#popstar! reader

you passed him as you walked backstage, still breathless, glitter streaking your cheeks and fingers shaky from adrenaline. he eyed you, sharp and lazy at once, something close to a grin on his lips. "something funny?" you asked, taking a water bottle from a passing staff member. "nah, nothing," he shook his head, a cocky air around him, "it's just cute," "what's cute?" he met your eyes, sparkling in the light, "this whole, like, bubblegum riot girl thing you've got going on. the people eat it up," you rolled your eyes but smiled, sarcastic and coy, "yeah, you're really original for dressing like you raided the thrift store for grunge clothes. pretending to hate everything is real cute, donaldson," you walked away before he could answer, but you could distantly hear his laugh.

the thing about touring, though, is that it wears you down. the excitement faded into exhaustion. you start seeing the same people, every day, drinking the same shitty coffee on the bus and same catered food before shows. even if you hated someone, hated their stupid smirks and catty jokes, you saw too much of them to pretend they didn't exist. so you and art got used to each other, in some roundabout way. he sat through your soundchecks, occasionally made fun of your choreography, once even asked, "so do you actually write your songs? or do they just, like, email you a packet from some intern every year?" "oh, fuck you," you'd thrown a water bottle at him, but smiled anyway, in that newly familiar sort of way.

you made fun of his band, said it sounded like something off of a high school boy's angst playlist, but secretly listened to the top tracks in your earbuds at night. he called your last album cover a 'barbie fever dream' but secretly loved it, thought you looked like the most beautiful vision. you fell into a rhythm, brief encounters of sarcastic remarks and cocky smiles. he helped you fix your in ears one night, and his hand lingered over your cheek, eyes heavy on yours. for one, fleeting moment, you thought about how easy it would be to kiss him, to throw away all the bickering and fall into his whirlwind. but then it was time for you to run out on stage, and he stood with fingers still warm from your skin, frustrated in the way only you could bring out of him.

the first time you did eventually kiss, it wasn't planned. you were drunk on night three of a four day break, sitting around a bonfire that one of his band mates had started outside the cabin style hotel. you were sitting on the steps when art came over, smelling like smoke and pine and something you couldn't place. "you look sad," he said, kicking your boot with the toe of his converse. "no, just tired," you smiled slightly, shook your head. "you killed it the other night, by the way," he said, nudging your shoulder. you looked over at him, and for once, he didn't seem smug, didn't seem like he was trying to get a reaction. "you're not as much of an asshole as you pretend to be," you told him, painfully real. "don't say shit like that," he half scoffed, "ruins my image," you didn't mean to kiss him, really. you just did.

it was quick, messy, an overflow of pent up tension and longing glances. he carried you to his room, pinned you against his door with his hands settled against your ass, fingertips undoubtedly leaving indentions. he fucked you like he couldn't wait a second longer, let his head fall into the crook of your neck and let out raspy half whines, half moans. "been wanting to do this," he panted, hips rutting, lips dragging across your collarbone, "fuckin perfect," he made you finish twice before he let himself, reveled in the way you cried out his name at the peak of your high. when he came, he crushed his lips to yours, kissed you hard enough to take your breath away, muffled moans filling your head.

you didn't talk about it in the morning, or the one after, or when the break ended and you were back on the road. things changed, subtly at first, just enough for you to notice. he texted you one night when you'd both returned to your own buses, 'your new song got stuck in my head. thanks a lot.' you'd tucked your phone to your chest, grinning like a girl with a crush. you caught him looking at you from the vip area one night, lips parted and head tilted, like he forgot he ever disliked you.

it happened again, of course, one night after a particularly emotional show. "don't write a song about me," he muttered after, tracing your spine with his fingertips, breath warm against your bare shoulder. you laughed against his chest, "yeah? why not?" "cause it'll be mean, and probably really catchy, and i'll never live it down," you smiled sleepily, kissed the corner of his mouth, "you'll be fine," he pulled you in tighter, fell asleep curled up with you.

"so, now what?" tour ended on a tuesday, which felt odd to you, because nothing important ever happens on a tuesday, not like this. he stood across from you, hoodie half zipped over his t shirt, guitar case at his feet. you hadn't said anything yet, just stood there, the heaviness hanging in the moment. you knew you weren't officially together. you hadn't kissed in public, didn't show any sort of affection in the daylight. but you'd made out in the back of the tour bus in chicago, hooked up in your dressing room in miami, woken up together in new york. you had his favorite hoodie, and he had your most worn pick in his guitar case. but no, you weren't together. you weren't anything.

"so," he rocked back on his heels, kicked at a pebble. "so," you echoed, voice quiet. "where you headed?" he asked, eyes trained on the ground. "home, probably," you shrugged, unsure if you meant your childhood home or the one bedroom you hadn't seen in months. "right. yeah," he hesitated, unsure in his movements, looking more authentic than you'd ever seen him. you could've said something, could've said i want to keep seeing you, or come with me, or i don't want this to be the end. instead you just said, "this part's weird, right?" he laughed, dry and quiet, "yeah, the end is always weird," "maybe it's not an ending," you tried to smile and failed, "maybe it's just, like, a fade out,"

he looked at you, lips parted and eyes dark, "maybe i don't want this to fade out," you didn't know what to say right at first. you hesitated, tore your eyes away from his, but finally muttered a soft, "then don't," he stepped closer, aching for you, "this might not work in the real world. i'm not always good at real shit," you smiled tiredly, "you weren't that good at being on tour, either, but you made it work," he smiled back, crooked and boyish, "so you think we could?" "i don't know," it was the raw, honest answer, "but i want to try,"