#robin suffers from a lot of nightmares

[wolfvirago]

“A nightmare”

#mun art #;the night parade of one hundred demons (yokai) #robin suffers from a lot of nightmares

[ilovetoxicfictionalmen]

BACK TO THE NIGHTMARES

Pairing - Jonathan Crane x Robin!fem!reader

Summary - Even though you go under the alias of Robin whilst fighting crime in Gotham. Your past catches up to you with a certain Doctor that always had a fascination for you.

Warnings - noncon!, violence, dead dove do not eat, rough sex, abuse physical and mentally, bondage.

Word count - 6.3k+

Notes - This was actually the first Cillian fanfic I wrote ages ago and idk highkey just posting it for the lolz.

The name Jonathan Crane was an open wound to you. No matter how much you would try to cover it, it would bleed back open without you noticing. 

You were an orphan at the age of 16. Your family’s tragic death broke you completely, it led to a life of deviance and crime in Gotham City. Your father had you trained in martial arts from an early age, so it benefited your unlawful acts of theft and robbery. However, you would only steal from the greedy. 

You first met Doctor Jonathan Crane when you were hardly an adult. You were arrested for robbing some rich asshole that scammed all of his workers. If only you weren’t so determined to beat the crap out of him you would have gotten away. Your lawyer told you to take the insanity plea, a major reduction of time locked away convinced you to agree with your lawyer. Worst mistake ever. You could tell he wasn’t right in the head as soon as you saw him, despite his charming face. 

When he put on the mask, your worst nightmares came to life. 

It felt like years, being under him as an experiment (even though it was only a couple of months). You fascinated him. He spent a lot of time with you at Arkham. He would tell you how you were his favorite little experiment and that he treated you so much nicer than the others. As if that was a compliment. It was dehumanizing, how he tortured you with your worst fears. To the point that he was your worst fear. You were able to fight back at him a couple of times, get a few good hits in. Despite the consequences, you didn’t regret it. 

Thankfully, The Batman saved you. Bruce heard of your story and felt sympathy for you. You never knew how ballistic Jonathan went when he got the call that you had escaped. And how he swore one day you would be underneath him again. 

Bruce wanted to help you, he felt your pain and struggles. It took you a while, but you agreed, under the hidden agenda that you would use your training to kill Jonathan. He trained you, physically and logically. Also helped you heal, enough to keep Jonathan out of your mind for most of the day. You eventually became Robin. Suit and all. 

When you thought you were ready, you snuck out of the manor. Your mind set on killing Doctor Jonathan Crane. You waited outside by the outside alleyway of Arkham, ready to pounce as soon as you saw him. When he was descending the stairs, you bolted to him. You swiftly pushed him down to the ground and hell broke loose. Punch after punch, kick after kick. You wanted him to suffer, just as he made you suffer. Jonathan tried to defend himself but couldn’t. You straddled him, the street lamp illuminated Jonathan’s eyes wide with fear, you somehow felt guilt. But you pushed that feeling aside, ready to use the final blow. 

But The Batman interfered. He pulled you off of him, a tight grip around your waist, and in a second, Jonathan was shrinking under you. The both of you landed on an exterior landing staircase and he reattached the batclaw to his belt. You shoved Bruce viciously and hissed. 

Bruce shook his head to you, as if you were a child. “I’m disappointed in you” he scolded. 

“Fuck off Bruce!” you growled. 

“I did not train you to become an executioner” he continued. “You do not decide who lives and dies” Bruce stated, leaning on the railing. 

“We both know I’m not the only person he tortured! It would be a mercy kill for the city of Gotham. You know he doesn’t deserve to live” you scoffed. You both had your points. You huffed and looked back down, he was gone. Bruce placed his hands on your shoulders, comforting you. 

“His day will come, we just need to wait for the right moment. Trust me” he reassured. 

And his day did come. Jonathan was arrested for numerous charges after his toxin exposure into the water system. You were free. Or so you thought. He disappeared after the League of Shadows incident. Bruce said he would never dare to return. You thought the same. 

Over the years, you assisted Bruce on missions, both with an agreeing mindset of making Gotham better. Your name became popular in the public eye, Batman and Robin. The vigilante’s sidekick in Gotham crime. You became obsessed with bringing criminals to justice. Sometimes you’d stay up for hours, listening to police radios waiting for something worth your time. Honestly anything was worth your time. But Bruce told you that you have to draw a line. 

Bruce was out of the country. Something had come up elsewhere, you asked to join but he gave a sly grin and said “someone has to protect Gotham”. 

Here you were again, sitting on the rooftop, the moonlight shining on you. Your feet dangled as you watched the moon, a police radio sitting next to you as you waited. You couldn’t sleep much anyways, the nightmares still couldn’t go away. That’s when it caught your eye, the Bat-Signal in the sky. You stood up immediately. Bruce forbids you from going alone. But he wasn't here, he wasn’t even in the country. This was a gray area in your agreement. Oh well, it’s probably something stupid anyways. 

You were quickly dressed and sped to the building. Adrenaline rushed through your blood. You were up there in no time. But by the time you were sneaking up to the rooftop, the light was turned off. You could hear Commissioner Gordon, yabbering about how some deviant must have snuck up to turn it on as a practical joke. You listened to him close the heavy door and sighed, climbing onto the rooftop regardless. Disappointment filled you as you sat on the ledge, overlooking Gotham. 

“What’s got you down, little one?” that familiar, terrifying voice captured your attention. Chills ran down your spine and your chest tightened. You spun around up onto your feet to see him. Jonathan Crane. Your heart raced. He was wearing his mask, he stood tall with his hands behind his back. He loved to call you little one, even after all of this time. 

“Scarecrow” you snarled, bracing for a fight. But you had to remind yourself what Bruce taught you. You also had to force your nerves to the side. 

He said your name. “You know me better than that” he said enthusiastically. Your face dropped. He couldn’t know it was you. How could he know it was you! He laughed at your frozen state. “Even though you beat me bloody that night, eyes never change” he explained, you could sense the grin on his lips. 

“So this was your plan? You want a repeat then?” you laughed, brushing off your nerves. Fists formed and jaw clenched as you waited for his move. 

“Not exactly, The Batman isn’t here to save you this time. In Prague the news broadcast shows” he mentioned, mocking ‘The Batman’.

It was impossible not to laugh. Who did he think he was?

Your feelings got the better of you. The actions of neutral good left you, your judgment clouded by your locked away anger towards this man. He was to die at your hands at this very moment, he didn’t deserve to live. Pure evil doesn’t get to walk free.  

“I’m going to enjoy this” you gritted your teeth. 

With a flash, you charged towards him and tackled him to the ground. You straddled him, ready to knock his teeth out but noticed his arm raise towards you. With a swift movement, you grab his arm and rip the fear toxic from out of his sleeve. Fuck this guy, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. You ripped off his mask and aimed the canister towards his face and released the gas. 

You breathed in the substance instantly and it blurred your sight. He tricked you. You jumped off of him and coughed intensely. The effects from the substance got to work immediately. Jonathan looked terrifying, your heart raced, body shock and anxiety felt heavy on your chest. No, you still had to fight. You yelled in anger and fear as you threw a punch at him, heart pounding in your chest and mouth hanging open. But your reflexes slowed down so much. He dodged you, effortlessly. Another attempt failed, again and again. Jonathan shoved you to the floor and you fell onto your back. His shoe pressed into your chest, keeping you down. 

“Stop, you’re wasting your energy” his voice sounded demonic. You still tried to fight him off. With a huff, Jonathan bent down and mounted you. You screamed at how close he was, there was no hallucination to his appearance. He looked exactly how you remembered and it haunted you. It was pointless trying to hide the fear he brings upon you in this state. His eyes were dark and expression was blank as his hands tugged onto your loose hair. “There, there, little one. You’re safe with me. You have nothing to fear” he cooed at you with a wicked grin as he pressed his crotch into you. 

You were frozen underneath him, you tried to move but couldn’t. Was this a newly developed substance? Or was your body in shock because of him. Your body trembled and you just wanted to call out for Bruce. With all of your strength, you hand slipped to your belt, searching for the distress beacon. Your actions went noticed by Jonathan and he smacked your hand away. He laughed as he picked up the device and threw it to the side. 

“What did I say again? The Batman isn’t here to save you this time” he mocked, his hands feeling up your body animalistically. He ordered you to sleep and for some reason you did. Falling from one nightmare to another. 

You groaned, your head was aching, but your thoughts were softened with the feeling of fuzziness. The fear toxin had worn off. Your lips were cracked dry as your head rolled from side to side. Your eyes peaked open, you lightly hissed at the bright light piercing above you. Slowly, your eyes became fully wide. You took in a deep breath as you analyzed your unfamiliar surroundings. Everything was white. The walls, counter, floor, exam table and the medical bed you laid on. You harshly blinked as you looked down at your body. A loud, uneased breath echoed throughout the silent room as you stared at yourself. You were wearing a white patient gown and your wrists and ankles were restrained to the bed. 

“You’re awake, finally” the dark voice traveled to your ears from behind. It sent shivers down your spine, knowing who it was immediately, Jonathan Crane. You took into note how his appearance has changed a bit. Just his hair cut shorter and he looked a bit older. If you saw him as a stranger on the street you would think him to be charming. He took slow steps towards you, raising the fear on your cold skin with him approaching you. His hand rested on your shoulder, almost as if to comfort you. “Now the fun can begin” the words slithered off of his tongue. You lied there frozen. Completely clueless of what was about to occur. He sat on the stool beside you and watched you like a hawk. “I had to strip you immediately you know, The Batman had a tracking device on your suit. He must really not trust you. You’ve always made dumb decisions, remember?” he chuckled, speaking casually to you. 

Anger consumed you, you struggled against the restraints and then you froze from the realization of how easy your inner thighs rubbed together. You looked down at your body, and saw your hardened nipples from the cool room poke through the thin cotton. You could feel your body prepare itself to hyperventilate. “You’re going to-” you gasped as you couldn’t finish your sentence, tears flooding your eyes. 

“No no no” Jonathan soothed, leaning closer to you. His fingers interlocked with yours. “You’re going to want me to fuck you, sweetheart” he flashed a smile. It looked pure at first glance, but the longer you stared, the quicker the evil painted over. 

“Help!” you screamed over and over again. Jonathan couldn’t help but to roll his eyes. God you were still such a fucking whiny bitch. 

Robin was gone, now you were just the broken girl that fell into his hands all of those years ago. It was shocking to see how easily broken you’ve gotten. All of this training and skills for what? You should stand strong, just take it, show no fear and pain. But you were just a girl. 

“No point in screaming. We’re not at Arkham. We’re very far away from Gotham” he sighed, looking up to the ceiling briefly. He yanked a dry cloth from the exam table and stood up. 

“Please Jonathan-” you yelped as he viciously gripped your chin and pulled your face closer to him. 

“Doctor Crane to you” he spat. But he didn’t loosen his iron grip. Your eyes were wide as he stared at you with anger. How dare you. You were not equals. You tried to nod your head against his iron grip. Once he let go you took a large gasp.

He leaned over you and forcefully shoved the cloth into your mouth. You cried, your eyes pleading with him as if it would actually make a difference. He admired the sight below him. “Look at you my sweet, all bound up” he commented, his hand trailing across your collarbones. “You thought you were fucking better than me, smarter, stronger. You dumb fucking whore. Don’t worry, I’ll show you your place. Right under me, figuratively and literally” he explained, the back of his cold hand raised to your flustered cheek. “I’m going to fix you” he said quietly. 

Your eyes didn’t follow him. You couldn’t dare to look at him. Jonathan sat back on the stool. He looked back up to you, noticing the tears slipping down your cheeks. “Oh don’t cry. You wanted to bring me down too. I just acted sharper than you. You let your emotions cloud your judgment, you only have yourself to blame” he elucidated.

He had a point. You were taught better. But you chose to react the way you did. Nevertheless, you didn’t deserve to be in this situation. 

He’s waited so long for this moment. The patience this man has had for this moment. It was all worth it. Now he has the power to break you down mentally and physically. You muffled into the rag, trying to plead with him. 

“I care about you” he randomly admitted. “Even after all this time” he mumbled slightly. It shocked you, this monster having feelings for someone other than himself? Impossible. “More importantly I care about how you feel about me” he added, leaning closer to your face. “So, I’m going to please you to show you just how much I care about you” he grinned, his hand tapping your cheek. 

You knew exactly what that meant. You aggressively thrashed your body. This couldn’t be happening, you needed to get out of here, out of these restraints. Your muffled cries echoed throughout the room. The breakdown quickly unfolded when you realized it was pointless. Your eyes squinted shut, this had to be a dream, a nightmare. You needed to remain calm, what he said was true. Your judgment was clouded by your emotions. What would Bruce do? Fuck, as if he would ever end up in a situation like this.  

You were too focused on your attempts to control your breathing to realize that your ankle restraints had been uncuffed. Jonathan pushed your ankles up, bringing your knees up closer to your chest. He reattached the restraints to a closer pole, keeping your knees at a 155 degree bend. Your gown rode up to your hips, exposing your bare pussy. That’s when you realized what he had done. Jonathan walked over to the counter, opened a draw and retrieved a pair of silver scissors. He looked back at you and gave you a wicked grin. Your head shook excessively, as if it would change anything. 

“I’ve wanted to do this since I met you. I regret not fucking you in Arkham. I was just such a workaholic I didn’t want my urges to get in the way. I thought of it as unprofessional. But I’ve become open to exploring new methods” he said slowly as he approached you. You resisted, knowing it was pointless but it was natural reflexes regardless. He towered over you, briefly admiring you before cutting the gown straight down the middle. You cried out as the last inch was snipped apart. Jonathan grinned as his large hands traveled all over your heated body. “I jerked off to you after every session” he admitted proudly, playing with your plump tits. He pushed the cut gown to the sides of your body, you were completely exposed to him, mentally and physically. “I’m going to eat your cunt out now baby” he told you with a smirk. The low tone terrified you. 

He stood directly in front of you, his body leaned over onto the end of the bed. He crawled up high enough for his upper body to easily lay on the bed. “God, you’re fucking dripping!” he exclaimed as he examined your wet region. “Is this all because of me, my sweetness?” he taunted. You refused to give him any pleasure by responding. But he was too focused on the sight of your sweet spot anyways. 

Jonathan examined your cunt. His fingers stroked your folds. You whined, shaking your restricted body in an attempt to get him to back off. He harshly smacked your pussy and you cried into the cloth. “Stop resisting” he growled, his long fingers returning to their playful manner. 

You didn’t like this, at all. However, from his touch you couldn’t help but to feel weakened. Your knees felt like jelly. The further his strokes went, the heavier your breathing got. You didn’t notice your hips flex forward to Jonathan, back arching. He grinned at your sexual response to his touch. You liked this, he knew you did. One finger slipped inside of you, causing you to groan painfully. Fuck, you were tight. Pristine tight. You cried as he finger curled inside of you. His eyebrows furrowed as he looked up to you, realization glowed in his eyes. 

“Oh my” he breathed out as he analyzed your expression. He slid another finger inside of you to confirm his theory, you were a sobbing mess from this. “Oh my!” he exclaimed as he pulled his fingers out. He climbed on top of you and grabbed onto your jawline. “Did you forget to tell me something very important darling?” he questioned you, a wicked smirk on his cold lips. Your eyes swelled up, this was so humiliating. You kept your eyes low and he harshly tapped his fingers onto your cheek until you looked up to him. “Have you ever been touched? Fucked?” His dark eyes demanded an answer, his hands loosened enough for you to lower your jaw. He forgot about the cloth in your mouth from excitement. 

You could always lie, but he knew when you were lying. You shook your head, still in his grip.

“Not even by yourself?”

Another shake of the head. 

A dark laugh echoed through the room. “Fuck, do you know how arousing that sounds? Too busy fighting crime to get dicked down. No wonder you’re such a stuck up cunt hm?” he chuckled, caressing your heated cheeks.

Jonathan’s words were too overwhelming. So you just cried, face still in his grip. He comforted you by petting your cheeks and brushing your hair to the side. He couldn’t help but to feel irritated by this information as well. A sudden urge to make love to you rather than to fuck you. No, you’ll like the way he fucks you. There is no choice in the matter. When your cries became minimized he slid back down your exposed body.

“You’re going to taste so fucking devine” he commented, stroking your gushing region once more. “Your body will be so delicate to my touch. I can’t wait to explore all of these new experiences with you. If you are good and embrace my touch I’ll take it easy with you. If not, I’ll make you scream. Not in a good way” Jonathan explained as he gripped onto your outer thighs. 

You whined at the first lick, eyes rolling back as your head dug back into the bed. Jonathan quietly moaned at your sweet taste. It was everything he dreamed of and more. His lips attacked your cunt as his tongue slipped inside of you. A scream of pleasure escaped your mouth. It was humiliating, enjoying pleasure from this evil man. You harshly bit onto the cloth to avoid another muffled moan satisfying his ears. It was amazing with how quickly your orgasm was building, it had only been a couple of minutes. Your legs began to tremble and fists formed. Jonathan’s nose pressed against your clit as he viciously ate you out as if he hadden eating all day. 

He pulled his mouth away, but quickly replaced your tender cunt with the touch of his digits. Two fingers easily slipped inside of you. Muffled cries snuck out. But the deeper his fingers went inside of you, the harder it was to hide your moans. 

“You’re so close to coming already. Making me feel a bit pompous honestly” he chuckled.

You couldn’t help yourself when his fingers reached your g-spot. It felt magnificent, your warm walls squeezing around fingers. He slid in four digits, causing an awful cry of pleasure mixed with pain. You were climaxing in the worst way. Jonathan’s expression looked crazed, like he was a wild animal teasing his prey. It was a surprise that he hadn’t creamed in his pants already. You rode out your very first orgasm on his filthy fingers. Your hips naturally rocked on his fingers back and forward as you became undone. 

You felt like you were going to pass out. Nostrils flared as your body fell back into the bed, it was so fucking hard to breathe. It went unpassed as he untied all of your restraints. Your eyes squeezed shut from exhaustion and embarrassment. You rejected the thoughts of you enjoying the assault, enjoying Jonathan’s touch. 

Your bloodshot eyes opened again when you felt Jonathan climb on top of you. His covered erection poked your thigh as he watched your manner. But his eyes locked onto your gagged mouth. He gently pulled the cloth out of your mouth. You gasped for air, chest raised. 

“Hm, I’ve kissed your pussy before your mouth” he grinned. It was a foul joke. It made you physically gag which he didn’t like at all. He ordered you to kiss him. 

You whimpered at the pain of your sore jaw. But he was gentle with you, his tongue slipped in and lower lip massaged yours. It felt nice, relaxing to feel his touch in this manner. He caressed your breasts as his lips nipped your neck. You let out a soft moan and pressed your body against his, arms wrapped around his upper back. It felt like bliss, the comforting touch to your sensitive body. Your bodies molded together, his breathing was by your ear as you felt your soul leave your body. It felt too good to be true. That’s when you realized it was. You were being physically and emotionally vulnerable with your assaulter. Your body tensed and he noticed immediately. 

“What is it?” he questioned, sounding concerned to the slightest. He stared into your teary eyes, the back of his hand softly stroked your cheek. His free hand lowered to your stomach in an attempt to comfort you.

You regretted it immediately. The action went without a thought. You just saw an opportunity and didn’t think of what the consequences would be. The slap echoed throughout the room and it was followed by complete silence. It was a surprise that you even had the strength to land the hit. You laid frozen as his head remained in the position your hand forced it to. If anything, it was your opportunity to escape. But that slap had used all of your strength. Slowly his dark eyes turned to you, his thighs keeping you trapped underneath him. You stared back at him in fear, waiting for his fury. He backhanded you, again and again. A last gasp for breath left your lips as his hands wrapped around your throat. You struggled underneath him, your face quickly turning red in the process. His expression was emotionless as your fingers dug into his hands, forearms, anything to break the grip. 

“Fucking ungrateful bitch” he growled. “You know, I was going to be nice and wait to fuck you until tomorrow. I thought it would have been a kind gesture to give you some recovery time since, being a pure virgin and all. But you’re just a bit of a fucking brat now aren’t you? Unfortunately I’ll just have to show you my rough side as well” he snarled to you. 

It was a lie, he was going to fuck you today regardless. It was just amusing to fuck with your mind. Your vision became blurred and your hands fell to your sides. He let go of his grip and you gasped for air. His hands quickly gripped onto the sides of your head, his fingers tugged roughly at the roots of your hair. 

“Apologize to me” he spat his demand.

“I’m sorry!” you cried. “I didn’t mean to hit you. I wasn’t thinking straight” you cried your explanation. The apology was genuine but that didn’t satisfy him. 

“Show me you’re sorry” he ordered. You blinked as you processed his words. You tried to move your head closer to his but his fingers pulled your hair back. You winced as you figured you had to work harder to kiss him. Jonathan watched your frustrated and distressed look as you tried to press your lips against his.

“Please let me kiss you” you begged. He chuckled, and let go of your hair. You kissed him desperately, your tongue slid into his mouth. He didn’t like it at all. It felt way too forced by you. Jonathan pulled away and slapped you. 

“You’re trying too hard baby. It’s rather embarrassing” he laughed. “Now, don’t make any rash decisions as I fuck you. Despite my pleasure, I think you’d prefer not to be drugged into a state of  paralysis”. 

Jonathan stood up on his knees, you being trapped underneath him. He towered over you as he began to unbutton his shirt. His eyes did not drift away from yours as he dropped the shirt to the ground. Skin as pale as ghost and had little body fat and muscle definition. It was confusing how easily he could overpower you, drugs you’d guess. “Is there any fantasies on how you want to be fucked little one?” Jonathan teased. 

“No” you spat. 

Jonathan hummed as he slid off the bed. Your lower region was still raw from your orgasm. He unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his trousers. He pushed down the clothing enough for him to pull his cock out. A cry left your sore lips. His size was much bigger than you’d imagined. Maybe it was just an illusion, his cock just looked bigger because of his small size. Stroking his cock Jonathan ordered you to turn to your side. You buried your head into the bed as you turned your body away from him. 

He pulled your hips towards him, his cock rested by your entrance. You whimpered at the feeling of him against you. He caressed your ass a little bit as he lined his cock up. “This is going to hurt, a lot” he warned you with zero care. With one forceful thrust, he was completely inside of you. It wasn’t an illusion, he was as big as you thought. The inside walls of you cunt ached as it stretched around him. It was instinct for you to scream and it was diabolical for Jonathan to enjoy your sounds of agony. 

You wanted to thrash out, attack him. But you knew the consequences, how easily he would be able to restrain you. And you didn’t wish to know what torture he would bring upon you. So instead you just laid there crying with him watching you, your fingers curled into the fabric. Jonathan’s grip on your hip tightened as he began to thrust viciously. He popped your cherry quickly, your blood coated his cock and he thought that it was a heavenly sight. He stared at the back of your head as his balls smacked against your core. 

“I want you to look at me while I fuck you” he ordered, his jaw clenched and nostrils flared. You did as he said and turned your head back. His mouth fell open as you two stared at one another. “How does it feel? Losing your virginity in this state? I bet you feel like a dirty little whore. Good, because you like this, I can feel your cunt clench around me. You’re dripping darling” he pointed out, you were. The thrusts became easier because of how wet you were from this. 

His finger drew blood for your hip as his thrusts continued at the same quick, rough pace. He analyzed your expression, noticing your eyes trying not to roll back and jaw lowering open. “Are you about to climax again darling?” he asked with a grin, he could feel it. You shook your head, not wanting to believe it yourself. A harsh smack landed on your bruised hip causing you to yelp. “Don’t lie baby” he warned in a low voice. 

“Yes!” You cried out. Jonathan laughed at how easy it was to unfold you.  

“Don’t let me hold you back. By all means, come!” he commanded, slapping your ass in the process. 

Quickly after that, you followed through with his command. You cried out, eyes completely rolled back, mouth panting for air, chest tightened and body falling numb. Your head fell back as you rode out your orgasm on Jonathan’s cock, hips rocking in rhythm. 

“The little virgin really must love my cock” he noted. 

“Please- stop. I-” you were lost for words. Could he blame you? Two orgasms in a row when you’ve never even attempted it before? Jonathan chuckled darkly at your request. 

“Darling, I’m not even close to finishing. You’re just going to have to hold it out. Maybe we should see if I can get a few more in?” He smirked and you shook your head. 

You couldn’t do this, you’ve had enough. You twisted your body back in an attempt to push him out of you. He reacted quickly and climbed on top of you. His cock slipped out as he grabbed onto your chin. His eyes gave you a warning not to disobey him as he realigned his member. With an easy push, he was back inside of your sweet canal. He bit your neck roughly as he found the right angle to fuck you. You moaned, he felt so fucking good and you hated it. 

Jonathan stared at your expression. Fear mixed with pleasure. It was the ultimate combination. He kissed you passionately, his tongue sliding down to your throat. You tried to fight him off with your own tongue but it was no use. You didn’t notice your arms snaking around his back to hold him close to you, as if he’d leave at any moment. 

“You like this” he taunted. You ignored his words and just focused on him fucking you, feeling yet another orgasm building up inside of you. But then he stopped fucking you all together. His cock slipped out of you and you frowned at him. You almost asked as to why he had stopped. Has he finished? “If you want me to continue fucking you, you’ll ask me nicely” he explained, a sly look on his face. 

You laughed weakly, he wasn’t serious? Why would you want him to continue? But then he rubbed your clit and you knew why you wanted him to continue. Humiliation was such a turn on. You cried, your chaotic thoughts were too much to unpack. Why would you even dare to ask him to continue? But you were already so close again and the discomfort in your core was becoming unbearable as he rubbed you just enough to keep you on edge but not enough to push you over. 

“Don’t feel guilty about your pleasures Y/N. Your body betrays your mind, it’s so fascinating isn’t it? The relationship between the mind and body. There’s no point in fighting it. Just embrace it, embrace my touch” 

His words felt like bliss. He was so smooth tongued. It was true, you did enjoy this, well your body did at least. What was the point in fighting? You had already lost to him. 

“Please” you whimpered, keeping your head low.

“No” his reply was blank.

“Please!” you sobbed, head shooting up to look at him. Your eyes screamed desperation and irritation.

“Please what? Please Doctor Crane fuck me? I’m such a pathetic greedy little slut that wants to come again?” His words were a slap to the face. It was as mortifying as you thought. 

“Yes that yes!” your response was quick. “Please- I want, I want your cock inside of me. I want to feel you inside of me” you said overwhelmed. You were whimpering a lot, your hips rocking on his thumb.  

Jonathan watched you rub yourself on him and bit his lip. “Oh, you really are a fucking slut. But you’re my slut. You’re mine. But I think you know that already. You’ve always known. Don’t you?” He grinned. You hummed and nodded your head. You shrieked when he pinched your clit. “Use your words girl!” he growled. 

“Yes! I-I’m yours!” you answered. Tears streamed down your cheeks and your mouth trembled.

“Oh you make me want to come so hard. I want you to hold it out. Can you do that for me baby? Wait for me so we can come together” he grinned as he lined his cock at your entrances, brushing against your wet folds. You nodded your head in agreement. Whatever, whatever he wanted. 

The force of his thrusts was like a jackhammer. For a man his size, he sure had stamina. Your foreheads pressed together, fingers interlocked and your legs weakly wrapped around his waist. It terrified you because you came before him. You just couldn’t help yourself. But he didn’t stop so you rode out your high as best as you could. You knew he was about to come undone. Both of your hips locked forward at the same time. Jonathan groaned loudly as you clenched against his shooting cock. His eyes squeezed shut as he held you tight and head flung back. His thrusts came to a sudden stop, his cock completely inside of you, his load spurting deep inside of you. With a few more softer thrusts, Jonathan pulled his soaked cock out of you. 

He let out a satisfied sigh. “I told you it wouldn’t be considered rape” he reminded you expressionless, not even breathless unlike yourself. 

You broke down, unable to control your emotions. You were a sobbing mess. Surely he’s drugged you with something else, right? But the gut feeling inside of you told you otherwise. Too many conflicting thoughts were fighting with each other. After watching you for a quick moment, he got off of you and fixed himself up, redressing himself and combing back his damp hair from all of the sweat as you laid there helpless. There was the opportunity that you tried to make a run for it, but the success rate was at minimum at this point. 

The Doctor went over the sink and ran a cloth under warm water. Ringing out the water, he walked back over to you and began to clean you up, completely ignoring your state of distress. Aftercare was the least of your expectations. He left your cunt till last. His fingers pressed up against the folds of your entrance. A mixture of your fluids oozed out.

“What a sight” he murmured to himself. 

You whined and hissed as he cleaned your raw, swollen, abused cunt. When he was done, he chucked the cloth into the sink and climbed back onto the bed next to you. You silenced yourself, expecting him to make another attack on you. He watched over you quietly and you weren’t sure what to do. It was like he was a crazed monkey waiting to snap.

“You’re still such a good girl for me” he cooed as he planted soft kisses all over your heated skin. The memories of your history filled his mind. There was a passionate kiss shared between you two, the type that doesn’t show desire but shows romantic intimacy. You kissed him back gently, it felt nice and you hated it. Jonathan pulled away and wiped your tears. “You still know your place. Mhm, you took my cock so well baby. I’m so proud of you little one” he praised as he groped your tits. “God, who knows, I might just fall in love with you” he laughed softly, kissing you once more.

#cillian murphy #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy x reader #cillian x fem!reader #smut #dark smut #jonathan crane dark #jonathan crane x you #jonathan crane smut #jonathan crane x reader #the dark knight trilogy

[missbluesunflowersstuff]

Some batfamily headcanon

They all have auditory processing disorder at this point, except for Damian and Duke

Damian is the youngest and Bruce and the others protect him most and Duke uses armor plus his powers makes him a little difficult to get hurt

Dick is partially deaf in his left ear and Tim is partially deaf in his right ear

Bruce and Jason suffer from chronic pain

If Steph or Damian just stopped and went into some blank state for more than two minutes call the most responsible adult near immediately, they are having an anxiety attack (they just freeze and stare at nothing, this is their anxiety attack)

Tim has narcolepsy actually this is why he has the worst sleeping schedule of them all

(Tim's narcolepsy may be undiagnosed, diagnosed but his parents hid the result, Tim refuses to take his medication because he believes he can "handle" it, it's up to you)

Jason, Cass and Damian have PTSD

(all of them have it actually, but these three have the worst attacks)

Dick emergency contact is Donna Troy

and it doesn't matter what the batfamily do or say, Dick is always puts Donna as his emergency contact

Damian emergency contact is Maya Ducard

Damian had a lot of nightmares in him early years, the family takes turns to take care of it

Jason and Damian have intrusive thoughts (hurt the others and hurt themselves, Jason villain era was basically 'I let my intrusive thoughts win' ) - today Damian handled it better than Jason did in the past (Jason I love you, but I will never forgive you for what you did to Mia Dearden)

Bruce created a lot of personas for his work and because of it Dick created the "hamburger theory"

If he accepts the hamburger and eats it with both hands it's Batman; if he starts eating his hamburger with fork and knife it's Bruce Wayne; if he's holding the burger with a napkin and smile it's Brucie; but if he rejected the hamburger just run, it's not safe near him in that moment

Dick made this theory when he still was a Robin and this is some 'don't tell dad' information between all of the kids

They usually share information with Cass in audio to help her understand, Babs still helps her with how to read but she prefers to use emojis or audio messages

Cass may or may not respond to their audio, but she will view it

Bruce and the others have no clue about Dick real health status because the only person who has legal rights to it is Donna and she doesn't share with them

One time Tim tried to steal Damian medical records to put in their data, he found out that Maya already did that and now she is the only person in the world legally allowed to have that information

Both Dick and Damian don't regret their decision because they really trust in their sisters more than the bats

(and yes, Bruce feels breyated because of this)

14!Damian is still a little afraid of sleeping, because he doesn't know what kind of dream he might have (he doesn't have nightmares like he used to, but the anxiety is still there)

Duke and Damian usually hang out more than the others; one time Steph asks why in the common channel and Duke only answers "you know that me and him are basically immortals, right? When everyone leaves, we'll still be here" (Duke is immortal because of his powers and Damian... Do you really think his family would allow him die?)

No one knows exactly the kind of shit Damian was submitted in the league and as Tim falls in get his medical records they'll never knows

The same applicants for Cass trying, what exactly Cain did with her is something she'll never tell

Jason actually has amnesia from his league days or some kinda of weird and very selective amnesia, everything just looks like a blur to him

Jason believes that he was hypnotized to forget everything or some weird magic stuff. But on some nights, in the silence of his room, Jason still seems like a fat baby lying near him, he wonders who is the baby and who they are now...

Some days, because of his chronic pain, Bruce uses a cane to walk around the house, but only inside

#dc comics #batfamily #damian wayne #jason todd #dick grayson #bruce wayne #tim drake #stephanie brown #cassandra cain #duke thomas #batfam headcanons #batfam

[trensu]

Have a snippet from that one holy warrior au. thanks to @ent-is-indecisive for helping me come up with a title for this fic. i'll be tagging it as stasis in darkness for easy tracking. this is part of a rough draft so it probably will be modified by the time i finish the damn thing and make it ao3 ready. but my brain's kind of stuck and needs a kickstart to get it going again, so i thought i'd share it and hopefully get motivated again

It happened again.

–

The fourth night:

“Isn't it true the King of Darkness–”

“Lord of Night.”

“Yeah, him. He controls all the monsters in the dark and sets them on innocent people for fun. Don’t see why you’d want to throw your lot in with a god like that.”

“Because he doesn’t. He takes care of nighttime animals. Bats, coyotes, owls…”

“The scary ones, you mean.”

“No! Besides, he takes care of cats, too. Cats aren’t scary. They’re, you know, cute.”

“Hmm. If you say so.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? You got something against cats?”

“Of course not!" The man said, sounding mildly offended. Steve opened his mouth to go on about the Lord of Night's chosen creatures but the man interrupted with, "Well, look at the time! Later, gator.”

The man ran off with a grin not sparing him a second glance. Steve stared after him, baffled.

“What the fuck’s a gator?”

–

The fifth night:

“Don't you know your King, excuse me, Lord of Darkness–”

“Night. Lord of Night.”

“Same thing. He helps criminals evade justice. Pretty sure that one’s true.” The man lounged lazily on a nearby boulder as he asked. Kind of like a cat, Steve noticed with a trace of amusement that was easily smothered by annoyance at the man's…everything else.

“He helps people who travel by night. Most of the time they’re just night workers or people with nowhere to go. The ones that are shunned for being different or the ones too poor to afford safe shelter.”

“Huh. Alright, explain the horse thief thing, then, if he’s so good and noble.”

“...fine, he’s got a soft spot for horse thieves but thievery isn’t that bad of a crime in the grand scheme of things.”

“Ha! Sure,” the man conceded. “But! You can’t deny that this Lord of Night cursed people with terrible nightmares that left them sleepless and suffering for days. To the brink of lunacy, some say.”

The man said it with triumph, as if with this he’d finally break Steve’s faith. Steve shrugged. 

“All gods get angry.”

“And that’s okay? You’re fine with him inflicting mind torture on some poor mortal just because he threw a tantrum?”

“First off, he wouldn’t just throw a tantrum," Steve said with exasperation. He might end up throwing a tantrum if this guy persisted. "I don’t think he’s the kind to get angry easily. And second, the people he cursed before always deserved it. Besides, he helps with good dreams, too. It’s not all bad.”

“Uh-huh, I totally believe you," the man said, heavy with mockery.

“Look man, if you’re so against the Lord of Night, why are you still here? Why do you keep coming back and bothering me?”

“...curiosity?”

“Well, be curious quietly. I need to pray.”

“...he probably doesn’t even have prayers.”

“I said shut up, man. I need to concentrate.”

The man leaves without any more fuss. 

–

The sixth night:

“You have a lot of faith in a god who lost his own name. Does he even have any holy texts left?”

“Dustin could only find one, but that was enough.”

“Really? Other gods have entire libraries of stories and whole tomes of holy words. They have temples and monasteries all across the land of mortals.” The man motioned derisively at the crumbling statue. "This thing here is barely a shrine!"

“Hey, I'm working on that, alright? It's going to look great when I'm done with it," Steve protested. "And so what if he doesn't have more? Robin says quantity’s got nothing to do with quality.”

“Yeah, but the other gods are remembered for a reason. That counts for something,” the man's voice lost some of that smug edge. He fiddled with the hem of his fraying shirt as he spoke. 

Steve refused to rise to the bait. He responded calmly, but firmly.

“I don’t need libraries to know I want to carry his symbol. From what Robin and Dustin found, he represents all the things my friends taught me were important.” Steve pauses. "I’m not a good reader anyway so less books are better for me.” 

"Oh, so that's why you picked him! Very convenient," The man sounded very amused. Steve ignored him until he heard the man wander away for the night. He sighed in relief.

With a surge of restless energy leftover from being very good and calm about that nuisance of a man, Steve approached the statue elevated on its crumbling plinth. He reached up towards its open hand held at its side, barely within reach, and brushed his fingers along the worn knuckles. 

"That guy's wrong about you, I know he is,” Steve whispered, fervently. “You deserve a temple. A hundred of them, all for your own."

Steve thought, for a moment, he heard a sharp intake of breath, but when he looked there was no one but him around. 

“I’ll make sure you get a great temple."

He waited, strained his ears for even a single word from his god. He tried not to be disappointed when he heard nothing. Again.

–

ps: i do not do those reader tag list things. if you’d like to keep up with my stuff, follow my writing tag: trensu tells stories

#trensu tells stories #stasis in darkness #stranger things #steddie #thanks again to ent for helping find a title for this #and for listening to my directionless ramblings about it

[steddieas-shegoes]

It doesn’t hit Steve until he’s holding Dustin at their small, private funeral for Eddie.

Eddie’s actually gone.

They actually lost someone this time.

They’d toed the line for years, always coming so close to an unbearable loss, but always finding a way out.

Not this time.

As Steve held a sobbing Dustin, he looked at Lucas, Robin, Nancy, Erica, and Mike. They’d been the ones to gather in a circle and say a few words.

The rest of the crew stood behind, not knowing Eddie well enough to contribute.

And now they never would.

********

April 1986

Steve shot up in bed, sweat dripping down his face.

It was the tenth night in a row of the same nightmare: Eddie wandering lost in the Upside Down calling for him. He could never make out exactly what Eddie looked like, like his mind was already forgetting the way his dimples appeared when he gave that mischievous grin or the way his hair frizzed so much because he went to bed with it wet, or so he told Steve when he asked him if he’d ever heard of conditioner.

If this was Steve’s punishment for not being fast enough to save him, he’d just have to suffer through it.

He should’ve done better. He knew it, the Eddie in his dreams knew it, even Dustin had said something that made him think he knew it too.

He didn’t hold it against him. He was right after all.

He did take too long getting to the trailer.

He looked around the room, taking inventory.

Nail bat? Check.

Bathroom light on? Check.

Door and window locked? Check.

Eddie in his bed? Check.

Steve froze.

He turned his head, genuinely believing he’d lost it. The concussions finally caught up to him because…

…Eddie was asleep in his bed.

The same Eddie who died in the Upside Down almost a month ago.

Steve moved slowly, caught between not wanting to wake up Eddie if it was him and not wanting to disrupt his imagination if he wasn’t real.

Just as he managed to get one leg off the bed, Eddie sat up like he’d had a nightmare, gasping for air.

Steve stared. Eddie stared back.

Then Eddie smiled.

Steve fell off the bed.

“Jesus Christ!”

“That’s my line, Stevie.”

Eddie was leaning over the bed, smirking down at Steve’s bewilderment and now physical pain from hitting his elbow on the bedside table.

“You’re dead. You’re a dream. You’re not real. You never had fangs before. This isn’t you.”

Steve stared down at his shaking hands. He’d never had a dream or nightmare this realistic before. He might have to let Robin take him for brain scans when he wakes up.

“Not dead. Definitely not a dream, but it’s nice to know I’ve been in yours. I am, in fact, real.” Eddie sighed as he rested his head on his hands, still smirking down at Steve frozen on the floor. “I did not have fangs before, that’s true. But I’m still me. Just a bit more…vampire-y?”

“I didn’t even smoke last night.”

“I’m not sure what that has to do with anything. And I’m a bit offended that you’re buying from someone else. I know I’ve been gone, but c’mon.”

Steve blinked up at the man who was dead when they had to leave him in the Upside Down.

“You didn’t have a heartbeat.”

“And I still don’t, can you believe that?”

Steve just shook his head. There was no fucking way this was real.

Of all the things he’s seen in the last three years, this was the most unbelievable.

“We. We left you. How are you here?”

“I actually don’t know the answer to that. I’ve been kinda wandering around down there? Up there? In there?” Eddie shrugged. “I guess I just dreamt about being here and now I am.”

“Are you saying you teleported?”

Eddie laughed. “I guess. I didn’t walk here.”

Steve couldn’t hold back the hand reaching out to touch Eddie’s cheek.

It wasn’t as cold as he expected it to be.

Eddie’s eyes searched Steve’s face, his light demeanor dropping into something more serious.

“I don’t know much. I know I’ve been alone for what feels like years. I’ve got a craving for blood, which is a lot to come to terms with. I’m undead but still need sleep? Which is so fucked, like I’m not even fully human anymore and I still have to waste time sleeping?”

Steve just stared blankly.

“And! The heartbeat thing is so weird, man. I still have to breathe but for what? My heart doesn’t beat! There’s no blood circulating, yet I need blood to survive! So many flaws in this system!”

Steve barked out a laugh.

“Holy shit, I missed you.”

If Eddie could blush still, he would be. Steve Harrington telling him he missed him? Never thought he’d live to see the day. Or, in this case, die to see the day.

Steve seemed to realize what he said after a moment of awkward staring.

“Uh. I mean. We all missed you. Like, your…energy?”

It was Eddie’s turn to laugh. He rolled off the bed and joined Steve on the floor, settling as close to the warmth radiating off of Steve as he could.

“It’s okay if you missed me, Stevie. I missed you too.”

Even with minimal light in the room, Eddie could see the blush creeping up Steve’s neck to his cheeks.

“We’ve never lost someone before.”

“And you still haven’t.”

Eddie placed his hand on Steve’s knee, squeezing gently to remind him that he was here. He wasn’t the same, or even completely alive, but he was here.

“I don’t know how to break this to the kids.”

“It’s gotta be easier than telling them I’m dead.”

“Dustin’s been a mess. I mean, they all have, but. Dustin’s barely left his house. He won’t talk to anyone.”

“Can we call him?”

Steve checked the clock on the bedside table. 3:02 wasn’t the most ideal time to call the Henderson home and risk the wrath of a woken up Claudia.

“We can try the walkie, but if he doesn’t answer the first time, we can call in a few hours.”

Eddie nodded excitedly. If time passed differently for him like he said, he’s been alone for a long time. At least Steve had Robin and the kids and even Joyce to cope. Eddie had been led to believe he was trapped forever in the one place that could probably kill even those who weren’t completely alive.

He deserved to be reunited with people who loved him.

Steve pushed away the insecurity of not being enough. It’s not like he’d been close to Eddie anyways.

But when he felt a hand on his cheek, he realized that he’d started crying. The hand wiped away a tear, but didn’t leave his face.

“Steve, sweetheart. What’s wrong?”

Sweetheart.

No one had ever called Steve that. Not even his mom when he was younger. He’d been Steve or The King or The Hair or Mom when Max and Dustin were being little shits.

He was sure that time stood still while he processed the new nickname, but unfortunately, he’d been staring at Eddie with tears falling down his face for god knows how long.

“I’m…I’m just really happy you’re here.”

Eddie relaxed, calm now that he knew nothing was actually wrong.

“I’m glad I’m here with you.”

That last part was important.

Eddie couldn’t imagine how this would have gone with anyone else.

He certainly hadn’t expected Steve to be so accepting so quickly, and he figured at best, he’d be pretty indifferent to him showing up. He could pass him off to Dustin and pretend he didn’t wake up to a dead acquaintance in his bed.

But Steve folded into his lap, head resting against his chest and hands curling into his shirt to hold him in place.

“You’re right.”

“About what?”

Eddie was running his hands up and down Steve’s back, enjoying the moment for what it was before it ended.

“The no heartbeat thing is weird.”

Eddie snorted. “Yeah. Think you could get used to it?”

“I’ve gotten used to stranger things.”

Part 2

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #my fic #ao3fic #headcanon #tumblr drabbles #vampire eddie munson #I can’t believe I said the thing at the end there #so cringe of me but I still giggled to myself

[stevesworld96]

look at me now (part one)

--- steve harrington x fem!reader

childhood friends to strangers to lovers. this is a more realistic look at developing a relationship with steve, set in canon while you know nothing about the monsters, or the nightmares, or all of his scars.

a fic about knowing steve before, during, and after the events of the upside down. including all the ways your friendship with him grows, wilts, then grows again - to blossom into something he probably doesn’t deserve. 

tags: fem reader, no use of y/n, childhood friends, typical king steve meanness, yes there is an allusion to steve being icarus, kissing, fighting and making up, cliches, a lot of emotions, depression and suffering etc, reader has an aunt, mentions of death and injuries, codependent steve and robin, steve is so so so so so so so sad. hawkins doesn't get destroyed after the vecna fight - everything else follows canon

please read both parts, i worked so hard on this fic and i'm really proud of it :)

part two!!!

word count: 14878

-

You knew Steve Harrington better than you knew anybody. At least, you liked to think so. 

You were five when you moved to Hawkins into the house right next door to Steve’s, and as things go when you’re a kid, that automatically made you best friends. At that age you didn’t have to try to be friends with somebody - as long as they lived nearby and had a bike, that sealed the deal. 

He was only knee high to his mother, hiding behind her legs when she brought him over to introduce themselves. “We’re the Harrington's,” she said, then with a tight laugh, “minus one - my husband. This is our son. Steve - say hi, Stevie.” 

He didn’t. Your mothers started a polite conversation and your eyes darted between the tall woman and her son. She was dressed like she had somewhere important to be, with red lipstick painted on her lips and pearls hung around her neck. She was pretty. 

Her son didn’t stand with the same pride she had - he was peeking at you, tugging the hem of his mother’s dress and looking down at his feet. You could hardly get a good look at him, and he didn’t even wave back at you. His haircut was prim and proper; the button up shirt he wore was swallowing him.

They came inside for lemonade, and you led Steve into your living room, and by the end of the hour you had instantly become friends, bonding over your toy car collection that Steve loved. 

You were kids - of course things were so easy. 

To see him, all you had to do was walk over to his front door and knock, and you could spend as much time together as you wanted. Or just wait until his parents needed a babysitter - after they learned how much you and Steve loved spending time together, they started to drop him off at your house and you’d have sleepovers for days. 

It was when Mr. Harrington had gotten a big promotion that they’d leave Steve with your family nearly once a week. 

“I’m sorry, Stevie, I know me and Dad haven’t been home much lately. But next month isn’t as busy for us,” his mom would tell him. 

“It’s okay, Mom,” he’d reply. “Don’t worry, I like staying here, so I’m alright.” 

At your age you didn’t see the irony in a seven year old telling his mother that things were okay - shouldn’t it be the other way around? - but those apologies from his mother wouldn’t last very long. And the promises she always made were never kept. Soon enough, she stopped making them altogether. 

Sometimes he’d just show up at your door, and your parents didn’t have to ask questions because they already knew more than you did, and you didn’t understand that he was more comfortable in your bedroom than in his own. 

The routine of your friendship felt like the foundation of your life. Everything you did was with Steve by your side, like you were tied together with an invisible string that couldn’t be broken. Snacks after school were a must; movie nights every other weekend were your safe haven. The last day of school every year you camped out in his backyard under the stars and then woke up early for a big breakfast and a day spent at the arcade. Even as you got older, those things stayed the same. 

You had busier schedules to work around in high school but you still made it work. After-school lunch turned into midnight snacks, and you moved from the arcade to the lake, but you were still intertwined with child-like joy and ease. 

Steve’s other friends were another story. Tommy H was a thorn in your side that you couldn’t pick out, but Steve didn’t get why you hated him so much. At first, you didn’t get it either - you just did.  

Until one day early in your junior year, Tommy H gave you a good enough reason for your disposition. 

Like always, Steve was waiting for you outside of your last class of the day, and you were just about to turn the corner when you heard Tommy’s loud, boisterous, annoying voice. 

“Steve, my boy, what’cha standing around here for?” 

Steve laughed, even though Tommy had said nothing funny. 

“Waiting on your favorite girl so I can get outta here - what’s up, dude?” 

“Come on,” Tommy said, dragging the words out. “We got shit to do, ditch her and let’s get a roll on, if you catch my drift.” 

You could see his stupid face in your head as he spoke - you just wanted him to go away so you could leave. But you’d wait there forever if it meant you didn’t have to have a conversation with him. 

You were hardly paying any mind to their words. 

“Can’t, dude, I’m her ride home. Tomorrow though, for sure.” 

“She’s holding you back, man.” 

But that caught your attention. They were both laughing even though, again, no one had said anything funny. 

“Y’think so?” 

“She even put out?” 

Your eyes rolled so far back to your head they could’ve gotten stuck. 

“It’s not like that with her.” 

“Oh, that’s not what Kimmy thinks.” 

“What? What do you mean - did she say something?” 

You knew Kimmy to be the new flavor of the week, Steve’s new eye candy. It’d be someone new in a matter of days - and this was one brand new trait of his you were struggling to overlook. 

“Just saying, most of the chicks think you’re taken by Miss Bitch -” 

You call Tommy H a dickhead to his face one time and he gives you a nickname that sticks for three years. 

“- and that’s why you’re not getting any action, dude. Gotta shake off the fleas, man.” 

And then Steve laughed. Loud.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting him to do. You hoped he would defend you even a little bit, but he didn’t. He just laughed, and said, “I’ll think about it, man,” as if he was in on this joke, and then Tommy left. 

And you didn’t know how you felt. 

It’s not like Steve said it. But he had no problem listening to Tommy H talk about you that way. He thought it was funny. 

Or, he was just saving face - did that make a difference?

You knew Tommy’s words were complete bullshit, and you didn’t care about him enough to let it affect you. Maybe Steve felt the same - maybe he just went along with it because it was easier. 

You hoped so, because that’s what you chose to do. You brushed it off and walked out of the room and acted as if nothing happened. 

“Hey - about time.” 

You didn’t reply; he continued talking as you walked together. 

“You hungry?” 

“Thought you were coming over,” you said. “Told you I wanted to build a blanket fort. Remember?” 

He huffed out a scoff, “A blanket fort? Are you six?” The glare you gave him made him reel his judgment back in. “Fine. Let’s go.” 

…

As soon as basketball season was over and you had your weekends back to yourself, you were ready to get through your watch list of movies as quickly as possible. You’d never tell Steve that cheering for him at his games was your least favorite part of your friendship with him - you would always keep that selfishness to yourself. 

And if you weren’t so wrapped up in your own mind, lost in planning your movie night, you may have been able to see your next conversation with Steve coming. 

“There she is, been lookin’ all over for you.” 

A heavy arm slung around your shoulders as you walked down the school hall. You didn’t have to question who it was. 

“What do you want, Steve?” 

“Just want to see my best friend in the whole world, is there something wrong with that?” 

You rolled your eyes. Obviously he’s up to something. 

“I’m going to choose to ignore you,” you said, shaking off his arm and stopping at your locker. His back fell into the metal next to you. 

“What’s up?” he asked, and he was trying too hard to be inconspicuous, but you ignored it. 

“Nothing. Oh, I think I finally have a cookie recipe we’ll like. Mrs. Jenkins gave it to me but she made me swear I wouldn’t share her secrets. Gonna pick up the stuff after school - have you picked your movie yet?” 

Then his eyes widened, a bit too much to look genuine. “Oh, shit, is that tonight?” 

“It’s Friday, isn’t it?” 

“I completely forgot about that, shit. I made other plans without thinking.” 

“Well, cancel them,” you said with a straight face. 

“Well… what if you join in on my plans instead?” 

You closed your locker and didn’t even consider entertaining Steve’s idea. “My mom’s already planning to make dinner for you. Are you ready to face her wrath?” 

“Well - no,” he said. “It’s just - y’know, I was supposed to see Nancy tonight, and…” 

“Oh, I get it, you wanna cancel so you can get laid. Is that it?” 

“No, Christ - I’ll be there, alright? But next time, I’m getting my way.” 

 You laughed at him, and the bell rang and ended your conversation. 

You didn’t think the night would go any differently than your normal hangouts. Maybe if you were expecting it, the disappointment wouldn’t have stung so bad. 

He called you early. 

“Hello?” 

“Hey -”

“Hey, have you picked up the movies yet? I forgot to get popcorn, so…” 

“No, I haven’t. Listen, um…” There was static on the line for a moment before he continued. “Sorry, but - can we - are you sure we can’t reschedule? Like, tomorrow night?” 

You groaned, you were annoyed. But even when he argued with you, Steve never ditched your valued traditions - he may act bothered sometimes, but he would always come around. Even if he did gripe about it being childish the entire time.  

That’s what you thought this would be. 

“No, Steve, I have book club and tutoring and dinner with my aunt tomorrow. You know this.” 

“Right. I guess I forgot about that. Okay, well…” 

“...Well?” 

Once again, he was quiet, and you weren’t sure if he was hesitating because he didn’t know what to say, or because he was nervous. 

“Well - I think it’d be really fun if we hung out at my place tonight!” 

“I guess I can bring all the ingredients for the cookies over. You do have a nicer oven…” you said.

“No, like, you can come over with everyone else I invited and we could -” 

“I thought you canceled that?” 

“I was going to, but… Tommy wouldn’t take no for an answer! And we already got the booze, and Nance finally said yes and - and I’d be really happy if you were here too!” 

“...Okay.”

“Okay…?”

You thought for a moment, then decided to ask him the question you were asking yourself. 

“Would you be happy if I was there, or would you be happy if I’m not mad at you for canceling?” 

“Uh - either one.” 

“Right.” 

That answer was good enough for you, even though it wasn’t the one you wanted. You weren’t getting anything you wanted that night, and you weren’t going to fight for it with someone who already had their mind made up. 

“Then have fun,” you said. 

“Really? We can cancel?” 

The excitement in his voice caused an angry laugh. “Yeah. Bye.” And you hung up. 

And you made your cookies, and you watched the movies you already had on tape, and you didn’t miss the popcorn but you wished you had Steve’s lap to put your feet on - and it was fine. 

You were sure he was having fun. And maybe he didn’t care at all about your canceled plans - because he was too busy with people who didn’t like you, doing something more exciting than what the two of you did as kids. 

It was selfish to be angry. Maybe it was wrong. But you let it boil over anyway. 

… 

You didn’t talk to him for a week after that. Because you didn’t want to, and you wanted to teach him a lesson, and you hoped it would make him sorry. 

Maybe you were being immature, but at this point, you were committed. 

You were afraid that you were setting the wrong example - that, maybe, he thought you were angry about him making his own plans, when the problem was how he’d canceled yours so last minute. Or perhaps it was both. But now you had dragged it out too long and you were stuck giving Steve the cold shoulder until he finally caved in and apologized. 

That’s all you wanted, really: an apology. And a bribe or two, just to get the most out of this argument. That’s how things usually went: you give him the silent treatment and he shows up at your door with your favorite snacks and a new book, and things would go back to normal. 

But not this time. 

You’d managed to bike to school without being caught by Steve all week, but you’d underestimated him waiting for you at the bike racks at the end of the day on Thursday. 

He stood with his arms crossed and his brows drawn together. The moment you saw him you stopped in your tracks, like if you stayed still he wouldn’t see you, but his gaze was locked on. It didn’t look kind. 

So you prepared yourself for this fight. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, but his tone said something different - it said, I’m sick of your shit. 

“What are you doing?” 

He scoffed and rolled his eyes, “Just wondering how long you’re going to keep dragging this out.” 

You kept darting around his words and moved to get your bike as if he’d let you leave so easily. “I’m not dragging anything out. Don’t know what you mean.” 

His arms flung out to his sides as his voice raised, “You’re acting like a fucking kid!”

And your volume matched his, “You hurt my feelings!” 

“Well - grow up!” 

The short silence that followed felt heavy, but he didn’t let it sit for long. 

“I mean - come on - I ditch you one time and all of a sudden we’re not friends anymore? Really?” 

“A sorry would be nice, Steve.” 

“I’ve said sorry.” Both of you knew that he hadn’t, but it didn’t matter now. “But sorry isn’t enough, is it? You’re just mad that I have new friends. Because I don’t want to just - sit around and fucking - watch movies in your living room like we’re kids -” 

“Like we’re kids,” you said, laughing. “Yeah - right, because that’s really what this is about, isn’t it, Steve?” 

He looked confused, and you didn’t give him the chance to speak. 

“Because I’m holding you back. Right? Tommy H said it so it must be true. I’m a bitch and I’m keeping you down and you need to shake me off if you ever want to get any action - that’s what it is. Just say it, Steve.” 

“Where is this coming from?” He ran a hand through his hair and his voice sounded desperate, but you weren’t sure what for. Maybe to salvage the remnants of a wounded friendship, to turn this conversation around. But your anger wouldn’t let him. 

“You know where it’s coming from. I heard it, Steve, and you - you agreed with him! I’m your best friend but you can’t even defend me to your shitty fucking friends - so just say it! You’re the one who doesn’t want me around -” 

“That’s not what happened -” 

You were so angry, and he was lying, and Steve never lied to you, and he’d filled you with so much venom that you couldn’t help spitting it out as you stepped closer to him. “It is. And you’re turning it on me when you’re the shitty friend. Stop lying to me and just say it.” 

“Yeah, maybe that is what it is - and I was just too fucking stupid to see it before now. That you’re so fucking clingy I can’t even have one night with a girl without you getting jealous. He was right. Is that what you wanted to hear?” 

“Yeah, it was,” and you pulled your bike free and your foot hit the kickstand so hard that it hurt, and you told yourself the pain was the reason tears were flooding your eyes. 

“Maybe I’m better off without you - have you ever thought about that? Is that your fucking problem?”

“Whatever! I don’t care anymore! You never have to watch another fucking movie with me again, alright? We won’t go to the arcade or build stupid fucking blanket forts or any of the other childish shit you hate so much!”

“Good - fucking - good!” 

“And I hope you have fun playing King, and I hope when all your friends turn on you and Nancy dumps your ass - because you’re an asshole - that I’m the last person you run to for help, and I hope your dad is real fucking proud of you, because you’re turning out to be just fucking like him.” 

It all fell out like you were pushing rocks off of a cliff - fast and angry and hard. You knew what those words would do to him. You knew you were hurting his feelings more than he had ever hurt yours - that you were putting the knife in too deep to pull out. You knew and you said it anyway, because you were mad and he was being a dick and lashing out felt good. Especially when you could hop on your bike and ride away from him, fast enough to avoid watching the blood pooling at his feet. 

The worst part is that you were being honest. 

Steve stood there alone and didn’t even turn to watch you ride away. He felt like hitting something, or screaming until his lungs were empty and tired. 

And he didn’t even have time for any of this. He was finally making decisions for himself, for once, and who were you to get mad at him for that? He was popular, he had a girlfriend who was actually into him, his parents had finally gotten off his back. Things were going fantastic for him and he wasn’t going to let you mess it up because you were… jealous, or selfish, or whatever it was - Steve didn’t care. 

He wasn’t going to lose sleep over you refusing to grow up and give him space. He was on top of the world, and you were trying to tear him down. 

He didn’t need you, anyway. 

… 

Months passed.

And, like you had put a hex on him, all of your words came true - and then some. It didn’t take very long for things to crumble around him, and Steve almost thought it was funny how quickly his wings had melted to send him hurling into the ground. 

No matter how hard he tried patching the holes, everyone knows you can’t fly with wings made of wax.

The fall hurt. But it was what came after that brought the real pain - a stinging, striking ache that was impossible to ignore. It felt like he was the last person on earth and he deserved it; like he shouldn’t be allowed to be around other people because he was no good.

And every time he tried putting the pieces back together, things only got more broken - all starting at Jonathan Byers’ front door. 

What could get worse than fighting a monster from an alternate dimension? 

Or fucking things up with your girlfriend beyond repair? 

Or fighting those monsters again? 

He learned quickly to stop asking stupid questions like those. 

And he learned that he couldn’t just close his eyes and wish it away. He couldn’t run when things got scary; he couldn’t lash out when someone was honest with him; he couldn’t sneak out of his window and into yours when the yelling got too loud. He was forced to face everything he ever hid from, cursed to have regrets and keep them. 

At least he wasn’t completely alone - the company of nerdy kid genius Dustin Henderson brought most of these lessons on. And in a normal situation Steve wouldn’t recommend learning anything from a kid in junior high, but he was living anything but a normal life. He’d take friends wherever he could get them, especially during senior year. 

Maybe he wanted to set a good example for the kids that suddenly came into his life. Maybe he wanted to prove to himself that he wasn’t his father - that he could do good things without getting something out of it. Or maybe, most likely, he just did it. 

He wanted to feel like a superhero, wanted to look in the mirror and feel proud of what stared back at him. But he didn’t, because he wasn’t. He wasn’t brave or heroic or gallant - he was no Clark Kent. And everything he did was because he had to. Because who else would? 

Sometimes he felt like only someone as careless as him would fight a man-eating creature with nothing but a baseball bat - because out of everyone he knew, he had the least to lose. Why bother making safe decisions when most days he didn’t even want to get out of bed? What was he risking when he’d already bet it all and lost? 

And who would be proud of that?

But there were moments, in the time between the fall and the fight, that he could almost see it. Like a flicker of light passing by he’d see Max smiling at him, hear Dustin’s excited laughter, feel a heavy high five from Lucas and he’d think - oh. Right there, standing in front of him, were the people he had to lose. The ones he was trying to win for. 

And then he’d lay in bed at night and get stuck in another sleepless round of self loathing; hatred fueled by every cruel word he’d spit and all the selfish acts he’d taken, and fuck, he was spinning and suffocating and screaming, and maybe he deserved this. 

It didn’t matter that he knew how to swing a fucking bat good enough to win more time for the ones he loved, because he wouldn’t love them right, anyway. And he’d turned the best person he’d ever known into nothing more than a crumpled piece of paper on his floor - something to be tossed aside and forgotten. And even if he tried smoothing it out, those creases would always be there. 

Sometimes he stared out his window and watched yours. Waited for your light to turn off so he could look away and stop wondering what you were doing and how your life was without him in it. 

All he wanted was to see you again. He’d beg for that movie night he ditched on junior year. He wanted to grab you by your shoulders and show you that he’s better now, he’s changed, those last words you told him weren’t applicable anymore and everything can just go back to how it was. 

But nothing was ever that easy, was it?

He was glad when graduation finally came around, until he was forced into a sailor’s uniform with an ice cream scoop on his belt like a gun in a holster. 

It was one way to spend the summer. It got him out of the house he hated staying in, and put a little money in his pocket, so slinging ice cream at Scoop’s Ahoy was good enough for him. 

It distracted him from the vague nightmares he kept having and the fact that he got into a total of zero universities, and the free ice cream counted as dinner on his bad days. And he was fine with his obnoxious co-worker and annoying customers. 

He was just fine. 

But it was Hawkins. Nothing could stay fine there - not after a little girl with super powers opened a portal to an alternate fucking dimension and turned the town into a magnet for every fucked up thing imaginable. 

Steve thought it was over, and then Dustin had him and Robin translating the Russian words he heard over his radio, and they were all pulled back in. 

He wasn’t expecting to fall into the Russian lair under Starcourt Mall, to trauma bond with Robin - of all people - or to get any closer to dying than he already had, but he stopped betting on his expectations a long time ago. 

By the time he saw the night sky again, he couldn’t remember how many punches he’d been thrown.

His head throbbed to the beat of his heart. It felt like if he tapped his temple, his eye would pop right out. His work uniform was ruined, stained with blood and spit, but the smoke billowing from Starcourt ensured that he wouldn't be needing it anymore. 

The events of the night felt like they were years away. All he remembered was running, screaming, crying; he remembered the fist coming toward his face but not the impact. He woke up to pain, and then it was gone - more running and bleeding and fighting and then, it was over. 

Robin sat next to him, shivering, on the back of an ambulance. The lights from the siren were blinding, the noise around him was punching his ear drums. 

“Are we alive?” Robin asked. Her voice was totally shot. 

“Think so.” 

“I want to lay down so bad.” 

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Do you have someone to call?” 

She sighed deep. “Not really.” She let it be quiet for only a second, then said, “I don’t really want to go home. To be honest.” 

“You wanna spend the night here?” 

“If I don’t have to be alone, then, yeah.” 

He sighed, too, then patted her knee. 

He said, “I’ll call someone, alright?” and she nodded. 

The payphone was a bit of a walk, and he had to wait behind two people in line, but it was enough time for him to muster up the courage to make the call. Even still, when he had the phone in his hand, all he could do was stare at it. 

He was trying to remember the exact words you said to him the last time he spoke to you. Something like, “I hope I’m the last one you call,” he was sure. It was hard to remember your phrasing now, but the memory still stung all the same. 

And he knows it’s not fair to call you, but he was going to anyway. Because in all honesty, you were the only option he had. 

Any other time, he’d rely on Hopper for a ride. But Hopper wasn’t around anymore. 

So he dialed your number and prayed you hadn’t changed it from the one he knew by heart. 

-

Your hand darted out of your blanket to reach your bedside telephone. The ringing killed your half asleep ears, and you hardly knew what you were doing when you put the receiver to your ear. 

“Hello?” 

You could barely get the word out; your voice was thick with sleep that was slowly creeping over you. 

“Hey. It’s Steve.” 

With your heavy eyes shut, sleep was pulling you back in. Your whole body jumped a little bit when you attempted to stay awake. 

“Steve?” 

“Yeah. I’m sorry for waking you up, but -” 

You didn’t know what was going on, and then you heard sirens on the phone. A jolt of anxiety seared through you at the sound. That’s what got you to wake up - then you realized who you were talking to. 

“Steve?”

“...Yeah.” 

“What - what’s wrong?” 

Your heart was pounding out of your chest as you sat up in bed, holding yourself up with one shaky arm. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, and you held your breath until he answered your question. “There was an, uh - accident at Starcourt, and - I don’t know who else to call. I’m sorry, I can’t drive right now and I don’t have anybody else.” 

“Are you okay?” 

“Barely.”

You didn’t give your answer a second thought. “I’ll be there in, like, five minutes, okay?” 

You could hear his breath of relief over the phone. “Okay. Thank you.” 

After stealing your mother’s car keys, you stuffed your bare feet into combat boots and ran to the car. Even though you still only had your learners permit, you absolutely floored it to the mall without a single thought in your mind. It was like you were on autopilot, simply doing what you were supposed to, because you were scared. 

You saw plumes of smoke before Starcourt ever came into view, and you swallowed through your dry throat because you knew something bad happened. 

You had to fight through crowds and cops before you were allowed to pass under the police tape to search for Steve, which wasn’t easy. Every face you saw wasn’t his and each second that passed dug a deeper pit in your stomach. 

The second-to-last ambulance in the lineup is where you found him, sitting next to a girl whose head was on his shoulder. 

And when you saw him… it wasn’t him. Your eyes glazed over him because he was hardly recognizable. 

You’d seen him beat up before. He’s had his fair share of fights at school; you wiped blood off his face and helped him nurse black eyes. But it was never like this. 

His left eye was swollen shut. Crimson stained from his eyebrow to his jawline. His skin was aggravated red, his clothes were blood rusted, his knuckles were ripped open. 

And still, somehow, his hair looked perfectly done. That sight alone made you want to laugh and cry at the same time, because of course he managed to keep its style untouched. It was so Steve. 

You ran to him; your legs carried you there on their own, shoelaces smacking against wet pavement. You weren’t thinking when you called out his name or when you flung your arms around his neck. You hugged him like it would heal him, like the scent of your perfume could cover the smoke he smelled of. 

It’d been almost a year since you’d talked to him, and the jagged edges of your ended friendship still cut deep, but you didn’t care. Not when he looked the way he did; not when he was hugging you so tight; not when your tears were dripping onto his skin. 

You pulled back and looked at him, and his wounds didn’t look any better up close. 

“Oh my god, Steve, are you okay? What the hell happened?” 

“I’m alright,” he said. He wouldn’t look at you, or couldn’t bring himself to. “I’m just glad you came. I’m sorry -” 

“Don’t,” you said, and then you looked around at the scene. “Have the paramedics even seen you? Why are you just sitting here?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I - I’m fine. They said I’m fine. They’re all busy with others but - I’m fine, don’t worry.” 

That’s when you noticed the girl next to him, who was looking at you like you were crazy, and you realized what you were potentially barging in on. 

They sat close - too close to be friendly. They were basically cuddling when you first saw them. It was obvious what they were, so of course she was looking at you that way.  

You didn’t mean to make her jealous, but a part of you didn’t care. 

“Are both of you okay?” 

“Yeah,” Steve said, answering for the two of them.  The girl nodded. “This is Robin, by the way.” 

You introduced yourself to her, trying to be cordial even though you were meeting in the worst of situations. 

“You two can stay at my place tonight, if you want to,” you told them. Steve asked Robin if she was okay with that, and she said yes, and so you led them to your car. 

You weren’t sure why you made the offer to Steve - you wanted him with you, sure. After seeing the condition he was in, you wouldn’t sleep unless you knew you were keeping him safe and sound in your own bedroom. 

Old habits die hard.

But, all things considered, you should have just taken him to his own home, where he could be with Robin in peace. Without cut ties lingering in the air like flies. 

You drove him home anyway. 

Nobody spoke until you got to your bedroom. 

“Do you need a shower?” 

“Yeah,” Steve said. Robin nodded. 

“Okay. Robin, you can take my bathroom. Steve can shower downstairs.” 

You dug through bottom drawers to find clothes for each of them - you still had the ones Steve kept stored there, as embarrassing as it was, so it wasn’t a difficult task. And you’d let Robin choose from your pajama drawer.

And then you got back into bed, because you didn’t know what else to do for them. 

Robin stood in the doorway of your bathroom, just staring into the room. When Steve opened your bedroom door, she snapped her head back to him. 

“Steve?” 

“Yeah?” 

She glanced over at you. You wanted to hide from the tension in the room. 

“I - I don’t know how to use this faucet.” 

He showed her how, and then made for the exit, but she called for him again. 

“I was just thinking - you know - if we both shower at the same time, won’t the water pressure be super low? And what if the hot water runs out before I’m done, and -” 

“I’ll be quick, Robs,” he said. “It’ll be fine.” 

Steve took one step into the hallway before stopping. The darkness looked like it went on forever. He didn’t remember your house being so unlit, or having so many hiding places, and suddenly his legs were shaky. 

“...You’re probably right, though. I’ll just wait out here until you’re done.” 

“Yeah. And I’ll keep the door cracked open, for… all the steam.” 

“That’s a good idea.” 

And he sat on the floor right outside of the bathroom door. When Robin was finished, they swapped places. As if they couldn’t be apart for longer than twenty minutes. 

You didn’t ask them any questions.

… 

The two of them slept on a pallet of old blankets on your bedroom floor. Robin made Steve sleep closest to the door. He tried not to be upset about it. 

And he didn’t think he’d be able to sleep, but it seemed to swallow him. He didn’t dream, or toss and turn, but he woke up unrested. 

Everything still hurt just as bad as it did the night before. And Robin’s snoring was making his headache worse. 

You were no longer in bed, so he decided to get up and find you. 

He wasn’t sure what kind of interaction he’d be walking into when he found you in the kitchen, but he tried to keep his head high. 

“Good morning,” he said. 

“Hey.” You had a mug in your hand. “Your eye looks better.” 

“It doesn’t feel any better,” he said, and he wanted to make a joke that it actually looks worse - because when he closes his right eye, everything’s blurry - but he held that one in. He wasn’t ready for a comedic coping mechanism quite yet. 

You put Tylenol on the island that separated the two of you. “Take them. I don’t know if it’ll help much, but it can’t hurt.” 

The bottle said to take two, so he took three. And then the awkward quiet started washing in. 

Until, “I saw what happened on the news,” and Steve almost coughed up the water he was chugging. 

“What are they saying?” he asked, because he didn’t know what story he was supposed to be playing along with. 

“Just talking about the fire,” you said. Your voice sounded so dim, and Steve hated it. “It’s… crazy. Hopper… he…” You couldn’t say the word. 

“I know,” Steve said. 

“And thirty others.” 

His throat felt dry. “Thirty?” 

Truly, he didn’t know that many people hadn’t survived. And now, it all felt real. Really real. 

“Yeah,” you replied. “I’m just glad - you were lucky to get out, Steve.” 

You had no clue how lucky he’d really been. And hopefully you would never have to know. 

“I know.” 

You sat your mug down, brushed your hands on your chest like you were trying to wipe off everything you knew of the accident, then blew out a loud breath. 

“Let’s just think about something else.” 

Almost at the same time as you, he spoke. “Thank you.” 

“...What for?” 

“For coming to my rescue,” he said, huffing a laugh. “I know that I… didn’t really deserve it.” 

“Don’t thank me, Steve.” 

“Seriously. You could’ve just told me to walk home, but you didn’t.” 

“I’m just being a good friend,” you said, then shrugged. “I hope you would do it for me.” 

“In a heartbeat.” 

He wondered if this was his chance to say sorry. 

Or if there was even a point in it. 

He was afraid you’d do no more than laugh in his face, and even if he deserved it he didn’t want to succumb to it. 

But he had to. Because he almost died last night. And he could be fighting those monsters again, any day now. Was he going to lose this chance? Or is he going to die without saying another word to you? 

He stared down at his ripped knuckles. The wounds still looked fresh. They stung just from touching the open air. 

He stared, and stared, and stared, and - he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t say a word. He couldn’t face it. 

Your footsteps toward him made him jump back. 

You were holding a box of band-aids. 

You held out your hand, asking for his without words, and he offered both of them to you. First his right, then his left, were covered in pink, green, and yellow band-aids by you. 

It was gentle and kind, the way you went about it. Like you would hurt him even more if you weren’t careful. 

He still had dried blood under his nails and splinters in his palms. He watched your clean hands holding his beaten up ones and he felt bad, because your skin was too soft to bother with the cuts and calluses on his. 

But you held them anyway. 

He put his fingers through yours and you didn’t stop him. He wanted to cry.

“I’m just glad you're alright.” 

He didn’t know what to say - there wasn’t anything to say, he guessed. Nothing to make it better or change anything. 

All he could do was squeeze your hand and watch you wipe tears off your cheeks. 

Until he noticed a cut on the back of your hand. He pulled it closer so he could get a better look. 

“What happened?” 

“I dropped a knife while I was cooking last night. It’s fine.” 

It looked fine, but Steve wanted to repay your favor, so he pulled a band-aid from the near empty box and put it on your wound. 

“We match,” he said. 

You laughed. “We’re even now.” 

He felt overwhelmed with melancholy. He needed to rest, he wanted to close his eyes and not open them for weeks. 

“I should go check on Robin,” he said as he walked backwards toward the stairs. He kept his eyes to the ground, away from the look on your face. “She’ll flip if she wakes up and she’s alone.” 

You said nothing. 

… 

The following days and weeks were a lot of checking on Robin, and Robin checking on him. Too much waking up in the middle of the night and keeping his eyes glued to his bedroom door just in case. Only feeling safe enough if he had a baseball bat hugged to his chest and Robin snoring next to him. 

So - he wasn’t doing well, but it was fine. He tried not to complain about it. Robin was the only person he let himself be half honest with - but he kept the truth to himself, because she’d get anxious if he said what he really felt. 

Steve was scared. And he didn’t want anyone else to know it, because all of the others acted as if their lives were perfectly back to normal. They were doing well. So he had to be doing well, too. For their sake. 

Weeks after that awful night at the mall, he and Robin conned their way into getting jobs at Family Video. He was grateful, because god, he was too codependent on her. 

It was a random night at his place when Robin brought you up out of nowhere. 

“I just realized, I never thanked your neighbor for saving us that night.” 

“You don’t need to. I’m sure she knows you’re thankful.” 

“Yeah, but, I feel like I should pay her back.” 

Steve shrugged at her words. He didn’t want to think about you more than he had to - it hurt just a little bit too much. 

“Should I give her a gift?” 

“I don’t know,” he mumbled. “She likes cookies. Get her cookies.” 

And Steve didn’t know it, but the next day, Robin rang your doorbell with a plastic box of cookies in her hands. You opened the door and she started rambling from the get. 

“Hey - Steve said you like cookies, so, I decided I’d bring you some to thank you. For showing up at Starcourt in the middle of the night and practically saving our lives. And for letting us sleep on your floor. That was really nice of you.” 

You didn’t know what to say. Robin seemed weird. You just went along with it. 

“Oh - thanks. That’s cool. Thanks.” 

She shoved them toward you, and you took them. 

“Do you want to come in?” you asked.

Instead of answering, she just stepped through the door. You brought her to the kitchen. 

“I hope they’re good. I just got them at the corner store. But all cookies are the same, right?” 

“Well - no, but, it’s the thought that counts.” 

“Oh.” 

The gifted cookies didn’t look much better than the worst recipes you’d made,  but you opened the crude packaging and gave them a chance. 

They were fine. Maybe a little worse than fine. You gave Robin one, anyway. 

“They’re good!” she said, with a mouth full. 

“They are,” you lied. “They’re not homemade, but they’ll do. Thanks, Robin.” 

You ate half of your cookie. Robin finished hers. It was quiet. 

You figured you might as well try to get to know this girl a bit better. At least be polite and make small talk, just to be nice. 

So you asked an easy question. “How long have you and Steve been together?” 

But it wasn’t as simple as you thought, because she started coughing up the cookie. “What do you mean?” 

“...What?” 

“We’re not together,” she said with a heavy dose of sass. “God, I’ll never get over people asking me that. I am not dating Steve Harrington. Gross.” 

“Oh - sorry, I just thought -” 

“It’s fine,” she said. “Everyone always asks. I guess a guy and a girl can’t be friends without everyone making assumptions.” 

You laughed. “Yeah. People used to do the same thing to us. Sorry, I didn’t mean to ask a weird question.” 

“It’s alright. Actually, I’m supposed to be at his place in, like - well, ten minutes ago. You should come over if you're free.” 

“Uh - I don’t know, me and Steve - we don’t really hang out anymore.” 

You aren’t sure why you didn’t just make up an excuse. Something about Robin made you feel okay about being honest. 

“It’s cool. I’m sure he’d be happy to see you. It’s kind of been just us since what happened with - the fire. The fire that happened. So - you know. It’d be nice to have someone else around. If you want.” 

You were curious how this would turn out. So, “sure. I’ll come.” 

“Great. You should bring a cookie for Steve.” 

You brought the whole box, and decided you would accidentally forget them at his place so they wouldn’t go to waste. 

Steve’s front door was yanked open from the inside before Robin could let herself in, and his wide eyes became a little less wide when he saw her. 

“Where the fuck were you - you were supposed to be here half an hour ago, I thought you got fucking eaten or something.” 

“Relax. I was just making a cookie delivery next door. Chill.” 

Robin threw her thumb over her shoulder. You poked your head out from behind her and gave Steve a weak wave.

“Oh.” 

“What exactly would she get eaten by?” 

“I don’t know,” Steve shrugged. You noticed he was gripping his car keys in a tight, scarred fist. 

“Monsters,” Robin joked. Steve didn’t laugh. You did a little bit. “I invited her over. Is that alright?” 

“Yeah. Of course.” 

You stuck to Robin all the way to his living room, because that was easier than making yourself comfortable. You hadn’t been in this house in ages, and you weren’t sure what to do with yourself. 

“Where’s my crossword?” 

“I finished it.” 

“Asshole. You know I hate that. Just get your own.” 

“Whatever, you suck at them, anyway.” 

Robin, unlike you, had no reservations in the Harrington house. She kicked her feet up and started channel surfing as soon as she sat on the couch. 

“Have a cookie,” Robin said to Steve. You reached the box out to him; he sat down next to you to take one, taking up the spot between you and Robin.  

It was weird being so close to him again. His knee was touching yours, and it made your skin feel too hot. Still, you didn’t move away. 

“These are shit,” he said with a full mouth. 

“Hey!” 

You laughed loud, because you completely agreed. 

“No, seriously, these are awful.” 

“I spent five dollars on those!” 

You gasped. “Five? Robin.” 

“You should have just given her the money instead. Or thrown it in the trash.” Steve dropped his half eaten cookie back in the box. You put the plastic lid back on and sat it on the coffee table. 

“I thought they were good. You’re being so rude right now. They were a gift.” 

Steve looked at you. “You didn’t tell her how bad they are?” 

“I didn’t - I don’t think they’re that bad.” 

“You’re lying,” Steve laughed, then he turned to Robin. “She’s lying.” 

“I’m not lying!” 

“I know you, and I know you’re lying.” 

“It’s fine, guys, you don’t have to spare my feelings or anything.” 

You sighed, defeated. “...They are pretty terrible.” 

Robin scoffed loud and obnoxious. 

“Whatever. I’ll enjoy them.” 

… 

As it turns out, Robin acted like glue between you and Steve. Neither of you would have ever made an effort to see each other again, out of embarrassment or guilt or both, but Robin didn’t have to unpack any of that baggage. She didn’t even know it existed. 

Instead, she immediately saw you as a friend. And she brought you in like she had known you forever. 

But Robin and Steve were a package deal. So, if you were a friend to her, you had to be a friend to him, too.

And the two of them were weird. Most of the time, they left you feeling like a third wheel on their friendship. 

They could be mean to each other. Rough. They acted the exact way you knew siblings do, but that was only surface level. There was something deeper - more than anything a brother and sister had, because it wasn’t the blood in their veins that connected them. It was the roots they chose to grow into each other that kept them together. 

Robin spent the night with Steve more often than she didn’t. And she bullied him for his bad cooking, and he told her when an outfit was ugly, and they stood next to each other like two puzzle pieces that didn’t match but fit together with a hard press. 

Sometimes you sat on the sidelines and ached, mourning a friendship that had been buried some odd years ago. It was well beyond rotten - something decayed and unrecognizable now. Even if you dug it up, it couldn’t be the same as it was. 

But you wished. 

And as you sat and listened to Robin chastise Steve for saying something dumb - watched as he meddled her hair into a purposeful mess, you could only laugh and sink into yourself. You were happy and sad; you cherished your time together and dreaded it, all at the same time. 

Above it all, Steve was different. Distant in the way he would never meet your eyes, or laugh too loud at your jokes, or sit too close for too long. 

It all felt fleeting. Like that week you spent angry at him - stuck in a weird limbo, between friends and strangers, a frustrating purgatory. Some kind of Schrodinger’s Cat of a friendship - alive and dead at the same time. 

You would have just said something, if it felt like you could. But if Steve minded, he didn’t show it. If he missed how things were, he didn’t act like it. And, as you knew him, if he wanted to he would. 

And it wasn’t totally bad. It was just new. You’d get used to it with a spoonful of sugar and a hard swallow. 

On a random day, you had mentioned off-hand that you had been meaning to visit your aunt’s apartment to drop off and pick up a few things. Steve offered to take you, and you agreed, and the next day, you made good on your plans. 

The two of you didn’t hang out without Robin very often. Since early August, the number was hardly a handful. But with the radio turned on, it wasn’t too awkward. 

Steve had visited your aunt with you several times growing up. He went to her house-warming party when she moved into her apartment. You were thirteen, and you made a game of pressing every button in the elevator before getting off it. Now, every time you’re there, you think about how you used to chase him down the halls. 

Her place was the nicest there was in Hawkins, in the tallest residential building in town. Parking was a nightmare, but Steve kept his complaints under his breath, and he even carried your bag for you. 

The elevator was the only thing in the apartment’s lobby. As you pressed the button, Steve spoke up. 

“You wanna take the stairs instead?” 

“Why?” 

He shrugged. You laughed. 

“You want to climb eight flights of stairs? No thanks.” 

“I’m an athlete,” he mumbled under his breath, sheepish. “This thing is taking forever, anyways.” 

It dinged as it finally started moving down toward the bottom floor.

“It’s on its way.” 

He stepped back, looked around, and he must have spotted the stairwell. “I’ll race you,” and then he took off. 

The elevator door opened as the stairway’s door closed, and you rode to the top floor alone. 

He didn’t win the race - far from it, and you laughed as he tried to hide his struggling breathing. 

“Been waiting for you all day, athlete. Thought you’d take ‘til Christmas.” 

“Psh. Whatever. I’ll win on the way down.”

The elevator creaked and hummed as it started moving down, and Steve glared at it. 

You laughed, “You’re weird,” and you left him behind to walk down the hall. 

He worked fast to catch up, and called out, “The loser pays for dinner!” 

“You know I’d never pass up that bet.” 

Your aunt wasn’t home - she rarely was. But a key was under the mat, and as you walked inside her tuxedo cat, Webster, greeted you at the door. 

“Hey, dude,” Steve said, kneeling down to pet him. 

An old cardboard box sat on the dining table nearby, “Glassware” written on the side in crude permanent marker. It’s what you had been instructed to pick up and take back home - you weren’t sure what was inside.

You sat down and opened it and pulled out the first thing you saw: a white paper bag, one you knew printed photos came in. 

“This what you came for?” 

Steve stood next to you. He had Webster in his arms, who was purring loud and melting into his hand. 

“Yeah.” 

“What is it?” 

“I don’t know. Family stuff, I’m guessing.” You pulled out a fat stack of pictures and the one on top made you bark a laugh. “Oh my god.” 

You and Steve, seven years old, wearing matching cowboy costumes for Halloween - you with a white cowboy hat, him with a black one. You stood with a jack-o-lantern between you. You had your hands on your hips and a frown on your face; Steve had his chin pushed out in a wicked scowl. 

You turned it to him, and he laughed just as loud as you. “Look at those two mean mugs!” 

“Do you remember this?” 

He sat in the chair next to you, continuing to look at the photo over your shoulder. Webster made himself comfortable in his lap. 

“Yeah,” he laughed, “We fought all night because you stole my -”

“Oh my god.”

“You stole my full size Snickers.”

“I did not!” 

“You did.” 

“I didn’t!” 

The way he looked at you told you this was still a sore subject. 

“You went ahead of me to the Smith’s place while I was trying to tie my shoe and you took her last bar. That’s what happened!” 

“That’s not stealing!” 

“It is!”

“I didn’t mean to leave you behind! It’s not my fault you didn’t know how to tie your shoes!” 

“You didn’t, either. And, I learned before you.” 

You puffed a sigh and flipped the photo to the back of the stack. “Why are you still fighting over this? We shared all the candy, anyway.” 

“It’s the principle. Theft is a crime, and you never apologized.” 

You only laughed. No way were you giving him that apology now. 

When you pulled the photos out of the box, you didn’t intend on looking through them all, but your curiosity kept you flicking through them. Most were of random family members or photos of the beach, but pictures of you and Steve were littered throughout the stack. There wasn’t a single photo of you that didn’t have him in it, too.

There were from some first days of school, birthday parties, sleepovers. They were sorted somewhat chronologically - looking through them was pure nostalgia, memories hitting you at every angle as you watched yourself grow up. 

The next one to catch your eye was from a middle school dance. Neither of you wanted to attend, but your mother insisted. Your one condition was that you could wear whatever you wanted. 

So you and Steve had swapped styles. You wore his way oversized Atlanta Flames jersey, a baseball cap, and sneakers that didn’t fit; he had on your purple sweater, a big pearl necklace, and white jeans. 

It was cute, and it was goofy, and you wished you could jump into the picture and relive it. 

At that age, the only thing you knew was that you and Steve would live forever, together. Now that you know what you know, your heart ached for the little girl in these pictures. What would she think about the space between you two now? 

There were pictures from summer camp, swimming pools, and your first day of high school. 

Webster meowed. Steve meowed back at him. 

As you got to the bottom of the stack, pictures of the two of you were less and less. The last one - the one you didn’t know would be your last picture with him - was of you, him, and a few of your extended family members. A day spent at the lake that Steve really didn’t want to go to, for some reason only an angsty teenage boy could understand, that you dragged him to. It was the summer before your junior year.

In the photo, his arm was draped completely over your shoulder. You remembered him leaning all of his weight on you - to the point that you fell out of your seat after the picture was taken by your aunt.

And you had fun, like you always did. Steve became a member of your family out of happenstance. It was just because he was always around, really. They all saw him as much as they saw you. 

You put that photo to the back of the stack and kept carding through them. You didn’t find any more pictures of you and Steve. 

The rest were all more recent. Steve stopped you on one that was of you alone - sat at a dinner table, wearing a cable knit sweater. 

“That’s a good one,” he said. 

“Yeah. It’s from Christmas. Senior year, maybe.” 

You acted like you weren’t sure, but you knew exactly when that photo was taken. You just didn’t want him to know how sad you were in it. 

“Oh, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” and you laughed, “this was not a fun party.” He didn’t reply, and so you kept talking, sparing him a shy glance. “Everyone kept asking where you were.” 

The silence was heavier this time. 

“Oh,” he said, trying to bury it. “Yeah.” An awkward chuckle. “I bet that was annoying.” 

You laughed and tried to make it sound real - tried to seem like you didn’t care. “Yeah, well, you know how my family always liked you better.” 

He shrugged, looking like he was going to make a joke, but he didn’t. His eyes were distant as they moved down to his lap. 

You shoved the picture to the back with the rest. 

The one behind it was just as lonely. 

Still, Steve perked up at it. “Is that from graduation?” 

You wore a cap and gown, you held a bouquet of flowers, and you stood all alone. 

“Yeah.” 

Steve’s hand wrapped around yours holding the picture, and he tilted it toward him so he could get a better look. 

“My aunt kept trying to get me to find you for a picture,” you laughed. 

“You should’ve.” He smiled something big and real, and you realized with a rush that this is the closest you’d been to him in a while. If you kept looking, you could count the freckles on his cheek. His thumb pressed into the back of your hand. “I remember seeing you. You looked real cute.” 

You ignored his compliment to say something snide. “I ignored you so hard.” 

Another laugh, “Really?” 

“Obviously.” 

“Yeah. That’s fair - I would’ve, too.” 

You tried not to think about how badly you wished he was standing next to you in the picture. 

Steve spoke up, “I -” but you cut him off by accident. 

“It’s fine.” 

You didn’t mean it. He could tell.

“...Is it?” 

It was honest when you replied, “I don’t know.” 

He was still holding your hand. 

“I never told you I’m sorry.” 

“I guess I just figured you were.” 

You dropped the pictures on the table, dropping his hand with them.

“Is that good enough?” It was an honest question. 

“I don’t know. Maybe it is.” 

And your answer was genuine, because you didn’t know. Steve had come back into your life just as easily as he left it - on a whim, without any warning. You didn’t put any roadblocks in his way. 

But you stared at the photos spread out in front of you. At the story they told of your friendship that would always be unfinished. 

You had to teach yourself how to do life without him. All of those lessons seemed useless, now, because here he was. And you didn’t even know if he ever missed you. 

You pulled away from him, a move that was far more snappy than you meant. You did it like he’d reached out and burned you. It had Webster jumping down to the floor. 

“It’s fine,” you repeated. 

“I think you’re lying just to make me feel better.” 

“I don’t know why I’m lying.” 

“We don’t have to talk about it now,” he mumbled, and you stood up. The chair scraped the floor in a way that grated your ears. You turned your back to him. 

“I thought I knew you.” Your eyes welled up, your nose started to run. You balled your hands up like you were on defense. “I thought you would say sorry, and make everything go back to normal like you always did. But you didn’t. I thought you would miss me, at least, but - but you didn’t.” 

“You think I didn’t miss you?” 

The shake in his voice had your fist dropping to hit your thighs, defeated. 

“I miss you more than anything. I’m sorry - I’m not just saying it to make you feel better, or because I have to, I - I don’t even deserve to be saying it.” He paused, and you could imagine the way he was running his hands through his hair and pacing around with nerves. “I’m sorry for being a bad friend. For not treating you like you deserved - I hate myself for it. You were the best thing in my life, and I know that now. I was just too scared to come crawling back to you because I wasn’t worth your time.”

You breathed in deep, exhaled hard, and it felt like the first breath you had taken in two years. It was that feeling when you’ve forgotten your keys but find the door unlocked - the relief of being let in despite a mistake, it rushed through you, and it had you turning to look at him. You found him standing and staring at you, through you, with glassy eyes you would always know. 

“I just miss you, Steve.” 

Three steps and then he was around you. And you were safer than a child hiding under their blanket from whatever lurked in their closet - monsters weren’t real if his arms were around you. That had always, always been true. 

Webster rubbed up against your leg, then Steve’s. The hug shook with both of your laughter, and he held you tighter. 

… 

Things didn’t go back to how they used to be after that, but it was close enough. And you were trying to settle into the differences that kept knocking you off your feet. 

It started with late night phone calls. 

Before, you never talked on the phone. Why would you when his house was a stone throw away? If you wanted to talk, you’d invite yourself to his place. 

But the two of you were still dancing on the ripped edges of that two year old fight. Wounds were still healing - almost there, but not quite. So it was easier to take it slow, to treat this time as something brand new. 

And it was brand new. 

You had caught yourself grinning ear to ear over stories he’d tell you, and you had to force the smile off your face. Like you shouldn’t be acting that way over your friend - you quickly realized you just couldn’t help it. 

He’d keep you up too late and tease you for it the next day. And you weren’t sure if he was trying to get a rise out of you, but that’s how you felt. He acted so smug after seeing your cheeks swell in embarrassment. 

So it wasn’t going back to how it was before. In fact, it was going down an entirely different road - one that wasn’t even on the map. 

You weren’t complaining, because you felt things you hadn't felt before around him. He made you feel warm, and you were addicted to it. You were addicted to him, and you had blind hope that the feeling was mutual. 

He’d spend his entire lunch break visiting you, even if your breaks didn’t line up. He’d follow you around the apparel section at Roses and you’d have all your attention on him, just the way he liked it. He made sure to see you every day.

You never thought he’d make you feel so shy, but it was an emotion you couldn’t get enough of. You hardly realized what you were spiraling into until you’d catch him looking at you with a blush on his cheeks, or until you had to stop yourself from thinking about him every night before bed. 

But there was something glaring, something major, something you couldn’t look at directly until it came up in conversation with Robin. 

Robin and Steve always had Sundays off, so the day was designated to be stolen by their other friends - who were all in junior high. 

When you asked why they were friends with junior high kids, Steve called himself their babysitter. Robin said she was their good influence. You avoided asking follow up questions. 

It was a lazy autumn day, one where the warmth of fallen leaves reflected in the air - something rare for early November. 

The youngest of the kids, Erica, loved putting on a nice outfit and going for a walk. Today it was yellow Chucks, a red silk and pleated maxi skirt, and a long sleeve button up with a rainbow of vertical stripes. (It would have been a tie dyed short sleeve, if Steve hadn’t told her it was too chilly for it.) She had stuck gems beside her eyes, the kind that come in the plastic packets and don’t stay on for long, and Robin packed yellow eyeshadow on her eyelids. 

She was downright cute, but if you told the eleven year old that she’d aim her sass at you and shoot to kill. She much preferred receiving a refined compliment, because, “I hear that all the time.” 

Today, you told her you loved the way she paired so many colors together. She grinned something beautiful and kicked her foot up behind her and agreed with you. 

Steve had once described her as a menace - you didn’t understand why. 

You walked with Robin a few feet behind Erica, Dustin, and Steve. Dustin had not stopped talking the whole time, except when Erica butted in. Steve had stolen the younger boy’s thinking cap hat and was wearing it backwards. 

“The last time I wore this coat, I found two phone numbers in the pocket.” Robin held up two fingers and gestured to the Letterman jacket she wore. It was Steve’s. “Can you believe that? I mean, what a douche. I wouldn’t even wear this if it wasn’t so warm.” 

You laughed. “Yeah, I believe it, actually. They were probably from some cheerleaders or something.”

“Yeah, well, he can’t get any numbers these days. He’s cursed to be forever lame as punishment for the jerk he was in high school.” Robin was smirking wicked and wide, like it was satisfying for her. 

“He’s lost all his charm?” 

“All of it. I mean, one hundred percent. I used to keep count of how many times he fell on his face in front of girls. It’s magnificent, truly.” Then, quieter, “He’ll get it back, though. One day.” 

“He used to have no trouble at all.” The conversation had the gears in your head turning; it had you speaking without thinking. “I don’t know. He’s really different now.” 

Robin laughed, like you were joking. “Yeah, he learned manners, for one.” 

“It’s not that.” You were thinking out loud. “He’s nicer, yeah, but… it’s almost like he’s not even the same person. I’m not sure what happened.” 

The Steve you knew was boisterous. He was unapologetic. He was stupidly confident, the life of the party, and he wasn’t afraid of anything. A wouldn’t take no for an answer, go with the flow, drop of the hat kind of person. 

You were lucky to know him when that’s all he was. Before the halls of Hawkins High swallowed him and spit out someone ornery who cared too much but not at all. 

You thought it was just Tommy and Carol’s influence. Now that he wasn’t their friend anymore, you thought he’d become who he used to be. 

“He told me how close you two were before,” Robin said. She was tugging on a strand of hair that was stuck in her lip gloss. “I guess I never knew him like you did.” 

“He’s so quiet now. He used to be so loud.” You meant it more than literally - you hoped Robin would understand. “I don’t know. So much changed and it’s only been a couple years.” 

It seemed like she was struggling to reply, because it took her more than a few seconds to get her words out. 

“I guess - I mean - I think you’ve probably changed a lot, too. Two years is a long time, right?” 

Robin knew. No one could tell, but she knew. 

Maybe the differences that you had described of Steve were really there. She wasn’t able to see them the way you could, but she didn’t care. It was selfish to admit that she would never change a thing about him - but one. 

He was waiting. 

Everyone was, she thinks. 

Waiting for another fight. 

It wasn’t easy to go back to normal after trudging through hell. It was like coming out the other side of trench warfare unharmed - you didn’t. When a gun fires, its bullets hit. If a bomb is dropped it doesn’t miss a fucking thing, and Starcourt Mall was goddamn ground zero. 

And Robin wasn’t there for the disappearance of Will Byers. The death of Barbra Holland. The Upside Down. The Demogorgon. The Demodogs, and the lab, and the girl with psychic powers. She wasn’t there, but Steve was. 

Her head hurt just thinking of the stories he’s told her. And she knew his did, too, more often than he’d admit to her.

And she felt bad when her sleeping patterns went back to normal but his didn’t. When she got used to being on edge all the time, Steve still jumped at any noise. His phone would ring and she would watch him prepare himself to answer it - to hear Dustin’s voice on the line telling him that it’s back. 

So when you said that Steve’s changed, Robin didn’t know what to tell you. You were right, and she knew that, but she couldn’t tell you why. You knew everything about him besides, well - everything. 

Robin wished she didn’t have to know, either. She wanted to tell you that you should be grateful you couldn’t see the shackles on his ankles. You got to know him before - and Robin would give anything for that. 

But she couldn’t change a thing. 

Instead, all she could do was wait. 

And lie. 

And pretend. 

“He’s still loud,” she said, uncomfortable as all get out. 

As if he heard her words, Steve busted out in a stomach hurting kind of laughter at one of Dustin’s stories. 

“See what I mean?” 

Your destination was in sight now. Steve turned around - letting Dustin steal his hat back - walking backwards, and reached a hand out to you. 

“You coming?” 

Your pace turned into a skipping sort of jog to catch up with him. When you were close enough he grabbed your hand and didn’t let go. He’d been doing that often. 

The kids and Robin broke away, heading for the tiny park that was up on your right. To your left, Steve tugged you to a tiny convenience store.

“Place your orders!” he called. 

Dustin and Erica shouted at the same time. Steve mumbled something about not being able to understand them, so you relayed their messages. 

“You’re getting two things! No more than that!” he shouted back. “Robin?”

“7-Up.”

“What else?” 

“Surprise me!” 

You hung onto his arm as you walked into the store, and you weren’t even sure why. He never pulled away when you got that close, so you kept going back. 

You went for the drink coolers first. He reached for the apple juice. 

“She likes orange juice the best, now,” you said. 

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” 

“You better be right - if she’s mad at me over this, I’ll be mad at you.” 

You rounded up all the snacks everyone wanted, following Steve’s only two items rule. You laughed when he chose plain potato chips as Robin’s surprise - the blandest possible choice. And while he checked out at the counter, you wandered off into the aisles. 

He acted like he didn’t want you to go, pulling you back and asking a quiet, “where’re you going?” 

“To look around.” 

It was straight to the candy aisle for a Blow Pop for Erica, Pop Rocks for Dustin, and sour gummy worms to share. You liked spoiling them - it helped to get on their good side. 

You made a stop at the candy bars to grab a Snickers bar before going back to the counter, and Steve immediately shook his head when he saw you. 

“What are you doing? What’s all that?” 

“It’s all for me.” You dropped it all for the clerk to scan. 

“All of it?” 

“Yeah.”

“Even though you said you didn’t want anything?” 

“I changed my mind!” 

He sighed and squeezed his eyes shut, and you watched his hand move to his back pocket. 

“Don’t you dare.” 

His wallet was half way out of his pocket as he laughed. “What?” 

“You’re not paying. Stop.” You tried to sound mad, and felt you were doing a good job, but he kept giggling at you. 

“Oh, are you my boss now?” 

“Yes, Steve,” and you bumped into him, trying to push him away. “Don’t make me say your full name.” 

“Just let me -” 

“Take their things to them! Go!” 

You were shocked when he listened, but he only made it as far as the door. He stood against the glass with his arms crossed, staring at you until you finally followed him. 

“What are you looking at?” 

He pushed his back into the door to open it. “Trying to figure it out.” He reached for your hand, and you swatted it away, only for him to catch you, anyway. And you let him hold your hand, all the way across the street to the park. 

Your friends sat at a picnic table waiting patiently. It was actually two tables pushed together, doubling the normal length; Erica and Dustin sat opposite each other on one end, and Robin sat in the middle, crisscrossed on top of the table. 

Steve divvied snacks to grabby hands, and you snuck their surprise treats in to the sound of thank yous. 

You took your seat on the other end of the table across from Steve. When you sat down, he put a bottle of Coke between you. 

“Are you going to share?” you asked. 

“Only if you’ve got something to give me in return.” 

The Snickers bar made a thud on the wooden table. Steve hummed. “I guess that’s good enough.” 

You were almost happy with the trade until you realized, “No bottle opener?” 

His eyes doubled their size. “Shit.” Then, he grabbed the bottle. “No, it's a twist off.” The noise he made as he tried taking off the cap was something like a squeak, and everyone at the table laughed. 

“Just walk back to the store!” 

“Dustin - Dustin! Do you -” 

The boy slid a large key ring down the table. It was a wad of keys, keychains, and gadgets. 

“It’s on there somewhere.” 

There was a mini flashlight, a laser pointer, a plastic Q*bert charm, a pocket knife, keys and keys and keys, a kubaton, and, “Yes!” a bottle opener. 

“This is why I keep you around, Henderson.” 

“I’m the one keeping you guys around, first of all.” 

You grabbed the Coke and guzzled a couple drinks worth in one go, and when you put it back down, Steve had already eaten half the candy bar in one bite. 

“Steve!” 

His mouth was full when he said, “What?” 

“Why can’t you share? Why didn’t anyone ever teach you about sharing?” His laugh was sweeter than the chocolate he was shoving into your face. “Stop, I don’t wanna eat after you.” 

“We’ve got the same germs,” he said, and he was feeding you the Snickers before you could make another argument. 

The snacks were all gone much quicker than it took to walk and get them, because none of you would ever learn to savor the destination. Regardless, next Sunday, you’d all be sitting in the same spot - give or take a few others, creating a good day for yourselves. 

And, if you were lucky, Steve would be holding your hand the whole time. 

...

It didn’t matter who you were cheering for on the court, you hated high school basketball games. 

Going to Lucas’s game brought back far too many memories than you’d care to recollect. But even though you hated it, you were still filled with pride watching the boy play the game so well. 

And Steve hadn’t shut up about it all night. He spoke about Lucas shooting the buzzer beating winning basket like he was recounting a grand story - something from a movie or a comic book. Like you weren’t sitting beside him the entire time. 

You stood with him in his kitchen, and the excitement had finally started to settle. You and Steve had spent far too long talking about how weird it was to be back in the high school gym, and both of you agreed that you didn’t miss it at all. 

“Is Robin excited for spring break?” 

Steve rolled his eyes. “She said she’s spending the entire week here so she can be as lazy as she wants, so - I guess she is.” 

You threw a weak fist into his shoulder and he caught it. “What’s wrong with that?” 

“She’s gonna steal all my time!” His grin was contagious as he slotted his fingers into yours. “And that means I can’t steal all of yours.” 

“Does that mean I’m finally getting a break from you?” You laughed, but he didn’t. 

It was weird, the way his entire demeanor changed in a snap. Before you could even take back the joke you made he was shifting his eyes and dropping his grin. 

He had always worn his heart on his sleeve, even if he tried hiding it. 

“Are you alright?” 

“Yeah.” It was a hand through his hair that said the opposite, but you’d never call out his tells. “I just - that reminded me there was actually something I wanted to talk to you about.” He dropped your hand to cross his arms, and it had you feeling nervous.

“What about? …Did I do something wrong?” 

“No, honey.” You weren’t sure when that nickname came around, or when it started to stick, but it had a fairy fluttering its wings in your chest. He started to reach for you again, you could see it, but he stopped himself. “You could never do anything wrong.” 

You laughed quiet. “Neither could you.” 

You moved to stand next to him, mirroring the way his back leaned against the counter. Your arm pressed to his. He was looking at the floor; you were looking at him. 

“Are you sure?” It started as a whisper but jumped into a shake, a crack in his voice that said more than he wanted to. And he looked at you, to see if you caught it, and you swore his eyes were shining. He didn’t show them to you for longer than a moment. 

“Steve?”

“I just - I don’t want to fuck this up again.” 

“How would that even happen?” 

He looked at you like he knew something you didn’t. “I don’t know.” 

You nudged his arm with your elbow, again and again, until his crossed arms dropped. Your pointer finger snaked around his, and the touch brought enough bravery out of him to link his fingers with yours. 

“What do you know?”

He scoffed into a smile, one big enough to reach his eyes, and it brought him out of his funk. “I don’t know,” he said, moving closer to you as he made the joke. 

“That’s what I thought,” you replied. “Not a thought going on in your head.” 

Making him laugh was the key to his heart - you knew that, and it worked this time as well as it always had. 

He had his head turned, cheek to shoulder, staring down at you; you were so close, you could watch his eyes move across your face and know where he was looking. They wandered, but when his gaze lingered on your lips - you noticed. 

“I know one thing for sure,” he said.

When you took a loud breath, you’re sure he heard. He gave you eye contact again, and maybe you were seeing things, but you swore you saw question marks swimming in the green. 

He didn’t breathe. You didn’t blink. You moved forward just a hair, and he looked back down, so you pressed on. You wanted to be closer, as close as you could get - it was curiosity or desperation, you didn’t know. 

When he tilted his chin toward you, it was hardly noticeable. But you saw it, and it was enough. Your nose was just about to touch his - you watched his eyes close, right before yours did. There was nothing to do but move closer, closer, closer. 

And then, when you felt just the softest graze of his skin on yours - 

BAM! BAM! BAM!

You jumped back from each other like same-side magnets, gasping and jumping at the sound of loud knocks on the front door. 

He moved fast, like he was looking for a way out, leaving you alone in the kitchen. “Shit.”

Steve had a good idea of who he’d see when he opened the door. The knob was jingling when he unlocked it, then pulled it open. 

Sure enough, Robin. Wearing a flannel that was his, with wild bedhead that he couldn’t help laughing at. 

“Did you walk here?” 

“Yeah,” she croaked. “Let me in.” 

It was written all over her face why she was there, and Steve felt bad. 

Even though she asked to come in, she didn’t move. Her features were all scrunched up, her shoulders were hunched into her crossed arms. 

“Robin -” 

“I fucking hate this.” Loud, echoing into the night and through his door. “I hate it, Steve, and I swear - I swear it’s not over.” Her eyes wet her cheeks; she looked at him through tears. “It’s going to happen again. I can feel it. And I’m scared.” 

He had to pull her inside, because he knew she’d stand in the same spot all night if he didn’t. She pushed into him, shoving her face into his shoulder, wiping her tears on his shirt. 

“You just need to rest,” he told her.

She spoke something pitiful, not caring that her words were muffled. “The gate’s really closed, right? For sure?” 

“It’s over, Robin, it was just a nightmare - you just need some good sleep, alright?” 

She nodded, wiped her runny nose into her sleeve, and tried pulling her tears back in. 

“I wish I could sleep anywhere else.” 

“I know.” It wasn’t any sort of jab - it was just the truth. The only time she was truly afraid was when she slept alone. 

She hit a fist into his chest, something playful that made things feel a little more okay, and then took herself to the stairs. 

“I’ll be up in a minute to stand guard,” he joked. She barely laughed but it was enough, and he watched her until he couldn’t see her anymore. 

And he hoped you hadn’t heard anything, because he wouldn’t be able to answer any questions you had. When he found you in the kitchen you looked nothing but concerned. 

“Is she okay?” 

All you knew was that she had nightmares about the mall fire. It was a realistic excuse, in comparison to the unbelievable truth. 

“Yeah. You know how she is.” 

You nodded. Steve wasn’t sure how to go back to the talk you were having before, so he avoided it. 

You spoke first. “I hope she’s alright.”

“I should probably go be with her,” he said. 

You were perfectly okay with it, understanding as always. “Yeah. She needs you.” 

He walked you to the door, and it was too brief for his taste. But when you were there, he spoke up. 

“I’m sorry. Can we finish this tomorrow, maybe? I promise - I… I really did want to talk.” 

“Of course,” you said, and it was shy. “Don’t be sorry, Steve, she’s more important right now. We can talk any time.” 

His arms wrapped around your shoulders for a crushing hug. “I’ll call you in the morning, okay? Before work. We can make plans then.” 

And that was it - he watched you make your walk home until you walked into your front door, and that was it. 

The moment was ruined, and he might not be able to make it happen again. 

… 

Steve didn’t call you the next morning. 

-

-

-

part two!!!!

#my writing #perhaps the only steve fic i will ever write #if there are typos in this i. lmao i will rage #this took forever this is so fucking long if no one reads it i dont blame truly #anyway #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington angst #steve harrington fluff #fluff #angst #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington one shot #stranger things x reader #stranger things x you

[ashen-sky]

The Penacony brainrot is so real, here are some thoughts:

this place is Alice in Wonderland meets Las Vegas, like I always got Vegas vibes (and a bit of early micky mouse honestly) but actually playing the story gave such Alice in Wonderland vibes. The meme? The Jabberwocky. Misha? That boy gives such white rabbit vibes. Is Black Swan the Cheshire cat? Now that i think about it, ya.

Sunday, the bird man, he may be surrounded in holy imagery but ohhhh boy are the thoughts he gives me anything but holy (this is a half joke, but i seriously can't wait to see more of him)

I DON'T THINK FIREFLY AND ROBIN ARE DEAD! There, I said it finally. This theory has been eating at me. The meme has an attack that puts your characters in a "dead" state that allows revival, and the exact same animation for that attack plays during Firefly's death. Also it doesn't make sense to kill a character before running their banner, so I think those girls are coming back.

Sam. I like Sam. And Aventurine. Aventurine's design reminds me a lot of Luka from the company that shall not be named. Honestly all of the Penacony characters bring something I adore in characters, that glitzy overconfidence of a gambler who knows his stuff, that twisted salvation, ect.

Also, I don't think people really sleep in Penacony, none of the guest rooms have beds. I think maybe Penacony natives might have a real bed, because the idea that their options are dream world or napping in weird spots seems odd, but they might not. (It did give me a fun idea for a fanfic of a character that forces themselves to nap outside of the dreamscape because they suffer from chronic nightmares and don't want to become dependent on the dreamscape)

I have two thought on Sampo, the first is what the hell was that dream and why do those damn trash cans hit so hard.

Next, everyone was sure he was a masked fool, and lo and behold they were right. However, I would like to turn your attention to Black Swan's character quest. Firstly, something is coming to Jarilo VI, something so big it is cause SAMPO to take action. Sampo, who is known for skirting AROUND conflict, is putting himself in someone else's hands (someone he explicitly states he isn't too fond of) to take action. I don't doubt he'll stay behind the scenes, he isn't the kind of person to work in the spotlight, but whatever is coming has concerned him enough to ACT. This isn't a testament to how he feels about the planet, this is a testament to the oncoming danger. EDIT TO ADD- the reason i don't say this is a testament to how much Sampo cares about the people of Jarilo VI is because of how much he trusts them to handle themselves. He cares about them yes, but by taking action he's saying he doesn't think they can handle whatever's coming on their own even with the recent reconnection with the IPC and working to recover their old technology.

All this is to say WHEN IS THE NEXT UPDATE, please, god, feed me story.

#anime devil's thoughts #honkai star rail #hsr #penacony spoilers #honkai star rail spoilers #hsr sampo #sampo koski #hsr firefly #hsr robin

[curiositydooropened]

Group Therapy

Steve’s friends encouraged him to attend group therapy, to push past the nightmares and insomnia. In such a small community of sufferers, he didn’t expect to meet you.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x female!Reader

Wordcount: 15,461

Warnings: group therapy, trauma, PTSD, nudity, recreational drug use, minor character death (not canon characters). It's therapy, guys. There's a lot of angst, guilt, speaking of dead loved ones, etc.

This fic is incomplete. This is just part one, but I was dying to get it out, so here it is. There's a bit of a cliffhanger/questions unanswered, but those will be answered in the next part! xo

Navigation • Masterlist

---

Joyce suggested group therapy. She knew of a group that met weekly in the old DMV building. Steve wasn’t one to sit in chairs and talk about his feelings (although he pressured the kids to do as much every time he saw them), but he wasn’t one to deny the advice of a woman that cared for him like he hoped a mother would. 

Joyce Byers often surprised him with those sentiments, dragging him from his car by the scruff of his neck to partake in family dinners with the kids or asking about the various dates with various girls she’d seen him on and with around town. She worried over his headaches, offering tried-and-true remedies, and all-but drove him to the optometrist to get his eyes checked. 

Much to his chagrin, he had needed glasses, and much to Robin’s chagrin, he only wore them around Mrs. Byers or the kids, who would tattle on him if he didn’t. 

So, when Joyce cornered him on Labor Day, after watching the skittered reactions of each sound effect the kids made during their weekly DnD game, Steve couldn’t argue with her logic. 

“I found this flyer. I’ve gone a few times, but it’s on Thursdays and Thursdays are difficult with work,” she explained, placing the leaflet into his hand. “But it’s a good group of people, and I’ve seen a few young people go. I do really think it’d be nice to be able to talk to kids your own age, you know?” 

He shrugged and offered a weak smile, and if anyone else had recommended it, he probably would have shrugged it off, crumpled the paper and tossed it into the bin at the end of the McDonald’s drive through. But it was Joyce, and she wouldn’t have mentioned it if she wasn’t genuinely concerned. 

So on Thursday night, when the sad streets of Hawkins cleared of construction workers and the few loyal townsfolk driving home from their 9-to-5s, Steve gripped 10-and-2 and inched his way to the old DMV parking lot. He pulled into the same spot he did when he got his license three years ago, and he was surprised to see the lot littered with vehicles from all sorts of residents from Hawkins and the surrounding county. It took him a shaky breath or two to muster the courage to go inside, but he figured this couldn’t be worse than killing a few inter dimension monsters. 

Before he exited his car, he pulled his glasses from their case in the center console and slipped them up the bridge of his nose, hooking them over his ears, and as the dimly lit concrete building got a little sharper, and his headache began to alleviate, he left the car and walked toward the front doors.

The collection of chairs made a perfect circle in the center of the room, but only two people sat, the rest mingling near a coffee carafe and a giant box of doughnuts. Steve found himself jittery enough, and jelly doughnuts still reminded him too much of the gaping hole in Eddie’s ceiling, so he opted to skip refreshments and find himself a seat in the circle.

His hand shook against the cool metal of the chair, from nerves or excessive damage to his nervous system, he was never quite sure anymore. He clenched his fist to squeeze past the tremor and seat himself, glancing down at the watch on his wrist to avoid the gaze of the others around the circle. He had to check the time three more times before his brain registered what time it actually was, and by then, the others had started to find seats around the circle. 

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and offered a shy smile to the woman who sat beside him. She seemed wary of his presence, but smiled politely in return. And because that exchange felt safe enough, he ventured a glance around the circle. He was surprised to see about twenty people, in various stages of life and dress, mostly cheerful, swapping mumbled greetings and shuffling into their seats to get comfortable. 

The slam of door closing startled everyone to silence though, mood shifting to static as a woman in a tight-fitting skirt suit clacked across the linoleum toward the circle, waving the legal pad in her hand. “Sorry, sorry! Just me.” She explained, finding her seat directly at Steve’s eleven. She glanced up from wire-rimmed glasses, similar to Steve’s and flashed him the brightest smile he’d seen in a long time.

“I see we have a few new faces this evening,” she glanced around to avoid Steve the embarrassment, but he felt heat fan at his face as attention drew his direction. 

“That’s great. Let’s all be sure to welcome them warmly.” She continued. “For those of you who don’t know, this is a group therapy session. We talk about our feelings here. This is a judgement-free zone, and we would really appreciate it if the things shared didn’t leave this room. What happens in group therapy stays in group therapy, right?” 

The group around him let out a chorus of tired agreement, as though they’d heard the spiel week after week. 

“Great. Now I do feel the need to preface that we talk a lot about loss during these sessions. Loss of loved ones, loss of homes, loss of control. If it gets to be too much for anyone, I encourage you bow out. You know your own boundaries better than the rest of us, but we also want you to know that some of us have found a real community here, and we’re here to welcome you with open arms.” This time, she spoke directly to Steve.

He offered a tight-lipped smile, but suddenly found his hands interesting to look at, the crags of scarring across his knuckles, the callouses that littered his palm over the last few months. 

“Let’s start with an ice-breaker, shall we? We’ll go around the circle and share our name and say a hobby we’ve picked up recently! We haven’t done hobbies in a few weeks, right?” A chorus of no’s filtered through the circle. She clapped her hands together. “Perfect. I’ll start. Hi, I’m Cheryl, and a few weeks ago, my friends got me hooked on couponing. Have you heard of that? Where you cut coupons out of the Sunday morning paper? I got my groceries for half the price!” 

“Half the price?” The woman beside Steve startled him. She seemed genuinely intrigued. 

Cheryl grinned, winked. “I’ll tell you all about it after this. Go ahead, dear.” 

And then beside Cheryl, voice raspy yet calm, you spoke your name and Steve’s attention was drawn to you like gravity. Joyce had mentioned people his age, but at first glance around the circle, no one here was younger than their 30s, no one but you. Your hair was shoved under a knit cap, and buttons of your denim jacket clacked against one another as you adjusted in your seat, tucking one sneakered foot up on the chair with you. Steve leaned a little closer on his knees to hear what you had to say. 

“I’ve picked up cooking, mostly out of necessity,” you tucked your chin to your knee and finally ventured a glance Steve’s direction. “Learned how to put out a grease fire on Friday.” Your eyes flared a challenge, a rebellious streak that sent something through Steve as he watched your eyes observe his frame. He sat up a little straighter under your scrutiny, and you turned to hear the comments being made in regards to your answer to the prompt. “I might be able to manage a casserole. Give me a month.” 

And it went that way down the line, various people with boring, small-town names talking about crochet and mountain biking. Steve watched them politely, anxiety curdling his stomach the closer around the circle it got to him. Occasionally, he’d glance your direction, as though you’d offer a lifeline, an out. Cheryl smiled encouragingly and every hobby he’d had flew from his memory. 

“And what’s your name?”

“Uh…” His throat was dry. “Steve. I’m Steve.” 

“Hi, Steve,” the room echoed, led by your conducting arms. The call startled him, and the room was reduced to chuckles at the apparent inside joke. Steve noticed the way you hid your laughs behind a hand, cuff of your sleeve pulled up over your knuckles.

“Ignore them,” Cheryl reprimanded, rolling her eyes. “Tell us one of your hobbies.”

Hobbies, hobbies. He swallowed, glanced around the room, trying to recall the pastimes of the others’. He definitely didn’t cook or coupon. He scratch a particular grading itch at the back of his neck and shrugged. “I swam in high school.” 

“Okay, swimming’s cool,” Cheryl encouraged, smile too bright, blinding. “What about now? Do you still swim?” 

He winced. Swimming and him hadn’t gotten along in recent years, what with Barb and Water Gate. “Yeah, not really.” 

“Well what do you like to do for fun?” 

Joyce hadn’t prepared him for the questions he’d be asked. Once again, head-empty, he wracked for something he did in his free time. Chauffeur little shits to the arcade and back? Watch them play their nerd game? None of those really constituted as fun, and he couldn’t exactly let a group of total strangers know that his most relaxed moments were spent at Hopper’s old cabin sharing a joint between co-trauma-victims.

He licked his lips and considered dates he’d been on recently. Out of habit, his eyes flickered to you. Your head was tilted to one side, expression expectant, and he realized he’d taken too long. 

He blinked and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Um, driving? I really enjoy just going for long drives. Does that count?” 

“Of course it does. Driving is a great way to let off steam.” Cheryl expressed with too bouncy of a nod. 

“Kind of car you got, kid?” A grumpy old man asked off to the right. 

Steve turned to face him. “BMW 733i. It’s an ’83.” 

The man whistled, nodded. “German-mades are good cars.”

“Got a good sound system?” A man asked from the opposite side of the circle.

Steve shrugged, nodded, ran a hand through his hair, nearly knocking his glasses off. He still wasn’t used to them. “It’s pretty good. Bass doesn’t blow me out.”

When that man offered a hum of approval, he felt himself warm a little, like that little hum was the acceptance of the group. He relaxed a bit further into his chair and the woman beside him, Mina, took over, discussing her doll collection at length. 

It continued this way around the circle, people discussing their interests like this wasn’t a group therapy session, like you weren’t all here to discuss what had happened to you or who Vecna had removed from your lives. You were just a circle of humans getting to know one another and talking about your passions, and Steve felt a bit soft about it. He even pitched in the conversation at one point when Carl, the sound system specialist, spoke about building his record collection. Steve offered a signed copy of a Kenny Rogers album he knew his dad wouldn’t miss. Carl seemed elated. Steve felt proud to be useful. 

When he looked away, your gaze caught him, eyes narrowed in suspicion at his gesture, and he felt his face heat and he looked away. He didn’t recognize you, didn’t think he’d seen you before, but that insecurity lingered, the fear that you’d gone to school with him and King Steve had been a total dick to you.

“Alright,” Cheryl clapped her hands together. “That was fun. Shall we talk about the tough stuff now? Who wants to go first?” 

—

No one made him talk, and for that he was grateful. He sat in silence, just soaking up the stories and the heartache, driving that ceaseless guilt a little further. He caught emotion in his throat at one point, during a particularly heartfelt story about Mina missing her niece and nephew for Labor Day, and he had to force himself to think about something else, anything else while he wiped the sting from his nostrils. 

When you all stood, at the end of the session, he had half a mind to bolt, to leave and never return, to never mention it to Joyce. He prayed the rest of you would forget his existence, although he’d never forget all of you, your stories, the waver in voices as stories were passed around. He wanted to run, but Carl stopped him with a sturdy hand clapped to his shoulder, and then Elmer approached and the two men asked him questions about his car, eased him back from the anxiety tightening the collar of his shirt. 

The older men argued about BMW versus Saab, and Steve found his attention straying from the conversation, as it often did when his dad and his uncle got into similar arguments over holiday dinners. He found you, pinching the edge of a glazed doughnut. You seemed unimpressed and unengaged in the conversations starting to pitter out as one-by-one, people started to leave. 

Elmer shook Steve’s hand, excuse himself, and Carl did the same. Steve pulled his keys from his jacket pocket and followed them out, a crisp chill falling over the lot. He breathed fog and glanced upward at a cloudless sky.

“Stars look weird, huh? After all that smoke.” A voice from below startled him, and he looked to find you sidled up next to him, hands shoved into your jacket pockets. 

“Really weird,” he agreed, but he couldn’t turn back to the twinkling night sky, not when you were standing beside him, staring up at the cosmos in wonderment, moonlight painting your skin a pale blue. “I’m sorry, but do I know you from somewhere?” He didn’t feel the sting of familiarity, but he figured the question was good to cover his bases. 

You tilted your head to face his and a smile tugged at the corners of your lips. “Don’t think so.” You pulled a hand from your pocket to offer it his direction, reintroducing yourself. 

He took your hand, small and warm from the insulation of your jacket. “Steve.” 

“Steve who swam in high school and drives now.” You affirmed with a nod, placing your hand back in your pocket.

He chuckled and nodded. “That’s me.” He gestured to the car.

You offered a whistle to mimic Elmer’s, as though his car was something to marvel at, and that made a laugh bubble from his lips again. He liked the way you smiled at his laugh, as though you were proud you pulled it from him. He thought of Joyce always trying to cheer him up, of her placing the flyer in his hands. 

“Can I ask you a question?”

You quirked an eyebrow, but shrugged. “Shoot.” 

“Is this…” He glanced backward at the building, now void of light, doors locked, quiet. “Is this group therapy thing helping you at all?” 

“Honestly?” You brought a thumb to your lips to chew at the corner of your nail, and you waited for him to nod before you shrugged. “Kind of. It’s nice to have people to talk to. Better than letting it stew.”

He knew what you meant, the guilt that bubbled there, just under the surface. He nodded. Then felt a little braver. “Do you come every week?” 

You shrugged again, nodded. “Nothing better to do.” 

“Except putting out grease fires,” he pointed out, tested the water with a tease, let you know he was listening. He didn’t know why he felt so desperate for your validation now, felt pride when his joked pulled a smile from your lips, your eyes rolling. 

“Uh huh.” You took a few steps away from him. “Have a good night, Steve. See you next week.” 

“See you.” He waited until you were in your car with the ignition on before he pulled out of the lot.

—

The following Thursday took twice the courage. Steve considered dragging Robin along, or even Eddie, but Robin had to work and Eddie still wasn’t widely accepted in the greater Roane County area. So, with a few steady breaths, he entered the little concrete building with a Kenny Rogers album under his arm. Carl stood from the circle to greet him, taking the vinyl to admire it, and Elmer met them near the snacks table to discuss a model BMW he found in his catalog, wanted to know if Steve would like him to buy it with his next order.

The men were much older than Steve, and gruff with their greetings, stiff upper-lip and all that, and Steve felt himself shy under their attention, shifting uncomfortably on the balls of his feet, searching the room for a familiar face. Well, if he was being honest, he was searching for you.

“Or not, saves me a few bucks that I could use on a Thunderbird I was looking at,” Elmer grumbled under his breath when Steve hadn’t responded, and the younger boy shook his hair from his eyes.

“No, no. It’d be really cool if you ordered the model for me,” he offered a smile. “I have a friend that paints models.” 

It took ages to be allowed into Erica’s room, only permitted to babysit her from the doorway with crossed arms and a frown, but one day she finally asked for his opinion on a paint job she’d done on a model dragon. Eddie had commissioned her, paid her extra to keep the Big Bad a secret from the boys, but she wasn’t sure about the gold. So when she called him in with an “okay, shithead, you can come in”, Steve made sure to really admire her handiwork. He’d never forget the proud smile etched into her sweet little face.

“It’s a fine art,” he continued. “I’d love to try.” 

Elmer puffed his chest the way Erica did, grumbled in agreement.

 This time, Steve felt brave enough to pour himself a Styrofoam cup of coffee. It thawed his cold fingers and scalded the roof of his mouth. The doughnuts had been swapped for deli sandwiches, but all of the non-veggie ones had been taken by the time he got there. He stuck with the coffee and found his way to his seat, the same as last week, semi-in hopes that you’d find your same seat across from him. 

He’d dressed to impress, after all. A newly purchased green sweater warmed him, hugged his biceps how he liked, and his favorite pair of Levis. Well, not his favorites, those still held a few blood stains, but these were similar and new. He didn’t wear his glasses either, still self-conscious that they made his nose too square and his eyes too round. At least, that’s what Mom said when he showed her. She reprimanded him for not taking her to pick them out. 

He looked around the circle at mostly blurred faces, a few familiar, like Mina beside him, Carl and Elmer. Cheryl clacked her way to her seat at his eleven once more, repeated the spiel from last week. Your chair, along with about five others, remained empty. 

Steve couldn’t stop himself from glancing at the door every few minutes, between ice-breaker introductions. He sputtered “uh… tiger?” for his favorite animal because again, caught in the moment, he couldn’t think of a single other animal save a Demodog or Demobat, and in this crowd, a joke like that wouldn’t go over so well. 

A woman named Dolores, who he recalled from last week, spoke about her struggles at the grocery store this week, staring at her husband’s favorite box of cereal. A man named Jeffrey started to speak about hearing his daughter’s voice everywhere he went, when the door slammed open, startling them all. 

Steve spun in his chair to see you enter, bleary eyed and sniffle nosed. You didn’t flinch to find all eyes on you, just turned your attention to the coffee table and picked up a sandwich to take a bite from. 

“Keep going, Jeffrey,” Cheryl encouraged, and the group turned back around to face the man speaking his tragic tale. 

Steve had lost all focus. He side-eyed you, watch your hand tremble around the carafe handle, ached to stand up and assist you. He glanced to Cheryl to confirm her eyes were on him. She sent him a pointed look and pointed a well-manicured fingernail Jeffrey’s direction, like a school teacher during a guest lecturer.

“And just this morning,” Jeffrey continued, voice wavering, “as I opened up the garage door, I heard her say - “

“Fuck!” Your voice rang out, followed by the ruckus of the carafe and your cup and sandwich crashing to the ground. Coffee and vegetables littered the linoleum, painting the yellowed tiles a deep brown. 

The entire circle flinched. Steve leapt from his seat to help you, but Mina pulled him down by the cuff of his sleeve, which she used to help herself from her seated position. “You sit, honey. I’ll help her.” 

Steve ventured another glance your direction. You were nursing the edge of your hand with your lips, skin likely scalded, and tears were now cascading over your florescent-kissed cheekbones. You sucked in a sob and pulled a fistful of napkins off the table to start to soak up the mess when Mina met you and placed a hand on your shoulder to stop you. She mumbled something, and you nodded, turning to leave. Just before you did, you glanced up at the circle and met Steve’s gaze, and when he found the sorrow there, he realized he’d do anything to will it away, to bring back that half-cocked smile from the week before.

“Keep going, Jeffrey. What did you hear her say when you opened the garage door?” Cheryl pressed on, as though your interruption hadn’t occurred, as though Steve would be able to focus on anything else.

—

The tangy sweet scent of marijuana wafted from the patchwork furniture set all the way through boarded-up rafters. The chill of autumn set in, and Steve’s teeth chattered between each hit of the joint, and he huddled tighter into Robin’s tiny frame under the crochet quilt they pulled from the back of Eddie’s van. He felt tired and cold and hungry, and a mystery substance on the quilt was far too close to his face, but he was too cold to move it. With a groan, he settled further into the poorly stuffed cushions and the warm vanilla of Robin’s perfume. 

“No groaning, man. You’re harshing my mellow,” Eddie swatted at him from the other side of Robin. He was farther gone, one joint in when they got there. Steve was sure the ceiling danced for him, and his leather jacket was probably a whole hell of a lot warmer than Steve’s puffer vest. 

“Steve’s in love,” Robin explained the bad attitude. Ever the linguist, she often translated Steve’s wordless tantrums. She was never right.

He groaned again. “I’m not in love.” He plucked the joint from her ice cold fingers and took another hit, grateful for the deep burn in his chest until it sputtered out of him in a big cloud that rose with the heat through the hole in the roof. 

“Dude, fourteen hot, hot women came into work over the last two days, and you didn’t even say hi. To any of them.” 

He didn’t recall fourteen, maybe one or two. Beside, he was busy stacking shelves and searching the database for all of the Hawkins residents with your name. 

“Jesus,” Eddie giggled. “You are in love. So who’s the broad? Is she hot?” 

Steve groaned and warmed the tip of his nose on Robin’s shoulder, lest it freeze and fall off. Robin squeaked when it brushed her skin, and she sent a punch to his ribs. “Ow, fuck,” he whined, rubbing at the growing bruise, but something about the grin on Robin’s face made him chuckle. 

This made Robin sputter a laugh, and Eddie chimed in with his voracious little giggle, and soon they were a mess of laughter, clutching at their sides to catch their breaths, tears in their eyes, the chill of autumn almost forgotten. 

“I’m hungry,” Eddie sighed, pushing himself up off the couch with minor difficulty. He drug his feet to the cupboards. The cabin hadn’t been properly stocked in months, maybe a year. They ate the last bag of popcorn last time, and Steve forgot to pick up supplies on his way in from work. “Either of you know how to cook?” 

“Steve’s girlfriend’s a chef.” Robin snickered, eyes squeezed tight to avoid the spin of the stars. 

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Steve huffed. That’s not even what he wanted, not even the point of asking Robin if she knew anyone with your name, anyone that looked like you. He wasn’t interested in dating you. He wanted to make sure you were okay. 

“You met her at a restaurant?” Eddie tried to piece together the story. “Do they deliver?” 

“I met her at group therapy,” Steve ran a tired hand down his face, completely knocking his glasses free. When had he put those on? 

“So she’s a nutter like you then,” Eddie grinned, and Robin burst back into that raspy laugh that would normally send Steve into his own giggle fit if he wasn’t so irritated by the accusation. 

“She’s not a nutter. She’s been through some hard shit. We all fucking have,” he snapped, stirring his attention to a loose strand of red polyester near his sightline on the cushion. 

His smoking buddies quieted their laughs. Robin sunk into him, curling her head into the crook of his neck. She was cuddly high and flirty drunk, and Steve hated the melt of his heart when she did this. She was like a cat, obnoxiously free-willed and too smart for her own damn good. And she knew when to turn on the charm to avoid a confrontation. 

“Hey, Steve,” Eddie called from the kitchen.

Steve hummed a response, annoyance temporarily tampered. 

“Mellow harshed.” Eddie flipped him the bird. 

Robin’s head bobbed under his chin, setting him off, and the three of them started to chuckle again.

—

Week three, Steve arrived early, snatched a maple bar and found his seat, sneaker tapping linoleum subconsciously while he stared at the entrance. Everyone else mingled, and Carl and Elmer offered friendly waves from their place in line for coffee, but Steve was waiting for you. An entire week he spent searching for you. Henderson even made a few fake sales calls from the phone directory, but all searches had come up void. You were like a ghost. And after day six, he thought maybe he had imagined you. 

It would be the next logical step. Head trauma could lead to migraines, tremors, poor eye-sight, bad hearing, why not add hallucinations to the list? If he made you up, his brain did a really good job with the fine details. He could still see the frayed edges at the cuffs of your denim jacket, could still hear the click of metal buttons against one another as you repositioned yourself in your chair.

You cleared your throat, and he realized you’d come and sat across from him, and he was staring. 

He swallowed, nearly choked when he realized he had a bite of doughnut in his mouth. It went down too large, unchewed. He felt it roll down his esophagus into an empty stomach and he winced, coughed. “Hi,” he managed finally, throat dry. 

“Y’okay?” You bit back a laugh, smiling forming at the corners of your lips, wrinkling your eyes, and Steve thought he could fly. It was an excellent improvement from last week. 

He nodded. “Are you?”

You caught the subtext in his question and he watched your expression pinch as you found the frayed edge of your jacket with your fingers. He wanted to stand, to sit beside you, to make you smile again, to laugh. 

But the doors slammed shut and everyone not seated had moseyed to their seats. The room was emptier than last week, and Steve felt a twinge of panic that people were leaving, that they felt healed and no longer needed to come, and he wondered if you felt that way too. Cheryl sat in royal blue and spoke her spiel like she hadn’t rehearsed it, and once again, to her left, you started the ice-breaker round with your name and your favorite book, Peter Pan.

Steve’s heart thumped in his chest at the odd bit of information. A boy who collected kids, who was too pressured by the adults in his life to grow up, a boy at odds with his own shadow, intrigued by a girl from a far-off land. He realized he was staring again when you offered him wide-eyes, mockingly telling him off, but the smile edged on your pink lips again, and he settled into his chair, satisfied once more.

Once the ice-breaker round had finished (Steve muttered something about Sherlock Holmes, running a hand through is hair. He knew the gist, and he thought you seemed impressed, maybe intrigued? You cocked an eyebrow at his answer.), he felt a little less comfortable in his chair. If was being totally honest, he’d hoped you’d open up about last week, about what made you so sad, so helpless. It had been eating him up inside. So, he focused his gaze on you when Cheryl asked who wanted to start, and you kept your eyes on the squeak of your sneakers against the floor. 

“Steve, how about you?”

Steve blinked at the sound of his name, sat at attention. 

“You’re our newest member of the group. How are you feeling about it? Would you like to share maybe what brought you to us?” Cheryl’s voice was the softest he’d heard it, a sweet lull that reminded him achingly of Joyce, like a soft hand brushing hair from his forehead. 

He swallowed, felt all eyes on him, all except yours. He took a deep breath and looked at Cheryl. She offered the most understanding of smiles. He licked his lips. 

“I don’t um… I don’t really know how to start.” His hands were trembling, and he shoved them under his ass, but that caused the chain reaction of his knee bobbing wildly, heel lifted from the ground. 

“How did you find out about the group?” Cheryl asked. 

“Oh, a friend’s mom gave me the flyer. Told me I should check it out.” 

Cheryl nodded. “She was worried about you?” 

It hurt to hear someone else say it. “I guess so.” 

“It was sweet of her to think of you,” she smiled. “What do you think worries her?” 

He thought about it too often, harbored too much guilt for being a burden on Mrs. Byers, on them all. He swallowed back the lump in his throat, probably the doughnut still lodged there somewhere. “I don’t sleep much, and um… I guess I startle too easily.” 

Proving his point, a chorus of agreements from the circle scared him back to reality, and he realized there was a room full of people listening intently, a room full of people that encountered the same problems. 

“What’s keeping you from sleeping?” 

He shifted in his seat again, hands red and creased, pulsing as the blood returned to the tips of his fingers. “Nightmares, mostly. I have this horrible recurring dream.” He shuddered to think of it.

“Tell us about it.” 

He swallowed, ventured a glance your direction. You had your thumbnail to your lips again, but you offered a nod of encouragement. He ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, um…” He’d have to censor it. These people knew about the monsters, the horror, but not the specifics. They didn’t know the metallic tang of Demobat blood. They didn’t know the din of a Grandfather clock chiming Max’s death, the downfall of their town. He squeezed his eyes shut to quell the echoing, ground himself in a room that wasn’t shaking from seismic activity. 

“I have dreams about my grandma,” you chimed in, and Steve’s eyes slammed open to watch you pull the attention away. You sat up straight in your seat. “They’re always the same. We’re in her kitchen, and she’s making a beef stew. So I’m cutting the celery for her. And she tells me I’m doing a great job.” Your voice wavers on the last weird, and Steve watches the sorrow slip over your features again. You went somewhere else, far off, somewhere painful, for a split second. 

“But you feel like you’re disappointing her?” Steve braved his question, and to his surprise, and yours, you nodded, wiping a tear from your cheek before it could slip down your soft skin. He nodded. “Mine too. All of my dreams are about my friends, and in all of them, I just…” He shrugged. “Let them down.” 

“I have this dream that I’m dancing with my wife,” Carl pitched in. “We’re swaying to Miles Davis, and she’s laughing. It’s so real, I can smell her perfume. That one’s almost worse than the dreams about monsters.”

The group mutters in agreement. “I have a dream about my niece playing in the back yard,” Mina agrees. 

Steve doesn’t pull his gaze from you as people continue to share their dream stories. You offer a sad smile, and bring your knee up to your chest before turning your attention to the next speaker. He continued to watch you, the soft cough of a laugh, the upturn of your lips. Maybe Robin was right. 

—

Week Four brought on scarves and gloves, the squeak of wet shoes against linoleum. Elmer brought a large box with a model and paints and brushes, which he shoved under Steve’s chair with furrowed brows and gruff instructions. Carl was humming The Gambler. Steve felt warm, and when he shrugged out of his puffy vest, draping it on the back of his chair, the warmth didn’t cease. It was the same warmth he felt on DnD nights, when he sat on the sofa and read the latest issue of Sport’s Illustrated and Dustin shot spitballs at him from across the table. It was the same warmth he felt when Robin got high and tucked herself into the crook of his neck and gushed about Vickie’s perfect face. 

He pushed the sleeves of his sweater up to the crooks of his elbows and waited for the rest of the group to file in when a voice from Mina’s chair startled him.

“Hey.” It was you.

He blinked your direction, picking out the lines of your face from this close, a soft twinkle in your eye. You looked flushed, a bit out of breath, and that set a screw loose inside of him somewhere. He could feel it tinkering around, bouncing off his gears. “Hey,” he breathed.

The door slammed closed, eliciting a communal gasp like it did every week, and you straightened yourself beside him, shrugging out of your denim jacket to expose an oversized sweatshirt, forest green with torn cuffs and a screen printed watercolor of a national park, Yellowstone, maybe? He couldn’t make out the scrawl that had been eaten away by the washing machine. Cheryl clacked her way across from you both.

“Listen,” you hissed, catching his attention again. “I need to talk to Cheryl for a second after this is over, but I want to give you something. Will you wait for me?” You spoke under your breath, out of the side of your mouth, like a secret, and Steve couldn’t help the laugh that caught on his tongue. 

“Yeah, I can probably do that.” 

“Good,” again, you didn’t look at him, facing the group, but he watched your front teeth catch on your bottom lip, fighting back a smile. He liked that he could appreciate the details of you from this close, the wisps of hair on your temples, poking out from beneath that same, grey knit cap, the soft blue gems of your earrings, barely noticeable if it weren’t for this angle, the soft gold chain that lay on your neck, its pendant falling somewhere beyond the collar of your shirt.

“Shall we break some ice?” Cheryl clapped her hands together, yanking him out of the daze that was all you. The woman leading the group sent him a knowing look, eyebrow cocked over her glasses, and Steve cursed under his breath. This was going to be a long night.

This session had been the worst of them so far. Carl kicked it off by voicing his frustrations about the aches he felt in his shoulder when the weather got cold. It’d always been bad. He blew his shoulder out when he was much younger, playing baseball. The injury reinstated after his third row of buckshot in the direction of one of those things.

Mina felt it too. She called it a shift in seismic pressure. Her arthritis had never been worse. Along with the nightmares, she suffered severe migraines, not to mention the hospital bills. 

Don’t get Jeffrey started on hospital bills. His daughter was kept on life support for just over a month before she passed. He’d been paying for the rest of his life, which was about four times the life amount of time she got. 

Elmer broke his arm in three places. Colleen busted her ankle tripping over a leyline or rubble, something of the sort. With each talk, Steve felt himself growing more and more anxious. He was hot, too hot, and the guilt he felt for his friends just compacted, knowing his mistakes affected so many more people. So many more than Joyce liked to remind him he saved.

He felt sick, the coffee twisting in a mostly empty stomach. His temple throbbed, eyes winced under the buzz of the florescents. His own body ached, where ribs healed and shoulders popped back into place. His teeth hurt, feeling all of those punches all over again, and he was just a fucking kid. He couldn’t imagine what everyone else felt, was feeling. 

When the meeting ended, he shuffled upright in silence, sliding his vest back on and stuffing the box of paint under one arm to scurry out of there with the rest of the group. He’d tossed the box in the trunk, with the bat, hands itching to round the handle, to poke holes in something meaty and fleshy and horrifying. He slammed the trunk and hopped into the driver’s side to start the ignition and warm himself up. He needed a stiff drink and a hot shower, or maybe he just needed a drive.

He cranked the heater until the windshield fogged and massaged the leather of his steering wheel into the pads of his palms. He popped the clutch in and shifted into reverse, throwing his hand over the headrest of the passenger’s seat until he noticed your car behind him. The lights were off and it sat cold. Shit. He almost forgot. 

He took the car out of gear and tried to relax his shoulders, tried to excite himself about what you could possibly have to talk to him about. He couldn’t imagine past the pain, the guilt. You were probably going to condemn him for the shit he put you through, complain about some stab to the back that would never, could never fully heal. 

He screamed and gripped the steering wheel, shaking it as much as he could in its locked position along the column. Mostly, he shook himself. Just when he thought he was getting better. Fuck.

His lungs felt tight when you exited, Cheryl in tow, locking up behind you. The two of you muttered, making eyes his direction, and Cheryl offered him a wave before walking to her car, and you separated to walk to the passenger side of his car. He leaned over to unlock the door for you, moving his scarf from the seat so you could sit down. 

You sunk into the seat with a sigh, breath fogged, and closed the door behind you. “It’s nice and warm in here,” you shivered, holding small hands to the vents of his heater. 

He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing, waiting on you.

You glanced at him from under your lashes and shoved your hands into the pockets of your denim jacket. “I thought you ditched me.” 

“I uh…” He swallowed. He couldn’t lie to you, but he didn’t want you to know he forgot. “Nope.” Smooth.

He could just make you out in the reflection of his headlights against the wall, a splash of warm yellow across your features, and you seemed to be watching him the same way he watched you, a bit timid, unsure. 

“So,” you spoke simultaneously, followed by nervous laughter. 

“You go,” Steve gestured, chewing the inside of his cheek. 

You breathed, relaxed into the seat beside him. “Okay, I feel stupid. This is maybe kind of stupid.” 

“What?” He smiled. He could never find you stupid. 

“I just don’t have many friends here that are my age.” You sputtered around the words, taking time with them, but your face scrunched up as though you weren’t pleased with the way the sentence played out. 

“You want to be my friend?” He could have flown. 

“God, no,” you rolled your eyes, but your smile gave away the sarcasm. “I just figured you might be a bigger loser than me and would want to be my friend.” You explained, releasing a dry laugh in case he couldn’t pick up the joking tone. 

“Oooh, I don’t know. Two losers being friends? Isn’t that against the rules?” He teased back.

You scrunched up your nose. “You’re probably right.” 

“Hey, so,” he ran a hand through his hair before stretching it to your headrest. Your knit cap brushed against his thumb as you turned to look at him. “Do you want to hang out sometime?” 

You rolled your eyes and pulled a rolled piece of paper from your pocket. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I wanted to give you this, and now it feels like forty times more lame.”

You handed it to him, and he looked from the paper to you and back before starting to unfurl it from one end. You slapped your hands to his to stop him, yours slender and freezing. 

“Don’t look at it now! For Christ’s sake, wait until I’m in my car!”

Steve laughed at the frantic tone of your voice. You were genuinely embarrassed about whatever this was, and that was beyond endearing. You bit back a smile of your own, and Steve rolled it back into the fist of one hand. 

“Whatever I’m leaving.” You pulled the handle and your door popped open, a gust of cold air fanned Steve’s face. “Oh, and I’m not going to be here next week.”

“What? Why?” He frowned. 

You shrugged, turned away from him and exited the car. “Personal stuff. I’ll talk to you soon though maybe?”

He leaned over to see your waggled fingers, watched you pull your keys from your jacket pocket. “Okay, sure.” 

“Bye, Steve,” you smiled, and he waved before you closed the door.

—

“I thought I was having a stroke,” Steve sighed, passing the note you’d given him to Robin. She unfurled it, eyebrows furrowed as she looked at the scattered page of numbers and letters you’d scrawled between the blue rule of notebook paper. 

“Looks like a pretty standard cypher to me,” Erica pointed out, connecting the dots with her finger to the page. “Letters are numbers, numbers are letters.” 

“Nerd,” Dustin took glee in the nickname, and Erica flipped him the bird. 

“She’s right, Steve. This is low level shit.” Robin pulled the phone along the counter, the ringer dinging over the split in sections. “C’mere.” She tugged at the crook of Steve’s elbow until he stood over her and the note, pointing out exactly how you’d created the cypher. “It’s like the numbers on a phone, see? So B would be 2, K is 5, O is 6, get it?” 

Dustin handed her a pen from the cup near the register, and Robin began to translate all of the letters until she had a seven digit number. “Holy shit, dude. She gave you her number.” Dustin held his hand up for a high-five, and Steve resisted. Though his heart did an odd rhythm against his ribs. 

“Okay, okay, what does the rest of it say?” He chewed on the inside of his cheek, knee bouncing as he leaned on the counter. 

“This part says ‘Call Me.’” Erica tilted her head, pointing to a series of numbers in the middle of the page. 2255 63. 

“How the hell did you get that?” Steve felt a headache pulling between his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“Context clues, dumbass.” 

“‘The game’s afoot.’” Dustin read in that British accent he was annoyingly good at. 

“What?” Steve sighed, watching Robin scribble in the rest of the code. 

“It’s Sherlock Holmes.”

Steve was starting to get really irritated with their tone. He sighed, so confused, and waited for Robin to finish her scribbling before she stepped out of his way and handed him the receiver to the phone. He frowned, but took it from her and leaned over the counter to read the translated version of your note. 

The game’s afoot. Call me, Sherlock. Followed by your name and number. He blinked down at it a few times before Robin slammed her fingers down on the phone to spark the dial tone loud and clear. Steve felt his mouth go dry, but he held the phone to his ear and started slamming in numbers. 

It rang once, twice, three times. He glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was nearly 5pm. Maybe you were on your way home from work. Should he leave a message? Did they get the numbers right? 

“Hello?” 

He breathed your name. “Hi, it’s Steve.” 

“Steve, oh my God, hey. You solved it that fast, huh? That’s so embarrassing.” The sound of your laughter from the other end made his stomach knot. 

Erica made kissy faces from the other side of the counter, and he shooed her away. Dustin and Robin followed up the kissy faces, and he flipped the three of them off. They backed away with snickers. He turned his back to them and picked up the phone, walking across the check out station for a more private corner. 

“So… now that you’ve called,” you pressed on. He heard bangs from your end, like maybe you were putting away your dishes or groceries, the creak of cupboard hinges. “Are you busy tonight?” 

“Tonight?” He stood up straight, glancing sideways at his friends eavesdropping in a nearby aisle. Robin flashed him a knowing smirk. “I think I’m free tonight.” 

“Great,” he could hear the smile in your voice. “Would you maybe like to go for a drive?” 

“A drive sounds… great.” 

“I’ll give you my address. Got a pen?” 

—

Steve promised Robin a quarter of a week’s pay and that he would ‘get laid’ (which made him incredibly sweaty) to get her to entertain the hooligans for the evening without him. He promised Erica a day’s pay, plus tax, to allow him to bail, and she begrudgingly agreed to paint his model for him. Her eyes lit up when he unveiled the expensive paint and brushes. Dustin didn’t care so much, as long as Steve promised to take care of himself, which always made Steve a little itchy, but he did.

So, with his friends on the back burner for one more evening, he raced in the direction of your house. He recognized the area as you spoke it. You lived off Cherry, very close to where Max lived before her and her mom moved to the trailer park. He always dreaded dropping her home if he saw that blue Camaro looming in the driveway. Billy had left him alone after that night at the Byers, but the sight of him still made Steve a little gun-shy. 

Cherry was dimly lit this time of night, this time of year, a cascade of warmth across a desolate neighborhood. To be fair, most neighborhoods in Hawkins were void of cars or residents anymore, a ghost town. He slipped past Max’s old place, for sale sign still swinging in the yard, and pulled up three doors down at your house. 

It was small, cozy, blue with white trim and the glow of life from inside sheer curtained windows. Steve pulled into a little divot in carved in front of your yard and turned off the ignition. His mom taught him at a young age that it was always polite to pick a girl up at the door. All of the girls he dated seemed impressed so far. 

But for you, when he pitched open the door, you startled him with a “Hello!”, already halfway down the drive. 

“Hey,” Steve smiled over the roof. You hadn’t dressed up for him, which he appreciated, but you no longer wore your knit cap, hair neat and tucked behind your ears. He faltered for a moment, wondering if he should open your door for you, but you were already there and climbing in, so he followed you back into the warmth of his little car. 

“You look nice,” he said. Always good to start with a compliment. 

You flashed a smile and turned to look him over as you buckled your seatbelt. “Thanks, you too. I do like those glasses on you.” 

He felt his smile widen, turning the ignition. “You do?” 

“Yeah, they make you look smart.”

Thank God for that. Steve flipped the headlights back on and pulled himself out of the rut and back onto the road. The pavement was a bit rocky out here, the Earthquake having mixed everything up. Hawkins had prioritized the roadwork through the center of town and less so in the lower income areas. Not that you were lower income. He swallowed. “So, where to?” 

“The Lake?” You asked like he didn’t have a choice, and he felt itchy under the collar. 

“Why the Lake?” He was afraid of your answer.

You shrugged beside him, face illuminated by each passing streetlamp. “I’ve never been.” 

He smiled at that. “It’s a lot nicer in the daytime.” 

“I’m sure it is,” you agreed. “But if we go in the daytime, we’re more likely to get caught.” 

“Get caught?” His adrenaline prickled then. He couldn’t decide if he was more intrigued or terrified, but either way, he stepped on the gas a little harder. 

You ignored his question. “So, Steve who enjoys Sherlock Holmes and driving and Family Ties, tell me about yourself.” You sunk into your chair, lifting your hands to warm on the heater vents like you had the night before. Despite his warmth, Steve leaned to turn up the flow for you. 

“Sounds like you pretty much know it all.” 

You laughed. “Come on, there’s gotta be some dirt in there, right? Everyone has to have at least one fatal flaw.” 

“Sure,” he nodded. “Everyone does. I just don’t. That’s my curse.” 

You threw your head back in a barked laugh this time. He enjoyed the raw sound of it, the curve of your throat under lamplight. 

He shrugged, turned onto the main road, shifting into third. “No, I don’t know. What do you want to know?” 

“What do you really like to do for fun?” You challenged. 

He risked a glance your direction again, and you were turned on the console to watch him, eyes careful, scrutinizing. “Answer for answer?” 

You rolled your eyes and faced front again. “Fine.” 

He slowed down, turned south onto Curly. “I like spending time with my friends. We watch too many movies. Smoke a lot of weed.” 

“Steve, I’m a cop!” You blurted, incredulous, and he might have been alarmed if he didn’t have insider knowledge. You took a moment to gage his reaction before following up with a, “Not intimidated by the 5-0. A bad boy.” 

He snorted. “My friend’s Dad is the Chief of Police.” And the shit he’s seen is way scarier.

“Shit,” you laughed. “You don’t strike me as a stoner, but I’ll accept it as your answer.” 

“Good,” he tutted. “Your turn.” 

“No, no, no. Ask me something new. I don’t want to be the only one coming up with questions here.” 

Steve chuckled at your point and thought for a moment. There were so many things he wanted to ask you. He hoped he’d have all night. He glanced sideways at you, watched you stare out at the trees and fields as they rolled by, truly like you were seeing everything for the first time. Maybe he’d softball you your first one. “What brought you to Hawkins?” 

“Needed a fresh start.” Your tone was a bit clipped, a bit far-off. 

Steve felt the tension twang between you, and tried to alleviate it. “Jesus. Where were you coming from, super max prison?” 

You snorted, quiet for a moment longer before you turned back to face him. “One question at a time. Do you have any pets?”

You two carried on like this for a while. He learned you preferred savory to sweet foods. You didn’t go to college. You had a myriad of pets growing up: dogs, rabbits, lizards. You didn’t play any instruments. You were more of a night owl these days. You didn’t sleep much. 

That, you had in common. Steve slipped into a parking spot a few feet from the boat ramp. This area of the lake was used for campsites in the summer months, boat parties, barbecues. This year had been void of any sort of celebration. No campers pitched tents or parked RVs. And now, nearing November, the shores were sticky with disuse, water bobbing buoys a hundred yards or so in.

“Here she is,” Steve sighed, gripping the steering wheel with clammy palms. His headlights illuminated the dull waves in front of them, cast a warmth on a clear evening. He was thankful not to see past the surface, to the gate below, the tear in dimensions, the gaping maw that swallowed him whole and spat him back out the other side, bruised and bloodied. “Lovers Lake.” 

“Why is it called Lovers Lake?” You asked, your voice more playful than the horrors tickling his spine. He wished he could focus on you, wished he could match your energy. Maybe this was a mistake.

“It’s uh…” He scratched at the base of his neck. “It’s shaped like a heart. From an aerial view.” He made a heart in the air with two pointer fingers, a demonstration in shadows and silhouette. Freddie Mercury crooned softly on the radio. 

“You like to swim, right?” You unclipped your seat belt to get comfortable. 

He shrugged. “I used to. Swim team captain, head lifeguard.” Accolades he used to brag about, still helped him get girls. Now it felt like ash in his mouth. 

“Ever been skinny dipping?” You reached down and were slipping out of your sneakers, your socks. 

“I… wh-what?” He swallowed, suddenly zoned in on your fingers undoing the buttons to your denim jacket. 

“You know… naked, swimming, usually late at night as to not get caught…” You slipped your jacket off your shoulders and made to shuck off your jeans. 

“It’s freezing,” he argued, mouth dry from the curve of your thighs against his car seat.

“You don’t have to join me,” you teased, pulling your sweater over your head. Your hair caught on the wool, creating a static charge. Flyaways stuck up to touch the felted ceiling. 

“You, uh…” He blinked again, tried not to stare at the cups of your bra or the swell of your breasts spilling from it. “You’re going to catch a cold.” 

You shrugged. “I’ve had worse.” You reached behind you to pull at the tab holding your bra together, but as you did so, you leaned fully into his space, warm body against his. He could smell the floral scent of your shampoo. He opened his mouth to ask what you were doing, when you reached past the steering wheel to flick off the headlights, flooding the car and area surround in darkness. 

“No peeking.” You whispered and opened the car door. The dome light turned on, and Steve watched your bra fall to your discarded seat before the door closed and the silhouette of your frame went springing down the ramp toward the water. 

Cursing under his breath, Steve made sure the car was in park and wouldn’t roll, before he got out and followed you. He kept his clothes on, sneakers slipping a little on the ramp, but made his way down a dilapidated wood dock near where he saw the curve of your back disappear into the dark waves. He peered into the water, eyes adjusting to the moonlight cresting too far off, and called your name.

You shushed him from the edge of the dock, fingers holding you afloat, hair slicked back to your head, cheesy smile lighting your features. “This water’s freezing,” your teeth chattered through a laugh.

“I bet,” he winced, remembering the prickle of needles that was ice cold water. “Ever heard of pneumonia?” 

“Ever heard of a rush?” You countered, kicking off from the dock to dunk back under the water and swim a few feet off. He watched the swells of your body as you did so, lumps that rose and fell like waves, soft, unbothered. He wished he had that freedom, wished he didn’t have the knowledge he did, the trauma. 

You popped up a few feet away, gasping for a breath, and Steve felt himself tense. He looked around, wondering how deep it was. If you needed rescuing, he could springboard off the edge of this dock and reach you in seconds. He kicked off the heel of one sneaker.

“Steve!” You called, taking a few breast strokes his direction. “Can I borrow your jacket?” 

He had a blanket tucked into the backseat, which you teased him about. You made him turn around so you could get out of the water, and you let him look again when you’d wrapped yourself in it. You let him swing an arm around you to walk you back to the car, and he cranked the heat. The volume of the vents rivaled the chattering of your teeth, but you laughed louder and went on and on about how great the water felt, how Steve was missing out.

Per your request, Steve drove out of city limits to find a fast food restaurant, somewhere with greasy French fries and a drive-up window, and you pulled a wad of bills from your jacket pocket to buy him a hamburger that he enjoyed on his drive home. You discussed music taste and your lack of involvement in high school clubs or sports, and things remained fairly surface level until you were back on the looping hills of Curly.

“You seemed really upset yesterday,” you started, the softest he’d heard your voice all night.

Steve clenched his jaw around the straw of his Coke, slurped the last syrupy goodness from the icy base. He glanced your direction, your expression of concern cast yellow in lamplight. With a sigh, he placed his cup back into the cupholder. “You could tell, huh?” 

You smiled at that, nodded, hair still damp around your ears. “I’ve got a knack for reading people.” 

“That so?” He felt a smirk tugging as he rounded a particular sharp corner, the one that curved down into Merrill’s. He downshifted a gear. “What am I thinking about now?” 

You didn’t waste a beat. “You’re being flirtatious. Our night’s coming to a close. You saw a boob.” 

He felt warmth lick at his earlobes from the collar of his sweater. He swallowed. “I did not.” He didn’t really. He saw the swell, a curve, under-boob at best, and he knew he’d be thinking about it for days. 

“And,” you interrupted, slender finger prodding at his bicep, “you’re deflecting.”

He deflated a little, mind dragged back to the guilt he’d felt in that room. 

“Hey, I’m not going to make you talk about it, or whatever.” You sounded so casual, like it all rolled off of you, shoving your feet back into socks and shoes. “I just wanted to let you know I picked up on it, and I’m here if you do want to talk.”

Steve licked his lips and waited for a straight-away to watch you, knee to your chest to tie your laces, two bunny ears into a double knot. The pavement sloped downward, into suburbia, and he could already feel you slipping out of his grasp. 

He cleared his throat, turned down Cherry, the long way. “I just feel bad, you know? Guilty. I don’t like seeing all of those nice people hurting.” The honesty felt raw in his throat, like it did every session, like this gas leaking out of him.

You glanced at him then, brows knit in contemplation, and you shrugged. “Everyone hurts sometimes. It’s not your fault.”

“Why are you there?” He asked, tried to sound as casual as you had, but he wanted more, needed more sweet morsels of you to savor for the week ahead. 

You wrapped your fingers tightly around the seatbelt at the center of your chest, thumb playing with a bit of fray there, but your gaze remained on the horizon, on the houses and lights that illuminated your cheekbones in flashes. “I mean, you went because your friend’s mom asked you too, right?” 

Steve shrugged, slowed to a crawl as your little house came into view. 

“Right. And Dolores is there for her husband, and Jeffrey goes for his daughter, and I think maybe we all started going for someone else and ended up showing up for each other.” The way you said it was so resolute, and Steve couldn’t shake off the implication that you were showing up for him. Was he reading too much into that? 

The click of your seatbelt alerted him that he’d stopped, somehow managed to halt just in front of the walkway that led up to your stoop. He scrambled with the buckle of his own belt, ready to walk you up, but paused when he felt a cold hand against his wrist. He looked up to meet your gaze.

“I can walk myself inside.” Again, with the confidence of a different woman, someone he’d only caught glimpses of, out of the conference room and away from metal chairs scraped against linoleum floors.

“When can I see you again?” He was desperate for it, far from calm and collected, missed the grip of your slender fingers when you released him to open the passenger door. The dome light flicked on, bathing you in warmth. He could see a smudge of mascara beneath your eye, the collar of your jacket dipped dark and damp. The corners of your lips turned up into a smile. “Thursday?” 

With one word, your smile was washed away, confidence replaced by timid shoulders, licked lips. You shook your head. “No, I’ll be out Thursday, remember?”

He vaguely remembered, hoped it was a nightmare, some passing fear that you were slipping away from him. “Can I call you?” 

Again, you shook your head, eyebrows folded. “I’ll be out. I’ll call you.” 

He swallowed, that familiar panic crawling up his chest, though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe because he couldn’t wait that long, didn’t want to wait that long. He let out a shaky breath, offered a smile. “Cool.” Smooth.

You chuckled at that, released a breath of a laugh that he wanted to catch and shove into his pocket for safe keeping. You must have noticed his joy at the sound, because your eyes lit with something mischievous, and you rolled them. “God, one look at my tits and you’re like a lost puppy.” 

His face heated, jaw fell open at the mention of them again, and he ran a hand over his face and through his hair, stammering some sort of defense. “I didn’t see them!” He fucking squeaked. 

Your laugh was louder now, back to that groove of comfort and warmth, head thrown back, white teeth sparkling in lamplight. “Goodnight, Steve.” He liked the way his name sounded on your tongue, liked the way your eyes sparkled, the stretch and pout of your lips.

Then you were leaning in, too close, all encompassing. You smelled Earthy, like lake water, and sticky sweet like Coca-Cola, and before Steve had a second to register what was happening, your lips pressed to the corner of his mouth, and you were pulling away. He chased you across the center console, hoping for the sweet taste again, the plush of your lips against his, the warmth of the crook of your elbow, a fingertip, but you were quicker. 

A gust of winter air fanned his face, and he dipped low to see you grinning back from outside the car, fingers waggled his direction. “Thanks for the drive.” 

“I’ll call you,” he promised.

You shook your head, but the smile didn’t falter. “I’ll call you.” You closed the door with a click, dome lamp turning off, and he watched the length of your legs carry you up the walkway to the front porch, light on your feet and bathed in moonlight. 

—

Steve called you the next day, from work, hunched over the counter to hide himself behind a stack of tapes while Robin scrambled to help everyone in the store. You hadn’t answered, voicemail flat and unfriendly. He panicked and hung up before the beep. 

Sunday, Robin convinced him to quit being a stalker, explained that breathing into the receiver was something a serial killer did, and that he didn’t need to come off so clingy, and she was right. So he didn’t try you again.

By Thursday, you still hadn’t called him, and he felt uneasy, like he’d done something entirely wrong. Some stupid Steve Harrington bullshit that had upset you, something he wouldn’t understand until you were in a bathroom, drunk, calling him bullshit. He winced, rolling into the DMV parking lot, headlights sparkling on the thin layer of frost that spread across the grass this week.

The little conference room echoed with chatter, weekly catch-ups, as the smell of burnt coffee coated the air. Steve accepted an M&M cookie from Mina with warmth tickling under his collar. The woman had crumbs on the corner of her lips, but something about her presence reminded him of Joyce and of Claudia, and of all the surrogate mothers that had taken him in when his own was too busy to nurse his wounds and feed him something not cooked in a microwave. 

He considered not showing up, holing himself in his big, empty house, with nothing but the whirring of the microwave. He’d been that way all week, eyes unfocused on the fireplace while his mind grasped to remember the image of your shape in the water, the feel of your lips against his, the sound of your laughter. Your voice echoed around his skull though, the only clarity his mind offered him over the last week. “We all started going for someone else and ended up showing up for each other.”

So, with Carl and Elmer, and even sweet Mina, on the brain, he wrestled into his puffer jacket and grit his teeth past the chill of winter while he scraped the windshield of his car. If he tried, he could imagine them as his friends, adult versions of the little shits that tormented (and enriched) his life, but he wasn’t sure if that would make things easier or harder, especially after the heartache he felt the week before. He slumped into his seat and split his cookie in half, soft and gooey. He’d just have to wait and see how today’s session went. 

Cheryl clacked in with a bright smile, clipboard on her hip like a well-loved toddler, gazing around the group over the rim of her glasses. She poured herself a cup of coffee as the group calmed, though with the look on her face, Steve wasn’t sure she needed more caffeine. “Hello, everyone!” She greeted in a sing-song.

“What’s got you so chipper today, missy?” Dolores asked, her own eyes sparkling behind bejeweled spectacles. 

Cheryl sucked in her smile and took a sip of her coffee before she settled into her seat across from Steve. His heart ached at the blank space beside her. 

“She’s chipper because of that rock on her finger,” Elmer commented. “Jesus Christ, Cheryl, that thing must weigh a ton.” 

Steve’s eyes went to the engagement ring on her finger, hand holding her cup aloft for all to see. The room erupted in a buzz of excitement and congratulations and questions, and even Steve himself felt the corners of his lips tug into a proud smile. 

She just looked so happy, skin flushing, hair bouncing in agreement as she hid smiles behind waved hands, trying to calm the crowd. “Thank you, thank you. I know, very exciting.” She scolded, but the smile could not be swept from her face. “Shush!”

Showing up for each other. Steve glanced once more to your empty seat and wondered how you’d react to the news. A shiver wracked through him at the thought of your own elation, of the smile playing at pink lips while your eyes flashed to his with mischief. 

“Yes, yes, the rumors are true. Thomas finally proposed. And I refuse to waste any more time on the details, so if you’re really interested, ask me after group.” She flashed a timid wink Mina’s direction before setting her coffee on your empty chair and adjusting her knees in her pencil skirt. She wrapped fingernails to her clipboard, pausing to watch the sparkle of her diamond before she clapped her dainty hands together. “I’m glad to see all of you in good spirits today. I know this time of year can be especially difficult, with the holidays coming up.” 

Steve shuffled in his own seat, ventured a bite of cookie. It was soft and sweet, and he nearly choked when he noticed Mina was watching him. He gave her a thumbs up and a smile, and she seemed delighted at the praise. 

“Since we won’t be here next week, let’s practice gratitude. Our ice breaker will be something we’re thankful for.” 

The concept of an ice breaker always sent a bit of anxiety through him, that stutter of a heartbeat that he’d say the wrong thing, something stupid or embarrassing. He couldn’t decide if your absence made it easier or more difficult. On one hand, he couldn’t say anything to deter you, on the other, he couldn’t tell you he was thankful for your presence in this group, for the smiles of encouragement. He couldn’t tell you he was thankful for the night you’d had on Friday. He couldn’t tell you he’d been thinking about you all week. 

His hands clammed up as the answers formed from around the circle, a wide range of gratitude from time spent with Jeffrey’s daughter while she was still alive to the Colts latest season. His brain wracked for an answer of his own, and his mouth felt a little dry.

“Steve, what are you thankful for?” Cheryl offered an encouraging smile. 

He floundered a bit, licking his lips, staring at your open seat. He swallowed, and opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off from a stern voice to his left. 

“May I?” Carl was leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

Steve nodded, thankful for the distraction. Mina also seemed unbothered by the skip, a knowing smile playing across her lips. 

“I’m thankful for this young man, right here.” Carl pointed, long arms and gnarled finger almost reaching Steve’s chest. 

Steve felt himself blinking, felt his mouth bob open again. 

“Because his bravery showing up to this group every week, with all of us old folks, gave me the courage to talk to my grandson about his feelings with all of this.” He twisted his finger in the air to demonstrate the world around them. “He’s a tough kid, my Joel, but I knew he was taking this really hard. He’s only fourteen, and he lost a few friends. He just started high school, made the basketball team, and I could tell he’s nervous. So I chatted with him, and we had a real good talk.” 

Steve could feel the emotion swell in his chest, that familiar bubble of pride that tightened his ribcage. 

The older man’s jaw was tight, hands clamped into fists, as though he was uncertain of Steve’s response, maybe slightly uncomfortable with all of the attention on him. 

“What position does he play?” 

Carl’s eyes lit at that, his mouth twisted into a smirk. “Post.” 

Steve nodded. “Cool. I’m friends with Lucas Sinclair. He’s on the team too. Maybe we could get together and do a pick-up.” 

The old man nodded, released the tension in his shoulders. His chair squeaked as he sat back into it. “I think we’d really like that.” Showing up for each other.

—

Decorative plates clattered on their displays a few feet above Steve’s head. He was elbow deep in sudsy water, and breathless grunting and the whoosh of air had him rutted up against the countertop, soaking the front of his sweater in sink water. He grit his teeth and glanced over his shoulder to see Eddie take a swipe at Dustin, easily dodged, curled hair and red faces everywhere. 

“Will you two quit horsing around?” He snapped, glasses falling down the bridge of his nose and right eyebrow itching only because his hands were coated in bubbles and grease. 

“Yeah, Dustin, quit picking on me. Daddy Steve’s going to ground you,” Eddie grinned, opening the refrigerator to pull a bright red can of Redi Whip from beside a milk carton. He tilted his head backwards, aerosol making a choked sound before Steve watched a dollop of whipped cream spill upwards from between Eddie’s lips.

“Gross, dude,” Steve grumbled, grabbing around for another dish to clean. “This isn’t even your house.” 

“Joyce?” Eddie yelled, mouth full, all of the gumption of a school kid calling for his Mom. Dustin snickered and took the canister from the older boy’s hands. “Is it okay if Dustin and I have some whipped cream?” 

Joyce appeared around the corner with her hands full of serving platters. “Of course, sweetheart.” She offered Steve a knowing smile, blowing dark hair from her eyes before setting the plates near a stack of Tupperware containers ready to be filled. “But when you’re done contaminating my Redi whip, think you guys can head outside and quit horsing around in my kitchen?” 

Dustin coughed on his whipped cream, earning a rough slap on the back before the two boys chuckled their way out of the room to harass Will and El and Max into a game of touch football.

“Sorry about them,” Steve sighed, scrubbing dried gravy and trying not to think about how the sink reminded him of the Upside Down. 

“Boys will be boys,” Joyce chuckled, and not a consonant was mean. He’d seen Joyce mean, hackles up, defending her cubs, defending him. It was terrifying. 

“Joyce,” the name always felt weird on his tongue. He’d been raised to be respectful.

She looked up with that same twinkle in her eye, slopping stuffing into separate containers. 

“I just uh…” The back of his neck itched. He pushed his glasses up his nose with his forearm, splattering soapy water across a lens. He wiped it off to procure a smudge. He sighed. “I just wanted to thank you for suggesting that group therapy thing.” 

“Yeah?” She grinned. 

He shrugged, avoided her gaze by picking cranberry sauce off a plate with his nail. “Yeah, it’s a really nice group of people. I’m actually going to play basketball with one guy and his grandkid.” 

“Oh, Steve, that’s so great!” Joyce cheered, soft-spoken and kind. “I had a feeling you’d get something from it. And what about that girl?” 

His heart stuttered at the mention of you, stomach sinking. It had been two weeks since he heard from you, two weeks since the drive, two weeks since your dip in the lake. You still hadn’t called, and he hadn’t wanted to clog your voicemail. He’d been hung out to dry, clinging to the line in some hopes you didn’t totally hate him. “What about her?” He swallowed.

Joyce shrugged, preoccupied with the mashed potatoes. “She seemed really sweet, and your age. I wondered if you two were friends. She seemed so lonely after losing her husband, and I just really hoped she could find some friends here in Hawkins.”

The plate slid out of Steve’s fingers, crashing against the bottom of the tin sink, and he cursed under his breath, chasing it to pull from the water and check for cracks. It seemed fine. Rinsing it in hot water, he chewed over Joyce’s words. When the plate was safely deposited on the drying rack and the sink stop had been pulled to drain the suds, he turned back to the woman spooning mashed potatoes as though she hadn’t said anything Earth-shattering. 

He said your name to get her attention, asked it, really. “The girl with the denim jacket?” 

Joyce smiled, eyes sparkling with the same mischief he found in your own eyes, and she described you to a T. “Very pretty girl, isn’t she?”

He swallowed, dried his knuckles with a damp hand towel.

—

Carl and Elmer were bickering about the NBA, voices gruff, arms crossed. Steve felt warm, despite the couple of inches of snow Hawkins got in the last few days, coffee in hand, fluorescents flickering a steady beat in the corner. Just over Elmer’s thin shoulder, one of the heavy steel doors popped open, and you slipped inside, shaking snow off your knit cap, and pulling gloves from your fingers, one fingertip at a time. 

Steve’s breath caught in his chest, released only in a wheeze when you met his gaze and he watched every beautiful feature light up, cheeks plump and teeth white. If he wasn’t warm before, he was flooded with it now, collar hot and itchy around his neck. He raked his fingers through his hair, unsure where to put his hands, sneakers squeaked against linoleum as he shifted his stance. 

You waggled your fingers in a greeting and shuffled your shoes against the damp floor mat.

Steve’s mind raced with conflict. On the one hand, you hadn’t called. For three weeks, radio silence on your end. The only comfort he’d gained was from driving past your house late Monday night to find your lights on. You hadn’t answered any of his calls. On the other hand, you were real and alive, and your warm smile drew him like a magnet. He excused himself from the present argument and met you at the snack table.

“Hi,” he managed. Smooth. 

“Hey,” you didn’t look up at him, eyelashes long against your cheeks. You tucked a napkin into one hand and pulled the pen from the sign-up sheet on a clipboard. “Can you do me a favor and please give me your number?” 

Steve felt his entire body heat from embarrassment. Of course you hadn’t called. You didn’t have his fucking number. “I’m such an idiot.” He sputtered, pulling the utensil from your hand to scribble his digits on the soft ply of a napkin. 

“No, I’m an idiot,” you assured, squeezing his bicep with slender fingers. “I’m the one who promised to call without even asking for your number. You probably thought I hated you.” 

Steve smiled, shrugged. “I was overthinking everything I said.” The confession spilled out before he could stop it, and he hoped it sounded a lot more suave, sarcastic, flirtatious. But then he froze, immediately question whether or not you wanted him to flirt. You had said you wanted more friends, and if Joyce was right, and you’d recently lost your husband, maybe Steve was in over his head. “I mean…” He stammered, carding his hand through his hair again. 

But you smiled, eyes still cast downward as you poured coffee from the carafe into a styrofoam cup. He thought back to the time you’d spilled, the time you’d come in entirely too distraught. He wondered if it was somehow related to your Husband’s death. He swallowed. 

“On second thought, maybe it was your fault.” You glanced up then, eyes sparkling. He bristled. “You never told me your parents’ names. Are you related to every Harrington in the phone book?” You took a sip, glancing around the room. Your energy was a bit frenetic, flitting back and forth over the faces of your group, an unease tensing your shoulders.

Whereas he relaxed, endeared that you’d thumbed through the white pages to find him. “John and Linda,” he offered, tipping the rim of his cup to yours to bring your attention back to him.

You took another sip, but held his gaze, holding the coffee in the pockets of your cheeks for a moment, chewing a thought before the corners of your lips turned up into that world-ending smile. “Steven John Harrington?” 

He felt his nose wrinkle in disgust. Though maybe, if he had been named after his dad, the old man might have taken him more seriously. He shook his head. “Francis. After my mom’s dad.”

You ignited at that, that spark he yearned to spill out of you. He wanted to bathe in it. He could feel the rumble of your chuckle in your throat, the tease he’d been used to since childhood, but felt sticky sweet from you, if only he could push you over-the-edge, procure a full-out laugh.

The closing of heavy double doors broke the spell. You looked away first, to Cheryl, and Steve watched the smile and cheer wipe from your features and replace with creased concern. He followed your gaze to the slender woman, hair perfectly coifed and eyes red beneath her spectacles. 

“Can I have everyone sit please?” She croaked, almost a whisper, the softest Steve had ever witnessed. A chill settled at the base of his skull. 

Chatter turned to grumbled concern as everyone made their way to their seats. Steve felt your hand grip his tightly, just for a moment, before you left him to sit at his twelve, your frame curved at attention toward Cheryl. You pulled a leg up, rested your head on your knee, a defense mechanism, he supposed, body-armor. He glanced sideways to offer Mina a reassuring smile, and she returned it, tight-lipped. 

“Hello, everyone. I come bearing grave news.” Cheryl wrung her fingers against the top of her clipboard, diamond sparkling beneath the fluorescents. She glanced upward, making eye contact with each person in the circle. Almost a full group, Steve noted. “I just learned that Jeffrey passed away over Thanksgiving.”

A flutter of gasps circulated, and everyone’s eyes settled on that empty chair, a little cock-eyed, cast in shadow at an awkward post between two banks of lights. Steve’s heart sank. He wracked his brain for every fact he knew about the man with red hair and mousy eyes, who spoke so highly of the daughter he missed so dearly. 

He felt his hand start to tremble, knee bouncing with anxiety. Glancing across the circle, he noticed you’d pulled your other leg up, barricaded, eyes glazed over, chin trembling just beyond your fingertips.

“I just want to reiterate to you all how important this group is, and how much you all mean to me, and to each other,” Cheryl spoke, slow and self-assured, almost stern. “I understand how this might be too much for some of you, and if you wish to go, by all means, do what you think is best for you, but I do encourage you to push through, to stay, for your fellow group members. Some of us have no one to lean on but each other.” 

Steve watched your shoulders slump, and you stared directly at the ground, arms coming to link around your knees. 

—

Steve’s throat burned, raw, and his eyes stung, and his God damn hand wouldn’t stop trembling. He wanted to pulverize something, to build up the callouses in his palms and wind up to swing his bat through something fleshy and disgusting. He said polite goodbyes with gritted teeth and a clenched fists, held in his emotion to give Carl and Elmer manly smiles and nods. He tossed battered styrofoam into a bin and tore out of there to suck in fresh, frigid air.

Ice cold hit his face like a ton of bricks, stinging at his nostrils and catching the air in his lungs, but it felt so refreshing. It was so much better than the muggy, stale air of a conference room filled with so much grief, so much loss, so much pain.

“Steve!” Your voice called, reeling him back to reality, and he turned to see you. You were bleary eyed, red-nosed, pulling your gloves from your pockets. 

He took a calming breath, nodded for you to follow him around the corner and out of earshot. When he got you close enough to feel the warmth of your knit hat, he mumbled. “How are you holding up?” As though it weren’t obvious, as though everyone wasn’t a wreck.

You looked up from your gloves, face half-shadowed in exterior lamplight. Your breath fogged at the bottom of his lenses, and your bottom lip trembled with a swallow. “I just…” You glanced around the parking lot before tucking your hand into his own. Your gloves were scratchy, but warm. “I just don’t want to be alone.” 

He gave a curt nod and tugged you toward his car. When you got in, closed the door, he threw his arm over the back of your seat and got the Hell out of there, away from the sadness, away from the memories.

You didn’t ask, didn’t say a thing, just buckled and sat with your hands in your lap, tears staining your cheeks as the lights from Suburbia rolled by. 

Instinct carried him to the junkyard, a lead foot on the accelerator and this itching under his skin to hit something. You didn’t question it when he pulled in between the bodies and engines. He pulled right up beside Hargrove’s Camaro, blue-paint charred and covered in snow. “Wait here?” It wasn’t a question. He set his glasses on the dash.

He left the car running to keep you warm, and bitter wind nipped at his ears and his cheeks. He rounded to the trunk to pull out his bat. The handle was warm and chipped in places. The nails were rusted and stained with the blood of monsters, the blood of civilians. He slammed the trunk closed and steadied his grip.

His shoulders were hunched, but he rolled them. Hargrove’s car still held a side-mirror, mirror long shattered, remnants of glass frozen over, but the appendage remained attached to the body, and with a guttural growl and a swing, it was gone. 

That’s all it took, one hit and Steve was no longer in the junkyard, but on the battle field. He was surrounded by bats and demo-creatures and Vecna himself, and he was swinging and screaming, metal dragging against metal, throat raw, until his palms tore and he stumbled to his knees. 

Eyes slammed shut, shallow breaths dragging from between his lips, he tried to wane the dizziness, tried to pull himself back to reality, back to a place where he was forgiven for his sins, for unleashing those creatures on his Home, his People. 

“Steve?” 

Everything flooded back with pounding in his ears at the sound of your voice, the soft warmth of your hand to his cheek. Your face was blurred from tears he wasn’t aware he’d shed, and he ducked himself into your lithe touch. “I’m so sorry,” he croaked. 

“Come on,” you tugged at his shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you warmed up.”

His teeth were chattering. His shoulders wracked with a shiver. He let you pull him upright, let you set him into the backseat, let you pulled the spare blanket up and over his shoulders. The heater whooshed in his ears, and he heard the slam of the trunk before you were crawling in the other side, sidling up beside him, all warm hands and body tucked into his side. 

“What day is it?” 

Steve blinked at the headrest in front of him, tried to process your words. “Wh-what?” 

“Tell me the day of the week, Steve.” Your voice was so calm, so self-assured, wise beyond your years. 

He swallowed. “Thursday.” 

“Good. And what’s my name?” 

He tried to take a few deep breaths, noticed the pressure of your palm against his sternum, focused on it. 

“Say my name, baby,” you cooed, and when Steve’s eyes slammed open, you were over him, all encompassing, hand to his chest, nose brushing his nose. 

He released your name in a breath, like a prayer, and at once, you were swallowing it, warm lips pressed to his own, cupping his cheek, climbing onto his lap. Steve groaned at the weight of you, perfect, grounding, and gripped both of your hips, worshiped your thighs, dragged you into him until no part of his middle had room for the breeze.

“Say it again,” you rasped, head turned skyward. He murmured it into the heat of your throat, vowels meeting your pulse like pressed-palms, but the sound it pulled from your lips was sinful. 

He thought of your curves, cast in moonlight, and now he felt them, desperately digging beneath denim and jersey until frigid fingers met scorching skin. 

You yelped at the touch, but it pulled that throaty laugh from you and Steve realized nothing could ever be wrong again. 

He spoke your name into the junction of you shoulder, where your clavicle dipped, and back to steal your breath from your plump lips. Kissing you was a balm, slow and sweet and soothing, chamomile and honey, a lullaby. 

Your body was a weapon, the steady roll of your hips had him seeing stars. Nimble fingers worked the knots in his shoulders. Your back arched beneath his hand. You seethed his name, nipped at his lips, spread saliva down his throat with expert bites. 

And then your hands found the hem of his shirt, crawled upward to trace puckered flesh, and he felt himself seize up, all at once slammed back into reality. Leather squeaked beneath him. He removed you to favor the seat behind you, squirmed under you, suffocated. 

“It’s okay,” you placated against his earlobe, removed your hands from his shirt to place on his chest once more. 

“No,” he struggled, throat aching, and he gripped your biceps until you released him, pulling back to look at him, pupils blown, brows knit in confusion. He ran a hand through his hair, winced at the sweat that had gathered on his neck. He shook his head. “I can’t. I’m sorry.” 

“Oh,” you swallowed, slid off his lap, the space between you was stale and hot, windows fogged.

“No, I just mean - fuck,” he gasped for air, cranked the window down an inch to alleviate some of the warmth, pressed his skull to the glass. He took a moment to catch his breath before turning back to face you. 

You were adjusting your shirt, your jacket, staring out the windshield, glazed over.

“Hey,” he trailed his fingers across the bench seat to find your own. Yours were too warm, clammy. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine, really,” the corners of your lips turned up, but you weren’t there, weren’t facing him. “I shouldn’t have assumed…” 

“No, God, no,” Steve jumped to remedy the miscommunication. “No, I want this. I want you. Really. I’m like… it scares me how much I’m into you.” He ducked into your line of vision.

Still, you shied. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “That’s why I want to take this slow.” He hoped you heard the subtext. Not here, not tonight, not after today. “Okay?” 

You looked up at him then, that far-off look in your eye, but you managed a shy smile, tucked your bottom lip between your teeth, and you nodded. 

---

A/N: End of part one! Like I said, I've been working on this for absolute ages, and I just wanted to get it out, so I'm splitting it into several parts! It's an angsty one, but I hope you've enjoyed part one. Thanks so much for reading xo xo xo -Amanda

#steve harrington fic #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington angst #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things fic #stranger things

[joyboyish]

gear 5 is coming so everyone has to suffer with my gear 5 headcanons

luffys hair while in hear 5 is like clouds, we know hes made goggles in his hair and put them on but i like to imagine he also changes his hair a lot and makes a beard to make usopp and chopper laugh

when sanji is running out of food he uses g5 to stretch any remains so they have more to eat

some times luffy wakes up seizing and laughing in gear 5 and it scares the crew shitless

nami and usopp are so frustrated when they found out about it bc they start to think about how every paramecia type theyve met cant effect any change in their bodys, like kidd, doffy, law etc, their awakened abilities dont change their bodies but gear 4 changes luffys body, and the only person they know whos able to change their body to get speed, strength, etc is chopper, whos a zoan type and for DAYS theyre like "how have we never noticed this???" and robins like "i had my theories. i read a poneglyph on fishman island with some interesting information." and theyre just like "wo;.'pl.????"

for a few days after the fight was over hed have nightmares and still think hes fighting kaidou and starts seizing and laughing in his sleep

he doesnt tell anyone about the seizures except chopper, who walked in on the first one when caring for him and he asked him to keep it a secret and he started distancing himself from the crew bc he assumed they didnt like him anymore or were afraid of him and zoro came up to him and they had a heart to heart and talked about how luffy is the sun god and zoro is the king od hell and how no one is afraid of him theyre just adjusting to the changes

#one piece #monkey d luffy #one piece strawhats #straw hat luffy #straw hat crew #monkey d. luffy #luffy #straw hat pirates #pirate hunter zoro #roronoa zoro #gear 5 spoilers #gear 5 eats up my little autistic brain i must absorb all fanart #gear 5 luffy #gear 5 #enma #king of hell zoro #kaidou #kaido one piece #op kaido #worlds strongest creature kaido

[blacklegsanjiii]

Okay okay youve awakend brain worms in me, hear me out:

Sanji escaping the dungeon a few weeks earlier causing him to be in the grandline instead of east blue and meeting none other than ✨Robin✨ maybe sanjis somehow being hunted by germa or smth so theyre both on the run and they make a pact to help each other (which is rocky at first cause they both have hella trust issues) but slowly opening up to each other more and more and being each others only trust person...

Idk!! Im reallt loving all your different sanji situations especially since i see him as a barbie character (he has so many jobs!! Lmao) and ive always loveedd his friendship with Robin since i imagine them both having a bit of a morbid humour

Fuck that's good. That's so fucking good ommmggggg.

17 year old Nico Robin picking up a starved and beaten 8 year old Sanji. Both of them flinching at touch no matter how kind or anything. After a year they're probably close and sharing beds/blankets/stuff like that. Doesn't mean it's not hard or anything. Sanji suffers from nightmares every night and is running on very little sleep most of the time. Robin doesn't know how to comfort him at first because sometimes when he wakes up it's straight into a panic attack.

Robin explains Ohara and the buster call, Sanji explains Germa and his issue with bugs from the mask. Robin pulls this impossibly tiny child to her and holds him as they both cry. This is the first time they really touch each other without flinching and such. If they're running from Cipher Pol or the marines or even Aokiji Robin makes sure to always hold the younger's hand. Makes sure to keep him with her at all times.

They spend a lot of time traveling and reading and Sanji gets better at cooking and feeding them and Robin only gets smarter. Sanji gets a bounty as well, guilty by association and the theft and everything else. He's got to have a name like Robin does but I don't know what.

Eventually they wind up in Alabasta working under Crocodile. Ms. All Sunday and Mr. Prince are excellent workers, highly skilled and still able to do what they love. I imagine Robin also taught Sanji to read the poneglyphs in case she dies. Sanji tells her about the All Blue. They have a pact with each other, if one dies the other will try to fulfill the other's dream. It's a lot of weight on their shoulders. Ohara and Germa, the government, the history they have.

When they ask to join the Strawhat crew Luffy lets them when he finds out Sanji can cook and Robin is an archeologist. They don't mesh well at first. Zoro trusts them on the Captain's word but he picks fight with Sanji because he doesn't use weapons and he and Robin are on edge.

When they run into Aokiji he looks at Sanji and Robin. Aokiji mentions off handedly that Sanji's bounty might be getting updated. They leave and Enies Lobby happens and Robin and Sanji are tense. They just are. It probably falls apart and Sanji says it should have been both of them at once because that way they wouldn't have hurt the crew twice, Robin agrees. Luffy yells at both of them for that, saying that they are apart of his crew and won't let them leave until they're dreams are accomplished.

Skipping ahead to WCI Robin goes with Luffy instead of Nami. Robin is dead set on bringing up what happened in Enies Lobby against Sanji because how dare there be a double standard. Even when she finds out they have Cipher Pol over them again. Then she finds out about the cuffs.

How dare Judge and Big Mom? How fucking dare they. Those are his hands, his greatest treasures and tools. Sanji explains that he wants to save his family and they do, Robin doesn't like it because she saw Sanji fresh out of the dungeon, a skeleton wrapped in paper skin covered in bruises and cuts. Robin will let Judge live but on the escape when Judge is saying that shit?

Robin pulls him close and traps him in her arms and threatens him. Devil Child Nico Robin is not one to be played with, especially when it comes to the only person she really truly trusts. So she makes it very clear that she is letting him live this time but if she sees him again? IF they even happen to be in the same town? He will be killed, it will be painful. Sanji is letting her because this is Robin's turn to be protective.

On the way to Wano they're sitting next to each other and Robin mentions that if she was allowed to she would have killed him then and there for how she found Sanji. Sanji nods and apologizes for the trouble and Robin frowns at him. Something akin to "Remember Enies Lobby?" where Sanji mutters that it still should have been both of them. Robin pulls him close and mutters that this should have been both of them too.

#nico!sanji #nico robin #black leg sanji #vinsmoke sanji #answers #look i did it #devil child nico robin

[mintacle]

Jason Todd- DC's Pandora's box

If you only hadn't felt the need to see.

The allure of the beautiful, the desire for what you believe it will hold and the blessings you hope to receive. Open up that casket and look inside if that which you love most can still be found.

Jason Todd is blatantly without agency for a lot of his story. Ranging from the implications of his lack of self-determination as Robin and his demise resulting as actions unrelated to him; Sheila's desires, Joker and Batman's feud, Jason getting caught up in the middle without his own motive mattering much either way, - to his lack of autonomy over his narrative while dead, being turned into a cautionary tale and getting victim-blamed over and over again for his death - finally to his catatonic state for about a year after returning to life, rendering him more object than human and with the exception of Talia he is treated as a mere object. This lack of autonomy coupled with the heaping of others' worst nightmares and biggest hopes on him turns him into an instrument for others to torture themselves over.

The thing about the Pandora's Box is that it's myth was meant to drive home the point that women were inherently evil. Because they lure you in with their beauty but they hide things beneath this surface, and how dare they be more than what they appear to be, no, what you project them to be?

Once the box of Jason Todd is opened up and he is not the potential that everyone wishes to have fulfilled through him - the loyal son come back to life - it is clear that he is no good, he is a mistake.

And saying that Jason is Pandora's Box is not just random pontification. The Lost Days comics themselves allude to this. First we have Ra's saying so:

dehumanizing Jason and seeing him merely as how he affects others, namely inconveniences Ra's and is a distraction to his daughter.

Then at the end of the next issue, Jason tells Talia about his plan to kill Bruce and Talia says the same thing:

And the problem is that, while people can pontificate about whether Jason is good or bad, a net gain or a net loss, morally justified or morally apprehensive, what about Jason himself?

No one cared for Pandora or her plights, in fact ancient Greeks didn't much care for the plights of any woman. they were excused from caring about women with the Pandora's curse. Because of how others suffer due to their mere existence, it is not necessary to consider them. Never mind that the men's suffering is constructed in their own minds.

The pain that Jason puts others in by making them confront reality, that he died for Bruce's mission, is used as an excuse to not care about him either. Because he's too painful to look in the eye, because of the painful memories he brings up.

The potential of having him back was too alluring to ignore, the reality of it too crushing to accept. The only place to put all this blame for the hurt and suffering was on Jason himself. Never mins that he did not create this pain, did not ask to be brought back, that he is the one suffering most under this weight.

#Jason Todd #rambling #meta #girl-coded Jason Todd #Lost Days #to be clear Talia is the one character in his entirety of Lost Days/UTRH who views him differently #That one panel does not suffice to describe their relationship and she is the only human to see him as an act person and to care about HIM #will hopefully have the spoons to make a post about that too. #patron saint of victims

[ichorai]

almost (sweet music) ; robin buckley.

track two of WASTELAND, BABY!

pairing ; robin buckley x harrington!f!reader

synopsis ; five instances robin fell in love with you just a bit more.

words ; 3.7k

themes ; fluff, mild angst

warnings / includes ; profanity, reader is steve's sister, mild season four spoilers, brief description of injury, one kiss (!!!), lots of seventies/eighties movies, eddie LIVES bcs fuck the suffer bros, steve being annoying but we love him, it's a gay mess in there folks :D two awkward lovesick lesbians <3

main masterlist.

“Back again, nerd?” your brother called out from behind the counter of Home Video, cocking an eyebrow at you as he splayed his palms over the smooth surface. His elbow knocked against the metal rack of snacks just to the side, brightly-colored boxes of Raisinets and Goobers toppling to the ground. 

Barely holding back a snort, you stuck your tongue out at him. “I’m not helping you pick those up. And I’m not here for you. I finished Footloose, so I’m in the mood for something a bit more on the darker side.”

Steve glared at you as he shuffled around the counter, grumpily picking up the boxes from the floor. “Over there,” he bit out, dumping the Raisinets back on the counter with a derisive huff before using his head to beckon towards the back of the store. “Horrors and thrillers are near the back. Robin’s doing inventory, go ask her what’s available.”

Your heart seemed to crawl into your throat at his words, and you managed a tight nod, swiveling on your heel to make your way to the back.

The store was dimly lit with few overhead lights the color of molten honey, accompanied by the neon red signs littered around the store. Your teeth worried on your bottom lip upon seeing the back of Robin’s head pop up from an aisle over.

“Hey Robin,” you said, which startled a small noise of shock out of her. Her head whipped around, eyes blown wide open. 

“Oh my God, you scared the crap outta me!” she spoke over the shelf of films. “You really know how to sneak up on a person, huh?” 

A wince fell from your lips. “Sorry. Steve told me you could fix me up with a couple watches. Anything with horror or action would be great.”

“Yeah, for sure. We’ve got Terminator, The Exorcist, Scarface, Star Wars, Jaws, Mad Max, Nightmare on Elm Street… any of those seem interesting? I personally recommend the last one if you’re in for a good spook. Plus Nancy Thompson in that movie is super—” She abruptly paused in her words, staring at you with owlish eyes. 

You tilted your head. “Super…?”

Scratching the back of her neck, she slowly winced out, “Super, uh, cool. Love her character.” She fumbled for a moment on her side before handing the movie’s sleeve to you over the aisle. 

A gentle smile graced the corner of your lips as you observed the cover art. “I’ll let you know what I think.”

“Yeah!” she blurted out, a bit louder than she meant to be. Rouge dusted over the freckles on her cheeks. She started walking around the aisle to make her way over to you, another movie clutched between her fingers. Before she could even think to stop herself, the words were already tumbling from her mouth, “I mean it doesn’t have much action or horror but one of my favorites is this one called E.T. You should totally watch it, one of my all-time favorites now. I know it seems absurd, your brother tells me I’m a lunatic, but I believe UFOs a hundred percent exist. The universe is just so big, you know? There’s gotta be aliens somewhere out there. Now, I’m not completely bonkers, I don’t believe in stuff like the Jersey Devil—though I’m on the fence with Bigfoot. Big hairy ape-like creatures living in the mountains doesn’t seem too absurd, right? Oh God, I’m talking too much. Am I talking too much? I should shut up. God, this is so embarrassing. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m saying all this.”

You stood there, smile just about permanently etched into your lips as you listened to her endearing rambles. “No, no, it’s nice,” you said quietly, a stark juxtaposition to her lively chatter. “I like hearing you talk. It’s very insightful.”

The genuine surprise that flooded Robin’s features made your heart break just slightly. How many times has she been told to be quiet and keep her thoughts to herself? You gently took the second movie from her, your fingertips grazing her own.

A quiet, awkward silence filled the space between you, and you scuffed your shoe against the wooden floors before jerking your head to Steve trying to balance a pencil between his nose and mouth. “Thanks for the recommendations, Robin. I’m sure I’ll love them. Make sure my brother doesn’t torture some poor girl into going on a date with him.”

A chuckle bubbled in her throat. “Don’t worry, I’m pretty sure he’s hit a decade-long dry spell—and believe me, celibacy makes him very cranky. I can assure you, that is not fun to deal with.” Robin paused for a moment when you started cracking up with laughter, her stomach squirming with glee. “See you later! Or, maybe not. I hope I do. But if I don’t, that’s fine too, I—I’m doing it again. Shit.”

You wrinkled your nose in amusement, and Robin felt like she was going to spontaneously combust into flames. Did you have to be so cute? 

“I’ll definitely be back sometime soon. See you later!” you said before turning on your heel. Pausing at the end of the aisle, you looked over your shoulder one last time. “Oh, and, for the record, I think you’re right. Our universe is way too big for there not to be any aliens.”

With that, you strode out of the store, flipping Steve the middle finger and high-fiving Dustin who was just making his way inside. 

Robin’s feet were planted to the same spot, her eyes fixated on nothing in particular as she replayed your conversation in her head over and over again. A silly smile had plastered itself over her mouth. 

Shit. This wasn’t good. She wasn’t into her best friend’s sibling, was she? No, that was just absurd. 

You did have a really pretty smile, though.

The Harrington’s doorbell trilled faintly when Robin pressed her finger on the round button. Not even a full second passed by before she pushed on it twice more, tapping her foot against the welcome mat with impatience. Absent-mindedly, she tucked a strand of her short, mousy hair behind her ear—it’d recently been trimmed; partially due to the heat of summer approaching, and partially because Robin knew she’d get back into the nervous habit of chewing on her hair if it got too long.

Finally, the door swung open.

But it wasn’t Steve who greeted her, it was you.

You, with that curious smile Robin had grown so fond of. You, with your multi-hued checkered button down that was far too large for you. You, with a birthmark she’d never noticed before just beside the corner of your eye that Robin wanted to kiss so very badly—

“Hi, Robin,” you said, effectively snapping her out of her reverie. “Are you here for my brother?”

It took her a good second to swallow down the lump in her throat and croak out, “Yeah! Yeah, is he here? See, we’re supposed to go to the arcade today but he told me the arcade isn’t a fun place to hang out anymore, which he only says because I absolutely demolish him in every game we play. So, I’m not so sure, we might be going somewhere else. I’m running my mouth again, aren’t I?”

“It’s fine,” you waved her off with an easy shrug before she could apologize. “I finished Nightmare on Elm Street, by the way. It was really fun! And you were right, Nancy Thompson is super cool in this one. The actress is gorgeous.”

You felt a sudden scuff on your shoulder, Steve’s face appearing only inches away from yours, twisted into a sneer. “Who’s gorgeous? Me?”

“Get off me,” you barked lowly, shoving him away with a palm flat against his cheek. “And none of your business.”

Steve reached over to muss your hair, and you fruitlessly attempted to duck out of his reach, but his damned long arms managed to twist you over and rub his fist over the crown of your head. “Stop, you’re such an ass!” you hissed out, grabbing his thumb to bite down on it. 

Robin watched with amusement as Steve yowled out a string of profanities, jumping back and wiping his finger down his jacket. He glanced over at her before saying, “You know, Y/N has a bunch of posters of actresses she likes. One of Jessica Lange, another of… Jennifer Beals, was it? Oh, and one of Carrie Fisher in that Star Wars movie! In a bikini.”

Eyebrows raised in surprise, Robin swiveled her gaze to you just in time to see your scowl deepen, fist colliding with Steve’s bicep with a satisfying smack. “Shut up, you dickhead! Oh my God!” 

You threw your hands up in exasperation, briefly shooting Robin an apologetic look before swiveling on your heel and storming away.

“Bye, Y/N!” Robin called over Steve’s cackling shoulder. “That was uncalled for,” she said to her friend, who had righted himself whilst swinging the car keys around his pointer finger. “Great taste in actresses, though.”

Mirth danced in Steve’s eyes. He unlocked his car, clambering into the driver’s seat. “You have my approval, by the way,” he commented as soon as Robin swung in. 

The brunette quirked an eyebrow upwards with confusion. “Huh? Approval for what?”

Steve snorted. “If you wanna date Y/N, you have my approval. I say go for it.”

Uncharacteristically, Robin stayed quiet, her mind moving a million miles a minute. If Steve looked over, he probably would’ve seen steam coming out of her ears.

“It’s clear she’s into boobies, too.”

Robin’s heart lurched into her throat. Hollowing her cheeks for a moment, she leaned back into the carseat and shot him a half-hearted glare.

“God, Steve, don’t say boobies!”

A gush of cold air from inside Family Video greeted you as you pushed open the glass door, sheepishly grinning when Robin’s head snapped upwards, a surprised grin flourishing over her face.

“Hey, Y/N! How may I assist you on this fine day?” 

You leaned over the counter and slid E.T. towards her. For a second, Robin seemed mortified, carefully studying your expression for any sign of aversion to the film.

“I liked it,” you reassured her, smoothing your hands down your shirt, exhaling a shallow breath. Damn it, you couldn’t remember the last time you were this nervous. “I was hoping you could recommend something similar! Turns out I’m more into sci-fi than I thought. I never really explored the genre outside of Star Wars, to be honest.”

“Of course!” Robin twisted to snatch a long sheet of laminated paper. “This is a catalogue of all the films we got in here. Pretty stacked—listed in alphabetical order, and the genres are color-coded. Blue for science fiction… right there. I mean, I’d personally recommend Westworld and Alien. Those are classics you can’t miss out on.”

The way your eyes widened as you peered over the list, accompanied by your slightly-parted lips and your nearly intoxicating citrus-scented perfume made Robin’s head spin in the best of ways. Subconsciously, she leaned over closer, the sleeve of her striped tee brushing your arm. 

“I’ve heard Westworld is really good,” you said, looking upwards, mildly surprised to see Robin’s face only inches away from yours. Blinking, you managed a nervous smile before continuing, “Would you, uhm, be willing to rewatch it?”

Robin’s eyebrows inched closer to her hairline in thought. “Westworld? Yeah, I haven’t watched it in a long while. Would be nice to revisit.” 

“Sorry, let me rephrase.” You internally cursed when your voice cracked, and you straightened your spine before stiffly asking, “Would you be willing to rewatch it… with me?”

It took around ten seconds for Robin’s malfunctioning brain to piece together the implications of your original question and it dawned on her that you were asking her out. You were asking her out.

Holy fucking shit.

“Yes!” she blurted out, leaning even closer in her fervor. This close, she could see the tint of your shiny lip gloss, the roiling hues of your eyes, the small, faded scar on the side of your jaw. You were whittled from pure angel’s light, she was nearly sure of it—clementine in aroma, tangerine in joy, marigold in joy. Robin wanted all of you.

The softest of beams canvased itself across your visage. “Perfect. How does this weekend at my place sound?”

“Perfect,” Robin breathily parroted. God, she wanted to kiss you so very badly. “Even if I had plans, I’d cancel ‘em just for this. There’s no way I’m missing out on rewatching Westworld. Nothing like gun-slinging robot cowboys to kick off the weekend. What should I bring?”

You puckered your lips to the side in thought. “Just you,” you said after a short moment, so quiet that it just barely bordered on whispering. 

Her mouth twitched upwards in amusement, mirth dancing amongst the sapphire of her bright irises. “That, I can do.”

“So remind me what we’re making again?” Robin asked as she pushed the cart along.

Your fingers skimmed along the shelves, muttering the labels under your breath until you abruptly stopped. “Molotov cocktails. They’re easy to make, and can do a lot of damage in a short amount of time—let’s just hope Vecna isn’t fireproof. Here, we’re gonna need around four of these jugs of kerosene. Actually, make it five. A little extra won’t hurt.”

Robin helped you load the cart, her eyes trained on you as you pulled out a crumpled list of ingredients from your pocket. “So what’s all this kerosene for?”

“It’s highly flammable—so we’re filling up as many fragile bottles as we can and sticking rags into ‘em to light up when the time comes. Gotta be careful with this stuff though, if it gets too hot, it might just catch on fire and our supply would dry out.”

 “Right,” Robin piped up, following after you with a dazed smile. “You’re really smart, you know that?”

For a second, you froze in place, heat flourishing over your cheeks. “Thanks,” you grunted out, pointedly avoiding her gaze so she wouldn’t see your evidently flustered features.

The two of you left the store hurriedly once Nancy spotted Jason by the gun rack. Nearly half an hour later, you were outside the RV with your brother and Robin, filling the umpteenth bottle with kerosene. Your nerves were practically alight on fire, anxiety clawing away at your insides at the prospect of coming face to face with Vecna—but you managed not to break down into a panicked mess. It was the last thing any of you needed right now.

“I gotta go take a leak,” Steve announced unceremoniously as he hefted himself onto his feet, glancing down at the two of you. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

As he trudged away, you could feel Robin’s eyes shift back onto you. “Y’know, I usually consider myself to be more of a glass half-full kind of person. But…” she bit down on her tongue, forcing her gaze away when you quirked an eyebrow at her.

“But…?”

“I don’t know, I just… I don’t know if we’re going to make it out of this one.”

You tightly pursed your lips at her words, setting down an almost-empty jug of kerosene onto the grass. Boldly, you moved your hands to shift on top of Robin’s knuckles, your thumbs stroking comforting circles into her skin.

“Look, I’m not very good at comforting people—that’s honestly more of Steve’s thing, so bear with me here. Even if this is gonna be the end of the world… I’m glad I’m gonna be by your side when it happens. Besides,” you added, shrugging just slightly with a mild smile twitching at the corner of your mouth, “I always imagined the end of the world to include an alien invasion of some sorts so… I guess this is something of an upgrade.”

An amused snort erupted from Robin and she tossed her head back to laugh full-bellied chuckles. You slipped your hands away from hers so you could get back to work. “It’s a shame we never got around to watching Westworld. A lot’s happened since then, huh? Feels like that was years ago.”

A twinge of sadness splayed over your chest. “Yeah,” you breathed out.

“Would’ve loved to go to England or something before I died,” she hummed absentmindedly as she grabbed another rag to stuff into the glass bottle. “Maybe Greece. Oh, Japan! There’s so many places I’d love to visit. What about you? Do you have any dream destinations?”

“I’d love to go to New Zealand,” you postulated, unscrewing the cap of another kerosene jug.

“Yeah?” asked Robin with a curious lilt to her tone.

You bobbed your head once. “Yeah. It’s quiet there… tucked away at the corner of the world. Away from everything. Gorgeous scenery, too.”

“That does sound nice,” she said, chewing on her bottom lip in thought. “Don’t think I’d have any money for those trips though—at least not if I decide to keep working at Home Video for the rest of my life.”

“I like that you work there,” you put forth without thinking. “Movies made a good reason for me to come and talk to you.”

The grin that flourished over her lips made your stomach turn over with nerves. “You know, in the beginning, I thought you hated me. You’d never talk to me whenever I came over.”

“I was intimidated,” you admitted, wrinkling your nose at the memory. “You were a pretty girl that was friends with Steve. I think I just assumed the worst.”

“Your brother’s a good friend.” She took extra care to emphasize that last word. “But you? Unclear. I mean, it’s totally okay for it to be unclear right now. Besides, it’s not really the time to—”

“It doesn’t have to be unclear,” you interrupted a second too quickly, before wincing at your initial vigor. 

Surprise painted itself crimson over the freckled canvas of her face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you murmured, sending her a shy smile.

Robin could only beam back dopily, muttering out a dazed, “Cool. Cool, cool, cool,” beneath her breath. Then, she tacked on, “I really, really like you. If that wasn’t clear yet.”

 Before you could vocalize your reciprocation, Steve rounded the corner of the RV, throwing his hands up into the air and exclaiming in exasperation, “Finally! Took the two of you long enough. Jesus, I thought I’d have to lock you guys in a room together or something.”

Hawkins High was transformed into a makeshift shelter after the ‘earthquake’ that Vecna caused. You were hunched over on a medical stretcher, head throbbing from the healing gash on the side of your head. The memory of dried crimson caking the expanse of your cheek lingered in the back of your mind—you had used an alcohol wipe to gently clean the wound, tears stinging the corner of your eyes from the burn. There was also a temporary brace fixed over your badly sprained ankle—an injury you acquired when hacking away at the tentacle-like vines suffocating you and your friends.

Despite your battered state, you still tried helping out, sorting through a couple boxes of clothes beside your brother, who wore an expression of clear concern, constantly mother-henning you into taking a break when that was the very last thing you wanted. 

“Okay, okay, you can sort through these,” Steve relented, rolling his eyes with an exasperated huff. “But you stay sitting. You hear me?”

“Fine!” you snapped back, before biting down on your tongue and shaking your head. “Thanks, Steve.”

Your older brother shot you an indiscernible look, before bending down at the waist and planting a firm kiss onto the top of your head, mussing your hair slightly when he righted himself back up.

The sound of Robin’s voice appearing by your side made a startled noise fall from your throat. “Hey, guys!”

“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” Steve asked, using his head to beckon to the empty food station.

Faint pink canvassed over Robin’s freckled cheeks. “Yeah, I’m just taking a five minute break—I’ve made enough PB and J sandwiches to last a lifetime. Maybe you should go on a break, too.” She glared at him pointedly, clearing her throat whilst using her eyes to gesture to Dustin and Eddie at the other end of the school gym.

Steve wrinkled his nose. “Just say you want to be alone with my sister and go! Jeez, you don’t need to be so cryptic.” The two of you snickered as he grumbled under his breath, folding up the last in his box before clapping Robin on the shoulder and heading off to Dustin, who beckoned him over with a wide grin.

“You alright?” Robin asked, voice suddenly far more tender, gazing across your tired features with a tender expression. “How’s the foot? And the head? Man, you really… really took a beating there, huh? I have to admit, I was genuinely scared that was the last time I’d see you.”

 “I’m okay, I think,” you admitted, shifting slightly so she could sit beside you on the edge of the bleachers with a pained grunt. Robin took a seat, her arm pressed right against yours. She was warm, so very warm, and your sleepy eyes grew hooded with exhaust. “Considering we all almost died.”

A comfortable silence stretched over the two of you, a blanket of security and trust, unspoken feelings.

“I never got to say it,” you mumbled drowsily, the uninjured side of your head dropping to rest onto her shoulder. Robin’s arm went around your back, clutching you to her side with a pleasant hum. She couldn’t help but notice just how nicely you fit against her. “I really, really like you, too.”

Your head lifted just for a moment to get a good look at her expression, which had gotten considerably softer, her bright eyes flickering down to glance at your lips for a moment. You dipped your head once as if to give her the green light—that you wanted her to kiss you.

And she did.

The kiss wasn’t like how they described kisses to be in the movies. There were no fireworks, no explosive passion, no feverish desperation. Only bumping noses and gentle smiles. And it was utterly perfect.

#robin buckley x reader #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things robin x reader #robin buckley drabbles #robin buckley fluff #robin buckley angst #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fanfiction #robin buckley fanfic #stranger things fanfic #robin buckley headcanons #robin buckley #stranger things robin #robin x reader

[whumpily-ever-after]

The Silence of the Monster Whump List

Summary: (from MDL) "He Chu Feng and Luo Bin are the two oddball operators of Monster Vintage, a notable antique store. They live in the same house together, with only a large cat for company, and have become accustomed to each other’s bizarre quirks, although their respective love lives are nothing to write home about! He Chu Feng is a man of mystery and is the store’s locksmith extraordinaire – able to open any lock imaginable on a range of antique pieces. And Luo Bin is the master appraiser of the duo – a man capable of assessing an antique’s worth in mere seconds."

Country: China

Year: 2022-2023

Where to watch: Viki, iQIYI

Spoilers ahead...

Whumpee: Lou Bin aka Robin played by Zhu Zheng Ting

Episode 1: Threatened, surrounded, chased, hands bound behind his back, rescued, in a fight; thrown to the ground

Episodes 2-11: None

Episode 12: Says he feels like an outcast in his family, crying

Episode 13: In a fight, pushed to the ground, punched; friend (reluctantly tends to his wound)

Episodes 14-21: None

Episode 22: Crying; heartbroken

Episode 23: Heartbroken

Episodes 24-25: None

Episode 26: Feels guilty for keeping secrets from his friend

Episodes 27-29: None

Episode 30: Grabbed by the shirt, crying; feels guilty; (flashback) physically pushed away by his father, learned what role his father played in the death of his friend’s sister

Episode 31: Teary-eyed

Episode 32: Sad and guilty

Episode 33: Lured into a trap, prevented from leaving, punched in the face, held by two men, punched in the stomach x2, knocked out; tied to a chair, hands bound behind his back (with rope), blood on his lip, blindfolded, punched in the face repeatedly, escapes his bindings, passes out (from being drugged off camera); dragged, bound to the chair again, told he angered a lot of people, hit repeatedly, threatened to be drugged

Episode 34: (Picks up from the previous episode) threatened to be drugged; falls over (still tied to a chair); drugged, passes out; dragged, scolded, locked in a room, struggles to stand, hurts his hands pulling staples out of a box, tasered, falls down the stairs, grunting in pain, punched and kicked; wounds tended to (in a hospital), concern for him, teary-eyed

Episode 35: Cuts on his face, arm bandaged, worried for his friends; friends concerned about him, having difficulties seeing and hearing; sacrifices himself to make sure his friend continues to have a good life, (flashback) in a fight, flipped over onto his back, chased, falls over a railing, the person he was fighting dies, in shock

Episode 36: Crying; says his goodbyes to all his friends and family, turns himself in, sentenced to six years in prison

Whumpee: Hu Chufeng played by Bi Wen Jun

Episode 1: Cuts and blood on his face; in a fight, hit on the back with a piece of wood; thrown to the ground

Episodes 2-3: None

Episode 4: Nightmare

Episode 5: Nightmare; disoriented, hallucinating

Episodes 6-8: None

Episode 9: Mentions how he saw his mother die in front of him

Episodes 10-13: None

Episode 14: The wound on his wrist tended to, hissing in pain; crying

Episode 15: Crying, reveals his father blames him for his mother’s death; stuck in a flashback, hugging his knees to his chest

Episode 16: Crying

Episodes 17-21: None

Episode 22: Someone from his past plans to make him suffer

Episodes 23-29: None

Episode 30: Feels betrayed by his friend; crying

Episode 31: Sad

Episodes 32-33: None

Episode 34: Lured into a trap; told the man from his past doesn’t want him to be happy and lured his friend into the trap, hit with a metal bat, blood on his forehead; locked in a room, tasered, falls to the ground, holds his side, in a fight, blood on his face; teary-eyed, learns his girlfriend was kidnapped (for revenge against him)

Episode 35: Covered in blood; turns himself in, worried about his girlfriend, crying; told it’s not his fault

Episode 36: Says everything that happened is his fault, crying; believes he lost all his friends and is alone, crying

#the silence of the monster #cdrama #whump list #whumplist #lou bin #hu chufeng #zhu zhengting #bi wenjun

[melonteee]

First I really would like to thank you for your amazing work, it’s thanks to your videos that I finally kicked myself into catching up on OP. I don’t regret it the slightest, thank you for dragging me back into my life-long mad obsession, it really feels like coming home lmao.

Your Law video in particular really punched me in the guts, your analysis really shed a new light on him for me and now I’m obsessed with him. I was thinking about the potential place of guilt in Law’s quest of avenging Cora, especially survivor’s guilt and it's something that is worth mentioning I think. I noticed that Law blames himself a lot in his flashback, saying at several occasions that Cora’s been hurt because of him, and also in the light novel, where he loses himself in “what if”, where guilt eats him alive to the point of having nightmares and even telling himself than if he hadn’t met Cora then Cora would still be alive. That’s such a sad thing to think.

For survivors who suffer from this kind of ptsd, the mere fact of being alive is a constant source of guilt and anxiety. Law probably doesn’t feel worthy of living over the sacrifice of Cora, feels responsible for his death and overly blames his whole existence for it. His already existing feelings of worthlessness (induced by Doffy’s teaching methods, the internalized rejection due to amber lead and the emotional neglect he suffered from) and this overwhelming guilt definitely feed into each other in a vicious circle. This leads him to this need of constantly trying to make sense of his survival and his existence, like trying to pay penance and justify being alive. This is why he came to overburdening himself with the responsibility of avenging Cora’s death, and why he was so self-destructive while doing so. Because there’s also a strong process of identification to the deceased, as a coping mechanism. The survivors have this need to mirror the suffering the deceased went through, it’s a way for them to feel closer to the dead, like if they want to join them in death. It’s the survivor’s attempt to regain his own identity and to reduce the guilt and the psychological distress. I can definitely see that in Law, in how he made Corazon his whole identity, and how he was very willing to die to achieve his quest. There’s definitely a martyr complex going on there. He launched his whole-ass plan at 26 years old, same age Cora died, and I refuse to believe this is a coincidence. It's like he was forbidding himself to live longer than Cora did. And to think that he had all this simmering in him for basically half of his life...that's insane.

Anyway to me this guilt plays a lot in Law’s dedication to Cora and his obsession in avenging him. I also think about how he felt responsible for dragging Luffy into his mess and how he was willing to die as a penance. For me it is also one of the things that definitively separate Law from Doffy on a fundamental level. Because Doffy never has shown the slightest amount of guilt for everything he did, and while he might feel regrets for having killed his brother, regrets are different than remorses.

I’m sorry that was a long one. Told you I was obsessed. I hope the read was interesting anyway!

This is an amazing read anon! I don't have much else to say other than I totally agree! Law's character totally explores survivor's guilt, even if not said outright. It hits double hard considering not ONLY has he gotten this guilt from Corazon dying, but from being the ONLY survivor of Flevance town as well.

Robin was similar in this case, thinking her life was somewhat expendable and 'allowing' herself to die. The only thing is, Robin very much DIDN'T want to, she just saw no way to be ABLE to live. Her mother told her she must live, and Robin only found the will to KEEP living and being ALLOWED to live due to the Strawhats.

Law, on the other hand, was seemingly ready to die from the get go. At 10, he accepted his death from white lead poisoning - expecting to die at 13. Then, after Corazon saved him, Law fully expected to die at 26 with his fight against Doflamingo.

Law has never been able to grasp his own life in his hands, it feels as if he's had this idea he SHOULDN'T be alive and - since he IS alive - he must be alive for SOMETHING. Which is why when Sengoku tells him that ALL Corazon would want is for Law to LIVE, the way LAW wants, it was a big thing for Law!

Law's never had the thought that maybe he can just...exist. Maybe he doesn't need to be alive for a reason. There's truly an aspect of survivor's guilt in such an idea.

BUT now, thanks to Luffy and the people around him, Law's managed to break away from this line of thought. Law is truly starting to live for himself now, and it's wonderful to see!

#ask #melonask

[sparkypantaloons]

A New Day

Freshly resurrected, Jason comes back to Gotham with a plan for vengeance and zero interest in reconciling with his family.

Things don't quite work out how he anticipated.

Or;

A different take on Jason coming back to the family.

Jason wakes up from the Lazarus Pit on a Tuesday. The sun hangs low in the sky, but the heat of twilight in Nanda Parbat is just as suffocating as the heat of the day in Ethiopia. For a minute Jason thinks he’s still in the warehouse, flames licking up the walls, pulling at his skin, tearing out his hair. Then Talia appears and the world turns upside down.

He gets to Gotham on a Friday. It’s spring. But the smell in the air isn’t of fresh grass or new blooms or sweet fruit. It’s of car exhaust and blocked drains and the stench of decay that Gotham is known for. Gotham is home, and this part of it had been his once. But it doesn’t smell like home. Doesn’t smell like the house on the hill beyond the river…

He pushes the thought from his mind, begins to set things into motion.

The first time Jason sees Bruce it’s a Thursday. It’s raining, and the older man is wearing that ridiculous yellow rain jacket he has. The one he thinks makes him look a man of the people. Jason is surprised he still has it. Bruce climbs out of the chauffeur driven Tesla outside of Wayne Tower and is just a fraction too slow to plaster on that stupid Brucie smile that he does in public. Too slow for Jason to miss the tightness of his jaw, or the strain in his eyes, or the weight on his shoulders. Then he strolls into the office block as though he hasn’t a care in the world, and Jason loses sight of him amidst the corporate umbrellas.

A feeling of unease settles in Jason’s stomach, and it’s nothing to do with being back in Gotham or his plans to murder twelve crime lords next month, or even his scheme for revenge. But everything to do with a sad billionaire in a ridiculous coat.

That night, for the first time in a long time, he dreams of The Joker.

It doesn’t happen often. He’s endured worse since the warehouse in Ethiopia. Had endured beatings before, gruesome though it was, and the explosion was all but immediate. No time for suffering. But clawing his way out of his grave? That was the stuff of nightmares. Enduring League training and the wrath of Ra’s? Even more so. In the rolodex of terrors his mind could choose from, The Joker was a wildcard that rarely appeared.

Still, that first night, that first time he sees Bruce, The Joker comes back. A shrill laugh in his ears, and the scrape of steel on stone. Except it isn’t Robin he's beating bloody this time, it isn’t even Jason. But Bruce. Bruce in that stupid yellow jacket. Arms bound and mouth gagged and red, red blood pouring into eyes that are searching desperately for someone to save him. Except then it’s Jason in the purple suit, Jason wielding the crow bar, and Bruce lying horribly still beneath him. The tick, tick, tick, of a clock in the background.

Jason wakes on Friday in a cold sweat, the shadows of dawn creeping up his walls, and a whisper of doubt creeping into his mind.

~

Jason’s a lot of things, but he’s not a quitter. So even when the nightmares of Bruce in Robin’s red and yellow continue, he forges on putting his plan into motion. Pushes memories of that stupid jacket from his mind, forces himself to forget muddy walks on misty mornings. Forget chasing Ace across the Manor grounds, jumping in puddles and Bruce’s hand in his.

~

The first time he sees Dick it’s a Sunday. He’s not even trying to find the guy. It’s been a busy week of choosing targets and planning murders and he’s earned the day off, so he’s in a little deli picking up a sandwich and Dick is there. Just there, like it’s nothing. In a pair of jeans and one of Bruce’s old hoodies and sunglasses on his head even though it’s cloudy.

Jason nearly drops the three cans of soda he’s collecting from the fridge when he sees him, has to exaggerate the fumble so he can hide behind the chips and peer at his once-almost-brother from between the Pringles and the Doritos. Heart yammering in his chest like he’s been caught out past curfew.

Dick looks wrecked. Bags under his eyes and a slump in his shoulders, but he offers the cashier a small smile when he pays all the same. He’s ordered a meatball sub with salad cream because Dick’s always been an animal when it comes to food. And then he takes it to the local park, where he sits on a bench to eat and stays there long after he’s done.

Jason knows because he follows him. Follows him so he can find out what Dick’s doing in this part of Gotham. Find out why Dick has travelled so far from the Manor and his own apartment for a sandwich. Because Dick had only been to this part of town once before Jason died and Jason knows, because he was the one that brought him.

The thought wedges itself in the back of Jason’s mind, feels like a word on the tip of his tongue he can’t quite find and he doesn’t know why.

When he dreams of The Joker that night he wonders if the word is help. Because it’s Dick this time beneath the crowbar. But he’s not tied or gagged like Bruce, just sad and tired. Taking the beating like it’s owed, until his face is nothing but a bloodied mess. His eyes boring into Jason’s, asking why he’s just stood by and watched.

It’s still Sunday when Jason jerks himself awake. Short of breath and pulse quick. Dick’s lifeless body still hiding behind his eyes when he blinks.

~

Jason is used to nightmares. Has always had them. Was used to them that first Christmas Eve at the Manor when he’d woken up hyperventilating. Memories of Willis in a rage and tearing down the tree coming back to haunt him all those years later. He’d been used to that waking-panic, even as Dick had pushed his hair back from his face, wiped tears form his eyes and helped him get his breathing under control. He was used to it. Hadn’t needed the older boys help… not really…

~

Jason is pretty sure he’s never not had nightmares. But his Christmas present that year was the first in what were now well practised grounding techniques, and breathing was still the most important one. You don’t breathe when you’re dead and he always dies in his nightmares. It was Willis before Joker, Joker before Ra’s and a host of nameless monsters in between. Jason always dead at their feet, one way or another. So he wakes up, and he breathes. Because breathing means you’re not dead. Even if it feels like you really were.

Except breathing doesn’t help anymore, because all of his nightmares are of Bruce and Dick now. One or the other or both. Sometimes it’s Jason beating them bloody and sometimes he just watches. Watches as blow after blow after blow lands and nobody comes to help.

And when Jason wakes, sick with terror that the Joker has claimed yet another victim, the relentless tick of the clock still ringing in his ears, all the breathing exercises in the world can’t help. Can’t help because they won’t tell him if Bruce is still alive, can’t tell him if Dick survived the night. Can’t reassure him that the only family he has left still lives. And can’t remind him why it is he’s meant to be so angry with them.

~

It’s a Monday when Jason realises all of his plans have gone to shit. Between doing recon on how to establish his criminal empire and the endless nightmares of the Joker murdering Bruce and Dick, he’s averaging about twelve hours sleep a week. He’d back himself as a better shot with a gun than Green Arrow with bow even on a bad day, but he’s in no fit state to pull a trigger like this. Besides, its hard to put a revenge campaign into action, when you spend most of your hours paranoid your target is already dead.

Because even though he knows, logically, that they’re just nightmares. Even though, rationally, he can tell himself over and over again that they’re not real and dreams are just dreams and nothing more, he’d still feel a lot better if he just… knew. For a fact. If he could just check and put his mind at ease that Dick and Bruce are okay.

Which is why it’s a Monday when he first sees Alfred.

Jason wakes early, veins aching with adrenaline, as visions of Bruce crying out his name fade into the ether. His nerves are shot, his hands shaking as he reaches for the water on his night stand and he can’t do this. Not anymore.

It’s 4am and not quite dawn. If he leaves now he can be at the Manor before sunrise. And if he drives fast enough the wind should keep him sharp.

He’s across the river before the first light of dawn reaches its claws above the horizon, and he’s over the boundary before the birds start to sing. But as he climbs through the window of the guest suite, beside his once-own-bedroom, the sun is just beginning to rise. No problem in a house full of bats, they’ll be sleeping til noon and Jason will be gone long before then.

Except there’s a boy asleep in the guest room. Covers pulled up round his ears and a shock of black hair stuck to his head. Jason stares. Is sure this must be another nightmare, because why is there a kid in Bruce’s house and—

“Jason?” A voice breaks, and there’s a crash of crockery and cutlery hitting the floor as Alfred drops a tray.

Jason’s eyes meet his for a moment, aching veins flooding again with panic, and then he’s out the window before the kid in the bed can so much as mutter “Wossgoinon?” and Alfred can let out a desperate “Wait!”

~

Jason doesn’t sleep again until Wednesday. Can’t stand still for most of that time either. Alfred saw him, Alfred saw him which means they know. The Bats know, Bruce knows and none of this was part of the plan. None of it. He came here to— to— take revenge and to— to—

He doesn’t even know anymore. He’s so tired and so exhausted and so wired with anxiety and he still didn’t see if Bruce and Dick were okay and who was that kid?

And Alfred. God, Alfred. He can’t sleep now, he just can’t because he knows what’s coming. He knows and it’s bad enough to lose Bruce to the Joker every night, bad enough to see Dick taken by the crow bar again and again and again, but Alfred? It will kill Jason. Surer than any bomb ever did.

So he doesn’t sleep. Keeps moving. Falls back into one of his old routes. The ones he did as a kid when he was homeless and sleep was too dangerous, and not because of the nightmares. Does a circuit of Crime Alley before crossing into the Bowery, does a loop round Memorial Park before heading over to the Narrows. Keeps moving. Stays awake.

By Tuesday night he’s almost delirious with fatigue. But he swore to himself a long time ago he’d never sleep on the streets again, so he takes himself back to his apartment even as the thought fills him with dread. And when he lays his head on his pillow, he’s near enough in tears at the thought of what the night will bring.

~

Bruce has been sat outside of the crumbling old apartment block for nearly two days now. Has ignored Alfred’s repeated calls for him to come home, to rest. Has refused Dick’s demands that they take shifts. Has avoided Tim’s quiet offers for help.

He’ll sit here all week if he has to. The rest of the month, even. With his heart in his throat and his fingers gripped too tightly around the steering wheel, because his boy, Jason, his darling darling boy… could it really be?

“Perhaps I was mistaken.” Alfred had said, for the fifteenth time in so many hours. But they both knew it as a lie. Alfred was never wrong.

“I can’t be sure of anything.” Tim had said, but he had been sick with fever. The only reason Alfred was there that time, at all.

“You know it’s not possible, Bruce.” Dick had said, but even as he spoke he was hoping he was wrong.

It’s the first time Bruce hasn’t patrolled since Jason died. It’ll be the second time too, because he’s not leaving this car until the man in apartment 512 returns. Until he knows for sure whether the man they’ve tracked from the Manor, back to Crime Alley, is or isn’t his son.

Bruce wonders what he looks like now. If he’s as tall as Bruce is, or maybe taller. He wonders if Jason is broad like he is, or slender like Dick. If he still has freckles across his nose, or curls in his hair. If he still laughs with his eyes screwed up and head thrown back. Still sticks his tongue out when he concentrates or twists his fingers when he’s nervous.

Bruce wonders if Jason still loves him. Can ever forgive him. Thinks maybe he can accept it if he doesn’t, if at least he knows his boy is alive, is safe.

~

It’s nearly Wednesday, when the man matching the Manor security feed approaches the apartment block. 11.37pm and he’s staggering. Looks exhausted and wretched and desperate. Bruce is sure he’d recognise Jason anywhere, but he’s hunched in on himself and the street light is too dim for Bruce to be sure.

It takes Bruce a moment to pry his fingers from the steering wheel. To get enough air in his lungs to breathe. Then he’s away, and beginning to wish he’d come as Batman because it’d be so much easier to just go through the window than knock on the door. But Jason wasn’t Batman’s son…

The elevator in the block is broken, so Bruce takes the stairs and his the blood is pounding in his ears by the time he reaches the fifth floor. So much so that for a minute he doesn’t recognise Dick, standing there, waiting for him.

“It wasn’t just you who lost him.” Dick says, and his voice is thick with emotion. As though he expects a reprimand.

Bruce grips his shoulder. “Did you see him? Is it— is he—?”

Dick shakes his head. “He was too quick.”

Bruce takes another breath, and then another. His arm is locked, fingers gripping into Dick’s flesh because this is all he has ever wanted for every moment of every day since that day and what if it’s not... What if he’s not…

~

Jason wakes on Wednesday morning to the sharp rap-rap-rap of steel on stone. Sucks in a breath, like a drowned man risen to the surface. Visions of Bruce and Dick and Alfred fading into the darkness.

It takes him a moment to realise his face is wet. Tears still falling as he blinks away the horrors he knew would come. Takes him another moment to realise the rapping isn’t steel on stone at all, but someone knocking on his front door.

He stumbles from the bed, wiping his face as he goes. Tries to shake the chill of fear that still lingers, the sickening sound of crowbar on flesh and bone and brow. He pauses, swallows down the rage and despair that haven’t quite dissipated yet, then pulls open the front door.

“Jason.” Bruce’s voice is little more than a whisper, too small to come from a man so large. But there he is. Stood in Jason’s door way. Alive and whole and Jason hasn’t seen him since that day with the yellow jacket. Hasn’t seen him except in nightmares, beaten bloody and broken.

He opens his mouth to respond, but no sound comes out. Jason had plans. Had so many plans for Gotham and Batman and all of it but now Bruce is here. Bruce is here and he’s alive and instead Jason just cries.

And then Bruce’s arms are around him, his hand is in Jason’s hair and he’s holding him like he’s never going to let go, and Jason wonders just what the fuck he’s been doing all these weeks avoiding this.

“Jay?”

Dick is here too? For a moment Jason wonders if they’re all dead. He still can’t speak. Is still wrapped tight in Bruce’s arms, and he can’t answer, but then he feels Bruce pull Dick towards them and the three of them are a tangle of limbs and a mess of tears and Bruce is saying “My boys, my boys, my boys” over and over again.

~

It’s Wednesday and Bruce is sat at Jason’s bedside. He watches the younger man sleep as though he’s witnessing a miracle. Every breath in and out, every gentle snore, a gift from every God there ever was or ever might be.

Every so often he pushes Jason’s hair back from his head, presses a kiss to the younger man’s hand. Bruce counts the freckles across his nose or thinks about how tall and broad and strong he had felt in his arms. So different from the last time he had held him.

At some point Tim sticks his head round the door. Bruce looks up and grins, gestures the teenager over.

“Is he okay?” Tim asks, not quite hiding his surprise when Bruce pulls him into a side hug.

“He will be.” Bruce says. “I can’t wait for you to meet him.” And Tim gives him one of those goofy, shy grins he does when Bruce praises him.

Alfred stops by every hour or so. Squeezes Bruce’s shoulder but can’t quite bring himself to speak yet. His throat a little too tight for the words he wants to say.

Dick comes by in the afternoon, settles himself in a chair the other side of the bed to Bruce. “Is this real, B?” He asks. Even though he’s spent the morning doing the tests himself. “Since when do we get this lucky?”

Bruce doesn’t know, isn’t sure he cares to know. Content to watch his boy sleep in ignorant bliss for as long as the world will allow.

~

Jason wakes slowly. Only gradually becoming aware of the world around him. The crispness of the sheets, the softness of the bed, the smell of home. His heart doesn’t race, his veins don’t ache, he breathes in slow, nice and easy. Then he blinks his eyes open.

Bruce is sat by his bedside. Reaches out a hand to push the hair from Jason’s head. “Morning, son.” He says.

Jason grins sleepily. “Morning,” He mumbles. “What day is it?”

#spbfic #batfam #batfam fic #batfic #batfamily #jason todd #bruce wayne #dick grayson #batdad #batfamily fanfic #happy ending

[colorfulyetsinful]

I wrote this on my phone again😀

You could tell with the amount of emojis I used, anyways

Tim is literally my favorite I never shut up about him and bc of that this list is so goddamn long. I honestly tried to be consistent but I was going off the top of my head

Enjoy and become apart of the Tim Drake cult😈

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tim Drake hc!!! WOAH!

Nepotism baby

He’s a rich child with inheritance and basically running two separate businesses

Nepotism at its finest✨

Since he was usually on his own (due to his parent working) he used Batman and Robin as a form of escapism

Kinda lonely

He’ll talk to himself as if he was talking to Batman and Robin

Definitely ran a Batman and/or Gotham vigilante stan account on Twitter

Toxic fan **tm**

no literally, he would argue with anyone who disagreed on him that Batman was the best hero,

especially if they were Metropolis

bc why tf do they always have to involve themselves in everything Gotham🤨

Two words: Parasocial relationship

had an unhealthy obsession with Robin!Jason,

Robin!Jason saved him ONCE (1x) and it was down hill from there

Def locked himself in his room, sobbing, screaming, pulling his hair, and throwing up when Jason died.

News: Jason Todd, son of Billionaire Bruce Wayne, pronounced death! Read more to find out.

Tim: NOO!

Vaild tho,

who wasn’t crying when Jason died?

(The joker)

Wha-

He had a celebrity crush on Dick (not ship related),

no one knows about it (it’s all over his stan account that he made sure will never see the light of day),

he’s taking that secret to the grave

I say this a lot about Tim, but

Whore **tm**

have you seen his body count?!

definitely followed in Dick’s footsteps

Strange is what ppl say about him,

vaild tho,

if I had to sit next to Tim in class, I would find him strange too

Adhd coded,

why do ya think he keeps himself busy?! He literally can’t sit still

Also no insomnia,

he just suffers from chronic nightmares that keeps him from getting proper rest,

So de just decided not to sleep

“Nightmares can’t effect me if I don’t sleep”

Yeah, scarecrow has nothing on him,

poor guy’s had worse

Even after getting adopted, he never really felt part of the family,

Always feeling like he has to prove something to Bruce to stay as robin,

Which is why, when Dick had Damian be Robin, Tim felt like he had no place in the family anymore

That’s why he went a little insane

It’s cool, they’re fine now…

Speaking of insane,

Tim is like the one robin in the family I would not want to fight

Like compare to the others,

(Dick has experience form doing it for so long + mf is giggling and joking while kicking ass,

Jason is just kid with daddy issues and a gun, it’s America, been there seen it,

And Damian has both daddy and mommy issues, angain nothing really special)

Tim is just purely unhinged,

he’s got everything to prove without the care in the world what happens to him,

don’t forget his mad scientist era

What I’m trying to say is that Tim is scary and you have a better chance fighting Damian or Jason

(at least they kinda make it quick)

Ok back to silly goofy hc :D

Tim used to write Batman fanfics,

it’s true I was his screensaver

He used them all wattpad, fanfic.net, ao3, tumblr, etc

It was mostly “original character” fics, that were actually self inserts

as escapism

(He’s def taking that to the grave)

Stephanie found out about it and he was planing her “disappearance” within a rive minute timeframe

Speaking of Steph,

They cringe every time someone brings up the fact that they used to date

*hold cute picture of Steph/Tim* Awe you guys were so cute, ashamed you two broke up

Them: *gag*

He loves Steph tho, she’s his ride or die

As I mentioned in my Accent hc,

Tim knows a lot of languages bc rich kid

Him and Damian talk to each other in mandarin, mostly bc it’s a language they both know fluently

He tried to learn Arabic so Damian could feel comfortable talking to him,

(This is after the many times he’s tried to kill him, but hey what are brother’s for..?)

He couldn’t quite get the pronunciation right, and just said “fuck it we speaking mandarin”

Literally, they don’t even speak in English to each other anymore,

Like if it’s just them talk, other ppl they’ll translate or they’re talking shit

Tim and Damian actually get along,

Like it was rough at first, but living together really forces the two to get along

(Imma add more about them in a different hc)

Also Dick Grayson!!

Did I mention he had a parasocial relationship?

Yeah, Dick was not excluded from that

He knew Dick was mostly giving him the time of day bc he felt guilt about not being there enough for Jason,

But he doesn’t care

He knew what he was doing going to Dick about being Robin,

“You gotta be Robin again. Batman needs Robin”

“Idk who you are kid, but I am not wear that thing again. Plus blue is more my color. You wearing if you think it’ll help Bruce”

*Tim already at the display case* “I mean…if you insist”

Stalker

Nothing else to add to that

He’s the best to take to galas (or just to deal with high society in general) having grew up with lessons on how to be a “proper young man”

Study abroad at one point,

It was in Switzerland

Has a staring problem

Literally. Imagine just minding your business in a public area and turning to see (👁️👁️) staring death at you without blinking

Don’t worry, it’s just his adhd taking over the most part of his brain

He actually hates black coffee, but it’s the only think strong enough to have him away (so he won’t get nightmares)

He watches anime,

Specifically, shonen anime and BL (boylove)

He watches anime with Damian while arguing about the main pairing not working bc the “male love interest is obviously gay”

He wrote fanfics, you think he won’t be a shipper?

Can sing,

Like really good

Jason caught him singing in his room at like 2:30 in the morning and sent a video to the group chat

*jason sent a video*

Jason: ya see this shit😀

Everyone goes crazy bc Tim sounds so nice

The thing is, Tim never hid the fact that he can sing, just never said it out load

But if you were really pay attention to him, you could have caught him lightly singing to himself any indie or viral tiktok song while he does basic tasks

Everyone now has a mission of trying to catch him in the act,

Only Alfred and Cass knew he could sing

Bart knows about his identity before he told the team,

Bc Yk future and all

So him and Tim just naturally became closer over time as Tim could rant to Bart without worrying about his identity being blown

(More about this in another hc)

Cannon that he cross dresses

I think that’s it for now…

#batfam #batman #dick grayson #tim drake #jason todd #bruce wayne #red robin #robin #dc characters #batfamily headcanons #batfam headcanons #dc headcanon #idk what other tags to add #I have more hcs for tim but I can’t think right now it’s 12am #I love Tim Drake #hes my favorite robin next to robin!Jason