This blog is going to be a mess™

20s, they/them, this is mainly a 911 blog now :)

[tweetsongs]

snippet sunday

i have been [insert machine grinding sounds] and have not managed to write anything substantial in a while but i've been tagged in various writing games by @meriwetherwrites @wheel-of-whimsy @iwasraisedfromperdition and @sunflowerbuckleys in the past few weeks! this counts as [insert writing descriptor here] [insert day here] bit as well as last lines because i finally managed to write a little more of the next chapter of as i walk with the sun yesterday <3 here's eddie having a very normal fine time in his mind prison he made.

The lights of the city cast parts of his face in warm light, and Eddie opens his mouth to answer, but the wrong words bubble up in his throat, unbidden.

I love you, he thinks.

Eddie snaps his mouth shut, and Buck looks at him expectantly.

“Eddie?” he asks, voice soft.

Eddie doesn’t open his mouth, because if he does he thinks, horrifyingly, that he won’t be able to stop himself from saying it. I love you, his throat bobs with it. I love you. His stomach churns.

It would be okay to say it, probably. Buck thinks they’re in a relationship, a real one. It wouldn’t be weird to tell Buck that he loves him. It wouldn’t have been weird before they were in a relationship, either, because they’re best friends and it’s only right that best friends love each other. He’s seen Chimney and Hen throw the words around easily, arms slung around each other’s shoulders. It would be fine. Eddie can say it.

Eddie doesn’t say it. It feels like a step too far, somehow. Even though it’s true, if not in the way that Buck would take them to be true. It feels like the words are a blade in his hands, bleeding him dry. He knows, with some kind of terrible, prophetic certainty, that if he lets the words fall from his lips, he would be driving the blade into Buck, instead.

Buck still has bandages on his side. His eyes watch Eddie like he wants to say something. He doesn’t. Eddie doesn’t. The words stay where they belong.

no-pressure tagging @redrosydiaz @lesbucks @glorious-spoon @sinnabonka @minalover and whoever else has something to share!

[minalover]

snippet sunday

my current wip is being dragged along by mel, so a thousand thanks to her <3 tagged by beloved @tweetsongs; please enjoy crop top eddie and buck's single remaining thread of control:

---

"I didn't know Eddie could two-step!"

May rolls her eyes at Josh, no amount of years between them changing their relationship from when May worked at dispatch. "He's from Texas, of course he can two-step!"

Buck's about to glue his head to the table with leftover beer so that he never, ever has to see Eddie dance with anyone ever again.

"Damn," one of May's friends says, "he could teach me how to two-step."

Buck understands this one. He's not happy to hear it spoken aloud, but he understands it. He wonders, for a moment, if there's already enough beer residue on the table to act as an adhesive or if he has to save what little is left in his.

But May, sweet and perfect May, somehow already has his back.

"No, no, no," she fusses, "we don't want Eddie teaching anyone anything that isn't—"

"Eddie!" Josh yells, lunging across the table as Eddie and Ian come back from the dance floor. "I didn't know you could two-step! Teach me!"

But Eddie just smiles, glistening from the inside. "Give me a few songs to rest up, okay?" He flops down on the bench next to Buck, but he doesn't exactly stop. "My cardio's not what it used to be." With every phrase and sentence he uses to carry on his conversation—whether that's about teaching Josh to two-step or answering vague, veiled questions from May's friends about his love life—he's getting…

Well.

He's almost in Buck's lap, is the thing.

They're sitting thigh to thigh, practically squeezed. Buck angled his body out a little the last time Eddie leaned over, trying not to spill his beer, so now his hand is planted behind Eddie, his arm resting along the entirety of Eddie's spine. And Eddie keeps leaning over to talk to people, so his shoulder is constantly resting against Buck's chest, the heat of them both getting caught in the thin cotton between them.

"Eddie," Buck whispers, "you wanna swap places with me? Make it easier to talk to people?"

Get me out of this particular situation before I pull you on my lap and make you sweat for real?

"Nah," Eddie whispers back, head turned to Buck's, noses almost touching. "I'm good here."

tagging everyone on my dash -- if you're writing, i wanna read it <3

[emziess]

Buck + Flowers

[it-wouldnt-be-so-crazy]

[911onabcbts]

Oliver said the bobby fake script leak was done so they could try to reel(??) back in the spoilers and still have his death be hard hitting.

It was ‘well intended’ and an ‘effort by the show (not cast.’ and that he thinks they ‘didn’t go about it the right way.’ Also that it wasn’t done to make fun of or mock the fans/plot.

[notbuckybarnes]

JOSH O'CONNOR 'Disclosure Day' UK Premiere

[tweetsongs]

Hiii for the prompts can I ask 18) foreheads leaned against one another and or 6 ) two fingers pressed against a pulse point

18) foreheads leaned against one another + 6) two fingers pressed against a pulse point

Eddie wakes up to a hand wrapped around his wrist.

His mind catalogues his surroundings in flashes: heart monitor, IV, sterile air, distant pain. It reconstructs a memory: blood on tiles, a bright light, a voice that he only half-remembers, frantic blue eyes. He looks down: curls pressed to thin hospital blanket, calloused hand over his wrist, index and middle finger pressed to the thin skin thrumming at the joint of his wrist.

Oh, he thinks. I survived.

It lands a little flat, a little surprised, like missing a step on a staircase but landing on your feet neatly anyways. He watches with bleary eyes the way Buck's back shifts with his slow breaths, the way he curls against Eddie's bedside. That makes him feel something more, a pang in his chest that hurts, a little.

The heart monitor beeps. Buck shifts, looks up. Blue eyes, red-rimmed. The heart monitor beeps again.

"Eddie," Buck breathes out, and the word sounds tender in his mouth. Warm. "You're alive."

He sounds awed, glad, relieved. The sound flows into Eddie, the joy in his voice transmuting the dull fact of Eddie's continued existence into something golden, something precious.

"Buck," Eddie says. It means you found me, it means I missed you, it means thank you for being here when I woke up. I thought I would die alone. I didn't want to die without you.

He doesn't say any of that aloud, but he curls his fingers inwards, lets the rest over the back of Buck's hand, where they're pressed over his pulse. Buck exhales and closes his eyes, pale and drawn and glowing under hospital lights.

Eddie remembers the bright elevator light shining in his eyes before everything went dark. He wishes he'd seen Buck instead.

"You scared us," Buck says, and Eddie hears you scared me. He holds Buck's hand a little tighter.

"I'm alive," he says.

"Thank god," Buck murmurs, as if god has done anything but gotten Eddie stabbed inside of a chapel. Thank the 118, Eddie thinks. Thank Chim, thank Hen, thank you.

"Hey," Eddie says, watching Buck's eyes shift to his own. "You okay?"

A bark of laughter. "Eddie, you almost bled out in an elevator."

"Doesn't answer the question, Buck."

Buck closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them again. He shifts his chair forward. His hand goes tight on Eddie's wrist. Eddie can feel his pulse thrumming under Buck's fingers. The heart monitor beeps. All of it, he knows, means something. Everything means something, when it's for Buck.

Buck, who is shifting forwards, free hand curling around Eddie's neck, thumb over the fragile flutter of his pulse there. Buck, who leans over him, down, pressing their foreheads together, eyes close enough for Eddie to see the dark shadows underneath. Buck, whose lips tremble even as his hands are steady. Eddie wonders if Buck was the one who held his wound closed. He'd like that, he wishes he could remember the way his hands felt over Eddie's organs.

Maybe if he asks, Buck will press his hand over the gentle thrum of pain over his side instead. Maybe that'll make it mean something.

Where he is, Buck's words shake as they leave his lips, close enough for Eddie to inhale: "I'm not okay," Buck says. "because my best friend almost died. Again. You gotta stop doing this shit, man."

Eddie huffs out a soft laugh. "Didn' do it on purpose."

"You can't die," Buck tells him, still, like it's anything Eddie can control. He thinks about bridges and death wishes and, fair enough. "I don't want you to die. It would suck."

It's so childish it startles a laugh out of Eddie, making him groan a little at the way it pulls at his wound. Buck's hand flutters away from his hand (tragic) to his side (wonderful). It hurts when he brushes over the bandages. Eddie refuses to flinch, because there would be nothing worse than Buck's hand going away.

He grins at Buck instead. "It would suck, huh?"

Buck nods solemnly. "It would be worse without you," he says, and it punches something out of Eddie, how simple it is. How fundamental. "So don't."

"Don't?"

"Don't let us be without you," Buck tells him. "It's not worth it."

Eddie remembers being on his knees in a church, in a confession booth, in Sunday school, in his bedroom. Asking, asking, asking. He feels Buck's words sink into him, and--

Oh.

The heart monitor beeps, Buck keeps holding him, and Eddie suddenly, quietly, understands what it's all for.

(touch prompts!)

[steveyockey]

affirmations they will not kill me at work today. it is not in my job description to get killed. if they did kill me at work that would be weird and probably not worth it for them

[tweetsongs]

So I saw you did a combo and wanted to be greedy and ask for one : 15+10

15) a thumb pressing down on a bottom lip + 10) hands guiding a spoon up to waiting lips

"This is stupid. You're being ridiculous."

Buck huffs out something between a sigh and a snort as he watches Eddie lean against the wall of the kitchen, arms crossed and lips pursed. Immediately, his mind catalogues the minute details of it, cross-referencing the twitches in his expression with the rolodex of Eddie-isms that lives in his brain rent-free.

Crossed arms? Annoyed Eddie.

Pursed lips? Eddie who's annoyed because Buck hasn't already figured out why he's annoyed.

Leaning against the kitchen wall? Eddie who still wants Buck to figure out why he's annoyed.

Luckily, Buck is perfectly aware of why Eddie is annoyed, even though he's pretty sure that it's not the same reason that Eddie thinks he's annoyed.

"You're being hangry again," he says, not looking up from the crockpot where he's stirring, the scent of tomato and basil bright in the air.

Eddie huffs again, his whole chest heaving with it. He's lucky that Buck thinks he's cute - er, in a platonic way - when he's grumpy. "Oh, so it's a me problem," Eddie complains, all petulance. "Evan Buckley can do no wrong, he wasn't being childish at all, it's all because I-"

"- had to skip lunch because we had a call," Buck finishes, rolling his eyes. "And I know you don't actually care about my pop country playlist, Eddie."

"You know I hate pop country. It's not-"

"- real country, I know. You're such a music snob, music is-"

"- just an expression of artistic intent that shouldn't be constrained by genre? You can't say that when half these artists are people looking to make a quick buck - don't -"

"- hey, you were the one who said it, I just wanted to listen to some music on the way back-"

"- music you know I don't like, and you kept turning the volume up!"

"Traffic was loud, okay?" and Buck did, admittedly, find it hilarious to watch Eddie sink further and further into the passenger seat, face like a grumbly kitten's as Buck kept turning the volume up whenever he tried to turn it down.

Eddie glares at him, and Buck rolls his eyes as he turns back to the lasagna soup, humming as he grabs a wooden spoon. "You're such a dick," he says.

Buck takes a little bit of soup into the spoon, turns around. "Takes one to know one," he says cheerfully. He takes a step forward, and Eddie presses himself harder into the wall with his determinedly sour mood.

"Stop."

A step. Another. "I don't know what you're talking about, Eddie."

"You're trying to-- placate me!"

Another two steps. "Oh, big words coming out."

"You can't just grin your way out of everything, Buck, sometimes you just have to--" Eddie's words stutter into silence as the tips of Buck's slippers knock against Eddie's, his hand holding up the spoon expectantly.

"Just one taste, Eddie," Buck coaxes, tilting his head. He watches the war in Eddie's eyes, his nose twitching as the scent of the soup hits it. Eddie swallows, and Buck's eyes trace the bob of his throat with an emotion that he chooses not to interrogate.

"I'm not a kid, Buck," Eddie says. "You can't just--"

Feed me, Buck hears, but the words are cut off when Eddie's stomach makes the choice for him, the rumble loud in the kitchen. Eddie looks at Buck. Buck looks at Eddie. Buck, in a moment of true and genuine friendship, doesn't even laugh.

Eddie glares at his stomach, Buck keeps smiling. Eddie sighs, long and loud, as if he were doing Buck a favor, and opens his mouth.

Buck watches him, the dark fan of his lashes as he looks at the spoon in Buck's hands, the soft part of his lips, the steady, trusting lean of his body. For a moment, something shivers down his spine, some knowledge that he blinks away so that he can keep his hand steady. He stares at Eddie for a beat too long, and Eddie's eyes look up towards his face expectantly, in a way that looks wholly different when he's looking up through his lashes.

Buck swallows, smile faltering, before slowly guiding the spoon to Eddie's mouth, one hand below to catch any spills. It means that his palm is right by Eddie's mouth as it wraps around the spoon, that he can feel the soft vibration of Eddie's throat as he hums with approval as the hit tastes his tongue, that he can catalogue the slow slide of his lips off the wooden spoon, the way his eyes fall shut for just a moment before he swallows.

Buck swallows in tandem with him, throat suddenly dry. Eddie blinks, frowns a little. Abashed Eddie. "That's...good, Buck," he says, the irritation fallen from his body at the first bite of food hitting his stomach.

It makes pride glow in Buck's sternum, something bright and sparkling. It makes Buck stupid, apparently, because the next thing he knows his free hand isn't retracting with the spoon but cupping Eddie's jaw, thumb sweeping over his chin and landing on his lower lip, a little wet, a little red.

Eddie stares at him. Buck stares back.

"You," Buck stutters, trying to move his hand away. His hand doesn't obey his orders, though, just keeps pressing to Eddie's plush lower lip, sweeping against the divots of it. "You, ah, you had a bit of-- um, something. Here."

There. Saved it.

Eddie's mouth is still a little open, and this close Buck can almost smell tomatoes and herbs from his lips, can feel his mouth water at the scent. His tongue darts out to sweep over his lips slightly, looking more instinctual than anything, and Buck can feel a hot thrum through his veins as it catches momentarily on the pad of Buck's thumb.

"Is it..." Eddie looks at him through wide eyes, and Buck's mind flips through its Eddie-rolodex but can't find a match to the expression on his face right now. "Is it gone now?"

Buck's thumb presses in a little, momentarily, and he can barely feel Eddie's breath hitch as he finally withdraws his hand. "Um, yeah." he coughs, turns back to the stove. "Yeah, it's gone." he looks down at the pot. "And it's-- it's ready, now, so you can, uh, you can go grab a seat, and I'll grab you some food."

A huff of air, soft. "Yeah," Eddie says. Buck listens to the shuffle of his feet, the silence in the kitchen after. He looks through his peripheral vision to make sure that Eddie's not in the room anymore, then looks down at his hand, the faint tremor running through it.

He presses his thumb to his lip, still a little damp, a little warm. He closes his eyes for a singular moment, knowing. Then he opens them again, and allows himself not to know.

He grabs a bowl, a clean spoon. Eddie's hungry, that's all.

(touch prompts!)

[zomvieb]

Brief gym session (romantic)

S9 was fun tbh and I miss them SO BAD ‼️‼️🫩🩷

Originally posted this on instagram but I need to find different platforms fr

[punksalmons]

my aunt who lives outside of the country and that younger woman who seems to appear in all her facebook photos

[iwasraisedfromperdition]

manuscript monday

i have been tagged so many times and i love you all, thank you @sunflowerbuckleys, @zinnydark, @exhausteddiaz, @zinnydark AGAIN mwah and @sinnabonka !!

i haven't been writing much since the elevator fic bc no idea seems to stick but once again! forcing myself to sit down and try to write something!!

so anyway. i was listening to some 80s springsteen,

“Up next,” the MC cuts in, his falsely cheerful voice saturating the speakers to be heard over the ever-growing noise of the place, “uh, Eddie, with some Springsteen. Give it up for Eddie!” The crowd erupts in encouraging claps, while Eddie hangs his head with a sigh before slowly pushing himself up and out of their booth. “That one?” He shakes his head at Chimney. “You picked that one? Chim, I can’t pull off the Boss.” “Not like this, you can’t,” Ravi cuts in, waving Eddie over. Buck watches as Eddie complies by taking a careful step forward, albeit with a deeply suspicious frown. Ravi grips his wrist and rolls up one of Eddie’s sleeves, then the other one, and Eddie snorts lightly as he sways with every pull at his arms. He definitely is a little drunk, Buck decides. Meanwhile, Ravi contemplates his handiwork for a second, head titled, before he tugs Eddie forward and undoes the top buttons of his shirt with frankly impressive speed, smooth enough to get two and almost a third. Eddie pulls back with a laugh, his reflexes clearly slowed, then dips his chin to stare at his own uncovered chest. There’s a sheen of sweat in the hollow of his throat, down his sternum where dark hair dusts the skin and spreads out over his chest, disappearing in the shadow of his shirt. It was a hot day, it makes sense for Eddie to forego the undershirt, although it must be a little uncomfortable. Buck’s pretty sure he's always worn one under button-ups, but maybe it was just out of habit—and really that’s the only train of thought Buck’s currently allowing himself to follow. The pros and cons.  Of undershirts.  He’s having a hard time finding pros right now. “Oh, come on,” Eddie shakes his head, but doesn’t make a move to redo them.  He actually pulls the half-undone one open with a swift move of his fingers. Buck's throat grates like sandpaper when he swallows. “Hey, be grateful I didn’t rip the sleeves off,” Ravi shrugs. “That’s how ‘the Boss’—” Ravi mocks with an exaggerated rasp in his voice, “—wears it.”

tagging some lovely people and anyone who feels like it 🥰 @eddieeddieeddieee @tweetsongs @redrosydiaz @pairofraggedclaws @hawkslonggoodbye and the people who tagged me originally bc all your wips are MWAH chef's kiss

[911onabcbts]

New interview with Ryan, Oliver, and Aisha from the Upfront. ‘How often do you change your sheets?’

[finnslay]

happy pride month to Hen and Karen Wilson

[redrosydiaz]

Wanna dance + buddiiieeee pls <3

hello hellooo! tysm, this was a great one and i loved writing this!! 🫶 buddie | g | 617 words | #37 "Wanna dance?"

“Wanna dance?”

Eddie knows that hand, the one stretched out towards him with its palm up — an offer, an open invitation. He knows those fingers, knows those calluses, knows that silvery white scar along the side of that thumb, but he follows the length of the arm attached anyways, over the smooth expanse of forearm; the swell of a well-maintained bicep; a solid, dependable shoulder — until his eyes land on Buck’s face.

Smiling. A little flushed in the cheeks from the sun, maybe a beer or two. From asking Eddie to dance, even.

“Thought you didn’t do that,” Eddie muses. It’s not a no — it won’t be a no, he already knows that. But, he can have some fun with it first. Give Buck’s pigtails a little tug.

“Dance?” Buck asks with a huff of a laugh. “I don’t. I mean, I can’t. But — you do. Can. Want to, right?” His smile tucks itself into the corner of his mouth now, and he jerks his chin towards Eddie’s torso. “You’ve got—” he chuckles; a dimple pops, “you’ve got wiggly shoulders.”

He does a little shoulder shimmy of his own, a little stilted, a little awkward, and somehow his whole body moves with it, shoulders, hips, and knees. It makes Eddie laugh, and judging by the way Buck’s eyes sparkle at the sound, that might’ve been the goal.

“Was that supposed to be me?” Eddie asks, raising an eyebrow. “Because, frankly, I’m offended. That was…” he makes a face, eyes squinting, mouth curving into a playful grimace, “yikes.”

“Ouch,” Buck replies, smacking his hand to his heart and staggering back like he’s just taken a physical blow. “I guess it wasn’t you,” he concedes. “You’re much less rhythmically challenged than me.” Another laugh. “But, you were doing that — something like that. Dancing in your seat, I mean.” He bends over to set his beer in the grass near the foot of Eddie’s chair, then straightens and holds his hand out again. “Come on, I know you like this song,” he says and wiggles his fingers.

Eddie has to bite the inside of his cheek. He does like this song — is pretty sure it’s something Buck introduced to him too, which maybe feels sort of incriminating. Then again, so does the way he’s already peeled himself away from the back of his chair, sitting right on the edge of his seat like he’s planning to abandon his post at any second now. His hand twitches against his thigh.

God, he’s so easy.

He glances out at the yard, at Jee-Yun and Mara playing some hand clapping game set to their chanting chorus of rhymes, at Chimney and Karen trading stories by the cooler of drinks. Athena ladles another scoop of fresh fruit from the salad Maddie put together, while Maddie shows the birthday boy off to a cooing Sue and Linda. Denny and Christopher sit at the bistro table, Christopher teaching Denny the card trick he learned from Buck. May and Ravi have found a semi-private corner of the garden and are tucked together like parentheses with their heads bent close and laughter on their lips.

“No one else is dancing,” Eddie points out, fixing his gaze back on Buck. 

Buck, who only has eyes for him. Has only had eyes for him since he first approached — since maybe even longer. Probably definitely longer.

“So what?” Buck asks. He shrugs. Smiles, boyish and sweet. “C’mon, Eddie, dance with me.”

Eddie breathes in. Lets his own smile break free from its restraints, wild and unruly as it stretches across his face.

It was always going to end this way. 

“Okay, Buck,” Eddie says, and he slides his hand into Buck’s.

[archaeologyfandomsandsleep]

Happy Pride Month!! 🏳️‍🌈🎉

Find me on Instagram, Bluesky, X/Twitter.

[glorious-spoon]

Cake or Death [9-1-1 | Buddie | 1/1]

3.8K words | mature sexuality crisis | arguing and making up | developing relationship | feelings realization | idiots in love | relationship negotiation via passive aggressive cake

Cake or Death [on AO3]

Eddie's phone vibrates in his pocket as he's unlocking his front door. He doesn't check it right away, because there's an anxious pit in his stomach at the sound of his text notification and has been for the past week, even though Buck hasn't actually texted him since Wednesday. It's Friday now, his Kelly day, and he's stepping through his own front door at ten-fifteen in the morning with a bag of groceries in his hand and nothing planned while Chris is at school but to marinate the chicken he just bought and do a load of laundry and maybe take a nap and absolutely not agonize over the chain of unanswered texts sitting in his phone like a silent accusation.

He takes his shoes off, lines them up on the rack, sets the grocery bag down, locks the door behind him. His phone vibrates again. Eddie finally pulls it out of his pocket, reminding himself that people other than Buck text him and he can't just become a hermit until his next shift, tempting as it is. It could be one of the guys on his basketball team. It could be Hen, or Chim, or even Pepa, who prefers to call but has been known to text him screenshots of upbeat inspirational posts she finds on Facebook.

It's Buck, though. Of course it is. Eddie looks at the preview of the most recent message, which just says, enjoy :), and then sighs and opens up their text chain even though Buck will know he's seen it and not replied just like he has every message since the one he got at 8:13 last Thursday morning asking, hey, where'd u go?

(Continue reading on AO3)