𝒮𝘞𝘌𝘌𝘛 𝒥𝐀𝐍𝐄,

independent, highly selective, EXTREMELY PRIVATE and heavily canon divergent portrayal of JANE IVES-HOPPER from netflix's STRANGER THINGS. mutuals only, unaffiliated with the greater fandom & rpc at large. important info under the cut, please read before interacting. SIDEBLOG, FOLLOWS BACK FROM @WSQK945. DO NOT FOLLOW IF WE ARE NOT MUTUALS THERE.

THERE IS NO EFFORT MADE TO STIFLE THE GRIN BLOOMING ON HER LIPS, though for max's sake, and her pinched frown like she's still deciding between annoyance and mild regret, she does turn away until it softens to a fond smile. flattens the rising laughter to a gentle exhale. but the shine in her eyes doesn't dim, too much --- WHAT'S THE WORD? when you like love someone so much, there is a feeling in your chest that never goes away when you're around them. light and hopeful and warm. ENAMORED.

“ yes, you can. ” jane answers with an affirmative nod, smile growing despite herself as she approaches max and winds an arm around her shoulders: half pulling her in, half leaning into her. not attempting to pull her off balance. “ but you're my jerk. ” nose brushing freckled cheek, fingers trail lightly through the curled ends of copper strands that trail max's shoulder, and a corner of her grin hitches a little higher as her gaze flickers toward the lanky silhouette sulking in the opposite direction. if mike were truly hurt, jane would feel just a little differently about it. but she knows the difference between his heartbreak and his grumpiness. “ besides, he kind of deserved it this time. ” picking a fight of quips and wit with one maxine mayfield is a FOOL'S GAME, he really ought to know better by now. he does. for the better part of it, she thinks, some part of mike enjoys it. “ no reason for him to be in such a mood on a beautiful day. ”

jane startles when a cold palm lays on the inner crook of her elbow, light as a brush of insect's wings, unintentionally jumping from max's touch. the fear strikes her swiftly, not of harm but that ... that max could disappear the moment jane tries to hold onto her. it surprises her, how harshly it stabs through her gut and then finally materializes itself to her mind. ever since she released max from her arms after she first glimpsed her wake, SHE HAS BEEN AFRAID THAT SHE WOULD SLIP BACK INTO THAT TERRIBLE SLEEP. never to be found.

you know i would never hurt you, right? ― @guiltskates.

guilt is a funny thing, heavy and aching and dreadful all at once, overlapping in a strange knot in her stomach as her eyes drag to max's face. the uncertainty and hurt huddled there, sharp enough to puncture her heart and she realizes --- oh, she has given max a very, very wrong impression. that she may not want to be touched, or acknowledged by her. WHICH IS NOT TRUE. it was just ... she's ... she feels the phantom of a searching touch still on her skin, real, real, real, and the steel slides into the lock of her jaw, determines to scramble ahead of that silly fear. ( SHE WON'T LET HENRY HAVE HER. NOT EVER AGAIN. ) she presses her hand down over max's on the cushion, gentle enough not to crush appendages still shaky in strength but firm enough that she can slip her fingers around her palm and hold on. ( she's not disappearing. ) “ no. ” it starts solid, unquestioning, and then her brows pinch and frustration takes her mouth on a rocky, downwards curve. “ i mean, no, never. yes, i know. i'm -- ” a huff sounds like an avalanche in her own ears, this bunker is so quiet between the two of them. did she let it get this weird?

THIS MOUNTAIN'S PEAK OF SUGARY SWEETNESS ARRANGED BEFORE HER IS A CHILDHOOD DELIGHT. eggo waffles stacked four high, drenched with syrup and saturated with butter, the perfect golden - brown crunch she had loved at first bite. it's a VALIANT EFFORT, for hopper's part. except she doesn't feel much like a child anymore. she really never did. and there's a nagging guilt in the way the spokes of her fork twist through the sticky puddle on her plate, scraping over glass until her teeth feel like they want to pry themselves from her gums. she isn't hungry. the lack of it sits in her stomach instead, stale and weighted.

MUN VS MUSE.

A HEAVY GLOOM HAS SETTLED OVER HAWKINS, and it isn't only from the remnants of the smoke - stained stormclouds now dissipating over the horizon. it feels like failure. the kind of dread that twists tight as a knot in her gut and squeezes everything until it threatens to rupture. jane knows the others feel it too, if their tense quiet is anything to go by --- she has learned to read them well. but sometimes, she forgets that some of them have come to know her, too.

will's voice is soft in that way that carves out this space for a conversation between them alone, the way he learned in the doorway of her room and the hallways of lenora high, the unspoken sentiment of being seen. brown eyes draw up slowly from her mud-splattered boots, toes pointed toward each other, and meet will's from where he has dropped quietly onto the cushion next to her. jane sees it in him, too: the defeated slump of his shoulders even where he tries to pull hope from the darkest corners of the room. NONE OF THEM KNOW WHAT WILL HAPPEN, NOW. just that it's bad. “ i couldn't save max. ” not really. she still draws breath but sleeps motionless in a white-sheeted bed, and jane cannot find her in the void. unspooling the truth from her lips does not make the weight any lighter, the grief any easier. “ i couldn't stop henry. ” his name feels like a curse on her tongue. her gaze drops to her hands, nails biting unconsciously at the raised skin lining her cuticles. “ and now hawkins is paying the price. i thought ... i could be strong enough. ”

IT'S MATTER OF FACT. as long as monsters continue to crawl out from the oozing pits that have infected their town, or military men pound on their doors, or any of the chaos of the in - between keeps occurring --- jane will be the FIRST LINE OF DEFENSE, the protector, the warrior. ( not the only fighter, she knows, not even the only one with a connection to henry ― but as long as she can do what she can, she will keep doing it. ) it's become second nature, sitting in this basement that smells of the boxes of dusty vinyls and the concrete floor that's always a little damp around the seams where it meets the wall, planning their next crawl or burn or whatever else hawkins needs to stay afloat. eddie is a newer addition. a curiosity her gaze frequently sticks to, A SERIES OF STORIES FINALLY MADE FLESH.

it's only the two of them down here, the others tending to something upstairs or outside or away from the radio station altogether -- jane has stayed behind to watch. eddie has healed, mostly, but she thinks steve and robin still worry about his stitches coming apart if he jerks too quickly, and he does seem to be a twitchy man. if his leg isn't bouncing, his skull - ringed fingers are tapping away, or sometimes it is both at once -- a nonstop buzz of motion, like there's a song stuck on loop in his bones that he is compelled to move to. despite it, he seems to be a good listener. at least, he's been listening to her. eyes glued to her in turn, a hesitant-shy grin arcing one side of his mouth higher than the other. opinions of the upcoming mission are traded, a question of what if it doesn't work out? an answer, certain as the powers that hum in the base of her skull, the tips of her fingers, a truth yet to be proven as a lie: i will be there. it will work.

THE SMILE FEELS STRANGE ON HER FACE. stretched wide, teeth bared crooked and cheeks pulled so far that a dull ache begins to resonate underneath the skin --- but it isn't a pain that she wants to end, not something she wants to turn away from. it's the soreness of muscles laid dormant for longer than she can remember. a good kind of strange. her eyes linger on the ghostly shape of lucas' matching smile, and jane wants to capture that warm, lighthearted sensation that unfurls like a flower in her chest, keep it forever safe from the ROT purging their town. the joke wasn't even that funny, she doesn't think, but maybe it's less the root of the humor than it is that brief elation for the rare brightness that flickered through the room, like sunbeams streaking out from behind a dark, heavy cloud -- something they've seen less and less of lately in their own sky. IT'S LIKE THE NAGGING PAIN OF PICKING AT A SCAB EVERY TIME IT REGROWS: she's familiar with fleeting happiness, she knows the drive of survival shadowing everything else, -- but it hurts to see the lines of sorrow and weariness in lucas' face begin to fall back into place. WITHOUT HIS BEAMING SMILE, the room feels colder. rainclouds roll in again.