Archive of Our Own

Eddie wakes up in Buck’s new apartment.

In fact, Eddie wakes up in Buck’s bed in Buck’s new apartment. He groggily blinks the sleep from his eyes, scanning the room around him. Blank white walls, a few piles of boxes, furniture half organized and askew. The thin curtains do a terrible job keeping out the early-afternoon sun, a great big beam of light shining onto the ceiling, bouncing off the full-length mirror propped crookedly against the dresser at the foot of the bed. He studies the reflection of the room, the sliver of it he can see from this angle — the corner of the bed, the rumpled duvet spilling over the edge, the crate of records and bag of clothes that sit in the corner by the closet door. Definitely Buck’s bed, in Buck’s room, in Buck’s new apartment.

What the hell?

He sits up and puts his feet on the floor, folding over to put his face in his hands and rub at his eye sockets. Then he pauses, goes completely still. He feels… wrong. Like he’s taking up too much space, like these hands are not his own. Even the structure of his brow, up against his knuckles — its contours and curves — it’s all different.

His back goes rigid, sitting straight up and staring wide-eyed down at his hands. His fingers are shorter but thicker, just generally meatier, clenching and unclenching his fists and checking the palms and the backs and the palms again. His skin is pale. His tattoo’s on the wrong arm. He’s— He’s—

Eddie flattens his palms to his chest, feels around his upper body in a panic. He looks down, has to peer over the girth of his chest, swallowed in a big gray t-shirt, to find thick thighs covered in fine curly hair, a plaid pair of boxers that pull too taut across his pelvis — the squish at the tops of his thighs.

“Oh my god,” he says, and hears Buck’s voice reverberating in his ears. “Oh my god.”

Eddie doesn’t just wake up in Buck’s bed. Eddie wakes up in Buck’s body.

He flies up onto his feet, fumbling toward the mirror and, whoa, that’s a lot of body to lug around. Everything feels a tad heavier and slower, like dragging his limbs through water. He grasps at the mirror with two clumsy hands, tilts and adjusts it until he’s face to face with his reflection. The face that looks back at him is certainly Buck’s. This is not a copy or a simulation or a dream or a vision — this is undeniably, tangibly, unmistakably Buck. He’d know this face anywhere, the effect his presence has on the space that surrounds him. This is Buck. But also it’s Eddie.

“Oh my god,” Eddie says again. He sees and hears Buck say it instead.

Dumbfounded, Eddie lets go of the mirror and takes a step back. He stares at himself — at Buck, god, this is so fucking weird — and thinks, as if a plea, Ave Maria, what have I done? He looks down at his hands then back up to his reflection, the mirror shorter than him and thus tilted back in order to reach the disaster of curls on the top of his head. He slept restlessly, Eddie notes. He wonders if Buck often does after overnights, or if Eddie… got here, tossing and turning hours ago in his sleep.

Did he dream as Buck? Did his subconscious know whose form he had taken?

“What the hell...?”

Eddie just… stares. Sees his own expression — pinched brow and slack mouth, kneejerk-watery eyes — on Buck’s features. The curve of his cheekbone. The pillow of his bottom lip. He looks big, peering down his nose at his reflection like this. He looks as big as he feels, the notable difference in the room this body reaches compared to what he’s used to. His chest is broad and sturdy, his legs long and strong. He turns to the side, hooking his fingers in the hem of his boxers and hiking the fabric up his thighs, steps a foot out. He turns and checks the other. And while Eddie’s thighs are by no means skinny, he’s considered strong by any standard, this— Eddie feels like he’s standing on tree trunks.

He lets go of the boxers, squares himself up with the mirror again. His fingers curl into the hem of Buck’s worn, stretched-out shirt and begins to lift. Then he freezes, meeting his reflection with wide blue eyes, mortification clunking to the pit of his belly like a great big ball of lead.

His hands fly up to his hair. He spins around and paces to the other end of the room. “What the fuck am I doing? What the hell am I doing? Oh my god, what the fuck is going on?” He paces back and forth in front of the window, talks and talks and talks, fascinated by the sound of his voice. “This is— what— what?” Not his voice— Buck’s voice, a familiar sort of comfort; a sound he’s heard a billion times before but never from this up close. It travels through his bones — his teeth and jaw — and shakes into his ears. It sounds deeper like this, the sound buried, nestled up snug at the base of his skull.

Eddie looks down at his hands again. He curls and unfurls his fists, rocks up onto his toes and back. It keeps slamming into him, over and over, the realization that he’s Buck. Like, right now, he’s Buck.

Once again, he stands before the mirror. He sticks his tongue out and crosses his eyes and scrunches his nose and, yep, it all moves accordingly. He straightens his back, puffs up his chest, tries to muster up his best impression of Buck as he says to his reflection, “it’s fine, Eddie. This is fine. We’ll figure it out.” A lump forms in his throat at that, blinking back at his reflection. He looks starry-eyed, he realizes— meaning starry-eyed is in fact Buck’s natural state. It’s also a little uncanny, manifesting like a spiral behind his belly button, just how convincing it sounds coming from Buck.

So he continues, “this is totally okay,” with a shrug, an easy sort of acceptance Eddie can imagine Buck conjuring. Then, staring his reflection in the eye, he says, “at least it’s just you.”

He’s not sure if that’s supposed to be Buck speaking to Eddie, or Eddie speaking to Buck.

So he says it again to even the playing field. “At least it’s just you.” There. Now they’ve said it to each other.

A huge inhale seeps in through his nose, his shoulders hiking with the air that distends the balloon of his ribs. He keeps swallowing, over and over, swallows lumps of anxiety and curiosity and fascination and fear, rolling his tongue over his teeth and learning the shape of them; smooth and rounded and totally straight. His fingers once again find the hem of his shirt, and Eddie looks Buck’s face in the eye to tell him, “I’m sorry.” The shirt winds up tossed somewhere on the bed behind him.

He stares at Buck’s body for a long minute, just watches himself breathe for him and blink for him. Watches his chest rise and fall, the tattoo over his breast, the band on his arm. The soft spot where his belly hangs over the elastic band of his boxers.

Slapping his hands over his face, Eddie whines into the darkness. “What the hell is wrong with me?” His stomach squirms at the sound of Buck asking.

Here, in Buck’s body, Eddie is strapped into the cockpit with the controls lit up under his thumbs. He fills all of Buck, he feels all of Buck — his fingertips and his toes, his mass, his flesh, his air. It’s power granted to him that he’s unsure what to do with, intimidated by the possibilities presented before him. He turns to his side and twists his torso, watching in the mirror as Buck moves how Eddie makes him; his mouth goes dry at the pull of tissue, at the lines that form as all of this squishy muscle that enrobes him bunches and folds.

Oh, it travels through Eddie, from the crown of his head to his ankles — arousal, a tantalizing slow crawl through the muscle, and the unmistakable accompaniment of shame.

He shakes his head, glances up at the ceiling. Should he even bother praying at this point?

The curiosity usurps the shame. It’s like, in a sense, he feels a little invincible in the armour of Buck’s body. He faces himself straight-on again, lifting his arms at his sides to flex his biceps, his traps, the fucking brick wall of his chest. Like, look at that— if anything’s trying to get to Eddie, first they gotta get through all of this.

One arm remains curled up and flexed as his other hand reaches across to feel the muscle for himself. He sighs, a shaky stream of air that breaks through his teeth, then rotates a little so he can peer over his shoulder and grin at himself over the hill of his bicep, all shiny white teeth and high cheeks. Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever felt so sexy in his life. It’s like hot air has infiltrated his skull, suddenly awash with lightheadedness.

It registers in tandem: he’s getting hard; Buck’s dick is getting hard.

He drops his arms, his head, digs his chin into his chest as he stares down past the plane of his torso at the lump that stirs in the fabric over his hips. He’s getting hard, which means Buck’s getting hard, a feedback loop of realization, mortification, excitement, realization, indefinitely. It fuels itself. His own arousal becoming Buck’s, becoming his again. Buck’s tongue in Buck’s mouth fattens. And it’s Eddie that gets to feel it.

His hand drops to the lump in his boxers, squeezing the ever-growing bulge as if he could tame it. He grunts, a sound escaping him that’s certainly all Buck, choked and voracious and boyish. The size appalls him, unable to fit all of it in the cup of his big hand. Eddie’s hands are bigger, he unhelpfully thinks. He wonders if it would fit in his.

“Oh, god,” Eddie wheedles out. He seriously cannot believe what’s happening to him. The lines in the plaid warp and pull as his cock — Buck’s cock, he keeps remembering — fills out. The cotton is getting so tight it’s beginning to hurt. He rolls his head back on its neck, panting open mouthed and fluttering eyelids up at the ceiling. “You seriously just live like this?” he asks the body he occupies, a fire at his center and his vision caught in a tilt-a-whirl.

Unable to help it, his chin once again drops to his chest, reaching into his boxers to fish out his half-mast cock. He shoves down the elastic, tucking it securely behind his balls, and gasps as he cradles the shaft in one hand.

“No fucking way,” he deadpans. There’s just no fucking way. He blinks, wide-eyed and gaping, at the weight of it, the heft of it. It flops over his knuckles, drooping heavily despite the rush of blood pooling at his core and filling it out.

It pulses in his palm; gets even bigger.

He has to sit down. He feels like he’s been punched in the stomach, like this body is trying to vomit him out, rejecting him in lieu of well-earned punishment— for the thrill that stampedes through his bones and the swirl in his stomach and the desperate sort of intrigue that blooms at the nape of his neck. Plopping himself down at the foot of the bed so hard he bounces, Eddie stares for a long while at the sliver of room he can see reflected in the mirror; the crate of records and the blank white walls. Then he sticks out a foot to nudge at it. He’s only satisfied when he can once again see himself.

Buck’s huge cock, heavy in Buck’s strong fist. Eddie stares at it in the mirror, his teeth clenched until they creak, and then pushes a sharp rush of air through his nose.

“Fuck you, man,” he says with a shake of his head. Staring down at his lap, he gives himself one long stroke — up to the head and back down. He feels every goddamn inch of it, every atom, every cell. “Seriously.”

Up, again, to the reflection before him. He looks intently at his face — at the hot pink hue of his lips, at the flush at the tops of his cheeks, his ears — the deep-blue shade of lust in his eyes. He tilts his head, admires himself, and it registers about as subtly as a freight train with the brakes cut; all this, for him to explore. Guilt licks at his spine, different from the way it feels in Eddie’s body— a weight behind his breastbone, a drag on his shoulders. In this body it feels… delicious. Exciting. Everything is so brand new, and none of it belongs to him.

Alone, with Buck’s body. Alone, in Buck’s body. Eddie stares himself down in the mirror, his cock too big for his fist and his belly bunching where he folds. His legs — automatically, like someone somewhere is in possession of his remote — attempt to spread further apart. The ungiving cotton stretched taut between his thighs restricts him.

He rocks back onto his spine to pull the boxers down his legs, rolling right back up into his seat before the mirror. They get caught around one ankle, but he can’t be bothered to kick them free — he just reaches into his lap, peeling his heavy cock off his thigh with a groan, watching the muscle shift underneath the plush flesh of his pec, his shoulder, his bicep.

“Ohhh, fuck,” Eddie says. It’s Buck’s voice that rings back to him, breathless and gravelly in his overwhelming prurience. His fingers don’t quite reach around the girth of his dick, he can’t help but notice, and it punches a sound out of him that’s high and reedy and, Jesus Christ, this is really what Buck sounds like.

Eddie watches himself— he watches Buck; he gives that unfair length of his slow and deliberate pulls, his thighs spread wide, his jaw hung open. Buck’s mouth is so red. Buck’s body is so huge. His free hand comes up to grope at his own chest, watching the way the meat on his bones dimples and bends to his touch; feels the give of muscle and fat under his grip; feels the heady pressure of his own firm touch. He feels and is felt all at once— reverent palms over his chest, his stomach, the fuzzy insides of his thighs. He drags his hand up, up, over his sternum all the way to his throat. He feels the stubble under Buck’s jaw, digs his thumb into the hollow give under his ear. In his palm, Buck’s cock pulses, his elevated heart rate palpably thrumming in his hold.

“Unnhh,” Eddie moans, flopping back onto the mattress as his eyes flutter closed. “Oh, holy shit.”

The space under his tongue floods with spit, a knot in his stomach that only coils and coils and coils. He lays his cock to rest on his lower belly, pressing into it with a flat, calloused palm. He rolls it in circles right beneath the head, feels it as precome pearls at his tip and drips onto his stomach, cool and wet and fucking crazy. His free hand continues to wander, over his chest and his thighs and his throat; the vibrations in his trachea, moaning and moaning; there, beneath his touch, guttural groans from his chest and whimpers high in his throat. He keeps noticing, over and over, that he sounds nothing like himself. Because he isn’t himself. He’s Buck.

His hips cant up into the friction of his palm, a moan that creeps out of him stretchy and hoarse. He’s Buck. He’s Buck.

He turns his face to the side, finds himself nose-first in the soft-worn cotton of his abandoned shirt. He moans. He breathes in deep, the heady, musky scent of Buck trickling down the back of his throat. He moans, his mouth falling open until drool gathers at the corners, tosses his arm over his mouth to gnaw and lick at his own flesh, squeak the muscle under his teeth. It tastes salty and smooth and acrid. His cock jerks on his tummy, dribbles out another drop of precome, as his arm flops into the mattress above his head. He drags his palm from his shaft to his head and to the little puddle of come under his naval— then he licks his palm clean. Eddie curses through his teeth at the need that blazes through him.

With a full-bellied groan, he rolls onto his side, squeezing the base of his cock as best he can in his fist and tucking his face into his underarm. He inhales through an open mouth, tastes the potent, satisfying scent of man, sure, but specifically and most importantly Buck. His sweat and his musk under his nose, against his agape lips. He licks at his own skin, the curly hairs caught in his teeth.

“Holy fuck,” he garbles, so turned on he’s fucking delirious with it. He squeezes his cock again, and the reminder of the sheer size of it, of him, where he is and who he’s occupying— Eddie feels like his brain’s about to short out.

Then he hears something buzzing. He feels it, too, vibrating in the sheets.

He shoots up like a rocket, sitting up straight with eyes like saucers and hands that dig around in the blankets. Out of the sheets, he fishes Buck’s phone, buzzing and buzzing between his palms as he holds it up to his face with wide, unblinking eyes.

Gracing the screen is a photo of him. Himself and Chris. Incoming Call, it says. It also says, Eddie.

His heart has propelled itself from his chest, up into his throat where it throbs and chokes him of air. Loud in his ears like amped up subwoofers.

Of course. How foolish of him to think— he shakes his head, turning to look at his reflection once more. If he’s here in Buck’s body, then Buck must be…

Shaky thumbs and all, Eddie swipes to accept the call. He presses it to his cheek, staring credulously at Buck’s face in the mirror from the other end of the bed as he answers, “um… hello?”

It’s silent for a beat, just the staticky sound of breath on the line. Until he hears his own voice, tentative and slow and entirely disbelieving.

“Eddie?”

“Buck,” escapes him in one relieved rush of breath, clutching his phone to his face like a tether thrown to where he drifts out at sea, crawling back to the foot of the bed; the mirror a buoy marking his place. Even naked like this — hard and flushed and heaving — he’s comforted by the sight of Buck. Even from within, even peering out through the windows of Buck’s own eyes. He’s still here in some capacity, a grounding and calming presence. “Buck,” he repeats.

“Oooookay,” comes through the other end; Eddie’s own voice in his ear, low and husky and eerily uncanny. “Okay, this is— whoa.”

Eddie snorts out a laugh (realizes that it’s Buck’s — a laugh he’s heard so many times before). Despite speaking through Eddie’s larynx, despite forming the words on Eddie’s tongue and pushing them through Eddie’s teeth, he still sounds unmistakably like Buck.

“Dude,” Eddie says, shaking his head as if Buck can see him. He glances up at his reflection; supposes, in a sense, he can. “Wh-what the hell is going on?”

“I don’t know, Eddie,” Buck says. It keeps washing over Eddie, beating against him like the push of the tide — the mystifying experience of hearing oneself speak. In person. Firsthand. Buck’s words in Eddie’s mouth, through the receiver and into Buck’s ear—

Eddie feels a little lightheaded. He’s felt that a lot, here in Buck’s big body.

“I… I went to bed this morning, after our shift, and then I just- I woke up and I was… you.”

“Yeah,” Eddie nods. “Me, too.”

A moment passes, quiet and contemplative. Eddie’s chest still rises and falls at a rapid pace, his middle burning like fire and his vision red-hot and fuzzy. He cups his free hand over his dick, shoving it down and out of sight as if he could smother his erection away with just the press of his palm.

His mouth floods with apologies. Digs around for explanations. He feels as though he’s betrayed Buck, his trust and his autonomy and his friendship— but the thought of bringing it up has him spiking with adrenaline.

Then, Buck asks, “so… whatcha up to?”

And Eddie can’t help but laugh, folding over to rest his forehead in his palm and shake his head in disbelief. What the hell is he supposed to say to that?

“Uh…” he says, chewing on his cheek as he plots his best plan of action. “Just— you know, uh.” He blinks, holds his hand out where he can see, clenching and unclenching his fist. “Getting a feel for this thing. The mechanics of it.”

“Yeah?” Buck asks. Eddie wonders if that’s what he always sounds like, or if this is just the way Buck is talking to him. “How— uh, how different does it feel? Being me?”

Eddie opens his mouth to answer but the words stop short on his tongue. He’s not quite sure where to begin.

Buck, luckily, begins for him. “Do you feel bigger?”

Thump, thump, Buck’s heart hammers away against the wall of his ribs. Eddie brings his palm to his chest, feels it warm and thumping under his flesh, behind his bones. “Uh…”

“Because I— like, I felt it right away,” Buck continues. “I woke up and I could tell I was- like, I was more compact. Lighter. Before I opened my eyes, really, I knew I was…”

“Yeah,” Eddie says.

“Well, I knew I was you.”

“Yeah, no, I—” Eddie says with a nod, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and finger. “It’s— different, alright. Takes more effort than I’m used to, lugging this body around.”

“Hah. Yeah, I guess I never really— yeah.” Buck’s intonations, his speech habits, through the box of Eddie’s voice. “You’re so much more, like, agile than me. It’s— haha, it’s been fun, being you this morning.”

Eddie bites down on his bottom lip, a grin yanking at the corners of his mouth. “Likewise.”

“At least— like, if anyone’s gonna be me for a bit, at least it’s you.”

Smiling to himself in the mirror, Eddie recalls a conversation he had forged just like this. At least it’s just you. “Yeah. I could let it slide, you being me and all.”

“Feelin’ it out. Learning my way around,” Buck says, mirth in his tone. Eddie, caught in the same routine of double meanings and veiled indecency, piques with interest. “Hey, Eddie?”

A sharp inhale through his nose. On the exhale he says, “yeah, Buck.”

“Wanna know what you’ve been up to this morning?”

Eddie watches in the mirror as Buck’s Adam's apple bobs, swallowing around a hard lump of tension. It’s a strange concept to wrap his mind around — himself, existing, moving and breathing and speaking, without him.

His legs, once again without intent, open just a bit wider. “Yeah,” he says. “Tell me.”

“Aha— well,” Buck says, an audible smile in Eddie’s voice. “You’ve been uh, jerkin’ off in front of a mirror.”

And Eddie laughs, his head tipping all the way back and his free hand once again hooking around the base of his cock. He tilts his chin down, grins at his reflection with a roll of his eyes.

“You’re not gonna believe this,” he says, can hear the way Buck’s voice curls around the words with his smile, so familiar yet so foreign from the inside. “But that’s what you’ve been doing, too.”

“Oh, hell yeah,” Buck says. There’s a sort of breathless quality to his voice, Eddie notes, like it’s being squeezed from his diaphragm with too much tension in his tummy; and Eddie knows what that means, because he knows the way his body stores things, feels things. “You uh, ha— isn’t it kinda… doesn’t it feel like you’ve been given this thing to play with?”

The weight in Eddie’s palm throbs, his breath pouring out of him hard and shimmering. “Buck—”

“Are you having fun with it?” Buck asks, breathless and tight and giving himself away. Eddie feels Buck’s tongue get fat again, the heat in his belly and the air in his skull. “Because, holy shit, am I having fun with this.”

Within the thin white frame of the mirror, Eddie watches Buck’s balls tighten, his fingers curled around the thickness of his cock as he tugs and tugs. “Fuck. Yeah, I’m having—”

“Like, Eddie, your fucking body,” Buck says, his voice mystified and disbelieving. “I keep, just— aha— like, I get so close to coming, but then I get distracted by the way you look. Your eyes get all watery and your— your cheeks get so pink—”

“Holy shit,” Eddie pants.

“It’s like my own personal porno,” Buck says and shakes with laughter. “Turning your body around, this way and that— looking at myself in the mirror, god, don’t you do this all the time? I would, if I looked like you. Your waist, your ass, your— fuck, Eddie.”

“Holy shit,” he repeats.

He can’t help but picture it, the image Buck puts in his mind by way of his own voice; himself, in the mirror hung from his closet door; his limbs folded and torso twisted into this pose, and this one, on his back with his knees spread or on his side with his hands between his knees or on all fours, craning his neck in order to see himself from behind.

And the one that gets to do it — the one that gets to see it — is Buck.

“The little mole on your thigh is so cute,” Buck says, honey-sweet. “Ha— your cock, too.”

Eddie scoffs, playfully affronted. “Hey!” he chides, twisting on the upstroke and feeling it swirl in his belly. “My cock is not cute. It is a perfectly average and normal size.”

Buck laughs, breathy and soft.

“Not everyone can have a fucking— like, extra limb like you do. Seriously, man, what the hell?”

“Aha— you like it?”

“I just…” Eddie shakes his head, watching in the mirror as his fist moves up and down its breadth. Yeah, he fucking likes it. “How did you fit this thing in any of your girlfriends?”

The laugh that Eddie hears is his own; low in his chest and bubbling out from his throat. “Why?” Buck asks. “Wanna see you try for yourself?”

Eddie’s fist freezes, cock pulsating in his grip. A moan takes form in him, rattling up his spine to shake in his shoulders as his head falls back, his mouth drops open. “What the fuck?” he breathes, helpless but to feel it.

“Haha,” Buck laughs again, his tongue audibly loose in his mouth. “Ah, you never— never answered me.”

Still recovering from the shudder just wracked through him, Eddie says, “huh?”

“Do you like it? Is it doing it for you?”

A sharp inhale through his teeth. “Aahhh.”

“Like— I’ll tell you what’s doing it for me.” Buck speaks to him in low, predacious tones, the echochamber of mystified arousal and responding shame to the sound of his own sex-strung voice. “Your body, obviously, but your— the dreamy look you get on your face. Like your eyelashes are too heavy, that’s the best part.”

“Stop—” Eddie breathes, mortifyingly self-aware. He can’t think about it too much: himself, nor Buck’s idea of him. He squeezes his fist, right under the fiery-pink head, his tongue swiping out over his bottom lip on instinct alone. “Unh— Buck.”

“So? What’s doing it for you?” Buck asks, casually and inquisitive; it’s like he’s asking for the time or the weather, like he simply needs to know. “My big cock? Hm?”

Eddie huffs, incredulous, as his eyes scan up and down his body in the mirror. He smiles, Buck’s signature, lop-sided, lazy grin and says, “all of it, honestly.” He settles deeper onto his tailbone, his fuzzy thighs spread apart. Does Buck have any idea how sexy he is? “All this body… Your— oh god, I can’t believe I’m about to say this.”

“Ha— what?”

With a shake of his head, he continues, “your— smell. Your skin, your— uh, armpits.”

“Aha—” Buck sputters out, absent of air, before dissolving into full-bodied laughter.

“Don’t laugh at me!” Eddie whines, and startles himself with just how much he sounds like Buck.

Gleefully, Buck says, “I’m not! I’m—” he sighs, then, the rush of air pushing a crescendo of static through the receiver. “You’re just— I didn’t know you were so nasty.”

“Oh, shut up,” Eddie drawls, rolling his eyes so hard spots appear.

“No, I love it.” Buck’s voice — Eddie’s voice — is shallow of breath, stringy and rounded at the edges with a loose tongue. It’s bizarre, uncanny, all wrong, and yet here he is, shuddering through the pleasure he feeds his best friend’s dick, getting off to the sound of the pleasure his best friend feeds his. He blinks at his reflection, lust-foggy and all Buck, and resigns himself to this twisted, debauched fate. “Wanna learn a trick?”

Eddie’s voice catches in a sticky ball on his tongue. “Mh— huh?”

“Put your palm right over the tip,” Buck says, and Eddie’s head falls back with a low, extended groan as he realizes what’s happening.

He folds his hand over the tip, wetness blooming across his palm as the slit spittles at his touch. “Hahh—” shakes out of him, a whimper. “Okay.”

“Now make like a— like a monkeyfist,” Buck says. “And then— dig your knuckles in just under the head.”

Confuddled pinch in his brow, Eddie does as instructed. His jaw unhinges as a shock races through him, a blooming heat between his hips that licks up his front, his limbs. The sound that stumbles out of him is clumsy and punched-out and so delicious— too busy getting off to Buck’s sex sounds to be embarrassed by the fact that he’s making them.

“Aha— good, right?”

“Jesus, fuck,” Eddie says. He listens to himself moan in response. “Wanna— mmh, wanna know what feels good on me?”

“Oh, I know what feels good on you,” Buck says, almost like a sing-song. The words send a whirlpool through Eddie’s gut. “I’ve been paying attention. I know all your spots.”

Knuckles kneading under the head, Eddie groans at the shocks that rake through him. “Oh, really?” he challenges— or tries to challenge; he’s far too breathless for it to land.

“Yeah, really,” Buck answers. “You know that— that squishy spot behind your balls?”

“Oh, fuuuuck.”

“You know that’s the best spot?” A sound punches out of him, garbled and bit down — Eddie knows exactly where Buck just dug his fingers. Then, through a shaky, dreamy sigh, “aaahhh, I’m— hah, I’m getting close.”

“Mm—me too,” Eddie admits.

“You wouldn’t believe what I’m seeing right now,” Buck says feather-soft. Something like a fist curls up tight in the deepest corner of his gut. “It’s— ah, the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.”

Eddie shakes his head, his chest and his stomach and the insides of his thighs pulling tight and cruel. Unbelievably hot. In the mirror, he meets Buck’s eye— his pleasure-twisted brow and spit-shiny lips. He watches the corners of his mouth pull up, a half-formed, come-dumb smile. “Same.”

“Wanna know what you look like?” Buck asks, a desperate, strung-out hunger in his voice that sends prickles through Eddie’s skin.

No, no, please no, he thinks, wagging his face side to side. He scrubs at the head of Buck’s cock with the cage of his palm, quickly losing his grasp on the English language, on basic motor functions. I can’t hear it, it’s too much, please don’t make me think about myself like that, he means to say. What he says, instead, is, “Unnnhhhfff.”

Buck, through the filter of Eddie’s voicebox, tells him, “your body is soooo… you look so cut with all your strings pulled like this,” breathless and awe-struck and tight in his chest. “And your cock is so wet, right at the tip, god, you leak like crazy.”

“Oh,” Eddie squeaks.

“Your droopy eyelids, god, your sex face is so— and your cheeks, your nose, you’re so flushed.”

It’s an unfair kind of tactic, Eddie can’t help but think, to make him see himself through Buck’s eyes. It humiliates him, an ant and a microscope and a beam of light, but then soothes over all his humming nerves with a syrupy sort of flattery.

He blinks at his reflection, at the Buck he sees before him. Somehow, through this pleasure-stuffed brainfog, Eddie manages to say, “yeah, your— your birthmark is so red right now.” His jaw flaps closed as he swallows thickly, darts his tongue out before adding, “looks like a lipstick stain.”

“Aha— yeah?” Buck says, and Eddie immediately dreads the brass in his tone. “I’ll tell you which pretty girl left a kiss there.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Eddie garbles, his mouth simultaneously cottony and full of spit. He has to dig his feet into the floor to stop the room from spinning out of his control.

“Your lips are pretty red right now.”

Eddie’s certain it’s because he keeps biting them— much like Eddie’s been absentmindedly licking his own. Buck’s own. The little ticks and habits that live in the muscle, much like the whimpered moans and low-bellied groans that push up from Eddie’s belly. Buck’s belly. Whatever, whatever, it’s all the same.

“Eddie,” Buck says to him, low and slow and soft of breath. “Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.”

Shivers wrack through him, violent in his vertebrae and shaking in his thighs. His own voice, deep in his ear, calling him by his name.

He moans, feels as much as he sees the balls under his rapid fist draw up tight. “Buck,” he whimpers back.

“I can’t remember the last time I closed my mouth.” The smack of tacky tongue on palate. Then, “do you always feel this empty when you’re about to come?”

“Uuggghhhh, fuck,” Eddie moans, attempting to gather a response but falling remarkably short. “Ah— hah.”

“Eddie,” Buck says again, wheedled out through the vise of ecstasy, “aaaahhhnn— you’re coming.”

“Oh, fffff—” bursts up from Eddie’s lungs. He flops onto his back and bounces with it, his orgasm tearing through him in one overwhelming whoosh. He spills and spills, over his fist and down his arm, all over that fat cock and meaty thighs. His belly, up his sternum, and holy fuck he’s still coming. “What the fffffuuuucckkk?” he groans. Another twitch of the length in his grip, another dribble of come crawling down his knuckles.

His own laughter in his ear, breathy and aporetic and viscous. “Oh my god,” he hums. “You’re even sexier in the after.”

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, flaps his jaw around his swollen, dumb tongue. Drops his cock to the dip of his pelvis with a splat. He tells Buck, “you’re crazy.” Then, after a few starry blinks at the ceiling, adds, “this is crazy.”

“It really is,” Buck agrees. They sit there in silence for a beat, just their laboured breaths in each other’s ears, fluctuating static. The steady rhythm of Buck’s blood in Buck’s veins— what an insane thing for Eddie to say he has felt.

Then Buck says, “I’m coming over.”

Eddie shoots up into a seat, his heart rate stumbling. “What?”

“Gimme a bit,” he says through heavy breath. “But I need to see you.”

“Ha—” Eddie huffs, a reflexive Buck noise. He turns his head to the left, right, searches the room for, like, clothes or something. Or maybe some tissues to start. “You mean you need to see you.”

Buck laughs. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess you’re right.”

Eddie is frozen in place. He needs to clean himself off. He needs to find something to put on. Ducking down to reach under the bed, Eddie fishes out a pair of shorts. Those’ll do. He needs to say something, buy himself time.

But then Buck says, “I’ll be there soon,” and hangs up before Eddie can respond.

—

Eddie paces restlessly. He feels off-kilter the entire time he waits, cursing the no doubt heavy L.A. traffic that does nothing but chisel away at his patience. His soul feels like a foreign parasite in Buck’s body; his fingers feel thick and clumsy where they keep scraping over his jaw, nervously picking at Buck’s stubble, each stride of his long legs moving him farther than he’s used to. Buck’s only got a couple inches on him, but the difference is weighty and palpable, feet stumbling over themselves as he stops in front of the apartment door and simmers.

His heart pounds an unsteady rhythm against his ribcage, a wild and untamed drumbeat, thump thump thump. This is a mistake. His mind has been repeating that mantra since they hung up, skin still buzzing from the toe-curling orgasm he’d wrung out of himself to the sound of his own voice. He shudders at the wrongness of it, here in the clarity of the after, a small quiver that zips up his spine and makes his teeth chatter. Buck’s teeth. Whatever.

Buck’s words clatter around his skull like a wound-up pinball: I know what feels good on you. I’ve been paying attention. I know all your spots. It makes that omni-present heat in his belly spike, simmering beneath his navel, so familiar and yet so foreign. Eddie wonders if this heat is all of his own making, or if Buck’s body is just that susceptible to it, warm and insistent where it settles in his gut and thighs.

He doesn’t realize he’s been standing there, eyes glazed over and unblinking, until the only spare key is jiggling through the lock, the front door wrenching open. Eddie startles and steps back, and his heart rate skyrockets at the sight of—

Himself, staring back at him, the tilt of his head and the drop of his jaw one-thousand percent Buck.

“Whoa,” he says unintelligently, eyes roaming over his own body standing before him. Buck is standing in the doorway, one hand still clasped on the handle, and he’s gaping at Eddie with a shell-shocked expression.

“Whoa,” Buck agrees. He licks his lips nervously, another distinctly Buck habit, and it looks alien on Eddie’s face. “Uh— oh, right, the door,” he mutters, stepping over the threshold, one tentative foot in front of the other.

Eddie’s breath hitches. He can’t stand to look at Buck right now, all of Buck’s mannerisms packaged in his own skin, and he spins on his heels to do a 180. His legs feel like jelly, but he manages one step, and then another, and oh, he has to duck his head just a fraction to make it through the doorway into the living room, and when Buck shuts the door behind him he fails to turn around. He feels insane, a tremble in his spine and his hands that makes him wring them together nervously, and oh, Buck does that too, huh?

“Damn,” Buck says lowly, deep and husky in Eddie’s voice, and Eddie feels him step closer. Buck runs a tentative hand out to trace over Eddie’s shoulders — Buck’s shoulders? — and the touch is feather-light. Delicate. “I really am kinda— uh…”

Eddie swallows the lump in his throat, turning his head to the side and throwing the words over his shoulder. “Huge?” he rasps.

Buck chuckles behind him, and the hot air he expels hits his bare skin, the sensitive patch on the back of his neck. “Well… yeah.”

His throat feels tight, like it’s been stuffed with cotton gauze and left to dry, and his ceaseless gulping does nothing to soothe the ache. He feels Buck’s hands — his own hands — move down to his waist, big and sturdy where they’re gripping his midsection. “Yeah,” Eddie croaks, his feet inching apart to make room for Buck’s leg, pressed tightly now to his back. “Yeah, you’re fucking— enormous.” He hesitates, then licks his dry lips and adds, “big boy.”

Those hands squeeze him, and then one is dragging up and around to feel over his torso, to squeeze at his chest. Buck’s technically squeezing at his own chest, Eddie realizes faintly, and it feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room, because he’s helplessly gasping for breaths. He’s lightheaded, dizzy, and he can’t help the way he pushes his chest into those big, strong hands. His cock is starting to fill up again, and the weighty kick of it sends a thrill through his blood, bright and sharp like acid.

“Eddie,” Buck says in Eddie’s voice, and his face screws up at the lick of shame at his throat, the razor sharp burn of wrong, wrong, this is so wrong. “Are we doing this?”

Eddie exhales, shuddering, his face hot and pale like he’s going to be ill. “Please,” he says, a deep vibrato in Buck’s voice, desperate and sick. Buck’s big cock aches where it rests and pulses against Eddie’s thigh, his entire body strung tight, the sensitivity of his nerves cranked up to eleven. Is this Buck’s default state? Or is it because it’s them?

Buck’s hand drags back down his torso, a hot path straight down to his cock, cupping Eddie through his shorts with a confident grip. Buck knows better than anybody how he likes it, Eddie thinks deliriously, eyes fluttering shut at the pressure of Buck’s palm. The heel of his hand drags down the shaft, rubbing firm circles over the fat head, and a gasp is pulled from Eddie’s throat when he feels a blurt of precome soak the fabric.

“Fuck, Eddie,” Buck breathes, fingers pinching the tip through his shorts, just the right amount of pressure. “I’m gonna make you feel so good, I— I know exactly what drives me crazy,” he babbles, and Eddie’s nodding half-heartedly, the static between his ears making the words difficult to process. “I know exactly how much you can take before it’s too much. Fuck, I could wring you dry.”

Eddie sucks a breath between his teeth, gut clenching and cock throbbing, a wet spot forming where Buck is teasing him relentlessly, fingers massaging the head and thumbing over the slit. He huffs a laugh, breathless and airy in the quiet of Buck’s empty living room, and says, “it won’t take much.”

Buck bites at his shoulder, smothering a groan into his skin, and Eddie jolts at the scrape of his own sharp canines, flesh giving way to create an even row of raw indents. “Want you to fuck me,” he mutters, tongue lapping up the escaping rivulets of drool. “Need to— need to know how your body feels when I’m the one fucking you.”

The idea of it is perverse. Wicked. Vile. “Fuck, what are you waiting for,” Eddie mumbles, and then Buck is spinning him around to press their lips together.

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut. It’s weird. He’s kissing himself, feeling his own full lips and his own sharp teeth and his own tongue, feels his own breathy moans vibrate against the swollen flesh of his mouth. It feels embarrassing, mortifying, and that shame nests itself in the pit of his stomach while he drops his jaw and lets Buck suck on his tongue with filthy wet slurps. He doesn’t dare open his eyes when Buck pulls away with a grunt, because he’s terrified of the image waiting for him: his own face, pink and open and wanting.

Of all the things Eddie has ever imagined wanting, all the things that kept him up at night, restlessly yearning and never letting himself have, this surely did not crack the list.

“C’mon,” Buck whispers, tugging him down the hall by the wrist, and Eddie peels his eyes open to avoid cracking his skull on a sharp corner. His gaze wanders over Buck’s back, his own back, and they linger on the shape of his ass in his sweats. This was true depravity— the kind of depravity not even a priest in a confessional would know what to do with. That icky feeling nesting inside of him makes his gut lurch dangerously, but the acid splashing up his esophagus does nothing to dissuade the ache in his cock.

Fuck, this is dangerous. How many hail mary’s for this? Forgive me father, for I have sinned. I fucked myself with my best friend’s cock.

Buck pushes him down onto the bed, and Eddie shudders at the look on his face, pupils blown and cheeks flushed pink. If I even last long enough to get to that.

“Jesus,” Eddie mutters, dragging one big hand over his face, hiding in the safety of his palm. He hisses when Buck wastes no time in dragging off Eddie’s clothes, shoes and socks falling to the floor with a clatter, his shorts and boxers shortly after. Eddie sits up to drag his shirt off, and he startles at the desperate way Buck is undressing himself, eyes drawn to the flex of his own biceps.

They lock eyes, and it feels like a gunshot, like the sudden slam of a bus knocking into his chest and sending him tumbling. The warmth is there, hot like the frantic gushing of blood pooling out of him, but this time it stays firmly inside his veins. He reaches down to stroke his naked cock, hard and wet in his fingers, and he’s glued to the way Buck’s gaze drops as he licks his lips.

“I always wondered if I…” Buck starts, blinking dumbly at him, mouth soft and slack and open. “Before we— can I try something really quick?”

Eddie’s Adam's apple bobs thickly. “Yeah,” he rasps, and he jolts at how deep his voice (Buck’s voice) has gotten, and he’s suddenly and violently reminded of every time he’s been witness to Buck’s flirting. At a bar, tilting his head at a hot stranger, grin stretched wide around a row of perfect teeth. His voice pitched lower, deep and husky, gravel in his throat.

In the loft’s kitchen, Eddie thinks, gut clenching, a sweaty beer in his hand while Buck grabs at his belt. You wanna go for the title?

Buck’s face is mesmerized, eyes glittering as he moves closer, and then he’s unceremoniously ducking his head down to suck Eddie’s cock into his throat.

Eddie gasps, face screwing up at the wet pressure of Buck’s tongue. Buck is sucking his own cock, he thinks deliriously, head spinning as he grabs at Buck’s hair, the normally gelled strands soft and loose. A whine pitches from his throat, yanked from the depths of his belly, face flushing violently at the image. His own face, pink and blissed out, cheeks sucking inwards to nurse at the messy cock plugging up his mouth.

”Buck, oh my god,” Eddie cries, heat pouring into him, overflowing, cooking him alive from the inside out. His eyes roll back at the damp cradle of Buck’s lips, head falling back onto his shoulders. He can’t stand to look at himself, can’t stand the unnerving feeling of unchecked hedonism, Buck drooling and gagging over his thick cock, pushing the weeping tip into the soft flesh of his cheek. Every noise pulled from Buck’s throat is delivered in his own voice, a twisted mockery thrown in his face, and he pants and pants and swallows down the shame in big, heaving gulps. Buck fucks his throat down, burrowing further into Eddie’s lap, and he holds himself there while his throat spasms.

Buck pulls off with a gasp, throat clicking obscenely, and Eddie falls back onto the bed with a groan. “Yeah, you’ll definitely need some practice,” Buck smirks, lips pillowing over the soft flesh of his thighs.

“Practice,” Eddie echoes weakly, nerves jolting while Buck’s tongue laves over his skin with big, greedy swipes of his tongue. His head feels swimmy, stars and colours exploding behind his eyelids while he prays for absolution, and he almost doesn’t notice it when Buck pulls away from him completely.

He tilts his head up, craning his neck to follow Buck’s movements, and he feels the way his mouth goes lax when he realizes Buck is moving the full length mirror. Not just moving it— he’s positioning it closer to the bed, perpendicular to where Eddie is lying supine against the sheets.

“Christ,” Eddie mutters, toes curling at the view he gets in the reflection, Buck’s body thick and heaving. His cock is laying heavy against his hip, soaked with spit and precome, and he can’t help the way his hand falls down to it, soothing the ache with quick little tugs. His face is flushed, sweat dripping at the temples, and the birthmark above his eyebrow just gets redder and redder with the exertion. His mind is starting to feel hazy, slow on the draw, and he’s almost forgotten that he isn’t alone when Buck gracefully straddles his lap.

Eddie startles, and his hands move on instinct, soothing his palms over Buck’s thighs. Buck’s hands look good on his skin, big and thick and digging his thumb into the meatiest part, flesh giving way under the pressure.

“Didn’t wanna miss the view,” Buck grins, hand falling down to stroke over his own cock, and Eddie flushes at the way Buck’s abdomen clenches. It’s obscene, the image of his own body confidently straddling him, only enhanced by the intimate view he gets of Buck’s chest and the soft skin of his belly. He feels like there are butterflies crawling under his skin, the soft flap of their wings, and the fluttering turns desperate when Buck croaks out, “you ever had anything in you? Fingers?”

His tongue feels swollen. He visibly gulps, hands still running over the smooth skin of his own thighs, and Eddie sheepishly replies, “uh— no, nothing.”

“Fuck,” Buck hisses, grinning wildly, dropping his cock when his hips and thighs stutter. “I’ll prep myself. Wanna feel it.”

“Yeah,” Eddie breathes, head falling back onto the mattress, brows pinching together helplessly at the waves of heat blooming in his veins. He squeezes his eyes shut, gritting his teeth at the sound of the lube cap being loosened, and he fights the aborted jerk of his hips when Buck exhales deeply.

“Oh, shit, Eddie,” Buck sighs, voice barely audible over the wet squelch of his fingers. “You weren’t kidding, you’re so—“ he stutters through a groan, knees squeezing inwards and pinching Eddie’s sides. “Fuck, oh my god.”

Eddie squints one eye open. Buck’s mouth is dropped open, breath hitching through gasps, both hands behind him. Eddie cranes his neck to peek at the mirror behind him, and he shudders at the image in the reflection: two fingers, drenched with lubricant, fucking in and out of his hole, the other hand white-knuckled around the flesh of his ass to hold himself open.

The air is punched out of his lungs. As if operating on autopilot, one of his hands slides backwards to hold open the other cheek, and his cock pulses at the sight of Buck’s big hand squeezing at his own ass.

“Feel good?” Eddie asks, glued to the mirror.

Buck laughs, his tongue playfully running over his teeth and lips, eyes still pinched shut. “You’re really— sensitive. Fuck, it feels good. Can barely move my fingers, you’re so tight.”

Eddie’s mouth waters. He’d never even considered it before today, before he woke up in Buck’s body, but Buck is grunting and gasping and fucking his wet fingers at breakneck pace and Eddie has never wanted something more. Buck is making it look so good, his own pleasure mirrored back at him, his body pink and trembling and clenching for more.

Buck slides a third finger in, jaw snapping shut at the pressure, and Eddie helplessly pants up at him. He wants to squirm against the bedsheets, but Buck’s knees are still tightly locked around his torso, holding Eddie firmly in place.

“Fuck, okay, good enough,” Buck gasps, and Eddie watches in the mirror as he pulls his fingers out, lightheaded at the pink gape of his own hole. He cringes, head thrashing against the mattress, and he holds his breath as Buck turns in his lap to face the mirror with starry eyes.

Buck squeezes more lube into his hand, blindly reaching behind himself to soak Eddie’s cock with it, and Eddie goes molten at the sight he’s gifted with: Buck’s thick cock, obscene even in Eddie’s big hands, and the gut-punch wink of Eddie’s small hole. Too small.

“Are you— uh—” Eddie clears his throat awkwardly, cock flexing in Buck’s grip, twitching towards the warmth he so badly wants to be enveloped with. “You sure it’s gonna fit?”

Buck huffs, amused, and turns his head to toss his words over his shoulder. “Good enough for me. ‘S not my first rodeo.”

It is mine, Eddie thinks, and then his insides are turning into liquid gold as Buck positions himself with a little arch of his back. He holds his breath, woozy at the sight of the slick head rubbing over an even slicker hole, and then Buck is shakily sinking down onto it with a pitched up moan.

Eddie’s mouth goes lax at the sight of Buck’s enormous cock disappearing into his hole, brows squeezing together in bliss. It’s filthy, the way Buck trembles with it, sinking down a couple inches and then hitching his hips back up, and Eddie pulls him open with two firm hands to watch.

“Buck,” Eddie cries, panting harshly, and then Buck is dropping to the hilt with an overwhelmed keen.

“Eddie, fuck, you look so good,” Buck pants, dragging his hands up his body, pulling at his chest and neck and hair. “Stuffed full of my cock, oh my god.”

He’s glued to the sight of Buck’s thick cock, to the sight of his own trembling thighs as Buck pushes himself up and down over it, wet and tight where he’s carving space for it. Eddie’s brain goes a bit fuzzy, hips jerking into that warmth while Buck babbles.

“So sexy, Jesus, look at you,” Buck hisses, hand dropping down to fist over his cock. “Look how pink you’re getting. Your face. Your lips. Your cock. Knew you would love this.”

Eddie’s voice warbles, hips pushing up more insistently, his thumbs moving to rub over the obscenely stretched rim. “How— how does it feel?” he stutters.

“Feels incredible, shit, Eddie. It doesn’t feel like this for me. It’s like I’m filling out every part of you.” Buck groans, leaning back on his hands to get a new angle, and he gasps, “it’s like you were made to take it.”

Eddie’s face is glowing, red-hot and warm to the touch, and he digs his feet into the mattress to fuck up harder, thrashing at the tingling feeling permeating in his gut. Their bodies slap together with the force, and Eddie has to pinch his eyes shut at the way his (Buck’s) body ripples with the thrusts, his full chest and his soft tummy and his thick thighs.

“Fuck, I want it,” Eddie grits out, hands digging into Buck’s hips, holding on for dear life while he builds up to an earth-shattering orgasm. Buck is constant with the noise, punched out little uh-uh-uhs, echoing back to him in his own voice. He sounds desperate, overwhelmed with the pleasure, and Eddie is unable to muster up anything more eloquent than, “I want it, wanna get fucked, please.”

He feels Buck’s entire body tense, his inflamed hole gripping him like a vise, and he’s craning his neck to look in the mirror when Buck cries out, “Eddie, holy shit, look.”

Buck’s hand is pressed to his navel, a starstruck expression on his face, and he hovers there for a moment while Eddie fucks up into him, moving his hand to let Eddie see—

Eddie groans pathetically, his face pinching uncomfortably. He can see the bulge of Buck’s cock as it bullies up into his guts, just barely distending the skin as he fucks in and out. His rhythm becomes sloppy, his impending orgasm creeping up his spine, his higher functions slipping away as he teeters towards the edge. He keens at the thought; he’s gonna come, oh god, he’s going to fill his own ass up with his best friend’s come, dribbling and messy and—

He’s violently jerked back into his body when Buck pulls off completely with a little wobble, thighs trembling and clenching, and the room temperature air on his wet cock feels freezing compared to the heat of—

His own hole. Jesus, Eddie was definitely going to hell.

“Wha—” Eddie starts, eyebrows flying to his hairline in delirious confusion, and then Buck is turning back around to face him, his chest heaving and heavy cock swaying.

“I was about to come,” Buck says, settling himself back in Eddie’s lap, closing his eyes to take a conscious, deep breath.

“So was I,” Eddie complains, tongue thick and swollen in his mouth. His hands reach up to reattach themselves to Buck, soothing over his hips and waist. God, his waist looks so dainty in Buck’s thick hands.

Buck bites his lip, shimmying his ass back into position, sinking down onto Eddie’s cock. Eddie exhales, thumbs digging into his hip bones, melting back against the mattress.

“Yeah,” Buck sighs, eyes fluttering shut. “But I think you should have the wheel when your body has its first hands-free orgasm. Wanna watch you go crazy with it.”

I’m already crazy, Eddie thinks, gaze shamelessly glued to the body above him. It feels like an out-of-body experience, watching as his own body fucks down onto Buck’s cock, the flush from his face dripping down to his neck and chest. It’s vulgar, the way the sight of his own face entrenched in pleasure makes his cock throb, and he wonders how much of this feeling is Buck’s, leftover where it has stitched itself into the very fabric of his DNA.

“Fuck, Eddie,” Buck grunts, one hand balanced on Eddie’s chest, the other falling back down to his cock. The hand on his chest squeezes, pliable flesh filling up big, veiny hands, and it makes Buck groan and sink down harder.

The base of his spine tingles, warmth pooling at his hips. His mind slips further into that dark place, the crude words on the tip of his tongue that he knows he will regret in the aftermath. But he watches Buck’s (his) face twist up, and like a man possessed, he says, “you’re takin’ such good care of me. Making my body feel so good.”

“So good,” Buck slurs, dropping his hips in a filthy grind. “Your body needs it so bad, Eds, needs to be plugged up with cock.”

“Your cock,” Eddie wheezes, and then he’s tilting his neck back and babbling, “fuck, baby, I feel like— I’m— I’m—”

“Shhhh,” Buck soothes. “I know. I get kinda dumb with it right before I come.”

Eddie nods frantically, and then he’s holding Buck down with all of his strength, all of Buck’s strength, and he’s pumping his come into him with a shuddering gasp.

He whines with every pulse, electric, yanked from his body by an invisible cord, like a never ending scarf pulled from his sleeve. His muscles bunch up, and he’s dizzy at the sight of his torso, of his jiggling chest, of Buck’s stomach cramping with pleasure, lungs heaving while he comes and comes and comes.

“Oh, god,” Buck grunts, clenching around him, hand flying over his cock, and Eddie bats clumsily at his hip. Fuck, Buck wasn’t lying, Eddie does feel dumb, he feels like he’s been sedated, like he’s running underwater, every nerve in his body primed and sparking and zapping all his brain cells away.

Buck pulls off with a hiss, right hand still stripping his wet fist over his dick, left hand pawing at Eddie’s chest. His mouth is slack and open while he grabs his own chest, a glob of drool threatening to drop loose, and he stutters out, “fuck, baby, you’re gonna love it so much, gonna love when I fuck you—”

He stares, awe-struck, at the wet cavern of Buck’s mouth — his own mouth, fuck — and he remembers Buck’s tinny, breathy tone through the phone earlier: do you always feel this empty when you’re about to come? Eddie musters up whatever remains of his mental faculties to get his body to cooperate, lifting one arm (thick, muscular, fuck, so huge) to crook two of his fingers into that soft, soft mouth.

Buck’s desperate groan vibrates over his digits, eyes screwed shut, pushing his mouth down to the second knuckle and sucking hard. He snaps his hips into the tunnel of his fist, and then he’s tilting his cock towards Eddie’s torso so that the come laces over that big, full chest, making a mess of his own tits. Eddie grunts at the wetness hitting his skin, the flesh sore where Buck is squeezing it too tightly, and he feverishly wonders if Buck’s chest was big enough to press together and slide his cock through.

God, this was sordid. Are his indecent thoughts his own? Or do they just simmer under Buck’s skin, a firecracker resting on the tip of his tongue? Sparking in the back of his throat?

Buck slumps with a breathless laugh, fingers squeezing over the pink head of his drooping cock, coaxing out every thick drop. It drips sluggishly down his knuckles, disgusting and tacky and slimy, and he distantly wonders if his body has ever come that hard in his life.

“Holy shit, man,” Buck snorts, draping himself over Eddie’s body bonelessly. He presses their foreheads together, soft and intimate, and Eddie’s jaw creaks at the force with which he snaps his eyes and teeth shut. It’s downright saccharine, too sweet for the debauchery they just committed, and he has to stop himself from physically shaking the negative thoughts away.

“Yeah, holy shit,” Eddie croaks, sighing when Buck drags his clean hand up his throat, his face, tangling his fingers in Eddie’s scalp. He tugs at it, firm but not painful, and it ratchets up that pleasant buzzing feeling building at the base of his neck. Eddie sucks in a startled breath.

“Feeling good, right?” Buck murmurs, still wearing Eddie’s body, his voice. Eddie can pretend, for a moment, that they are in their own bodies, that he’s the one comfortably and confidently straddling Buck, whispering sweet-nothings in his ear. Unselfconscious.

“Mhm,” Eddie hums, tongue still fat in his mouth. He feels floaty and dreamy, Buck’s voice — his voice — the only thing keeping him tethered.

“Kinda sleepy,” Buck continues. “Like your head’s full of helium. Like you could just drift away.”

Eddie feels like he’s sinking into the mattress. Yeah, he thinks, but he can’t get his mouth to form the words, stubbornly locked in the blissfully empty space of his mind. His breathing sounds ragged even to his own ears, the only other sound he’s cognizant of.

“Yeah,” Buck sighs, dragging his lips over Eddie’s cheek, nipping at the angle of his jaw. “Yeah, I gotcha, Eddie. I’ve got you.”

Darkness seeps into the edges of his brain, silky smooth and spreading like ink, and then he’s out.

—

They sleep for longer than they intend to.

Eddie can’t be sure if it's a side effect of the sex, the unique predicament they’ve found themselves in, or a potent, drowsiness-inducing mixture of both. Maybe it’s all this extra mass he’s not used to carrying around.

Honestly, whatever the reason is, it doesn’t really matter. The hours pass regardless, the sun shifting in segments across the sky, and Eddie remains stubbornly bound to the endless depths of sleep.

He breaks the waves of it at least once, and when his eyelids flutter open he’s met with the restful image of his own visage, soft and unburdened in slumber. He looks down at his hands — still meaty and huge — and surmises that the body he carries is still not his own.

Eddie stares at his own face. He can’t help it. The delicate set of his brow, the way all the lines flow into each other, doe eyes into hard jaw, pillowy lips into curved chin. It’s sort of off-putting; Eddie has never watched himself sleep, has never seen the gentle way it sets his face. Something about it feels too intimate, even for himself. It’s not like looking in a mirror, doesn’t feel like a reflection. It’s more like looking at an old photograph, like looking at the person he was before he became the person he is. Buck doesn’t wear this body the way Eddie does, and that’s a peculiar truth to attempt to digest. Eddie’s not sure why this has happened to them. He doesn’t know how long this will last. Maybe days, or months, or weeks. Maybe forever. What could he do with Buck’s body if he was given all the time in the world with it? Look at everything that has transpired, after trading places for merely a few hours.

Eddie is still flicking through all the possibilities in his mind — some of them strange and some of them horrible and some of them wonderful, in mundane and domestic and sickly sweet ways — when he feels himself beat by the heavy waves of sleepiness yet again.

The last thing he sees, before he slips below the surface again, is himself. Or rather, the version of himself played by Buck, and the delicate shape of his hand, reaching out across the scant stretch of mattress that separates them.

When Eddie dreams, he is not himself, but he is not Buck either. He is some amalgamation of the both of them, an alchemy of their forms. He reaches out to touch with hands and is touched by the same hands in return. He looks over his shoulder to find himself staring back at him. He kisses a mouth — he doesn’t know whose mouth, he doesn’t know whose mouth he uses to do it — and tastes himself, and Buck, and some third yet undiscovered entity. Each of them, wearing the other's skin, seeing through the other person’s eye, and somehow still themselves through all of it. Simultaneously, not separate. The same but different. Old and brand new.

Mutually assured assimilation, no end to this entanglement, no hope to ever sort out all the different knots that hold them together. They slipped the fence. There is no going back now.

All things considered: it is not a nightmare. It’s actually kind of a good dream.

—

Eddie wakes in Buck’s bed, in Buck’s room, in Buck’s new apartment.

Cool blue light splits the fabric of Buck’s gossamer, cheap curtains. It’s a tell-tale sign of too-early morning, but by this point they must have slept for close to fourteen hours, powerless to rise against the apparent symptoms of their wholly unusual situation.

The reality of inhabiting someone else’s body was slow-dawning. A patient, peeled-back reveal to Eddie’s senses yesterday afternoon. In contrast, Eddie fits back into himself precisely and obviously, and he is able to parse this return to form almost immediately, even amongst the haziness of a dense exhaustion that refused to let up.

Eddie wakes up in Buck’s bed, in Buck’s room, in Buck’s new apartment. This time, it is in his own body.

It scratches over Eddie’s brain like sandpaper, the way his body carries the evidence, feels the sense-memory and the muscle twinges of deeds he was not at the helm for, a bizarre divorce between who performed the actions and who suffers the consequences. It’s an odd reality. But does it really matter? Is it a distinction worth splitting hairs on? Buck inside of Eddie’s bones, steering his body, making him take it. Buck stretched around the girth of his own cock, wearing Eddie’s face, spewing filth from Eddie’s mouth. Eddie watching himself get fucked through Buck’s eyes, Eddie taking Buck apart with Buck’s own massive hands, holding him open across the width of his own form. Eddie inside of Buck inside of Eddie. Eddie fucking himself; Buck fucking himself right back.

Eddie’s heart smacks against his ribcage. He is accosted by so many emotions, brain sectioned with so many thoughts. Peculiar, and sated, and unsettled and happy and oh —

The mattress below Eddie creaks with his weight. It must be new, like everything else in Buck’s apartment. What a stupid idea that was, for Buck to move out. Eddie should have told him to stay. He bought all this new stuff, spent all this money, when he could have just stayed. He could have just kept using all of Eddie’s stuff. Even though it wasn’t really Eddie’s stuff anymore, enough of it borrowed and taken and offered that it all became their stuff. They used the shame shampoo, ate and washed with the same set of dishes, shared the same food from the same cupboards and refrigerator. They used the same laundry detergent. Eventually, they started wearing each other’s clothes.

What a categorically stupid idea; why even make the attempt to separate everything again? They should have known, somehow. Of course the universe was going to find a way to stitch them back together.

Oh.

“Oh,” Eddie groans, lush and unexpected. His own voice is foreign to his ears, like he’s hearing himself on a recording. He’d gotten so used to the cadence with which words rumbled out of Buck’s chest, and now he can’t help but notice all the differences. “Buck,” Eddie gasps, thinner and whinier coming from his own throat than it ever would have sounded coming from Buck.

The blanket and pillows have long been kicked away, the mattress bare save for a ruined fitted sheet and their two bodies, less a border erected with harsh lines and more of a suggestion of where one of them ends and the other begins. Eddie lays on his side, slightly curled in on himself, and Buck is saddled up behind him, balanced precariously between Eddie and the edge of the bed.

Buck is also holding Eddie open with two hands, one on each asscheek, and is kissing wetly across Eddie’s sensitive rim.

“Fuck, oh my god,” Eddie babbles on, nerves still blown out and body whip-ready to respond to any stimuli. Buck offers no response, except for more attentive kitten-licks against Eddie’s aching hole, and Eddie feels like he’s floating ten feet above them, up amongst the clouds as he peers down below.

It’s the natural, logical assumption to imagine Buck has returned to his own body, same as Eddie has returned to his, but, truthfully, well -- Eddie doesn’t know that. It’s a bit of a Schrodinger’s situation, one where Buck’s the cat, and given the presence of lid on the box, Buck could be himself just as equally and as easily as he could still be Eddie. And that’s an obscene image for Eddie’s mind to curate; Eddie’s own face between his own asscheeks, holding himself open, working himself up on his own tongue.

But then— that was him riding his own cock last night, for all intents and purposes. He felt the heat of his own body wrapped around him. He came nestled up inside of himself. Shame pools in Eddie’s belly, the kind that tingles up his spine deliciously and curls his toes. It swirls hotly within, spreads colour across his cheeks, makes his dick twitch. It bubbles thicker, spurred on by obvious arousal, syrupy and slithery and frighteningly erotic. Eddie licked into his own mouth. He watched his own face as his orgasm washed over him, washed over Buck, who felt it all through Eddie by proxy.

Eddie reaches behind himself, groping blindly for the shape of a skull and half-expecting to meet the loose, unstyled strands of his own hair. He finds the soft ringlets of Buck’s curls instead, and the spell is broken, but the dose of reality that floods in its wake is heady and sexy. Buck slurps against Eddie’s hole, all fucked-out and senstive from the night before, and Eddie groans through it, gripping Buck’s hair tightly between his fingers and pressing back against the intrusion just so.

There’s less shame in this image — the one where it’s Buck behind him, eating him out with veneration and the right amount of messiness — but the sentiment is sticky across Eddie’s brain regardless, and it’s enough to have it continue to singe through his bloodstream. He can conjure up these shapes with stunning clarity, blessed with the knowledge of how exactly Buck fills out his parameters, the contours that hold the shape. Eddie knows exactly how the plush roundness of his ass fits into Buck’s huge, cupped palms. Knows the exact shade of pink the torturous oroborus of desire and embarrassment coaxes to the surface of his skin, knows how it paints him in splotchy swathes of it like pastel watercolours. Eddie knows everything. He even knows the way he tastes.

He reaches down with his free hand to shove the root of it against his half-hard cock. It offers little relief. “Buck,” he calls again, begging for a response, caught between the non-committal pressure of his own palm and Buck’s painstaking dismantling of his already threadbare resolve. “What are you—”

Eddie’s never had a tongue in his ass before. He’s never had anything in his ass before, technically, not while he was the one occupying the driver’s seat. He thinks of Buck’s words from the night before, detailed to him with his own mouth, the structure of his own lips. I think you should have the wheel when your body has its first hands-free orgasm. Eddie shudders, and anticipation pierces his belly like a thousand degree knife.

Buck barely pulls away to speak, puffing warm air against Eddie’s hole as he does. “Went kinda hard on you yesterday, baby, sorry,” and he says it in a way that makes it sound like he’s not really sorry about it at all, or maybe just barely, dragging his teeth along the curve of Eddie’s left asscheek. “Let me make it up to you a little. I’ll kiss it better.”

Eddie gasps, wiry like candy floss, and Buck does just that, pressing his lips to the fluttering muscle of Eddie’s hole sweetly. He uses his tongue to spear Eddie apart then, sweetness abandoned, holding him by the backs of his upper thighs as he burrows in deep, slurps messily, and doesn’t let up.

“I’m gonna—” Eddie starts, because he is. He can feel it coiling behind his belly button, a serpentine pleasure that flares out to his extremities like tiny bolts of lightning. He’s close — if he pushes back a little more — if Buck takes him apart a little bit further —

Buck pulls away almost instantaneously. Eddie whimpers from the absence.

“No,” Buck answers resolutely. “Don’t,” he says. “Not yet. Wanna be in you when you come.”

Eddie tugs on Buck’s hair where it’s clutched between his fingers, feeling the resistance of Buck’s scalp as he sucks a bruise into Eddie’s skin, above the swell of his ass and directly below one of his back dimples. “Come up here,” he demands. “Kiss me.”

Buck follows the instruction, climbing the escarpment of Eddie’s lateral form fast but thoroughly, pressing teeth and tongue to flesh as he goes. When he reaches the top, he grips Eddie’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, using the leverage to tilt Eddie’s head back and to the side as far as it will go, and captures Eddie’s mouth in a melty, volcanic kiss. The wet tip of Buck’s cock slips accidentally between the cleft of Eddie’s ass, bumping against his hole, both of them already so sticky and damp with it.

They’ve been inside each other at this point. In ways beyond what could be accomplished by anyone else. What’s the use in hiding any of it?

Buck curls his arm over Eddie and pulls him in close, saddling them up chest-to-back with hardly a modicum of space between them. Eddie’s jaw aches from use and his neck twinges from the position, but he can hardly find the willpower to pull away, especially not as Buck palms over his nipple, rolls it between his thumb and forefinger, pinches it until Eddie sucks in a sharp breath. Buck tastes like him, or maybe Eddie tastes like Buck, or maybe the taste of both of them has mingled beyond any clear perception, and they are both tasting all of it in tandem.

“I’m gonna open you up, okay?” Buck mumbles into Eddie’s skin, smearing his mouth across the slope of his jaw. He sucks at the spot behind Eddie’s ear, giving the tiniest, most tempting twitch of his hips, and Eddie groans in response, nodding fiercely.

The first prod of fingers at Eddie’s hole has him moaning, arching into the palm Buck presses against the centre of his chest. The touch is a whisper, feather-light and barely there, but it’s still enough to set Eddie’s nerves aglow, like fuses that spark and crackle as they burn further down to the end. Buck’s body takes up so much space behind him, and as he dips into Eddie’s hole with one finger up to the second knuckle, he fills up every open crevice in Eddie’s life, whether inside his body or out of it.

There’s a drawn out uuuuugh that spills hoarsely from Eddie’s guts. Buck tastes the salt at the back of his neck, noses into the soft baby hairs there, and says, a little bit cruel, “feel good?”

“You know it does,” Eddie replies, and feels it more than hears it when Buck hums his agreement.

“Yeah,” Buck continues. “I do. Kinda. But those were your fingers. And these are mine.” He crooks the one he has inside of Eddie as if to punctuate the sentence, bumping a spongy bundled of nerve fibres, and it makes Eddie’s whole fucking soul light up, like the sky on the Fourth of fucking July. Bursting into colour, twinkling behind his scrunched-up eyelids.

“Jesus, Buck, you— that was—”

“You get it now, right?” Buck says, slipping in a second finger alongside the first, finding that same spot and bullying up against it, oppressive and tantalizing. The muscles in Eddie’s thighs bunch up, bringing his knees in closer to his chest. Buck’s mouth never wanders very far; Eddie charts the shape of the words against his skin as much as he hears them. “Why I wanted you to feel what this was like for yourself?”

“Buck, oh my god, I—” but Eddie doesn’t know what to say, or how to say it. His mouth is so empty, his tongue so useless. He grips the wrist of the hand Buck has on his chest, pulling it upwards. Buck goes without protest, following easily, even as Eddie is uncaring and ungentle and positively wild with it. As soon as he gets them in close enough, Eddie wastes no time, sucking three of Buck’s fingers deeply into his mouth, stretching his lips around the width of them. The ache in his jaw gets worse. He feels a thick glob of precome dripple pathetically from his cock.

“God, yeah, baby, that’s it,” Buck coaxes, pressing down against Eddie’s tongue as he presses inside of him. “Gotta fill you up at both ends. You need it so bad.”

Skin on skin. Breath for breath. Buck treats Eddie more delicately than he ever treated himself, even as Eddie’s former puppeteer, opening him up consciously, systematically, nailing that spongy spot over and over. Eddie shifts his hips, smears the tip of his dick and all the collected precome there in a wet spot against the sheets below him. They give an involuntary wiggle, desperate for a moment of repose from Buck’s targeted assault, but Buck follows the pull of Eddie’s body insistently, at least two fingers deep inside of it at either end.

God, and Eddie feels so full.

He wonders if Buck left anything behind, when he exited Eddie’s body and returned to his own. Maybe just a piece, something small and unnoticeable, except for the way Eddie’s skin fits just a little bit tighter. The way he lives inside his bones a little more snug. The way his heart feels a little more under his control.

Eddie’s mouth drops open. Buck presses down further, holds his jaw apart, listens to Eddie gag around the sounds of his own pleasure, the lust that fills up every morsel of him until there’s no more space for air. He tries to speak around the digits in his mouth. It comes out all muffled and warbled.

“What was that?” Buck asks, sliding his fingers out of Eddie’s mouth, dragging spit along his chin and throat and sternum.

“Fuck me,” Eddie repeats, feral and determined. “Fuck me, Buck, please.”

“Fuck, Eddie, baby, don’t worry,” Buck says, rambling as he maneuvers their positions. Eddie goes limp with it, trusts Buck to put him where he needs him, where he knows it will feel the best, where he knows Eddie will like it the most. Eddie trusts Buck to take care of him. “M’gonna make it so good for you, just like I said. Gonna make sure you love it.”

Buck puts Eddie face down into the mattress, notching his hips up and spreading his knees so he’s all fucking open. Eddie shivers through the exposure, the vulnerability, shifting to press his searing hot cheek against the coolness of the bedsheets below him. He catches movement from the corner of his eye suddenly, twisting a little to get a fuller picture, and—

The mirror. It remains where it was left the day previous, perpendicular to the bed. Eddie’s reflection sits smack-dab in the middle of it, framed on all sides. He watches the shade of red on his cheeks darken further. He can follow the path of colour up between his shoulder blades, the dip of his waist, over the curve of his ass. Right to where Buck is looking at him through the reflection, a mischievous smile twisted up on his face.

“Look at you,” Buck says, serious and awed, fisting his own dick with one hand and palming Eddie’s ass with the other. “You’re so fucking gorgeous, Eddie. Can you see it? Everything about you is so fucking delicious, it makes me wanna—”

Buck leans forward and sinks his teeth into the meatiest part of Eddie’s ass cheek, hard, before rolling the flesh between the press of his jaw.

Eddie has to bury his face in the mattress to muffle his broken yell. Of pain, of pleasure, of everything slamming into him at once, his cock aching between his legs and his hole half-used up and empty and Buck— Buck who was inside him, who was him, and Buck who will be inside of him again, leaving imprints on Eddie in places no one else could even hope to glimpse, let alone touch and feel and hold and kiss.

Eddie feels the blunt head of Buck’s cock line up against his hole. One good, long thrust and Buck could slide home, right back where he belongs. Eddie whines, his breath pitching up as Buck gets a hand in his hair and pulls.

“Keep looking,” Buck tells him, angling Eddie’s head so he can see himself in the mirror again. “Don’t stop looking, baby. I wanna watch you watch how much you like it. See how crazy it makes you.”

Eddie has never felt more present in his body nor more divorced from it. Buck inches his cock inside of him torturously slowly, and the world narrows. Eddie could be Buck and Buck could be Eddie or they could be each other, both, at the same time, and it becomes crushingly clear that none of that would even matter; not which body each of them inhabit nor who guides their actions. They move as if one unit. And what is a body but the shape that holds the soul?

Buck’s cock is huge, and Eddie knows it is, but it’s one thing to see it and another entirely to feel it, once Buck slides his way in. It’s a snug fit. It might be ripping Eddie apart. He scrambles for purchase against the sheets, fingers clenching and unclenching in the fabric, moaning lusty and broken because he can’t fucking help it.

He watches himself in the mirror. The pink on his cheeks. The loose muscle of his jaw. Buck’s hips squared up behind him, his big hands circling Eddie’s waist. The dip in Eddie’s back, the tumble of his hair across his forehead. The sheen of sweat that turns them both glistening. The mark of teeth on the bare flesh of Eddie’s ass.

“How does it feel?” Buck asks, jerking his hips tightly, rocking Eddie’s whole body forward without giving it the proper follow-through. He presses his thumb to where Eddie is stretched around him. “Feel like I belong here?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Eddie blathers, already tumbling down that slippery slope of pleasure before they've even gotten started. There’s so much more waiting for him before he meets the bottom, and he needs Buck to get to it and fuck him through the mattress already. “I was made for you, Buck, c’mon, made for your cock.”

“Shhh,” Buck soothes. The hand in Eddie’s hair drops, petting across the back of his head before he curls it around the base of his neck, where Buck is unafraid to put some weight on it, exerting a firm pressure. “I know, baby. I know everything.”

He doesn’t give Eddie much time to adjust. Buck’s hips go from basically still — save for the minute twitches he couldn’t help himself from indulging in — to setting a brutal pace, fucking Eddie hard and fast. Eddie heaves through an open mouth, watching himself in the mirror as he drools against the mattress, tilting his hips involuntarily to give Buck better access. The sounds they make are obscene: the squelch of fluids, the slap of skin. Eddie’s chewed-up and spit-out moans and Buck’s rumbly, throaty groans and toe-curling dirty talk.

“Eddie, fuck, you’re so greedy for it,” Buck says, rocking Eddie back against him with every expertly paced forward thrust. It is methodical, but not clinical; Buck knows exactly what he’s doing, and he’s relishing in every minute of it. “You fucked this hole full of come last night and it’s still sucking me in like crazy. Still begging for more.”

“Unnnnnngh, please— Buck, please.” Eddie’s not even sure what he’s begging for at this point. Something. Anything. Everything. For Buck’s come and Buck’s cock and the way Buck feels inside of him, but also the way Buck looks at him from across the dining room table at breakfast, and the way he calls out Eddie’s name when he walks through the front door. “Give it to me,” Eddie says, and means every word in every context. “I want it.”

“Want you to come on my cock first, baby,” Buck replies. “Then I’ll give you whatever you want.”

Buck switches their positions, too fast and complicated for Eddie to parse what’s happening until it’s over. They’re sitting on the edge of the bed, now, Buck still nestled up inside of Eddie, his thighs bracketing Eddie’s on either side. He pulls Eddie back against him, skin sticking where they are both covered in sweat, their hips flush together, Buck nestled in as deeply as he can possibly go. He trades in quick, sharp thrusts for a constant pivots, the head of his dick domineering and cruel as it massages Eddie’s prostate without letting up.

Eddie’s eyes screw shut. His brow pinches. “I’m gonna… ” he trails off, chest tight with all the air punched out of his lungs.

“Open your eyes, Eddie,” Buck commands, his hands roaming all over Eddie’s chest, palming his nipples, dragging the blunted edge of his nails across Eddie’s flanks. “Watch what it looks like when you come.”

Eddie does as he’s told. Open his eyes, meets his own gaze in the mirror. It makes him shiver. Some primal instinct tells him to look away, but he pushes it down, eager to please, to suck all the pleasure out of the shame with his teeth. Eddie takes in his own wide blown eyes and tiny pin-prick pupils, his flushed cheeks and red, wet mouth. His knees shake; the coiling in his stomach unfurls, hot and lethargic.

Not even Heaven would allow for such indulgence; this is the kind of dirty, ugly, sexy pleasure that can only be found on Earth.

“Oh, Eddie,” Buck coos, like it’s fucking cute or something. “You’re coming.”

Eddie groans. Uuuuuuuungh. His come spurts in ropes across his own thick thighs and knocked-knees.

“Shit,” Buck gasps, his mouth right by Eddie’s ear. “That was so hot, baby, you’re so—”

Eddie doesn’t let him finish. He flinches as he slides off of Buck's dick, ignoring the distinct sense of loss that permeates in the aftermath, before dropping to his knees before him, stare fixed on that wet, red length of Buck’s achingly hard cock. Eddie doesn’t chance a look over his shoulder, too afraid of what he might see, but he knows he is positioned so that the mirror still reflects him. The entire length of his body from the back, including the fucked-out rim of his hole, still fluttering in its lament of Buck’s absence.

Buck tries to say something else. “What are you—” he starts, and promptly forfeits the use of his vocal chords as Eddie descends, taking Buck’s cock as far back into his throat as he can manage. It overwhelms the senses. Eddie can hardly breathe. All he can taste is salt and musk and come.

Buck’s dick is thick and wide enough to have Eddie choking on it. He’d be more embarrassed about his lack of skills if they didn’t still manage to make Buck moan loud and long, twitch his hips upwards into Eddie’s mouth, into the pulsing column of his too-narrow throat. Eddie chokes again, audibly, half on purpose and half by accident. He’s not one to oversell his skills, and here he is completely out of his element — he’s only had a dick in his mouth once before this, and that was when Buck was in control of his gag reflex.

Still, Eddie approaches the task with an unending enthusiasm, desperate to make Buck feel even a fraction as good as he made Eddie feel. It’s wet as fuck, Eddie slurping up Buck’s dick as spit collects in the corners of his mouth, drips down his chin. Buck leans back against the bed balanced on one palm, pushing Eddie’s sweaty bangs out of his eyes with the other. Eddie looks up at him from below the fan of his eyelashes, and sees Buck caught between staring right back at him and flicking his eye upwards, watching Eddie’s body move in the reflection of the mirror.

He pulls off when the muscles in his jaw start to pulse with overuse, pressing kisses to the underside of Buck’s cock instead, licking up the sweat at the base and across his balls. “You’re right,” Eddie says, kissing the tip, flicking his tongue to sweep up a glob of precome. “I’ll definitely need more practice.”

“Fuck, Eddie. What the fuck,” Buck laughs, shaking his head. “You’re fucking perfect, actually. Don’t worry about it. How did it taste, baby? Did you like it?”

“So good,” Eddie replies, and as if to prove it he gives Buck’s dick another long lick from top to bottom, paying special attention to the head, wriggling his hips just in case Buck happens to be looking. “You taste so good. Wanna taste all of you. Wanna taste everything,” Eddie beseeches, on his knees like he’s praying to the holy entity of Buck’s hot cock and the salty taste of his come. It’s the closest Eddie has come to communion in years.

Something sharp takes root in Buck’s gaze, shimmering hot as he raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? Everything?” He cups Eddie’s cheek in his palm, both of their skin molten-hot, running his thumb over the seam of Eddie’s lips. Eddie nods, once, then a few more times in quick succession for good measure. “Open your mouth, baby.” Eddie does, tilting his head back, sticking his tongue out. “Fuck,” Buck continues, pressing the weight of his thumb against the dip in Eddie’s tongue. “You’re so gorgeous. Look so good like this.”

Buck leans forward. Eddie is pulled in his direction by the magnetic field of his body, the hook of his gaze. He knows what’s coming before it happens, feels the anticipation creeping up from the numbness in his kneecaps, across the tense muscle of his thighs, the fluttering in his belly. The glob of spit descends from Buck’s mouth, still connected to the tip of Buck’s tongue, resting on the pout of his lips, and it drips and drips and— splat, seeps warm and wet along the hill of the back of Eddie’s tongue.

Eddie doesn’t swallow it so much as it slides down the back of his throat. He makes no attempt to stop it. What else was he supposed to do with Buck’s spit in his mouth anyway?

“Jesus,” Buck says, mumbled and mostly to himself. He drops his hand from Eddie’s face, circling it around the base of his cock to pump vigorously. Eddie doesn’t move, keeps his head tilted upwards and his mouth up and his tongue lolled out against his chin. Waiting obediently. For everything. Or, at least, everything Buck is prepared to give him. “Eddie— if you could— if you see yourself right now—”

And the thing is, is that Eddie almost can. He can picture it so vividly. So crystal fucking clear. The blissed out look on his face, his skin pink with want and hot to the touch. The sweat across his brow and his wet bangs. His tongue, the soft wet cavern of his mouth, wide open and empty. He shifts his knees further apart, spreads his thighs, feels the cool air against his well-used hole. He knows exactly what Buck sees— whether he’s looking in Eddie’s eyes, or the version of him trapped in that mirror, the reflection of his slick, open, wanting, needy, sexy, gorgeous, beautiful—

“I’m gonna come,” Buck grunts, no rhythm to the circle of his fist or the axis of his hips, surrendering to the messy pursuit of a heavy, full-body orgasm. “Eddie, I’m gonna—”

“On my face,” Eddie says, managing to drop his tongue out of his mouth again in time to catch it when Buck comes a split-second later. He busts all over Eddie’s face, across the flat of his tongue and his cheek and the bridge of his nose. It’s warm and thick and Eddie feels it drip, sticky and sexy and gross, from the edge of his jaw down to his collarbone. “Sheesh,” he laughs at Buck when it finally stops. “You sure do come a lot.”

Buck drops his cock, lets it sit heavy against his thigh, leaning back against the bed with both arms outstretched behind him. “If you didn’t have my come all over your face right now I’d find it in me to be meaner about you saying that,” Buck replies.

“Oh yeah?” Eddie challenges. Buck’s come is already cooling rapidly against his nose and cheek and chin. He makes no move to clean himself, merely lifts himself up off his knees to lean over Buck with his whole body. “Be mean to me about it anyway.”

Buck kisses him instead.

—

Later, after they’ve showered and stripped the bed and made out at least a few more times, Buck asks him, “what did it feel like? Being me?”

They’re laying side by side. Eddie is wearing his boxers and one of Buck’s t-shirts. Buck, for his part, wears only his underwear. Despite all the hours they lost to sleep not long ago, Eddie feels a bone-deep laziness creeping up on him. He’s just so relaxed, and content, looking at Buck while Buck plays with his fingers.

“I don’t know,” Eddie shrugs, squeezing Buck’s hand as he grips and ungrips their fingers. “I felt— big, and thick. And like I knew exactly what I was doing.” Even when I was jerking off in your body, he thinks but doesn’t say. He counts on the fact that Buck will understand him regardless. “What about you?”

“It was… weird,” Buck moves the word around his mouth like he’s chewing on it, picking through his thoughts carefully. “I just remember thinking well, at least it’s just Eddie.” Buck continues, fitting his fingers between Eddie’s again, pressing the heat of their palms together. “Like, if we would have been stuck like that forever— it wouldn’t have been great obviously, and it would have taken some adjusting but— I think I would have gotten used to it. I think it would have been okay, in the end. If I had to be you forever.”

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees, heart hammering in his chest. Buck hasn’t unlaced their fingers. They’re staring at each other, pure naked gazes. The feeling of looking at someone and knowing that they know you, and in ways other people never could. “I think I would have been okay too. If I had to be you forever.”

Buck shuffles closer, discarding the leftover distance between them. Their hands, still interlocked, end up pressed between them. Buck uses his other hand to hold Eddie by the hip, dip his fingers under the waistband of the boxers Eddie is wearing.

“You know,” Buck begins, in this specific tone of voice he uses, the reason Eddie can always tell when Buck is about to regale him with something he read on the internet one time. “Plato — I’m sure you’re familiar with him — he had this, uh, theory. About soulmates.”

“Yes, Buck. I know who Plato is,” Eddie rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Go on.”

“He said that, um, humans were originally these big, sphere-shaped beings. With, like, four arms and four legs and two faces. And one day Zeus decided to punish humans for being prideful, so he split us up. And then we all became two different people, sharing different halves of the same soul.”

“Oh,” is all Eddie can answer, chewing on the corner of his bottom lip.

He had thought about it. Not Plato’s soulmate theory, exactly, but why this happened to them. The closest he got to what seemed like a logical reason was that maybe, in some past life, he and Buck weren’t different people. That in some timeline, some ancient past they didn’t remember and never would, they were the same entity. And somewhere along the way they got split in half, and this was divine intervention, attempting to remind them of the life they once lived. Two halves, a whole.

“Are you saying I’m your soulmate?” Eddie asks, very quiet and very careful.

“I mean,” Buck shrugs. “Probably. Yeah. I think so.”

Eddie smiles so big it hurts his cheeks. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I think so too.”

—

A week later Buck sends Eddie one of those ancient Greek drawings of a humanoid creature with a round body, two heads, four arms and four legs. Us, he says, with a pink heart emoji and no explanation.

Sure, Eddie types out and sends back, rolling his eyes fondly and shaking his head, a giddy twitch to the corner of his mouth. That’s us.