Mapping_Marauders
Fandoms
- 9-1-1 (TV) (6)
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Summary
The clock on Shannon's kitchen wall is the only thing filling the silence, its incessant ticking signaling the time slipping by as, outside the window, the sun paints the sky a deep orange. It casts a warm glow over everything, blurring the sharper edges of the room and making the atmosphere feel just a little less callous.
Still. The silence drags on.
Eddie sits with his hands on his lap and says nothing. Stares blankly at nothing. Does nothing until he begins to feel like he's suffocating with all the unsaid things hanging in the air between them, stealing the breathable air from the room. Taunting him. Waiting for the moment he breaks.
In the end, it doesn't take long.
"We should talk," he suggests, almost mildly, as though this conversation isn't going to act as the foundation for the next decade of his life. "About— y'know." He waves a hand vaguely between them. "Us."
Or,
Eddie and Shannon get a divorce. But before that, they get married. -
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Edmundo Diaz and Evan Buckley
@17:48
Eddie: Everyone thinks I'm blind as a fucking bat
Buck: great!
Buck: do you want an appointment with the eye doctor for wednesday afternoon, thursday morning or saturday evening?
Eddie: Eye Doctor??😐
Eddie: What happened to the opticians
Buck: c'mon, eddie :(
Buck: appointment. when.
Eddie: Fine
Eddie: Thursday morning, get it over and done with🥱
Buck: bright and early, that's the spirit :)
Eddie: You're evil, btw
Buck: uhuh
Buck: you can thank me later, when your eyeballs don't pop out of their sockets
Or,
Eddie gets glasses. Buck has feelings about them. -
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"Eddie. Eddie, wait," Buck calls after his retreating form. He watches as Eddie's shoulders stiffen, the muscles of his back tightening before he turns around once more, jaw and fists clenched.
"I'm not going to tell you again—"
"What year is it?" Buck asks, swallowing harshly against the taste of his own panic. It's just a precaution. Most likely, there's a perfectly normal and logical explanation for this.
The question makes Eddie pause, expression shifting to one of bewilderment. "What?"
Buck exhales harshly, breaths ragged and forceful. "Last time I—uh, you didn't have a moustache the last time I saw you."
The silence is fucking loud. So is Eddie's face, because it's doing a weird hop-skip-jump between about seven conflicting emotions, screwing up and relaxing and squinting again.
He chuckles nervously. "What do you mean? Buck, I had a moustache yesterday. It hasn't grown in overnight, you've seen it before—"
"No, I haven't."
Or,
After the lightning strike, Buck finds himself cycling though a select portion of possible lives he might have lived. Coincidentally, they all seem to have one thing in common... -
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Eddie Diaz and Evan Buckley
@10:10
Buck: do i tell them you were sick or just leave it as is
Eddie: Leave it
Eddie: It's funnier this way
Buck: see, this is why i married you
Eddie: And because of my arms?🫠
Buck: you know it, baby ;)
Eddie: 🕺
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Eddie Diaz and Shannon Diaz
@16:24
Eddie: You didn't tell me Buck is with you??
Shannon: I didn't🤐
Eddie: ...is there a reason for that?
Shannon: Yeah. We're fucking, so I thought it might get a bit awkward x
Eddie: WHAT
Eddie: Shan you're joking
Eddie: I'm coming back in there
Shannon: You're half pulled out of the driveway??
Shannon: Eddie
Shannon: Eddie go away, I was joking🤦♀️
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Summary
Mi media naranja. Half an orange, right? Like—two sides of the same coin, or something. A complementary coupla guys. A little silly, maybe, referring to a grown adult as a piece of fruit, but the sentiment is sweet enough.
“Hey,” Buck asks the girl beside him. “Um, Alba. She called Rosie ‘mi media naranja’. Like—half an orange? Is that a common saying in Mexico?”
“Oh, sure,” she nods. “It’s a pretty normal term of endearment. Cheesy as hell, but, well.” She gestures at where Eddie and the two women are sitting. Alba’s holding Rosie’s hand now. “When you’ve known each other that long and fit together that well… it’s just sweet.”
My most best friend. That’s what Alba said. That’s—well, that’s who Eddie is to him, essentially. And if what Eddie’s missing is a little affection in a language that feels like home, well. Buck can give that to him.
or, buck notices the lack of spanish terms of endearment in eddie’s life since his abuela died. so, he’s armed with what he’s been reliably informed is a totally normal thing to call your buddy. Operation Make My Best Friend Feel Cherished, as he’s named it on a trial basis in the privacy of his own head, is a-go
Bookmarked by Mapping_Marauders
29 May 2026
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"You're lucky you like your hair short, Chris. It's way easier."
Chris cocks his head, eyeing Eddie in that way that suggests he doesn't understand why Eddie is the way she is. "I don't get it," he says finally.
“Get what?”
Chris shrugs. “Why you can't just cut it. Or—or shave it all off or whatever.”
Series
- Part 1 of save me dyke buddie
Bookmarked by Mapping_Marauders
03 May 2026
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Summary
Captain Buckley, who is steady, who has his shit together, who definitely does not recognize his new probie because he spent a night eight years ago with his hands in that man's hair whispering things against his skin that would get him fired on the spot if anyone in this building ever found out.
"You must be Eddie Diaz." His hand goes out. Not shaking, by some miracle that deserves its own cathedral, its own patron saint, the patron saint of men who are dying inside and shaking hands about it. "Welcome to the 118. It’s nice to meet you, I’m Captain Buckley."
Eddie takes his hand. A firm grip, calloused in places Buck doesn't remember, but Buck's skin recognizes him anyway, every nerve, all at once.
"Captain." Eddie's voice is level, pleasant, perfectly neutral, and Buck would buy it completely if he couldn't see the tension bolted into Eddie's shoulders. "Thanks for having me." A beat. "You got a first name, Captain Buckley?"
"Evan. But most people just call me Buck."
"Buck," Eddie repeats, tasting it, dragging it out, and Buck's stomach drops through the floor. "Suits you."
Or,
Captain Buckley WILL NOT fuck his new probie, okay? At least, not again.Bookmarked by Mapping_Marauders
21 Apr 2026
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“Did you know the clitoris has over eight thousand nerve endings?” Zoey remarks, her hands sliding up Rumi’s thighs again. “Some studies indicate the number might be over ten thousand, even.”
“I am aware,” Mira deadpans, holding Rumi in place as she squirms and whimpers under Zoey’s ministrations. “I just had my mouth on all of them.”
(OR, touch-starved sexually repressed half-demon attempts self-pleasure, fails miserably. Mira and Zoey reap the rewards)
Bookmarked by Mapping_Marauders
21 Apr 2026
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Summary
Eddie knows he’s been through a lot of horrible shit before. He’s been shot - multiple times, he’s been buried alive and clawed his way out of the mud, he’s grieved more in his late twenties than most people do in a lifetime.
But this? This is worse than all of that combined.
Because he’s in El Paso, listless and lonely, with the cold to end all colds.
And Buck isn’t answering his texts, or his calls, or his Facetime requests.
So, yeah, Eddie thinks this might be the worst day of his life.
Or: While the 118 fight for their lives in a disease-filled lab, Eddie suffers equally as hard with a sore throat and the sniffles.
Bookmarked by Mapping_Marauders
20 Apr 2026