#construction worker steve harrington | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

curiositydooropened · 1 year

Text

Group Therapy

Steve’s friends encouraged him to attend group therapy, to push past the nightmares and insomnia. In such a small community of sufferers, he didn’t expect to meet you.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x female!Reader

Wordcount: 15,461

Warnings: group therapy, trauma, PTSD, nudity, recreational drug use, minor character death (not canon characters). It's therapy, guys. There's a lot of angst, guilt, speaking of dead loved ones, etc.

This fic is incomplete. This is just part one, but I was dying to get it out, so here it is. There's a bit of a cliffhanger/questions unanswered, but those will be answered in the next part! xo

Navigation • Masterlist

---

Joyce suggested group therapy. She knew of a group that met weekly in the old DMV building. Steve wasn’t one to sit in chairs and talk about his feelings (although he pressured the kids to do as much every time he saw them), but he wasn’t one to deny the advice of a woman that cared for him like he hoped a mother would.

Joyce Byers often surprised him with those sentiments, dragging him from his car by the scruff of his neck to partake in family dinners with the kids or asking about the various dates with various girls she’d seen him on and with around town. She worried over his headaches, offering tried-and-true remedies, and all-but drove him to the optometrist to get his eyes checked.

Much to his chagrin, he had needed glasses, and much to Robin’s chagrin, he only wore them around Mrs. Byers or the kids, who would tattle on him if he didn’t.

So, when Joyce cornered him on Labor Day, after watching the skittered reactions of each sound effect the kids made during their weekly DnD game, Steve couldn’t argue with her logic.

“I found this flyer. I’ve gone a few times, but it’s on Thursdays and Thursdays are difficult with work,” she explained, placing the leaflet into his hand. “But it’s a good group of people, and I’ve seen a few young people go. I do really think it’d be nice to be able to talk to kids your own age, you know?”

He shrugged and offered a weak smile, and if anyone else had recommended it, he probably would have shrugged it off, crumpled the paper and tossed it into the bin at the end of the McDonald’s drive through. But it was Joyce, and she wouldn’t have mentioned it if she wasn’t genuinely concerned.

So on Thursday night, when the sad streets of Hawkins cleared of construction workers and the few loyal townsfolk driving home from their 9-to-5s, Steve gripped 10-and-2 and inched his way to the old DMV parking lot. He pulled into the same spot he did when he got his license three years ago, and he was surprised to see the lot littered with vehicles from all sorts of residents from Hawkins and the surrounding county. It took him a shaky breath or two to muster the courage to go inside, but he figured this couldn’t be worse than killing a few inter dimension monsters.

Before he exited his car, he pulled his glasses from their case in the center console and slipped them up the bridge of his nose, hooking them over his ears, and as the dimly lit concrete building got a little sharper, and his headache began to alleviate, he left the car and walked toward the front doors.

The collection of chairs made a perfect circle in the center of the room, but only two people sat, the rest mingling near a coffee carafe and a giant box of doughnuts. Steve found himself jittery enough, and jelly doughnuts still reminded him too much of the gaping hole in Eddie’s ceiling, so he opted to skip refreshments and find himself a seat in the circle.

His hand shook against the cool metal of the chair, from nerves or excessive damage to his nervous system, he was never quite sure anymore. He clenched his fist to squeeze past the tremor and seat himself, glancing down at the watch on his wrist to avoid the gaze of the others around the circle. He had to check the time three more times before his brain registered what time it actually was, and by then, the others had started to find seats around the circle.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and offered a shy smile to the woman who sat beside him. She seemed wary of his presence, but smiled politely in return. And because that exchange felt safe enough, he ventured a glance around the circle. He was surprised to see about twenty people, in various stages of life and dress, mostly cheerful, swapping mumbled greetings and shuffling into their seats to get comfortable.

The slam of door closing startled everyone to silence though, mood shifting to static as a woman in a tight-fitting skirt suit clacked across the linoleum toward the circle, waving the legal pad in her hand. “Sorry, sorry! Just me.” She explained, finding her seat directly at Steve’s eleven. She glanced up from wire-rimmed glasses, similar to Steve’s and flashed him the brightest smile he’d seen in a long time.

“I see we have a few new faces this evening,” she glanced around to avoid Steve the embarrassment, but he felt heat fan at his face as attention drew his direction.

“That’s great. Let’s all be sure to welcome them warmly.” She continued. “For those of you who don’t know, this is a group therapy session. We talk about our feelings here. This is a judgement-free zone, and we would really appreciate it if the things shared didn’t leave this room. What happens in group therapy stays in group therapy, right?”

The group around him let out a chorus of tired agreement, as though they’d heard the spiel week after week.

“Great. Now I do feel the need to preface that we talk a lot about loss during these sessions. Loss of loved ones, loss of homes, loss of control. If it gets to be too much for anyone, I encourage you bow out. You know your own boundaries better than the rest of us, but we also want you to know that some of us have found a real community here, and we’re here to welcome you with open arms.” This time, she spoke directly to Steve.

He offered a tight-lipped smile, but suddenly found his hands interesting to look at, the crags of scarring across his knuckles, the callouses that littered his palm over the last few months.

“Let’s start with an ice-breaker, shall we? We’ll go around the circle and share our name and say a hobby we’ve picked up recently! We haven’t done hobbies in a few weeks, right?” A chorus of no’s filtered through the circle. She clapped her hands together. “Perfect. I’ll start. Hi, I’m Cheryl, and a few weeks ago, my friends got me hooked on couponing. Have you heard of that? Where you cut coupons out of the Sunday morning paper? I got my groceries for half the price!”

“Half the price?” The woman beside Steve startled him. She seemed genuinely intrigued.

Cheryl grinned, winked. “I’ll tell you all about it after this. Go ahead, dear.”

And then beside Cheryl, voice raspy yet calm, you spoke your name and Steve’s attention was drawn to you like gravity. Joyce had mentioned people his age, but at first glance around the circle, no one here was younger than their 30s, no one but you. Your hair was shoved under a knit cap, and buttons of your denim jacket clacked against one another as you adjusted in your seat, tucking one sneakered foot up on the chair with you. Steve leaned a little closer on his knees to hear what you had to say.

“I’ve picked up cooking, mostly out of necessity,” you tucked your chin to your knee and finally ventured a glance Steve’s direction. “Learned how to put out a grease fire on Friday.” Your eyes flared a challenge, a rebellious streak that sent something through Steve as he watched your eyes observe his frame. He sat up a little straighter under your scrutiny, and you turned to hear the comments being made in regards to your answer to the prompt. “I might be able to manage a casserole. Give me a month.”

And it went that way down the line, various people with boring, small-town names talking about crochet and mountain biking. Steve watched them politely, anxiety curdling his stomach the closer around the circle it got to him. Occasionally, he’d glance your direction, as though you’d offer a lifeline, an out. Cheryl smiled encouragingly and every hobby he’d had flew from his memory.

“And what’s your name?”

“Uh…” His throat was dry. “Steve. I’m Steve.”

“Hi, Steve,” the room echoed, led by your conducting arms. The call startled him, and the room was reduced to chuckles at the apparent inside joke. Steve noticed the way you hid your laughs behind a hand, cuff of your sleeve pulled up over your knuckles.

“Ignore them,” Cheryl reprimanded, rolling her eyes. “Tell us one of your hobbies.”

Hobbies, hobbies. He swallowed, glanced around the room, trying to recall the pastimes of the others’. He definitely didn’t cook or coupon. He scratch a particular grading itch at the back of his neck and shrugged. “I swam in high school.”

“Okay, swimming’s cool,” Cheryl encouraged, smile too bright, blinding. “What about now? Do you still swim?”

He winced. Swimming and him hadn’t gotten along in recent years, what with Barb and Water Gate. “Yeah, not really.”

“Well what do you like to do for fun?”

Joyce hadn’t prepared him for the questions he’d be asked. Once again, head-empty, he wracked for something he did in his free time. Chauffeur little shits to the arcade and back? Watch them play their nerd game? None of those really constituted as fun, and he couldn’t exactly let a group of total strangers know that his most relaxed moments were spent at Hopper’s old cabin sharing a joint between co-trauma-victims.

He licked his lips and considered dates he’d been on recently. Out of habit, his eyes flickered to you. Your head was tilted to one side, expression expectant, and he realized he’d taken too long.

He blinked and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Um, driving? I really enjoy just going for long drives. Does that count?”

“Of course it does. Driving is a great way to let off steam.” Cheryl expressed with too bouncy of a nod.

“Kind of car you got, kid?” A grumpy old man asked off to the right.

Steve turned to face him. “BMW 733i. It’s an ’83.”

The man whistled, nodded. “German-mades are good cars.”

“Got a good sound system?” A man asked from the opposite side of the circle.

Steve shrugged, nodded, ran a hand through his hair, nearly knocking his glasses off. He still wasn’t used to them. “It’s pretty good. Bass doesn’t blow me out.”

When that man offered a hum of approval, he felt himself warm a little, like that little hum was the acceptance of the group. He relaxed a bit further into his chair and the woman beside him, Mina, took over, discussing her doll collection at length.

It continued this way around the circle, people discussing their interests like this wasn’t a group therapy session, like you weren’t all here to discuss what had happened to you or who Vecna had removed from your lives. You were just a circle of humans getting to know one another and talking about your passions, and Steve felt a bit soft about it. He even pitched in the conversation at one point when Carl, the sound system specialist, spoke about building his record collection. Steve offered a signed copy of a Kenny Rogers album he knew his dad wouldn’t miss. Carl seemed elated. Steve felt proud to be useful.

When he looked away, your gaze caught him, eyes narrowed in suspicion at his gesture, and he felt his face heat and he looked away. He didn’t recognize you, didn’t think he’d seen you before, but that insecurity lingered, the fear that you’d gone to school with him and King Steve had been a total dick to you.

“Alright,” Cheryl clapped her hands together. “That was fun. Shall we talk about the tough stuff now? Who wants to go first?”

—

No one made him talk, and for that he was grateful. He sat in silence, just soaking up the stories and the heartache, driving that ceaseless guilt a little further. He caught emotion in his throat at one point, during a particularly heartfelt story about Mina missing her niece and nephew for Labor Day, and he had to force himself to think about something else, anything else while he wiped the sting from his nostrils.

When you all stood, at the end of the session, he had half a mind to bolt, to leave and never return, to never mention it to Joyce. He prayed the rest of you would forget his existence, although he’d never forget all of you, your stories, the waver in voices as stories were passed around. He wanted to run, but Carl stopped him with a sturdy hand clapped to his shoulder, and then Elmer approached and the two men asked him questions about his car, eased him back from the anxiety tightening the collar of his shirt.

The older men argued about BMW versus Saab, and Steve found his attention straying from the conversation, as it often did when his dad and his uncle got into similar arguments over holiday dinners. He found you, pinching the edge of a glazed doughnut. You seemed unimpressed and unengaged in the conversations starting to pitter out as one-by-one, people started to leave.

Elmer shook Steve’s hand, excuse himself, and Carl did the same. Steve pulled his keys from his jacket pocket and followed them out, a crisp chill falling over the lot. He breathed fog and glanced upward at a cloudless sky.

“Stars look weird, huh? After all that smoke.” A voice from below startled him, and he looked to find you sidled up next to him, hands shoved into your jacket pockets.

“Really weird,” he agreed, but he couldn’t turn back to the twinkling night sky, not when you were standing beside him, staring up at the cosmos in wonderment, moonlight painting your skin a pale blue. “I’m sorry, but do I know you from somewhere?” He didn’t feel the sting of familiarity, but he figured the question was good to cover his bases.

You tilted your head to face his and a smile tugged at the corners of your lips. “Don’t think so.” You pulled a hand from your pocket to offer it his direction, reintroducing yourself.

He took your hand, small and warm from the insulation of your jacket. “Steve.”

“Steve who swam in high school and drives now.” You affirmed with a nod, placing your hand back in your pocket.

He chuckled and nodded. “That’s me.” He gestured to the car.

You offered a whistle to mimic Elmer’s, as though his car was something to marvel at, and that made a laugh bubble from his lips again. He liked the way you smiled at his laugh, as though you were proud you pulled it from him. He thought of Joyce always trying to cheer him up, of her placing the flyer in his hands.

“Can I ask you a question?”

You quirked an eyebrow, but shrugged. “Shoot.”

“Is this…” He glanced backward at the building, now void of light, doors locked, quiet. “Is this group therapy thing helping you at all?”

“Honestly?” You brought a thumb to your lips to chew at the corner of your nail, and you waited for him to nod before you shrugged. “Kind of. It’s nice to have people to talk to. Better than letting it stew.”

He knew what you meant, the guilt that bubbled there, just under the surface. He nodded. Then felt a little braver. “Do you come every week?”

You shrugged again, nodded. “Nothing better to do.”

“Except putting out grease fires,” he pointed out, tested the water with a tease, let you know he was listening. He didn’t know why he felt so desperate for your validation now, felt pride when his joked pulled a smile from your lips, your eyes rolling.

“Uh huh.” You took a few steps away from him. “Have a good night, Steve. See you next week.”

“See you.” He waited until you were in your car with the ignition on before he pulled out of the lot.

—

The following Thursday took twice the courage. Steve considered dragging Robin along, or even Eddie, but Robin had to work and Eddie still wasn’t widely accepted in the greater Roane County area. So, with a few steady breaths, he entered the little concrete building with a Kenny Rogers album under his arm. Carl stood from the circle to greet him, taking the vinyl to admire it, and Elmer met them near the snacks table to discuss a model BMW he found in his catalog, wanted to know if Steve would like him to buy it with his next order.

The men were much older than Steve, and gruff with their greetings, stiff upper-lip and all that, and Steve felt himself shy under their attention, shifting uncomfortably on the balls of his feet, searching the room for a familiar face. Well, if he was being honest, he was searching for you.

“Or not, saves me a few bucks that I could use on a Thunderbird I was looking at,” Elmer grumbled under his breath when Steve hadn’t responded, and the younger boy shook his hair from his eyes.

“No, no. It’d be really cool if you ordered the model for me,” he offered a smile. “I have a friend that paints models.”

It took ages to be allowed into Erica’s room, only permitted to babysit her from the doorway with crossed arms and a frown, but one day she finally asked for his opinion on a paint job she’d done on a model dragon. Eddie had commissioned her, paid her extra to keep the Big Bad a secret from the boys, but she wasn’t sure about the gold. So when she called him in with an “okay, shithead, you can come in”, Steve made sure to really admire her handiwork. He’d never forget the proud smile etched into her sweet little face.

“It’s a fine art,” he continued. “I’d love to try.”

Elmer puffed his chest the way Erica did, grumbled in agreement.

This time, Steve felt brave enough to pour himself a Styrofoam cup of coffee. It thawed his cold fingers and scalded the roof of his mouth. The doughnuts had been swapped for deli sandwiches, but all of the non-veggie ones had been taken by the time he got there. He stuck with the coffee and found his way to his seat, the same as last week, semi-in hopes that you’d find your same seat across from him.

He’d dressed to impress, after all. A newly purchased green sweater warmed him, hugged his biceps how he liked, and his favorite pair of Levis. Well, not his favorites, those still held a few blood stains, but these were similar and new. He didn’t wear his glasses either, still self-conscious that they made his nose too square and his eyes too round. At least, that’s what Mom said when he showed her. She reprimanded him for not taking her to pick them out.

He looked around the circle at mostly blurred faces, a few familiar, like Mina beside him, Carl and Elmer. Cheryl clacked her way to her seat at his eleven once more, repeated the spiel from last week. Your chair, along with about five others, remained empty.

Steve couldn’t stop himself from glancing at the door every few minutes, between ice-breaker introductions. He sputtered “uh… tiger?” for his favorite animal because again, caught in the moment, he couldn’t think of a single other animal save a Demodog or Demobat, and in this crowd, a joke like that wouldn’t go over so well.

A woman named Dolores, who he recalled from last week, spoke about her struggles at the grocery store this week, staring at her husband’s favorite box of cereal. A man named Jeffrey started to speak about hearing his daughter’s voice everywhere he went, when the door slammed open, startling them all.

Steve spun in his chair to see you enter, bleary eyed and sniffle nosed. You didn’t flinch to find all eyes on you, just turned your attention to the coffee table and picked up a sandwich to take a bite from.

“Keep going, Jeffrey,” Cheryl encouraged, and the group turned back around to face the man speaking his tragic tale.

Steve had lost all focus. He side-eyed you, watch your hand tremble around the carafe handle, ached to stand up and assist you. He glanced to Cheryl to confirm her eyes were on him. She sent him a pointed look and pointed a well-manicured fingernail Jeffrey’s direction, like a school teacher during a guest lecturer.

“And just this morning,” Jeffrey continued, voice wavering, “as I opened up the garage door, I heard her say - “

“Fuck!” Your voice rang out, followed by the ruckus of the carafe and your cup and sandwich crashing to the ground. Coffee and vegetables littered the linoleum, painting the yellowed tiles a deep brown.

The entire circle flinched. Steve leapt from his seat to help you, but Mina pulled him down by the cuff of his sleeve, which she used to help herself from her seated position. “You sit, honey. I’ll help her.”

Steve ventured another glance your direction. You were nursing the edge of your hand with your lips, skin likely scalded, and tears were now cascading over your florescent-kissed cheekbones. You sucked in a sob and pulled a fistful of napkins off the table to start to soak up the mess when Mina met you and placed a hand on your shoulder to stop you. She mumbled something, and you nodded, turning to leave. Just before you did, you glanced up at the circle and met Steve’s gaze, and when he found the sorrow there, he realized he’d do anything to will it away, to bring back that half-cocked smile from the week before.

“Keep going, Jeffrey. What did you hear her say when you opened the garage door?” Cheryl pressed on, as though your interruption hadn’t occurred, as though Steve would be able to focus on anything else.

—

The tangy sweet scent of marijuana wafted from the patchwork furniture set all the way through boarded-up rafters. The chill of autumn set in, and Steve’s teeth chattered between each hit of the joint, and he huddled tighter into Robin’s tiny frame under the crochet quilt they pulled from the back of Eddie’s van. He felt tired and cold and hungry, and a mystery substance on the quilt was far too close to his face, but he was too cold to move it. With a groan, he settled further into the poorly stuffed cushions and the warm vanilla of Robin’s perfume.

“No groaning, man. You’re harshing my mellow,” Eddie swatted at him from the other side of Robin. He was farther gone, one joint in when they got there. Steve was sure the ceiling danced for him, and his leather jacket was probably a whole hell of a lot warmer than Steve’s puffer vest.

“Steve’s in love,” Robin explained the bad attitude. Ever the linguist, she often translated Steve’s wordless tantrums. She was never right.

He groaned again. “I’m not in love.” He plucked the joint from her ice cold fingers and took another hit, grateful for the deep burn in his chest until it sputtered out of him in a big cloud that rose with the heat through the hole in the roof.

“Dude, fourteen hot, hot women came into work over the last two days, and you didn’t even say hi. To any of them.”

He didn’t recall fourteen, maybe one or two. Beside, he was busy stacking shelves and searching the database for all of the Hawkins residents with your name.

“Jesus,” Eddie giggled. “You are in love. So who’s the broad? Is she hot?”

Steve groaned and warmed the tip of his nose on Robin’s shoulder, lest it freeze and fall off. Robin squeaked when it brushed her skin, and she sent a punch to his ribs. “Ow, fuck,” he whined, rubbing at the growing bruise, but something about the grin on Robin’s face made him chuckle.

This made Robin sputter a laugh, and Eddie chimed in with his voracious little giggle, and soon they were a mess of laughter, clutching at their sides to catch their breaths, tears in their eyes, the chill of autumn almost forgotten.

“I’m hungry,” Eddie sighed, pushing himself up off the couch with minor difficulty. He drug his feet to the cupboards. The cabin hadn’t been properly stocked in months, maybe a year. They ate the last bag of popcorn last time, and Steve forgot to pick up supplies on his way in from work. “Either of you know how to cook?”

“Steve’s girlfriend’s a chef.” Robin snickered, eyes squeezed tight to avoid the spin of the stars.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Steve huffed. That’s not even what he wanted, not even the point of asking Robin if she knew anyone with your name, anyone that looked like you. He wasn’t interested in dating you. He wanted to make sure you were okay.

“You met her at a restaurant?” Eddie tried to piece together the story. “Do they deliver?”

“I met her at group therapy,” Steve ran a tired hand down his face, completely knocking his glasses free. When had he put those on?

“So she’s a nutter like you then,” Eddie grinned, and Robin burst back into that raspy laugh that would normally send Steve into his own giggle fit if he wasn’t so irritated by the accusation.

“She’s not a nutter. She’s been through some hard shit. We all fucking have,” he snapped, stirring his attention to a loose strand of red polyester near his sightline on the cushion.

His smoking buddies quieted their laughs. Robin sunk into him, curling her head into the crook of his neck. She was cuddly high and flirty drunk, and Steve hated the melt of his heart when she did this. She was like a cat, obnoxiously free-willed and too smart for her own damn good. And she knew when to turn on the charm to avoid a confrontation.

“Hey, Steve,” Eddie called from the kitchen.

Steve hummed a response, annoyance temporarily tampered.

“Mellow harshed.” Eddie flipped him the bird.

Robin’s head bobbed under his chin, setting him off, and the three of them started to chuckle again.

—

Week three, Steve arrived early, snatched a maple bar and found his seat, sneaker tapping linoleum subconsciously while he stared at the entrance. Everyone else mingled, and Carl and Elmer offered friendly waves from their place in line for coffee, but Steve was waiting for you. An entire week he spent searching for you. Henderson even made a few fake sales calls from the phone directory, but all searches had come up void. You were like a ghost. And after day six, he thought maybe he had imagined you.

It would be the next logical step. Head trauma could lead to migraines, tremors, poor eye-sight, bad hearing, why not add hallucinations to the list? If he made you up, his brain did a really good job with the fine details. He could still see the frayed edges at the cuffs of your denim jacket, could still hear the click of metal buttons against one another as you repositioned yourself in your chair.

You cleared your throat, and he realized you’d come and sat across from him, and he was staring.

He swallowed, nearly choked when he realized he had a bite of doughnut in his mouth. It went down too large, unchewed. He felt it roll down his esophagus into an empty stomach and he winced, coughed. “Hi,” he managed finally, throat dry.

“Y’okay?” You bit back a laugh, smiling forming at the corners of your lips, wrinkling your eyes, and Steve thought he could fly. It was an excellent improvement from last week.

He nodded. “Are you?”

You caught the subtext in his question and he watched your expression pinch as you found the frayed edge of your jacket with your fingers. He wanted to stand, to sit beside you, to make you smile again, to laugh.

But the doors slammed shut and everyone not seated had moseyed to their seats. The room was emptier than last week, and Steve felt a twinge of panic that people were leaving, that they felt healed and no longer needed to come, and he wondered if you felt that way too. Cheryl sat in royal blue and spoke her spiel like she hadn’t rehearsed it, and once again, to her left, you started the ice-breaker round with your name and your favorite book, Peter Pan.

Steve’s heart thumped in his chest at the odd bit of information. A boy who collected kids, who was too pressured by the adults in his life to grow up, a boy at odds with his own shadow, intrigued by a girl from a far-off land. He realized he was staring again when you offered him wide-eyes, mockingly telling him off, but the smile edged on your pink lips again, and he settled into his chair, satisfied once more.

Once the ice-breaker round had finished (Steve muttered something about Sherlock Holmes, running a hand through is hair. He knew the gist, and he thought you seemed impressed, maybe intrigued? You cocked an eyebrow at his answer.), he felt a little less comfortable in his chair. If was being totally honest, he’d hoped you’d open up about last week, about what made you so sad, so helpless. It had been eating him up inside. So, he focused his gaze on you when Cheryl asked who wanted to start, and you kept your eyes on the squeak of your sneakers against the floor.

“Steve, how about you?”

Steve blinked at the sound of his name, sat at attention.

“You’re our newest member of the group. How are you feeling about it? Would you like to share maybe what brought you to us?” Cheryl’s voice was the softest he’d heard it, a sweet lull that reminded him achingly of Joyce, like a soft hand brushing hair from his forehead.

He swallowed, felt all eyes on him, all except yours. He took a deep breath and looked at Cheryl. She offered the most understanding of smiles. He licked his lips.

“I don’t um… I don’t really know how to start.” His hands were trembling, and he shoved them under his ass, but that caused the chain reaction of his knee bobbing wildly, heel lifted from the ground.

“How did you find out about the group?” Cheryl asked.

“Oh, a friend’s mom gave me the flyer. Told me I should check it out.”

Cheryl nodded. “She was worried about you?”

It hurt to hear someone else say it. “I guess so.”

“It was sweet of her to think of you,” she smiled. “What do you think worries her?”

He thought about it too often, harbored too much guilt for being a burden on Mrs. Byers, on them all. He swallowed back the lump in his throat, probably the doughnut still lodged there somewhere. “I don’t sleep much, and um… I guess I startle too easily.”

Proving his point, a chorus of agreements from the circle scared him back to reality, and he realized there was a room full of people listening intently, a room full of people that encountered the same problems.

“What’s keeping you from sleeping?”

He shifted in his seat again, hands red and creased, pulsing as the blood returned to the tips of his fingers. “Nightmares, mostly. I have this horrible recurring dream.” He shuddered to think of it.

“Tell us about it.”

He swallowed, ventured a glance your direction. You had your thumbnail to your lips again, but you offered a nod of encouragement. He ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, um…” He’d have to censor it. These people knew about the monsters, the horror, but not the specifics. They didn’t know the metallic tang of Demobat blood. They didn’t know the din of a Grandfather clock chiming Max’s death, the downfall of their town. He squeezed his eyes shut to quell the echoing, ground himself in a room that wasn’t shaking from seismic activity.

“I have dreams about my grandma,” you chimed in, and Steve’s eyes slammed open to watch you pull the attention away. You sat up straight in your seat. “They’re always the same. We’re in her kitchen, and she’s making a beef stew. So I’m cutting the celery for her. And she tells me I’m doing a great job.” Your voice wavers on the last weird, and Steve watches the sorrow slip over your features again. You went somewhere else, far off, somewhere painful, for a split second.

“But you feel like you’re disappointing her?” Steve braved his question, and to his surprise, and yours, you nodded, wiping a tear from your cheek before it could slip down your soft skin. He nodded. “Mine too. All of my dreams are about my friends, and in all of them, I just…” He shrugged. “Let them down.”

“I have this dream that I’m dancing with my wife,” Carl pitched in. “We’re swaying to Miles Davis, and she’s laughing. It’s so real, I can smell her perfume. That one’s almost worse than the dreams about monsters.”

The group mutters in agreement. “I have a dream about my niece playing in the back yard,” Mina agrees.

Steve doesn’t pull his gaze from you as people continue to share their dream stories. You offer a sad smile, and bring your knee up to your chest before turning your attention to the next speaker. He continued to watch you, the soft cough of a laugh, the upturn of your lips. Maybe Robin was right.

—

Week Four brought on scarves and gloves, the squeak of wet shoes against linoleum. Elmer brought a large box with a model and paints and brushes, which he shoved under Steve’s chair with furrowed brows and gruff instructions. Carl was humming The Gambler. Steve felt warm, and when he shrugged out of his puffy vest, draping it on the back of his chair, the warmth didn’t cease. It was the same warmth he felt on DnD nights, when he sat on the sofa and read the latest issue of Sport’s Illustrated and Dustin shot spitballs at him from across the table. It was the same warmth he felt when Robin got high and tucked herself into the crook of his neck and gushed about Vickie’s perfect face.

He pushed the sleeves of his sweater up to the crooks of his elbows and waited for the rest of the group to file in when a voice from Mina’s chair startled him.

“Hey.” It was you.

He blinked your direction, picking out the lines of your face from this close, a soft twinkle in your eye. You looked flushed, a bit out of breath, and that set a screw loose inside of him somewhere. He could feel it tinkering around, bouncing off his gears. “Hey,” he breathed.

The door slammed closed, eliciting a communal gasp like it did every week, and you straightened yourself beside him, shrugging out of your denim jacket to expose an oversized sweatshirt, forest green with torn cuffs and a screen printed watercolor of a national park, Yellowstone, maybe? He couldn’t make out the scrawl that had been eaten away by the washing machine. Cheryl clacked her way across from you both.

“Listen,” you hissed, catching his attention again. “I need to talk to Cheryl for a second after this is over, but I want to give you something. Will you wait for me?” You spoke under your breath, out of the side of your mouth, like a secret, and Steve couldn’t help the laugh that caught on his tongue.

“Yeah, I can probably do that.”

“Good,” again, you didn’t look at him, facing the group, but he watched your front teeth catch on your bottom lip, fighting back a smile. He liked that he could appreciate the details of you from this close, the wisps of hair on your temples, poking out from beneath that same, grey knit cap, the soft blue gems of your earrings, barely noticeable if it weren’t for this angle, the soft gold chain that lay on your neck, its pendant falling somewhere beyond the collar of your shirt.

“Shall we break some ice?” Cheryl clapped her hands together, yanking him out of the daze that was all you. The woman leading the group sent him a knowing look, eyebrow cocked over her glasses, and Steve cursed under his breath. This was going to be a long night.

This session had been the worst of them so far. Carl kicked it off by voicing his frustrations about the aches he felt in his shoulder when the weather got cold. It’d always been bad. He blew his shoulder out when he was much younger, playing baseball. The injury reinstated after his third row of buckshot in the direction of one of those things.

Mina felt it too. She called it a shift in seismic pressure. Her arthritis had never been worse. Along with the nightmares, she suffered severe migraines, not to mention the hospital bills.

Don’t get Jeffrey started on hospital bills. His daughter was kept on life support for just over a month before she passed. He’d been paying for the rest of his life, which was about four times the life amount of time she got.

Elmer broke his arm in three places. Colleen busted her ankle tripping over a leyline or rubble, something of the sort. With each talk, Steve felt himself growing more and more anxious. He was hot, too hot, and the guilt he felt for his friends just compacted, knowing his mistakes affected so many more people. So many more than Joyce liked to remind him he saved.

He felt sick, the coffee twisting in a mostly empty stomach. His temple throbbed, eyes winced under the buzz of the florescents. His own body ached, where ribs healed and shoulders popped back into place. His teeth hurt, feeling all of those punches all over again, and he was just a fucking kid. He couldn’t imagine what everyone else felt, was feeling.

When the meeting ended, he shuffled upright in silence, sliding his vest back on and stuffing the box of paint under one arm to scurry out of there with the rest of the group. He’d tossed the box in the trunk, with the bat, hands itching to round the handle, to poke holes in something meaty and fleshy and horrifying. He slammed the trunk and hopped into the driver’s side to start the ignition and warm himself up. He needed a stiff drink and a hot shower, or maybe he just needed a drive.

He cranked the heater until the windshield fogged and massaged the leather of his steering wheel into the pads of his palms. He popped the clutch in and shifted into reverse, throwing his hand over the headrest of the passenger’s seat until he noticed your car behind him. The lights were off and it sat cold. Shit. He almost forgot.

He took the car out of gear and tried to relax his shoulders, tried to excite himself about what you could possibly have to talk to him about. He couldn’t imagine past the pain, the guilt. You were probably going to condemn him for the shit he put you through, complain about some stab to the back that would never, could never fully heal.

He screamed and gripped the steering wheel, shaking it as much as he could in its locked position along the column. Mostly, he shook himself. Just when he thought he was getting better. Fuck.

His lungs felt tight when you exited, Cheryl in tow, locking up behind you. The two of you muttered, making eyes his direction, and Cheryl offered him a wave before walking to her car, and you separated to walk to the passenger side of his car. He leaned over to unlock the door for you, moving his scarf from the seat so you could sit down.

You sunk into the seat with a sigh, breath fogged, and closed the door behind you. “It’s nice and warm in here,” you shivered, holding small hands to the vents of his heater.

He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing, waiting on you.

You glanced at him from under your lashes and shoved your hands into the pockets of your denim jacket. “I thought you ditched me.”

“I uh…” He swallowed. He couldn’t lie to you, but he didn’t want you to know he forgot. “Nope.” Smooth.

He could just make you out in the reflection of his headlights against the wall, a splash of warm yellow across your features, and you seemed to be watching him the same way he watched you, a bit timid, unsure.

“So,” you spoke simultaneously, followed by nervous laughter.

“You go,” Steve gestured, chewing the inside of his cheek.

You breathed, relaxed into the seat beside him. “Okay, I feel stupid. This is maybe kind of stupid.”

“What?” He smiled. He could never find you stupid.

“I just don’t have many friends here that are my age.” You sputtered around the words, taking time with them, but your face scrunched up as though you weren’t pleased with the way the sentence played out.

“You want to be my friend?” He could have flown.

“God, no,” you rolled your eyes, but your smile gave away the sarcasm. “I just figured you might be a bigger loser than me and would want to be my friend.” You explained, releasing a dry laugh in case he couldn’t pick up the joking tone.

“Oooh, I don’t know. Two losers being friends? Isn’t that against the rules?” He teased back.

You scrunched up your nose. “You’re probably right.”

“Hey, so,” he ran a hand through his hair before stretching it to your headrest. Your knit cap brushed against his thumb as you turned to look at him. “Do you want to hang out sometime?”

You rolled your eyes and pulled a rolled piece of paper from your pocket. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I wanted to give you this, and now it feels like forty times more lame.”

You handed it to him, and he looked from the paper to you and back before starting to unfurl it from one end. You slapped your hands to his to stop him, yours slender and freezing.

“Don’t look at it now! For Christ’s sake, wait until I’m in my car!”

Steve laughed at the frantic tone of your voice. You were genuinely embarrassed about whatever this was, and that was beyond endearing. You bit back a smile of your own, and Steve rolled it back into the fist of one hand.

“Whatever I’m leaving.” You pulled the handle and your door popped open, a gust of cold air fanned Steve’s face. “Oh, and I’m not going to be here next week.”

“What? Why?” He frowned.

You shrugged, turned away from him and exited the car. “Personal stuff. I’ll talk to you soon though maybe?”

He leaned over to see your waggled fingers, watched you pull your keys from your jacket pocket. “Okay, sure.”

“Bye, Steve,” you smiled, and he waved before you closed the door.

—

“I thought I was having a stroke,” Steve sighed, passing the note you’d given him to Robin. She unfurled it, eyebrows furrowed as she looked at the scattered page of numbers and letters you’d scrawled between the blue rule of notebook paper.

“Looks like a pretty standard cypher to me,” Erica pointed out, connecting the dots with her finger to the page. “Letters are numbers, numbers are letters.”

“Nerd,” Dustin took glee in the nickname, and Erica flipped him the bird.

“She’s right, Steve. This is low level shit.” Robin pulled the phone along the counter, the ringer dinging over the split in sections. “C’mere.” She tugged at the crook of Steve’s elbow until he stood over her and the note, pointing out exactly how you’d created the cypher. “It’s like the numbers on a phone, see? So B would be 2, K is 5, O is 6, get it?”

Dustin handed her a pen from the cup near the register, and Robin began to translate all of the letters until she had a seven digit number. “Holy shit, dude. She gave you her number.” Dustin held his hand up for a high-five, and Steve resisted. Though his heart did an odd rhythm against his ribs.

“Okay, okay, what does the rest of it say?” He chewed on the inside of his cheek, knee bouncing as he leaned on the counter.

“This part says ‘Call Me.’” Erica tilted her head, pointing to a series of numbers in the middle of the page. 2255 63.

“How the hell did you get that?” Steve felt a headache pulling between his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Context clues, dumbass.”

“‘The game’s afoot.’” Dustin read in that British accent he was annoyingly good at.

“What?” Steve sighed, watching Robin scribble in the rest of the code.

“It’s Sherlock Holmes.”

Steve was starting to get really irritated with their tone. He sighed, so confused, and waited for Robin to finish her scribbling before she stepped out of his way and handed him the receiver to the phone. He frowned, but took it from her and leaned over the counter to read the translated version of your note.

The game’s afoot. Call me, Sherlock. Followed by your name and number. He blinked down at it a few times before Robin slammed her fingers down on the phone to spark the dial tone loud and clear. Steve felt his mouth go dry, but he held the phone to his ear and started slamming in numbers.

It rang once, twice, three times. He glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was nearly 5pm. Maybe you were on your way home from work. Should he leave a message? Did they get the numbers right?

“Hello?”

He breathed your name. “Hi, it’s Steve.”

“Steve, oh my God, hey. You solved it that fast, huh? That’s so embarrassing.” The sound of your laughter from the other end made his stomach knot.

Erica made kissy faces from the other side of the counter, and he shooed her away. Dustin and Robin followed up the kissy faces, and he flipped the three of them off. They backed away with snickers. He turned his back to them and picked up the phone, walking across the check out station for a more private corner.

“So… now that you’ve called,” you pressed on. He heard bangs from your end, like maybe you were putting away your dishes or groceries, the creak of cupboard hinges. “Are you busy tonight?”

“Tonight?” He stood up straight, glancing sideways at his friends eavesdropping in a nearby aisle. Robin flashed him a knowing smirk. “I think I’m free tonight.”

“Great,” he could hear the smile in your voice. “Would you maybe like to go for a drive?”

“A drive sounds… great.”

“I’ll give you my address. Got a pen?”

—

Steve promised Robin a quarter of a week’s pay and that he would ‘get laid’ (which made him incredibly sweaty) to get her to entertain the hooligans for the evening without him. He promised Erica a day’s pay, plus tax, to allow him to bail, and she begrudgingly agreed to paint his model for him. Her eyes lit up when he unveiled the expensive paint and brushes. Dustin didn’t care so much, as long as Steve promised to take care of himself, which always made Steve a little itchy, but he did.

So, with his friends on the back burner for one more evening, he raced in the direction of your house. He recognized the area as you spoke it. You lived off Cherry, very close to where Max lived before her and her mom moved to the trailer park. He always dreaded dropping her home if he saw that blue Camaro looming in the driveway. Billy had left him alone after that night at the Byers, but the sight of him still made Steve a little gun-shy.

Cherry was dimly lit this time of night, this time of year, a cascade of warmth across a desolate neighborhood. To be fair, most neighborhoods in Hawkins were void of cars or residents anymore, a ghost town. He slipped past Max’s old place, for sale sign still swinging in the yard, and pulled up three doors down at your house.

It was small, cozy, blue with white trim and the glow of life from inside sheer curtained windows. Steve pulled into a little divot in carved in front of your yard and turned off the ignition. His mom taught him at a young age that it was always polite to pick a girl up at the door. All of the girls he dated seemed impressed so far.

But for you, when he pitched open the door, you startled him with a “Hello!”, already halfway down the drive.

“Hey,” Steve smiled over the roof. You hadn’t dressed up for him, which he appreciated, but you no longer wore your knit cap, hair neat and tucked behind your ears. He faltered for a moment, wondering if he should open your door for you, but you were already there and climbing in, so he followed you back into the warmth of his little car.

“You look nice,” he said. Always good to start with a compliment.

You flashed a smile and turned to look him over as you buckled your seatbelt. “Thanks, you too. I do like those glasses on you.”

He felt his smile widen, turning the ignition. “You do?”

“Yeah, they make you look smart.”

Thank God for that. Steve flipped the headlights back on and pulled himself out of the rut and back onto the road. The pavement was a bit rocky out here, the Earthquake having mixed everything up. Hawkins had prioritized the roadwork through the center of town and less so in the lower income areas. Not that you were lower income. He swallowed. “So, where to?”

“The Lake?” You asked like he didn’t have a choice, and he felt itchy under the collar.

“Why the Lake?” He was afraid of your answer.

You shrugged beside him, face illuminated by each passing streetlamp. “I’ve never been.”

He smiled at that. “It’s a lot nicer in the daytime.”

“I’m sure it is,” you agreed. “But if we go in the daytime, we’re more likely to get caught.”

“Get caught?” His adrenaline prickled then. He couldn’t decide if he was more intrigued or terrified, but either way, he stepped on the gas a little harder.

You ignored his question. “So, Steve who enjoys Sherlock Holmes and driving and Family Ties, tell me about yourself.” You sunk into your chair, lifting your hands to warm on the heater vents like you had the night before. Despite his warmth, Steve leaned to turn up the flow for you.

“Sounds like you pretty much know it all.”

You laughed. “Come on, there’s gotta be some dirt in there, right? Everyone has to have at least one fatal flaw.”

“Sure,” he nodded. “Everyone does. I just don’t. That’s my curse.”

You threw your head back in a barked laugh this time. He enjoyed the raw sound of it, the curve of your throat under lamplight.

He shrugged, turned onto the main road, shifting into third. “No, I don’t know. What do you want to know?”

“What do you really like to do for fun?” You challenged.

He risked a glance your direction again, and you were turned on the console to watch him, eyes careful, scrutinizing. “Answer for answer?”

You rolled your eyes and faced front again. “Fine.”

He slowed down, turned south onto Curly. “I like spending time with my friends. We watch too many movies. Smoke a lot of weed.”

“Steve, I’m a cop!” You blurted, incredulous, and he might have been alarmed if he didn’t have insider knowledge. You took a moment to gage his reaction before following up with a, “Not intimidated by the 5-0. A bad boy.”

He snorted. “My friend’s Dad is the Chief of Police.” And the shit he’s seen is way scarier.

“Shit,” you laughed. “You don’t strike me as a stoner, but I’ll accept it as your answer.”

“Good,” he tutted. “Your turn.”

“No, no, no. Ask me something new. I don’t want to be the only one coming up with questions here.”

Steve chuckled at your point and thought for a moment. There were so many things he wanted to ask you. He hoped he’d have all night. He glanced sideways at you, watched you stare out at the trees and fields as they rolled by, truly like you were seeing everything for the first time. Maybe he’d softball you your first one. “What brought you to Hawkins?”

“Needed a fresh start.” Your tone was a bit clipped, a bit far-off.

Steve felt the tension twang between you, and tried to alleviate it. “Jesus. Where were you coming from, super max prison?”

You snorted, quiet for a moment longer before you turned back to face him. “One question at a time. Do you have any pets?”

You two carried on like this for a while. He learned you preferred savory to sweet foods. You didn’t go to college. You had a myriad of pets growing up: dogs, rabbits, lizards. You didn’t play any instruments. You were more of a night owl these days. You didn’t sleep much.

That, you had in common. Steve slipped into a parking spot a few feet from the boat ramp. This area of the lake was used for campsites in the summer months, boat parties, barbecues. This year had been void of any sort of celebration. No campers pitched tents or parked RVs. And now, nearing November, the shores were sticky with disuse, water bobbing buoys a hundred yards or so in.

“Here she is,” Steve sighed, gripping the steering wheel with clammy palms. His headlights illuminated the dull waves in front of them, cast a warmth on a clear evening. He was thankful not to see past the surface, to the gate below, the tear in dimensions, the gaping maw that swallowed him whole and spat him back out the other side, bruised and bloodied. “Lovers Lake.”

“Why is it called Lovers Lake?” You asked, your voice more playful than the horrors tickling his spine. He wished he could focus on you, wished he could match your energy. Maybe this was a mistake.

“It’s uh…” He scratched at the base of his neck. “It’s shaped like a heart. From an aerial view.” He made a heart in the air with two pointer fingers, a demonstration in shadows and silhouette. Freddie Mercury crooned softly on the radio.

“You like to swim, right?” You unclipped your seat belt to get comfortable.

He shrugged. “I used to. Swim team captain, head lifeguard.” Accolades he used to brag about, still helped him get girls. Now it felt like ash in his mouth.

“Ever been skinny dipping?” You reached down and were slipping out of your sneakers, your socks.

“I… wh-what?” He swallowed, suddenly zoned in on your fingers undoing the buttons to your denim jacket.

“You know… naked, swimming, usually late at night as to not get caught…” You slipped your jacket off your shoulders and made to shuck off your jeans.

“It’s freezing,” he argued, mouth dry from the curve of your thighs against his car seat.

“You don’t have to join me,” you teased, pulling your sweater over your head. Your hair caught on the wool, creating a static charge. Flyaways stuck up to touch the felted ceiling.

“You, uh…” He blinked again, tried not to stare at the cups of your bra or the swell of your breasts spilling from it. “You’re going to catch a cold.”

You shrugged. “I’ve had worse.” You reached behind you to pull at the tab holding your bra together, but as you did so, you leaned fully into his space, warm body against his. He could smell the floral scent of your shampoo. He opened his mouth to ask what you were doing, when you reached past the steering wheel to flick off the headlights, flooding the car and area surround in darkness.

“No peeking.” You whispered and opened the car door. The dome light turned on, and Steve watched your bra fall to your discarded seat before the door closed and the silhouette of your frame went springing down the ramp toward the water.

Cursing under his breath, Steve made sure the car was in park and wouldn’t roll, before he got out and followed you. He kept his clothes on, sneakers slipping a little on the ramp, but made his way down a dilapidated wood dock near where he saw the curve of your back disappear into the dark waves. He peered into the water, eyes adjusting to the moonlight cresting too far off, and called your name.

You shushed him from the edge of the dock, fingers holding you afloat, hair slicked back to your head, cheesy smile lighting your features. “This water’s freezing,” your teeth chattered through a laugh.

“I bet,” he winced, remembering the prickle of needles that was ice cold water. “Ever heard of pneumonia?”

“Ever heard of a rush?” You countered, kicking off from the dock to dunk back under the water and swim a few feet off. He watched the swells of your body as you did so, lumps that rose and fell like waves, soft, unbothered. He wished he had that freedom, wished he didn’t have the knowledge he did, the trauma.

You popped up a few feet away, gasping for a breath, and Steve felt himself tense. He looked around, wondering how deep it was. If you needed rescuing, he could springboard off the edge of this dock and reach you in seconds. He kicked off the heel of one sneaker.

“Steve!” You called, taking a few breast strokes his direction. “Can I borrow your jacket?”

He had a blanket tucked into the backseat, which you teased him about. You made him turn around so you could get out of the water, and you let him look again when you’d wrapped yourself in it. You let him swing an arm around you to walk you back to the car, and he cranked the heat. The volume of the vents rivaled the chattering of your teeth, but you laughed louder and went on and on about how great the water felt, how Steve was missing out.

Per your request, Steve drove out of city limits to find a fast food restaurant, somewhere with greasy French fries and a drive-up window, and you pulled a wad of bills from your jacket pocket to buy him a hamburger that he enjoyed on his drive home. You discussed music taste and your lack of involvement in high school clubs or sports, and things remained fairly surface level until you were back on the looping hills of Curly.

“You seemed really upset yesterday,” you started, the softest he’d heard your voice all night.

Steve clenched his jaw around the straw of his Coke, slurped the last syrupy goodness from the icy base. He glanced your direction, your expression of concern cast yellow in lamplight. With a sigh, he placed his cup back into the cupholder. “You could tell, huh?”

You smiled at that, nodded, hair still damp around your ears. “I’ve got a knack for reading people.”

“That so?” He felt a smirk tugging as he rounded a particular sharp corner, the one that curved down into Merrill’s. He downshifted a gear. “What am I thinking about now?”

You didn’t waste a beat. “You’re being flirtatious. Our night’s coming to a close. You saw a boob.”

He felt warmth lick at his earlobes from the collar of his sweater. He swallowed. “I did not.” He didn’t really. He saw the swell, a curve, under-boob at best, and he knew he’d be thinking about it for days.

“And,” you interrupted, slender finger prodding at his bicep, “you’re deflecting.”

He deflated a little, mind dragged back to the guilt he’d felt in that room.

“Hey, I’m not going to make you talk about it, or whatever.” You sounded so casual, like it all rolled off of you, shoving your feet back into socks and shoes. “I just wanted to let you know I picked up on it, and I’m here if you do want to talk.”

Steve licked his lips and waited for a straight-away to watch you, knee to your chest to tie your laces, two bunny ears into a double knot. The pavement sloped downward, into suburbia, and he could already feel you slipping out of his grasp.

He cleared his throat, turned down Cherry, the long way. “I just feel bad, you know? Guilty. I don’t like seeing all of those nice people hurting.” The honesty felt raw in his throat, like it did every session, like this gas leaking out of him.

You glanced at him then, brows knit in contemplation, and you shrugged. “Everyone hurts sometimes. It’s not your fault.”

“Why are you there?” He asked, tried to sound as casual as you had, but he wanted more, needed more sweet morsels of you to savor for the week ahead.

You wrapped your fingers tightly around the seatbelt at the center of your chest, thumb playing with a bit of fray there, but your gaze remained on the horizon, on the houses and lights that illuminated your cheekbones in flashes. “I mean, you went because your friend’s mom asked you too, right?”

Steve shrugged, slowed to a crawl as your little house came into view.

“Right. And Dolores is there for her husband, and Jeffrey goes for his daughter, and I think maybe we all started going for someone else and ended up showing up for each other.” The way you said it was so resolute, and Steve couldn’t shake off the implication that you were showing up for him. Was he reading too much into that?

The click of your seatbelt alerted him that he’d stopped, somehow managed to halt just in front of the walkway that led up to your stoop. He scrambled with the buckle of his own belt, ready to walk you up, but paused when he felt a cold hand against his wrist. He looked up to meet your gaze.

“I can walk myself inside.” Again, with the confidence of a different woman, someone he’d only caught glimpses of, out of the conference room and away from metal chairs scraped against linoleum floors.

“When can I see you again?” He was desperate for it, far from calm and collected, missed the grip of your slender fingers when you released him to open the passenger door. The dome light flicked on, bathing you in warmth. He could see a smudge of mascara beneath your eye, the collar of your jacket dipped dark and damp. The corners of your lips turned up into a smile. “Thursday?”

With one word, your smile was washed away, confidence replaced by timid shoulders, licked lips. You shook your head. “No, I’ll be out Thursday, remember?”

He vaguely remembered, hoped it was a nightmare, some passing fear that you were slipping away from him. “Can I call you?”

Again, you shook your head, eyebrows folded. “I’ll be out. I’ll call you.”

He swallowed, that familiar panic crawling up his chest, though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe because he couldn’t wait that long, didn’t want to wait that long. He let out a shaky breath, offered a smile. “Cool.” Smooth.

You chuckled at that, released a breath of a laugh that he wanted to catch and shove into his pocket for safe keeping. You must have noticed his joy at the sound, because your eyes lit with something mischievous, and you rolled them. “God, one look at my tits and you’re like a lost puppy.”

His face heated, jaw fell open at the mention of them again, and he ran a hand over his face and through his hair, stammering some sort of defense. “I didn’t see them!” He fucking squeaked.

Your laugh was louder now, back to that groove of comfort and warmth, head thrown back, white teeth sparkling in lamplight. “Goodnight, Steve.” He liked the way his name sounded on your tongue, liked the way your eyes sparkled, the stretch and pout of your lips.

Then you were leaning in, too close, all encompassing. You smelled Earthy, like lake water, and sticky sweet like Coca-Cola, and before Steve had a second to register what was happening, your lips pressed to the corner of his mouth, and you were pulling away. He chased you across the center console, hoping for the sweet taste again, the plush of your lips against his, the warmth of the crook of your elbow, a fingertip, but you were quicker.

A gust of winter air fanned his face, and he dipped low to see you grinning back from outside the car, fingers waggled his direction. “Thanks for the drive.”

“I’ll call you,” he promised.

You shook your head, but the smile didn’t falter. “I’ll call you.” You closed the door with a click, dome lamp turning off, and he watched the length of your legs carry you up the walkway to the front porch, light on your feet and bathed in moonlight.

—

Steve called you the next day, from work, hunched over the counter to hide himself behind a stack of tapes while Robin scrambled to help everyone in the store. You hadn’t answered, voicemail flat and unfriendly. He panicked and hung up before the beep.

Sunday, Robin convinced him to quit being a stalker, explained that breathing into the receiver was something a serial killer did, and that he didn’t need to come off so clingy, and she was right. So he didn’t try you again.

By Thursday, you still hadn’t called him, and he felt uneasy, like he’d done something entirely wrong. Some stupid Steve Harrington bullshit that had upset you, something he wouldn’t understand until you were in a bathroom, drunk, calling him bullshit. He winced, rolling into the DMV parking lot, headlights sparkling on the thin layer of frost that spread across the grass this week.

The little conference room echoed with chatter, weekly catch-ups, as the smell of burnt coffee coated the air. Steve accepted an M&M cookie from Mina with warmth tickling under his collar. The woman had crumbs on the corner of her lips, but something about her presence reminded him of Joyce and of Claudia, and of all the surrogate mothers that had taken him in when his own was too busy to nurse his wounds and feed him something not cooked in a microwave.

He considered not showing up, holing himself in his big, empty house, with nothing but the whirring of the microwave. He’d been that way all week, eyes unfocused on the fireplace while his mind grasped to remember the image of your shape in the water, the feel of your lips against his, the sound of your laughter. Your voice echoed around his skull though, the only clarity his mind offered him over the last week. “We all started going for someone else and ended up showing up for each other.”

So, with Carl and Elmer, and even sweet Mina, on the brain, he wrestled into his puffer jacket and grit his teeth past the chill of winter while he scraped the windshield of his car. If he tried, he could imagine them as his friends, adult versions of the little shits that tormented (and enriched) his life, but he wasn’t sure if that would make things easier or harder, especially after the heartache he felt the week before. He slumped into his seat and split his cookie in half, soft and gooey. He’d just have to wait and see how today’s session went.

Cheryl clacked in with a bright smile, clipboard on her hip like a well-loved toddler, gazing around the group over the rim of her glasses. She poured herself a cup of coffee as the group calmed, though with the look on her face, Steve wasn’t sure she needed more caffeine. “Hello, everyone!” She greeted in a sing-song.

“What’s got you so chipper today, missy?” Dolores asked, her own eyes sparkling behind bejeweled spectacles.

Cheryl sucked in her smile and took a sip of her coffee before she settled into her seat across from Steve. His heart ached at the blank space beside her.

“She’s chipper because of that rock on her finger,” Elmer commented. “Jesus Christ, Cheryl, that thing must weigh a ton.”

Steve’s eyes went to the engagement ring on her finger, hand holding her cup aloft for all to see. The room erupted in a buzz of excitement and congratulations and questions, and even Steve himself felt the corners of his lips tug into a proud smile.

She just looked so happy, skin flushing, hair bouncing in agreement as she hid smiles behind waved hands, trying to calm the crowd. “Thank you, thank you. I know, very exciting.” She scolded, but the smile could not be swept from her face. “Shush!”

Showing up for each other. Steve glanced once more to your empty seat and wondered how you’d react to the news. A shiver wracked through him at the thought of your own elation, of the smile playing at pink lips while your eyes flashed to his with mischief.

“Yes, yes, the rumors are true. Thomas finally proposed. And I refuse to waste any more time on the details, so if you’re really interested, ask me after group.” She flashed a timid wink Mina’s direction before setting her coffee on your empty chair and adjusting her knees in her pencil skirt. She wrapped fingernails to her clipboard, pausing to watch the sparkle of her diamond before she clapped her dainty hands together. “I’m glad to see all of you in good spirits today. I know this time of year can be especially difficult, with the holidays coming up.”

Steve shuffled in his own seat, ventured a bite of cookie. It was soft and sweet, and he nearly choked when he noticed Mina was watching him. He gave her a thumbs up and a smile, and she seemed delighted at the praise.

“Since we won’t be here next week, let’s practice gratitude. Our ice breaker will be something we’re thankful for.”

The concept of an ice breaker always sent a bit of anxiety through him, that stutter of a heartbeat that he’d say the wrong thing, something stupid or embarrassing. He couldn’t decide if your absence made it easier or more difficult. On one hand, he couldn’t say anything to deter you, on the other, he couldn’t tell you he was thankful for your presence in this group, for the smiles of encouragement. He couldn’t tell you he was thankful for the night you’d had on Friday. He couldn’t tell you he’d been thinking about you all week.

His hands clammed up as the answers formed from around the circle, a wide range of gratitude from time spent with Jeffrey’s daughter while she was still alive to the Colts latest season. His brain wracked for an answer of his own, and his mouth felt a little dry.

“Steve, what are you thankful for?” Cheryl offered an encouraging smile.

He floundered a bit, licking his lips, staring at your open seat. He swallowed, and opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off from a stern voice to his left.

“May I?” Carl was leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

Steve nodded, thankful for the distraction. Mina also seemed unbothered by the skip, a knowing smile playing across her lips.

“I’m thankful for this young man, right here.” Carl pointed, long arms and gnarled finger almost reaching Steve’s chest.

Steve felt himself blinking, felt his mouth bob open again.

“Because his bravery showing up to this group every week, with all of us old folks, gave me the courage to talk to my grandson about his feelings with all of this.” He twisted his finger in the air to demonstrate the world around them. “He’s a tough kid, my Joel, but I knew he was taking this really hard. He’s only fourteen, and he lost a few friends. He just started high school, made the basketball team, and I could tell he’s nervous. So I chatted with him, and we had a real good talk.”

Steve could feel the emotion swell in his chest, that familiar bubble of pride that tightened his ribcage.

The older man’s jaw was tight, hands clamped into fists, as though he was uncertain of Steve’s response, maybe slightly uncomfortable with all of the attention on him.

“What position does he play?”

Carl’s eyes lit at that, his mouth twisted into a smirk. “Post.”

Steve nodded. “Cool. I’m friends with Lucas Sinclair. He’s on the team too. Maybe we could get together and do a pick-up.”

The old man nodded, released the tension in his shoulders. His chair squeaked as he sat back into it. “I think we’d really like that.” Showing up for each other.

—

Decorative plates clattered on their displays a few feet above Steve’s head. He was elbow deep in sudsy water, and breathless grunting and the whoosh of air had him rutted up against the countertop, soaking the front of his sweater in sink water. He grit his teeth and glanced over his shoulder to see Eddie take a swipe at Dustin, easily dodged, curled hair and red faces everywhere.

“Will you two quit horsing around?” He snapped, glasses falling down the bridge of his nose and right eyebrow itching only because his hands were coated in bubbles and grease.

“Yeah, Dustin, quit picking on me. Daddy Steve’s going to ground you,” Eddie grinned, opening the refrigerator to pull a bright red can of Redi Whip from beside a milk carton. He tilted his head backwards, aerosol making a choked sound before Steve watched a dollop of whipped cream spill upwards from between Eddie’s lips.

“Gross, dude,” Steve grumbled, grabbing around for another dish to clean. “This isn’t even your house.”

“Joyce?” Eddie yelled, mouth full, all of the gumption of a school kid calling for his Mom. Dustin snickered and took the canister from the older boy’s hands. “Is it okay if Dustin and I have some whipped cream?”

Joyce appeared around the corner with her hands full of serving platters. “Of course, sweetheart.” She offered Steve a knowing smile, blowing dark hair from her eyes before setting the plates near a stack of Tupperware containers ready to be filled. “But when you’re done contaminating my Redi whip, think you guys can head outside and quit horsing around in my kitchen?”

Dustin coughed on his whipped cream, earning a rough slap on the back before the two boys chuckled their way out of the room to harass Will and El and Max into a game of touch football.

“Sorry about them,” Steve sighed, scrubbing dried gravy and trying not to think about how the sink reminded him of the Upside Down.

“Boys will be boys,” Joyce chuckled, and not a consonant was mean. He’d seen Joyce mean, hackles up, defending her cubs, defending him. It was terrifying.

“Joyce,” the name always felt weird on his tongue. He’d been raised to be respectful.

She looked up with that same twinkle in her eye, slopping stuffing into separate containers.

“I just uh…” The back of his neck itched. He pushed his glasses up his nose with his forearm, splattering soapy water across a lens. He wiped it off to procure a smudge. He sighed. “I just wanted to thank you for suggesting that group therapy thing.”

“Yeah?” She grinned.

He shrugged, avoided her gaze by picking cranberry sauce off a plate with his nail. “Yeah, it’s a really nice group of people. I’m actually going to play basketball with one guy and his grandkid.”

“Oh, Steve, that’s so great!” Joyce cheered, soft-spoken and kind. “I had a feeling you’d get something from it. And what about that girl?”

His heart stuttered at the mention of you, stomach sinking. It had been two weeks since he heard from you, two weeks since the drive, two weeks since your dip in the lake. You still hadn’t called, and he hadn’t wanted to clog your voicemail. He’d been hung out to dry, clinging to the line in some hopes you didn’t totally hate him. “What about her?” He swallowed.

Joyce shrugged, preoccupied with the mashed potatoes. “She seemed really sweet, and your age. I wondered if you two were friends. She seemed so lonely after losing her husband, and I just really hoped she could find some friends here in Hawkins.”

The plate slid out of Steve’s fingers, crashing against the bottom of the tin sink, and he cursed under his breath, chasing it to pull from the water and check for cracks. It seemed fine. Rinsing it in hot water, he chewed over Joyce’s words. When the plate was safely deposited on the drying rack and the sink stop had been pulled to drain the suds, he turned back to the woman spooning mashed potatoes as though she hadn’t said anything Earth-shattering.

He said your name to get her attention, asked it, really. “The girl with the denim jacket?”

Joyce smiled, eyes sparkling with the same mischief he found in your own eyes, and she described you to a T. “Very pretty girl, isn’t she?”

He swallowed, dried his knuckles with a damp hand towel.

—

Carl and Elmer were bickering about the NBA, voices gruff, arms crossed. Steve felt warm, despite the couple of inches of snow Hawkins got in the last few days, coffee in hand, fluorescents flickering a steady beat in the corner. Just over Elmer’s thin shoulder, one of the heavy steel doors popped open, and you slipped inside, shaking snow off your knit cap, and pulling gloves from your fingers, one fingertip at a time.

Steve’s breath caught in his chest, released only in a wheeze when you met his gaze and he watched every beautiful feature light up, cheeks plump and teeth white. If he wasn’t warm before, he was flooded with it now, collar hot and itchy around his neck. He raked his fingers through his hair, unsure where to put his hands, sneakers squeaked against linoleum as he shifted his stance.

You waggled your fingers in a greeting and shuffled your shoes against the damp floor mat.

Steve’s mind raced with conflict. On the one hand, you hadn’t called. For three weeks, radio silence on your end. The only comfort he’d gained was from driving past your house late Monday night to find your lights on. You hadn’t answered any of his calls. On the other hand, you were real and alive, and your warm smile drew him like a magnet. He excused himself from the present argument and met you at the snack table.

“Hi,” he managed. Smooth.

“Hey,” you didn’t look up at him, eyelashes long against your cheeks. You tucked a napkin into one hand and pulled the pen from the sign-up sheet on a clipboard. “Can you do me a favor and please give me your number?”

Steve felt his entire body heat from embarrassment. Of course you hadn’t called. You didn’t have his fucking number. “I’m such an idiot.” He sputtered, pulling the utensil from your hand to scribble his digits on the soft ply of a napkin.

“No, I’m an idiot,” you assured, squeezing his bicep with slender fingers. “I’m the one who promised to call without even asking for your number. You probably thought I hated you.”

Steve smiled, shrugged. “I was overthinking everything I said.” The confession spilled out before he could stop it, and he hoped it sounded a lot more suave, sarcastic, flirtatious. But then he froze, immediately question whether or not you wanted him to flirt. You had said you wanted more friends, and if Joyce was right, and you’d recently lost your husband, maybe Steve was in over his head. “I mean…” He stammered, carding his hand through his hair again.

But you smiled, eyes still cast downward as you poured coffee from the carafe into a styrofoam cup. He thought back to the time you’d spilled, the time you’d come in entirely too distraught. He wondered if it was somehow related to your Husband’s death. He swallowed.

“On second thought, maybe it was your fault.” You glanced up then, eyes sparkling. He bristled. “You never told me your parents’ names. Are you related to every Harrington in the phone book?” You took a sip, glancing around the room. Your energy was a bit frenetic, flitting back and forth over the faces of your group, an unease tensing your shoulders.

Whereas he relaxed, endeared that you’d thumbed through the white pages to find him. “John and Linda,” he offered, tipping the rim of his cup to yours to bring your attention back to him.

You took another sip, but held his gaze, holding the coffee in the pockets of your cheeks for a moment, chewing a thought before the corners of your lips turned up into that world-ending smile. “Steven John Harrington?”

He felt his nose wrinkle in disgust. Though maybe, if he had been named after his dad, the old man might have taken him more seriously. He shook his head. “Francis. After my mom’s dad.”

You ignited at that, that spark he yearned to spill out of you. He wanted to bathe in it. He could feel the rumble of your chuckle in your throat, the tease he’d been used to since childhood, but felt sticky sweet from you, if only he could push you over-the-edge, procure a full-out laugh.

The closing of heavy double doors broke the spell. You looked away first, to Cheryl, and Steve watched the smile and cheer wipe from your features and replace with creased concern. He followed your gaze to the slender woman, hair perfectly coifed and eyes red beneath her spectacles.

“Can I have everyone sit please?” She croaked, almost a whisper, the softest Steve had ever witnessed. A chill settled at the base of his skull.

Chatter turned to grumbled concern as everyone made their way to their seats. Steve felt your hand grip his tightly, just for a moment, before you left him to sit at his twelve, your frame curved at attention toward Cheryl. You pulled a leg up, rested your head on your knee, a defense mechanism, he supposed, body-armor. He glanced sideways to offer Mina a reassuring smile, and she returned it, tight-lipped.

“Hello, everyone. I come bearing grave news.” Cheryl wrung her fingers against the top of her clipboard, diamond sparkling beneath the fluorescents. She glanced upward, making eye contact with each person in the circle. Almost a full group, Steve noted. “I just learned that Jeffrey passed away over Thanksgiving.”

A flutter of gasps circulated, and everyone’s eyes settled on that empty chair, a little cock-eyed, cast in shadow at an awkward post between two banks of lights. Steve’s heart sank. He wracked his brain for every fact he knew about the man with red hair and mousy eyes, who spoke so highly of the daughter he missed so dearly.

He felt his hand start to tremble, knee bouncing with anxiety. Glancing across the circle, he noticed you’d pulled your other leg up, barricaded, eyes glazed over, chin trembling just beyond your fingertips.

“I just want to reiterate to you all how important this group is, and how much you all mean to me, and to each other,” Cheryl spoke, slow and self-assured, almost stern. “I understand how this might be too much for some of you, and if you wish to go, by all means, do what you think is best for you, but I do encourage you to push through, to stay, for your fellow group members. Some of us have no one to lean on but each other.”

Steve watched your shoulders slump, and you stared directly at the ground, arms coming to link around your knees.

—

Steve’s throat burned, raw, and his eyes stung, and his God damn hand wouldn’t stop trembling. He wanted to pulverize something, to build up the callouses in his palms and wind up to swing his bat through something fleshy and disgusting. He said polite goodbyes with gritted teeth and a clenched fists, held in his emotion to give Carl and Elmer manly smiles and nods. He tossed battered styrofoam into a bin and tore out of there to suck in fresh, frigid air.

Ice cold hit his face like a ton of bricks, stinging at his nostrils and catching the air in his lungs, but it felt so refreshing. It was so much better than the muggy, stale air of a conference room filled with so much grief, so much loss, so much pain.

“Steve!” Your voice called, reeling him back to reality, and he turned to see you. You were bleary eyed, red-nosed, pulling your gloves from your pockets.

He took a calming breath, nodded for you to follow him around the corner and out of earshot. When he got you close enough to feel the warmth of your knit hat, he mumbled. “How are you holding up?” As though it weren’t obvious, as though everyone wasn’t a wreck.

You looked up from your gloves, face half-shadowed in exterior lamplight. Your breath fogged at the bottom of his lenses, and your bottom lip trembled with a swallow. “I just…” You glanced around the parking lot before tucking your hand into his own. Your gloves were scratchy, but warm. “I just don’t want to be alone.”

He gave a curt nod and tugged you toward his car. When you got in, closed the door, he threw his arm over the back of your seat and got the Hell out of there, away from the sadness, away from the memories.

You didn’t ask, didn’t say a thing, just buckled and sat with your hands in your lap, tears staining your cheeks as the lights from Suburbia rolled by.

Instinct carried him to the junkyard, a lead foot on the accelerator and this itching under his skin to hit something. You didn’t question it when he pulled in between the bodies and engines. He pulled right up beside Hargrove’s Camaro, blue-paint charred and covered in snow. “Wait here?” It wasn’t a question. He set his glasses on the dash.

He left the car running to keep you warm, and bitter wind nipped at his ears and his cheeks. He rounded to the trunk to pull out his bat. The handle was warm and chipped in places. The nails were rusted and stained with the blood of monsters, the blood of civilians. He slammed the trunk closed and steadied his grip.

His shoulders were hunched, but he rolled them. Hargrove’s car still held a side-mirror, mirror long shattered, remnants of glass frozen over, but the appendage remained attached to the body, and with a guttural growl and a swing, it was gone.

That’s all it took, one hit and Steve was no longer in the junkyard, but on the battle field. He was surrounded by bats and demo-creatures and Vecna himself, and he was swinging and screaming, metal dragging against metal, throat raw, until his palms tore and he stumbled to his knees.

Eyes slammed shut, shallow breaths dragging from between his lips, he tried to wane the dizziness, tried to pull himself back to reality, back to a place where he was forgiven for his sins, for unleashing those creatures on his Home, his People.

“Steve?”

Everything flooded back with pounding in his ears at the sound of your voice, the soft warmth of your hand to his cheek. Your face was blurred from tears he wasn’t aware he’d shed, and he ducked himself into your lithe touch. “I’m so sorry,” he croaked.

“Come on,” you tugged at his shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you warmed up.”

His teeth were chattering. His shoulders wracked with a shiver. He let you pull him upright, let you set him into the backseat, let you pulled the spare blanket up and over his shoulders. The heater whooshed in his ears, and he heard the slam of the trunk before you were crawling in the other side, sidling up beside him, all warm hands and body tucked into his side.

“What day is it?”

Steve blinked at the headrest in front of him, tried to process your words. “Wh-what?”

“Tell me the day of the week, Steve.” Your voice was so calm, so self-assured, wise beyond your years.

He swallowed. “Thursday.”

“Good. And what’s my name?”

He tried to take a few deep breaths, noticed the pressure of your palm against his sternum, focused on it.

“Say my name, baby,” you cooed, and when Steve’s eyes slammed open, you were over him, all encompassing, hand to his chest, nose brushing his nose.

He released your name in a breath, like a prayer, and at once, you were swallowing it, warm lips pressed to his own, cupping his cheek, climbing onto his lap. Steve groaned at the weight of you, perfect, grounding, and gripped both of your hips, worshiped your thighs, dragged you into him until no part of his middle had room for the breeze.

“Say it again,” you rasped, head turned skyward. He murmured it into the heat of your throat, vowels meeting your pulse like pressed-palms, but the sound it pulled from your lips was sinful.

He thought of your curves, cast in moonlight, and now he felt them, desperately digging beneath denim and jersey until frigid fingers met scorching skin.

You yelped at the touch, but it pulled that throaty laugh from you and Steve realized nothing could ever be wrong again.

He spoke your name into the junction of you shoulder, where your clavicle dipped, and back to steal your breath from your plump lips. Kissing you was a balm, slow and sweet and soothing, chamomile and honey, a lullaby.

Your body was a weapon, the steady roll of your hips had him seeing stars. Nimble fingers worked the knots in his shoulders. Your back arched beneath his hand. You seethed his name, nipped at his lips, spread saliva down his throat with expert bites.

And then your hands found the hem of his shirt, crawled upward to trace puckered flesh, and he felt himself seize up, all at once slammed back into reality. Leather squeaked beneath him. He removed you to favor the seat behind you, squirmed under you, suffocated.

“It’s okay,” you placated against his earlobe, removed your hands from his shirt to place on his chest once more.

“No,” he struggled, throat aching, and he gripped your biceps until you released him, pulling back to look at him, pupils blown, brows knit in confusion. He ran a hand through his hair, winced at the sweat that had gathered on his neck. He shook his head. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” you swallowed, slid off his lap, the space between you was stale and hot, windows fogged.

“No, I just mean - fuck,” he gasped for air, cranked the window down an inch to alleviate some of the warmth, pressed his skull to the glass. He took a moment to catch his breath before turning back to face you.

You were adjusting your shirt, your jacket, staring out the windshield, glazed over.

“Hey,” he trailed his fingers across the bench seat to find your own. Yours were too warm, clammy. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, really,” the corners of your lips turned up, but you weren’t there, weren’t facing him. “I shouldn’t have assumed…”

“No, God, no,” Steve jumped to remedy the miscommunication. “No, I want this. I want you. Really. I’m like… it scares me how much I’m into you.” He ducked into your line of vision.

Still, you shied. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “That’s why I want to take this slow.” He hoped you heard the subtext. Not here, not tonight, not after today. “Okay?”

You looked up at him then, that far-off look in your eye, but you managed a shy smile, tucked your bottom lip between your teeth, and you nodded.

---

A/N: End of part one! Like I said, I've been working on this for absolute ages, and I just wanted to get it out, so I'm splitting it into several parts! It's an angsty one, but I hope you've enjoyed part one. Thanks so much for reading xo xo xo -Amanda

#steve harrington fic #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington angst #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things fic #stranger things

475 notes · View notes

outerspacebisexual · 2 years

Text

A Place in this World - Steve Harrington

Book A - Part Two: You're Not Sorry

Part One

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Summary: Steve Harrington was always there, you just didn't want him to be.

Word count: 1.59k

Warnings: swearing, co-worker robin Masterlist

The bells chiming above the door had you looking up from the accounts book in front of you.

“Hello, stranger,” Robin said, breezing on into the store. She was smiling and it brought a grin to your own face.

“Hey, Robby. I thought your shift didn’t start until 2:30?” The clock on the wall read 2:03pm.

She ran her hand along the counter as she stood on the opposite side of it. Her long hair was tied back in a ponytail, fringe sticking out in all different directions. You reached out and fussed with it, managing to somewhat tame it. “I know,” she said. “I just wanted to see you. You haven’t been at school this week.” Her tone was soft, sympathetic, and it made your heart drop.

It was true. You had been avoiding going back to school after the whole incident. Eddie had come by every morning to offer you a ride, but you declined. On Friday, three days after the cafeteria incident, he’d stood in your door and pursed his lips. You thought that he would say something, but he didn’t, he just sighed and turned around.

Your parents had left you alone after you faked a stomach bug, but you knew that tomorrow, you would have to show face at Hawkins High, as much as it pained you.

“I just…” you started, and Robin reached out and placed her hand on your own, squeezing it.

“It’s OK. I know. I just missed you is all.”

You slumped against the counter. “Yeah, me too. I’m hardly going to see you once this place shuts for good.”

The tiny electronics store on the main street had been on the verge of closing for years, but with the new mall under construction, closure was imminent. You had worked there for a little over a year and Robin for about five months. The owner never came in anymore, so it was usually just the two of you roaming the shelves and finding something to do. It was an easy job, but a job nonetheless. One you needed desperately. You had no idea where you were going to work after it closed.

“You thought about applying somewhere else?” Robin asked.

Sighing you said, “No. I don’t even know anywhere hiring.”

“I’ll probably apply at the mall.” She shrugged. “I’m sure they’ll be looking for staff somewhere. I have time though.”

You nodded and drew your eyes back down the accounts book. Somewhere along the line you and Robin had fumbled and messed up meaning it had to be reconciled alongside the stock. It would take you hours. “Wanna help get this started?” you offered.

“Absolutely not, but I suppose I have to.”

You smiled. “You absolutely do.”

Two hours later and the store was about three quarters done. Your shoulders ached and your eyes hurt. You picked up an ugly orange radio and flipped it over, comparing the serial number to the one in the book. Another one that was supposedly already sold. How the hell did this happen?

A crash on the other side of the aisle made you raise your brows. “You good?”

“Yeah,” came Robin’s strangled reply, “just dropped a toaster.”

Rolling your eyes, you continued your work in silence. Well, it was silent, until Robin decided to start talking.

“You know,” she began, and you could hear the hesitancy in her voice. “I saw Steve at school.”

You paused.

She waited a moment for you to reply, and when you didn’t, she continued. “He was standing by your locker before school. I was there to see Mr Hauser early and he was just…standing there. When he saw me, he took off, but he was there.”

The image of Steve at your locker instantly had your heart squeezing painfully in your chest. He’d never met you at your locker. That was something reserved for Nancy Wheeler. But of course, if he did, it would be before school when no one could see him associate with you. God forbid someone see him talking to a freak.

You squeezed your eyes closed. “I don’t care.”

Robin shuffled and you braced yourself for whatever it was she was going to say. “I think he wanted to apologise.”

You kept quiet. You doubted it. If anything, he would probably torment you more. You had no desire to talk to Steve Harrington at any point in the future.

Robin called your name and you let out an exasperated sigh. “What do you want me to say to that, Robin?” You threw your hands up. “I very much doubt he wanted to apologise. And I don’t care, not anymore.”

She was silent and you checked the clock. “We only have an hour to finish this.”

Her head popped up from over the shelf. “Why don’t you clock out?”

You furrowed your brows. “Why?”

She shrugged. “Because you’ve been working all day. Plus, this is almost finished. I can get it done and lock up.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” She smiled and you mirrored it.

“Thanks, Robby. I’ll catch you next week?”

She nodded. “Unless I see you at school.”

You opened your mouth, but closed it, choosing to nod instead. You would be at school by the force of your parents. And you were already behind at school now. You couldn’t afford to miss any more classes. And, Eddie would crack it if you abandoned him again for a fourth day.

By the time you got back to your trailer, you were freezing. The winter had come in quicker than normal, leaving you shivering on your walk home, and you found yourself pulling on another jacket when you got home. Eddie’s van wasn’t parked in front of his trailer. He was no doubt out and about with other members of the Hellfire Club.

You greeted your mother as you entered the living room, picking up the remote and flicking to a random channel. Pulling a blanket over your legs, you settled in to watch a cop show that had just started. Anything to get your mind off the fact that you had to be at school tomorrow.

Your mother inquired about work and Robin, and you gave her the cliched answers of ‘good’ and ‘she’s good’. When you complained about the heating being off, she said that there was something wrong with it and that your father was going to look at it when he got back.

You groaned and stood. Surely that was something you could do yourself. You worked at an electrical store. You got this.

You did not ‘got’ this, as it turned out.

The cupboard in the hallway that housed the A/C and heating unit was full of all sorts of shit that spilled out when you opened it.

When you go to the unit itself, you noted how old the thing was. It was a miracle that it had worked up until now. Your eyes flicked over it trying to locate the problem, but nothing stuck out. You reached down and unplugged it and plugged it back in, only to be met with sweet fuck all. You reached around it and tried to find a button or anything, but nada. You pressed all the surface buttons that beeped like they were doing something although they neither reset it nor turned it on.

You were feeling along the bottom of the unit when the phone rang out through the kitchen. You heard your mother get up from the couch and answer it, not really paying attention.

“Hello?...Oh, yes, of course I remember you, Steve.”

That had you head springing up, fast enough that you smashed your head against a shelf.

“She just got back from work. Let me see if she can talk to you.”

The phone was placed on the counter and your mother was in the hallway before you could tell her otherwise. “Sweetheart, Steve Harrington is on the phone. I didn’t know you were still friends.”

“We’re not,” you grumbled. Why in the world was he calling you? “I don’t want to talk to him.”

Your mother frowned. “Why? I thought—”

“I don’t want to talk to him. Please. Just tell him I’m not here. And not to call again.”

Her moth dropped open, and she stared at you for a moment before swallowing and saying, “Right. OK. No more Steve Harrington then.” It was less fight than she normally put up and you were grateful.

She was gone a second later and you heard her telling him your message—minus the last part, much to your disappointment.

Your frustration with the unit peaked and your mind flashed with the humiliation of last week. You screeched and kicked the unit, which only resulted in hurting your foot and denting the metal panel.

The phone was hung up and the tears started again. “Fuck,” you whispered. The image of Steve and Carol and Tommy H. kept blazing behind your eyes as if it were burned into the back of your eyelids.

Why would Steve even think that you would want to talk to him ever again?

You didn’t even want to see him ever again.

You furiously wiped at the tears running down your cheeks. You needed a distraction. Something to calm yourself down enough to sleep and deal with tomorrow. And luckily, you knew the perfect one.

One that came as a benefit of having a drug dealer best friend.

#steve harrington x reader #stranger things x reader #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #steve harrington angst #steve harrington fanfiction #outerspacebisexual

608 notes · View notes

crappymixtape · 10 months

Text

crappymixtape recos

going to try and do this at least once a month – sharing fics that are on my reading list or have just blown me away ❤ so many talented writers on here omg 🥺 show them some love and BE KIND, REBLOG! xoxo, 💿

❤ “i’ll miss your forever” – @andvys ( you are winning the battle against Vecna but you are also losing as you get closer and closer to death • eddie x reader )

❤ “i’ve got you” *18+ only – @chestylarouxx ( TW: drugs // you go to a party, grudgingly, and find that maybe that joint you smoked wasn't just the weed you expected. an old friend takes care of you • eddie x reader )

❤ “star of the show” series – @supernovafics ( TW: asshole!steve // you're hoping for the best, perhaps even some sort of miracle, but from the first phone call to the first meeting, it's pretty clear that everything that has been said about him is oh so true • modern!actor!steve x reader )

❤ “can i try one” – @inkluvs ( request prompt with a cw: reader is a bit ditzy? a luna lovegood type beat ; petnames • steve x reader )

❤ “get off – the v-card” *18+ only – @palmtreesx3 ( steve and robin get jobs at a sex shop, ie. buckle the fuck up, omg • steve x reader & robin x oc )

❤ “’rari go fast, i know you like it” *18+only – @superblysubpar ( steve takes you for a ride after closing a big deal at dinner • rich!steve x reader )

❤ “all i really want is you” blurb series *18+ only – @loveshotzz ( TW: age gap // in between summer days, when the sun barely touches the sky, when no one else is awake, you start to fall in love )

❤ “sugar meets spice” series – @lofaewrites ( the summer of 86’ brings eddie munson 3 things- a diploma, an actual job & a pretty girl who seems to like him just as much as he likes her – needless to say, life is good • construction worker!eddie x waitress!reader )

❤ “if tomorrow never comes” series *18+ only – @sweetsweetjellybean ( TW: smut, mentions of self-harm & death // trapped in the upside down, steve is prepared to die alone until he finds you hurt and in need of help. doing your best to survive while the world catches fire, is there time for one more chapter in your story? • steve x reader )

❤ “half my heart” – @steveharringtonscarkeys ( very sad and kind of out of context steve angst and sadness • steve x reader )

❤ “a study in self-sufficiency” series – @sattlersquarry ( steve’s parents have plans for his future, but he’s starting to think he wants something else • steve x reader )

❤ “to be drunk and in love” – @theshireisburning-so-mordoritis ( drunk confessions, best friends to lovers, eddie being a menace and friends who are extremely touchy and too dumb to realise it's because they're in love • eddie x reader )

❤ “to be alone together” *18+ only – @katsu28 ( steve has to work on valentine’s day, but maybe it’s not as bad as he thought it would be • steve x reader )

❤ “hugs” – @sigh-mon-says ( TW: implied homophobia // steve Harrington hated hugs until you came along • steve x reader )

❤ “colorblind” – @livingintheupsidedown ( TW: trauma, panic attack, S4 spoilers // you can't decide if you should tell Steve how you feel or not, he makes that decision for you • steve x reader )

#crappymixtaperecs #fanfic rec #fic rec #steve harrington fanfic #steve x reader #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #eddie munson #steve harrington #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie stranger things #steve stranger things #steve harrington fic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfic #makeacrappymixtape

113 notes · View notes

sashaforthewin · 1 year

Text

Here, have a lil chunk of one of my hundreds of Stranger Things WIP ficlets I've been writing to avoid writing a long WIP...

-----

Eddie's not an idiot. Well, he's kind of an idiot, but he has basic pattern recognition skills, he can put two and two together. He knows the sudden and steadily increasing audience at the Hideout corresponds with Steve Harrington starting to come to their shows.

And if he needed a control to test his hypothesis, Steve was home sick tonight. Some of the audience had ditched before the set started, but most gave it a few songs to see if he would show before heading out. Corroded Coffin's fourth song was played to an empty room besides the regulars at the bar. Let me tell you, nothing knocks your ego back down to the ground floor like playing to the backs of three old bikers, two of which are named Carl, and one construction worker covered in brick dust. Even the bartender had turned on a little radio behind the bar and had some sort of sports announcer playing.

But, crowd or no crowd, they kept playing because practice is practice, no matter where or when you're playing. Eddie tried not to notice that there was zero acknowledgment when they finished besides the bartender turning up the radio. At least they could still pad out their pockets with their cut of the cover charge, since people still paid to get in initially, even if they skedaddled. It wasn't much but they could afford to go to the diner and still have a bit left over, so they did.

Once they were sat at the corner booth with greasy plates of various breakfast foods in front of them, Gareth cleared his throat and tapped his coffee mug with a knife to get everyone's attention. It wasn't hard, they were all a bit down from the show, so they were not as loud as usual.

"Okay, I think it's time to discuss a major restructuring of the band."

This got Eddie's attention. He knew something needed to change but he didn't think anyone else thought so.

"Eddie, is Steve Harrington musical at all? Can he sing or play any instruments?"

"What? Oh, huh, I actually don't know… He has shit taste in music, he likes dance pop, but I don't actually know if he can play or sing."

"Okay, well, find out. I'm not above putting him behind a keyboard and having it turned off. I think if we can get him shirtless we might even start selling out shows. Don't look at me like that, guys, we know people only come to our shows to ogle Harrington and try to shoot their shot with him whenever Robin leaves his side long enough. Think about how many people would actually start to pay attention to our music if they think it's coming from him! I know it seems shitty to get fans under false pretenses like that, but maybe some of them will start to actually dig the music."

They all sat there thinking and eating, mulling the idea over while they slurped up slimy eggs and crunched on overly buttered toast and burnt hash browns swimming in yellow grease.

"It's not a terrible idea, it'll get more people to give our music a chance."

"More? It'll get anyone to give our music a chance!"

"One of the Carl's was tapping his foot," Jeff pointed out unhelpfully.

"He's always tapping his foot, dipshit, he's got the shakes."

"Still," he shrugged.

"Yeah, I can ask him," Eddie spoke over the bickering.

"Find out if he can play or sing first and then bring him to practice, maybe we can talk him into joining without outright saying it's for his looks, you know?" Gareth suggested.

"Yeah, fine," Eddie said. If Gareth wanted to try to backseat drive this thing, he could go ahead. Eddie was pretty sure Steve wouldn't want to be the eyecandy figurehead of a death metal band, but he would be glad to be proven wrong and not have to do any of the work to get it.

And if he hated the idea, it wouldn't reflect badly on Eddie since Gareth was going to be the one to suggest it.

(Maybe there will be more later)

#steddie #stranger things fic

93 notes · View notes

badpancakelol · 6 months

Text

the one where steve harrington is the monster in the woods

Hawkins has never been one of those towns that you could point to on the map unless you were looking for it. Swaddled between the wide expanse of nothingness on either side, the town is less than a town, really. If anything, and Steve had figured this out when he was only young, only tall enough to slide the hard-covered dictionary from its place on the bookshelf into his little, grubby hands, the town was better suited to one of its other synonyms — a village, maybe. It was a little archaic, yes, young Steven had noticed this, but wasn’t their town always a little bit backwards?

It was a well known fact that nobody had tried to dispute for years, that Hawkins wasn’t interesting until you turned of age. A long time ago, before Steven’s parents were born, before Loch Nora had been a place for two-to-three story houses, deep pools, and house parties, that age had been eighteen. Steven had been regaled of stories, through thick books and musty paper, about how you were meant to drink, and fuck, and drive, smoke, party, undress, and press soft hands into softer flesh — feel the pleasures of a lesser man — destroy yourself from within.

Then, there was the accident. And the age had been heightened to twenty-one.

What if it happens again? They’re only children, really, why are we letting them do this? They shall be condemned. Young Steven had read the words on the paper, had squinted his eyes at the accounts of the courts in swirling text that had been ingrained into him from a young age. His script was loopy and small, quaint on the pieces of paper that his father had handed to him. Young men can write in its proper form, his father had said. And he had always said that, called Steve a young man — as if he was never truly anything but a being who was fully formed and grown, from before his first breath.

It had always rubbed him the wrong way. The way that they would leave him as if he were of age, days to weeks to months, alone and alone and alone. The walls of the house used to have this ugly wallpaper, patterned with golds and blues and whites. It was so terribly ugly, Steven had thought, with paintings of oranges and their yellowing leaves, and the stripes of sky-tones that reminded him of summer. His nanny would dust the walls as if he had dirtied them, tutting with that warmth within her skin, that made him want to be swallowed whole. She would dance around the house like a film, humming in that soft voice, skirts making dainty circles as she twirled and cooked.

When they had gone through house renovation number one, the wallpaper was the first thing to go. Ugly, unprofessional, childish, beach-y. Steven didn’t know why he missed it. Why he cried at the sight of the workers peeling and scraping the essence of summer from his house. But as soon as he had been spotted within the dust and the rot, he had been pulled from the construction site, ushered away to the small townhouse that they were staying in.

But, focus, we are not talking about young Steven, or his father, or his house. We are talking about Hawkins. We are talking about how boring, and mundane, and how utterly isolated, and normal, Hawkins is. The people there are ordinary, if not a little bit grating on the psyche if you asked Steve, but wasn’t that the magic of a small town in the middle of nowhere? Everyone knows everybody, every in and every out. Things that they didn’t even tell them in the first place. The best kept secrets are the ones that everyone knows but nobody acknowledges.

If Steve had to give an example of this, it would easily be Eddie Munson. Everybody knew what he dealt. Everybody knew, in a roundabout way, that he didn’t live with his parents, that he could be found in the trailer park, that he was not the most popular of bodies within the town, the village. He should have, could have, easily been busted so many times — dealing to his fellow peers in high school — but why wasn’t he? Everyone was aware. Deeply, intrinsically, as if it were one of the little pieces of knowledge that you were bestowed upon at birth — like how Steve had been branded a young man before he had even the chance to prove himself a boy — people had always just known.

And, the more he thinks about it, the more it seems a little bit silly. And then a little bit smart. And then a little more smart. Munson doesn’t deal anything harder than weed. Or, if he did, he was smart enough to not let it become knowledge in the public domain known as high school gossip. So, the cops know, and the parents know, and the students know, and those that are not buying from him turn a blind eye, because he has not been the cause of an accident, something like the accident, and, in turn, he has been branded as safe. By parents, by buyers, by the gods-damned law enforcement.

(This doesn’t mean that he is liked. Steve has seen, had used to almost-enjoy and participate, in the weird hierarchy pissing contest that came with being proclaimed a teenager, social, King. He had seen the way that people would purposefully shove their shoulders into Munson’s unknowing ones, or the way that people would yank on his long curls.

A small part of Steve thought that it was the same attitude that preteen boys would employ to get a girl’s attention. He had voiced these thoughts to his then-friend, Tommy H. and had been punched — a little too rough — between his shoulder blades in “friendly” warning).

Steve is no exception to the boringness of Hawkins. If he were to describe himself, he might find that he was a little odd, but not enough that he was a pariah, or an anomaly that needed to be taken away and put down. He played his part, just like Munson played his.

He lived in the upper-class part of town — something that used to be a point of pride, but has now turned into one of contention — had average grades, and an average sized friend group (if you didn’t count the kids, of course). He played basketball, no longer the captain after Hargrove had trampled into the village, and was on the swim team. Steve Harrington used to be a party boy, indulging himself on those pleasures that his age should not have allowed him to: alcohol, weed, sex. But these were normal teenaged things, and could be forgiven by parents by the bat of his eyelashes, or a disarmingly apologetic smile. He goes to school, picks up his girlfriend (who he is in love with, he thinks, but who maybe doesn’t love him), has alright attendance, and is loved by those that know him, and those that don’t. This is who he wants to be, and this is who he will continue to portray himself as.

Steve Harrington is normal, and Hawkins, Indiana, is boring, and it will stay that way, if Steve has any say in it.

And so, as any normal teenager does on a Wednesday morning, Steve listens to the radio on his counter as he finishes his piece of buttered toast, and he gets into his car. The maroon colour compliments his skin and his closet in a way that makes him a little more happy than he’d like to admit, but he’s allowed to have this little pleasure, isn’t he? Today, he’s chosen that one deep red-brown sweater that Nancy swears makes him look soft.

When she had first said it, it had made him happy. To believe that he had the opportunity to be soft again — because a man was all hard edges and empty words, and corporate collars, shoving people into lockers for the hell of it, and shotgunning beers because it seemed so easy, or, maybe, that was just his father. What his father had made a man to be.

(There’s a little part of him that wears the sweater because he’s afraid that Nancy is slipping away. He doesn’t know when it happened — nothing at all had happened over the Christmas break, no arguments, or disagreements, fights, spats, whatever they could be branded. But Steve had seen the way that she cast longing glances in the direction of Jonathan Byers, and the way that she was cancelling dates without telling him. He had tried to ask her what was wrong, to try and atone for some sin that he had not even been aware he was committing. And she had just smiled without teeth, and said he was seeing things, and for a moment it felt like he had never known her at all.

So, there is a little part of Steve that wears the sweater because he knows that Nancy likes how it looks on him, as a last ditch effort to try and, he doesn’t know— seduce her into loving him again. To peacock around as subtly as he can, to say please look at me like how you look at him, please look at me as if you love me. There is something there, Steve realises in a bout of self-awareness, about how time is cyclical, and he is stuck making the same mistakes that his mother had fallen victim to).

As he pulls into the Wheeler driveway, Steve picks at a loose thread near his sweater cuff. Nancy is already waiting by the steps of her house, adorned in that turtleneck-jumper combo that she loves to pull out as the weather starts to cool down. Steve reaches over the centre console to open the door before she gets to it — a wide smile on her face as she settles in, and Steve reverses back onto the road.

“Nice sweater,” she huffs, fingers dainty and sure as they hover over his shoulder.

For a while there, it was if they had created their own language together — a call and response type thing that he had learned to love. Certain phrases were meant to be met with other phrases and words in kind, and certain items, objects, events, could trigger the language to be spoken. It was like playing a little game, trying to figure out the intricacies of their maybe-love.

“Nice sweater,” he retorts, takes one hand off the wheel to hold the fraying edges of her own clothing, tugging at the threads that could so easily be weaved with his.

Steve replies in the language they have adorned and forged together, looking down to the warm colours that she wears, the way that their styles have assimilated to be similar to each others, and isn’t that meant to be what love is? To not know where one ends and the other begins? To be tangled in so deep that you are not yourself anymore, that the pieces you had given had been taken in and fostered until something completely foreign had been born? There is a part of him that wishes that he still had parts of himself left to call his own, that Steve hadn’t went all in on this one moment as a teenager, not of age. But what is he supposed to know? He is just young, and boring, and horribly mundane.

When they reach their destination, Nancy mumbles something about having to find her friend — Barbara. They had been close since the day they were born, she had said, and Steve longed for that kind of connection. To be able to call someone your other half. For a little while, he thought that he would be able to call Tommy H. and Carol that — his thirds, really. But then he had wisened up to the way that they were treating people, the way that they had looked to him for some fucked up kind of approval, as if he was the only thing in-between them and popularity.

(He knows that there is a version of those two that had actually been his friends. A part of them that he had loved and been loved, in turn. But it is so much easier, Steve thinks, if he only thought of them as the sum of things they did wrong).

As he watches Nancy walk towards the school building, Steve crumples up the college letter that he had asked her to look over. There’s no point in him trying, really. His future had been set out for him. Steve Harrington was set to work for his father’s company from the same time he was branded as a young man. There was no leaving Hawkins, or living in a share house, or studying late nights, in the cards for him.

Instead of wallowing in his grief (and, no, he would not admit to it if anyone had asked), Steve gets out of his car, tracing Nancy’s long-left steps to the front of the school. This is his last year of high school — then he will need to get a part-time job, as per his future plan, and then slave away in his corporate body of a corporate shell, until the day he dies in a corporate coffin. Wonderful, right? At least he’s eighteen, now.

The halls of the school are the same as always. A little too loud for Steve’s taste, filled with people trying to impress their peers in ways that they will see as embarrassing in a couple years. Steve nods at those that meet his eye, smile polite enough to still be considered a little bit of a heartthrob, despite his fall from kingship last year. He revels a little in the way that people seem to like him, even if it is just the idea of him that enthrals them. Steve reaches his locker, smells the heavy and crazed scent of one—

“Stevie!”

Eddie Munson.

“Munson.” Steve greets, not unkindly.

“Still on last names, I see. Oh, how you wound me!” Eddie says, puts his hands up to his heart as is he had been shot. “I missed you yesterday at gym.”

They are not friends. Not to Steve’s standards, no, and definitely not to Eddie’s. For all intents and purposes, they have nothing in common. Eddie is owned by the public domain of high school as much as Steve’s front of a King is — that is to say that Eddie is an open book, whereas Steve is closed shut. Munson isn’t afraid too blast his music as loud as he can as he screams through the parking lot, trying to drown out the similar tones coming from Hargrove’s car, just to piss him off. His shirt is branded with something that parents whisper as satanic, but really only alludes to the Dungeons and Dragons club he runs through the school.

They have a few of the same classes together, what with Eddie retrying his last year of high school after he majorly, and I mean, majorly, fucked up my exams, Harrington. They are not friends, but they know of each other. Steve is nice to him, cordial, really, and Eddie, despite the way that he acts in the cafeteria, is kind back. Occasionally, they’ll share a smoke when lunch gets too loud, or when Steve doesn’t want to deal with everything that happens in gym (no, he is not avoiding Tommy or Billy, he swears).

“Just felt a little sick, I guess.” Steve says, taking out his English text and absolutely not looking at where Nancy and Barbara and Jonathan have all huddled together at the end of the hallway lined with lockers. They are a unit that seems to flow together, and whenever all four of them go somewhere, Steve feels as if he is a broken fourth wheel — as if there is a final part of the puzzle that is decidedly not him.

“Ah,” Eddie says, a little smile on his face as he leans against the wall, “Trouble in paradise?”

Steve closes his locker with probably a little more force than necessary, because they are not friends, and Steve doesn’t really need other people to know about his love life, thank you every much.

“Something like that,” Steve says, smile tight, and eyes sharp in a way that says step back, think for a second.

And so Eddie does — hands raised and placating, because he knows that he has crossed their imaginary boundaries and imaginary lines that neither of them had fleshed out or set, themselves. The warning bell rings, and Steve mumbles a see you later, and Eddie hums in confirmation, before they are lost to the sea of students that look nothing, and exactly, like them.

— — —

One of the newer additions to the basketball club, Jason Carver, is a little bit annoying, if Steve was being complete honest. He knew that each of the students were meatheads in their own unique ways, what with their rallying members including the ranks of Billy Hargrove (AKA: Grade A Asshole) and Tommy Hagan (self explanatory), but there’s something about this guy that kinda rubs him the wrong way. Maybe it was his wannabe-Tom-Cruise style smile, or the fact that the girl he was dating — a sweet girl called Chrissy — looked so close to his own face. Steve knows that if he cared enough to actually look into it, he would recall something in the ways of Freud. For now, though, he relents that maybe they might be second cousins. And, well, it’s Hawkins. It wouldn’t be exactly out of the norm for their history.

“He’s just such a shithead, Nance,” Steve says, stretching his arms out over the lunchroom table, head pressed lightly against the metal to avoid imprints.

“More or less than Holloway?” She asks, hand rubbing almost-soothing circles into the textured patter of his knit sweater.

At this, he sits up. “Oh, god, did your boss do something again?”

“When has he ever not done something?” Jonathan huffs, chin resting on his palm.

See, unlike Steve, they had aspirations. In their spare time, Nancy and Jonathan would intern at the local newspaper. Sure, it was mostly running to get coffees, and saying yes, sir to everything that their superiors said, but it was still something right?

Barb speaks, her cheeks rosy in the way Steve knows they get when Nancy hasn’t told her something important. “Again? Nance, I really think you need to tell your mum about how he’s treating you, because it’s not—”

“—Okay, yes I know, Barb.” Nancy sighs. “But how would that look on me? I’m meant to be able to prove myself, not just run to my parents when one slight thing goes wrong!”

“But it’s not just one thing,” Steve says, as he mimics her previous movement, his thumb with the small scar catching in the frayed edges of her wool. “Just last week you were telling me about how you overheard him making those comments about— about people in our year, people in his daughter’s year. That’s not okay—”

“You think I don’t know that, Steve?” She hissed. “I am very much aware that his attitudes towards teenage girls is disgusting, but what the hell am I meant to do?”

Her pointed glare is directed at him, and it feels as if she isn’t even looking at Steve. It is as if she is looking through him, pointing her pointy edges in the way of the soft flesh that he has bore for her. It hurts, just a little bit, but isn’t love meant to?

“Nance—” Jonathan starts.

“No. I don’t want to talk about this.” She huffs, turns her gaze away from Steve’s eyes. He doesn’t miss the way that she melts, softens, under the concerned face of Jonathan. “No, we’re gonna talk about the upcoming Halloween party.”

Barb nods her head, just slightly, but with the way that she looks to Steve, as if to ask him please help, he knows that the two will stay up late on the phone, or meetup after Nancy and Jonathan have left, to try and figure out a way to help Nancy, to make sure that she’s actually alright. The piece of paper that Nancy slides across their humble cafeteria space is adorned in bright oranges and deep blacks — a crudely drawn ghost printed on the middle of the page, with a stupid pun being uttered from underneath its sheet-costume.

“I don’t know about this,” Barb says, eyes hesitant behind large glasses. “I’m not really a party gal.”

Jonathan scratches at the back of his neck, smile apologetic in the same way that Steve would use to wish away his past to doting parents. “Yeah, I’m not really one to get sheet-faced, Nance. Plus, I was gonna take my brother trick or treating tonight.”

“You have to, or you want to?” Nancy asks. And she has that twinkle in her eye that says I have set my mind to something, and now you are in my way. It used to be something that she would wholly and only direct to Steve, so seeing it pointed towards Jonathan of all people? Well. He’s gonna bottle up those feelings and maybe (never) go over how that makes him feel.

“Want to.” Jonathan says, a small smile on his face. “But I’m sure Steve’ll say yes, right?”

Steve finds that all the eyes of his friends are on him. And the answer should be easy, really, because is there even any other option for him? A good boyfriend would accompany his good girlfriend to her first party. He would do so willingly and lovingly. So why does he feel so hesitant? As if he had seen this film before, was aware of the things that saying yes would hold.

“Come on, Steve,” Nancy says. “Don’t you want to be stupid teenagers for one more night?”

“Of course.” He answers, places a kiss on her cheek.

“And if Jonathan is taking Will, then that means you’re not babysitting tonight, right? So you’ll come with me to the party?”

It doesn’t take much more convincing than that (externally, at least. Internally, Steve thinks of every possibly outcome and opportunity that he is creating. He was meant to babysit the kids with Jonathan tonight. After Will had been missing, and Steve had learnt about Jane, and the newcomer, Max, had joined, the parents all wanted their kids to be watched over. And who better to do that than Steve Harrington, Hawkins’ Golden Boy? But, no, if Jonathan was hinting at Steve being available, even though he knew that they were looking after the kids together, then surely he wanted Steve to go? Surely this was him hinting that he would be okay with the kids?).

This line of thinking, the questioning, the answering, within his own head, is what leads him to let Nancy choose the costumes, and kiss him on his head, and have him drive to the party. Costumes of characters from that movie that Nancy had liked — Risky Business — are adorned in true Hawkins fashion, ie: every person willing to have a social presence in the student body had raided their parents closets to find something so unlike their own clothes, that it could feasibly be recognised as “dressing up”.

The party is not unlike the ones that Steve was used to. The bodies in the house are all tightly packed together, and there is an indistinguishable scent of alcohol and sweat and sex. It lingers in the air as if it is its job, sticking to every surface it can. Steve is sure that as soon as he leaves this party, it will be imbedded in his hair, stuck to his flesh like a thin film to be washed away with copious amounts of soap and warm water. Slowly, surely, delicately.

The jacket that he is wearing is thick and dark against his shoulders — sweat building up near his shoulder blades with even the most minute amount of dancing that he’s been doing. There are shouts and chants outside about a new Keg King, but Steve couldn’t care less. That popularity contest and dick measuring bullshit was as beneath him as the dirt lacing his sneakers. The only thing that mattered right now was having fun. Trying to have fun.

“Nance,” Steve tries, “Nancy—”

“No!” She says, dips her cup into the punch. “I said that I wanted to be a stupid teenager, so I’m doing everything that a stupid teenager would do, okay? Aren’t I allowed to just have this?”

Steve places a hand between them on the counter, taps his fingers across it. Because he gets it, really, he does. He gets wanting to lash out and drink and party and do all the bad-child things that weren’t in line with their perfectly set out futures. Nancy Wheeler, straight A student and intern at the local newspaper would not drink. Nancy Wheeler, liked well enough to be seen as cute and quiet, not enough to be seen as popular or rowdy. Nancy Wheeler, who would go to university, and study hard, and get a well paying job, or maybe relent to the asks of Hawkins, and live in a little cul-de-sac, and have a nuclear fucking family.

Steve gets it. He gets wanting to lash out.

“Okay,” He relents. “Just— be careful, okay? Take it slow, and I’ll stay completely sober. I’ll try and look out for you.”

She just nods her head as she fills her cup (again? Had she not just went to go fill it?), bringing the white rim of the red plastic to her lips. Nancy tilts her head back in glee, an easy smile slipping over her mouth at the no doubt fruity taste of the punch attempting to mask the copious amounts of alcohol that were poured into the bowl. Steve’s had a bad feeling about this since before the day even started.

And that bad feeling doesn’t alleviate, not even a little, when he hears the door open, when he turns, when he catches a glimpse of the next person to walk through the open door.

Jonathan.

The bad feeling isn’t because of the weirdness that’s going on between his friend and his girlfriend, no. Not because he isn’t wearing a costume. Not because he’s showing up late. The bad feeling rises tenfold, and Steve finds himself taking quick and long strides across the floor, dodging people, using his height to shoulder passed others, because Jonathan was meant to be looking after the kids.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Steve asks, eyes a little too wide, breath a little too short. “I thought you were supervising them?”

“Will said he didn’t want me to,” Jonathan says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He shrugs his shoulders as if to say what can you do? As if a single conversation can shirk the month of planning that went into tonight, for the kids. The planning that Steve had so readily skirted, himself, at the lone voice of Nancy, and the promising eyes of Jonathan.

“You know why we were meant to go—”

“—And I think my mum’s being a bit paranoid. Nothing has happened in a year, Steve. What happened with Will, him going missing, it was just,” Jonathan sighs, pushes his shoulders back in that way he always does, “An anomaly. Something weird. Nothing ever happens in Hawkins, right? So what’s one night? Can’t he just have that?”

Aren’t I allowed this? Can’t he have that? It’s as if they are the same conversations, asking for the same things, asking for different things, that he cannot give. As if the gift is something simple, and not something that might, that will, change everything. But, well. Steve doesn’t know that. Not yet.

“Shit, okay.” Steve huffs, mind rattling with endless possibilities of what could happen to the kids, what they could get up to, themselves, when left unattended and uncontactable in the middle of the night, in the middle of Hawkins.

“Steve, nothing is going to happen. Just enjoy tonight. With Nance.” Jonathan says, smile fading as the words exit his mouth.

Shit. Nancy.

“I’ll be right back!” Steve calls, turning as he says it, words being swallowed by the crowd. Nancy, Nancy, Nancy. Surely it wouldn’t be too hard to spot her in the sea of costumes? What with how she’s wearing all white, and Halloween usually calls for, well, something a little more dark, a little more scary.

Steve pushes his way through, arms trying to break through pressed bodies. Were there this many people before? Was it always so hot? He pushes the sunglasses up to his hair, not caring for the look, anymore.

“Harrington!” Tommy calls, his freckles more prominent from his flushed face: drunk. “We’ve got a new Keg King!”

Steve turns away from the leers and the cheers of the basketball team, turns away from Hargrove who seems to be trying to make his way over. Steve really doesn’t have the time to be dealing with him right now — right now, all he wants to do is find Nancy. He told her that he’d take care of her, and then at the first sign of something happening, of another person appearing, of Jonathan, he had just abandoned her to the crowd, to these people that she didn’t really know, to these people that had more experience with parties than her, to these people that she—

“You okay there, Stevie?” Eddie asks, hand cold against Steve’s knuckles. “You look like you’re—”

“—Not now, Munson. Sorry, I’m just—” Steve tries to look over his hair, the frizz of the curls seemingly played up more than how they naturally are. “Have you seen Nancy?”

Eddie’s face seems to furrow in thought, and the cool hand that was so expertly pressed against Steve’s knuckles are removed to his own belt loops. “I think I passed her a couple minutes ago in the kitchen. Are you sure you’re okay—”

“Thank you!” Steve says, turning to his left, where he thinks he can see the counter, where he sees the dim yellow light that indicated change. Where hardwood floors and plush carpets stained with red punch turned to tile, and where he sees the back of Nancy’s figure.

“Jesus, Nance, I’m sorry that I left you like that. I just saw Jonathan and got worried about the kids— hey.”

“Mmmmrr?” Nancy mumbles, hand held tight against her cup, wrist limply flicking in and out of the punch bowl, uselessly trying to fill it up, again.

“You— how much have you had to drink?”

“Steve,” She slurs, a happy smile on her face as she dunks the cup under fully. “Not enough.”

“Hey, no, Nance, I said I’d take care of you, so,” Steve places his hand delicately on her wrist, uses his other one to try and pry the drink from her grasp. “I really think that you should wait a bit before you drink again, okay? Let’s get you some water, and sit down over—”

“I don’t want to drink some water—”

“Nancy, please,” Steve says. “Just, let go of the cup for me?”

“No.”

Steve tugs again, trying to slot his fingers under hers. He’d become all too accustomed to this — to doing this with Tommy. And it had worked with Tommy, with Carol, so why—

“Let go of the, the cup, Steve. I want you,” She enunciates, a little too much effort put into each word to be sober, “To let go, of the goddamned cup—!”

He lets go. The bad feeling presses into his skull, down his spine, like an old friend. Like punch staining white shirts. Like the hundred people who have turned, like the music that has been turned down, like Hargrove, making his way over, like Eddie, watching from the corner, like Jonathan, stuck by the door.

Shit.

“What the fuck, Steve?”

“Okay, Nance, let’s just—” She turns around before he can say anything more, and her figure flits in and out of the bodies of the people who had once hindered his trek to her. Now, they part like the ocean, as if she is some God to be reckoned with. Steve supposes that, right now, she is.

He follows the empty trail that she has left for him, nods politely and acutely to the woman who stands in Kiss makeup nodding her head towards the ajar door — the bathroom with golden yellow light and a large mirror by the sink. He pushes his way in, closing the door softly behind him. No more eyes. No more leering.

“Nancy, it’s not coming off. I think it’s,” Steve sighs, doesn’t try to reason with her as she runs the hand towel under the water again, bringing it up to the large red stain down her front. He’ll get the mess out tomorrow. He just needs to get her home, have her get into a change of clothes, and he’ll deal with the rest in the morning. “C’mon, Nance.”

“I know what I’m doing,” She slurs, leans agains the sink countertop with her left arm. “See? It’s— it’s coming off.”

Steve just sighs, goes to take the towel from her limp hand. “Let’s get you home, yeah Nance? How does sleeping sound?”

“I don’t want to!” She said, lurching forward from her standing position. “I wanted to be a dumb teenager and do all the things that— that I’m not supposed to, so why are you—”

“Nance,” Steve whispered, hand on her shoulder, holding up her weight as she presses onwards.

“—trying to take that away from me? You always just ruin everything. You’re— you’re bullshit! I just wanted one simple thing: to act like we were dumb, and young, and in love—”

“Like we’re in love? Nancy, what do you—”

“Bullshit.” She mumbles, then, louder, as if realising that Steve might not have heard it, she speaks. “You are complete bullshit, Steve Harrington. Bull-shit.”

No. Steve wants to say. Because, he realises, there is some truth to what she is saying. Has he ever been a person, has he ever been a subject that was once and truly owned by himself? Could Steve ever remember a moment where he wasn’t just an amalgamation of parts that he picked up over the years? Which parts had come naturally, and which parts had he so carefully chosen? He’s always felt as if he was slipping, from what he never knew, but maybe it was just normalcy. Maybe he was always a fake— a bullshit version of who used to wear his skin.

Steve Harrington has never been boring and normal in the same way that the people of Hawkins were — he had to be hand crafted to try and fit the moulds that were placed upon him. Carve off parts of himself that he realised were undesirable in the long run, because what was he, if not what people wanted? If not something that people had loved?

Nancy had been like a lifeline to him — someone who was trying so hard to break the role that was bestowed upon them. I don’t want to be the dutiful older sister who becomes the dutiful wife who doesn’t get to live for herself. I want to see the world, and travel, and learn, and study, and love. And I want to love you. Had it always been a lie? Was everything so predetermined down to a T, that for Nancy Wheeler to be breaking her mould, she first had to break him? Was there ever a future where they end up together — too similar and too different all at once?

She had been a lifeline. And maybe that is where it all started. That Steve had looked to her for the guidance that he was never given, trying so desperately to please her — to try and revel in that calm that exuded out of her body as if it were endless. It was that feeling that he was chasing, that feeling that made him ache for his own bones to be whole, that made him yearn to stay in his body, for his teeth to stay dull, and his height stay the same.

He feels like he’s losing it. Steve feels as if there are a hundred running words around his head. Bullshit bullshit bullshit. He knew that Nancy was falling out of love with him. He knew it in his bones. Knew it in his shifting form. Why does it hurt, still? Why does it still feel as though she has struck him across the face the way a father does to a child — or is this just another one of those scenarios, Steve asks himself, that are so very abnormal, that he has only known to be true?

Steve’s losing it. He knows he is. He pushes out of the bathroom, stumbles out, really, but the music has been turned back up, and he can feel it in his chest, thump thump thump-ing across the dance floor. He feels as if he is changing right there, in the middle of this stupid fucking house party, where everyone can see him. And if there is one thing that he is good at, if Steve Harrington is only allowed to, able to, be good at one fucking thing in his useless, short-lived life, it is knowing when he is not wanted. Knowing when he has to leave.

So he does. He leaves. Out of the back door — the crowd of people pressing in on his chest, his body, the front door — and into the woods. And it is there that he will change.

(The first thing to go is his sight.

Or, rather, his eyes.

Steve, in his fading consciousness, tries to lift his hands — hands that are too big for his body, that are sharp and grotesque, and so horribly his, with a scar near his left thumb where he nicked it as a child — towards where his eyes are. Where they should be. He turns his hands so that the long nails are pointing as outward as they can, so that they do not touch what he hopes is still his own face. The pads of his thumbs meet the space in which his eyes had occupied. It is textured and puckered, and when Steve tries to blink — because as a human, as a young man, he should be able to blink — he cannot. The expanse of what should be the woods in front of him are just shades of dark, with only the moon to bare witness to this, to him, to the monstrosity that he is becoming.

Where flesh meets bone, and love meets hurt, Steve morphs. Muscle and ligaments stretching and contorting till they are spread thin against a gangly body that tries — and succeeds — to tower above the height that he was gifted from creation. He feels as his vocal chords hum within his throat, a throat that has contracted and elongated to make space for the bones that sprout from his spine. Hind legs break and bend, making Steve fall over himself into the dirt of the woods, jutting out at odd directions, in a misguided attempt at growing into something new.

Where comfort and beauty used to be found in the form of golden-brown hair, something ugly starts to be birthed. Steve can feel as the thudding of something within his brain gets so insistent that he clutches at his ears to plead it to stop. He can feel as his skull starts to fracture. As his scalp is peeled back from his head, he raises his nails to stop it — pleading in the form of scratching at the warm wetness. Bone and blood make way for rotten wood; two spike-like structures ignoring the helpless cries of the boy that they occupy.

And, god, he can feel it. Steve, in the middle of this transformation, can feel as the bones within his body vibrate against his skin, whispering into his breath, let go, let me in, it won’t hurt, I can make it all okay. There is a part of him — the sensible, boring, part of him, that says he should not listen. That he should go back to the Halloween party, and pretend that he cannot taste his own bile mixing with thick blood, that it does not feel like he is being crushed between the worlds.

I don’t want to die, Steve thinks.

The voice within him answers, says: I am not going to kill you).

— — —

Eddie is not having a good night. Like, yeah, there are probably people having an even lesser good night (read: whatever the hell he saw happen with one Nancy Wheeler and one Steve Harrington), especially considering that he has to step over the passed out bodies of other high schooler’s as he traipses out of the back door of the house. His docs were slightly sticky in a way that indicated spilt alcohol, despite his stance on not drinking and dealing. The Halloween party that Tina hosted was meant to be small — only a couple close friends she had said — but it ended up being closer to the entire fucking year group (and then some). He had been bought out almost immediately — familiar faces in the forms of the basketball club, and the band nerds, unfamiliar faces in the forms of people who were usually too shy or too scared to approach him normally — and hadn’t been able to find an opportunity to leave until, well. Until whatever the hell happened with Steve and Wheeler.

See, Eddie was never planning to drink, what with his weirdly strict rules, especially considering his grades, but he still didn’t want to drive his van to the house. This was for a multitude of reasons, with the glaringly obvious one being so that it didn’t get alcohol, or barf, or other bodily fluids splashed across the front, as people drunkenly stumbled down the streets to their homes, or to their one designated driver. Ah, the woes of underage drinking.

That is how he finds himself, leaves sticking to his sticky soles, dirt caking themselves into the tread. It’s not the first time that Eddie has found himself huddled into his own jacket, trying to walk the non-existant path that he had set before him, on the way home. Sometimes it was just easier to walk than to have to pay for your van being keyed by some evangelical lunatics. That doesn’t mean that it makes the walk any easier, though.

The trees are all those horribly gangly and long, old-wood ones. His Uncle Wayne used to talk about how they were “there since the day Hawkins was erected”, but Eddie had been too young to properly take in the cautionary tale, instead snickering at the use of the old man’s use of the word erected. As they loom over him — shadows cast into the almost-mud of the ground — Eddie wishes that he had payed attention.

But he had made this walk all the time! In the daytime, in the afternoon, in the middle of the night. It had never felt comforting, sure, but it had never felt like— like something was watching him. That was absurd, though. It was well known that Hawkins was boring (no matter how hard Eddie had tried to liven it up a little), and most of all, it was safe. The accident was just that — an anomaly of an incident that was recorded in history, and swept away with teachings of how to be a good and proper man, and how to do your times tables. Will Byers was — well. Eddie didn’t know how to excuse that.

But, nobody was here.

Just him.

Eddie trudges forward. There is something within him that makes him clutch at the multitool that Wayne had gifted him, flicking the knife out. Not the dull letter opener section that had never been used, but the sharp, cerated blade that been bestowed upon him as protection.

(“Protection from what?” Young Eddie had asked. There was nothing to be afraid of, here. Because this is the town that Wayne was in, and this is the town that his mother had grown up in. Before everything had changed.

Wayne had shifted in his seat, the couch springs making that dog-whining noise that made Eddie’s noise scrunch.

“Nothing.” He said, hand warm and heavy on Eddie’s shoulders. “Just making sure, is all.”)

Step, step, breathe. Step, step, breathe. He would twirl the knife in his hands if he were not afraid of dropping it — a situation from a shitty horror slasher appearing forefront in his mind: he drops the blade to the ground as the monster runs up behind him, and as the camera pans to the sky, to his eyes, to its teeth, his fingernails encrusted with dirt, Eddie will grab it in the nick of time, brandishing it valiantly, before swinging his arm in a dull strike—

“Who’s there?”

The words leave his mouth before he can stop them. He no longer feels like the final girl who fumbles for the knife in the leaves, and suddenly feels like the expositional first victim. The sound that he had heard — something that he could only really describe as a gurgle has stopped.

“You’re just going crazy, Eddie,” He hums to himself, blows his curly fringe from in front of his eyes. “Nothing to worry about at all. No sir-ee.”

He keeps his back to the direction in which he needs to go; the invisible path that he has crafted towards his trailer. Eddie, horror movie connoisseur, knows that he should not stalk towards the noise — had shouted at his small television set too many times to know that it leads to finding the monster, the horror in itself.

(He finds that maybe there is some truth to the actions. His feet carry him backwards, towards safety, but it feels as if he is walking through sludge, moving ever so slowly, leaning forward, eyes wide, as if trying to gain a view of the thing that made the gurgle).

Back hitting a tree, Eddie turns, for a second, as small of a moment of time that he can spare, before facing forward, again. He cannot look away from the darkness of the woods. He wished that he brought his flashlight. Or drove his van to Tina’s. Or stayed at the fucking Halloween party.

Shifting so that his back is facing open woods, he places a tentative foot back. And then another. And another.

The sound lurches through the expanse of nothing. The wet death-rattle building and building, as if it is getting closer. As if it is running.

“Shit!” Eddie turns on his heel and bolts into the woods. Without a care for which direction his trailer is in — it doesn’t matter if it is behind him, or if it is in front of him, all that matters is that he gets away from the whatever the fuck is making that god awful noise—

He trips.

Eddie has enough self preservation to move his hand with the knife to the side so that he doesn’t stab himself in the eye, but it is a close thing. He feels all the fumbling heroine-final-girl-first-victim adrenaline rise through him as he feel the leaves shake beneath the weight of the thing that is racing towards him.

Get the fuck up, Eddie!

He scrambles and feels his nails catch against the roots of the tree as he pushes himself up — propelling until his palms meet rough bark, and he is pushing himself forward. His lungs feel as though they are on fire. As if they are constricting from inside his self, his body. In, out, in out. In, in, in, in.

Eddie pumps his legs as fast as he can, tries to think of what he is meant to do in these situations — was it better to go straight? Was he meant to zigzag? Does he make himself tall and raise his arms and snarl right back? Has he condemned himself just by running? Can it smell his fear?

He doesn’t want to die.

Eddie didn’t really think that he had much to live for, before this, and if you asked him yesterday he would have spouted some dogshit about dying young and leaving a beautiful corpse. But now that he is at the brink of death, the thing (bear? Human? Monster?) almost breathing down his neck, he has a hundred — a million — different things that he wants to do, that he wants to say.

It roars. Not the pathetic sounding and out of place death-noise that it was making before. An absolutely pissed off I’m-Going-To-Fucking-Kill-You noise. A You-Are-Not-Final-Girl-Material noise. And the noise? It sounds as if it reverberates through the woods, impossible to tell how close, how far away it truly is.

(He does not want to turn around. Because if he turns around and it is there, Eddie knows that he will stop. He will pause in his tracks, because he is kidding himself into thinking that he is being chased by a fucking bear).

Eddie turns. He doesn’t know what made him do it.

It was like his body had told him you cannot keep running away and had decided for him — not letting his brain rest for even a moment to try and catch up to the thoughts of the heart. Eddie brandishes his knife tightly in front of him, slashing in wide arcs in hopes of— he doesn’t know. Scaring off the beast that is making the forest shake? Yeah. That’ll definitely work.

The air is cold against his clammy hands, and thin against the blade. He keeps his eyes shut, and slashes forwards and outwards, both hands clasped tightly against the handle. It’s obvious when it meets something that is not air. From the drag against what Eddie thinks might be flesh, to the stench of coppery blood that fills the air.

He opens his eyes.

The face that meets his own is not entirely a face. He watches as the blood slowly drips from where a cheek would be if this thing were human. Eddie raises the pocket knife again in his — and the monsters — moment of stupor, and tries to slash again—

Only for the knife to slapped out of his hand.

It lands with a dull thud against the wet woodland leaves. Too far away for Eddie to reach. He slides back, tries to back away as if he had not just tried to harm this monster that towers above him. He creeps back in the same way that the creature creeps forwards, until his shoulders are hitting the sharp outsides of the tree, and he is sliding to his knees, and closing in on himself.

“You’re not real.” Eddie mumbles. “You’re not— there’s no such thing as fucking monsters. None at all. You’re just— going fucking insane, Eddie. Must’ve just— passed out at Tina’s. Having a bad trip. Sleeping it off at home. Something like that. Right. Right?”

— — —

There’s something about the shape in front of him — the way in which it holds itself and begs — that makes Steve’s brain stall. Long enough for him to get back into the driver’s seat of his own body (was this his own body? This prison of flesh and bone that towered over this person? That had terrified them? Was he always a— a monster, in every possible way? Could he never escape it?), and start to back away. Steve tries to hunch in on himself. Tries to hold his hands — his claws — in front of him. Raised and open, trying to communicate without words, words that are stuck in his throat, I don’t mean any harm. I don’t want to hurt anyone.

“Okay, okay. Yeah, just— stay. Yeah, back away. That’s good— just keep— backing away.” The man mutters. Steve can see the frantic look in his eye, the way his hair falls just above his hunched shoulders, how he’s scrambling backwards and backwards, as if he is trying to crawl into the tree itself.

“Now you’ve really done it, Eddie. Real fucking monsters—”

Steve’s vocal chords gurgle at the word. Like a low humming in warning that sounds in the back of his throat without meaning to— without him wanting to. At first, it is at the way that he has been described — a terrible being of his own creation, of the hands of others, himself. But, then, it is at the name. Eddie. Eddie. Eddie. Steve knows Eddie. Maybe there’s a way that he could—

Eddie stops. Dirt encrusted in his fingernails, leaves in his hair, on the forest floor. He stops. And Steve realises that he is not himself. He is not Human Steve Harrington, with eyes and a kind smile, and moles and freckles and golden-brown hair. He is this towering creature that has chased his almost-friend through the fucking woods.

Steve goes to turn — to leave and never come back. Pretend that this was all a nightmare. And maybe it would be. Maybe he would wake up in the morning, and he would pick up Nancy, and he would place a kiss on her cheek, and she would help him with his college application. Maybe he’d wake up earlier — formative years come back to haunt him in the best ways possible — and his mother would card her fingers through his hair, and his father would tell him that he was proud.

(He’s fooling himself. Steve knows it’s not gonna happen).

“Can you… understand me?”

Steve tries to make a noise, then. Something more pleasant and soothing and desperate all at once, that says Yes! Please! Can you hear me? Do you see me? Please, I’m begging you, please, help me!

“Okay! Great. Amazing. You can understand me!” Eddie talks, in such a hushed tone that Steve feels as if he is not meant to hear it. “Fuck, okay? Um.”

Eddie tries to back away again, only to realise that there is nowhere to go. That he will have to shift to the side to get out of the woods. Steve tilts his head forwards, tries to motion towards the side, where Eddie will have to go to get to his home.

“Right! Yes!” He breathes. “I need to… to leave. Can you— will you let me?”

Steve nods. Readily, quickly. He does not want to force him to stay here. He does not want him to look at his figure. This grotesque concoction of things that he has become.

(He wants Eddie to stay. He wants him to help. He wants him to say that he is not a monster. Because if he leaves, if he goes through the woods and never comes back, what will Steve do with himself?).

“Okay— no leaving right now. Got it. Totally. Great.” Eddie says, hands still behind him, knife still cast away. “What do you want from me?”

Help. Steve wants to say. Reassurance. But his mouth does not seem to work like it normally does, like it is supposed to, and so he crouches down as best his bones will let him, and raises his clawed hands to the ground.

“H…e…l— Help! Okay, okay. You need help.”

Steve nods, neck strained and taught against extra bones in his frame. There is that noise at the back of his neck, and he feels the skin around his teeth attempt a smile.

“How do I help you?” Eddie asks. And Steve can sense the way that he moves closer, instinctually flinches away. “Right, no, that’s okay, yeah. No touching. Got it.”

He wishes that he didn’t flinch. He wants to say please, please, please hold me, please tell me I am human, I don’t want to be a monster, I just want to be held, I just want to be normal, I just want to be—

“Do you have somewhere you can go?” Eddie whispers, hushed tones so much more calming than when he was slashing forwards. And Steve does have somewhere to go — his empty house, with bouts of land big enough on either side that no neighbours would be peering out to see him. But he needs to get his car. He needs to get his car that he left at the party. Otherwise he will be found out. Otherwise people will connect the dots about Steve leaving early, and without his car, and the man in the woods—

The man in the woods? The man in the woods?

“Get the hell away from my boy!”

The shot would be accurate if not for the humming beneath his skin screaming at Steve to move. The pellets scatter into the tree-side, making little homes within the bark.

“Wayne, no, it doesn’t mean any—”

“Eddie, get the hell away from that thing—”

The man — Wayne — fumbles confidently with the gun in his hands. He makes a movement with it that has the sounds of mechanics ringing in Steve’s ears, but if there is one thing that he is not, monster or no fucking monster, is stupid. He knows where he is unwanted, an animal, he knows that he is the thing that instills fear into this man, and he knows, Steve knows that he doesn’t want to hurt someone — the he doesn’t want to hurt Eddie — but what is the use of this knowledge if nobody else is aware?

The voice that had once guided him is silent. But as Wayne aims towards his body, as Eddie moves to stop him, Steve feels the warmth and hum of appreciation and praise run through his veins, as he turns to flee.

— — —

As he lets himself down, Steve finds that he is still not himself. He sees in the way that a human is not meant to see: shapes and shades that morph and move as they shift across his vision. Inquisitive, and maybe a little bit afraid, he moves the claws across the features that make up his face. Of course, from the changing that he had experienced — like a second coming of man — he knows that he has no eyes. With long, sallow fingers, he traces his nose — the same — and feels his hairless skin atop his head. It is the same texturised feeling as that of his eyes, something that just screams monster.

When he pulls against the rotten wood that exudes itself from his soul, it offers the same sensation of his hair being pulled, but somehow deeper. As if the rot has attached itself to his spinal cord, his brain. There is a morbid part of him that thinks back to the books of animals that he read as he was a child: about cats and their tails, and how you shouldn’t hold them from it, lest you want their spine to be pulled out in a yelp, and a sopping pool of offal.

(Steve feels as though he should be more terrified. That he has been turned into the monster, like a gods-damned werewolf on the night of Halloween, and that he has chunks of time missing. That there is a voice within his own brain that had offered him some type of salvation from the hurt deep within his teeth, that Steve had so readily accepted without thinking of the consequences).

He stops himself from spiralling — catches it on the tail end of the fall, just like those cats — and pulls himself from the edge. He does not have eyes, yes, he knows this, and he has some type of bark that is growing and protruding from his skull like he is a daemon, and they are his horns. Steve’s hands trail across his features, again, more focussed. He presses as softly he can into the holes that held soft eyes, trails passed his father’s nose, and finds—

A lack of face. A lack of jaw.

Steve doubles over himself. Feels as his stretched stomach contracts within his fleshy vessel of a body, as it attempts to blow chunks of something onto the carpet. Hands clawing at his face again, he feels the absence, again and again. Because there is no way that he is— that there is— that there is not—

Oh god.

If Steve were to describe it to anyone, as he tries to describe it to himself from feel alone, it is as if someone had held a firm hand against his lower jaw, and pulled and pulled and pulled until— pop! There are wisps of his own skin and flesh near the hinges of his face. His upper teeth are bared for the woodland creatures to fear, top lip pulled taught into an impossible snarl that makes Steve keen into the silence. He did not want to be a creature — all he wanted to be was loved.

How do I return? Steve pleads into the silence. Pleads that the voice is still there to tell him what to do. Why do I remember a man in the woods?

You have to figure it out on your own.

The first thing that he thinks is well that’s not fucking helpful, but there is something within his own head that breathes out of him as he thinks the very words. Steve finds that it feels as if he’s just been admonished by his father — or that he’s heard a heavy sigh from his mother. Almost immediately, he tries to back peddle, but all other offers of rapture and guidance from the voice are lulled, and for the first time in the night, Steve is well and utterly alone.

His first idea comes in the forms of reassuring words that are not his own. He is reminded of the girl from the drama class he was mistakenly placed into for a half a term. Her short reddish-brown hair, the snark that nobody else would give him. Steve is reminded of the way that she had approached him when he was huddled up in the storage closet — with none of the remarks to be found, but instead, just soft eyes, and a similarly crouched form in front of him. What can you see? What can you hear? What can you feel? Taste? Smell?

He cannot see anything. And maybe that is the point of this exercise — not the one that the girl had taught him, but the one that the voice is teaching him. That these things, this small moments of calm were only meant for beings that were human. Now that he was stripped of any form of humanity left of him (or had he always been stripped of it? Had those moments with the girl calmed him down, or was he just putting on a front?), he was not allowed to be soothed.

But he can hear the neighbours. He must be home. He must be close. Steve had complained to his then-friends, Tommy, Carol, about how his house was eerily quiet, how he could not hear the people near him. So why could he now? Why could he hear the sounds of Ms Lowe down the street, teetering around the kitchen? Why could he hear the humming of the Sullivan’s pool?

Steve feels his bones re-breaking. Feels the juts of a body retract into his spine to make it whole again. He feels the sickly pleasing correction of his skull, the way that his jaw unfurls at the same time the bone-wood descends into his scalp. He tastes the slime of whatever was coating his skin to try and ease the sickly transformation — something that smells almost like a mixture of bile and something sweet. As his vision fogs, and Steve hears the sounds of what can only be described as moist peeling, the shades of dark turn to thick objects turn to outlines to lights to colours to vision. And as soon as he realises that he is not towering over the woods, over Eddie, that he is in his own home, that the doors are somehow locked shut, he languidly pulls himself to the bathroom, sits under the warm spray of the shower for as long as he goddamned wants.

It chimes then — and it had always chimed at every hour, scaring the ever living shit out of him as he was a child — the cuckoo clock. 12AM.

He has school tomorrow.

How does Steve have school tomorrow?

Doesn’t the world know to stop turning, to pause, for him? He’s a monster. And not in the way that the word was normally directed at him — not in the way that girls would say when he turned them down, or Tommy’s targets would say as he stood, impassive, disgusted, not at them, but at who he called his friend. When did it start to become real? Was he always a monster, always destined to be a monster, because everyone else thought him so? Maybe his skin was now just changing to catch up to what people truly saw.

But that wouldn’t make any sense. Because at the back of his mind — Steve knew. What the truth was, what the truth is, and how he is just trying to avoid coming to terms with it. What is inscribed on his skin, what has been inked into existence from the day that he had first changed. And yet, it is still different. Back then, it was never like this. Back then, it was as if he could hear and smell and react as he could now, regardless of what skin he bore. So why had this thing become him? Why had he become this thing?

It doesn’t fucking matter. What matters is that it doesn’t happen again. That nobody knows what he can become. He will go to school, and the world will continue to turn, and Steve will have to pick up his car in the morning. He’ll call Tina and say sorry! I was upset about what happened with Nance and walked home to clear my head. And she will believe him, because there would be no reason for him to lie.

And everything would be okay. And everything would be normal.

— — —

Breakfast, Steve thinks, is not the most important meal of the day.

It can be skipped so easily, with ready excuses. I woke up late! I don’t have any bread! Sorry, gotta go! It is the easiest to skip, but it is also the easiest to make. Sure, he’s not a fan of breakfast, but he’s a fan of cooking, and with the little amount of sleep that he got last night, he feels as though he has no excuse not to make himself eggs, and toast, and hash-browns, before school. Maybe he’ll even have time to swing by that fancy cafe that Nancy likes — get her favourite coffee as an apology, an olive branch. He’s already got the car, because, really? Did he really need to wait till morning wait to get it and excuse himself?

The radio is turned on to some station that his parents like. Normally, it’ll play jazz, a little bit of soul. Things that he couldn’t really imagine his parents liking, in the first place. He always imagined them to like something they would classify as regal — maybe some type of music they could ballroom dance to, or some orchestral string piece that his mother would cry to. Maybe opera, if they were feeling fancy.

Blues and soul were reserved for happy mornings. The radio was usually turned to the station that played all their favourite tunes — some rerun channel that was run through the school as a student project. The frequency was never changed, and on those mornings that were maybe-less-than-happy, the radio would never be turned on in the first place.

Steve flips the egg in the pan, taps a dash of pepper over the perfectly slightly-runny yolk, before turning up the volume of the radio. He juts his hips to the beat, terribly off-time with nobody to see his mistakes, and hums in perfect pitch against the lulling tones of the women. He deposits his egg onto his toast as the song ends, as he goes to sit at his picture-perfect breakfast, in his picture-perfect house, with his picture-perfect—

“A man has been found dead in the woods. Police are suspecting foul play, what with the condition that the body was left…”

Shit.

#Don't Look at Me as if I'll Disappear #steddie big bang 2023 #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie

22 notes · View notes

midnightscxre · 8 months

Text

** ALL of my characters are open for cross-overs and different AUs ** No matter the exiting list, I am prone to creating muses out of the blue to fit a roleplay, canon or oc FEMALE MUSES: - Clare Archer, 27 y/0, bio-chemist, fiery rock girl, heterosexual, fc: Abigail Cowen [ in a very possessive and loving ship with @feral-fuqboi-danny 's Ghostface. Only platonic threads available ] - Julie Kostenko, 20 y/o, thief, vandal, slasher, heterosexual, fc: Josephine Langford - Aresa Hades, 24 y/o, exotic dancer, bisexual, fc: Madeline Pertch - Cora Enoch, 23 y/o, medium, college student, bisexual, fc: Vanessa Morgan - Lucy Brenner, 24 y/o, waitress, bisexual, fc: Lili Reinhart - Emilia Fletcher, 24 y/o, nurse, bisexual, fc: Erinn Westbrook - Rory Young, 25 y/o, professional muay thai fighter, lesbian, fc: Hoyeon Jung - Trixy Smith, 24 y/o, student, cheerleader, hetersexual, fc: Carlson Young - Graciela Morelli, 26 y/o ,journalist , heterosexual, fc: Elle Fanning

MALE MUSES: - Jace Catto, 30 y/o, biker - president of Devil's Stranglers, heterosexual, fc: Charlie Hunnam - Mateo De la Vega, 32 y/0, hitman, heterosexual, fc: Aaron Taylor Johnson - Lake Williams, 34 y/o, music store owner, heterosexual, fc: Lakeith Stanfield - Cash Quin, 29 y/o, gangster, heterosexual, fc: Jeremy Allen White - Manuel Castro, 40 y/o, construction worker, heterosexual, fc: Pedro Pascal - Cain Croft, 34 y/o, mafia leader, heterosexual, fc: Cillian Murphy - Frank Morrison, 25 y/o, serial killer/slasher, heterosexual, fc: Hero Fiennes-Tiffin - Falco Yarrow Arctulus, 24 y/o, student, heterosexual, fc: Brenton Thwaites - Marcellus Vannera, 32 y/0 ( 400+), hybrid, heterosexual, fc: Joseph Morgan - Lucian Cassius, 32 y/0, psychiatrist (psychopath), heterosexual, fc: Jared Leto* highly triggering muse CANON MUSES: - The walking dead: Negan - The vampire diaries: Marcel Gerard - Stranger things: Steve Harringtone ** others on request, just ask :)

#muse list #muses

4 notes · View notes

pariahsparadise · 2 years

Text

fic recs

someone told me that the link in my navigation wasn’t working, so i’m just going to link all the fics i reblog to this post. (daily updates lol)

✨ means nsfw (18+ only)

disclaimer: i own absolutely none of this content (my works can be found here and here only), i just hope you guys can show these writers some love!

find the second volume here

Harry Potter

➸ fred weasley

friends for now

i hate you

dream a dream of me ✨

stress and chess ✨

dancing in the burrow

hate to think about you with somebody else ✨

➸ bill weasley

willow

➸ theodore nott

our secrets are buried shallow

chasing pavements

➸ cedric diggory

warm

➸ sirius black

napkins

➸ regulus black

tricks and charms

➸ oliver wood

smile

Marvel Cinematic Universe

➸ peter parker

rogers: the musical

the spidey club

yes dear? ✨

band-aid brand

last night

crush

right where you left me (4)

modern art

the first fall of snow

peter parker masterlist

i know that voice

➸ bucky barnes

that old feeling

construction worker bucky drabble ✨

you're my fantasy ✨

hair

can’t lose you ✨

lavender

drunk on you

➸ steve rogers

just come home

➸ matt murdock

blurred lines ✨

domesticity ✨

a slow day ✨

you will forever

soulmark

closer

upstairs

boyfriend?

chamomile

moan for me ✨

what a night

study distractions

footsteps ✨

strip poker ✨

➸ stephen strange

baby blues and tattoos ✨

➸ loki laufeyson

black cat

leg day ✨

➸ natasha romanoff

breathe again

a rose in the ruins

the 3rd of december

➸ kate bishop

collateral damage

just two girls

➸ druig

beautiful centuries

see you again

it's never over

beautiful, beautiful

i'll never let you go

➸ kingo

the only exception

Stranger Things

➸ steve harrington

genius

matilda

halloween night in ✨

The 100

➸ john murphy

fingertips

The Queen's Gambit

➸ benny watts

leading question ✨

Diary of a Wimpy Kid

➸ rodrick heffley

in lesbians with you

The Chronicles of Narnia

➸ edmund pevensie

crying yourself to sleep

surfaced feelings

i dare you

play with fire ✨

whiskey and cheap wine ✨

sneaking around

not-so-perfect perfect first date

➸ prince/king caspian

visiting princesses ✨

➸ peter pevensie

surface level

slipping through my fingers

Grishaverse

➸ nikolai lantsov

my queen ✨

restless nights ✨

Riordanverse

➸ leo valdez

insecure

DSMP

➸ cc!ranboo

we’re satisfied (platonic)

➸ cc!dream

give it back

unshared feelings

halloween

Little Women

➸ theodore "laurie" lawrence

desperate

Actors/Actresses

➸ timothee chalamet

mon amour

➸ drew starkey

better

3K notes · View notes

heck-in-a-handbasket · 3 years

Link

Chapters: 6/? Fandom: Stranger Things (TV 2016) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington Characters: Billy Hargrove, Steve Harrington Additional Tags: Construction Worker AU, Basically it’s what if Steve had to work construction instead of Scoops, Steve Harrington Has Bad Parents, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Billy Hargrove Is Bad at Feelings, Billy Hargrove Being Gross, Period-Typical Homophobia, Hand Jobs, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Light BDSM undertones, rich bitch Steve learns a lesson, billy is really trying his best, Hop In This Handbasket We’re Going To Heck Summary:

Most of the guys looked about ten to twenty years older than Steve, all broad backs and facial hair. Steve still didn’t really need to shave more than his mustache and a little patch on his chin. One of the bearded guys caught sight of Steve and elbowed the guy next to him with a snicker than sent prickles of anxiety down Steve’s spine. The guy looked up, hammer in his fist, and Steve tripped over nothing because he was— He wasn’t much older than Steve, probably, judging by his unlined skin and sparse little mustache. But he was. Noticeable. Muscled arms hung out of his dirt-streaked white tank top, nearly translucent with sweat where it clung to his hard, defined torso. Sun-bronzed skin with golden curls cut in an ultra-modern mullet, ringlets springing free to cling to the sweat around his deep blue eyes. Deep blue eyes that scanned Steve up and down, catching on his lavender striped polo shirt with a sneer before looking Steve in the eye and spitting loudly onto the ground.

#harringrove #harringrove fic #billy hargrove #steve harrington #hop in this handbasket we’re going to heck

32 notes · View notes

bprpg · 3 years

Photo

CONGRATULATIONS, CATE! Your application for Rick Hanon has been accepted. We are very happy to have them here and we hope they enjoy our charming little town! Please make sure to read over our checklist and send in their account as soon as you can.

OOC information.

NAME / ALIAS: cate

AGE: 29

PRONOUNS: she/her

TIMEZONE: est

ACTIVITY LEVEL: 6 or 7

TRIGGERS: all are on there

IC information.

NAME: Rick Hanon

AGE: 28

BIRTH DATE: June 14, 1993

ZODIAC SIGN: Gemini

GENDER: Cis man

PRONOUNS: he/him

OCCUPATION: firefighter and construction worker

FACECLAIM: Keith Powers

Other details.

HOW LONG HAS YOUR CHARACTER LIVED IN BARTON POINT?: Rick has lived here since he was sixteen and fresh out of juvie. He befriended Sean a year later and decided to stick around. Sean is like the angel on his shoulder looking out for him while Rick is the devil on his. He’s recently moved back after doing some out of town construction work.

PERSONALITY TRAITS: + charming, playful, resourceful. - resentful, foolish, proud.

3 CHARACTERS YOUR CHARACTER RELATES TO (optional): Peter Quill, Steve Harrington, Wade Kinsella

WANTED CONNECTIONS (optional): An ex cellmate or juvie kid. This person could be friend or foe. A gym buddy. Rick goes to the gym a lot and he also boxes regularly because of his anger issues. An ex girlfriend. This person is an ex but also a close friend of Rick’s. They sometimes hook up just for fun.

ANYTHING ELSE?: He’s been to juvie after taking the fall for his brother and since then his entire family has basically set him as an outcast. He also went to jail with his now ex best friend. He’s also a street racer and that’s how he makes his money on the side. He rock climbs and does boxing to help with his anger - he used to get into a lot of fights a lot. He sleeps around a lot to avoid feelings.

#bpoint:accepted

1 note · View note

harringrove-heart · 4 years

Text

The Dragon Keeper: Chapter 1

Steve walked along the market stalls, taking in the sights and sounds each one had to offer. One sold dragon claw weapons, another sold tonics and potions that could make one invulnerable to fire. His goal wasn’t to shop for pointless knick-knacks and trinkets, however.

He was headed for the dragon depot, where almost all trade for the city went out and came in on the backs of all different types of dragons. It was fascinating watching all of the creatures glide in on feathered or leathery wings, some with small cargo strapped to their backs and others with large hanging nets full of different goods. Steve had always found it riveting to watch as a boy. He could see the dragon rider’s in their saddles from his bedroom window, guiding the large creatures where they needed to go. It looked freeing.

The older Harrington’s didn’t approve of messing around with dragons, thought they were dirty and dangerous, an animal of the vagrants and lowly merchants; thought Steve should spend his time in the horse stable rather than a dragon depot. But Steve wasn’t like his parents, a Lord and Lady of Hawkins. He wanted to get out into the world, see what could be, see what already was, and if that included giant reptilian beasts, then so be it.

He pulled his navy cloak closer around his body to keep out the autumn chill as he reached the entrance of the trade yard. It was bustling. Dragons of all shapes and sizes everywhere, each with a purpose. Steve stared slack-jawed as a long, brown, four-legged dragon dragged logs across the yard and out, presumably to a construction site. Moving deeper, Steve caught sight of the landing areas for the cargo dragons, watching as a worker fed a large green one a big slab of meat as payment for its work.

“What’s a pretty boy like you doing in the dragon depot?” A husky voice sounded from next to Steve, startling him out of his amazement.

A man no shorter than the brunette stood lazily, a strand of hay sticking from his mouth. Typical dragon rider, Steve thought. The other man was blond, curly hair sticking out in several directions as a thin, pale green dragon perched along his shoulders, it’s two feet gripping onto the man’s tunic. The little dragon seemed to be chewing a chunk of the man’s hair.

“Uh...I-I’m sorry?” Steve stuttered, watching distractedly as the blond pet the dragon behind an ear.

“I said... What’s a pretty boy like you, doing in a place like this?” He asked again, a haughty smirk taking over his features.

“Just looking, I’m just... looking?”

“You do know it’s dangerous to be in here. I mean, these dragons don’t take well to newcomers.” Almost as if on cue, the man’s dragon hissed at Steve, before going back to sliming up the guy's hair.

“Shit!” Steve took a step back.

“Heh, we’re just fucking with you. Name’s Billy. Dragon rider and caretaker here.” He took Steve’s hand to give it a firm shake. “You look like you haven’t touched dirt in your life.”

Steve glanced down at his own clothing, which did look suspiciously clean of any filth.

“Yeah, I normally don’t go outside that much. I’m Steve.” His eyes kept flitting nervously to the two-legged demon on Billy’s shoulder.

“Ah, forgive my manners. This here is Betsy, a Lindworm. She’s not as dangerous as she wants to believe.”

Betsy cocked her head at Steve, one slightly bulging eye flicking over his face. She chittered softly in Billy’s ear, and he giggled like she told him a secret.

“So you didn’t answer my question. What brings you down to the slums? Mommy and Daddy let you out?” Billy pointedly looked at the family crest on the flap of Steve’s cloak.

“Something like that.”

Billy’s blue gaze turned back to Steve’s, seemingly evaluating him. “Well then, who am I to reject nobility? Wanna take a walk with me?” Before Steve could answer, Billy turned and started walking further into the vast trading depot. He turned around briefly to see Steve still standing hesitantly. “Better hurry if you don’t wanna get crushed, pretty boy.”

Steve hurried after him.

Betsy wound her long body around Billy’s neck loosely, her two clawed feet tangling in Billy’s curls as he walked. She kept looking behind as if to make sure Steve could keep up.

They walked silently through the throng of merchants and depot workers, Billy smirking at each little gasp of awe that Steve let escape. The crowd thinned as they got further into what looked like a camp, with large tents and campfires all over the place.

“People live here?” Steve asked, watching a woman with a small child play with a Lindworm with sandy yellow scales.

“Trading isn’t just a job, it’s a livelihood. Some people live here, like me. Others set up camp for a few days before moving on. Gotta be ready for a sudden change in this profession.”

Steve looked away from the child and mother, catching sight of more than a few large barns in the distance. “Are those...?”

“Those are the dragon stables. My job here is to care for this depots dragons when they’re not in the air.” Billy started walking in the direction of the barns. Betsy jumped off of Billy to join in the fun with the other Lindworm.

“How many are in there?” Steve asked.

“Each barn holds up to six dragons, most of them Europeans.”

“...Europeans?” Steve had always heard different names for the species of dragons but was never allowed to study them.

“The big four-legged ones with wings?” Billy’s eyebrow raised at Steve, who just looked on in confusion.

“Gods, you really are a noble boy. Don’t know anything past your own two feet. You’re lucky I found you before a rogue Knucker. They’ve been known to eat stray children, you know.” Billy scoffed.

Steve huffed indignantly but thought Billy’s statement over.

“You could teach me.”

Billy smirked. “You think you can keep up, princess?”

Steve nodded.

Billy bit his lip, thinking. “Alright. First things first, you need clothes that aren’t made of silk.”

“Lead the way.”

#harringrove #mine #my fics #probably will post on Ao3 soon when I write more #dragon keeper au

42 notes · View notes

hexlikesramennoodles · 5 years

Link

Chapters: 4/4 Fandom: Stranger Things (TV 2016) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Past Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler - Relationship, Past Tommy H./Steve Harrington - Relationship Characters: Billy Hargrove, Steve Harrington, Karen Wheeler, Robin (Stranger Things), Nancy Wheeler, Jonathan Byers Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Closeted Character, Light Angst, construction worker!Billy, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Nightmares, Sexual Tension, Additional Warnings In Author's Note Summary:

Steve tells himself that he isn’t sorry to see him go.

He tells himself that he doesn’t like him.

Not his ringleted hair, long and styled like a girl’s (probably as soft as a girl’s, too, if Steve had been brave enough to reach out and touch it, beguiled by the startling clash of soft hair and hard muscle); not his cartoonishly blue eyes. He doesn’t like the way Billy had smiled, through a mouthful of teeth, when he said Steve’s name: Harrington, right? Overly familiar, taking his sweet fucking time with it. Hips cocked like a loaded pistol, a dare, or maybe even a tease; a silent, provocative come try me. Steve has barely two inches on him in terms of height, and he dislikes that most of all.

Or so he tells himself.

#rating has changed!#that is all #harringrove #my writing #steve harrington #billy hargrove

46 notes · View notes

howwelldoyouknowyourmoon · 4 years

Text

U.S. Intelligence Agency Memorandum: KCIA used the Unification Church since 1961

INVESTIGATION OF KOREAN-AMERICAN RELATIONS HEARINGS before the SUBCOMMITTEE ON INTERNATIONAL ORGANIZATIONS of the

COMMITTEE ON INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES

NINETY-FIFTH CONGRESS, SECOND SESSION

SUPPLEMENT TO PART 4

MARCH 15, 16, 21, AND 22, 1978

___________________________________________

COMMITTEE ON INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS

CLEMENT J. ZABLOCKI, Wisconsin, Chairman

___________________________________________

Investigation of Korean-American Relations by the Subcommittee on International Organizations

DONALD M. FRASER, Minnesota, Chairman

MICHAEL HARRINGTON, Massachusetts

EDWARD J. DERWINSKI, Illinois

BENJAMIN S. ROSENTHAL, New York

WILLIAM F. GOODLING, Pennsylvania

LEE H. HAMILTON, Indiana

LEO J. RYAN, California

Robert B. Boettcher, Subcommittee Staff Director

___________________________________________

Part 4—Documents Relating to Korean Cultural and Freedom Foundation, Inc., and Radio of Free Asia

CONTENTS

A. Summaries of representative documents contained in sections B through J page 1

B. FBI investigative report dated 1964-66, entitled “Dr. Seymour Murray Vinocour; William A. Curtin, Jr.; Kim Tong Song—RA Korea” page 28

C. File of Admiral Arleigh Burke (Ret.), founding president, Korean Cultural and Freedom Foundation, Inc page 209

D. Declassified documents provided by U.S. intelligence agencies page 457

E. Declassified documents provided by the Department of State page 475

F. Declassified documents provided by the U.S. Information Agency page 510

G. Correspondence among the Department of State, the Department of Justice, and the Federal Bureau of Investigation, with respect to an investigation of Radio of Free Asia, 1971-72 page 531

H. Minutes of meetings of the Board of Directors of the Korean Cultural and Freedom Foundation, Inc page 617

I. Auditors’ workpapers regarding Korean Cultural and Freedom Foundation, Inc., Arthur Young & Co. and Price Waterhouse page 671

J. Miscellaneous documents page 706

Note:—Deletions in the attached documents are for the purpose of security or the protection of an individual’s privacy

___________________________________________

ABBREVIATIONS

APACL Asian Peoples’ Anti-Communist League

APACL-FC Asian Peoples’ Anti-Communist League Freedom Center

Burke Memo Memorandum for the Record prepared by Adm. Arleigh Burke

Burke # Document provided by Adm. Burke; number assigned by him

FARA Foreign Agents Registration Act (18 U.S.C. 951)

FBI Report FBI Investigative Report dated 1964-66, entitled “Dr. Seymour Murray Vinocour; William A. Curtin, Jr.; Kim Tong Son -- RA Korea”

ISD Internal Security Division, Department of Justice

KBS Korean Broadcasting Service

KCIA Korean Central Intelligence Agency

KCFF Korean Cultural and Freedom Foundation, Inc.

ROFA Radio of Free Asia

ROK Republic of Korea

ROKG Government of the Republic of Korea

UC The Holy Spirit Association for the Unification of World Christianity; commonly known as The Unification Church

___________________________________________

NOTES

Not all documents attached are included in the summaries of Section A. Known variations of Korean names are given the first time the name appears. Individuals are identified the first time their names appear. ___________________________________________

A. SUMMARIES OF REPRESENTATIVE DOCUMENTS CONTAINED IN SECTIONS B THROUGH J

1. 1961: FBI Report, Interview of Vinocour

In 1961, Vinocour (Seymour Murray Vinocour, also known as Joseph Vinocour), PR consultant to the Korean Embassy in Washington, was contacted by Ambassador Chung II Kwon (then-Ambassador to the U.S. later Prime Minister; currently Speaker of the National Assembly) who advised him of the ROKG’s interest in establishing APACL-FC. Chung arranged an ROKG-sponsored trip to Korea to enable Vinocour to confer with authorities of APACL-FC. Vinocour also discussed the project with Kim Jong Pil (Kim Chong Pil, founder of the KCIA; then-Chairman of the ruling Democratic Republican Party). As a result of these discussions Vinocour submitted a prospectus for U.S. fundraising for APACL-FC, a copy of which was given to the ROK Embassy in Washington, D.C. The trip never took place because Vinocour terminated his formal association with the ROKG in September 1961.

2. Spring 1962: Day of Hope in Review, Part 1, 1972-74, p. 173

The Reverend Sun Myung Moon is said to have founded the Korean dance troupe known as the Little Angels which were organized in the spring of 1962.

3. February 26, 1963: CIA Information Report

Kim Jong Pil organized the UC while he was the director of the KCIA, to be used as a political tool. The church was headed by the Reverend Moon, founder of the Olive Tree Cult. [Reverend Moon founded the Unification Church. Elder Tae-seon Park founded the Olive Tree Cult.]

4. Early 1963: FBI Report, Interview of Vinocour

APACL-FC Preparatory Commission, Korean Chapter, publishes a proposal for the establishment of a Freedom Center to be built and staffed for anti-communist activities in Korea. This was decided in June of 1962. They have the full concurrence of the ROKG, including financial support. An ROKG Cabinet meeting of August 17, 1962 granted 50 acres of land for the construction of the center. The site is identified as Jang Choon-Dan Park on Namsan Hill in the southeastern section of Seoul City.

5. Early 1963: Burke #69, Historical background of APACL-FC

Includes a financial statement indicating that the ROKG has contributed $538,461.

6. Summer 1963: FBI Report

Cho Dong Ha (also known as Dongha Cho), a representative of APACL-FC and the ROKG, and said to be close to President Park Chung Hee, contacts Vinocour about raising funds in the U.S. for the construction of the FC.

7. Fall 1965: Burke Memo

Former ROKG Ambassador Yang You Chan (also known as Chan Yang) approaches Burke with the idea of establishing a tax-exempt foundation to promote mutual understanding, respect and friendship between the U.S. and Korea. Yang urges Burke to become Founding Chairman. Burke is reluctant but Yang succeeds in persuading him. Burke will become Chairman and Yang will be responsible for overseeing the day-to-day operations, establishing a Board of Directors, and appointing an Executive Director with a staff.

8. Fall 1963: FBI Report, Interview of Luis Corea

Yang approaches Corea of Riggs National Bank for his support of an organization proposing to build a structure in Seoul memorializing U.S.-Korean friendship and to serve as a cultural center.

A preliminary meeting was held, attended by: Admiral Arleigh Burke (Ret.), who accepted the presidency; Colonel William A. Curtin, Jr. (Ret.); Ambassador Yang; Colonel Pak Bo Hi (also known as Bo Hi Pak; then-military attache in the Korean Embassy in Washington); and Luis Corea.

The proposed organization is to be known as KCFF.

9. November 5, 1963: FBI Report, Interview of Vinocour

Vinocour sends his feasibility study for fundraising for APACL-FC to Cho Dong Ha.

10. December 1963–January 1964: Burke Memo

Yang and Burke have several meetings regarding plans for KCFF projects and personnel.

11. December 21, 1963: Burke #1, Brochure of KCFF

Yang sends a copy of KCFF’s brochure to Burke. The Little Angels is the only proposed project.

12. Early 1964: Burke Memo

Burke says that Yang appointed Curtin. Burke does not know Curtin but trusts Yang’s judgment. Yang told Burke that Col. Pak Bo Hi had greatly assisted him in the preliminary work on KCFF and is keenly interested in the Foundation. Burke says that he only knew Pak from social functions at the Embassy; he describes him as suave, a good administrator and a hard worker. Burke says that he is heavily committed in other areas and relies on Yang, Pak and Curtin.

13. Early 1964: Testimony of Robert Roland before the Subcommittee on International Organizations, Activities of the Korean Central Intelligence Agency in the United States, June 22, 1976, p. 14

Roland, one-time member of the KCFF Board and a social acquaintance of Pak, is told in early 1964 by Pak of his plans to form KCFF to gain influence and raise money for the Reverend Moon. At the same time Pak also speaks of forming ROFA.

14. January 10, 1964: Burke #5, Letter from Yang to Dr. Decker

Yang congratulates Clarence L. Decker, Academic Vice President of Fairleigh Dickinson University, on Decker’s trip to the ROK as a guest of the ROKG to attend President Park’s inauguration. Yang inquires about a conversation between Kim Jong Pil and Dr. Decker in which Kim is said to have discussed KCFF and pledged his full support to the Foundation.

15. January 17, 1964: Burke #8, Letter from Curtin to Kim Jong Pil, Chairman, Democratic Republican Party

Curtin says that he has been informed that Kim has been briefed on KCFF and has indicated his approval and support; also, that Kim has accepted the position of Honorary Chairman of the Board.

16. January 21, 1964: Burke #6, Letter from Decker to Yang

Decker confirms his conversation with Kim Jong Pil in which they discussed the Foundation.

17. ca. January 21, 1964: Burke #13, Biographical Sketch of Kim Jong Pil

Because Burke does not know who Kim Jong Pil is, Pak Bo Hi provides him with a biographical sketch.

18. January 26, 1964: Burke #9, Letter from Kim Jong Pil to Curtin

Kim says that he has been thoroughly briefed on all aspects of KCFF; he gives his endorsement and accepts the position of honorary chairman.

19. February 23, 1964: Burke #61, Letter from Curtin to Kim Jong Pil

Curtin suggests that it appears to be appropriate and politically judicious for the ROKG to award a governmental decoration to Pearl Buck for The Living Reed. A Washington ceremony would accord international press coverage.

20. March 12, 1964: Burke #62, Letter to Curtin from Kwan Soo Park, Chairman, APACL-FC

Park informs Curtin that Kim Sang In (also known as Steve Kim; an aide and interpreter to Kim Jong Pil; later an employee of KCIA) has forwarded Curtin’s proposal for the “Freedom Center Fund Raising Program.” He asks for a more formal proposal and contractual conditions.

21. March 18, 1964: Burke #22, Letter from Curtin to Park Kwan Soo, Chairman, APACL-FC

Curtin outlines the program which KCFF has suggested for raising of U.S. funds for the Freedom Center. He asks APACL-FC to provide certain information, including total contributions of ROKG and total donations. He requests Park Kwan Soo to forward an enclosed copy of this letter to Kim Sang In.

22. ca. March 18, 1964: Burke Memo

Burke is concerned about KCFF’s involvement with APACL-FC. He discusses these reservations with Yang and Curtin. He is particularly concerned about supporting an organization over which they have no control. Also, KCFF is not in a position to make any significant financial commitments. Burke is under the impression that Yang and Curtin agree.

23. March 24, 1964: FBI Report, Letter to Vinocour from Cho Dong Ha

Kim Dong Sung (former Vice Speaker of the National Assembly) will be appointed adviser to the ROKG Ambassador to the UN in place of Col. Ben Limb (also known as Im Byung Jik). When Kim’s appointment is announced, a formal request will be made for him to be in charge of APACL-FC fundraising in the U.S. Kim Jong Pil, President Park and Prime Minister Choi are ready to advance the $10,000 requested in Vinocour’s proposal. Kim Dong Sung wants Cho to come to the U.S. with him. Cho asks Vinocour if he can be put on Vinocour’s payroll when the contract is awarded.

24. March 27, 1964: FBI Report, Interview of Corea

KCFF is formally incorporated in Washington, D.C., by William A. Curtin, Jr., William E. Carey and Luis F. Corea.

25. April 14, 1964: KCFF Minutes

The KCFF incorporators meet and name Burke, Yang, John G. Flowers and Lawrence W. Horning to the Board of Directors.

26. April 17, 1964: FBI Report, Letter from Cho Dong Ha to Vinocour

Cho relates the substance of a letter from William Curtin to Kim Jong Pil in which Curtin states that since Ambassador Kim is unwilling to undertake the APACL-FC project, and Vinocour’s proposal has been turned down, that KCFF can raise $500,000 for the project. Cho says he has contacted Curtin and asked for a proposal and contract. Curtin’s reply is that KCFF will raise funds at no cost to APACL, and thus no contract is necessary. Cho says Curtin has not yet received a commitment. Cho asks what Vinocour knows about Curtin. Cho says he is applying pressure to have Kim Dong Sung’s appointment at the UN announced so that Kim can come to the U.S.

When Kim comes, Cho will be with him.

27. May 1, 1964: FBI Report, Personal letter from Vinocour to Cho Dong Ha

Vinocour is annoyed about ROKG handling of the APACL-FC project and suggests that communications problems exist between the Embassy and Seoul. It has been almost one year since he submitted his proposal but he has not received an answer; KCFF now proposes to raise funds for APACL. Vinocour suggests that KCFF has plagiarized his original proposal.

28. May 22, 1964: Letter to Gene F. Caprio, Bureau of Intelligence and Research, Department of State; from Nathan B. Lenvin, Chief, Registration Section, Internal Security Division, Department of Justice

The subject is Joseph Vinocour, William Curtin, and Kim Tong-song; Foreign Agents Registration Act, Korean Activities in the United States. Reference is made to Caprio’s memorandum of April 29th in which he requested advice as to whether the subjects and/or KCFF are or ever have been registered under the FARA. Lenvin says that a review of Registration Section’s files reveals no registration for any of them, and that he is unable to determine if Joseph Vinocour is the same S. M. Vinocour who was registered until September 25, 1961 as an agent of the Korean Information Center. Lenvin is therefore requesting the FBI to ascertain this information as well as whether any of the individuals will be engaged in fundraising in the U.S. for APACL-FC.

29. May 25, 1964: Letter to Director, FBI, from J. Walter Yeagley, Assistant Attorney General, Internal Security Division

Yeagley requests the Director to have the FBI conduct an investigation to determine: whether Joseph Vinocour is the same as S.M. Vinocour; whether Vinocour will be raising funds in the U.S. for APACL-FC; whether Curtin has engaged in similar activities; and to determine the accuracy of the reports that Kim Dong Sung will be named ROK Consul General in New York and will be raising funds for APACL-FC in the U.S.

30. May 25, 1964: Burke #64, Letter from Curtin to Park Kwan Soo of APACL-FC

Curtin says KCFF’s application for certification as a non-profit organization is pending. The Treasury Department has taken exception to the program for support of APACL-FC because of the substantial out-flow of U.S. dollars. Burke and Yang will align sufficient political, Congressional and philanthropic strength to overcome these objections. Curtin says KCFF wants to support APACL-FC; that it will be among their prime objectives.

31. May - June 1964: FBI Report

Dong Sung Kim is to be named Korean Consul General in New York City, and is to raise funds for APACL-FC.

32. July 1, 1964: Burke #65, Letter from Park Kwan Soo to Curtin

Park Kwan Soo acknowledges receipt of Curtin’s May 25th letter and says that the Chosun Ilbo has reported that KCFF has included APACL-FC as one of its major projects. Park says that they have received a letter from Col. Pak of the Korean Embassy in Washington in which he informed them of the establishment of KCFF.

33. Summer 1964: FBI Report, Interview of Corea

Corea is visited by Pak Bo Hi at this time and urged by him to institute a workable fundraising campaign for KCFF.

34. September 1964: Burke Memo

Ambassador Yang informs Burke that Pak, who had been assisting Curtin, is very much interested in the work of KCFF. Yang says he hopes Pak will resign from the Korean Army and become an assistant to Curtin. Yang tells Burke that Pak’s prospects with KCFF are better than they would be back in Korea. Pak has impressed Burke favorably and therefore Burke is in favor of Pak’s continued association with KCFF.

35. September 4, 1964: Burke #37, Letter from Yang to General Min Ki Shik

Yang says that Pak provided the inspiration and guidance resulting in the establishment, development and current operational capabilities of KCFF. Pak could contribute far more to the attainment of ROKG objectives by associating himself with KCFF than by continuing his career as a Regular Army officer. Pak can interpret anti-communism in KCFF’s day-to-day operations and can achieve far more for the overall good of the ROK than by serving as an Army officer. Yang asks for Pak’s release from the Army so that he can take over as Vice President and Director of KCFF. Yang further states that KCFF intends to pay Pak a salary.

36. October 3, 1964: Burke #43, Letter from Pak to Curtin

Pak thanks Curtin for a luncheon prior to Pak’s departure and for Curtin’s seeing him off at the airport.

37. Fall 1964: FBI Report, Interview of Curtin

Pak approaches Curtin and tells him he is going to retire from the ROK Army and will be returning to the U.S. in early 1965. He wants to assist KCFF, particularly with the Little Angels project. Curtin accepts the offer.

38. November 3, 1964: Burke #46, Letter from Pak to Yang

Pak apologizes for not having reported earlier as they had planned. He says that he arrived in Seoul on October 7th and after two weeks began the processing for his discharge. Pak says that Yang’s letter to General Min was helpful because action was taken immediately and by October 22nd he was a civilian; Pak says this is viewed as “unprecedented.”

Pak says that in his 14 years of military service he had dedicated himself to the honorable service of his country and that in his position with KCFF he will dedicate himself to even greater service for his country.

Pak says he has already begun working for KCFF. He has delivered Yang’s letter to General Lee at the Blue House and made an appointment to give him a briefing on KCFF; met with Park Chong Kyu (head of the Presidential Protective Force) of the Blue House and Yang can count on him as a partner in their efforts. Park will try to arrange a meeting with President Park to brief him on the Foundation. Pak has also called on Prime Minister Chung II Kwon who agreed to be a member of the Advisory Council of KCFF. Pak has used the National Film Production facilities to produce a 30-minute color movie of the Little Angels. Pak says he will continue his all-out campaign to earn credit and understanding for Yang’s leadership in the Foundation.

39. November 3, 1964: Burke #47, Letter from Pak to Curtin

Pak tells Curtin about the Little Angels film and other promotional details of a proposed U.S. tour. Pak also tells Curtin, “Regarding your concern of so called ‘Mr. Kim Yong Tae’s letter’ (Kim Yong Tae is a close associate of Kim Jong Pil) you have nothing to worry about.” Pak says that “they” can’t hamper the development of the Foundation; he is there in Korea to take care of this. He says he will report in his next letter and asks for a report on developments on Curtin’s side, noting that he is most concerned with the fundraising aspects.

40. November 3, 1964: Burke #50, Letter to Burke from Pak

Pak informs Burke that he was honorably discharged from the Army on October 22nd, in order to join KCFF. On that same day he formally assumes the Vice Presidency of the Foundation.

41. November 6, 1964: Burke #49, Letter from Curtin to Pak

Curtin acknowledges receipt of Pak’s letter and says that he will comment on it and send an up-to-date report separately.

Curtin tells Pak that Garfield I. Kass, whom Pak knows, will be visiting Seoul in the near future. There are enclosed letters for Pak to have delivered to the Premier, the Vice Premier and the Foreign Minister. Curtin says there are copies for Pak and copies have been provided to Kass. Curtin suggests that Pak check with the U.S. Embassy on Kass’s itinerary. Curtin also suggests that Pak arrange a special performance of the Little Angels for Kass; he says he thinks it will “pay off.”

42. December 10, 1964: Burke #52, Letter to Yang from Pak

Pak gives run-down on Kass visit, detailing his itinerary. He says that Kass was well-satisfied and that they have earned another good friend for Korea. Pak had arranged for Kass to meet the following ROK officials: Mr. Park, special assistant to the President, National Assemblyman Kil, and Premier Chung.

43. December 18, 1964: U.S. Intelligence Agency Memorandum for the Record

Kim Jong Pil started the Tong-il (UC) Church about one year ago. The KCFF in Washington is the first step toward organizing a Tong-il in Washington. It has been previously reported that Bud Han (also known as Han Sang Kook/Keuk/Kuk), Pak Bo Hi and another Army officer were involved with the Washington organization; the third party is Kim Yong Ju or Kim Yong Chun. Yang You Chan is identified as a mere front-man, used to endow the organization with respectability. Pak Bo Hi is the real leader. Pak will return to Washington soon.

44. January 4, 1965: U.S. Intelligence Agency Memorandum for the Record

Kim Jong Pil has been using the Tong-il Church (UC) since 1961.

His interpreter (Steve Kim) is involved in this organization. The organization is secret and run like a communist organization. Bud Han is now General Min Ki Shik’s aide.

45. ca. March 1965: FBI Report, Interview of Curtin

Pak returns to Washington and starts working officially for KCFF.

He volunteers to assist KCFF financially and arranges through the ROK Embassy for the use of their addressograph plates for KCFF initial fundraising (30-40,000 names). These names are from the Korean Information Services mailing list. KCFF also will use Richard A. Viguerie Co., Inc.

46. March 5, 1965: FBI Report, Interview of Curtin

Current employees of KCFF: Curtin, Pak Bo Hi, Caesar A. Giolito. All serve without salary. Giolito was employed at Pak’s insistence.

Pak Bo Hi’s association with KCFF is through the Little Angels which KCFF hopes to bring to the U.S. on a nationwide tour. The time for this tour will be approximately May 1965, to coincide with President Park Chung Hee’s visit to the U.S. Pak Bo Hi is the Project Director for this tour.

Pak has told Curtin that he has contributed substantial personal funds to support the Little Angels. Pak also has a deep spiritual interest in the Unification Church, a Korean spiritualist group in the Washington area.

Curtin denies any direct or indirect contact with the ROK Embassy, nor does he have any understanding, agreement or contract with the ROKG. KCFF is an American-Oriental organization that hopes to be a vehicle of expression in U.S. foreign policy, particularly in Korea and Southeast Asia.

Curtin believes that he is exempt from having to register with the Justice Department as a foreign agent because KCFF is solely engaged in activities in furtherance of religious, scholastic, academic or scientific pursuits.

Curtin says that the APACL-FC as it appeared in the original draft of the KCFF brochure has been eliminated as a project of KCFF and will not receive any support from KCFF. The inclusion of the FC in the KCFF brochure goes back to 1963, when Curtin prepared the brochure, and was unaware of U.S. Treasury regulations governing the exporting of U.S. dollars.

47. Spring 1965: FBI Report, Interview of Vinocour

Park Kwan Soo, Chairman of APACL-FC, writes to Vinocour asking him to reconsider the FC project, (cf. May 15, 1965)

48. April 13, 1965: Burke #57, Letter from Earl Voss to Burke

Voss says, as he had told Burke when they met at Mickey Kim’s house (Mickey Kim, also known as Kim Un Yong, KCIA official at the ROK Embassy in Washington, later assistant to Park Chong Kyu), when they had discussed KCFF’s representations about fundraising for APACL-FC, that he is learning more about the Freedom Center. Leaders at the APACL-FC are upset that KCFF is representing in its brochures that the FC is its #1 project without the Center’s permission. They regard KCFF as “some sort of racket” using the FC’s name to raise funds.

49. April 26, 1965: Burke #60, Letter of solicitation from Burke to Fellow Americans

The letter contains a brochure setting forth KCFF’s current objectives. The objectives include activities in support of anticommunist organizations in the Far East, coordination with other anti-communist organizations in the U.S., and aiding and supporting the Freedom Center under the auspices of APACL.

50. April 28, 1965: Burke #66, Letter from Pak to Burke

Pak says he has been instructed by Yang to give Burke full information for a reply to the April 13, 1965 letter from Voss. Pak says that the APACL-FC people have misunderstood and he advises Burke to send a polite letter to the FC stating the current status of KCFF without mentioning Voss’s letter. He also suggests writing a letter to Kim Jong Pil, chairman of the ruling Democratic Republican Party, asking him to tell APACL-FC officials of KCFF’s earnest intentions and current situation.

51. May 25, 1965: KCFF Minutes

Pak is elected a member of the Board of Directors and Vice President of KCFF. Pak has arranged a U.S. tour for the Little Angels with KCFF as the official sponsor. Although sponsorship of the Little Angels had not been officially brought before the Board, KCFF directors vote to accept sponsorship since it appears to them to be a fait accompli.

52. May 1965: FBI Report, Interview of Vinocour

(date established by Vinocour’s use of word “recently”)

Pak Bo Hi calls on Vinocour. Vinocour formerly knew Pak as a military attache at the Korean Embassy. Pak now identifies himself as the project director or PR man for KCFF in its efforts to assist the APACL-FC. Pak tells Vinocour that Curtin is not doing the job and that KCFF is bankrupt.

53. May 26, 1965: Burke #70, Letter from Pak to Burke

Pak mentions Yang’s recent address before the Political Study Club being inserted in the Congressional Record of April 27, 1965.

54. May 27, 1965: Burke #71, Letter from Pak to Burke

Pak says that Dr. Chin Kim and Cho Dong Ha, officers of APACL-FC visiting Washington, met with him. They have ironed out their misunderstandings and differences. They had already met with Yang. Pak says that he made it clear that KCFF is still interested but not obligated. Because KCFF is in its formative stage, the APACL-FC should not depend on the efforts of KCFF.

55. June 1965: FBI Report, Interview with Don Kramer (date possibly earlier)

Cho Dong Ha requests that Kramer urge their mutual acquaintance Vinocour, a professional PR counselor, to undertake informal noncontractual agreement to work for APACL-FC.

Kramer talks to Vinocour and is advised that Cho has not been totally candid with him; Vinocour had previously submitted a professional program. Kramer says he reported Vinocour’s reaction to Cho.

Kramer’s impression was that Cho was trying to explore Kramer’s availability to assist, but that no direct overtures were ever made.

Kramer says that Cho is living with Tongsun Park at 1713 22nd Street, N.W., Washington, telephone 232-6860. Kramer’s impression is that Tongsun Park is subsidizing Cho during his stay but not contributing to the Freedom Center.

56. June 8, 1965: Burke #76, Letter from Cho Dong Ha to Burke

Cho asks Burke if KCFF would act as agent to collect and transmit contributions for APACL-FC.

57. June 8, 1965: Burke #77, Letter from Burke to Cho Dong Ha

Burke says that KCFF would be happy to act as a repository for U.S. donations to the APACL-FC. However, these contributions would be subject to 15% commission.

58. July 12, 1965: Burke #82, Letter from Robert W. Roland to Burke

Roland informs Burke that Pak has been an acquaintance of his for a number of years. He has discussed KCFF with Pak many times.

Pak has told him that KCFF is to function as the financial supporter and propagator of the ideology of the Unification Church, headed by Moon.

59. August 1965: Burke Memo

Burke advises Yang of Roland’s letter concerning Pak. Yang assures Burke that he is certain Pak is not misusing KCFF and that he, Yang, would not permit it. Yang adds that Pak is a devout Buddhist.

Burke comments that the matter could not be resolved without further data. There is no indication that the Foundation is being misused, but it has to be carefully watched. Burke contemplates resigning because he feels that things are happening of which he is not aware. He submits his resignation on August 6, 1965, to be effective in September or October.

60. August 26, 1965: Burke #99, Letter from David Rowe to Earl Voss

Rowe says that Yang is in Korea on a short visit, and that he is working on staking a claim for KCFF in relation to the APACL- FC. Yang has represented that KCFF can supply a backer, Mr. Salvatori, who is a very big potential source of money for the FC.

Yang told Rowe that before he had left for Korea he had had a meeting with Burke at which he proposed that Burke approach Congressional Members of the committee supervising the CIA to have them bring pressure on the CIA to put a large amount of money into the APACL-FC. The purpose would be to use the FC for recruiting and training agents, since students from all over Asia and Africa would be arriving there. All this was said in the presence of a secretary from the Foreign Office who had been assigned to Yang.

Rowe says that he is confident Burke will not fall for this idea but is unsure of other members of KCFF or Congress. He asks Voss to see Burke and show him this letter.

61. August 27, 1965

William A. Curtin, Jr. dies.

62. September 9, 1965: Burke #100, Letter from Burke to Voss

Burke disavows involvement in the Salvatori idea and says that he did not know that Yang and Dr. Haynes Fraser had had such an idea. Burke says that he had thought the CIA idea a bad one and had told Yang so before he left. Burke says the reason for his meeting with Yang was for Burke to submit his resignation. Burke asks Voss not to use this information to embarrass Yang.

63. September 13, 1965: KCFF Minutes

Burke, Corea and Carey exhibit concern about the financial status of the Foundation. A resolution is passed that: certified public accountants will be employed to certify financial statements and to make an annual report to be delivered to the president and the executive committee; that Pak Bo Hi will make monthly statements to the treasurer with copies to the executive committee, showing all income and expenditures; and that hereafter projects will not be initiated until funded. Funds raised for a specific purpose will be held in trust until full funding has been achieved.

64. December 1965: FBI Report, Interview of Vinocour

On December 14, 1965, Vinocour had lunch with Min Pyong Whi, the First Secretary of the ROK Embassy. Min stated that Cho Dong Ha does not represent the ROKG in his fundraising efforts in the U.S. for the APACL-FC. Min said that Cho had returned to Korea in November and would not return to the U.S. before February or March 1966. Min feels that duplicate organizations such as KCFF and the Freedom Center create confusion.

65. May 15, 1966: KCFF Minutes

First mention of the ROFA project is at this meeting. General Coulter, president and chairman, states for the record that Pak Bo Hi is one of the founders of the KCFF and that he had returned to the U.S. for the sole purpose of pioneering the projects of the Foundation. General Coulter gives the following information regarding Pak:

– Yang requested the ROKG to release Pak so that he could work for the Foundation.

– The ROKG granted the release. On July 3, 1965 (sic; KCFF minutes of May 25, 1965 indicate that it was at that meeting that Pak was elected director and vice president of KCFF) Pak returned to Washington and took up a fulltime position as vice president of KCFF.

– Pak has been working fulltime since that time in his capacity as vice president. Pak has not received any salary or compensation for his services for the entire year of 1965.

The Board votes to pay Pak $750 per month, retroactive to January 1, 1966.

66. July 14, 1966: KCFF Minutes

Corea and Carey resign from the Board, making a total of four vacancies. The vacancies are filled by: Tongsun Park, Lawrence L. Mays, Leigh Brite, and Leon Fontaine, all effective August 1, 1966. Kyong Eup Kim (also known as Jimmy Kim) is appointed Operations Director of the Foundation in Seoul. His duties will be to establish KCFF headquarters and make initial arrangements for the ROFA project.

Yang informs the Board that the ROKG Minister of Public Information had requested Kim’s appointment as Operations Director. The Board specifies that Kim is not to incur any expenses chargeable to KCFF until advised that funds are available.

Lawrence L. Mays is appointed International Chairman of ROFA.

67. August 9, 1966: KCFF Minutes

The stated purpose of the meeting is formally to institute ROFA as the principal project of KCFF and to formulate policy for ROFA. The Board sets August 15, 1966 as the date for the first broadcast from KBS transmitters. The Board authorizes a trip to Korea for Mays, Yang and Pak to negotiate a contract with the ROKG for the inauguration of ROFA.

68. August 10, 1966 U.S. Intelligence Agency Report

The Seventh Bureau (Psychological Warfare Bureau) of the KCIA has been given the task of working out a proposal for the reestablishment of ROFA. The operation is tightly held within the KCIA and is apparently the result of a KCIA-Washington letter to KCIA director Kim Hyung Wook, and communication from Kim to Yang You Chan. Director Kim, who is said to be enthusiastic about the project, and the 7th Bureau are expected to discuss the matter with Yang.

69. August 1966: Testimony of General Kim Hyung Wook, former director, KCIA, before the Subcommittee on International Organizations, Investigation of Korean-American Relations, Part 1, June 22, 1977, p. 28

Kim said he first met Pak in 1964; Pak was not connected with the KCIA but whenever he came to Seoul he would visit Kim and discuss the situation and his activities in the U.S.

Kim recalled Pak coming to Korea with Ambassador Yang and an American named Mays. At that time Pak described ROFA and told Kim that Eisenhower was honorary chairman and that many influential Americans were involved in advising them.

Pak said that he was going to broadcast programs to North Korea and to Communist China and Kim had no objection; he asked Pak how he could help. Pak said he needed a permit from the ROKG. Because Kim felt that it was the type of work that the government should be doing, if they had had the funds, he told Pak that he would welcome the project and assist him in obtaining the required permit.

To express his appreciation to the group, he gave Mays a commemorative plaque usually given those who apprehend North Korean spies. Kim contacted the Ministry of Information to expedite the required permit.

70. August 25, 1966: Letter to Samuel D. Berger, Deputy Assistant Secretary of State for Far Eastern Affairs, to Winthrop G. Brown, U.S. Ambassador to Korea

Brown expresses his concern about ROFA to Berger. He feels that the persons connected with the project are inexperienced and that some have “unsavory records.” Brown wants to warn distinguished Americans whose names are being used.

71. August 26, 1966: Airgram from U.S. Embassy, Seoul, to State Department, with five enclosures

Biographical data is supplied concerning Pak Bo Hi and Kim Dong Sung, as well as memoranda of three conversations between Lawrence Mays, ROFA International Director, and U.S. Embassy officials. Embassy officials exhibit concern at the level of experience of the ROFA officials and on the question of control of program content. ROFA is said to have made its first broadcast at 11:00 p.m. on August 15th.

72. September 6, 1966: KCFF Minutes

Coulter, Giolito, Pak and Mays are present. Pak makes a full report of his trip to Korea, stating that he had witnessed the commencement of ROFA broadcasting on August 15th; however, no details are given in the minutes.

Coulter states that the purpose of the meeting is to appoint an Operations Director and a Deputy Operations Director in Seoul. He has issued a letter to Dong Sung Kim on August 15th, appointing Kim, a former Minister of Public Information for the ROKG, as Operations Director. Kim will supervise the overall policy of ROFA and the planning of programs and the execution of policy established in Washington. Kim will also be empowered to negotiate a permanent contract with the ROKG for the use of KBS facilities. Kim Chong Hoon (Chong Hoon Kim) has been recommended by Kim Dong Sung to be Deputy Operations Director.

73. September 7, 1966: State Department Memorandum of Conversation among Lawrence L. Mays and a Mr. Vogt; and Deputy Assistant Secretary Berger and Korea Country Director Benjamin A. Fleck

Mays meets with State Department officials to ascertain the reasons for their opposition to ROFA. Berger explains that ROFA is a private venture with which the U.S. Government cannot be involved in any way. They also discuss KCFF’s irregular methods of handling funds, which, according to Mays, led to Burke’s resignation.

Mays says that during his recent trip to Seoul with Pak and Yang “he had discovered the true nature of the organization.” While in Seoul he had secretly met with Reverend Moon and a National Assemblyman. “As a result of that meeting, it had become clear to Mr. Mays that the purpose of the Unification Church in organizing the Korean Cultural and Freedom Foundation and in sponsoring the Foundation’s fundraising activities (primarily the Little Angels children’s choir and the radio project) was to raise funds in the United States for use in furthering the Unification Church’s religious and political objectives in Korea.”

74. September 12, 1966: KCFF Minutes

Yang announces the resignation of Mays as International Chairman of ROFA and from the Board fo KCFF. The position of International Chairman is abolished. General Graves B. Erskine, USMC (Ret.), is appointed Executive Director of ROFA and a member of the Board of KCFF. Erskine also is to serve as chairman of the committee on ROFA which will determine policy, control implementation of policy, review program content, and plan for expansion.

75. September 20, 1966: Memorandum to Deputy Undersecretary of State

U. Alexis Johnson from William P. Bundy, Assistant Secretary for East Asian & Pacific Affairs

Bundy attaches Ambassador Brown’s letter and memorandum dealing with ROFA. Bundy agrees with Brown that some persons connected with the project are “unsavory” and that it is possible that money donated by Americans is being used for purposes other than those stated publicly. Bundy recommends that Johnson attempt to persuade someone to sever his ties with the Foundation and ROFA.

76. September 21, 1966: State Department Memorandum of Conversation among Colonel Bo Hi Pak, To Kyong Limb, First Secretary, Korean Embassy, and Benjamin Fleck

Pak confirms that General Erskine has been appointed Executive Director of ROFA. Pak relates the circumstances of his and Yang’s relationship with Lawrence Mays. Mays and Coulter have resigned from KCFF and have incorporated the radio project as a separate organization.

Pak says that a Baltimore PR firm hired by Mays for a fundraising banquet is now working for KCFF and is launching a campaign that it is hoped will raise $150,000 for the radio project. Pak outlines ROFA’s operational plans, and he notes that General Rod Smith of Radio Free Europe has offered assistance. Pak also says that KCFF is bring the Little Angels to the U.S. for a concert tour; he hopes that the Little Angels will make money so that the proceeds can be given to ROFA.

Pak also notes that during his recent trip to Seoul he had renewed his personal friendship with President Park. Their friendship is based on their service together during the Korean War and one period in particular when they “had spent a harrowing seven days together before being reunited with their unit.”

77. November 10, 1966: State Department Memorandum for the Record

Re: Korean Cultural and Freedom Foundation

The memorandum recites the history of KCFF’s founding and its connections with Vinocour, Curtin and the APACL-FC. The memo reports the sponsorship of the Little Angels by KCFF and reiterates State Department concern about ROFA. The memorandum concludes that KCFF “is an organization of questionable motivation” and recommends that no actions should be taken which could be construed as U.S. Government approval of KCFF or any of its projects.

78. December 6, 1966: KCFF Minutes

General Coulter resigns and General Erskine is appointed President and Chairman of the Board of KCFF.

79. March 9, 1967: KCFF Minutes

Erskine and Pak enter into a contract with International Foundation Consultants, Ltd., fundraisers, on behalf of ROFA. The firm advances $15,000 to ROFA. On motion by Pak, the Board decides that Erskine will deliver $10,000 of this sum by hand to Korea for the operational fund, while $5,000 will be retained in Washington to pay accumulated bills. Y. W. Coty, Vice President of Finance, will accompany Erskine on the trip.

Ambassador Yang is visiting Korea upon the invitation of President Park. Although Yang’s mission is largely involved with the ROKG, he is doing much good on behalf of the Foundation while there.

KCFF must regard his stay in Korea as an official representation of the Foundation; the Foundation must therefore pay any expenses which Yang incurs on its behalf. A resolution is passed to pay $500 in expenses to Yang, unless he requests additional monies.

80. March 14, 1967: U.S. Intelligence Agency Memorandum to the Ambassador -- Subject: ROFA

The KCIA’s 7th Bureau monitors the programs and activities of ROFA, and facilities are provided free by KBS. The only guidance provided by KCFF is that all programs must support U.S. policy. KBS does not charge ROFA and actually saves money because there are no script costs and ROFA programs surplant KBS programs. The Director of KBS has indicated that KBS does not receive payment from ROFA. The memorandum states that ROFA is fortunate to have Kim Dong Sung as its Korean Director. It further states that ROFA is apparently proceeding with the full knowledge and support of the ROKG.

81. June 5, 1967: KCFF Minutes

Erskine and Coty resign for personal business reasons.

82. September 26, 1967: KCFF Minutes

Ambassador Yang is absent because of governmental duty in Africa. Pak reads the resignation letter of Kim Dong Sung who has been appointed ROKG Ambassador to Argentina. Kim Dong Sung recommends the appointment of his Deputy, Kim Chong Hoon, to replace him.

The Board approves his suggestion and Kim Chong Hoon is now the Operations Director of ROFA.

83. 1968: Arthur Young Accountants Workpapers, Handwritten Notation

“$100 gift to Un Yang Kim (Korean Secret Service) on the death of his mother. I surmise that this is in the line of KCFF business, as favors are sometimes asked of this man, although I question the account classification.”

84. February 1969: Price Waterhouse Accountants Workpapers, Audit of KCFF-Seoul (prepared July 1971)

In 1969 Park Chong Kyu, head of the Presidential Protective Force, lent his private house, without cost, to the Little Angels for their use.

85. March 11, 1969: USIA cable from U.S. Embassy, Seoul, to State Department, Re ROFA

The cable describes ROKG as having complete supervision and control of the program content of ROFA, but the Ministry of Culture and Information is still not pleased with the situation, “even though ROKG supervision now complete.” ROFA seems to be under some sort of examination; USIA does not know by whom. USIA feels that ROFA is probably not contributing anything positive to Free World broadcasting to North Korea.

86. April 23, 1969: USIA Memorandum of Conversation with ROFA Officials.

ROFA is broadcasting 36 hours and 45 minutes each week over KBS facilities at no cost to ROFA. The ROKG is considering a request for 2,000 pyung of land at Namsan for the construction of ROFA’s own facilities. This would be an administrative facility with transmitters to be built later.

ROFA is using contract help for writing; including some KBS employees and others who are professors and non-KBS radio writers. Regarding policy, the ROFA official says that they have to be careful not to differ too strongly with the ROKG. Much of their material comes from defector interviews arranged by the KCIA; at all of these interviews there is a KCIA man in the studio monitoring and suggesting alterations wherever he sees fit. USIA observes it is unlikely that ROFA has substantial freedom.

87. November 25, 1969: USIA Memorandum of Conversation with ROFA Official.

ROFA will build a studio and office on 3,000 pyung of land provided by the ROKG. They have no immediate plans to build their own transmitters. In general reference to his operations, the ROFA official states that KBS broadcasts must reflect ROKG policy, but ROFA does not have to do this since it reflects U.S. policy. Regarding ROFA’s description of its broadcasts to North Korea, USIA official observes that it is highly unlikely since most radio receivers in North Korea are of fixed frequency, making it impossible for reception of the described broadcasts.

88. February 1970: Hearings before the Senate Subcommittee on U.S. Security Agreements and Commitments Abroad, Senate Foreign Relations Committee, p. 1687

ROFA and KCFF are mentioned during the course of these hearings. Concern is expressed about the use of names of prominent Americans, and the tax-exempt status of KCFF and ROFA. There is also some discussion about whether “propagandist organizations” should be registered with the Justice Department under the FARA.

89. May 25, 1970: Price Waterhouse Accountants Workpapers, Audit of KCFF-Seoul

KCFF buys land and building from Chung II Kwon (then-Prime Minister) for Won 20,000,000 (approximately $142,496.82), to be used as the intermediate headquarters for ROFA.

90. September 2, 1970: State Department Memorandum enclosed with

June 8, 1971 letter to Attorney General Mitchell from Undersecretary of State Johnson

A report dated September 2nd lists Pak Bo Hi of KCFF as one of several ROK lobbyists in Washington whose activities were to be coordinated by the KCIA.

91. September 8, 1970: Price Waterhouse Accountants Workpapers, Audit of KCFF.

An entry for September 8th lists expenses incurred for “Promotion letters written by President Park Chung Hee.”

92. October 14, 1970: State Department Memorandum enclosed with June 8, 1971 letter to Attorney General Mitchell from Undersecretary of State Johnson

A report dated October 14th stated that in late September Pak Bo Hi was in Seoul with a ROFA mailing list of 60,000 Americans who had contributed to ROFA. It was arranged for President Park Chung Hee to send letters to all of the contributors, at a cost of $20,000.

93. December 14, 1970: State Department Memorandum from Howard F. Newsom to Mr. Prentice

The memorandum reiterates State’s “grave doubts about the competence and integrity of many of the persons connected with ROFA’s operations.” The present Ambassador, Kim Dong Jo, shares these concerns. As ROFA uses KBS facilities, there is a question as to what ROFA does with the funds it raises in the U.S.

94. December 15, 1970: State Department Memorandum, from Rowberg of Korea Desk to Ambassador Brown

In matters concerning ROFA, the Department will be using the attached drafts as statements to be released.

95. December 23, 1970: Letter to IRS from Winthrop G. Brown, Deputy Assistant Secretary of State for East Asian and Pacific Affairs

The letter requests that IRS provide information as to the tax-exempt status of ROFA.

96. December 23, 1970: Letter to Robert C. Mardian, Assistant Attorney General, from Deputy Assistant Secretary Brown

The letter requests that Justice Department provide information as to ROFA’s status under the Foreign Agents Registration Act.

97. December 31, 1970: Telegram from State Department to U.S. Embassy, Seoul

The telegram requests the Embassy to monitor ROFA broadcasts and to report information on all aspects of ROFA operations.

98. January 8, 1971: Letter from Assistant Attorney General Mardian to Deputy Assistant Secretary Brown

Mardian acknowledges receipt of Brown’s December 23rd letter and states that Justice Department files have no information on ROFA. A request is being made of the FBI to search its files for available information, or information that may result from the inquiry Justice is requesting FBI make.

99. January 8, 1971: Memorandum to Director, FBI, from Assistant Attorney General Mardian

The memorandum encloses copies of State Department’s letter to Justice requesting information on ROFA. Mardian asks that the FBI furnish any information it may have regarding ROFA; in the event FBI files are negative, Mardian requests that the FBI ascertain ROFA’s principal place of business and interview a responsible official.

100. February 16, 1971: U.S. Intelligence Agency Memorandum

Subject: Pak Bo Hi, KCFF, Little Angels and ROFA

The memorandum provides biographical information on Pak; budget information and objectives of the KCFF; the costs of the Little Angels school to the KCFF; and discussion of ROFA studios to be constructed. There is also general information on ROFA and an analysis of KCFF and ROFA positions. The memorandum states that KCFF is now divorced from Yang who had tried to associate himself with the Foundation and ROK lobbying in Washington. Pak is said to be aware of, and intending to avoid, ROKG attempts to use the Foundation in the future. Pak describes this as difficult because he needs ROKG support; he also notes that ROKG officials are very demanding.

101. April 5, 1971: Letter to Deputy Assistant Secretary Brown from Assistant Attorney General Mardian, by James C. Hise, Chief, Registration Section

Brown is informed that, based on information now available to the Justice Department, ROFA cannot be considered an agent of a foreign principal since there is a lack of evidence to establish a connection with a foreign principal; hence there is no obligation to register under the FARA.

102. April 14, 1971: Letter to Deputy Assistant Secretary Brown from Exempt Organizations Branch, IRS

In reply to Brown’s December 23rd letter, the Chief of the Ruling Section states that a careful search of their files reveals that ROFA is not exempt from federal income tax and therefore contributions to ROFA are not tax-deductible.

103. June 8, 1971: Letter to Attorney General Mitchell from Undersecretary of State Johnson

Johnson encloses material regarding ROFA concerning which he has spoken to Mitchell. He is concerned that “a lot of our people are being ‘taken.’”

A memorandum dated June 2, 1971, originally classified “secret”, is enclosed with this letter. This memorandum is headed “Radio of Free Asia” and mainly reiterates State Department concerns about ROFA. There are other paragraphs, however, which evince concern about a coordinated lobbying plan on the part of the South Korean Government. There is mention made of Tongsun Park’s offer to contribute to the campaigns of several congressmen and there are “suspicions that he has been involved in many other irregularities as a lobbyist.”

104. July 7, 1971: Price Waterhouse Accountants Workpapers, Audit of KCFF-Seoul.

Daily broadcasting of programs is checked by the Ministry of Culture and Information, (K)CIA, KBS, and Mr. B.S. Lee, program controller of KCFF.

105. July 7, 1971: Memorandum to James C. Hise, Chief, Registration Section, from Robert C. Mardian, Assistant Attorney General, ISD

Mardian encloses the material received from State Department and says it is clear that State is highly concerned about ROFA’s operations. Mardian states that the material indicates persons associated with ROFA are of questionable reputation and may have some connection with the Korean Government. He suggests that the Criminal Division may have to determine if fraud is involved and that the FBI should be requested to conduct an investigation.

106. July 28, 1971: Letter to Undersecretary Johnson from Attorney General Mitchell

Mitchell acknowledges receipt of Johnson’s June 8th letter and requests concurrence of State in supplying the June 2nd secret memorandum to the FBI and to have the Bureau undertake an inquiry of the matter.

107. October 1, 1971: Letter to Attorney General Mitchell from Undersecretary Johnson

Johnson states that State Department has no objection to Justice instituting a full scale investigation of the ROFA matter. He notes that materials contained in the June 2nd secret memorandum originated with a third government agency, however, Johnson states that it is his understanding that the third agency will send to the FBI through their own channels a separate memorandum summarizing the information that was contained in State’s June 2nd memo.

108. November 1, 1971: Memorandum to Director, FBI, from Assistant Attorney General Mardian, Subject: ROFA

Mardian makes reference to his January 8th memorandum to the FBI and says that the State Department has furnished additional information “indicating that certain persons associated with the subject are men of questionable reputation who may be engaged in fraudulent activity and who are also believed to be in the employ of the South Korean Central Intelligence Agency.” Mardian requests that the FBI initiate an investigation to determine whether ROFA should be registered under FARA.

Mardian also draws the FBI’s attention to State Department information that “Pak Tong Sun” who is a member of KCFF’s Board, may be a member of the KCIA; “it is requested that this element be included in your investigation.”

109. November 11, 1971: Memorandum from the Director, FBI, to the Washington Field Office (WFO) of the FBI

The memorandum encloses all pertinent documentation and requests the WFO immediately to initiate an investigation in accordance with the guidelines set forth in Mardian’s November 1st memorandum.

A note attached to this memorandum states, among other things, that James C. Hise of the Justice Department, ISD, advised on 11/4/71 that he did not desire interviews to be conducted of the prominent persons listed on KCFF’s letterhead, and requested that at this time the interviews of ROFA personnel be limited to Pak and Yang.

110. December 28, 1971: Memorandum to the Director, FBI, from WFO

By this memorandum the WFO submitted its investigative report in the ROFA matter to the Director, FBI.

111. January 27, 1972: Memorandum to Assistant Attorney General Mardian, ISD, from Assistant Attorney General Petersen, Criminal Division

Petersen states that the Criminal Division has reviewed the FBI’s December 28, 1971 report on ROFA and can find no basis for prosecution under federal fraud statutes.

112. March 15, 1972: Memorandum to Assistant Attorney General Mardian from Justin O’Shea, Acting Chief, Registration Section

O’Shea informs Mardian that the FBI investigation “reveals that the initial allegations concerning (ROFA) cannot be confirmed by competent evidence.” O’Shea concludes that based on the informa- provided by State Department and contained in the FBI report, neither the subject nor its officers and directors have incurred an obligation to register under FARA.

113. March 16, 1972: Memorandum to Acting Attorney General Kleindienst from Assistant Attorney General Mardian

Mardian recounts the history of the ROFA investigation to the Attorney General and suggests that he send the attached letter to the Undersecretary of State.

114. March 16, 1972: Letter from Acting Attorney General Kleindienst to Undersecretary of State Johnson

Kleindienst reiterates the information contained in the two preceding memoranda and advises Johnson that, in the absence of additional information, the Justice Department contemplates no further action on the ROFA matter.

115. May 1, 1972: Memorandum to the President of ROFA from the Vice President for Operations, Subject: Weekly Report

The Vice President for Operations relates that at a dinner party attended by various Korean and American officials he was asked many questions regarding KCFF and ROFA operations. Mr. Richardson refused to believe that ROFA is not a part of the KCIA. Steve Kim will contact Richardson and explain that ROFA is not connected with the KCIA.

******

_________________________________________

Bo Hi Pak and The Origins of KCFF

United States Congressional investigation of Moon’s organization

Gifts of Deceit – Robert Boettcher

_________________________________________

FBI and other reports on Sun Myung Moon:

1. FBI Report (San Francisco office) on the UC / FFWPU, September 1975

2. Napa Sentinel, March-April 3, 1992 “The Moonies – What Rev. Moon teaches the young” by Harry V. Martin and David Caul

3. Chicago Tribune, Monday, March 27, 1978 James Coates “The Moonies: Government Files Trace Church from Sex Cult to Korean CIA”

4. New York Times Magazine, May 30, 1976 Berkeley Rice: “The pull of Sun Moon”

5. The Moon Organization Academic Network, Fall 1991 by Daniel Junas

_________________________________________

Robert Parry’s investigations into Sun Myung Moon

Politics and religion interwoven

Sun Myung Moon and the United Nations

Donald M. Fraser’s house was attacked by an arsonist just after his investigation into the Unification Church. It was only saved by good fortune.

Moonie “Dirty Tricks” against Donald Fraser

The Mysterious Death of Robert Boettcher in 1984

#Donald Fraser #Fraser Report #Robert Boettcher #KCIA #CIA #Unification Church #Sun Myung Moon

2 notes · View notes