Fics like self-destructive tendencies (and other love languages)

Eddie moves before Buck can blink—one smooth, unhesitating motion. His hands find Buck’s waist first, then slide lower, bracing under his thighs as he lifts. The world tilts, and for a second Buck feels weightless, the heat of Eddie’s palms searing through denim, the strength behind it dizzying against Buck’s already crumbling composure. Then the counter meets him—cool beneath his thighs even through the fabric—Eddie’s hands leaving heat in their wake like a brand. Eddie’s still standing close enough that Buck’s knees frame him, not backing away immediately. His breath grazes Buck’s chest, eyes flicking up, the space between them charged with something that makes every cell in Buck’s body scream more, more, more. “Now sit,” Eddie says firmly, hands still resting under Buck’s legs before he finally backs away. “Stay.” Or, Eddie picks Buck up, Buck is totally cool and normal about the whole thing.

Fics like self-destructive tendencies (and other love languages)

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