#oh we're gonna PINE boys (gn)

[sortasirius]

Can't get the baseball AU out of my head, so I'm making it y'alls problem too lmao.

“You’re such an idiot,” Eddie shook his head, pushing away from the railing in the dugout and making his way onto the field, his footsteps muffled by the grass and soft red dirt, "Security's gonna come out and find us, and then they'll send us back to the minors. All that work to get to LA just to end up back in Oklahoma."

Buck grinned at him in return, his arms wide open as he looked up at the night sky, breathing in the smell of the city around them, but before Eddie could really get close to him, he said,

“They'd have to catch me first,” and took off around the bases hearing Eddie laugh before tearing after him.

They thundered around second base before Buck took a sharp right, sprinting towards left field.

His lungs were burning, but he couldn’t help the smile that had stretched across his face, borne from the chase of it all, of Eddie running after him.

His few seconds of reflection made him slow down a hair, and he felt Eddie’s hand catch the back of his shirt, and they were crashing down in the outfield, sprawling out on the grass, both of them breathing hard.

“Caught you,” Eddie panted, his hand still under Buck’s back.

Buck made to get away, but he had barely moved an inch before Eddie was rolling on top of him, pinning him down with his hands and his thighs.

“Not so fast, Buckley,” he looked down at him, triumph curling his mouth, “and to think, you said you were the fastest on the team. Looks like I have you beat.”

Buck twisted, trying to break the grip he had on his wrists, pushing his hips up to try and throw him off balance, but Eddie held him fast, leaning down so their faces were only an inch or so apart, matching grins on their faces.

“Give up,” Eddie said, voice low, and Buck flailed desperately, unable to move an inch.

“No,” he said, trying to wrench his right wrist out of Eddie’s grip, “Never.”

“I’ve got you, Buckley,” he leaned even closer, “You’re not getting up unless I let you.”

And Buck couldn’t help it, he couldn’t help that he looked at Eddie’s mouth.

Their eyes met again, and it felt like they were teetering on the edge, each waiting for the other to make the move.

Buck could feel Eddie’s hot breath on his face, both of them panting even though they had already caught their breath.

His heart was pounding in his chest, and he had stopped trying to get away, instead focusing on how Eddie’s thighs were bracketing him down, how he liked the feeling of his hands wrapped around his wrists, how close they were.

Buck decided to take the leap, and arched his head forward, angling towards Eddie’s lips, just as Eddie rolled off of him and sprang up to his feet, clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his next, facing away from Buck.

And Buck was left cold, still panting, looking up at him, willing him to turn around and not run away, even though the moment was broken.

“I ah,” Eddie cleared his throat, still with his back to him, “I gotta get home.  Make sure Chris is-  Make sure he’s in bed.”

“Yeah,” Buck cleared his throat in his turn, “Right.”

He watched Eddie shift on his feet, like he was considering sprinting back to the dugout and away from Buck. Finally, after what felt like a year, he turned around, sticking out a hand and heaving Buck to his feet.

“Come on,” he said, his tone carefully neutral, and his eyes fixed on a point just above Buck’s right shoulder, “I can give you a ride home if-”

“That’s-  That’s okay,” he was sure this aching in his chest was normal and perfectly find, “I have the Jeep.”

Eddie nodded, chewing on his bottom lip before clapping Buck awkwardly on the shoulder, and leading the way off the field and into the locker room.

[munsster]

hold my hand through it

A/N: oh, nothing just thinking about being taken care of by a lovely boy :( (gif creds: @keery)

Pairing: Steve Harrington x GN!Reader

Summary: Even if there ends up being someone else to turn to, he hopes you always pick him. Especially now, battered and sore and desperate. 1.8k words.

Warnings: season 4 canon divergence, canon level gore, (secret) mutual pining, a hint of best friends to.... lovers?, hurt/comfort, pet names (sunshine, honey, baby), wound/scar description

The clench of your jaw and the way you slump into the dusty cushions of the Wheeler's old couch is telltale. Steve's side aches when your hand curls over your own ribs, the fabric of your band tee wet and sticky beneath your fingers. Nancy, Robin, and Eddie filter through the thickly fogged rooms, waving their flashlights up the steps and walls in slow circles. He watches the ashen air fill your lungs, the realization splintering your face, and you'd scramble to the bathroom if you could get up.

You glance up to find he's watching you.

"Steve?" you squeak. And tears spill over the rims of your eyes, down your cheeks, wetting the corner of your mouth and the column of your throat.

"Woah, woah," he huffs, skidding to his knees at your feet and winding his fingers around your wobbly wrist, uncertainty making you ache and hyperventilate even with his soft brown eyes honeyed over the blood like antibiotic. "Hey, eyes on me, sunshine, look at me."

But you're flickering between your soaked shirt and the delicate slope of his nose, between your scrape and the forgiveness he harbors in his slumped shoulders.

"There you go," he says, "can I...?"

You nod. Lifting your arms, it hurts. Like the skin was trying to heal just to be stretched apart again. You hiss, and he cradles your wrist back down.

"Ooh, careful, honey, don't push yourself. You've been hurt enough for one night."

"Is it bad? Steve," you cry, and he looks up to find your chin wobbling. It breaks his heart. "Steve, please, is it bad?"

"No. No, honey. It's alright." But the panic sets in around your eyes, wrinkling your forehead as blood trickles across your knuckle.

"How bad is it? Fffuck, it's bad, isn't it?" There's a maroon pool, slipping through the hardwood cracks beneath the tangle of your fingers and his.

"No, c'mon, you're fine. You're good," he huffs. Your eyes slink closed out of exhaustion or fear or the fact that it's so easy. "Baby, keep your eyes open, please. I'll go find a first aid kit. Promise me you'll keep 'em open 'till I'm back."

You frown, and his heart races. You were supposed to be the one to make it out. Back to reality. You were supposed to be his forever in the real world. Not just in this fucked up, pitch black underworld. Someone must be playing a trick on him. He's gonna wake up tomorrow to the sun hot on his face and you smiling sweetly back at him, fingers combing through his hair. He blinks hard just in case.

When he opens them, you're nodding.

"I promise." It sounds so weak dribbling from your cracked lips. Steve wipes the dirt from your jaw before darting to the lower level bathroom.

He roots desperately through the cabinets, sweat pricking across the back of his neck and his forehead and his scalp and his cheeks. God, he needs a shower and to make you better and to be home safe in his bed. With you.

You take a shaky, deep breath when he reappears with a dull, blue box under his arm. He sits beside you, wincing at the constricted noise that escapes your scratchy throat.

"What've we got... gauze, yes. Bandages, yes. Antiseptic, fuck yeah. We're in business, baby. Still with me?"

You nod weakly, hissing when he lifts your wrist into his lap. He watches your face as he rips the antiseptic wipes open.

"Gonna hurt, okay?"

A strangled sound escapes you and your head lulls onto his shoulder.

"Okay, sunshine. So proud of you, doin' great," he hums, pressing his dry lips to your damp temple. You grab for the hem of his sweater when he pats the blood from your gash. He can tell you're struggling to stay quiet, muscles tense and fingers wringing. You're tightly wound, and yet, you can feel yourself losing control.

Or maybe it's more like surrender. Relinquishment of your responsibility over your own blood. And you only do it because it's so easy to let him command it. Especially when he's so gentle in cleaning your wounds, why shouldn't you share your hurt if he's so willing to bear it.

His fingers spread neosporin over the cut, which is suddenly clean and only a little irritated. You can't help but watch him, so focused on packing the cotton and tightly sealing the wound with gauze.

"Alright?" Steve hums, and god, those brown eyes deserve their own gallery. He waits for an answer, but you're distracted and pouting at the thought of him putting your hurt before his own. Everyone has scrapes and cuts and soreness from climbing and running and falling. You saw it in his limp. And yet, he looked to you and didn't hesitate to kneel beside you and tend to your open wound. "Sunshine?"

"Yeah," you sigh, more sure than before, "feels better."

"Yeah?" he chuckles, "Feels better? That's good. I'm glad." He sighs, trying not to anticipate your reaction to the next step. He knows it's going to hurt. "Let's get you changed, okay?"

You bat your lashes up at him. That's what he was worried about. You're gonna do it, but it hurts his conscience to know how much pain the process will put you through. He stands from the couch, whipping off his sweater and shivering a little at the hellish chill.

Usually, you'd made a joke about his promiscuity. Something or other about him taking it all off. Maybe a catcall or two. He honestly misses it. The silence is deafening.

"Lift your arms."

You do, wincing and grating your teeth.

"Slowly. There you go." Once your arms are sufficiently above your head, he tugs at the soaked hem of your tee. He feels bad for cringing at the state of your side: sticky and dark red, a chunk of skin missing. Thankfully, it’s not too deep, but it still makes his heart clench.

He can’t bring himself to look in your eyes, knowing the strain and suffering he’ll find. Doe-wide and pleading as he tosses your shirt aside.

“Definitely won’t be needing that anymore,” he teases, looking at the bundled up pile of blood and cotton.

“Too bad,” you shudder, “that was my favorite.”

He grins.

With your arms still above your head, he carefully fits the rest of the gauze around your ribcage, cleaning the excess grime built up around the gash. He can tell you’re fighting to keep your eyes open as he pulls your hands through the sleeves of his damn yellow sweater. You always said it reminded you of a fuzzy bumble bee, a lingering title that he bore proudly.

He thinks you look so beautiful. Even now, streaked with dirt and ozzing blood. He thinks he'll never get used to your lazy smile and how you reach for his hand even when it hurts. His heart skips a beat feeling the warmth flood back into your fingers. "Careful, baby. Don't hurt yourself."

"Okay, Stevie," you whisper. You still have plenty of wounds that need tending to, but you're glad Steve was there for you. "Thank you."

He nods like it's all second nature. Shrugs it off like he didn't just save your life.

"Know what I'm looking forward to?" Steve says. It cuts through the fog suddenly. A welcome breath of fresh air in a conversation. "French toast."

You laugh, but stop short at the pinch of your ribs.

"Shit. Didn't mean to make you laugh. Well, I mean I did, just didn't intend for it to hurt," he says, looking a little guilty. Then, he looks over at you and his stomach drops. "Honey—"

"Sorry"—you choke a little, tears pouring hot down your cheeks, leaving clean streaks through the sheen of grime—"Sorry, I don't know why I'm crying."

"It's okay, you can cry. C'mere," he hums, resting your head back on his shoulder. He catches a tear from your cheek on his knuckle, wiping it on his collar then pushing the hair from your face.

"I'm just," you sigh. "I think I'm overwhelmed. And in pain. Obviously."

He smiles, sympathy tugging at his heartstrings when you inhale sharply.

"I know." It's mumbled against your forehead, his eyes closed and his voice hushed.

...

Eight months and a couple stitches later, the scar tissue on your forearm glistens gossamer in the sunlight as you face the push-door to the Hawkins gym. There’s a low roar coming from inside; the squeaking of shoes and blaring brass section welcomes you back. Steve had asked you to be his date to Lucas’ last game of the season. You couldn’t refuse.

Steve spots you as soon as you enter, his caramel hair sweeping soft across his forehead. Free of all the sweat and blood and weight it had that twisted spring evening. Seeing you again makes his heart soar. Knowing for a fact you’re safe and healthy. It makes him sweeter on you than he’d like to admit.

You climb the bleachers to the spot he has saved next to him. He kisses your cheek, which surprises you.

“I thought we weren’t kissing in public, yet,” you whisper. Yet, he remembers. He had agreed to that, he supposes. Only after you’d both hastily shared one outside your door one night and decided it would be best to share the rest of them where the kids couldn’t tease you incessantly. He scrunches his nose, shoving his nervous hands into his jean pockets.

“Well, you still owe me a certain yellow sweater’s worth of kisses,” he teases, “Besides, I don’t think anyone noticed.” You scowl playfully up at him, nudging his side.

“I told you you could have it back!”

“Nah. Looks better on you anyway.” He shrugs. He wouldn’t take it back if it came with a million dollars cash. It’s rightfully yours. “You know what I could go for right now?”

You tilt your head in amusement. “French toast?”

“You know me so well.”

stranger things masterlist

[f6bron]

delicate lilac.

pairing : badboy!iso x soft!gn!reader

notes : bad boy x sunshine trope, mutual-pining but both of them are unaware of it, potential friends to lovers, fluff fluff fluff >.<

The campus buzzed with energy as students hurriedly moved from one class to another. Among the sea of people, Li Zhao Yu, also known as Iso, stood out—an enigmatic figure with a formidable reputation that sent shivers through many.

Yet, beneath the intimidating facade, a softer side existed, one that only revealed itself in the presence of one person.

And that's you, Y/N L/N.

As the two of you and your friends strolled through the campus, Iso couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy bubbling within him as he watched you interact with your friends. Laughter filled the air, and Iso's eyes followed the movement of your lips as you spoke animatedly.

Your plump cherry lips, soft skin, and the way the sun highlighted your features. He longed for the day he could receive a similar treatment from you.

"Must be nice," he thought, unconsciously fiddling with the rings on his fingers.

"Iso?" you called, snapping him back to reality.

Stammering, caught off guard by your sudden attention, he replied, "Y-yeah?"

You let out a tiny giggle, a sound that made warmth creep up onto Iso's face. "What were you daydreamin' about?"

"Oh, nothing. I… I was just thinking about–" Iso fumbled over his words, nervousness taking over. Are you being for real, Iso?! This is not you!

Before he could realize it, you slipped a piece of candy into his rough and calloused hands—a stark contrast between your soft and delicate hands and his rugged ones.

"Huh?" he questioned, giving you a puzzled look.

"You said you wanted a strawberry-flavoured candy," you reminded him, a soft smile playing on your lips.

Iso could feel warmth engulfing his heart, not expecting you to remember the tiny details he mentioned during the casual conversation you guys had on your way to class.

"Don't tell anyone, but… I kinda stole it from Jett."

"Really… for me?" Iso asked, his eyebrows raised.

"Yeah! For you!" you replied, causing Iso to chuckle. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach.

"Thanks…"

"All right, lovebirds! Enough of that," Phoenix interjected from behind, placing his hands on both Iso's and your shoulders. "We gotta get movin'."

"We're not—"

"Whatever," Phoenix shrugged, cutting Iso off.

"See you at the cafeteria later." he said, winking at you before leaving. Iso sent a harsh glare to Phoenix, the audacity for him to wink at you.

He hesitated for a moment before saying, "Take care, Y/N. Text me after you're done with your classes, okay?"

Iso sighed internally, wishing he could be there for you 24/7.

You nodded shyly before joining the rest of your friends to head to class. "Mhm… you too."

Even though Iso is a notorious class-skipper, up to everyone's surprise, he has been showing up to lectures lately. It's all because he couldn't resist the charm of Y/N's pout.

The thought of being the cause of that disappointed expression wrecks his heart a bit. He would trade his soul if it means seeing that cute smile of yours, and to get complimented by you.

Iso caught up and walked alongside Phoenix, still holding the strawberry-flavored candy you gave him earlier. Phoenix shot him a knowing look. "If you're gonna play pretend, just give up."

"Huh?"

"Are you being for real, lad?" Phoenix nudged Iso's shoulder. "You never look so ‘down bad’ over a person." Iso sighed, finally getting the point.

"Is it too obvious?" Iso replied, popping the candy into his mouth effortlessly.

"Yeah, too obvious. ‘Saw how a love shape starts forming in your eyes as soon as Y/N appears in your sight." Phoenix teased, smirking.

Iso chuckled, the image of adorable you started playing in his mind. Not like you’ll ever leave it anyway.

"Come on, man. You can't blame me. Y/N is too cute to resist."

(A/N): THIS LOOKS RUSHED IM SORRY anyways im thinking of turning badboy!iso into a series but we'll see...

delicate who? | masterlist.