#also he knows some asl despite the popularization of asl not really matching up with the timeline. pamela was a progressive lady.

[whereisyourstar]

Yes. Promise.

Part 3 of the Stand By, Hold Back, Be Patient series

Part 2, Part 4

Rating: SFW

Word Count: 4.4k

Warnings: Descriptions of blood, fear, mentions of past animal abuse/neglect, heavy handed dream imagery

(Take all ASL represented with a grain of salt, I'm the furthest thing from an expert)

He reacts as you'd expect, which is to say he doesn't. Just stands there between two trunks and stares. Like yesterday, when you left him in your rearview mirror, you see the details of him so clearly. At this distance, you wish you couldn't. He's dressed the same as before, the clothes rumpled from use and too few washings, and the mask is ever-present, but you can see the stains too easily. Old, dried blood on his gloves, and matching splashes of it on his sleeves, in spots around his stomach. What you can see of his pant legs tells the same story—these clothes have seen a lot of killing. There's also dirt and stains you don't dare give a name to, but the fact that he doesn't wash his murder outfit is less upsetting than the fact that he has one.

You'd closed your eyes when you washed your hands last night, scrubbing at whatever encrusted filth was left behind from the machete's grip until your skin was raw. That same grip catches your eye from its place on his belt, dark and obviously rusty brown even from this distance. So it was blood. You know that now. It doesn't help abate the overall sense of unease.

But you're not dead twice over now, hopefully three by the time you get to make good on your plan to scurry inside. And, though you're still paralyzed with fear, with that dread of anything can happen right now, your researcher brain is tired of having questions with no answers. Why are you not dead.

You're summoning the courage to just say it when Jason slowly lifts his arm, bends it at the elbow, and snaps his fingers at you. The actual snap is deadened by his glove, but the motion is unmistakably…a fucking snap. You just stare at him—is he trying to, what, set you on fire with his mind? Trying to beckon you to him? Because one is slightly more plausible than you would have thought a month ago, and the other is never going to happen. You stay exactly where you are and watch as he purposefully drops his arm, then lifts, levers the elbow, and snaps all over again.

Something in your brain stirs at the movement, forcing a connection between what's on the other side of the door and the man in front of you.

"Dog?" you ask, quiet even to your own ears.

He nods with that same deliberate slowness.

"Oh my god," you whisper and press the entirety of your back against the door, more for support than outright fear. That's ASL, that's language. From him. And obviously he understands speech, else he would have just killed you and Heracles on the porch that night, but you assumed the lack of communication was just…part of the silent, scary murderer shtick. If there's one sign, then there can be others, and while your sign isn't great—and out of date besides, you have no idea how much of the language is still kicking around in your brain from the singular class you took in high school—maybe there's something you can do with this. The chance is worth it when you lift your hands and haltingly sign while you say, "Yes or no, you're Jason Voorhees."

The mask tilts to the side and god he really is too close, just a dozen or so feet away, then he lifts his hand and signs yes.

Okay. Well. You'd already been pretty sure you were dealing with a Jason, but the confirmation doesn't hurt. And you've learned something, he either had yes and no in his sign arsenal already, or he's understanding the connection between what you're saying and what you're doing with your hands. Good information, solid information, and now…now you can have a conversation. "You're the one, um. Killing people? Around here?" Another yes, so drawn out that it borders on parody. You know how fast he can be, you've experienced that firsthand, so you don't understand this reticence today. Is this just how he acts when he's not immediately focused on murdering? "Are you the only one? Doing the—the killings, since the 80s?"

The question confuses him—you watch his shoulders heave around a breath. But he does, after thirty seconds that stretch for an eternity to you, eventually sign yes.

That means that the man in front of you is either well into his seventies, and you've certainly never known a retirement age man to feel that solid, or the ghost/undead/phantasm theory has more credit than you thought. If he's even telling the truth. It's not like he has any reason not to lie to you.

You're not breathing correctly and you realize your fingers are completely numb. If you didn't have the door to hold you up, you know you'd be a trembling pile by now. This is—it defies thorough explanation, because you're curious, and mystified, and a little grateful to have your questions answered in any capacity, but mostly you're just scared. This is real, this hell week has been real, and it's not going away. Your foot crinkles the plastic of one of the bags as it tries to hold your failing balance and you remember. A glance to the right, loath as you are to take your eyes off him for even a second, and you see your truck, left unlocked and open in your flight last night, now closed. Seemingly untouched otherwise, which is…

You crouch for a second, eyes forward once again, and scoop the bags off the gravel of your walkway. They feel just as heavy as they did last night. "This was you?" You indicate the bags and remember your wild swing with them too late. As ineffectual as that hit had been, what if he sees this as you arming yourself? He hasn't touched any of his weapons—not that he'd need them if he wanted to harm you, you have the bruises to prove that—and maybe that's the point of the slowness. To lull you into a false sense of security before he uses all that speed and mass to crush you? But then it comes back to you being laughably easy to kill, he doesn't need tricks. If you're certain of anything, it's that if he wanted you dead right now, you would be.

Immune to the panic in your mind, Jason just signs yes. You don't know who else would have done it—some helpful stranger in the night, which is improbable, but not as much as it was before this week started—but again, it's good to have confirmation. It's hard to bite down on your instinctive why, to demand an explanation. You remind yourself to stick to yes or no questions, this needs to be as simple as possible to be effective. You've been signing every question you ask verbally, going so far as to fingerspell Jason's name, but he doesn't appear to have picked up anything else.

"Thank you," you tell him, and saying it is so normal that you almost apologize for hitting him next. The trees past your walkway, technically still a "yard", look different in the golden daylight, but that machete gouge is still there in a nearby trunk. Then, the question you most immediately need an answer to: "Are you going to kill me?"

The risk is somewhat calculated. You're the one with the ability to put a door between you and this man-ghost-creature, and whatever else he's capable of, there's no way he's getting through the solid oak, so if he reacts badly to the question…you have a decent chance of getting away.

Yes, Jason signs, then no. Unhurried in every motion. He hasn't moved an inch this whole time.

Your mouth is suddenly very dry. "Maybe? Or…you don't know."

Yes. Then, blindingly fast after the sedate pace he's set, he signs again: Dog. He's clearly running out of patience with your questions, the sound of his breathing filling the space between the two of you. Considering his answer to the last one, his patience is something you don't want to run out of, so you have to acquiesce.

"Heracles." This is fingerspelled too—creating a sign name on the fly after years of absence from the language is not a task you're up to. "My dog, Heracles. Yes?" Jason nods for this one and, horribly, steps forward.

It's a single step, but your heart leaps to your throat and sticks there. Your flinch back knocks the bags against the door and you hear Heracles, who up to this point has been perfectly patient, bark on the other side of it.

"Wait," you instruct, and goddamn if it doesn't work a second time. You're more forceful with this one, less of a screech and more of an order, which feels like it could have broken very badly for you. Every decision you've made thus far feels like it's on a knife's edge—you've just been incredibly lucky to this point, but now you think you know what he's after. That makes a difference.

Jason obeys. He doesn't move at all, you don't even think he's breathing. You can use that. With your hand pressed to the doorknob, you say, "You can see him, I'll let him come out. But only if you promise me that you won't hurt him." And you make the sign for promise, finger to the lips, then down flat on your fist. Jason watches the movement closely, you catch his mask dip down a touch to better view your hands—which in turn makes you realize that he's been staring mostly at your face—before he slowly mimics it. Yes. Promise.

What's the promise of a murderer mean to you? What should it mean? Probably less than it actually does to you. Because he spared Heracles' life in that first encounter, then saved him from the forest—regardless of your intention—to bring back to you. And Heracles, brave, terrified Heracles, had been more or less fine with him at the end there.

So you open the door and take your eyes off Jason for a second time to beckon your boy outside. His too-small eyes in his over-large head are so full of trust when he looks up at you, tail wagging at both the sound of your voice and your nervous smile down to him. "Come on, baby, come outside. Good boy, good—oh!"

Heracles unceremoniously shoves past your legs and bounds over to Jason without a care in the world. His tail is high and wagging, ears pricked up, and some honest to god pep in his step. You're left to just stand there and watch while Jason folds himself down to one knee on the forest floor and runs an affectionate, filthy glove over Heracles' back.

It is, frankly, the strangest, most confusing, and nicest thing you've ever seen. Heracles has always been perfectly affectionate with you from the get go—you'd had his head in your lap within a minute of visiting him at the shelter, his bandaged tail steadily thumping. It had been a shock when this sweet dog lifted that heavy head to growl savagely at a male shelter worker who happened to pass by, even with the warning you'd had about his history. You knew he could like men, he'd stopped growling at one of your roommate's partners just before the two of you left the city for good, but you'd never seen him like this. Wriggling happily while this stranger who, you cannot stress this enough, has been seconds from killing you twice now thunks his sides with massive pats.

It feels stupid to think it, because Heracles is a dog and not a rational judge of character, but Jason can't be completely, senselessly evil if Heracles likes him this much.

"I've never seen him like this with a stranger before," you say. You've moved closer without realizing, now about half a foot away from your open door. Jason's mask tilts up when you speak and watches your hands. "Sorry, I'm trying to understand, but—he was terrified of you last night. What happened in the woods when you went after him?"

Jason doesn't answer you with sign, which gives you a better idea of how much he actually knows. Instead, with that same deliberateness he doesn't seem to need to use with Heracles, he takes the cuff of his leftmost glove and pulls it down to expose a pale wrist. He presents the wrist to Heracles, who sniffs with such abandon that it makes you laugh a little. The mask snaps back up and it takes all the nerve you have left not to jump.

"Well," you start, a little unsteadily, "the method clearly works."

You watch the two of them for a few minutes and, against your will, you start to feel…secure. Jason's downright playful with Heracles, constantly patting him and letting himself be subjected to a happy dog's lack of personal space. Even when Heracles plants his paws in the middle of Jason's chest and jams his nose against the mask, which makes you nervous, because the first rule of someone having a mask is to not touch the mask, all Jason does is hold very still for inspection. All's clear, apparently, because the final sniff is punctuated with a huge, goofy dog smile that makes your overtaxed heart thump in a nice way for once.

Eventually Heracles gets bored of Jason's scent and comes back to you. You drop to your knees for him, don't even think about it, because his presence is perpetually comforting and you could really use some comfort right now. There's definitely a smell to him now, the faintest stench of old blood and fresh air on his fur that isn't as terrible as it should be. You try not to think about it as you scratch your nails over that spot he likes and give him a peck between the eyes.

Heracles doesn't react to Jason moving with near-silent steps to follow, eyeing you the entire time like you're the dangerous one here, so you don't either. With Jason crouched behind Heracles, and you sitting on your knees before him, you're both in a kind of neutral territory. You're not about to tell Jason to leave, and he can't kill you—you hope—with your dog right here. "He is such a little mama's boy," you say by way of explanation. "But you can keep petting him, if you want."

It's heaven for a dog. Two people, four hands, and nearly uninterrupted attention. After barely a minute of silent, dutiful petting between the two of you, Heracles flops down onto his side and just basks.

"Greedy little thing, isn't he?" All affection in the way you say it, punctuated by his tongue lolling out into your lap while you rub his ear. "He deserves it, though. He's had a hard life." You catch the mask glancing your way in your upper peripheral and you rush to explain. "I don't know all the details, only what the people at the shelter back in the city could tell me, but he was…really badly abused before they picked him up. His last owner, or whoever, clearly neglected him…you might have seen it, he's missing some teeth. And his tail's a little crooked from where they snapped it. Right—yeah, right there." Jason's glove hovers above Heracles' tail and stops midway, where there will forever be a bump. It's strangely satisfying to see that giant hand curl into a fist when you confirm the spot. That's how you feel about it too. "He's nervous around strangers now—" no need to upset him by singling out men in particular, just in case "—which is partly why I brought him out here with me. No neighbors, present company excluded."

Before you can worry about that being taken the wrong wrong way, you look up and realize that Jason's already staring at you. He's hunched over to pet Heracles and even from this vantage he's just big. Big hands, big shoulders, big presence. This close, and with the unclouded sun up high, you're treated to a few snap observations. He's obviously bald where the mask can't hide and every inch of visible skin is suntanned, but not in the way you've known people who work outside to tan—there's a dullness to his skin that makes you think of death, some primal human pattern recognition in your subconscious noticing the wrongness of him. Nothing with skin like that should be moving, you're sure. More than that, there's something different about the actual shape of his skull itself that the mask's straps exacerbate, but that isn't what makes your breath catch in your throat.

You can see directly through the eyeholes of the mask and are struck by an alert, richly brown eye and its sagging, paler sibling. All the usual micromovements of the brown eye are not mirrored by the other and your brain supplies several unbidden theories—birth defect, blinded by a victim, price of living this long.

You know you've stared back at him for too long when his breathing starts to grow louder, the sound of it rattling out from behind the mask, and you barely have a moment to remember to be scared when he signs you.

Heracles makes a displeased whine at the lack of attention and flips all the way onto his back, hind legs kicking until Jason finally puts a giant palm on the offered belly and starts to rub. The sound of Heracles' tail thumping against his leg pulls you back to yourself. "Me?" He nods, doesn't look away. "What about me?"

Dog, yes, he signs. Then, a more forcefully pointed finger: You.

If you survive this day, you vow to teach him question words. Guessing, or just the stress of the last twenty minutes, is giving you a headache. Forcing connections again, you try, "You…want to know why I'm here? Living here?" Another nod, and he could at least look a little gratified that you're catching on to his thinking like this. You have to look away, back down to Heracles and his blissed out face in your lap, to answer. "Same reason, I guess. I'm not as good with people as I used to be, and it's…quiet here. The quiet's nice."

It's the right thing to say, you know as soon as Jason starts to nod, unprompted by a question for the first time. And oh if that doesn't give you an idea, and the idea is emboldened to action by the way Jason has been putting up with Heracles' tail surely thumping a bruise against his leg. "I want to ask you something," you start, sure of yourself for the first time all day. "You don't have to say yes or no right away, definitely take time to think on it, especially if you plan on, uh, letting me live through the night. But I have an opportunity that I don't think many people get when they come to this area. That is, I want to ask if you'll allow us to live here. Heracles and I." The lack of immediate reaction gives you a chance to push your case as far as it can be pushed. "All he wants is room to roam, and all I want is to be away from the world, which I think…is what you want too. You'd probably prefer not to have neighbors, but we'd be good ones. Promise. And," the clincher, the real point of it all, "Heracles really likes you. And I think you like him."

Your sweet, boxy dog chooses that moment to snore, alerting you both to the fact that you've pet him into complete contentment. This means you have a close, personal view of Jason's eye widening when he returns his attention to Heracles, his hand beyond gentle on the sleeping dog's belly.

Then Jason stands in one smooth movement and uses every inch of his height to loom over you. Fast, faster than you expected, catching you off guard despite having already been looking at him. His breaths fall heavy, heavier than they've been all day, and when he touches the handle of his machete you think, Oh, he's still going to kill me. How quickly you allowed yourself to feel safe with Heracles here, how quick you were to conflate Heracles' protection with your own.

He points like he's stabbing the air. First at you, then at Heracles, then at the house at your back. He nods. Lifts the machete an inch out of its sheath, enough for the steel to gleam, and points at you again. Signs no. Then, deliberately staring you down, signs yes-no. Maybe. The implication is clear—stay here, keep your promise, and he won't kill you. Whether that's a probationary decision or the way you just have to live your life now is unclear, but it's a hell of a lot more than you were expecting out of this day. As far as dealings with landlords go, you've had worse.

Then he's gone. Just turns on his heel and stalks back into the woods without a second glance. You're left with your mouth hanging open, completely struck.

You do, eventually, keep the plan and scurry back inside. It becomes clear Jason's not coming back when Heracles snorts himself awake, sniffs the air, and trots into the house of his own accord. So you follow him in, close the door gently behind you, turn the lock, and just…breathe. Long, uninterrupted inhales and exhales until they stop shuddering on the end.

"You're all right," you say to the silence of your home. Then, to Heracles: "I owe you one."

You owe him more than one, which is why you put chicken on your grocery list and underline it twice. Putting your bank account into the red to get your boy, who just saved your life for the foreseeable future with his ability to charm murderers, a treat is more than fair. Your paycheck will be hitting soon, signaling the end of the month and the oncoming loveliness of full spring, so the nasty email you'll get from the bank is worth it. As if you'd be scared of an email after the week you've had.

Vowing to do some work when you return, and after checking with the store in town that dogs are allowed—you can't bring yourself to hate that you're the kind of person that brings your dog everywhere now that your dog is a literal murder deterrent—you harness Heracles up and step outside. The two of you walk to the truck, and save for a moth that found its way inside when the door was open last night, you're uninterrupted as you coax the engine to life.

No figures in the rearview. No growling from Heracles while the trees steadily thin out until there's actual road, not just dirt, under your tires. And where town has always been more or less safe, if more crowded than you'd like after acclimating so naturally to isolation, the eyes of passerby feels heavier than before. Like they can see the deal you've struck with the beast that murders their friends, their neighbors, and you've been tainted for it. That's entirely in your head, you know, but it doesn't stop you from wanting to explain that you're not actually glad to have an understanding with a serial killer. It's still a relief to get back in your truck and know that you don't have to be back for at least a few days.

The forest accepts you back, and it feels different too. The trees press in just as much, scratch the side of your truck with their errant limbs, but there's no sinister edge to it. In the orangey afternoon light, the birches and oaks and trees too old for you to name, look golden.

You're back in the house, knife unstrapped and tucked away, and unpacking the groceries when you realize you're half-planning what cassettes you're going to get for the truck when the paycheck comes in. You like Joan Baez as much as the next person, and though one album over and over is getting old, that's not what stops you. It's the promise of having a tomorrow that does it—that you're planning for it, and the tomorrows after, in your own small way. It's how you realize that you believe Jason.

That night, when your eyes are too tired to squint at your computer screen any longer, you perform your usual lock checks. Your face gets washed, you change into whatever's comfortable and clean enough to sleep in, and you pull back the sheets on your bed. Heracles, ever your stalwart companion, spreads into the space with an appreciative sigh. After so long cramped onto the sofa with you, you suppose he's earned the right to take up more room on the king mattress than you do.

Sleep comes in waves over you. With heavy snores somewhere near your mid-back, and a light wind sighing through the trees outside your shaded and curtained window, you drift off without fear. When you dream, it is of turbulent water stretched far past the horizon, and a small boat in the middle of it. Angry waves crash in every direction except for where the boat touches, its simple, unpainted wood reflected in a circle of smooth water. A hand reaches lazily into the water and skims the surface, unafraid.

You scoff at yourself in the morning, rubbing sleep out of your eyes and replaying the dream in your head. You don't even like water, the ponds and creeks you grew up with held little except the promise of mosquitoes and alligators, so you're not sure what your subconscious is trying to tell you with this one. Still, it stays with you all through the morning routine, and as you sit down to get to work, you silently open a document and type out the scene as clearly as you remember it. Just to exorcise it from your brain, you tell yourself, but you save it to a new folder called Am I losing it. Just in case.

[americas-golden-boy]

Worth a Thousand Words

Summary: “Steve Rogers, every inch of his All-American glory, was looking at her expectantly with that same boyishly mischievous expression he had been sporting the few times she had seen him up close. One that really shouldn't blend in so easily with the rest of him but was an integral part of his persona, or at least that's what she gathered from the bits and pieces of conversations about him she'd been subjected to hearing.

Because that was definitely what she had predicted, and definitely made all the sense in the world.”

AKA Steve has never talked to the woman that sits in the front row of his lecture hall twice a week but that doesn't stop his hopeless crush on her.

Pairing: Steve Rogers/Reader

Word Count:  3,159

She was being watched.

She had absolutely no proof other than a gut feeling, but the sensation of eyes on the back of her head burnt with a heat strong enough to brand her, and more than once has the skin of her arms and neck prickled uncomfortably with goosebumps despite the surprisingly warm temperatures of late fall.

It made her feel silly, really, and more than a little narcissistic, to think that anyone would invest time in watching her. She couldn't even write it off as the uncomfortable leering that she had been victim to on a couple of occasions she had gone off-campus at night.

No, it was the most random of times, in the most obscure places, always busy enough that she could never pin down the source of her unusual company when she chanced a scan of the area.

It's a Thursday night, and after three weeks of enduring this cat and mouse game she's found herself in, she's strongly considering just going up to each person in the common room when she feels the sensation tickle its way down the nape of her neck again.

Before she got the chance to weigh all the pros and cons of embarrassing herself, the cat made itself known.

By sitting right across from her at the otherwise empty table.

Startled by the sudden presence in front of her, her eyes snap up from the book they'd been buried in, the hand which had been steadily dictating her notes pausing in the middle of a line as her train of thought came to an abrupt stop.

Sharing her space with unfamiliar company was not an uncommon occurrence, for her or any of the other people that frequented the open areas available to students at all hours of the day, but at a little past 11 P.M., there were few people spread out across the expansive room, and even fewer reasons for anyone to sit so close.

She found herself being thankful for carpeted floors as the man abruptly pulled the chair out, spinning it around and sliding forward to straddle it all in one movement, draping his crossed arms across the back with a practiced sort of elegance that did not quite match the situation or his size.

And his size was, frankly, quite hard to ignore.

Her immediate response was to be intimidated by the broad expanse of solid chest and wide shoulders that made the chair look almost uncomfortably small as the muscles in his arms strained under the stretched material of his shirt—really it was almost another layer of skin, as tight as it was—to prop his chin on an open palm.

But then she met his eyes and—

Oh, she thought dumbly.

Steve Rogers, every inch of his All-American glory, was looking at her expectantly with that same boyishly mischievous expression he had been sporting the few times she had seen him up close. One that really shouldn't blend in so easily with the rest of him but was an integral part of his persona, or at least that's what she gathered from the bits and pieces of conversations about him she'd been subjected to hearing.

Because that was definitely what she had predicted, and definitely made all the sense in the world.

With the way his smirk grew, she had a feeling he was perfectly aware of the confusion he was causing in her.

Perfectly justified confusion, she reminds herself before any misplaced guilt can creep up on her, considering they had never interacted properly.

In fact, as she tried racking her brain for any reason he would have for approaching her, she came up with exactly zero. Possibly one, if he was trying to bum notes off of her for the lecture they shared two days a week.

Not that he made a habit of doing that to people, as far as she knew anyway, but she wouldn't put it past him to use his charm and prestige for his own benefit.

As unfair as she knew it was to him, her expectations of the widely popular were subpar at best, and considering his reputation stretched far enough that even she recognized him, he certainly fit into that category.

Seemingly satisfied that he had her full attention, he reached out the hand that he had been leaning on, smirk stretching out into a full smile, laugh lines pulling on his cheeks matching the soft crinkles in the corners of his eyes.

He really is handsome. It's almost unfair.

"(Y/N), right?" He said by way of greeting, breaking the near silence of the room with ringing clarity even with the low level of his voice.

The fact that he knew who she was added a fresh layer of bewilderment to the mix, and she couldn’t even begin to sort through the possible implications of him possessing that information.

Looking between his hand and his face, she placed her pen down and took it in her own, just a moment shy of an awkward pause before nodding.

His grip on her hand was confident but gentle, shaking it once before letting her retract it back into the safety of her lap, leaning on the top of his chair with crossed arms once again.

"I'm Steve, it's nice to meet you."

Of course, she already knows that, but isn't sure if admitting it would be awkward or a boost to his ego, and since neither one really sounded like a good option, so she opted for another weak nod of acknowledgment and a half-smile.

If her lack of response was odd to him, he did a good job of hiding it, face still as open and unfaltering as the moment he sat down.

"So, I admit, this is...odd. I'm sorry for disturbing your study session, I just haven't had a good chance to talk to you before or after class and I saw you while I was cutting through on my way to my friend's dorm so..." he trailed off with a soft huff of a laugh, eyebrows faintly pinching together with the slight tilt of his head.

He wanted to talk to me? She repeated to herself. He doesn't seem angry, so I probably didn't upset him unintentionally. Not that I would have had a chance to, I don't think I've ever even sat by him before.

There was a long string of questions that she'd like to unload on him but with the way his smile was starting to falter she decided to put them both out of their misery and settle for one to start.

Flipping the notebook laid out in front of her to a blank page she wrote as quickly as she dared, aiming for both speed and legibility, knowing from experience that her nerves can reduce her handwriting to chicken scratch if she wasn't careful.

Are you the person who has been following me?

She lifted the note for him to see, watching his eyes flick across the line before his eyebrows shot towards his hairline, wide eyes meeting hers as his hands rose to wave almost frantically in front of him.

"No!" He exclaimed, the sudden volume of his voice drawing a wince from the both of them as she glanced at the only two other students in the room, who had both paused to look over at their table.

Steve's head dipped in an apologetic nod in their direction before turning his attention back to her.

"No, I wasn't following you," he started, voice much quieter but not lacking any of the conviction of his initial outburst. "I promise, I really haven't been, I just—we have a class together, and we live in the same building. The campus is only so big, so I, uh, I see you around sometimes," he rubbed at the back of his neck, eyes dropping from hers briefly in a moment of sheepishness that was a stark difference from his usual self-assured bravado.

"Honestly I didn't think you would have noticed, and I'm really sorry, but my friends, they uh—" he continued on, his words beginning to come out in a rush of air— "when I mentioned wanting to talk to you they took it upon themselves to tell me if they saw you around. Trying to help me find an opportunity I guess. I would have made them stop sooner if I had known it was making you uncomfortable," he reassured quickly, taking note of her baffled expression.

All she could do was stare, eyes flittering around his face in an attempt to find a tell that he was lying. When she found none, she was honestly relieved, not just because he didn't seem to have any malicious intent, but also because she now had confirmation that she wasn't crazy.

Now that I know I'm not just paranoid, what is it you needed to talk to me about?

She flipped the notebook around once again, watching as he hesitantly turned his attention to it, his fear of a negative reaction clear as day across his face. It was endearing, really.

"I just wanted to—actually, if you don't mind me asking first, why are you writing your responses? I feel like I need to get my own pen out, breaking the quiet all on my own."

The question wasn't an unexpected one and she was frankly surprised it had taken him as long as it did to ask. That didn't stop the uncomfortable pang in her chest that usually came with that line of questioning. While it wasn’t necessarily uncommon for her to use a pen and paper to communicate, the select group of people that wanted to converse with her had more efficient ways.

I can’t speak. Most people don't know ASL, and I thought a text-to-speech app might be too awkward if you weren’t expecting it. Sorry.

And she was, really. While she knew it wasn't her fault, she also knew how tedious a transition process it could be for someone who had never held a conversation with her before to adjust to the pacing. Some people just weren't patient enough, or it made them feel awkward.

He read the note, and then reread it, and then read it once again. He gently worried at his bottom lip, releasing it as he opened his mouth, only to shut it once again as his lips pinched together.

He seemed to finally decide on what to say, straightening his shoulders a bit and clasping his hands together.

"So, you're...mute? Is that the correct term to use?" He asked , articulating his question slowly while watching her face.

She found the corners of her lips quirking up at his concern of possibly offending her. That alone was already more than she got out of similar exchanges.

I personally don’t mind it much, but it’s normally frowned upon. Non-speaking is your best bet.

She slid over the notebook, trying to gauge his reaction for a hint of how the rest of this conversation is going to go, if he didn’t simply excuse himself to avoid a situation that he most definitely did not predict or ask for.

And then felt like she would have tipped straight over from the way he beamed at her, if not for already being securely supported in her seat.

There has to be something wrong with him, she found herself thinking.

"Okay. I’m glad I didn’t offend you, thank you for telling me. I honestly don't know much about what to do to make this easier for you—" was he pouting now?— "would yes or no questions be better? I don't want to make you write a lot if you don't want to. Or...would you like me to leave?" By the time he reaches the end of his ramble, his nerves had obviously caught up to his mouth, head dipping and jerking his thumb in the general direction of the door leading to the outdoor walkway.

If anyone else had asked her that, she would have assumed it was asked as a chance for an out, a polite way to say, "I think it would be best if I left, are you going to let me?" But with the way he prefaced it so naturally with eager attempts at maintaining and extending their time together in a way that benefits her, she couldn’t find it in herself to immediately presume the worst.

In fact, the entire situation was so absolutely bizarre and random and Steve is staring at her with this disarmingly charming expression looking like he is about five seconds away from bolting for the door, and she just can’t help it.

She laughs.

~~~~~

She’s laughing.

Or at least that’s what he’s assuming, with the way her head tips back and the warm flush across the bridge of her nose spreads to her cheeks as she smiles. They’ve been in the same lecture and dorm for months and he’s not sure if he’s ever seen her face light up quite like that.

The sounds that push their way past her lips are short and clipped, raspy in a way that suggests disuse but warm enough to be melodic despite their discordant nature.

Just as suddenly as she started, she stops. Slapping a hand over her mouth, she snaps her head back down to look at him with wide eyes before quickly checking across the room where the last students had been sitting previously, shoulders slumping with obvious relief to find the seats empty.

For a moment he truly feels ashamed, because as wary as she seemed to be about the sound, he’s already dying to hear it again.

The hand that had been resting over her mouth moved to her brows, tilting down enough to hide her eyes from his view but not the harsh scarlett that was crawling across her visible skin, from the tips of her ears to the base of her throat. If he wasn’t feeling ashamed before, he certainly is when he has to cut off the burst of curiosity that cuts across his mind wondering how far the flush could go.

Shaking his head like it will physically remove the risqué thought, he reaches one hand forward to softly tap the table near her notebook.

“You okay under there? I’m not quite sure what I said, but there’s no one else in here but you and me.”

He feels like he’s done something very wrong and he’s not even sure where to begin to backtrack as he combs over his last statement.

She thinks you’re an idiot, you probably managed to offend her.

He really, really hopes that isn’t the case though, because he’s been trying to build up the courage to talk to her properly for months and while he’s become a bit better about socializing since he got back from the army, he’s still absolutely hopeless with women, something that Bucky likes to remind him of frequently.

The second Natasha found out why her attempts at getting him to go on blind dates were being shut down so quickly, she was absolutely ruthless in her ribbing, as harmless as it may have been.

Before he can fully consider standing to leave, she’s dropping her hand to her pen, meeting his eyes with a slight pull at the corner of her lips before leaning down to write.

Waiting for her to finish writing is the most nerve-wracking thing he can remember going through in recent memory, and the soft thump of his heel against the carpet is almost as fast as his heartbeat by the time the action even registers and he forces his leg to still.

Coming to a stop almost halfway down the page, her pen rests against the paper for a beat before she hastily caps it with a firm nod and pushes the notebook onto his half of the table.

This might be the most thorough rejection I’ve ever faced, he thinks sardonically, spinning the notebook around.

Then he reads the first line, and his head shoots up to look at her. He must look a bit ridiculous, if the growing smile on her face is anything to go by.

She gestures with a wave of her hand towards the notebook and he clears his throat with an awkward chuckle as he looks back down at the paper.

I would really like it if you didn’t leave. I’m sorry for laughing, but you’re just so nice I was surprised. I would be lying if I said I didn’t already know who you are, but I just didn’t expect you to be interested. This whole situation is very random but I think that’s the first time I’ve laughed out loud in a long time. I understand if you change your mind, or if I’m overstepping, but if it’s not too forward, I think I’d like to talk to you too. Maybe when it’s not the middle of the night.

~~~~~

As soon as she slid the notebook across the table she itched to grab it back. She nipped at the tip of her thumb between her teeth to fight the urge, pulling her other arm to curl around her stomach.

What if I misunderstood what he was trying to tell me? He seemed so nice but maybe he’ll regret it now that he’s actually been around me a bit. When was the last time you even went on a date? Oh god, he’s already reading it, maybe I—

“Are you busy tomorrow?”

She’s abruptly pulled out of her spiraling doubts so fast she gets mental whiplash, and she focuses back on him as she considers if she misheard.

He’s beaming at her again, the corner of his eyes crinkling and one side pulling on his cheek just slightly higher than the other, the same boyish charm from earlier peeking its way through. He tilted his head as he leaned in towards her, and the cage holding her butterflies was absolutely demolished, sending her heart fluttering at a pace that’s almost painful.

The question finally caught up to her at his expectant look, and with a shake of her head, he let out a satisfied hum and smacks the table lightly with both hands before reaching to grab the pen, scribbling down a hasty addition to the bottom of the page before putting both items back in her space.

Pushing himself to stand, he spun the chair back into its original position before addressing her.

“I’ll see you tomorrow (Y/N),” he said with a wink, walking backwards a few steps before turning and making his way out of the doors.

She stared at his retreating back with a small smile that only grew as she peered down at his note.

Steve

XXX - XXX- XXXX

Text me when you’re free, hopefully I’ll have enough time to learn to greet you properly next time.

[harleyhua-archive]

it’s elle again! took me longer than I thought it would, but i’m here with the bio of my second son, harley. he’s my newest oc; i’ve had him for about a year, but i didn’t get to rp much during that time. i’m fluent in asl, so harley has a special place in my heart. usually my gifs that include him signing won’t actually match the signs up to what he’s saying, but this one does. he’s signing ‘hello, my name is....’ so it felt like an appropriate intro post.

[ chella man, genderqueer trans man, 21, he/him ] did you see who just walked in? it was that JUNIOR, the ╳ + HARDWORKING AND  - DISORGANIZED ╳  one? you know, the one who lives at SONTHENA HALL, HARLEY HUA! i heard they are majoring in ART and they can’t wait to get out of here to BECOME AN ILLUSTRATOR.  crap! stop staring, here they come!

name. harley hua hometown. detroit, mi major. art (illustration) birthday. may 27th, 2000 gender. trans man, genderqueer orientation. pansexual religion. jewish languages. english, asl, some cantonese and french hobbies. cheerleading, drawing, comic books

[ BIO ] [ tw. gender dysphoria ]

harley was born hard of hearing, although it wasn’t discovered until he was six. his audiologist discouraged his parents from teaching him sign, saying he would stop talking and stunt his language skills, so he grew up using his hearing aid and filling in the gaps with lipreading.

his yearly hearing tests showed he was gradually going deaf. he kept getting stronger hearing aids and being able to catch less and less of what was happening around him. the expectation was that he would get better at reading lips, but that only got him so far (only 30% of the English language is visible on the mouth!)

he had been a social kid, but he slowly withdrew into art. there, he could create anything he wanted. he often drew superheroes, or just ‘regular’ civilians (usually men). for a few years, harley took a sketch book and at least three graphic pencils everywhere he went.

in middle school, harley was eligible for a cochlear implant. his parents urged for him to get implanted, but decided to let him make the decision himself. he found a way to compromise with them; he agreed to get the surgery, but in exchange his parents agreed to pay for him and his brother to take ASL classes.

once activated, the implant was an immediate change. the world sounded different through it than what harley remembered, but he could understand his teachers and classmates better than he had in a very long time. he was able to join in again, and went from the kid scribbling in a notebook alone to being very outgoing. once he was able to use an ASL interpreter in classes, his confidence and grades shot up.

in high school, harley was very popular. it didn’t take long for his friends to give him a makeover, convincing him to throw out his baggy tshirts and most of his jeans, in favor of more feminine pieces. mini skirts, heels and crop tops (at least, when he could sneak them past his parents). he grew out his short hair to better hide his cochlear implants, smiling and nodding when he couldn’t keep up in conversations instead of drawing attention to his deafness. for the first time in his life he fit in, and he didn’t want to remind people that he was different.

(tw: dysphoria) but something was different, and it wasn’t his cochlear implants or the fact he was one of the only asian kids at his predominately white high school. something about the way he looked bothered him. he would often stare at himself in the mirror, and he knew the girl staring back at him in the mirror was pretty, but he couldn’t connect with ‘her’. she felt like a completely different person, almost like a mask he wore despite not understanding why he ‘needed’ to wear it or why he felt so numb to his own body.

the huas weren’t really hurting for money, but sending two teenagers to college only a year apart would be tough for any family. harley didn’t want to put that kind of stress on his parents, so he focused on cheerleading scholarships. he toured suffolk because it has one of the best cheer programs in the country. it was a dream school, but he doubted they’d want him on their team, let alone offer him enough money that he could afford to attend. yet that’s exactly what happened, so harley accepted and moved to boston.

during his freshman year of college, he realized nobody cared what he looked like in college. many of his classmates showed up to lectures in their pajamas. he started experimenting with his clothes, trading out the feminine pieces he’d been wearing for the past four years and wearing the things he wanted to; androgynous and masculine pieces. at first he wasn’t so sure why it made him happy, he just knew it did.

(tw: dysphoria) harley had never paid much attention to the trans community. he certainly never thought of himself as trans or genderqueer. sure, he often felt like an alien stuck in someone else’s body, but he assumed that was normal - something every girl secretly felt. after joining his college’s gsa and meeting trans people for the first time and hearing their stories, it began to click. harley came out towards the end of his freshman year of college, and started transitioning a few months later. his parents didn’t try to stop him, but it’s clear they don’t understand. a small part of harley is bothered by this, but he doesn’t let it get him down. it took a long time for them to accept he was deaf, too, but they eventually came around. they’re just slow to accept changes. between that and their refusal to learn ASL, harley isn’t on the best of terms with them, but he doesn’t stop to let this get to him. 

overall harley is a very happy kid. he’s at his dream college, living his best life and preparing for the future he’s wanted since he was a kid

[ HEADCANONS ]

not wanting to take much money from his parents, harley works as a bartender three days a week at a popular bar near campus

if he’s not at work or in class, he’s either practicing cheer, working out at the student rec center, or at one of two coffee shops (one being the starbucks in his building, the other being an independent mom-and-pop cafe not far from campus)

he’s basically a jock villager from animal crossing. as stated before, he’s really into cheerleading. since getting his top surgery last summer he’s fallen in love with swimming. he also lifts weights and goes running a couple times a week with nadia.

harley is very busy, and his schedule is constantly fluctuating between working late nights and practices at any time of day. he’s pretty much always sleep deprived, and lives on an insane amount of coffee (he doesn’t like energy drinks).

harley’s preferred method of communication is asl. he uses interpreters in class and is involved with the deaf community in boston. but since most people on the squad only know a limited amount of sign, and other people he knows on campus don’t know the language at all, he often relies on the combination of his cochlear implant and lipreading to communicate. if he can’t hear with his cochlear implant (dead battery, too much background noise, etc) he won’t be able to understand enough by reading lips. but on the other hand, if he’s using his implant to communicate, watching the other person’s mouth helps him fill in the blanks.

[ WANTED CONNECTION ]

teammate // they do cheer together, so they spend a lot of time with each other

asl friends // harley prefers asl, so it would be great for him to have people to sign with!

regular customer // your character hangs out at the bar harley works at. conversely, they’re a bariste at one of the cafes harley is at multiple times a day

workout buddies // they lift weights together

rainbow family // in the queer community, they say you make your own family. harley doesn’t have a great relationship with his parents, and his brother is attending school on the west coast, so harley could use some lgbtq+ family in boston

comic book nerds // harley loves comic books. they were a major escape for him growing up and how he got into drawing in the first place. so maybe your character is also really into comic books, or they just share a passion for the mcu movies

[ FINAL NOTES ]

That’s all I got, but I’m open to almost anything with him. Looking forward to getting to explore him more here!

[the-barrens-are-ours]

Okay, but what about

An IT AU where Pennywise doesn’t exist, and all the Losers are child actors and meet each other on the set of a movie they’re staring in together

Richie is obviously the comedic star who was in a hit sitcom and has recently started doing movies

Bill tends to star in more dramatic movies, and since he learned ASL when he was younger to help communicate when his stutter got really bad, he’s also been in a few roles where he only signs

Bev’s a mix between being a horror star and some tough teen rebel in the movies she acts in

Eddie usually doesn’t star in big roles but has worked as a side or minor characters in many adult movies with big-name stars. He’s usually a pretty soft and funny boy in his roles, most commonly being the son of the star of whatever romantic comedy he’s in

Mike, being a total book nerd and lover, made his name as a child actor being the lead in a popular movie adaptation of a book series that he loved as a kid and totally killed acting in

Stan is known for being one of the main characters in a rather dark and seriously popular murder mystery series, which despite how it may seem, does not match who Stan is as a person at all. He’s rather silly and light heart, he’s just also really awkward and mature when talking to others so it leaves him with a warped public image

Ben’s stared in a few music videos and has had quite a few minor roles and appearances in very popular fantasy and sci-fi movies and tv shows. He loves playing geeky nerdy kids because it’s who he really is as a person

(Georgie hasn’t really had much in terms of an acting career, but since he was so in awe by his big brother’s acting abilities, he went to an acting camp and was the star of a small play that did surprisingly well)

Anyways

These seven stars all get hired on together to do this big summer blockbuster that’s expected to be a huge hit in box offices

They’ve never met each other before but have heard of one another

Ben’s a huge fan of practically everyone, and Richie, while not much of a fan exactly, is super pumped to meet everyone

Everyone also kinda figured Richie really acts up his hyperactive and comedic personality in his roles, but they were all taken back when they realized his on-stage persona is actually a toned down version of his real personality

One day when Bev gets annoyed by Richie’s non-stop talking during a shoot she turns and yells “BEEP BEEP, RICHIE” at him because she takes her acting very seriously and he’s way too distracting

Everyone’s silent because for once in his life, Richie is speechless and flustered

Then everyone bursts out laughing and all the kids start saying “Beep Beep, Richie,” when they need him to stop talking

Mike always brings gifts for the cast and crew

He always starts by doing simple things like flowers or small gift baskets or whatever but when he starts to get to know people better he makes them more personal

And he gets to know as many people as he can, editors, sounds guys, light dudes, caterers, everyone. Not just the director and co-stars, he wants to befriend as many people as possible

He also always remembers everyone’s birthday

Eddie’s B-day happened only like two weeks after they started working together and he was sure no one was going to do anything about his birthday but nope he was wrong

He shows up on set and there is a birthday banner and a cake and everything and Mike was 97% to blame for everything

They wrapped for the day early and had a party and it was a great time

Speaking of great times Bill and Stan always have a great time together

Even though their personalities don’t totally match, they’re both the more awkward and shy and quiet two so they both became close friends while they were busy being wallflowers

They have all sorts of in-jokes together and some of them concern other people

One day Bill arrived on set and saw Stan drinking a glass bottle of Coke and just goes “Don’t do it, Stan”

Stan just stares wide-eyed at Bill and breaks the Coke bottle and sprints away with Bill close after

No one understood what happened but it happened nevertheless

They also keep slipping in-jokes into their lines and the director is endlessly annoyed by it

He’s still not nearly as annoyed by them as he is by Richie who always makes faces during takes when the camera’s not on him and it makes everyone else laugh and ruins the scene

Ben is totally in awe of being able to work on a big huge movie set with all these big name people

At one point Ben was feeling insecure because he couldn’t get his scene just right and he said maybe he shouldn’t work on the movie because he’s just a nobody who shouldn’t be working with all these stars

His co-stars shut down that train of thought real fast because just because he wasn’t as well known a name didn’t make him any less of a good actor

In fact Ben is a FUCKING TERRIFIC ACTOR, he’s just never had the chance to really show it off

In one scene Ben is supposed to give off a dramatic speech in order to motive everyone into not giving up and he did such a wonderful job everyone was crying and no one gave their next line correctly

Richie was supposed to crack a joke but he was once again completely speechless

Even though it wasn’t exactly what they wanted the director still left it in the final cut of the movie as is. The emotions were very true and raw and that’s what you want

When they finally finish shooting the kids are all sad they won’t be able to work with each other anymore

But when they get reunited when the film's about to come out it’s the most joyous of times

Beverly’s literally crying from happiness when she gets to see her best friends again

Richie and Eddie try and act like they’re just mediocrely excited to see each other even though they’re both fucking ecstatic 

Everyone watches Bill and Stan reunite because it’s clear that they keep in very good contact with each other after shooting ended

They have a secret handshake that they did not have when they were last all together and it’s so well rehearsed it’s evident that they were together in person at some point

(They all also notice how they hold hands when they think no one’s looking)

The premiere of the movie was a smashing success 

Everyone loved it

Though at one point Eddie forgot that there was supposed to be a jump scared and he gets so freaked out by it he turns and grabs onto Richie who is sitting next to him

Richie was going to make a joke but he gets so flustered he can’t

Bev, who’s sitting on Richie’s other side, notices this and smirks at him

Richie kicks her foot

A few weeks after the movie comes out the kids are all told that they’re making a sequel and they’ll all be back together once again and they all couldn’t be happier