#canonical board game closet

[tokenducks]

Look how many versions of clue they own. They’re so lame I love them <3

#canonical board game closet #I actually had the game clue on my dbd bingo card #dead boy detectives

[lovebugism]

forgive me for what is likely a basic ass request but... steve has a crush on eddie's best friend? smut optional but encouraged :) (love, j.d. aka mypoisonedvine)

✶ ┄ LOVE YOU, ON PURPOSE (i)

part one | part two

summary: steve harrington took extra care to avoid the local freaks of hawkins. having shared custody of a fourteen-year-old forced him into a bitter friendship with one, he's steadfast in his refusal to befriend the other. that is, until you start working at the groove beside family video. steve claims he only fell for you because you tripped him. (17k)

pairing: steve harrington / eddie's bff!reader

tags: strangers to friends to lovers, mutual pining, protective eddie, canon divergence TW swearing, bullying, some smooching, talks of insecurities, reader is doubtful of steve's intentions because steve used to be a dick &lt;3

a/n: this request has been sitting in my inbox for ages. ages, i tell you! i wrote the outline the day it was sent in and ended up turning the blurb request into a full on 30k+ word fic. i'm sorry for the wait j.d. (and to everyone else who's been waiting patiently for me to put this out). i quite literally put my heart, soul, pussy, and so, so many hours into this. please enjoy! feedback is always appreciated! xoxo

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Something happens and I'm head over heels.

It would be a total disservice to call you Eddie’s best friend.

It wouldn’t even feel right to call you his platonic soulmate or his sister from another dimension. Not when the two of you are essentially an extension of the same human being. It’s a twin flame on steroids — your mirrored souls make the rest of Hawkins believe in some sort of higher power. There’s no way it wasn’t destiny that placed the two of you together at exactly the right place, at exactly the right time.

Your entwined spirits could’ve been a beautiful thing.

It’s too bad you’re both total fucking freaks.

Unfortunately, being a couple of metalheads who spend their free time creating fantastical worlds in silly little board games hasn’t become cool yet — for some sad, strange reason. It leaves you and Eddie as the town’s token social pariahs. The kind of misfits you only spot when you care enough to look — laughing too loudly at the lunch table or sharing a cigarette in the alleyway between school buildings.

The kind of weirdos who get your attention without trying. The kind that people only look at when they need something to make fun of.

With that being said, everything Steve knew about you came from the people that hated you.

Tommy Hagan said that you and Eddie had been fucking since the seventh grade, that the two of you had gotten close between blowjobs and fingerbangs in the old chemistry classroom. No one’s quite sure where it came from, but they believed him without thinking twice. You and Eddie tried to squash the rumor for years before leaning into it full throttle.

“And these are the freaks,” Tommy announced when he approached your lunch table. He was giving Billy Hargrove a grand tour of the high school, or rather the shithole, and detoured like you and Eddie were some kind of sideshow attraction. Him and his goons ogled at you like zoo animals.

Steve idled some feet away, not as interested in the bit as the rest of them. He was even less interested in entertaining the new kid on the block thateveryone else seemed to be obsessed with.

“Hey, Tommy...” Eddie sing-songed through a mouthful of PB&J. You’d given him the other half of your sandwich, because you always give him the other half of your sandwich. “Hope you’re not comin’ back to ask for a handy again. I already turned you down, remember?”

A dumb grin took over the boy’s freckled face. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned over to the California boy. “I wouldn’t get too close to them. Don’t know where their hands have been, you know? If I had to guess, I think Punchy got Munson’s rocks off in the janitor’s closet before lunch period.”

Neither of you were particularly fazed by the laughter that erupted all at once and threatened to swallow you whole. Instead, you smiled with bits of grape jelly smeared on your chin. “I bet you think about it a lot, don’t you, Tommy?”

You really lived up to the nickname. Punchy. You weren’t entirely sure where it came from — your fierce temper, perhaps, or maybe your intense personality. Either way, it suited you.

Vicki Carmichael once said that you bit a guy on a date one time. Barry Jenkins, a tennis douchebag who thought the world revolved around him because his dad owned a string of local laundromats. He took you on a date in his mom’s Impala and assumed making out in the backseat gave him free rein to stick his hand up your skirt.

The asshole sported a red mark on his neck the next day.

When people asked you about it, you smiled with all your teeth in place of any real answer.

Carol Perkins loved to comment on the state of your wardrobe, telling anyone who would listen about the time she caught you rifling through the $1 bargain bins outside the thrift store. She liked to joke that you were stealing from them. “Because she can’t even afford a couple measly dollars. It’s kinda sad, honestly. I feel a little bad for her,” you overheard her saying once.

You were smoking a cigarette in the stall and watching through the crack of it while her and her friends touched up their lip gloss. 

“Wait, really?” Tina wondered, stopping mid-swipe of mascara through her long lashes to gape at the girl beside her. Because, god forbid, they don’t have someone to make fun of.

Carol snapped bright pink bubblegum between her teeth. She looked offended, almost — manicured brows furrowed and shiny lips snarled — like the idea of her taking pity on you was insulting. “No,” she snapped in response.

You’re pretty sure it’s the only rumor about you that’s got any bit of truth to it. Or any rumor of hers, really. The thrift store was great and all, but you firmly believe that your best pieces come remanufactured straight from Eddie Munson’s closet.

So it isn’t any wonder why the two of you seem to dress so similarly — all leather jackets and distressed jeans and hand-me-down t-shirts that are either too big or too small. The both of you take little care in your appearance, wearing only what you feel good in. And sometimes that means wild hair and baggy clothes that swallow you whole.

To make it worse, you and Eddie even talk the same. You’re both loud and brash and have very little awareness of personal space. You aren’t scared to make a scene or use your voice when you think it’s being stifled. And when you love someone, they know it, because you won’t leave them the hell alone.

These are all the things that Steve hated about Eddie. So he hasn’t quite figured out why he’s so damn in love with you. 

But he is. 

Quite dreadfully so. 

Head over heels and stumbling since the day he met you for a second time.

It was the spring of 1986 and The Groove had just opened up. Steve had heard murmurings of a record shop taking over the empty outlet adjacent to Family Video but had no idea it would nearly run them out of business. The shiny, new music store attracted all of their usual customers. People were more excited to buy new cassettes than rent movies they’d seen a thousand times already.

Steve didn’t mind, though. He liked it best when the store was empty. But all of his friends — a closeted lesbian, a basket case, and a couple of fourteen-year-olds — seemed to have the same affliction that was plaguing the rest of the town. 

He tried not to be offended when Robin said she was going to spend her break next door and not with him in the closet-sized break room. 

He failed.

Robin spent her half-hour and then some meeting you. She returned forty-five minutes later with a blushing face and a bleeding heart. Suddenly, there were two people in Steve’s life that couldn’t seem to shut up about you. As much as it annoyed him, he let her gush about you anyway, because that’s what best friends do, after all.

But Steve knew you once upon a time. Or he thought he did.

You were a loudmouthed metalhead who wore all black to blend in to Eddie’s shadow. You created fictional characters because it was easier than making friends with real people. You were strange and awkward and mean and gauche — the total opposite of this heavenly, mystical creature Robin was making you out to be.

But then it became this whole… thing.

With Robin and Eddie constantly talking over him about you, the rest of the kids were as confused as Steve was. And as they so often tend to do, the group decided to take matters into their own hands and make the short trek to meet you formally. Steve figured that their answer would be final. When those teenagers hate you, you know it. He learned that the hard way

They’re gone for a little over an hour and come back with a thousand stories and various tapes they say you gave to them for free.

Lucas has got a new Beastie Boys cassette and a proud smile on his face as he recounts the promise you’d made him about catching his next basketball game. “And she said she really liked my ranger,” he brags less than humbly, telling the older teens about how you’d heard stories about his track record in Hellfire campaigns. There’s a sudden suaveness to his voice as he bounces his brows up and down at them.

Max scrunches her face in disgust. She clutches a Kate Bush tape close to her chest, like it’s a prized possession she never wants to let go of. She rolls her eyes at her boyfriend (or maybe ex-boyfriend, but Steve can never keep up these days) and makes her own conversation with Robin. The two girls are the only ones with more than half a brain cell between them, or so they claim.

The redhead tells her that she plans on bringing her broken skateboard over to your store soon. She says the thing’s been wobbly for days, and Robin nods along like she knows all about it. “Well, apparently, she has some tools and knows how to fix it. Said the trucks just needed to be reinforced or some shit, I don’t know, I’m just glad it’s getting fixed.”

“Wait, why didn’t you tell me?” Steve asks her, confusion contorting his words along with his features. He crosses his arms and leans against the counter. “I could’ve fixed it.”

“You don’t know anything about skateboards,” Max monotones.

“Okay, but you don’t even know this girl! She’s a total stranger, Max. That’s dangerous.”

She rolls her eyes. “She’s nice, Steve. Way nicer than you—”

That makes him scoff.

“—And you’d know that if you got to know her.”

It’s Dustin’s turn to gush about you next. His opinion, for a reason Steve has never been able to place, arguably means the most to him. And the kid is just absolutely fucking beaming about you. He holds a Star Wars orchestral vinyl in his hand —  the brand new one he’s been talking about for weeks but couldn’t afford. 

He talks of the collection of DnD figurines you were painting behind the counter and the promise you made to make one for his bard come the next campaign. 

Dustin gazes at Steve, wide-eyed and nodding like he’s as amazed by the revelation as Steve is.  “She’s cool, Steve. Like… really cool.” 

The boy thought that Robin just had a crush, that Eddie was just being Eddie and overdramatizing all of his stories about you. But you’re everything they said you’d be and then some. The kind of stranger you meet that takes your breath away, that makes you sad in the understanding that you’ll never see them again. Dustin is grateful you don’t have to be a stranger anymore.

You sounded… nice. More than nice. They painted you out to be a fucking angel, the way you took care of a bunch of kids you barely knew for the better part of an hour. You weren’t the freak everyone made you out to be all that time ago.

They talk a great deal about your looks, too. Dustin, mostly. Lucas had received a glare and a half-hearted punch on the arm from Max when he said how pretty you were — even though she ultimately agreed with him. The curly-headed boy uses too big words to describe the renaissance painting you are, all heavenly morose and beautifully strange.

“Hey,” Eddie scolds from the sidelines, mostly playful. “That’s my sister you’re talking about. Bring it down a few notches, ‘kay?”

Steve is silent for the rest of the day after that. He’s not pouting about it like Robin keeps saying he is, just reserved in his reminiscence. 

He can’t tell if he’s intrigued or annoyed. They talk about you the way people used to talk about King Steve — with a borderline obsession for someone they don’t really know. And deep down, he knows he’s just jealous. Jealous that no one talks about him that way anymore. Jealous that none of the kids have ever talked about him that way.

It leaves him skeptical and wanting to see the real thing for himself.

Steve opts to meet you on his lunch break the next day with a tight chest and sweaty palms, like a part of him knew it was going to change the trajectory of his life for the foreseeable future.

The door dings with his arrival. The record store smells like earth and nostalgia, a bit like flipping through the pages of an old book. Vinyls sit in rows and in towers that rise to the ceilings. Colorful cassettes, of which there are thousands, have nooks and crannies of their own. Posters decorate the walls along with various patterned records — there’s hardly a blank spot in the entire store.

And when Steve sees you for the first time, he only sees the back of you.

You’re in all black, just like he imagined you’d be. A sliver of skin at your midriff is showing from where your too small shirt has ridden up your torso. And your hair is as wild as ever, though a little longer than he remembers. You’ve haphazardly pinned back the ornery strings with a sparkly pin, but it doesn’t do much to tame them.

A breeze of warm wistfulness washes over him at the sight of you. A reminder of a life that used to be his, that you were a part of only passively.

It’s your smile that does him in. Maybe because you’ve never looked at him with it. As far as Steve’s concerned, no one’s ever smiled at him the way you do, and you barely even know him. You hadn’t seen him in over a year and if you shared any words in the past, it wasn’t anything more than snarky one-liners. But here you are, looking at him with sunshine anyway.

“Hi,” you beam with the warmest grin he’s ever seen, swiveling in your chair to face him. “Welcome in.”

He’s too stunned by the sight of you to respond. He just stands in the doorway, all wide-eyed and gaping, like he’s the first to see an angel on earth. And it’s strange because you’re far from perfect. 

You’re blousy and a little disheveled, like you’d been running late that morning. The lack of makeup allows your imperfections to shine through in a way that makes you somehow more alluring. And you’ve got paint splattered like freckles on your cheeks, the culprit being the figurines you’re painting behind the counter. If you know you’re dotted with shades of red, blue, and green, you don’t show it.

“Can I help you find anything?” you ask him, still kind even though he’s acting like a fucking weirdo. That’s supposed to be your thing, not his.

Steve grasps for something to say but comes up short. His lips part and then close again in an embarrassing pattern that resembles a fish out of water. It makes sense, though; it’s a bit how you’ve made him feel just now.

When he realizes he can’t make out anything intelligible, he shakes his head. “Uh… nope.”

He’s leaving before he even realizes he’s leaving. The door dings again and he’s on the other side of it, long legs carrying him the short distance to Family Video at record speed. 

He swings and slams the egress shut in quick succession, as though the ghost of you had been chasing him. He leans against the glass pane and exhales a heaving sigh, eyes squeezing shut as he recoils at what he’d just done.

He always knew that King Steve had died some time ago, but this was a new low.

Robin watches from the front counter with wide eyes. “…Did you forget something?”

Steve sighs a big, hopeless sigh, then peeks his eyes open. “My dignity.”

“She’s cute, right?” she asks, already knowing the answer. Her brows bounce in time with the smirk on her painted lips.

“Yeah, she’s cute,” he answers, all mad because it’s obvious. “She’s fucking— she’s beautiful.”

“Aw. Look at you,” she sing-songs and tilts her head to her shoulder. “I think your heart grew three sizes today, Stevie.”

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

I never find out 'til I'm head over heels.

Steve, all caught up in his boyish misery, has no idea that he’s enraptured you in a similar way.

You hadn’t cared very much for the guy in high school. You didn’t really know him then, and you didn’t particularly want to. King Steve was rich. King Steve was pretty — too pretty. King Steve got attention from pretty cheerleaders and overaggressive douchebags alike.

King Steve didn’t need any affection from the local freakshow.

But, by some strange turn of events, he’d managed to make nice with your best friend. 

The way Eddie talks about Steve, his words always dripping with a distant venom, it sounds like they still hate each other. Maybe they do. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to admit that they hang out far too often not to be friends.

If you were still in school, you probably would’ve judged him for it. Being friends with the boy whose buddies made your life hell certainly warranted some degree of ridicule. But now, having graduated and trying to move on from it all, you can’t find it in yourself to. 

High school might as well have been a lifetime now. There’s no use in holding onto old ghosts.

If Eddie could let that shit go, so could you.

He drops by after school to keep you company like he always does when he doesn’t have a campaign to prep for. It’s his favorite pastime, perhaps a close second to Dungeons and Dragons. He gets to hang out with his best friend and swim in an ocean of music while he does it. As far as freaks go, Eddie Munson considers himself the luckiest.

He likes to hear you talk about everything new you’ve gotten in while he rifles through the old stuff that isn’t selling as well. You happily let him take what he wants for free. And what he doesn’t take, he doesn’t pay for either, because you cheat the system with your employee discount and then wipe the record from inventory. Just to be safe.

“I love having a criminal for a best friend,” he jokes every time, without fail.

Eddie stays by your side until the sun sets. He parts only to flip the sign at the door to closingfor you, then plops himself back on the counter again. His legs hang off the side of it, sneakers occasionally thudding against the wood when he kicks them back and forth too hard. He scans the back of an old Lynyrd Skynyrd vinyl and bobs his head to the rhythmic bass as the song fills the empty store. He’ll take this one home, he decides.

You keep on painting like you have been all day, breaking only to assist customers or stretch your aching spine. The forest dragon had been far more work than you expected — made of pretty purple leaves instead of scales and blowing blush-colored flowers instead of fire. The little piece of clay has resulted in a day of back-breaking work. 

You’ll be damned if Eddie’s next campaign isn’t the most stellar looking one yet.

Focusing on that makes it easier not to bring up Steve. 

You want to. You just don’t know how. 

Eddie’s friends were Eddie’s, and you don’t get involved where it doesn’t concern you. Besides, you did sort of give him shit for hanging out with The Hair way back when. The last thing you want is him taking the piss out of you about it.  

You don’t want to sound like you care too much. Even more, you don’t want it to be obvious that you’ve been thinking about the boy all day — making yourself sick as you stew in what could’ve run him out like he did.

“Saw your friend today,” you remark, feigning a sort of absentmindedness, as you swipe your brush along the petals of your dragon. “King Steve.”

“Oh, you met him?” Eddie wonders, more intrigued by your words than you expected he’d be. He says it like you didn’t already know the guy — like this new Steve was a totally different person you needed to be reacquainted with to really know.

“I wouldn’t say met him exactly. He just, like, popped in for half a second and ran out.”

With your back facing him, you don’t see the shit-eating grin that pulls at the corners of his mouth. 

Eddie was waiting for Steve to crack and finally see you. He knew he’d bite after the way the kids had talked about you — Dustin, especially. Because even though he claims he doesn’t have favorites, he’s got a very obvious soft spot for the boy. And he knew Steve would like you because everyone likes you. When they’re not clouded by judgment and high school hierarchies, at least. 

He’s still got no idea how a guy that trips all over himself at the sight of a pretty girl could’ve ruled Hawkins once upon a time.

“Fucking idiot,” Eddie laughs to himself, already gearing up for the shit he was going to give Steve the next time he saw him. 

But you see the boy before Eddie does. Steve comes back the next day, an hour or more after opening, less frazzled than the day before. The nearly twenty-four hours he had to prepare himself for the angel he was going to see allowed him not to make a total fool of himself when he stepped into the store again.

And you wouldn’t say it out loud — hell, it’s not even something you want to admit to yourself — but you’d been hoping he’d stop by again. 

You thought Robin would come by and drag him with her, or that Dustin and his friends would come around before Steve dropped them all home. Frankly, you didn’t really care what brought him back. You just wanted to see him again.

Steve’s different than the boy he used to be. Enough that it was obvious from a measly thirty-second interaction. He used to be a charmer who could talk his way out of anything. Not to you, of course, he wouldn’t have been caught dead talking to you. But then he stops by out of nowhere, in rare form, stumbling all over himself and looking like he didn’t recognize you at all.

You’re still trying to figure out if that was a good thing or not.

He’s mystified you in a way he probably isn’t used to. Most girls like the hair and the arms — the super buff, super strong arms that fit so nicely in his uniform — or the fact that he’s got money and a reputation that precedes him. But you’ve never given a shit about any of that. 

You’re more enchanted by the way nothing could even begin to conceal the soft, shy boy that King Steve had apparently turned into.

The door chimes above his head when he enters. The scent of earthy nostalgia is already familiar to him — lavender, sage, and something deeper. Steve considers it progress when he plants himself a few feet away from the door this time. If he runs out again, he’ll have to make an embarrassingly longer escape.

You turn away from your nearly finished figurine to greet the new customer. The practiced smile unconsciously widens at the sight of him. “Hi!”

“Hey,” he smiles with a curt nod. He regrets the half-wave he gives you the second his hand shoots up.

“You gonna run off on me again?” you tease and swivel in your chair to face him completely.

You’re wearing a Hellfire shirt that’s just slightly too big for you. It probably belonged to Eddie before it belonged to you. And you wear a corset-looking thing over top of it, a sheer number with a lace embroidery and a ribbon that’s tied in a bow at your belly. It doesn’t cinch you in the slightest, though, more for decoration than practicality.

“No that was… I just—” Steve huffs out a laugh as he tries and fails to come up with an excuse. He figures anything is better than the truth — that he saw how pretty you were and his brain forgot how to work because he’s the lamest person on the planet. 

So he chucks a thumb over his shoulder and fibs. “I left something back at Family Video. Had to run back.”

“It’s okay. I was just teasing,” you assure. “Uh— Are you looking for anything specific?”

“No. Not really. Just… new records to add to my collection, you know?”

“Oh, you collect vinyls?”

He doesn’t realize that’s what he’s just said until you repeat the words back to him. 

He’s kind of just talking out of his ass and hoping something sticks. That line does, apparently, because you’re beaming at him instantly. He’s scared to say no because then you’ll stop smiling. And he can’t have that.

“Yep,” he answers with a nod. The stack of records collecting dust in his den has to count for something, right?

He can’t find it in himself to regret his little white lie when it has you lighting up like a christmas tree. 

You toss your paintbrush down when you rush from behind the counter to meet him. You seem to have forgotten that you’d just dipped the thing in purple paint. The thing splatters shades of lilac all over the limestone bench. And, in your haste, you nearly smack yourself with the leaden slab as you raise it to pass by.

Steve’s eyes widen when you narrowly dodge the weighty thing — then jumps, startled by the dense thwap that echoes through the small store when it slams back down again. He’s almost worried that it might’ve busted the hinge. 

You cower at the loud sound but move on with a commendable finesse, too focused on him to care about anything else.

“That’s so cool! I’ve always wanted to collect, but records are so expensive, it’s crazy,” you ramble as you walk up to him, totally unthinking in the way you grab his forearm and usher him to the back of the store. 

Your sheer black skirt swishes at your ankles as you walk. The dainty fabric is patterned with sparkly stars and crescent moons. He notices you wear a pair of dark shorts underneath for modesty. Steve tries his best not to stare at your ass. He almost succeeds.

“We actually just got in a couple of Dio records — The Holy Diver, you know, the one that just came out. I’m pretty sure there’s only, like, a couple thousand of these things in the whole world — which is totally fucking bonkers if you think about it,” you explain in one breath, laughing, before stopping abruptly in your tracks. Steve nearly runs into you when you turn around to face him. 

You laugh again, a sadder one, this time at yourself, as you bring your palm to your forehead. “Sorry. I don’t— I don’t even know if you like Dio. I mean, of course, you don’t, right? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have… rambled like that.”

You’d just been so excited and Steve had just been so different that you forgot who you were talking to. Hawkins High Royalty, Prom King, Biggest Flirt and Life of the Party in the yearbook. 

As far as you’re concerned, Eddie Munson is your only friend. He’s the only person in the whole world you can be yourself around and never get self-conscious about any of it. 

But sometimes you have moments like this one with a total stranger. Moments where you lose yourself in the conversation and your own jumbled thoughts. Moments where you talk and talk and talk until something thumps you on the head and you realize how annoying you’re being. This time, it’s the musky smell of his cologne that knocks you back to Ms. Click’s history class. The crisp breeze of bitter nostalgia makes you shiver.

Steve can see the way you get so suddenly aware of yourself and how the cognizance of the moment makes you writhe. He tries to bat away the lingering insecurities with a smile. 

“Love ‘em,” he responds with a nod. He raises his brows and scoffs, grins and crosses his arms over his chest. “I mean, Dio? God, they’re like… top ten bands of all time, at least. Maybe even five.”

That isn’t totally true. He doesn’t know much about the band to have an opinion, but he’s pretty sure he might’ve said he hated them once. That was only because Eddie wouldn’t stop talking about them, though. Steve could learn to like them, if it means so much to you.

That’s exactly how he justifies spending $60 on four records. 

He tells himself that he’ll listen to them and think of you, that it’ll be a solid conversation starter the next time he sees you. 

You had a whole damn rack dedicated to all your favorite bands — “I put it together myself,” you’d bragged with a proud smile. S it’s a wonder Steve didn’t walk out with the entire damn store. Because you just kept on smiling and talking, so happy to have someone to care about what you had to say, and he ate up every second of it.

He’ll have to work overtime to keep his pockets from hurting, but it’ll be worth it. Because he’ll get to keep talking to you and indulging in all the things you seem to love more than life itself.

You’re still rambling as you ring him up. Steve notices you haven’t stopped yourself like you did before. His lack of dismissal has made you more comfortable, it seems. He likes that.

“I think we’re also gonna get a couple cases of Def Leppard cassettes tomorrow, which is super sick. I think I might have to start collecting, honestly. Tapes are whole lot cheaper than records, you know,” you tell him as you scan and bag all his vinyls. “And it’s also, like, a fucking stellar album. I don’t think I’ve stopped listening to Photograph since it came out.”

“Photograph. Right. Love that one,” Steve nods with a kind smile as he props his elbows on the counter. He doesn’t particularly care that he’s not entirely sure what you’re talking about, or that he’s never actually heard the song. He’s starting to realize you could talk for hours and he wouldn’t get bored.

“Oh, is that your favorite too? Eddie’s more of a Foolin’ kinda guy.”

Despite the fact that he’s never heard the song or this album in his life, he nods anyway. 

He sort of spent the first eighteen years of his life faking just about everything — it kind of came with being the King of Hawkins High. It’s a talent that hasn’t yet left him, it seems, lying through his teeth to impress people. It’s almost become a second nature to him.

“Foolin’s good, yeah, but I think Photograph is obviously better.”

“Obviously, right!” you exclaim with a sunshine-coated laugh. “That’s exactly what I told him! But he’s way too hard-headed to be wrong about anything, so…”

“Well, I’d like to put it on the record that I firmly agree with you,” Steve replies so smoothly that his tongue must be dripping with honey. It’s so easy for him to fall into King Steve mode — when he isn’t forgetting how to speak and running off, that is.

You’ve learned a lot Steve in the past half hour. He likes metal, but leans more toward rock. Particularly all the metal and rock that you like. He hasn’t once had a differing opinion than you, besides telling you he heard Eddie playing a Metallica song once that he didn’t particularly care for. The second you tell him it’s one of your favorites, he backtracks instantly, blaming the Munson boy for being too sloshed to play it properly.

And you don’t miss the way he’s looking at you just now either, with his chin toward his chest as he peers up at you with warm amber eyes. He’s the charmer that he always was. It makes you remember, again, just who you’re talking to.

“We have a lot in common, King Steve,” you lilt with a playful grin.

He deflates at the use of the old nickname. You see the light in his eyes flicker for a just moment before he’s ducking his gaze away from you completely. He tries to brush it off with a laugh. “Yeah, I’m not— I’m not really King Steve anymore…”

“No?”

“Nope. Just… Just Steve these days.”

When he looks back at you, he finds you nodding at him, almost in approval. 

Most people are upset to find that he’s changed so much. They hate that he’s no longer the recklessly stupid dumbass they used to get drunk with. 

Not you, though.

“Cool,” you mumble, smiling softly, as you hand him his bag and receipt.

“Uh, I’d love to, you know, come take a look at those tapes when you get ‘em in,” he says as he walks backward towards the door, finally making the brash offer he’s been thinking about this whole time. “Maybe I can bring lunch and we can—”

“Well, Hellfire’s been doing campaigns during lunch recently. And Gareth’s out sick, so I’ve been subbing for him, you know, so…” you interject awkwardly, shifting your weight on your feet. You hate to turn him down, but Eddie might just kill you if he has to get a substitute for the substitute.

“Oh…” he nods, softly puckering his plump pink lips that you can’t seem to stop staring at.

“But I don’t think they’re coming in until late, anyway,” you add quickly. “So, you can stop by at closing, if you want?”

“No, yeah, that’s cool. So cool,” he replies, a little more flustered than he’d been just moments before. He’s just happy that your rejection wasn’t a total refusal.

You try to bite back the wide grin threatening to take over your mouth. “Okay… I’ll catch you later, then, Just Steve.”

“See you,” he waves right before startling himself when he backs into the basket of clearance tapes sitting just beside the door. He barely catches the thing before it tips over completely. He flashes you a shaking smile afterward and finds you covering your mouth with your hand while you try not to laugh too loudly. 

He wishes you’d just went ahead and laughed at him. He wouldn’t have even cared that you were laughing at him, if it meant he got to see you smile.

And even though he’d just gotten done making the biggest fool of himself, he walks back to work feeling like the coolest man alive. There’s a foreign strut in his step that hadn’t been there before he saw you. It doesn’t leave him when he realizes he’s gone slightly over his break and that Keith is manning the counter in his absence.

The man mumbles a monotoned goodbye to the customer he’d just checked out.

She turns around and Steve realizes he recognizes this girl — Mindy or Mandy or maybe Monica — from Mr. Kaminsky’s class way back when. She did all of his homework for him before and after letting him fuck her on her twin-sized bed in her all pink room.  That’s when Steve was conquering girls like they were Mount Everest, way before Nancy, when King was a title he wore with pride. 

But he’s still so stuck in his head with thoughts of you that he doesn’t even see Mindy-Mandy-Monica or the flirtatious wave she throws his way.

“You’re ten minutes late,” Keith scolds, with his dead tone and his deader eyes.

Steve only shrugs, uncaring if it came out of his paycheck because — “I just got a date with the hottest woman on the planet,” he boasts with a puffed out chest and too smug smile.

It doesn’t lessen Keith’s anger, just diverts it. Because he knows exactly who he’s talking about. And so does Robin, as she pops her head out from behind the man from where she sits at the computer. “No way,” they chorus in disbelief at his words.

Steve nods. “Yes way.”

“Eddie’s gonna kill you,” Robin remarks with the shake of her head. 

He knows she’s right. He just doesn’t care. 

Eddie’s always been protective of you. Everyone knows that. But the two of them were friends now — or somewhat good-natured acquaintances, at the very least. He would’ve been mad about a year or more ago, if King Steve had decided to suddenly woo his best friend. 

But it’s different now. He’s different now. Eddie knows how much everything’s changed, it’s just a question of if he’s willing to rehash old wounds.

It’s a good thing Steve knows how to take a punch.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Don't take my heart, don't break my heart.

Steve finds you again the next day less happy than he’s gotten used to.

The record store is dim and the red sign at the entrance has been flipped to closed, but the door is left unlocked — for him. The warm scent is a distinct contrast to the frigid spring night, a cozy high hemp and lavender, but your absence is noticeable and terribly heavy. 

Steve lingers in the doorway, his shadow looming like a giant before him from the moonlight streaming in from outside. 

He calls for you in the emptiness.

“Uh… Punchy?”

He’s relieved when you answer. The “back here!” you shout to him is muffled and far away. He follows the sound of your voice, filled suddenly with a childlike consolation. 

The yellow fairy lights dangling over his head guide him through the aisles of cassettes and closer to you. Through a cluttered backroom, Steve finds you standing just outside an opened door — left ajar, for him.

The smile you flash when you see him is as dim as the closed-down store. It lacks all the sunshine you usually look at him with, shades of stormy gray rather than the usual yellows. 

A look of concern flashes across his features — furrowed brows and inquisitive twinkling eyes — as you take a drag from the lit cigarette caught between your pointer and middle finger. You muster your best grin, but it flickers like a shoddy radio signal. 

“Punchy, huh?” you tease.

Steve’s brows pinch together as confusion floods his features. It takes him a moment to realize what he’d said and the nickname he’d used — and he doesn’t want to be dramatic or anything, but he kinda wants to die. It’s embarrassing, he thinks, to hold on to an old high school monicker. And, fuck, if you hate it half as bad as he hates being called king, he deserves a slap to the face right about now.

You laugh instead of ball your first. He’s able to smile meekly in relief. “Oh. Shit. Sorry, I… I don’t think I even realized it came out.”

“No, it’s okay,” you assure when you see him getting all apologetic. “Eddie still calls me that all the time, so… Old habits die hard, I guess.”

Steve tries to move on, but it’s hard to when you’re so obviously gloomy. He hates how reserved you’ve gone in your quiet, not talking up a storm like you had been the last time he saw you. Now you’re just… a storm. It’s a little like sitting next to a rumbling rain cloud.

The rumbling rain cloud beside him takes a drag of her cigarette.

“You okay?” he asks and sounds like he really cares.

You didn’t think King Steve was capable of caring about anything other than his hair, but he looks down at you like he can feel every blue bolt of your doom and gloom. He makes you feel seen in the void of your sadness despite all the years you spent being invisible to him.

“Uh, yeah. It’s just the tapes. They didn’t come in,” you answer with a shrug. Smokes leaves your mouth and lingers in white clouds in the air. “So I’m a little bummed.”

“Oh…” is all Steve says and his pink mouth forms a too pretty ‘o’ shape that you can’t draw your gaze from.

The following silence makes you momentarily cautious. Insecurity runs cold over you because no sane person gets this about upset over a broken promise of a couple cassettes. It’s stupid, you know it is, but you were really looking forward to them. It’s like promising a kid the most metal present ever and then snatching it out of their bare hands.

Now, over the course of a couple hours, you’ve managed to convince yourself you won’t remember happiness until you get those stupid tapes.

“Sorry,” you apologize to him for a reason he can’t place. You shift your weight on your feet and peer at him from beneath your lashes. “I know you were looking forward to them, too.”

You extend your hand and offer him the cigarette between your fingers like it’s an olive branch. He takes it from you with a distant smile, then opts to laze against the brick wall like you are. He stays a respectful distance on the other side of the entryway. 

“It’s okay. They’ll come. If I’m being honest, you know, I was kinda more excited to see you.”

His admission is brazen and a tad bit brash, even for a certified ex-douchebag. It lacks all of the usual honey-coated flirtation that usually tints his tone when he’s talking to a pretty girl. Because he wasn’t trying to make you swoon — though he certainly wouldn’t have minded if you had. This wasn’t some romantic advance, just a proclamation of his own personal truth.

A flash of shock contorts your features. “Really?”

“Of course,” he answers, breathing out a laugh that exits along with the smoke in his lungs. “I love talking to you. You’re… You’re cool, you know? S— Super cool.”

His face screws up at his stuttering, and he shakes his head at how the words sound leaving his mouth. His cheeks glow cherry red beneath an orange street lamp. 

“Super cool, huh?” you repeat with a giggle that’s bright enough to illuminate the velvet night. “I don’t think anyone’s ever called me that before.”

Steve scoffs when he passes the cigarette back to you. Because, lately, that’s all he’s been hearing about you. From Eddie, from Robin, from Dustin — every good thing a person could say about someone else, they all say about you. 

He’s starting to understand why.

Because you’re sweet. Like, pure sugar poured on the tip of his tongue kind of sweet. You’re bright like sunshine and soft like summer rain. You’re a shot of pure espresso for a boy who thought his life was at a dead end. He’s not entirely sure how he ever could’ve thought you were some deep, dark, devil-worshipping freak.

“I don’t believe that,” he dismisses with the shake of his head.

You breathe out a sharp exhale and a puff of nicotine-coated smoke. “I’ve been the town pariah since I was eleven, Steve. Everyone thinks I’m some kinda delinquent who’s in a cult because I play a dumb board game. So, no. No one’s ever thought I was cool before.”

“Still?” Steve wonders with a twisted face. “You graduated, like, a year ago. Are... Are people really still on your ass about that?”

“A little,” you answer with a shrug, trying your best not to look as affected by it all as you feel.

Steve feels his chest swell with the fiery urge to protect you. The same one he gets when Dustin tells him about the assholes at school that are bothering him. He wants to defend you from the same sort of assholes that he used to be. The impulse is borderline primal, rooted somewhere deep and far within himself, because god knows he’s got a terrible track record when it comes to winning fights.

“Shit, Punchy… I’m— I’m sorry.”

You sputter out a laugh at the apology, louder when you realize he’s using the nickname again.

He can’t relate to any of this. The trials and tribulations of being persona non grata everywhere you went were certainly lost on him. Steve might’ve lost his touch somewhere down the road, but he’ll always be crown royalty — the kind of guy you think fondly of when your wonderyears are long gone. But you? You’re lucky if people don’t cross to the other side of the street when they spot you coming.

Perhaps that’s why his words warm you so much. Because, despite all that, he’s trying to make you feel better anyway.

You give him a tender smile and a dwindling cigarette. 

“It’s okay. I mean, it’s whatever, you know? I think it’s because I still hang out with Eddie all the time. Like, people see us and remember what fucking freaks we used to be,” you say with a laugh, then start to ramble without thinking. “We saw Tommy Hagan at Melvald’s the other day, and he looked at us like we caused him severe PTSD or something, like, he looked terrified. I honestly felt a little bad.”

Steve smiles, wide-eyed, equal parts intrigued and unsettled by the reminiscent glimmer in your eye and the daunting giggle that spills from your lips.

“But I wouldn’t leave Eddie, you know?” you blurt, suddenly serious, like you’ve taken offense at the very thought. “Not even if it meant people stopped being so mean. ‘Cause I love him and everything… Even though he’s a pain in the ass.”

“Oh, he’s a total pain in the ass,” Steve agrees and flicks the butt of the cig between his fingers. “He loves you too, though. I can tell. The asshole never shuts up about you.”

“He talks about me?” you ask, voice fragile and pitched higher than normal.

Steve doesn’t like the way you say it. He hates how you look at him even more, with a scrunched up face and eyes that flicker with embers of shock. Like you don’t believe it, like you think yourself unworthy of it.

“You’re all he talks about,” the boy assures, feeling so suddenly brave and wanting to make you feel brave too. He hands the cigarette back to you. “I don’t blame him. If I were him, I’d never shut up about you either.”

The contorted look of confusion on your face untwists itself, and your features fall flat with disbelief. A smile pulls slow at your mouth. Your eyes glitter an orange gold beneath the streetlight. They flit over to the boy beside you just long enough to take the stick from him.

“Steve Harrington…” you lilt, almost scoldingly so.

It makes him smile. “What?”

“Stop flirting with me.”

“Well, that’s very presumptuous of you,” he retorts playfully. “Who’s to say I was flirting?”

“So you weren’t then?”

“Maybe a little,” he shrugs with a knowing, practiced smirk. “Can you blame me?”

You don’t seem impressed by his not-so-subtle attempt at flirting, and he isn’t at all used to that. The bravado and the puppy dog eyes are his one-two punch — any other time, he’d have a phone number tucked safely in his pocket by now. But you’re not biting.

“I’m so not your type,” you dismiss with the shake of your head.

“Yeah?” he challenges, shoving himself off the brick wall with his shoulder and making the short trek over to you. He plants himself next to you, leans with one sneaker crossed over the other, and smiles with a playful twinkle in his eye. “And what’s my type?”

“Nancy Wheeler,” you answer without missing a beat. “Pretty girls.”

“Well, I think you’re very pretty—”

“Not like her,” you interject with a foreign firmness that Steve hasn’t seen from you until now. You’re still smiling at him, though, still kind but looking like you don’t believe him. Like you think this must be some kind of sick joke that he’s taking too far.

You can entertain Steve. You like Steve. Mostly because he’s totally different from the douchebag you remember him being — the douchebag you were expecting him to be. 

You find that he’s terribly clumsy and not overtly good with words. He says dumb jokes that don’t come out right and smiles in relief when they make you laugh anyway. He’s soft like peach fuzz or a fluffy cloud, mushy like warm chocolatey gooey goodness, and not at all like you remember him.

But then he does this. He morphs into something else, changes shape right in front of you. He smiles at you with little of his dumbassery behind it — all smirks and faux longing gazes with the intent of making you swoon at his feet. He grins down at you and all you see is the teenage boy who would’ve never looked at you that way four years ago. Hell, not even one. 

It reminds you of who he is, who he used to be, and who you are now. 

You haven’t changed so much since high school. You’ve matured a little, sure, but there was never an asshole exterior that you felt the need to outgrow. You’re still loud at times, unaware and ignorant of the world around you. You still play lightsabers outside Eddie’s trailer in between lengthy Dungeons and Dragons campaigns. You still pretend like the lingering glares from all the people you used to know don’t bother you. 

They do, though. They always have.

You look at Steve and you see this butterfly — someone made of rainbow colors and mostly mature. He’s growing, and you’re stuck in the same cocoon you’ve been wrapped in since freshman year, still fumbling around and trying to figure out where you fit.

He’ll always be the pretty butterfly he always was, with his pretty little iridescent wings that catch the light and all the attention. He’ll feed off the applause he gets while you’re sitting on the sidelines. The girl who’s destined to stay bundled in her cocoon forever only hears all of his praise — never watches, never receives.

“You and I are completely different people, Steve Harrington,” you declare with a grin that tells him you’ve already made up your mind.

The boy doesn’t get it, though, why you seem so upset by the idea. Him and Robin were completely different people. Him and Dustin were, too. The two people he adored — tolerated — most in the entire world weren’t a single thing like him, and it was better that way.

You don’t seem to share a similar philosophy, though. You take a drag from your mostly gone cigarette and mourn what could have been; if only he had been the town freak or you had been born the pretty girl next door.

“That doesn’t have to be such a bad thing—”

He’s abruptly cut off by the sound of muffled rock music and the bright yellow headlights of Eddie Munson’s van. The two of you shield your eyes when he whips into the desolate parking lot and parks in front of you. The sudden intrusion feels like being blinding like the sun after you’ve found such comfort within each other in the dead of night.

The stifled Def Leppard song — or maybe Poison, Steve can never quite tell the difference — is brought to a sharp halt when the engine shuts off. The headlights dim. The metallic slam of the driver’s side door sounds so much louder in the darkness.

Eddie rounds the front of his van and eyes the two of you rather suspiciously. The boy inhales deeply, puffing out his chest and splaying his hands on his hips. “…What’s going on here?” he squints at you.

You give him a terribly manufactured sunshine smile and bat your lashes his way, like you’re pretending to be un-innocent. “Nothing…” you sing-song.

Eddie rolls his eyes at you, then turns his attention to Steve. They’re not really strangers anymore, but he still feels the need to treat him like an outsider anyway.

“Harrington,” he says in the place of any real greeting. “Don’t you have other shit to do? Like, I don’t know, a shift as the mannequin at the GAP or something?”

Steve can’t find it in himself to get self-conscious about his fitted-sweatshirt, khaki-slack combo when the insult comes from a guy in a decade-old leather jacket, unwashed t-shirt, and ripped jeans.

“Very funny,” the brunette monotones. 

“I’ll see you around, yeah?” you ask when you turn and walk backwards towards Eddie, like there’s a gravitational pull dragging you to him.

You say it to be polite mostly, but you’re hoping for an affirmative — a promise that you’ll have another night like this one, where he sees you just to be seeing you. Hell, you’ll even take a nod if that’s all he’ll give you. And when he does, he gives you a tiny smile that almost makes you trip over yourself.

Fuck, you think to yourself, like your brain is talking to your heart. We just agreed not to do that.

Before you get in the van, you walk by Eddie and bring your cigarette up to his mouth. You coax the stick between his lips with your pointer and middle finger, opting to let him take the last couple of hits because he never turns down a free smoke.

The passenger door shuts once you’re tucked into the seat of it. The sound it makes punctuates your absence. Steve feels all of its emptiness.

He eyes Eddie from the distance, immediately noticing the darkened skepticism dancing in his dark eyes. 

The boy’s always felt the need to protect you. When the entire town got spooked about stories of some satanic panic and started treating you like monsters, he wanted to shield you from the boogeyman everyone turned into. 

Steve wasn’t one of them, the bad men. But Eddie loves you and it’s made him doubtful.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Steve feels the need to say, as though he’d been caught with his pants down and not just sharing an innocent cigarette with a friend.

Eddie takes the final few puffs of it and exhales rather dramatically, lips pursing to blow it in his direction though it’s too far away to hit him. The boy throws the filter to the concrete and extinguishes the ashes with the toe of his dirty sneakers. 

He waits until the white smoke has fully dissipated to speak.

“Damn right, it isn’t.”

That’s all he says. He doesn’t even look at Steve when he says it, or when he rounds the van and hops into the driver’s seat next to you. Steve squints when the too bright headlights come alive again in time with the roaring engine and dated rock music. His tires screech when he speeds out of the back parking lot. 

The tin can he drives nearly tips over when he turns too sharply onto Main Street.

Steve doesn’t get a chance to get a good look at you before you’re gone completely. It makes him all boyishly upset, knowing the hours without you will be most agonizing, but the empty feeling is eclipsed by the warm relief of not getting clock cleaned by Eddie Munson.

Damn right, it isn’t. Four words. That’s all he gets. But they’re daunting and coated with a lingering foreboding that feels almost like a threat.

So, by all accounts, Steve probably should’ve known there was no way Munson was ever going to back down that easily.

Eddie comes back the next day, a thundering storm cloud of the boy he usually is, head wild with curly hair and a million thoughts. 

The door dings far too gently for such an aggressive arrival. Metal bangs against metal as the handle collides with the window pane. He stomps to the counter in several quick strides, dark eyes darting around the half-empty store — obviously searching for something.

Robin, manning the front counter, is entirely unable to be threatened by him. The all black, chunky metal rings, and crazy hair stopped being so intimidating when she found out you called him Eddie Spaghetti. Now, it’s all she can think about when she sees him. 

Even as he stands ahead of her, obviously upset, all she sees is a very cartoonishly angry Eddie Spaghetti, and it takes everything in her not to laugh.

“Where’s Steve?” the boy finally wonders when he realizes the boy’s not in the front.

“Uh, he’s in the back, I think. Why?”

Eddie doesn’t humor her with an answer. He just storms past the counter and makes a b-line for the break room.

Robin watches him over her shoulder. “You’re not supposed to go back there!” she half-heartedly shouts, but makes no further effort to stop him from doing so.

He finds Steve working beneath the dim yellow light of the back room. There’s a warmed-up container of leftovers on the small round table on one side of the room and a stack of unorganized tapes on the counter on the other. Steve multitasks between both and hums something summery under his breath — The Beach Boys, maybe.

He’s too distracted to notice Eddie’s abrupt appearance. It’s the subtle click of the shut door that gets his attention.

Steve’s confused at first. His head snaps over his shoulder like a ghost must’ve closed the door on him. He realizes that it’s just Eddie, and he’s so innocently relieved that it’s almost humorous, then confused all over again. His brows pinch together and through the chicken tender jutting out his check, he mumbles: “You’re not supposed to be back here—”

“Yeah, I got that part,” Eddie interrupts in a monotone.

He swallows. It’s as thick as the tension that settles between the two of them, made heavier by the lengthy silence. He crosses his arms over his chest, stands up a little straighter, and bares his neck when he lifts his chin. “I want you to leave her alone.”

Steve scoffs and chews through his mouthful. “Leave who alone?”

“You know exactly who I’m talking about,” Eddie squints with an unusual sort of seriousness. “I don’t want you messing around with her anymore, man. I’m, fucking— I’m so fucking serious right now.”

The clarification makes Steve laugh. He shakes his head and goes back to piling the myriad of tapes into organized stacks on the counter. “We were just talking, Eddie. I don’t need the lecture, okay?”

“We both know it’s never just talking with you.”

“What? Are you in love with her or something?” he retorts, trying to make a joke of it.

Eddie, for the first time in his life, isn’t amused. “Oh, god, get over yourself, dude. I know what kinda guy you are, alright? I’m not gonna let you hurt her.”

His words hit Steve like a pot of boiling water. It prickles his skin, leaving blisters and burning red blotches in its wake. He’s all but on fire with his anger, less offended by the accusation than by the person it comes from.

Steve and Eddie aren’t friends by any means. They’re just two guys with shared custody of a bunch of teenagers, bonded in their want to keep them all safe. But through their lighthearted animosity, is a sort of understanding: neither of them are the assholes the entire town claims them to be. Eddie isn’t apart of some satanic cult. Steve isn’t a douchebag that uses women as accessories. And that’s just a silent agreement they’ve both come to on their own terms. 

But now here they are, talking like it’s 1984 all over again and they’re strangers who hate each other’s guts.

“No. I’m not gonna hurt her. Because we’re just friends, Eddie.”

The boy just shakes his head. He scrunches his nose like he’s wincing, then laughs — a big, dramatic laugh that fills the tiny break room. He begins to pace, waving an accusatory ringed finger Steve’s way. “No, see… That’s the thing. I don’t think King Steve is capable of being ‘just friends’ with a pretty girl.”

Steve rolls his eyes with a heavy huff. He comes to the conclusion that Eddie’s just projecting and that there’s no use in arguing his case. He shoves a black VHS tape into its designated sleeve and slots it in with the rest of them, muttering under his breath, “I’m not King Steve anymore…”

“What?”

“I said, I’m not King Steve anymore!” he yells, a bit louder than he intended to.

He drives a tape onto the pile with an unexpected aggression. It hits the wall with a resounding thud. His arms flail wildly at his sides when he turns to face Eddie again. “God, you guys act like people can’t change! I’m not the asshole I used to be, alright? Jeez…”

Eddie exhales sharply through his nose in the place of any real reply. Deep down, he knows all that. He knows it’s all true because he would’ve never befriended him otherwise. Steve Harrington — the king, the rich kid, the douchebag — turned out to be a pretty damn good guy. 

And maybe if Eddie didn’t love you so much, he’d be able to wrap his head around all that.

But does. So he can’t.

He saw you two together the night before, sharing a cigarette behind The Groove — albeit a little too close for his liking — and suddenly, it was junior year all over again.

You’re stressed out about the ACT and college acceptance rates, none of your clothes quite fit you, and you’re trying out bold things with your makeup that don’t quite fit you either. You grin wildly up at Eddie through the vibrant lipstick smeared on your lips, laughing at his half-hearted attempt to cheer you up. 

And Steve is a senior, standing on the other side of the hallway — with his pretty clothes and prettier hair — and he lets all of his friends laugh at you. They make fun of your un-styled hair and the way your shirt makes your boobs look, and Steve doesn’t find any of it particularly funny but he lets them mock you anyway.

Eddie sees you together and forgets about the man Steve is now. All he sees is a boy who never stuck up for you, for either of you, who let his best friends make your lives hell because his reputation mattered more.

And it wasn’t like it was his job to defend you, because it wasn’t. Not really. It’s just that you would’ve done it for him, if the roles were reversed. Eddie, too. Neither of you would’ve let a lamb be led to the slaughter quite like that. It was the Hellfire motto, after all — to protect the little sheep from the creeping wolves.

That’s where the difference lies. It’s where the mistrust settles deep and where the root of all of Eddie’s worries lingers.

But Steve has done more to prove himself than Eddie likes to give him credit for. 

He takes care of a bunch of kids like it’s his job. He runs Robin to and from school most days out of the week, on time each morning — which, for a guy who showed up late every day for four years, was definitely saying something. He even comes to Eddie’s shows when he’s not too busy working the graveyard shift, never minding that he sticks out in his collared shirt and slacks — a pretty boy amidst a crowd of freaks.

Fuck. Steve Harrington was a pretty alright dude.

But you’re better than alright. You’re better than good. Better than perfect. 

If you got your heart broken, Eddie thinks he’d feel all of it times a thousand.

Steve’s been through his own kind of heartbreak, though. He’s slapped a bandaid over his own bleeding heart, and it’s made him soft. The good kind of soft — the kind where he sees a bug on its back and has to flip it over because it hurts too much to let it suffer. Eddie knows he’ll be that kind to you. Kinder, even.

“Yeah, you better hope so, Harrington,” the boy concludes with a slow nod of his wild head. He steals a chicken tender from the styrofoam box it sits in, like it’s some kind of power move, and waves it at him like a condemnatory point. “I hear you do anything — anything — to her… And your ass is grass.”

Eddie takes a hearty bite from the strip, then tosses it back into the container again. He spins on the ragged heel of his sneaker and stalks out of the break room, punctuating his absence with the slam of the door. The ancient thing gets lodged and doesn’t quite shut all the way, so he has to double back and shut it fully.

Steve is left dumbfounded, in more ways than one.

“…He just ate my chicken,” he mumbles to himself with a frown settled deep between his brows. But there’s a lingering tension in Eddie’s storming out — a tangible fog within his words that settles something heavy in the Family Video breakroom that doubles as storage. 

It feels almost like a blessing.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Won't escape my attention...

The more time you spend with Steve, the more confident you get. 

You visit him at work more often, caring less and less about bothering anybody when you realize they all wanted you there. You let yourself ramble in front of him, too, not stopping yourself nearly as often as you used to. Steve guesses you started to believe him somewhere around the millionth time he promised he liked hearing you talk.

You turn to glitter in his presence, becoming more unapologetically yourself and glowing with it — with all the things that used to make you insecure, things that King Steve would’ve made fun of you for some time ago. Everything you were scared made you too different, is why he liked you in the first place.

And Steve gets to watch it all play out right before his eyes. You inch slowly out of the protective shell you’ve built around yourself and bloom like springtime flowers. He’s grateful he gets to witness it, even more that you feel comfortable enough to do it all in front of him.

You’re hardly as timid as you usually are when you saunter into Family Video. Rather than tiptoeing in and apologizing for intruding, you burst through the front door with a beam and a high-pitched squeal. You’re as bright as every star in the galaxy combined; even dressed head-to-toe in black, you’re more blinding than the sun. 

Eddie’s leather jacket, either stolen or unenthusiastically lent from the boy himself, swallows your upper half. You wear a piece of Metallica merchandise beneath it. The thing is cut up to your ribcage. The jagged edges in the fabric, likely from a dull pair of kitchen scissors, tells him the chop was intentional.

A leather skirt clings effortlessly onto you, revealing the pudge of your stomach and the curves of your hips. The thing is donned with two spiked belts and several chains hanging loosely at your waist.

Steve is dozing at the counter with his chin propped on his first when you walk in. He’s half-asleep until he sees you. The shot of espresso that walks in makes him instantly forget how tired he is.

“Guess what?” you ask with wide, sparkling eyes as you skip to the counter with your hands behind your back.

Steve always hated that question. Usually, it came from Dustin or Robin — or, god forbid, both of them — followed by a “No, seriously. Guess.” It left him with no choice but to humor them until they ultimately caved and told him something he couldn’t have guessed in a million years.

He isn’t so annoyed now, though. In fact, he smiles. “What?” he replies.

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, as though in a futile attempt to conceal the wide grin on your face, and take your hands from behind your back. You flash him the cassette tape you hold in the palm of them, a blue and yellow thing with the angled Def Leppard logo printed on the cover.

“No way!” Steve finds himself exclaiming like he’s the number one fan of the rock and roll band. He isn’t; never has been, really. But he is a fan of you. All of his excitement, all of his bright and shining smiles — they’re all for you.

“They came in last night— when I was off, of course— and I opened this morning and there was a whole damn tower of these tapes! I’m the one who does the tape towers, okay? Plus, I’ve been doggin’ my manager for weeks about the things, so I can’t believe they came in and no one told me, you know?”

Steve gets lost in your rambling right along with you, nodding because he never wants you to stop talking. His twinkling gaze follows you back and forth as you pace in front of the counter. You gesticulate wildly with your hands, nearly elbowing a customer when they get too close to the line of fire.

“And she was all like ‘I can’t control when they come in,’ And I was like ‘well, you can’t control when I come in either, I’ll be taking a long lunch now, thank you’���” you recount, albeit at a slightly louder volume that shocks anyone who doesn’t know you. People shoot you lingering side eyes from over the aisles.

Steve doesn’t care. He’s even happier that you don’t seem to either. You feel comfortable enough with him now to stop caring about the rest. When you stop yourself, you do it because you’ve said everything you need to say, not because you feel like you’ve annoyed him in some way. 

“Anyway,” you conclude with a sigh. “I wanted to run it to you personally because, besides Eddie, you’re the only person I know who cares as much as I do.”

You smile sweetly at him, peering at him through your lashes, so suddenly timid — no longer the boisterous girl lighting up the whole room. Steve notices that you do that a lot, go from loud and sunny to shy and glimmering. Eddie does it too, sometimes, but it’s not nearly as cute.

“My wallet’s in my locker,” he tells you when you hand him the tape. He cocks his thumb over his shoulder with his free hand. “Let me go grab it. I’ll be, like, two seconds—”

You reach over the counter and take him by the arm, wrapping chipped maroon nails around the crook of his elbow to keep him from straying too far. Shock coats his features at the suddenness of your touch and the way it makes him buzz.

You scoff. “Are you serious? I’m not gonna make you pay, you weirdo.”

“No?”

“Of course not! It’s a gift.”

“Well, gee, Punchy. Considered me flattered,” he concedes with a faltering smile.

You laugh at his half-hearted attempt to be charming.

He rests his crossed arms on the counter and leans over the top of it in an effort to be the slightest bit closer to you. He gazes up at you with honey eyes and raised brows and a big, dumb smile. “And, you know, flattery... it goes a long way with me.”

You arch an un-manicured brow at him. “Does it, now?”

“Yep. So much so, I’m willing to break a few rules and let you pick out a couple of movies. On the house.”

It’s dumb and it’s sweet and so terribly innocent. He wants to give you so much than that but he’s got about eighteen dollars to his name, so all he can do is offer you a few measly VHS tapes. It has you beaming like he just offered you the world.

“Steve Harrington,” you scold playfully. “I didn’t know you were so naughty.”

He falters. His resolve slips and, for no more than half a second, his brain forgets how to work. 

He’s not quite sure how you manage to do that to him all the damn time. You make his brain shortcircuit and his belly quiver and his vision swim. He’s known you for a while now, long enough that the lovesickness should’ve well worn off.

Steve’s worried that there’s no cure for you, that he’s in it for the long haul now — upset stomachs, heart palpitations, and all.

“Well, I’m full of surprises,” he shrugs and sways on his feet. “What’s your poison, Punchy? Molly Ringwald? Robert Downey Jr.? The John Hughes type?”

You can tell he’s joking. You squint over at him and rest your elbows on the counter top your face-to-face. 

The wintergreen mint on his breath makes your head swim. 

Your rouge-tined lips are so close he can taste them — he wants to, desperately so. 

You don’t miss the way his gaze flits to your mouth, lingering there for no longer than a blink.

“Try Night of the Living Dead,” you challenge. 

“That is so dreadfully on brand for you,” he manages to reply without much stuttering. He’s surprised he’s able to get any words out at all, with the way his heart feels like it’s about to beat out of his chest.

“I’m nothing if not predictable.”

Steve doesn’t respond as he leaves the counter to get what you asked for. Silence is easier than saying that you’re the most surprising thing he’s ever met in his life.

When he returns, he brings the entire film franchise with him. All three movies are stacked in his arms and he scans the backs of them, hoping Keith won’t notice that they’re being rented free of charge.

“Have you ever seen them?” you wonder.

He shakes his head. “No. I saw one of them at a drive-in a long time ago, but I wasn’t exactly paying attention, if you know what I mean—” he answers with a soft laugh, quick to cut himself off. It was supposed to be a dumb joke, but both of you know what he was insinuating and it makes everything awkward. 

Robin would’ve slapped him on the back of the head if she were around to hear it. 

He would’ve deserved it.

“Well, you missed out,” you scold, not quite meeting his gaze. “They’re actually pretty good.”

“I’ll try and watch ‘em sometime then.”

“Tonight?” you offer suddenly.

Steve furrows his brows. “…Huh?”

“I mean, like— I don’t know… I thought maybe we could watch them tonight,” you stammer with your eyes turned down toward the counter, where you draw invisible patterns onto the granite with the tip of your finger. “Like, together… if you want.”

Steve is momentarily speechless. He’s spent weeks plotting how he was going to ask you out. It would come to him in waves. He’d feel like he’d concocted the most perfect, foolproof plan right before realizing there was no way in hell he could ever go through with it — all in the same fleeting thought. 

But here you are, biting the bullet for the both of you. 

He’s grateful. He thinks he’s dreaming.

“That sounds…” Steve trails off with the mindless nod of his head. “Yeah. No. Totally. That sounds… really cool.”

A wide smile pulls at the edges of your lips. You purse your mouth to the side in attempts to conceal it. “Cool,” you murmur all cool-ly, like his affirmation isn’t heaven to your ears.

“Uh, not to sound like a total douchebag or whatever, but my dad— he’s got this theater room and everything, and my parents are almost never home,” Steve rambles as he puts all three movies into a paper bag. Then his eyes go wide and his face glows cherry red. “Not like that! I didn’t mean it like— That sounded really weird… I’m sorry—”

You giggle at him, at the way he can pretend to be so suave, and then reveal all the marshmallow fluff he tries to keep hidden a moment later. “It’s okay, Steve. I got what you meant.”

He writes his address on a yellow sticky note with the Family Video logo printed in green at the very top. His handwriting is boyish and sloppy, the sign of a boy who never did care much about school. Some letters are connected, others far apart; some written too big, while others are too small. You find it endearing, but Steve knows it’s just because his hand was shaking something fierce.

He leaves his number written at the very bottom. Just for good measure.

“No funny business, alright, Harrington?” you joke, waving a ringed finger at him as you walk backward out of the store, heading back to your own job.

Steve bites back a smile. Once upon a time, he was all funny business. No girl was ever going to invite King Steve over and not expect some heavy petting. And he wants so badly to kiss you — fuck, he wants to kiss you all the time — but the want to spend innocent time with you eclipses all of those boyish feelings.

He yearns to be close to you. Like magnets. Or a moon and the ocean’s tide.

“No funny business,” he promises.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

You keep your distance with a system of touch.

It isn’t until you arrive at the front gates of the Harrington home you realize you’ve never been in the suburbs of Hawkins before.

You grew up on the very outskirts of town, where there were more trees than people or houses. The block was half rundown already and horribly secluded. The only interesting thing about it was the winding trail through the woods that led to the anterior of Forest Hills trailer park.

That’s where you spent the bulk of your time, practically living with Eddie and Wayne in their one-bedroom trailer, until you felt guilty enough to go back home for a day or two. Your parents would inevitably remind you why you ran off in the first place, and then the cycle would start all over again.

It was all just far enough away from Hawkins that you could pretend like the town’s bullshit didn’t exist. The freak from the wrong side of the tracks didn’t belong on Maple Street or Fairview Road or Laurel Avenue. That was for people who could afford new shoes every school year, who could go clothes shopping and not feel guilty about cutting into their food money, who were set up with trust funds before they were even born.

But here you are now, on Fairview Road, seven o’clock sharp, and standing in front of the biggest house you’d ever seen. 

You ring the doorbell and flinch when it’s louder than expected. The chime is light and jaunty. You wonder if it’s been programmed for the change in season.

Steve answers no more than a couple seconds later. He swings both French doors open, arms spreading wide like the smile on his face.

He’s traded in his slacks for comfier jeans and his vest for a form-fitting sweatshirt he’s bunched at the elbows. You realize, then, that you’ve never seen him without the forest green Family Video jacket. It makes him look naked, almost, like a totally different person — no longer the dork who works a measly nine-to-five with his best friend and visits the freak next door on the off chance his manager won’t dock his pay for it.

The vest had humbled him to a certain extent. Now he just looks cool. Like the boy people would either praise or avoid like the plague, for fear of getting in King Steve’s path — just a little bit more mature looking now, with his chiseled jaw and scruffy chin.

It makes you feel a little stupid from where you stand on the porch ahead of him, wearing the same thing he’d seen you in earlier that day. He’s got no idea you spent the past couple of hours agonizing over what to wear. For the sake of not seeming crazy overzealous, you opted not to dress up. Now you’re scared he thinks you just didn’t care enough to.

But you do care. So goddamn much that’s it scary. 

You never had to worry about what you wore or what you looked like before you left the house, about what you had too much of and what you lacked. Now, it’s all you can think about.

If Steve notices anything at all, he doesn’t show it. He just keeps on smiling at you, too happy to see you to care about what you’re wearing. He’s just glad that you showed up.

Truth be told, he had a six-pack and Robin’s number on speed dial on the off chance you canceled on him. He was preparing himself to wallow in self-pity and spend the rest of the night ranting to his best friend about the bleeding heart he had for you. Because, as far as he was concerned, you were far too good to be true. 

You were beautiful and funny and kind and perfect. You treat him like you’ve known him for years, like he didn’t spend so many of them avoiding you in attempts to keep some measly title that didn’t mean shit. You were too perfect. Sometimes, Steve gets scared that he just made you up.

But whether you’re a dream come true or the real thing, you’re standing on his front porch anyway, with a smile and a bottle of grocery store wine. 

He saves the beer in his fridge and the wallowing for another day. 

Steve escorts you through his lavish living room and to the downstairs area that’s got a movie screen hanging on the walls and a couple of leather couches sitting in front of it. The coffee table in front of them holds a myriad of glass bowls — popcorn, various candies, and more popcorn.

“You planning on throwin’ a party down here, Harrington?” you tease with a soft chuckle, trying to conceal how your heart’s about to burst at the mere sight of it all.

“Well, I just— I didn’t know what you liked, and I didn’t— I wanted to make sure you had something to eat, you know,” the boy stammers out. He brings the palm of his hand to rub at the back of his neck. “So I just… I got… everything.”

“It’s a good thing a like everything then, huh?” you smile at him as you pluck a Red Vine from its dedicated bowl. You rip off an inch or two with your teeth and then talk as you chew: “I hope you’re prepared for all of this shit get eaten, Harrington. I can get quite ravenous.”

Steve nods to himself and tries not to smile too big. “Sounds entertaining… Maybe I’ll just watch you instead of the movie.”

It was supposed to be a joke. 

But then you settled down next to him on the couch, keeping a respectful distance but sharing the same fuzzy blanket, and he has to physically force himself to drag his gaze away from you. 

He was right about what he said before, you were far more entertaining than the black and white film projected ahead of him — grabbing handfuls of popcorn at a time and quoting the movie through the mouthful. 

It’s a tad bit barbaric, the faintest bit off-putting, and otherworldly levels of endearing. It leaves him virtually unable to take his eyes off of you. 

He didn’t think you could get more beautiful, but you keep on proving him wrong. 

He’s starting to realize he doesn’t know shit.

You’re slowly coming to the same understanding.

You’ve heard stories about Steve. Usually from gossiping cheerleaders standing in circles at their lockers or whispering in the back of a classroom. Doomed as the freak and all but banished from the inner society of Hawkins High, you became an observer. You were so invisible that people sometimes didn’t realize they were talking right over you, sharing secrets they wouldn’t want someone else to get a hold of. 

But apparently you were the exception. Because you weren’t a someone to them.

They talked about how kind he was, how well endowed, how they were meant to go on some stupid date but missed their reservation because Steve got a little too handsy beforehand, and how they spent the rest of the night with their hands shoved down each other’s pants at Lover’s Lake. 

You were seeing, firsthand, how much he’d changed. How he made his promise of no funny business and how he was sticking to it — no teasing you about the whole thing with a knowing smirk and flirtatious honey eyes, no urging to close this distance between you, no tiny touches on your arm or thigh in the hopes of heavier petting.

He spends the entirety of the first movie perfectly respectful. Just like you’d asked him to be. 

And it was nice, knowing that you weren’t wasting your evening with some asshole who was only spending time with you in the hopes of you putting out later. But it leaves you the faintest bit empty. Hungry. You long for his touch like a missed meal. Starving and feeling it all.

It’s not even heavy petting you want, you just want to feel him next to you — to press yourself into his side and to warm yourself with him like a blanket. 

But you weren’t a pretty cheerleader or a girl dripping in expensive clothes and daddy’s money. You were the weirdo, the freak, the loudmouth nerd, Punchy — all names you wore proudly, like lit-up signs or steel armor. 

Until now. 

Now you think if you weren’t Punchy, if were you someone different, then maybe he’d want to touch you more.

The first hour and thirty-seven minutes of your favorite movie are strangely agonizing. 

Your hands itch with the desire to touch the boy next to you, and they busy themselves with the bowls of candy and savory junk food splayed out on the table in front of you. It’s mindless more than it is anything. You’re absentminded binging does nothing more than half-distract you from the thoughts raging rivers in your skull.

You don’t even realize you’re doing it until your hand falls into an empty bowl of popcorn and finds nothing but kernels at the bottom of it. 

It makes Steve laugh, thinking you were just too into the movie to notice — having no idea it was him taking up all your brain power. 

He leaves to fix more snacks for you while you slip the second VHS into the movie player. He returns with a bowl of freshly popped popcorn and two beers after the wine bottle has been sufficiently emptied. When he plops down next to you again, it’s in the same spot he’d been sitting in all night — a couple of excruciating inches away.

Under the guise of sharing the popcorn in his lap, you make the too bold decision to slither in at his side. It’s innocent at first — your thighs just barely graze and your elbows bump when you dip your hands into the bowl. And it’s still innocent some thirty minutes later, when you find yourself resting your head on his shoulder with your legs curled up behind you.

Steve tenses when he feels your temple pressed against him, but only for a moment before he relaxes again. It makes him all suddenly warm and self-aware of every movement he makes. He tries not to breathe too heavy or shift too often, for fear it might jostle you too much. He doesn’t want to stop feeling you against him like this, even if it’s got his skin prickling with a searing form of anxiety.

“Don’t tell me you’re falling asleep,” he jokes.

“Of course not. It’s way too riveting,” you scoff, even though he can feel you cuddling further into him. Your cheek rubs against the soft cotton of his sweatshirt when you look up at him. He turns his head to peer down at you and his nose nearly grazes your forehead. 

He finds you with a certain glint in your eye. It’s borderline playful, like it so often is, but coated with a sweetness that drips over him like honey. “You like it so far?” you wonder.

“Yeah,” the boy nods quickly. He couldn’t tell you what had happened the past two-and-a-half films, but he could tell you how your jaw tenses when you chew and how your smile curls just before you laugh out loud and how your eyes widen every time you quote the movie. “It’s really good. I like it.”

You beam at him before turning back to the projector again. You shift to get more comfortable against him. “Good.” 

By the third movie, you’re somehow even closer.

Truth be told, Day of the Dead wasn’t your favorite in the trilogy, so it left your mind wandering to far off places — namely, the pretty boy sitting beside you. He goes to put the tape into the projector, feeling immediately cold without pressing into his side, and when he returns he tries his best not to beg you to cuddle against him again.

“My shoulder’s gettin’ real cold over here,” he tries to joke. 

You see right through his beckoning, though. It makes you happy to know he wants it just as much as you do. 

“Just say you wanna be next to me, Harrington,” you tease like you aren’t happily obliging him. You snuggle into his shoulder and rest your head against him while your arms curl around his bicep.

“I wanna be next to you,” he repeats, a playful smile on his lips though his gaze softens with sincerity. “Is that so bad?”

You shake your head against him in reply. Suddenly as mushy as the boy beside you, you turn to look up at him. “Not unless it’s bad that I wanna be next to you, too…”

“Nah. It’s not bad,” he assures in something short of a whisper. “Guess I’m just glad I’m not the only one that’s so far gone.”

He doesn’t elaborate on what he means by that. He doesn’t have to.

Perhaps it’s the admission that this boy is so far gone for you that gives you a sudden burst of confidence. Maybe it’s the comforting feeling of being seen, of knowing you’re no longer alone in your similar far gone-ness. Each feels like rays of sunshine to your skin and has you pressing your lips to his wanting ones without much thought. 

The plump pink of his mouth are magnets for yours. They meet and lock together with little effort, almost destined to do it. It’s a soft, meager, and lingering little peck that sucks you both in a little too easily. It’s hard to pull away from him, but when you do, your lips click in protest.

Then there’s a look, then a deafening silence that says more words than either of you were capable of forming in that moment. His amber eyes dart between both of yours, asking a question without saying a goddamn thing. One that you answer with your own softening gaze. 

And it’s almost better than the kiss itself, the swirling feeling in the pits of your stomach, the knowing of what’s about to happen.

A silent plea and a blink later and his lips are on yours again. 

It’s an awkward mess of yearning mouths and tangled limbs as the both of you fight to find purchase on one another. Your fingers knot in the collar of his sweatshirt, pulling him impossibly closer, while his grip the bare skin of your waist from where your shirt had ridden up. His touch makes you buzz, like a static shock or a bolt of lightning.

Steve makes several observations when he feels you melt into him like honey on toast. He notices how you press yourself into him, like you won’t be satisfied until you’ve swallowed him whole, and how it has you kissing him like you’re scared he’ll pull away — like you’ll open your eyes and he won’t be real. 

You’re as domineering against his mouth as you are in real life, still as all-consuming and overpowering as the girl he’s gotten so familiar with.

He doesn’t realize how you’ve settled so intently on top of him until his back meets the pillowy cushion of the leather couch. You don’t either, until he exhales a sharp gasp against your cupid’s bow. Then you part from him, for the first time in several minutes, breathing in the oxygen your lungs had just begun to scream for. 

Steve finds you with kiss-bitten lips and glassy eyes that look upon him with a softness that he didn’t know existed until now. He smirks with his own swollen and pinker mouth like he isn’t glowing red beneath you. 

“I thought you said no funny business,” he manages to tease through bated breaths.

You don’t bother to make up excuses for yourself. You’re already on top of him, all over him — you’ve already kissed him like you would’ve died if you hadn’t. Now, you’re straddling him, caging him between your legs and under your torso. You’ve settled on top of him with a comforting weightiness, like you’re building a home in the familiarity you’ve sought in him.

“I lied,” you mutter with a lazy shrug. A sly smile pulls slowly at your lips until you’re all but beaming sunbeams down at him. He revels in your warmth. “’S not my fault you’re so damn cute.”

It’s easier to blame it on him for all the reasons you’re attached to him like a magnet to his metal, your moth to his flame. You part his lips with your mouth, rut your tongue against his own, reveling in the foreign familiarity of it all, and then blame him for the way you can’t seem to stop any of it.

Steve doesn’t seem to mind, though. The way his hands find purchase on your hips, petting the warmed skin there and sometimes squeezing to pull you further down onto him, tells you that he has a similar yearning to melt with you. He lets you kiss him all slow, allows you to taste all of him, and doesn’t rush you in your process. It’s comforting, tender. Free.

He’s not used to being on his back like this. Usually, he’s the one taking control. It’s his mouth that does all the work. So, it’s strange to be under you and to have you above him. But it’s more pleasant in an even stranger way not to be rushed — not to have to do all the work. His mouth opens so obediently for you and finds an effortless rhythm with your lips and your tongue. 

It’s the easiest thing he’s ever done in his life, kissing you. 

He delights in every ounce of the warmth and unfamiliarity you press to his mouth, and tries to shove down feelings of unworthiness that simmer in his chest while you do so.

You don’t part until your mouths are numb and tingling with it. 

Your lips are more vibrant in their color, aflame and swollen from being so ardently kissed and sucked and bitten. Neither of you mind making out like a couple of teenagers. It’s comforting to know that things won’t go further than a couple soft touches on burning skin. It was never supposed to be anything more than that, anyway. It was just about being close to each other.

You’ve almost succeeded in your effort to melt into the boy beneath you, when you hear the distant sound of a door opening and closing again. Muffled voices follow — unknown to you but obviously familiar to him. 

You part from him without thinking, like you’re a couple of kids again who’ll get in trouble if your parents ever found out what you were doing down here. Steve groans at the loss of you and in annoyance at the sound of his parents. His heavy eyes fall shut and his head leans back to the couch cushions as he fights to swallow down all of his anger.

His parents never really come around these days. They’ve got a bigger home in the city, closer to his dad’s work, and they choose to stay there most days of the week — month. 

They used to make excuses for why they left their only son behind. It’s five minutes from your dad’s firm. There’s more opportunity for your mom’s real estate business. Oh, don’t be so selfish, Steven, you’ll finally have the place to yourself. It’s a win-win for all of us.

Steve didn’t want their excuses. It was actually easier with them gone. 

But they come around every now and again, whenever it’s most convenient for them, and treat their arrival like something that needs to be celebrated. Like they aren’t supposed to be with their child in the fucking first place. And they somehow manage to pick the most inconvenient times for him, like they know he’s in a bind and want to see him struggle to get out of it.

Usually, it’s when he’s in between paychecks — when they want to take him out to some fancy dinner he could barely afford anyway, but especially when he’s hardly making it until payday. Now, it’s when he’s got the prettiest girl he’s ever seen on top of him, and he’s all hot and half-hard. Steve doesn’t want to let them ruin the moment, as good as they are at it.

“It’s okay. They won’t come in here,” he assures when he feels you tense at the unexpected company. “My mom will go to the bedroom and my dad will go to his office. We’re good, I promise.”

You figure he’s right. The voices grow more and more distant. Heeled shoes click up and up the stairs while heavy stomps head the opposite way. But you’ve already been so woefully knocked out of your stupor that you’re scared it’s too late.

Your lips are numb and the credits are rolling and you’re on top of this beautiful boy and you have no idea how you got there.

It’s almost frightening, the way Steve had consumed you mind, body, and soul by just existing next to you. You become dreadfully hyperaware of the whole thing — of who you are, who he is, and what you’re doing. You lose all your softness and turn to ice, hardening and shrinking back into yourself.

“I should—” you start before clearing your throat when the words come out heavier than expected. “I should head out anyway.”

“Oh,” is all Steve can say. “Right.”

You stare down at him, chest still pressed against his, nose nearly touching the tip of his own. “I just— I have to open tomorrow and everything, so—”

“No. Yeah. Yeah, I— I get it.”

You make tricky work of untangling yourselves.

His legs twist with yours when you both try to rise from the couch at the same time. Then your ring gets stuck in the fabric of his shirt, but not before his belt buckle gets somehow caught in yours. It’s like fate is protesting the imminent parting, but neither of you are paying attention to the signs.

He walks you to your car and chuckles under his breath as you scurry to the front door. 

You’re not-so-distantly terrified of running into his parents. They probably wouldn’t mind that he’s sneaking around with a girl, surely that they’re used to, but you’re almost certain they’re not used to girls like you. Girls with wild hair and leather skirts and chunky boots and too bold makeup. 

You’re not the girl next door. You’re the girl parents warn their sons about. “Leave that girl alone,” they say. “She’s nothing but trouble.”

You tell him all of this on the short trek to your half-broken-down car when you catch him laughing at you about the whole thing. You say it in jest, lighthearted and trying to make a joke of it. But there’s an underlying melancholia to your tone that reveals every truth you’re trying to evade.

“They don’t care enough about me to give a shit about a girl I’m with, I promise,” he confesses with a laugh that sounds more like a sad scoff than anything else. His chocolate eyes turn gold beneath the yellow street light. He smirks at you. “Besides, I don’t know if I told you this or not, but my middle name is actually trouble, so… I think we might be a match made in heaven.”

You roll your eyes at his attempts to flirt with you, though his lack of finesse makes you smile. “You’re an idiot, Steve Actually Trouble Harrington.”

“You really know how to say goodbye, don’t ya?” he grins when you reach the curb where your tin can car sits. 

“Yeah, I’m pro,” you shrug with a teasing glint in your eye, then you beam. “I’ll see you around, ‘kay?”

“Totally,” he nods, suddenly forlorn at having to leave you like he hadn’t just spent the past four hours with you.

Themetallic click of your car door opening sounds much louder in the emptiness of the suburbs. You glance at the boy right before you sink into the driver’s seat, feeling your heart swell with something short of yearning — anticipation. 

You weren’t actually a professional at saying goodbye, you find, because you’re realizing how hard it is to leave him.

“Steve!” he hears you shout from across the lawn when he’s halfway up the drive. 

He turns around, expecting to hear you tease him some more or tell him you were having car troubles. Neither would’ve shocked him. You’ve got a smart mouth and a shittier car. But you keep on surprising him, all but launching yourself into him before kissing him harder than he’s ever been kissed before.

Steve tenses against you at first, then relaxes again in record time. He sighs in the comfort of having your body pressed so intently into his and your arms wrapped around his neck to pull him somehow closer. 

You feel the breath of his exhale fan against your cupid’s bow. It makes you smile, and he feels the expression contort against his lips. His hands rise to the widest part of your hips without thinking. It’s all muscle memory now.

And even though he’s spent the better part of an hour kissing you, this one is so obviously different. This wasn’t just to pass the time. This was more than just to feel him — it was to tell him something. He hears every word you don’t say, but rather press like a stamp to his mouth.

He’s breathless when you pull away. You meet his flushed face with a mischievous grin.

“What was that for?” he wonders breathlessly, but doesn’t waver with his hold on you. He quickly notices that yours doesn’t either.

You shrug in response. “‘Cause you’re pretty.”

“Yeah, well…” he tries to play off like he’s not blushing like crazy. “You’re pretty too.”

Your beam ebbs into a teasing, tightlipped smirk. “Stop flirting with me, Steve Harrington.”

You shove him away with a rougher hand than you realize before you walk away from him. Steve rubs at the ache in his chest with the palm of his hand.

Your playful teasing and your lingering kiss is the only thing Steve has to remember you by when you turn on your chunky heeled boot and head off down the driveway again. He’s frozen, mesmerized by the sight of you and reeling at how you manage to drive him crazy without trying.

Your eyes find him again just before you duck into your car, and you see him still looking at you — mouth agape and eyes wide like you’re some kind of rare find. You figure you must be, in some way. Girls like you aren’t supposed to like guys like him. Vice Versa. Tale as old as time.

The boy stays locked in his stupor until the sprinkles whir on. The spurts of freezing cold water spray all over him and his pretty hair and expensive sweatshirt and his vintage jeans. “Shit!” you hear him swear as he rushes for cover on his front porch. 

He’s quickly soaked and freezing cold, but he smiles anyway when he hears the sound of your giggling behind him. It’s as animated as your personality and spills from your mouth like so many rays of sunshine, just a little too loud for the quiet midnight suburbs. 

It’s perfect, he realizes. You’re perfect. 

#published by bug #steve harrington x reader #stranger things x reader #stranger things imagine #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fic #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington #st oneshots #stevie oneshot #punchy x steve

[permanently-stressed]

Give me Biana hcss plz!!!!! literally anything, hobbies, random tics, habits, specific little things likes, dislikes, I love her and I need more from her

also I'm sry but I ship Tiana so maybe no ship related stuff? trying to be polite I swear but typing always comes across so crude I'm sorry!!!!!

I love ur blog thoooo <3

don't worry i got you 🫶🏻

So I'm gonna section these into Canon Abiding and Human AU, because I have a lot of headcanons about Human!Biana

Canon Abiding:

She has quite a bit of a temper when she's completely comfortable with someone.

Losing friendships is what takes the biggest toll on her emotionally, she was very uneasy when Maruca felt neglected

Because really, it wasn't a perfect friendship. They didn't have much in common. They were mostly friends because Alden wanted to be closer to Wylie's family.

She wears jewelry often because she likes to fidget with it.

She's very skilled with making only parts of herself vanish, but she's still figuring out how to only make her body disappear and only leave the clothes (like Wraith)

She uses her old bows to make Lady Sassyfur, her Emotional Support Stuffed Animal, even more adorable

Spends a lot of her alone time invisible, to make it seem like she's in control of something

Sophie, Dex, and her have this little trio where all of them count each other as their 'best friend' (but Sophie and Dex also count Keefe, too)

Her favorite dresses are all yellow or pink.

She looks at herself in the mirror twice, one to check for imperfections, another to think 'wow, i look good'

She has had to drag herself out of ruts in the past, but that's not a side of her she's willing to show to anyone yet.

Human AU Biana:

She did ballet from 7yo to 14yo

She picked up ice skating after that.

Christmas is her season. She decorates, she gives out gifts, the music is always on, she thrives.

Listens to Noah Kahan, Taylor Swift, Lana Del Rey and any 70/80s hits.

Her phone memory is always full because she takes pictures of her pets 24/7

Got really into coffee at some point and people prefer to have coffee at her house than anywhere else

She plans trips with her friends and actually goes on them. Masters in Art History? No. Masters in Fun.

Major fashion history fan. If she hears "but corsets were so restricting" one more time she is going to scream.

Her shoe game is impeccable but she's running out of space in her closet for them.

She does really light make up most of the time, but when she wants an extra boost of confidence she'll do something special with eyeshadow

Has 110 Pinterest boards. No, she's not kidding. No, it's not a hyperbole. She has 110 Pinterest boards.

She only has 7 different playlists tho. Sophie, with her 143 playlist, is horrified.

Graduated both high school and college with a 4.0.

and yeah! That's all I have now! Thanks for the ask!!

#biana vacker #kotlc thoughts #kotlc headcannons #biana headcannons #isa thinks #kotlc #keeper of the lost cities

[defectivevillain]

forgone faith

pairing: Monsignor/Reader (can be platonic or romantic)

summary: It’s too late to go back now. You might as well continue pushing forward. “Some part of you, however small, lays its eyes on me and finds belonging and understanding.” The chess game has been neglected since you first accused the Monsignor of being threatened by you, and you can’t attribute that to mere coincidence. “Your desires are much like mine,” you elaborate, your heart hammering in your chest. “I see the way you look at other men, the way you look at me. You don’t practice what you preach… and you are no saint.” You finish.

You're a patient at Briarcliff Manor, and your simple chess matches with the Monsignor quickly escalate into something more.

notes: The reader was born a woman, but is under the trans/nonbinary umbrella. Their identity isn’t explicitly stated, so feel free to imagine however you’d like. (I usually write the reader from my perspective as a transmasc person, if that’s helpful to know.) Otherwise, no pronouns or physical descriptors are used; race is kept ambiguous.

word count: 3.9k | ao3 version

warnings: period-typical transphobia (not the focus of this fic in the slightest), the questioning/scrutiny of religion (mostly just American Catholicism), conversations about gender identity (grounded in the time period and its prejudiced beliefs, unfortunately), canon-typical violence, electroshock therapy, torture, loss of consciousness, canonical Nazi character

“You have the devil in you.”

You look up from the chess game. In a different time, with different people, that kind of remark would have sent your heart racing. You would’ve been terrified at the thought of your identity being thrust into the open so easily, despite your seemingly endless attempts to keep the skeletons in your dusty closet. Now, as you sit in the Briarcliff Manor Sanitarium across from a priest, the remark only makes you huff a laugh. 

You’re not sure how these chess games started, in all honesty. As the director of the Sanitarium, Monsignor Timothy Howard presides over the entire building. You hadn’t spoken to him much, save for one fateful day when you found yourself cleaning the kitchen. The priest had walked in with a slight pull to his lips, before requesting your company in a game of chess. You—desiring something else to do—agreed within moments. From there, one chess game turned into two, which turned into three, which turned into games once or twice a week. 

You’re abruptly thrown back to reality as the priest successfully takes one of your pieces. It takes you a few moments to remember what he just said—You have the devil in you—and several more moments to respond. 

“And how about you?” You remember to ask, moving your chess piece before leveling the Monsignor with an intent look. You’re glad this conversation is occurring behind closed doors. While your first games had occurred in the kitchens, they soon migrated to the priest’s office. “I’ve seen you observing me, watching me.”

The man is entirely silent. His brows are furrowed and he’s staring at the board in concentration, but you know he isn’t thinking about chess. He’s contemplating what you’ve just said and, admittedly, you’re surprised. You had fully expected him to deny the accusation immediately. Sensing that he will remain silent for a while longer, you continue talking. “Do you think I haven’t noticed? The preferential treatment? I haven’t had a beating in weeks, and I definitely deserve it—according to Sister Jude, at least.”

The Monsignor stiffens. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” he replies lightly, finally making his move. 

You decide to be straightforward. You don’t have much to lose, after all (no one at Briarcliff does). “Does your god care about people like me?” You hum. You don’t need to elaborate any further for him to understand what you’re alluding to. After all, your identity is the reason you’re locked behind these walls. You were born a woman. You are not one. It should be quite simple, but to everyone else, it is not. 

“God accepts all of His children into heaven,” the Monsignor says in a practiced recitation. You wonder how many people have been fed that lie. From what you’ve seen and experienced, American Catholicism has traditionally repelled queerness in any form.

“Even the broken ones?” You ask, watching as his eyebrows furrow for a fraction of a second. You don’t think yourself to be broken—you’re simply borrowing the words from accusations that have been hurled at you over the years. “The deluded ones?” You raise your eyebrows and look at him expectantly. 

“Even them,” the Monsignor says, suddenly breaking eye contact to look down at his pieces. You don’t think you’re imagining how he dodged your gaze, or the raspy quality his voice adopted.

“Even me,” you supplement. A fleeting smile crosses your face. You clasp your hands. “How I wish that were true.” 

“You do not need to wish for it,” the Monsignor remarks, clasping his hands in a mimicry (unconscious or conscious, you’re not quite sure) of your own posture. “You need only… believe it.” His statement is punctuated by the move he makes with his rook. 

“Even when you don’t?” You ask, moving your bishop in response. 

“I believe you are misguided,” the Monsignor says. Irritation prickles along your skin. You don’t care what a man like him thinks of you. And yet… the accusation still hurts. 

“And I believe that you are threatened by me,” you blurt out, before you can contemplate the consequences of speaking so freely. Perhaps a small part of you is feeling vindictive. 

“Threatened?” The Monsignor laughs in evident amusement. It’s not hard to notice that his laugh sounds strained. He wouldn’t be so vehemently opposed to this turn in conversation unless he had something to hide. And you know all about hiding—you were forced to hide who you were for nearly your entire life, just to survive. It’s frighteningly easy to peel back the layers of the Monsignor’s disguise and dig your fingers into the essence of his being. 

It’s too late to go back now. You might as well continue pushing forward. “Some part of you, however small, lays its eyes on me and finds belonging and understanding.” The chess game has been neglected since you first accused him of being threatened by you, and you can’t attribute that to mere coincidence. 

“Your desires are much like mine,” you elaborate, your heart hammering in your chest. “I see the way you look at other men, the way you look at me. You don’t practice what you preach… and you are no saint.” You finish. 

Suddenly, the Monsignor slams his hands on the table. The chessboard rattles and some of the pieces tip over, terminating your game. You hardly have the time to regret what you’ve done before you’re being yanked up by the collar of your shirt and shoved into the wall. 

There’s a dangerous look in the Monsignor’s eyes. You’ve hit a nerve, it seems. “Don’t ever speak to me like that again,” the priest hisses, his calm mask slipping right off. There’s a hint of a snarl on his lips. His fist is tightened around your collar, turning his knuckles white with exertion. “Or I will ensure that you never see the light of day.”

You remain silent, your objections unspoken. You could never do that to me, because you know, deep down, that what I’m saying rings true, you recite in your mind. The Monsignor’s grip tightens and his fingers claw at your shirt, to the point that you have to stand up taller to avoid losing your breath. 

“Do you understand?” He hisses, his breath hitting your neck. 

“I understand,” you say, if only to placate him. You’ve said all that you wanted to say, and that is more than enough. You can already tell that the priest is ruminating on your conversation, picking it apart within the darkest corners of his mind. That’s the best you can hope for. 

The Monsignor’s grip finally leaves your collar and you cough at the stress placed on your throat. Your vision momentarily blurring, you can’t see the emotions running across his face: rage, irritation, fear, regret. “Leave.” He demands. 

You turn on your heel and leave without hesitation.

In hindsight, you should’ve prioritized self-preservation over trying to prove a point to the Monsignor. Although, in the time immediately following your conversation, you do not see any repercussions. You go to meals, sit in the common room, and return to your cell. Everything is normal, unchanged. 

Then you mouth off to Sister Jude, and you’re roughly dragged into her office. You had gotten too confident, you think to yourself as you’re punished. Sister Jude’s arm winds back again and again. At some point, your vision spirals and you lose consciousness. It’s a small mercy. 

When you wake up, you find yourself in solitary. You sit in the unassuming cell, bruises forming along your skin from Sister Jude’s harsh punishment. When you’re finally released, you make your way back to your cell mechanically. Where you had felt fury and determination before, you only feel empty. You’re starting to slip off the deep end, you think. 

Unsurprisingly, your chess games are no more. You catch glimpses of the Monsignor around the building, but you don’t speak to him. Sometimes, you get a prickling feeling—as if there are eyes on your back. But when you turn around, you don’t find anyone there. 

It’s rather easy to fade behind the walls of the Sanitarium. That is what the building is designed for, essentially. There is no color, no life inside these walls. The medications you’re given certainly don’t help in that regard, either. You soon find yourself trapped in a never-ending cycle of acting out, being punished, getting thrown in solitary, and returning to your cell. Indeed, you’re finding yourself in Sister Jude’s office more often than not these days. And you don’t enjoy the pain—not necessarily. But it does make you feel alive—more alive than you’ve felt in a long time. Regrettably, it doesn’t take the nun very long to catch on.  

“We may have to resort to… other forms of rehabilitation,” Sister Jude murmurs, hovering in front of her assorted canes before turning to you. There’s nothing in her eyes—no glimmer of emotion for you to latch onto. “You’re dismissed.” You can’t summon the courage to question her about just what is happening or why she’s dismissing you, so you leave with trepidation curdling in your chest. Sister Jude is many things, but merciful is not one of them. Your punishment hasn’t come yet. 

You’re reminded of Sister Jude’s merciless nature when you’re tugged off your mattress in the middle of the night by two staff members, carelessly manhandled through the halls until you’re shoved on a cot and tied down with leather restraints. You try to fight back, but you’re outnumbered. You strain against your bonds, but they don’t budge—instead burning into your skin and leaving irritated marks. 

Dr. Arthur Arden strolls in, and any hope you had for escape swiftly dies in your chest. Evidently, your dread and disgust show on your face, because the doctor smiles menacingly. He moves to stand at the side of the bed, and your heart drops to your stomach as you see the machinery and begin to connect the dots. You’re going to undergo electroshock therapy. Your movements grow more frantic as you try to kick out, pull your restraints off, do anything other than lie helplessly on the bed. Something is shoved in your mouth, inhibiting your ability to speak, and a headpiece is forced on your forehead. You stare up at the ceiling, a tear falling down your face as you try to come to terms with what’s about to happen. In all your time at Briarcliff, you’ve never had to undergo this particular treatment. You’ve seen the impact it can have on patients—turning the most headstrong and individualistic people into shivering wrecks. 

You try one last time to rip yourself free, but the restraints don’t budge. Dr. Arden looms over you and you feel your hands shaking in horrid anticipation. Sister Jude is standing on the other side of the bed, looking entirely unaffected by the prospect of causing you irreparable damage. Arden says something to Sister Jude—something you can’t quite make out—and he twists the knob of one of the machines. Immediately you feel as if your body is connected with raw electricity, as pain surges up your limbs, through your skin and into your very core. 

You have a somewhat high pain tolerance. You survived Sister Jude’s cruel punishments. But this? This is too much. You hear someone screaming—loud, raw, broken . It takes you a moment to realize the screams are crawling up your throat and spilling from your own lips. Flickers of life pass before your eyes. 

“Even the broken ones?” A shadowed form asks. 

The Monsignor stares at you, his form blurring and his eyes melting into tears that fall from his empty eye sockets. “Even them.” 

There’s a hand on your forearm, holding you down as you practically levitate with how hard you’re shaking and trembling. The pain is blinding, creating patterns that float before your eyes and run down your skin. Arden’s blurred figure hovers over you, disappearing for a moment before returning to look down at you. The pressure is like nothing you have ever felt before, and there isn’t a part of your body that doesn’t hurt. 

You’re shivering now, your teeth chattering around the mouthpiece. Another tear slips down your face. You’re struck with one awful realization: you’re going to die. You’re going to rot in Briarcliff—your body dumped somewhere to decay and disintegrate. Another desperate scream falls from your lips, but you know it’s far too late to do anything. Sister Jude and Arden show no sign of stopping. Your vision is swirling before you, shadows creeping from the corners of your eyes and oozing down the walls.

Idly, you hear raised voices. You can’t see much of anything, and you can’t make out the conversations that are occurring over the horrible static and high-pitched ringing echoing in your ears. Your eyes are blurring with unshed tears. You blink to clear your vision, only to find a dark shadow on your left. It looks like an angel, its eyes gleaming as it stares down at you. It has some sort of mass behind it—feathered wings, you realize. It regards you with a sad smile, slowly rounding the bed to stand at your side. Your teeth are aching, your head feels as if it’s about to burst, and your chest has never felt so tight. Your heart is racing in your ears, and you feel your fingers clenching against your will. Just as you try to reach out to the figure next to you, there’s a harsh bang and the demon—angel?—disappears. The last thing you see before you’re blissfully brought into unconsciousness is a new blurry silhouette hovering over you, a concerned expression on their face. 

You float in and out of consciousness, inhabiting an eerie middle ground between wakefulness and slumber. Pain is a constant companion, forcing you down into what you can only assume is a mattress. Your skin feels too tight; your eyes feel as if they’re going to pop out of your head; and your temple feels as if someone has been consistently hammering at it. You can’t even move and, amidst your best efforts, your eyes refuse to open. 

There are brief traces of what you can assume to be happening around you. A stinging pain tingles and burrows into your forearm. Sometimes, you can catch hints of voices speaking over you. Occasionally, there is the steady pressure of a hand on your wrist. 

When you finally wake, your mouth is so dry that you nearly choke on your own breath. The nurse standing at your side is quick to hand you a cup of water, which you gulp down eagerly. You cough and make several attempts to clear your throat, only for nothing to come out. The nurse informs you that you’ve been unconscious for several days following the electroshock therapy. You nod, having expected as much. The ward is entirely empty, save for you and the nurse standing across from you. You take a look at the table next to your bed, huffing an amused breath as your eyes catch on the small figurine on the side table. Upon closer examination, it appears to be… the Virgin Mary? The thought fills you with inexplicable amusement. Although, above all, the figurine provokes your curiosity: who brought it here? 

As if sensing your thoughts, the nurse answers your question. “The Monsignor has been visiting rather frequently,” she states. Her tone is clinical, but her expression betrays a little of her confusion. Evidently, she’s wondering why he has made multiple visits. 

On the one hand, you’re not surprised—you’re sure the Monsignor visits any patients in the ward to pray for them. On the other hand, you’re certain that you would’ve lost that privilege after your quarrel weeks ago. The idea that the Monsignor has gone out of his way to visit you multiple times… You don’t know what to make of that.

Your recovery is slow going and dreadfully boring. When you’re finally moved out of the ward, you don’t return to your cell—to your surprise. Instead, you’re given a room on a different floor—one with an actual bed and a window. 

And if you had special privileges before, you’re not even sure what you have now. It’s like you have some sort of… diplomatic immunity. Where the guards were harsh and rough with you before, they now hesitate to even touch you. You don’t have to do any chores, you don’t have to take any pills aside from the ones the nurse gives you to take away the pain. You spend nearly all of your time in your new room.

You’re still slipping away. 

The Monsignor visits as you’re growing restless with boredom. He knocks once, twice on the door. After a few moments, you give him permission to enter. The priest opens the door with tremendous speed, his eyes immediately finding you and latching onto you with feverish intensity. He grabs a chair from the table in the corner of the room and sets it near your bedside, before taking a seat. 

For several moments, there is nothing but silence. The Monsignor seems to be contemplating his next words, as he stares down at his clasped hands with a blank expression. When he finally looks up at you, you’re surprised to see a remorseful expression on his face. “I am sorry,” he murmurs. “I only wish I could have arrived earlier, before the damage was done.” His fingers move along the beads of his rosary in an unconscious gesture.

Realization crashes down on you, as you realize that the Monsignor must’ve been the person looking down at you as you lost consciousness. He must’ve been the cause for the raised voices you were hearing as you underwent the procedure. 

Admittedly, you don’t know what to say. Your eyes are suddenly incredibly dry and you reach up to rub at them, taking a bit longer than normal to complete the action. Monsignor’s eyes track your hands even as you place them in your lap. 

“Let me see,” the priest says. You bring your hands up to show him. Indeed, they’re fidgeting and trembling. You’ve long given up on trying to get them to stop, recognizing the ailment as a side effect to the torture you went through. He brings his hands under yours and clasps them with incredible gentleness. 

The Monsignor’s eyes look glassy and his lips are pressed in a thin line, as if he’s troubled. His hands slip from yours as a frown overtakes his face. “You must excuse me,” he says, averting his gaze and fleeing the room. You blink at him in confusion. It’s not like him to simply… end a conversation like that. You watch his retreating back, taking note of how tight his shoulders are drawn and the way his fists are clenched at his sides. He looks strangely rattled. 

You’re left to contemplate his sudden departure in solitude. As you think back to the look on the Monsignor’s face, you rationalize that his concern was of a professional nature. He doesn’t care about you—he just cares about the implications of a patient being harmed under his leadership. You shake your head. That excuse sounds flimsy, even to you. 

In light of his unexplained exit, you don’t expect to see the Monsignor for several days. When he walks into your room at approximately the same time the next day, you can’t quite conceal your surprise. If he senses your confusion, he ignores it—instead deigning to sit at the table in the corner of the room. 

“Care to join me?” The Monsignor asks, motioning to the chess set he brought with him. You nod and get up from your bed, walking over to take a seat across from him. For a while, there’s nothing but a tense silence. Once it is broken, you find that the conversation is easy and quiet. There is still that lingering tension settling in the air—especially when you consider the accusations you hurled at him—but it doesn’t hamper the mood considerably. 

Your hands continue to shake when you go to make a move, but the Monsignor steadies your hand and ensures you don’t knock over any other pieces. He doesn’t bring up your conversation all that time ago, yet it clings to the air around you like a vice.  Surprisingly, the two of you mostly talk about inane things. You find it strangely refreshing—you can’t remember the last time you were treated like a person in Briarcliff. 

When he leaves for the day after a successful few chess games, you think you may finally be getting better. You lie in bed that night for a bit longer than normal, unable to chase thoughts of the Monsignor away from your waking mind. When you finally do fall asleep, he follows you to your dreams. 

Any trace of hope you had quickly fades as you wake the next morning; you’re immediately greeted with a ringing sound in your ears and a pounding headache. When you get out of bed, you find that the world is spinning beneath you. One moment, you’re standing up; the next, you’re lying on your side on the ground. You’re shivering and shaking with phantom bursts of electricity. Your teeth are chattering and clacking; your hands are trembling uncontrollably. It’s been weeks since the procedure, yet its aftereffects are still persistent. 

Your collision with the ground must be loud, because within moments, the Monsignor is walking into the room. He looks worriedly around the space, his eyes settling on you and his expression falling to something far too close to worry as he sees you on the floor. The priest kneels down at your side and helps you up to a sitting position. You think he’s saying something to you, but it’s too hard to make out amidst the tunneling in your ears and the jackhammering sensation ripping at your temple.

The expression on the Monsignor’s face is so open and honest. Confused and in pain, you can’t help but reach out to him. Leaning forward, you wrap your arms around his shoulders and try to breathe. To your surprise, Timothy doesn’t push you away. Instead, he embraces you back—with a reassuringly strong grip, as if he’s afraid to let you go. You lean into his shoulder, silent tears streaming down your cheeks as you hug him. Your body is still wracked with tremors. If he notices that his shoulder is growing damp with your tears, he doesn’t comment on it. 

When he finally does speak, it’s with a frightening amount of sincerity. “Tell me what I can do,” the man implores you, briefly leaning back and bringing his hands up to cradle your cheeks. His eyes are gleaming with unapologetic affection—a sentiment you still refuse to believe you’re provoking in him. “Anything. I’ll do it.” 

“Just…” You break off, lost for words. You can’t remember the last time you’ve been treated with such kindness. Briarcliff has molded you into someone who only knows cruelty. Now that you’re being shown compassion, you don’t know what to do with it.  “...Sit with me.” You eventually request. The Monsignor leans closer and holds you tighter. 

In the coming days, Timothy will enlist the help of a doctor with vast experience treating patients with similar side effects from electroshock therapy. In the coming days, Timothy will grow more and more hesitant to leave your side. Your chess games will morph into matches, and you will soon be unable to deny that the Monsignor truly cares for you. 

In the meantime, you’re content to sit on the floor, safely shielded from the world’s harms in his embrace.

endnotes: this was fun to write. and yes, this was born out of my religious trauma. i will not be fielding criticisms, concerns, or questions about that at this time. LOLLL

peep the shachath reference, mwahahhahaha. also, it/its pronouns for shachath, 'cause i said so!!!!

obligatory fic playlist

thanks for reading! <3

check out my other works, sorted by fandom.

general taglist: @its-ares @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall @kingkoku @the-ultimate-librarian @gayaristocrat

#defectivehero #transmasc reader #gn reader #male reader #x male reader #x transmasc reader #ahs #ahs x reader #ahs asylum #asylum x reader #monsignor x reader #monsignor howard x reader #Timothy howard x reader #I've got issues #I'm aware #blasphemy #ig

[ao3-oner]

hiiiiii ur msi fic is amazing sjkdfhksd everytime u upload a new chapter it leaves me gagged and wanting for more. the way u write everyone is amazing!! like the depth everyone has>>

also i adore your suhwan, please talk about him,,, like about anything, i just like reading u talk about the characters in ur fics sdkfkdjf

Hi hi! Thank you so much for the ask! I'm legit so happy for the opportunity to rant about my takes on characters, like omg I would LOVE to talk about Suhwan (especially now that chapter 8 is up :) Where to start with my beloved son... I guess one of the first things I ever learned about Peyz outside of his e-sports career, being a Royal Roader and all that, was that his parents hired him a private at-home tutor for League of Legends. He has both a dog and cat, and (to my knowledge) is an only child.

This led me to two central conclusions about his character: 1. This boy is spoiled/sheltered af and 2. He is probably so so lonely. Other observations include that Suhwan is a sweet boy, but seems very uncertain in social interaction. He also has a tendency take things quite literally (see: his 15 second blank stare during the Worlds interview that lives rent-free in my mind).

I've already shared some of my Suhwan head canons in fics and other posts - that he taught himself to play chess on both sides of the board, he got bored one day and snuck into his mom's closet to try on heels/jewelry - but it all centers around his lonliness and desperately trying to connect with other people. I think that's part of what draws him to League - it's a team game, so everyone needs to work together. As the ADC, he becomes a fundamental part of that team, so people rely on him. If thinks that as long as he understands how the game works, how to play, how to win, then people will like him, people praise him, people will protect him, so he decides he wants to play more in order to connect with people.

I think Suhwan very much found the connection he was looking for on 2023 GenG - Wangho is great with younger members, Hwanjoong was literally a BRO before joining, and everyone was just very supportive of him during his rookie year. That environment allowed him to thrive and, while ofc not a perfect replacement, he became a solid stand-in for the massive pair of shoes Ruler left for him to fill.

Then Hanwha Life opened up their check books and bought his found family away from him.

Suhwan understands, of course, that it's just business - I'm sure he still hangs out with Hwanjoong on weekends sometimes - but there's definitely a major shift in the entire vibe of the team for 2024. Yes, they still all have fun, and they grow close and love each other, but there are definitely more cracks in the picture frame than there were last year. Some of that comes from Siwoo, and his slight contempt for the rookie player who got the GenG legacy that RuLehends fought so hard for spoon-fed to him. Some of it is from Geonbu, who's adjusting to being on an entirely new team for the first time ever and is still navigating exactly what he can and can't take with him. Part of it is Giin being more stoic than Hyunjoon ever was. The result is that Suhwan loses that firm network of support he had before, and falls behind - needs more time to readjust, gets declared as the "weak link" of the team...

Suhwan is trying his best to make it work. He's confident that if he can figure out what the problem is, he can solve it. But people are so much more difficult than game states - it's hard to know exactly where you stand, what would help, what wouldn't. Still, Suhwan is the carry. Everyone is relying on him to be there when it matters, so however he needs to adapt, he'll make sure that he doesn't disappoint them.

He's dedicated to proving that he's someone worth protecting.

#how did this evolve into a half-character study fic lmao #rpf #oner-answers #mad-scientist-incorrigible

[runicxraven]

Get to know my MC:

Here's a little lore dump on my MC!

Head canons:

As a child from divorce, Marvin spent his summers with his father while his mother was an Auror. Marvin's father worked aboard the Hogwarts express shoveling coal and stoking the fire, practicing living aboard on the train, inspiring his fascination for it.

Pressured from his parents to become an Auror, he is pursing to become a professor.

After being sorted in Ravenclaw, his closet friends become Samantha Dale and Everett Clopton, becoming an unlikely trio ✨

The trio preferred to sit all day reading adventure novels, playing board games, building tiny bitty models.

Sebastian and Marvin don't meet eye to eye at first, and is bullied by Seb's circle til he gains his respect by assisting to find a cure for his sister.

Imelda absolutely loathes the trio, from a huge misunderstanding (running gag from Samantha accidentally burning her broom)

Poppy immediately fell in love as they had their first few adventures together. Drawn to how "odd" and "dorky" he is. She became much more open, less resistant to interacting socially while dating.

He is extremely arachnophobic and is also extremely unsettled from the dark.

Very good with a wand but his potion skills aren't as great!

Constantly loses track of time, his friends try to help him out the best they can.

Overall just a big goofy idiot who's trying to make his way through Hogwarts ✨🛡️ 🦅

#hogwarts oc #hogwarts legacy #poppy sweeting #sebastian sallow #imelda reyes

[chiwithekiwi]

I'm infected with werewolf game brainrot and the game didn't give me any fun pre-canon content with the counselors not acting like complete strangers to one another, so here are some thoughts:

Ryan starts hosting secret weekly D&D oneshot/short campaign sessions with some of the campers. Kaitlyn is one of the recurring players and often helps Ryan plan out parts of the sessions, and Jacob even shows up as a surprise guest player a couple of times.

Abi accidentally starts creating impromptu drawing classes when some of the more artistic campers see her sketching and ask for tips or advice. It isn't uncommon to see her and a bunch of the kids gathered outside quietly drawing together.

Jacob frequently gets a bunch of the kids to play ball sports like soccer, rugby, football etc. and he always manages to drag Nick into playing too—always on the opposing team, of course, just to make the games fair.

Dylan is a secret confidante for some of the closeted campers, and it's rare to see him without a group of kids trailing after him everywhere he goes like a swarm of ducklings. He isn't supposed to, but he also lets them into the radio shack to hang out with him a lot.

Dylan did also start crushing on Ryan from their first interaction. No, he was not subtle at all about it. Yes, at least half of the campers knew and elected to stay quiet.

Kaitlyn and Emma are the girl-talk specialists of the camp, and essentially become the camp moms. Kait is always checking their stock on hygiene products, and Em generally keeps the peace between a lot of the campers when teen drama inevitably breaks out.

Emma is an influencer so I can only imagine that she has a small fanclub at the camp, and much like with Dylan, they follow her every move.

Once a month, when Chris Hackett leaves the counselors and campers to their own devices (taking Kaylee and Caleb with him to the Hackett estate so they can... y'know), the counselors will let the older campers play group games at night, like spotlight (hide 'n seek but with a flashlight), flashlight tag, etc. It's got heavily enforced boundaries but nothing ever goes wrong because the kids respect them and listen to them. The kids who don't want to/can't play are usually looked after by Dylan and Abi back at the cabins.

The counselors have their own game nights. Kaitlyn and Nick are constantly making everyone else bankrupt in Monopoly. Jacob, Emma, and Dylan are the ones to usually kick the board whenever Kait and Nick's competitiveness gets too intense. Ryan did it once, but he insisted that it was an accident (it wasn't).

Fact of the matter is: after 2 months of constant proximity to one another, these characters should have been better friends than they were shown to be. And no matter what, they would have done a damn good job as camp counselors!!

#the quarry #the quarry game #ryan erzahler #dylan lenivy #kaitlyn ka #emma mountebank #jacob custos #nick fucillo #abigail blyg #supermassive games #radioheads

[batsarebetterthanpeople]

16 and 26 for the fic writer game! ✨

16. How many fic ideas are you nurturing right now? Share one of them?

So fucking many dude. I'll share my most recent and my oldest.I want to state right off the bat that my oldest was conceived in mid 2022 so I probably would not have come up with it post season 2. My oldest is a modern Stizzy fake dating au where Stede and Izzy do not get together and Jack and Ed end up together instead as a side effect of the fake dating plot. (Stede and Ed are still an item at the end of the fic worry not I'm the gentlejacked guy) The premise is that Jack is (non-committally) dating Izzy and Stede and Ed are canon levels of wanting to be married, and Stede is closeted at work, except to his secretary Lucius, and then his coworker Nigel overhears Lucius and Stede talking and bullies Stede into letting him get eyes on the boyfriend who is picking him up from work. But surprise Jack landed himself in the hospital and Ed took him there, and then called Izzy to pick up Stede, and now Nigel thinks Stede and Izzy are dating and Stede and Izzy have to figure out how to get along for long enough for Izzy to attend the office Christmas party so Stede can save face. Jack and Ed think this is the funniest thing that has ever happened and Start doing boyfriend things with each other to make fun of Izzy and Stede because they think boyfriend swap is fucking hilarious. And then they realize that they want to do boyfriend things with each other but not ironically. the only reason I share so much of that fic premise is because idk if it will ever see the light of day but also I haven't abandoned it yet so maybe. Anyway my newest fic idea is a post season 2 au where Stede and Ed stay on the boat that Stede keeps walking in on people fucking and he makes a red string board to try to figure out who's dating who because it becomes confusing and he uncovers a boat wide polycule he didn't know existed, then the fic ends with him finding out he's in the polycule because he walks in on Ed and Frenchie

26. Which of your fics would you call your wildest ride?

Definitely Don't Hurt Yourself.

[authortobenamedlater]

EDIT: I don’t like editing posts after they’ve gotten notes but it’s hours later and I realized I didn’t copy the instructions 😬

Mundane asks for OCs/underused canon character you adopted. Tag 10 people.

@christian-latte-anon tagged me and since I DID just finish writing more for these two adopted side characters.

What is their favorite movie? This is hard to answer for a series set 500 years in the future, but Tom’s favorite movie is definitely NOT any of the Disney classics he has to sit through with Chyler 🤣

What is their favorite season? Again, hard for two people who spend most of their time in space. However, I’ll say summer for a weird reason. I’ve headcanoned that Tom and Chyler were stationed on Reach for awhile until the Covenant hit, and New Alexandria is on the northernmost continent. So the summers were probably very short and very pretty. Maybe the occasional moose or equivalent trespassed on the FLEETCOM grounds 😂

What do they find annoying? Tom: Chyler’s unending Disney soundtrack (but he also kind of likes it, don’t tell anyone). Roland, enough said, LOL. Paperwork. Rules that serve no purpose. Chyler’s bed-hogging. Chyler: Tom’s aversion to putting clean clothes IN DRAWERS or THE CLOSET like a NORMAL PERSON. Spartan-IV antics (I need to write a fic about this). Roland, but to a lesser extent because he’s mildly terrified of her 🤣. Her BDU vest as explained in For Better Or Worse. Tom’s complaining about her bed-hogging.

How would they like to spend their Christmas or equivalent holiday? I don’t think this is ever mentioned in the Halo world. If I had to guess, there’s probably a mash-up end-of-year holiday party aboard ship but the day itself isn’t a huge deal. The job must go on.

Do they play an instrument? If so, what? How good are they at it? Headcanon subject to change, but for now, no.

What's their favorite meal to eat? Chyler likes Mac n cheese with beef because her mom used to make it. Tom’s is…I’m not sure, but it’s something very spicy. Chyler doesn’t want his ghost pepper sauce in the same room with her and she won’t kiss him for at least an hour after he’s eaten it 🥵 Credit where credit is due, the spice thing is sort of stolen from @infinityactual but it’s also a scene that plays out with me and @mrtobenamedlater way too often.

Do they have a favorite video game or board game? Probably? Whatever video games look like in the 2550s. I imagine Chyler sitting there with her cross-stitching adding commentary while Tom plays.

Do they celebrate their birthday? Their birthdays are close together, Chyler is older by about six weeks, and every year they try to make the day(s) pass without fanfare and every year the crew finds out and throws them a party anyway.

What's their bedtime routine? They rarely make it to bed at the same time, so usually “try not to wake the other.” When they do manage the same bedtime, Tom has an awful habit of trying to finish work in bed. Chyler sometimes falls asleep on his chest while he’s working, unwittingly reinforcing the bad habit because Tom loves it.

What's an oc (or canon character) that they like to spend time around? What do they tend to do together? Sarah Palmer, she functions as the straight (wo)man to the Tom/Chyler comedy show 😂 I haven’t written anything about this one yet but Chyler runs into Veronica Dare a lot. As wives do, they end up discussing their husbands. Oh yes, and Roland 🤣🤣🤣

Made up some of these on the fly! That was fun. I spent WAY too long completing this and am out of patience to tag anyone. If you’re reading this, here’s your tag.

#halo #married with a supercarrier au #Thomas lasky x chyler silva #Tag game

[genevievemd]

A Picture to Burn

Book: Open Heart: Second Year (Post 2.12)  Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Genevieve McClure) Word Count: 2806 Rating: T Category: Hurt/Comfort Trope(s): 

Summary: While secretly staying at Ethan’s apartment after the attack, she discovers something she shouldn’t. 

Warnings: allusions to adult activities

A/N: For the anon who asked how G would respond if she found photos Ethan had kept of his exes. This is how. And yes, it’s considered part of my canon, aka Saraland. 

She watches the weather shift from the living room windows, the blanket suddenly unable to keep her warm, despite it being all she needed up a few minutes before. Now, desperately wishing she hadn’t forced Ethan to go to the store and he was there to hold her. 

Genevieve had been staying at his apartment, secretly, since Bobby and Daniel’s funeral two weeks ago. After their intimate encounter in his car, he drove them back to his place. Where they fell into each other’s arms again and again, making up for lost time. And perhaps reminding themselves that Gen had survived. 

She’d gone home the following day to pack a bag, lying to her roommates that she was going home to Maine for a few weeks. Ethan himself, had gone to the hospital, and told Naveen he needed the next two weeks off, giving him the ability to be with Gen twenty-four seven as they both heal from their trauma. 

They spent the fourteen days playing board games, watching movies and cooking shows, reading quietly in each other’s arms, baking a million different treats. Simply enjoyed the uninterrupted time they had together. Allowed themselves to be just Ethan and Genevieve, two people navigating a new relationship. 

It was healing for them both and they were dreading Ethan’s return to work in the coming days. 

Gen looks out the window again, watching the frozen rain begin to fall. It wasn’t uncommon for it to snow in mid-November on the upper East Coast, and it made her glad they’d decided to try a new soup recipe they’d seen on TV that afternoon. 

Which was why Ethan was at the store now, picking up what they needed to make dinner. 

Deciding the blanket was no longer enough, Gen ventures into the bedroom. Hoping she’d remembered to pack a hoodie two weeks ago. She rummages through her duffle bag, still on the floor beside Ethan’s dresser, her search coming up empty. 

It’s then she remembers Ethan’s old Hopkins sweatshirt that she’s seen him wear a handful of times when they met to discuss Naveen’s case the year before. 

She quickly makes her way to the walk-in closet, laughing at the difference in his closet compared to hers.

Hers is a jumbled, disorganized mess, while Ethan’s is a color coordinated, organized masterpiece. 

She searches the closet for the hoodie in question, finding it tucked away on the top shelf. Gen reaches up on her tiptoes, fingers just barely grazing the worn material. Cursing her – whatever he is to her--’s height for what seemed like the thousandth time since arriving at his place. 

She reaches up again, seeking leverage from a lower shelf, finally able to grab her prize. She tugs it forward, perhaps a little too hard, losing her balance as the sweatshirt and something else hit the floor. 

It’s a manila envelope, clearly old and worn. And as it hits the closet floor, a collection of printed out photographs spill out. 

Gen freezes, her heart racing as she realizes that she has accidently found something she never meant to find. Against her better judgement, she kneels down beside the pile of polaroids and flips one over. 

Her heart sinks the moment her eyes land on the photo, her stomach dropping as if she’s on one of those tower rides at an amusement park. Except this time, the feeling doesn’t come with a thrill, it comes with dread and despair. 

Because the photo in question is not only of a woman, but a very beautiful woman, dressed in lingerie and smiling seductively at the camera. 

Trying to steady her breathing, she sits on the hardwood floor completely, taking three deep breaths. Her shaking hands reaching for another photo, and then another, and then another. Until every one is in a pile in her lap and her stomach is in her throat. 

They’re all of women, some have Ethan in them as well, but they’re mostly photos of women. Dressed in lingerie, in a bed sheet, in a dress that reveals every asset and probably costs as much as her rent.

Gen has always known Ethan had exes, they work with one of them, but knowing and seeing the evidence of his past are two different things. Seeing it feels like something sharp in her heart, the sting of a betrayal she has no right to feel. 

It has her brain swimming in a sea of questions, why did he still have them? Does he get up in the middle of the night to look at them? Does he wish Gen was more like them? Does he regret his decisions and wanted to be with them instead of with her? 

Because she was clearly nothing like these woman, some of whom she recognizes. Socialites and television reporters. They’re all beautiful and successful, and in a league lightyears away from Genevieve. 

She was a stupid girl who made even stupider decisions. Like running into the middle of an assassination attempt and staying with a man who abused her – hoping that if she just gave him another piece of her he’d change. 

She was tainted, in more ways than one, and no where near deserving of a man like Ethan.

And she has the photographic proof of what he does deserve sitting in her lap. 

“G?” Ethan’s deep voice breaks her out of the fog of anxiety and self hatred, echoing in from the front door. 

She quickly tries to clean up the mess, shove the photos back in the envelope and hide the fact that she found something she shouldn’t have. 

“What are you –” He’s behind her before she gets everything back in order, stopping mid sentence when she turns. “How did you find those?” 

“I was looking for a sweatshirt to borrow because I didn’t bring one and I was cold even with blankets and this fell when I grabbed your Hopkins one and I –” She stops to take a breath, her eyes linger down to the yellow envelope, one of the more salacious photos peaking out. “Why do you have these?” 

“Why were you going through my personal effects?” His once calm voice quickly turns to anger, an accusatory tone dripping from every word. 

“I wasn’t. I didn’t mean to – I…” Gen looks up from the photos, but when their eyes meet all she can see is him with those other woman. 

Taking off their clothes, kissing them the way he kisses her, hovering over them in his bed. Wondering if he’s made them cry out in pleasure the same way he’s done with her. 

Suddenly feeling sick to her stomach, all she wants to do is retreat. Escape from the man in front of her. “I’m gonna go.” 

“Why?” 

“Because you’re mad and I’m…” Try as she might, she can’t stop her gaze from falling down to the photos again. Her eyes now burning with unshed tears as her stomach does somersaults once more. “Uncomfortable now.” 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to be harsh. Look, this thing between us is still new and…” Ethan pauses, his blue eyes falling to the photos in her hand. Something that she can’t quite place flashing across his face. 

Regret, longing, sorrow…

Whatever it was, it makes her want to be anywhere but the slowly shrinking closet. 

“I’m sorry.” Gen quickly takes a step towards him, shoving the sweatshirt and envelope into his hands and pushing past him into the bedroom. “I’ll go.” 

“Hold on a second.” He’s quick on her heels, tossing the offending material onto the bed without a care. “Don’t leave.” 

“No. I should go. I’ve been smothering you and you need space. Like you said, we’re not even really a thing, so, I should leave.” 

“I don’t want you to leave. I want to discuss what’s happening right now. Why are you upset?” 

“I’m not upset. I’m uncomfortable.” She maneuvers around the room, picking up her scattered clothes and duffle bag. 

“They’re just photos, Gen. Old photos.” 

“I know that.” She shoves her things into the bag, not bothering to make sure they’re folded. Zipping it up without a look in his direction. 

She can’t look at him, afraid of what her broken mind will come up with if she does. “It’s fine. Really. I’m gonna go home.” 

“Gen.” He’s watching her every move, struggling to figure out what to do. He doesn’t want her to leave but he’s never been the type to force a woman to stay when she doesn’t want to. “Talk to me. Please.” 

“It’s fine.” Gen swallows back the tears rapidly forcing their way past her defenses, briskly walking past him once more and out of the bedroom. 

“It’s clearly not fine.” Ethan is behind her again, following her every step. 

“It is. I shouldn’t have snooped. Besides you need – I…” She grabs her phone off the coffee table, scanning the room to make sure she isn’t forgetting anything. 

Retreat. Run. Hide. Is all her mind is screaming. Save him and yourself from inevitable heartbreak. 

You’re no good for him. 

You’ll never be like the women of his past. 

“I need what? What is going on?” His eyes follow her around the room, but she ignores him.

Instead walking to the front door before he sees her cry. 

“Geneviève.” Ethan calls after her. His voice vibrating off the walls. 

He never uses her full name anymore. It’s always Gen, or G. But mostly G, because he knows she loves it. To hear her full name leave his lips, in the correct pronunciation, finally makes her stop her frenzied pace, but her hand stays on the door handle. If only to keep her standing. 

“What is going on? Thirty minutes ago we were talking about making dinner. I go to the store and come back and now you’re leaving. Saying you’re uncomfortable around me.” 

“Not around you, Ethan. That’s not what I meant.” 

“Okay, so then what did you mean?” He takes a cautious step in her direction, as if she’s a wounded deer. 

And she is in a way, wounded from her own stupidity and curiosity. And carelessness. 

“They were…” Gen drops her bag to the ground, lifting her head just enough to catch his eye. “They were not PG rated photos.” 

“Not all of them.” 

“Most of them.” 

“Which is why I didn’t just throw them away. And the ones that aren’t are… good memories.” 

“Right.” 

She can feel him studying her, the intensity of his gaze like the light from a microscope. It makes her feel more exposed than when she’s laying naked in his bed. 

He’s already seen more of her than any man she’s let before, and now after weeks of pretending like she isn’t wounded, he’s finally seeing the broken part. 

The anxious part. 

The part she’s always been ashamed of. 

Normal people don’t spiral like her, they don’t see a pile of photos and jump straight to the worst case scenario. A normal girlfriend, if that’s even what she is to him, would probably tease him for it, make jokes and feel secure. 

He takes a deep breath, forehead creased in worry and debate. “This is the first time that I can’t figure out what you’re thinking.” 

“I don’t even really know.” Her body practically folds in defeat, her stature shrinking as she lets go of the door handle. Looking up at him with wide eyes.

“Alright, so sit down for a minute and talk to me.” Ethan takes another step in her direction, his face twisted in the same look of concern she’s seen for the last three weeks. 

“How do I compete with that?” Genevieve whispers into the space between them, looking away from him as another wave of shame overtakes her. 

Swallows her whole and drags her down to the ocean floor. 

“Compete with what?” 

“That!” Gen points towards the bedroom, her hands still shaking. “Them. I’m nothing like them. They’re successful and beautiful and smart and take sexy photos for you. I’m a stupid child compared to them.” 

No longer able to hold it in, she lets the tears fall. One after another until she’s a sobbing mess in the middle of his entryway. “I go to burning buildings to find stupid stuffed animal frogs, and steal medicine for patients, and jump in the middle of assassination attempts. I –” 

She catches herself, before she blurts out the worst part. He isn’t ready for that yet, and neither is she. 

“I watch Disney movies when I’m sad and stay up late in mismatched pajamas playing board games.” Gen takes a breath, wiping furiously at the tears on her flushed cheeks. “I’m not sexy and sophisticated like them. I’m…” 

“A breath of fresh air.” He speaks gently, a half smile gracing his handsome face. “You’re right, you’re nothing like the woman I’ve dated and that is what makes you, makes this, so special. “

“You’re just saying that.”

“No. I’m not.” Ethan takes the final few steps to finally put an end the metaphorical and physical distance between them. “Those women are all the same, they all offered me the same thing. Sex and mindless conversation. While I won’t deny that they’re all beautiful, and at one point I was very attracted to them, it doesn’t negate how I feel about you.”

He takes her hands in his, thumbs stroking gently across her skin. 

Like they had a million times before. Like they did when she was on her death bed and there was a layer of plastic between them and he confessed his deepest regret. "You are also beautiful and sexy, but you offer so much more than that. G, you challenge me, force me to step outside my comfort zone. Remind me that there is more to life than work. You’ve reminded me that it’s okay to have fun, to watch Disney movies and play board games all night.”

He chuckles softly, but quickly sobers up. His ocean blue eyes drawing her in, locking with her emerald green. “And feel things I’ve never allowed myself to feel before.” 

“But, do you ever wish I was like them? Is that why you still have those photos because even if I offer you all those other things, I’m still –” 

Ethan cuts her off, his lips pressing into hers while his hands take ahold of her face. 

He’s never kissed her like this before, so adoringly and softly. Like she’s a priceless treasure that he’s unworthy to hold in his hands. He pulls away after only a moment, but he doesn’t go far. Resting his forehead against hers has his fingers wipe the remainder of her tears away. 

“I don’t wish or want you to be like them, Gen. I want you exactly the way you are. I…” He takes a breath, the words he wants to say, the ones she wants so desperately to hear, dying on the tip of his tongue. “I’m sorry you found those photos, and that they upset you. But they mean nothing, absolutely nothing. If you’d like, I'll get rid of them. Put them through the shredder or burn them.” 

“No. You don’t need to.” Gen wraps her arms around his waist, closing her eyes. “It’s not my place to ask that of you.” 

“You’re not asking, I'm offering. And it is your place.” 

“So, you won’t be mad if I say yes?” 

“Not at all.” 

She goes through every possible outcome of her answer. The one where she says yes, only for them to break up one day and he regrets letting the photos go. The one where she says no, but the thought of the envelope stashed away in his apartment haunts her for the rest of their time together. And the one she hopes comes to fruition. 

The one where he’s telling the truth, offers her peace and never judges her for the way she thinks or feels.  

“Then I’m saying yes.” 

“Okay.” Ethan pulls back to kiss her forehead, lingering as he takes a deep breath. 

When he moves away their eyes meet again, and for the first time since finding the envelope she doesn’t see him with his exes, there are no flashes of made up emotions and dalliances that aren’t with her. 

All Genevieve sees is her Ethan. The one that was scared to lose her, the one that’s spent every minute of the last fourteen days right beside her. Making her feel safe in a world that no longer felt that way. 

In that moment, and every moment since the met, she’s all that’s mattered him. And maybe, it will always be that way. Maybe they’ll heal and grow and be together for longer than they ever dreamed. 

And maybe she’ll take photos for him too, one’s that he won’t ever have to throw away.

A/N: Spoiler Alert - she takes a whole ass boudoir photo shoot for him... packaged neatly in a little book that says “For My Husband..” 

Again, thank you to the anon who sent that question. I hope, whoever you are, you see this and like it. 

Also, I know I owe you guys chapter 4 of Long Story Short, I’m gonna try to do that next. But I also have that fic of Ethan asking Gen out on their first date... which was supposed to be done for their anniversary literally a month ago from today. So maybe that will be next and then LSS. IDK we’ll see

(tagging separately) 

#ethan ramsey x mc #ethan x mc #open heart #open heart fanfiction #ethan x gen

[stranger-marauders]

shattered

four: after hours

chapter summary: Steve, Robin, Dustin, and Max hunt down Eddie Munson. Kate closes up at work, only to be distracted by something.

chapter warnings: language, grief, ptsd-like symptoms, canon-typical violence, drug use mention

word count: 2.9k

series masterlist | masterlist

KATE DIDN'T MIND restocking the shelves of the bookstore, especially not after it closed right at nine.

The bookstore job had been something she picked up much before the serving job. It reminded her of her first job at the bookstore in Hawkins before it closed (but inevitably reopened because of the disaster that was Starcourt Mall), something that she had been good at. In a way, it reminded her of home, back when things were so simple.

A lot of the times that she was alone, she thought about Steve, more particularly the last summer that she'd spent with him. The way she saw it, there were two summers that she'd had with him: the before and the after. The before had been better than she could have possibly imagined. She liked to remember her high school graduation, remember when Steve had gotten the Scoops job (as well as the uniform), remember the surprise birthday party Steve had thrown her, all of the nights they'd spent together, loving one another... the before had been something she could never forget. All of that, however, had become ever so slightly tainted after the Fourth of July: the after. The after had been whenever her father had died, whenever she'd had to see Diane again, whenever she'd had to say goodbye. That was when everything in her life began to turn to shit.

She didn't mind closing, really. It was quiet, and most of the time, she was alone. She didn't have to entertain someone else for the time being, didn't have to deal with other coworkers (more specifically, ones that reminded her of her first boyfriend, Jamie). She liked being alone, especially when it was quiet and effortless like this.

Kate was completely and utterly fine with being alone, music blasting through her headphones until she swore she head something from behind one of the shelves. She cut the music, pulling her headphones down to back around her neck. No one else should've been in the bookstore except for her.

She walked around the store, following the sounds of the creaking floor boards until she found it, making her blood run cold.

A Demodog staring her right in the face.

Kate squeezed her eyes shut, clenching her fists. It's not real, it's not real, it's not real. When she opened her eyes again, however, the Demodog still stared at her, almost waiting for her to play its game with her. When she took a step back, the floorboard creaking underneath her shoe, the Demodog ran forward, and she ran for her life, trying to avoid it.

She closed herself in the storage closet, leaning against the door with a sigh. It couldn't get her in there, now that she was alone. When she turned around, leaning against the door, she stared in horror at what had been behind her. She wasn't in the storage closest—she should've known she wouldn't be so lucky to simply wait this out in the storage closet. No, instead, she was back in the Russian base, looking for Steve and Robin. She'd walked into one of the interrogation rooms, and now sat in front of her was Steve on the ground, completely bloodied and bruises in his Sccops uniform. She'd been too late this time.

"Steve?" she called shakily, tears brewing in her eyes as she took a step closer to him. "Steve."

When he didn't answer, she knelt down on the ground next to him. She picked his face up, pulling him into her lap. She didn't care how much blood she was getting all over her, her dad's jacket—she didn't care. She started to hyperventilate whenever she tried to feel his pulse and only got nothing in return, pressing his already cold body up against hers. Steve wasn't dead. He couldn't be dead. He couldn't leave her, too.

"Steve!"

Kate had forgotten all about the creature she'd left outside. The door caved in and she gasped, knocking her back down on the ground. She was back on the tile floor, the same floor as Hawkins Lab, except his time, no one was coming to save her. As it started to tear at her flesh, she didn't scream. She squeezed her eyes shut, the tears streaming down her cheeks because of how much it hurt. She accepted it willingly, because at least this way, no one would die because of her.

When she opened her eyes again, she found herself on the floor, alone again in the bookstore. Kate wiped her eyes, doing a quick scan of the room just to make sure it was gone—she didn't know why she was looking. She knew it wasn't real. None of it was ever real anymore.

Since her father had died, her episodes had only gotten much, much worse. She hadn't ever realized they would become so real. Her episodes now consisted of even more worst-case scenarios in her head. Some of her worst fears had been realized, had been lived by her in these terrible, terrible renditions of the nightmare world she seemed to live in now. She'd had to relive her sister's funeral, her father's funeral, her Demodog attack, which was something she could do—something she'd gotten used to, really. While she hated it, it was much better than having to live through things that hadn't happened, that or she hadn't seen for herself. Things like watching Steve die, like watching her dad blow up in the Russian base, or watching El get torn apart by the Mind Flayer. Those were things that hadn't happened or that she hadn't seen, things that Kate hadn't yet had the pleasure of watching with her own very eyes, and she certainly wanted to keep it that way.

She could only make it go away with a questionable amount of aspirin for now.

By the time Steve, Robin, Dustin, and Max had gotten to Holland Road, the sun had dipped much past the horizon, the night falling to make the house and lake even more ominous.

Dustin had been the one to ring the doorbell, the rest of them holding flashlights in their hands. After a moment or two, Dustin rang it again, then rang it over and over again, seemingly impatient for someone, more hopefully Eddie, to make an appearance.

"Okay. Well, that's settled. I guess he's not here," Steve said as Dustin knocked on the glass of the door.

"Eddie!" Dustin shouted. "It's Dustin!"

"Great."

"We just wanna talk. No cops, I swear. We just wanna help," Dustin continued, still speaking quite loudly.

Robin shined a flashlight through the window, trying to get a better look on the inside. When Dustin continued banging on the door and yelling for him, she turned to Dustin. "Shh!" Dustin, however, only continued to ring the doorbell and bang on the door as Max joined Robin in peering through the windows. "Rick! Reefer Rick!"

"Don't scream that!" Steve said pointedly.

"Rick!"

"He's not there."

"Reefer Rick!"

"Just..."

"He could just be really high," Dustin said.

Steve almost told him that being "really high" didn't make you incoherent enough to not answer a door, but he also knew that he hadn't ever tried any drug worse than weed before (he figured that was because he had stopped being friends with Tommy before he'd gotten his hands on the harder stuff). He also wasn't going to admit to Dustin that he'd smoked a blunt before, maybe blunts at that. He and Dustin never did have a conversation about admitting to smoking pot whenever he was drugged by the Russians (Steve thought that if Dustin never brought it up, neither would he).

"Is that a foot?" Steve asked, peering inside the window.

"No, that's a shoe."

"Hey, guys?" Max called from the yard, shining her flashlight at something. Dustin, Robin, and Steve all stood with her, also seeing what she'd found—a boathouse.

As they approached it, Steve wasn't too optimistic about the bullet holes that had somehow made its way through the metal. That, more than anything else they'd found, proved they must've been in the right place.

"Hello?" Robin called, opening the door first. She had been the first one in, followed by the kids and Steve leading up the back. "Is anyone home?"

"What a dump," Steve said quietly, mostly to himself. Whenever he saw the body-shaped figure in the boat that sat above the water, he clicked his flashlight off, grabbing an oar off the wall. He held it defensively, then stabbed it into the tarp that covered the small boat, repeatedly.

"What are you doing?" Dustin asked, more confused than anything.

Steve, however, didn't stop his poking of the tarp that covered the boat.

"What are you doing?"

Steve jabbed the tarp again. "He might be in here."

"So take the tarp off!"

"If you're so brave, you take the tarp off," he said, continuing to stab the tarp.

Max and Robin investigated some wrappers that were left on a table as he continued his abuse of the tarp. "Hey, look. Someone was here."

"Maybe he heard us," Robin said. "Got spooked and ran."

"Don't worry," Dustin said. "Steve will get him with his oar."

"Oh, I know you think you're being funny, Henderson, but considering the fact thateveryone in this room has nearly died a hundred times, personally, I don't find it funny in the slight—" Before Steve could finish his sentence, something appeared from the tarp, pinning him against the wall. "Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait!"

It had been none other than Eddie Munson, holding a broken beer bottle to Steve's throat.

"Woah, woah, woah, Eddie!" Dustin shouted. "Eddie, stop! Eddie! Eddie!"

Eddie turned to look at Dustin, a flicker of familiarity flashing across his eyes.

"It's me," Dustin said. "It's Dustin. This is Steve! He's not gonna hurt you, right, Steve?"

Steve didn't move, fearing for his life more in this moment than he had in a long, long time—he thought if he moved an inch his throat would be slit. "Right. Yeah."

"Steve, why don't you drop the oar?" Dustin asked calmly.

He didn't hesitate to follow Dustin's ask, letting it drop to the floor as Eddie pressed the bottle tighter against his throat as he groaned.

"He's cool. He's cool!" Dustin said, growing more anxious.

"I'm cool, man. I'm cool," Steve said, his voice shaking.

"What are you doing here?" Eddie asked. Whenever he spoke, he wasn't angry. More than anything, he was... scared.

"We're looking for you."

"We're here to help," Robin said, trying to diffuse the situation.

"Eddie," Dustin said softly. "These are my friends. You know Robin, from band."

Robin imitated a trumpet, almost as if she were pressing the imaginary keys down on the flashlight, making the sounds with her mouth.

"This is my friend Max. The one who never wants to play D&D."

Max only waved awkwardly.

"Eddie." Dustin paused, trying to think of what else he could possibly say to make him let Steve go. "We're on your side. I swear on my mother! Right guys?"

"Yes. Yes. We swear."

"O–On Dustin's mother," Robin added.

"Yeah, Dustin's... Dustin's mother," Steve said softly, still nervous his throat was about to be slit.

Eddie hesitated a moment, but when he finally let him go, Steve grunted and strained, the veins in his neck immediately seeming to vanish the moment he could tilt his chin down. That was so close.

"You okay?" Robin whispered to him, checking his neck for any markings.

He nodded once or twice, pressing his hand against where the sharp glass had been pushed up against his neck. He sat himself down a good distance away from Eddie, trying to catch his breath. He didn't want to be made a victim of again.

"Eddie." Dustin slowly knelt down next to him, trying to investigate him. He was most obviously horrified. He'd seen something, and not in the way that he'd killed someone. "We just want to talk."

When Dustin tried to take the broken beer bottle out of his hand, Eddie flinched back, and Dustin immediately retaliated. "Okay!"

Robin knelt down beside him, hoping to be another voice of wisdom. "We want to know what happened."

Eddie sniffled his voice cracking. "You won't believe me."

Max cocked her head to the side. "Try us."

It hadn't taken Eddie too long to explain everything. More than anything he still seemed absolutely horrified at what had happened to Chrissy. As he spoke, his voice was brittle, moments away from cracking, and his eyes were glazed over.

"Her body just, like, lifted up into the air and, uh... And she was just, like, hung there. In the air. And her bones... Uh, she..." Eddie paused to swallow, almost whimpering. "Her bones started to snap. Her eyes, man. It... It was like there was something, like, inside her head, pulling. I... I didn't know what to do, so I–I... I ran away." Eddie paused, almost as if he were about to start crying. "I left her there." He scoffed, trying to stop the tears from coming back. "You all think I'm crazy, right?"

"No, Dustin answered. "We don't think you're crazy at all."

"Don't bullshit me, man!" Eddie shouted, his voice cracking. "I know how this sounds."

"We're not bullshitting you," Max said.

"We believe you," Robin added.

Eddie only sighed—he didn't understand.

"Look," Dustin said softly, "what I'm about to tell you might be a little... difficult to take."

"Okay," Eddie responded hesitantly.

"You know how people say Hawkins is... cursed?" Dustin asked. "They're not... way off. There's another world. A world hidden beneath Hawkins. Sometimes it bleeds into ours."

"Like ghosts and shit?" Eddie asked.

"There are some things... worse than ghosts," Max said softly.

"These monsters, from this other world, we thought they were gone. But they've come back before, and that's why we needed to find you."

"If they're back again, we need to know."

"That night," Robin started, "did you see anything?"

"Dark particles, maybe?"

Eddie shook his head.

"It would almost look like dust, swirling dust."

"No, man, there was nothing you could see or, uh... or touch." Eddie hesitated to go on. "You know, I tried to wake her, man. She couldn't move. It was like she... she was in a trance or something."

"Or under a spell," Dustin said.

"A curse."

"Vecna's curse."

"Who's Vecna?" Steve asked.

"An undead creature of... great power," Dustin answered.

"A spellcaster," Eddie added.

"A dark wizard."

Steve didn't know what to say to that—all he cared about was that the girl he loved was far, far away from Hawkins, and far, far away from becoming a victim of Vecna.

Walking back to her building at night made Kate nervous.

It wasn't the fact that she was scared. Hell, she'd faced much scarier things in the past three years than someone creeping up on her in the dark. She didn't care much about the people that walked around her late at night, particularly because she was deaf to the noises of the night, stuck in her head listening to one of the many cassettes she'd made over the years.

Music had helped her a lot since her father had died. The writing was good too, and the medications she'd started taking helped, but nothing had helped her like music had. What made it even more strange to her was that it would be the strangest combinations of songs that seemed to echo through her, making her feel whole for just a moment. Some of it was stuff her father had liked when he was her age, maybe stuff he'd tried to show her whenever she was a kid that she hadn't cared about at the time, but now she consumed every piece of media she could find that reminded her of him—that and things she listened to when Sara died. She and Max had even sent each other some different cassettes, exchanging them back and forth.

Even if she didn't keep in touch with Steve, that didn't mean she didn't still keep in touch with Robin, with the kids. She didn't think it was fair that she would be cut off from everyone else, even if they were all so close to him. The only person that seemingly had any reservations about speaking to her was Dustin, and that was something she'd expected to happen. She and Max, however, still wrote to each other, even if they were terrible about replying to each other in a timely manner. The rest of the kids did, too, but not in the way that Max had.

Kate got a letter from Nancy about once a week, updating her on how things were going for her. At this point, she felt like Nancy was a little sister to her, especially since they still had that connection with their younger siblings still being together. She and Jonathan talked, too, but considering they were actually like siblings now, talking wasn't exactly their strong suit. She got letters from Jessica, Stephanie, and Kim, every once in a while, just making sure that she was okay. Joyce also wrote her letters, and she would talk to Kate over the phone whenever El would, but the letters would never compare to anyone else.

Robin had been the person to write her the most letters besides Steve. Robin wrote her all the time, and she called her about once every two weeks, maybe a week and a half. She still felt like she was around Robin all the time, even if she hadn't seen her since she left. Kate needed that type of presence in her life, someone that just talked to her about everything: Robin was the best for that type of thing.

She shoved her hands deep into her dad's jacket she was wearing, trying to stop them from freezing. She couldn't wait to go to California.

She couldn't wait.

next chapter

taglist:

@thatsonezesty13 @cece5298 @thepowerstoner @alovelytardis @coolchick333 @stand-tall-pineapple @littlet-holmes @guichu @cinderellacauseshebroke @blackbirddaredevil23 @mads-weasley @ilovemarauders @pearlstiare @liableperfections @khaylin27 @girlwiththerubyslippers @cyarikaaa

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x hopper!reader #stranger things 4 #steve harrington headcanon #steve harrington x oc #steve harrington series #steve harrington stranger things

[veeveex3]

Random obey me headcannons from the top of my head:

Lucifer's bed is just deadass made of cement, like, it makes sense cuz he never uses it but still-

Mammon just has a collection of bottle caps he keeps in his closet. like, he'll just wait for one of his brothers to open a drink and take their bottle cap. now everyone in the hol mainly drinks from cans and cups

Levi gets dry skin really easily so he has to bathe and moisturize regularly

Satan, being that he is the only one of his brothers to be born a demon, has different / more demonic traits (ex. black scleras, his organs probably look different or something, etc.) this can also be said for Diavolo and Barbatos

Asmo has really bad body dysmorphia + dysphoria and he uses his narcissistic tendencies to cover it up

Beel, realistically, would be half fat half muscle since he eats and works out so much

Belph has a squishmallow collection

Beel + Belphie have freckles

Diavolo has a collection of card + board games and bothers Lucifer and Barbatos to play with him (he also asks Levi to play them with him and most of the time he says yes!)

Barbatos is indifferent towards sweets but mainly makes them because other people like them

Luke, again, realistically, would be a bit darker than his canonical skin tone since the Celestial Realm is permanently day time

Simeon knits in his free time :>

Solomon uses magic to reverse the effects of him living for so long (ex. he probably used magic to fix any broken bones or fatal wounds he may have had)

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me headcanons #this is my first post idk what else to say lol

[miaheartscove]

south park headcanons

random ❀ 4:57PM ❀ south park ❀ tw: mentions of sewer slide, major spoilers, slight nsfw, mentions of pedophillia/rxpe, mentions of ed ❀ teen au a/n: im so bored :P i have like 30 pending assignments lol

STAN MARSH

has average grades. b- minimum!

stan's a very jealous kid, kind-of. he has an "idc mindset," but sometimes when people close to him drift away, he really starts feeling anger and jealousy.

bisexual (HEAVILY IMPLIED!!)

can't handle the stress of pimple/acne, hence, a ton of acne scars on his face.

his voice cracks oftenly.

KYLE BROFLOVSKI

perfectionist. doesn't handle failure very well. doesn't handle disappointment well either.

closeted queer. (very heavily implied!!) kyle would always wonder why he never felt a spark with girls. they were cute and all but there was something about them that felt… off. not that there was a shortage of cute, pretty girls in his class, or even the whole school. eventually, he just searched it up online on a search engine and it gave him one answer : gay. it's also canon he's asexual !!

hates crying. thinks it makes him seem weak. (I READ THIS SOMEWHERE IDK WHERE THO)

bought spotify premium with his chores earnings.

kyle deeply cares about ike! they play video games together.

sarcasm is his language. will try to stretch out a sarcastic comment for as long as he can.

ERIC CARTMAN

does horribly in school. straight f's. but liane convinced the school board with her special tactics to let him stay in school.

moans in class.

has a narcissistic disorder.

somehow knows how to doxx. eric usually doxxs people when he loses an arguement.

knows how to speak german. (iykyk)

KENNY MCCORMICK

gapped teeth + missing tooth.

gives himself piercings! whether it be on his ears, face, or even down there... (actually got an infection when he did his penis piercing 🙁)

omnisexual (pref for women).

decent temper control!

kenny will help his friends with whatever they need!

he's funny when he can be, serious when he needs to be. a good listener too!

has ptsd from all the deaths he suffered. sometimes dreams about them. (semi-canon)

BUTTERS STOTCH

obviously a very bad relationship with his parents. so distant and unsupportive. butters sometimes believes they'd be better off without him, but doesn't want to die.

attachment issues.

sees mr. mackey as a father figure. butters goes to his office very oftenly.

has the most intense, violent, and fucked up intrusive thoughts..

really liked the whole marjorine thing and sometimes goes out with the girls in disguise.

plays roblox tycoons.

butters has a nintendo switch lite!! he plays animal crossing and his island is so cute and nicely decorated<3

panromantic, he/she.

CRAIG TUCKER

autistic. probably one of the most popular craig hcs out there.

craig's adopted. his parents thought they couln't have kids but then had tricia a few years later. (AGAIN IDK WHERE I READ THIS :(( )

has braces. another really popular craig hc.

peruvian. ANOTHER REALLY POPULAR CRAIG HC. cuz think abt it, how did he appear of a peruvian wall that peruvian people drew if he isn't peruvian. 🤔🤔

pulls on the strings of his hat when he's in distress.

CLYDE DONOVAN

he's queer except idk how to prove it...

clyde has a really bad relationship with his father. his father holds a huge grudge against him for killing his wife.

he's the real homie that kisses his homies goodnight 💋

developed bulimia (an eating disorder where one forces themself to vomit) when he was in middle school. poor bb became really self-concious though made it seem like people's comments didn't get to him. often didn't eat much, when he did eat, he'd just throw it all up.

has trouble expressing his emotions, or thoughts in general.

TOLKIEN BLACK

his parents are pretty religous, feeding tolkien a lot of their religous beliefs, or how their god blessed them with wealth and whatnot. (leaving this open, idk much abt religion so hc whichever religion ^^)

feels pressure to be the best, both academically and physically. he joined the football team and the debate club at school, always turns in his work, and even completes any extra work even if he doesn't need it.

likes buying all of his friends expensive gifts. his parents always wonder why he's wasted his weekly allowence in one afternoon. (bonus: his love language is giving gifts&lt;;3)

contrary to belief, tolkien isn't good at comforting. sure he has a way with words, but doesn't know how to handle with other people crying and freaking out. he just kind-of pats their back.

enjoys oldies<3 like frank sintra, perry como, bobby darin, etc ...

TWEEK TWEAK

thinks his whole life is a joke. (it kind-of is. his parents thought it would be funny to name him tweek.)

crusty lips.. also bites his lip a lot which causes a bunch of lip blisters.

loves iceberg videos. but creeps himself out with them.

cat person, but his parents don't let him get one.

tweek has a pretty diverse music taste and owns various t-shirts of his favorite bands.

his hands are always cold.

tweek has the darkest eyebags ever.

is scattered with freckles: nose, back, shoulders, everywhere.

JIMMY VALMER

unironically makes dad jokes.

heteroflexible, he/him.

unirronically, jimmy's favorite movie is the bee move.

owns a weiner dog!

voice cracked every 2 seconds during puberty.

has pulled lots of all nighters due to his god-awful writers block for his comdey routines.

WENDY TESTABURGER

bicurious + genderfluid, she/he. wendy thinks her friends are really pretty and finds herself questioning if she likes or like-likes them. she's also scared to come out.

mole under her right eye.

has a white cat!!

wendy has rather slender fingers, perhaps the influence of playing the piano.

president of the debate club!

BEBE STEVENS

slut shames girl when she loses an arguement/when she's jealous. (ALSO READ THIS SOMEWHERE DK WHERE)

101% pinterest girl. has the most organized page ever.

loves wearing skirts!! standing at 5'7", bebe has pretty long legs, which she loves to show off!

used to wear her mom's heels a lot as a little girl. now, she's a whole professional at walking in heels! probably could run in them too!!

hoop earrings are her fav!

bebe is photogenic af, and she knows it!!

SHELLEY MARSH

true crime lover<3

unhealthy attachment issues + daddy issues + anger issues.

shelley gets really jealous of stan because of all the attention he gets from their parents and takes it out on him.

MIXED HEADCANONS

kenny shares his playboy magazines with clyde.

shelley and kevin are dating! bonus: shelley gives karen all of her old barbies to her. it makes her so happy to the point karen nearly cries.

wendy and bebe have kissed once for the fun of it.

eric forces the boys play among us with him.

kenny has really greasy hair. butters oftenly invites kenny over to his house to take a shower and sleep comfortably for at least one night.

kenny is the only person butters told about his uncle, who rxped him. that night, butters cried so much.

tweek and craig love playing minecraft together<3

clyde invites himself over to craig's/tolkien/jimmy's house oftenly. he's scared of tweek's parents so he avoids going to his house at all costs. ALSO WALKED IN ON CRAIG AND TWEEK MAKING OUT..

cartman calls craig "metal mouth" as an insult. eventually became a nickname for craig.

kenny has no idea butters is marjorine. he has the biggest puppy crush on her bro.

bebe and clyde have an off-and-on relationship. whenever bebe needs new shoes, she comes back to clyde, knowing he'll glady accept her with open arms, then gets dumped a week later.

(in reference to tolkien's 2nd hc) tolkien feels as though craig, tweek, clyde, and jimmy are the only people who he can be himself with. he's very carefree with them ^^

tolkien accidently crashed craig's car once.

the strain of sharon and randy's divorce makes stan go into another deep depression, where he picked up his drinking habit again. he hates siding on their custody so he stays at kyle's house sometimes.

(in reference to bebe's 6th hc) clyde has taken a ton of pictures of bebe, and in each and every one of them, she looks absolutely stunning.

#south park #sp fandom #sp #sp headcanons #south park headcanons #kyle broflovski #south park au #south park fandom #stan marsh #eric cartman #kenny mccormick #butters stotch #craig tucker #tweek tweak #clyde donovan #tolkien black #jimmy valmer #wendy testaburger #bebe stevens #shelley marsh #shelly marsh

[northstarfan]

The Quarry: First Playthrough Results

Putting this under the cut for potential spoilers!

Ending: Above The Law

Emma: Lives. I didn’t care for her personality much initially (and the janky facial animations were terribly off-putting) and didn’t intend to work very hard at keeping her alive, but her Action Girl moments on the island were legit cool, I liked her a little better every time she told Jacob to go fuck himself, and I truly enjoyed her chemistry with Abigail, so I wound up liking her despite myself. 

Laura: Lives. She’s fine. I wound up feeling like she was a character whose canon personality just didn’t mesh very well with having a lot of player choices baked in - she came off as erratic as a result and I had a hard time getting invested.

Max: Lives. Some cute dialog, but extremely underdeveloped. 

Dylan: Died, but only because the Rewind feature is fucking borked. As in, the game crashed every time I tried to bring him back. I’m soooo miffed about that, because I really, really liked this adorkable closet nerd, he was the fucking MVP of the crew, and he literally died in the last half hour of the game after being put through the wringer all night. Boo!

Nick: Lives. I worked hard at keeping this unlucky fucker breathing because I like the actor and well, look. Werewolves are one of my favorite bits of supernatural lore, OK? The minute I twigged where the story was going, I knew I was going to keep him alive if it cost me most of the group. Not at all sorry about it; his descent into feral madness was hot, and then there were flesh geysers. I do think he’s one of the characters who really suffered for the lack of epilogue, though. With most of the other counselors, I can spackle together a character arc from the gameplay, but Nick didn’t really fit a personality archetype going in, and then he became a McGuffin a little too early to put together much for him. 

Kaitlyn: Lives. Ever fall in love with a girl on a firing range? Yeah. Competence porn does it for me.😁 I just wish she’d gotten a chance to be half as badass during gameplay events as she was in cutscenes, you know? But totally shipping her with Dylan and Ryan (and them with each other). So many good lines delivered so well between those three.

Jacob: Died, and good riddance. There was going to have to be a lot of strong writing to get me on board with Jacob after he stranded everyone, and it just wasn’t there. Being occasionally cute as a lovestruck goober wasn’t enough to balance out the self-pity and selfishness. I accidentally wound up feeding him to Nick in the Hackett basement and decided not to waste a Rewind attempt on him.

The Hacketts: All dead except Travis. And, frankly, they had it coming. Chris included.

Abigail: Lived. Hers was the one Rewind attempt that worked. (I’d still have rather kept Dylan, but ah, well. It was lame for a character to die because the player forget regular bullets don’t hurt werewolves in this story.) I liked her alright, but it really felt like the writers literally forgot to do anything with her. She got bitten by Caleb in my playthrough, and I was waiting for her transformation to kick in as Nick got more possessive, thinking maybe there would be some weird twist with their romance being a wolfy one or something...and nope, literally nothing. The most interesting thing she did in my game was die (and even that didn’t stick). 

Silas: Died. I felt bad for the poor pup, but I wasn’t risking Ryan for him.

Ryan: Lived. I was a little slow to warm up to him, but was totally on Ryan’s cheerleading team by the time Laura showed up. Which was a good thing, because my dude kinda went into asshole mode once they were on their way to the Hackett house. I understood why, but too much of it was backstory. I just didn’t see enough to his bond with Chris to feel all that sympathetic to his motivations after all the on-screen horror the counselors had faced up to the that point. But still very glad he made it.

#the quarry

[charaznablescanontoyota]

ok so because you mentioned them i am reminded to ask: would you be willing to explain peck and poole. because i think i get it?? but also i feel like im missing big parts of whatever their story is

YES HI HELLO I WILL TELL YOU ABOUT THE TWO SPECIALEST GUYS (GENDER NEUTRAL)

so simon peck and hiroto poole. they are players who exist in the blaseball database. you could search for them and their names would pop up. however, they exist Nowhere Else on the site because they were generated as replacement players for jaylen during the weird season 1 election that ran 3 instances of itself with different outcomes every time. poole was from the timeline where the magic won most of the blessings, and peck was TECHNICALLY from the main timeline, but derrick my good friend derrick was for some reason the replacement who stuck on the site for good. not sure why this was!

ANYWAY. i got it in my head one day that it would be fun if peck and poole sort of existed in a meta universe outside of blaseball where they could look in on blaseball like it was a board game they're playing. like the in-universe version of the devs kind of? extremely umineko inspired lmao. and i wrote a fic about it that is a metatextual take on end of expansion that also implies, like the reader/lootcrates/the shelled one/the monitor are all basically avatars that peck and poole use to interact with the game itself from their weird commentary box in the void

obv like nothing is canon, maybe they're dead but maybe they aren't, maybe blaseball itself is something they're making up themselves in the afterlife! it's deliberately ambiguous! also neither of them are normal. poole is a closet theater kid who is obsessed with preserving as much of the game as he can, so his avatars are lootcrates and the monitor (preserving history/mvps and dead players/their legacies, respectively). peck is pissed off that their rightful place in the universe was taken by some schmuck so they play the chaos/destruction side with the reader and the shelled one. they both view everything heavily in terms of 'this is all based on dice rolls and random number generators' and most actual players who met them would probably hate them lmao

they are also Just Two Guys though. like rosencrantz and guildenstern or sam and max type Two Guys. they hate each other but also they're the only ones they can talk to. @arcnoise and i have talked at length about them getting on each others nerves but also they're bffs but no they're not they're divorced. they will team up to destroy your life if you cross them but they're also getting into a fistfight right now over poole trying to vault rat mason for a fifth time. i hope any of this makes sense lmao i know my tag for them is equally incomprehensible

#blaseball #peck and poole #also caro's idea that in crime au they're novelists who write fiction based on true crime stories #is so important to me lmao

[wildfirehq]

CHARACTER NAME: clementine kelly .

CHARACTER FACECLAIM: luca hollestelle .

CHARACTER AGE/DOB: 22 years old — july 27th .

CHARACTER PRONOUNS/GENDER IDENTITY/SEXUALITY ETC: she + her / cis female / closeted bisexual .

CHARACTER FANDOM: n/a

OC OR CANON: original character !

WHERE THEY ARE CURRENTLY LOCATED & ANY IMPORTANT ALLIANCES OF NOTE: clementine has just recently arrived at hilltop after the collapse of her own group & does not yet have any allies (or enemies, for that matter).

IMPORTANT CHARACTER INFORMATION TO NOTE AND SHARE: clementine, prior to current day, was the leader of a civilization on the grounds of an old private school for troubled youth (think ericson’s boarding school from the walking dead game season four). she came into the leadership position after the sudden death of her father, who had filled it before.

however, she was too young to lead & nowhere near courageous enough — her compassion & intelligence just wasn’t enough in the absence of bravery. her weak will & meek nature ultimately lead to the complete collapse of the school’s community when a rival group sabotaged their gates after weeks of torment (that she refused to act out against, in fear of losing anyone) & the school was overrun. she was the only survivor. after that, she travelled by herself for a month before coming across hilltop.

she’s creative, clever, kind-hearted & empathetic, but also paranoid & overly emotional. she’s a strong scavenger & scout, but not an exceptional fighter. she has a long scar that snakes from her cheekbone to her collarbone from a confrontation with the rival group.

ONE SONG THAT HAS YOUR CHARACTER VIBES: silver springs by Fleetwood Mac.

ooc information:

NAME/ALIAS: juno!

AGE: 21

TRIGGERS: none!

#clementine kelly app #accepted