#going around the house like ’’ik there’s one loose in this one drawer and one in the backpack’s pocket and the third in the bookshelf’’

[why-the-heck-not]

The organized chaos of knowing the exact three separate locations of the three bobby pins u have left, all of them in discarded randomly and none of them in the bathroom where they belong

[noxexistant]

Can I have wholesome thoughts?

Ikeshot thoughts maybe?

[smooches u on the forehead]

hotshot is the definition of a night owl. it’s just when he operates best, so most of the ‘dates’ he and ike spend together are at night, going wherever hotshot wants to that particular night - ike loves to follow him, loves to just be taken by the wrist and led somewhere, some special spot in brooklyn that ike’d never be able to see by himself. hotshot likes the harbour and piers best, likes to take ike to just sit on a ledge and stare out at the water together, admire the soft glow of streetlights shoulder-to-shoulder with their legs swaying and dangling, occasionally kicking each other gently. ike won’t go in the water, but hotshot’ll sometimes strip down to his drawers and dive in, and ike’ll watch him. let hotshot settle against his shoulder when he comes out even though he smells like a wet dog and is soaked to the bone. if it’s cold, once he’s made hotshot get dressed again, he’ll strip his own shirt off and wrap it around hotshot over his stupid sleeveless undershirt, and hold him close even though hotshot insists he’s absolutely not shivering. (he is.)

hotshot picks flowers and pretty plants for ike, collects leaves that are nice colours and shapes to give to him. ike presses them to keep, in the little journal he keeps by his bunk. he makes things for hotshot in turn, folds him little origami pieces out of paper scraps based on what he can remember his papai teaching him from what people taught him before he came to the us. he doesn’t know what it’s actually called, hotshot calls it ike’s paper magic - hotshot and mike are both equally enthusiastic about it, and each have their own collections of little folded gifts.

they stay out together until ike can’t stay awake anymore, late late into the night. he starts slurring into portuguese when he’s exceptionally tired, fully aware that he won’t be understood but unable to keep up with properly translating his thoughts, frustrated with words that just aren’t right in english. it amuses hotshot to no end, he loves hearing ike speak his mother tongue, loves listening when he and mike are talking between themselves, a chaotic mixture of portuguese and english and their made-up twin language. he never asks to know what it means, is content with not understanding, doesn’t want to steal anything from mike. but ike’ll translate things sometimes, when they head back to the brooklyn boys’ lodging house together when ike can hardly keep his eyes open. he’ll be lay scratching his fingers though hotshot’s hair as they’re both approaching sleep and mumble clarification that what he just called hotshot means “beloved”, or “handsome”, or “i d’know, but my mamãe use’ t’call papai that one”. he gets loose-lipped when he’s sleepy, talkative. hotshot loves it.

hotshot sleeps on top of ike, face tucked against ike’s neck, arms wrapped around ike’s waist. he snores a little, but ike doesn’t mind, just the same as hotshot doesn’t mind how twitchy ike is in his sleep. (hotshot is basically simulating a weighed blanket/deep pressure therapy on top of ike. it’s part of why ike sleeps so damn well when he’s got hotshot there with him, settles in a way he never can otherwise.)

hotshot loves ike’s stimming, and loves it most of all when ike doesn’t even realise he’s doing it. when he’s talking animatedly - the way he onto really does with hotshot - and starts rocking slightly in his happiness or excitement, or he’s rubbing his thumb back and forth over the scar on hotshot’s first knuckle, or smoothing hotshot’s hair between his fingers in it’s uneven little curls. hotshot stims a lot too - he’s got adhd - but they tend to be louder and more obvious, bouncing and being energetic and banging his palms against surfaces. rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. he likes to drag ike up to join in with him, grinning and laughing as he dances ike around and shakes their joined hands and talks rapid-fire about anything that’s on his mind.

hotshot sleeps a lot more than ike does. he tends to fall asleep whenever they settle somewhere together. ike likes to just hold him like that, and he enjoys the peace and safety of those moments. he likes having hotshot in his arms to protect. hotshot insists that it’s his job to protect ike, but it’s equal. they’ve got each others backs. they’ve got each other.

[godforbidwomenhavehobbies]

grenade

Pairing (s): Steve Harrington x Jonathan Byers, Will Byers x Mike Wheeler (mentioned) 

Warnings: Self-hate,Self-harm, eating disorders, anorexia, gay love i guess

Word Count:

Part 1/1

(The demogorgan never existed btw, El still exists, she’s just Will’s sister, Jonathan and Nancy are friends because Will and Mike are dating cute ik) 

a/n this is modern!stonathan thx

Jonathan Byers enjoyed taking pictures. Anyone who had ever seen him in public or really anywhere could tell you that, due to the fact of him literally always having his camera around his neck. Jonathan took pictures of lots of things. The small lake near his house, his siblings, his records, the sky, you name it, Jonathan took pictures of it. His favorite thing to take pictures of, however, was himself. Not in the mirror, or posing for pictures with his little brother and hoping that they were both in the frame, no. Jonathan took pictures of his tiny, bony wrists, and his hipbones sticking through the band of his boxers. He took pictures of his small hands reaching towards flowers, and of his fingers triggering a lighter. Jonathan displayed most of the pictures he took of things like Will and Mike around his room, most of his walls filled with the black and white shots, but the pictures of himself he kept secret. They were stuck in a pale blue folder, which was hidden under a stack of old essays in a drawer in his desk. The last thing he needed was someone like his mother or Will or Eleven to see them, draw the connections between how skinny he was and how little he actually seemed to eat, and the hateful, tear splashed messages written on the back of the pictures and realize that something was wrong, very wrong. The only picture of himself that he had out in the open was one that Will had taken of him, where he was mid-laugh, sitting on a blanket on the 4th of July, fireworks in the sky. His cheekbones looked sharp as knives, and you could clearly see his collarbones. It was the only picture of himself that he liked.

Steve Harrington longed to one day be the subject of a Jonathan Byers photograph. He watched the shorter boy take pictures of Nancy striking a ridiculous pose against a wall after school one day, both of them gathering around Jonathan’s phone and laughing obnoxiously at the results.He watched Jonathan take pictures of his hands when he thought nobody was watching, not that Steve ever got close enough to see what was so interesting about them. Sometimes he stuck his head into the darkroom that the school reluctantly set up for the photography department, citing a need for “authenticity” or whatever, that Jonathan used after school sometimes to develop his pictures. Jonathan was only in there one out of sixteen times he looked, and it was awkward because Steve looked at the picture of Nancy in bed for too long and Jonathan smirked at him. They never spoke a single word to each other until Tommy texted him in Trigonometry and informed him that “we’re messing with the fag, byers, today after school. we gotta make sure he’s not taking any pictures he’s not supposed to”. Steve agreed, because if he was there, he could control the situation and make sure nobody went too far. 

Jonathan exited the building from the West doors, headphones secure in his ears, blasting Wet’s “Don’t Wanna Be Your Girl”, and keeping a close grip on his bag, which contained twelve pictures that would immediately be going into the blue folder, two pictures of Mike and Will giggling and blowing bubbles, a picture of El sticking her tongue out at the camera, and a picture of the four boys and El playing Dungeons and Dragons in the Wheeler’s basement. That was one of his favorites he had ever taken. Mike’s face was partially covered by the big book, but you could see his shining eyes and quirked up nose. Eleven was smiling widely at a joke Dustin had told. Will was making his little puppy dog eyes at Mike. Dustin and Lucas were laughing obnoxiously at Dustin’s joke with cokes in their hands. After he had taken it, Lucas dropped his pop on the carpet, and Mike had leaned over the table to peck Will on the lips, causing El to wrinkle her nose in mock disgust and Dustin to pretend to gag. Nancy and Jonathan were babysitting them that night, and the kids had all fallen asleep on the living room floor just after 2 AM, Mike and Will holding hands loosely, Dustin and Lucas each curled up to a bag of candy, and Eleven still holding her figurine from the game. 

He was met at his car by the three people he detested most in life. Well, the two people he detested most and Steve Harrington, who he couldn’t really figure out. Whenever Steve was alone, he was kind, almost friendly to Jonathan, but when he was joined by Tommy and Carol, he became cruel and vicious for no reason other than to impress his stupid friends. Tommy smiled at him unkindly and stuck an arm out to stop him as he tried to move past them to get into his car.

“Hello, fairy boy. Just curious, what exactly do you take pictures of all the damn time? Because it’s kinda creepy, and weird.” Tommy narrowed his eyes and took a step closer to Jonathan

“I-I-I don’t take pictures of anything except my-my friends and the sky and stuff.” Jonathan stuttered out, looking down, wishing Nancy was here to help him, but Nancy had left school early for a dentist appointment, Jonathan was alone.

“Bullshit. Stacy, you know Stacy? Stacy Miso? She walked into the dark room the other day and saw some weird pictures of Nancy Wheeler that you were hanging up. Pictures of her asleep.”

“No, Nancy and I are friends, I-I-I was staying at her house, we were watching the kids together.” Jonathan blushed, he had given those pictures to Nancy already, she loved it when he took candid pictures of her where she “actually looked pretty”, in her words.

“Save it, freak. If you take creepy pictures of Nancy while she’s sleeping, I wonder what you take of other girls at school?” Carol giggled at this, but a glare from Steve shut her up. He still hadn’t said a word. 

“Tommy, I don’t take pictures of anyone without their permission except for my friends and my brother and sister, so please, leave me alone.” Jonathan tried to shoulder his way past Tommy, who in turn yanked Jonathan’s messenger bag off his shoulder and tossed it to Steve.

Steve silently opened the bag and pulled out the sixteen photos Jonathan had developed that afternoon. This was it. Everyone was gonna know now. Those twelve photos were some of the best he had taken of himself. There was even a particular damning one of him holding a lighter and burning his bony wrist with it. (He used self-timer, which was pathetic enough as it was.) He closed his eyes and waited for the confused questions that would come first, and then the laughter that was sure to come and then oh god they would tell everyone and Nancy would ask Mike what was going on and Mike would ask Will and Will and Eleven would tell their mother and his life was over he might as well just end it now- and then he heard Steve speak.

“Guys, go home.”

Wait, what?

Evidently, Tommy thought the same thing, because when Jonathan opened his eyes tentatively, Carol and Tommy were no longer looking at him. They were looking at Steve. 

“I said ‘go home’. I can handle this.”

“What are you playing at here, Harrington?” Tommy ground his teeth, speaking under his breath to Steve.

“I’m not playing at anything. There are no pictures of anyone you know in here, unless you make a habit of knowing dorky middle schoolers. So go home. I can take it from here.”

“Whatever, Steve. You’re fucking weird, man.”

Tommy shook his head and grabbed Carol’s hand, leading her away from the two boys standing by Jonathan’s car.

“So you’ve said, Tommy.”

Tommy and Carol get into Tommy’s Mercedes and speed out of the parking lot.

“Thanks.” Jonathan moved to grab the pictures and his bag from Steve’s grip, but he merely moved them out of his reach.

“Don’t thank me. Explain. What the fuck is this?”

“What’s what?”

“Don’t play dumb, Byers. What the hell is this? Why are you taking pictures of some skinny ass wrists and shit?” Jonathan blushed and shuffled his feet at that statement.

“‘M not skinny.” He mumbled to the ground.

“What?” Steve narrowed his eyes at this, hoping he had heard wrong.

“I said, I’m not skinny.” Jonathan looked at Steve while he said this, hoping he would just drop it.

“This- This is you?” Steve looked as though he had a bad taste in his mouth, and he kept staring at the picture on top of the pile.

“Well, yeah.”

“Wanna explain to me why the fuck you’re so skinny? And why the hell you’re burning yourself in this picture?”

“I just told you, I’m not skinny. And I don’t have to explain anything to you, Harrington.” Jonathan reached for his stuff, and this time Steve relented, passing it off to him as thought it meant nothing.

“Let it go, Steve. I mean it.”

Jonathan gets in his car and drives away, watching Steve in the rearview mirror, hoping to God he doesn’t mention anything.

Hey ok so let me know if you want a part 2 to this! I hope you enjoyed it!