#like. the setup is right there

[imaginaldisc]

Thinkin about vampire Guillermo who doesn’t kill his victims and instead uses his baking skills to make snacks to give them on their way out like at a blood drive

[swiggity-swexual-i-am-asexual]

We all know the semi-canonical ‘all the Robins know to hide/duck inside of Batman’s cape, even as adults’ thing.

We also know that Danny ‘is LITERALLY a ghost’ Fenton sucks at remembering his own intangibility while ALSO forgetting to look ahead of him.

All I’m saying is, Danny Fenton (or Phantom, if you’d really like) would absolutely SLAM into Batman on accident while running on roof tops and Bruce ‘Brooding Instinct’ Wayne doesn’t even think twice about letting the kid hide and scanning around for danger before there’s a record scratch of ‘wait who tf is this?’ kicks in.

[martianbugsbunny]

BITCH they had a WHOLE LOTTA NERVE to SPECIFICALLY HAVE STEVE SAY "bro, it's hard to date when nobody has shared life experience with u"

......IN THE MOVIE WHERE THE GUY WITH SO MANY SHARED LIFE EXPERIENCES SHOWS THE FUCK BACK UP. THE GUY WHO LIVED IN 1940S NY WITH HIM. THE GUY WHO SERVED IN WW2 WITH HIM. THE GUY WHO GOT THE SUPERSOLDIER SERUM LIKE HE DID. THE GUY WHO MANAGED TO STILL BE ALIVE AND LIKE THIRTY IN THE 2000S JUST LIKE STEVE. WHAT WERE THEY THINKING. WHY WERE THEY SO STUPID

[akascow]

theres just smth about lawrence gordon the ONCOLOGIST (cancer doctor) trapped in a room with adam stanheight the SMOKER who literally says gimme that sweet sweet cancer in the movie

im losing my marbles brb

[noirrelite]

The many ways I've drawn Sierra's eyes since Feb 2022, in rough chronological order (oldest to newest)

[vaguely-concerned]

I'm obsessed with purple hawke's relationship to god. that scene when you side with the mages and talk to bethany, and she's finally reached the certainty that she is as the maker made her and that it must be good, she must be good, because the maker is good. and her older sibling is just standing there hollow-eyed and haunted like 'oh. I was just thinking that god is not only indifferent to human life and suffering but actively, deliberately cruel and malicious and that all of creation is nothing more than a stage stained with an eternity of blood and grief where we act out our tragedies and tear each other apart for His entertainment. actually. but maybe you're right. who's to say'

[budd-ie]

Actually what I love most about hualian is that by the time of "if you don't know what to live for then live for me" they had already had many meetings and moments together, and while that one moment may have solidified his resolve and his purpose, it may have never actually come to that point had xie lian not caught him from the wall, had he not saved him from qi rong, had he not told qi rong off and punished him, had he not stood up for him every time someone spoke against him, had he not held him so warmly, had he not talked to him so gently, had not reassured him so genuinely, had he not protected him time and time again, yknow? Ever since they met they kept meeting by chance and it might have even felt like Xie Lian was looking out for him specifically, even if it was just a coincidence and he would have done it for anyone else. Hong-er is crazy enough to do whatever he wants on a whim, but this wasn't like a split second decision Xie Lian was already like a lifeline to him at this point, and he took his chance and asked his question to a statue in a shrine he may have never cared about had they never met. He may not have really expected an answer and was just asking with a last desperate hope to find any reason to keep going on, but he got an answer from that one and only person in the world who he would ever trust. That trust was built stronger every single time they met and it all led up to that point. If hong-er had asked that question without the pretext of their previous meetings, would he still devote his life? Maybe, but it's not easy to say yes definitely. If it had been anyone else, would they also devote their life? That's also entirely possible, but it wasn't anybody else. It's three parts fate and seven parts courage, and again, Hong-er is crazy enough to do whatever he wants on a whim, so he chose life with the rest of his courage. In short, when we say their story is so specific to them, I really do believe that it could quite literally only happen to them specifically and no one else given their situation. If Xie Lian didn't have such a strong sense of justice and love of all people, if hong-er wasn't so desperate, reactive, or strong-willed, if either of them weren't just so damn stubborn, I honestly think none of these events could play out the same way and/or be as impactful on them. It really couldn't have been just any crown prince and any beggar kid, it could really have only been them.

[plusultraetc]

Fourteen Days of MHA | 7/14: First Impressions, Just One Bad Day

Shouta’s first impression of Yamada is that he’s loud.

He’d thought Shirakumo, who deposits their classmate in the seat across from him in the cafeteria and scurries away with a cry of Shouta, this is Hizashi, be friends! was bad, but Yamada’s YO! is loud enough that several people at nearby tables turn their heads to look.

“It’s Aizawa, right?” he says, still too loud, leaning across the table. At least he doesn’t assume familiarity just because Shirakumo introduced him by his given name. “I’m Yamada Hizashi. I’m in your class, but I sit waaay in the back, so you might not remember—”

Shouta does remember. Yamada has very distinctive hair, and Shouta had thought he was loud in the classroom, too. He might sit near the back, but their homeroom is definitely not big enough that he has to yell during attendance to be heard.

Yamada is undeterred by Shouta’s continuing silence as he launches into what, for all intents and purposes, is an opening monologue of relevant information. Every so often, he pauses like he’s waiting for Shouta to cut in, which of course he doesn’t, so Yamada forges ahead, gesturing with his chopsticks in hand but never quite managing to pause long enough to actually eat anything.

Shouta has to appreciate the logic of having an introductory speech prepared. Maybe he should do the same, so he doesn’t have to sit in awkward silence at times like this. At least times like this are few and far between.

You can only have so many first days of school in your life. One day he’ll graduate and never have to introduce himself to a new class again.

[shesmore-shoebill]

well. surprised and pleased(?) to report we've got some 2.6k words of fic written about the apple watch amangela thing hanging out in my notes (and then moved to gdoc bc i hit character count limit).

will be published once i figure out some more of the scene transitions and how to like. end it. (and have edited it at least once.) so. 👀

[dragonsongmakhali]

FFXIVSwap gift for @mythandral :>

I decided to use one of the themes, and went with 'Vacation'! I have sent Myth on a trip to Sharlayan so that he can take in the sights and discuss engineering triumphs and tribulations with like-minded folks. And maybe get a nap or two in, too :>

[banditblvd]

youidraw.com was lowkey a little disappointing

[yuesya]

I now have a Discord server! If you'd like to hop over and chat about zenith of stars, or just discuss fics in general with like-minded friends, please feel free to join. :D

LINK

(As mentioned before, I'm new to making a Discord server and what not, and very much still learning things as I go. Please bear with me as I continue to work out various kinks as they come up!)

[lookingforcactus]

Maybe this is a stretch driven by my hope for siuaraine, but I wonder if the final scene between Suian and Moiraine went the way it did because Suian thinks Moiraine might have turned to the dark

"You lied to me about being stilled."

My eyebrows shot up when I heard that line, bc that's a big deal accusation for an Aes Sedai. And parallels nicely with Alanna and co. accusing Lan of being a darkfriend last episode

Which I know some people hated, but the thing is, Lan and Moiraine have kind of been acting super sketchy, if you don't know the things we know

Like, from Siuan's pov: Lan shows up and tells her Moiraine has been stilled, which in MONTHS of letters, Moiraine never mentioned. Siuan is horrified that happened, has got to be terrified that Moiraine is going to kill herself, and is also lost and hurt and baffled that Moiraine would hide this from her

Like, that omission was a HUGE DEAL, relationship wise. Not a good move keeping something that important from your wife, especially when they were plotting together and it would be 100% reasonable and probably also a good move for Moiraine to turn to Siuan for help

And going back to Siuan's pov, she's dealing with ALL THAT, plus the Dragon, which is another thing she and Moiraine (seem to be?) at odds about

There's darkfriends in the Tower

Moiraine has been hiding something from her

Moiraine has been stilled

The town they're in is assaulted and set on fire

Someone has broken the Dragon out of the White Tower's custody

And when Siuan goes to try to, presumably, get him back, what happens?

She turns the corner and finds Moiraine, Lan, and Rand standing there, alone, in front of a waygate that MOIRAINE JUST OPENED

And I'm sure that normally, this wouldn't make Siuan worry about Moiraine's loyalties, but...she just found out the love of her life was stilled and then spent six months completely failing to tell her about it

Who wouldn't be shaken? Who wouldn't already be asking "If she hid something as big as THIS from me, what else could she be hiding?"

And then she shows up and Moiraine has just used the One Power to open a waygate

Earlier in the episode, when she finds out Moiraine has been stilled (well, close enough), what she says is something like "Six months of letters, and not a single word about that." The very common Aes Sedai route of lying by omission

When she shows up at the Waygate, she says "You lied to me about being stilled."

Siuan thinks Moiraine was able to break one of the oaths. Which Moiraine could only do if she'd sworn herself to the Dark.

And as Lan establishes, the idea of tying off a weave and leaving it in place is so not a thing anymore, it's barely even the stuff of legends. Why would Siuan think that's on the list of possibilities? Especially in such an overwhelming and emotionally fraught and literally things are on fire moment?

And all Moiraine says in response (in her defense there are a lot of things going on) is "I can't"

Which, yeah, Siuan knows that is (supposed to be) the case

And THEN, fucking Lanfear shows up, gets pretty easily talked into not killing Moiraine by Rand, and then Moiraine and Lan follow Lanfear and Rand through the waygate without a word

I think it would be 100% reasonable, actually, for Siuan to suspect that Moiraine is a darkfriend after all of that, and given what she knows

So much of Moiraine's life has been out of Siuan's view, for like 20 years now. So much could've happened

And now Moiraine is using the One Power even after she told everyone that she was stilled

Kind of a guilty look actually!!!

(If this is what they're doing though they definitely should've been more clear/explicit/developed with the setup, tho. But otherwise I think it's really interesting as a potential plot point!)

[wolfgirlfloof]

[simmysunset]

just thought i'd leave this here

thanks to this wonderful video, i learned how to get access to all of the sims 4 expansions totally legally. if you don't wanna go through all those steps, you might just be able to get them, too, if you follow this link...

instructions can be found in the video or in the tags. i will make my own video for my process in the future. when i do, i'll edit this post and link it here.

[astrobei]

bandaging/stitching up an injury with stonathan PLEASE i need more of them

The first thing Jonathan does when he sees him is let out a long, slow whistle.

“Jesus,” he mutters, crossing the living room in three quick steps. “What’s wrong with your face?”

“Got beat up by a racist piece of shit,” Steve mutters, leaning back against the sofa cushions and holding a bag of frozen peas to his face. Ow. “But don’t tell anyone. It can’t be good for my street cred.”

Steve’s got his eyes mostly closed, still, but he sees Jonathan’s face do a funny twitching thing, like he was about to laugh. “What street cred,” Jonathan says, and he doesn’t laugh, exactly, but Steve hears one in his voice anyway. “Your street cred died out a long time ago.”

“Yeah, okay, very funny. Chuff it up, Byers,” Steve grumbles, adjusting the bag of peas and trying to find another cold spot. It’s mostly room temperature now, sloshing around wetly with each movement, which is more disgusting than anything else. Steve lets out a frustrated noise. “Great. And now my peas are warm.”

“I’ll get you another bag,” Jonathan says, because right, this is his house, and Steve is getting blood all over his couch like the world’s actual worst houseguest. If his parents saw his appalling lack of manners, there would be some words to be said.

Well maybe about the bloody face first. And then the manners.

Maybe.

Jonathan opens the freezer door and stops dead in his tracks. “Steve?”

“Mm?”

“Why is there a– Jesus, I don’t even know what this is, and I’m a little afraid to ask– why is there a thing in my fridge?”

Ah. Right. 

“Listen,” Steve starts apologetically. “Henderson was just shooting me these giant puppy eyes and going on and on about scientific discovery or some shit and honestly I didn’t really want to have to deal with taking it outside. Like, what do you even do with the bodies? Burn ‘em? Bury ‘em? Ritual sacrifice?”

Jonathan peers at him over the refrigerator door, and blinks. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Ritual sacrifice,” Steve says again, waving a noncommittal hand in the air. “You know. You’re always listening to those broody, scary guys with the weird hair and the– uh, the guitars. You know.”

“I think you’re concussed,” Jonathan says simply, pulling a face as he presumably reaches around the Demodog’s body for the peas. “Did you hit your head?”

“I hit a lot of things,” Steve laughs, which is maybe answering Jonathan’s question.

“You ruined the good quilt,” Jonathan frowns, letting the door fall shut. “You owe me a new one.”

Steve extends his arm as Jonathan walks back, pressing the new bag to his face with a relieved sigh as he says, “Sure, yeah, come over to mine and take your pick. My aunt just took up quilting actually.”

Jonathan peers down at him. He’s still standing up, hovering, somehow managing to look uncomfortable in the middle of his own living room. “Did she really?”

“No idea,” Steve admits. “Haven’t heard from her since last December. I think she got cancer and died.”

“Steve,” Jonathan laughs, a little shocked, “that’s morbid,” and, okay, maybe Steve is a little concussed after all.

“Whatever,” he says, then pats the sofa next to him. “Sit down, man, it’s your house.”

Jonathan sits. Steve tilts his head back, presses the peas to the bruise he knows is blossoming a dark and vibrant purple around his eye. Jonathan’s watching him, silently observant like he always is. It should be unsettling. It used to be unsettling, back before Steve exchanged a proper, actual sentence with him. Now it’s kind of comforting, knowing that he doesn’t need to fill up the silence with meaningless blabbering.

Doesn’t mean he won’t do it anyway.

“You look like shit,” he blurts out, eyeing the way Jonathan’s shirt has gone all streaked with dirt and is still a little patchy with sweat. His hair is sticking to his forehead, and he looks like he’s been up for three days straight, but he still seems more awake than Steve is feeling. Alert. The usual slouchiness to his posture is gone, replaced by something less, uh, tortured. A little calmer, maybe. “How much do you sweat?”

“Well, we had to sweat the Mind Flayer out of Will,” Jonathan says casually, like he’s recounting a Saturday afternoon out on the town. “And we cranked the heat up to, like, a hundred thirty or something so yeah, I’m a little sweaty.”

Steve stares. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“So he’s– he’s okay then? Where is he?”

Jonathan plucks at a stray thread sticking out of the couch. It’s old upholstery, and Steve can see a smattering of old, faded stains across the cushions, but it’s soft and worn and comfortable, and nothing like the ones in Steve’s own living room. “Well, Owens is hurt so he had to call someone in and it’s a whole mess that basically means the fewer people the better for tonight.”

Steve isn't really sure who Owens is, and he can't really discern from Jonathan’s tone whether or not he’s supposed to be happy about this guy being unexpectedly incapacitated. “Ah,” he says anyway. “Is he okay?”

“Yes?” Jonathan offers. Steve watches him out of the corner of his eye. He fiddles with his thumbs. Steve wants to reach out and grab his hands, just to still them, calm him down. “I can go first thing in the morning, it’s just– Hopper has some pull and my mom is– well, she’s our mom, and– I don’t know, okay, I just look at him and I see this thing that had its hands around my mom’s throat and I think to myself, hey, that’s my little brother. You know?”

Steve feels a little blown away. A little– flabbergasted, maybe. He’s not sure he’s heard Jonathan Byers say this much at one time in his entire life, and as it is, he stops talking suddenly, biting down on his lower lip like he had more to say but just isn’t.

“Yeah,” Steve croaks, even though he doesn’t know. He’s an only child and he’s spent most of his childhood alone and he guesses he has the Henderson kid now, but that’s not the same. Jonathan and Will– they’re something else. He isn’t really sure what to say other than that, so he just reaches out, places a hand on Jonathan’s knee, and squeezes. Like maybe this can say something he can’t. “I’m sorry. He’ll be okay. He’s a tough kid.”

Jonathan looks down at Steve’s hand on his knee and then back up, meeting his gaze. Something flits across his face, lightning fast and then it’s gone. “Thanks,” he says, a little quieter than before. 

Steve wonders if maybe he should move his hand, but Jonathan doesn’t seem to be all that bothered by it and Steve thinks, privately, that he likes the steady weight of him under his palm. Heavy and solid. Strangely anchoring. Maybe it’s the possible concussion talking. Maybe it’s not.

“Yeah,” Steve whispers.

A moment passes like this. The house is quiet. Everyone else has gone home, to the hospital, wherever they have to go, and Steve is here because he’d taken Dustin home and then thought about his own house– dark and empty and wholly more terrifying than any of the monsters or the blood or the douchebag assholes in open-front shirts and mullets– and he’d ended up here.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Jonathan says after a second. “You’ve got– it’s a lot of dried blood.”

“Sorry about the couch,” Steve says pathetically, as if he hadn’t been getting his messed up face all over it for the last thirty minutes. “You can get the blood out of it, I think.”

Jonathan is digging something out from under the sink– a first aid kit that looks like it’s been sitting there since the first World War. “Believe me,” he says. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Steve lifts the bag of peas off his face. This one’s starting to go warm too, and he blinks blearily in the living room light as he peels his particularly sore eye open. “Be honest with me, Byers,” he calls out after Jonathan as he ducks into the bathroom, then pops back out a second later with a clean washcloth in hand. “How many murders have you committed in this house?”

Jonathan laughs at that, sudden and sharp, and then he makes a face like he’s surprised with himself for doing it. It’s unexpected, the sound, and it’s even more unexpected the way something swoops low in Steve’s chest. Like it’s some kind of victory, making Jonathan want to laugh so badly that he surprised himself by doing it, like he really just couldn’t help himself. “Zero,” he says, making his way back to the sofa. “So far. Here– come here.”

Steve isn’t really sure where here is, because then Jonathan is sitting down next to him and their knees are touching and there’s not really anywhere he can go that isn’t already as close as he can physically get to him. So he just leans his head in a little, turns his face up towards the light. “Good?”

“Shit.” Jonathan makes a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat. He cups a hand around Steve’s jaw, tilting his face a little to the right. “He got you good, huh?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Steve mutters, and Jonathan lets out another one of those sudden, quick laughs. Steve bites back a smile. Good, he thinks, a little absently. Good.

“I see what you mean about the street cred,” Jonathan murmurs. “Nice bandaids, by the way.”

“Courtesy of your brother’s idiot friends,” Steve sighs, and then winces as the cloth makes contact with a cut on his cheek. “Shit. Ow.”

“It’s a little one,” Jonathan smirks. “How is it that you can’t deal with a little–”

“It’s the fucking rings,” Steve bemoans, this time focusing very hard on keeping his face neutral as Jonathan dabs the dried blood away. “What kind of asshole wears that many rings on one hand?”

“The kind of asshole that goes around punching people?” Jonathan offers, and Steve rolls his eyes.

“Very funny.”

“I don’t know,” Jonathan continues, ducking his head down and finding a clean spot on the towel. There’s a smile playing on his lips, even if he thinks Steve can’t see him. “I’m pretty sure I remember doing some damage even without any rings on.”

“Congratulations,” Steve says drily, “you’re better than the guy who rubs himself down with body oil before leaving the house.”

Jonathan laughs at this, a real, loud laugh, and Steve thinks, for a fleeting second, that he might like this laugh even better than the other one. “I should hope so,” Jonathan is saying, and then he’s leaning in again and dabbing at Steve’s forehead. “That doesn’t seem like a very high bar.”

“You should do that more,” Steve murmurs, watching Jonathan’s mouth twitch in concentration. 

Jonathan frowns, then glances down, meeting Steve’s gaze. “Do what?”

“Laugh,” Steve says, the single syllable halfway out of his mouth before he has any inclination to, oh, I don’t know, maybe not say that? He’s thinking about the way Jonathan had lit up for a moment there, the way the weariness he always seems to carry around him sloughed off his shoulders, even if for just a second. What comes out of his mouth though, instead of any halfway eloquent manner of saying this, is, “It makes your face look nice.”

Maybe he is concussed. In a very real, serious way, maybe Steve Harrington is currently suffering from a grade-A concussion.

Jonathan looks a little bit horrified, but mostly kind of confused. He shakes his head. “It makes my– okay, you definitely have a concussion,” he says at last, which, yeah, Steve had been coming to this conclusion himself, actually. “So try not to get any major brain damage before we can get you checked out, yeah?”

“I’m trying,” Steve says, and then, “ow, dude, you can be a little more gentle, you know.”

“Sorry,” and Jonathan does sound a bit apologetic as he says this. He’s got one hand still cupped under Steve’s chin, fingers resting lightly against his jaw.

Steady hands, Steve thinks, closing his eyes as Jonathan wipes over them. Steady hands. A more gentle touch than he would have expected from someone so rough-looking. All broad shoulders and frown lines and a piercing kind of stare. “It’s just not coming off too easy.”

“Yeah, it’s dried down,” Steve says, “it’s been a few hours.”

Jonathan hums in acknowledgement and turns Steve’s face towards the light some more. “You should have cleaned it up before,” he says softly. “Your face is all swollen.”

“I told him not to hit the moneymaker,” Steve says in a deadpan. “He didn’t listen.”

Jonathan shoots him an exasperated glare, then hands him the squishy bag of peas again as he digs around in his ancient first aid kit. “Ice.”

“No, those are peas,” Steve says without thinking, and then Jonathan groans and drops his head into both hands.

“When my mom gets back with the car, you’re going to the hospital.”

“I’m fine,” Steve grins, placing the peas back over his eyes. “Seriously. My dad always said I had a thick skull.”

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment,” Jonathan says. He pulls out a tube of ointment, something thick and pasty, and beckons Steve forward again. “Come here.”

The ointment smells about as bad as it looks, and Steve pulls a face. “Dude,” he crinkles up his nose, “what the hell is that?”

“It’s gross but it works,” Jonathan says, frowning in concentration. He smears a thin layer of it over the cut on Steve’s forehead, all cleaned up now that the blood’s washed away. “Trust me.”

“Trust–”

The tube is almost empty. Steve swallows lightly and looks away.

It feels like he’s intruding on something, having Jonathan be so close to him. Being close enough to see the little spots where he’d nicked himself shaving, or how his hair is streaked through with a little blonde, the kind you can’t tell apart from ordinary brown until you’re really, really up close and personal. Which Steve– totally is. Oh, okay.

Steve swallows again, and closes his eyes.

“One down,” Jonathan murmurs, making his way over to a cut on Steve’s temple, “ninety nine to go.”

“He didn’t land that many hits,�� Steve whispers, eyes still squeezed tightly shut. “Give me some credit.”

“Mike says you got him really good once,” Jonathan says, “so maybe there’s hope for you after all.”

It sounds like he’s smiling a little. Steve is tempted– so tempted– to open his eyes, just to see that.

He doesn’t. 

“You just got lucky, Byers,” he says instead. “You caught me off guard.”

“And then I caught you off guard again. And again, and again,” Jonathan says, and he’s definitely smiling now. “Two down.”

Steve lets out a long, slow exhale. “At this rate, I’ll have graduated by the time you’re done.”

“You should be thanking me,” Jonathan huffs, but it doesn’t sound malicious at all. He strokes a thumb over Steve’s cheekbone, and Steve fights back a shiver.

“Thank you,” he says, as genuinely as he can muster, then opens his eyes. Jonathan is staring straight at him, eyes a little wide, cheeks a little red. Steve grabs his wrist, the one that’s right up by his face, and says, “That’s– I’m being serious, by the way. I’m not trying to fuck with you.”

“Sure,” Jonathan gets out. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry I made you hit me,” Steve goes on, and if he has a concussion after all, he can blame whatever he’s saying on that. And he must be, because it’s getting hard to think in a straight line, and every train of thought just keeps circling back around to this. Warm fingertips moving over his face. So gently, like Steve is– like he’s something delicate. Something to be handled with care.

“I– it’s okay.”

Jonathan doesn’t blink. It should be more unnerving than it is. He’s got pretty eyes, Steve thinks, from a little bit out of his body. They’ve got some green in them. A little gold, too.

“I was an ass,” Steve says, and Jonathan’s eyes dart between his. Trying to see, maybe, if Steve is trying to fuck with him. If there’s a punchline at the end of this, somewhere, and whether or not that punchline is him.

Whatever he’s searching for, he must not find it, because he sighs and says, “I know.”

“You–! Okay,” Steve mutters. “Low blow, but I guess I’m the one apologizing here, so I should be able to take it and not expect a–”

“I’m not mad,” Jonathan interrupts, and then moves down to Steve’s jaw. He hadn’t even known he got hurt there, but because he’s him, of course he did. “That’s five.”

Steve blinks. “You’re not?”

“We’re different people now.” Jonathan shrugs, dips a finger through the ointment and smears it across the skin there. The smell of something strong and medicinal hits Steve head-on, and he wrinkles up his nose. “You, me. You’re not a total piece of work, and I’m not a–”

“Brooding loser,” Steve cuts in, and Jonathan gives him a look.

“I was going to say guy whose brother went missing,” Jonathan says, and then he rubs the pad of his finger over a particularly tender spot– a deep part of the cut underlaid with a bruise Steve doesn’t even have to see to know is there– and Steve lets out a startled hiss of pain.

“Ah–”

“Sorry!” And he really does sound sorry, and Steve figures they’d just been having a nice little talk so it wasn’t, like, mean or an act of petty revenge or anything. “Shit, yeah, let’s get you a bandaid for that one.”

“No Star Wars?” Steve jokes, as Jonathan comes up with– thank god– a plain beige one.

Jonathan squints at him, peeling the paper backing off. “Have you ever seen Star Wars?”

“Not once,” Steve admits. “No one I know is into that sort of thing.”

“You know me,” Jonathan says easily, running a finger over the bandaid and then pausing. “I mean–”

“Whoa,” Steve laughs. He tries to go for casual, for good-natured, but it comes out a little too overeager, stilted. “Are you asking me out, Byers?”

Jonathan blanches. “I– no.”

Belatedly, Steve realizes that this joke might have been marginally more funny if it came from anyone but him. “I didn’t mean–”

“I know what you meant.” Jonathan traces his thumb over to the last cut, sideways across Steve’s upper lip. “And you didn’t mean it like that.”

Steve shifts uncomfortably. “Hey, man, look–”

“You can probably deal with this last one on your own,” Jonathan says, but doesn’t move his hand away. “Your lip is busted, but it’s not too bad.”

“Okay,” Steve whispers. He doesn’t move either. “Thanks for patching me up.”

“Thanks for being there today,” Jonathan says back. “I saw you with the kids. You’re good with them.”

Steve huffs out a small laugh, and it gets caught there, somewhere along the line between Jonathan’s thumb and wrist, still snagged onto the curve of his upper lip. “Oh that? It was nothing.”

Jonathan shakes his head. It’s minute, barely noticeable. “They look up to you. Dustin, especially. It’s sweet.”

“Yeah, well, someone had to step up. Not everyone can have a–”

Jonathan raises his eyebrows. “A what?”

You, Steve thinks, heart picking up pace suddenly. Not everyone can have you. 

“They can’t all have–”

The word you never makes it out of his mouth, because then Jonathan is kissing him.

Steve gasps, because he has an open fucking wound on his lip and this is probably a thousand different kinds of unhygienic and an excellent way to spread another thousand different kinds of germs. And then Jonathan’s hands cup either side of his face and he’s pressing in so hard that it can’t be fueled by anything other than instinct and desperation, and then all thoughts regarding germs and sanitation and wow I’m glad he washed his hands before getting all up in my busted face fly right out of Steve’s head.

He’s warm, is the first thing Steve notices. The second and third are, in order, that he’s very broad and he’s very solid. It’s nothing like kissing a girl. There’s no give to him, no softness to the rigid muscles of his arms that Steve had no idea even existed. He’s gripping onto Jonathan’s forearms, apparently, which he doesn’t remember doing but he can’t find the state of mind to do literally anything else.

Jonathan’s arms are solid and rough and the muscles flex gently under Steve’s palms. He’s so solid, anchoring, and he’s holding Steve’s face like that again– like Steve is a delicate thing. Something that needs to be handled with a ginger touch, with appreciation, with trace amounts of tenderness.

Jonathan’s lips press into his once, then twice, like he just couldn’t help himself, and Steve makes what is maybe the most embarrassing noise he’s made in his life to date. This is good, he thinks. And he knows good. He’s Steve Harrington, okay, he basically invented it. But where the hell did Jonathan Byers learn how to kiss?

“Okay,” Steve hears himself say the second Jonathan pulls back. “What was–”

“Don’t freak out,” Jonathan says, sounding like he’s on the verge of freaking out himself. “Please don’t freak out. I need you to not freak out.”

“Who, me?” If Steve’s voice cracks, just a little, neither of them say anything. “I would never. Never ever ever ever– um. So why did you– not that I’m– yeah.”

“Like I said,” Jonathan says, “we’re different people now,” and he looks nowhere near as totally and completely thrown for a loop as Steve feels at the moment. His ears are bright red, though, and there’s a light dusting of pink across the tops of his cheekbones, and it feels like another victory, getting Jonathan Byers to blush. 

“Cool,” Steve says faintly. His lip is throbbing, and he brings a hand up to his mouth and pulls it away to see red on his fingers. “Ah, great,” he winces. “Look what you did, man. You fucked my lip up again.”