Chapter Text
Buck’s lying in bed, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling like it personally offended him.
The sheets are too warm. His skin’s too tight. His dick’s been hard since dinner.
He shifts again, punching the pillow like it’s responsible for the aching, coiled heat in his gut. It does nothing. He turns onto his side, then back, then groans and throws the covers off altogether. His boxers are sticking to his thighs. He’s so fucking hard it’s embarrassing.
He’s not even horny in a normal way anymore. It’s not some casual, half-interested urge he can ignore. This is something else—urgent, heavy, miserable. Like his body’s one big live wire and even blinking feels obscene.
And it’s all because of the fucking sperm bank.
Three weeks. Three. Weeks. That’s how long he’s been abstaining, religiously, for this second appointment. He followed every rule. Hydrated. Slept early. Didn’t even look at anything remotely suggestive. (Okay, he may have lingered a little too long during a shirtless boxing scene in a movie last week, but that doesn’t count.)
He didn’t even touch himself when he woke up rock hard every morning this week. Or when he got home from the gym flushed and overstimulated and dying for release. He told himself: just wait. Just a few more days.
Then this afternoon, he got the email: “We apologize for the inconvenience. Your appointment has been canceled due to a scheduling conflict. Please reschedule at your earliest convenience.”
Reschedule. Like this was a haircut. Like his balls weren’t fucking aching.
He tries to breathe through it. Tries to be mature. Tries to be the kind of guy who can go without jerking off for a month for the sake of his friends’ dream family without falling apart like some desperate teenager.
He lasts two more minutes before grabbing his phone off the nightstand.
He stares at it. Opens messages. Scrolls down to Hen’s name. Closes it. Reopens it. No. She already teased him enough at the station earlier when he mentioned the dry spell. He loves her, but he’s not about to give her more ammunition.
So… who else?
There’s no one else who knows. Not about the donor thing. Not about the rules. Not about how miserable he’s been. Except—
His thumb hovers over Eddie’s name.
Bad idea. Bad idea. Terrible idea.
He should text anyone else. Chim. Bobby. Hell, even Ravi. But no. His traitor fingers are already moving.
i am so pent up right now
He stares at the screen, pulse ticking in his jaw. His cock throbs just from hitting send. What the fuck is wrong with him?
The typing bubble pops up almost immediately.
Buck.
I think you texted the wrong number.
Buck bites the inside of his cheek. He could leave it there. Blame autocorrect. Make a joke. Pretend this was about stress or traffic or literally anything else.
Instead—
i didn’t
i just need someone to complain to and the only other person who knows is hen
it feels weird texting her about this
There’s a pause. No typing bubble. Buck rubs the heel of his hand over his eye, already regretting everything.
Then:
lucky me.
should i be concerned?
Buck exhales—laughs under his breath even though he’s still way too worked up for it to feel normal.
no but fuck i might actually die
And it’s true. He can feel his heartbeat between his legs, a thick, dull throb that won’t quit. Every time he shifts his hips he wants to scream.
He drops the phone on his chest and closes his eyes, willing his body to chill out, to be grateful for the tiny relief of acknowledgment. But no. Now it’s worse. Because now he’s thinking about Eddie. Eddie, with that voice. That mouth. That fucking forearms crossed, leaning against the locker thing he does when he’s amused and knows it.
Buck presses his thighs together. Fuck. Nope. No. Stop that. This is not Eddie’s fault.
Except—
Except now that he’s texting him, he can’t stop thinking about how hot Eddie looked the other day at the station. Grease-streaked. Hair messy. That stupid shirt clinging to his back after the gym. Buck remembers catching a flash of skin when he pulled it off. And now that image is branded into his brain, apparently filed under Do Not Access While Abstinent.
He shifts again, boxers tight over his aching cock, and groans into the dark.
Buck knows—he knows—this is dangerous. That he shouldn’t be texting Eddie like this. That this is just making it worse, because his brain is short-circuiting and his body is convinced this is foreplay. It’s not. It’s just him being stupid and desperate and pathetic.
The phone buzzes again.
you know you don’t have to do this right?
Buck blinks. His heart stutters.
i know but i want to help them
that’s not what i meant
you can still jack off and be fine
it’s not gonna change anything
And fuck. That word—jack off—coming from Eddie. Buck practically moans. His hips jerk against the mattress on instinct.
Every single word Eddie texts goes straight to his cock. It’s like his brain rerouted. Texts from Eddie: now porn.
He types slowly this time, fingers trembling slightly.
but now it feels weird to do it
like if i look up porn, my mind wanders and i end up thinking of other things
like them having a baby and then it’s weird
He doesn’t send a follow-up. He just stares. Breath coming short. Sweat slicking his back.
Eddie’s typing again.
Buck watches the typing bubble blink and vanish. Then blink again. Then vanish.
He swallows hard, heart thudding like a fist behind his ribs. His hand hovers over the waistband of his boxers. He doesn’t touch. Won’t touch. Not yet.
Finally, the text comes through.
yeah, that’s… yeah, that’s weird
There’s a beat. Another message follows.
but also kind of sweet?
Buck exhales a shaky laugh. He shifts again on the bed, pressing his thighs together like that’s going to do anything but make it worse. He feels high. Like his skin’s too tight for his body, like his nerves are screaming under the surface.
sweet. right.
everything’s turning me on lately. like even this is kind of—
He pauses. Blinks. Regrets. Fuck. Fuck.
But he’s already sent it.
Three dots bubble to life. Then stop.
Start again.
kind of what
Buck stares at that sentence like it’s loaded. Like if he presses the wrong key, the whole thing will blow up in his face.
He should walk it back. Say he meant “funny.” Say it’s just because he’s horny and touch-starved and spiraling. Say literally anything to defuse this bomb before it goes off.
Instead, he says the thing he shouldn’t:
kind of hot
His breath catches. His whole body clenches with the confession. A long, quiet pause settles over the room like fog. The clock ticks. His cock throbs. And still—no reply.
Buck’s about to throw his phone across the room when it buzzes again.
are you hard right now?
The text hits him like a punch. Sharp. Direct. Impossible to misinterpret.
Buck chokes on a sound. His hands grip the phone tight like it’s all that’s keeping him tethered.
He types:
yes
obviously
i haven’t come in a month and you just said the words “jack off” to me
He doesn’t expect a reply right away.
But it comes fast. Too fast. Like Eddie didn’t even hesitate.
you want me to help you get off?
Buck’s mouth goes dry.
Everything in him stutters. His hips twitch against the mattress, involuntary, useless. It’s not even dirty yet and he feels like he could come just from reading those words.
what does that even mean
like hypothetically or like
really
do you want me to tell you what to do?
Buck’s breath punches out of him in a shallow, wrecked exhale. His hand is already moving, slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers. He gasps when he wraps his hand around himself—finally. He’s so hard it’s actually painful. His cock pulses against his palm like it’s been waiting for this text.
yes
tell me
There’s a delay. Buck strokes once—slow, just enough to make his hips jerk.
Then the text comes in.
lie back. hand around your cock. slow strokes. just enough to tease it.
Buck groans, loud in the stillness. His hips lift off the mattress involuntarily as he obeys, dragging his hand down, then up, slow and steady. He’s leaking already, precum smearing slick over his fingers.
fuck
you’re really doing this
you asked.
now shut up and listen
The authority in that text sends a full-body shiver through Buck. His grip tightens. He follows instruction, breath ragged.
drag your thumb over the tip. i know you’re already wet there.
Buck whines. He actually whines. Because Eddie knows. Of course he does. And fuck if that doesn’t make it worse.
His mind’s gone—spinning. He can’t remember a single thought outside of Eddie’s voice in his head and his hand between his legs. He’s picturing Eddie now—mouth twitching, voice low, that cool, quiet intensity that drives Buck crazy even when they’re fully clothed and acting normal.
But this? This is a different kind of madness.
squeeze just under the head and hold it. don’t move.
Buck obeys. Groans through gritted teeth. Every muscle in his body is coiled, tight, trembling. His abs jump. His cock twitches in his grip.
He types with one shaking hand.
eddie
eddie please
not yet
take a photo
Buck freezes. His breath catches in his throat. He stares at the message like it can’t possibly mean what he thinks it means.
you’re serious?
yeah.
show me
His heart’s beating out of his chest. He fumbles for the bedside lamp, flips it low. No face. Just the shot—tight, explicit. One hand wrapped around his cock, flushed and glistening and so fucking needy. His stomach’s flexed. His thighs are trembling.
He snaps it and sends it before he can talk himself out of it.
The moment he sends the photo, Buck drops the phone like it’s radioactive.
His heart is hammering, a full-body, chest-crushing rhythm that makes him feel like he might vibrate out of his skin. He can still see the photo on his screen—burned into his mind now. His hand wrapped around himself, flushed red, skin pulled taut. You can’t see his face. But it’s still the filthiest thing he’s ever done.
And he just sent it to Eddie.
Eddie. His best friend. The one who texts in full sentences and says “Buck” like a warning and usually doesn’t talk about sex, like, ever.
Buck’s chest rises and falls, rapid and shallow. His cock is still heavy in his hand, aching. Slick smeared over his knuckles. His thighs are trembling with restraint.
He should feel ashamed. Humiliated. Feral. He kind of does. But mostly—
Mostly, he feels wrecked with anticipation.
The phone buzzes.
He fumbles for it like it’s oxygen.
jesus christ
you’re gonna fucking kill me
Buck groans, the sound guttural and raw. His grip tightens instinctively. He strokes up, down, slow and torturous, trying to savor it—but fuck, it’s impossible now. He’s gone. Ruined.
does that mean you liked it?
or should i delete my number
The reply comes fast.
you look so fucking good
i want to put my mouth on you so bad
Buck makes a sound he’s never made before. High. Shattered. His hips lift off the bed, chasing something he’s barely holding back.
He doesn’t even think. His thumbs are moving before his brain catches up.
fuck
say it again
tell me what you’d do to me
The typing bubble appears. Vanishes. Appears again.
Then:
i’d get you on your knees
make you beg for it
i wouldn’t stop until you were shaking
Buck’s whole body convulses. His mouth falls open, breath fogging in the low light. His cock jumps in his hand like it heard Eddie.
jesus fuck
i want to suck you off so bad
i’d make you come so hard you’d forget your own name
i’d swallow everything
He sends it without rereading. He can’t breathe anymore.
send me one
please
please eddie
And then—nothing.
The bubble doesn’t appear. The silence swells. Too long.
Panic creeps in like a cold wind under the door.
Buck stares at the screen, heart pounding, entire body frozen in a moment of fuckfuckfuck.
What the hell is he doing?
This was never supposed to happen. He was just horny and stupid and needed to vent and now he’s—
God. He sent Eddie a dick pic. He just begged for one back. He’s such a fucking idiot.
He opens the keyboard to send something. An apology? A joke? Something to undo whatever the hell this is becoming.
He’s halfway through typing “you don’t have to—” when it comes in.
Image Attached.
Buck’s lungs stop working.
He opens it.
And—
It’s Eddie’s hand. Thick fingers wrapped tight around the base of his cock. The head is flushed, glistening, wet with precum. There’s no face in the frame, just enough to show tan skin, a strong wrist, a flash of his stomach above the waistband of gray sweats. It’s deliberate. Composed. So fucking filthy.
Buck almost comes untouched.
He moans—actually moans—and jerks himself harder, desperate, frantic.
holy shit
eddie
fuck you’re perfect
i wish i was there
i’d be on my knees already
i’d make you come with just my mouth
No answer.
He doesn’t care. He keeps going.
i’d look up at you with your cock down my throat
i’d swallow you down so deep you’d have to pull my hair to stop me
eddie
Then his phone buzzes again.
Video Attachment.
Buck’s hands shake as he taps it open.
The first frame is Eddie’s cock in his hand again, this time moving—slow, deliberate strokes. The lighting’s dim, his voice low, breathy.
“You’re driving me fucking insane, Buck,” Eddie says.
Buck growls.
He fists himself fast, sloppy, desperate. He’s right there, vision going white around the edges, hips thrusting helplessly into his palm.
eddie
fuck i’m gonna come
i can’t
it’s too much
i’m so close
me too
do it
come for me
Buck breaks. His whole body locks up, jerks, then shudders violently as he spills over his fist with a raw, guttural cry. It’s intense—too intense—ripped from him like it’s been held back for years instead of weeks.
He gasps through it, eyes fluttering, limbs shaking. He can’t feel anything but the aftershocks, rolling through him in waves. His heart races. His skin’s on fire.
He’s never come that hard in his life.
Never.
Buck’s sprawled out across his bed like something wrung dry.
Chest heaving. Hand sticky. Skin buzzing.
The orgasm hit him like a truck, and now that it’s over, everything feels hazy. Tender. The edges of his body are soft again, boneless and loose. His mind hasn’t caught up.
He wipes himself off blindly with the edge of his T-shirt, muscles too heavy to lift properly. The screen on his phone is still lit—Eddie’s last message sitting there like a brand.
me too
do it
come for me
Buck stares at it. Re-reads it three times. Then drops the phone against his chest and lets his eyes fall shut.
For the first time in days, the ache in his body isn’t unbearable. The pressure in his head has melted. There’s no tension left in his jaw. Even his fucking shoulders feel looser.
He’s never felt more relieved in his life.
But then his brain kicks back on.
And starts doing what it always does: spiral.
What the fuck was that?
He and Eddie just…sexted. Like actually, blisteringly, no-holds-barred sexted. He sent photos. He begged. Eddie talked him through it. Sent a video. Said his name.
And Buck? Buck would do it all again in a heartbeat.
His heart squeezes, sudden and sharp.
Did he just cross a line?
Is Eddie gonna regret it?
Did he already?
The anxiety creeps in fast, curling cold around the edges of his still-warm body.
He picks up the phone again. Stares at the blank message field for a long time.
Then, finally:
i wish you were here right now
There. That’s bold, right? That’s honest. No more hiding behind desperation and jokes. Just—him.
The dots appear almost instantly.
i know
Two words. But they hit Buck harder than anything that came before. No teasing. No pretense.
He chews on his lip, unsure if he should let that be the last word. But his fingers are already moving.
we’re good, right?
That one hangs in the air.
Because it’s not really about tonight.
It’s about them.
It’s about: did I ruin us?
It’s about: do you still see me the same way?
It’s about: did this mean something to you, too?
The reply comes:
yeah, buck
always
now go to sleep
Buck stares at it, a stupid smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His chest aches—but not in a bad way. In a relieved, bone-deep, finally-type way.
He sets the phone down, pulls the sheets back over himself, and closes his eyes.
For the first time in weeks, he drifts off fast and satisfied.