𝙶𝚄𝙸𝙻𝚃 𝙱𝚄𝚁𝙽𝚂;

rules,   a stated law that must be abided by   :

the author of this blog goes by scout. i am 22 and will only interact with blogs that are 18+. this blog will contain a lot of triggering material and therefore i will softblock any minors that find their way here. no racism, sexism, homophobia (etc) will be tolerated here.

i am here, primarily, to have fun. i do not participate in call - out culture, nor do i engage in petty drama that makes its way onto my dash. if you ever ask me to pick sides, you will automatically be on the losing side of that debate.

i do not engage with blogs that sexualise or otherwise glorify shitty things. i don’t really need a list of these things, but i’m sure you get the picture.

i do not write with billy hargrove blogs. 

i’m selective and only care about following blogs that i think i can interact with.

typical roleplay rules apply. no godmodding. please do not overly format your posts. do not keep following me a thousand times in the hopes i’ll follow back.

            he was right; it was far from silly. that weight — the familiar weight she’d carried since her mother breathed her last breath settled back over her, threatening to choke her, rob her lungs of their breath, clenches throat as it always does: the promise of tears. but he’s asking — and she doesn’t feel embarrassed. not yet, at least. maybe she could tell him. knees to chest, chin rests atop peaks, gazing at nothing in particular as emotion begins to well. maybe he wouldn’t like her after, but she could say them.   ❛   i — -   ❜   she stammers.   ❛   i’m so sad.   ❜   she chuckles, the sound somber and bereaved, casting him a look. it felt ridiculous.   ❛   i don’t — sometimes, i think i’ll never be happy again.   ❜   and who wanted to be friends with a girl like that ? a black hole of a girl. 

for  a   moment ,   eddie  hears   angels   sing .  his   fingers   weave  some   unspoken   language  in   steve’s   hair ,  trace   it   along  the   skin   of   his   broad  back ;   his   lips  are   just   as   soft   and   sweet   as   he   thinks  heaven   must   be   …   before   the   rising   heat  between   them   drags  him   to   hell .  ‘ i——— ’   he   moistens  his   lips ,   mouth  suddenly   dry ,   a   wave   of   nausea   lapping  at   his   insides ,  ‘ um   … ’   in   his   mind  there   exists   one   steve   harrington ,   the  king ,   ever   out   of   reach .  at   his   fingertips ,   painfully  so ,   there   is   another :   and  this   one   he   thought   was   beginning   to   know.   this  one ,   with   the   way   he   looks   at   eddie ,   presses   himself  against   eddie   …   this   one ,  with   the   way   they   seem  to   work   in   tandem   even  despite   their   differences :   THE  SWORD   AND   THE  SHIELD ,   HEAVEN   AND  HELL   …   is   this  evil ?   it   had   felt   damning  in   the   dingy  bathroom   of   a   rock   ‘n’   roll   club :  not   all   the   way   evil  but   tinged   with  wickedness   ———   something  like   fire   in   his   veins  and   a   middle  finger   to   the   world.   ( SODOMY ! :   who  knew   sin   could  feel   this   good ? )   this  feels   different   …   like   two   trembling   hearts  and   a   longing  to   be   closer ,  closer   …   his   hands   begin  to   shake .   eddie  backs   up ,   a   frightened  animal ,   eyes  wide .  

‘ i   thought——— ’   thought  what ?   that   the   heat   between  them   was   a   magnetic   field ?  /   all   of   the   above ?  …   none   of   that   seems  to   matter   with  this   new   distance  between   them ,   tongues  speaking   separate   languages .  ‘ shit .   shit ,   shit .  shit . ’   stupid .   crazy .  fucking .   freak !   of   course   this  was   how   it   would   end   ———   how   it   always  would   end :   because  royalty ,   even   deposed ,  does   not   come  down   from   its   throne   to   slum   it   in   the   gutter   with  the   royally   depraved .  a   muscle   works  in   eddie’s  jaw   as   his   teeth   grit ,  whole   face   tense .  ICARUS ,   THEN :   he   reaches   out   to   embrace  the   flame ,   only  to   find   himself  melting   beneath   what  he   imagines   to   be   the   king’s   hateful  glare .   throat   closing  up ,   he   hangs  his   head ,   a   quivering   hand  tugging   a   fistful  of   hair   forward ,  as   if   it’ll  hide   his   face  or   erase   his   shame.   he  wants   to   hide ,  to   run   away  again ,   but   steve’s  in   his   trailer ;  he   has   nowhere  to   go .  

‘ um ,   you   can   go   now ,   dude .   sorry . ’   it’s  all   a   mumble ,  the   last   word  barely   audible :   more  mousesqueak   than   any   heavy   metal  scream .   if   steve  wants   to   tell  the   town   of   hawkins   what  a   FILTHY   FREAK  he   is   ———   well ,   it’s  not   like   it   changes   anything .  eddie   shrugs   with  one   shoulder   towards  the   door ,   hoping  and   half - praying   for   a   disgusted  exit   over   the   alternative   of   white   and   bloodied   knuckles ,  of   a   knee  driven   into   his   gut.

steve can still taste eddie on his lips   (cigarette smoke and grave dirt:    it’s the sort of taste your lick out of gutters and dirty bar glasses,   not out the mouth of a beautiful boy in his less than beautiful bedroom,    but steve wants more as immediately as he loses it--     he wants it so badly that it scares him).    fear is just the other edge of excitement,     the sharper blade that juts free from the curved handle.   steve can fit his palm around it,   but that doesn’t mean he can truly ever hold it.    his tongue sneaks out to press against the warm crease of his lips     ...     there,   eddie is still held,   a taste that he knows mouth wash won’t be able to clean from him.     he lifts his fingers,  pressing a thumb against his own bottom lip--    a breath is stolen,  an attempt to steady himself.    doubt creeps in.    he is staring at eddie with wide - eyes as if the fire - laced prophet will somehow divulge some hidden truth   (he wonders if eddie is looking for the same thing in him:    too bad that his mouth,   usually a fountain of truth,   had curved itself into a liar’s line,    flat and crumbling).    eddie almost speaks,  then doesn’t.    steve’s mouth parts around words that don’t quite make it out.   without the other to hold him up,  he sags against the desk,   letting it creak below the sigh of his body weight.    hands rise to wipe at his eyes,  as if clarity could be reached in a place like this--      they just sink further into confusion.

before steve can gather himself,   eddie is already eating raw profanities and spitting out their bleeding lungs.    his hand runs shakily through his hair as eddie,   as charged as a lion,   wraps that warm mouth of his around shit, shit, shit.    forest of hair greets the deposed prince as his head dips--    steve thinks of how a crown could never fit there.     there should be demon horns growing through the fuzz,   a sign that eddie was not of this world   (there was nothing quite devilish about him,   and evil did not sit in his blood,  but still     ...     there should be a warning sign above eddie’s head).     danger:   bad decisions will be made here!    it feels grimy to call what happened here a bad decision,   but he doesn’t have any other words for it.   words had never been his strong point--   you’re welcome to ask nancy wheeler all about that.     ‘‘    i’ve never done that before,     ’’      steve says,  quietly,   trying to interrupt eddie’s babbling.   it’s hard to get a foothold when the other starts,  though.     ‘‘     i mean,  i’ve kissed people before.   duh.   girls,  though,   not     ...      you know,  girls.     ’’

             somehow, steve harrington was a gentleman. he wasn’t any of what the rumors had said he was. for someone so popular to have elected to have lunch with her — a veritable nobody, known only through proximity to her brother. homemade lunch — one with a sticky note and a few words from her father — in her lap as she brings knees to her chest on the other half of his sweater. and even more than a gentleman, steve has been something of a good friend.   ❛   no, no,   ❜   come chuckled breaths.   ❛   i didn’t kill anyone. not yet, at least.   ❜   an easy joke to break the tension and she bumps his shoulder with her own. maybe she shouldn’t have said anything at all.   ❛   it’s silly, forget it.   ❜

holy   hands   grant   new   life   to   the   unholy :   each   new   touch   of   steve’s   is   ———   without   being   dramatic ,   as   per   the   munson   m . o .   ———   like   being   reborn .   his   fingers   trace   unmapped   paths   across   the   hair   on   the   back   of   his   neck ;   eddie   shudders ,   tilts   his   head   right   back ,   growling   as   softly   as   a   man   on   fire   can .  ‘ i   don’t   wanna   talk   about   robin . ’   it’s   more   aggressive   than   he   intends :   less   wounded   animal   than   newly - awoken   dragon   …   is   this   some   game   of   cat   and   mouse ?   if   it   is ,   their   roles   have   yet   to   be   put   to   paper ;   they   are   still   two   animals   prowling   in   ever - tightening   circles .   ( a   broken   bottle   and   sharp   stab   of   envy :   wariness   has   ever   sat   in   the   space   between   them ,   dark   and   cruel .   now   all   that   is   between   them   is   the   radio   /   an   aching   empty   space   /   some   indefinable   heat … )

eddie’s   breath   is   shallow ,   wanting .   he   closes   the   shadow   between   them ,   feels   the   warmth   in   the   heat   of   steve’s   cheeks .   his   other   hand ,   now   free   of   any   burden ,   reaches   to   touch   that   flame .   ( prometheus ?   icarus ? :   either   way ,   he’s   already   doomed . )   calloused   thumb ,   warm   and   bloodflushed   skin :   there   is   an   electric   kind   of   intimacy   even   in   this   softness .   a   smile   flickers   and   fades ,   makes   way   for   his   eyes   to   darken ,   makes   way   for   something   far   more   desperate ,   a   hunger   not   yet   sated .   he   stares   at   steve   with   a   desire   so   ravenous   he   feels   half - cursed ,   a   beast   set   free   by   the   spilling   of   blood   and   the   silver   beckoning   of   the   moon .   ‘ we   don’t   have   to   talk .   at   all . ’   his   voice   is   some   kind   of   guttural   groan ,   a   soft   roar   of   hot   thunder   from   a   fast - approaching   storm .  there   is   not   even   a   shadow   between   them   now .   and   now  eddie’s   lips   meet   steve’s   with   a   gentle   insistence ,   an   eager   tongue   pressing   forward .

eddie is close enough to taste   (there are plants that grow only on corpses,  fixing themselves to the sinew of bones,   letting rotting meat turn into new life:   that is what is happening to steve--    the genesis of humanity begins on his dying body,   urged on by eddie’s warm touch).    steve’s lips part but he does not find words.    there is nothing left for them to say   ...   he thinks they need to discover a new language.    maybe he needs to learn something nerdy like eddie does,   something from one of the made - up languages in those comic books he sticks his nose into:     that would be easier than trying to twist his tongue around the knots of the english language.     ‘‘    talking about robin is like 90% of my personality,  dude.    i can’t just shut it off like that.   i can’t!     ’’      he finally gets a grip over himself and loses it just as quickly when eddie presses nearer,   letting the space between them shrink into rotten bones and rolled eyes   (he can smell eddie--   like smoke and rot,  like a leather jacket,   like the cheap silver he wore on his rings   ...   steve huffed another breath).

it’s almost as if he descends into the shadows     …      pulled in by the shroud of darkness like the fog that teases him every now and again with the promise of consuming him one day.    he walks at a slow pace.    he’s never been in a hurry to return home,      where his absence was never a concern as much as his presence was.      something clive shared with other’s that usually came into his presence.     frank takes pride in that.      he waits for steve,   fiddling the cigarettes free from his pockets.    the filter of a cigarette is placed tightly between his lips while he lights the end,   inhaling it and letting it catch fire.    he pulls it from his mouth to exhale the smoke     …    it rolls up into the pitch of night like mist.         he doesn’t bother to offer steve one because he thinks he knows better.      ‘   tft,   says the guy who could of easily been mistaken for a seven year old.    i was seconds away from asking where your mom was.    ’      asshole makes frank smile genuinely,      like he’s just been told some sort of good news or been given some sort of compliment.       when steve catches up with frank,    he’s still wearing the smile.     only this time around it’s absent of anything genuine.    his arm extends the length of their distance,   his palm flattens over steve’s shoulder with a tight and firm grip to it before patting repeatedly.     ‘   loosen up steve.    it just means i won’t wait on your ass next time.   ’

the  advice  seems  sound  enough,  but  satomi’s  unsure  if  she  can  do  that.  anger  burns,  but  she  tells  herself  not  to  direct  it  at  him.  if  only  she  could  say  something,  try  to  explain.  it’s  hard  to  let  go  of  all  this  when  she’s  spent  the  last  five  years  of  her  life  in  a  place  where  fighting  meant  survival.  perhaps,  she  could,  but  she’s  stubborn,  unsure  if  she’d  be  believed,  or  if  she’s  ready  to  open  that  can  of  worms.

❝  alright.  ❞  she  nods.  it  isn’t  arguing,  nor  agreeing.  she pulls  away,  sure  most  of  the  blood  must  be  gone  by  now.  ❝  i…  don’t  know  what  people  do.  most  people.  it’s…  new.  ❞  as  much  as  she  tries,  she  doesn’t  feel  normal.  there’s  so  much  to  get  used  to,  to  understand.  she’s  unsure  if  she’ll  ever  catch  up.

a   keen   and   hungry   dog ,   eddie’s   teeth   snap   next   to   steve’s   ear .   several   heartbeats ,   thrumming   and   insistent ,   pass   between   them   ———   and   then   eddie   starts   to   laugh .   closing   his   eyes ,   he   rests   his   forehead   in   the   crook   of   steve’s   neck .   he   even   snorts   softly ,   his   aggressive ,   growling   veneer   shattered   like   a   glass .   pulling   back ,   the   hand   at   steve’s   throat   slips   ‘round   the   back   of   his   neck .   skin - on - skin :   a   shotglass   mix   of   shock   and   satisfaction ;   between   that   and   the   weed   eddie’s   finding   it   hard   to   think   straight .   ‘ you   do   listen , ’   he   croons ,   voice   tremulous   and   gloating   all   at   once ;   there   is   still   but   a   breath   between   them ,   personal   space   a   distant   echo .   ‘ ok ,   ozzy .   let’s   put   her   back   where   she   belongs . ’   he   wrestles   the   radio   gently   from   steve’s   grasp   to   set   it   back   on   the   dresser ,   the   sound   of   judas   priest   still   screaming   for   vengeance   in   the   background .   ( you’re   so   damn   wicked   ———   you   got   me   by   the   throat ! )  

but   eddie’s   feet   don’t   shift ,   planted   either   side   of   steve’s   like   infatuated   roots ,   and   he   says   a   silent   prayer   without   realising   that   steve   won’t   move   either   ———   even   if   only   for   a   moment .   reluctant ,   slowly ,   he   drags   his   eyes   upward ,   past   steve’s   lips ,   to   meet   his   gaze   ( even   if   it   makes   him   shudder ,   makes   something   inside   his   belly   coil   and   unfurl   wicked   wings ) .   eddie’s   own   lips   press   together ,   the   pink   tip   of   his   tongue   protruding   unwittingly ,   obstinately .   he   nods ,   slowly ,   willing   steve   to   nod   along .   yes ,   inside   of   him ,   there’s   a   dragon   awakening ,   breathing   fire   ———   and   for   all   his   metal - wielding ,   steel   clanking   with   his   every   move ,   eddie   is   no   knight   in   armour ,   no   dragonslayer .   he’s   got   a   wooden   sword ,   a   delayed   reaction ,   and   a   breathless   rasp :   ‘ too   close ? ’

teeth snap and goosebumps rise in the destruction they leave:    eddie’s mouth felt ravenous--     or perhaps steve was just throwing his hunger out into the void and hoping that it grew a soul to speak back at him.   he jumps a little bit when the radio steadies and begins to blurt music again    ...    he is so ultra - aware of his surroundings that he can see the faint hairs rising against the other’s skin.    it makes hunger begin to crawl into his stomach.    his hand raises so it is only their bodies holding up the radio and slowly,   slow with the sort of pain that came with nerves,   he presses his fingers against the faint hairs at the back of eddie’s neck,   letting his fingers slide slowly against the skin there.   was eddie warm or was it steve?   something was warm.   it might’ve been the air.   every time he flattens the baby - hairs,   they flicker back up.     ‘‘   i’m a great listener.   i’m a fantastic listener.    you can ask robin.   i listen to her dump about a gallon of information a minute.   ’’      the radio is removed from between them,  which makes steve slump a little further back against the dresser.     without the thump of music holding him up,   he has nowhere to go   (he has nowhere else he wants to go).

“Thank you. And as long as you don’t plan on rousing me from my slumber with an air horn, I promise you’ll be spared,” she teases, a smile offered in return. She finishes off the chips and crumples the packet and the candy wrapper into a ball, disposing of them before shuffling over to the couch. The sight almost makes her want to cry, and that realisation shows Satomi just how tired she is. She lays down, curling up into a ball after adjusting the pillows under her head. It only takes minutes for her to fall asleep - a rarity. Her mind even gives her a rest too. There’s no dreams of school, parents or failure. Just peace.

maybe springing this one wasn’t the best idea. dead mom story definitely still hit her a little bit but she clears her throat, nodding in confirmation to the other.    “she died. police say suicide because she was found with a gun in a creek outside the lab but….. um— it- it’s weird. my dad and i think it was a cover up or something. the circumstances around it was off. i think she maybe knew something she shouldn’t have.”     robin puffs her cheeks out, scratching the back of her neck.     “i must sound nuts.”

the  advice  seems  sound  enough,  but  satomi’s  unsure  if  she  can  do  that.  anger  burns,  but  she  tells  herself  not  to  direct  it  at  him.  if  only  she  could  say  something,  try  to  explain.  it’s  hard  to  let  go  of  all  this  when  she’s  spent  the  last  five  years  of  her  life  in  a  place  where  fighting  meant  survival.  perhaps,  she  could,  but  she’s  stubborn,  unsure  if  she’d  be  believed,  or  if  she’s  ready  to  open  that  can  of  worms.

❝  alright.  ❞  she  nods.  it  isn’t  arguing,  nor  agreeing.  she pulls  away,  sure  most  of  the  blood  must  be  gone  by  now.  ❝  i…  don’t  know  what  people  do.  most  people.  it’s…  new.  ❞  as  much  as  she  tries,  she  doesn’t  feel  normal.  there’s  so  much  to  get  used  to,  to  understand.  she’s  unsure  if  she’ll  ever  catch  up.

steve   caresses   his   metal   with   such   wanton   rebellion   that   eddie   can   only   stare ,   head   cocked ,   forgetting   for   a   beat   he’s   meant   to   be   annoyed .   ( PAUSE   /   PLAY ;   thought   resumes   like   a   cassette   tape   clicking   into   place . )   ‘ oh ,   that’s   cute ,   harrington .   that’s   real   cute . ’   eyes   narrowed ,   he   considers   his   next   move :   he’s   not   done   playing   the   villain   yet ,   and   steve’s   teasing   is   both   pleasure   and   punishment .   he   sees   a   tongue   disappear   between   jeering   lips ,   feels   an   amp - screech   of   heat   rock   through   him .

against   instinct ,   against   judgement ,   eddie   lunges   forth ,   grabs   a   fistful   of   steve’s   shirt .   right   at   the   base   of   his   throat :   it’s   knuckles   through   cotton ,   steel   and   callouses   on   the   hot ,   bare   skin   of   his   neck .   eddie   can   feel   the   thrumming   of   steve’s   pulse   setting   the   rhythm   for   his   own   like   the   frantic   beating   of   a   drum   ———   he   harmonises   with   a   breakneck   bassline ,   breath   coming   so   short   it’s   hard   to   keep   his   voice   steady .     ‘ but   i’m   gonna   need   you   to   listen   to   me ,   mm ? ’   his   hand   trembles ,   adrenaline   and   charlatanism   an   electric   and   heady   mix .   onstage ,   his   nerves   vibrate   like   shredded   strings ;   here   in   his   own   home ,   he   feels   less   a   rockstar   and   more   an   over - eager   loser   in   tattered   denim .  but   there   was   never   a   time   eddie   would   not   throw   himself ,   whole - body   and   willing ,   into   a   gig   …   he   pushes   on ,   sends   steve   stumbling   back   against   the   dresser .   there’s   not   a   whisker’s   breadth   between   them ,   and   eddie’s   lips   are   at   steve’s   ear   ( he   bites   his   lip ,   for   he   must   bite   on   something ) .   barely   above   a   whisper ,   his   voice   is   a   metallic   rasp :   ‘ want   me   to   say   it   louder ? ’

fingers twist,   light as an anchor,   into steve’s shirt:    eddie’s hands are wanton.    long fingers burdened with rings,   clattering lightly as they grabbed for him   (the light pink of his knuckles and the blush of his palm and the coy tilt to those fingers,   beckoning steve ever closer even as the distance between them became little more than breaths).    steve’s gaze is all worried hunger,   dropping down to eddie’s lips.    he wonders,  on average,   how much time he spends staring at them.   probably an unhealthy amount.    he’s half thankful when they disappear from sight--     less things for him to focus on,   less thoughts for his mind to churn out like an overeager noose.    he’s less thankful when those lips hover just above his ear.    it’s close enough that steve swears he can feel it,  can feel all of it.   the tease of breath and the brush of lips and the ache that starts somewhere deep inside of him   (it could be his heart that’s aching,  or his lung,  or his ribs,   or just any place that eddie almost touches and never does).

the   bed   rocks   with   whole - body   vigour .   eddie   laughs   a   wicked   laugh   ———   the   devil   has   come   to   america ! :   he   comes   bearing   metal ,   beckons   the   dragon   from   the   sea   ( he’s   a   kid   with   a   record   player   and   dog - eared   copy   of   the   hobbit ) .   tongue   against   teeth :   laughter   is   a   taunt   dressed   up   as   an   answer   to   steve’s   catechizing .   oh ,   but   steve   taunts   too    ———    a   caress   and   a   kick   before   eddie’s   understood ,   and   the   energy   between   them   shifts ,   ac / dc ,   a   lightning   strike .   now ,   heart - to - heart   and   eye - to - eye ,   steve   holds   the   advantage   ———   but   then   he   always   has ,   eddie’s   showmanship   and   scrappiness   falling   flat   next   to   all   those   effortless   good   looks   and   unearned   wealth .   hand - on - heart ,   now :   eddie   stumbles   backwards ,   then   by   instinct   closer   again ,   all   grin - and - bare - it   ( his   teeth   show   a   snarl ) ,   and   there   is   a   missing   warmth   above   his   heart   like   a   palm - sized   promise .  

steve   repeats   his   name ,   the   sweet   sound   of   a   broken   record .   a   lover ,   not   a   fighter ,  eddie   is   testament   to   the   bark   eclipsing   the   bite .   even   so ,   he   growls :   red - shot   eyes   and   the   whisper   of   smoke ,   his   tongue   curls   around   his   gentle   threat   like   a   warm   hand   around   the   hammer   of   an   uncocked   gun .   ‘ hey ,   man . ’   nostrils   flare   as   eddie   fights   a   smile ,   lip   curling   instead   into   some   pallid   imitation   of   a   sneer   ———   it   lacks   any   vitriol  /   viciousness ;   it’s   another   act   of   devilry   anyone   could   see   through   if   they   only   saw   him .   his   red   stare   fixes   on   steve ,   a   pup   dressed   as   a   pitbull .   ‘ don’t   touch   my   stuff . ’

the way eddie says touch is hedonistic.    steve can see the way his tongue slides upwards in his mouth and steve knows   (an instinctual sort of knowing,  in the same way he knows that his heart is a thump in his chest,   that his blood might be blue if he’s cut open right now because there’s no oxygen left in the room,   that he is staring with wide eyes and barely concealed breaths)--    he knows that eddie’s tongue must be brushing against the back of his teeth,   the t brutal enough to slice steve’s chest open.    his mind is a lone straggler and it takes a beat to catch up:   don’t touch my stuff.    he wraps an arm around the radio,   trying to force it into a more comfortable position.     eddie’s lips are still curled into something faux - filthy and half - snarling,   which means steve is making a concerted effort to not look at his lips.   he runs an anarchic hand across the edges of the cool metal,    rubbing eddie’s face in it.    taunting for taunting’s sake.    it is almost too easy to tease--    it is the language they have decided to trade in.