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“O-kay.” Buck draws the word out into a friendly conversation opener, eyes fixed obediently on the road. “So. What do you— what do you wanna do?”
In his periphery, Eddie glances up with a, “Hm?” A quick, reflexive flick toward the windshield, then back to Buck as the question clicks. “Back to your place, right?” And then while typing away at his phone, “Gotta grab my truck.”
“Right,” Buck says, not at all what he meant by the question, but, “Yeah, ‘course.”
Onstage earlier, distracted from the rush of being the night’s highest bid, Buck had finally let his eyes sweep across the crowd in search of his winning bidder. He followed swivelled heads and impressed-slash-defeated smiles, narrowing in on the epicentre of applause until it landed on—May? No, she too was clapping at someone else, along with Harry, grinning at the winning bidder. Grinning at… Eddie.
Eddie, who hasn’t since acknowledged it.
So, again, in the privacy of his own mind, Buck begs the question: What does Eddie want to do?
As soon Buck pulls into the driveway, he’s finalised on a different approach. Probably not the most direct approach, probably not even the best approach, but he’s gotta start somewhere. He sets the handbrake and twists toward Eddie, elbow braced on the wheel.
“Hey, why don’t you come—” He clears his throat. Recalibrates. “You should come in for a drink. Least I can do is wine the guy who just bought me for charity. And, uh, obviously dine too, if you’re hungry. Whatever you want.”
Eddie glances over, confused, because never in eight years has Buck ever offered, “Wine?”
“Well, beer,” Buck amends with a flick of his wrist, waving away the semantics of it, “but calling it ‘beer and dine’ would’ve just killed the phrasing.”
“The phrasing you never actually said?”
Buck, with a theatrical sigh, says, “Eddie. Please come inside so I may wine and dine you.”
Eddie’s clearly fighting a smile, but eyes remain narrowed and locked on Buck, weighing the merits of free drinks and food versus a house whose teenage occupant is at a sleepover. The decision is already made. Buck knows it is. Eddie has never been good at turning down a drink, and he’s even worse at turning down any food that Buck’s cooked—in recent years, that is—but he drags out what he can anyway, because this is part of it. The back-and-forth.
A low “hmm” vibrates from Eddie’s throat. He stretches then—elbows arrowing skyward, torso elongating in one fluid, deliberate line. The motion arches his back like a sun-warmed cat; the jacket covers most of the shape, but Buck can still see Eddie’s tank pulling tight across his chest and stomach.
Buck swallows, mouth Sahara dry at the sight. Considers himself lucky Eddie’s not looking his way to catch the faux pas.
“Got scones?” Eddie asks at last, as if it’s the deciding factor, as if Buck doesn’t already know Eddie’s got one foot and his whole ass in the kitchen already.
“Yeah,” Buck says, smile dimpling. “Of course I do.”
“‘Course you do,” Eddie echoes fondly. There’s a moment where he meets Buck’s eyes, a moment that passes between them, before Eddie pushes the door open and climbs out of the Jeep.
By the time Buck gets the bottles open, Eddie is standing hunched over the kitchen table and halfway through his third scone, stray golden crumbs peppered over his chin and white tank. The jacket, thankfully, is nowhere to be seen. Buck pauses where he stands, exerts his privilege and allows himself to watch. It is, simply put, disarming, seeing Eddie like this—unguarded and unconcerned with decorum, devouring sugar with the infectious enthusiasm of a man who had to ration pleasure and has only recently been allowed to indulge.
And those arms— Jesus.
Whatever sheen Eddie slathered on for his on-stage gun show still lingers, turning his skin to burnished bronze. Eddie’s always been strong, but the last few months of curated strength training has carved new shapes into him: triceps ridged even at rest, biceps curved and heavy, chest broader than it used to be. It’s a stark contrast to his waist, which still remains narrow—almost delicate to look at, let alone touch.
Buck shakes himself out of it, steps in close and presses the chilled neck of the bottle into Eddie’s hand.
“Hanksh,” Eddie manages around a mouthful, cheeks puffed out hamster-like as he tips the beer back without bothering to finish chewing first.
Buck can’t help his grin. “Easy, tiger.”
“What? S’good,”
“Ah.” It’s a simple praise, could even pass off as an observation, but it still prompts a flush. He ducks his head, fights the ridiculous urge to puff his chest and preen, and says, “Thanks.”
And before Buck can think better of it, he reaches forward and dusts the crumbs off of Eddie’s tank. It’s meant to be a quick swipe, brushing over the curve of Eddie’s pec, only his attention fixates on the warm, solid muscle beneath cotton. Right over where Eddie's heart beats life into him. Buck's fingers, absentminded, graze over low neckline, just shy of touching Eddie’s skin, the concentration of chest hair peeking out from the centre—
Buck freezes.
Jerks his hand back from whatever entity possessed him just then.
He clears his throat and steps away, gesturing vaguely with the bottle. “So, you, uh, you’re sure this is how you want to celebrate your win? Beer and scones in my kitchen?”
Buck has a habit of finding challenges where none exist, for sensing the tiniest shift in tone and reading it as prove yourself. Too often, he finds those imagined challenges in Eddie—thinks too much into a look, a word, a pause. It’s a bad habit, one he knows is unfair to Eddie. Right now, Eddie’s eyes are amused when they meet Buck’s over the rim of the bottle, and Buck knows better to read it as a challenge when Eddie asks, “What, you got any better ideas?”
“Nah,” Buck says.
Yes. Though most, if not all, of them involve mouths and hands in places he’s never dared to touch. The other voice in his head has been growing louder lately, unashamed of its wants, but Buck keeps it contained, hands wrapped tight around its mouth.
He shrugs and sets his bottle on the counter, “Just thought... y’know. Big night. Figured you’d have plans. I mean, why else would anyone…”
“Honestly?” Eddie grants Buck mercy, spares him from finishing the sentence. “Thought it’d be fun to bid on you. Then nobody else went after me, so.” He takes another pull from his beer, throat working in a slow, clean line that draws Buck’s eye like a fingertip tracing a seam. “I won.”
“Right.” Buck paints the word with mock offence. He throws his hands up in exaggerated surrender, backing up a couple steps. “No, no, I get it. So you didn’t actually want to win me. What, am I not good enough?”
Eddie cocks his head, eyebrows lifted in perfect recognition of Buck’s fishing attempt. “You really gonna make me say it?”
“I’m just saying,” Buck presses, because stopping has never been his strength—neither in words nor in motion. He steps closer as he talks, reclaiming the space he just gave away. “That table of seniors had a lot of nice things to say about me.”
“Probably been a minute since they had any,” Eddie replies dryly, mouth twitching.
“Been a minute for you too,” Buck shoots back, and he doesn’t mean for his voice to dip, or for him to step forward in that same breath. Too late now. The context, the subtext, the combination of it all, brings them straight to that invisible line they’ve flirted with for nearly a decade now, a line they tease and retreat from in equal measure, but it’s just—
Here’s the thing, right?
Eddie won him.
Doesn’t matter that Athena saved Harry from a cradle robber, that Maddie bid on Eddie as a favour, that May helped Ravi with a spark that may soon turn into their own flame—the fact remains that, for this one night, Buck is Eddie’s. Whatever Eddie wants—whether he asks for it in words or only lets it show in the way his gaze lingers—Buck will give it. He wants to give it.
“Buck,” Eddie says, and it sounds like cut it out, sounds like careful, but it also sounds like where are you going with this?
“Crumbs,” he says instead, because his gaze has dropped to Eddie’s mouth, and it’s the easiest excuse for why he looked there in the first place, why his hand is already lifting.
His thumb swipes over Eddie’s chin, wiping away the last scatter of scone. Eddie’s watching him, the weight of his gaze heating Buck’s cheeks, but Buck keeps his eyes fixed stubbornly on his thumb as it brushes over Eddie’s scruff. It nears the plush seam of Eddie’s lips. Closer now, one more swipe—
Eddie leans back a fraction just then, enough that Buck’s hand falls away.
“Took your time, bud,” Eddie’s voice, delayed when it finally does come out, is lower than it was moments ago.
“Don’t be so messy then,” Buck quips around the lump in his throat, just to say something and cover his ass. “Hey. C’mon. Don’t you wanna— I don’t know. Something? We’ve got one night, right?” It’s hard to stop now that he’s started; Buck pushes on. “Whatever you want. Even if it’s… you know. To experiment.”
The shift in Eddie is immediate, expression shuttering. “Seriously? You think I’d use an auction as an excuse to—” He stops, shakes his head once. Then, in an infuriatingly juvenile manoeuvre, stuffs an entire scone into his mouth to chew furiously at it, saving him from speaking at all.
“I mean, you don’t even need an excuse with me. And I’m—” Buck gestures between them. “You know. Offering. Been a minute for you, been a minute for me. It doesn’t have to— You won. And now, you’re just… cashing in.” Eddie’s face twists sourly at the phrase, so Buck hurries to add, “kind of. With an enthusastic participant.”
Eddie chews, swallows, stares. Buck wonders, distantly, if this is the moment he’s finally pushed too far, if the voice inside his head slipped free between his fingers and ruined everything.
“Okay,” Eddie says at last, setting his bottle down. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Might as well, right?”
Buck’s heart flips. “Yeah. Yeah, exactly! So– so, what, here? The bedroom—?”
“The bedroom?” Eddie’s brows shoot up, voice spiking to match. “No. Just— wait.” Both hands come down to clasp Buck’s shoulders as if to stop him from moving, as if Buck hasn’t already gone utterly still from the contact. Softer, Eddie adds, “Hold still.”
Buck obeys. He stays perfectly still when Eddie leans in, perfectly still when Eddie tips his chin up and presses his lips to Buck’s. The kiss is startingly gentle, the softest of pressures against Buck’s mouth. Still, it zaps straight through him, blanks his mind around the edges.
He loses one Mississipi to that. On two Mississippi, he snaps into his body, starts to lean in, starts parting his lips, starts chasing—
Eddie pulls back.
“Okay,” Eddie breathes, a little winded. “Yeah. That’s— thanks.”
“Uh. What?” Buck tries to follow, because that can’t possibly be it, but Eddie’s hands stay locked on his shoulders, holding him at bay. All Buck manages is to rock Eddie back half a step. “Wait— that’s it?”
“That’s it?” Eddie echoes, incredulous. He lets out a short, awkward laugh. “What, were you expect—?” He stops off mid-sentence. Something in Buck’s expression must give him away, because Eddie’s face shifts into something careful. When he speaks, it is no longer a question, but cold hard fact: “Oh. You were expecting more.”
Buck blinks. The ball is in his court now, seeing as it just got hurled right at his face. “Ye-yeah?”
Weren’t you? Do you not want more? You have me, do you not want me?
“That’s why you said bedroom.” Eddie’s caught up now, dots connected at the worst possible time.
“Sure, as an option,” Buck rushes to clarify, heat climbing his neck. “But we don’t—”
(He misses the deep inhale Eddie takes, the pronounced rise of his chest.)
“I mean, if you don’t want—”
(He misses the way Eddie’s fists clench and unclench at his sides.)
“Okay, uh, how about we just start ov—”
The last word never quite makes it out of Buck’s mouth, swallowed entirely by Eddie’s. One hand stays curved over Buck’s shoulder; the other slides up, cradles the nape of his neck, fingers threading into the soft, short hairs there.
Eddie’s kissing him, lips slotted perfectly in between Buck’s, bodies flush and erasing the space Eddie’d insisted on mere seconds ago. This time, Buck is quicker to react; he latches onto Eddie’s lips, alternates between pulling them between his teeth and swiping his tongue past the open seam. His hands slide to Eddie’s waist, squeezing them, manouvering them, until Eddie’s pressed up against the edge of his kitchen counter.
Buck could lift him. He could snake his arms around Eddie’s thighs and hoist him up onto the counter, but he could also— He’s always wondered if he could, is the thing, and now he thinks maybe he’s also always wanted to, get his hands firm around Eddie’s waist, feel the firm ribs and flex of muscle beneath his grip, and lift him. Just so he knows, if he could. He reckons he could.
He’d thought of it before, in 4995 South Bedford, when Eddie would lean against the counter and watch Buck cook, if maybe he could slide his hands around that narrow waist and hoist him up to set him on the counter. If maybe he could slip between Eddie’s legs as he so pleases, steal kisses between steps of a recipe as he so pleases.
Buck can no longer outrun the want; his fingers tighten around Eddie’s waist and lifts. It’s barely two inches, only a small defiance of gravity to suspend Eddie in the air, and in that flicker of a second, Buck knows he could do this forever. He could do it again, and again, and again, and never tire. Eddie makes a low sound into Buck’s mouth that melts into a moan when Buck plants him on the counter.
“Like that?” Buck asks, breath fanning across Eddie’s lips, even if he can feel how much Eddie likes it, undeniably hard where they’re pressed together.
“Yeah,” Eddie answers immediately. “Yeah. You should do that. More.”
“I will,” Buck promises, delighted, kissing the corner of Eddie’s mouth. He hooks his fingers into the hem of Eddie’s tank, and Eddie lifts his arms so Buck can peel it off him, revealing inch by golden inch of warm skin—broad chest, ridged abdomen, the faint trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his waistband.
Buck tosses the tank aside without looking, mouth already pressing open-mouthed kisses along Eddie’s collarbone, up the column of his throat, tasting salt from the day's accumulated sweat. Eddie tips his head back, throat working on a shaky exhale, fingers twisting into Buck’s curls and holding him there almost possessively.
“Every day if you want,” Buck adds, murmuring against Eddie’s pulse point. It slips out too hopeful, optimism bleeding through the lust, but Eddie doesn’t contradict it, doesn’t even seem to mind it. If anything, his grip tightens.
Buck’s hands move from Eddie’s waist, meeting in the middle to pop the button of his trousers. Eddie gasps, the sound hoarse with desire, when Buck slips his fingers beneath the elastic of Eddie’s briefs and tucks it beneath his balls. Eddie’s cock is hot, flushed and pretty and slicking precome at the tip. Buck strokes once, root to head, thumb circling the sensitive crown, and Eddie’s hips jerk forward into the touch.
“Fuck,” Eddie hisses, forehead dropping to Buck’s shoulder. His thighs tremble where they cage Buck in. “Buck—”
“Yeah, yeah, got you,” Buck assures, tightening his grip. He sets a steady rhythm, twisting at every upstroke, eased by the slick he smears down the length. Eddie’s hips answer instinctively now, helpless little thrusts that match Buck’s rhythm, soft punched-out sounds spilling with every swipe of Buck’s thumb over the slit. Meanwhile, Buck maps Eddie's skin with kisses: the hinge of his jaw, the corner of his mouth, the tender skin beneath his ear—anywhere and everywhere he can.
It's not long before Buck catches the tension coiling in Eddie’s frame: the way his abs flex, the stuttered breath, the tremor starting in his thighs, the way his cock throbs harder in Buck’s fist.
“Close?” Buck breathes against the shell of Eddie’s ear.
“Yeah— shit— yeah,” Eddie’s head tips back, striking the cabinet with a dull thud. His eyes squeeze shut, then snap open, dark and glassy, pinning Buck in place. “Buck, I want—”
“Whatever you want,” Buck says instantly, both a promise and reminder. “Whatever you want. Tell me.”
“Inside.” It bursts out of him, urgent. Eddie’s fingers dig into Buck’s arms, squeezing, testing muscle and bone. “Inside me. I want— fuck me.”
“Jesus, Eddie.” The words punch out of him the same way his breath does. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
He doesn’t waste time confirming, refuses to risk doubt surfacing. In one smooth lift, he hauls Eddie off the counter. Eddie’s legs stay wrapped around him as Buck crosses the kitchen in three long strides and lowers him to the table’s edge, where Eddie’s back hits the wood with a soft thump.
Propped on elbows, chest rising and falling in sharp bursts, Eddie watches through heavy-lidded eyes while Buck moves the half-drunk beer bottle and plate of scones to the safety of the kitchen counter. Then he’s back between Eddie’s spread thighs, catching the small, encouraging nod Eddie gives him before he pulls Eddie’s jeans and briefs down in one uninterrupted tug until they bunch around his ankles. The denim bunches at Eddie’s ankles; one kick and it slaps to the floor.
Buck leans over him, one palm braced beside Eddie’s hip, the other gliding up the warm inside of his thigh. He kisses Eddie again, timing it to swallow the gasp Eddie makes when Buck’s fingers brush the sensitive skin behind his balls.
“Stay,” Buck says against his mouth. “Right there.”
He straightens, stretching just far enough to wrench open the junk drawer beside the sink—the one that’s just a mess of batteries, takeout menus, and— yep, there. Lube. He brings it back into Eddie’s line of sight, flicks the cap and squeezes a thick dollop onto his fingers. As he rubs the chill away between his palms, his eyes find Eddie again.
Eddie looks utterly wrecked already—lips kiss bruised, souvenirs of Buck’s mouth like constellations down his neck, chest heaving, cock still hard and flushed against his taut stomach, tip glistening with fresh precome—but the hunger in his eyes, the open desire, says he’s nowhere near close to being done.
Buck drags a chair over with his foot, sets one knee on the seat to bring his face level with Eddie’s hips. His dry hand pushes Eddie’s thigh wider, opening him like a secret; at the same time, slick fingers trace the shadowed crease of Eddie’s ass.
Buck drops open-mouthed kisses to the soft skin of his thigh to relax him, but Eddie’s breath still hitches when the first finger catches his rim. He dips the tip of his finger inside in shallow strokes, coaxing the tight ring to soften. Buck watches Eddie’s face the whole time: the way lips part and lashes flutter, the way his throat bobs and his head tips back against the table when Buck finally presses deeper, one smooth glide past the first knuckle.
Eddie clenches hard around the intrusion, holds the tension until the second knuckle disappears, until Buck’s hand is flush against the curve of his ass and the finger is buried to the root. Only then does Eddie relax; a long, shuddering exhale leaves him.
“Good?” Buck asks, twisting his finger out slow before pressing back in, repeating the motion.
“Yeah,” Eddie nods, adjusts to the building pace. “Yeah, good.” A stuttered inhale. “I can—take more.”
“I know you can,” Buck agrees. On the next withdrawal, Buck adds a second finger, easing them in together with only a little resistance around the rim. He scissors gently, curling them until he finds the spot that makes Eddie’s hips jerk off the table.
“Fuck— there,” Eddie gasps, chasing the pressure of Buck’s fingers over his prostate. “Again. Right there.”
Buck obeys. Eddie whispers “please,” and whispers “again,” and Buck obeys every time, working him open with gentle thrusts. He watches Eddie’s abs tighten, his cock twitch untouched against his belly, watches him fist his own hair, then make a grabbing motion for Buck. Buck lifts his knee from the chair and lets Eddie haul him closer until their foreheads meet, Buck using his free hand to brace his weight above Eddie.
“Buck,” Eddie breathes, and then tilts his head up to kiss him. Buck melts into it, savouring the sweet taste until the insistent ache behind his zipper turns sharp and unbearable.
“You ready?” he asks, fingers still curling, still thrusting.
“Yeah.”
Buck pulls his fingers out with a wet, obscene sound that makes Eddie shiver, hole pulsing from the sudden absence. He shoves his jeans down just far enough; his cock springs free, aching from how long he’s been hard, having leaked profusely into his briefs. He slicks himself up with some more lube, strokes the full length of him, then lines up.
Eddie’s watching, eyes blown black with hunger, taking in the sight of Buck’s cock, awe and desire dancing like twin flames behind the heated look. Buck presses forward, slow as he can, just the tip breaching, feeling Eddie’s body open for him, velvet-soft and tight. Eddie’s mouth falls open on a silent gasp when the head slips in; his thighs clamp around Buck’s waist.
“Easy,” Buck murmurs, leaning down to kiss the corner of that open mouth. “Breathe. You can take it.”
“I know,” Eddie echoes, flipping their earlier exchange. He turns his head to meet Buck’s mouth in silent request, and Buck complies, kissing him deep as he sinks in further—inches swallowed by tight, perfect heat no one has ever claimed before. He hopes no one elese ever will. Soon enough, he’s buried to the hilt, hips flush against Eddie’s ass.
For a long second they simply exist there: foreheads pressed, breathing each other in. Eddie’s eyes are wet at the corners, dark and wide and so fucking open, vulnerable in a way that makes Buck’s chest ache. Then Eddie rocks his hips, impatient, pulling a groan right out of Buck’s throat.
“You gonna move?” Eddie asks.
Buck huffs a laugh against his lips, Eddie mirroring the grin when Buck replies, “Bossy.”
He draws out slow, relishing the suction, until only the head remains, then thrusts back in one deep stroke. The movement punches a moan out of Eddie, his head knocking back against the table, throat baring in submission. Buck sets a rhythm; he’s moving harder now, faster, the table creaking under them with every snap of his hips. The kitchen fills with the wet slap of skin on skin, of choked-off moans and ragged breathing muffled into skin as they propel toward a shared climax. Buck slips a hand between them, wraps around Eddie’s cock that’s been hard and neglected for far too long now, and strokes in time with his own thrusts.
Eddie breaks on a whine, softened around shaky breath. “Buck— gonna— fuck—”
“Yeah, baby,” Buck breathes, the endearment slipping out against the salt-slick curve of Eddie’s neck. “I’ve got you.”
Eddie’s whole body seizes, eyes screwed tight, and Buck’s fist works in a few more strokes before Eddie spills hot and messy between them, painting his own stomach, some of it catching Buck’s tank. His body pulses, clenching around Buck’s cock, squeezing like a fist, and that’s it—Buck buries himself to the hilt and follows.
A low, guttural groan tears from his throat, muffled into Eddie’s shoulder as heat surges through him in blinding waves. His arms tremble; he has to lock his elbows against the table to keep from collapsing over Eddie, his vision swimming.
They stay like that, catching their breaths, Buck pressing soft kisses to Eddie’s mouth as they both come down from the high. Eventually Eddie’s legs loosen, slide down Buck’s hips in a slow glide. He grunts in pain, shifts his torso, sighs, then tries to prop himself higher on his elbows.
Buck pulls back instantly, searching his face. “You okay?”
“Yeah, just—” Eddie’s lips purse, expression twisting—pain? irritation?—and Buck’s brain blares in alarm: I hurt him, I hurt him, I hurt him. Wide-eyed, he watches Eddie’s hand snake behind his own back, face pulled into a wince.
“Jesus,” Eddie mutters finally, pulling out a butter knife with a bemused huff. “Damn thing’s been digging into me the whole time and I didn’t even realise.”
“Oh,” Buck says, relieved. But it gets immediately snuffed out, “Shit, sorry, I didn’t see—”
“It’s okay.” Eddie hands rise to cup Buck’s face, thumbs brushing either cheekbone. He pulls Buck back down. “We were kinda distracted.”
“Yeah.” Buck exhales a small, sheepish laugh into the kiss, lets himself sink into the warmth of it—the gentle slide of lips, the bitter ghost of beer mingling with the sweet, crumby residue of butter scones, all of it Eddie, generously offered to Buck. Still, he eases back just enough to search Eddie’s eyes. “But you’re okay? With—this?”
“Yeah.” Eddie seals it with a quick, firm press of lips. “And listen, I like the kitchen table, but let’s not make a habit of it. We're using the bedroom next time.”
“Whatever you want,” Buck promises. “Bed. Couch. Shower. Wherever.”
“Shower?” Eddie startles into a low laugh, eyes crinkling in amusement. “Yeah, right.”
Buck grins, but doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t think Eddie would need much convincing, anyway.