yessss that defo answers my questions! ur thoughts on compassion & community intertwined w rebellion definitely show up in ur art lol. something more specific i have been curious abt is ur version of the endings of each specific hunger games & ur characterization/portrayal of the victors at those points! if u have any more thoughts abt any of those characters or their games id love to hear.... im also very not neurotypical abt hunger games
For sure!!
But this is a novel and a half so I apologize in advance
(also most of this is from memory so anyone can correct me if I'm getting any details wrong)
((TW: For visual depictions of Blood, Gore, and Wounds))
I realized I'd seen barely any art showing what the victors would have looked like when they won their games. They were all just kids and I feel like it can be easy to forget that sometimes
For all of them, I made the background one of their main "weapons" but tried to make it look like its turning back on them instead since there are no victors as Haymitch said.
I'll try to explain them all more in depth individually going in the order I drew them:
Finnick Odair, 65th Games:
His main weapons were his trident and nets that he made with vines. His background is one of the nets ready to trap him.
Finnick was the youngest victor ever at only 14. I really really wanted to emphasize just how little that is. (Especially since we know exactly why the Capitol loved him from the start…) Once I actually drew him looking that little I had to step away for a bit because I made myself too sad…
Outside of just how horrific his age is as a concept, I tried to think about what circumstances would lead to him actually winning when surrounded by older tributes.
I think he would have had to avoid any kind of fight he didn't have the upper hand in. We know that he got the most expensive sponsor gifts in the history of the games (a trident), so he probably got plenty of sponsors outside of that as well. Because of that I doubt he needed to go looking for supplies much if ever so it was easy to avoid people there. He was also probably in a career pack, despite his age, due to his training and his popularity, and they would have hunted other tributes down together much like the one we saw in the first book (safer in numbers).
Once it was narrowing down and the pack broke is when I think he started catching people in nets.
All of that is a long winded way of saying that's why, unlike the other victors I drew, I only show him with minor cuts and bruises.
Originally I was going to draw him with a kind of strained smile like he was acting for an audience from the start. But I decided I actually think its sadder if he believed he was popular because of his skill and strategy as a fighter and only learned the whole truth after he won and that's when he started acting more for the camera.
Instead I gave him a more muted despair kind of look, like his world is crashing down.
One of my favorite parts about the movies, mainly THG and ABOSAS, is when they give the career tributes at the end a moment of realization about what they've done, and I wanted to give Finnick his. I'm a person that believes Finnick had to have volunteered for his games. I think he would have legitimately believed in the propaganda the career districts were fed and had a bit of a (very middle school boy) ego about his abilities.
(I was NOT expecting to write so much about his lmao)
Enobaria, 62nd Games
She's most well known for ripping someones throat out with her teeth. (Her background is her sharpened teeth getting ready to eat her.) This is treated by The Capitol, and by Katniss, as grotesque and terrifying blood lust (Which obviously the Capitol loves her for).
However, and I'm not at all the first to say it, that sounds more like a terrified and desperate attempt to survive a fight she was losing and an example of hysterical strength. We know that Career packs have had bloody betrayals in the past and I can see Enobaria being a part of one of them. Enobaria doesn't have a canonical age, but I decided to put her on the younger side (15 or 16.) I can imagine some of the older, bigger tributes deciding she was the weakest link towards the end and that was the result.
I tried to make the blood around her mouth and down her shirt look more faded, like she tried desperately to wipe it off
(Also I had to step away from drawing again after I drew her little tooth gap)
I think she probably leaned into the bloodthirsty image afterwards as a way to protect herself and (maybe even started to believe it too)
Annie Cresta, 70th Games
Annie's known for losing her mind after seeing her district partner decapitated in front of her. After that, she ran off and hid until the game makers started an earth quake, which made the large dam in the arena break and cause a huge flood. Annie was the only survivor because she was the strongest swimmer.
So I decided to make her background dark water that's churning up and over her head.
I also think it can work well as a way to show her mental state in the moment (and afterwards)
Annie is actually one of my favorite characters in the series and I've been writing out a plan for a possible comic series about her that'll go more in depth about my headcanons for her. (when I say comic series, I mean sketches and oneshots, not a full thing lmao)
It wouldn't take place during her games (outside of a few flashbacks when I need more context), instead it would start at her Victory Tour and go into her first (and last) year as a mentor for the 71st Games. Which is a perfect segue to-
Johanna Mason, 71st Games
Johanna is actually first mentioned early on in the first book when Katniss is wondering if the reason Peeta is crying is because he plans to act weak and helpless as a strategy in the games. (Katniss, he just found out he has to fight in a murder tournament with his crush. He's just Sad.)
She bases her theory on Johanna, who pretended she was a "sniveling, cowardly fool" in the arena until the final stretch of the games when she proved to be deadly with an axe.
OR….. Katniss is an unreliable narrator and Johanna was actually a terrified kid from a district with so few victors that she was the only name in the bowl for the Quarter Quell… This is totally just a personal headcanon of mine tho lol.
I think there would have been a point in her games where she realized she actually had a chance and that's when she seemingly had a huge character turn around. Maybe there was a infighting with the careers that ended in multiple deaths and there was only a few left along with any other tributes hiding away like her. Maybe she poked around what was left of their camp, found the axe, and felt strength from her district.
Her background was a little harder for me. Just slapping a big axe behind her felt cheesy. But them I remembered her saying there was no one left that she loved.
So instead I put trees that could represent her loved ones (Two fully grown trees, a younger "teenage" tree, and a sapling) that are in the process of being cut down.
Haymitch Abernathy, 50th Games
Don't worry, I'm almost done.
I don't have as much to say about Haymitch since we know SO much about what happened in his games. But his background was probably the hardest for me. His main weapon was invisible after all. I thought maybe the axe that was used, but again, That would look cheesy. I tried (and kinda failed imo) to draw the cliff side the force field was on instead. But the main thing I did was split the three panels I had on the previous drawings into six for two reasons. 1: Because he had to face twice as many tributes in order to win and 2: Being the only victor of a district that's tributes are seen as fodder for the blood bath means he had to meet and watch the death of twice as many kids every year.
warning: mentions of steve's wounds, little angst! but it's a happy ending i promise
pairing: steve x reader
words: 2.3k+
summary: steve finally allows himself to believe in love again
an: i posted this a couple of days ago? and just now realized it got deleted. not really sure what happened there. anyways, found this in my drafts a week ago? (i have no concept of time). i didn't want to leave it rotting there so i wrote a quick ending and here you go. hope its okay!
-
three light taps, a knock that echoed throughout the boy’s dimly lit room, a sound enough to startle him after the events that have taken place in the past few days. not a single other person was in this house, a normality that he has accepted. steve’s parents were never around and he had no other relatives that would even care if he was still alive. his friends were a bunch of high schoolers, except for robin and…you.
he knows he’s messed it up with you. he can see it with the way you avoid his glances, the way you would choose to sit in the furthest chair away from him, the way you would get quiet when he was around and the way you stopped yourself from reaching out for him. the familiarity of your touch is no longer accessible, becoming only a memory. he can’t blame you though, your last words to him still replaying in his mind, loud and clear.
“i don't think i can do this anymore steve, i can't keep coming to your house, sleeping in your clothes, doing things that friends aren’t supposed to be doing, just for you to still be thinking about her.”
he’s about to roll over onto his bed. to sleep the remnants of the past away. to keep ignoring everything like he always does and get ready for a new day, pretending he was healed. that he was okay. he was not.
nowadays, it’s easier to slap a smile on his face instead of talking about his feelings. the last time he let himself truly feel something, he got his heart ripped out of his chest and trampled upon like it meant nothing, like it was a rock you could use to skip stones, one that you could let go of and not care enough whether it comes back to shore or get lost in the deepest parts of the lake.
another knock makes its way to his ears. he thinks he’s imagining it until another one comes. grabbing the bat he hid between his nightstand, he slowly made his way to his bedroom door, feeling absolutely drained. the pain on his stomach, from the demobats that got a taste, still stinging, a pain that travels throughout his body with every miniscule movement. slowly, he carefully unlocks his door, ready to swing, until his brown eyes meet your wide, shocked ones. letting out the breath he didn’t even know he was holding, he slowly lowers his bat.
“hi,” you whisper, “i uh, got in using the spare key,” a sheepish smile on your lips, holding up the silver key that was hidden in the dead plant placed on his front door. the key he told you about so you could sneak into his house at any given moment. the key that led to love marks all over his body, painting pink and purple constellations. the key you haven’t used since that night you decided to end whatever it was there to end.
“you agreed to no feelings, that we would just be friends with benefits and that's it, you know that's all it could be,” steve has his face resting on his palm, his once perfectly styled hair going in different directions. like this - bare chest, lips still red from yours, neck stained beautifully by the artwork you left behind, he looked like he belonged in an art gallery.
“i-i know, but i-i couldn’t help it…it’s just so easy to fall in love with you,” a confession that leaves the boy paralyzed, doe, teary eyes staring up at his brown ones — almost pleading.
“stop. you don’t know what you’re saying.” he’s angry. mad that those words could slip past your lips so easily. mad that even though you’re looking at him like he somehow brought the moon to you, he still can’t find it in himself to believe it.
“steve-,” you try to reach out for his hand but he pulls away before you could even feel him. all you want is to pull him into your arms, to remind him that he is worth loving but you see the battle in his eyes, the war that’s taking place in his mind and you know he has his kingdom closed, walls up, ready to strike and defend himself at any second. there is no room for you in his castle, you see that now.
“i-im sorry,” your voice was gentle, afraid he’ll completely lock the gate on you. the last thing you wanted was to fight, you’re defenseless when it comes to him.
“let’s just pretend that none of this happened and we can go back to being friends, nothing changes and for the sake of us and the others, no questions asked,” his words were met with silence that cuts through like a sword against your neck.
you felt detached from reality, feeling like you were watching this conversation happen instead of being a part of it. you had no control when you slowly got off his bed and quietly switched back into your clothes, his words transferring a sort of numbness to your whole being.
he watched as you removed his t-shirt from your body and tossed it into his laundry bag, slipping back into your own clothes, making him think that his old t-shirt looked way better on you. yet all he did was watch. watched as you gave him one last forced smile and walked out of his room. the sound of the front door opening and closing traveling throughout the house.
the days that followed after were stolen glances, opposite directions, uncomfortable silences, tiptoes, lingering feelings, longing stares, tension. neither one budged nor made the effort to even act like friends, going along with the others like they were fools when in reality, there can be no one more foolish than the pair.
“hi?” he greets you just as quietly, head tilted, confused, like a puppy who was hearing a new sound for the first time. he sees you glance at his bandaged stomach, eyes traveling up to his bruised neck and notices the way you want to reach out to him but just like all the other times before, you stop yourself.
“i-uh i brought you some food, and a first aid kit,” your voice still a mere whisper, he nods, guards down, stepping aside as you walk into the room you’ve been in countless times before.
you placed the bag on his vanity, taking out it’s contents one by one and like before, he sat upon his bed and watched — a bowl that seemed to contain his favorite chicken noodle soup coming into view, it’s aroma hitting his nostrils, a clear tupperware filled with your famous homemade chocolate cookies, one that smells like home, the ones the kids would fight over with, resulting to an extra batch made just for him since he never won.
he suddenly realizes how hungry he was, not really having the motivation nor the appetite to keep his stomach full. his body responds by lightly growling, a sound he hoped you didn’t hear.
“you should eat,” you break the silence, looking at him through his vanity mirror, “gonna need all your strength back to make sure you can always play hero,” you send him a small smile, he softly chuckles at your words, eyes falling to his sheets which suddenly became interesting, when was the last time he changed his sheets anyway.
“i also brought you new bandages so you can change that every couple of hours, make sure it doesn’t get infected, with all these monsters around, that’d be the lamest way to go, y’know?,” you joked, trying to lighten the air. he stares at your back, contemplating. regardless of the fact that you were always an arm length away, he missed you.
he wants to be selfish. he wants to be taken care of, to be loved.
and for the first time in a while, his mind is silent, focusing only on the fact that you are there.
making his way over to you, he wraps his arms around your waist, hands falling on top of each other, sitting tightly on your stomach, his head hiding on the crook of your neck, light puffs of air falling from his lips causing goosebumps to rise all over your body. he feels you stiffen, holding your breath, before relaxing back into his chest, hand gently hovering over his. you stay that way for a while, a minute or two, before you turn around, still in his embrace. slowly your hands make their way to his neck, fingers dancing lightly around his red, bright scar and ever so gently, landing around his cheek, eyes on yours, “are you okay?”
with those three words, the gates open and with it came a river of tears. he shakes his head no and this time, he lets you pull him into your arms as he found solace in your warmth, your perfume that smelled like the sweetest of flowers, making him feel like the sun was on his back as he laid his head on your chest. your fingers immediately run through his silky hair and he feels like a huge weight has just been lifted off his shoulders.
“thank you for being here,” his voice hoarse from the quiet cries that slipped past his lips, he pulled away, admiring the way the moonlight from his window reflected itself into your eyes, brushing back the strand of hair that dangled in front of them.
“i-i thought i was gonna lose you,” words that broke the boy’s heart. he can’t even imagine what he would have done if the roles were reversed. “i-i was so scared,” you continue, trying to hold back the tears that were begging to fall.
“hey,” rough palms making it’s way to your cheeks, softly caressing you, golden eyes shining, “you will never lose me.”
“haven’t i already?,” you cry out. you hated the way you danced around him like he was a stranger. hated the fact that you couldn’t allow yourself to find comfort in him, afraid you would cross the line that the boy remarkably drew out and completely lose access to him.
“no,” he lightly shakes his head, “ no….hey, look at me,” his finger under your chin, gently pleading for your eyes to find his. “i’m right here, i’m not going anywhere, i’m sorry i’ve been running, i was just…scared,” he admits.
“scared of what?,” you urge him on, waiting for the answer to the problem you’ve been trying to solve. his hands find their way around yours as he looks down, composing his thoughts.
“i was scared you would finally realize there will always be someone better, that you’d leave and i’d be all alone again,” he spills his truths. and you can’t fathom how blind you’ve been to not see it. the reason behind nancy appearing in his thoughts.
“i’m not her, you know?” you say quietly. he nods, “i-i know,” he says guiltily.
“and i don’t want better, steve…i just want you,” you confess into the night, steve feels all the air rush into his lungs, almost like he was learning how to breathe for the first time. he searches your eyes for any signs of doubt but only saw his own reflection in them.
“do you want me?” you barely heard your own voice, afraid of the answer. he scoffs, “god, is that even a question?,” you look at him, confusion etched onto the creases of your eyebrows and steve almost wished the bats got him instead of realizing that he has left you doubting his feelings for you.
“of course i want you,” his brown eyes staring deeply into yours, “i can’t get you out of my head, all this time all i wanted was to be near you, to hold your hand, god, y/n i’m in love with you and i prayed, god i prayed to a guy i barely believed in that we would both make it out there alive because i-i can’t imagine my life without you and-,” he’s breathless, telling you everything he has wanted for weeks. word after word stumbling out of his lips as your smile grew with every syllable, until you couldn’t take it anymore.
you pulled the boy towards you and like magnets, you connected, quickly placing your lips against his before your eyes drowned in your favorite color, the smile forming on his lips evident “i said it before but i’m in love with you too.”
his eyes soften, finally allowing himself to believe those words, soft lips meets yours once again, battling, making up for all the lost time, hands automatically finding its way up his brown curls like they were meant to always be there, his, around your waist, pulling you as close to him as possible, fearing that if he let you go, you’ll disappear as if it was a dream.
but as you make that little sound, the one that drives him crazy, butterflies erupting in his stomach, he knows that this is better than any dream he could ever imagine. you were here with him. you were in love with him.
your hands slowly starts making its way down to his body, but before the situation could escalate, he can’t help but break the kiss off, the pain from his wounds still evident, he lets out a sharp moan, “ow,” snapping you back to reality.
“oh my god, i'm so sorry,” you apologize, inspecting his bandages.
“don’t be,” he reassures you, a light kiss placed upon your lips, “you’re worth it,” he teased, causing your giggles to harmonize, his forehead leaning against yours, a content sigh slipping off his lips. two eyes crinkling, sharing light smiles.
“as much as i would love to stare into your eyes forever” you break the dream-like state, “i worked really hard on that chicken noodle soup and it would be a shame for it to go to waste,” you laugh and he holds on to the moment as long as possible.
“now, we wouldn’t want that, plus we have forever to lovingly gaze in each other’s eyes,” he winks, sending you into a fit of laughter. he kisses you one more time before grabbing your favorite t-shirt, his t-shirt, in his drawer and handing it to you.
an: i really don't post in this acc unless i have something to post lmao. also, currently in my bridgerton phase so don't mind the profile pic, or do mind it? feel free to let me know your favorite bridgerton :)
steve harrington x fem!reader [4.2K] steve didn’t expect to have fallen madly in love with you, much less for his confession to be whispered in the dead of night after another nightmare renders him sleepless. (16+)
Sleeping was a privilege Steve Harrington lost a long time ago.
Finding himself sitting in his kitchen at half past two, his bruised knuckles tap against the marble countertop in time with the faint ticking of the clock mounted on the wall. It’s a steady sound, one that still lingers with an uneasy sense of worry thanks to a man named Henry Creel, but Steve still tries to keep in time to catch his lost breath.
Steve woke up in a sweat, chest heaving and heart racing after yet another collage of gruesome, disturbing images infiltrated his dreams. The sound of your piercing screams, one so loud that it could shatter glass, the amount of crimson pooling at your stomach and seeping through his fingers, the pain rattling in his chest, the light draining from your pretty eyes.
Even now, after being awake and stumbling aimlessly through his expectantly empty home, Steve’s still not really sure how much of it was real. In any other circumstance, Steve would like to say he’s pretty good at handling the aftermath of the catastrophes in his head, but something about this time felt different.
Steve can’t seem to decide what’s worse; the fact that his dream felt so real because, in some way, there was a significant level of truth to it, or because it hurts him that little — a lot — more since he’s almost certain he’s fallen in love with you.
He wasn’t prepared for that. He isn’t prepared for that.
“Fuck,” Steve breathes out, his voice shot and rugged from what little sleep he managed to get. His hands, ones covered in calluses and surface-level cuts, shake a little as he runs them through his bed-messed hair and down his face. “Fuck.”
Hot and cold flashes shock his body like a lightning strike, goosebumps rising on his uncovered legs and his chest rising with heat beneath his old Hawkins High Phys. Ed sweatshirt. Everything aches. The muscles in his arms and his legs, his head, the gashes and torsions littering his waist.
It’s only been a few days since the world fell apart and got stitched back together and Steve can’t seem to find any peace of mind, can’t even seem to relax for just one, measly second.
The weight of the world crushing his shoulders for the past three years, the physical toll his body has had to endure time and time again, all whilst trying to balance the necessity to protect the people he cherishes like family. It’s a lot to bear at 19. He’s almost certain he’s destined for every good thing in his life to turn to ruins.
“Baby?”
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
It’s almost embarrassing how quickly Steve swivels on the kitchen stool at the sound of your voice, warm and doe-eyed. The light of his life, the one thing keeping him sane, his version of heaven. Steve was starting to wonder if tonight would be the first time you didn’t notice the absence of his figure beside you in bed.
What a stupid, stupid fool he is to think you wouldn’t notice.
Steve’s features soften at the sight of you, groggy and sleepy and far too adorable for someone who’d have just woken up. Even though he’s bone-deep tired and still a little shaken up from his nightmare, the boy finds himself smiling faintly at your arrival, anyway. You always manage to make him grin, even without trying.
You're in his shirt, like always, the fabric light against your skin and the hem of it stops just short of your hips. Your sleep shorts are barely visible beneath, the only proof of them being the satin ribbon glinting in the moonlight, the once-tied bow now hanging, unravelled, at your thigh.
Like oxidized copper, day-old bruises stain your skin, shades of yellow and moss-green replacing the once burgundy and deep purple splotches that painted your knees. Scabbed cuts in the shape of a Demobat’s jaw litter the expanse of your calf like a fucked up puzzle, and the no-doubt scars waiting to form make Steve feel terrible all over again.
You’re alive, thank God, but that’s yet to be enough to ease the pain of wishing he could’ve done more.
Shades of blue and indigo paint over you like an oceanic kaleidoscope, a capsize of darkness making your cheekbones, your jaw, the muscles on your biceps and your thighs nothing short of a Goddess-like vision. As you further step into the kitchen, your presence alone makes Steve feel like the entire world has been set on fire and glittered sunshine and warmth.
Fuck. He really might be in love with you.
“Hey, baby.” Steve says a little guiltily and his voice is an octave or two lower than normal, almost like he’s afraid that breaking the silence that once accompanied him might ruin the heavenly sight of you.
“Steve, it’s.. it’s two in the morning,” you chide softly, voice a little raspy but Steve can still hear the worry seeping between your words. Your knuckles rub at your eyes, a weak attempt at knocking away the evidence of sleep and waking yourself up simultaneously. “What’re you doing up?”
It’s closer to three than it is two, and Steve’s been up for much longer than that. But he won’t tell you that. Not when he knows it’d get you even more worried.
“Thirsty,” he says, and the word comes out tougher than he meant it to. His throat honestly feels like sandpaper. “Needed a drink, s’all.”
Steve tilts his head towards the cup of water he’d poured that sits on the counter. However, in retrospect, the boy wishes he hadn’t given it much attention at all because the glass he motioned to is obviously untouched, condensation dripping down the sides and there’s a lack of lip or finger marks.
Your eyes flit between the glass and your tired boyfriend, an unconvinced look lacing your features, and it’s not long before you silently tread towards him. Steve knew it was a weak attempt at getting you back to bed. He knew you wouldn’t. Not without him, anyway.
“What’s wrong?”
Your question comes out more of a grumble than anything, but the concern is still there, still genuine. You know him all too well, and Steve was an absolute idiot in thinking he could get away with such a pathetic lie.
It’s like he’s in a hypnotic state whenever you’re with him because Steve isn’t quick enough to come up with another lie. He just watches you in awe. You draw close like a magnetic force, and the boy’s legs part automatically. In all honesty, he’d be a liar to say he didn’t expect that you’d crowd his space sooner rather than later.
Your hands find his in the dark and your fingers run across the bumps of his knuckles. The glitter in your nail polish catches the light peeking in through the window above the sink and it makes it seem like shooting stars are dancing across his bruises.
You’re so tender with him, he’s come to notice. Like he’s an expensive China doll, or a glass fixture hanging from the ceiling. You always stare at him like you're admiring him, too, even when Steve feels exceptionally unattractive, and you always make him like a teenager all over again.
“Bad dream?” you eventually answer the question Steve had forgotten about after a few moments of comfortable silence, mumbling against his temple.
Earlier on in your relationship, Steve felt nothing short of a burden. He’d keep you up at night, come stumbling upon your front door bloodied and bruised and in need of help, and drag you along on adventures you’d have never signed up for if you knew what they’d entail.
But, even amongst the terror, you never complained, not once, and Steve often thanks the God he doesn’t believe in to have found somebody as patient and understanding as you.
So, Steve can’t see a point in lying anymore. Not when you know him so well— not when you’ve seen him at his worst and stayed.
“Yeah,” Steve admits through a shallow breath, his lungs still constricting themselves even after he’d steadied his breathing maybe ten minutes ago. “Yeah, you could say that.”
Much to his delight, you wrap your arms around his shoulders before pressing yourself into him. Steve returns the favor instantaneously, your body still lingering with warmth from his bed as he slides his hands beneath your shirt and around your torso. If he died in this position, he’d die a happy, grateful man.
Steve basks in your company, his eyes closing briefly, and part of him thinks he could fall asleep like this if you’d let him. His face presses against your collarbone and he lets out a faint, satisfied hum when he feels you place a soft kiss on the top of his head. You’re so soft and warm and Steve practically melts against you.
Another kiss from you, a wordless I’m sorry. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Steve barely shakes his head, but it’s enough for you to notice. “Don’t wanna keep you up.” he says.
You pull away, then — not far, but there’s just enough distance between you both that Steve can glance up at you with ease. You give him a look, one he’s become far too familiar with after being with you for so long; eyes soft, but narrowed.
“I’m already awake, Steve,” you dismiss the boy gently, hand moving to card through his dark locks. You push them out of his face, forcing Steve to meet your intense, but kind gaze. “What happened this time?”
In any other circumstance, Steve would persist in his refusal to talk about his nightmares. He knows that any time somebody had asked, it was out of pure concern, which he appreciates, but it’s just hard. Sometimes Steve thinks talking about it might make it more real, more plausible.
Robin, when he’d shown up with dark circles under his eyes at work and she’d nagged him in her Robin-esque way; Eddie, during their weekly smoke sessions at his trailer in a lazy, off-handed way in hopes to come off as carefree as he’s known to be; Nancy, because once upon a time, she knew him better than anybody.
It’s difficult for Steve to open up to them, because, in his mind, they still harbor this idea that he’s the strong knight in shining armor they expect him to be. Admitting that he’s weak, troubled, and unable to move past the shit he’s dealt with in the last few years would break that façade, and Steve isn’t sure he can handle that kind of disappointment.
But you? You’ve seen it all, even despite his trying to conceal it from you out of everyone, and it’s never phased you. His weakness has slipped through the cracks of his porcelain walls, and you still like him, he thinks. He’ll never understand what he did to deserve your kindness.
“We were at the lake again,” Steve starts reluctantly. It honest to God feels like he’s tugging at an open wound. “You got pulled down, and I chased after you, but the bats..” he exhales sharply and he runs a hand through his already distressed hair, a telltale sign that he’s been restless for a while now. “I didn’t get there in time.”
The thought of you not being here with him stings, and it’s the kind of hurt that’s far worse than any real pain he’s ever endured in his life— though, Steve considers the idea of losing you to be as real as pain could possibly be.
In reality, Steve knows your getting gravely injured couldn’t have happened with the way things went at Lover’s Lake. Not when he insisted on diving for the group, not when he refused to let you go down with him, not when he made Eddie swear on his life to keep you safe if things went sideways. It wasn’t foolproof, not by any margin, but it was enough.
That doesn’t mean it doesn’t still scare him shitless, though.
“I’m sorry, baby.” you say as you press another kiss to his head, but it’s a little longer than the one you’d given him earlier.
“It’s okay,” Steve dismisses, and when your eyes meet again he tries to force a smile. It’s unconvincing, like always, but you don’t further pry about the nightmare, which he’s ultimately grateful for. He doesn’t want to relive it any more than he already has. “It’s just— shit, I don’t know.. annoying. It’s like my brain loves torturing me, or something. Never wants me to get any fuckin’ sleep.”
“They’re just nightmares, you know,” you remind him with a frown, and Steve wonders if you’ll ever get tired of sounding like a broken record. The amount of times you’ve had to piece him back together after he’d woken up a panicked, broken version of himself is probably in the hundreds, thousands. “They aren’t real. Henry can’t trick you anymore.”
He likes that you call him Henry instead of Vecna. It somehow manages to make his mythical, supernatural powers.. smaller than they seem. Like you aren’t scared of him. Steve wishes he has that kind of confidence.
But they are real, in some way or another. There are hints of truth mixed within the already existing storm of terror causing a riot in his head. Because, regardless of the outcome, Steve’s brain consistently morphs his reality into something far more sinister and tragic.
Sometimes he finds himself so deep within the jungle of contorted memories that he can’t decipher whether you're really sleeping beside him or if it’s another one of Vecna’s tricks.
“Feels pretty goddamn real.” he huffs out an exhausted laugh, one so humorless it’s almost as sharp as a knife’s edge. God, he’s exhausted.
“I know. I’m sorry,” you apologize for what feels like the millionth time, and Steve feels guilty you need to fix something you didn’t break. “I wish I could make it better.”
You do. In ways Steve could never replicate. The feeling of your heartbeat rattling against his, the warmth your body provides, the lingering remnants of your floral perfume, the taste of your mint toothpaste against his lips, the sound of your voice and the purity in your laugh; it provides Steve sanctum within a place that hasn’t had any peace or grace in a long, long time.
“We’re okay, you know,” Steve knows you’re not necessarily asking him for an answer, even if it’s framed like a question. “I’m okay, and you’re okay. So are the kids, and Robin, Eddie, Nance.. it’s just your brain’s way of trying to make sense of what happened.”
“Pretty shitty of it to make me relive all that crap.” says Steve, another humorless laugh sneaking past his tongue.
“I know, but they’ll stop eventually,” you murmur, and Steve knows it’s more wishful thinking than anything, but it warms his chest anyway. “It’ll just take time.”
Steve’s grip tightens around your waist and he shudders at the image flashing behind his eyelids. “It’s just scary, y’know?” he breathes out. “Thinkin’ about what.. what could’ve happened because we weren’t careful.”
“We were as careful as we could’ve been, baby,” you tell the boy, and Steve knows that’s somewhat true. It wasn’t like you guys had days to sit and think of the perfect way to defeat an evil, child-murdering guy with tentacles, but it was enough. “You just.. you can’t get stuck on the what-ifs, Steve. It won’t do you any good.”
Steve hums, then, because you’re right, but he doesn’t say much else. He still feels deflated, even in the comfort of your presence.
“Besides,” you start with a little shrug, your body more energized than it had been when you initially found Steve drowning in his own dread. “There are things that are way scarier than what ifs, anyway.”
Yeah, Steve thinks, like how I think I’m falling in love with you.
But instead, the boy exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Mumbling against the material of your — his — shirt, he asks, “Yeah? Like what?”
When living in a shithole like Hawkins, a handful of supernatural things come to mind. The Demogorgon he saved you from in 1983, the Demodogs he was almost eaten by in ‘84, the Russians who almost beat him to a pulp in July of last year, the herd of Demobats you managed to beat up like Sigourney Goddamn Weaver—
“Taxes.” you blurt, and Steve doesn’t even have the chance to register what you’d said before a surprised laugh rumbles from his chest.
Fuck.
Steve's eyes snap up at you, and with wrinkled brows, he manages to half force out, half laugh, “What?”
Fuck.
“Any paperwork, really. Or me trying to cook,” you hum softly, the apples of your cheeks swelling as you let yourself drift back into the countless memories of kitchen mishaps you, and Steve, have shared in this very room. “I mean, you remember how Thanksgiving went. It was a total shitshow.”
One undercooked turkey, a load of burnt potatoes because you forgot to turn the oven down, and pumpkin pie that, oddly enough, had no pumpkin in it. It was a hot mess, really, but it’s probably one of Steve’s fondest memories— even if that's totally and utterly lame to admit.
He’s definitely in love with you.
“That..” Steve’s breath is shaky all of a sudden, and his voice wavers. “Yeah, you trying to cook is pretty scary.”
“Clowns are scary, too,” you add, almost for good measure. Your nose crinkles and Steve feels his chest bloom with heat at the sight of it. “They’re always smiling. It’s.. I mean, what’s scarier than that?”
Steve doesn’t mean to blurt it out, not really, but the compulsion to spill his flourishing feelings for you was far too burdening to ignore. Your hands were twisting in his hair, nails softly scraping at his scalp and you were staring down at him with your God-given smile like he’s a national fucking treasure or something.
If there’s one thing to know about Steve, it’s that he feels a lot. He’s passionate about a lot of things, and a lot of people, and trying to smother and conceal that part of himself only amplifies his emotions until he’s fit to burst. He throws his heart out on the line and lets it teeter like a trapeze artist and hopes that someone, somewhere, is ready and willing to catch it when it falls.
Most of the time it ends in tragedy and heartbreak, but Steve thinks that this time, you could be that someone to pick up the broken pieces with fragile hands and stitch them back together. He really hopes you’re that someone.
“I think I’m in love with you.”
Your body stills and your features contort into something Steve can’t decipher. You blink once, twice, before quietly muttering, “What?”
For a long, long time, home was just an idea that Steve was never quite able to grasp. A figure of his wildest, incapable dreams. His house, one that only seemed filled because of the old photos on the mantle and from the light bouncing off the chandelier, was never home. Hell— Hawkins as a whole isn’t home, either. Not anymore.
Steve hadn't known that home could be a person. Not until you.
“I think I love you.” Steve repeats, all his attempts at keeping his composure slowly wilting away with every second that passes.
Your gaze flickers across the expanse of his face, eyes soaking in every scar and every mark, every freckle and mole that litters his sun-kissed skin. One of your hands gently moves to cup the side of his face and your thumb slides almost methodically against his cheek, feather-like grazes across a silver scar he’d gained back in July 1985.
Steve can feel the warmth blooming beneath your angelic touch, a match to his body of flames, and barely above a whisper, you ask, “You think?”
His heartbeat begins to ricochet from his chest and into his now trembling fingertips. Steve’s veins feel like they’re pumping with acid, a new wave of anxiousness coursing through him like he’d been burnt from the inside out. It’s painful, in a way, but it’s a good kind of hurt. The kind he never wants to stop feeling.
So it takes Steve a moment, but he eventually shakes his head, his dark brown eyes flitting down at your lips before meeting your gaze again. He can’t help but notice the aquatic pools filling your lash line.
“I know,” Steve corrects himself, his tongue moving to wet his now dry lips. “I know I love you.”
Your breath hitches, then, and if the world hadn’t become a muted track in Steve’s ears, he might’ve missed it. You’re so, so quiet, all of a sudden, and there’s a large part of Steve that can’t help but start panicking because he’s convinced he’s already fucked this up.
“And that’s scary?” you ask him with a crack in your voice, words wobbling.
in a low voice, he admits, “Terrifying.”
Steve’s driven through heartbreak avenue so many times that his heart is probably more scar tissue than muscle, been dealt a bad set of cards after gambling his love away and left with nothing but the clothes on his back and the ghost of his ex-lover clawing at his chest.
He was black and blue most days, the haunting of what he could’ve done better always following him around like a fucked up shadow when he’d finally move on, only for him to just fall back into that same pit of regret he’d become oh so acquainted with.
It sucked, because getting his heart ripped out and stomped on time and time again was worse than any other pain he’s ever experienced in his 20 years of living.
But, what’s so scary, in Steve’s mind, is the fact that he’d do it all over again in a blink of an eye. He would take every punch and every jab, every insult and every ounce of hurt ten times over if he knew it meant that he’d find his way back to you.
Steve isn’t expecting you to say anything, much less do anything, so you can imagine his surprise when your hand is gentle as it cups the side of his face. He can’t help but lean further into your palm, his chocolate brown eyes unable to break away from your glassy ones.
In a soft, almost shaky voice, you tell the boy, “I don’t think you should be scared about that.”
Steve’s heart stops. “You don’t?” he asks, almost unsure because the uncertainty of your answer hangs heavy in the air.
“No. Because I..” you shake your head and lick your lips, too, pretty dream-like eyes darting across his features. And, with a faint, tired smile, you confess, “I love you, too, Steve. More than anything.”
Steve’s heart starts up again, quicker than ever before, because shit, that'd be enough for him.
Then, with unwavering confidence, Steve surges forward and captures you in a hurried kiss. Mouths slotting together in a heavenly disarray, the boy’s hands tighten around your frame and his mind goes entirely blank on everything that isn’t you because you’re his world he’d die orbiting around.
Steve’s kissing you with a level of fervid he didn’t know he had locked within him, and if the two of you were on display, it would seem like he’d been deprived of your admiration entirely. Your hand, the one splayed across his cheek, moves to his jaw and tilts his chin up ever so slightly and you deepen the kiss.
The boy can’t stop himself from trying to pull you impossibly closer, a new wave of determination washing over him as his desire to feel every ounce of you burns hotter. His tongue soothing over the accidental scrape of his teeth, Steve’s hunger only grows when you muffle out a faint moan against his lips.
You’re both panting when you pull away, a soft click sounding at the departure of your lips from Steve’s. Your forehead rests against his and Steve can’t help himself from trying to steal another kiss from you. You pull back, though, your eyelashes tickling his cheeks and Steve forgets entirely about the way the edge of the counter is digging into his spine.
“Can we go back to bed?” you ask him in a faint voice, eyes still closed and your nose bumps against his, your breath shallow against Steve’s face. The boy is left dizzy from your surging kisses, lips still tingling despite the loss of yours, and Steve almost misses the salacious hint in your request.
Almost.
The boy can’t bring himself to speak, but Steve nods, sneaking another kiss from you before he takes your hand in his and leads you back to the safety of his bedroom, socked feet padding against the floor sounding just as loud as the thumping his heart bounces off his ribcage.
And there, between rumbled sheets, Steve proves how much he loves you til the early signs of morning peak through his blinds, slivers of pink and orange rays mixing and painting your features gold.
Gentle kisses and rough hands, crescent moons adding to the constellation of freckles on his back, moans mixing with whispered sweet nothings echoing between his bedroom walls; a faint mantra of I love you, I love you, I love you encompassing you both.
Anita’s still alive and kicking and being anti-gay. Thom Higgins, who threw the pie when he was 27 – and was poetically from Beaver Dam – passed away 17 years later at 44. Info on his life is here. The pie throwing was a big deal. In an age before the internet let gays feel connected, and long before ACT UP, the pie showed small pockets of gays that we could fight back.
it showed that gays were human beings, who might be in the room with you, that you had been accepting as being equals and treating as people. you didnt suspect them as bieng gay, why should you treat them different after? do they become less human after finding out?
i mean, its almost like you just found out they have an oppinion on your bullshit
She was “pied” on TV. All across the country, people got to see proof that the LGBT community weren’t going to just sit there and take it. People who thought they had no choice but to stay silent saw a horrible woman get humiliated on live TV.
“Do you know who’s here? Do you know who saw you do that? Do you know who saw you do that? This man is from Rolling Stone magazine. Do you know what kind of publicity you’re going to get?”
What, you think you pied her in front of a zillion cameras because he didn’t want publicity?
SUMMARY: You build up the courage to finally ask Eddie on a date! Buuut he thinks you’re just trying to buy drugs. 😬
TAGS: eddie munson x fem!cheerleader!reader, angst to fluff, Eddie is an idiot who doesn’t believe you’d ask him out, pining., no season spoilees
WORD COUNT: 1.9k
[ Read Y/N’s POV ] [ Masterlist ] [ join my Eddie tag list ]
———
Eddie POV:
“What’s Y/N L/N doing staring at us?” Dustin asked aloud to the cafeteria table.
Eddie’s head snapped up from his lunch, but you were already turning back around to your table, “Dunno,” he replied under his breath.
“Maybe she’s finally noticed how Munson stares at her like a fucking puppy.”
Eddie shot his friend a deadly glare, “You wanna say that again, Jeff?”
His friend only smiled and took a gulp of his drink instead.
Eddie turned back to Y/N, “There’s nothing to notice anyway. She’s fucking Y/N L/N. Everyone in this whole school stares at her like that. What, she’d notice me more than any of the other hundreds of guys?”
“So you do admit you stare,” Dustin accused.
Eddie threw a nut at his face.
“She’s getting up,” Gareth announced, “Maybe she’s coming over here to tell you to stop being such a creep.”
Eddie rolled his eyes and turned to Gareth, “You’re one to ta—“
“Oh my god, she is coming over here,” Jeff breathed.
Eddie moved to look but Gareth caught his hand, “No! Don’t look. Innocent until proven guilty. You’ve never stared at her before in your whole life; she has no proof.”
Eddie trained his eyes on his tray, forcing himself not to look at you— something he was pretty good at by now.
But then the boys were right. You were sitting down. Right next to him. Whaaat the fuck. His eyes shot up to you, trying to make himself look not as terrified as he was right now.
“Hey,” you smiled softly. He swallowed. Oh, God, he’d never been this close to you before. You were so fucking pretty. And you smelled so pretty too. Oh God.
“Hi” he replied, as evenly as he could. What on earth were you doing over here? Talking to HIM? You’d never talked to him.
“You wanna maybe meet up this Saturday?”
All his excitement burned to ashes. So that was it. He should have fucking known. He’d had three other people come to him today alone for drugs for Saturday’s parties.
He couldn’t decide if he wanted to tell you to fuck off for getting his hopes up or if he should accept any scrap of time you were willing to offer, regardless of purpose. He decided on just acting like you were any other customer. Cuz apparently that’s all you wanted to be to him. Obviously. Should’ve known.
“Yeah. Sure,” he muttered.
“We… don’t have to,” you started to back out.
Okay, maybe he didn’t need to treat you that impersonally, “No, no, we… can. Uh. My place?” He offered that since it would mean less time he’d have to go out of his way for this. But he realized quickly you were the wrong crowd for that. You and all your friends wanted very little to do with him; you guys always requested somewhere as hidden as possible. “Or we could meet in the—“
“No! Your place is fine! Uh, how’s 6 sound?
Eddie nodded. 6. Yup. Perfect timing to get weed just before going to a party.
“Cool. See you then.” And then you were retreating back to the safety of your table.
“See?” Eddie told the table once you were out of earshot, “Nothing to notice. She just wanted drugs. Of course.”
Eddie stood up from his seat and left the cafeteria. He wasn’t hungry anymore, anyway.
~~
Eddie scrubbed a hand over his face when he heard the knock.
“Let’s just get this over with,” he grumbled.
He opened the door, and Jesus fucking Christ.
There you were, wearing the cutest outfit he’d ever seen you in, with your hair all tied up as usual and your cute hands playing with your fingernails nervously. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Maybe just for a moment he could pretend you were a pretty girl here for a date, and not for a business exchange before you would go back to pretending he didn’t exist. But then… if you were going to a party, that meant you were dressed like that for someone else. You were someone else’s pretty date, for that guy to open the door to you and see.
He felt like he’d been punched in the gut.
“Hi,” he said simply.
“Hey,” you smiled.
Don’t fucking smile at me like that.
“Come on in,” he motioned, turning around and letting you follow him in. He couldn’t keep looking at you standing there. He needed to get you your shit and get you out before he exploded.
He headed toward the dresser. Usually he would have prepared stuff for you ahead of time, but he couldn’t bring himself to this time. He was fucking grateful he didn’t. It gave him something else to look at right now instead of you.
But that also meant it gave you time to look at his place while he searched. He suddenly felt self-conscious. He always was in times like this, about his shitty little trailer compared to everyone else’s at that school. But usually he just told himself anyone judging him wasn’t worth shit. With you…
“So, what party?” he asked, hoping to distract you from the place.
“Huh?”
“What party are you going to tonight?”
“Uh. No party…?”
He rolled his eyes. Really? Did you think he was stupid? “Look, I’m not gonna show up, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said it light-heartedly, but it came out with much more bite than he’d anticipated. Figures. He was pissed about it. You guys always did this shit. You think he wanted to go to those awful parties where basically everyone would just get in line to bully the shit out of him? Yeah, no thanks.
“I’m not lying. Why would I lie?”
Eddie furrowed his brow and turned around at that. You sounded so genuine. Maybe you weren’t lying? But… his eyes trailed down to your outfit. You were dressed up for something. So… then were you headed to a one-on-one date instead of a whole party? Oh, God, that was so much worse. Providing weed for you to go on a date with someone else. He shouldn’t have asked at all. He turned back around to find something as quickly as possible and get this done so he could get high himself and hopefully never have to think about this ever, ever again.
“Am I not good enough for you?” Your voice came from behind him, “Is that it? Some backwards retribution for what the guys put you through? Or is it someone else?”
Eddie spun around. What?????
You were… Jesus, you were crying. What on earth???
Maybe… you thought he was gonna short you? Or maybe you thought crying would get you a discount? Well, no dice. Even if you looked really cute with your big eyes all watered up like that. But he would never tell you that. All your jock friends would come beat the shit out of him if they knew he’d thought that.
Or, Jesus, maybe you were mad he was taking so long and wasting your precious time. Well, lucky for you then, he’d just found the right bag.
“I was… gonna give you a half ounce for $20? That seems fair to me…?”
“What?” you asked quietly.
He looked down at the baggie in his hand, then back to you, “What?”
“Eddie,” you chuckled. Oh man, he liked when you said his name. “Eddie, I’m not here for drugs.”
What??? What on earth else could you be here for?
“I was asking– I was asking you to go on a date with me.”
You… sorry. You what? No way he’d heard that right.
“You… you were… asking me… on a date.”
You nodded.
“And… not a date as a way to get drugs?” He really wouldn’t be able to handle that if that was the case. If he got to kiss you and put his hands on you… he wasn’t sure he could ever let go. Or that he would ever recover from being used like that by you.
“I don’t even do drugs, Eddie.”
Eddie set the weed back down and put a hand to his forehead, trying to work through this, “You’re serious?”
He was running through every option. The one that kept screaming at him was that this was a prank, but you wouldn’t have cried like that for a prank. What on earth else could your motive here be???
“Um,” you played with your sleeve, “If it’s… if it’s so ridiculous to you that I’m interested in you, you could just say that. I know your whole M.O. is, like, anti-cheerleader. So, if you don’t want to date me, I can just g—“
“Woah, woah, I never said that.”
A universe in which he wouldn’t fucking jump— no, not jump, fucking tackle every other motherfucker on the track— to date you didn’t even exist. He wondered how you could have possibly seen it like that. That somehow he thought he was too good for you? That wasn’t even a fathomable.
“Look, I’m…” he shook his head, “just trying to process… the queen of Hawkins high is asking me on a date. You do know who I am, right?”
Everyone knew. Scary, satanic, fucking freak who ran around the school terrorizing everyone. You were there every day in that cafeteria, seeing him yelling and walking on tables. You’d heard everyone calling him awful nicknames. Hell, half your high school experience had been him repeating his senior year. You absolutely knew who he was.
“Um, well, that is kind of the whole point of going on a date with someone,” you explained, “To learn about who they are…”
He wanted to ram his head through a door. You were so fucking adorable. And so fucking genuine. You actually wanted to date him. You actually wanted to know him. As fucking ludicrous and backwards as it was, that’s what you were telling him right now. And for some other ludicrous reason, he was believing you.
He cracked a grin, shocked, “So you LIKE me?”
You swatted his arm, “Eddie! Answer me!”
“I’m sorry! Sorry! Obviously, obviously I want to date you. I’m not entirely sure what you think you’re getting out of this situation, and I know you’re gonna get sick of me really quick, but if you’re willing to low ball yourself to my—“
“Eddie,” you repeated, “Just shut up.”
Eddie grinned even wider, “See? Told ya you’d get tired of me quickly.”
You opened your mouth to protest but he was already kissing you. The floodgates were open. He was kissing you and he would never stop kissing you now. He’d had a crush on you for so long and you tasted just as sweet as he’d always thought you would. You two were gonna go on a fucking date, and fucking hold hands and shit, and you’d come up to his lunch table to talk to him all the time, and—
Wait.
Eddie pulled away.
“Oh my god, I’ve been so rude to you this week!”
“Oh. Uh. It’s okay–”
“It most certainly is not!”
“Eddie—“
“If anyone else treated the girl I was dating like that and made her cry, I would literally go kick their teeth in.” That wasn’t even the half of what he’d do if someone made you cry. He’d be in jail for murder by the end of the night, guaranteed.
You giggled, “As admirable as that is, I prefer your teeth as they are.”
“Okay, then think of something else. Anything. You name it.”
“Go on a real date with me?” You raised your eyebrows. As if he would fucking say no.
“That’s a reward, not a punishment.”
“Go on a real date with me to the movies and buy my body’s weight worth of popcorn for me?”
He grinned, “Atta girl.”
His girl. Fuck.
————
A/N: HI HI HI HI I looove writing his perspective he’d be literally so sweet to a girl he’s crushing on i love him i love him
summary: “i thought you knew?” “you thought i knew we were dating?” “yes!” “how would i know that, nott, you never told me.”
Theodore Nott had dead eyes. That was something you had learned early on in your friendship with the boy; never expect his eyes to tell you anything. But, right now, you couldn’t help but wonder if your own advice was wrong because the look he was giving you in the moment was the farthest thing to dead. Alive.
Theodore’s eyes were ablazed, like you had lit a match in his face just as he had done with his cigarettes the night before. They looked on fire as he glared off at you, standing and chatting with some Ravenclaw boy who had decided to make the stupid of going to a slytherin party and talking to Theo’s girl.
It was a common fact that you and Theo had something, everyone knew. Well, maybe except for you.
Maybe that’s why you hadn’t expected for Theodore to waltz up to you and your new friend and throw an arm over your shoulder, and stand and listen to you too talk, not saying a word.
“Think we should get out of here?” Was the first thing he said to you, well, whispered into your ear, pulling you closer.
“I’m okay here, Teddy,” you said. Theo visible softened, melting into you at the nickname only you were allowed to call him. “You can go, though. I’ll be alright, promise.”
Theo smiled at you as you patted his arm that was wrapped around your shoulder, watching as your attention drifted back to whoever this guy was. He sighed.
“I know,” Theo started before your Ravenclaw friend interrupted.
“Yeah, mate, we’ll be okay,” he said. Theo hardened, dead eyes becoming colder as he took his arm off your shoulder, stepping forward and shoving the guy.
“Was I fucking talking to you, mate?” he spit.
“Woah!” you cut, pulling Theo back with your hand to his chest, “What the hell, Theo?”
“Yeah,” the Raveclaw pants. “What the hell, Nott? Calm down!”
Theodore sneers, glaring harshly ate the boy before hissing, “Fuck off,” and pushing past him and bumping his shoulder aggressively as he makes his way out of the common room.
Staring of at his fuming figure you quickly apologize to the boy before chasing off after Theo. When you find him, he’s angrily pacing through the hallway, running a hand through his hair.
“Theo,” you state angrily. Theo’s head whips to where you stand before shaking his head and choosing to walk away from you and down the hall.
“Theo!” you yell, walking quickly behind him. “What the fuck was that about? Can you wait for a second and talk to me?”
Theo stops, allowing you to catch up to him. You can practically see the steam coming out when he turns to you. “What am I supposed to do?” he asks bitterly. “Just let him flirt with you?”
“What?” you ask, just as bitter. “What are you talking about? Why’d you have to fucking shove, Dylan?”
Dylan. Theodore scoffs, getting madder by the second. He takes a step closer, towering over you. “So I’m just supposed to stand there when some prick is running up on my girlfriend!”
Girlfriend? What the hell was he on about. “Girlfriend?” you question, softer.
“Yes! You’re my girlfriend!” Theodore shouted. He just wasn’t getting it, was he?
“What?” you spluttered. “Since when?”
“What,” Theo got quieter.
“i didn’t know…” you said. “when did we start dating?…o-officially?”
“You didn’t know?” he repeated, incredulous. “I… I thought… I thought you knew?”
“You thought I knew we were dating?” You were getting louder, voice echoing off the walked.
“Yes!” Theo yelled, eyes getting sadder.
“How would I know that, Nott, you never told me!”
Theodore shakes his head, again getting gentle. “Don’t start calling me ‘Nott’ now, angel, you don’t do that.”
“Theo,” you reiterated, taking a breath. “When did we— when did we start ‘dating’.”
Theo looks like a kicked puppy when he says, “Last trip to Hogsmeade. We kissed.”
Looking at the ground, you say, “Just because we kissed doesn’t mean we’re dating.”
“To me, it did!”
“You kiss plenty of girls that you’re not dating!” you argue.
Theo scoffs, “They’re not you, now are they?”
“Teddy,” you say, tears quickly forming in your eyes. Looking up at him, he purses his lips, heart breaking in his chest. “Why couldn’t you have just asked me to be your girlfriend?”
“Love, I… I thought you knew, didn’t I?”
“Yeah,” you swallow, hugging yourself with your own arms, still holding in your tears. “Well, I didn’t.”
It’s silent between you both for a moment, nothing but you staring at the floor and Theo staring at you. Theo takes a small step forward, his hands touching where you hold yourself. “Would you?” he says, “Be my girlfriend, if I asked?”
“Yeah,” you chuckle, looking up at him, “if you’d ask, you dick.”
Theo chuckles, dipping his head low and putting his lips against yours. His lips are so soft, despite how he tastes like liquor and cigarettes. He breaks apart from you, hand coming to caress your cheek. “Would you be my girlfriend?”
Hi, saw you said stranger things requests and I have one !! Steve and reader going to a party, and he accidentally spills his drink on her short and he panics because he thinks of what happened with Nancy and reader ends up having to comfort him with vodka all over her shirt :,) thank you
From the minute the bronze liquid comes in contact with your cream top, Steve's already reacting strangely. It's like a live wire stabbed through the base of his spine, shooting heated sparks towards his shoulders that tense.
"Hey, I- I'm sorry," He stammers, trying to set the now half-empty cup onto the counter. It doesn't work, and the cup falls to the ground, splashing this time over your feet. You take a hasty step back, and Steve's hands reach out to catch you with too strong of a grip.
"No, don't- I'm sorry," One glance into his eyes and they're alive with the same fever that's tripping up his words, "I'm sorry, don't go, please. Just- just come into the kitchen, please?"
"It's sticky here," You raise and lower your foot a few times, music not helping you assess the situation as it booms in your ears, "Steve, you're-" You grimace at the tight hold of his large hands, "You're squeezing a bit, Steve, let me go."
You try to pull away from him, but that only makes it worse. He holds tighter, pulls harder, and you have to grab his own arm to maneuver him a different way around the island.
"Okay- okay! Just- come this way, god," You hiss, "Steve, 's starting to hurt."
Then you're the only one holding up the embrace; he's dropped you like you're on fire. You don't have time to ponder why, you just keep dragging him through the sea of partygoers and into the semi-isolated kitchen.
"'Kay, can you get some paper towels?" You turn on the faucet, water running cold as you assess the damage to your shirt. When no reply comes, you turn back to Steve, finding him lingering right where you'd left him, his face pale.
"Steve? The paper towels?" You try again, to no avail.
"Steve," You shut off the faucet, feeling liquor slosh through your socks as you step over to him, "What's the matter? Are you okay?"
"I'm sorry. For- ruining your shirt, and squeezing.. too tight."
"It's okay," You hum cautiously, "I can wash it. And it's not like you bruised me. Paper towels?"
"I didn't mean to." He promises, his big brown eyes still blown wide open, "I really didn't. And I can pay for the- for the shirt, like- dry cleaning. I promise. I'm sorry."
"It's alright," You promise, "Steve, it's just a shirt. It's okay, I just need paper towels."
Your prolonged reassurances seem to set him straight, and he looks like a robot rebooting. His eyes flash with something unreadable and he snaps to attention, stumbling backwards and trying to maneuver the unfamiliar kitchen.
"Right. Right, uh- paper towels. They're- here!"
He brandishes the roll towards you almost aggressively, and you wet three beneath the water you've turned back on. He takes the wad from your hand before you can apply it to your stained shirt, dabbing gently at the remains of his solo cup.
"Sorry," He breathes, tongue poking out from between his lips as he focuses on rubbing the stain away.
"It's okay." You remind him, craning your neck up to kiss at his chin. He still looks pale, like he's recovering from a brush with death, but at the feeling of your lips against his chin he looks up at you, and the corners of his lips quirk up into a weak smile.
"It's- uh, not coming out." He murmurs, "I'll have it dry-cleaned, um, tomorrow, I'll take it, and-"
"Okay. We'll figure something out." You keep your voice soothing, although you don't know why you need to, "It's okay, Steve. Hey, do you wanna just go home? We could do a movie night instead - get away from the noise and the people, and I could change my clothes."
"Yeah," He flounders slightly, hand still working to scrub the alcohol off of your shirt, "Yeah, uh- where...?"
"Your place," You decide, "If you don't mind me wearing your shirt?"
His eyes shine now, and his smile seems less rickety, "Yeah. No! No- I don't mind it. My place, and- and my shirt."
Summary: you and James had a not so friendly relationship, one night he seems like he wants that to change
Rivals to lovers (?) idk they play on different quidditch teams, alcohol mentions, kisses, cursing, not proofread, English is not my first language so forgive my mistakes .
A/n: i write too much for james it’s getting ridiculous, but I can’t help it I love him sm 😫 and as always this is sort of bad but oh well
You have been accused of it before and you always denied it. But every time you are in that field, playing against him especially, you realize that you are, in fact, too competitive.
It felt like you had something to prove, as if you took it personal, the reason? You don’t know, you just had to win, you had to defeat him.
That is why everyone was giving you weird looks. When you go to a party to celebrate the victory is because you are happy for the win, and is not secret that you are not.
So you stood there uncomfortably, looking at your classmates getting as drunk as they could while the music blasted in your ears. Red and yellow filled the room, whether it was the cups, or the clothes, or the lights. No wonder why you and your teammates looked so out of place, standing there, all in dark black and green clothes.
“Can you tell me why can’t we go?” Dorcas spoke, she sounded irritated. She and some other friends of yours were extremely surprised when you accepted the invitation of the rival team —that was obviously a tease— to a party to celebrate they defeating you.
You didn’t look at her, your eyes were glued to James Potter, following him around the room noticing how he was being complimented on his amazing game and his tactics. It made your blood boil, but you couldn’t stop looking at him and at the way he walked around the room, high-fiving everyone with a winning smirk on his face.
You just shrugged and she rolled her eyes, putting an arm around your shoulders and putting her weight on you “why do you even want to be here?” Ask the girl and, again, you didn’t respond. It took her a second to trace your eyes, her own falling on the captain of the Gryffindor team and when she spoke again her tone was mischievous, less annoyed and more intrigued, teasing even “ohh, you look like you want to devour him”
“I do! He and his stupid smile would be gone for good” you said bitterly, narrowing your eyes at his muscular figure.
You heard her laugh and finally looked at her face “no, I mean that you’re looking at him like you want to devour him” she touched your lip teasingly, and she looked delighted as she made fun of you.
The shock was obvious on your face not even knowing what to say to this “that is ridiculous! Defamatory!” You practically screamed and she laughed more “don’t go around saying things like that” now the one that was annoyed was you.
“Yeah, you stay here and do what you want with him, y/n” she winked at you before she pulled away from “we will go” her nod was understood by all the other Slytherins who were more than excited to the idea of getting away from there.
You thought of staying but soon you started following them, just a few steps behind.
“Are you going already?” You were stopped by James’ words and by his hand wrapping around your arm. He was holding a red cup and he looked at you with that smile you were sure he kept just for you.
“I’ve nothing to do here” you spoke, to him your voice was cold and serious (as always).
He pouted, a sarcastic and over exaggerated sad face painted his features, you rolled your eyes, pulling off his hold “yeah, we actually invited you as joke, you know that, right?” He eyed you down.
This was usually the only way you talked to each other, in witty remarks with rude tones that you both enjoyed quite too much. A never ending back and forth between you.
“I know”
“Then why are you here?” He stepped closer.
To be honest you didn’t know yourself, it was just an urge you had at the moment, thinking back you felt embarrassed you accepted “you know what? I’m gonna be honest, I think I’m just too obsessed with you” you smiled up at him, voice filled with sarcasm.
He smiled back at you, dimple showing on his cheek “oh, I figured” James laughed and you rolled your eyes again. It was much more difficult for you to get under his skin than it was for him. You turned around once more, thinking your conversation had come to and end but he grabbed your arm once more stopping you from going pass the door “no, stay.” He asked, eyes shimmering whit a glow you hadn’t seen before.
You didn’t know how you ended up in that situation, it all happened fast. You were at the court sitting on the grass, your knees pressed against his legs as he sat right in front of you and for some reason your closeness didn’t bother you.
At some point between drinks you had challenged him to a one vs one, so you both walked to the quidditch pitch, brooms in hands and a snitch he had to steal, all ready to compete against the other. And suddenly you were sitting on the floor just looking at him and his curly hair, rosy cheeks, soft lips, his sharp jawline…
“Don’t look at me like that” he murmured, eyes glued to yours. He pulled you out of you thoughts and you frowned.
You shook head, face showing how confused you were “like what?”
He sighed bringing a hand to rub his eyes “like you want me” he blurted out, and you knew he said it because he was drunk enough to start with the bullshit.
“Oh, you’re so full of yourself” you laughed “I don’t want you” you confirmed and he tilted his head.
“Your say you don’t like me but the way you stare at me tells me something different.” He murmured and you could almost feel his breath on your face, you were still so close.
You looked away, your were supporting yourself with your hands planted in the green grass, your eyes searched the sky avoiding his gaze because you knew he could hear your heart pounding inside your chest.
“Stop it.” You muttered sharply with your sight still on the stars.
He took your chin on his hand, forcing you to look at him in a way that you thought was too intimate “Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t feel the same as I do and I’ll leave you alone.”
You scoffed, how could he go from hating you and mocking you to be “confessing” his feelings for you? How is that possible? How is it fair?! And why? Why are you so excited about it?
“You sound so damn stupid right now, James” he chuckled nodding at your statement.
“It’s your fault, you turn me into a fool. Believe me, it bothers me as much as it bothers you” he talked still looking at your eyes with such a love in his face. You shivered, there it was, that smile: teasing, lovely, so fucking charming, and just for you.
You barely notice when he leaned closer to you, still looking into your eyes when his hand caressed your jaw until it was cupping your cheek. He looked even more handsome this close, with his nose brushing yours as your breathing became more paused. Your eyes flickered down to his mouth at the same time his lips parted. He kissed you softly barley moving until you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer as he brought you to his lap deepening the kiss. You gasped when his tongue touched yours, shivers covered your whole body as you kissed him with a desire you didn’t know you had for him.
“I hate you so much” you whispered against his lips when you separated. You were still on his lap, with his hands on your waist and yours on his neck, nails digging trough his shirt into his skin.
He laughed and before you could even recover your breath completely he kissed you again.
And you had a long night filled with kisses that tasted like beer and defeat.
Ok what about a lil fic of Remus being snappy with his gf leading up to the full moon? Just some angst and then fluffy ending with them reconciling
thank u for ur request! —remus says something he shouldn't before the full moon, and later campaigns for your forgiveness with affection and a confession. fem!reader, 1.2k
Remus lays on the couch with his forearm pressed to his eyes. It's the day before the full moon, and he feels the hours approaching like a death sentence every time. You hover in the doorway, watching, unsure of how to help. He gets the same every month (or rather, every cycle).
Irritable. So anxious he can't breathe properly, let alone enter conversation.
You hate seeing him like this. Your Remus, who spends every moment you're together trying to make sure you're as happy as you can be.
Cautious, you round the sofa to crouch by his face. You hold out your hand, trailing a gentle fingertip down the length of his arm, tripping over pinched skin ridged by scars. He's beautiful no matter what, but he gets insecure about how he looks every full moon. You know he thinks he's a monster. You've no way to prove it to him beyond this.
"Hey, handsome," you say softly. "I know you're not hungry, but I made dinner anyway if you feel up to it. And I know," —you drop your voice to a near whisper— "I know you're not in the mood, but I'm here. I can sit here and stroke your hair in silence all night if that's what you want, my love. I'll do whatever you want."
"Then leave me alone," he says.
Half snap, half firm defeat. You wince at the ire in his voice. It won't ever be nice to have someone you love speak to you like you're getting on their nerves, but you know what it is he's facing. You know this is hard for him to cope with. You can forgive him for everything if he makes it through this in one piece.
"Okay. I'm sorry. I love you, Remus."
He turns his head toward the sofa cushions.
You leave the room with a heavy heart. In the kitchen, you try to eat, but every mouthful makes you feel sick, your eyes welling with tears as you chew. You're hurt, he's hurting, and this really, really sucks.
The smell of dinner starts to amplify the nausea. You grab your plate and carry it to the back door, scraping your leftovers straight into the rubbish. You wash your plate and leave it to drip dry on the draining board, your eyes burning. You sniff, wiping your nose in your sleeve.
You're hoping desperately that Remus will come around before bed, but he stays where he is. Thinking he's finally found sleep and wanting to leave him to that blissful reprieve, you creep through the living room and down the hallway into the bedroom. Tears fall as you change into your pyjamas. You're so tired that you barely have time to cry yourself to sleep.
You're not sure how much longer it is when you wake. A familiar hand cups your cheek.
From the warmth of your skin, he's had his hand there for a while.
"I'm so sorry," Remus says.
You don't know how he knows you're awake. He must have been watching you long enough to spot the difference. Honestly, you're not sure you want to see him yet, because you love him so much, and it breaks your heart to be at the end of his disdain even when you know the cause.
You struggle to see him in the dark.
"I should never have spoken to you like that."
Your eyes close of their own accord, exhausted and sore from crying. "You didn't mean it."
"I wish you'd shout at me," he murmurs, sliding his hand over your ear. His thumb draws along the shell of your ear.
"I'm too tired," you mumble.
Remus' head shifts closer to yours. Sharing the same pillow, his hand falls to your shoulder, his arm wrapping around you, a firm bicep pressed to your front.
You let yourself lean into it. His breath warms the space between your brows.
"It's no excuse, but I… I can't think of anything else but the pain, sometimes. I get so angry about it, because I'm–" He stops short, swallowing audibly in the otherwise silent room. "I'm scared. But I would be a hundred times more terrified if I didn't have you, knowing you're there for me, unflinchingly, before and after it happens, it helps me get through it. It's not fair that you give me so much peace and I just…
"I'm sorry, dove. I don't mean to take advantage of your… heart." He says heart like he's been winded. He hadn't sounded finished, but everything stops at that word.
You force your eyes open. He's looking at you with an unspeakable amount of love, kind to keel you over if you were standing. His eyes are pitch black in the lack of light, irises melded with pupils, giving him an even sorrier gaze. You raise a sluggish hand to his where it rests behind your back and pull it back to your face. You miss his touch.
"I love you," you say.
"I know," he says, his jaw tensing in an attempt to stage off tears. "I love you, too." You watch them collect in the corners of his eyes, following one as it slides to rest in the dip of his nose bridge while he lies on his side like this.
"So don't be sorry."
"But I am sorry. I can't fathom why I think it's okay to treat you that way."
"You don't think at all, Remus. I'm not being flippant, but you're busy worrying about the worst of it." You shake your head gently. His hand twitches against your cheek. "I don't blame you."
"I know," he utters.
You stare up at him as he sits enough to tower over you. His smile is sorry, in love and ashamed. You want to tell him how it doesn't matter, that it's okay, but you're thinking maybe you need him to say it first.
"I'm sorry."
"Remus, you only told me to leave you alone."
"I need you to know that any other time, you're all that I want. You're everything. I couldn't ask for more than you. Please don't think I'm cruel," he pleads in a whisper.
You lift your chin incrementally. "I'd never think that."
His apology kiss is coddling. Like he's worried he'll hurt you, like he's holding back, he kisses you like you can't handle more than a chaste press of the lips.
"I love you," he says into it.
You lift your head to kiss him harder. You love him, and you won't break. You can be exactly as strong as he needs you to be, so long as love waits at the end of the night.
"I love you." A huff of a laugh escapes him. "Does this mean I'm forgiven?" Caution has his joke falling flat.
You nuzzle your cheek against his, knowing you'd forgiven him just as soon as he'd snapped. "If you let me stroke your hair. Did you eat your dinner?"
"I'll eat it tomorrow," he says. A white lie, you both know, but he slides down further under the sheets so you can reach his head.
You card your fingers through his hair until you've both fallen asleep.
༻¨*:· summary ·:*¨༺
you hate remus lupin, and he hates you. what happens when you get stuck in a lift together?
༻¨*:· notes ·:*¨༺
𖦹 hour two!!!!!
𖦹 enemies to ??
𖦹 forced proximity
𖦹 fem!reader
𖦹 i did not proofread this bc i'm lazy ⎝(ˊᗜˋ)⎠
༻¨*:· word count ·:*¨༺
𖦹 746
prologue / hour 1 << pt 3. -- hour 2 >> hour 3
༻¨*:· 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝟐 ·:*¨༺
You and Remus haven't spoken in thirty-seven minutes and twenty-eight seconds—not that you're counting.
"Who cares if I was whining?"
It startles you, "I do! If you're going to say I'm acting like a child, at least take accountability and say you're acting like one too."
"So you admit you were acting childish." He crosses his arms.
You scoff, "Oh, you are such a—" You stop yourself, biting your tongue.
"I'm such a what?" He taunts with a smirk like he knows he's won this battle.
But you're not ready to admit defeat, "You are such a petty asshole!"
"I'm petty? Me?" He puts his finger to his chest so hard it hurts him.
"Yes! Yes, you are! You didn't show up to my birthday, Remus! At least I got you a present for yours!"
Remus throws his head back and lets out a groan from deep within himself, "Really?! You're going to bring up your stupid birthday again?! Bringing it up is petty. You know that, right?"
"No, it's not!" You argue, "It's bringing up something that hurt me! And something you never apologized for, by the way." You cross your arms, close to stomping your foot like a child.
Remus rolls his eyes, "I had plans! You want me to apologize for having plans?!"
"You never even got me a gift! Not even a card!"
"Listen very closely," He speaks slowly, boring holes into your eyes—scorching your retinas, "You and I are not friends. We do not like one another. I threw your gift away. Okay?"
It hurts you, "You threw it away?"
"I don't like you! Why would I want something that reminds me of you?"
You look at the floor, willing tears to stay in your eyes. You will not let him see how much it hurts you, "See? Petty asshole." You say through gritted teeth.
"Fine. Believe what you want."
"Hello?" The same voice crackles through the speaker.
"Hello," You greet.
"Um," They pause, "Maintenance crew should be there in about five hours."
You're going to pry the doors open and kill yourself, you think.
"Okay. Thank you." You squeeze out before letting go of the button and screaming.
Remus's eyes go wide, and he flinches, "Upset?"
"What do you think, dick?"
He puts his hands up in surrender.
. • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆
Minutes pass before either of you speak. Remus is the one to break the silence.
"So... we're gonna be here for at least five hours."
Your eye twitches, "Wow, we've got a detective over here!" You turn to him, "Maybe they weren't lying when they said you were smart." Saccharine sarcasm drips from your tongue.
"Oh, shut up!" He lashes back, "Get off your high fucking horse!"
"You're irrelevant to me," You say, staring straight.
"You're so damn childish!"
"Shut up! Shut! Up!" You stomp your foot on the ground like a little kid who's not allowed any ice cream.
"This is gonna be fun," He mutters—it doesn't go unheard.
"Sorry, did you say something?"
"I did," He crosses his arms, "I said: 'This is going to be fun.' In case you're too dense to tell, I was being sarcastic," He says the word slowly, talking down to you. It only fuels the fire more.
"I swear to every god you believe in, I will shriek so loud it pierces your eardrums, and you go deaf!"
"Go ahead! If I go deaf, I'll never have to hear your stupid voice again, and I will cheer, and I will celebrate, and I will throw a party!" His face is red at the end of his rant, and you swear there's steam coming out of his ears.
Your smile is taunting, "That was quite amusing."
"Shut up!" He's growing restless, and it's only egging you on further.
"Oh, you want me to shut up?"
"I would love for you to shut up."
"Fine," You cross your arms, "Let's play the silent game. Whoever wins gets to slap the other person in the face."
"I'm not going to slap you."
You light up, "I guess you'll just have to let me win."
"Fine. But no slapping hard."
You light up and clench your fists in anticipation.
"Okay, no punches either," Remus says, glimpsing at your hands with a worried smile.
"Sorry!" You flex your hands out, "I'm just so excited!" You're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
'What a cute smile,' Remus thinks right before he gets slapped in the face—metaphorically and literally.
༻¨*:· summary ·:*¨༺
you hate remus lupin, and he hates you. what happens when you get stuck in a lift together?
༻¨*:· notes ·:*¨༺
𖦹 hour one!!!!!
𖦹 enemies to ??
𖦹 forced proximity
𖦹 fem!reader
𖦹 i did not proofread this bc i'm lazy ⎝(ˊᗜˋ)⎠
༻¨*:· word count ·:*¨༺
𖦹 184
prologue << pt. 2 -- hour 1 >> hour 2
༻¨*:· 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝟏 ·:*¨༺
You both silently stand in the lift. Then, the lights flicker. You flinch, and Remus laughs. You glare at him, "What's so funny?"
"Nothing." He replies, still wearing a grin.
You scoff and roll your eyes.
The lights flicker again, and your anxiety spikes.
What if the lift is breaking?
What if we get trapped in here?
What if we die?
What if—
And then it happens. The lift shakes and comes to a halt. Remus seems to be amused by the situation—Cheshire Cat grin spread across his face. You wonder if he's excited that you are so obviously in distress.
"What's so amusing, Lupin?"
"Nothing." He repeats.
"No," You challenge, "I think you find something funny. What is it?"
"You get scared so easily. 'S pathetic, frankly."
You gawp at him, "Sorry that I'm not a fan of being stuck in a lift!"
"Pft," He scoffs, "You think we're actually stuck?"
"Remus, we are not moving. Yes, I think we're stuck!"
You push the emergency button, and a voice comes through the speaker, "Hello?"
"Hi, um, so we're stuck in this lift."
"Okay…" You hear the clack of a keyboard, "I'll call maintenance." And he's gone.
"You have a funny customer service voice." Remus observes.
"Customer service voice?" You ask.
"Yeah. The voice you put on when talking to strangers, you know? Hello, how are you today?" He says in a chipper tone.
"Oh. Yeah."
You're not sure why he's making small talk—he hates you. And then it dawns on you; he's making fun of you, and you vow to give him the silent treatment.
You stay silent for roughly three minutes.
"I don't understand why you feel the need to make fun of me."
"Make fun of you?"
You irritably sigh, "Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about."
"Maybe it's because you're insufferable. Ever thought about that?"
it goes straight to your heart.
He puts his finger in the air, "And don't act like you don't do the same thing."
"I only do it because you do it first."
"God!" He dramatically folds at the waist, slumping his shoulders, "You're so petulant!"
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