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Eddie isn’t entirely sure when it happens, but something changes. Or emerges might be the better word for it.
It might have been somewhere between drinks five and six. Or seven or eight or any of the plethora of drinks that followed. It might have been when Buck decided to ditch the blazer, jumping into an ego-fuelled push-up contest in his sweaty white t-shirt—Eddie had watched on, distant-eyed and spacey, at the sturdy wall of his broad back, the strain in his bulging biceps. Or when he had tossed his head over the back of the couch, mouth wide and grinning as Eddie poured tequila down his waiting throat; the bob of his adam’s apple and cut of his jaw. When he picked his head back up he had been red in the cheeks and droopy-eyed, a trail of booze dribbling down his chin. He had wiped it with the back of his hand before Eddie could give in to his instinct to lick it up. A couple of drops did land on the front of his shirt, though. Eddie made careful note of that.
It could’ve been at any point. They’ve orbited each other’s spaces and intercepted others’ advances and slung arms over necks and knees over thighs all night. Slurred proclamations of, you’re the best friend I’ve ever had, and, I dunno what I’d do without you, and, I love you, man, I love you; enthusiastic admissions breathed hotly down necks and with glassy eyes that haven’t stopped drifting to mouths and chests and mouths again.
If Eddie’s being realistic, it probably happened sometime between the third and fourth time—or tenth or twentieth or seemingly thousandth time—he had to remind himself he has a girlfriend. Or that Buck has a boyfriend.
Buck has a boyfriend.
A boyfriend.
(The truth is this: it happened sometime between a vulnerable conversation in warm kitchen light and the following sunrise.
It happened while Eddie lied in bed beside his girlfriend, staring at the ceiling as he tried and failed to cease all thoughts of Buck dating men. Kissing men. Sleeping with men. The more he tried to suppress them the more vivid the thoughts became— images of Buck fucking into a masculine, strong body, images of broad palms and hairy legs and rolling muscle.
The more he tried to suppress them the more vivid the thoughts became; until the body Buck was fucking was inescapably, devastatingly his own.)
Something has emerged; it tugs at his breastbone; it’s hot between his legs; it’s awful and cruel and licks at Eddie’s flesh like flame—fear of what it all means—a confrontation he hadn’t realized he’d been avoiding for a lifetime.
But Buck has a boyfriend. Eddie has a girlfriend. He keeps forgetting that, which makes him want to reach in through his navel and rip out his spine, the guilt gnaws at him so relentlessly, but the umpteenth shot he throws back helps to soothe the ache. He’s perched on the arm of the couch, tossing yet another emptied solo cup somewhere over his shoulder as Buck melts into the seat by his hip, his head tilted to rest on the back of the couch, staring up at Eddie through heavy eyelashes.
Eddie once again forgets he has a girlfriend. “Whatcha lookin’ at?”
He looks so cute, Eddie can’t help but think, his head snuggled back into the cushion and a pout twisting up his hot-pink mouth. He pinches Eddie’s tattered shirt with a floppy, uncoordinated hand, says, “can’t believe Tommy didn’t dress up. Like on theme. ‘S such a party pooper.”
Right. Boyfriend.
He props his elbow on the couch behind him, dropping a hand to Buck’s sweaty hair. Something washes over Buck’s face, a humming satisfaction. He reminds Eddie of a puppy mid-praise.
“Yeah, well,” Eddie says slowly, ensuring his mouth moves correctly around each syllable— he can’t quite feel his face. He adds with a shrug, “‘S whatever. Tommy’s whatever. I’m the Crockett to your Tubbs, anyway.”
“No, I’m Crockett,” Buck whines, his eyebrows pinching together. “You’re Tubbs.”
“We’ve been over this,” Eddie rolls his eyes. He digs his index finger into Buck’s sternum. “I’m Crockett. Accept it.”
Buck smiles at him, all dopey and soft. His face is bigger— closer? Eddie feels as if the couch is made of quicksand.
“Mm-kay. Sure. Whatever you say.” His eyes drop to Eddie’s bare torso. “Wh-happened to your shirt?”
When Eddie dips his chin to look down at himself, he realizes he’s been gradually sliding off the arm of the couch and inching dangerously close to Buck’s lap. The sight of thick thighs ballooning thin green fabric sucks all the moisture from his throat.
“Someone tore it,” he answers. “You were there.”
“Ohhh, riiiiiight,” Buck drawls, recognition painting his face. The fingers still curled in Eddie’s shirt detach, pressing his hand to Eddie’s waist instead, hot skin on hot skin. His eyes take a slow journey from Eddie’s stomach to his chest to his throat to his mouth. When he meets his eyes there’s something swimming in them, bright and lurid and positively shimmering. “Right.”
The way Buck’s looking at him has Eddie’s swishy stomach clenching. When he finally reaches Buck’s lap—sprawled crookedly across his thighs, his ribs digging awkwardly into the arm of the couch—his heart trips up.
He swallows thickly, asks Buck, “what?” It unfortunately sounds more like, whaaaaat.
Buck wags his face side to side. “Just. Having revel-evations.”
Eddie laughs, a giddy, bubbling sound in his chest. He’s so… anxious, and hot all over, and Buck’s hand is sliding to the small of his back where he’s a little damp with sweat and all sensitive. There isn’t much space between Eddie’s tailbone and the arm of the couch, but Buck makes his palm fit. He can feel the ebb and flow of Buck’s breath in his body beneath him, his coily short-trimmed hair between his fingers. His boozy breath from his awe-struck mouth. The dark, wet cavern of it taunts him.
His brow scrunches up, confused. “Revelations?”
“Yeah,” Buck nods. He speaks too low for the amount of bass that thunders around them, the cacophony of voices and cheers and laughter. And that’s okay, because Eddie keeps drooping lower and closer anyway. Buck’s tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. “Realizations. N’ such.”
Without lifting his eyes from Buck’s plump, shiny lip, Eddie slurs, “‘bout what?”
Buck’s eyelids are slow to blink, his brows scrunching together as if in great thought. “Well I— you see when— when Tommy…” he trails off, his breath fanning across Eddie’s skin with an explosive sigh. “Oh, it doesn’t fucking matter,” he huffs, pulling Eddie into a kiss with a hand on the back of his neck.
Eddie’s mouth is met with clattering teeth and sour booze. Wet, intrusive tongues and guttural groans in tandem. It’s sloppy and wild and laced with uninhibited hunger. Eddie’s fist in Buck’s hair, his other hand curling into the fabric of Buck’s t-shirt, holding on for dear life as though letting go will send him tumbling to the floor, through the floor, or floating right on up to the ceiling. Buck devours Eddie’s breath, head tipped back and throat anticipating, his assertive tongue charting the shapes of Eddie’s teeth and the grooves in his palate as the hand at his lumbar urges him impossibly closer. His other hand falls from Eddie’s nape to the inside of his knee and slides up, up, tracing the inseam of Eddie’s pantleg and shooting lightning up his spine.
Neither of them hear it, but somewhere, glass shatters. Then someone yells, “shots for everybody!” and a choir of cheers respond. Neither of them hear it, too tangled up in each other’s mouths and limbs and unsteady centers of gravity, until suddenly a hand and a bottle shove their way into the melting pot of their personal space.
Their mouths part with an audible smack. They stay connected by way of sticky saliva.
“Huh?” Eddie says.
“Shots!”
Buck obediently takes the bottle by the neck, tosses it back and resurfaces with an, ahh. Eddie watches him, foggy-eyed and hungrily, and blinks dumbly when Buck presses the bottle to his lips.
He tips his head back, lets Buck pour the—Eddie doesn’t even know what kind of alcohol this is, it’s all begun to taste the same—into his mouth. Buck watches on just as foggy-eyed, just as hungrily. And when he goes to hand the bottle back to whoever it was that gave it to them, they’re long gone.
“Oh,” Buck says. Then he gives the bottle a shake, swishing around the amber liquid in the bottom. “S’not much left. Shoo-we finish it?”
“Buuuuck,” Eddie groans, slapping a floppy hand against Buck’s chest. He stares at Buck’s wet mouth. He doesn’t stop staring at Buck’s wet mouth. “We’re soooo… if I drink that I’ll puke.”
“Well, we don’t want that.”
Buck’s cheeks are so endearingly pink. He stares at Eddie, glassy eyes mapping out his equally flushed and droopy features, the hand on his lower back sliding up and down his spine in a deliberate, exploratory motion.
Suddenly, he jerks forward, reaching to deposit the bottle on the coffee table. Eddie yelps, grasping onto Buck’s shoulders as the world tilts on his axis. Ohhhh, fuck. That last shot has officially caught up to him.
As Buck sinks back into his seat and resituates them upright, Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and buries his face in Buck’s collar. “Room’s spinning,” he mumbles into fabric. It smells salty like Buck’s skin and spicy like his cologne— oud and pepper and musk. Eddie keeps gulping mouthfuls of air as though the scent were sustenance.
“Aha— yeah,” Buck agrees, using a hand under Eddie’s jaw to pry his face away from his neck. “Sooo spinny,” he says, and closes in on another open-mouthed kiss.
Eddie moans, an embarrassing little hnngg sound that wheedles up from his lungs as he resigns himself to melt into the sofa, into Buck’s lap. A goopy puddle slipping through the gaps in Buck’s fingers. The bass around them booms in a dirty, slow grind, the smell of alcohol and weed and bodies permeating the air. Buck licks so far into Eddie’s throat it’s like he’s trying to taste his stomach, wandering hands and a knot of limbs in this corner of the couch.
Buck’s hands are so hot, searing handprints into his skin through the thin fabric of his pants, all over his fluttery-flexing bare stomach. Eddie keeps his eyes closed to ensure the room remains right-side-up, surrendering himself to wherever Buck wants him, however Buck wants him, wherever his hands deem worthy to wander and his mouth deems worthy to taste. Cool spit under his jaw and over his carotid and his mouth and chin and cheeks. A hand behind Eddie’s back, a hand kneading the meat of his inner thigh. He moans again, this time a lusty, rushing release of tension in his belly, dizzy with booze and desire and all the blood that drains to his dick.
He’s so hard. It’s actually the only thing Eddie is capable of registering. He’s too swimmy, too busy wading through the viscous fog of intoxication to notice much else; it’s just Buck, Buck, cock, hard, dizzy, Buck, hard, want, want, want—
He’s tired of his throne across Buck’s lap. He wants to be under him, expeditiously.
Buck appears to be thinking similarly. “Wanna fuck you so bad,” he breathes into Eddie’s neck.
“Uuughhnn,” Eddie half-groans-half-moans, his head rolling back on the knob of his spine. An eye peels open, and then the other, the rotating ceiling lights bursting in his vision. He forgets to remind himself that he has a girlfriend. “Please.”
Horribly, perfectly, Buck’s palm cups over the ache between Eddie’s thighs and squeezes. They both moan something fierce. Around them, heads turn.
“Whoa, Eddie,” Buck exhales, grinding his hand in a way that has Eddie’s ribs hitching, his spine wriggling. “You’re sooo. Like wow.”
Lights and bodies rush by nauseatingly as Eddie lifts his head back up, but he forces himself steady with a creaky grind of his teeth, levelling Buck with a look. “No, you,” he says.
Buck laughs, shaking his head. He shifts their weight on the cushion, closing in over Eddie in a way that’s vaguely predatory but certainly uncoordinated. “You’re gorgeous,” he says, but his mouth doesn’t quite form the letters in that order.
Eddie grabs onto Buck’s face with both hands, poised to yank him down into another mind-bending, spine-melting kiss, but they’re knocked off-kilter by someone stumbling into the back of the couch.
“Whoops, sorry!”
“S’all good,” Eddie sing-songs, even as Buck scrambles off the couch and takes Eddie with him. It’s an uncoordinated mess of wiggly limbs and clumsy feet, Buck’s fist secured tight around Eddie’s wrist as he leads him to the bedroom door of the suite. Eddie slams into the wall in an effort to stay upright as Buck shoves the door open. “Good ideaaaaa,” he says.
Buck pushes Eddie into the room and swings the door shut behind them. It’s dark in here, too dark for Eddie’s blurry eyes to see much of anything, content to just crowd Buck to the door and start nipping at his jaw. He moans into his skin, warm and gritty with stubble, his hands slipping under white cotton to climb the length of his spine.
Buck moans and hums back, kissing whatever of Eddie’s face he has access to; his cheek, his eyelid, sweeping across his brow as Eddie moves this way and that, messily slurping at the flesh of Buck’s jaw, neck, cheeks, mouth. His hands fit around Eddie’s waist, pulling him flush to his front with graceless strength, stepping between his legs and curling a fist in his hair. He grinds his thigh against Eddie’s cock and earns from him a sloven noise, using the hand in his hair to peel the suction of Eddie’s mouth from his throat. He hopes it leaves a mark, his teeth and lips clinging until the very last moment to break.
Eddie blinks, slow, orientating himself. His eyes have begun to adjust to the dark, the silhouette of Buck’s face before his, the shine in his eyes still present sans light. It’s more scent and touch and sound than it is sight; Buck’s breath on his face and thigh between his legs and thumping bass through the walls; the booze, the musk, the—
He moans, his bones shivering and stomach tightening, as Buck uses his hold on Eddie’s waist to grind his erection into squishy thigh hard. Buck moans, too, like Eddie’s pleasure is his own, and pushes his back off the door to step forward, taking Eddie’s clumsy limbs with him.
“Jesus, Eddie,” he says, peppering kisses around Eddie’s temple and hairline as he thumps closer to the bed, Eddie still attached to one leg. “You’re so fucking— wanna— ohhh, shit.”
He halts in his tracks a mere foot away from the bed. Eddie hums his dissent and dives back in, attacking Buck’s mouth with feverish kisses. “Wai-wait!” Buck laughs, tilting his chin away from Eddie’s ambush. “Ed- pffffff, haha— Eddie!”
“Mmf,” Eddie huffs against skin.
“Chim’s not here.”
“Good.”
“No— Eddie,” Buck chastises, cupping a hand around Eddie’s jaw and pushing him away. It only serves to make Eddie lose his balance, landing on the edge of the bed with a bounce. “He’s s’posed to be here.”
“Hmm,” Eddie hums, not listening. His fingers hook into Buck’s waistband. “Can I suck your dick?”
Buck’s chin snaps down to meet Eddie’s eye. The concept of Chimney and where he should be flutters out of the room, just like that, dissipating until it’s forgotten.
A grin tugs at the corners of Buck’s mouth, lop-sided. “Yeah?” he cheeses, the sheer excitement in his tone and his gaze stoking the flame in Eddie’s gut. He tucks Eddie’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. “You wanna taste?”
“Uh-huh,” Eddie nods, slack-jawed. He fumbles with the button on Buck’s pants, his zipper, with his uncoordinated, alcohol-heavy hands. He throws embers up at Buck through his gaze and adds, “taste your big cock.”
“Aha— big cock, huh?” He releases Eddie’s chin, opting for curling into Eddie’s hair instead. His other hand falls to the back of Eddie’s, pressing his palm to cup against the bulge in his pants and forcing a groan out of each of their chests. “You been checking me out in the showers?”
Please. As if Eddie could ever allow himself such indulgence. “I just know it is,” he breathes, with a tiny little shake of his head.
Buck groans like a ghost expelled, bending down to dig behind Eddie’s teeth with his sloppy wet tongue. Eddie moans and meets his enthusiasm, drowning in each other’s booze-sour drool and loose-limbed desire. Eddie’s hand, trapped between Buck’s palm and his pulsing, clothed cock, squeezes and grinds in an effort to taste his noise. The taste of it is lustrous, like hot oil and honey.
They part with a smack, Buck hovering above Eddie’s face. Eddie blinks at him, the peaks and shadows of his features in dull moonlight, his lashes low as he stares dazedly into the dark of Eddie’s unshut mouth. He doesn’t let go of his hair, but his other hand lifts to drag his thumb over Eddie’s bottom lip. Need—wanton and violent—walks over Eddie’s skin with a shiver, a breathy noise squeaking out of him. The thumb digs into his bottom lip, pillowing it out at either side. It hooks into Eddie’s bottom teeth and pulls his jaw open wider.
He spits, a slow push of globby drool, until it snaps in two and slides right down Eddie’s throat.
Eddie moans so loud he wonders if they can hear it, out there, where the music rattles the walls.
“Fuck, Eddie.”
A match stricken, a trigger pulled—the desperation explodes through both of them like a thousand popping fuses. Fumbling hands and heavy breaths, Eddie gets Buck’s pants over his hips as Buck yanks his shirt over his head. The reveal of unexplored flesh distracts Eddie, tipping face-first into Buck’s stomach with a ravenous moan. He bites into plump muscle, his hands snaking around to the backs of Buck’s bare thighs, up over his ass and his spine and back down. He hums. Buck smells like sweat and cologne and he tastes like salt. Eddie laughs to himself as he licks a stripe from Buck’s navel to his sternum; salty enough to accompany all that tequila he’s had tonight.
In Buck’s effort to step out of his pants, he nearly topples over. Eddie startles to catch him with a snort, both of them giggling as they work together to steady him.
“Wai-hol’ on,” Buck says through a snicker. “Lemme- lemme lay down.”
The mattress dips at Eddie’s side as Buck climbs on. Eddie snorts another laugh at where Buck’s pants still dangle from his ankles and pulls them off for him as Buck crawls into place. He settles onto his back with a gratified huff, propping himself up on some pillows and grinning wide.
And Eddie just looks at him—at the soft breadth of his chest and the thickness in his middle, at his endlessly long legs and their coat of fuzzy hair. He strains against his briefs, hard and huge, like he’s about to burst through the cotton, splotching wet over where Eddie can just barely see the ridge of the head. Eddie’s teeth yearn for meat. His fingers yearn for give. There’s a squeal of scraping metal between his ears, the cogs in his brain clunking on toward some grand conclusion his booze-soaked conscious can’t grasp. All he knows is it’s terrifying— in that rewarding, thrilling type of way, like leaping off a cliff after working up the courage, the water sharp and cool where it catches your fall.
Eddie crowds in on Buck. A firm grip on his thighs, his nose brushing the trail of hair that dives under his waistband. “This is the best day of my life,” Buck mutters to seemingly no one in the breath before Eddie closes his mouth over the shape of him.
One of them moans, or both of them. Eddie has no real grasp of what his body is doing besides where his jaw works over the hard fucking girth of Buck through cotton, the press of his tongue. His teeth, even. If he’s moaning, he doesn’t know. If he’s curling his toes, he doesn’t know. If he’s scratching pink welts into milky-pale thighs or squirming his hips into the mattress and dribbling so much wet he soaks through pastel polyester, he simply does not know. The taste and feel and smell of Buck’s arousal takes up all vacancy in his skull.
(He is, by the way, to all of the above.)
“Ha— so eager,” Buck pants through loose pink lips, hooking his thumbs into his briefs. “Couldn’t even—oh, fuck—wait to get these off.”
Buck hikes his hips up, smashing Eddie in the face with his pelvis. Eddie grunts his offense and reattaches himself to come-soaked-spit-soaked cotton, vision tunnelled with sniper-focus. Buck laughs again, trying to get his underwear down past his hips just for the elastic to catch on Eddie’s nose, so with an impatient huff and a stifled laugh, he fists the hair at the crown of Eddie’s head and yanks. It stings, enough for Eddie to hiss sharply through his teeth, enough to send water to his already foggy eyes, enough to detach him just long enough that Buck can shove his underwear down and out of the way.
The sight has Eddie moaning, his heavy head hanging from Buck’s firm grip and saliva pooling in the pockets of his mouth. Buck’s cock, so huge and heavy where it lies and leaks all over his belly. So hard it nears purple. Eddie is breathless, as if the wind’s been knocked out of him after a multi-storey plummet, and hungry and dizzy and—
Buck lets go, his fist in Eddie’s hair gone slack. Eddie falls with a gluttonous noise, unhinged jaw and rolling tongue, mouthing at the thick base of his cock and working his way up his shaft. Buck expels some cocktail of expletives and a breath that’s been punched out of him, his hand digging back into Eddie’s hair in a way that’s soothing, perhaps a bit too sweet, like if he weren’t so busy rolling his eyes back into his skull and muttering, “fuck, that’s good,” he’d be cooing.
Eddie moans. His shoulders shake with the effort of holding himself up, his head heavy and sloshing with booze and brine and Buck, Buck, Buck.
“Jesus, look’t you,” Buck says, punctuated with a sharp gasp as Eddie suckles the precome from his tip, and taps Eddie’s temple until he opens his eyes to look up at him. Their eyes meet—as best they can with Eddie’s fuzzy vision and drooping eyelashes—every colour diluted in diminutive light, the bright shade of Buck’s open lips and splatter over his brow a stark contrast to his pale and shining skin. Eddie blinks, Eddie hums. He swallows Buck down as far as he can take it and gags. “Oh my god,” Buck laughs and it’s perfect, “you’re literally gagging for it.”
“Hnng,” Eddie grunts around a mouthful of dick. He’s not exactly denying it.
“Ha— taste good?”
Eddie nods, his lashes fluttering shut once more. He isn’t doing much with the cock in his mouth; Eddie has no idea how to give a blowjob. He just suckles on it, feels it heavy on his tongue, the strain in his jaw, the salt in his throat. It’s making him dizzy. It’s making all his joints loose and his muscles weak.
His arms give out from under him, but the elastic stretched taut between Buck’s thighs cradles Eddie’s cheek like a hammock. Eddie hums, “mmmmm,” with resounding satisfaction. Buck curses through his teeth at the vibration of his voice, a hot and wet and rumbling vise around his cock determined to suck him dry.
“Holy fuck,” Buck says. “I need— I gotta—”
Creaking an eye open at the sound of rustling fabric, Eddie catches sight of Buck fishing his pants from where they hang over the edge of the bed. He pulls his phone out of the pocket. Eddie’s guts become a forest aflame.
“Don’t mind me,” Buck says, and suddenly the room ignites with the bright white light of his flash, “just gotta- ‘m too drunk for this. Wanna remember it. Like, fuck.”
The flash is so bright, even with his eyes closed, Eddie has to squint. A smattering of oranges and pinks swimming about behind his lids, his slow-boat brain swimming in all the booze in his skull. He hums again, rolling his tongue over the underside of Buck’s cock; still at rest in the cradle of Buck’s hip and waistband, he slides a hand under his stomach to squeeze where his body wails, neglected.
“UGGGHHH,” Buck groans, hearty and gravelly and a little dumbfounded. “Oh, gorgeous— oh, f-look at me? C’mon, show me those eyes.”
With a slow flutter of his lashes, Eddie does. He’s met with painful light, a hand, a phone. The reflective frame of his water-logged lashes. The light shines over Buck’s torso, shiny with sweat and dried-down trails of Eddie’s spit, heaving with laborious breaths.
“Pretty,” he says, distractedly. Then he rolls his hips minutely, gently, his cock sliding hardly an inch out of Eddie’s mouth before pushing back in. “Aahh, shit— you like it, baby? Big cock pluggin’ your mouth?”
“Uunhhh,” Eddie affirms, his eyes rolling back before falling shut once more.
“Christ,” Buck spits. “Yeah you do, fuck, can’t even- can-ven do anything with it, your mouth’s so full.”
Another thrust, less careful this time. It punches a nasty sound out of Eddie’s throat, forces drool past the corners of his hung-open mouth. Eddie whines, a tiny, aborted little noise, and thrusts into his palm.
“Oh?” Buck chirps, rolling his hips once more with curious intent. Eddie melts that much further. “Wan’ me to fuck that mouth, baby?”
Eddie’s chest erupts with an affirmatory moan, feeling vaguely as if he’s about to sink through the mattress and hit the floor with a thud. He just feels so good; cradled in Buck’s pelvis, a puddle in the bedding; struggling to breathe, sharp through his nose, around the obstruction in his throat, the pressure on his tongue. He lies there and lets Buck fuck his throat all shallow, all clumsy, and spew his expletive praises. A viscous vat of feeling. Edges closing in. Eddie’s entire existence diminished to a struck match in the dark, a flame that flickers out with a huff.
“Whoa-whoa.”
The light of his flash disappears, everything dark once more. Buck’s hands find purchase in Eddie’s hair and gently cup his jaw, sliding his cock out of his mouth with a slick, bubbling noise. “Wakey-wakey,” he says with a couple taps to Eddie’s aching jaw. “Earth to Eddie.”
“Mmm-uh,” Eddie mumbles, blinking his eyes open and seeking Buck’s face. When he meets it, he smiles. “Mm-Buck,” he hums, pressing his cheek to fuzzy thigh and nuzzling in close. He pushes another hum through his nose.
Buck curses, some combination of fuck and Christ and whatever else fumbling off his tongue with a hiss. Wrapping a hand around Eddie’s nape, he pulls him up, a graceless tumble as Eddie slides up over Buck’s body and mashes their mouths together. Hot breath and a moan, passed from Buck’s tongue onto Eddie’s, his hands relentless in their exploration of however much Eddie he can reach.
“God, you’re so—” Buck’s sentence dies with another smacking kiss. He groans, a hungry growl, flipping them over with a toss of his hips until Eddie’s thrown onto his back without fanfare. It reveals just how hard he is, straining against pale pink fabric and seeping through with slick, the fabric so wet and tight it clings enough that the twitch of his cock is obvious. “Mmh,” Buck moans, “I feel… like some sorta animal. Like I wanna eat you.”
Eddie dares him to.
He stretches, arms over his head and pointed toes, melting into his muscles under the weight of Buck’s heady gaze. His torso pebbles in the cool, dark air, under Buck’s scalding touch. He feels— boneless, like his joints have all unhooked and all he can do is sink, floating about inside his body instead of filling it out completely. He lies there and lets Buck look at him, Buck touch him. Lets him peel his pants over his hips and down his legs where he kneels over Eddie, looming. His underwear goes with it, Buck’s hot hands down his legs, shoes and socks and everything tossed haphazardly aside until he’s bare—save for his tattered excuse for a shirt—and pink, and heaving, and waiting. Buck curses again, a palm landing in the hollow dip of Eddie’s pelvis, the other sliding down his leg; the rolling hill of his thigh, the valley behind his knee, a pressing thumb to the ball of his ankle.
“You’resofuckingsexy,” Buck slurs on an exhale, scraping his teeth over Eddie’s calf muscles. “Every inch of you,” he bites down on the arch of Eddie’s foot and draws from him a squeal, “‘s fuckin’ annoying.”
“Fuck me,” Eddie pleas.
Buck nods, Buck moans. “Yeah,” he breathes, diving down with Eddie’s leg hooked over his shoulder to sink his teeth into soft inner thigh. “Yeah, ‘m gonna, I’m gonna.”
“Mmmmhh…”
Eddie’s spine rolls, a wave, a pulse. Buck’s mouth is hot, his teeth are sharp, his breath comes out all clingy-wet. He gnaws at Eddie’s thigh like he’s a goddamn chew toy, his hand lying still at Eddie’s pelvic bone, ignoring his aching, jumping cock as it leaks all over his belly. He wants to grab it, squeeze it enough to quiet the throb, feed himself the relief for which his stomach lurches, but his hands may as well be anvils where they lie heavy in the bedding. He hasn’t the strength to move. His limbs all limp, all loose, Buck’s strong hand pushing up on his leg so he has better access to the seam of Eddie’s thigh and cheek; he continues to chew at his flesh, to mark him up and drink his sweat, his nose digging into the crease of his pelvis. His mouth drifts toward his middle.
He gasps as Buck’s tongue meets his pucker, a long, thick stripe from his hole to his balls. A moan melts out of him. Buck moans in response.
“Fuck me,” he pleas again, and this time he really means it. Needs it. Every cell in his body cries out for it.
Buck nods, his nose pressed to Eddie’s perineum, breathing out, “yeah, baby,” and in a sudden whirl, Eddie’s flipped onto his stomach, his limbs flopping uselessly along.
Eddie moans. “Wan’ it so bad,” he whines into the pillow under his cheek, his fists curling into the sheets in some fruitless attempt at purchase as his sense of balance catches up. He hears Buck spew desecration through his teeth as he takes Eddie’s ass in each palm and kneads. “Unh, please, I wann— just put’t in.”
“Uggghhhhh,” Buck groans, loud and long. “Please stop talking. ‘M going crazy.”
Rolling his hips into the mattress, Eddie’s knee slides up the blankets. “Buck—”
“I know, I know,” Buck soothes. He hacks a sludgey glob of drool, slow in its descent to Eddie’s waiting hole. It’s cold as it kisses his skin, pebbles crawling across his flesh; Buck’s thumb drags through it, dipping into his entrance in a wicked tease. “Need lube,” he mumbles.
“Nooo,” Eddie says with a shake of his head. He squirms down into the mattress as petulance and impatience wrack through every last one of his muscles. “N-no, no, just fuck me.”
“Have ‘n idea.” Buck’s heat disappears, his hands fall away. Eddie whines his dissent as he feels him go, following his shadowy form with bleary eyes as he crosses the room to reach for the door. He cracks it open, sticks his head out. “Does anyone have any lube?” he shouts.
Eddie groans, mortified. He doesn’t have it in him to look away, however, the gold light from the other room bleeding in through the ajar door and etching out all of Buck’s soft edges— the squish above his waistband, the blonde fuzz on his thigh, his underwear all crooked and low across his hips. Eddie wonders if his dick is still hanging out, precariously concealed behind the door he peeks through. His mouth waters at the thought, the image of it vivid despite his booze-fogged mind.
Someone appears in the slat of light, shining teeth, wandering eyes. They land on Eddie, where the light spills over his prone and naked body in the blankets; Eddie digs his face into the pillow as if that’s any way to hide. “Here, man,” the guy shouts over the bass, punctuated by Buck’s aw, hell yeah. “Have fun,” he snorts, and then the light and the noise disappear with a click.
“Knew that would work,” Buck says through an audible grin, a pep in his step as he bounds back to the mattress.
“W’sso humiliating,” Eddie grumbles. “Now, fuck me.”
“Aha,” Buck laughs. The rip of a packet torn open sounds out. “You get so bossy when you’re drunk.”
Eddie shakes his head, his hair mussing up in the pillows. “Not bossy,” he argues. Just desperate, he keeps to himself.
Buck hums, a low, gravelly note, squeezing Eddie’s asscheek in one hand and spreading him apart. “Then quit bossin’ me around,” he says, and pours cold and slippery lube directly over Eddie’s hole. They both moan in tandem—Eddie at the sticky sensation, Buck at the gratuitous visual—as Eddie thrusts down into the sheets on instinct. Like he’s trying to squirm away.
“Holy fuck,” Buck lauds, releasing Eddie’s cheek to dig two thick fingers into his hole without finesse. The squelch of it tears through Eddie like flame. A few slow, sumptuous thrusts, Eddie writhes against the mattress as Buck explores his every nook; he spreads his fingers wide and holds Eddie’s entrance open, squeezing out every last drop from the packet.
It’s so cold, trickling down into Eddie’s heat in a syrupy-smooth descent. It’s so foreign, so vulgar—breaching the warmest, most intimate parts of his body and filling him with slimy cool—that it makes his breath hold still, straining against the walls of his ballooning chest. His heart trips up, his brain short circuits. His tongue swells fat and useless in his mouth.
He clenches around nothing— around air and slick and the two strong fingers that keep him cracked open at the rim. He whines into the pillows, all sing-song and adrift, “mmph-’m sooo wet,” with a lascivious curl of his toes.
“Fuuuuuuuucccckkk,” Buck groans—Buck roars—and unsheathes his fingers in a rush. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
He’s clumsy, borderline barbaric as he crawls over Eddie, sinking his knees into the mattress by Eddie’s hips and knocking their legs together, wasting no time sealing his mouth to Eddie’s nape and nudging his blunt, thick cockhead against the tight, unstretched ring of Eddie’s pucker. He imagines headlights before impact— a moan leaps up from Eddie’s stomach without warning, a wound fist that meets his gut, and feels the automatic, involuntary release of every last one of his muscles in some reflexive urge to surrender.
And then suddenly Buck is inside him.
It is so, so wet, a frankly excessive amount of lube— the slick, squidgy noise, the way it all spills over to make room for Buck’s length, saturating the coarse hairs at the root of his cock and dribbling in trails down Eddie’s balls. It’s wet, it’s slippery, guiding the way for Buck to slide his way home. But it doesn’t make Eddie any less tight. Doesn’t make Buck’s cock any less huge.
He’s so unbelievably full. A harrowing, overwhelming expansion all the way to the back of his throat, leaking from his ears, as if he’s filling up with hot air and poised to float away; a pressurized strain at the walls of his body, the pop, pop, pop of his seams.
Another long, stretchy, “Fuuucckkk,” rumbles deep in Buck’s chest and spills hotly from his mouth. Damp breath on Eddie’s skin, warm weight on Eddie’s back.
“Oh, my God,” Eddie tries to say, but with his useless tongue and his face in the pillows it comes out as muffled gibberish.
Buck laughs at him; “ha-aha—” he puffs behind Eddie’s ear. His hips meet Eddie’s ass in a slow, fluid motion, grinding his length deep into his guts and ensuring he feels every inch of it. “Good?”
Eddie’s jaw unhinges at the shocks that course through him. He clamps his teeth into the pillow. “MMMMMNHHHGGHHHH,” his over-taut diaphragm forces out, unable to keep his thighs from clenching, unclenching, clenching with every swirl of Buck’s hips.
That sticky noise again, frothing up loudly in the room as Buck draws back in a gradual, torturous pull before rocking back in, again and again. He keeps hitting this mark, this button, a trigger that shoots sparks through Eddie’s veins and bursts light behind his eyes. “Unh, you’re so tight,” Buck moans, just to add to this overflowing pot of indulgence. “Oh, sshhh— baby, you fit like a glove.”
Eddie hums as he tries to speak. Though he’s not exactly sure what he’s saying. It all comes together to wholly incapacitate him; the alcohol sloshing around his skull and in his belly, the jolts of pleasure that quake through his bones. He feels vaguely like he’s disappearing, like all that’s left of him is the flesh that dampens under Buck’s breath, the sheath that swallows Buck’s big cock; wherever his mouth meets or his hands feel, the muscle under his smooth-wet teeth and the curve of waist under his palm. Buck’s pace sets itself, arrhythmic and paralyzing, dwindling Eddie down to a puddle of pleasure in the blankets.
The room is spinning. He feels like he can’t really breathe, not with the spit-soaked cotton in his mouth and Buck’s dick all the way in his throat. Every time he blinks he sees water, just darkness and wetness and whatever colours burst with every pulse. Dizzy, dizzy. He lies there limp and passive, Buck rocking his body as he chases his own sloppy pleasure and pours him over with tawdry praise that Eddie hardly hears. Simultaneously overwhelmed with pleasure and completely detached from his body’s sensations. He’s dizzy. So dizzy. The room keeps right on spinning.
It occurs to Eddie in a shuddering wave that he has yet to touch his dick. No wonder it fucking hurts.
“‘M gonna come,” he slurs through clenched teeth, stuffed cotton. “Gonna pa-ass out, ‘m gonna fucking come.”
“Uuuughhh,” Buck growls, the pace of his hips quickening to something brutal and unforgiving. Eddie’s eyes roll back so hard they ache. “Yeah, fuck, yeah baby— unh, come on my cock, that’s it, w-wanna feel it.”
A reedy, “ooooohhhhh,” coils tight in Eddie’s chest, a throb of heat that blooms at his belly. He has no choice but to chase it, follow it, let the peak of his pleasure unravel in a winding helter-skelter that he’s helpless but to ride. A turbulent plummet, bottomless. The world, Eddie’s consciousness— any remaining grasp on reality, all whipping by and slipping away.
The last things Eddie registers are the blossom of warmth beneath his hips and Buck’s wrung-out whimper in his ear. Then he reaches the end of his fall in a downy, dark, welcoming vat, all the tension seeping through his pores as he arrives with an exhale in the velvet arms of sleep.
-----
There’s no time to talk about it in the chaos of the following day. This doesn't make the topic any less present, however, orbiting around them in every room they occupy.
They roll out of bed with their stiff muscles and their stale mouths, digging the hangovers from their eyes with groggy fists— and then the search begins. It’s a long, exhausting day of following breadcrumbs and chasing tails; Chimney was here, and then there, but never here or there or here. He knows there are bigger things to worry about—Maddie goes to work in her goddamn wedding dress, it’s that serious—yet Eddie spends his entire day in a distracted, fugue state, parsing through his memories for any fleeting taste of it. They come to him in fragmented pictures, in disembodied feelings; Buck’s mouth and Buck’s hands, the bassline under his feet, filthy words in Eddie’s ear; something that feels an awful lot like melting, something that feels exactly like pulling the pin off a live grenade. His muscles ache around his hips and thighs, a tightness in his lower back. It hurts to sit, just a little, a slight discomfort. Evidence that it wasn’t an alcohol-induced lucid dream. He wears it in his muscles. He wears it on his skin. He’s painfully self-conscious about it all fucking day, the way he knows he smells like sex— salty and sour, skin and musk and clinging breath. Every time he stands too close to someone he worries if they can tell, that they can take one good look at him and one strong whiff and know, with total certainty, exactly what walls Eddie toppled last night. Where he’d been, what he’d done, and who he’d done it with.
(Still, though, when he finally gets the chance to shower it all away, he watches the water circle the drain like he’s sad to see it go.)
And then there’s Buck.
It’s all lingering looks and loaded stares, that necessary conversation sitting waiting on their tongues with no time alone to do anything about it. There’s this charge between them, kinetic and tangible, lying dormant under their flesh and humming through locked eyes, just waiting for the concern for Chimney and the wedding excitement and the bustle of constant company to fall away and leave room for it. But it never does. The time never comes.
Then Buck strolls into the hospital room with his soot-covered mouth and a soot-covered Tommy trailing behind him and Eddie’s chest seizes up at the sight— not so much out of jealousy or a broken heart, but an instinctive flare of panic on his behalf; his secret quite literally smeared across his face. He watches everyone’s reactions—varying from shock to joy to the smug affect of feeling right all along—as they add to the spirited, celebratory energy that already overstuffs the room, waiting for Buck to meet his eye once more. When he does, Eddie quirks a brow at him. With a glimmer in his eye, Buck only shrugs.
And then Eddie finds himself at home. He finds his girlfriend at home with him. He doesn’t even fully know how it happened, but Marisol had shoved her proverbial foot in the door and gave him one of those soft-eyed smiles and he couldn’t find it in him to turn her away, no matter the guilt that manifests like nausea at the sight of her.
She’s in the shower right now, the sound of running water reaching him from down the hall. Chris is in his own room, headphones on, controller in hand, likely several hours away from completing what Eddie thinks is called a raid. He lies here in his bed with his back propped up on the pillows, staring at his phone, the screen lit up, the blinking cursor in the empty text box of his ongoing thread with Buck. He can’t think of what to say. He knows he needs to say something, but he doesn’t know where to begin.
Luckily, Buck beats him to it. Those three dots appear and announce that he’s typing; Eddie’s heart skips a few beats and sends his body into fight-or-flight. At the exact moment he hears the water stop and the shower curtain squeal, Buck’s message arrives in his palm.
You’d make a killing on OnlyFans.
It’s accompanied by a video attachment. The thumbnail alone has Eddie’s stomach doing flip-flops. It’s stamped with a big white PLAY button right in the center, but Eddie would recognize his own face anywhere; lit up like the moon under the shine of the flash and cradled between Buck’s bare thighs.
His pulse thunders in his ears. His thumb hovers over the play button. He waits for the click of the bathroom door opening, waits for Marisol to come traipsing down the hall, but the sound never comes; instead comes the loud and sudden whirr of the blow-dryer being switched on.
So he presses play.
“…just gotta- ‘m too drunk for this. Wanna remember it. Like, fuck.”
Eddie would laugh at the slurred-out clumsiness of Buck’s voice, had it not been for what he sees: himself—or, perhaps more accurately, some fuzzy, glowing apparition of himself—with clumpy-wet lashes and a satiated furrow in his brow; all red in the face, a rosy flush warming his cheeks and biting the tip of his nose; his eyes shifting beneath eyelids; the hum that bleeds into the distant, thumping bass; his jaw flexing where his mouth is stretched wide open, Buck’s thick, drool-covered cock between his ruddy lips.
He remembers this. He hadn’t remembered up until now except in fragments, never in full. Now, as he watches it all unfold, it comes together. He remembers the taste of it, the feel of it, remembers how all-consuming his need had been. Remembers Buck’s elated, guttural groan, underscored by dirty bass and the wind in Eddie’s nose.
Buck’s slurred out saccharine demand of, “c’mon, show me those eyes,” with which Eddie—or at least this Eddie—complies.
His breath catches behind his breastbone as he meets his own gaze. His own watery, glazed-over gaze. It feels so… sinful. Indulgence to the highest degree, to witness himself in such a state. He looks wasted. Bloodshot eyes and droopy eyelashes; but this haze, as well, this visible hunger that manages to somehow accompany a syrupy satisfaction. Pretty, Buck says; Eddie’s first instinct is to agree. It’s followed by the distinct sensation of his stomach hitting the floor.
“Aahh, shit— you like it baby? Big cock pluggin’ your mou—”
He has to mute it. It’s all just way too much. He can’t hear another word from Buck’s filthy mouth nor the moans he’s due to start spilling. There’s already too much heat pooling at Eddie’s hips, too much weight between his legs, a buzz presenting at his temples. Yet he can’t seem to make himself stop watching.
So he just watches. Watches this lust-drunk, incoherent version of himself between the frame of Buck’s strong thighs. Watches his eyes roll and his lashes flutter and his cheeks burn even more pink. He watches Buck barely fuck his throat, just messy, uncoordinated movement that Eddie rides in the sling of Buck’s waistband. The spit that bubbles up at the corners of his mouth. His fingers clawing at pale flesh. He sees it as it happens— every muscle in his face going slack as his consciousness wanes into nothing. Like he suddenly has no soul. It makes Eddie gasp, a ball in his chest.
And then the video’s over.
Slack-jawed and hard as a rock, Eddie just sits there for a seemingly endless moment, staring at the final frame. His heart thumps against his ribs, ba-dum, ba-dum. It takes a minute, but then he’s blinking himself back into his body, backing out of the video and into his text thread with Buck and then… stares at his phone for a little while longer.
Delete this video, he eventually types but does not send. He deletes it, typing, thanks? and then deleting that again. He gnaws on the inside of his cheek with stomach-turning, heart-murmuring contemplation, before he finally writes, only if you’re filming me.
Down the hall, the bathroom door opens. Panic makes his thumb hit send. He slams his phone face-down on the bedside table as Marisol steps through the door, shaking her hair out. She smiles at Eddie and he smiles back and wonders if she can tell he’s aching.
He does briefly consider it, eyeing her as she flicks off the light, tracking her as she crosses the room; considers relief under another’s touch, her clean hair, her smooth skin. But as she’s climbing into bed beside him, she shoots Eddie a curious smile and says, “you alright? You look a little… queasy,” without even realizing what she’s implied.
He has to suppress his self-deprecating laughter. He shifts in the bedding, scrubbing a hand over his mouth and cheek as he contemplates what to say instead. “Would you believe me if I said I’m still hungover?” he lands on, and earns from her a quiet laugh.
“Oh, yeah,” she says with a nod, settling in under the covers. “After the night you two had?”
He freezes up into a glacier. “Uh…”
“Heard you got fined by the hotel and everything,” she says. Eddie studies her, the mirth in her eyes under moonlight— it doesn’t seem like she means anything incriminating, no hint of accusation in her tone. He thaws, telling himself to stop worrying. “Kinda jealous I wasn’t there. Sounds like one hell of a party.”
When Eddie beams, it’s genuine. “Best bachelor party ever,” he says, “for a bachelor that wasn’t even there.”
“Ah, you guys partied enough for him,” she waves a dismissive hand, leaning into his space.
“Sure did,” he squeaks, and lets Marisol kiss him goodnight. He's quick to roll over once they part, squeezing out a pathetic, “g’night.”
Eddie forgot to plug his phone in. He realizes this now as he stares at it—face-down on his bedside table—as if it’s about to detonate. It does not, in fact, explode, but Eddie’s reflexes don’t seem to know the difference; light creeps out from underneath it, bleeding between the cracks, as a new notification rolls in. He stares at it until it goes dark again, his heart all the way in his throat. He stares for at least two minutes. He knows this because he continues to watch as it lights up and dims once more.
He shouldn’t look. He can’t look. It’s fucking killing him, curiosity taking form of a hundred scraping claws tearing their way out of his belly, wondering what Buck said in response. It's a little ironic, the way he knows Buck so well it’s like he’s seen him inside out, and yet he has not a clue what Buck’s reaction might be. Only if you’re filming me, Eddie’s such an idiot. Why would he send that? Why did he say that? When Buck is out there, somewhere, probably lying next to his boyfriend the way that Eddie’s here, under his blankets, with his girlfriend by his side.
His phone lights up again.
“Shit,” Eddie hisses under his breath. He grabs it without thinking.
At the very least, he does have the wherewithal to gingerly peek over his shoulder and check if his girlfriend’s still awake. It’s hard to say— she’s facing the other way, her back to Eddie, but that’s good enough for him.
He unlocks his phone. The light throbs in his eyes before he slides the brightness down. It opens right up to his conversation with Buck, as if waiting for his return.
Name the time and place and I am so there, he wrote. Eddie pinches his bottom lip between his teeth as a grin splits his face in half. In fact, I’m already there.
Rubbing his feet together, Eddie tries his best to contain all the giddiness that bubbles up within him. His cheeks hurt from smiling, his bones attempt to wiggle, a flock of flapping wings causing turbulence in his tummy. Somehow, the only reply Eddie can think to make is a godforsaken thumbs up react.
There’s more, however. The timestamp indicates Buck had let a few minutes roll by without a response before dropping another video. Eddie’s brows furrow with unfamiliarity. He doesn’t remember another video being taken. The thumbnail does little to help identify it, an out-of-focus blur of a bent knee in white bedding as though the video opens in motion.
It’s captioned, I’d hate for you to miss a moment, complete with a pink heart emoji.
Eddie blinks rapidly, his eyes flitting about in the dark as he wracks his brain for answers. He buffers for so long his phone screen dims and then darkens completely. He tries and tries and tries, but no matter how many images and feelings he manages to dig up from the darkness (which do nothing to quell the problem between his legs, for the record), he just can’t quite place what’s captured in this video. And he is desperate, fucking dying to know. The knowledge awaiting him sits heavy in his palm.
With a drawn-out sigh, Eddie pulls the blankets back.
Marisol miraculously does not stir as he slides out of bed, nor as he rifles through his gym bag by the closet in search of his AirPods before he pads down the hall and locks the bathroom door behind him. He flicks on the fan for some added white noise, closing the lid on the toilet and taking a seat, putting his earbuds in and pressing play without a moment to spare.
He was right— the video opens in swooping motion, white sheets and golden skin; muffled voices and distant music, the rustle of blankets, Buck’s titillated, overjoyed giggle. The camera whips by until it lands on Buck’s face, off-center and at a goofy angle, the flash shining right up into his nostrils. It’s still breathtaking, Eddie can’t help but think, that flush that warms his sweat-damp face, the fog of alcohol and lust blowing his pupils out wide.
“Dude,” he says through a lopsided grin, “you’re not gonna believe this,” and spins the camera around to pan up, up over Eddie’s back to where his head rests in the pillows. His cheek all smushed, his mouth agape, a puddle of drool beneath him. “You’re fucking snoring,” he says through his laughter.
Buck pulls back, taking the camera with him, to reveal Eddie’s slumbering torso (at what point did his shirt disintegrate into just a collar and cuffs?) all washed-out and over-exposed by white flash in the dark. His arms up at his sides, his fists curled in the blankets. The track of his spine glimmers with a trail of gathered sweat. A snore rips through his lips, earning a puff of amused air from Eddie’s nose as he watches on all curious, anticipation igniting his veins.
Then the camera tilts down. Eddie is slapped across the face with the image of Buck’s cock—hard and glistening with shiny lube—still nestled deep inside him.
He drops a hand to his lap—the spread of balm over a burn. The soft noise that escapes Eddie’s teeth gets swallowed up by the hum of the fan.
“Hope you don’t mind,” Buck says, and rolls his hips in a sensuous, savoury grind. “But I didn’t come yet.” His free hand digs into Eddie’s asscheek, dimpling the flesh and kneading it like dough. A rush of air flows out of him, tinny through the microphone, high and shivering with pleasure as he rolls his hips once more. “Aw, who’m I kidding,” he slurs, feeding Eddie’s body a firm, tenacious thrust. “You don’ mind.”
Eddie’s lungs have stopped breathing. All they do is gasp, seize up and ache in his ribs. He stares, unblinking, awe-struck and stupefied by the image of Buck’s cock sliding in and out, in and out of his own wakeless, unknowing body. The sounds, too, wet and squidgy with sticky lube that glints under the bright white flash; the coily hair that’s soaked in it, the way it stretches like webbing between their bodies with every backward draw of Buck’s hips.
Under his palm, his cock leaps and swells. He squeezes it, suppresses it; though he can’t help but whimper as he rolls into the pressure.
Buck moves the camera around as he goes, the rhythmic slap of skin loud in Eddie’s ears as he’s carried over to linger near his sleeping face, then the slope of his shoulder, down to the dip of his waist. Buck squeezes him there, groaning a barely intelligible, “s’fucking crazy,” before sliding all the way out. Eddie’s mouth waters at the sight, Buck’s messy cock lying heavy in his hand, before he drops it in favour of groping Eddie’s ass like he intends to leave a bruise. He spreads him apart, closing the camera in on the gulp of his gaping hole. It washes Eddie in white-hot humiliation, the kind that licks up the spine and heats up the face.
He can’t help but feel like he shouldn’t be seeing this. Like the patronizing eyes of an authority figure will appear over his shoulder at any given moment to catch him elbow-deep in sin twice over.
“Still hungry,” Buck teases, a chastising lilt in his tone. It only makes Eddie burn hotter, throb harder. “Even in your sleep. S’like you can’t get enough.”
The tremor that rocks through Eddie is enough to knock him off-kilter. He has to shove a hand into his briefs and wrap the base of his cock in a vise-like fist, pinching tight in an effort to tame it.
Rearing back for a wider angle, Buck’s free hand begins rubbing gentle circles over his asscheek, allowing the camera to hold on his body as it rests. His ribs rise and fall with slow, steady breaths, his skin warm with sleep and flushed at every joint—the balls of his shoulders, the points of his elbows—his hair a mussed-up disaster in the overstuffed hotel pillows. Eddie watches himself sleep like he’s some disembodied entity, as though he’s gazing down at his empty shell as his soul floats up to the rafters.
Buck’s hand draws back. Eddie misses it as it goes, grieving the loss of touch on behalf of his unknowing self. But soon, Buck’s hand is back, landing with a sharp and sudden SMACK to Eddie’s skin. His ass jiggles obscenely at the abrupt contact. It immediately reddens to a vibrant, glowing fuchsia.
Eddie reacts. Not this Eddie, current Eddie, the one experiencing it all secondhand— but the other Eddie, the one that’s trapped in this box the size of his palm. There’s some movement, a slight wriggle. A groggy moan that bleeds from his chest.
“Ahaha— aww, he likes it,” Buck coos, punctuating it with another, maybe slightly less aggressive slap.
The Eddie in frame moans again, curling his body in as if attempting to turn around. The camera catches his face, still mostly absent if not for the lethargic flutter of his eyelashes and the short-lived pinch in his brow. He seems to murmur something, an unintelligible jumble of S’s and F’s and something that sounds kind of like Buck. And then he’s collapsing back into the pillows and deflating with an exhale, gone again in a flicker.
Another quiet laugh shakes out of Buck, fed directly into Eddie’s ears, descending his spine like trickling water. “You’re so cute,” Buck teases, while Eddie’s not around to defend himself. He grabs hold of Eddie’s opposite hip, rolling him onto his side. “Oh, shit,” he snickers at the lurid pool of release that seeps through all the bedding; a salacious enough sight to have Eddie’s jaw dropping, his pulse thickening, before he even notices the rest of it.
The rest of it: his stomach and his hips and his thighs, his beat-red and overspent dick, all shiny-wet and shimmering in a varnish of his own spend. It sends his breath out from his lungs in a shuddering rush at the same time he hears a reverent hiss through Buck’s teeth, a quiet, breathy, “whoa.” The camera closes in, Buck dragging his hand through the mess on his tummy and smearing it around. It makes a sticky noise, barely audible under the appreciative groan that Buck releases. “God, you came like crazy,” he whispers, simultaneously laudatory and bright with amusement. “You didn’t even touch your dick.”
Buck does. Touch his dick, that is, taking his limp and slippery cock in his hand and giving it a lazy tug. Eddie watches on with agog fascination at the way it wakes, a gentle throb of curiosity, before it slaps back down onto his stomach as Buck’s hand moves on; draping his palm over the dip of Eddie’s waist, digging his thumb into the ridge of Eddie’s ab muscles, he rises to full height until the camera once again hovers above him like the all-seeing eyes of God.
Fuck, this is so shameful. This is worse—or better, depending on one’s perspective—than the last video, that same sinful indulgence of witnessing oneself in such a state but dialled up to dangerous levels. Eddie isn’t sure when it began, but he realizes with a sudden sense of physicality that his fist gently strokes his own length; just lazy, half-aborted movement, absentminded as he hazily watches as Buck pushes his knee up and straddles his outstretched leg, as he sinks inside him once more. He stares at himself, outside himself; his body without his self. Here, in this context, little more than an object. It makes it easier to compartmentalize, somehow, easier to trace the lines of his body with hungry eyes and see it for what it is. He admires himself, painful as it is to admit; the curve of his ass and the narrow twist at his middle, his warm skin catching the light where he sheens with sweat and come.
There’s also this pattern Eddie can’t help but notice, a trend between this video and the last; regardless of his level of consciousness, he seems remarkably at peace. Careless, wantless, needless, perfectly content between Buck’s thighs or beneath his touch, wherever he may be.
This revelation does not surprise him.
“Uuugh, I’m so—” Buck whimpers, tight in his chest with frustration. He folds over him, planting a hand in the pillow by Eddie’s head and tilting the camera down for a top-down angle of Buck’s chest, his belly, his frantic hips as he fucks Eddie’s supple form. “’M so close,” he whines, “but I can’t— I’m too ff-ah fucking dru-unk.”
Eddie nearly bowls over with the powerful need to groan. He swallows it down, a weighty ball in his gut, squeezing on the next upstroke and picking up his pace. Dizzy with it, desperate and breathless. Buck seems to be faring similarly. There’s some movement, the camera whipping around like Buck can’t hold it up any longer, swooping down over and over like he keeps trying to grab onto Eddie’s waist, like he forgets the camera’s even there. More rustling, more commotion, the phone lands somewhere in the sheets forgotten; there isn’t much to see, just a blur of tan skin and white cotton peeking through the smothering shadows, but it doesn’t matter. Eddie isn’t watching anymore. He gets caught up and carried away by the sound of creaking bedsprings, grinding bass, skin on sticky skin. Buck’s desperation seeps out of his body in frustrated whimpers and frenzied grunts, hissing profanity through his teeth as he chases his pleasure like a dog after a bone. Eddie hears himself, too, every soft often, these quiet, reflexive sounds that pour into his ears all thick like molasses with sleep.
“Please, I wanna— ple-e—” Buck moans, his words breaking off into a desperate sob. It tightens like a knot in Eddie’s tummy, his fist moving furiously along his length as he tries to keep pace with Buck. “I’m so-ohh, fuck, oh, fff—”
There’s more movement as the phone is picked back up, some unintelligible rambling from Buck as he pulls out, grabs Eddie’s hip, and pushes him onto his back. His shoulders are slow to comply, his limbs flopping heavily along, until Buck can crowd over him, cock in hand, and carry himself to the edge. “I’m gonna—” he chokes out, “I’m… haahhh,” as his cock throbs stubbornly in his rapid fist, putting up one last fight before he’s finally spilling, spilling, adding to the mess on Eddie’s stomach as his lungs deflate with an infinite groan. Eddie catches his own sounds in his throat, his knees knocking together and sinking his teeth into his bottom lip as sticky warmth seeps over his fist and all over his briefs, soaking through his shorts. His body quakes with it, coming down and catching his breath as he watches Buck’s finger trail through all the spunk, an honestly profuse amount of it dripping across Eddie’s waist and pooling at his navel.
No wonder he reeked of sex all day. Fucking Buck, Eddie thinks to himself, perhaps a bit too fondly.
“Aha— ha,” Buck is laughing, totally breathless, clearly amused. He spins the camera back around to face him, a fist squeezing around Eddie’s heart at the flushing, fucked-out sight of him. He sticks his fingers in his mouth, right past his grinning teeth, and sucks them clean with a moan.
That’s how the video ends.
Eddie sits there, hunched over on the toilet, his comey hand in his pants and his breath coming in short. He looks around at the bathroom, the buzzy-bright lights, the painted white walls, the bounty of confrontations he’s avoided for a lifetime resting heavily on his shoulders. A plunge he’s been long overdue to take— the terrifying truths it’s time to face.
Truths that look something like this: like Eddie backing out of the video and scrolling back up through his texts with Buck; like Eddie finding Buck’s response, name the time and place and I am so there, and holding down until he can hit reply; like Eddie typing, clumsily and one-handedly but nonetheless sincerely, anytime, anywhere, and promptly pressing send.
With a sigh, Eddie locks his phone. Runs his tongue over his teeth in distant thought. He needs to get up. He needs to wash his hands, change his underwear and carry his ass back to bed.
He laughs to himself, pressing his forehead to his palm as it suddenly occurs to him that’s where his girlfriend’s waiting. That here he is, once again, forgetting he has a girlfriend.
“Oh, Eddie,” he whispers to himself with a disappointed shake of his head, a hefty sigh distending his chest. “You’ve really done it this time.”