jean, they/he || jjcofeesa on ao3 formerly a blog for the oa, now a 911 blog. aggressively pennsylvanian. not spoiler free. likes, asks, & follows from infinityonhighvevo
can I request 1, 3, & 20 for buddie please? separate prompts or together, whichever floats your boat!
1) knuckles brushing across a cheek + 3) lips pressed against a brow-bone + 20) fingertips tracing the notches of a spine (mwah ty sarah <33 i chose to do them separately AND together, because i am always Like This. this one got kind of long so under a cut!)
(touch prompts!)
Eddie is used to being the early riser in a relationship. Eldest son time. Military time. Single father time. Any number of reasons for the way his body has become accustomed to jostling him awake at the brink of dawn, clear-headed and efficient, any traces of irritation tucked into the spaces deep inside of him reserved for feelings that he doesn't have the luxury of indulging in.
He would wake up before Shannon, in the quicksilver moments that they were together after Chris was born, rolling out of bed to rock their son to sleep and being rewarded by the softness in her eyes when she woke up after, exhaustion clinging less fervently to the edges of her eyes. He would wake up before Ana, watching her face still and silent in the dawn light, startling himself with her presence like she was a guest that he never quite came to expect. He would wake up before Marisol, untucking himself from her to do his morning chores, her jokingly complaining about her not doing her fair share of work and it never occurring to him to share any of it with her. It's just what he does. He's the one that gets up. He's the one who does it all.
With Buck, though, it's different.
Buck isn't like Eddie, with the clock embedded into him by necessity and force of habit. He's just a morning person, in the truest sense of the word. Though to call him that perhaps belies the point, which is that Buck throws himself into living as much as he can, as fully as he can. He throws himself into mornings and lingers into nights and even when he's sleep-worn or heavy with exhaustion there's a feeling of satisfaction there, like he takes pride in wringing out every moment he can from a day.
Between the two of them, even before-- all of this, which is to say the kissing and the cuddling and the bodies pressed into each other under the sheets, it was always a little bit of a guessing game on who was going to wake up first. Sometimes it would be Buck, the smell of breakfast and soft humming and the clunking noise of living that Buck can never quite contain. Sometimes it's Eddie, who quietly prepares for the day ahead of them, packing Buck's duffel alongside his own with the ease of love worn smooth at the edges.
With this, though--
(which is to say: the startling joy found in crevasses of Eddie's life that he'd thought were gathering dust. The ordinary moments suddenly refracted in color like light through a prism or waterfall or some other metaphor for the inherent transmutation properties of love. The kissing. So much kissing.)
-- with this, everything shifts, ever so slightly.
(1)
Eddie wakes up, and the world is bright.
He squints and groans at the light not so much filtering as it is invading through the curtains, casting everything in a new day. For a moment, habit runs through his muscles, pushes his elbows into the mattress so he can clamber out of bed into something productive.
Then, an arm around his waist, tugging him down. The world suddenly dims, not frightening but familiar, chestnut curls allowing just the right amount of light through them as Eddie's face is pressed to the hollow of Buck's throat, his nose tickling his adam's apple.
"Buck," he says, laughter already caught in his throat, the mere presence of this impossible man sending sparks, confetti, fireworks off in his veins.
"Nope," Buck mumbles into Eddie's hair, all squished and sleep-blurred, a smile in his voice just for Eddie. "Not getting out of bed."
"It's morning."
"It's sleeping in day, Eddie. I've decided." Long arms, longer legs, Eddie is trapped. He loves it. He absolutely cannot allow Buck to know that he loves it.
"Oh, you've decided?"
A nod against his head. "I've decided," Buck says, in his snottiest of voices. Eddie, as always, matches his energy.
"There are children out there," Eddie points out, perhaps a little dramatically. "Starving. You would let our children starve, Buck?"
"Chris lives for days when he can sneak an extra bowl of Reese's cereal for breakfast without either of us complaining about the sugar content," Buck says. "And he said he'd play with Theo this morning for a bit."
Eddie narrows his eyes. He feels Buck stiffen, only a little. "...I didn't know we had Reese's in the house."
A pause. "Well, you also didn't know that I reorganized your spice cabinet until you couldn't find the paprika, so."
"Buck. Did you bribe our kid with sugar so that we can sleep in."
Eddie pushes Buck back, just a little, so he can tilt his face up to meet his eyes. And also maybe so he can touch his pecs a little, so what, that's his boyfriend.
Buck's eyes are curved at the edges, all cheer. His grin is dimpled on one side, teeth flashing in that infuriatingly handsome way that Eddie refuses to admit always works on him. His body betrays him, though, his hand shifting around Buck's jaw, knuckles brushing over the swell of his lip, the little scar at the edge, the dimple curled in his cheek.
He presses a thumb to the dimple, drags it outward to watch the way Buck's smile gets even bigger. "Don't be ridiculous, Eddie. I bribed our firstborn with sugar so that we can cuddle in bed."
Eddie bites down a helpless smile, knows it seeps out of him anyways. He can hear the thump of careless teenage footsteps, if he concentrates. "Of course you did," he says. Then: "Did you at least tell him not to feed our secondborn straight sugar?"
Wide blue eyes, a toddler's giggly shriek, a wince. Eddie memorizes the shift of muscle under his fingers, cups Buck's jaw tenderly, and cracks up into his sheepish sternum.
(2)
It is not often that Eddie makes an elaborate breakfast.
It's not a matter of skill, mostly -- after all, there was a reason Bobby started Buck on breakfast foods: they were the hardest to fuck up. It's more simple tradition, if anything. Eddie is (or is now, at least) a competent cook. Buck is a passionate cook. He takes joy in discovering recipes and meal prepping and trying new techniques in ways that Eddie just doesn't, and Eddie is more than happy to sit on the counter and be fed bites of ricotta-stuffed crepes or egg bakes or whatever flavor of french toast Buck decides for their stale bread Saturdays.
Still, Eddie finds himself balancing strawberries on top of a pile of pancakes, rearranging the eggs twice and frowning at the results, deciding between orange juice and apple juice.
"Dad," his beloved son says. "You're being neurotic."
"Where did you learn that word?"
A blank stare. "I'm sixteen."
Beside him, Theo giggles. "Eddie's neurotic," he announces, his lisp making the roast unintentionally adorable. Eddie ruffles his hair, gets a little squirm in response.
"Don't listen to Chris, Theo," he says. "He only says boring stuff."
"Chris is cool," Theo protests, and Chris grins smugly at him.
"Yeah, dad," he says. "I'm cool. I even woke up early just to make sure you didn't chicken out on this."
"I'm not-- I wouldn't--" Eddie tries to glare at Chris. He fails. Chris just tilts his head pointedly down the hall.
"I told him to wait a bit more," he says. "But I think he's actually gonna vibrate out of his skin if he has to stay in bed for any longer."
Eddie throws his head back, groans, and grabs the orange juice before taking the tray down the hall. Behind him, he can hear his traitorous children giggling to each other.
He nudges the bedroom door open with a foot and nearly forgets what he's meant to be doing when he sees Buck sitting against the headboard, half-naked, curls messy, eyes lighting up when they see Eddie.
"Eddie!" he says, happiness in every square inch of his body. It's impossible to believe, sometimes, how happy Eddie makes Buck. It's impossible not to believe, when Buck is so obvious with it, glowing and unmistakable.
"Buck," he says, the name as familiar as his own heartbeat. He walks forward. One step, then another. Buck's eyes fall to the tray in his hands.
"Breakfast in bed?" he tilts his head, curious. "What's the occasion?"
"You being in my bed," Eddie says, putting the tray down in front of him, curling a hand into the his curls to press a kiss to his brow, peppering kisses along his hairline as Buck giggles until he reaches his birthmark. He's not nervous anymore, weirdly. It's just Buck, after all. Love of his life, his best friend, his partner in crime and in life. There's no other way for this to go.
Buck's eyes scrunches as he smiles, fond even as he's still a little confused. He looks down at the tray, grabs a strawberry, begins to eat. Eddie watches him clear his plate, making sure to tell Eddie between bites how good everything is. Eddie perches on the edge of the bed, listens to Chris and Theo watch cartoons in the living room, and waits until Buck is finished.
"Wait," he says, when Buck tries to get up, tray shifting with him. "You didn't finish."
Buck tilts his head at him. "What?"
Eddie nods at the plate. "There's something else," he says, heart in his throat.
Buck looks at him, then at the plate. His brows furrow. He takes in the plate, then picks it up. Drops it.
Eddie catches it in his hands, leaving Buck's hands free to pick up the small, gleaming key.
"You have a key already, so this is more metaphorical than anything, but-- I want to see you in my bed tomorrow, too. And the day after that. For-- a long time."
A beat, then a small, wet laugh. "A long time, huh," Buck says, looking at Eddie with red-rimmed eyes. "That's-- uh, yeah, that sounds about right."
And Eddie holds his head in his hands, presses another smacking kiss on his birthmark as Buck laughs, the key gleaming gold in his hands.
(3)
Eddie likes being held by Buck.
It's not a surprise, given the whole dating thing. But he would challenge anyone not to like being held by Buck, who holds people with the exact right amount of pressure, like he's keeping you safe but also not smothering you.
Honestly, Eddie could do with a little smothering, sometimes, but he appreciates the thought.
So Eddie likes being held by Buck, the way any same person would, and he especially likes waking up in Buck's arms, sleep-tousled and morning-warm, mouth pressed to warm skin and rumbling with low snores. The two of them always start out spooning, when they go to bed, but they always end up this way: face to face, noses squished to necks and collars and hair, curled into each other like quotation marks. It's codependent, probably. It's careless, definitely. It's the best thing in Eddie's life.
Today, it goes like this: Eddie's cheek pressed into the pillow, face, turned towards sunlight, which is to say Buck. A leg curled over the dip of his waist, thrown over his hip, keeping him in place. A palm finding its way under his tank top, calloused fingertips dancing their way up his spine, a gentle rhythm that feels more deliberate than not.
"Are you playing piano on me?" Eddie murmurs, cracking one eye open a sliver. Buck looks at him, has been looking at him, from the angle his face is at, eyes bright and awake even as the rest of him remains sleep-soft in their bed.
Buck grins, ducks his head to get a morning-breath kiss before answering. "I've never played the piano, Eddie."
Eddie raises an eyebrow. "Doesn't answer the question, Buck."
He shivers, a little, when Buck just tip-taps his fingers a little quicker up his back, quicksilver moments of touch that leave goosebumps in their wake like every inch of Eddie's body feels a little forlorn when not actively being touched by Buck. Buck grins a little at him, eyes mischievous.
"I'm not playing piano on you, Eddie," Buck answers dutifully. He pushes Eddie towards him a little, tucking the both of them impossibly closer to each other. "I'm counting."
Eddie blinks, eyes opening fully. "Counting?"
"The little notches. I'm counting."
It makes Eddie laugh, a surprised huff of air that's tucked into the crook of Buck's neck now. Buck shivers, a little, and Eddie gets his revenge by nipping at the thin skin right below his ear. Buck retaliates by tightening the leg around Eddie's hip, a thick thigh pressing into him in a way that could easily get out of hand.
Eddie, a few years ago, would've rolled out of bed, insisted on getting started with the day. Eddie, today, just curls himself in even closer.
"I would imagine I have around thirty-two to thirty-five segments," he tells Buck, teasing. "You know, like most humans."
"I need an exact count, Eddie," Buck tells him, very solemnly. "What if they need that info when you're doing a checkup? They're gonna think I'm a neglectful boyfriend."
"I'm pretty sure that's not on any intake forms, mi sol," Eddie nips at Buck again, is rewarded with a press of fingers to the small of his back. "I know what you're really doing, you're not slick."
A little giggle, boyish and infectious. "What am I really doing, then?" Buck asks, sing-song.
"Feelin' me up."
Buck cracks up at that, giggling into Eddie's hair even as his hand sweeps over the breadth of Eddie's back, pressing with casual proprietary presumptuousness to each mole dotting the span of his skin, every bone that's visible beneath the shifting of his skin. These are things that Eddie does not know about himself, that Buck has told him with his mouth pressed to Eddie's skin, in the same careful way he catalogues every other detail of Eddie's existence.
It's overwhelming. Eddie wouldn't have it any other way.
"Oh, is that a crime, now?" Buck is saying, breathless with laughter. "To feel my hot boyfriend up first thing in the morning?"
Eddie feels the strength of Buck's grin seep into him, his own smile helpless in response. He tips his head back, meets Buck's eyes, watches the way that love transforms him into something not new but more wholly him, blooming in the light of the kind of love that he's always thrived in.
And Eddie feels transformed too, under that love, not any less himself but the startling, beautiful parts of him that were tucked out of sight rendered into clarity through beloved eyes. Coming together into a whole that Eddie is learning to love, simply because he is so loved in return.
"I'll allow it," he says, running his hand through Buck's hair, pressing a kiss to his jaw, not waiting for the day to begin because every moment with the two of them is so wholly worth existing in. "It's a pretty nice way to wake up."
jane's first marriage is literally my roman empire when it comes to the mentalist. i can't stop thinking about it. i have a whole essay in my drafts. angela jane haunts the entire narrative and we have almost no objective facts about what she was really like. the only time she is described in detail is so general that we all thought it was about lisbon. or maybe it's not general? maybe jane seeks out the same traits in the two loves of his life? but then a woman like lisbon wouldn't have stood for the man that jane so clearly was prior to red john. was their marriage happy? unhappy? was it average? is she remembered as she was, or worse, or better? the show is right for refusing to tell us but it haunts me all the same.
It's quiet for just long enough for Buck to start panicking.
It feels more intimate, now, warm air exhaling from one of their lips in one breath, inhaled by the other in the next. Slow, instead of ragged. Deliberate, instead of desperate.
Scared, instead of sure.
"I--" he says, because he's always been incapable of leaving things well enough alone. He watches Eddie's chest, bare and golden. He doesn't let his eyes fall lower, doesn't let himself take in the way Eddie's waist looks against his fingers, the curve of his thighs over Buck's hips. He can't let himself remember this. He's fooling himself if he thinks that it's not seared into him already. "We just--"
"Yeah," Eddie says, when Buck can't quite bring himself to complete the sentence.
"And you--"
"I know," Eddie says. And there's a little tremble in his voice, something that's already beginning to retreat. Buck wants-- Buck can't-- Buck has to--
"Eddie," he says, and the word still feels shiny and new in his mouth, even after all these years. Even after tonight, when he must've used up a lifetime's worth of Eddie's, murmured and moaned and tucked into secret places.
"Buck," Eddie says, and there's something caught there, too. There's a hitch of air over Buck's lips, like Eddie wants to say something else. He doesn't.
For a moment, it feels like that's it. The glass fractured between them falling back into shape. Buck can't look into his eyes. Eddie can't say it out loud. Nevermind the come on their stomachs, their swollen lips, the bruises they won't be able to hide.
Buck thinks, believes, tells himself that they can still come back from this. It's them. They have to.
Then Eddie's thighs shift slightly, and Buck's fingers tighten involuntarily.
He doesn't mean to. He needs to let Eddie go. If Eddie can't-- if he's not-- Buck can't do this halfway, can't be the anchor on another sinking ship. Not anymore, and especially not with Eddie.
But his hands don't listen to him. They press into Eddie's sides, the divots of his hips. If Buck looks down, he knows he'd be able to map out the bruises they're going to leave. He doesn't. He can't. He watches the St. Christopher against Eddie's sternum instead, trying to force himself to relax, to let go, to say something easy and funny, something to make Eddie laugh, to forget all of this.
But Eddie gets there first: fingers against Buck's jaw, and Buck wants to close his eyes but it's Eddie. It's Eddie. It's always been Eddie.
It's Eddie, brown eyes looking down at him, something awed in his gaze. It's Eddie, muscles relaxing under Buck's grasp, going liquid and soft and letting Buck hold onto him. It's Eddie, a smile cresting his face like sunrise after the longest night of the year: slowly, then all at once.
"Buck," Eddie says again. And, oh, Buck can hear him, now.
"Eddie," Buck replies. Eddie's legs shift again, but only to wrap themselves tighter around Buck's waist. Buck's hand go loose, but only so he can run them up Eddie's sides, cup his face.
He can feel Eddie's cheeks shift under his fingers, the soft swell of his smile running through his fingertips and directly into his heart.
"Hi, Buck," Eddie says, something other than fear in his voice.
devoted best frienddddddssssssss who LOVE EACH OTHER they literally love eachother just as they are and its that simple and that complex and its FOREVER.
do you guys ever think about how even at his crankiest pettiest self eddie diaz is still buck's favorite guy in the entire world. and how even at his brattiest and most childish ridiculous self buck is eddie's favorite guy in the entire world.
Chim really is the It Girl of the 118 because literally every other person has invidually either sat at his bedside, been worried about him fervently, or risked themselves for him. racing a car on a bicycle and literally getting in front of the car to stop someone from driving off with Chim? done that. holding his hand in the hospital? done that. listening to stories about him while waiting in the hospital with your kid and basically introducing your team to your wife for the first time there? done that. begged a serial killer to not hurt him? done that. beg him to hold on while pressing on his stab wound and not leaving till help got there even though your sister was also in danger? done that. consider quitting the team because you think you're the reason he isn't there? done that. hated his ex? done that. choose him over yourself to take an antidote and literally die to save him? done that.
Sometimes you hear a song and a fic pops into your head full formed. This is a trap. The fic may be fully formed in your brain, but you still Have to write it down. This is an important step that most people forget about.
buddienetwork event 13: straightmundo diaz, part 2
we had so much fun last year, we're running it back! for straightmundo diaz, part 2, take your inspiration from queer icons, season moments, colors, or anything else inspires you.
this event will run until the end of june. past events can be found here.
to participate:
👬reblog this post
👬create something that fits this month’s prompt
👬caption your post with: @buddienetwork event: straightmundo diaz, part 2
👬don’t forget to tag us so we can reblog you
if you write something, don’t forget to add it to the ao3 collection here.
sometimes being buck is like. you see a fire start in your house and it's getting really warm and uncomfortable so you go to ask for help. and when people ask what you need help with you're like well you see my house is very warm. and they're like oh well that's not a big deal just open some windows, which doesn't sound right but you trust them so you go into your burning house and open some windows and hm. still burning. so you ask again hey my house is uncomfortably warm and they're like wow still complaining huh. well I guess you can get an AC unit. and you're like oh so I shouldn't move out? and they're like what no just because it's a bit warm? you're being kind of dramatic. and you suppose they're right so you go out and get an AC and plug it in and it sparks and the fire gets even bigger. and you really don't know what to do at this point so you just go outside and watch the house reduce to char and then you pick through your stuff and tell everyone that you're moving and they're like oh what why? and you shrug and go I guess it was a bit warm. and they exchange looks like they think you're being kind of silly and you do feel kind of silly but you don't really feel like sleeping on grass so you just laugh and go find a new place and wonder how everyone else manages to just deal with their houses burning down. you must just not get it.
meanwhile sometimes being eddie is like. your house starts to get warm one day. you assume it's just temperature fluctuations. you go to work and someone comments that your clothes smell a little like smoke. you snort and make a quip about your cooking skills. your house is a little warmer when you get home, and huh it does smell a bit like smoke. probably nothing, but you get your kid to sleep over somewhere else because he probably prefers a more temperate house. he looks at you weird when you drop him off. it's probably nothing. the house is a bit warmer. your best friend asks why your shirt is singed at the edges and you shrug and say you don't know. you go home. your foot goes through a piece of hardwood. you keep limping on. you start waking up with minor burns. you sit on the couch and ow ow ow it's kind of uncomfortably hot. but you kept saying it's nothing so it has to be nothing so you can't just LEAVE. you sit there accumulating burns. your best friend runs in and shouts why the FUCK are you sitting in a burning house and tries to drag you out. you get mad at him because jesus christ can't a man live in his own house??? but you go with him to indulge him and he hands you a hose and as you blast it towards your house you realize that most of it IS kind of charred. oops. your best friend helps you rebuild. you don't put in any kind of fireproofing. you're sure it was an one-off.
is this because i don’t have a couch? @buckme - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
