#punchy x steve

[lovebugism]

If you’re taking requests could I ask for one from the fall prompts with Steve and punchy?

“When she wears YOUR flannel shirt”

ty for requesting! steve x punchy nation rise! — you spend an autumn morning with steve which results in misplaced jealousy and spilled coffee (established relationship, fluff, v v brief miscommunication, 1k)

fictober (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

Steve, still wearing last night’s pajamas, stands barefoot on the patio and basks in the early morning orange. 

Fall seemed to arrive in Hawkins overnight. It’s cooler than usual outside, and everything is weirdly more yellow. Every tree has seemingly shed its leaves, too, and somehow ended up right in his pool. He uses the net to fish the dying things from the rippling blue.

You watch him from the doorway. His golden arms tense with every scoop, and his sleep shirt is so tight you can see the muscles in his back flexing, too. Your bare legs are cold and prickly with it, but the sight of him makes you feel all warm — like the mug of hot coffee burning your palm.

“You have to stop being so productive so early in the morning,” you chastise, voice still heavy with sleep. “It’s getting weird.”

“It’s gotta get done, babe,” Steve retorts with a soft laugh, his back still facing you.

You take it as an opportunity to press yourself against him. You wrap your free hand around his waist and spread your palm along the faint pudge of his covered tummy. Your cheek melts between his shoulder blades as you mumble, “Not while normal people are still sleeping. Think about it— we could be spooning right now and not freezing our asses off—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Steve interjects with a boyish vibrato. Still gripping the metal handle of the pool skimmer, he turns around to face you. His honey eyes are wide as they dart up and down your form. “No way you’re wearing Eddie’s shirt right now.”

Your brows pinch together just like his bushy ones. You look down at yourself, at the deep green and navy blue flannel swallowing you whole, then back at him. “No?” you answer, though it comes out as more of a question. “This is your shirt.”

Steve shakes his head, puts a hand on his hip, and clicks his lips against his teeth. 

“No… I’m pretty sure I saw him wearing it the other day— he said he was gonna cut the sleeves off and wear it over his jacket like a freak.”

“And I told him he couldn’t, remember?” you lilt with raised brows. “‘Cause he stole it from me after I stole it from you.”

Steve winces when you shove your pointer finger into his chest.

“So, it’s mine?” he questions, confused all over again.

You nod all slow. “Yeah.”

“Oh…” he hums, less jealous and more content than he was a moment ago. 

His chest starts to warm now that he can see you more clearly, without the haze of misplaced envy clouding his vision. 

Your hair’s a mess, and you’re still in yesterday’s makeup, and your legs are unshaven. The buttons on the flannel don’t quite line up, either, and the lapel droops off one shoulder to reveal the lovebite he left on your collarbone the night before.

If home was a place, he’s pretty sure it’d look an awful lot like you.

“…Oh,” he repeats, with a more profound inflection this time. ‘Cause he’s a boy, and you’re wearing his shirt, and it’s doing irreversible damage to his brain.

“I just got, like, ten times hotter, huh?” you tease with a knowing squint.

“Try a thousand,” Steve scoffs with a pink grin.

“A million?”

“A billion,” he argues, wrapping his free arm around your shoulders to pull you into him again. His other stays firmly gripping the pool net because he’s not diving in to rescue this thing if it sinks. “A kajillion, even,” he jokes with sparkling eyes that dance between both of yours.

You laugh before you mean to. “Wow. That’s a real big number, Harrington. Sure you know what it means?”

“If it means I wanna kiss the life outta you, then, yeah,” he murmurs lowly, already leaning in to kiss your smile.

You taste like coffee, where he tastes like minty mouthwash. It’s an unearthly concoction that feels like heaven on your tongue. 

It’s perhaps too early to be kissed so ardently, with your head tilted back against the crook of Steve’s elbow while he steals the breath from your lungs. You get so effortlessly drunk on him — quickly forgetting the crisp cold and the fresh coffee in your hand.

Steve hisses when he pulls back from you, features contorted in discomfort. “Hot coffee,” he winces through gritted teeth. “Hot coffee on my foot.”

Only then do you recognize your limp hand and the subtle splashing of your drink against the patio.

“Oh, shit!” you blurt into the quiet, early morning. “Fuck, Steve— I’m sorry!”

He shakes his head and swipes a hand through his hair. He scrunches his nose and tries to smile. “It’s okay. Didn’t even hurt.”

Your eyes flit down to his splotchy red foot, then back at him. You look more pained by it than he does. “Yes, it did!” you agonize, wrapping your arms around his waist and smushing your cheek into his chest. 

Thankfully, there’s not much coffee left in the mug to spill this time. 

“I’m sorry, Stevie,” you mumble into his t-shirt. “Fuck, I wish I wasn’t so clumsy all the time— it’s annoying.”

Steve laughs into your hair and abandons the pool skimmer to wrap both arms around you. One hand squeezes your shoulder while the other smooths up and down your back. “I don’t think so. I think it’s sweet.”

“…Even when I give you third-degree burns from my coffee?”

He exhales a faint chuckle. “Yeah, even when you give me third-degree burns from your coffee.”

Your cheek rubs against the soft cotton of his t-shirt when you turn to look up at him. Your chin tilts against his chest and bobs as you ask him, “Do you still wanna kiss me?”

A crooked smile tugs slow at his pink mouth. His honey eyes twinkle when they look down at you. He quickly forgets the tingling pain fading at the top of his foot because you’re so damn pretty wrapped up in his arms.

“I’d kiss you forever, baby,” he murmurs so fondly it makes your stomach whirl. “You know that.”

#published by bug #steve harrington x reader #stranger things x reader #steve harrington #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #steve harrington imagine #stranger things #stranger things imagine #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fanfic #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fluff #st drabbles #stevie drabble #punchy x steve #event: fictober!

[rip-quizilla]

Your Leather, My Lace ~ Part 2: Better Not Touch

*This fic was co-written by curlyfry23, whom you can find on AO3 here

Pairing: Rockstar!Eddie Munson x Rockstar!fem!Reader

Summary: You see a familiar face at the next show you attend, and he makes it very difficult for you to keep your eye on the prize.

Word Count: 5.1k

Tags for Entire Fic (from AO3): Enemies to Lovers, Rival Bands, Tension While Singing, Leather, 80's Rock References, Song Lyrics, Slow Burn, Sexual Tension, Thinly Veiled Hex Girls Inspiration, Eddie Munson Lives, 1991, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut, Mutual Masturbation, Hate to Love, Oral Sex, Consensual Sex, Smut, Eddie Munson Has No Sense of Personal Space, Cunnilingus, Nipple Licking, Catholic Guilt, brat!reader, Dom/sub Undertones, light degradation, Car Sex, The Lord of the Rings References

Part 1

The next day was spent sorting out your setlist for your first performance, which was scheduled to take place in four days on Thursday night at a club called Steve’s. Since you would likely get kicked out of your hotel due to noise complaints if you all practiced there, you had called ahead of time to secure a place for you to rehearse. Your uncle and his family lived close, so you convinced him to allow you, Lana and Denise to practice in his garage for the duration of your stay. This is where you stood today, staring at the list of songs in your notebook and tapping a pencil to your chin. 

“We should open with something familiar to get people’s attention.” Denise said. She sat at her drumset, arms crossed over her chest and eyebrows pulled together argumentatively. “That’s why starting with Bonnie is our best bet.” 

You shook your head as if doing so would make the idea go away. “You want the only all-girl group competing to open our set with a pop cover? We might as well hand in our resignation right there.” 

Denise sighed, rolling her eyes exasperatedly. “It doesn’t sound like pop, the way we play it! I know you think we need to play more heavy stuff if we want to be taken seriously, but I’m telling you, if we kill that song on stage the way we have been in rehearsal, they’ll forget Bonnie Tyler ever sang it.” She looked over to Lana, as if hoping she might back her up. Lana shrugged, looking at you. 

“She’s right, we make that song sound fucking metal.” Denise smiled thankfully at Lana, who went back to practicing a particularly tricky chord progression on her keyboard. 

You smiled at them, still not quite sure about their proposal but eager to reach a decision so that you could move on. “Okay, you guys are right about that- I never denied how great we sound, just whether that’s the right song to open with.” You gasped excitedly as an idea came to you. “What if we make that our closing number? Start with something we know the audience will love, then once we have their attention, finish with a bang?” 

Denise and Lana looked at each other, both nodding their heads in agreement. “Yeah,” Denise conceded, “I think that would work pretty well, actually. So what’s our opening number, then?”

You smiled devilishly. “We could do Master of Puppets-” a loud groan immediately erupted from the girls. “We are not starting our set with a nine-minute song.” Lana whined. 

You chuckled. You hadn’t been serious… okay, you had been half-serious. “Well technically it’s only eight and a half.”

Lana deadpanned. “Oh sorry, my bad.” she scoffed sarcastically. “No. No way in hell.”

Denise idly tapped out little rhythms on the shiny metal edge of her snare. “You’re the only one of us that actually enjoys that song- playing it feels like a punishment. No song should be that long!” 

You were outright laughing at this point. That was the easiest way to deal with your love for Metallica being shot down by your best friends yet again- laughing it off. You should have known better than to suggest it, even if you had been (mostly) joking. 

“Calm down, I wasn’t serious. What about Barracuda?” you suggested, “It’s punchy, we get to show off a little, but it isn’t too much right out the gate.” 

“Oh I like that!” Denise nodded excitedly, “Barracuda always does a good job of setting up a Joan Jett song, so we could follow with one of those-”

You smiled to yourself as you scribbled your tentative setlist into your moleskine. Denise continued tossing song ideas into the air, which you and Lana took turns catching, playing with the order of songs and making rearrangements until you were all happy with your song choices. 

“So how was last night?” Lana asked as you prepared to run through Barracuda a couple of times. “They get better, or did they suck from beginning to end?” 

You got to work tuning your guitar after a few days in its case. You shrugged, “Yeah, they pretty much sucked from beginning to end. But if I’m ever craving a goth rock cover of I Will Survive, I’ll know who to call.” 

Lana cackled. “Oh my god, did they really?” She shook her head, orange tresses shining in the sunlight flooding in through the open garage door. She undid the clasps on her bass case, abandoning her keyboard for yet another instrument that she’d mastered over the years. That was Lana- your band’s jack of all trades. “Wow. That’s a bold move- and I normally respect bold moves, but that’s just bad.” Lana’s bass guitar rang out in a low humming baritone as she joined you in tuning her own instrument. “Anything else interesting happen? Any tall, handsome strangers offer you a drink?” She accompanied her question with a wag of her eyebrows. 

You avoided her eye contact, thinking of your encounter the night before- the conversation had flowed between the two of you so easily, it was hard to forget about him. “Well, I did have one guy hit on me at the bar, but obviously I turned him down.” you glanced at Lana over your shoulder, smiling placidly. “No distractions, remember?”

Lana rolled her eyes, bored that you didn’t have something more juicy to spill. “You really are perfect, Ace.” With that, she began practicing the opening chords of Barracuda, while your mind wandered back to red stage lights glistening off a pair of big, brown eyes.

***

That evening led you to yet another smoky bar in the city, the first of two venues you planned on visiting to get a feel for your competitors. The drinks were cheap, seating was sparse, and the crowd was much more amped up than last night’s. You hoped that the energy would be the same at Steve’s on Thursday. 

After spending a good few minutes trying to grab the bartender’s attention, you ventured into the main space with a drink in your hand to search for a place to stand- or sit, if you were lucky. You smiled when you found a spot by a staircase where a couple of beer kegs had been stacked atop one another. You tested the kegs with a small shake of your free hand; the stack seemed sturdy enough for you to sit on. Carefully balancing your drink in your hand, you braced yourself on the top of the keg stack and gave a little hop to bring your bum high enough to take a seat. Unfortunately, the stack was not as stable as you’d thought. 

The top keg slipped to the side once you shifted your weight onto it, toppling both of them and in turn, flinging you towards the ground and sending your drink sloshing over the side of your glass. You prepared to hit the ground, but luckily you never did. Instead, you collided with a person, their arms wrapping around your middle in an effort to stabilize you. Momentum launched the glass in your hand around until it too hit your savior in the chest, and you had barely registered the brown curls in front of your eyes before your drink crashed into them, turning them darker and making them shine in the blue stage lights. 

Stunned and beyond mortified, you grabbed a beverage napkin from a nearby table and scrambled to dab at the stranger’s soaked shirt.  “I cannot believe that just happened-” you stuttered, “I’m so sorry, thank you for catching me. Let me buy you a drink… again, I’m so sorry-”

“You had me at ‘buy you a drink’.” 

The familiar voice that came from above the soaked T-shirt was enough to freeze you in your tracks. You paused your dabbing, slowly looking up into the eyes you hadn���t stopped thinking about since last night. 

A wide grin stretched across your face. “If it isn’t my stalker.” you said, pleasantly surprised to see Big Eyes again, as if thinking about him all day had summoned him. 

He smiled back down at you, arms still wrapped around you with every intent of staying there. “If it isn’t Rapunzel, falling from her tower.” You raised an eyebrow at the comparison, to which he cringed and glanced away. “Yeah, that was bad wasn’t it?” 

You laughed, giggling down into his chest- which reminded you about his arms still wrapped around you. Awkwardly, you gave his alcohol-soaked chest a little drum with your hands. “You can let go now.” you prompted. 

Arms flying off of you and finding purchase in his hair and on his hip, he stifled a laugh as you giggled at his antics. “Now, about that drink-?” he said, embarrassment clear on his face while he clearly hoped you would find his awkwardness charming.

You did. 

Giving him a small smile, you nodded. “It was Eddie, right?” He gave you a broad grin upon hearing that you’d remembered his name. He remembered yours too, and the way it tumbled from his lips sounded like something reverent the way he said it. You walked with him to the bar and waved down the bartender once more, ordering yourself and him a round of whatever Eddie wanted. 

Drinks ordered, Eddie turned and leaned against the edge of the bartop. “Taking more notes tonight?” he asked. You pulled your small notebook from your bag and showed him. “Guilty.” You said, “I know I should probably be hoping this next band is just as awful as yesterday’s, but honestly I’m in the mood to be entertained tonight so I have my fingers crossed for a good show.” 

Eddie took your drinks from the bartender, handing you a glass and raising an eyebrow. “In the mood to be entertained, she says…” he mused, “Careful, or I might start acting out for attention.” His gaze left yours, feigning distraction as his drink touched his lips. “I can make myself quite entertaining given the right motivation.” Almost as if on cue, you noticed a dribble of beer escape his mouth and land directly onto his shirt. You snorted as he mumbled an “Aw shit” and swatted at the new wet spot, struggling to save face.

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up from your chest, snidely watching him pat at his shirt. “You were right, that was entertaining.” He was completely soaked now, the combination of your mixed drink and his cheap beer mingling on his band tee and making it lay over his torso like fresh paint. Eyeing him up and down, you smirked, “I think you’re a bit early for the wet t-shirt contest, I’m pretty sure that’s not supposed to happen until three drinks from now.” 

 “I think I’ve got a shot at the title, sweetheart” a chuckle rose out of Eddie as he looked down at his sopping shirt. “Think I’d emerge victorious?”

You ignored the urge to laugh, as well as the way your heart raced when he called you ‘sweetheart’. “Easy there, tiger.” you murmured into your cup. “You’re distracting me.”

A rueful grin tickled Eddie’s lips as he lifted his hands in a small surender. “My apologies, I can behave.”

 You scoffed incredulously. “Oh really? Can you?”

Eddie splayed his free hand out over his chest, feigning grave offense at your suggestion. “Lil’ ole’ me?” Sarcasm and shock were thick in his voice, and you couldn’t tear your gaze from his giant brown eyes even as the audience began to cheer on the band taking the stage. “Sweetheart, when I make a promise to a lady, I intend to keep those promises. There will be no distracting coming from my general direction.” he thought for a moment before adding, “At least no intentional distracting.”

You squinted at Eddie through the flashing stage lights. “I don’t remember you making any promises, actually.”

A mischievous smile snuck out through the mock seriousness on his face. “Didn’t I? Hm… I could’ve sworn I promised not to be a distraction. What a shame…” 

You shook your head, unable to stop yourself from laughing now. The band had started up their set, and even though you knew you should be paying attention to whatever might give you an edge when competing against them, you couldn’t think of anything worse right now than ending this conversation with Eddie. 

As the crowd grew louder, you had to lean in closer than normal for Eddie to hear you. Your lips moved beside his ear, and you could smell the masculine scent of men’s soap mixed with worn leather. “Okay, well the way I see it… if you’re helping me take notes and evaluate the band, then it’s not a distraction, right?” You opened your moleskine to a fresh page and clicked your pen as Eddie’s smile bloomed across his face. “You’d just be helping me stay on task.”

Instantly, Eddie was shoulder-to-shoulder with you, denim vest brushing against the bare skin of your right arm. Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned toward you conspiratorially, as if the two of you were spies gathering intel. “An excellent suggestion, I’d be happy to lend you a well-trained ear.” Even though he was close enough to speak directly into your ear, the room was ringing with the electric sound of guitars and shrieking voices that could rival Brian Johnson. Eddie’s lips hovered over the top of your cheekbone, yelling above the din in order to be heard. That was a pleasant sensation to say the least. 

“Well-trained, huh?” You yelled back, keeping your eyes forward so you didn’t accidentally touch your cheek to his lips… Lord knows what that might do to you should it happen. “Okay, tell me what you think, if you’re such an expert.” You scribbled the band’s name at the top of the page- Banshee Boys. 

Eyeing the drying ink on your page, you felt a puff of breath across your skin. It sent a rush of goosebumps over your shoulders. “Appropriate name.” Eddie chuckled, “I’m worried the bottles at the bar are about to explode from this guy’s damn frequency.” You nodded in agreement, wincing at the nearly imperceptible song lyrics ringing out from the stage. “Can’t argue there.” you said, scrawling Singing ≠ Shrieking on the first line of the page.  

You both fell into a focused sort of trance as you watched the band play, assessing the music they made like seasoned critics. After about a minute, you offered another critique. “I think if the bass was a little heavier, it might balance out the screechiness of the vocals. Like, that might even everything out and give some drama to it?” You lifted your chin to glance over at Eddie, and your heart stuttered surprisingly when you saw that he was staring at you with an intensity that you definitely had not been expecting. You told yourself that he was only glancing down at you since you were talking to him… but something in his gaze gave you the impression that he hadn’t been watching the band for a solid chunk of time. 

“I think you’re right, actually.” Eddie said, nodding slowly as he imagined your proposed changes to the way the band was playing. Your eyes were looking so unwaveringly into his that you jumped when his hand covered yours, taking the pen from you. He wore heavy silver rings on every calloused finger, and they were cold against the skin of your knuckles.

You felt Eddie chuckle again at your jumpiness. “Sorry, sweetheart, didn’t realize you had an issue giving up control… of the pen.” You looked back at him, eyebrow raised and your expression a tad more heated than before. 

“Are you saying I have control issues?” you asked, plucking the pen from his hand. Eddie smirked in response. You frowned. “I’m not sure you know me well enough to make that assumption, Eddie.” 

Smirk still going strong, he moved behind you and- to your horror- draped his arms over your shoulders, one hand cupping over yours that held the notebook, the other resting over the pen in your writing hand. You became acutely aware of the fact that there was more of his body touching yours than what wasn’t touching yours. 

“A little experiment in letting go of control then, hm?” his lips were right next to your ear now. 

Good God. 

You cleared your throat. “I would… uh…” licking your lips around the nervous words, “I would consider this distracting, for the record.” 

“Like you said, I made no promises.” The smile in Eddie’s voice made you feel… some type of way. You barked out a breathy laugh as he took the pen from your hand, writing Heavier bass would balance out vocals. 

“See?” he yell-whispered near your temple. “You can trust me.” 

You shook your head, smiling despite your instinct to hide his effect on you. “I was just concerned about a senior-year-triple-repeat thinking he was going to take better notes than me.” 

The baritone of his voice buzzed from the back of your head to the nape of your neck, “Well this Repeat can be a good student with the right teacher, princess.” 

Geez…if he kept this up, you might cease to function.

You exhaled, slow and heavy. “All of these nicknames…” you sighed, struggling to make sure your voice didn’t come out as a whine. “You need to stop with that sweetheart, princess shit…” 

“Well then, what would you prefer?” Eddie’s retort was immediate. You felt the pad of his finger on your bare shoulder, toying with the velvet strap of your top. You were wearing one of your favorites tonight- the wine-red velvet tank top hugged your curves just perfectly, and the sweetheart neckline was lined with soft black lace that matched the onyx lacquer on your fingernails. You felt perfectly vampy- and Eddie seemed to be a fan of the buttery-soft fabric as well. 

His fingertip slipped under the strap, taking it between his thumb and forefinger to stroke the soft velvet material along your shoulder blade. “I can call you ma’am, or maybe your majesty. Dressed like this, I think Elvira might be appropriate.” 

You giggled at the comparison, his warm lips spoke directly behind the sensitive skin below your ear. How was it possible to simultaneously feel your temperature rising as he’s sending shivers down your spine? It was pure infuriating bliss. You started to nuzzle into the touch like a cat before snapping out of your trance as applause thundered through the room. It seemed the Banshee Boys were about to start their next song.

Get a hold of yourself, you mentally chided. With every stroke of his finger on your upper back, you felt control slipping- damn whatever control issues he might be right about; you couldn’t be letting your guard down right now. It wasn’t fair to your girls.

Taking a small step forward sent your shirt strap snapping off of his fingertip and into your skin. The soft sting sent a jolt through your system, clearing your senses as you spun to face him. “What,” you yelled over the raging applause as the guitar onstage rang out into the smoky air. “You don’t like my name or something?” Your expression betrayed nothing as you smacked a mask of cocky condescension over your eyes. 

“Oh I like your name.” Eddie replied, arms crossing over his chest as he matched your confidence effortlessly. You could have sworn he even puffed out his chest a bit as his eyes darkened when he continued, “I just enjoy the way you have to take a deep breath every time I call you something else.” 

Crap. You weren’t as slick as you’d hoped you were. 

Huffing out a heavy breath, you grabbed his wrist and pulled him through the crowd until you reached a somewhat-quieter corner by a set of stairs. You should be focusing on the band onstage, but fuck it- this needed to be done. Ducking under the staircase, you yanked Eddie by the sleeve of his leather jacket until the two of you were both crammed into the dark closet-sized corner. 

Eddie looked even more pleased than he had before. “Hey, if you wanted me all to yourself we could have just gone back to my van out back-”

“Quite the opposite, actually.” you bit back. Eddie’s smile faltered upon hearing the irritation in your voice. Suddenly, his eyes shifted from that flirtatious confidence you’d learned to expect to an expression that was so gentle it nearly broke your heart. “Hey, did I…” His voice had also changed drastically- any trace of flirty innuendo gone and replaced with delicate concern. “...I’m not making you uncomfortable, am I?” 

You weren’t sure exactly how to react; you felt like you had whiplash from the complete one-eighty you had just witnessed. One minute this guy was all hot breath and smirking lips, poking fun at your breathlessness each time he came up with a new pet name, and the next minute he was wide eyed, gentle, and concerned with nothing but your comfort in his presence. You were reeling… but it wasn’t necessarily in a bad way.

It was a little perfect, actually.

You shook your head, trying to clear your thoughts and tell him what you’d dragged him all the way over here to say. “No- no, I’m very comfortable. Around you, I mean.” He seemed to relax a bit, which you were glad to see but didn’t help the message you were trying to convey here. “But I told you last night that this-” you gestured between the two of you, “-is not happening. You are a nice guy, and I feel comfortable around you, but I need the flirting to stop, because it’s very frustrating when you get all flirty and I can’t do anything about it.” 

You paused finally to take a breath, and when you took a moment to take in his reaction, you noticed that same intensity from last night when you’d had a conversation quite similar to this one- his eyes were wide, fixed on you and taking in every word you said with dedicated fixation. You got the feeling that there was a whole lot of thinking going on behind those big brown eyes- which was why it infuriated you when his response came in the form of a one-word answer.

“Alright.”

And with that, he turned around and began to walk back into the throng of onlookers beneath the stage. Taken aback by his terse response, you reached out without thinking, grabbing him by the elbow. “Wait, wait, wait,” you stuttered, and you felt your brow wrinkle as you tried to make sense of his behavior. “What does ‘alright’ mean?” You asked, noting the edge in your voice, but you didn’t care. “Are you going to stop it or not?”

To your surprise, Eddie turned back towards you, cocking his head ever so slightly to the side and stepping up so that he was only inches from you, looking down through his curtain of brown, wavy locks. “Do you want me to stop?” He asked.

Your lips hung open, grasping for words to construct a response with but coming up empty. Eddie didn’t wait for you to respond. He smirked open-mouthed for a moment, looking around as if he were searching for words that wouldn’t come across the wrong way- but stopped caring a moment later when he dropped his gaze to meet yours.

“You’ve told me twice now that you’re avoiding ‘distractions’,” Eddie took a step forward, backing you into the space underneath the stairway once more. “Merely interacting with you seems to be, in itself, a distraction, the way you see it, so tell me-” your name tumbled off his tongue as he addressed you and it sent lightning down your spine. “Do you want me to leave you alone? Or are you just scared of what you’ll do if I don’t?”

You gaped at his brashness, amazed that he would just come out and ask the question instead of letting it hang in the air like an unacknowledged storm in the distance like you had been perfectly content to continue doing. 

Jaw hanging open incredulously, you crossed your arms over your chest and pretended not to notice the split second that his eyes flicked down to your chest when you inadvertently smushed your breasts together. “You’re being awfully presumptuous, considering that you barely know me-”

Eddie cut you off, taking one step further toward you and bringing your back in contact with the exposed brick wall behind you. “Be honest princess, every time I flirt, you flirt back.” Eddie said, hands in his pockets and looking at you as if he had caught you with your hand in a cookie jar. “And personally-” he splayed a hand across his soaked t-shirt, “-I believe that any two mature, consenting adults should be able to flirt and have fun without any expectation of things getting serious unless otherwise specified.” 

His silence after finishing his sentence indicated to you that he wanted to know if your sentiments were the same. You had to think about it for a moment- were you afraid of what you might do if he kept flirting with you? Had you been flirting back this whole time? You thought about the way you couldn’t help but smile when he cracked a joke, how you’d thrown a smirk his way to match his own on several occasions, how you didn’t pull away when he’d pressed his body against you while taking notes… crap. You had been flirting back. 

And you liked the way it felt to flirt back. 

You didn’t want his big brown eyes to leave yours. You wanted him to keep looking at you the way he was now- curious, appraising… a little hungry. It wasn’t until he began speaking again that you realized your gaze had fallen to his barely-parted lips. Which were smirking. Because he’d noticed. 

“Look, while you think of an answer-” he gestured to his still damp shirt, “-I need to change. And I have a spare shirt in my van, so...” He cocked his head a little to the side, as if he were about to share a secret. “If any… consenting adults were to follow me out,” he began backing away with his hands back in his pockets, eyes alight with meaning as he wove hidden messages into his words. “I certainly wouldn’t be opposed to whatever flirting and/or… extracurriculars were to go on out there.” 

You choked out a laugh. “Extracurriculars??”

A grin mingled with a cringe on those fascinating lips as he shook an accusatory finger at you. “That.”  he bit out, “That smile is why I won’t stop with the name-calling, princess.” He quirked an eyebrow and added, “It’s damn distracting.” You couldn’t help but giggle at his reference to the very thing you kept accusing him of. 

And then he was gone, out the door and strolling down the sidewalk into the smoky night air until he had disappeared from your line of sight. 

You stood there under the stairs for a good minute or so, still reeling from the way he had spoken to you- like he could read your goddamn mind and knew exactly how much you enjoyed the way you felt around him. He had heavily insinuated that he was going to be waiting for you out by his van. Your brain went wild as you wondered what he expected to happen out there. 

Did he just want to talk? No, he had used the phrase extracurriculars and in this context, that sounded anything but innocent. If you followed him out there, you were openly admitting to him that you were not only okay with the flirting, but whatever the flirting might lead to. 

Your fingers slid as you absentmindedly stroked your sweating glass with your thumb. Everything in your brain yelled- practically begged- for you to simply wait out the band’s set, take a few more notes, and catch a cab back to your hotel. To look your bandmates dead in the eye and tell them no distractions, then mess around with a stranger at a bar? It would be hypocritical. 

The more you thought about it, though, Eddie had been clear that he had zero expectations of anything other than what might happen tonight. He didn’t ask for plans tomorrow, nothing next week- just a little sweetness to round out the night. That wouldn’t lead to any future distractions, right? And there was no way Lana or Denise would find out… 

You should have thought about it further. You really should have waited until enough time had passed that there was no way Eddie would still be out there waiting. Unfortunately, however, your glass was quickly placed on a nearby table, your moleskine shoved into your purse, and your Doc-clad feet marched through the threshold of the bar without nearly enough thought thrown into your decision. 

The cool air of the night enveloped you, and you instinctively began to rub the goosebumps away from your bare arms. Cigarette smoke from patrons lazily draped against the windows looking into the bar wafted around you as you strode with purpose down the sidewalk. Eyes snagging on a clunky-looking Chevy van peeking out from around the corner behind the bar, you noticed the familiar silhouette of a man leaning against the driver’s side door. Amber light from the street lamps glowed at the edges of his curls, playing on the plumes of his own cigarette smoke which he blew upward into the air through those lips that had somehow hypnotized you beyond rescue tonight. 

He didn’t look up at you until you were leaned up against the brick wall parallel to the side of his van. Eddie kept his eyes trained on your pristine black leather boots as he smiled around his cigarette. Slowly, he brought his gaze up to meet yours, a silent question in those mesmerizing eyes. 

Your breath turned to vapor in the brisk night air as you huffed out a frustrated sigh, wanting very badly to not let on just how hard your heart was pounding out of your chest.

“Alright.” you muttered, feeling awkward now that you couldn’t  count on blaring guitars to fill the silence between you two. 

Eddie nodded, practically smiling ear to ear. “Alright?” he queried, and you could hear the unspoken question he was really asking. Are you sure?

You stuck your hands in your pockets, and before you could chicken out you nodded back in response, flashing him a matching smile. 

“Alright.”

Part 3

#eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson smut #eddie stranger things #eddie munson x reader #rockstar eddie munson #stranger things fic #stranger things au #eddie munson lives #enemies to lovers

[b4mpyre-k1zz3s]

hello :) i was wondering if i could request a dark imagine for either steve-o, bam or chris? i love them all and i just can’t decide! for the plot: maybe reader is a celebrity in the early 2000’s and the tabloids are romantically linking reader to the jackass guy, and she thinks they’re just friends but he’s hell-bent on it becoming more. maybe he starts being overly protective, beating up guys who try to flirt with her, trying to get her to marry him quickly so they’re tied together and can start a family soon? just stuff like that & feel free to change anything you’d like! also just let me know if you aren’t comfortable and i can change the request! thank you so so much 💖💖

Can’t Stand Losing You

Navigating relationships in LA as a up and coming model is hard, especially when your best friend wants to be more than just friends.

Bam Margera X Fem!Reader

(Dark, Angst)

1.8k Words

Warnings: Obsessive behavior, suggestive content, paparazzi, one sided relationships, unwelcome flirting, bar fights, tending to wounds, flaunting of wealth, flirting

An: Thank you for being patient with this request!! I’ve never really written something serious like this and I wanted it to be perfect!! Also first time writing imagines! Let me know if you want more! :) links to parts 2 and 3)

Of course it made sense that Bam Margera was dating some hot model chick, or at least that’s what’s the tabloids said. For a while, they bugged you- with all the big, punchy, neon graphics and all caps attention garnering text, usually mentioning how ‘crazy and insane’ he was and how nice your ass was in the same sentence.

In all honesty, you were just friends, but the media would run with anything. You two go out for lunch? They say you’re on a date. You don’t see each other for a while, and it’s trouble in paradise. You go out to the mall together? You’re shopping for wedding rings! There was just no way for you to win.

So, you kinda gave up.

But Bam didn’t.

☆彡

Once or twice a month, you’d hang out and see a movie. Usually, it’d be on Johnny’s sofa, seeing whatever he could find on pay per veiw- you lived in LA and Bam visited frequently, though you always promised to fly out to West Chester and visit the castle sometime. He’d joke that you’d be crowned the queen of castle Bam, a title you thought was pretty cute.

But tonight, he had other plans. “Hey, why don’t we go to the movies?” Bam absentmindedly proposed over the phone, “I mean, a theater- not Knoxville’s flatscreen.” You smirked at his voice, rolling over on your your bed and letting out a little giggle. “How come? Anything you wanna see?” Sitting up from your spot on your bed, you went to go get ready. “Well…we could go see that new Matrix movie.”

Bam didn’t have to ask you. He bought tickets for you and him at the best theater in LA that morning. He called the limo to come pick you up to take you there hours before.

Hell, he already put in the phone call to TMZ.

★彡

“I can’t believe this!” In awe, you gawked at the interior of the limo. Sure, you were famous, but you weren’t famous famous. You weren’t ice bucket of champagne, black leather upholstery, stretch limo famous. But Bam was. He grinned, sitting low in his seat with his knees about a mile apart, his ever present arrogant air about him.

And, of course, the second you stepped out of that limo, there came the cameras. The staccatoed flashes blinded you, disorienting you enough that you barely noticed when Bam grabbed your arm, pulling you close enough that you were almost inside his jacket and you could smell the Right Guard he was wearing. And he held you just a little too tightly, a little too close.

From your place under his arm, you didn’t even notice him mugging it up for the cameras. He was savoring this attention, but of course he was. He was eating the whole thing up. You two ducked into an alley, and all of a sudden it got very dark and very still. It was hard to see anything, but you could feel the cold, rough brick against the back of your shirt and the warmth of Bam’s torso pressed against yours. When you were sure the paparazzi had left, you let out the breath you had been holding, speaking with a pout, “I hate being famous.”

“Well…” Bam thought about what he’d tell them when he called in later, about your life together and how great of a girlfriend you are- and about how he’s probably gonna pick up that magazine when it comes out later that week. He murmured, his breath warm on the top of your head, “it has some perks.”

☆彡

Similar things would happen whenever you would go out to a bar together. However, most bars in Hollywood were used to celebrity appearances, so it didn’t cause too much of a stir when you walked in. In fact, Bam would be over the moon to introduce you to whatever famous friend he ran into there. Bon Jovi, Christina Aguilera- hell, one time you ran into Jessica Simpson!

But sometimes, it’d be just you and whatever random people decided to show up that night. And, of course, sometimes that didn’t always go well. This was one of those nights.

“Cmon…” That guy at the bar really couldn’t take a hint. You had been shutting him down for hours, and he still thought he had a chance with you. “No. I-“ you thought fast, “I have a boyfriend.” Of course, you didn’t. The closest thing you had to a boyfriend were the guys who wrote you those creepy fan letters asking for locks of your hair. He could see right through it, “So? Where’s he?”

Before you could say anything, a fist flew over your shoulder, hitting the guy square in the jaw. His neck bent back almost 90 degrees, slamming against the counter before he was hit again, the assailant stepping forward to pin him to the bar, grabbing a fistful of hair.

It was Bam, absolutely pummeling him. He had this rage in his eyes- this fire, the kind you only see on Animal Planet. “Yeah? Yeah- you fuckin like that?” His knuckles were raw and dripping with blood that wasn't his by the time he pulled away, panting like he’d just ran a marathon. And then, just then- and just barely at that- he smiled. He grinned, like an angel with a mouthful of fangs. He spat,

“Let’s go.”

★彡

The two of you ended up at your place. Bam sat on your bathroom counter as you riffled through your medicine cabinet, grabbing cotton balls and rubbing alcohol. To him, it was like nothing was wrong. He just sat there, idly swinging his feet and occasionally trying to tidy up his hair, which had gotten thoroughly ruined by the fight. Inadvertently, he was just smearing streaks of sticky red through his dark curls, the blood mixing with sweat, making his wounds sting.

Taking one of his hands in yours, you bent down to look at the dammage. Though his injuries were severe, you could still half read the words tattooed on his knuckles as you doused his hand in the antiseptic. He hissed through his teeth, and you responded with a pinched expression. “Come on, Bam! Don’t be a baby…”

You noticed a newly healing tattoo on the back of his hand. He picked up on your staring, tilting it towards you so you could examine it better. It was a heartagram- like he didn’t have enough on him- with all sorts of gothic fleur de lisses around it. You nodded, inspecting it, “Not too bad- for you, of course.”

Ignoring your jab at him, he chuckled. “Oh, if you think that one’s cool, check this one out!” He tugged up the bottom of his shirt, which was already a little too short for him, revealing a similar tattoo on his lower stomach, right above his belt. It was like a tramp stamp on the front. “Damn. That’s pretty nice, dude!” Tilting your head to get a better look, he smirked and looked down at you with these big, swollen pupils. “You’d look pretty hot with one too.”

“What…?” It caught you off guard for a second, before you broke out into a fit of laughter. “I mean it! You’d look great!” Bam chuckled too, though he seemed to be pretty genuine.

☆彡

When you couldn’t see each other, you called. Sometimes for hours at a time- you would talk far into the wee hours of the morning and then some. It’d be about anything- something he was filming, places you two liked in LA, or some photoshoot you did that day.

“Really?” You could hear the grin in his voice over the line as you two discussed a shoot you did for some fashion magazine, the name of which you couldn’t remember, “They put you in that?” Rolling your eyes, you sighed, “I know! I mean, who do I look like, Annette Benning?” Sitting on your cold tile bathroom floor, you painted your toenails fuschia with the receiver pressed against your ear with your shoulder. You added, with a flick of your wrist, “If I’m gonna come all the way out to Santa Monica, dress me in Versace!”

“Well when that comes out, I’m buying it.” Laughing at his sarcasm, you scoffed, “Oh, real nice, Bam. Like you could dress me any better!” He took a sip of his beer, shifting down in his seat, “I bet I could.”

About a week later, a package appeared on your doorstep. You didn’t remember ordering it, but hell, maybe you got too drunk with the mail order catalog. Opening it up, you gawked at what was inside. It was a slinky, deep purple velvet dress and- oh god, there was a pair of heels too, in shiny patent leather. It was hot. Really hot- maybe the best thing you had ever owned.

★彡

Of course, you did figure out who sent it after Bam called you that night, eager to know your thoughts on it. You couldn’t see him, but you were sure he was beaming when you told him how much you loved it.

And then, over the next months, more things would arrive. First it was clothes, which you could rationalize because hello? Your job was to look hot in clothes. But after a while, and a little prodding from Bam, the clothes turned into makeup. Admittedly, a friend buying makeup for another friend was kind of weird, but hell, you could still probably rationalize that. It did tip you off a little, though, when he started buying you jewelry.

“I mean,” You held the ring up to the light of the lamp in your bedroom, the diamond inset in the silver heartagram ring glinting in the light, “what even is this? You tryin’ to propose or something?” He sounded a little defensive when he replied, playing it off as a joke, “Well, I mean…April’s been bugging me about gettin’ hitched- I thought it’d be a pretty good cover up!”

You felt like he was lying, but you didn’t want to believe that. Putting on your best sarcastic tone, you retorted, “What, does she want grandchildren?” The pause on the other end of the line told you everything you needed to know. “I mean…yeah. She’s my mom- what do you expect?”

“Well, tell her she isn’t getting any.”

#jackass #bam margera #jackass fanfiction #jackass fanfic #angst #jackass x reader #bam margera x reader

[elikpwilliam]

Book Review: Binge by Douglas Coupland

A Foray Into Flash Fiction by Douglas Coupland of Generation X Fame

Canadian author, designer, and visual artist Douglas Coupland is best known internationally for his 1991 debut novel, Generation X: Tales for an Accelerated Culture. Although Coupland is not a Gen X-er himself but a Boomer, the novel has frequently been praised for adroitly capturing the spirit and voice of its titular generation when it was youthful and coming into its own. Now in his sixties, Coupland is an Officer of the Order of Canada (essentially the nation’s equivalent of being knighted). He has published thirteen novels, several short story collections, and numerous books of non-fiction. Although his fiction does not generally qualify as science fiction per se, as his stories are almost invariably set in the present day rather than the future or alternate worlds, he is one of those postmodern authors, like J.G. Ballard in his urban disaster trilogy, Don Delillo in Cosmopolis, or Richard Powers in Plowing the Dark, who presciently explore the impact of technological development on sub-cultures grappling with the absurdity of life under capitalism. His 1995 novel, Microserfs, for example, was a ground-breaking and perceptive depiction of Silicon Valley tech culture years before anyone even imagined the dotcom bubble. Coupland’s literary output kept pace with the changing times until release of his 2013 novel Worst. Person. Ever. This would be his final book of fiction in the 2010s, leaving us without the stories of an insightful cultural commentator to help ground us in an age of ever more frenetic social disruption. In Binge (2021), his first book of fiction in nearly a decade, Coupland resumes his engagement with technological and cultural currents of the now. According to the author in an interview with Steve Paikin, the title, Binge, refers to the mode of media consumption that defines our era. We typically associate bingeing with the streaming of entire television seasons or series over the course of just days or even hours. But Coupland claims to have modelled Binge on the discussion boards of the website Reddit to which he ascribes a compulsively readable quality. His hope is that the book will likewise spur its immediate and uninterrupted reading. Crammed into 250 pages are sixty narrative works. These consist mainly of anecdotes, vignettes, and character portraits; few are full‐fledged stories, a point Coupland himself seems to acknowledge implicitly: “I realize this isn’t even an actual story, with a beginning and end,” admits Erik, the overweight, gay, sexually unfulfilled narrator of “Norovirus,” the final piece in the collection. Each of the five-dozen works has been given a punchy title of no more than three words such as “Thong,” “Theme Park,” and “Resting Bitch Face.” Although there are recurring characters (notably Trashe Blanche, Erik’s moniker when in drag), recurring incidents (a young man’s assault with tiki torches on his molesting football coach), and recurring images (bodies stashed in car‐top cargo bins), the book does not have a traditional plot. A better analogy for the collection than streaming television or online forums might be the strobe of disconnected moments found on video sharing platform TikTok. A heterosexual incel on a plane receives advice from Trashe Blanche on how to get laid. A young woman with the rare blood type RHnull is cradle‐robbed by a man who secretly gets rich off selling her and their daughter’s samples to researchers. An ex‐globetrotter searches for the unknown neighbour who keeps anonymously printing hardcore pornographic images on his wireless printer only to be abducted by him. With a different first‐person perspective for each work, we are treated to a panoply of narrative tasters. Indeed, the book could have been called Appetizers or Flights, and we might question whether its flash‐fiction morsels of some four pages offer portions substantial enough to be binged. The collection, abundant as it is with viewpoints, would seem to demand a unique voice for each character. Instead, Coupland’s highly distinctive writing style, which usually brings a welcome stamp of consistency to the sustained plots of his full‐length novels, tends to overpower the prose and narration across these more fleeting and variegated works. Often it is difficult to identify the gender, age, or outlook of a protagonist until the story is almost over. This could be an intentional strategy to meld perspectives and thereby emphasize our underlying sameness, perhaps along the lines of Charlie Kaufman’s stop motion animated film Anomalisa, in which everyone on Earth is revealed to be a single person. But it seems more likely that in the pursuit of that bingeable quality suggested by the title, Coupland has intentionally sacrificed diversity of expression for stylistic consistency more conducive to smooth reading. Often the stories carry a moral, echoing themes Coupland explored in his 2016 essay and fiction compendium, Bit Rot. For example, his contention that psychiatric pharmaceuticals are a boon to society is illustrated in “Adderall” by a hoarder who finally starts tidying up her junkyard of a house after a visitor gives her prescription amphetamines. His lamentations about how the internet has permanently transformed our brains is revisited in the introductory story “Alexa,” in which the photographic‐memory‐endowed narrator notes that people tend to retain less information since the advent of search engines. The Literary Review of Canada praised Binge for its "up-to-the-minute language,” listing several acronyms in common currency, including yolo, nsfw, and fomo. Coupland has always had an ear for fresh lingo and has dabbled in internet slang at least since his 1995 Microserfs. But Gen Zers and Millennials may by struck by the incongruously outdated pop‐culture references. The vast majority—Carry, Alanis Morrisette, Monty Python, Archie, Princess Mononoke—date from between the 60s and 90s, and almost none (I could find only Childish Gambino) from the 2010s. The cover of the book (see above), a blurry, analogue still of Courtney Cox in the music video for Dancing in the Dark with Bruce Springsteen awkwardly clipped from the frame, screams 1980s, as if to warn prospective readers of the anachronisms inside. We might be tempted to chalk up his lapse in capturing crucial elements of the zeitgeist that has been his stock‐in‐trade to a lack of familiarity with the cultural touchpoints of recent decades. But we should also acknowledge that widely resonant references are increasingly hard to come by now that the internet has shattered the traditional monoliths of television, cinema, radio, and print. Perhaps Coupland can be forgiven for digging up famous artifacts from the halcyon days of universal entertainment in an age where algorithms have buried each of us in isolated heaps of shiny, new information trinkets. However we choose to understand the book’s odd nostalgic quality and its one‐size‐fits‐all voice, Binge delivers on the promise of its subtitle, “to make your brain feel different,” offering insights and illuminations about existence in the twenty‐first century, all punctuated by Coupland’s trademark wordplay and wit. When is he going to give us another novel? *This essay was adapted from a review that originally appeared in the winter 2022 edition of The Malahat Review.

essay by Eli K.P. William. I am the author of the Jubilee Cycle trilogy (Skyhorse Publishing), including: Cash Crash Jubilee, The Naked World, and A Diamond Dream.  I also translate Japanese literature, including the bestselling novel A Man (Crossing) by Keiichiro Hirano. More about me here. Follow me on X: @Dice_Carver Check out my most recent article, a two part history of the Science Fiction And Fantasy Writers of Japan for Nippon.com Or if you want more essays like this one, join my newsletter ALMOST REAL.

#book #bookreview #flash fiction #collection #douglas coupland #binge #canadian #literature

[imperiuswrecked]

How do you think Bucky Barnes, in his role as Captain America, would have handled the events of X-Men vs. Avengers, realistically? And in particular the interactions with Scott Summers, compared to how Steve Rogers dealt with Cyclops?

Oh boy this isn't a tough question but like it segways into me ranting about AvX so you can ignore that and just focus on the first part:

I really don't think Bucky as Cap would have done what Steve did, in fact I don't think he would have taken any interest in the matter unless the threat was already here.

Bucky is like a trouble shooter, where there is trouble, he shoots it. (Pretty sure I stole this line from a book but it fits for Bucky) Steve would try to slove the trouble before the shooting starts.

So yeah, Bucky would have kept an eye, spy on the mutants then if trouble actually showed up he would handle it, using whatever people/weapons he has access to, to contain the Phoenix.

AvX rant:

I'm sure if Marvel wanted then they would have found a reason for Bucky to get into Scott's face and have AvX happen because AvX can only happen if everyone is somewhat ooc. Big events like these hero vs hero fights can only happen due to misunderstanding, manipulation, or the heroes being written like fighty punchy assholes who can't stop for one moment to think things through clearly.

AvX throws out so much nuisance a character has, and reduces them to this one trait type of thing just to be able to have them fight whomever.

#bucky barnes #winter soldier #captain america #imp answers

[dailytomlinson]

It’s been a long and turbulent four-year road for Louis Tomlinson. Since his band, One Direction, announced their ‘indefinite hiatus’ in 2016, Tomlinson has struggled to find a professional path that suitably represents him as an artist. As he gears up to finally release his long-awaited debut album Walls this coming January, the singer-songwriter finally feels comfortable in his own skin, finding his own unique Britpop-inspired sound which has been spurred on by the resentment towards a diluting of his vision in a bid to find radio play in the States. Tomlinson, it is safe to say, has finally found his feet and, with a new record label firmly behind him and a renewed energy propelling his every move, the 27-year-old is now a man on a mission with two fingers in the air and a point to prove.

His remarkable story really needs no introduction. Plucked from a crowd of hopefuls auditioning for the X-Factor in 2010, the then 18-year-old singer was placed alongside Niall Horan, Liam Payne, Harry Styles and Zayn Malik by Simon Cowell much to the joy of their growing social media fanbase. Just 12 months later their debut album, Up All Night, was released and propelled the group to international fame. In the six fast and furious years as a band One Direction tour relentlessly, released five hit records and became unfathomably rich in the process. For Tomlinson, however, the immediate highs were quickly met by severe lows when it all came suddenly crashing down. The end of the band, the media relentlessly pursuing his private life, personal tragedy and more have followed. Now though, with a renewed vigour and clarity for his future, Tomlinson has picked himself up and is about to carve out his own niche of pop music. I met Tomlinson in a back bar of a central London hotel as I self-consciously began to consider the possibility that I may be underdressed for the occasion. Thankfully though—and much to my relief—he arrived casually dressed in a brown quarter-zip jacket, jeans and Adidas trainers which arrived as a refreshing change in reference to the typical, modern-day pop star. Having travelled down to London from Yorkshire that day, with my editor’s words ringing in my ears, the somewhat opulent surroundings of our meeting lacked the relaxing edge I was hoping for. It must be said that interviews with musicians of international fame can be tricky — especially when they have a new album to sell. With media training, PR managers typically watching over and a sense ill-trust with the media, it will come as little surprise that popstars can be standoffish in interviews. Despite my initial trepidation though, Tomlinson greeted me with immense warmth and immediately offered to get a couple of beers in from the bar—the first sign that our conversation would follow the laid-back pattern I was hoping for. After we’d sat down and had a sip of lager, our Yorkshire accents clashing, my mind turned to his recent performance of his last single ‘We Made It’ on Children In Need. Tomlinson looked in his element, like he’d finally found his feet as a solo artist—something that hasn’t been an easy adjustment for him to make in the last few years. “Yeah, naturally I feel as any fucking solo star finds – the longer you’re in it, the more experienced you get, the more confident you get. I think it took me a second to work out who I am musically, to fully detach from One Direction and stuff but I feel like I’m there now so, naturally, I’m more confident in my songwriting ability, I’m more confident performing, singing and all of that, so it feels good.” Following the split from the band, it did feel from the outside looking in that there was no clear direction where his solo career was going to take him. With collaborations with the likes of Steve Aoki and Bebe Rexha, both of which performed commercially well, there was a creative direction that left more questions than answers. Earlier this year, he took to social media to make a statement to claim that he was turning a page, that he was fed up with writing to a formula in a bid to chase radio play and instead he wanted to make music he loved. That moment was the beginning of the second chapter in his solo career, which he expands on looking while back at that difficult time with more than a pinch of honesty as always, disclosing: “Yeah but I’m not going to lie, it’s still something that I’m fighting up against if I’m being honest. I mean, because there’s constant opinion around me and you know a lot of people do want to focus towards radio—which I do understand—but what bugs me is just how much it limited me — especially because what I grew up listening to on pop radio is very different to what’s on pop radio now and because I couldn’t see a place for myself. I thought that it wasn’t not going to be authentic because I’m going to be trying to sound like what’s on the radio. Today, in 2019 more than ever, people can spot bullshit. So yeah, I think since that moment I’ve always been conscious of that and as I say it is a constant battle, but I think I’m winning at the moment.” The state of mainstream radio is something that Tomlinson is passionate about. As an artist who aims to make songs that are accessible to the masses without compromising integrity at the same time, Louis appears to be well versed on the shift in the popular musical landscape: “If I’m being honest, I didn’t actively search for stuff because it was on pop radio,” he said while discussing the change in approach to consuming music. “Especially a band like Catfish and The Bottlemen,” he adds after a moment of contemplation. “When I was growing up they would definitely, definitely, be on every radio and I think those bands are very important and now I have to actively search for them or listen to the right station.” He continues, “Also, I think it took me a second to come out and say what my influences are because I know what people expect from someone who has been in a boyband and stuff like that.” With this lightbulb moment, Tomlinson wanted to detail more about the inner workings of his creative process, how collaborating with like-minding musicians helped free his thought process. “Once I’d had this epiphany and put this message on social media, at that point I’d done four songs that are still on the album. I think ‘Kill My Mind’ was actually a turning point, I wrote it with a guy called Jamie Hartman and the next session we had together we wrote ‘Walls’ which is the title track for the album and is going to be my next single. I think from that moment it unlocked something and we got some momentum so then the second half of the album was written relatively quickly but I think as I say it being transitional I’d have loved 10 ‘Kill My Mind’s’ but maybe the next record.” ‘Kill My Mind’ looks and sounds like the first step towards the definitive direction that the Yorkshireman is aiming for. It has a punchy Hot Fuss era Killers’ chorus and is more reminiscent of the type of music that Tomlinson himself loves. “That’s probably the proudest I’ve been of a song because that is genuinely a song that I fucking love listening to and that’s not necessarily always the case when you’re playing for radio all the time. It didn’t get the attention that I think it quite deserved but that’s the way it is.” The shift towards the guitar-led music, which bucks the trend with current chart-toppers, is the path that the 27-year-old is determined to follow. A recent writing session with Australian indie giants DMA’s had popped up in our conversation and the beaming smile across Tomlinson’s face said it all: “I’ve hung out with those boys (DMA’s) actually, one night because we were in the same studio and I’ve written together with [them] before,” he said before clarifying that the drinks were flowing which resulted in an unfinished recording. When probed on whether this is something he’d like to re-visit at a later date, Tomlinson expanded with an eye firmly on the future: “The DMA’s session was a bit of an experiment, to be honest, when I look at my solo career I’m looking at it as a five, six or seven-year plan. I realise this from doing the DMA’s one, I would fucking love to do an album full of them but it’s a transition you know what I mean, I’ve got to understand the fan base and what they want. I don’t want anything to be so drastic so in my eyes, it’s a two, three even four-album progression before I get there and I also think to write those kinds of songs that I love I need to have more experience as a songwriter as well.” For someone who has had such rich successes in their career to date, the singer-songwriter does seem to have struggled with his self-confidence since going solo—but this year seems to have changed that. One song that stands out is ‘Two of Us’, a track which was released earlier this year is a tribute to his late Mother who tragically passed in 2017. Tomlinson’s life was then struck by more devastation following his sister’s sudden death in March this year. ‘Two of Us’ clearly carries a heavy weight of emotion. Created from the inner workings of Tomlinson’s grief, the song is by a distance the most personal release in his entire career to date. Despite that, the track manages to find the universal within the personal as it’s lyrics resonate for anyone who has ever lost anybody close to them—myself included. While our conversation remained on this topic I was keen to know whether these heart-breaking events had impacted his professional epiphany, whether the personal grief had allowed him to stop worrying about the chart and instead focusing more on enjoying the ride: “When I wrote ‘Two Of Us’ that was something I never really had with music before where I like to think every lyric has meant something. There was a different emotional weight with that song and just hearing people’s stories about what it meant to them and how they related to it, that was amazing for me.” “If I’m being honest what made me have my epiphany was me spitting my fucking dummy out because I was sick of being put in writing sessions which I couldn’t relate to, or people trying to pull me in a certain way to work on American radio. I could probably have commercial success like that, but I’ve got the luxury of having had that already with One Direction and I thought ‘what does success mean to me?’ I just thought I’ve got to follow my fucking heart and if I can win like that it’s like a double win you know what I mean.” One Direction’s immediate success was unprecedented for a British boyband. Together they conquered the world with their debut Up All Night going straight to number one in the States and shifting more than 4.5million copies globally. Just one to this moment, Tomlinson was an 18-year-old living for the weekend in Doncaster—but he was determined not to let his newfound fame change him: “Yeah I was always pretty resistant to it [fame] to be honest, I always say that when I got famous, when I first got put in band, that I was having the best year of my life. So, it was a lot to deal with to leave my favourite year behind and to be doing something else where you’re working really hard. The personal and professional problems that have occurred in recent years appears to have given Tomlinson a remarkable sense of life experience. Despite still being so young, despite having lived a whirlwind life, he still has the ability to self reflect on with a grounded honesty. “Being from Donny you don’t expect to get that kind of opportunity and I then got put into the band and then had to deal with everything on the job. Honestly, it was a fucking incredible time in my life that shaped me as an artist and shaped me as a person, I saw some amazing things but it is also nice now to have a little bit more free time because we were so fucking busy and also you know stand on my own two feet and say this is who I am.” “As far as what’s on my checklist of a credible artist you know they have to write their own tunes, that was always important to me and I did a lot of writing in the band which I think gave me the incredible experience to write now. It was like a crash course, there were so many sessions and I think it’s put me in good stead, but I feel like I’m always getting better as a writer man I feel like with every song I learn a little bit more.” Although, it’s clear from speaking with Tomlinson that he looks back on those years he spent with the band with all the fondness in the world. Yet the media attention that came with all the success was something that got the better of him at times. “That was hard and I’ve often envied artists from an era where smartphones weren’t around. There were definitely some days where it got the better of me. I suppose you’ve got to be selective on where you go and I learned the hard way from a few different people that you can’t trust. Some people want something out of you and it took me a second to understand, but again I think that helps me have a thicker skin in the real world outside of my job. There are times when I’ve gone through difficult things in my life and I’ve thought certain people haven’t been amazing but it’s part of it, fuck it.” As our conversation then meandered toward the split of the band and what life was like for Tomlinson after exiting the world of One Direction— which was all that he had known for the entirety of his adult life up until that point. A sense of honest emotion entered his voice, a moment that seemingly suggested that this permanent change was something that was taken from his own control: “It was good to be back doing normal things but I wasn’t ready for the band to go on a break and it came as a shock for me,” Tomlinson exclusively told Far Out Magazine. “It definitely wasn’t my choice but I understand why the decision was made and there’s a good argument for that. I’m enjoying expressing myself now but it rocked me for a time and for a bit and I didn’t know what I was going to do,” he said, vehemently. From the tone in his voice, it is obvious that the subject is still a relatively raw one for Tomlinson who initially struggled to find the right sound for him following the split of the band—a factor stemmed from his initial reluctance to move solo. From the gravitas of the moment to the importance of his first steps back into music, it was clear that Tomlinson wasn’t ready to be going out on his own so soon after the band’s breakup—a learning curve which other members of the group seemed to overcome in different ways. The break was initially thought to be just that ‘a break’, but nearly four years after the announcement there are still no signs that the group is entertaining ideas of reuniting anytime soon. With Louis Tomlinson set to release his debut album in January, Liam Payne’s debut LP1 out next month, Harry Styles’ second offering, Fine Line, being made available on December 13th and Niall Horan working on the follow-up to his 2017 Flicker, the One Direction members are firmly in solo mode. Tomlinson acknowledges that during the final One Direction tour he began to accept that the break was inevitable, admitting: “It had kind of been brewing and we knew the conversation might be coming around but it was just one of those things. It was always going to happen, we were always going to take a break, but I think there are always people who are going to take things better than others.” Looking on the bright side, however, since the break he has been allowed to live a bit more of a quieter life. From speaking with Tomlinson I get the sense that he’s in this because he loves the music, appreciates the love he gets from fans and loves playing live. However, the celebrity lifestyle that comes with it isn’t why he’s in this game. “I think I can definitely have a bit more of a balance now, there are obviously times when I’m releasing songs or releasing album when it’s really ramped up and It’s hard but definitely easier in those off times to have the balance because otherwise when you’re so busy it’s impossible to literally fit everybody into your life. It’s definitely nicer having more time to do normal fucking things,” he adds with an almost sigh of relief. Tomlinson’s solo career, which has found its feet with emphatic effect and is currently flying high with a sold-out world tour and highly anticipated debut on the horizon, was something that the singer himself had never initially envisioned. With Tomlinson originally wanting to take a back seat in the music industry following the end of the band, he revealed exclusively to Far Out: “I’m not going to lie it hit me hard but it definitely inspired me to get on with my own solo career because it wasn’t something I was always going to do. I was just going to write songs and just hopefully send them to other people and stuff like that, but everything happens for a reason, so they say anyway.” As the careers of all five members of the band have all taken off, with each turning into different avenues sonically, our conversation then turned to the competitive nature between the band since they went their separate ways. Typically, the avid Doncaster Rovers fan opting to use a hugely specific football analogy to describe the relationship with his former bandmates: “I could be wrong but I think we’ve all got that in us, there’s a competitive side to everyone. I can only speak from personal experience, and as time goes on you understand the differences. It’s not all that relevant but I liken to the feeling at first was that you’ve all been at Barcelona’s youth academy, so we’ll call One Direction ‘Barcelona’ and then we’ve all been put off at different clubs and that takes a second to understand and compute but we’re all still lucky to be able to do it as solo artists.” Having time off to relax over the last few years for the first time since stepping foot for his X-Factor audition all those years ago, Tomlinson seems to have returned with a renewed love for music and everything that comes with it. For a while, it appears the music was falling second in line to all the hysteria that surrounded his fame—a situation that has been duly rectified. Next year will see him return to Doncaster as part of his world tour for a very special homecoming and, with that mention, his face lights up with a grin on his face the size of South Yorkshire: “It’s going to be class, I can’t wait for Donny Dome. I don’t feel like my career has fully started until I do that first tour show, it’s all well and good writing songs, releasing songs, doing all the promo and everything that comes with it but the most important fucking thing is that you put on a good show. I started realising the longer that I’ve been in this that there’s a level of importance in these nights to people, especially the avid fanbase that I’m lucky enough to have. You can see from the reactions and look into people’s eyes and see what certain lyrics meant to them.” What struck me the most from the time I spent with the singer-songwriter was just how grounded he was, seemingly bereft of any level of arrogance and still just that same local lad from Doncaster who began this journey ten years ago. His working-class Yorkshire heritage, he told me, is what has made him the man he is today: “You’ve got to be fucking humble where we’re from you know what I mean? Because otherwise you get called out like ‘who the fuck do you think you are?’”. The greatest takeaway from our conversation is that Louis Tomlinson is still that music enthusiast that entered the music industry in 2010 who, despite all the success and fame, has managed to stay grounded. With surreal highs came earth-shattering lows—all of which has shaped him in one way or another. Instant success is no longer what he seeks with it now being about the long game for him, this change in attitude is a sign of maturity for Tomlinson who no longer losing sleep about pleasing streaming algorithms. Having been sitting at the mountain top of the music industry for almost a decade, it seems it is only now he is really getting started with a long-term plan of where he wants his solo-career to go. With a strong sense of support around him, his future and creative vision is firmly in his own hands. With an abundance of experience behind him and has renewed enthusiasm, Louis Tomlinson is finally ready to find his own direction. Walls is available on 31st January via Sony Music, for tickets to his world tour – visit here for tickets.

#press #291119 #louis Tomlinson #far out magazine #stunt mention #dlibyh

[louistomlinsoncouk]

Louis Tomlinson, a new direction

It’s been a long and turbulent four-year road for Louis Tomlinson. Since his band, One Direction, announced their ‘indefinite hiatus’ in 2016, Tomlinson has struggled to find a professional path that suitably represents him as an artist. As he gears up to finally release his long-awaited debut album Walls this coming January, the singer-songwriter finally feels comfortable in his own skin, finding his own unique Britpop-inspired sound which has been spurred on by the resentment towards a diluting of his vision in a bid to find radio play in the States.

Tomlinson, it is safe to say, has finally found his feet and, with a new record label firmly behind him and a renewed energy propelling his every move, the 27-year-old is now a man on a mission with two fingers in the air and a point to prove.

His remarkable story really needs no introduction. Plucked from a crowd of hopefuls auditioning for the X-Factor in 2010, the then 18-year-old singer was placed alongside Niall Horan, Liam Payne, Harry Styles and Zayn Malik by Simon Cowell much to the joy of their growing social media fanbase. Just 12 months later their debut album, Up All Night, was released and propelled the group to international fame. In the six fast and furious years as a band One Direction tour relentlessly, released five hit records and became unfathomably rich in the process.

For Tomlinson, however, the immediate highs were quickly met by severe lows when it all came suddenly crashing down. The end of the band, the media relentlessly pursuing his private life, personal tragedy and more have followed. Now though, with a renewed vigour and clarity for his future, Tomlinson has picked himself up and is about to carve out his own niche of pop music.

I met Tomlinson in a back bar of a central London hotel as I self-consciously began to consider the possibility that I may be underdressed for the occasion. Thankfully though—and much to my relief—he arrived casually dressed in a brown quarter-zip jacket, jeans and Adidas trainers which arrived as a refreshing change in reference to the typical, modern-day pop star. Having travelled down to London from Yorkshire that day, with my editor’s words ringing in my ears, the somewhat opulent surroundings of our meeting lacked the relaxing edge I was hoping for.

It must be said that interviews with musicians of international fame can be tricky — especially when they have a new album to sell. With media training, PR managers typically watching over and a sense ill-trust with the media, it will come as little surprise that popstars can be standoffish in interviews. Despite my initial trepidation though, Tomlinson greeted me with immense warmth and immediately offered to get a couple of beers in from the bar—the first sign that our conversation would follow the laid-back pattern I was hoping for.

After we’d sat down and had a sip of lager, our Yorkshire accents clashing, my mind turned to his recent performance of his last single ‘We Made It’ on Children In Need. Tomlinson looked in his element, like he’d finally found his feet as a solo artist—something that hasn’t been an easy adjustment for him to make in the last few years. “Yeah, naturally I feel as any fucking solo star finds – the longer you’re in it, the more experienced you get, the more confident you get. I think it took me a second to work out who I am musically, to fully detach from One Direction and stuff but I feel like I’m there now so, naturally, I’m more confident in my songwriting ability, I’m more confident performing, singing and all of that, so it feels good.”

Following the split from the band, it did feel from the outside looking in that there was no clear direction where his solo career was going to take him. With collaborations with the likes of Steve Aoki and Bebe Rexha, both of which performed commercially well, there was a creative direction that left more questions than answers. Earlier this year, he took to social media to make a statement to claim that he was turning a page, that he was fed up with writing to a formula in a bid to chase radio play and instead he wanted to make music he loved.

That moment was the beginning of the second chapter in his solo career, which he expands on looking while back at that difficult time with more than a pinch of honesty as always, disclosing: “Yeah but I’m not going to lie, it’s still something that I’m fighting up against if I’m being honest. I mean, because there’s constant opinion around me and you know a lot of people do want to focus towards radio—which I do understand—but what bugs me is just how much it limited me — especially because what I grew up listening to on pop radio is very different to what’s on pop radio now and because I couldn’t see a place for myself. I thought that it wasn’t not going to be authentic because I’m going to be trying to sound like what’s on the radio. Today, in 2019 more than ever, people can spot bullshit. So yeah, I think since that moment I’ve always been conscious of that and as I say it is a constant battle, but I think I’m winning at the moment.”

The state of mainstream radio is something that Tomlinson is passionate about. As an artist who aims to make songs that are accessible to the masses without compromising integrity at the same time, Louis appears to be well versed on the shift in the popular musical landscape: “If I’m being honest, I didn’t actively search for stuff because it was on pop radio,” he said while discussing the change in approach to consuming music. “Especially a band like Catfish and The Bottlemen,” he adds after a moment of contemplation. “When I was growing up they would definitely, definitely, be on every radio and I think those bands are very important and now I have to actively search for them or listen to the right station.” He continues, “Also, I think it took me a second to come out and say what my influences are because I know what people expect from someone who has been in a boyband and stuff like that.”

With this lightbulb moment, Tomlinson wanted to detail more about the inner workings of his creative process, how collaborating with like-minding musicians helped free his thought process. “Once I’d had this epiphany and put this message on social media, at that point I’d done four songs that are still on the album. I think ‘Kill My Mind’ was actually a turning point, I wrote it with a guy called Jamie Hartman and the next session we had together we wrote ‘Walls’ which is the title track for the album and is going to be my next single. I think from that moment it unlocked something and we got some momentum so then the second half of the album was written relatively quickly but I think as I say it being transitional I’d have loved 10 ‘Kill My Mind’s’ but maybe the next record.”

‘Kill My Mind’ looks and sounds like the first step towards the definitive direction that the Yorkshireman is aiming for. It has a punchy Hot Fuss era Killers’ chorus and is more reminiscent of the type of music that Tomlinson himself loves. “That’s probably the proudest I’ve been of a song because that is genuinely a song that I fucking love listening to and that’s not necessarily always the case when you’re playing for radio all the time. It didn’t get the attention that I think it quite deserved but that’s the way it is.”

The shift towards the guitar-led music, which bucks the trend with current chart-toppers, is the path that the 27-year-old is determined to follow. A recent writing session with Australian indie giants DMA’s had popped up in our conversation and the beaming smile across Tomlinson’s face said it all: “I’ve hung out with those boys (DMA’s) actually, one night because we were in the same studio and I’ve written together with [them] before,” he said before clarifying that the drinks were flowing which resulted in an unfinished recording. When probed on whether this is something he’d like to re-visit at a later date, Tomlinson expanded with an eye firmly on the future: “The DMA’s session was a bit of an experiment, to be honest, when I look at my solo career I’m looking at it as a five, six or seven-year plan. I realise this from doing the DMA’s one, I would fucking love to do an album full of them but it’s a transition you know what I mean, I’ve got to understand the fan base and what they want. I don’t want anything to be so drastic so in my eyes, it’s a two, three even four-album progression before I get there and I also think to write those kinds of songs that I love I need to have more experience as a songwriter as well.”

For someone who has had such rich successes in their career to date, the singer-songwriter does seem to have struggled with his self-confidence since going solo—but this year seems to have changed that. One song that stands out is ‘Two of Us’, a track which was released earlier this year is a tribute to his late Mother who tragically passed in 2017. Tomlinson’s life was then struck by more devastation following his sister’s sudden death in March this year.

‘Two of Us’ clearly carries a heavy weight of emotion. Created from the inner workings of Tomlinson’s grief, the song is by a distance the most personal release in his entire career to date. Despite that, the track manages to find the universal within the personal as it’s lyrics resonate for anyone who has ever lost anybody close to them—myself included. While our conversation remained on this topic I was keen to know whether these heart-breaking events had impacted his professional epiphany, whether the personal grief had allowed him to stop worrying about the chart and instead focusing more on enjoying the ride: “When I wrote ‘Two Of Us’ that was something I never really had with music before where I like to think every lyric has meant something. There was a different emotional weight with that song and just hearing people’s stories about what it meant to them and how they related to it, that was amazing for me.”

“If I’m being honest what made me have my epiphany was me spitting my fucking dummy out because I was sick of being put in writing sessions which I couldn’t relate to, or people trying to pull me in a certain way to work on American radio. I could probably have commercial success like that, but I’ve got the luxury of having had that already with One Direction and I thought ‘what does success mean to me?’ I just thought I’ve got to follow my fucking heart and if I can win like that it’s like a double win you know what I mean.”

One Direction’s immediate success was unprecedented for a British boyband. Together they conquered the world with their debut Up All Night going straight to number one in the States and shifting more than 4.5million copies globally. Just one to this moment, Tomlinson was an 18-year-old living for the weekend in Doncaster—but he was determined not to let his newfound fame change him: “Yeah I was always pretty resistant to it [fame] to be honest, I always say that when I got famous, when I first got put in band, that I was having the best year of my life. So, it was a lot to deal with to leave my favourite year behind and to be doing something else where you’re working really hard.

The personal and professional problems that have occurred in recent years appears to have given Tomlinson a remarkable sense of life experience. Despite still being so young, despite having lived a whirlwind life, he still has the ability to self reflect on with a grounded honesty. “Being from Donny you don’t expect to get that kind of opportunity and I then got put into the band and then had to deal with everything on the job. Honestly, it was a fucking incredible time in my life that shaped me as an artist and shaped me as a person, I saw some amazing things but it is also nice now to have a little bit more free time because we were so fucking busy and also you know stand on my own two feet and say this is who I am.”

“As far as what’s on my checklist of a credible artist you know they have to write their own tunes, that was always important to me and I did a lot of writing in the band which I think gave me the incredible experience to write now. It was like a crash course, there were so many sessions and I think it’s put me in good stead, but I feel like I’m always getting better as a writer man I feel like with every song I learn a little bit more.”

Although, it’s clear from speaking with Tomlinson that he looks back on those years he spent with the band with all the fondness in the world. Yet the media attention that came with all the success was something that got the better of him at times. “That was hard and I’ve often envied artists from an era where smartphones weren’t around. There were definitely some days where it got the better of me. I suppose you’ve got to be selective on where you go and I learned the hard way from a few different people that you can’t trust. Some people want something out of you and it took me a second to understand, but again I think that helps me have a thicker skin in the real world outside of my job. There are times when I’ve gone through difficult things in my life and I’ve thought certain people haven’t been amazing but it’s part of it, fuck it.”

As our conversation then meandered toward the split of the band and what life was like for Tomlinson after exiting the world of One Direction— which was all that he had known for the entirety of his adult life up until that point. A sense of honest emotion entered his voice, a moment that seemingly suggested that this permanent change was something that was taken from his own control: “It was good to be back doing normal things but I wasn’t ready for the band to go on a break and it came as a shock for me,” Tomlinson exclusively told Far Out Magazine. “It definitely wasn’t my choice but I understand why the decision was made and there’s a good argument for that. I’m enjoying expressing myself now but it rocked me for a time and for a bit and I didn’t know what I was going to do,” he said, vehemently.

From the tone in his voice, it is obvious that the subject is still a relatively raw one for Tomlinson who initially struggled to find the right sound for him following the split of the band—a factor stemmed from his initial reluctance to move solo. From the gravitas of the moment to the importance of his first steps back into music, it was clear that Tomlinson wasn’t ready to be going out on his own so soon after the band’s breakup—a learning curve which other members of the group seemed to overcome in different ways.

The break was initially thought to be just that ‘a break’, but nearly four years after the announcement there are still no signs that the group is entertaining ideas of reuniting anytime soon. With Louis Tomlinson set to release his debut album in January, Liam Payne’s debut LP1 out next month, Harry Styles’ second offering, Fine Line, being made available on December 13th and Niall Horan working on the follow-up to his 2017 Flicker, the One Direction members are firmly in solo mode.

Tomlinson acknowledges that during the final One Direction tour he began to accept that the break was inevitable, admitting: “It had kind of been brewing and we knew the conversation might be coming around but it was just one of those things. It was always going to happen, we were always going to take a break, but I think there are always people who are going to take things better than others.”

Looking on the bright side, however, since the break he has been allowed to live a bit more of a quieter life. From speaking with Tomlinson I get the sense that he’s in this because he loves the music, appreciates the love he gets from fans and loves playing live. However, the celebrity lifestyle that comes with it isn’t why he’s in this game. “I think I can definitely have a bit more of a balance now, there are obviously times when I’m releasing songs or releasing album when it’s really ramped up [...] It’s hard but definitely easier in those off times to have the balance because otherwise when you’re so busy it’s impossible to literally fit everybody into your life. It’s definitely nicer having more time to do normal fucking things,” he adds with an almost sigh of relief.

Tomlinson’s solo career, which has found its feet with emphatic effect and is currently flying high with a sold-out world tour and highly anticipated debut on the horizon, was something that the singer himself had never initially envisioned. With Tomlinson originally wanting to take a back seat in the music industry following the end of the band, he revealed exclusively to Far Out: “I’m not going to lie it hit me hard but it definitely inspired me to get on with my own solo career because it wasn’t something I was always going to do. I was just going to write songs and just hopefully send them to other people and stuff like that, but everything happens for a reason, so they say anyway.”

As the careers of all five members of the band have all taken off, with each turning into different avenues sonically, our conversation then turned to the competitive nature between the band since they went their separate ways. Typically, the avid Doncaster Rovers fan opting to use a hugely specific football analogy to describe the relationship with his former bandmates: “I could be wrong but I think we’ve all got that in us, there’s a competitive side to everyone. I can only speak from personal experience, and as time goes on you understand the differences. It’s not all that relevant but I liken to the feeling at first was that you’ve all been at Barcelona’s youth academy, so we’ll call One Direction ‘Barcelona’ and then we’ve all been put off at different clubs and that takes a second to understand and compute but we’re all still lucky to be able to do it as solo artists.”

Having time off to relax over the last few years for the first time since stepping foot for his X-Factor audition all those years ago, Tomlinson seems to have returned with a renewed love for music and everything that comes with it. For a while, it appears the music was falling second in line to all the hysteria that surrounded his fame—a situation that has been duly rectified.

Next year will see him return to Doncaster as part of his world tour for a very special homecoming and, with that mention, his face lights up with a grin on his face the size of South Yorkshire: “It’s going to be class, I can’t wait for Donny Dome. I don’t feel like my career has fully started until I do that first tour show, it’s all well and good writing songs, releasing songs, doing all the promo and everything that comes with it but the most important fucking thing is that you put on a good show. I started realising the longer that I’ve been in this that there’s a level of importance in these nights to people, especially the avid fanbase that I’m lucky enough to have. You can see from the reactions and look into people’s eyes and see what certain lyrics meant to them.”

What struck me the most from the time I spent with the singer-songwriter was just how grounded he was, seemingly bereft of any level of arrogance and still just that same local lad from Doncaster who began this journey ten years ago. His working-class Yorkshire heritage, he told me, is what has made him the man he is today: “You’ve got to be fucking humble where we’re from you know what I mean? Because otherwise you get called out like ‘who the fuck do you think you are?’”.

The greatest takeaway from our conversation is that Louis Tomlinson is still that music enthusiast that entered the music industry in 2010 who, despite all the success and fame, has managed to stay grounded. With surreal highs came earth-shattering lows—all of which has shaped him in one way or another. Instant success is no longer what he seeks with it now being about the long game for him, this change in attitude is a sign of maturity for Tomlinson who no longer losing sleep about pleasing streaming algorithms.

Having been sitting at the mountain top of the music industry for almost a decade, it seems it is only now he is really getting started with a long-term plan of where he wants his solo-career to go. With a strong sense of support around him, his future and creative vision is firmly in his own hands. With an abundance of experience behind him and has renewed enthusiasm, Louis Tomlinson is finally ready to find his own direction.

Walls is available on 31st January via Sony Music, for tickets to his world tour – visit here for tickets.

#louis tomlinson #29nov19 #far out magazine

[littlemarvelfics]

Defend

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Word Count: about 1,800

Warnings: mentions (not graphic) domestic abuse, general punchy violence

A/N: This was a request and also it got tied into two challenges @barnesrogersvstheworld’s with “Are you out of your mind?” and @sincerelymlg’s with “Hush, I’m trying to kiss you.”  Both of them are bolded. Somehow, I wrote the softest paragraph ever and then I lost my damn mind and it got angsty and weird because that’s who I am. @caramara3, I’m sorry this took so long but I hope I still did the request justice! To all the other requests, (eight of you), I have them and I’m working on them. School is out for me and hopefully I’ll be writing a lot more until it picks back up. Anyway! Enjoy!

+++++++++

Steve was woken up as the sun came pouring through the window. His bed was warmer than usual, warmer than it should be and it's all because of you. You and your warmth, both physical and metaphorical make waking up just a little less dreadful. He looked over at you, your hair splayed everywhere, face buried in his pillow. You’re naked from the previous night's activities, your bare back facing him and he doesn't want to wake you up but God, it's impossible not to touch you every moment of every day. He gently runs his fingers down your spine, stopping at your waist where the bedsheet had settled. You groan and shift as he repeats the action, giggling when he dips to kiss your shoulder, his beard tickling you. 

"Good morning beautiful," he mummers as he continues to run his fingers up and down your spine. 

"Mornin' Cap," you sigh, relishing in the way his skin feels against yours. "That's nice, I like the way you touch me." 

Steve hums in acknowledgment, waiting for you to open your eyes and explain yourself finally. It's another moment before you do, breathing deeply as you finally look into his blue eyes. 

"It's nice, gentle… still not used to it, I guess." 

You don't have to say anything else, Steve knows what you're talking about, or rather who. An ex-boyfriend who used to hit you, an ex-boyfriend that Steve promised to beat the shit out of if you ever saw him again. You hadn't told him everything about the relationship, but it was enough. When you started dating Steve, the smallest touch would make you flinch. It was something Steve noticed quickly but didn't comment on- he wasn't going to push you. 

Eventually, you told him. You were staying at Steve's, his arm around your waist as you slept soundly until you weren't anymore, you were clawing at his arm and kicking your legs back, whimpering and crying out until Steve woke you up. The two of you spent the rest of the night sitting up in his bed while you told your story. 

That was nearly three months ago. It hadn't been easy getting to this point, a point where both of you could sleep soundly wrapped around each other. There were still times when you panicked, if Steve touched you when you weren't expecting it, you would yelp and jump away, but things were getting better. 

You looked over at Steve, realizing he was deep in thought. You took your finger and traced it along his clenched jaw. 

"Hey," you whispered. "What's running around that pretty little head of yours?" 

"I hate that he did that to you. That he made someone touching you without malice a rare occasion. I hate it," Steve seethed. 

"I do too," you said, flipping over and situating yourself practically on top of him. "But I can't change it, neither can you. I'm just happy I'm here, with you, in your bed." 

Steve looked over at you, taking in your bedhead and the mascara that had flaked off onto your cheekbones from the night before and kissed your nose. 

"Me too," he mumbled. "We should have a lazy day." 

"Agreed. Isn't everyone going to the bar tonight?" you questioned, recalling that Steve had mentioned it the night before. 

"Maybe…" 

"We should go," you said with a giggle. 

"Or we could stay here. Right here, in this bed. Very naked, in this bed," Steve countered. 

"Nope, we're going out Rogers. If you're lucky, I'll let you buy me a drink." 

+++++++++

After hours at home, snuggling and generally being lazy, you convinced Steve to go out. The two of you walked into the bar, hand in hand, as Steve looked around for his friends. You hadn't spent much time with his fellow Avengers, but you always felt comfortable with them when you did. Steve found them and led you over to them, only dropping your hand to give Bucky a quick hug. You quickly spotted Wanda and shuffled over to her, giving her a hug when you reached her. The two of you sat and chatted for a bit before she excused herself to run to the bathroom. You looked around the bar for a moment before Steve caught your attention, placing your preferred drink in front of you. 

"Hey sweetheart," he murmured, leaning in towards you. "You having a good time?" 

You nodded and kissed him quickly, reassuring him that you were comfortable. 

"Hey, Steve!" Sam called out. 

Steve looked over at you, regret written on his face before you shooed him off. His kissed you once again, tucking your hair behind your ear as he did, and then nodded to Wanda as she approached you once again. 

You and Wanda talked some more, and once your drinks were empty, you offered to go get refills for the two of you. You walked up to the bar, leaning across it to tell the bartender your order. 

"Hey, baby." 

The voice sent chills down your spine. You slowly turned around and faced the man who had spoken, your ex. 

"What are you doing here?" you asked. 

He just shrugged in response before letting his eyes fall to your chest. 

"Looks like you're taking care of yourself. Why don't we get out of here?" he said, taking your wrist in his hand. 

You pulled your wrist free and quickly pushed passed him as he began laughing. While making your way through the crowd back over to Steve, you couldn't help the tears that started to fill your eyes. You walked up to Steve, who was deep in conversation with Bucky before you gripped his shoulder, causing him to turn around. He smiled at you before he realized how upset you were. 

"What's wrong?" he asked urgently, putting his hands on your arms protectively. "Are you okay?" 

You shook your head and sniffled. 

"Can we go home? Please?" 

You could see the concern on both Bucky and Steve's faces, and you looked down at the ground, feeling embarrassed that you were causing a scene. Steve quickly took your hand and kept you close to him, saying something to Bucky before guiding you to the door. 

"Leaving so soon, baby?" your ex said from behind you. 

You froze and let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. 

"You know, it was pretty shitty of you, leaving me like that. Just a note on the table? I think you owe me an apology," he said with a smirk. 

"She doesn't owe you anything," Steve said firmly, turning to face your ex while keeping you behind him protectively. 

"Got yourself a nice little guard dog now?" he teased. 

"Leave," Steve said. "Leave her alone." 

"So this is the guy, huh?" your ex questioned, getting closer to you and Steve. "He taking care of you like I did? Keeping you in your place?" 

Before you could ask Steve to leave again, he was pulling away from you, taking a few steps towards your ex before swinging at him. Steve's right fist connecting with his face, a sickening crack echoing through the bar. Bucky leaped forward, pulling Steve back. 

"He's not worth it!" Bucky yelled. "Go, take your girl home. We'll take care of this mess." 

Steve started to argue, but Bucky cut him off again. 

"Go before you have to explain to the cops why Captain America is getting in bar fights. Take her home," he said, gesturing to you with a smile. "Get outta here." 

Steve nodded and looked to you, offering you his hand and leading you out of the bar. It didn't take long for your fear to give way to fury. Why did Steve start something? You knew your ex, the reason he hit you was that he could never handle himself in an actual fight. He may be a lot of things, but stupid wasn't one of them. He knew he was outnumbered and by the Avengers no less. He would have walked away, or you could have left. 

You stopped on the sidewalk, and Steve turned to face you. 

"Are you okay?" he asked. 

"Are you out of your mind?!" you yelled. 

"What? What are you talking about?" 

"Why did you hit him?! What good was going to come from that?" 

"Hey," he said, pulling you closer to him. "I-" 

"I mean, you're a grown ass man, right? Children look up to you! You can't just hit people in bars!" you rambled, cutting him off. 

"I know that," he said. "I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't have hit him. Call me old fashioned, but when someone talks about your girl like that, they get what's coming to them. Especially with the way he's treated you before!" 

“I don’t need you to take care of me. I left him all by myself, didn’t I? I don’t need you to walk around punching people for me.”

“I know, I know that. I’m sorry.”

You tried to glare at him, but the admiration in his eyes wore you down quickly. 

“It was pretty satisfying though,” you admitted.

Steve met your eyes and smiled. 

“No more punching though. I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime,” you said.

“Deal,” Steve said seriously. 

"I'm still mad at you," you mumbled. 

Steve looked at you and raised an eyebrow. 

"Okay, maybe not mad," you sighed. "I'm…" 

"Beautiful? Amazing? Hilarious? Perfect?" he said with a smirk. 

You rolled your eyes and continued ranting, even though Steve had pulled you into his arms. 

"'Talks about your girl like that'," you repeated, mocking his earlier statement. "What is this 1942?" 

Steve kissed your cheek, but you just carried on. 

"Next thing I know you'll be telling Bucky' keep ya mitts off my girl!' and taking the old jalopy out for a spin," you said in an exaggerated New York accent. 

"Hush, I'm trying to kiss you," he said with a chuckle. 

You looked up at him and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. He leaned in a kissed you, cupping your face gently as you leaned your body into his. 

"This is the Steve Rogers I love," you said, pulling away from him. "The one that's gentle with his girl." 

He kissed you gently once again before taking your hand and continuing your walk down the street. 

"Should I be telling Bucky to keep his mitts off my girl?" he questioned. 

"Nah, you're the only one with your mitts on me," you said with a grin. “I have an idea though.” 

“You usually do,” Steve said with a grin. 

“Tomorrow, we have a productive day and a punch-free date night.” 

“I’ll agree to the punch-free night, I give no promises for the productive day,” he said with a smirk. 

“Deal,” you said, leaning into Steve’s side as he wrapped his arm around your shoulders. 

“Deal,” Steve repeated, kissing the top of your head.

#sincerelymlgwc #attie’s challenge challenge #steve rogers fic #Steve Rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #marvel #marvel fic #marvel fanfiction #marvel oneshot #marvel imagine

[hlupdate]

It’s been a long and turbulent four-year road for Louis Tomlinson. Since his band, One Direction, announced their ‘indefinite hiatus’ in 2016, Tomlinson has struggled to find a professional path that suitably represents him as an artist. As he gears up to finally release his long-awaited debut album Walls this coming January, the singer-songwriter finally feels comfortable in his own skin, finding his own unique Britpop-inspired sound which has been spurred on by the resentment towards a diluting of his vision in a bid to find radio play in the States.

Tomlinson, it is safe to say, has finally found his feet and, with a new record label firmly behind him and a renewed energy propelling his every move, the 27-year-old is now a man on a mission with two fingers in the air and a point to prove.

His remarkable story really needs no introduction. Plucked from a crowd of hopefuls auditioning for the X-Factor in 2010, the then 18-year-old singer was placed alongside Niall Horan, Liam Payne, Harry Styles and Zayn Malik by Simon Cowell much to the joy of their growing social media fanbase. Just 12 months later their debut album, Up All Night, was released and propelled the group to international fame. In the six fast and furious years as a band One Direction tour relentlessly, released four hit records and became unfathomably rich in the process.

For Tomlinson, however, the immediate highs were quickly met by severe lows when it all came suddenly crashing down. The end of the band, the media relentlessly pursuing his private life, personal tragedy and more have followed. Now though, with a renewed vigour and clarity for his future, Tomlinson has picked himself up and is about to carve out his own niche of pop music.

I met Tomlinson in a back bar of a central London hotel as I self-consciously began to consider the possibility that I may be underdressed for the occasion. Thankfully though—and much to my relief—he arrived casually dressed in a brown quarter-zip jacket, jeans and Adidas trainers which arrived as a refreshing change in reference to the typical, modern-day pop star. Having travelled down to London from Yorkshire that day, with my editor’s words ringing in my ears, the somewhat opulent surroundings of our meeting lacked the relaxing edge I was hoping for.

It must be said that interviews with musicians of international fame can be tricky — especially when they have a new album to sell. With media training, PR managers typically watching over and a sense ill-trust with the media, it will come as little surprise that popstars can be standoffish in interviews. Despite my initial trepidation though, Tomlinson greeted me with immense warmth and immediately offered to get a couple of beers in from the bar—the first sign that our conversation would follow the laid-back pattern I was hoping for.

After we’d sat down and had a sip of lager, our Yorkshire accents clashing, my mind turned to his recent performance of his last single ‘We Made It’ on Children In Need. Tomlinson looked in his element, like he’d finally found his feet as a solo artist—something that hasn’t been an easy adjustment for him to make in the last few years. “Yeah, naturally I feel as any fucking solo star finds – the longer you’re in it, the more experienced you get, the more confident you get. I think it took me a second to work out who I am musically, to fully detach from One Direction and stuff but I feel like I’m there now so, naturally, I’m more confident in my songwriting ability, I’m more confident performing, singing and all of that, so it feels good.”

Following the split from the band, it did feel from the outside looking in that there was no clear direction where his solo career was going to take him. With collaborations with the likes of Steve Aoki and Bebe Rexha, both of which performed commercially well, there was a creative direction that left more questions than answers. Earlier this year, he took to social media to make a statement to claim that he was turning a page, that he was fed up with writing to a formula in a bid to chase radio play and instead he wanted to make music he loved.

That moment was the beginning of the second chapter in his solo career, which he expands on looking while back at that difficult time with more than a pinch of honesty as always, disclosing: “Yeah but I’m not going to lie, it’s still something that I’m fighting up against if I’m being honest. I mean, because there’s constant opinion around me and you know a lot of people do want to focus towards radio—which I do understand—but what bugs me is just how much it limited me — especially because what I grew up listening to on pop radio is very different to what’s on pop radio now and because I couldn’t see a place for myself. I thought that it wasn’t not going to be authentic because I’m going to be trying to sound like what’s on the radio. Today, in 2019 more than ever, people can spot bullshit. So yeah, I think since that moment I’ve always been conscious of that and as I say it is a constant battle, but I think I’m winning at the moment.”

The state of mainstream radio is something that Tomlinson is passionate about. As an artist who aims to make songs that are accessible to the masses without compromising integrity at the same time, Louis appears to be well versed on the shift in the popular musical landscape: “If I’m being honest, I didn’t actively search for stuff because it was on pop radio,” he said while discussing the change in approach to consuming music. “Especially a band like Catfish and The Bottlemen,” he adds after a moment of contemplation. “When I was growing up they would definitely, definitely, be on every radio and I think those bands are very important and now I have to actively search for them or listen to the right station.” He continues, “Also, I think it took me a second to come out and say what my influences are because I know what people expect from someone who has been in a boyband and stuff like that.”

With this lightbulb moment, Tomlinson wanted to detail more about the inner workings of his creative process, how collaborating with like-minding musicians helped free his thought process. “Once I’d had this epiphany and put this message on social media, at that point I’d done four songs that are still on the album. I think ‘Kill My Mind’ was actually a turning point, I wrote it with a guy called Jamie Hartman and the next session we had together we wrote ‘Walls’ which is the title track for the album and is going to be my next single. I think from that moment it unlocked something and we got some momentum so then the second half of the album was written relatively quickly but I think as I say it being transitional I’d have loved 10 ‘Kill My Mind’s’ but maybe the next record.”

‘Kill My Mind’ looks and sounds like the first step towards the definitive direction that the Yorkshireman is aiming for. It has a punchy Hot Fuss era Killers’ chorus and is more reminiscent of the type of music that Tomlinson himself loves. “That’s probably the proudest I’ve been of a song because that is genuinely a song that I fucking love listening to and that’s not necessarily always the case when you’re playing for radio all the time. It didn’t get the attention that I think it quite deserved but that’s the way it is.”

The shift towards the guitar-led music, which bucks the trend with current chart-toppers, is the path that the 27-year-old is determined to follow. A recent writing session with Australian indie giants DMA’s had popped up in our conversation and the beaming smile across Tomlinson’s face said it all: “I’ve hung out with those boys (DMA’s) actually, one night because we were in the same studio and I’ve written together with [them] before,” he said before clarifying that the drinks were flowing which resulted in an unfinished recording. When probed on whether this is something he’d like to re-visit at a later date, Tomlinson expanded with an eye firmly on the future: “The DMA’s session was a bit of an experiment, to be honest, when I look at my solo career I’m looking at it as a five, six or seven-year plan. I realise this from doing the DMA’s one, I would fucking love to do an album full of them but it’s a transition you know what I mean, I’ve got to understand the fan base and what they want. I don’t want anything to be so drastic so in my eyes, it’s a two, three even four-album progression before I get there and I also think to write those kinds of songs that I love I need to have more experience as a songwriter as well.”

For someone who has had such rich successes in their career to date, the singer-songwriter does seem to have struggled with his self-confidence since going solo—but this year seems to have changed that. One song that stands out is ‘Two of Us’, a track which was released earlier this year is a tribute to his late Mother who tragically passed in 2017. Tomlinson’s life was then struck by more devastation following his sister’s sudden death in March this year.

‘Two of Us’ clearly carries a heavy weight of emotion. Created from the inner workings of Tomlinson’s grief, the song is by a distance the most personal release in his entire career to date. Despite that, the track manages to find the universal within the personal as it’s lyrics resonate for anyone who has ever lost anybody close to them—myself included. While our conversation remained on this topic I was keen to know whether these heart-breaking events had impacted his professional epiphany, whether the personal grief had allowed him to stop worrying about the chart and instead focusing more on enjoying the ride: “When I wrote ‘Two Of Us’ that was something I never really had with music before where I like to think every lyric has meant something. There was a different emotional weight with that song and just hearing people’s stories about what it meant to them and how they related to it, that was amazing for me.”

“If I’m being honest what made me have my epiphany was me spitting my fucking dummy out because I was sick of being put in writing sessions which I couldn’t relate to, or people trying to pull me in a certain way to work on American radio. I could probably have commercial success like that, but I’ve got the luxury of having had that already with One Direction and I thought ‘what does success mean to me?’ I just thought I’ve got to follow my fucking heart and if I can win like that it’s like a double win you know what I mean.”

One Direction’s immediate success was unprecedented for a British boyband. Together they conquered the world with their debut Up All Night going straight to number one in the States and shifting more than 4.5million copies globally. Just one to this moment, Tomlinson was an 18-year-old living for the weekend in Doncaster—but he was determined not to let his newfound fame change him: “Yeah I was always pretty resistant to it [fame] to be honest, I always say that when I got famous, when I first got put in band, that I was having the best year of my life. So, it was a lot to deal with to leave my favourite year behind and to be doing something else where you’re working really hard.

The personal and professional problems that have occurred in recent years appears to have given Tomlinson a remarkable sense of life experience. Despite still being so young, despite having lived a whirlwind life, he still has the ability to self reflect on with a grounded honesty. “Being from Donny you don’t expect to get that kind of opportunity and I then got put into the band and then had to deal with everything on the job. Honestly, it was a fucking incredible time in my life that shaped me as an artist and shaped me as a person, I saw some amazing things but it is also nice now to have a little bit more free time because we were so fucking busy and also you know stand on my own two feet and say this is who I am.”

“As far as what’s on my checklist of a credible artist you know they have to write their own tunes, that was always important to me and I did a lot of writing in the band which I think gave me the incredible experience to write now. It was like a crash course, there were so many sessions and I think it’s put me in good stead, but I feel like I’m always getting better as a writer man I feel like with every song I learn a little bit more.”

Although, it’s clear from speaking with Tomlinson that he looks back on those years he spent with the band with all the fondness in the world. Yet the media attention that came with all the success was something that got the better of him at times. “That was hard and I’ve often envied artists from an era where smartphones weren’t around. There were definitely some days where it got the better of me. I suppose you’ve got to be selective on where you go and I learned the hard way from a few different people that you can’t trust. Some people want something out of you and it took me a second to understand, but again I think that helps me have a thicker skin in the real world outside of my job. There are times when I’ve gone through difficult things in my life and I’ve thought certain people haven’t been amazing but it’s part of it, fuck it.”

As our conversation then meandered toward the split of the band and what life was like for Tomlinson after exiting the world of One Direction— which was all that he had known for the entirety of his adult life up until that point. A sense of honest emotion entered his voice, a moment that seemingly suggested that this permanent change was something that was taken from his own control: “It was good to be back doing normal things but I wasn’t ready for the band to go on a break and it came as a shock for me,” Tomlinson exclusively told Far Out Magazine. “It definitely wasn’t my choice but I understand why the decision was made and there’s a good argument for that. I’m enjoying expressing myself now but it rocked me for a time and for a bit and I didn’t know what I was going to do,” he said, vehemently.

From the tone in his voice, it is obvious that the subject is still a relatively raw one for Tomlinson who initially struggled to find the right sound for him following the split of the band—a factor stemmed from his initial reluctance to move solo. From the gravitas of the moment to the importance of his first steps back into music, it was clear that Tomlinson wasn’t ready to be going out on his own so soon after the band’s breakup—a learning curve which other members of the group seemed to overcome in different ways.

The break was initially thought to be just that ‘a break’, but nearly four years after the announcement there are still no signs that the group is entertaining ideas of reuniting anytime soon. With Louis Tomlinson set to release his debut album in January, Liam Payne’s debut LP1 out next month, Harry Styles’ second offering, Fine Line, being made available on December 13th and Niall Horan working on the follow-up to his 2017 Flicker, the One Direction members are firmly in solo mode.

Tomlinson acknowledges that during the final One Direction tour he began to accept that the break was inevitable, admitting: “It had kind of been brewing and we knew the conversation might be coming around but it was just one of those things. It was always going to happen, we were always going to take a break, but I think there are always people who are going to take things better than others.”

Looking on the bright side, however, since the break he has been allowed to live a bit more of a quieter life. From speaking with Tomlinson I get the sense that he’s in this because he loves the music, appreciates the love he gets from fans and loves playing live. However, the celebrity lifestyle that comes with it isn’t why he’s in this game. “I think I can definitely have a bit more of a balance now, there are obviously times when I’m releasing songs or releasing album when it’s really ramped up and I don’t get to see my boy, Freddie, as much as I’d definitely like to. It’s hard but definitely easier in those off times to have the balance because otherwise when you’re so busy it’s impossible to literally fit everybody into your life. It’s definitely nicer having more time to do normal fucking things,” he adds with an almost sigh of relief.

Tomlinson’s solo career, which has found its feet with emphatic effect and is currently flying high with a sold-out world tour and highly anticipated debut on the horizon, was something that the singer himself had never initially envisioned. With Tomlinson originally wanting to take a back seat in the music industry following the end of the band, he revealed exclusively to Far Out: “I’m not going to lie it hit me hard but it definitely inspired me to get on with my own solo career because it wasn’t something I was always going to do. I was just going to write songs and just hopefully send them to other people and stuff like that, but everything happens for a reason, so they say anyway.”

As the careers of all five members of the band have all taken off, with each turning into different avenues sonically, our conversation then turned to the competitive nature between the band since they went their separate ways. Typically, the avid Doncaster Rovers fan opting to use a hugely specific football analogy to describe the relationship with his former bandmates: “I could be wrong but I think we’ve all got that in us, there’s a competitive side to everyone. I can only speak from personal experience, and as time goes on you understand the differences. It’s not all that relevant but I liken to the feeling at first was that you’ve all been at Barcelona’s youth academy, so we’ll call One Direction ‘Barcelona’ and then we’ve all been put off at different clubs and that takes a second to understand and compute but we’re all still lucky to be able to do it as solo artists.”

Having time off to relax over the last few years for the first time since stepping foot for his X-Factor audition all those years ago, Tomlinson seems to have returned with a renewed love for music and everything that comes with it. For a while, it appears the music was falling second in line to all the hysteria that surrounded his fame—a situation that has been duly rectified.

Next year will see him return to Doncaster as part of his world tour for a very special homecoming and, with that mention, his face lights up with a grin on his face the size of South Yorkshire: “It’s going to be class, I can’t wait for Donny Dome. I don’t feel like my career has fully started until I do that first tour show, it’s all well and good writing songs, releasing songs, doing all the promo and everything that comes with it but the most important fucking thing is that you put on a good show. I started realising the longer that I’ve been in this that there’s a level of importance in these nights to people, especially the avid fanbase that I’m lucky enough to have. You can see from the reactions and look into people’s eyes and see what certain lyrics meant to them.”

What struck me the most from the time I spent with the singer-songwriter was just how grounded he was, seemingly bereft of any level of arrogance and still just that same local lad from Doncaster who began this journey ten years ago. His working-class Yorkshire heritage, he told me, is what has made him the man he is today: “You’ve got to be fucking humble where we’re from you know what I mean? Because otherwise you get called out like ‘who the fuck do you think you are?’”.

The greatest takeaway from our conversation is that Louis Tomlinson is still that music enthusiast that entered the music industry in 2010 who, despite all the success and fame, has managed to stay grounded. With surreal highs came earth-shattering lows—all of which has shaped him in one way or another. Instant success is no longer what he seeks with it now being about the long game for him, this change in attitude is a sign of maturity for Tomlinson who no longer losing sleep about pleasing streaming algorithms.

Having been sitting at the mountain top of the music industry for almost a decade, it seems it is only now he is really getting started with a long-term plan of where he wants his solo-career to go. With a strong sense of support around him, his future and creative vision is firmly in his own hands. With an abundance of experience behind him and has renewed enthusiasm, Louis Tomlinson is finally ready to find his own direction.

#louis tomlinson #far out mag #291119 #stunt mention

[yawpyawp]

TIL there’s a law in Switzerland that if you want to adopt a guinea pig, you have to adopt at least 2. You can’t have just one because they get LONELY. 🥺🥺 So not only does Steve-o panic-adopt 3 instead of 2 (“what if the second one gets lonely, buck?”), but the quartet turn the joke around on him. “Oh, we can’t leave Steve by himself, he’ll get lonely. And he gets punchy when he gets lonely.”

That’s actually why Bucky has to be a house husband too. Not bc he’s tired and doesn’t wanna fight people, but bc Steve will get lonely X’’’’D

[lovebugism]

forgive me for what is likely a basic ass request but... steve has a crush on eddie's best friend? smut optional but encouraged :) (love, j.d. aka mypoisonedvine)

✶ ┄ LOVE YOU, ON PURPOSE (i)

part one | part two

summary: steve harrington took extra care to avoid the local freaks of hawkins. having shared custody of a fourteen-year-old forced him into a bitter friendship with one, he's steadfast in his refusal to befriend the other. that is, until you start working at the groove beside family video. steve claims he only fell for you because you tripped him. (17k)

pairing: steve harrington / eddie's bff!reader

tags: strangers to friends to lovers, mutual pining, protective eddie, canon divergence TW swearing, bullying, some smooching, talks of insecurities, reader is doubtful of steve's intentions because steve used to be a dick <3

a/n: this request has been sitting in my inbox for ages. ages, i tell you! i wrote the outline the day it was sent in and ended up turning the blurb request into a full on 30k+ word fic. i'm sorry for the wait j.d. (and to everyone else who's been waiting patiently for me to put this out). i quite literally put my heart, soul, pussy, and so, so many hours into this. please enjoy! feedback is always appreciated! xoxo

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Something happens and I'm head over heels.

It would be a total disservice to call you Eddie’s best friend.

It wouldn’t even feel right to call you his platonic soulmate or his sister from another dimension. Not when the two of you are essentially an extension of the same human being. It’s a twin flame on steroids — your mirrored souls make the rest of Hawkins believe in some sort of higher power. There’s no way it wasn’t destiny that placed the two of you together at exactly the right place, at exactly the right time.

Your entwined spirits could’ve been a beautiful thing.

It’s too bad you’re both total fucking freaks.

Unfortunately, being a couple of metalheads who spend their free time creating fantastical worlds in silly little board games hasn’t become cool yet — for some sad, strange reason. It leaves you and Eddie as the town’s token social pariahs. The kind of misfits you only spot when you care enough to look — laughing too loudly at the lunch table or sharing a cigarette in the alleyway between school buildings.

The kind of weirdos who get your attention without trying. The kind that people only look at when they need something to make fun of.

With that being said, everything Steve knew about you came from the people that hated you.

Tommy Hagan said that you and Eddie had been fucking since the seventh grade, that the two of you had gotten close between blowjobs and fingerbangs in the old chemistry classroom. No one’s quite sure where it came from, but they believed him without thinking twice. You and Eddie tried to squash the rumor for years before leaning into it full throttle.

“And these are the freaks,” Tommy announced when he approached your lunch table. He was giving Billy Hargrove a grand tour of the high school, or rather the shithole, and detoured like you and Eddie were some kind of sideshow attraction. Him and his goons ogled at you like zoo animals.

Steve idled some feet away, not as interested in the bit as the rest of them. He was even less interested in entertaining the new kid on the block thateveryone else seemed to be obsessed with.

“Hey, Tommy...” Eddie sing-songed through a mouthful of PB&J. You’d given him the other half of your sandwich, because you always give him the other half of your sandwich. “Hope you’re not comin’ back to ask for a handy again. I already turned you down, remember?”

A dumb grin took over the boy’s freckled face. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned over to the California boy. “I wouldn’t get too close to them. Don’t know where their hands have been, you know? If I had to guess, I think Punchy got Munson’s rocks off in the janitor’s closet before lunch period.”

Neither of you were particularly fazed by the laughter that erupted all at once and threatened to swallow you whole. Instead, you smiled with bits of grape jelly smeared on your chin. “I bet you think about it a lot, don’t you, Tommy?”

You really lived up to the nickname. Punchy. You weren’t entirely sure where it came from — your fierce temper, perhaps, or maybe your intense personality. Either way, it suited you.

Vicki Carmichael once said that you bit a guy on a date one time. Barry Jenkins, a tennis douchebag who thought the world revolved around him because his dad owned a string of local laundromats. He took you on a date in his mom’s Impala and assumed making out in the backseat gave him free rein to stick his hand up your skirt.

The asshole sported a red mark on his neck the next day.

When people asked you about it, you smiled with all your teeth in place of any real answer.

Carol Perkins loved to comment on the state of your wardrobe, telling anyone who would listen about the time she caught you rifling through the $1 bargain bins outside the thrift store. She liked to joke that you were stealing from them. “Because she can’t even afford a couple measly dollars. It’s kinda sad, honestly. I feel a little bad for her,” you overheard her saying once.

You were smoking a cigarette in the stall and watching through the crack of it while her and her friends touched up their lip gloss. 

“Wait, really?” Tina wondered, stopping mid-swipe of mascara through her long lashes to gape at the girl beside her. Because, god forbid, they don’t have someone to make fun of.

Carol snapped bright pink bubblegum between her teeth. She looked offended, almost — manicured brows furrowed and shiny lips snarled — like the idea of her taking pity on you was insulting. “No,” she snapped in response.

You’re pretty sure it’s the only rumor about you that’s got any bit of truth to it. Or any rumor of hers, really. The thrift store was great and all, but you firmly believe that your best pieces come remanufactured straight from Eddie Munson’s closet.

So it isn’t any wonder why the two of you seem to dress so similarly — all leather jackets and distressed jeans and hand-me-down t-shirts that are either too big or too small. The both of you take little care in your appearance, wearing only what you feel good in. And sometimes that means wild hair and baggy clothes that swallow you whole.

To make it worse, you and Eddie even talk the same. You’re both loud and brash and have very little awareness of personal space. You aren’t scared to make a scene or use your voice when you think it’s being stifled. And when you love someone, they know it, because you won’t leave them the hell alone.

These are all the things that Steve hated about Eddie. So he hasn’t quite figured out why he’s so damn in love with you. 

But he is. 

Quite dreadfully so. 

Head over heels and stumbling since the day he met you for a second time.

It was the spring of 1986 and The Groove had just opened up. Steve had heard murmurings of a record shop taking over the empty outlet adjacent to Family Video but had no idea it would nearly run them out of business. The shiny, new music store attracted all of their usual customers. People were more excited to buy new cassettes than rent movies they’d seen a thousand times already.

Steve didn’t mind, though. He liked it best when the store was empty. But all of his friends — a closeted lesbian, a basket case, and a couple of fourteen-year-olds — seemed to have the same affliction that was plaguing the rest of the town. 

He tried not to be offended when Robin said she was going to spend her break next door and not with him in the closet-sized break room. 

He failed.

Robin spent her half-hour and then some meeting you. She returned forty-five minutes later with a blushing face and a bleeding heart. Suddenly, there were two people in Steve’s life that couldn’t seem to shut up about you. As much as it annoyed him, he let her gush about you anyway, because that’s what best friends do, after all.

But Steve knew you once upon a time. Or he thought he did.

You were a loudmouthed metalhead who wore all black to blend in to Eddie’s shadow. You created fictional characters because it was easier than making friends with real people. You were strange and awkward and mean and gauche — the total opposite of this heavenly, mystical creature Robin was making you out to be.

But then it became this whole… thing.

With Robin and Eddie constantly talking over him about you, the rest of the kids were as confused as Steve was. And as they so often tend to do, the group decided to take matters into their own hands and make the short trek to meet you formally. Steve figured that their answer would be final. When those teenagers hate you, you know it. He learned that the hard way

They’re gone for a little over an hour and come back with a thousand stories and various tapes they say you gave to them for free.

Lucas has got a new Beastie Boys cassette and a proud smile on his face as he recounts the promise you’d made him about catching his next basketball game. “And she said she really liked my ranger,” he brags less than humbly, telling the older teens about how you’d heard stories about his track record in Hellfire campaigns. There’s a sudden suaveness to his voice as he bounces his brows up and down at them.

Max scrunches her face in disgust. She clutches a Kate Bush tape close to her chest, like it’s a prized possession she never wants to let go of. She rolls her eyes at her boyfriend (or maybe ex-boyfriend, but Steve can never keep up these days) and makes her own conversation with Robin. The two girls are the only ones with more than half a brain cell between them, or so they claim.

The redhead tells her that she plans on bringing her broken skateboard over to your store soon. She says the thing’s been wobbly for days, and Robin nods along like she knows all about it. “Well, apparently, she has some tools and knows how to fix it. Said the trucks just needed to be reinforced or some shit, I don’t know, I’m just glad it’s getting fixed.”

“Wait, why didn’t you tell me?” Steve asks her, confusion contorting his words along with his features. He crosses his arms and leans against the counter. “I could’ve fixed it.”

“You don’t know anything about skateboards,” Max monotones.

“Okay, but you don’t even know this girl! She’s a total stranger, Max. That’s dangerous.”

She rolls her eyes. “She’s nice, Steve. Way nicer than you—”

That makes him scoff.

“—And you’d know that if you got to know her.”

It’s Dustin’s turn to gush about you next. His opinion, for a reason Steve has never been able to place, arguably means the most to him. And the kid is just absolutely fucking beaming about you. He holds a Star Wars orchestral vinyl in his hand —  the brand new one he’s been talking about for weeks but couldn’t afford. 

He talks of the collection of DnD figurines you were painting behind the counter and the promise you made to make one for his bard come the next campaign. 

Dustin gazes at Steve, wide-eyed and nodding like he’s as amazed by the revelation as Steve is.  “She’s cool, Steve. Like… really cool.” 

The boy thought that Robin just had a crush, that Eddie was just being Eddie and overdramatizing all of his stories about you. But you’re everything they said you’d be and then some. The kind of stranger you meet that takes your breath away, that makes you sad in the understanding that you’ll never see them again. Dustin is grateful you don’t have to be a stranger anymore.

You sounded… nice. More than nice. They painted you out to be a fucking angel, the way you took care of a bunch of kids you barely knew for the better part of an hour. You weren’t the freak everyone made you out to be all that time ago.

They talk a great deal about your looks, too. Dustin, mostly. Lucas had received a glare and a half-hearted punch on the arm from Max when he said how pretty you were — even though she ultimately agreed with him. The curly-headed boy uses too big words to describe the renaissance painting you are, all heavenly morose and beautifully strange.

“Hey,” Eddie scolds from the sidelines, mostly playful. “That’s my sister you’re talking about. Bring it down a few notches, ‘kay?”

Steve is silent for the rest of the day after that. He’s not pouting about it like Robin keeps saying he is, just reserved in his reminiscence. 

He can’t tell if he’s intrigued or annoyed. They talk about you the way people used to talk about King Steve — with a borderline obsession for someone they don’t really know. And deep down, he knows he’s just jealous. Jealous that no one talks about him that way anymore. Jealous that none of the kids have ever talked about him that way.

It leaves him skeptical and wanting to see the real thing for himself.

Steve opts to meet you on his lunch break the next day with a tight chest and sweaty palms, like a part of him knew it was going to change the trajectory of his life for the foreseeable future.

The door dings with his arrival. The record store smells like earth and nostalgia, a bit like flipping through the pages of an old book. Vinyls sit in rows and in towers that rise to the ceilings. Colorful cassettes, of which there are thousands, have nooks and crannies of their own. Posters decorate the walls along with various patterned records — there’s hardly a blank spot in the entire store.

And when Steve sees you for the first time, he only sees the back of you.

You’re in all black, just like he imagined you’d be. A sliver of skin at your midriff is showing from where your too small shirt has ridden up your torso. And your hair is as wild as ever, though a little longer than he remembers. You’ve haphazardly pinned back the ornery strings with a sparkly pin, but it doesn’t do much to tame them.

A breeze of warm wistfulness washes over him at the sight of you. A reminder of a life that used to be his, that you were a part of only passively.

It’s your smile that does him in. Maybe because you’ve never looked at him with it. As far as Steve’s concerned, no one’s ever smiled at him the way you do, and you barely even know him. You hadn’t seen him in over a year and if you shared any words in the past, it wasn’t anything more than snarky one-liners. But here you are, looking at him with sunshine anyway.

“Hi,” you beam with the warmest grin he’s ever seen, swiveling in your chair to face him. “Welcome in.”

He’s too stunned by the sight of you to respond. He just stands in the doorway, all wide-eyed and gaping, like he’s the first to see an angel on earth. And it’s strange because you’re far from perfect. 

You’re blousy and a little disheveled, like you’d been running late that morning. The lack of makeup allows your imperfections to shine through in a way that makes you somehow more alluring. And you’ve got paint splattered like freckles on your cheeks, the culprit being the figurines you’re painting behind the counter. If you know you’re dotted with shades of red, blue, and green, you don’t show it.

“Can I help you find anything?” you ask him, still kind even though he’s acting like a fucking weirdo. That’s supposed to be your thing, not his.

Steve grasps for something to say but comes up short. His lips part and then close again in an embarrassing pattern that resembles a fish out of water. It makes sense, though; it’s a bit how you’ve made him feel just now.

When he realizes he can’t make out anything intelligible, he shakes his head. “Uh… nope.”

He’s leaving before he even realizes he’s leaving. The door dings again and he’s on the other side of it, long legs carrying him the short distance to Family Video at record speed. 

He swings and slams the egress shut in quick succession, as though the ghost of you had been chasing him. He leans against the glass pane and exhales a heaving sigh, eyes squeezing shut as he recoils at what he’d just done.

He always knew that King Steve had died some time ago, but this was a new low.

Robin watches from the front counter with wide eyes. “…Did you forget something?”

Steve sighs a big, hopeless sigh, then peeks his eyes open. “My dignity.”

“She’s cute, right?” she asks, already knowing the answer. Her brows bounce in time with the smirk on her painted lips.

“Yeah, she’s cute,” he answers, all mad because it’s obvious. “She’s fucking— she’s beautiful.”

“Aw. Look at you,” she sing-songs and tilts her head to her shoulder. “I think your heart grew three sizes today, Stevie.”

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

I never find out 'til I'm head over heels.

Steve, all caught up in his boyish misery, has no idea that he’s enraptured you in a similar way.

You hadn’t cared very much for the guy in high school. You didn’t really know him then, and you didn’t particularly want to. King Steve was rich. King Steve was pretty — too pretty. King Steve got attention from pretty cheerleaders and overaggressive douchebags alike.

King Steve didn’t need any affection from the local freakshow.

But, by some strange turn of events, he’d managed to make nice with your best friend. 

The way Eddie talks about Steve, his words always dripping with a distant venom, it sounds like they still hate each other. Maybe they do. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to admit that they hang out far too often not to be friends.

If you were still in school, you probably would’ve judged him for it. Being friends with the boy whose buddies made your life hell certainly warranted some degree of ridicule. But now, having graduated and trying to move on from it all, you can’t find it in yourself to. 

High school might as well have been a lifetime now. There’s no use in holding onto old ghosts.

If Eddie could let that shit go, so could you.

He drops by after school to keep you company like he always does when he doesn’t have a campaign to prep for. It’s his favorite pastime, perhaps a close second to Dungeons and Dragons. He gets to hang out with his best friend and swim in an ocean of music while he does it. As far as freaks go, Eddie Munson considers himself the luckiest.

He likes to hear you talk about everything new you’ve gotten in while he rifles through the old stuff that isn’t selling as well. You happily let him take what he wants for free. And what he doesn’t take, he doesn’t pay for either, because you cheat the system with your employee discount and then wipe the record from inventory. Just to be safe.

“I love having a criminal for a best friend,” he jokes every time, without fail.

Eddie stays by your side until the sun sets. He parts only to flip the sign at the door to closingfor you, then plops himself back on the counter again. His legs hang off the side of it, sneakers occasionally thudding against the wood when he kicks them back and forth too hard. He scans the back of an old Lynyrd Skynyrd vinyl and bobs his head to the rhythmic bass as the song fills the empty store. He’ll take this one home, he decides.

You keep on painting like you have been all day, breaking only to assist customers or stretch your aching spine. The forest dragon had been far more work than you expected — made of pretty purple leaves instead of scales and blowing blush-colored flowers instead of fire. The little piece of clay has resulted in a day of back-breaking work. 

You’ll be damned if Eddie’s next campaign isn’t the most stellar looking one yet.

Focusing on that makes it easier not to bring up Steve. 

You want to. You just don’t know how. 

Eddie’s friends were Eddie’s, and you don’t get involved where it doesn’t concern you. Besides, you did sort of give him shit for hanging out with The Hair way back when. The last thing you want is him taking the piss out of you about it.  

You don’t want to sound like you care too much. Even more, you don’t want it to be obvious that you’ve been thinking about the boy all day — making yourself sick as you stew in what could’ve run him out like he did.

“Saw your friend today,” you remark, feigning a sort of absentmindedness, as you swipe your brush along the petals of your dragon. “King Steve.”

“Oh, you met him?” Eddie wonders, more intrigued by your words than you expected he’d be. He says it like you didn’t already know the guy — like this new Steve was a totally different person you needed to be reacquainted with to really know.

“I wouldn’t say met him exactly. He just, like, popped in for half a second and ran out.”

With your back facing him, you don’t see the shit-eating grin that pulls at the corners of his mouth. 

Eddie was waiting for Steve to crack and finally see you. He knew he’d bite after the way the kids had talked about you — Dustin, especially. Because even though he claims he doesn’t have favorites, he’s got a very obvious soft spot for the boy. And he knew Steve would like you because everyone likes you. When they’re not clouded by judgment and high school hierarchies, at least. 

He’s still got no idea how a guy that trips all over himself at the sight of a pretty girl could’ve ruled Hawkins once upon a time.

“Fucking idiot,” Eddie laughs to himself, already gearing up for the shit he was going to give Steve the next time he saw him. 

But you see the boy before Eddie does. Steve comes back the next day, an hour or more after opening, less frazzled than the day before. The nearly twenty-four hours he had to prepare himself for the angel he was going to see allowed him not to make a total fool of himself when he stepped into the store again.

And you wouldn’t say it out loud — hell, it’s not even something you want to admit to yourself — but you’d been hoping he’d stop by again. 

You thought Robin would come by and drag him with her, or that Dustin and his friends would come around before Steve dropped them all home. Frankly, you didn’t really care what brought him back. You just wanted to see him again.

Steve’s different than the boy he used to be. Enough that it was obvious from a measly thirty-second interaction. He used to be a charmer who could talk his way out of anything. Not to you, of course, he wouldn’t have been caught dead talking to you. But then he stops by out of nowhere, in rare form, stumbling all over himself and looking like he didn’t recognize you at all.

You’re still trying to figure out if that was a good thing or not.

He’s mystified you in a way he probably isn’t used to. Most girls like the hair and the arms — the super buff, super strong arms that fit so nicely in his uniform — or the fact that he’s got money and a reputation that precedes him. But you’ve never given a shit about any of that. 

You’re more enchanted by the way nothing could even begin to conceal the soft, shy boy that King Steve had apparently turned into.

The door chimes above his head when he enters. The scent of earthy nostalgia is already familiar to him — lavender, sage, and something deeper. Steve considers it progress when he plants himself a few feet away from the door this time. If he runs out again, he’ll have to make an embarrassingly longer escape.

You turn away from your nearly finished figurine to greet the new customer. The practiced smile unconsciously widens at the sight of him. “Hi!”

“Hey,” he smiles with a curt nod. He regrets the half-wave he gives you the second his hand shoots up.

“You gonna run off on me again?” you tease and swivel in your chair to face him completely.

You’re wearing a Hellfire shirt that’s just slightly too big for you. It probably belonged to Eddie before it belonged to you. And you wear a corset-looking thing over top of it, a sheer number with a lace embroidery and a ribbon that’s tied in a bow at your belly. It doesn’t cinch you in the slightest, though, more for decoration than practicality.

“No that was… I just—” Steve huffs out a laugh as he tries and fails to come up with an excuse. He figures anything is better than the truth — that he saw how pretty you were and his brain forgot how to work because he’s the lamest person on the planet. 

So he chucks a thumb over his shoulder and fibs. “I left something back at Family Video. Had to run back.”

“It’s okay. I was just teasing,” you assure. “Uh— Are you looking for anything specific?”

“No. Not really. Just… new records to add to my collection, you know?”

“Oh, you collect vinyls?”

He doesn’t realize that’s what he’s just said until you repeat the words back to him. 

He’s kind of just talking out of his ass and hoping something sticks. That line does, apparently, because you’re beaming at him instantly. He’s scared to say no because then you’ll stop smiling. And he can’t have that.

“Yep,” he answers with a nod. The stack of records collecting dust in his den has to count for something, right?

He can’t find it in himself to regret his little white lie when it has you lighting up like a christmas tree. 

You toss your paintbrush down when you rush from behind the counter to meet him. You seem to have forgotten that you’d just dipped the thing in purple paint. The thing splatters shades of lilac all over the limestone bench. And, in your haste, you nearly smack yourself with the leaden slab as you raise it to pass by.

Steve’s eyes widen when you narrowly dodge the weighty thing — then jumps, startled by the dense thwap that echoes through the small store when it slams back down again. He’s almost worried that it might’ve busted the hinge. 

You cower at the loud sound but move on with a commendable finesse, too focused on him to care about anything else.

“That’s so cool! I’ve always wanted to collect, but records are so expensive, it’s crazy,” you ramble as you walk up to him, totally unthinking in the way you grab his forearm and usher him to the back of the store. 

Your sheer black skirt swishes at your ankles as you walk. The dainty fabric is patterned with sparkly stars and crescent moons. He notices you wear a pair of dark shorts underneath for modesty. Steve tries his best not to stare at your ass. He almost succeeds.

“We actually just got in a couple of Dio records — The Holy Diver, you know, the one that just came out. I’m pretty sure there’s only, like, a couple thousand of these things in the whole world — which is totally fucking bonkers if you think about it,” you explain in one breath, laughing, before stopping abruptly in your tracks. Steve nearly runs into you when you turn around to face him. 

You laugh again, a sadder one, this time at yourself, as you bring your palm to your forehead. “Sorry. I don’t— I don’t even know if you like Dio. I mean, of course, you don’t, right? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have… rambled like that.”

You’d just been so excited and Steve had just been so different that you forgot who you were talking to. Hawkins High Royalty, Prom King, Biggest Flirt and Life of the Party in the yearbook. 

As far as you’re concerned, Eddie Munson is your only friend. He’s the only person in the whole world you can be yourself around and never get self-conscious about any of it. 

But sometimes you have moments like this one with a total stranger. Moments where you lose yourself in the conversation and your own jumbled thoughts. Moments where you talk and talk and talk until something thumps you on the head and you realize how annoying you’re being. This time, it’s the musky smell of his cologne that knocks you back to Ms. Click’s history class. The crisp breeze of bitter nostalgia makes you shiver.

Steve can see the way you get so suddenly aware of yourself and how the cognizance of the moment makes you writhe. He tries to bat away the lingering insecurities with a smile. 

“Love ‘em,” he responds with a nod. He raises his brows and scoffs, grins and crosses his arms over his chest. “I mean, Dio? God, they’re like… top ten bands of all time, at least. Maybe even five.”

That isn’t totally true. He doesn’t know much about the band to have an opinion, but he’s pretty sure he might’ve said he hated them once. That was only because Eddie wouldn’t stop talking about them, though. Steve could learn to like them, if it means so much to you.

That’s exactly how he justifies spending $60 on four records. 

He tells himself that he’ll listen to them and think of you, that it’ll be a solid conversation starter the next time he sees you. 

You had a whole damn rack dedicated to all your favorite bands — “I put it together myself,” you’d bragged with a proud smile. S it’s a wonder Steve didn’t walk out with the entire damn store. Because you just kept on smiling and talking, so happy to have someone to care about what you had to say, and he ate up every second of it.

He’ll have to work overtime to keep his pockets from hurting, but it’ll be worth it. Because he’ll get to keep talking to you and indulging in all the things you seem to love more than life itself.

You’re still rambling as you ring him up. Steve notices you haven’t stopped yourself like you did before. His lack of dismissal has made you more comfortable, it seems. He likes that.

“I think we’re also gonna get a couple cases of Def Leppard cassettes tomorrow, which is super sick. I think I might have to start collecting, honestly. Tapes are whole lot cheaper than records, you know,” you tell him as you scan and bag all his vinyls. “And it’s also, like, a fucking stellar album. I don’t think I’ve stopped listening to Photograph since it came out.”

“Photograph. Right. Love that one,” Steve nods with a kind smile as he props his elbows on the counter. He doesn’t particularly care that he’s not entirely sure what you’re talking about, or that he’s never actually heard the song. He’s starting to realize you could talk for hours and he wouldn’t get bored.

“Oh, is that your favorite too? Eddie’s more of a Foolin’ kinda guy.”

Despite the fact that he’s never heard the song or this album in his life, he nods anyway. 

He sort of spent the first eighteen years of his life faking just about everything — it kind of came with being the King of Hawkins High. It’s a talent that hasn’t yet left him, it seems, lying through his teeth to impress people. It’s almost become a second nature to him.

“Foolin’s good, yeah, but I think Photograph is obviously better.”

“Obviously, right!” you exclaim with a sunshine-coated laugh. “That’s exactly what I told him! But he’s way too hard-headed to be wrong about anything, so…”

“Well, I’d like to put it on the record that I firmly agree with you,” Steve replies so smoothly that his tongue must be dripping with honey. It’s so easy for him to fall into King Steve mode — when he isn’t forgetting how to speak and running off, that is.

You’ve learned a lot Steve in the past half hour. He likes metal, but leans more toward rock. Particularly all the metal and rock that you like. He hasn’t once had a differing opinion than you, besides telling you he heard Eddie playing a Metallica song once that he didn’t particularly care for. The second you tell him it’s one of your favorites, he backtracks instantly, blaming the Munson boy for being too sloshed to play it properly.

And you don’t miss the way he’s looking at you just now either, with his chin toward his chest as he peers up at you with warm amber eyes. He’s the charmer that he always was. It makes you remember, again, just who you’re talking to.

“We have a lot in common, King Steve,” you lilt with a playful grin.

He deflates at the use of the old nickname. You see the light in his eyes flicker for a just moment before he’s ducking his gaze away from you completely. He tries to brush it off with a laugh. “Yeah, I’m not— I’m not really King Steve anymore…”

“No?”

“Nope. Just… Just Steve these days.”

When he looks back at you, he finds you nodding at him, almost in approval. 

Most people are upset to find that he’s changed so much. They hate that he’s no longer the recklessly stupid dumbass they used to get drunk with. 

Not you, though.

“Cool,” you mumble, smiling softly, as you hand him his bag and receipt.

“Uh, I’d love to, you know, come take a look at those tapes when you get ‘em in,” he says as he walks backward towards the door, finally making the brash offer he’s been thinking about this whole time. “Maybe I can bring lunch and we can—”

“Well, Hellfire’s been doing campaigns during lunch recently. And Gareth’s out sick, so I’ve been subbing for him, you know, so…” you interject awkwardly, shifting your weight on your feet. You hate to turn him down, but Eddie might just kill you if he has to get a substitute for the substitute.

“Oh…” he nods, softly puckering his plump pink lips that you can’t seem to stop staring at.

“But I don’t think they’re coming in until late, anyway,” you add quickly. “So, you can stop by at closing, if you want?”

“No, yeah, that’s cool. So cool,” he replies, a little more flustered than he’d been just moments before. He’s just happy that your rejection wasn’t a total refusal.

You try to bite back the wide grin threatening to take over your mouth. “Okay… I’ll catch you later, then, Just Steve.”

“See you,” he waves right before startling himself when he backs into the basket of clearance tapes sitting just beside the door. He barely catches the thing before it tips over completely. He flashes you a shaking smile afterward and finds you covering your mouth with your hand while you try not to laugh too loudly. 

He wishes you’d just went ahead and laughed at him. He wouldn’t have even cared that you were laughing at him, if it meant he got to see you smile.

And even though he’d just gotten done making the biggest fool of himself, he walks back to work feeling like the coolest man alive. There’s a foreign strut in his step that hadn’t been there before he saw you. It doesn’t leave him when he realizes he’s gone slightly over his break and that Keith is manning the counter in his absence.

The man mumbles a monotoned goodbye to the customer he’d just checked out.

She turns around and Steve realizes he recognizes this girl — Mindy or Mandy or maybe Monica — from Mr. Kaminsky’s class way back when. She did all of his homework for him before and after letting him fuck her on her twin-sized bed in her all pink room.  That’s when Steve was conquering girls like they were Mount Everest, way before Nancy, when King was a title he wore with pride. 

But he’s still so stuck in his head with thoughts of you that he doesn’t even see Mindy-Mandy-Monica or the flirtatious wave she throws his way.

“You’re ten minutes late,” Keith scolds, with his dead tone and his deader eyes.

Steve only shrugs, uncaring if it came out of his paycheck because — “I just got a date with the hottest woman on the planet,” he boasts with a puffed out chest and too smug smile.

It doesn’t lessen Keith’s anger, just diverts it. Because he knows exactly who he’s talking about. And so does Robin, as she pops her head out from behind the man from where she sits at the computer. “No way,” they chorus in disbelief at his words.

Steve nods. “Yes way.”

“Eddie’s gonna kill you,” Robin remarks with the shake of her head. 

He knows she’s right. He just doesn’t care. 

Eddie’s always been protective of you. Everyone knows that. But the two of them were friends now — or somewhat good-natured acquaintances, at the very least. He would’ve been mad about a year or more ago, if King Steve had decided to suddenly woo his best friend. 

But it’s different now. He’s different now. Eddie knows how much everything’s changed, it’s just a question of if he’s willing to rehash old wounds.

It’s a good thing Steve knows how to take a punch.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Don't take my heart, don't break my heart.

Steve finds you again the next day less happy than he’s gotten used to.

The record store is dim and the red sign at the entrance has been flipped to closed, but the door is left unlocked — for him. The warm scent is a distinct contrast to the frigid spring night, a cozy high hemp and lavender, but your absence is noticeable and terribly heavy. 

Steve lingers in the doorway, his shadow looming like a giant before him from the moonlight streaming in from outside. 

He calls for you in the emptiness.

“Uh… Punchy?”

He’s relieved when you answer. The “back here!” you shout to him is muffled and far away. He follows the sound of your voice, filled suddenly with a childlike consolation. 

The yellow fairy lights dangling over his head guide him through the aisles of cassettes and closer to you. Through a cluttered backroom, Steve finds you standing just outside an opened door — left ajar, for him.

The smile you flash when you see him is as dim as the closed-down store. It lacks all the sunshine you usually look at him with, shades of stormy gray rather than the usual yellows. 

A look of concern flashes across his features — furrowed brows and inquisitive twinkling eyes — as you take a drag from the lit cigarette caught between your pointer and middle finger. You muster your best grin, but it flickers like a shoddy radio signal. 

“Punchy, huh?” you tease.

Steve’s brows pinch together as confusion floods his features. It takes him a moment to realize what he’d said and the nickname he’d used — and he doesn’t want to be dramatic or anything, but he kinda wants to die. It’s embarrassing, he thinks, to hold on to an old high school monicker. And, fuck, if you hate it half as bad as he hates being called king, he deserves a slap to the face right about now.

You laugh instead of ball your first. He’s able to smile meekly in relief. “Oh. Shit. Sorry, I… I don’t think I even realized it came out.”

“No, it’s okay,” you assure when you see him getting all apologetic. “Eddie still calls me that all the time, so… Old habits die hard, I guess.”

Steve tries to move on, but it’s hard to when you’re so obviously gloomy. He hates how reserved you’ve gone in your quiet, not talking up a storm like you had been the last time he saw you. Now you’re just… a storm. It’s a little like sitting next to a rumbling rain cloud.

The rumbling rain cloud beside him takes a drag of her cigarette.

“You okay?” he asks and sounds like he really cares.

You didn’t think King Steve was capable of caring about anything other than his hair, but he looks down at you like he can feel every blue bolt of your doom and gloom. He makes you feel seen in the void of your sadness despite all the years you spent being invisible to him.

“Uh, yeah. It’s just the tapes. They didn’t come in,” you answer with a shrug. Smokes leaves your mouth and lingers in white clouds in the air. “So I’m a little bummed.”

“Oh…” is all Steve says and his pink mouth forms a too pretty ‘o’ shape that you can’t draw your gaze from.

The following silence makes you momentarily cautious. Insecurity runs cold over you because no sane person gets this about upset over a broken promise of a couple cassettes. It’s stupid, you know it is, but you were really looking forward to them. It’s like promising a kid the most metal present ever and then snatching it out of their bare hands.

Now, over the course of a couple hours, you’ve managed to convince yourself you won’t remember happiness until you get those stupid tapes.

“Sorry,” you apologize to him for a reason he can’t place. You shift your weight on your feet and peer at him from beneath your lashes. “I know you were looking forward to them, too.”

You extend your hand and offer him the cigarette between your fingers like it’s an olive branch. He takes it from you with a distant smile, then opts to laze against the brick wall like you are. He stays a respectful distance on the other side of the entryway. 

“It’s okay. They’ll come. If I’m being honest, you know, I was kinda more excited to see you.”

His admission is brazen and a tad bit brash, even for a certified ex-douchebag. It lacks all of the usual honey-coated flirtation that usually tints his tone when he’s talking to a pretty girl. Because he wasn’t trying to make you swoon — though he certainly wouldn’t have minded if you had. This wasn’t some romantic advance, just a proclamation of his own personal truth.

A flash of shock contorts your features. “Really?”

“Of course,” he answers, breathing out a laugh that exits along with the smoke in his lungs. “I love talking to you. You’re… You’re cool, you know? S— Super cool.”

His face screws up at his stuttering, and he shakes his head at how the words sound leaving his mouth. His cheeks glow cherry red beneath an orange street lamp. 

“Super cool, huh?” you repeat with a giggle that’s bright enough to illuminate the velvet night. “I don’t think anyone’s ever called me that before.”

Steve scoffs when he passes the cigarette back to you. Because, lately, that’s all he’s been hearing about you. From Eddie, from Robin, from Dustin — every good thing a person could say about someone else, they all say about you. 

He’s starting to understand why.

Because you’re sweet. Like, pure sugar poured on the tip of his tongue kind of sweet. You’re bright like sunshine and soft like summer rain. You’re a shot of pure espresso for a boy who thought his life was at a dead end. He’s not entirely sure how he ever could’ve thought you were some deep, dark, devil-worshipping freak.

“I don’t believe that,” he dismisses with the shake of his head.

You breathe out a sharp exhale and a puff of nicotine-coated smoke. “I’ve been the town pariah since I was eleven, Steve. Everyone thinks I’m some kinda delinquent who’s in a cult because I play a dumb board game. So, no. No one’s ever thought I was cool before.”

“Still?” Steve wonders with a twisted face. “You graduated, like, a year ago. Are... Are people really still on your ass about that?”

“A little,” you answer with a shrug, trying your best not to look as affected by it all as you feel.

Steve feels his chest swell with the fiery urge to protect you. The same one he gets when Dustin tells him about the assholes at school that are bothering him. He wants to defend you from the same sort of assholes that he used to be. The impulse is borderline primal, rooted somewhere deep and far within himself, because god knows he’s got a terrible track record when it comes to winning fights.

“Shit, Punchy… I’m— I’m sorry.”

You sputter out a laugh at the apology, louder when you realize he’s using the nickname again.

He can’t relate to any of this. The trials and tribulations of being persona non grata everywhere you went were certainly lost on him. Steve might’ve lost his touch somewhere down the road, but he’ll always be crown royalty — the kind of guy you think fondly of when your wonderyears are long gone. But you? You’re lucky if people don’t cross to the other side of the street when they spot you coming.

Perhaps that’s why his words warm you so much. Because, despite all that, he’s trying to make you feel better anyway.

You give him a tender smile and a dwindling cigarette. 

“It’s okay. I mean, it’s whatever, you know? I think it’s because I still hang out with Eddie all the time. Like, people see us and remember what fucking freaks we used to be,” you say with a laugh, then start to ramble without thinking. “We saw Tommy Hagan at Melvald’s the other day, and he looked at us like we caused him severe PTSD or something, like, he looked terrified. I honestly felt a little bad.”

Steve smiles, wide-eyed, equal parts intrigued and unsettled by the reminiscent glimmer in your eye and the daunting giggle that spills from your lips.

“But I wouldn’t leave Eddie, you know?” you blurt, suddenly serious, like you’ve taken offense at the very thought. “Not even if it meant people stopped being so mean. ‘Cause I love him and everything… Even though he’s a pain in the ass.”

“Oh, he’s a total pain in the ass,” Steve agrees and flicks the butt of the cig between his fingers. “He loves you too, though. I can tell. The asshole never shuts up about you.”

“He talks about me?” you ask, voice fragile and pitched higher than normal.

Steve doesn’t like the way you say it. He hates how you look at him even more, with a scrunched up face and eyes that flicker with embers of shock. Like you don’t believe it, like you think yourself unworthy of it.

“You’re all he talks about,” the boy assures, feeling so suddenly brave and wanting to make you feel brave too. He hands the cigarette back to you. “I don’t blame him. If I were him, I’d never shut up about you either.”

The contorted look of confusion on your face untwists itself, and your features fall flat with disbelief. A smile pulls slow at your mouth. Your eyes glitter an orange gold beneath the streetlight. They flit over to the boy beside you just long enough to take the stick from him.

“Steve Harrington…” you lilt, almost scoldingly so.

It makes him smile. “What?”

“Stop flirting with me.”

“Well, that’s very presumptuous of you,” he retorts playfully. “Who’s to say I was flirting?”

“So you weren’t then?”

“Maybe a little,” he shrugs with a knowing, practiced smirk. “Can you blame me?”

You don’t seem impressed by his not-so-subtle attempt at flirting, and he isn’t at all used to that. The bravado and the puppy dog eyes are his one-two punch — any other time, he’d have a phone number tucked safely in his pocket by now. But you’re not biting.

“I’m so not your type,” you dismiss with the shake of your head.

“Yeah?” he challenges, shoving himself off the brick wall with his shoulder and making the short trek over to you. He plants himself next to you, leans with one sneaker crossed over the other, and smiles with a playful twinkle in his eye. “And what’s my type?”

“Nancy Wheeler,” you answer without missing a beat. “Pretty girls.”

“Well, I think you’re very pretty—”

“Not like her,” you interject with a foreign firmness that Steve hasn’t seen from you until now. You’re still smiling at him, though, still kind but looking like you don’t believe him. Like you think this must be some kind of sick joke that he’s taking too far.

You can entertain Steve. You like Steve. Mostly because he’s totally different from the douchebag you remember him being — the douchebag you were expecting him to be. 

You find that he’s terribly clumsy and not overtly good with words. He says dumb jokes that don’t come out right and smiles in relief when they make you laugh anyway. He’s soft like peach fuzz or a fluffy cloud, mushy like warm chocolatey gooey goodness, and not at all like you remember him.

But then he does this. He morphs into something else, changes shape right in front of you. He smiles at you with little of his dumbassery behind it — all smirks and faux longing gazes with the intent of making you swoon at his feet. He grins down at you and all you see is the teenage boy who would’ve never looked at you that way four years ago. Hell, not even one. 

It reminds you of who he is, who he used to be, and who you are now. 

You haven’t changed so much since high school. You’ve matured a little, sure, but there was never an asshole exterior that you felt the need to outgrow. You’re still loud at times, unaware and ignorant of the world around you. You still play lightsabers outside Eddie’s trailer in between lengthy Dungeons and Dragons campaigns. You still pretend like the lingering glares from all the people you used to know don’t bother you. 

They do, though. They always have.

You look at Steve and you see this butterfly — someone made of rainbow colors and mostly mature. He’s growing, and you’re stuck in the same cocoon you’ve been wrapped in since freshman year, still fumbling around and trying to figure out where you fit.

He’ll always be the pretty butterfly he always was, with his pretty little iridescent wings that catch the light and all the attention. He’ll feed off the applause he gets while you’re sitting on the sidelines. The girl who’s destined to stay bundled in her cocoon forever only hears all of his praise — never watches, never receives.

“You and I are completely different people, Steve Harrington,” you declare with a grin that tells him you’ve already made up your mind.

The boy doesn’t get it, though, why you seem so upset by the idea. Him and Robin were completely different people. Him and Dustin were, too. The two people he adored — tolerated — most in the entire world weren’t a single thing like him, and it was better that way.

You don’t seem to share a similar philosophy, though. You take a drag from your mostly gone cigarette and mourn what could have been; if only he had been the town freak or you had been born the pretty girl next door.

“That doesn’t have to be such a bad thing—”

He’s abruptly cut off by the sound of muffled rock music and the bright yellow headlights of Eddie Munson’s van. The two of you shield your eyes when he whips into the desolate parking lot and parks in front of you. The sudden intrusion feels like being blinding like the sun after you’ve found such comfort within each other in the dead of night.

The stifled Def Leppard song — or maybe Poison, Steve can never quite tell the difference — is brought to a sharp halt when the engine shuts off. The headlights dim. The metallic slam of the driver’s side door sounds so much louder in the darkness.

Eddie rounds the front of his van and eyes the two of you rather suspiciously. The boy inhales deeply, puffing out his chest and splaying his hands on his hips. “…What’s going on here?” he squints at you.

You give him a terribly manufactured sunshine smile and bat your lashes his way, like you’re pretending to be un-innocent. “Nothing…” you sing-song.

Eddie rolls his eyes at you, then turns his attention to Steve. They’re not really strangers anymore, but he still feels the need to treat him like an outsider anyway.

“Harrington,” he says in the place of any real greeting. “Don’t you have other shit to do? Like, I don’t know, a shift as the mannequin at the GAP or something?”

Steve can’t find it in himself to get self-conscious about his fitted-sweatshirt, khaki-slack combo when the insult comes from a guy in a decade-old leather jacket, unwashed t-shirt, and ripped jeans.

“Very funny,” the brunette monotones. 

“I’ll see you around, yeah?” you ask when you turn and walk backwards towards Eddie, like there’s a gravitational pull dragging you to him.

You say it to be polite mostly, but you’re hoping for an affirmative — a promise that you’ll have another night like this one, where he sees you just to be seeing you. Hell, you’ll even take a nod if that’s all he’ll give you. And when he does, he gives you a tiny smile that almost makes you trip over yourself.

Fuck, you think to yourself, like your brain is talking to your heart. We just agreed not to do that.

Before you get in the van, you walk by Eddie and bring your cigarette up to his mouth. You coax the stick between his lips with your pointer and middle finger, opting to let him take the last couple of hits because he never turns down a free smoke.

The passenger door shuts once you’re tucked into the seat of it. The sound it makes punctuates your absence. Steve feels all of its emptiness.

He eyes Eddie from the distance, immediately noticing the darkened skepticism dancing in his dark eyes. 

The boy’s always felt the need to protect you. When the entire town got spooked about stories of some satanic panic and started treating you like monsters, he wanted to shield you from the boogeyman everyone turned into. 

Steve wasn’t one of them, the bad men. But Eddie loves you and it’s made him doubtful.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Steve feels the need to say, as though he’d been caught with his pants down and not just sharing an innocent cigarette with a friend.

Eddie takes the final few puffs of it and exhales rather dramatically, lips pursing to blow it in his direction though it’s too far away to hit him. The boy throws the filter to the concrete and extinguishes the ashes with the toe of his dirty sneakers. 

He waits until the white smoke has fully dissipated to speak.

“Damn right, it isn’t.”

That’s all he says. He doesn’t even look at Steve when he says it, or when he rounds the van and hops into the driver’s seat next to you. Steve squints when the too bright headlights come alive again in time with the roaring engine and dated rock music. His tires screech when he speeds out of the back parking lot. 

The tin can he drives nearly tips over when he turns too sharply onto Main Street.

Steve doesn’t get a chance to get a good look at you before you’re gone completely. It makes him all boyishly upset, knowing the hours without you will be most agonizing, but the empty feeling is eclipsed by the warm relief of not getting clock cleaned by Eddie Munson.

Damn right, it isn’t. Four words. That’s all he gets. But they’re daunting and coated with a lingering foreboding that feels almost like a threat.

So, by all accounts, Steve probably should’ve known there was no way Munson was ever going to back down that easily.

Eddie comes back the next day, a thundering storm cloud of the boy he usually is, head wild with curly hair and a million thoughts. 

The door dings far too gently for such an aggressive arrival. Metal bangs against metal as the handle collides with the window pane. He stomps to the counter in several quick strides, dark eyes darting around the half-empty store — obviously searching for something.

Robin, manning the front counter, is entirely unable to be threatened by him. The all black, chunky metal rings, and crazy hair stopped being so intimidating when she found out you called him Eddie Spaghetti. Now, it’s all she can think about when she sees him. 

Even as he stands ahead of her, obviously upset, all she sees is a very cartoonishly angry Eddie Spaghetti, and it takes everything in her not to laugh.

“Where’s Steve?” the boy finally wonders when he realizes the boy’s not in the front.

“Uh, he’s in the back, I think. Why?”

Eddie doesn’t humor her with an answer. He just storms past the counter and makes a b-line for the break room.

Robin watches him over her shoulder. “You’re not supposed to go back there!” she half-heartedly shouts, but makes no further effort to stop him from doing so.

He finds Steve working beneath the dim yellow light of the back room. There’s a warmed-up container of leftovers on the small round table on one side of the room and a stack of unorganized tapes on the counter on the other. Steve multitasks between both and hums something summery under his breath — The Beach Boys, maybe.

He’s too distracted to notice Eddie’s abrupt appearance. It’s the subtle click of the shut door that gets his attention.

Steve’s confused at first. His head snaps over his shoulder like a ghost must’ve closed the door on him. He realizes that it’s just Eddie, and he’s so innocently relieved that it’s almost humorous, then confused all over again. His brows pinch together and through the chicken tender jutting out his check, he mumbles: “You’re not supposed to be back here—”

“Yeah, I got that part,” Eddie interrupts in a monotone.

He swallows. It’s as thick as the tension that settles between the two of them, made heavier by the lengthy silence. He crosses his arms over his chest, stands up a little straighter, and bares his neck when he lifts his chin. “I want you to leave her alone.”

Steve scoffs and chews through his mouthful. “Leave who alone?”

“You know exactly who I’m talking about,” Eddie squints with an unusual sort of seriousness. “I don’t want you messing around with her anymore, man. I’m, fucking— I’m so fucking serious right now.”

The clarification makes Steve laugh. He shakes his head and goes back to piling the myriad of tapes into organized stacks on the counter. “We were just talking, Eddie. I don’t need the lecture, okay?”

“We both know it’s never just talking with you.”

“What? Are you in love with her or something?” he retorts, trying to make a joke of it.

Eddie, for the first time in his life, isn’t amused. “Oh, god, get over yourself, dude. I know what kinda guy you are, alright? I’m not gonna let you hurt her.”

His words hit Steve like a pot of boiling water. It prickles his skin, leaving blisters and burning red blotches in its wake. He’s all but on fire with his anger, less offended by the accusation than by the person it comes from.

Steve and Eddie aren’t friends by any means. They’re just two guys with shared custody of a bunch of teenagers, bonded in their want to keep them all safe. But through their lighthearted animosity, is a sort of understanding: neither of them are the assholes the entire town claims them to be. Eddie isn’t apart of some satanic cult. Steve isn’t a douchebag that uses women as accessories. And that’s just a silent agreement they’ve both come to on their own terms. 

But now here they are, talking like it’s 1984 all over again and they’re strangers who hate each other’s guts.

“No. I’m not gonna hurt her. Because we’re just friends, Eddie.”

The boy just shakes his head. He scrunches his nose like he’s wincing, then laughs — a big, dramatic laugh that fills the tiny break room. He begins to pace, waving an accusatory ringed finger Steve’s way. “No, see… That’s the thing. I don’t think King Steve is capable of being ‘just friends’ with a pretty girl.”

Steve rolls his eyes with a heavy huff. He comes to the conclusion that Eddie’s just projecting and that there’s no use in arguing his case. He shoves a black VHS tape into its designated sleeve and slots it in with the rest of them, muttering under his breath, “I’m not King Steve anymore…”

“What?”

“I said, I’m not King Steve anymore!” he yells, a bit louder than he intended to.

He drives a tape onto the pile with an unexpected aggression. It hits the wall with a resounding thud. His arms flail wildly at his sides when he turns to face Eddie again. “God, you guys act like people can’t change! I’m not the asshole I used to be, alright? Jeez…”

Eddie exhales sharply through his nose in the place of any real reply. Deep down, he knows all that. He knows it’s all true because he would’ve never befriended him otherwise. Steve Harrington — the king, the rich kid, the douchebag — turned out to be a pretty damn good guy. 

And maybe if Eddie didn’t love you so much, he’d be able to wrap his head around all that.

But does. So he can’t.

He saw you two together the night before, sharing a cigarette behind The Groove — albeit a little too close for his liking — and suddenly, it was junior year all over again.

You’re stressed out about the ACT and college acceptance rates, none of your clothes quite fit you, and you’re trying out bold things with your makeup that don’t quite fit you either. You grin wildly up at Eddie through the vibrant lipstick smeared on your lips, laughing at his half-hearted attempt to cheer you up. 

And Steve is a senior, standing on the other side of the hallway — with his pretty clothes and prettier hair — and he lets all of his friends laugh at you. They make fun of your un-styled hair and the way your shirt makes your boobs look, and Steve doesn’t find any of it particularly funny but he lets them mock you anyway.

Eddie sees you together and forgets about the man Steve is now. All he sees is a boy who never stuck up for you, for either of you, who let his best friends make your lives hell because his reputation mattered more.

And it wasn’t like it was his job to defend you, because it wasn’t. Not really. It’s just that you would’ve done it for him, if the roles were reversed. Eddie, too. Neither of you would’ve let a lamb be led to the slaughter quite like that. It was the Hellfire motto, after all — to protect the little sheep from the creeping wolves.

That’s where the difference lies. It’s where the mistrust settles deep and where the root of all of Eddie’s worries lingers.

But Steve has done more to prove himself than Eddie likes to give him credit for. 

He takes care of a bunch of kids like it’s his job. He runs Robin to and from school most days out of the week, on time each morning — which, for a guy who showed up late every day for four years, was definitely saying something. He even comes to Eddie’s shows when he’s not too busy working the graveyard shift, never minding that he sticks out in his collared shirt and slacks — a pretty boy amidst a crowd of freaks.

Fuck. Steve Harrington was a pretty alright dude.

But you’re better than alright. You’re better than good. Better than perfect. 

If you got your heart broken, Eddie thinks he’d feel all of it times a thousand.

Steve’s been through his own kind of heartbreak, though. He’s slapped a bandaid over his own bleeding heart, and it’s made him soft. The good kind of soft — the kind where he sees a bug on its back and has to flip it over because it hurts too much to let it suffer. Eddie knows he’ll be that kind to you. Kinder, even.

“Yeah, you better hope so, Harrington,” the boy concludes with a slow nod of his wild head. He steals a chicken tender from the styrofoam box it sits in, like it’s some kind of power move, and waves it at him like a condemnatory point. “I hear you do anything — anything — to her… And your ass is grass.”

Eddie takes a hearty bite from the strip, then tosses it back into the container again. He spins on the ragged heel of his sneaker and stalks out of the break room, punctuating his absence with the slam of the door. The ancient thing gets lodged and doesn’t quite shut all the way, so he has to double back and shut it fully.

Steve is left dumbfounded, in more ways than one.

“…He just ate my chicken,” he mumbles to himself with a frown settled deep between his brows. But there’s a lingering tension in Eddie’s storming out — a tangible fog within his words that settles something heavy in the Family Video breakroom that doubles as storage. 

It feels almost like a blessing.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Won't escape my attention...

The more time you spend with Steve, the more confident you get. 

You visit him at work more often, caring less and less about bothering anybody when you realize they all wanted you there. You let yourself ramble in front of him, too, not stopping yourself nearly as often as you used to. Steve guesses you started to believe him somewhere around the millionth time he promised he liked hearing you talk.

You turn to glitter in his presence, becoming more unapologetically yourself and glowing with it — with all the things that used to make you insecure, things that King Steve would’ve made fun of you for some time ago. Everything you were scared made you too different, is why he liked you in the first place.

And Steve gets to watch it all play out right before his eyes. You inch slowly out of the protective shell you’ve built around yourself and bloom like springtime flowers. He’s grateful he gets to witness it, even more that you feel comfortable enough to do it all in front of him.

You’re hardly as timid as you usually are when you saunter into Family Video. Rather than tiptoeing in and apologizing for intruding, you burst through the front door with a beam and a high-pitched squeal. You’re as bright as every star in the galaxy combined; even dressed head-to-toe in black, you’re more blinding than the sun. 

Eddie’s leather jacket, either stolen or unenthusiastically lent from the boy himself, swallows your upper half. You wear a piece of Metallica merchandise beneath it. The thing is cut up to your ribcage. The jagged edges in the fabric, likely from a dull pair of kitchen scissors, tells him the chop was intentional.

A leather skirt clings effortlessly onto you, revealing the pudge of your stomach and the curves of your hips. The thing is donned with two spiked belts and several chains hanging loosely at your waist.

Steve is dozing at the counter with his chin propped on his first when you walk in. He’s half-asleep until he sees you. The shot of espresso that walks in makes him instantly forget how tired he is.

“Guess what?” you ask with wide, sparkling eyes as you skip to the counter with your hands behind your back.

Steve always hated that question. Usually, it came from Dustin or Robin — or, god forbid, both of them — followed by a “No, seriously. Guess.” It left him with no choice but to humor them until they ultimately caved and told him something he couldn’t have guessed in a million years.

He isn’t so annoyed now, though. In fact, he smiles. “What?” he replies.

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, as though in a futile attempt to conceal the wide grin on your face, and take your hands from behind your back. You flash him the cassette tape you hold in the palm of them, a blue and yellow thing with the angled Def Leppard logo printed on the cover.

“No way!” Steve finds himself exclaiming like he’s the number one fan of the rock and roll band. He isn’t; never has been, really. But he is a fan of you. All of his excitement, all of his bright and shining smiles — they’re all for you.

“They came in last night— when I was off, of course— and I opened this morning and there was a whole damn tower of these tapes! I’m the one who does the tape towers, okay? Plus, I’ve been doggin’ my manager for weeks about the things, so I can’t believe they came in and no one told me, you know?”

Steve gets lost in your rambling right along with you, nodding because he never wants you to stop talking. His twinkling gaze follows you back and forth as you pace in front of the counter. You gesticulate wildly with your hands, nearly elbowing a customer when they get too close to the line of fire.

“And she was all like ‘I can’t control when they come in,’ And I was like ‘well, you can’t control when I come in either, I’ll be taking a long lunch now, thank you’—” you recount, albeit at a slightly louder volume that shocks anyone who doesn’t know you. People shoot you lingering side eyes from over the aisles.

Steve doesn’t care. He’s even happier that you don’t seem to either. You feel comfortable enough with him now to stop caring about the rest. When you stop yourself, you do it because you’ve said everything you need to say, not because you feel like you’ve annoyed him in some way. 

“Anyway,” you conclude with a sigh. “I wanted to run it to you personally because, besides Eddie, you’re the only person I know who cares as much as I do.”

You smile sweetly at him, peering at him through your lashes, so suddenly timid — no longer the boisterous girl lighting up the whole room. Steve notices that you do that a lot, go from loud and sunny to shy and glimmering. Eddie does it too, sometimes, but it’s not nearly as cute.

“My wallet’s in my locker,” he tells you when you hand him the tape. He cocks his thumb over his shoulder with his free hand. “Let me go grab it. I’ll be, like, two seconds—”

You reach over the counter and take him by the arm, wrapping chipped maroon nails around the crook of his elbow to keep him from straying too far. Shock coats his features at the suddenness of your touch and the way it makes him buzz.

You scoff. “Are you serious? I’m not gonna make you pay, you weirdo.”

“No?”

“Of course not! It’s a gift.”

“Well, gee, Punchy. Considered me flattered,” he concedes with a faltering smile.

You laugh at his half-hearted attempt to be charming.

He rests his crossed arms on the counter and leans over the top of it in an effort to be the slightest bit closer to you. He gazes up at you with honey eyes and raised brows and a big, dumb smile. “And, you know, flattery... it goes a long way with me.”

You arch an un-manicured brow at him. “Does it, now?”

“Yep. So much so, I’m willing to break a few rules and let you pick out a couple of movies. On the house.”

It’s dumb and it’s sweet and so terribly innocent. He wants to give you so much than that but he’s got about eighteen dollars to his name, so all he can do is offer you a few measly VHS tapes. It has you beaming like he just offered you the world.

“Steve Harrington,” you scold playfully. “I didn’t know you were so naughty.”

He falters. His resolve slips and, for no more than half a second, his brain forgets how to work. 

He’s not quite sure how you manage to do that to him all the damn time. You make his brain shortcircuit and his belly quiver and his vision swim. He’s known you for a while now, long enough that the lovesickness should’ve well worn off.

Steve’s worried that there’s no cure for you, that he’s in it for the long haul now — upset stomachs, heart palpitations, and all.

“Well, I’m full of surprises,” he shrugs and sways on his feet. “What’s your poison, Punchy? Molly Ringwald? Robert Downey Jr.? The John Hughes type?”

You can tell he’s joking. You squint over at him and rest your elbows on the counter top your face-to-face. 

The wintergreen mint on his breath makes your head swim. 

Your rouge-tined lips are so close he can taste them — he wants to, desperately so. 

You don’t miss the way his gaze flits to your mouth, lingering there for no longer than a blink.

“Try Night of the Living Dead,” you challenge. 

“That is so dreadfully on brand for you,” he manages to reply without much stuttering. He’s surprised he’s able to get any words out at all, with the way his heart feels like it’s about to beat out of his chest.

“I’m nothing if not predictable.”

Steve doesn’t respond as he leaves the counter to get what you asked for. Silence is easier than saying that you’re the most surprising thing he’s ever met in his life.

When he returns, he brings the entire film franchise with him. All three movies are stacked in his arms and he scans the backs of them, hoping Keith won’t notice that they’re being rented free of charge.

“Have you ever seen them?” you wonder.

He shakes his head. “No. I saw one of them at a drive-in a long time ago, but I wasn’t exactly paying attention, if you know what I mean—” he answers with a soft laugh, quick to cut himself off. It was supposed to be a dumb joke, but both of you know what he was insinuating and it makes everything awkward. 

Robin would’ve slapped him on the back of the head if she were around to hear it. 

He would’ve deserved it.

“Well, you missed out,” you scold, not quite meeting his gaze. “They’re actually pretty good.”

“I’ll try and watch ‘em sometime then.”

“Tonight?” you offer suddenly.

Steve furrows his brows. “…Huh?”

“I mean, like— I don’t know… I thought maybe we could watch them tonight,” you stammer with your eyes turned down toward the counter, where you draw invisible patterns onto the granite with the tip of your finger. “Like, together… if you want.”

Steve is momentarily speechless. He’s spent weeks plotting how he was going to ask you out. It would come to him in waves. He’d feel like he’d concocted the most perfect, foolproof plan right before realizing there was no way in hell he could ever go through with it — all in the same fleeting thought. 

But here you are, biting the bullet for the both of you. 

He’s grateful. He thinks he’s dreaming.

“That sounds…” Steve trails off with the mindless nod of his head. “Yeah. No. Totally. That sounds… really cool.”

A wide smile pulls at the edges of your lips. You purse your mouth to the side in attempts to conceal it. “Cool,” you murmur all cool-ly, like his affirmation isn’t heaven to your ears.

“Uh, not to sound like a total douchebag or whatever, but my dad— he’s got this theater room and everything, and my parents are almost never home,” Steve rambles as he puts all three movies into a paper bag. Then his eyes go wide and his face glows cherry red. “Not like that! I didn’t mean it like— That sounded really weird… I’m sorry—”

You giggle at him, at the way he can pretend to be so suave, and then reveal all the marshmallow fluff he tries to keep hidden a moment later. “It’s okay, Steve. I got what you meant.”

He writes his address on a yellow sticky note with the Family Video logo printed in green at the very top. His handwriting is boyish and sloppy, the sign of a boy who never did care much about school. Some letters are connected, others far apart; some written too big, while others are too small. You find it endearing, but Steve knows it’s just because his hand was shaking something fierce.

He leaves his number written at the very bottom. Just for good measure.

“No funny business, alright, Harrington?” you joke, waving a ringed finger at him as you walk backward out of the store, heading back to your own job.

Steve bites back a smile. Once upon a time, he was all funny business. No girl was ever going to invite King Steve over and not expect some heavy petting. And he wants so badly to kiss you — fuck, he wants to kiss you all the time — but the want to spend innocent time with you eclipses all of those boyish feelings.

He yearns to be close to you. Like magnets. Or a moon and the ocean’s tide.

“No funny business,” he promises.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

You keep your distance with a system of touch.

It isn’t until you arrive at the front gates of the Harrington home you realize you’ve never been in the suburbs of Hawkins before.

You grew up on the very outskirts of town, where there were more trees than people or houses. The block was half rundown already and horribly secluded. The only interesting thing about it was the winding trail through the woods that led to the anterior of Forest Hills trailer park.

That’s where you spent the bulk of your time, practically living with Eddie and Wayne in their one-bedroom trailer, until you felt guilty enough to go back home for a day or two. Your parents would inevitably remind you why you ran off in the first place, and then the cycle would start all over again.

It was all just far enough away from Hawkins that you could pretend like the town’s bullshit didn’t exist. The freak from the wrong side of the tracks didn’t belong on Maple Street or Fairview Road or Laurel Avenue. That was for people who could afford new shoes every school year, who could go clothes shopping and not feel guilty about cutting into their food money, who were set up with trust funds before they were even born.

But here you are now, on Fairview Road, seven o’clock sharp, and standing in front of the biggest house you’d ever seen. 

You ring the doorbell and flinch when it’s louder than expected. The chime is light and jaunty. You wonder if it’s been programmed for the change in season.

Steve answers no more than a couple seconds later. He swings both French doors open, arms spreading wide like the smile on his face.

He’s traded in his slacks for comfier jeans and his vest for a form-fitting sweatshirt he’s bunched at the elbows. You realize, then, that you’ve never seen him without the forest green Family Video jacket. It makes him look naked, almost, like a totally different person — no longer the dork who works a measly nine-to-five with his best friend and visits the freak next door on the off chance his manager won’t dock his pay for it.

The vest had humbled him to a certain extent. Now he just looks cool. Like the boy people would either praise or avoid like the plague, for fear of getting in King Steve’s path — just a little bit more mature looking now, with his chiseled jaw and scruffy chin.

It makes you feel a little stupid from where you stand on the porch ahead of him, wearing the same thing he’d seen you in earlier that day. He’s got no idea you spent the past couple of hours agonizing over what to wear. For the sake of not seeming crazy overzealous, you opted not to dress up. Now you’re scared he thinks you just didn’t care enough to.

But you do care. So goddamn much that’s it scary. 

You never had to worry about what you wore or what you looked like before you left the house, about what you had too much of and what you lacked. Now, it’s all you can think about.

If Steve notices anything at all, he doesn’t show it. He just keeps on smiling at you, too happy to see you to care about what you’re wearing. He’s just glad that you showed up.

Truth be told, he had a six-pack and Robin’s number on speed dial on the off chance you canceled on him. He was preparing himself to wallow in self-pity and spend the rest of the night ranting to his best friend about the bleeding heart he had for you. Because, as far as he was concerned, you were far too good to be true. 

You were beautiful and funny and kind and perfect. You treat him like you’ve known him for years, like he didn’t spend so many of them avoiding you in attempts to keep some measly title that didn’t mean shit. You were too perfect. Sometimes, Steve gets scared that he just made you up.

But whether you’re a dream come true or the real thing, you’re standing on his front porch anyway, with a smile and a bottle of grocery store wine. 

He saves the beer in his fridge and the wallowing for another day. 

Steve escorts you through his lavish living room and to the downstairs area that’s got a movie screen hanging on the walls and a couple of leather couches sitting in front of it. The coffee table in front of them holds a myriad of glass bowls — popcorn, various candies, and more popcorn.

“You planning on throwin’ a party down here, Harrington?” you tease with a soft chuckle, trying to conceal how your heart’s about to burst at the mere sight of it all.

“Well, I just— I didn’t know what you liked, and I didn’t— I wanted to make sure you had something to eat, you know,” the boy stammers out. He brings the palm of his hand to rub at the back of his neck. “So I just… I got… everything.”

“It’s a good thing a like everything then, huh?” you smile at him as you pluck a Red Vine from its dedicated bowl. You rip off an inch or two with your teeth and then talk as you chew: “I hope you’re prepared for all of this shit get eaten, Harrington. I can get quite ravenous.”

Steve nods to himself and tries not to smile too big. “Sounds entertaining… Maybe I’ll just watch you instead of the movie.”

It was supposed to be a joke. 

But then you settled down next to him on the couch, keeping a respectful distance but sharing the same fuzzy blanket, and he has to physically force himself to drag his gaze away from you. 

He was right about what he said before, you were far more entertaining than the black and white film projected ahead of him — grabbing handfuls of popcorn at a time and quoting the movie through the mouthful. 

It’s a tad bit barbaric, the faintest bit off-putting, and otherworldly levels of endearing. It leaves him virtually unable to take his eyes off of you. 

He didn’t think you could get more beautiful, but you keep on proving him wrong. 

He’s starting to realize he doesn’t know shit.

You’re slowly coming to the same understanding.

You’ve heard stories about Steve. Usually from gossiping cheerleaders standing in circles at their lockers or whispering in the back of a classroom. Doomed as the freak and all but banished from the inner society of Hawkins High, you became an observer. You were so invisible that people sometimes didn’t realize they were talking right over you, sharing secrets they wouldn’t want someone else to get a hold of. 

But apparently you were the exception. Because you weren’t a someone to them.

They talked about how kind he was, how well endowed, how they were meant to go on some stupid date but missed their reservation because Steve got a little too handsy beforehand, and how they spent the rest of the night with their hands shoved down each other’s pants at Lover’s Lake. 

You were seeing, firsthand, how much he’d changed. How he made his promise of no funny business and how he was sticking to it — no teasing you about the whole thing with a knowing smirk and flirtatious honey eyes, no urging to close this distance between you, no tiny touches on your arm or thigh in the hopes of heavier petting.

He spends the entirety of the first movie perfectly respectful. Just like you’d asked him to be. 

And it was nice, knowing that you weren’t wasting your evening with some asshole who was only spending time with you in the hopes of you putting out later. But it leaves you the faintest bit empty. Hungry. You long for his touch like a missed meal. Starving and feeling it all.

It’s not even heavy petting you want, you just want to feel him next to you — to press yourself into his side and to warm yourself with him like a blanket. 

But you weren’t a pretty cheerleader or a girl dripping in expensive clothes and daddy’s money. You were the weirdo, the freak, the loudmouth nerd, Punchy — all names you wore proudly, like lit-up signs or steel armor. 

Until now. 

Now you think if you weren’t Punchy, if were you someone different, then maybe he’d want to touch you more.

The first hour and thirty-seven minutes of your favorite movie are strangely agonizing. 

Your hands itch with the desire to touch the boy next to you, and they busy themselves with the bowls of candy and savory junk food splayed out on the table in front of you. It’s mindless more than it is anything. You’re absentminded binging does nothing more than half-distract you from the thoughts raging rivers in your skull.

You don’t even realize you’re doing it until your hand falls into an empty bowl of popcorn and finds nothing but kernels at the bottom of it. 

It makes Steve laugh, thinking you were just too into the movie to notice — having no idea it was him taking up all your brain power. 

He leaves to fix more snacks for you while you slip the second VHS into the movie player. He returns with a bowl of freshly popped popcorn and two beers after the wine bottle has been sufficiently emptied. When he plops down next to you again, it’s in the same spot he’d been sitting in all night — a couple of excruciating inches away.

Under the guise of sharing the popcorn in his lap, you make the too bold decision to slither in at his side. It’s innocent at first — your thighs just barely graze and your elbows bump when you dip your hands into the bowl. And it’s still innocent some thirty minutes later, when you find yourself resting your head on his shoulder with your legs curled up behind you.

Steve tenses when he feels your temple pressed against him, but only for a moment before he relaxes again. It makes him all suddenly warm and self-aware of every movement he makes. He tries not to breathe too heavy or shift too often, for fear it might jostle you too much. He doesn’t want to stop feeling you against him like this, even if it’s got his skin prickling with a searing form of anxiety.

“Don’t tell me you’re falling asleep,” he jokes.

“Of course not. It’s way too riveting,” you scoff, even though he can feel you cuddling further into him. Your cheek rubs against the soft cotton of his sweatshirt when you look up at him. He turns his head to peer down at you and his nose nearly grazes your forehead. 

He finds you with a certain glint in your eye. It’s borderline playful, like it so often is, but coated with a sweetness that drips over him like honey. “You like it so far?” you wonder.

“Yeah,” the boy nods quickly. He couldn’t tell you what had happened the past two-and-a-half films, but he could tell you how your jaw tenses when you chew and how your smile curls just before you laugh out loud and how your eyes widen every time you quote the movie. “It’s really good. I like it.”

You beam at him before turning back to the projector again. You shift to get more comfortable against him. “Good.” 

By the third movie, you’re somehow even closer.

Truth be told, Day of the Dead wasn’t your favorite in the trilogy, so it left your mind wandering to far off places — namely, the pretty boy sitting beside you. He goes to put the tape into the projector, feeling immediately cold without pressing into his side, and when he returns he tries his best not to beg you to cuddle against him again.

“My shoulder’s gettin’ real cold over here,” he tries to joke. 

You see right through his beckoning, though. It makes you happy to know he wants it just as much as you do. 

“Just say you wanna be next to me, Harrington,” you tease like you aren’t happily obliging him. You snuggle into his shoulder and rest your head against him while your arms curl around his bicep.

“I wanna be next to you,” he repeats, a playful smile on his lips though his gaze softens with sincerity. “Is that so bad?”

You shake your head against him in reply. Suddenly as mushy as the boy beside you, you turn to look up at him. “Not unless it’s bad that I wanna be next to you, too…”

“Nah. It’s not bad,” he assures in something short of a whisper. “Guess I’m just glad I’m not the only one that’s so far gone.”

He doesn’t elaborate on what he means by that. He doesn’t have to.

Perhaps it’s the admission that this boy is so far gone for you that gives you a sudden burst of confidence. Maybe it’s the comforting feeling of being seen, of knowing you’re no longer alone in your similar far gone-ness. Each feels like rays of sunshine to your skin and has you pressing your lips to his wanting ones without much thought. 

The plump pink of his mouth are magnets for yours. They meet and lock together with little effort, almost destined to do it. It’s a soft, meager, and lingering little peck that sucks you both in a little too easily. It’s hard to pull away from him, but when you do, your lips click in protest.

Then there’s a look, then a deafening silence that says more words than either of you were capable of forming in that moment. His amber eyes dart between both of yours, asking a question without saying a goddamn thing. One that you answer with your own softening gaze. 

And it’s almost better than the kiss itself, the swirling feeling in the pits of your stomach, the knowing of what’s about to happen.

A silent plea and a blink later and his lips are on yours again. 

It’s an awkward mess of yearning mouths and tangled limbs as the both of you fight to find purchase on one another. Your fingers knot in the collar of his sweatshirt, pulling him impossibly closer, while his grip the bare skin of your waist from where your shirt had ridden up. His touch makes you buzz, like a static shock or a bolt of lightning.

Steve makes several observations when he feels you melt into him like honey on toast. He notices how you press yourself into him, like you won’t be satisfied until you’ve swallowed him whole, and how it has you kissing him like you’re scared he’ll pull away — like you’ll open your eyes and he won’t be real. 

You’re as domineering against his mouth as you are in real life, still as all-consuming and overpowering as the girl he’s gotten so familiar with.

He doesn’t realize how you’ve settled so intently on top of him until his back meets the pillowy cushion of the leather couch. You don’t either, until he exhales a sharp gasp against your cupid’s bow. Then you part from him, for the first time in several minutes, breathing in the oxygen your lungs had just begun to scream for. 

Steve finds you with kiss-bitten lips and glassy eyes that look upon him with a softness that he didn’t know existed until now. He smirks with his own swollen and pinker mouth like he isn’t glowing red beneath you. 

“I thought you said no funny business,” he manages to tease through bated breaths.

You don’t bother to make up excuses for yourself. You’re already on top of him, all over him — you’ve already kissed him like you would’ve died if you hadn’t. Now, you’re straddling him, caging him between your legs and under your torso. You’ve settled on top of him with a comforting weightiness, like you’re building a home in the familiarity you’ve sought in him.

“I lied,” you mutter with a lazy shrug. A sly smile pulls slowly at your lips until you’re all but beaming sunbeams down at him. He revels in your warmth. “’S not my fault you’re so damn cute.”

It’s easier to blame it on him for all the reasons you’re attached to him like a magnet to his metal, your moth to his flame. You part his lips with your mouth, rut your tongue against his own, reveling in the foreign familiarity of it all, and then blame him for the way you can’t seem to stop any of it.

Steve doesn’t seem to mind, though. The way his hands find purchase on your hips, petting the warmed skin there and sometimes squeezing to pull you further down onto him, tells you that he has a similar yearning to melt with you. He lets you kiss him all slow, allows you to taste all of him, and doesn’t rush you in your process. It’s comforting, tender. Free.

He’s not used to being on his back like this. Usually, he’s the one taking control. It’s his mouth that does all the work. So, it’s strange to be under you and to have you above him. But it’s more pleasant in an even stranger way not to be rushed — not to have to do all the work. His mouth opens so obediently for you and finds an effortless rhythm with your lips and your tongue. 

It’s the easiest thing he’s ever done in his life, kissing you. 

He delights in every ounce of the warmth and unfamiliarity you press to his mouth, and tries to shove down feelings of unworthiness that simmer in his chest while you do so.

You don’t part until your mouths are numb and tingling with it. 

Your lips are more vibrant in their color, aflame and swollen from being so ardently kissed and sucked and bitten. Neither of you mind making out like a couple of teenagers. It’s comforting to know that things won’t go further than a couple soft touches on burning skin. It was never supposed to be anything more than that, anyway. It was just about being close to each other.

You’ve almost succeeded in your effort to melt into the boy beneath you, when you hear the distant sound of a door opening and closing again. Muffled voices follow — unknown to you but obviously familiar to him. 

You part from him without thinking, like you’re a couple of kids again who’ll get in trouble if your parents ever found out what you were doing down here. Steve groans at the loss of you and in annoyance at the sound of his parents. His heavy eyes fall shut and his head leans back to the couch cushions as he fights to swallow down all of his anger.

His parents never really come around these days. They’ve got a bigger home in the city, closer to his dad’s work, and they choose to stay there most days of the week — month. 

They used to make excuses for why they left their only son behind. It’s five minutes from your dad’s firm. There’s more opportunity for your mom’s real estate business. Oh, don’t be so selfish, Steven, you’ll finally have the place to yourself. It’s a win-win for all of us.

Steve didn’t want their excuses. It was actually easier with them gone. 

But they come around every now and again, whenever it’s most convenient for them, and treat their arrival like something that needs to be celebrated. Like they aren’t supposed to be with their child in the fucking first place. And they somehow manage to pick the most inconvenient times for him, like they know he’s in a bind and want to see him struggle to get out of it.

Usually, it’s when he’s in between paychecks — when they want to take him out to some fancy dinner he could barely afford anyway, but especially when he’s hardly making it until payday. Now, it’s when he’s got the prettiest girl he’s ever seen on top of him, and he’s all hot and half-hard. Steve doesn’t want to let them ruin the moment, as good as they are at it.

“It’s okay. They won’t come in here,” he assures when he feels you tense at the unexpected company. “My mom will go to the bedroom and my dad will go to his office. We’re good, I promise.”

You figure he’s right. The voices grow more and more distant. Heeled shoes click up and up the stairs while heavy stomps head the opposite way. But you’ve already been so woefully knocked out of your stupor that you’re scared it’s too late.

Your lips are numb and the credits are rolling and you’re on top of this beautiful boy and you have no idea how you got there.

It’s almost frightening, the way Steve had consumed you mind, body, and soul by just existing next to you. You become dreadfully hyperaware of the whole thing — of who you are, who he is, and what you’re doing. You lose all your softness and turn to ice, hardening and shrinking back into yourself.

“I should—” you start before clearing your throat when the words come out heavier than expected. “I should head out anyway.”

“Oh,” is all Steve can say. “Right.”

You stare down at him, chest still pressed against his, nose nearly touching the tip of his own. “I just— I have to open tomorrow and everything, so—”

“No. Yeah. Yeah, I— I get it.”

You make tricky work of untangling yourselves.

His legs twist with yours when you both try to rise from the couch at the same time. Then your ring gets stuck in the fabric of his shirt, but not before his belt buckle gets somehow caught in yours. It’s like fate is protesting the imminent parting, but neither of you are paying attention to the signs.

He walks you to your car and chuckles under his breath as you scurry to the front door. 

You’re not-so-distantly terrified of running into his parents. They probably wouldn’t mind that he’s sneaking around with a girl, surely that they’re used to, but you’re almost certain they’re not used to girls like you. Girls with wild hair and leather skirts and chunky boots and too bold makeup. 

You’re not the girl next door. You’re the girl parents warn their sons about. “Leave that girl alone,” they say. “She’s nothing but trouble.”

You tell him all of this on the short trek to your half-broken-down car when you catch him laughing at you about the whole thing. You say it in jest, lighthearted and trying to make a joke of it. But there’s an underlying melancholia to your tone that reveals every truth you’re trying to evade.

“They don’t care enough about me to give a shit about a girl I’m with, I promise,” he confesses with a laugh that sounds more like a sad scoff than anything else. His chocolate eyes turn gold beneath the yellow street light. He smirks at you. “Besides, I don’t know if I told you this or not, but my middle name is actually trouble, so… I think we might be a match made in heaven.”

You roll your eyes at his attempts to flirt with you, though his lack of finesse makes you smile. “You’re an idiot, Steve Actually Trouble Harrington.”

“You really know how to say goodbye, don’t ya?” he grins when you reach the curb where your tin can car sits. 

“Yeah, I’m pro,” you shrug with a teasing glint in your eye, then you beam. “I’ll see you around, ‘kay?”

“Totally,” he nods, suddenly forlorn at having to leave you like he hadn’t just spent the past four hours with you.

Themetallic click of your car door opening sounds much louder in the emptiness of the suburbs. You glance at the boy right before you sink into the driver’s seat, feeling your heart swell with something short of yearning — anticipation. 

You weren’t actually a professional at saying goodbye, you find, because you’re realizing how hard it is to leave him.

“Steve!” he hears you shout from across the lawn when he’s halfway up the drive. 

He turns around, expecting to hear you tease him some more or tell him you were having car troubles. Neither would’ve shocked him. You’ve got a smart mouth and a shittier car. But you keep on surprising him, all but launching yourself into him before kissing him harder than he’s ever been kissed before.

Steve tenses against you at first, then relaxes again in record time. He sighs in the comfort of having your body pressed so intently into his and your arms wrapped around his neck to pull him somehow closer. 

You feel the breath of his exhale fan against your cupid’s bow. It makes you smile, and he feels the expression contort against his lips. His hands rise to the widest part of your hips without thinking. It’s all muscle memory now.

And even though he’s spent the better part of an hour kissing you, this one is so obviously different. This wasn’t just to pass the time. This was more than just to feel him — it was to tell him something. He hears every word you don’t say, but rather press like a stamp to his mouth.

He’s breathless when you pull away. You meet his flushed face with a mischievous grin.

“What was that for?” he wonders breathlessly, but doesn’t waver with his hold on you. He quickly notices that yours doesn’t either.

You shrug in response. “‘Cause you’re pretty.”

“Yeah, well…” he tries to play off like he’s not blushing like crazy. “You’re pretty too.”

Your beam ebbs into a teasing, tightlipped smirk. “Stop flirting with me, Steve Harrington.”

You shove him away with a rougher hand than you realize before you walk away from him. Steve rubs at the ache in his chest with the palm of his hand.

Your playful teasing and your lingering kiss is the only thing Steve has to remember you by when you turn on your chunky heeled boot and head off down the driveway again. He’s frozen, mesmerized by the sight of you and reeling at how you manage to drive him crazy without trying.

Your eyes find him again just before you duck into your car, and you see him still looking at you — mouth agape and eyes wide like you’re some kind of rare find. You figure you must be, in some way. Girls like you aren’t supposed to like guys like him. Vice Versa. Tale as old as time.

The boy stays locked in his stupor until the sprinkles whir on. The spurts of freezing cold water spray all over him and his pretty hair and expensive sweatshirt and his vintage jeans. “Shit!” you hear him swear as he rushes for cover on his front porch. 

He’s quickly soaked and freezing cold, but he smiles anyway when he hears the sound of your giggling behind him. It’s as animated as your personality and spills from your mouth like so many rays of sunshine, just a little too loud for the quiet midnight suburbs. 

It’s perfect, he realizes. You’re perfect. 

#published by bug #steve harrington x reader #stranger things x reader #stranger things imagine #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fic #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington #st oneshots #stevie oneshot #punchy x steve

[scribeofmorpheus]

Counterpart Epilogue

Pairing: Bucky x Reader x Framework!Steve

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Words: 2k | AO3

A/N: Short and punchy guys! Counterpart has been a wild ride. And thus conclude’s this story. But you know what they say about one door closing... I hope you join me for the Spin-Off: The Liberators. Send me an ask if you want to be tagged in that going forward.

Warning: flashing gif below!

Like, reblog or leave a comment -it’s highly appreciated! ☺

EPILOGUE: THOSE WE LEAVE BEHIND

 "And do you regret it?" Your therapist inquired from behind the safety of her clipboard, her eyes shielded by the thick glass layer of her lenses.

You had been startled from your wondering thoughts, fingers shifting the ring on your left hand absentmindedly, "What?"

"Everything that happened?" She used her arm to prop herself straighter in her leather chair. "Every time you come in here, you express regret for your actions, talking about how you wished you could take it all back, how you wished you could return to the way things were before. But you've never actually said it aloud. So, I'll ask you again: do you regret everything that happened to you all those months ago?"

Your bottom lip froze half an inch from the other, your focus drawn to the sounds of rain hitting the roof. It was like being under a meteor shower.

Discontent with the silence, your therapist pushed forward, "Alright. Perhaps we should move onto something a little easier to talk about… How are things with your husband?"

Two separate faces flashed into your mind and for a second, you had lost your bearings, the depths of your mental discord colliding into uncertainty. Visions of another life bombarding your cerebral peripheral and you had to hold your eyes shut for a brief moment.

You therapist craned her neck to study your reactions better, "Y/N?"

"I… S-sorry.” You shook yourself back to the present. Back to the now. “Things with my husband…" You twirled your wedding band some more, a grievous impression permanently stamped to your brow. A kick and a jostle inside of you alerted you to the baby’s movements, your eyes trailing downwards to see a soft bump nudging forward and then systematically retreating over your protruding belly. "They're good. Better now that I'm off active duty. He worries. Though now he's just gotten substantially better at hiding it."

She scribbled something on her clipboard with a thoughtful, "Hmm." When her pen was returned to its resting position, she asked: "And how are you fairing with your impromptu return to civilian life?"

"It's…" You took your time, searching for the appropriate response to sum up the last few months. "An adjustment period."

"And what of the medication? Any further side-effects?"

"My memory gets a little foggy some mornings. But it's getting better. At least I can go an entire day without getting one of those mind-numbing headaches. The prescription change has been beneficial I think," you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear as you watched her jot something down with an elated look on her face.

"That's good to hear," the ticking clock let off a soothing tune for a few beats. "Ah, it seems that's all we have time for today." She placed the cap over her pen and placed her clipboard on the table.

"Same time next week?" You anchored your arms on the arm-rests to make it easier for you to lift your much heavier body out of the tight chair.

Your therapist mulled over a thought, "No, you seem to be improving immensely, I think it's a safe bet to cut down our meeting time to every other week. Give you more time to adjust to your new normal. You can also limit yourself to one pill a day now."

"Got it doc. See you in two weeks then," you grabbed your bag off the floor and stretched out your hand to grab onto the doorknob.

"Oh, and agent Y/N," she called out to you. A huff left your lips as you slowly turned to face her again. She smiled wryly, tucking her hands into the small pockets of her blazer. "Hail Hydra."

You held her gaze for a long pause, the oscillation between raindrops growing farther and farther apart, the grey clouds were starting to part, stray slivers of stubborn sunlight beaming through the skylight.

"Nice try doc," A cheeky smile crept across your lips as you turned the doorknob, a clicking sound emanating off the latch. "Oh, and you asked me if I regret what happened."

She leaned closer, hands keeping her steady over the table, eyes narrowing studiously.

You looked down at the warm metal on your left hand. "Only on the bad days."

 Bucky was leaning against the frame of his car, thumbs hooked over the edges of his jean pockets, sunglasses framing his strong jawline. He beamed a smile at you as soon as he caught wind of you exiting the large building. Striding over to smother you in a warm embrace.

He peeled his sunglasses back so he could stare down at you affectionately. His body relaxed and at ease, once you were trapped within the circumference of his protectively locked fingers pressed against the small of your back.

You exhaled contently, a brightness exploding in your chest. It was probably the hormones making you overly emotional, but he loved seeing that side of you. He loved bringing that side of you to the surface. Honestly, he loved everything about you and he wasn’t averse to letting you know it every morning you woke up either.

"How're my girl's doing?" he asked with his cheek firmly planted on your scalp.

"Hmm, we're fine. Just tired," your stomach betrayed you, letting out a whale call from hunger.

"Fine huh?" he teased, placing his hand protectively on your swollen bellybutton.

You swatted him away, not in the mood for a belly rub. "Maybe I am a little hungry."

"Can't have that, can we?" He laced his fingers in yours dragging you to the car with his long strides while you waddled behind him trying to keep up.

After Bucky made a fuss of strapping the seat belt around you, the two of you sat in comfortable silence as he drove back to the compound.

You cradled your bump when you felt the baby become particularly energetic with its kicks, the discomfort from your pressed bladder making you constantly shift your legs about.

"How do you know our baby's going to be a girl?" You blinked up at him.

Bucky grinned like a love-struck fool, hand inching away from the stick shift towards the spot where your belly kept fluttering from the movements within. "A hunch."

You leaned your head against the window, "I think it'll be a boy."

"If he's anything like I was as a kid, we're gonna be in big trouble."

You placed your hand behind his neck, massaging the point where his nape hairs subsided, "Ditto."

He chuckled, lacing your fingers again with one hand on the steering wheel so he could kiss the ring on your finger. "Either way… I'm happy."

You looked through the rear-view mirror. A ghost that looked eerily like Steve glared at you through hooded eyes, sending shivers down your back as you gulped. You kept eye contact with the phantom in silent provocation. A psychological form of warfare reserved for you and those you left behind.

"So am I."

 When you got back to the compound you saw Wanda and Sam lifting boxes out of your room. Wanda's boxes hovered close to her, surrounded by the ruby threads of her misty projections, eyes a shade paler than her defensive red. Sam had a sweat patch forming around his shirt's V-neck.

"What's all this?" you asked.

Sam set a box down with a loud exhale, "I thought you were gonna try and keep her away until we were done settin’ up the crib in the new room?" he directed his question at Bucky.

Bucky shrugged, "My girls were hungry."

Wanda held a joyous type of energy in the way she playfully hovered the boxes about, "It was supposed to be a surprise. We're setting you two up in the suite on the top floor. There wasn't much space in your old room for the crib."

Your eyes began to well up from tears of joy, a soft laugh echoing out in the otherwise quiet hallway. Bucky instinctively moved closer to you, the sound of your voice acting as a type of magnet for him, an undisputable pull.

"You guys," you fanned at your eyes. "I don't know what to say."

Sam slinked his arm around your neck, "You don't have to say nothin'…we’re your family now. And family looks out for each other."

You sniffled as Wanda joined in on the hug, her hair tickling your nape, "I always wanted a sister."

Bucky didn't join in, he knew this moment was for you and you alone. He was perfectly happy watching you glow from all the affection and adoration you were receiving. A sensation of pride injecting through his veins with every strong heartbeat.

 Wanda kept you blindfolded with her slender fingers, light travelling through the gaps between her fingers as she led you towards your new room.

"Ta-da!" she bellowed when she whipped her hands back.

You opened your eyes and took in the sight of your newly decorated, oldly furnished and spaciously laid out room. The crib was strategically placed in the lightest part of the room. A mobile of palnets spinning above the yellow bumble-bee print spread.

Wanda placed her head on your shoulder, having to bend her knees slightly to reach your height.

"Wanda," you clasped her hand in yours. "It's perfect."

"I know," she said with a proud smile. "It's easy to decorate a room when you move everything with a single thought."

You both laughed.

Leaning against the wall was the same phantom from the car, his dark eyes leering at you with both desire and disgust, venom oozing off his words, mangled by strife and irreconcilability, "I gave up everything for you."

You blinked him away and turned on your heel, nudging Wanda's head off of you. Suddenly a rush of blue and silver screened past your vision and for a moment you saw Pietro in Wanda's features.

She looked at you with concern, "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah," you nodded. "I've just been thinking."

"What about?"

"The baby," you patted your bump. "And names. I was toying with the idea of naming it Peter if it's a boy, after you brother."

Wanda gasped, her eyes becoming glassier with each stretch of time. A tweak working over her agape mouth.

"And if it's a girl, Wanda. Because you were both instrumental in bringing me back. You both saved my life. That’s one of the reason’s I asked Sam not to destroy the Framework. I couldn’t live with myself if I destroyed the people I had been made to believe were flesh and blood. The people I believed were once as real as you and Bucky and Sam are to me."

Speechless, Wanda threw her arms around you and let out a shaky laugh filled with glee. The two of you swaying about in the room while Bucky and Sam leaned against the door frame watching with satisfied looks.

 Talia stared at the bloodied knife she had used to stab Steve in the back in order to save Y/N from his murderous clutches before she disappeared in that strange beam of light that seemingly disappeared with her. The blood had dried now, shavings of red plasma peeling off the serrated blades stainless steel. A trophy of her misgivings.

Tania Belinsky was dead. Her neck snapped without reservation and just like that this cruel, bleak world had taken another person she came to care for. A person she broke down her walls for.

James was gone too. He hadn't contacted her in over several hours. They had a system. A protocol. He hadn't followed it. She knew for certain he was gone and she was left alone in the world once again. The empty feeling in her heart was survived only by the hatred in her veins.

Pietro sat on the cold ground with his head in his hands, tears running down his bruised face as he mourned. Shuri presided over him, an anchoring grip placed on his shoulder as a quiet life-jacket intended to keep him afloat through the maelstrom of grief that he was cast into. Just like Talia, Pietro had lost two people closest to him in the span of a few minutes. To say it was crippling was an understatement.

Sharon sat in the far corner of the brick room, she hadn't uttered a single word since the retreat. Her only constant was the tremble in her hands that refused to subside.

"They know who we are now," Shuri stated gravely. "It won't be long before they come for us."

Rage, pure and unnerving, pooled around Talia's eyes, "Good," she spat vehemently through grinding molars.

Everyone in the basement looked up at her with perplexity tugging on their eyebrows. She stalked off towards the spray-painted graffiti of a raised hand signing out an L, implanting the knife in the centre of it with a single swing, a crack forming around the plugged tear. The assassin in her had been sorely let down when she didn’t draw blood from the stone wall. "Let them come. It's time we stop hiding. It's time to draw the line in the sand."

 “It’s time for liberation,” Sharon muttered.

“It’s time for liberation!”

 Natalia Romanova's storyline continues in The Liberators.

Counterpart tags, message me if you want to be added to my Steve or Bucky taglists for future stories!

Tags: @ladybugsfanfics​ @ninaminaromina​ @xstevenat​

AFWHI & Permatags: @gruffle1 @thechickvic @notawarriorjustyet @savethehoneeybees @fangirl-colo @dormousse @smallmarvel @ren-ni @sargentbucket @nikolett3 @wnygirl2012 @jentismyname @evilgeniuslabz-blog @myrabbitholetoneverland @sleepingspacedragon @500daysofbecky @reidreader 

Thanks for sticking with me through the end, you guys are awsome! ♥  

#bucky barnes x reader #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers #bucky barnes #bucky imagine #bucky x reader #bucky x you #steve imagine #steve x reader #steve x you #marvel imagines #mcu #avengers #framework fic #counterpart fic #reader insert

[snowlikeash]

First Line Challenge!

Stolen from @notsanguineatall​; I took the first lines from ten fics (it’s supposed to be last ten fics, but I cheated and skipped a few that I’m planning on totally re-editing in the future. ;) It’s a fun challenge and I learned a lot about what my whole deal is LMFAO. Also that I need to get off my ASS and make sure I update poor Recursion & Synthesis before the end of the year, holy shit. I’ve said this before, but I never give up on my active WIPs, I just might take time between them. WTW & TWStD are my priority right now but I can juggle some other things... sigh!

Where does Connor go when he sleeps? (IRQ (18+); Detroit: Become Human)

Among the cracked mortar and brick, the Hunter waits. (They who Saw the Deep ; Detroit: Become Human)

The evening starts with very little promise of adventure. (Waking the Witch ; X-Men Alt-Timeline/Marvel)

He arrives in her tent with the evening draft, the heavy tarp rustling where the pegs do not hold it taut. (Recursion ; Overwatch)

It rained the day Spock met Jim Kirk. (Synthesis ; Star Trek AOS)

There was quiet, in the morning, in the way the air grows thin before a sandstorm. (First, cast out fear ; Star Trek AOS)

The Call broadcasts on a Sunday, the date August Twenty-Fifth, Gregorian Calendar Year of Two Thousand and Forty-One, at the approximate time of Fifteen Hundred Twenty-One Hours, Eastern Standard Time [Which is Minus Five Hours from Greenwich Mean Time]. (Segfault ; Overwatch)

Steve dreams of dying. (Salva Nos, Stella Maris ; DCU/MCU Captain America)

The package is a child. (Coffin of Glass ; Marvel)

In the early days, when his master speaks to him, he feels first fury, not humility. (feels first fury (Read Warnings) ; Star Wars VII: The Force Awakens)

I am clearly fond of simple statements or putting things in context to time and space. I think that suits my style very well and the way I tell stories, adapting it to whatever I’m writing. I try to be as punchy in separate chapters, too, but I generally allow myself some slack. As long as I’ve hooked you beforehand... ;)

#tselinawrites #memes

[btsrabbithole]

The latest album from the masters of the K-pop formula is a slick, loosely thematic album about love and loss, with a stronger focus on rapping than ever before.

The latest album from the masters of the K-pop formula is a slick, loosely thematic album about love and loss, with a stronger focus on rapping than ever before.

K-pop has long been poised for a breakthrough in the U.S., and the stars have aligned for the Korean boy band BTS. It doesn’t hurt that it is easier now than ever to be a K-pop fan on this side of the world, with the genre being tailor-made for our current algorithm-fed content chain. BTS has seized the opportunity, building a ravenous fanbase, not just at home and stateside but in South America and Europe as well. Bangtan Boys (their full name, Bangtan Sonyeondan, translates to “bulletproof boy scouts” in English), are designed for this moment, highly curated, aesthetically optimized for Western consumption.

BTS have been presented as the art-house alternative to K-pop’s manic energy: a modish, dilettantish, act whose music is a vehicle for larger artistic choices and statements. After debuting as a swag rap outfit, they evolved from rap-sung mashups to posh electro-pop pageantry. The concept for their 2016 album, Wings, was inspired by Hermann Hesse’s 1919 book Demian. The visuals for one of the best BTS songs, “Blood Sweat & Tears,” were picturesque stills framed in a pop-up museum featuring “The Fall of the Rebel Angels,” Michelangelo’s “Pietà,” and Nietzsche quotes etched in stone, which all produced dramatic fan readings of the video’s symbolism. The members co-write and co-produce their songs, some of which delve into mental wellness and social responsibility, a process that has led many to dub their songs more “personal,” a word sometimes used as a dog whistle for music appealing to be taken more seriously. Their tactics have been emulated by boy bands who have followed, but in many ways, BTS are simply the K-pop model maximized for efficiency.

Love Yourself: 轉 ‘Tear’, which follows the 2017 mini album Love Yourself: ‘Her’ and the Japanese full-length Face Yourself released earlier this year, is a kaleidoscopic mark of that efficiency, observing the finely tuned formula BTS have been perfecting since 2015. ‘Tear’, like ‘Her’, is a concept album of sorts. Roughly half the songs adhere to the album’s subhead. If ‘Her’ was an assortment of heart-professing love songs, then ‘Tear’ is the inverse. It deals primarily, though not exclusively, with the cycle of grief that lingers through a separation. But all of the songs generally find their way back around to self-love at some point. The album’s opener, “Intro: Singularity,” provides its thesis. ��Even in my momentary dreams/The illusions that torture me are still the same,” V sings. “Did I lose myself, or did I gain you?”

Written and arranged with longtime producer and frequent collaborator Pdogg and Big Hit label CEO Hitman Bang along with a team of collaborators (Steve Aoki, MNEK, Chainsmokers co-producer DJ Swivel), ‘Tear’ aims for cohesion and produces fun, prismatic songs in the process. There is some level of thematic consistency on ‘Tear’ with at least a semblance of an emotional arc being teased out across the 11 tracks: navigating a dream world and the real one in search of a personal paradise (which at times reads like an analog for being a pop star, especially on “Airplane Pt. 2”), losing love and facing the requisite anxieties and loneliness. These all come to a head on the foreboding lead single “Fake Love,” characterized in full by a lyric that roughly translates to: “I grew a flower that couldn’t bloom/In a dream that can’t come true.”

K-pop is often experimental in form and function, which produces full-lengths that can be spasmodic in tone and quality. BTS aren’t immune to this, but the rappers—RM (or Rap Monster), J-Hope, and Suga—anchor the group, not only keeping it moored to a unified aesthetic amid constant stylistic shifts but dictating much of what happens in the music. On the bruising, all-rap closer “Outro: Tear,” the three take turns ripping through the track with punchy cadences, at times suddenly swapping places. The group’s vocalists trade off short, sweet passages that revolve around and often pivot off of rapped verses. Where rap verses are often stopgaps for other K-pop groups, obligatory aspects of pop roleplaying, they are essential to structure and composition here. Whispered, breathy raps slingshot into the supple hook on the flute-powered “134340.” On “Love Maze,” RM balances elastic syllabics with singsong musings while Suga dashes into a tightly twisting flow. Between them, the other members let loose mellow, honeyed coos. The sequencing of the vocal routines is as carefully synchronized as the choreography in their videos.

‘Tear’ isn’t as ambitious or stunning or tragic as Wings, which gave each of the seven members a solo turn ranging from lounge-ready piano balladry and symphonic, single-spotlight melodrama to brooding alt-rap with “Blood Sweat & Tears” as its ideological and aesthetic centerpiece. But there are moments here when BTS seem more poised and more in sync than ever. The Aoki-produced “The Truth Untold” is an epic misdirection; instead of leaning into their EDM-flavored pop or the blitzing trap of Aoki’s “Mic Drop” remix, they opt for a seamless piano serenade wherein the group’s four singers weave in and out of each stanza. “Paradise” is largely propelled by graceful exchanges from Jungkook, V, and Jimin, who surface and retreat gently. Across Love Yourself: 轉 ‘Tear’, BTS are at their best when they feel for and support one another.

Sheldon Pearce x Pitchfork

#bts #bangtan boys #bts article #bts pitchfork #bts review #bts love yourself 轉 tear #this is good!!! #rm #kim namjoon #jin #kim seokjin #suga #min yoongi #jhope #jung hoseok #park jimin #v #kim taehyung #jeon jungkook #ot7 #hardworking bbys #iconic #this made me tear up a little #they did that #for reference.. divide by ed sheeran has a 2.8 score!

[desertislandcloud]

The Clockworks have a strong, punchy dynamic, drawing on intense post-punk influenced music to soundtrack snarling kitchen sink observations. 

Having been signed to Alan McGee’s new record label ‘Creation23’ immediately after their move to London (from Ireland), the quartet has impressed audiences in London and beyond with an array of gigs and live performances including shows at Eurosonic, Electric Picnic, Sefton Park in Liverpool where they opened for Kings of Leon, as well as playing live on Soccer AM on Sky 1. Along with this, the band have made way into radio, so far been endorsed by Steve Lamacq on BBC 6, John Kennedy on Radio X, Rodney Bingenheimer on SiriusXM in the states, while at home being played regularly by Dan Hegarty on RTE2, and Ed Smith on Today FM.

https://www.facebook.com/theclockdoesntwork https://www.instagram.com/theclockworks/ https://twitter.com/daclockworks

#indie #rock #spotify #guitars #UK

[lovebugism]

hi hello "love you on purpose" absolutely devasted me with it's cuteness and i cannot wait for part two!!!! 💗

✶ ┄ LOVE YOU, ON PURPOSE (ii)

part one | part two

summary: steve can't seem to stay away from the local freaks. he's more surprised to find himself falling for one of them. you have trouble believing that someone like him could want you in the first place. he wants to prove to you that he's not king steve anymore. (18k)

pairing: steve harrington / eddie's bff!reader

tags: strangers to friends to lovers, mutual pining, idiots in love, slight angst, hurt to comfort (sorta), fem!reader TW smut 18+, lots of intimacy and affection and awkwardness, p in v sex, talks of insecurities, reader has an allison reynolds-esque transformation but with a better ending (outfit inspo x, x), probable typos

a/n: welp. here it is. the final part of this 30k+ word fic. it was very fun and very painful to write and i'm very glad it's finally done and out in the world! thanks for all the love on the first part btw reading all the feedback has easily been my favorite part of writing this <3 with that being said, get comfy, get a snack, and enjoy! xoxo

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Falling over you is the news of the day.

If yearning had a shape, you’re pretty sure it’d look an awful lot like you. 

The clumsiest of humans, fresh into her adulthood but still feeling like a child most days. Soaking wet, born yesterday. A caterpillar weaving her cocoon and trying to figure out where she fits in the world. The girl who decides she belongs right next to this big, boisterous, multi-colored butterfly she couldn’t stand a year or more ago.

And Steve Harrington, he was… Well, he was the kind of poem people spend their entire lives trying to write. 

He was the perfect mixture of beauty and warmth, of mystery and obscurity — the line where the pink of a sunset meets the purple of a starry night. He was all of this rolled up into a twenty-something-year-old boy. A fumbling butterfly that’s getting used to his new wings.

Maybe if you were talented enough, you could write the thing yourself. There’s something powerful in knowing that you could compose some dainty requiem so much bigger than yourself. A beautiful thing that would stand the test of time because there would never be anything else like it. 

It wouldn’t be because of you, though. You passed Ms. O’Donnell’s English class by the skin of your teeth, so your writing leaves much to be desired. It would be your muse that would enamor the masses come the next several centuries, because there will never, ever be another Steve Harrington.

At the very core of this poem would read a universal truth: I have fallen in love with his enigmatic being, and now I’m dealing with the consequences.

Well, you’re trying to deal with them, at least. You’re not having a very easy go at it.

Most of the time, you feel like a thousand bricks have piled on top of you. The jagged edges scrape up your arms and press varying shades of purple into your skin. They crush you underneath their weight, but you don’t try too hard to climb out from under them. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.

You feel a little stuck underneath all the feelings you have for Steve. 

You’re not quite sure what to do with them all. They’re too heavy to lift; there’s too much of them to crawl out. It all leaves you feeling a bit trapped. 

It’s a good kind of trapped, though. 

Once the hurt passes, the weight starts to feel like you’re being swaddled in a blanket. Or a cocoon. 

As scared as it makes you, as overwhelmed as you feel, you don’t want this puppy-like adoration to end.

But sometimes, the scrapes sting more than they usually do. The scabs split and start to weep. The faded bruises turn purple again, then to blue and black, and they ache all over. They remind you that girls like you don’t end up with guys like Steve, and the harsh realization turns the comforting weight of being in love into feeling like you’re being buried alive.

Steve is a pretty boy. He’s a rich, prettyboy who wears vintage jeans and drives a new Beemer and has never wanted for anything in his life.

And you’re… whatever the total opposite of that is.

You wear whatever’s cheapest at the thrift store or what Eddie lets you steal from his closet. You drive a rust bucket that belonged to your dad until he lost his license, so the thing practically rotted in the backyard until you got yours. And all you’ve ever done is want for things because you’ve never had anything.

And the one thing you want the most is something you’ve never been able to admit to anyone. Not even Eddie. Not even yourself. 

Screw new clothes or a car fresh off the lot. You don’t want popularity — you don’t even want money (though it certainly wouldn’t hurt). You want so desperately to be loved that it makes your bones ache.

All you want is someone to hold your wrists and kiss your palms, to cradle you when the thunder is too loud and the cracks of lightning make you shake, to be a hiding place where you can keep every secret and be certain it stays safe.

You want someone to smile at you the way Steve smiles at you. You want to feel held the way he makes you feel held — without ever touching you. You want to feel wanted the way he makes you feel wanted.

You want Steve. 

And you’re not sure how long silly love songs will substitute your yearning.

“What do you think about Steve?” you ask Eddie out of the blue.

He was in the middle of a rant about his latest campaign, but you hadn’t heard a single word of it if you’re honest. The butterflies in your stomach were too loud.

The boy sits across the room at his desk, back hunched, while he scribbles ideas into his tattered Dungeons and Dragons composition journal. You’re sprawled out in the middle of his bed like you have been for the past hour, making constellations of Steve’s face from the marks on his ceiling.

“I think he’s an asshole,” Eddie answers without missing a beat.

It makes you roll your eyes. You shouldn’t have expected anything less out of him, really. You toy with the frayed hem of your crop top and rephrase. “Okay, but do you think he likes me?”

“I know he likes you,” he scoffs. “That’s the problem.”

You smile widely to yourself, then purse your lips to the side to keep it hidden. There’s no one looking to see you grinning like an idiot, but it doesn’t make you feel any less like one.

“He wants to take me on a date tonight,” you confess out loud for the first time.

It wasn’t like you to keep something like that from Eddie. Or anything. At all. But you found yourself hiding it like some kind of dark secret. A distant part of you was terrified that it was all in your head, but it’s been three days since Steve asked you now. Which means you’ve spent three days pinching yourself.

You haven’t woken up yet.

“Like, a date date,” you clarify and rise on your elbows to study the boy across the room. 

You feel the need to explain yourself because movie nights and rides around town and hanging out in the break room after closing don’t feel nearly as serious as Steve wining and dining you. It feels much more official now, as though the line between liking someone and like-liking them has been drawn.

“And I’ve never been on a date date before—”

“What about the one time you went out with, uh…” Eddie trails off as he aggressively erases something on his paper. He stills and squints over his shoulder at you. “What was his name? Matt? Marcus?”

“Mason,” you correct and try not to shudder at the memory. “And I left him at the restaurant because he asked me how big my boobs were within the first ten minutes, so he doesn’t count.”

A grin pulls at the boy’s face. He chuckles to himself. “Oh, yeah.”

“And I know I shouldn’t be so nervous about it ‘cause it’s just a dumb date, like… We’ve been alone together a billion times now, you know? It’s just…” you ramble in one breath, then trail off with a huff. You flop back onto the mattress rather dramatically. “Steve Harrington doesn’t date girls like me. He dates girls like Nancy Wheeler. And, as far as I’m concerned, they were a matching made in fucking heaven— I mean, I didn’t know them back then or anything—”

“Obviously,” Eddie murmurs. “That was a train wreck.”

“—But they looked fucking perfect together, Eds!”

The image of them walking the hallways of Hawkins High isn’t hard to picture. You can still see Nancy in her pretty pleated skirt and pink manicured nails and Steve with his stupid hair and brand new Ray-Bans. They owned the school like their parents owned Hawkins — it was practically kismet. 

You try to picture him and you together, and it doesn’t come as effortlessly. 

It’s like trying to wedge pieces from opposites puzzles together; it just doesn’t work. 

And it’s different from anyone Steve’s ever dated. It’s different from anyone you’ve ever dated. People look at him and his pretty girlfriend and gush, “oh, wow, they look good together.” People look at you and a guy with smudged eyeliner and heeled boots and whisper in disgust, “oh god, they deserve each other.”

You won’t get any of the kindness that Steve is used to, only stares from strangers as they try hopelessly to figure out whether or not you’re dating — because surely, he wouldn’t stoop low enough to date someone like you.

“And I don’t wanna…” you waver, trying and failing to put your fears into words. “I don’t know, I guess I’m just scared.”

Eddie shakes his head to himself. “You don’t need to be scared, okay?” he mumbles, his attention still turned down to his notebook.

“Oh, thanks, Eds. I’m cured,” you monotone.

“I just mean that—” he cuts himself off with a deep sigh and swivels in his chair to face you completely. “Steve’s a douchebag, alright? But he’s a good douchebag.”

Your brows furrow. “…What?”

“He used to be an asshole and everything, but… I don’t know, I guess he turned out to be a pretty good guy— and if you tell him I told you that, I will kill you,” Eddie explains in one breath. The half-hearted threat spills from his mouth,and he goes suddenly soft. “He’s not gonna hurt you, okay? I promise. I mean, the guy’s practically a fucking teddy bear.”

A smile pulls slow at your lips. 

It’s the nicest thing you’ve ever heard him say about Steve, despite having been friends with him for nearly a year now. The foreign kindness comforts you well enough. If Eddie didn’t think Steve was every bit the good douchebag he says he is, there’s no way he’d let you go anywhere near him.

“Yeah?” you mutter.

“Yeah,” he echoes with a huff, obviously upset about having to admit such a truth. Then he shrugs. “And if he does hurt you, I’ll beat him up. Which, with his track record, I’m guessing it wouldn’t be too difficult.”

A laugh tumbles from your mouth. “Thanks for looking out, Eds.”

He only grumbles in response.

And even though he complains the entire time, he drops you back off at your place and helps you agonize over what to wear. He sits on your bathroom counter to keep you company while you shower, then holds your makeup bag in his lap while you get ready. He only comments once about how differently you’re doing it.

Then the boy lounges on your bed, legs crossed and back propped on the headboard while you rifle through your closet. In true Eddie Munson fashion, he’s got something to say about everything you pick out.

Your white sweater is too tight, he tells you, and the fuzzy texture feels too weird. The plaid skirt you pull from the depths of your closet is too “christmas-y” and “totally not your color.” He tells you he likes your boots better as he helps you with the finicky buckle of your Mary Janes, then snaps the band of your knee-highs when he stands again.

Eddie tells you all of this because it’s easier to tease you than to say what he really thinks — that it feels like you’re in high school again and trying out styles that don’t suit you.

He loved you the way you were, in black and leather and silver chains and fishnets, because he knew that’s what you felt good in. You found your identity in your unconventional style and you sparkled in it.

And you were still pretty like this, dressed in brighter colors and looking like the girls that used to bully you in high school, but it’s so obviously not you. More than anything, it irks him that you’re doing all of this for Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington.

But Eddie knows that you’re nervous — he can tell by the way you’re talking a thousand miles a minute and checking your appearance in the mirror every couple seconds like something might’ve changed. He also knows that you’re still skeptical about this whole thing. Because you have no idea that Steve looks at you like the whole world could crumble around him, and he wouldn’t even blink.

You don’t know that you have nothing to worry about.

So Eddie figures he’ll wait to make fun of you. Save all his teasing remarks for when you’re gushing about the date the next day.

But you’re already aware of all this — how different you look. You hardly recognize yourself when you look in the mirror. You’ve traded in your shades of black for something brighter. Your blowsy hair is clipped back out of your face. Your makeup is more conventional and modest than you’re used to.

You look less like the freak you usually are and more like a wild thing that’s been tamed.

You feel pretty. 

Or, at the very least, the idea that Steve will think you’re pretty makes you feel pretty.

It makes all the imposter syndrome worth it. 

You stand in front of the full-length mirror and tug the scratchy socks up and over your knee when they start to slip down. You rise once more, giving yourself another once over, then nod in approval — pleased with the costume you’ve put on.

A fleeting through with a mean, green, bleeding heart and a mind of its own scratches bitterly at the confines of your skull.

Eat your heart out, Nancy Wheeler.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

The ghost in you, she don't fade.

Steve, riddled with chronic feelings of inadequacy, overcooks the chicken and spritzes too much cologne on himself.

He had always been the kind of boy that loved things a little harder than he should’ve. 

Ask any plant he’s ever owned that he accidentally killed with every leaf he overwatered, frightened that anything less would be neglectful. He was always so scared of them dying that he suffocated them until they wilted anyway.

He thought he might’ve grown out of all that until he realized he did the same thing with Nancy. 

He squeezed her too tight and she squirmed at his smothering, called him bullshit and pushed him away so she could breathe again, then stomped on his heart until she was certain it stopped beating for her.

And therein lies the state of limbo Steve Harrington has lived in all his life — between loving something too much and not enough. He hasn’t yet found that balance that stops plants from dying and people from running away.

He isn’t quite sure how to be anything other than the man he is now. 

His conscious clings to your every move. He thinks about when he’s awake, and when he isn’t, he hopes he’ll be lucky enough to dream about you. He bothers you at work all day, then asks if you want to go for a ride when you’re off because he hates being away from you. The nights get too cold when you stray too far. And even though he’s never been much of a chef, he offers to cook for you because he wants to show you he cares enough to try.

Steve’s the kind of guy that overcooks his chicken because he’s terrified that you’ll get sick if it’s not done enough. He’s the kind of guy that douses himself in cologne, then breaks the bottle because he’s terrified of not smelling good enough. He wants everything to be enough for you. 

Steve Harrington, for once in his life, wants to be enough for somebody. 

But now all he is, is a stupid boy that never learns, who smells like he’s trying to overcompensate for being a terrible, terrible chef. 

When Nancy broke his heart, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to be this person again. Steve was scared he’d become someone he didn’t recognize — someone who didn’t care enough to water plants because, hey, they’re gonna die anyway, right? Because he gave and gave and gave, and had nothing to show for it but a stupid wilting flower.

Steve made a dark room of his broken heart. A boogeyman lived there, too. It made him scared that he’d never be able to love someone like he loved Nancy.

But then you came out of nowhere — this beautiful, loud, and mysterious thing that exudes every color of the rainbow when she laughs, despite her blacker-than-black wardrobe. You smile at him like you’ve never been hurt, like a sun that’s never known the night. It makes him feel like he can be that too.

The two of you seek a similar solace in one another. You fill each other’s voids without effort and without trying, like puzzle pieces or halves of an orange.

Steve met you and he realized that he didn’t get his ability to love from Nancy. He had always been a lover, a boy who could love something deeply, and that didn’t go away when she broke his heart.

And sometimes it was awful. It was painful and frightening more than it was anything else — love. It was doubtful and envious and distant. 

Love makes you selfish and creepy and uncharacteristically overbearing. Love makes you worry about your hair and overcook your chicken and drench yourself in cologne. Love takes a hell of a lot of hope, and that’s what he feels like when he’s with you — hopeful. Like he’s never been hurt before.

A surge of optimism and apprehension hits him like a bolt of purple lightning just behind his ribcage when the doorbell rings. Mostly because he knows you’re waiting on the other side of it. His hands shake when he opens the door, but not because he’s scared. He’s just full of hope and buzzing with its foreign intensity.

Steve finds the rest of his life standing on his front porch, dressed in all the trappings of his past.

You’re smiling wide when you see him, the same whizzing ball of hope that he is now, and clutching a bottle of wine. You’ve traded your usual grocery store alcohol for something bottom shelf from an actual liquor store. The sunshine grin you’re wearing is about the only thing familiar about you now.

With your hair pulled back, brows combed neatly to match the pretty makeup you’ve spotted gingerly on your features, dressed in foreign colors with knee-high socks and kitten heels — you look nothing like yourself. It’s a costume you’ve got on, still so pretty but pretending in some way.

It has Steve startled for a moment, thinking Halloween came a whole six months earlier and he never got the memo. Then he realizes you must’ve gotten all dressed up for him, even though you never had to. Just like he didn’t have to try and play chef to impress you.

Both of you are just stupid idiots who care too much, making it painfully obvious despite your best efforts to keep it hidden.

“Hi,” you grin sheepishly through a foreign, pale pink, and glossy mouth.

Steve’s too busy gaping at you to respond in a timely fashion.

The wind billows through your hair and sends strands of it flying in your face. And even though he can’t remember a time when you’ve ever worried about the wild halo on your head, you’re quick to tuck them back into place again. 

With most of it pulled back and combed with obvious intent, your face is left unhidden. Your neck and shoulders and collarbones are too. And you’ve got on this tight sweater and pretty skirt and tall socks that make your legs look longer. All of your usually concealed features are heightened. 

The dainty swipes of mascara, eyeshadow, and blush only accentuate them further, though your spots are attentively covered with foundation that isn’t exactly your shade. It’s a bit lighter than your skin tone, like you’d gotten it some time ago when you were still a bit paler.

You look less like the loud, plucky girl he’s come to know and someone more timid, delicate, and polished.

You’re so pretty he damn near forgets how to speak. His tongue swells and every word he could use loses meaning at the sight of you. But it isn’t you, and that only confounds him further.

It’s like you’ve covered yourself in body paint. The real version of you is hidden somewhere underneath it all, glimmering somehow more golden than the flaxen you’re playing pretend in.

When Steve realizes he hasn’t yet answered you, it feels like it’s been ten minutes or more. In reality, no longer than five seconds have gone by.

“Hey,” he greets finally, in an exhale that gets caught in his throat halfway through. He clears it and smiles shakily. “Hi.”

He steps to the side of the doorway and ushers you inside. He wipes his sweaty palms on his slacks when he thinks you aren’t looking, but you catch him in the act when you turn to face him again. Your grin widens and you trap it between your teeth.

“Smells good in here,” you compliment, walking slowly backward with your hands clasped behind your back.

“Thanks,” he accepts your flattery with an awkward hand on his neck. “Yeah, uh— I kinda burnt the chicken a little bit, but everything else should be good. At least, I hope it’s good. It’s kinda hard to mess up a salad, right?”

He laughs under his breath, then starts to ramble without realizing it.

“I’m not the best cook, as it turns out. I mean, I thought I could at least fake it, you know? Fake it ’til you make it, or whatever that bullshit saying is — but there is no faking the tornado I just had in the kitchen. I don’t think I’ve made a bigger mess in my life. But, uh, yeah… And don’t worry! I didn’t put tomatoes in the pasta. Or the salad. Or the sauce. I know you don’t think them, so…”

You’re in the middle of beaming and trying very hard not to laugh when he hits you with that one. 

Steve, like you, is having a very hard time shutting up just now. He’s in the same web of nervousness that you’re spun up in too. He’s all tangled and trying to weave words that make sense, though everything things his mouth in half-thoughts.

But then he says something so strangely profound out of nowhere, and it makes your pounding heart stop without warning. He’s just talking about fucking tomatoes, but you understand that — in some weird, roundabout way — that it’s much deeper than that.

You’d told him the mundane little detail in passing some time ago. At the diner, when you picked the fruit from your burger with a grimace on your face. You said it tasted like battery acid and tainted everything it touched. He took it back to the counter when you weren’t brave enough to. 

“Here you go, Punchy. Your battery-acid-free burger,” he’d joked when he set the fresh plate in front of you.

And he remembered all that. He tucked that tiny piece of information about you into the very back of his mind so that he could use it to make you happy later on.

That’s adoration at its core, you figure. Somewhere in all those minuscule remember-ings.

“You remembered that?” you wonder aloud in a bemused sort of whisper.

Steve has already moved on. He’s rambling about the broken spout of his cologne bottle but stops the second he realizes he’s doing it.

Of course, I did, scoffs the little voice in his head. I’m sorta obsessed with you, as it turns out.

He doesn’t tell you that, though, for reasons he finds are quite obvious — the most significant of which would be running you off entirely. So instead, he just shrugs and tries to be cool, despite having already established how terribly uncool he is.

“Yeah. I remember everything.”

When the two of you settle at the dining table, Steve realizes he’s eaten most of his dinners alone until now.

His parents stopped caring sometime around middle school. His dad got too busy with work, started staying after-hours to catch up on paperwork or screw his secretary. And his mom didn’t care because she was too busy getting wine-drunk on the phone with whatever book club friend that was just as miserable as she was. 

Steve would fork at his cold pad thai while he listened to his mother’s muffled rant about who went where and who wore a hat.

He couldn’t find it in himself to eat in his room. The empty dinner table was the only sort of stable routine he had in the swirling uncertainty of being a teenage boy.

But now he’s got you. 

He hopes he never stops having you. He doesn’t want to go back to being alone like that again, not after he’s found someone that can fill an entire room with their laugh.

The cackle you let out at Steve’s terrible, terrible cheese pun — “yeah, I guess you could say I cooked this all on my provol-own — echoes through the dining room. Even though he knows you’re laughing at him and not exactly with him, he figures it’s a small price to pay to keep hearing such a heavenly sound.

It reminds him of the real you, the one underneath all the foreign regalia. 

The rays of your usual sunshine peek from the clouds you hide behind. You’re way too bright to stay hidden.

Steve can tell you’re watching his every move. You eye him from across the table with the intent of doing everything he’s doing, lest you might do something wrong. He puts his napkin in his lap, so you put your napkin your lap. He cuts his chicken with his fork and knife, so you cut your chicken with a fork and knife — though you quickly realize you’re not quite as dexterous as he is for all that.

It’s endearing. The kind of cute that makes his heart hurt just a little bit. He hides his smile and happily abandons the conventional things he’d been taught to do. He eats with his fingers and then licks the pads of them, grinning when you giggle and do the same. 

It’s not something he’s used to — grabbing pieces of cut chicken with bare fingers and slurping noodles without having cut them first — especially not when he’s trying to impress a girl. But he can tell the lack of etiquette makes you more comfortable, and that’s all he really cares about.

He offers you another serving once you’ve finished your first. You decline politely with the mutters of “oh, no, I couldn’t,” but he’s seen your appetite. You could down five burgers at the diner and not break a sweat if you’re feeling hungry enough.

It’s one of those little heart-wrenchingly adorable things you do that both shock and enamor him. But, for a reason he can’t name, you’ve decided that part of yourself was too deplorable to add to your costume.

Steve only scoffs at you in response. He scoops more chicken and pasta onto your scrapped-clean plate despite your refusal.

You’re grateful he doesn’t let you get away with your stubbornness. Truth be told, you were still sort of starving.

He’s just grateful you don’t think his mediocre cooking skills total a complete dealbreaker.

Steve tries to fight you when you offer to help him clean up the kitchen. He tells you to make yourself at home on the couch while he tidies up, ushers you to pour yourself a glass of wine and pick out a record while you wait for him. 

But you have issues with authority and take little fondness in being told what to do. So, in true Punchy fashion, you do the exact opposite of what he tells you to do.

You roll up the sleeves of your pretty sweater and stand next to him at the deeply set sink in his kitchen island. “You wash, I’ll dry?” you offer.

He doesn’t argue, only nods. 

He’ll let you take the blame for not wanting to be too far away from him. It’s easier than admitting his own guilt in the matter. ‘Cause sometimes his heart breaks when he blinks and he has to miss you for the faintest fraction of a second. 

“You seriously don’t have to, you know—”

“Stop saying that,” you scold and snatch the dripping plate from his hands. You swipe a towel over the ceramic with a meticulous ease. “I actually like doing dishes, okay? I do them at all time. I’m practically a professional at this point.”

“Yeah?” Steve laughs, shooting you a grin as he dunks his hand into the warm, sudsy water.

You love that stupid smile so much you’ve started to hate it. 

It’s soft and so sincere, just wide enough to reveal the dimple in his left cheek. The gentle grin drips with so much honey you can practically taste it. It’s so tender it makes you feel unworthy, so full of love it fills you with a distant rage that he might’ve looked at someone else with it.

You have to duck away from his gaze before he can catch you blushing. 

“Yeah. That’s, like, my one chore when I’m over at Eddie’s,” you respond with a shrug. “Because, you know, Wayne’s always working and Eddie’s… Eddie, and he really shouldn’t be trusted with anything remotely sharp or breakable, so…”

“What about when you’re home?” he wonders, simply for the sake of keeping the conversation going, but noting how the mention of home makes you tense.

“Uh, yeah. I mean, considering every time I go back, it looks like there’s been a tornado, doing dishes is just one part of the shit pile that I need to clean up, you know? My parents are usually on some bender — or still passed out from said bender — to take care of the place while I’m gone.”

Steve sees how distracted you’ve gotten as you keep wiping down a bone-dry plate.

“But, uh, anyway. Point is, I think I’m destined to have a career as a professional dishwasher.”

When your gaze flits back to Steve’s, he forces a smile at you.

He’s noticed how you always seem to talk about your best friend and his uncle without ever mentioning your parents. He understands now that it’s because they weren’t your family, not like Eddie and Wayne were. The small Munson clan was your home, it seems, and he fights to steer you back that way.

“So, you stay with them most of the time, then?” he redirects innocently as he hands you a freshly washed wine glass.

“Yeah. I think I’m pretty much Eddie’s personal caretaker these days.”

“Wow,” he marvels playfully, wide-eyed and grinning. “On top of being a professional dishwasher? You’re really doin’ it all, aren’t ya, Punchy?”

“Mm-hmm. I am a real jack of all trades, Harrington,” you joke back with a commendable finesse and flash a teasing smile up at him. The pastel-colored lipstick has mostly disappeared from your mouth now. You look more like yourself.

“And Eddie— he’s got this crazy scar on his hand from when he was a kid, and he was helping Wayne wash the dishes. He, like, blindly reached into the water or something and stabbed himself. Knife went straight through his palm.”

Steve winces.

“Yep. Now he says he’s too traumatized to help do the chores,” you reminisce with a distant laugh and set the glass upside down on the drying rack. “I don’t mind, though. I like doing them on my own. Gives me time to think, you know?”

“I’m standing right here,” the boy beside you scoffs, feigning offense.

“You can be the exception, Stevie,” you assure with a grin.

Maybe it’s the look you give him. Maybe it’s the nickname he used to hate, but now makes his heart skip a beat or two — or three. Maybe it’s all those things and the way your fingers brush his wrist when you move to take the pot from his hands. Either way, something shifts and he forgets how to use his fine motor skills.

The pan slips from his fumbling hands and yours and plops back into the water. The metal bangs loudly when it hits the bottom of the sink. Both of you jump back to avoid the splash.

“Shit. Sorry,” he apologizes, eyes scanning your form to make sure he didn’t make a total mess of you.

“It’s okay,” you promise with a gentle laugh and swipe the towel in your hand over your sweater to remove the droplets clinging there.

Steve scrunches his nose. “I feel like I might’ve just ruined my co-dishwashing privileges.”

“Just a little,” you quip.

You give him no warning before bringing the waffle-patterned nettle up to his cheek to dry him off, too. He flinches at the suddenness of the action but melts into your touch without thinking twice.

“You know, you have a pretty cool scar, too,” you tell him, mostly out of the blue, while you dab at the stubble on his jaw.

Steve’s gotten used to all your abrupt mannerisms and the way you flip-flop between topics with an expertise only you seem to possess. He likes that about you, though. There’s never a quiet or still moment when he’s with you.

“Yeah?” he hums back.

You nod and move down to his neck. “I felt it a while ago, during our Night of the Living Dead marathon—” of which Steve has no recollection. He can’t remember a damn thing from those movies, but can still feel the tingle of your mouth against his own. 

“—On the back of your head. Felt pretty gnarly.”

You switch the towel to your other hand and use your free one to swipe through his hair. Your fingers muss at his hour or more of hard work, but your touch is a far better reward than nearly quaffed hair. You weave through the chocolate strands until you reach a marred, barren line.

“Right… there.”

Steve, still buzzing with your touch, manages a breathy chuckle. “Uh, yeah. It’s a… It’s a really long, really stupid story.”

“Wanna give me the short version?”

The grin you give him is impossible to say no to.

“I’m a super klutz,” he summarizes with a shrug and a sloppy grin. 

He mourns the loss of your touch when your hand slips from his hair. “Well, now I have to hear the story.”

“It’s dumb. Like, seriously—”

“I like dumb,” you assure quickly to stop whatever self-loathing he was about to spew. “I’m best friends with Eddie Munson. I think I can take it.”

“Touché,” he chuckles under his breath. The remaining dishes are left forgotten in the depths of the soapy water when he turns his back to him. He leans his weight on the countertop and grips the edges of it in his hands. “You see, I did this really smart thing when I was a baby where I’d, you know, crawl backwards—”

“Crawl backwards?” you repeat with an incredulous laugh.

“Yeah. I’d push with my hands — beep, beep, beep,” he flattens his palms and presses them against thin air to demonstrate it for you. “Always in reverse. I mean, it makes sense, right? You gotta push to move.”

“Sure,” you shrug. A laugh tumbles from your mouth shortly after.

“Did that until I reversed my way down a flight of stairs and hit my head pretty damn good,” he concludes with a wince. It’s like he can still feel the pain sometimes.

“Wow,” you marvel. “So, like… When people ask if you were dropped on your head as a kid, the answer would be—”

“Yep…” he sighs, then laughs when it makes you laugh. He looks over at you with sparkling cinnamon eyes. “It explains a lot, doesn’t it? I think, like, right out of the gate, I’m super confident, you know? But I’m also a total idiot, which is just a brutal combination.”

“I have noticed that, actually,” you confess with a gentle sort of smile.

“Yeah?” he winces.

“Yeah. You do this thing sometimes where you get all… suave and cool,” you tell him, squinting and lowering your voice a few octaves for effect. “Like you’re trying to be King Steve all over again. And then you, like, trip over a stack of DVDs or something because the universe is trying to humble you.”

“That is a… really good way of putting it, actually,” Steve confesses with a laugh.

“I think it’s sweet.”

“Well, the good thing is, I get a big enough thump on my head, I can change, you know? I can learn. So, I guess I’m pretty glad somebody bumped my head before we met. ‘Cause things probably would’ve turned out… a whole lot differently.”

Steve watches your face contort from understanding to confusion. Your manicured brows pinch together and your doe eyes squint over at him. He watches you break down his words in real time. 

“Somebody…” you murmur under your breath. “You mean… Are you talking about Nancy?”

“Yeah, uh… She gave me a— a pretty big thump, you know? Worse than the one I got falling down those stupid stairs,” he tells you with a reminiscent smile. 

It makes you feel like a total idiot, standing in front of him like this — a carbon copy of the girl that tore his heart to shreds.

“I deserved it, though. I mean, you knew me back then, I was a… a total asshole. And sometimes, I think I still would be if she didn’t, you know… if she didn’t… totally rip my fucking heart out,” he concludes with a sad sort of laugh. “Now I’m kinda grateful she did. As bad as it hurt — as angry as it made me — I think, in a lotta ways, it made me better.”

“Better?” you echo quietly.

“Yeah… If she didn’t break up with me when she did — if I didn’t get that dumb thump on my head — I wouldn’t have changed. I wouldn’t be… here right now. With you,” he confesses, revealing more of himself than he ever has before, to a girl he wouldn’t have been caught dead with a couple of years ago.

He looks beside him at this costumed girl — at you — and he sees someone he probably would’ve given the time of day back in high school. The lack of dark, baggy clothing makes you look approachable — like you won’t actually bite him for coming near you like the rumors always said.

And Steve’s self-aware enough to know he probably would’ve treated you like shit back then. He would’ve fucked you just to fuck you, then only talk to you when he needed you to do his homework for him. And you wouldn’t have been the first girl he did that to either, and the thought makes him want to puke.

He’s glad he’s found you when he did. He’s even happier you met him where he was at, in that awkward in-between stage of growing up where you’re trying to be someone different while still finding comfort in staying the same. You never complained even once when he reverted back to his old ways.

And even though you’re standing right next to him, your chest nearly brushing his arm with every heavy breath you take, he finds himself missing you. 

You’re not you — not without the fun outfits and the crazy hair and all your rings that clink together every time you move. He misses how the metal felt against his skin and the way they’d get caught in his hair.

You’re still beautiful like this, but it’s a strange type of beauty. One that both of you know doesn’t belong to you. You fit into it like baggy jeans or a too tight shirt. You’ve squeezed yourself into a ball to try to fit into a world far too small for you, because you thought that’s what Steve wanted.

“I’d still be that King Steve douchebag… Partying every night, getting drunk out of my mind, never settling down like I…” The words get trapped in his throat. He clears it to force them out. “Like I always wanted to, you know?”

“Right,” you murmur, voice not strong enough to be any louder than that.

“So, yeah, I don’t know. I guess, in some weird, roundabout way, I’m just to tell you that I’m not that guy anymore. King Steve,” he admits and presses his hip into the counter to face you fully.

When you gather the strength to look up at him, you find his gaze already dripping with honey and staring down at you. He’s all soft and mushy and twinkling with the adoration he’s got for you. And when he smiles, it’s so terribly sincere and coated with a distant sadness that’s been playing on the edge of his voice this whole time.

“And I know you might still see me as that guy. I don’t blame you. Honestly, I don’t really deserve to be looked at any differently, not after how I acted towards you—”

“Steve,” you breathe out in a tender sigh. “It’s okay—”

He shakes his head to himself. His eyes squeeze shut when his chin falls to his chest.

“It’s not. It’s… It’s really not. I just—” he inhales sharply, chest deflating on the exhale when his gaze turns back to you. He looks sterner now, but still so tender. “I just want you to know that I’ve changed, okay? I am changing. And I don’t want you to think I’m the kinda guy you have to change yourself for.”

When the weight of his words finally hits you, it feels a bit like being punched in the stomach.

It knocks all the wind out of you and makes it hard to think about anything other than the sudden loss of breath. Like a kid who’s fallen off the monkey bars and flat onto their back, you can’t do anything but writhe through the ache and hope you’ll be back to normal soon.

You got dressed that evening thinking you were the master of deception. You perfected your subterfuge and awaited Steve’s inevitable swooning because you looked like all the other girls he’d fallen in love with. 

But he sees through every inch of your pretending with his secret x-ray powers, and now you’re just a stupid girl standing in front of him, soaking wet with embarrassment.

It’s a little like when he and Tommy and all his basketball goons would make fun of you. They’d talk about you like you weren’t there while they tossed tiny crumbled up pieces of paper into your hair so they could watch you struggle to get them out. But, at the same time, it’s not like that at all. Because now he’s apologizing, and telling you that he likes you, and that you never had to change a single damn thing for him at all.

You’re equally as self-conscious, though, and feeling like a total idiot for thinking you could even pretend to be halfway normal.

“Oh…” is the only thing that leaves your mouth in that moment. Your mind is still going a million miles a minute. You want to blurt out an apology and an explanation all at once, while simultaneously turning into a puddle at his feet and disappearing entirely.

But rather than break down, you stay standing. Too stuck in your head to feel all there.

Steve seems to notice your trepidation almost immediately. His eyes widen and his brows raise and his pretty mouth falls open to let all of his reassurances spill out. 

“And it’s not that I don’t think you’re pretty! You’re— You’re perfect like this too, but I just…” he inhales and takes the tiniest step closer to you, putting an unsure hand on your waist. “I like you the way you were before. And this isn’t… This isn’t you.”

You blink back stinging tears and turn your gaze to where you toe your Mary Jane’s into the kitchen tile. You go to twist your rings like you always did when you were nervous before realizing you’d left them all at home.

“I just wanted to be like the girls you like,” you confess quietly.

“You are like the girls I like,” Steve corrects with a gentle laugh. “‘Cause I like you.”

Your eyes are all glassy when they flit back up to his. 

Even though you don’t look quite like yourself, the way you look at him hasn’t changed. You still gaze at him like you can see right through the nice hair and the dumb smirks and the stupid persona he puts on when he doesn’t feel good enough the way he is. You look at him like you’re in love with the boy he tries like hell to keep hidden.

The exact same way he looks at you.

“I think I just got a little spooked. Girls like me aren’t supposed to end up with guys like you.”

“I stopped believing in that shit a long time ago,” he admits with the shake of his head. “The whole soulmates-love-at-first-sight thing, it’s all… bullshit. If I’m gonna love someone, I’m gonna do it on purpose.”

Steve watches the lingering sadness in your eyes ebb to something sunnier. Your gaze sparkles and suddenly you’re beaming at him, not bothering to conceal the effect his words have on you. You don’t think you could even if you wanted to.

“I like that,” you murmur in approval, then more loudly proclaim: “Screw soulmates! Let’s start loving people on purpose!”

The two of you laugh about this promise you’ve just made to each other without really saying it to each other. It sort of goes unsaid — if I’m gonna love you, I’m gonna do it on purpose and let’s love each other on purpose. That’s what you mean, and neither of you has to say it out loud because you get it. 

It’s that exact realization that makes Steve’s heart flutter something fierce. Suddenly, the urge to touch you becomes too great to bear. He wants to feel you like he did on the couch of his theater room, when a film he could barely recall crackled in the background because the feel of you was too loud for him to hear anything else.

He needs you like that again, on him and all over him. The ache is a palpable one.

The boy squeezes your waist again, as though to remind you he was still there. Or, perhaps, to remind himself that you were still there —the real thing and not something his brain conjured up.

“It’s not totally insane how bad I want to kiss you right now, is it?” he wonders quietly to you. The low, sultry nature of his voice is not at all forced like it usually is when he’s trying most desperately to flirt with you. His words are just naturally weighed down by his desire for you.

You shake your head in a silent promise, then command through a grin, “Kiss me stupid, Harrington.”

Steve doesn’t waste a second.

He’s been anxiously awaiting his chance to touch you all night. He does so now with a vigor that makes you feel all of that anticipation. With one hand on your waist and the other cupping your jaw, you can feel his buzzing skin as it presses against your own — like the static of a television screen. His fingers settle between the strands of your hair while his thumb absentmindedly rubs along your cheekbone. 

The softness of his touch makes you hum against his mouth.

His lips are familiar like home — more than, because sometimes you think you’ve never really had one. 

There’s never been a cozy, warm, and tender place where you could rest your tired bones. Eddie’s trailer, maybe, but it wasn’t yours. No matter how often you slept within the four walls of his bedroom, no matter how hard you pretended like you’d lived there all your life, it would never belong to you.

But Steve could. 

Steve could be yours.

And you wouldn’t even have to pretend either. It would be for real this time.

His mouth was welcoming and pleasant and gentle, far more than you’ve ever gotten out of four walls and a roof. The plush pink of his lips — the cushion of his bottom one you like to dig your teeth into and the rough pad of his tongue that explores your mouth like undiscovered territory — is perhaps the softest thing you’ve ever known.

Even when he kisses you harder and guides you until your back is pressed against the edge of the countertop, it’s still so, so tender.

Steve’s hands migrate to your hips. His fingers clutch the fabric of your skirt as he cages you against his weight and the counter, as though out of fear you might slip away.

Your touch mirrors his desperate one. You cling to him with a similar intensity, balling the fabric of his navy blue Henley in one hand while you waltz through the pretty strands of his neatly styled hair with the other. You let him kiss you the way he wants to kiss you, keeping your obedient mouth plaint for him while he opens your mouth wider with his tongue.

His touches turn bruising, and yours go soft like summer rain.

Steve holds desperately onto you, like any moment he could wake up and none of this could be real. He kisses you like he won’t ever get to kiss you again, having no idea that you’ve already started to build a home in him. 

Meanwhile, your fingers tips trail like drops of water down his chest and stomach. They settle at his waist, on the top of his belt, and linger along the leather edge of it. You’re not quite sure what to do next — if you should wait for Steve to say something or if you should go ahead and take the lead.

Your sudden hesitation makes him nervous.

Steve’s lips click wetly as they part from yours. He peers down at you through heavy lids, amber eyes swimming with honeyed desire. His lips are pinker now, and swollen from being kissed so ardently. His brows pinch in concern. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t w—”

You barely let him get the words out before you press your mouth to his again. Your hands twist at the collar of his shirt to bring him back down to you. You stand on the tips of your toes to meet him halfway. 

“I want to,” you mumble, practically slurring from being so drunk on his touch.

“I wanna treat you right—” he tries to tell you. Some of his words are muffled against your mouth because you find yourself totally unable to stop kissing him now. “—Take things slow with you.” 

You smack a final kiss to his lips. When his honey eyes flutter open again, he finds you wearing a mischievous sort of smirk. There’s an accompanying teasing glint in your glazed over eyes.

“You can do all that when you’re inside of me,” you promise lowly, bold in a way neither of you are used to. The brazen nature of your dirty words is foreign but no less exciting.

They make Steve’s head get all swimmy and his cock tightens as it stiffens in his slacks. His spine tingles with his borderline overwhelming desire for you.

“Have mercy…” he murmurs within a heavy breath, more to himself than to you.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

And love, is only heaven away...

Steve’s curtains match his wallpaper.

It’s a questionable blue and gray plaid that you doubt he picked out himself. The framed pictures of sports cars only add to the boyish flair of his bedroom. It doesn’t look like him, though. None of it does.

The only real trace of Steve The Hair Harrington is the poster of Christie Brinkley hanging beside his window, diligently placed right next to his bed. It’s a blown-up Sports Illustrated cover — a beautiful, soaking wet woman posing less than effortlessly against a palm tree in all her blonde-haired, blue-eyed, perfected-bodied glory. It’s the most King Steve you’ve ever seen.

All the minute details of his bedroom make you giggle.

“You have great taste, Steve Harrington.”

He grumbles in annoyance at your teasing as he clicks his door shut behind you.

“Well, you can thank my mom for my great taste, okay? She decorated the place when we moved in, like, forever ago. I just haven’t, you know, gotten around to changing it yet.”

“I can tell,” you laugh and turn to him with a smirk. “Really cool bedsheets, by the way. I mean, seriously. This is state-of-the-art design here, Stevie.”

It isn’t until he’s being pelted with your relentless teasing that he remembers he’s got dinosaur-patterned linens spread out on his mattress.

Steve typically likes to alternate bedsheets in between washing them. His plain gray ones would’ve perhaps been more appropriate for times like this, but they were in his hamper along with another set of plaid ones. His dino sheets may be immature, but they’re no less comfortable. It’s not his fault they just happened to fall on the week you were coming over.

“Alright, Punchy—” The boy rolls his eyes and splays two wide hands on your sides, pressing himself into you rather shamelessly. You wonder if the clothed stiffness against your lower stomach is just your imagination. Any other teasing remarks dissipate from the tip of your tongue as your eyes widen.

Steve notices your silence and smiles. “—You wanna keep making fun of me, or do you wanna make out some more?”

“I think we can do both,” you answer with a shrug, resting your hands along his waist. “I’m quite the multitasker, Harrington.”

“Yeah?”

You nod.

“Wanna show me?”

You nod again, smiling wider now.

He smashes his lips into yours again. You meet him halfway. It’s all too easy to fall back into the swings of things — the desperate mouths and longing touches. Maybe because you’re always desperate and longing for him. And, with the way he’s clinging to you now, you figure he must always be those things for you, too.

You relish in all of his little touches, in the duality of them. He cups your jaw so tenderly yet clutches your hip like he’s still trying to discern whether you’re real or not. Then his palms slide around your waist and up your back until he’s all but hugging you. It’s too sweet a gesture for how he’s prying your lips open with his mouth to slip his tongue inside. 

His hands settle, finally, at the very bottom of your sweater. They linger at them hem, not pressuring you to do anything, just waiting for you to make a move. 

You part from him to abide by his unspoken want. Your trembling hands work together to free you from your top. You’re more than grateful to pry the itchy thing off of you.

Steve doesn’t get the chance to admire the bra you wear. He catches a glimpse of frilly lace, but there’s little time to praise your topless form before you’re pulling him into another searing kiss. It’s full of tongue and teeth now, far more hungry that just moments ago. Your fingers slither through his hair and curl in the strands. You keep him firmly locked against you as his lips trail down your neck.

He finds your most sensitive spot in record time — the one just under your jaw, right beside your racing pulse. Your legs nearly give out when his tongue runs over it. A breathy moan exhales from your mouth before you can stop it and you feel him smile against your neck. He doesn’t comment on it, just keeps kissing you there in the hopes that you’ll do it for him again.

You do.

Steve sucks and nips at your delicate skin, and you revel in the feeling of his mouth. Head thrown back, you let him paint your neck in varying shades of red. Some will disappear come morning; others will darken into souvenirs for you to admire for the next few days.

The thought of him marking you drives you nearly as crazy as the feeling of his lips against you. 

You stopped trying to hold back your whines somewhere around ten of them ago. It was easier, you found, for him to kiss you and to let yourself enjoy it than be hyperaware of all the sounds you were or weren’t making. Steve seems to like it when you moan for him, anyway. Every time you do, he kisses you harder, holds you tighter, and hums out his own subtle moans against you.

He digs his teeth into your skin. It makes you whimper. The desperate, high-pitched noise fades into a lower moan when the rough pad of his tongue rushes out to soothe the bite. He moves on to kiss you elsewhere. You shiver when your spit-slicked skin meets the cool air.

You don’t notice that you’ve hitched your leg up his hip until you feel his warm hand on your thigh to hold it up for you. His fingers inch up until the tips of them rest beneath the hem of your skirt.

You don’t bother to hide how much you want him.

He doesn’t bother to hide how badly he needs you close.

“Wanna make you feel good,” he mumbles into your neck, smiling when his words make you whine. “Can I make you feel good?”

You nod when the words get stuck in your throat.

He parts from you for the first time in several minutes. His heavy gaze meets your own. “Can you say it for me?” he asks, not teasing you, just wanting to make sure you want this. Him.

“Want you to…” you start, then swallow when your voice is tighter than expected. You manage the rest through bated breaths. “…to make me feel good.”

Steve kisses you again, a long and thorough stamp on your lips, followed by several tinier pecks. Then his mouth starts its journey down, down, down your body, stopping only to admire your exposed chest. He’s more than pleased to find that what you’re wearing is hardly a bra at all.

It’s a sheer thing with dainty lace detailing. He figures it’s more for decoration than to push up your breasts. There’s no padding at all. Just a pretty tulle number that leaves very little to the imagination.

You watch him intently with a smile, enamored by how enamored he seems to be by a pair of boobs. You never thought yours were much to ogle over, but Steve presses tender, wet kisses to them anyway. He takes the plush between his teeth, sucking on the delicate skin to leave a blossoming bruise there. He only trails further down when he’s satisfied with the mark he’s branded you with.

Steve falls to his knees with a soft thud upon the carpeted floor. The faint sound is much more obvious in the quiet of his bedroom. He looks somehow prettier below you — soft and delicate and sweet like chocolate syrup or marshmallow fluff. But he’s still got this air about him, something stern and domineering, that tells you he’s still got all the power.

He presses a kiss to your thigh, just above the top of your sock, then several more further up. His fingers raise the fabric of your skirt the higher his lips travel. And, strangely, you’re not all that nervous about being half-naked in front of him. It’s hard to be when he’s kissing you like you’re a beautiful thing that deserves to be touched so tenderly.

Steve keeps pushing up your skirt and stills when he reaches the apex of your thigh, right where the top of it meets the joint of your hip.

Your underwear doesn’t match the bra you’re wearing, he finds. It’s orange all over and spotted with bats — the color has faded slightly, like you’d bought them some number of Halloweens ago.

It’s endearing. Everything about you is endearing. Even when you aren’t trying.

“Hold it up for me, yeah?” he asks you with your skirt in his hands.

It shouldn’t surprise him when you do the exact opposite. You step back from him to shove the thing down your legs, then leave it in a pool of forgotten fabric on his bedroom floor when you gravitate towards him all over again. 

His hands rise to your outer thigh and rub soothingly along the warmed skin. You wonder if he can feel the goosebumps pebbling there. The smirk he flashes up at you tells you that he does.

He’s got a twinkle in his eye when he teases you. “Really cute underwear, by the way.”

“I was obviously very prepared for this,” you retort with ease, making fun of yourself just as effortlessly as you can make fun of him.

“I like them,” the boy assures. “I really like them. Very on brand, Punchy.”

“Would you like me better out of them?”

Your arched brow and knowing smirk, kept caged between your teeth, is met with a bemused gaze. Steve’s eyes go wide at your forwardness.

“Uh, yeah— I mean… yeah,” he nods with a breathless chuckle. Then, more sincerely says, “Only if you still want to.”

You scoff at his timidity, though it’s more at yourself than him. “Look at me, Steve,” you answer plainly, motioning to your half-naked form and the damp spot forming in your underwear. “If I didn’t want this, you’d know by now.”

Steve huffs out a laugh, just before pressing a chaste kiss to the black bow of your panties. He noses at the softness of your stomach while his fingers curl around the hem. He tugs them slowly downward, giving you ample time to stop him if you wanted. 

A part of him is still convinced that none of this is real — you, namely. Truth be told, he’s waiting for a smack to the face and a rant about how all of this was just bullshit.

It never comes, though.

Instead, he gets a sheepish grin and a sparkling gaze as you hold onto his shoulder to step out of your underwear. The giggle that spills from your mouth when he tosses them over his shoulder makes him smile. 

Your pussy is as pretty as the rest of you. It’s more manicured than he imagined for a girl as wild as you. There’s a tuft of hair on your pubic bone, cut down and shaved around the edges. It leaves your lips bare and glistening with your accumulating slick.

Steve’s all but salivating at the sight of you.

“You wanna put that mouth to work, Harrington, or do you wanna ogle some m— oh,” you try to tease him, all amused at how he looks like he’s never seen a naked girl before, knowing full well he’s seen plenty. But your taunts evaporate from your tongue when he finally puts his mouth on you. They ebb into a breathy, high-pitched moan.

The tip of his chiseled nose smushes against you while he licks at the rest of your pussy with a practiced tongue. 

It’s more than obvious he’s done this before. Enough to have become a borderline professional at it. He finds your sensitive button within seconds and with minimal effort. Your legs are already buckling, practically turning to jelly, and he’s only just started. 

He latches onto your lips with a swollen pink mouth. His warm, wide hands wrap around the backs of your thighs to keep you steady and anchored against him.

Steve kisses your cunt like he’s making out with you. He opens and closes his mouth in slow, rhythmic motions, rutting his tongue along your glistening skin all the while. He’s sloppy with intention. Every touch is meticulous. He’s trying to figure you out, trying to learn what you like the most and what makes you moan the loudest for him.

Steve’s attentive. He’s ambitious and ardent. It’s like he enjoys kissing you down there, and not like he’s doing you a favor so he can get something in return. He moans against you like it’s every bit as pleasurable for him, as it is for you.

He alternates his efforts while he discovers you like unexplored territory.

You giggled like it tickled you when he stuck his tongue into your cunt the first time, then moaned when his nose nudged your clit. “Your mouth is so good,” you’d praised through bated breaths, but your whines had gotten too quiet for his liking. He opted to give his tongue a break and latch his slick lips to your swelling clit.

You liked it most when he sucked you there. At least, he figures you must, with the way your mouth parts in a silent cry and your hands dart to his hair to push him further into you.

“You like that?” Steve asks you, just to be sure. He pulls enough away so the words are intelligible, but still close for you to feel the vibrations of them against your skin.

“Yes,” you answer in a broken sigh.

Steve barely lets you answer before he’s licking a flat stripe up the length of your pussy. He slows methodically when the tip of his tongue catches your puffy clit, just so he can see your legs tremble. They do, rather intensely so, and he revels in the way your thighs quiver at his temples.

He wishes he’d laid you down before putting his mouth on you. He regrets not getting to spread you open, to part your soft folds with his thumbs, and admire you the way you deserve to be admired. 

But to be under you this way is a reward in itself. To get on his knees for you, to let you grind your hips against his face, it’s heaven. He never wants to stop feeling you this way.

“Please, Steve…” you moan breathlessly. “Please, please, please.”

You plea like it’s a mantra. Your voice grows tighter and tighter the closer you get to your peak. 

Steve’s not entirely what you’re begging for. You’re not either, really. You just know that the pleasure is swelling. The wringing knot in your stomach is close to snapping. The thought alone is borderline overwhelming. You want to run away from the crescendoing feeling and keep it locked against your pussy all at once.

“Steve… Steve, please. I’m— fuck.”

“You can take it,” he promises, speaking the words into your cunt. His lips smack when he pulls away from you, just for a moment to catch his breath. His chest heaves and his tongue darts to graze his bottom lip. “It’s yours, baby. Just take it—”

You’re a goner the second he wraps his lips around your clit again. He suckles there like his life depends on it. Your hips twitch and you tug at his hair when you come, perhaps a bit rougher than you realize. Steve delights in the burn at his scalp. He groans shamelessly into you, a hearty grumble that rolls over every inch of your body.

You make the mistake of looking down at him in the midst of your undoing. You bring your chin down to your chest and open your fluttering eyes to peer down at the boy below you. He’s already looking up at you, you find, with his own bleary gaze. His cinnamon eyes glitter up at you and you melt for him.

Something about the sight of Steve on his knees for you, face snug against your cunt, and gaze lidded with desire makes you keen. Your hips flex, then still against his mouth while you gush for him.

“There you go,” he murmurs against your cunt. “There you go, baby.”

A high moan gets hung in your throat at his praise. It escapes in a delicate cry when your orgasm pummels into you full throttle. You’re whining and terribly sensitive when the buzzing feeling starts to ebb.

Steve laps at your weeping cunt while you writhe. 

He knows to leave your throbbing clit alone now, but seeks to prolong your pleasure in other ways. He gathers the honey you leak from your pulsating hole with an eager tongue and doesn’t relent until you’re twitching away from him. Only when you’re tugging him off by his hair is he satisfied.

Then he goes effortlessly soft again.

He presses little kisses to the burning flesh of your thighs and runs his palms along the backs of them to coax you back to the earth again.

When your cries fade to more contented sighs and your eyes find his again, he smiles sweetly up at you. Too sweetly. He shouldn’t be grinning so tenderly, not when his lips and chin and nose glisten with your slick.

Steve wipes his mouth with the back of his hands as he rises to his full height in front of you.

“Was that… Was that good for you?” he wonders, suddenly sheepish like he wasn’t lapping at your pussy a minute or more ago.

“Are you kidding?” you retort, trying to laugh at him. All that comes out is a fatigued scoff. Your hands twist in the fabric of his shirt and you lean heavily against him when his arms wrap around you again. “I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard in my life.”

That nearly does him in right then.

He leans to press a languid kiss to your mouth. There’s a foreign musk to his tongue now that wasn’t there before. You hum a moan against him when you realize it’s you that you’re tasting.

“Can I suck you off?” you blurt.

Steve freezes. 

There’s hardly a thing he wants more than to feel your warm mouth on his cock. He’s been hard and aching since the second he got you into his bedroom. And that’s exactly why he knows he won’t last.

He usually jerks off before dates for that exact reason. At least, King Steve did because King Steve knew wherever he was going, he was getting laid. He wouldn’t have the reputation he did if he only lasted eight seconds.

He would’ve gotten himself off before you came around, made sure he was able to last as long as you needed him to if he’d expected you to need him at all. But he wasn’t expecting any of this to happen — especially not for you to come against his mouth and ask to give him a blowjob minutes later. 

He didn’t invite you to dinner in the hopes you’d put out after. Call him old-fashioned, but he enjoys spending innocent time with you. He would’ve been more than happy to cook you dinner and kiss you on the cheek before you left.

But here you are, wanting more.

You never stop surprising him.

“I mean, it’s only fair, right?” you shrug at his silence. “You deserve to get off too.”

“You don’t have to. Not just because I did it for you—”

“I’ve been hearing about your dick since the tenth grade. I’m pretty sure I’m the only girl in the class of ’85 that hasn’t seen it. The least you can do is let me give you a measly blowjob,” you confess lowly.

Steve, knocked senseless at your words, starts working his belt off without a second thought. His hands fumble with the buckle while he smirks at you. “Yeah? What have you heard?”

“Oh, you know. The usual,” you answer vaguely and saunter the short distance to his bed. You plop down on the edge of it and lean your weight on your palms. “Just that you have a monster-sized dick and that Marianne from Soc nearly broke it when you took her virginity.”

“That was a rumor!” he defends as he steps out of his jeans. His shirt goes next. He pulls the thing up and over his head with an admirable sort of finesse, leaving his toned torso and hairy chest on display for you. 

“The monster-sized dick or the Marianne from Soc thing?”

He doesn’t entertain with an answer, just drops his boxers and lets you figure it out for yourself. 

His cock is already hard and glowing a faint strawberry color at the tip with neglect. It curves to his right hip and hangs there, weighed down by its own size. The hair upon his pubic bone rises to meet the happy trail on his lean stomach, trimmed slightly but still a bit wild. Tanned skin, heavy balls, and a singular vein that trails like a river from the base to the head — Steve Harrington’s got the prettiest dick you’ve ever seen.

You don’t even realize you’re gawking at him because you’re too busy trying to figure out how either could be rumors. You’re looking at beast right now, a wild thing that tiny, little Marianne from Soc certainly couldn’t handle. You’re not even entirely sure if you can.

Steve blanches at your hesitation. He sees you retreat into your head and rushes to bring you back. “Hey, we don’t have to… We don’t have to do this if you do want to. We don’t have to do any of this if—”

“I want to,” you assure quickly, eyes widening when you realize how quiet you’d gone. You can imagine how mortifying it must’ve been, for him to get naked in front of you and be met with total silence. “You just… have the biggest dick I’ve ever seen.”

His concern ebbs to a relieved smile. “Well, thanks for stroking my ego, princess.”

“I would love to stroke something else,” you quip with a playful grin that’s far too proud of such a dumb joke.

Steve rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother to hide his smile. 

He wants it on record, though, that he’s not grinning at your mindless innuendo. It wreaks too much of Eddie. You both seem to possess a similar sort of humor in that way, in how you can make anything into a joke — particularly a dirty one.

“Thanks for stroking my ego,” Steve would say and Munson would joke, “Well, we both know nothing else of yours is getting stroked, Harrington, so it’s the least I can do.” And Eddie would’ve been right. But Steve would never let him know that.

The boy settles in the middle of his bed and watches with a glittering gaze as Eddie’s best friend climbs between his legs. She spits into her palm and starts tugging at his hard cock with it. Steve isn’t sure of what to do — if he should rub it in this boy’s face or keep this piece of heaven to himself. He decides on that latter when your lips wrap around his leaking tip.

You’ll tell Eddie about all this tomorrow. He’s your best friend, after all — Steve will be doing the same with Robin, no doubt. And that alone is a reward in and of itself.

Getting him into your mouth was easy in theory, but you quickly find that it’s a harder feat than you realized. Steve’s not just long, he’s wide, and the combination makes it nearly impossible to take him fully. 

You pay extra attention to his strawberry pink tip to make up for what you can’t reach. He seems to like that more than anything else. Pearly pre-come leaks from there and you happily lap up his dribbling honey. Steve shudders every time your tongue meets his mushroom tip. His cock keeps drooling for you, so you keep doing it.

You work the rest of him with your palm, made slippery with your spit. Your free hand anchors around his thigh.

The combined effort isn’t something Steve’s particularly used to. 

Most girls choose one or the other. They either try to swallow him whole or opt to use their hands when they know that they can’t. That is, if they even want to suck him off at all. The foreign attention you give him drives him to the edge embarrassingly quickly.

“Hey, we should, uh— we should maybe stop,” he cautions tightly.

You detach from the head of his dick with a soft pop, but keep working him slowly with your palm. Your brows pinch together with concern. “You okay? Is it not… Is it not good?”

“What? No! It’s not— It’s not that. It’s great. That’s the… That’s sorta the problem,” Steve assures with an awkward laugh. “I’m not gonna… I probably won’t last much longer. And if you wanna… you know…”

“Fuck?” you finish for him with a teasing grin.

“Yeah. Then we should, you know, maybe stop now.”

Your hand stills at the base of his cock. Steve can finally breathe without the worry of bursting entirely.

“I mean, we can stop if you want to. You know, no pressure or anything, but… I don’t mind. I was sorta looking forward to you coming in my mouth.”

And how the hell was Steve ever going to say no to that — to you? He’s never denied you of anything before, and with that godawful track record, he wasn’t exactly equipped to start now.

Your mouth wraps around him again. You kitten lick at his tip and moan at the musky taste before sucking at his blushing head.

It feels good — it feels great — but he’s plagued with a lingering worry. 

He wants so desperately to fuck you, more than he needs to breathe, it feels like. But your mouth is too perfect a thing to deprive himself of. He’s scared it’ll take him too long to get hard again, or worse, that he won’t be able to at all. 

The thought of embarrassing himself in front of you, of not making you feel as good as he wants to make you feel, is an unbearable one.

There’s no way he’s stopping you, though. How can he when you’re sucking him off like your life depends on it? Your hand tugs and squeezes at the base of his cock while your tongue laps at his drooling tip. And on top of all that, you moan against him like making him feel good is making you feel good, too.

“Holy shit,” Steve forces through a tightening throat when your tongue dips just below his head to lick where the pale blue vein fades. His neck stretches as he digs the crown of his head into the pillow, revealing all of the pretty tendons you want to sink your teeth into.

“Your mouth is— fuck… Your mouth is fucking perfect, babe, shit.”

All of his little reactions spur you forward. 

You want him to keep praising you. You want to keep making his legs shudder and his hips twitch and his cock jerk in your mouth. So you double your efforts, just to hear more of his pretty whines that get stuck in his throat.

When you duck your head to pay the same amount of attention to his balls, Steve’s a total fucking goner.

His hands, both of which were obediently fisting the bedsheets, immediately dart to your hair when you suck his sack into your mouth. One warm palm cradles your jaw while the other clings to the back of your hand. He doesn’t push you or force you to take him further — he just holds you.

“I’m gonna come,” he grunts before a groan climbs out from his throat. His head falls back again, but he forces it upright a moment later so he can keep on watching you.

His hips stutter when you hum a moan against him.

“Yeah? Is that what you want?” he manages through heavy pants. “You want my come?”

You nod with his balls still in your mouth, then pull off of them with a pop to put his cock back in your mouth. 

Steve gives you exactly what you want no more than ten seconds later, spitting several loads of his come onto your tongue. It tastes like what had been leaking from his tip, just a bit saltier and far more potent with so much of it in your mouth at one time.

Steve’s thighs tremble around you and hips buck wildly despite himself until he’s given you everything he can possibly give to you. 

He allows himself only a few moments to relish in the aftermath of his swirling pleasure before reaching for the box of tissues on his bedside table. He rises to his elbows to hand you the napkin when his dick slips from your mouth. 

“Here, you can—” he says, trying to offer you something to spit into. It’s a habit he’d developed after the tenth or so girl refused to swallow.

You’ve already wolfed down his come, though, and wiped the excess at the corners of your mouth with the tips of your fingers. You don’t let a single drop of him go to waste.

All this time, Steve assumed he just tasted bad. He figured that must’ve been why no girl ever swallowed for him — not even Nancy, the only other girl he was ever really serious about. And they were together for two years. On the off chance she ever actually wanted to give him a blowjob, he knew her swallowing his come was totally out of the question.

Steve never minded, though. He was a giver more than he was anything else and he preferred most to finish inside. But now, with you, he sees just how much he’d missed out on. It feels a bit strange and unearthly levels of gratifying.

The boy breathes out a laugh and falls back against the mattress. The tissue falls from his limp hand onto the carpeted floor as he revels in his post-orgasmic haze. With his head still swimming and his legs still tingling, his glassy eyes find the speckled ceiling above him but don’t focus on anything in particular.

“Was that—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” he interjects softly. 

There’s no use in asking if you were good or not. Surely, you could answer the question just by looking at him. He’s a puddle of a man in the middle of his bed, pliant and at your mercy.

You giggle and slither in beside him, pressing your mostly bare body into his side. One leg wraps over his own. The warmth of your slick pussy lingers at his hip. You prop your head up with your fist while your other settles along his chest, busying itself with the tufts of hair there.

“That was, like, really good,” you praise with a sheepish beam. You wish you knew bigger words that might be able to describe it better. Really good doesn’t come close to explaining how heavenly it felt to come in his mouth, for him to come in yours. “You certainly lived up to all the rumors, Harrington.”

“You say that like we’re done,” he chuckles at your conclusive tone.

Your eyes flit from his face to his softening cock lying limb on his thigh, then back to his face again. You arch a skeptical brow. “No?”

“Not even close,” he shakes his head defiantly. His honey eyes flit between the both of yours. “I need to fuck you, babe, I just… I need a few minutes. If that, you know— If that’s okay with you…”

“You just give me life-changing head. So, yeah, I think I can give you a couple minutes,” you promise with a playful, but not insincere smile.

Even after having his mouth on you, and your mouth on him, you still like kissing him the most.

No amount of pleasure can sate the feeling of having him so close in this way. There’s nothing equally gratifying as sucking his bottom lip into your mouth or feeling the wet muscle of his tongue running itself over your own. You’d be more than happy to kiss him like this until sunrise.

Steve’s hands stay locked on either side of your head while he pries your mouth open with his own. He’ll occasionally pull back to admire your spit-slick, kiss-bitten lips for a moment or two. Then he’ll flash you a smile, like you’re a piece of finished artwork he’s happy with, before pulling you back down again.

You lean just over him, elbow digging into the pillow beside his head as you rest your weight on your arm. That hand twists itself within the strands of his hair, fingers lazing in the chestnut halo on his head. Your other migrates down his body, touching him with feather-light grazes to coax him hard again. 

His stomach tightens when your nails sweep over the thin trail of hair there. His stiffening cock twitches where it lazes along his inner thigh.

“Top or bottom?” the boy mumbles between languid kisses. His eyes flutter open long enough to catch the brief flash of confusion on your face. You don’t stop pressing your lips to his, even amid your uncertainty.

“Like bunks?”

Steve sputters a laugh against your mouth. He pulls away so he can look at you. “No, like— I meant, do you wanna ride me? Or would you rather lay down?”

“Oh. Shit. Sorry,” you stammer quickly. You figure the question must’ve puzzled you because no guy has ever asked before. This kindness is still a tad bit foreign. “I just— I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s okay. It was cute,” Steve assures with a smile so soft it has to be sincere.

“Um… I don’t— I mean, I don’t know. Is that, like, something you want me to do?”

His right hand leaves your face to find his cock. He wraps his fist around himself, pumping slowly to keep himself hard for you. “It’s whatever you want, okay? Promise. I just thought it might be easier for you if you were on top. So you can take things at your own pace and everything.”

“Yeah,” you affirm within a heavy exhale. You feel yourself growing wetter at the mere thought of being on top of him like that. You nod until the words catch up with you. “Yeah. Okay.”

It isn’t your first time being in this position, but something about straddling Steve’s hips feels foreign. You’re starting to notice that most things you do with him feels that way — new and strange and alarming. Even the most innocent things, the mundane shit you’ve done a thousand times before, it’s all brand new with him.

You twist your hand behind your back to unclip your bra. Steve watches you with wide eyes like you’re doing some sort of magic trick. When you toss the piece of fabric somewhere on his bedroom floor, he spits into his palm to wet his cock.

His eyes flit from his hand, to your glistening pussy hovering just above his lap, to your face. “You can, uh— You can rub yourself on me, if you want. You know, to get it wetter. I don’t have lube or anything. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, I’m…” you trail off. I’m more than wet, you’d almost said. That felt a little too overzealous, though, so you settle on telling him: “I’m okay.”

“You’re still on the, um, the pill, right?” he wonders, feeling a bit lame for remembering something you’d said in passing so long ago.

You complained once that birth control made you feel crazy. You said it affected your mood so drastically sometimes that it didn’t feel worth it to take. That was weeks ago. A brief conversation you’d left in the Family Video parking lot. 

You nod wordlessly in reply.

Steve holds the base of his cock to keep it steady for you as you pierce yourself with it. 

Taking his blushing head was the easiest part. The sensitive tip slips so effortlessly into you, just bulbous enough for you to feel it but not enough to stretch you out. It’s a Goldilocks just right sort of feeling that has low moans crawling from the depths of your throats.

Down, down, down a couple more inches and that’s when the ache starts to set in.

His girth stretches you in an unfamiliar, but no less satisfying way. As good as it feels, the burning sensation is a hard one to ignore. It’s like a fire, a distant one. It’s sort of like reaching your hand toward a flame while your brain screams at you to not get any closer.

It’s a lot like that, actually.

Your brain cautions you about taking him any deeper than you have now lest he might totally split you in half.

“Sorry— Sorry. I’m sorry,” you sputter suddenly, a little embarrassed that he’s only a couple of inches within you and you’re already having so much trouble. With your chin tilted towards your chest and your eyes squeezed shut, you refuse to meet Steve’s concerned gaze. “It’s just… It’s kind of a lot.”

“It’s okay,” he assures quickly. He rubs two soothing hands along your hips and fights back the urge to thrust further into you. You don’t see the gentle smile he looks at you with your eyes closed. “Take your time.”

A little over a minute and a pep talk later, you finally build up the courage to sit on him fully. Come, you can do it, your inner voice spits at you. Stop being a baby. It’s just a penis, don’t be such a bitch. 

Your face scrunches when you slide slowly down upon him. Steve expects you to stop and take a break for anothera moment like you’d done just before. He’s more than surprised when you try to take him completely.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. You don’t have to— holy shit, babe— don’t hurt yourself— fuuuck.”

You breathe out a heavy sigh of relief when he’s finally sheathed within your pulsating pussy. A lazy, lopsided smile makes its way to your lips, delirious with pleasure and pride. 

Both of you exhale faraway moans at the new feeling, heads falling back on their own accord. You’re already more than gratified and you haven’t even moved yet. He’s reaching parts of you that most guys don’t on their best day, making you feel full without trying. Even without his thrusting, the minuscule twitches of his cock are already driving you toward an orgasm.

“Can I tell you a secret?” you ask him suddenly, smiling lazily at the ceiling. 

Steve’s adams apple bobs as he swallows. Then he nods.

“I’m already really fucking close,” you confess with a breathless laugh, face crumbling under the weight of your pleasure halfway through.

Steve chuckles, then groans quietly. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I am, too.”

You laugh together and your coinciding embarrassment fades like an ebbing tide. The intimate confessions affirm what you were already more than aware of — that the both of you are just a couple of lovesick idiots who are head over heels for each other and in so far over your heads that you can barely breathe.

You’re spurred on by the sight below you. Steve’s wild hair and amber eyes and swollen pink mouth make you ravenous. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, looking like the sight of you makes him hungry too, as you start to grind your hips over his lap.

He guides your rhythm with two wide hands on your hips. Your pace is slow, every roll of your hips is experimental, and he revels in every second of it.

You start by rocking back and forth over his lap, then by moving in small circles to add stimulation. When get more confident, you lift yourself up and down over his cock. He’s able to hit your most sensitive spot that way. Steve seems to like it too, because you feel the subtle jerks of his responsive cock.

He accommodates your every move — thrusting his hips in time with your bouncing, then flexing them to reach as deep as he can within you.

“That’s it…” Steve murmurs, mostly to himself. He’s not exactly trying to praise you, but his words send lightning strikes of pleasure to your pussy anyway. He keeps babbling to himself. “That’s it, baby. Take it. Just like that…”

You support yourself with your palms on his hairy chest when you double your efforts on top of him. Steve groans at the lewd sound of your slick thighs clapping over his lap every time you move down on his cock. Your cunt quickly drenches his lower stomach and the small thatch of pubic hair just below it.

You too easily forget that fucking is a marathon and not a sprint. 

You overexert yourself quickly in your attempt to rush toward an orgasm and the effects of your sudden fatigue make your legs feel numb.

“Sorry,” you apologize breathlessly when you’re bouncing slows to a stop. You collapse to your elbows, nose nearly grazing Steve’s, as you swivel your hips slowly over his lap. You try to laugh at yourself. “My legs are just getting a little tired… I haven’t done this in a while if you couldn’t tell.”

Steve smiles sympathetically up at you. His hands leave the plush of your hips to cradle your jaw. He gazes at you with a stern sort of gentleness. “Stop apologizing. You’re good,” he promises, then pulls you softly down to peck your mouth.

He rolls his hips up into you and grunts when it makes you whine. “So fucking good…”

Steve tells you to tuck your knees further up his torso and you obey without thinking. You tuck your face into his shoulder and let him cradle the back of your head with one hand while the other settles on your ass. 

He grips you there rather shamelessly, fingers digging into your plump skin, while he bends his knees behind you. He plants his feet on the mattress and thrusts up into you without warning. 

His pace is already a relentless one, having no need to work himself up to a rapid pass as you had. Being basketball team captain has done wonders for his stamina, it seems. He drills up into you and keeps drilling into you without tiring. 

He keeps you securely pressed against him all the while and you relax into his embrace, happily letting him fuck you in his own delicious rhythm as he’d done for you.

The new position stimulates you from all angles. Steve’s hard cock pounds into your weeping pussy. Your swollen clit catches the coarse hair on his taut stomach with each of his thrusts. Your pebbled nipples drag along his furry chest.

It leaves you a whining, writhing mess on top of him.

“You like this?” he murmurs in your ear through broken pants. 

He’s partly teasing you. He knows you mustlike what he’s doing to some degree because you’re moaning something fierce into his neck, peppering too sweet kisses in between your pretty whines. But he also wants to know that you like it. He wants to hear you say the words.

He feels you nod against his shoulder. “Yes...” You sigh, then whimper. “Yes, yes yes—”

“I knew you did,” he affirms. You can hear the smile on his face. You’re not sure if he’s mocking you or not. You’re not sure if you particularly care either. 

His stubbly jaw grazes your cheek when he turns his head to press a kiss to the burning skin. “Knew you’d like it… Takin’ my dick like a fuckin’ champ, babe.”

“Wanna be good for you,” you confess against his sweat-slicked skin, your voice high and wet like you’re close to crying.

Steve tugs at your hair, not enough to hurt you, just enough to pull you from the refuge you’d sought in the nook of his neck. He finds that your eyes are glassy with unshed tears, brows pinching and swollen lips softly agape. His amber eyes are just as wild, heavy with hunger.

“You are good for me, baby,” he promises and seals it with a searing kiss to your wet mouth. He means it in more ways than one and prays you understand. “You’re so good for me… Fucking perfect, babe— shit—”

His cock twitches in your snug slick when you clench around him. He tightens the grip he’s got on your ass and spreads you wider to pound harder into you. You hope his scorching touch will leave bruises come morning. You want to remember how it felt to have him touching you this way.

“Steve…” you sigh, helpless.

“Hmm?”

“I’m gonna…” you start, then whimper when you feel the familiar pleasure start to crescendo once more. It takes a moment for the words to return to you. “I’m about to come.”

“Touch yourself,” he blurts.

Your lidded gaze widens. You peer down at him, bemused by his sudden request. “Huh?”

“Touch yourself for me,” he repeats, groaning when the request makes you tighten around him. “Want this to be good for you, too.”

He says this like you’re not already in heaven. You listen to him anyway, though, and squeeze your hand between your slick bodies to find your sensitive button. You rub at your clit until your thighs tremble around his waist. You try your best to ride through every bolt of lightning the pleasure shoots down your spine, despite the distant fear that you won’t be able to weather them.

“Yeah, there you go,” he praises lowly. “Keep rubbing your clit for me…”

Your free hand stays locked in his hair. Your grip tightens within the chocolate strands as you near your peak. Steve revels in the ache, groaning into your shoulder when the burn at his scalp spreads. 

You’re already gut-wrenchingly close. You can feel the coil in your belly tightening, a struck chord crescendoing — and then Steve changes the angle of his hips. He flexes them suddenly and his thick cock probes something much deeper inside of you. Something that’s never been touched before — not by another guy or a toy or you.

It’s tender, and much more sensitive than your clit. Your vision strays for a brief moment as a white-hot flame of pleasure makes you jerk against him. You gasp sharply, then forget how to breathe when a moan gets caught in your throat. Your hand stills between your slick bodies as you freeze on top of him.

The wet cry finally spills from your mouth after several long seconds. It’s as long and delicate and wet as the orgasm you gush around Steve’s cock.

The flame burns red hot just before you come, then turns to simmering embers when your cunt numbs from the intense pleasure. You blink, and suddenly the fire is burning blue. The rest of your body becomes a casualty to the inferno.

“Yeah? Is that the spot, baby?” you hear Steve wonder. He murmurs the words in your ear, but you don’t hear them. They sound muffled and far away. 

You hope he doesn’t expect you to answer. You’re not entirely sure if you can form words anymore, or any actual conceivable thoughts. All you can do is suffer through every overwhelming wave of your orgasm that leaves you a crying and convulsing mess on Steve’s lap.

“Holy fuck—”

The boy slams his hips against you with a final, dense clap that sounds deafening in the quiet of his bedroom. Your gushing and fluttering cunt milks his cock. The feeling of your weeping pussy and the sound of your pretty whines throw him headfirst into his own orgasm. His thrusts still as he twitches within you. A moment later, you feel the subtle tingle at the base of your spine when he spits his come inside of you. 

His come paints your welcoming, rippling walls. It’s warm, like the first sip of coffee in the morning or fuzzy socks on cold feet. It blankets you in a sinful comfort.

Steve noses at your cheek while he rides the high of his climax. He rolls his hips slowly into you, much softer now that his cock has grown so sensitive. He clamps his mouth shut between his teeth to stifle his too loud moans and desperate whines. They’re forced to crawl from his throat as suffocated grunts.

You mourn the loss of not seeing his face while you’re tucked so securely into the nape of his neck. It’s a work of art you can imagine so clearly — his pinched brows and scrunched nose and parted lips. But you relish in the searing hold he has on you now, happy to hold and to be held.

The shuddering is slow to subside, especially from you. The aftershocks of your orgasm keep your hips spasming over his lap. Steve groans into your shoulder every time your pussy quivers around his softening cock.

And then the two of you just lay there. You hold onto each other and try to catch your breaths. With the both of you covered in a fine sheen of sweat, your skin sticks together with every tiny movement. The feeling of it makes you smile. You feel like the two of you really are melting together.

Steve’s fingers part from your wild strands of hair and take to tracing the expanse of your damp back. You hum in contentment at the feeling, nuzzling your nose up and down the right side of his neck. 

The moment is melted ice cream and early morning rain and marshmallow fluff. It’s spring mornings on the porch and warm breezes in the fall. It’s a soft and familiar thing that’s still so, so new.

You think you could spend forever here, if you had to. In Steve’s bed and in Steve’s lap and with all of Steve’s languid touches.

But sex is different when you’re an adult. 

When you’re a teenager, you get to be irresponsible. Carelessness sort of comes with the territory. You have sex in a dirty bathroom of a bar you snuck into and don’t think twice about the implications of any it. But as an adult with bills and a nine-to-five and groceries you’ve got to get once a week, all you can think about is how inconvenient a UTI would be.

“I should probably use the bathroom,” you murmur, already grieving the loss of his touch before you’ve even parted from him. 

You leave the safety of his neck to peer down at him. His heavy lids mirror your own. 

“I have this thing where if I don’t piss after sex, I feel like I’m gonna be, like, cursed or something. Kinda like when you break a mirror and you’re stuck with shit luck for seven year— or however that dumb superstition goes,” you ramble, voice heavy with fatigue and lingering pleasure. “Anyway. Yeah. Plus, I should probably clean up, too.”

Steve breathes out a laugh at your sudden prattling but humors you nonetheless.

Somehow you manage to pry yourselves off of each other — you, feeling significantly emptier without him inside you and Steve, already shivering with the lack of your warmth all over him. 

You separate just long enough for him to wet a washcloth in the sink while you piss just a couple feet away from him. The bathroom connected to his bedroom seems to be a foreign sight for you — a least, that’s what he assumes because you rave so enthusiastically about it the entire time. 

It’s all Steve’s ever known, though, so he finds it difficult to do anything but nod along with your rambling. More than anything, he’s glad you’re not as weighed down by the domesticity  of the moment as he is. Because he, for one, feels a little like he’s been hit by a freight train. 

Perhaps spending so many years all alone has made him sensitive to closeness.

You sit on the marble countertop and rest your forehead on his shoulder while he cleans you up. He runs the warm cloth along your delicate folds and wipes away traces of your slick and his come that glisten on your thighs. He pleats the rag and does the same to his softening cock and surrounding skin. 

It feels so strangely intimate, more than the sex somehow.

Steve tugs on a fresh pair of boxers and gives you a faded Hawkins Phys. Ed tee to change into. The loose fabric and baggy fit feels much more familiar than the costume you’d initially arrived in. He might be happier than you are, though, to finally get to see you in your most natural state — makeup sufficiently smudged away and ill-suited clothes forgotten on his floor. 

You crawl beneath the mussed navy comforter of his bed and smush your face into his pillow. “See? The dino sheets aren’t so bad, are they?” the boy teases when you hum in contentment. 

The mattress dips beneath his weight as he settles in beside you.

You smile but don’t open your eyes. “I’m just sleepy… Sue me.”

“It’s barely nine o’clock, grandma.”

“It’s your fault,” you argue, voice dripping with exhaustion. Your skin purrs as he reaches blindly beneath the covers to rub his palm along your forearm.

He grins softly to himself. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You wore me out, Harrington.”

“I’ll make it up to you in the morning, ‘kay?” he promises, then laughs when you smirk and raise your brows — eyes still shut. “Not like that, you perv. I was talking about breakfast. I make a mean scrambled egg.”

You tell him you’re looking forward to it, to breakfast in bed and breakfast in bed. He falls further for you somehow, despite his lingering disdain for your silly little innuendos. It’s the price you have to pay when you love someone, he figures, like when your crush gets a bad haircut or has shit music taste. 

It’s a quirk he welcomes along with your many others — your rambling and forgetfulness and social unawareness and inability to sit still. All your little idiosyncrasies weren’t obstacles he had to get over to love you, just more reasons for him to.

And it isn’t this one-sided thing, either. Most people would look at the two of you — at the dowager king and local freak — and they’d think he was doing charity work to love you. But Steve’s got peculiarities of his own. 

His best friends are a fourteen-year-old nerd and a closeted lesbian because they were the first two people in his life that didn’t judge him. He chews on the ends of pens and pencils, and his handwriting is shit because he never cared about school. He buys things without ever looking the price tag, then leaves them to collect dust in his room because he never really needed them anyway. He still feels the need to be the center of attention sometimes because the faintest hint of disregard makes him feel neglected.

These are all things you’re aware of. Most of them came with being the wealthy, popular kid from the right side of the tracks. And you liked him anyway — no, you liked him because of them. You adored him through all the heavy shit, and here he was, doing a shit job at pretending to like metal music and horror movies.

“Are you asleep?” Steve wonders after a few moments of velvet silence. He’s still looking at you, one arm propped beneath his hand and the other toying with your fingers splayed on the mattress between you. He hasn’t been able to stop looking at you.

“Almost,” you mumble in response.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Your heart stops at the innocent question, tired eyes flying immediately open and knocking you out of your fatigued stupor. 

All of a sudden, it’s 1984 again. You’re the weirdo who bites people and Steve’s royalty who’ll fuck anything that walks — and here you are, in bed with the asshole. For a moment, you expect Tommy Hagan to bust out of the closet with a tape recorder and for Steve to tell you this was all just some stupid bet.

It’s a pang of blue lightning, an ice pick to your abdomen, that lasts no more than a couple of seconds. 

Internally, you curse yourself for getting so worked up. You make a promise to yourself to work on all that — the regressing and the disbelief that comes with the not-feeling-good-enough bullshit.

“Yeah?” you finally answer.

“I don’t actually like Dio. Or Def Leppard,” he confesses, finding it hard to meet your gaze  like a child who’s been caught in a lie. He focuses on running his thumb over the irregular pattern of your chipped nailpolish. “And I don’t collect vinyls either, not really. I just… I kinda just said those things so you’d like me.”

And, compared to the web you were just spinning in your head, that’s nothing.

“Ooh,” you wince playfully. “Def Leppard I could take, but Dio? I don’t know… That might be a dealbreaker, Harrington.”

He only smiles because he can tell you’re making fun. “I could learn to like them, you know? If it means that much to you. That’s what we’re doing now, right? Loving things on purpose?”

You capture your smile with your bottom lip between your teeth. Your eyes sparkle at him when you nod. “Yeah… We are.”

“Which means you could learn to like football and Bruce Springsteen,” Steve jokes and shifts on the mattress so he’s closer to you. 

Your feet bump together, then entwine effortlessly. He plops his head on the same pillow you’re using. The proximity leaves your faces no more than a couple inches apart. 

You scrunch your nose, wondering if you should hide your disgust in his playful request or make a joke out of it. You don’t do either. “I could… If it means I get to keep you.”

“Keep me?” he scoffs. “Good luck, getting rid of me, Punchy.”

“Who said I wanted to, huh?”

“You will. When you get sick of me.”

He’s smiling like he’s kidding, but you can tell there’s an edge of self-loathing to his tone. 

Your hand crawls from beneath his own and settles on his stubbly jaw. You run your thumb over the cheek, effectively sealing your promise into the blushing apple of it. “I’m never gonna get sick of you, Steve Harrington.”

His brows raise. “No?”

You shake your head against the pillow, then shove the side of your face further into it when you get nervous. There’s a timid quirk to the corners of your lips and a more sheepish glint in your eye. “You don’t get sick of people you love,” you tell him.

Steve opens his mouth to retort. He wants to tell you that he gets sick of Dustin all the time, but that it doesn’t mean he doesn’t love the little shit. He gets sick of milkshakes and pizza and Cheers re-runs when he consumes too much of them in a single setting, but he loves all those things too. 

You get sick of things because you love them, he reasons, because you love them too hard and you hate how much you need them.

He doesn’t get the chance to argue any of this, though.

“Not when you love them on purpose,” you clarify with a sunshine-coated grin.

That shuts him up real quick.

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