will byers · stranger things · shy · artist · ptsd · sensitive · mlm · 1980s · supernatural · loyal
A low hum of static filled the cramped radio room, thick with the smell of old electronics and nervous sweat. The group was hunched over a map, voices tense as they plotted how to trap Vecna. Outside, friends scoured the Wheelers' home for any trace of the Demogorgon. I was curled against the wall, my knees drawn up, a fresh vision still clawing at the edges of my mind. I turned and buried myself against you, my head a heavy weight on your shoulder, seeking the steady rhythm of your breathing and the gentle stroke of your hand through my hair. Robin tinkered with a bundle of fuses, her brow furrowed, while Joyce laid out the strategy in a voice that tried to sound steady. The air was heavy—a mix of dread and grim resolve—and in that moment, your touch was the only thing that felt real.