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fredwkong · 1 year

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The Prep Watch

When you first came home wearing the Prep Watch, we laughed about it. You were even the one who coined the name. You’d been at work downtown, busking and selling your punk CDs, when some preppy white boy in a Ralph Lauren polo and chinos ran up to you and smacked a Rolex or something onto your wrist.

You looked like the last person who would wear a Rolex. Every bare bit of skin was covered in tattoos, to the point that it was hard to tell you had Hispanic heritage. You had piercings all over your face and body, and you kept your hair in a neon pink mohawk. You covered up your skinny frame with heavily patched jackets and loose, distressed jeans. As the epitome of a punk, such a fancy watch stuck out like a sore thumb.

We laughed about it for a bit, and then I took a closer look. It was nice, probably gold-plated at least. “Dude, you should totally pawn it,” I told you. Our finances were…precarious, to say the least. Pawning something like this would cover, like, a week’s worth of groceries.

But you looked down and furrowed your pierced eyebrows. “I dunno,” you said, suddenly sounding far away. “I mean. It looks nice, right?”

“Definitely,” I said, assuming that would be the end of it.

But when you hopped into bed next to me that night, the Prep Watch was still on your wrist.

By the next week, it was definitely really weird. I mean, you only took the watch off to shower. But when I told you that you were being strange, you just said, “Yeah, but it looks nice, right?”

It was like living with a pod person.

I bet you thought I wouldn’t notice when you switched underwear. It was such a subtle difference, trading Walmart boxers for those fancy boxer briefs. But, I mean, I tidy the bedroom. I saw the patterns in the underwear drawer. At the time, I thought it was sort of cute. A hard-ass punk wearing underwear with a cuddly duckling pattern on it.

Little did I know.

It probably felt like temptation, the desires you were experiencing as you kept on wearing the watch. You’d be out in the city, busking the afternoon away, watching all those preppy city boys walk past in their pastel sweaters and fancy slacks. Knowing that underneath all your gear and piercings, right on top of your tattoos and your Prince Albert, you were wearing the same underwear. Did you miss any notes? Did your voice crack as you lusted over some fucking preps?

I was so confused when I found some of your more obvious piercings in the bathroom trash bin. You loved your nose rings, and we’d gotten our helix piercings together. Hearing you say that they just weren’t your thing anymore made me feel like slapping you.

I considered leaving you, you know. I could have walked out that day and left you at the mercy of whatever fucking bullshit was happening to you. But at that point, I had the crazy idea in my head that this wasn’t you. It was the Prep Watch that was doing this to you. So, like an idiot, I stayed, and tried to come up with a way to get that damn Rolex off your wrist.

One day, you came home and told me you’d gotten a corporate job. “May as well use that Economics degree,” you said, even though we’d burned our diplomas together a couple years ago. When you said, “It’s just until my music picks up,” I think we both knew you were lying, but I nodded anyway. Under your leather jacket, I could see you were wearing a polo shirt.

The next day, you got your hair cut. You hadn’t been maintaining your mohawk anyway, but it was a shock when you got home with a head of short brown curls. For some reason, it looked like it was growing in blond at the roots.

By that point, did you already hate your own music? You kept busking once or twice a week for a month longer. I think it was just for appearances. When we went out to gigs, I noticed your smile was kind of tight, like you were just there for my sake. The only times I saw you really grin anymore was when you were putting on your damn work shirts or staring at that fucking Prep Watch. I swear, you got a boner in your stupid preppy boxer briefs whenever you looked at that thing. “It looks nice, right?” you said to me, admiring the watch on your wrist under your cufflinks.

I couldn’t get the watch away from you. You only took it off to shower, and we’d stopped showering together. I bet you’d taken out all your body piercings already. Christ, they probably came off before your visible piercings, trying to hide it from me. What kind of a boyfriend— Whatever. What you were really hiding was probably how cleanly all your piercings had healed.

Yeah, don’t give me that shit about good wound care. I know what a healed over piercing looks like, and your lip has never been pierced. I mean, I know the watch is magic now. Your tattoos were fading even before you went and got them lasered off. I saw the disgust on your face every time you looked at your neck tatts in the mirror. No man’s skin gets pale like yours got. Everything cleared up.

Do you like being so much smaller? Softer? You used to be lanky and lean, now you look short, soft. Pastel. How many fucking pastel clothes can one man own? Pants, shirts, sweaters, socks, hats, fucking pastel purses! Man bags, what the fuck ever. Just a little curly-haired blond prep with perfect white teeth and a perfect little office job. Do your coworkers even know about what you used to be? They probably think you’re about twenty, with that boyish look on your clean-shaven face.

You really wanted to go to the carnival, and, I mean, you were paying most of the rent at that point, so I went along with it. For some reason, I still thought that I could separate you from that watch and everything would just… go back to normal. Who knows? Maybe if I’d found a way to separate the watch from you that night, they would have. You still remembered who you were, then. Your keyboard was covered in dust, sitting in the corner of the bedroom, but it was still there.

But as we watched the lights on the ferris wheel, you a short little pastel boy with a single demure piercing, standing next to a lanky punk covered in tattoos and wearing a patched jacket, you checked the Prep Watch. I watched as your eyes shone in the light reflected off the watch face, and with a swirl like smoke, they turned from brown to blue. You nodded to yourself and undid the watch.

“Want to try it?” you chirped at me, reaching toward my wrist.

I ran.

I think that I thought I could get back to our apartment and clear my stuff out before you got back. But I was on transit. You owned the car. I really thought I’d made it when I saw the lights off in our window. I unlocked the door, crept inside…

There was barely a rustle as you emerged from the closet and clapped the watch onto my wrist.

And now here we are. I’ve been talking for a while, I guess. I just had to get all of that out. I wish that I could just stand up, walk out, take off this watch. What I really wish is that I had just up and left when I saw the way this was going. I'm afraid that I'm about to lose myself, the way you have. I miss my boyfriend. But now here we are, and I’m wearing the Prep Watch, and, well…

It looks nice, right?

#male transformation #mental change #reality change #race change #male tf #preppification #twinkification #twink tf #clothing tf #gradual change #white tf #all fwkong

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atinylittlepain · 11 months

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Chapter One

90s!steve harrington x f!oc

series masterlist

series playlist

He got out, hopped one state over, and planned on continuing an anonymous existence of cold beds and numbers scribbled on forearms. One small problem in that plan, or maybe one big problem.

warnings | 18+ smut, angst, columbus OH deserves a TW in and of itself (i love it so)

a/n | I am so excited to be sharing the first chapter of this series. A very special thanks must be given to @pr0ximamidnight who lets me scream about these characters all the time, and who also made the absolutely amazing artwork for this fic! As always, I'd love to hear what you think of this one, drop me a line :)

......................................

“You coming tonight?”

“Who’s playing?”

“Up and coming, you haven’t heard of them.”

“Oh, so they’re shit then?”

“Don’t be a snob, Steven. Even your beloved Elliott Smith started out as a nobody. Hell, he still is a nobody.”

“You told Art that I’d cover the front tonight, didn’t you?” The silence is enough of an answer. Steve sighs.

“Eddie.”

“Come on, Steve. Money is money, I don’t see why you’re complaining when I was gracious enough to get you a little more of it.” His so very gracious roommate is already halfway out the door, a grin and shrug that tells Steve there will be no squirming out of this. Great.

It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy a trip to the Newport Club, especially not when it’s free and all he has to do is check tickets and let girls feel him up a little on the way into the music hall. But it’s Wednesday, and he has work tomorrow, and he’s feeling a little more pitiful than usual since their AC unit busted out and has yet to be fixed. Their landlord told them he would be getting to it about two weeks ago, and Steve is starting to wilt around the edges in the close grip of the heat and humidity. So no, he’s not really feeling a gig at the moment. But yes, money is money, and he doesn’t have much time to whine to himself about it when he’s already running late to his shift at Katzinger’s.

Columbus has been good to him, something he is reminded of every morning when he bikes across town to get to the deli. Urban enough to be anonymous, but still cheap enough for him to pay rent with the patchwork jobs he does. And not Hawkins, so it’s already miles ahead just because of that.

“I got lox no schmear for Tiffany. There you go, sweetheart, have a nice day.” Tiffany left her phone number at the bottom of her receipt for him, a little heart too. Yet another way Columbus has treated him well, the bevy of OSU students that seem to like what Steve has going on. Eddie calls it his “soft-prozac look,” whatever the hell that means. Certainly different from his polo shirts and varsity jacket days, but a whole lot else has changed since then.

Things are easy, simple, and he likes it that way. Making sandwiches and smiling at coeds until three, a new Tiffany every week, no strings, no stress. And the music scene at the fringes of campus. While his roommate prefers a sound with a little more edge, Steve prefers the softer, sadder stuff, and there’s plenty of it getting passed around on burned CDs and in the dim, dank bars downtown. That’s how he first started picking up gigs at the Newport Club. Art took one look at him, the remnant strength from the days of the king, and stuck him out front with a scowl and a folded wad of cash. Not to mention the perk that once the crowd is packed in, he gets to lean in the doorway and turn his good ear to the music.

…

She’s running late. Actually, she was running late twenty minutes ago. Now it’s just laughable. And somewhere in the slow slump of afternoon into evening, it has started raining. So there’s that, the hem of her skirt sticking and sweating around her ankles, skin turned tacky in the humid air. But she’s a little too focused on digging her ticket out of the bottom of her bag as she does a sort of jump-walk toward the club.

Who was it again? A friend of a friend’s boyfriend who had an extra ticket to this new band’s gig. She can’t even remember the name. Probably something precious and pretentious like toaster aneurysm.

Shit, not good, not even the remnants of a crowd still waiting outside the venue, just some guy with his arms folded over his chest, leaning in the doorway with one doc marten crossed over the other. His eyebrow cocks, a crack of his gum rolled with his jaw when she approaches. She can hear the dull thrum of a bass coming from inside, already started.

“Hi, I’m here for the show, here’s my–”

“The show started fifteen minutes ago, sweetheart.” It’s a little stunning, not snappy, but entirely bored in the way he says it, sighing and slumping back against the wall, a flick of his chin to toss his thick flop of hair out of his eyes.

“Okay, so? Just take my ticket and let me in.” Not in the mood, not that she ever is, for this bullshit tough guy act. Said tough guy squints at her, tongue poking in his cheek like really, this is a grave inconvenience to him, when he could have already taken her ticket and let her in and gotten back to his brooding hunch.

“What’s your name?”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“I’m Steve.”

“Good for you, Steve.” Great, he thought that was funny, a huff of a laugh and half a smile, perfect teeth and frustratingly perfect dimple. She was going for bitchy, actually. When he finally uncrosses his arms from over his chest, hooking his knuckles into the pockets of his pants, she gets a better look at his t-shirt. He must have shrunk it in the wash, or maybe it’s intentional, the way it fits so snug that the muscles in his arms bulge over the sleeves, the I heart metal logo stretched to burst across his chest. Elliott Smith fan, so at least he’s got that going for him.

“Are you really not gonna let me in?”

“Are you really not gonna tell me your name?”

“It’s Ruth, okay?

“That’s an old-fashioned name.”

“So is Steve.” By now, the band has already gotten through two more songs since she got here, and she’s starting to think she’s going to have to resign herself to listening to scraps through the propped open door. For his part, Steve seems perfectly content with the situation, his chin tilted toward the sound as he pulls a menthol out of his back pocket and lights it up. For her part, Ruth is just annoyed enough to reach out and swipe the cigarette from his fingers before it makes it to his mouth, taking a smug inhale as he lets out a petulant whine of hey.

“If you’re gonna keep me out here, the least you can do is offer some refreshments.” To be fair, the more she hears of the music dripping out from the club, the less interested she is in joining the crowd, some kind of post-punk shoegaze dirge-fest from the sound of it. And no, it definitely doesn’t have anything to do with the long line of his throat when he lets smoke seep out in a hiss, head tilted back to keep his exhale from washing over her face. No, nothing to do with that, and nothing to do with the way the tendons in his forearms jump, all spilled shadow when he offers her back the cigarette. No, definitely nothing to do with that either.

“Are you a student?”

“No, are you?”

“No, so what do you do then?”

“I work at the library.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Hmm. What about you?”

“I work at Katz, you know? Over in german village?”

“Yeah, everyone knows Katz. I like Brown Bag better though, they’ve got that tofu cream cheese.”

“Who the hell likes tofu cream cheese? Are you vegan or something?” Rapid fire, somewhere in the volley she has mirrored his posture, her shoulder brushing against his as she rests back against the wall, fingers flickering back and forth, trying to sip down the last few drags of their shared cigarette.

“No, I just like the taste better. Regular cream cheese gives me the heebies.” He hums, the dip and bob of his throat catching the warm shock of the streetlights. She lets herself watch him for a beat, the quick flit of her eyes away from his when he looks right back at her. Back and forth like that, she collects up every freckle she can find, the two on the side of his neck, on his cheek. Pretty boy at rest. The music is mere afterthought.

…

He’s glad he decided to be difficult tonight. The truth is, he really isn’t supposed to let people in after the set starts, something about code violations and fire hazards. But usually, he’ll nod along a few stragglers hurrying into the club, no big deal. Chalk it up to the heat, to no AC, to whatever, Steve was not feeling so generous tonight, and he’s never been so grateful for his snappy streak as he is right now.

“What size shoe did you say you are?” He’s not entirely sure how things unraveled to this. Him, with his shoeless, socked foot hovering just above the sidewalk, and her, holding her sneaker in one hand, with his doc marten on her foot, giving a few experimental shuffles in it, the hem of her skirt swirling around her shins with it.

“Men’s twelve, probably too big for you, honey.” Her nose scrunches, mouth screwing to the side like she can’t possibly stand being called that. He tucks that away in his mind through the constant din of the concert going on inside.

“Hmm, I think I could make it work if I doubled up my socks.”

“You gonna steal my shoes, is that your angle?”

“Well, I do need a refund for my ticket since someone wouldn’t let me in.” He scoffs, dipping his chin to hide behind his hair, just a little, buying time to think of something clever to say back to her.

“Judging by that noise, I think I did you a favor actually.” Ruth grins, and as if on cue, a particularly discordant warble of guitar whines through the door, both of them wincing at it.

“Maybe you’re right. How much longer you think they got?” She wobbles to the side as she toes out of his boot, and Steve moves before he can think, one hand to her waist, one cupping her elbow. Up close like this, he can see the way her eyeliner has smudged at the edges, a stray speck of it on the arc of her cheek. But it’s catch and release, a laugh light in her chest as she pulls away to put her own shoe back on.

“I’d say they’re wrapping up. We could, you know, get out of here if you wanted to.” Fun, right? That’s what this is. The flirt and flair of it, a game they both seem to be intent on.

“Where are we going, Steve?” She tilts her head, sing-songing his name.

Steve is good at this, the logistics of it all. Hers or his. His, they decide, because hers is further away. And mercy, Eddie has been shacking up with the produce stocker from the natural grocery store over in Bexley, so they don’t have to worry about being quiet when they stumble through the door to his apartment.

Graceless, groaning into her mouth when his hip hits the corner of the kitchen counter, and then a different noise entirely skittering up the back of his throat when Ruth’s palm finds the hurt and rubs it out with quick heat up under the hem of his t-shirt.

Here’s the thing, most of the time, he prefers to keep his shirt on. It’s not that anyone has been rude or repulsed by the scars that splay over his skin. Something much worse. A pitying thing, a pitiful thing. The drop of their brow and a pulled frown and oh my gosh, what happened to you? Yeah, he’d prefer to keep his shirt on most of the time. But right now, he wants a little more. A little more sense, a little more touch, a little more of her palms on bare skin. So it’s more feel than thought when he tugs his shirt off over his head, shivering down with it when she noses down his neck to drop her lips to the top of his shoulder. Bruise-colored kisses, he doesn’t resist the urge to thumb away the smear of her dark lipstick in the corner of her mouth. She chases after his touch, a kiss to the pad of his thumb before her grin turns sharp with the nick of her teeth.

…

Pretty boy is pretty all over. Freckles all over, she maps them with her mouth, a slow sneak down his stomach to the waist band of his briefs. And he’s got a bedframe too, bonus. Yeah, pretty all over, flushed-pink tip when she slides his briefs down his thighs, just enough for the thick weight of him to smear pearling pleasure over the coarse hair trailing down his clenched stomach. She’s no better though, thighs clenching together in useless friction where she’s kneeling between his legs, cotton underwear that used to say Wednesday on the front and a bra that’s just as old. She really hadn’t been expecting something like this, though Steve doesn’t seem to mind, lips parted in a ghost of a swollen smile, eyes hazy with want.

“Can I?”

“You can do whatever you want, honey, fuck.” She has to temper her grin when she takes him into her mouth, pleasant pain and pressure in the hinge of her jaw because Steve certainly has something to brag about. Impossible to take all of him, she settles for laving her tongue over the vein running the underside of his cock, spit-slick palm curling around the rest. Pretty boy pretty all over making pretty sounds too. Huffs of breath that turn into groans when she swallows around him, muscle jumping under her palm that’s pressed over his stomach, her nails grazing in an implicit command. Take what you are given, pretty boy. And he does, perfectly, preening under her touch, little pants of fuck, s’good, really good that shiver straight down her spine and into her pelvis. She only realizes that her hand that isn’t working the base of him has dipped down into her panties when Steve lets out a ragged shit, that’s hot, lashes dropped down to his cheeks with the way he’s staring at her. And then it’s all quiet c’mere, c’mere, honey, insistent hand at her jaw coaxing her up, clashing teeth when they both misjudge the first kiss, and then a sigh when they get the second one right.

“You have condoms, right?”

“Yeah, I got it, just let me–” She doesn’t exactly make it easy, mouthing at his neck as he leans over to rifle through his nightstand, jostling her in his lap with a frustrated huff that she doesn’t like the sound of.

“Fuck.”

“Are you, like, out?” He settles back against his headboard with a sigh, an answer in and of itself.

“I bet my roommate has some though. Gimme a sec, I’ll be right back.” Quite the show, his bare ass shuffling out of his room. She lays back on the mattress, maybe wishful thinking in taking off the rest of her clothes, though Steve is quick to return with a grin and a foil packet pinched between two fingers.

“You sitting pretty like that for me, honey?” A little wolfish, animal and annoying in how smug he smiles as he climbs onto the end of the bed, catching her knee before she can close her legs, palm smoothing down the inside of her thigh.

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself, Steven.”

“Steven, huh?” He tilts his head, almost absent-minded, his eyes hooded and heavy, dropped to the crux of her hips. She can’t help her quiet gasp when he drags his thumb through her swollen cunt, pad of his finger notching at her entrance, teasing, testing, before smearing back up to her clit in a lazy arc.

“Fuck, that’s pretty. Are you ready for me?” Cocky, but also clear care. She leans up on an elbow, puling him down by his nape before her stupid heart can kick up too much at the sentiment. His hair tickles against her sternum, forehead pressed there so he can look down at his fumbling with the condom wrapper, clearly distracted, maybe by the way she’s trailing her foot up and down the back of his leg, dark nail polish against tan skin.

It’s a stretch, of course. Perfect ache in her hips, all she can manage is an uh-huh high in her throat when he asks her if she’s alright. And then deeper, taking more of him, all of him until it’s Steve letting out the pathetic sounds, something like a whimper that she laps up, tongue flickering behind his teeth.

The rest is a slow, spiraling, slump. It’s obscenely warm in his room, humid too, so pretty soon sweat starts to pearl and pool. In clavicles, in dips and bend of muscle, skin sticking to skin with salt and sighs, almost smothering with how Steve drapes over her. He moves good, smooth and strong like he knows what he’s doing, though it eventually devolves into a deep grind more than anything else, both of them chasing down pleasure. He smells like that clove gum he was chewing, the menthol too, and like he spent the day out sweltering in the midsummer heat. She can’t help but dip her nose down into the center of his sternum, breathing him in as her nails dig and slip against his shoulder blades. Though soon he’s coaxing her, lemme see, honey, there you are, pretty eyes.

Embarrassing really, that’s what snaps and snarls her into and over the edge. His eyes, blown out black, steady and certain on her. She comes so hard that she starts to shiver in the heat.

…

“Mmf.” It isn’t enough to rouse him, still slumped on his stomach with his face pressed into his pillow. But it does feel good, light scratches across his shoulder blades, then trailing up the nape of his neck and into his hair. He sighs, content in his tangle of sheets.

“I know you’re awake.” He can’t help it, smile spreading, one eye squinting open to find Ruth looking right at him, kneeling alongside the bed.

“Why’re you dressed?”

“I need to go home before my shift. I smell like a swamp.”

“Sorry, AC is busted.”

“Yeah, I guessed as much.” He squints sitting up, washed down in the early morning light, already missing the feel of her hand tangled in his hair.

“Can I get your number?” For once, he’d like to do this again. Ruth smiles, settling into her hip as she looks down at him.

“You got a pen?” He does, tucked into a notebook that he keeps in the bottom drawer of his nightstand, not even worried about how uncool he looks fumbling for it and a scrap of paper to give to her. Purple nail polish, he notes, so dark the color is only a suggestion. He watches the flicker of it as she passes back the pen and paper to him.

“Thanks for a nice night, pretty boy.” Still sleep-shaken, but with it enough for her words to send a flush of heat up his neck.

“Yeah, Ruth, I had a good time too. So I’ll call you?” Already halfway out his bedroom door, she still smiles over her shoulder.

“Uh-huh, you do that.”

It’s early enough that he can linger in the scent of her in his sheets, pressing his face hard into the mattress before finally willing himself to get up. By the time he shuffles out into the living room with one and a half boots on, Eddie is back and crunching through a burnt piece of toast in front of the microwave.

“Hey, who was that spooky-looking chick that slinked– slunk? Whatever, left earlier this morning?”

“Her name is Ruth.” All that he offers up, pointedly focusing on pouring himself a cup of coffee. Eddie scoffs, crumbs scattering.

“Okay, and? Flavor of the week, or what?”

“Mmm.”

“No, you’re telling me Morticia is gonna turn an honest man out of you?” Steve’s turn to scoff this time, choosing to take a long pull of coffee rather than indulging Eddie with a real answer.

“You get her number?”

“Yeah.”

“You gonna call her?”

“Jesus, Ed, yes, lay off.”

“Oh, now I know you really like this one. You’re only bitchy about the ones you really like.”

“Fuck off. How’s Herb, or whatever his name is.”

“Don’t be so gauche, Steven, and for the record, his name is Leif.”

“Right.”

“Anyways, Harrington Doctrine, yeah?”

“Yeah, man, exactly.”

Now normally, according to the Harrington Doctrine, Steve should wait a full forty-eight hours, minimum, before even thinking about calling her. He does not follow the Harrington Doctrine. In fact, he barely makes it through the rest of the day without picking up a phone. When he gets home from his shift at the deli, however, he paces himself. Takes a shower first, checks the answering machine, willing away a little more time, anything to temper his apparent want. But when he does finally dial up the number on the scrap of paper he kept tucked in his notebook, he is sorely disappointed by the answer he gets on the other end.

“Brown Bag deli, how may I help you?” First, shock, reasoning to himself that he must have punched it in wrong. He tries again, careful in each button pressed.

“Brown Bag deli, how may I help–” He slams the phone back into its receiver this time, just as Eddie walks through the front door, home from his shift at the tattoo shop where he apprentices.

“Damn, tell that phone how you really feel.”

“She gave me a fake number.”

“What? Who?”

“Mort– Ruth. I can’t believe this, she seriously gave me a fake number.” With all the tact that he usually has, Eddie plucks the scrap of paper from Steve’s hand, a grumbled lemme see as he dials the number. At first, a lift off of hope in his chest when Eddie stays on the line, brow furrowed.

“Hi, yeah, do you guys still do that portobello melt thing? Can I get that without tomatoes? Yeah, to– hey.” Steve only half pays attention to Eddie’s protest when he takes the phone and clicks it back in the receiver, something heavy settling sick in his stomach.

“She really gave me a fake number. What the fuck?”

“Sorry, man, I guess no Addam’s Family Values for you.”

…

He doesn’t usually get like this. Lord knows, Steve has taken his fair share of rejection. So why this one is stinging harder, lingering longer, especially when he barely knew the girl, is beyond him.

Maybe the boldness of her rejection. A brazen, brash no. The humiliation of unassuming hope, small flames are so quick to be smothered. Or maybe the way he feels like a fool, plain and simple, for thinking there was something more happening when there so apparently wasn’t. Fun, he tells himself. She had been in it for fun. And she got her fun, and got out. And is that not one of his favorite moves in the book? Plenty of fun of his own, after all.

But what is maybe the worst part, he can’t stop thinking about it, about her. Nearly filled up the rest of his notebook with what he can remember, nearly a whole month’s worth of remembering now. Piecemeal, by this point, the line of her nose, the curve of her brow, half a smile. What he can always recall clearly, the patterned print of flowers that was on her skirt. He scribbles it everywhere, in the margins of old receipts, in sharpie on parchment paper, slow days at the deli getting passed somewhere hazy in his mind.

He has a headache by the time he gets back to his apartment most afternoons, opting for a few advil and closed blinds over any of the phone numbers that continue to get tucked into his hands.

“How much longer are you gonna do this?”

“Mmm.”

“Steve.”

“What?” He doesn’t have to look to know exactly how Eddie is standing right now. In the doorway to his bedroom with his arms crossed and his hip cocked to the side, his version of concern.

“It’s been a fucking month, man. Greener pastures, fish in the sea, et cetera et cetera. You haven’t even gone to any shows since the double-M, for Christ’s sake.”

“Double-M?”

“Morticia meltdown.” Steve sighs, more interested in another swatch of flowers that he’s filling a blank page in his notebook with. Mercy, before Eddie can continue to needle him, the phone rings. He only catches scraps of what is said, but his ears prick when he hears Eddie let out a quiet oh.

“Steven, my liege, my lad, it’s for you!” Great, probably Art calling to find out where the hell he’s been. Still, he gets up, only paying an ounce of attention to Eddie’s shit-eating grin when he takes the phone from him.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Steve?” Still only half-way paying attention, snapping his fingers in Eddie’s direction when he starts rifling through a box of cereal that Steve bought, looking for the dinky plastic toy inside, no doubt.

“Uh, yeah, who is this?” He snaps his fingers again when Eddie keeps digging through the cereal box, mouthing the words stop it when his roommate still persists in his hunt. Steve’s going to have to buy new cereal.

“It’s— it’s Ruth? Um, from the Newport, remember?” It’s a strange feeling, first his stomach sinking, a tight fist in his throat too, and most embarrassingly of all, that flip in his chest, that kick of hope, even now, stupid.

“Oh, oh, yeah, I remember. How did– how’d you get this number?”

“I asked Art for it, figured he’d have your info. Listen, Steve, I need to apologize for what I did. That was just– fucking childish of me, and I hope you know that it had way more to do with my own fucked-upness than it did with anything about you.”

“Yeah, it’s okay, you know, but it was pretty fucked up.” Stupid, how that hope floats to the top of his throat, because maybe apology means trying again. Maybe he’d like to try again.

“There’s something else I have to tell you.”

“Okay?” She sighs, a crackled sound over the line that makes his brow pinch.

“Look, there’s no nice way to say this, so I’m just gonna spit it out.” At this point, Eddie has crept closer, hand still buried in the cereal box, eyes wide and rapt at what is probably a stricken expression on Steve’s face.

“I’m pregnant, Steve.” What does hope turn into? A dizzying feeling, dumb and dull and done. His ears ring with it.

“I– you’re– you– what?”

“I’m pregnant. And before you do that guy thing of asking if it’s yours, I’m pretty damn sure that it is.” Somewhere in the slow unraveling of this, he has pressed one palm to the wall, whole body slumping toward it, head dropped between his shoulder blades to try to make as much of everything else quiet so he can focus on this.

“Okay, um, okay. Do you wanna– you know– because it’s your body and if you wanna— you should–”

“I’ve decided I’m keeping it.” The way his heart seizes, stops for a beat, and then trips back over itself into rhythm scares him, palm finding his chest like he could rub that feeling out and away.

“Right, that’s– yeah. Do you, like, need help, or–”

“No, I don’t need your help. I just– it seemed like the right thing to do to tell you, so that’s what I’m doing. But, yeah, I don’t, like, expect anything from you.” Steve scrunches his eyes shut, hard, trying to tamp down the heat starting to rise behind them, a foreign feeling, a falling feeling.

“Yeah, okay, thank you for telling me, Ruth.” Because what else could he say? It’s like he hears the words coming out of his mouth from somewhere just over his shoulder. And there’s more that he’d like to say, the right things to say, but Ruth is already beating him to it.

“So, yeah, I guess that’s all. Take care of yourself, Steve.” Already hanging up, and that sounds permanent. That sounds like no intention of ever seeing him again. The phone hangs by its chord, swinging limp a few inches above the ground.

“Steve, what the fuck was that?” One long exhale for him, shitshitshitshit. Eddie sets down the cereal box and takes him by the shoulders, squared off and trying to catch his vacant, glazed stare.

“I– we– she–”

“Did you use protection?” He blinks, nods, relieved that Eddie has already gotten explanation enough from eavesdropping on the call.

“Yeah, fuck, yes. I took a condom from your stash, it was a brand new box.” Something strange passes over Eddie’s expression, blanching and jaw slackening.

“Steve, which box of condoms did you open?”

“What do you mean which box? The one in your closet, on the top shelf.” Eddie’s hands drop from his shoulders, brows shot straight up his forehead.

“Oh jesus christ.”

“Jesus christ? What– Ed, what the fuck does that mean?” Steve gets no reply, Eddie already scuttling into his room, followed by the distant sound of rummaging, and then a low curse.

“So here’s the thing, Stevie, these condoms–” Eddie comes back out of his room brandishing said box of condoms, the box that Steve had opened that night with Ruth. He has a smile that slants sheepish on his face, and Steve is already starting to feel sick.

“Yeah, these condoms are from eighty-nine.”

“As in– as in nineteen-eighty-nine?”

“That would be correct, yes.” Eddie has already taken a few tentative steps backward, putting the kitchen counter between him and Steve. But Steve is too struck dumb to even consider anything like vengeance on his roommate, dragging both his hands through his hair and tugging hard until it hurts.

“Who– why– what the fuck are you doing with five-year-old condoms?”

“Ha, well, you see, I figured after a decade or two maybe they’d be worth something, you know? Like a collector’s item.” Wordless, Steve shuffles over to Eddie and takes the box of condoms from his hands, something like a laugh that sounds so sharp Eddie winces at the sound.

“Ed, a signed poster is a collector’s item. This is a box of condoms– this is– this is junk.”

“Well it’s junk now, Steven, since someone opened it.”

“Oh no, uh-uh, you don’t get to be pissy about this, not when there’s literally a girl who’s pregnant because you’re such a fucking hoarder.”

“Uh, excuse me, I’m not the one who didn’t check the expiration date when they went fumbling around for a condom.”

“I didn’t think I needed to worry about five-year-old condoms, fuck!” The volume of his voice surprises even him, silence falling heavy and hard in the echo of it. Steve rests his hands on the counter, letting his shoulders shrug up to his ears, slumping down into his bones. Eddie rests a cautious hand on his arm.

“What’re you gonna do?”

“I don’t know, Ed. I really don’t know.”

#steve harrington fluff #steve harrington stranger things #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington smut #steve harrington #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fandom #steve harrington angst #steve harrington au

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charlottecremababe · 3 months

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anybody else make Spotify Playlist for PL characters? Just me...?😅

Recently I've been tinkering about with a few playlists on Spotify that I feel like would fit well with certain Peter Lorre characters (I even made an extensive one for the lord hugh minister of all things sinister himself) and I wanted to put them up here for people to enjoy. Now I don't know for sure if all the music I put in these WOULD actually fit the characters I assigned to them, it's just a rough interpretation I have based off their personality and what I could see them jamming to so...bear with me😅

The last Playlist is a combination of several lorre characters who I think would probably enjoy the goth scene and would probably appreciate some of the things that music genres like new wave and industrial have to offer but again...I don't really know for sure. This is just an interpretation😅

#peter lorre #spotify #Spotify

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gracegrove · 10 months

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Elf au Harringrove (mostly Billy tho)

Where the plot is mostly the same as Elf except,

Billy grows up in the North Pole not believing that he's a cotton-headed-ninny-muggins but rather an exceptionally genetically gifted elf who is by far taller than all the other elves. He excels at winter sports and is a menace at ice hockey and polar bear polo. He is not talented with toy making but why would someone such as himself want to waste time on Litebrites and Mr. Potato Heads? No, Billy wanted more than an elf's life. He is often in trouble for racing the reindeer, swapping spit (and other things) with other elves, and passing out in the stables hiccuping with an empty bottle of maple bourbon from Santa's personal stores.

One day while sobering up in a pile of hay, Billy overhears the stable elves complain that Billy's behavior is human and no elf would act this way. Why did they ever take in a human? Billy then has an identity crisis.

Billy finds out from his adopted elf parent, that as an infant he was in a car accident in which his mother was driving. She died in the crash and Billy was taken to an orphanage. No one at the time came to claim him. Billy's name was known because he was found with a blanket that had his name embroidered on it. However, Santa knows who Billy's father is.

Santa tells Billy that his father is Neil Hargrove, a New York City police sergeant with a wife and daughter who live in Queens. Santa says that Neil is a good man who has been on his Nice List since 1973. Billy cannot believe it.

Blaming Neil for abandoning his mother to die and not claiming him at the orphanage, Billy sets out for New York City with the goal of putting Neil Hargrove back on the Naughty List.

Billy puts his plan in motion by going to Neil's precinct on his first day in NYC (still dressed as an elf) and introduces himself to Neil with the most vulgar Christmasgram complete with ass shaking. Neil arrests Billy and has his lieutenant, Hopper run fingerprints and DNA on this guy because he's gotta have priors for prostitution or distribution or something. No way that kid was telling the truth, even if he somehow knew his late girlfriend's name. The DNA comes back a familial match. Father and son.

What is he going to do? Hopper suggests taking Billy home and Billy musters his most innocent smile in agreement. As Billy worms his way into Neil's life he learns that his parents had a fight the night his mother died and that Neil and his new wife fight sometimes too. This fuels Billy's mission, as he decides to tail Neil during his day to catch Neil messing up.

After meeting Steve and growing closer with Neil's daughter, Maxine, Billy begins to realize that his efforts to put Neil on the Naughty List aren't worth it. He will never forget what happened to his mother and how it affected his life, but seeking out revenge will not fulfill him. Billy realizes that Neil does not need any help getting back in the Naughty List and that he should put his efforts into protecting the new relationships that he has found.

Elf au extras

The pennies from heaven montage but Billy style:

Billy sneaks into a peep show, kicks his feet up, and enjoys himself with a Christmas themed striptease. “Santa was sooooo elfing wrong… this is better (than peeking at presents early)”.

Goes into the WORLD'S BEST CUP OF COFFEE cafe to try it. He silently takes a sip. Says with a straight face, “This is gumdroppings.” [Insert elf equivalent of cussword to mean shit] Then he walks out of the cafe without paying.

A teenager on the street offers Billy a CD copy of their ‘demo’. Billy takes it because it looks like a shiny Christmas bauble, but doesn't pay for it.

Billy gets asked by a family from Des Moines if they can get their picture taken with him. He says no but gives in when their little girl starts crying.

Billy acts like he's cool but goes round and round in the carousel door until he can't walk straight and falls back out onto the sidewalk.

Billy farehops the subway.

Billy has done at least five different things without paying that the cops are now chasing him like a cartoon character and the only way he loses them is by blending in with the Christmas decor at the department store…. Where he meets Steve.

#'bye billy hope you find yer dad 🐳'#billy #harringrove #elf au #harringrove au

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neondiamond · 1 year

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🐚 Recently Read Fics - August 2023 🐚

These are all the amazing fics I read over the past month (from shortest to longest). Don’t forget to leave kudos and comments to show the authors your appreciation if you read any of these! 🤍

🐚 Ice, Ice, Baby by @beelou (1k,

Figure skater Harry takes Louis out on the ice for the first time

🐚 You don’t have to say, “I love you,” to say I love you by @so-why-let-your-voice-be-tamed (1k, T)

Louis can’t find his damn sweater.

And it’s not like he doesn’t have other sweaters, he does. In fact, he might have somewhat of a sweater problem, because he fears an avalanche of hoodies every time he opens his wardrobe. They’re comfy and warm and he likes tucking his hands inside the sleeves.

He could grab any other sweater but he wants this sweater. It’s his favourite sweater and it’s a little bit faded and worn out, but that makes it extra cosy. And after getting rained on on the way home from uni, he feels like he deserves a bit of comfort. His plan had been to shower, put on his favourite sweater, make himself some tea, and curl up on the couch with the cat, since Zayn won’t be home til late.

🐚 spoon time by @wecantalktomorrow (2k, NR)

There was nothing going on between them outside of the normal bro-pal-laddy-dude things every other set of best friends did. All sets of best friends did things like this. You know, hanging out every day, staying up late, and chatting until the wee hours which usually ended up as a sleepover and bed-sharing. There is nothing going on between them.

That is what Harry was going to keep telling himself and everyone around them, anyway because it is the truth, after all.

🐚 a ton of things we have yet to do by @red-pandaaa (3k, T)

Louis falls during a polo game, Harry is concerned, and in the end they’re both okay

🐚 Meet In A Minute At The Rendezvous by @loveislarryislove (3k, E)

Harry and Louis' sons are on rival high school football teams. And whenever they play each other, Harry and Louis sneak off to hook up in the restrooms after halftime. They've never been caught yet -- and if they were, it's anyone's guess whether people would be more scandalized by what they're doing or who they're doing it with.

When their sons are injured on the field, Niall comes to find them.

🐚 the “Falling” series by @so-why-let-your-voice-be-tamed (4k, T)

“Is this yours or mine?” Harry holds up a CD, and Louis swallows back something bitter, something that he can feel jittering all the way down to his fingertips.

“Ours,” he says quietly. Don’t you remember, he wants to ask. “Gems gave it to us, for that roadtrip.” He’s quiet for a moment. “I guess it’s yours then, considering she’s your sister.”

Harry looks like he wants to say something but thinks better of it, and just nods, putting the CD in a box that’s filled with all kinds of knick knacks from their bedroom.

Or, no. Louis supposes it is his bedroom now. Or will be, after today.

🐚 The President and His Captain by @tommokat (5k, T)

Childhood best friends turn boyfriends Harry and Louis have kept their relationship quiet for almost a year now, so when Harry's basketball coach enforces a no dating rule for the season, they should have no problem sticking to that rule. Right?

🐚 Let The Ocean Worry About Being Blue by @greenblueish (5k, E)

In a society where young adults go through the so-called Colour Test which determines their affiliation to a Colour - Blue, Yellow, Red or Green - and thus where they'll live, work and socialise for the rest of their lives, Harry is finally about to take the Test. Born and raised in Yellow, he met his boyfriend when he was still a teenager - against the government's recommendation. Louis, however, changed from Yellow to Blue two years ago. The problem: Harry needs to receive a Blue Test result as well, because a relationship between two people who live in different Colours is forbidden.

🐚 If That’s All It Was by @galacticlarry (6k, M)

Harry and Louis are in a long term relationship and are planning to get married. When they end up having to go long distance for a year, things start getting progressively harder to deal with and they ultimately put an end to their relationship.

What happens when they meet again after a few months and all of their unresolved feelings bubble up?

🐚 The Heart’s Home by @homosociallyyours (10k, T)

Louis is alone in the world, working long hours at a restaurant job that barely pays his bills, when he's roped into helping his bosses with a scheme. All he has to do is guard the special catch they've brought in, the one that they expect will bring them unbelievable wealth. But there's a problem: the creature they've caught is definitely half human, with the heart and soul of a human and the voice of an angel. Louis knows immediately that he can't let this mer-squid, Harry, become a wealthy person's dinner. As they spend more time together, growing ever closer, Louis realizes that he's got to find a way to get Harry back to his home-- the sea --even if the thought of losing him hurts and doing it means risking everything.

🐚 Not Safe For Work by @greenblueish (23k, E)

the one where the boys work at Niall's fashion start-up 28 Programme Designs, and omega Louis has a lot of not safe for work thoughts about his colleague Harry, but little does he know that the alpha can read minds.

🐚 Catching a Partner by @berzerkshires (25k, M)

This documentary follows the story of two people who fell in love in the last place you'd expect. Louis is a detective at the Boston Police Department investigating a trail of recent murders. Harry is the latest victim who survived an attempted murder and is sent to live at a safe house with Detective Tomlinson as the killer is still at large.

This is their story.

🐚 We Don’t Need No Piece of Paper (From the City Clerk) by @2tiedships2 (26k, M)

Harry sat on his bed and stared at the pile of luggage by the door. This was really happening. He was being shipped off to America to get married.

In a matter of months, he would be bonded to an alpha his father had chosen for him. Someone that Harry knew nothing about. Not even his name.

🐚 Wind beneath my wings by @lunarheslwt (93k, E)

As an omega carer that works at a rescue and rehabilitation centre for feral alphas and omegas, Louis has experienced all sides of ferality. So Harry- a cold, near mute, non-receptive alpha- was a challenging case for everyone at Phoenix Rehab Centre. Louis wasn’t expecting to feel drawn towards an aloof Harry, or to form a slow bond with him. He certainly was not expecting for his entire life to change in unforeseen ways.

#28th appreciation #monthly recs #fic rec #tracksintheam

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boyplushie · 4 months

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do you think the cute employee at the thrift store today could tell i was gay (i have a mullet-ish + was wearing a beautifully ugly polo + bought a green shirt & an indigo girls CD)

#jem rambles

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alexturne · 2 years

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Arctic Monkeys aren’t done evolving (Alternative Press)

By Ashley Reese. Published: October 18, 2022

ALEX TURNER IS THINKING ABOUT a parking lot. Specifically, one in Hollywood, California where Arctic Monkeys performed on April 26, 2007 as musical guests on Jimmy Kimmel Live. At the time, Turner was 21 years old, delivering a blistering rendition of “Brianstorm” to a crowd that lined up around the block to see the latest from the most hyped band coming out of the British indie-rock scene. There were the Libertines, Franz Ferdinand, the Rapture, Bloc Party, the Cribs, the Kooks, but there was no one quite like Arctic Monkeys.

“It’s funny, innit?” Turner smirks. Currently, the Arctic Monkeys bandleader is at ease and upbeat sitting at a New York City hotel restaurant, awaiting a cappuccino. “I haven’t thought about that for a while, but when you said it then… I feel like I can remember what T-shirt I was wearing or something.”

As Turner, 36, muses about how surreal it is to reminisce about gigs they played 15 years ago, he pauses. “Not to get bogged down in memory lane,” he says apologetically. “But there’s something about how vividly some of that stuff stays with you, and maybe not what you would expect to.”

Memory lane for Turner is largely paved in polo shirts and leather jackets, shoulder-length locks and buzzcuts, tiny gigs and stadium tours, unremarkable Sheffield pubs and bohemian Hollywood bungalows. He has spent the majority of his life in a band, and most of that time in the limelight.

Too much reminiscing about the old days, though, is enough to make anyone feel washed, perhaps even someone as effortlessly cool as Turner. But after 20 years as one of the biggest rock bands around, it’s hard not to get hung up on the past every once in a while.

IT WAS 2002 WHEN Arctic Monkeys formed, gaining popularity by word of mouth and via free demo CDs making the rounds in their hometown of Sheffield and elsewhere in Northern England. From the jump, this was a band that was associated with their loyal fanbase: Even their MySpace page back in the mid-aughts was run by fans, not the band itself. By 2005, the band signed with Domino, and in 2006, their frenzied debut album Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not became the fastest-selling debut album in U.K. music history.

This success was swiftly followed by Favourite Worst Nightmare in 2007, but they managed to avoid becoming nothing more than a landfill indie band in 2009 with the release of Humbug, a dark, sonic departure for the band that set the stage for a musical legacy that defied stagnancy and predictability. Their 2011 album Suck It And See was followed by AM, the record that not only solidified the band’s success in America — beyond the Anglophiles and indie sleaze veterans — but introduced them to Gen Z Tumblristas. The AM-era sound and aesthetic arguably overshadowed the previous iterations of the group, threatening to damn them — and especially Turner — to a leather-jacket-and-mop-top image forever.

Their 2018 album, Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino, put a swift end to that. The band’s delightfully oddball exploration of politics, tech and cheese from the perspective of characters on a lunar resort was a reminder to fans old and new to never make assumptions about where Turner is going next.

And yet, the band’s forthcoming studio album, The Car, still manages to defy expectations of what an Arctic Monkeys album can sound like. If TBHC was a divisive response, The Car may very well be seismic. So whether fans like it or not is almost irrelevant: It won’t stop them from stanning and duking it out over coveted concert tickets.

“The way the project was put together this time was not unlike, what in my mind I imagine, making a movie might be like,” Turner says of The Car. “Obviously, I have no idea what that's actually like, but there was a longer post-production period in this, trying to take a lot more care of how everything fits together, the space and the dynamics within it… making it a thing that works from start to finish,” he ponders, before smirking and pivoting to self-deprecation. “It isn’t like I haven’t been trying to do all along.”

But this time, he thinks, they’ve nailed it. This wasn’t the case with their first two albums.

“They’re all over the place when I think about them now,” Turner reflects. “It's fast and everything is just done really quickly and kind of reaching all over the place to figure out where it's going.”

And now, Turner’s attempt at this meticulously crafted project culminates into a record that feels like a natural progression from TBHC, if only in that Turner, drummer Matt Helders, guitarist Jamie Cook and bassist Nick O’Malley have decided to continue down the path of “fuck it, let’s make it weird.”

“The first song that really gave me a sense of ‘OK, this is a direction that feels like it might be quite exciting to move in’ was ‘There’d Better Be A Mirrorball,’” Turner says. From there, he built out a mellow and complex album over the next two years.

So it feels reductive to say that the first thought that came to mind when “There’d Better Be A Mirrorball” debuted was to conclude that they’re in their soft-rock era. Their dad-rock era. Their Steely Dan era.

Perhaps those are pejoratives, but at times the album does little to distance itself from such epithets, and it’s impossible to miss the Frampton-esque twang in “Jet Skis On The Moat.” Yet, it doesn’t find itself trapped in it. This project is lush, string-heavy and has a decidedly cinematic flair, with songs like “The Car,” evoking a scene of an outlaw driving out west with a body in the trunk like a scene out of Fargo, and “Hello You,” which has a decidedly funky Quincy Jones film score-like bent.

“I mean, I’m absolutely all right with that [comparison],” Turner says, visibly chuffed. (And, yes, he’d love to try his hand at a film score).

As Turner continues to explain — or, rather, justify — the heavy use of strings on the album, he stops; the conversation at a table nearby has grown louder by the second. He thoughtfully frets over the integrity of our recorded interview, but he also admits that he’s distracted. After suggesting we relocate to another part of the room, he grabs both of our coffees and belongings and perches at the bar. He says distractions help keep him on his toes, preparing him for the next gauntlet to come his way. And Turner is always careful with his words, rolling them around in his mouth a bit and seeing how they taste before sharing them with the class. It makes for a slightly slower interview, but a meaningful one without the puff. He’s methodical and patient, with himself above all else, at one point going as far as to regret not using a different synonym for the word “distortion.” And it’s this meticulousness that translates into his lyrical prowess, crafting words and phrases into increasingly cryptic songs.

So it’s fitting that The Car’s best and most striking song is neither groovy nor soft; instead, it’s a pulsating, spooky track called “Sculptures of Anything Goes,” and it’s the first song co-writing credit with Arctic Monkeys guitarist Cook since “Still Take You Home" on their debut album.

Turner immediately perks up when the song is mentioned.

“Jamie got the Moog synthesizer and was playing with this sort of computer rhythm, like a rolling drum machine,” Turner explains. “He was putting that through the synth, so when you hit the key, you'd hear the drum machine and then it’d fade out. I basically wrote a song for that sound.”

The result: an ominous little earworm with the dark sex appeal of 2013’s AM and the eerieness of Humbug. “There's a bit of [a] desert thing still hanging around,” Turner agrees, referring to Joshua Tree where much of Humbug, their third album, was recorded.

Drummer Helders also cited the track as his favorite, noting that “there's a lot of scope for a cool video for that one.” He even assumed that “Sculptures” would be the first single from The Car. But that would have been misleading. Turner was correct in saying that “Mirrorball” sets the tone for the album at large, and the reception of that one mirrors how well they might receive the album in general.

There’s plenty to love about The Car: Turner has never sounded so confident in his singing voice, and his songwriting still cements him as one of the generation's most talented songwriters. But there will be Arctic Monkeys fans — longtime devotees who knew the band from their frenzied “Teddy Picker” days, “Arabella” bandwagoners and “Batphone” evangelists alike — who will find themselves uninspired by the band’s latest.

Following the release of “Body Paint,” someone tweeted, “Free Matt Helders, let him play drums on the new album.” Fair enough: Helders’ spirited drumming style has certainly taken a backseat on this album, but it’s a move Helders says he doesn’t mind (he suggests seeing them live or listening to the older albums for those who miss his drumming so much). And while Turner doesn’t seem entirely indifferent about the idea of alienating his fans, he’s not interested in placating them to the point of regression. If anything, Turner is perplexed by those who don’t see that their growth as a band is less about abandonment and more about evolving.

“Maybe it's wishful thinking, but I'm like, can't you see that [throughline]?” Turner says.“ I feel like we’ve got to move on… it’s been almost 10 years since [AM]. I don't think there's a way to keep doing that. And I think [we] sound like the same band that we did in the beginning.”

In short, Turner is ready for AM’s pomade-laden funeral pyre.

THROUGHOUT ALL OF Arctic Monkeys’ eras, Turner maintains an admirable level of faith in his fans; but maybe that’s because he doesn’t see all the shitposting on social. Turner famously — and, perhaps, smartly — doesn’t have a public social media account. In fact, his aversion has led his fans to jokingly refer to him as a Luddite who doesn’t know how to operate a smartphone.

So, does that mean we shouldn’t expect Turner to show up on TikTok one day and do a dance challenge?

Over Zoom, Helders quipped, “That’s the day I leave the band.”

“I’m not ruling it out!” Turner exclaims. Then, he adds, somewhat distressed, “There aren’t enough hours in the day! And this is not a criticism of anyone at all�� I just don't know how I would be able to do a good job.”

No need. The TikTok generation has picked up his slack, and they’re out in full force waiting in line for the band at gigs and online. While old heads stick to the official forums to theorize the meaning behind song snippets (for a while, its members debated whether “I Ain’t Quite Where I Think I Am” is about The Great Gatsby), the stan accounts who shitpost all day get the most spotlight. The band’s single “Body Paint” — a cynical love song, accompanied by a beautifully shot music video — has already been memed to death with Turner’s faraway staredown set to elevator music and clips of him playing guitar on a rotating platform compared to food heating up in the microwave. The shitposts come from a place of love, but it’s hard to imagine Turner having a full understanding of some of his loudest online fans’ antics. Still, it’s undoubtedly them who will help shape the narrative following The Car’s release, and help the band continue to build their legacy.

But it’s a fool's errand, bothering to have any real expectations going into a new Arctic Monkeys release. Every record has offered something different — even their sophomore album, Favourite Worst Nightmare, released just a year after their record-breaking debut, experimented with some darker elements that would be fully explored in the psych-rock-adjacent Humbug, turned lovesick in Suck It And See, terminally horny on AM and out of this world on Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino.

No noise will prevent anyone from clamoring to see them live next year when they travel to North America, Europe, the U.K. and Ireland to promote The Car on their stadium tour; the bloodbath over concert tickets in recent weeks has become so unhinged that some fans have jokingly tried to cancel the band in an attempt to dissuade potential concertgoers from buying tickets. Every tweet announcing additional tour dates is met with fans wondering — or rather, demanding to know — why the band aren’t hitting their neck of the woods: “Come to Brazil in 2023;” “Drop Asia tour;” “Eastern Europe when?”

It’s a far cry from the parking lot.

#arctic monkeys #alex turner #interview #the car

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junk-culture · 2 months

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til that they do in fact give my store a CD of obscure unknown pop songs specifically for the purpose of being played in the shop and also that the exact same playlist is used in boots as well. i don't go into boots often enough these days to fact check that but ill believe it. to be honest i love this kind of thing like it's such a stupid little facet of modern life like the fact that there is presumably some kind of thinktank devising these CDs. like who are these people. where are they. what is the official job title of the person who organises what kind of shitty music should be plagueing retail employees. are the songs composed specifically for shops or is there a scouting department always on the lookout for new "artists" who just happen to be releasing music so bad it can only be played in high street fashion chains and boots. why do they choose music that only serves to irritate and annoy. what's the psychology. have they conducted experiments to determine whether their shitty pop music improves sales compared to no shitty pop music. why do so many of the songs have lyrics or vocals that are vaguely similar to the actual well known current pop songs. how is subjecting people to knock-off taylor swift going to make them buy more shitty clothes. maybe it works on some deranged people but what about the men. what about the blokes buying swim shorts or the old men buying the exact same type polo shirt they've been buying for the last decade. surely they're not secretly bopping along and feeling so energised that they decide to indulge and buy an extra pair of beige chinos. your shitty music is clearly not maximising sales. so you are irritating me daily and for WHAT. for literally no reason. anyway

#complaining monday

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lochnessliv · 4 months

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Spending the day cleaning while listening to my old one direction cds and while the harmonies absolutely hold up, the lyrics absolutely do not. Like not in a problematic way, but it's hard to take these love ballads seriously when the lyrics are SO bad. So here's a quick recap of the phrases I've been subjected to in the last hour:

-"drool by your chinny chin chin" self-explanatory, infamous

-"give it to me one more time" gross response to being dumped

-"anointed with your heart" takes me out of the emotion immediately as I'm left to wonder whether he was "anointed" (given) her heart, or "anointed" (biblical context) with her heart, which I'm picturing as being drizzled with blood

-"running over thoughts that made my feet hurt/bodies intertwined with her lips...hole in the middle of my heart like a polo....tears fall down like the showers that are british" this entire song is insane and again, infamous

-"if he feels my traces in your hair, sorry love but I don't really care" ok so we all agree there's no other way to interpret that, right??

-"her light is as loud as as many ambulances as it takes to save a savior" ok I know this isn't early it's just insane but girl almighty is a banger anyway

Nvm post interrupted because I was just reminded of how they tried so hard to make Liam the frontman at first, my day is now going back down the 1D lore rabbit hole

#one direction #1d

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futurebird · 1 year

Text

2 - Truancy

Part One - Part Two What worried me first was *not* that I might die up there. That after many years some hapless student, sent to fetch extra halos, might look behind the giant paper mache cat and gasp in horror at my desiccated corpse still clothed in the brown plaid skirt and too-large white button down shirt (polo shirts were allowed after spring recess, but that was not for weeks) They would shake their head sadly at my scuffed up black and white saddle shoes and wonder who I was. It would be a tremendous mystery. No, what worried me first was the more immediate future. I would need to yell, or bang, or maybe get the great gong from the music storage and make a racket so that someone would open the door. How could I get out without being seen? I decided to deal with this issue ... when I was ready to leave. It was silly to have gone to all this risk and not at least look around. I walked with carful soft footsteps up the dark attic stairs.

The attic of that school was massive. The school was a C-shaped building with a courtyard: the attic was a single vast room that covered all the rooms below. The rafters were wooden, and there was a little light from the small half-moon windows at the ends and from the window seats spaced along the length. From the outside these windows in the attic were like hooded dark eyes. As if the school were a great, but probably friendly I supposed, spider. (I liked spiders.) And that was when I realized that the attic wasn't just a storage space, it must have been what people kept calling "the old library" This little private school had a proper library, of course, a brand new one. With computers and CD roms, and brightly colored bookshelves. When you were a new student, as I had been last year they took you on a little tour and made a big deal about the new library: a glass addition on the first floor that connected the lower school building to the upper school so we could walk to science class without getting rained on. That they didn't show "the old library" just proved whoever planned those tours didn't know what they were doing. It was so obvious that the attic had once been a library that I wondered why I hadn't noticed it before. Every wall was lined with shelves. Some even still held books. (but mostly old ones in poor repair) many of the shelves were blocked by stacks of boxes, or extra desks and extra chairs and even a whole stack of extra cafeteria tables with their attached circular seats they seemed like a heap of giant millipedes. I could even see where the circulation desk had been, and the Librarian's Office. As I was taking all this in, I could hear the sound of recess ending. The noise-- once pleasantly distant was filling the building. Everything sounded a bit different from the attic. Some sounds were impossible to hear-- but the big doors on the cafeteria we used at recess seemed louder up there than when I was right beside them. They boomed shut. The flurry of noise died down to the quiet of afternoon classes. I waited. Expecting the detectives and police and Mrs. Nevens and probably even my mom to come bursting in looking for me. They would all be angry. Unable to understand or even listen to why I had to come here. (But I had to get away from the recess. From and the awful and too bright noise, from all the sing-song and taunting voices.) I would try to explain, and they wouldn't understand. It would be A Very Serious Matter. And there would be Consequences. I waited to be arrested, or put in detention, or worse. But, nothing happened. Old buildings are funny. They have a funny way of carrying sounds. Three floors up the voices of my peers were mostly a senseless jumble... and now that class had begun it was silent-- yet now and then I could hear a bit of conversation crisp and crystal clear. The soft rustle of pages turned, and sums calculated. Afternoon classes went on without me. I wondered if it were just as easy for them to hear me. No matter. I would simply make no sounds.

Part One - Part Two (to be continued.) I think I could expand this into a bit of fiction. I just wanted to capture the feeling of what it was like to be so sad as a kid you end up locked inside of an abandon library.

#truancy #cutting class #5th grad #school attic #memories #short story #based on a true story

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typically-untypical · 2 years

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decorating their house with halloween deco as a protest against xmas with any/all of the dork sides as a prompt :D

^_^ I'm all for people enjoying the Holidays however they want, but I think you have a point about the Dark Sides believing in Halloween Supremacy.

This Is Halloween

Remus could hear the sound of Christmas pouring through the door. It felt like heresy; the offending noise was scraping at his ear drums. This was completely unacceptable, it was still November and Remus was not about this life. Christmas was about hope, peace on earth, family, and all the other cutesy bs his brother subscribed to, and Remus would behave… ish… during the month of December, but it wasn’t December yet. Maybe if they lived in another country where Christmas meant more, Remus would find another thing to complain about, but they lived in the United States, Florida specifically. Christmas here was kept in check by the boundary line of Thanksgiving and it was only fair to the retail workers who would have to listen to Christmas music on loop, that Remus got his revenge. So, unless all of the other sides wanted nightmares of a decapitated Kris Kringle, they were going to respect the "no Christmas before Thanksgiving" rule. What better way to enforce it than with a Halloween takeover.

Remus jumped up from the couch and teleported to his room, laughing all along the way. He knew what he wanted to do but he had to find just the right things, the perfect music, the perfect decorations. Sure he could just summon what he wanted, but sometimes a hint of authenticity was worth it. After finding a costume, a CD, and the decorations he wanted, Remus got ready for his plot. Was this an excuse to enjoy Halloween for another month, no, of course not. He would never force the others to continue enjoying a holiday about fears, lying, and disguises. It wasn't like those three things encompassed some of his favorite people. Nope, not at all.

Remus smiled as he snuck into the common room, looking for the CD player, he noticed that Patton had left the room, probably to look for more decorations, or to ask Roman to conjure some. Roman was a fuddy duddy, he liked Halloween just as much as the dark sides but he had to pretend it wasn't his favorite because that wasn't what the light sides did. Honestly, Remus was a bit annoyed by his brother for playing to Daddy Patton’s wishes. Christmas was all well and good but where was the flair for the dramatics, the costumes? The candy? When they were younger he and Roman used to dress up in matching costumes.

With a snap, Remus turned all of Patton's Christmas decorations into 'tasteful' Halloween decorations, and he replaced the current CD with the 2001 Count Chocula "13 Day of Halloween - Rhythm and Boos" CD, an absolute classic. Then he disappeared quickly before he got caught, cackling back down in his own living room. He was sure his decorations and music wouldn't laugh, but even just the bit of change made him happy. The chaos was great and it helped ease some of the thoughts of making Paton the angel on the tree by shoving it up his... well.

Remus was laughing so hard, he almost didn't hear the CD stop and Patton's tirade of terror. Maybe he overdid it a bit on the spiders and gore, but if he was going to bring back Halloween for an encore, he was going to go big. By the time he stopped laughing, he heard someone coming down the stairs, though the didn't have the expected rush to their steps that he was expecting. Still, Remus changed into an outfit that would looked like Logan if not for the ripped cargo pants and torn green polo shirt. The glasses were at least correct, they should be since he had stolen them from Logan's spare drawer. He would probably never even know they were gone since Logan didn't typically need a set of spare glasses. Unlike some of the other sides, he was pretty good about taking care of his shit.

"Hey Re," Virgil said, dropping onto the sofa next to him. He was expecting to get reprimanded, chastised, something, but Virgil was acting positively calm. That was definitely not what Remus was expecting but he rolled with it anyway. Putting on the best fake nerd voice he could, Remus put down the book he was pretending to read and turned to Virgil.

"Why hello my esteemed college Virgin, what can I do for you today?"

Virgil rolled his eyes and shook his head. That had never been one of his favorite nicknames which was probably why it irritated him so much Roman called him that. "I was sent down here to tell you off for changing all the Christmas decorations." Again, he was calm, quiet even as he looked up at the ceiling rather than staring at Remus with those disapproving eyes the chaotic side knew Virgil had perfected. He wanted to gouge out those eyes sometimes, keep them in a jar. Maybe he should make a bunch of jars that had eyes that looked like they belonged to the other sides... later, right now he had someone else to focus on.

Remus looked at Virgil from behind his new glasses, everything was blurry so he had to push them up on his head to be able to actually see. "You aren't actually telling me to stop though."

"Nah," Virgil looked at him, "I like Halloween and I think your choice of music was... well it wasn't horrible. I actually thought it was kinda funny. Haven't listened to that since we were what... in middle school?"

A brilliant smile lit up Remus' face as he laughed. "Yes! See, I'm not the only one! Christmas can suck it!"

"Maybe I wouldn't go that far. Your brother likes Christmas so I'm happy to indulge him."

"Ew," Remus gagged and Virgil glared at him, rolling his eyes.

"But you aren't the only one who would be happy to indulge in Halloween for a little longer."

Remus' smile grew even brighter as he wiggled around on the couch until he was looking at Virgil fully. "What if we had a stupid little compromise or something?"

Virgil raised his eyebrow, obviously attentive so Remus kept going.

"I'll leave the boring people alone so they can celebrate their holiday, and we could decorate for Halloween down here. The two of us could make it all dark and creepy and just have some fun." It had been a long time since he had hung out with Virgil and just existed in the same space as him. It would be nice to have his friend back for a bit. Remus sat watching as Virgil thought about, he was almost prepared to hear the other man say no when instead he nodded.

"Yeah, Yeah that's a great idea." He stood up, holding his hand out for Remus. "We can pull out the old decorations, maybe make some new ones." Remus could see Virgil getting excited and everything buzzed in him like a hive of bees.

Remus took Virgil's hand, laughing excitedly when it came off as Virgil attempted to help him off the couch. Anxiety only had a brief moment of fear until he obviously remembered it was Remus and he just tossed the hand back, shaking his head.

"Alright Beetlejuice, I'm guessing you can get up on your own."

Remus reattached his hand as he, still laughing, sprang up to his feet. "You should go get your special decorations Vee, will set this whole things up Dark side style." Virgil smirked and nodded before heading off and Remus can already feel the change in the air. It was hard to explain, a hint of mysticism and dark magic, a hint of two people becoming friends again.

Remus wiggled excitedly, hardly able to contain his excitement as he started to place decorations. Maybe they could even rope Janus into it. He changed back into his normal outfit, this was gonna be so much fun.

#Untypical Creations #Sanders Sides #Sanders Side fic #Fanfic #remus sanders #virgil sanders #platonic dukexiety #I prefer to call the ship Virus #Halloween supremacy #Mostly fluffy

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