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Eddie’s knees are braced against the mattress, his forehead pressed into his pillow, mouth open and panting. Sweat pools down his back and across his ribs. Buck is behind him, hot and solid and relentless, driving into him like he’s trying to find the deepest parts, the hidden places Eddie hasn’t let anyone near–not really. At least not like this.
“Fuck,” Buck grits out, one hand tight on Eddie’s hip, the other spread across his lower back. “You feel–Eddie–Jesus, you feel so good.”
Eddie lets out something between a gasp and a moan. His fingers curl into the sheets, knuckles going white. Buck thrusts in harder, and Eddie sees stars. Like, actually sees them. His vision goes a little blurry, the welcoming black spots at the edges of his vision.
“Yeah?” Buck growls. “You like that? Like when I do this for you? When I give you what you want?”
“God—Buck—” Eddie chokes out, because he does. He never thought he’d want it like this, never let himself imagine being the one who'd be moments from begging for more, but now he can’t get enough. His thighs are trembling, his spine curving helplessly into each snap of Buck’s hips.
Buck leans down, licks a stripe up Eddie’s neck. “You’re taking it so fucking good, baby.”
That word hits like a jolt. Eddie groans, pushing back, chasing every thrust. He’s so close. He can feel it building low in his stomach, a molten, unbearable ache. Buck’s hand snakes down, wraps around him, strokes him in time.
“You gonna come for me, Eds?” Buck murmurs, right into his ear. “Come just from me fucking you?”
“Yes—yes, I—” Eddie gasps, legs shaking.
“Let go,” Buck says, mouth on his shoulder, voice low. “Let me have it. Let me see how good I make you feel. I love you–I–”
Eddie cries out, the orgasm crashing into him like a wave and–
He jerks awake.
He’s on his side. Alone. Sweat-slicked and breathing hard in the pitch black of his bedroom. He's hard and leaking against the front of his boxers, thighs clenched like he’d been grinding into the mattress. There’s an aching emptiness in his body, a hot, phantom stretch that isn't real, and the ghost of Buck’s voice still in his ear.
Eddie lies there frozen, heart pounding in his chest.
It was a dream.
A fucking dream.
His brain catches up slowly, like it’s buffering in real time. He turns his face into the pillow and groans.
Because– Jesus Fucking Christ.
That was not just sex. That was–it was filthy and desperate. It was him begging Buck to keep going, calling him baby, loving every moment of it. And that was not something Eddie Diaz had never dreamed of before. Something he has never let his mind ever wander to. He tries to shift, get some space from the pressure in his boxers, but every movement just reminds him how hard he still is. How his whole body feels like it was molded for someone else’s touch.
Buck’s touch.
Eddie covers his face with both hands, groaning into the dark again.
This can’t be happening. He doesn’t have sex dreams. But he definitely doesn't have sex dreams about Buck. Buck is his best friend . Buck is Chris’s favorite person. Buck is at his house half the week, cooking in his kitchen and laughing in his living room. Buck has seen him at his worst, his lowest, and still comes back time and time again. And now apparently Buck is starring in his late-night fantasies, railing him into next Tuesday and whispering shit that has Eddie still rock-hard ten minutes later.
“Oh my god ,” Eddie whispers, head turned toward the ceiling.
He tries to rationalize it. Maybe it’s just stress or the wires in his brain got crossed. Maybe it’s just because Buck looked so good yesterday in that stupid button up, or the way he held Chris’s chin gently to wipe ice cream off his face like he belonged there, like he was already family.
Eddie presses his fist against his forehead and groans yet again.
Because it wasn’t just the sex. Not really. It was the way Buck touched him. The way he spoke to him; gentle and filthy and reverent, like Eddie was something to be cherished even while being wrecked.
Eddie hasn't had a lot of sex in his life. What he has…it hasn't exactly been the most fulfilling. Sure, it was good, sometimes even great. One place he and Shannon had always been good together was the bedroom, and that has followed most of his relationships. But no one has ever touched him like that. Not even in his imagination. And the fact that his brain pulled Buck out of the file cabinet to serve that up?
He doesn’t know what the hell to do with that.
Holy shit , he thinks.
And then, I think I’m in love with him.
The thought hits him like a sucker punch. No warning or ceremony. Doesn't even have the decency to warm him up first. It just flashes in his mind, true and unrelenting
He swallows, blinking up at the ceiling above him, trying to focus on the spin of the ceiling fan.
It makes sense. Sort of. In a horrifying, gut-clenching kind of way. He takes stock of all the little things. How Buck is the first person he wants to call after any situation. How he looks for him in a crowd immediately. How he feels better just standing next to him, like they’re synced somehow. Like somehow they have their own form of gravity when they're together, the kind that pulls and pushes them in a way it doesn't with others.
Maybe it was never just friendship. Maybe it’s been a slow, stupid fall this whole time.
He doesn’t know what this means. Doesn’t know what to do with it. There’s Chris. There’s their team. There’s the fact that Buck has never looked at him like that, and Eddie is not about to ruin the one thing in his life that’s safe and secure. The one thing he hasn't managed to screw up for him or his son.
So instead, he shoves the thought away. Shoves it down. Like he’s trained himself to do with these types of thoughts. Since the Army. Since Shannon. Since maybe always.
Then he sighs, rolls onto his back, and throws his forearm over his eyes. His boxers are still damp and uncomfortable, where he's still stubbornly hard. And his heart won’t stop hammering like it’s trying to escape his chest. He tries to breathe through it.
“It was just a dream,” he mutters to himself.
Just a dream.
Except it wasn’t. Not really . Not anymore.
He’s not jerking off to it. He’s not texting Buck. He’s not doing anything but lying there and spiraling quietly in the dark like a complete fucking idiot.
Eventually, the haze of arousal starts to fade, and the cold creeps in, settling into his chest. It's uncertainty and fear and want all aching together in his chest.
It leaves him raw and a little hollow.
He sighs again. Then grabs the edge of the blanket and pulls it up over his head.
Maybe if he sleeps hard enough, it’ll all go away. Maybe tomorrow he can go back to pretending. Maybe it won’t change anything.
But even as he turns onto his side and closes his eyes, he knows it already has.
The last thought he has before sleep takes him again is Buck’s voice, low and reverent in his ear, I love you
Eddie groans softly into his pillow and lets the darkness take him.