triggerkat
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“I don’t know, she’s cute. Nice.” Eddie shrugs again, and Buck has to refrain from snapping 'that’s the spirit!' He can be supportive. He can.
He can try.
“That’s it?” Buck tilts his head, huffing a breath that he thinks sounds enough like a chuckle.
“I don’t know. She’s a nurse, I think. She loves kids and science, I think Chris’d really like her.”
It only takes a second. Something in Buck cracks open and magma pours out, scorching heat that spreads and burns through every inch of his flesh. He doesn’t have time to rein it in; he scoffs against his better judgment, mumbling barely under his breath, “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”
Or : Eddie is about to repeat past mistakes, and Buck finally snaps.
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———
Eddie doesn't make the decision, not really. He doesn't even realize what he's doing until he's already doing it, until his hand is on Buck's thigh—on the bare skin of it, feeling sticky, clinging sweat—landing too high up.
It's without conscious choice, when his pinky stretches under the fabric of the bunched up shorts, following hair and warmth. Eddie's heart stutters in his chest but, he isn't given a chance to worry, or think about stopping, because Buck's legs spread at the contact, and he melts, collapses completely into Eddie's side.
Eddie's breath catches.
His calloused fingers pass over soft skin, and his thumb squeezes and kneads into the toned muscle. It's involuntary, like a reflex, like Buck is his to touch, and has been his.
The heat must be getting to him.
———
In the summer heat, denial is a hard thing to hold onto.
Bookmarked by triggerkat
07 Jul 2026
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Just a two chapter rewrite of Buck and Eddie in Nashville bar and what should have happened
Bookmarked by triggerkat
05 Jul 2026
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"It was in the couch," Buck complains. He prods at the arm of it, looking aggrieved. "You've gotta teach this guy not to take other people's things."
"Why is that my responsibility?"
Buck twists his neck to look up at Eddie from where he's putting the sock back on, expression incredulous. "It's your couch," he justifies, once all ten toes are back in captivity. "You—brought it into this world."
"Mm-mm," Eddie hums, lips pursed, head shaking. "I want a paternity test. That couch looks nothing like me."
"You sure? You're both kinda, y'know, square. Wide—hey!" Buck yelps, because Eddie has picked up a throw pillow and is using it as a weapon against the side of Buck's head with one hand. (The other is occupied stiff-arming his beer to keep it from spilling on his... second-born, apparently.) "You didn't let me finish! You're—inviting," Buck laughs, winded, "and—and soft, and comfortable—"
Or: Buck can't seem to stop losing things in Eddie's couch.
Bookmarked by triggerkat
23 Jun 2026
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“I can’t keep doing this, Eddie. Your sweatpants are in my dresser. You buy the right spices at the farmer’s market for my recipes. You wear the monstrosities I knit for you. You hold my kid’s hand when we’re crossing the street.”
Eddie’s lips are at the hinge of his jaw, like he’s testing the waters. It makes Buck brave enough to bring a numb hand up to one of the belt loops on Eddie’s darkwash jeans, thumbing there restlessly—sliding the tips of his fingers under the hem of his obsidian button-down. The skin-to-skin contact is all at once relieving.
“I think we’ve both known what we are for a while now,” Buck goads, hushed; tilting to arch his neck back against the wall, granting Eddie unlimited access, praying he takes the explicit invitation. “You’re my best friend. But this isn’t sustainable.”
or: Buck's sick of pretending.
Bookmarked by triggerkat
19 Jun 2026