i realized i never wrote a proper into post, so here we are!
iâm mars, aka critter! (they/them) iâm 23 years old and iâm looking to write more! my former handle is @mistysimpingandspam
i write a lot of self-indulgent pieces but iâm hoping to get out of my comfort zone đ my goal is to start writing regularly and get to know more fandom members đ
my primary fandoms include the lost boys (1987), stranger things, saw, squid game, and horror.
Summary: A nightmare leaves Steve waking up fighting ghosts that aren't there. The second he realises he nearly hit you instead, he's convinced he's become the one thing he swore he'd never be.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, angst, nightmares, ptsd/night terrors (non-graphic), hurt/comfort, panic, emotional vulnerability, accidental near-hit (no actual injury), guilt, reassurance, insomnia, crying, fluff (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 3k
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
If you want to be added to my taglist, leave a comment to lmk!
Steve's house is silent.
Not the comfortable sort of silence that settles over a home every night, filled with familiar creaks and distant traffic, but the deeper kind that only seems to exist in the early hours of the morning, when even the world outside has forgotten to make any noise.
Beside you, Steve sleeps restlessly. Or at least, he's trying to.
His breathing has become uneven sometime during the night, his brow drawn tightly together against the pillow while his fingers twitch intermittently in the duvet as though they're grasping for something just beyond his reach. Every now and then, another quiet sound escapes him - something caught halfway between a sigh and a whimper - and each one pulls you a little further from sleep.
At first, you think he'll settle. Sometimes he does. Sometimes all it takes is another few minutes before whatever dream has found him loosens its grip and he sinks back into something more peaceful.
Tonight, it only gets worse.
His breathing quickens. Another fractured sound leaves him, this one edged with unmistakable fear, and his head turns sharply against the pillow as though he's trying to outrun something that refuses to stop following him.
You don't know what he's dreaming about. You never really do. Only fragments ever slip through afterwards. Running, somebody shouting, the sickening weight of the nail bat in his hands, blood, fear. Always fear.
You hesitate for a moment, watching his face crease with another expression of quiet distress before making up your mind.
Carefully - so carefully - you reach across the small space between you.
"Steve..." Your voice is barely louder than a breath.
Your fingertips settle gently against his shoulder. "Easy, honey..."
The change is instantaneous.
His entire body jolts violently beneath your hand.
Before either of you has time to understand what's happening, his arm lashes out with frightening force, driven entirely by instinct, by adrenaline, by a nightmare that hasn't realised it's over yet.
You recoil on pure reflex.
His fist cuts cleanly through the space your face had occupied barely a heartbeat earlier.
For one impossible second, time seems to stop.
Steve's eyes fly open.
He isn't in the dream anymore. He's here. In his bedroom. With you.
His gaze snaps immediately to where you've instinctively shuffled backwards against the headboard, your breathing suddenly just as uneven as his, one hand still frozen in mid-air where you'd reached for him only moments before.
He stares. At you. At his own outstretched fist. Back to you again.
The colour drains from his face so quickly it's almost frightening.
The silence that follows is absolute.
Not because neither of you has anything to say.
Because neither of you remembers how.
For a long, suspended moment, neither of you moves.
Steve's arm remains frozen exactly where it landed, still outstretched between the two of you, while his chest rises and falls in short, uneven breaths that sound far too loud in the silence of the bedroom.
The realisation hits him all at once. It crashes over him with such force that his entire expression crumples.
"Oh my God." The words leave him in a whisper so strained they barely sound like his voice at all.
He jerks backwards as though the sight of his own hand has suddenly become unbearable, scrambling away from you so quickly that he nearly tumbles straight off the edge of the mattress. The bedframe creaks violently beneath the sudden movement, but he hardly seems to notice, his breathing already dissolving into something ragged and panicked.
"I..." His voice breaks. He tries again. "I-"
Nothing - his throat simply refuses to cooperate.
You can almost see the moment replaying behind his eyes, over and over again, each repetition somehow worse than the last.
His fist. Your face. The space between them. Just inches - barely inches.
"Steve," you say softly, your own heartbeat only just beginning to settle now that the initial shock has passed.
His head snaps up. "No."
The word comes out immediately, almost desperate. Not angry - never angry. As though he can't bear for you to comfort him.
"I'm okay," you tell him quickly, instinctively reaching one hand towards him before thinking better of it. "You didn't-"
"I almost..." He stops. His jaw tightens. The sentence refuses to leave his mouth. He looks physically incapable of saying the words out loud.
Instead, he drags both hands back through his hair with enough force to leave it sticking up in every direction before climbing unsteadily off the bed altogether.
"Steve..."
He backs away another step. Then another. Keeping as much distance between the two of you as the small bedroom will allow.
He won't look at you. His gaze stays fixed stubbornly on the floor, his shoulders rising and falling with each uneven breath while he shakes his head over and over again as though he's trying desperately to wake himself from yet another nightmare.
"Oh my God," he whispers again. His voice is cracking now. "I'm so sorry."
You open your mouth to answer. He speaks over you before you get the chance.
"I'm sorry." Another breath. Another shake of his head. "I'm sorry."
It's as though he doesn't know any other words anymore.
Each apology sounds quieter than the last, spoken more to himself than to you, every one carrying the same horrified disbelief that he's somehow become the very thing he's spent years trying never to be.
You watch him standing there in the darkness, wrapped not in anger but in unmistakable fear.
Not fear of the nightmare.
Fear of himself.
And somehow, you realise that frightens you far more than the fist that never reached you ever could.
Steve remains exactly where he is, standing on the opposite side of the bedroom with his back half-turned towards you, as though even looking in your direction feels like something he hasn't earned the right to do anymore. His breathing has slowed a little, but only because it's been replaced by something somehow worse - a heavy, crushing silence that settles over him until his shoulders seem to sag beneath its weight.
You carefully push the duvet aside and swing your legs over the edge of the bed.
The movement is enough to make him look up.
Immediately, he takes another step backwards.
"No." His voice is rough. "Don't."
You stop. "Steve..."
"I don't..." He shakes his head, swallowing hard. "Just... stay there."
The words don't sound like an order.
They sound like fear.
As though the only thing he can think to do is put more distance between the two of you, convinced that somehow it will make you safer.
Your heart breaks. "I'm okay."
"I know."
"No, you don't."
"I do."
"You don't."
He finally looks at you properly, and the devastation written across his face almost steals the air from your lungs.
"What if next time I don't wake up?"
The question hangs between you.
"What if..." He laughs once, bitterly, the sound catching in his throat before it can become anything real. "What if next time I don't stop in time?"
"Steve-"
"What if I actually hurt you?"
His eyes flick helplessly towards his own hand again.
"What if one day..." He trails off, scrubbing both hands over his face as though he can physically push the thoughts away. "What if one day I screw something up so badly that I can't take it back?"
You realise then that he isn't really talking about tonight anymore.
Tonight simply cracked something open.
This is every fear he's ever carried quietly inside himself.
Every time he's worried he's said the wrong thing, every moment he's wondered whether he was enough, every lingering doubt that, despite trying so desperately to be good, he might somehow still become another person who lets somebody down.
"I keep thinking..." His voice is barely audible now. "I keep thinking that one day I'm gonna make some stupid mistake." He gives another tiny, humourless laugh. "And you're gonna realise you deserve somebody better."
Your eyes sting, but he doesn't notice.
"Somebody who doesn't wake up swinging. Somebody who doesn't have..." He gestures vaguely towards himself, unable to find the words. "...all this." His shoulders rise in a shaky breath. "I don't know." He looks down at the floor. "...Somebody safer."
The word lands like a punch.
You don't even think. You cross the room. He hears your footsteps and instinctively retreats another pace.
"No."
You keep walking.
"Please."
Another step backwards. "I don't want you anywhere near me right now."
"I do."
"Baby..." His voice cracks completely. "What if-"
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
"No, you don't."
By now, you're close enough to reach him. Steve instinctively pulls his hand back behind him before you can take it, so you simply reach for the other one instead. His fingers are ice cold.
He tries to pull away. Not forcefully, just enough to spare you from touching him. You refuse to let go.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks.
Then, very quietly, you ask, "You know what I was actually scared of?"
He doesn't answer straight away.
Eventually, without looking up, he whispers, "What?"
Your thumb brushes gently across his knuckles. "That you were having that nightmare alone."
His head lifts, finally, and his eyes meet yours. You feel his hand tremble inside your own.
"I wasn't scared of you." Your voice is so soft it almost disappears into the silence. "I was scared for you."
The last of the distance between you seems to collapse all at once. Not the space in the room. The space he'd spent the last ten minutes desperately trying to build between himself and the person he loved most.
And for the first time since he'd woken up, Steve stops looking at you like someone he needs to protect from himself.
Steve's hand trembles inside yours, though whether from adrenaline or sheer exhaustion, neither of you could really say. His eyes have dropped back to the floor again, unable to hold your gaze for more than a heartbeat at a time, as though looking at you directly only reminds him how close he'd come to something he can't bear to think about.
You squeeze his fingers gently. "Steve."
He doesn't answer. Instead, he gives the smallest shake of his head, blinking hard against the tears gathering in his eyes.
"I can't..." His voice fractures completely. "I can't look at you."
Your heart aches.
Very carefully, so slowly he has every opportunity to pull away if he wants to, you lift your joined hands between the two of you.
"Hey." Your voice is barely louder than the quiet hum of the refrigerator drifting down the hallway. "Look at me."
For a second, you don't think he will. Then, almost reluctantly, his eyes find yours. They're already full of tears.
You guide his hand upwards until his palm comes to rest against your cheek. The contact is feather-light, almost hesitant.
The instant he realises what you've done, he tries to snatch it back as though your skin has burned him.
"No."
You hold it there. Not forcefully, just enough to stop him retreating again.
"Steve."
His breathing catches. "I almost-"
"I know."
"I almost hit you."
"But you didn't."
"I tried to."
"No." You shake your head gently beneath his hand. "You had a nightmare."
He closes his eyes. "I don't care."
"I do."
When he opens them again, you're still looking at him with exactly the same tenderness as before. No fear, no anger, no hesitation.
"You had a nightmare," you repeat softly. "You woke up." A pause. "You stopped." Another. "You apologised."
His face crumples a little more with every sentence.
"You've spent the last twenty minutes being more frightened for me than you've been for yourself."
You slide your other hand over his, gently closing his fingers against your cheek instead of letting them hover there uncertainly.
"That isn't what dangerous people do."
A tear slips free before he can stop it, and you brush it away with your thumb.
"You know what you've done since the second we met?"
He doesn't answer.
"You've walked me home because you didn't want me crossing the car park alone."
Another tear.
"You've learnt exactly how I take my tea."
Another.
"You carry the heavy shopping without me even asking. You check that I've locked the front door when I'm anxious. You always sleep closer to the edge of the bed because you know I like the wall."
His shoulders begin to shake.
"You remember when I'm overwhelmed before I do. You notice when I'm pretending I'm fine. You have spent every single day we've been together making me feel safer than I've ever felt with another person."
Your own voice trembles now.
"So don't stand here and tell me you're dangerous because your subconscious mistook my hand for a monster."
That does it. The last fragile thread he'd been clinging to finally snaps.
A sob tears out of him before he can swallow it back, his knees almost giving way beneath the weight of everything he'd been trying so desperately to hold together.
He folds forwards instinctively, forehead dropping against your shoulder as though he's finally run out of strength to keep himself upright.
"I'm so sorry," he chokes out, the words muffled against your jumper. "I'm so, so sorry."
You wrap both arms around him without hesitation. "I know."
"I scared you."
"You did."
Another sob. "I hate that."
"I know."
"I never..." His voice disappears completely.
You simply hold him tighter, one hand smoothing slowly through his hair while the other rubs gentle circles across his back.
For the first time since he'd woken up, Steve lets himself cry properly. Not quietly, not politely, not trying to hide it. He just... cries.
And you stay exactly where you are, holding him together until he remembers, little by little, that the person clinging to him wasn't afraid of him at all.
She was just afraid of losing him to the nightmare he'd carried home.
Neither of you even attempts to go back to bed.
The bedroom has become too tangled up with everything that happened there, and besides, neither of you is tired anymore. Not really. The adrenaline has long since burned itself out, leaving behind only that strange, hollow exhaustion that arrives after you've cried harder than your body knows what to do with.
So, sometime around four in the morning, the two of you drift quietly into the kitchen.
The lights stay off - there doesn't seem much point in turning them on when dawn is already beginning to soften the edges of the sky outside.
Steve fills the kettle as quietly as he can, wincing apologetically when it clicks on with a sound that somehow feels far louder than it really is. You wrap an old blanket around both of your shoulders while you wait, neither of you speaking very much, because there doesn't seem to be anything left that still needs saying.
By the time the tea is ready, you're sitting on the kitchen floor with your backs resting against the cupboards, two steaming mugs forgotten on the tiles between you as the first pale streaks of morning begin slipping through the window above the sink.
The silence isn't uncomfortable, it's simply tired.
Steve hasn't quite returned to himself yet.
He still startles a little whenever your hand brushes against his, still catches himself glancing at your face as though checking, over and over again, that you're really alright. Every now and then you catch him looking at you with the same wounded expression that had broken your heart in the bedroom, and each time you simply smile back until, little by little, his shoulders loosen another fraction.
The conversation drifts wherever exhausted conversations tend to go. Half-finished thoughts. Quiet apologies that no longer need repeating. Long stretches where neither of you says anything at all.
At some point, without either of you really noticing, your tea grows cold.
The warmth of the blanket, the gentle hush of the early morning and the simple relief of having him beside you begin pulling at the edges of your consciousness.
You don't fight it. Instead, you shuffle a little closer until your shoulder brushes his.
Steve glances down immediately. "You okay?"
You hum softly. "Mhm."
Another minute passes. Then, almost absent-mindedly, you let your head come to rest against his shoulder. Your fingers find his beneath the blanket, threading themselves through his with the same unconscious familiarity they've done a thousand times before.
You sigh. Not from pain this time - from comfort.
Steve goes perfectly still. "...Baby?"
You don't answer. Your breathing has already begun to settle into the slow, even rhythm of sleep.
For a few long seconds, he doesn't dare move. His gaze lingers on your hand curled trustingly around his before dropping to where your cheek is resting against his shoulder, completely relaxed, your forehead tucked lightly against his neck.
You're asleep. Not despite what happened - after it. With him. Because of him. Something inside his chest gives way all over again, though this time it isn't panic. It's relief.
Slowly, so carefully that he hardly disturbs you at all, he lifts your joined hands to his lips and presses the gentlest kiss across your knuckles before turning his head to kiss your hair.
"...Thank you," he whispers.
You don't hear him; you're already dreaming again.
Outside, morning arrives exactly as it always does.
A car rumbles past the house. Somewhere down the street, a neighbour opens their front door before leaving for work. A bird lands briefly on the windowsill above the sink, chirps once, then disappears again into the growing light. The kettle cools quietly on the counter. The world keeps moving.
And somewhere between the nightmare he'd woken from and the sunrise he'd been too frightened to watch, Steve finally begins to understand something he'd been utterly incapable of believing in the middle of the night.
The fact that you'd fallen asleep in his arms without a second thought wasn't proof that he'd failed to protect you.
It was proof that, even after everything, you still felt safest there.
And perhaps the greatest measure of a gentle man was never that he believed himself incapable of causing harm.
It was that the possibility of it terrified him enough to spend every single day choosing tenderness instead.
If I had a nickel for every time a character moved from Phoenix, Arizona to a smaller town with a single parent and meets a vampire who is obsessed with them and their coven has to follow their shenanigans and the main protagonist almost gets killed because them -I'd have 2 nickels which isn't a lot but it's weird that it happened twice.
PAUL NSFW ALPHABET MWAHAHAHAHAHAHA (minors DNI/18+)
yall my writing has been so inconsistent and i'm so sorry:')
A = Aftercare (what theyâre like after sex)
our golden retriever boy is gonna throw his sweaty body right next to you and pull you to his side. paul will probably offer you a drink or some weed. he's always so giggly post sex. expect lots of nuzzles and stolen kisses. he'll chat your ear off as he feels you up, which will just get him in the mood again.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partnerâs)
no doubt paul loves his hair the most. he puts a lot of effort into it, and he just happens to love having it pulled too.
you cannot make paul choose between ass and tits. he just can't. paul worships every single curve, dimple, stretch mark, everything on your body. he could probably get bricked seeing you in one of those old ass scuba diving sets with the big window on the helmet just because itâs on YOU.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
he loves giving facials or cumming all over your chest and stomach. paul loves the sight of his cum all over you.
he also loves you cumming all over his face. paul lives for the taste of your juices and is always thinking about tasting you.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
after meeting you, paul has a hard time getting off to porn because he always thinks about you. so, he convinced you to let him get some spicy polaroids of you for that exact purpose.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what theyâre doing?)
oh he knows what he's doing 100%. he has had plenty experience, especially with his flirty nature.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
paul really loves cowgirl and having you on all fours; one gives him a great view of your chest and face, the other gives him a great view of your ass. pls choke him while riding him, he will actually ascend.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
is bro ever serious? he's giggly and cracking jokes the whole time, and it only gets worse when he's high. heâs gonna refer his to his dick with the most stupid names imaginable (his personal fav is seĂąor penar). paul cheers and whoops when you take your bra off. heâs gonna slingshot your underwear across the room. sex with him is never boring to say the least.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
it's the 80s, expect hair. he does trim it though.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
paul only really gets intimate after a fight or if you got hurt. these are when he really gives the romance. other than that, he isn't too intimate. he will say i love you as he cums because he is absolutely whipped for you though.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
as mentioned in the dirty secret section, paul jacks off to pictures of you. he only really does it if he canât get to you, heâd much rather fuck you senseless.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
paul loves to have his hair pulled!! grab onto that golden mane and TUG. he will moan so loud, itâs terribly sexy.
he also really likes to occasionally tie you up and just have his way with you. heâll eat you out until youâre in tears and then in turn fuck your mouth like it was a fleshlight.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
anywhere. he doesnât mind risking being caught, but heâll respect your boundaries if you have an issue with it. paul does like to sneak onto the beach after dark and fuck you there.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
oh my god, you could SNEEZE and heâd be ready to fuck. but in all honesty, making you laugh until you canât breathe. he loves to see you having a great time and smiling.
if you wear anything tight, it will be off of you in less than 5 minutes. especially a tight top.
N = No (something they wouldnât do, turn offs)
paul refuses to hurt you. he might playfully bite your nipples, give a smack to your ass, or leave a very dark hickey on you, but he would never want to actually cause you pain.
one time he lightly kneed you in the chin when you knelt to give him head and he almost cried. he felt so bad and held you for a good 10 minutes, clinging to you like a koala butt ass naked. it took at least 100 âiâm fineâs until he actually believed you.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
this man is SUCH a slut for oral. giving and receiving.
paul is always in the mood to go down on you. he wants you to suffocate him with your thighs and will BEG you to sit on his face. he is addicted to how you taste and smell.
when receiving, paul will be able to control himself for maybe a minute before he starts fucking your face. he loves messy, sloppy head. wants your chin dropping in spit onto the floor.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
it is so, so, so rare to get a slow and sensual pace with paul. his main speed setting is quick and rough, gripping your hips with enthusiasm.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
yes, yes, yes.
paul will pull you aside and fuck you pretty much anywhere. he takes his time after hunting, though. the adrenaline rush leaves him wanting to go multiple times and for a while.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
paul loves to experiment! heâs down to try so many things, as long as it doesnât involve hurting you. heâll let you take control, or heâll be the one to dominate you. heâs down to give or receive for a lot!!
having sex with him post-hunting can have a bit of risk with him; heâs still high off the adrenaline of the kill, and he can get bitey and will throw you around a bit more.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
paul can go for many, many rounds. bro is so ungodly horny.
the first round you have with him usually ends quickly. paul gets incredibly giddy and will rush into things, and that included cumming a bit soon the first time heâs inside you. donât worry, heâll immediately go down on you until heâs ready to go again (which is remarkably quick).
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
oh my god YES! he owns a few fleshlights, and has plenty of rope, l a pair of handcuffs, and probably a ball gag. he loves watching you use toys on yourself, so please put on a nice little show for him. paul would definitely be down to buy a remote control vibrator to use on you in public just to watch you squirm.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
not too much, just enough teasing from him. heâs a bit inpatient so he wonât go too long.
but lord if you tease him, you are gonna have the whiniest boy ever, especially if youâre domming. he will beg and whine with no shame.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
L O U D. a lot of swearing, groans, panting, and whines. he also needs you to match his energy, so he intentionally tries to make you loud as well.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
because bro is a literal vampire and can fly/float/levitate, paul has 100% fucked you in midair. no i will not elaborate.
X = X-ray (letâs see whatâs going on under those clothes)
just under seven inches, and a bit on the skinnier side. he most definitely knows how to use it; heâll have your legs shaking as he pounds himself against the spot that makes you see stars.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
come on. itâs paul.
unbelievably high. paul would definitely require a partner who can match his drive.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
paul isnât one to fall asleep quickly after a few rounds of sex, unless daylight is approaching. heâll let you fall asleep on him while he lights a joint and cuddles up to you. he rambles a bit, but once he sees youâre out, heâll quiet down and just enjoy your lovely presence, thinking to himself how lucky he is.
