hi, i'm tenny, 22. thank you so much for reading and i hope you enjoy ♡
fic recs tagged under #tenny's recs !! ♡
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♡ - fluff, angst / ☆ - smut / 𐙚 - my fave
STRANGER THINGS
EDDIE MUNSON
♡ more than anything (angst, fluff, hurt/comfort) - eddie's heard everything people say about him, and he's sure you have to. so why do you stay with someone as fucked up as him? in which eddie can't fathom why you love him, and you tell him exactly why.
☆ the first time (smut) (porn without plot!) - your first time with eddie. raw.
♡ the rest of our lives (fluff) - eddie, his beloved cheerleader girlfriend, and the way in which they navigate the highs and lows of senior year. together.
(𐙚) ☆ seven minutes in heaven (smut) - eddie munson shoved into a closet with the meanest girl in hawkins. she hates him, he's intrigued. what's the worst that could happen?
♡ inexperienced!eddie headcanons
☆ SERIES: YOUR THRONE - COMPLETED - eddie never thought the princess of hawkins high would ever be one of his customers, but you end up being the best he's ever had. you tease him, lead him on, leave him high 'n' dry multiple times. needless to say, he's obsessed. but you won't even spare him a glance.
a 3-part series. dealer!eddie x cheerleader!reader with looooots of smut
STEVE HARRINGTON
♡ one last time (some fluff, ANGST) (reader death!!) - steve takes care of you in every way, up until your final moments.
(𐙚) ☆ patience (smut) - your boyfriend steve has a really big dick, and you have sex with him for the first time. but it takes a little extra effort because of his size ;)
☆ a little problem (smut) - steve's had a long day at work. he's tired, he's a little grumpy, and he's very, very, horny. but unfortunately, his sweet, perfect girlfriend isn't home yet. guess he'll have to deal with it himself for now.
☆ temptation (smut) - steve's a busy guy. he's got a lot of work to do: plans for his baseball team, and papers to grade for his sex-ed class. but can he resist his pretty girlfriend when she's so damn tempting?
☆ avoidance (smut) - your best friend steve's been ignoring you for months, and the feeling's all come bursting out when you're both tipsy and horny.
THE PITT
FRANK LANGDON
♡ ONGOING SERIES: the highs and lows of (almost) parenthood - in which mr. and mrs. langdon prepare to welcome their first child into the world :)
(𐙚) ☆ losing you, loving you - you tried to help frank through his addiction, but he never wanted your help. you eventually chose to divorce him, settling with an agreement easily and without qualms because neither of you wanted to hurt each other. but one year later, he's knocking at the door of the house you once shared, and you can't help but to let him stay.
JACK ABBOT
☆ a first time for everything - when jack finds out that you've never had an orgasm from sex before, he's determined to change that.
☆ denial, acceptance - jack loves to play games with you. especially in the bedroom.
☆ go go juice - in which picking up his drunk girlfriend is one of jack's favourite boyfriend duties!
MICHAEL ROBINAVITCH
(𐙚) ☆ caught in the moment - robby agrees to cover jack's night shift, only to immediately regret it when he finds out he's working with the one person he's desperately been trying to avoid.
☆ comforting robby after a rough shift (with your mouth) drabble
OTHER
BOSCO LEROY
(aka the first character i ever wrote for on tumblr, so he has a special place in my heart)
summary: After coming off a date with a bad review, Steve sets out to prove that he really is good at going down on girls.
tags: MDNI!! [roommates/friends to lovers] [smut] [oral fem receiving] [mutual pining] [he just needs an honest review] [friends help each other...right?] 2k words
a/n: While brainstorming this fic, I couldn't decide whether I wanted it to be fluffy or smutty, so I had you guys vote. And you wanted me to write both. (Here is the fluffy sister fic if you want to read it!)
It is your deepest held belief that Friday nights are, indeed, best spent in.
You’re on the couch, curled up with a book, basking in the soft lamplight as steam from your favorite tea reflects in the dark windows beside you.
All is peaceful. All is quiet. It’s perfect.
And then your apartment door opens.
You jump, looking over your shoulder just in time to see your roommate, Steve, storm through the entryway. His dress shirt is untucked, tie loose, and his hair is a wreck, like he’s run his hands through it a million times.
That’s not a good sign for a man supposed to be on a fancy date tonight.
He said, if things went well, he’d probably end up back at her place for the night. You thought that might be a little presumptuous, but hey, it’s Steve Harrington you’re talking about here.
Steve looks around wildly, and when his eyes land on you, the intensity in them takes you aback.
“I’m guessing things didn’t go well, then—?” you start, but he cuts you off, his words overlapping yours.
“Take off your pants.”
You freeze.
What the—
He must not register the utter shock on your face, because he’s already moving towards you. The silky tie snaps through the air as he rips it from his neck. God, he must really be wound up. He didn’t even take his shoes off at the door.
“Excuse me?” You manage to choke out.
“Don’t freak out, I just really need to try something,” he grunts, rounding the couch. “Just for a second.”
The moment his knees hit the carpet in front of you, your jaw goes slack.
“Harrington!” You scramble back into your mountain of pillows, nearly knocking your mug off the side table. You reach out and steady it with one hand, suddenly very aware of how your tank top has ridden up with the movement. “What the hell are you—?”
“…can’t believe she said that,” he mutters, ripping back the blanket thrown over your lap.
“Who said what?”
He doesn’t respond, eyes locked on your short sleep shorts. They’re a cute set you picked up recently at the mall. Navy blue with white flowers. Innocent-looking. Sweet.
But he’s staring at them like he’s going to rip them off with his teeth.
Heat rushes to your cheeks.
While you can’t deny what that look is doing to you, there’s something else trapped in his gaze. Sadness? Not quite. Disappointment, maybe? You’ve only been roommates for six months, but you already know him well enough to know when he’s upset.
Reaching down, you grab a fistful of his hair and tip his head back. His eyes snap to yours.
“What did she say?” you ask again, firmer this time.
Steve’s lips form a thin line before he sighs heavily. You drop his hair.
“She said I was bad at sex. Specifically, bad at...this.” He gestures unhelpfully between your legs and your stomach swoops as his finger almost brushes the seam of your shorts.
It takes you a second, but then your brows pull together. “She actually said that?”
“Not exactly,” he groans. “The date was fine. It was our third, so when she invited me upstairs, I figured…well, you know. And then we got to making out and it was hot. I guess…”
You swallow hard and gesture for him to continue, even if the thought of his lips trailing down some other girl’s neck feels like a knife in your side.
“And then I went down on her and she said—” He cuts himself off with a miserable little huff before resuming. “She said it wasn’t doing anything for her. At all. Like it wasn’t good enough or something. Can you believe that? I could’ve lived if she said my thrust game needed work or something, if we had even gotten to that point, but this? This is, like, my thing.”
Oh. Okay.
Yeah, you could’ve gone the rest of your lease without knowing that eating pussy is your hot roommate’s thing.
That is not good for your little crush you have going on that you refuse to talk about. Or think about. Ever.
You nod quickly and clear your throat. “S-so, what exactly does this have to do with me?”
Steve just shrugs. “We’re friends, right?”
“Right.”
“Right.” He levels your gaze, brown eyes soft and playful in the lamplight. “So…”
The moment stretches between you, an invitation, an ask, and a dare all rolled into one.
“So, because we’re such good friends, we just…give each other oral sex?”
Steve sighs. “Look. I just want a second opinion, okay? I mean, this is bad. Really bad. If Cindy didn’t like it, then what if other girls didn’t either? Then I’ve just been lied to all this time—”
Your gaze drops to his fingers digging into the couch cushion beneath you, and despite yourself, a smile creeps across your lips. “Oh my God, this really got to you, didn’t it?”
“What?” He balks. “No! It’s just…I need to set the record straight.” He taps your knees with a knuckle, playful but firm. “Spread ‘em.”
You bark an unbelieving laugh that ends in a sound too close to a whimper when his hands come down on your thighs.
You cannot let him do this to you. If you do, you’ll never be able to get over your secret-no-good-very-bad-crush on your roommate.
You force yourself to breathe. “I…I don’t want thinks to get weird.”
His eyes flick up to yours. “Weird?”
“Between us.”
Steve seems to take a second to understand what you’re saying, and you watch as an emotion you can’t place crosses his face.
Suddenly, he moves to stand. “You’re right. Sorry. God, I’m an idiot. What am I thinking, I just—”
Panic spikes and you snatch his wrist before you even really know what you’re doing, cutting him off. “No, wait. It’s like you said. We’re…friends, right?”
He nods quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah.”
“So, we don’t let it get weird.” The words spill out of you before you can take them back. But you don’t want to. “I’ll give you an unbiased review. A one time thing.”
You watch as his lashes drop again to your legs, and his pupils widen as your knees fall apart a little on instinct.
“You’re sure?” he asks, voice thick.
In an effort to appear nonchalant, you shrug. But you’re salivating when his tongue darts over his bottom lip.
“Yes,” you breathe.
He doesn’t waste a second dropping back down to his knees, and your legs widen immediately to give him space.
“So, you’ll tell me the truth, right?” he rasps, eyes jumping between your face and your hips. “Be honest. I can take it.”
“Honest,” you agree, but the word comes out in a whisper as his fingers slip under your waistband.
Your face burns as he pulls down your shorts and panties in one smooth motion, baring you to him. His hands gently ease your thighs farther apart, and you fight the urge to squirm under his gaze.
“Steve! Stop looking at it like that,” you gasp.
“Why?” he asks without glancing up. “It’s pretty.”
Shit.
You’re not strong enough for this.
But when he finally looks up, you recognize the silent question in his eyes. He’s asking for permission. You could stop this right now, and he would let you easily. He’s probably never even bring it up again. No harm done.
And you should.
God, you should.
But you don’t want to.
So instead, you just nod, not trusting your voice to speak.
As he leans in, you brace for the feeling of his tongue, but you’re surprised when he starts by just…kissing you.
His lips are soft against your folds, and your breath catches at the tenderness there. His eyes find yours before he goes lower, and the moment his nose bumps your clit, your body jolts in his hold.
He makes a muffled sound and his eyes drift shut, large palms moving to your hips, pinning them to the cloth couch beneath you.
Then there’s that wet heat.
His tongue slides over you with just enough pressure, starting slow and exploring your entrance.
“Oh, God,” you whimper.
His hair is so soft against your inner thighs, and when he makes a sound of encouragement against you, and his tongue swirls higher, catching the underside of your clit, your mouth drops open in a silent moan.
He’s hardly done anything yet, but the way he’s doing it, so confident, and steady, it’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.
“See? Good, right?” he mutters, the words muffled and slick against your core. “I know what I’m—mmm, fuck, you taste good.”
Before you can respond, his hands wrap up and around your thighs, and he hauls you closer. Your tank top rides up even higher as you slide down into the cushions, but you don’t reach up to fix it.
Mostly because Steve Harrington is going down on you, and that thought alone is nearly making you lose your fucking mind.
His lashes flutter shut as he makes out with your dripping cunt, his throat bobbing as sucks gently, swallows, and goes back for more.
You’re surprised to find there’s no performance to his actions, but more of a genuine enjoyment.
Steve eats pussy like he wants to.
You watch, transfixed, and you can’t help but roll your hips once against his mouth, smearing your slick all over his pretty fucking face.
Too pretty for his own good.
A sound escapes his chest, something caught between a moan and a whine, and he nods against you, peeking up from beneath his lashes.
The carpet whispers as rises higher on his knees, mouth traveling up your mound and over the soft, sensitive skin below your belly button.
But you whimper at the loss, pushing his head back down.
His throat vibrates against you with a chuckle, but he follows you obediently. “Oh, yeah? So definitely doing something for you then.”
“Shut up,” you groan, but the sound dies out harshly when his mouth latches to your clit and sucks.
Hard.
You gasp, back arching as your core clenches instinctively.
Then, without warning, he pulls back.
You look at each other, chests heaving. Suddenly, you’re afraid he’s done. That you now have to give a report based on that.
“Is that it?” You squeak.
“What? God, you think I would just leave you like that? No, I was just thinking—” He draws in a breath, like he needs to physically rearrange his thoughts. “Well, I haven’t even kissed you yet.”
You just stare down at him, chest heaving, bare and slick from the waist down.
He takes one look at your face and clears his throat. “Right. Later.” He leans in again, but pauses before glancing up at you one more time. “Yes?”
“Yes, Harrington, I will kiss you, later,” you whine pitifully, canting your hips into his hands.
He seems pleased, and wastes no time picking up where he left off.
And this time, he doesn’t tease you.
Your head hips back, a moan tearing from your throat as two of his fingers spear deep inside and his mouth closes over your clit.
As you threaten to fall apart beneath him, Steve just watches.
Every little whine and whimper. Every jerk and arch of your back. Every wriggle of your hips and curl of your toes.
He studies you like a map, surveying everything that makes you soak his face, everything that makes you clench hard around his fingers, his tongue, and finding new routes to all those destinations.
The tension between your hips pulls tighter, and when he reaches up to palm your breast, slipping his hand underneath your tank top, you wonder if he can feel it.
The way your heart slams against your ribs.
A silent, helpless confession. A call for him to see that this will not, in fact, be a one-time thing.
That you’ve been thinking about this—about him—ever since the day you moved in.
That ache builds like a tidal wave, threatening to break, and your fingers fly to his arms for stability. He’s warm, and strong, and his muscles shift under his dress shirt.
It’s honestly impressive how quickly he responds, how easily he reads every subconscious signal your body gives him. Because when that breathy, urgent whine starts to leave your lips, his thumb replaces his mouth on your clit, rubbing firm, perfect circles that drive you higher. And then he dips lower, tonguing your entrance, devouring you in thick, broad strokes, pushing you to the fucking brink.
“Yeah, you gonna come for me?” He slurs against your aching cunt. “Just like that. That’s it. I’ve got you—mmhm—”
The second his tongue spears deep inside, the tidal wave breaks.
Your moan fills your quiet apartment, and you nearly come off the couch with the intensity of it. The rush is unlike anything you’ve felt before. You have no option but to surrender fully to it as it pulls you under, shamelessly riding your orgasm out on Steve’s tongue.
Steve’s ready for it though. He goes with you easily as your hips rise and fall, strong hands holding you to his mouth, unwilling to let you slide away.
When the pulsing eventually fades to shuttering jolts, he pulls back, but his hands stay on your hips, caressing you softly, bringing you back down to earth.
You bite your lip, looking down at him panting between your knees. Your body aches, but in a good way. Like you need more, but somehow, it still won’t ever be enough.
“God, Steve—” you whine, but you’re cut off by him lunging up across your body and pressing his lips to yours.
You laugh into his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue as he kisses you eagerly.
“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that.” He murmurs, pulling back a little.
Something catches in your chest at his confession, and you thread your fingers through his hair, pulling him back down for another kiss.
This one is different.
Deeper, and softer, and…meaningful.
He sinks back down onto his knees, squeezing your thigh, your waist, like you’re something precious.
“So, tell me , honestly, was it good?” He urged, gazing up at you.
You blink dumbly, throughly flushed. “Yeah, uh…no notes.”
He smirks. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Five out of five stars.”
“I don’t know, Harrington. That literally means no room for improvement.” You’re not sure his ego is ready for that.
“Oh?” His lips tilt in a crooked smile that makes you want to kiss him again. “What would you have me do to earn that fifth star, huh?”
His lids go heavy as you tighten your hold on his hair and urge his mouth back down where you want it.
“You could do it again.”
a/n: It's my canon that his date, Cindy, was just hung up on her ex, and Steve was the unlucky rebound that night. Plus, Steve wasn't that into it. Because he was thinking about you, obviously. Also, here is the fluffy version sister fic if you care lol
ᥫ᭡ dividers by @cursed-carmine| steve masterlist | drop by my desk
summary: When your ex-friends-with-benefits proves he's incapable of keeping his mouth shut even while jerking off alone in his tent, you're forced to intervene. God, do you have to do everything yourself?
tags: MDNI, [SMUT] [ex-friends-with-benefits to lovers] [camp counselors][summer rivalry] [heavy mutual pining] [angst] [steve & reader are both college age] [fourth of july] [semi-public sex] [handjob] [tent sex] [trying to be quiet and failing miserably] [discussions of canon stranger things events] [oral sex f receiving] [talking about trauma/therapy] [fingering] [steve calls reader sweetheart, brat, bitch (once) and baby] [one thigh spank] [unprotected creampie] 5k words
a/n: saw this post from @s3xytosomeone and got inspired. let’s all just pretend i actually posted this on the 4th, okay? okay thanks!!!!
There are noises coming from Steve’s tent.
You lie completely still under your own tent’s ceiling, breath caught in your chest.
There it is again. Another soft grunt, but this one is deeper, almost desperate.
You’ve heard these sounds before. Your mouth goes dry as the reality of what he’s doing settles in your gut, a sharp ache building low between your hips.
Thank God you’re all the way out instead of back at camp where your middle school-age campers are tucked away, sleeping in their cabins on the hill.
At Camp Woodwick, the last night of their month-long summer session always ends on the Fourth of July. Which is tonight. And on the last night, the counselors don’t have a curfew, so the whole lot of you can pitch tents down by the lake and watch the fireworks show.
It was fun for awhile, but after a handful of lackluster campfire stories and couple burnt marshmallows, Steve announced he was going to bed. The guys complained, begging him to light some fireworks with them, but he said he was going to turn in anyway.
Right after his eyes caught yours.
You excused yourself shortly after him, not even really sure why. And as you changed into your sleep shorts and a t-shirt, and settled into your sleeping bag, you blamed your sour mood on the heat and the bugs.
Assuring yourself that it had nothing to do with the fact that you and Steve Harrington have been at each other’s throats for weeks.
Tonight is is counselor’s night out! It’s supposed to be a fun end-of-the-summer bash for all the adults who were paid a few grand to babysit. It’s the night everyone looks forward to the most.
You should be having fun—being young. Whatever that means.
At some point between the whole saving-the-world-and-barely-escaping-with-your-life-thing, you became somewhat of a stranger to that idea. Your life had been, for lack of a better term, flipped upside down.
Steve groans again. Hot embers flare to life in your core, stirred up by the sound of his thready voice. So low and breathless.
He has to shut up. What is he thinking, jerking off like this with people nearby?
Granted, your tents are the furthest away from everyone else’s, and no one has really gone to bed yet. It shouldn’t be that big of a deal. But between the sticky humid air clinging to your skin, and the sharp whistles from exploding fireworks, when Steve moans softly again you finally just…snap.
Ripping the blankets off yourself, you rustle around your tent for your flashlight, grumbling and muttering in the dark.
God, you have to do everything yourself, don’t you?
You wince as your tent opens with a loud zip that punctuates the darkness surrounding you. Peeking over your shoulder, you can see the smoke from the campfire in the distance, curling up towards the stars. A few of your fellow counselors are still lounging around the fire, but most of them are small shadows dotting the lake’s edge.
Steve pitched his orange tent under a tree.
Stupid.
Doesn’t he know that the roots will mess the tent stakes up? You’re surprised he could even get them in the ground. Honestly, it will probably fall down on him tonight.
You hope it does.
His tent is dark and quiet, but you march over anyway, flashlight raised so the beam falls straight on him when you turn it on.
You yank on his tent’s zipper. It gives easily. A muffled curse comes from inside, and you click on the flashlight to reveal Steve lying on his side, bare chest rising and falling as he squints into the bright beam.
“God, you never could stay quiet, could you?” You say, bullying your way through the tent flap and zipping it back up behind you.
Steve scrambles to throw his sleeping bag over himself, but it does practically nothing to hide his raging boner underneath.
“What the fuck do you want?” He snaps, glaring up at you.
Despite yourself, your eyes catch on a delicious bicep, and his muscled shoulder in the shine of your flashlight. That chest hair has taunted you all summer long. It’s been torturous pretending you didn’t know what it felt like against your bare breasts, against your back...
You clear your throat. “I just thought I’d let you know the whole camp can hear you jerking off.”
“What? I’m not—Jesus.” His big hand drags down his face, even as he pulls the sleeping bag up higher. “Get out.”
Whoops, there you go again, getting distracted by his hands.
Maybe you should close your eyes, or turn around—something—because looking at him stretched out in the dark like this is making you think wicked things.
Your lips twist in a mocking smirk, and you gesture down to the sleeping bag. “Oh, c’mon, Steve. Why are you so embarrassed? It’s not like I haven’t seen it before.”
Lots of times, actually.
Through the years, you’d been there for everything—watched him get captured, tortured, and sacrificed for others. But after it was all over, and the dust settled, you fell into each other a different way.
Because it wasn’t the days plagued with Demogorgons, evil Russians, or even Vecna that were the worst.
It was the days that followed.
The hollow darkness you experienced as the world kept moving on, oblivious to the memories that plagued you both. You had to learn how to live normally again, and something about that was both relieving and excruciatingly lonely at the same time.
The nightmares had a way of sticking to you like blood you couldn’t get off no matter how many times you scrubbed yourself raw in the shower.
It was in those shaky, sweaty, middle-of-the-night fever dreams that you and Steve found solace in each other. Because when it all became a bit too much, you could dig your nails into someone else’s skin, feel a slick, hot mouth against yours—ground yourself in something intrinsically human just to prove that after everything, you still are.
But all that came to a screeching halt last summer.
“Okay,” Steve sighs, shifting a little and squinting up at you. “Let’s say that I was. You wanted to come over and…cockblock me? From myself? And turn that thing off unless you want everyone to see two silhouettes in here.”
You click the flashlight off immediately, plunging you both into darkness.
Maybe you should rescind your previous statement. Because now, without being able to see him, his proximity is somehow affecting you even more.
You can hear his soft breaths, smell the lake water on his skin. And underneath it all, the familiar sounds and scents of him that opens a gaping hole of nostalgia in the pit of your stomach.
You try to laugh, but it comes out cold. “You think I give a fuck if you’re rubbing one out, Harrington? No. I came over here because you’re fucking whimpering and moaning—”
“—I was not whimpering.”
“—and you’re incapable of keeping quiet—yes, you were, and I was getting sick of hearing it. So, either do it quieter, or find someone to cover your fucking mouth.”
As you were talking, your vision adjusted to the darkness. Which is a very bad thing, because now you can see him again. Specifically the outline of his mussed hair as he lifts his chin to meet your gaze.
“You offering?”
Your breath catches.
You should say no. You should tell him to go fuck himself—literally— and leave right now. He can let the whole camp hear him for all you care.
But instead, you hesitate.
Now, Steve is smart. Smarter than he gives himself credit for, that’s for sure. And there are certain patterns he’s picked up on with you over the years. Like, when you pause like that, the answer is almost always a yes.
Which is why the second you go quiet, and the distant laughter of the other counselors fills the space between you, he’s already batting the sleeping bag off his lap.
“I knew it,” he says. The fabric slips off him just as a firework bursts overhead, and your eyes drag over his body. The lean, tan muscle from all his time outside this summer, down to his long, hard cock jerking against his happy trail. “You’re so busy acting like you hate me, wanting to play this game where we bitch at each other all summer, and now you’re making up excuses to come into my tent—”
“Oh, trust me,” you scoff, tearing your eyes away to meet his again. “It’s not an excuse.”
“No?” he says softly, leaning back on one arm and gesturing at his body with the other. “Then, prove it.”
“Fine, but I’m only staying to keep you quiet,” you warn him, pinning him with a harsh look.
“Sure. Whatever,” Steve rasps, watching as you drop to your knees beside him.
Your fingers curl into his sleeping bag beside his shoulder, but you’re careful not to touch him.
He wishes you would.
You gesture impatiently at him, your hand a shadowy blur in the dark. “Go ahead and get it over with. I’m not sitting here all night. God.”
Steve rushes to obey, and when wraps his hand around his cock again, the rush is so intense it’s almost painful. The way you’re sitting there just watching him is making his head feel fuzzy, and his dick swell.
And look at you—pretending to not be affected in the slightest watching the flushed head poke out of his fist over and over as he jerks off in front of you. God, you turn him on so fucking much.
Steve heaves a stuttering breath, and his head drops back onto the ground as the pleasure pools in his gut. He thinks he’s doing a good job being quiet. But he can’t smother the moan that escapes him the second your warm hand brushes his shoulder.
“Steve,” you hiss, warning lacing your voice.
“Shut me up, then. Goddamn.” He groans, his cock twitching in his palm. “What are you even here for? I could do this myself—” At that moment, your hand finds his chest and, well, your fingers might as well be a defibrillator. His hips jerk, mouth dropping open in pleasure. “—oh, fuck yeah.”
Your touch is heaven. His eyelids threaten to shut as your fingers brush through his chest hair, over his ribs— so sure, and steady, soothing and warm. Like his flesh and bone is a map you know by heart.
He’s panting, desperate not to make a sound and give you a reason to take your hand away while your palm trails lower.
He raises his chin to catch a glimpse of your profile as the fireworks crack in the sky, raining down in bright fizzling pops that he feels in his chest.
Honestly, he should’ve known this is how the summer would end with you.
He’s known it, and yet, he’s run from it.
Because the last time he had you…God, he’s been such an idiot.
Last summer, when you came home from college for break, he’d been sitting on your doorstep. A silent understanding passed between you two, and then you’d grabbed his hand and taken him up to your room.
Afterwards, you were laying under him, sweaty and warm, eyes glowing with…with something that made his heart tug painfully. And suddenly, it all got to be too much.
He’d been craving you all semester. As if you were a long drag from a cigarette. And that gnawing ache didn’t surface with anyone else. Only you.
His chest swelled up tight, and the bridge of his nose started to burn, and he realized… he was scared.
Terrified, actually.
Because what if the both of you reaching out for each other was nothing but a trained response, like Pavlov’s dogs or some shit? What if you had built this trauma bond…thing? He wasn’t entirely sure what that even meant, but he knew that no one could know him so intrinsically, so deeply, so invasively and still want him anyway.
So, Steve proceeded to do the stupidest thing possible by dropping a kiss to your forehead, pulling his clothes back on, and walking out the door.
He told himself it was for the best. Months after, even though he thought of you constantly, and still woke up slicked in sweat, hands flying to his wounds in the dark, he never called you.
But when you showed up at Camp Woodwick, looking to earn some cash over the summer, same as him, all the walls he’d built up between him and his past came crashing down.
So, he pushed you away. For weeks. It was worse than he thought it would be, though. Because when he pushed, you pushed back harder.
His head swims with the knowledge that after a whole year without you, you’re here. You’re the same. Familiar. The smell of your hair, down to the soft breaths escaping to ur lips.
He’s still hard as a rock, but his hand isn’t cutting it. Not when what he really wants is right here in front of him.
Steve curses under his breath. “You wanna help me out, sweetheart? Give me that mouth?”
“W-what?” You snort. “You can hardly be quiet with your own hand, Harrington. You think you’re going to survive that?”
“Please? Just lick it. Just the tip.”
“Stop begging. Also, be qu—“
“Right. Right, I’ll be quiet,” Steve grumbles. “Just—if you’re gonna fucking march in here and tell me to do it faster, then the least you could do is help me out.” Another firework squeals, then pops, showering you in gold as you blink down at him.
Boisterous laughs drift over the water, and your eyes flick up instinctively to meet the tent wall before your bottom lip disappears between your teeth. His stomach flips in anticipation. He knows that look.
“C’mon,” he urges, fighting back a smirk. “You know how I like it, baby.”
Shit.
Steve knows that pet name has always been your weakness. You’re not sure exactly why. Maybe it’s because it reminded you that on the outside, you were just friends. But in bed…you were his.
You shouldn’t fall for a cheap trick like that. Look at him, biting the corner of his mouth like he’s trying not to smirk. Cocky bastard.
But, even so, you make the mistake of glancing down his body.
His hand slips away in a silent invitation, revealing his heavy cock jutting out from his soft tummy and you lose the war.
Rocks dig into your knees under the tent floor but you hardly pay them any mind, your clit already throbbing in anticipation of touching him.
“Fine. But only because it’s faster.” You say.
Your hand curls around him, reveling in the hot, velvety feel of him in your palm. A sound slips from his throat, sudden and unbidden.
You jerk your head up, and he can’t see your face clearly in the dark, but he knows your body language. The message is solidified when you bring your other hand up to rake through the hair on his chest, digging into his pec in warning.
Steve’s hand lands on yours, and the warmth seeping through his fingers doesn’t just make your pussy clench, it also makes your nose burn.
You turn your attention back to stroking him, ignoring the tightness in your lungs. Ignoring the way you’re practically holding hands across his chest.
“God, you’ve been kind of a bitch to me all summer,” Steve grunts, thrusting up into your touch. “You know that?”
You roll your eyes, even though he can’t see you. “Steve, you can’t call me a bitch at the same time you’re fucking my hand. Either we’re fighting or we’re fucking. Pick one. Jesus.”
“I don’t know.” His head falls back against the ground with a heavy thud. “We’re pretty good at both, apparently. God, your hand feel so g—”
“Shut the fuck up,” you hiss.
“Sorry! Sorry.”
Another firework shrieks into the sky, exploding in a loud pop, and showering you both in a flash of red. It lights up Steve’s body, illuminating the scars along his side. Long jagged things, carved deep under his ribs.
You can’t help but remember the panic that seized you when the Demobats descended on him. You’ll never forget the sickening horror that coursed through your body when you looked over to see him pale and shaking, dripping in blood.
You swallow hard. Then, as if pulled by some invisible string, you lower your head and brush your mouth against his skin. His core muscles flex at the soft glide of your tongue on his belly, but he tenses as your lips trace his scar line.
“Don’t—” he rasps. Suddenly, his hand flies down and tugs your chin away.
“What?” You whisper against his skin, a little teasing. But when you flick your eyes up to his, he looks away, raking a hand through his hair. Your hand slows around his cock and you frown. A thread of anxiety coils in your gut.
“What?” you repeat. “I was there, too, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember.” He lets out a short laugh, but the warmth is gone from his voice. “I just—really don’t want to be reminded of that right now.”
You pull back, hands falling away from him instantly.
Another bottle rocket screams, punctuating the heavy beat of silence that follows. Steve notices the shift in you, the way your body locks up in hesitation.
Sighing heavily, he raises his palms to his face and digs them into his eyes.
“Sorry, I’m—that was fucked up. I’m sorry.”
You sit back on your heels, suddenly unsure, and your eyes drop to the ground.
He combs through his hair again roughly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. I was just…there’s a kid here that reminds me of a little Eddie, and the scars—”
You smile softly. “Reed, right? I’ve been thinking the same thing all summer.”
“Every time I see those scars, I think about the bats, and then I think about losing Eddie, and then with you here—” He gestures towards you and he trails off.
You don’t need him to finish the thought, though. You can see it in the way his chest heaves, and the slight crack in his voice.
With a sigh, you settle down onto the ground beside him. He shuffles wordlessly, giving you room to lay on the other half of his sleeping bag.
“It’s okay, Steve. This is how it always was for us. Just—two people trying to get through it, you know? To feel something again.”
“Oh yeah? Is that all were?” His voice is deeper now. Huskier. It makes a lump build in your throat. “Was that all it was for you?”
You watch the light show fall across the tent ceiling together, muted little orbs glowing through the fabric.
“No,” you say softly. “But everything hits me at once sometimes, too, you know. And when that happens...fuck, I just need you. And that feeling…” The words fizzle out and fall like the embers in the sky, and your hand reaches up to clutch at your chest—like it would be easier just to rip out your heart and show him.
Steve hesitates, swallowing hard. “It’s not…bad, right? That feeling?”
“No, Steve. It’s not bad.”
A quiet moment passes, then he blows out a breath. “At college, they have these therapists. Robin dragged me to a session once, so I went.” You turn your head to look at him, but he keeps his eyes above. “I was scared, like, what if they didn’t believe me, you know? And, well, I’m not sure if Dr. Treya really believes me, but that doesn’t seem to matter much. She treats it all like it’s true, anyway.”
There’s a loud squeal of a bottle rocket, then laughter somewhere in the distance.
“I’m sorry we fought the last few weeks,” you whisper. “I was angry. But mostly just hurt. By last summer.”
Steve sits up a little at that, his strong arm bracing his torso as he looks down at you. “And you had every right to be,” he says. “I was a coward for leaving like I did. I got scared, I think. But, I’m getting better. At least, Robin says I am.”
You chuckle. “I’m sure she’s right.”
“But I am sorry, too. For that, and for…just for everything.”
You gaze up at him, and the urge to cup his face and bring his lips down to yours grips you by the spine. But Steve lays back down next to you before you can say anything.
“I’m proud of you for going to see a counselor,” you say into the dark after a long moment. “Does it help?”
“Yeah.” He swallows. “But I wish there was something I could do, too, you know? Other than just talk about it.”
He takes the world upon his shoulders, this boy.
He deserves to know that, at the end of the day, someone has him. Someone wants him. Not just for what he can give, but for who he is. He’s been pushing you away because you had that for him, and he didn’t know how to accept it. Until recently.
You see that now.
His bare arm is so warm against yours. You follow it down with your fingers until you find his hand, threading your fingers through his.
“Steve, you’ve already done so much. For everyone.”
His hand practically swallows yours. Long fingers, with blunt tips. They just remind you of all the ways he’s used them to pull orgasms from your body, one after the other.
All he does is give, give, give. Even when you give him hell all summer, fuck, he gives that right back.
Your hair whispers against the sleeping bag as you turn to look at him. His brown eyes meet yours, and his soft exhale ghosts across your cheek.
You search his face for permission, because he already knows what you’re asking. When his expression softens, just enough, you don’t hesitate. Hooking your leg around his waist, you roll on top of him and sit up.
“Let me take care of you,” you say.
He sucks in a breath at the sight of you rising above him, his hand coming to land hot and heavy on your thigh.
Scooting backwards, you lower your mouth to his torso. He hisses, his other hand flying to tangle in your hair. His cock has softened slightly against his hip, but you can fix that with your mouth in no time.
His chest heaves with a shaky breath. “Wait, no. No, baby.”
You suck a soft love bite on his hip before raising your eyes to his. “You don’t want it anymore?”
“No—shit, of course I want it, but—” He snorts, but his hand finds yours and he tries to pull you up. “If we’re going to do this, I want to do it for real. Not to distract each other. Not like we used to. Can…can you do that?”
You nod once. Then again. “Yes. Yes, of course, Steve. I wasn’t—I was just—” your heart slams into your throat. “I still love you.”
A slow, sweet smile spreads across Steve’s face. Your cheeks flush, and you try to squirm away, but Steve squeezes your thigh, urging you to find his eyes again. And when you do, you see that familiar heat is back.
“Good,” he says. “Now we can get down to the real question of what the fuck do you think you’re doing barging into my tent when I’m masturbating, you little brat?”
Heat licks up your spine, and you bite back a grin. “I told you! You were being loud.”
“Yeah, sure, now tell me the real reason.”
“That is the real reason!”
“Don’t lie to me.”
You open your mouth to argue, but his hands clamp down on your hips before you can, and in one smooth motion, he flips you so you’re on your back. Your heart slams against your ribs as he pulls you down under him, his chest rising and falling against yours.
“Just admit it,” he says, a cocky grin twisting his lips right over yours. “You wanted me to lick that pretty pussy for you, didn’t you?”
Your panties dampen instantly, pulsing in anticipation of feeling his mouth on you after so long.
You might have been at each other’s throats for weeks, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t like it. You saw it in his eyes by the campfire and by every rough two-hand touch football game. Every time your face went red and you mouthed off at him he’d just smile and lift his eyebrows as if to say, ‘is that all you got?’ Maybe crook two fingers at you with a cocky tilt of his head, urging you to ‘give me more.’
Well, you could definitely give him more.
“I don’t know, Harrington,” you sigh, tilt your head against the tent floor in mock confusion. “I hardly remember what getting head from you is like.”
His grin turns wicked. Then suddenly, he’s moving—greedy hands tugging at your shorts.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, voice dripping in that mocking tone that always makes you wet. “I thought maybe you’d want me to do that thing my tongue that always—” A whimper escapes your throat and he breaks off mid-sentence with an openmouthed laugh. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
He crawls down your body, taking your shorts and underwear with him, and you gasp when something hard and hot brushes your thigh. Glad to see he’s sporting that erection again. You feel a fleeting disappointment at the fact you haven’t gotten to suck him off yet, but it’s probably better this way, to be honest.
It’s literally impossible to make Steve Harrington be quiet while getting a blowjob—
Without warning, he plunges two fingers deep into your slick channel. Your breath stutters, hips bucking into his palm on instinct. He groans out loud, but you’re too blissed out by the stretch that you can’t even get onto him for it.
Lungs seizing, heart pounding, you squirm on the slippery fabric of his sleeping bag, trying to get even closer. Your nipples harden against your T-shirt, begging for his touch. For more of him.
You peek down your body just in time to see his head disappear between your thighs, and then his mouth is on you. God, his tongue is so warm and wet against your clit, and his skillful fingers stroke you just right. In and out, then curling into the spongey spot inside that has your mouth dropping open.
“Missed those sounds you make,” he says, voice muffled against your pussy.
Shit.
You hadn’t even realized you were making noise. You dig your knee into his side in retaliation and he chuckles, squirming away before diving in again.
He licks messy, broad strokes, tasting you on purpose, getting you all over his tongue. When you grind up into his face he grabs you by the hips and moves with you, following your every wriggle and writhe.
Yep, his mouth still makes the world feel dull, reducing your hearing to the whoosh of your heartbeat in your ears as everything else just fades away into mind numbing bliss—
“Shut up,” Steve says, pulls back from you with a wicked grin. His face is covered in your arousal, glinting in the firework light, and the sight makes you clench around his fingers. “Seriously, shut up if you don’t want them to hear you.”
“Wha—Steve!” You whine, canting your hips up into his mouth again as he lowers himself back down to you. “H-help.”
He shrugs. “I’m not the one who gives a shit if they hear.”
The vibrations of his voice against your clit rips a moan from your throat, unbidden, and your lips cinch together. Your hand flies to your hip, finding his fingers there. You try to pull his hand up but he shakes off your touch, holding onto your waist and puling you roughly against his tongue.
You whine in protest, and go to pull on his hand again, but that’s a mistake.
He brings his palm down to your inner thigh with a sharp smack that has your back arching off the ground, your eyes narrowing in warning.
“Cover your own mouth, sweetheart, fuck,” he chuckles, giving your clit a soothing series of licks. “I’m busy.”
“Fuck you,” you whisper, but it quickly turns into a needy whine when he sucks the swollen nub into his mouth.
Steve continues to stretch you out on his fingers, murmuring dirty things into your pussy as he does. How sweet you taste. How tightly you’re squeezing his fingers. But you barely hear any of it.
You’re so wet—both from his mouth and your arousal—that your inner thighs slick together when you try to squeeze them. He yanks your legs apart again, and you’re powerless to stop him because the pads of his fingers are dragging out tendrils of pleasure from your spine you haven’t felt in a year.
Thankfully, the fireworks seem to be reaching a peak outside— loud bangs and pops going off every few seconds help drown out the sounds of your needy pussy and blissed-out sighs. Because frankly, you don’t have the brain power to think about anything except how desperately you need him inside you.
You whimper again accidentally. “Steve—”
“Okay, baby,” he replies instantly, knowing what you need by the tone in your voice alone. His fingers slip out and he rises up over you, your knees falling open eagerly as he lines himself up.
When he notches the tip of his cock at your entrance, your cunt greedily sucks him in. He gasps, hips bucking forward instinctively, and neither one of you are able to stop the mixed groans that ensue from finally, finally being connected like this again after so long.
Big hands scramble for a hold on your waist, blunt nails pinching your skin as he drags himself back, then forth, slamming up into you with a depth that makes you sob.
“Still fuckin’ made for me,” he groans. “Goddamnit.”
You’re panting, arms wrapped around his shoulders, biting the skin of your forearm to keep from moaning as his hips roll slow and deliberate.
“Good girl,” he praises, and you shudder, feeling the ache grow sharper. “Staying so quiet, look at you. You can’t ask me to be silent when you come around me, okay? Fuck—that’s like being tortured all over again.”
You shoot him a withering look even as you writhe underneath him. “That’s not funny.”
He laughs, and his silhouette shifts over you, his cock driving deeper and hitting that spot inside you that makes you see sparks that aren’t there. “Sorry, sweetheart. I just—oh yeah, grind that clit into me. That’s it.”
Your hands rake through his hair, desperately trying to hold onto something. But the force behind his thrusts causes you to pull on the strands, and, well, that was a mistake.
His teeth sink into the skin of your shoulder in order to stay somewhat quiet, and oh—fuck. How could you have forgotten what pulling his hair does to him? Stars burst behind your eyes as the fireworks crackle overhead, and the tension between your hips coils tighter.
“Fuck—Steve,” you gush. “Please.”
“What do you need?” He rasps against your throat, sucking and biting. “I’m all yours.”
Little tremors course though your legs as your orgasm builds, the swollen head of his cock nudging those spots deep inside that ache for him.
Only him.
“You need me to kiss you?” he says, breath hot in your ear. “Need me to shut you up?”
You nod frantically.
“Go on, ask me for it.”
You whimper, too far gone to play the game anymore. “Kiss me, Stevie. Please, please—”
“Fuck,” Steve groans at the nickname he hasn’t heard in so long, and instantly lowers his mouth to yours.
The first brush of his lips against yours makes you want to cry.
“Missed you, baby,” he says, then kisses you deeper, his tongue dipping into your mouth and swirling with yours. “So much. Missed kissing you. Missed talking with you.” He hesitates, pulling back slightly before planting one soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Missed loving you. But I guess I never really stopped, did I?”
Your eyes connect for one heartbreaking, devestatingly sweet second before you pull him back down, pouring your love for him into the gentle, yet desperate stroke of your tongue against his.
Feeling you kiss him like that snaps something deep inside him.
Your inner muscles clamps down around him as his thrusts turn messy and hard, and his hands run over your shoulders, your breasts, your hips, pulling your body back down to meet his every thrust.
The pleasure builds to an insurmountable level as he rips your shirt up to capture your nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue around it and making you want to scream.
You flatten your palm over your lips, whimpering through the gaps in your fingers over and over, squeezing your eyes shut as Steve pushes you higher and higher until finally—you’re falling.
Your teeth bite into your fingers hard to muffle your moans as your pussy clenches down like a vice on Steve’s cock rhythmically, your orgasm rushing through you.
He lets out a choked sound above you, and with the way his chest falls in a sequence of familiar pants, you know he’s close. Through the pleasured haze, your other hand flies to cover his mouth just in time for his orgasm to hit.
“Mmhmm, mhhhmm.” Steve whines loudly, as his body tenses, and his cock twitches inside you. And you have no choice but to shove your fingers inside his lips, forcing him to suck on them as he reaches his peak. His eyes roll back as he bullies his cock against your cervix, painting your walls with his come, even as his tongue strokes your knuckles tenderly and reverently.
It takes awhile for the both of you to come back down to earth, but eventually, you let your fingers fall from his mouth and he laughs breathlessly, dipping to give you one last slow kiss before slipping out of you.
He fumbles around for his T-shirt in the darkness and then cleans you up with care, which makes your heart twist. Once he’s done, he settles on his side, and pulls you into him, your back pressed to his chest. You burrow into him, his arm settling around you, and it’s amazing how quickly your lashes start to fall, wrapped up in this familiar comfort.
“So…truce?” Steve whispers into the crook of your shoulder. You laugh softly.
Even under a hazardously leaning tent, and a sky littered with mini explosions, the world seems a little less dark right now. The past, a little less heavy.
Maybe it’s because neither of you are running away from it, anymore. But rather, facing it. Together.
And because you know, without a shadow of a doubt, Steve Harrington’s heartbeat will always be in your future.
“Truce.”
a/n: the tent definitely collapses on top of them five minutes later, by the way. also, my idea originally was not nearly as angsty, but don’t you just love it when characters highjack your story? god, the fics always turn out so much better that way.
steve masterlist | cutie banner by @cursed-carmine
Gifting Eddie an NSFW picture book of yourself for his birthday 🖤❤️❤️🔥
(Short but sweet👅)
Eddie never really cared much for his birthday, but he did love the free excuse to smoke himself into astronomical highs, and drink until he couldn't anymore.
Then he meets you, who treats his birthdays like a national fucking holiday.
It's only natural for you to be excited for Eddie's 29th birthday, the second birthday you'll be spending with him. Especially with the present you're about to give him.
A book stock full of nude photos of you.
You remember the day you discovered the dirty magazines in Eddie's room from before he met you, and the way his face flushed like he got caught for a crime.
You took all your pictures yourself, and edited them into the scrapbook as well.
You walk through the door with a devilish smile on your face, and Eddie gets up from man spreading on the couch.
"Hey, sexy." He greets, holding you by the waist. "I see you've got some stuff for me."
"I sure do, birthday boy. Open 'em up."
Eddie's eyes widen when he sees three packs of cigarettes, and two ounces of weed. You also gave him a six pack, which makes him clutch his heart dramatically.
"Hot damn, it should be my birthday every day. Wow, thank you baby."
"There's one more." You hand him the book, and the cover looks nowhere near as vulgar as the inside.
"Is this a photo book of you? You look beautiful." He opens it up, his eyes widening at a picture of your pussy before he closes it back. His face is red. Curiosity gets the best of him, and he opens it again to another picture. One of your bare breasts.
Eddie's pants tighten below his belt, and he places the book down without a word.
He's too damn horny to say anything, resulting in him eventually fucking you hard through the mattress.
summary: despite you and robby agreeing to keep your strictly physical relationship under wraps, you self-combust when your attending keeps calling you 'sweetheart'.
wc. 1k
notes.this is completely based off my lab partner calling me 'sweetheart' and me nearly breaking a vial. enjoy :)
Sweetheart. Sweetheart. Thanks, sweetheart.
It replays in your head like a cursed audio loop as you meander your way through the Pitt. You stay focused but your mind circles back to it. Sweetheart.
The nickname (petname? Term of endearment? The fucking key to the unraveling of your psyche?) continues to echo around your head that Dana mistakes your distracted countenance for exhaustion and hustles you to the break room with a protein bar in hand. You take the few minutes of reprieve in hopes to recalibrate your headspace, prep yourself for the remaining hours of your shift, but instead you chew on that small little instance that rocks the world beneath your feet instead.
Dr. Robby had called you sweetheart.
It's not the first time he's called you anything by your name, given the fact that the two of you have been sleeping together by the time your final year of residency kicked off a few months ago. But the two of you have been detached and professional outside of the bedroom, managing to find time even when you've been moved over to the night shift to avoid any suspicion.
Covering a double means seeing Robby and you didn't realize how it rearranges the neat order of your life to see him in daylight after your midnight trysts.
"Hey."
Speak of the devil—
"Hi," you wave your half eaten protein bar, already leaning forward to get to your feet from where you've been hiding in the break room. "Did you need me for something?"
He shakes his head, a warm hand pressing on your shoulder to sit you back down while he remains standing. The distance, the way your head tilts up to meet his gaze, makes his head shortcircuit. The image flickers and the hospital is replaced with his bedroom, your chair replaced with his floor as he gazes down at you—
He blinks and the hospital shifts back into view. "No, Dana told me you were in here takin' a breather. You okay?"
You nod and take another chomp of your bar. "Yeah, she said I got a little spacey. Oh, the woes of a double."
A chuckle rumbles through his chest as he absentmindedly tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear. It's done casually, like he didn't even think about what he's doing. Second nature. "Make sure you get some sleep tonight, sweetheart. Did you need a ride?"
"I—" Your lashes flutter, mouth parting slightly in shock. "Um. Yeah. Yes, please."
Something settles in his chest at your easy compliance. "Good. Meet me at the ambulance bay after handoffs then."
The door shuts behind him when he leaves you but you're still staring at the door in utter befuddlement. When did Dr. Robby get so… boyfriend?
—
The rest of the shift goes by smoothly, enough traumas (and even a degloved foot) to keep your mind on the fact that the attending you've been fucking has suddenly taken on the boyfriend mantle. It's disarming to say the least, garnering attention from the other day shift residents and nosy nurses whenever Robby hovers close enough to touch.
"Sweetheart, go finish charting," he interrupts your conversation with McKay, steering you away from chairs where you've been headed to help triage. "Your shift's almost over and you've been dead on your feet."
Exhaustion has you nodding in easy agreement as the older woman enlists Joy instead to help out but the familiar petname zaps you awake the moment you settle behind the computer.
Beside you, wheels scrape against linoleum floors and Trinity is immediately hissing in your ear in absolute giddy— "'Sweetheart'?"
You wince and shove her shoulder to push her off before glancing up to see Princess and Perlah nowhere to be seen. "Shut up."
"Since when did you and Dr. Grumpy make things official?"
The cursor blinks in front of you as you try to recall your last patient. "We didn't. And stop talking so loud—!"
"Please— the entire department know you two have been messing around, I just didn't think he's been promoted to boyfriend—"
"Who got promoted to boyfriend?"
Your stomach drops and you peek over your shoulder to see the man in question, holding his bag and yours. Trinity's grin is downright villainous as she rises from her chair to make her exit. "Nothing, Dr. Robby. Have a good night, you two."
Your fingers fly across the screen to finish and submit before getting to your feet. When you reach up to grab your bag, he angles his shoulder away to stop you. "Dr. Robby—"
"No, I got it. Come on, I took the car with me today."
You trail behind him in slight apprehension but upon feeling the curious looks from incoming night shift (as well as Dr. Abbot's amused stare), you scurry faster to walk beside Robby.
"Did I do something?" you blurt out before the two of you can get too far.
Robby pauses, chuckles and gives you a confused but easy smile. "No…? Do you think you're in trouble, sweetheart?"
"That!" You jab a finger up at his lips, feeling the double hit you all at once; your brain to mouth filter is non-existent now. "Sweetheart! You don't call me that, you don't make me take breaks during a busy shift, you fuck me 'til I cry and give me coffee before I leave. Did I miss something important?"
His smile falls and dread creeps in. You ruined it now. "I… didn't realize it wasn't as smooth as a transition as I thought."
"What?"
He sets down the bags to hold you gently by the shoulders, slightly lowering himself to meet your eyes. The simple action makes something warm twist happily in your stomach. "I thought I could've started hinting at wanting more instead of just scaring you off by asking you out on a date."
"… what?"
Robby frowns now and he gently holds your cheek. His gaze is clinical and you realize he's trying to diagnose whatever the hell's wrong with you and not the fact that he's flipped your world upside down. "Did you hit your head—"
"No! I'm fine, I just— I didn't expect you to… want more." You shrug, seeking out this newfound type of attention. "Your seven-week threshold for dating isn't exactly a secret. In fact, I was expecting you to start ghosting me."
A wry chuckle escapes him. "Sweetheart. We've been fooling around for nine weeks now."
"… oh."
"Mhm. So, you ready to head home and get some sleep?"
pairing – garrett graham x reader
summary – garrett's girlfriend is drunk, freezing, and extremely loyal. so loyal, in fact, that she refuses his water, his jacket, and his flirting because she’s waiting for… garrett graham.
warnings – fluff, drunk antics, alcohol, post-game party, protective boyfriend garrett, reader doesn't recognise him for most of the fic
notes from me – part of my 1k celebrations!! & based on this request!! thank u anon, such a cute idea 🥹
word count – 4.4k
navigation – masterlist | taglist
There was two versions of Garrett Graham. The version people got in the rink, all sharp focus and captain voice and that very specific game-day intensity that made even strangers in the stands start sitting a little straighter when he skated past.
Then there was the version people got after he’d won, showered, changed, and been handed exactly two beers at a party by Logan, who had called it recovery hydration with the confidence of a man who had never once been trusted by medical professionals.
That Garrett was looser. Warmer. Still tired in the shoulders, still carrying the ache of a hard check somewhere along his ribs, but smiling more easily now, head tipped back while Tucker said something dry beside him and Dean yelled over the music from the kitchen like volume could make a story better.
His hair was still damp at the edges from his post-game shower, curling slightly where he’d shoved his hand through it too many times, and the dark blue Briar letterman jacket had stayed on for maybe twelve minutes before the house got too hot and he dumped it over the back of a chair.
He was, by every reasonable standard, doing great. His girlfriend was not. His girlfriend had arrived at the party with Allie and a plan that had included one drink, maybe two, and absolutely no consideration for the fact that girls pouring vodka cranberries in hockey houses tended to treat measurements as a loose concept.
Garrett had been across the living room when she’d taken the first one. He’d been in the kitchen with Tucker when she’d finished the second. By the time he saw her again, she was standing near the bottom of the stairs with one hand wrapped around a red cup, smiling at something Allie said with the bright, floaty concentration of a girl whose whole body had started operating on a two-second delay.
He could notice a winger drifting out of formation from half a rink away with two guys trying to take his head off. He could absolutely notice his girlfriend blinking too slowly under the hallway light, her cheeks warm from alcohol and the heat of too many bodies packed into the house, her mouth glossy and parted slightly like she kept forgetting whether she was meant to be talking or laughing.
She looked happy, which helped. Loose and giggly and pleased. But she also kept shifting her weight like the floor had become more wobbly than usual, and Garrett had not fought for his life against Harvard’s second line that afternoon just to let his girlfriend get taken out by hardwood.
So he left Logan mid-sentence. Logan didn’t even pretend to be offended. He just followed Garrett’s line of sight, saw her trying to drink from the cup and missing her mouth by half an inch, and winced. “Oh, buddy.”
Garrett pointed at him without looking back. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was gonna say she looks graceful.”
“Die.”
Garrett crossed the room with the easy confidence of someone everyone automatically moved for, red cup of water in hand because Tucker, thank God, had seen the situation unfolding and passed it over like a medic on a battlefield.
She didn’t see Garrett coming. She was too busy nodding very seriously at Allie, who was holding both her hands and saying something that involved the words no, babe, I’m so serious and eyebrow blindness.
Garrett stepped into her space, close enough that his knee brushed hers. “Hey, baby.”
She turned toward him. For one beautiful second, her face went blank. Then her entire expression rearranged itself into scandalised horror.
“Excuse you,” she said, pulling herself up to her full height, which was less effective than usual because she swayed slightly at the top and had to catch Allie’s wrist. “I have a boyfriend.”
Garrett blinked.
Allie made a noise like she’d swallowed a firework. Garrett looked at his girlfriend. His girlfriend looked back at him with genuine, drunken offence, like he’d approached her in a bar wearing a leather bracelet and too much confidence.
“Uh huh,” he said slowly, because there were moments in life that required leadership and moments that required not laughing directly in the face of the girl you loved while she was doing her best. “That’s great.”
“It is great,” she said, lifting her chin. “He’s very tall.”
Garrett’s mouth twitched. “Good for him.”
“And he plays hockey.”
“No shit?”
“And he’s, like, really good at it.”
Allie had turned away now, one hand clamped over her mouth, shoulders shaking. Garrett refused to look at her because if he did, he was going to lose it, and that felt like the sort of thing his girlfriend would interpret as disrespect from a strange man at a party, which apparently he was now.
He held out the cup. “Can you drink some water for me?”
Her eyes narrowed. Suspicious. Wobbly. Deeply loyal to the absent boyfriend currently standing less than a foot in front of her. “Why?”
“Because you’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“Baby.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Don’t call me baby.”
“Right. Sorry.” He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, nodding with a level of solemnity he absolutely did not feel. “My bad.”
“My boyfriend calls me baby.”
“Does he?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds annoying.”
“He’s not annoying.” She frowned at him with such force that it seemed to briefly take all her balance with it. Garrett’s free hand shot out to her waist before she could tip sideways into Allie. She looked down at it, then back up at him, appalled. “Don’t touch my waist.”
Garrett removed his hand at once, palms lifting. “Alright.”
Allie, still dying, leaned in and said, “Babe, maybe just drink the water.”
She looked betrayed. “You’re taking his side?”
“I’m taking hydration’s side.”
Garrett offered the cup again. “Just a couple sips.”
She stared at him for another second, clearly weighing the moral implications of accepting water from a man who looked suspiciously like her boyfriend but who she had, for reasons unclear to everyone except the vodka, decided was not.
Finally, she took the cup with great caution, like he might use the transfer to propose something criminal, and drank.
Garrett watched her swallow three obedient little sips, then nodded. “Good girl.”
The look she gave him could have killed a weaker man. “Nope.”
“Right. Yep. Forgot.”
“My boyfriend says that.”
“Bet he does,” Garrett muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She handed the cup back, pleased with herself and still indignant, and then immediately turned toward Allie like the conversation had been handled.
Garrett stood there for half a second, holding the water, staring at the side of her face.
Dean appeared beside him like he had been summoned by humiliation itself. “Hey, man.”
Garrett didn’t look over. “Do not.”
Dean’s grin was audible. “She knows you’re her boyfriend, right?”
“She’s drunk.”
“She just told you she has a boyfriend.”
“Yeah, Dean, I was here.”
Dean leaned around him to look at her, delighted. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Garrett finally turned his head and gave him a flat look. “That’s sad.”
“No, what’s sad is getting rejected by your own girlfriend.” Dean clapped him once on the shoulder and immediately stepped out of reach. “Tough shift, captain.”
Garrett pointed at him. “I will put you through a wall.”
“Wow.” Dean called over his shoulder, already retreating. “Her boyfriend would never.”
Garrett took a slow breath through his nose and looked back at her. She was laughing at something Allie said now, one hand pressed to her own chest, head tipping forward so her hair fell around her face.
She looked ridiculous. Beautiful and unsteady and way too warm in the cheeks, standing under the hallway light like the world had gone pleasantly fuzzy and she trusted it not to hurt her because she hadn’t yet noticed Garrett had been replaced by some guy bothering her with cups.
His annoyance softened before it could become anything real. Fine. He could work with this.
For the next twenty minutes, Garrett kept orbiting. That was the only word for it. He didn’t hover, because hovering would get him accused of being controlling by Dean, and probably by her if she remembered how to form an argument.
He orbited. Close enough to keep an eye on her, far enough that she didn’t look up and accuse him of trying to steal girlfriend privileges from Garrett Graham, who was both beloved and missing.
She danced with Allie in the living room, mostly from the waist up because her coordination had started giving its two weeks’ notice.
She complimented Tucker’s shirt with extreme sincerity even though Tucker was wearing the same plain black t-shirt he wore to every party.
She told Logan he looked so tall tonight, which made Logan look down at himself like height might have happened recently and without his permission.
Garrett found her again near the back door, rubbing both hands over her bare arms.
The house was hot, but the door kept swinging open whenever someone stepped out to smoke or yell into the yard, letting in cold spring air that slipped over her skin and made her shoulders inch up toward her ears.
Garrett saw the little shiver move through her before she did. He grabbed his letterman jacket off the chair and came up behind her, careful this time, no hands first. Just the jacket, warm from the room and heavy with him, settled over her shoulders.
“There,” he said, low near her ear. “You’re cold.”
She froze.
Garrett closed his eyes for one second. “Please don’t.”
She shrugged the jacket off so fast it nearly hit the floor. Garrett caught it by the collar.
“Nope,” she said.
“Baby.”
Her head snapped around. “I said no.”
Garrett looked at the ceiling. The ceiling offered no help. “You’re shivering.”
“I only wear my boyfriend’s jacket.”
“This is your boyfriend’s jacket.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It literally has my name on it.”
She squinted at the embroidered Graham on the chest like letters were a personal challenge. “Lots of people are named Graham.”
“Not on this team.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do, actually. I’m the captain.”
Her face twisted with immediate doubt, like that was exactly the sort of lie a jacket predator would tell at a party. “You’re the captain?”
Garrett stared at her. “Oh my God.”
From the couch, Logan made a strangled sound into his beer.
She pointed at Garrett’s chest, very serious now. “My boyfriend is the captain.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard great things.”
“He’s very hot.”
“Is he?”
“So hot,” she said, and then sighed, soft and dramatic and so genuinely fond that Garrett’s irritation had nowhere to land. “Like, stupid hot. It’s actually kind of annoying.”
Garrett’s face moved before he could stop it, warmth pulling at his mouth. “Yeah?”
She nodded. “And he has really nice hands.”
Logan choked.
Garrett didn’t look away from her. “Good hands are important.”
“They are,” she agreed solemnly. “And he’s not some random guy trying to give girls jackets.”
“Right.” He held up the jacket between them, helpless now. “Can I just–”
“No thank you.”
“You’re gonna freeze.”
“I’ll wait for Garrett.”
“You do that,” he said, because love was standing in a hockey house holding your own jacket while your drunk girlfriend faithfully rejected you on your own behalf. “Sounds like a plan.”
She smiled at him then, bright and polite. “Thank you for understanding.”
Garrett looked at her for a long moment, then at the jacket, then back at her. “Anytime.”
He walked away to the sound of Logan losing the fight against laughter so badly he had to bend over his own knees.
“You’re not helping,” Garrett said.
Logan wiped under one eye. “I’m sorry, man, but she’s loyal as hell.”
“She thinks I’m a stranger.”
“She thinks you’re a stranger with bad intentions. There’s a difference.”
“Great. That makes it better.”
Tucker came up beside them, looking far too amused for somebody usually committed to being the reasonable one. “You know, technically, this is a very good sign for your relationship.”
Garrett gave him a look. “Don’t start.”
“She’s hammered and still refusing men for you.”
“She refused me.”
“Exactly. Nobody is safe.”
Dean reappeared then, because joy, unfortunately, had a way of finding him. “I just heard she wouldn’t wear your jacket.”
Garrett’s jaw tightened. “You heard wrong.”
Dean grinned. “Did I?”
“I’m gonna kill you before playoffs.”
“No, you’re not. You’re too busy getting friend-zoned by your girlfriend.”
Garrett shoved him in the chest. Dean laughed all the way into the kitchen.
By the time Garrett found her again, she had somehow migrated to the old armchair near the stairs, sitting sideways with her knees tucked up and Dean perched on the arm like some kind of terrible emotional support animal.
Her bare arms were folded tight over her chest now, because she was still cold and still deeply committed to jacket monogamy. Her face had changed too. Gone softer around the edges, bottom lip pushed out, all the earlier moral outrage curdled into something wounded and grumpy.
Garrett stopped a few feet away. Dean saw him first and his grin turned wicked. “Oh, thank God.”
She frowned up at Dean. “What?”
“Nothing.” Dean patted the top of the chair. “Your night’s about to improve.”
She slumped deeper into the cushion, still looking at Dean. “I haven’t seen Garrett all night.”
Garrett blinked.
Dean pressed his lips together so hard his whole face went strange.
She kept going, mournful now, eyes glossy from alcohol and the kind of drama that only really existed after midnight in a crowded house. “He’s, like, disappeared.”
Garrett slowly looked at Dean.
“He had a game,” she said, to no one in particular, or maybe to Dean’s knee. “And I wanted to tell him he played really good.”
“He knows,” Dean said, voice suspiciously tight.
“No, but I wanted to tell him.” She rubbed at one eye with the heel of her hand, then stopped halfway as if remembering makeup existed. “And there’s this guy who keeps talking to me.”
Garrett’s eyebrows went up.
Dean made direct eye contact with him and looked like he might actually pass away.
“He keeps calling me baby,” she muttered. “And trying to make me drink water.”
Garrett bit the inside of his cheek.
“Sounds awful,” Dean managed.
“So annoying,” she said. “Like, okay, hydration police. I have a boyfriend.”
Garrett stepped closer then, because there were only so many times a man could be called the hydration police by the love of his life before he had to intervene. “Hey, baby.”
Her head lifted. The transformation was immediate and almost violent. Her whole face opened, bright and relieved and suddenly so happy to see him that it genuinely knocked the joke sideways in his chest. “Garrett!”
He froze. “Hi?”
“Baby!” She reached both arms out toward him from the chair, nearly tipping herself forward in the process. Garrett crossed the last step fast and caught her by the hands before she could slide off the cushion. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he said again, slower this time, looking down at her. “You recognise me now?”
She frowned like he’d said something deeply strange. “What are you talking about?”
Dean made a sound that might have been a cough if he had not immediately turned away with his shoulders shaking.
Garrett stared at her. “Nothing.”
She squeezed his face, delighted and fully unaware of the damage she’d caused him tonight. “I missed you.”
His mouth softened despite himself. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” She tugged at him, needy and uncoordinated, until he stepped properly between her legs where she’d moved to sit properly in the chair. Her knees bracketed his thighs, her fingers curling in the front of his shirt like now that she had found him, she intended to physically prevent further abandonment. “You were gone for so long.”
Garrett looked at her for one second, then over her head at Dean, who was wiping tears out of the corner of his eye. “I was around.”
She shook her head, very firm. “No.”
“No?”
“No. There was just this guy.”
Garrett nodded, face serious. “Right. The water guy.”
She gasped softly, looking up at him with genuine alarm. “You saw him?”
Dean slid off the arm of the chair. “I need to go tell Logan something immediately.”
Garrett didn’t even try to stop him. His hands had settled at her waist now, thumbs pressing lightly over the fabric of her top because she was still swaying in tiny increments even while sitting down. “Yeah, baby, I saw him.”
“You should talk to him.”
“Oh, I should?”
“Yes.” Her voice dropped into a whisper that wasn’t remotely quiet. “He was flirting with me.”
Garrett’s eyes flicked over her face. “Was he?”
“He kept calling me baby.”
“That’s crazy.”
“And he tried to give me his jacket.”
“What a dick.”
She nodded, relieved that he understood the severity. “I know.”
Garrett’s grin finally broke free, slow and helpless. He stepped closer until her forehead could tip against his stomach, and when it did, she sighed like the entire night had been restored to its proper axis by the smell of his shirt.
He looked down at the crown of her head, at the way her hands had found the hem of his t-shirt and held on loosely, and brushed his fingers once over the back of her hair.
She had rejected him all night. She had accused him of being a stranger, declined his water on principle, refused his jacket with the ferocity of a woman defending a sacred oath, and still somehow the inside of him went soft at the way she leaned into him now, trusting and warm and gone enough to be ridiculous but not gone enough to forget where she wanted to end up.
“Baby,” he murmured.
“Mhm?”
“You wanna get outta here?”
Her head lifted at once. “Yes, please.”
“Yeah?” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, watching the way her eyes followed his face now with no suspicion at all. “You done?”
“So done.” She nodded, then winced faintly at the motion like her brain had moved one direction and her skull another. “Can we go home?”
“Yeah, we can go home.”
“And maybe get McDonald’s?”
Garrett laughed under his breath, and the sound made her smile like she’d won something. “Sure, baby.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. But you gotta stand up first.”
She looked down at her own legs with sudden doubt. “Okay.”
“Confident.”
“I can do it.”
“I know you can.” He took both her hands and backed up half a step, giving her room. “Come on. Up we go.”
She stood with the intense focus of someone attempting a field sobriety test on a ship. Garrett’s hands went to her waist at once, steadying her as her knees straightened and her body tipped forward into his.
He didn’t make a show of it. Didn’t laugh when she grabbed his forearms and blinked hard at the room. He only held her until she found the floor again, fingers spread warm and firm at her sides.
“There we go,” he said softly. “You good?”
She nodded, then thought about it. “Mostly.”
“Mostly works.” He leaned around her just enough to grab his letterman jacket from the back of the chair “Can I put this on you now, or are we still being loyal to your boyfriend?”
She looked at the jacket. Then up at him. Then back at the jacket.
“That’s yours,” she said, like he was the one struggling to keep up.
Garrett pressed his lips together. “Yeah.”
She smiled, sweet and pleased. “Okay.”
He slid it over her shoulders. This time she pushed her arms into the sleeves with immediate enthusiasm, even though they swallowed her hands completely.
Garrett zipped it halfway because she was too busy smelling the collar with a happy little hum that did absolutely nothing for his ability to remain normal.
“You smell good,” she told him.
“Thanks.”
“Like Garrett.”
“Crazy coincidence.”
She nodded, accepting that, and slipped her hand into his when he offered it. Her fingers were warm and clumsy between his, squeezing twice like she was checking he was real. He squeezed back once and started guiding her through the house.
The party kept moving around them. Someone called his name from the kitchen and Garrett lifted his free hand without stopping. Logan appeared near the doorway, took one look at them, and grinned.
“She found you,” he said.
Garrett pointed at him. “Not a word.”
She turned toward Logan, solemn and slightly off-balance. “There was a guy bothering me all night.”
Logan’s mouth opened. Closed. He looked at Garrett, then back at her. “No way.”
She nodded. “Way.”
Garrett kept walking. “Let’s go.”
Behind them, Logan said, “Hope your boyfriend handles that.”
She turned around while still moving, which forced Garrett to catch her by the waist and redirect her like a shopping cart with a bad wheel. “He will!”
“I’m sure he will,” Logan called, voice cracking around laughter.
Outside, the cold hit her properly. She shrank into the jacket at once, shoulders rising, Garrett’s hand still wrapped around hers while they moved down the front steps and along the path toward his car.
The night was damp and dark around the edges, grass glittering faintly under the porch light, the music dulling behind the shut door until it became a pulse more than a song. She walked close to him, not quite straight, occasionally bumping into his side and then apologising to his arm.
“Baby,” she said halfway down the walk.
“Yeah?”
“That guy was so annoying.”
Garrett glanced down at her. “Still thinkin’ about him?”
“He was talking to me all night.”
“Sounds like a loser.”
“He was kind of hot, though.”
Garrett stopped walking.
She stopped too, delayed, then looked back at him with wide innocent eyes. “What?”
He stared at her. “Hot?”
She nodded, very serious. “But not as hot as you.”
“Uh huh.”
“And he had your jacket.”
“My jacket?”
“Yeah.” Her brows pulled together. “Actually, that was weird.”
Garrett looked up at the sky for patience. “So weird.”
“You should talk to him, baby. I’m serious.”
“Oh, I will.”
“Good.” She nodded once, satisfied, and started walking again. “Don’t fight him though. You had a game.”
His mouth twitched. “Right. Wouldn’t wanna overdo it.”
“And you already won.”
“I did.”
“You were really good,” she said, and the words came out softer now, slipping under the joke with no warning at all. Her fingers tightened around his. “I forgot to tell you.”
Garrett’s steps slowed by a fraction. He looked down at her, at her messy hair and flushed cheeks and his too-big jacket hanging off her shoulders, at the careful way she was watching the pavement. “Yeah?”
“Mhm. You did that thing.” She lifted their joined hands vaguely, as if the thing might be available in the air somewhere. “Where you went really fast and then the other guy was stupid.”
Garrett laughed, warm and surprised. “That was my favourite play.”
“It was good. I’m real proud of you.”
“Thanks, baby.”
She leaned into his arm, pleased. “You’re welcome.”
At the car, he opened the passenger door and turned her gently by the hips before she could attempt entry at a dangerous angle. “Alright. Watch your head.”
“I always watch my head.”
“You don’t.”
“I have one.”
“Having one and watching it are different.”
She ducked into the car with exaggerated care, one hand on the roof, one hand still gripping his. Garrett waited until she was seated, then crouched slightly and drew the seatbelt across her.
She looked down at him while he clicked it into place, her expression suddenly soft and sleepy. “Baby.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m so glad I found you.”
His hand paused on the belt for half a second.
She sighed, sinking back into the seat, eyes half-lidded now that the car’s quiet had started wrapping around her. “I missed you tonight.”
Garrett looked at her in the blue dashboard glow, and something in his chest pulled tight and fond and a little ridiculous. “Missed you too.”
“There was this guy–”
“I heard.”
“–and he kept trying to give me water.”
“So rude.”
“Exactly.” Her head tipped against the seat, eyes closing for one beat before opening again. “Can you get me nuggets?”
Garrett smiled and brushed his thumb over her knee before standing. “Yeah, babe. I’ll get you nuggets.”
“And fries.”
“Obviously.”
“And a Sprite.”
“You need water.”
She made a face. “The guy said that too.”
Garrett leaned one arm on the open door and looked down at her, trying very hard not to smile too much because she would see it and accuse him of something. “The guy sounds smart.”
She frowned. “Don’t compliment him.”
“My bad.”
“You’re my boyfriend.”
“I am.”
“And I love you.”
The words came out simple and softened by vodka and sleepiness and the warm cocoon of his jacket around her, but real enough that Garrett felt them land under his ribs.
He bent and kissed her forehead. “I love you too.”
She smiled, eyes closed now. “Good.”
“Good,” he murmured, brushing her hair back from her face before shutting the door.
He walked around the front of the car with a grin he couldn’t quite get rid of, hearing the muffled thump of the party behind him and the faint sound of her shifting around in the passenger seat like she was trying to get comfortable in sleeves three sizes too big.
When he got in, she was already curled toward his side, cheek against the seat, looking at him with heavy eyes and total, trusting recognition.
Garrett started the car. She reached blindly for his hand. He gave it to her.
For a minute they sat there in the dim quiet before he pulled away from the curb, her fingers woven through his, his thumb moving once over her knuckles. Then she inhaled like she had remembered something important.
“Babe?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re gonna talk to that guy, right?”
Garrett smiled at the road, the house falling behind them, McDonald’s glowing somewhere ahead like a drunken little lighthouse.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll give him a stern talking-to.”
“Good,” she mumbled, already drifting. “Tell him I have a boyfriend.”
His grin widened.
“Trust me, baby,” Garrett said, squeezing her hand once as he turned out onto the street. “He knows.”
summary: reader gets a minor head injury when logan is not around and everyone jumps to help. core characters mentioned but mostly dean and allie. short fic, genuinely not as dramatic as the summary makes it sound like lol. requested!
Logan’s phone won’t stop buzzing on his backpocket as he’s elbows deep in Professor Walsh’s car engine. He grabs the rag over his shoulder and does his best in cleaning the oil from his fingers before fishing the phone out of his pocket, only to find a bunch of texts from Dean.
dean: before you say anything
dean: it was an accident okay
dean: and she really really wanted to play with us :(
That, followed by a picture of you laying down on their couch, ice pack over your forehead, is enough to make Logan mumble a stream of apologies to Professor Walsh, something akin to “sosorryigottagoseemygirlfriend” and a promise of checking his engine another day as he literally runs back home.
He finds you in that very same resting place, except your head is on Allie’s lap while she holds the ice pack for you. Dean, who’s bandaging your ankle on the end of the couch, immediately stands up and walks over to Logan’s direction,
“Dude, I swear to god that it was an accident.”
Logan takes a look at you over Dean’s shoulder, “What the fuck happened?”
“Me and Garrett were playing soccer when she got here looking for you.” Dean starts talking, “Then she asked us if she could join and I obliged, of course, ‘cause– Well, I wouldn’t I? Can you imagine how misogynistic that sounds if–”
“Dean, get to the fucking point!”
“Right, sorry– She tripped on my foot while we were playing and hit her head. It wasn’t too bad, I managed to catch her. But–” Dean motions his head to you, awake and murmuring something to Allie neither the boys can hear.
Logan moves in your direction, kneeling by the couch, “Hey, honey. How you feeling?”
You can’t see him, ice pack covering your eyes as well as your forehead. Still, your lips quiver up when you listen to his voice, “I’m good. They’re all being dramatic.”
He looks up at Allie, gesturing for him to take her place on the couch. Allie carefully holds your head as she moves from under you, letting his hands hold you instead before she let go. You lay your head on Logan’s thigh, nuzzling as he presses a gentle kiss on the corner of your mouth. There’s a small cut on your chin, covered by a pink band-aid. His hands move to your cheek, drawing circles as he caresses your face, “You hurt your chin?”
You hum, and Allie speaks up, “Her arms are a bit scratched too. But we already cleaned them, and Garrett is on his way to the rink with Hannah. He said you guys keep a full first aid kit in the locker room.”
Logan hums, “Did you eat anything?” he murmurs to you.
“Tucker made me a smoothie.” You answer, then your hand moves to remove the ice pack. Logan sees a purple-tinted bump on your forehead, but your eyes are shiny and smiling, “Baby, I’m fine. Really. Don’t get too worried, handsome. Hannah and Allie patched me up, and Dean said he’s sorry a thousand times already.”
Your boyfriend looks up, watching Dean’s apologetic face turn into a pout. Logan rolls his eyes at him, a tiny smile on his lips as he feels disarmed. He’s a little ashamed now, being so ready to pick an argument with his friends a second ago for letting you get hurt, yet there you are, laying all pretty on his lap, tended and smiling as Logan’s heartstrings pull a little.
He gives you a grin, “Do you want paracetamol or something?”
Dean raises his hand and gives his most prideful look, “Already had her take one, boss.”
“Alright. You’re good, man.” Logan says before adjusting your ice pack back to its place, pressing a quick peck on your cheek, “And you keep icing your head, there’s a bump right under your hairline. Allie, take my place?”
You stir, “I can lay on the couch just fine by myself.”
“No, no. We’re keeping someone by your side for the next twenty four hours.” Allie says, already taking Logan’s seat, “We gotta make sure you don’t have a concussion and choke on your own vomit.”
“Geez,” you sneer, “So dramatic.”
He stands from the couch, moving in Dean’s direction, “And you are helping me make dinner,” he drops his arms over his friend’s shoulder, muttering, “Thanks for helping take care of her.”
Dean beams at his friend, “That was nothing. The least I could do for almost killing her, really.” He jokes, squeezing Logan’s shoulder, “She’s all yours now, dude. And I’d say a little TLC is much needed.”
He looks back at you, giggling with Allie on the couch, “I think she’s in good hands.”
“I meant for you.” Dean says, “I know you love when you get to fuss over her, you softie.”
“Well, yeah. Like you said,” Logan shrugs, “Who am I to deny some tender loving care over my oh so hurt and in need of care girlfriend?”
“I can hear that,” you shout from the couch.
“And I don’t hear you complaining, babe.”
notes: thank you for reading! requests are open! likes/reblogs/thoughts are appreciated! <3
langdon telling reader all the cool procedures he got to do at work while she rides him...
"— so I realigned his spine," he laughs breathlessly, shakes hair out of his eyes and squeezes at the fat of your hips while you ride him. "his spine, baby. without neuro."
"that's so hot,” you gasp into his mouth, “you’re so hot.”
“had his head in my hands and then i j-just—snap,” his laugh is more delicious this time, and then it gets cut off by a moan when you squeeze around his cock. “fuck, sweetheart, you feel so fuckin’ good.”
“better than a spine realignment?” you smile n bite his lip while he chuckles.
“i don’t know if I’d go that fa—” the rest of his sentence is muffled by a pillow over his face while you gasp in faux outrage through a fit of giggles :’)
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be a part of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
listening to lana unreleaseds right now & am obsessed with the idea of pope with an early 20s! girlfriend who kinda scares him (LMAO)
not in a violent or genuinely horrifying way, it’s just she’s sooooo naturally seductive and playful that he’s genuinely thinking to himself “oh fuck i can’t keep up.”
he doesn’t want to use the word “feral” but, in his defense, she is pawing at his mma shorts while he waits to go up and fight. telling her the dreaded superstition of “no sex before a fight” was like taking the strawberry lollipop she loves so much right out of her mouth and stomping on it.
truly. the week was a mash of him restraining her wrists from touching, holding her ankle beneath the dinner table as she travelled to his cock, and bringing her up from her knees when she surprised him in the shower.
now, while he is a tad scared, he’s exactly where he wants to be. he usually hates leaving you at home to go and meet with his brothers, knowing he likes to keep you out of business, but wanting you around every second of the day. but now that you’re official? he loves the sound of your flip flops suddenly appearing on the concrete where the boys eat dinner. grabbing andrew’s hand and pulling him to his bedroom without a word other then a pouted, teary “andrew :(“
he loves turning to his brothers as you pull, shrugging his shoulders and holding up five fingers in a communication of “gimme 5 minutes to tucker her out and i’ll be back”
now when you actually get in the house, still clutching his wrist before letting go & stripping your shirt off as you walk to his room, the story changes. you turn to him with dark eyes, hands cupping your tits over your bra, “need you so bad, popey.” biting your lip, you turn to keep walking, swaying.
the message changes very quickly. andrew swallows, holding his cock through his jeans before turning to knock on the glass door next to his brothers. he holds up all ten fingers with a sure nod before stalking off.
You buy an expensive gift for Jack, and instead of being rewarded with gruff, flirty praises and kisses while he rams his fat cock inside you, your loving doctor smacks the shit out of your ass instead. It’s punishment for not buying it with his card.
Which, that defeats the whole purpose of buying Jack a present in the first place, but when he acts like you slapped him with the receipt and told the world he can’t provide for his girl, who are you to complain?
Well. You complain. You whine, to be specific. Whines about how much each ass smack stings.
“Wanna do something nice for me, Sleepy? You tolerate me. That’s plenty.”
The needy whines are bad enough. Jack can’t handle the way you jiggle under his palm.
