I’m Persephone and a lover of horror, fantasy, and sci-fi. Tumblr is definitely a space that is just my own and separate from my day to day life. My personality is INFP. I’m a Cancer. Total Introvert and Highly Sensitive Person, as well. I’ve been a Tumblr lurker and reblogger for a little bit, but recently decided to branch out a bit more and post some original content. Decided to try my hand at mood boards as a bit of an outlet. And I’m slowly posting fics. Hope you enjoy!
I am part of multiple fandoms. My current fixations are Harry Potter and Stranger Things but I also love some of the Choices fandom, Stephen King, Clive Barker, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. You are welcome to send me suggestions or requests and I’ll try to accommodate.
I am a multishipper. I’m curious enough to read nearly any ship at least once in the fandoms I enjoy. If I like what I’m reading, I’ll read more. I definitely have my preferences, but I do respect others preferred ships and avoid any anti discourse. I’m a firm believer in if you don’t like a ship (or trope, or kink, or character) then don’t read and move on. So please be respectful and kind.
~Comments, likes, and reblogs are welcome! Please no reposts without permission. Thanks so much!!
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chaotic good time traveler Steve would, I believe, eventually devolve into matchmaking. Steve is a guy who truly does believe in teamwork, and strategy, and playing to each other’s strengths. People think he’s gonna be the guy who always wants to score the winning shot but he really just wants what is best for the team. And what is best for the team is loving each other: and if he has to help that along a little but then by all means, It is what he was BORN FOR
Steve Harrington comes up to Jonathan after school one day. It’s surprising, since Jonathan stayed late to develop photos, and there’s no one else in the parking lot. Jonathan feels the bottom of his stomach drop out as he realizes they are alone.
“Byers,” Harrington greets, a little out of breath. His hair is windswept like he’s been waiting outside for a while. “How’s it going?”
Jonathan stares.
Steve nods. “Yeah, cool, cool,” he continues as if Jonathan has replied. “Listen, have you thought about joining the school newspaper?”
“What?”
“You take photos,” Harrington points out. “Good ones. All artistic. Gonna waste all talent that on just the yearbook?” Jonathan doesn’t even get time to realize Steve has complimented him before he’s steamrolling on. “Besides, newspaper work helps with, like, investigative skills, right? That’ll be really useful. In the future.”
“it…will?” Jonathan asks.
Harrington blanches, oddly, and runs his hands through his hair. “Uh. Yeah. For like…career…opportunities?”
“Anyway, as long as you don’t take creepy photos through people’s windows,” Steve shoots him a strange look, “you’ve got a good eye and you should use it. Besides, Nancy Wheeler just signed up. You guys would make a really good team. You’d pair up well.”
“are you trying to get me to hang out with your girlfriend?” Jonathan is bewildered.
“not my girlfriend,” Harrington says, reassuring like he thinks it matters to Jonathan. “Flirt-partner. Flirt-receiver? She hasn’t really given me any signals one way or another yet.” Then he perks up and smiles at Jonathan. “But that means she’s not my girlfriend or anything. Someone else could step in.”
Jonathan feels like he’s stepped into a bizarre other world. “Sorry, you want me to flirt with Nancy instead?”
“You’d be a good match,” Harrington says, grinning like he’s making any kind of sense. Was this some kind of trap? A way to have a reason to beat Jonathan up?
“I don’t think I can steal your girlfriend, Harrington,” Jonathan says, cautious. What is he supposed to do to win Nancy Wheeler over? He’s never spoken to her before.
Steve claps him on the shoulder, looks him dead in the eye and says, very seriously, “not with that kind of attitude, you can’t. We’ll work on it, Byers.”
When Robin and Eddie and Nancy finally get too curious and get their hands on Steve Harrington’s new super secret notebook they find the world’s most unhinged, harebrained to-do list:
Make the twerps like me so they know they’re safe with me and they don’t need to fight monsters alone because HELLO! BAD IDEA!!
ask Munson to teach me d&d so the twerps like me. Why are they doing math for fun?? Dweebs
explain to Munson that he’s wrong about what a demogorgon is
become best friends with Robin? Or maybe I should keep her out of it this time around??
start a babysitting service. Get gas money out of it this time!!
self defense classes???
Tell Byers he needs to keep an eye on his brother because who the hell lets a kid bike home through the woods in the rain at night
Steve sitting at Eddie’s kitchen table while Eddie shows him a lovingly hand painted miniature.
“so this is a demogorgon.”
Steve, staring at a two-headed baboon: “mm. No it’s not.”
“what? Yes it is!” Eddie is outraged. King Steve shows up out of nowhere, barges into Eddie’s trailer acting like he knows the place, asks a million questions about d&d (which Eddie didn’t even realize Steve Harrington knew existed), and then refuses to learn anything about it!
“no, see,” Steve says, grabbing a spare character sheet; he draws right on it, ignoring Eddie’s outraged squawk. He draws a big daisy with teeth all over the petals.
Eddie looks at the drawing. Looks at Steve. Looks at the drawing.
“that’s a demogorgon,” Steve says.
“no it is not.”
“Yes it is.” He points at the smaller stick figure beside it helpfully. “That’s me. I’m there for size comparison.”
Steve Harrington walks into Mrs. Click’s classroom, sans bagel, and beelines for his seat. He’s early for the first time all year. there’s hardly anyone ready in their seats yet. Tommy H. And Carol try to wave him over to their corner but he doesn’t even turn his head.
Steve drops into his seat and flings his bag down. He pulls out a brand new notebook, a sleek pen, and nothing else. He immediately turns to stare Robin in the eye. Lost, Robin stares back. She tries to greet him but ends up squeaking instead. Ouch.
“I would never date Tammy Thompson in a million years.” Steve Harrington tells Robin. She chokes. Then, with a completely serious expression, Steve flips his notebook open, clicks his pen, and asks, “So. What’s the best way to break into a secret government facility?”
Robin wonders if someone laced the drinking water this morning. “Wh-what?”
“It’s not a military base,” Harrington assures her. “More mad scientist lab.”
Robin goggles at him.
He turns and straddles his seat so they’re face to face. This does not ease Robin’s rising panic. Tommy and the other jocks from the basketball team are whispering. Steve taps his pen on her desk. “Come on, Buckley. Ideas. You’re an idea woman, right?”
“I am?”
Steve grins at her, wide and bright and genuine. She’s never seen him smile like that. She blinks. “That’s why they pay you the big bucks.”
Robin says nothing. She can’t say anything. She’s incapable of speech at the moment.
Steve shift like he’s aware he’s losing the crowd. His smile wavers at the edges, but he wiggles his eyebrows. “Get it? Bucks?”
“Bucks.”
“Like Buckley?”
How does Steve Harrington know her name??
Steve sighs when Mrs. Click calls for attention but turns around and sinks down in his seat. Robin is not subjected to an avalanche of bagel crumbs this morning. He doesn’t ask inane questions. She watches as he barely glances up all class, scribbling in that weird notebook.
When the bell rings, they both jump. Robin scrambles to leave first but before she’s even out of her seat Harrington jumps up. He claps his hands, points at her, and exclaims, “Just because they’re not military doesn’t mean they won’t have military grade defenses.”
“You did say it was government run,” Robin agrees. Has Harrington lost his mind? Has she lost her own mind?
“Good thinking, Buckley,” Steve nods. “Don’t sweat Tammy too much. You’re better than a muppet.”
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In the autumn of 1986, an earthquake tore the small town in two. The fissures left behind stretched for miles, deeper than anyone could explain, and something emerged from within them.
At first, no one could agree on what to call them. Creatures. Things. The town's own dead, now baring the teeth of something else, feeding the way no ordinary animal fed. What mattered was that they hunted, and that ordinary bullets did little to stop them.
Amid the rubble, rescue teams found a young man, twenty-one years old, his body mangled in ways that should have killed him twice over. He didn't die; not entirely, at least. He changed.
By the time the fever finally broke, whatever had entered him during those chaotic first nights had taken up permanent residence.
Amid sobs and guttural screams, researchers learned that he craved blood just like the creatures did, yet he refused to consume it, trying to hold onto the last thread connecting him to his humanity.
It didn't take long for the government to come for him. One look at what he had survived was enough for them to realize, faster than anyone cared to admit, exactly what he could be used for.
They didn't ask for permission. They never do.
Since then, the boy has fought their war, bound by a leash he has been trying to gnaw through for over forty years. Every mission comes with a handler. Every kill is recorded, cataloged, filed away, and used against him should he step out of line. He hates them, and they know it, yet none of that has ever stopped them from sending him back into the field whenever the need arose.
Forty-three years later, the fissures remain, fenced off and largely forgotten by everyone except those paid to remember them. The creatures never truly went away. They simply learned to hide better, within the walls of the world the rest of us built upon the rubble.
And Eddie Munson never stopped being their weapon. He just never allowed that to make him their property.
The strobe light made the dancers' movements appear slow, exposing their next move as if in a shop window, making Eddie's job easier.
He watched the ice melt in the golden liquid, thinking about how much he missed the days when you could smoke a cigarette inside a bar. He checked his watch one more time before downing the drink and slamming the glass onto the counter harder than intended, causing his head to snap toward the girl faster than he had meant to.
"Shit, sorry," he said, already reaching for a napkin that wasn't going to help anything. His eyes went to your face before the words had even finished leaving his mouth, cataloguing, quick and involuntary, the way you'd flinched at the noise and recovered faster than he had.
"You always announce yourself like that, or is tonight special?"
"Depends. You always this generous with strangers who almost give you a heart attack?"
"You didn't almost give me a heart attack. You gave me a mild inconvenience and a wet bar towel." You were already mopping up the spill, not even looking at him now, which he found more irritating than it should've been. "Different tier of crime."
"Noted. I'll aim higher next time."
"Please don't."
That got a laugh out of him, short, real, surprised loose before he could stop it. You looked up at that, like the sound itself was the interesting part, not the joke.
"You laugh like it's illegal," you said.
"Rusty. Don't get much practice."
"Tragic backstory, or you're just no fun at parties?"
"Bit of both." He leaned into the bar, the empty glass forgotten between them. "You always interrogate the customers, or am I special?"
"You spilled first. That's a confession, not an interrogation."
"Semantics."
"Bar rules."
He was smiling now, actually smiling, the kind he didn't usually let anyone clock this early, and you were fighting one back too, badly, hating how easy it was. For a second the club noise dropped away into something smaller: just the two of you and the dumb rhythm of it, back and forth, neither one willing to lose first.
Then the earpiece crackled.
"Two o'clock, VIP booth. Confirmed, both of them. Don't make a scene, Munson."
The smile didn't leave his face right away. That was the trick of it, keeping it there a beat too long while everything underneath it went cold and procedural. His eyes flicked past your shoulder, toward the back of the room, and something in his jaw set.
"To be continued," he said, already pulling back, already somewhere else.
"I'm here till four."
That stopped him for half a step, just half a step, like he hadn't expected you to just take the bait instead of fighting him for the last word. Something flickered across his face, quick and unguarded, before the grin caught up and covered it.
"Four," he repeated, like he was filing it away somewhere. "Don't fall asleep on me."
"Don't take that long."
He laughed again, that same rusty, surprised sound, already walking backward, already somewhere else in his head even as his eyes stayed on you a beat longer than the rest of him did.
You watched him cross the floor, something different in his walk now, some looseness gone out of it, heading toward a roped-off booth where two women sat laughing too loud, too bright, their smiles just a little too sharp under the strobing lights.
He didn't sit. He leaned into the booth's edge like he owned it, one hand braced on the back of the seat, and said something you couldn't hear over the bass. Whatever it was, it worked; both women were laughing within seconds, one of them tilting her head to bare her neck in that unconscious way people did when they wanted to be looked at.
You told yourself you weren't watching. You kept wiping the same six inches of bar.
He slid into the booth between them, easy, unhurried, an arm along the back of the seat like he had nowhere else to be. From here it looked like nothing: a guy who talked his way into good company, the kind of scene that played out in every club in the city on any given Friday. But you noticed the way his eyes kept doing a slow sweep of the room between sentences, cataloguing exits the way you'd caught him doing at the bar. You noticed he never quite relaxed into the seat, no matter how loose his shoulders looked.
One of the women leaned closer. Eddie smiled. Then his gaze dropped, just briefly, to the pulse beating beneath her jaw. Something tightened behind his eyes. He swallowed. When he looked back up, the expression was gone.
The lights swept red-blue-red across the booth, and for a second, just a second, gone before you could be sure you'd seen it, his eyes weren't quite right. Too dark, maybe. Too still, in a face that hadn't stopped moving all night.
Then the lights swept past, and it was gone, and you decided you'd imagined it.
One of the girls laughed and stood, tugging his hand, pulling him toward the edge of the dance floor where the crowd was thickest, a knot of bodies moving too fast for anyone to track who was where. He went easily, grinning, playing his part all the way down.
You lost him in the crowd for a second. Two seconds.
When you found him again, only one girl was still standing.
It happened so fast you'd spend weeks afterward convinced you'd blinked and missed the middle of it: one second his hand was at her throat, gentle, almost tender, tilting her head like he was about to kiss her neck instead of what he actually did, which you never saw clearly enough to name. The strobe caught it in freeze-frames: his hand. Her spine going rigid. Something metal, small, gone before you could track where it had been. The way her whole body went from tension to nothing between one flash of light and the next, and how he was already moving, already easing her down into the crowd like she'd simply had too much to drink, like he was just a good guy making sure a stranger didn't fall.
No one screamed. No one even turned to look. The crowd swallowed it whole, the way it swallowed everything, and the bass never missed a beat.
Your hand had stopped moving on the bar. You didn't remember it stopping.
The second girl was gone; you hadn't seen her leave, couldn't say when, and something about that scared you more than anything you'd actually witnessed. Eddie surfaced from the crowd alone a moment later, straightening his jacket, rolling his shoulders like a man walking off a long shift. He didn't look shaken. He didn't look like anything at all.
Then he found you across the room, and for half a second, before the grin slid back into place, you saw exactly what you'd seen at the bar right before the earpiece crackled: something tired, something old, something that didn't belong on a face that young.
He started toward the exit, then stopped. His hand slipped into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulled out a battered pack of cigarettes, and tapped one loose against his knuckles before holding the pack up in your direction, not quite an invitation, more a statement of intent. You frowned at him. He lifted one eyebrow, the question implicit, and you glanced toward the door before you could talk yourself out of it and untied your apron.
The cold hit you first, a real cold, the kind that got into your throat after the wet heat of the club, air that tasted like rain that hadn't quite decided to fall. He was already leaning against the brick a few feet from the door, cigarette between two fingers, the ember flaring orange each time he drew on it and lighting the underside of his face for half a second before fading again.
"You smoke?" he asked, not looking over.
"No."
He turned his head slowly, taking you in properly for the first time without the strobe lights cutting the image into pieces. Something in his expression rearranged itself, like he was recalculating. "Then what exactly are you doing out here, freezing, with a man you spilled a drink on ten minutes ago?"
"You spilled the drink on yourself."
"Details." He tilted his head, a slow once-over that wasn't subtle and didn't pretend to be. "Careless of you, though. Following strange men outside."
"You're the bartender's boss now?"
"I'd let you boss me around." He said it easy, like it cost him nothing, but something flickered under it that suggested it cost him more than he was letting on. "Occupational hazard of being this charming, people follow me places."
"Confidence like that should be illegal."
"I've been told." He took a drag, watching you over the ember. "You gonna tell me your name, or am I earning that later?"
"You haven't earned much yet."
"Give me till four. I'm a fast learner."
You felt the smile before you could stop it, and hated a little how easy that was. "You're very sure of yourself for a man who just apologized to me twice."
"I contain multitudes." He exhaled smoke away from you, a small courtesy that felt bigger than it should've. "Also I'm sure of you. Different thing."
"You don't know me."
"No." His eyes held yours a beat too long, something serious slipping under the charm before he could catch it. "Working on it, though."
You crossed your arms against the cold, mostly to have something to do with your hands. Up close, without the strobe cutting him into fragments, you noticed the details the club light had hidden: the ring on his thumb, the small white scar through one eyebrow, the way his eyes actually crinkled when the grin was real instead of professional. He smelled like leather and whatever he'd been drinking and, underneath that, something warmer, something that made you want to stand slightly closer than you needed to.
"You're staring," he said, not unkindly.
"You're the one who followed me outside."
"You followed me."
"You held up the cigarettes like a dare."
"Worked, didn't it." He smiled around the cigarette, and for a second, just a second, it wasn't performance. It was something looser and more surprised, like he hadn't planned on meaning it.
Neither of you said anything for a while after that, and the silence didn't feel like a gap that needed filling. The music was still going inside, muffled through brick and glass into something you felt more than heard. You watched the cigarette burn down between his fingers, the ash gathering in a fragile gray column he didn't bother to flick.
"Can I have one?"
He turned his head, slow. "You don't smoke."
"I know."
"Then no." A pause, softer than the refusal should've allowed. "I like you with all your organs functioning, if it's all the same to you."
"That almost sounded like you cared."
"Almost." He said it lightly, but his eyes didn't quite match the tone, something more careful underneath, like a man testing weight on a floor he wasn't sure would hold him. "Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late."
That got the real laugh out of him again, the rusty one, like his body hadn't fully remembered how. He shook his head, more at himself than at you. "You're trouble."
"You started it."
"I'm aware." He dropped the cigarette, crushed it under his boot without looking, like something in him had decided he didn't need it anymore. "Twenty-eight years old and I still can't help myself."
"You hesitated before that."
"Did I?"
"Yeah."
His mouth curved, not quite a smile, something more private than that. "Must've been you."
"Smooth."
"I try." He looked at you a moment longer than the joke needed, like he was memorizing something, before glancing away toward the empty street: wet asphalt, a distant hiss of tires, streetlight catching the mist in the air.
The earpiece crackled, faint. "Munson. Wrap it up."
He didn't answer it, just a small, almost imperceptible tightening around his eyes, there and gone, and he angled his shoulder a fraction further from the mic, like he could hide you from her that way.
"Everything okay?" you asked, catching it anyway.
"Peachy." He said it too fast, too easy, and you let it go because you didn't actually want him to leave yet either.
He didn't tell you to go back inside. He didn't leave, either, not for another ten minutes, and then another five after that, his hands empty, still not reaching for the door. For someone who'd spent decades learning how to leave places before they became anything, he stayed like leaving had stopped occurring to him.
"Careful," he said eventually, quieter now, something in his voice slipping past the charm. "I'm better at this than I am at keeping promises."
"Noted. Goodnight, Eddie."
He paused, like hearing his name in your voice had landed somewhere he hadn't braced for. "Goodnight, bartender."
Then he walked away, glancing back once before he turned the corner, like he couldn't quite help himself, one last look he probably hadn't planned on taking. You stood there a little longer, breath fogging, telling yourself you should already be forgetting him. Instead you found yourself counting the hours until four, and hating how much you meant it.
He made it half a block before the earpiece crackled again, sharper this time.
"Oh, take your time, really. I've got nothing but the rest of my night to burn waiting on you to finish being adorable at a bartender."
"You could've said something sooner."
"I did say something. You ignored me. Very professionally, might I add, real smooth, the little shoulder turn, very subtle, I definitely couldn't hear every word of it."
He exhaled through his nose, already walking faster, some of the looseness from the last hour draining out of his shoulders with every step. "Frankie."
"I'm just saying. Twenty-eight years old, immortal-ish, occasionally feral, and you turned to actual mush over someone who spilled your drink on you."
"She didn't spill it on me."
"Oh, my mistake. You spilled it on yourself like a man having a whole entire moment. Even worse, honestly."
"Do we have a location or are you just calling to workshop material?"
"Both, but the material's better. Second one's holed up off Fairview, twenty minutes out. And Eddie—" a pause, her voice dropping the teasing for half a second, something more careful underneath it. "You good?"
He didn't answer right away. Somewhere behind him, four blocks back now, a door was closing on a bar that would still be open when he came back, if he came back, which he was already turning over in his head like a coin he hadn't decided how to flip.
"Yeah," he said finally. "I'm good."
"Liar." Fond, not accusing. "Get in the car. Tell me about it later, or don't, I've got a bet running with myself either way."
He almost smiled, the real kind, alone on an empty street where nobody could see it do him any good.
~
Heavily influenced by the 1998 Blade movie and the Motionless in White album Decade.
I have no regrets
i think the parallel between billy and will both being possessed by the mindflayer is one of the most alluring aspects of the show especially putting together all their similarities. biggest standout definitely the fact theyre both the only people in the show to explicitly be called fags by their fathers. the untapped potential with these two will keep me up at night until im 80 i think.
Incase anyone was wondering what @holawdw and I were discussing at 1/9am
Warning: 18+ MDNI, Steve and Reader are intoxicated but very much consenting, momentary rimming…
⋆˚꩜｡⋆˚꩜｡⋆˚꩜｡
Steve on a regular day is pretty hungry to taste you but when he’s drunk all his emotions are heightened – so is that hunger.
The two of you had the gang over for dinner. The drinks flowed freely and with the way Steve was eyeing you across the table you could tell he was saving you for dessert.
When you tumbled into bed, both too tipsy to undress each other properly, it wasn’t long before Steve slid down to plant his face between your legs.
He’s mouthing at your cunt through your underwear that is quickly soaking through from your slick and Steve’s saliva. Your dress is bunched up to your waist by Steve’s needy hands and you writhe on the bed, your head spinning from the alcohol in your system and the feeling of Steve’s mouth just out of reach of where you really need him.
He pecks and licks at you until you let out a little whine that he knows is asking him for more.
But Steve is moving a little slow. As much as he’s hungry for you, his appendages don’t respond to his brain’s commands as quickly as normal.
Steve peels off your drenched underwear like he’s in a movie being played on half speed.
When he gets his lips to the ones between your legs, skin on skin, he picks up the pace.
It’s like the taste of you sobers him and then makes him drunk all over again. His mind clouded by your taste and smell until all he can think of is you.
His fat tonge licks right up through your slit and you thrust your hips into his face. Steve takes your encouragement and runs with it, his arm lifting your thighs over his shoulders so he can sink deeper into your wetness.
He laps up your building arousal selfishly, focusing more on tasting you than getting you to cum. But the side effects of Steve devouring you quickly makes you tip over the edge.
You grip his hair and hold him to you, feeling his tongue lazily swirl around your clit to draw it out the aftershocks.
“So good,” he mumbles.
One orgasm does not satiate Steve in the slightest.
Because now there’s more of you for him to consume. More of your sweet nectar to drink. And much like he did with his drinks earlier that night, he downs every last drop.
He’s moaning into you, his jaw wide and slack over your trembling pussy. His tongue feels like it’s everywhere. In his messy haze, Steve’s tongue dips a little lower that it might normally, circling briefly around your other tight hole. It makes you jolt, pull on his hair and shout out his name from both surprise and pleasure.
When Steve is inebriated there’s no filter between the filth on his brain and his mouth. His words are just as toe curling as his tongue.
Fucking perfect cunt.
Made for me to eat.
Been starving for you all day
Could stay here all night long, baby.
You want that?
Want mouth on your pussy all the fucking time don’t ya?
Me too, baby, me too.
Yeah…grind on me, c’mon.
You can do it baby, cum again for Stevie.
Make me take it.
I want it all.
As he speaks, completely wrecked on the taste of you, Steve’s hips desperately grind into the mattress to feel something on his aching cock.
He sucks harshly on your clit, releasing it with a wet pop and letting a moan escape him as the friction in his dress pants builds.
When he feels he’s about to cum from eating you out, he shoves his tongue into your hole and reaches a hand between your legs to thumb at your clit.
Another wave crashes through you and into Steve’s face, flowing all the way down his throat to his cock. He keeps humping the bed as he feels the dampness spread between his legs but he’s too far gone to care.
Steve’s vision starts to blur as he languidly laps at your still pulsing cunt. A drunken haze of sleepiness floods his head. His tongue gets a little softer with each pass through your folds until it stops all together.
You feel the weight of Steve’s head fall agaisnt your inner thigh and you look down to see Steve has fallen asleep between your legs. His mouth still glistening, his cheeks still red, soft, satisfied snores rumbling from him.
“Steve?” you say quietly, your own tiredness creeping up on you too.
He doesn’t respond.
You tug on his hair a little to try and wake him but he tightens a hand around your thigh, snuggling into the warmth between your thighs, his nose just grazing your folds.
You laugh at him and give his scalp a gentle scratch like he likes before you feel sleep take you along with him.
Steve is surprised to say the least when he wakes up the next morning with a pounding in his head and a face full of your naked cunt.
Steve sees everyone off to college, gets this coaching gig at the middle school that he loves, and gets a place all his own. It's good. He's good. He's great.
The sex ed section of health class is only for a week so he's not teaching anymore and summer baseball got canceled because of construction at the ballpark, but it's fine. He's got a lot of free time.
It's good. It's great. He's fine.
Keith says he can have his old job back at Family Videos during the summer so it's not like he's unemployed. It's fine.
A couple months after moving into his place in Forest Hill, his neighbor knocks on his door. He tells him to come outside and they...just sit there. It's...actually kinda nice.
Sometimes Wayne knocks on the door and asks if he wants to go on a walk, or asks if he wants to help with his old van. Most of the time, they just sit there and smoke.
This is nice.
He tells Robin about Wayne. He says that Wayne is an older guy and he's probably lonely so Steve keeps him company. He says it's nice. He likes it.
Meanwhile Wayne is next door, on the phone with his touring musician nephew telling Eddie that he needs to take this kid on tour with him this summer, "I'm afraid of what he'll do if he's left alone too long."
Robin and Steve are in the back at Scoops Ahoy while someone is at the counter ringing the bell.
They're supposed to be getting a new tub of rocky road but only Steve is doing this. Robin is standing outside the walk-in listening to his overdramatic complaining about the dress code and having not kissed anyone in a month. That hasn't happened since middle school!
She's highly annoyed so she says, "Just go out there and kiss the first person you see if it bothers you so much."
"We serve a lot of children," Steve huffs, heaving a giant tub of ice cream towards the door. "So, no."
"Coward."
"Oh, I’m a coward?" He challenges. "Fine, I'll kiss the first not-child I see...unless they're old. Or ugly. How about that?"
"Oh, I can't wait."
"Finally," Eddie says at the counter. "Can I get another cone of-"
His words die on his lips when Steve drops the tub of ice cream, grabs him by the shirt collar, and kisses him over the counter.
Eddie is stunned.
Steve gives Robin a little 'told ya I'd do it' gesture and then asks Eddie, "Did you have the peanut butter ice cream?"
"Uh, y-yes?"
"Right," Steve says, turning to Robin. "Do you know how to use an epipen?"
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Robin and Steve are in the back at Scoops Ahoy while someone is at the counter ringing the bell.
They're supposed to be getting a new tub of rocky road but only Steve is doing this. Robin is standing outside the walk-in listening to his overdramatic complaining about the dress code and having not kissed anyone in a month. That hasn't happened since middle school!
She's highly annoyed so she says, "Just go out there and kiss the first person you see if it bothers you so much."
"We serve a lot of children," Steve huffs, heaving a giant tub of ice cream towards the door. "So, no."
"Coward."
"Oh, I’m a coward?" He challenges. "Fine, I'll kiss the first not-child I see...unless they're old. Or ugly. How about that?"
"Oh, I can't wait."
"Finally," Eddie says at the counter. "Can I get another cone of-"
His words die on his lips when Steve drops the tub of ice cream, grabs him by the shirt collar, and kisses him over the counter.
Eddie is stunned.
Steve gives Robin a little 'told ya I'd do it' gesture and then asks Eddie, "Did you have the peanut butter ice cream?"
"Uh, y-yes?"
"Right," Steve says, turning to Robin. "Do you know how to use an epipen?"
as a former escape room host i highly recommend doing an escape room as a first date. its a great way to learn how ppl react under pressure and how well they collaborate with you right off the bat. also more than once ive seen people enter an escape room as a couple and exit broken up LOL its a fantastic litmus test
sorry to broadcast ur tags but this is also a valuable part of the litmus test! it seems like you learned a lot about how this person makes you feel in their social group. they didn't go out of their way to include you, and neither did their friends. therefore you can come to a pretty good conclusion about how you might feel being part of their life outside of an escape room; someone who doesnt include you or your feelings in a game is likely going to do the same in other situations
An incomplete list of reasons why crafting helps my mental health (and might help yours, too):
It stops me from doom scrolling: can't go on social media if my hands are full of yarn.
It gives me a sense of agency: a lot of things are messed up in a way that's beyond my control, but I can make something that didn't used to exist. It's evidence that I'm alive and I can impact the world, even if the impact is small.
It builds my tolerance for mistakes: I grew up a perfectionist , which is really bad for my wellness and my ability to complete tasks. But crafts are a great source of low-stakes mistakes to help me learn how to handle imperfection. And while there are certainly mistakes I'll always fix, I also have many opportunities to decide a mistake is acceptable and leave it in favor of getting to the finish line.
It interrupts rumination: even if I'm still chewing on some troubling news, it's not front of mind if I need to focus on getting this seam straight or whatever
It helps me meet good people: although there are obvious exceptions, I've found most craft-centered spaces (IRL and online) to be full or supportive, kind, helpful people in all walks of life
It encourages a growth mindset: I'm always learning new things in crafting, and that builds my identity as someone who can grow and improve.
And finally, making your own clothes is empowering: I know this is specific to fiber crafts, but it's important. When you make your own clothes, you flip the notion that you're supposed to "fit into" a certain size and instead remember that clothes are supposed to fit you. You get to learn how to dress the body you have with love and care, instead of allowing manufacturers decide how clothes should look.
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