#it was fun 🙂‍↕️

[broareweabouttoviberightnow]

ppl in da club lame as hell nowadays :( where's your whimsy man :( where's the love n joy in your heart :(

[pickled0ctopus]

my dear comfort zone

[unrelatedsideblog]

He's so real for that 🙂‍↕️

[seiwas]

cw: pro-hero bakugo, reader has boobs, kind of explicit/nsfw? idk i describe boobs, reader is smaller and shorter than bakugo, unedited sawry

bakugo's muscle tee looks as ill-fitting as it'll ever be draped over you.

there are reasons for this, perfectly founded and logical reasons for why that is—the main one being that, it's, well, his; two, maybe even three sizes larger than what it should be to fit you properly.

but, he can't stop staring, and there are reasons for that too—the main one being that, it's his, and yet, the only way he can ever imagine it now is when it's being worn by you.

your hips sway to the song you've been humming for the past five minutes. it's the same one, the chorus on a perpetual loop. he's sure it's the only part you know; you do this often enough that it's the only part he knows now, too.

the hem of his tee hits right at the top of your thighs, concealing just enough to tease, but he’s confident that if you reach up even the slightest bit for the cupboard overhead, there'll be nothing to hide.

he feels a little bit like a creep like this, watching as he stands in the middle of your shared living room, but it's impossible too look away—you've got to be doing this on purpose, right?

heat flares inside of him when you turn your body ever so slightly, the armhole of his muscle tee large enough to give him the clearest view of skin—

he gulps.

it's smooth, sloping just right; the side view of your under boob curves into its perfect shape and he can imagine it, feel—

(is this considered perving if he's been with you for years?)

the pan in front of you sizzles as you plop in god knows what. you pour in something from the side and wait, one hand propped on the hip you pop out. then, you pick up the pan, attempting to flip what's inside (probably a pancake, now that he thinks about it).

it’s hard to focus on what you’re cooking though, especially when all he sees is plump flesh jiggling, bouncing as you further agitate the pan.

he just got the pants of this suit readjusted, and now they're fucking tight.

bakugo normally runs hot; it’s kind of part of his dna. but this warmth is different, flushing him from head to toe. it creeps up the side of his neck, painting the tips of his ears a blooming red.

you turn around then, plopping the pancake on the plate atop the counter behind you.

"oh! you're done," you greet him with a smile. so. fucking. casually.

as if your tits aren't fucking peaking against the gray fabric of his tee.

as if you think he buys the fake innocence poorly concealing that sly, conniving look in your pretty eyes.

as if you aren't standing in front of him in his muscle tee, wearing nothing underneath it like you didn’t do this on purpose. like you don’t know what it fucking does to him.

his eyes squint suspiciously, deep vermillion staring straight into yours.

you tilt your head, the tips of your lashes kissing the top of your cheekbones as you blink. you reach for a bottle of honey.

“everything okay?” you ask, voice syrupy, sickeningly sweet.

your movements play in front of him languidly, the corner of your lips curling up slightly as you smirk. honey catches on your finger as you pop open the bottle cap.

he’s supposed to be out the door in five minutes if he wants to make it in time for a meeting at the agency. technically, he should already be there if he wants to keep up his track record of consistently being fifteen minutes too early.

but you start to approach him, rounding the kitchen island. there’s a narrow space between him and the slab of marble, but you slide into it like it was made for you.

he’s certain it was, from the way the tip of your nose brushes against his as you tiptoe. your tits are right fucking there, brushing against the skintight material of his suit.

there’s too much fucking fabric if you ask him, between cotton and spandex.

your grin widens, and he feels hot, the heat from his cheeks radiating.

then you whisper, still saccharine, “breakfast is ready,” before kissing him on the lips lightly. a short peck, soft in the way that promises more before you slip away, giggling in your retreat.

he huffs, watching you leave. his feet shift as he thinks.

five minutes, huh?

like hell he’s going to eat these damn pancakes for breakfast today.

[mister-ancunin]

Imagine holding your f/o after a long, long day.

Imagine how they curl up in your embrace, your arms tightening around their frame as you pull them closer. The way they begin to ease, feeling your gentle kisses pressed into their skin. Do they give a little smile when hearing your murmuring words of comfort?

Imagine slowly rocking them side to side, doing whatever you can to feel them relax. They appreciate how safe and secure you make them, how determined you are to help in any which way.

They know they don’t have to hide anything from you, least of all, their struggles.

[stevebabey]

toothache

summary: Steve gets his wisdom teeth removed. You dote from his bedside, even if, post-anaesthesia, he seems to have completely forgotten you’re his girlfriend.

[3.6k + established!relationship + fem!reader]

There’s a faint beep from a machine tucked in the corner, but other than that the room is quiet.

As quiet as it can be, at least. Hospitals are never truly silent, you think. The whole building hums with the coursing thrum of rushing doctors and the buzz of fluorescent lights; a hive for busy bees.

Steve’s room is decently tucked away from any of the busyness of the some of the more frantic floors, thankfully.

Occasionally, a nurse does a round and you spy them walking by through the slats in the blinds. But besides that, it’s just you and your twiddling thumbs to keep yourself company until Steve wakes up.

The nurse who’d let you in left maybe 20 minutes ago — about how long she said it would take for Steve to wake back up. You don’t have a watch on, but the room has a big clock that ticks silently, the second hand juddering around the clock face.

You’ve been watching it, waiting to put said twiddling thumbs into action the moment Steve stirs.

And if you’re not keeping track of the time, you’re studying your boyfriend’s face.

Steve looks a bit silly and a bit lovely all at once.

He’s out cold in the hospital bed and his cheeks are stuffed with cotton, making him resemble a chipmunk, to stem the bleeding in his mouth. His face is lax and his cheek is slightly squished against the pillow.

There’s a touch of drool from the corner of his mouth. Well, just a touch is generous of you to say.

You’d wiped it away initially, doting and caring, but Christ almighty, he’s definitely out cold. It’s a river of slobber.

Your search for tissues was futile and after the second time you’d wiped it with your sleeve, you decided the pillow is soaking it all up just fine.

He must be on something really strong. Deep roots, the doctor told you whilst explaining why Steve was under so much anaesthesia.

Your lips purse worriedly as your eyes roam over his face. You hope the whole procedure won’t hurt him much.

Steve’s been through the wringer these last couple years, so much that one would expect something as minuscule as a wisdom teeth removal shouldn’t warrant too much worry — except it has the opposite effect on you. Left on your own, your worry grows exponentially.

You eye the clock again.

How long since that nurse left again? How long before Steve’s been asleep for too long? He's had one too many concussions, which you did tell the doctors about, but maybe they missed something. Maybe you should hit the call button anyway.

The clock ticks forward.

A nurse passes by the window.

On the bed, Steve’s fingers twitch.

A breath of sigh presses its way out your lungs, warm relief flushing through your chest, and you reach forward to click the call button in an instant. You’re on your feet quickly, crowding in closer.

The cool bar of the bed presses into your upper thighs as you reach across it to hold Steve’s hand.

Evidently groggy, Stave’s eyelashes flutter open. You’d think he looks like a Disney princess if his mouth wasn’t gaping open and drooling with blood. He groans, long and languid, reeking of pain and the subsequent painkillers.

Before he's even opened his eyes, he's shifting about. The muscles in his neck tense as he tries to lift his head.

“Hey, hey," You speak softly, thumb rubbing gently across the back of his hand. Your other hand brushes against his forehead, urging him to lay back down. "Just take it easy there, tiger."

Steve makes another gravelly groany noise but relents against your touch, sinking back into the pillow in one magnificent slump. His eyes are open, hazel peering at you curiously as he blinks slowly.

"Wuh?" He manages to say, his jaw barely moving.

Despite how you try to resist, an endeared smile pulls at your mouth.

They did say he would be a little dopey when he came to. You're just now finding out how dopey that means.

Glancing at the door, you wonder how long you should wait before hitting the call button again. You're pretty sure Steve, proactive as ever, is gonna start pulling the cotton out of his mouth as soon as he realises its there.

"—Wuh 're 'ou?—"

To Steve, perhaps, those were real words. You're not entirely sure what he's meant to say, though you hazard a guess he's asking who you are.

In the same moment you go to answer, Steve's eyes drift off to the ceiling, unfocussed.

He raises the hand you aren't holding and bumps it against his jaw, then releases a long, drowsy owwwwwww in response.

Are you gonna lose good girlfriend points for laughing at this? Your lips purse together once more, this time buttoning in your laughter.

You rescue Steve from himself, reaching out and grabbing the other hand before he can prod himself in the face again.

"Wah 'appened?" He says, his eyes sluggish as they drag back over to you. It looks like it takes immense effort and you reward him with a loving squeeze of his hand.

"Your wisdom teeth, baby. You got them taken out."

Steve's eyebrows rise at a snail's pace, his face slowly forming an astounded expression.

"My teef?" He says, baffled. "'Ey took them?"

He extracts his hand from yours, raising it back up as if he's going to search his mouth for the very missing teeth.

You capture it midway up, tugging it back down. "Careful, you don't wanna touch it again. It'll be very sore."

Steve, bamboozled by just how exactly his hand rapidly changed course, takes a long moment to register your words. He blinks, one eye at a time, like a frog.

"Ow?"

You can't resist a little grin, nodding. "Yeah, baby, ouch."

That seems to get the message across. Steve doesn't try to raise his hand again, however, instead he realises that you're holding both of them. He's very unsubtle, half-lidded eyes peering down the bed with a suspicious squint to them.

Then, very slowly, he begins to pull both his hands away.

You let him do so, amusedly releasing your soft grip. Maybe hand-holding — usually one of Steve's favourite things — isn't so nice when you're high as a kite. You only want your boyfriend to be as comfortable as possible.

Except, when you glance back up at Steve's face, the narrowed, suspicious gaze is now directed at your face.

"Y'ur nice." He slurs, the compliment completely at odds with his sceptical demeanour. His hands are still pulled to his chest, tucked up awkwardly. "'N gongeous. But—"

He manages to raise one finger up straight, the only movement of his hands.

"Am—"

The end of his sentence is stolen by the hiss of the door, pushed open by the same nurse from earlier. You didn't catch her name.

She's a nice looking woman, dressed in green scrubs, and she smiles upon seeing Steve up and awake on the bed.

"Why hello there, Steve," She greets casually, sidling up to the other side of Steve's bed with a clipboard in hand. "How are we feelin'?"

Steve's turned to face her but you can see the clear hesitation in his face, evidently searching for any hint of recognition.

The hands held up against his chest sway a bit. Steve blinks slow.

"Who 'r 'ou?" He repeats the same question he asked you in the exact same cadence.

The nurse smiles at that, which is a nice way of letting your anxiety know you're not allowed to be too worried.

"I'm your nurse, Marissa. We met a few hours ago before your surgery. Do you remember that?"

It's a careful probe, seeing just how much Steve's recall is working. He thinks about it real hard, eyes staring in the distance as his tongue poking out a bit in concentration, before he moves his head in a way that's probably a no.

"That's okay, Steve. Everyone reacts a little differently to general, but it shouldn't last longer than a few hours." She reassures him.

The clipboard in her hands has a few pieces of paper clipped to it and she flicks through them. You sort of wish you had Steve's hand to hold, just to comfort yourself. The bar on his hospital bed will have to make do.

When Marissa speaks, she glances over at you, talking to both of you. "Looks like everything went to plan, no hitches or issues. You'll be free to take him home in another 20 minutes or so—so long as nothing crops up."

You nod, grateful to hear that. Though, you're not looking forward to wrangling your loopy boyfriend out the door and to the car when he's in this state.

"Thank you very much." You express the gratitude for both you and Steve, knowing he's hardly thinking of manners at the moment. He'll thank you for it later. "I did have a—"

"—pssssssst."

You stop talking at the abrupt interruption, both you and Marissa surprised by Steve's interjection.

His attempt at a psst doesn't quite work to the normal effect and instead, he's painted his bottom lip in a bit of blood.

He's looking at Marissa, not you. One of his bunched up arms raises up to his mouth as though he's trying to cup it and hide his words. You resist the urge to pull it back down, worried he'll knock his jaw again.

Marissa, sharing a playful glance in your direction, smiles kindly at Steve.

"Yes, Steve?"

"Can 'ou tell th' nice lady," He's trying to whisper but failing miserably. "That I'm.... I'm..."

Steve scrunches up his face to try to think of a word. He regrets it quickly, another hissed and sluggish owwww leaking out as pain radiates through his face.

Your fingers curl tighter around the bar. It takes effort not to reach for his hand again — or jump in and ask Steve what he wants to say to you. He's clearly trying to be stealthy for a reason, even if it isn't working.

Marissa's pager beeps. She flashes a quick look at it, silences it, then turns back to Steve.

"I'm... 'ot bullshit." He finally spits out.

That surprises you.

Marissa, conversely, seems to be undeterred by such a proclamation. You wonder what else people have said whilst coming back up from anaesthesia. She pats Steve on the arm gently.

"No you aren't."

Steve appears to be bolstered by her agreement, his own head giving a slow nod. He's still speaking in that groggy way, not at all helped by his cotton-stuffed mouth. "Yuh, and I 'ave a— a girlfiend."

Huh?

Marissa catches on a moment before you do, a certain cheek creeping into her smile. She checks her watch, then focuses back on Steve and nods.

"Uh huh, big guy. Your girlfriend's actually here, did you know?"

As her words sink in, Steve's eyes blow wide. He looks equal parts stunned as he does excited.

You realise why he asked who you were and withdrew his hands all at once.

Your smile dissolves into a giddy grin, entirely too endeared by Steve's unbreaking loyalty to you, even if he is barking up the wrong tree.

"S'e is?"

"Yep." Marissa says. She nods in your direction. "And she's gonna take good care of you, alright?"

You wonder if this is the most fun part of her job.

"My girlfien'..." Steve sighs quietly, his eyes hazy. You don't think you're meant to hear it.

Marissa smiles at that and finally begins to backtrack towards the door. She checks her watch again, then says to you, "15 minutes. Then you're free to go."

She waves at Steve as she's disappearing through the door. "I hope you feel better soon, Steve."

Steve makes a valiant attempt at a wave back, but his hand barely hovers above the sheets for a second before he's dropping it back down.

He sighs loudly and a little more blood freckles his bottom lip. He reaches up for his face again and you intercept.

"It'll hurt more if you touch it." You say to explain, then quickly let go of his arm.

It slumps back down and you watch as Steve's face morphs through several different expressions, from frowning distaste to a disbelieving awe.

"Are 'ou..." He asks, slurring out the word. His hand picks up off the bed to curve up, pointing a finger back at his chest. "My girlfiend?"

It comes out tinged with astonishment. You laugh without meaning to.

"Is that so hard to believe?"

Steve struggles to compute your response, given by how his eyes shift away lazily, then slide back to you, still wide.

"Yurrr lyin'," He lolls out the words. He waves one hand up, as if brushing off the joke you're supposedly telling.

"Am not!" You laugh. Then just to prove your point, you reach out and take his hand in yours, cradling it between your palms. "We're pretty serious, baby."

"Yo're 'etty," Steve counters, though pretty comes out strangely as he tries to not move his lips much.

The fact he can flirt back whilst so out of it is a feat, though it proves some of his charisma is just that inherent.

You notice, as he gazes at you, the surprise from earlier has somewhat sapped away but the awe in his face remains.

Steve's hand in yours turns over and he grips one of your thumbs tightly.

"I s'love... bein' a boyfiend," He says, deadly serious. Another roll of dribble escapes the corner of his mouth, yet somehow you're entirely captivated by his small admittances. He loves being a boyfriend.

"'ut dunno if 'mmm good at it. Am I?"

He wants to know if he's a good boyfriend. There's a little wobble in your heartstrings at his genuine concern.

You curl your fingers back around his hand tighter and nod. "Definitely."

Steve exhales a big sigh of relief, his eyes slipping shut as he gives your thumb a half-hearted squeeze.

"S'good." He mumbles.

As you soothe your fingertips over his hand, you hope his loopy mutterings aren't a manifestation of some constant worry you don't know about. It's normal to want to be a good partner. But Steve's own mention of bullshit is enough to make you unsure.

Is this what worries him? Are you not doing a good job at communicating back just how happy Steve makes you?

On the bed, Steve's eyes open again, seeking you out in languid, sleepy blinks. Upon finding you, he smiles. Well, you think he smiles.

What really happens is his face twitches and then he's making another drawn out owwww as he moves around his fresh wounds too much.

"Try not to move too much," You remind him. "It will keep making it ow, baby."

Despite what you've said, Steve continues to shift about—though you realise he's merely trying to inch closer to you. He's twisted a little, his shoulder curving towards you, but his head still laid flat.

"Can I 'it up?"

His speech is clearing up a bit, the words coming out better formed now. You nod at his request and shake off his grip on your thumb to hold his forearms, gently urging him up. It takes a moment, but he manages.

He's curved over like a shrimp, slumped and struggling to support himself.

You quickly stack the pillows behind him into more of a support and lead him to lean back against them. Steve lets you, gripping your forearms tightly as if he's afraid you'll drop him.

One settled, he releases his tight grip and gives another loud sigh. You're not fast enough to intercept his hand this time, Steve raising the back of it to wipe his mouth with.

It comes away with a smear of blood and saliva.

The volume of it must surprise Steve because he's dragging his hand back from his face, that same suspicious squint back on his face. He spots what he's wiped from his face and his eyebrows crease.

"Eeeew."

A giggle titters out of you. Steve is instantly distracted from his gross hand, his expression smoothing out as his head swings toward you.

"Hafta tell you somethin'," Steve says. His head sways a bit unsteadily as he thinks hard.

His groggy gaze draws down and up your face intently and you realise after a moment, he may have just checked you out.

"Yeah? What do you have to tell me?"

Steve nods as though he's the one who's spoken.

"Yea," He murmurs, then holds his hand up like he wants you to take it. It's the non-slobbered one, thankfully. You do take it, resuming the same soothing hold from earlier, this time intertwining your fingers.

Steve does another frog-blink, staring at your interlaced fingers. He drags his gaze up and slurps a bit as he inhales. "There waz... another lady here. But I tol' her. Tol' her."

He nods seriously, staring at you like he's waiting for you to nod along.

Your mouth twists into a poorly restrained smile. You wonder if he's talking about Marissa or if he's forgotten you were the other lady here earlier too.

"Told her what?"

"Tol' her," Steve repeats surely. He squeezes your hand and then shifts, not liking the intertwined fingers. He resumes his hold around your thumb. "I speaken."

Okay, you're getting a little bit better at decoding loopy Steve-speak, but this one? Lost on you.

You wiggle your thumb in his hold and furrow your brows a bit exaggeratedly so he can catch on that you don't quite understand.

"I," Steve slurs. He's moved his other hand up to jab himself in the chest, referring to himself — then he casts it in the direction of the door. "Taken."

It takes a moment, but his gesture is enough to clue you in. Another sugary, giddy wave singes your nerves. God, he's sweet.

You grin at him adoringly, leaning in to brush a piece of hair back from his face. Steve's skin is warm beneath your touch.

"You're told her you're spoken for, huh?" You coo softly, petting his hair back.

Steve preens at your understanding, managing a nod and a bright-eyed adoring gaze at you.

You run your hand over his hair again because he seems to like it and his eyes flutter under your sweet ministrations. His head nearly lolls back to dip into the pillow, but he catches it at the last moment.

"Yuh," He says absently. He nods again, focusing hard on meeting your eye. "Tol' her." He repeats again.

It seems it's very important to Steve that you know he would never ever think about cheating on you — even if it's with, well, you.

"Thank you, baby," You say, meaning it completely.

Steve smiles as much as he can, a sluggish half-motion that somehow makes him look even dopier. His eyes wander and he catches sight of the glob of blood and spit atop of his hand.

His eyes widen almost comically. He frowns worriedly and picks his hand up, holding it out in front of him, "Oughhh, wuh 'appened?"

The genuine concern in his words and his apparent very short-term memory makes it hard not to snort in amusement. Squeezing his hand again, you try to remain composed.

"Your wisdom teeth, remember? They took them out because they were hurting you."

"You're s' nice," Steve says, dropping his hand limply, the blood on it quickly forgotten. His fingers around your thumb tighten, giving another weak squeeze. "'M glad you're my girlfiend."

"I'm glad you're my boyfriend." You assure him sweetly.

"Yea?" Steve's gone back to that slow blink. He leans forward, shoulder hunched over, the whole motion seeming conspiratorial. He tries to whisper again. "Have'a 'nother secret."

Your brows raise. Another secret?

"Wanna tell me it?" You ask.

Steve nods sagely. He beckons you in closer with a limp wave of his hand, tugging slightly on your thumb. You lean in closer, unable to hide your grin at his antics.

"I," Steve pauses for a long, long moment. You watch as his eyes track back and forth sluggishly, very clearly trying to put his rapidly disappearing thoughts into order.

"I t'ink," He finally says, sounding more sure this time. "I lov' you. But shhhhhh. S'itsa secret."

Oh. Now, that is a secret. You and Steve have been dating for a while now, like you said it's serious, but not quite long enough to exchange any I love you's. Not just yet.

Only it's not really secret after all. You know.

You know in the same way you already know Steve's favourite perfume of yours and the way he likes his coffee in the morning. How he loves to hold your hand and doesn't ask, but loves it when you kiss him on the temple.

You've never asked. Enough time spent together and you just know these things.

Like how you love Steve and he loves you.

You grin brazenly, not even trying to stop it now.

"I'll keep your secret safe," You promise him. "Wanna hear one of my secrets? I love you too."

Steve clings to your hand preciously and his face takes on an expression which you can only describe as utterly starry-eyed. His hazel eyes, bright and less foggy now, stare at you owlishly. You'd give a handful of pennies to know what he's thinking right now.

"S'good," He finally says. Which makes you bark in laughter, as if he's saying glad that's settled.

"Yea' s'good." He inhales a big, slurping kind of breath and exhales. His shoulders sit a little more relaxed now and you wonder how long he's been waiting to tell you that.

You wonder more how he'll react when you tell him he spilled the beans while high out of his mind.

Then, just to spoil it — or sweeten it, depending on how you see it — he leans back over and whispers, "Wha's your name again?"

[souvenir116]

[sugargrinds]

💙🖤❤💚🐾

batboys tail wagging charm i had for preorder last december.

[what-am-i-doing-in-this-fandom]

Obligatory ONE TIME fanart for a show I watched to take a break from rewatching Gravity Falls 🙏

[boneysoda]

i was banking on both of them having heart poses in their trained but. heh. guess not.

its okay guys he just got too excited and forgot to match his boyfriend's pose 🙂‍↕️🥹

[hyruling]

Happy Buddie Eve! I love your writing so much!! Especially that last one with the covering the other’s mouth prompt - it was so warm and funny and adorable!

How about 17 for buddie? ❤️🫶

Thank you!!

17. holding the other’s chin up

—

The silence in the car ride home is heavy.

They showered at the station. Eddie borrowed some of Buck’s spare clothes from his locker — his turnouts and henley were too filthy to drive home in, and the rest of his clothes are all packed in bags at the house, waiting. His hair is still damp and dripping down his neck, and it feels suffocating in a way that doesn’t make sense; feels like ants on his skin, a buzzing in his veins, an itch he can’t scratch.

Or maybe that’s just Eddie.

Eddie, who keeps looking at him. Who’s in his passenger seat again, dressed in Buck’s too big sweats and LAFD tee, Buckley splashed across his back in a way that makes him want to throw up the sickly warmth that pools in his gut every time his eyes find it.

He’s watching Buck now, a burning gaze that digs in like a bruise, and he can’t keep delaying the inevitable.

“What are you gonna do?” Buck asks over the soft sounds of the radio.

Eddie huffs, self deprecating and gentle, turns his attention briefly to the road ahead. “Think my orders from Captain Han were pretty clear.”

Buck smiles despite himself. “Yeah, but—I mean, is that—enough?”

He feels Eddie look at him again. “Enough?”

“To come back,” Buck says, keeping his eyes carefully on the road, anywhere but where they desperately want to look. Stalled car half a mile ahead. The Fiat next to them that keeps inching over like they want to merge. Yellow traffic light, red brake lights of the white sedan they’re trailing. Eddie’s eyes, still burning a hole in his temple.

“You mean, is Chim bossing me around enough to get me to come back?” Eddie asks, an edge to his voice Buck can’t place. Like he wants to laugh, but it’s getting caught in his throat.

And he’s tired, suddenly. So tired. Tired of grief weighing on his bones with every breath, the heaviness he can’t shake, can’t outrun. Tired of missing Eddie when they’re in the same room, of tiptoeing around and not saying what they mean. Even when they’re at each other’s throats, when Eddie bares his teeth and Buck nips back, they’re still not saying it. And he can’t do it anymore.

“You know what I mean,” Buck says.

“Yeah. I do,” Eddie admits. Goes quiet.

Buck still doesn’t look. Keeps his hands carefully at ten and two, turns down the side street that will take them home.

“You’re bleeding,” Eddie says in lieu of an answer.

Buck barely resists the urge to shrug. Makes a left onto South Bedford.

“Your neck,” Eddie continues.

The sting cuts through the fog, a sharp pain he didn’t notice until Eddie pointed it out. Buck pulls into the driveway and opens the door, snatching his bag from the back. Eddie is on his heels, and Buck fumbles with getting the key in the lock, and then they’re inside the empty house, the fading light outside dying in the windowpanes and shadows on the wall.

“Chris?” Buck asks.

He tosses his bag on the couch and winces when he remembers the dusty handprints. Motes of it swirl in the air from the impact and land somewhere on the couch he hates, that’s responsible for the crick in Eddie’s neck.

“Pepa has him,” Eddie replies, toeing off his dusty boots in the entry, his back turned to him, Buckley across the shoulders.

“We could have picked him up.”

“She’s taking him to dinner and then shopping. Making up for the months she couldn’t spoil him,”Eddie explains.

Buckley disappears, and then Buck is looking at him for the for the first time since the roof. The first time in months that Eddie was moving towards him rather than away. He’s moving towards him now, and the hand on his elbow jolts through him like a shock.

“C’mon. Bathroom.”

Eddie tugs, and Buck follows. Eddie parks him on the closed toilet seat and fishes around for the first aid kit in the cabinet. He unzips it and grabs a pack of gauze, tearing it open as he comes back, ever efficient and competent in a way Buck’s never learned not to envy. His finger gently hooks under Buck’s chin and he tilts his head back, finding the cut close to Buck’s jugular and pressing firmly with the gauze.

“Think your chinstrap got you,” Eddie says, tilting Buck’s head where he needs to stop the bleeding. He feels like a dog offering up his belly, brought to heel by Eddie’s gentle hands on him. “You missed some dirt in the shower too.”

Eddie releases his chin, instructing him to keep pressure on the cut, fingers brushing as he moves Buck’s hand where he wants him. He digs through the bag for antiseptic and Buck watches him, takes him in after hours of denying himself. The drying hair curling over his forehead, the fan of his lashes over his cheek, the slope of his nose. He’s gorgeous, of course he is, Buck’s always known that. But he’s been caught in a feedback loop of thought that began when he crossed the threshold of the roof, to where Eddie was waiting for him, and the only thing louder than the adrenaline surging through his skull was that Eddie was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

It’s dangerous ground, made even more so by Eddie’s hands back on him, tilting his chin this way and that, fingers skating across his jaw in a way that makes him have to clench it around a shiver. Eddie cleans Buck’s face first, wiping the dirt away with a wet washcloth. He goes in with the alcohol swab next, and Buck hisses at the sting. Eddie mutters an apology and finishes quickly, dabbing with a fresh gauze pad once he’s satisfied.

“Don’t think it needs a bandage,” Eddie says. “If it starts bleeding again I’ll put one on.”

“Okay,” Buck grates out, voice hoarse.

Buck keeps still while Eddie cleans up. Eddie didn’t tell him to go, and so he stays, watching Eddie’s hands work. He closes his eyes after a minute, slips in that middling headspace between sleep and wakefulness. He’s not sure how long he drifts there before Eddie brings him back with a hand on his shoulder, thumb brushing his collarbone.

Eddie’s squatting in front of him when he opens his eyes. His hand is warm on Buck’s shoulder. “Get up, bud, let’s go to bed.”

“I’m fine, I don’t need—I can help, if you need to get Chris, get to the airport—”

“Wow,” Eddie interrupts with a soft smile. “From sabotaging sub-letters to pushing me out the door. That’s some real growth right there.”

Buck flushes. “I was never—I’m not pushing you out. Just, I know you were—your shift is at seven—”

“Buck,” Eddie interrupts again with a long suffering sigh. “I called Captain Morales while you were in the showers.”

“You—you did?” Buck asks, and a tentative sort of hope starts scratching at the door.

Eddie shakes his head, looks down at his knees. “Okay, guess we’re doing this here.”

He stands and pulls out Chris’ old step stool from under the sink. When he sits across from Buck on it, he’s a good inch or so shorter, and Buck bites back a smile at the picture he makes perched so low to the floor.

Eddie’s arms cross over his knees. He almost looks like a little kid when he says, “Yes, I did. Told him I was sorry but I couldn’t take the job after all.”

“Wh-why? Because of what Chim said?” Buck asks.

Eddie shrugs one shoulder. “Partly. He was right about a lot of things. But I—Buck, I never wanted to leave. Not now, not then. I was just—doing what I thought I needed to. And I did need to, I had to go for Chris, I had to fix things, and—and be his dad again. But I should have come back for Chris too. And for me.”

Buck swallows, and it echoes like a shot in the small bathroom. “What does Chris say?”

Eddie smiles. “I talked to him before I called Morales. He wanted to come home weeks ago, but he knew how much I put down on the house and didn’t want to shake things up again. It wasn’t until I said I wanted to stay that he finally spilled.”

Eddie shakes his head, looks at a spot over Buck’s shoulder. He knows without turning that he’s looking at the marks on the doorframe, the ones that measure Chris’ height over the years. “That kid. Too damn good for his own good sometimes.”

“Yeah, he is,” Buck says, finally matching Eddie’s smile. He feels like he can breathe for the first time since he laid eyes on Eddie at the airport. “So, you’re—staying?”

“Yeah, Buck,” Eddie says, eyes shining. “We’re staying.”

It’s a miracle he doesn’t slide off the toilet from the weight that disappears from his shoulders. He releases a shaky exhale, and he wants to touch Eddie so badly he could cry.

He balls his hands into fists instead, pressing them into his knees. “That’s—that’s really great, Eddie. I’m glad Chim—y-yeah. Thank god for post adrenaline speeches.”

The smile slips from Eddie’s face, and Buck is right back on the precipice again. Eddie shifts closer, legs crossed under his clenched hands, and holds Buck’s gaze. In a low voice, he asks, “It—you still don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?” Buck asks just as quietly.

“You never asked,” Eddie says, and Buck’s heart rushes to his throat. “You never asked me to stay, or to come back.”

“I didn’t think I needed to,” Buck says, a little sharper than he means it to be.

“No, you’re right. You didn’t need to,” Eddie says. “But I still wanted you to.”

“Eddie,” Buck breathes, air punched from his lungs. “You—I couldn’t. I never asked you to choose between me and Chris, you know.”

“I know you didn’t,” Eddie says, surprisingly placating.

Buck frowns, continues, “That’s—that’s not my place, and I-I know that. I would never put myself between you. But the thought of you being gone was s-so—and I know I acted out, and I know I let you down when Bobby died, I left you alone when I s-should have—god, fuck, I’m sorry Eddie. I’m so fucking sorry.”

He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, hard. Tries to stem the flow of tears that are always right on the brink these days.

“Hey,” Eddie says softly, tugging at Buck’s wrists. Buck gives in, lets Eddie pull his hands away from his face. The fading light from the window and the pressure on his eyes turns Eddie into a strangely haloed figure, the only real thing in the room.

"I'm sorry too," Eddie says, and squeezes Buck's wrists. His palms are up like a supplication, and he curls his fingers until his nails dig into his skin. "I'm not telling you this as some kind of guilt trip, I'm trying to say that—I'm coming home for me. And that means I'm coming home for you too, do you get it?"

"I—not really," Buck answers honestly.

Eddie chuckles softly, looks down at his hands encircling Buck’s wrists. He thumbs over the delicate skin, traces the blue veins with his nail, and a shiver shakes down Buck’s spine.

"This is my home," Eddie explains, speaking to their hands. "El Paso was a lot of things for me, but it was never really home. This place, this is where I found it.”

Eddie’s eyes find his again, golden in the dusky light. “And Buck you're—god, you're the reason for almost all of it. Don't you know that?"

Blood rushes in his ears, and any hope he had of suppressing the tears is gone. They spill warm over his cheeks while Eddie rubs circles on his wrists, beautiful even here, even like this — cramped on the tiled floor that could use a good scrub, three toothbrushes in the cup by the sink because of course Eddie forgot to pack them, the way he always forgets. And the feeling he'd been trying to ignore, the one he's spent nearly Eddie's entire absence explaining away and denying, hooks itself behind his ribcage and glows.

—

prompts xo

[troubldteenz]

man my head hurts.. I must’ve passed out or something… how did thi

GOOD GOOGLY MOOGLY

[platonicau]

sinegard four doodles! based off of tdr 🤍

[aclockworkreader]

tulip picking 🌷

[foolsocracy]

he forgot about UV

[sainz100]

Daniel Ricciardo at Kitz Charity Race 2015