weewookinkmeme | Kink Meme

Kink Meme

So how does this work?

1. Anonymously post a short prompt. It could be shippy, porny, weird, fluffy, angsty, gen, or whatever else your heart desires.

Remember that a short, open-ended prompt is easier to fill than something highly specific. E.g. "What if Buck and Eddie had exhibitionist sex at the gym?" is more likely to get a fill than "What if Buck and Eddie had sex at the gym, Buck came first, then someone walked in and they never spoke of it again. After a slow burn, they get together while Maddie is giving birth to her and Chimney's third child."

2. If you see a prompt that strikes your fancy, anonymously fill it. Your fill could be 200 words written straight into the comment box, or it could be a multi-part epic. Multiple fills for one prompt are not only acceptable, but awesome.

Note: Deanoning your fic, or posting it to your namespace AO3, Tumblr, Twitter, or any other account, is completely fine, but please wait a week or so to do so, so it can belong totally to the kink meme for a bit. Kink memes are not only for fic, they are also communities; we want to celebrate your fic that you made for this community for a bit before it's released into the wider world.

Second note: Deanoning is NOT required. Your fic can live as an anonymous fill for as long as you please. :)

3. If you post a prompt, try to fill one if you can!

4. Comment on things you're excited about and start discussions. The conversations can be the best part of being on a kink meme! And part of the benefit of being on Dreamwidth is that we are all completely anonymous, so you can deep discuss anything you please without shame.

5. Don't troll, wank, or start discourse. If you don't like a prompt/fill, scroll on past and post something you do like. Treat people well. Harassment will be deleted with prejudice. If you see someone treating people poorly, you can report it here.

Edit: Feel free to post prompts for RPF ships. Let's make sure to only prompt about actively famous people, not relatives or friends of famous people (unless they're famous in their own right), and avoid RPF prompts about real life minors.

Second Edit: Just a reminder to be careful to write out "omegaverse" or "alpha/beta/omega" instead of using the letter abbreviations, as it's a very nasty slur in some parts of the world.

It's that simple! Here is a list of kinks for inspiration, get prompting and have fun!

If anyone is totally new to HTML, I've written up a quick tutorial here; click to expand.

Basic HTML is pretty easy! This is how you make words bold, italicized, underlined, bigger, smaller, etc. You use what are called "tags", and surround the words you want to be affected.

<i>Like this</i>

<b>Or this</b>

<h1>Or this</h1>

That's the raw HTML. When you post a comment, it will change the text. So when you post, the three HTML tags I'm using there would look:

Like this
Or this
Or this

<i></i> = italics
<b></b> = bold
<u></u> = underlined

That's the very basics, and probably all you need for commentfic. Here is a more in-depth guide, and here is the HTML that is usable on Dreamwidth.

You can see new fic in the fills thread, or on Pinboard for clickable links (If you're using a phone, Pinboard will probably be easiest.).

AO3 Collection

~~I'm testing out another journal style, since a couple anons pointed out that the current one is hard to navigate on mobile, don't be alarmed! Edit: ugh, I hate what I've created. Bear with me.~~ Okay, I'm just gonna go with the site default, I think, since it's nice and functional. Apologies to anyone who witnessed the various in-between stages of the journal, lol.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Eddie as a trans woman.

YES PLEASE!!

I'm def doing this but did you have a ship in mind or soloEddie?

I'm a buddie shipper but solo Eddie is fine too!

A/N: i'm not the anon who said they'd do the fill, so hopefully we'll have a two cakes situation here :)
cw for selfhate, shame, internalised transphobia, unvoiced suicide ideation
---

You wake up exhausted and you force yourself to get up and start the day. You make yourself look into the mirror, and you don’t wince, instead you make do. You have to. (The moustache is a joke with yourself, you tell yourself, even though you’d never admit it out loud.)
You make and eat your breakfast mechanically and maybe you pick the boring choices, because it doesn’t matter, and your son’s favorite cereals go stale in the pantry but you can’t bring yourself to eat them alone and like, it’s fine, this one has more nutritions anyway, and it doesn’t matter.
You go to work and you act normal, sharing jokes with Hen and Chim and clapping Buck’s shoulder and you try to ignore Gerrard who does you the favor of returning the gesture. If you are more distant lately mostly everyone understands, gives you space, it’s okay. Everyone else got their own shit going on. Things between Hen and Chim are awkward, with Hen’s kid living at Chim’s house and like, you understand, but you can’t listen to it right now.
You’re good at your job, competent, capable, your hands are sure and they do exactly what they should, your head is clear and focused, your body primed for this and it works. At work you function, a perfect mimicry of normal. At work you don‘t feel wrong, because at work, you are in control. At work you manage to perform miracles.
You come home to an empty house and you can’t even cry. You can’t make yourself do anything, so you just sit there, like a puppet with no strings. You’re tired again, but you can’t bring yourself to go to bed. There is just so much nothing ahead of you.
And you keep remembering today, how your hands were steady and sure on the boy. No shakes to betray the nerves. Even though there were some nerves, you can admit that much now, it is a difficult procedure even under ideal circumstances, with so much that can go wrong. The human body is a fragile thing, so much more so when it’s a kid’s. You keep remembering the way Hen looked at you. Then that perfect moment when the kid’s pulse steadied. Elation and relief hitting you like a punch. And then that hazy voice. That word. Dad? But the boy didn‘t mean you, you know, you know. But the word still shocked you, reminded you just how much you miss that word coming from another voice, another boy, and normally it doesn’t hit you that much at work.
But it doesn’t leave you alone. You don’t always take your work home, but you can never help it when it’s kids. You feel like you have to do something, anything, some insane urge to…
You tell yourself you just want to help, and that it isn’t a compulsion to fix something because you‘re too scared to fix your own situation. Because obviously you‘re not scared. But you are not entirely successful with it.
So you dig and call in some favors until you have a name, an address, and you just leave.
You find a father who is ashamed of his son and because of that he won’t even be close to his kid when said kid needs him most. Always sons and fathers. Of course, of course. It‘s not the same, of course, nothing could ever make you ashamed of your son, the fierce pride you feel for him every day is only maybe matched by how much you miss him now. You miss him so much you feel like you‘re losing it. You can’t imagine not wanting to be close to your son. And still, he is 800 miles away because you—
You use the pain to build a bridge.
You know it’s not the same. But still, the story is familiar. Your father‘s eyes are in your head, all seeing, the way you could never measure up, could never reach the goal he set for you. And you know your father falls short too, that he was wrong to set it in the first place, even. It doesn‘t matter. Because something about you is wrong. Always has been.
You step into the shower and here you close your eyes and wash yourself with almost mindless efficiency. Military habit you’d say, water conversion, something people can nod at should they ask—which of course nobody ever does, but it feels better to have that reasoning, just in case—in truth you just hate lingering on it. The body.
You don‘t know why it started again now, but you shouldn‘t be surprised. It always comes when you feel least in control. Always when you‘re at your worst. That fault in you pervades everything and you can never rid yourself of it.
~~~
So maybe it‘s not so surprising that after your shower you walk to your closet, carefully not thinking about what you will pick out. Carefully refraining from using a word for any of it.
(After Shannon died you inherited all her things. Books, pictures, assorted odds and ends, clothes. All her clothes. It took you a while to deal with all of that, figuring out what would be the few things remaining of her in the world or just your lives. You donated or tossed out most of her clothes. You should have donated or thrown out all her clothes. But you couldn‘t. It was like a compulsion that was stronger than you, an unspecified need.)
So now you’re alone in the dark of your house, naked, touching a sundress with shaking hands and you can’t do it. You want to, but you can‘t. Shame coats you inside and out.
Maybe Kim was the divine punishment for keeping the dress, for wanting it. (If you were the sort of person to believe in that sort of thing, which of course you aren‘t. Because that feels like a cop out, like making excuses.)
Three months ago, your life was almost entirely on track. A job you loved, the best kid in the world, a fun girlfriend who was easy to be around. Of course you ruined it.
Your hands are still trembling, the dress is getting wrinkled up but maybe the fabric forgives that sort of thing, you don’t know. It‘s so nice to touch. Kinda textured, airy, soft. You‘re almost nauseated with want.
(Shannon knew. You don’t know how or what or how much but you know she knew, you saw it in her eyes and you’re not thinking about it, but you keep remembering the look in her eyes and—)
You hide the dress back in your closet and get dressed quickly. Then you go and sit in the dark kitchen and wonder if this is it. If you really need to stick around. But you have a kid who already lost his mother and you‘re never gonna do that to him. Not that you were thinking of anything, because you don’t get to do that.
You‘re handling it.
~~~
Most of the time you’re not thinking about it. You built your life and it’s fine, most of the time. But when you do think about it your heart starts racing and it’s almost like a panic attack, and it feels like your brain is trying to devour itself with want and dread and shame and this all encompassing sadness—you’re so scared of going insane. Of this being it for the rest of your life.
And you can’t even put it into words, not even in the privacy of your own head, you just know you’re wrong.
It’s not just because of Christopher. It should be. It feels wrong to be sad about something that isn’t about him, it feels selfish.
~~~
You wake up exhausted the next morning. And the next. And the next.
Bobby comes back. Hen and Karen get their kid back. Buck brings a corpse to work. Hen and Karen almost lose their other kid, and it’s horrible. And you put the Halloween decoration up by rote and take it down by rote.
You can’t imagine doing this for the rest of your life.
~~~
You don’t know why you step into the church. How you ended up in the confessional. Only, maybe you hope you’ll get your punishment and it will be—
You don’t know. But you don’t receive a punishment and it doesn’t help. You can’t find the right words to explain how fucked up you are anyway. So you just leave.
You weren’t supposed to see Father Brian outside the confessional, that wasn’t the plan—you can’t just talk about this out in the open, you can’t—
He tells you your mustache is handsome and arches his eyebrow when you tell him it’s a disguise, you meant it as a joke, wanted to make some quib about a mountain man’s beard maybe, but the words die in your mouth because he looks at you—he looks at you like he sees you. Like Shannon did. And you can’t do this but you also can’t move. He tells you to do a small frivolous thing, to find joy. He sees something in you—sees this in you—and he tells you to do something nice? It’s incongruous with everything you ever knew.
It’s almost on autopilot that you leave, that you walk into the drugstore and buy some things and you notice that nobody looks at you weirdly, but it doesn’t make sense, that there isn’t some kind of siren going off. You go home still on autopilot, still almost in a thrall. You shave the mustache off. And then you keep going. Close shave for your face. You keep going. Your pits. Your legs. You’re almost shaking with it. You don’t even know if it feels right or wrong. You stop looking into the mirror as you put lotion on your skin, something neutral, but you bought it from the women’s section, and it’s—nobody will know, but you know.
It’s an act you’ve seen your mother do often, and then your sister, then Shannon. Neither Ana nor Marisol did that sort of thing in front of you, but you still remember. You also still remember your mother looking at you strangely, whenever she noticed you watching. She wasn’t happy about it. Neither was your sister, she’d call you a freak. But Shannon never minded, she had a morning and an evening routine and you sat and watched and the two of you talked, joked, and she even let you massage the night cream into the skin of her face. It’s weird the way you remember all of this now.
You still don’t look into the mirror. But you notice how soft your skin is, hairless, how nice it feels when you rub your legs together. Silky. It feels so good—it’s everywhere in your body, going off like little fireworks. You still don’t look into the mirror but you put on music, loud. So loud it drowns out your thoughts. And you go to the closet and you get the dress out. You breathe in, centered, aware, you breathe out, calm, but with anticipation. Brave, brave, be brave, you whisper to yourself, be brave, nobody can see you. You put it on. The dress feels divine where it touches the soft skin of your legs. Little sparks of joy. The music is full of energy, with a strong rhythm, and you can feel your body’s need to move, to dance. But first, you need to see, you need, you need—
You thought maybe it’d be ridiculous, a man in a dress, you thought it would be horrifying, wrong, disgusting. It isn’t. It isn’t.
You can’t stop looking at yourself in the mirror. It almost makes you cry. There you are, you think it, which should be nonsensical, but it isn’t.
You breathe in and something settles in you, something good, something so much like joy. You stop fighting the smile that wants to break out. You breathe out. And then you dance.
You dance around the house. Fun little steps you didn’t know you still remember, little flourishes that should feel wrong but don’t, hip movements, hands, it’s not the way you learned how to dance, but you’ve seen it all the time done by girls at the studio, at parties, in music videos your sisters tried to recreate. The music is loud, your heart pumps, your body moves weightlessly and you are smiling, laughing, moving, you can’t remember ever feeling like this.
You never hear the doorbell, or the knock. But you hear the front door opening and reality returning. You whirl around to face Buck. He stares at you. His mouth is open in greeting, but now it just hangs open. In surprise? Shock? The music continues but you stand there, rooted to the spot. You stare at each other.
Slowly, still staring at you, Buck closes the door behind him. His eyes flicker up and down your body. He has a six pack of beers with him. You still can’t move.
“Ed—Eddie?” You can’t even really hear Buck over the music, but you can read it on his lips.
It’s enough to snap you out of it, at least enough to stop the music. Instant silence. Your hands shake. Your entire body shakes. You are flushed, with both exertion and shame, and you feel cold. You want to run. You want to flee to your bedroom, barricade the door. You want to run out the door and never stop running.
Brave, brave, be brave, you can still hear yourself, be brave, it’s okay. It will be okay.
Buck still stares at you, but his face is open, no judgment, no disgust, some confusion, but. It’s okay.
“Eddie?”
Be brave, you tell yourself as you swallow the fear, your heart’s still pounding in your chest and your hands are trembling, but you take a breath, and you shake your head. Be brave, you tell yourself when you start crying and Buck almost jumps the couch to hold you. Be brave.

---
i'm very open to constructive feedback/criticism, especially since i'm not trans fem, in fact, not even fem, but i hope i did it justice and that someone likes it :)

oh no, it kinda fucked my formatting, all my paragraph breaks :((

ohhhh holy shit, this is so good, it aches, but that moment of hope and joy and courage at the end!!!

Loved this very much!

A/N: i'm not the anon who said they'd do the fill, so hopefully we'll have a two cakes situation here :)

cw for selfhate, shame, internalised transphobia, unvoiced suicide ideation

---

You wake up exhausted and you force yourself to get up and start the day. You make yourself look into the mirror, and you don’t wince, instead you make do. You have to. (The moustache is a joke with yourself, you tell yourself, even though you’d never admit it out loud.)

You make and eat your breakfast mechanically and maybe you pick the boring choices, because it doesn’t matter, and your son’s favorite cereals go stale in the pantry but you can’t bring yourself to eat them alone and like, it’s fine, this one has more nutritions anyway, and it doesn’t matter.

You go to work and you act normal, sharing jokes with Hen and Chim and clapping Buck’s shoulder and you try to ignore Gerrard who does you the favor of returning the gesture. If you are more distant lately mostly everyone understands, gives you space, it’s okay. Everyone else got their own shit going on. Things between Hen and Chim are awkward, with Hen’s kid living at Chim’s house and like, you understand, but you can’t listen to it right now.

You’re good at your job, competent, capable, your hands are sure and they do exactly what they should, your head is clear and focused, your body primed for this and it works. At work you function, a perfect mimicry of normal. At work you don‘t feel wrong, because at work, you are in control. At work you manage to perform miracles.

You come home to an empty house and you can’t even cry. You can’t make yourself do anything, so you just sit there, like a puppet with no strings. You’re tired again, but you can’t bring yourself to go to bed. There is just so much nothing ahead of you.

And you keep remembering today, how your hands were steady and sure on the boy. No shakes to betray the nerves. Even though there were some nerves, you can admit that much now, it is a difficult procedure even under ideal circumstances, with so much that can go wrong. The human body is a fragile thing, so much more so when it’s a kid’s. You keep remembering the way Hen looked at you. Then that perfect moment when the kid’s pulse steadied. Elation and relief hitting you like a punch. And then that hazy voice. That word. Dad? But the boy didn‘t mean you, you know, you know. But the word still shocked you, reminded you just how much you miss that word coming from another voice, another boy, and normally it doesn’t hit you that much at work.

But it doesn’t leave you alone. You don’t always take your work home, but you can never help it when it’s kids. You feel like you have to do something, anything, some insane urge to…

You tell yourself you just want to help, and that it isn’t a compulsion to fix something because you‘re too scared to fix your own situation. Because obviously you‘re not scared. But you are not entirely successful with it.

So you dig and call in some favors until you have a name, an address, and you just leave.

You find a father who is ashamed of his son and because of that he won’t even be close to his kid when said kid needs him most. Always sons and fathers. Of course, of course. It‘s not the same, of course, nothing could ever make you ashamed of your son, the fierce pride you feel for him every day is only maybe matched by how much you miss him now. You miss him so much you feel like you‘re losing it. You can’t imagine not wanting to be close to your son. And still, he is 800 miles away because you—

You use the pain to build a bridge.

You know it’s not the same. But still, the story is familiar. Your father‘s eyes are in your head, all seeing, the way you could never measure up, could never reach the goal he set for you. And you know your father falls short too, that he was wrong to set it in the first place, even. It doesn‘t matter. Because something about you is wrong. Always has been.

You step into the shower and here you close your eyes and wash yourself with almost mindless efficiency. Military habit you’d say, water conversion, something people can nod at should they ask—which of course nobody ever does, but it feels better to have that reasoning, just in case—in truth you just hate lingering on it. The body.

You don‘t know why it started again now, but you shouldn‘t be surprised. It always comes when you feel least in control. Always when you‘re at your worst. That fault in you pervades everything and you can never rid yourself of it.

~~~

So maybe it‘s not so surprising that after your shower you walk to your closet, carefully not thinking about what you will pick out. Carefully refraining from using a word for any of it.

(After Shannon died you inherited all her things. Books, pictures, assorted odds and ends, clothes. All her clothes. It took you a while to deal with all of that, figuring out what would be the few things remaining of her in the world or just your lives. You donated or tossed out most of her clothes. You should have donated or thrown out all her clothes. But you couldn‘t. It was like a compulsion that was stronger than you, an unspecified need.)

So now you’re alone in the dark of your house, naked, touching a sundress with shaking hands and you can’t do it. You want to, but you can‘t. Shame coats you inside and out.

Maybe Kim was the divine punishment for keeping the dress, for wanting it. (If you were the sort of person to believe in that sort of thing, which of course you aren‘t. Because that feels like a cop out, like making excuses.)

Three months ago, your life was almost entirely on track. A job you loved, the best kid in the world, a fun girlfriend who was easy to be around. Of course you ruined it.

Your hands are still trembling, the dress is getting wrinkled up but maybe the fabric forgives that sort of thing, you don’t know. It‘s so nice to touch. Kinda textured, airy, soft. You‘re almost nauseated with want.

(Shannon knew. You don’t know how or what or how much but you know she knew, you saw it in her eyes and you’re not thinking about it, but you keep remembering the look in her eyes and—)

You hide the dress back in your closet and get dressed quickly. Then you go and sit in the dark kitchen and wonder if this is it. If you really need to stick around. But you have a kid who already lost his mother and you‘re never gonna do that to him. Not that you were thinking of anything, because you don’t get to do that.

You‘re handling it.

~~~

Most of the time you’re not thinking about it. You built your life and it’s fine, most of the time. But when you do think about it your heart starts racing and it’s almost like a panic attack, and it feels like your brain is trying to devour itself with want and dread and shame and this all encompassing sadness—you’re so scared of going insane. Of this being it for the rest of your life.

And you can’t even put it into words, not even in the privacy of your own head, you just know you’re wrong.

It’s not just because of Christopher. It should be. It feels wrong to be sad about something that isn’t about him, it feels selfish.

~~~

You wake up exhausted the next morning. And the next. And the next.

Bobby comes back. Hen and Karen get their kid back. Buck brings a corpse to work. Hen and Karen almost lose their other kid, and it’s horrible. And you put the Halloween decoration up by rote and take it down by rote.

You can’t imagine doing this for the rest of your life.

~~~

You don’t know why you step into the church. How you ended up in the confessional. Only, maybe you hope you’ll get your punishment and it will be—

You don’t know. But you don’t receive a punishment and it doesn’t help. You can’t find the right words to explain how fucked up you are anyway. So you just leave.

You weren’t supposed to see Father Brian outside the confessional, that wasn’t the plan—you can’t just talk about this out in the open, you can’t—

He tells you your mustache is handsome and arches his eyebrow when you tell him it’s a disguise, you meant it as a joke, wanted to make some quib about a mountain man’s beard maybe, but the words die in your mouth because he looks at you—he looks at you like he sees you. Like Shannon did. And you can’t do this but you also can’t move. He tells you to do a small frivolous thing, to find joy. He sees something in you—sees this in you—and he tells you to do something nice? It’s incongruous with everything you ever knew.

It’s almost on autopilot that you leave, that you walk into the drugstore and buy some things and you notice that nobody looks at you weirdly, but it doesn’t make sense, that there isn’t some kind of siren going off. You go home still on autopilot, still almost in a thrall. You shave the mustache off. And then you keep going. Close shave for your face. You keep going. Your pits. Your legs. You’re almost shaking with it. You don’t even know if it feels right or wrong. You stop looking into the mirror as you put lotion on your skin, something neutral, but you bought it from the women’s section, and it’s—nobody will know, but you know.

It’s an act you’ve seen your mother do often, and then your sister, then Shannon. Neither Ana nor Marisol did that sort of thing in front of you, but you still remember. You also still remember your mother looking at you strangely, whenever she noticed you watching. She wasn’t happy about it. Neither was your sister, she’d call you a freak. But Shannon never minded, she had a morning and an evening routine and you sat and watched and the two of you talked, joked, and she even let you massage the night cream into the skin of her face. The creme was thick and clung to your skin, the scent of it familiar and nice. It’s weird the way you remember all of this now.

You still don’t look into the mirror. But you notice how soft your skin is, hairless, how nice it feels when you rub your legs together. Silky. It feels so good—it’s everywhere in your body, going off like little fireworks. You still don’t look into the mirror but you put on music, loud. So loud it drowns out your thoughts. And you go to the closet and you get the dress out. You breathe in, centered, aware, you breathe out, calm, but with anticipation. Brave, brave, be brave, you whisper to yourself, be brave, nobody can see you. You put it on. The dress feels divine where it touches the soft skin of your legs. Little sparks of joy. The music is full of energy, with a strong rhythm, and you can feel your body’s need to move, to dance. But first, you need to see, you need, you need—

You thought maybe it’d be ridiculous, a man in a dress, you thought it would be horrifying, wrong, disgusting. It isn’t. It isn’t.

You can’t stop looking at yourself in the mirror. It almost makes you cry. There you are, you think, which should be nonsensical, but it isn’t.

You breathe in and something settles in you, something good, something so much like joy. You stop fighting the smile that wants to break out. You breathe out. And then you dance.

You dance around the house. Fun little steps you didn’t know you still remember, little flourishes that should feel wrong but don’t, hip movements, hands, it’s not the way you learned how to dance, but you’ve seen it all the time done by girls at the studio, at parties, in music videos your sisters tried to recreate. The music is loud, your heart pumps, your body moves weightlessly and you are smiling, laughing, moving, you can’t remember ever feeling like this.

You never hear the doorbell, or the knock. But you hear the front door opening and reality returning. You whirl around to face Buck. He stares at you. His mouth is open in greeting, but now it just hangs open. In surprise? Shock? The music continues but you stand there, rooted to the spot. You stare at each other.

Slowly, still staring at you, Buck closes the door behind him. His eyes flicker up and down your body. He has a six pack of beers with him. You still can’t move.

“Ed—Eddie?” You can’t even really hear Buck over the music, but you can read it on his lips.

It’s enough to snap you out of it, at least enough to stop the music. Instant silence. Your hands shake. Your entire body shakes. You are flushed, with both exertion and shame, and you feel cold. You want to run. You want to flee to your bedroom, barricade the door. You want to run out the door and never stop running.

Brave, brave, be brave, you can still hear yourself, be brave, it’s okay. It will be okay.

Buck still stares at you, but his face is open, no judgment, no disgust, some confusion, but. It’s okay.

“Eddie?”

Be brave, you tell yourself as you swallow the fear, your heart’s still pounding in your chest and your hands are trembling, but you take a breath, and you shake your head. Be brave, you tell yourself when you start crying and Buck almost jumps the couch to hold you. Be brave.

---

i'm very open to constructive feedback/criticism, especially since i'm not trans fem, in fact, not even fem, but i hope i did it justice and that someone likes it :)

also, so sorry for fucking up the formatting the first try :(

Eddie starts small. He hadn't wanted to go all out and realize at the end that it wasn't for him after all. It started with lipgloss.

Eddie had always admired the lipgloss Shannon wore on their dates. Not sticky and bubblegum like some of the girls at school, just smooth glossy cherry. With every kiss it would transfer to him and he'd felt warm and fuzzy. He'd thought that was just the effect Shannon had on him. Right now, he remembers the lipgloss.

He applies it at home, in the safety of his room and just enjoys the soft way it feels when he smacks his lips together. He looks in the mirror, telling himself he's just going to see a guy wearing lipgloss. And he does but he can also see past that.

For the first time he can see a future. A happy one.

It's scary, coming to terms with it. Finding the right words. He'd known, to a degree that his skin didn't fit right, that the armor he wore every day was as much a prison as it was a shield. But the words were scary.He mouths them to himself over and over again in the mirror, watching the way the gloss looks when the words form on them.

He tucks it away, wipes off the gloss and starts to plan.

~
Eddie knows there's a million different ways to be a woman but to feel like one he has to go to some specific lengths.

He starts shaving more often. His face and his legs. Marisol had asked him to help her with her legs before. He watched how she stood to make it easy for him, how she drew the razor up in one smooth stroke and handed it to him to repeat.

He does it now, one leg up on the edge of the tub while the hot steam of his shower billows around him. He'll switch his body wash next he thinks, something citrusy and warm that will compliment the earthy smell of his shampoo.

The razor glides in smooth strokes up up up to his knee then he starts back at the ankle again. When he rinses the hair away he's amazed at the smooth feeling.

He puts the lipgloss on once he's back in his room and he slides his legs together like a cricket. He can't help the smile growing on his face. He feels delicate.

He's not ready for the rush of shame he feels when he realizes he's gotten hard over the feeling and he throws on sweatpants and lets himself cry into his pillow.

~
He starts seeing a therapist. Tina is a little brash and bold and she pulls him out of his armor a bit at a time. He says the words out loud to her and tries not to panic when she says she's proud of him.

He starts thinking about his name.

~
He tells Chris first. His son, who is so open and understanding. "Like Terri in my class last year.

Eddie had forgotten about the kid whose very existence caused controversy amongst the PTA moms. Her story wasn't his story, but Eddie hopes they both end up happy on the other side. He nods anyways and smiles.
Chris asks if he still wants to be "dad" and Eddie can only say 'for now.'

~
His hair is longer now. It's still within the rules for firefighting but he's considering a cuter cut when the time comes.

He wonders if maybe it's time to consider Estrogen. He thinks of the changes he wants and what muscles he'll have to work to retain his core strength. He spends the rest of their shift, thankfully quiet, reading material Tina had sent him about it.

"Hey, Buck?" He starts, before he realises it, eyes trained on his phone still.

But Buck is by his side in an instant. "Yeah?"

Eddie takes a breath and looks up. "If I start estrogen, are there any exercises you know that will help with the weight distribution changes?"

Buck smiles, wide and warm and proud. "Y-yeah. I can make a list?" He says it so hopefully that Eddie can't help but laugh. He settles for pulling Buck into a tight hug over the back of the couch and feels something like ease.

~
Not everyone is as accepting. He starts estrogen before he works up the nerve to tell his family. Like the 118, his sisters are happy for him, but his mom is in denial and his dad is confused but supportive.

"You're still my son, no matter what." Ramon tells him and Eddie knows he means it as an 'I love you' even if it feels like a curse.

~
Eddie becomes Edie with Bobby's help on the paperwork and she tries out calling herself a woman. She asks Chris to call her 'mom' and they both cry it out together at the feelings it stirs up about Shannon.

Edie wonder what she'd think about her now. Would she still divorce her? It brings up some other stuff and Edie makes an emergency appointment with Tina.

She ends up downloading Tinder later that day. Estrogen was supposed to reduce her libido but she finds truth in the opposite. Things in women she'd been disinterested in before now drive her crazy. The curve of a round hip, a soft belly, thick thighs...she's a woman starving.

All the women she's been with before had been femme, petite and thin: everything that she'd been told she was supposed to want as a man.

She goes on exactly one date. Raina is strong and soft and shows Edie where her prostate is. Edie spends an hour eating her out after until they're both satisfied. She decides hookups still aren't for her. She uninstalls Tinder.
~

It takes three months for Edie to decide she's maybe still been looking in the wrong direction. She's pent up, and overthinking and watching porn and cannot for the life of her look away from the male porn star in the video.

It's a revelation, not because she's attracted to men the same way Buck realized he was. But because the man looks like Buck. She thinks about Buck doing to her what the actors are doing and it takes her mere minutes to cum.

She starts to think about it a lot. She talks about it in therapy with Tina and leaves the session with more questions than answers. Is this a new attraction? Attraction born from shifting hormones and her one close male friend? Or is it Buck?

Buck who's always been there for her, who supports her through anything and everything... Buck who has big arms and thick thighs and a soft stomach. Buck who is actually taller than her and buffer than her and could probably throw her around. Buck who likes cock and women and would probably be all too happy fuck her silly.

Buck who is single and lamenting his lack of love life in Edie's kitchen and she can't stop looking at his mouth and his dick and his fucking hands. She doesn't think she's been obvious but Buck's looking at her life he's figuring out a big mystery. He must figure it out though because he's crossing the room in 3 strides and pulling Edie in by the waist and kissing her within an inch of life.

When Edie cums and Buck follows after her, she holds him there, so close that she can feel each pulse of his cum deep inside her. It's everything she ever hoped and then some. When she wakes up, he's looking at her with something akin to wonder. She tells him she doesn't know if she's the answer to his lack of love life but she's willing to give it a proper try. The beatific look on Buck's face tells Edie everything she needs to know.
~

She decides to get surgery. Not because it's the next step so much as it's the next one for her. It takes months of recovery and she secretly wonders if this was actually worthwhile. What if she's just been fooling herself this whole time? What if she wakes up one day and doesn't want this?

But then she's recovered and her and Buck are back to fucking like rabbits. And when she sees him taking Chris to school, she knows she's been looking for this her whole life. From Eddie Diaz to Edie Diaz to hopefully Edie Buckley. She's going to ask Buck at dinner and they're going to be sickening about it at work and she'll be complete finally. Edie Diaz- Buckley a happy ever after in 97 acts.

Ah this was supposed to say Fill. FML. But hey, 2 cakes!

Edie 🥰🥰🥰
Love this, especially her telling Chris first, and not really telling Buck but just asking a question about eatrogen and fuck understanding perfectly. I love the subtle changes happening too 💙

Buck’s hands have been all over Eddie since the minute shift ended, though that’s not exactly unusual, especially after a shift like this one where everything went right for a change and they pulled off a few — if Eddie’s allowed to brag — spectacular saves. It’s still sort of strange, even years later, not to be working side by side with Buck. They’re still on the same team, of course, and Eddie is sometimes sent into the thick of it but mostly she’s stationed on the sidelines of whatever disaster they pull up to, ready and waiting with her paramedic bag to treat anybody Buck pulls out and hands to her.

“That tourniquet was crazy,” Buck hums into her neck, hair pushed out the way to get at skin. He’s plastered up against her back, slipping his hands up under her shirt. “You got that thing on so fast, and like- smooth. It was a weird joint one, even!”

Eddie laughs, trying to smack him away long enough to grab something cold to drink from the fridge. “This impressed by a tourniquet? Good to know I don’t have to work too hard to wow you this far into marriage.”

“Mm.” Buck politely waits until Eddie’s taken three big gulps of seltzer before wrapping her back up again, nosing back through her hair to kiss her spine, big and sloppy. “Don’t downplay it, you know it was cool.” One hand presses into her belly, fingers teasing below the elastic of the big, comfortable skirt she threw on at the station, and the other snakes up to her bra, grabbing a handful.

“Buck,” Eddie laughs. The other side effect of having different tasks on a busy day at work is a certain amount of touch starvedness from her husband at the end of the day. Though — as she gasps at him pinching her nipple through the soft cup of the bra — she can’t really find it in her to mind all that much. “I didn’t even take a shower.”

“So?” Buck’s grinning, she can feel his teeth against her neck. “We’ll have to shower after, anyway.”

Eddie snorts. “After what, Mr. Diaz?”

“After I celebrate how great at her job my beautiful wife is by making her cum so hard she can’t stand upright.”

Eddie tilts her head back far enough that she can kiss Buck’s end-of-shift-scruffy cheek. “That might make showering more difficult.”

Buck kisses Eddie’s nose. “So, I’ll hold you up.”

Eddie makes a sound sort of like mrgh and spins in Buck’s arms, kissing him soundly. “Hate that I found that as romantic as I did.”

Buck smiles against her mouth, clacking their teeth together. “No you don’t.” He tugs, stepping back, and again.

Eddie follows, sighing into his mouth. “No, I don’t.”

“You love me.” They don’t even stumble going backwards and unseeing down the hall, they’ve lived here too long. “You think I’m so romantic.”

“Keep talking and you’re showering alone,” Eddie lies, hiking her skirt to climb onto Buck’s lap as he falls back to sit on the bed. He’s already half hard beneath her, and her smug grin about it makes him blush happily. His arms are big and strong around her, his hair with all its not-so-new grey strands is kind of a greasy mess from work. Eddie traces his handsome face with her fingertips. “I do love you.”

Buck smiles so big it seems to render him unable to speak for a moment. “I know.” He kisses her. “I love you too, baby.” He kisses her deeply. “Lemme make you cum.”

Eddie grinds down a little, smiling at his gasps. “If you insist.”

Buck kisses her, kisses her again, finally peels away to grab lubricant. Eddie stands, wiggles out of her underwear, puts her hair back up in a loose bun. Buck laughs when he sees it, lube in hand and pants shed.

“What?” Eddie asks, craning her head to the side and baring her neck. “Easy access.”

“See?” Buck points at her as he sits back down on the bed. “Smart.” He pats his lap. “C’mere.”

Eddie steps closer. “How do you want me?”

Buck leans forward and kisses her left tit through her shirt. “Want your cunts.”

Eddie runs her fingers through Buck’s hair and hums assent, kissing his temple before turning around and settling backwards onto his lap, pulling her skirt up out of the way as she goes. Buck’s cock presses up against her — thin cotton of his briefs against bare skin — as he attacks her neck again, hands roaming around her body in familiar paths. A decade, she thinks, relaxing back into him. A decade since you first touched me like this. Their wedding anniversary is a few months past but the first time they ever fell into bed together was in the summer. Coming up soon. “God, I was so young.”

“Hm?” Buck’s hand so slowly creeps down to cup her soft cock.

“When you first loved me.” She turns her head, closes her eyes against his jaw. “Since you first told me, anyway. You loved me a long time before that.”

She says it like an oft repeated fairytale, an inside joke, a call and response, and Buck plays his part. “I loved you a long time before that.” He sucks at her neck as he strokes her. “I felt so old, back then. Thirty-five, all grown up.” Buck laughs softly. “The hell did I know? Fuck, Ravi’s forty now, what a baby.”

Eddie laughs and it turns into a gasp as Buck’s other hand joins the first, slick with lube. “I had that stupid mustache.”

Buck laughs, one hand on her cock and the other fondling a testicle. “No, the- that was like the year before.”

Eddie blinks. “Are you sure? I could swear I remember kissing you with a mustache.”

Buck laughs harder, pausing his ministrations. “Nope.” He kisses her cheek, then goes for her lips like he can’t resist. “Maybe you were just imagining it a lot at the time.”

“No,” Eddie says, even as the heat in her cheeks gives her away.

Buck giggles, ducked into her shoulder. “You’re so cute.”

Eddie makes another noise that tries to be annoyed and entirely fails at its job. She’ll blame it on Buck’s hands, back to their work of slow pleasure. “I’ve loved you forever too, we all know that.”

“I know.” Buck rubs her testicle again, pinching it lightly, pressing it upward carefully.

Eddie’s neck decides to give up, and she flops her head back onto Buck’s shoulder, gasping at the warmth of Buck’s hand around her soft cock, the tight burn-stretch of penetration. “I-“ another gasp, another gasp. “Had that mustache and- and I was walking around telling people I was a straight guy.”

Buck laughs, fucking her slow and then pulling out, the sensation of her own testicle sliding back out of her canal sending shivery pleasure up her spine. “Remember my- my ally posts?”

Eddie laughs- moans- laughs. It’s so good, Buck’s thumb rubbing the tip of her cock, broad finger fucking back into her cunt. The kind of pleasure only possible from practice, from intimate knowledge of another person’s body. It’s good, no longer walking around feeling like a failure of a man, and more of a success at being Eddie. “Young,” she says again, when she can get words back in her mouth. “I’m so glad-” Buck’s chest heaves at her back, and she feels so surrounded by him. The sound of his breathing, the heat of his body, even the stink of 24 hours of hard-work sweat. “I’m so glad I got to grow up with you.”

Buck lets out a breath that sounds almost like a sob, but when she turns her head his cheeks are dry. “Eddie-” he says, and then can’t finish the sentence. He moves, tiny little thrusts against her ass as he keeps fucking, pulling out, fucking in, fondling, knowing her so well. Loving her, always being there with her, in just the ways she needs.

“That I get to-” she reaches up, tangles her fingers in his hair, looks forward at the future of this spiraling out in front of them. “That I get to keep growing up with you. I- Buck- Buck-”

“Yeah- yeah-”

“I love- I love my life with you- I love who I am with- you know me so good-”

“Gonna-” Buck moans, hands faster but still, always, so careful. “Eddie- you and me- you and me- I love you so much, I’m gonna love you forever, till I die- till-” he laughs, sort of, breathy. “Till we’re so old and wrinkly-”

Eddie pants, head thrown back. Her hair’s come mostly loose, strands spilling everywhere, the streaks of grey that Buck is so enamored with catching in the light. “Matching- matching rockers.” Tight, warm, stretch, full, good good good.

“Uh- Uh- can’t wait- can’t fucking wait- baby, baby-”

Eddie feels him cum, the wet of it tacky through his underwear. He shakes, finger twitching where it’s still inside her, hand trembling around her cock. She’s so close- so close- “Buck-” and then he presses a small kiss to her shoulder where’s rested, spent, against her and that’s it- that’s-

When she floats back into her body Buck is still kissing along her shoulder, up her neck, around to the other side. His arms are circled loosely around her middle. She’s softer there than she used to be, but so is he. Her breath catches, just a little.

“You okay?” Buck asks, immediately concerned, leaning back and raising a hand to tilt her face into his line of sight.

“Mhmm,” she says, leaning in to kiss him. “I just love my husband very much.”

“I love my wife very much.” He kisses her firmly, then one to her cheek and another to her jaw. “So?

“So what?” She twists in his lap, getting a little more comfortable, thinking vaguely of a nap.

“What’s the odds on standing under your own power right now? Because I’m going to admit here that I may have overestimated my own post-coital ability.”

Eddie cracks up, arms slung around him, sloppily kissing any bit of skin she finds. “We lean on each other, we’ll make it through.” Like they always do.

Ahhhh!!! They are so cute!! And in love!! And I love the way you wrote the sex 😍 trans women 😍😍😍 yay!

Oh my god!
I don’t know when the last time was I read muffing in fics! Beautifully done!!
And I love that you aged them up, love the perspective they have on youth and themselves.
Bravo. Beautiful!

godddd i love this so much! the intimacy of knowing someone so well, the way you made them both older, their perspectives on their younger selves, the way the sex feels so wonderfully lived in because they know exactly how to make each other feel good.

soooooo fucking lovely!

outing myself here as someone who has never even heard of muffing before this morning, i was very curious about that and stumbled upon the "fucking trans women" zine and went on to read it (during work hours because i'm nothing if not efficient when motivated) and what a very fascinating and interesting read that was! so, thank you very much for also being educational!

back to the story: seconding (thirding?) the other anons, because i love that they're aged up and seeing how settled they are with each other, how much they know and love each others bodies, how loving they are. it's so rare in fandom to read about older people (and they aren't even old here!). but maybe more mature. and especially how happy they are <3

thank you for all that! wonderful story <3

This was so sift and lovely!! :’)

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FILL: I never fit in (or felt home in my skin)

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Full: transfem Eddie (A Happy Ending In 97 Acts)

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Loved and known

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