✩₊˚.⋆☾ 25 • she/her • bi • aquarius ☽⋆.˚₊✩
✩₊˚.⋆☾ where the tide meets the moon ☽⋆.˚₊✩
Jules of Nature
occasionally subtle
Stranger Things
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if i look back, i am lost
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trying on a metaphor

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we're not kids anymore.

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will byers stan first human second
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@coventina2001
✩₊˚.⋆☾ 25 • she/her • bi • aquarius ☽⋆.˚₊✩
✩₊˚.⋆☾ where the tide meets the moon ☽⋆.˚₊✩
eddie diaz request
reader has past trauma from eddie almost dying from the well (season 3 episode 15) she has a nightmare about that call, eddie comforts her and reassures her that he’s ok
Buried in the Storm
Eddie Diaz x Reader
The rain comes first..It always does.
Your phone rings, sharp and sudden, cutting through the quiet like a blade. You fumble for it, heart already racing before you even look at the screen.
“Bobby.”
Your stomach drops.
“Bobby?” Your voice is thick, like you already know.
On the other end, Bobby sounds tight—controlled, but just barely. “We’ve got a situation. Eddie went down into a well after a kid. The structure collapsed.”
The world tilts.
“…what?”
“He’s trapped.”
Silence fills your ears, loud and suffocating.
“Get here. Now.”
The scene shifts too fast.
You’re there.
Mud sucking at your boots, you’re in your Pj’s, Eddie’s shirt and your silly sleep shorts that he finds adorably funny. Sirens bleeding into the storm. Floodlights cutting through sheets of rain that sting your face like needles.
“Where is he?” you demand, grabbing the nearest firefighter.
They point.
The hole in the ground looks wrong. Too small. Too quiet.
Too final.
“He’s still down there,” someone says, but their voice sounds far away—like you’re underwater.
You drop to your knees before you even realize you’ve moved.
“No—no, no, no—”
Your hands hit the mud, digging instantly, frantically. You don’t wait for tools. You don’t wait for permission.
You just dig.
“Get back!” someone shouts. “It’s unstable—”
“I don’t care!” Your voice cracks, raw and breaking. “He’s down there!”
Your fingers scrape against rocks, nails tearing, skin splitting. Blood. Rain soaks through your clothes, your hair plastered to your face, but you don’t stop.
You can’t stop.
“Eddie!” you scream into the earth. “Eddie, answer me!”
Nothing.
Just thunder.
Just rain.
Just silence.
“No, no, no—please—” Your hands shake, slipping in the mud. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to leave—”
You dig faster, harder, like if you just move enough dirt, just one more inch—
A helmet appears.
Your breath catches.
“Wait—wait—” You claw at the dirt, uncovering more, desperate, hopeful—
But when you reach him—
He’s still.
Too still.
“Baby?” Your voice is small now. Fragile.
You grab his face, mud streaking across his skin. “Eddie, hey—hey—come on, look at me—”
Nothing.
“No—” Your chest tightens, air refusing to come in. “No, no, no, no—please—”
You shake him, hands trembling. “You said you’d be okay. You said—”
Your voice breaks completely.
“Don’t do this to me.”
The rain keeps falling.
And he doesn’t move.
You wake up with a gasp.
Your room is dark. Quiet.
But your body doesn’t know that.
Your heart is racing like you’re still there, hands aching like you’ve been digging, lungs burning like you never got enough air.
“No—” you whisper, sitting up too fast.
A hand catches your wrist.
Warm. Solid. Real.
“Hey. Hey—”
You freeze.
That voice—
You turn, breath hitching—
And there he is.
Your boyfriend of many years, Eddie, is sitting beside you, eyes soft, worried. Alive.
Alive.
“You’re okay,” he says gently, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “It was just a nightmare.” Pulling you into his chest.
Your vision blurs, gripping onto his shirt for dear life. Like he is going to slip through your fingers.
“I—” Your voice shakes. “You weren’t— I couldn’t— you didn’t—”
He doesn’t let you spiral.
He pulls you closer, steady and grounding, one hand cradling the back of your head, nose in your hair to breathe you in.
“I’m right here Cariño,” he murmurs. “You hear me? I’m right here.”
“I couldn’t get to you,” you whisper, voice breaking against his chest. “I tried—I was digging and you weren’t—”
“I know.” His voice is soft, but firm. “But that’s not what happened.”
You shake your head, tears slipping free. “It felt real.”
“I know it did.”
He tilts your chin up just enough to meet your eyes.
“But I made it out,” he says quietly. “I’m here. I’m okay.”
You search his face like you need proof.
“…you promise?”
A small, tired smile tugs at his lips.
“I promise.”
Your shoulders finally start to loosen, just a little, as the panic slowly drains out of you.
He brushes your hair back, gentle, patient.
“Nightmares don’t get to rewrite the ending,” he murmurs.
You let out a shaky breath, leaning into him again, “I love you”
Kissing your head softly, “I love you mi amor”
Hi!! I would love to request 9-1-1
Buck x female reader :
Ever since last night episode I can’t help but feel like female reader would go with buck and Eddie to the Nashville competition that they are in.. and she is on the sideline cheering on her boys ! And buck and reader go on cute little Nashville date after everything at the end :) you can add more if you like !
That’s My Wife
Evan Buckley
The Nashville Firefighter Combat Games were being held inside a massive indoor training arena just outside downtown.
Bright stadium lights flooded the floor. The metal rafters echoed with whistles, boots on concrete, and the rumble of hundreds of firefighters packed into the stands.
Departments from all over the country had shown up.
LAFD 118 had a small but very loud fan section.
Mostly because of one person.
Y/N stood in the second row of the bleachers, arms braced on the railing, leaning forward like she might jump onto the course at any moment.
She wore dark jeans, white Vans, and Buck’s navy 118 t-shirt that hung just a little oversized on her frame. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail.
And she was not quiet.
“BUCK MOVE!”
Her voice echoed across the arena.
“EDDIE DON’T LET HIM PASS YOU!”
A firefighter from Chicago nearly tripped because he was laughing.
Another department started chanting for their team—
Y/N turned toward them.
“YOU’RE NOT WINNING THIS ONE!”
The entire section went quiet for a second.
Then someone muttered, impressed, “Damn…”
She turned back to the arena floor and slammed her hands on the railing.
“COME ON 118!”
Down below, Buck grabbed the hose bundle for the relay event.
He glanced up into the stands automatically.
It took him half a second to find her.
Standing.
Yelling.
Intimidating half the arena.
He broke into a grin.
Eddie followed his gaze and shook his head with a laugh.
“She’s terrifying.”
Buck shrugged proudly.
“She’s supportive.”
Eddie smirked.
“If she starts throwing things I’m blaming you.”
⸻
Across the arena floor, two members of the Nashville Fire Department stood watching the course.
Captain Don Hart had his arms crossed, observing the relay teams.
Beside him was his son, Ryan Hart, who was also competing in the games that weekend.
Both of them suddenly looked toward the stands when Y/N shouted again.
“BUCK HUSTLE!”
Ryan blinked.
“…who is that?”
Another yell echoed across the arena.
“EDDIE YOU’RE LOSING STEAM!”
Don Hart chuckled under his breath.
“That woman sounds like she could run the department.”
Ryan pointed up toward the bleachers.
“She’s scaring the Chicago team.”
Down the course, Buck connected the hose line and sprinted toward the tower stairs.
Eddie grabbed the next segment and took off.
Ryan looked between them and the stands.
“…please tell me that’s not someone’s angry coach.”
Eddie heard the comment and laughed as he slowed after the relay.
Buck wiped sweat from his forehead, still grinning as he looked up at Y/N celebrating like they’d already won.
Ryan gestured toward the stands again.
“Seriously. Who is that?”
Buck didn’t even hesitate.
“That’s my wife.”
Ryan blinked.
Don Hart let out a low whistle.
“Well damn.”
Eddie crossed his arms proudly and nodded toward the stands.
“Best hype woman in the country.”
Right on cue—
Y/N slammed the railing again.
“LET’S GO 118!”
⸻
Broadway street buzzed with neon lights, music spilling out of every honky-tonk bar.
Buck walked beside Y/N, his arm slung around her shoulders while they wandered down the busy strip.
She still wore the 118 shirt, though now one of Buck’s medals hung around her neck.
“You know,” Buck said, glancing down at her, “pretty sure we won because of you.”
“Oh absolutely,” she said confidently.
“You yelling like a drill sergeant?”
“Motivation.”
Buck laughed.
“Motivation, huh?”
She nudged him.
“You’re welcome.”
They stopped outside a small rooftop bar overlooking the glowing street below.
Music drifted up into the warm Nashville night.
Buck leaned against the railing beside her.
The city lights reflected in her eyes.
He looked at her the way he always did — like she was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
“You looked really hot today,” he said casually.
She raised an eyebrow.
“In jeans and a t-shirt?”
“In my t-shirt.”
She smirked.
“Possessive much?”
Buck leaned closer.
“Married.”
“Fair.”
A country song started playing inside the bar.
Buck held out a hand.
“Dance with me.”
She laughed.
“Buck, you cannot dance.”
“First of all— rude.”
“Second of all?”
“I can slow dance.”
She placed her hand in his anyway.
“Alright firefighter. Impress me.”
He pulled her close, one arm around her waist, swaying gently while the Nashville lights glittered behind them.
For once, Buck wasn’t loud.
Wasn’t chaotic.
Just soft.
Just happy.
He pressed a kiss to her temple.
“Best part of the games,” he murmured.
She tilted her head.
“Winning?”
He shook his head.
“Having you there.”
She smiled against his shoulder.
“Next year,” she said, “I’m bringing a big cut out of your heads”
Buck laughed, “Oh god.”
Can you do an Eddie Diaz x reader fic where reader gives Eddie the Heimlich maneuver
Tiny but Mighty
Eddie Diaz
The kitchen in the firehouse was loud the way it always was after a long shift.
Laughter bounced off the tile walls, Buck arguing with Chimney about something ridiculous while Bobby stood at the stove making grilled cheese for whoever wandered by. Plates clinked, chairs scraped the floor, and someone had music playing quietly from a phone on the counter.
Eddie leaned back in his chair, tired but relaxed, one boot hooked on the rung of the chair across from him.
You sat beside him, half listening to the chaos while scrolling through something on your phone.
Eddie grabbed a bite of the sandwich Bobby had just handed him.
The next moment everything changed.
He coughed.
Once.
Then again—harder.
You glanced up immediately.
Eddie sat forward, coughing again, one hand coming to his throat.
Not a normal cough.
Your stomach dropped.
“Eddie?” you asked quickly.
He tried to inhale, but it came out strangled, his breath catching. His eyes watered as he coughed again, harder this time, his shoulders jerking.
Buck noticed first.
“Uh… Eddie?”
Eddie stood abruptly, his chair scraping the floor, one hand braced on the table as he tried to breathe.
Nothing.
Your chair was already moving.
“Eddie—can you breathe?” you asked, stepping in front of him.
He shook his head once.
Your heart jumped into your throat.
“Okay,” you said, forcing your voice calm. “Okay, I got you.”
He was bigger than you—broader shoulders, taller by several inches—but adrenaline wiped the hesitation out of your brain.
You stepped behind him quickly.
Your arms wrapped around his torso.
Your hands searched for position—just above his navel, just like you’d learned.
Eddie braced his hands on the counter, coughing again as he struggled for air.
“I’ve got you,” you said firmly.
Then you pulled.
A sharp upward thrust.
Nothing.
“Again,” you muttered.
Another thrust.
Buck hovered nearby, tense.
“Come on—”
On the third thrust—
Eddie jerked forward violently.
The chunk of food dislodged and hit the counter with a soft thud.
Eddie bent over immediately, coughing hard as air finally rushed into his lungs.
The room went silent except for his coughing.
You stayed behind him, one hand still gripping the front of his shirt just in case.
“You good?” you asked quietly.
He sucked in a deep breath.
Then another.
His shoulders rose and fell as he steadied himself.
“Yeah,” he rasped.
Buck exhaled dramatically.
“Jesus, man.”
Eddie wiped his mouth, still breathing hard, before slowly turning around.
And suddenly you realized just how close you were.
Your hands were still gripping his shirt.
His chest was still rising under your palms.
And his eyes—
They were fixed on you.
Soft.
Grateful.
A little stunned.
“Next time try not to die on my watch,” you said, letting Eddie go awkwardly.
Chimney leaned across the table.
“Tiny but mighty.”
You shot him a look.
Eddie huffed out a quiet laugh before running a hand through his hair, still catching his breath.
“Guess I owe you one,” he said.
You folded your arms.
“Maybe try chewing your food next time.”
Buck snorted.
Eddie smiled—really smiled—and something warm settled in his eyes.
“Still,” he said softly. “Thanks.”
Your face warmed a little.
“Someone had to save you.”
He leaned a little closer.
“Good thing it was you.”
Behind you, Buck whispered loudly to Chimney—
“Oh yeah, they’re gonna kiss eventually.”
You grabbed a napkin and threw it at him.
Eddie laughed again, the sound low and warm as he looked at you.
And this time when he sat back down beside you
He made sure his shoulder stayed touching yours.
Going Once, going twice
Evan Buckley
The ballroom buzzed with noise — music, laughter, paddles slapping against palms as bids climbed higher and higher. The LAFD’s annual firefighter charity auction had always been chaotic, but tonight it felt even louder.
Probably because of the woman sitting three rows back.
You leaned comfortably in your chair, legs crossed, a drink in one hand and your bidding paddle resting against your knee. Your eyes were glued to the stage with an almost dangerous kind of excitement.
Because this year?
Your boyfriend was one of the firefighters being auctioned.
You had politely declined when someone suggested you should participate too. Tonight was the guys’ turn to be auctioned off, and you were perfectly happy sitting back and supporting your team—and your boyfriend.
And you had absolutely no intention of letting anyone else win him.
Across the room, the firefighters from the 118 were gathered near the side of the stage watching the chaos unfold.
Eddie nudged Buck with his elbow.
“You see that look on her face?”
Buck glanced toward the crowd — and immediately spotted you.
You were smiling.
Not a normal smile either.
That mischievous one.
The one that usually meant Buck was about to be dragged into something.
Which, to be fair, had happened many, many times at the firehouse when you were bored and Buck ended up your very willing victim.
At your table, Maddie leaned closer to Athena when she noticed the look on your face.
“Oh she’s about to bankrupt somebody.”
Chimney laughed from beside her.
“No, she’s about to bankrupt herself.”
Buck rubbed the back of his neck, already embarrassed.
On stage, the auctioneer finished up with the previous firefighter.
“Alright folks! Next up we have—”
Buck sighed.
“—Evan Buck Buckley from Station 118!”
The room erupted in cheers.
Buck jogged up onto the stage, smiling politely at the crowd, trying to pretend he didn’t already know exactly what was about to happen.
Because the second he stepped under the lights…
Your paddle lifted.
Calm.
Confident.
Ready.
The auctioneer grinned.
“Starting bid — fifty dollars!”
A paddle shot up somewhere in the back.
“Fifty!”
Another voice called out.
“Seventy-five!”
You didn’t even hesitate.
Your paddle went up.
“One hundred.”
Buck shifted his weight on stage, already rubbing the back of his neck again. His eyes flicked toward you and you gave him a tiny little wave.
The crowd laughed.
The auctioneer leaned forward dramatically.
“Oh ho! Looks like someone knows what she wants tonight!”
Another paddle rose.
“One-fifty!”
Your paddle lifted again immediately.
“Two hundred.”
Buck closed his eyes for half a second.
The bids continued.
“Two-fifty!”
You raised your paddle again.
“Three hundred.”
People started turning in their chairs now, realizing what was happening.
Hen crossed her arms, amused.
“She’s not playing around.”
Another bidder tried again.
“Three-fifty!”
You didn’t even blink.
Your paddle lifted.
“Five hundred.”
The room exploded.
Buck looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.
Someone behind you shouted, “Damn!”
The auctioneer laughed loudly into the mic.
“Well alright then!”
Buck covered his face briefly with one hand while the crowd roared.
Another brave bidder lifted their paddle.
“Five-fifty!”
You leaned back in your chair… took a casual sip of your drink…
Then raised your paddle again.
“One thousand.”
Buck’s head snapped up.
The crowd went wild now, cheering and clapping like it was a sporting event.
The auctioneer wiped imaginary sweat off his forehead.
“Do I hear eleven hundred?!”
Silence.
The other bidders slowly lowered their paddles.
You sat there looking completely satisfied.
The auctioneer raised his gavel.
“One thousand dollars going once…”
Buck looked down at you from the stage, his ears bright red but a grin creeping onto his face.
“…going twice…”
You lifted your glass toward him in a little toast.
“Sold!”
The gavel slammed.
The room erupted in applause again.
Buck shook his head, laughing as he stepped off the stage.
By the time he reached your table, you were already standing.
His hands landed on his hips.
“You just spent a thousand dollars on me.”
You shrugged, completely unbothered.
“Worth it.”
Buck huffed out a laugh.
THE BOYS final season 5 trailer [x]
The way I cackled so hard
Jensen Ackles as Soldier Boy | Antony Starr as Homelander The Boys, Season 5 Trailer
Firefighter Auction
Evan Buckley x Plus Size
The music in the room thumped through the floor as the emcee grabbed the mic again.
“And next up— Station 118’s very own golden boy… Evan Buck Buckley!”
Cheers erupted instantly.
Buck jogged onto the stage with that easy confidence he carried everywhere, flashing a grin that made half the room melt. He wore his dress uniform pants but had traded the jacket for a tight black station shirt that clung to his shoulders.
Someone in the crowd wolf-whistled.
Buck laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wow, okay— hi.”
The auctioneer stepped forward dramatically.
“Ladies, gentlemen, and everyone lucky enough to be here tonight— this man comes with a private dinner date, cooked by yours truly… well, cooked by him actually.”
Buck leaned toward the mic.
“I make a mean lasagna. Family recipe.”
The crowd cheered again.
You sat a few rows back, clutching your bidding paddle like it might bite you.
Your dress hugged your curves in all the right places, soft fabric stretching comfortably across your hips and waist while the neckline dipped just enough to show the necklace resting against your collarbone. You’d spent way too long deciding what to wear tonight, finally settling on something that made you feel good—confident, comfortable, and a little bit bold.
Your friend had told you at least five times you looked amazing.
You still weren’t planning on bidding.
You’d only come to support the charity.
But Buck had walked on stage and suddenly your brain stopped working.
The auctioneer raised a hand.
“Alright, starting bid at one hundred dollars!”
Hands shot up immediately.
“One fifty!”
“Two hundred!”
You watched the numbers climb, heart racing as the paddle rested in your hand against your thigh. Your fingers tapped nervously against it while Buck shifted on stage, smiling awkwardly as the bids kept coming.
Your friend nudged you hard.
“Bid.”
You shook your head quickly. “No way.”
“Bid!”
“Three hundred!” someone called from the other side of the room.
Buck glanced over the crowd and for half a second his eyes landed on you.
You weren’t hiding in the back. Not exactly.
But you also weren’t trying to draw attention to yourself, sitting there with your legs crossed and one arm draped across the back of your chair, your curves filling the seat comfortably while you watched the stage with wide eyes.
Buck smiled.
Not the polite auction smile.
A real one.
Your stomach flipped.
Your hand lifted before your brain caught up.
“Four hundred!”
Your voice came out louder than expected.
The room reacted with a playful oooh.
Buck’s eyebrows shot up slightly, and he leaned closer to the stage edge like he was trying to get a better look at you.
Your friend grabbed your arm.
“Oh my god you actually did it.”
The auctioneer grinned.
“We have four hundred! Do I hear four-fifty?”
Silence.
Your friend squeezed your arm so hard you almost yelped.
The auctioneer raised the gavel dramatically.
“Going once…”
Buck folded his arms, watching you with a soft, curious expression.
From the stage he could see you a little clearer now—the way your dress curved around your hips, the confident way you held yourself even while you looked slightly shocked at your own decision.
“Going twice…”
Your heart hammered.
“SOLD!”
The gavel hit.
The room burst into applause.
You froze.
“Oh my god,” you whispered.
Your friend was practically vibrating. “YOU WON BUCK.”
Buck hopped off the stage, still smiling, and walked straight toward you.
Which only made your panic worse.
You stood awkwardly as he approached, smoothing your hands down the sides of your dress without even thinking about it.
Up close he was even bigger—broad shoulders, bright blue eyes, freckles scattered across his nose.
He stopped in front of you.
For a moment his eyes flicked over you—not lingering in a weird way, just taking you in.
And he smiled.
“Hi.”
Your brain short-circuited.
“Hi.”
He rubbed the back of his neck again, suddenly looking a little shy.
“So… guess you won me.”
Your cheeks warmed.
“Technically for charity.”
“Still counts,” he said with a grin.
For a second he studied you again, not judging—just curious and warm, like he was genuinely happy you were the one who’d raised your paddle.
Then he held out his hand.
“I’m Buck.”
You took it.
Your hand looked smaller in his, his fingers warm as they wrapped gently around yours.
“I know.”
His laugh was bright and genuine.
“Right. Fair.”
He squeezed your hand softly before letting go.
“So,” he said, tilting his head slightly, “are you thinking dinner date… or are you more of a lasagna person?”
Your nerves finally eased enough to smile.
“Honestly?”
“Yeah?”
“I mostly just wanted to see if I could win.”
Buck laughed again, softer this time.
“Well,” he said, eyes warm as they met yours again, “I’m really glad you did.”
TheBoysTV | PrimeVideo
Taking requests for ideas <3
Still Here
Evan Buckley
It’s been a year since Buck was struck by lightning and in a coma.
A full year since the hospital monitors, since the burn scars, since everyone held their breath.
Buck doesn’t think about it every day anymore.
But she does.
Not consciously. Not in a dramatic way. It’s quieter than that.
It shows up at night.
Buck falls asleep fast — always has. One arm slung over her waist, his breathing deep and steady within minutes.
She takes longer.
She always does.
And without thinking, like muscle memory, her hand drifts down.
Two fingers press gently against the inside of his wrist.
Pulse.
Warm. Steady. There.
Every night.
Not tight. Not panicked. Just… there.
Buck notices it one night when he wakes up before her.
The room is soft gray with early morning light. She’s curled into him, hair a mess, breathing slow.
Her fingers are wrapped loosely around his wrist.
Not gripping.
Resting.
Like second nature.
He stays still for a minute, just watching her.
Then softly, “Hey.”
She hums, barely awake.
His voice is gentle. “You check every night?”
She blinks up at him, confused for a second — then realizes.
Her fingers flex against his skin.
“…I don’t mean to.”
He shifts so they’re face to face, brushing his thumb along her cheek.
“It’s okay.”
She swallows. “I just… sometimes I wake up and I can’t hear you breathe. And my brain—”
She exhales. “It just wants to make sure.”
There’s no drama in it. No tears.
Just honesty.
Buck leans forward and presses his forehead to hers.
“I’m still here.”
“I know.”
But her hand doesn’t move.
So Buck does something different.
He gently takes her hand from his wrist.
For half a second she stiffens.
Then he guides it up.
Places it flat against his chest.
Right over his heart.
It beats strong under her palm.
“Better spot,” he murmurs. “Harder to miss.”
Her lips tremble into a smile.
“Idiot.”
“Your idiot.”
She shifts closer, her hand staying over his heartbeat now, her leg tangled with his.
Buck wraps both arms around her, pulling her in tighter than usual.
Not because he’s scared.
Because he understands now.
A year ago, he fought to come back.
She fought to keep him.
He kisses her hair.
“Hey.”
“Mm?”
“If I ever stop breathing in my sleep, I promise I’ll haunt you.”
She snorts softly against his chest. “That’s not comforting.”
“I’d be a very hot ghost.”
That gets a real laugh.
And just like that, the heaviness dissolves into something warm.
Safe.
She drifts off first this time.
Her hand never leaves his chest.
Buck stays awake a little longer, listening to her breathe.
Feeling her trust, her fear, especially her love.
And when he finally falls asleep, he presses his cheek to her hair and whispers, barely audible—
“Still here, baby.”
And he is.
Exactly Where I Want to Be
Evan Buckley
The bar is loud, sticky with spilled beer and neon light.
Buck doesn’t even remember how it escalated.
One second he’s waiting on drinks. The next, some drunk idiot slams into him hard enough to spill beer down his shirt.
“Watch it,” the guy snaps.
Buck wipes at his shirt, unimpressed. “You walked into me.”
The guy squares up immediately. Chest puffed. Ego louder than the music.
“You think you’re funny?”
Buck straightens slowly.
That shift happens — the subtle one. His posture loosens, but his stance anchors. Balanced. Ready. He’s not looking for a fight.
But he’s not walking away from one either.
“Walk away,” Buck says evenly. “You’re drunk.”
The guy shoves him.
Harder this time.
A chair scrapes. Someone mutters, “Oh damn.”
Buck steps forward instantly. Chest to chest now. Eyes colder. Jaw tight.
“You don’t want to touch me again,” Buck says quietly.
The guy smirks like he just won something.
That’s when—
“Evan.”
Not loud.
Not frantic.
Controlled.
He freezes.
Actually freezes.
You’re standing there a few feet away, having just returned from the bathroom. Hands slightly damp from washing your them. Jacket draped over your arm.
You take in the scene in one sweep.
Drunk guy.
Buck squared up.
Crowd watching.
Your expression doesn’t change.
“Down,” you say calmly.
Buck exhales once through his nose.
Takes a step back immediately.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The drunk guy blinks. “You serious?”
Buck doesn’t look embarrassed.
He looks… amused.
There’s a slow smirk pulling at his mouth as he glances at you like you just did something impressive.
The guy scoffs. “You gonna let her talk to you like that?”
That’s when you step forward.
Not fast.
Not dramatic.
Just deliberate.
You stop right in front of the guy. Close enough that he has to tilt his head slightly to meet your eyes.
And when you speak?
Your voice drops.
Cold. Flat. Controlled.
“You just put your hands on my boyfriend,” you say evenly. “In a public bar. On camera. In front of witnesses.”
The guy falters.
You continue, eyes steady.
“You want to take that one step further?”
Silence.
Even the music feels quieter.
“You shove him again,” you say softly, “and I promise you — you won’t like how that ends.”
Not yelling.
Not emotional.
Just factual.
The guy swallows.
Buck is behind you now, close but not intervening. His presence is solid. Protective. But he’s letting you handle it.
Because he knows you can.
“You threatening me?” the guy mutters.
You tilt your head slightly.
“No,” you reply smoothly. “I’m explaining consequences.”
The guy looks between you and Buck again.
Buck’s smirk deepens.
And then he says it — casual, lazy confidence dripping from every word.
“Buddy,” Buck says, sliding one arm around your waist from behind, “you really don’t want her mad.”
The guy steps back.
Once.
Then twice.
And just like that, the fight drains out of him.
He mutters something about “crazy” and disappears into the crowd.
You don’t chase.
You don’t blink.
You just turn slightly in Buck’s hold.
His hand rests firm at your lower back. Warm. Protective. Possessive in the quietest way.
“You good?” you ask.
He’s looking at you like you just lit something on fire.
“Yeah,” he says low. “I’m real good.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You were about to swing.”
“He shoved me.”
“And?”
He grins. “And I was handling it.”
You step closer, lowering your voice just for him.
“You don’t throw punches in bars.”
His eyes darken slightly.
“Yes, ma’am.”
That smirk is back.
Cocky.
Proud.
The guy from earlier is still staring from across the room, confused and a little intimidated.
“You really listen to her like that?” he calls out.
Buck doesn’t even hesitate.
He pulls you closer, chin brushing your temple, eyes never leaving yours.
“I am exactly where I want to be.”
And the look on his face?
Pure satisfaction.
Because he could’ve fought.
Could’ve proved something.
Instead?
He got to stand behind the woman who can out-threaten him without raising her voice.
And that? That’s hotter than any punch he could’ve thrown.
Ordinary
Evan Buckley
The apartment smells like clean laundry and whatever candle Buck insisted on buying last week because it “smelled like you.”
You’re standing in the living room, folding clothes straight from the dryer, warm fabric draped over your arms. The TV hums quietly in the background — some random cooking show neither of you are really watching.
It’s a lazy Sunday. No alarms. No calls. No urgency.
Just quiet.
You shake out one of Buck’s t-shirts, smiling faintly at how oversized it looks in your hands. You smooth it down, fold it carefully the way he never does.
Footsteps pad down the hallway.
Bare feet. Slow. Unhurried.
You don’t look up right away. You just feel him before you see him — that warm, solid presence that fills a room without trying.
Buck walks past you toward the kitchen, hair still messy from sleep, gray sweatpants sitting low on his hips, one of his LAFD tees stretched across his chest.
He slows when he reaches you.
You feel his eyes on you.
“What?” you ask softly, still focused on folding.
“Nothing.”
That tone.
You glance up.
He’s smiling. Not his big, teasing grin. Just something softer. Fond. Like he can’t quite believe this is real.
You raise an eyebrow. “You’re staring.”
“Am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
He steps closer instead of arguing. Slides one hand lightly over your waist as he passes behind you, fingertips brushing the small of your back.
It’s absentminded.
Instinctive.
Like touching you is just something he does now.
You fold another shirt.
He pauses behind you for a second longer than necessary.
Then he leans down and presses a slow, gentle kiss to your shoulder.
Not rushed, just warm.
Your hands still for a second.
It’s such a small thing. So simple. But it sinks into your chest like sunlight.
He hums softly against your skin before straightening again. “Carry on.”
You turn slightly, watching him head toward the kitchen.
“That’s it?” you ask.
He looks over his shoulder. “What?”
“You just walked by, kissed me, and leave?”
A grin tugs at his mouth. “You want another one?”
You pretend to consider it.
“…Maybe.”
He doesn’t even hesitate.
He crosses back over in three long steps, cups your face gently with both hands, and kisses you properly this time. Slow. Sweet. Unhurried. Like he has nowhere else to be.
Because he doesn’t.
His thumbs brush softly along your jaw before he pulls back, resting his forehead against yours.
“You look really cute” he murmurs.
You huff a quiet laugh. “I’m folding laundry.”
“Exactly.”
His hands slide down to your waist again, holding you there for a second. Not tight. Just steady.
He exhales slowly, like this moment is something he wants to memorize.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
You know he doesn’t just mean the laundry.
You smile up at him. “I love you.”
He presses one more quick kiss to your lips — lighter this time — then finally retreats toward the kitchen.
“Don’t burn the pancakes,” you call after him.
“No promises!” he calls back.
You shake your head, smiling to yourself as you finish folding the last shirt.
It’s ordinary.
It’s simple.
It’s soft.
And somehow, it’s everything.
Sick day
Evan Buckley
Evan Buckley does not get sick. That’s his official stance..
Unfortunately, the man is currently standing in your shared kitchen, swaying slightly while trying to make coffee at 6:12 a.m., looks like he’s about to faint into the coffee maker.
“You good?” you mumble from the doorway, still half asleep.
“I’m fine,” he rasps.
His voice sounds like gravel. You cross your arms. “You sound like you swallowed sandpaper.”
“It’s just a little..”
He sneezes violently. Nearly drops the mug. Stares at it like it betrayed him.
You blink slowly.
“You’re not going to work.”
“Yes I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
He turns to argue… and immediately wobbles.
You sigh as you step forward and press your palm to his forehead.
Hot.
Not warm. Hot.
So you take his temperature and it was 101.2
“Buck.”
He leans into your touch without thinking. Eyes fluttering shut for half a second before he catches himself and straightens.
“I can push through.”
“You can barely stand.”
He gives you that stubborn look.
You give him the test me I dare you stare.
He exhales.
“…I hate being useless.”
Your expression softens immediately.
“You’re not useless,” you say gently, cupping his cheek. “You’re sick.”
There’s a difference. You help him get settled on the couch and tuck him in with a blanket and softly kiss his forehead.
You’ve called Bobby. (He absolutely did not want you to, but Bobby immediately told him to stay home.)
You bring him tea and cold medicine.
He watches you move around the apartment like you hung the moon.
This is the part he doesn’t talk about much.
How much he loves waking up next to you every morning.
How much he loves that there are two toothbrushes in the bathroom.
How your hoodie is draped over the back of the dining chair.
How your life is woven into his.
“Come here,” he murmurs.
You sit beside him.
He doesn’t hesitate. Just pulls you into him, burying his face against your shoulder. His arms wrap tight around your waist, like he needs to anchor himself.
“You’re clingy,” you tease softly.
He hums. “You like it.”
You do.
His nose brushes your neck, warm and sleepy. He breathes you in like you’re medicine.
“You smell like home,” he mutters, half out of it.
Your heart absolutely melts.
You brush your fingers through his hair. “You are home, Buck.”
He goes very still at that.
Slowly, he tilts his head back to look at you. Fever-flushed cheeks. Soft blue eyes. Vulnerable in a way he rarely lets himself be.
“…Yeah?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah.”
Something settles in him.
He tucks himself closer, hand sliding under your shirt just to feel skin-to-skin warmth. His thumb traces lazy circles against your back.
Five minutes later, he’s asleep.
Dead weight. Fully attached.
You try to shift.
His arms tighten instantly.
“Don’t go,” he mumbles without opening his eyes.
“I’m just grabbing my phone.”
“No.”
You laugh softly. “Bossy.”
“Stay.”
So you do.
You lean back against the couch, Buck sprawled half on top of you, breathing slow and steady. The apartment is quiet. Morning light filtering through the curtains. The world outside moving as usual.
But here?
It’s warm.
Safe.
The former Spn girlie in me ^^
THEY GOT JARED AND JENSEN TOGETHER AGAIN 😭
I cried a little lol
SPN Hiatus Creations // Week 3 ↳ Dean Winchester
By now it is already definitively compromised