weewookinkmeme | Kink Meme

i love this! i love how much bobby loves his team and wants them to be well and happy and taken care of. the contrast makes this!!

also, like, a+ for madney and pegging! thank you!

excited to see where this goes :)

off to a great start, nonny!
delighted at bobby being a bit of a perv and just loving his team so much. also the chim/bobby alluding.

https://weewookinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/476.html?thread=262108#cmt262108

Not to sound like I’m bad at sexting but, haha, and then what?

This is EVERYTHING to me, anon. This is the moment. This is everything I could have asked for and then some.

Just want to see a version of Tommy based on LFJs character in Old Flames Never Die BUT Buck decides to make it work with Tommy instead of killing him.

Totally ok if you have Eddie be the cheating bf but I'm good with any LI or OC too.

Specifically one of them getting their hole spanked or hurt in some way. Electrostim, figging, whatever. Anything goes as long as nothing is permanently damaged.

Since words on a page are not the same thing as a real child, this prompt has nothing to do with CP.

Karen’s lost count of the number of times she’s had to tell someone she’s not that kind of doctor, I studied astrophysics. Since Hen started med school, she’s changed her form answer to: I’m not that kind of doctor, but my wife is working on it. She delights in the small sting of pride every time she gets to say it. She’ll take any opportunity she can get to brag about her brilliant wife.

Her brilliant wife is currently driving her up the wall. Hen made a deck of color-coded flashcards for her anatomy final, and she’s been drilling them with every spare moment. Unfortunately, this has been demonstrating the limits of her ability to multitask.

Denny’s grabbing everything he needs for school, and Hen has the flash cards in one hand, trying to help Denny collect his things with the other. So far this morning she’s given Denny a box of cheese crackers instead of a box of cereal, a pen instead of a spoon, and his soccer duffel bag instead of his backpack.

“Henrietta,” Karen says finally. “I love you. Can you please focus for a minute.”

Hen blinks and looks down at the duffel in her hand. She hangs it back up, snags Denny’s backpack off the hook next to it, and hands it to him. “Go get ‘em today,” she says to their son. “Get those synapses firing in your prefrontal cortex.”

Denny rolls his eyes. “Love you, Mom.” He trips out the door.

Karen starts to follow him.

Hen says, “Bye, love. My atria contract for you.”

Karen groans and mentally translates. “That’s—your heart beats for me, right? It’s like I’m married to a textbook.”

Hen tilts her head, the beginning of a dangerous look on her face.

“A very beautiful, talented, wonderful textbook,” Karen adds hastily. “But I’m ready for your final to be over.”

“You and me both,” says her wife.

***

They’re in bed, sated and on the come-down, holding each other skin-to-skin. Karen would like to imagine it only happens because she’s still under the influence of the endorphin rush from the orgasm, but it’s—well, Hen’s flashcards have gotten into her head, too, if she’s thinking about it in terms of endorphins. And she’s always liked when Hen shows off what she’s good at.

Karen has her nose in the hollow of Hen’s throat, breathing her in. Hen is dragging her fingers across Karen’s skin, delighting in touching her, and as her fingertip makes its way up Karen’s arm, she whispers, “And this is your median nerve.”

Karen feels her breath stutter and shifts a little to hide it. She thought she was safe from the flashcards here. She didn’t think she had anything to fear from inside her own head. Hen taps on the nodule of bone at her elbow. “Just below here it branches into your flexor carpi ulnaris and your flexor digitorum profundus.”

Karen would like to groan, tease Hen for bringing flashcards into the bedroom, but she’s distracted by the rush of heat with each new whisper.

It’s rhythmic, soothing, a little too easy to sink into just feeling the way her skin lights up with every point Hen taps. Goosebumps lift along her arms where Hen’s fingertips just passed. Hen traces over them. “Piloerection,” she whispers.

Karen’s skin tingles and her stomach flips.

Hen has always read her too well. She clocks it. Karen doesn’t need to pull her face away from Hen’s chest to know there’s a smile on Hen’s face like the cat that got the cream. Experimentally, Hen slides her fingers to the pulse point at Karen’s throat. “Carotid,” she says quietly.

Karen feels her pulse speed up and the blood heating her cheeks. Hen presses into her pulse, gentle, just enough to signal that she could tell Karen’s pulse changed. Karen can’t hide it.

God, Karen has been calling Hen an human anatomy textbook for weeks, she’s going to get so much shit for this.

“You’re into that,” Hen says, not quite a question.

“Competence is sexy,” Karen responds, muffled, not quite an answer.

There are fingers trailing up her hip. “Iliac crest,” Hen says.

Karen breathes out hard.

“We could lean into it,” Hen says.

Karen swallows.

Hen traces down the line of her sternum. “Would you like that?”

Karen says, clinging to composure, “You want to play doctor.”

“Kind of seems like you want me to play doctor,” says Hen. She hovers a fingertip at Karen’s nipple, not touching, waiting. Karen wants her to touch and she knows what to say to make it happen. And in the end—well, it will benefit her, too.

“Okay, yes,” Karen admits. “Please.”

Hen grins. “That’s all I wanted to hear,” she says, and she cups her breast and kisses her hard.

***

Which brings them to now. The house is quiet this evening. They told Eddie that Hen needed a night to study (Chim would ask too many questions and Athena would know immediately that there was more to the story), so Karen drops Denny off at a sleepover with Christopher.

She doesn’t know exactly what Hen has planned, but they can take their time.

They can be as loud as they want.

When Karen walks into the bedroom, Hen is in a chair next to the bed flipping through a deck of notecards. She’s in her usual comfy studying clothes: no bra, oversized shirt, soft sweatpants. She’s looped a stethoscope around her neck.

There’s a silk robe laid out on the bed, and Karen shivers with the anticipation of feeling the silk on her skin. Hen smiles up at Karen, eyes dark, like she’s just scented prey. “Dr. Wilson,” Hen says. “Thank you for doing this.”

Karen clears her throat. “Dr. Wilson.”

Hen ticks a wry eyebrow. “Not yet. But soon, with your help. I appreciate you helping me study. Do you have any questions before we get started?”

Karen shakes her head, feeling her blood heat already, incapable of saying anything.

“Well then,” Hen says. “To study anatomy, I’ll need to see your anatomy. Why don’t you change into that robe and have a seat on the edge of the bed.”

Karen steps closer, not breaking eye contact. She lifts her shirt over her head, no fanfare, only Hen’s hungry gaze dropping to her breasts and stomach. Karen reaches behind her back, arching a little more than she needs to, pressing her chest forward as she unhooks her bra and lets it fall to the floor. She licks a finger, pinches her own nipple, and Hen’s gaze snaps up to her face. “No,” Hen says.

Karen raises an eyebrow. “No?”

“Not yet,” says her wife.

Karen smiles slowly. She drops her jeans, her underwear, turns and folds at the waist to pick up the clothes she’s dropped to the floor, exposing herself to Hen. She stands and steps to toss them in the laundry basket, looking over her shoulder as she does, come-hither. Hen swallows visibly.

Karen walks lightly back to the bed, where the robe is laid out.

The robe is red, like a fairy tale. Hen is hungry and Karen is going willingly into the mouth of the wolf. She doesn’t mind at all.

She slips the robe over her shoulders, forgoes the tie at the waist, lets it slip down her shoulder a little so the fabric caresses her breast and exposes it. Hen’s gaze drags, weighty, up her body. She doesn’t move closer.

“I thought we would start with some basic tests of your cranial nerve function,” Hen says quietly. “Can you close your right eye for me?”

Karen says nothing, afraid to break the spell already falling over them. She closes her eye.

“Follow the end of my pencil with your other eye,” Hen says. The eraser of her pencil is perfectly pink, like a tongue. It moves up, down, and Karen tracks its motion. To the left, to the right, slow, like Hen is conducting a waltz. Towards the tip of Karen’s nose, and away from her.

“Good,” Hen says, and Karen is pleased to have done the task well. “You can open your eye. Close your left eye.”

Her pencil traces the same cross in the air and Karen watches it, feeling a relaxed kind of tingling sensation waterfall down her spine. Her shoulders relax. Hen sees it and smiles.

“Now with both eyes, follow my pencil again.”

The repetition is hypnotic, a little. Karen watches the pencil. Hen watches Karen, utterly focused.

Karen lets herself fall into it, a dreamlike feeling. It’s delicate like a spider web: easy to break if she wanted to, but it’s just so nice to relax into it.

“There you go,” Hen murmurs.

She steps close, easing Karen’s knees apart so that she can stand between them. Karen lets it happen, feeling the slack in her muscles, as though her body is moving through molasses.

Hen presses three fingers into the muscle of Karen’s neck, the other hand along Karen’s cheek, and says, “Turn your face into my hand.”

There’s a little resistance from Hen’s hand when she tries, but not so much it’s difficult. Hen switches hands. “Good,” she says. “Again.”

Karen turns into her hand, nuzzling into it where it cups her face.

“You can relax,” Hen says. Karen lets what little tension was left seep from her muscles.

“Beautiful. Last one,” says Hen, hushed. Her hands are on Karen’s shoulders, pressing down lightly. “Lift your shoulders.”

Karen lifts on command, relaxes on command, follows the thread of Hen’s voice like a North Star.

Hen hooks her fingers under the edges of the robe at Karen’s shoulders. “I’m going to take this off now,” she says softly. Karen blinks slowly, presses her chest forward a little to help shrug the robe off. It skates down her arms to pool under her on the bed.

“Okay, now lay back,” Hen says, still quiet enough not to disturb the trance Karen is in. Hen guides her down with a hand on each shoulder, gentle but firm. There’s a hand at Karen’s ankle, adjusting until she’s laid out flat, arms at her sides. She’s exposed, a living dummy for Hen to practice on.
Hen’s seen all of her at her best and her worst, but this feels new and oddly vulnerable. Her pelvic floor clenches with it. Hen’s barely touched her and she’s already wet.

The mattress shifts as Hen kneels on it. Karen focuses on the ceiling, pulse thrumming.

And then Hen starts touching. A light brush of her fingertips at the inside of Karen’s forearms (median nerve, where all this started—and the remembered heat builds on the anticipation, making Karen shiver), her collarbones (clavicles), a tapping line down her rib cage counting ribs, murmuring anatomical terms all the while. It’s not enough, and Hen is dodging the places on Karen’s body where she’s most craving touch.

Hen presses lightly at the vulnerable part of her belly just inside the point of her hip, whispers “Psoas muscle,” and the feeling shoots straight to her center. Karen gasps a breath and arches up.

Hen tsks lightly, hands moving to press Karen’s hips to the bed. “Baby, I need you to stay still so I can study. Can you do that for me?”

Karen lets out a high-pitched breath. “Yes,” she manages.

Hen goes back to her methodical work mapping Karen’s body. Tibial nerve, femoral nerve, sciatic nerve, and the arousal is surging deep inside her.

She can’t move, she told Hen she wouldn’t move.

The stethoscope is dangling from Hen’s neck, and Karen is desperately trying to think of anything but the lightning twisting through her body from Hen’s fingertips, and she thinks, How does a stethoscope work. I can figure this out. It’s amplifying the sound waves.

Hen realizes she’s distracted and brushes accidentally-on-purpose against her nipple. Karen’s abs contract on a sharp breath in and her hands lift of their own volition off the bed.

“Hands here,” Hen says quietly but firmly, looping her fingers around Karen’s wrists like cuffs and pressing her into the bed, holding one two three as though she doesn’t trust Karen to remember to keep them there.

“Hurry up—”

Hen’s voice goes a little stern, sparking a rush of heat. “I have so much left to study, baby, don’t be impatient.”

Karen sighs. The soporific flow of honey that lies under all of Hen’s instructions laps at her, insistent.

“We’ll get there,” Hen says, a smile in her voice. Karen doesn’t know when she closed her eyes. She gives into the flow of the sensations and Hen’s voice cradling her through the current.

Hen leans in, breath ghosting across Karen’s skin, peppering kisses along her body and whispering medical gibberish, utterly focused and unhesitating. Where Hen’s fingertips had traced patterns, she’s now pressing in firmly, making Karen’s muscles jump, sending electricity arcing down her spine.

A tendon stands out from Karen’s throat with the effort of staying still and Hen traces it with open-mouthed kisses, sucking lightly.

Karen swallows, and Hen sees.

“Open your mouth,” she says. Karen opens her mouth, obedient.

“Stick out your tongue,” Hen says. She presses two fingers in. “Median lingual sulcus,” she says, and with the back of her other hand she presses lightly on Karen’s throat.

“Epiglottis,” she says, and slides her fingers slowly down Karen’s throat. “Hyoid. Thyroid cartilage. Cricoid.”

The backs of her fingers are just enough pressure for Karen to be very aware of her breathing. Saliva pools around Hen’s fingers in Karen’s open mouth.

The only warning Karen has is the sensation of Hen’s breath on her chest and then Hen’s mouth lands on her nipple and she sucks hard. Karen arches up into her, desperately seeking touch, feeling as though there’s water rushing in her ears, in her brain, washing her clean of anything but want.

Hen’s fingers slide out of Karen’s mouth and wet her other nipple, exposed to the air. Hen settles into a rhythm—sucking, pinching, breath cooling each tightened nipple—so that twin points of heat shoot lines down to tug behind her navel, insistent.

Karen is writhing against the motion, stillness forgotten. Hen eases away, watches her settle. “Maybe it would help you stay in place if you could see yourself,” she says, a little cocky. Karen blinks in confusion.

Hen clearly anticipated this situation because the mirror is already in place against the wall next to the bed. She just has to rotate it, and Karen looks at herself. She’s flushed dark with arousal, hair spread out on the pillow, neck marked by Hen’s attention, nipples glistening and hard. She looks wanton.
Hen sits back on the bed. She folds one of Karen’s legs up, widens the gap between her thighs.

“Look at yourself,” she says, reverent, and Karen does. “Wide open for me. So wet. I could do anything I wanted to you,” and Karen watches her own belly ripple as her muscles tense with arousal.

Hen returns her attentions to Karen’s nipple, presses low on Karen’s belly with a hand, drags the hand down Karen’s skin between her legs. Hen kisses slowly down her body, kisses her: “Clitoris,” she says, a light kiss on Karen’s clit, not enough. She drags her fingertips around the outside of Karen’s pussy, whispers, “Labia majora. Labia minora.”

Her breath caresses Karen’s clit with each word.

In the mirror, Karen watches herself press her hands into the bed, sees the way she’s dripping, her legs trembling. Her legs have fallen open farther, desperation in every line of her body.

It’s not just that she’s exposed. It’s that Hen knows her, head to toe, has spent all these years learning her body. It’s that Hen gives her all to anything she does, that she’s so fucking good at it, that she’s bending all of that will now to making Karen feel good. It’s that she sees herself flushed in the bright light, exposed, here to let Hen act on her, and she’d let Hen do whatever she wanted, and she’d love it.

Hen looks up to make sure Karen is still watching the mirror, and she bends her mouth lap up the wetness in earnest. Karen throws her head back, Hen’s fingers working inside her, her tongue swirling at her clit, merciless, tides of want rising and breaking against the shore. She’s so close, so close, she needs—

“Please,” she gasps, not sure what she’s asking for.

Hen reaches up with her other hand to pinch Karen’s nipple hard, sending a bolt of electricity through her, and it meets the rhythm of Hen’s mouth, and she falls over the edge. Hen holds her through it, easing up the way she’s sucking at Karen’s clit until she’s just resting her face in Karen’s stomach as Karen’s breath gradually steadies.

Karen lets her head fall to the side to look at her wife. “God,” she breathes. “That was great.”

Hen smiles, a smile with teeth. “Oh, baby,” she says, pitying. “I’m not done studying. I need to do your back.”

Karen’s pulse stutters. Hen rolls over, shucking her clothes in a single movement, revealing a harness under her sweats. She snags the strap-on from a drawer in the nightstand, the one with the suction on the back of it in exactly the right place. Hen connects it to the front of the harness, closes her eyes for a moment at the feeling of it. She’ll be feeling it press against herself when she moves, Karen knows, or when it bobs with gravity, or when she’s thrusting—

Hen’s gaze is on her again, dark. “Turn over,” she says, and Karen does.

Hen’s hand is at her hip. She lifts a little, and Hen slips something underneath her, trapping it between her clit and the bed. It buzzes, once, and Karen jerks. It’s a vibrator, then, and Hen’s got a remote somewhere.
Karen’s face is in a pillow. She isn’t blindfolded, but it works out the same: it means she can’t see what’s coming.

The vibrator buzzes on, lightly, but she’s still sensitive. Her hips jerk.

Hen’s hands land firm on her hips to hold her in place, and she feels herself shaking. The heat is already building again.

Hen presses fingertips to the back of her head. “Occipital,” she says, and Karen thinks, oh, god, I don’t know how long I can take this.

Hen works her way down, each vertebra, firm pressure on each rib. At Karen’s tailbone, Hen skips to her feet and starts more of a massage, only Karen can’t relax into it because Hen is turning the vibrator up a little, down again, up a little, and every touch makes Karen burn more with want. The way Hen digs into her muscles is a counterpoint to the pulsing at her clit, and Karen is rolling her hips into the bed, hard, finding herself on the edge again.

The vibrator shuts off. “Hold still,” says Hen.

Karen whines a protest.

“You can have it back on if you wait for me,” Hen says.

“Fine,” Karen says into the pillow.

Hen says, amused, “Almost there, baby.”

And the vibrator is back on underneath her. Hen works her way up Karen’s legs, slowly, torturously. Karen is trying to hold herself back from the edge, but Hen turns up the vibrator and digs into a sensitive spot; Karen rocks her hips into the bed and comes close, and Hen shuts off the vibrator again.

She can feel herself dripping.

“Please,” Karen says.

Hen massages up the muscles of her legs, kneels between Karen’s legs, and the strap nudges at her opening. She thrusts her hips back helplessly, only that lifts her away from the vibrator pinned underneath her and she rocks her hips back forward for the contact on her clit. She’s rocking back and forth, unable to get both sensations at once, on the edge and unable to do anything about it. She makes a small frustrated noise and Hen breathes a laugh.
Hen’s fingers press into the flesh just barely stretching around the tip of the dildo. “This is innervated by the branches of the pudendal nerve,” she says, sliding her fingers through the wetness Karen is messy with, reaching between her legs to tap where the vibrator sits. “Perineal nerve. Dorsal genital nerve.”

The strap is still only nudging gently inside her, but Hen’s let it ease in a fraction of an inch more. Karen clenches at it hopefully and Hen pulls back. “Medically, of course, the g-spot is simply the back of the clitoris,” Hen says calmly, “So a position like this provides stimulation against the front wall—”

“Shut up and fuck me,” Karen says, and on the next breath Hen thrusts deep and Karen feels herself go boneless with relief, hips dropping to press harder into the vibrator underneath her, finally, finally full with her wife.

Hen draws back and thrusts into her again, angled exactly so it will hit where she needs it with the unerring certainty of a woman who’s not only been married more than a decade but also knows the entire internal nervous circuitry she needs to stimulate. She thrusts again, again, pressing Karen down onto the vibrator every time.

Hen folds over Karen’s back, peaked nipples dragging across her back on each thrust, and Karen hears the echo of Hen’s voice from earlier whispering trapezius, infraspinus as Hen’s nipples trace bright lines. She feels the press of breasts replaced with the back of Hen’s hand against her skin as Hen drags at her own nipple, twists. She feels full of sparks, alight.

Her wife’s breathing goes fast and deep the way it always does when she gets close. “Please,” Karen says again, voice shaking.

“Okay,” says Hen, “Come for me, baby,” and she turns the vibrator up the rest of the way and lets her elbow fall to the bed for leverage and thrusts hard and she feels so good inside Karen and pinning her to the bed and the vibrator pulses and Karen is coming, orgasm hitting her white-hot, shaking with each wave.

The vibrator is still on underneath her. Her head is spinning.
Hen stays deep inside her, making tiny motions, just on the edge of too much, trembling with the tension. The hum of the vibrator passes through Karen’s body to the dildo pressing against Hen, like they’re one animal, like they can pass the same sensation between each other. Karen presses herself harder into the vibrator, gasping at the overstimulation, letting the vibration deeper into her to pass through to Hen, and Hen is gasping her release, sinking into Karen completely, muscles gone loose.

Hen’s face drops into Karen’s back. She drops a kiss on her shoulder with a last bit of energy and lets her weight press Karen into the bed.

A breath, the hum of the vibrator.

Hen pats the bed blindly for the remote and the vibrator turns off, and then all that’s left is their breathing, gradually slowing. Karen’s still clenching sporadically at the dildo, and Hen twitches a little every time it moves flush against her. Hen lifts a hand, traces a spiral on the back of Karen’s shoulder. “Scapular nerve,” she says absently.

“Mmm,” says Karen, unable to manage anything else.

Hen eases back to pull out, a soft wet noise and the grounding press of her hand at Karen’s lower back.

“Here, roll over a little,” Hen says.

“I will when I can feel my legs,” Karen mumbles.

Hen laughs. She peels herself away and Karen makes a blind grabbing motion, trying to get her back. There’s a sound of the harness dropping to the ground and then Hen’s warm skin is back against her whole body.

Karen makes a contented sound.

“Love you,” Hen murmurs.

“Love you too,” Karen says, turning her face to look into her eyes, the quiet just-them space. “I can’t wait for your unit on pelvic exams.”

Hen laughs and kisses her lightly on the corner of her mouth.

***

They pick Denny up from the Diaz house in the morning. While he’s collecting his sleeping bag, Eddie stands with them at the door. “How was studying?” he asks. “Productive?”

They exchange a look. Hen says, “It was great. Really helpful. Karen helped with flash cards, she probably knows it as well as I do at this point. Right, babe?”

Karen’s blushing. “I don’t know if I would say that, but I picked up a few things.”

Eddie says, encouraging, “I bet you picked up more than you think. What did you learn?”

Karen glances at Hen. “Phalanges, clavicle, lingual sulcus, um—pudendal nerve...”

“Oh, is that what was most memorable,” Hen says, teasing.

“Wait a minute,” says Eddie.

“Denny, you about ready?” Karen calls. “It’s time to go.”

(1/2): https://weewookinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/476.html?thread=265692#cmt265692
(2/2): https://weewookinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/476.html?thread=265948#cmt265948

The thing is that Buck is a very light sleeper. He has to be, hazard of the job: if he’s hitting the bunks at the station he can’t afford to sleep through the bell. It translates, unfortunately, to when he’s sleeping at home, too.

Not that it’s been easy to fall asleep in the first place these days. It’s been weeks, now, of trying to get used to the consistent weight and heat of another body in his bed—something he hasn’t had in a long time, Tommy’s schedule always sort of out of sync, Natalia never getting comfortable enough to stay for more than a night at a time, so it was Taylor whose shape he got used to curling around last, years ago.

Now it’s Eddie, sharing his bed because they’re both getting too old for the couch, and Buck is sort of losing his mind about it, sleepless and near-paralyzed with the worry that he’s going to end up curling around Eddie like he does with everyone who shares his bed, eventually. It doesn’t help, either, that Buck is in love with him.

Sleep eludes him, is the point. You wouldn’t know, seeing him, because he does try: he lies still, eyes closed. It must be good enough to fool even Eddie.

Eddie, who has been shifting around under the sheets for the past minute, almost long enough that Buck considered turning over and asking if everything is okay, but then—a hitched breath, quickly suppressed, and the unmistakable sound of skin on skin, of shuffling of fabric, rhythmic and devastating. Buck gets hard so quickly he thinks he would have gotten dizzy if he hadn’t been lying down already. He’s lying there, frozen, with his back to Eddie and just listening, rapt, terrified, torn between soaking it all in to remember forever and pretending to roll over onto his back in his sleep, just to scare Eddie into stopping.

He doesn’t want it to stop, though, guilt overshadowed by a mindless desire to have more, more, greedy and insatiable for every twist of Eddie’s hand he can hear, the smack of Eddie’s lips when he opens his mouth around a silent gasp, a frustrated little moan, quickly swallowed.

Distantly, Buck thinks that he shouldn’t sound frustrated, he should sound—satisfied. He notices, with some kind of lust-dazed horror, that Eddie sounds like he’s stripping his cock bare, fast and rough and near-violent. Buck keeps listening, imagining it—vividly—wincing in sympathy, and thinks to himself, hard as a rock and close to coming untouched when Eddie’s movements halt and stop, that he could do it better.

It consumes him, for days. At work, when he’s catching up on all the sleep he hasn’t been getting at home; at the grocery store, even, eyeing the personal hygiene isle and grabbing a bottle of lube, small and discreet to hide in Eddie’s bedside drawer, just in case. When he’s driving to the gym, dangerously, sitting at a red light and wondering how it looks when Eddie’s wide and callused palms wrap around his cock. Wondering if he goes in dry for Buck’s sake, to not wake him up with the slick sound of spit or lube, or if he always does it like this, almost punishing. At work again, watching Eddie’s hands move around the med bags, curl around tools; at home, as they turn wet and soapy when they’re cleaning the dishes after dinner. He catches Eddie once, looking at him sort of quizzically.

Then, as he’s brushing his teeth, wondering how it’d be to push Eddie’s hand away, wrap his fingers around Eddie and show him how he’d do it: slow, steady, teasing, wet—a bit of tongue, maybe, and at that thought brushing his teeth turns into his own hand creeping into his sweatpants, wrapping around his own erection, and coming within a minute. He looks at himself in the mirror after that, toothbrush still in his mouth, and thinks that he’s probably losing his mind a little bit.

It consumes him, until it happens again.

Eddie doesn’t wait as long this time. They’ve settled in for sleep ten minutes ago; Buck has barely begun to pretend to sleep when there’s that sound again. He knows what to listen for, now, and he thinks he’s hearing Eddie’s hand sliding under his waistband and—yeah, there’s that little initial groan, like Eddie can’t quite help making noise.

Which—Buck is hard again, immediately. He keeps listening, aptly, hungrily, tries to imagine it: Eddie when he doesn’t have to hold back, when he’s alone. Does he moan a lot? Does he bite his own lip even when he’s alone, suppressing them?

Except then there’s that same frustrated huff, a kind of annoyed grunt, and Buck’s mind whites out. There’s not a lot of blood in his brain. He can’t even blame himself.

Buck turns around. He can’t see much in the hint of moonlight filtering in from outside, but it’s enough to catch Eddie’s wide-eyed expression of shock, and Buck thinks—god, he’s made a mistake. He won’t ever be able to look at Eddie without thinking about this again; worse, Eddie might never want to look at him again.

“Eddie,” Buck says, going in for the kill. He’s already gone and turned around; he may as well.

“Yeah, Buck,” Eddie says, voice tight and faux-casual, like he wasn’t just jerking off; like his hand isn’t still on his cock, because Buck didn’t hear him take his hand away.

“You—” Buck starts before he knows how to finish the sentence. His heart is beating into his throat. Eddie isn’t moving at all, like he’s not breathing. “You, um. Do you need some help?”

Silence. Then: “Help? With—what?”

Buck swallows through the cresting desire to get sucked into the earth. “It’s just that it sounds like you’re—like what you’re doing isn’t really doing it for you,” he stutters, “I mean, I can’t know, obviously, but if you—if you need help, I’m here.”

He’s still so, so hard, and Eddie still hasn’t moved, which means he’s still holding his dick in his hand. Buck wants to touch himself so badly he thinks he might be dying.

“Um,” Eddie says, “what would you do differently,” voice a little monotone like he’s trying to sound normal and failing, horribly.

“I would—use some spit, for you. I get—really wet, just myself. I think you—don’t?”

A beat, and then, “not really,” voice still a little strained.

“Right. Do you, um, want me to show you, or just tell you?”

And Buck hasn’t thought this through properly, except then he can’t regret it because Eddie tells him, “you can show me,” and the world feels like it stops turning for a second. Buck’s world, anyway, even in the dark.

“O-okay,” he says, and flips over to turn the light on his bedside table on, bathing the room in low, golden light, soft and mellow, unintrusive. Slowly, Buck turns his head back around to look at Eddie, and—his breath catches in his throat when he sees him: eyes wide, pupils blown, hair messy on the pillow and cheeks flushed a bright blush pink.

Eddie’s beautiful; Buck knew that, but he’s never seen Eddie like this. He just looks his fill for a moment before settling back in, pushing his blanket down to his thighs. Eddie does the same. He’s tenting his boxers. Buck is so turned on his skin feels like it’s on fire; he can’t help it, then, and grabs his cock through the fabric of his sleep pants, just one indulgent press of his hand against where he’s hard and wet and aching.

He hears Eddie gasp. It’s quiet, but unmistakable. Buck’s head whips to the side, and Eddie catches his eyes. Buck feels his cock twitch in his hand.

“Okay,” he says, trying to break the tension, but it doesn’t work: his voice comes out shot to hell, barely loud enough to really hear.

He’d run, if it weren’t too late. If he didn’t want to see Eddie’s dick like his life depended on it. Slowly, he pushes his pants and boxers down in one go. His cock, once freed, slaps against his stomach obscenely loudly, and Buck moans a little under his breath at the feeling. Watches, raptly, as Eddie follows, as the base of Eddie’s cock comes into view, inch by agonizing inch like he’s doing this on purpose. Feels his mouth fill with spit at the sight, when Eddie’s boxers are at his knees and his swollen, flushed-red cock rests against the crease between his hip and his thigh.

It’s beautiful, but Buck expected that; everything about Eddie is. It’s even prettier, he thinks, when Eddie wraps his long—beautiful—fingers around himself at the base, swallows a gasp when he watches him drag his hand up and down once, slowly. Buck was right: it’s too dry.

“There’s lube in your drawer,” he instructs, feeling out of his depth but achingly desperate to make this good for Eddie, to show him how good it can be. Eddie huffs, a bit of humor for the first time since this started—and Buck thinks how crazy it is that just five minutes ago his life was still normal.

“Really?” Eddie asks, and the tension would be broken if Buck wasn’t still thinking about just leaning over and wrapping his lips around Eddie’s cock. He nods, suddenly mute, and watches the muscles shift beneath Eddie’s skin when he leans over to rummage through the drawer. He comes back, brandishing the bottle of lube like an accusation.

“Put some in your hand,” Buck says, “it’ll feel better.”

Eddie, wildly, does. His palm is glistening with it, after. “Do you… want some?” he asks, and Buck just looks at him for a second, but then shakes his head.

“No, um. L-like I said, I get… really wet.”

Eddie’s mouth is just open, almost gaping. “Uh-huh,” he says, and then he looks down at Buck’s cock like he’s trying to see if Buck is lying. His gaze feels heavy, like it’s his fingers touching Buck’s skin. He keeps looking. And then he starts jerking himself off, just—looking.

Buck couldn’t stop himself if he tried. He can’t quite muffle his groan at that initial drag of his fingers up and down his hard, throbbing cock: he’s close to bursting already but he has to, has to hold back, because this is about teaching Eddie, not… not himself.

Eddie.

Eddie, who’s still going too fast, desperate hands, still a little punishing. “Slow down,” Buck says, and it comes out too pleading, too desperate, and he doesn’t even care. “Just—steady strokes, like… like this.” He demonstrates: one slow pump from base to to thead, a swipe of his thumb across his tip, gathering the beads of wet that have collected there, then down again. Up, and down, and then he says, “you see what I mean?”

Eddie, at Buck’s side, hums. “Yeah,” he breathes, and Buck looks over, watches as Eddie slows down. He’s spreading lube all over his shaft, and it’s glistening in the light. It looks—god, Buck wants to taste him, get him off with his mouth if not with his own hand, but.

He controls himself. “If you go slower,” he says, fingers tight around the head of his dick, “the build-up is… it makes it so much more intense.” They’re both quiet, for a bit, save for a groan here and there, and for the slick sounds of lube and spit, respectively. “You feel a difference?”

“I do,” Eddie says, and instantly Buck is right there, right on the cliff edge about to take a dive. Eddie sounds wrecked, somehow, like he can’t quite believe it. Buck is right there with him.

“Good,” Buck tries to say, “just keep doing it slowly,” but it comes out like a whine. And then, “Eddie,” like he’s begging, “I’m gonna—”

“Fuck, okay,” Eddie groans, like he’s giving permission, “okay,” breathless now, and Buck ends up coming all over his stomach, vision whiting out and only hearing the wet, sloppy sounds of Eddie’s fingers covered in lube, up and down his cock still in rhythm like Buck showed him. He follows, half a minute later, hand on himself relentless and steady, and then Buck gets an answer to a question he had: Eddie is loud, long, drawn-out moan spilling from his lips as he comes all over his fingers, sounds becoming wetter, slicker, as he keeps jerking his cock.

“Jesus,” Buck whispers under his breath. He’s not sure if Eddie heard. Thinks that maybe he doesn’t care either way. “Was it,” he asks, louder this time, “um. Better?”

Eddie nods. Then: “Yeah,” with a little laugh that makes Buck’s heart soar. He’s ruined, he thinks, for anyone else. If he wasn’t already.

“Next time you can… just tell me.” Eddie looks at him. He’s so, so beautiful it’s unfair. “I can show you more. Again. If you want.” There’s a tension in the air so thick he could cut it with a knife. It’s suffocating, a bit. Buck turns to get a wad of tissues from the nightstand, unceremoniously handing some to Eddie.

Like this is normal, and not life-shattering.

“Okay,” Eddie says, wiping his hands. Buck is so, so fucked.

hi, i accidentally commented my prompt fill in the general post instead of as a reply to the prompt while not logged in, so i can't edit it. could you delete it for me? i'll repost the fill in the rigth place :)
link: https://weewookinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/476.html?thread=266460#cmt266460

The thing is that Buck is a very light sleeper. He has to be, hazard of the job: if he’s hitting the bunks at the station he can’t afford to sleep through the bell. It translates, unfortunately, to when he’s sleeping at home, too.

Not that it’s been easy to fall asleep in the first place these days. It’s been weeks, now, of trying to get used to the consistent weight and heat of another body in his bed—something he hasn’t had in a long time, Tommy’s schedule always sort of out of sync, Natalia never getting comfortable enough to stay for more than a night at a time, so it was Taylor whose shape he got used to curling around last, years ago.

Now it’s Eddie, sharing his bed because they’re both getting too old for the couch, and Buck is sort of losing his mind about it, sleepless and near-paralyzed with the worry that he’s going to end up curling around Eddie like he does with everyone who shares his bed, eventually. It doesn’t help, either, that Buck is in love with him.

Sleep eludes him, is the point. You wouldn’t know, seeing him, because he does try: he lies still, eyes closed. It must be good enough to fool even Eddie.

Eddie, who has been shifting around under the sheets for the past minute, almost long enough that Buck considered turning over and asking if everything is okay, but then—a hitched breath, quickly suppressed, and the unmistakable sound of skin on skin, of shuffling of fabric, rhythmic and devastating. Buck gets hard so quickly he thinks he would have gotten dizzy if he hadn’t been lying down already. He’s lying there, frozen, with his back to Eddie and just listening, rapt, terrified, torn between soaking it all in to remember forever and pretending to roll over onto his back in his sleep, just to scare Eddie into stopping.

He doesn’t want it to stop, though, guilt overshadowed by a mindless desire to have more, more, greedy and insatiable for every twist of Eddie’s hand he can hear, the smack of Eddie’s lips when he opens his mouth around a silent gasp, a frustrated little moan, quickly swallowed.

Distantly, Buck thinks that he shouldn’t sound frustrated, he should sound—satisfied. He notices, with some kind of lust-dazed horror, that Eddie sounds like he’s stripping his cock bare, fast and rough and near-violent. Buck keeps listening, imagining it—vividly—wincing in sympathy, and thinks to himself, hard as a rock and close to coming untouched when Eddie’s movements halt and stop, that he could do it better.

It consumes him, for days. At work, when he’s catching up on all the sleep he hasn’t been getting at home; at the grocery store, even, eyeing the personal hygiene isle and grabbing a bottle of lube, small and discreet to hide in Eddie’s bedside drawer, just in case. When he’s driving to the gym, dangerously, sitting at a red light and wondering how it looks when Eddie’s wide and callused palms wrap around his cock. Wondering if he goes in dry for Buck’s sake, to not wake him up with the slick sound of spit or lube, or if he always does it like this, almost punishing. At work again, watching Eddie’s hands move around the med bags, curl around tools; at home, as they turn wet and soapy when they’re cleaning the dishes after dinner. He catches Eddie once, looking at him sort of quizzically.

Then, as he’s brushing his teeth, wondering how it’d be to push Eddie’s hand away, wrap his fingers around Eddie and show him how he’d do it: slow, steady, teasing, wet—a bit of tongue, maybe, and at that thought brushing his teeth turns into his own hand creeping into his sweatpants, wrapping around his own erection, and coming within a minute. He looks at himself in the mirror after that, toothbrush still in his mouth, and thinks that he’s probably losing his mind a little bit.

It consumes him, until it happens again.

Eddie doesn’t wait as long this time. They’ve settled in for sleep ten minutes ago; Buck has barely begun to pretend to sleep when there’s that sound again. He knows what to listen for, now, and he thinks he’s hearing Eddie’s hand sliding under his waistband and—yeah, there’s that little initial groan, like Eddie can’t quite help making noise.

Which—Buck is hard again, immediately. He keeps listening, aptly, hungrily, tries to imagine it: Eddie when he doesn’t have to hold back, when he’s alone. Does he moan a lot? Does he bite his own lip even when he’s alone, suppressing them?

Except then there’s that same frustrated huff, a kind of annoyed grunt, and Buck’s mind whites out. There’s not a lot of blood in his brain. He can’t even blame himself.

Buck turns around. He can’t see much in the hint of moonlight filtering in from outside, but it’s enough to catch Eddie’s wide-eyed expression of shock, and Buck thinks—god, he’s made a mistake. He won’t ever be able to look at Eddie without thinking about this again; worse, Eddie might never want to look at him again.

“Eddie,” Buck says, going in for the kill. He’s already gone and turned around; he may as well.

“Yeah, Buck,” Eddie says, voice tight and faux-casual, like he wasn’t just jerking off; like his hand isn’t still on his cock, because Buck didn’t hear him take his hand away.

“You—” Buck starts before he knows how to finish the sentence. His heart is beating into his throat. Eddie isn’t moving at all, like he’s not breathing. “You, um. Do you need some help?”

Silence. Then: “Help? With—what?”

Buck swallows through the cresting desire to get sucked into the earth. “It’s just that it sounds like you’re—like what you’re doing isn’t really doing it for you,” he stutters, “I mean, I can’t know, obviously, but if you—if you need help, I’m here.”

He’s still so, so hard, and Eddie still hasn’t moved, which means he’s still holding his dick in his hand. Buck wants to touch himself so badly he thinks he might be dying.

“Um,” Eddie says, “what would you do differently,” voice a little monotone like he’s trying to sound normal and failing, horribly.

“I would—use some spit, for you. I get—really wet, just myself. I think you—don’t?”

A beat, and then, “not really,” voice still a little strained.

“Right. Do you, um, want me to show you, or just tell you?”

And Buck hasn’t thought this through properly, except then he can’t regret it because Eddie tells him, “you can show me,” and the world feels like it stops turning for a second. Buck’s world, anyway, even in the dark.

“O-okay,” he says, and flips over to turn the light on his bedside table on, bathing the room in low, golden light, soft and mellow, unintrusive. Slowly, Buck turns his head back around to look at Eddie, and—his breath catches in his throat when he sees him: eyes wide, pupils blown, hair messy on the pillow and cheeks flushed a bright blush pink.

Eddie’s beautiful; Buck knew that, but he’s never seen Eddie like this. He just looks his fill for a moment before settling back in, pushing his blanket down to his thighs. Eddie does the same. He’s tenting his boxers. Buck is so turned on his skin feels like it’s on fire; he can’t help it, then, and grabs his cock through the fabric of his sleep pants, just one indulgent press of his hand against where he’s hard and wet and aching.

He hears Eddie gasp. It’s quiet, but unmistakable. Buck’s head whips to the side, and Eddie catches his eyes. Buck feels his cock twitch in his hand.

“Okay,” he says, trying to break the tension, but it doesn’t work: his voice comes out shot to hell, barely loud enough to really hear.

He’d run, if it weren’t too late. If he didn’t want to see Eddie’s dick like his life depended on it. Slowly, he pushes his pants and boxers down in one go. His cock, once freed, slaps against his stomach obscenely loudly, and Buck moans a little under his breath at the feeling. Watches, raptly, as Eddie follows, as the base of Eddie’s cock comes into view, inch by agonizing inch like he’s doing this on purpose. Feels his mouth fill with spit at the sight, when Eddie’s boxers are at his knees and his swollen, flushed-red cock rests against the crease between his hip and his thigh.

It’s beautiful, but Buck expected that; everything about Eddie is. It’s even prettier, he thinks, when Eddie wraps his long—beautiful—fingers around himself at the base, swallows a gasp when he watches him drag his hand up and down once, slowly. Buck was right: it’s too dry.

“There’s lube in your drawer,” he instructs, feeling out of his depth but achingly desperate to make this good for Eddie, to show him how good it can be. Eddie huffs, a bit of humor for the first time since this started—and Buck thinks how crazy it is that just five minutes ago his life was still normal.

“Really?” Eddie asks, and the tension would be broken if Buck wasn’t still thinking about just leaning over and wrapping his lips around Eddie’s cock. He nods, suddenly mute, and watches the muscles shift beneath Eddie’s skin when he leans over to rummage through the drawer. He comes back, brandishing the bottle of lube like an accusation.

“Put some in your hand,” Buck says, “it’ll feel better.”

Eddie, wildly, does. His palm is glistening with it, after. “Do you… want some?” he asks, and Buck just looks at him for a second, but then shakes his head.

“No, um. L-like I said, I get… really wet.”

Eddie’s mouth is just open, almost gaping. “Uh-huh,” he says, and then he looks down at Buck’s cock like he’s trying to see if Buck is lying. His gaze feels heavy, like it’s his fingers touching Buck’s skin. He keeps looking. And then he starts jerking himself off, just—looking.

Buck couldn’t stop himself if he tried. He can’t quite muffle his groan at that initial drag of his fingers up and down his hard, throbbing cock: he’s close to bursting already but he has to, has to hold back, because this is about teaching Eddie, not… not himself.

Eddie.

Eddie, who’s still going too fast, desperate hands, still a little punishing. “Slow down,” Buck says, and it comes out too pleading, too desperate, and he doesn’t even care. “Just—steady strokes, like… like this.” He demonstrates: one slow pump from base to to thead, a swipe of his thumb across his tip, gathering the beads of wet that have collected there, then down again. Up, and down, and then he says, “you see what I mean?”

Eddie, at Buck’s side, hums. “Yeah,” he breathes, and Buck looks over, watches as Eddie slows down. He’s spreading lube all over his shaft, and it’s glistening in the light. It looks—god, Buck wants to taste him, get him off with his mouth if not with his own hand, but.

He controls himself. “If you go slower,” he says, fingers tight around the head of his dick, “the build-up is… it makes it so much more intense.” They’re both quiet, for a bit, save for a groan here and there, and for the slick sounds of lube and spit, respectively. “You feel a difference?”

“I do,” Eddie says, and instantly Buck is right there, right on the cliff edge about to take a dive. Eddie sounds wrecked, somehow, like he can’t quite believe it. Buck is right there with him.

“Good,” Buck tries to say, “just keep doing it slowly,” but it comes out like a whine. And then, “Eddie,” like he’s begging, “I’m gonna—”

“Fuck, okay,” Eddie groans, like he’s giving permission, “okay,” breathless now, and Buck ends up coming all over his stomach, vision whiting out and only hearing the wet, sloppy sounds of Eddie’s fingers covered in lube, up and down his cock still in rhythm like Buck showed him. He follows, half a minute later, hand on himself relentless and steady, and then Buck gets an answer to a question he had: Eddie is loud, long, drawn-out moan spilling from his lips as he comes all over his fingers, sounds becoming wetter, slicker, as he keeps jerking his cock.

“Jesus,” Buck whispers under his breath. He’s not sure if Eddie heard. Thinks that maybe he doesn’t care either way. “Was it,” he asks, louder this time, “um. Better?”

Eddie nods. Then: “Yeah,” with a little laugh that makes Buck’s heart soar. He’s ruined, he thinks, for anyone else. If he wasn’t already.

“Next time you can… just tell me.” Eddie looks at him. He’s so, so beautiful it’s unfair. “I can show you more. Again. If you want.” There’s a tension in the air so thick he could cut it with a knife. It’s suffocating, a bit. Buck turns to get a wad of tissues from the nightstand, unceremoniously handing some to Eddie.

Like this is normal, and not life-shattering.

“Okay,” Eddie says, wiping his hands. Buck is so, so fucked.

PROMPT: Roommates era, they're sharing a bed because back pain reasons, and Eddie's been sneaking his jackoff sessions when he thinks Buck is sleeping. Buck is not sleeping. But not (just) for sexy reasons: Eddie's technique is awful. Buck gets in his head about it.

FILL: https://weewookinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/476.html?thread=257244#cmt257244

First time that Buck bottoms with Tommy.

Please just want to see Tommy desperate for Buck's cum

Tommy pov of the hookup. Preferably without the fight the morning after

Buck gets hurt on a call and Tommy shows up to the hospital expecting the 118 to close ranks.
Instead only Maddie or Chim is there.
Tommy stays

Tommy has a sports/gym socks fetish

Eddie doesn't get back into the LAFD right away and Uber on LA is awful so he makes ends meet as a dancer/sex worker.
Cue Tommy who is moping but giving Evan space to grieve
Tommy starts regularly using Eddie's services.
no hint of Buddie please, not my cup of tea

omg this is so so good! It’s hot and the love comes across and like Buck, I also love that Eddie is loud. Yay!
And I love the whole story, the absurdity of it, Buck placing the lube in Eddie’s nightstand because he cares 💙
Eddie fighting so hard to make himself sound normal, to make the mutual masturbation normal. Amazing. I love him most of all.

Thank you!!

Preface this: I enjoy Eddie so this is not meant as hate

I really want Eddie to realise he's losing Buck but he thinks it's to Tommy rather than his own actions.

So he kidnaps Tommy and tortures, maims, and sexually abuses him.
Plans to kill Tommy but doesn't get a chance because the 118/Athena finds Tommy.
Your call of Eddie gets caught or gets away with it.
I need the catharsis of the whump and the totally delusional villian!Eddie

I want Chris to creampie trans masc Buck

Something de-ages Buck and Bobby can't resist.
Buck between 17-20 please

Kink Meme

Or this

Re: FILL: watch over you 1/?

Re: FILL: watch over you 1/?

and i move slowly || buddie, a tender and relaxed handjob

Re: Fill: baby, can i hold you tonight? part 2/2

Re: Fill: Wrestling Watersports

BuckTommy Old Flames Never Die au

Buddie pain kink

Re: Ask a question/report a problem

FILL: Hen/Karen playing doctor (1/2)

FILL: Hen/Karen playing doctor (2/2)

Hen/Karen playing doctor

mutual masturbation

Re: Ask a question/report a problem

mutual masturbation

FILL: mutual masturbation

BuckTommy first time

BuckTommy cum eating

BuckTommy hookup

no subject

BuckTommy gym socks

EddieTommy

Re: mutual masturbation

Eddie as a villain EddieTommy

BuckChris with trans Buck

Deaged!Buck/Bobby