juriko
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Captain Buckley, who is steady, who has his shit together, who definitely does not recognize his new probie because he spent a night eight years ago with his hands in that man's hair whispering things against his skin that would get him fired on the spot if anyone in this building ever found out.
"You must be Eddie Diaz." His hand goes out. Not shaking, by some miracle that deserves its own cathedral, its own patron saint, the patron saint of men who are dying inside and shaking hands about it. "Welcome to the 118. It’s nice to meet you, I’m Captain Buckley."
Eddie takes his hand. A firm grip, calloused in places Buck doesn't remember, but Buck's skin recognizes him anyway, every nerve, all at once.
"Captain." Eddie's voice is level, pleasant, perfectly neutral, and Buck would buy it completely if he couldn't see the tension bolted into Eddie's shoulders. "Thanks for having me." A beat. "You got a first name, Captain Buckley?"
"Evan. But most people just call me Buck."
"Buck," Eddie repeats, tasting it, dragging it out, and Buck's stomach drops through the floor. "Suits you."
Or,
Captain Buckley WILL NOT fuck his new probie, okay? At least, not again.- Language:
- English
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Bookmarked by juriko
13 Jun 2026
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“Alright,” Eddie shrugs, laissez-faire. He pulls Buck’s plate to the center of the table; pushes his own forward in kind. Then he begins a drawn-out circus routine of plucking an olive at a time up and out of the bowl and plopping them onto their respective dishes, one by one.
The delicate, repetitive movement of Eddie’s pinched fingers reminds Buck of picking the petals off of flowers. He loves me. He loves me not. He love—
An olive hits him square in the forehead.
“There,” Eddie says, resolute, as the pitted projectile tumbles to the ground at Buck’s feet. “Equal treatment.”
Or: Buck, Eddie, and the olive theory. Well, in theory.
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- English
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Bookmarked by juriko
07 Jun 2026
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Running to the frontlines from a childhood he never had. Taking a bat to the wall with his son in the next room. Having an affair with the spitting image of his dead wife.
Eddie knows he’s never been good at grieving, knows he’s never been good at losing what little he allows for himself in the first place. This is why he also knows his coping mechanisms can’t possibly get any worse.
Buck, as he so often does, makes him reevaluate his assumptions.
—
Evan Buckley dies behind a wall of glass. It’s a shame that when he’s revived not three minutes later, no one is informed.- Language:
- English
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- 124,157
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- 14/14
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Bookmarked by juriko
06 Jun 2026
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“Nice to meet you,” Eddie nods to them both, eyes sliding to Captain Nash’s other side, where the fourth member of their little team stands. He’s the youngest of them, positioned with his chest puffed out and arms crossed.
Eddie knows his type—insecure guys who get all threatened when someone intrudes on their territory. It’s an unsurprisingly common archetype among young werewolves.
“Evan Buckley,” he says. “Buck.”
He holds out a hand for Eddie to shake, as the name clicks for Eddie—the one Captain Nash had been on the edge of warning him about. Terrorizer of probies, more than likely.
And he’s cold. It’s a sharp contrast to Eddie’s naturally higher body heat, and he’s sure that it’s a strange sensation for both of them. When he breathes in a little deeper to check, seeking out Buck’s scent, he stills. The coppery smell is strong, overwhelmingly so. Buck is cold, and pale, and slimmer than Eddie would expect a firefighter his age to be.
or; eddie is a werewolf new to la, with a coworker who smells a lot like his natural enemy
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- English
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Bookmarked by juriko
22 May 2026
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“You said you talked to Hen about”—Ravi makes a vague, conjuring gesture, even though Eddie can’t see it—“all this yesterday, right? She dresses the best out of all of us. You should ask her for fashion advice.”
“I tried.” Eddie huffs. “She said, verbatim, ‘I’m not your gay Yoda.’”
With that, the fitting room stall’s lock finally clicks open, the door swinging open with a muted groan. Eddie steps out, arms spread wide. “Alright. What do we think?”
From an objective standpoint, he looks good. He looks really good. Objectively speaking.
From a subjective standpoint, he looks like someone Buck wants to pin against the nearest surface and fuck until they’re both stupid.
“Handsome, you are,” Buck croaks.
—
Or: Eddie comes out to Buck and takes him clothes shopping.
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- English
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Bookmarked by juriko
08 May 2026