🩸 and 🌵 please mwah
MWAH whatever u say bailey <3333 mother's boy au
He blinks, and sees the cracked window across from him.
He blinks, and sees a truck coming to a stop.
He blinks, and there is blood in his eyes. He tries to raise a hand to wipe it off, but he can't. Where's Eddie? Eddie should be here, throwing napkins at him, calling him a slob, laughing.
No, it's good that Eddie isn't here. Buck doesn't want any of the blood to be his.
He smells engine oil, sand. There is the sound of screeching metal. Stupid, not clean at all. He's gonna have to talk to Bobby about telling these guys about using saws and jaws.
Wait, no. Bobby isn't here. Bobby isn't dying. That's good, even if it means that Buck is lonely.
Something around his arm. A figure in denim. Not a first responder. Buck wants to tell them not to be good samaritans, to just call the professionals. He opens his mouth, and blood comes up instead.
I might be dying, Buck thinks.
I don't want you to go away, Christopher tells him. Buck doesn't think he's really here either. That's good, kid shouldn't have to see any more overturned cars.
Buck, Chris says, more insistent. I'm sick of people going away.
blood tattoo
A moment of silence, then something like a scoff, too perfectly calibrated to be natural. “You learned how to tattoo in your twenties too, bud?”
There's a breathiness beneath the teasing that Buck notices despite himself, a part of him perking up like a too-many teethed thing, a starving predator trying desperately to resist a skittering animal flitting across its vision. He smiles, matches Eddie's tone.
"Kind of," he says, in the tone of voice he uses to inform everyone that he's not saying anything important right at this moment. "A lot of places that I've been to were, you know, kind of-- grr, macho. Lots of stick n' pokes, lots of bad decisions."
Which, looking back on it, involved a not insignificant amount of repressed homoeroticism. Buck remembers tracing fingers down the rippling back muscles of dozens of men, pressing needles to their skins with something humming in his veins. He…he really should've figured out that he was bisexual earlier.
Not that that had anything to do with what is happening right now, obviously. Just a tangential thought.
"Not--" and is that a croak in Eddie's voice, covered hastily with a sip of beer? "Not exactly convincing me that you're gonna be more professional than a licensed tattoo artist, man."
(help me work on my wips!)
