It's been a couple of days. Sometimes he does that, waits, waits until every fibre in his body tells him you need to, when someone's (Buck's) hand on his shoulder at work has his dick throbbing, when his pants alone offer enough friction, when he can't wait to get home after his shift, to an empty house - to turn on the shower or get naked and lay on bed.
He enjoys the feeling of the sheets against his back, his eyes closed, one hand on his shoulder, squeezing, pretending it's –
He lets himself think of the size of the hands. Of the lips, and the scruff, and the size of the chest, the legs. Deconstructed, because the full picture –
He shouldn't.
Promises himself he won't. Not this time.
He's hard already, pulls his foreskin back, starts jerking off slow. Practised. He wants it to last, wants to enjoy it.
Maybe he waited too long; even the first touches send pleasure crashing over him, sweet relief nearly as good as an orgasm.
He pictures a hand on his dick, pictures Buck-no-pictures someone between his legs and spreads them, sets a pace slower than he'd like.
His fantasy adds a low voice, gruff, Not yet, Eddie. You can take this. You're doing good.
Don't touch yourself.
He'd listen. He knows he would.
Already, the picture assembles itself in his mind. The outline of a body; wide shoulders attached to strong arms, a strong chest. Tattoos of which he knows every detail. Buck would be breathing fast, if he wanted this and was here.
Eddie feels bad for pulling him into this. Feels bad for making the Buck that lives in his head, that's always with him, do this.
Just like that, fantasy-Buck says. Yeah, you look so good.
They're all snippets of conversations they've had. Buck in the gym, Buck during training, Buck with his stupid fucking clipboard demanding stupid fucking things.
Today, today he was riding Eddie's ass particularly hard. Laughing and touching and then turning back to the fire station's to-do list, preparing for inspection.
Sometimes, he thinks this is an indulgence he shouldn't permit himself. Sometimes he looks at Buck and thinks, fuck me. Bend me in half, take me apart, make me come.
He knows it's a choice.
To put his hand back on his cock, to slowly stroke himself, to tease himself the way he thinks Buck would tease someone.
Sometimes, Buck talks about sex with people that aren't Eddie. Eddie will ask questions, pretend to be a considerate person, a good listener, a friend. He stores the information in his mind; lets it all pour out when he's alone like this.
With his hand back on his dick, he thinks about the time Buck said he thinks hand jobs are underrated, and sometimes more personal than fucking someone.
He's still picturing Buck's hand. Squeezing, pulling, speeding up and slowing down. He's picturing Buck's gaze, focused entirely on Eddie, full of wonder the way it is when he's learning something new, something he finds interesting.
These days, Eddie gives in.
He used to fight it, put in so much effort. Wouldn't let himself, if he thought of Buck even once.
He went a month without, until he was on edge and crawling out of his skin.
It's useless, all of it. His mind does what it wants, and Eddie has learned to accept it. He'll be frustrated with himself later today, and he's learning to let go of that too.
He'll feel bad when he sees Buck tomorrow, and then Buck will laugh at him, and everything will be forgotten, pushed out of Eddie's mind until the next time he does this.
This: jerking off, picturing Buck kissing him, his jaw, his nipples. Squeezes with his free hand and pretends it's Buck's mouth and lets himself veer over the edge and careen into climax.
Afterwards, he washes up at the sink. He doesn't like to look in the mirror like this; a man who betrays his best friend's trust.
He deals with it. Fights it, and lets it win, and then the struggle starts all over again.
And he promises himself that as long as Buck doesn't know, it's fine. As long as this is private, within the realms of his minds, as long as it doesn't interfere with their friendship - Eddie can deal. He's willing to carry this burden, and tomorrow he will be fine again.
Fill: Mind's Eye
He enjoys the feeling of the sheets against his back, his eyes closed, one hand on his shoulder, squeezing, pretending it's –
He lets himself think of the size of the hands. Of the lips, and the scruff, and the size of the chest, the legs. Deconstructed, because the full picture –
He shouldn't.
Promises himself he won't. Not this time.
He's hard already, pulls his foreskin back, starts jerking off slow. Practised. He wants it to last, wants to enjoy it.
Maybe he waited too long; even the first touches send pleasure crashing over him, sweet relief nearly as good as an orgasm.
He pictures a hand on his dick, pictures Buck-no-pictures someone between his legs and spreads them, sets a pace slower than he'd like.
His fantasy adds a low voice, gruff, Not yet, Eddie. You can take this. You're doing good.
Don't touch yourself.
He'd listen. He knows he would.
Already, the picture assembles itself in his mind. The outline of a body; wide shoulders attached to strong arms, a strong chest. Tattoos of which he knows every detail. Buck would be breathing fast, if he wanted this and was here.
Eddie feels bad for pulling him into this. Feels bad for making the Buck that lives in his head, that's always with him, do this.
Just like that, fantasy-Buck says. Yeah, you look so good.
They're all snippets of conversations they've had. Buck in the gym, Buck during training, Buck with his stupid fucking clipboard demanding stupid fucking things.
Today, today he was riding Eddie's ass particularly hard. Laughing and touching and then turning back to the fire station's to-do list, preparing for inspection.
Sometimes, he thinks this is an indulgence he shouldn't permit himself. Sometimes he looks at Buck and thinks, fuck me. Bend me in half, take me apart, make me come.
He knows it's a choice.
To put his hand back on his cock, to slowly stroke himself, to tease himself the way he thinks Buck would tease someone.
Sometimes, Buck talks about sex with people that aren't Eddie. Eddie will ask questions, pretend to be a considerate person, a good listener, a friend. He stores the information in his mind; lets it all pour out when he's alone like this.
With his hand back on his dick, he thinks about the time Buck said he thinks hand jobs are underrated, and sometimes more personal than fucking someone.
He's still picturing Buck's hand. Squeezing, pulling, speeding up and slowing down. He's picturing Buck's gaze, focused entirely on Eddie, full of wonder the way it is when he's learning something new, something he finds interesting.
These days, Eddie gives in.
He used to fight it, put in so much effort. Wouldn't let himself, if he thought of Buck even once.
He went a month without, until he was on edge and crawling out of his skin.
It's useless, all of it. His mind does what it wants, and Eddie has learned to accept it. He'll be frustrated with himself later today, and he's learning to let go of that too.
He'll feel bad when he sees Buck tomorrow, and then Buck will laugh at him, and everything will be forgotten, pushed out of Eddie's mind until the next time he does this.
This: jerking off, picturing Buck kissing him, his jaw, his nipples. Squeezes with his free hand and pretends it's Buck's mouth and lets himself veer over the edge and careen into climax.
Afterwards, he washes up at the sink. He doesn't like to look in the mirror like this; a man who betrays his best friend's trust.
He deals with it. Fights it, and lets it win, and then the struggle starts all over again.
And he promises himself that as long as Buck doesn't know, it's fine. As long as this is private, within the realms of his minds, as long as it doesn't interfere with their friendship - Eddie can deal. He's willing to carry this burden, and tomorrow he will be fine again.