#This is part one of the chapter

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Hey now, Let her cook!

[goryhorroor]

horror of 2024

[egophiliac]

crossing my fingers and wishing upon every star that chapter 10 finally brings us the tweel cards 🤞🤞

[bigfatbreak]

Birds of a Feather previous / next

[forgettable-au]

FORGETTABLE-AU (Page 40-43)

* I didn't know the lab could look so creepy...

[BEGINNING] [PREVIOUS] [CONTINUE]

[sp0o0kylights]

Steve Harrington was wearing a Hellfire t-shirt.

It was far too tight on him, the name of the club stretched wide over his chest. The sleeves dug into his biceps, making them pop even more than they usually did, and that was before he crossed his arms. 

Worse?

It was short.

Which meant the damn shirt was constantly riding up to give everyone a nice show of the smattering of hair that trailed down past the band of Harrington's jeans. 

The same hair that Eddie was determinedly not looking at. 

“Henderson, a moment?” He crooked a finger, a smile on his face that was more feral than welcoming. 

Rather than cower or even acknowledge that Eddie was two seconds away from murder, Dustin just gave him a gummy grin, all too pleased with himself and his scheme. 

“Sure Eddie. Steve, don't just stand there, go help set the booth up!” Dustin gestured to Hellfire’s sad little table, crammed all the way in the back of the gym. 

Jeff and Gareth both reacted to the suggestion like a rabid squirrel had been set upon them, nervously inching towards the other side of the booth as Harrington sighed and--shockingly--did as he was told.

‘What,’ Eddie thought angrily, ‘in the everloving fuck.’

“Do you guys mind if I set this down on the table?” Eddie heard Harrington ask as he stormed away, Dustin on his heel. 

They wandered just around the corner, out of sight and hopefully, out of the fallen king’s hearing range.

Eddie wasn't sure if Harrington would try and white knight the very much deserved dressing down he was about to give. 

Didn’t want to chance it, considering the downright weird relationship he had with Hellfire's freshmen.

(While he’d heard many a tale at his table regarding King Steve since the newest recruits had joined Hellfire, most of them dissolved into arguments without ever really going anywhere.

 Best anyone could figure out was that Dustin and Lucas had a bad case of hero worship, while Mike owned a begrudging amount of respect that hailed from a series of misadventures. 

The very same misadventures that, despite all protests to the contrary, was clearly some sort of babysitting gig for Harrington.) 

Either way, plenty of the King’s court would have loved to take this opportunity to fuck with Hellfire.

Given that Henderson was absolutely too old to require a babysitter at fourteen, Eddie would bet his lunch money that was what Steve was here to do.

Something the club couldn’t afford since they were forever and always two seconds away from being stripped of club status and banned from school grounds. 

“I would love to know what went through that all A’s brain of yours when I said,” Eddie whirled on Dustin when they were firmly in the clear, voice low and furious.  “no Henderson, do not invite King Steve to help, he is an invading force and would ruin our peaceful kingdom!?”

He clasped his hands behind his back before leaning into Dustin’s face. “Because clearly whatever you heard wasn’t that.” 

To Eddie’s continued frustration and confusion, Dustin did not treat this like the threat it was. 

None of the freshmen had ever truly treated Eddie like a threat--had somehow skipped that part of the usual onboarding ritual entirely.

Eddie, town freak and drug dealer, who had cultivated his looks and craziness to such a degree that most everyone steered clear, wasn’t used to it. 

Everyone had been afraid of him at some point in this shitty school. Jeff, Gareth, hell even half the staff--and that the dorky trio of fourteen year old's clearly thought this all was play-acting made his eye twitch.

Even if it was--maybe, sometimes--welcome. 

“I know what you said, but I’m telling you I’m right.” Dustin argued immediately, and oh God, he was using that tone again. 

A hand went up into the space between them and Eddie groaned aloud, knowing what was coming.

“First,” Dustin ticked a finger up, “Hellfire really needs the money. Even thirty dollars would get us new figures, but more than that, if we don’t fundraise, we can’t go to Gen Con!” 

Dustin's eyes bored into Eddie’s, full of fire and conviction

“Yes,” Eddie said through gritted teeth, “but--”

“Second!” Dustin cut him off, and God the little shit even threw him a look while he did it, like Eddie was the one being ridiculous here!

“We had to fight just to get our table! Principal Higgins was in algebra today practically begging the mathletes to show up, but then tried to tell us we couldn't be here? That’s messed up!” 

As if denying them a spot to fundraise was the worst thing that asshole had ever done.

Eddie sighed, breath blasting out of his mouth like a dragon’s. 

“Because people think we’re freaks and satanists, Henderson. You don’t typically invite freaks and satanists to the school’s annual Holiday Bazaar. Especially not when all the local moms are paying to hawk their bullshit crafts and tupperware!” 

It was more than that of course. The Hawkins High Holiday Bazaar was a tradition spanning several years now. Starting in the gym and spilling clear into the parking lot, everyone from local artists to even some local shops came to host a small table for the day, thus growing the event from a small school fundraiser to a Hawkins' “must-do.” 

Half the fucking town was here to sell, and the other half was here to shop, which meant Principle Higgins had wanted Hellfire banned from the fucking premise. 

Eddie had been forced to pull out one of his trump cards he’d been saving--blackmail on Higgins that related to the man’s not--so--legal addiction to Percocet that he relied on Reefer Rick for. 

(And bless Rick, that hadn’t been the only tidbit he’d shared with Eddie about Higgins. That information, however, Eddie needed just so the asshat wouldn’t give him the boot from school entirely.) 

The only reason Eddie had pulled it out to secure their rightful spot, was because of Gen Con. 

It was Hellfire's White Whale, their grand adventure, and this was going to be his year to take his friends on one last epic quest to make memories of a lifetime surrounded by people who understood them.

Come hell or high water, Eddie was going to Gen Con--but being able to fundraise by selling wares and baked goods at the stupid Holiday Bazaar would go a long way to help.

Even if he had to listen to the band repeatedly play ear-bleeding renditions of Christmas songs.

“All the clubs get to have a table, and we’re a club!” Dustin continued, like it was that simple. “But you know, I get it. We look scary.” 

He gestured down to his own Hellfire shirt, before gesturing towards Eddie’s entire outfit.

Like Eddie didn't know what he looked like, let alone that he'd made this outfit specifically to scare people away from him.

(And maybe add some rockstar flair to this dinky little hick town.)

“You know who doesn’t look scary?”

Dustin held out his hands and swiveled his body like he was presenting a prize instead of gesturing in the vague direction of; 

“Steve!”

Eddie’s left eye twitched.

‘You can't kill him, you need his character for the campaign.’ He told himself firmly, even if he envisioned strangling Dustin like a chicken.

Cartoon squawking and all. 

“The King isn’t going to help us fundraise, Dustin.” Eddie said, in an effort to break down why Harrington couldn't be here. “He's just going to cause us problems that we can’t afford to have.” 

So many problems, half of which Eddie couldn't think of because if he did, he'd start spiraling.

“Really? Because as you keep saying, Steve used to be the King. People love him, Eddie! Mom’s love him.”

Eddie had pulled himself back up to his proper height a while ago, and now rocked back on his heels while he ran a hand down his face.

There was no getting through to Henderson when he was like this. 

Not unless Eddie really lost it, and it was practically club lore that he only lost it when someone missed an important game. 

One cannot keep a herd of sheep if their flock is terrified of them, after all. 

(“Perhaps you’re just a giant fucking softie.” Tiff, one of Hellfire’s graduating members, told him once. “Honestly dude, I bet you throw up stuffing.”

“Shut up Tiffany, your choker is on backwards again.” He'd spat back, completely offended and not at all trying to distract from how true that was.) 

“We can’t be satanic if Steve’s the one selling cookies!” Dustin finished doggedly. 

“We’re not even selling cookies--that’s not the point!”” Eddie shook his head, hair flying. He was not going to be sidetracked, he wasn’t!

 “Harrington is going to end up siding with all the moms about how we’re all wasting time with D&D, if he even spends the whole time at the table. Is that what you want?” 

He stuck out a ringed finger, poking at Dustin’s chest.

“Every single person who comes by our table has to be convinced D&D is a writing and math based game. Good for the mind and souls of growing, impressionable children. A game that got a bad rep because of  a few silly images.” 

A pitch he and Tiff had come up with during the third or fourth time they had to convince an adult that no, just because their shirts had a dragon on it, didn’t mean they were summoning demons in the drama room. 

“Harrington can’t do that because Harrington doesn’t even know how to play!” 

This Eddie punctuated by throwing his hands in the air. 

Given the startled look of the mother-daughter duo passing him by, clearly was louder than he’d intended--but screw it!

He was right!

Hellfire was in a precarious position to both fundraise and do a little damage control among the slightly smarter members of this shithole small town, and Harrington rolling his eyes and gossiping about how stupid it was would hinder that.

“Okay, first of all, Steve’s played D&D with me and he didn’t even kill his character.” Dustin said it like he was unveiling a smoking gun and not lying through his ass--which Eddie would absolutely be calling him on the second he was done talking. 

Because King Steve? Play D&D?

'Ha!'

“And he’s not gonna say shit because we--me, and Lucas and even Mike!--asked him to help, and he helps when its serious. I know you have some weird grudge with him, but I’m telling you Eddie he’s our golden ticket to Gen Con!” 

“You’re killing me. You are standing here, acting as a friend, when you are bringing a-- a dark force into the midst our of mission--” Eddie hissed, because he was losing the fucking fight and he knew it.

Dustin Henderson was not a man easily swayed. 

Had never been, even when the odds were stacked against him (and Grant and Gareth were howling in his ear.) 

The set of his shoulders and the glint of the little shithead’s eye meant Eddie wouldn’t be able to use him to oust Harrington--if he even could get him out without the dick causing a massive scene anyway. 

As always when outgunned, Eddie flipped to dramatics.

“Betrayed! By my own chosen heir no less!” He moaned, pressing the back of his hand over his eyes as Dustin scoffed.

"Don’t be so dramatic! Steve will help, I promise! Just don’t be a dick to him.” 

 Conversation apparently over, Dustin turned around to head back to the table

Snidely, he added over his shoulder: “Plus we’ve all caught on to the heir thing Eddie. You tell everyone that so they do what you want.” 

The dick.

“You’re too fucking smart for your own good. I’m gonna start feeding you paint chips to bring that IQ down.” Eddie muttered angrily as Dustin went back to their little table.

He gave himself a moment to get his shit together and stomp a foot like a child when Dustin was around the corner and thus couldn’t witness it, before following his wayward sheep back.

Could only pray to any deity listening that Henderson’s meddling didn’t blow up in Hellfire’s face.

[batchilla]

Your new partner is Grayson.

He’s a weird guy.

Not necessarily a bad guy, but a weird one.

He’s not cold, in fact he’s rather friendly. However, when you really consider it, he volunteered very little information on his personal life. Reasonable, you suppose. So long as he has your back in the field and gets his reports done, you don’t need to be best friends.

Your new partner Grayson is a recent Gotham transplant. You’d never personally been, but you weren’t oblivious to how utterly mad the city was. You could hardly blame him for getting out.

Your new partner Grayson, tenses up whenever someone mentions the Batman, or any of the nutcases he fights. You don’t pry.

You do your own research.

Your new partner Grayson watched his parents die. He’d been taken in by Gotham’s favourite son, a man he seemed reluctant to speak of. He’d had, and lost a brother, to the most deranged man Gotham, if not the world, had ever known.

You stop mentioning Gotham around him after that.

Your new partner Grayson is a weird guy, who seems constantly surprised whenever you demonstrate competency.

At first you’d suspected sexism. It wouldn’t have been your first partner to have that failing.

After a few days though, you catch him being equally surprised when officer Jackson makes a connection on a string of breaking and entries, and realise that perhaps he’s just not used to the cops not being utterly reliant on a very scary angsty furry and a small child without pants.

Your new partner, Grayson, is a weird guy, who disappears sometimes. Middle of a chase he’ll be gone, and you won’t see him again for sometimes as long as hours, before he’s back. More often than not, somehow through some insane luck, the perp will have been taken down by Bludhaven’s new vigilante, and tied to a lamppost for you to find. You both hated and envied his luck.

Your new partner Grayson was a weird guy… and he was a damn good cop.

He made connections like no one else. It was like he had some sort of sixth sense. You’d asked him once, about how he seemed to know all he did. How he seemed to have access to a whole other database of clues you just couldn’t see.

And he’d smiled that cheeky smile of his, and told you he’d been consulting an oracle.

Your new partner, Grayson, moves like nothing you’ve ever seen.

You’d initially attributed it to his past as an acrobat. The way he could simply parkour over and around anything in his way, run faster then he had any right to, chase down a perp like a bloodhound.

It was more than that though. You’d say without hesitation that if you were in a firefight, he’s who you’d want at your side. You must’ve owed him your life three times over by now. Even in those situations though, when no one would have blamed him for the use of lethal force, he never had.

You’d been pinned down by a smuggling ring. You, Grayson, and ten of them - all armed to the teeth.

He’d been incredible. Superhuman, almost.

Someone had shot out the lights. He’d told you one of the smugglers must have missed. You’d never once believed him.

Ten smugglers. You’d managed to knock out and cuff one, unwilling to risk taking a shot blind.

The other nine? Those had been your partner. He had them unconscious in a heap by the time your eyes had adjusted.

No bullet wounds. He’d done it hand to hand.

You didn’t know exactly what he was hiding, but you knew he was hiding something. You decided not to call him out on it. Not as long as you trusted that whatever he was using his … inexplicable skills for was good.

And trust you did.

Grayson was a good man. Even knowing little about him

Which was why this betrayal hurt so badly.

“Say again?”

You’d sat in relative silence in an unmarked police car for about half an hour on a stakeout, and Richard Grayson had just said the worst sentence you’d ever heard. You’d never been so utterly horrified.

“Peeps popcorn.” He says, holding up the tupperware containing an atrocious biohazard, grinning from ear to ear.

“One more time please?” you fight to keep up your faked anger, but fail in the face of that fucking smile.

Honestly, it should be some sort of crime to smile like that. Like everything would work out in the end, so long as you could keep him smiling at you.

“Peeps. Popcorn.” He says it a third time. He’s trying and failing not to laugh at her, at the way her mouth twists and flails to maintain a frown.

He was tempted to tell her it was in vain. He’d broken Batman, and he’d make her smile too.

Honestly, she had such a pretty smile. Not that he’d say that, she was his partner, and they needed to keep things professional.

“It’s my turn to provide stakeout snacks, and so,” he lifts the lid of the peeps popcorn balls.

“Peeps popcorn.”

She rolls her eyes, and looks out the window of the passenger side. But she’s smiling. “It is one of life’s great injustices,” she huffs “that you can eat like that and maintain your… impressive physique.”

Dick feels his chest puff out a little. While he had been able to tell all along that she had a crush on him, but he’d never risk acting on it. Still, it felt nice to be complemented by her.

“Seriously, do you clock off and just do the ninja warrior course all night or something?” She muses, her head against the window, looking at him out of the side of her eye.

“Not exactly,” he replies, sitting back in his seat, bringing his foot up onto the cushion. “Try one.” he presses, poking her side with the container.

She takes one, rolling her eyes and nibbles at the neon cluster of popcorn.

“No. no.” she gags, “oh that's nasty. Oh, it's so sweet. Why? Why Grayson. Why would you do this to me?” she asks, setting the sticky concoction on the divider between their seats.

Dick just laughs “I am determined to make you a peeps convert.”

“Never, regular marshmallows are fine.”

“Peeps are rainbow.”

“How old are you?”

“There is no age too old to enjoy whimsy, Detective.” he responds, biting into his own.

“Besides, are you implying that rainbow marshmallows are irregular? In this day and age? Tut tut.”

“We are not making me out to be a homophobe over peeps!” she protests, still laughing, slightly taken aback at the audacity.

“If you say so.” he says, stretching his arms over his head and into the backseat. Stakeouts were terrible. He was not built to sit still in a confined space for hours at a time. However, this one provided a useful opportunity he cannot afford to waste.

Not to torment her with his war of attrition for peeps supremacy - though that was fun.

He needed to be sure of something else.

“Well. You being wrong about peeps aside. I … wanted to check back on a file from a few months ago. You uh… you didn’t move the Holt murder file, did you?”

“Holt.” she clicks her tongue in thought “the guy with…” she gestures to her chest.

“That's the guy.”

“Not knowingly. I haven’t had cause to reopen it. No new leads. I tried to track down the kid… He didn’t want a bar for me. Guess I can’t blame him. I offered the help I could… but well… the last time someone helped him his dad got brutally murdered. He’s staying in the tent city by the docks, best I can figure.” She seems to feel guilty as soon as she says it, but Dick doesn’t blame her.

He had paid for that room. If he hadn’t… who knows what might have happened?

“But if someone moved it?” he prompts, not wanting to dwell on that gnawing guilt.

“Wasn’t me.”

Your new partner, Grayson, was a weird guy who ate strange and terrible foods.

He blames himself for what happened to poor Mr Holt. Because he was good to the core, and somehow that had led to something utterly twisted.

He’s also standing on your balcony. On the 20th floor.

And it all makes sense now.

Your apartment isn’t particularly nice. It was small, and frequently disorganised. Especially when you got overly invested in a case.

You’d been texted many gifs of the conspiracy board meme by friends over the years.

Work life balance? Not something you’d ever seen much value in.

And now, your unfairly attractive new partner Grayson was in your apartment, in full vigilante getup.

You need to find a way to be normal about that in ten seconds or less, because he’s staring at you, and you're staring at him, and it's starting to get awkward.

“Hello.” you eek out.

He greets you as Detective, followed by your first and last name.

Unusually formal, for him. Unless… unless he somehow thinks a few inches of fabric in the shape of a wingding is going to fool you.

Unless he thinks he’s got you hoodwinked.

“Nightwing… to what do I owe the pleasure?”

He leans in the doorframe, his hands braced against its top, so he is leaning into your space without touching you, and giving you plenty of ability to step back if you so chose. You don’t.

“I have reason to suspect there’s a serial killer moving though Bludhaven. And that whoever they are, they have someone in your precinct on the payroll.”

You fold your arms, bristling.

“Not sure I appreciate the accusation.” Sure, the bludhaven police department was ridiculously corrupted. But you’d hope that your partner would have at least the trust in you not to think you’d help a serial killer.

“No accusation.” he reassures “a request for help. I need someone I can trust inside the department. And my source says that’s you, sherlock.”

His source? Was he kidding?

No. No he wasn’t.

Oh this was madness.

This was hysterical.

He really, truly thinks that you can’t know him outside of his streetwear. And he’s trying to pass it off like he doesn’t know himself either.

Perhaps you should tell him you know.

But… Grayson and his peeps tomfoolery isn’t the only one who can have fun.

“So… you’re asking me to… what, exactly?” You prompt, unfolding your arms, willing to give him a chance.

Nightwing offers you a smile. It’s slightly different from Richard Graysons.

It’s just as sunny, and it makes you feel just as warm and fuzzy and giggly inside. You have to fight even harder to stop yourself blushing, given how much less this getup leaves to the imagination then his usual dress pants, shirt and tie.

But it’s a little more … brazzen. Flirtatious. More… cocky. Sure, He was always at least a bit of a show off, but as nightwing? He was one of the most capable, incredible people alive, and he wasn’t shy about it.

Oh, you were doomed. But that was a problem for later.

“I’m asking you to keep an eye on the ‘heartless’ case. Holt… he’s not the only one and I think there’s going to be more. And, to be blunt?”

He stands up straight, and puts an arm on your shoulder.

“It’s a big request. But you might be the only person in that station who I have real confidence in.”

You wonder what that says about his relationship with himself, but like so many things with Richard, you don’t ask.

“I can do that.”

“And I understand that it’s dange— I’m sorry, did you just agree?” he cuts himself off, staring at you.

You laugh then, just the once.

You owed him your life many times over as his partner. But as nightwing?

Since he’d come on the scene, you’d actually felt like something mattered. Like change could happen.

Like someone was willing to help the people of Bludhaven not to reap a profit, but because the system you’d once hoped to help restore was broken at its very core, and restoration wasn’t the solution - reformation and fundamental change was. And you didn’t know how to do that.

But then Nightwing had come onto the scene, and started kicking the asses of the worst of the worst, and you had felt like you had when you’d joined the force, bright eyed, bushy tailed, and determined to make a difference.

Before the incident. And every other day, when you’d felt that optimism slowly being crushed to death, into a fine powder and blown away in the wind.

“Yeah.” you say, and agreeing to help is one of the best feelings in the world. You get to help. To make a real difference.

“Bludhaven owes you a hell of a lot, Nightwing… seems like the least I can do is tell you if anything weird comes up.”

“Right. Thank you.” he clearly wasn’t expecting this. Maybe he’d thought it would be a harder sell.

“If I do… have anything for you, how should I alert you?”

He passes you a wingding. “Put this in your window. I’ll check in every few days.”

You raise an eyebrow “all your fancy tech and you don’t have a phone”

He shrugs “phones are traceable. Plausibly just something you picked up on a case as a trinket that you ‘forgot’ to log in evidence left on a windowsill? Lot harder to trace.”

“Fair.” you acknowledge.

“Besides.” he steps backwards onto your balcony once more “your place is on one of my main patrol routes. Can’t let anything happen to the best looking detective Blud’s got.”

You scoff, without any real offence. You know he’s only playing, and that he does, as Richard, respect your intellect more then your appearance - but you suppose as ‘nightwing’ he doesn’t know you that well.

“I think you mean best detective full stop.” you respond, and he gives a small bow of playful deference.

“But of course, sherlock.”

And then he’s gone.

That night, you don’t sleep.

You felt so stupid. He’s nightwing. He’s been nightwing the whole time.

The skills. The disappearing. The way he seemed to just… know things.

The way he tensed whenever someone mentioned Gotham.

… the timing of Robin reportedly becoming a child again.

Had your new partner, Grayson, been Robin?

Had he been using the Batman's archives to solve cases? Was that his so called oracle?

… wait.

Was Bruce Wayne the FUCKING BATMAN?

You screamed into your pillow. You were laying awake, face down in your bed, because now you had realised far too many things in one night.

The first: Your new partner is Nightwing.

The second: Bruce Wayne might be Batman.

The third: you, enchanted by that fucking perfect smile, had agreed to help track down a serial killer stealing hearts.

The fourth: Your new partner, Richard Grayson, between his stupid snacks, the Alfred Pennyworth foundation he’s been working to get off the ground, and his work as Nightwing, will save Bludhaven, you know it to your core.

And the fifth. The worst, and scariest part of your night: You may very well have fallen in love with him.

Chapter two

If you read this far, reblog?

Divider credit: @strangergraphics

Tag list:

@jasontoddproblems

@sunnie-angel

@stormz369

First time writing Dick! Feedback is welcome.

[writeyouin]

D-16 (Megatron) x Reader – The Creature From Another World - Part 2 of 2

Chapter 2 – Megatron or D-16?

A/N – Finally, it’s ready. Here’s hoping this holds up to part one.

Warnings – None.

Rating – T

Megatron held you at your request. He didn’t know why you wanted to be up, only that you did and he was only too happy to comply, and that he had to hold onto that feeling. You were the only thing he had left that brought him any shred of happiness. Everything else was a toxic poison coursing through his body, leaving only hate and anger in its wake.

You stood in Megatron’s palm, trying to see the D-16 you knew before in his optics. They were a violent red, leaving no trace of the warm amber glow his eyes used to have. Moreover, Megatron used to laugh and relay stories back and forth to you or Orion. Now, he mostly frowned.

You reached out to touch him, your hand falling to his chassis where a brand new Megatronus insignia had been branded onto him, covering over the one Sentinel had burned him with. Megatron had claimed the symbol, owning it for the new Decepticon army.

At your touch, Megatron vented a soft gust of warm air, wondering what you were thinking as you pawed at his insignia. He wished that you could see it as the symbol of a new age as it was supposed to be, but he guessed that you would always remember the one that Sentinel had marred him with. He would remember too. He had to.

After disappearing on his life-changing quest with Orion, D-16 had worried about you, but he figured that the other miners would take care of you. In that, he was only half-right.

When the miners were told that he and Orion had died from their injuries in the race, they panicked, scared that they wouldn’t be able to help you leave the planet since they were the lower class. So, one of them had taken you to Sentinel, explaining what you were and coming up with a cover story for how you had gotten on Cybertron.

Sentinel, having guessed that you were once a Quintesson prisoner, pretended to believe the story, and reassured the mech that he would see to it that his top-bots found you a way home.

After that, he kept you prisoner in a gilded cage, his pet now since you wouldn’t give him any information on the missing miners' whereabouts.

When D-16 and the High Guard were captured, you met D-16’s eyes and he became even more furious, wondering how you had gotten there and what Sentinel had done to you.

Before that day, you already admired D-16, but your admiration turned to complete adoration and contrarily, fear as he kept standing up in the face of adversity. He wouldn’t be kept down, no matter what they did to him. You cried to see your friend hurt, but you didn’t scream or do anything further to draw attention to yourself, afraid that if you did, Sentinel would torture D-16 further.

Now, you were here, on one of Cybertron’s moons in a base that the Decepticons had constructed very quickly, being efficient builders, and the war with Cybertron was about to begin.

Megatron lifted your hand with his free servo, gently rolling his thumb pad over it. He wanted you to see him, not the person he used to be behind the insignia. You stared up at him.

“Talk to me,” He told you, gently.

You took a minute to think about what you needed to say.

You understood why the Decepticons had to go to war. It was like Megatron said; when he tried to talk to them, they had clung to the old ways and a new leader had arisen to take Sentinel’s place. Another false Prime – Optimus Prime. He had attacked Megatron and the high guard and then banished them from their home under the threat that they would not be left for long.

Still, knowing why the war was happening wasn’t enough. You needed more than that. You glanced outside the windows of the command centre, seeing the High Guard working ceaselessly.

One more look to Megatron and you knew what you had to say.

“Is this the only way? To fight? To kill?”

Megatron was saddened to see you so upset, but he clung to his resolve, no mercy left within him.

“Yes. There is no room for a peaceful resolve unless those on the surface join our ranks.”

“Are you scared?” You asked in a very small voice, indicating that you were terrified for him.

Megatron stroked your cheek, “No, and nor should you be. I will keep you safe.” And he would. He would do everything in his power to protect you from harm, including lying to you to save you from anything that might hurt your feelings. You were his precious pet and Megatron always took care of what belonged to him.

Some of the High Guard wondered about you, a human among their ranks. They would have tried to research you, had there been any information about something so alien. But without their records from Iacon, they had little ability to look into your kind and simply decided to leave Megatron with his pet. Later in the war, they might have rebelled against you, but after Megatron’s victory against Sentinel, they trusted their new leader. It wasn’t yet time for schisms, underhanded plots for mutiny, or general scheming; those would come much, much later.

As it was, Shockwave was responsible for providing you with a home, and the process didn’t take him long. It was less of a room built for you, and more like furniture your size based on your descriptions that had been put into Megatron’s hab-suite.

When Megatron took you to see it, he enjoyed the way your expression lit up. He had almost reacted the same when he saw that he had his own room for the very first time in his life. Yet, he hadn’t been able to find enough joy in his situation. So, he had a room that he didn’t have to share with a few dozen miners. What did that matter when a war was brewing?

But holding you… Seeing you happy? That was worth something.

“Is this-” Megatron almost said to your liking, but decided instead to focus on functionality, “Is this adequate?”

You hopped off his palm and onto the desk that held just about everything you needed, which was a relief since you had lost most of the items in your pack at the Battle of Iacon. Trailing your hand gently over a bed, very robotic in design, but comfortable and made from repurposed cleaning cloths, you smiled.

“It’s perfect. Thank you.”

Megatron ran a finger down your cheek, “No need to thank me.” He watched you as you moved things about, perfecting everything that you needed, and then later he watched you recharge. How perfect it was, giving you exactly what you needed. He would make you dependent on him; you would never need anyone else ever again. He would make you love him. After losing everything, he needed that much.

“Excuse me, Shockwave?” You said, feeling small. By now, you usually felt confident around Cybertronians, but you found Shockwave and some of the High Guard unnerving.

The Cyclops-Bot stared at you, saying nothing, and generally making you feel more uncomfortable.

“Um, Megatron told me to come to you if I need anything…?”

Shockwave didn’t know why you were saying it like it was a question. You were either told to come to him or you weren’t. Life had no place for statistical fallacy.

Seeing as he didn’t reply, you pulled your pack off your back, opening it for him to see the contents as you withdrew them.

“Each of these dehydrated cubes is a meal. I need to consume two or three a day,” You explained. “As you can see, I’m running low, and even if I wasn’t, this isn’t the best state for my food to be in. I need food. Real, fresh food, or- Or I’m going to die.”

Shockwave didn’t seem alarmed by the statement. He didn’t seem to feel anything. Instead, he glanced at your dwindling supplies, noting exactly how long you could survive. He didn’t understand much about your fuel, though he thought it inefficient as he scanned the contents, finding many perishable components, had they not been dehydrated. 

Finally, after a long and stressful silence in which he examined both your pack and you, he relented. “I shall take care of it.”

You were so happy that you didn’t think to ask about the details of Shockwave’s plan. Instead, you smiled and bounced on the balls of your feet, “Thank you, Shockwave.”

Shockwave watched you walk away. He generally didn’t understand the concept of pets, but you were cute enough, he supposed.

Turning back to his newly set up data console, Shockwave began researching the nearest planets that were home to organic species. Seeing how small you were, he believed that organics would be easy enough to subjugate. With that in mind, he began drafting the first invasion plans. Not only would the Decepticons take the fuel you needed but they would also strip the planet of all its valuable resources, giving the Decepticons a technological edge over the Autobots. Later, Megatron would tell you that the Decepticons had made trade deals with several organic planets, never revealing that you were the starting cause behind his slave empire, and you would be spoiled with lavish gifts, ignorant of their origin.

Starscream stared at your sleeping form and then back to Megatron.

“I can’t look after this thing,” He argued.

Though Megatron had bested Starscream once, he hadn’t yet grown to fear his master and as such, was testing his limits.

“You can and you will,” Megatron ordered.

There were arguably better candidates to care for you, especially Soundwave who was used to smaller beings from playing host to some Cassettes. But this wasn’t a question of who you got along with or who would be best suited to watch over you. It was a test of allegiance. Besides, the more bots that Megatron kept on rotation to ‘pet-sit’ you, the more would know how to care for you when he was away.

Megatron needed to see you taken care of, even if he didn’t like leaving you with others, especially if he thought of them touching you. He shouldn’t care this much, but the last person he had entrusted with you had been the very one to betray him. He didn’t want to think of you trusting anyone like that traitor Orion… Optimus. He didn’t want any kind of bond like that in his life again, not for himself or you.

Standing his ground while Starscream prattled on about being the Commander of the High Guard, Megatron snarled. He pointed his cannon at Starscream which was enough to make the weaker mech backtrack, begging for his life.

“You will do as I say.”

Starscream nodded, holding his hands out in surrender, “Yes, of course. Your pet will be well cared for, Megatron.”

“That’s Lord Megatron to you.”

“Of- Of course. Lord Megatron,” Starscream bowed, humiliation coursing through him; it was a feeling that would one day transform into loathing. Megatron left his subordinate, satisfied with how easy it was to subjugate another to his will. He wondered how you would look bowing to him, then turned his mind against such thoughts. He didn’t want to frighten you into worshipping him; he would become someone worthy of your adoration.

You mumbled D-16’s name, waking from a deep sleep. Had you been more alert, you might have thought about how worrying it was that you had come to rely on Megatron so quickly or that you had called him by his old name and that he was no longer that bot you met just a short while ago.

Instead, your thoughts were disturbed by Starscream throwing you some new clothes that Shockwave had acquired from another planet. They were the vestments of the Royal Family until Megatron had ordered their deaths; now the clothes were yours, and far superior in quality than your previous garments. 

“Put those on,” He ordered, not caring whether you did or not.

You blinked owlishly at Starscream, having never been left alone with him before.

“Where’s Megatron?” You asked, despite being somewhat used to his leaving regularly to attend meetings, start trade deals with other planets, or draft new battle strategies.

Starscream rolled his optics, “What a clingy pet. Can’t you be away from Megatron for a few kliks before whining?”

You scowled at the mech, “I’m not a pet.”

“And I’m not a pet-sitter, but here we are,” Starscream griped.

You shook your head and got to work tinkering with some little projects you had started. During the Battle of Iacon, most of the items had been damaged when you fell on your pack. Fortunately, having worked on the Translator for so long, you weren’t bad at mechanics now, though a lot of your tinkering was mostly experimentation. So, rather than waste any time conversing with the bot who treated you like an unwanted mutt, you continued your work on your new shower unit, since your collapsable service station needed some repairs in that department and regrettably, you were starting to smell.

When Megatron returned he was injured, having lost to Optimus Prime for the second time. The loss enraged him, but it didn’t worry him. Optimus may have had the power of the Primes, but Megatron learned a lot from that battle, and in the end, he was certain that his strategy and cunning would win over Prime’s strength.

Besides, it hadn’t been a total loss. The other Decepticons had managed to spread their message through Iacon, and there were already a handful of bots who had returned to the Luna base with Megatron. With the new recruits all ready for an uprising, Megatron was preparing to send some of them back undercover, so they could further spread the message of the Decepticon cause.

Before entering his hab-suite, Megatron straightened up, hiding most of the damage behind bravado, despite the energon that leaked from his side. There could be no signs of weakness.

He expected to see you in his hab-suite, but you weren’t there. So, Starscream had taken you elsewhere. Megatron was about to begin repairing himself when he heard you cry out. It was faint, and more of a shout than a scream, but it sent him spiralling all the same.

He ran to find you, following the sound of your voice.

“GET OFF,” You shouted.

Megatron ran faster.

“STOP SQUIRMING!” Starscream yelled back.

Megatron burst into the wash racks, finding you soaked in Starscream’s grip, the water washing over both of you. Starscream was tugging at your old clothes, partially victorious as the seams ripped, uncovering your arm and part of your chest. You gritted your teeth and slapped at his hand.

Seeing all of this, Megatron gritted his dentae and smashed into Starscream, being careful to grab his arm and pull you from his grasp.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Starscream demanded.

Megatron held you against his chassis possessively, “When (Y/N) says stop, you stop. Their commands are my commands. Now, I demand to know what you were doing to my pet!”

You stared up at Megatron, shocked that he would call you such a thing. He knew what you were now, so why would he treat you like an animal? You didn’t like it.

“I’m not a pet,” You murmured, but neither mech seemed to hear you, glaring at one another in a silent power struggle.

Losing his nerve, Starscream bowed his head.

“I was merely washing your precious pet,” He sneered. “It stank.”

“Not a pet,” You repeated, but your words fell on deaf ears.

Starscream got up from the floor and sauntered out of the wash racks. Megatron’s optics tracked him, all the while a seed of hatred forming for his Second in Command. When Starscream was out of sight, Megatron held you up for inspection. You had your arms crossed to protect your chest, and you were staring angrily down at the floor. The water made the remains of your outfit cling to you, making you feel even smaller and more vulnerable.

Honestly, Megatron had little right to be so furious at Starscream. He too didn’t understand the significance of your clothing, only that the coverings were important to you.

“Are you okay, pet?” He said, gently stroking your cheek.

You pushed his hand away, “I’M NOT YOUR PET!”

Megatron stared at you, open-mouthed. You’d never yelled at him before.

“Do you get that?” You asked, brow furrowing. “You used to, but it’s like you’ve forgotten. I’m a person, just like you. Do you understand?”

Megatron thought back to the person he had been, comparing it to who he was now, and who he wanted to be in the future. You wanted D-16 back, but he wasn’t that anymore. Yet… Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to be D-16 around you, just a little bit.

“I’m sorry, (Y/N). I never meant to imply-” He sighed, “I’m sorry.”

For the moment, it seemed that D-16 was back, and things were just like they had always been. You were about to say something equally sentimental, until you saw the trickle of energon, washing down the drain.

“You’re hurt!”

Megatron shook his helm, “It’s nothing.”

“No,” You cried out. “It’s not nothing!”

“I’ll patch it up in our room. You can take care of yourself there too.”

You were staring at him. Megatron couldn’t help smiling a little at your concern. As promised, he had patched himself up with a welding iron. It had been painful, but he hadn’t shown any signs of it.

You meanwhile, were in your new clothes, having sorted yourself out and dried off.

Megatron stood from his chair, leaving the tools he had used for self-repair on the desk.

He scooped you up, holding you to his face, “I’m alright. I promise.”

You shook your head, unwilling to believe him. Megatron chuckled, supposing that you couldn’t believe it since such an injury would have been fatal to your kind. Yet, he was wrong in trying to guess your thoughts. Physically, you knew Megatron would recover easily, but to recover psychologically? You wondered if he ever would.

Maybe it was because of everything he had gone through before you met, being a slave to a corrupt system, or maybe it was because of Orion’s death, but despite his apology earlier, you couldn’t help seeing the difference between D-16 and Megatron.

Still, he hadn’t abandoned you, and you wouldn’t abandon him. Megatron was going through something traumatic, and as he said, the war was inevitable. It would be hard on anybody, and you wanted to help him through it.

You glanced down to his welded side which he would undoubtedly buff out later to make it look as if nothing ever happened.

“Does it still hurt?”

Megatron couldn’t help adoring the soft melancholy lilt of your voice; the concern that was all for him.  

He tilted your chin up so you were looking into his eyes instead of at his failure, “It hurts less when you’re here.”

Your eyes flicked towards Megatron’s lips and you felt your cheeks start to burn. Lately, you had begun imagining things. You wanted to be closer to Megatron, to share some intimate moments with him, but that was impossible; you two weren’t the same.

Seeing your flushed skin and your darting eyes, Megatron smiled, looking the closest to being D-16 that he had in a while. You were so easy to read.

Perhaps it was time to show you the little trick he had been practising; it would leech him of his energy but he was certain that it would be worth it.

Megatron lowered you to his desk.

“Close your eyes,” He requested.

Although you had a lot on your mind, you did as he asked; at that moment, you knew you would have likely done anything for him.

Megatron mass displaced so he was closer to your size. It was difficult to become so small, but he managed to shrink down to around nine feet. Originally, mass displacement was taught to working-class Cybertronians so they could shrink down and enter the Underground to make repairs. Everyone was told that it was more energy-effective than using mini-bots, but the truth was that mini-bots were kept as slaves, being seen as even lesser than the worker-bots; they were hardly worth keeping online, and nobody in the Senate wanted to risk giving them repair tools for larger jobs in case they started a rebellion.

Now, Megatron had also learned mass displacement, for you.

He placed a servo to the small of your back, giddy when you opened your eyes in shock. He traced down your jawline with his other hand, lightly thumbing over your chin. How perfectly you fit against him now.

Dipping down, he pressed his lips to yours. Metal against flesh; two different worlds colliding.

You gave yourself over to him.

Little was right in your life since you were taken by the Quintessons, but this moment was perfect… Or it would be if you could fight the niggling in your mind that warned you all was not right with the Decepticons. Megatron’s servo bunched in your hair. You moaned against him, wrapping your arms around his waist. You could ignore those thoughts. You had to. Needed to. What else could you do when you had foolishly let yourself fall in love?

As Megatron’s paramour, you were given more freedom as Decepticon successes rose. Or rather, you were given the fragile illusion of more freedom. You were taken to the few organic planets that Megatron had made ‘trade deals’ with thus far. The threat of their destruction kept the people in line, and you were treated with all the respect of a visiting dignitary. If you tried, you would have seen the terror in the faces of those conquered, but with Megatron distracting you as if you were on a date, you chose the easy path. It was easy to run from suffering when you didn’t want to believe in it.

You were given a communicator which Megatron told you had been built for you, but it had actually been ripped from a now deceased Autobot’s helm. You were provided anything you needed, and more beyond that. However, all of it ceased to matter on the day you saw Orion Pax, alive and well.

Orion Pax, now Optimus Prime had received word that Megatron had conquered a nearby planet and enslaved its people. Fully believing that you had perished in the Battle of Iacon, the Autobot leader vowed to free the planet your name, knowing that it’s what you would have wanted for your organic kin.

That was when you both saw each other, Optimus lowering his blaster and you standing atop Megatron’s shoulder.

“Orion,” You breathed his name, barely loud enough for anyone to hear, yet Megatron heard; how could he not when you were standing right next to his audials?

Megatron glowered at Optimus, feeling extra possessive of you since the Prime had stolen everything from him and banished him from his home. He wouldn’t be allowed to take you too.

Megatron grabbed you roughly, partially transforming his chest cavity and shoving you inside. His pet, his lover, his possession, his captive; you were his! Optimus glared at Megatron. Keeping you captive was not an option, he would not allow it. Pointing at his ex-friend, Optimus gave the command, “AUTOBOTS, ROLL OUT!”

Megatron shook with rage, fear, sadness, hatred.

He held your lifeless body in his cupped servos. Granted, Optimus Prime had held back in the fight, but his damned Autobots hadn’t, and now you were gone.

You were the last thing Megatron had and you too had been ripped away from him.

That was it then. No more mercy, no more holding back. No more attachments.

All Autobots would be scrapped, and all the worthless organics of the universe would be destroyed or enslaved. Megatron refused to ever get close to an organic ever again. None would ever make up for you and he would not risk opening his spark to another being.

Ha, that was a joke. He couldn’t offer his spark to anyone anyway. It had been snuffed out. He was hollow. Just a shell for the seething rage to fill.

He was Megatron, and he didn’t need anybody.

He left your body to burn in the ashes of the organic planet, but Optimus picked you up, determined to give you a proper burial. To the Prime’s surprise, he saw you take in a tiny breath of air. You weren’t dead, but you would be if he didn’t get you away from the dying world. You needed air, you needed a doctor, you needed freedom.

[rendevok]

Act II ~ The Challenge

A tapestry for chapter 2 of Let No One Sleep by @azalawa-scroggs on ao3

[accirax]

(Whit did, in fact, gaf, but he wasn't about to let anyone know that.)

[solitairedeere]

i was never as optimistic about the ending of bnha as some villain stans were, but i never thought it'd end so badly it left me wondering why horikoshi ever bothered to humanize the villains or make them complex characters at all.

like-- i expected that at least 1-2 of the 3 villains who were heavily foreshadowed and outlined by the narrative as people to be saved would be, you know, actually saved. i didn't think that was a high bar. i've been let down before in fandoms where everyone was certain a character would live and then they didn't, so i tried to keep my hopes low. AND YET.

what happened to tomura was upsetting, but i wasn't that shocked after how disinterested the manga has seemed to be in him for like, the past 100 or so chapters. a bit surprised, because you'd think if anyone would succeed in the 'saving' mission it would be the MC, but whatever. dabi, well, they've spent a lot of time showing the way his quirk destroys his body even before this arc, so that also sucked but at least it didn't feel completely out of left field.

........but they're not even letting toga live???

i just-- what have we even been doing here? when zero out of the 3 characters that were marked out for saving were actually saved, you have to acknowledge that something has gone seriously fucking wrong with the storytelling. not even just from the perspective of a villain fan but from the perspective of someone who likes stories to be thematically consistent or satisfying in any way.

you can set up an expectation of these characters being saved and then subvert that and turn it into a tragedy- if done well that could even be worthwhile and interesting. but you can't turn it into a tragedy and then just... keep trucking along with the happy ending messaging and act like anything in the manga has been resolved and that the characters have somehow successfully completed their heroic origin stories.

like, maybe i shouldn't have expected this much from a shounen- at the end of the day it is still a shounen so i didn't expect to feel that it truly satisfactorily wrapped up all the themes it brought up around societal ills. but i expected it to at least resolve those things in a shounen-y way where they punch the problems and help these specific people and then you can feel good assuming that the state of things will continue to improve in the post-canon world of the manga.

instead we got... uh, none of that. the story refused to answer a single one of the larger questions it's been outlining for the past 400+ chapters. in the end, it was all flash and no substance, which again could've been fine, if it weren't for the way the story seemed to spend significant chunks of time trying to delude you into thinking it had substance.

truly makes me wonder what horikoshi thought he was doing the entire time. can it really all be blamed on burnout? the most that can be said for this ending is that it is, well, an ending. fuck dude, it is that.

and that's just... such a sad way to end a project that took up 10 years of your life.

[kray-zay]

designs for a Transformers horror AU thing I was working on but shelved for the time being to work on my other main tf au project.

Thought I just shared these freaks without context. rest of the art and writing for this project prob not gonna be posted until/if I start working on it again.

Bonus little dude, he a part of a diagram explaining some lore but it doesn't make a ton of sense without knowing other lore from this AU I haven't shared.

[egophiliac]

he did it! he was so scared but HE DID IT!!!!! I'M SO PROUD OF HIM

(spoiler header because I drew this in an absolute fugue state immediately after I finished playing, and it's...probably more immediately spoilery than usual, whoops)

[steamedlotusroot]

remember when swk tried to take li jing and nezha to court for gross negligence in jttw? good times

[1000sunnygo]

One Piece Academy Chapter 52: Disaster on the Mystery Mountain (Pt.2) Translation

PART 1 | Index

next on January 10th!

[sp0o0kylights]

Part One / Part Two (You are Here) / Part Three 

A03

Hopper had undersold Harrington's condition. 

Wayne hadn't expected anything pretty, but the face that turned to them as they walked through the door almost had him freezing in place. 

Black eye, bruised chin, split lip. 

More and more bruises, some faded and some very new, trailing down the kids neck. 

 The rest was hidden by his preppy little polo shirt, but Wayne didn't doubt that there were more.

Harrington tried to stand when they entered the room and the way he moved--entirely unbalanced, clearly in a lot of pain--made Wayne think the only thing the kid really needed was a hospital. 

Because Steve Harrington hadn't just been beaten. 

He'd been tortured--and very recently strangled. 

(Abruptly, Wayne realized that Hopper had implied the boy had been in the mall fire--just as much as he implied the mall fire was anything but. 

He also hadn't stated how Harrington had escaped the Suites trying to break into his house.) 

"Sit down." Hopper commanded, and Wayne expected Harrington to do anything but listen. 

Say something cocky, or act the part of a demanding little shit maybe, despite the condition he was in.

Instead the kid just sighed in relief and dropped like a stone, right back into the chair. 

Hopper came around his desk, talking all the while. "Steve, this is Wayne. Wayne, Steve."

"Hello Sir." Steve croaked politely. His voice was wrecked, no doubt from the necklace of finger shaped bruises around his neck.

"You're going to stay with him for a while, and you're gonna pay him for the privilege." Hopper informed him, as he began digging around his desk. "Money, chores, whatever Wayne wants." 

Wayne held his gaze as Steve turned to appraise him. 

Would Harrington pitch a fit? 

Would he look at Wayne's work clothes, streaked with dirt and sweat, with the name of the warehouse embroidered in the corner and crinkle up his nose, just like his daddy did? 

Hopper didn't lie, but a part of Wayne wanted to see just how different this Harrington was. If the respectful demeanor was an act done for Hopper. 

Or perhaps, Hopper had mentioned Steve's father for a reason, instead of his mother. Did he adopt her ice-like approach to life? 

Micro managing and long-held grudges were Stella Harrington’s game, and she excelled at it. 

Steve however, did nothing of the sort, instead settling with the situation in a way that reminded Wayne far too strongly of the men and women who'd come home from war.

"Okay." The kid said simply, after a long moment of consideration. He turned back to Hopper. "But we need to tell the rest of the Par--" 

Here he cut a look back to Wayne, correcting himself. "the kids. I don't want them showing up at my house trying to find me and freaking out." 

"They wouldn't--" Jim paused, fingers freezing from the rummaging they'd been doing. "they absolutely would, goddammit." He muttered darkly.  

"I'll tell the kids. The only thing I want you doing right now is laying low. I need to get a hold of Owens, but it's gonna take time to do that, and more time to fix this, so as of right now, Harrington? You're on vacation." He pointed sternly, as if Steve might argue.

The kid looked too tired and messed up to bother trying. 

"I mean it. You're out of the country, where is anybody's guess. No one's seen you and no one better be seeing you, got it?" His voice held firm, and Wayne had to blink because the tone here wasn't one of a police chief warning a teenager--but of a father talking to his son.

He knew, because his own voice did that now. Took on a worried tone that masqueraded as something more like annoyance and seriousness. 

"Yes, Sir." Harrington said, remaining weirdly compliant. "Consider me gone." 

A hand came up to briefly press above one eye, and Wayne wondered if the kid had been looked over, or if they had just crammed him into Hopper's office without offering so much as a tissue box. 

How many painkillers did they have back at the house? Wayne usually kept a good bottle around, but Steve was going to need more than that…

He found himself once again cataloging Steve's wounds, this time comparing them to the medicine cabinet he had at home. 

"I expect you to be a damn good house guest, you hear me?" Hopper continued, trying to cut a menacing figure. He finally found what he was looking for; pulling out a large, padded envelope. 

He handed it over to Harrington, who took it without looking, shoving it into the duffle bag he'd had sitting at his feet. 

There was a smudge of red on the handle of said bag, that matched perfectly up to a shittily done wrap on Steve's right hand. 

Wayne mentally added 'buy more bandages' to his list. 

Steve nodded at Hopper again. "Yes, Sir."

Jim’s eyes narrowed. "Quite that, you know I hate that." 

The briefest glimmer of mischief crossed Harrington's face. "Sorry, Sir. Won't happen again, Sir."

'Ahh.' Wayne thought. 'So there's a teenager in there after all.'

Jim rolled his eyes. "Get out of my office."

"Thanks Hop." Harrington said, finally dropping that odd obedience, a hint of a smile on his battered face. 

He stood, and Wayne had to stop himself from offering an arm out as Steve reached for his bag and limped towards him. 

He paused right before he left Hopper's office, hand on the doorframe.

 "You'll check up on Robin too, right?"  He asked, and for the first time his tone took on something more alive--and filled with worry. "And Dustin? Erica?" 

"Dustin and his mom are finally taking me up on my suggestion to see their family in Florida for a while, and the Sinclairs are taking a sabbatical from Hawkins. I'm working on the Buckley's." Hopper drummed his fingers on the desk. "So far, no one else besides you and El have been targeted, and we're going to keep it that way."

Steve let out a breath, and while Wayne could tell the worry hadn't left him, he could almost physically see Steve force himself to put it away.

Another act that was far beyond the kid's years. 

A different officer popped up as they walked down the hall towards the exit, waving his hand madly. "Harrington! Chief says you forgot this!" He barked.

(Or tried to anyway. Callahan wasn’t the most aggressive of officers and frankly, never would be.)

A slim sports bag was held in his hands, and Steve nearly tripped over his own feet when he tried to turn and claim it.

"I'll get it." Wayne said, knowing his tone sounded gruff.

No use for it. He could either sound gruff or sound sad, and Wayne knew better than to start off the relationship with yet another hurt young man by acting sad.

Pity wasn't gonna win him any favors here. 

He took the bag, slinging it over his shoulder, uncaring of the wince on Harrington's face until something sharp poked at his shoulder. 

Several somethings, in fact. 

"What the hell do you got in this thing?" He asked once they hit the parking lot, voice low as he escorted Steve to his truck. 

"Just a baseball bat, sir." Steve said, in the exact same tone Eddie used every time he thought he was bein’ slick. 

Considering the thing in the bag could have passed for a baseball bat if not for the sharp pokey bits, it wasn’t a bad attempt. Steve just hadn’t accounted for the fact that Wayne lived with Eddie. 

An unfair advantage, really. 

‘Least there can’t be any baby racoons in the damn bag.’ Wayne thought idly. 

Went on to gently put the bat in the backseat, watching as the kid struggled to lift himself into the truck.

"You can drop that, I take too being called Sir about as well as Hop does." He said, keeping his tone nice and calm, hoping to ease into calling Steve out on his lie. 

Fussed with a few dials on the stereo, giving Steve an excuse to take his time before starting the engine and taking the long way home.

Wayne wanted to talk a little-- without the chance of Ed’s interrupting. 

"Son,” He started off. “I was born in the morning, but not this morning. I'm hoping to make the next few weeks as easy as I can for both of us, and I can't do that if you're starting off with a lie." 

Steve blinked, turning to face him in a matter that was too fast for his injuries. He didn't bother hiding the hurt it caused him, but his voice stayed even as he spoke.

 "What do you mean Si--Wayne." 

"Nice catch.”  Wayne said. “We’ll get you there yet.” 

It was a trick he'd learned with Eddie--little tidbits of praise went a long way when it came to gaining trust.

Especially with kids who hadn't ever been given much. 

Harrington seemed smart to it, or perhaps was just hesitant to speak in general because he remained quiet, not offering up any info. No further lies, but nothing towards the truth, neither. 

Which was fine. Wayne didn’t think a little pushing would hurt.

"That bat of yours was digging into my shoulder like a bee swarm." Wayne continued, when it became clear Steve wasn't talking. "I'm more a fan of football than baseball, but last I checked they hadn't changed the design of a bat." 

"What teams?" Steve asked, perking up a touch. "Of football. Which ones are yours?"

Wayne could ignore it of course, or demand Steve give him an answer to the question he asked. 

He did neither. "I’m liking the Colts since they got moved here. You?" 

"Green Bay Packers, though I like the Colts too--that trade in 84’ was crazy." Steve said. After a second he proved that answering instead of pushing was the right move because he added; "What did Hopper tell you? About…" He trailed off, making a gesture Wayne didn't bother trying to interpret. 

"He said some things. I've guessed a few others." Wayne admitted. Cut a little look out of the corner of his eye as he came to a stop sign. "I know the feds are real interested in you after Starcourt." 

Steve took that in, hands tightening on the handle. 

"It really is a baseball bat." He said, a little fast and with the tiniest hint of that challenge Wayne had been looking for. "It just also has nails hammered into one end." 

Wayne took that in with one nice, slow blink. 

"A bat with nails in it." He said, and it made a hell of a lot of sense compared to the sensation he'd felt carrying the case. "You use it against anyone?" 

"Some of the feds." Steve admitted, and even with his eyes on the road Wayne could tell he was being stared at.

Judged.

Not in the way one expected a rich kid to judge, but in the way Eddie had, those first few months he'd lived here. The times when  he'd push, just a little, to see what Wayne's reaction would be. 

Eddie hadn't done it in a damn long time, but Wayne recognized the behavior nonetheless. 

"Anybody else?" He asked. 

"Nobody human." Steve replied. 

"Alright." Wayne said, and made a mental note to drop all questions related to that. 

He didn't need to know, definitely didn't want to know, and had a feeling if he did know he'd find himself being watched by the same spooks after Steve.

"I've got a few deck boxes that lock on my porch. Think you'd be agreeable to leaving the bat in one?" 

Steve paused, hand clenching tighter around the strap of his duffel bag. "If you gave me a key so I could get it in an emergency,  I'd be happy to." 

He tried to sound calm, even a little charming in that sort of upper-class businessman sort of way, but the fear bled through. 

The kid wasn't happy separating from the bat, and given it sounded like it might have saved his life recently, Wayne understood the hesitation. 

With an internal apology to Eddie, he promptly threw his nephew under the proverbial bus.  "I've got my nephew at home and he'd be far too interested in it, is all. Blades and weapons and such tend to attract him, and I don't need to be rushing anyone to the ER." 

All of which were very true facts (one Wayne learned the time he'd allowed Eddie to bring a sword  home, only for him to nearly cut his own nose off winging the thing around) but he figured it might make Steve more amenable to separating from it. 

Sure enough, some of the tenseness bled out of Steve's shoulders. "Yeah that's fair." 

The truck hit a few potholes as they finally turned into the trailer park, and the kid hissed, a quiet sound. 

Judging by the uncomfortable wince, and hands clenched into his jeans something painwise was giving him trouble. 

"When was the last time you took a pain pill?" Wayne asked, doing his best to weave around the other holes that dotted the gravel roads.

Steve blinked. "Uh…" 

"You take any today son?" 

Steve his head. 

"Didn't have time to grab it." He said, offering a sad look to his pack. 

Course he hadn't. 

"Let's get you inside then and get you some." Wayne said with a sigh. Thankfully Eddie's van wasn't here--Wayne was fairly certain he had band practice today but knowing him it could be a million other things.

Just meant he had to acclimate Steve as fast as he could, to try and get the poor guy settled before Ed’s came in. 

He just hoped life and lady luck would work with him, for once.