Snprblu72 - Snpr_Blu

🪖🪖🪖🪖🪖

🗺️🗺️🗺️🗺️🗺️

-🪖-

"Obviously we’re getting married, but do you also want to mate whenever my next heat is?”

Eddie tensed a bit—another thing that he had not considered. There was going to be a whole list of those, he was sure.

A purr rumbled from Evan’s chest at the change in his fiance’s posture and scent. “It’s a while off still, Eddie. Nothing to panic over. We have months, at least, before it comes around again.”

“I thought you had heats twice a year?”

He shrugged as well as he could, not wanting to really move that much since he had gotten so comfortable. “It’s kind of like going through puberty. You know how your ruts were unpredictable for a couple of years?” At Eddie’s confirming nod against his hair, he continued, “Well, I only presented about a year ago. So far I’ve had two—my first one that showed I was an omega and one just a couple of months ago.”

“But, technically, you could have one next week.”

“Yeah, I could,” he admitted.

-🗺️-

“Well, now everyone thinks we have two dogs, if they can see into the backyard anyway. One of them might be nosy enough to try, but they don’t really share much of a boundary with us,” Eddie said, gesturing vaguely toward the corner opposite where they were standing. With how high the fence was and the fact that Eddie had a couple of fruit trees there, Buck could see why he would be confident in saying that they were unlikely to be able to tell. There was little in the way of area that they would be able to see through.

“Bear is very happy to play fetch, and Chris really seems to be having a good time with it.” He nodded back towards the house. “You want to go inside, and we can work a little bit more on getting you some filters instead of just shields?”

He sighed heavily. Almost whining, much like his spirit guide could, he asked, “Do we have to?”

“Well, no, of course not. But you really do need to learn how to do more than shield, Eddie. You don’t want to lose control.”

It took a long moment, but then he turned back to the house. “Fine. I don’t need to bring everybody around if I had an empathic event.”

Make Me Write

Disciplinary Measures|T|946 Words

Read on AO3

Fandom: 9-1-1

Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley & Bobby Nash

Characters: Evan "Buck" Buckley, Bobby Nash

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, 9-1-1 Season 1 Episode 1, Fire Captain Bobby Nash, Formal Reprimands, Buck's First Write-Up, mentioned Howie "Chimney" Han, mentioned Henrietta "Hen" Wilson, Canon Rewrite, Evan "Buck" Buckley as Buck 1.0, Stealing the Ladder Truck Aftermath, Probably Some OOC

Summary: Bobby, instead of reprimanding Buck in Chim and Hen's presence, takes him to the office.

I just wanna say that if you ever feel like you don't belong in fandom because your art or writing isn't "up to par," by certain standards, fucking do it anyway. Because it's fandom. There shouldn't be any standards other than to have fun.

Don't talk yourself out of drawing that picture or writing that goofy fic because you're worried it's too much of a crack idea. Don't worry about how it's going to be received. If it makes you happy, do it.

You can play in the sand box however you want. Just don't be a dick.

I wrote this for myself to read when I'm getting overwhelmed by things that aren't dire/serious. Sometimes you need a little pep talk.

hello!! happy tuesday!! requesting 💛 💗💜 for buddie :)

thank you!! 💛 - reunion kiss/relief

The Indiana Jones Thing [On AO3] 2.3K words | buddie | near death experience | first kiss

-

The horizon dips and sways in Buck's field of vision, salt stinging his eyes and lips. His whole world is shades of blue: the ocean around him and the cloudless sky overhead, the white sun beating down. His skin from the shoulders up feels hot and stiff with sunburn, but everything else is cold. Even in the middle of the day, the ocean is so fucking cold.

The Pacific Ocean is one of the warmest oceans in the world, second only to the Indian Ocean. He read that somewhere, but he can't remember where, or what got him on the topic in the first place. It might have been Chris, or it might have been one of his insomnia-induced late-night Wikipedia binges in those shaken weeks after the tsunami.

It doesn't feel warm. Not right now. His clothes cling damply to him—t-shirt, uniform pants, his boots long-since kicked off and lost to the depths. He doesn't know how long he's been out here, or how much daylight he has left. How much daylight they have left to search for him, if anyone is even looking.

They're looking for him. He believes that. He does.

It's just—he's been treading water for a long time.

Perspective is strange from the water. The waves move him, breaking against his face, blurring his vision, but all he can really see from this angle is the vast blue ceiling of the sky. Birds, sometimes, high and fast-moving. Contrails, even higher than that, sunlight glinting on metal, streaks of vapor spreading out behind. He has a crazy, futile urge to wave his arms and scream every time one passes overhead, like someone's going to spot him from a jet forty thousand feet in the air.

All he can do is keep swimming. The water slips around his arms as he moves, a steady repetitive motion that's as slow as he can make it without actually sinking. Frog kicking to conserve his energy. He's a strong swimmer, always has been. He can do this. They're out here looking for him—he knows it. That means it's his job to stay alive long enough for them to find him.

"Just keep swimming, just keep swimming," he mumbles, a cracked, rasping singsong, and the sound of his own voice startles him so badly that he loses the rhythm of his strokes for a moment and goes under. When he finally surfaces again, sputtering, there's a low, rising rumble, the waves around him getting choppier.

Tsunami, he thinks vaguely. But it wouldn't feel like this. Out on the open ocean, tsunamis are fast-moving but barely perceptible on the surface. It's only when they move into the shallow waters closer to shore that the devastation starts. Flooded streets. Toppled cars. A small, precious body clutched in Buck's arms, or falling away into the water with devastating finality.

The rumbling is getting closer. Buck spins clumsily and blinks for a few moments, wondering if it's just a mirage that's about to blur and vanish into the punishing brilliance of the sun on the water. But it stays, and it gets closer: the sleek white shape of a patrol boat cutting through the water toward him, U. S. COAST GUARD printed across his hull.

Buck starts laughing, ragged and breathless. Maybe he's crying, too, or maybe that's just the saltwater stinging his eyes. The sound of the engine vibrates in his chest, in his ears, as someone in a wetsuit drops into the water and starts swimming toward him with long, smooth strokes, RFD towing behind him. For a wild instant, Buck thinks it might be Eddie, but of course when the man gets close enough to make out any detail, he's a stranger. Older, weather-beaten face, no-nonsense expression.

"Alright, Firefighter Buckley," he says as soon as he's close enough, and it's the best thing, the best thing, Buck has heard in hours. "I'm gonna push this floatation device to you, and I want you to grab it and hold on. Got it? Can you do that for me?"

"Y-y-yeah." Buck's teeth are chattering now. He doesn't know if it's cold or adrenaline or both; a wave of weakness washes through him. "I kn-n-now the d-drill."

The RFD bobs through the water toward him. He grabs at it, clutching it to his chest with such force that he goes under again for a second.

God, it's a relief to let his legs go loose, to feel the buoy hold him up, to have his survival dependent on something else besides his own body and stubbornness.

The guardsman waits until his grip is secure to start towing him back toward the boat. After that, it's all a confused blur of harnesses and hands and the sudden chill of the air as his body leaves the water, sopping wet clothes clinging.

He nearly collapses when his feet hit the deck, the abused muscles in his legs cramping and twanging. His arms feel like two chunks of concrete dangling from his shoulders. Two guardsmen catch him before he can collapse—the man from the water, and a woman who's enough shorter that Buck has to tilt at an awkward angle to lean on her shoulder. Someone wraps a thermal blanket around his shoulders, and he's guided stumbling and clumsy to a padded bench. He blinks, squinting in the sunlight—it's past the arch of the sky, heading toward the western horizon now. It was early morning when the boat broke up and he went into the water.

"H-how l-l-long was I—was I out there?" he manages through chattering teeth.

"It's sixteen forty-five now," the woman says. "Took us a while to pinpoint your location. You're a strong swimmer, Firefighter Buckley. Good thing, too."

More than nine hours. Closer to ten. He's not sure it felt that long. Time sort of stopped having any real meaning out in the water, but he feels every minute of that time now. "Ju-just Buck. Is f-fine."

"Buck." She actually smiles. "Your team is going to be glad to hear that you're alright. Now I have a few questions, just to see how you're feeling. Are you up for that? Someone's getting some dry clothes for you right now."

He nods. His neck feels heavy, and his muscles are throbbing, and the shivering is worse now, even with the blanket. He stumbles through the assessment, and must reassure her that at the very least he's not about to drop dead on her watch, because after that he's released to change into a hoodie and a pair of sweatpants that are several inches too short for him but blissfully dry. After that, he huddles back into the thermal blanket and watches the horizon skid by as the boat makes a wide, looping turn. It looks different from this angle. Bigger. He can see more of the world from above the water than he could when he was trying not to drown, and there's a metaphor in that, maybe.

That's the last thought he remembers having before sleep catches him and drags him under.

-

He wakes to footsteps, the sound of voices. All of the sounds feel louder and closer now, and when he finally drags his eyes open, they're docking. It's nearly sunset, the waves reflecting shifting shades of red and gold. It's pretty, he thinks sleepily. Even if it did just try to kill him. Again.

Shouts. Footsteps on the deck. Then hands on his shoulders, gentle but firm, and Buck blinks up at Bobby.

"Hey, Cap," he mumbles.

"Hey, kid." Those might actually be tears in Bobby's eyes, but he's smiling all the same. "Glad to see you're alright."

"Glad those Navy SEAL tryouts actually paid off," says Chim from behind him, and he's beaming too, unabashedly teary-eyed. "You just saved me from having to make one of the worst phone calls of my life, my friend."

"They wouldn't make you notify Maddie," Buck mumbles. "Against regulation."

"Yeah, and I bet you can name the line and letter," Chim says, as Bobby sinks down and wraps an arm around Buck's shoulders, squeezing tight. Buck leans against him. His skin feels itchy and sore from dried salt and sunburn, but at least he's not shivering anymore. Bobby's here, and Chim. He squints past them, but no other familiar faces appear.

"Hen and Eddie are in the other boat," Bobby says, before he can even ask. "They should be here any minute."

"And you are about to be read the riot act, make no mistake about it."

"Wasn't on purpose."

"Yeah, I know." Chim reaches across Bobby to scruff Buck's salt-sticky hair. "Just the worst luck known to mankind. You've got to be down at least three of those nine lives at this point."

The guardsman who examined him reappears over Chim's shoulder as they bump to a halt next to the dock. "Just a few more minutes, gentlemen. We already called it in; the ambulance will meet us there."

"I'm fine," Buck says, more for form's sake than because he thinks it'll get him off the hook here. "Just tired."

Chim scoffs loudly, and Bobby says, "You're going to the hospital, don't fight me on it."

"Okay," Buck yawns.

He closes his eyes again, not quite sleeping so much as drifting, vaguely aware of the warmth and weight of Bobby's arm, the bustle around him. Then he's being coaxed to his feet, muscles screaming all the way. He tilts heavily into Bobby as Chim steadies him from the other side and they shuffle their way off the boat. Bobby delivers him into the hands of the paramedics, and Buck is sitting on the edge of the ambulance bay while his lungs and pulse are examined for a second time, when he hears a ragged voice shouting his name.

"Oh," Buck says, squinting in the dimming sunset. The lights are on around the dock, making it plenty bright enough for him to make out the tall, dark-haired figure sprinting across the lot toward them.

"Buck," Eddie shouts again, and then again, softer, as he stumbles to a halt in front of him. "Buck."

"Hey, Eddie," Buck mumbles. He blinks a couple of times, but his eyes are having some trouble focusing. Eddie's face blurs before him, then settles. Wind-burnt cheeks, wide, wet, beautiful eyes. Chest heaving like he's been sprinting a lot farther than across the parking lot. "Sorry."

Eddie swears under his breath and steps closer as the paramedic lifts her stethoscope away with a deep sigh.

"I'll give you two a moment," she says.

"I'm sorry," Buck says again, and Eddie says, "Fuck, Jesus Christ, don't be sorry," and heaves him into a hug. It's tight enough to be uncomfortable, as sore as he is, but Eddie is warm and breathing quick against his hair as his hands pat over Buck's back like he's checking for injuries and then just clutch at him, and Buck thinks he could probably happily stay here forever.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he mumbles.

A slightly crazed-sounding laugh escapes Eddie. His cheek scrapes against Buck's, warm, uncomfortably scratchy against his sunburn, and then he turns his head just enough to press his lips to Buck's cheekbone, bruising, barely even a kiss. It does something funny to Buck's insides all the same. "I thought you were dead."

"I'm okay."

"I thought you were dead." It's shaky this time. He's pretty sure Eddie is crying. He thinks he might be, too. Exhaustion and relief and the way Eddie is holding onto him like he can't stand to let go.

The kiss, too. That kiss, just now, that was barely a kiss.

"Eddie, hey." Clumsily, he reaches up. His shoulders ache, his arms feel like lead, but he manages to catch Eddie by the arms. "I'm okay."

Eddie nods against him. Then he kisses Buck's cheek again. This time it's softer, almost delicate; this time, it feels deliberate.

"Are we gonna do the Indiana Jones thing here?" Buck murmurs. "Because I'd be cool with that. For the record. If we are."

Eddie lets out a shaky laugh, which is what he was going for, and finally releases him. He keeps a hand on Buck's shoulder, thumb just brushing the side of his neck, the same way he's always held onto Buck. Over his shoulder, Buck can see Hen approaching, but she hangs back.

"Since when have you seen Indiana Jones?" he asks.

"Blame Chim."

"Okay."

"So," Buck stutters, and it's not the cold now, or exhaustion. This is just nerves. "So—so if you—do you want—?"

Eddie breathes out a quiet laugh. His thumb moves carefully against Buck's skin. And they're doing this, apparently, after everything: right here, on the tailgate of an ambulance with half of their family and a couple of mildly impatient first responders looking on. Buck will be embarrassed about that later, probably.

Right now, though, Eddie says, "Yeah, Buck, of course I do," in that fond quiet voice that Buck loves so much. Right now, Eddie leans down again to kiss Buck a third time, carefully, right on the lips.

It lingers sweetly for a moment. A few yards away, Chim wolf-whistles and Hen starts laughing, but Eddie doesn't pull back until Buck is light-headed and breathless and smiling like a dope.

Eddie looks pretty dopey himself: soft-eyed, a little stunned, even though he's the one who started this. Buck leans up for another kiss, and doesn't break it even when his shoulders and neck cramp into painful knots at the movement. He must make a noise, because Eddie pulls back a moment later. He doesn't go far, though. His hand is still warm on Buck's nape.

"Buck," he says.

"Yeah," Buck sighs, trying not to pout. "You're riding with me in the ambulance, though, right?"

"Obviously. And you're coming home with me after."

"Obviously," Buck repeats. He tilts his chin up for another kiss, even though it hurts, and Eddie lets him.

Your body must be rested and fed if you wish to be a pervert.