I don't even know dudes, this just kinda happened and I thought I'd share rather than let it gather virtual dust.
*Warning for implied attempted rape, non con kissing, and violence*
~Bombdiggity Brunets~
Steve pauses as he hears someone cry out in pain and glances into the alley he knows he should probably avoid because it looks so alike to the tunnels with the demodogs and he hasn't fully recovered from that yet, but he can't rid himself of the urge to help whoever is hurt.
"Is anyone there?" he asks, not even caring what a cliché move that is.
"Help… me…" someone croaks and Steve is moving forward in an instant, already thinking of how he can help them and who to call if they need to go to a hospital or something.
What he doesn't expect is for someone to jump out of the shadows and tackle him to the floor. He's in pain before he can cry out, his back slamming into the hard, unforgiving floor with a dull thud and his head throbbing as he fails to protect it from hitting the ground, a heavy ache thundering in his brain immediately.
"Who-?" Steve manages before there's a hand over his mouth and a fist on his chest.
He coughs, gasping, struggling, trying to get back on his feet, as more blows rain down on him like a plethora of unwanted gifts. It's not like he's never been in a fight before but he prefers using charm over actual physical violence, despite what most may believe. Even Billy's incessant taunts and interactions couldn't compare to the pain he was feeling now, worse than the injuries from fighting demodogs and the scars from fights with classmates, worse than heartbreak and hangovers, worse than anything he's ever felt before.
"Listen, I have money-"
"Shut it, brat. We don't need no money," someone barks, wrapping their hands around his neck with a force almost too strong to let him breathe, and, with a chilled sense of horror, Steve realises there's more than one person against him here. He'd thought there were too many punches and kicks for four limbs but it hadn't occurred to him that this was a set-up of some sort.
He whimpers as one of them knees his lower abdomen, making him curl into himself by instinct, while another holds his arms above his head, stroking his hair in a horribly affectionate manner. It only gets worse when one of them strokes his lower lip, pulling his mouth open with a cruel laugh.
There are hands where nobody else's hands should go but he can't stop them because they're inspecting his features as if he's a doll and he couldn't move even if he wanted to and anyway he can't bring himself to anger the people who'd just gleefully delivered to him a definite set of bruises.
He struggles as one of their faces ends up close enough for him to smell the alcohol, trying to wriggle his way out of their gang like a child trying to escape a nightmare. He's eighteen, he's an adult, he knows what they're probably trying to do but he's not ready, no-one's ever ready, he doesn't want to give in.
He's still struggling when someone's lips are on his and they're chuckling and there's an unwanted tongue in his mouth and they're biting down on his lip and ignoring his whines, and then there's someone else kissing him but it's more like an act of vengeance than one of love because they're invading instead of exploring and there are hands on his jaw, keeping him still in a hold that's sure to bruise, and he can't stay still, his eyes watering with hopelessness.
He has no choice but to go still when the end of a cigarette is pressed to his lip, the pain burning far worse than his panic. The others laugh and follow suit and soon enough, there's a burning on his stomach, two on the bottom of his feet, another on his wrist, and he's never ever hated the blasted cigarettes so much in his life. He slams his eyes shut, trying to block it out, trying to block them out, trying to block everything out.
There's something – a damp piece of fabric that smells so bad it can't be good – in his mouth before he can think and he's choking, gagging, crying, coughing, struggling as laughter echoes in the alley and his hair is being pulled on and his arm is twisted behind him and his knees start to ache from being pushed into the stones on the ground as the cloth is taken away when someone changes their mind and he can't breathe and the world starts to blur and there's something that smells like alcohol but stronger, stranger, being shoved into his mouth and he's spitting, wretching, shuddering, sobbing as he tries to pretend he's alright.
There's someone else invading his mouth before he can breathe properly so he only inhales the scent of alcohol and the stench of cigarettes before he's coughing again, his eyes watering and his jaw aching, tears rolling down his cheeks as he shuts his eyes, gagging, struggling, scrambling for purchase on something, anything that can help him leave this situation, helpless.
"First time for everything, right, pretty boy?"
The men around him laugh, then he's being grabbed, pushed, and pulled this way and that, and he can't even move because he's so tired, so exhausted, and he wants this to stop, and someone's pulling on his shirt, ripping the delicate fabric and exposing his skin to the harsh ground before someone else is trying to figure out his belt and he's panicked again but there's no way to stop them because his vision is blurry and he can't figure out where he is and there are hands crawling all over his skin, another burn arising on his shoulder and another on his feet, one more in the fold of his elbow and a matching one on his other wrist, and they won't let him go and someone pulls on his jeans despite his meek kicking and muffled protests and there's a ringing in his ears that won't go away-
And everything goes silent.
There's a moment of calm where he hears nothing, sees nothing, feels nothing, and then he's being pulled again, shoved backwards, and his back hits the bricked wall with an alarming noise but he's folding into himself before he can register it, shaking and biting back sobs as he tries to wrap himself up in his shock and disbelief and hope.
He can hear people shouting and the sound of punches but that only makes him flinch and he only realises his shoes have gone when he flinches hard enough to scare himself further. He swallows his fear for a moment but the taste of a bitter drug in his mouth is suddenly too strong and he's heaving again, trying to rid himself of it and find his strength but he can't move because his limbs are frozen and he can see his belt lying discarded on the floor and suddenly it morphs into a demodog tail coming for him so he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to ignore everything.
It works.
For a while.
After what seems like an eternity and a half, there's a soft hand on his shoulder that still makes him jump but it's accompanied by soothing whispers and a caring hand pushing his sweat-soaked hair back with a kinder touch, one that wants to help and not hurt him.
"Hey, Steve, come on, can you stand?" someone is asking and he nods his head because he's king steve, babysitter extraordinaire, and he has to be okay but when he tries to stand, the burns on his feet scream in pain and his knees buckle and he can't help the sob that escapes him.
He's just so tired of being strong and looking out for others and never being able to complain because obviously rich boys can't have problems and he wants it all to stop but the world won't leave him alone and he always has to look after the kids because they're sure to get in trouble but he's trapped and-
The voice swears and Steve's abruptly pulled back into the showers after basketball and the rough smirk shoving him into lockers and angry parents shouting at him to clean the house and stop drinking so, before he can think, he's shaking and mumbling apologies, backing away and stumbling over himself until he's on the floor again, curled around himself and violently shaking his head as he tries to block out everyone, especially whoever's swearing at him.
"No, Steve, hey, it's okay, I'm not gonna hurt you, come on man, trust me."
As much as he doesn't want to, there's a sincerity to the voice and the pounding in his head makes it hard to refuse and he finds himself leaning on the other boy, limping to avoid stepping on the burns on the soles of his feet.
It takes him a few blurry minutes but he recognises the uniform brown bangs and the hunched shoulders and the hidden anger in the boy's touch and he can tell who it is - one thing he can grab on to when sanity threatens to slip away.
"What's wrong with your feet?" Jonathan asks but he seems to see the answer before anyone can say it and he's swearing but, even in a pained haze, Steve knows the ire isn't for him.
The two of them are stumbling along the road when Steve's stomach suddenly heaves and he's retching, gagging, dropping to the floor and spitting out whatever he can, trying not to hyperventilate.
Jonathan is swearing again but he's lifting Steve up bridal style before he can complain and there's someone comforting about his overly strong cologne so Steve stops struggling and tries to breathe normally, unknowingly burying his head in Jonathan's neck and causing the other boy to smile for a millisecond but then frown at the men who'd dared to cross the line.
"Which way to your house?" He asks gently, setting Steve in the passenger seat of his car, breathing heavily from the effort of carrying him.
Steve frowns but shakes his head. "No."
"No? Come on man, work with me here, which way to your house?"
"Can't go…" Steve mumbles groggily.
"Can't go... Can't go there? Why not? You don't want your parents to know?" Jonathan asks despite the internal wince it causes at the thought of his Joyce finding out where he is.
Steve shakes his head, wanting to laugh and cry and explain everything but finding it harder and harder to form thoughts, never mind sentences, yet he still manages to slur: "Away… locked out."
Jonathan whistles, somehow understanding what he means. "They locked you out?"
Steve groans as another wave of nausea hits him and the dull throb in his head intensifies but he still shakes his head again. "Gone... My fault- Was bad-"
That's all he needs to say before Jonathan is sighing and raking fingers through his limp locks, his expression the kindest it's ever been as he looks over Steve's trembling form.
He'd taken out the anger of his own situation on the boy without thinking that he may not be the only one with family problems. Not that Steve had ever talked about his family... But, then again, the party hadn't exactly given him a chance to talk, seeing him as a brother and a babysitter that never needs a break.
"Please-" Steve whimpers suddenly and Jonathan jumps as he carries on, his words slurring: "Don't- don't lock me up again, please, my parents will kill me- don't-"
"Steve!" Jonathan interrupts, "Stop. I'm not going to put you in jail."
Steve shakes his head and slides into the small section under the dashboard in front of the car seat. Jonathan stares at him in shock, wondering how someone his age can fit in such a tight place, and starts to drive, pretending not to hear the small muffled sobs Steve emits each time they run over a pothole or something.
Jonathan's experienced his fair share of violence but he can't imagine how battered Steve must be feeling - especially because of how battered he physically looks - and, even though the other boy isn't his favourite person, he wouldn't wish such a thing upon anyone.
He ends up parked outside his own house and, before he can drive away again, Will is opening the car door with a smile that quickly becomes a gasp, "Steve?"
The brunet looks up, smiling broadly, all signs of tears gone. "Hey, kiddo, how's it going?"
Jonathan tries to keep a neutral expression but the kindness in Steve's voice sets his blood boiling, only because he knows someone like Steve, who constantly looks after his brother and the weird party, doesn't deserve to be in so much pain, doesn't deserve to feel obligated to pretend he's alright when he's really not.
"What are you doing down there? And what happened to your clothes?" His nose wrinkles. "Are you drunk?"
"No but the guy who beat my ass again kind of was..." Steve laughs, and Jonathan gapes at him, wondering how he can put on such a show despite everything.
"Jonathan, are you hurt too?" Will asks.
"Surprisingly, he stopped them killing me. Guess he doesn't want to adopt the nail bat again, huh?" Steve grins, and only Jonathan sees his nails digging into his palm as an outlet for his pain.
Will shakes his head, running off - probably to find Joyce - and once again Jonathan wants to thank him for being so impulsive and smart.
Steve, of course, lets his facade crumble for a second before climbing out of the car in a way that can't be anything but painful, trying to crawl away, anywhere, nowhere, somewhere he can't feel the hands on his skin and the tongues in his mouth.
Jonathan shuts his eyes for a moment and tries to ignore the guilt inside of him but then he sees the blood on his seat and can't think beyond the hurt in his heart and how Joyce will scold him for letting the boy run when he's so vulnerable.
There's a deathly calm in Steve's eyes by the time Jonathan catches up to him and he's gone quiet, too quiet, when Jonathan stands him up but he's like a statue, chipped and still, unmoving, even when Will comes back, as if he's shut down.
The longest seconds of their life pass as the two Byers siblings share concerned looks - there's something about a person like Steve, not that there are many like him, being hurt that can anger even the quietest of people - but then Joyce is there, gasping and clapping a hand over her mouth at the sight of the boy's condition.
Jonathan agrees; Steve looks gnarly.
"What happened?" She asks immediately, taking the boy from the siblings and wrapping one of Steve's arms around her shoulders to help him walk to their front door.
"He was ambushed," Jonathan tells her, supporting Steve's other side so he doesn't have to irritate his burns any further.
Will's already on the radio to the rest of the party before Jonathan can stop him, before Jonathan can even notice him, the older brother being far too preoccupied in trying to steady the drugged brunette.
Steve goes still, shocking all three Byers, and groans as the world spins and the blurriness intensifies so he can't see, can't hear, can't tell where he is, and he's in the dark again but he can't find a light and there's nothing to guide him back to consciousness and it feels like the world is ending again.
He blinks rapidly for a second before his eyes roll back and he slumps to the floor like a puppet who's had their strings cut away in an act of unprovoked, unreasonably spiteful hatred.
Jonathan sighs as he looks over the unconscious teenager and his family's started looks of concern but, if he's honest, he can't be mad at Steve in the slightest. That doesn't mean he isn't mad though, he's positively raging at the men who'd attacked Steve, even if he can't figure out exactly why he cares so much or if this is really happening.
"Are we dreaming?" Will asks plainly.
-END-
Et voila. Maybe leave a review? Let me know of any mistakes! Have a tubular time...
