#Robin is a good distraction

[kens-ramblings]

so ik it’s not cannon accurate but,,,

i need a fic of tim just crashing out.

like he gets so sick of like damian and jason talking about how weak he is and shit like that that he’s like “yall realize lady shiva was my one of my FIRST teachers, and i was the first robin she trained. i had to train under b AFTER he already lost a robin. you DONT think he was 10x harder on me than any of you guys???? there’s a reason my training videos are mainly redacted without bruce’s or my permission. i got ra’s al ghul BEGGING ME to join his league or have my children. i get gifts from him WEEKLY. do you KNOW how many of his little ninja i fight per DAY??? nahh im sick of this shit let’s take it to the mats” and just demolishing both of them at the same time.

i just think it’d be very funny. i just like fics of people who pretend to be weaker than they are(or they just never really have a reason to go full tilt so they just don’t) get sick of holding back and just losing it :D

[flyoorr]

Pinterest happened

[gildedmuse]

Listen.... Trafalgar Law is like Opposite Pick Me Girl.

Evidence:

He stole Doffy's whole look down to the shirtless sluttiness, feather coat and the earrings.

He COPIED DOFFY'S ACTIVATION METHOD. How "notice me, senpai!!" is THAT!?

Like Doflamingo, he acts as though your attempts at torturing him are absolutely precious.

Law straight up based his jolly roger on Doffy's. Like it's not even kinda subtle. (Not that Law does subtle. Which is weird for someone trying SO HARD to be dark, mysterious, and edge-y as Kikoku. )

Trafalgar spent years of his life travelling around the world, gaining notoriety and power, putting into place a series of intricate moving parts that all had to come together in just the right way all so Doflamingo would notice him and remember his face forever.

Law: Please, Young amaster-sama! Oh, please pick me!

Law: To kick your pathetic, subhuman ass.

[Thanks to @revlischarm who gave me this idea.]

[necrotic-nephilim]

https://www.tumblr.com/necrotic-nephilim/763098417058775040/no-thoughts-only-jaytim-fucking-in-titans-tower?source=share

+

https://www.tumblr.com/necrotic-nephilim/760168597014413312/bftc-jaytim-fuck-nasty-in-their-batman-suits?source=share

every time these 2 are left alone to fit it ends like this❤️

it ABSOLUTELY does. i love that i have gotten to write a BftC fic and a Titans Tower fic that is just. JayTim fucking nasty. i think these two should end every fistfight with them having sex in increasingly risky places. it's the only way they should resolve their fights from now on, ty for coming to my tedtalk.

[mariocki]

New Scotland Yard: Fire in a Honey Pot (1.8, LWT, 1972)

"You make it sound very convincing."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your Mr. Logan was seen at the club on the afternoon before it burnt."

"Oh, now, don't ask me what could have taken him there, to a place like that."

"You mean you've never heard of the protection business?"

"Isn't that what you're in?"

[stevieharringtonwifeguy]

i may be insane. but trexel geistman and steve harrington kind of have the same backstory if you think about it. obviously trexel went balls to wall insane about it but there still could be something there. kind of a mean legacy planet designer steve harrington and his new clone eddie who's never been more stressed in his life, and not just bc he was born yesterday

conversely bc eddie has more 'untreated adhd' trexel energy HE could be the trexel, and steve with his 'im acting beleaguered and like i hate this but also obviously im gonna sing the golden robot gondoliers song' david energy is the clone trying to keep them on track so neither of them get murdered by the company

[whereistheonepiece]

Saw this image. Immediately wanted to make it about Coby. I then thought to myself, who would be the lady? Are there any really tall human women in One Piece? (Notice I say human and not giant or mermaid or any of the other One Piece races.) Esp in the Navy since that makes the most sense for the image.

Robin, Hancock, and Alvida are the only ones I can think of that are tall, but they're real life human standards tall. I'm talking about One Piece freaks of nature who are 20 feet tall but all human because fuck you

What I am getting at is Oda needs to make more 12 feet tall women. There's Kiku and probably a few others that slip my mind (because they just aren't important to me), but she needs more mythically tall ladies in her midst. And of course there's Big Mom and probably some of Kaido's war criminals, but I shouldn't have to think this hard. I could probably name you 10 impossibly tall OP men without thinking about it. 20 if I included the freakishly tall ones whose heights you can find irl, but not every day.

But since we're talking about the Navy, all I can think of is maybe Admiral Doll. I checked the wiki and it seems she doesn't have a vivre card, and I don't remember how tall she is compared to everyone else because goddamn Toei decided to pause the anime to rerelease Fishman Island and also because the perspective in One Piece pisses me off to no end. (It's worse in the manga imo. Oda does not escape my ire even if the internet would have you believe he can do no wrong.)

Well, even if she's probably 5'11 or whatever, she towers over Coby in spirit and that's all that matters.

[proneterror204]

Dannys at Wayne enterprise because his parents want to submit their inventions and "scientific" discoverys for official review. He's bored out of his mind and meets this beautiful girl his age and strikes up a conversation with her. (Or he meets a girl and starts to rant like his father.)

Danny: im just saying Orphan has to be a vampire!

????(cass): No.

Danny: Are you kidding me? She moves with far to much elegance and grace to be mortal. Credit to the other bats but they move like mortals. She dances around both rogues and vigilantes!

????(cass): *blushing* No vampire.

Danny: ok maybe not a vampire but like a shadow demon or dhamphir or something! She's to much!

????(cass): orphan. Is. good. What about others?

Danny: oh! stabby robin and red hood are top tier obviously!

????(cass): oh?

Danny: well yeah! Stabby robin practices the art of the sword, a forgotten art in modern times. And red hood shoots pedophiles! Who doesn't like that?

????(cass): Batman.

Danny: well that says something about batman doesn't it. Have you seen the first Robin's outfit? Oof!

*in cass's ear*: Red Robin here. Good job on keeping danny distracted orphan. We're in the process of arresting Danny's parents. Can you keep it up?

????(cass): mhmm. Hey. Cute boy. Take me out to lunch?

Danny: Oh! Yeah! My parents will take hours explaining everything anyway, But uhm. What's your name?

????(cass): call me cass. This is a date, Yes?

Danny: *blushing* oh, uhm, yes. I'm Danny by the way.

Cass: Danny very cute.

Red robin: uhm? You don't have to do that orphan. Hello? ...Please don't make me explain this to B. Orphan?

Batman: Follow. Them.

[electric-plants]

been so confident that i would skip sunday whenever he came out but his drip marketing is so good it’s already REALLY making me reconsider

[prlssprfctn]

Batman and Robin!Jason, who are getting to interrogate some criminal (they need his confession and he just won't budge) for the first time together, and Jason begs Bruce to allow him to be a bad cop. That's like, a total opposite of Dick, who loved being good cop, while B interrogated the hell out of them.

But Jason? Bad Cop? It is... funny.

Jaybin. In these cutest shorts, toothy smirk, and overexcitment?

But Bruce can't say no, so he just nods along, thinking that criminal would probably be too scared of his presence anyway to not confess. Expect, criminal isn't, and Jason is grilling his ass in a surprising manner that makes Gordon whistle in another room.

Criminal: Ha, as if I am going to say anything to a kid. How old are you, ten?

Jaybin, scoffing: Was it how old were you when your daddy threw you on the streets?

Criminal, pausing: W-what. How did you...

Jaybin, casually: Oh, I know everything, buddy. You were always stealing, weren't you? Almost made your daddy lose his job... Eh, you would think that with all these years under your belt, you would at least learn how to be discreet. But, nope, same old disappointment.

Criminal, flaring up protectively: I am discreet! I am very discreet!

Jaybin: Discreet my ass! Your attempt to break into the house was caught within five minutes because your ass forgot to turn the security on! And you left your pliers that you used to break the fence on the roadside! How is that discreet?!

Criminal, hitting his hand against the table: Listen here, you pipsqueak, first of all — how could I know that there is a security?!

Jaybin, rolling his eyes: You didn't even do research. Wonderful.

Criminal, stuttering: A-and, second of all, I threw it away in panic. I left no fingertips, so now what?! Huh?!

Jaybin, disappointingly shaking his head: All of these troubles, and you barely got to steal stuff. That's, like, super lever embarrassing, my dude.

Criminal: IT IS NOT MY FAULT. I GOT DISTRACTED BY A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN LIVING THERE!!!! I WOULD RETURN FOR MORE, YOU LITTLE JACKASS.

Jaybin, blinking: Woah. No surprise, Daddy kicked you out, dude. You are kinda dumb.

Jaybin, returning to his beaming mode: Hey, B, I think, we have a confession!

Batman, flabbergasted: G-good work, chump.

Jaybin: (bashful giglging)

Bruce, in the car: So... How did you know his family history?

Jason, shrugging: Oh, streets talk. Also, that jackass stole food when I was nine. Always wanted to make him pay for that.

Bruce: Aren't you very... revengeful...

Jason: Hehe.

[thebubblesareevil]

He’s not gay enough for superhell

Dc x dp dead on main:

Danny moves to Gotham for college and falls head over heels for the ecto contaminated beef cake in his English lit class.

He’s constantly tripping over himself anytime he’s around and wants nothing more than to grab his attention.

Now thanks to all Mr. Lancers hard work, Danny’s actually pretty good at English, but thanks to a certain walking distraction he starts to fall behind.

The first time he gets a D on a test he nearly sobs. Thankfully he has a merciful teacher that decided to help him out, so they asked Jason if he could tutor Danny so he could bring up his grades.

Unfortunately that doesn’t stop Danny from being an absolute mess, and an absolutely terrible flirt.

While discussing Jane Austin, Danny decides to just bite the bullet.

“So what would it take for someone to win your heart?” He asked with a dopey grin.

Jason snorted, “The Joker’s corpse.” He said, half paying attention before continuing on with the lesson.

Danny blinked, “uhhh, which one?”

Jason paused, “what do mean which one? There’s only one joker.” He looked at Danny like he was stupid.

Danny just shrugged, “well, yeah, now there is. But, like which corpse did you want? The first, 2nd, or 3rd joker?” He asked, giving Jason a dopey grin. “I can definitely get you the 2nd jokers corpse, the third is still active so he’d require some extra effort, but I may have a problem with the first Joker.”

Jason narrowed his eyes, “and why’s that?”

Danny shrugged, “oh Batman killed him years ago,” he paused, “well technically he didn’t land the final blow. He did however cause the concussion that caused him to stumble off a cliff, but he would have died from the internal bleeding anyway.” Danny explained, not understanding why Jason was so shocked but not at all mad about the attention.

“I’m pretty sure most of his body’s been eaten by the local wildlife at this point, but I can try to find his skull if you want?” Danny said, batting his eyelashes.

Jason just stared at him in shock. “How-how could you possibly know that!?!?”

Danny smiled, “oh, I have some friends that are constantly in and out of walker’s prison in the ghost zone. Apparently the guy won’t shut up about Batman and bragging about killing a Robin.” Danny frowned, “stupid move really, living or dead, people are rarely chill about child killers. Walkers had to put him in solitary just about every week.”

Jason huffed, “you expect me to believe Batman killed the Joker after he killed m-Robin and now he’s in ghost jail?”

“Well where did you think he would end up?” He rolled his eyes “He’s not gay enough for superhell.”

Jason just blinked. “Was that a Supernatural reference?” He smirked, making Danny blush.

“Uhh. Maybe?”

Jason smiled, “alright, prove to me that joker is dead and not only will I go on a date with you, I’ll introduce you to my family as my boyfriend.”

Danny turned bright red and beamed “Deal!”

An hour later Jason walked out of the weirdest prison he had ever seen with his new boyfriend and a new lease on life.

When Jason brought Danny home for dinner that night, they ended up eating without Bruce, as he was still frozen in shock by the front door after his son came in, introduced him to his new boyfriend as his dad and gave him a hug!

A real hug! A hug that lasted a full 30 seconds!

Danny wasn’t sure what was going on but he had a hot new boyfriend who was familiar with the ghost zone! He couldn’t wait to introduce him to clockwork!

[nightingale-prompts]

Everyone loves a Villian-DCxDP prompt

Bruce has his ditzy Brucie Wayne shtick to fall back on to keep people from suspecting him of being Batman but what about Tim? Red Robin is known to be the smart one and Tim makes no secret of his brains. Sure people will forget that Bruce was smart enough to go to medical school but not the fact that Tim is a CEO.

So far Tim can cover his vigilante side with excuses of being too busy but he needed something more. Something that would distract people from seeing any comparisons between him and Red Robin.

Enter Danny. Danny hates rich snobs but he loves pissing off Vlad. Vlad loved to boast endlessly about how smart his godson is. Add to the fact that Vlad is allowed to spend more time with the family as whole since his redemption/Danny literally pulled the ghost side out of him. Vlad was still an annoying snobby asshole who Danny hates with a passion.

Danny wasn't going to suffer like Sam and her parents. Nope, he put on a show as a loud, bratty, and dramatic guy. Far from the polite, smart, and sincere boy Vlad painted. Especially since Vlad was just trying to get Jazz and Danny better odds of getting into good colleges and more connections. And hopes of getting them into good wealthy families for his own connections. He's not evil but he still was a bad person. He planned to use them as puppets for his business.

Danny catches a lot of attention with his act and goes as far as using a Valley girl accent. Everyone saw him as a spoiled brat who would be a pain in the ass to deal with and dismissed him as such.

Tim wasn't so easily fooled and realized that he could use it. They ended up striking up a conversation and Tim was able to get Danny to briefly give up the act when he talking about a recent space expedition.

Tim wanted them to make a scene and the they were discovered making out in some corner of the event hall.

The tabloid published that Tim Drake was having wild nights just like his father. Tim had actually asked Danny to have a fake relationship. All Danny needed to do.was be as unbearable as possible and make it look like he keeps Tim on a short leash.

And Danny agreed because Vlad HATES the Waynes and I practically begging Danny to stop this.

The tabloid never shut up about Danny, so much he overshadows the Waynes in any new report because the paparazzi love a villain.

Tim is too busy with a case to go to a gala? Danny starts an argument with Tim and blasts it all over Twitter about how Tim cares more about a stupid party full of boring people over him.

Tim can't come it to work because he is on a mission? Danny damanded a vacation on a private island to reward him for putting up with Tim and his family.

Rouges on the loose after a break out? Tim has to stay home and comfort his distressed partner or Danny will break up with him.

When Tim is asked about his relationship he says he loves his boyfriend very much and just does what he must appraise him. Tim made it no secret that their relationship was superficial and started because Danny was hot.

The news is bombarded with stories of Danny causing drama all across Gotham. He goes around buying expensive luxury items and destroying them in fits of rage. People are lined up to get his approval for their products and people unironically love him, hate him or hate to love him. They stalk his social media and read every article on him. Yeah, he's a bitch but he is THE bitch. Everyone is jealous of him as Tim's "hot wife" that he does everything for. Who wouldn't want to be him? There is even people who'd rather be in Tim's shoes and have a trophy like that.

[himbosandhardwear]

Steve is rifling through Eddie's collection of magazines, while he's waiting on Eddie and Wayne to get done fixing the dryer(Wayne's fixing, Eddie's getting in the way it sounds like), when he realizes how insane the assortment is; Heavy Metal, Car and Driver, Rolling Stone, National Geographic, OMNI, MAD, even a copy of Good Housekeeping. It's all so Eddie though, to have so many varying interests. He's a little jealous, if he's being honest with himself.

"You have a lot of stuff," he comments when Eddie comes back, closing the copy of Rolling Stone.

"Oh, yeah, sorry, let me just..." He starts kicking a pile of clothes under the bed.

Steve huffs a laugh. "No, I meant you have a lot of interests." He waves the magazine. "Hobbies and stuff."

Eddie nods, continues to shove piles of stuff under the bed anyway. "I guess, yeah. I tend to jump from thing to thing though. Last night it was painting miniatures, tonight it could be writing a song. I don't really get a say in which one. Oh, nice, I've been looking for this," he says, holding up a random T-shirt.

He watches Eddie get distracted by the new discovery and leave the rest of the pile where it's at, smiling to himself as Eddie goes on a tangent about merch vendors at concerts being the real enemy of the people.

"How do you know what you like?" Steve inadvertently blurts out during a gap in Eddie's tale.

He turns toward Steve. "What do you mean?"

What does he mean? "I guess... It's just, I like cars and sports and girls. That's, like, kind of it. And since I started being friends with Henderson and Robin and you I've figured out that's, like, the most basic shit a guy could be into. Level One Dude Interests. So, I guess I just want to know how you find other things? And how will I know if I'm interested?"

"Hmm." He frowns softly. "I've never had to think about it before. I kinda just...fall into things. I like it or I don't."

"Okay, but what's it feel like?"

Eddie puts the shirt down, forgotten again in a moment, and sits. "What does it feel like when you think about cars and sports and girls?"

Steve really thinks about it. Nothing is as consuming as when he was younger, but he does remember a vague sense of excitement, a feeling of connection with the people he surrounded himself with, who shared his interests. But he hasn't felt that in a while. Maybe he wasn't as into those things as he thought, was only into the connection.

"You're having very deep thoughts over there," Eddie points out with a grin.

"Shut up." He grins back. "I think maybe I don't actually know what it feels like to like something because I like it, not just because everyone else likes it. You know what I mean?"

"Well, yes but no." He waves both hands to indicate his person and also the chaos of the room around them.

"See? This is why I'm asking you. If anyone can help me figure out what I like it's you."

Eddie slaps both hands together and rubs. "A project! Excellent idea!"

Wasn't his idea but sure.

"First we have to get you exposure to new things. Movies, TV, music, culture. Then we'll rate how you feel about each demographic. Your music taste is already improving so that's good. Movies, I'm thinking 12 Angry Men to start. Food? Authentic Mexican. We're gonna get you excited about shit!" He seems excited enough for the both of them, which is great. "Excitement is key! You want enthusiasm, yearning even. Your interests should consume your every waking thought. When I'm consuming a new hobby, I'm focused like a shark, I'm obsessed. I go to bed thinking about it and wake up thinking about it. Excited to get back to whatever it is. I wanna talk about it, share it with other people. Complete and total immersion. You wanna marry that interest. You know what I mean?"

Steve blinks at him, stunned into silence. Eddie's just described how Steve feels about him...

Oh.

Oh.

[sangunary]

BatBoys × Civilian Reader!

SYPNOSIS: How they act around their crush when they are in their costumes.

IMP: All scenarios happened when they are still Robin, Reader is the same age or older or younger your choice.

- Dick Grayson.

He's too obvious.

Bruce told him to not talk or stare at you specially. He knew that the boy was infatuated with you and was sick of hearing your name even hour.

Dick was never tired of speaking about you, from fact to thought he could go on and on about you which Bruce found cute but distracting.

Tho he never quit to mention you. Just because you were his luckcharm. So, you got yourself a code name.. So he could mention you freely.

Whenever he ran pass you he made sure to atleast brush your hand with his, so he could look back and apologise.

He wanted to hold your hands, not just to comfort you... You meant so much more than just a comfort. Although, he haven't even had a chance to have a conversation with you.

He tried to milk every situation just so he could talk to you, hear that sweet voice that kept him awake at night.

The way you would speak to him when he saved you from any situation, he can't help but smile, looking at you like you were his world and it was obviously weird to passerby.

That smile he practiced for you and the moment he saw you he completely forgot everything and his mind is full of you, and his whole demeanour become alot more comfortable.

His ears silencing the siren that was everywhere, listening to your sweet voice.

His eyes blurring out everything but you, savouring every inch of your body.

It's bad enough for him to be acting like he got bewitched staring at you so deeply, but who could blame a him when you were infront of him.

You were just some fleeting crush, you cannot imagine how much time he thought about a future with you. Even tho you two weren't even friends yet.

Even when you were panicking and embarassed you look so good.

you were perfect.

How much he wanted to lean in and capture your lips with his and be with you already... Instead of having to just stare at you.

He just wanted to be himself with you even with the mask on, forgetting everything like a fool in love and maybe just maybe get a kiss from you to show him gratitude?

But before he could do anything stupid Bruce would pull him to the next destination leaving him to daydream about it, twisting and fixing how it would end.

- Jason Todd.

Not obvious but is trying.

Jason doesn't want to be obvious that he was staring at you when he was supposed to be catching those rookie thief.

So, instead he resort to looking at your amused face from the reflection of the window.

He just can't face you at times, he's afraid of fucking up and rambling on and on about something Jason would know but not Robin would know.

It was exhausting, thinking about what he was supposed to say and making sure you won't know that he was Robin. How he would rather talk to you in sign than verbally.

He just stop a thief? Looking around to see your face and stopping just so he could memorized your reaction and celebrate about it later when you aren't around.

Bruce is made at him for being too harsh? He's definitely bringing you up to make sure he was listening.

Even tho he tried to act like he doesn't know you it doesn't always work

The way his hands would remain on yours after he stopped a guy from stealing your bag.

He look lost, his eyes remaining on your eyes. You could see that star's in his eyes shining so brightly with adoration and untold love.

And a smile straight from every part of his body.

And after he realised he accidentally admire you he would leave very quickly. No looking back just out of there.

He would stay near rooftop looking down at you, his heart racing as he tried to not feel so embarassed about his own actions.

Watching you silently, hoping you would smile or even look around for him or just anything... He can work with anything you gave to him.

You made everything so much harder yet so much easier.

Hes definitely going confess one day... Maybe when he's abit older.

- Tim Drake.

He's going to die.

Tim knows you like the back of his hands. Blame it on him having too much time or making a special time for you.

He can't help to look at you not when you have the best smile in the world.

He would smile back at you like you were already his and you knew who he was and for a moment he thought you were his, tho he snapped out of it quick.

He just couldn't have you distract you too much, but that doesn't mean he hate it whenever you distract him.

His hands would guide you to stand back up again with a slight redness on his cheeks, he tried to not stare but you truly hypnotize him.

It doesn't matter how much he tried to not stare at your perfect face, his eyes would stare at you before he even notice it himself.

He hate to see you whenever he was out patrolling, he hate it when he would randomly hear your voice playing in his head suddenly, he hate to remember that you were alone.

He should be happy that you were available. But, it just made him worry and think about you more... Everything about you is killing him slowly.

The way you avoid his gaze after he helped you up, how perfect your hands felt around his- like you two were made for eachother.

He couldn't smile but his eyes speak so much more word than his lips could.

His touch was alot more gentle and kind, his word clear enough for only the two of you to hear and his heart beating against his rip violently.

It's frustrating on how you were his yet.

- Damian Wayne.

Not obvious.

He doesn't have the same nagging feeling to look at you constantly, he doesn't want to put you at risk, he would rather cut his hand than ever do that to you.

He would rather not see you around when he is wearing his costume.

He doesn't like the idea of you being so close to violence and being idiotic enough to watch him fight rather than running.

He would definitely lecture you as Damian if he saw you standing idly while literal danger was there infront of you.

Cause he definitely can't always be around and he need you to have some common sense so he could atleast sleep at night, and not stay up late than usual thinking about how he would lecture you.

Although whenever he had mission where it involve unknown civilians your face is the first one he search for, grabbing them by the shoulder and looking at their face and the sigh of relief after everything.

Even when a building was collapsing and you were inside he would always choose you to save.

Leave you somehow safe and without a word left to save the others.

It doesn't matter who is inbetween you two, a president, celebrity or anyone he's coming an extra mile just for you.

He would leave without any word and continue his job like he did not just ignored others and went straight for you.

He doesn't wait for a kiss or a hug... He already planned how that would happen.

[clockwayswrites]

Dead on MAYn 25 Day 3:

Trope | Eldritch horror Danny/Monster Fucker Jason

Word | Contract

Situation | The Batfam learn about Jason's boyfriend by accident.

Dialogue | "You may belong to Gotham, but this one belongs to me."

cw: blood, demonic cult, off screen screen torture

The noise that Jason made when he hit the ground was worryingly wet. Wet with the sound of blood and wounds and tortured flesh. Tim kept Duke pushed behind him until the old steel door clanged shut and the latch had scraped into place with a rusty finality.

“Okay, okay, I think that maybe it’s past time to act,” Duke hissed as he rushed to Jason’s side.

Tim didn’t rush over, instead he searched Jason’s discard jacket for supplies. It wouldn’t be enough, not with how heavy the scent of blood was, but Tim knew that Jason always had some medical supplies on him. “We can’t.”

“We can’t?!” Duke asked.

“Timbo’s right,” Jason said. His voice was clear at least, though he needed Duke’s help to get sitting up. “Can’t expose things.”

“Dude, you’re insides are getting exposed! I think we’re past that!” Duke’s voice was laced with all the dangerous anger of the same kid that had led ‘we are Robin’.

Jason sighed. “Duke—”

“No, don’t Duke me! What about when they drag Tim out of here next? Will you stop it then?”

“Duke,” Tim snapped. He tossed the vacuum packed bag of bandages at Duke. “Enough. We pressed our signals, help is on the way.”

“You’re assuming the signal can get out of this pit they tossed us in!”

“Not a pit, old tunnel construction that got abandoned,” Jason said. “Trust the tech.”

Tim squinted at Jason, trying to figure out why he sounded off. Was it just blood loss? Had he been drugged? Or—oh, that was Jason’s voice for soothing victims. Right, Duke hadn’t been abducted like this before, not for being a Wayne. Maybe Tim should tone down the bite a little. Duke hadn’t grown up being taken for ransom like Tim had.

“It will work, Duke. They’re on their way. We’ve all been through worse,” Tim said. He pulled his knife from his boot and cut swiftly through what was left of Jason’s shirt. They could use it to wipe off the worst of the blood at least. “And right now they don’t seem interested in you.”

“I’m not worried about me, jackass,” Duke said. “They’re obviously racist fuckwits, of course they don’t want my blood. I’m worried about what they’re going to do to you! Or that they’re going to grab Jason again.”

“Hey, Duke, we can handle ourselves—”

“But you won’t!” Duke snapped, cutting Tim off. “That’s the problem, you won’t.”

“Hey, bleeding here, can we argue later?” Jason interrupted. His voice was sounding a little breathless, so Tim was inclined to set aside everything else.

Besides, patching up wounds was always a good distraction. It gave the mind time to work through facts and data without so much emotion in the way.

When Jason at least wouldn’t be bleeding out as quickly (all of their shirts sacrificed to the cause), Tim asked, “What has your so scared about this situation, Duke?”

Duke balled up the last of his t-shirt and tossed the bloody thing aside. He frowned seriously. “Y’all can’t see what I can see. There’s something actually magical or… or otherworldly going on here. I think that someone in this cult actually knows what they’re doing. That’s a different thing. Magic isn’t what we do.”

“‘snot what you do,” Jason slurred from where they had propped him up in the corner. “Well. I mean, you do do someth’n, what with the light stuff. Still only me and you.”

“What do you mean him and you?” Tim asked with a frown at Jason. Sure, it was maybe a little unfair to press Jason when he was obviously a little blood drained and unusually chatty, but chances like this didn’t come often

“You know, the…” Jason waved an arm around like he was holding something.

“No,” Tim drawled.

“The All-blades and the…” Jason froze. His eyes widened. “Oh fuck.”

“Jason?”

“They, um,” Jason collapsed back into the corner with a giggle. “See, they used m’ blood for a summoning circle.”

“Right.” Tim exchanged a look with Duke. “That’s pretty standard demonic cult bullshit.”

“Yeah. But,” Jason dropped his voice to a whisper as if he was telling a secret, “they dun know what my blood will get’em.”

“And, um, what will your blood get them?” Duke asked.

Jason giggled again. “Danny.”

“Right,” Tim drew the word out. “And who or what is Danny?”

Jason opened his mouth to answer but before he could a scream broke the silence. Jason’s smile turned vicious. “That is Danny.”

-

Jason was a big guy in way that Tim never would be and that Duke wasn’t (yet). It meant that making their way from the old machine room they had been locked in towards the commotion was slow going. Jason was obviously trying not to lean on them too much, but he didn’t really have much choice with how his leg was minced. And they certainly weren’t going to leave Jason behind.

They were, though, going to stay out of the way of whatever the fuck was currently decimating the cult.

Hands—what Tim could only describe as hands were reaching out from what was now a void of space in the floor of the center of the room. The white spindly limbs would grab a cultist, ignoring blades or bullets, and then drag them back and down into the void. Usually with a horrible scream.

“That’s a lot of eyes,” Duke whispered in awe from the other side of Jason, clearly seeing something that Tim couldn’t.

“The more to look at you with,” Jason joked, still acting a little giddy. Being upright didn’t seem to agree with him much.

“That’s… that’s Danny?” Tim asked.

There was something more moving in the void. The surface rippled and churned and then exploded out into a spray of light and colors like a supernova. The being—and if held at gun point Tim couldn’t actually explain was he was seeing—pulled themselves free of the void and with a few reaching grasps, across the floor to them.

“Jason,” they purred, the word a rumble that Tim could feel in his bones.

Of course, that’s when Batman, Robin, and Nightwing came crashing into the abandoned tunnel.

Before Tim could even blink, the being—Danny—had wrapped themselves around Jason like a giant snake. All the eyes that Tim hadn’t been able to see appeared. All glaring at the heroes.

“Let him go,” Batman ordered. “The cult had no right to offer him as sacrifice. The all belong here.”

The being curled themselves further around Jason and growled out, “You may belong to Gotham, but this one belongs to me.”

“Shush, Danny, no, hush. They’re family,” Jason slurred while trying to pat the being’s cheek and missing entirely. “No devouring the souls of family.”

The being indulgently moved their head so that Jason got what he wanted. “I would not devour them. They stink like Gotham, and the Lady would not abide it.”

“Be nice,” Jason said.

“Despite the blood loss B, er, Batman,” Tim started. “Jason really does seem to know this being.

“Danny,” the being cooed.

“Who’s name is Danny.”

There was a shriek behind them as another cultist was lifted from some boxes they had been hiding behind and into the void.

“We’re alone now. We can talk,” Danny said. “They’re your family?”

Jason hummed in agreement and pressed a kiss to the sometimes bony face. It still wasn’t clear what Danny was. Tim tried not to look too hard.

“Brothers,” Jason waved loosely around the room and then pointed to Batman. “Dad.”

Danny sighed, the noise a weird sound like the hydraulics of a bus stopping. “You couldn’t have warned me this was a meet the family thing?”

Jason shrugged despite the eldtrich horror draped over him. “Didn’t ‘spect to be sacrificed. Didn’t think about how my blood might summon you.”

“Of course your blood summoned me. I wouldn’t let it summon anyone else,” Danny said, clearly offended as the voice took on an increasingly human note. The mass of whatever shifted and shrunk until a humanoid about Tim’s size hung, floating, off Jason’s shoulder. He pressed a kiss to Jason’s lips. “Like I said, you belong to me. I’ll always come when called.”

“Holy—you’re dating Jason! You’re his, what, eldifriend?” Dick asked with a wide grin. “Guy’s, Jason is dating someone!”

Bruce sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“My little bird is all grown up!” Dick cooed.

Jason flipped him off. “Dating or romance isn’t part of growing up. Way to insult aros, dickhead.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it!”

“Boys,” Bruce tried.

“So, Danny, Jason lost a pretty good chunk of blood,” Tim said, ignoring everyone else in the room. “We should really get him some medical care.”

“Shit, yeah, absolutely,” Danny said, deflating until their white shoes—since when did they have legs?—touched the ground. “Can I come? Technically Jason did summon me and so I’m around until I pay some sort of favor—”

Jason reset his chin on the top of Danny’s white hair with a salacious smirk. “I know a certain favor that you can—”

“Okay!” Tim said loudly and clapped his hands together. He did not need to know what his brother got up to with an eldritch horror. “Blood loss, remember? Deal with that later. You two can pile in the Batmobile with Robin and Duke. I’ll ride back with Nightwing.”

“Good plan, baby bird! And you’re totally staying for dinner, Danny,” Dick said. “We have so many questions.”

For a powerful cosmic horror, Danny looked pretty frightened by that prospect.

[wonderlandwalker]

Fake It 'til You Break It

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x fem!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7.8k 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Steve’s always been good at pretending. The problem? This doesn’t feel like pretend anymore. Now he’s stuck between two nightmares: watching you walk away when the act ends… or risking everything to make it real. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: hurt/comfort mostly, my attempt at the fake dating trope, some spice of course, i've stared at this way too long so possibly continuity errors or too many synonyms

𝐚/𝐧: this might be a mess but it's a mess I made with love, might come back and edit it later, might redo the whole thing, but wanted to give you guys at least something after all this time, thanks for sticking around <3

There are plenty of things Steve regrets—a running list that gnaws at him in the quiet hours, the kind of thoughts that coil around his ribs and squeeze just enough to remind him they’re there.

He regrets his high school persona, with a shame so visceral it still makes his fucking skin crawl; God, the hair gel alone should’ve been classified as a war crime. He thinks about it when he passes the Hawkins High parking lot, when he catches a whiff of that godawful Axe body spray Dustin insists on dousing himself in, and when some old classmate gives him that look—the one that says,  I remember who you used to be.

But this?

This isn’t regret. No, that's too small, too flimsy a word for the way his chest caves in when he catches the scent of your perfume already clinging to his shirt. The vibration of your hum—low, amused, content—as you agree with something Robin says (fuck, what was Robin even talking about? Politics? Movies? That weird new video game?) travels straight through his chest like the most beautiful kind of devastation.  You’re right there, tucked against his side like you belong there, your warmth seeping into him like he’d hollowed out a space in his torso just for you. It’s not regret that winds around his throat like a noose he’d gladly tighten himself.

He regrets not visiting Aunt Cathy in Little Rock before she passed. She’d sent him those lumpy handmade sweaters every Christmas, each one uglier than the last, and he’d never even thanked her properly. Just a grumbled "Thanks, I guess" tossed into the receiver during some obligatory holiday phone call, already distracted by whatever party he was missing. Now, the last one she ever made—a pea-green monstrosity with lopsided orange reindeer, mustard-yellow accents that could blind a man, and sleeves so long they swallow his hands whole—sits neatly folded in his bottom drawer. He can’t bring himself to wear it. Can’t bring himself to get rid of it, either.

He regrets getting careless last summer, leaving that half-smoked joint on his nightstand like an idiot before his parents got back from Tokyo. His father’s lecture about "the dangers of marijuana" had been particularly rich coming from a man who kept Cuban cigars locked in a humidor like they were fucking crown jewels. (Not that Steve cared. Not that he ever cared what that man thought—except, well. Except.)

But those were warm-up acts.

Minor-league regrets.

The main event? 

The heavyweight champion of his fuck-ups?

The gold medal, hall of fame, once-in-a-lifetime screwup that’ll haunt him to his grave?

This.

This is one of those moments people invent time machines to undo. The kind of mistake that makes men swear off alcohol, religion, and women all at once. There’s a fire somewhere inside him, but it’s not the good kind—not the warm, crackling hearth of something real. It’s the sputtering, desperate flame of a match held too close to skin, the kind that leaves blisters if you’re not careful. His brain has rehearsed this moment so often that muscle memory takes over as his thoughts are stuck. He still interjects at the right moments, laughs at the right beats, and plays the perfect doting boyfriend with terrifying precision. The irony is a blade twisting inside him: after so long of pretending not to love you, now he’s being judged on his performance of pretending to.

God, Robin really has the uncanny ability to turn his world upside down without even meaning to. When she first brought it up, her words had been going a mile a minute, tripping over each other like a drunk gymnast, her mouth running faster than her brain, and he should’ve known right then:

Category Five Disaster.

Code Red.

Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here.

"—so… I suggested we could go on a double date to make it more, y’know, casual." Her grin hadn’t wavered, even as you blinked at her, slow and uncertain. "What does this have to do with us, Robs?" you finally asked, voice laced with the same wary suspicion that was crawling up Steve’s spine like a particularly persistent spider. 

"Because you're the ones we're going on a double date with, duh!" She had beamed, absurdly pleased with herself, looking for all the world like she’d just solved cold fusion. "Whoa, whoa, whoa."  He had cut in, holding up a hand like a traffic cop. His pulse hammering—a wild, traitorous thing. He had shoved it back down into the dark where it belonged. "I don't know what delusional world you've been living in, Buckley, but we—" He jabbed a finger between you and himself with more force than necessary, "—are not dating."

The words tasted like acid on his tongue, burning all the way down.

Which was stupid.

Because it’s the truth. 

You’re not dating.

You’ve never dated.

Except in his head.

And it's fine.

Totally, completely, achingly fine.

Except—

Except for the way his breath stutters in his chest when morning light catches you just right, turning your features golden and ethereal like some Renaissance painting he’s not devout enough to worship.

Except for the way he’s painstakingly catalogued every variation of your laugh—the inelegant snort you immediately try to smother with your hand, the full-bodied one that makes you double over and clutch your stomach, the quiet, private chuckle you reserve exclusively for his dumbest jokes, and the one that somehow makes him feel like he’s won the goddamn lottery.

And now Robin wanted him to casually drape his arm over your shoulders like he had any right to touch you so familiarly?

To press a kiss to your temple and act like his heart isn’t trying to beat its way out of his chest like it’s making a prison break?

To call you "sweetheart" with all the easy affection he’s been choking back for months, the pet names piling up behind his teeth like an infatuated dragon hoarding woeful treasure?

That wouldn’t just be dangerous—that's downright suicidal.

It’s handing a loaded gun to his weakest impulses and praying he has the self-control not to pull the trigger.

But he’s backed into a corner with no exits, no clever quips, and no patented Steve Harrington Charm™ that can talk his way out of this.  If he refuses, Robin’s going to poke and prod like a determined archaeologist at a dig site until she uncovers the pathetic fossil of his crush, dusting it off for the whole world to see. If he agrees…

Christ.

He might as well just drop to one knee right here in the food court, ring made from a soda tab, and confess every embarrassing, lovesick thought that’s kept him awake at 3 a.m. for months. 

"—come onnnn, you two both owe me one!"  Robin had continued to whine, limbs flailing so dramatically she nearly sent her Diet Coke flying. Her foot connected with Steve’s shin under the table—a sharp kick that would’ve hurt if his entire nervous system wasn’t already short-circuiting. He shoved her away with a grumble that did nothing to hide the panic clawing up his throat. So he fixed her with his best withering glare—but it looked more like a man facing the gallows. "This isn’t the same as eating the last of the takeout, Robs."

"Oh, but it is," she countered, stabbing a finger in his direction with enough force to displace air molecules. "You literally stole my last egg roll—which, by the way, was clearly marked with my initials—"  (Steve mouthed 'psycho' at you over his shoulder — because seriously, who the hell initials their egg rolls? His reward was that poorly suppressed grin of yours, the one that makes his stomach perform acrobatics worthy of Cirque du Soleil. The way your lips quirk unevenly, one side rising higher than the other in that lopsided smile he's come to crave, eyes crinkling at the corners like you're trying to contain sunlight — he could write sonnets about that expression if he knew anything about poetry beyond what he'd skimmed in senior English) "—you said, and I quote," Robin went on as she adopted a terrible impression of his voice, all lowered pitch and exaggerated bravado," 'I'll pay you back someday.' Well, guess what, Harrington? Today is someday."

And yeah, okay, maybe he had said that. In his defence, he was running on three hours of sleep and enough caffeine to kill a horse, and Robin had been mid-panic spiral about never finding love. But this? This was way beyond their usual favour economy of borrowed five-dollar bills and shitty closing shifts — this was playing Russian roulette with his heart as the bullet.

"And you," Robin whirled on you next with the terrifying focus of a bloodhound catching a scent, accusation dripping from her pointed finger. "Promised to help me 'get the girl' after the whole Dallas Cowboys cheerleader fiasco. This," she declared, slapping both hands on the sticky food court table with finality, "is me collecting."

Your mouth fell open in protest—tongue darting out to wet your lips in that unconscious gesture that's starred in approximately seven hundred of his late-night fantasies—before snapping shut again as you came up empty. He watched the debate play out across your features: the furrow between your brows, the way your teeth worried at your bottom lip. Every expression was a language he'd become fluent in without meaning to. Steve could practically hear the gears turning in your head, the same way they were grinding in his own skull.

His gaze flickers to you—always to you, like a compass finding true north even when he wishes it wouldn’t. God, what heinous acts did he commit in a past life to deserve this particular hell?  You and Robin are his best friends—his people. The ones who stayed up with him getting high and laughing at shitty B-movies, your thighs pressed together on the couch until the lines between friends and something more blurred in the haze of weed and sleep deprivation. He still remembers the way your head eventually lolled against his shoulder, how he’d sat there, paralysed by the possibilities. 

You’re the ones who were there for him when he shattered after his parents’ last nuclear fight, when the silence in that too-big house threatened to drown him. Your arms around his shaking shoulders, your voice soft in his“ ear—“You’re better than they’ll ever be, Steve.”

He’d almost kissed you that night.

Almost.

The memory still haunts him like a ghost he can’t exorcise: your face tilted toward his in the dim glow of the porch light, your breath hitching when his thumb brushed your cheek. For one reckless second, he’d let himself truly imagine it—closing the distance, swallowing your gasp, letting the dam break.

You've seen him at his worst—red-eyed and ugly with grief—and you stayed. Wrapped yourself around him like human armour against the world, your heartbeat steady against his back when his own couldn't find its rhythm. That alone should have been enough. Should have cauterised this stupid crush before it took root like some invasive weed cracking through concrete. Should have reminded him that what you have is too precious to risk for something as reckless, as temporary, as fleeting as romance. But then came that first perfidious flutter in his stomach months ago, that stupid, hopeful zing when your laughter curled around him like smoke from one of Robin's clove cigarettes—sweet and intoxicating and impossible to ignore. He'd written it off immediately as his brain's latest attempt to ruin something good (a speciality of his, really), except the feeling didn't fade. It grew, fed by every accidental touch and lingering glance until it became something monstrous and beautiful and utterly inescapable:

The way you'd bite your lip when concentrating, unaware of how his gaze snagged on the motion like fabric catching barbed wire, how his fingers twitched with the need to tug it free, to soothe the indentations with his tongue.

The way you'd stretch in the morning light after crashing at his place, the hem of your shirt riding up just enough to reveal that sliver of skin above your hipbone—a soft crescent that made his throat go dry, that made him ache with the knowledge that he could reach out, trace the dip of your waist with just one fingertip—but he won't, he can't, because you're trusting him to be better than that.

The way you'd sigh his name when tired, dragging out the last vowel like it was something precious, something yours, and he'd have to clench his jaw so hard his molars ached against the urge to beg you to say it again, again, just like that, maybe against his mouth this time, maybe with his hands on your—

Now he's trapped in this sick parody of everything he's ever wanted—your body warm against his on the couch, your smiles sweet and fake, your touches choreographed for an audience like some grotesque puppet show. Every time he whispers "babe" (a word that tastes like sacrilege in his mouth), every time he laces his fingers with yours and pretends not to notice how perfectly they fit together, every time he pulls you closer under the guise of selling this lie (just because he can, just because for these stolen moments, you let him)—it's all salt in the wound.

And he knows this is the closest he'll ever get to having you—playing pretend for Vickie's benefit, his heart drumming against his chest with every touch he's not allowed to mean. Because even if—if—there is some part of you that feels it too (that invisible magnetic pull, that quiet hum and deep vibration when his fingers brush yours like a struck tuning fork), there are just too many variables. Too many landmines are hidden in this no-man's land.

Maybe he'd get a few weeks of heaven before you realised he wanted way more than you ever could. Maybe he'd find a way to screw it up like he always does, condemning himself to a lifetime of awkward pauses and avoidant glances every time your paths crossed. Or worse—maybe, maybe, even if you fell for him as badly as he's fallen for you, this dream he's conjured up would still be an impossible standard. A fantasy no real person could live up to, least of all a washed-up king with nothing but a handful of half-kept promises to his name.

But his performance opposite you is working too well—the Romeo to your Juliet (star-crossed and bleeding out), the Heathcliff to your Cathy (ruined and howling on the moors). The world watches staged romance through rose-tinted glasses, seeing only what it wants to see. Stolen glances mistaken for tenderness rather than theft. Casual touches interpreted as affection instead of self-flagellation. Devotion is heard in the harmony of your laughter rather than the dissonance of his slow unravelling.

These have never been love stories.

This has always been a tragedy dressed up as romance—all the warning signs painted over in pretty pastels. There's no happy ending waiting in the wings, no last-minute reprieve where the audience learns it was all a bad dream. Just the whirlwind of maybes and the inevitable collapse, the credits rolling over two people who used to know how to look each other in the eye.

Steve knows doomed narratives like he knows the scars on his knuckles—intimately, painfully. Could chart their progression from meet-cute to catastrophe with his eyes closed. He can pinpoint the exact moment the script flips—in the arch of an eyebrow, the hesitation before a touch. He's lived this story before and knows all its variations by heart.

His fantasies might be vivid.

But the reality is crushing.

The effortless synchronicity you two normally share is already gone, replaced by something jagged and electric—every glance a live wire threatening to burn everything down, every touch a lit fuse that comes dangerously close to the gasoline running in his veins. It's like dancing on a knife's edge where every step could either cut him open or set him free. The hesitation terrifies him—the way his fingers twitch toward you instinctively before he remembers with a gut-punch of awareness: he's allowed to touch you now. 

Supposed to, even.

But God, it hurts.

Because it's not real.

And yet—

And yet he'll drink the poison willingly if it means he could stay in this play with you. Would let the curtain fall on him mid-scene if it meant pretending, just for one more night, that this might actually end well. He can tell you feel it too by the way your fingers linger a second too long on his wrist—just enough to feel his racing pulse. By the way, your breath hitches when he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear (for the bit, he reminds himself, even as his skin burns where you touch like he's been graced by something holy). By the way, your eyes keep finding his in the dim light, dark with something he doesn't dare name.

And then, like fate itself is laughing at him, Vickie leans forward with margarita-slick lips, her eyes bright with tipsy curiosity. The question hangs between you all, innocent and devastating.

"How did you two first start dating?"

Perhaps it's the tequila loosening his tongue, or the way the overhead lights reflect in your eyes like distant stars, or he's just so goddamn tired of lying that the truth starts clawing its way up his throat. Whatever the reason, the story spills out before he can stop it.

"It was the night of Robin's last birthday."

His voice is rough, scraped raw by the memory as he looks at you—seeing the ghost of that night superimposed over your face now. The way your nose had scrunched when you laughed at something stupid Eddie said. How he'd counted every one of your smiles like a man keeping track of his last breaths.

"We were both drunk, but not falling-over drunk. Just... loose. Happy." He doesn't say how beautiful you looked that night or how your laughter had turned into something he wanted to bottle and keep forever. Doesn't mention how he'd gone home and pressed his forehead to his bathroom mirror, begging his reflection to get it together as his hands shook.

"You kept leaning into me—shoulder against mine, knee bumping my thigh. Normal shit." His throat bobs like he's swallowing glass.

"But then—" God, he can still feel it—the weight of your palm on his chest through his thin shirt, the way his heart had leapt like a fucking dog on a chain, wild and desperate. The way you'd noticed.

"—You put your hand on my chest and said—" ‘Steve,’ you'd murmured, voice thick and slow with gin and something sweeter, ‘your heart's going crazy.’ Like it was a fascinating scientific discovery. Like you hadn't just signed his death warrant.

"—something stupid." He huffs a laugh, sharp and humourless.

"And I just... knew. Right then."

Knew he was fucked.

Knew he'd never recover.

Knew he'd rather live in this harrowing limbo of almosts and not-quites than risk losing you entirely.

Robin is staring at him now, her expression a mix of dawning horror and pity.

She knows. 

Knows this isn't part of the act.

Knows he's just handed you his still-beating heart on a silver platter.

And you—

You're looking at him like you've never seen him before. Like he's just peeled back his flesh and exposed every pathetic, yearning part of himself.

That's when you rip the script right out of his hands.

Within a second, your lips are on his—actually, wholeheartedly on his—warm and slightly sticky from margarita salt, tasting of lime and something sweeter. It’s slow and deliberate and agonising in its gentleness, the way your hand finds the nape of his neck like you’ve spent nights tracing the curve of his spine in the dark, memorising the way his breath hitches when your fingers brush just beneath his hairline. Time stretches, warps into an alternate reality where your sigh vibrates against his mouth like a second heartbeat.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice whispers, This is a mistake. There’s no coming back from this.

And then, too soon, before he can even properly react, it’s over.

Steve is pretty sure he just died and went to heaven. Or hell. At this point, he can’t tell the difference anymore. Now that he knows what you taste like—now that he knows the reality is a hundred times better than any of his desperate daydreams could have conjured—it takes every ounce of self-control not to drag you back in and ruin himself completely. His hands twitch at his sides, fingers curling into his palms just to keep from reaching for you. There’s a heat crawling up your cheeks, lashes fluttering like you’re caught in a storm. There’s an uncertainty in your eyes he’s never seen before—which is rare, because Steve has every expression you’ve ever made meticulously catalogued in the neat file cabinets of his brain: the way your nose scrunches when you’re trying not to laugh, the way your lips press together when you’re annoyed but pretending not to be, and the way your eyes soften when you think no one’s looking.

But this look—like you’re caught between absolution and damnation, like you’ve just stepped off a ledge and aren’t sure if you’re falling or flying—he doesn’t know it. Doesn’t know how to read it.

Doesn’t know if he’s supposed to reach for you or let you go.

He’s spent years perfecting the art of smooth exits and practiced charm, of knowing exactly when to lean in and when to pull away. But right now? With you?

After all this time of carefully rehearsing his lines, he’s been thrust into an improv scene in front of a live audience, and for the first time in his life, Steve Harrington has stage fright.

A beat passes.

Then another.

The silence stretches, suffocating.

His heart lurches, heavy with possibility, and he’s not sure he can survive the fallout if he’s wrong.

The rational part of his brain—the part that still remembers how to breathe—tells him this is just another layer of the performance. That you kissed him because it was easier than finding the right words, because the script demanded it, because, of course, you’d commit to the lie rather than let it crumble in front of Vickie. Of course you’d give him the one thing he’s always wanted without letting him know if he’s allowed to want more of it.

But the part of him that’s hopelessly, ruinously in love with you?

That part doesn’t care.

It will take whatever scraps you’re willing to give him—every staged endearment, any kiss that isn’t real but feels like it could be. And all those careful promises he made himself (don’t ruin this, don’t cross the line, don’t fucking dare fuck this all up) are gone, incinerated in the wake of your lips on his. The Library of Alexandria his heart has built for you is collapsing in flames, and you’re the one holding the torch. Every boundary he’s painstakingly written down in careful self-denial blackens at the edges like ancient parchment tossed into the wildfire.

But he’s just as much to blame.

He lit the match the moment he said yes  to this charade.

And God help him, he’ll let the fire turn him to ash if you’ll just stay this close a little longer—with those eyes that see straight through his constructed bullshit to the raw foundation beneath. Like his thoughts are a precious collection of first editions you’re desperate to read but are worried will fall apart in your hold before you get the chance to finish the preface. Like he’s something worth keeping close rather than the human equivalent of a ‘kick me’ sign taped to the universe’s back.

Like maybe—maybe—you’ve noticed the way his breath hitches when you enter a room and finally decided you like the power more than you fear its implications. He’ll choke on the smoke of this fantasy and pretend it’s oxygen if it means breathing the same air as you for just a few more seconds. He’ll gladly let his lungs blacken with the residue of this exquisite cataclysm, swallow every burning ember of inevitability if you’d just let him.

He’s leaning in again before he realises it—drawn like a moth to the flame, knowing it will kill him but too starved to care. The barely-there hitch of your breath is all the encouragement he needs, his body moving on autopilot, already addicted to the way you—

"That’s so romantic!"

Vickie’s voice shatters the moment, fracturing the fragile illusion into a thousand glittering shards.

You jerk back, blinking rapidly like someone waking from a dream, and Steve’s stomach plummets.

Right.

Romantic.

Not devastating.

Not life-altering.

Not I’ve been in love with you, and that kiss just rewired my fucking DNA.

Just… romantic.

The Rosaline he never stood a chance with—except in this version, he doesn’t move on, doesn’t get over it. He’s stuck in the first act of hardship, perpetually wondering, perpetually trying, while the audience watches with pity. In this version, he burns as time slips by in a haze of forced laughter and brittle smiles, but Steve’s internal clock is jammed—stuck on that single, breathless minute when your lips were on his and the world stopped.

He catches you staring every so often, your lips slightly parted like you’re holding back words—or maybe waiting for his. And there’s Vickie, still chattering away, blissfully oblivious to the way the air between you two has gone thick with everything unsaid.

It’s dangerous, this hope. Because if it isn’t fake for you either, if that kiss meant something—

But before he can even begin to untangle that thought—before he can decide if he’s terrified or thrilled by the idea that you might feel it too—Robin grabs his wrist and yanks him up towards the kitchen under the flimsy guise of "helping refill the snacks". The second the door swings shut behind them, she whirls on him, her voice a hissed whisper.

"What the hell was that, Steve?"

He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. He can’t. Not when the memory of your mouth on his is seared into every synapse, not when his pulse hasn’t slowed since the moment you pulled away.  Robin’s eyes are wild, her hands gesturing erratically as she steps closer, backing him against the wall like she’s about to interrogate him. Steve opens his mouth—to argue, to deny, to something—

"I don’t know," he admits, running a hand through his hair—tugging at the roots like he’s trying to channel Munchausen, like he could physically pull the solution out of himself. "I can’t—fuck, Robin, I can’t keep doing this." Her expression flickers—sympathy warring with alarm. "What do you mean?"

"This." The word cracks between them, jagged and desperate. "Me and her. The—"the pretending." His throat burns, like the truth is acid on its way up. He exhales, the breath shuddering out of him like he’s been punched. "It’s horrible."

And it is.

It’s horrible because it’s too good. Because every laugh between you two is a shared secret, something fragile and precious that he hoards like a thief in the night. Because the kiss—the short, fake, perfect kiss—felt like coming home to a place he’d never been allowed to live in.

It’s horrible because he’s spent months carefully constructing walls between what he feels and what he shows, and now you’ve reduced them all to rubble. But he doesn’t get to continue; the door creaks, and when he turns—

You’re there.

Your face is pale, eyes wide and hurt for one fractured second before they shutter into something distant, something closed off.

His insides turn to lead.

Fuck.

"I was just—" Your voice is too light, too careful—the kind of tone you’d use with a stranger, with someone you’d rather forget. " —grabbing some more drinks."

You don’t meet his gaze as you brush past him, your shoulder barely skimming his, and Christ, it’s worse than if you’d shoved him. Steve is frozen, his pulse a frantic drumbeat against his ribs. Because he meant it—every word—but not like this. Not where you could hear it and twist it into something else. Not where it could hurt you.

His hands flex at his sides, useless.

Go after her.

Explain.

Beg.

But his feet stay rooted to the floor.

And for the first time since this started—since he let himself believe he could do this and walk away with his dignity intact—there's a terrible certainty crystallising in his chest like ice forming over a lake: if he doesn't get himself together, his nightmares of losing you for good will become a reality before he ever gets the chance to tell you the truth.

Before he can say,  It was never fake for me.

Before he can beg: Please don't walk away.

Before he can drop to his knees and confess that every touch, every laugh, and that godforsaken kiss has been real for him in ways that terrify him to his core.

Robin spares him one last look, caught between annoyance and sorrow, a silent battle raging behind her eyes about which fire to put out first—his stupidity or your hurt. The decision comes quickly as she turns on her heel to follow you, but not before shooting him a final glare that screams, 'What the fuck is wrong with you?' 

The rest of the night unfolds as the worst one of his life.

And that's saying something, considering the literal hellscape he's survived—but this slow unravelling of everything between you two? The way you’re pulling away? Retreating in that devastatingly subtle way of yours—carefully recalibrating every interaction like you're dismantling a bomb, trying to save yourself while simultaneously preventing the explosion of this lie. Every brush of your fingers against his—once electric, now agonising—feels like a choreographed step in a dance you no longer want to perform. He watches helplessly as you turn what used to be effortless connection into careful calculation, and it fucking destroys him.

He doesn't know how to fix this.

Doesn't even know where to start.

He'd watched from a distance as you talked to Robin, jaw clenched so tight his molars ached, hands shoved deep in his pockets to keep from storming over and demanding to know what you were saying about him. His lungs had burnt with the effort of staying put, his pulse a frantic drumbeat in his ears that drowned out all other sound.

He should have followed. Should have swallowed his pride, his fear, and just talked to you. But the moment passed, as moments do, and now the opportunity is gone.

When he finally cornered Robin, before he could even open his mouth, she gave him that look as she tilted her head in that particular Robin way, and he knew.

It's no use.

Robin Buckley would rather face certain execution than betray your trust, no matter how much he might beg.

And you?

You won't tell him anything at all.

Not anymore.

So he does what Steve Harrington does best when he's in over his head: he fakes a smile, cracks a joke no one laughs at, and pretends the way your avoidance feels like a thousand papercuts doesn't bother him at all.

By the time The Exterminator II ends, it’s past midnight, and the conversation turns to sleeping arrangements—because it’s dark, and you’ve all been drinking, and no one should be driving.

Robin, ever the martyr, offers to take the couch so Vickie can sleep in the guest room, already gathering spare pillows with a pointed glance in his direction.

His stomach drops.

He doesn’t even dare look at your expression.

Because the implication here is obvious.

You’ll sleep in his room.

Of course.

Of course he has to share a bed with you now, when everything is fractured and wrong, when every glance between you is a minefield.

Just hours ago, the idea of you in his bed would’ve sent his pulse into overdrive, would’ve had him imagining the warmth of your body against his, the way your breath might hitch if he pulled you close.

Now?

Now the thought is agony.

Because you’ll be lying beside him, close enough to touch, close enough to kiss again—but he won’t. He can’t. Not when you flinch at his accidental brushes, not when every word between you feels like walking on broken glass.

And he can’t refuse.

Not without making everything worse.

So he just nods, his jaw clenched tight, and tries not to think about how cruel it is—how close you’ll be tonight and yet how far you suddenly feel.

He tries to tell himself you’ve shared a bed before—you haven’t, not like this, never like this—not with the weight of everything pressing down between you. And yet here you are, in his bedroom, tugging one of his shirts from the drawer—his shirt, the fabric swallowing you whole, the collar slipping just enough to expose the curve of your shoulder.

The silence is deafening.

He clears his throat, voice rough. “I can sleep on the floor.”

“Don’t be stupid,” you mutter, sitting stiffly on the left side of the bed. Your fingers comb through your hair—a nervous habit he’s memorised by now.

“We’re adults; we can handle it.” you add.

Handle it.

As if trying to handle it isn’t the whole fucking issue.

As if he hasn’t spent every single second since that kiss handling the urge to drag you back in.

He hesitates, jaw set tight, but then you look at him—and fuck.

There it is: that same quiet worry he feels in every nerve ending, the same unspoken what now?  hanging between you.

So he lies down, careful to leave space between you.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

And he’s all out of excuses to tell himself.

There’s no audience left to play this off for, no flimsy justification for the way his fingers twitch toward you, and no lie left to hide behind.

Then—

“I’m sorry, I—”  Your voice cracks, barely a whisper, like you’re trying to fold yourself into the quiet between you. And Christ, he’d rather carve his own heart out with a dull spoon than let his stupid, self-sabotaging fear leave you like this—shoulders hunched, lips trembling, like you’re bracing for a blow.

What do you mean you’re sorry?

Your breath hitches—a sharp, fractured sound—and he realises, too late, that your eyes are glistening; the sight punches through him like a kick to the gut.

“I didn’t want to mess this up,” you whisper, fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt like you’re clinging to an anchor. “I mean. I just thought—” Your voice wavers, and Steve watches, transfixed, as a single tear escapes, tracing a slow, damning path down your cheek.

He stares at you, stunned.

His hand lifts before he can stop it—before his brain can catch up with the chaos roaring in his chest—and his thumb brushes the tear from your cheek. Your skin is warm, impossibly soft, and the contact sends a jolt through him, sharp and sweet.

“You didn’t mess up anything,” he murmurs, voice rough, like the words are being dragged out of him.  You freeze under his touch, eyes wide, lips parted, and for one heart-stopping second, he thinks you might pull away again—but then your lashes flutter shut, and you lean in, ever so slightly, your breath warm against his palm.

And finally—he’s done pretending.

His fingers slide into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he pulls you in, forehead resting against yours, his breath is warm, uneven, mingling with yours in the scant space between your lips—close enough to taste, but not close enough to consume. 

“I’ve always been yours,” he murmurs, and you search his face, eyes flickering over the curve of his mouth, the desperate crease between his brows, trying to find the lie—but you don’t find it. Another breath punches out of you, shaky and sharp, and your gaze shifts—unsure to decisive, hesitant to hungry—before you’re surging forward, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him in with a desperation that mirrors his own.  Where the last time was slow—careful, testing—this is messy. Teeth and tongue and hands that can’t decide where to settle—his fingers dig into your hips, then skate up your sides, dragging your shirt along with them, exposing bare skin to the feverish heat between you. It’s violent in its desperation, a collision of pent-up want and the sheer, dizzying relief of finally, finally giving in. And, God, it’s even better than the first time.

No, wait—that’s not right.

It’s different.

The first kiss was discovery; this is destruction.

Like comparing the strike of a match to an entire forest burning, like the difference between dipping your toes in the ocean and being dragged under by the riptide.

He drags you closer, hands spanning your waist, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise (and fuck, the thought of marks on your skin—his marks—sends a jolt of heat straight to his dick). He pulls you into him with all the force he’s been holding back finally unleashed. For a second, that nagging voice of hesitation flickers in the back of his head—too much, too fast—as your lips leave his. His grip loosens, just slightly, giving you space to pull away.

But then you make a sound.

The most beautiful sound in the universe, probably. Better than any symphony, any song on the radio, better than anything he’s ever fucking heard—a soft, breathy moan, spilling from your lips like you can’t help it, like it’s been ripped out of you as he tugs you into his lap.  Your thighs bracket his hips, and the contact is electric. The friction is maddening, the way you press against him, already seeking more. His breath hitches, fingers tightening possessively on your waist as he grinds up against you, just once—just to hear you make that sound again.

And you do.

Louder.

And fuck, if this is only the beginning—if the simple act of his hands roaming your body, skimming the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, tears noises from you that already have him aching—then he’s sure you’re going to be the end of him.

But, God, what a way to go.

He wants to cover every inch of your skin with his touch, to map the places that make you gasp, the spots that make you shiver, and to learn exactly how to reduce you to the same desperate, unravelled mess he’s been for you all this time. He wants to find out how many times he can pull this kind of bliss from you before you’re writhing, before you’re begging—for more, for mercy, for him.

You find his pulse point, teeth grazing the frantic beat of his heart, and he’s ripped from his thoughts, reminded with dizzying clarity that this isn’t another fantasy. This is real. He anchors himself back to the moment, needing to show you his devotion, no longer hedonism, finally able to worship without fear. His fingers glide lower, flexing over every bit of skin—until they reach the wet heat already pooling between your thighs. A guttural groan tears from his throat—half at the sensation, half at the confirmation that you want this just as badly, that you’re just as far gone as he is.

Every fantasy, every what if  he’s ever tortured himself with—he’ll get to live them all.

In one fluid motion, he flips you over, your head landing against the pillow, your hair already sticking to your forehead, damp with sweat and the sheer tension coiling between you. You’ve never looked more beautiful—not in the soft morning light, not laughing at some stupid joke of his, not even in the hazy afterglow of his most desperate daydreams. This is the moment he’ll remember forever. The way your chest rises with each ragged breath, the way your lips part just slightly, like you’re already begging for his mouth on yours again. If he could freeze time, if he could live in one single second for the rest of his life, it would be this one.

He trails kisses down your body—slow, worshipful—mapping every dip and curve. The hollow of your throat. The valley between your breasts. The trembling plane of your stomach. He wants to take his time, wants to ruin you with patience, but you’re already tugging him back up, eyes heavy lidded but locked onto him like he’s the only thing in the world worth seeing.

Your fingers tangle in his hair—tugging—and when he slips one finger inside you, you clench around him so tight he sees stars. Christ.  Like your body was made for him, to take him, to want him. He can't remember how he ever breathed before this moment, before the staggering heat of you surrounding him.

As he presses deeper, your hand finds his aching length, stroking him in time with his movements until he has to break the kiss just to groan your name. He feels the vibration of it travel through your joined bodies when you guide him to your entrance, and who is he to deny you when you're like this—when you're pleading with your entire body, hips canting up against his, nails biting into his shoulders like you'll die if he doesn't give you what you need?

He's only human.

He pushes inside in one slow, devastating glide, his thumb now tracing quick, insistent circles over your clit. He's already teetering on the edge—from the way you take him so perfectly, like you've been waiting your whole life for this; from the silent gasp that parts your lips when he bottoms out; and from the goddamn way you're still looking at him, like he holds your entire universe in his hands.

It's intoxicating.

He doesn’t let up—couldn’t if he tried. Every nerve in his body is alight, wired on the way you clench around him, the way your nails dig crescent moons into his shoulders like you’re afraid he’ll disappear. But Steve isn’t going anywhere. Not when you’re like this—breathless, boneless, his—falling apart beneath him with every snap of his hips.

His pace turns punishing, each thrust carving your name into the space between your ribs, pulling another broken sound from your lips. And god, each one is sweeter than the last—he’s addicted. He wants to bottle them, wants to memorize the way you unravel for him, wants to live in this moment until it’s seared into his bones. The high whine when he angles his hips just right, hitting that spot inside you that makes your back arch off the bed. The choked-off moan when his thumb presses harder on your clit, circling with just the right mix of cruelty and devotion. The way his name sounds when it’s wrung from your throat like a prayer, ragged and reverent, like he’s the only thing holding you together.

He’s close—so fucking close—but he’ll be damned if he lets go first. Not when you’re trembling beneath him, not when your thighs are shaking, not when every gasp and whimper is a siren song pulling him deeper.

Until Robin's voice cuts through the haze:

"JESUS CHRIST—”

Her shriek could wake the dead.

Steve barely has time to yank the sheets up over your bodies before Robin whirls around, slapping a hand over her eyes like she's just stared directly into the sun.

“I knocked. Oh my God—" She's already out of the room again, the door slams shut behind her with a force that rattles the frame, her dramatic exit punctuated by a muffled, "Ugh, gross!" from the hallway. You burst into laughter beneath Steve, the sound bright and startled. His weight presses you deeper into the mattress as he groans, half-amused, half-exasperated. "She has the worst timing," he mutters, but there’s no real annoyance in it. Robin’s chaos is, after all, the reason the two of you are tangled together like this in the first place. (He’ll thank her later. Maybe. If he remembers anything beyond the way your thighs tighten around his hips.)

For now, though, his focus narrows to the way your laughter fades into breathless anticipation, lips still parted, eyes darkening as his fingers trace the curve of your waist. He drops his forehead to yours, grinning like an idiot—the kind of smile that used to be reserved for winning fights and stealing hearts, now softened into something��just for you.

"You done laughing at me?" he teases, voice low, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw.

You bite your lip, but the mirth still dances in your eyes. "Depends. Are you done pouting?"

Steve scoffs, but his mouth finds yours before he can protest, swallowing your next laugh and turning it into a gasp. He kisses you like he’s got something to prove—like every flick of his tongue, every nip of his teeth is rewriting the script of who the two of you used to be.