cardboard. Very sexy. He can feel every inch of Buck pressed up against him, holding him in place.
Buck shifts, breaks for air, and adjusts his hold on Eddie, pressing one of his thighs - Eddie’s mouth waters - between Eddie’s legs, deliberately grinding up against Eddie’s painfully hard cock. Eddie makes a noise like he’s dying, because Buck presses his own painfully hard cock up against Eddie’s thigh and. Okay. Okay. This is happening. This is - Buck is looking down at him, his eyes half-lidded and a little heavy, his mouth open ever so slightly, and Buck has chorizo breath which, in any other instance, would be very not-sexy, but Buck presses , deliberately with his thigh against Eddie, against his cock, and his eyelids flutter and Eddie’s head falls back against the fridge with a thunk, his hands going to Buck’s shoulders, and he wants to grind on Buck’s thigh until he comes or passes out or both.
“Eddie.” Buck’s voice is tight, rough with need or want, and Eddie whimpers, his hips twitching into the friction of Buck’s thigh as Buck shifts, again, grinding his thigh into Eddie’s dick. “Eddie, you’re so — Jesus, Eddie. Fuck.”
Eddie makes a noise that will probably be embarrassing later - some strangled half-moan, breathy and desperate, and he feels Buck’s cock twitch against his thigh. “I want to see.” That’s what comes out of Eddie’s mouth: the sexiest sentence ever uttered in any sexy moment, ever. “Please.”
“I - see?” Buck repeats, a little confused. “Tell me, Eddie,” he says, like he can’t stop saying Eddie’s name. “Tell me what you want, Eddie, I - tell me —“
“I want —“ words are hard. Eddie’s hips are twitching, mostly of their own accord, grinding his dick into Buck’s thigh. It’s incredible, little sparks of pleasure shooting up Eddie’s spine, making him tingle. His hands are on Buck’s shoulders - he’s not sure when they got there, but he’s working his fingers into the muscles he can feel there and his cock jerks. Buck presses his thigh more insistently against him. They’re both fully clothed, but this is the hottest thing Eddie’s ever, ever done. He shouldn’t want this. He shouldn’t be doing this. But Buck’s lips are red and match his birthmark, and his eyes are so blue, and he’s looking up at Eddie through his stupid cow eyelashes, and the sun is curling through the window and lighting him up golden and - fuck. Fuck. “I want to see you.” And what kind of sappy shit is that? I want to see you , but he means—
“I — okay.” Buck sounds a little confused, but Eddie can see it on his face, like he’s going to figure it out if it kills him. “Okay.”
It goes like this:
They stumble out of the kitchen and into the bedroom. Eddie yanks his comforter off his bed, and says please take your clothes off , like a weirdo, but Buck does , and Eddie was starting to take his clothes off, too, but Buck starts with his tshirt, stripping it off, arms crossed over, fingers under the hem, and then tugging the fabric up, the muscles in his arms bunching, and Eddie’s struck dumb. Now that he’s allowed himself to want - or maybe, now that the want has Kool-Aid Man’d through the brick wall of Eddie’s denial screaming oh yeah - his want is a living, visceral thing - something he can cup in his palms, like a bird, like a snake.
“Eddie?” Buck asks. The tshirt’s gone and he’s standing in Eddie’s bedroom in nothing but gray sweatpants that leave very little to the imagination. Eddie’s mouth goes dry, his eyes tracing the line of Buck’s shoulder, over the muscles he can see in Buck’s arm, his pecs, the soft swell of his stomach at the waistband of the gray sweatpants. His eyes linger there, watch as Buck’s ribs expand and shrink with his breathing. Eddie feels a little hysterical with all of it, like the volume is turned up to 11 on a 10-point scale, the colors are too bright, and Buck takes a step towards him, reaching, and Eddie shakes his head.
“Just—“ Eddie points to the bed. “Just — can you —“ he swallows, hard. All of him is hard, no jello here. “Can you lay down and just—“ he blows out a breath. “I think I might actually explode if you touch me,” he glances up at Buck at that, who looks a little confused and a little concerned. Eddie’s sensing a theme. “I’m -- Buck, I’m —“ hard as a rock, hard enough to cut glass, pent up like sea monkeys -- he gestures, and Buck’s eyes are on him like a brand, focused on the clear outline of Eddie’s dick in his sweats. Buck licks his lips, and Eddie thinks he might actually die. He thinks he is maybe actually actively dying. “I’m probably going to last a whole five seconds, when you — when you touch me. If you touch me, and,” he swallows heavily. “And I just — want to look at you. I want -- can I -- I want to touch you.” He doesn’t mean that sexually (or, he doesn’t mean that just sexually) -- he wants to feel Buck’s skin under his fingers, he wants to trace the outline of the muscles, wants to feel and touch and experience, let the soft animal of his body love what it loves, or whatever the poets said.
Buck tilts his head to the side, but then he nods. “O-okay,” he says, and it’s a testament to Buck , to how much he trusts Eddie (whether he should or not is a different question) that Eddie says I want to touch you and Buck says okay . “Should I—?” He thumbs the waistband of his sweats, and Eddie can’t think with how badly he wants to be doing that part.
“Let me,” Eddie says, and his voice sounds far away, but Buck lifts his hands like go ahead , and maybe all Eddie needed was permission, because he crosses the room to Buck but doesn’t go straight for the waistband of the sweats. He needs to take Buck in bite-sized pieces, he thinks. He’s standing close enough to Buck that he could count his individual eyelashes if he really wanted to, and he does want to - eventually - but other things take precedence at present, like counting the sprinkle of freckles (13) across Buck’s nose, almost invisible, but not here, in the golden light seeping in through the window. Eddie’s eyes travel down the curve of Buck’s jaw, the glisten of stubble. They’re close enough to kiss -- all it would take from either of them is a tilt of the head, barely even a lean in, and they’d be kissing -- but they aren’t touching at all, Eddie just taking it in. Buck breathes in, and his ribs expand, and they’re close enough that his chest brushes against Eddie’s. Eddie makes a quiet, wounded noise, and almost subconsciously, he brings his hands up to rest on Buck’s shoulders, pressing his thumbs into the space under his collarbone, somewhere he’s touched dozens of times, but never like this , never with the subtext of I love you I want you let me curl up in the space of your ribcage and live there and Buck’s eyelids flutter, and his mouth parts, tongue dipping out to brush against his lower lip.
“Eddie,” he says, very softly, and Eddie smooths his hands down Buck’s arms, fingers following the curve of the muscles, crooking over Buck’s elbows, down his forearms, to his hands. He flips Buck’s hands over when he gets to them, his eyes following the same path as his fingers, examining the palms of Buck’s hands. Buck just -- lets him. Just stands there, breathing, letting Eddie touch and look and feel. Eddie loves him, can feel the love like a physical thing in his chest, beating against his ribcage to get out.
He’s almost scared to do anything else, like the second he starts exploring other places or with other things - his mouth, for one - Buck is going to evaporate. Eddie has the horrible, awful thought that this is just some weird sex dream, that he’s going to wake up any second, hard as a rock, on the couch, across from Buck, but his heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest -- what was that Emily Dickinson poem he had to memorize in fourth grade? Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without words -- and that, to Eddie, is proof that this is real. “Can I--?” he starts, but his voice catches, and he licks his lips, clears his throat, and by the time he opens his mouth to try again, Buck has already answered.
“Yes.” Buck’s voice is hoarse, rough with arousal. “Anything, Eds, you can -- anything. Yes. Please. Please .” His voice breaks on the second please, cracking in the middle of the word, rendering the rest of it barely audible.
Eddie lets Buck’s hands fall, sliding his hands up Buck’s chest, over the scar from the lightning, over the little tattoo on Buck’s pec, over his collarbones, up the column of his throat, before he’s cupping Buck’s face. He almost says it, his thumbs on Buck’s cheeks, his fingertips digging into the soft skin of Buck’s neck, Buck’s eyes heavy and half-lidded, his gaze on Eddie’s, through his lashes, almost says I love you, do you know that, I love you, I love you like the thing with feathers, I love you easy as breathing . He swallows instead, leaning in to press his lips against Buck’s.
Buck makes a small noise against the kiss, almost like he’s crying, and Eddie pulls him closer, and the kiss changes - goes from sweet and slow and tentative to something desperate and messy and wanting . Eddie slides his hands down from where they’re cupping Buck’s face to brace on his shoulders, pushing him back -- onto the bed, where he sprawls out, breathing heavy, looking up at Eddie, and Eddie takes him in, slowly, watching the heave of Buck’s chest, the outline of his cock in his sweatpants.
“Look at you,” Eddie says, all in one breath, like he’s been dying to say it for years. “Buck -- look at you,” he repeats, and then he follows the trajectory of Buck’s body, straddling him on the bed.
Buck wraps a hand around Eddie’s calf and Eddie inhales, sharp as glass, tensing under Buck’s touch. He wasn’t kidding about the explode if you touch me , but Buck smooths a thumb up the inside of Eddie’s calf, and the world stills again, forming itself to the warm press of Buck’s thumb. “Fuck,” Buck breathes, and he reaches for Eddie’s hips, but seems to remember, at the last minute, the thing about explosions, and he drops him to his sides, his eyes on Eddie like he’s asking is this okay, is this alright, will you love me just like this , and Eddie wants to say yes , wants to fall into the cup of Buck’s chest, wants to live in the space Buck has built for him.
Eddie traces his fingers over Buck’s shoulders, over the curve of his arms. “Look at you, look at how gorgeous you are,” he says, almost to himself. Buck looks up at Eddie like a wounded animal, something vulnerable and open, and Eddie can’t help but lean in to press a kiss to his lips. “You’re perfect,” he whispers, dragging his lips across Buck’s stubble, to the space between Buck’s jaw and his ear, sucking a mark to the soft skin there, taking the soft skin of Buck’s earlobe between his teeth, biting and then sucking, and ears aren’t really sexy, but Buck’s ears are very sexy, simply by virtue of being attached to Buck.
Buck grunts, his hands going automatically to Eddie’s waist, and Eddie (surprisingly) doesn’t spontaneously combust, dragging his mouth down Buck’s neck, kissing and marking as he goes, nipping with his teeth, like now he’s allowed himself to want , to take , he can’t get enough. He presses his face into Buck’s neck, just breathing him in, before sealing his mouth over the place Buck’s throat and collarbone meet and sucking , and Buck swallows, hard, sliding one hand up to cup the back of Eddie’s head, stroking his fingers through Eddie’s hair. Buck is so gentle , like the thing with feathers, his hand cupping the back of Eddie’s head like Eddie is precious , like Eddie is something worth catching and keeping, and Eddie can’t breathe with it.
He’s off of Buck, then, sliding his fingers under the waistband of Buck’s sweatpants, tugging them down slowly, Buck lifting his hips to help, whimpering a little at the scrape of the elastic against his cock, straining against the fabric of his boxers. Eddie leaves the boxers for now, and Buck shifts, making himself comfortable on the bed - on Eddie’s bed - and his eyes never leave Eddie’s. There’s still that confused little quirk to his brows, but there’s nothing but trust on his face - that if this is what Eddie wants, what he needs, Buck will do it. Hope is the thing with feathers , indeed.
Eddie looks down at Buck, at the expanse of him spread out on the bed, and he doesn’t even realize he’s talking again until the words leave his mouth. “You’re so fucking gorgeous.” He traces a line over Buck’s chest. “Sometimes when you’re - when you’re in the gym, at the fire station.” Eddie pauses, swallowing, pressing his thumb against the spiderwebbing scar from the lightning, at the place where it curls across Buck’s collarbone. “Sometimes just watching you, I’d - it -- fuck, you’re just --” He leans in, and Buck’s chest is pressed against his chest, and Buck’s watching him, eyes hooded, and Eddie presses a soft kiss to the warmth of Buck’s mouth, before resuming his earlier path, kissing down Buck’s chest.
Eddie’s lips are swollen when he pulls back, both of them breathing like they’ve just done 20 laps at the firehouse and Buck is -- art , sprawled out under Eddie, looking up at him through his lashes, mouth slightly open, and -- he’s a mess , hickeys starting to bloom across his neck and collarbones and Eddie feels a little hysterical over it, over Buck like some Renaissance painting. “Fuck,” Eddie says, which feels like understating it. “Do you know what you do to me?” he asks, voice rough around the edges, like it had to work to get out, and he shifts, smoothing his hands down Buck’s chest, just feeling , shifting so he’s straddling Buck right above his knees, which gives him a whole new vantage point for exploration.
Eddie’s still fully clothed, and as he works his fingers up Buck’s hips - Buck shudders and makes a small noise, cock twitching in his boxers - Buck reaches for the hem of Eddie’s tshirt, but Eddie shakes his head, taking Buck’s wrists in his hands, bringing Buck’s hands to his mouth, pressing kisses to the palms, before he pins them, pointedly, down at Buck’s sides. Buck whimpers. “You’re so gorgeous like this, cowboy,” he breathes, “look at you.” He releases Buck’s wrists, fingers tracing over Buck’s chest, and then, because Eddie has lost any semblance of self-control, he leans in, burying his face in the soft space of Buck’s stomach. He can feel Buck’s cock hard against his chest, can feel Buck’s hips twitching up into the friction of their bodies. Eddie wants to crawl inside of Buck - not even, entirely, in a sexual way. He wants to be close to him, because this - pressed against Buck, wrapped around his legs and waist like some kind of spider monkey - is as close to content as Eddie has felt in years - maybe as close to content as Eddie has felt, ever.
Eddie presses a kiss to Buck’s stomach, sucking a hickey into the place where his stomach disappears into his boxers, before he slides his hands up Buck’s hips - Buck groans - curling his fingers into Buck’s love handles. Eddie feels a little feverish with it, gripping the skin hard enough he might actually be hurting Buck, and he glances up and there’s this look on Buck’s face. It’s not painful like you’re pinching the hell out of me , but there’s something hurt - a little guarded in his expression. Buck swallows, and Eddie watches the movement of his throat. His cock gives a little twitch of interest that Eddie ignores - he’s pretty sure Buck could do just about anything at present and his cock would find a way to be interested about it. “Buck?” he asks, voice thick. He’s still digging his fingers into Buck’s love handles, thumbs pressing into the soft space right above Buck’s pelvis.
“I know they’re —“ Buck’s voice is breathy, a little like he’s having a hard time finding the words. “I know you’re — fuck, Eds, you’re, like, I don’t know, I haven’t — I would have to do the math, but — what, 5% body fat? I know- I know I’m not—“ Buck licks his lips, and it’s so foreign, so far from what Eddie had been thinking (Eddie hadn’t really been thinking , honestly), what Buck is saying, implying, that Eddie doesn’t get it at first. “You’re so fucking — Ev-even before Tommy, I — used to watch you. I thought it was — normal. I mean - I mean, it is , I mean I thought it was — straight. To look at you and think fuck he’s so hot , which — is a little reductive, right, I mean I kind of get why women —“
“Buck.” Eddie bends, fitting his teeth to the curve of one of Buck’s love handles, nipping lightly, and Buck whimpers , his hips bucking up into Eddie’s chest. “Buck, what are you talking about?”
“I — I just—“ Buck’s hips are kind of moving constantly now, like he can’t help it, rocking into Eddie’s chest. Neither of them have managed to take their boxers off — Eddie hasn’t managed to take a single article of clothing off yet — Eddie hasn’t even seen Buck’s dick yet, which is a real shame, and something he intends to remedy as soon as Buck makes whatever point he’s circling. “I know — I’m not — you know. Specimen .” It’s not a sexy word. Specimen makes Eddie think of labs and dissection. But Buck clearly means it the way the genius lab technician meant it about Captain America in Winter Soldier , which means Buck is implying —
“You think you aren’t the hottest fucking thing that’s ever walked into the fire house?” Eddie asks, and that’s ridiculous enough that he’s finally, for the first time since Buck sprawled out on his couch and Eddie fell in love with him about it, been able to string a sentence together without having to stop and recalibrate his brain halfway through.
“N-no?” Buck’s still squirming, fingers tight in the sheets. “I-I mean — I’m fine , but — my— I’m not — I used to be in — much better shape — and — oh shit—“
He’s cut off by Eddie gripping his cock through his boxers, and the hysterical part of Eddie’s brain screams we’re holding Buck’s cock but Eddie ignores that for the moment, because Buck’s cock is hot and thick through the fabric of the boxers, and Eddie’s never given a blow job to a guy (he’s never done anything with a penis that isn’t his own), he’s never really understood the appeal, but he gets it now, because he thinks Buck’s cock in his mouth would be really nice, actually. “You aren’t implying,” Eddie says, sliding his hand up Buck’s cock, just a little bit, and Buck makes this aborted little half-scream, “that you’re anything other than fucking perfect , are you? Because — fuck, cowboy— you’re — I kind of can’t stop thinking about you.” He lets go of Buck’s cock - he will return - and moves his hands back to Buck’s love handles. “You’re practically pornographic,” he adds, and then scrapes his fingers under the waistband of Buck’s boxers.
There’s a moment, where Eddie, fully clothed, looks down at Buck, in nothing but his boxers and still-blooming hickeys and thinks there’s no way this is happening but then he tugs Buck’s boxers down, Buck lifting his hips to help, and there’s a moment where Eddie gets kind of tangled in the boxers and Buck’s legs and the sheets in his haste to get the boxers off, but he gets them off finally, tossing them - somewhere, and then Buck is naked in front of him, sprawled out in the sheets, and, look, objectively, Buck is stupid attractive, even if (objectively) the penis is not -- but Buck’s penis is spectacular, and Eddie might be biased, but he doesn’t stop to think about that, cupping a hand around Buck’s length.
Buck grunts, arching up into Eddie’s touch with a breathy “fuck.” Eddie sweeps his thumb over the head of Buck’s cock, collecting the wetness there, dragging his hand down slow, and Buck makes a sound that goes straight to Eddie’s cock - but it’s not Eddie’s cock he’s worried about at present. He brings his thumb to his mouth, curious, and dips his tongue out to taste - salt and Buck . He glances down at Buck, the pad of his thumb in his mouth, and Buck’s eyes are heavy, mouth parted, flushed all the way down his chest. “Eddie,” he breathes. “Fuck, Eddie - I --”
“You’re so gorgeous like this,” Eddie murmurs, and then he licks his hand - Eddie has only ever touched his own cock, but he knows the dry drag isn’t great , and while he doesn’t want to overstate how good this is going to be for Buck (it is Eddie’s first handjob), he wants it to be as good as it can be. So he licks his hand to ease the drag, wrapping his hand back around Buck’s cock, giving it a couple slow experimental tugs, paying attention to the heat of Buck’s cock in his hand, how the head of Buck’s cock matches the color of his lips, the contrast of the mark on his eyebrow. “Fuck,” he breathes, swiping his thumb over the head, collecting the moisture there to drag it down, easing the glide of his hand. Eddie does what he likes when he’s getting himself off -- pressing his thumb just under the head when he gets to the tip, twisting his palm over Buck’s cock -- and if the way Buck is gripping the sheets, eyes screwed shut, it’s effective . “Look at you,” Eddie murmurs, and Buck whimpers, but forces his eyes open, and their eyes meet and Eddie’s still fully clothed, but he might as well be stripped down to his bones the way Buck looks at him - all heat and want . Eddie swallows, hard, and keeps his eyes on Buck’s as he shifts, bending slowly, until his mouth is right above Buck’s cock. He almost says it then-- I love you, I love every piece of you I’ve seen and even the ones I haven’t yet, loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done -- but he presses a kiss to the head of Buck’s cock instead. Buck whimpers, one hand jerking up like he wants to touch , one corner of the fitted sheet popping off the corner of the mattress.
“Eddie -- Eddie --” he says, voice gravel. “Eddie please , shit, fuck -- oh my god please, please .” Buck is looking down at him, at Eddie’s hand around the base of his cock and Eddie’s lips, damp with spit and precome, resting at the head of Buck’s cock.
Eddie licks across the head of Buck’s dick, and Buck makes a noise that might be a plea or a prayer - or something holier, something that settles into Eddie’s bones, curls in deep. Eddie has never given a blowjob, but he knows the logistics of one - he knows that any lack of skill can usually be made up for with enthusiasm, and he is plenty enthusiastic about getting Buck’s cock in his mouth - but he wants to take his time. If he has his way, this is the only cock he’ll ever suck for the rest of his life. He doesn’t want to rush the introduction, so he doesn’t take Buck into his mouth, not yet, moving his lips down the shaft of Buck’s cock, pressing little kisses to the soft skin, until he gets to the crease of Buck’s thigh where it meets his hip, and Eddie presses his face there, breathing in Buck . It might be weird - it might be really fucking weird, that he’s nuzzling into Buck’s groin like it’s his favorite pillow, but he loves him, he loves him, he loves him ; he feels it like a second pulse. He wants to commit each piece of Buck to memory, cradle it close, let it perch in his soul, the thing with feathers.
Buck loses the battle with keeping his hands to himself, and he rests one hand on the crown of Eddie’s head, palm heavy, stroking his fingers through the shorter hairs at the nape of Eddie’s neck. “Eddie, Eddie,” he’s saying, quiet and holy as a prayer.
Eddie shifts, pressing a kiss to the inside of Buck’s thigh, and then another kiss to the head of his cock -- Buck gasps, hand still cupped around the back of Eddie’s head, thumb smoothing up the space behind Eddie’s ear, and that should not turn him on (even more) but it does, his cock jerking from where it’s pressed against the mattress and Eddie groans, very softly, pressing another kiss to Buck’s cock, and then, very slowly, wrapping his lips around the head of Buck’s dick.
He’s never really believed any of his exes about blowjobs being pleasurable for whoever is doing the blowing. He figured it was one of those white lies people told to make others feel better -- yeah, your new haircut looks great; I love it when your mom visits; I love having your cock in my mouth -- but the second he takes Buck’s dick into his mouth, he gets it , and his eyes slip closed, giving himself over to the weight of Buck’s cock on his tongue. He keeps one hand wrapped around the base of Buck’s cock, but the other he braces on Buck’s thigh, taking Buck a little deeper, and then he sucks, almost experimentally, and Buck makes a noise above him that suggests that this is exactly right.
Buck’s fingers are in his hair and Buck’s cock is in his mouth and Buck’s thigh is warm and solid and trembling under his palm and Eddie wants to curl up in this moment and stay. He takes a slow breath through his nose, taking Buck’s cock a little deeper into his mouth, until his head nudges near the back of his throat, before he sucks again, pulling his mouth up slowly. It’s probably the slowest blowjob in the history of blowjobs - there’s probably a world record for it, and Buck probably knows it, and the thought makes warmth bloom in Eddie’s chest. He loves him, he loves him, he loves him. He pulls off completely, giving Buck’s cock another few slow strokes, eyes on Buck’s face. Buck is gorgeous, always, but Buck in the throes of pleasure is another level, head thrown back on the pillow, mouth open, one hand in Eddie’s hair and one still curled tightly in the sheets, his chest flushed and littered with hickeys. He’s beautiful like this, simply because he’s Buck , but also because there’s something unguarded about him -- open, like he’s pulled apart at the seams, completely undone, and Eddie takes Buck back into his mouth, closing his eyes - he can’t help it, sucking Buck’s cock is a spiritual experience, it’s respectful to close his eyes when he’s praying - as he presses his tongue against the underside of Buck’s dick.
“Shit - shit, Eds, fuck,” Buck breathes, fingers curling around the back of Eddie’s head. “I’m -- you gotta -- jesus , I’m - I’m --” Eddie pulls back, pulling off, and Buck whimpers, smacking the hand curled in the sheets flat against the mattress before he throws it over his forehead. “Shit - shit - god --” Eddie looks up at him and he’s taking deep breaths, arm across his brow, and like this -- like this , he looks like a god from one of those Renaissance paintings, sprawled out in the sheets, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, utterly and totally debauched.
Eddie presses a kiss to the place Buck’s thigh meets his hip and then he shifts, moving his attention to Buck’s thighs, kissing and licking and sucking over both thighs and then to Buck’s knees, soft kisses to the inside of both of Buck’s knees, and then down his calves. He pauses when he gets to the start of the scars from the fire engine crushing Buck, smoothing his thumb up the center of the mass of scar tissue, and Buck’s leg flexes against the touch.
“You don’t have to --” he starts, voice a little slow, but clear, like any part of Buck is going to be anything less than spectacular to Eddie. “I know it’s -- it’s not --”
“You know what I think about when I see this?” Eddie asks quietly, walking his fingers up the scar tissue, bending to press a kiss there. “The same thing I think whenever I see that scar on your chest -- that you fought to get back to us.” He pauses. “To me . That -- whatever it took -- you were -- you were going to get back to me.” He knows it’s bigger than that - that Buck wanted all of the 118, all of his family, back, and that the fight was as much about getting back to Bobby as it was getting back to Eddie; that Buck wanted to get back to Chris, and everyone . But --
“I was never -- I’d never --” Buck’s voice is hoarse, thick with tears. “Eds, I -- I -- the truck, the -- the lightning -- nothing was ever going to keep me from -- from -- being here. From you.” It’s there, in subtext, clear as day. Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without words ---
“I love you,” Eddie says, and Buck makes a sound like he’s dying.
“Eddie, Eddie,” he says, reaching, and Eddie’s on him in the space between heartbeats, straddling his waist, Buck’s hands on him, Buck’s hands tugging frantically at his shirt, Buck’s fingers scrabbling at the waist of Eddie’s sweats, Buck sobbing it out between sucking in lungfuls of air, Eddie echoing it back to him, “Eddie, I love you, I love you, I love you,” and somewhere between the fifth and seventh I love you exchanged between the two of them, Eddie’s shirt is gone, and then his sweats and then his boxers, and they’re both shaking, hands cupping each others’ faces. There’s a kiss, or an attempted kiss -- something messy and wet and desperate -- and then Eddie’s between Buck’s legs, working him open with his fingers and the bottle of lube Buck practically hurled at him. “I can -- more , I need -- I need -- please Eddie, please,” he’s saying, barely coherent, cheeks flushed -- all of him is flushed, red with want , with need , and Buck has one leg crooked up, the other flopped to the side, and Eddie’s never fingered anyone’s ass open before, but Buck’s an excellent coach -- yes, Eds, just like that, just like that -- more, give me more, please -- oh, fuck, that’s -- right there, jesus-- fuck, fuck -- and Eddie could spend the rest of his life watching Buck fall apart on his fingers.
“You look so fucking good like this,” Eddie says when Buck appears to be beyond words, fucking himself down onto Eddie’s fingers as best he can with the angle. “Look how fucking gorgeous you are,” he breathes, mostly to himself. “You’re so perfect like this, I could do this all day, I could watch you fall apart the rest of my life, sweetheart, and never need another goddamn thing.”
Buck smacks a hand against the mattress, and there are so many things Eddie wants to do, but, while he’s lasted longer than the five seconds he anticipated, he knows he is rapidly approaching both his and Buck’s threshold, and he pulls his fingers out of Buck as Buck whines, kicking a leg out.
Eddie probably uses too much lube. He’s used to fucking women, and he knows that vaginas and asses work differently. But he slicks up his cock and then. And then. Buck is under him, legs pulled into his chest, eyes on Eddie’s -- I love you, I love you, I love you , he’s saying, watching Eddie, the shape of him -- and Eddie can’t move. He can’t make this real -- not until Buck sits up, kneeling, letting his legs drop, cupping Eddie’s arms, down his shoulders, to his elbows. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” Buck’s saying, “I got you, Eds, I got you.” He presses a kiss to Eddie’s forehead, to his eyebrow, down to his lips, and Buck’s still worked up - he’s still very worked up - but he’s cupping Eddie’s face, giving him another kiss. “It’s alright, I got you,” he says, shifting and easing Eddie down onto his back, and then Buck’s over him and --
“Buck,” Eddie breathes, his hands going to Buck’s hips. “I --” But Buck above him is a wet dream, everything Eddie never realized he could have, and Buck’s brow furrows in concentration, before he’s sinking down slowly, onto Eddie’s cock and the world spins to a halt. “Buck -- fuck --” he chokes out, and Buck freezes, eyes on Eddie’s face, on whatever he sees there, and Eddie is closer to the edge than he’s ever been in his life. He feels like he’s vibrating with it, like the entire universe has come to a standstill and Eddie’s buzzing in the middle of it, under Buck.
“It’s okay,” Buck breathes. “It’s okay, you’re so good, Eds, you’re so perfect, it’s okay, I got you, I got you,” he says, and he swallows, hard, and his cock is between them and Eddie thinks, vaguely, in the back of his mind, that he should help with that, but he can’t do anything other than dig his fingers into Buck’s hips, and Buck’s eyelids flutter. “Eddie, that’s it,” he says, and his voice is soft, gentle, talking to Eddie like he’s a cornered animal, and that’s it - that’s how Eddie feels, cornered, but into it , and a cornered animal probably isn’t mentally jumping up and down and screaming fuck me fuck me fuck me , but Eddie is. He just can’t quite make his mouth and his head connect. “I love you so much, Eddie, I’ve loved you for years,” Buck is saying, and he shifts down, just a little more, and Eddie’s fingers tighten on Buck’s hips. “I love your fingers on me, honey,” Buck says. “Just thinking about -- about -- being able to see -- fuck -- your fingers on me, all the love you have for me, all over me --” Buck’s kind of rambling, kind of babbling, but it just makes Eddie fall even more in love with him, with his Buck. “I love you, Eddie, I love you so much,” Buck says, and then he sinks down onto Eddie’s cock fully, eyes fluttering closed, and if Eddie thought Buck was gorgeous sprawled out under him, Buck riding his cock takes it to another level entirely.
“Buck,” Eddie says, pressing his thumbs into the divots of Buck’s hipbones, and Buck rolls his hips forward, and Buck is hot and tight around him, like a vice, like home. “Buck -- I -- oh -- oh --” and Buck shifts, bracing his hands on Eddie’s chest.
“It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re perfect, Eddie, you’re so perfect, just like this,” Buck says, and rocks his hips forward, and that’s all it takes.
In any other context and with anyone else it would be embarrassing, but Eddie doesn’t have the capacity for embarrassment. His fingers tighten on Buck’s hips until his knuckles are white, and then he’s gone, vision whiting out, his hips bucking up against the delicious press of Buck’s weight, body going tight and then spiraling out. He’s vaguely aware of Buck above him, Buck telling him he’s perfect, he’s so beautiful, he’s the most amazing thing Buck’s ever seen as Buck rides his cock through his orgasm, and then shifting off of him, curling up next to him, and Buck’s hands are carding through his hair, Buck’s lips are on his eyebrow, his cheek, Buck’s hand sliding up and down Eddie’s chest as Eddie comes down slowly.
“Fuck,” Eddie says thickly, when his tongue decides to work again, and then he realizes it in one awful moment, Buck’s cock bumping against his hip. “You didn’t --”
“I will, I will,” Buck says, shaking his head. “I will. I just -- fuck, Eddie, that was -- that was --”
Eddie cuts him off with a kiss, reaching up to card his fingers back through Buck’s hair, stroking his thumb against Buck’s temple. “You did such a good job for me,” he murmurs, whispers into the space between them, and Buck shivers, reaching up to cage his fingers around Eddie’s wrist. “You’re so perfect, sweetheart, you know that? You’re so perfect for me.”
Buck looks up at Eddie through his lashes, pupils blown, and Eddie kisses him again, tightening his fingers in Buck’s hair, and Buck makes a noise against the kiss, something deep and desperate in the back of his throat. “Eddie,” he gasps, and Eddie kisses down Buck’s jaw, to his throat, to the space between his collarbones.
“So fucking gorgeous,” Eddie mumbles into Buck’s skin, and Buck’s rocking against his hip, almost subconsciously, face pressed into Eddie’s shoulder. “Look at you,” he adds, sliding his hand around Buck’s hip, fitting his fingers over the reddish marks on Buck’s hip. Buck shudders, sliding one hand to Eddie’s elbow. “I love you so much,” he whispers, before he gets Buck on his back, straddling him easily, Buck’s hands going to Eddie’s hips this time, but Eddie pulls his hands off his hips, gathering his wrists in one hand, pulling them above his head and Buck makes a noise in the back of his throat, wrapping his fingers around the rungs of the headboard automatically. “Perfect,” Eddie murmurs, leaning into to ghost a kiss over Buck’s lips, and then down, following the path he’d made earlier, pressing kisses to the hickeys he’d left, until he gets to Buck’s hip, Buck’s gorgeous cock curving up towards his belly, drooling precome. Eddie doesn’t hesitate this time, wrapping his lips around the head of Buck’s cock.
Buck’s hips rock up automatically, giving Eddie a bit more cock than he can handle. “Fuck - fuck - sorry,” Buck says, one hand coming down from the headboard to cup the back of Eddie’s head.
Eddie presses a kiss to the head of Buck’s dick, reaching up to give one of Buck’s love handles a squeeze, a silent request, and Buck, somehow, understands, releasing the headboard with his other hand, linking his fingers with Eddie’s hand on his side and Eddie squeezes, taking Buck back into his mouth, one hand linked with Buck’s, one braced on his thigh, Buck’s free hand cupping the back of his head. He pulls off when Buck gets close again, when his hips stutter and he stops making sense, and when Eddie pulls off, Buck keeps their fingers linked, but throws the arm cupping the back of Eddie’s head over his eyes, chest heaving. “You’re so pretty like this, sweetheart,” Eddie says, pressing a kiss to Buck’s hip. “I love you like this, you’re so gorgeous.” But then he’s taking Buck back into his mouth, nudging the hand braced on Buck’s thigh up against Buck’s arse, pressing a finger up and into him, and Buck groans, long and low and needy, and this is it - this is the thing with feathers, Buck falling apart under him, Buck’s needy little noises, the short aborted jerks of his hips as Eddie sucks his cock and fucks him with his fingers.
“Ed- Eddie.” Buck’s voice is tight - urgent. A warning. “Eddie - fuck - fuck -- I --” Eddie squeezes their linked fingers, swallowing around Buck’s cock. “Just - just -- I -- oh shit --I --” Buck makes that wounded animal noise again, hand going to the back of Eddie’s head, his fingers tightening around Eddie’s as he sucks a breath in, ass tightening around Eddie’s fingers, and then he’s coming with a grunt down Eddie’s throat, and Eddie swallows reflexively, determined to make Buck feel even a shadow of how good he made Eddie feel, determined to make him recognize all the love he carries for him like a bird under his ribcage, beating frantically to get out.
It takes time to peel themselves out of the bed, to shower off and clean up, and by the time they’re curled on the couch in fresh sweats, Buck soft and so beautiful it hurts, sprawled out against Eddie’s chest, by the time Eddie realizes that he can lean down and kiss Buck whenever he wants, that he doesn’t need to wait for the troupe of slutty fairies to appear to make Buck’s shirt disappear , it’s past lunch time. They order in - something that Buck grumbles about making his love handles bigger, and Eddie pinches one of the love handles in question, a quiet reminder about how perfect he thinks Buck is, pressing a kiss to his temple.
After lunch, Buck sprawls out, comfortable weight against Eddie’s chest, their fingers linked together, and there’s a bed, yes, but it started with a nap on the couch, and how fitting that it would end here, too. Buck is asleep in moments, and Eddie stays awake a few more moments, watching the afternoon sunshine play against Buck’s face, lighting it up golden, the thing with feathers beating, beating, beating against Eddie’s ribcage - something bright and lovely, a tune without words.