Eddie hates Tuesdays. Nothing good has ever happened on a Tuesday.
It’d been a Tuesday when he’d ran away from home the first time, a Tuesday when he’d run away from home the third time (and the fourth and finally, the last time, the fifth). It’d been a Tuesday the first time he’d gotten shoved into a locker, the first time someone had loudly and publicly pointed out the worn state of his clothes. And, case in point, just last Tuesday he’d found out he’s currently failing English. No surprise there really, but it still proves his point.
Tuesday’s unequivocally suck.
But it’s a Tuesday when Harrington, Wheeler, and Byers walk through the school doors together, heads bent close as if the entire school body hasn’t just frozen in place to watch this fever dream of a trio walk through the doors.
Eddie’s guilty of freezing as well, despite how hard he tries to not care about any of the stupid school politics. His hand’s suspended in mid-air where he was reaching for….reaching for something. He doesn’t fucking know.
The fever dream trio are still walking up the hall, whispering to each other so low Eddie can’t hear them despite how quiet it’s gotten. In fact, they’re doing such a good job of pretending to not notice the stares that they almost convince him they haven’t noticed at all. Such a fantastic fucking job that he almost misses the tension sitting tight in Harrington’s shoulders, the white knuckled grip Wheeler has on the strap of her bag, the anxious creases around Byers eyes as he presses against Wheeler’s side. They’re all painfully aware of the staring, they’re just doing a remarkably good job of ignoring it.
Or at least they are, until Harrington glances around, real casual like, and ends up making direct eye contact with Eddie.
If you asked him later what he’d thought was going to happen, he’d have told you nothing, nothing at fucking all. Because Steve Harrington was a bully but he didn’t bother singling people out, that was a job delegated to good ‘ole Tommy & Carol. But this version of King fucking Steve, a boy who’s never paid a lick of fucking attention to Eddie past the dismissive glances he’s swept across everyone who was beneath him, this fucking version of Harrington goes bone white, flinching sideways into Wheeler, eyes wide with something Eddie doesn’t have the brain capacity to decipher at the moment.
Eddie, Harrington mouths, silent and yet somehow louder than any shout. Eddie stares back, blank and uncomprehending (and something, he doesn’t know what, but something in Harrington’s eyes shatters). Wheeler grabs his arm, trying to pull him along, eyes darting to Eddie and away like she’s scared to let her eyes linger for too long.
“You know we can’t, Steve,” she hisses, they’re close enough for him to hear this time. “Let’s go.”
Byers moves to Harrington’s other side and gently ushers him along, his gaze sweeping the length of Eddie —his falling apart shoes, the frayed ends of his jeans, the pins on his vests, his frizzy curls — eyes curious as he takes him in. He doesn’t know what Byers sees but his eyes go a little sad right before he turns away.
He wants to call it pity but he knows the Byers are nearly as hard off as he and Wayne. So really, he’s still just as lost as he was five minutes ago. He’s just lost. He fucking hates feeling lost.
Eddie stays standing in front of his locker until the first bell rings, blankly staring at the spot where Harrington’s mouth had shaped his name like a prayer he’d forgotten the words to. It’s a Tuesday and that means math and English questions he doesn’t understand and history quizzes and PE and running which he hates.
It’s a fucking Tuesday and the most interesting thing to happen in Hawkins in years somehow involves him and it doesn’t make any fucking sense.
Wheeler is a priss. She’s a straight-A student, on track to be valedictorian. A straight-laced girl who should fit into all the neatly labeled boxes Eddie had mentally placed her in years ago. But her voice as she’d hissed at Harrington had been tired and full of iron.
Byers is a loner, an outcast just like Eddie. He’s always been alone though. No hellfire, no makeshift friend group that could fall apart at a moment's notice. But he’d been leaning into Wheeler like she was his last stand, the hill he would die on given half a chance and a sword sharp enough.
And Harrington. Steve fucking Harrington. Well, he makes the least sense of all. If you’d asked Eddie yesterday if Harrington would be caught dead hanging out with Byers he’d have said not a chance in hell.
But clearly, hell is high school and Steve Harrington is alive just to piss Eddie off. Because Harrington’s arm had been flung around Wheeler’s shoulder, loose and unassuming, his body language open and inviting except for the tension hiding in his shoulders. He’d smiled at Byers with teeth, bright and happy, right before he’d turned and seen—
Before he’d turned and looked at Eddie like he was seeing a ghost or an angel like the ones the preachers forgot Revelations described. He’d mouthed Eddie’s name like it was something that belonged in his mouth. Like he had some divine right to it when Eddie had never made him a prophet, had never made him anything at all.
Eddie doesn’t understand what’s going on but he’s never been one to let sleeping dogs lie. Far be it for him to start now.
I've no idea if I'll ever finish tbh but I'm so in love with this first part and I just feel like it's a crime that I haven't shared it and maybe sharing this part will give me some kind of motivation to freaking finish it
Sometimes, when Robin thinks of Starcourt, she thinks that the excruciatingly long silence between Steve saying, but Tammy Thompson’s a girl, and him steamrolling his way into being her friend, was the most terrifying part.
She can still vividly, painfully remember the taste of bile still sour on the back of her tongue, her skin sweaty and sticking to the cool tile. Remembers Steve's face mottled and bruised, the sick fear that had still been settled in her bones because she'd thought he was going to die strapped to a chair. She’d thought there was a dead boy in the making pressed against her back and she'd been so fucking scared.
Sometimes, she blames the fear for the way she’d sat in that bathroom and thought, god, I wish I could, I wish I could like you the way you want me to, I wish. Other times she just calls it what it was — the undying wish of a child who couldn't understand why she couldn't just be normal.
The silence had been the worst part though. His eyes a thousand miles away as he worked through whatever he was working through. She’d never asked and he’d never said. Just as he’d never brought up his crush again and she’d never been able to bring herself to ask if it had really been that easy.
But she still thinks about the silence and the way he’d said oh, like there was some kind of holiness hiding in the bathroom with them.
She spends a lot of time, too much time really, thinking about what would have happened if she'd said nothing at all. Telling him had worked out in her favor, it had, and she can't regret it, not when she knows what their blood looks like mingled together. She never regrets him. But she wonders sometimes…
It was a foolish thing to do. She'd known it then and she knows it now. And the truth of it all, irony intended, is that by that point the drugs hadn't been strong enough to make her answer anything. She'd answered because she'd wanted to. Because she'd thought they were genuinely going to die under the fucking mall far too many times that day and she was scared and just wanted to put it out there. Just wanted someone to know.
She needed, someone, to know.
It'd still been foolish. She could have asked Steve a different question, one that didn't lead to an inevitability she saw coming. And later he would have brought up the crush and she would have let him down as easy as she could and they would have both gone their separate ways.
That would have been the smart choice. But it's also the choice that leaves her feeling sick and like at any moment she'll throw up, start sobbing like someone she loves has died. She hasn't sobbed since she was seven years old, not in a way that counts, not in a way that you can feel through to your bones. But the idea of walking away from this friendship makes her want to throw herself onto the floor and just sob until someone knocks her out. And then she’s back to the tunnels, to the gleaming white walls, the silence, and the pliers and the needles.
It's all just fucking terrifying is what it is.
But, it's like, so many people say they'd die for their friends. So many. It's like, the staple of friendships all over the world, it's in movies, in books — and everyone just believes it because, of course, you never really want to find out if it's true.
Robin knows that it's true. Knows that if it came down to it she'd do the exact same fucking thing. Knows that there's an entire miniature community strung through Hawkins (and a few in California now too) that would die for each other. She hasn't spoken a word to Nancy Wheeler since Starcourt, but she knows that if the monsters came back tomorrow Nancy would be there to fight them too.
But for Steve, for Robin, it hadn't been monsters at first. It'd just been humans torturing them for information they didn't have. Dustin and Erica had needed time and they'd provided it. Steve would have provided it on his own if Robin had left him to hold the door alone. She hadn’t, but she could have. She never forgets that she could have.
She’s sure Steve’s already erased that particular fact from his memory. He never holds the things he should against her. She’s grateful for it and furious about it all in the same breath.
Listen, just, the point is… the point is, Robin loves Steve so much it scares her. She didn't know you could love someone this much.
Because, when Robin thinks of Starcourt, yes, she thinks of the silence, but she also thinks of the laughter, and really, isn't that what matters? In the end, isn't it the laughter, the joy, that persists?
Isn’t it Steve scoffing at a joke in the car while he drives her to school, rolling his eyes when Tammy Thompson walks into the auditorium, laughing until he chokes when Robin recounts a story to him as they shelve videos — isn’t that what’s going to persist? The joy of it all.
Robin smiles, dramatically flings herself off of Steve’s couch just to watch him crack up, and thinks, rest of my life, you and me, hell or high water, this, this joy, this love, is always going to last.
Atlantaaa beloved 💜👀 will you please write number 10 for the siken fic prompt game?
10. i want to tell you this story without having to confess anything.
from the richard siken ask meme
This is part of the same fic/verse as my smile, your ghost
I could decide for a bit if I want this to be what I shared for this prompt and then I remembered I love torturing people emotionally so here we are <3
October 29th & 30th, 1983 - Elm Street - Buckley Residence
Robin dreams of ice cream over the weekend. Two nights in a row, the sweet chilly slide of chocolate chip and cookie dough and pistachio all slipping down her throat. The dream is a kaleidoscope of swirling blues and reds, an ever persistent ice cream truck jingle playing in the background.
It should be a happy dream, she’s sure of that. It’s just her never-ending desire for school to be out, for summer to be closer than it is. It should be happy. Should be sticky heat and the blue blue blue of the pool. Instead she wakes up both nights with her heart a frantic drum, stomach threatening to rebel.
Both times there’s a word caught on the back of her tongue, some magical key that will unlock the universe if she could only hold onto the shape of it for just a few seconds longer.
She doesn’t manage it though. Spends Sunday desperately, achingly sad. A grief that settles so far under her skin that she cries herself to sleep because she knows, she knows, she knows something is wrong.
Sunday night she dreams of a carousel on the beach, cotton candy clouds and a girl who spins her ‘round and ‘round, curls dancing on the wind. When she wakes up the grief has vanished and she tucks it away, resolves to not think about whatever strangeness took over her body.
She thinks of the girl though, her fingers wrapped tight around Robin’s. Thinks of spinning around and around on a beach. It had felt like a memory, something she should be able to remember if she would only try just a little bit harder.
But of course, there’s nothing there to remember, and so instead she’s stuck with nostalgia for something that will never happen
November 3rd, 1983 - Hawkins High School
The first semester of sophomore year, during second period, Robin sits behind Steve Harrington because she’s unlucky like that. Really, she’d chosen a seat, and then for whatever reason, he’d chosen the seat in front of her. She’d thought about moving, but by the time she’d decided, all the other seats were taken.
It’s not as bad as it could be, she knows this. He doesn’t talk to her, and really, she thinks that’s the bare minimum she could ask of him. To be honest, she’s not entirely convinced he knows she exists, despite sitting her sitting right behind him. Which suits her fine, but also leaves her with a bitter aftertaste.
Or, at least, she thinks he doesn’t know she exists, until he turns around two minutes before class starts, and says, “Hi.”
She blinks, looks behind herself only to find an empty desk. He’s still staring expectantly at her when she turns back around, and the moment feels twisted, like it got compressed and is struggling to shake itself back out. Steve Harrington is talking to her.
“Hi… ,” she says back, unable to help the way her eyes narrow or her mouth twists the word into an insult.
His face, well it, it’s weird, the way his mouth collapses in on itself, his eyes somewhere far away and yet, somehow, still completely focused on her. Weird, in the most unnerving way.
He sweeps a hand through his hair but doesn’t say anything else, and it takes her another minute, but the connection finally slips into place. She knows what this must be. She knows and her stomach turns over and she wants to throw up all over his stupid button-up shirt.
“I’m really not interested,” she says, trying so hard to sound casual and not like she’s one second away from panic. “Sorry.” She’s not.
He blinks, eyes going wide. He leans back a bit and then leans forward again. “No, I— I mean, that’s not why I said hi. I just wanted to… say hello, since I’ve been sitting in front of you all semester and haven’t and I—” He shrugs. “Well, I should have.”
She can’t stop staring, mouth dropped open in disbelief. “You wanted to say hi?”
He shrugs again, nearly disguising the way his shoulders had hiked up to his ears for a second. “Yeah. Sorry. I’ll just…” he trails off miserably, gives her another strange look, and then just, turns back around. His shoulders cave in as he plants his elbows on the desk.
He doesn’t look up from his book the entire class and is the first one out the door when the bell rings. Robin, inexplicably, watches his vanishing back, looks back at his desk, and thinks, I wonder what kind of ice cream he likes.
This is not when she realizes that something weird is going on, but it should have been.
----
It isn’t until fifteen minutes into her next class that she remembers Steve and Nancy Wheeler and Jonathan Byers (of all freaking people) are friends now. The thought itches, twisting into freezing barbed wire, and her feet are itching with the urge to go hunt Steve down. To demand some kind of explanation.
But what does she even want an explanation for? (And why does her throat hurt and why does she feel like crying and WHY can’t she stop thinking about fucking ice cream.)
4,122 | T+ | No Archive Warnings Apply
Sam Wilson/Bucky Barnes
For @magicinavalon
Spotify Playlist can be found here
Bucky Barnes is a dead man’s shadow that comes back to him in waves.
In the weeks that follow D.C. and the first wave breaking across the shore, he thinks to himself that he should run as far from the ocean as he can get. He doesn’t want to drown, is only just beginning to surface, but it’s been so long since he was allowed to want anything at all.
He thinks, I should run, but instead, he lets the rip currents drag him where they will and finds his feet haunting Brooklyn cobblestones once again.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Glitch snippet because this fic is killing me and I need other people to suffer with me
“How do you two know each other anyways?” Eddie asks as casually as he can, sauntering forward to lean against the counter. He half expects Harrington to jump back, push him off the counter, something about not wanting to get infected by freaks. But Harrington just plants his elbows on the counter and blinks up at him, eyes wide and clear.
“I babysat him for a while,” Harrington says easy as anything, like that isn’t the most blatant lie Eddie has ever heard. “We’re close, he’s like the little brother I never needed or wanted.” Harrington shrugs, eyes creased with fondness and fuck, Eddie doesn’t want to believe it.
He really, really doesn’t want to believe it. But he’s pretty fucking great at spotting when people are lying, and yeah, he’s pretty sure if he rolled for insight right now he’d find that Harrington is absolutely hiding something, but he’s not lying. He’s genuinely fond of the kid.
“Well aren’t you just full of surprises,” he says flatly. He must sound more bitter than he’d meant to because Harrington’s face shutters and he straightens with a strained smile.
“So I’ve been told,” Harrington says, and Eddie hadn’t even realized the King Steve mask was truly gone until it was carefully slipped back into place. “Let me know if you need help finding anything,” and then he just goes back to sorting through a cart of videos like Eddie isn’t still standing there watching him.
Now see, here’s the thing about Steve Harrington --- he makes Eddie’s bones vibrate, makes his whole damn chest feel like he’s choking on pop rocks and coca-cola. He wants to throw up, wants to shove his fingers in Steve’s hair and pull. Wants to get in his face again and call him big boy, real low and intimate, just the two of them, just so he can see what pretty shade of red takes over Steve's face. Wants to categorize ever shade of red, every bitten lip, every sharp inhale turned blush.
The thing about Steve goddamn Harrington, is that there is a thing at all, and Eddie hates it. Loves how he hates it and hates how he loves it. Wants to shove Steve back up against a wall, his hands the only weapon he needs. He wants to shove his way beneath Steve’s skin until there’s no space left between them, veins and blood and breath all becoming one. Wants to get his mouth on Steve’s pulse and swallow it whole.
See, the thing, is that Eddie knows he’s always too fucking intense about people. Knows that this would be a problem even if he were apple pie, picket fence straight as the rod they smack you with in church. Knows it’s even more of a problem considering the only straight thing about him is his spine, and even that’s starting to curve under the weight of this week.
Merlin/Lancelot | 1,238 | Gen | no archive warnings apply
It goes like this --
Merlin wakes up one day and catches himself looking at Lancelot, tracing the curve of his jaw, and thinks, if Arthur was not a religion that I've willingly pledged myself to, then maybe. . . maybe it could've been you.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
......you know how i feel about this fic already you little gremlin child ugh
smoke patterns....what can i say about smoke patterns except that it has been a thorn in my ass for way too fucking long
I've been working on this fic off and on for well over a year now, it hates me, i hate it, except i wrote such good stuff for it that I have to finish it eventually or it's a goddamn fucking crime ugh
have a snippet i guess
“Do you think,” Arthur says finally, voice low and troubled. “Do you think that I am ready to be King?”
“Yes.” It slips out before he can even think it through. Slips out soft and earnest and ringing with everything Merlin is too scared to put into words. “Yes, of course.”
“Don’t lie to me, Merlin,” he says, and Arthur sounds tired. Sounds like the weight of the world has somehow shifted from his shoulders to Arthur’s and he wants it back.
He never wanted to hear Arthur sound like that. “I’m not lying.” He pulls his horse up short, staring at Arthur seriously when he halts as well and meets Merlin’s eyes. “If you had to take the throne today, you would be a great king. You are ready---” and he means it, every word. Thinks of Kilgaharrah’s incriminating words and wonders if they weren’t true. “---and I’m grateful that you won’t be forced to bear that duty so early in your life, but you are ready.”
Arthur stares at him for a long time.
He does his best to not fidget, to stay still and hold Arthur’s gaze, but it’s heavy and assessing in a way that Arthur seldom is. The trees are shuddering, a golden leaf settling on Arthur’s shoulder and balancing there.
Arthur stares for a long time.
“You’re wrong,” he says eventually tilting his head back to stare at the sky, and Merlin follows the long line of his throat, listens to the slow thrum of his own heart and thinks this is what a reckoning feels like. “A king who believes himself to be ready is ill-suited for the throne. No one is ever ready.”
“But, a king who is believed in by his people is well-suited,” he counters.
Arthur straightens, looking him in the eye. “Then my father is ill-suited indeed,” he says softly, lips quirking sadly. “By both our accounts it would seem.”
He says nothing. Only stares back, pulse flickering like a wildfire beneath his skin. Wonders if Arthur is thinking of the throne room and it’s thick silence, the point of a blade pressed to Uther’s chest. He’s not ready, he’d told Kilgaharrah, but what he’d meant was --- I don’t want to lose him to the throne.
I don’t want to lose to him to Albion. I want him to remain mine, only mine.
What’d he’d meant was --- I want him. Albion doesn’t deserve him, and neither do I, but for now he’s mine.
Please, let it stay that way. Just for a little longer, let him lay his sword in my lap to clean and I will lay my magic at his feet.
He thinks the time of Arthur’s reign is approaching, and he’d give anything to slow it down.
