b______t
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"You're lying. Something happened," Eddie accuses, and because he's a total smug dick, his delight becomes more palpable with every word. So damn enthusiastic to put Buck through his twisted humiliation ritual. His own best friend. "I'm right. You're blushing," he beams, canines on display, ripe and ready to tear through Buck's jugular.
"I'm not blushing."
"No, for sure," Eddie drones. He simmers down and stares at Buck for a few seconds, happy as a clam and twice as infuriating; then adds, "You know, the church taught me that lying is a sin."
So is lust, Buck thinks to himself. Out loud though, he just grits his teeth and says, "I'm agnostic."
Or: "You couldn't jerk that information out of me."
Bookmarked by b______t
14 Jul 2026
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“Ahhh,” Ryan breathes, tongue out and grinning. Oliver can almost see the remnants of the wine sparkling on his tongue. “Come get a taste.”
Oliver rolls his eyes but walks over to Ryan all the same. To him, champagne always tastes like someone carbonated a headache and then charged too much for it. But Ryan’s lips are sweet — white peach and honey — and something warm and yeasty sits on his tongue.
or: an ode to Oliver and Ryan's wet hot European convention season, long may it reign
Bookmarked by b______t
03 Jul 2026
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“You wore this on purpose,” Oliver says. He’s got his hands on Ryan’s hips, fingers already tucking under the waistband of his jeans. Ryan’s belt is undone, buckle hanging open, and his cock is hard beneath his fly.
“Yes,” Ryan agrees, eyes rolling. “I wore clothes on purpose. You’re supposed to do that in public.”
or: Oliver has Big Feelings about Ryan's crop top (yes it's a crop top) after the convention
Bookmarked by b______t
30 Jun 2026
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well. its the suck or whatever.
Bookmarked by b______t
14 Apr 2026
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He stands up, because Eddie does not cower from knocks at — he checks his phone — 10:52 PM, even though every true crime podcast his abuela forwards him suggests this is exactly how people end up as a Dateline episode.
He looks through the peephole.
He blinks.
He looks again.
There is a man on his porch. Which, fine, he expected a man. What he did not expect is for the man to be — and Eddie needs a second here, because he’s processing several things simultaneously and doing a poor job with all of them — approximately six foot two, broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, visibly muscular in a way that suggests either a dedicated gym routine or a genetic lottery win or both, and completely, entirely, spectacularly naked.
Except for the potted succulent he's holding in front of his crotch.
Eddie's succulent. From Eddie's porch. The one Chris named Potricia.
Or,
The odds of the universe dropping a naked man on your doorstep are low, but never zero.Bookmarked by b______t
14 Mar 2026