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what's going on in the congo since there's also a genocide happening over there as well:

to sum it up, people in the congo are literally being worked as slaves to mine for this material called coltan, which is very valuable as its used for things like phones, laptops, just electronics in general. Congo is the number 1 producer for this material and the places behind this genocide is America, Britain, France, and Israel, wow what an absolute shocker. The worst places probably to ever exist benefit from a genocide. These places are funding Rwanda and Uganda military groups, to go into the Congo and kill MILLIONS of people. This has also been going on for YEARS. Many women have been SA'd and men are forced to work in INHUMAN conditions, resulting in their death and the colonizers are absolutely benefitting from this. 6 MILLION people have been killed and half of them are literally kids. Many of the Congolese people have also been displaced.

Please speak out about and raise your voice

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This blog is a safe space for black women 🤎

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ZOMBIE AU YES steve and you but reluctant allies - forced to travel together and when you get stuck in a tight spot, you fully believe he's going to leave you behind. but steve does what he does best, he comes back

tysm for ur request! reluctant friends to lovers arc starts now. tw for zombie typical gore, violence + apocalypse struggles (near enoigh starvation, weight loss, isolation) this got longer than it was meant to

It's not that you don't like Steve. Though maybe that's what he thinks. He doesn't seem to like you all that much.

Steve Harrington is pretty. He's a pretty boy. You hadn't expected him to be able to fight or defend, or even run all that fast. He'd proved you wrong on each account eventually — "I ran track, idiot," — but the reluctance of your pairing has remained.

You can't like everyone. You and Steve simply don't fit. You didn't in high school and you don't now, and you know in reality that he doesn't like you. Not really. He tolerates you and he shares with you because you have more chance of surviving together than apart.

He searches the waste of Indiana for his friends. You follow. You have nothing else to do.

You're scouring for supplies in a mall not unlike the Starcourt in Hawkins. You imagine it's as desolate and derelict as this one. Escalators frozen in time, storefronts destroyed by time. Dangerous. There's a thousand places for a zombie to be dwelling. They aren't good at hiding, obviously, but you're also not good at finding them. Steve says you have poor observational skills.

"Yes, well, I'd hardly have any reason to need them if it weren't for the end of the world," you mutter.

"Why do you talk like that?"

"Like what?" you ask with a scowl.

"Like- like a rich girl. A really rich girl."

"I don't sound anything like you."

"Weak insult based in sexism. Next."

You drop the shirt you'd been looking at. "Right, I forgot. Steve Harrington, King of Hawkins High, progressive."

He meets your gaze and smiles at you. He does this, sometimes, where he forgets he doesn't like you. Then something happens, a disagreement or an argument, and you're back to square one, Steve and his burden.

"I'm very progressive." He looks between you and the shirt he's holding, a men's cut, plain with long sleeves. It looks warm. "I think this'll fit. Come here."

You step over a fallen mannequin and let him hold the shirt to your abdomen.

"You're losing weight," he murmurs.

"Lucky me."

His hand touches your shoulder and he draws very close. "Bad news."

"I had it to lose."

"You need all the help you can get." He doesn't bother saying why. You're both more than aware of how dire the food situation is getting. If you can't find anything worth eating here, you're probably fucked. You might be fine. (You're fucked.)

You take the shirt. "Do you think it's silly to put it on now?"

"Definitely. I'll turn around."

He turns. You put your bag on the floor and quickly take off your outerwear. Your shirt smells bad because you smell worse, the strong smell of sweat no matter how much you scrub at it lingering. The fabric is imbued with a permanent odour.

New t-shirt in place, you preen at the feeling of new cotton over your skin.

"Are you done?"

"No-"

"Hurry. We need to move."

You always 'need to move'. You think Steve says it to sound cool.

You pull your clothes back on and hang your backpack from your aching shoulders. Over time, the bag feels heavier. Funny, as it's contents constantly lighten.

"We haven't found anything for you yet," you say.

Your shirt had needed replacing, it was thin and stained with a seam slowly unthreading. Steve's pants are worse. The zip is tied closed with a hair tie and the cuffs are pulling apart.

Steve reveals a pair he'd already set aside. "Tada."

"Put them on!"

"Sheesh, hold your horses."

"You could've been changing while I was. You always nag about wasting daylight."

"And leave us both defenseless. Good idea." His tone suggests a genuineness he doesn't possess.

You stand guard. Steve changes. You have that intrusive thought to turn and look at the sound of his belt unbuckling, the shucking of fabric. Intrusive, unreal. You don't look because you're not a pervert. You do, however, wonder about it. His naked legs, his thighs.

You shake your head and bite the inside of your lip to stave off bad thoughts. Stupid.

"Let's go."

Out of the clothing store and back to the walkways. You and Steve skulk with your backs to each other and some space between you, watching the open shutters for zombies or other people. You don't know which is scarier.

The mall is wrecked. Smashed glass, mysterious liquids, no electricity. Daylight streams in bright and unhindered by the huge skylights above. Nature struggles to fall in with it, but it does. Birds nest in the rafters, bugs cling to the walls. You suppress chills at the scuttling sounds of vermin and almost trip over an upended rack of stuffies outside of the toy store.

"You okay?" Steve asks. You don't know if he's looking at you, your eyes pinned on the stairwell across the way. Accidental or otherwise, making noise is a signal to the zombies that you're here.

If there's anybody here, they definitely would've heard you.

You don't answer Steve's question. He doesn't ask again.

"There's, like, a hot pretzel stand to the right," he says, intrigued.

You check what's in front of you one last time and then catch up to Steve. You'd love to take his arm, not because you think he'd let you or anything, but it's easy to miss touching people and he's right there in front of you.

"Under the shutter," he says quietly.

You crawl under and emerge in the dark. Steve joins you with his torch already in hand, flashing light quickly in all four corners of the room.

"This might be a bad idea," you whisper.

"It's okay. I doubt zombies can crawl."

"If they can?"

Predictably, Steve ignores you.

He weaves between untouched chairs and tables. You catch onto the end of his shirt and he's generous enough to pretend you haven't, the two of you making your way to the front counter. There might've been edible food behind the glass once but now it's all infested. It's disgusting.

You've seen a lot worse.

"That's gross," Steve says.

You tap the display and a dead fly falls off of the glass.

"Lift the counter?" you whisper.

You make your way to the employees only door. "Be careful," he reminds you under his breath, "be quiet. You have your knife out?"

"Got it."

He throws the door open quick and looks around. There's a walk-in freezer to the left, an old couch in the middle, and a storage area to the right. Steve again checks each corner with the flashlight, the both of you holding your breath. You're holding the knife so tightly you can feel each divot of the grip moulding your skin.

"I think we're clear."

"I think we need another torch," you mumble.

It's really scary in the dark.

"They'll have batteries somewhere," Steve says. You think he might be humouring your fear. He's likely tired of having to reassure you.

Again, you grab his shirt. It's too dark to navigate the room without him.

Steve leads you to the staff kitchenette, opening the cabinets one by one. There's mugs in one, plates in another. Untouched by dust.

He has you hold the torch while he searches through drawers of kitchen tools and equipment.

"Do you miss pretzels?" you ask.

"Mm. With the cinnamon sugar."

"You like cinnamon?"

He pushes aside what looks like an ice cube tray of all things and finds an old key. He offers it to you with a peculiar smile, as if to say What do you think that does?

"Everyone likes cinnamon," he says.

"Not everybody."

"Everybody I knew did. Robin fucking loves cinnamon. At Christmas, she'd make me take her out for warm cinnamon cookies and... frozen cokes." His tone had started soft. It ends strangled.

"Frozen cokes? In winter? Isn't that sorta weird?" you ask.

He shuts the drawer harshly and doesn't answer. Your attempt to cut the tension backfires once again with him. Who could've guessed.

The next drawer is a motherlode.

"Yes," you say, cheeks taken by a sudden smile.

There's enough batteries to power your torch for a year. Steve tears open the packet and holds a hand up without looking at you. You scramble to open your bag and pull out your torch. Bigger and heavier than his is, it illuminates larger spaces and makes for less nerve-wracking supply runs, but it eats batteries like no tomorrow.

Steve cracks open your proffered torch and loads it up with batteries. The light flickers on before he's put the closing back into place.

He shines it straight in your eyes.

"Nice," you grumble.

"Now you got your own you can quit clinging," he says. "Why don't you go look in the freezer?"

"It'll all be spoiled. There hasn't been electricity in forever."

"Might find a can of something," he says with a shrug.

"If you want me to leave you alone, just say that."

"I want you to leave me alone."

You huff and spin away. Your torch shines over the couch, an ugly mess of floral pattern that went out of fashion a decade ago but is surprisingly new for a staff room. You drop yourself into it and stare at the ceiling for a while, dust motes drifting in the ray of torch light like snowflakes. You haven't seen snow in a long enough time that you're surprised you can remember what it feels like. If you close your eyes, stick out your tongue, a cold like ice feels sharp on your taste buds.

Steve cusses to himself. You sit up and find him sucking on an injured finger.

"Need help?" you ask.

He sticks his knife into the top of a cardboard box. "What did I tell you? Go look in the freezer."

"Steve, there's not gonna be anything in there."

"I worked in a place like this before. Just look."

You roll your eyes, feel super guilty about rolling your eyes, and then roll your eyes again when he says, "Don't be lazy."

"I'm not," you defend. Your whining falls on deaf ears.

The freezer door handle is fucked. You pull and pull until your palms burn and can't get it to unlock. Changing tactics, you press all of your weight forward and feel something click like it's not supposed to. The door crashes forward and you fall to one knee with a startled shriek.

Your heart slams between your ribs. When you're trying to be hypervigilant of every small sound, every movement, every change in your environment, sudden events are like a shot of adrenaline.

You land on one hand. Your torch flickers further in the room.

"Fuck," you mutter.

"What happened?" Steve asks, his footsteps fast and moving toward you.

You scramble forward to grab the torch before he can see you've broken it. You're ashamed at your own idiocy — you burn with it, a flush of heat in your cheeks that. Steve won't lie to you to make you feel better, so if the torch is broken he's gonna call you an idiot for it.

"Nothing!" you call.

The smell hits you like a freight train. Spoiled milk. Shelves and shelves of spoiled milk and batter. You gag and throw a hand over your nose. It smells almost as bad as a zombie, and they smell like fresh hell.

"Y/N," Steve says.

You throw your eyes over your shoulder and realise the door has closed behind you. There's a sound of a jiggling door handle on the other side. From your side it doesn't move.

A sinking feeling begins.

"Steve," you say, hitting your torch against your thigh. The light flickers off completely. You gawp.

"Can you open the door?"

You push your weight against it urgently. The handle doesn't want to move.

"I can't get it," you say, panicked.

"Push it inward."

"I am!"

"Okay, alright. Hold your horses."

"Steve, it won't open."

"I heard you the first time. Don't worry. I'm gonna get it open."

You throw yourself at the door. Steve must guess from the sound. "Stop," he says, frustration seeping into his low tenor, "that's not gonna work. It's hinged inward. Stand back, okay? I'm gonna force it."

"It's dark in here," you murmur pleadingly, moving away from the door.

"What?"

Your own fast breathing echoes around you. You hit the torch with the meat of your palm and the light flickers. You hit it again and it dissapears. You shouldn't be so scared, but the door closed means your trapped and the dark feels so oppressive now. Dark means you die, because you won't see a zombie before it bites you.

You realise that there's more than one person breathing.

Or rather, an illusion of breathing. A moan.

Your blood turns to ice as you spin. Your torchlight flicker flicker flickers, illuminating the face of somebody long dead.

"Oh my god," you say. It sticks to your throat like each word has been dipped in honey. Or ichor. "Fuck, Steve! Steve!"

"What?" he shouts back, equally freaked.

One eye opens. The other remains closed. One second, you can see the open socket, half an eyeball. The next, pitch darkness filled only by the grind of clicking teeth. Your breath catches in your throat and you keen as you walk backwards, the torch shaking in your hand.

The light flicks back on with your movement.

The zombie's face appears in front of yours.

You scream and fall flat on your butt, backpack preventing you from slamming onto your back. The torch turns off. You scrabble for your knife — where the fuck is your knife? Where's your knife?

Steve hammers against the door. "What the fuck?"

"There's a fucking geek in here!" you squeal, throat tight. You can barely get the words out. The zombie can't see you in the dark but it can hear you, it can smell you, and it's footsteps draw closer, one after another.

"Steve, get me out of here!" you beg.

He doesn't answer.

"Steve?" You don't sound like yourself. You're not sure you've ever made this sound before.

Nothing.

Your hands shake hard. You can't feel them as you bring the torch into your lap. You try to find the catch in the dark. When you can't you mess with the lens, screwing it tight to the right. You feel it move in, spinning back on.

The light exposes the zombies gained distance. He towers over you and you can't speak, can't breathe, can't sob. You hold your arms in front of your face and hope it won't hurt.

The door slams open. You get pushed roughly into the zombie's legs, the breath knocked from your chest.

You crumple in on yourself.

Footsteps slide with a rubber screech over the linoleum and you search the floor for your torch, breath coming in shirt pants. Your hand closes around it and you flick the switch with little success. Broken again. You must've loosened a fuse.

"Steve," you say desperately. Please don't die.

The zombie makes a noise like retching, Steve groans in extertion and then there's a sound of wetness, a sinking. A body falls to the floor.

Silence.

You flinch as he turns on his torch and shines it in your face.

"Oh, thank god."

Steve leans down and helps you up into his arms. You struggle to catch your breath, your face pressed hard into his chest. You can't cry though you desperately want to, too busy fighting for air.

Steve holds you, hands at your back. "It's okay. You got it, dummy, just take it slow."

You nod. You can't really focus as he pulls you out of the freezer. The air noticeably changes from brain matter to plain old stale.

"I thought you-" You swallow against an aching throat. "I thought you were gonna leave me."

"Why would you think that?" Steve asks.

"I was- I-" you stammer to a halt.

Your arms move of their own accord, over his shoulders and behind. You hide your face in the crook of his neck, hot tears spreading over his skin as you pull him in close, as close as you can.

Steve's hand is slow at first, hesitant against your shoulder. Your backpack stops him from hugging you properly, but you think maybe he might try otherwise.

"I wouldn't have left you here," he says.

There's hints. Confusion, sincerity. A rawness. You can't see his face, his torch pointed up at the ceiling, only where the light kisses his brow, the bridge of his nose.

Steve let's you cling until you've caught your breath.

"Let's sit down," he says.

He encourages you onto the old couch and shoves his small torch between the cushions. You miss his touch as soon as he leaves, an anxiety at being left alone dawns like a yawning chasm between you. Your relief when he returns can't be understated: you feel like a spent, abused nerve.

Cortisol and adrenaline crash through your veins. All that's left to do is come down. Hard, when you don't feel completely safe. Haven't felt completely safe in a long time. Steve's return helps.

"Don't touch the rim. It's sharp," he says, pressing an open can into your hand.

"Steve, is this-"

He passes you a spoon. "Sure is."

You don't have the luxury of nausea. Life or death situations start to wear off quicker when you're hungry, half-starved, and after a few good mouthfuls of pudding you're starting to feel better. Not perfect, not any less afraid, but there's a door between you and the zombie's dead dead body, and a door with a chair propped under the handle between you and the rest of the world. And there's Steve, a spoon between his lips with your poor torch in hand.

"You left your knife on the table. Do you know how stupid that is?" he asks, a spoon hanging from the corner of his mouth.

"Yes."

"Hm." He whacks the torch with his spoon. "Shit."

"I'm sorry."

"About the knife? You should be. You were totally defenseless."

"The torch."

He puts your torch down on the floor besides your gathered things. "Couldn't be helped."

"How'd you open the door?"

"Running start."

You sniffle and eat another spoonful of pudding. The last thing you'd eaten was half a gronala bar in the early hours of the morning when Steve had insisted you'd need your energy. It had been a year out of date and chalk in your mouth. The pudding may as well be straight molten gold for how valuable it feels.

It goes down soft. Calms your aching throat. By the time you've finished you almost feel settled. Almost.

"Steve... I'm sorry. For thinking you'd leave me. That's not fair. I mean, I know-" Why is it hard to talk to him? He's the only perosn you've had for company in God knows how long and you're still fumbling for the right thing to say. "You wouldn't do something like that to me. You have morals."

"I would do anything for my friends," he says, like he's disagreeing. "I would do anything to see them again. See them safe. Anything."

You bite your tongue. Tears sting. Hypocritical tears, because haven't you had that thought before? You'd do anything to get what you want. You'd do anything to live. Steve doesn't owe you anything.

"I didn't think you'd come back," you confess sheepishly.

"I'm always gonna come back for you."

You look up at him, finding his eyes illuminated in the dim light sweet and soft and brown.

"I want you to be safe."

"Are you saying I'm your friend?" you ask.

He glares at you. "Are we in middle school?"

"What?"

"What do you mean, what? What, I have to invite you to my birthday party or something? We need to go rollerblading together?"

"You're an asshole."

He snorts. "Asshole just saved your life."

"I didn't even wanna go in there, if you remember. I expressly said that I didn't wanna go in the freezer. It's your fault I was even in there in the first place."

"That's ridiculous. And a low blow. And fuck you."

"Not very friendly."

He laughs abruptly. It's a pretty sound, made golden by it's genuineness. Steve does sarcastic snickers and mocking chuckles, and none have ever sounded as his true laugh does now.

"I'll show you friendly," he mutters.

You raise your eyebrows. He moves enough to make the couch shift, upheaving your empty can and spoon. They fall together with a metallic clinking.

You watch mournfully. "I kind of wish I hadn't eaten it that fast. When's the last time we had sugar?"

"Don't speak too soon."

Steve shows you the stash. An entire box of pudding, enough to feed you both for a month, though the sugar might rot your teeth.

"We'll be sick of it in a week," Steve promises.

You're not so sure. Chocolate is chocolate, whether it's eaten during the zombie apocalypse or not.

-

im not sure if this is something im proud of or not, exploring a new genre on here for the first time is super weird! if u like it and want me to do more for this au / have a request, let me know !

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A little update

Sorry about not having a regularly scheduled update for all my stories!! I have a lot of excuses but the main one is that I work 12-hour night shifts so I'll try to spend a little bit of time during my breaks typing on my phone but ya'll it is so hard, forgive me! Just know that I haven't given up on writing it's just taking me a while <3<3<3

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Masterlist <3

Let me know if any links don't work!!!

Link to my A03 Account that has some of my old works/works that I wanted to be completed /And works that I am working on&lt;3

+StrangerThings:

~Eddie Munson

-Freaks & Barbies Series

-Spring Break Of '86: Series

-Pretty Girls

-Hole in the Wall

~Steve Harrington

-Split in Two: Series

-Forgiven, Not Forgotten.

~Argyle

-Road Trips: Series

-Patty's Pasteries

-Je T'aime

-Crush'n

+DC:

~Bruce Wayne

-Reunions

+Euphoria

+Bill & Ted

+Marvel

+Horror Icons:

+Lost Boys:

+Random Movies

+Cryptids

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The Unplanned Road Trip Masterlist

Argyle x reader

Series Summary: You were unfortunate enough to get wrapped up in the chaos of finding El with your boyfriend, his best friend, his best friend's younger sibling, and his best friend's younger sibling's best friend.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

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Spring Break of '86 Masterlist

Eddie Munson x Reader

Series Summary: Instead of enjoying a lavish spring break with your college friends, you were off running around Hawkins dodging the police with Eddie Munson, your ex.

Chapter 1 (The Reunion)

Chapter 2 (Games)

Chapter 3 (Tribulations)

Chapter 4 (Into the Woods)

Chapter 5 (Pillow Talk)

Chapter 6 (Foresee)

Chapter 7 (Visions)

Chapter 8 (The Kiss)

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Freaks & Barbies <3 Masterlist

Eddie Munson x Reader

Series Summary: Just a freak pinning after his Barbie girlfriend.

Pt 1

Pt 2

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Spring Break Of '86 (8)

Eddie Munson x Reader

Warning(s): Mature; swearing

Summary: Instead of enjoying a lavish spring break with your college friends, you were off running around Hawkins dodging the police with Eddie Munson, your ex.

Word Count: 2.2k

++++

"I'm sorry about Chrissy. She was a very nice girl, and I hope that you can heal from this one day." A scowl fell on his face from the way that you had ignored his initial question. His grip grew tighter, but you only continued to look at him with sympathy. 

"I don't want to hear it, especially not from a freak like you!" His words dripped with venom as his free hand clenched and unclenched at his side. 

"Now, where's Munson?" You only sighed and reached up, holding his wrist. Your chewed and jagged nails were sharp as they dug into his flesh.

"I don't know where Eddie is. We broke up months ago. Let go of me and finish saying your goodbyes, or we will have a problem." Your nails had finally broken skin as blood began to bead up from the wound. He hissed and ripped his wrist away, only causing more damage to the thin delicate skin.

"Listen, Jason, Eddie might be everything you hate, but he isn't a monster. Think about it, has he ever fought back against his bullies? He's a runner, and most importantly, he would never kill anyone, let alone Chrissy–" You were silenced at the fist that met with your eye. Your vision went blurry as you collapsed on the floor and cradled the side of your face. 

"You don't get to say her name! And that fucking freak may not be a monster, but he is a psychopath!" A silent groan slipped past your lips as you slowly tried to stand up again. Blinking a few times, your eyesight was still blurry as the muscle throbbed. 

A humorless giggle escaped from your lips as you leaned against the porcelain sink. He took a step closer as his hands were balled in a tight shaky fist. "What's so funny?" 

"I just can't believe that you resulted in physically assaulting me in a church of all places. You are going straight to hell!" Another wave of giggles swept passed your lips when you noticed how red his cheeks grew with rage. He snarled and raised his fist as if he was going to hit you again, but the bathroom door slamming open caused him to quickly lower it. 

A little girl, no older than six, stood holding a stuffed rabbit and tilted her head at the two of you. "Jason? What's going on?" 

"Why aren't you with mom, Lorie?" Jason asked, taking several steps away from you and towards his sister. "She wanted me to come to find you. She said, it's time to go home," she said, her eyes locking on yours. "Who's that?" 

"Let's go, Lorie," he said, glaring at you one last time before taking his sister's hand. She looked around her brother to keep looking at you. You smiled and made a silly face which caused a smile to slip on her face as she waved goodbye.

"Hey, Jason?" He paused but refused to turn around to face you. "I owe you one," you promised, watching as he slipped through the door with his sister in tow. You threw your head back and sighed. Standing up to look at your reflection, the skin was tender and would start swelling in no time. 

"Ah, shit."

++++

You found yourself trekking into the deep dark forest once again. You failed to get anyone's house phone number earlier that day, and with a lack of transportation, you were forced to surround yourself with the late night darkness of the woods once again.  

You were grateful to see the boathouse as you broke through the trees. The day's events were finally catching up with your feet as your legs felt like jelly. Shuffling to the door, you gave a rhythmic knock to one of your favorite songs and waited. There was an eerie silence before the door cracked open. 

Eddie looked a little cleaner than he did yesterday meaning he must’ve taken the liberty to shower. He smiled once he caught your eye and opened the door even more. He looked behind you briefly, ensuring you were alone before shutting the door once you were inside. 

You quickly made your way to the little boat and slumped down. You raised an eyebrow in question as he stared at you. His gaze was heated and intense as he kept a steady gaze on you.

"What's wrong–?"

"Who did that to you?" Tilting your head, you tried to understand what he was talking about. It only took a few quick steps with his long legs before he was right in front of you. He climbed into the boat carelessly and placed his hands on your cheeks, pulling you closer. His thumb brushed against your cheekbone, which caused you to wince. 

The crisp wind had actually cooled the damaged skin to the point that it no longer throbbed, but it was still very delicate and sore to the touch. You had almost forgotten about the swollen skin around your eye if he hadn't pointed it out. "This little thing? It's nothing–"

"Bullshit. What happened?" Sighing through your nose, you flinched again as his finger danced around the edges of the bruise. "Jesus, stop touching it dickhead. It hurts," you scoffed and pried his hand away from your face, caging it into your grip so that he couldn't reach up and touch it again. 

“You’re just a fucking baby,” he mocked. The two of you sat staring at one another before bursting into a fit of giggles. 

Once upon a time the two of you were best friends and that only grew once you had started dating. It almost felt as if the two of you were back in his room, teasing each other and laughing about nothing important. When the two of you were still happily together, and Eddie wasn’t wanted for murder.

Once the laughter had stopped, his hands began to massage your own in a silent apology as he continued to observe your face. The smile on your faces was soft as you stared at each other in the musty boatshed. There was always something about Eddie that always managed to catch your attention in ways no other person had truly had.

"I just had a little scrabble with this kid at Chrissy's funeral is all. I’ll get him back though," you said thinking about how you’d like to return the favor. Eddie's lips twitched down at the mention of Chrissy's name. His eyes lowered towards your interlocked hands as he could no longer maintain eye contact. You saw the way that his shoulders sagged and how he curled into himself. 

"She had a beautiful funeral, Eds. A lot of people showed up to pay their respects." He looked up at you through his eyelashes as a half smile took over his face, not quite meeting the look in his eyes. 

"Yeah?"

"Mhm, she made a lot of people happy, and once all this blows over, I'll make sure to take you to see her grave," you promised. He nodded and took a shaky breath, no doubt willing away the tears. You had absentmindedly begun to rub small circles on his hands like he had done for you as he collected himself. 

Eddie could play the confident knight or the blubbering fool; however, you could see him underneath all those layers he portrayed to everyone else. He was raw. You could see the things that make him tick, the things that make him break, and everything that could build him up. He was way more transparent than everyone gave him credit for.

Shrugging off your bag, you held it out to Eddie. He shifted closer to the point where your knees touched, his head tilted in curiosity as he grabbed the bag. 

He unzipped the zipper, and his eye lit up the contents inside. At the very top was your flask that was a few gulps away from empty, a baggie that held two joints, a book nestled on the side, and the rest was just food you had stolen from your parent's cupboards. 

"Thank you. Thank you. Thank you," he chanted before kissing the side of the flask. Opening it, he tilted his head back to get a good swig on its contents inside. "Not enough to get drunk, but it should take the edge off of everything," you said, watching the way his Adam's Apple bobbed as he swallowed. 

You observed the grin on his face. It was nothing short of contentment as he greedily opened the baggie and pulled out the first joint of the night. You smiled, enjoying his silent cheer of delight as he searched his pockets for a lighter. 

"God, you're the best," he mumbled with his lips around the blunt. You only hummed in reply and kicked off your shoes. You laid sideways in the boat and allowed your legs to dangle towards the sides. 

He followed your lead and sat hip to hip next to you. He took a few puffs before offering it to you. Plucking it from his fingers, you took a hit and passed it back. The two of you sat silently as you chased the feeling alongside each other. 

It wasn't long before the blunt reached its end, despite the tip almost disappearing between his fingers, Eddie attempted to puff away. When he finally snuffed it out, he turned his head to look at you. Smiling, you eventually turned your head towards him to see his face clearly. The lamp flickered as it created shadows along his visage. 

His half-lidded eyes studied your face before settling on your lips. He lifted one hand and caressed your cheek as he refused to look away. The tension was pulled tight and only grew tighter as you slowly leaned in. You could feel the invisible snap of the ambiance from the feeling of his bottom lip brushing against your own. You didn't know if you were hearing his heartbeat or your own with how loud the sound was ringing in your ears. 

His lips were chapped, but they were still incredibly soft and tentative. You could feel your surroundings float away as your eyes closed, and you succumbed to the feeling of Eddie Munson. He tasted of whisky and weed with the hint of something nostalgic. He groaned at the slight nip to his bottom lip as he pawed at your jacket to bring you closer. As you tilted your head to deepen the kiss, your head bumped the side of the boat. 

"Ow," you mumbled, pulling away to cradle your head. He released a soft smile as he reached over to draw you closer. He kissed the injured spot before his lips traveled down to kiss the bruised skin of your eye. You forced yourself not to flinch, seeing as it was a cute moment even though the most minor touches caused it to ache. 

"I never wanted to break up with you," Eddie sighed, as his head leveled with your own. Your lips parted as you were about to speak, but he placed his hand over your mouth, knowing a sarcastic comment was on the tip of your tongue. "It's long overdue, but I am sorry. I am so sorry that I let you go. You were the best part of me, of us, and I ruined it all," he said, bringing his palm away from your lips. 

He gently thumbed at your bottom lip as he stared deep into your eyes. You felt as if you were melting. You had dreamed of this, of Eddie, and now that it was happening, you were rendered speechless. A part of you wanted to run away, not to confront the situations quite yet, but Eddie had other plans as he continued talking. 

 "I was insecure, and I wanted to be the man you needed, but I failed somewhere along the lines." He chuckled humorlessly, withdrawing his slender fingers away from your face. 

"I didn't need you to be anyone other than yourself, Eds. I've always needed you to be the way you are, then and now." You cradled his head in your palms and forced him to look at you. A soft smile took over your features as you watched his pupils dilate. 

"You wanna know a secret? I have never stopped loving you, Eddie Munson. I went on a few dates, but how could any of them compare to you? We're young, but I've never felt anything more real than what we had." His eyes grew glossy as he studied your face, looking for lies and deceit in your words.

You let out a wet laugh at the dazed look in his eyes. You caved into your desires and leaned again for a quick kiss. And you kept leaning in and out of quick kisses until he finally cracked. He giggled and tried returning the gesture, but his lips refused to uncurl from how large he smiled. 

"Do you still love me?" he asked after his little laughing fit. You nodded, "I do, I always will. You wanna know something? I was actually considering becoming a nun if we never ended up back together." 

"No shit?" He laughed again as his forehead rested against your own. Laughing you shrugged as you answered him.

"No shit. I was planning to be the new virgin, Mary–" 

"You? A virgin? Now that's hilarious!"

[bb-babyy]

The Unplanned Road Trip (3)

Argyle x reader

Warning(s): Mature; swearing; violence; suggestive themes

Summary: You were unfortunate enough to get wrapped up in the chaos of finding El with your boyfriend, his best friend, his best friend's younger sibling, and his best friend's younger sibling's best friend.

Word Count: 5.5k

++++

You spent a few hours on the road; Argyle, Jonathan, and yourself taking turns driving to give the others some rest. You sighed, finally pulling up to the gas station where you had placed a star on the map. You gave Jonathan the money to give to the clerk as the boys took turns going to the bathroom, leaving you and Argyle alone.

"There are a lot of people around here," Argyle said, looking around at the busy block.

"We're in Las Vegas, Argy. A lot of these people are most likely drunk, getting drunk, or getting ready to gamble their life savings away," you said, keeping your gaze down, as you filled the van with gas. You carefully eyed the meter, ensuring every penny you paid would be in the tank.

"Woah, what is that?" he whispered to himself, his gaze far off. You hadn't heard his light muttering to realize that he had walked away.

You had just put the gas pump back on its hook when you realized that Argyle was nowhere in sight. "Oh, shit! Argyle? Where'd you go, babe?" Taking a quick scan of the crowd, your teeth began to abuse your lower lip the longer you looked around from not being able to spot him.

"What's wrong?" Jonathan asked, placing a hand on your shoulder. You jumped and spun around to face him.

"I, sort of, lost Argyle?"

"What?! How?!" You turned to look past Jonathan, noticing that Will and Mike were already looking at you. Giving them a tense smile, you shrugged as your gaze jumped around.

"One second he was here, and then he wasn't."

"We need to leave, like now! What if we just left him–"

"We are not leaving Argyle. And if you suggest it again, I will abandon you here, Michael."

"It's Mike! Why do you keep calling me Michael?!" You only ignored Mike as you spun on your heels to adventure into the crowd. "You guys stay here. I've gotta find him. And if you even dare think about leaving us– I. Will. Murder. You. Jon," you warned, picking up your pace.

"Wouldn't it be better if we looked together?" Jonathan's question was left unanswered as you, too, had disappeared.

You were getting flocked at every angle the further you walked. It was as if the circus had decided to crash land right in front of you for the day. There were literally people dressed as clowns roaming around, and it was freaking you the fuck out. You had managed to finish the rest of Stephen King's 'It' sometime during the drive and you were a bit paranoid. Paranoid was an understatement, you were having an internal breakdown at each clown that you passed. You could only pray, to whatever cosmic being that was listening, that everyone else could see what you were seeing.

You almost sobbed in relief as you spotted Argyle, who had his back turned towards you. You weaved in between a few idle standing groups of people before you reached him. You gently tugged at the back of his Ocean Pacific shirt to get his attention.

"Babe, I don't know when or how, but I'm pretty sure I took acid again–" The words died in your throat at the sight of his face. Your eyes widened as you let go of his shirt, your hands shaking as you stared straight ahead. He had two big red dots on his cheeks and a red nose.

"Hey, babe! Check me out. I'm a clown." His lips were spread in a large grin, large enough to cause his dimples to pop out on display.

"Oh, my god. I'm in hell. I somehow died, and now I'm in hell," you mumbled as you slowly backed away. His eyebrows met as he watched you back away.

"I mean, it is Vegas. But there's this cool guy just painting people's faces." He reached over and grabbed your hand to pull you behind him. The warmth of his hand enclosed in your own brought you back down from whatever panic you were feeling. You were grounded, but you still felt tense at seeing the colorful faces pass by.

Argyle stopped and made a gesture to the little booths littered around. There were various stalls filled with people sitting in chairs and selling their craft in some type of way.

Argyle waved at a heavily tatted guy, who smiled back in return before he went back to painting a kid's face. "How did you even pay for that?" you asked, noticing the bucket near the guy's feet filled with money.

"We had a common interest; our love for Purple Palm Tree Delight." You looked closer at the guy and noticed the joint poking out between his ear and head. Argyle had a knack for spotting out stoners, so it was no surprise that he was able to offer a kind of trade.

A few chairs down, a commotion occurred, and a woman sobbed as she hit a man with her purse. He lifted his hands to protect himself, but it became futile as she put more power into each hit. He quickly collected his money and abandoned his stall as he ran away from the woman.

You were close enough to hear her babbles about how ugly she looked as she clutched a piece of paper in her hands. A few people watched as she collapsed in her chair, but many participants decided to ignore her.

"Damn, I hope she's alright," Argyle said, a frown tipping on his lips. You nodded, not wanting to get involved since she could be just another emotional drunk on the street.

"We gotta get going–" Argyle didn't hear you as he started to make his way over to the crying woman. A sigh passed through your nose at your boyfriend's bleeding heart for others, but you had no other choice but to follow. Squeezing his hand, he reciprocated the action not wanting to get separated again.

"Are you okay?" he asked, sitting in the foldable chair in front of the crying woman. He pulled you gently in front of him to allow you to sit on his lap. Leaning back against him, you watched as she only shook her head, unable to form a coherent sentence through her tears.

"Well, what's wrong?" he asked, once again trying to get her to calm down. She only waved the paper in a loose grip towards him. He reached over and plucked it from her manicured fingers and flipped it up to face the two of you. There was a distasteful caricature that stared back at you. It was way more offensive than necessary for a caricature to the point that it was leaning towards racism than it did cartoony.

"Woah, that's–"

"Fucked up," you finished for him. Taking the drawing from his hand, you brought it closer to your face to study it. The linework was sloppy, and the color theory was out of this world. A child had more creativity than the guy who had created the piece.

"I spent ten bucks and wasted twenty minutes of sitting here for it," she sniffled. She sniffled as she browsed through her purse for a tissue.

“Dude, you can totally draw something a thousand times better than this,” Argyle mumbled as he studied the drawing in your hands. You only gave a slight hum in appreciation knowing that he was always going to be your number one supporter.

“You should draw something for her babe. I mean I would if I could, but I don’t think I would be able to do her justice,” he said, looking at your profile. “We don’t have the time for this Argy. We have to get back on the road as soon as possible,” you whispered back.

You went back and forth with each other before you had finally caved in. Argyle always wanted to help people, and you loved that about him. He never asked for anything, and when he did it was only for the benefit of others. Rolling your eyes, you gave a small nod, which earned a big grin and an even bigger kiss on the cheek.

"I can make something better for you if you'd like. And I promise not to spend more than five minutes on it," you offered, smiling awkwardly as Argyle gave you an encouraging pat on the thigh.

"How do I know you won't rip me off me like the other guy did?" she asked, lips forming a pout. Her eyes jumped from Argyle's, then back to your own.

"We won't charge you for it. Think of it as an apology for us ripping your drawing.”

"But you didn't rip–" A loud tearing sound of paper interrupted her. The paper was now torn into two large pieces; you held a large chunk while Argyle had the other half.

"Oops."

Argyle had left and returned not long after with the others while you consoled the woman. The woman sat still as you sketched her on your drawing pad. You had Will time you, as you drew, wanting to keep your promise to not waste anymore of her time.

Just as his watch beeped, you were already signing your initials and the date in the corner. You were careful as you tore the page away and handed it to the woman. Her eyes widened at the grayscaled image. You made sure to visualize her without her ruined makeup, not wanting her to feel any worse than she had earlier. You managed to get a clear headshot of her from her collar bone up.

"This is… amazing! Do I really look like this?" she asked; you felt bashful but smiled at her anyways.

"I mean, yeah? I just drew what I saw in front of me." Shrugging, you began to collect your things. "D-do you think you can color it in? I just– I think that if I tried, I would ruin it," she pleaded. You were about to respond, but Will beat you to it.

"We can, but it's going to cost you two dollars," he said. You all looked at him, and he smiled, trying to get you to go along. The woman nodded quickly, dug around in her purse, and pulled out a five-dollar bill.

"I can work with that."

Once the lady's picture was finished, she thanked you again and scurried away. You hadn't realized the line that had formed around you until you looked up. You noticed many eager faces before someone plopped down into the chair in front of you. You were frozen as they held out a five-note, waiting for you to take it. Mike quickly swooped in and gave you a thumbs up.

You soon found yourself in a type of assembly line. Argyle would wave people over, Mike took people's money, Jonathan would time you, and Will would color in your sketches as you drew with your graphite pencil.

You drew person after person as they took up the empty seat in front of you. You had a variety of people ranging from all ages as they each took turns waiting. An hour had easily passed by from just sitting and drawing the different eager faces in front of you. You were racking up a lot of money despite the cramp in your hand.

"They stole my spot that I paid for!" A voice shouted out. Looking up, you spotted the caricature guy from earlier stomping towards you with the police in tow.

"Shit! Shit, shit, shit!" You hurriedly stood up and began to collect your supplies. Will's eyes widened, but he quickly followed your lead despite not knowing what was going on.

"Guys! We gotta go!" Making eye contact with Jonathan, he nodded and grabbed Argyle and Mike, dragging them along.

"What about my drawing!" The new customer had asked, a frown on their lips. Smiling apologetically, you thrust a five towards them and began to make a speedy exit.

"Wait! Stop them!" You held on tightly to Will's hand, not wanting to lose the kid as you picked up the pace. Argyle and the others had already disappeared into the crowd, and you could only hope towards the van.

You felt a tug, and Will's hand had been ripped out of your own when you tried squeezing past a cluster of individuals. Turning around, you forced yourself back through the annoying group once again. Your blood began to boil at the sight in front of you.

Will was frozen in fear as his arm was locked in a bruising grip. The man towered over him as he screamed profanities and slurs, quickly gaining unwanted attention.

"Give me the money that you took from my customers!" You felt your eyes widen as the adult man brought back his fist, preparing to hit Will.

You felt your vision blur for a couple of seconds from the hit to the eye. You had managed to pull Will back just in time to miss getting injured, but that left you as the awaiting target.

You managed to recover after a brief moment of shock. "Shit, why did you–" You cut the man off by popping him in the mouth just as he began to form some kind of coherent sentence. He finally let go of Will as his body crashed to the ground.

"That hurt, jackass!" you hissed, grabbing Will again as the police made their way closer. You didn't wait for him to get his bearings before you began to sprint the final stretch to the van. Argyle stood by the opened back doors as his eyes jumped around the crowd. Relief quickly took over his worried expression at the sight of the two of you, but you were waving for him to get inside.

You practically threw Will into the back as you collapsed right next to him once you had climbed in. The doors were barely closed before Jonathan pressed his foot on the gas, accelerating the vehicle forward. Your body lurched, causing you to groan as your eye brushed against a pillow.

"Ow," you groaned, sitting up and gently touching the tender skin. "What happened to you, babe?!" Argyle asked, his hands cradling your face. His sudden outburst caused everyone to look at you. It must’ve looked a bit unpleasant from the looks that you were receiving.

Mike turned to look at you from the passenger seat; he winced at the sight of your face and turned around to count the money you had made. Jonathan looked through the rearview mirror; his eyebrows shot up before he faced the road ahead. And Will looked sorrowful as he fiddled with his fingers anxiously.

"It's all my fault, I was the one who got caught, but you got hurt instead," Will said, his voice pained. You kissed Argyle’s palm before gently prying hands from your face to look at Will. You cradled his face and squished his cheeks together, lovingly.

"I promised your mom that I would take care of you, all of you. And even though I thought it would be more along the lines of not burning the house down when cooking party pizzas, running from the government to find your sister, and getting hit by wackos who draw racist pictures are now a part of that deal. And I plan to keep that promise," you said, brushing away a stray tear.

"Besides we are fugitives now so we have to stick together. Okay?”

“Okay,” his voice was croaky and wavered as he willed his tears away.

“You are now appointed to the Robin of my Batman. We're for lifers now, kid." He let out a watery laugh and nodded. You felt your chest fill with warmth as you finally got him to smile and even laugh. He pulled you into a hug which you happily returned.

"Woah, dude, what about me? I thought I was your Robin?" Placing a kiss on Will's forehead, you let him go and turned around to face Argyle.

"You're the Alfred to my Bruce Wayne."

"The butler?" he sighed, slumping down into his seat. Smiling fondly, you snuggled up to him. He had wordlessly thrown his arms around you, pulling you closer.

"Will is going to grow up one day and he won't need me, but I'll always need you, an Alfred, by my side."

"Aww, babe, that's so sweet," he said, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you onto his lap.

“It’s so corny,” Mike mumbled. You choose to ignore him as you felt the tension in your shoulders melt away as you closed your eyes and eased into a comfortable position. Your smile only grew as he pressed kisses to the side of your head. When his lips brushed against the tender skin, you winced but didn't attempt to move away.

"Sorry. Did that hurt?" Argyle asked, his hands caressing your arms.

"S'not too bad, your mom hits harder than— Oh my god! Your mom!" You jumped and spun around to face Argyle. It took him a second to realize that you weren't telling a joke and that you were actually talking about his mom. He’s been gone for almost two whole days and still hasn't even attempted to call home.

"I am so dead."

+++

The group had finally crossed the border from Nevada to Utah, and even though it was pushing midnight, you were all awake and hungry. Argyle pulled into one of the few places you knew would be open; a Waffle House.

The tired waitress greeted you all and directed you to a booth by the windows. Mike, Will, and Jonathan sat on one side while Argyle and yourself occupied the other.

You waited for the waitress to come back for your order before exchanging a dollar bill for some quarters. She then led you to where they kept their phone and gave you and Argyle some privacy.

"They might be sleeping right now. What if we call later?"

"It's Tuesday– actually, it was Tuesday ten minutes ago. Your grandma is most likely watching her favorite soap opera right now," you said as you checked your watch. He only nodded, a dazed look glazed over his eyes as he stared at the phone.

You slipped your hand into his and gave it a light squeeze. His hand was warm and clammy, but you didn't mind. You understood that he was probably shitting bricks, no doubt afraid of what his mom would say. Just as you got ready to console him, the waitress came back.

"Here you go, honey. That eye of yours looks ready to burst if you don't put any ice on it," she said, holding out a plastic bag of ice.

Your eyes widened, and you thanked her for her generosity before placing it on your throbbing eye. The skin had puffed up over the hours, but you had tried to ignore it despite the looks you were given.

Your fingers began to turn numb the longer you held your bag of ice to your bruised face. Your foot refused to stop tapping as you watched as Argyle started to dial his home phone. He looked just as nervous as you felt. Sweat slowly began to bead down his brow as he waited for the phone to be picked up.

He had the phone tilted in a way that you would also be able to hear. You stopped breathing momentarily as the line was finally picked up on the other side.

"¿Qué?" You could hear a raspy snap at you from the other end. You bit back a smile at the sound of his grandmother's voice. You figured that her program wasn't on a commercial break from how grumpy she sounded.

"Hey, grandma… it's me," Argyle said; his hand began to squeeze yours as he shut his eyes and prepared for the mayhem.

It didn't take long before there was a loud commotion heard over the line. You listened to her scream for her daughter and son to pick up the line in their room before being bombarded with questions. You could hear the mixture of Spanish and English thrown around in the form of curses and worried statements for his safety.

A smile quirked on your face as you watched Argyle try to calm his family down. He would jump from one language to another as he tried to answer almost everything that was asked.

"Where are you? The both of you? The police have been looking for you." You bit your lips and shook your head as he tried to pawn the phone off to you. He let go of your hand to cover the bottom of the phone with the palm of his hand.

"Please, babe? You're like so much better at this than I am," he begged. You only shook your head and took a step back. "They're your family. You talk to them," you whispered back. He frowned and shook his head, his hair dancing around his shoulders from his quick movement.

"Dude, you can't say that. They practically love you, maybe more than me," he whispered back. A snort had ripped out of you. You knew that his family adored you since you officially met them as his partner, but you also didn't want to get yelled at.

"Please, babe?" Argyle tried once again and lifted the phone to your ear. You could hear how upset his family was getting the more prolonged the two of you continued not to respond. Sighing, you caved into his puppy dog eyes and picked up the phone.

You only spent ten minutes on the phone since the FBI may or may not be tapped into your call. You had let them know almost everything with a few white lies thrown into the mix. You didn't want them to get targeted, but you promised all of them that you were alright and would hopefully be home sometime in the upcoming weeks.

After a few teary goodbyes and I love you's, you hung up. You could only sigh as you embraced Argyle. He held you as close as possible in his warm embrace as he digested everything. You knew that he was feeling the mode, even though he had a soft smile across his cheeks.

The waitress gave the two of you a polite smile as she passed, carrying a tray with four plates. You had a feeling that it belonged to your table, seeing as there were only three other customers littered around the diner.

"Let's go wash up?" Dragging him to the nearest bathroom, you opened the door and allowed him to enter first. The lighting was harsh compared to the one in the seating area. You had to blink a few times to get your eyes adjusted.

Wetting a paper towel, you began to clean the red paint off of his face. It was quiet between the two of you, which was a rarity. He placidly watched you through narrowed eyes as you continued to clean his face. His gaze was earnest as his eyes jumped from one eye to the other. You felt a smile unintentionally begin to crawl on your face the longer he stared.

"Close your eyes. You're making me nervous," you muttered, tilting his chin closer. He chuckled, but he still did as he was told. Smiling to yourself, you worked on getting the rest of the paint off. His hands were loosely wrapped around you and began to tap away at a random tempo as you continue your task.

It didn’t take long until you dropped the soggy paper towel carelessly on the countertop right next to your half-melted baggie of ice. Your hands had slowly wrapped around his shoulders as you were mindful of his hair. A smile grew on his face as he kept his eyes closed.

You gently nipped at his soft jaw, trying to get him to open his eyes. He was persistent even with the kisses and gentle nibbles that were left on his exposed skin. You had finally had enough as you stuck out your tongue and left a slobbery wet strip on his cleaned cheek. His nose scrunched up as he finally opened his eyes.

"Babe, at least season me first before you attempt to eat me," he joked, his nose bumping against your own.

"Oh, I want to eat you, alright," you practically purred as your hand traveled up and down his chest. A sheepish, love-sick expression settled on his face as he pulled you closer. In a smooth, fluid motion, your lips brushed against his. You practically melted into his touch as your knees grew weak. The kiss was hearty and warm and safe. It was everything and more when it came to Argyle.

Breaking the kiss, you leaned back to see his eyes once again closed. His lips were slightly parted and puckered, awaiting your lips to return. You would've leaned back in for another heart-racing kiss if it weren't for the loud rumbling sound occupying the room. A grin spread across your face as you looked down. His hands left your sides and were now on his stomach.

"Sorry, babe. Didn't realize how hungry I am," he laughed as he rubbed his aching belly. Placing your hands over his own, you leaned in for one last kiss, this time tamed, before leading him back out to the others.

Sitting back in the booth, your suspicions were correct. Your plate was pushed to the side as the others had already started eating. As you passed, you gently rubbed Will's head, which earned you a sleepy grin. Finally, digging into your meal, a comfortable silence filled the space between your group.

+++

Lifting your arms above your head, you stretched your sore, aching muscles out, trying to get the joints to pop. It was officially day three of being on the road, and you were getting closer to the end of your ropes. You loved and cared for each of them; Mike was slightly winning you over but not by much, however, you needed a bit of space.

You could only take a certain amount of teenage musk and the occasional flatulence before you were about to lose your mind. You didn't care what any of them had to say; you were going to get a hotel for the day and force each of them to take a shower before you left the state.

"Can't feel my butt. Can you guys feel your butt?" Argyle asked, rubbing his sore bottom. You reached over and gave his butt a firm schmack that caused him to jolt. He returned your teasing smirk with a flustered-easygoing smile as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders.

"I can feel your butt, and I have to say it feels so very nice," you joked, reaching around him once again to get another feel, letting your hand rest on the roundness of his bum.

"You guys are so gross!" Mike groaned, walking faster to the door.

"Everyone needs to be on their best behavior. Okay?" Jonathan made direct eye contact with you and then with Argyle. Rolling your eyes, you slowly removed your hand and lifted your hands in surrender.

"Why are you looking at us when you said that?" Argyle looked taken aback that his best friends mistrust.

"I–I didn't!"

"They're just super religious," Mike said, trying to clear the air. You knew you could get a bit handsy. And Argyle– he could say some pretty wild controversial things that sometimes made a lot of sense, but it certainly wasn't the right era to discuss them.

"Yeah, and I'm super spiritual, dude," Argyle said, still confused about why he had to be mindful of what he'd say or do.

"Yeah, I think that they're spiritual too. Just in a different way." The three of them eyed the two of you one last time before they knocked. A few minutes went by before the door finally swung open. Your eyes widened at the sight of a child.

He looked as if he hadn't showered in days. You were surprised that your group looked cleaner than he did despite him living in a big house, with what you assumed running water.

"Oh. Hey? Is Suzie here?" As you all took in the grubby child, Mike was the only one willing to speak. The only reply received was a scream as the boy pulled back his bow and released a suction-cupped arrow at Mike.

"Ow," Mike exclaimed. You scoffed, seeing as it was only a toy, and it couldn't have hurt that bad since he barely moved from the hit. The boy continued to scream before he turned to run somewhere deeper into the house. You all took that as an invitation to go in.

It felt as if you had been teleported into Neverland. It was pure, unfiltered chaos. There were children everywhere you looked, doing whatever they pleased. Two children insisted on playing with swords and speaking in a medieval dialect as they dueled on a wooden table.

"This is my kind of party," Argyle smiled at the girl's use of insults as she bashed her sword against her foe. You tried to be careful as toys, and random articles of clothing were littered on the floor, just waiting to be stepped on.

"I've been bitten! Help! Help!" You jumped as a girl collapsed right next to your feet as her hands wrapped around her throat. "Beautiful performance," a boy said, his camera aimed at the girls dying face.

"Excuse me? Uh, hey, we're looking for Suzie? "Jonathan tried getting their attention but was quickly brushed off. You were sure that your eyebrows had met your hairline the longer you continued to stay in the house.

Walking into the next room, which happened to be a small kitchen, two children were standing by the stove as they stirred and chopped away. "Hi. We're looking for Suzie." Mike tried to be firm, but the girl only glared at the lot of you.

"Don't know. Don't care." Your lips kissed the skin of your teeth; the house was full of unsupervised brats. There was silence as the lights shut off. The room would've been pitched black if it wasn't for the large windows in the other room.

"Cornelius!" A girl shouted as she flicked the power back on. You all watched as she grabbed hold of the dirty boy from earlier before stomping past you all. You felt your uninjured eye twitch as she looked back at Argyle before she continued pushing Cornelius throughout the house.

You had all managed to meet her at the top of the stairs when she put her brother into time out. "Who the hell are you?" she asked. Her gaze jumped from each of your faces but lingered too long on Argyle.

"Argyle. Who are you?" Argyle asked; he had a carefree smile on his face. Your eyes flashed as you studied Argyle's expression. He looked just as jovial as he usually did when he met someone knew, but you felt something akin to jealousy. She was pretty and probably smelt a thousand times better than you did at the moment.

Your mind began to race as you gently picked at a loose thread of the hoodie you still adorned. You didn't know why a wave of insecurities washed over you the longer you watched the two interact. You were hardly ever jealous, and you trusted Argyle wholeheartedly. He would never ever cheat on you, but at the end of the day, he could always fall out of love with you.

You were grateful when Jonathan cut in, not missing the look he had sent you. You turned your head away from him to look at all the framed pictures. You only snapped out of your mini trance when you felt a large familiar warm hand on your lower back guiding you through the halls. Argyle's soft smile melted most of your negative thoughts away to the back of your mind but a few still lingered.

"You alright, babe? I lost you there for a second," he joked, but you could hear the underlying worry in his voice. "Mhm, just peachy," you said as you caught up with the rest of the group. His eyebrows furrowed as he watched you step away and out of his personal bubble.

"Oh, great. She's not here." It felt wrong standing in a stranger's bedroom, no less a teenager whose only privacy was getting tainted the longer that you stood and looked around. You spent enough time with Jane (or should you start calling her El?) to know how important her room was to her, a little safe haven from the rest of the world.

"Give her a shove," Mike said, quoting Eden earlier as he began walking over to the open window. You all followed his league and stuck your head out to see if you could spot her. A girl wearing a yellow construction hat had her back facing you as she meddled with the antenna.

"Suzie?" That got the girl's attention as she looked over her shoulder to see you all peering up at her from her window.

"Who the heck are you? And what are you doing in my room?"

[bb-babyy]

[bb-babyy]

I wanna be yours

gif by emziess!

Synopsis: You can’t figure out why Steve’s always ragging on the guys you like. (Steve wants to be your vacuum cleaner, breathing in your dust. He wants to be your Ford Cortina, he will never rust.)

Word count: 5.1K

Warnings: jealous Steve, cursing, entirely too much detail and one long, sweet kiss

a/n: (we’re going to pretend that Chrissy isn’t with Jason for the purposes of this fic, okay?)

The bell above the door to Family Video is rusted, burnt sienna with streaks of tired ochre and tarnish.

Having suffered through several, sweltering Indiana summers, it’s a wonder that it’s still able to chime at all. The clapper within it should have long since oxidised, coated with sticky humidity and wet heat.

It does, however, and you’re bathed in cool air as you enter the establishment. The sweat beading the back of your neck stills, and you huff a sigh of relief, sneakers hitting hardwood as you head for the counter.

Steve’s fiddling with the Fast Times display when you pass him.

“Do you ever do any work, Harrington?” You tease, slowing to a halt to greet him. The light catches his dreamy head of hair first, the brown in his irises as he looks up. It’s airbrushed gold, and transforms the deep hues into something softer, almost pastel.

“This is work,” Steve returns without missing a beat; he thoroughly enjoys your cat-and-mouse game, almost as much as he does you. “I’m analysing her bod — you know, in case someone asks me why they should rent the movie out. Need to be able to provide said patron with every, small detail — well, these two,” he gestures toward Phoebe Cates’ bikini top, “aren’t exactly small details, but —”

“Disgusting Steve Harrington, seriously?” You interrupt, sending him a look of disdain. But there’s no fire to yours words, eyes twinkling a little as you say them. Soft enough to make this hurt; melt him into a puddle of hopeless goo.

“What?” He shrugs, “It’s boobs.”

“Yeah, babe, boobs,” a voice behind you reiterates, an endearing sort of hoarse, as though sticky honey has glued her vocal chords together. Robin’s voice has always been a little croaky. You think it’s because she laughs very loudly, or perhaps because she sings pop songs off-tune. She also yells at Steve entirely too often. You like this about her; the way she never apologises for her quirks.

“Yeah, yeah,” you concede, turning toward her with a roll of your eyes. “Moving on from boobs —”

“There’s no moving on from boobs,” Steve says then, raising his eyebrows meaningfully.

“I hate to agree with Harrington,” Robin adds, fixing you a solemn look, “but…”

And then she trails off, the corners of her mouth twitching, requiring little less than a second before she’s smiling wide, unabashed. You glare. Pointedly. It’s sweet, Steve decides, as though you’re trying to be endearing. He fights the urge to lean in close, swipe his thumb under the pocket of your bottom eyelid.

“Okay, shit, we’re done,” she assures, raising her arms in playful surrender. Steve watches her search your features, the soft gleam in your eye, the bruising hue to your lips. There’s heat in your cheeks, as though someone else has touched them. Rough, calloused, with a pleasure driven carelessness. “Anyway. How was the date?”

“Date?” Steve clears his throat. Something white-hot licks the guilty crevices of his gut. “You went on a date?”

“Not exactly a date,” you correct, waving your hand in the air. But there’s a shyness to the way you say it, your voice lowered several decibels, as though the revelation is a secret kept. Steve’s eyes travel to the pillow of your palm. Someone else’s hands (not his, though he fantasises about it far more often than he’s willing to admit) have creased the skin there.

Steve tries to play it cool. He fails. “Not exactly?” He echoes, and then, he clears his throat again. “What does that even mean?”

“He was just there at the end of my shift,” you say with a shrug. “So we shared a milkshake. No big deal.”

“Yeah, after he spent the last two weeks using his little sister as an excuse to see you,” Robin adds impatiently, raising her eyebrows at you.

She hasn’t known you and Steve long enough to understand why you’re playing this down; she’s doing the opposite of diffusing the tension, and you find yourself wondering whether strangling her would shut her up. Perhaps using the superglue Keith keeps behind the desk, the industrial kind he swears he only uses on the tapes — not to fix the broken awning, the other parts of the store that are in disrepair.

“Who?” Steve asks with a frown.

“That dude that goes to Indiana State,” Robin says, brow furrowing some as she takes in his features. Her eyes fall to the iron-clad grip he has on the Fast Times’ cut out; his knuckles are blanching, and she can see the makings of a ruck within the cardboard. “Uh, Jason, I think? He was on the basketball team when he was at Hawkins’,” she adds helpfully, taking a step forward to snatch it from his grasp. “Dude, you’re fucking with the display. Relax.”

“Jason?” Steve echoes with a scoff, abandoning all attempts at cool disinterest. The fingers that had puckered cardboard Phoebe Cates’ fly to the back of his neck, freshly hand-mussed tips of hair kissing the skin there. “Seriously?”

You try not to grimace.

This is how it always goes when you’re caught up in someone new; Steve rags on them like it’s his full-time job, like you don’t deserve to play the field like he does. His behaviour used to be a source of significant bemusement, once upon a time, and you even remember questioning him about it back then.

You’d interrupted his rant about Willie Olsen the “selfish douchebag”, who “once brought a babe — and I’m talking, seriously out of his league, here, I mean — have you seen the dudes nose? It’s all messed up, and way too big for his face, and — alright, anyway, he brought this chic to Scoops!Ahoy, right? Didn’t even pay for her ice cream. Stood there while she fished around for quarters in her little purse… I mean, seriously? No way you’re going out with this guy. He’s a total dickwad —” with a drawn out sigh. The introspective kind, solemn eyes meeting his gaze with something akin to tiredness.

“Why,” you’d started, knitting your brow slightly, “do you always do this?”

And Steve had brushed his knuckles over your cheek, smooth charm that left hot static in it’s wake, saying, with entirely too much ease, “Doing what?” Saying, “I’m just being a good friend and warning you about him.” Saying, “Trust me. I’m a guy. You’re wasting your time with him.”

But what if you wanted to waste your time? What if you wanted someone with slippery intentions, wanted to tuck screaming and crying and textbook heartbreak into your repertoire?

“You didn’t hear me ragging on Nance when the two of you first started dating,” you’d grumbled then, fixing him with a look for fierce resolution.

And when he’d winced, the wound still fresh, you’d almost felt sorry for him. Almost, until you’d remembered the way he was acting; the fact that he’d been on a million dates, stolen several more kisses, and done stupid things with many, many, stupid girls.

Barring you.

“Yeah, well,” he’d answered, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth, “kind of wish you had, to be honest.”

And though you’d ended it at that, the conversation had set spark to something small — a tiny, barely there inkling that grew, and grew, and grew. Hope. Because perhaps Steve’s overprotectiveness stemmed from a deeper emotion, one that was far more unforgiving. Perhaps it was gnawing jealousy calling the shots; perhaps he didn’t like the idea of you and Willie because he was intent on the idea of you and him.

Except that, no, that couldn’t be it. Not when Steve was taking someone new to Skull Rock every other night; bragging about his many conquests, meeting you with lipstick stains on his collar, smelling of pink bubblegum, lavender and fainter musk.

So you’d given up. On trying to figure out his intentions; on attempting to decode the male psyche as a whole. He was acting this way because he was selfish, that’s all, and maybe even a little bit stubborn. He didn’t like you, nor was he in any way jealous — you couldn’t afford to think like that, entertain the idea of letting him in.

Pining for your best friend is a funny thing.

And Robin, sweet, unassuming (—infuriating, frustrating—), Robin, doesn’t quite understand it, just yet.

“Why do you care, Harrington?” She asks archly, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t you take Stacy to that party at Bob’s last week?”

“Besides the point,” Steve dismisses. He takes a step toward you, placing his hands on either shoulder. It’s a firm, heart-squeezing pressure, juxtaposing the soft abandon in his eyes, the barely-there crease in his brow. “He sucks. We’ve been through this.”

“Steve,” you groan, though you make no move to shake him off. You fold you arms across your chest, elbow knocking the sliver of skin beneath his polo. It’s a tendril of electric touch, but it’s enough for the temperature in the room to rise several degrees. “You need to stop meddling.”

“I’m not meddling,” he argues, to which Robin says, “Uh, yeah you are.”

Steve fixes her with a pointed glare, his hold on your shoulders loosening some. He doesn’t quite slide his hands down the length of arms, but he’s close enough for the static to raise goosebumps. His touch feels like feather-light fire, and he halts at your wrists, giving them a fleeting squeeze each. You let out a tired breath. It comes out quick and terse, as though you didn’t know that you were holding it in.

“It’s nothing,” you insist, prompting Steve to look back toward you. “Just a shake. Don’t think he’s my type, anyway.”

The reassurance acts to subdue him, if only marginally, the wringing ache in his chest growing weaker, settling. “Good,” he decides, nodding his approval. “You deserve better.”

Better than Jason, better than Willie, better than a mundane, small-town existence in middle-of-nowhere, Hawkins Indiana. Better than perfectly preened hedges and the purlieus of dead end suburbia; better than a family of four, an absent husband, an American dream that doesn’t exist anymore.

Better than him.

—

Steve’s sorting through a box of returned tapes when Robin brings up the date (not date, almost date) again.

“So,” she starts, knocking a brown edge with her hip. “What do you have against this Jason kid?”

Steve fights the urge to scowl. There’s a knowing lilt to her tone, as though it’s a rhetorical question, and he knows placating Robin is the only way he’ll be able to avoid it. “Nothing,” he answers mildly, watching her swipe a tape from the pile.

“Pretty in Pink,” she reads intently, smiling with teeth. “Ironic.”

Steve knows he shouldn’t ask. And yet, “Why?”

“Oh, you know,” Robin answers easily, turning it around to read the synopsis. “Boy has unrequited crush on girl. Boy gets angry when girl likes someone else —”

“I’m not Duckie,” Steve interrupts, scowling. “Come on. I’m Blane. I’m the blueprint of Blane.”

“King Steve is Blane,” Robin corrects. “Or, was Blane, and is now working at Family Video and babysitting a bunch of dipshits and is probably, definitely, Duckie.”

“The fact that you even know the plot of Pretty in Pink,” Robin adds thoughtfully. “Further proves that you’re Duckie.”

Steve grinds his teeth together. “Nance made me watch it,” he mutters resolutely, snatching the tape from her grasp. “I get the number of like, every second chic that walks into the store. I’m Blane.”

“Blane gets the girl,” Robin says then, unperturbed by his pained expression. She thoroughly enjoys riling him up, especially when said riling brings forth secret revelations. You know — like hopelessly smitten Steve’s big, fat crush. He’s pathetic over you. Robin can’t believe it’s taken her so long to clock it.

“You won’t,” she adds, punching a forefinger into his chest. It’s pressure enough to bruise, as if his poor heart hasn’t already been manhandled enough. As if the strings that hold it together don’t already strum a symphony every time you’re near. Steve’s long since given up on deciphering his emotions. All he knows is this — where there’s a beginning, there’s you. Where there’s an end, there’s you. And every detail in between; every thought, every feeling, every time he closes his eyes and every time he allows them to open, there’s you. “Not the way you’re going.”

Steve feels panic drum through his veins. “Get the girl?” He coughs, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “What are you talking about?”

“Jason? Seriously?” She mimics, her voice dropping several octaves as she pinches the column of her throat. “You deserve better. Also, my hands are like really, really, sweaty and I’m acting really, really, stupid because I like you.”

She turns then, twirling her hair and sighing dramatically, voice higher like she’s pretending to be you. “Oh Steve,” she says then, practically swooning, “I had absolutely no idea, because you’re a complete and total douchebag and have never even hinted at the fact that you’re crushing on me —”

“I’m not crushing on her,” Steve lies, through his fucking teeth. “I’m just being a good friend, alright? Making sure guys don’t fuck with her.”

“What?” Robin accuses, cocking her head to one side. She looks infuriatingly smug. Steve wants to strangle her. “The same way you fucked with girls when you were in high-school?”

Steve winces, having the common sense to appear a little sheepish. “Not what I meant.”

“No,” Robin agrees. “Not what you meant, but exactly what you were thinking, huh?”

“I’m not crushing on her,” Steve repeats.

“My bad. You’re right. This is way too far gone to be just a little crush —”

“Okay, enough,” He interrupts with a scowl, muttering a fair few expletives under his breath before continuing. “I get it.”

“Do you?” Robin asks pointedly, and the light catches her eyes then, speckling deep blue with fire and mischief. “Because shitting on all the dudes she likes isn’t doing anything but pushing her away.”

Steve scoffs, shaking his head dismissively. “I’m not about to take girl advice from a girl who likes boobs. That’s dumb. It has to like, cancel out or some shit. PEMDAS.”

Robin rolls her eyes, deciding against rising to the bait. “Dude,” she sighs, plucking another tape from the heaping pile. Risky Business, this time, with a protagonist that Steve worships, a title that reads exactly as his love life does. “Use your brain.”

She pauses then, rapping her knuckles against the side of his head for good measure. “There’s one in there, right?”

“Robin,” Steve mutters through gritted teeth, sending her a warning glance. “Your point?”

“Relax, Harrington, think about it,” she answers easily, retrieving her hand. “You didn’t even know about her date.”

Steve expression falters, brow furrowing a little. “So?”

“So,” Robin presses, waving the tape in the air, “I did. Got all the deets the other day. The same ones she’s been hiding from you.”

“Hiding from me,” Steve repeats, painstakingly slow, and it’s as though you can see the cogs turning in his brain. “Fuck.”

“Fuck,” Robin agrees sagely.

Steve turns to her then, folding his arms across his chest. “How many have there been?”

“Dates?” Robin questions, to which he nods curtly, “Oh, shit, I don’t know. There was that Tommy dude that took her to the arcade last week, and Dave, too, think he asked her out when she was working? Oh, and Walter that works down at the dock gave her his number, but I don’t think that one went anywhere…”

Steve feels the first name like a knife to his chest, plunging deeper with the second, twisting back with the third. There’s a sticky sense of jealousy that coats the base of his stomach; it’s cruel and cloying, ugly enough to ache. Long, drawn out pangs of envy, as though someone is wringing out his heart until it shrivels.

“…anyway, none of them have turned into anything serious,” Robin finishes, seemingly unaware of the carnage she’s left behind. Steve is spiralling. He’s thinking about Tommy’s thumb brushing a crescent moon on your cheek, his palm caressing your jaw, his lips pressing conviction into yours. He’s thinking about arcade lights, how romantic you look in technicolor, the way your eyes shine bright and your full lips pucker. He’s thinking about Dave winning the fucking lottery, receiving the luxury of a few, uninterrupted moments in your presence. He’s thinking about stupid Walter who works at the docks, good-for-nothing, and yet, possessing a tendril more bravery than he does.

And he’s thinking about Jason fucking Carver, his stupid letterman wrapping you up tight. Your bergamot perfume, faint lavender and notes of petrichor, imprinting the cotton it’s made of. He’s thinking about the two of your sharing a straw, of the strawberry shake on your lips, the way it dampens the sheen of your lipgloss. He’s thinking about Jason pulling you close, his hands on your soft skin, chaste kisses on softer lips. The base of Steve’s throat is inflamed, angry, and he’s thinking about Jason getting to call you his, Jason asking you to settle down, Jason giving you his last name and you giving him six little nuggets.

Not Steve.

He didn’t get there in time; didn’t quite manage to get his shit together.

The revelation is panic and adrenaline, and Steve findings himself straightening on instinct. “Robin,” he says suddenly, taking the tape from her hand and throwing it back into the box. “I need to go.”

Robin raises her eyebrows, surveying Steve’s features with someone akin to mild amusement. “Where?”

“You know where.”

“I want to hear you say it, dipshit.”

Steve sends her one, last glare, pointing a stern finger in her direction before turning on his heel. “Lock up when you’re done,” he throws over his shoulder, “I’ll be the one Keith kills if you forget.”

—

No one’s home when Steve arrives at your door.

His ignition is still rumbling, car wedged right against the curb with the driver’s side door still open. It’s a haphazard park job, definitely not his best, and the noisy whir of his engine is commotion enough to cause a din.

The kind that’s sure to alert your next-door neighbour to his arrival; the grinning, fresh-faced leech that loves to annoy him.

“Steve!” Dustin calls loudly, rolling his bike toward him. His helmet sits precariously on a full head of curls, carefully decorated with DnD stickers, Hellfire Club stuff that Steve doesn’t concern himself with. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for your neighbour, actually,” Steve returns, sending him a nod before heading back down your porch steps. He makes for his car, raising his eyebrows as Dustin’s route changes to follow him. “What are you doing?”

Dustin waits until he’s at the edge of the sidewalk, leaning his bike against the passengers side door. “I know where she is.”

Steve stares at him expectantly, gesturing for him to continue. “Where?”

“Somewhere,” Dustin supplies unhelpfully, “Out.”

“I can tell you,” he adds then, flashing Steve that infuriatingly toothy smile. “After you’ve dropped me off at the skate park.”

Steve sighs. Dustin’s grin widens.

“Fucking fine,” he mutters, opening the backseat and throwing Dustin’s bike in. It lands on top of an old cardigan of yours, one you’d left behind the last time you’d been in his car.

“Dude, don’t manhandle the Hendo machine,” Dustin admonishes, peering over Steve’s shoulder with a frown. He catches a glimpse of soft coral, peony hues, that one, ketchup stain that’s fading near the neckline.

“That’s not yours,” he notes.

“Very perceptive Sherlock Holmes, thank you,” Steve returns.

“Perceptive?” Dustin echoes, cocking his head to one side. “Big word for your vocabulary. You been studying up for something?”

“Someone?” He adds pointedly, gaze darting back to the pink cardigan.

“You’re on thin ice, Henderson,” Steve warns, decidedly ignoring his question. He rounds the back of the car tersely, wasting no time opening the driver’s side door and buckling in.

“Been on thin ice for months,” Dustin shrugs, quick to follow suit. “Happy staying here a few more.”

The drive to the skate park isn’t very long, but that doesn’t stop Dustin fiddling with the car radio incessantly. “To find the perfect tune for the occasion,” he insists when questioned, tongue pressed between his teeth as he skips through static, the news, catchy, bubblegum pop that makes Steve’s head hurt.

When he finally settles on a station, it’s to the chords of a song Steve knows entirely too well. The last time he heard it, he was parked up at Skull Rock; you had discarded of your cardigan, turned the volume dial right up.

“Oooooh, love,” you’d sang, loudly, unabashedly, voice sweetened with bubbles of soft laughter, “oooooh lover boy, what’cha doin tonight, hey boy?”

Your shoulders had knocked then, skin-on-skin like dizzying static, and you’d leaned right over the centre console, fading sunbeams softening your irises. And Steve remembers thinking, fuck if any of this makes sense, but you look so out-of-reach, almost iridescent. A live wire.

“Set my alarm,” you’d breathed out with a soft laugh, allowing your lashes to flutter shut, features twisted in mock concentration. And your hand had fallen to his shoulder, barely-there pressure that took the oxygen from his lungs, and he’d inched closer on instinct, eyes darting to your full lips, the way they moved as you sang. It was mesmerising. He wanted to feel them against his, touch you everywhere, and then, do it again. And again. Over and over, enough times to commit all of you to memory.

He’d sang, “turn on my charm,” eyes gleaming danger as he placed his hand on the dashboard. The movement corralled you in, but you felt safer here, somehow, the air a concoction of bergamot and cologne, of anticipation, unrequited love.

And then, the moment had passed. He wasn’t going to let it do so, this time around.

“Okay,” Steve says impatiently, slowing to a stop near the side of the skate park. He can see a few of the other kids in the distance, a flash of fiery auburn, a hard-to-miss bowl cut that he wishes Will would grow out. “We’re here. Spit it out.”

“Grocery store,” Dustin supplies, reaching back to grab his bike. A wheel knocks Steve’s headrest as he pulls it into the front seat, a resounding sort of thump that is oddly reminiscent of Robin’s knuckles. “Went to grab some milk.”

“Seriously?” Steve scowls, rubbing the back of his head. “Milk? So I could’ve just waited for her?”

“I guess,” Dustin nods thoughtfully, pushing open the door.

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose frustratedly, shaking his head in defeat. “You owe me,” he says, though there’s no way he means it.

Dustin knows this. He smiles with teeth. “Sure.”

And then, “I’ll be done in an hour!”

“Why the fuck are you telling me?”

“Who do you think’s gonna pick me up, genius?”

—

Steve’s hold on your cardigan is soft, gentle. It’s the first thing you notice when you open the door to him, the way his feather-light touch juxtaposes the Demogorgon-related scars on his hands, the rough callouses that surround them.

“Steve,” you greet, a hint of surprise in your voice. “What’s up?”

Steve flounders. “Uh,” he says, pressing the pink fabric into your chest, “this is yours.”

“You came to my house to give me my cardigan back?” You question bemusedly, covering your hand with his. The skin of your palm is smooth, unblemished, and Steve feels an overwhelming urge to keep it that way. No fighting creatures from the Upside Down. He’ll wield a million, spiky baseball bats if it meant keeping you out of harms way.

“Yes,” Steve falters, rocking back on his heels. Your nimble fingers slip under his, retrieving the cardigan from his grasp.

“Uh, okay?” You say then, gazing at him intently. “I’ll see you later?”

And you’re about to turn around when Steve stops you, one hand clasping your wrist, the other one the door hinge. “No,” he insists, “what are you doing tonight?”

“Oh, um,” he’s taking up all of your personal space, the inches between you amounting to a single breath of oxygen. “Nothing. Is Robin free?”

“No, I mean,” Steve winces then, his brow furrowing slightly. This close, you can count every freckle smattering his nose, and there’s a pert dimple near the corner of his mouth — has that always been there? “Just us.”

You furrow your brow. “Why?”

“Because,” Steve answers, gesticulating awkwardly. This close, his Family Video vest brushes your skin; he’s wearing a polo underneath it, and his biceps ripple as he moves his arm about. You find yourself fixating on how strong he looks, how easily he could pick you up. If he wanted to. You want him to. “I don’t know. We were friends first, weren’t we?”

“Oh,” you say with a nod, chewing your bottom lip absently. “Hanging out as friends.”

“No — shit, I —” Steve stutters, resisting the urge to grimace. This close, he can trace the outline of your full lips. Your shoulders are bare, save the spaghetti strap of your tank top, and when you swallow, the column of your throat bobs up and down a little. Goosebumps grace the space beneath your earlobe. Steve wonders how many more he could raise with sloven kisses, with teeth grazing, with hot lips and roaming hands and unwavering conviction.

“— not what I meant,” he finishes with a sigh, combing his fingers through his hair. And then, feeling brave, he adds, “Why didn’t you tell me about Jason?”

You frown. “Because I didn’t want you to rag on him.”

“I only do that because I don’t want you to get hurt,” Steve insists. “I’m just trying to look out for you —”

“Well,” you interrupt, folding your arms across your chest. “Jason was perfectly nice this afternoon.”

“Maybe,” Steve agrees reluctantly, “But — but he’s a jock. Total waste of time, not the kind of guy you wanna settle down with —”

You let out an exasperated scoff, throwing your arms in the air. “Who says I’m looking to settle down?”

“No, shit, not what I meant,” Steve flounders, pressing his hands into your forearms placatingly. “What I’m trying to say is, you could do better. Way better.”

You try to ignore the firm pressure he places, how safe it makes you feel, taken care of. And just when you’re sure you have it down, he lets his hands drop to yours, fingers brushing skin like hot waves of electricity. You feel them in your cheeks, fleeting tendrils that bloom bright, and then, uncomfortably warm.

“Better?” You hedge, brow furrowing. “Who?”

“A movie star,” Steve offers, “Tom Cruise.”

You roll your eyes then, allowing your arms to unfold. The base of your knuckles hit his chest as you do so, right where his heart sits, squeezing it’s way into his throat. “You need to stop.”

Steve frowns. “Stop what?”

“This,” you sigh, “This thing you do with the guys I like. Obviously I’m not looking to settle down right now, but I will — eventually, you know? I need to figure out what my type is if that’s gonna happen. And your lack of support is putting a serious downer on me doing so.”

That’s exactly what Steve’s afraid of.

He’s fucking terrified that you’ll figure out that your type isn’t him; that you’ll find someone better, and he’ll spend the rest of his days drowning in unrequited love.

“I want to be supportive,” Steve says softly, “I just — it’s hard, alright? It’s hard seeing you with guys that don’t deserve you.”

“Guys like Jason fucking Carver,” he adds bitterly, his mind a mess of jealousy, hopelessness, longing. “Who don’t know shit about making you laugh, couldn’t name your favourite movie, that one Queen song you always sing off-tune. Like, does Jason know that you can only stomach chicken soup when you’re on your period? Or the fact that you’re allergic to one of the ingredients in Airheads — imagine if he got you some for movie night. Imagine if he didn’t buy you sour patch kids, the extra sour kind that no one but you likes, which seriously, something has to be wrong with your tastebuds, because —”

When you cut him off with a kiss, Steve feels as though he’s been struck by lightning. He stumbles backward at first, not due to the force of the movement, but of the nerve-endings you light aflame, a heat that sears through his insides. His hands find purchase on your hips, and he pulls you close, closer still, you’re not close enough, he wants to feel you fucking melt into his skin. And the pressure of your lips on his — soft at first, firmer with encouragement, it’s dizzying, all-consuming, like he’s a drug addict getting a hit.

His large hands trail fire up your arms, your shoulders, your neck, finding home in the space where it hinges, your soft jaw. He cradles your face as though you’re delicate China, his barely-there touch making up for scraping kisses. Hard on your lips, wet as he finds your cheeks, careless and open-mouthed down your neck, the osculate of your collarbones.

When he halts, it’s to catch his breath. He realises he’s getting carried away. He isn’t sure he cares.

“You kissed me,” he murmurs, into your skin, like a prayer.

“I needed to shut you up,” you say then, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him up to eye level.

Steve grins, bad decisions dilating his pupils. “Should shut me up like that more often.”

“Should profess your undying love for me more often,” you tease.

“Is that what I was doing?” Steve questions with a frown, brow furrowing in mock concentration, “Because I swear I was just telling you all the reasons Jason’s bad for you —”

“Insufferable, Steve Harrington, honestly,” you interrupt, shaking your head bemusedly. “You’re lucky I know how to read between the lines.”

Steve raises his eyebrows, swiping his thumb over the contour of your cheek. “What did you find?”

“That,” you say pointedly, feeling his touch like blooming warmth, heart-squeezing love. “The real reason my stupid best friend Steve Harrington doesn’t like me with other guys is because he thinks I should be with him.”

“Right,” Steve says, nodding sagely. “And what would you say in response?”

“That he should probably tell me how he feels,” you return, smile cotton-candy soft.

“Got it,” Steve answers, clearing his throat pointedly. “So. Okay. Here’s the thing. The real reason I rag on all the guys you like is probably definitely super selfish, but that’s only because I’m seriously pathetic over you — no, you don’t get it, lame enough that I’ll rag on myself if we do end up together. Because, okay, you definitely deserve better, and you’re crazy out of my league and that’s why my jealousy ends up taking over, and — can you tell I’m talking too much now? I kind of want you to shut me up like you did before —”

“Steve,” you say, giggling something sweet. “Stop.”

“What I’m trying to say,” he continues with a grin, “is that I’m in love. With you. Always have been, always will be. You know?”

—

tags: @drewbooooo @goddamnbabysitter @milkiane

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Hii could u do a headcanon of steve with a sincair reader? :)

Dating Steve Harrington and Being a Sinclair

summary: what it’s like to date steve and be a sinclair kid !!

pairing: steve harrington x gn!reader (sinclair!reader)

warnings: swearing

note: sorry this took so long !! i hope you love it :) tagging @racyreverie because they also requested this !!

Steve is absolutely enamored by you the moment he sees you !!

You’re just so gorgeous and you have the prettiest smile and the cutest eyes and he’s positive he’s in love

You would always bring your little sister, Erica, into Scoops Ahoy for ice cream

Steve would always insist on being the one to take your order. Robin always teases him the moment you and Erica walk in the door.

He starts stuttering and stumbling and he basically makes a complete fool out of himself. He’s definitely not the “King Steve” you remember from high school.

You heard about Steve pretty frequently from your brother, Lucas, and his friends, who basically worshipped Steve.

Eventually, Steve works up his courage and (with a little push from Robin) asks you out.

He shows up at your door with flowers, ready to take you on the best date of your life.

Then, Erica opens the door.

You could hear her interrogation of Steve from your room. By the time you make it to the door to greet Steve, he’s flustered and looks like he ran a mile.

Despite his nerves (and many threats from your little sister), he manages to take you on a very cute date. He sets up a cute little picnic at the park for you (with Dustin’s help of course).

Lucas is a little weirded out by your relationship with Steve. He’s not the closest with Steve and he finds it pretty awkward.

Sometimes, when Lucas gets up to get a glass of water, he’ll catch Steve sneaking out of your room well past midnight. It’s definitely awkward.

He eventually warms up to it, though.

Erica, on the other hand, makes it very clear to Steve that if he ever hurts you, he’ll face her wrath.

He does eventually win her over when he offers her free ice cream whenever she wants. Her and her friends take full advantage of it.

Your parents love Steve !! He’s polite and he’s courteous and he’s just the sweetest guy ever.

Steve is very good with parents so I feel like everyone’s parents would just love him !!

Steve is invited to family dinner at least once a week. He’s very thankful that your family likes him.

Dustin gives Lucas so much shit about your relationship with Steve.

Steve loves you and your family so much !! It’s a major bonus that your family loves him just as much as you do :)

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The Spider-Man and Spinneret Master-List: completed

Once Upon a Time there was a tale of two spiders...

Over the years of dangerous endeavors, Peter Parker realized: Everyone needs someone to share things with even superheroes.

Main Master-List

Pairing: Tobey!Peter Parker x Reader

A/N: It’s done! I hope you guys enjoy this, I’m always willing to write more for Peter (any of the Peters(I just think Tobey’s particularly hot but I like all of them))

Prolouge

Chaper 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10. NWH Spoilers

Chapter 11. NWH Spoilers

Chapter 12. NWH Spoilers

Chapter 13. NWH Spoilers

Epilogue

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Eduardo Franco is so hot you just aren’t just sleeping on him you are in a coma

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Drunk! Peter and he’s all over reader telling her how he wants to marry her and being handsy lol

hi I hope this okay <3

"I like gardenias," Peter declares, drunk as a skunk and climbing all over you. 

You're never letting him go out with his friends again, you decide, brushing the hair out of your sloshed boyfriend's eyes. "Me too," you say. 

"Yeah?" he looks exceedingly pleased by this, more pleased than he has any reason to be. He smells like wine coolers. 

"Sure. They're pretty." 

"And lily of the valley," he adds. "Sweatpeas, jasmine. Oh! Astilbe." 

"You've lost me," you say. 

Peter wrinkles his nose and works his way further still into your lap, hands at your waist. You roll your eyes at his face, tucked against your chest, very obvious in its position. 

"That's fair. We'll ditch the astilbe. Astrantia instead?" 

"Baby, what is an astrantia?" you ask, fingers in his hair.

Each time you stroke his hair back from his face his eyes close, like a puppy. It's adorable. He might be drunk and a little messy right now, but he's still your boy. You'd die for this idiot.

"A flower?" he asks, squinting up at you. "I'm talking about a bouquet." 

"Oh," you say. 

You're distracted from asking why he's discussing bouquets with you at 2AM on the living room sofa when you should both be sleeping by his hands catching yours where it cards through his hair.

He sits up to kiss your fingers, your wrist, small pecks that turn open mouthed that turn nibbling, little wet nips running a course to the sleeve of your T-shirt. He grumbles at being stopped short. You're giggling quietly, endeared and adorned by his affections; you feel like the prettiest girl on earth, covered in his tiny kisses. 

"Red velvet?" he asks suddenly, encouraging you to lie back.

"Are you hungry?" you ask, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt.

"What? No." He sounds frustrated. "Do you like red velvet?" 

"Why are you asking?" 

"For the cake," he says, as if this is obvious. You realise Peter is having a conversation without you and elect to ignore his drunken woes, pulling his face down so you can hug him against your shoulder. 

"Maybe we should go to bed, hot stuff." 

"Are you kidding? We have so many decisions to make." 

"They can definitely wait until the morning, baby," you say warmly. 

He starts running his hands over your chest, your arm, your chest again. He doesn't touch anywhere important without asking, a gentleman even now, but the longing in his eyes makes you wish he would sober up for proper kisses. 

"They can't wait," he insists. "These are so important. We need to talk about them."  

You sigh dramatically, feeling very sorry for yourself, long suffering and tired. "Can we talk about them in bed, Peter?" 

"No, you'll distract me." 

"I'll be too busy sleeping." He pouts. You burst into laughter. "Babe! It's so late, I waited up for you so we could fall asleep together and you waylaid me with hickeys and a game of twenty questions!" You plead your case.

It's Peter's turn to sigh, though his is more of an indignant groan. "This isn't twenty questions, woman!" You raise your eyebrows, dying of laughter on the inside, and he amends, "My beloved. It's not twenty questions." 

"What is it, then?" 

He smirks at you, hands on either side of you and his knee between your thighs. You suddenly remember how tall he is and how stern he can be when he's not obliterated by cheap booze. 

He leans down to whisper in your ear. "I'm gonna marry you." 

"Get off of me," you say, rolling your eyes. 

"I'm gonna marry the fuck out of you, and then I'm gonna fuck the marry out of you, and we're gonna have centerpieces made up of a thousand white gardenias and asta- astrav- astantrias!" 

"And this has to happen tonight?" you ask, playing along, a feeling of white hot and reverential love blossoming from the centre of your chest. 

"If you don't mind!" he almost shouts. 

"I want vanilla cake," you say steadily, quietly, reaching your hands up to pinch his red cheeks.

His eyes are wide but he's calmer now he's realised you're on his side. "Good choice," he says, blinking. "What frosting? Buttercream, right? Fondant is for losers." 

You giggle until you can't breathe. He drops his head down into your chest, hugs your ribs so tight it aches. You can feel his smile even through your sleep shirt. 

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“i’m not scared but if you are, you can hold my hand.” with argyle 😋

IZZY I LOVE THIS PROMPT SHUT UP SGGEGHE, i was gonna set this during season four but im simply pretending none of that hot mess exists, we live in my fanon universe where everyones alive and well, el never gets bullied, no one croaks, everyone is happy in california or indiana (minus brenner he can still choke) <3

Join the sleepover

The first time Jonathan invited Y/n over to their weekly movie night she was hesitant, being new to Lenora and only really getting to know a few people. However he'd seen her curse out one of the freshman girls at lunch for bullying his younger sister and immediately befriended her, and with his friendship came his best friend Argyle. However when he rushed over with Jonathan to pull El away from the scene-he was absolutely smitten at the sight of her.

She stood in front of Angela, clearly intimidating the younger girl as she shoved her back once after cursing her and her friends out, not to mention the fact that she'd smacked the books out of one of the boy's hands-then she picked one up and threw it at another one of the boys.

Then once the four bullies were gone, Y/n turned to see the three boys and the girl that she stepped in to help. Jonathan immediately thanking her and introducing himself, followed by El introducing herself as Jane-then adding in that she could call her El, then Will spoke, and finally she stared at Argyle, her dark brows raised as she waited for him to speak. The entire time he just stared with his lips parted-Jonathan having to introduce himself.

El was the one who brought up movie night, and Jonathan agreed-inviting her over if she was up to it-and she agreed. Not before stating that if anyone tried anything she'd murder them.

After that she found herself hanging out with the older boys more often, Argyle still kept his conversations with her short-instead he opted to admire her-a lovesick smile on his face as he'd listen to her rant and rave about things. Never really knowing when to make a move.

Their movie nights became a regular occurrence, tonight no different-except they were watching the exorcist. Which Y/n specifically told El and Will they didn't have to sit through if they didn't want to-which in turn resulted in the two fifteen year olds leaving twenty minutes into the movie.

Then of course Jonathan was a little too high to function, leading him to falling asleep in his seat, so it was just Y/n and Argyle. She was perfectly fine watching the movie, if anything she'd grimmace every now and then-but he was somewhat jumpy-to the point that she had to shifter herself, draping a leg over his while leaning into him and whispering "I'm not scared but if you are, you can hold my hand".

His eyes shot open, heart practically pounding against his chest and he couldn't tell if it was because of the girl next to him. Then to make things worse she trailed a finger along his shoulder-then shifted his hair-sliding it behind his shoulder as she leaned her head against it, placing her open hand on top of her thigh that was covering his.

"this shit's freaking me out dude" she giggled at his whisper, then she looked up at him from his shoulder, his eyes already on her "you're not even watching!" he shook his head "have you seen this? i don't think anyone should be watching" she laughed this time, then he laced his fingers through hers-firmly grasping her hand.

"You're really pretty Y/n" she smiled, raising a brow "you're not that bad yourself-now watch the movie scardy cat" he shook his head "or we could go indulge in some exotic flower" she laughed, glancing over at Jonathan who was still asleep "can I roll it?" he nodded "you can do anything you want, I'll follow you to the ends of the earth" she moved her leg, standing up-still holding his hand.

"Let's go"