noise dept.
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@kyrii
Tony does the parents texting thing
Tony: They are coming be ready.
Peter: WHO'S THEY!!!?
And it's just pizza Tony ordered for Peter
Or
Tony: Grab your things, quick.
Peter: what? Why???? What things???
And it's just Happy coming to pick him up from the apartment.
Or
Tony: i don't know how long we have
Peter: FOR WHAT???
Peter: WHAT'S HAPPENING?! TONY ANSWER ME!!
And he just meant their lab time before the meeting.
Tony hated arguing with Peter.
One moment, he’s snapping at the kid for doing something reckless, dangerous, and the next, he’s eight, twelve, fourteen, biting his tongue and daring himself not to cry. We have a reputation to uphold, Anthony. This work isn’t something to toy and tinker with, it isn’t a joke. This is your legacy. Our legacy. You’re irresponsible, Anthony, these are future people’s lives on the line. No son of mine—
The first time Peter cried in front of him, it was after a really awful mission. The kid had gotten out unscathed, but Tony, scared shitless and fuming that Peter had ignored his orders to retreat, had gone off on him.
Ten minutes into his lecture, Peter had clenched his jaw and he’d sniffled, once, twice, and then. Tears. The sight of them had stunned Tony. Knocked his brain loose and his jaw slack and his heart tumbling out of his chest.
He’d apologized immediately, of course. Felt every muscle in his body vibrate with something sick, like the palladium was still poisoning him from the inside out.
He remembered thinking, God, I’d do anything to make him stop crying, and, how do I fix it, how do I fix it, how do I fix it?
It was such a visceral, tangible thing, the way loving something, a child, could make someone feel. Within the span of one second, Tony had full intention to rewire his own nervous system, rework his entire paleomammalian cortex, just to prevent this specific pain.
He’d change everything and anything about himself, because the kid was crying. Nothing else mattered. Nothing.
Oh man this one's in the feels. Itching to change into a one-shot.
Hc Peter abuses the fact that he knows Tony stark, a billionaire, but not in the “give me a million dollars” or “haha I know Tony stark” way. More in a “get him to pay injured victims hospital bills” way like
Peter, as Spider-Man, after saving a civilian: QUESTION!! Do you have health insurance???
Injured civilian: uh no?
Spider-Man: dw that’s ok I’ll get Tony stark to pay your hospital bills then.
Injured civilian: HUH?!?!
And Tony just pays all of them cuz he can’t say no when Peter asks him to do something and Peter’s good at saving people so civilians rarely get seriously hurt, so Tony can afford to lose a couple thousand dollars every once in a while.
Tony and his PPs (forgot to post this one too)
hallo i havent opened tumblr in like half a year and realised i never posted this (follow me on instagram, thats my main place where i post art)
i see this as an absolute win
and out of the darkness - you you you you you
Don’t touch her
Pairing: Bob Reynolds x female reader
Summary: You get hurt on a mission and your boyfriend can be terrifying to mess with.
Warnings: blood. hurt/comfort. hurt/angst. violence. injuries. rage. no use of y/n.
_________________________
The warehouse smells like smoke and blood and everything after that just becomes noise.
Gunfire. Shouting. Boots against concrete.
Another mission gone wrong. Typical Thunderbolts luck.
Bob lands hard against a steel support beam after taking a hit strong enough to crack the wall behind him. Pain barely registers. Because across the room … he sees you.
And immediately something inside him turns to ice. You’re fighting two men at once near the loading dock, movements sharp and efficient despite the blood already staining one sleeve of your tactical jacket.
Former Red Room training moves through you like instinct. Fast. Precise. Ruthless. But one of the men catches your wrist at exactly the wrong angle.
Your knife skids across the concrete. And then a blade flashes. Bob sees it happen in terrible slow motion.
The knife drives into your side. Your breath catches sharply. For one awful second, you just stare down at it in shock.
Then the man rips it free. You collapse hard onto your knees.
Something in Bob breaks.Not metaphorically or emotionally. It actually breaks.
The world narrows into one violent point. You’re hurt. That’s it. That’s all that exists anymore.
Bob is suddenly there. One second across the warehouse. The next directly in front of the man who stabbed you.
And God. The look on his face. Bucky sees it immediately and his stomach drops.
Because that isn’t just anger. That’s rage stripped raw. Pure terrifying fury. The kind that stops feeling human.
The attacker barely has time to react before Bob grabs him by the throat and slams him into the concrete hard enough to crater it.
The entire warehouse shakes.
“Bob!” John shouts.
No response. The man struggles desperately in Bob’s grip. It doesn’t matter. Bob barely seems aware of anything except the blood spreading beneath you across the floor.
His voice comes out low and shaking. “You touched her.”
The guy gasps for air. Bob slams him down again. And the concrete splinters. Yelena swears violently under her breath. Because Bob isn’t stopping. And everyone here knows exactly how dangerous that is.
The attacker reaches weakly for a weapon. Bob catches his wrist and breaks it instantly. The scream echoes through the warehouse.
Still not enough. Bob’s eyes are glowing now. Wild. Furious. Terrified.
Like he’s one second away from becoming something catastrophic.
“Bob!” Nothing. The man coughs blood. Bob lifts him again like he weighs nothing.
And for one horrifying moment Bucky genuinely thinks Bob is about to kill him.
Brutally. Without hesitation.
Then weakly from the floor … “Bob.”
Everything stops. Immediately. Bob freezes. Your voice sounds small. Pained.
But alive.
His head snaps toward you so fast it almost looks painful. You’re curled against a support beam one hand clutched over your side, blood slipping between your fingers.
And yet you’re looking at him. Not afraid. Just worried … For him.
“Bob,” you whisper again.
The fury inside him cracks instantly. Like glass shattering. His grip loosens. The attacker collapses choking onto the floor.
Bucky moves immediately, grabbing the man while Yelena secures the weapon.
But Bob barely notices. He’s already dropping to his knees beside you. And suddenly he looks horrified.
Not angry anymore. Just devastated. “Oh God.”
His hands hover helplessly over you.
Afraid to touch. Afraid to hurt you worse. Afraid this isn’t real.
Your breathing shakes painfully. “Hey,” you whisper again weakly.
Bob’s voice breaks immediately. “I’m sorry.”
The apology nearly destroys you. “Bob—”
“I should’ve gotten there faster.”
“No.”
“You were bleeding and I—”
“Bob.” Your hand fumbles for his wrist.
He stills instantly. Tears are already gathering in his eyes. “I thought…” His voice fractures completely. “I thought you died.”
Your chest aches so hard it feels unbearable. Slowly you guide his trembling hand against your chest. Right over your heartbeat.
Bob freezes. And there in the middle of the ruined warehouse, under flickering lights and blood and wreckage—
He feels it.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Alive.
Your heartbeat presses steady against his palm. You look at him softly despite the pain. “I’m still here,” you whisper.
Bob makes this tiny broken sound that doesn’t even seem intentional. His forehead drops against yours instantly.
Eyes squeezed shut hard. Like relief physically hurts.
Your fingers slide weakly into his hair. “Breathe,” you murmur softly.
He tries. God, he tries. But his entire body is shaking now. Not rage anymore. Fear. Pure overwhelming fear at almost losing you.
“You scared me,” he whispers hoarsely against your forehead.
Your tired smile trembles slightly. “You scared everyone.”
A wet laugh escapes him unexpectedly.
Somewhere behind you, Yelena mutters: “Understatement of century.”
Bucky’s voice follows flatly: “You punched a man through concrete.”
“I know,” Bob whispers miserably.
You manage a tiny weak grin despite yourself. “Little overprotective.”
Bob finally lifts his head enough to look at you. And the devastation in his expression nearly cracks your heart open. “I couldn’t lose you.”
The honesty in his voice is terrifying. Absolute. Like the thought alone nearly destroyed him.
Your thumb brushes weakly against his cheek. “You won’t.”
His eyes close briefly at that. Then carefully—so carefully—he leans down and presses a trembling kiss against your forehead.
Protective and reverent. Like he’s thanking the universe for letting you stay. Behind him, the rest of the team exchanges silent looks.
Because they’ve all seen Bob dangerous before. But this?
This was different. This was love sharpened into terror.
And somehow the scariest part wasn’t his rage. It was the way he came apart the second he realized you were still breathing.
————————
Thank you so much for reading! 💙 all interactions are highly appreciated
BOB REYNOLDS MASTERLIST
Hiii if you're still taking phm requests I think it would be very cool for Grace to get some Eridian celebration jewelry from Rocky + Adrian :') or something along those lines
take the ring ryland. im not asking 💢💢💢
anyways i kind of smushed your request and a silly idea i had - hope you like!
bonus below
Love through a prism
Like/reblog if you save or use
© @batgirlbarbg
Oii! Tudo bem? Conheci sua galeria há pouco tempo, mas já me apaixonei pelos seus icons 🥹💕 se me permite sugerir, poderia fazer iconzitos de "pelo prisma do amor"? Desde já, agradeço. Beijos! ✨️
oláa! aah, muito obrigadaa 😭😭😭 obrigada pela mensagem e claroo 💖 posso fazer sim!!
hii, curta ou reblogue caso salve um icon and psd/action by @colour-source
HIGH POTENTIAL 2.09 "Under the Rug"
HIGH POTENTIAL 2.10 | Grounded
₊˚⊹ more than the damage | steve harrington x reader
summary: steve hands her his keys like it’s nothing. after a red light and a drunk driver, she learns the hard way that the thing he values most was never parked in the driveway
warnings/tags: car accident, drunk driver, hospitalization, concussion, cuts and bruises, panic response, crying, hurt/comfort, emotional vulnerability, protective steve harrington, soft steve harrington, steve harrington in love, reassurance, trauma response, no use of y/n
wc: ~3k
───୨ৎ───
The keys are cold when Steve drops them into your palm.
They make a solid, unmistakable sound as they land there, heavier than you expect, the metal biting lightly into your skin. You look down at them immediately, brows knitting together, your fingers curling instinctively like you might drop them if you don’t hold on tight enough.
You don’t look up right away and Steve can’t help but notice.
He’s leaning back against the kitchen counter, arms crossed loosely over his chest, already watching you with that familiar half-smile that means he knows exactly what you’re thinking. The late afternoon sun spills in through the window behind him, catching in his hair, turning it softer somehow. The house smells faintly like coffee and whatever Jonathan burned earlier trying to make breakfast.
“Don’t look at them like that,” he says, amused. “They’re not gonna bite.”
You finally glance up at him, eyes wide. “Steve. These are your keys.”
“Yeah,” he says easily. “That’s kinda the point.”
Your grip tightens. “Your car.”
“My car,” he repeats, nodding, like he’s agreeing with a completely reasonable statement.
“You love your car.”
He scoffs softly. “I like my car.”
“You wax it.”
“Because I respect craftsmanship.”
“You talk to it,” you add.
That earns you a grin. “She listens better than most people.”
You shake your head, lips pressing together as you look back down at the keys. The maroon BMW sits visible through the front window, parked neatly in the driveway like it knows it’s being discussed. It looks expensive and pristine. It looks like something you absolutely should not be trusted with.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” you murmur.
Steve pushes off the counter and steps closer, the floor creaking softly beneath his feet. He stops just in front of you, close enough that you can smell his cologne.
“You’re just running errands,” he says gently. “Grocery store. Pharmacy. Maybe that little place with the good bread if you’re feeling real crazy.”
“I could walk.”
“It’s thirty minutes away.”
“I could bike.”
“It’s winter.”
“I could—”
He reaches out and tips your chin up with one finger, forcing you to look at him. His expression softens immediately, teasing giving way to something warmer and more sincere.
“I can come with you,” he offers. “If that makes you feel better.”
Your chest tightens just a little.
“But you already have plans,” you say quietly. “You’re hanging out with Robin and Nancy and Jonathan. You’ve been talking about it all week.”
Steve shrugs. “They won’t care.”
“I will,” you say, quick and instinctive. “You should go.”
He studies your face for a moment, like he’s deciding whether to push or not. His thumb brushes absently over your jaw, light and grounding.
“You sure?” he asks.
You nod. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
A beat.
Then his grin comes back, brighter this time, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Okay. But.”
You groan softly. “There’s a ‘but.’”
“There’s always a ‘but.’” He reaches past you, grabs his jacket from the back of the chair, and slips it on. “Rule number one: no scratches.”
“I’ve never scratched a car.”
“You scratched my arm that one time.”
“That was different.”
“Rule number two,” he continues, ignoring you, “no mysterious dents.”
“I don’t mysteriously dent things.”
“You ran into a door last month.”
“The door ran into me.”
Steve laughs, the sound warm and easy, and leans in to press a quick kiss to your forehead. “And rule number three,” he adds softly, lips lingering there. “If anyone gives you trouble, you don’t play nice. You leave.”
You nod, swallowing.
He steps back and jingles the spare set of keys in his hand. “And bring her back in one piece.”
You lift your eyes to his. “Her?”
“My Beamer,” he says seriously. “Try not to hurt her feelings.”
You can’t help it. You laugh, shaking your head as you slide the keys into your pocket like they’re something precious. “You’re ridiculous, Harrington.”
“Yeah,” he agrees easily. “But you love me.”
You playfully roll your eyes, but still can’t keep the small smile off your face as you look at your boyfriend. “Mhm, I do.”
With that, Steve grabs his wallet, slings his arm around your shoulders as you walk toward the door together. Outside, Jonathan’s car honks once, impatient but familiar. Robin leans out the window, yelling something unintelligible.
Steve squeezes you once more before letting go. “Be careful,” he says, quieter now, this time you know he’s talking you and not his car.
“I will,” you promise.
He watches you walk toward his car, eyes lingering just a second longer than usual, before turning back toward your friends.
───୨ৎ───
Your favorite Tiffany song plays through the car’s speakers as you hum along, your thumbs tapping rhythmically on the steaming wheel as you wait for the light to turn green. You’ve been nothing but careful this entire trip, taking extra long to run the errands you’ve been putting off for ages, making sure not a single thing happens to Steve’s precious Beamer.
But then the light turns green.
You ease your foot off the brake, smooth and careful, the way you’ve been driving this whole time. The intersection opens up in front of you, wide and familiar. You’re already thinking about what you still need to grab for dinner, about how Steve will probably tease you for taking longer than you said you would, considering the sun is already setting, about how you’ll hand him his keys back like a small offering and wait for his grin.
You don’t hear the other car at first.
The engine is loud, too loud, revving in a way that doesn’t match the flow of traffic. There’s a split second where something feels off, a prickle at the back of your neck, and then—
Headlights. Too close. Too fast. Coming from the side.
“No—”
The impact is explosive.
Metal collides with metal in a violent, teeth-rattling crash that feels like it tears the world open. The sound is deafening, a sharp, screaming crunch that vibrates through your bones. The BMW jerks violently to the right, momentum throwing your body sideways as the seatbelt snaps tight across your chest, knocking the breath clean out of you.
Your head slams against the window.
Pain blooms instantly, white and blinding, radiating through your skull. Glass shatters outward with a sharp, crystalline sound, fragments spraying across your arms, your lap, your hair. The steering wheel wrenches hard beneath your hands as the car spins, tires screeching against asphalt, the world outside the windshield blurring into color and motion and noise.
Someone is honking. Someone is yelling.
You scream without realizing it was even coming from you.
The car skids, fishtails, then slams to a stop with a final, sickening jolt that leaves everything eerily still.
For a moment, there is nothing. No sound. No movement. Just the echo of the crash ringing in your ears and the pounding of your own heart, loud and frantic, like it’s trying to outrun what just happened.
Your vision swims and the edges of it darken. You blink hard, sucking in a shaky breath that burns your lungs.
“Oh god,” you whisper, barely audible. “Oh god.”
Your hands are shaking when you lift them from the steering wheel. Tiny cuts line your fingers, glass glittering against your skin. Blood wells slowly, red and shocking against the pale interior. Your head throbs dully now, pain settling in behind your eyes like pressure.
You look up and notice the windshield is shattered completely, spiderwebbed and caved in. The hood is crumpled, maroon paint warped and torn, steam hissing faintly from beneath it.
Steve’s car.
The thought lands heavy and crushing in your chest, stealing your breath all over again.
“No,” you choke. “No, no, no.”
The tears come fast and hot, blurring everything in your vision. Your whole body starts to shake, adrenaline crashing into panic. You don’t even notice the ache in your ribs or the blood on your temple. All you can see is the damage. All you can think about is Steve’s face when he sees it.
You fumble for the door handle, hands clumsy and numb.
Voices rush in suddenly, overlapping and loud. Someone is shouting angrily from the other car. A man’s voice, slurred and unsteady, words tumbling over each other. You catch the sharp, unmistakable smell of alcohol when he staggers closer, yelling about lights and blame and not seeing you.
A woman pushes past him, her face pale as she crouches by your window.
“Don’t move,” she says firmly, eyes scanning you. “He ran the red light. Someone already called it in. An ambulance is on the way.”
You barely hear her.
“I ruined it,” you sob, chest hitching painfully. “I ruined his car. He trusted me.”
She stares at you, stunned. “Honey,” she says gently, “that man was drunk. This wasn’t your fault.”
You shake your head over and over, tears dripping down your chin. “You don’t understand. He loves that car.”
───୨ৎ───
Time loses its shape after that.
You remember hands reaching in carefully, voices asking you questions you answer on autopilot. Your name. The date. Where you are. Someone slips a neck brace around you, cool plastic against your skin. The world feels distant, like you’re underwater, everything muted and slow.
The ambulance smells like antiseptic and rubber. The siren wails as they pull away, sharp and relentless, vibrating through your skull. Every bump in the road sends a dull jolt through your body.
You stare at the ceiling, blinking back tears that won’t stop.
Steve’s face keeps flashing in your mind. His teasing smile. The way he pressed the keys into your hand. I trust you.
Your chest tightens until it hurts to breathe.
At the hospital, the lights are too bright, too white. They wheel you through hallways that all look the same, the gurney rattling beneath you. A nurse presses gauze to your head, apologizing softly as she cleans the blood away. Another checks your pupils, her voice calm and practiced.
“You’ve got a concussion,” she tells you gently. “Some cuts and bruising. We’re going to keep you for observation.”
You nod weakly.
“Your emergency contact?” she asks.
The words stick in your throat. “Steve Harrington.”
She smiles reassuringly. “We’ll call him right now.”
Panic spikes instantly, sharp and overwhelming.
“No,” you whisper, grabbing weakly at her sleeve. “Please.”
She pauses, concern creasing her brow. “Sweetheart, he needs to know you’re okay.”
“He’s going to be so mad,” you say, tears slipping down into your hair. “Please. I just need a minute.”
She squeezes your hand, her touch warm and steady. “I promise you,” she says softly, “he’s not going to care about the car.”
You turn your face toward the pillow, shoulders shaking as you cry. You don’t believe her.
───୨ৎ───
Steve is mid-laugh when the phone rings, sitting down on the worn couch as he waits for you to return home.
The four of them had just gotten home less than an hour prior and Robin has just said something ridiculous, Nancy is smirking and rolling her eyes playfully, Jonathan is half-listening while fishing his keys out of his pocket. Steve stands up and walks over to the phone and answers without thinking, still smiling.
That smile disappears from his face almost instantly.
His face goes slack as the nurse speaks. The color drains from his skin so fast Robin reaches for him automatically, fingers digging into his arm.
Car accident.
Hospital.
For a second, the words don’t make sense. They slide off him, unreal. Then they sink in all at once, heavy and brutal.
“What?” he says hoarsely. “Is she— is she awake?”
He doesn’t remember hanging up. Doesn’t remember telling the others where he’s going, doesn’t remember Jonathan tossing him his own set of car keys. Just the way his hands shake as he grabs his jacket, the way his chest feels tight and wrong, like it’s collapsing inward.
The drive is a blur.
He speeds without realizing it, knuckles white around the steering wheel, heart hammering so hard it makes him dizzy. Every red light feels like an eternity. Every second stretches unbearably long.
His thoughts spiral wildly. Blood. Sirens. Hospital beds. The worst possibilities crowding in, relentless and cruel.
Please be okay. Please be okay.
By the time he reaches the hospital, he’s barely breathing.
He pushes through the doors, breathless, voice breaking as he gives your name to the front desk. They point him down a hallway.
When he finally sees you, lying small and still in the bed, tears streaming your pale cheeks, bandages stark white against your skin, something in him cracks wide open.
“Oh god,” he whispers.
Your eyes flutter open at the sound of his voice.
The relief lasts exactly half a second before raw fear rushes in immediately.
“I’m sorry,” you sob, words tumbling over each other. “Steve, I swear I didn’t do anything wrong, he ran the light and I tried to stop and—”
He’s at your side instantly, hands gentle but shaking as he cups your face. “Hey. No, no, no. Baby.”
You flinch, bracing yourself.
The sight alone guts him.
“Oh no,” he breathes, tears spilling freely now. “Hey, hey. Look at me.”
You do, eyes glassy and terrified.
“I don’t care about the car,” he says, voice breaking completely. “I don’t care. I don’t care if it’s totaled. I don’t care if it’s gone forever.”
Your breath stutters. “You’re.. you’re not mad at me?”
He lets out a broken sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. He leans forward carefully, resting his forehead against yours, hands still cradling your face like you might shatter.
“I thought I lost you,” he admits quietly. “That’s all I could think about.”
He gathers you into his arms slowly, mindful of every injury, pulling you against his chest. You cling to him immediately, fingers fisting in his shirt as sobs tear out of you, your whole body trembling.
“I’m right here,” he murmurs over and over, rocking you gently. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
His hands move in slow, grounding circles over your back, his cheek pressed to your hair. He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t pull away. He lets you cry until your breathing evens out, until the shaking starts to fade.
He doesn’t even let go of you when the nurse steps back.
He loosens his hold just enough for her to check the bandage on your forehead, for someone to murmur about concussion protocol and observation and lights being dimmed, but the moment she’s done, his arms come back around you like he’s afraid the space might swallow you if he leaves it open for too long.
You’re curled against his chest now, knees drawn in carefully, his jacket draped over you even though the room is warm. His hand rests flat between your shoulder blades, steady and grounding, moving just enough to remind you that he’s still here. That he hasn’t gone anywhere.
Your breathing finally starts to slow.
It surprises you, the way your body listens to him so easily. Like it’s been waiting for permission to stop shaking.
“I’m really sorry,” you murmur again, the words slipping out quieter this time, less frantic but still heavy. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, just at his side. “About the car.”
Steve exhales, a long, careful breath, and tips his head back just enough to look down at you. His eyes are red now. Not just watery. Red in a way that tells you he’s been holding something back too.
“Hey,” he says softly, but there’s an edge to it, a gentle firmness. “I need you to listen to me, okay?”
You nod once, small and obedient.
He brings one hand up, thumb brushing along your cheekbone with reverent care, like he’s afraid even that might hurt you. “That car?” he says quietly. “It’s metal. It’s paint. It’s replaceable.”
You swallow.
“You?” His voice cracks on the word. He presses his forehead to yours again, eyes closing briefly. “You’re not.”
Something in your chest gives way at that, the last tight knot finally loosening. Tears spill over again, but they’re quieter now, slower. You don’t fight them. Steve doesn’t either.
He just holds you.
He lets you cry into his shoulder, lets the weight of it all sink out of you in small, shuddering breaths. His fingers trace slow, soothing patterns against your back, grounding you in the present. His other hand stays curled protectively around your arm, thumb brushing over your skin like a promise.
“You scared me,” he admits again, softer this time. “When they called, I—” He swallows hard. “I didn’t even hear the rest of what she was saying. I just heard your name and hospital and that was it.”
“I didn’t want you to hate me,” you whisper.
Steve pulls back just enough to look at you, disbelief flickering across his face. “Hate you?” he repeats, like the idea doesn’t even make sense. “Baby.”
The way he says it is full of ache and tenderness and something dangerously close to breaking.
“I don’t love you for how careful you are with my things,” he says. “I love you because you’re you. And because you were scared and still got behind the wheel anyway. Because you were thinking about dinner and errands and getting back to me.”
Your throat tightens.
“And because,” he adds quietly, “even after everything, you were more worried about my stupid car than about yourself.”
He shakes his head, a small, helpless smile pulling at his mouth. “You don’t ever have to earn your place with me. You’re it for me. Not that car.”
You just nod briefly and then press your face back into his chest, breathing him in. He smells like the soap you picked out for him and the faint trace of outside air, something clean and familiar, something that settles deep in your lungs and tells your body it’s safe to unclench. Home, even here in this hospital room.
his love
Steve Harrington x shy!fem!reader, 2.2k words
Summary: Steve will never tolerate anyone making you feel small. So when Billy Hargrove lays a hand on you? Steve makes it clear what exactly happens to people who hurt his girl.
It happens on a Tuesday, which feels wrong.
Bad things shouldn’t happen on Tuesdays. They should happen on Mondays, when everyone’s already grumpy, or Fridays, when you can escape into the weekend.
But it’s a Tuesday, after school, in the Hawkins High parking lot, which is maybe the worst place of all.
The bard, craving knowledge, makes his way to the Mage’s Guild of Enclave, where he spends his days in their vast libraries. Though deeply devoted to his studies, he still makes time for the occasional adventure.
STRANGER THINGS 5.08: The Rightside Up
Makes my heart flutter
And we’ll enjoy it every single time.
Percabeth and Gwynriel!!!!!!
