#80s au

[dovegraveyard]

Caught (cropped)

[litlforestfellow]

‧₊𓂃౨ৎ His Everything

word count: 3.1k

pairing: 80s big baller!stack moore x reader

warnings: adult content, semi-public, unprotected p in v, creampie, breeding kink, ownership kink, reader is a brat, dirty talk, daddy kink, rough sex, one instance of thigh slapping, reader is afab, age gap (not explicitly mentioned but it was in mind as i wrote) stack’s lowkey an ass, use of n word, pet names like little girl, slut, whore and honey used

summary: you and stack have been seeing each other for a while, but you want more, you want something real. you want stack to claim you. and, this valentine’s day, you’re gonna make that happen.

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||| you’re the first, my last, my everything 🍧 barry white

Club Juke was drowning in Valentine's Day excess on February 14, 1986. Red satin draped every VIP booth like spilled blood, heart-shaped balloons floated against the mirrored ceilings, and the DJ had switched the entire set to a sultry holiday rotation: Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing” bleeding into “I Want Your Sex” by George Michael, then slowing down to Whitney Houston’s “How Will I Know” for the couples grinding chest-to-chest under the pink strobes.

Red confetti rained from the rafters every thirty minutes, sticking to sweat-damp skin and glittering in hair. The bar had swapped out regular flutes for rose-tinted champagne glasses, and every table held a single long-stemmed red rose in a black vase. Even the sharks gliding beneath the glass dance floor looked romantic in the crimson lighting.

Stack’s usual booth in the upper mezzanine was the best in the house. Curved black leather, low table cluttered with ice buckets sweating around bottles of Dom Pérignon Rosé and Rémy XO, a crystal ashtray already holding two crushed blunts.

He sat sprawled, legs wide in tailored black slacks, silk shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest so his heavy gold chains caught every flash of light. His eyes never left the main floor.

You were posted at the bar rail directly below the mezzanine overhang, a perfect sight line for him, coincidentally. He could see your gold lamé mini dress, a pretty number he bought last week, shimmering under the pink and red lights, so short every time you shifted your weight the hem rode up another dangerous inch, your fresh box braids swinging loose, gold hoops glinting, lips painted a glossy Valentine’s red that matched the roses everywhere.

You’d been working the bar for the better part of an hour, turning the Juke into your own personal stage. It's Valentine's day, love is in the air, and you still don't officially have a man to celebrate with. You've been with Stack for a little over a year now, and you're tired of being unclaimed. You want people to see you and think Ain't that Stack's girl? So, you have a plan. You're going to make Stack claim you, no matter what it takes. The nice men here in this lovely establishment should be the perfect pawns to help you.

Unfortunately, most of the guys who've come up to you so far haven't been good enough. They're small fish, minor street runners that'll be the first to go should the spot get blown up. Nothing Stack would take too serious.

That is, until a tall, light skin nigga with dreads came up to you, his gold teeth flashing as he grinned. You recognised him as one of Smoke's, actually, from before he retired to be with Annie, handing everything on over to stack. The light skin—V, he tells you—leaned in to order you a flute of the pink champagne the bartender was pouring for every woman who looked single. His hand brushed your lower back to "keep you steady, girl. You look real uneven on them heels” while the bottle was being opened. You laughed, head tilted back, hand resting on his forearm for a beat longer than necessary, then let him pour for you, clinking glasses while you leaned closer so he could smell your Opium perfume.

Then the shorter one joined. He was new around here. Not a baller at all, in any way. He had just bought a gym a couple of blocks over, in fact. He had Cuban link hanging heavy on his neck, Rolex catching every strobe flash. He bought the bottle outright, poured you another, whispered something in your ear that made you smirk and playfully tug his chain. You swayed between them to the beat of “Let’s Get It On,” hips rolling slow, back arched just enough to make the lamé dress ride higher. Let the tall one’s fingers graze your waist again when he “helped” you turn, and laughed louder than the music required.

Every move was for the mezzanine booth above. You knew Stack was watching. You felt the weight of his stare like a hand on your throat.

The shorter one moves closer to you, suddenly, his hands settling low on your waist. You felt it before you fully processed it: his breath brushing your cheek, his head tilting, his eyes dropping to your lips. Oh, boy, he really thought he had you. He leaned in, slow but certain, like you were a sure thing. Like the man who owns you, the most dangerous man in town, wasn't watching his every move.

You jerk your head back just enough to dodge him, a sharp turn of your chin, a quick laugh to play it off, your braids swaying with the movement. You want to be claimed, not taking care of in a back alley somewhere. But the attempt was unmistakable, and Stack has already seen.

Security moves instantly at Stack's behest, bee-lining straight toward you. Suddenly, two guards flank your sides, polite but firm, only a little threatening. “Mr. Stack would like you upstairs,” the darker one says, in a tone that implies you can't argue.

The pawns blink, confused. The short one reaches out, fully intending to follow you, while V disappears into the background, well aware of who Stack was and what he could do.

Security leads you away from them with ease, completely disregarding the short guy's displeasure with you leaving. They walk you up the stairs to Stack's booth like you were a prisoner headed to the chair, a pretty little lamb headed to the slaughterhouse. You swallow, suddenly unsure about your plan, as the eyes and whispers of club goers follow you.

When you reach the booth, Stack doesn't greet you. Instead, he clears it. “Out,” he says, voice commanding as he casts a glance around the booth. The people scatter.

The men lounging on the sides didn’t hesitate. One stood so fast he knocked over his champagne. Another muttered an apology and practically jogged toward the stairs. Even the bottle girl in sequins scooped up her bottles and disappeared without making eye contact, closing the heavy curtains behind her.

In less than fifteen seconds, the booth was empty. It was just you and Stack left. You wondered what he had in store for you. Stack didn’t touch you, didn't speak to you, he didn't even look directly at you. Instead, he stared at your reflection in the mirrored wall behind you. His arms were folded, chest rising slow as his nostrils flared. He was mad as hell at you. You hated how the sight made you feel—like a misbehaving pet.

“You done?” he says, finally, voice low and mean. “You get it out your system?”

You lift your chin, defying. You're not stepping back until you get what you want. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

He scoffs. “Lie again."

He stands slowly, deliberate and unhurried. His presence fills every inch of the mirrored space, overwhelming you. “You been makin’ a fool outta me all night,” he says as he approaches. “Smilin’ in niggas’ faces. Letting ‘em touch you. Playin’ cute for whoever lookin’.”

You swallow but don't back away. “That's not what I was—”

“Shut up.” It's an order. He's never spoken to you this way. Perhaps you've pushed him too far.

You blinked, breath catching. “Don’t talk to me like—”

“Look.” He cuts you off again, not giving much of a fuck about whatever it is you have to say, gripping your waist and turning you toward the mirror. Your reflection stared back at you: flushed cheeks, parted lips, dress glittering, body thrumming with adrenaline. Stack stands behind you, close enough that his breath warmed your shoulder, his gold chains catching flashes of neon.

“That’s what the whole club saw,” he murmurs. “You actin’ up, actin’ available.”

You try to steady your breathing. “I wasn’t—”

His hand slides from your waist to your chin, lifting it sharply. “Tell me you ain’t do that shit on purpose.”

Your lips part, ready to answer. You meet his eyes in the mirror. “Maybe I did.”

Stack breathes out one harsh laugh, disbelief, irritation and desire all tangled up in it. “You just love workin’ a nigga’s nerves, huh?” he hisses against your ear. “Flirtin’ with them broke-ass niggas right where I can see. Lettin’ ‘em touch you. Actin’ like I ain’t been watchin’ every second.”

Your body betrays you, chest rising fast and incessant as your cunt drips at the tone of his voice. “Maybe if you claimed what’s yours,” you shoot back, tone haughty, “I wouldn’t have to put on a show.”

He drags his thumb across your bottom lip. “That what this was?” he asks darkly. “You tryna force my hand?”

You smirk at him in the mirror. “Worked, didn’t it?”

He grips your jaw harder, the hold bordering on painful. “Careful,” he says , voice dropping to a threat. “You gon’ make me do somethin’ you ain’t ready for.”

“Try me.”

He tilts your chin up more, thumb pressing harder against your lip, parting it just enough to slip inside. You don’t fight it. Your tongue meets the pad of his finger instinctively, slow curl, tasting salt and smoke and the faint sweetness of the Rémy still on his skin.

Stack’s eyes darken in the mirror. “You really think you runnin’ this shit?” he growls, voice low and vicious, laced with that edge that makes your stomach twist. “You think you can tease me all night, let other niggas put they filthy hands on what’s mine, then strut up here and talk back like you got some kinda say?”

He yanks his thumb free with a rough tug, dragging the slick digit down the center of your throat, pressing hard enough to make you swallow against it. Like he was testing how far he could go. Your pulse hammers under his grip, fear and want mixing together into something filthy.

“Answer me, little girl.”

You lick your lips, tasting him still. “I think… you like being tested, putting me in my place.”

His responding laugh is short, cruel with no warmth in it. He spins you around fast, your back slamming against the mirrored wall with enough force to knock the breath out of you, the cold glass biting into your shoulder blades. It’s a miracle it doesn’t break. Your palms flatten against the wall, acrylic nails scraping for purchase.

Stack cages you in, one thick forearm braced above your head like a bar, the other sliding down to grip the meat of your thigh. He yanks your leg up roughly, hooking it around his hip so your dress gets rucked up all the way to your waist, exposing your bare, dripping core. Stack feels it immediately, his fingers brushing against warm, slick skin. He freezes, eyes narrowing.

“No fuckin’ panties?” he snarls, voice drowning with disgust and hunger. “You walked in here like that? Bare-ass pussy out for anybody to see? You that much of a desperate little slut tonight? Tryna get filled by some random nigga downstairs?”

You whimper, shaking your head. “No—Daddy, it was for you—”

“Shut the fuck up.” He slaps your inner thigh, a sharp string that makes you gasp. “Don’t lie to me. You been drippin’ all night, ain’t you? Wet and ready like a whore beggin’ for it.”

His hand cups you possessively, palm grinding against your clit while two fingers go in deep, no warning. You arch, a choked moan tumbling out of your throat. “Look at that,” he mocks, pumping hard, fingers curling viciously. “Soakin’ my hand already. This pussy knows who it belongs to, even if you actin’ like you don’t.”

He adds a third finger, stretching you wide, ignoring your whine of too much, Daddy, please. “You mine. Every fuckin’ inch. From yo' toes to them braids I paid for to yo' fucking womb. And you gon’ learn that tonight. I'ma put my name on that shit proper.”

He drops to one knee without ceremony, yanking your leg over his shoulder. He looks up at you, eyes black and merciless, before he buries his face between your thighs. He licks a long, punishing stripe up your center, tongue flat and brutal. Then he sucks your clit into his mouth hard, teeth grazing just enough to make you yelp. He growls against you, the vibration a warning. His fingers move faster, reaching deeper into you, hitting that spot that makes your breath stutter. His free hand grips your ass, spreading you even wider for him.

“You gon’ come on my tongue,” he rasps between licks, pulling back just enough to spit on your clit before diving back in. “Right here, where the whole club can see you fall apart for your Daddy. Show ‘em who owns this wet little cunt.”

You were loud, moans ringing out through the booth, but Stack didn’t care. If anything, he wanted you to be louder, for every nigga in the club to hear how pretty you were sounding for him, how good he made you feel. He keeps devouring you, tongue relentless and incessant, until your thighs shake, hips backing up against his face.

Your orgasm rips through you, your cunt clenching around nothing so hard it’s almost painful. You grip at Stack’s hair, pulling at the ends, grinding down on his face as each wave crashes over you. He doesn’t stop. He licks you through it until you’re sobbing and overly sensitive, begging him to let up. Only then does he stand, letting your leg fall gently back on to the floor as he rises up, wiping his mouth with back of his hand. His lips were glossy, the lower half of his face completely covered in your cum.

“Pathetic,” he spits out, gripping your jaw hard, forcing you to make eye contact with him “Cummin’ that fast? You that starved for your Daddy’s attention?”

Embarrassed by how easy you were for him, by how quickly your plan had turned on you, you elect not to answer. Instead, you stand there, panting, legs feeling like jello, as Stack watches you. When he gets fed up of waiting for an answer, he spins you back toward the mirror. “Hands on the glass,” he orders, voice like gravel. “Ass out.”

You obey, palms flat, arching your back instinctively. He shoves your dress up, kicks you feed wider apart. You hear the clink of his belt, the rush of his zipper, before suddenly feeling the blunt head of his tip resting at your entrance. He teases you first, rubbing himself through your slick folds, making sure to hit your clit with every drag. “Beg for it,” he tells you.

Your pride, your confidence in your plan, has long since evaporated. You should’ve known better to fuck with Stack like that. Shaking, you do as you were told. “Please fuck me, Daddy. I need it, need you.”

He pushes in slow, the pace so torturous it almost feels like he’s mocking you, stopping when he has a little over and inch inside of you. “Again. Louder. Tell me who this dick belongs to. Let the whole Juke hear you.”

“Please, Daddy, please fuck your pussy,” you nearly scream, clenching around his unmoving length, “it’s yours—only yours, please!” He slams home in one vicious thrust, the sudden weight of him making you cry out, palms smacking. the mirror.

He establishes a rhythm quickly, fucking you hard with deep, punishing strokes that shove you forward until your tits press against the cold glass. “Look atch yourself,” he snarls in your ear, one hand wrapping around your throat from behind, squeezing just enough to make your vision spot. “Look how fuckin’ wrecked you are. Dress hiked up like a whore, takin’ Daddy’s cock in front of the whole damn club.”

You do, eyes going wide at the sight. Your lips are swollen, your mascara’s running, and your braids are a wild tumble on your head. Your gold hoops swing with every brutal snap of Stack’s hips, his chains glinting in the neon club lights, hair mussed from you grabbing at it, his jaw clenched like he was pissed off. “Who pussy is this?” he demands, angling deeper, hitting your g-spot with every thrust.

“Yours, Daddy, all yours!” You choke out, throat raw from screaming.

He reaches around your body, deft fingers finding your clit, rubbing fast and rough. “That’s right,” he groans. “Mine to fuck. Mine to fill. Gon’ breed this tight little cunt tonight. Pump you full of my cum so you remember who you belong to. Walk outta here drippin’ me, marked inside an’ out.”

The words light you up, body shuddering with pure pleasure at the thought. “You want that?” Stack growls, his thrusts turning erratic, sloppy. “Want Daddy to knock you up? Claim you for good?”

“Yes, yes! Please breed me, Daddy. Want everyone t’ know I’m yours!”

He groans, low and guttural, as his talented fingers dance around your clit. “Cum on this dick,” he commands. “Milk me dry. Show Daddy how bad you need his seed.”

You do as you’re told, cumming hard around Stack’s length, legs shaking as a wail tears its way through your throat, your walls clenching around him like a vice. He follows suit, slamming deep inside of you, his tip kissing your cervix, as he floods you, your name leaving his lips like a curse. “Take every fuckin’ drop, baby. And say thank you like a good girl, now.”

You barely manage a trembling, “Th-thank you, Daddy,” voice wrecked.

He chuckles, dark and content, still twitching inside you. “Good job. Always so good for me after I fuck you stupid, honey.” He says, staying buried inside you a moment longe, letting you feel every lazy pulse, every last drop he just pumped into you. He pulls out eventually, easing his back slow and deliberate, the wet drag of him making you whimper. You could already feel the thick warmth of his cum starting to spill.

He watches it happen with a mean, awed sense of satisfaction, eyes flicking to your face in the mirror, then back to down where his cum oozes out of your swollen in pussy in slow, heavy gushes. White trails slide down the inside of your thighs, glistening under the pink and red strobe lights, some of it already dripping on the floor of the booth.

“Next time you go off flirting with other niggas,” Stack begins, his voice a warning as he catches your eyes in the mirror, “I’ll fuck you up.”

You give him a shaky, cum-drunk smirk. “Promise, Daddy?”

Stack tuts, ignoring you. He calls for the guards posted outside of the booth to come in. “Get her cleaned up,” he tells them, “But bring her right back. We still celebratin’.”

a/n: for some (belated) context, this is in line with a universe thats been in my head for a while where stack is like big meech lowk and the reader is his pretty lil college aged (she’s mainly 19 but she’s rlly whatever age i need her to be for the idea lmfao) gf. its set in atlanta because i have personal beef w mississippi :)

[gremlinpeaches]

After Hours

—

The working title for this piece was “The Dumpster Kiss™,” and honestly… it still makes me laugh every time. 😭

A little epilogue to my 80s diner AU comic. I couldn’t stop thinking about what happened after the last page, so naturally I had to paint it.

Thank you to everyone who read, liked, and reblogged the comic. Your support has genuinely blown me away. 🩵💚

Edit: added the parts of the comic here!

Part 1 of the comic: https://www.tumblr.com/gremlinpeaches/821146601888366592/maybe-tomorrow-page-14-it-seems-cas-isnt-the

Post by @gremlinpeaches · 1 image

💬 0  🔁 20  ❤️ 104 · Maybe tomorrow — Page 1/4 It seems Cas isn’t the only one with a hopeless crush… 🩵👀 Little note: Trying somethin

Part 2: https://www.tumblr.com/gremlinpeaches/821309843428294656/post-by-gremlinpeaches-1-image

Post by @gremlinpeaches · 1 image

💬 1  🔁 14  ❤️ 84 · Post by @gremlinpeaches · 1 image · The sign — Page 2/4 of my 80s diner AU comic. ☕️🩵 Maybe there isn’t going to be on

Part 3: https://www.tumblr.com/gremlinpeaches/821498033666752512/post-by-gremlinpeaches-1-image

Post by @gremlinpeaches · 1 image

💬 0  🔁 30  ❤️ 127 · Post by @gremlinpeaches · 1 image · The Leap — Sometimes there isn’t going to be one unmistakable sign. Sometimes…

Final part: https://www.tumblr.com/gremlinpeaches/821692394324082688/post-by-gremlinpeaches-1-image

Post by @gremlinpeaches · 1 image

💬 0  🔁 13  ❤️ 64 · Post by @gremlinpeaches · 1 image · The Walk home — Final page 4/4 Slow burn, awkward flirting, one very observant lit

[bratboymolloy]

say, remember when you were my man? 🪩

part 2 of fanart for my fic :)

[retroden-85]

80s Jesskas on the phone 📞🙃

[pink-petal-horns]

When Did You Get Hot?

Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

neon lights. summer heat. and the worst possible realization— when did you get hot?

Man’s Best Friend Masterlist

You don’t believe it at first.

That’s the thing—you refuse to believe it.

Because there are some truths in life that feel permanent. Fixed. Unchangeable.

Steve Harrington being a douchebag was one of them.

It was just… fact.

High school proved it.

You remember it too clearly—him leaning against lockers like he owned the place, laughing too loud, walking through the halls like everyone else existed in the background of his life. Always surrounded by people. Always untouchable.

And you?

You existed just far enough away to see it clearly.

You weren’t impressed.

You weren’t charmed.

If anything, you were annoyed.

You remember telling your friends once, “He’s just a walking ego with good hair.”

And you meant it.

You meant it so much that it stuck.

So yeah—some things are supposed to stay the same.

Steve Harrington is supposed to stay the same.

That’s why this—

This makes absolutely no sense.

—

The bell above the door of Family Video jingles as you step inside, the late afternoon heat following you in like a second skin.

Fluorescent lights hum overhead. Rows of VHS tapes stretch in every direction, colorful spines lined up like they’re trying too hard to get your attention.

It’s quiet.

Calm.

Normal.

You head toward the counter, digging in your bag for your wallet, already half-distracted—

“—No, I’m serious, you cannot just skip to the end, that’s not how movies work.”

You stop.

Your hand freezes mid-motion.

That voice.

No.

No, that’s—

You slowly lift your head.

And there he is.

Behind the counter.

Steve Harrington.

Except—

Not.

Your brain stalls.

Because yeah, it’s him. Same face. Same hair. Same stupid, familiar everything.

But also…

Not.

He’s leaning forward slightly, elbows on the counter, talking to a kid—maybe thirteen, curly hair, baseball cap turned backwards. The kid is arguing with him like it’s a life-or-death situation.

Steve doesn’t snap.

Doesn’t roll his eyes.

He listens.

Actually listens.

“You’ll ruin it,” Steve says, softer now, like he’s trying to reason instead of win. “You gotta let it build. That’s the whole point.”

The kid groans dramatically.

“You’re so annoying.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve mutters, grabbing a tape and scanning it. “I’m still right.”

There’s a smile there.

Not cocky.

Not performative.

Just… real.

And something in your chest does a weird, uncomfortable flip.

You stare.

You can’t help it.

You stare like your brain is trying to piece together two completely different people and failing.

Because the Steve you knew?

Would not be here.

Would not be patient.

Would not care.

Your eyes drag over him before you can stop yourself.

His sleeves are rolled up—why are his sleeves rolled up?—and his arms—

You look away so fast it’s almost violent.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

We are not doing this.

This is Steve Harrington.

You know better.

…Right?

“Hey.”

Your head snaps back up.

He’s looking at you.

Of course he is.

Of course the exact moment you spiral internally is the moment he notices.

“Uh,” you say, incredibly eloquent. “Hi.”

He squints slightly, recognition flickering in.

“…Wait.”

Oh no.

“Yeah,” you say, already bracing yourself.

“You’re—” He points at you vaguely. “You went to Hawkins High, right?”

You huff a small laugh. “Wow. That’s all I get?”

He grins, a little sheepish. “Hey, it’s been a while.”

“Yeah,” you mutter. “Clearly.”

There’s a beat.

And then his gaze sharpens slightly.

“You okay?”

You blink.

“Why does everyone keep asking me that today?”

“Because,” he says, crossing his arms, “you’ve been staring at me for like, a full minute.”

Your stomach drops.

“I have not.”

“You have.”

“I haven’t.”

He tilts his head, amused in a way that feels entirely too observant.

“You’re doing it again.”

Heat rushes up your neck.

“I’m just—” You cut yourself off, exhaling sharply. “You look different.”

There.

You said it.

Out loud.

And now there’s no taking it back.

Steve pauses.

Actually pauses.

And for a second, he just… looks at you.

Not defensive.

Not cocky.

Just curious.

“…Different how?” he asks.

God.

Why did you open your mouth?

You shrug, suddenly hyper-aware of everything—your voice, your hands, the way he’s looking at you like your answer matters.

“I don’t know,” you say. “You just… do.”

“Wow,” he says dryly. “Super helpful.”

You roll your eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“Yes, Steve.”

He huffs a quiet laugh at that.

And then—

“You used to hate me.”

Your breath catches.

Oh.

We’re doing this now.

“I did not hate you.”

“You called me—” he gestures vaguely, searching his memory “—‘a walking ego with good hair.’”

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “You were not supposed to remember that.”

“Hard to forget,” he says, but there’s no bite to it.

If anything, he sounds… amused.

Which somehow makes it worse.

“I wasn’t wrong,” you mutter.

“Wasn’t,” he repeats.

That word again.

You hesitate.

Because yeah.

That’s the problem.

You look at him—really look this time.

At the way he’s standing there, relaxed but grounded. At the way his attention keeps drifting back to the kid lingering by the candy rack like he’s making sure he doesn’t knock anything over.

At the way he’s not trying to impress you.

Not trying at all.

And somehow—that’s exactly what’s doing it.

Your stomach flips again.

You exhale slowly.

“I didn’t think I’d ever say this,” you admit, quieter now, “but… I might’ve been wrong about you.”

The air shifts.

It’s subtle.

But it’s there.

Steve blinks, caught off guard.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A beat passes.

And then—because apparently your brain has completely abandoned you—you add:

“…Also, when did you get hot?”

Silence.

Actual silence.

Somewhere behind you, a tape case clatters as the kid drops it.

Steve just stares at you.

Like you’ve just short-circuited his entire system.

“What?” he says finally.

“You heard me.”

“I—no, I did, I just—” He runs a hand through his hair, visibly thrown. “Where did that come from?”

“I don’t know!” you snap, half-laughing, half-horrified. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out!”

He lets out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and disbelief.

“You’re serious?”

“Yes!”

“This isn’t, like, a joke?”

“Do I look like I’m joking right now?”

He looks at you.

Really looks.

And something in his expression softens.

“…No,” he admits.

Your heart does something stupid.

You cross your arms, trying to regain control of literally anything.

“It’s just—” You gesture vaguely. “Last time I saw you, you were—ugh—and now you’re—” You stop yourself before you say something embarrassing. “This.”

“This,” he echoes.

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“Yes, oh my god.”

He laughs then.

And it’s easy.

Warm.

God, when did his laugh get like that?

“You’re unbelievable,” he says.

“I’m right.”

He opens his mouth to argue.

Stops.

Considers it.

“…Maybe,” he admits.

Your breath catches again.

And now it’s worse.

Because now he’s agreeing.

“Look,” he says, a little quieter now, “I’ve just… been trying to be better, I guess.”

Better.

The word lands heavy.

Not flashy.

Not impressive.

Just honest.

You nod slowly.

“It shows.”

Something shifts between you.

The space feels smaller now. Charged.

Like every movement matters a little more.

“You’re still kind of annoying,” you say, softer.

He grins. “Good. Wouldn’t want to lose my charm.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no heat behind it.

There’s something else there now.

Something new.

“So,” he says, leaning forward slightly, “you gonna keep staring at me, or—?”

“Oh my god,” you groan. “Shut up.”

He laughs again.

And you hate—hate—how much you like it.

You turn away, pretending to look at the shelves, but your focus is completely gone.

Your thoughts are loud.

Messy.

Uncooperative.

Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.

He wasn’t supposed to change.

You weren’t supposed to notice.

And now—

Now you can’t unsee it.

You glance back.

He’s watching you.

Of course he is.

And when your eyes meet—

He smiles.

Not smug.

Not cocky.

Just… soft.

And yeah.

That’s when it really hits you.

This isn’t just a glow-up.

It’s not just better hair or broader shoulders or whatever the hell else your brain is trying to blame this on.

It’s him.

It’s the way he looks at people now.

The way he cares.

The way he tries.

And somehow—

That’s what makes him dangerous.

Because now?

Now you get it.

Now you see what everyone else probably missed the first time around.

And that—

That’s a problem.

A big one.

Because you’re not just noticing him.

You’re looking.

And worse?

You don’t want to stop.

You step up to the counter, placing your tape down like you didn’t just have a full identity crisis in aisle three.

Steve picks it up, glancing at the cover.

“Good choice,” he says.

“Thanks.”

Your fingers brush when he hands it back.

It’s quick.

Accidental.

But it lingers.

Just enough.

You both pause.

Just for a second.

And then—

“You coming back?” he asks, casual, like it doesn’t matter.

Like he didn’t just ask something that feels a little too close to something else.

You meet his eyes.

Try to act normal.

“Maybe,” you say.

He nods.

Like that’s enough.

Like he’ll take it.

And as you turn to leave, the bell jingling above you again, one thought follows you out into the warm evening air—

Clear.

Loud.

Unavoidable.

When did you get hot…

—and why does it suddenly feel like you’re in trouble?

[alynwrench]

Why do you always have to make it so difficult to keep you alive?

From Chapter 18 of @spadillelicious 's fic Love, Death, and Rollerskates on AO3

plus bonus shitpost doodles AHEHE

(moon shimeji by @/embercl btw hehejeheje)

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

What if Animorphs was set in the 1980s?

I've never been — missed them by over 2 years! Does anyone who knows the era have thoughts?