#mikes hair is so perfect

[starbiastra]

what if i jumped did you ever consider that

“what do i say to convince you that i need you too?”

[anemone-ships]

i'm so normal about the kiss picrew

[secretlovezz]

Whiplash

Eddie Munson x Fem!reader

Summary: you've been avoiding Eddie like the plague and he's desperate to figure out what he's done to deserve it.

Warnings: hurt/comfort?? idk, kissing, fluffy ending, pining, idiots in love, use of y/n, she/her pronouns used for reader, reader is a crybaby ig idk she reacted how I would soooo, lmk if i missed anything!

Wordcount: 2010

A/N: Not really proofread and kind of written in a rush cause I wasn't feeling it about halfway through so sorry if you can tell 😞

You weren't there... again.

Your absence from your usual seat to the left of Eddie leaves him in a deep state of confusion his eyebrows furrowing in thought. This was the fifth day without your presence at his side, almost an entire week without your voice giddily telling him about the book you were reading or a new recipe you've tried, almost an entire week of being deprived of that perfect little gleam in your eyes when you looked at him rambling about something you enjoyed, and his heart ached in deprivation.

And because of this, he could with full confidence say you were avoiding him- but as to why he had no idea.

Eddie's silent at the lunch table staring at nothing in particular, and though the guys -especially the freshman- had finally learned to normalize Eddie's peculiar-ness and oddities this new silence and bleak aura had them surprised. He was stuck in his head racking through everything that's happened in the last week that could have possibly scared you away from him.

He thinks about the time he asked you for help with his math homework, but that couldn't be it considering that definitely was not the first time he'd asked and definitely was not the first time you'd happily agreed to do so. He reminisces about when he'd come to visit you during your shift at the local library in boredom playfully bothering you as you re-placed books onto the shelf.

He thinks and thinks and thinks but nothing comes to mind for your sudden evasion.

"Dude, you think any harder and steam will come out of your ears," Gareth rolls his eyes at Eddie, "What the hell's wrong with you anyway?"

Eddie leans back in his chair and dramatically throws his head back to look at the ceiling, his hair flows behind him and moves as people walk by, "She's avoiding me."

Dustin's head snaps up, still chewing his food he inserts himself into the conversation, "Who? Y/N? I just talked to her last period, she seemed fine," He shrugged.

At that Eddies head pops back up, eyes locking with Dustin's in a way that leaves the younger boy cringing, and the crease between his brows intensifies, "So she's still talking to you guys but not me?" He starts to pout a little by the end of his question.

Everyone sends looks to each other before slowly nodding and Eddie's forehead loudly makes contact with the cafeteria table, the guys wince in response.

"Well... have you tried- I don't know, asking her about it?"

The glare sent in Mikes direction after his question almost makes him apologize. Eddie heatedly scratches his head and groans in irritation; he'd tried more than a handful of times to get ahold of you, tried more than enough times to just hear your voice again but nothing worked. When he waited by your locker you would walk the other way, when he called you, you hung up as soon as you heard his voice, and worst of all you would throw out the little notes he sent you in class as you walked out and away from him once again.

"Duh! Of course I have," Eddies reply is laced with annoyance and frustration, "But I can't ask her anything if she keeps running away- I mean come on! She won't even look at me, man." His voice is soft and emotional when speaking his last sentence, He runs his hand over his face weakly and suddenly he feels like he's being pitied. He doesn't want that.

He hastily moves to pick up his things, thrusting the items into his little lunch box with more force than necessary with a pout on his tired face before standing from his seat and angrily walking away across the cafeteria, from the table and the others. They all sigh when he makes it past the cafeteria doors and after a silent moment Jeff is the first who speaks up, "So- When do you guys think they'll get over themselves and finally get together?"

《----------♡

When the last bell rings after what feels like years to Eddie he's swiftly making his way out of class and out of the building, but now what time would usually be spent merrily walking to his car and making plans to see you during the weekend was spent instead making his way into the woods strolling past trees and going to the little picnic table placed in that clearing he visits every once in awhile.

He stares at the ground and his feet as he treads, kicking rocks, stones, and branches on the way.

Eddies just about there just a few trees away from the clearing before he hears footsteps other than his own a little ways ahead of him he pauses head finally lifting to look in front of him and waits to see who appears.

To his surprise you pop into his vision and his round, brown eyes widen. He goes to take a step forward his body automatically and urgently trying to get to you, desperately needing to be near the drug that is you, but he stops himself to observe.

You sit at the table and pull a book out from the satchel bag at your side and a humorous huff leaves through his nose, his face relaxing and lips curling up at the sight of you doing something you often enthusiastically spoke to him about before realizing that its a book he does not recognize, that you had started a new one, and you hadn't told him like you usually would have. The thought wipes the smile from his face in an instant and his brows furrow for the nth time that day.

He steps forward and does not stop himself this time, sauntering toward you almost as angrily has he had left the cafeteria without your knowledge as you are already too engrossed in whatever new story you were traveling into. When he sits across from you at the table you feel it shift with the added weight and at last realize that you are no longer alone.

When you eventually look up, placing your thumb in-between the pages you were reading to keep your place, your heart drops at the sight of the frustrated man in front of you. You try to move away but he quickly grabs your wrist urging you to sit back down, you look at him again and the anguish written on his face makes you find your seat.

Your gaze moves to your lap and Eddie doesn't let you go too afraid you run away again.

Eddie is the one to break the stifling silence, "Talk to me... please?" The sound of his voice makes your heart ache so guiltily it hurts, "Just- Just tell what I did wrong- tell me so I can fix it."

Though your mouth opens to respond nothing comes out and your eyes gloss over with salty tears. Eddie's hold on your wrist moves to your hand gently cupping it in his calloused palm while his thumb moves to continuously swipe over your warm skin.

Your cheeks warm at the intimate contact and it only makes your eyes well with my tears reminding you of why you were ignoring him in the first place.

"When you-," You struggle to get the words out of your closing throat but Eddie still listens patiently, "Last time... you- you did something. It wasn't a big deal to you- but um... to me it- it meant a lot and that's kind of the problem."

The brunette across from you leans in closer and tilts his head in confusion, "What did I do?"

You glance to the side in embarrassment but Eddie's thumb taps you twice to bring your attention back to the conversation, "Talk to me Princess; Tell me what I did so we can go back to normal, I miss my best friend."

You didn't want to go back to normal.

For the first time in days your eyes connect with Eddie's and you take in a shaky breath at the sight of his enchanting eyes. "You uh- you kissed me..."

Now he's confused. He had kissed you? When? He's sure he would remember finally getting to kiss you.

Your free hand travels to your cheek and it all clicks for him, the pieces falling into place. He can't help but let out a chuckle of amusement; you were right- he had kissed you, kissed you on your cheek, that is, a sweet little peck against your skin. His laughter dies out when you rip your hand from his, the tears in your eyes spilling over.

Eddie stands and rounds the table to you, "Hey hey I- I'm I shouldn't have laughed. Don't cry, sweetheart." His hands place themselves on your elbows as your hands move to cover your face. He starts to feel like that little kiss really did more than he had thought.

"Did it make you uncomfortable? I won't do it again I promise," You shake your head at his words, "Talk to me, baby."

"Don't do that! Don't call me those names if you don't mean it," Eddies eyes go wide at your outburst and his mouth opens to speak but you beat him to it, "you- you kiss me and call me those names and I- It's just too much... I like you too much."

All too quickly Eddie is forcefully removing your hands from your face and cupping your cheeks thumbing the tears from your skin, "I like you too much too."

"Don't be mean Eddie."

He connects his forehand to yours, both of your eyes closing at the closeness, "M'not, would never joke about that." His soft pink lips brush gently against yours as he speaks and your breath hitches. Your lips part slightly and your cold breath fans Eddie's face. "How can I show you I mean it hm? How 'bout... a real kiss?" He mutters. You nod all too briskly for someone who was just crying and it makes Eddie smile.

In the fullness of time Eddie presses his lips to yours and when he finally gets the taste of your lips on his he realizes he's waited entirely too long to do this despite being willing to wait an eternity for you. He's been starving for the absolute goddess that is you, now getting to satisfy that hunger digging in with no resistance and sliding his tongue past your lips flushed against him. The ache he had felt without you there fading once and for all as you kissed him back. Your hands atop his squeeze as a noise escapes the back of your throat and Eddie kisses you deeper at your audible reaction. He wants to consume you, wants to keep you so close you never leave his side, he needs it- needs you and makes sure it shows in the way he kisses you.

When he pulls away your both panting for air, Eddie's grin is smug on the top of your head and your arms are wrapped around him.

"I can't believe you made me feel like shit for an entire week just cause I gave you a lil' kiss on the cheek," Eddie mocked trying to get a quick quip in.

"Shut up! It totally freaked me out."

His loud cackle echoed in your ears and you smiled, pulling him closer and pressing your nose into his skin. Eddie's arms moved to wrap around you as well and his large hands snake around you also trying to squeeze you impossibly closer. He presses a fast peck on your cheek, then your temple, and then the top of your head. Eddie takes a deep breath inhaling the scent of you- memorizing it.

"Promise you won't do that to me again. Don't leave me alone like that again."

"I won't Eds, I promise."

"Besides! What are you going to do without me here being oh so entertaining huh?"

You laugh, "I have no idea."

[palettehao]

Mike's so pretty when he embraces his loser self 🙏🏼🙏🏼 pls come back early in S5

SAVE ME MIKE WHEELER IN HELLFIRE SHIRT

[bueckets]

Going UP?

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Description: From missed alarms to broken elevators, your Tuesday couldn't get worse, well, until it gets better. When a late-running grad student's desperate dash to save her thesis turns into an unexpected elevator encounter with UConn basketball sensation Paige Bueckers, she learns that sometimes the best assists come from broken machinery.

Armed with nothing but coffee-fueled anxiety and an encyclopedic knowledge of basketball analytics, you find yourself trading quips with college basketball's golden girl in a stalled elevator. What starts as a disaster turns into something else entirely when basketball theory meets practice, terrible jokes meet dangerous grins, and hot chocolate meets, well, everywhere except the mug.

They say love is a game of chances. But when you're trapped between floors with a girl who can bend physics on the court and make your heart run suicides off it, maybe it's worth taking the shot. Sometimes cupid doesn't use arrows. Sometimes he just breaks the elevator.

Featuring: One (1) very broken elevator Several questionably colored cocktails A security guard who's seen it all Basketball plays drawn in spilled Shirley Temples Analytics-based flirting And a whipped cream fight that definitely isn't regulation play

Coming soon to wherever meet-cutes happen in college sports. (Rated R for excessive basketball puns and gay panic)

WC: 8.1k (roughly)

Genre/Notes: uh, i tried to be funny, floofy, rom-com-ish? (i tried), smut at the end, someone gets their kitty ATE, proof read like 50%

Your sneakers pound against the cracked, patchy sidewalk of North Campus, dodging the construction zone that's been "two weeks from completion" since freshman year. The November air bites at your cheeks, sharp as broken glass, and your laptop bag repeatedly slams into your hip with each stride, probably turning your thesis notes into digital confetti. A gust of wind lashes at you, tugging at your jacket, your hair, your sanity, and sending a rogue candy wrapper tumbling like a lonely tumbleweed across the quad like some 50’s Old West showdown. 

You'd woken up to three missed calls from your advisor and an email that made your soul leave your body.

Meeting moved to 9:15 AM. Please bring updated analytics models.

It's 9:12.

The universe is really testing you today. First, your roommate's cat knocked your phone off the nightstand, somehow managing to turn off all five of your alarms. Then, the dining hall’s card reader had the audacity to look at your student ID like it was written in crayon, leaving you to scavenge through your bag for exact change like a Victorian orphan. And now this.

You weave through the crowd of freshmen congregating outside the Student Union like they've never seen stairs before, your thermos of room-temperature coffee sloshing dangerously close to the lid. The wind whips a forgotten syllabus past your feet as you cut across the grass (sorry, campus maintenance), taking the "shortcut" that everyone pretends they don't use. You can practically hear the landscaping team groaning somewhere, shaking their heads at the worn-down dirt trail you and a thousand other students have carved into their perfect lawn.

Gampel Pavilion looms ahead, all glass and steel and architectural hubris. The morning sun hits it at an angle that makes it look like it's on fire, which feels appropriate given your current state of mild panic. You've spent so many hours in this building that the security guard, Mike, doesn't even look up from his crossword puzzle anymore when you scan your ID.

"Running late?" he calls out as you blast past his desk.

"What gave it away?" you shout back, already halfway to the elevators. Your sneakers squeak against the polished floors, leaving behind a faint trail of panic and shame— but most importantly, dirt. 

The ancient LED display above the elevator shows it's on the third floor. You slam the up button approximately forty-seven times, as if that's ever made an elevator move faster in the history of vertical transportation.

"Come on, come on," you mutter, shifting your weight between feet like you're doing some demented speed-skating warm-up. Your laptop bag keeps sliding off your shoulder, and you're pretty sure your hair looks like you styled it in a wind tunnel.  A strand falls into your eyes, and you blow it away with a frustrated huff. Everything about you screams disaster, and yet the elevator couldn’t care less.

The elevator dings. The doors slide open with all the urgency of a DMV employee on a Friday afternoon.

And there she is.

Paige Bueckers is leaning against the back wall of the elevator, one foot propped up behind her, looking like she just stepped out of a Nike ad. Her practice uniform is pristine, her blonde hair pulled back in a perfect ponytail that somehow hasn't gotten the memo about today's wind situation. She's got AirPods in, absently spinning a basketball between her hands like it's an extension of her body.

Your brain short-circuits. 

Time seems to slow down as you stand there, probably looking like a deer caught in very attractive headlights. The elevator dings again, threatening to close its doors on your moment of crisis.

Fuck it.

You lunge forward just as the doors start to close, practically diving into the elevator like you're trying to save a ball going out of bounds. Your coffee sloshes, your bag swings, and you nearly face-plant into the corner.

Paige pulls out one AirPod, her eyebrows raised so high they might achieve orbit. "Nice entrance."

You straighten up, trying to salvage whatever dignity might be hiding in the corners of this elevator. "Thanks, I've been practicing."

The elevator starts its ascent with a concerning rattle that definitely wasn't part of the original design. You adjust your bag for the hundredth time, very aware that you probably look like you just lost a fight with a leaf blower. Meanwhile, Paige keeps spinning that damn basketball, the soft thump-thump of it between her hands matching rhythm with your still-racing heart.

Nine floors to go. Eight if your advisor hasn't moved offices again after the Great Coffee Incident of last semester.

You can handle this. You're an adult. A slightly disheveled, possibly caffeine-deprived adult, but still. Just because you're sharing an elevator with the university's basketball goddess doesn't mean you need to—

The lights flicker once. Twice.

The elevator shudders like it's having an existential crisis.

Then everything stops.

The emergency lights kick in, bathing everything in a red glow that makes Paige look like she's starring in a very stylish apocalypse movie. The basketball stops spinning.

"Well," she says, tucking the ball under her arm and giving you a smile that definitely doesn't make your stomach flip. "Looks like the universe has other plans for us this morning."

You look at your phone: 9:14 AM.

Your advisor is going to kill you.

"Oh fuck, fuck, fuck," you mutter, jabbing at the emergency call button like it personally offended you. "This isn't happening. This can't be happening."

The little red light blinks back at you, mocking your entire existence, as if to say, yeah, good luck with that, idiot. You hit the button again, harder this time, because maybe the elevator just needs some aggressive encouragement.

"I don't think that's helping," Paige says, watching you with a mix of amusement and concern. She's still spinning that goddamn basketball, the rhythmic thump-thump now feeling less like a heartbeat and more like a countdown to your academic doom.

"Yeah? Well, neither are you," you snap, immediately regretting it. Great. Now you're trapped in an elevator AND you've just been rude to Paige fucking Bueckers. "Shit, sorry, I just—" You run both hands through your already catastrophic hair. "My advisor is going to crucify me. Like, actually crucify me. She's probably got a cross picked out and everything."

Paige catches the ball mid-spin. "Dr. Martinez?"

"How did you—"

"The only professor I know who actually might own a cross for student crucifixions." She tucks the ball under her arm. "She made one of our freshmen cry last week just by looking at her."

"That tracks." You slide down the wall opposite her, your legs finally giving up on the whole standing thing. "God, I can't believe this. I've got my entire thesis presentation on this laptop, three months of analytics data that I haven't backed up because I'm an idiot, and now I'm going to die in an elevator with—" You wave vaguely in her direction.

"With?" She raises an eyebrow, and you swear there's a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth.

"With UConn's basketball savior who's probably missing practice right now because the universe decided today was a great day for some cosmic practical joke." You let your head thunk back against the wall. "Coach Auriemma's probably already got a hit out on me."

Paige laughs, and the sound does something weird to your chest. "Nah, Coach is more of a 'make you run suicides until you puke' kind of guy. Much less paperwork than murder."

"Fantastic. So I'll die from academic execution AND athletic retribution. Perfect way to start a Tuesday."

"You always this dramatic before 9:30?" She's definitely smirking now.

"Only when I'm trapped in elevators with pretty girls who should be at practice."

The words are out before your brain can catch up with your mouth. Your eyes go wide, and you seriously consider trying to pry open the doors and jump down the shaft.

But Paige just grins, wide and dangerous. "Oh, so you think I'm pretty?"

"I think you're deflecting from the fact that we're stuck in a metal box that's older than both of us combined," you say, proud of how steady your voice comes out despite the internal screaming.

"And I think you're deflecting from the fact that you just called me pretty."

You pull out your phone again, desperate for a distraction. "No signal. Perfect. This is fine. Everything is fine."

"Could be worse," Paige says, stretching her legs out in front of her. Her feet almost reach where you're sitting, and you absolutely do not notice how long her legs are. "Could be stuck in here with Dr. Martinez."

That startles a laugh out of you. "Jesus, don't even joke about that. She'd probably make me defend my thesis right here."

"Yeah? What's it about?"

You look up from your phone to find her watching you with what appears to be genuine interest. "You really want to know?"

"Well," she gestures around the elevator, "it's not like I've got anywhere else to be."

You narrow your eyes. "If this is some kind of pity conversation—"

"It's not." She cuts you off, her voice surprisingly firm. "I'm actually curious. Plus, you look like you might spontaneously combust if you don't talk about something other than being stuck in here."

She's not wrong. Your leg has been bouncing non-stop since you sat down, and you're pretty sure you're about to wear a hole in your bottom lip from biting it.

"Fine," you say, setting your phone aside. "But remember, you asked for this. And if you fall asleep, I'm using that basketball as a pillow."

Paige's eyes light up with something that makes your stomach flip. "Deal."

"Okay, so you know how current basketball analytics are basically just glorified box scores?" You shift to face her properly, your earlier panic morphing into the kind of enthusiasm that usually makes people's eyes glaze over. "Like, sure, we can track points and assists and whatever, but that's just the obvious stuff."

"And there's more than the obvious stuff?" Paige asks, settling in like she's actually planning to follow your inevitably chaotic explanation.

"So much more." You pull your laptop out, balancing it on your crossed legs. "Like, imagine being able to track not just who made the shot, but all the little things that made that shot possible. The way players move without the ball, how defensive shifts create spaces that don't show up in any stat sheet.”

Your hands start moving as you talk, painting invisible patterns in the air. Paige has stopped spinning her basketball, her eyes following your gestures with an intensity that makes you warm all over.

"It's like..." You pause, trying to find the right words. "You know how in chess, sometimes the most important move isn't the one that takes the piece, but the three moves before that made it possible?"

She nods, leaning forward slightly. "Like a setup play."

"Exactly!" You're fully animated now, previous elevator crisis temporarily forgotten. "But current systems don't track that. They don't see how Player A moving left makes Player B's defender shift just enough that Player C can—"

The emergency speaker crackles to life, making you both jump.

"Hello? Anyone in there?" The voice sounds bored, like stuck elevators are just another Tuesday morning inconvenience.

Paige reaches over and hits the call button. "Yeah, we're here. Two people."

"Alright, we've got maintenance heading up. Should have you out in about fifteen minutes. Sit tight."

The speaker clicks off, leaving you both in that red-tinted silence again.

"Fifteen minutes," you groan, letting your head fall back against the wall. "Dr. Martinez is definitely going to have that cross ready."

"Hey," Paige says, and something in her voice makes you look at her. "Tell me more about your system. How do you track all those micro-movements?"

You blink at her. "You actually want to hear more?"

"Would I ask if I didn't?" She's got this soft half-smile that does dangerous things to your ability to think straight. "Plus, you get all..." she waves her hand vaguely, "sparkly when you talk about it."

"Sparkly?"

"Yeah, like you're lit up from the inside." She says it so casually, like she hasn't just made your heart do a full court press against your ribs.

You clear your throat, trying to remember how words work. "Right. Well, um, I've been working with the computer vision lab to develop these tracking algorithms..."

The next fifteen minutes dissolve into a blur of technical explanations and basketball theory. Paige asks surprisingly specific questions, and you try not to look too pleased every time she leans in closer to see something on your laptop screen.

When maintenance finally gets the elevator moving again, it feels too soon.

The doors open on the fourth floor – your floor – and you scramble to pack up your laptop, suddenly aware that you've spent the last twenty minutes word-vomiting about analytics to one of the best basketball players in the country.

"Thanks for, uh, keeping me from completely losing it," you say, standing awkwardly in the doorway. "And sorry about the whole..." you gesture vaguely at yourself, "chaos."

Paige stands too, and even in the normal lighting, she's unfairly pretty. "Chaos looks good on you."

Your brain short-circuits. "Can I get your number?"

The words tumble out before you can stop them, and you immediately want to crawl into the nearest trash can. But Paige just grins, that dangerous one that makes her look like she knows exactly what she's doing to you.

"Tell you what," she says, spinning the basketball on one finger because apparently she's physically incapable of not showing off. "Come to Friday's game. If you can spot one of those micro-interactions you were talking about..." She lets the ball roll down her arm and catches it smoothly. "Maybe you'll find out if I give my number to random girls I meet in elevators."

She backs into the elevator, maintaining eye contact until the doors close between you.

You stand there for a solid thirty seconds, staring at the brushed metal doors like they might reveal the secrets of the universe. Or at least explain how you went from having a mental breakdown about your advisor to what definitely felt like flirting with Paige Bueckers.

Your phone buzzes: another email from Dr. Martinez.

Meeting rescheduled to 2PM. Bring coffee. The good kind.

You look back at the elevator doors, then at your phone, then at the ceiling.

Looks like you're going to a basketball game on Friday.

The security guard at Gampel's student entrance looks at your ticket, then at you, then back at the ticket with the kind of suspicion usually reserved for people trying to use expired coupons at Target.

"This is— courtside," he says slowly, like maybe you don't understand what those words mean.

"Yeah, I, uh,” You shift your weight between feet, very aware of the growing line behind you. "I got it in an email?"

It comes out like a question because honestly, you're still not entirely sure this isn't some elaborate fever dream. The past three days have felt surreal, starting with Dr. Martinez actually smiling during your rescheduled meeting (turns out that fancy coffee shop downtown does make a difference) and ending with an email from pbueckers@uconn.edu that made you choke on your morning cereal.

The security guard squints at his scanner like it's personally offending him. "These are usually reserved for—"

"Is there a problem?" A familiar voice cuts through the growing awkwardness, and you turn to find Mike, your elevator-lobby guardian angel, approaching with his signature "I've seen too much student nonsense" expression.

"Got a courtside ticket here, but—"

"Oh, yeah," Mike says, shooting you a look that's somewhere between amused and knowing. "This one's good. Let 'em through."

You mouth a 'thank you' as you pass, and he just shakes his head, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like "kids these days" under his breath.

The student section is already packed, a sea of navy and white that ripples with pre-game energy. But your ticket directs you past all that, down, down, down the steps until you're so close to the court you can smell the fresh polish on the hardwood.

"This isn't happening," you mutter to yourself, dropping into your assigned seat—which is literally close enough to high-five players coming off the court. "This is fine. Everything is fine. You're just casually sitting courtside at a sold-out game because you got trapped in an elevator and word-vomited about basketball analytics for twenty minutes. Totally normal Friday night."

The woman next to you, wearing what looks like several hundred dollars worth of UConn gear, gives you a concerned side-eye.

"Sorry," you say, slinking lower in your seat. "I talk to myself when I'm having an existential crisis."

She just nods and shifts slightly away, which, fair.

The arena fills up quickly, the ambient noise growing from a buzz to a roar. You try to look casual, like you totally belong here and didn't spend forty-five minutes earlier having a breakdown about what to wear to a basketball game when you're sitting close enough to be on TV. (You'd finally settled on jeans and a UConn hoodie, figuring if you're going to have a gay panic on national television, you might as well be comfortable.)

The teams come out for warm-ups, and your heart definitely doesn't skip when you spot number 5 leading the layup line. Paige moves like she's got some sort of cheat code for gravity, each motion fluid and precise. She's got her game face on, all focused intensity and practiced routine, but then—

She catches your eye as she circles back to the line, and her serious expression cracks just enough to let through a hint of that dangerous grin from the elevator.

"Oh, I am so screwed," you breathe, and the woman next to you shifts another inch away.

The game itself is a blur of motion and noise. You try to focus on analyzing plays like you promised, looking for those micro-interactions you'd rambled about, but it's hard to think strategically when Paige keeps making passes that shouldn't be physically possible. Your laptop's probably having a stroke trying to track all these movements.

By halftime, UConn's up by twelve, and you've filled three pages of your Notes app with what started as technical observations but has devolved into increasingly incoherent capslock about various impressive plays. The latest note just says "HOW DID SHE EVEN SEE THAT CUTTING GUARD??? PHYSICS???? HELP????"

"Nice analysis."

You nearly drop your phone. Paige is right there, pretending to adjust her shoes by the bench but clearly smirking in your direction.

"I'm being professionally thorough," you whisper-hiss back, trying to ignore how your pulse is doing full-court sprints.

"Uh huh." She stands up, heading back to the huddle, but not before adding, "You look good in UConn blue, by the way."

You spend the entire third quarter trying to remember how to breathe normally.

The fourth quarter is when you see it—one of those perfect setup plays you'd theorized about. Paige moves left, drawing her defender, while simultaneously nodding almost imperceptibly to her teammate. The slight movement causes a chain reaction: the defense shifts, creating a gap that shouldn't exist, and suddenly there's a perfect passing lane that materializes out of seemingly nowhere. The ball flows through it like water finding the path of least resistance, resulting in an easy layup that looks simple but was actually three moves in the making.

You're on your feet before you realize it, pointing and probably looking deranged. "That! That's exactly what I was talking about! The head fake was the trigger but it wasn't even about the—" You cut yourself off, becoming aware that several people are staring at you, including the woman next to you who's now practically in the next seat over.

As the final buzzer sounds (UConn by 18), your phone buzzes with a new email.

From: pbueckers@uconn.edu

Subject: Nice catch

Body: 617-555-0147

PS - Your "professional analysis" face is reaaaaallly cute. Even from ten feet away.

You stare at your phone long enough that the arena starts to empty around you, afraid that if you look away the numbers might disappear like some basketball Cinderella story. The woman next to you finally gets up, edging past with the kind of caution usually reserved for wild animals.

"Sorry about all the,” you gesture vaguely at yourself.

She just pats your shoulder with grandmotherly sympathy. "Honey, I've been watching basketball for forty years, and I've never seen someone have a gay awakening quite that enthusiastically. Good luck with number five."

You're still sputtering when she disappears up the stairs, leaving you alone with a phone number and the distinct feeling that the universe is either laughing at you or playing matchmaker.

Possibly both.

Nah— Definitely both.

After what feels like an eternity of staring at your phone like it holds the secrets of the universe, your bladder kindly reminds you that you stress-drank an entire large iced coffee before the game. Fucking wonderful. You glance at the concourse—and immediately regret every life choice that led to this moment.

The bathroom line snakes around the corner like some kind of hydra-headed monster, full of people who clearly had the same brilliant beverage ideas you did. You briefly consider just holding it and dealing with the consequences later, but your body has other plans.

"This is karma," you mutter, taking your place at the end of the line. "This is definitely karma for all those times I made fun of people waiting in long bathroom lines."

The girl in front of you snorts. "If it helps, I'm pretty sure we're all suffering from the same coffee-based poor judgment."

Twenty minutes. Twenty. Entire. Minutes.

You've gone through every social media app twice, responded to three emails you've been avoiding, and played enough Candy Crush to rot your remaining brain cells by the time you finally emerge from the bathroom. The arena is practically empty now, just cleaning crew and a few lingering fans.

Your phone feels heavy in your pocket, that number burning a hole in your mind. You pull it out, staring at the digits like they might rearrange themselves into instructions on how to text your elevator-meet-cute crush without sounding like a complete disaster.

To: 617-555-0147

Hey, this is your favorite elevator analytics nerd. Great game tonight. That fourth-quarter setup play was chef's kiss

You hit send before you can overthink it, then immediately regret every word choice. Chef's kiss? Really? Maybe if you run fast enough, you can catch up to your dignity before it leaves the building entirely.

Your phone buzzes before you can fully commit to your shame spiral.

From: Paige 🏀

some of us are heading to murphy's for dirty shirleys if you want to continue your "professional analysis" in person? promise there won't be any elevators involved

You nearly trip over your own feet.

Will there be a formal presentation required? Should I prepare slides?

just your sparkling personality and maybe an explanation of how you knew that play was coming before I did 😉

Bold of you to assume I wasn't just gesturing wildly at a mosquito 

we both know you're too much of a basketball nerd for that. meet you there in 20?

You pause at the arena exit, looking down at your very casual, very not-prepared-to-go-out outfit. But then again, when has anything about this situation been normal? 

Your eyes shoot back to your phone and your frantic typing begins once again.

Only if you promise to explain how that behind-the-back pass in the third quarter didn't break several laws of physics

deal. and hey?

Yeah?

the hoodie really does look good on you

Your stomach shoots to your ass and you stand there grinning at your phone like an idiot until Mike, doing his final security rounds, walks by and shakes his head.

"Don't stay out too late, kid," he calls over his shoulder. "These love stories always get complicated when they start in elevators."

"That was literally ONE MOVIE," you shout after him, but he just waves without turning around.

You look down at your phone one more time, then up at the now-empty arena, and can't help but laugh. Somehow, a broken elevator, an understanding security guard, and a basketball player with a dangerous grin have turned your disaster of a week into whatever this is.

Time to find out if Dirty Shirleys taste better when you're sharing them with a girl who can bend physics on a basketball court.

Murphy's is exactly what would happen if a sports bar had a baby with a college town dive and raised it on a strict diet of neon signs and questionable decor choices. The walls are plastered with enough UConn memorabilia to fill a museum, if museums were into collecting signed napkins and mysteriously stained jerseys.

Your stomach is doing Olympic-level gymnastics as you push open the door, immediately hit by the smell of mozzarella sticks and what you really hope is just decades of spilled beer. The place is packed with post-game energy, and you're pretty sure your heart stops completely when you spot Paige at a corner booth, still in her game-day warmups because apparently she just casually walks around looking like a Nike ad.

"Analytics nerd!" she calls out, waving you over with that stupid grin that makes your brain cells commit mass suicide. "We saved you a seat!"

The 'we' turns out to be a collection of players who could probably stack on top of each other and touch the moon. You slide into the only open spot—right next to Paige, because the universe is clearly not done testing your ability to form coherent sentences today.

"Everyone, this is the elevator girl who knows more about our plays than we do," Paige announces, and your face goes hot enough to fry an egg. "Elevator girl, this is everyone."

"I have a name, you know," you manage, trying to ignore how her shoulder is pressed against yours in the crowded booth.

"Yeah, but 'elevator girl' has a better ring to it," she says, sliding a violently pink drink your way. "Plus, it's technically accurate."

"So is 'basketball menace' but you don't see me—" Your mouth snaps shut as her teammates start cackling.

"Oh, I like this one," says a girl you recognize as KK Arnold, grinning like she just got early Christmas. "She's got bite."

"She's got analytics," Paige corrects, but she's looking at you with something that makes your stomach relocate to somewhere in the general vicinity of Jupiter. "Speaking of which, you never did tell me how you caught that play coming."

You take a long sip of your Dirty Shirley to buy time, immediately regretting it when the sugar content threatens to give you instant cavities. "Holy shit, what's in this? Pure pixie stick powder?"

"Don't deflect," Paige says, poking your side. "We've got a whole team of analysts and none of them caught it. So spill."

"Fine, but only because you bought me diabetes in a glass." You shift to face her, accidentally-on-purpose letting your knee rest against hers under the table. "It was your head."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "My head?"

"You've got this tell," you say, getting into it now because apparently basketball analysis is your ideal flirting language. "This tiny little head tilt you do when you're setting up something sneaky. Like a cat about to knock something off a table, but make it basketball."

The entire table goes quiet, then erupts in laughter.

"She's got you there, P," Ice wheezes. "You do look like a menacing cat sometimes!"

Paige is staring at you with a mix of indignation and something else that makes your chest feel too small for your heart. "I do not have a cat tell."

"You absolutely do," you say, emboldened by sugar and the way her eyes keep dropping to your lips. "It's actually kind of cu—"

"SHOTS!" someone yells, and suddenly there's a tray of something alarmingly blue being passed around.

"Oh god," you mutter, watching the liquid slosh ominously. "Is this what happens when a Smurf dies?"

Paige nearly chokes on her drink. "That's terrible!"

"Just like these shots are about to be?"

She leans in close—too close, definitely too close for your remaining brain cells to function—and whispers, "Good thing I like terrible jokes."

Your stomach shoots to your ass (and possibly into another dimension) as she pulls back with a wink that should be illegal in at least forty-eight states.

"I hate you," you inform her, grabbing one of the Smurf funeral shots because if you're going to have a gay crisis in a college bar, you might as well commit fully.

"No you don't," she says with absolute certainty, and the worst part is she's right.

You really, really don't.

The night dissolves into a blur of increasingly ridiculous drinks (who knew they made something called a "Husky Howl"?), basketball stories that get more elaborate with each round, and Paige's thigh pressed warm against yours under the table. You learn that she stress-bakes before big games, that she once tried to teach her dog to play basketball, and that when she really laughs—like, really laughs—she snorts a little and it's possibly the cutest thing you've ever seen.

At some point, Azzi starts drawing up plays on napkins with increasingly chaotic drink-fueled creativity. Aaliyah Edwards keeps stealing her pen to "fix" the defensive rotations, while Nika Mühl throws wadded-up straw wrappers at both of them, critiquing their "absolutely trash spacing."

"No, no, look," KK follows imaginary lines with her finger across the napkin, accidentally dragging it through a puddle of spilled Shirley Temple. "If we run this here, and then—" she grabs your arm— "you're the defense, okay? Stand up."

"I absolutely am not," you protest, but Paige is already pulling you up with that stupid grin that makes your knees forget how joints work.

"Come on, elevator girl," she teases, positioning you near the booth. "Show us those analytics skills in action."

"I hate all of you," you mutter, but you're laughing as KK tries to demonstrate some elaborate defensive scheme that mostly involves her spinning in circles while Aaliyah provides unhelpful commentary.

"Your footwork is trash, bestie," Aaliyah calls out, now using maraschino cherries to build what appears to be a scale model of the paint.

"YOUR footwork is trash," KK shoots back, then promptly trips over nothing.

"Ladies, ladies," Paige steps in, all faux seriousness undermined by the way she can't stop grinning. "Let a professional show you how it's done."

She moves behind you, hands settling lightly on your hips, and your brain immediately flatlines. "See, proper defensive stance is all about—"

"Get a fuckin' room!" Nika yells, launching another straw wrapper that hits Paige square in the forehead.

"Actually," Paige says close to your ear, and your stomach does approximately seventeen backflips, "I've got that new analytics setup at my apartment if you want to see it. You know, for research purposes."

You turn to face her, very aware that her hands haven't moved from your hips. "Research purposes?"

"Mhmm." That dangerous grin is back. "Purely academic, of course."

"Of course," you manage, trying to ignore the way your pulse is doing a full drumline routine.

"Oh my god," KK groans from the booth. "This is worse than when Aaliyah tried to flirt with that barista using coffee puns."

"Hey!" Aaliyah protests. "That was smooth!"

"You asked if she wanted to 'espresso' her feelings!"

"And now we're dating, so who's the real winner here?"

Paige rolls her eyes at their antics, but her thumbs are drawing small circles on your hips that are making it very hard to focus on anything else. "So? Want to help me with some late-night analysis?"

Your stomach shoots to your ass as you meet her eyes, finding them sparkling with something that definitely isn't just about basketball statistics. "I mean, it would be unprofessional to turn down a research opportunity..."

"GET OUT OF HERE," Azzi throws a cherry that sails completely wide of both of you. "Your gay panic is ruining my plays."

"Your plays were already ruined," Nika points out, helpfully redrawing the vodka-smudged X's and O's with what appears to be lip gloss.

Paige grabs her jacket with one hand and your hand with the other, tugging you toward the door. "Don't wait up, nerds!"

"USE PROTECTION!" Aubrey shouts after you, causing several nearby tables to choke on their drinks.

"I mean, analytics can be very dangerous," you say with mock seriousness as you step into the cool night air, very aware that Paige hasn't let go of your hand. "All those numbers flying around."

"Absolutely hazardous," she agrees, pulling you closer as you walk. "Better stick together. For safety."

"For safety," you repeat, hoping she can't feel your pulse racing where your fingers are intertwined. "And research."

"And research," she echoes, giving you that sidelong grin that makes your heart forget how to beat properly. "Though I should warn you..."

"Yeah?"

She stops under a streetlight, turning to face you with eyes that sparkle with mischief. "My elevator works perfectly fine."

Your laugh echoes off the empty street. "Damn. There goes my backup plan."

"I'm sure we can find other ways to get stuck together," she says, and your stomach relocates somewhere in the general vicinity of Mars.

As you follow her down the quiet streets of Storrs, your joined hands swinging between you, you make a mental note to buy Mike the biggest coffee gift card you can afford.

Broken elevators might just be your new favorite thing.

Paige's apartment is exactly what you'd expect from someone who's somehow both a basketball prodigy and a complete dork—there's a literal trophy shelf right next to a collection of Star Wars Funko Pops, and her UConn jersey hangs framed above what appears to be a very elaborate gaming setup.

"Nice lightsaber," you say, nodding to the collector's edition propped in the corner.

"Nice deflection from how your hands are shaking," she shoots back, shrugging off her jacket.

"It's cold outside!"

"Uh huh." She disappears into the kitchen, and you hear cabinets opening. "Want some hot chocolate? I promise it's better than those nuclear waste shots Aubrey kept ordering."

Your stomach does a weird flip at how domestic this feels. "Only if you have—"

"Mini marshmallows and whipped cream? What kind of monster do you think I am?"

You follow her voice to find her already pulling out mugs, one of which has "Ball is Life" written in what appears to be glitter pen. "The kind that owns a bedazzled basketball mug?"

"First of all, Nika made this for my birthday and it's a masterpiece," she says, grabbing milk from the fridge. "Second of all, you're just jealous of my sophisticated taste."

"Oh, absolutely. Nothing says sophistication like..." you pick up a container from the counter, "unicorn hot chocolate mix?"

She snatches it back, fighting a grin. "It's limited edition!"

"Of course, my mistake. Clearly I'm in the presence of a fine dining connoisseur."

The kitchen fills with the smell of chocolate as she heats the milk, and you try not to stare at how she's rolled up her sleeves, forearms on full display as she stirs. You fail miserably.

"See something you like?" she asks without turning around, because apparently she has eyes in the back of her head.

"Just admiring your hot chocolate technique."

"My technique is excellent, thank you very much." She turns, holding up a can of whipped cream with a dangerous glint in her eye. "Want to see?"

Your throat goes dry. "I feel like this is a trap."

"Maybe." She takes a step closer, and your back hits the counter. "But you've been analyzing my moves all night. Shouldn't I get a turn?"

You're about to say something witty—really, you are—but then she's shaking the whipped cream can and all your brain cells collectively abandon ship.

"Don't you dare—" 

The words are barely out before she's spraying whipped cream directly at your face. You squeal (not your proudest moment) and grab for the can, resulting in a brief wrestling match that ends with cream basically everywhere except in the actual mugs.

"You're such a menace!" you gasp, trying to wipe cream off your nose while she cackles.

"Says the girl who called me out on my head tilt in front of my whole team!"

"That's different! That was professional analysis!"

"Oh yeah?" She steps closer, effectively pinning you against the counter. "Analyze this."

Your heart stops as she reaches up, thumb gently wiping whipped cream from the corner of your mouth. Time seems to freeze, your entire world narrowing to that point of contact and the way her eyes drop to your lips.

"Your technique could use some work," you manage to whisper, and she laughs—that real laugh, with the little snort that makes your chest feel too small for your heart.

"Maybe you should show me how it's done then."

Your stomach shoots through the floor as you reach up, threading your fingers through her hair (definitely getting whipped cream in it but whatever), and pull her down to meet you.

She tastes like chocolate and whipped cream and something uniquely her, and you can feel her smile against your lips as she wraps her arms around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. 

"How's that for technique?" you murmur when you finally break apart, both breathing a bit harder.

"Hmm." She pretends to consider it, but her eyes are sparkling and her hands are still firmly on your waist. "Might need more data to make a proper analysis."

"Oh my god, you're actually worse than me with the nerd references."

"You like it," she says with absolute certainty, leaning in again.

"Maybe," you concede against her lips. "But only because you're cute when you're being smug."

She pulls back just enough to give you that dangerous grin that started this whole thing. "Just cute?"

"And modest, clearly."

"I'll show you modest," she growls, and then she's kissing you again, deeper this time, backing you further against the counter until you're pretty sure your soul leaves your body entirely.

The hot chocolate goes cold on the counter, 

The hot chocolate goes cold on the counter, forgotten in the haze of warm laughter and sticky fingers. At some point, her lips found their way back to yours, sweet and a little messy, and now you’re on her couch, knees bumping against hers as you both settle into an almost tentative rhythm. She pulls back just slightly, her forehead resting against yours, and her breath fans across your lips in short, uneven bursts.

“You’re trouble,” she whispers, her voice low and a little breathless, her hands sliding up your arms to rest on your shoulders, thumbs brushing the curve of your collarbone.

“You like trouble,” you fire back, and there’s just enough of a spark in your tone to make her grin.

“I really do,” she admits, and before you can respond, her lips are on yours again, slower this time, deliberate. It’s not the playful teasing from before—it’s something heavier, something that makes your heart stutter in your chest and your hands curl into the soft fabric of her sweatshirt.

Her fingers tangle in your hair as she shifts, nudging you gently until your back hits the cushions. She hovers above you, her knees bracketing your thighs, her ponytail spilling over one shoulder as she leans down to kiss you again. This time, it’s a little rougher, her teeth catching on your bottom lip just enough to make you gasp, and the sound seems to light something in her eyes.

“You’re killing me,” you murmur against her mouth, and she pulls back just enough to look at you, her grin sharper now.

“Good,” she says simply, and her hands are on the hem of your hoodie, tugging it up. “This okay?”

You nod, swallowing hard, and she doesn’t wait for a second invitation. The hoodie’s off in a flash, tossed somewhere behind the couch, and her eyes sweep over you like she’s committing every inch to memory. Her hands are warm as they skim over your sides, fingertips brushing against bare skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

“You’re gorgeous,” she says softly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and the way she says it makes you believe her, even with your heart trying to beat its way out of your chest.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you manage, trying to sound casual even as she leans back down, her lips finding the curve of your jaw and then lower, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to your neck. Your hands find her waist, and you can feel the strength of her beneath the soft cotton of her sweatshirt, her muscles flexing slightly as she shifts against you.

“Should we,” she starts, her voice trailing off as she pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. There’s a question there, unspoken but clear, and you answer it by pulling her back down, your lips crashing into hers with more urgency than before.

“Definitely,” you say between kisses, and that’s all the encouragement she needs.

Her sweatshirt joins your hoodie somewhere on the floor, and her hands are everywhere—your waist, your thighs, the curve of your hip. It’s all a blur of heat and soft laughter and the kind of clumsy, sweet desperation that only comes with two people trying to figure out how they fit together.

The couch is too small, the angles all wrong, and at some point, she pulls back just enough to breathe, “Bed?”

You nod, and then she’s pulling you to your feet, her hand sliding down to lace her fingers with yours as she leads you toward her room. There’s something about the way she looks back at you, her grin soft and a little nervous, that makes your heart ache in the best way.

The moment you’re through the door, she’s on you again, her hands sliding up your back as she kisses you like she’s trying to memorize every curve, every shiver. The bed is soft beneath you, and her weight is solid and warm as she follows you down, her knee nudging between yours as she leans over you.

“You’re really good at this whole ‘research’ thing,” you tease, and she laughs against your collarbone, the sound low and husky and so incredibly her.

“Don’t distract me,” she murmurs, and her hands are on you again, her touch firm and sure and just a little shaky in a way that makes your chest swell with affection.

And when she kisses you again, slow and deep, you think, for the first time all week, that maybe the universe actually got something right.

The mattress dips under her weight as Paige pulls back just enough to take you in, her hair falling loose from her ponytail, framing her face in a way that feels criminally unfair. There’s a glint in her eye now, something teasing but focused, like she’s about to run the most calculated play of her life.

“You look nervous,” she says, her lips curling into that sharp grin that’s been undoing you all night.

“I’m not nervous,” you lie, though your voice cracks on the last syllable like your body’s calling you out.

She chuckles, low and throaty, and leans down, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Good. Because I’m about to ruin you, and I don’t need you overthinking it.”

Before you can process what she said, she’s sliding down your body with deliberate slowness, her hands dragging over your sides, down your hips, and hooking around the waistband of your leggings. She raises an eyebrow, silently asking permission, and the second you nod, she pulls them down in one fluid motion, leaving you feeling bare and achingly vulnerable.

“Holy shit,” Paige mutters under her breath, her eyes locked on you like she’s just stumbled on a masterpiece at an art museum. Her hands settle on your thighs, thumbs tracing small circles that send shivers racing up your spine. “You’re so—” She stops, shakes her head, and looks up at you with that cocky grin. “Nah, I’m gonna show you instead of telling you.”

Her lips press to the inside of your knee, soft at first, but as she moves higher, her kisses grow hungrier, her teeth grazing your skin just enough to leave you squirming.

“Paige,” you breathe, your voice barely more than a whisper, but she just hums against your thigh like she’s savoring her favorite meal.

“Patience,” she murmurs, her breath hot against your skin as she shifts lower. “You’re not going anywhere, are you?”

Your response gets caught in your throat as her mouth finally finds you, and every coherent thought you’ve ever had promptly evaporates. Her tongue moves with the same precision she has on the court, all calculated angles and devastating accuracy, and it’s like she’s figured out exactly how to dismantle you.

“Fuck—Paige—” Your hips jerk involuntarily, but her hands hold you steady, her grip firm enough to keep you grounded while her mouth does the opposite.

She pulls back just enough to look up at you, her lips glistening, and there’s a wicked glint in her eye that makes your stomach drop in the best way. “Hang tight,” she says, reaching toward the nightstand.

“What are you—oh my God,” you gasp as she pulls out a vibrator, the sleek little device gleaming like it was made for moments like this.

Paige winks, all confidence and mischief, as she turns it on, the low hum filling the room. “You trust me, right?”

You nod, because at this point, you’d probably trust her to lead you into a cult if it meant feeling like this.

“Good.” She leans back down, her mouth finding you again just as the vibrator presses against you, and the combination is so overwhelming it almost knocks the breath out of you.

Your hands fly to her hair, tugging as the vibrations send shocks of pleasure racing through your body, and her tongue works in tandem, teasing and relentless. It’s too much and not enough all at once, and you can feel yourself unraveling, piece by piece, with every calculated movement.

“Paige, I—” Your words dissolve into a moan that would make your ancestors weep, your thighs trembling as she doubles down, her grip on you tightening.

“That’s it,” she murmurs against you, her voice low and full of something that sounds dangerously like pride. “Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”

And just like that, you do. The orgasm rips through you like a tidal wave, leaving you gasping and clutching at the sheets as your vision whites out. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you swear you hear yourself speaking in tongues.

Paige doesn’t stop until your legs are twitching, and even then, she presses one last kiss to your inner thigh before sitting back with the most self-satisfied grin you’ve ever seen.

“Did I just—” You pause, catching your breath, your voice hoarse. “Did I just have an exorcism?”

Paige laughs, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “If you did, I think I’m gonna need to start charging for holy services.”

“Fuck you,” you say weakly, though the way you’re still grinning probably ruins the effect.

She crawls back up to you, her body warm and solid as she settles next to you, her arm slinging over your waist. “Oh, you’re definitely going to want to do that next,” she teases, pressing a kiss to your temple.

And just like that, you’re laughing, still breathless and a little wrecked, but somehow more at ease than you’ve felt in ages. Paige grins down at you, smug but soft, and you think, maybe, that this is exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Sometimes the best love stories start with a malfunction.

Just don't tell Mike. He's smug enough already.

The End

[lovebugism]

Okay soooooooo

How bout something like King Steve picking on shy!reader, then later finding out she has a shitty home life plz

ty for requesting!! this can be read as a prequel to this fic — steve comforts you when he accidentally makes you flinch (enemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, cw for brief mentions of abuse, 1.8k)

Sitting alone at the Hellfire table, you feel a little like fishbait. 

Your spot in the very back of the cafeteria is normally full and loud — with Dustin’s bickering, and Eddie’s laughing, and Gareth’s stupid jokes — but they’re not here now. They’re off getting their trays while you sit in wait for them (and the cold fries you’ll ultimately steal from Eddie’s plate). It leaves you perfect prey for circling sharks.

You hear laughter from behind you, over the sounds of the bustling lunch room. You’re certain they’re laughing at you — ‘cause you always think someone’s laughing at you — but you try hard to ignore it. You disregard the subtle pang of anxiety in your chest and stick your nose in your book, eyes flitting across the words without reading any of them.

Someone flumps down at your side then, where Mike usually sits. The overwhelming scent of spiced cologne stings your nostrils. With watering eyes, you look beside you. At Tommy fucking Hagan.

“Hey, Wallflower,” he greets like it’s normal — like he hasn’t spent the past four years pretending you don’t exist. You think he only calls you Wallflower now because his friends have been doing it for so long they don’t remember your real name.

The boy props his elbow on the table and puts his chin in his fist, trying hard to hide his boyish beam and accompanying laughter. He fails.

You cower at his presence, all but shrinking into yourself. “…Hi?” you reply in a tiny voice.

“How’s it hangin’?”

“...Fine?”

“That’s great!” he answers instantly, like he hadn’t heard you at all. “You see, my friend Steve, over there— you know him, right?”

You don’t bother to look where he’s pointing. Of course, you know Steve The Hair Harrington. You don’t think there’s a single person in Hawkins who doesn’t.

You nod in response.

Tommy’s smile widens. “Well, he’s got this massive crush on you,” he confesses, choking back a laugh halfway through. “I mean, he talks about you all the time.”

You know he’s lying. And not just because he’s grinning so hard that his eyes are crinkled and his freckled cheeks are turning pink. You’re almost certain Steve Harrington doesn’t even know who you are. He never had a reason to. Why would the King of Hawkins High ever stoop so low to know someone like you?

You glance at him over your shoulder, a couple tables down from you. He’s almost magnetically pretty. You couldn’t ignore him if you tried — with his pretty hair and his pretty eyes and his pretty smile. His golden cheeks flush as all his friends start poking fun at him. 

He rolls his eyes and scoffs a laugh you can tell is forced from here. He doesn’t think any of this is funny. You can see it on his face. But he isn’t trying to stop it all from happening. You’re just collateral damage, really.

You turn back to Tommy with a disbelieving look in your eye.

He continues to ramble despite it. “He was just a little nervous coming up to you, that’s all. So I thought I’d do him a favor and slip you his number. You know, as his wingman and all.” He tosses a folded-up index card onto the pages of your opened book. “You should call him tonight— It’ll make his day, I swear.”

He pats you a little too hard on the back before he goes. His laugh echoes over all the rest when he sits back down at his table. You watch them over your shoulder as they fall over themselves to crack jokes about you. 

Steve’s the only one not smiling. “Not cool, Tommy,” he mouths.

—————

Locker 148. The one right across from yours. Property of Steve The Hair Harrington. 

You shove the thick card with his number written on it between the slits in the metal. You’d carried it around all day, utterly unsure of what to do with it. You decided ultimately to return it, figuring he might feel a little better if a total stranger didn’t have his phone number.

You struggle to slide it through the thin gap, though. The paper gets caught halfway through, and you try to yank it back out again. The old locker moves with you, like it’s not completely shut but still somehow latched. 

You’re so in your own head you don’t hear the gymnasium door down the hall squeal open and shut again. Steve pants heavily and tries to recover from a ruthless basketball practice. He hunts for a water fountain and finds you instead.

“What are you doing?” he calls as he nears you, not malicious or unkind but genuinely curious.

Your heart lurches into your throat as you all but jump out of your skin.

Steve laughs, a pretty sound in the silent hallway. “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t— I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” you assure with an averted gaze, though your frightened demeanor says otherwise. “I was just— I was trying to give you this.”

You hold the paper out towards him. He takes it with hesitant hands. “What is it?”

“Your number. Tommy gave it to me earlier, and I know it was just a stupid joke, so I… I thought you’d feel more comfortable if I gave it back to you.”

Something in Steve’s chest aches. He doesn’t understand why you would care about what might make him comfortable. It’s not like he ever gave you the time of day — or ever tried to stop his friends from being total assholes. As far as he’s concerned, you’re the last person who should give a shit about him.

“Oh. Right— Yeah… Thanks,” he stammers and shoves the thing into his pocket. “And I’m— I’m sorry about Tommy and everything. He can be a real douchebag sometimes. I didn’t… I didn’t tell him to bother you or anything—”

“I know,” you assure in a mousy voice. “Tommy gave me your number hoping I’d be dumb enough to call while your friends were over so you could all… laugh at me? I guess. He could’ve been a little more original, honestly.”

Steve cracks a smile. He almost laughs, but he can’t tell if you’re joking or not.

“I’ll talk to him later. Tell him to leave you alone—” He rambles and walks closer to you. You watch him with tentative eyes as he approaches. “—He’s a total dumbass sometimes, but he usually means well. Most of the time, anyway—”

Steve raises his hand suddenly. And, because you’re frightened by everything little thing, you flinch and stumble over yourself in the process. The lockers catch your fall, and you hit the back of your head. Hard.

“Shit— Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” you squeak, holding the crown of your hair and squinting as your skull pounds.

Steve rushes to your side, then idles just ahead of you because he doesn’t know if you want him touching you. His brows pinch, chiseled features swimming with concern. His cinnamon eyes glitter with it, too. “I wasn’t trying to scare you—”

“It’s okay.”

“—My locker was just jammed. I was going to shut it.”

The metal door is open now, from where it wasn’t shut all the way and where you just smacked your head on it.

“I just wasn’t expecting it,” you assure in a tight voice, trying hard to ignore the sharp throbbing. “It’s fine. I’m fine—”

“You’re hurt.”

“It’ll go away—”

“Let me get you an icepack.”

“—I’ll be fine once I get home.”

Steve, feeling purely at fault and aching at how effortlessly you shrug him off, decides to approach you fully. He curls a warm hand around the outside of your elbow. A touch surprisingly gentle. “No. C’mon. Let me help.”

You don’t feel much like you’re in any position to fight him about it. Not with the world still swaying under your feet. 

Steve guides you the short distance to the empty cafeteria. Slow and kind and dreadfully patient. He sits you down, makes sure you’re still okay, and then rushes to fix you a makeshift icepack — a ziplock bag filled to the brim with chipped ice.

He sits at the chair beside yours, slightly askew so his knees bump your thighs. He holds the pack to the crown of your head and gazes at you attentively. You’re not looking back at him to see it.

“Does it still hurt?”

You shrug, eyes flitted to the wringing hands in your lap. “It’s fine. It just feels a little like I have a migraine.”

Steve winces. “I’m sorry.”

Your doe eyes peek at him from beneath your lashes. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I scared you.”

“Everything scares me.”

It’s a dumb joke. You mean it, but you still expect him to laugh about it. He doesn’t even crack a smile, though. He just keeps looking at you with that puppy-like twist to his features. The worry is evident in his face. 

“Do you wanna, like, talk about it or something?”

“About what?”

“Why you flinched.”

You freeze, breath hitching in your throat. No one’s ever noticed your incessant panic — outside of making jokes about it anyway. No one’s cared enough to ask about it, either. Steve Harrington is the last person you expected any kind of concern from.

You shake your head after a few long moments. “No.”

“You could,” Steve assures, suddenly shy. You didn’t know he could be anything other than totally full of himself. “You know, if you wanted to. I wouldn’t— I wouldn’t tell anyone—”

You scoff a disbelieving laugh.

Steve’s features swirl with hurt. You hate that it makes your chest ache. You hate most that he hasn’t stopped being soft with you. The hand holding the pack to your head hasn’t yet wavered, even though you know his arm must be tired now.

“I wouldn’t. ‘Cause I— I know what it’s like to… to have a bad home life or whatever,” he confesses, stammering hopelessly. He forces a laugh at himself. “Probably more than most people do, honestly.”

His admission takes you by surprise. It comforts you in a way you didn’t think someone like him could. 

Even still, you shake your head. “I— I can’t—” you murmur, clearing your throat when the words get stuck there. “I can’t talk about it…”

Steve nods, firm and reassuring. “That’s okay. You don’t have to, I was just… I was just saying, you know? I get it.”

You swallow through a tight throat, nodding wordlessly in response.

“Plus, you know, you have my number and everything… If you ever wanted to talk…”

You flash him a timid look and crack a quiet smile. “I gave it back to you, remember?”

“I’ll write it down for you again,” he promises with a shrug and a lopsided grin. It’s easier to ignore his aching arm and the ice stinging his palm when he’s looking at you. “For real this time.”

[salenrooz]

watching better call saul with my mom is so weird cause wdym you're convinced that Mike is played by Bruce Willis!??(!×]1&÷

[brattyfics]

Sins of The Flesh

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC [Riley]

Wordcount: 3,000+

Warnings: 18+ Minors Do Not Interact, No physical description of OC other than her being black, Spanking, D/S Dynamics, Mentions of Heaven/Hell, Alternate Universe (Mike Is Alive), Bratty!OC, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, a tiny bit of Degradation Kink, No P in V, Slight Angst

A/N: Divider by fireflygraphics. Special shoutout to @megamindsecretlair who inspired me to write something for the first time in too long. Thank you!

Riley was the picture-perfect Southern belle. With a preacher for a father and a teacher for a mother, she always kept up her manners in public. But behind closed doors, she had a talent for getting into trouble—and her relationship with Terry Richmond was no different.

He was her very own Black G.I. Joe—six feet, four inches of solid muscle. Intense, stormy green eyes and the face of an Adonis. A flawless specimen—and completely hers.

That morning, she woke up with a familiar ache in her belly. Terry had been gone the entire week to celebrate his cousin Mike’s homecoming, while she stayed behind due to a special work project. It had been seven long days without so much as a touch from the man who couldn’t keep his hands off her whenever they were alone.

He'd returned late Saturday, slipping into bed quietly to avoid waking her.

It was Sunday morning, and as the preacher’s daughter, she knew she had to be at her best. But sleep had eluded her. The rollers she wore to sleep were uncomfortable, and she never slept well when Terry wasn’t there. She woke up feeling restless, only to turn over and see him.

He was bare-chested, the morning light making his skin glisten. The bedsheets were pushed down to his hips, and the outline of his body was impossible to ignore. Her mouth watered.

When her gaze finally made its way up to his face, his eyes were already on her. Terry was always up by six, but some days, he'd stay in bed a little longer just for her.

She kissed her way up his body, starting from his neck and working toward his lips, straddling him.

“Mornin’, baby,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly, making her heart flutter. His green eyes framed by naturally long lashes—lashes she spent a hundred dollars a month trying to replicate—fixed on hers. He pulled her down for a tight hug, his lips finding her jaw. She sighed, feeling his strength encase her. 

“What time did you get in? I missed you,” she admitted, feeling a little foolish. She was a grown woman, had spent most of her adult life without him, but sometimes it felt like she couldn’t breathe without him there.

His facial hair, grown in during the week they’d been apart, tickled her skin as he nuzzled into her neck—a silent way of saying, "I missed you too."

They lay there for a few moments before he stirred. One arm wrapped around her back, the other reaching for his phone on the nightstand. “We gotta get up. It’s almost eight.”

She groaned. “It’s too early.”

She was up before sunrise on workdays, but weekends were different.

“Come on, we have to.” He patted her back gently.

“Excuse you…” She sat up, crossing her arms with her legs still draped over his hips. “You just got back and you're bossing me around. You haven’t even kissed me yet.”

He wouldn’t admit it, but he loved how spoiled she could act sometimes. She knew he’d give her the world if she asked, and it boosted his ego to know she trusted him that much—knew, deep down, he would always protect and care for her.

“Oh, you think you’re running the show now?” he teased, raising a brow. She bit her lip, debating how to respond. Terry Richmond wasn’t the type of man to play petty games with, but she liked to do it every now and then, just to keep things interesting.

“Duh. I thought you knew.”

He let out a deep laugh from his core, right in her face. She huffed and tried to move away from his lap, but in an instant, he had rolled them over, pinning her beneath him as they both giggled.

“Who gave you command?”

His hand wrapped gently around her neck, and the playful moment turned serious. He positioned himself between her legs, morning wood pressed against her thigh, and her face flushed.

“You did.” She swallowed hard, remembering the last time they were in this position—his hand firm around her throat as he took control. The unspoken command hung in the air: tell me what I want to hear, and I’ll give you what you want.

He raised an eyebrow, “Me?”

“Yeah,” She smirked, “You disappeared so I had to improvise.” Her voice softened, teasing but with a warmth that hinted she missed him. “Maybe don’t leave me hanging next time, huh?”

He shook his head with a chuckle, then his lips crushed against hers, the kiss demanding, until her thoughts were consumed by him and only him. Her back arched, hips shifting as she sought him out. His hand found her neck again as he slowly pulled away, as if it pained him to stop.

“We gotta get up. I let you miss another Sunday, and your dad will never let me live it down.”

His sudden shift in tone made her scowl, especially as he tapped her legs to free himself from her grip. “Why are you talking about my father right now?”

“Get up.” His tone tolerated no dissent, and she reluctantly allowed him to pull her to her feet.

She followed him into the guest bathroom, where he'd gone to shower in peace. She dragged her soapy hands down his back, teasing him, offering to help him dry off but using it as an excuse to grope him instead. He wouldn’t give in. She spent the rest of the morning testing his resolve, brushing against him as he scrambled their eggs, and bending at the waist to give him a peek under her slip after "accidentally" dropping the house keys.

By the time they reached the church parking lot, a frown lingered on her made-up face, fading only as they approached the church doors, where she transformed into the picture-perfect preacher’s daughter.

Smiling, saying all the right things, all the while thinking about Terry. It wasn’t right, thinking these things in church, but she couldn’t help it. She prayed for forgiveness but couldn’t stop herself from reminiscing about him—the way he drove her to the brink of madness, how good he always made her feel. 

The singing of hymns and the preaching faded into the background as she focused on the analog clock hanging above the pulpit. Church seemed to drag on even longer than usual, as if the universe were conspiring with Terry to tease her to death. He sat there, as tempting as the devil, his button-up shirt clinging to his muscular arms and thick thighs defined even in slacks.

By the time they reached the car, she felt like she was on the verge of catching fire. She’d waved hurriedly at her parents before dragging Terry out the church doors, complaining about the traffic. She was sure her mom would call her and fuss about it later, but she’d deal with that when the time came. He didn’t say a word until they were driving down the main road, his eyes glancing over at her.

“You’ve been acting wild all day. You that desperate for my dick?”

“What?” 

“You heard me. You want it that bad?” He repeated himself, a sly smirk playing on his lips. Her mouth hung open as she processed his words. In the bedroom, he was her Daddy—dominant, demanding, intense. A bit of a bedroom bully, but never harsh. She was his princess, and he treated her like one. Terry didn’t usually talk to her like this, but she couldn’t deny the heat that pooled between her legs at his words.

She wished she had something clever to say, but the truth was that her desire for him ran deeper than he could ever realize. “I can’t help it,” she admitted, leaning over the center console to caress his leg. She gave him those Bambi eyes and spoke softly. “I need you, baby.” 

“I get it. I've been counting down the days too,” He promised. His voice was steady and calm—too calm—while she felt like she was on the edge. He had unbuttoned the top of his shirt when they got in the car, and all she could think about was undoing the rest. The way the water had cascaded down his chest this morning was sinful. Her thighs clenched together subconsciously. 

“I need more than just talk right now,” She grumbled, remembering how he had rejected her earlier that morning. She’d wanted him so badly that she dropped to her knees, promising to make it worth his while. But he remained composed, pulling her back up for a soft kiss on the corners of her mouth. “Later,” he had promised.

All week, she had struggled to concentrate at work, her thoughts consumed with him. And now that he was back, he didn’t seem in any hurry to change that. He should have woken her up last night, church be damned— The same way he did any other night he wanted to be inside her. Her hand inched up to his thigh and squeezed.

When her fingertips grazed his dick, he gently grabbed her hand and lifted it from his lap. “Relax,” he warned, his voice adopting that stern tone she usually loved. But now, it just grated on her nerves. Terry Richmond—who was always so eager—was telling her to relax about sex. How many mornings had he insisted on having her before he left for work? How many days had he stalked her around the house, grabbing her any way he wanted? How many nights had he promised to “do all the work” if she just let him inside?  

She kissed her teeth and crossed her arms over her chest, glaring out at the cars ahead. He was full of it.

“What’s this? You got an attitude now?”

She snapped before she could stop herself. “What do you think, Terry?” Aggravation burned in her chest, and his eyes widened at her tone. Apparently, his week away had been too long—she had lost her damn mind. 

“Any other time, you can’t get enough of me, and now you’re acting like I’ve got the cooties. What’s going on with you?”

“What are you trying to get at?” he asked, sounding annoyed, and it was clear on his face. She stared back at him as his gaze flicked between her and the road, as if her eyes could uncover whether he had been faithful. She trusted Terry, but she already knew Mike’s wild ass had plenty of strippers and trouble around. 

What else was she supposed to think? Terry was only a man after all. 

“For real?” he replied, meeting her suspicious gaze. “You think I’d do you like that?” 

Her stomach flipped. In her heart, she felt one thing, but her head was a different monster altogether. She had a tendency to overthink and jump to conclusions. Terry usually made her feel so secure that it wasn’t an issue. “So, just because I’m not moving fast enough for you, I must be cheating, huh?” He looked at her like a wounded lion.

“I don’t know, Terry,” she shifted her gaze away from him, knowing she had overreacted. “I’m just frustrated, okay?” The silence that fell between them felt heavy. She knew she had made a mistake. “I’m sorry,” she added, her voice softening. “I know you’re not like that; I was just... I don’t know.”

Just like Muni Long, she wished for a Time Machine.

The sting of her accusation settled in his gut. He couldn’t begin to understand why she would doubt him after everything they’d been through.

Terry remained silent for the rest of the ride. Not even when he parked the car, opened her passenger door, and unlocked the house did he say a word. He let her in first, just like always, but the usual kisses to her neck were absent. Instead, he slipped off to the guest room to change while she undressed in their shared bedroom, feeling like a brat. The pretty polka dot dress and brand new stockings he should have been removing only added to her sadness.

She removed her makeup in a somber mood, then finally made her way to the living room when she could no longer put it off. Terry had changed into a T-shirt and shorts, sprawled across the couch while fiddling with the remote, flipping through channels she knew he wasn’t interested in at all.

She settled onto his lap, her thighs gripping him to keep him close. He avoided her gaze until she cupped his face in her hands, gently forcing him to meet her eyes. There was a storm brewing, one that she had caused. “Don’t be like that,” she pleaded.

She rested her head against his broad chest, cuddling into the warmth beneath her. With her chin snuggled comfortably, she gazed up into his eyes. “I’m sorry. I was wrong– so wrong. I know who you are and that you wouldn’t hurt me. Please forgive me. I was trippin’.”

He took a deep breath and ran a hand across his low fade, trying to process his emotions. “You really scared me with that.” He grabbed her hand and held it tightly. “I need you to understand that it’s not easy for me to shake off what you said. I love you, but I need to know you trust me.”

“I do. I promise I do, baby. I just lost my head for a minute there. You mean everything to me.”

“Okay,” he conceded after a minute, “Just keep your head in the game, alright? Stick with me. We’re good.” Terry’s habit of framing their relationship in sports terms never failed to make her smile.

"You got it, coach," she teased, then added playfully, "Oh wait—Sir, yes sir," as she offered a mock salute.

“You always know just how to push my buttons, don’t you?”, he asked. “That’s alright, though, because you’re still under my command, recruit.” He delivered a series of sharp smacks to her behind without warning. Riley gasped as she felt the sting of each slap. 

"Terry, stop," she protested, trying to push him away, but he was unyielding.

“Nah, baby,” he whispered against her lips, staring her directly in the eyes, “You got a little too bold and need a reminder of who’s running things.”

Her stomach flipped as she realized what was happening. She had been getting more mouthy as the day went on, testing how far she could go. Now it was time for Terry to put her in her place, and while that was always fun, she knew he wouldn’t go easy on her.

As if reading her mind, Terry pulled back slightly, his gaze fierce and focused. "You know I love you, baby," he uttered softly. “But sometimes, a firm hand is needed to keep us in line.”

She nodded, a whirlwind of emotions swirling inside her. A spanking hadn’t been a part of her agenda for the day. All she wanted was to come home, have him in their bed,  and make up for lost time, then pretend to watch TV for a little before she rode him to oblivion. But she had ruined that by being impatient. She knew that Terry was right – she had crossed a line today, and this was exactly what she needed.

Taking a deep breath, she eased into him, allowing him to maneuver her over his lap as he repositioned them on the couch. The muted sounds of the TV faded into the background as they got comfortable, her shorts rustling quietly as he pulled them down to her ankles. 

“I get that you’re used to having things your way, but that ain't how it works with me,” Terry advised, palming her ass cheeks in each hand. He took his time jiggling the fat there before his hand came down on one side and then the other. Terry was heavy handed, making sure she felt him deep in her soul. She hissed, already reaching back to cover her bottom. 

"Gimme your hands," he ordered, locking both of them in one of his own.

Terry started spanking her in earnest, and Riley felt every bit of it— the sharp sting as his hand met her skin, the heat radiating across her backside, and the firm pressure of his arms keeping her steady. 

“I’m so sorry,” She whined, squirming in his lap. “I didn't mean it!” He took a breath, grabbed her chin, and locked his gaze on her to make sure she heard him loud and clear. “I know you didn’t plan for this, but you still deserve this punishment. You gotta do better, ma.”

He went back to smacking her ass all wild, hitting it from every possible angle. “Fuck!” She cursed, getting lost in the pain and the pleasure. If the folks at church knew she had a mouth like this, she'd be too embarrassed to show her face again. With each smack, her thoughts become increasingly scrambled, swirling in a delicious haze. It didn’t help that Terry was talking her through it the entire time. 

“Remember I’m doing this because I love you.”

“You need to find some middle ground before you take things to the next level. You understand me?”

“Stay exactly like that, don’t move.”

“I know it hurts. It’s supposed to.”

“Here, grab this pillow.”

She moaned and groaned her protests but Terry was too strong and she had earned this ass whooping. She knew there was nothing left to do but surrender. Terry had her and she could let go of all her worries and concerns. She just needed to ride it out. 

As the spanking continued, Riley’s breathing grew more ragged until she was breathless. Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes. She apologized fervently each time his hand came down on her ass, sobbing when he gave her a small reprieve, rubbing her lower back gently. “You’re okay. We’re almost done. Are you really as sorry as you’re claiming?”

“Yes, Daddy,” She whimpered, already imagining how sore she’d be the next day, hobbling into her good government job with a bruised backside. She had bit off way more than she could chew and now needed his mercy.

“Repeat after me,” Terry commanded, his tone leaving room for argument. “Say ‘I’ll be a good girl and listen.’” She immediately complied, her voice shaky but sincere as she echoed his words, fully embracing the promise behind them. “I understand that the next time I do it, Daddy is going to spank my disobedient ass all over again..” She repeated his words like a well-trained parrot, and at the moment, it was all she could manage.

She felt lightheaded by the time Terry finished spanking her, and she couldn’t recall the last thing he’d said. She had hit her breaking point.  

She laid there for several minutes, completely spaced out, and focused only on catching her breath. Terry massaged her scalp with his fingertips as they both came down from the natural high of their chemistry. Eventually, Terry lifted her up to meet his gaze, being mindful not to agitate her already bruised bottom.

“You good?” 

Her head was still reeling. She wanted to shrink into a little ball, but she also wanted to live in his skin. How could she express that to him without sounding unhinged? Terry massaged her back in gentle, calming circles until he sensed her start to unravel. She eventually nodded slowly, acknowledging that yes, she was okay— physically at least, even if her emotions were still in a disarray. 

“I’ll do better,” she promised, her voice barely above a whisper, thick with exhaustion.

"That’s my good girl," he said, gently wiping away tears from her cheekbone as his expression softened. Despite what she might think, he didn’t get as much satisfaction from spanking her as she believed. It was just something he had to do.

“Come on, pretty. I’ll fill the tub up for you, and then we can order brunch from your favorite spot.”

Forgive me for any mistakes. I had to post this before I lost my nerve, lol. This started as something completely different but I'm happy with how it turned out. Let me know what you think! For more Terry Richmond fics by other amazing young ladies, please check out my Terry Richmond fic rec tag.

Part 2

[leossmoonn]

do u think you could write something for mikey humping the bed while eating out the reader ☺️

18+ under the cut - includes: fem anatomy

not edited so lmk if i made mistakes lol

just thinking about giving you head makes mike hard. thinking about how you respond to his actions, how wet and needy you get for him. he reminisces about your pussy gushing around his fingers as he perfectly hits that spot. he daydreams about how loud you can get if you’re alone while he sucks on clit. sometimes his thoughts of you gets so bad, he needs to excuse himself at work and relieve himself in the bathroom or a closet.

but today he held off. he wanted to get off while eating you out. so when you got home and abby was at vanessa’s, mike practically grabbed you and ran with you to the bedroom. now you’re sprawled out on his bed, chest heaving up and down. one of your hands tugging at his hair and the other hand gripping the sheets next to you. your thighs are enclosed on his face and you’re always afraid you’ll suffocate him, but he has one hand on your thigh, keeping it close, causing the scruff of his facial hair to burn on your skin as he moves his head.

from the moment he pushed his fingers into you and felt how wet you were, he’d be searching for a release. his cock throbs at every little gasp you make. pre cum spurts and wets his briefs as you grab his hair, bucking your hips up and pushing his face further into you. the way you moan his name as his tongue flicks your clit make him moan into your skin.

mike looks up at you, his cock twitching in his underwear. you just look so perfect with your head tilted up, eyes screwed shut and lips parted. there’s a certain glow you get when he eats you out. he can’t help but admire you. without really thinking about it, he starts to rut his hips against his mattress. it’s like his body has a mind of its own, but he doesn’t stop.

it doesn’t take him long to come. he focuses on the sound of your wetness moving around his fingers as he pumps inside of you. your juices are soon seeping out of your folds, dripping along the side of his hand and wetting the bed. you begin to move your hips along his face, essentially riding him as you begin to get close. your moans become erratic and you feel like you can barely breathe.

“mike, don’t stop, don’t stop!” you push him on further. “i’m close. fuck, mike. i’m gonna come.”

his name tumbling out your mouth is the last straw for him. he tries to keep silent and keep focused on pleasuring you, wanting to give you the best experience up until you start to push him away and tell him it’s too much. but if anything, him moaning and groaning makes it all the better for you.

you’ve been feeling the bed move since he’s started. hearing him pant and whimper made you throb around his fingers. butterflies erupt in your stomach as you realize what he was doing. all of it ultimately brings you closer to your release. you like to think that he’s not only eating you out because you like it, but because he loves it so much and it brings him just as much pleasure as it brings you.

your thighs squeeze around his ears one last time and soon you’re pushing him away as it becomes too painful for you to stand anymore stimulation. mike slowly raises his head, the bottom of his face glistening with you. you look down at his waist, seeing the tip of his dick peeking out. there’s cum on the bed and along his stomach.

“s-sorry,” he says, a little embarrassed. he always tried to save himself for fucking you, but he just couldn’t wait this time. you don’t hold it against him. you smile and take him by the hand, wrapping your hand around the nape of his neck. “i thought it was pretty hot,” you whisper into his ear.

he can’t help but blush. “well, everything about you is hot, so i couldn’t help it.”

you grin and kiss his cheek. “maybe next time you eat me out, i can help you at the same time.”

he gulps and nods, eyes widening at the idea. “i’d like that a lot.”

[steddieas-shegoes]

spiderman kiss

for @steddieholidaydrabbles pop-up event for Valentine's Day

rated t | 896 words | no cw | tags: fake dating au, fake wedding date, strangers to lovers, fast burn of the century, getting together, first kiss, modern au

🕸️🕸️🕸️🕸️🕸️🕸️🕸️🕸️🕸️🕸️🕸️🕸️🕸️

“I cannot believe you fell for this guy,” Robin hisses through her teeth as she gestures to Eddie, who is doing his best impression of a bat by hanging upside down from a tree branch. “You were supposed to bring him to the wedding, not want to marry him.”

“Woah. I said I liked him, not that I wanted to marry him,” Steve whispers.

“For you, that’s basically the same thing.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but she’s right. He may not fall for people often, but when he does, it’s all or nothing. Head over heels. Madly, deeply in love.

Eddie was supposed to be his date for this wedding to appease all the kids, to get them to just shut up already about how single he is and how miserable he is when he comes to events alone. He’s Dustin’s friend, apparently someone just as miserably single as Steve.

He’s weird. Steve likes weird.

He’s loud. Steve likes…his loud.

He’s exciting. Steve needs excitement.

He’s also hot. In a metalhead who didn’t get the memo that the 80s are over, wore jeans and a button-up to a formal event, played air guitar in his seat during the bridal march kind of way.

“He’s fun,” Steve settles on, shrugging. “Aren’t you the one who said I need more fun in my life?”

“I meant, like, a new hobby!”

“He could be my new hobby.”

“Ew,” Robin groans. “Okay. Alright, fine. You wanna be involved with him, be my guest. Dustin says he’s never once seen him in a committed relationship.”

Steve knows. They spent most of yesterday together talking, getting to know each other, making sure they could pass as boyfriends and not people who just met. Steve didn’t care about being single at a wedding, but apparently all of his friends had told Dustin’s mom they were dating behind their backs and now-

“Stevie!” Eddie yells when he notices him talking to Robin at the table. “We could Spiderman kiss!”

Steve glances at Robin, who rolls her eyes and throws her hands up. “Oh my god, just go.”

He stands and walks over to Eddie, who is hanging much lower than he should be for a proper Spiderman kiss. He’s grinning, and his hair has started to fall from its messy bun. Steve cannot believe he’s doing this.

He stands with his hands on his hips, smirking at Eddie trying to hold himself up higher, but not having the strength to do it.

“It would be a lot easier to kiss you if you got down,” Steve says.

Everyone goes silent.

Because everyone who is standing by Eddie– Max, Dustin, Will, and Mike– are all very aware that this was nothing more than a fake date for the wedding. Steve doesn’t need to kiss Eddie when no one is watching; He doesn’t need to kiss even when someone is watching.

Eddie stops trying to lift himself, eyes widening as Steve takes another step closer.

“You’d have to be on that branch to pull it off,” Steve says as he points at the branch about two feet above the one he’s currently on. “Unless I get on my knees.”

Everyone pretends they don’t hear the strangled noise that escapes Eddie.

“You’d get dirty, though. Those are nice pants,” Eddie says, still upside down, face bright red from embarrassment and blood rushing to his head.

“They are,” Steve agrees, laughing as he squats so he’s barely higher than Eddie’s face. “But I have to dry clean them anyway. Might as well get what I’m paying for.”

Steve places his hand on the back of Eddie’s neck and leans in, brushing their lips together softly. It’s awkward because Eddie’s upside down and Steve has no idea how they made it looks so hot in the movie, but-

“This is a turn of events I did not see coming!” Dustin’s new wife, Suzie, claps. “You were so right, Dusty Buns. They’re perfect for each other.”

Steve does what he does best and ignores them, focusing on Eddie, who looks unstable now.

“Do you need help getting down?” Steve asks.

Eddie nods, and Steve moves as quickly as he can to help get him upright so he can climb down. He’s surprised Dustin agreed to an outdoor wedding in the spring with his allergies, but Suzie insisted on having fresh flowers everywhere and would not accept store bought. He’s even more surprised that Eddie, who admitted to having seasonal allergies while they talked at dinner last night, is hanging in trees.

When Eddie’s back on the ground, Steve kisses him for real. A hard press to his lips, tongue brushing against him, teasing.

“Did you climb a tree for attention?” Steve asks him when he pulls away.

“It worked. I can’t be blamed for doing something drastic for you to kiss me.”

“You could’ve just kissed me,” Steve laughs.

Eddie does.

“Still fake? Or can we admit that there’s way more chemistry here than we expected there to be and kiss some more?” He asks.

“I regret doing this. I regret it so much,” Dustin groans as he walks away.

Steve rolls his eyes. “He doesn’t. He’s gonna go do his happy dance where we can’t see him.”

“He has a happy dance?” Eddie asks, smile growing as he leans into Steve’s side.

“Yeah, it’s embarrassing. Let’s go watch.”

[cece693]

Kiss, Marry, Kill

pairing: jasper hale x male reader tags: human reader, jasper being hurt over small things, Emmett being his joking self, party games, crack fic?

Streamers of gold and cream swirled from the high ceiling of the Cullens’ mansion, and the soft glow of fairy lights made everything look like a magical dreamland—well, at least to your human friends, who couldn’t stop gawking at the place. For you, it was home away from home. After all, you spent so much time here with Jasper that the polished floors and glittering chandeliers had become more familiar than your own dorm room.

Still, tonight felt different. It was your birthday—the last you’d celebrate with a beating heart. Next year, you’d be fully immortal, forever attached to Jasper’s side. But first, you had a party to survive.

You had just finished eating a perfect slice of birthday cake (courtesy of Esme’s unwavering drive to make it tasty for even someone who despised cake) when Jessica's voice boomed across the music:

“Birthday boy! Get over here! We need you!”

Her tone made you freeze. You recognized that brand of enthusiasm. It usually meant trouble or embarrassing party games. With a resigned sigh, you left the comfort of the food table and found Jessica huddled in the living room with Angela, Mike, and a handful of other curious onlookers.

“We’re playing Kiss, Marry, Kill,” Jessica announced, flipping her hair as if she was unveiling some grand plan. “And you’re up first!”

Your stomach sank like a stone in a lake. An array of wide, excited eyes turned your way, including Mike’s—who offered a sheepish wave. You prayed to whatever powers exist that Jasper wasn’t within earshot. “C’mon, Jess,” you said, forcing a laugh. “Don’t you think I’m too old for this?”

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “You’re twenty-one, not eighty-one! Besides, Emmett is all fired up just hearing about it.”

You heard a low chuckle from across the room. Emmett, leaning casually by the DVD shelf, flexed his biceps with a wink. Rosalie smacked his arm in mock annoyance. Great—there went your hopes of keeping this discreet.

“Alright, fine,” you relented, your cheeks heating. “Let’s get this over with.”

Jessica cleared her throat dramatically and raised a tiny notebook where she’d jotted down names. “So, Kiss, Marry, Kill…” She paused, letting the suspense build. “Mike, Emmett, and Tyler!”

You snorted. Of course she’d drag Emmett in. And Tyler? The guy who you briefly had a fling with before getting with Jasper? Oh boy, now you desperately hoped Jasper wasn't even in the house.

“Okay,” you began slowly. “Let me, uh…weigh my options…”

Immediately you thought of killing Tyler. No way would you announce you'll hypothetically kiss or marry him, it was tough enough to break your friends-with-benefits relationship. You didn't want to give him false hope when that ship has sailed. Mike was potentially clingy, might send you heart-shaped candies on Valentine’s Day with bad puns, but he was overall harmless. And Emmett, there would never be a boring day in your life, it was Rosalie you were worried about. She'll definitely kill you if you even dared to steal him away.

As these thoughts zipped through your mind, you realized the circle of friends was waiting with bated breath. “Alright,” you said, “if I have to choose, I'll kiss Mike…”you said, pointing lamely in his direction.

You heard him choke on a soft, “Really?”

Rolling your eyes, you glanced at Emmett, who was now wagging his eyebrows. "I'll marry Emmett. He’s entertaining, funny, strong, and got a great sense of humor..." you rattled off, trying not to laugh as Emmett bounced in his spot like a child. “You hear that, Rosie? I’m marriage material!” Rosalie simply rolled her eyes.

"And I'll kill Tyler. No offense man, but you did almost take out Bella with that van years ago, so maybe it's karmic justice. Rest in peace.”

While your friends erupted into laughter, especially at the idea of your 'marriage' with Emmett, you maneuvered your way through the crowd, itching to find Jasper. While it was merely a game, you knew it would rub your cowboy the wrong way to hear you'll marry his brother. Looking everywhere for him—his room, the kitchen, the living room, hell, even the bathroom—you had just returned to the kitchen where Edward suddenly flashed in front of you.

“Jeez, Edward!” you exclaimed, pressing a hand to your chest. “I'm still human, remember?"

He just shrugged with a knowing smile. “He’s in Carlisle’s study. I’d go talk to him if I were you.”

His expression told you everything you needed to know—Jasper was not in a good mood. With a nod, you headed toward the study, ducking under a few gold streamers.

You found Jasper sitting at Carlisle’s desk, arms folded, staring intently at the wall. His blond hair fell into his face, casting shadows across his darkening eyes. The moment you stepped in, he flicked his eyes up, then away, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to see you or avoid you.

“Jazz?” you said softly, closing the door behind you. “Want to tell me what’s bothering you?”

His expression darkened as he let out a humorless laugh. “Don’t act like you don’t know. I heard everything. You’re apparently planning to marry Emmett now.” Though the jealousy stung your heart, his wording was so ridiculous you almost snorted. But one look at his face told you laughter would not help.

“It was a joke, Jazz. You know that.”

His Southern drawl grew sharper. “A joke, sure, but it sounded pretty convincing. You did have reasons lined up for why Emmett would be such a great husband.”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re serious right now?”

He held your gaze, frustration and hurt swirling in those golden irises. “If you wanna go marry him, go ahead,” he said bitterly. “It’s your birthday; maybe that’ll be my gift to you—freedom from me.” You took a breath, forcing yourself not to snap back. He was centuries old, but that didn’t stop him from occasionally having the emotional meltdown of a teenager.

“Jasper, you know I love you,” you said, voice cracking slightly. “The only reason I said I’d marry Emmett is because Tyler and Mike are the other two options. And I definitely wasn’t going to marry them.”

He ran a hand through his honey-blond hair, exasperation evident. “Still. Hearing you talk about Emmett like that…it wasn’t pleasant.”

“I’m sorry, but in the game, someone had to be Marry. And I—”

A loud creak announced a third party: Emmett barged in, wearing the dopiest grin. “Hey, fiancé!” he crowed, waggling his eyebrows.

Jasper’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Emmett, I’m really not in the mood.”

Emmett tossed his hands up. “Okay, big guy, cool it. I just wanted to see if the wedding was still on or if I should start ripping up the invitations.”

You blushed furiously. “Emmett, get out!”

He laughed but obeyed, tossing a mock salute as he backed out, calling down the hallway, “Hey, Rosalie, we’re canceled… I mean, no, I’m not actually…It was a joke—don’t give me that look!”

When Emmett finally left, the door clicked shut, leaving you and Jasper alone again. You watched him quietly for a moment, noticing how his shoulders slumped with residual tension. “I’m sorry,” you repeated, stepping closer. “You mean everything to me—this game was Jessica’s silly idea, and I just got roped in. I swear, I never would’ve said it if I knew it’d hurt you.”

His jaw worked, and you could see he was trying to contain the waves of jealousy. You placed a tentative hand on his arm.

“I chose Emmett mostly for comedic effect, okay? Mike is…Mike, and I have history with Tyler. If I’d said I’d marry him, I’d be sleeping with one eye open. Emmett was the lesser evil.”

A flicker of amusement ghosted across his face—very brief. “So, you really don’t wish you had a ring from Emmett?��

You nearly laughed. “God, no. I’m sure Rosalie would kill me if I tried. And I only want your ring, anyway.”

He exhaled, some of the tension leaving his posture. Carefully, you slid your arms around his waist, feeling his cool body against yours. “You’re the one I want,” you insisted. “Always. Soon, we’ll be bonded forever—vampire to vampire. That’s bigger than a wedding.”

His eyes softened, and you could tell he was tuning into your sincerity—possibly even reading the waves of guilt and affection roiling off you. “I’m sorry I overreacted,” he said quietly, pressing his forehead to yours. “I just…don’t like the idea of sharing you.”

The door swung open again, this time revealing Alice, Bella, and Edward peeking inside—like a cluster of meddling siblings. “Are we good here?” Alice asked, twirling a piece of confetti between her fingers. “Because the party’s over, and I’m thinking of scheduling a no-more-dumb-games vow for the next birthday.”

Bella attempted a sympathetic smile. “We tried telling Jessica that it might not be the best idea.”

“Also, Emmett’s writing up a wedding registry,” Edward piped in, wry amusement in his tone. “You might want to stop him before he goes too far.”

Jasper let out a disgruntled sigh, rising from his seat. “I’ll put a stop to that.” You followed him out, hand in hand. The tension of the evening lingered in the air, but the weight was lifting, replaced by relief and some lingering embarrassment.

Back in the foyer, Emmett was dramatically dictating a registry list to Rosalie, who stared at him like he’d lost his mind. “Definitely want a waffle iron, and maybe a lifetime supply of hair gel for the big day—”

Jasper cleared his throat, and Emmett turned to see the two of you standing there. “Aww, the happy couple!” he teased, pressing his hands together.

“Emmett, enough,” Jasper hissed, though you could see the glint of amusement in his eyes.

Rosalie rolled her eyes and swatted Emmett with a leftover balloon. “You’re impossible.”

You let out a chuckle and caught Jasper’s eye. The corners of his lips lifted in a soft smile—an olive branch of sorts.

Alice, never one to miss a cue, fluttered over. “Now that the crisis is averted, how about we officially call it a night? There’s more cake on the table if you want it, but I doubt you do,” she teased, knowing full well none of the Cullens would partake.

“I might,” you joked. “Still human, remember?”

Jasper slid an arm around your waist, leaning down to press a cool kiss to your temple. “You might be human now,” he whispered, “but soon enough, we’ll have our forever.”

You smiled, heart full and light. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

[hangeswif3]

Somewhere safe

Pairing: Bonten!Rindou x Pregnant!reader

Warning: blood, mentions of pregnancy, cursing.

Summary: they needed a place to stay and just happens that Rindou knows someone who could help them.

Note: English isn’t my first language so be nice. I liked a lot how this turned out so maybe I could keep writing about Rindou’s little family. Anyways, I hope u like it and thanks for reading <3

“We need to go somewhere safe” said sanzu. “Mikey needs to rest”

They had been running from the police for a while now. Mike had recent stitches on his abdomen and they had been carrying him for about an hour or so. The 4 men were exhausted and they all knew Mikey couldn’t make it any longer by himself. They needed to rest.

“What the fuck are we supposed to do now?” Sanzu spoke again. Recharging his gun, almost preparing himself to fight a lost battle.

They could hear the police cars around them, while they were currently hidden in a dark alley, all of them panting and tired.

Ran looked at Rindou with question in his eyes. They were thinking the same thing. They needed a safe place to rest and wait for the police to go away. They were in Roppongi and just happened that someone close to the brothers lived close by.

Rindou was hesitant. Making eye contact with his brother who could almost read his mind. He couldn’t believe he was even considering going to the only person who never wanted to get involved in this.

“Fuck… fine” he said while putting his gun in his belt. “Follow me.”

Ran already knew the way but he left his brother walk alone for now. He wasn’t happy about this either.

“Where the fuck are we going?” Asked sanzu, who was in the back, holding onto an almost passed out Mikey. No one responded to him, instead they just kept walking in between apartments and houses.

It was a nice neighborhood. Without counting the fact that they were covered in blood and all disheveled, it could almost look like they were taking a walk tonight. It was dark though, the street light almost didn’t work and besides the sounds of sirens, it was completely quiet. They could only hear their footsteps.

They arrived to a nice house with a nice garden and a nice car parked outside. The 4 men stood at the front porch and Rindou looked at his brother, Ran only nodded once, trying to make him feel more confident.

Sanzu was the only one who didn’t know what was happening, since Mikey was too out of it to even notice.

“Hurry up and open, who the hell lives here anyway?” Said the pink-haired man, clearly frustrated to not know.

“Shut the fuck up and behave.” Responded Ran.

Rindou ringed the bell once, while trying to look decent by fixing his hair a little.

A moment passed before the front light turned on and they could hear someone managing to open the door.

-

It was 2:30 a.m. so you were obviously sleeping before someone knocked at your door. You opened the door, and everyone stared at you. You were wearing shorts and a white t shirt, your hair looked a little crazy since you had just gotten out of bed.

Rindou and Ran had seen you like this before. But sanzu couldn’t help but stare. He had never seen you before in his life. You were beautiful, your hair in a messy bun and strands of it adorning your face, your pretty freckles and your rosy lips. You were just perfect. But what surprised him the most was when he looked down at your belly. You were pregnant. But who the hell were you?

“What the actual fu-“ he started, but you interrupted him.

“You’re bleeding” was the only thing you said, walking towards Rindou and examining his arm.

They were all so surprised and nervous to see you that they almost forgot why they were there.

“It’s not mine. I’m fine, okay?” He said looking for your eyes, putting his hand on your cheek.

“Hey princess” said Ran. You smiled at him, and couldn’t help but look at Sanzu and the man he was holding. He looked bad. “We might need your help.”

“I’ll explain everything” said Rindou.

You nodded and entered the house with everyone following you.

“Make yourselves at home, and I’m sorry for the mess. I fell asleep while baby proofing the house.” You said, while taking the tools away, so they all could sit and relax.

Sanzu layed Mikey down on the couch and made sure he was still okay. His stitches were miraculously still okay and he was still breathing. But he couldn’t help but stare at you. There was certain tension in the room.

“Oi, shithead, stop staring or I’ll take your eyes out” suddenly said Rindou, walking towards you, placing a hand on your lower back and the other on your belly.

Ran laughed and you only smiled, handing out a hand for Sanzu to shake.

“Y/n L/n. Nice to meet you.” You said.

Sanzu was so surprised that he couldn’t help but shake your hand too.

“Sanzu Haruchiyo.” Was all he said.

“Now that we all know each other, would you all like some tea?” Ran accepted your offer and you went to the kitchen, followed by Rindou.

After you were gone, Sanzu finally could talk.

“What the actual fuck? Rindou? With her? And- and- a baby?” He blurted out all at once.

“Yup” was all that Ran said, laughing at him.

“Huh, who would’ve thought that asshole could pull someone like that” he said resting his head on the back of the couch, trying to make sense of everything he just witnessed.

In the kitchen, you were trying to make some tea, feeling Rindou’s presence at the counter. He still couldn’t speak.

“Are you okay?” You asked him.

“I’m sorry.” Was all he said.

You walked towards him and put a hand on his cheek, looking at him in the eye.

“It’s okay” you responded, pressing your forehead against his.

“No it’s not, I don’t wanna put you in danger.”

“You can take care of us, I know you can.” You tried to calm him down.

“We just need a place to stay for the night, I promise I will never bring someone else here.”

“This is your home too, we will be okay, you can stay and they can stay too. I can take care of myself, you know.”

Rindou kissed you, it was a sweet kiss.

“How’s our babygirl doing?” He said, caressing your belly.

“She’s a pain in the ass, just like her father” you said laughing. “Now let’s go back before that friend of yours loses his mind.”

“Too late for that” said Rindou.

-

“So, miss L/n. Care to explain how you know our dear Rin rin?” Asked Sanzu with a smile.

“Shut the fuck up, you psycho” snapped Rindou.

“Don’t be so rude, Rin rin” you said, mocking the nickname. “Well, mister Sanzu, we actually meet at an illegal car race, he saved me from getting robbed.” You replied laughing.

“Interesting woman.” Sanzu said.

It was true though. Your friend had dragged you to a race where a “friend” was going to participate. You looked so innocent but at the same time so relaxed that Rindou couldn’t help but stare at you. One thing led to another and he ended up saving your purse from being stolen. And now you were here, pregnant with his baby.

“And how far along are you, may I ask?” He continued.

“23 weeks, actually. Thanks for asking.” You responded.

“I can’t believe our little Rindou here is gonna be a father.”

“Okay, enough with the questions.” Rindou couldn’t help but interrupt. “Y/n, to our room.” He said without looking at you.

You looked at him, raising your eyebrow. He noticed this.

“Please.” Was all he said.

You knew he wasn’t happy so you decided to obey.

“Gentlemen.” You said, walking to your room.

“Goodnight dear.” Said Ran.

Once you were gone, Rindou walked towards Sanzu.

“Okay now you little shit, we’re gonna stay here for tonight. Only tonight. When we’re gone, you’re gonna forget this place. You’re gonna forget she even exists, she’s won’t ever get involved with you or any of this.” He said. “Understood?”

“Now now, Haitani.” Said Sanzu, raising his hands, with a smug smile on his face. “Calm down. I won’t do nothing to her, I like her actually.”

“If you ever lay a hand on her, we will kill you.” Now spoke Ran.

Sanzu didn’t say another word, just smiled and nodded.

Rindou walked to your room. Like hell he was gonna let you sleep alone with that psychopath in his house. You were already asleep. The pregnancy made you extremely sleepy sometimes and it was past your bedtime.

Rindou layed down next to you and fell asleep with a hand on your belly.

-

The 4 men left first time in the morning.

“Sleep well darling, I’ll be back later today.” Rindou whispered to you, since you were still half asleep. “I love you.”

“Love you too.” You said when he left.

“Congratulations.” Said Sanzu when they were walking towards their cars.

“What?” Asked Rindou, unsure on what he was talking about.

“For your baby, congratulations.” He replied, in a more serious tone. “I didn’t say that before.”

“Thank you.” Was all Rindou could say. He knew Sanzu was never going to say something about you to anyone.

If anything, Sanzu was loyal. And he knew how much you meant to Rindou. And who knows? Maybe your baby could actually grow up with a family.

[shaun-p]

As they posed for a gym pic, Mike couldn’t help but wince at the smell of funky, unwashed ass at his face and the ominous sound of a stomach gurgling above his head. Since befriending the 10-foot-tall giant, he’d lost count of the number of times his enormous friend had ripped a deep, ground-shaking fart one so stinky it could make grown men cry only to realize, a second too late, that Mike at only 5'8 he was standing directly behind him, and took the full brunt of the blast to the face.

At first, his towering friend would furiously apologize as Mike reeled from the meaty rotten-egg, spoiled-milk stench of whatever ungodly combination of food had fueled the unintentional gas attack.

But as their friendship grew, the apologies became less frequent, and the attacks became far more deliberate. Soon, the giant began intentionally positioning himself in front of Mike whenever he felt the need to let one rip, looking back with a devious smirk before unleashing a deadly fart that sent Mike’s hair fluttering and covered him in a thick cloud of pungent gas that warmed the air and caused him to cough and gag profusely.

“Whoops, my bad, Mikey. You really ought to grow a few inches, little man anyone below my waist is just asking for a fart to the face,” he’d tease, struggling not to burst into laughter. While Mike's knees were buckling from the stench of the fart.

Eventually, however, he took things a step further. Whenever the mood struck him, the massive man would casually grab the back of Mike’s head and shove it straight between his doughy cheeks, the damp, smelly fabric of his gym shorts and the sour smell of his warm sweaty ass pressing directly agaist Mike's face. With an playful cruelty, he’d hold him there for a few agonizing seconds, letting the gas build up waiting for the perfect moment before unleashing a deep, long, blast straight into the shorter man’s face.

Trapped, with the giant’s firm grip keeping him in place, Mike had no choice but to inhale the full force of the hot toxic fumes, his muffled protests lost between the suffocating, musky walls of flesh. The first time it happened, he passed out in mere seconds the noxious smell simply to much to handle, he crumpled to the gym floor as his giant friend erupted in mocking laughter. Some blasts lasted only a few seconds, but others dragged on for a full minute or more.

That first time wasn’t the only time Mike blacked out from the sheer potency of the 10-foot-tall man’s protein farts But don’t worry he built up a bit of resistance, Eventually........

(Thanks for the support on my first post, I tried for a longer story this time hope you all enjoy, feel free to dm or send an ask if you have any ideas you'd want me to write about or just any feedback in general ☺️)

[hawkinsbnbg]

Eddie and his bisexual awakening.

Eddie didn't know he also liked men until Steve Harrington landed in his life with that perfect hair, sweet nature, admirable bravery, and divine everything.

It took Eddie being mauled by the bats, almost dying multiple times, and freaking out with Wayne about his not-so-heterosexual thoughts to realize that Steve’s moles and freckles were fucking beautiful.

He knew he had been down bad when he couldn't stop waxing poetries about the guy all day and visiting Family Video whenever he could, which made him the store’s regular much to Robin’s entertainment.

Although she didn't say anything, he was quite sure that she had clocked him as queer by now. He just hoped that she would eventually clue him in about Steve’s interest if he showed enough of his consistency.

“How can I help you?”

Eddie leaned his arm on the counter and scratched the back of his neck sheepishly at Robin’s mirthful look, he could feel his cheeks heat up just by being so obvious about it.

Not to mention today marked his two months of hopeless pining.

“Uhm, is Steve here today?” He asked softly.

Instead of answering him, she turned slightly to call over her shoulder.

“Dingus, your boy is here!”

If Eddie wasn’t blushing before, he definitely was now.

“What– I’m not–”

“Which ones?” Steve’s voice called back from the inside.

And okay, Eddie knew it was stupid to get jealous over something so random because one, he was only Steve’s friend, and two, he had no claim over Steve except the massive crush he had on the guy.

But he was. Furious and bristled about the fact that he wasn’t the only person besides Robin who monopolized Steve’s free time during boring shifts.

“Who else has visited him lately?” Eddie planted his hands on the counter and narrowed his eyes, not caring that he wasn’t being subtle at all.

“Let’s see,” she tapped her chin contemplatively and started counting by her fingers, “you, obviously. Then Dustin, Lucas, and Mike.”

That’s it? Eddie blinked owlishly at her, waiting for the punch line. But what came next was—

“Leave the poor guy alone, Robs.”

Steve finally emerged from the back room and hip-checked Robin as he walked over to her side.

“He’s just so easy,” Robin huffed out a laugh.

“Stop spreading lies about me, Buckley,” Eddie gave her a wounded glare that held no real heat while also trying and failing to not stare at Steve standing directly across from him.

“Yeah, stop spreading lies, Birdie,” Steve poked at her bicep with a teasing smile.

And then that smile turned warm, fond, when it was directed at Eddie.

“Sorry about her,” Steve offered lightly, doe eyes peering up at him from under the lashes.

Eddie felt weak in the knees and secretly thanked whatever power above that had granted him a few inches on this pretty boy.

“Nah, it’s okay,” Eddie also smiled and felt his heart thump loudly in his chest as he decided to go with it. “She’s, uh, not wrong about it.”

“Are you admitting that you’re easy now, Munson?” Steve raised an eyebrow, looking amused as he reached for Eddie’s hand and started playing with the rings on it as if it had been one of his habits all along.

Which was true and never failed to make Eddie tongue-tied.

“Just for you,” he blurted out. “I’m only easy just for you.”

It would sound ridiculous if not for the way Steve’s cheeks tinted pink despite his effort at trying to stay nonchalant.

“Just for me, huh?”

Strangely, seeing the younger boy also being affected by the tension between them helped Eddie regain some confidence.

He turned his hand so he could grab Steve’s own and brought it to his lips, pressing soft kisses on the scarred knuckles.

“Yeah, I’m all yours,” he met Steve’s gaze with a dopey smile, “Sweetheart.”

A small part of him noticed that Robin had gone to the back room to give them some semblance of privacy. But a larger part of him had been lost in the beaming smile on Steve’s pretty face.

They stared at each other for a while until Steve finally broke the silence.

“Dinner at mine?”

“I’ll bring the beer and,” Eddie picked up the forgotten VHS case of ‘Risky Business’ and waved it lightly, “something to watch.”

That earned him a chuckle in return.

“It's a date?” Steve tilted his head, wanting to confirm again.

“It’s a date,” Eddie grinned and kissed the back of Steve’s hand.

Later that night, Eddie had turned up with a bouquet of flowers and was rewarded with a heated kiss that almost distracted both of them from Steve’s delicious lasagna.

Once they were done with the dishes and mitigated to the couch, he got a lapful of Steve, sweet and pretty and very eager to give him the best time of his life.

In the end, Eddie finally had a taste of that peachy ass and relived many of his wet dreams by turning Steve speechless and delirious with pleasure.

And if he also declared his love over and over again, then he didn't hear Steve complaining.

Maybe, it was because Steve had been busy doing the same.

[anonyymouslyyours]

went a bit feral w this one; giving house wife and breeding kink! +18 ofc

mike schmidt who just thinks you'd make such a pretty house wife for him. he talks to you about it all the time, when your curled up in your little pink pajamas on the bed next to him. how cute you'd look in a little apron when he would arrive home from work. of course you'd make dinner for him, but! before you eat he'd have to treat you of course, since your such a pretty good girl for him.

he'd spoil your rotten of course, anything you'd want you'd have. and you'd live in the nicest house, nothing like his current place. you'd have your own little vegetable garden just like you'd want.

and don't get mike started on the kids, oh you'd look so perfect with a swollen tummy, full of his child. the clothes he would buy you! and of course you'd be doted on, your every need and want given to you.

he'd whisper in your ear, late at night while his hips roughly thrust into yours.

"c'mon baby, gonna be a good girl f'me?"

"gonna get a baby in you.. fill you up, wanna see you walking around with my kids in your tummy."

and you of course would loose it, nails scratching at mikes back, hands gripping and pulling at his hair. he'd come right inside you, making sure to keep his heavy cock buried so not a drip of his cum would leave your tired and weepy cunt

[ataliagold]

Flowers In Your Hair

For @astrangersummer week 3 prompt 'flowers'. Title from Flowers In Your Hair by The Lumineers.

Pairing: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson

Rating: General

W/C: 1249

Tags: Post Series 4 Volume 2, Everyone Lives, Established Steddie, Fluff, Soft Steve Harrington, Steve Loves Yellow Flowers, Eddie Loves Steve, El and Max are best friends, summer, this is just softness

Summary: Eddie enlists some help to find the perfect flowers for Steve. Despite his own insecurities, Eddie is learning that his boyfriend loves soft things.

___

“Robin, what kind of flowers does Steve like?”

Eddie was draped over the Family Video counter, having stolen the barely-working desk fan air flow for himself.

Robin paused where she was rifling through the box of returned tapes to give him a confused look. “Flowers? Really?”

Eddie threw up a hand, then regretted it, because that had taken far too much effort in the stifling heat. “What? You think a man can’t buy flowers for another man? You judging me, Buckley?”

Robin scoffed. “No. Just…why flowers?”

“It’s romantic!” Eddie whined. “We have a date tonight and Steve loves that stuff. He might not say it, but he does. On Valentine’s Day I got him chocolates and roses and you should’ve seen his face, honestly if we hadn’t been in public I probably would’ve got on my knees there and then -”

Robin leaned over and slapped a hand across his mouth. “Jesus, enough.”

Eddie grinned behind her hand, and poked his tongue out to touch Robin’s palm.

She snatched it away with a shout, fake gagging behind the counter. “Munson, that was disgusting.”

Eddie shrugged. “You love me, though.”

“Steve loves you,” Robin corrected. “And so, by extension, I’m unfortunately forced to too.” She smiled a little, taking any sting out of her words. “Seriously though, the kids are over there, watch your mouth.” She dipped her head towards the sci-fi section, where Dustin and Mike were loudly arguing over which tape to rent for their next movie night. Max and El were hanging back, Max eagerly trying to explain a movie synopsis to El. Whatever it was, it sounded violent, and El looked confused.

Eddie leaned further over the counter, letting the weak breeze from the fan flick his hair around. “Help me?” he asked, batting his eyes at Robin.

She screwed up her nose a little before responding. “Honestly, I don’t know. You said you got him roses before, right? Did he like those?”

“Well, yeah, but I think he liked the gesture more than anything else.”

Robin shrugged. “Just get him anything, then. It’s from you, so he’ll love it.”

“But I want to get his favourite,” Eddie lamented. “He deserves the best.”

“Well, I agree with you there.”

“Eddie?”

A small voice sounded behind him, and Eddie summoned the energy to turn his head. El was standing behind him, looking a little shy.

“Yeah, supergirl?”

“You wanted to know Steve’s favourite flowers?”

Eddie slid off the counter a bit, straightening up. “Yeah, I do.”

El glanced between him and Robin for a moment. “Steve used to help me and Max with our hair. When mine was longer, we would make daisy chains and Steve braided them into my hair, he even let us put them in his sometimes. We tried to use other flowers sometimes but they did not stay together very well. But Steve’s favourites are yellow ones.”

And that…made sense, Eddie supposed. Yellow was Steve’s favourite colour, after all, but Eddie wasn’t sure where to find yellow flowers. He couldn’t afford much at the florist, and what flowers were yellow, anyway? Sunflowers? Where the hell would he get those?

Robin tugged his sleeve, pulled Eddie back to the counter so she could lean over and whisper, “The Klines have yellow roses growing by their fence.”

“The old Mayor?” Eddie asked with a frown.

“Yup.”

A smile slowly spread across his face.

“There are marigolds by the school field,” El added. “And yellow violas and tulips by the cabin. I can show you.”

And that was how, a short time later, Eddie was snapping off fragrant yellow roses at the stalk where they were poking out between the stark white pickets of Larry Kline’s fence. Max and El were standing further down the footpath, acting as lookouts while Eddie huddled by the fence and took his quarry as quickly as he could.

At the first surprised shout from inside the fence, he darted away, collecting the girls with a grin as he ran past them.

He threw back his head and laughed, roses clutched in his warm hand, Max beaming beside him.

“That guy’s an asshole,” she told Eddie as they jogged away from the house. “Serves him right.”

They couldn’t move too quickly – Max’s bones had healed, but she wasn’t exactly up to a sprint across town just yet. But they made it to Eddie’s van parked around the corner, and moved on to their next stop.

Just like that, Eddie spent the afternoon traipsing along with the two girls. El showed him where to find all sorts of different flowers, and Max went along because where El went, she went. It was hot, the sun baking them from above in a cloudless sky, but Eddie didn’t care – this was for Steve.

By the time they were finished, Eddie had gathered a large handful of flowers in all different shades of yellow and orange, and the girls had wrapped them in some plastic procured from Hopper’s cabin and poured some water into the bottom to keep them fresh in the summer heat.

“There,” El told him proudly, handing over the bouquet while Max tried to find some ribbon in a drawer to tie around it. “They’re pretty. Like Steve.”

Eddie spluttered a little at El’s directness. “Oh…yeah. Yeah, they are. He is.”

El nodded. “Max often says so, too.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Max yelled from El’s room.

Eddie smirked, because the girl’s little crush on his boyfriend was no secret. “It’s ok Max, I agree with you.”

Max stomped back towards them, slapped a length of gold ribbon into Eddie’s hands, and then took El’s arm and pulled her back towards the room.

Effectively dismissed, Eddie returned to his trailer to rush through a shower and getting changed, barely with enough time left to get to Steve’s before their dinner plans.

Waiting in front of his boyfriend’s door, Eddie passed the bouquet from hand to hand, a little nervous.

This is stupid.

Steve Harrington, former jock supreme, once-captain of the basketball team, nail-bat wielding badass wasn’t going to appreciate some yellow flowers.

Eddie almost turned tail. Almost tossed the flowers into the back of his van to be dealt with later, almost gave in to the nerves in his stomach.

Almost.

Because there was a softness to Steve that Eddie was learning to know and love. It was in the way he treated the kids, the way he gently held Eddie’s hand, the way he baked cookies when his friends were coming over and apparently braided flowers into the girls’ hair.

Eddie took a deep breath, clutched his yellow flowers, and knocked on the door.

It opened after a moment.

“Eds, hey, sorry I just gotta get my shoes on -” Steve trailed off as he took in the sight of Eddie standing there, flowers gripped in shaky hands.

Eddie cleared his throat, held out the bouquet. “For you. If, um…if you want them. Sorry if it’s stupid, I wanted to get you something but I couldn’t afford much and El told me you liked yellow flowers so I spent the afternoon going around town and finding them, and the roses actually involved some petty theft but -”

Steve took the flowers with one hand, and pulled Eddie through the door with the other, lips seeking his mouth and swallowing the rest of his sentence.

When they finally pulled apart, Eddie smiled shyly. “You like them, then?”

“I love them, Eds.”

___