#I know I sleep in the dirt all the time and there's bugs out there but there's something about an indoor cockroach I don't like

[moteldogs]

just saw 2 roaches in this hotel room. great time to be sleeping on the floor

[cheeseboi420]

Of A Feather - Chapter 1

Preview: And then the shoe drops; he says your name. Your full name. Not your fake name, that you use at work, and on envelopes, and in hypothetical coffee shops. Your real name.

It takes every bit of emotional regulation you can muster not to spiral into a full blown panic right then and there because good God, did He send a child to finish you off? The cruel irony is not lost on you. Come to think of it, this boy on your doorstep does bear an uncanny resemblance to-

“My name is Jason Todd,” the boy continues. “And uh… well, I might be your son?”

You expect this evening to play out like the one before it. And the one before that. And the one before that. Your routine hasn't changed in the last 13 years. Why should it? It serves you well enough, keeps you alive and… Well that's about all it does for you. Not that you're looking for more! For the most part you are… content, maybe isn't the correct word. Complacent fits a little better, but still isn't wholly accurate. You're content in the knowledge that your boy is safe and loved, somewhere far away from the trouble that chases you. You're complacent in your own quiet misery. The longing and loneliness had been a bitter pill to swallow those first few years of running, but after this long you've learned not to complain. God knows no one would listen if you did.

You've got a shitty frozen pizza in the oven, this will be your dinner, tomorrow's breakfast, and tomorrow's dinner. You won't particularly enjoy any of the meals, but they'll sustain you well enough. These days food brings you little if any joy. Meal times are a chore to slog through before the distraction that work brings or the sweet embrace of sleep. You look forward to, more than anything, going to bed. Not because you're tired (though there is a bone deep weariness that permeates- that no amount of rest could ever fix) but because bed means sleep, and sleep means dreams, and dreams mean a chance to hold your baby again.

You don't dream of Jason every night, but every morning you wake thinking of him. Is he still asleep right now? Having breakfast? Is he eating well? Is he happy? Is he happy? Is he happy?

By the time you push your way through breakfast most mornings the cacophony of thoughts revolving around your son quiets to a dull roar in the back of your mind. It's better that way, you think. If you thought about him as much as your mind seemed to want you to, you'd never get anything done.

Life carries on, you suppose. However dreary and dull that life may be.

At one time you'd found the whole thing very exciting- though not in a particularly enjoyable way. The adrenaline rush has worn off over the years, no longer do you feel as though death is nipping at your heels. The paranoia never fades though. Even if your doom does not cast a shadow over you, you're always looking over your shoulder, always ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble.

You keep a bag packed and ready in the closet by the front door for when you have to leave this place too. Though, you think it's buried under a winter jacket and your work uniform. You really ought to dig it out, keep it easily accessible. You should do that but… it's been a long day. You want to eat your shitty pizza, lay down on your futon, and let the sound of TV static fill your studio apartment, lulling you to sleep.

You're getting too comfortable here, you think. You've lived in Michigan for nearly a year now. It is simultaneously entirely too close to and entirely too far from Gotham. The apartment itself was a godsend after spending most of your time sleeping in cars, tents, whatever unfortunate business was willing to employ you, anywhere you could, really- sure it has bugs, and the windows don't close all the way, and you're fairly certain it'll only take one more bad winter storm for the place to come crumbling down, but rent is dirt cheap, and the slumlord you rent from didn't ask for any ID when you signed your ‘lease.’ You're fairly certain that thing's not legally binding anyways- it was written on a cocktail napkin for Christ's sake. That didn't stop you from using a fake name when signing it. You can never be too careful.

You haven't seen your landlord since you moved in anyways. You don't ask for maintenance when things break, you fix them yourself or just learn to live with them broken. You deliver your rent by slipping a cash stuffed envelope with your name (your fake name, the one you signed your lease with, the one you use at work, the one you'd use at coffee shops if you ever went to any) on it through the slot in the office door. You do your best to be invisible. You don't cause problems, and you don't go out of your way to fix them for others. You make no friends or enemies. You've left no impact on the many places you've been, the cities you've drifted through.

The only evidence you've gone anywhere at all in your life is a stack of postcards, held together with a worn rubber band, sitting at the bottom of your go-bag. The only evidence of a life lived before that is in a similarly bound stack of polaroids, held together with a too-small paperclip. Every now and then you'll buy a bottle of cheap wine to chug as you pour over the old photographs. Only when you leave for a new city do you touch the stack of unsent postcards.

You can't bear to look at the photos too often, a painful reminder of your own failings. A reminder of the stupid, reckless little girl you'd been, and the shell of a woman you'd become in the aftermath.

It's all your own fault, really.

At least that's what you keep telling yourself.

It's easier to swallow than the alternative: that you were a vulnerable and unloved thing, eating from any hand that would feed you, until the hand that feeds decides to beat.

This, you think, is why you shouldn't think too hard about the past. It doesn't do you any good to dwell on it.

You force yourself to focus on the present, on the here and now. The scratchy polyester blend of the futon cushions, the scent of cheap cheese melting in the oven, the distant sound of sirens and howling wind outside your apartment. There's no sense in thinking about Gotham now, not when you're so far from it.

You sit up on the futon, no longer content to lounge and let your mind wander. Instead you task yourself with flipping through channels on TV, seeking something mind numbing enough to distract you from your unusually strong urge to reminisce.

The Wonder Years? No, you don't want to watch anything about a family.

Alf? No, that puppet creeps you out.

Cops? Fuck that.

You're about to resign yourself to another night of murmuring the (mostly incorrect) answers to Jeopardy questions at your TV, when you're startled by a knock at your door.

A… knock… at your door.

No one ever knocks on your door. You don't get mail, you don't have friends, if your landlord wanted something, you're willing to bet the greasy bastard wouldn't be willing to haul himself all the way up to the fifth floor at nearly 10 PM.

Oh God… Did… Did he find you? Is this it? Are you going to die in the upper peninsula of Michigan, of all fucking places?!

No, no. You have to stay calm. This could be anything. It's just a knock at the door. It could be anyone!

Oh lord, it could be anyone.

You keep the TV on, hoping that the sound of Alex Trebek grilling folks on useless trivia will cover your footsteps as you creep towards your front door. You hold your breath as you press yourself against it, double checking that all three of your locks are secure before you risk a glance out the peephole.

When you look out into the hall you're surprised, and frankly a bit confused by the sight before you. Standing at your door is a boy, dark haired and bright eyed. He stands straight but not particularly tall- he can't be more than five feet, if that. He's glancing around the hall, rocking back and forth on his heels. He's wearing a red sweatshirt and jeans, with a backpack slung over one shoulder. Despite his small stature he holds an air of determination that makes you think he must feel quite old for his age- you get that, you were the same way in your own youth. A chip too big for your shoulder.

You're so focused on studying him that it startles you when he leans forward to knock again. You jolt, accidentally kicking the door (with your bare feet too, damn does that hurt your poor toes) and responding to his knock-knock-knock with a solid knock of your own.

“Hello?” The boy calls. “Anybody home?”

“I don't have any money!” You call back, cursing yourself for the shake in your voice. You should not be this rattled by a random adolescent on your doorstep. “So, if you're selling popcorn, or cookies, or whatever, you should try next door.”

The boy rolls his eyes.

“I'm not a boy scout!” He says. “I'm looking for-”

And then the shoe drops; he says your name. Your full name. Not your fake name, that you use at work, and on envelopes, and in hypothetical coffee shops. Your real name.

It takes every bit of emotional regulation you can muster not to spiral into a full blown panic right then and there because good God, did He send a child to finish you off? The cruel irony is not lost on you. Come to think of it, this boy on your doorstep does bear an uncanny resemblance to-

“My name is Jason Todd,” the boy continues. “And uh… well, I might be your son?”

He could be lying, the logical part of your brain insists. This could be a ploy to get you to open the door, don't open the door! But your hands are moving on their own, shaky as they may be. The first lock twists unlocked with ease, the second takes a fair bit more of your fine motor function, and by the time your shaking hands reach up to unhook the chain on the door, you're struggling to see through unshed tears. You attempt once, twice, three fucking times to get your hands to cooperate and unlatch the damn chain.

Fuck it.

You open the door, yanking it inwards, towards yourself as hard as you can. It should probably unnerve you that the flimsy chain breaks at the first sign of real resistance, but that's not what's important right now.

What's important is the boy standing before you- your boy. Your Jason.

He looks as surprised as you feel, his eyes flitting between the broken chain, and you.

For a long moment the only thing you can do is look at him, reacquaint yourself with the sight of him. Of course, you know that he did not stay frozen in time, the way your memory of him did. It's been many years since you've held that babbling toddler. But knowing and seeing are two different things.

He's small for his age, is your first thought. Your own fault, you're certain. Between a premature delivery and your own malnourishment during both your pregnancy and his infancy, it's a miracle he'd survived in the first place. Small, but well fed. His cheeks are full and flushed, despite his size he seems healthy. Good. That means Will's been feeding him. Hopefully, it means they got the hell out of The Alley, into a nicer neighborhood.

His hair isn't as curly as you'd pictured it- too short in most places to hold a curl, save for his bangs, which seem to almost curl into the shape of a heart over his forehead.

“Jason?” You can barely manage to say his name through the lump in your throat. You find yourself suddenly struggling to focus your gaze on him, the haze of tears welling up in your eyes makes it difficult to see. You try to blink them away but instead they roll down your cheeks.

God, when's the last time you cried?

You reach out to him, cupping one of his cheeks in the palm of your shaking hand. He leans into the affectionate touch, and you're reminded of puppies, overeager and seeking love at every opportunity.

“Mom,” he says back to you, his tone just as reverent as your own. “Mom,” he says again, voice cracking. And then in unison, the both of you have pulled each other into a crushing hug. You can't tell if the sound you make is a sob or a laugh. You hold onto Jason like he'll vanish into the ether if you loosen your hold for even a second, one hand clutching at the back of his sweatshirt, the other at the back of his head, petting his hair as he buries his face in your neck.

Finally, at long last, your heart is home.

Tears roll freely down your cheeks and land in Jason's hair. You sniffle, extra hard to keep from getting snot on him too. It's one thing to cry on the poor boy, the last thing you want is to use him as a human tissue.

“My baby,” you sob, and your sons hold on you tightens. You think (hope, selfishly) that he has missed you as much as you've missed him.

He's crying too, you realize- not as hard as you are (which is a little embarrassing, get it together girl, you're the adult here) but with his face tucked into your neck you can feel every tear. When you begin to pull back he's quick to wipe the tears away, scrubbing at his flushed cheeks with the heel of his palm. You remove your hand from his hair to gently thumb away an errant tear, and he sniffles before giving you a wobbly smile.

“Hi,” you say softly, your hand lingering on his face. “Hi, baby.”

“Hi, mom.” He parrots, closed-lip smile melting into the sweetest toothy grin you've ever seen. You try to sear the image of him into your memory, imprint this moment into the front of your mind. You're half convinced you'll wake up any moment, TV still playing Jeopardy, pizza burning in the oven.

“How did you- I mean, what are… I just-” you cut yourself off with a breathless laugh. “I don't even know where to start. How… How did you find me?” Why did you come? Do you have any idea how much danger you've put yourself in just by being here?

Jason pulls back from you fully, stepping back out into the hallway. The feeling of loss is immediate and gut wrenching. He's only a foot away from you and already you feel like you're losing him all over again. You're tempted to just pull him back in, to refuse to let go. But you refrain.

Jason reaches into his pocket and pulls out a postcard.

Oh shit.

“I went back to our old neighborhood,” Jason starts, and your stomach sinks. You hope to God he means the neighborhood you left him in and not the one you'd lived in together. You loathe to imagine him running into- no, you refuse to even entertain the idea. Clearly he meant Willis’ neighborhood and not your own. You don't know that he'd be here at all if he'd found the folks you ran with all those years ago. The same people you've spent the last decade running from.

“I got a bunch of old stuff- Mrs. Walker saved it all, and I found, well I found a lot of stuff, but y'know the important stuff was all-”

“Jason, honey, breathe.” He’s talking a mile a minute, where your brain seems to have stalled completely, his is working overtime. He pauses and takes a deep, purposeful breath. It's dramatic, childish almost, how his whole body tenses on the inhale and releases on the exhale. Tentatively, you reach out to take his wrist.

“Why don't you come sit down and we can… we can talk about everything, okay?” You keep your voice soft and low, as if trying to coax a frightened animal. You're afraid he might bolt at the first hint of danger. You wouldn't blame him in the slightest if he did.

Jason doesn't run nor does he shy away from the hold you have on his wrist. He allows you to lead him inside, setting his backpack on the floor next to the door.

Before you close it, you glance around the hall. No one is out there, no one has bore witness to your little reunion. You're not sure what you'd do if anyone had. You shut the door, locking your remaining two locks. You're aware of the concept of ‘mom strength,’ that adrenaline spike that mothers get when their children are in danger, that allows them the ability to do insane shit like lift up whole cars. You don't think snapping the chain off a cheap door lock is quite comparable, but shit. If that's what you can do just seeing him alive and well, you can't help wondering what you'd be capable of if he were in danger.

You know. You know full well what you're capable of doing when you think it will keep him safe. You know. You know. You know.

Jason's presence in your apartment makes you suddenly very aware of how… lacking your home is. Traveling often meant taking no more than what you could carry on your back. All of the furniture in your apartment is second-hand. The TV had been left behind by the previous tenant (whom you're fairly certain is still being billed for the cable- God knows you haven't been the one paying it), the futon and recliner picked up off street corners, the single TV tray you use as a dinner table and matching pair of folding chairs had been an impulse purchase at a thrift store when you first started working again.

You've passed through dozens of cities, only taking jobs that pay in cash. You'd never had a bank account, even before you started running. Too young and too female to open one on your own, and by the time you were old enough you couldn't get one anyway. Too traceable, too much risk attached to putting your name into the world like that. So you worked for cash, which meant your options were limited and often unpleasant. You've been a waitress, a hairdresser, a bartender (though you weren't exceptionally good at that- you learned the hard way that an aching heart and easy access to alcohol do not mix well), a housekeeper, and a- well, you won't list every occupation you've taken up. Some of them you'd really rather not recall.

The transient nature of your lifestyle makes it hard for you to see your living conditions for what they really are: fucking bad. You've got no decor, the whole apartment reeks of cigarettes and it's freezing cold to boot. You've got a space heater to remedy that last issue, but if you run it while the TV is on then you'll lose power in the whole unit and have to walk all five floors (your building has elevators, but they've been broken the entire time you've lived here. The slip on the doors that says ‘out of order - management’ is yellowed with age and tattered around the edges) just to get to the circuit breaker.

It's certainly not fit for hosting guests of any kind, let alone your long lost son.

“Sorry it's uh… like this,” you gesture broadly to the apartment. “I wasn't exactly expecting company.”

“‘S fine,” Jason says, leaning against your wall. You take care to study his expression as he looks around what you're sure must be the most depressing studio apartment this side of the Mississippi. To his credit (and your great relief) he genuinely doesn't seem perturbed by your place.

He's been with you in worse places, you think. Though you doubt he recalls even a moment of your time together. Less than two years you had him. Nowhere near enough time.

There's time now. He's here. He's here, he's here, he's here. The Greek chorus in your head continues to remind you. He's here, and he's real, and you still don't know what the hell he's here for. It can't be just for you, you'd left Willis with very strong instructions to not ever let Jason search for you. Though you suppose it probably would have helped drive home the message if you'd actually said it to him instead of leaving it in a letter, like a coward.

Coward is one of the words you associate most with yourself. Coward, idiot, whore, failed matriarch- that's what it'll say on your tombstone. You shake the thoughts from your head. Now is not the time to spiral into self loathing.

“Here, let's sit.” You guide him to your makeshift dinner table. At the time, you'd thought buying two folding chairs instead of one was a waste of money- who the hell were you expecting to have over? Now though, you're glad you did.

Jason's still got the postcard clutched in one hand. You can almost make out your own handwriting from this angle, but most of what you can see of it is just the scenic wintery landscape and the ‘Seasons Greetings From Michigan!’ printed in red cursive on the other side.

The postcards were, admittedly, an unwise decision. The one that Jason holds now was never supposed to reach him in the first place. It should be gathering dust in your bag with the rest of them. But you're as sentimental as you are stupid.

For the last 13 years, every city you've stopped in you've picked up a postcard. You've written the date and a note to Jason on it, filled out the addresses of Willis’ apartment, and (on the rare occasion when you've had a physical address of your own to write down) wherever it was that you were staying. Some part of you has to have anticipated this- that someday, somehow, one of these cards would find its way to its intended recipient. Maybe that's why you always wrote in the addresses, in spite of how completely and utterly stupid it was of you.

The both of you take your seats at the table.

“Can I…?” You point at the card in Jason's hand.

“Huh? Oh! Yeah, of course,” he hands the card to you. It's frayed in the corners, the edges of the cardstock now softer than the middle. Like he's been holding onto it constantly, like he's been running his fingers along the outline of it. Like he's been rereading it.

Dec. 25th, 1989

My sweet Jason,

I hope your having a good christmas. I hope you get a thousand presents and all the cookies you can eat (without getting sick!)

Im thinking of you, always.

I miss you more than words can say.

All of my love, all of the time

-Mom

Short and sweet, full of grammatical errors and hardly legible due to how absolutely shitfaced you were when writing it. You don't drink often, not anymore anyways. The first couple of years after you'd had to leave Jason were… tough, to say the least. You found yourself drawn to anything you could use to make yourself stop thinking about it, about him. These days you've learned how to just shut your brain off completely, how to operate on autopilot, how to not think about anything at all. You only drink on holidays now. And birthdays. Times when you can't help but think I should be with my baby. Thanksgiving, Christmas, your own birthday, mother's day, and especially Jason's birthday.

This was actually the second Michigan card you'd written him. The first one you'd written to him last May, when you first settled into the new state. That card is no doubt still buried in your bag with the others.

You had picked this card up on your way home from work, Christmas day. Why the pub you work in is open on Christmas is beyond you- the place had gotten maybe two patrons the entire day, and one of them was you. The bartender poured drinks for you your entire shift, topping you off every time your glass reached the halfway point. At the end of your shift he offered you a ride home, to which you declined. In retrospect you think he was coming onto you. Which would certainly explain why he's been so curt with you ever since. Oh well, it's no loss for you. In fact, maybe you ought to thank him.

Because if you had taken him up on his offer, you never would have stumbled home drunk, trudging your way through a foot of snow in your work uniform. You never would have stopped to rest at a closed news stand. Never would have picked up that stray postcard. Never would have taken the pen from your apron and scrawled out a quick message to your son, uninhibited and loving. Never would have drunkenly failed to slip it into your pocket as intended, instead letting it fall to the ground, where the next day some good Samaritan will slap a stamp on it and drop it in the post box. Never would have found yourself sitting across the table from your son.

You try to push down the lingering anxiety of it all, force yourself to feel hope. Maybe this can be good. Maybe no one will bother you two. Maybe you don't have to be afraid anymore. Maybe it's over.

“I'm sorry,” Jason is the one to break the silence. You set the card back down on the table.

“What for?” You've never done anything wrong, not once in your life, you think. What could you ever have to apologize for?

“I would have come sooner, but this went to our old place, and I don't live there anymore, so I didn't get it until a few days ago.” Jason gestures to the postcard. So they did make it out of the alley. Good. Your baby deserves to live someplace where people don't piss on your stoop every night and threaten you with violence every morning.

“Oh Jason,” you sigh. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I never expected you to come anyways.”

This is obviously not the correct thing to say, because he visibly deflates at your words. Your heart breaks a little bit- God, you're a terrible mother.

“Not that I'm not happy you're here now!” You correct yourself quickly. “I am happy, Jason. I'm so, so happy you're here.” You reach across the TV tray, palms up and open. Jason doesn't hesitate to place his hands in yours. They're calloused, which you didn't expect. It's not bothersome, you'd hold his hands even if they were too mangled to hold yours back. But it does make you wonder what he's done to make them like that. What kind of a life must he have led without you?

He smiles a little at that, soft and sweet and warmed by your affection. This is how he should always look, you think. Content and cared for.

“I'm a little concerned that you came all the way from Gotham by yourself though…” You say, squeezing his hands. You may have gotten up to some pretty crazy things at his age, but even you didn't start traveling cross country until you were nearly 22. At 15 your son shouldn't even be driving yet, let alone journeying from New Jersey to Michigan on his own.

“Aw, don't worry about that, ma!” Jason grins, looking awfully proud of himself. There's another expression you'd like to see on him more. And that word- ‘ma,’ he calls you. A much more casual title than you would have given yourself. Not that you’d expect him to call you ‘mother,’ or God forbid ‘ma’am’ like your mother had insisted you’d called her. No, you were prepared for ‘mom’, or maybe even just your name. You wouldn’t have been particularly pleased to have your only child call you by name, but you’d have understood if he felt more comfortable calling you that. There’s a certain familiarity in ‘ma,’ though. A kind of casual affection that you think would have taken years to develop, that in spite of your absence in his life, Jason gives freely.

“I'm your mother, it's my job to worry about you.” You say softly, and Jason's proud smile melts into something a little softer and more pensive.

“Going from Gotham to here was nothin'!” He insists. “I went to Lebanon first- here, hold on a sec.” He rises from his seat, pulling his hands from yours. Though you desperately want to keep your hold on him and shout ‘Lebanon?! By yourself?! You went to fucking Lebanon?!’ You refrain from that as well. He dashes to where he’s left his backpack at the door, picking it up and rushing back to his seat. He throws himself into the folding chair with such force that it rocks to the side, nearly tipping over with him in it. Without thinking you stick your leg out under the table, catching his chair and slamming your knee against the TV tray simultaneously.

“Sorry,” Jason says sheepishly.

“Don't worry about it birdie.”

The nickname makes Jason freeze in place, eyes wide and body tense.

“Birdie?” He asks.

“Sorry, it's- old habits die hard, y'know? That's what I called you when you were a baby.”

Jason's wide eyes relax a little, but his posture is still rigid.

“Why?”

“There was… you had this mobile, with doves on it. Until you were about a year old it was the only thing that would get you to sleep.” That and the sound of you singing, more often than not it had to be both. You force away the memory of that mobile, tangled and broken, lying in your bed many years ago. You force away the memory of how it was broken in the first place. It's not a night you'd like to recall.

This answer seems to placate Jason, but only momentarily.

“Wait, a year old? I thought… I mean, I figured you gave me up right away.”

And oh, oh, if that doesn’t break your heart, what will? It's by design that he doesn't know much about you- an intentional but unfortunate side effect of your leaving. It's safer for him this way. Or at least it was safer for him… or maybe it was never safe at all, considering he's found his way to you regardless of your attempts to shield him from the horrors you carry.

“You were about a year and nine months when I had to,” you pause to take a shuddering breath, lump in your throat threatening to choke the words right out of you. “When I had to leave you with Will.”

Neither of you says anything for a torturously long moment. You scrape at your cuticles, and Jason plays with a loose string on his sweatshirt. Jason looks like he wants to say something, his brow furrowed in concentration or perhaps concern- you struggle to read people sometimes. In the silence you recall an overlooked detail from earlier in the conversation.

“I'm sorry, just- just to circle back real quick, you went to Lebanon?”

“Oh, right!” The sullen expression leaves Jason's face, replaced instead by boyish pride. He reaches into his bag and digs around, procuring a few sheets of paper of varying sizes. The first one he presents to you is his birth certificate.

Your eyes follow the familiar text, the ink long dried though you could almost swear you've still got smudges of it on the side of your hand. It feels so terribly long ago and so recent at the same time.

Your eyes follow his name, written in sloppy print, Jason Peter Todd.

Along the line for the father’s name is your handwriting, spelling out in all lowercase letters ‘willis todd.’ You had been a little delirious still when they’d asked you to sign the certificate- frankly it’s a miracle you managed to even spell the names right- Jason’s, Willis’, and your own. The box for the mother's name however is almost entirely whited out, save for a single letter. That was not your doing.

“I went back to the old place,” Jason says, picking up his story from where he'd left off in the hall. “Mrs. Walker, I dunno if you knew her,” (you didn't) “but she was our neighbor. She saved a bunch of our old stuff for me after I left, including this.” He taps on the certificate.

“Which is how I found out that mom- my… my other mom wasn't my real mom.”

The thought of Jason calling another woman mom makes you sick to your stomach. But you suppose you forfeited the right to be his only mother when you left. That must be why he’d defaulted to ‘ma’ after your initial embrace- to distinguish you from the mother who raised him. The mother whom you are certainly not jealous of, no, not one bit. A blatant lie, you must admit to yourself. You are terribly jealous of the woman who got to watch your son grow up. You’re sure she’s lovely, and you’re infinitely grateful to her for watching over your boy, for loving him as if he were her own child, but you kind of hate her.

“So I looked in dads address book to try and match up the names in there to the letter on my birth certificate!” He presents you with the other two slips of paper, no doubt torn straight from Will's address book. Sharmin Rosen and Sandra Woosan. You don't recognize either name, but that doesn't surprise you. For all his faults, you've always known Willis to be popular, and awfully charming when he wants to be.

You examine both slips of paper, not sure what you hope to achieve by reading the names and addresses of these unfamiliar women.

“I didn't find the postcard until I was on the plane back to Gotham. Kinda jumped the gun on that one.” He says, a little sheepishly.

“You went all the way to Lebanon just to look for me…” You whisper, reverently. God, what an incredible kid. He's brilliant. You never would have thought to match the names in Will's address book to the singular uncovered letter on his birth certificate, had you been in his place. He's a clever kid- he gets it from you, you’re certain. And boy oh boy, isn’t that quite the thought? In your youth you had an ego the size of Texas, though a series of failures and hardships had tamed it somewhat, it appears as though some of that confidence remained, lying dormant, waiting to be impressed upon your greatest creation to date.

“And, Will was just fine with this?” You ask, suddenly realizing what Jason's solo presence means. “He just let you go to fucking Lebanon by yourself?”

Jason's proud expression fades fast and your stomach sinks.

“Dad's not…” he clenches and unclenches his fist, the loose thread he'd been twirling between his fingers snaps. “Dad is dead.”

“Oh,” is all you can think to say. Because really, what else is there to be said? You were never in love with Willis Todd- you liked him plenty, thought he was funny, and charming, and handsome in his own way. But you were not in love with him, and your mourning of him extends only so far as to mourn the loss of something that means a great deal to someone you love.

Despite a lack of love for Will, you do hold a deep affection for the man. After all, he gave you a son and a handful of very memorable evenings. When your eyes begin to water, you think you’re sad more for Jason than for yourself. To lose a lover is one thing, to lose a father is another beast entirely.

“I'm sorry, ma,” Jason says, and this time he's the one reaching across the tray to hold your hands, to comfort you.

“I told you earlier, you have nothing to apologize for, baby.” You say. With his hands in yours you can't wipe away your tears. “I’m sorry, honey.”

Jason sniffles and shrugs, trying very hard to seem unaffected.

“It was a while ago,” he tells you.

“How long ago is ‘a while ago?’” You ask. You wonder who has taken care of him in Willis’ absence. Though you have no doubt your boy could hold his own, you certainly hope he hasn’t had to. You hope he’s always had a warm bed to crawl into at the end of the day. A hot meal waiting for him, prepared by loving hands.

“Dunno when exactly but, I only found out he was dead a couple years ago.” Jason answers. “I thought he was just in jail but…” His face hardens, turns serious in a way that makes him look much older and (though it shouldn’t surprise you as much as it does) quite a bit like his father.

“Two-Face killed him.” Jason says, his hands tightening around yours.

Christ almighty, what is wrong with you two?! Poor Jason, never stood a chance, both his parents victims of Gotham’s famed rogues. You force those thoughts out of your head, push them deep, deep, deep down. You’ll have to tell him eventually, you owe him the full truth of his childhood. But for the moment, you don’t think he needs honesty, he needs empathy.

“Oh, birdie, I’m so sorry.” You squeeze his hands, which are still holding yours perhaps a little too tightly for comfort. You make no mention of your discomfort to Jason though- if he needs to have a vice grip on your hands to feel better then you’ll let him crush every bone in them. Not that you think he would- he’s a good kid, you’re certain of it.

“Can I ask…” you start and then hesitate, thinking for a moment that maybe it’s a little callous to interrogate him on the matter only moments after he revealed to you that his father had died. You soldier on anyway. “Who’s been taking care of you, honey?”

Finally Jason’s grip on your hands loosens, until he’s pulling his hands away entirely to return to playing with the loose thread on his sleeve.

“It was just me and mom- my… my stepmom,” he hesitates on the word, as if he’s not sure he said it right. Really, he’s just unused to referring to her as such. It makes sense of course, that he’d assumed the woman who raised him to be his true mother- no one had ever suggested anything to the contrary. “For a while there. But she got sick and…” He sniffles hard- he does that when he’s trying not to cry, you note. “She’s gone too.”

You presume by ‘gone’ he means deceased as well, not well, performing the same disappearing act you had.

“And now…? Oh, God, have you been all on your own?” It makes you absolutely nauseated to think of him alone, frightened and cold in the cruel streets of Gotham. If that were the case you’d never forgive yourself for abandoning him. That’s what it was, wasn’t it? An abandonment. You can dress it up however you like, insist to yourself that he was better off far, far away from you but… In comes the nagging thought that you fucked up. You made the wrong choice and your son has suffered for it. The only person on this earth that you care about has suffered for the choices you made.

“Not anymore!” Jason exclaims, some of his enthusiasm returning to him. You’re grateful for it, and you think he is too- relieved to find a small reprieve from the heavy conversation. Though you note that ‘not anymore’ is technically an answer in the affirmative. He had at some point or another, for a duration of time he didn’t seem too keen on sharing, been left entirely to his own devices. Your stomach turns.

“Bet you’ll never guess who adopted me,” he says, regaining some of the youthful energy that he’d displayed upon first arrival.

“I bet I won’t,” you confirm. “I’m no good at guessing games.”

He leans forward over the makeshift table, head swiveling as if checking to ensure that no one else is in your apartment. It’s supposed to be a playful motion, a commitment to the bit that normally you would find quite endearing, but you’re paranoid. His joking reminds you that there are in fact, people or a singular person, commanding those beneath him who would like to see you dead, or worse. You’re so distracted by the sudden onset of anxiety that you almost miss when Jason tells you who his mysterious benefactor is.

“Bruce Wayne,” Jason whispers conspiratorially, as if it were some grand secret.

“Bruce Wayne?!” Jason was correct, you would not have guessed that. “No shit?”

“No shit,” he confirms, satisfied by your surprise.

“That’s gotta be one Hell of a story,” you are honestly a little thrown by the revelation. You kept up as well as you could with the goings on of Gotham, though admittedly you paid much less attention to the kinds of gossip columns that Bruce Wayne was a frequent feature in. Your focus was much more… villainous, in nature. Waiting and watching and hoping and praying for when He gets put away for good. Not just stuffed into Arkham for a brief stay before the inevitable breakouts that plague the storied institution, but well and truly gone. Then and only then would it have been safe to return to your hometown, and to the baby you’d left behind in it. Not that he’s much of a baby anymore.

“It’s kind of a long one,” Jason warns.

“I’ve got time,” you reply.

“Actually, could I ask you some stuff first?” It’s a blatant redirect, but you won’t press him. Not yet anyway, you’ll get that particular story out of him sooner or later. But you’ve never had the heart to deny him anything, and as you thought earlier, he deserves honesty.

“I’m an open book, hon,” you tell him, though it comes out sounding unconfident. You hope he doesn’t pick up on it, but if he’s half as perceptive as he is clever, you’re certain he does. Regardless, he doesn’t call you on your bluff, opting instead to begin asking his own questions.

“Why Michigan?” It surprises you that that’s the first question he asks, and not ‘why did you abandon me?’ God knows that’s what you would have asked, and in much less kind words.

“Why not?” Is your answer. “I’ve actually only been here for, hm, I think it’ll be a year next month. I ah, I’ve traveled a lot since…” You trail off and let him assume the rest.

“Where else?”

“Oh, lots of places- I never stay anywhere for very long. I’ve been all over the place.Chicago for a few weeks, Austin for a month or two, a very poorly timed trip to Metropolis kind of turned me off to big cities for a while. Until now I never stayed anywhere for more than a couple months.”

You can practically see the gears turning in his head as he begins to piece together an idea of the life you’ve led in his absence.

“Why stop here?” He asks.

“I guess I just… got tired of running.” You answer honestly. You’re not as young as you used to be, and living by your charms is less and less viable every day.

“What are you running from, ma?” To his credit, he seems to have put together the pieces quite quickly. Rapidly coming to the understanding that you aren’t traveling just for the fun of it, but that you are traveling to escape. He’s a smart kid, brilliant even. You couldn’t be prouder.

Unfortunately, his cleverness is to your detriment. You’d hoped not to reveal this aspect of your history (your shared history) for a little while longer- long enough to establish a rapport with him. Long enough that he won’t immediately turn his nose up at you in disgust when he sees your true nature.

“I've done a lot of stuff I regret, Jason.” You say softly, instead of offering a real explanation. Just a moment longer, you think. Please let me keep this from him, let him continue to love me for just one more moment. You see the unasked question written all over his face.

‘Am I something you regret?’

“But please, please know that I wanted you. From the second I knew you existed I wanted nothing more than to be your mom, okay?”

“Why'd you leave?” Jason finally asks, his voice just above a whisper, and your heart seizes in your chest. He sounds so sad. You're a monster, a terrible mother, and a despicable human being.

“Oh, Jason…” That lump in your throat hasn't gotten any smaller. Your eyes sting with unshed tears. You want to hold him, but honestly you don't think you have the right.

“I didn't- I was just trying to- fuck, I'm sorry.” You sniffle, struggling to find the words.

For a second Jason looks like he's going to say something, and your stomach twists in knots as you try to predict what exactly is going to come out of his mouth. I hate you? You're a terrible mom? I wish I'd stayed in Gotham? All strong contenders, all things you wouldn't blame him in the slightest for feeling.

Instead, he pauses, face twisting up in confusion before he sniffs the air.

“Is something burning?”

It's only after he mentions it that you too begin to smell the smoke.

“Son of a bitch, my pizza!” You scramble from your seat, releasing Jason's hands to go open the oven. Jason follows you up, hovering only two steps behind you the whole time.

As soon as you open the oven a cloud of thick black smoke wafts into your face, making you cough.

“Shit, shit, shit, motherfucker!” You curse. And of course, to make an already wretched situation worse, your fire alarm begins to blare. Almost instantaneously one of your neighbors begins to pound on the wall, calling out a muffled ‘shut the fuck up!’

“Open the window for me, please!” You call to Jason as you rush to drag a folding chair up to the wall so you can reach the fire alarm. Jason does as he's told, quickly unlatching and opening the kitchen window, cool spring air rushing in. He even goes the extra mile and grabs the cardboard pizza box off the counter to fan the smoke outside. For some reason that makes your heart ache.

He's a good kid, you think. In spite of everything, he's a good kid.

You clamber up onto the chair and shut off the alarm, quickly hopping down to grab your singular oven mitt and precariously pull your burnt pizza from the oven. You plop it right down on the counter, uncaring of any mess or burns on the vinyl that you might be leaving. You slam the oven door shut, and finally the billowing smoke seems to dissipate. Jason's fanning slows to a stop and you reach around him to close the window.

What should have been your dinner is now a pitch black disk of inedible garbage.

For a minute you just stand there, with your hands clutching the window sill, adrenaline still flowing through you. You're shaking again- or maybe you never stopped. You try to steady your breathing, repeating to yourself over and over again don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.

Beside you, Jason gingerly sets the cardboard box back on the counter.

“You okay, ma?” He asks softly, and the dam bursts.

You let out a sob, pitching forward against the counter before sliding down to your knees, collapsing to the floor. Jason follows you down, kneeling next to you.

“It's okay! It's just a pizza! We can- I could get you another one!” He attempts to soothe you, but you can hear a nervous edge to his voice. You'd be nervous too if your mom started wailing over burnt pepperonis. But it's not about the food, not really.

“I'm sorry!” You sob, burying your face in your hands. It's humiliating enough for him to hear you cry, you don’t want him to see it too.

“It's fine, really mom, I wasn't even hungry, I ate on the way here,” Jason insists, and his hands find your wrists to gently pry them away from your face. You don't want him to see you like this, but you don't have the heart to deny him anything.

“I don't mean about the pizza, Jason!” You cry. “I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I left, I never wanted to leave you birdie, please believe me!” It takes all of your strength to lift your head and meet his gaze. “I'm sorry for everything. I'm so, so sorry. I'm an awful mother, please forgive-” you're cut off by Jason pulling you into another crushing hug.

This isn't fair, you think. He shouldn't be the one comforting you. But you just can't seem to push him away, instead clinging to him with renewed vigor and sobbing apologies into his shoulder.

You’re pathetic, weeping like a child, in front of your actual child. Have some dignity, woman. Your internal dialogue has taken a particularly cruel tone. Your mind does this sometimes- turns on you in the worst way. It didn’t used to do that. Once upon a time you’d been so certain of yourself, so confident in every action you took that even your enemies struggled to doubt you. But now, after many years of continued misery, spurned by His interference in your life and your mind, you’re reduced to a sniveling self conscious mess of a woman with nothing to her name.

After a long moment you manage to sort of collect yourself, at least enough to stop blubbering and making a fool of yourself.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat for at least the tenth time. “I shouldn’t have- I’m just- I’m sorry, Jason.”

You pull away from him and he lets you, releasing you from his grasp. But his hands hover next to your arms, as if he’s waiting to catch you again.

“It’s okay, ma.” He says, though you know he doesn’t understand what you’re apologizing for, not really.

“It’s not,” you tell him. “But thank you. I’m��� I’m sorry you had to see me like that. It’s just been…”

“A long day?” Jason finishes for you, and you can’t help the manic little laugh that bubbles out of you.

“Try a long life.” You say, and though your smile is rueful and bitter, all that seems to matter to Jason is that he’s gotten you smiling again. Which in turn makes him smile too, and really that’s the perfect balm to all your aching wounds. You’d do anything to keep that smile on his face, anything at all. “But yes, a long day too. What time is it?”

Jason pulls up his sleeve to check his watch- it’s a nice one, one of the fancy digital ones. A gift from Bruce Wayne, if you had to guess. That still perplexes you a little bit, but you’re in no state to be asking anything more of Jason, certainly not the emotional labor required to continue that particular conversation.

“Half past midnight,” Jason answers.

“Shit, it’s past my bedtime,” you mumble, realizing suddenly how utterly exhausted you are. You worked a double today, that alone is enough to tire you out. Combined with the whirlwind of emotions that the last hour has brought you, you’re absolutely drained. Slowly, you rise once more, joints cracking as you do. Damn, getting old sucks. Jason springs to his feet in less than half the time it took for you to stand up.

“What do you say we put a pin in this and continue in the morning, yeah?” You ask, though it’s really more of a plea than a suggestion. “I think this will be a much more productive conversation when we’ve had a full eight hours.”

Jason nods, though you can see it on his face that he’s disappointed.

You’ll tell him everything tomorrow, you swear you will. You owe him that much.

You shuffle your way back into the living room (which is also your bedroom, because you live in the world's grimiest studio apartment), and get to work fully laying the futon down. Rarely do you ever bother to do so for yourself, but you’re not about to make a growing boy scrunch up on a couch to sleep. Jason may be small for his age but he’s not that small, it would still be an awfully cramped place for him to sleep.

You’ve only got the one blanket, currently thrown over the back of your ratty old recliner, a ‘gift’ from the previous tenant. You unfold it and lay it down on the futon. You have no pillow for him, but you think he’ll manage. Just for good measure, you turn the TV off and turn your space heater on, aiming it at the futon.

“Do you need to borrow pajamas, or did you bring your own?” You ask, turning back to Jason who has been quietly observing as you prepare his bed.

“I can sleep in this!” He says. That simply won’t do- you know from experience that sleeping in jeans is uncomfortable. You put your hands on your hips, doing your best to appear stern but not angry- motherly instead of… whatever it is that you really are.

“That’s not what I asked. Do you need pajamas, or did you bring your own?” You repeat, and bite back a laugh when Jason huffs indignantly. It’s cute that he thinks he can get away with avoiding your doting! You’ve missed out on so much, now that he’s here you are going to mother the crap out of this kid.

“Ma, it’s fine, really, don’t worry about it.”

“Y’know, I hate to pull this card, but I didn’t spend nineteen hours giving birth to you just to be told not to worry about you.” You say. “Now, I’m gonna ask one more time, do you need pajamas, or did you bring your own?”

“I didn’t bring any,” Jason replies, crossing his arms across his chest. Though his brow furrows like he’s annoyed, you can see how he’s fighting against a smile. You suspect that secretly, he’s going to enjoy being loved as much as you are going to enjoy loving him.

“Thank you,” you say, turning to go dig through your closet and your sparse collection of clothing. You don’t have much to wear, even less that will fit him, but eventually you settle on a pair of well worn sweatpants and your only surviving possession from before Jason’s birth: a ratty old GSU t-shirt. You fold them, stack them one on top of the other, and hand them off to Jason. “Bathroom’s right there. Did you bring a toothbrush, or do you-”

“Ma, please,” Jason cuts you off, putting on a show of being much more exasperated than he really is.

“Okay, okay, I’m done, I swear. Go get dressed.” You ruffle his hair as he passes by you, mussing up the loose curls.

As soon as the door shuts behind him, you’re digging through your purse for a cigarette. A bad habit, you know, but one that you’ve never quite been able to kick. You open up the living room window, grabbing your lighter from where you keep it on the kitchen counter. You do your best to smoke fast, you want to finish it before Jason returns. You’re a bad enough influence on him already without the added issue of secondhand smoke. Unfortunately for you, Jason is quick and you’ve only smoked half your cig by the time he’s exiting the bathroom, holding the hem of your t-shirt, examining the faded lettering.

“You went to GSU?” He asks, not looking up. You take a final quick drag, before stubbing the cigarette out on the window sill. You’re definitely not getting your meager security deposit back.

“Mhm,” you hum, exhaling through your nose. The smoke burns your nasal cavity, stinging even as you inhale fresh air.

“What did you study?”

“I majored in mechanical engineering and minored in biochemical engineering. Never finished my degree though,” you shut the window. Your college days aren’t something you think of often anymore. God, you’d had so much potential. You still had that potential, even after getting pregnant and dropping out. Even as a struggling single mother you know you’d been brilliant. It’s what you did with that brilliance that really fucked you over.

“Why not?”

“I got pregnant,” that’s the simple answer. Though, now that you’ve said it, it sort of sounds like you’re blaming him for your own failure to thrive. You’re quick to amend your statement. “I don’t like to half-ass things, especially not important things. I wanted to be able to focus on you.”

“You wanted to whole-ass it,” Jason nods sagely. You snort.

“Yes, exactly. I wanted to whole-ass motherhood.” You chuckle and look out the window at the quiet street below. “I did a pretty piss poor job though. Put my whole ass into it and still couldn’t see it through.” A street light flickers down below. You can see Jason’s reflection in the glass, the details of him warped and blurred by your view of the road down below- not willing to turn around and face him directly. You don’t want to subject him to your shame, your regret. He will see it eventually, most likely sooner rather than later. You steel yourself, school your expression, and turn.

“Time for bed now.” You say, and cross the room to put the recliner in position for you to sleep in. You’ll have no pillow or blanket, and the heater will be hitting Jason more than you, but it’s fine, you’ll manage, you’ve slept in much worse conditions. With the sleeping arrangements all settled, you turn back to Jason.

“All yours hon,” you nod in the direction of your rickety futon. Jason nods and rubs his eyes. Poor thing, he must be exhausted too. You can only imagine the kind of whirlwind day (week, month, year, life) he’s had. As he slips into bed you’re tempted to tuck him in, kiss his forehead, hell, you’d read him a story or sing him to sleep if he wanted you to. But no, you push this motherly instinct deep down inside of yourself. Jason’s 15, you doubt he wants to be treated like a child. But still, as you watch him relax, settling into your bed, your home, your life, you can’t help but to-

“I love you,” it comes out in a harsh whisper, your voice threatening to break. Your eyes are suddenly misty with tears that you swear weren’t there a second ago. You sniffle hard and blink them back. Despite visibly fighting sleep just moments before, now Jason is looking up at you with wide eyes.

“You don’t have to say it back,” you tell him. “I just needed to say it.”

You can’t bear to face him for his reply (or lack thereof) so you turn away from him to shut off the lamp, bathing you both in darkness.

“I’m gonna-” you pause to clear your throat of any lingering emotion. “I’m gonna go brush my teeth. Goodnight, birdie.”

And just before the bathroom door shuts behind you, you think you hear, “goodnight, ma.”

The second you feel the latch click, you’re turning the tap on to full blast.You sink down to the floor, bury your face in your hands, and do your very best to cry quietly. Hopefully the running water will muffle the sounds of your sobbing. The last thing you want is for Jason to hear you having a meltdown again. Once was one time too many.

Tomorrow you will do better. Tomorrow you and Jason will sit down and have a real conversation. Tomorrow you will tell him the truth.

AN: well howdy strangers!! it took me entirely too long to finish chapter one, and even longer to actually post it on Tumblr proper. For those of y'all who have been tagged this is just chapter one again but posted directly to Tumblr instead of being linked to ao3! Chapter two hopefully won't take as long but don't hold your breath lol. I plan on posting a preview of it in the next week or two! Anyways, thanks so much for reading! Taglist:@leirobles @qardasngan @amphiroxx

[revelboo]

I know its not ENTIRELY the case but I love how Waspinator's like "Dating? Got it. I can do dating. Im gonna be the BEST at dating. And then, i will have unrestricted access to Nap Lap, the most coveted place."

He’s trying his hardest

Worker Bee Pt 17

Waspinator x Reader

• Sprawled face down on your bed, you’re immediately awake when you hear and feel the bed shifting and creaking. He’d stayed in the living room watching cartoons with the rapt focus of a toddler for the bright colors and let you sneak off to bed alone last night. Apparently, he’d finally noticed you’d abandoned him. And you groan when his heavy weight comes down partially on top of you, forcing the air from your lungs. “You’re too heavy,” you groan, squirming to wiggle out from under him and he settles for just his head and an arm against your back. And a leg kicked out across yours. Sighing and resisting the urge to grab a pillow to beat him with, your nose wrinkles. Why does he smell like freshly turned soil? Has he been digging in your yard? He’s behaving at least and you’re too sleepy to care about holes in your yard.

• Venting against you, he’s alert until your breathing evens out and only then does he allow himself to recharge. Had checked the perimeter of his hive after returning to make sure all was well. Hadn’t been able to find any pretty flowers with the snow, but he’s pleased with what he had found to offer you. Sure that you’ll be impressed with him and accept his courting gift. And food? He’s seen you prepare your weird smelling food from the tall, cold box and the small beeping box. Simple enough.

• “Little friend?” What time is it? Ignoring as he croons at you, the mattress shifting when he moves over you. If you ignore him, he might go away and let you sleep. “Little friend.” Feel his mandibles slides through your hair and against the back of your neck to make your skin crawl. And then his wet glossa slides behind your ear and there’s no pretending you’re not awake anymore when you shriek and nearly elbow him in the face. “Awake?”

• “What’s have I said about licking me?” You growl, words becoming a wheeze when he slumps against your warmth to vent against your skin. “Can’t breathe.” Hooking an arm around you, he rolls so you’re sprawled on him, his wings flared out under him. And your eyes narrow when you look around. “There’s mud in my bed,” you say, voice that carefully neutral tone you use right before you get angry with him. And he whines when you sit up on him to stare at the mud smeared on your skin from him. Clawed servos resting on your hips, he’s afraid to move in case you bolt. “Why is there mud everywhere?” Knows how dangerous that calm tone is. That his little friend is about to yell at Waspinator most likely.

• “Waspinator’s little friend very lovely,” he manages and that is the last thing you expect from the big idiot. Startling a snorting laugh out of you, because if he thinks that’s going to get him out of trouble, he’s gravely mistaken. “Little friend’s frame very soft,” he adds and now you are laughing, because he’s so terrible at whatever this is? Painfully awkward flirting? That thought sobers you, because no. There’s no way he’s flirting. “Pretty scent.” Yeah, nope. This is getting uncomfortable now.

• “I smell like dirt right now, but thanks,” you mutter, sliding off of him to make his frame strain and another buzzing whine escapes him. Rolling onto his side to watch you purse your soft lips and examine the room, his antenna go back when you smile. “There’s more dirt, isn’t there?”

• “Prepared food for little friend,” he says, words a bit too quick as he rolls off your bed and follows you down the hall. How is there mud on the ceiling? Squinting back at him, that he’d fixed you food is especially horrifying. Bug breath eats silverware. And he bumps into you when you stop short at the living room. Is that an azalea bush? Roots and all? And what is that stink? “Flowers for little friend. Dating.” What are the symptoms of a stroke, because you can’t breathe right now, staring at the mess. Dating? What does he mean dating? And the fire alarm chooses right then to start screaming.

Previous

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[cosmosluckycharms]

Bug like angel incorrect quotes yet again

miguel version

honestly could also be read as non bug like angel idk

Kidnapper: We have your daughter

miguel: I don’t have a daughter?

Kidnapper: Then who just asked for warm milk and made us cut the crusts off her sandwich?

miguel: Oh god, you have spider!reader

spider!reader: This is miguel, he's… not my assistant, some other word.

miguel: I’m her carer.

spider!reader: Yeah, my carer. he cares so I don’t have to.

spider!reader, trying her first ever cup of coffee: I am ENERGY!

miguel, an avid coffee drinker, on his twelfth cup of the day: Someone slap me awake or I am literally going to fall into a coma in ten seconds.

miguel: spider!reader, can you help me? All of my clothes keep disappearing for some reason.

spider!reader, wearing a hoodie that's 5 times bigger than her size: Spooky.

spider!reader, very tired: Can I sleep in your bed?

miguel: *half asleep* spider!reader, this is a queen-sized bed. That means it’s for *gestures vaguely to himself* the Queen.

spider!reader: School sucks.

miguel: I know, but you have to do it so you can get a job.

spider!reader: What are jobs like?

miguel: They suck.

spider!reader: Holy shit, miguel, do you know what this means?!

miguel: Kid, whenever you start doing this, nobody knows what you mean.

miguel: Are you ever going to listen to me?

spider!reader: Yes. Absolutely.

miguel: When?

spider!reader: When you're right.

miguel: Why are you like this??

spider!reader: I used too much "No More Tears" shampoo as a kid and I haven't felt a single emotion since.

spider!reader: You believe me?

miguel: spider!reader, you’re the last good person on this planet. I‘d believe cartoon birds braided your hair this morning.

miguel: What are you doing here?

spider!reader: I could ask you the same question.

miguel: I live here. This is my house.

spider!reader: I should probably ask you a different question.

miguel: I'm going the fight the next person who insults spider!reader.

spider!reader: I hate myself.

miguel: Alright, square up.

spider!reader: Bitch.

miguel: Blocked.

spider!reader: Wait unblock me I need to tell you something.

miguel: Unblocked.

spider!reader: Bitch.

miguel: I can never give spider!reader shit because I’m jealous of them. They look at their life and say, “Sweet! This is perfect!”

miguel: I look at my life and say, “Welp. Time to get drunk.”

spider!reader: I want a trip down memory lane.

miguel: *proceeds to grab every warrior cats book they have and sets them in spider!reader's lap*

miguel: I heard you needed these?

spider!reader: YES! ALL OF THEM!

miguel: In the past year you have managed to piss off the LAPD, ATF, CIA, FBI-

spider!reader: NBA.

miguel: …?

spider!reader: Snuck into a Cliffords game.

spider!reader: I got grounded for a whole week just because I came home late.

miguel: Well, you deserved it. I mean, getting everyone's hopes up like that and then showing up again.

miguel: You’re alive.

spider!reader: No need to sound so disappointed.

spider!reader: Why does my arm shake and turn bright red when I’m eating dirt?

miguel: Why are you eating dirt?

spider!reader: Did I ask you if I should eat dirt? No, so answer my question.

miguel: spider!reader, no.

spider!reader: spider!reader, yes.

spider!reader: Here comes the lightning!

spider!reader, whispering: You've got to imagine it coming out my fingertips, wherein I am an almighty wizard.

miguel: Ok, currently imagining that. Hmm, not bad. Not bad at all.

spider!reader: Am I in trouble?

miguel: Take a guess.

spider!reader: No? miguel:

Take another guess.

spider!reader: So what’s for dinner?

miguel: I can’t tell you, it’s a soup-prise!

spider!reader: …

spider!reader: Is it soup?

miguel: I soup-pose it could be! *winks*

spider!reader: Please, enough with the soup puns!

miguel: Wow, you’re soup-per mean.

spider!reader: STOP! *one hour later*

spider!reader: It’s fucking tacos?!?!?!

miguel: spider!reader, are you drinking… drinking hydrogen peroxide?!

spider!reader: It says H2O2! That means it’s the sequel to water!

miguel: spider!reader, I beg of you. Please, PLEASE go to the doctor.

spider!reader Hey, I'm sorry. Is this OUR stab wound?

miguel: *Turns on the kitchen light*

spider!reader: *Sitting at the table, eating bread*

miguel: It’s four in the morning.

spider!reader: Turn the light back off.

spider!reader: I’m the smartest, wisest person in this group.

miguel: Really? Then why is your hand stuck in a vending machine?

spider!reader: I paid for my Mars Bar, I’m getting my Mars Bar.

spider!reader: *is throwing stones at miguel's window*

miguel: You have a phone for a reason, spider!reader!

*THUD*

miguel: DID YOU JUST THROW YOUR PHONE AT MY WINDOW?!

miguel: *very seriously* You need to stop doing weird things to cope with the stress. Going outside might help.

spider!reader: I went to the park today.

miguel: There you go! I hope you got something from that.

spider!reader: *opening their coat* This duck.

pt 1 cause theres gonna be more i js ran out of image space

[wordsofwhimsy]

❀ꗥ～𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ～ꗥ❀

❀ꗥ～ No Goggles!Mark Edition!～ꗥ❀

Pairing: No Goggles!Mark Grayson x Southern Belle!Reader

Warnings: Eh, mentions of series typical violence, nothing crazy

Tags: Hurt/comfort, but like, not in a fun way lmao

Word Count: 3,132

Synopsis: You couldn’t be minding your business harder as you tend to your garden, when suddenly he appears. It’s nothing but chaos and forced southern hospitality from there.

a/n: this literally ended up being the longest spin off so far but i swear no goggles really is the most fun version of mark to write for

you can start reading the main series ❀ꗥ～Here! ～ꗥ❀

The late afternoon sun settles over the treetops, casting that warm, amber haze across your porch and the half-wild garden patch just beyond it. The air’s thick with the hum of crickets and honeysuckle. You’ve got your gloved fingers deep in the dirt, coaxing a stubborn little basil sprig into place.

You sigh, brushing sweat off your brow with the back of your wrist.

“Now don’t y’all bloom all at once—Lord knows I only got two hands and a prayer…”

You barely get the words out before the air pressure drops—fast. Sudden. Not wind. Not thunder. Something else. You look up just as a figure slams into the yard like a meteor, sending up a spray of dirt and rock like it’s a confetti cannon.

He lands like a disaster. Tall. Blood-smeared. Wild-eyed—and grinning like he just won a prizefight.

No goggles. No pretense. Just trouble.

You stare at him, trowel still in hand. “The hell are you supposed to be?”

“’Don’t y’all bloom all at once’,” he repeats, twisting your words into a terrible impression of your accent. “That’s adorable. Are you seriously real?”

He says it like he’s seen ghosts before, but you’re the haunting.

“I said,” you snap, “who the hell are you?”

He straightens, chest puffed out in mock confidence. “Aw, shucks, reckon I’m just a tumbleweed blowin’ through… lookin’ for a sweet lil’ rose to pluck.”

Smack.

Your glove cracks across his cheek so fast you surprise even yourself. The hit echoes sharp in the still air.

He touches his face, stunned for all of two seconds. Then grins like you just handed him a gift.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, “do it again. That was incredible.”

Your lip curls. “You mockin’ me, boy?”

He tilts his head, stepping closer like a moth to a bug zapper. “I was—but now I think I’m in love. Seriously, what are you? You sound like you stepped out of a fairytale with a switchblade.”

You take a sharp step back, raising your trowel just in case. “You’re not right in the head.”

“Debatable.” He circles you now, hands behind his back, still grinning. “Say something else. Come on. ‘Hands and a prayer’—what else you got? Threaten me again, but like… with that sweet little drawl.”

You glare. “I could end you with this trowel.”

“There it is!” he nearly shouts, eyes wide. “Say it again. Slower.”

You exhale through your nose. “Bless your dumb little heart.”

He actually stumbles back, laughing like he’s been hit. “Oh my god. You’re killing me. This is the best day of my life.”

You stare, baffled, as he floats a few inches off the ground, just to lazily hover around you like a drunk balloon.

“What’s your name?” he asks, voice low and curious.

“…[y/n].”

“Well, [y/n],” he says, saying it like he’s tasting it, “I think I’m gonna stick around a while. Hope you don’t mind. I need to hear you call me stupid at least six more times.”

You raise your brows, unimpressed. “Only six?”

His smile goes crooked. “Oh, you’re perfect.”

You don’t answer. Just look him over, still gripping your trowel like you might chuck it at his head if he makes another dumb joke.

He hovers lazily a few feet above the garden now, turning upside down midair with all the grace of a sleep-deprived bat.

“What even is this place?” he muses. “Everything’s slow, and hot, and you smell like peach jam and dirt. It’s kinda great. Definitely weird.”

You fold your arms. “You done floatin’ and talkin’ nonsense, or should I go grab a fly swatter?”

“God, you’re ruthless.” He flips back upright. “Can’t decide if I wanna fight you or marry you.”

“Try either and you’re gettin’ buried in the compost pile.”

He laughs again—loud and sharp, full of teeth. You don’t know what’s wrong with him, exactly. But it’s something. Something tilted. Like the world’s just a little sideways in his eyes.

He lands again, just outside swinging range.

“Alright, alright. I’ll go,” he says, holding up his hands. “Multiverse business and all that. Gotta go break something somewhere else.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” you mutter.

He starts to turn, then pauses. “Say goodbye to me.”

You blink. “No.”

“Say it with the accent.”

“No.”

“Say ‘see ya later, darlin’, don’t do nothin’ foolish’ or whatever y’all say before a good ol’ murder.”

You sigh, hard. “Go. Before I introduce this trowel to your spleen.”

He grins one last time and takes off—so fast he kicks up dust all over your garden.

You cough, waving a hand. “Jackass.”

—

You’re halfway through a slice of pie on the porch when the screen door creaks and you hear it again—that whoosh.

And there he is.

He doesn’t stick the landing this time, slamming into the dirt with a grunt then immediately going still for a beat.

“Are you serious?” you hiss, standing up quickly, pie forgotten. "You again?"

He groans, hand clutching his side. He’s bleeding more now—his suit dark with it. Face smeared with dirt. Hair a disaster. Still smirking, somehow.

You storm down the steps, apron flapping like a battle flag.

“You bleedin’ on my tomatoes now, is that it?” you snap, glaring down at the heap of superpowered insanity curled in your garden.

Mark props himself up on an elbow, wincing slightly, and shoots you a crooked smile. “Missed you too, darlin’.”

“You’re leakin’ like a busted faucet, darlin’,” you fire back, crouching beside him despite your better judgment. “And don’t think callin’ me sweet things is gonna keep me from usin’ this trowel again.”

He wheezes a laugh. “God, I knew you were dangerous.”

You eye the gash running down his side, brow pinching. “You need a doctor.”

He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes. “Got one right here.”

“I plant basil,” you deadpan. “I ain’t a trauma center.”

“You’ve got clean hands and good instincts,” he murmurs, quieter now. “That’s more than most.”

You blink. There’s something under his voice now. A crack in the static. Just for a second.

“…what the hell happened to you?”

Mark shrugs—or tries to. “Ran into someone who didn’t like my sense of humor.”

“Well, sugar, neither do I,” you grumble, already pressing a clean corner of your apron to the wound. “Hold still.”

He hisses at the contact, but stays quiet. Watching you.

You try not to notice how close his face is now. How he’s still got that half-smile, but it’s lazier. Sleepy. Tired in a way that doesn’t match his usual cackling energy.

“You got a name?” you ask, voice lower now.

He watches you for a moment, eyes unreadable. “Mark.”

You blink. Somehow you expected something fake. Something stupid, like “Omega Cowboy.”

“…Mark,” you repeat, testing it out. “Well. That’s almost normal.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he warns. “I’m still very much a problem.”

You press the cloth harder, and he hisses through his teeth.

“Yeah, well,” you murmur, “I’ve wrangled worse.”

He grins at that—slow and feral. “That right?”

“Mmhmm.” You narrow your eyes. “Now quit smilin’ like a possum in the trash and hold that tight. I’m gettin’ the kit.”

As you turn, he watches you go, head tipping back against the dirt, eyes slipping shut for just a second.

“…peach jam and dirt,” he murmurs again, like a prayer or a punchline.

And for once, he doesn’t laugh after.

You’re only inside a minute—maybe two. Long enough to grab the dusty first aid kit from under the kitchen sink and curse yourself for getting involved.

But the moment you step back onto the porch, you freeze.

Mark's slumped sideways now, face pale beneath the grime, body too still.

"Mark?"

No answer.

You drop the kit, heart jolting. “Oh, no you don’t, you lunatic—hey!” You rush to him, dropping to your knees in the dirt. “Don’t you go dyin’ in my garden, I just fixed the soil!”

You shake him once—twice. His head lolls. You slap his cheek gently, then a little harder.

“Mark, dammit, wake up!”

He groans, eyes fluttering open, unfocused.

“There you are,” you exhale, relief punching through your chest. “Come on now, get up.”

“Mm… m’up,” he slurs, trying to roll but only managing a half-hearted twitch. “This the part where you kiss me back to life?”

You glare at him. “This the part where I drag your dumb, heavy ass into my house so you don’t bleed out in the beans.”

He grins—dopey and dazed. “Romantic.”

“Shut up.”

With way more effort than you’d like to admit, you haul one of his arms over your shoulders and heave him up, grunting as he leans heavily on you.

“God, you’re built like a fridge,” you huff. “What are you even made of?”

“Sex appeal,” he mutters into your hair.

You elbow him in the ribs and he groans in a way that might be exaggerated. Might not.

You stumble inside together, kicking the screen door open and half-dragging, half-carrying him through the hallway until you reach the only place remotely suitable—the bedroom. You don’t have a couch big enough for all of him, and you sure as hell aren’t laying him down on your kitchen table.

You guide him down onto the mattress as gently as you can. He flops onto his back with a dramatic sigh, arms spread like he’s just been martyred.

“Well, well,” he drawls, eyes closed, “this is moving way faster than I expected.”

You toss a pillow at his face. “You’re bleedin’ out, not gettin’ lucky.”

“Shame,” he says, muffled by cotton. “I’m very charming in a near-death state. Some women are into that.”

You shoot him a look as you open the kit. “I’m into clean sheets and peace of mind, which you’re actively ruinin’ both.”

He laughs—wheezing, ragged, but real.

You try not to think about the way that sound lands in your chest like a spark in dry brush.

You reach for the alcohol and cotton pads, muttering under your breath. “Can’t believe I’m patchin’ up some interdimensional jackass in my Sunday sheets…”

He just grins, head tipping to the side as he watches you work.

You move in silence for a moment, hands steady as you clean the blood from his side. It's worse than you thought—jagged, bruised, and deeper than any normal person would’ve survived.

But he’s not normal.

You catch sight of something under the blood—a line of faded scarring, old and angry, spiderwebbing across his ribs. You frown, hand pausing for just a second too long.

His voice is quieter now. “Yeah. That one’s from a different me.”

You glance up.

He’s watching you again. Not leering. Not grinning. Just watching.

You say nothing. Just keep cleaning, dabbing gently with the cloth.

“…and that one,” he adds, pointing lazily to a jagged scar near his shoulder, “was from some cape who thought he could moral-speech me into giving up. Didn’t go well for him.”

You shake your head. “You act like this is all normal.”

He shrugs—or tries to. “It is. For me.”

You don’t answer. Just reach for the bandages. The weight of it sits between you—his body littered with stories he tells like punchlines. But none of them are funny.

He shifts, drawing a long, dramatic breath. “Y’know… if you cared about me even a little, you’d be feeding me right now.”

You pause mid-wrap.

Lord help you—you feel it. That tug. That deep-rooted, bone-deep southern instinct that kicks in when someone so much as breathes the word “hungry” near you.

You purse your lips, trying to fight it off like a sneeze in church.

“…You just bled all over my garden,” you mutter. “That don’t make you helpless.”

He makes a noise—somewhere between a groan and a pitiful sigh—and slumps dramatically against the headboard like a man meeting his untimely end.

“Can’t lift my arms,” he says faintly, flexing one just enough to contradict himself. “Might faint. Again. It’s tragic.”

You roll your eyes. “You dramatic little—”

“Please,” he adds, and it’s way too sweet to be real. “Just a biscuit. Maybe two. A spoonful of somethin’. You’d be so good at it. I can tell. Bet you feed people like it’s a holy mission.”

Your jaw tics.

Because he’s not wrong.

You hate that he’s not wrong.

You huff and stand, muttering all the way down the hall like you’re not about to do exactly what he asked. There’s a plate of leftover fried chicken in the icebox, half a tin of biscuits, and some peach preserves you jarred yourself just last month. You warm it all up without thinking—like muscle memory, like praying over your food.

It’s not about him, you tell yourself. It’s about basic decency. Hospitality. He’s a guest. A half-dead, annoying-as-sin guest. Doesn’t mean you weren’t raised right.

When you come back, plate in hand, he perks up like a possum sniffing pie. “Oh my god,” he breathes. “Is that jam?”

“Peach preserves,” you correct, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Made it myself.”

He places a hand over his heart. “Of course you did. I knew you were perfect.”

“Shut up and eat.”

He lifts a hand weakly—barely. Then lets it flop back down. “Mmm. Can’t. Too weak.”

You stare at him.

He stares right back. All wounded pride and fluttering lashes like some Disney prince mid-meltdown.

You suck in a slow breath. “I swear, if you’re fakin’—”

“You’re really gonna let me die in here... biscuitless?”

You squint at him. “If I feed you one bite, you better not say a word.”

His grin returns, slow and gleaming. “Mouth shut. Hand to God.”

You take a piece of biscuit, slather a little peach on it, and raise it to his lips with more irritation than care.

He opens his mouth way too eagerly and takes the bite, eyes closing like he’s seeing visions of heaven.

“Oh my God,” he moans around it. “Marry me.”

You smack his shoulder—not hard enough to reopen anything, but firm enough to make your point.

“You said no talkin’.”

He holds up a finger, chewing. Swallows. Then leans in just a little. “But if I did die, this would’ve been the best last meal.”

You glare. “One more word and you’re gettin’ the rest of this on a paper towel.”

He zips his lips, but that smug look stays carved into his face. You feed him another bite—chicken this time—and he groans again, dramatic as ever.

You’re trying to be mad. You really are.

But the thing is… there’s a part of you that likes this. Not the flirting, not the chaos—but the feeding. The doing. The tiny flicker of comfort you can give someone, even someone as infuriating as him. Maybe especially him.

When you reach for a spoonful of jam, he murmurs low, voice all gravel and velvet. “Tell me I’m pitiful again. Right after the next bite.”

You stare at him.

Then you say it soft, real slow, like you’re talking to a toddler with a fever, “You poor, pitiful man.”

And it’s like you flipped a switch in him.

Mark’s head rolls back against the headboard, mouth slack, eyes fluttering half-closed like you just whispered something filthy in his ear instead of blessing him with pity.

He lets out this low, broken groan—obscene for what was supposed to be a wholesome peach-preserve moment.

“Jesus, say it again—do it while feeding me the jam, I swear I’ll ascend—”

You snatch the spoon back, scandalized. “Absolutely not.”

He blinks his eyes open, wide and betrayed. “No—wait, come back—I blacked out for a second, that was the best thing I’ve ever felt—”

“You need help,” you snap, standing up and backing away like he’s contagious.

He makes grabby hands toward the plate like he’s being abandoned in a war zone. “Don’t go—please, I’m dying again—”

“I’m not hand-feedin’ you through your fake orgasm!”

He flops dramatically sideways across your quilt. “Just one more bite, I swear. I’ll behave. I’ll be good. You can even cuss at me while you do it—I won’t even moan!”

You squint. “That’s a lie and you know it.”

“…It might be.”

You sigh, hard, pinching the bridge of your nose.

This man is gonna be the death of you. And he’s smiling like he knows it, too.

You step back toward the bed, torn between pity and pure exasperation, and offer him one last bite of biscuit—mostly just to shut him up. He takes it slow, all soft eyes and syrupy theatrics, like he’s staring down the barrel of romance itself.

Then, faster than you can blink, he grabs your wrist.

Not hard—just firm enough to pull you closer.

“Don’t,” you warn, already knowing what’s coming.

But he’s got that look again—like chaos in human form—grinning just enough to be dangerous.

“I’ll be gentle,” he lies.

And then he kisses you.

Warm. Surprising. Way too pleased with himself.

You go rigid, eyes wide, taste of peach jam still fresh on both your mouths.

And then your hand flies before you even think about it.

SMACK.

The sound echoes sharp off the walls.

He flinches—but only just. Mostly, he laughs. Full-body, pleased-as-hell laughter like he just got everything he wanted and dessert, too.

“You kiss like you slap,” he says, dazed and delighted. “God, you’re a dream—where’re you goin’? No, no, don’t walk away—come back!”

But you are done.

You storm out of the room with a muttered, “Pervert,” and the sound of your bare feet on hardwood.

He calls after you, pitiful as a stray dog in the rain.

“Sugar! C’mon! Don’t go cold on me now—we were havin’ a moment! I’m injured! I’m biscuitless!”

Silence.

Then—

Click.

That distinct, unmistakable sound.

He stiffens.

You step back into the doorway holding Meemaw’s double-barrel shotgun like it’s part of your Sunday best. Hair mussed. Cheeks flushed. Voice calm as a lullaby soaked in arsenic.

“You put your mouth on me again without askin’, I’ll be scrapin’ you off the porch with a shovel.”

Mark goes perfectly still.

Then his smile spreads again, wide and wicked. “Oh my god. You are my dream girl.”

You raise the barrel a fraction. “Test me.”

He lifts both hands, still grinning like this is a honeymoon, not a warning. “Alright, alright—I’m behavin’. I swear. Just—leave the shotgun. For ambiance.”

You slam the door on your way out.

His grin doesn’t falter. Not even a little.

“... God I love this place.”

[melagnes]

The Camping Trip

Description: What starts as a school camping trip quickly turns into something else when you end up sharing a tent with Melissa Schemmenti. The night got colder, and Melissa? She’s more than willing to help warm you up.

Pairing: Melissa Schemmenti x Reader

Word Count: 1.9K

This trip was supposed to teach the kids valuable outdoor skills—teamwork, self-sufficiency, survival. You know, all those things that sounded great on paper but, in reality, just meant a bunch of fourth graders crying over bug bites.

Ava, a self-proclaimed doomsday prepper, should have been thriving out here. The woman had a bug-out bag ready to go at all times. But you’d underestimated one crucial factor: her hatred of dirt. You all knew she would much rather be glamping. The second she realized there were no air mattresses involved, she peaced out without so much as a backward glance.

“See y’all on the flip side,” she called over her shoulder, flashing two peace signs before disappearing like a mirage.

Meanwhile, the rest of you were left with the grim reality of sleeping on the actual ground.

Barbara, being the queen that she was, had already staked claim to a solo tent before anyone could protest. That left the rest of you staring at each other, silently weighing your options.

Someone had to supervise the kid’s tent.

Jacob tried to make it fair; he snapped a handful of twigs off a nearby tree and held them out in his fist. “Alright, whoever pulls the two shortest sticks will sleep in the tent with the kids.”

Melissa snorted. “You say that like you’re not about to rig this.”

“I would never–”

“Jacob,” you inject.

He deflated, “…Okay, fine, but I should get points for creativity.”

One by one, everyone picked. Janine groaned when she saw her tiny stick. Then Jacob glanced down at the remaining stick left in his hands—also devastatingly short.

“Aw, come on!” he whined.

Janine sighed. “Man, I really thought manifesting a tent with Barbara would work.”

Barbara, already fluffing her camp pillow in her tent, didn’t even look up. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

Gregory held up his stick, comparing it to Mr. Johnson’s. Both were noticeably longer. “Uh… I guess... it’s you and me, Mr. Johnson. Our sticks are... longer. So.” He awkwardly cleared his throat.

“You snore?” Mr. Johnson shot him a look.

Gregory immediately tried to act cool, though there was a hint of defensiveness. “What? Me? No, I don’t snore. That’s more of a–uh–Janine thing.”

Janine whipped her head around with wide eyes. “What? I do not snore!”

Mr. Johnson just raised an eyebrow at her. “Sure you don’t, Janine. I’m watchin’… I’m always watchin’.”

Janine sputtered, her face turning bright red. “I—okay, maybe a little, but it’s not that bad!” She crossed her arms defensively, “You know what, you’re just jealous that I’m a deep sleeper. That’s all.”

Meanwhile, Melissa clapped you on the shoulder with a grin. “Looks like it’s you and me, hon.”

You swallowed. Hard.

Could be worse.

Before the sun set and it became time for a campfire, the teachers split off to help assemble the tents, which mostly consisted of Melissa taking charge while you… tried.

“You gotta secure the poles first,” she said, arms crossed, watching as your structure wobbled like a baby deer.

“I did secure the poles,” you protested.

“Ms. Schemmenti’s right,” one of your fifth graders chimed in. “Your tent’s as wobbly as a Skibidi Toilet.”

“Yeah, you need to tighten the ropes,” another added helpfully.

Melissa stepped in, grabbed a rope, and gave it a solid tug. The whole thing collapsed like a house of cards. She raised an eyebrow. The kids burst into laughter.

“Okay, so maybe not as secure as I thought,” you muttered.

Melissa just smirked—that slow, smug kind of smirk that made your stomach do an embarrassing little flip.

“Let’s copy Ms. Schemmenti’s tent!” a student shouted.

You sighed, the weight of defeat settling in. If this were Survivor, you’d be the first one voted off. The kids knew more about wilderness survival than you. The teacher.

Melissa, as cocky as ever, swatted your shoulder, “Good thing I’m here, huh?”

Good thing, indeed.

By the time night fell, it was campfire time. As proven, you’re not the most wildernessly inclined, but you do know one thing; the combination of fire and children, was problematic.

You’ve never been a big fan of campfire songs, but you would sell your soul to Gregory for his unique ability. He single-handily kept the kids entertained as to prevent them from falling into that (somewhat) raging fire.

He was a campfire song connoisseur.

His voice reverberated through the brisk night air as he strummed his ukulele, “C-a-m-p-f-i-r-e s-o-n-g song and if you don’t think we can sing it faster, then you’re wrong, but It’ll help if you just sing along.”

Wait- was that, SpongeBob?

“Gregory, you genius,” Janine mumbled.

Brother can speak FAST. It went on for 3 more rounds—until the kids were completely breathless.

Now it was Jacob’s time to shine. 

“As a history teacher, it is my duty to know and understand what has happened on this land before us.”

“Of course he would know the lore of the campground,” you muttered under your breath (in a loving way).

“It was the year 1876; the Centennial Exposition, which in fact occurred the same year as—”

You couldn’t help but tune him out a little. Melissa was seated next to you on a log, allowing you to feel the heat from her thighs pressing into yours. It was distracting. Sue yourself.

A simple glance could tell you the kids were terrified of Jacob’s tale.

“They say, his ghost still wanders the campgrounds at night, looking for more victims…” He trailed off wagging his finger. “So, you better sleep with your mouth closed. You don’t want him to poison you in your sleep, do you?”

“Don’t tell me you’re scared, too,” Melissa murmured in your ear which definitely didn’t cause you to jump a mile high off the log.

She chuckled in pure amusement. “Thought so.”

“Huh, I’m not scared.”

“It’s ok hon, you can admit you’re scared of a ghost from 1876.” she laughed causing you to roll your eyes, but your smirk betrayed your true feelings.

Jacob finally realized what he had done when he caught sight of a girl taping her friend’s mouth shut.

“Oh no, guys—”

“Thank God, he has to supervise em cause, there is no way they are sleeping tonight.” Melissa slowly rose from her position on the log; she looped her arm with yours to drag you to the tent. At that moment, you realized you were in for a long night.

You stuttered for a brief second as colour dusted your cheeks, “Agreed. However, he put this upon himself.”

By the time you climbed into the tent, exhaustion had fully set in. The problem? The temperature had dropped, and your sleeping bag was about as effective as a paper towel.

Melissa noticed before you could even pretend you weren’t shivering. She let out an exasperated sigh and, without hesitation, pulled you closer.

“C’mere, before you turn into a popsicle.”

Your brain short-circuited immediately.

“This isn’t weird, right?” you mumbled, trying—and failing—to sound normal.

Melissa scoffed. “Not unless you make it weird.”

Oh. Oh, you were definitely making it weird. At least in your mind.

“Well…” you trailed off, your voice quieter now. “You’re really close.”

“Yeah? You got a problem with that?” Her lips brushed your ear as she leaned in, her breath warm against your skin.

“No, of course not, it’s just-”

“Relax,” she whispered, voice softer now as she tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“I’m trying,” you muttered. “It’s just… hard when we’re lying on the ground.”

She chuckled, her breath warm against your skin. “Wow, you’re still freezing.”

You shifted slightly, trying to ignore the fact that you were practically tangled together now. Her arm draped casually over your waist, her palm pressing against your back like it belonged there. You weren’t sure if the warmth creeping up your spine was from her body heat or something else entirely.

“It’s not that bad,” you muttered, voice embarrassingly shaky.

Melissa propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at you. In the dim glow of the lantern, her eyes gleamed.

“You got some kinda death wish, or do you just like bein’ stubborn?” she teased, voice lower now, rougher.

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could get a word out, she kissed you.

Warm. Firm. And entirely too brief.

By the time your brain caught up, she had already pulled back, smirking like nothing had just happened. Warmth spread throughout your body, and it certainly rose to your cheeks.

“See?” she murmured, settling back down. “Warms you right up.”

You stared at the ceiling of the tent, dazed. “Yeah. That’s… that’s definitely one way to do it.”

“How about another one for good measure?” she raised an eyebrow.

You nodded, slow and dazed, your eyes fluttering shut as the weight of words failed you.

Melissa didn’t need them. She took that as a yes, leaning in until her lips captured yours once more. This kiss was deeper—less tentative than the first. Her mouth was warm, insistent, and soft in a way that made your breath hitch. You barely registered her fingers weaving into your hair until they tightened, anchoring you.

Heat bloomed in your chest, then spilled lower, curling into your stomach like liquid fire. And when she finally did break away, her lips barely ghosted against yours, like she was testing something.

 “Still cold?” she exhaled, amusement in her eyes.

You smirked, cocking your head. “Hmm… I might be.”

Her mouth descended to your neck without warning, and your gasp was breathy, involuntary. Your pulse roared in your ears as her lips and tongue traced a path that left heat pooling in your core.

“Nope,” you breathed, voice shaky. “Pretty warm now.”

Melissa drew back slowly, leaving a damp, tingling trail behind. “Thought so.”

“Shut up,” you rolled your eyes, nudging her shoulder.

She laughed, pulling you closer like she wasn’t done with you just yet. And honestly? You were more than okay with that.

At some point, exhaustion won over adrenaline. Wrapped in her warmth, listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing, you drifted off.

Which made being yanked out of sleep by the sound of something enormous rummaging through camp all the more jarring.

There was a muffled curse—Melissa’s, judging by the way she immediately reached for the lantern.

“What the hell is that?” she whispered.

Before you could answer, a loud crash echoed through camp, followed by the muffled, frantic whispering of the kids. You couldn’t make out much through the fabric of the tent, but you caught the rising panic in their voices.

“AHHHH,” someone screamed from the tent next door. “Is that THE GHOST?!”

Thereafter, you heard Jacob’s voice—determined, and completely unhelpful. “BE GONE, DEMON. RETURN TO THE NIGHT.”

You clapped a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing. “Oh my god.”

Melissa snorted, burying her face in your shoulder. Then she exhaled, just a little calmer now.

“Yeah, I’m sure the bear’s terrified,” she muttered.

She wasn’t wrong.

By daylight, the aftermath was unavoidable.

Chocolate pudding, everywhere. Smudged across the tents and streaked down the coolers. Kind of crusty—but, evidently, still pudding.

You took one look at the disaster and deadpanned, “Well. At least the bear’s got taste.”

“That’s what we call a teachable moment,” Melissa said, arms crossed.

You bit back a smile. “And what exactly is the lesson here?”

Melissa shot you a look. “Listen to me next time.”

And as the day went on, you realized that whatever lesson you’d learned from this trip, the most important one was that Melissa was right.

Every time.

Even when she kissed you.

Especially then.

[caxapthecat]

Metal Arm MECHANICS: 🦾🖤

some headcanons about Bucky Barnes and the relationship he has with his metal arm.

18+ please comment your thoughts!!!

—————————————————————

-it has a cooling mechanism that makes it sound like computer fans running

-along with that it also makes quiet robotic noises when he moves

-sentry proved it’s able to be heated up therefore him putting it on straight out the dishwasher had to be physically HOT

-he knows how to remove his arm (now) so he does from time to time

-he also had to protect that hole in his shoulder when he takes it off so no dust/dirt/water can get in and possibly harm him or the mechanics of the arm.

-do you think he sleeps with it on or off? u ever slept with your laptop in bed with you? that shit is hard and cold.

-It definitely vibrates

-he has a tracking device in it that he can ping when he loses it.

-it can move independently once he removes it.

-he gets phantom pain all. the. time.

-it’s waterproof, duh (showers, washing hands)

-he’s very good at doing things one handed now. (u ever watched Soul Surfer. he struggled at first. steve helped.)

-u think it’s able to heat up if it gets frozen? (i gotta do more research on vibranium)

-fingers are detachable (mainly for repairs) but the first time it happened it clanked on the floor and the room went silent as he quietly picked it up and reattached it.

-he cleans out the cracks and crevices with a q tip

-u think he texts Shuri whenever it starts bugging out bc he’s an old man that still gets confused with technology

-talking about texting, he can only type with his right hand bc the metal doesn’t work on the phone screen.

-he’s right handed !! 🥰

-my mind says he doesn’t need to charge it but like, what if it did.

-he wears watches/bracelets on it!!

-kids are enamored by it. adults are petrified of it.

-u ever seen toy story? Sam shakes Bucky’s hand with it. it turns into an argument about touching his things.

-Sam also knows how to remove his arm and does from time to time to piss him off.

-Steve asks a lot of questions about the mechanics and physics of his arm. in which Bucky responds with “idk they just kinda gave it to me.”

-Shuri made multiple prototypes that are able to connect to the new hole they placed in his torso. theres so many mods like guns/cannons/laser blasters that they’ve yet to give to him.

-he named it.

-Alpine bites his metal fingers then snuggles up with it when hes not home and returns to find her curled up on it with her chin resting on the open palm.

-She prefers to be pet with the metal arm too which makes him so happy that this precious creature is able to see it as a source of love and not a weapon of destruction.

-how heavy do we think the new vibranium is in comparison to the HYDRA one and do you think that’s why in civil war he was so bulky in the shoulders/chest is because he was having to carry around this heavy ass shit.

-it glares real bad in the sunlight, making road trips hard when he is driving.

-metal detectors????? mfer works in congress so going into government buildings is HARD. (putting his arm into the bin for security and they all stand there shocked 👀)

-WD-40 IS HIS BEST FRIEND AFTER STEVE DIED LMAOOOO

ADD MOREEEEE

[writtenbythemoonandstars]

Camping

Part 4 of the First Date series

Possible content warnings without spoiling too much include: descriptions of injuries and medical procedures and discussion of past sexual events.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

1.8k words

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Robby has always loved camping. The smell of pine trees and sap, of fire and smoke. The serene sounds of birds, crackling fires. When he was a kid he'd camp by the ocean and the waves crashing were always enough to put him to sleep at night. 

The taste of bug spray bitter on his tongue as he accidentally breathes it in. "Honey, I think you've scared off enough bugs. Put it down." His voice soft amused. When he'd heard she hadn’t ever been camping before Robby quickly booked them a site the first weekend they were both free. 

"I'm allergic to mosquitoes you know." She sighs, spraying her arm one last time before setting it down. "Not like… deathly but I don’t want to break out in hives." 

"I don't think anyone within a hundred mile radius will come in contact with any bugs thanks to you." He teases, laughing. Raising his hands in surrender when he gets a look.

"Maybe I forgot to mention that just because I haven't ever been camping before doesn't mean I felt like I was missing out on anything. It's great that you're Bear Grylls or whatever but I'm meant to sleep in an actual bed. Not like… a sleeping bag on the dirt." He just continues to chuckle at her. Not taking any offence. 

"You'll have fun I promise." 

There are a lot of things you don't say in the ER or as a doctor in general. Things like, "Seems quiet" or "calm" or make promises which you have no control over. 

Which is probably why two hours later it starts to pour rain. Making it difficult for Robby to start a fire. Seeing his… girlfriend? Is that what he calls her now? They haven't really talked about it but he's not seeing anyone else and she's been coming over at least three times a week for the past four months. 

Anyway, she's drowning in the jacket he fortunately packed. Causing him to be the one that's soaking wet. "Is this how I looked when I showed up for our first date?" She asks. Amused as she observes him work. 

"Better." Robby replies, winking when he catches her rolling her eyes. 

He ties a tarp high enough it wouldn't catch fire but also cover the pit from the rain. 

"That’s really hot." She says. Resting her head in her hands, watching him. "It's so…" She shrugs, not thinking of the right word, "manly?"

"Yeah?" Robby stands. Moving closer, his hands sliding around her hips. "You like it?" 

"Mhm." Nodding, eyes closing as he kisses up her neck. 

"You taste like bug spray." He comments after pulling back.

"I used an entire bottle before I got out of my car. You can imagine what that smells like." Robby laughs. He moves to sit down on the log next to her.

"I may hate it out here but I can see the appeal. The rain, the fire, it's all very calming." She nods. 

"We'd camp every year, sometimes more than once, when I was a kid." Robby tells her. He feels her nod and lay her head on his shoulder. "Grandma was a really big fan of Survivor." He adds, "recreational camping is obviously a lot different than the tropical survival they do on the show but sometimes she'd make my brother and I do puzzles or eat rice and fish out here."

"Oh yeah?" She snorts, "Grandma has taste." Robby feels her nod. "Watching Survivor was probably one of the only times my family and I got along growing up. Probably because we were all sitting watching tv instead of talking to each other." 

"Are you my girlfriend?" He can't help but blurt. The thought on his mind for a while now.

"What do you mean?" Her head tilts up, "w1hat else would I be?" 

"I don't know… I- I just… we hadn't ever talked about it. Officially. I didn't know if you wanted to put a label on it." Robby says honestly. 

"Michael." Looking at him in the eyes. "You were the first man to eat me out. That's not nothing." He rolls her eyes as she laughs. "I'm serious though. I'm not seeing anyone else." 

"I'm not either." 

"Good. Then we can label it." She nods. "Boyfriend." 

"Girlfriend." Then he leans in to kiss her. The fire burns on it's own while Robby pulls her into the tent…

The next morning Robby wakes her up early. As if they hadn’t stayed up late the night before. She groans. "Isn't camping supposed to be relaxing? Waking up at-" Checking her phone, "5? Jesus, Michael." 

"This is the whole reason I brought you out here. Come on." He throws her a jacket and crawls out of the tent to wait for her. It's the excitement in his tone movements that has her moving, though mumbling complaints about it. 

"It's only a mile baby." Seeing her frown and the protest on the tip of her tongue. "I'll carry you if it's too much." 

She rolls her eyes. "With that back?" He just waves her off.

Her mood improves though when she sees why they got up before daylight. Seeing the sunrise from the top of this hill after a mile- an uphill mile she wants to add that Robby conveniently "left out". 

If only Robby remembered that due to the rain last night the dirt trail would be incredibly muddy. On the walk down both of them shared stories about work. Robby thought about her question, "Have you ever had any patients where they stayed totally calm in a situation where they should not be?" 

"I had this guy come in with a nail in his hand. Like, straight through the palm. Kept joking that now he could finally get out of helping his brother move this weekend. Meanwhile I’m trying to keep a straight face while removing an actual hardware-store nail from a human hand. It missed all the major nerves and tendons by millimeters. I stitched him up, wrapped it, and told him to avoid power tools for at least a week. And definitely not to pick up any couches-" He turns when he finally realized there were no sounds of footsteps behind him anymore. 

Where did she go? One minute she was right behind him, grabbing the water from his backpack, and now…

"Michael?" Her voice broken, he nearly didn't hear it. 

She'd fallen down off the side of the hill, laying at the bottom. Slipped in the mud and just tumbled all the way down. 

"Fuck. Hold on. I'm coming." He has to be careful getting to the bottom where she is. 

"Did you hit your head?" Robby reaches her quickly. Swiftly checking over her condition. He doesn't hear an answer right away and snaps his head to her face. "Baby? Did you hit your head?" Robby pulls a pen light from the first aid kit in his backpack. 

"No, but your water bottle hit me." She picks it up. Her eyes are normal and reactive to light. Despite the metal bottle to the head he rules out concussion for now. 

There's no blood, which is honestly a miracle, except for a small scratch on her chin. Doesn't even need stitches. 

"Michael?" Her voice strained. Nervous. He looks up from where he's securing a small bandage to her chin. But she's not looking at him. Following her eyes… his heart drops. 

"My ankle isn't supposed to look like that right?" She quickly grabs on to the pocket of his jacket. 

"No it is not." Robby can tell it's fractured. 

"Fuck…" She replies slowly. "Do you have to like- uhm- like set it? Or Whatever?" Both of them still looking at her foot.

"Yes I am." He already pulling out his phone, despite not having any service he should still be able to contact emergency services. 

"Wait-" Her eyes wide, holding the jacket he shucked off, "this is going to hurt?" Well, he didn't shove it in her mouth for no reason. 

"Yeah honey." Robby nods, the expression on his face telling her it physically pains him to have to do this. "But only for a second. I promise." A kiss is pressed to her forehead. 

He can see the apprehension on her eyes. "I'll get you the biggest margarita or ice cream sundae or honestly whatever the fuck you want baby." Hating the situation they're in. "You're so brave… and strong-"  

"Holy- Fuck. Okay." She nods. "Giant fucking margarita… Count to three?" 

He nods except he doesn't want her to tense when he gets to three. So, he says, "One. Two-"

The crack and pop is sharp in the otherwise quiet morning in the woods. 

The jacket sleeve falls from her mouth as she gasps for air. Choking which turning into gagging and spitting up some of her granola bar from an hour ago. Robby rubs circles across her back.  

"I thought we said three." She snaps though not necessarily mad at him. Just in pain. 

He moves his hands up to her shoulder. Letting her grip his wrist tightly. Leaning in to his lap. "I didn't want you to tense up." Kissing the back of her hand. 

"Paramedics will be here in twenty minutes. But I have to get you out of here." He splints and ties up her ankle before helping on to his back.

"What about-" He shakes his head. "I'll be fine." Waving her off. 

It's about halfway when he feels himself seizing up. "T-tell me a story-" going back to what they had been doing on the walk down the hill. 

She rubs his shoulders the best she can, knowing this isn't easy for him to be carrying her like this. "I had a client a few months ago who I hadn't talked to in a while. I saw her email name had changed and I asked if she had recently gotten married-" She stops talking when he stops walking, needing a break. The tension tight in his back. "Keep going." He nods to her. 

"She told me she'd been recently divorced." He starts to walk again so she continues. "It got so much worse after that and it was already awkward… I don't even remember what sparked her to tell me but she said she caught her husband cheating on her with her best friend.."

"What did you do?" They're nearly back to camp. 

"I told her I was sorry and after we finished the meeting for the day I pawned her off on a coworker and never spoke to her again." The embarrassment of what happened and the guilt of cutting her off after their awkward encounter creeps in from time to time but she forces herself to push it down. 

The paramedics arrive soon after Robby sets her down carefully then stretches his back. He watches her sleep on the ambulance ride to the nearest hospital after she was given some pain medicine. 

A boot for 6 weeks and some physical therapy. 

"You know…" She looks over at Robby slowly. A little loopy. "I had a lot of fun camping." 

That makes him laugh. "Did you?" 

"Mhm. We should do it again." Nodding. 

"I'll ask you again when you're not on drugs." He softens his laugh to a light chuckle. Pressing a kiss in her hair. 

"Okay…" She whispers before falling asleep again. 

---

Let me know what you think!

Also, btw, I know there hasn't been any mention of Robby having a brother but I added him in just for the sake of the story he was telling idk

Unedited...

[opiopal]

random mc stuff that I dont want to be their own post so HERE WE GO.(a lot if not most of theses are cracked out lmao)

imagine an Mc who noticed certain dirty things in the HOL and REALLY wanted to something about it but couldn't cause they were still a stranger. so once all the pacts are made Mc immediately goes around the HOL and attacks all the spots that bug them.. and isn't afraid to vocalize their complaints. "lucifer, when was the last time you guys washed these curtains?? you know what, don't answer that, I can already tell that the last time these were washed I hadn't even been born yet." "who is in charge of sweeping?? there is so much dirt under these rugs!! common guys, seriously???" "Mammon, Levi, twins.. I love you guys SO much.. this is commmon knowledge at this point... but cleaning your pillow cases is NOT enough you NEED to also wash the pillow itself. you guys are gross. gather up your pillows we're doing a soak." "beel. come here and lift me up. I'm dusting the chandelier." "Lucifer, I do not CARE if you're working right now your shelves are littered with dust. either ignore me or go take a break because I'm not leaving."

once during breakfast the brothers could hear cerberus growling and grumbling in the basement, it was annoying but they were trying to ignore it until they realized Mc wasn't at the table.... which of course once it was pointed out they all rushed to the basement.. only to find cerberus laying on its back and Mc sitting above it and quickly rubbing and scratching under each heads chins while going "good boys!!!! good puppy!!!!" and cerberus very happily whining and grumbling with their tail thumping on the ground. when they manage to get Mc away from the silly, the only explanation mc gives it "there is a massive three headed dog that lives in the basement and is feared by 6 out of the 7 men who live here, how could I NOT pet them??? clearly no one but lucifer does!!"

imagine an Mc who is a selective mute, and normally communicates through ASL and notes. the first time they talk is after knowing the brothers for a GOOD amount of time, and its not a sweet wholesome moment no no. Mc comes home with Lucifer after they finished running errands, and the HOL had been: flooded by levi summoning lotan, the living room had been torn up by satan, the kitchen was in pieces because beel got hangry, asmo had joined in on the chaos after his bedroom got damaged as well, mammon was struggling to keep everyone together, and belphie was sleeping on a chandelier. of couse it dies down the moment they all see lucifer and mc got home, and before lucifer could say anything Mc threw their ars up and went "guys what the FUCK we've hardly been gone for an hour!!" of course all the chaos is forgotten for a second and replaced by multiple "YOUCANTALK?!"s, which then shock and amazement turned to shame as they realize the first time they were graced by Mc's voice was because they were being idiots and Mc was upset at them.

imagine an Mc who isn't really used to people caring all that much about them, and finds it very odd that the brothers+other characters care so much. so once their birthday comes around its turned into a birthday WEEK because Mc is being gifted things and being taken out everyday until their actual birthday, which BAFFLES them, so when their birthday comes its a huge event, Dia hosts the party at his castle, there are so many presents you'd think it would be for a family of 18 on christmas day. and when Mc is sat infront of their cake they can't help but suddenly start crying, while everyone is panicking the only thing Mc can say is "I-*hic*- love you guys so much!!" once they realized it was happy tears there was much less panic, and it was forgotten about for the rest of the evening.

You guys remember my post about pacts marks and Mc feeling a demons sin really strongly after making a pact with them??? well this relates to that. imagine if mc feels something strongly that sin kind of takes over for a while until mc is satisfied (asmo enjoyers do what you want with that info), so imagine: theres just a day were Mc doesn't get the chance to eat, first they slept in and just had to rush to RAD, then they had to skip lunch because they agreed to help a few clubs with advertising and projects, then they had to stay after for a student council meeting, then, just as they think they can maybe grab a snack they get held up again, by the time everyone is going home all the brothers can sense Mc's aggression, half way to the HOL lucifer says that they should just go eat at hells kitchen. so they're all seated, and the second Mc's food gets out they dont even bother with utensils, they just grab their food with their bare hands and eat like they're a starved dog. of course the brothers are concerned as to why they're acting like this, and mammon reaches to put a hand on Mc's shoulder as he says "hey- are you ok-" but he cant even finish talking before Mc jerks their head and nearly takes a few of his fingers off, though they dont bite him cause he moves away fast enough with a "EEP" and Mc's teeth loudly click together. so from then on the brothers make sure that Mc is able to eat something throughout the day if their schedule is packed to reduce the risk of losing fingers. honorable mention is Mc getting praised to much one day that the amount of pride they feel almost puts lucifer into a coma.(satan and belphie sometimes praise Mc a bunch to distract lucifer while he's working, another cheeky win for the anti lucifer league)

imagine an Mc who gets so over protective of the brothers, like CRAZY protective. there is a point were they hear someone talking SHIT about their found family trope, so ofc the reasonable reaction is to tackle the demon down to the ground and almost bite their ear off like some sort of rabid raccoon. another time Mc squares up with some sort of magical mythical beast in protection of the brothers, almost won and would have if the brothers didn't stop them.

imagine an Mc who is very introverted and is secretly a fanfic writer, so one day levi and Mc are hanging out, he's just rambling about whatever, until he eventually mentions that a fic he was reading hasn't gotten updated in a while and ist just so frustrating to him. when Mc asks which fic he was reading, he pull it up and shows them... which Mc realizes thats THEIR fic... and outloud without thinking they mumble "oohh I forgot about that one..." and levi freaks out and immediately is questioning what they mean by that. which they eventually have to admit it.

Imagine a little kid Mc, I mean like, LITTLE, as in like 7-8 yr. and they are just such a sweeite, and they work so hard. but I can also imagine that when they're first sent there and the introductions are happening, when lucifer introduces himself Mc immediately interupts and goes "lucifer?? like the cat from Cinderella?:0" and then ofc when mammon is assigned to take care of the child he is a lot nicer at first, I wouldn't be surprised if having Mc around reminded him of his younger siblings when they were that small,(yes I am a believer of the brothers being at least little kids at some point in their angel lives) but then eventually gets Mc to go along with a few schemes, which they both have fun cause really it just turns into bonding. then ofc asmo adores this little creature and has little dress up parties and helps Mc get ready for school in the morning so they always look their best!! lucifer gave him permission for this since he agrees that Mc should look put together despite being a child. I still think it takes a while for the brothers to warm up fully to Mc, but it goes by a lot faster since mc quickly becomes their new little sibling. I think it would be cute if what won over lucifer is Mc coming into his office at some point, saying that they have something for him, and gives him a drawing, lucifer ends up scooping them up to sit with him and they explain what they drew, and its mc and all the brothers:( that drawing is almost immediately framed and put up where everyone can see it.

thats all for now, but I have a LOT of Mc what if's and imagines, my fingers hurt from typing now lol.

[syluses]

how the end begins

() chapter one. masterlist for the series here.

a ghost x reader x soap story set in the zombie apocalypse┊ please see content warnings and possible triggers on the masterlist!! you can also read this story on ao3 here :)

The cities are hit the hardest.

They don’t bother much with targeting the countryside, but the disease manages to slip through the winding rural roads regardless, and survivors die in those dirt paths trying to escape the boroughs.

Out in this old, dilapidating barn though, perched up on the floor overseeing the one below, hidden behind a ring of bales, it’s safer.

You’ve heard rumors about how it went down. When things first started, the news flared with flashy headlines and alarms rattled throughout town- almost every electronic buzzing with a robotic voice- but it was still so new and the story never finished developing by the time everything crashed and burned. Nobody’s in front of the telly anymore, nobody’s scooping the paper off their porch step. There is just life and death out in these parts and that’s all- normality doesn’t exist anymore and probably won’t ever again.

Humanity can’t come back from this; It doesn’t.

That used to instill a sense of existential, poignant dread in you, the cold reality of it all wresting your hope away and tossing it into a deep cavernous ditch. But now you know there’s better things to worry about, better things to let occupy your mind.

Thinking wastes time. Time is precious. And you can only last so long without food or water or another weak prayer thrown up to God.

(Today, you pray He’ll answer the last.)

Before sunset- a whole handful of hours- you set out from the enclosed barnyard, now barren and crawling with maggots where the stinky remnants of a cow lay (bees swarm it, carving out a hive in its rotted ribcage. You’d risk a finger in for a slab of honey, but you’re allergic and the sight of the worms wards you off just fine), to hunt. You try your luck westward this time, untucking your gun from the waistband of your pants, keeping it tight in your fist the whole time, head on a swivel for freaks or scampering critters. Anything that moves. Anything that has meat on its bones.

The untainted kind.

By the day’s end, you’re rolling on your cot, your bag lumpy under your head as your tummy clenches on nothing. Hunger pinches and pulls your gut. Fuck. You haven’t eaten for four days now- by experience, you know you can last at least a few more, but the last thing you ate was a small mound of wild berries, and they had upset your stomach and shortly thereafter pumped it. The last thing to pass your lips was not food but vomit.

Tomorrow, you squeeze your eyes shut and nuzzle up in the hay, flaxen needles pricking your bones, I will hunt again.

This time you’ll try east again- worst comes to worst, you can whittle down a wooden spear and head for the creek; maybe, if luck is on your side, you’ll snag a smelt or a few bite-sized fish.

Minnows.

Crawfish.

Anything. At this point, anything.

For now, you force yourself to settle.

Up in the overhead loft, it’s safer, shrouded in shadows that pour from the rafters, the big window latched and allowing only slivers of moonlight to weasel through the decrepit cracks.

Crickets chafe their legs from the surrounding field. Frogs hiccup and roll their tongues. A mosquito buzzes by your ear and you slap it to oblivion, your cheek smarting red as you, with half a mind, decide it’s better off not to eat it. Not that you’re not hungry enough for it- because you most certainly are- but the bug is so insubstantial it won’t do you any favors.

Who knows if it’s carrying something, anyway. Better to leave it.

As silence comes, you pray for sleep to come and save you from it. It breeds negativity, lets the creative part of your mind start to run, really reminds you of how fucked up you’ve become. Hungry and broken and lonely.

Guilty. 

So, so guilty.

Awful memories revive themselves like a bony hand from its grave, bent on taking you down with them.

Part of you wants to let yourself be buried. Once and for all. It’s morbid, maybe, but it’s hard to not feel a little influenced by your circumstances when all you can see is the darkness they bring.

Sometimes you can almost will yourself to believe it’s all a bad dream, a rotten nightmare so vivid that you can feel it in your fingertips and trace it in the scars it left hugging your limbs. About six years into the end, not quite delusional enough to partake in complete fantasy- yet- you shake off the tempting world of make-believe, put on your big girl pants, and convince yourself that stupidity will get you killed if you indulge in it.

And the real world- the dead world- says that pretending what you see and feel to not be real is a cheap ticket to a gruesome death.

Despite it all, the depression that mars your mind when it screams survivesurvivesurvive like it’s the only word it knows- your trembling bones when your hand scrapes the bottom of your depleted food box- the singular photo of your brother that’s flimsy from holding it so much- you can’t just let yourself die.

…If you die, so do your memories of him.

And you’re too stubborn anyway. Too… lucky. At all the worst times only.

You’ve been close to it, you know. Sometimes it just gets too much and you slam that pistol to your head, teeth chattering with hunger and pain as old, long-dead faces resurface and come back to haunt you- and almost without thinking you pinch the trigger, and hard.

It jams. Clucks its tongue at you like, stupid girl. Now try it again, try your luck and its apparent love for you- have one last go at it.

You don’t. You never attempted a second shot, feeling deep in your gut that that bullet, the one you’d hoped had your name scrawled on it, getting stuck was a small act of God. Besides, too many people have pulled your bacon from the fire for you to just jump back onto the grill... It’d be a huge slap to the face of your neighbor, some of the folks from the old, now dissolved group, your—

Your big brother.

You let out a long, whistling breath through your nose. Hay brushes your cheek. Your belly howls.

You’re glad for the fence hiked up around this place and the yawning, grassy planes of ochre that border it, the remote location hidden far from the city; it’d be an embarrassing death if a zombie were to hear your growling belly and saunter on over before taking a chunk from your neck.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, God, let me win.

ꕤ

The next day is similarly unlucky.

You feel unfortunate, chewing on the gummy insides of your cheeks as you wade through the tall weeds empty-handed, bare legs chafing on the strands. The barn is just as you left it upon your return.

The glare of the sun clumps your lashes with sweat, but you think it’s tears that blur your vision when frustration rears its head in you and you shove your pistol in your waistband, opting for the spear you sculpted instead.

I’ll just go look for fish, then. You decide with a huff before setting out towards the nearby stream.

Balancing on a bank of rocks lining the river, you fold your thighs over your calves and wait.

You’re pretty good at that. Back when you were younger, you and your siblings would gather on the front porch step and bet money on how long it’d actually take your drunken father to careen into the driveway and stagger out of his beat-up truck. More often than not, your piggy bank would be the one to remain perfectly intact. You took pride in that; some people are just easy to read and you suppose your father- his addictions- made him all too predictable.

But for as good as you are at waiting, you’re not nearly as fond of it.

Sunlight glitters on the liquid surface. It gives the somewhat murky water an almost lemony veneer, and the blue sky- clear in comparison to some days prior- is mirrored on it. The water is usually translucent, the sandy floor and all its wedged, mossy rocks perfectly visible from the bank, but the recent storm has washed in all sorts of grime and the color is still brownish.

Debris floats past your perch every so often, bunches of leaves and splintered, small branches racing past like paper boats in a gutter. It’s hard to see, but with your spear topped at the end of your crooked arm, you squint your eyes- wipe sweat from your dripping brow every so often- and bide your time.

Patience. Patience. Because good things, your grandad used to tell you as he bobbed you on his fat thigh, come to those who—

Something winks beneath the surface, a collage of colors flashing all at once. Sunlight bouncing off a scaly back.

—Wait.

Your pointed stick whistles through the air (oh, it looked like a fat one too; your mouth is watering at the mere idea of a juicy, tender fish to sling over your shoulder before roasting and devouring). It curves as it breaches the surface, slowing its own descent.

You catch another glimpse of something holographic beneath the drift, this time splitting in the farthest direction from you.

There’s no sound but the continuous thrush of the running stream and the leafy boughs overhead tossing their limbs against each other. But the should-be peaceful ambience resembles a cruel, bellowing laugh.

Ever since Mark, your brother, ‘went away’, you’ve been inwardly terrified that you’ll be good for nothing. And right now? your fears seem pretty grounded.

You clench your jaw, sweep the spear up from the rippling surface, and try again.

And again.

And- Just one more time.

Around an hour passes of expending your precious, rapidly depleting energy, the early hours of morning meshing into noon- and you have your final go at spear-fishing.

Nothing.

You battle off tears on the short trek back, the stirrings of panic starting up within you as your belly growls loudly. It churns with bile and the creek water you just inhaled in mouthfuls using your bowl-shaped palms.

They have callouses on them, little bumps under the knuckle that don’t register feeling when you experimentally prod them with your fingers. But they do tingle, though. And they do eventually start to burn when you clutch the gun too tight, or hold your hand a little too close to the small bonfire when you try to warm yourself later that evening. Salt wetting your cheeks that you greedily lick up- if only to have something to fill the taste of hunger in your cottony mouth. If you had meat, fuck it all you’d season it with your tears if you had to.

At least, then, crying would mean something. Crying means nothing.

Cranky, alone, and on a fast track to starvation, you will yourself to count your blessings. 

The slightly tattered but otherwise intact picture of your brother in your bag. The moon that’s cleaved in two tonight, fixated behind a string of grey, clumpy clouds that have you thankful for the crisp air as they pass overhead, replacing the hot sun. Nighttime brings a mild chill that soothes the sunburn of day. For all of that, you’re grateful.

I mean, above all, you’re alive.

You’re… Alive.

And you don’t know why- you really don’t think you even want to be, which makes you feel so guilty because Mark-

He—

Sat on the barn loft’s window, the door of it flung wide as your legs dangle from the wooden edge, you tip your head back to watch the sky. Numbly, you drink the sight of it in.

Yawning, infinite, kissed with streaks of navy and a deep, intense grey. It’s beautiful. But to the yellowed moon and the cosmos— you mean nothing to either of them. 

Knee-deep in an apocalyptic shithole, with zombies lurking within every shadow and sunbeam, the better part of humanity nullified, there’s something oddly… comforting. In knowing all of this means absolutely nothing to the thing above that resembles a big truckle of cheese.

You don’t know for how long, but you watch the stars. They blink back at you.

ꕤ

Today you’re headed for town.

All the forest animals must have gone on vacation, you bitterly decide as you pack your bag (a canteen of water, some invaluable souvenirs you absolutely cannot travel without, and the little weaponry you have).

Birds have migrated early, deer have tucked their tails and scampered off to other groves; bunnies are hiding deep in the bellies of old, hollowed out trees and even fish have swam upstream. Nothing to kill and eat.

Away. Everything has went away.

As you remind yourself of your dire conditions, you end up packing a bit more, mulling over your situation with the little energy you have left. 

And then, you end up packing everything- which admittedly isn’t much- keeping your personal bag as your main inventory, the zipper shrieking as it struggles to close.

Clothes, old cans and empty bottles (because just in case, right? Who knows what they’ll be useful for, but you won’t kick yourself for it later if you find yourself needing them). An extra pocket knife to supplement the one tucked in your bra should that one chip or grow dull (or more probable: get left behind in a squishy, grey skull) and a little container of pills.

You’re not even sure what they do. But it must be worth it- medicine and drugs are a staple to the remnants of humanity that scrape by, and you’ve seen how vicious groups have gotten over just a handful of tablets- it makes rivals. Enemies. Dead men.

The frugal part of you decided that it may come in handy one day, and therefore refused to part with it.

Then you leave the barnyard.

Because if there is nothing left to stay for, then you will not stay.

And you have nothing to stay for. Not anymore. Probably (and if the pills in your bag are anywhere as unpalatable as this simple truth, then you don’t want to swallow them) never again.

So you’ll just have to look for some place new. A beaten, mousey piece of you that still persists somewhere within you whispers like an afterthought, ‘some place better’, and you want to humor the little hope it has. Because it certainly has courage.

It has stupidity, too. Enough to spare.

You shake the negativity off-

“No, stop it.”

-worn out sneakers touching down on a rural, seemingly endless swath of concrete flanked by verdant trees. But deep down you wonder as you walk if you will see the moon again tonight. Starvation could snuff you out. Today could be the day one of the rotters sneak up on you, or that your guilt catches up to you. You wouldn’t be able to stop it if it did. Size is power. And guilt is big. Bigger than you.

No, stop it, you go to chide again, but you think better of it.

You need to save the energy.

[nepenthic-delirium]

Sunday is an attentive lover. 

Soft and sweet, like sugary molasses. He’s gentle, kind, a gift from the aeon’s themselves. He knows your likes and dislikes, the way you like your morning coffee or your afternoon tea. He knows everything about you; the way your lips curve into a toothy grin, or the curve of your eye as he lies down next to you as the first rays of dawn illuminate your skin. 

So it’s no surprise that when you wake up, it’s Sunday who boyishly grins as he mutters, “Happy birthday, my dear.” 

You blink owlishly at him, eyes still clouded with sleep. You yawn, stretching your arms out as you nonchalantly mumble, “I kinda forgot about that, to be honest.” 

Sunday frowns, the tips of his lips quirking downwards. “You can’t be serious. You forgot your own birthday?” He tsks, and you give him a lazy smile. 

“Oh please. Birthdays aren’t that important. Okay, wait scratch that. I do like being the center of attention. I was just busy these past few days.” 

Sunday clicks his tongue again. “I told you, overworking yourself is never the solution.” You yawn again, and he sighs, voice soft as he hums, “Your hair is a mess.” 

“Brush it for me?” 

“You're old enough to do it yourself.” 

You bat your eyelashes. “Please?” You drag the word out with a slight lilt, and you can tell he’s already giving by the way he looks away with a bright flush on his cheeks–his wings doing a horrible job in covering them. “You're always so gentle when you do it. Whenever I do it I swear half my hair just comes off.”

Sunday mutters something under his breath as he practically snatches the hairbrush from your bed stand.  He grabs a strand of hair, his hands delicate as he starts gently brushing your hair with the reverence of a preacher. 

“So, Mr,” You grin, already feeling Sunday rolling his eyes. 

“I’m not that old.” He grumbles. 

“What do you have in mind for my birthday?” 

Sunday idly brushes your hair, silent for a moment before starting, “I was thinking of a picnic.” 

“Outside? With all the bugs and dirt? Last time I checked, you almost had a little meltdown when a bug landed on you.” You tease. 

“It was one time, and it was a disgusting fly–!”

“A picnic sounds lovely dear. Have you been planning this whole day out since, what, the past few weeks?” 

He detangles the brush from your hair, placing it on your bed stand as he glances at his work. 

“Maybe.” 

You can practically feel the blush on his cheeks radiating off his skin. “And then what, after our picnic?” 

He leans in, a grin plastered on his face. You can feel the curves of his lip brush the shell of your ear, and you involuntarily shiver. 

“That, my love, is a surprise. Something for you to find out.” 

Huh. You playfully push him away, a challenging smile forming on your face. “I never thought of you as one for surprises.” 

Sunday shrugs. “Your influence is rubbing off on me.” 

You giggle. “I can’t wait to see what you have in store for me.” 

His golden eyes are like pools of honey, his mirth matching yours as he brushes a stray strand of hair away from your face, tucking it into the crevice of your ear. “Me neither.” 

@ NEPENTHIC-DELIRIUM. do not plagiarize, claim my work as your own, translate or share my posts on any platform outside of tumblr.

birthday gift for the birthday girl @aellesuje <3

[stevie-petey]

episode six: the spy

Steve looks like a kicked puppy as you storm ahead of him and Dustin, putting enough distance between you guys so that you can’t hear their conversion that follows.  “Shit…” “You’re awful with women.” Dustin says, now continuing to walk. He doesn’t bother to follow after you, knowing that you need your space to cool down. “I wouldn’t follow her, by the way. Let her cool off.” Steve sighs, now walking as well, “Yeah, I know.” 

Summary: dustin and steve haggle a butcher, you throw some meat at steve and then have a weird conversation about love, you stop dustin from becoming an incel, and then you wrestle some demodogs like any real woman would. side note: steve is hot protecting the kids.

Rating: general, violence and swearing

Warnings: fem!reader, use of y/n, violence and swearing, blood mention and ptsd mention, weapons, fire, probably more

Words: 17.1k (i fear how much longer these next few chapters become)

Before you swing in: its here !!! god, this chapter was ROUGH. the conversations between bug and steve took many rewrites and editing. i wanted to get it just right, and finally i think im satisfied with where they landed. bug and steve aside, i absolutely loved writing this chapter with the kids. i sincerely hope you guys enjoy, this chapter took blood, sweat, n tears lmao

-

You’re the first to break the silence as you all stare at the hole Dart created in the wall in shock.

An obnoxiously loud yawn escapes your lips, and Dustin and Steve shoot you simultaneous weird glances. You feel your face heat up in embarrassment. “Sorry… It’s been a long day.”

Steve huffs. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Dustin clears his throat before standing up. He wipes off some dirt that got on his jeans and then offers you his hand so that he can pull you up as well. You accept it and stand, your bones a deep, weary type of heavy that only comes from pure exhaustion. 

“Okay,” Dustin begins, and you can already see a plan forming in his mind. “Steve, you’ll spend the night here so that way we can all get up bright and early to start our search for Dart.” 

Steve attempts to argue, but Dustin puts his hand up to shush him and continues with his speech. The older boy throws his hands up in the air and gives you a look of disbelief over your brother’s antics. You stifle a laugh, which he only rolls his eyes at. Steve, whether he likes it or not, will have to get used to Dustin’s… Dustin-ness.

“If he escaped through the tunnel, then we have to assume that there’s an opening somewhere above ground.” Dustin finishes. 

You nod your head slowly, still unconvinced. “Okay, but how do we find him? Better yet, what happens when we do? It took Nancy with a shotgun, my knives, Steve’s batting skills, a ton of fire, and almost dying a bunch of times to take down the Demogorgon.” 

Dustin lets out a tired sigh. “I’ll figure it all out, alright? For now, let’s just get some sleep. Maybe it’ll come to me in a dream or something.” 

“A dream? Seriously?” Steve looks at the two of you as if you guys will start laughing and tell him it’s all a giant joke. Unfortunately, it isn’t. 

Steve spent all last year and most of the summer getting to know you. He’s used to your quips and soft spoken teasing, but Dustin? He’s uncharted territory and you’re secretly relishing in seeing Steve fumble around him. You’ve never had anyone else interact with your brother before, only Jonathan, so this change is odd, but welcomed. 

Dustin pays no attention to you and Steve as he begins heading up the steps, back to your home. Once he disappears, you nudge your shoulder against Steve’s. “You know you don’t actually have to spend the night, right?”

“Ya know, I can’t quite tell if the kid will let me leave or not.”

You laugh. “He’s harmless… Mostly. I promise I won’t let him bite, but I also understand if you want to leave.”

Steve looks away, sensing the undertones of what you’re saying. You’re giving him another out, one last chance to leave and go back to pretending like everything's okay. You wouldn’t blame him, and you get a sense of deja-vu from that night at Jonathan’s. When you tried coaxing Steve to leave, to spare himself from everything he inevitably ended up suffering from. 

After a minute or so, Steve shakes his head. “I’ll stay. You need my help.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say need–”

“Shut up and let me help you, Y/N.”

You sigh. There’s no arguing with him, he’s made up his mind and your truce that you shook on ten minutes ago burns your hand. He’s staying. 

“A ‘please’ would’ve sufficed, but fine.” You link your arm around Steve’s and make your way up the cellar steps. “C’mon, Dustin is probably waiting for us with some new insane plan for where you’ll sleep.”

– 

You know that your mom is safe, off at the other side of town, searching for your dead cat, but it’s still lonely walking into your empty home. Dustin is standing in the living room waiting, but you can see that it makes him uneasy as well. 

Steve follows behind you and takes a look around. When he spots the lumpy, old, sagging couch in front of the window, he frowns. It’s barely bigger than he is, his feet would definitely hang over the edge. “This my bed for tonight?”

“It’ll have to be, unless you want to come snuggle with me in my bed.” Dustin says. 

“I wouldn’t, he kicks in his sleep,” you tell Steve, attempting to make light of the situation. 

“That doesn’t surprise me,” he snorts. Then, as if he’s done this a million times before, Steve flings himself onto your couch and his feet do indeed hang over the edge. “Oh, yeah. This will definitely be cozy.”

You wince. “I’m sorry, you’re still free to go home. I completely understand and–”

“Unless…” Dustin begins to brighten up and he wiggles his eyebrows at you. Pure horror washes over you; you know that look on his face. He’s scheming. 

“Dustin, whatever is about to come out of your mouth–”

“Y/N has this giant bean bag in her room. Practically takes up the whole space, and, luckily for you, my new friend, it’s Steve-sized.”

Steve whips his head to face you, a curious look on his face. “You don’t say, Little Henderson?”

Both boys look at you, a matching glint of evil in their eyes, and you realize you’re trapped. When did they manage to sync up to make you miserable?

You weigh your options against your morals. On one hand, it’s your room and you and Steve are still warming back up to each other. However, on the other hand, Jonathan has spent countless nights on that bean bag himself. 

Dustin’s right. Steve would fit perfectly. 

Damn him. 

You shuffle your feet, averting Steve’s eyes. “I mean, I guess you’d fit.” 

“You guess? Steve, she’s had Jonathan sleep on that thing like a bajillion times.” Dustin waves his arms out, gleeful that he’s won. “In fact, I think our mom specifically bought it just for him.”

He now steps closer to Steve and eyes him up and down. “I’d bet money that you two are about the same size, so as I stated earlier: it’s Steve-sized.”

“I’m actually taller than him, so…” Steve mumbles to no one in particular, but quickly clears his throat and changes the subject. “And I’d finally be able to see Y/N Henderson’s room? Count me in.”

You blush furiously. He’s getting a kick out of all of this and he’s such a little shit, honestly. You’re not sure why the thought of having Steve Harrington in your room, eager to be in your room, makes your stomach flutter and your cheeks burn painfully. 

Steve sees your blush and he wiggles his eyebrows at you. “C’mon, Y/N. It’ll be like a sleepover.”

“You’re far too pleased about all of this.”

“We can pretend to be back at Bookstrordinary. I’ll even stack some books that you definitely have in your room.”

Dustin stands between you and Steve, his face alight with joy and curiosity. “Can I please know when you two became best friends?”

“No, you hid Dart from me.”

“I’m not gonna live that down, am I?”

“Nope.”

Steve clears his throat, clearly amused by your banter with Dustin but still unsure about everything going on. “So… What do ya say, Y/N?”

You bite your lip and look at him. He’s pathetically too large for the couch, it wouldn’t be fair to just force him to sleep there because of the weird way he makes you feel as if you’re floating yet falling all at the same time. 

Exhaling, you give in. “Fine, but do not touch any of my books in the room.”

“Yes!” Steve high fives Dustin and you roll your eyes at them both. 

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. It’s late, can we please just go to bed now?”

Dustin sends you a wink, which thankfully Steve doesn’t see. “Sure, sis. Have a good night.”

And with that, probably because he senses you’re about to throw a shoe at him, Dustin flees the living room and runs to his room. As soon as he’s gone, Steve bats his eyelashes at you and playfully teases, “Take me to bed, Y/N.”

You snort, despite how exhausted you are. “Never say those words to me again.”

He laughs and stands up, following behind you as you guide him towards your own room. A part of you feels like you should give him a house tour, but logistically it’d be useless. You can’t imagine that Steve would be over at your house again once the Dart situation is handled. 

You have to remind yourself that there are still roses for Nancy, currently wilting, in the backseat of Steve’s car. 

They’ll work things out eventually, or maybe they won’t, but Nancy Wheeler still has Steve Harrington’s heart. He is hers entirely. 

Lost in thought, you almost miss the turn to your room and have to grab the back of Steve’s jacket and yank him towards your bedroom door. 

“Hey–” 

“Sorry, my room is here.” 

“You Hendersons are just a delightful bunch, ya know that?” 

“Be thankful you don’t have to meet our mother, honestly.” You fling your bedroom door open and gently push Steve inside. 

As soon as he’s in your room, you watch as he takes it all in. His eyes scan every corner of the room, and you hold your breath as you wait for them to land on the Spider-Man poster he gave you for Christmas last year. 

When Steve sees it, he smiles shyly at you. “I see you kept the gift.”

“Duh,” you walk over to your bed and sit down. “Still one of the best gifts I’ve ever been given.”

“One of?” He asks, tone light but curious. 

Unconsciously, your fingers go to your bee necklace from Jonathan. You play with the pendant and smile softly. “Sorry, Jonathan kinda beat you to it.”

“I figured,” he shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets, uncomfortable. “I noticed the necklace the day I gave you the poster. Didn’t want to, uh, assume. I guess. But the necklace was from him?”

“It was,” you clear your throat, talking about Jonathan with Steve has always been such a foreign feeling for you. 

Steve seems to be thinking the same thing and starts to wander around your room instead. You silently thank whatever god is up there for giving you the motivation to clean your room earlier that week. Normally you’re a neat person, but ever since Will started showing signs of post-traumatic stress, you’ve spent more time obsessively researching rather than tidying up.

Therefore, there’s still books strewn across your desk alongside some comics. Steve sees a Spidey one and holds it up with a laugh. “He’s everywhere.”

“He is.” You say proudly, now getting up to go into your closet to pull out the blankets and pillows usually reserved for Jonathan.

Steve wanders around some more as you dig through your closet. He lingers in front of your dresser, which holds photos of you, Dustin, and Jonathan. 

“Here,” you hand the bedding to Steve and motion to where the bean bag is. 

He looks up from a photo of you and Jonathan from last year. It’s your favorite of the two of you, he stands behind you in the picture with his arms wrapped around your waist and his chin on your shoulder. You’re both smiling widely at the camera, the moment captured by Will because he wanted to try out the camera Jonathan had gotten that summer. 

“You guys are really close, huh?” Steve asks.

You nod, although confused by his question. He spent half the summer with you and Jonathan at your job. You had conversations about your friendship together, but you suppose it’s different seeing the excess of love you have for the boy within your room. Jonathan is everywhere, if you look hard enough, you’ll find him. 

Steve pauses for a second, as if he wants to say something else, but shakes his head and turns towards the bean bag. He arranges the pillows so that they’re flush against the wall facing your bed, which you think is an odd choice, but say nothing. Once he’s arranged the pillows and blankets, Steve turns to you and clears his throat. 

“I hate to ask this, I really do, but I also don’t want to sleep in these jeans,” he waves his hands over his pants, which have always been a bit tighter than you thought was necessary. “Any chance I could wear something of Jonathan’s?”

You think for a moment and dig through your dresser. “I’m not sure, but if I can’t find anything of his then I think my old camp t-shirt can fit. As for pants, won’t your boxers work fine?”

Steve’s face turns red and he clears his throat once more, speaking in a slightly squeaky voice, “Y–yeah, I guess so.”

He’s stumbling over his words, which makes you pause. There’s no possible way that he’s nervous right now. He’s usually so confident and comfortable around you. Hell, last summer he offered to be your first kiss (by kissing his fingers and pressing them against your lips, but still). 

“Are you shy right now, Steve?”

“What? No!” He scrambles to the other side of the room, putting as much distance between the two of you as he can. 

You raise your eyebrows at him, but your cheeks are flushed as well. “Okay then, whatever you say.” 

It’s painfully quiet after that as you continue looking for something for Steve to wear. You swear that Jonathan has left behind some of his things, and right before you lose hope, you spot a pair of gray sweats and an old The Clash t-shirt of his. 

“Here,” you toss the clothes to Steve without even checking if he’s looking. You hear a crash and know that he, in fact, had not been looking. 

“Gee, thanks.” He says sarcastically, but you giggle. 

“No problem,” you begin to gather your own pajamas before pointing towards your door. “There’s a bathroom to the left, down the hall. You can change there.” 

“Then our sleepover can commence?”

You wave him off, but you smile anyway at his question. You missed his boyish charms. “Sure, buddy. Go change.”

Steve salutes you and then leaves the room, softly closing the door behind him. You change while he’s gone and tie your hair up. After a few minutes, you assume Steve has had enough time to change and make your way over to the bathroom so you can brush your teeth. You’re so excited to go to bed. 

However, the door is closed when you approach, meaning Steve is still changing. You knock on the door, “Are you almost done in there?”

“I’m having… problems.” 

Your hand hovers over the door, mid knock. “Problems?”

There’s only silence for a moment, almost as if Steve is contemplating elaborating. Finally, after several seconds, he says “I’m definitely taller than Byers.” 

You roll your eyes and begin knocking again, just to annoy Steve, until he finally swings the door open. Before you can even stop it, a loud laugh escapes you. The sweats are at least five inches too short on him, while Jonathan’s shirt is a size too small. He looks absolutely ridiculous. 

“It’s not funny!” Steve whines, his face once again red. “I thought you gave me Jonathan’s clothes, Y/N!” 

More laughter escapes you, making your ribs begin to hurt. Every time you try to speak, you laugh even harder, and it’s impossible for you to get any words out. Steve watches, not amused in the slightest, and crosses his arms as if to appear more dignified. 

“I’m sorry,” you manage to gasp out, more laughs threatening to spill from you. “I guess they’re clothes from when he was fourteen.”

“I’m reconsidering our truce from earlier.” 

This gets you to stop laughing, and you gasp and smack Steve’s chest. “You wouldn’t dare!”

He sighs, hanging his head low. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“Exactly,” his admission makes you giddy. “Now, either make yourself cozy in the bean bag or watch as I brush my teeth. Your choice.”

Steve shrugs and steps to the side so that there’s room for you to enter the bathroom. It’s a tight fit, but he ends up sitting on the edge of the tub and just watches as you begin the process of brushing your teeth. “I didn’t actually think you’d stay, ya know.”

“I know, but I’m bored and you’re here.”

You spit into the sink. “Fair, I guess.”

“Plus,” he picks at his nails, trying to look disinterested while wearing Jonathan’s too small clothes. “We still need to have that talk.”

You pause, toothbrush hanging from your lips as you stare at Steve, wide eyed, in the mirror. Honestly, you were hoping he would’ve forgotten about that. It’s not that you don’t want to know whatever he has to tell you, but you’re tired and still reeling over the fact that he’s spending the entire night in your room. 

“Oh, right.” Turning the faucet off, you finish brushing your teeth and awkwardly wipe your face. Steve watches quietly, and once you’re done, you motion for him to follow you back towards your room. 

As soon as you’re back in your room, Steve immediately curls himself upon the bean bag and brings the blanket all the way up to his chin. Dustin, as always, is right: the bean bag truly is Steve-sized. “Cozy.”

You laugh at him as you crawl into your own bed. “Yeah, I’d hope so. Jonathan has slept in it for years now.”

“Well, uh. Speaking of Jonathan…” Steve sits up a bit so that he can properly look at you. “I wanted to talk. Ya know… About you and him. Nancy, too.”

He pauses, furrows his brows, and then adds. “Actually, I want to talk about what really happened this summer. Everything. I want to know everything.”

“Everything is a lot,” you dodge, turning away from the boy. 

Steve sighs. “Y/N… I missed you.”

Missed.

“I want to be friends again, be how we were before, but… I don’t know. There was a lot unsaid between us. Even from the start. I mean, I understand. I do.” His eyes never leave yours, despite how much you try not to look back at him. “You’re, well–If we’re going to be friends again, I want to start from the beginning.”

“The beginning?”

Now Steve is the one who looks away. “I don’t know, it’s stupid, I guess–”

“It’s not stupid, Steve.” You reassure him. He’s trying, he’s inviting you in after everything you did to him, and it’s all you could’ve asked for. 

But you’re fucking terrified. 

You and Steve became close before, sure, but it was something more surface level. An act between the two of you. While Steve was able to read you over time, learning and asking and paying attention to you, there was still so much you never let him in on. What you haven’t let anyone in on, besides Jonathan. 

If you start from the beginning with Steve, someone you know has come to view you as this selfless and kind person, you’re scared that it’ll change the way he sees you. 

But Steve is looking at you from the bean bag, looking ridiculously cozy with the blanket wrapped around him and his usually carefully curated hair has fallen in his eyes; his gaze is open and trusting. There isn’t a pressure behind it, he would understand if you backed down, but you promised him you’d try. 

To try is to be human.

And you really, really missed Steve. 

“I moved here when I was twelve. My family and I had moved all the way from Virginia after the divorce. I remember being really mean, back then. An angry kid with all this hurt within her that she perpetually displaced upon everyone else.” 

“Angry?” Steve asks, his voice soft. 

You shift uncomfortably in bed, but you remind yourself that you agreed to this. If you’re going to begin again with Steve, then he deserves to know the true person he’s befriending. “Angry. I didn’t take the divorce well. At all. I acted out a lot, closed myself off, and was just a fucking awful person.”

Shifting again, you take a deep breath. “My anger got to the point where Dustin, who was nine, had to practically plead with me to be nicer to him. He was a kid.”

“So were you,” Steve gently chimes in, but you roll your eyes at him. 

“Being a kid didn’t give me an excuse to abandon my loved ones like I did. Like my father did. It wasn’t until Dustin called me out on my bullshit that I realized the irony of the situation. There I was, blaming everyone else for my own problems and running away, because I was so hurt by my father doing the same to me.”

Steve clenches his jaw, and you know he wants to say more, but you watch as he exhales deeply and decides against it. “Okay, so you were mean and then you became kind again after something traumatic… So what?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I mean,” the boy sighs. “I was a dick for like, ten consecutive years. It took losing a fight to Jonathan, embarrassing myself in front of Nancy at least five times, losing my bullshit ‘friends’ Tommy and Carol, and some blonde guy with a fucking mullet before I was even able to become a decent person.” 

You frown. “What’s your point?” 

“My point is that you came back.” Steve shrugs. “The second someone you loved asked you to, you came back to being the selfless angel that you are. Which, by the way, is an impressive feat in itself.” 

He says this as if it’s obvious and that the months you spent hurting everyone around you can be redeemed. As if you haven’t spent every waking hour tirelessly devoting every piece of yourself to those around you to make up for them. To repent for your anger. 

Steve takes your silence as more defiance, and he runs a tired hand through his hair. He’s merely a few feet from you, at the foot of your bed on the bean bag, and yet it feels as if he’s inches yet yards away. “I know I can’t change your mind, but… I think that’s what matters the most in the end, ya know? You became kind.” 

“So did you,” you finally say, not quite ready to accept what he’s saying. 

Now it’s Steve who looks away. “Still working on the whole ‘kind’ thing.”

“Isn’t that what matters in the end?” You tease, feeling yourself warm with pride when you get him to laugh. 

“Touché.” 

Silence falls over the two of you, letting the tension lazily slip away for now. Your body hums with energy; the only other person you’ve told about your father to is Jonathan. You both have long since bonded over shitty father figures. However, even when you had whispered these truths to Jonathan back when you were thirteen, you don’t remember feeling quite so raw and vulnerable as you do right now with Steve. 

“I meant it, you know,” you catch Steve’s eye. “Back when you first drove me home last year. You’re alright. Not too shabby, honestly.”

This time a full body laugh cascades through the boy, He clutches at his stomach as he doubles over, breathless with joy. “Thanks, Y/N.” 

Steve is still laughing and this is the happiest you think you’ve seen him in months. The realization makes all the warmth you’ve felt earlier, vanish. You remember the hurt on his face earlier this week on Halloween, the tears in his eyes when he confessed that Nancy didn’t love him. 

You know how plagued Steve is about never being good enough, and for the first time since you’ve truly gotten to know him: you understand him in that very moment. 

Your eye catches on Steve’s adam’s apple as he swallows. It’s a tragedy, really, how attractive he is. You suppose it’s what caused his downfall, in the end. A pretty boy, rich and popular yet easily able to be taken down; it must be a lonely life with all that vulnerability.

“Can I tell you a secret?” You whisper, voice cutting through the darkness of your room as Steve seems to remember where he is, why and how the conversation started in the first place. 

“Always,”

“I’m scared of the compulsive need I feel to take care of everyone. It’s like… I don’t know, this debt that I feel I owe for existing, for the fear I feel because of my father leaving. I overcompensate for this fear now, terrified I’ll become mean again.”

Steve stares at your ceiling. “The whole ‘debt’ thing, I understand. Believe me. Rather than being a perfect angel, however, I just try my fucking hardest not to disappoint everyone around me and make them leave.”

Nancy, as she always seems to do, lingers between you and Steve now; you both can feel her presence without him having to say her name. He told you what she did to him, you tried to reassure him that it hadn’t been his fault, but Steve isn’t an idiot. 

Nancy never loved him. He knows this, now. 

You don’t say anything, you don’t think he’d want you to. Giving him some time, you allow Steve a few minutes to collect his thoughts, sensing he has more to say. Then, softly, he whispers back to you, “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Always,” you echo. 

“I just want to be loved.” 

With just one confession, a string of six words in succession, Steve Harrington crushes you. 

The words come crashing upon your chest and you wish you could tell him how easily you see yourself falling for him. How, even if you can’t admit it just yet, you’re already falling for him. You think you have been for some time now. 

Somewhere, in between him driving you home last year and the way the summer sun kissed his face months later, you began to fall in love with him. 

While you’re thinking this, Steve is laying in the bean bag, absolutely terrified of the words that have come out of his mouth. He’s always had the fear, deep down, that he was unlovable, but to admit the fear out loud… He’s never felt so weak before.

You’re silent and Steve thinks he’s finally done it. His pathetic need to be liked and loved by everyone around him has finally scared you away. How couldn’t it scare you away? You so naturally are loved by everyone while Steve compulsively demands it because he’s still that scared ten year old boy with a father who never showed him love. 

Then, because you’re an angel, you give Steve the response he hadn’t even known he needed to hear. “It’s natural to want to be loved. We all do. It’s human.”

He exhales at your words, still staring at the ceiling as if to somehow lessen the impact of what you’re telling him. There’s something there, hanging in the air after your words have disappeared, that Steve can’t quite understand. 

It almost sounded like you were trying to reassure yourself, as well.

“What’s the deal with you and Jonathan?” Though Steve’s voice is steady, you can tell that he’s trying not to sound too interested. 

The question is a simple one, but it’s the hardest question you’ve ever had to answer. Everyone asks you, sooner or later, if you and Jonathan are together. You never blame them for asking, because ultimately the two of you are  closer than the average friends, regardless of gender. 

It doesn’t make the question any less painful to answer, though. It doesn’t make hearing Jonathan’s laugh cut any less deeper.

As for Steve, he’s asked this question before, albeit with teasing and disbelief whenever you’ve told him there’s nothing there. Despite the numerous times you’ve corrected him, he’s never quite believed you.

This time, it feels different. There’s a weight behind Steve’s question, and your silence is all the answer that he needs. “You love him.”

The words aren’t a question, and they harbor no malice. He says them as if they are a fact; you suppose that it is. You don’t say anything, but you do nod your head at him. “I do… I think I’ve always loved him, honestly.”

You’ve never, ever said those words out loud. Not to anyone.

And now, you’re confessing them to Steve, who doesn’t have to ask you why your voice now holds melancholy within it. He knows, he’s always somehow known. Jonathan doesn’t love you, a fact in which Steve has never been able to wrap his head around. He’s watched the two of you for years, how easily you love one another, and yet somehow the love never blossomed into something more. 

Everything stills between you and Steve, allowing both your confessions to surround the two of you. “I’m sorry.”

Steve’s apology only causes you to shrug. “He’s still mine, at least for now. Is that so bad?”

“I mean, I guess not, but… Doesn’t it get exhausting?”

“God,” you squeeze your eyes shut, finally able to voice all you’ve been feeling to someone who can understand. “It feels like this crushing weight upon me every time I see him smile, like it’s a burden, carrying all this love within me without being able to express it freely. I just… I never thought that love could be so exhausting. ”

As the words start to come out, you find that you’re unable to stop. “I grew up with Jonathan, I learned the way he breathes and the way his hands feel pressed against my skin, but so much has changed and…” Your breath hitches. “He’s not someone I reach out to first anymore. It almost feels like I can’t. I love him, I do, but I also miss how it used to be before I realized everything.”

The pressure of tears builds behind your eyes and forces you to stop talking. If you say anything else, you’re afraid you’ll start crying. While Steve has been so lovely tonight, it wouldn’t be fair to ask him to console you so pathetically. 

Steve seems to hear the tears lacing your voice and speaks for you, having finally pieced together everything he’s been unable to articulate since November of last year. “With Nance, it feels like I’m always somehow two steps behind her and her feelings. Constantly playing catch up while the rules keep changing on me… I get the whole ‘love is exhausting’ thing.”

Though you know Steve means well, his words fucking terrify you. If he feels the same way towards Nancy, a girl who never ended up loving him despite how much he poured his heart out for her, what does that mean for you and Jonathan?

For the first time, you question if the exhaustion you feel surrounding your love for the boy is really something else. Something different, disguised as exhaustion. 

You wonder, deep down, if you’ve started to fall out of love with Jonathan.

Who are you if you have?

The boy has become so intertwined within your life, the threads and strings and lines have tied you to him indefinitely. He’s the reason behind your everything. If you no longer love Jonathan, then who are you, really?

The realization washes over you like cold rain in the middle of winter. It spills over you and pricks at your skin and you suddenly want the conversation to end. While you’re so relieved to be talking to Steve again, the conversation has left you with more realizations than resolutions. 

“It’s late,” you fake a yawn, desperate to cut the conversation short. “We should go to bed. Knowing Dustin, he’ll have us up at the crack of dawn to start looking for Dart.”

Steve sees right through you, he knows he’s somehow crossed a line and that you’re once again retreating. You’re closing yourself off from him again, but he’ll take whatever he can get from you. You’ve told him more than he ever thought you would, so for now he’ll play along. 

“Goodnight, Y/N.” He says, watching as you reach for your lamp and turn the light off. Then, as soon as you’ve rolled over and closed your eyes, you faintly hear his final words. “Don’t we make a pathetic pair?” 

You remember, before drifting off to sleep, feeling relief wash over you that Steve once again considers the two of you a pair.

– 

You wake up the next morning to the faint sounds of Dustin getting ready. His shower can be heard from your room, and through the years it's become your morning alarm. Yawning, you roll over and rub your eyes and take a few minutes to let your brain wake up. 

Bits of yesterday’s events come back to you. 

Dustin confessing about Dart. 

Locking the Demodog in your cellar. 

Radioing everyone in the party for help and getting no response. 

Going to the Wheelers for Mike and coming back with Steve. 

Dart going missing. 

And, most importantly, your bizarre conversation with Steve last night. 

The boy in question lets out a loud snore from the bean bag, blankets haphazardly twisted around his legs, and you stifle a laugh. Even in his sleep, Steve Harrington somehow catches all the attention in the room.  

You throw your blanket off and get out of bed, tiptoeing so as to not wake up the sleeping beauty, and head outside to your kitchen. If yesterday was any indication of how long today will be, then you need all the coffee in the world to get through it. 

The coffee has just finished brewing when you hear Steve stumble into the kitchen. His eyes are bleary and his hair is the worst it’s ever looked. “I guess even Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington can’t escape bed head, huh?”

Steve acknowledges your quip only by grunting, still stumbling around through your home. So he isn’t a morning person, you think with a smile while bringing your coffee mug to your lips and taking a careful sip. 

Eventually Steve makes it to your kitchen table and plops down, letting out a loud yawn and smacking his lips. He looks pathetically endearing, really, especially given his outfit that looks even worse after sleeping in it. The shirt has ridden further up, exposing a bit of his stomach (which you divert your gaze from, feeling yourself blush), and one of his too-short pant legs has ridden up to his knee. 

“You really are a natural beauty in the morning, Steve.” 

“Ha,” he says boredly, looking around the kitchen. “Do you guys have any food? I’m starving.” 

You toss him an apple from the fruit basket on the counter, and Steve only just manages to catch it in time to avoid it hitting his face.

“Christ!” He exclaims, glaring at you when you chuckle at his reaction. Maybe it was a little mean, but you see the small smile he tries to hide. 

“Is this all I get? An apple thrown at my face?”

You walk over to the table and set your mug down. “Were you expecting a home cooked meal?” 

“You’ll have to earn a Y/N Henderson breakfast,” Dustin says as he enters the kitchen and joins the two of you. His hair is still wet from his shower and he drips onto the counter, which makes you cringe. He’s such a boy, sometimes. 

He makes his way over to the fridge and rustles around, looking for something to eat. Truthfully, the reason you threw the apple at Steve is because there’s no food in your house at the moment. Your mom normally goes to the grocery store on Saturdays, and in her frantic rush to find Mews she hadn't left any money for you to go to the store. 

“There’s no food,” you inform your brother. 

He sighs dejectedly, grabbing a banana and then plopping himself next to Steve at the table. “All right, are you two awake enough to discuss the plan?” 

You nod immediately at Dustin’s question while Steve slumps further into his seat, groaning. You run a hand through his hair to try and settle down his theatrics. Dustin sees this and raises an eyebrow at you, but you shake your head and motion for him to keep quiet. 

“So,” he takes a bite from his banana and begins speaking with his mouth full, which you make a face at. “I was thinking we lure Dart with bait to a secure area that we can catch him in.” 

“Wait,” Steve sits up a bit in his seat, careful to not knock your hand off his head. “That’s all you got? That’s the entire plan?”

“Yes. Is there a problem?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” he begins eating as well, his mouth also full and disgusting to look at, “Do you know how we’ll lure him? Or where? Better yet, how will we even catch him?” 

Dustin narrows his eyes. “Okay, so it’s a working idea. You got anything better?”

Steve opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He pauses for a second before seemingly drawing a blank and closing his mouth; he sinks back into his seat in defeat.

“That’s what I thought.” Dustin says smugly.

You take another sip of coffee, enjoying the mug’s warmth around your fingers. “Well, we at least know what Dart likes to eat.”

“We do?” Steve questions, looking up at you.

“Oh, just wait until you hear this,” you motion over to Dustin. “Go on, tell Steve what you’ve been feeding Dart.”

Now it’s your brother’s turn to sink into his seat, embarrassed. He mumbles something that Steve can’t quite hear.

“What?”

He mumbles again, only a tiny bit louder this time.

“Little Henderson, I can’t understand you.” Steve says, smirking when he feels you laugh against him. 

“I said he eats Musketeers Bars!” Dustin shouts, now incredibly defensive. 

In sync, you and Steve share a look. While you have an exasperated fondness on your face, Steve looks like he’s questioning every choice he’s made in his life. It’s cute that he thinks this is the weirdest things will get.

“Okay…” Steve looks over at your brother. “Unless you plan on buying out an entire candy store, we need something else for bait.”

In the corner of your eye you see Mews’ cat bed laying against the window, and an idea pops into your head. “Dustin, did Dart only eat the candy bars before he killed our cat?”

“Yeah, why?” 

As you walk over to the kitchen sink to place your mug in it, you begin explaining. “Then clearly he’s outgrown his sugar needs and would probably eat just about anything with flesh on it.”

Steve wrinkles his face with displeasure, not enjoying the thought of going after this monster that craves meat. He’s already done that, and call him crazy, but he really doesn’t want to experience anything like that ever again. 

Dustin’s eyes light up, following along with what you’re saying. “Raw meat! You’re a genius, Y/N!” 

“And then we can follow the train tracks to that old junkyard, the one that El brought you guys to last year. It’s a straight shot, Dart won’t get lost, and then we catch him.”

Dustin squeals. “That’s perfect!”

He stands up to hug you, which you gladly accept. “Yeah, yeah. We Hendersons are known for our genius,” you gently push your brother away and start exiting the kitchen. “I’m going to go shower and get ready. Steve, you’ll take Dustin to the butcher and see if you can haggle some raw meat out of him.” 

“Uh… can I change first?” He asks, running a hand through his hair with displeasure. 

Only now does Dustin notice Steve’s appearance and he lets out a loud cackle. “Oh, I think you look great!”

You shoot your brother a warning look, not wanting to upset Steve too much. He’s the only one with a car, and the party still hasn’t responded to Dustin’s calls, so he’s all you have right now. Plus, after last night’s conversation, you’re sure he’s feeling just as wound up and tense as you are. 

“We can swing by your place on our way to the train tracks. Your house is right next to it, anyways, and Dustin and I can scout the parameters while you shower and get yourself all pretty. For now, just go to the butcher's shop, please.” 

“But–” 

“Please, Steve?” You pout, daring him to argue with you again. Steve is only able to stand his ground for about five seconds before he groans and nods his head.

“Fine–” You quickly hug him before running towards the bathroom to get ready. 

Once you’re gone, Steve searches for his keys while Dustin stands in the kitchen, shocked. “I so need to know when you two became such good pals.”

“Go wait by the car, Little Henderson.” Steve waves him off, though he’s secretly pleased with how the morning is turning out so far.

–

“C’mon, man. It’s just chunks of raw meat, it doesn’t even matter what, uh, body parts they are, I guess.” Steve argues with the butcher, having no idea why you’ve sent him on this journey with Dustin. Neither of them have any idea about butchers and meat, so they’ve been arguing back and forth for a solid ten minutes with the guy. 

“And I already told you, it’ll be $15. Take it or leave it, pretty boy.” Pat, the butcher, says. 

Steve scowls at the name, “That’s insane for five pounds, you realize that? It’s just a bunch of meat chunks from god knows where, it’s not like we want prime rib you dirty sack of–” 

Dustin cuts him off, snatching the boy’s wallet from his back pocket and pulling out a twenty. “Ignore him, please! Here, thank you so much for your lovely service, good sir.”

Pat narrows his eyes at the boy, and for a split second Dustin is afraid that he’s trying to figure out the best way to skin them alive, before he simply grunts and takes the money. 

Relief washes over Dustin and he scrambles to grab the bags of meat, tugging at Steve’s sleeve in urgence until he gives in and begins to help as well. Within a few seconds, they’ve gathered all they need and head towards the car. 

“Keep the change!” Dustin calls out behind him. 

As soon as they’re in the car, he yells at Steve to step on it. It’s already been twenty minutes since they left the house, and he knows from experience to never keep you waiting. 

“Okay, okay, god.” Steve complies, pushing down on the gas and speeding away from the butcher’s shop. 

The smell of raw meat immediately infiltrates the car, so Steve rolls down the windows and sighs. This is definitely not the weekend he had in mind. He thought he’d apologize to Nancy, kiss and hopefully make up, and maybe even swing by your place to tell you the good news. 

Instead, he has buckets of raw meat in his car and his head is swimming from his conversation with you from last night. While he’s happy it happened, there’s still so much Steve feels like you aren’t telling him. To top it all off, he hadn’t been able to sleep in his own bed, but rather a bean bag that Jonathan apparently has slept in a million times before. 

As Steve is moping, he realizes that there actually wasn’t even a real need to spend the night. 

“Hey, Little Henderson,” Steve gently hits Dustin’s shoulder to get his attention. “Why did I have to spend the night at your place?” 

“Oh, you didn’t.” Dustin says as if it’s no big deal.

Steve turns his head towards him, “I’m sorry, what?”

“Yeah, I didn’t think you’d actually spend the night if we’re being honest. I just thought it’d be funny to mess with you.” 

“I tried arguing with you, but you shushed me!” Steve exclaims, putting both hands back on the steering wheel aggressively. 

The younger boy shrugs, “What are you, seventeen? Eighteen? Why would you listen to a thirteen year old?” 

“Well, I–” As much as he wants to, Steve really can’t defend himself on this one. Shit. It’s not like he can tell Dustin that he mostly stayed because his sister is pretty and makes him feel safe.

Dustin smiles, happy to have won the conversation at hand, and decides to really rub it in as they pull up to the house. “I also thought it’d be hilarious to pair you up with my sister. Hope you two made smart choices last night.”

And with those words, Dustin springs out the car, leaving a speechless Steve behind. He turns the car off and sits there for a moment, completely at a loss for words. He’s only spent a total of sixteen hours with the kid, and already he knows he’s in for a world more of trouble. 

If you’re Hawkins’ sweetheart, then Dustin is the town’s horribly terrifying weasel. 

Meanwhile, you’ve just finished lacing up your shoes when Dustin walks in.

“Where are the rubber gloves that mom likes?” He asks in lieu of greeting you. 

“In the closet, second shelf, next to her cat figurines. Where’s Steve?”

Dustin rustles around the closet and pulls out three sets of gloves, “In the car, moping.” 

There’s a crash and then he tosses two buckets onto the carpet. You crouch down and grab the buckets, placing them on the table. “Why is he moping?”

“Why is who moping?” The man in question walks in, throwing himself on the couch and narrowly dodging the third bucket that Dustin throws out. “Why do you guys keep throwing shit at me, Jesus!” 

“Language! There’s kids around,” You snap your fingers at Steve, who quickly cowers in shame. “And if it makes any difference, the bucket wasn’t intentional. The rest were, though.” 

Just as Dustin is finishing up in the closet, you spot a can of gasoline and an idea sparks in your head. If you learned anything at Jonathan’s house last year, it’s that these Demogorgon things really hate fire. “Hey, grab the gasoline as well.”

He does as he’s told, no questions asked, and then hands it to you. You add it to the pile on the table, along with two backpacks from your brother and your beloved switchblade. 

Steve gets up from the couch to investigate your stash, nodding approvingly. “Not bad, guys. What are we going to put in the backpacks, though?” 

Dustin goes into the kitchen and begins grabbing the few items within it. The remaining fruits in the basket, a few pieces of bread, a bag of chips, and some water bottles. “One bag will have our food, the other will have our weapons.” 

And with that, you guys are all set to head out. While Dustin is distracted with grabbing his backpack, you run towards Steve’s car and throw yourself into the passenger seat. Every man for himself. 

“What– Y/N!” He calls after you, but he’s too late. You’ve already buckled yourself up by the time he and Steve get into the car themselves. 

“She beat ya, buddy.” Steve teases, flashing you a proud smile. 

Dustin grumbles in the backseat, unamused, and for a moment you think he’ll leave it at that. However, because he’s Dustin, you see from the rearview mirror as his eyes spark with revenge. “So, Steve.”

The tone in his voice terrifies you. 

You place your head in your hands and sigh, mentally preparing for whatever your brother is about to say. 

“Yes, Dustin?”

“How long have you been friendly with my sister?”

“Dustin!” You whip your head around, lunging towards the back seat to swat at the boy, but he quickly scoots over to Steve’s side and avoids your hands. 

Steve, however, surprises you by simply shrugging and taking the question in stride. There’s no embarrassment on his face, no ounce of hesitation in his voice. “About a year now.”

“A year?” Dustin exclaims, having completely not expected such a response. “Y/N, how could you keep this from me?”

“She didn’t hide anything from you, buddy.” Steve defends you, eyes focused on the road. “I convinced her to be my friend after I saved her life–”

“You saved her life?”

“And then bought you boys snacks at the hospital afterwards. Then, because I really wanted to be her friend, I basically stalked her at work every day and annoyed my way into her life. We’ve been pretty close ever since.”

Dustin’s jaw is practically on the ground after Steve’s quick explanation, left speechless for the first time in his life. As for you, you’re admiring the way the early morning sun causes Steve to glow. You’ll never be over how often his beauty distracts you; you wonder how Nancy, or really anyone, could deny him love.

If you didn’t know Steve, if you passed by him on the street one day as complete strangers, you’re sure that a part of you would fall in love with him. 

Even with pieces of his hair standing all over the place, his shirt still being too small, he was a delicate kind of handsome that made you feel a certain warmth.

“Did I forget anything, Y/N?” Steve’s voice breaks you from your thoughts, and you quickly divert your eyes away from the way his arms look while holding the steering wheel. 

“No, uh.” You clear your throat, still recovering. Steve seems to be in good spirits for once, it’s a breath of fresh air seeing him so content, and yet it also serves as a stark reminder that you made the right choice when you first distanced yourself from him. He’s just too easy to love. “I think you pretty much covered everything. Unless Dustin has any questions?”

“Give me three to five business days to process this, please.” Your brother mumbles from the backseat, which you and Steve laugh at. 

The rest of the ride is relatively peaceful after that, and a few minutes later you arrive at Steve’s house. It’s different in the daylight, only ever having seen it late one night driving the boy home from the Halloween party. 

It’s a beautiful home, the smell of chlorine fills your nose. The pool, you remember Nancy mentioning his pool when she explained what happened to Barb. You shiver, now aware that you’re in the same place that your friend took her last breaths at, just a year ago. 

“The tracks are just over on the other side of the street, and I shouldn’t be too long, so you Hendersons can start figuring out the plan in the meantime.” Steve instructs you and Dustin, getting out of the car and entering his house. 

Dustin begins getting out as well, so you unbuckle your seatbelt and follow. Thankfully you decided to wear jeans today with a simple tank top and cardigan with your knit socks; though it was late October, it’s unusually sunny outside and the walk from Steve’s to the junkyard was easily four to five miles. 

The two of you walk over to the tracks and you survey the area. You’re not sure what exactly you’re looking for, but you figure it’s best to look focused in case Dustin yells at you. 

“We’ll need to go that way,” Dustin points in front of you, and you nod as you follow along. “We can drop the meat chunks every few sleepers so we don’t waste any of it.” 

“Sleepers?”

“These.” Dustin’s shoe scrapes against the bottom wooden planks. 

“You would know what they’re called.”

“Ha ha, any more quips or can I continue?”

You put your hands up in surrender and Dustin begins to speak again.

“Then once we get to the junkyard, we can dump whatever meat is left in a pile and put the gasoline on it. Once Dart is distracted and eating, we’ll light it on fire.” His words catch a bit at the end, and you suddenly feel bad for him. He clearly still cares about Dart, but you know your brother understands the risks of letting the Demodog live. 

Without saying anything, you reach over and pull Dustin in for a hug. He fights it at first, but after a couple seconds he gives in and hugs you back. You aren’t the most affectionate pair of siblings, but you love your younger brother fiercely. Not for the first time, you wish you could’ve done more to prevent him from discovering the Upside Down. 

You know it’s irrational to blame yourself and feel guilty, but maybe if you’d been more involved last year, then maybe he wouldn’t have so many nightmares. 

“I’m sorry about Dart,” you say softly against his hat. 

Dustin breaks away, shrugging his shoulders. “Gotta protect the party, right?”

“Right.” You flick his hat. “C’mon, let’s go back to the car and start putting the meat in the buckets.” 

True to his word, Steve is ready to go after about twenty minutes. He walks out of his house, freshly clean and put together, right as you and Dustin finish preparing the bait. He approaches from behind you, and you can smell his cologne. Memories from when he’d have his arms around you and you’d smell the familiar scent now wash over you. 

Clearing your throat, you turn to hand him gloves and a bucket, but almost drop it when you see him. 

He looks good. Like, frustratingly good. His hair is back in its usual style, but he’s wearing a dark blue polo and a gray jacket that fits him criminally well. You almost feel underdressed standing next to him with your ratty old cardigan, which you know is ridiculous to be concerned about. Plus, you’ve always known that Steve was attractive, so it’s stupid to be affected by it suddenly now. 

You guys had one emotional conversation. 

“Y/N?” 

Steve’s staring at you quizzically, and you quickly snap out of your thoughts and hand him the bucket full of bait and instruct him to put the gloves on. He listens, dutifully putting them on and placing the bucket on the ground and starts searching for one of the backpacks in the trunk. He’s seemingly in a much better mood now, which you’re thankful for. 

“Dustin! This is Lucas. Do you copy? Dustin?” 

Lucas’ voice rings out from Dustin’s walkie, and you perk your head up, relieved that he’s okay. The radio silence from the party was something that unnerved you immensely. With Dart on the loose, Will’s increasing episodes, who knows what else is happening in Hawkins at the moment? 

“Well, well, well, look who it is.” Dustin responds, placing his hands on his hips like a disappointed mother. You chuckle at him and continue helping Steve unload the trunk. 

You hear Lucas sigh into the walkie. “Sorry, man. My stupid sister turned it off.” 

“Tell Erica I say hi!” You call out, knowing Lucas will hear you. He always resented the fact that his sister is so nice to you. You’re the only living person who didn’t receive Erica’s insane insults, which is something you’re very proud of.

“Y/N?”

“Hi, Lucas!” 

Dustin shoos you away and continues to speak. “Well, when you were having sister problems, which really aren’t that hard to handle–” 

“Says you,” you butt in. 

“Dart grew again, he escaped, and I’m pretty sure he’s a baby Demogorgon.” Your brother finishes. By this point, you and Steve have pretty much unpacked everything in the car. 

“Wait, what?” You’d kill to see the look on Lucas’ face right now. 

“I’ll explain later, just meet me, Y/N, and Steve at the old junkyard.” As Dustin wraps up the conversation, Steve shoves his bat into the bag and you watch him with disappointment. He’s trying really hard to make it fit, and you almost pity the boy. Bless him. 

There’s a pause before Lucas asks, “Steve?”

Dustin doesn’t elaborate, instead instructing his friend to bring his binoculars and wrist rocket. You suppose it’s a good idea to add more weapons to your arsenal. Better safe than sorry.

“Steve Harrington?” Lucas asks again, this time even more confused. 

“He’s a friend,” you say, shoving your own weapons into the bag and slinging it over your shoulder. 

Steve closes the trunk and says, “Damn straight I am. Alright, let’s go.”

You follow after him, saying goodbye to Lucas as Dustin tells him to be at the junkyard stat. 

Dustin stashes his walkie in his own bag and then the three of you are off. Your brother and Steve walk a bit ahead of you as you all throw the meat chunks onto the ground, doing as Dustin instructed. It’s slow work, but you’re happy to have some time to yourself while the boys are distracted with each other. Their friendship wasn’t something you’d expect, but you’re incredibly happy about it.

You love the party, you’d do anything for them given all that you’ve been through together. However, as they grow older, you can’t help but notice how much they’re changing. Mike hasn’t been himself since El disappeared, Dustin is now hyper focused on science, Lucas is becoming his own person, and poor Will is just trying to recover from the trauma of last year. 

It’s been hard watching them grow apart, in a way. Nothing will ever be the same after the Upside Down, you know that, but watching the party slowly drift makes you sad for your brother. You’re glad he’s seemingly found someone like Steve to bounce jokes off of and feel appreciated by. You know that someday the kids will all come together again, it’d be impossible not to with how strong of a connection they all have, so you try not to worry too much.

You shove the thoughts down, you need to keep focused on Dart and contacting the rest of the party. So, you dutifully place the bait down and follow behind the boys and feel the time pass by. After about an hour of nonsensical conversation between Steve and Dustin, you hear the older boy finally ask the question of why your brother even hid Dart in the first place. 

“It’s complicated, okay?” Dustin defects, clearly uncomfortable with the change in conversation.

You keep your distance from them, but you keep an ear out just in case you need to intervene. 

“You claim you wanted to get famous off of it or whatever,” Steve drops meat onto the tracks and kicks his foot. “Call me crazy, but you don’t hide something that supposedly makes you famous.” 

He has a point, and Dustin scrunches his face up. He casts a glance your way and you do your best to appear distracted by the job at hand. You know Dustin’s guilty face well, so whatever he’s about to tell Steve will be good. When Dustin shuffles closer to Steve and lowers his voice, you get closer as well so you can listen.

You’re his older sister. It’s your damn job to be nosy.

“It was for this girl.” 

Simultaneously you and Steve react. He hums in approval, almost proud, while you scoff. “I knew it.”

Dustin turns around, horrified. “You knew?”

“Duh, you’re awful at hiding things from me. After Max was just conveniently outside the AV room when Dart originally escaped, I pieced it together immediately. Also, side note: you’re too young to be impressing girls. I told you to just be yourself, dummy.”

Steve lets out a snort. “Pretty ironic coming from you, Y/N.”

Suddenly you feel uncomfortable with his attention on you.

“I’m sorry?” Your voice is steady, but you can feel your hands shaking as you continue throwing the bait. 

“Ya know, your massive crush on Jonathan ever since you were twelve.” He laughs, as if it’s the funniest joke in the world. 

Dustin clears his throat aggressively, pointing to your hands. Steve sees the way that they shake, the tension you now carry in your shoulders, and he’s become familiar enough with you to know your anger cues. The teasing smile that had been on his face drops. He runs towards you so he’s now by your side, and Dustin sighs in disappointment. 

“I didn’t, like, mean anything by that, you know. I–uh, I was kidding, Y/N.” Steve tries to catch your gaze, but you pointedly stare straight ahead and clench your jaw. He’s stumbling over both his words and the tracks beneath his feet, trying desperately to appease you. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

“You’re an asshole, Steve Harrington.” 

“Y/N, please, I said I was sorry–”

You finally face him, grabbing his elbow to ensure he doesn’t move. “I told you that stuff about Jonathan in confidence. You don’t get to throw it back in my face, joking or not.” 

It doesn’t help that you’re already confused enough as it is about the boy and your feelings towards him. To have Steve tease you about it, especially because he knows how painful jabs about Nancy are… It really fucking hurts. 

Steve looks like a kicked puppy as you storm ahead of him and Dustin, putting enough distance between you guys so that you can’t hear their conversion that follows. 

“Shit…”

“You’re awful with women.” Dustin says, now continuing to walk. He doesn’t bother to follow after you, knowing that you need your space to cool down. “I wouldn’t follow her, by the way. Let her cool off.”

Steve sighs, now walking as well, “Yeah, I know.” 

They walk in silence for a little while, Steve hanging his head in shame and Dustin leading the way, frustrated by being stuck with two overly emotional teens. 

After a while the silence eats at Steve, so he decides to continue the conversation from earlier. “So, this girl… is she someone you’ve known a while?” 

Dustin shakes his head, “No, she’s new at our school. She’s super cool, though.”

“I remember back when I based my attraction to girls on their coolness.” Steve mumbles. 

“And look where basing it off their hotness has gotten you.” 

“Ouch,” Steve rubs at his chest, wounded.

Dustin laughs and flings some bait at him. “I thought that if I showed her Dart, she’d think I was cool, too, and like me.”

Steve sidesteps the thrown bait and tries to comprehend what the younger boy is saying. “So, you kept something that you knew was probably dangerous in order to impress a girl who… you just met?”

“Alright, that’s grossly oversimplifying things. And anyways, who are you to give me girl advice? My sister is literally three hundred feet ahead of us because you pissed her off with one singular sentence.” Then, almost as if as an afterthought, Dustin adds, “congrats, by the way. I’ve never seen someone piss her off so quickly.” 

“Look, this isn’t about me, okay? Sure, I messed up with Y/N, but it isn’t like I was hitting on her to begin with,” Dustin makes a disgusted face as Steve quickly continues, panicked. “So she doesn’t count. I just feel like you’re trying way too hard, man.” 

“Well, not everyone can have your perfect hair, alright?” Dustin grumbles. 

Steve shakes his head, slightly amused by the boy’s antics. He’s so much like you, and yet so different, and Steve is realizing it’ll take a lot to keep up with the kid. “It’s not about the hair, dude. Chicks dig more than just a good hairstyle.” 

“You’re literally known as Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington.”

“Hey, ‘King Steve’ is also there.” 

Dustin flings even more bait at Steve, now annoyed with him. “Whatever man, it’s not like you’d be any help anyways.” 

“Oh really? Well, Little Henderson, I’m about to blow your mind: the key to girls is just acting like you don’t care.”

“Even if you do?”

“Yeah, exactly.” Steve now brightens up, happy to finally be getting through to the boy. For Steve, he’s long since learned that the best way to avoid getting hurt is to pretend that he doesn’t care. “It drives them nuts.”

“Then what?” 

“You just wait,” Steve looks ahead, watching you and feeling like a complete dick. He really hadn’t meant to hurt you, hell the two of you were finally starting to get somewhere and yet… Steve fucked it up. As always. 

He can see that your shoulders are still tensed up, you’re walking faster than you need to be. He feels a heavy weight in his stomach, one that he’s never felt before; he doesn’t like it. “You wait… until you feel it.”

Dustin furrows his brows. “Feel what?”

Steve tears his gaze away from you and turns back to Dustin, beginning to explain the electricity between someone you’re interested in. Being the geek that he is, Dustin turns it into a scientific discussion and Steve does his best to steer the conversation back. 

“No, like sexual electricity.” He explains.

As soon as the words leave Steve’s lips, you whip around and shout, “Are you seriously talking to my little brother about sexual electricity?”

Both Dustin and Steve freeze in place, dumbfounded. You let out a loud groan and continue stomping away, now even more aggressively throwing the chunks at the train tracks. 

“How did she even hear me?” Steve whispers, terrified. 

“I don’t know,” Your brother whispers back, also equally frightened. “Sometimes I think she has powers like El.”

Once you’re a safe enough distance away from them, Dustin hesitantly brings the girl conversation back up. “Hypothetically, what do girls like?”

Steve takes a second to answer, carefully rolling the question around in his mind. “It depends on the girl. Some girls want you to be aggressive, ya know? Go in for the kiss, make them feel protected. Strong, hot and heavy. Like a lion.” 

Dustin hums to indicate he’s following along, but ‘like a lion’ has him a little worried about the reliability of the conversation. He knows that Steve is a lady’s man, but he’s also never seen him with any girl besides Nancy, and the one time he saw him with you, he had immediately pissed you off. 

So for all Dustin knows, it could be lies. 

Steve continues his confusing explanation. “But others? You gotta be slow, you gotta be stealthy… like a ninja!”

“Okay, what type is Nancy?” Dustin asks, hoping to get the teen to stop making stupid analogies. Lions, ninjas… maybe it was all lies. 

The question catches Steve off guard and he stumbles a bit, feeling the familiar sense of protectiveness, insecurity, over the girl as well as a new sense of loss. What type is Nancy? If he had been asked this a week ago, Steve would’ve told Dustin that she’s a nice girl, a girl he could happily bring home to his parents and proudly wrap around his arms. Now? He’s not so sure. 

Not when he can still see the anger and disgust in Nancy’s eyes that night at the party. 

“Nancy’s different,” he recalls his conversation with you from last night, how he’d confessed to always feeling two steps behind the girl and how exhausting it all is. “She’s just different. Let’s move on to the next question.” 

Dustin notices Steve’s change in demeanor but doesn’t say anything. He supposes that you and him have a lot in common, then. “Okay, what type would you say Y/N is?”

Once again Steve isn’t expecting the question Dustin asks. “What–” he trips over a twig and just barely manages to catch himself. “Why would you ask me that? She’s your sister, and I don’t even like her–”

“Relax, Romeo. She’s just similar to Nancy and the girl I like, and I figured you’d know Y/N well enough by now considering you guys slept together–”

“I slept on her bean bag–”

“And have been friends for like, a year. Plus, she’s in love with Jonathan, you’re in love with Nancy, and coincidentally they’re in love with each other. Figures that there’s some type intermingling between the four of you.”

How the hell does everyone know about Nancy and Jonathan? Steve thinks bitterly. 

He’s silent for multiple seconds, absolutely at a loss for what to say. He doesn’t know where to begin or what to even deny. Technically the boy is right, as much as it hurts Steve to admit. He’s all but lost Nancy to Jonathan, and you’ve lost Jonathan to Nancy. 

In an extremely messed up way, you and Nancy do have the same type. On top of that, both you and Nancy are close to Jonathan, so it’s safe to assume there’s similarities to the both of you that Steve doesn’t even want to touch on right now.

Even more importantly, Steve has yet to really decipher why your presence alone can make or break his entire day. Why, after months of not talking, it now feels like he’s finally come home again with you back in his life. 

He looks at you again, still angrily throwing your bait, and he supposes that you’re a lot like Nancy in certain aspects, and yet completely different from her. “Y/N is also different, I guess. She’s incredibly intelligent both emotionally and academically. Isn’t she like the top of her class?”

Dustin nods, proud of the Henderson intelligence, and Steve continues. 

“Right. I’d say she’s like Nancy, except she’s softer?” Steve cringes at his own words, suddenly uncomfortable with comparing the two of you. In his mind, you’re both your own separate entities that infatuate him in different ways. 

You both burn Steve; Nancy is like a shot of whiskey, the thrill that follows the burn. But you? You’re a fireplace after hours of being out in the cold, the burn of it warming his bones.

“Y/N is just… she’s special, but everyone knows that. Your sister is the most caring person I’ve ever met, and I know I’m a lucky son of a bitch to be someone she trusts.” 

Dustin snorts. “Yeah you are.”

Up ahead, you finally slow down and face the boys, now waiting for them to catch up and call out, “C’mon, ladies! The sun sets soon, I don’t want Lucas waiting in the cold all alone.” 

“Looks like I’ve been forgiven.” Steve says, relief evident in his voice, something that your brother doesn’t miss.

Dustin lets out another loud snort, patting him on the chest, “Oh, my sister may be forgiving, but she never forgets.” With that, he walks away to catch up with you. 

“Well, isn’t that ominous.” 

You greet the boys with a tired smile, knowing there’s no use holding resentment towards Steve. He couldn’t have known about your mixed feelings towards Jonathan, you know he had only been trying to get along with Dustin. 

Things are still weird between you two, despite the conversation from last night, but it’s hard to stay mad at Steve and honestly, you don’t really want to be mad at him. It’s been so lovely having him around again, and your own confusing feelings can wait. 

Steve leans in close to you, gently grabbing at your hand so that you don’t walk away. “Hey, we okay?”

His eyes are full of concern and his voice is sickly sweet like honey. With the honey, the remaining bits of anger vanishes. “Of course we’re okay.”

Steve exhales deeply and you giggle at him before remembering that Dustin is quite literally a few feet away from you two. Coughing, you hold up your bucket to point out how it’s almost empty. “I guess in my rage, I flung more than I intended. How are your buckets holding up?” 

The two boys hold their buckets up, giving you a mock solute to indicate that all is good. You laugh, impressed by how synched they’ve become in such a short time. 

“Alright, then. Let’s get going.” As you all begin to walk in line again, you ask, “What were you guys even talking about, anyways?” 

The boys glance at each other in a conspiring way, which causes you to roll your eyes. They’re acting like you asked for their deepest and darkest secrets. They seem to have a silent conversation for a couple seconds before Steve finally speaks up. 

“I was just giving Little Henderson some girl advice. Nothing serious.” 

You raise your eyebrows, your heart swelling a bit at the idea of Steve giving your brother advice. It’s sweet, really. “Girl advice, huh?”

“Yeah, why do you sound so skeptical?” 

“Because you’re terrible with girls.” 

Dustin now butts in, “He told me to be aggressive.” 

“I did not!”

“He also said that you’re softer than Nancy.”

You make a face. “Thank you? I think?”

Steve tugs at his hair in frustration. “You two are the worst people I’ve ever met. You know that, right?” 

In unison, you and Dustin reply, “We get that a lot.” 

Steve stares at the two of you with slight horror in his eyes. “Yeah, alright. I’m out.” 

You grab at his sleeve, gently stopping him from storming away. You give him an apologetic look and pull him close so that your chest bumps against his. “You’ve gotta get used to the Henderson humor, Steve.”

He looks surprised by your tugging at his sleeve before he lets a smile cross his face. He doesn’t do anything else, but he also doesn’t back away, either, and you find yourself blushing a bit under his gaze. 

You clear your throat and let go of his sleeve, stepping back a bit. “Anyways, why don’t you tell me what wise advice you have for my brother.” 

The smile that was just on Steve’s face vanishes as he looks away from you. “I was just telling the kid to not fall in love with his little crush. He’s too young for heartbreak and all that other shit.” 

“I’m not in love with her!” Dustin exclaims in disgust, but you’re too distracted by Steve’s words to assure your brother that you believe him. 

“Well, I believe that love is something beautiful.” You say, your words only meeting Steve’s turned back. He doesn’t acknowledge you, but you know his indifference holds no malice. He’s still hurting, still in love with Nancy Wheeler. “Dustin, you may be too young to be in love, but don’t listen to Steve. To love and be loved is the luckiest thing we can ever do, regardless of how it ends.” 

Dustin blanches at your words, grossed out now. “Okay, okay, stop! Love is gross. I get it.” 

You softly mumble sorry to him, now suddenly remembering that he’s only thirteen. When you were his age, the idea of love also grossed you out. Now, love is a concept that you’ve found a comforting warmth in, even if it's burned you a few times and has left you more exhausted than exhilarated. One day he’ll understand (in the far off future, hopefully). 

For now, you flick your brother’s hat and follow after Steve, finishing the rest of the bait journey in silence. 

– 

By the time the three of you get to the junkyard, it’s already about midday. 

It’s different from how you imagined it, filled with old cars and a giant school bus. It’s more open, too, not as “junkyard” as you assumed. 

You, Steve, and Dustin stand at the top of the hill, surveying the area. Your feet ache from the walk and the sun is hurting your eyes. Seeing you squinting, Steve wordlessly hands you his signature Raybans and motions for you to put them on. 

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, this will do. It’ll do just fine,” He says, satisfied as he begins to walk down the hill. Then, as an afterthought, he says to Dustin, “Good call, dude.”

Dustin beams with pride and you fill with so much happiness, seeing the boy getting along so well with Steve, that you almost regret not having them meet sooner. However, there’s no time to wallow in what-if’s and you put Steve’s sunglasses on to follow after the boys. 

Immediately you and Steve get to work, working seamlessly together side by side, months of him joining you in Bookstrordinary finally being put to use. While you and Steve silently scatter more meat and grab supplies, Dustin surveys the area.

Just as you’ve dumped the remaining meat in the middle of the field, you hear Lucas’ voice call from a few yards away, “I said medium well!”

The boy is with Max, who looks slightly displeased, yet curious, to be here. Despite her still obvious hesitation, you still feel excited seeing the girl. You’ve been meaning to talk more to her, she seems like such a lovely girl. 

“Who’s that?” Steve asks you.

“Max! She’s great, and–” You start gushing about the girl, eager to go and say hi, before you see the crestfallen look on Dustin’s face when he realizes why she’s with Lucas. You remember, then, the weird tug-of-war between the boys over her. Shit. 

You grab at Steve’s hand and pull him aside. “Actually, Steve, why don’t we start finding some panels to cover the bus?”

Steve gives you a questioning look, but when you silently motion towards Dustin and he sees his despair as well, he catches on and just nods, following along. Without having to tell him, he understands that you want to leave Dustin alone so he can talk to Lucas. 

As always, you’re forever thankful that he can read you so well. 

After guiding Steve away, you and him begin to prep the junkyard alongside Max. While the boys are talking, you take this as an opportunity to get to know the girl better. 

“So,” you begin, helping Max carry a large piece of wood over to the bus. “I see you’re back again.”

“Looks like it,” she shrugs, not really feeling like talking. Seems like she’s still mad at you for yesterday, taking Lucas’ side over hers. 

You sigh. “Well, I’m glad you’re here.”

“That’s a first.” Again she deflects, but you know she’s doing it out of hurt rather than maliciousness. 

“I know you don’t really like me right now, which I totally understand, I just wanted to let you know that while I don’t like that you’ve been dragged into this mess, I’m happy you’re here.”

Max frowns at you. “You guys act like I’m going to like, die or something.”

A scrap of metal that you’d been carrying slips from your hands. Steve hears this and comes rushing over to help, but you gently wave him away and focus on Max. “I don’t know what Lucas told you, but it’s all true. It’s dangerous, being here, and I just… If you ever get hurt, any of you kids, then it’d be on me and I’d never forgive myself.”

“Way to be a buzzkill, Y/N.” Steve nudges you, trying to get you to smile before your ever-present guilt bears down upon you. 

Max bites her lip, still disbelieving, but she recognizes the pained look of protectiveness on your face. It’s not something that someone can easily fake, and from what she’s heard about you, your kindness is one of the few genuine things in Hawkins. 

Before she can say anything else, Steve lets out a huff and grabs a chair to bang on the car that Lucas and Dustin are talking behind. “Hey! Dickheads! How come it’s only Y/N and some random girl helping me?”

“Language!” You chastise. 

Steve sends you a thumbs up, not really listening. “We lose light in forty minutes. Let’s go!”

Dustin and Lucas reluctantly start helping, both calling Steve an asshole and throwing him dirty looks, which you can’t help but laugh at. 

Lucas sees you laughing and points at you. “Are you the reason Harrington is here?”

“Mhm,” you respond, nailing another piece of wood to the bus. “He’s done more to help than you have, so either pick up some metal and help or go sit in a corner and sulk. Up to you.”

Steve high fives you. “Yeah! What she said!”

Lucas’ shoulders sag, completely at a loss as to how any of this has happened. “This is so weird.”

“Dude, I’ve spent all day with them. Imagine how I feel,” Dustin groans. “I think I died a little when I found out they’ve been friends for like, a year.”

“A year?” Lucas gasps. 

“Guys!” You throw pebbles at the two boys to break up their little gossip session. “One, I’m incredibly hurt you two didn’t think I had any friends besides Jonathan. Two, start helping before I throw more rocks.”

“Yes ma’am,” both boys grumble in unison, which Max finds pretty impressive. 

After that, the five of you get to work. You guys use every item available in the junkyard to secure the bus, hoping that with enough stacked against it, you’ll be safe from Dart once he’s lured. Barrels are rolled, more sheets of metal are placed against the bus, and within the next hour or so you’ve successfully managed to build a decent base. 

All that’s left is to pour the gasoline trail, which you help Steve with as the kids watch from inside the bus. 

“I’m getting major deja-vu right now,” you mumble as Steve pours. 

“Gasoline at Jonathan’s?” 

“Mhm. God, he wouldn’t believe what we’re doing right now.” You know he would’ve loved this bizarre interaction. You, Steve, and the kids all in a junkyard trying to lure a baby Demogorgon. 

You’ve definitely had better babysitting days, and Jonathan would have a field day with this one. 

Once you’re done with the gasoline, you and Steve return to the bus. He waits behind you, making sure you’re securely in the car, before he heaves the old bus door closed. As soon as the door is closed, you and Steve exhale together.

You share a look, both in silent agreement to keep the kids safe no matter what. It’s your guys’ job to keep them safe, to fight for and protect them. 

Deja-vu again. You’re back in Jonathan’s house, holding a switchblade while Steve wields his bat. 

“Ready?” He asks you, extending his hand out for you to grab. 

You interlock your fingers through his. “When am I ever?”

Steve laughs, dispelling away any remaining uncertainty and fear. You know, that no matter what, that he’ll be by your side to help. With this in mind, you join the kids further into the bus. 

Lucas climbs the ladder up to the top, something you’re not fully okay with, but he’s the one with the binoculars and you the switchblade, so it makes the most sense. As the boy climbs, you sit down next to Steve as he flicks his lighter on and off. You’re pressed shoulder to shoulder, his presence grounding you.

Dustin paces, and all you can do is watch him as you try to settle your own nerves. Max has seated herself at the other end of the bus, her arms crossed as usual. 

After a few moments of silence, she finally speaks. “So, you really fought one of these things before?”

Steve nods and you hum in agreement. “Unfortunately.”

“And you’re, like, totally, 100% sure it wasn’t a bear?”

“I mean, to be fair I also had that same thought last year–”

Dustin cuts you off. “Shit, don’t be an idiot, okay? It wasn’t a bear.”

You roughly grab at your brother, yanking him towards you to shut him up. “Dustin–”

“Why are you even here if you don’t believe us?” He sneers at Max, something you’ve never, ever seen your sweet brother do. “Just go home.”

Max clenches her jaw and you send her an apologetic look, but she rolls her eyes at you. “Geesh, someone’s cranky. Past your bedtime?” 

“Max, wait–” She ignores you and climbs up the ladder to join Lucas. You groan once she’s gone, now more than ever wanting to strangle your brother. “Dustin, what the hell was that?”

“That was good, Y/N!” Steve says, a proud smirk on his face. “He showed her he didn’t care, just like I told him to.”

“Oh, so it’s your fault my sweet, innocent baby brother is now some woman hating misogynistic piece of–”

“I don’t hate women, Y/N.” Dustin tiredly says, before directing his next words to Steve. “And I don’t care.”

Steve winks at the boy, but immediately flinches back when you raise your hand to smack him. “Yeah, cower away, you idiotic and moronic–”

“Y/N, stop overreacting and Steve, stop winking at me.”

You raise your eyebrows at Dustin’s tone and he quickly clears his throat and steps away from you. Steve puts some distance between you two as well, scooting away a bit so that he’s out of hitting range. 

It’s quiet again, both boys now scared of your anger, and you anxiously wait for Dart to show up. 

Steve goes back to flicking the lighter, Dustin paces again, and you tap your foot nervously. The silence is killing you, it’s always been your least favorite part of the Upside Down. The waiting, hoping you’re prepared for when all hell inevitably breaks loose. 

You flick your own blades out, admiring the way the blades catch in the moonlight, when you hear a loud growl come from outside. Instinctively you raise your blades to your face while Steve and Dustin scramble to peek through the metal sheets to look out the window. 

“You guys see him?” Dustin asks as he crouches next to you. 

You shake your head. “No,”

There’s nothing outside, only a thick haze of fog that has settled over the junkyard. 

“Lucas, what’s going on?” Your brother calls up to his friend.

“Hold on!” The boy responds. 

Your heart begins to beat faster, your blades never straying away from your face, poised for a fight. Steve sees the way your knuckles whiten over your weapon and he grabs your spare hand, gently coaxing you to calm down. 

Your fingers tighten around Steve’s and you remember his words from last night, promising you that he’ll be there, and you believe him. 

From the bus’ roof, you hear Lucas call down, “I’ve got eyes! Ten o’clock–ten o’clock!”

There, in the haze of fog, you see a hunched figure stalk its way towards the bus. Seeing Dart, you’re filled with complete dread. He’s grown again, much bigger than you’ve ever seen him.

He’s practically the size of the Demogorgon from last year, the same one that almost killed you and Steve. 

“What’s he doing?” Dustin asks, as if anyone else would have any more information than he does. 

“I don’t know,” Steve sighs, his eyes never leaving Dart. 

You squeeze his hand again and hold your breath as you watch the Demodog. He slowly approaches the bait, inspects the area, but he doesn’t seem to be interested in it. You send a silent prayer to whatever god is above that your plan will work. 

It has to work. 

However, Dart starts to back away from the bait and Steve leans even closer to the window. “He’s not taking the bait. Why isn’t he taking the bait?”

“I don’t know,” you want to cry from exhaustion and fear and defeat. 

Dustin looks over at you. “Maybe he’s not hungry?”

Something seems to click, then, for Steve. His eyes light up with an idea, and before he can even get his words out, you grasp at Steve’s arm and try to talk him out of it. “No, absolutely not. You’re not going out there.”

“Maybe he’s sick of cow.” Steve tries to make you let go of him, but you quickly tighten your hold on him and fight back. “Y/N, let me go, I can run fast and–”

“You can’t just use yourself as bait!” You plead, but Steve has always been stronger than you and he drags you behind him as he makes his way towards the bus door. “Steve, listen to me!”

“Steve? Steve!” Dustin finally catches on to what’s happening and he grabs at the teen as well. “What are you doing?”

Steve ignores you both and with a quick jerk of his arm, he frees himself from you. As soon as you’ve let go, he runs towards the door and snatches his bat from the ground. You curse, knowing there’s no way in hell he’s going out there alone, so you follow after him. 

Dustin sees this and panics. “Y/N, please don’t tell me you’re going–”

“Stay put!” You command, scrambling after Steve, who has now begun to open the door. He tosses you the lighter, which you toss to your brother. “Just get ready, Dustin!”

“Y/N!”

“I love you!”

Dustin continues to shout, his pleas laced with more fear than you’ve ever heard from him, but you force yourself to leave. Just as you’ve stepped outside and re-closed the bus door, Dustin pounds against the glass that you’ve locked, tears in his eyes.

You look away, despite how fucking hard it is, and it takes everythin within you to leave. 

Steve saved your life last year. 

Now it’s your turn. 

It’s tense outside as you and Steve walk back to back, weapons out. He twirls his bat a few times, a move that you find yourself smiling at due to its familiarity. With your back against his, you whisper to Steve, “You look for Dart, I keep an eye for anything else?”

He nods, and together the two of you slowly follow the sound of Dart’s chittering. 

“C’mon buddy,” Steve taunts, beginning to whistle. 

“I know we named it a Demodog, but I don’t think whistling will help.”

“We could be about to die, and you’re seriously questioning what I’m doing?”

You shrug, eyes now on the skyline as the fog slowly thickens. “Habit.”

Steve chuckles, which brings some comfort to the fucking awful situation at hand. He whistles some more, continuing to taunt Dart. “C’mon. Dinner time.”

“Again with offering Dart meals while we’re near him,” you shake your head, not at all liking where any of this is going.

“What? At least human tastes better than cat.” Steve responds, now at the pile of raw meat.

You both stop here, Steve facing the bait and you facing the bus, still scanning for literally anything else that could possibly go wrong. Because you’re Y/N Henderson and nothing can ever, ever go right for you. 

Dart lets out another growl, now having spotted Steve, and the teen swings his bat around. You spare a quick glance behind you and see Dart, who has placed all his focus on you and Steve. 

Well, at least the live bait plan is working. 

You turn away again, and as soon as you do, you see the other Demodogs now suddenly appear. Your blood runs cold when you see the two up ahead, one directly in front of you and one on top of the cars. 

For a moment, your words seem to fail you and no sound comes out when you try to speak. All you can do is stare at them, overcome with fear. You’re back in Jonathan’s once more, the fear strangling you as the memories paralyze you. 

From the top of the bus, Lucas yells, “Steve! Y/N! Watch out!”

“We’re a little busy here!” Steve yells back, eyes still on Dart. 

The Demodog in front of you starts to approach, which finally seems to break you from your spell. Shakily, you tell Steve, “There’s more.”

“What?” He tries to turn around, but you shove at him to not lose sight of Dart. You can’t distract him now. Another Demodog has joined.

“Three o’clock! Right in front of Y/N!” Lucas screams, his voice cracking with fear. 

“Y/N?” Steve fully turns around now when he realizes that you’re also in danger, and when he sees the three other Demodogs, he lets out a curse. “Shit.”

Suddenly, you and Steve are surrounded by Demodogs, more than you ever could’ve imagined. More than the two of you can even fight on your own. 

Back at Jonathan’s, it had taken guns, fire, knives, and bats to kill a grown Demogorgon. 

You don’t think your knives and Steve’s bat will be enough for Demodogs. 

“Steve! Y/N! Abort!” Dustin has flung the bus door open, screeching for the two of you to get out of there. 

It’s too late. Dart has opened his mouth and is running towards you two, his friends joining as well. 

“I go left, you go right!” Steve has just enough time to direct you before Dart lunges. 

You dodge, going right as instructed while Steve flings himself on top of a car to avoid the monsters. As Steve hits Dart with his bat, crouched against the car, you narrowly avoid the other Demodog and drop to the ground as it jumps over your head. “Shit!”

Steve swings his bat again and tries to make his way over to you, but you’re off the ground in a heartbeat and run to him instead. Two of the Demodogs are on him now, and there’s only so much damage his bat can do. Breathless, you run over and stab at their backs, doing everything you can to give Steve an opening to run. 

Faintly, you hear the kids in the background cheering you guys on, urging you two to come home.

One of the Demodogs lets out a harsh screech as your blade pierces its skin. It crumbles to the ground, giving Steve just enough of an opening to begin running towards the bus. When he goes to run, you notice one of the Demodogs eying him, and before you can even process what’s happening, you’re throwing yourself in front of him and you feel nails tear at your ribs.

You scream, clutching at your side in agony, feeling blood quickly beginning to spill from your wound. “Fuck!”

“Y/N!” Steve starts to run toward you, pale with fear. 

“No!” You shove him back towards the bus; you can’t let him get hurt because of you. “Go, I’ll be fine!” 

He tries to argue, but you take a deep breath and grip his jacket tightly, practically flinging him inside the bus just before Dart lunges again. Together, the two of you stumble up the steps and barricade the door. 

As soon as it’s closed, Dart begins slamming against it with his entire body. 

Steve uses his legs to hold the door closed while you lay sprawled on the ground, trying to steady your breathing as more blood spills from you. The room is spinning and you’re pretty sure you can taste blood in your mouth. 

Awesome. Cool. 

The kids are screaming and Dart’s body causes the entire bus to rock as his friends now join, throwing their own bodies against the bus as well.

“Are they rabid or something?” Max screams, but everyone ignores her. 

Steve, quick as ever, finds a spare piece of metal and wedges it against the door and uses his legs again to hold it in place. He looks over at you on the ground and feels his heart jump to his throat. You’re pale, a sheen of sweat now dotted across your forehead, and there’s now a concerningly large pool of blood where you lay. “Dustin, go help your sister!”

Dustin looks up and finally notices your injury and almost faints at the sight. In a daze, he runs over to you and kneels down, terrified of how much blood there is. “Oh my god.”

“I’m fine,” you wince, trying to clench your teeth and bear through the pain. “Honestly, this is like a paper cut.”

“Y/N–” The sound of glass shattering cuts Dustin off as a Demodog breaks through the window. Everyone screams, and your brother grabs your arms and drags you further towards the back of the bus to avoid any glass getting on you. 

Wearily, you watch as Steve does whatever he can with his bat, and a part of you wants to laugh. He looks like he’s playing the hardest game of wack-a-mole ever. 

Meanwhile, Lucas and Max have joined you and Dustin. When they see you, Lucas lets out a choked scream while Max covers her eyes. 

“Are you okay?” Lucas kneels over you as well, and you find his sincerity endearing. He’s always been the sweetest in the group, the most comforting. 

“Never been better,” you wheeze out. 

Dustin instructs Lucas to stay with you while he tries to radio for help. “Is anyone there? Mike? Will? God? Anyone!”

“God would be pretty nice to have.” You remark, pain making you even more delirious than usual. 

Max looks at Lucas. “She’s losing it.”

“I think I’m doing great, all things considered.”

Dustin continues to scream into his walkie for help while Lucas tries to stop your bleeding. Max is running around, looking for anything to help, and Steve is still stuck at the front of the bus playing wack-a-mole with Demodogs. 

The situation is so fucking grim, and you’ve never wanted to laugh more. 

Then, to make matters even worse, the ceiling of the bus starts to creak. You see the faint outlines of what suspiciously looks like Demodog footprints on the roof. In slow, agonizing footsteps, Dart makes his way over to the emergency exit on top.

He leers over, and Max, who is at the bottom of the ladder, screams. 

Steve shoves the kids back and you try to get up, but Lucas pushes you down and shakes his head at you. 

“You want some? Come get this!” Steve places himself between Dart and you and the kids, screaming at the thing and waving his bat around, and you’ve never been more attracted to him.

Dart lets out a blood curdling screech, his mouth full of rows of razor sharp teeth that killed your cat just the other day, and you cling onto Lucas’ hand. Another screech, and just before Dart strikes at Steve, it jumps off the bus and runs away. 

Everyone freezes, unsure what to do, as more distant growls and howls can be heard from outside. Steve and the rest stand up, and you notice Lucas holding Max’s hand, and at least something good came out of this hellhole of a day. 

“Any help here?” You finally ask after a minute or so, still lying helplessly on the ground as you bleed.

“Shit!” Steve drops his bat. “Where did it get you, where’s the bleeding? Dustin, did we pack any bandages, or–or an EMT stretcher or–”

“Steve,” you grab his hand, urging him to calm down. “It scratched the fuck out of my ribcage, but I’m not dying. I promise.”

“You’re not?” Dustin asks, tears in his eyes. 

“I’m not. I just…” you shift, wincing at the pain. “I just really need a bandage and I’ll be good as new.”

Steve swallows, a frenzied look in his eyes, and nods. Without thinking, he tears a piece of your bloodied cardigan off and gently lifts your body up so that he can wrap the shred of cloth around you. He weaves it tight, his movements slow and delicate, his eyes never leave yours. 

You can feel his hands shaking as he tends to your wound and ties the cloth with a knot. When he’s done, even though you’re aware of the kids’ eyes on you two, you bring his hands to your lips and kiss them. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” He whispers, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. Dustin coughs, which seems to make Steve remember where he is, and he clears his throat. “Right, well. Try not to lose any more blood, yeah?”

“I’ll try,” 

Steve nods and stands back up, knowing Dustin and Lucas will want a moment with you, and makes his way back outside. He knows that they’re all still in danger, even if for some reason the Demdogs seem to have left. 

Once Steve is gone, Dustin and Lucas help you stand, and as soon as you’re up, both boys try their best to give you a hug without hurting you. 

“Don’t do that ever again,” Dustin sniffs, squeezing your uninjured side tightly.

“What he said,” Lucas sniffs as well, though he tries to hide his tears from you. 

You laugh, your own tears evident as you hold the boys tight. “I promise.” 

“You saved Steve,” Max notes, though her tone is neutral, you can see she’s impressed.

“I had to even out a debt.” 

“Guys,” Steve calls from outside. “The coast is clear.”

Slowly, you and the kids make your way out of the bus. It takes some help from both Dustin and Lucas, but eventually you’re able to walk on your own, holding your side, and walk down the steps. 

“You okay?” Steve is by your side as soon as you’ve stepped down, holding you so that he’s not touching your cut. You’re thankful for his support, the pain still making you feel woozy. 

“We’ll talk later,” you motion towards the kids, not wanting to worry them any further. 

He nods, although he hates that you feel like you can’t focus on your own safety. 

“What happened?” Lucas asks the group. 

“I don’t know.” Max looks around, and you think she’s finally starting to understand what she’s gotten herself into. 

Dustin points to you and Steve. “Maybe they scared ‘em off?”

“No,” Steve shakes his head. It couldn’t have been that easy. “No way.”

“They’re going somewhere.” You finish for him, confirming your worst fears. Suddenly, more pain shoots through you and you wince again, squeezing your eyes shut. 

Steve bends his head down, guiding you a bit away from the kids so that they won’t hear. “Hey, we don’t have to follow them. We can go home, you know.”

“We can’t.” You clench your jaw as pain rings throughout your body. The goddamn Demodog got you good. “We have to follow. It’s all connected, Will and his episodes, Nancy and Jonathan with the detective, and I’ll be damned if I back down now.”

“So we follow?” Steve asks, trusting whatever call you make.

You nod, knowing you have to do this. While you guys are safe for now, you know that everyone else has to be in danger; you have to protect them. “Unfortunately.” 

-

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[neuroprincess]

Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Tyrant - Alex Cabot/Female Reader

Alex Cabot/Female Reader

Summary: Alex's apartment still has the Christmas tree up in February for a reason, a small and demanding reason.

Classification: Fluff

Warnings: None

Word count: +1200

The snowfall of the night before had covered the city streets and turned gray into white; it would be quite a sight in the early hours of the morning with the sun rising between the buildings and skyscrapers. Alex is sitting on the divan near the window, occasionally sipping the hot coffee in hand, but her observant eyes are fixed on the other side of the room, where the Christmas tree was still in all its shiny glory, full of decorations and twinkling lights... in February. The lights glowed softly, reflecting the four colors on the wooden floor and creating a neon illumination. A couple of feet away, between the attorney and the only remaining decoration of the festive season, was Margot, nestled in her baby swing, also staring at the lights, but unlike her mom, with wide, fascinated eyes.

“You know, it's the end of February...” Alex commented over her shoulder to her wife, who was sorting out a pile of blankets on the sofa “Most people have already taken down all their Christmas decorations.”

Y/N snorted and tried not to roll her eyes, after all, they were the ones who had put themselves in that situation.

“Most people don't have a little five-month-old tyrant who refuses to sleep without them and won't even let us sleep.”

As if to emphasize the point, the baby cooed softly, reaching out a chubby hand towards the largest hanging ornaments, as she has done ever since she learned to grasp. Alex shook her head in disbelief, laughing, and took a big sip of coffee before heading towards the tree.

“We really need to talk about this, sweetheart.” she said, turning to her daughter, who blinked at her innocently, giving an almost toothy smile “But not now, right, Mag?!”

“She's got you wrapped around her little finger and she knows it.” Y/N teased, placing a folded patterned blanket in the arm band and walking over to her wife “Not that I mind. It's cute.”

“She's not even six months old. How much power can she really have? I am a grown woman and very...” Alex scoffed and crouched down to stroke the strands of hair escaping from under the knitted cap "Forget about it, maybe you're right."

It all started in December, of course, just after the couple had prepared the house with care and dedication to spend their first Christmas as a family. Naturally, Alex had taken care of most of the details with safety in mind, such as battery-operated candles instead of the traditional ones, no strong scents, no heavy or pointy ornaments and even the tree didn't escape this, synthetic, without any dirt or possible bugs or possible allergies, practical and beautiful. At night, when the lights were turned on and Margot was lulled to sleep on the sofa with soft lullabies, sometimes breastfed until she fell asleep, the world was perfect and they felt lucky to have a calm and not at all demanding baby. They couldn't have imagined how wrong they were.

It was at the beginning of January that the first hint of what they would face emerged. The routine was set: a warm bath, diaper change, feeding and, finally, the delicate transition to sleep. But then, as soon as they started cleaning up after the holidays, what was supposed to be a calm night turned into a nightmare for first-time mothers. Margot, normally quiet and prone to falling asleep without resistance, squirmed restlessly in Y/N's arms while Alex organized the kitchen. Soon low grumbles became a loud, shrill cry, louder and longer than any moment before.

“What's wrong, little one?” Y/N murmured, rocking her gently, while her daughter mumbled and moved little hands between cries that left her face red and wet, eyes blinking sleepily, but not completely surrendering to rest “Do you want Mommy?”

Without much thought, she got up and walked to the living room, where she found the blonde on the way, already wiping hands and taking off the apron, with a worried look, they stared at each other without knowing exactly what to do, before they could check for colic or fever, she felt her daughter's body relax against hers. Only then did she realize that they were standing next to the Christmas tree.

“Oh, you just wanted the lights, did you?” she whispered, sighing in small relief as she felt Margot's head rest against her chest.

Alex, watching the scene with a mixture of fascination and incredulity, crossed her arms.

“So that's it?” she asked in another whisper, afraid of disturbing the sleep that had barely begun.

Her wife shrugged, trying not to smile.

“Our daughter seems to be a bit demanding and a girl of habits, she's clearly inherited that from you.”

And that's how it all began. The couple got quiet nights with a sleepy baby and a few hours of sleep for themselves as long as the tree lights kept shining, even if it meant sometimes falling asleep in the living room while they nursed the baby to sleep or even setting up a mobile crib nearby for when they were doing chores or some rare leisure time, and leaving the doors open all night so that the lights reached wherever little Cabot was. Alex tried to object a few times, suggesting alternatives such as less flashy night lights, soft sounds or putting a few Chistmas lights in the nursery, but nothing had the same effect as the extravagant, richly decorated tree. When they tried to turn it off for a whole night, Margot protested with an incessant cry that didn't end until they, defeated, got up and turned it on again.

“She's manipulating us.” Alex concluded incredulously, throwing herself on the bed, eyes half-closed with sleep, her wife lying down beside her sighing tiredly.

The blonde knows it's not true, after all, it's only a baby and as smart as she is for her age she wouldn't be capable of such a thing, she just couldn't help herself and made a joke in the midst of exhaustion and the notion that maybe they were guilty of it.

“She's only four months old, Alex.”

“Four months and knows how to get what she wants from us.”

And so the tree stood. January passed in the blink of an eye and Margot continued to be obsessed with the lights. Now, at the peak of February, Alex had completely surrendered to the absurd reality that her once plain and almost minimalist living room was still decorated as if Christmas was just around the corner. They tried to turn it off last night, thinking that the baby had finally gotten over it, but ended up dealing with a lot of crying and not being able to sleep for more than two hours.

“Maybe we should just accept that this house is now a shrine to the Christmas spirit,” joked Y/N, leaning her head on the blonde's shoulder as they smiled at their daughter, who was still staring at the tree with sleepy eyes under long lashes, mumbling, “She's so cute.”

Alex let out a resigned sigh and intertwined their fingers over her shoulder.

“I just want you to know that when she learns to talk and insists on putting up the tree and decorating the house in August, it will be your fault.”

“Whatever...” Y/N smiled and kissed the skin between Alex's shoulder and neck “As long as she keeps sleeping through the night.”

Margot let out a small sound of contentment, as if she knew her victory was assured, and yawned.

“I think Mag is ready for sleep.”

“And to let us rest, I hope.”

“Twinkle, twinkle, our little tyrant...”

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[coff-in]

Can I request a dynamic where the reader is the youngest Graves sibling (like a year younger than Ashley) and is objectively the most "normal" of the siblings (before Ashley and Andrew kind of ruin it)?

She's still clingy with her big brother and sister, but she's also happy to make friends outside of them and actively cares about them a lot. The thing is that Andrew forbids her from dating and Ashley scares off a lot of her friends and when quarantine rolls around she's stuck with two older siblings who are obsessed with her and she's not too sure what to do about it, because her siblings really are all she has left now.

Bonus details, I think it would be fun if her relationship with Andrew is bordering on romantic/he has romantic feelings he doesn't admit to but shows (sleeping in the same bed, holding hands) and he dotes on her a lot as the youngest. However, this strains her relationship with Ashley, who is used to having Andrew to herself before the youngest sister was born, but also loves reader (platonically, maybe transitioning to romantically) because she's never done anything but love Ashley unconditionally.

So it's a complicated thing where Ashley's possessive of both but also scared they'll get together and abandon her, Andrew is extra possessive and protective of reader but denies it to hell (as he does), and reader is slowly realizing some things about her siblings that she really should've realized much, much earlier...

notes from coff-in: GRRRR IT'S LIKE YOU LIVE IN MY MIND!!!! oh to have two possessive and obsessive older siblings who love you way more than a normal sibling should, not like i'm complaining, hahaha! i'm sorry these asks are taking so long... i just wanna hang on to all your wonderful asks and daydreaming about them indulgently!! even so, i hope this was to your liking and thank you so much for requesting!!

[fem] reader-insert, [reader] is 1 year younger than ashley, talks/mention of incest, brief NSFW

I love you more than I should...

Andrew and Ashley did not know why their mother thought she should have a second child. Maybe this was an accidental pregnancy.

When [reader] was old enough to walk and talk, Mrs. Graves delegated the responsibility of raising her to Andy, who was around maybe four or five years old at the time. He tried his best to keep them both happy and satisfied, but it was obvious to the keen few that he paid extra attention to his baby sister. Leyley wasn’t used to not having Andy’s full attention on her and expressed her hatred of the new status quo by picking on her little sister.

When [reader] would try to make amends with Leyley for whatever crime she committed, it shocked Leyley. She remembers when she was playing in the forest one day, picking on the bugs in the dirt, and having her little sister [reader] walk up clumsily to her with dug-up flowers in her hand.

“I’m sorry I made you upset, Leyley. Please don’t be mad.” Leyley picked on her less after that and a heated argument with Andy. In fact she tried to hang out with [reader] more often and tried her best to be nicer to her sister. She was someone besides Andy that she could call a friend. It wasn’t uncommon to catch [reader] following her older siblings like a lost puppy, eating lunch and studying with Andy or drawing and playing around with Leyley.

The other kids found it strange how [reader] would willingly hang out with Leyley. She was so normal like Andy was. She was sociable and had friends that she hung out with from time to time… until Leyley drew most of them away. The only ones that stuck around were Julia and Nina. Maybe [reader] knew that they were just using her to get closer to Andy or maybe she believed that they genuinely wanted to be her friends.

Once Nina died [reader] stopped putting herself out as much. She clung much closer to her big siblings and they were happy to dote and comfort her. Leyley made it so that [reader] promised with the blood pact she would never love anyone else but her and their bother.

As they got older, in middle and high school [reader] started to come out of her shell again. She tried to make some new friends but Ashley, again, did her hardest to scare most of them off. 

“What do you need other friends for?” She’d ask [reader] when they see each other during the day, “You have me and Andy! You don’t need anyone else!”

It’s not like Andrew was any better himself. His possessiveness was less visible to others but it was still there. “Ashley’s right, sis. You don’t need to worry about making friends right now.” (God, to be the object of affection between these two <3)

He didn’t like the idea of [reader] dating. He knew it was wrong for him to think of his sister like this, but he didn’t want to share her with anyone else. He’d never admit that he got off on the idea of being her first; her first kiss, her first boyfriend… To avoid the jealousy he knew he’d feel if [reader] dated he simply told her that she wasn’t allowed to do so. Any arguments that [reader] had about him or Ashley dating (mostly about him dating Julia) were casually swept aside with the excuse that he’s older than her.

Ashley doesn’t like Andrew dating Julia. He can’t leave her! Does Julia really think that she’s better because Andrew can fuck her and not Ashley or [reader]?! While Ashley leaves 200 violent voicemails for Julia, [reader] calls Andrew a lot during his time in college to ask if he could come home.

“I miss you.” [reader] would say in that low, pouty voice that’ll tug on Andrew’s heart and make his cheeks red. “Could you come back this weekend to visit?”

And he’d say “Of course.” because he could never deny his little sisters.

Once they’re stuck in quarantine, Andrew and Ashley start showing (or at least then [reader] starts noticing) their more possessive and… weirder nature.

They’re always with [reader] except for when [reader] has to use the restroom. Ashley’s making [reader] do some chore with her or Andrew’s subtly holding [reader] close to him when he’s smoking on the balcony. Ashley would make her teasingly suggestive comments about [reader] and Andrew would immediately shut them down while avoiding looking at [reader] because he does think that they have a merit to them.

Andrew sneaks into [reader]’s bed when the nightmares come and cuddles up to his baby sister. He holds her close in his arms and rests his face on top of her head or in the crook of her neck or on her chest with her chip over his head. He relishes in her warmth and takes deep inhales of her scent to comfort himself. 

Whenever [reader] does chores, he pats her on her head and says that she did a good job and that he’s proud. [reader] insists he praises Ashley too and it makes her heart pound a little faster and harder. 

Skip over to Episode 1 when they break into the cultist apartment, Andrew tries to avoid having [reader] see what’s up. [reader] is reasonably freaked out and upset about having to dismember and EAT a dead guy until Ashley proposes that she’d just starve to death. Andrew argues with Ashley about letting their baby sister starve and would probably insist with Ashley that [reader] should eat the dead cultist.

Ah, this is going to be very lazy of me but I’m going to skip over to the Burial vision scene. In the vision, the siblings see themselves (all three of them) post-coitus, naked and marked up by each other. (Very self-indulgent but [reader] would be placed in the middle of them)

Andrew’s an embarrassed mess because holy shit, holy shit, holy shit! 

He fucks his sisters. He fucks his baby sister, [reader]. He’s as elated as he is scared… she’s not like that. She wouldn’t fuck him. She wouldn’t fuck her older siblings and she wouldn’t want them as much as he wants her… would she?

Ashley’s never really considered [reader] in a romantic light like that, but she doesn’t mind it at all. Having [reader] close to her and Andrew like that brings a warm comfort to her.

With the way the trinket works, [reader] probably wouldn’t be able to see the vision since she can’t touch it when Andrew and Ashley are holding it in their hands. She’d be sleeping on the couch, waking up when she heard Andrew and Ashley yelling about the argument.

I wanna write smut about them having a hot incestuous threesome so badly but I’m losing steam right now. They all confess their feelings about each other and kiss tho. By the time Episode 2 ends [reader] has been sort of worn down by Andrew and Ashley’s weird feelings that she’s like “Yeah I’d fuck my siblings because I love them!”

----

coff-in

[the-nosy-neighbor]

Bug-a-Bye and Goodnight

As always, I have edits:

This will make more sense at the end.

I came across some theories about this song, and wanted to look at it in depth.

We are reading with the understanding that he may be referring to Eddie.

[A gentle piano and bassoon track begins playing.]

The sun is low, it’s cold and dark,— end of season, but could also be a reference to night and danger after dark

Just wind and snow, I must remark,

The bugs all head to slumberland,—interesting given the use of toyland, also the commercial about remderem/insomnia (some must sleep but Wally is in the opposite state. Too aware?), but could be a reference to death, like “the big sleep”

Some might find it sad, but I understand,—on face value, he will miss his friends, but knows that it is inevitable.

Even if I might not be able to see you,—can’t see Eddie because he is gone/buried

I know it’s for the best, I can’t keep you,—Eddie staying would lead to serious consequences for Eddie

It’s time for all of you to get some rest,—after what we saw Eddie go through, I bet he would be better in a different state

To tuck you all into your arthropod nests,—bug stuff; also Julie's hibernation?

At this point, those last few lines could refer to a sort of death for Eddie. Almost like frank can preserve him in some way by giving him a death in this universe. If we are talking puppet world, which we did see in commercials, most of Eddie’s anxiety happened in that state. So, can Frank give Eddie a suspended or death like state in one of the layers of reality and he is preserved in storybook world or our real world?

With one last check, that nothing is amiss,

I can see you safe into your chrysalis,—this reads that he will put Eddie into a different state of being that he can come back from. The coming back is my interpretation only at this point because I assume frank wouldn’t choose death for him or would for sure be hurt by Eddie’s death. Things would have to be very bad if true death is a better option for Eddie.

Also, it hearkens back to the horror butterfly image. Another also, caterpillar to butterfly, an insinuation of emedging into a new form. I don’t see allusions to Howdy in here, but I suppose it is possible that this could refer to more than one neighbor and Frank is taking them all out.

As you snuggle down into your dirt,—reference to being buried?

I want to assure you that I won’t be hurt.

This clarifies that it is a sleeping type state, not death. Ok, here is we’re Eddie’s Halloween costume comes in. Frankenstein, changed from the Scarecrow in earlier art (presumably from wizard of oz). Interesting thing about scarecrow vs. Frankenstein is that we see scarecrow taken apart during that film and Frankenstein is famously assembled from parts of different people. Interestinger is the fact that they are both afraid of fire. (I love that Young Frankenstein shows up more than the original in a search.)

Frankenstein (and scarecrow) are both put back together, but for Frankenstein it seems more of a new being, not just a reassembling. Frankenstein (aka frankenstein’s monster) is a thinking, speaking individual that was horrified at the situation he was in. Frankenstein in the book murders to punish his creator for the immorality of creating him and the resulting loneliness that the monster feels. As such, the choice is very interesting. If the puppets of welcome home come to be aware or sentient, I wonder how they would feel about Ronald Dorelaine or their situation?

If the movie version is the focus of Eddie’s costume choice, then he would be a potentially thinking and feeling being (he is afraid of fire), but without further evidence we don’t know his thoughts.

Scarecrow is a guy without a brain, with the power of speech, so a kind of opposite. I think they all end up just needing to be confident, which is why some shyster from the Midwest is able to help. This almost seems to be more in tune with Eddie's character--Eddie has a tendency to appear kind of ditsy, is constantly being dismissed by others. In the end, we find out he is actually smart but lacks confidence. I can see that being true for Eddie as well.

If I had to pick out a character for Frank, it would be the Tin Man. Poppy is the Cowardly Lion, Wally is Dorothy. Home is Home. There are more parallels here than I was expecting. Howdy is the Wizard, Julie can be Glenda, and the Wicked Witch...is kind of no one? Sally can be a flying monkey. She works my nerve. Also, the whole spying thing was done by the monkeys in the movie.

But now that I am thinking about it, this comparison makes a lot of sense, in terms of the complex relationships, as well as the levels of reality that you find in Wizard of Oz. A big event leads to a shift in the understanding of reality, and the lead finds themselves in a very colorful world that doesn't much resemble their own, but is very flashy, has songs, beloved characters, and a sense of danger. There are some things when thought about in the context of real life, or the black and white portion of Wizard of Oz, would be truly frightening.

Of course, Wizard of Oz shares a lot of parallels with Alice in Wonderland, which also seems somewhat related. In terms of source material, the Wizard of Oz is considered to be a parable that expresses the thoughts about US economic policy in the 1890's. This is a theory that you can read more about here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Political_interpretations_of_The_Wonderful_Wizard_of_Oz

It isn't super related, and not everyone believes that this is the case. However, it seems to be a very American type story, no matter what you believe, that touches on the experience of normal people while much larger forces lie and fuck around with everything.

As the holidays begin to approach,

I gently kiss, each and every roach,—kisses for Eddie. We have seen a realistic roach on the secret page with the mishmash of one script where Wally is deciding what to draw

I made sure to keep, my garden cozy,

So you can safely sleep, in fallen posies,—this whole stanza shows a desire to and promise of a quiet death and maybe even a maintained grave. I looked up posies to see where Eddie could potentially be buried. Posies refer to a nosegay, or small bouquet of flowers. It was a Victorian secret code thing, a way to declare love or even reject people based on flower and color. One that sticks with us in the form of red roses signifying love. On the map, there is a cluster of yellow flowers to the side of Frank’s house. Not sure this counts as his garden, since it is on the other side of the house. Julie has a group of flowers behind her house, but once again, not his garden. No fallen flowers that I can ID.

When googling posey, this is what comes up. I felt that there was a flower called a posey, and these do look like the big yellow flowers by Frank’s house. If any flowers fall in updates, I am going to assume someone is buried there.

There is also the ring around the roses rhyme, which could relate, but I don’t really see a correlation.

It’s time to get comfortable in your honeycomb,

take your winter intermission in your garden loam,—dirt, burying again

neatly nestled from the cold in roots and rhi-ya-zomes, — cozy dead

sleeping side by side under stately stones,—2 dead? Headstones is the link I make there--OK, now look at the pic! (I know, it's a reach.)

…And I’ll be inside of my home,—frank is staying to oversee something. It reads like calming the person who will die. This seems to bolster that arguments that I addressed in the post about bugs on the previous website, that Frank is working against, or at least parallel to Wally. With the bugs, the whispering to Eddie, and using his first name, I think it is reasonable to suggest that Frank is working against Wally and/or Home.

Another potential clue is the hidden video with the clothespins where 1 is upside down. I have theorized that it is a reference to Barnaby dying, but it could be Barnaby and Eddie. Only one clothespin is shown upside down though, so Barnaby or Eddie?

Regardless of how I feel you need to go away,

I’ll be the one to tell you, you just can’t stay,—he likes bugs but this is extreme of Frank, if he is talking about actual bugs

Thankfully I lack a sentimental sensibility,—true that, he generally seems calm.

I enjoy my Methodical Mundanity,—why is this capitalized? I looked and looked but I can’t find the origin of this phrase, though it came up a few times in random posts and articles. Clown does have a tendency to capitalize things that seem random. Me below is also capitalized. I listened as well, and I have to wonder why the singing is so bad? I don’t think the voice actors are bad at singing, seems like a deliberate choice to have reedy and unsteady vocals, pitch issues and pacing problems.

Where all that’s left is… Me.

So, this is a bit extreme for a song about hibernating bugs. I think that given our many references to bisecting or otherwise putting people into pieces (Eddie butterfly horror, frank in a pile of body parts, look I made a dog, and slinky Barnaby, now Frankenstein and Scarecrow) that we could be looking at death in a sense that works in one layer of reality. You disassemble a puppet, it is no longer a puppet. So what if Frank = Frankenstein and Eddie is Frankenstein’s monster? Frank can take him apart and put him back together in puppet reality?

If I had to guess, I am sticking with my working theory. Frank, as the smartest guy in the neighborhood, is the resistant force in the neighborhood. Wally/Home is/are the catalyst for the scary stuff. They are central to everything, physically and otherwise.

I have mentioned that in the last update, Sally and Poppy have the appearance of spies or managing Eddie. Given that Poppy doesn’t attend to party, I am anticipating that Eddie was isolated and watched by Sally during this planning period, where Wally and Barnaby walk the neighborhood to find out what Homewarming is. Given that it is said that Wally and Home instigated Homewarming, it is strange that everyone knows what it is except for Wally. It reads more as an attempt to achieve a goal, despite everyone knowing about the holiday. Even Julie is at the party, and she is supposed to be hibernating. Well, they don't say exactly when Julie hibernates (maybe there was something about her doing it after the holiday?) Anyway, Poppy isn't at Homewarming. She could be at home, but the book stating that they are all here seems like an attempt to cover up her absence. What is she doing? Snooping in the Post Office while Sally watches Eddie? Does Eddie want to go home for not feeling well or he has an idea of what is happening while he is gone?

Maybe Frank sees his boyfriend and comrade at arms about to get hit with something bad, so to preserve him and the opposition, he is going to disassemble him (cue Johnny 5) for protection.

In the past, Sonny (the Brazilian bird) was cast as the opposition to Wally, and included in a relationship with Frank. This work in particular comes to mind:

Clown has stated that they removed Sonny from the project due to the story changing from one with a hero, to one without, as that wasn't the story that they wanted to tell. What if, though, instead of Sonny being written out for the hero reason, there was another reason? What if we are seeing Frank taking on being the neighborhood's savior? He is just snarky enough to make it seem less like a hero situation and more because it was impacting his garden.

[friendlyneighborhoodslut]

The Roommate Agreement | 6-The Archibald Incident.

Pairing(s)/Tropes—Eventual Steve Harrington X Reader, slow burn.

Summary—Ben and Reader get some sibling bonding time while taking down Campus Housing, and an unexpected roommate is added to the apartment.

Warnings/Extras—strong language, sexual tension, stray animal, bugs. Fictional depiction of the University housing being horrible, it is actually pretty nice irl, it’s all for the plot…Let me know if I missed anything!

MASTERLIST | | PREVIOUS PART | | NEXT PART

⊱ ────── {⋆❉⋆} ────── ⊰

Ben screams for me to hurry up from the living room just as I’m tugging my tights on under my skirt. I scramble to collect myself, rushing down the hall just in time to see him lock his briefcase. He’s dressed up in a suit and tie, hair slicked back to conceal that he’s due for a haircut. Eddie’s fighting the coffee machine, banging on its head. It rumbles to life and he looks around for validation.

“We should throw that thing out,” I attest, grabbing my jacket from the coat rack and slipping it on. “It’s evil.”

“You got new coffee machine money?” He asks, pouring a cup of straight black coffee into a mug. No Bailey’s this time.

“I’ll pick one up if you promise to behave yourself and not put weird shit in it this time,” Ben says nonchalantly, his subtle flex of money that the rest of us do not possess unmistakable.

“That was one time, I was experimenting.”

“Aquarium rocks don’t go into any object but an aquarium, Ed.”

Eddie perks up as the coffee pot fills, ignoring Ben entirely. He pours a second cup and tips some sugar into it. “Where’s Harrington?” he asks, head on a swivel. It’s cute, watching him search for Steve like a puppy, a coffee ready and waiting for him. Suddenly, it’s like a light is turned on in that shadowy cavern that is Eddie’s brain, cause he flies to the window with knees high and balancing two mugs of hot coffee in his hands. He slides the glass pane open with his elbow and pokes his head out. “There you are! What’s up, Buddy?” He exasperates, stumbling out the open window.

He’s on one this morning.

“You seriously made Steve sleep outside?” I hiss as Ben ushers me out the door.

“I offered him a chance at peace and he refused. Besides, it was just one night.” He murmurs. I furrow my brows and contemplate what he means by that and if he’s seriously furious at his best friend over something so trivial, but I decide pretty quick that he wouldn’t indulge me if I inquire. I remain silent as we file into a sleek black car with leather seats. It’s pristine, not a speck of dust or dirt. I feel broke just being in this damn car. How much did he pay for this thing? I tug at the edge of my skirt nervously as he goes over logistics. He does all the talking, I sign the paperwork. He’s on a tangent now but I’m not listening, running through the list of things I need to do today. Campus Housing. Job interview. Shit, I need to do laundry, but first I need to buy detergent—

“Are you even listening to me?” Ben accuses.

I lull my head to the side, staring out the window. “We need laundry detergent,” I remind him absentmindedly, barely conscious.

“Oh my God.” He breathes with annoyance. Perhaps I’m internalizing my stress in an unhealthy way. Maybe I’ll scrounge up the time to call Daizy and unload it on her. I wish I handled adversity half as well as she does, but she’s more than willing to shovel out advice on days like these. Suddenly I find myself counting down the hours until she answers my call while at work, because in her words, ‘I don’t give a fuck about this job but they can’t afford to fire me’. I haven’t brought her up to Ben at all, seems like I’d better keep it that way while he’s in his cranky stupor.

The car rolls to a stop, perfectly parked in between sun bleached yellow lines. He readjusts his tie and checks himself in the mirror before stepping out. I’m on his heels, staring at the briefcase in his palm as we approach the front desk. The same woman from before, a disinterested look on her face as she smacks her gum. “I’d like to speak to your supervisor,” Ben’s voice is level but upbeat, a plastic grin slapped onto his face.

“Which one?” Her monotone response rubs me like sandpaper.

Ben is unfazed. “Whichever one’s the most important ‘round here.”

A gray man who reminds me of a sickly version of Ian McKellen leans over is desk, wrinkly skin dragging downward into a tight frown. “My hands are tied kids, I’m sorry. You’re past the deadline,” his voice is gravelly.

“A week is hardly an expendable deadline,” Ben tries.

The man shakes his head. A gold plaque on his desk reads Joseph Johnson. That is like, the pinnacle of white-old-guy names. “A week is a week, Mr. L/N,” he smirks, folding his hands. “You’ll simply have to pay the fines and…move on. You signed a contract after all,”

Ben leans back in his seat. I can tell he’s annoyed by the way he plays with his fingers, but he doesn’t make this apparent to Joseph. Instead he calmly sets his briefcase on his lap, opening it in a way that no one but him can view its contents. A plastic bag rattles as he snatches it from the case, flinging it onto the mahogany desk between us and Mr. Johnson. A dead cockroach lays shriveled in the plastic, but it’s still clear as day what it is. Johnson recoils. “Warranty of Habitability states landlords must maintain the premises in a habitable condition, including basic necessities and compliance with building codes,” My Brother The Lawyer, states matter-of-factly. “Not only do pests breach code but so does the mold growing behind the baseboards,”

The man looks at him, a shellshocked look to him. “Oh yes, I know about those too,” Ben smirks, digging into his box of secrets again. He retrieves a stack of papers. I notice as he hands them over that there’s printed photos pinned to the top corner with a paperclip. Crystal clear images of greenish-brown streaks under ancient baseboards. Ben tucks his bottom lip under his teeth, stretching to make sure his opponent is paying attention. He points at the stack. “Those are complaints filed by students since 2013, in case you were having a hard time reading them,”

He’s got Joseph Johnson’s attention, made evident by the man’s shaking hands and big eyes. It’s time for Ben to deliver his final blow. The K.O. “Oo, and finally—this place hasn’t been up to IBC standards since… 2008?” Ben squints at the pages he’s reading. He shakes his head, looking up from the briefcase. “No good, Mr. Johnson. Nooo goooood,” he accentuates the last two words with a pout, false sympathy. “I’m sure McCall down at City Hall would love to hear about it. Oh! We’re friends… I forgot to tell you! Silly me,” he slams the briefcase closed.

I’m not sure who McCall is or why he’s so important, but the guy in front of me looks like he’s about to crap his pants.

“A-Alright, slow down there. You’ve made your… position, very clear. I am electing to add an addendum to your lease, stating we’ve come to a mutual agreement to terminate. Effective immediately. I-I’ll just need you to sign some things…Where should I fax it?” Joseph is frantic, searching for a pen and paper to write the address down. Ben reaches into the chest pocket of his blazer, retrieving a business card and standing up.

“Go ahead and fax it over to my office,” the men lock eyes for a moment, metaphorical dick measuring contest engaged. I want to roll my eyes as I watch them stare each other down stubbornly. I clear my throat and Ben pivots, looking over his shoulder to smile at me.

Joseph slides a paper over to me, a contract stating a voluntary breach of contract by both parties. I sign it, adding a little note reading ‘kiss my ass :)’ in blocky letters in the margins. I slide the paper over to the man, who reads it and glares at me.

“Displeasure doing business with you, Joseph. Let’s not meet like this again.” Ben smiles.

He nods for me to follow him out of the room. I wait until we’re down the long corridor to let loose my barely contained laughter. I laugh so hard my ribs ache. I crumple over and clutch my stomach with one hand, grabbing onto my brother’s shoulder with the other. Once we burst through the doors and onto the busy sidewalk, he joins me in a song of laughter. “Holy shit. Did you see his face? You were great!” I grin, hopping in place. “I’m sure McCall would love to hear about that,” I deepen my voice to mimic him, rocking my head from side-to-side.

He laughs breathlessly. We take turns bumping one another across the sidewalk on the stroll back to his car. Flashes of our time as kids full of days walking up and down the dusty roads of Houston cross my mind, a warmth spreading in my chest. I realize I haven’t really spent any time with my brother since I moved to Chicago and I’m instantly filled with regret. “Lunch?” I suggest.

Taken aback, he ponders for a moment. Nodding, he gestures for me to lead the way.

⊱ ────── {⋆❉⋆} ────── ⊰

The faint strumming of guitar echos down the hallway and into my empty bedroom door, mixing with the patter of the rain against my window. I chip away at my homework diligently, anatomy textbook heavy on my crossed legs. I write then erase the same set of sentences a bazillion times, never quite finding the right words. The music sourced from Eddie’s bedroom stops. I assume he’s run out of steam since he’s been playing since we got home at 3PM. The clock on my nightstand decorated with a little plastic dinosaur Ben had brought into my room one day reads 6:32 PM. Steve’s at work and Ben’s staying late at the office. I’m about to shout down the hall at Eddie to inquire about our plans for dinner, when he appears out of nowhere and flops belly first onto the foot of my bed with a loud ‘OOMF’. “Hello, Sweetheart,” he coos, propping on his elbows to look around him.

“Edward,” I greet, cocking a brow that asks, ‘what do you want?’

“I’m starving. Pizza?” he suggests.

“Pizza’s a Friday activity, remember? It’s the rules,” I murmur, a majority of my energy focused on my schoolwork.

“Stupid rule. Who made that, anyways?”

“You made that rule.”

He sits in contemplation for a long time. Silence settles over us comfortably as I work and he curiously pokes through my notes and textbooks. His lips purse in a duck-like expression as he reaches for the book in my hand. Anatomy 301. It’s open to a diagram of the male human body, and assuming college age students are mature enough to handle naked parts, it leaves nothing to the imagination. Eddie snatches the book with a childish grin that falls the second he observes the image. “Christ! What’re you, some sexual deviant?!” He squeals.

I roll my eyes and snatch the book back. “It’s for Anatomy class, you freak of nature!”

He groans, rolling onto his back. My phone vibrates by his head and we share a glance before reaching for the phone at the same time. He’s ultimately quicker than me though, as he grabs it a millisecond sooner than I can. He reads the screen, a look of bewilderment turning into that of joy. He swipes to answer the facetime call. “DAIZY!”

“Eddie. Where is my best friend?” Daizy deadpans over the phone.

“Oh, she died. Forgot to tell you,” he lies. I huff and gently knock his ribs with my foot. He yowls, yielding the device to me.

“There you are!” She squeals. “I miss you, how is everyone?”

“Ah, you haven’t missed much. Seems like you took all the stupid with you, minus one…” I pan the camera to Eddie and he grips the phone, pretending like he’s gonna bite it but turning away at the last second. We talk about nothing in particular for a while, Eddie occasionally complaining about how he’s going to starve to death. I ignore him for the most part, whereas Daizy tells him to shut up. A banner appears at the top of my screen. Steve’s contact appears, bright bold letters reading Steve HAIRington with a contact photo I took of him and Eddie wrestling over the remote a few weeks ago. “What the hell?” I wonder aloud. He never calls me, he never calls anyone, opting to always text instead. Must be something serious.

“What?” Daizy asks, concerned by my confusion. Eddie invades my personal space, pressing the side of his face against mine to get a good look at the screen.

“Her boyfriend’s calling,” Eddie informs Daizy.

“Ah, Steve. Have they slept together yet?” She muses. They defer, like I’m not literally right here listening to them discuss my love life, or rather lack there of. I want to tell them there’s absolutely nothing going on between Steve and I—Would I like there to be?—but I’m fixated on the concern about what level of disaster constitutes a phone call from him.

“Shut up, both of you. I’ll call you later Dais.” I speak absently, still staring at the ‘incoming call’ banner.

“Bye babe, love you. Behave yourself, Eddie!”

I end the call and pick up Steve’s call before Eddie can respond to her, adrenaline and worry mixing heavy like lead in my veins. I press the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Oh thank god,” Steve’s voice on the other end sounds irritated and worn out. Eddie scoots closer, pressing his ear to the outside of my cellphone so he can hear too. “I need your help, it’s an emergency,”

Eddie and I share a glance, brows furrowed. “What level emergency are we talking about here?” We’d come up with a scale to label catastrophic events here in the apartment after Eddie unrightfully claimed that being out of coffee constituted as an emergency and woke us up in a panic at an ungodly hour of the morning. The scale was from 1 to 10, 1 being we’re out of coffee and 10 being dire straits.

“Fourteen,” Steve answers.

My heart pauses in my chest. “What the hell happened?”

“No time to talk now,” his voice echos in whatever room he’s in. I begin to panic, heartbeat increasing. Eddie looks at me, bamboozled. “I need you to go into my room and grab a duffel bag. I don’t remember where I put it but it’s blue, I need you to bring it to my work.”

“Steve, what the fuck is—“

Beep beep.

Shithead just hung up on me.

“Something’s wrong with Steve,” I tell Eddie.

“Something’s been wrong with him, Sweetheart,” he adds, slipping off the bed.

“No, like—he sounded like he was in trouble? Told me to grab a blue duffel bag from his room,”

Now it’s his turn to look confused and worried. I don’t wait for him to say anything, instead I cross the hall and into Steve’s surprisingly organized bedroom. It’s spotless, save for the thin layer of dust on the bookshelves and an unmade bed. A wave of sickness washes over me as I feel like I’m violating his privacy by entering the space. Carefully, I open the closet at the far end of the room. The smell of laundry detergent and cologne, fresh pressed clothes on hangers, and no duffel bag. I slide the doors shut and kneel next to the bed, kicking up the comforter to stick my head under the frame. Squinting against the darkness, I spot a turquoise bag hanging out of the edge of the frame. I tug at it, surprisingly weightless. I hear Eddie’s footsteps behind me so I stand and chuck the bag at him. He catches it, stumbling back an inch. “C’mon, you’re driving.”

“Of course I am, you don’t have a car.”

I scoff as he follows me out of the room.

⊱ ────── {⋆❉⋆} ────── ⊰

Joey’s a bright-eyed freshly turned 21-year old who’s terrified of Gary but even more so of Eddie Munson and his general chaos. I heave the duffel bag over my shoulder, refusing to let Eddie carry whatever lifesaving contents are in it. Should we look inside? He’d suggested nosily on the drive over, and though I really wanted to, we didn’t. It’s not any of our business what’s inside the mystery bag, morbid curiosity or not. Joey sees Eddie first, an uncomfortable look on his face. “C’mon man, you know you’re banned…” he starts, trailing off with a look of relief as I round from behind Eddie. “Oh, hey—Steve’s in the back,” he tells me, looking Eddie up and down. “Will you please wait outside? You’re gonna get me fired.”

Eddie looks at me and I nod. With a relenting huff, he turns on his heels out the Hub’s from doors. Joey opens the flimsy trap door that separates the bar from the floor, gesturing for me to go down the long dark corridor in the back. This feels like a trap but I oblige anyways. “Steve?” I whisper, squinting against the darkness. The hall is lined with doors, but only one harbors a sliver of light under its splintered wood. The plaque on the door reads ‘Employees Only’ and I press my ear to it, knocking once. “Steve!” I whisper-yell. Pushing the door open, it leads into a cramped bathroom with two stalls and one chipped porcelain sink. Illuminated with a singular light flickering with a greenish hue, I feel like I’m on the cusp of a brutal death via serial killer. I tiptoe through the room, scanning it for my friend. The first stall door swings open, a soaking wet and frantic Steve in its place. “Oh my God, what happened to you? You reek of beer,” I scrunch my face up at the hoppy stench.

“I’m so glad you’re here. We gotta be quick, you’re not supposed to be back here,” he snags the bag from my hand. I try not to look at the way his shirt clings to him transparently. I’m no better than a horny ass man. “I was changing the kegs behind the bar and boom! One just exploded on me. Gary’s gonna be here any minute and I’m already on thin ice after Eddie’s multiple bar fights,” he’s ranting breathlessly now, changing behind the closed stall door. “Gary’s an asshole, anyways. Not like I wanna impress him. I just don’t want to get fired—“ the doorknob juggles as someone else begins to enter the bathroom. In the blink of an eye I’m yanked into the stall and stood on the toilet seat.

“Harrington what the f—“ he clasps his hand down on my mouth, smothering my protests.

A pair of black boots belonging to feet far too big to be Joey’s clomp across the bathroom, entering the stall beside us. In his hasty attempt to hide my feet and subsequently my existence by hoisting me on top of the toilet he’s got us pressed together, his face flush against my stomach. I try not to breathe too hard or move too much, struggling to keep my balance on the slippery porcelain. He removes his hand from my mouth and wraps both arms around my waist, holding me steady. I hope the increase in my heart rate isn’t perceptible as I realize he’s almost completely naked, stripped down to nothing but his boxers. Pressed against me, burning hot; it may be me on fire and not him though.

The person next to us shimmies a bit, making a suspicious amount of noise. Suddenly, a body slides underneath the flimsy wall between stalls, black curls and a wild look in his eyes. “Hey guys!” Eddie grins.

Steve releases me like I’ll burn him. I grab the walls of the stall for support as I will for my heart rate to settle down. But it doesn’t because this looks bad. Really and truly, very bad. Not only did I come running the second Steve called, but I was cagey about what could be in the bag and now Steve’s damn near butt ass naked in a bathroom stall with me. “Oh my God, Eddie!” Steve complains. “What’re you doing in here?”

“Got bored. Snuck in when Joey was busy. Ya’ll should really get a new Doorman,” he neglects to mention the fact that the absence of the first Doorman is in part is his fault. “What’re you doing in here?” He looks between us with wiggly eyebrows.

“Get off the floor, you’re gonna catch a disease,” Steve instructs, grabbing a pair of jeans out of the duffel bag and pulling them on.

“Might stay a bit longer. I can see up your skirt from down here,” Eddie says to me.

“Ugh, Eddie!” I exasperate, stepping off the toilet to press my converse on the top of his head and push him out. I doubt he could even see anything, and if he could that he’d actually look, but even his joke annoys me. Steve exists the stall first, now dressed. I trail behind him, following him to the mirror above the sink. Eddie lingers in the corner, lighting a cigarette right next to the ‘no smoking’ sign.

“Your hair’s covered in beer,” I tell Steve, reaching past him to turn the faucet on. “Stick your head in the sink,”

“What?” He looks at me like I’m insane, and he may be right.

“Shut up and get in there, Harrington.” He obliges with a groan, holding his breath as I lean over him and run my fingers through his hair. He pretends he isn’t on the verge of drowning and I pretend like I’m not enjoying skimming my fingers through his hair like they belong there. It’s got me unnecessarily warm and sweaty until finally I can’t take it anymore and I step away to tug him from the sink to the hand dryer. He kneels under it and I hold the stupid little button to keep it running. He complains that the air is cold and I tell him that’s the least of his worries as these machines are jam-packed with germs. He gags at that and continues to rough up his hair to dry it quicker.

Once the initial shock has worn off, I can’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. I mean, seriously: Steve just took a shower inside a dirty bathroom sink and now he’s drying his hair with a hand dryer. The boys look at me like I’m insane. Steve stands from his crouched position, looking down at me. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” I giggle, waving my hands. “We gotta go. What do you want from the Chinese place?” I ask, intending to stash his dinner in the fridge until he comes home somewhere between midnight and 2AM.

“Just the usual.” he says it like he expects me to remember, and I do. Always.

Suddenly hyper aware of the lack of space between us and Eddie staring at us with a mischievous look on his face, I take a big step back. Steve’s chest deflates like he’s just let a big breath out. I leap towards Eddie, grabbing his arm and tugging him out of the bathroom. “Let’s get you out of here before you get Steve fired.” The joke’s lighthearted in theory, but the reality is that I want an excuse to get away from Steve, my mind racing with the way his bare skin felt against mine. It leaves hardly anything to the imagination now, a boundary crossed that can never be uncrossed, and now I’m panicking. My body is tingling and my insides burn. I’m thankful as the cool fall air stings against the heat my body produces when we make it outside. Just as I begin to think that there’s steam rolling off me, Eddie laughs.

“You’re so down bad it’s actually disgusting,” he chuckles, pulling a pack of Marlboro’s out of the back pocket of his ripped jeans.

I stare at him in disbelief as he lights a cigarette under a yellow streetlight. “What?”

“Oh, c’mon Sweetheart. He’s literally sleeping in your bed,” his face twists as he sucks on the cigarette, pinching it between two fingers.

“That was one time and we didn’t do anything,” I remind him.

There’s rustling in the bush next to the trashcan outside the Hub. I assume it to be a crackhead and generally ignore it but keep my ears peeled just in case.

“Which is so much worse. I’ve known Harrington for a long time and trust me, the only thing that man’s ever wanted was sex…” he continues to talk but I’m not listening, the bush’s branches continuing to move ever so slightly. An orange blob emerges from the plant at record speed, flopping into the trashcan. “…the fact you guys haven’t done it yet means the guy might actually like you, not just wanna get in your pants,” Eddie’s still rambling.

Meow, the trashcan speaks.

I pinch my eyebrows together. Did I hear that right?

“—Which is horrible for me because now I have to keep y’all’s secret. If I don’t you’ll murder me, if I do Benny’s gonna get me while I’m sleepin’—“

Meow! It’s louder this time, more urgent.

I grab at the leather of Eddie’s jacket, his conversation stopping abruptly as I shush him.

Meow! Meow! “Is that a fucking cat?” He wonders aloud.

Before he can stop me I close the distance between us and the trashcan, a total lack of concern for germs as I reach my arms inside the big green barrel. I feel around through fast food wrappers and cigarette butts until I feel something fuzzy and moving. Meow, the ball of fluff complains as I lift it out of the trash, revealing probably the world’s smallest kitten with a sliver of McDonald’s hamburger in its mouth. Instinctively, I pull the orange striped kitten flush to my chest as it trembles against the cold. I wrap my jacket around him and look at Eddie, tears brimming my eyes as I feel pity for the little guy.

He holds my gaze for a long while, cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth. “Oh, no. No no. Ben will kill you,”

“He can’t catch both of us,” I wiggle my eyebrows. The kitten snuggles into my hair and I think my heart might explode.

“Don’t rope me into this. I want to live,” he shakes his head.

“Edward. There is no way this cat doesn’t come home with me.” I determine.

He plucks the cig from his mouth and flicks it to the ground, stomping it under his boot. He looks up at the sky, mouthing ‘why do you hate me’ to someone, probably to whoever controls the universe, and sighs. “Of course not.” He sighs and shrugs the leather off his shoulders, draping it over my front and hooking it loosely over my shoulders. The makeshift shelter is enough to quell the autumn breeze and the kitten gradually stops trembling. Eddie wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his side. He smells like cigarettes and cheap cologne. “Well Sweetheart, it was nice knowing you. Ben’s gonna fucking kill us.”

⊱ ────── {⋆❉⋆} ────── ⊰

Chinese food is discarded in the fridge uneaten, White Claws fizzling flat on the counter. The bathroom’s a mess of clumps of sticky orange hair and pools of water, a mixture of dish soap and lukewarm water used to scrub the fleas from the kitten’s skin. We’re far too fixated on watching the tiny orange kitten wander around my bedroom as we debate names. I sit cross legged on the floor, my knees bumping into Eddie’s. The cat climbs on top of my stack of comics when a brilliant idea comes to mind. “Archibald—Archie for short!” I exclaim, like it’s so obvious that I should’ve thought of it at the beginning, as I lean back against the footboard of my bed. The red hair’s a little on the nose, but isn’t it adorable?

“What, like the guy from your girl comics?” Did he seriously just call THE Archie comics… Girl comics?

“Not everything that isn’t superheroes is automatically a ‘girl comic’,” I stick a foot out and poke him with my toes.

“If we’re going comic book names, it’s gonna be something cool. Like Peter Parker,” he ignores me, going on his own tangent.

“We are not naming him after Spider-Man!” I complain.

“Why not?!” He retorts.

I watch the kitten climb in between two stacks of books and fall asleep instantly. Just when I’m breaching cuteness overload, my bedroom door flies open. I see Ben first, his coat still on and paper coffee cup in his hand. Steve’s behind him, propped against the doorframe. They’ve clearly both just gotten home and walked in on our incoherent argument. “What the hell are you two arguing about now?” Ben snaps.

My heart stops and drops into my stomach. He looks between us, and the adrenaline kicks in when I realize he hasn’t spotted Archie yet. While Ben seems none the wiser, Steve has a suspicious look on his face. Maybe it’s me, or perhaps it’s Eddie, that gives us away. Either way, he can sniff out our bullshit from a mile away, but he doesn’t alert Ben of this.

“Eddie thinks the Archie comics are for girls because there’s no superheroes in them,” I blurt out.

“That is totally not what I meant and you know it!” he attests.

“Oh good Lord,” Ben huffs like an exhausted parent. “I’m going to bed.” He turns to leave, brushing past Steve whom doesn’t budge form his place. Once my brother is down the hall and the sound of his bedroom door clicking shut rattles the old walls, Steve eyes us.

“What are you two hiding?” He wiggles a finger between us. Now I don’t know if it’s my blind faith in Steve and I’s friendship, but I don’t think twice bout scooping Archie up from his discreet corner of my bookcase and putting him on display like he’s Simba in the Lion King. Steve’s eyes widen and his jaw snaps shut. He reaches behind him and closes my door quietly.

“Holy shit, you brought a cat in here?” He whispers, paranoid and looking around like we’re trading government secrets.

“This is Archie,” I grin, ignoring Eddie’s protests that claim we haven’t decided on a name yet. The kitten wriggles in my grasp, prompting Steve to instinctually reach out and scoop him up. He holds the animal like it’s going to shatter in his hands, so gentle but unsure. Archie digs his claws into Steve’s shirt, clawing his way upwards and onto his collarbone.

“Oh my God,” Steve squeals, face scrunched up with a huge grin. As he’s petting the kitten, a lightbulb turns on behind his eyes. His delighted expression turns sour. “Oh my God!” He repeats. “Ben’s gonna kill us,”

“He loves Y/N the most, we should make her tell him while we make a run for it,” Eddie suggests.

I gasp, offended that he’d so willingly throw my under the bus, to be eaten alive by my angry brother. I will remember this betrayal, Eddie Munson.

“We’re not doing that,” Steve shakes his head, grabbing Archie and handing him off to me.

“I’ll just hide him in here,” I shrug, though I’m aware I’m grossly oversimplifying things. Archibald won’t be the size of my hand forever. Eventually he’ll no longer be a kitten but an entire cat; he’ll need more space to run around, and what about when he needs to go to the vet? Not to mention the bags of cat food I’ll be bringing home, and something tells me the excuse of feeding the stray cats when we live on the fourth floor won’t cut it with my brother’s detective skills. Suddenly, the task of hiding Archie seems daunting, damn near unobtainable. My fault in spirit goes unnoticed, except for Steve. No, nothing ever gets past him. He tenderly reaches for the cat, plucking him from my chest to plop him into Eddie’s lap.

“You’re on babysitting duty. We’ll be back,” Steve tells our friend.

Archie curls up on Eddie’s lap, an itty-bitty ray of sunshine against black clothes. Eddie doesn’t know where to put his hands, scared to even set them down near the animal. “What! Why me?”

Steve’s got his fingers wrapped around my wrist and tugging me into the hallway without an explanation. “Bye Ed!” Manage before the door closes on my face.

⊱ ────── {⋆❉⋆} ────── ⊰

I wander up and down the same isle in the only 24/7 grocery mart downtown. Occasionally I push the cart forward and step onto the little bar at the bottom, gliding across the stained linoleum floor. Steve watches me and I try not to be obvious about how nervous it makes me. “Have you ever actually bought cat food before?” He crosses his arms over his chest.

I jut my lip out. “Yes, but not for one this small…” I trail off, scanning the shelves. Soft food’s the best bet for how little he is. I settle on calling the vet in the morning to make an appointment so I’ll know how old he actually is. I pluck a couple cans of food off the shelf and toss them into the cart, stopping to collect some toys as well. I also employ a cheap bag of cat litter and a flimsy litter tray because it’s the only option they have.

“You’re really gonna keep him, huh?” His words aren’t accusatory, I can tell by the look on his face when I turn to him. Soft expression and big brown eyes, smiling lips so close but so far away.

“I mean, yeah,” I shrug. “It’s like it was fate, him coming to me,”

He shifts to lean over the cart, impossibly closer to me. “Fate?” He smirks. There’s that token Harrington arrogance.

“Mhm,” I hum definitively, refusing to shy away. If he wants to play a game of chicken, we can play. “Everything happens; everyone meets, for a reason,” are we still talking about a cat? “It’s physics, or something like that,” I lean over the handle of the cart, crushing my ribs to remind me I’m awake and this is very much real.

He shakes his head. “You’re too damn smart, y’know?”

I grin because I know he’s wrong. That sometimes I just spout bullshit and sometimes that bullshit happens to be coherent enough to be connected to real science. Maybe I’m not smart but just lucky. Or neither. “Just too smart for you, maybe.” I’m the first to pull away, bumping the cart into his stomach lightly. He gruffs and I pivot the cart to head towards the checkout.

An elderly man scans the items slowly like he’s mulling over every purchase. “You and your boyfriend just get a cat?” He asks. There’s question startles me because one, he hasn’t spoken yet and two, it’s none of his business.

“We’re just roommates but yes, we have a cat.” I respond anxiously, tugging at my fingernails. We. We. We. Shut up already, would you? Stupid brain.

Steve insists that I wait in the car while he puts the bags in the trunk. I oblige because arguing with him makes me feel like melting ice cream and I’m not really sure why. I watch him move in the dark, illuminated by a yellow streetlight, and realize I might start melting anyways. Good Lord, you’re pathetic, I think to myself, gone the days when I’d think of him as just a guy. He’s far more than that. He’s Steve—my Steve, our Steve—the guy who wakes up before everyone else to make breakfast damn near everyday. The one who adds Eddie’s laundry to his own loads so he’ll have clean work clothes the next week. Steve Harrington, who’s always smiling even if he’s having a bad day; a living ray of human sunshine.

No, he’s not just some guy. He is unfortunately much, much more than that. And there’s not a damn thing I can do about how that makes me feel.

⊱ ────── {⋆❉⋆} ────── ⊰

Benjamin should’ve become a cop. Or better yet, a detective. When he isn’t home I let Archie run around to his heart’s content, scooping him up and putting him on my bed before my brother comes home. But Ben’s starting to get suspicious, and it’s taking all three of us to keep the kitten a secret as days bleed into almost a week. He catches on to random orange hairs around the house, and Eddie quickly lies and says I’m seeing a ginger, which prompts a flood of questions I don’t have an answer to because I wasn’t let in on this lie beforehand.

Sunday morning, I roll over to find my bed suspiciously absent with a kitten-shaped indent in the covers and my bedroom door cracked open a sliver. My heart drops into my stomach as my biggest fear becomes a reality: Archie has escaped on the one day of the week Ben is always home.

I swallow hard. I’m so dead. I should write a will now leaving custody of Archie to Daizy.

Ripping the blankets off my body, I stumble out of bed and down the hallway, whispering for him. I breach the kitchen, blinded by morning light. Steve’s cooking breakfast, his back turned to me as he flips some eggs in a pan.

“Steve! Archie is—“ I don’t get the words out before he turns to face me, spatula in his right hand and Archie in the other, holding him by the torso almost like a stuffed animal. “Oh thank God,” I sigh.

Archie yips. Steve shrugs. “Ben went to breakfast with someone, some work thing,” On a Sunday? I call bullshit, and based on Steve’s expression, he does too. “This guy was scratching at your door. Didn’t want him to wake you up,” he lifts the kitten up slightly.

Eddie emerges from the hall like the walking dead , scuffling his feet against the floor and rubbing his eyes. “Good morning family,” he grumbles sleepily, reaching for the coffee machine. He eyes the cat in Steve’s hand, like he’d forgotten all about it, and smiles. “Good morning, Archibald.” He scratches Archie’s head before taking his coffee mug to the living room. I suppress my grin at him accepting the name I chose, knowing any hint of acknowledging my victory will make him start the whole argument over again. “Where’s Benji?” he asks, propping his feet up on the couch and leaning against the armrest.

I tuck my lip between my teeth so I don’t laugh. “Says he’s out on a work meeting over breakfast,” I say it in a way that obvious I’m not buying his fabrication as I press my palms into the countertop, lifting myself up to sit on it.

“On a Sunday?” Eddie tsks. Steam radiates from the coffee, clouding his unamused expression. Steve looks back at me, briefly glancing at Eddie, and I know then we are all thinking the same thing. The firm Ben works for is closed on Sundays—it’s quite literally the only day he can’t lie about going to work. So now I’m thinking… how often has he been lying about being at work? All the late nights and early mornings, what is he actually doing? “There’s gotta be a girl,” Eddie says matter-of-factly, and suddenly it’s like a lightbulb has gone off in my head. I mean—sure, I assumed it could be a girl—but to hear one of his best friends say it aloud confirms my suspicions. Gradually, a little pit in my soul where I had held out hope Ben and Daizy might get together opens up. I decide to hold off on telling her for as long as possible.

“It’s been, what? Two months? You think he’s kept an entire woman a secret for that long?” Steve wonders. I know my brother is 100% capable of hiding girlfriends because he did it his entire high school career. Our parents were strict when it came to dating and he’s always had a…rebellious type. One time he brought home a pretty girl with pink hair and a nose ring, and I thought my dad was going to shit himself or have a stroke when he saw her. After that, Ben quit bringing his girlfriends around and swore me to secrecy on the rare occasions I got to meet them.

“I’ll bet you ten bucks it’s a girlfriend, Harrington.” Eddie wagers. Steve agrees, his blind faith in his best friend’s honesty with him misguided.

We take turns casually throwing around conspiracies as to why Ben would hide a girl from us and how he’s a lawyer but such a terrible liar. Steve plates three sets of food, never failing to amaze me that he can memorize exactly how each of us like our breakfast. Eddie likes over easy eggs and cremated hash-browns and he likes to mix them together like a savage; there’s always gotta be more bacon on his plate than everyone else’s because he eats enough for an army. Steve slides my two sunny-side-up eggs, crispy hash-browns and a pair of bacon strips my way. Archie paws at the plates as Steve hands each of them over. I’m reaching across the counter to snatch him from Steve’s arm, continuing my theory that Ben’s girlfriend must be a sugar mama and that’s why we can’t meet her, when the lock on the front door clicks. Suddenly that blue slab of wood is the only thing between the three of us and total annihilation, and rather than run and hide, we are frozen in place.

“Hey guys, sorry I missed breakfast,” Ben shrugs his coat off, dropping his keys in the glass bowl by the door. “Oh! Looks like you guys just started…what is that?” He stops mid sentence as he turns, eyes locking in on the little orange fuzz ball still in Steve’s hand. “Is that a fucking cat?” Archie, ever with the bad timing, wriggles out of Steve’s grasp and bolts across the counter, sliding to the granite edge. He sits there, staring at Ben with big green eyes. “You two brought a cat into the apartment?!” He shouts at Steve and me.

“Eddie was in on it!” I blurt out.

“Don’t rope me into this, you two’ve been the one’s taking care of him!” Eddie protests and while that’s true, his betrayal will not be forgotten.

“What is it with you guys and your complete aversion to rules?” Ben takes a few steps towards the counter. “A cat. Dirty, expensive, hairy…” he crouches so he’s eye level with Archie, who meows and maintains eye contact. Deafening silence. “But goddammit, you are cute.” He hisses to the kitten before straightening himself and pointing at me. “You, dirty liar. This is the ginger you’ve been ‘seeing’?” I wince and nod. This sends Ben into a spiral and he begins ranting to himself about the landlord and how he can’t believe we lied to him.

“Says you, Mr. ‘I Have A Girlfriend But I’m Gonna Lie About It’!” I retort.

Ben freezes. “W-What are you talking about?” He stutters, color draining from his face. Steve and Eddie watch awkwardly, unsure of whether or not to step in.

I grab Archie and snuggle him into my chest. “It’s Sunday. Your job’s closed today, you idiot!” Suddenly we’re teenagers arguing over stupid stuff again. Very rarely did I win any disagreements with him, but this time I have him completely stumped.

“Okay…” he breathes, eyes drifting from me, to Steve, and across the room to Eddie. Everyone’s watching, excepting. “I was gonna tell you guys, I swear,”

“Son of a bitch, I called it. Harrington, you owe me ten bucks,” Eddie rejoices.

“You’re gonna get mad at me for hiding a cat when you hid and entire freaking person?!” I complain.

Benjamin groans, rubbing his face with his hands. He paces back and forth a bit. “What’s it gonna take to get you to forgive me for that? I already said I was sorry,” He relents.

“I get to keep Archie,” I answer quickly.

“You named the cat after your comic books?” He deadpans.

“And!” I add loudly, ignoring him. “I get to meet her.”

“No!” He answers quickly.

I fold my arms across my chest.“Would you like to be banned to the fire escape for being a lying asshole, Benjamin?” I snip. I feel Steve shift behind me to cover his mouth as he struggles not to laugh. Eddie lets a giggle slip. Ben stares me down, searching for a sign I’m bluffing, but I’m dead serious. He throws his hands up.

“I hate you.” He lies, crossing the living room, where the Roommate Agreement sits pinned on the wall with a singular thumb tack. Pulling a pen out of one of his gazillion pockets, he scribbles something on the paper. I’m quick to his side, watching as he scratches out rule number one: 1. No pets, lest we suffer the wrath of Larry the Evil Landlord.

The rule is instead replaced with a note in the margins that reads: 1. No pets other than Archie, who we must hide from Larry the Evil Landlord.

I grin, peeling Archibald from his grip on my tank top to lift him up so he can see the paper. Look, buddy, you get to stay!

Ben retires himself to his bedroom, annoyed and exhausted. Once he’s left, the tension in the air dissipates and is replaced with an atrocious level of excitement. I squeal and hop in place, a sort of uncoordinated dance that my poor cat is forced to participate in.

“Guess that counts as our yearly amendment,” Steve points out.

“I don’t care. Look at him, he’s perfect!” I say, pressing Archie’s face against mine and grinning at Steve. He gives me a look that I can’t read, and for my own sanity I choose to ignore rather than read into it. I let Archie free roam the house, his existence no longer a secret. He bunny hops across the living room and onto the couch, bumping Eddie’s coffee cup in his hand and causing it to spill over the sides.

“Hey! Your guys’ damn cat spilt my coffee!” He complains.

Neither Steve or I take 100% custody of the kitten, instead remaining silent as we watch him zoom around the apartment.

⊱ ────── {⋆❉⋆} ────── ⊰

**this is unedited pls don’t roast me**

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