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more-cardigan-than-woman · 11 months

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Dead Robins Club

Summary: Jason and the boys are in a band and you're the bands social media manager.

Pairing: Photographer!Reader x Drummer!Jason Todd.

4.7k

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, SMUT, Rock Band! AU, swearing, bondage with chains, teasing, choking, hair pulling, spanking, object insertion, man handling, pet names, dirty talk, probably something else very horny I forgot.

The music rings through the hall of the dark and atmospheric club, Tim's guitar solo brings the crowd forward, the patrons push the barricade to try and get closer to them. You step closer to the stage, keeping your security guard close as you pace behind the barricade hoping to find the perfect angle for the band's socials. Tim slides out in front of Damian who's belting the lyrics to their latest song so loud you’ll be surprised if he can talk after.

The crowd grows wild, people cheering and dancing behind you as you snap a photo of the two front men singing angrily into the microphone.

"Oh my God!" A woman shouts behind you, "there he is. Fuck, he's so fine," you don't need to turn, knowing that she's staring at the now spotlighted drummer, sweat pouring off his head, the drumsticks twirling in his long fingers, those pretty blue eyes fixed on his drums. The chains on his pants rattling, his studded vest flapping with how fast his arms are moving, his curls plastered to his face with how much he’s sweating.

"Looks like they're going to rush soon," a familiar voice whispers into your ear piece as you click the shutter on your camera. The 3 of them now in the shot, "head back, don't want another incident."

"Two seconds, Dickie. Get my margarita ready." You respond, turning to take a few pictures of the crowd and a few on your phone of the drummer, just for you, before you head backstage.

You meet Dick at the side of the stage, your drink already in his hand as he offers you a seat. "Don't know why they wouldn't let me book a bigger place," he says taking the seat next to you, "this place is packed and everyone on the internet is bummed they didn't get tickets."

"Makes it more exclusive," you shrug, moving your head so you can peer from behind the curtains at the flex of Jason's arms, "plus you know what they're like, they still think their small time."

You and Dick sit together, sometimes getting up to dance when the music compels you. But you're always watching him, the quick way his fingers twirl the drumsticks, how his legs flex as he beats the drums, his curls sweaty and sticking to his forehead.

His eye catches yours for a moment and he smiles at you. Your heart starts to beat faster, your cheeks getting warm and your legs going gooey as you return the smile. Seeming to notice the effect he's having on you, he throws his favourite pair of drumsticks in the air before catching them and falling back into the song.

The crowd goes wild as the last song of the set comes to an end. Tim and Damian thank the crowd for coming out to see the last show The Dead Robins Club would be performing in this city, before the boys head to the side of the stage towards you.

"Show us the pics!" Tim says coming up beside you and leaning over your shoulder, "did you get the mic toss?"

"I did and I got your power slide," you flick through your reel, showing him most of the pictures you took, all the ones on your official camera at least. The ones on your phone were, are, personal. And you don’t wanna feed Jason’s hordes of thirsty ass fans with the slightly provocative pictures you took of his hands and his pretty face.

"Shame, still none of Jay," he says, slapping his brother on the shoulder, "guess we know who the favourites are big guy"

"A huh," Jason grunts as he passes you, "meet you guys at the hotel."

"You're leaving already?" Dick asks, trying to stop Jason as he starts to pack up his things, "the fans want autographs."

"Like Timmy said, I ain't no one's favourite." He pulls his bag over his shoulder, ignoring Dicks protests, he shoots you a look before he walks down towards where the cars are waiting.

You entertain the boys for an hour helping them get selfies with fans, before Dick announces that it's time to wrap up.

"Wanna go grab a drink at the bar?" Dick asks as the boys head out to do their own things, "the night's still young and so are we."

"Nah I’m good. It's been a long day,” you yawn for affect, “Plus I gotta get all these,” you gesture to your camera, “edited and uploaded,” you give him a sympathetic look, “I think I'm just going to go to bed before we have to get back on the plane tomorrow, sorry Dickie"

"Suit yourself. I guess I'll just sit and drink,” he pouts at you, “alone."

"Sure you won't be alone for too long." You joke, giving him a quick hug and heading up the elevator.

You pull out the key card, slipping it into the lock and stepping into the room. A familiar face already waiting on your couch with a bottle of wine in hand, and his large combat boots kicked across the room, "took ya long enough."

"You know how they are," you shrug off your coat, "Dick still didn't wanna go to bed," you toe off your shoes and step towards him, "I can't just leave him."

"You can," Jason stands, grabbing you and pulling you down onto the couch on top of him.

“But he uses those puppy dog eyes on me and I feel bad.”

“That’s the only trick that guy knows,” he rolls his eyes, his arms wrapping around your waist, "just tell him you got a better offer."

"Did I though?"

"Cheeky," he kisses you like he's been waiting all day to get you alone, his hands already clinging to you and starting to peel your clothes away, "I saw you watching me, sweetheart," he finally frees your shirt from your pants and pulls it over your head.

“I wouldn’t, didn’t you hear the boys,” you pull his vest from his back, “No pictures of you.”

"There's always a way for me to check," he smirks into your kiss, his fingers slipping down to your ass, then reaching into your back pocket for your phone and dangling it in front of your face.

“Won’t find anything in there.” you lie, unconvincingly.

“You wouldn’t be lying to me, would you?” he raises his eyebrow at you.

“No,” you grab for it, but he pulls his arm up higher. You jump, and he drops it behind the couch, giving you a knowing look.

“That's what I thought,” his fingers toy with the button on your jeans, “What else are you lying to me about?” he grabs at the band, pulling them down to your hips, "Is my pussy wet for me?"

"I-"

"You wouldn't lie to me would you?" He kisses across your jawline as his fingers sink into your panties, stopping at your panty line, "no, not you. My good girl wouldn't lie to me," his fingers slip down lower meeting with the seeping spot in your panties, "tell me Kitten," he leans back meeting your eyes, "if you got such a better offer, why are you here with me with suck a soaking wet pussy?"

"Coincidence?" You joke, laughing as he lifts you up and your pants fall to the floor.

"Like fuck is it a coincidence," he throw you over his shoulder, "you bloody liar," he slaps you on the ass, "I know how watching me play affects you," he walks, his bicep just far enough away form your pussy go tease you, “bet you’ve got lots of good shots on your phone, don’t you?”

“Nope,” you giggle, your arms attempting to reach his ass, but his torso is so fucking long and thick.

“You're going to pay for that." he smacks you again, his fingers kneading at the tender flesh of your ass.

"Oh, no. How awful!" You start to squirm as he kicks the door to the bedroom open and drops you on the bed.

"First the lying and now the attitude," he tuts as he peels off his black t-shirt, "you poor thing," he unclips the chain from his pants, "You really need some sense fucked into you," he grabs at your hands slinking the chain around them and locking them together behind the bed head, "don't you?" Jason’s soft lips brush over yours.

"Yes."

"Good girl. Now, how should I punish you?" He thinks aloud, watching as you start to squirm when he pulls back from you. His studded belt releases his tight black jeans, "What?" He laughs as your eyes fixate on the way his huge hand is wrapping around his cock, "Do you like watching me play with myself?" He licks his lips, his teeth sinking in when he notices your hips gyrating into the air, "do you need some attention, Sweetheart?"

'Please."

"But you haven't been good," he kneels on to the ground and you feel something cool touch your leg, the metal of the chains biting into your wrists as you strain to get free, "maybe I should coat my sticks on your cum," the cool wood glides up your thigh before slapping down onto your clit, "at our next show I'll be able to smell you on them," his eyes lock with yours, "wouldn't that be a nice treat for me, Kitten?"

"Yes, please," you try to move, but he just taps the drum stick onto your clit again, "that'd be so hot."

"Wouldn't it just," the tip of the drumstick slips down from your clit, dipping into you and you can't help the way your back arches into it, "so needy for me, aren't you Kitten?" The drumstick goes deeper, angling it up so it sweeps right over your g spot. Jasons free hand rests on your stomach as his thumb rubbing into your clit in just the way you like as he thrusts the stick into you. His eyes torn between watching your face and watching his favourite thing disappearing into his favourite person.

"Jason.”

"Does my girl need more?" He teases you, "need something bigger?"

"I do.”

"Show me," he chuckles, pulling the drumsticks from you with a pop and licking along its length, moaning at the taste of you on his tongue. His face forlorn, torn between wanting to taste you and how bad he wants to fuck you, "show me where you want me Kitten?"

You whine, your hands jangling against the chains, tugging at them as you glare at him.

"Oh, you can't? You poor thing," his cock slaps on top of your pussy, "keep squirming for me Kitten." He leans over your body, his lips finally meeting yours, "I love when you're needy for me like this. So desperate," his hand grips your face, "it's pathetic."

You try to pull your face from his grasp, but he holds you still. Your eyes start to wander until his nails dig into your cheeks, "keep those pretty eyes on me," you feel his cock slip back, the huge head pushing, teasing at your core, "you ready?" His head circles you, "nod or shake your head for me, Kitten. I know words are hard for you when you're like this."

You nod, your legs wrapping around Jason's thick thighs. Trying so hard to pull him closer, even if you know it's useless.

"Good girl. I can feel your legs tightening on me," he releases your face, his hand softly brushing your cheek where you imagine his claw marks are, "pull me in."

You tighten your legs even more, Jason moves closer, his cock pushing up against you until it starts to spread you, stretching you out as he sinks deeper and deeper inside you. You can’t help the moans that escape your lips as your pussy becomes so fucking full you think your brain might explode. “Breathe,” his fingers pull your bottom lip from your teeth, “Sweetheart, take a breath for me,” he starts to withdraw himself, not really restrained by the grip of your legs, “Kitten,” you suck in a breath, the overwhelming fullness turning your brain off for a second there.

“I’m breathing,” you reassure him, trying to pull your hands from the chains, “Please don’t go.”

“Do you want me to unchain you?” his eyes are so soft, one hand still on your face while the other traces little hearts into your thigh, “Is it too much?”

“I’m good, now. I just needed a minute,” you reassure him, “I promise, it’s just been-”

“A while, yeah I know.”

“Can we talk about it after, Jay?” you try to move, but he’s so heavy on top of you, “Because right now, I’d really like you to move.”

“Needy,” his fingers tighten on your thigh, pushing it back up towards your chest, “Impatient,” his soft caress on your cheek stops as his hand slips around your throat, “My good Kitten.” He starts to thrust, his hips meeting yours with every inwards motion. His pelvis grinding into your clit when he leans down to capture your lips with his. “I missed this,” he moans into your mouth, his fingers tightening in your hair while your legs cling to him.

“Missed you.”

“I’m right here, always.”

“Not close enough,” you thrust back up, “Closer, please.”

“Never been close enough to you,” Jason mewls, “You’re so fucking warm, Kitten.”

“Fuckin hot when that spotlight hits you.” you feel your pussy clench down on him when he smirks down at you.

“Not as beautiful as you do, shrouded in the dark of the clubs,” he brushes the hair from your face, smoothing it back behind your ear. The tingle tickles, jolting your body up and you feel his cock brush over your g spot.

“Jay, right there-” you moan into his ear, “Please don’t stop.”

“I’m not stopping until you cum on me,” his hand reaches up, releasing your hands from the chains with a snap of his fingers, “But I need your hands on me.”

Your wrists ache, but your hands quickly find their place in his hair, tugging his face closer to yours, kissing him deeper and sinking your teeth into his lip. With one hand in his hair, you slip the other down to his shoulder, bringing his chest flush with yours. The sweat of your bodies mingling as you both moan into the kiss.

Your eyes open when he pulls back from you, his stubble brushing against your cheek, his moans filling your ears, “You’re fucking gripping me so tight, Kitten. You getting close?” he bites down on your neck, “I know you are.”

“Yes, I’m so close, Jay.” the animalistic sound that seems to reverberate from his throat is what sends you over the edge, the primal way he turns from somewhat sensual to fucking insane is something else. You can’t stop cumming, his cock somehow getting harder and deeper within you with every thrust and that sound just won’t stop. You almost question whether it's you making that noise, but when he starts to chant your name in your ear and you know he’s close.

“Jason.” you whisper hoarsely as your second round of pleasure starts to build inside you, you feel his cock throb, “Jason,” it’s twitching inside you, bouncing off your insides and making a smoothie out of them, “Jason.”

“Fuck me, Kitten,” his nails dig into your, his lips reaching for yours to quiet the scream he lets out into your mouth. Jasons cum paints your insides, but he doesn’t stop fucking you, “I don’t want this to end,” he pants between cries of pleasure, “I want to fuck you forever, to be inside you always.”

You don’t even realise you’re cumming again until your legs start to cramp and your mind goes numb, the thickness of Jason's cock slowly receding from you and his fingers replacing it. Gently gliding up and down as you twitch out the last of your orgasm. “You look beautiful like this. Carefree and relaxed.” he whispers, placing a kiss on your forehead before falling down beside you and pulling you under his arm. “Take a deep breath.”

You do, snuggling into his side as you try to match his breathing. Your leg wrapping over his to try and leech some of his warmth. “I can breathe on my own, you know.”

“Yeah, but I know I take your breath away with my dashing looks.”

“True,” you rest your chin on his chest, looking up at him, “You’re very pretty,” you bouncing one of his curls, the white one, it’s your favourite.

“Not as pretty as you, Kitten,” he takes your hand. Holding it in his, his thumb grazing over your wrists, “Are your wrists ok?”

“They’re fine, a bit tender.”

“I’ll rub some of that coconut cream on them in a sec,” he gives them each a small kiss, “Just wanna cuddle you a bit longer.”

“I missed this,” you sigh, putting your arm over him and pulling yourself up so you're laid out flat on top of him, “tour buses suck. Maybe we should run away?”

“I wish, could you imagine. Dick would have a fucking heart attack. But I get what you mean and the next few weeks aren’t going to be any better.”

“We’ll have to get better at sneaking around.”

“You will.” he says, like he doesn't, “You think I’m the only one who knows you take pictures of me on your phone to jerk off to?”

“What?” you try to sit up in alarm only for Jason's arm to hold you close.

“Don’t worry about it, but Kitten,” he whispers, bringing your lips down to his, “tour buses are small, maybe next time, don’t moan my name in the middle of the night.”

Taglist: did I forget you? let me know in your most sarcastic typeface

@littleredwing89 @ilikw @bubbles-incorrect-yb @megumisbabymomma @nutmeg030 @gone-batty-fics

@lovelyrissa

Do you want to be on the everything Jason taglist? firstly, why? and nextly, let me know.

#jason todd x reader #reader x jason todd #jason todd #jason todd fanfic #reader x red hood #red hood x reader #x reader #red hood fanfic #Band!au

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lovableapocalypse · 1 year

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these are the days

bassist!remus x fem!reader

wc- 1.3k

warnings- swearing, make out sesh, awkward moment???

a/n- love u guys and hope u like this lol. i wanted to expand more of their past so ill defo be writing more of that. but lmk what u all want to see <333

You and Remus have officially been together for a week. After your mutual pining reached an emotional breaking point and feelings were spilled after years of withholding, you both were now in complete bliss. You had yet to tell your friends, keeping this budding romance a secret for the time being. You both wanted to stay in this fresh, intense love for as long as you could. While you’re sure no one will be surprised by you two finally getting together, it was peaceful to keep it completely private and just yours to witness.

You were currently watching the sun begin to peek through the curtains of Remus’ bedroom, your head rested comfortably on his bare chest. You were tracing your fingers delicately across his ribs, mesmerized by his steady rise and fall of breaths. You were completely and wholly in love. You had doubted his reciprocation of feelings for so long that this had seemed impossible to you.

Remus stirred under you and inhaled deeply. His grasp on your waist tightened as he slowly opened his eyes. His other arm reached for you and held you close to his chest. He glanced down at you, eyes puffy from sleep.

“Hi,” he spoke softly.

You continued tracing his heart as you replied, “Hi.” Your smile was genuine and you’re sure your cheeks will be hurting from how happy you’ve been the past few days.

He continued to watch you and began to move his hand up and down your bare back as well. You watched each other in a content silence and the sun was now fully illuminating the room. You slowly moved up on the bed and traced your finger over his eyebrow. He leaned into your touch as you admired him. You glanced to his lips and back into his eyes and on cue he moved his face towards yours.

Your lips met sensually. After your first night together you’d wanted to discover everything about him physically. You noticed freckles in hidden spots, scars in odd arrangements, and how his body reacted to yours.

His hands moved to your waist to pull you even more into him and your hands moved to his face. You ran one through his bedhead and the other cupped his cheek. He pulled away breathily and whispered onto your lips, “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.”

“Me either”, you breathed, “I can’t believe this is real sometimes.”

“Trust me, it is.” He laughed as he kissed you again and rolled the two of you over. Your legs parted around him and you touched his shoulders. Remus hummed into your mouth and gracefully traced his tongue over your bottom lip. You wrapped your arm around him pulling at his hair as you accepted his intrusion. His tongue slipped into your mouth and you kissed him back religiously.

The moment was growing heated and all you could focus on was him. His hands were moving over your figure, squeezing and appreciating. You heard a noise and assumed you had knocked something onto the floor, until you heard a loud, “Oh fuck!”

You and Remus pulled away hastily, frightened at the interruption. Your heads snapped to the sound, and stood in the doorway with a horrified look on his face was one of your closest friends and Remus’ bandmate James.

He opened and shut his mouth a few times before glancing between the two of you frantically. You were both panting and Remus was now trying his hardest to cover your exposed chest from view.

“When- when did this happen?” James pointed between the both of you.

Remus inhaled shakily and glanced at you before speaking. “Um. About a week ago.” He swallowed.

James continued to look between your bodies in awe. “This is actually happening- you two. Right now.”

“Yes.” Remus replied dryly.

Your face was burning in a flush, partially from your childhood friend catching you in a compromising position and partly for your secret being outed a bit dramatically. You hid your face in Remus’ arm that was by your head, avoiding James’ gaze.

Just when you thought the situation couldn’t get any more embarrassing you heard the front door slam and a familiar voice shout, “Moony! James and I have come to see if you’re al-” Sirius’ shocked silhouette now stood behind James in the doorway.

“Fuck my life”, you whispered under your breath.

Remus’ head dropped and he exhaled loudly. Sirius said nothing as he stared at the two of you. James was frantically looking from Sirius to you as if saying ‘I’m seeing this correctly right?’

Remus looked defeated as he pleaded with his best friends, “I’ve given you guys a spare key for emergencies, not to barge in whenever you like.”

“Mate, you randomly were ‘busy’ for a week without any notice- but I see clearly now why that is.” Sirius broke his silence. He scratched the back of his head and looked toward the hallway, “I’m honestly surprised it took you both this long.” He sighed and grabbed James’ arm pulling them out of the room.

“Give us a minute, yeah?” Remus said.

The door shut and you covered your flaming face with your hands. “That is not how I saw that going at all”, your voice was muffled. Remus laughed and pulled your hands away from your face, “Fuck, me either.”

You both timidly pulled on sweats and tried to look presentable as you opened the bedroom door. James and Sirius were in the lounge talking in hushed whispers. You headed to the adjacent kitchen, “Tea?” You asked.

“Uh yeah, please.” Remus said.

He headed towards his mates who had expectant looks on their faces. He rubbed his hands over his face and through his hair as he sat down beside them.

He was about to open his mouth when you came in with mugs for everyone. You shyly sat on the adjoining lounge chair and held your tea close to you.

“Care to explain what we’ve just walked in on?” James said.

You and Remus share a look and he explains, “Last week we sort of realized we both had strong feelings for one another, and well everything just sorta happened. I don’t know.”

“You only realized a week ago you two are mad for each other? Dear God”, Sirius sighed.

You blushed harder looking at your tea. “So what are you two? Dating? Fucking?” James asked with his hands.

“Dating.” Remus answered.

“You’re lucky Peter and Lily aren’t here. They bet on you two.” Sirius spoke.

“They’ve bet on me and Remus?” You exclaim.

“Yeah, on how long it would take you two to stop moping about and get together. I think Lily’s won”, Sirius replied.

“Yeah, she has.” James said.

Remus was flustered too, rubbing a hand over his face and huffing a laugh. “Well, we wanted to sit down with you all or something and tell you. Didn’t plan for you two idiots to barge in.”

“Why didn’t you knock or something?” You add.

“We never knock. How were we supposed to know you’d have your tits out at 7 in the morning.” James explains.

“Fuck off.” You didn’t think you could get any more red.

“Right, it doesn’t matter”, Remus tries to diffuse, “we’re together now. That’s that. Is there something you two needed besides ruining our morning?”

“Well no.” Sirius says. He laughs and adds, “Can’t believe you’re actually together. Never thought I’d see the day.” James laughs along and you roll your eyes and stand.

“Okay, well now that it’s out there I guess we can all meet for lunch or something and tell the others. That is if you haven’t already blabbed.”

“Didn’t have the chance in my state of shock.” James sighs.

You all laugh and the intruders move to the front door. As they step out James turns around and sincerely says, “I am happy for you both, really.” You smile and Sirius nods in agreement. Remus squeezes your arm and adds, “Just fucking knock from now on, please.”

#bassist!remus #bassist!remus x reader #band!marauders #marauders band au #band au #band!au #bassist!remus universe #remus x reader #remus x you #marauders x reader #remus lupin #remus lupin x reader #do not copy #my fics #marauders au #marauders era #sirius black #james potter #this is how everyone finds out lol

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quixoticall · 2 months

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This Could Get Ugly Track 5: The Beginning of the End

Summary: It's 1983 and The Downsides need another lead singer and you just happen to need a band--it's a perfect match. The only issue? You have to pretend to be in a relationship with your bandmate, Steve Harrington, but you can't help but be drawn to the band's broody guitar player.

pairing: s.h. x fem!reader, e.m. x fem!reader, j.b. x n.w.,

warnings: ANGST, drinking, drug use, smut, oral and fingering f receiving, p in v sex, the Harringtons make an appearance.

a/n: It has been a while my loves! If you've been following me at all, you know I've had a rough month. I really, truly appreciate every single one of you who has reached out and checked in! I appreciate you! This chapter is extra long to make up for lost time and it contains smut. It's my first time writing smut, so hopefully, I did not disappoint.

wc: 11.2K

MASTERLIST🎸

PLAY PREVIOUS TRACK 🎵

APRIL 28th, 1984 PHILADELPHIA , PA—THE UPSIDE DOWN TOUR

If you wanted to be technical about it, the whole thing started with Argyle.

The two of you were backstage, sitting outside the dressing rooms killing time during the opener—some local band that you weren’t previously familiar with.

You had always appreciated Argyle’s ability to be friendly with everyone and float above the tensions, that was the case especially now when things with the others seemed to have fallen apart a little.

You were sitting next to each other on the floor, backs against the wall, as you were running him through some of the songs that had made the preliminary list for the next album and asking for his input while he threw a bouncy ball against the opposite wall. You liked working with Argyle, he was out of the box, creative, and one of the most technically skilled band members. You had been sitting with him for only 30 minutes and he had already made one of your songs infinitely better.

“What’s the move tonight, dude?” he asks you, nonchalantly as you scribbled down some of his suggested changes.

You shrug in response, “I dunno, I might just go home and sleep after this, maybe work on the arrangements for this—” You wave your beat-up notebook in the air, and he scoffs.

“You like never come out with us anymore,” he exclaims, “I miss when we all used to party together, dude. Now you are all dropping like flies and it’s not as fun anymore!”

It was your turn to scoff at him, “Please, I was never the life of the party, Argyle, c’mon.”

“Are you kidding, dude? People would always show up in droves to see you. Plus, you’re like totally fun. Remember when you and Steve did karaoke in Austin and you both got on the bar? That was totally cool.”

You chuckle at the memory and concede, “Yeah, that was pretty fun, but you still have everyone else!”

“Well, you took my dude Eddie too,” he points out without malice.

“What do you mean?”

“He hasn’t come out since St. Louis—keeps saying he’s gonna stay in just in case you want to write with him.”

Of course, this is news to you. You hadn’t taken up Eddie’s offer to write together since he had spurned you in Missouri (and since he starred in a very vivid dream of yours). It wasn’t that you didn’t accept his apology (presented in the form of a ridiculously large flower bouquet) it was that thing would have been far too awkward at this point.

It wasn’t that you had a crush on him necessarily, you were pretty sure that mantle was still taken up by Steve to some extent, it was more that there was an undeniable sexual something between the two of you below the surface that your dreams had made obvious and you didn’t trust yourself to be alone in a room with him without wanting to rip his clothes off.

Obviously, giving in to your desires was a bad idea for a multitude of reasons but chiefly, because:

a. It would wreak havoc on the band.

b. You were certain Eddie wouldn’t reciprocate your advances.

But then… you had heard what Argyle had said.

“Wait, are you saying Eddie has been hanging out after shows just on the off chance that I may call him?” You confirm incredulously.

Argyle nods in response, “Yeah. Did you put a spell on him or something?”

“No,” you respond wryly, “I’m not that type of witch, I’m the bad kind of witch.”

“Well, you definitely did something to the dude, he’s been obsessing over whether or not you hate him and keeps trying to get me to ask.”

This takes you aback completely. Eddie caring so much what you thought of him that he’d be willing to ask Argyle, of all people to discreetly scope that out seems improbable so you continue to probe.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, he obviously thinks you’re pretty and he’s just been waiting around for you to call him up, and he cares a lot about what you think of him, which is weird because last time I checked he kinda hated you—no offense.”

“How do you know all this?” You ask, ignoring the offense.

“He told me, duh.”

“Have you told anyone else this?”

“No one else has asked,” Argyle says plaintively.

“Well, how about we keep all of this between the three of us, then?” You propose.

Before the drummer can confirm, the thundering applause signaling that the opening act had wrapped up cut the conversation off.

Neither of you has the chance to continue the discussion before being rushed onto stage by a harried and high-strung stage manager.

Without knowing, Argyle had invertedly changed the course of everything.

***

EDDIE: We were in Philly. It was a great show—probably one of the best of that tour. The audience was feeling us the opener was sick and we were just gelling for what felt like probably the first time. It was like we were all finally on the same wavelength if that makes sense. No more guessing what the next move was or fighting to keep up. It was like we were finally learning to trust each other.

***

The Philly show was electric, all the elements had come together perfectly. You and Steve were particularly reveling in it. You spent most of the night singing into the same microphone, lips inches from one another, your hand grasping the back of his neck, fingers carding through his hair, and eye contact unbreaking. At one point, you were certain by the way he had captured your bottom lip under the meat of his thumb, that he was going to lean in and kiss you on the mouth, a barrier that the two of you had managed to maintain this whole time.

The audience must have had a similar thought by the sounds of their cheers—a sound that seemed to have shaken both you and Steve from whatever spell you had been under because the next thing you know the pressure of his thumb was gone and his eyes were turned away from you and towards the crowd.

The rest of the show was spent similarly—the two of you toeing the line and the audience following your every move. It was easy to get addicted both to the applause and the intimacy.

After the encores were sung and the last bows were taken, though, Steve was back to barely being able to look at you.

The only time his gaze does flit to you, ever-briefly, is when you politely decline Argyle’s invitation to go out after the show.

“Come on dude, you said you would come if I looked at your song,” the drummer gives a half-hearted attempt at bargaining which only makes you giggle.

“I never said that Argyle,” and truly you hadn’t, “I said that I couldn’t go out because I had to make those changes you suggested.”

In response, Argyle begins to boo you, loudly and the others join in eagerly.

You roll your eyes playfully and bid goodbye to Argyle and the rest of the band when you part ways for the night and you notice that other than yourself, Eddie is the only one missing from the boisterous group but you try not to think too much on it.

Your efforts to push all thoughts of Eddie out of your mind seemed to have the opposite effect and it was like the thoughts themselves were digging their heels in and had found your mind to be a welcoming home.

You had made the song changes you had told Argyle you would and even tried to make some progress on your plethora of unfinished songs. As it turned out, you worked slower when you wrote alone.

You knew that as the remaining tour dates dwindled and the band’s return to LA drew closer, you eventually would have to approach Eddie again to write together. It was indisputable that whatever the two of you produced together was almost always better than what you accomplished alone.

How could you possibly approach him when you could barely look at him without dying of mortification? With Steve, at least, you could get some of the sexual energy out on stage, but with Eddie you didn’t have the same luxury and it stayed bottled up.

All of this, along with Argyle’s words from earlier in the evening made focusing nearly impossible and you gave up on writing all together, deciding to call it a night and head to bed. To your chagrin, the better part of the night was spent tossing and turning trying to evict the thoughts and ideas that had begun to formulate in your mind fueled by a lack of sleep, stress and desperation. And suddenly, you had an idea.

Admittedly, it was not a very good idea. It was actually probably a very bad idea. A ruinous idea even. And yet, you found yourself pulling the covers off yourself and stumbling into a pair of slippers, perplexed by your actions. You wondered, as you blearily shuffled down the identical hotel halls why you weren’t trying to talk yourself out of this idea—one that you were certain was going to change everything. Perhaps you were itching for a new thrill. Or maybe you were as selfish as everyone seemed to believe. Maybe it was the poison that had settled in your heart before you were old enough to know better, insisting that there was no other option for you. Or maybe you were giving yourself far too much credit and you were simply horny.

Whatever the reason, it brought you directly to Eddie Munson’s door.

***

EDDIE: I swear I thought I was dreaming when I saw her there, standing outside my door in this tiny pajama top and even tinier short. They had little cherries on them. I remember thinking they were so cute. Her hair was all a mess. I thought that was cute too.

After probably 5 minutes of us standing there in the doorway, I finally got my brain to work enough to invite her in. She seemed nervous at first. Sort of paced around the room, not saying anything for a while and then—I swear to God—she asks, “Do you want to sleep with me?” out of fucking nowhere. If I hadn’t been there myself, I would’ve never believed it. Hell, even telling you now, part of me thinks I made it up.

My brain short-circuited because I couldn’t even respond. I just stared at her with my jaw on the fucking floor, trying to remember what the signs of a stroke were.

***

“Are you serious?” Eddie spits out, voice hoarse with shock at your overly-direct question.

You nod, wordlessly, trying to ignore the panic that has begun to set in.

“Why?” he presses.

You shrug, which he doesn’t find sufficient because he nods along, trying to draw the reasons from you.

“We both like sex,” you explain, clumsily, “and I find you attractive and I think you find me attractive, too—” he nods feverishly at this—“so why not have some fun?”

You try to say this last part enticingly but aren’t sure you pulled it off until you see a flush play itself across his pretty features.

“Why me? Why not Harrington?”

Even though you had anticipated the question, you can’t help but steel yourself as you respond, “Because we like each other enough for it to be fun but not enough for either of us to get attached.”

You watched, with bated breath as the thoughts played out over Eddie’s features and when you see a flash of what could be hurt you entertain for the briefest moment, the idea that maybe someone could get hurt but the thought is pushed away as a lazy grin begins to spread over his face and a newfound cockiness color his features.

Suddenly, he is much closer, and the space between your two bodies draws thin.

“Now?” he asks.

“Yes, now,” you squeak out as he encroaches in on you, fingertips grazing the bare skin on your hips.

You take a step towards him, moving to stand flush against his hip, invitingly and weave a hand through his unruly bed head curls. You want him to know how much you want this—how much you’ve wanted this. It was inevitable really, there had always been a tension between the two of you. Whether it was the hot friction of dislike , the bold spark of creative partnership or the hot embers of sexual tension, the two of you burned for one another just the same.

He leans in for a kiss when your impatience gets the best of you and you rush to meet him halfway.

He tastes like cigarettes and cherries, a taste you revel in as his lips move languidly over yours. Suddenly, he takes your bottom lip between his teeth and lightly tugs, and a moan tumbles out of you.

“We can’t tell anyone,” you mutter into the kiss and it goes unacknowledged.

The cold of his rings meets your nipples through the thin fabric of your strappy pajama top and your body arches in response.

The kiss is broken you are left gasping for air. Eddie wastes no time in attaching his lips to your neck, his tongue tracing over your collarbone hotly.

The straps of your top are shucked of your shoulders and the fabric bunched down towards your middle and a trail of kisses following in its wake.

Your knees hit the edge of the bed, and the hands in your waist guide you down in a fluid motion.

Your eyes flutter as wet kisses are peppered over your breasts.

“Come on princess, let me hear those pretty noises,” Eddie murmurs into your skin, his hot breath covering you in goosebumps.

A heady moan escapes you, almost on command. It would’ve embarrassed you if you still had the decency to care.

A trail of kisses and suddenly Eddie is thumbing at the waistband of your shorts. You nod fervently when his eyes suddenly trail up to find you, but that’s not enough for him.

“Come on, baby,” he teases, “tell me what you want.”

You throw your head back in frustration and want and Eddie takes this lapse in response to run his hand sloppily over your clothed core.

“So wet,” he murmured, “so pretty.”

You let out a desperate laugh at this and his eyes are back on you, expectantly and any resistant you have dissipates.

“Touch me, please,” you sigh, half plea, half demand.

It’s not a hard sell because your shorts and underwear are gone in a flash and cold rings are pulling your thighs wide open.

You reach out towards Eddie’s curls for purchase, gently tugging him closer to your core, hoping he’d get the message.

A moment of clarity cuts through your haze and suddenly you’re pulling him up by his hair, forcing eye contact.

“No one can know,” you insists.

He’s all half-lidded eyes and dazed smile when he’s looking at you.

Leaning in to grab his jaw in your palm, you pull him close. This is important.

“Eddie, no one can know. Promise me,” you repeat again.

He nods in agreement, even though his expression leads you to believe you could’ve asked anything in that moment and he would’ve readily acquiesced.

“No one can know,” he affirms before hitching your body closer with a harsh tug on your thighs and disappearing in between your legs, mouth latching hotly to where you need him the most.

***

EDDIE: We started sleeping together that night. A no strings attached type thing. We had to keep it a secret. She didn’t want to hurt Harrington’s feelings which I understood. He was a good guy and anyone could tell he was head over heels for her.

And she was just… well, I guess she was just afraid. We were kind of the same in that way. Couldn’t hold onto anything without crushing it into dust.

***

MAY 1st, 1984–STATEN ISLAND, NY—THE UPSIDE DOWN TOUR

Eddie’s hands are curled around your thighs, keeping your body balanced on the flimsy tour bus bathroom sink. His silver rings dig into the soft flesh of your thigh in a way that you are certain will leave bruises in their wake.

You have to be quiet, you know that. Even if the rest of the band had taken a quick pit stop between Philly and New York to explore the Staten Island Zoo and the likelihood of them coming back this early was low, it wasn’t non-existent . This left you stifling your own moans into the back of your hand as Eddie rocked into you languidly and delicious.

Your hand moved to steady itself behind you as he lets go of your left thigh and places the pad of his thumb on the soft flesh of your clit, causing you to forget nearly everything.

He seems to anticipate your next move though, because his mouth is quickly on yours, tongue gliding over your bottom lip and effectively keeping you quiet.

The angle of his hips meeting your core and his nimble fingers worked together to bring you closer to your release.

“I can feel it, baby, you’re close aren’t you?”

You nod feverishly, eyes screwed shut, “Yes, so good Eds. I’m gonna cum,” you manage to squeak out.

“C’mon pretty girl, look at me,” Eddie instructs firmly, but you can tell by the strain in his voice that he’s not too far behind, “wanna see you when you cum.”

You force your eyes open and he rewards you by pressing his unoccupied thumb into your bottom lip which you greedily take into your mouth.

Your release washes over you in a wave and you watch moments later as Eddie finds his own.

The two of you are left panting for a few moments as you try to steady yourselves. Once you find your bearings, you lower yourself from the sink and adjust the sundress that was so carelessly shucked to your hips and Eddie busies himself with disposing of the condom discreetly.

Turning to the bathroom mirror, you make an attempt at taming your haphazard hair and fixing your smudged lipstick before making a move for the door.

“Well, that was nice,” you offer before spilling into the tour bus’s common space.

“Wait,” Eddie cries out as he’s still adjusting his belt, “where are you going?”

You shrug nonchalantly in response but don’t turn around, “Back to the girls’ bus.”

“You don’t want to… you don’t want to stick around maybe? We could do some writing?” Eddie sounds out of breath when he asks but you chalk it up to the sex.

“Better not. It might look suspicious,” you explain as you take the stops down from the bus, two at a time.

“Right, wouldn’t want that,” Eddie squeaks out and you smile back at him, grateful for his understanding.

“See you later, Eds.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything back, but when you look back after having boarded your own bus, he’s still standing on the bottom step, eyes still on you.

***

EDDIE: Let’s get the record straight about something though, I didn’t steal her away from anyone. She is her own person first of all, not some thing to be stolen. And second of all, she came to me first. Not the other way around. And! She and Harrington weren’t even really seeing each other. So, other than the lying, it truthfully wasn’t that bad.

But then again, does the truth even matter? Especially now? After everything?

INTERVIEWER: It does to me and to you too, I think, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.

EDDIE: Has anyone ever told you you’re too smart for your own good?

***

MAY 3rd, 1984–NEW YORK CITY, NY—THE UPSIDE DOWN TOUR

It was easy, really, to keep your fling with Eddie a secret from the rest of the band. Most of them were barely paying attention to what you were doing anyway.

Nancy and Jonathan were once again preoccupied with waiting by the phone to hear from Jonathan’s mother, Joyce. Will’s condition had once again worsen and the two were on high alert.

Robin and Steve were busy sightseeing and pointedly only talking to you when necessary. They weren’t hostile, per se, (or at least, Steve wasn’t) but they also made a point to not invite you to their outing. You want to tell them to be wary of the paps since the city is crawling with them in a matter akin to cockroaches but you know better than to try to tell Robin what to do.

Argyle, for his part, is in his own world.

The two of you were essentially in the clear barring rehearsals, shows and any stray public appearance. Still, you couldn’t help but want to take precautions.

***

EDDIE: She would never sleep over. You know, after. She was too worried about what would happen if Steve or anyone else went looking for her.

It shouldn’t have bothered me as much as it did, she—we had made it very clear that this was a purely physical thing but, well, between you and me kid, I always knew it was never gonna be like that. At least not for me. I was in deep for way longer than I had realized.

***

Long, skilled fingers trace patterns along your naked spine. The movements are comforting, calming, you almost find yourself lulled to sleep. Except you know you shouldn’t—that you can’t.

Your eyes flutter open as you fight against the sleep that sets in. This isn’t your bed, you remind yourself, and you feel that in the brush of the sheets against your naked body that definitively do not feel like the sheets of your bed merely a few doors down. It’s a silly thought, truly, these sheets are probably the exact same as the ones on your bed and more so, you haven’t slept in your bed, a bed that is truly, strictly your own in years . Still, this does not feel quite right.

You will your body to stir, working actively against every nerve that is telling you not to move from the warm, comfortable haven you had found and the warm body next to you but you know better. This is a dance you’re familiar with: they ask you to stay but don’t really mean it and if they do it’s only to squeeze another quick fuck in.

“Why don’t you stay?” Eddie grumbles into your shoulder even though both of you already know the answer.

“What if someone comes looking for me, huh?” A question for a question, “it’ll be hard to explain to Hopper why I’m naked in your bed.”

“Bullshit. You’re one of the only ones Hopper doesn’t have to keep tabs on,” Eddie’s only partially playful in saying this.

“I miss my bed,” you rebut, plainly and the guitarist pouts in response.

“This is like the same bed, dude.”

“ ‘Dude’? You’ve been hanging out with Argyle way too much.”

“Whatever,” Eddie dismisses as his hand travels down along your spine to circle around the rise of your hip to the front of your body to pull you closer against his chest and you squeal.

His skilled fingers travel down to the apex of your legs and two of them swipe through your still-wet heat making you jolt. You’re still sensitive from earlier in the night and Eddie is using that to his advantage as he swipes over your clit.

You moan at the contact and your hips canter forward embarrassingly quickly.

“Don’t want to leave now, do you?” Eddie teases as he moves away from your clit to tease your entrance and you mewl in response. Before you know it a pair of lips are attached to your neck and two fingers are slowly, deliciously rocking in and out of your core. A hand moves up to grip Eddie by the hair as you moan.

“Just like that, please keep going.”

You feel Eddie’s length begin to harden against your back as his pace quickens and his thumb circles your clit bringing you closer to your third orgasm of the night.

“No fair,” you pant, as you feel a tightening in your lower stomach. “You can’t keep me around by giving me orgasms.”

He laughs at this, full-blown guffaws. “There’s no rule against it,” he says as his tongue slides over the shell of your ear. His fingers curl inside you and you gasp at the sudden pressure before succumbing to the feeling. Your release washes over you, unexpectedly and you cry out.

A few seconds reprieve give you a moment to come back to earth. You sigh contently feeling Eddie’s harden length against the swell of you ass.

It would be impolite to leave him hanging.

***

EDDIE: Not that I could complain about our arrangement.

***

You had fallen asleep. Accidentally, of course, but erroneously still. You realize this far too late as the harsh red numbers of the hotel room alarm clock blare at you angrily: 11:52 AM.

You scramble out of bed, covers flung in the process and you make a grab for your clothes that litter the floor. The sudden, frantic movement had inadvertently awoken the man sleeping next to you and you could hear the sleep in his voice as he tried to grasp the situation.

“Woah, woah where’s the fire, princess?”

“It’s nearly noon!” you respond, panic clear in your voice. “I accidentally fell asleep and now it’s almost noon!”

Your mind is overcome with worst case scenarios and conclusions that are easily jumped to as you imagine how this late morning can turn into your downfall.

Eddie tries valiantly to calm you down to no avail. You had done the one thing you said you never would: you stayed the night and now you didn’t know what to do with that other than panic and rush out the door half dressed and fully angered with yourself throwing a paltry goodbye to a very disoriented Eddie over your shoulder as you did so.

You try to fix your hair in the elevator along with your harried breath. Most of the band wake up late into the day, you try to remind yourself, especially after a night out.

It was not unusual to be walking the halls of your hotel room at this time, but you still felt overwhelmingly nervous walking back to your room in a way that you felt obviously gave away that you were coming back from a night of raunchy sex.

Your heart dropped to your stomach as the elevator doors slid open to reveal Steve Harrington waiting outside your door. This is what you were afraid of. Certainly one look at you and he’d know exactly what you were doing and probably with who and that would spell the end of the Downsides, you were sure of it.

You didn’t say anything as you exited the elevator and slowly made your way over, hoping to prolong the moment before everything came crumbling down as much as you could.

A few steps in and you had caught Steve’s attention. When he looked at you though, it wasn’t with anger or disappointment but with nerves.

***

STEVE: My parents moved around a lot after I left home. Indianapolis, Chicago, Phoenix in the winter and Bridgeport in the summer, you know, regular rich folks shit.

It’s not like I could ever go back home but when they heard the band was planning on making the stop they wanted me to visit them and they wanted me to bring my girlfriend to meet them. I hadn’t wanted to ask then, things were kind of awkward between the two of us, but they kept insisting. It’s like they didn’t believe I could’ve bagged a girl like her and they were willing to call me on it. So, I had no other choice but to ask.

***

You understood where Steve was coming from, truly, your own parents were rich and demanding. Plus, something about seeing your fake boyfriend waiting at your door after a night sleeping with someone else really made you susceptible to his request.

And really, there wasn’t a universe where you would say no to a request from Steve Harrington, so of course you were going to meet his parents.

***

MAY 6th, 1984–NEW YORK CITY, NY—30 ROCKEFELLER PLAZA

“So I heard you’re meeting the in-laws,” Eddie plops down in the makeup seat next to you

You’re backstage at The Nightly Show with Chris Palmer, getting ready for one of the few media appearances Hopper had managed to schedule during the band’s short stint in the city.

You can tell by the pinching between Eddie’s eyes and the snarl in his tone that he’s not in a good mood. You chock up his demeanor to the same thing that has dampened yours: the upcoming interview.

The lack of media appearances had been a welcomed change during the band’s time on the road and the adjustment back to them have been rocky. You, for one, are on edge at the idea of having to sit down with the smarmy, sexist, Chris Palmer who, on his late night show, had already taken a few swings at you for laughs and the thought of him having the chance to do so to your face, made you sick.

Which was why you barely responded to Eddie’s attempt t goading you and instead, shrug in response, tightly, “I guess.”

His eyes flit over you and his demeanor shift to one approximating concern. “Hey, you doing okay?” He moves closer, but not enough for it to be noticeable to anyone but you.

“Yeah,” you try to smile but it comes out a grimace, “just out of practice I guess.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I have an extra copy of Baldwin that I brought on accident if you want a distraction,” the book flashes in your periphery and this time your smile comes out genuine and unprompted.

While you can’t be one hundred percent certain, you’re familiar enough with the guitarist’s ways to know that this was no accident—he brought the book with you in mind.

You make a grab for it but have to keep yourself from leaning in for a hug at the risk of the others’ scrutiny and your makeup artist’s ire. Not knowing how else to communicate your appreciation, you give his shirt a quick—and hopefully discreet—tug. He seems to catch your drift because his fingers graze yours purposefully as you move your hand away.

The brief touch shoots electricity through you.

“Thanks,” you murmur before watching him jaunt away to his spot between Argyle and Jonathan, both of your moods seemingly lifted, if only for a moment.

You’re grateful for the distraction although it barely keeps your attention and instead end up thumbing through the pages anxiously to the chagrin of your makeup artist who is clearly relieved to pass you onto hair once the final touches of lipstick are applied.

You thank her profusely before moving next door where, to the surprise of exactly no one, you’re sat next to Steve. Or at least you think it’s Steve you’re sat next to given how little you can see through the thick mass of hairspray clouding the air.

“They don’t call me ‘The Hair’ for nothing, right?” He says when you catch his eye through the fumes.

His hair stylists laughs a little too hard for your taste and you can’t help but roll your eyes.

“I thought you hated that nickname,” you say, settling into your chair, ready to play your part as the doting girlfriend.

He shrugs nonchalantly, “there are worst things to be called.”

You scoff in response, your previous concerns regarding tonight’s host bubbling up again, “I am sure there are.”

Steve turns to you fully now, offering a charming apology to his stylist that leaves her a giggling puddle, and you can feel his eyes scanning you in assessment.

He suddenly reaches over to the vanity in front of him, “The vending machine in the hall is totally broke, it gave me four candy bars. Do you want one?”

You look over at the bars in his hand which he has fanned evenly and is waving as if they’re a wad of cash and you grab one out of his reach.

“These are my favorite,” you point out as you smooth a hand over the wrapper, remembering all the times you would raid the vending machines at venues or backstage before an interview for them.

“I know,” he says, impishly.

“Harrington, be straight with me, is the machine really broken or did you get me my favorite candy bar just to butter me up?”

He nods, self-satisfied, like a little kid happy to be caught doing something that they’ll know they’ll get away with. Your joint hairstylists coo in adoration at your dotting “boyfriend” and you can’t help but roll your eyes affectionately.

“You seem a bit nervous,” he explains, “and candy usually helps.”

You exhale a laugh at this and admit that he’s right, “candy usually does help,” before nibbling on the bar carefully for the sake of your lipstick.

“So, what’s up?” He asks after a beat, while the hairstylists are preoccupied cleaning their tools, “are you nervous about doing our thing again?”

He says the last part with an overly-dramatic eyebrow waggle and you giggle.

What do you mean?” You ask, avoiding his glance.

He almost rolls his eyes at this but catches himself, knowing better.

“You just seem off, like nervous almost? But not in the usual way you are nervous about interview, but like different. Normally you’re just nervous because you overthink it but now it’s like you’re dreading it.”

You snort at the way he saw right through you.

“It’s stupid but, Chris Palmer has made jokes about me in the past, you know, about my dating history and things like that and I’m not really looking forward to hearing what he has to say tonight,” you explain, bashfully.

“What do you mean? Do you and Chris know each other?”

“No,” you respond, shifting uncomfortably in your seat, “he just is, you know, one of those comedians who pokes fun at celebrities and he loves making fun of women who ‘get around’ or whatever and well, that was my reputation before you… and the band.”

You see realization dawn on Steve’s features, it’s almost like he doesn’t believe anyone could ever be mean to you. Realization quickly turns to anger.

“And you think he’ll make fun of you tonight in the same way? In front of everyone?”

You shrug at this, “maybe, he’s not exactly known for taking it easy on his guests, but I’m used to it, it’s annoying though.”

Steve shakes his head aggressively at your dismissal and bolts up from his char, “No, I’m going to go talk to Hopper or something, have him tell Palmer’s people he needs to cool it or we won’t perform.”

He’s marching down the hall now, purposeful and quick. You make a beeline after him running ahead to cut him off.

“Woah, hey, Steve, you do not need to do that.” The last thing you want is the band being labeled as difficult to work with this early on.

Standing in front of him with your hands flat on his chest, you suddenly become very aware of all the eyes peaking out of the different green rooms to watch the exchange curiously, band mates and crew alike.

Steve grabs one of your hands lightly in his and gives it a tepid squeeze.

“I’m sorry but I am not sitting up there tonight and listening to anyone say anything bad about you. That’s just not going to happen, okay? Please trust me, I won’t do anything crazy, I’ll just talk to Hopper and we’ll figure this out. I have your back, remember?”

You study his face as he says this and are caught up in the earnestness etched into every corner of it.

“Okay,” you finally say, softly and back away from his path, “thanks.”

And you watch him go.

***

STEVE: Hopper hadn’t known about the Palmer thing. He wouldn’t have booked us if he did. When I told him, he was pretty peeved and we immediately went to go talk to the stage manager—some smarmy guy whose name I don’t remember.

Told us essentially, that it was no use, that Palmer wrote his own material fresh before each show.

Well, after that, Hopper and I track down Palmer in his dressing room and, you know, we give him a shake down. Old school style. Like back when Hopper was on the force. … he did most of the shaking down, don’t get me wrong, I was definitely going to get in there, but he seemed to really enjoy it. Plus I had just gotten my hair done.

***

When Steve reappears in the green room half an hour later, Hopper is trailing him smiling giddily.

Coming up to your side, Steve wraps an arm around your shoulders and leans into your hair to murmur, “We took care of it.” The giant grin Hopper is sporting lets you know that they had and you exhale a sigh of relief, curling a hand against his bicep gratefully.

You spring back a few seconds later when you feel Eddie’s heavy gaze from the spot he occupied next to you, eyes boring into all the places your body is touching Steve’s.

You can sense Steve’s confusion at the lost contact but before anything else can be said or done, the stage manager appears to move escort the band to the sound stage saving you from having to navigate the complex social dynamic of interacting with your fake boyfriend who wants to be your real boyfriend and your band rival turned friend-with-benefits. Gratefully, you allow yourself to believe for the first time, that maybe luck would be on your side and tonight wouldn’t be so bad.

***

NANCY: Do I think Chris Palmer had a personal vendetta against her? No, not going into that night, anyway. I think he was just a misogynistic idiot who didn’t know what to do about a talented and beautiful woman who also did whatever she wanted. His mind couldn’t wrap around that.

That was true for a lot of men back then. And now too.

JONATHAN: It felt like Chris had a personal vendetta against her.

***

The first half of the interview went well enough.

The band was welcomed with great fanfare and everyone filed towards the couches in the center of the stage next to the large mahogany desk Chris sat behind. You and Steve were, of course, together at the forefront and you could hear the collective cooing when he helped you down the platform.

The interview started out mild, questions about the tour and being on the road. Thankfully, Steve took the helm for most of them with the band weighing in throughout.

To your surprise, Chris directs his next question to you and Eddie.

“You two are the newest additions to the band, how has the transition been coming from working as a solo artist and from a band of a whole different genre to the Downsides and what made you want to make the change?”

The question was surprisingly insightful which took you a second to process and come up with an answer that wasn’t “Well, Chris, we were forced to join The Downsides at the risk of our careers ending completely.”

Eddie beats you to it, “The royalty checks are better than they are when you’re in a metal band for one—“ it takes the audience a second to realize this is a joke, but when they do the laugh pays off— “but honestly, I like the stability. What they don’t tell you, kids, is that too much rock and roll can be bad for you.” He says this part directly to the camera with a devilish grin.

“What about you?” Chris turns to you once the laughter subside, “do you miss being a free agent?”

You ignore how pointed that feels and smile in response.

“Not at all, the band has been super welcoming and there’s something really rewarding about working together to make something great happen.”

“Don’t miss your old duet partners at all?” The host needles.

“No, not really. At the risk of sounding cheesy Chris, I think I found my forever duet partner,” you punctuate your response with a pointed smile at Steve.

The audience eats your response up but you can tell that Chris is not ready to let it go. Luckily for you, a well-timed commercial break saves you from further questioning.

When the cameras start rolling once more though and the segment is reintroduced, Chris flashes you a wolfish smile.

“So, does this mean you’ve settled down a bit more, now that you’re a one-duet partner type of gal?”

The question makes your throat run dry because you know that there’s another, much tricker question behind it.

“No, not at all. It’s nice to be a part of something,” you respond placidly.

Chris barely lets you finish before launching into, “well the press sure does miss writing about you! Did you know that, in the last year, you were one of the most mentioned stars on Subrosa, popping up a total of 65 times only rivaled by one Evelyn Hugo in 1967.”

You don’t really know what to say or where this is going but the feeling of dread in your stomach grows.

“In fact,” he continues, “why don’t we play a game that we cooked up with the help of your Subrosa mentions?”

Games were something Chris did with his guests pretty frequently and they varied in execution but in nature there was always something a bit embarrassing to them and tonight was no exception. But instead of going after the band as a whole, this game was targeted specifically at you .

It was a guessing game, “Simple enough,” Chris touted as his assistants bring out giant blown up headshots of various male celebrities, guess which of the men you had been involved with according to the media and which ones you hadn’t been. The joke of course was that you had been linked to all the men whose pictures had been provided.

The looks of shock on your bandmates’ faces perfectly countered the one of self-satisfaction painted on Chris’s smarmy face.

You felt Steve stiffen beside you, leg twitching as if he was getting ready to stand up and leave. Or punch Chris. Before he can, you place a stabilizing leg on his thigh and giving a squeeze. You didn’t want this to diverge into a fight and you refuse to let this vile man make a fool of you on live television.

“Well, this won’t do,” you smirk at Chris. “You only have half of my list out here, Chris! You’re missing quite a few other fellas. I thought you wanted to make this difficult.”

“Oh?” The host is clearly not expecting your response but has no choice to lean in since you clearly have the audience’s attention, “and who could we possibly be missing?”

“The crown prince of Monaco, for starters,” you respond, evenly, “and the entire Harlem Globetrotters ‘83 starting lineup—“ the crowd guffaws at your clear exaggeration, “—and most importantly, this guy,” you reach over to grab Steve’s chin and affectionately squeeze his face. At this, laughter turns into applause and from where you are sitting on the shared couch, you see Chris’s jaw tighten.

“Is there anyone who’s hasn’t made the list?” he cries, trying to turn the joke back on you.

“You, for starters,” you respond playfully, and then add before he can say anything, “but who knows? Maybe this band thing doesn’t work out and in a few years time I’ll become washed up and lower my standards and you and I can give it a shot.”

Before Chris can retort, Steve cuts in with an over-exaggerated, faux-jealous, “what about me?” That kicks off a jokey bit of banter between the three of you that takes the show all the way up to comercial.

***

NANCY: There was a second part to the game.

ROBIN: Yeah, that second thing was just mean. It was essentially the same premise as the first guessing game but instead of guessing different men she had been associated with, it was different nicknames she had been given by the media. They were not very nice names either, “Siren of the Strip”, “Heartbreak of Hollywood”, “Pop Music’s Maneater”, you get the gist.

Of course, like with the last “game” the joke was that it had been all is them.

***

The names had been a surprise. You didn’t know how to react and neither did your bandmates although you’re pretty sure you can feel the heat from Eddie’s glare from the other end of the set.

Still, you kept your cool and immediately admitted that all of them seemed familiar and instead turned the conversation into criticisms of each of the names, which was gaining too many laughs for Chris to try to stop it.

“See this one I don’t like at all,” you say, pointing to Malibu Minx that had been professionally printed on a giant poster board in newspaper font.

“Whys that?” The host asked wolfishly.

“Malibu Minx? Are you serious? Anyone with half a brain knows I’m from the Hills, not Malibu. Honestly, it’s a little insulting.”

“Come on, they can’t be that different,” Chris still plays along, even though your comment did not go where he wanted it to.

“Not at all! The Hills is where all the directors and actors live, Malibu is where divorced dads take their kids during their monthly weekend visits. It’s like, here on the east coast… well, I can’t think of an East Coast equivalent. Chris, help me out, where do you take your kids during your monthly visits?”

***

ROBIN: You should’ve seen his face when she said that.

NANCY: His first divorce had just gone public a few weeks prior. Guess it was still a sore spot. Not that he didn’t deserve it, he did, but he wasn’t used to his guests fighting back like that. The rest of the show was… tense and then after the show ended Palmer lost his cool.

STEVE: Honestly, I wanted to punch the guy since he brought out his stupid little games, but I was willing to leave things as they were that night, especially after she had put Palmer in his place, but we get backstage after the show and he starts yelling at her about having “embarrassed” him or something like he hadn’t essentially called her a bunch of names on live tv. Before any of us could even do anything though, Hopper had him pinned against the wall, saying stuff like “I thought we had come to an agreement about the jokes, Palmer.”

He gave him a good shake down, you know how intimidating Hopper can be. Plus Chris looked like he had never been in a fight in his life so he was shaking in his boots immediately. Security had to come to get Hopper off of him and we were all thrown out after that.

ROBIN: Yeah, we were never asked back after that not that we would’ve gone back.It was a shame for him, really, that 1984 episode of The Nightly Show with Chris Palmer was one of the most viewed episodes in the ten years he was on the air.

***

You return to your hotel room in the early hours of the morning, after having gone for celebratory drinks with Hopper and the rest of the band. Everyone had been thoroughly impressed with the way you had held your own against Chris and even previously-icy Robin seemed impressed and warmed by you.

You hadn’t had much of an opportunity to talk to Eddie throughout the night, something about the undecipherable expression he wore most of the night had left you curious and you couldn’t help but wonder if maybe hearing your entire history splayed out like that in front of him and the rest of the world had soured you and he no longer wants anything to do with you.

As you’re getting ready for bed, the ringing coming from the hotel phone jolts you.

“Hello?” You breathe out, harried and confused into the handset.

“Hey, I didn’t wake you did I?” Eddie’s concerned question statics over the line.

“No,” you respond, relief coloring your tone, “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, really, I was just thinking how hot it was when you told that dickbag off and I was wondering if you’d be up to me showing you that.”

“Showing me what, exactly?”

“Showing you how hot I think you are. If you’re up for it, of course?”

25 minutes later, with Eddie’s face buried messily in your pussy you’re near inching closer to release when you hear him muttering into the soft skin of your thigh while two of his skilled fingers begin pumping in an out of your tight heat.

“You know, if I didn’t know better, seeing you all hot and desperate to come on my fingers like this would make me think you are a minx.”

Hearing him call you that so low and growly, left you burning all over and you keen into his hands. Knowing his words had the intended effect, Eddie smirks into your thigh and speeds up his fingers.

“Only for you,” you respond once you can find your voice again.

Eddie give a low moan at this and in an instant he clamors up onto the bed and moves to replace his fingers with his dick.

“Say that again,” he challenges as he swipes his tip through your folds and you cry out.

“I’m a minx for you,” you nod along to what you’re saying, hoping that it makes him more eager to stop teasing and finally push inside you.

He does exactly as you hoped and pushes his hips into you hungrily, setting a punishing pace, “Only for me right?”

You nod along, fucked out and on the verge of coming agian, “Yes, only for you, Eddie.”

You don’t make it back to your hotel room that night either.

***

MAY 11TH, 1984–BRIDGEPORT, CT—THE UPSIDE DOWN TOUR

“Are you sure the’d still want to meet me?” You ask Steve one evening, brushing your hair standing in the doorway of the door that separated your hotel room from his.

“Yeah, of course! Why do you keep asking that? Wait… do you not want to meet them anymore? It’s okay if you don’t,” Steve is already trying to hide his disappointment.

“No,” you rush to correct as you follow the sound of his voice to the bathroom, “it’s not that at all it’s just that, well with all the Minx stuff in the news, I worry that maybe they won’t think I’m worthy of the Harrington brood or whatever.”

You’re of course referring to the drama that had followed the band’s appearance on the Chris Palmer show where Chris had given an interview to Subrosa after you had affectively embarrassed him on his own show calling the band talentless and you worthy of every bad name that the press could call you and more.

In response to the interview—and partially inspired by your encounter with Eddie following the interview— you had gotten the word ‘Minx’ embroidered on the back of your favorite suede jacket which you made sure to wear to all of your subsequent interviews and media appearances for the rest of the band’s time in New York.

“First of all,” Steve begins, rubbing shaving cream over his chin “neither of my parents would ever dream of reading a gossip magazine and even if they did, they hate Chris Palmer, always said he was too ‘blue’ whatever that means. Plus, historically, dinners with my parents haven’t been the most enjoyable affairs, so having you there would really mean a lot to me.”

You smile understandingly at him through the mirror and suddenly the whole domesticity of it all strikes you. In another life, the two of you could’ve simply been a couple discussing meeting one another’s parents in the bathroom of a shitty apartment the two of you shared.

The fantasy is interrupted abruptly by a bright cacophony of knocks at your door.

“That must be Eddie,” you explained, “he’s coming over to write.”

(He really was.)

With all the fucking the two of you had been doing, writing music had fallen to the wayside and as the end of the tour was insight and Murray’s quota of songs still not met, which meant you had to get writing.

You scramble over to your door and let Eddie in. He almost leans in for a kiss but catches himself when he notices the open door leading into Steve’s room where he is very much watching the interaction with prying eyes.

The two nod at each other in greeting. You linger in the middle between either sides the awkwardness tangible in the air. You look at Eddie’s urging eyes and then flash back to Steve whose puppy dog gaze and newly received information about his parents make you do something that is surprising even to yourself.

“Do you want to help us write, Steve?”

The situation is awkward at first, especially with the glares Eddie seems to shoot you and Steve’s shy insistence that he’s no good at writing music but eventually, after two bottles of wine, the tension subsides, at least a little.

Eddie and you had presented Steve with a few songs that were very close to done but just needed a bit more work on the melody hoping that maybe he had suggestions.

He scans over a song that Eddie had primarily written, “Wild Ride”. Steve had an idea for a rhythm that could match the song and before long, he and Eddie were fully invested, both of them bent over their guitars trying out the rhythm and shooting notes at each other. Arrangement was definitely not your strong suit, however, you were more than happy to watch the two guitarists work

Steve was fascinatingly somber when it came to writing. He would play the notes over and over again until he found what came next, treating the whole thing like a puzzle that needed to be solved and running his hands through his hair when he was particularly stuck on something. His eyes would close while he was thinking, his lashes fluttering on his cheeks and then blinking open prettily when he had finally thought of a solution.

Eddie was much less delicate and would play around with notes, sometimes scrapping what he had all together and starting new. He tucked a pen behind his ear and was constantly scribbling and crossing out. When he focused on playing, his tongue would stick out from the corner of his mouth a bit.

They worked well together, never talked over each other, and were always willing to listen to what the other had come up with. As Eddie would write notes down in his notebook, Steve would lean in really close, so they were almost cheek to cheek looking down at the paper together. It almost seemed like they’d forgotten you were there and you were too busy refining some lackluster choruses to notice.

Eventually, they hit a wall in their writing and more drinks were ordered through room service, and soon the three of you are sprawled across your bed, drinking French 75s and watching a late night marathon of “Night Court”.

“Hey Harrington, you excited to see your folks soon?” Eddie asks during a comercial break.

You turn to look and see Steve grimace at the question. You know Eddie means well in asking, but the question ruffles Steve nonetheless.

“Not really. We were never really close on account of them sending me away to boarding school when I was eleven and then when we were together my dad’s favorite pastime was criticizing me and my mom’s was drinking,” Steve says, finally, “seeing them once a year is probably the most I can stand, honestly.”

A beat of silence settles over the group before Eddie finally speaks.

“Sorry to hear that man. If it makes you feel better, my folks weren’t exactly parents of the year either,” Eddie responds.

“That sucks, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it, my uncle took me in. He’s a great guy. What about you, Princess? Were your parents the perfect image of love and support?”

You scoff. “Barely. I went back to their house right before the tour started, to get some of my things, and they thought I was breaking in and called the cops.”

“Well,” Eddie bristles, “looks like being a terrible parent can happen across all tax brackets, huh?”

“Yeah, we kinda got fucked over, a bit,” you say and the other two murmur in agreement.

The three of you stay silent for a bit, processing what had been shared and how to possibly move past such a heavy topic.

It’s Steve who finally breaks the silence, “Do you guys think Dan and Christine will ever get together?”

“Oh, yeah.” “Definitely.”

***

“This restaurant is obscenely nice,” you shift uncomfortable in your chair, taking in the surrounds and the unfamiliar unease of being somewhere where you felt out of place. Of course, you had grown up in fine dining establishments in California, but East Coast wealth seemed like a different beast entirely.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Robin huffs next to you, “but what else can you expect from Stan and Carolyn? They’re obsessed with letting everyone know how rich they are.”

She of course, had the advantage of knowing Steve’s parents after over a decade of friendship and it made sense that Steve, wanting as much of a buffer between himself and his parents during this dinner, had invited her along as well. So far, she had only been a little hostile towards you which was a personal victory.

The two of you spot Steve entering the restaurant at the same time along with two middle-aged companions that, based off resemblance alone, you knew were his parents.

Steve’s father had the same starkly defined chin and nose as his son, but none his face didn’t turn up into a natural smile like his son. He stood stately and stern, eyes surveying the room with little interest. His wife, Steve’s mother, was made up of refined, delicate features offset by the bright eyes that were clearly passed on to her son. Her entire outfit was meticulously perfect in a way that almost seemed artificial.

Steve introduces you with fanfare and pride that you don’t consider yourself worthy of but you smile along anyway and graciously shake Mr. Harrington’s hand and exchange dotted cheek kisses with Mrs. Harrington.

You exchange niceties and think to yourself maybe they won’t be so bad.

“Stan, Carolyn, it’s so nice to see you again,” Robin grits out through a tight smile.

Carolyn pats her on the shoulder in response and says,, “Please dear, call us Mr. and Mrs. Harrington. We’re out in public after all.”

***

ROBIN: Yeah, Carolyn and Stan hated me. It was like they could smell the gay on me. Or the poor. From the moment Steve had invited me over to spend spring break with them in the Hamptons they did not like me. They despised the idea of their son’s best friend being some scholarship kid whose parents were public school teachers. However bad they were to me though, they were far worse to Steve, which is why I ever even bothered going to these lunches. I didn’t want him to have to suffer through them alone.

***

“Sorry we’re late,” Mr. Harrington drawls as the three of them take their seats at the table, “our idiotic son forgot to bring cash for the valet.” His statement is punctuated by a mirthless laugh and you can tell by the matching expressions on Steve and Robin’s faces and the way Mrs. Harrington makes a grab for the bottle of wine on the table that this level of disparagement is normal for the Harrington household. You remember the comment Steve had made a few nights ago about his father’s favorite pastime

“Don’t worry,” you respond with a smooth smile, “we’re so used to having drivers back in LA—“ a lie “—I can see why Steve forgot about valet. Although, I’m sure you both know what that’s like.”

Mr. Harrington stalled. Everyone at the table—including you—knew that the Harringtons were nowhere near wealthy enough to afford personal drivers but if there was one thing insecure men, like Stan Harrington would never do is admit that they couldn’t afford something.

You were familiar with these types of ego games from your youth, although you took no pleasure in them.

Your youth was spent tucked into your mothers skirts during luncheons and tea and fashion fittings, listening as the women would eviscerate each other with laser-edge precision. If there was anything your mother had taught you was how to sow the seeds of insecurity in someone and although it did not come naturally, you could make an exception for Stan Harrington.

***

ROBIN: It was easy to forget most of the time that she came from money but damn, the way she handled Stan that night made me think that some politician was missing out on having her as their cutthroat third wife. It was like watching an artist paint or someone do sleight of hand magic. He would say something mean about Steve and she would just turn it right back around on him but she would be smiling and batting her eyes the entire time. Even with that though, it wasn’t an easy lunch to get through.

***

“It’s so nice that Stevie was able to make something of himself through his little music,” Carolyn fawns. She means well, for the most part, but the four glasses of wine she’s downed during the last twenty minutes makes her words come out just a tad but demeaning.

Her husband sneers in response, “You say that now, Carolyn, but soon he’ll be back here asking for a spot in the firm.”

“Hopefully not too soon,” you giggle in response running a hand alongside Steve’s arm, “the studio wants us recording our second album as soon as we get back and then we’ll be touring again and we’ll need him for that.”

“But darling, you can’t possibly expect to do that for the rest of your life,” Mrs. Harrington sighs, “eventually the two of you will want to settle down and have children, live a normal life.”

“Well, yeah Mom, but that’ll be a long time down the road—“

“Making music is our life, we don’t want to ever stop—“

You and Steve halt your explanation once you realize what the other is saying. The two of you exchange blank, confused looks and it’s not until Robin says, “I’m sure that they’ll decide what their next move is when the time comes. We still have plenty of time.” That the two of you jolt back into the conversation.

“Right,” you add, “plus with the royalties deal we just secured on this new album, we will be pretty stable financially.”

The rest of the lunch is spent fielding Mr. Harrington’s questions about financials and Mrs. Harrington’s questions about grandchildren. It’s exhausting but the three of you come out mostly unscathed.

The five of you part ways outside of the restaurant, and not a moment too soon. The wave of relief that washes over the three of you once the Harringtons have been sent on their way in a taxi is palpable.

You and Robin offer to buy Steve a drink for having survived the lunch and Steve offers to buy the two of you a drink as a thank you for playing roles in that. Soon, one drink each turns into multiple rounds of drinks spent recounting all the agonizing points of the lunch.

This leaves the three of you stumbling into your hotel in the early hours of the evening, completely and utterly drunk. You ride the elevator together, a mess of laughter and then bid goodbye to one another in front of Robin’s door. She’s ready to sleep off the drinking and you do not blame her.

This leaves you and Steve to stumble back to your joint rooms together.

“You know, seeing you today having dinner with my parents and my best friend almost made the whole thing feel real,” Steve says lowly, standing in your doorway.

“Steve don’t,” you plea softly.

“I just don’t get it,” he cries in response, “we would be so good together. We are good together: we have so much in common and we just make sense, everyone thinks so except for you. Just… tell me why wouldn’t you give us a shot?”

You’re in your room now, perched on the edge of the bed , teary eyes focused on everything in the room other than the man who stands in front of you.

“Steve that’s not fair. It’s just never going to work, why can’t you accept that?”

“Because I’m in love with you,” Steve blurts out, “and I know I may not be your first choice, but if you give me a chance I will prove that I’m good enough—“

“Steve, stop please don’t say that, you’re plenty good enough for anyone,” you stand now, to face him.

“Just not you,” he says devastated.

“No, listen, it’s not like that. I just, I don’t know if I can be with someone in the way that you want me to, okay? You want someone to eventually settle down with and I’m not that girl. I’m the fucking Minx for God’s sake not someone’s future wife. In another life maybe, we could’ve made each other very happy, who knows? But in this one, I can’t be what you want.”

The two of you stand there in silence for what feels like an eternity. Finally, Steve moves, walking past you to sit in your vanity chair.

“Is there someone else you have feelings for?” He asks, timidly.

“No, no,” you insist. “I told you, I don’t do that.”

He laughs mirthlessly in response, “I think you’re wrong about that. I think you’ll find someone, maybe not now or in a year or in five years, but eventually you will find someone and they will make you want to try and you will love them and I will have to watch you fall in love with them and we will both realize I was just not worth it.”

PLAY NEXT TRACK🎤

Taglist: @rexorangecouny , @persophonekarter @mystargirl-interlude @brinleighsstuff @thegaysaretired @nothing2-see @harrysvirgogf @Prior-antidote @stardustofyesterday @buckleyverse

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peachebo · 2 months

Text

how it started

#band!au #fnaf security breach #glamrock chica #roxxane wolf #glamrock bonnie #fnaf #fanart #chickrox

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gardenofnoah · 1 year

Text

until the wheels fall off

summary: you’ve all worked hard to see your dream come to fruition—but nothing can last forever, and there’s poison in the water that runs deeper than you knew. it doesn’t matter what katsuki says—everyone has a limit, and you seem hell bent on finding his.

wc: 11k, crossposted to AO3

tags: band!au, drummer!bkg, denki and shinsou play the guitar, vocalist!reader, reader drinks to cope, absent parent/abandonment, jealousy, smut, hurt/comfort, childhood best friends to lovers (hints at soulmates but no direct mention of it), fluff, anxiety, mentions of vomit, happy ending♡

You don’t know when it started. Part of you believes it’s always been there–as innate as the knowledge of breathing. Loving him was too involuntary to have ever been given a choice at whether you’d be wise in doing it.

You snort at the thought–how cliché.

You watch him from the other end of the bar and your throat burns as the whiskey slips down it. It’s become a nightly ritual for you all, though maybe it shouldn’t–tracking down the dingiest, little hole-in-the-wall bars you can find in the city you’re in for the night. Wake up, drive, showtime, drink time–every night for the last month. You should be grateful that your little quartet has gotten enough recognition in the last few years to be able to pull off a headlining tour, and you are. You’re just–feeling a little hollow, too.

Katsuki is how he always is–indifferent to the women surrounding him, nursing a beer and leaning over to mutter something to Denki over the noise of the cooing and fawning–and something about it makes you burn. You want to believe that you are nostalgic for the time long past, when it was just the four of you, coming up through the underground, trying to make a name for yourselves.

You know that’s not it, though.

You burn because he’s yours, and you feel monumentally foolish at the possessiveness that tears you up on the inside. You fight fire with fire and take another swig, chasing the way your nerves will dull by the time the drink runs empty. There’s no reason for jealousy–these are your fans, the ones you’ve all worked so hard to attract–and yet.

Or maybe it’s because he’s not yours–not really. This band was the joint dream of the two of you–started in your mother’s basement when you were children. Tiny noisemakers that only wanted to play, who grew and learned and realized that what you could do together had the potential to really be something. You pulled in Denki and Shinsou, and then it became what it is now–the up and coming indie band reaching more milestones than you ever thought it would. But the more you reach, the more you feel the need to sink your claws into him–to tether him to you. It strikes you as a little ironic that you’ve worked as hard as you have, only to be the thing that wishes to hold him back.

____________________________________________________________

The first time you were truly recognized was a shock to you all–you had been huddled in the living room of your shitty little apartment–writing, planning, daydreaming–when you got the call from your newly-acquired manager that your last single had been added to the Spotify artists to watch playlist. Denki hooped and hollered, clamoring over Shinsou in his excitement, when you felt the weight of strong arms pulling you back into a broad chest. Katsuki said nothing, just rested his chin on your head while you both watched Denki victimize your poor bandmate, and you found that you cared more for the feeling of the embrace of your childhood best friend than you did the recognition you’d worked so hard for.

It was then that you realized you were well and truly fucked.

____________________________________________________________

Two years later, here you are–nursing a too-strong drink in the corner of a bar you don’t know the name of. Shinsou sits to your right, and watches you watch Katsuki for longer than any friend should. He clears his throat and you jump, having completely forgotten he was there.

“You know,” he starts, leaning in closer to you so he doesn’t have to shout over the noise, “You could just tell him.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He huffs a laugh, rolling his eyes as he tips back his own beer. “Sure,” he says, setting it down on the bartop with a soft clink, “and I was born yesterday.”

Stupid, idiot Shinsou, with his too-honed people reading skills, figured out your infatuation with your bandmate far earlier than even you did. He’d kept it between the two of you, and you were grateful for it. Even if he still pestered you about it when the opportunity presented itself.

“I’m just saying–it’s not like the feeling isn’t mutual.”

“You don’t know that,” you say too sharply.

“Oh, please,” he waves a hand, dismissing you and your sudden hostility, “We’re around each other constantly. Whatever shit you guys have going on is damn near suffocating.”

You don’t believe him. It’s always been different with you and Katsuki, because you’ve just always had each other. You quite literally haven’t gone a day without him–your mothers were next door neighbors and close friends, so it was either your house or his, every day. That kind of proximity gave way to a friendship that was, and is still, unlike your other relationships. And when you started writing songs together, that brought you even closer–exchanging pieces of yourselves with each other to create something meaningful to both of you. There was never an opportunity to hide, to withdraw–you had always bared yourselves to one another. For some reason, laying yourself down at his feet made more sense than anything else ever did.

You wave a hand at the bartender, motioning for another drink. Shinsou eyes you, and you ignore it, not wanting to hear the lecture about how you’ve had enough. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him focus on something above your head, and your stomach drops at the grin that spreads across his face.

“Here comes your leash,” he whispers to you, kicking your shin softly under the bar. You don’t have time to retort–a heavy weight against your back cuts you off.

“Fuck are you doin’?” Katuski mutters into your ear, leaning against you, forcing you to brace yourself with a hand against the bar. There’s no heat in his words, but there’s something else–something that makes your chest squeeze when you realize it might be concern.

“Ordering a drink,” you tell him plainly, like there’s no reason he should be asking you that. Nevermind that it’s a little slurred when it comes out of your mouth.

“How many have you had?”

“I–uh. Two.”

He looks at Shinsou for confirmation, who only shakes his head. He lets out a heavy sigh, holding out a hand in front of the bartender, stopping them from setting the drink down.

“No more. We’re leaving.”

He ignores your arguments and all but hauls you off the bar stool, dragging you outside with Denki and Shinsou. You berate him until you step outside–the cold air making you shiver, cutting off your complaints. He throws his arm around your shoulder, pulling you into his side as he leads you back to the tour bus parked down a few blocks. Your hazy mind tells you to press further into the warmth of his body, but you have enough sense to stop that thought before it becomes an action. You hear his voice in your ear and fight the urge to close your eyes.

“What’s been goin’ on with you?”

The cold is sobering, but not nearly enough to make it easy to have this conversation. Your tongue feels too heavy in your mouth and to speak feels like too much effort, so you manage a little hm? in response, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. You wonder who allowed such an uneven sidewalk to be put here as you stumble over it.

Katuski’s grip on you tightens. You think you hear his teeth crunch together with the way he grits them before relaxing his jaw. You wonder if it’s out of anger, and if he’s been shoving it down for a while.

“Why’ve you been drinking so much?”

“I dunno what you’re talking about,” you say through a hiccup, and you realize that it’s for the second time tonight. Deny until it’s true, you think. Deny until you believe it, too.

That stops him in his tracks, and you hear Denki and Shinsou stop behind you.

“Go on,” Katuski tells them over his shoulder, “we’ll be there in a minute.”

You watch them walk ahead, whispering lowly to each other. You get the sneaking suspicion that they’re talking about the two of you, and then you laugh a little, because of course they are. Katsuki waits until they’re out of sight, and then turns you–a little abruptly, making your head spin–to face him. You want to shrink from his stare, because he’s never looked at you like this and it stings like a slap.

“Listen, if this is too much for you and you need to stop, we can. M’not gonna to watch you–”

“Kat,” you cut him off, mustering all of your consciousness to speak clearly, “I’m fine. Just had a little too much tonight, that’s all.”

He eyes you, clearly not convinced. “It’s not just tonight. You’ve been doin’ this–”

“I said I’m fine,” you say, and you can’t help the edge in your voice. You pause and suck in a breath, a last ditch effort to compose yourself. Knowing that it might work on anyone else, but not the man who has you by the shoulders right now. You try anyway.

“Really,” you tell him, reaching up to wrap your fingers around his wrist and feeling the muscle strain underneath them. Wondering distantly if he knows that his grip might be bruising. Or you think it would be, if you could feel it. “I promise I’m okay. Thanks for checking on me.”

He holds your gaze for a long while, and you hope he’s not looking too deeply into you. Hope that he could go easy on you, just this once.

“M’gonna be watching you,” he warns, but his voice is soft. You smile at him, and it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“I’d hope so.”

_______________________________________________________________

There’s something that happens when you’re on stage. You’ve never been able to put it into words. Before you’d all had your taste of the limelight, you were terrified of it–terrified of opening yourself up to a crowd of people, displaying your insides like a sick game of show-and-tell while they looked on. And for a while, it was hard–you leaned on the boys considerably to help you through it.

Now, years later, things are different. You still need your boys–just not in the same way.

Waiting in the wings, you feel it again–the calm that settles over you like a thick blanket. You close your eyes, letting the guitar riffs that Shinsou and Denki play wash over you. It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve heard them play it–the opener is always your favorite part. You feel like you are drifting through a bottomless ocean–just floating, willingly exposed and vulnerable. Your music is just that–ethereal, unsettling. Like you feel yourself getting comfortable but shouldn’t.

You feel the heavy beat begin from Katsuki, and you open your eyes.

From where you stand, you’re able to see the complete profile of him. It never fails to leave you a little breathless–for someone that is always set on a hair trigger, watching him settle into a place of serenity while he plays has always captivated you. The tension he holds so closely leaves him almost entirely– his body moves intuitively, and you think he could play just as well in the dark. You begin your own walk to the front of the stage, mourning the sight at your back. Lamenting that you should’ve made the intro to this song way, way longer.

The crowd lets out a collective cheer at your approach, and it never fails to make you smile. All at once it feels like coming home–the show-and-tell feeling turning into a mutual give and take between you and those in front of you. When you reach for your microphone and begin, it’s less of a performance and more of a conversation–calling in every single person in the audience, and inviting them into the story you’re weaving. It helps that this venue is as beautiful as it is–tall arches and ornate woodwork allow you to slip further into the character you’ve carefully crafted. Something opens inside of you, and you have no qualms about letting it out to roam freely.

Tonight is a good night, and you all feel it. The song wraps up and you turn to face the boys, immediately laughing at the overzealous thumbs up Denki gives you. Shinsou nods at you approvingly, and when you meet Katsuki’s gaze, it nearly knocks you breathless. He’s wide open and you can see it in his face. He holds you there for what feels like forever, and you have to reach back to grab at the microphone stand to steady yourself. He’s seemingly forgiven your trespasses from last night, the look of concern having given way to something approaching adoration. He mouths a small you okay? and you swear you hear it inside your head like he’s right next to you. You grin at him, showing your teeth as you nod your head. He rewards you with that tiny, devastating smirk on that stupid, beautiful face and you turn on your heel, shaking your head to snap out of it.

“Anyway…” you drawl into the mic, pulling the shawl you wear into yourself dramatically and laughing a little at the knowing whistles from the crowd, “how are we doing tonight?”

____________________________________________________________

“What was that?” Denki all but screeches, shaking you by the shoulders as you all walk out of the venue. He’s nearly jumping up and down on the sidewalk in his excitement, and it’s so infectious that you feel it start to move through you, too.

“Dude,“ he says, very serious in his expression, still both grabbing and pushing at you like he can’t contain the feeling inside his body–or even decide what that feeling is– “you were on fuckin’ fire!”

You laugh at that, feeling a little bashful. It was still jarring, even now–when the lights go out, you return to the person you were before. Everything has changed and everything is still the same as it always was. It feels too much like a rough comedown.

“You guys were great,” you say, and you mean it, “I’m only as good as you are.”

“Nah,” Shinsou’s voice comes from behind, trapping a still-bubbling Denki in a headlock to get him off of you, “Denki sucked. Something was different tonight with you.”

Shinsou ignores the indignant hey! from the man in his grasp as he tows him down the street, creating some distance between the two of them and you and Katsuki. You don’t doubt for a second that he’s doing it on purpose. For as sharp-edged and painfully honest as Shinsou might be, he really could be a great wingman.

Like you’ve summoned him with your thoughts, Katsuki’s matching your stride beside you. He pulls your arm toward him, looping it though his own.

“They’re right, you know.”

“Yeah?” you smile up at him, wiggling your eyebrows a little bit. “Gonna sing your praises to me, too?”

His free hand comes up to cover your face, pushing you away from him, despite your arm still looped in his. He lets out the most dramatic noise of disgust you’ve ever heard when you stick your tongue out to lick his palm.

“God, you’re gross,” he shakes his head, but he’s smiling, and you think you’d do it a hundred more times if it meant you could see him like this again.

It’s quiet between you as you walk–comfortably so. You let yourself lean into his side a little bit, just to see if he’ll shove you off–if he thinks you’re messing with him. He doesn’t, so you stay.

“Do you ever worry?” you ask suddenly, shaking yourself from your reverie with a question you didn’t know you wanted an answer to.

“Mm?”

“About, like…the sustainability of this. Like it’s great, of course. It’s awesome that we have this momentum now. But it can’t last forever, right?”

He’s quiet for a moment, and you can feel him thinking it over. You keep walking, arm through his, and you focus on the cloud of steam your breath releases into the cold in front of you–suddenly a little nervous to hear his response.

“It probably won’t last forever,” he says, with a confidence that jars you a bit, “but it doesn’t have to.”

He says it with such finality that you’re not sure how to respond. You’re torn from your thoughts when he pulls you to a stop next to him.

“Hey,” he calls to you gently, and you meet his gaze. He has that look again from before, except there’s no crowd here to pull you away from it. You have no choice but to surrender to it.

“I’m ridin’ this train til the wheels fall off,” he grins, holding out a pinky to you in a gesture that has something inside you mourning over the days of childhood pinky promises long behind you, “me and you til then, yeah?”

You wrap your pinky around his, smiling softly. “Til the wheels fall off.”

____________________________________________________________

It’s unfortunate, the way you test the strength of that promise weeks later.

You’ve all just wrapped up the last show of the tour, back again in some random, back alley bar. Denki had suggested it and Katsuki had protested, clearly wishing to avoid a repeat of your last few experiences. You’d waved him off, telling him it’d be good to get out one last time. He and Shinsou had exchanged looks, no doubt some silent agreement assigning the purple haired man to babysit you all night. So be it, you’d thought. You’d be fine.

An hour in, you realize that you definitely won’t be fine.

You and Shinsou sit at one end of the bar–he’s drawing diagrams on a napkin, which are supposedly guitar tabs but look to you like a foreign language. All at once you feel an acute sense of anxiety–one you’d been feeling over the length of the tour, that is apparently coming to a head right now.

You flag the bartender down for another drink–straight liquor, your second of the last hour. Shinsou clears his throat next to you.

“You think that’s a good idea?” he asks lowly, trying and failing to catch your eyes.

You wave him off, not bothering with a reply as you take a too-big sip of your now full drink. It doesn’t have the effect that you’d hoped for, and you feel the anxiety climb higher still up your throat.

It’s not clear to you at first why you feel like this–you know tomorrow you will go home and start thinking about new music, the next project, like you always do. But there’s also the sinking feeling that you’ll be alone for the first time in two months.

At some point in the last few years, the four of you had made enough money to find your own living spaces. You’re still close–you all live in the same building–but there are far more walls, literal and metaphorical, that separate you now. The boys all have side gigs and brand deals, things separate from you.

You have this. You have put the entirety of your being into this band, and it is all you have.

There’s part of you that fears the end will come sooner for you than the rest–that the decision to put all of your eggs in this particular basket was the wrong one. Not because you feel any sense of regret, but because there is a part of you that fears the inevitable abandonment, should any of the boys start to feel like they have nothing left to give to you.

Rationally, you know it’s not true. You know that the commitments they have made to you and the band are genuine and strong. You know that Katsuki does not make promises he can’t keep.

But right now, you’re wound up and unpleasantly drunk, and when you turn to your left, you see Katsuki with a woman you’ve never seen before. You don’t look at her face—you don’t care to, because you are so fixated on Katsuki’s. For the first time, he’s not immediately indifferent–he even looks mildly interested, talking low with heads tilted toward one another in a display that looks sickeningly intimate while she shows him something on her phone, and something inside you shatters.

You tip the rest of your drink back, and order another.

“Whoa, hey,” Shinsou’s voice comes from your left, sounding genuinely startled now. “What are you doing?”

You feel the break outwardly, like it’s done its damage on the inside and is now trying to find a way out. Shinsou follows your gaze toward Katsuki’s seat, immediately understanding.

“Stop,” he tells you, in a firmness you haven’t heard before, “You don’t know what that is.”

You shake your head, smiling a little, but it’s sad and broken and stuns Shinsou silent. You throw your full-again drink back with a speed that nearly triggers your gag reflex. You bow your head for a moment, taking a deep breath in, trying to steady yourself. Nevermind the spinning walls around you. It all has to come down sometime.

“What’s it matter?” you ask, a little too loudly, “It wasn’t going to last forever.”

You know that the last drink was a mistake when you nearly topple over yourself trying to get down from the barstool. Shinsou grabs your arm to steady you and you wrench away from him, throwing yourself off balance again. You hear him hiss at you to be careful, and then that people are staring, but it’s too late. It happens slowly, which you find strange–you’re falling and then you’re not, and instead someone has you by your armpits, all but dragging you outside. You don’t realize you’re standing upright until Katsuki is in front of you–glaring down at you, all anger and something far worse–something that looks a lot like disappointment.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he spits out, and it’s all you can do to stare at him, because everything is still spinning and for as angry as he’s always been, it’s never, ever been pointed at you.

You can’t get your mouth to catch up with your brain, and then it doesn’t matter at all because you realize with startling clarity that you’re going to vomit. You have the wherewithal to lurch into the nearby alley, and it’s a struggle to keep yourself upright–bracing yourself on the slimy, damp brick of the building in front of you while you empty your stomach onto the street.

“For fuck’s sake,” you hear beside you, and everything is fuzzy–you lean your forehead against the wall in front of you, trying to find some semblance of equilibrium. You feel the weight of your hair lift from your neck, but you can’t get your mouth to form a thank you.

It’s another five minutes before you’re confident that your stomach has settled. You push off the wall, slowly, testing out your balance. It’s still shit, as it turns out–Katsuki catches you as you sway a little too far to the right. You feel a little like a scruffed kitten, and that makes you laugh, only it comes out choked because you feel tears coming and there’s no defense left to stop them.

“What is goin’ on with you?” he asks, still incredulous but subdued now, bringing a thumb up to swipe at your tears. He’s soft again in the way that’s familiar to you, and that makes it hard to stop the wobble of your lip or the whimper that punches its way out of your mouth.

“Oi,” he half-barks, now closer to you—letting you lean into his chest to keep you steady. He brings a hand up to hold the back of your head and you squeeze your eyes shut, suddenly feeling sick again. Knowing it has nothing to do with the alcohol.

“Start talkin’,” and you know it’s not a suggestion, and you think that it’s so unfair that he couldn’t wait until morning to ask you this, when you’d certainly be a little more guarded. But he doesn’t, and you think that it’s on purpose, and you know you can’t stop yourself.

“You’re…gonna leave me,” you whimper, and it comes out slurred and broken and so pathetic–you almost wish you were still puking because it would be less mortifying than this, “you all–you’ll all leave and,” you cut yourself off with a stuttered breath, “I’ll be by myself again.”

And you don’t dare look at him right now, so you stand there with your eyes closed, pressing your forehead into his collarbone, praying that the earth opens wide and swallows you whole. It occurs to you a moment later that he’s still holding you there, and he hasn’t said anything. It’s another before you hear him sigh–deeply, like it’s effort, and then your feet aren’t touching the ground anymore. He maneuvers you onto his back, ignoring your weak groans of protest.

“You need to hold on,” he tells you over his shoulder.

You try your best to–your arms circle around his neck, but it feels like all of the strength has left your body. He leans forward to compensate, making sure you don’t fall off of him. He starts walking, and your brain catches up enough to realize after a few moments that he’s not walking toward the bus.

“Where’re we going?”

“Hotel down the street,” he grits out, and it’s short in a way that is so wounding it startles the breath out of you. You put your head down on his shoulder and squeeze your eyes shut tight, pleading with yourself not to start crying again. If he feels the tears soaking into his shirt, he doesn’t say anything, and you suppose you can be grateful for that.

He doesn’t say anything the whole way there. He walks into the lobby with you still on his back, and you look anywhere but the concierge, a little more sober than you were before and wholly embarrassed. Katsuki hauls you up the stairs to the third floor, opens the door and sets you on the bed. He mutters a quick don’t move and promptly turns, walking away from you and out into the hallway, shutting the door behind him.

The sound of him walking away seems horrifically amplified–the sound of his footsteps reverberating inside your skull until they fade away. If there was ever a time to feel alone, it’s right now, and you can’t fight the fresh wave of tears that crests so suddenly that it’s startling, even if you knew it was coming. All at once you are 6 years old again, crying for a man that walks away and does not come back.

____________________________________________________________

When Katsuki opens the door again, it startles you awake. You have no idea how much time has passed–it certainly felt like hours. Looking at the clock on the nightstand, it reads 1:45am–so you suppose it couldn’t have been that long. He has a large, plastic grocery bag with him now, and he sets it on the bed next to you, rummaging through it.

“Where’s Denki and Shinsou?” you ask quietly, feeling far too sober and deeply unsettled.

“Took the bus back,” he says matter of factly. He pulls out a sweatshirt and sweatpants that are not yours, and sets them on your lap.

“So–how are we…?”

He pauses, turning his head to look you full in the face. You lean back minutely, needing to pull away from him. The shame comes off you in waves.

“You and I are flying home tomorrow.”

And you say nothing, terribly confused and a little afraid. He sees this on your face and sighs, moving the bag to sit beside you on the bed.

“Whatever this is, the shit you’ve been doing–” he cuts himself off and takes a breath in, like he’s trying to compose himself. He takes in another breath, and tries again.

“Think it’d be good for us to go home for a few days. M’sure my old hag misses you.”

Your mind feels like a thousand puzzle pieces, twisting and sliding past each other. It takes several silent moments before your pieces click, and when they do, the reality is devastating.

He’s taking you home because he can’t deal with this anymore. Because he has nothing left to give you.

“Katsuki,” you choke out, reaching for him across the bed. He takes your hand in his, pulling it to his lap and squeezing gently.

“I know,” he murmurs, gently, like he’s trying to placate you, “I know. We’ll figure it out.”

____________________________________________________________

You blink slowly back into consciousness when you hear shuffling somewhere in the room. You turn your head, and the clock reads 9:36AM. You know immediately that Katsuki has been up for hours. You try to raise your head to look for him, and the pain in your skull is so shocking that you gasp, dropping back down into the pillow.

“Here,” Katsuki says from above you, and you crack an eye open to see his palm outstretched, two little tablets tucked inside. You take them gratefully and then grab the glass of water from his other hand, gulping them down without a semblance of grace. The inside of your mouth is gritty and it makes your stomach turn again, despite nothing being in it.

“When are we leaving?” you rasp, not really willing to look at him yet.

“Two hours,” he says, setting a bag on the nightstand next to your head, “there’s breakfast in there, if you want it. You should shower.”

You grimace at that–you don’t think you’ll ever want to eat again. You concede that you probably do stink to death of booze–you sit up, carefully this time, and grab for the sweatset he’d left on the bed last night. It dawns on you that only your side of the bed is disheveled.

“Where did you sleep last night?”

He turns his head to look at you, and the look on his face brings on a new wave of shame that you feel physically. He doesn’t answer–you find that it might be better if you don’t know, because if you did, then you’d know you haven’t asked the right question. You get up without a word and walk into the bathroom, letting the door click shut behind you.

____________________________________________________________

You move through the rest of the morning like a zombie, and you barely register that time has passed at all until you look up and notice that you’re on the airplane. You wonder how you’re even here right now, considering you had none of your things with you when you left the bar last night, but Katsuki has a bag with him that he didn’t before, so you figure he’s got it covered. He’s taken the window seat next to you, and you wonder if it’s because he knows you hate flying. You pull the hood of the sweatshirt that’s not yours up over your head, tightening the strings around your face, not too keen on the chance of anyone recognizing you in this sorry state. The plane begins to move and your breathing picks up, which is embarrassing because of all of the things to make you anxious in the last 24 hours, it feels unnecessary for this to top the list. You try to take in a few deep breaths, and it seems to make the feeling worse. You’re damn near ready to come out of your skin and the plane hasn’t even left the ground yet.

You hear movement next to you–what sounds like plastic clicking together, and then Katsuki has you in his arms–cradling your head into the crook of his neck. The hard underside of the arm rest he’s evidently moved up presses uncomfortably into your side, but you let him hold you because you need it more than anything right now.

“You’re alright,” you feel him press a kiss into the fabric covering your head and it feels so much like grief that you can taste it yourself, “I got you.”

____________________________________________________________

He drops you off in front of your mother’s door in a car that isn’t his a few hours later. You haven’t said a word since before you boarded the plane, and he holds an arm out to stop you from getting out of the car. You turn to look at him, and his face is devoid of almost all emotion. You wonder for whose sake it is that he’s doing that.

“I’ll come over for dinner,” he offers, like it’s a consolation prize. You’d look forward to it if this were any other scenario, but right now it just feels like pity. You shake your head.

“I’ll call you in the morning,” you tell him, and you look down at the arm that’s still extended toward you. He doesn’t move it.

“Oi,” he whispers, prompting you to look at him.

“Til the wheels fall off,” murmured when you do.

You sniff at that, eyes shut tight and nodding sharply because that’s all you can do right now. He squeezes your knee and lets you go.

When you get out of the car, you realize that it’s been a while since you stood on your own.

____________________________________________________________

The reunion with your mother brings fresh tears and hugs that you didn’t realize you missed as badly as you did. She all but drags you inside, shoving you into a seat at the kitchen table. You realize that she knew you were coming, and you wonder if she knows why.

After a moment, she sets a mug of tea down in front of you and takes a seat across from you. You close your eyes and breathe in the aromatic steam, suddenly feeling incredibly homesick despite literally sitting in it. You open your eyes when you feel her hand circle around yours.

“My baby,” she says softly, brushing a thumb over your knuckles, “what’s going on?”

“Oh, mom,” you choke out, pulling away to drop your face into your hands. You hear her drag her chair closer to yours, pulling you into her arms when she’s close enough. She pulls your hood down to run her fingers through your hair, gently cooing to you until your sobs turn into quiet sniffles.

“I don’t know where to start,” you rasp after a moment, sitting up and wiping your eyes with your sleeve. She keeps the proximity, running a hand up and down your back.

“Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

____________________________________________________________

It’s hard to talk about it with your mother. You are terrified of the disappointment–by all accounts it would definitely seem that you deserve it, but it doesn’t come. She sits next to you, rubbing your back and fussing over hairs that hang in your face while you spill your guts onto the table: the fear, the abandonment, the numbing that took it all away until it didn’t. The loneliness that cuts you deeper than you ever thought it could.

“What about our boys?” she asks then, and you smile a little at the way she says it. You know that she loves them as much as you do, which is a funny sight to see–three intimidatingly large, tattooed men huddled around mugs of tea, sitting at your mother’s table. She fawns over them every time you all come around, and it warms you from the inside.

“They’re fine–they’re there, it’s just… I don’t know. I think I’m afraid that one day they might not be, and I don’t know why.”

She looks at you for a moment, like she’s considering her next words.

“I think you might know why, honey.”

You look back at her then, knowing what she’ll say before she says it. Unwilling to say it first.

“It’s hard to trust the word of a man when the one who was supposed to always be there left so suddenly.”

You stare down at your tea, not feeling what you thought you would. Mostly, you know she’s right. You can’t trust yourself to speak yet, so you don’t.

“I can’t know what that was like for you,” she starts softly, hand dropping to squeeze at your knee. Your heart constricts at the way it feels familiar. “And I’m so sorry that it’s something you have to carry with you. But honey, there’s a man next door who’s never known a life without you, and it doesn’t seem like he has any intention of changing that.”

Your throat gets tight and you lean into her shoulder, needing to feel grounded. The room feels like it’s spinning again.

“And of course he can’t replace your father,” she continues, leaning back into you, “but he’s someone that loves you. And that’s something worth keeping around.”

“He was with someone else last night,” you deflect, trying to convince yourself of some falsehood in your mother’s words, “at the bar. I saw them talking together.”

Your mother snorts, loud and obnoxious, like you’ve just told the world’s most ridiculous joke. Despite yourself, you laugh a little, too.

“Mom!”

“Oh, honey,” still chuckling to herself, “I don’t think so.”

“Sometimes we see what we want to see,” she continues, patting your leg, “but you know Kat. And from what I can tell, he’s never had eyes for anyone but you.”

“That’s silly,” you say, still deflecting but knowing that she’s telling the truth. And then, “I think he’s really mad at me.”

“I don’t think he is. He sounded really worried last night.”

You balk at that. “You talked to him?”

“He called to tell me you’d be coming.”

And you’re silent then, because you don’t know what to say. You don’t know if there’s anything you can say. Suddenly you are very, very tired.

“Why don’t you head upstairs?” your mother starts, grabbing the now empty mug from in front of you and walking it to the sink, “Get some sleep–I made your bed up for you. You should talk to him tomorrow.”

You nod, though she can’t see it, and you move to walk up the stairs, but stop short of the first step.

“I love you, mom.”

She turns to give you a soft smile. “I love you, my baby.”

____________________________________________________________

The dream is recurrent–you’ve tried hard to find the meaning of it, but you’re starting to come around to the idea that it might just be a comfort to your subconscious.

You’re five years old, and you don’t yet notice the bad thing that lurks on the edges of your peripheral.

You’re five years old, and everything is as it should be.

You and Katsuki construct a fort out of old sheets and couch cushions. Snow falls outside–the wind sneaks through the shutters and shrieks something menacing. But it’s warm inside, and you’re with Katsuki. You are unafraid.

He has a slight hot chocolate mustache and the tip of his tongue pokes out between the gap in his teeth, all of his focus on weaving the sheets together to create the walls of your fortress. You preoccupy yourself with the decor–you pick up a pillow and put it somewhere else, grab your mother’s potted plant and bring it in, even though it takes up too much space.

Katsuki finishes the skeleton of the structure in no time, and he joins you on the same cushion, despite you bringing in nearly every cushion in the house. You both dig into the coloring books your mother left out for you, and in no time you’ve grown bored of them–you opt to doodle on each other instead.

You draw something resembling a heart over the first joint in his thumb–a little oblong and colored outside your shaky lines. He watches you while you do it–the seeds of something old rooting into something else that he is far too young to understand. You look up at him when it’s finished and you beam, all crooked baby teeth and giggles. He goes bright red and shoves at you, shrieking about how it’s the worst thing he’s ever seen. He can do much better, he says, so he grabs your thumb and proves it to you.

It’s certainly not any better–you don’t tell him that, though. You just smile and flex your thumb, watching it move with your skin. He puts an arrow through his–bold and cartoonish, like the old animation of Cupid’s arrow. It tickles when the marker passes over the edge of your palm, and he barks at you to stop squirming.

Your mother comes in with snacks and finds the two of you covered in marker. She doesn’t yell–she just shakes her head, laughing and looking at the two of you with an expression only to be interpreted as a soft fondness. She pulls out her camera to take a picture–makes the two of you hold hands to capture the hearts you drew.

Whether it’s the beginning of the end or the end of the beginning, you can’t be sure.

____________________________________________________________

You wake up feeling more rested than you did before, and without a hangover, for the first time in a while.

Once you’re dressed, you take a few bites from the breakfast sandwich your mother has laid out for you, and you walk out the side door, walking the few steps to Katsuki’s mother’s porch. The morning sun on your skin feels good–it’s a warmth you know you needed. You reach for the door, but you stop in your tracks when you hear his voice on the other side of it.

“I don’t know how t’make it better, ma,” he says, and it wounds you in a way you weren’t expecting, “I just want to help and I don’t know how.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and then his mother speaks. “It’s not yours to make better, Katsuki. There were terrible things that happened when you both were growing up that certainly don’t help what’s happening now.

“All you can do is be there–be a safe person to turn to,” she continues, and it’s all you can do not to sniff and give yourself away, “Things will change. It takes time.”

“I don’t care about that shit,” he grits out, but there’s no hostility in it, “Doesn’t matter how long it takes, I’ll be there. S’just–hard. To watch.”

You’re not sure you can stand to listen anymore, so you make a big production out of opening the door, making sure to alert them both to your presence. You walk into his mother’s kitchen–it’s been years since you’ve been here, and yet you’d know the layout with your eyes closed.

“Ah, my other child,” she says, standing to hug you. She kisses your cheek and shoves you down in the seat she’s just gotten up from. “You sit. I’ll make myself scarce.”

You ease into the seat awkwardly, avoiding Katsuki’s gaze. It’s quiet between you. You have no idea where to start, so you pick at the edge of the table cloth in front of you.

“You okay?” he asks softly, like if he’s too loud, it’ll bruise you. You hate it. You feel your face heat and you know you’re going to cry and you hate that too.

You summon all of your bravery and give him a watery, pathetic little smile. “No, I’m not.”

His brows furrow and he leans forward, like he wants to reach for you but stops himself. Thinks better of it. You’re almost fascinated by how hard it is for you to tell him the truth right now. You do it anyway.

“I’m—there’s a lot that I need to work through. More than I thought, evidently,” you laugh a little, and it’s all self-deprecating. You pick at a hangnail. “That’s not an excuse for what I’ve been doing, I know that. I just—“

You suck in a breath, quickly losing your resolve. Needing to lean on him one more time.

“I’m really sorry, Kat,” you choke out, finally looking up at him. Whatever he sees on your face has him out of his seat in an instant and pulling you out of yours in the next, crushing you to his chest. You wrap your arms around his middle and cling to him like a lifeline.

“I know I’m not good right now,” you say into his shirt through shuddering breaths, “I just, I’m really sorry, I don’t want you to worry–”

He moves you back to look at your face, which makes you grimace because it is almost certainly pathetic and snot covered.

“Hey,” he rasps, with far more emotion than you were anticipating, “none of that. I know. And m’always going to worry about you, you little idiot.”

You choke out a laugh at that and it softens him. He pulls you back to his chest and you feel his kiss to the top of your head.

“M’not leaving you,” he whispers into your hair, “not ever. Don’t you ever say that shit to me again.”

You want to apologize again but you know he’ll wave you off, so you just press your face further into his chest and nod.

You stand there for a while, wrapped up in him in his mother’s kitchen, before he reaches into his back pocket to grab something. He offers it to you, and it takes a second before you realize it’s your phone.

“Let dumb and dumber know you’re alive,” he says, arms still wrapped around you, “they were worried.”

You smile at that, feeling an overwhelming fondness for the men in your life. You keep an arm around Katsuki and shoot them a text with the other: i’m home and alive. love u both, talk soon. You barely have it back in your pocket before it vibrates, several times in succession, alerting you to what is almost certainly a very animated response from Denki. You realize in that moment how much you miss him.

“Stay here tonight,” Katsuki murmurs, snapping you out of your thoughts. You think back to all of the nights that you camped out in his backyard as children, with him promising to keep you safe, in his own jagged, self-inflated way. You think about how everything has changed, and everything has stayed the same.

It’s an easy yes.

____________________________________________________________

You go back and forth between houses for the next week. He gives you a little space during the day–time with your mom, time to yourself. You write some, but mostly you focus on being present. You try to stop the daydreams as they come–try to keep yourself from yearning for a different future, or ruminating on the past, so you can see where you are now. It’s easier said than done, but it’s less difficult in the evenings, when Katsuki returns and your mind quiets all other thoughts but those of him.

Freshly showered and towel clad, you’re laid across your childhood twin bed when you hear the screen door open and then close, and your heart picks up when you hear your mother greet him.

He makes it up the stairs quicker than you thought he would. You let your eyes rake over him, realizing that it’s been a while since you could really get a good look at him. He has old sweats on and he’s leaned up against your doorframe, regarding you with the same level of scrutiny, arms folded over his chest. He’s so beautiful it makes you ache.

Your eyes drift to his hands–each tucked underneath the opposite armpit– and you catch a glimpse of the thing you will always seek out: the red, misshapen curve of the heart you drew on him, etched into his skin forever. You lift your own hand up, holding it above your head to examine it. It’s there, on the first joint of your thumb like you knew it would be. The arrow has faded and blurred with time, but you turn your hand and find it still pointing straight at your heart.

You’d gotten them together, shortly after making the decision to start the band– an ode to the history behind you. But the meaning has shifted in the years since–you wonder if he feels it, too. The quiet nostalgia of the moment has your head swimming a little bit, and you don’t have it in you to stop the words that come out of your mouth.

“I love you.”

His mouth ticks up at the corner, but he doesn’t move. “I know that.”

You sit up–slowly, making sure the towel stays put–and meet his eyes. “Do you?”

He says nothing–just gestures for you to come closer with the tilt of his chin.

You push yourself up off the bed and walk toward him–awfully, awkwardly aware of your own gait–until you’re chest to chest. He unfolds his arms and reaches up to pluck the towel off your head, flinging it to the floor behind you. You squawk at him, scrambling to brush the hair that falls in your face away. He just grins, reaching to brush a few stray strands out of the way himself. The pad of his thumb lingers on your cheekbone, trailing down to brush across the plush of your bottom lip, until it settles at your chin. He grabs you there and tilts your face up to him.

“Ruined me for anyone else the day y’were born,” he breathes, and it’s so nonchalant you’d think it was just a passing thought for him, like it doesn’t shake something fundamental and ancient inside of you, “Loved you every day since.”

“You never told me,” you say, and it’s hushed–you bring both hands up to splay them across his chest, the image of his heart above the one that beats. You feel its pace pick up beneath your fingers.

“No,” he says, running his thumb around the edge of your jaw, “was waitin’ for you to see it.”

You hum a little, turning your face into his touch–nuzzling into the place where you’ve marked him forever. “And now?”

He lets his fingers drift downward, finding a new home wrapped around the nape of your neck. You let out a little sigh, and he looks pleased.

“I want to show you.”

You smile, tilting your head back to look at him fully. “Okay.”

He drops his head down until his face hovers above yours, and he tilts a little so your foreheads bump together. Both of you stay there, content to breathe and just feel, until you push up, needing more of him. He lets you brush your lips over his, savoring the soft press of your mouth, keeping you still with the hand on your neck. You do this until you both start to lose your patience, and you kiss him with more force–you hope that it does a better job of translating your feelings than you have. He’s warm and much softer than you expected, and he takes over all of your senses. There’s something both very old and novel in the way he kisses you, and behind your eyes you see a reel of the two of you, from figuring out how to walk with wobbly baby legs, to creating something far larger than the two of you–all together. It brings the sting of tears to the surface when you break apart to breathe. He kisses a stray droplet away, cradling your face in his hands.

“My little crybaby,” he coos, and you punch at his side lightly, making him chuckle.

“You’re mine, Katsuki,” you tell him, grimacing a little bit at the memory of him and that random woman at the bar. You know you are being out of your mind insane right now, but the jealousy still coils in your gut.

He raises an eyebrow at you. “‘Course I am.”

You shake your head, tightening your grip on him. “I need you to tell me.”

He presses his forehead to yours, walking you back until the backs of your knees tap your mattress. You sit, and he stands between your legs, eyes looking way, way too far into you. His hand comes up to hold your face, and the way you lean into it feels like muscle memory.

“There’s nobody for me but you,” he says, and you feel like if you blink you’ll miss something important in the way he’s looking at you, “M’yours. Always was. Always will be.”

And it’s then that you decide to do something so stupidly embarrassing that you regret it almost immediately: you hold your pinky out to him.

He blinks down at you for a second before a slow smile stretches across his face. It’s one of the most genuine you’ve ever seen on him, and when he wraps his pinky around yours and brings it to his lips, you think for the second time that you are well and truly fucked. You always would be when it came to Katsuki. But he doesn’t make promises he can’t keep.

You let out a little laugh, one that’s more incredulous than anything. “I feel out of my mind,” you tell him, leaning forward to press your face into his stomach, “do you think it always feels like this?”

“Dunno,” he says through his grin, scratching gently over your scalp, “Maybe. There’re plenty of songs about it.”

He leads you down to the bed and you go willingly, pliant against him as he settles in next to you. It’s a tight fit, especially with the way he takes up the majority of the space with his broad shoulders. You find that you don’t mind too much.

You lay your head on his chest and his arm wraps around you, fingertips brushing over your spine and dipping below the top of your towel to rub at the skin it squeezes.

“I love you,” you whisper, and you find that now that you’ve said it, you’d like to scream it from the highest peak you can find.

“I love you,” he returns, and you can’t get enough of the way it rumbles through his chest underneath you.

“Tell me again,” you tell him, twisting to look up at him. He shifts then, rolling you onto your back and hovering above you, propped up on one elbow. His fingers card through the hair just past your temple and you have to fight to keep your eyes open.

“I love you,” he says, bending to press a kiss to your lips.

____________________________________________________________

You don’t know when you fall asleep, but when you wake up it’s not yet dawn, and you are tucked into Katsuki’s armpit as he hangs halfway off the bed. It makes you smile, and it also makes you grateful that he didn’t turn over and take you off the bed with him. You shift, and realize you’re still wrapped in your towel. You look at his sleeping form, and then down at your towel again. It takes another moment of deliberation before you think, fuck it, and rip the thing off of you, dropping it onto the floor.

You finally settle back down into the bed and startle when you feel fingertips brush over your spine.

“Sorry,” you whisper, leaning toward him to press a kiss to his jaw, “did I wake you up?”

He hums, low and gravelly in his chest, and it makes you feel far too warm as he pulls you to his chest. He’d gotten rid of his sweatshirt at some point in the night—you realize now that you’re chest to chest. He notices at about the same time, head snapping up off the pillow to look at you. You feel your face heat.

“I’m sorry, I fell asleep with the towel on and didn’t want to get up, I can put something on—“

“Like hell you will,” he cuts you off, arm tightening behind you. “Feels nice.”

And it makes you smile, because it does feel nice.

He curls his body around you, leaning down to smother the side of your face in kisses. It makes you shriek, shoving at him playfully.

“Gross, stop it,” you groan, not making any real attempt to get him off of you.

“Fuck no,” he grins, kissing you again, “You’re so beautiful.”

Hearing it from Katsuki does something to you—settles the part of you that worries that you’re not enough to keep him here. It seems silly then, to keep hiding from him—to keep pieces of yourself from him in the hopes that he’ll stay long enough to try to find them. You want him to see you. You feel particularly brave and roll over onto your back, watching his eyes widen at the way you are laid completely bare for him.

He lets out a long, low breath, and you feel it when it brushes over your chest—nipples pebbling in the cold air.

He props himself up for a better view, unashamed in the way he studies you so intensely, and you can’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed.

He reaches for you then—you close your eyes when his fingertips brush over your brow bone, content to feel the way he explores. Time moves slowly, and he takes advantage of every second that stretches before him—he’s fixated on the juncture of your jaw and your throat, and you burn under his touch. You let out a shaky exhale at the graze of his fingers down the center of your throat.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, except he’s far closer now, and you only have a second for this to register before the warmth of his hand wraps around the side of your neck to hold you there while his mouth explores the other. He’s still soft—far softer than you would ever expect him to be, all soft lips and warm, sweeping tongue—and it’s such a shock to all of your senses that you can’t help but let out a broken little whimper of his name.

He pulls back when he hears it, and you turn your head to argue but something in his face makes you pause.

If you thought you had a window into Katsuki’s soul before, this moment is the one to knock the whole house down. You hear it like he’s whispered it to you: I love you, I love you, I love you.

“Kat, I—“

He cuts you off with a kiss that brings tears to your eyes—soft but firm, as claiming as it is chaste. “I know sweetheart,” he whispers, forehead to yours. In the dark, you’re sure he’s brighter than the sun right now. You roll to your side, chest to chest again, and kiss him just because you can—because you love him and it would feel like torture to do anything else.

He presses kisses from the corner of your mouth to your jaw, and down the stretch of your throat—you shiver when his tongue laves at the point where your shoulder meets it. He finds your hand and drags it to his lips, mouth trailing over every inch of arm he can reach. Making sure to press a kiss to his heart on your hand.

“Not gonna fuck you,” he says plainly against your wrist, shocking a laugh out of you, “not gonna put your mom through that. I jus’ wanna feel you.”

“A little presumptuous, but okay,” you tease, but it only comes out breathless when his fingers trail over your collarbone and down your breast, apparently content to test the validity of your statement.

He leaves a trail of heat with his touch that makes it hard to keep your eyes open, but you can’t bear to miss the way he pulls pleasure from you with the smallest effort. He learns your body with no agenda—he truly just wants to feel you, but it doesn’t stop you from squirming at the way his fingers brush over your nipples.

It makes him grin, but he doesn’t stop—he just moves on, thumb grazing the skin under your breast, down to the soft of your belly. He lets out a low moan when he feels you there—you don’t think he even knows he did it and it makes you squeeze your thighs together and turn your face into the pillow, fighting like hell to compose yourself.

You feel his calloused palm smooth over the curve of your hip and down to your knee. His fingers curve around the back of it, pulling it up and over his hip. Air brushes over your now exposed sex and your mouth drops open with a whine, far more sensitive than you were anticipating.

“Katsuki, I can’t, I—“

He shushes you with a brush of his lips over yours—sweet and far more innocent than you would prefer.

“Please touch me,” you whimper against his mouth, and you feel the slow grin spread across his face.

“You gonna be quiet?”

You nod like your life depends on it, and he chuckles, a little dark in a way that has your stomach churning.

He pulls back a little to watch your face as he brushes the backs of his knuckles over your slit. It pulls a moan from both of you, and you can’t look away from him as he brings his hand to his face, swiping his tongue over every knuckle. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in, like it’s suddenly too much for him. Like he needs to ground himself to keep from taking from you like he wants to.

His hand slips down between you again, cupping you firmly, and your whole body bucks. You lean forward to hide your face in his neck, unable to keep from dragging your aching clit over the heel of his palm.

“There y’go,” he rasps into your ear, nipping at the skin just below it, “does that feel good?”

You bite down on his shoulder to keep from crying out after a particularly intense shock of pleasure shoots up your spine. Your fingers grab at anything you can reach—you wrap them around the side of his neck, both to ground you and for leverage, and he rewards you with the most sinful groan you’ve ever heard, right into your ear.

“I-I need,” you gasp, trying to form a sentence in between the half-frantic snap of your hips, “inside, Kat, please—“

You nearly come out of your skin when he raises his middle finger slightly, the motion of your hips working to push him in, in, in, fitting to you better than you could’ve dreamed of. He’s no better off than you are—mouth open and panting against your neck, and the knowledge that he’s getting off on this has you fucking yourself onto his hand with an almost violent pace.

He presses against you harder, pushing his finger deeper, and you jam your face further into his shoulder, praying like hell it muffles the noise you’re making.

“Need you to cum,” he gasps, nearly pleading, “need t’feel you—“

And you didn’t need the prompting, but the way he pleads sends you over the edge anyway—your entire body seizing as you clamp down hard on his finger. You vaguely register his voice over the ringing in your ears as time slows again—seconds turn to hours that you’re trapped here, every tiny brush of his palm against your clit sending shocks of pleasure that rip through you like waves. It feels like forever before he’s calling you back to him—soft, breathy murmurs of your name against your skin, fingers wrapping around the nape of your neck to hold you to his chest.

It’s quiet between you, then—each of your stuttered breaths and your own pulse in your ears cutting through the silence. He stays inside you because he can, and you have no qualms about it.

“Well. Fuck,” you murmur against his skin, pulling a laugh from him that would have you kicking your feet if you could muster the energy to do it.

He presses kisses to your hairline, and you can’t stop yourself from leaning into them. You feel him slip from inside of you and it feels like a loss—one he quickly remedies by pulling you to his chest with a bruising grip.

“Think you’re gonna kill me,” he whispers, and you snort.

“Yeah, well, it’s mutual.”

____________________________________________________________

It’s a playful cat and mouse chase up the stairs to your apartment. You let him crowd you into the door, fumbling for and nearly dropping your keys.

“You know,” you finally get the wherewithal to shove the key into the lock, “this would go a lot faster if you’d let me open the door.”

“Or I could just fuck you right here, give the neighbors somethin’ to complain about—“

You swing the door open and you both freeze, Denki and Shinsou staring back at you—neither looking particularly shocked.

Shinsou grins, turning to Denki. “You owe me $50, motherfucker.”

Denki groans, reaching for his wallet. “You guys couldn’t have waited like another week?”

“Get the fuck out,” Katsuki grumbles over your head, though it’s softer than you think he wanted it to be. It makes you smile.

You take a step into the apartment, and it feels different. You feel different—it’ll be a marathon, not a sprint, but you have the tools to get to the end of it now. You feel lighter than you have in a long time—more prepared for what’s coming next, even if you don’t know what it is. You look at your boys—Shinsou and Denki bickering over whatever bet they made, and Katsuki, who presses a kiss to your temple before taking your bag back to your bedroom—you’re not alone. You never were with these guys, and you won’t be again as long as you all can help it.

You walk over to Shinsou and Denki, cramming yourself between them on your couch.

“Hi,” a little sheepish, still a little embarrassed, “I missed you guys.”

Denki throws his arms around your neck with a drawn out, theatric wail. He peers around you and levels a glare at Shinsou. “They’re talking to me, you rat bastard.”

Shinsou only laughs, shoving his shoulder into yours.

“We missed you, too,” he says, and it’s genuine—you blink away the tears you feel threatening to spill over.

When you look up, Katsuki is in front of you again. He bends to press a kiss to your hairline, and Shinsou lurches away, gagging.

��Oh!” Denki yells, directly into your ear, “Me too, Kaachan—“

“Not on your fuckin’ life, shit ass—“

You know it’ll be okay. It has to be, with a family like this. There will be talks of new songs, projects, albums, and whatever else you can all think of soon, but for now, you’re content to sit in the love that holds you all together.

this fic belongs to me (@gardenofnoah). i do not allow anyone to repost, edit, or reproduce this work.

#it was the dream scene that made me cry btw #drummer!bakugou #band!au #bakugou #bakugou katsuki #katsuki bakugou #katsuki fic #mha fic #bakugou long fic #bakugou smut #bakugou fluff #friends to lovers #mha #katsuki #soulmate au

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aivicart · 2 years

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HUNTING DOGS BAND AU!!!!

Starring Jouno on keyboard, Tecchou on drums, Teruko on guitar and Tachihara on bass! And of course their band name is The Hunting Dogs :)

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arcturusnebula · 1 year

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babe wake up /likeafuneral just posted a wolfstar band!au on ig!

they look so so good!!

Credit to the artist!!!

#likeafunerall #wolfstar #band!au #band!marauders

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rosewaterandivy · 9 months

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you always come close, but you never come easy

band!au - Steve's birthday on the road in '04 - what could possibly go wrong? 4.4K of self-edited filth - what? my hand slipped! Let's wish Steve the happiest of birthdays under the cut, shall we?

🎶 This won't mean a thing come tomorrow, and that's exactly how I'll make it seem... 🎶

Steven Michael Harrington was the bane of your existence.

A chaotic whirl of genetics, talent, and an absolute knack for driving you batshit crazy. He swears it’s unintentional. You have your reservations about that.

“Should be there soon,” Eddie says, adjusting the volume of the radio.

The end of the ‘04 Warped Tour was near enough you could taste it. Which also meant that Steve's birthday was soon approaching— he’s a Leo, bless— and Hopper had swung a much needed hotel stay for the band.

Showers, A/C that actually worked, not having to sleep with Rob’s feet in your face— what bliss. You could hardly wait, had even convinced Eddie to drive straight through to get there sooner.

Steve and Rob had passed out while Eddie drove and your bladder was fit to burst from the Gatorade you’d chugged back a few towns ago.

Hopper had warned you well in advance that there would be no complaining about room assignments whatsoever. You didn’t really care about all of that, the idea of a bed to spread out on was enough to satiate you. It would beat sleeping in the van, for sure.

It had been close quarters for the entirety of the summer, losing stuff only to find it in someone else’s bag and vice versa. Which only made it all the more embarrassing when Eddie wound up with the vibrator you’d sworn you had shoved to the farthest depths of your duffle bag. He relinquished it back to you after a few well-deserved taunts.

Eddie pulls into the parking lot and you launch yourself from the van in search of the nearest restroom.

“Do you care who you bunk with?” He yells across the lot.

“Obviously not!”

After the most powerful piss of your life, hand to god, you enter the lobby to find Steve waiting with your bag. Sipping from a very familiar Ohio is for Lovers travel mug.

“Looks like it’s you and me Ace.”

Steve looks as dead as you feel as the pair of you trudge to your hotel room, too exhausted to even speak. Not unusual for the two of you, especially after hauling ass from the previous venue to get to the hotel. You graciously offer him the shower, having quickly done so before leaving the last venue, and all but collapse on the bed.

He’s mildly rejuvenated after that. His hair is damp when he returns, a few waves beginning to curl up, some strands obscuring his eyes; longer than you're accustomed to, but still boyish. A soft smile graces his lips as you roll on the bed to make room for him, “Hi,” he rasps, voice muted and low.

“Happy early birthday,” You reply, eyes darting toward him on the corner of the bed as he fiddles with the strings of his low-slung sweats.

“Thanks.”

The silence between you stretches, has you itching for reprieve.

He falls at your side on the bed, hand easily finding yours. Steve turns to face you, then a kiss.

Softer than you’d expected, nearly featherlight against your lips. As if he’s unsure of how to proceed, tentative and guarded.

Late June 2004, somewhere in the Southwest

“I have ground rules y’know,” You pant out, hands scrambling for purchase against the wall behind you. Legs hitched around his waist, he nods blearily, one large hand splayed across your lower back. “Such as,” You continue as his tongue blazes a trail on your collarbones, “It stays secret, no one can know.”

He pauses at that, teeth grazing lightly against your skin. Hazel eyes flit up to you, curious. “Not even Rob,” You clarify, one hand moving to run through his hair. Placated, for now, he focuses his attention to the curve of your neck.

You swallow audibly, “This stays on tour.” A soft groan eeks out of him as your nails lightly scrape against his scalp. He tuts indignantly at that your newest decree and busies himself sucking a bruise to your neck. “Fuck–,” You bury a moan, and roll your hips against his seeking any friction you can get. “It’s–It’s over when tour wraps.”

Extricating himself from the hollow of your throat, he brushes his lips against yours and pops the button of your shorts. “That so?” He murmurs, lips ghosting across yours as you struggle to make heads or tails of the conversation. “Every tour, or just this one in particular?” He asks casually, tugging the fly down slowly.

You can feel your brain leaking from your ears. You follow his gaze down to your lap where he’s got a thumb lightly tracing the seam of your cunt. He smiles, amused, “Not so chatty now, hmm?”

Wiggling in his grasp, you leverage yourself against the brick wall behind you. Right, the rules… you struggle to find your thoughts. “No strings, no feelings,” You continue in a breathy tone. His fingers don’t let up, continuing their trajectory downward painting you with your slick.

Your fingers tangle into his hair to pull him closer. His breath hitches as he pulls your panties to the side to spread you open with his fingers. “No sleepovers,” You manage to gasp out as he spreads your folds wider and lazily sweeps across your clit.

He rolls his neck languidly and rests his forehead against yours, “Anything else?” His fingers continue their assault, your cunt sopping and oh so empty.

You shake your head once meeting his eyes, breath coming in quick gulps. He smiles, “Good,” his voice is husky and low when he cants his hips pushing you higher against the wall. His teeth find your ear giving it a tug, “Doing so well,” he whispers, “Getting nice and wet for me.” He makes sure you have your eyes on him.

Then pushes two fingers into your entrance.

“Fuck–” you manage to choke out. The stretch is delightful, your cunt clenching against him.

“That’s it honey, so fucking pretty,” he moans, setting a brutal pace.

And you can feel the callouses against your walls as he fucks his fingers into you. He presses the palm of his hand against your clit and your vision tunnels. The sole ring he wears, warm from the friction and slick against your sex, prods at your entrance. You can’t help the wanton moan that falls from your mouth.

“God, you’re so wet,” he groans, “Think you can take one more?”

You whine loudly, wordlessly, and he doesn’t need to be told twice.

He works a third finger in, impossibly, and drags his nose along your jawline. Grins with a muttered good girl and fucks you with his fingers. Your whole body quakes. “There it is,” He murmurs and pumps in and out of you at a relentless pace. Your hips begin to thrust, uselessly, against his hand, attempting to match his stoke.

Then he feels it. Your cunt pulses against his fingers and your muted cries turn desperate. Your legs tighten against his hips to pull him even closer–and then you shatter with a broken sob, walls clenching crudely around his fingers as you chase your high, slick trickling down his fingers as he helps you ride out your release.

You don’t know how long the pair of you stay like that, with you slumped against the wall, legs trembling in the aftershock. He remains steady all the while, anchoring you in the come down, fingers still buried deep inside you. Gently, he pulls his fingers from your cunt, and you groan when he pushes them between your lips, fixing you with a steady gaze while he makes you lick them clean.

He clears his throat, “I have some rules as well.” Your body ratchets up with tension, ruining your lazy recovery. You drag your tongue slowly along his index finger, urging him to continue.

He lets out a shaky breath, “You’re too good at that,” He observes. You shrug casually in response. He steadies a hand above your shoulder, leaning against the wall. “Okay, first off, we need to figure out a system,” His eyes fall to your mouth, “Y’know, so Eds and Rob don’t get suspicious.”

He pulls his fingers from your mouth, satisfied with a job well done; you try not to preen at that. His thumb swipes against your bottom lip, full from your repeated biting and abuse. “Secondly, I’d like to kiss you stupid whenever I can.”

“Seems bit Pretty Woman to me,” You joke, earning a bark of laughter from him. “But if you say so–”

You don’t get to finish that sentence as he presses his lips to yours in a chaste kiss. You breathe out shakily from your nose, eyes fluttering closed.

You had no idea Steve Harrington could kiss like this.

He breaks away from you, lingering against your lips. “And the last rule is,” He breathes out, “This thing, between us?” You nod slowly, “It’s exclusive–I don’t fuck anyone else and neither do you. Deal?”

You painfully run the calculations in your head, trying your damndest not to be distracted by the man in front of you. You say it aloud, for clarity’s sake, “So it will be a secret, no-strings, two-month long booty call, in which we’re not allowed to fuck other people or catch feelings?”

He nods in agreement, “Sounds about right.”

What could possibly go wrong? Everything, with absolute 100% certainty.

But what the hell.

“Okay deal,” You nod your assent coping a quick glance at your watch. “D’you want that blowjob now or later?”

He eyes the numbers on your wrist, “Considering we go on in about, an hour…” his hands squeeze the backs of your thighs as he lifts you from the wall and walks you to the couch.

Dropping you unceremoniously on the cushions, he scrubs a hand through his hair. “I’m thinkin’ it’ll be later, right?”

You quirk a brow at him, “I’m trying not to be offended here, we have half and hour, at least, before they come looking for us.” You tug him down against the cushions fingers tracing against the crotch of his pants. He groans when you finally unzip the fly, “You thought I was good with my mouth before?”

He’s leaning back on his elbows, watching you as your hands come to his hips. He nods, dumbstruck, eyes following your every move. You pull down just enough to release his cock from its confines, wrapping your palm around him and giving a firm stroke. His head falls back against his shoulders as he gasps. You tell him, “Have to be quiet, yeah?”

He nods wordlessly, forehead wrinkled as if in deep concentration. He tucks his chin in to watch you and his jaw goes slack as you let his length sink into your mouth.

Steve groans low, fingers weaving into your hair as his ring catches on stray strands while you go as far down as you can, filling your mouth so completely full with his thick cock.

It’s been a while since you’ve done this, the hinge of your jaw beginning to ache from the pressure. You love the sensation though; you can taste the soap from his shower, the sweetness clinging to your tongue and melding with bright tang of his precome. Having no time to spare, you forego any usual teasing in favor of working up a brisk rhythm.

Steve mumbles incoherently above you, broken moans and half-formed words between panting breaths burrow into your consciousness–that’s it, honey–so fucking good–look at me, look at me while you take my cock– One of your hands braces against his thigh as if flexes underneath your fingers as he twitches and jerks, your other hand fists what you can’t fit in your mouth.

When you do look up, he is so far gone that you moan around him causing a violent shudder to rattle his entire body. He thrusts forward without warning, which makes you choke as spit floods your mouth.

“Fuck–you’re gonna make me come,” he blurts out, head rolling back against the armrest with an audible thunk.

As you open your mouth a little bit wider he thrusts again–tears sting the corner of your eyes as he begins to fuck your mouth, experimentally at first. Finding no resistance, he rolls his hips deeper pushing his cock farther, harder, deeper causing you to whimper around him.

You can say for certain that no one has ever fucked your throat as thoroughly as Steve is right now. Your cunt clenches on nothing as he loses it, his hold on your hair bordering on painful, his body taut under your grasp.

Thankfully, this time comes with a warning when he chokes, the rhythm of his hips wavering. “I’m gonna come in your mouth if you don’t stop, honey.” You try to smile around him, but you can’t, his cock is so fucking big there simply isn’t any room. Instead, you reach down and firmly cup his heavy sac.

His hips jerk, the head of his cock nearly hitting the back of your throat. With an broken growl, the heady taste of his come fills your mouth with each erratic thrust of his hips. You swallow thickly – once, twice – before he stills.

His grip in your hair finally lets up, and reaching down for your hands, he pulls you up on shaky knees, his lips crashing into your swollen ones, a moan caught deep in his throat. He licks into your mouth, desperate to taste himself.

Then he pulls back and sighs, eyes soft on you as he wipes the glossy spit from your lips. You smile against his fingertips to say, “And that’s how its done.”

He throws his head back and laughs, loud and bright, in the otherwise quiet dressing room. “Love that smart fucking mouth,” he says tugging up his pants as you stand up to button your shorts. You hop in place, tugging the fabric back where it should be and set about searching for your phone.

After zipping his fly and scrubbing a hand through his hair, Steve faces you. “Is it completely obvious?”

His voice is low and gravelly, you shudder involuntarily. “That you’ve just had the soul sucked out of you?” You ask, leaning back in assessment. “Mm, yeah. But it’s hot, so.”

He pulls you in for another kiss, rough palms splayed against your lower back.

Hands on his chest, you attempt to push him off, but he won’t let you, easily overpowering you. He traces the outline of your jaw with his nose until his breathing evens out, “Thanks,” He murmurs and you have to actively remind yourself to stay standing upright. “It was the outfit, wasn’t it?” He whispers, tone mischievous once more.

You turn from him with a laugh, “Oh yeah,” you toss over your shoulder adjusting your headset again, “Snapbacks, skinny jeans and muscle tanks really do it for me, Harrington. Total panty dropper.” You slip the phone into your back pocket.

And when Eddie asks after the show why your voice sounded a bit raspier than usual, all you could do was laugh and shrug as Steve looked on smiling, cheeks tinged pink.

Since the agreement between you two had been struck, it was fast and fevered hookups in backrooms and the van during the scant times Eddie and Robin would leave you be. Certainly nothing in a bed, and definitely nothing as tender as Steve was being in this moment.

As if you would slip through his fingers before he could even get started, scared that he’d somehow spook you.

He presses you back against the sheets slowly, body warm and heady above your own— beads of water from his earlier shower trailing down the column of his neck. He apologizes when his teeth click against yours in a frantic kiss.

You pull away, dazed, brushing a lock of hair from his eyes.

He’s so tired of the long road. Can’t stand another second of maneuvering in the dark down winding paths or broken streetlight avenues you’re not at the end of so he keeps his next phrase short: “I really like you.”

You raise your brow and brush the back of your knuckles over your lips, the light from the lamp streaming over your face. His hand tenderly brushes your cheek, the same one he touched all those months ago and you blink in surprise. Quick, calculating movements even as you lean gently into his touch.

“Took you long enough,” you mumble.

You place your hand over his chest, over his heart.

You kiss him, and Steve hears himself sighing into your mouth. His cheeks flush with embarrassment, but you’re not letting go, and he presses his lips to yours a little slower, a little firmer, learning the ways you like to feel him there.

He pulls back briefly, eyes taking you in, softly lit from the dim lamplight of the room. A shy smile and flash of bright teeth against the full of your lip. His eyes widen briefly, like he just realized something.

“Shit.”

“What?” You continue to card your fingers through his hair, lips grazing the skin of his neck as he spoke.

“Condoms.”

“Uh-huh,” Your warm lips smooth down the side of his neck to press kisses to his chest. He shudders in your hold, eyes slipping shut as you tongue the plane of his collarbone.

“Forgot to get ‘em,” He manages to rasp out. “Slept through the last gas station stop.”

“Mmm.”

Finding purchase in the thick roots of his hair as he falls into the cradle of your neck, his mouth easily finding the underside of your jaw to sponge with kisses.

“So we can’t—”

“I never said that.”

Steve stops, extricating himself from where he’d settled against your neck. “Um, what?” He blinks owlishly.

“Well,” You begin, nails scratching lightly against his scalp. “I'm on birth control, and we're both clean. So.”

He swallows audibly, “So I’d just like, pull out? I’ve never really…”

Your hands graze further up his chest to hold to the sides of his warm neck as you kiss him once more. You can feel his pulse racing, the knowledge that he’s not calm bringing a mischievous smile to your face.

“Yeah,” You shrug. “If you want, birthday boy.”

A strangled sound escapes from the cavern of his chest, something between a whine and a moan. Regardless, it’s definitely something you need to hear again.

“Christ,” he chokes, flinching when your breath tickles him, forgetting about everything except the way his skin tingles for more. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Steve looks like he’s been ridden hard and put away wet. Odd, because nothing like that has happened yet. His brain feels broken to bits.

His hair’s sticking up in all sorts of places, fluffy chestnut locks disheveled. His chest, heaving, panting—lips dry, rosy across his cheeks and the tip of his nose. He stutters once, twice, at the sight of you before catching himself and asks with quiet reverence,

“You’re sure?” He presses his forehead to yours.

“Positive.”

You start rolling your hips up against him, pants still on, and Steve yanks them down impatiently. He’s pushing your spine into the sheets, dick leaking precome through the gray fabric before something pivots in his frazzled mind.

You pull your hands down from his neck, over his strong chest and down his sides before wrapping them around his back to tuck your fingers into the band of his sweats.

“Can I taste you first?” He asks quietly, you nod breath stuttering in your lungs when an errant lock of hair falls across his forehead.

He drops to his knees, gets his mouth on your thighs.

Two fingers brush down the line of your slit, warmth seeping inside your panties hotter and hotter with every stroke. Your body flexes, shuddering as he does it again. He’s never gone slow and he doesn’t know what’s possessed him this time, but he parts them, curls them on the outside of your lips, pinching your clit, and then his mouth is sucking at your sweet flavor through the fabric.

Steve carefully turns his head to get into a better position, pulling the lace to the side. He’s kissing syrup out of a honeycomb and you’re keening for more, pawing at your own tits, grinding back into his mouth. You’re desperate, he can hear it when you choke on the breathy first few letters of his name. Not used to being treated gently, and neither is he, but he’s discovering that he really likes the way you shake on his face.

He pays your squirming no mind, not even when you try to wiggle out of your remaining clothes, grab him by his hair and pull him off. Steve holds your hands, flicks his tongue even more.

“Mmm,” he slurs, drunk on the novelty of what feels like tenderness. “You taste good.”

Regular nights together know frantic touches and roughness. The beat of his palm on your bare ass, harmonies of grunts and howls muffled against his chest, the perfume of sweat crushed into heated skin. He even gets back to flirting with the kind of sex you’re used to—slapping your cunt wetly.

Two times is all it takes. Two vulgar hits and you’re crumbling as you come.

There’s a thin gloss of satisfaction covering your entire body when Steve pulls you into his lap tossing your underwear to the side, marveling at your glazed eyes so different from how they usually look when the two of you fuck. Limp legs rearrange themselves around his waist. You hiss when he slides two fingers inside.

You’re always wet, but he’s drenched down to his wrist. It’s good-new. It’s different-new—but could he get used to this? Could he? Was Eddie right? About not fucking your friends? His thoughts are backfiring, signals getting crossed just like he was warned—ah shit, what’s he gonna do about this?

“Oh,” you mewl, astonished, rocking gently with this guidance of his hands. You claw at his chest and back weakly, moaning, “Steve…” His name overruns out of your tipsy hot mouth, “Steve…” Again, and it makes his cock throb.

He moves carefully, taking a long look at you. He can make out most of your expression, gazing at him like a blooming flower, asking to be touched, to be felt, to be drank from. He’s scrambled the entire thing, tuned into a different frequency, a molten heat seeping from his chest, warming him everywhere.

“Baby,” you say, and he nearly loses it right then and there— synapses misfiring all over the place. “Stevie, baby,” and he’s rushing to fuck you—really fuck you. Get in deeper than he��s ever been with anyone, find the truth of it, the wet hot core of it, marvel at it like how he really wants.

He was wrong. Regular no-strings attached sex, regular rough sex, regular – anything. He’s been robbing himself of these pretty sounds and this side of you and this side of himself, too.

Being on the road allows little time for tenderness. It’s all muffled cries and fervent fucks. This is as close to bliss as he can get.

You cling to him like he’s the last tether to your world, gripping his skull, pushing him into your chest where he buries his face.

“Baby,” he tests its letters, and says it again. “Fuck,” he whispers before slanting his mouth over yours once more. His hand slipped between you, taking hold of his length to guide himself to your center.

He slows down, lashes fluttering, pulling you further into him until it’s indistinguishable where either of you end, aching and pulsing.

Your walls clench just from the contact of his skin on yours, his mouth breaking from yours haphazardly so he could look down. You admire the way he intently watched his cock glide through your wet folds, tingles coursing across your skin as his flushed head brushed your clit - once, twice, three times. You couldn’t keep your hips still, circling and arching towards him, following his every movement. And when he dipped forward, fucking into your wet heat with no resistance, your mouth fell open in a silent moan.

“Ah, shit,” he practically hisses, pushing into you in one full thrust until his pelvis met yours. He stilled deep inside you, trying to hold back a moan as he bit into his bottom lip. “Ohmygod, I-” he licks his overly pink lips as he looks up at you, wild eyes flicking across your features while his brows crinkled in pleasure. “Goddamn,” he breathes.

“Fuck, you feel good,” you mutter, voice dripping in want and sluggish as his hips pull away from yours again before leveling out and holding it.

“Let me come in you,” he whispers, “Can I?” He’s never done it before, never thought that much about it really, and the way he asks makes you whimper. “I want to,” he says again, “Want to come in you. Wanna give it to you.”

You only nod, touching your forehead to his tenderly, overwhelmed by how much you need it— need him. He slips his tongue between your teeth, kisses you long, losing his edges when he bursts apart in your arms.

He lays you both down on the crumpled blanket, reaching for each other in the aftermath, breathing slow and deep. He’s sticky with all sorts of fluids, that tangy heady smell hovering like fog.

“That was…” you trail off, turning your head toward him.

“Yeah.”

A turn to check the time, red numerals shining from the bedside table, 2:47 AM.

“Happy birthday Steve Harrington,” you nuzzle into the crook of his neck, lips curled into a smile.

His arm wraps around you, hand falling to the dip of your low back and pulling you closer. Your eyes fall close, lashes fluttering against his skin.

When God made you, he must have wanted it to hurt.

Looking at you for too long, Steve figures, is like moon-gazing through a high-powered telescope. You don’t expect it to be painful when the light hits your eye because you forget how much light there actually is.

He brushes away the damp hair that has stuck to your cheeks and forehead, wipes your brow, and presses his lips to you, tasting musk and sweat.

He does it again, another kiss to your forehead, and again, leaving his own mark, impacts of softness, and love, and everything he needed and couldn’t receive for so long.

Steve could spend the rest of his life kissing you, and knows that he wouldn’t be satisfied— it would never be enough. Twisted heartache and sublime, it's you he can't deny.

#steve harrington smut #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfiction #band!au #stranger things fanfiction #Spotify

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