#accepting you will never interact with or meet this man will set you free from misery and jealousy i promise

[thefrogdalorian]

I think on this fine Saturday afternoon it's a good opportunity to take a breather and remember that there are really no ethical paparazzi pictures. Every single one is inherently exploitative.

Just because photos were taken on a movie set, when someone is 'working,' does not make the practice any less invasive and creepy. Imagine just going about your day, doing your job and having some weirdo snapping pictures of you to sell without your consent for others to endlessly repost online.

There are thousands of pictures of your favourite actor online already. Plenty taken with his knowledge and consent. I'd really like to see more of them on my dash, rather than the creeper shots.

And don't get me started how disseminating these pictures directly leads to people going to said sets. What starts off as admiring how good someone looks has real world implications.

No, hanging around a movie set and disrupting people doing their jobs is not harmless fun or a way to show your appreciation.

If you hang around a movie set, you are a stalker.

Don't tell me that it's okay to take your online admiration for someone offline. You may admire him but he does not, and will never, personally know you. He will never be your friend/boyfriend/daddy. He is a stranger.

The only way meeting your favourite actor is going to happen is at a convention or maaaaaybe a movie premiere if you're incredibly fortunate. You know, places they appear specifically to meet fans (or not in the case of premieres, where the purpose is to promote a movie. Which is also completely understandable if actors don't stop. You are not owed an interaction).

Of course, you cannot help it if you randomly run into someone you admire in the wild. Even then, consider that they probably won't be all too thrilled to be approached in public by a complete stranger. It's up to you to gauge the situation, but remember there is a person at the heart of all of this.

Boundaries and respect are a kindness which deserves to be extended to each and every human being regardless of their looks/talent/fame/wealth.

Fandoms blur those lines a little too often for my liking and I think just scrutinising what you're interacting with, or what behaviour you could be possibly falling down that slippery slope towards is nice to do every once in a while.

I mean no malice with this post and it is not directed at anyone in particular. It's something I cannot help but feel strongly about because I've seen this destructive cycle time and again in fandoms over the years. It's not healthy and it makes us all a little bit more disconnected from our humanity for it...

[stevie-petey]

track one: i wanna get off

“Yeah, well,” you throw your leg over his. “Just don’t forget about me when you’re a rockstar.” Steve rubs your thigh now. Up and down, slowly, in soothing rhythms. He turns to you, close enough that your noses brush. Your breaths mix, his air becomes yours, and Steve squeezes the skin beneath his palm.  “I could never forget you,” he whispers, so soft that you almost don’t hear it. But you’re watching his lips. Your ear is pressed over his heart. The swell of his chest anchors your chin. You hear Steve’s promise because it would be impossible not to, and you believe him for these very same reasons as well. 

Summary: a friend from college offers you a job and a place to live. its pretty hard to turn down. free concerts, you get to do what you love, and steve harrington will be your roommate. its a shame hes too pretty for his own good.

Rating: general, some swearing

Warnings: swearing, fem!reader, use of y/n, steve is a slut (endearing), mentions of drugs (argyle)

Words: 15.4k

Before you swing in: SHES HERE !!! MY BABY !!!! ever since writing lonely hearts club ive been craving more band aus and then joe covered gasoline by haim fundamentally altered my brain so naturally i blacked out and outlined an entire series surrounding rockstar!steve so ,,, here we are lmao. this series is different from come home. steve is a bit edgier, more rough and mean but also still the same charming asshole. later there will be some excessive alcohol use and this is a slowburn of weird twisted feelings and messy situationship so ,,, prepare for that !

enjoy :)

-

The usual Sunday morning crowd has staked its claim in the cafe by the time your boots click softly on its tiled floors. Baristas call out names belonging to men in wool jackets and women with small children bundled beneath layers of scarves. 

Freshly fallen snow lines your own wool jacket and falls to the tiled floor when you take it off, draping it across the chair of the first empty table you find. It’s a bit further back in the shop than you would’ve preferred, but it will have to do. Setting your scarf across the other seat in front of you, claiming the chair for yourself, you catch a barista’s eye and smile as you walk to the register. 

You order a black coffee, no milk, only sugar, and a simple vanilla coffee for yourself. The barista tells you the drinks will be ready in a few minutes and you thank her. Heading back to your seat, you hope that you’ve correctly remembered Jonathan’s coffee order.

The last time you saw the man had been at your graduation back in May. You’ve loosely kept in touch since then through sporadic phone calls and gallery openings. Both having majored in photography and the visual arts, your friendship had been built upon red rooms and empty film canisters gallery halls. 

Now, as snow falls and coats New York in pristine white, he’s asked you to meet for coffee. The sudden proposal admittedly confused you, though you accepted the invitation without any hesitation. 

The barista calls your name right as Jonathan stumbles through the cafe’s door. His skin is flushed from the cold and snowflakes ravage his messy brown hair. Hearing your name, Jonathan grabs the drinks from the pick-up counter, spots you sitting in the corner, and quickly makes his way over to you. 

He places the drinks down, wincing when a few drops spill onto the table. “Sorry.”

You wave his apology away and stand, pulling him into a quick hug. “Don’t worry about it,” you reassure him. “I got you black coffee with sugar. I hope that’s alright?”

“God, of course it is.” Jonathan sits down and takes his scarf off. “You didn’t need to get me anything, you know.”

“Figured you’d be running a little late.” You tease gently, fiddling with the straps of your camera. 

“I’m only five minutes late. I’d consider that a new record in my book.”

“And would Nancy agree?” 

You have fond memories of Nancy from your few interactions with her. She had been majoring in journalism and was in the running for a position at the New York Post the last time you spoke with her. 

“No, probably not.” Jonathan snorts, now taking a sip of coffee. He sets the cup down and then leans over the table, arms bracing his weight. He raises his eyebrows at you. Smiles. “So, catch me up. What’ve I missed?”

“Nothing much,” you admit. “Still doing freelancing.”

“I thought you hated freelancing?”

“Oh, I do. The pay is shit and the clients are almost always shittier. Theater majors are really annoying about ‘capturing their good side’.”

Jonathan frowns. “You’re way too talented to be stuck photographing wannabe actors.”

Now it’s your turn to snort. “We live in New York, Jonathan. We’re surrounded by wannabe actors desperate for camera time.”

“It still feels like a waste of your talent.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.” You wink at him playfully. “What about you, though? I think you were everyone’s favorite street photographer at the studio.”

Jonathan blushes at the praise and looks down at his coffee. “Well,” he clears his throat and looks back up. “I’m actually in a band now. A drummer.”

Your mouth falls open. “You’re kidding, right?”

It’s hard to imagine Jonathan Byers as anything other than a photographer. He was arguably one of the best in your class. His work was beautiful with such a natural edginess to offset the delicate scenery. Your professors raved about him whenever they could. His senior thesis gallery was such a success that the school had to prolong its exhibition dates an extra week. 

Jonathan laughs at your disbelief. He’d been expecting it. “I’m serious, Y/N. Sure, I love photography, I always will, but…”

“Music was your first love.” You finish for him, remembering the times you were in his apartment with soft rock records filling the silence as the two of you developed film together. 

“And I don’t regret it.” Jonathan’s fingers tap against the table. A nervous habit he was never able to break, and now you suppose that maybe he was never meant to break it. He shifts slightly in his seat, coughs as a sudden unease settles over him. 

You tilt your head at him. “Why do you look like you’re about to walk into a confessional with a priest?” 

“Christ, Y/N.”

“Correct. He’s who you usually confess your sins to.”

Jonathan sputters out a laugh and his shoulders fall, relaxed after being drawn tightly together moments prior. “Alright, you got me. I didn’t ask you to coffee just to catch up.”

Intrigued, you forward. “If you’re about to ask me to take engagement photos for you and Nancy, please know that I’m too broke to offer you a friend’s discount.”

“We aren’t engaged,” Jonathan’s face is even more red now. “Not yet, at least. But what if I asked if you were interested in being my band’s photographer?”

Your eyes widen slightly. “I’d ask you to elaborate.”

“Look, my band, we’re good, Y/N.” Jonathan tells you, eyes alight more than you’ve ever seen them before. “Sure, we’re still relatively small and you definitely haven’t heard any of our music, but we’re consistently booking three gigs a week. I mean, we can’t pay you any better than freelancing can, but we’d definitely be less shitty than your other clients.”

“Jonathan…”

“I’m not just asking you because you’re painfully talented.” Jonathan shakes his head. “I’m asking you because you were my closest friend in college and we always had fun working together. You have to admit, we made a good team.”

You throw a napkin at him. “Way to guilt trip.”

“I’ll say whatever if it means you say yes.” 

And Jonathan’s sincerity is almost overwhelming. You’re hesitant, but not because you don’t believe him or the offer doesn’t interest you. If anything, you’re actually incredibly interested in being a band’s photographer. Portrait photography was never your favorite medium, and the mundanity of it is slowly driving you insane. 

You’re hesitant because you really, really need money. Freelancing, as unreliable and shitty as it is, at least guarantees enough money to cover rent. But being a photographer for a band no one’s heard of? Not so much. 

“As much as I want to say yes, I meant what I said earlier. I’m too broke, Jonathan. I have to sneak out the backdoor of my apartment building to avoid my landlord because she’s days away from evicting me.” Your head rests in your palm, sighing. “It’s grim.” 

Jonathan, however, doesn’t seem to think that your current financial situation is bleak. If anything, he perks up and fucking smiles at what you’ve said. 

“I’m sorry,” your eyes narrow at him. “But why are you smiling while I’m talking about getting evicted?”

Jonathan flinches at your brewing anger and quickly tries to explain himself. “Sorry, I just-it’s kinda a perfect dilemma?”

“You have five seconds to explain before hot coffee falls in your lap.”

“My bandmates are looking for a roommate!” Jonathan blurts out, unconsciously covering his lap with his hands. Surprised by his own outburst, he clears his throat and lowers his voice to a more neutral tone. “That’s why your dilemma is so perfect. I can talk to them for you, set up a time for you to meet them.”

Seeing that he has your attention now, Jonathan holds a finger up. “But only if you agree to be our photographer.”

Your head spins. It’s almost too perfect of a circumstance. The flesh on your lip stings as you bite down on it, uncertain. You’re tempted. Unbelievably tempted, but you don’t want to say yes just yet.

“Did I mention that they live in the same building as me?” Jonathan smirks, knowing the effect his words will have on you.

His apartment building is gorgeous. Positioned perfectly in the East Village with Tompkins Square a block away and lush green grass in the communal outdoor area reserved only for residents. You’ve complained to him a million times about how you’d kill to have as much outdoor space as he does in your own apartment building. 

That, and it’s one of the few remaining goddamn rent controlled buildings in Manhattan. 

“You’re evil, Jonathan Byers.” You stick your hand out and he laughs, knowing he already has you before you’ve shaken on the deal. “I better not regret this.”

“You won’t.” He promises. 

– 

A few days later you’re checking your watch nervously every few seconds. The silver on your wrist reflects in the moonlight. Small hand on the seven and long hand on the five, you curse under your breath. They’re still not here.

“Y/N!” A feminine voice, familiar, surprises you as two bodies round the corner. 

Recognizing Nancy’s lithe figure and Jonathan’s awkward footsteps, you greet them, relief flooding through you. “Oh, thank god. Thought I was getting stood up.”

Nancy looks pointedly at her boyfriend. “Blame him. We would’ve been here ten minutes earlier had he not insisted on popping into a record store on the way home.”

“It was worth it.” Jonathan holds the record up. The Talking Heads bright and alive in the dim dusk light. “Sorry, Y/N.”

“Save the apologies for later. We still aren’t sure if I have a place to live after tonight.” You remind him. 

Nancy rolls her eyes at the two of you before grabbing your hand. “C’mon,” she says, now opening the apartment building’s door. “In less than twenty-four hours this will be your home, too.”

“Don’t jinx it.”

Jonathan pokes your side to shut you up and you swat his hand away. A doorman tips his hat at you and the others as you walk past, his smile kind and warm. The apartment’s lobby is the same as you remember it being. Plush sofas pushed against a soft white wall. A grand mirror across from the elevator that has a few scuffs in it, yet is charming nonetheless. Simple, though elevated enough that you can’t help but feel that you don’t belong here.

Inside the elevator Nancy presses the sixth floor. When she sees your slight confusion, she laughs. “We may live in the same building, but they’re two floors below us.”

“Mike says it’s physical proof that he’s better than Dustin.” 

You turn to Jonathan with a slight frown. “Mike is Nancy’s brother, right? And he lives with you guys?” 

Nancy nods encouragingly. “And Dustin is one of his friends from high school”

Jonathan pokes his head between the two of you. “And soon to be your roommate.”

“Hopefully.” Your tight lipped smile looks more like a grimace. Your stomach twists with every floor you ascend. You try to remember all the names you’ve been told. There’s Dustin, Mike’s friend. Then there’s… Rachel? Robbie? You think you remember Jonathan mentioning someone named Stephen.

Already the names are floating around your head. There are so many of them to remember. New faces you’ll be meeting tonight and desperately trying to impress. And you’ve already forgotten half of them. 

The elevator comes to a stop. Nancy and Jonathan step off, but you’re rooted to the floor, unable to move. “Please tell me this is a good idea.”

“It’s a wonderful idea, Y/N.” Nancy reassures you, grabbing your hand and gently pulling you from the elevator’s closing doors. Her eyes trace over your tense figure and she smiles sympathetically. The hand she isn’t using to hold yours plucks lint from your jacket, smoothing over its folds. “I promise you’ll love them.”

You really want to believe her. “And ‘them’ being…?”

“Dustin, Robin, and Steve.” Jonathan supplies. He’s smoothing your jacket down as well. The couple frets over your appearance in the narrow hallway and you almost feel like a lost child under their nurturing gaze. 

“Dustin, Robin, and Steve,” you repeat under your breath, over and over again. Their names roll over your tongue and you like how the weight of it feels. “Okay, I can do this. I’m fine. This will be totally fine.”

Jonathan nods eagerly and then shoves you towards a door at the end of the hall. In faded gold plating reads 6B on the door’s purple frame. There’s a cheesy floor mat that greets you in cursive lettering.

“Ready?” Nancy asks you.

You inhale, close your eyes, and exhale the remaining fear from your bones. Opening your eyes, you nod at her. 

Three soft raps against the door. There’s shuffling on the other side. Voices talking to one another. A set of footsteps running towards the door before a girl your age swings it open and lunges into your arms as if you’re lifelong friends.

“You’re here!” She exclaims happily, arms clasped tightly over your neck. You stumble back at the sudden embrace.

Jonathan sees your obvious overwhelm. “Ease up there, Robin. You can’t kill Y/N yet.”

The girl, Robin, you remind yourself, quickly releases you. Her freckled cheeks blush a pretty pink that matches the faded pink streaks in her choppy hair. “Sorry,” her blue eyes are wide and youthful. “I just-Jonathan and Nancy have been blabbing about you for weeks now and it’s just crazy that this is finally happening! I mean, you’re real! You’re here!”

She’s speaking a mile a minute and you’re trying your best to keep up with her, but you’re still nervous and deeply overwhelmed now and all you can say is, “Your hair is really pretty.”

“Thanks,” Robin’s bashful smile is beautiful. Her fingers tangle through her shoulder-length hair. “It was Steve’s idea. He helped me dye it.”

“Steve sounds nice,” you say, trying to keep the conversation going as Nancy and Jonathan watch the two of you quietly.

Robin laughs as if you’ve said something funny. She doesn’t say anything, though, and instead grabs your arm to pull you inside. She hardly gives you any time to look around the apartment before she’s talking a mile a minute once again.

“This is the kitchen,” she waves her arms out with a flourish, giggling when your jaw drops. There’s more counter space than you ever thought possible in a New York apartment. A kid, maybe a few years younger than you, is taking pizza out of the oven. “And that, my dear and new friend, is Dustin.”

“Nice to meet you.” Dustin sets the pizza down before giving you a thumbs up. “Pizza?”

Jonathan and his brother Will are already grabbing plates and cutting into the still hot food before you can even say yes. Jonathan hands a slice to Nancy while Will passes a plate to you. You thank him kindly, recognizing him from Jonathan’s senior thesis photos.

The moment you have your food, Robin yanks you away again.

“This is the living room.” Giant floor to ceiling windows that you definitely can’t afford replace the walls that should be in their place. The entire skyline of lower Manhattan winks back at you. 

“No fucking way…” 

A scrawny kid, maybe Dustin’s age, who looks a lot like Nancy snorts from the sage green couch that wraps around the area. “Isn’t it obnoxiously nice? I hate it.”

Robin flicks his head. “Ignore him. He isn’t relevant to our tour.”

“I take it he’s Mike?” You ask, again being at the will of Robin’s strong grip as she parades you through the apartment. 

The decorations, though minimal, make the place feel like a home. There’s art hanging on the walls. Photographs of faces you recognize, though most are people you don’t. Belongings strewn throughout the space that tell you there’s stories and love within these walls. 

“Unfortunately,” Robin stops in front of a set of doors. “We only keep him around because we like Nancy. Anyways, here’s the bathroom.”

Though small, it’s nice, and you nod appreciatively. Satisfied with your response, Robin flings open another door. Inside are piles of screws and wires belonging to various unfinished technical exploits and it takes you a moment to realize that there’s even a bed in this room. 

“Dustin’s room?” You guess, remembering the City College of Technology logo that was on his hat. 

“Correct,” Robin then opens another door, this time revealing a room full of rosie pinks and deep purples and blues. A keyboard rests on a bed. There are vinyls everywhere and pink hair dye spilled on the small desk. “My room. Admire her while you can. I deeply hate people in my space.”

You laugh. “Noted.”

Robin slams the door and turns to the next one, though she hesitates. “Technically, Steve also really hates people in his room, but the douchebag is late even though he promised he’d be here on time so,” she opens the door. “Voila.”

While you want to respect the wishes of the roommate you still have yet to meet, curiosity wins. You peek inside. The room is a mess of guitar picks littering the floor. You see a dark blue acoustic guitar in the corner, its edges almost midnight black, and an unmade bed full of vinyls. On the walls are photos. Some are of bands that you’re familiar with. Most aren’t. In between it all, however, are photos who you can only assume are Robin and his other friends. 

There’s a desk shoved to a corner that has pen marks and papers with messy writing scrawled on them. Everything inside the room is used, worn, though somehow there’s still a sense of calm within the chaos of it all. 

“None of you are neat freaks, huh?” 

Robin winces. “No, but I promise we’re clean. Scout’s honor. Please just ignore the blatant oxymoron of our rooms.”

You laugh and shake your head, telling her it’s fine. Robin beams once again and takes your hand one last time to guide you back to the kitchen. Everyone is gathered around the counter, pizza in their hands as lazy conversation fills the room. 

And even though an hour prior you were afraid that you were in way over your head, you fall into conversation easily with everyone else. Dustin is charismatic and asks for your thoughts on the apartment. Will’s soft spoken nature is comforting. Mike is witty and enjoys that you play into his jokes. A little later a young girl named Max appears and she’s just as enigmatic as her red hair and asks you a million questions about photography.

Robin doesn’t stop poking your skin and clothes and fretting over you the entire time. You adore her within minutes. 

“Alright,” you say after finishing the last of the pizza. “Tell me. Who’s in this alleged band I’m putting all my blind faith in?”

Dustin throws his head back and groans. “God, don’t get them started.”

Mike hits his shoulder. “Dude, shut up.”

“We call ourselves the Februarys.” Jonathan ignores the boys bickering. 

“The Februarys?”

“Guess which rocket scientist thought of it.” Dustin snarks. 

Mike hits him again and you raise your hands in surrender. “Hey, I like it. It’s a bit odd, but interesting. Unique.”

“You’re perfect. Have I ever told you how perfect you are?” Robin throws her arm over your shoulders. “Anyways, I play the keyboard. I’m good with my fingers,” she wiggles them at you with a sly wink, “and sometimes lend my voice to songs if Steve allows it.”

“He’s the lead vocalist,” Jonathan explains. “He also plays the guitar, but he mostly just likes how cool it makes him look.”

“It doesn’t, by the way.” Mike rolls his eyes. “Not unless it’s an electric guitar, which I do play.”

You raise your eyebrows in shock. “Aren’t you a little… young to be in a band?”

Loud cackles tumble out of Dustin and Robin while Jonathan tries to hide his own snickers behind Nancy’s amused smile and Will’s soft laughs. You look around with wide eyes, terrified you’ve said the wrong thing, when Max crosses her arms at you. 

“Find someone who can play the bass as well as I can. I dare you.”

Her unwavering confidence in her ability leaves you breathless. Your uncertainty crumbles the moment her knowing smirk spreads across her face. She knows she’s good. She doesn’t need your approval.

“My apologies, Mayfield.” You nudge your shoulder against hers. 

Mike scowls. “Do I get an apology, too?”

“No,” you and Max say at the same time. 

This time everyone laughs and you’re amazed by how easy this is. Talking to them, laughing and teasing them with the shared understanding of respect. You’ve been welcomed into something warm and precious, friends who seem to have years stretching between them. 

A series of clicks and the scraping of metal before the front door swings open. A man stumbles inside, cursing and swearing under his breath when his foot catches on a stray shoe and he nearly falls. It’s a cacophony of sound and discarded energy and Robin watches it all with a bored frown.

“You’re late.” She greets the intruder.

He hunches over, hands on his knees. “Give me a second,” his breaths are heavy and brown hair falls in his face. He brushes it aside haphazardly with a practiced habitual ease. “Christ, I ran ten blocks to make it here on time.”

“And yet you’re still late.” Robin turns to you, frown etching her soft features. “I’m really sorry, Y/N.”

Hearing your name, the guy’s body suddenly snaps up from its prior hunched posture. Brown eyes land on you. Curious, excited, and then slowly interested. They travel up your body once, twice, then a third time. He fixes his hair again and smiles at you. “Is this our new roommate?”

“Possible roommate.” You correct him, a hint of a smile back at him. “You must be Steve.”

His smile widens. “The one and only.”

Strong jawline, doe eyes that are soft enough to be vulnerable, yet teasing. Hair that’s just long enough to curl over the nape of his neck. Classically handsome, Steve’s delicate features are juxtaposed by the silver nose ring that catches the light, by the matching latch earrings that parallel the moles that line his neck and jaw. 

Steve knows he’s beautiful. And he knows how to use it to his advantage as he drapes an arm over you, grabs a piece of pizza from your plate, and sits in your chair that is already too small for one person. It forces him to be pressed tightly against you. His jeans dig into your waist, his thick silver bracelet on his wrist cools your heated skin. 

“Hi, beautiful,” he winks at you, taking a bite of the food he’s stolen. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Robin gags and everyone else rolls their eyes at Steve’s exaggerated charm. They’ve seen this before. They’re used to his theatrics and need to be the center of attention for every girl he meets.

“Steve’s a bit of a flirt, if you couldn’t tell.” Jonathan shoves his friend away from you with a slight eye roll. “If he gets too much, just spray him like a cat.”

You watch Steve, studying him. He’s charming and beautiful, putting on a show for you, and underneath the performance is a shallow surface. He’s exalted by the attention. It’s not that his actions aren’t genuine, but they border on fictitious. 

The fictitiousness is intriguing. 

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” to everyone’s surprise, you pull Steve back into the chair. He makes a startled sound, caught off guard by your forceful hands, and completely infatuated with them already. Pleased, you pinch Steve’s cheek. “Isn’t that right, handsome?”

You feel him lean into your touch, his eyes never leaving yours. He’s studying you the same way you’ve been studying him. A pause, your fingers linger on his cheek. Just before you exhale, Steve grabs the hand that strokes his face. His grip is loose on your wrist. He kisses the inside skin that’s the thinnest, veins beating. 

“You’ll move in tomorrow.” He murmurs against your skin. “And your first gig with us is Friday.”

It isn’t a question, and you don’t correct him. 

Already it’s been decided. 

– 

The heater in your apartment broke a year after you moved in. Your landlord promised she would fix it come winter, but as pockets of snow fill the window’s ledge, your hands are numb from the brisk air and lack of heat. 

Packing is easy enough, though seeing your small assortment of belongings piled into boxes causes a tug of longing in your stomach. The brick walls of your apartment are worn and scuffed from previous tenants and the floorboards creak with every breath you take. It’s an awful, old and frigid apartment, but it was also the first place you ever called home in New York.

“This really all you have?” Steve looks at the handful of boxes with skepticism. Being the only one who doesn’t have classes or a day job, he happily volunteered to help you move your things to the new apartment. 

You tape the final box shut. “For the most part, but there’s a box or two in the bedroom.”

“I get to see your bedroom?” He wiggles his eyebrows and you throw a balled up wad of tape at him. He dodges easily, laughing. “Want me to go get them?”

“Yes, please.”

“Be right back, gorgeous.”

Gorgeous. Beautiful. Babe. All compliments Steve has showered you in since meeting him fifteen hours prior. They fall from his lips without any hesitation, always accompanied by a charming smile or sly wink. 

If it were anyone else, you would’ve told them to fuck off by now. But with Steve there’s no weight behind his praise. No expectation of you to return them. He praises you because he wants to, compliments you because he likes the way you blush afterwards. 

You’ve only known Steve for fifteen hours, and yet you’ve never felt this comfortable alone with anyone else. 

“I know this may sound like I’m sucking up considering I’m trusting you to make my band look cool, but,” Steve carries two boxes, arms straining under the weight and you watch as his biceps ripple under his tanned skin. He sets them down, opens the top one, and then pulls out a collection of your photographs from within it. “You’re insanely talented, Y/N.”

“I sent you to get my boxes, not go through them.” You try to take the photos away, but Steve is fast and holds them out of your reach. 

“No, I’m serious. I mean, Jonathan is cool and all and we all cried seeing his thesis show, but you?” He holds up one of your favorite photographs. He huffs in disbelief, eyes roaming over the image with a hunger of amazement and awe. “I almost feel bad that we can’t pay you what you’re worth.”

The photo is one you took when you first moved to Manhattan. Eighteen and naive, you viewed the city through your lens greedily. Your first few months in the city all you did was carry your camera around with you and use up canister after canister of film. The images were fine, nothing monumental, until one day, somehow, they were. 

An older woman sitting on a park bench. There is no one sitting next to her. Her head is down, hands clasped in her lap. There is a bird mimicking her downward posture beside her. Almost out of view, almost a shadow, and there’s something tender in the image that you’ve never quite managed to capture again. 

“The apartment makes up for it. I mean, floor to ceiling windows? Fucking insane.”

Steve chuckles, agreeing silently. “How’d you get into photography, anyways?” He picks through some more of your pictures, uncaring of the fact that you’re shy of your work.

“My mom was a photographer and gave me my first film camera when I was nine.” You shrug, a nostalgic smile on your face. “I didn’t stand a chance.”

“I get it,” Steve hums, still admiring every image of yours that he finds. “That’s how music was for me. I was eleven and my parents weren’t home so I snuck into their room. They had this giant record player. I remember being so amazed by it, but God forbid I touch it.”

Steve looks down at his hands, tight smile and narrowed eyes. “Anyways, one day they weren’t home, so I ran right up to their room, laid my head right next to the record player, and played the first record I found.” 

“What was it?” You ask softly, curious. 

“The Velvet Underground. I inherited a lot of things from my father, but thank god he gave me my music taste. The moment I heard Sterling Morrison’s guitar strings in Heroin, I was a goner. Begged the old man for my own guitar the very next day.”

“And did you get it?” The question is more to keep the delicate look on Steve’s face. He unravels when he talks about music, almost softens at its melodies. He’s beautiful, he always is, but music only makes him glow. 

“I did,” Steve nods, proud. He walks up behind you, arms wrap around your waist and he pulls you in, his chest solid and warm. He kisses your hairline, smiling into your skin. “Want to know a secret?”

“Tell me,” your body leans closer to his.

“I’m going to be a rockstar. Me and everyone else in the Februarys. One day, everyone will know our name.”

Steve’s childish declaration mirrors every other young boy’s dream. Every artist’s dream since they were a child. Dreams of grandeur, recognition, of creation and passion and freedom. You twist your head around, wanting to look at the man holding you. His face is calm, open and unapologetic. He believes what he’s said. There isn’t a hint of uncertainty or hesitancy within the lines of his cheeks. 

And you believe him, too. Steve has the charisma to set the city on fire, an ease to his movements and beauty that’s addicting. Devastatingly handsome. It’s inevitable that the world falls to its knees before him one day. 

“Think you’ll ever write a song about me?” It’s meant to be a joke, a tease, but when you turn to face him your nose brushes his cheek. This close, you can count his freckles. The proximity catches your breath. 

Steve wraps his entire body around you. The kiss he places at the base of your neck burns. “I think all my songs will be about you, angelface.”

And yet another name, this time accompanied by his fingers digging into your ribcage to get you to squeal out laughter. You twist in his grasp, shrieking at Steve to stop, but he has you right where he wants you.

“Ow!” Steve rips his body away from yours after you land a particularly hard pinch to his arm. He rubs the forming bruise, glaring at you. “Was that really necessary?”

“You’re the one who started it!”

He sticks his tongue out and all you can do is roll your eyes at him. Catching your breath, you remember where you are. There are still boxes everywhere. You sigh, bend down, and start sliding them against the wall.

“What are you doing? Don’t do that.” Steve swats you away, offended you’ve even considered moving the boxes yourself. 

You blink at him. “Did you just hit me?”

Steve ignores you, focusing on the boxes instead. He stacks them one by one in front of the door. Hair falls in his face and you have to remind yourself to look away. After he’s done, Steve studies the boxes before him, their appearance deceptively multiplied when piled all together. 

Dropping his head, he groans, “This is going to suck.” 

The two of you will have to carry all the boxes down five flights of stairs and into a taxi that will almost definitely be too small to sit in. In the February snow and midday commute. 

“Yup,” you pat Steve’s chest. “It’s a good thing you’re so strong, right?”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Is that how you’re supposed to talk to your subordinate? I mean, I am working for you now, right?”

“Please pick up a box and shut up.”

– 

Robin helps you unpack everything in your room. The space itself is beautiful, arguably the biggest room in the apartment. Wood flooring, cream walls, and even a window that overlooks the park. You ask her who died for you to be able to live here, and she confesses that the only reason she and the others didn’t claim your room when their old roommate moved out is because they didn’t feel like keeping the large space clean. 

Who knew laziness could get you a giant room with a view?

Except Steve’s room is next to yours, and after a few days of sharing a wall, you quickly realize that one: he brings a new girl over every night, and two: Robin is a liar. Her and Dustin weren’t lazy, they just didn’t want to share a wall with Steve.

And you can’t blame them. The first night it’s jarring hearing the subtle thuds and moans that leak through the thin plaster. The second night, you roll over, hit the wall once to signal to Steve to keep it down, before grabbing your walkman and slipping on headphones.

Soon you learn the signs. The slam of a door, feminine giggles, his breathy voice as he guides them past your room to his. After the second night and your annoyed thud, Steve starts playing music to drown out the unwanted sounds. 

The third night, you’re in the kitchen working on some film when the front door slams. You look up at the clock, cursing the late hour. You’d been so engrossed in your work that you forgot that any minute Steve would be home with yet another girl.

They don’t see you at first. Her face is buried in Steve’s neck and he’s caressing her bare skin that her small top doesn’t cover. They’re laughing, slightly intoxicated as they stumble through the living room. 

“Wore this just for you,” the girl murmurs against his lips. Her hands yank her top down, to bring his attention to it. “I remember you said you liked green.”

Maybe they aren’t new girls every night, you think. Then, promptly remembering that you aren’t supposed to be here right now you then think, oh God, do I need to duck behind the counter?

Steve doesn’t bother looking down at her top. “Cute,” he says simply. Nothing more. Like he doesn’t care to say anything further.

He tries to kiss her instead, impatient and done with the attempt at conversation. It’s odd seeing him like this. Displaced, almost cold in a calculated way that you suppose can come off as charming. 

Only the girl pulls away, obviously displeased with the throwaway comment. Her eyes squint at him, but before she can either tell him to fuck off or to keep kissing her, her unhappy gaze lands on you. 

“Who the hell are you?”

You should’ve ducked behind the counter. “I-uh. Live here.”

“I was here last week. You weren’t.”

“Quick turnaround period?” You’re awful with confrontation and Steve isn’t helping, arms crossed and smiling like a goddamn saint while you’re drowning. You glare at him. “A little help would be nice.”

Steve grabs the girl and spins her once, twice, before pulling her into a kiss. Not at all caring that you’re watching, he slips his tongue into her wanting mouth and moans. She clutches his chest, and the second he has her pleading, he pulls away.

“Go wait in my room, I’ll be right there.” He tells her, kissing her again before she can argue. “Promise I’ll make it up to you. Don’t I always?”

The girl sighs, as if he’s taken her ability to say anything else away. She nods at him, starts walking to his room, and she’s gone without another word.

“Charming,” you shake your head at Steve, who now leans against the counter and looks at the film developing. “Not the way I would’ve handled the situation, though.”

“So I wanna get off, doesn’t everyone?” He’s coy, peering over your shoulder and his hair tickles your skin. “New project?”

“Testing aperture settings for Friday.” You point at a grainy photo, ignoring his previous words about getting off. “Too dark. I need to figure out how to get the best lighting out of a dim venue.”

“You’re cute when you try to impress me.” 

You pinch his side. “Don’t you have a girl waiting for you?”

“Do I sense jealousy, Y/N?” Steve bites the inside of his cheek, looking you up and down.

“Not in the slightest.” 

And there really isn’t any jealousy. You don’t mind that Steve has a different girl in his bed each night; you knew that he was this way before Robin even had to warn you. You saw through him the moment you met him. 

You’ve known men like Steve. Their wanting ways and sugar coated praise; he isn’t any different. 

The outline of Steve’s figure becomes blurry when he’s with these girls. A thin layer of film over how he normally is, like his words and actions aren’t quite real. Superficial, putting on a show for them that you somehow know he only reserves for the stage. 

“Anyways, I’m exhausted.” You rub your eyes, vision blurred from staring at images for hours. You ruffle Steve’s hair fondly. “Try not to keep me up tonight, please.”

He catches your hand that falls and kisses the same spot on your wrist that he’s come to inhabit. Soft eyes and honest lips, he promises you, “whatever you ask, angelface.”

Soft. Steve is always soft with you, genuine to the raw way in which he looks at you. For some reason he’s different this way with you.

“Goodnight, Steve.” Though you linger for just a second. He sees it.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

Tomorrow you’ll inevitably find him in the kitchen making breakfast for the apartment. He’ll be shirtless because he gets hot when he cooks. You’ll see the scratches down his back and the hickeys on his neck and the physical reminder of the marks on Steve’s body will be a reminder to step away. 

The flirting is fine. You enjoy being adored by him and making him laugh at your quick responses. Even if the adoration is fake, even if sometimes Steve’s eyes make you wonder how you can capture them with your lens, he’s quickly becoming your best friend. Robin, too. And Dustin and Jonathan and everyone else entangled in your life now because of Steve. 

You don’t want to jeopardize this, even if you still aren’t really sure what this is. The Februarys, the apartment, the people within it. 

But whatever this is, something tells you that Steve doesn’t want to jeopardize it either. 

– 

The heat of the apartment coats the loud buzz of the people in the crowded space talking over one another the next night. It’s full capacity in the apartment. Voices mix together and there’s hardly any room to breathe. 

Steve had warned you it’d be like this. The night before a performance is always this way: bodies crammed into the apartment, all intoxicated on the rush of figuring out a setlist and chords. 

The intoxication leaks into your blood, too. Cheeks aching, you can’t stop smiling. The excitement, the giddy curiosity, now fulfilled as you finally get to see the band in action.

Steve’s curled around you on the couch, his body heat only overheating you more, but his insistence of crawling into every seat you inhabit is easier to let happen than fight. He’s talking animatedly with Robin and Jonathan as they agonize over a list of songs while you and Nancy watch, silent.

“We could play Clear and Void?” Robin suggests to the boys, pencil in her mouth with her eyebrows knit together. “Or maybe Happening New?”

Neither songs are songs you’re familiar with, though you remember Jonathan telling you that the Februarys had a working collection of four of their own songs. The problem is that most venues require a minimum of six for a gig. 

“We played both of those last week.” Steve shakes his head. “Isn’t Higgy’s more of a cover venue, anyways? Shouldn’t we just pull from our covers set?”

Jonathan bites his cheek. “I say we do Clear and Void, Happening New, and then mix in a few covers before closing with Limerick. Three of our most popular songs and three covers. Balance it out.”

Steve doesn’t look convinced, but a shout from the corner of the room pulls your attention. 

“I’m not crawling through a goddamn cellar to get to our gig!” Max scoffs at Mike, both of them hunched over the kitchen counter with a paper between them.

“Got any other brilliant ideas, then?” 

A girl, who you’ve been introduced to as El, places a hand on Mike’s shoulder in what you can only assume is a feeble attempt at calming him down. He tries to say more, but El shakes her head softly, so he curses again and messily erases whatever he’d been writing on the paper.

“This is stupid.” Mike spits out. “Why the hell is twenty-one the deemed age to get shitfaced?”

“Prohibition,” Dustin says, as if it’s obvious. He swings an arm around Will and grins. “What are the odds they make it in?”

“Pretty terrible.”

Lucas, who you've also met tonight, looks wearily at Max and Mike, scared they’ll overhear the taunts. He lowers his voice and turns to his other friends. “Can we not piss them off more? You’re not the ones who have to go home with them.”

Max, however, does hear this. “Insinuate I’m a pain in the ass when I’m angry again, Sinclair. Go on.”

Lucas shuts his mouth and the boys all snicker at his misfortune. Max and Mike go back to their metaphorical drawing board of figuring out how to sneak into a twenty-one and up venue. Their situation is amusing, even if you do feel slightly bad that they have to jump legal hurdles to perform. 

“What if we just get Dustin to print us fake IDs?” Mike proposes, a glint in his eyes.

“No!” Steve, Jonathan, Nancy, and Robin all shout at once.

Mike lets out an obnoxiously loud groan and Max flips off the older adults, though none of them pay them any attention. Instead, they go back to their list of songs and resume their own argument from earlier. 

“What do you think, Y/N?” 

Steve’s question surprises you. He’s turned to you and he’s expecting a response, wanting your input on a matter that you have no knowledge in. He knows you’re more interested in photography than music, he knows you’re still figuring out the music scene with the Februarys.

Yet Steve still wants to consider your input.

All eyes on you, your dry mouth swallows sticky saliva. The only thing you can think of is the length of Steve’s neck when he recounted a childhood memory to you in your snowy apartment.

“I guess, uh. Cool It Down?” You stumble slightly, worried you’ll embarrass yourself and suggest a song everyone hates.

Steve, however, is so in love with the idea that he practically crawls into your lap to take your face into his hands and kiss your cheek, loud, wet, dramatic and infatuated. “God, I’m in love with that angelface of yours.”

Robin and Nancy look at each other in disgust. 

Jonathan doesn’t share this disgust. His eyebrow jumps in interest, watching the two of you. “The Velvet Underground?”

He doesn’t ask as a way to clarify who sings the song. He asks because he knows that the band isn’t the usual music you listen to. He’s had their albums playing before and not once have you ever showed any interest. 

“Higgy's once had them play a gig there.” It could be a lie. You aren’t really sure. All you know is that Jonathan seems far too interested in your sudden change in music taste. “That’s why I suggested it.”

“I didn’t know they played there.”

Steve’s nose presses into your neck. “Leave her alone, Byers. She’s a born and bred musical genius. Don’t be jealous.”

Jonathan ducks his head, surrendering, and you exhale a shaky breath. In being a photographer, Jonathan has learned to see the smallest details that often go overlooked. It’s a quality you both share, but now, with his knowing eyes on you, you’re really pissed off he graduated top of your class. 

“How should we arrange the chords?” Robin breaks the remaining tension between you and Jonathan. You don’t think she’s even noticed it, but you’re grateful for her nonetheless. 

“Chords?” Mike’s head pops up from the crowd of his friends. “Did we get a setlist arranged?” 

Robin holds up the list. “Read it and weep, Wheeler. Help us figure out tuning.”

Mike runs over and Max isn’t far behind him. Soon they’re all talking over one another again. You’ve lost the Februarys to the lyrics and chords that swarm around them. They all come alive when they talk about their music. They’re beautiful when they talk about their music. 

Nancy catches your eye, thinking what you are. She smiles. You smile back. 

A little while later the apartment’s buzz dies down. Mike and the young teens all crowd themselves in Dustin���s room. Robin tells you that they all grew up together in Indiana. Inseparable then, inseparable now.

Steve is with her in the kitchen. She had a craving for ice cream and he had a craving for caramel. Naturally, they’re now rifling through the pantry for sundae ingredients at nearly midnight. 

You’re sorting through film cartridges on the couch with Nancy and Jonathan sitting beside you. They’re whispering to themselves, lost in their own world, and you almost forget they’re there until Jonathan’s voice reminds you. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he shifts a bit closer to you so that he can look over your camera set up. “What’s your plan for tomorrow? Do you need to borrow any of my equipment?”

You shake your head. “No, I did some test trials a few nights ago and I think I’ve finally figured out the right aperture for the venue. The photos came out pretty good, actually.”

“They were amazing!” Steve butts in, voice carrying from across the room.

Jonathan and Nancy snort and you pretend you didn’t hear him. “As for the plan, I was thinking some behind the scenes photos, you know? Take some of the band while you’re getting ready before the show and then once you’re up I just, I don’t know. Glue myself to the barricade and pray?”

Jonathan hums, pleased with what you’ve come up with, though Nancy pokes your knee. “I’ll be right next to you the whole time, so don’t worry about getting lost in the crowd.”

“Thank god.” Then an idea comes to you. “Oh, what about taking pictures of the crowd, too?”

When Jonathan and Nancy tilt their heads at you, not quite following, you’re quick to explain. “I mean, wouldn’t it be cool to have documentation of a growing crowd? Compare your earlier gigs with hopefully bigger and better ones in the future.”

“I’d kiss your face, but I’m afraid Steve might throw a spoon at me.” Nancy says, voice purposefully loud so that the intended audience will hear.

“I’m armed, Wheeler.” Steve holds a spoon up and glares at her. 

You all laugh and she reaches over to squeeze your hands excitedly. “I think documenting the crowd is a brilliant idea.”

Jonathan kisses his thumb, presses the finger to your nose as you giggle, and ruffles your hair. “A stupidly brilliant idea.”

You bat his hand away as Nancy laughs at the two of you. From the kitchen, in between your laughter, you hear Steve’s disgruntled, “What did I say about being armed, Byers?”

– 

Higgy's is a shitty venue in an even shittier location with a history so rich and complex that you can’t help but admire its delicate and stained walls as you walk around the dressing room. Signatures from artists like Hendrix and Joplin line the walls. Someone has signed the mirror in thick ink with the words, know your history and then tear it apart.

“Isn’t it incredible?” Nancy murmurs, standing next to you as you both admire the walls.

“It is,” you softly agree. Raising your camera, you take a picture of the mirror. “I can’t believe your boyfriend is performing here.”

“Neither can my boyfriend.”

A pounding noise can be heard from beneath you. You look at Nancy, silently asking her what the hell the sound could be, but she shrugs at you, also confused. The pounding happens again, this time forceful enough to rattle the floor, and you jump back and find that you’d been standing on top of a hidden hatch beneath the purple carpeting. 

The hatch’s door swings open, revealing a very angry Mike and Max.

Guess they found a way into the venue, then.

“Did you really have to stand on our escape plan?” The boy sneers, his glare deepening when he sees you and Nancy holding back laughs. “This isn’t at all funny.”

Only he looks so small down below the hidden cellar routes that remain from the prohibition days, and you have to cover your mouth to keep from laughing excessively. 

“Just help us up.” Max pleads, annoyed and sweaty and covered in god knows what. 

Taking pity on them, Nancy offers her hand and helps them crawl out from the hatch of death. “If mom ever asks,” she says to Mike. “Tell her I’m taking really good care of you here in New York.”

“Ha, ha.” He responds drily, though he shrieks in upset when a flash goes off and he realizes you’re taking pictures of his and Max’s situation. “What the fuck, Y/N?”

“Well, children.” You take another photo. “I’m capturing behind the scenes content.”

Max scoffs and steps past you, her shoulder clipping against yours, leaving Nancy to deal with her brother’s outrage so that she can help him get ready. You wish her luck and she waves you off, focusing on Mike now. 

Camera in hand, you take pictures of anything that your gaze lingers on. More signatures on the wall. The bands only sign that hangs above the door frame. Robin’s platform sneakers that lay abandoned next to her chair. Steve’s guitar next to the sneakers.

And even though there is so much history within these walls, so many intimate details that you know you want to capture forever, your lens draws you to Steve. Body turned to his, you find him through your viewfinder. 

Robin sits at the vanity. Her eyes are smudged with dark mascara and eyeliner and the blue of them shine. Steve stands next to her, styling his hair with sticky pomade and hopeless fingers. A silver chain hangs from Steve’s neck, his white t-shirt strains against his back, muscles outline faintly in the dim lighting as he bends towards Robin to tangle his fingers in her hair, too, styling it as she wants. 

They don’t see you at first. It isn’t until you’ve brought the camera back up to your face, eye squinting in the viewfinder to focus on the expanse of Steve’s taut back, do they see you. Robin winks into the mirror and Steve tips his head back, smiling lazily at you. 

Something tight grips your throat, but you swallow it down. 

In the corner Nancy is fixing Jonathan’s jacket and you take a picture of her tender hands around his waist. You photograph Mike and Max tuning their instruments; the girl’s red hair almost glows besides the boy’s fluorescent skin. As Robin and Jonathan go over the setlist for any last minute changes, you take a picture of their downcast heads, their similarly colored hair blurring into one body. 

The excitement in the room is tinged with tension, with apprehension, but still there is a breathlessness to it. 

Steve watches your every move as you walk around the room. His eyes are a pleasant warmth that simmers on your skin. You take a photo of his hands wrapped around his blue guitar neck. His fingers picking at the strings. His lips humming a song. 

He lets you. 

“Five more minutes.” A man, tall and large, knocks on the dressing room door. “Get ready.”

The static in the air multiplies at the announcement. Steve jumps up from his seat, clapping his hands. “Alright, everyone. You know the drill.”

They fall into formation. Jonathan, Mike, Max, and Robin all in a circle facing Steve. 

He brings his arms around them, forcing them into a huddle. Their eyes are bright and smiles wide and you take one final photo of them, just like this, just like little kids, grinning mischievously at one another and flushed faces. 

“It’s just us.” Steve tells them. “Just us up there on stage. No one else. Not one fucking any person but us.”

They repeat him. Just us. Just us just us just us.

Steve licks his lips at the sound, coating the cheshire smile on his face. He leans closer, impossibly closer to his bandmates, words edging his lips as they wait, dangling before them, desperate, waiting, before finally, finally–

“Showtime.”

– 

The cold metal of the barrier digs into your stomach. Nancy stands next to you, her own body flush against the railing that separates the barricade from the main stage. The small section is reserved only for you and Nancy, separate from the rest of the crowd, yet hardly big enough for the two of you to stand comfortably. 

Loud, disorienting noise surrounds you. Higgy's is one of those smaller venues that insists on cramming as many people as possible inside. Your heartbeat pounds along to the sound of drunken conversation and Nancy’s reassuring glances. 

“You ready?” She shouts into your ear, barely heard above the crowd.

“Not at all,” you admit to her. Your camera is poised in your hands. You’re anxious to see the Februarys perform, to see who exactly you’ve chanced your career on. “I swear to god, if Steve can’t sing I’m making him pay me double what he’s already–”

Your words get drowned out by a deafening wave of cheers and screams. The sound vibrates your skin, rattles your bones, and when you look up, all you see is the stage flooding with color as Steve and the others fill it. 

Jonathan sits at his drum set, its white reflecting the stage’s fluorescent purple lighting. Max plugs her bass to an amp and its deep maroon hue ignites the dark around her. Next to her Mike’s sage green electric guitar makes a small click sound as he connects it to its own powersource. Robin places herself behind her keyboard, its effervescent multitude of colors that she’s painted onto its body a commotion of everything that exudes who she is. 

And then there’s Steve, standing front and center on the stage, holding the same acoustic guitar you saw in his room the day you met him. Dark blue, its edges black, the fingers wrapped around it tanned and rough. 

“How’s everyone doing tonight?” Steve grabs the mic, still engulfed in the colors. You think you see him smile at the crowd’s excited response. The flash of his white teeth vivid against his pink mouth. 

Steve extends his arms out towards the band. “Over here we have Robin Buckley on keyboard,” she playfully bows. “Jonathan Byers on drums,” deft fingers twirl drumsticks before colliding them onto cymbals. “Playing bass we have Max Mayfield,” the girl smiles coolly at the crowd, completely at ease. “And Mike Wheeler on electric guitar,” he twists the instrument and releases a cacophony of sound and the venue explodes into howls.

“And finally,” Steve presses his mouth against the mic again, eyes only on the crowd. He lets his words hang, the cheers become feminine, the howls become wanting. He laughs at the reaction. The sound is infectious. The flex of his arms ripples in the lighting. The beauty of his features only melts into the air, cages your lungs, and you see, in the end, just what every girl he takes to bed sees. 

Only when he has the crowd in the palm of his hand does he finally introduce himself, “I’m Steve Harrington.”

Your voice joins the screaming chorus and Steve grabs the mic with both hands and shouts, “We’re the Februarys, let’s go!”

No buildup, no anticipation, the band dives right into their first song. 

And they’re fucking incredible. They flow together well, losing themselves in the songs and chords they’ve created, and it isn’t their talent that makes you believe they’ll be a sensation one day. It’s the genuine compassion they have for one another on stage. 

Steve and Robin trade off on vocals easily, without any mixed cues or forgotten lyrics. Steve never strays away from her during the entire performance, always right next to her, always sharing his mic with her just because he can, because he enjoys her presence. 

Mike and Max harmonize and their voices mix so well together that you’re momentarily stunned. During every song Mike plays his chords to Jonathan, always looking to the older boy for a reaction, always eager to please, and Jonathan plays right back to him.

Max and Robin do an intricate handshake between the songs. The quick movement of their hands are a blur on stage but their smiles are vibrant and saturated in clarity. 

The Februarys are addicting to watch, they’re indescribable, even, but Steve is too unspoken to even capture on camera.

His body sways with the beat, singing in a whiskey colored tone that hits you like a sucker punch to the heart. The dip of his nose runs against the mic’s edge. The veins in his hands contrasted by the flash of lights. 

You take what feels like endless pictures. 

Your film roll becomes overwhelmed with images of the crowd, alive and swarming to get closer to the stage. With images of Steve, beautiful and raw. Nancy and her fondness and pride watching Jonathan. Max’s hands interlaced with Robin’s during their handshakes. Robin’s pink streaks in her hair and their vibrancy in the purple light.

More, your body screams at you, humming with the images that you’re aching to capture. More, more, more.

The lights shine down and you crawl over the security barrier, the tug in your chest pulling harder and harder. Nancy doesn’t realize what you’re doing until your body is already over the railing. You think she calls out to you, but you’re gone before you can question what the hell you’re doing.

A security guard steps towards you but you quickly flash him the flimsy VIP badge you and Nancy were given when you were placed into the security area. 

You press against the edge of the stage with your camera angled up and as close as physically possible to the music. 

Steve finds you immediately.

He bends down, peers over the edge of the stage as he continues to sing. He’s dripping in sweat and his t-shirt clings to his wet skin. His chest heaves every lyric and his voice, this close, this full, makes you bite your lip to steady your shaking hands. 

“Don’t you know, honey, you can get it so fast?” He sings into the camera, silver chain dangling in front of the lens. He’s close enough for you to smell, to feel the heat of his body as he performs. “But of course, you know it makes no difference to me.” 

Steve sings into the camera, looks right through its lens, finds your eyes through its viewfinder.

He’s performing for you. 

Only for you. 

– 

In the dim, cramped hallway that connects the dressing rooms to the main stage, you wait with Nancy after the show. You’re both exhilarated and still riding the post concert high and you’re showing her all your pictures and she’s breathless and her hair is wild and you don’t think you’ll ever get used to this type of adrenaline. 

A mixture of cheers and celebratory shouts echo down the hall and you hear, before you see, the Februarys returning. They’re equally drunk on the adrenaline that courses through your veins. 

“Did you see that?” Mike flies straight to Nancy, a little kid in his older sister’s arms. “I swear, the crowd was a fucking monster.”

Jonathan is by Nancy’s side in an instant, throwing his arms around her and joining Mike’s excited ramblings.

“They were singing our songs!” Robin screeches at the top of her lungs as she runs straight towards you, Max not far behind. “Y/N, did you hear them? God, please tell me you took a picture of the crowd–”

Suddenly you’re weightless, feet lifting from the ground as your body spins recklessly around. You scream, hands clutching your camera in alarm, until a rough and familiar voice kisses into your ear, “Angelface.”

“Steve!” You hit his arms playfully, belly full of laughter. “Put me down!”

“I couldn’t take my eyes off of you all night,” his hands slide down your waist and your feet touch the ground once more. “Christ, you look fucking amazing in the purple lights.”

Standing on the tips of your toes, you fix the messy pieces of Steve’s hair. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you the entire night, I mean, look,” giddy, you shove a small camera in his face. “I shot some digital, I knew you’d be too impatient for the film to develop. And as much as I hate to admit it, the stage loves you.”

Steve’s mouth parts, momentarily surprised you’ve done this small, unnecessary thing for him. You only agreed to shoot the band in film, that was all they could afford to pay you for, and yet here you are, once again surprising him.

“God, you’re my favorite fucking person ever.” Steve hungrily grabs the device, licking his lips. He flicks through the images in a maddening frenzy and his heartbeat almost deafens his ears. “Holy shit, I look like a rockstar.”

He says it as if to gloat, to exude your talent once more, but deep down, Steve’s stomach twists a feeling he’s never felt before. Screaming crowds and late night lyrics felt cliche, ingenuine, but now looking at the pictures you’ve provided solely for him, this is the first time he’s ever truly felt like a rockstar. 

Your perfume invades Steve’s senses. Your cheek presses against his bicep and he can feel your grin. You point to his face in one of the pictures. “You get really red when you perform.”

“I’m going to pretend that’s your poor attempt at flirting with me.”

You laugh. “No, it wasn’t. You get all rosie,” you look up at him and your smile softens slightly, more tender, delicate. “I think it’s cute.”

“Rosie, huh?” Steve’s heartbeat spikes again. The haze your perfume has left him in threatens to overspill into his wandering hands. His eyes wander to your lips; you see it.

“Share with the class, Harrington,” Robin snatches the camera from him. “Quit hogging Y/N’s talent.”

Steve immediately tries to grab the camera, but Robin is fast. She runs to the others, ducks behind Jonathan, and Steve glares at her. “Buckley, I wasn’t done–”

“Let them look, Steve.” Your fingers wrap around his wrist, gently pulling him back. “You’re not the only one paying me, you know.”

Steve wants to roll his eyes, to say that actually your pay comes out of his bank account, but then he sees the pure joy in your eyes as you watch the Februarys pour over the photos. You try to suppress your obvious pride by biting your lip and all arguments die in his throat.

There aren't a lot of pictures, not nearly as many as you’re sure you took on your film camera, but watching the band’s eyes light up as they see your work is like molten chocolate coating your stomach. Syrupy and indulgent and lovely.

“I’m framing this one,” Robin announces, holding the camera up. “Because holy fuck do my tits look great from this angle.”

“Wasn’t my artistic intent, but please feel free to frame your tits.”

Max points to an image of her with her eyes closed, fingers soft and poised over the bass strings. “I look so… holy.”

You raise an eyebrow. “In a good way, right?”

“I think so.”

“Good enough for me.”

Mike smacks Jonathan’s shoulder, not even bothering to look up from the camera. “Why the hell did you hide Y/N from us for so long?”

Nancy pinches her brother and Jonathan rubs his sore skin, and while he tries to explain that no, he hadn’t been hiding you this whole time, Steve’s lips graze your head and he wraps himself around you, steadying your body that sways with amused and childish laughter. 

– 

Life becomes a blur of venues and gigs and flashing lights and developing film and Steve and his lips and soft voice humming to himself most mornings.

He’s always awake before the others. Your habit of working on your film late into the night leaves you the only one up when he rises.

It’s become a sort of tradition, spending quiet mornings together. Steve makes you coffee and goes over the film with you from the night before. When he’s done admiring your work, he prepares a lazy breakfast and you sit at the counter and listen to his soft hums.

“What do you think of the lyric, ‘left for want and wanting’?” Steve asks you one morning, the sizzle of eggs on the greased pan threatening to burn his exposed chest.

“Is it a play on ‘left for want and nothing?’” He nods and you tilt your head. “I think I like it, though Robin might say it’s redundant.” 

Steve sighs. “Every time I show her what I’ve written it’s like sophomore English all over again.”

His annoyance makes you laugh, though you do pity him. Following the gig at Higgy's, Steve and the others decided that they needed more than their four original songs. The crowds are getting bigger, demanding more than just covers and a handful of songs. 

With this demand came late night bickering between Steve and Robin over lyrics and chord progressions and, more often than not, Mike frantically running down to the apartment at odd times with a line he’s thought of to insist they write it down.

“If it’s any consolation, I like the stuff you guys are coming up with.” Steve and Robin are a good team and Mike’s sudden strikes of inspiration only add to their music. From the little you’ve heard, the new songs are already more mature, even better, than their old ones. 

“You’re biased,” Steve sets a plate down in front of you and kisses your cheek. “You’re supposed to like everything I do.”

“The only thing I like about you is your face, rosie.”

Steve snorts, going back to the stove so that Dustin and Robin have their own meals to wake up to, and a comfortable silence falls over the two of you once more. 

In the blur of gigs and venues and music comes another blur of barely legal teens and their symphony of adolescence. 

Max and Lucas stop by the apartment often with El in tow. Somehow Will and Mike are never far behind despite having their own apartment upstairs. 

“Why do you guys always take over my apartment? Why can’t you go upstairs?” You ask the teens, eyeing your kitchen counter that has been buried underneath mounds of school assignments. 

“We like it here better.” Will shrugs. “Plus, you and Dustin help us with our work.”

You and Dustin do, unfortunately, enjoy helping them figure out math problems and essays, so you can’t really argue with that logic. 

Dustin becomes your accomplice in more than just assignments, though. Being the only one not in the Februarys, he’s your solace when the apartment fills with Mike and Steve arguing with Robin over a chorus or bridge or whatever else they’re stuck on that night.

“If I didn’t enjoy the idea of knowing rockstars, I would’ve moved out by now.” Dustin pounds on his bedroom wall, connected to Robin’s, where yet another argument floods the silence, and shouts, “Knock it off!”

A thud, then a door slams, before Steve comes barreling into the room and collapses at your side. “Robin said I’m trying too hard with my lyrics.”

“Oh, sure, come right in.”

Steve ignores Dustin’s sarcasm and pouts at you. “I mean, can you believe her? Me? Trying too hard?”

Then Robin launches into the room, nearly trips on the wires that litter the floor. “He’s too in his head right now! The songs all sound like slimy poetry!”

You frown. “Isn’t that what songs are–”

“You guys got rid of my seafoam gloom line?” Mike’s agitated voice is the only warning the precedes his stumbling presence into the already overflowing bedroom and yet another argument rises between the three band members.

Dustin is pinching the bridge of his nose and you’re sympathetic to his lost cause of a room. Standing up, you grab his hand. “C’mon, let’s hide out in my room. My door at least has a lock.”

“You’re leaving me?” Steve cries out, betrayed, but his voice is muffled by the door’s closing.

A lot of nights follow a pattern like this, bickering between friends, torn scraps of paper left throughout the apartment, slamming doors and laughter that follows. Sometimes the monotony is broken by Jonathan’s comforting presence helping you develop the film as Nancy brews tea. 

Tonight is like any other night. Robin has gone to bed, Mike left with his sister and Jonathan a while ago, Dustin is in his room hunched over a project for school, and Steve is in your bed, tired fingers plucking over guitar strings as you go over your photos from a gig the night before. 

Along the walls of your room are a series of photos, some film, some digital, varying in size and shape. Though some of the images are from recent performances, most aren’t even of the Februarys themselves. 

One photo is of Dustin laughing about something with Will. There’s a few of Max, one with her hand shyly clasped in Lucas’ as they watch a movie. Multiple images are of Robin and Steve, always eager to pose for you whenever your camera is near. Nancy, her beautiful side profile admiring Jonathan. 

Your room has become a collection of images of everyone you love, and slowly, it becomes Steve’s room, too.

He tells you he prefers your room over his because it’s cleaner, though really you know it’s because he also enjoys being surrounded by everyone he loves. 

Soft acoustic notes float through the room. The silence is comfortable, as it always is with Steve. His eyes are closed and he simply plays whatever comes to mind. He’s the most at ease when he’s playing music, and truthfully, tucked in your bed with his hair framing his face, you think he’s the most beautiful this way. 

“I have a question.” Steve rolls his head to look at you. The song he’s playing doesn’t waver and this act of talent, albeit small, still amazes you. 

“When don’t you have a question?” 

He pokes your thigh. “Be nice, it’s a serious question.”

Placing your film down, you give him your attention. “Alright, I’m listening. What’s up?”

Steve places his guitar down and rolls onto his side. He stares up with tired eyes and he hesitates for a moment. Opens his mouth, closes it, looks away.

“Steve?” You don’t like the uncharacteristic hesitancy. 

Sighing, he faces you again. “Why did you take this job?” 

Your confusion must spill over your face because Steve inhales and tries again, tries to articulate something that you can tell has been bothering him for a while. “What I mean is, why did you decide to put your faith in the band? Work for shit pay, live with complete strangers? Aren’t you, I don’t know, worried that we’ve somehow jeopardized your career by making you stay?”

A part of you wants to deflect, to make a joke about how you never really had a career anyways. Except Steve is looking up at you and you see a flicker of insecurity in his eyes, doubt that has never been there before. 

“Because,” you tell him, easily and without any doubt yourself. “One day everyone will know your name. You’ll be known as Steve Harrington, lead member of the Februarys, a band that will be remembered for generations to come.”

You reach out, tuck Steve’s hair behind his ear. “And, selfishly, I want to be a part of the history you make. Even if only as the photographer.”

“You really believe that?” His golden smile is bashful. 

“I do,” your lips fall to his cheek, a fluttering reassurance. “The Februarys, you guys are special. There’s something in your band. Something good. I can feel it.”

Steve grabs your ankle, skims the flesh there with the pad of his thumb. He watches himself trace your skin, smiling still golden and youthful. “I can feel it, too,” he admits to you as if it’s a secret. “Thank you, you know. For believing in us.”

Removing your ankle from his grasp, you curl your body into itself, falling against his chest, forgetting about the photos and guitar and simply laying on him. Listening to his heartbeat. Music somehow innate within him. 

“Yeah, well,” you throw your leg over his. “Just don’t forget about me when you’re a rockstar.”

Steve rubs your thigh now. Up and down, slowly, in soothing rhythms. He turns to you, close enough that your noses brush. Your breaths mix, his air becomes yours, and Steve squeezes the skin beneath his palm. 

“I could never forget you,” he whispers, so soft that you almost don’t hear it.

But you’re watching his lips. Your ear is pressed over his heart. The swell of his chest anchors your chin. You hear Steve’s promise because it would be impossible not to, and you believe him for these very same reasons as well. 

– 

After a month of multiple arguments, insults, tears, midnight snack runs, and emotional outbursts, the Februarys’ EP, creatively titled The Februarys, is finished. 

“You agonize over these songs for weeks on end and then you name the EP The Februarys?” Dustin makes a face. “Were you too burnt out to think of anything better?”

Robin throws a pillow at him and Steve has to leave the room before he screams. 

“Is now a bad time to ask how you guys plan on recording an EP without, you know, a studio or any connections to a studio?” The death glare Robin sends you immediately shuts you up. “Yeah, okay. Bad time.”

The dilemma of not having a studio or even a record label to help produce the EP is quickly solved by the grace of one Jonathan Byers. 

“Okay, I have a plan.” He sits everyone down a few nights later, looking like King Arthur at the head of the round table. “I can get us into a studio.”

Max tips her chair back and crosses her arms. “If it involves anything illegal, I’m out. My mom said I can’t keep abusing the family lawyer.”

“You have a family lawyer?”

“Focus, Y/N.” A pen gets thrown at you and Jonathan sets his gaze on Max. “And no, it isn’t illegal. Technically.”

“I’m listening.” Mike leans forward in his seat.

Nancy frowns. “I don’t like the way you said that.”

You nod in agreement, eyeing her brother, to which he scoffs at you both. 

Jonathan either doesn’t see this or he simply doesn’t care. “Do you guys remember my old coworker Argyle? It was back when I worked at that deli on fifth.”

Everyone nods, you included. You vaguely remember the stories Jonathan told you about his time at the deli. It was run by an old man who didn’t care about labor rights but in a way that only benefited the employees. Unlimited breaks, a disregard for public health codes, and free food if you worked overtime. 

You never set foot in that deli for obvious reasons, though Jonathan loved every second of it. 

“Well, turns out he managed to bypass mandatory state drug tests and got a job working security at Major Tom’s.”

A lot of things happen at once. 

Robin, who had taken a poorly timed sip of her water, spits it out all over Steve. Cringing at the attack, his knee hits the table, eliciting a pathetic yelp from him. Mike slams his hand on the table and screams something about fate, and Max, who had been tempting the limits of how far her chair could tip back, is so surprised by the news that she leans too far and ends up on the floor. 

“Oh, Jesus.” In dire need of damage control, you quickly stand up and help Max off the ground. On your way you toss a roll of paper towels to Steve and tell him to clean himself up. 

“Major Tom’s?” He screeches, a wet paper towel hanging from his face. 

Jonathan gulps, nods. “Yeah.”

Robin’s rapid breathing borders on hyperventilating and Mike and Max are in stunned awe. Meanwhile, you’re getting ice from the freezer to ease the sting of the girl’s fall, completely caught off guard by everyone’s startled reactions. 

“In fear of looking like a moron,” you hand the ice to Max. “What the hell is Major Tom’s?”

“Oh, it’s no big deal, just the most culturally significant recording studio in the world.” Steve sputters a laugh. “It’s where every fucking rock band who’s recorded there becomes a household legend.”

You sit back down. “Oh, so this is like. A pretty big deal.”

“It’s a huge deal!” Robin exclaims. She clasps her hands in front of Jonathan, goes flying to her knees before him. “Byers, light of my life, love of my beloved Nancy Wheeler, apple of my sour eye, please, for the love of god, talk to Argyle.”

He gently grabs her arm and forces her back into her seat. “I thought I told you to stop begging for things like that. It creeps me out.”

“That’s why I do it.”

“Nancy said I need to work on expressing how I’m feeling, and I really dislike that you continue to do something that makes me feel–”

Now it’s Max’s hand that slams down on the table. “Hey! Assholes! Can we go back to Argyle finally being useful?”

“I’ve always thought he was useful.”

“You’re about to be banned from this conversation, Y/N.”

Steve, who has been shockingly quiet throughout all of this, calmly says, “Byers, you need to talk to Argyle.”

“That’s the thing.” Jonathan leans his weight against the table, crosses his arms in a smug manner. He looks around at everyone and shrugs. “I already did. He agreed to sneak us into the studio for three days. For free.”

This time there’s an even bigger reaction and it isn’t until hours later, deep into night with Steve staring up at your bedroom ceiling, does the adrenaline finally die down. 

Argyle’s deal with Jonathan is simple. The Februarys get three straight days of studio time. That’s all he can afford to give them before he risks his own job. All they have to do is record, edit, and mix eight songs in three days. 

All for the price of Jonathan’s film canister so that he can sneak weed to work.

And while the three day limit seems impossible, it’s more than enough for the band. This is too big of an opportunity to fuck up. They’ll stay up those entire three days, work themselves to the brink of death, if it means that they finally have a chance.

Which is ultimately what ends up happening.

A maddening rush settles into the band’s veins and they spend the rest of the night drawing up a plan.

Day one will be recording all eight songs. Steve won’t say a single word unless needed so that he can preserve his voice. Extra guitar strings will be stashed in Robin’s bag. Bandaids. Aspirin, whatever they can possibly need. No one leaves the studio until the final lyric has been sung and the final chord has faded. 

Day two will be the production day. With Mike and Steve mixing the songs, they’ll be at the mercy of Robin, Max, and Jonathan. Everyone gets a say in what happens. Every soundbite, every amplification of bass or keyboard gets approved by everyone. If they don’t agree with each other, they get one veto each. That’s it. There won’t be any time for arguing or stale compromises. 

Day three, the final day, will be the last minute edits. They’ll re-record if needed. Change a progression or note. It has to be perfect; it has to feel perfect. There is no other option. 

“We’ll see you and Dustin in a few days.” Steve throws a few more things into his bag. He’s called a taxi that will be at the apartment any minute. “I’ll leave some cash so you guys can order out. Don’t miss me too much, alright?”

Dustin looks offended. “Why are you making it sound like Y/N is my babysitter?”

“Because technically she is.”

“I’m eighteen.”

“Which puts the ‘baby’ in ‘babysitter’.”

“Not to interrupt this groundbreaking conversation but,” your bag, which you’d been hiding behind your back since coming into Steve’s room, lands on the bed beside his. “I’m coming with you, Harrington.”

Both Steve and Dustin look at you as if you’re insane.

“You’re leaving me all alone for three days?”

“Thought you didn’t need a babysitter, Henderson?” Dustin closes his mouth and glares at you. Meanwhile, you flash Steve a wide smile. “Any complaints from you?”

“No,” there’s still an odd look on his face. “I mean, definitely not. I get you for three straight days? Heaven. I just… we can’t pay you for whatever pictures you take. It isn’t in our budget. You know that, right?”

“Keep your money,” Steve’s concern of valuing your work melts your skin. “I meant what I told you. I want to be a part of your history. And your first recording session at Major Tom’s? That’s history, rosie.”

Early morning sunlight streaks the hardwood floor of Steve’s room. His guitar is packed away in its case. His bag overflows with more than he probably needs. He’s kneeling on his bed, one leg in front of you, body angled towards yours, and the raw and vulnerable way his eyes soften when he looks at you, it’s worth more than anything he could ever pay you. 

“Taxi’s here!” Robin bangs on the doorframe. “Let’s go, wombats.”

Steve tosses your bag and grabs your hand, spinning you as he tugs you out the door. You’re used to his boyish antics by now, but still you laugh like a schoolgirl and follow him wherever. 

“So I’m really gonna be alone for three days?” Dustin calls out, following right behind. 

“I’ll call Luas and have him stay with you.” You placate. “And Steve will leave even more money for food.”

“No I won’t–”

“Bye, Dustin!” You kiss his head, ruffle his hair, and then extend your arm out towards Steve, palm facing up, expectant. “Cough it up.”

His amused smile betrays his downturned eyebrows. “Why do you treat me like the bank?” “You grew up rich. This is financial compensation for everyone who is poor.”

 Dustin nods. “Yeah. It’s economics.”

Steve sighs, knowing he won’t win this fight, and hands the kid an extra five dollars on top of the twenty he’s already left on the counter. “I hate you both.”

“Guys!” Robin’s scream can be heard from the street below. She’s outside the taxi now and her glare can be felt from six stories up. “Let’s. Go.”

“That’s our cue.” Steve grabs your hand, cocks his head at you. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

– 

Major Tom’s recording studio is deep in the West Village. A few blocks away resides the Hudson. The building itself is small, no more than five floors, yet it’s a maze within its lush walls. Deep red lines the velvet walls. Amber wood flooring, gold plated chandeliers, and records spanning decades. 

Similar to Higgy's, so much history can be felt within the walls. Icons from eras passed, their music transcending their vitality.

No one has time to admire the studio’s beauty, though. The second Argyle sneaks everyone inside, they scatter like bugs. Steve runs straight to the first recording booth he finds. Jonathan grabs a drum set base, Max digs through drawers for music stands, and Mike and Robin pick at a locked door to see what’s inside, hoping for at least a few mics. 

Knowing better than to get in their way, you stay back. Keep to the shadows in their chaos. All you do is silently take pictures, documenting it all. 

Before you know it the band has managed to cram their way into the booth and they’re performing the first song in minutes. Seeing them working together so fluidly is beautiful. Argyle, with limited knowledge of how music production works, monitors the soundboard. 

Despite the time constraints and the pressure to get everything right in just one take, Steve performs every song as if he has all the time in the world.

His smooth voice and dropped vowels coat the soft hums of Robin. He moves slowly, his eyes closed for every song. He gets lost in the music and you get lost watching him. 

The Februarys finish recording all their songs right as the sun starts to set. By this point, Steve’s voice is raw and the flesh of Max’s fingertips and Mike’s palms are cut up and bleeding. Jonathan has splinters from his drumsticks. Robin’s feet ache from standing.

But they’ve never been more alive.

They talk over each other and surround the soundboard, itching to hear what’s been captured and even more anxious to pick it apart and stitch it back together again. 

Throughout the night they tear over melodies and chords. They work until they can hardly keep their eyes open, and still they insist on listening over and over again to the songs. Late into night they take turns sleeping, never allowing for more than two of them to sleep at the same time in fear of losing daylight. 

The second day follows this pattern. By the end of the night, they can feel the exhaustion in their bones. And yet, despite this, there has never been more laughter, more quips and tears and sentimental smiles, between them. 

The third day is slower, easier. The final stretch. Somehow they manage to stay on track and with only a few more songs to finalize, the energy in the room shifts. The once manic, frenzied static that coated the room becomes mellow, calm, like quiet acceptance. 

“We’re really good.” Steve murmurs to you, resting his head beside yours against the wall. He was forced to take a break a while ago and sits down next to you on the ground. 

“You are.” Though you’re not sure if you’re affirming a belief of doubt or a belief of quality. “Everything you’ve done is incredible.”

“Fuck,” he breathes out, voice thick with tears. “We’re really good.”

In his brown eyes you see a dream being fulfilled. A realization that more will come from this. That years of sleepless nights and strained vocal cords has amended him this: a quiet moment between childhood friends getting everything they’ve ever wanted.

The final song plays over the speakers. There isn’t a breath released during its entirety. Robin's keynote fades. The key evokes an image of goodbye. The clapping that follows from behind you evokes terror. 

Everyone turns around. The room stills. 

Leonard Branham, manager and producer of Major Tom’s, stands in the doorway. 

He’s a short man, more belly than body. His white hair is almost translucent against his pale skin. Large sunglasses rest on his veiny head. A cigarette dangles from his wrinkled mouth and when he smiles, his teeth are yellowed, aged. 

“Well, what do we have here?” 

Steve is the first to react, scrambling to his feet. “Mr. Branham, sir, I–”

“Do not.” 

The silence turns into terror. For three days the Februarys have been using the studio without explicit permission. They snuck in through the backdoor and illegally used equipment worth thousands. 

And now, just as they’ve completed their mad dash to the finish line, the owner of Major Tom’s has caught them, quite literally, red handed. 

Maybe Max’s family lawyers will be useful. 

“Mr. Leonard, uh. Branham. Sir. Sorry, do I call you sir?” Robin’s squeaky voice of fear rings in your ears. “I-okay. Not important. Can I just ask you not to arrest us–”

“Please don’t arrest us. My sister will kill me and she’s really annoying–”

“I know a good lawyer.”

“God, my dad is an asshole and I know I’m twenty-four but he’s fucking terrifying and–”

“My step dad is a cop, I know my rights–”

Leonard hands up his hands and his loud voice booms, “Enough!”

Silence. Pure, utter silence. 

“Jesus H. Christ,” the man puffs out smoke. Flicks the ash onto the expensive carpet like it’s nothing. “You’re not getting arrested, alright? I’ve known you were using my studio since the first day your asses got here. Your little friend over here,” he waves his cigarette at Argyle. “Can’t keep a secret to save his chubby little life.”

“It’s true, dudes.”

Steve’s mouth tightens. “So we’re… fine?”

“Fine?” Leonard cackles. “I don’t know, boy. You tell me!”

“Full transparency, sir, I think I’m about to have a heart attack.”

Leonard exhales more smoke. “Now that, my boy, better be the nerves talking. I don’t sign druggies to the label. It’s a bad image when they kneel over and I’m the one managing them.”

Steve pales and for a split second you really do think he’s having a heart attack. “I-I’m sorry. Did you say sign?”

“Told you. I’ve known you were here the entire time. I have cameras. This equipment cost more than my third fucking divorce.” Leonard kicks at a speaker and huffs. “But that’s besides the point. I’m here because I like you guys. Your songs sound like the colors blue and yellow and I fucking love that they make green. You understand?”

Robin laughs nervously. “Can’t really say I do. Personally.”

“Christ, doesn’t anyone listen these days?” Leonard flicks ash off his cigarette and stares at the group. “I’m giving you guys a chance. I want you to join my label. Is that English enough for you?”

Mike screams. Full on, knees to the ground, screams. Max isn’t any better, joining him immediately and grabbing onto his body to try and support her own failing one. 

Robin’s eyes roll back and she nearly faints. Jonathan has to be the one to catch her, because Steve just stands there, eyes wide, shell shocked and unmoving. His entire body tenses up and you wouldn’t be surprised if ends up fainting as well. 

In the midst of everyone’s overwhelmed reactions, you’re the only one coherent enough to step forward and shake Leonard’s extended hand. 

“I hear you loud and clear, Lenny.” He smiles, impressed with the confidence to call him by his name. “The Februarys will happily sign with you.”

“Now that’s what I like to hear.” Leonard clasps his hand over your intertwined ones, shaking it aggressively. 

A weight gets thrown upon you and Steve’s arms tear you from Leonard. He clings onto you from behind, nearly sending you to the floor, as he laughs and cries and screams. He’s in your arms and around your waist and in your neck and your stomach and he’s swallowed entirely by the bliss that erupts in the room. 

The beginning of it all.

-

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[worriedvision]

A romance with no romance - Sunday

Gender neutral reader, readers good friends with Robin here and they've had a big crush on Sunday, knowing he doesn't like them back. Angst lol, includes heavy spoilers from the most recent trailblazer quest (inspired by it tbh!)

--

You were a fellow singer, and you landed up meeting Robin and Sunday at the same time. It wasn't even related to your work, and at that point you were an upcoming vocalist. You didn't have a good time that day, your mentor seemingly disappointed that you couldn't find the confidence to wear an outfit too revealing to 'accentuate your voice'. Robin invited you to join the both of them, which you accept, and you start talking to the both of them.

Truth be told, Robin was such a lovely person to speak to. Free from the singing conversation, just talking as if you were just normal people. You didn't speak that much to Sunday, he seemed more reserved. It was when you saw him and Robin interacting that you foolishly fell in love. While he was embarrassed to say it out loud, you could feel how much he loved hearing Robin's performances. It made you want to strive to get an ounce of that attention, starved of positive attention in your pursuit for a successful career.

"Robin, I want to get better with my singing." You admit, Robin waiting for you to continue. "It feels like I'm trying everything I can, and I know I have some potential, but I'm so scared because nothing I do works."

Robin falls silent for a moment. She's smart enough to know that she is a very talented singer, but there's another factor that can be in play here.

Her influence from her brother.

Robin gives you an idea - ask out Sunday, and once he says yes you both will be out as a couple. You honestly didn't know what to think when she said it - was it really the fact you weren't being out there enough? Or surrounding yourself with the right people enough?

Regardless, you go ahead with the plan. Surprisingly, Sunday accepts. In any other scenario of this happening, you would be over the moon.

But you know Robin spoke to Sunday about the plan, and nobody was more important to Sunday than his sister. You weren't jealous of Robin, absolutely not, but you felt a twinge of guilt when Sunday accepted as you knew by the look in his eyes that you had some sort of feelings for him, and these feelings would never be returned.

He would hold your hand, tell people he loves you and you were like an obedient cat that would willingly curl up in his lap - leading to the inevitable 'thats so cute' reactions.

He did this publicly for months, but he wouldn't share any affection with you when it was you, him and Robin. He would always have Robin between the two of you, and you'd just hang out as you typically would before you became a 'happy' couple.

Fast forward to when Sunday had his downfall, you were suddenly in the spotlight for a strange reason - people were worried you were being used by Sunday as a pawn, as he would be projecting you out more than he did with his sister at times. When he got locked away, you got more popular. Your career was taking off!

But...you weren't happy. Neither you nor Robin were happy. Neither of you blame each other - you both know Sunday did those actions of his own discretion - but you silently thought to yourselves 'what if I did this differently '?

One night, you get visited by a strange figure. No features to identify by, you fear for good reason, and they give you a proposal.

"If you are willing to ensure your partner's punishment, Sunday will be set free." They state.

"...But how could I possibly help here? Even if I do that, isn't there a chance he gets caught and gets punished more?" You query.

"Sunday is a very capable man - he can survive." The cloaked figure replies.

"And what about outsiders? Won't they get suspicious when I disappear?" You tilt your head.

"That's a simple answer - people will pretend to care about your unfortunate disappearance, and then move on swiftly." The figure bluntly explains.

"...I'll do it. I'll take his place." You nod, the figure giggling before grasping you by the forearm. You lose consciousness, unable to stay awake.

--

When you next wake up, you're in a dark room. Thorns wrapped tightly around you, securing you as if you could run away. No windows, only a door in front of you somewhere, and even if you could get out of the room what was the chance of you getting caught?

Or of Sunday getting caught, as you were in here to essentially be a substitute.

Looking back at his way of describing you, you really begin to realise he felt hunted by you. As cute as his descriptions were, he described you as a cat as opposed to a songbird. He would talk about Robin as a songbird, perhaps he thought you were going after Robins career.

But it doesn't matter now. Your life as you knew it is now over. No career, no friends, pure solitude. The only thing you can truly yearn for is Robins wellbeing. You knew Sunday would be fine, and Robin would likely be fine, but you can't do anything more than what you have done already.

[mapofyourstars]

a regularly updated list of all my erik/charles fics posted on ao3!

chaptered (19k+): I think I’ve seen this love before.

Mourning the loss of his wife and daughter while holding himself together for his three other children, Erik finds happiness in an unexpected friendship with another mutant father. This is how Erik Lehnsherr chases his newfound joy and falls in love all over again. one-shot spin-off (4k+): take me so breathless. (the one where Erik proposes)

one-shot (20k+): we recognize each other and call this love.

The nine times that Erik and Charles' souls met each other; and the final time their souls vowed to never be apart. A Reincarnation AU with a happy ending.

chaptered (wip): you got all my love.

Erik helps Charles through his heat. One month and a wave of nausea later, Charles' heat is late.

one-shot (1k+): a voyeur’s subject

Erik's body flushed, but he kept his eyes shut, not daring to make accidental eye-contact with Charles standing outside the door. He felt hot all over – Charles could likely hear him, maybe even see him or be watching him right now; and that reality pushed Erik further into desperation. Based off of dick-helmet-magneto's work "Voyeur" but from Erik's point of view.

chaptered (wip): soulmates in every universe. (list)

Destined to be together in every universe, Charles and Erik find their paths always intertwined by fate. Detailing all the ways they could meet, this collection of one-shots explores various soulmate tropes as they relate to Charles and Erik. In either canon or alternative universes, each chapter will be a new trope, some familiar with a different take on them and others not so frequently seen. This collection will be ongoing, so feel free to send or comment requests of soulmate tropes you’d like to see! Discussion of each trope will be posted in the summary section of each chapter, and you'll find warnings in the author's notes as well!

one-shot (10k+): is this a fever I’m feeling?

The year is 1961 in Atlantic City, and in between hunting down leads to find Shaw, Erik attends a genetics conference to hear a talk from the renowned geneticist and mutant Dr. Charles Xavier. Before his talk even starts, however, Erik learns very quickly that he isn't just attending to listen to Charles' talk. ft. different a/b/o dynamics for humans vs. mutants set in a dom/sub culture with alpha/sub erik and omega/dom charles with enthusiastic consent.

chaptered (115k+): in the end, it all comes down to you. (you want it all; you’re all I want.) (gifset)

Steve reaches out to Charles, asking for a partnership between the Avengers and mutants. Given the recent decade of peace between mutants and non-mutants thanks to Erik and the Brotherhood, Charles isn’t quick to accept Steve’s offer. Charles takes Steve’s concerns to Erik, and after involving others pivotal to mutants' safety, Charles and Erik agree to help the Avengers. Throughout this journey, however, Charles and Erik will be forced to make rash decisions that will change their lives' course; acknowledge their past and present, coming to terms with the pain suffered at the hands of the other; and lead others into a galactic battle to save their loved ones and each other. (or the one where the avengers team up with charles, erik, and others to stop thanos ft. de-aging of my own creation, lovesick cherik who just really need to talk, witty banter between new-found friends, pushed-back timelines so the avengers exist around the year 2000, dadneto interactions that should have happened, and a reality where dark phoenix never happened. canon to the movies with a few exceptions with inspiration from the comics sprinkled throughout.)

chaptered (wip): your body is a weapon, love.

It’s the 1970s in New York, and Charles is a demonic succubus, set on securing his survival with other succubae and incubi, by seducing men and feeding on their desire for him. While out looking for his next lover, Charles meets a curious man named Erik, who seemingly satiates Charles without him having to seduce Erik. Having never been with a man twice, Charles finds himself returning to Erik again – and again – and again; and while he’s breaking all the rules of the underworld, Charles doesn’t seem to mind because there’s just something about Erik that Charles can’t get enough of.

one-shot (2k+): a greek tragedy.

Erik is Achilles. Charles is Patroclus. Inspired by The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller.

one-shot (3k+): o' death.

Charles dies suddenly, and Erik is his reaper to guide him to the afterlife. When Charles reaches the end of his journey, his discoveries along the way lead him to his new life after death.

ficlet: rest now.

Set in Days of Future Past. Charles dies because he overdosed. Erik finds out years later after he breaks out of prison.

one-shot (1k+): maybe it's the moonlight.

"He shut his eyes at the memory, trying to recall it in vivid detail... All he could remember was Erik’s steel blue eyes, softening as he looked at Charles as if he hung the stars." or, a possible excerpt from an upcoming chapter in my cherik x avengers fic.

[hayateart]

'Labyrinth' inspired Moshang&Bingqiu AU idea

So, while driving home from work I had this thought that SY would absolutely swore off Airplane to the Goblin King and then regret it immediately. And here we are.

In this AU Airplane is a fairly successful author of multiple most clichéd online novels you can imagine. Since they are fairly well written and full of fan service, he managed to secure a faithful audience. He's not especially famous but he earns enough to pay the bills.

Shen Yuan again is one of his readers. He finds the characters very compelling and though he hates the clichés, he can admit Airplane has a talent to combine them in an interesring, even if predictable, way. He will never admit to liking the fanservice and copious papapa under the threat of torture.

In this AU they know each other irl. SY still pays to read Airplane's novels because 'they are not friends and he will not accept them for free'. Airplane is happy with that because SY should 'obviously pay for his hard work, it is a sign of appreciation.' They both know that if SY only asked, Airplane would let him read everything, even the drafts for free.

The newest novel that Airplane writes is the Labyrinth rip off with the demon Ice King, Mobei Jun, who kidnaps a princess after she is rejected by her own father. MBJ imprisons her in his castle in the middle the labyrinth full of monsters, and traps, and riddles. A valiant, dashing hero sets to her rescue. On his way he is joined by a young fellow with a heart of gold. They soon become blood brothers, and while the novel is not yet finished it is clear they will rescue the princess.

'And let me guess,' Shen Yuan says, 'the young fellow turns out to be the real heir to the throne in the Labyrinth castle.' He keans it as a joke. Airplane's face clearly says it is exactly so.

Which prompts SY to reject Airplane and angrily disown him the same way the princess' father did in the story. Cue MBJ stepping through a portal and tossing Airplane back to his castle.

SY:

Of course, he needs to go and rescue his stupid not-friend. The police will never believe him he did not kill the idiot out of frustration!

Fortunately, the portal that leads to the Labyrinth in Airplane's novel was inspired by two twisted trees that grew with joined branches in the park they both like to visit. SY recites the incantation and the portal impossibly works! He is in the Labyrinth!

SY meets Luo Binghe, the young fellow/true heir to the throne and hopes he will help him save Airplane.

Here's the catch. The world was created from Airplane's story and follows the rules the story does. And that means both Airplane and SY must follow them as well if they want the story to progress and save the princess. As hopefully informed by their new systems.

SY needs to play the part of the hero. He is cool, collected and should not be gushing over interesting monsters and intricate riddles.

Airplane is the princess, damsel in distress. And he is distressed, alright! He has been kidnapped, hit and locked in an inescapable labyrinth. He cries a lot and is scared shitless. But also pretty horny cuz, you know, MBJ. That man is walking perfection.

Airplane can't help it. He is also pretty annoyed because while all his ideas about the castle and the labyrinth sounded good on paper in practice they simply... aren't? S0 he makes adjustments. In real time, without realising it he orders both the staff and MBJ around to make everything better.

Back to the systems - there is no punishment if our boys don't comply and play their roles, but the 'plot' systems require simply does not progress. What does change is the environment and the characters they interact with - especially MBJ and LBH. They are developing more and more, the more time they spend with their humans. Instead of being cookie cut villain and hero, they become complex, emotional, unpredictable, and by the time SY finally reaches the castle, undeniably real people.

Both Airplane and SY know that the moment SY 'rescues' the princess and LBH takes over the throne, the story will end. That's what the sytem says. And when the story ends, characters and their entire world will have no reason to exist any more. They can't allow this to happen to people they grew to care for and even love!

So, there is no rescuing, they decide. Whatever created this world clearly likes Airplane's story telling enough to have them to role play it. They can make new plays if it means they can stay with their partners. And so, Airplane marries MBJ and they both rule the Labyrinth together while SY and LBH play the role of heroes and try to stop them. Sometimes they lose. Sometimes they win but get overthrown again. Sometimes, they win and become the villains themselves, and ot is MBJ, and his husband that need to defeat the evil. Sometimes they have a beach episode.

The possibilities are endless and Airplane has planty of stories to tell. Maybe not all clichés are bad after all.

[vodika-vibes]

*breaks down your door in the middle of the night* first kiss in A/B/O AU with Alpha-17 and inexperienced F!Omega reader (not in a weird way ya know?) whose never been anyone’s first choice and is completely blown away that someone as awesome and amazing as Seventeen actually wants her romantically and not just physically. He makes her feel pretty and cherished and loved and she gives it back to him tenfold in return. (Not to show all my emotions at once. P.S. I read your fic with Keeli and it pulled at my tender heart strings it was so cute, yes I’m cross faded as a mf and fighting for my life this took me over 30min to write)

I See You

Summary: You’ve spent your whole life knowing that you’re not as important as the people around you. You’ve never been anyone’s first choice, not a day in your life. And that doesn’t change when you start puberty and realize that you’re an Omega. You’ve come to accept that, at best, some Alpha will pick you for your body, which will be the end of it. And then you meet Alpha-17, and for the first time in your life, you wonder “What if?”

Pairing: Alpha-17 x F!Reader

Word Count: 1585

Warnings: ABO AU, Reader is slightly insecure

A/N: So, full disclosure, I have no idea if this was a request or you just coming into my inbox to discuss it. So I made the decision that it was a request and wrote it! I hope you like it!

Join my taglist: HERE

There are some perks to living on Kamino.

Like the free suite that you can decorate how you like and the biweekly food delivery that allows you to cook whatever you want. Not to mention, you get free medical attention and as many blockers as you might need.

Plus, and here’s the biggest perk, you never have to see your “family” ever again.

Naturally, there are some downsides to Kamino too.

You work constantly and can be called into the lab at any hour of the day. There aren’t many places where you can spend your generous pay on Kamino (you have to order your clothes online and have them delivered). And you’re one of only a handful of human Omegas on Kamino. 

You’d think that that would force all of you to get together now and then to chat or whatever. But, the truth is, you have no desire to interact with the other Omegas.

Popular fiction tends to make people think that all Omegas are soft and demure and good. Honestly, you wonder if the authors have ever actually met an Omega or if they’re just fantasizing about what an Omega should be like.

Honestly, Isabet is as mean as a rancor with a toothache, and twice as violent. And she’s not afraid to take that temper out on anyone who gets in her way. Including you on several occasions.

You’re pulled out of your thoughts at the sound of the door to your lab opening, and you slide your gaze away from the machine that you’ve been staring at and willing to work faster.

Even clad in armor, it takes you less than a second to recognize the man standing in the doorway. 

No one on Kamino is quite as big as Alpha-17, after all.

A thoughtful frown pulls your lips down, and you turn away from your machine to pick up a nearby datapad to scan the information on it. Alpha-17 never comes to the labs unless he’s due for some testing. 

You scan the schedule, and then set the datapad back on a nearby table, “If you have an appointment, I’m afraid that no one notated it in the schedule.” You say apologetically.

He tugs his helmet off and sets it on a table near the door. “I don’t have an appointment,” Alpha explains as he rolls his neck with a slight grimace.

“Oh.” You watch him a moment longer, “Are your implants acting up?”

“They ache when it rains.”

You shoot him an odd look, “It’s always raining, Alpha.”

He tosses a grin in your direction, “I know what I said.”

A heavy sigh falls from your lips, “Alright. Take your armor off and hop up on the table and I’ll see what I can do. But you really should make an appointment, Alpha.”

He obediently strips out of his armor and peels off the top of his blacks, before he lays on his stomach on your examination table. “Why would I do that? We both know that you’ll see me even without an appointment.”

“What if I had been busy?” You ask as you step over to his side and scan the cybernetics with your eyes first, before grabbing a scanner and turning it on, “Or had an appointment with one of your brothers?”

“I’m more important.” Alpha counters as he turns his head to watch you work.

“Well, someone certainly has a healthy ego.” He laughs and you press your hand between his shoulder blades, “Lie still Alpha. I’m trying to scan your cybernetics.”

“Sorry, sorry.” He doesn’t sound very sorry though, “But, come on Doc, we both know that I’m just going to have to live with the pain.”

You frown at him, “I might be able to do something. I don’t want you in pain, Alpha.”

He catches your free hand and squeezes your fingers, “Which is why you’re my favorite.”

You shake your head with a soft laugh, “You don’t have to try and flatter me, Alpha. I’ll help you without it.” You slip your fingers from his grip and start the scanner.

“And why do you think I’m just trying to flatter you? Why can’t I mean it?” He asks as he tucks his arm back under his chin while you work.

You shake your head with a sigh, “Men like you don’t say stuff like that to women like me, Alpha.” You eye the scanner and scowl at it, “It says everything is connected properly, you can sit up. I’ll find some topical pain gel—” You trail off, your mind racing as you try to come up with ways to lessen his pain.

You’re so lost in your ponderings that you don’t realize that Alpha has sat up until his large hand wraps around your wrist and he lightly tugs you around to face him.

“Yes? What’s wrong?”

“I’d like some clarification.” Alpha’s dark eyes scan your face, and his severe expression softens, slightly. “What do you mean by ‘women like you’?”

“Oh,” You pause to gather your thoughts, “I’m just…” You hold your free hand to the side, “Not enough. Not smart enough, not clever enough, not pretty enough, not charming enough.”

Something forbidding slides across his face, though his grip around your wrist is still gentle enough that you could pull away if you wanted, “And who, Doc, told you that?”

A soft laugh falls from you, “Only everyone I’ve ever met. Well, barring you.”

“They’re wrong.”

“It’s fine, Alpha.” You try to reassure him, “I’ve long since come to terms with my lot in life.” He shoots you a puzzled look, so you clarify, “I’m never going to be anyone’s first choice. That’s just how it is sometimes.”

Alpha huffs, “Fine. We’re doing this then.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Not smart enough? You’re a doctor. A specialized doctor. How much smarter do you need to be?” Alpha lists, “Not clever enough? I know I saw you exchanging barbs with Vau the other day and you won. Not pretty enough?” Here, he pauses and scans your face, “Whoever told you that must be blind or stupid or both. As for not being charming, I happen to think you’re very charming. So they’re wrong about that too.”

“Oh…ah…” You blink at him, and you can feel your face burning, “Thank you?”

“Honestly,” His voice is light, “I find it absolutely shocking that you haven’t chosen an Alpha yet. Stars know you have to have your pick.”

“No one’s ever shown any interest,” You reply honestly.

Alpha-17 mutters something under his breath, though you can’t really hear what he’s saying even as close as you’re standing to him.

“Alpha, I need to find the ointment for you. Can I have my wrist back?” You ask as you touch the hand wrapped around your wrist gently.

He scans your face for a moment before something seems to settle over him. He’s always been a confident man, settled in his skin, but he suddenly seems more, and you’re not sure why.

“Alph—?”

“Can I kiss you?”

His question shocks you into silence, and you blink at him dumbly for a moment, “I…what?”

“I want to kiss you,” Alpha says as he releases your wrist and moves his hand to gently brush his fingers against your chin. And then he flashes a wry smile, “Well, full honesty, I want more than that. But I’ll start with a kiss.”

“I don’t—”

“I want to be your Alpha.” He clarifies, “I want you to be my Omega. But if you’re not interested then this will be the last time I bring it up.” Slowly he presses his forehead against yours.

And you stare at him, kind of feeling like you’ve been hit over the head with a sledgehammer. “You’d…pick me?” You ask.

“Yes.”

You believe him. He’s not the sort to lie to you.

“I’d like a kiss,” You whisper up to him.

He grins then and tilts your head so he’s able to press his lips against yours.

And it’s good. Better than good, it’s perfect.

You’re not able to help yourself from stepping closer to him, moving to stand between his thighs, and wrapping your arms around his neck. Alpha’s arms wrap securely around your waist as he tugs you as close as he can and he holds you tightly, as if afraid that someone might rip you from him.

When he breaks the kiss, you’re breathing is slightly unsteady, something that makes him smile smugly. “We can go as slow as you want,” He murmurs, his lips brushing against your cheek, “But you are mine now, little omega.”

You hesitate for a moment, but then you smile at him, “And you’re mine?”

Alpha laughs then, “And don’t you forget it.”

Slowly he releases you, and you take a step back. You take a deep breath to steady yourself, and then take another step back, “If you still want that pain ointment, Alpha—”

“Maybe later.” He stands, “I have ARCs who need training.” Alpha glances at you, “If I chrome by your suite tonight, maybe you can give me some options to handle the pain?”

“I can do that.” You reply with a small smile.

Alpha lightly brushes his fingers against your cheek, “It’s a date.” He ducks his head to kiss you one more time, and then he leaves. And you’re left with butterflies in your stomach, and excitement in your heart.

You’ve never been anyone’s first choice. 

But Alpha…he’s different. And now you know it.

@bad4amficideas @justiceandwar98 @Mira-Loves-Star-Wars @tiredbi-peach @dukeoftheblackstar

@trixie2023 @kimiheartblade @padawancat97 @falconfeather23435 @etod

@bb8-99 @kiss-anon @continous-mistakes @imabeautifulbutterfly @n0vqni

[hischierswhore]

FOR THE BETTER | chapter 2

✰ warnings: mentions of alcohol, drunk jack hughes

✰ nat’s note: i’m back once again! thank u all for the love you have showed chapter 1, it’s truly appreciated.

✰ additional note: there are 2 insta posts that align with this chapter! click on the masterlist link below to view them 🤍

✰ masterlist

february 24th 

“Sing that verse again” Julian said. He was one of the producers on your upcoming album, and you were currently recording the first single. 

“Break my heart & I swear I’m movin on, with your, favorite athlete!” You sang, trying to sound as melodic as possible. 

“Perfect!” Julian said as he removed his headphones and headed into the booth to go over some things with you. Jack, Luke & Quinn were all sitting on the couch nearby, watching you record the song. 

When you stepped back into the room with the boys, you wanted to know their thoughts. 

“Sooo do you guys like it?” You asked, afraid of what your brothers would say.

“I really like the chorus. Super vibey, you know?” Luke got up and started dancing a little before Quinn yanked him back down. 

“It’s got a good message. So far it’s my favorite” Jack said, to which you replied “It’s the only song I’ve recorded, Jack”

“Okay well it’s insanely good, Y/n/n. We’re very proud of you” Quinn smiled from his seat. 

“Thanks guys. Also don’t feel like you’re being held hostage in here. Feel free to go out and do your own thing. I’ll be fine” You gave the boys a light grin and each their own hug as they decided to head to the rink to get some practice in. 

Later on that evening, after spending the entire day at the studio planning out concepts for a music video, you went back to the apartment you shared with your brothers. Quinn was leaving in the morning, as he had to go back to Vancouver. 

Yes, the breakup sucked and you wished you hadn’t gone through it at all, but you were doing a lot better than you thought you’d be. Spending most of your free-time writing new songs or recording melodies that pop into your head at random points throughout the day. 

Your brothers were always concerned for you, seeing as this was your first true heartbreak, but you were handling it better than they thought. You seemed happier, which your brothers all missed because you were always so full of energy. 

Just as you were writing in your room, someone had knocked on your door, presumably Jack letting you know that dinner was ready. You placed your journal down and made your way to open the door. Jack stood there, admiring the doorframe as he waited for you. 

“First, dinner’s almost ready. Secondly, there’s a gala next month that all the players must attend. They said we could each bring a plus one, and I know you haven’t really been out in a while since you’ve been writing so if you want to come with me & Luke, you’re more than welcome to” Jack smiled at you, truly hoping you’d say yes because he hated seeing you locked up in your room and avoiding social interaction. 

You’d lived in New Jersey for a while now, but you never made the effort to meet your brothers’ teammates. It would be a nice change of scenery. 

“Why not, sounds nice” You smiled as you accepted Jack’s invitation. 

“As long as it’s not within the next week because I’ll be filming the new music video”

“No no it’s not. I think it’s like the 16th or something”

“Okay great. I’ll free my schedule”

march 16th

After much assistance from your stylist, you decided to wear a black sheer Givenchy dress. It adorned your features perfectly, and you felt like the most stunning woman in the world. 

Due to your brothers being actual players on the team, they were required to walk the red carpet. You were just behind them, not wanting to overstep any boundaries. Afterall, it was your first time meeting the team so naturally you wanted to set a good first impression. You took some solo pictures and made your way into the venue.

As you followed your brothers so they could introduce you to everyone, one man in particular caught your eye from across the room. He had a white dress shirt on, his suit jacket discarded somewhere in the room. He made eye contact with you over his glass of wine before directing his attention back to the man infront of him. 

Your mind stayed on the mystery man all night, eyes scanning the room every now and then in hopes of making eye contact once more but unfortunately, he’d disappeared from your line of sight. Turning your attention back to Luke and his teammate Dawson, trying to actually make friends with a few of these guys. 

Just when you were about to head to the restroom, you felt an arm sling around your shoulders. You turned to find Jack, who appeared to be a tad bit drunk, with 2 men following right behind him. 

“Y/n, this is Jesper & Nico. Nico & Jesper, this is Y/n” Your brother slurred. Jesper reached out and you shook his hand. Jesper was extremely sweet and easy to talk to. When you looked over at the other name, your heart dropped. It was the man you’d made eye contact with earlier. 

“Pleasure to meet you” He said, his voice nearly making you fall to your knees. The damn accent literally made you weak in the knees for a moment. You were lost in his eyes for a moment, taking in all his features before being pulled back into reality.

You noticed his hand was out, just as Jesper’s was, for you to shake. Your face flushed bright pink the moment your hands made contact. You looked to the ground in attempt to hide your blush at the simple action. You smiled at the man before excusing yourself, desperately needing to go the the restroom to get yourself together. 

The second you were behind closed doors, you braced yourself on the sink, holding onto it for support. This felt completely different from what you’d felt in the past. You had butterflies in the pit of your stomach from the second you walked in. 

This couldn’t be happening, at least not now. You’d spent the past month and a half putting up walls, making it extremely difficult for you to trust anyone, and Nico waltzes into your life and makes them crumble within seconds. 

You didn’t want a relationship right now, but Nico made that extremely difficult. All with just a single look. 

taglist: @lovelynikol16 @dancerbailey3 @ashloveshockey

[the-avs]

Promo~?

As the camera flickers to life, thanks to some fiddling by a man in a blue suit, you were able to see four individuals. The TV-faced man sat back down, sighing and breathing heavily, as though he had just performed serious labor. On the far left, just beside the TV-headed man, was another man with red hair and deer ears, and a sinister smile painting his lips as he sipped on what looked like black coffee. On the other side of the TV man, there was another man smoking a cigar with pink fumes swirling around the room, and wearing a large red coat with striped neck fluff. And finally, on the far right, there was the only girl in the room, a young lady with red, white, and black swirled hair, scrolling on her phone with a bored expression. She appears the most trendy of them all in terms of her clothing.

"Phew..." the TV man panted, turning to face the deer-eared man beside him. "Fuck, Alastor, why did you insist on this camera?" he demanded between breaths, the deer man simply lowering his mug from his lips and setting it down onto a coaster on the table.

"Ah, tsk, tsk, darling. You simply don't know the difference between class and 'trendy'. Rest assured, an older camera will do us just fine," the man assured. He then tilted his head, his smile never dropping, although he looked confused. "So I suppose it's on then, yes?"

"The fuck- Of course it's on! We're rolling! Fuck, let's just go down the line. Vel, you first, because I can't breathe," the TV man insisted, drawing out a groan from the girl. She didn't put her phone down, but she did spare you a look, looking at you with a bored expression.

"Fine. Name's Velvette, youngest overlord and ruler of social media 'n shit. Yadda yadda, you get the gist, don't be a dick, don't be a fashion disaster, and we'll get along fine," she listed as though it was nothing before quickly returning her gaze back to her phone.

The man beside the young woman gave a sinister smirk, a sickening look of lust painting his already creepy face. "Heya, sweet cheeks. Name's Valentino, owner of the Pride Ring's porn industry. Need a guy, a girl, something in between? I got you. I also accept 'sir' or 'daddy'~." Creep. Luckily, the attention is quickly taken off of him when the TV-headed man feigns a cough to get your attention.

"Ignore him, ignore him," he tried to laugh it off and be nonchalant. Valentino was still creepy, though. "I'm Vox, of course, the CEO and main engineer of VoxTek and numerous other products you may have heard of, including Voot Floops, VVs, the sound system Valkyrie, and of course, the Vogitek music app, not to mention VoxTube and the like. Pleased to make your acquaintance~" he said in a charmingly fake, yet professional tone, clearly attempting to maintain the appearance of the group's leader.

"Vox, darling, this isn't an advertisement," the man beside Vox said with a chuckle, a Cheshire grin spreading on his face. "Greetings, you wayward sinners! I'm certain most of you already know of me, but for formalities and politeness sake, I'll introduce myself. You may know me as the Radio Demon, my name is Alastor, darling! A pleasure to meet you, certainly, quite a pleasure! Now then, you see, we on the AVs have been rather bored as of late, and we'd like to socialize with those around us, so... would you be so kind as to give us a promo, dear~?"

(( Feel free to ignore, interact if not tagged, or ask for your tag to be removed!! :D ))

@human-monokuma @unknown-ultimates @ultimate-rider @pizza-for-my-friends @bartender-husk @bigkaijubaddie @hellhound-loony @hoshi-neko-hikari and anyone else!! Tagging is hard lmao-

[tulip-room]

ramekins and fondue - m. osamu || wc: 1.4k || tags: next door neighbors -> lovers, pining, notes left on the door, fondue date, fluffy, short and sweet <3 || hq works

It starts out with needing sugar and a tentative knock on a wooden door. “I’m so sorry to bother you,” she says as the door opens and reveals a man behind it. He looks to be in his mid twenties and he’s wearing a loose shirt, his hair is tousled like he just rolled out of bed. “Oh, I’m sorry, were you sleeping?”

“It’s fine, is there something you need?” He lifts up a hand to cover his mouth as he yawns. 

“I need some sugar, if you don’t have any I can go to the store or pay you back or something–” he cuts her off with a small smile.

“I have some, you don’t have to pay me back or anything.” He opens the door wider and beckons for her to follow him inside so she carefully steps over the barrier and closes the door behind her with a click. “Here,” his voice rings out from around the corner as she hears a cabinet creak open and close. He hands her a bag of sugar that has a red clip keeping it closed. “You can have the rest of it, I needed to get more anyway.” She smiles and takes the bag from him with an appreciative nod.

“Thank you, I’ll treat you to coffee or something.” 

“Alright, I’m not home this early most nights but I can maybe squeeze you in during a lunch break on the weekend.”

“Okay,” She closes the door behind her and takes a deep breath. Interacting with people should not be as difficult as it is. It’s just her neighbor and all she’s doing is asking for sugar so she can put it in her coffee. When she closes the door of her apartment she’s greeted by her cat and she immediately sets the sugar on the coffee table and picks him up. “Hi baby,” she kisses his small head and smiles when he starts purring, she sets him down and returns to the kitchen with her bag of sugar and finishes making her coffee. 

The next time she sees him is when a note is posted on her door telling her to come over. She laughs and puts her purse down on the couch before making her way over to his door. She holds the note up and waves it once he opens the door. “I thought you weren’t usually home this early?”

“I can make exceptions.” She rolls her eyes with a laugh and follows him inside of his home. She smells the food and hums with delight. “Did you make me dinner before I even got your name?”

“It’s Osamu.” He jests with her and she lets out a small laugh. He pulls the chair out for her at the kitchen island and pushes it back in once she sits down. “This is what I want for you taking the last of my sugar.”

“To be fair, you never told me when we should meet for coffee and you never asked for anything back.”

“This is what I want, you to have dinner with me.”

“I guess I can accept that.” There is a silence that settles around the room as she watches him finish cooking. His hands move with practiced ease as he goes around the kitchen. She can see his shirt is nicer than she’s used to seeing him wear. Usually he leaves the house in a black shirt that has a few stubborn stains on them although it’s clear the shirt had been washed. He usually wears pajama pants and when she asked him about it one day he said he was going to work. 

“What do you do for work?” She asks as a steaming bowl of food is placed in front of her, her mouth waters slightly and she waits for it to cool down before taking a bite. The flavors melt in her mouth and she hums as she takes another bite.

“I’m a chef, I own my own restaurant actually.” He leans against the counter on the other side and blows on his own bite of food.

“I can’t believe I’m getting this for free,” the statement causes him to laugh and he shakes his head.

“Come by the shop anytime and I’ll set something aside for you.” 

“Aww come on, you can’t show blatant favoritism like that,” she teases and she can feel the smile etch itself onto her face. 

“It’s my restaurant, or you can just come over here. Anytime really.”

“I’ll have to take you up on the offer,” they eat dinner in silence and just as she puts her shoes back on to leave the apartment he stops her. 

“You can stay a little longer if you want, it’s barely dark out.”

“If you insist,” she kicks her shoes off once more and sits on the couch with him. By the end of the movie his arm has found it’s way around her shoulder and her head found its way to his chest. They stay like that even after the credits roll, too scared to move in case the moment ends. She ends up being the first to move as she feels a cramp in her foot. “I suppose I should go home.”

He feels disappointment settle in his chest as he helps her up and walks her to the door. “See you soon?”

“I guess,” she teases and he doesn’t go back into his home until he hears her door lock. 

Over the next few months she’s visited him at the restaurant on days she had computer work. She always pays, and he conveniently cleans tables around her as an excuse to talk but he refuses to say it although they both know it. 

Within six months she feels closer to him than she has to anyone in a long time. She has a coat at his apartment and a toothbrush incase she leaves from his house for work instead of her own. Her table at Onigiri Miya is always clean and empty even during a lunch rush. Both of their friends at frustrated as they refuse to say. 

When she gets home from work she finds a note on her day reminiscent of when they first started doing whatever you want to call what they’re doing. She pulls out her key ring and unlocks his apartment, the lighting is lower than usual and she follows the noises to the kitchen and sets her bag down on the couch. “And what’s all this?” She says behind a poorly contained smile. 

“You aren’t supposed to be here yet,” he glares jokingly at her and turns around with a wooden spoon still in his hand. There are heart shaped ceramic containers on the table with candles under them and pieces of fruit cut and displayed on his nice plates. “Close your eyes and pretend you didn’t see this yet.” She laughs but goes along with it as she sits down at a seat. She can feel a hat be placed on her head and can feel his lips press gently against the skin on her forehead. 

“You’re not sneaky you know.”

“I know.” She hears more pots and pans clash as he rummages with things, hears the clinks of the ceramic against the table and then hears the sound of his chair scraping against the wood. She knows there’s a scratch on the wood from the metal of the chair scraping against it so often. “Okay, you can open you eyes.”

“Do I need to ask what all this is for?” She looks around at the fondue set up with a smile as her chin rests in her hand.

“It’s for your birthday, okay, I admit it.”

“Thank you.”

“Happy birthday darling,” his hand reaches out and skewers a piece of fruit before dipping it in the cheese and extending it out to her. She sighs happily as the taste hits her tongue and she can’t help but shake her head.

“Did you call off work today?”

“Possibly, I’m sure everything is fine. Let’s not talk about work.”

They sit at the table occasionally feeding each other bits of food and Osamu is grateful to his past self for putting down a discardable tablecloth under the food. There’s bits of cheese when he takes it off the table and the dishes sit in the sink when they make it over to the couch to enjoy the rest of their evening.

They don’t need to say what they mean to each other, it’s evident in the way the spare key jingles on her key ring and in the way that there are heart shaped dishes with the price tags still on the bottom in the sink. Love isn’t always something that needs to be said.

taglist (gen, fill out this form) @cheriisae @cherrysurf @hiraethwa @hatsukeii @szyvrue @darthferbert @localgaytrainwreck

this is for the very special, very lovely @solzscribblez as it is their birthday today <33 I hope you're having a wonderful birthday darling and that it's filled with all of your birthday wishes coming true and that you've gotten time to relax and enjoy yourself. I love you and hope you're doing well darling <3

[our-queer-experience]

You wanted some queer joy so here goes, it's gonna be a long one:

I am an over 30 transmasc NB person, bi/pan, and grayromantic. Basically, I'm Queer.

I'm from a country where you still have to go thru the whole process of approval for transition. Year of therapy, diagnosis, psych approval, then endocrinologist for HRT, 1 year hrt, then lawyers and court approval for namechange and surgery, followed by years on waitlists unless u can afford to pay private practice. All this having maybe 1 "expert" in the field for each step in every region, only people who are sanctioned to help you get access to anything, who mostly base their judgment process on stereotypes from 50 years ago.

At 21yo, out since I was 16, I was deemed "too young" to get access to HRT. That was a hit so hard it took me years to fight off the depression and find balance, and try again.

I couldn't get access to HRT until 26. But this set me in a path to look for queer associations and resources, to help people like me not have to go through all that. That's how I met my community, and how I met some of the most wonderful strong trans people to ever exist. I can wholeheartedly say our community owes so much to trans women even now, and every trans woman I know is the most powerful and beautiful woman I've known. The women I've met through this process are incredible, they're superheroes. They're resourceful and smart and strong and can command a room like no other, and the work they do for all of us is what is changing the world every day.

I met beautiful people and friends, deep minds, free souls, kind and soft but strong. I found love all around me, I found that even when I thought I wasn't "man enough" because I'm so small and could only transition "late" there were plenty of gay men who were into me and didn't even imagine I was trans, and tall and beautiful trans women who didn't care that I was shorter than them, and other trans men, and queer cis women who didn't care to live by stereotypes.

I found people who were repulsed by it when they found out, I won't lie to you, but I found a lot more people who were so incredibly naturally accepting that they more than made up for those close minded ones. People that loved me so genuinely for how I was that they made sure I knew the problem wasn't me, even without words. I was beautiful as I was.

I went around and lived my new trans youth loving freely and finally being able to fully live my sexuality without fear, feeling safe among friends.

I eventually found someone who wanted me so much he asked me to be only his. He was good to me, better than anyone has been, so I accepted him. A man who loves my feminine traits as much as he loves my masculine ones. Who loves my small but (unfortunately) still present breasts, and loves my hairy ass and legs, and doesn't want me to shave my face because he thinks I look better with a bit of beard. A masculine man, the type in other occasions I feared could never like me because I wasn't "manly enough", or that I feared could only like me if I was a "femboy". But he likes me as a man, who can be very masc, but sometimes very faggy.

We say "people need to get out and interact with queer people irl" like it's a joke but it is so real.

I know there is so much love out there for all of us, you just need to find your place. Go out there, meet people, find community, get involved in local activism, go to prides. That's how I went to the most beautiful places, and found the most beautiful people. Community can be hard to find, but it is where you can live and thrive. Find them.

Bonus: The first pride I witnessed was in the city where I worked at the time. I was forced to still be in the closet. One day I step out of the train and I'm surrounded by hordes of incredibly queer, proudly trans, very young people. It was as if the air became lighter and clearer. Being around Prides has always been such a healing experience, I wish for everyone to experience that in their life. It changes you. You will see the old and saggy drag queens still slaying, the over 40 gay men in heels being amazing, the kids so much younger than you being so proud in who they are you hope you're shaping the world for them to rule, and all the smiling faces of friends you know and friends to come.

thank you for sharing!

[vorbarrsultana]

the vampire lestat reread, pt. 2

featuring our monarch gabrielle, two feral narrative foils hissing at each other, and some musings on vampire theatre internal politics

let's talk about GABRIELLE

i can't wait to meet her in the tv series. she is one of the more inhuman vamps, and the fact that she never got to meet claudia is a crime.

the remark that the only humans she finds cool are those extinct for 6000 years is hilarious.

her dynamic with lestat is so fascinating. there is so much codependency going on from their first interaction. you can feel they are almost too much for each other. they are mother & son, they are best friends, they are confidantes.

however, i feel like the undercurrent of deeply buried resentment for their situation and each other was always there, and the lack of clearly set boundaries between them is concerning.

gabrielle was not a good parent. period.

the reason she kept lestat close to her for so many years in augverne is that she lived voraciously through him. she encouraged his interest in hunting, she bought him mastiff pups and flintlock rifle. sure, there was a rational part to this idea (providing for the family), but gabrielle also did it because this way some part of her (the man in her, as she put it) could be out there in the wilderness, shooting the game and skinning deers.

(the downside is that lestat would rather learn how to read in french & italian or play the spinet. the hunting was about her needs rather than his.)

and i know people like to ascribe the "parent who needs their child more than their child needs the parent" to loucladia for some reason, but that's augverne! lesgabrielle, not them.

it becomes even more apparent once lestat turns gabrielle into a vampire, and she's suddenly free to express herself. she doesn't have to live through him anymore, she can do all he does, and (after the honeymoon-esque thrill of newfound companionship expired) they start to slowly drift apart.

and on this reread, their incestuous relationship looked more like selfcest on gabrielle's part. she loves and admires herself in him, and romantic interest is the only way in which she can express that because she was never built to be a mother.

(they are like cersei and jaime lannister, except they are parent and child.)

and lestat is so starved for gabrielle's affection that he will accept any form it takes.

but genuine love was there! gabrielle loved lestat and wanted the relationship they eventually had. she would have loved for him to leave with her too, except she knew that they would be miserable together.

i'll be honest, slow disintegration of gabrielle and lestat's companionship is one of the best parts of tvl for me, and it has potential to be a great tv relationship arc.

also, the way lestat and gabrielle repeatedly circle back to mother-son dynamic despite changing the label of their relationship is similar to louis & claudia's sister-daughter thing. "disaster, my son" after nicki was turned, lestat calling her mother during their farewell in egypt | "go sit on your choice, sister" followed by "the wilderness that is our daughter"...

and now i am a) even more upset; b) curious what was lestat thinking during the 1x06 conversation.

.....

the way my brain rewrote book canon into armand's 2x03 narrative is fascinating (word choice intentional).

book sequence of events is: 1) the coven kidnaps nicki as a bait; 2) then they ambush lestat & gabrielle in the forest, and force them to hide under the altar of a village chirch; 3) they attack them again next night. lestat and gabrielle hide in notre dame, where then they are confronted by armand, who tries to mind-wham them into submission; 4) once he fails, he punches lestat through the door hard enough for him to lose consciousness for several moments, and sets the coven on them; 5) lestat & gabi fight them again, and then they are finally captured and brought to the cemetery.

lestat breaking the coven (armand's version, left vs lestat's version, right):

i hope we'll get to see that scene in it's full glory with gabrielle and alessandra present!

and armand, armand, armand. he is delighfully unhinged in tvl, thriving in his gremlin era.

lestat's "insect" (degoratory) vs daniel's "insect" (affectionate)

like in 2x03, book!armand has lost his faith in the children of darkness beliefs at this point. however, he makes it clear that he doesn't want the coven destroyed. for him, it is the instrument of empowering himself, of securing power over others that he lacked in his early life. the first time his mask slips and he shows all-consuming anger is when lestat & gabrielle threaten his superiority by displaying their vampire skills.

but the coven also helps armand to endure his immortality because it serves the meaning of eternal life on silver platter, and armand hadn't been taught how to search for that meaning on his own.

(armand really said the only reason i didn't burn lestat, nicki & gabrielle on stake is that lestat was well enough to stand and talk. should remedy that.)

and it's so interesting that lestat is the enlightenment rationality to armand's irrational faith. narrative foils are narrative foiling!

armandstat has always been one of my favorite tvc dynamics. however, i feel that recently it has become one of the more fanonized ones because many people tend to forget how much mindfuckery was going on from their first meeting. while narrating, 1985! lestat seems to be pretty sure which thoughts re: armand were his own, and which had been planted in his brain, but it doesn't make it less creepy.

lestat hearing armand's call 24/7 on repeat in his head is a full-on horror movie.

and i forgot that his monologue to madeleine in 2x06 is very similar to something he & alessandra tell to lestat under the cemetery. which, imo, shows how much armand has regressed during the 19th century, and how theatre became more and more cult-like as time went on.

(narrative foils continue narrative foiling atm, this time about love for mortals. lestat is utterly in love with humanity, but for armand they are only means of enriching his life.)

and i'm sorry, but armand's behaviour in season 2 was completely in-character. his response to lestat rejecting him in nicki's flat is to try to murder him next night.

i hate seeing "this is love, this is desire..." quote used as gotcha in shipping discourse because the text makes it clear that these are not lestat's words (and armand SA's him on next page :/). if anything, the palais royal scene is more similar to armand and daniel's "rest" scene in 2x05. it's supposed to be eerie and unsetling,

however, there is intimacy, gentleness and understanding between armandstat. they communicate with their mind more often than other vampires, and what's mortifying about being known for them (does anyone else know the size of your soul?) is that lestat can't love armand like he wants him to because he understands armand too well (crypts in his eyes, and true horror what the vampires are), and armand can't not love lestat because he knows him too (there is a light in you that is almost blinding).

and lestat tries so hard to be kind to armand, he tells him that neither him nor gabrielle can become his marius, that he needs to find himself first because the idea of shaping him into whatever form he likes is terrifying for eternal rebel lestat. but armand percieves that as explicit rejection, and reacts with bitterness.

in retrospect, it's obvious how much of lestat's view on maker/fledgling dynamic is shaped by armand's warnings and curses, and how much of later events is lestat trying to prove him wrong.

armand is projecting so many of his marius issues on lestat. superficial resemblance aside, lestat had done for nicki something he desperately wished marius had done for him. armand wanted marius to walk into the lair of the monsters and free him from santino and his cronies, but he never did. on the other hand, lestat, lestat, lestat freed his love from the coven's clutches, and armand wants to be loved like that.

another underrated part of tvl is vampire politics! there are so many interesting little things about the vampire society in parts 5 & 6, like differences between covens in rome and paris, and how much lives of european vamps seem to be shaped by personality of the coven master.

(don't worry, armand, at least you are the 18th century vampire celebrity alongside lestat, gabi and the ancients! however, it makes me curoius about watsonian reason why louclaudia haven't heard about the armand, the lestat and the gabrielle when they were travelling in iwtv.)

and theatre des vampires didn't kill people on stage during nicki's time as playwright! this seems to be something armand introduced later.

another interesting tidbit is that armand handpicked all new coven members, slowly replacing those who weren't loyal to him, and when lestat comes to paris after the new orleans murder attempt he finds no familiar faces in the troupe.

which leads me to believe that the coup narrative armand was trying to sell in season 2 is definitely full of lies.

we (the readers) know that de landen sisters are alive (i.e. undead) in prince lestat era, so they probably left after nicki's death since they stuck around for him and didn't like armand after he tried to burn them alongside other less fortunate coven members. laurent probably went with eleni & eugenie, and then ditched them sometime in 19th century.

but where is felix?

(now i headcanon him as santiago's dead maker. let's ruin lestat's life further.).

[yellowspiralbound]

The Witcher & why fanon and canon are not as separate as they are in other medias

Okay so I just answered and reblogged this poll about what parts of the Witcher you interact with (fanon vs canon) and it made me realize that a lot of fans might not be aware of the fact that fanon and canon are not neatly seperated when it comes to the Witcher. It’s kind of a clusterfuck actually. So allow me to attempt to explain it. Before the post, let me make sure everyone understands that I am referencing the translations of the books. I have not read them in the original Polish. If anyone has and some of what I say is inaccurate, please let me know. Extremely long post ahead. 

First, we have to accept the fact that we are working with not one but three different canons. The books are, of course, the original canon. It is what everything else stems from. The games are often considered a follow up but are not necessarily canon to the books and were not intended to be. The original Witcher game was never intended to be a sequel to the books - that’s why Yennefer and Ciri are basically never mentioned. However, as the second and third game developed, the creators shifted gears and focused on creating a cohesive story set after the events of the books, Now, many if not most fans forget this. Then there is the show canon, which draws from the books but is largely it’s own thing. 

So what is the “real” canon? For some, the answer is anything written by Sapkowski...but there are stories set on the Continent and written by Sapkowski that are, by and large, considered superfluous to canon such as the Something Ends, Something Begins short story which Sapkowski wrote as a wedding gift for some friends. Beyond that, there is debate as to whether Sapkowski’s final depiction of Geralt is well...Geralt. While many book fans tend to believe that the Geralt met by Nimue at the end of Season if Storms is an illusion, I have spoken with many who believe it to be the real Geralt. So which is it? Sapkowski certainly hasn’t said as far as I am aware, so good luck figuring it out. And if Sapkowski’s work is the be all end all of canon...what are the games? 

Are they a form of fanon that Sapkowski has given his blessing to? Nope. Sapkoski hates video games. Like there are decisions he made in Season of Storms (published after the first two Witcher games) that I’m fairly certain he made specifically to fuck with the game producers (like Dandelion being a blonde for example). Everything I’ve ever learned about the man suggests he would do this. And yet Season of Storms also hands the game producers their golden goose: a Sapkowski-written ending where Geralt doesn’t die, where he continues to travel and hunt monsters. Which is exactly what Geralt did in the games. And after that Sapkowksi actually met with some of the producers for the third game, something I don’t believe he did for the first two (feel free to correct me if he did). So did Sapkowski take inspiration from the games for this ending? It’s possible. I personally don’t think it likely but we know it’s possible because of a certain character in Season of Storms: Brehen. 

Brehen, for those of you who may not remember/know, is a Cat witcher that Geralt meets at the very end of Season of Storms. Now this is important, Geralt’s meeting with Brehen is the first time ever that Sapkowski insinuates there are different schools of Witchers. And you might be thinking “What about the medallions of different animals that Bonhart had?” It isn’t ever really implied they’re from different schools. Coen, who has a griffon, is shown with the wolves all the same during Blood of Elves. Of course, the game producers had already decided to take the different medallions as representations of schools but It is only when Brehen begins to use the word “us” that there is a confirmed implication of schools by Sapkowski. Is this proof that Sapkowski used the games as inspiration for Season of Storms? Not at all. What it is, is solid evidence that both the game producers and Sapkowski had been influenced by a third party: the pre-CDPR comic run. 

Now, this is where things get interesting. The pre-CDPR comic run is not that well known outside of Poland (and perhaps even in Poland, I am not sure). I discovered their existence on the Witcher subreddit and promptly read the fan translations of them that you can find online. Only one of the six comics released between 1993 and 1995 is an original story. This comic, Zdrada or Betrayal, is where the story of the Cat and Wolf tournament often is from. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, go read basically any fanfiction with Aiden in it. It will more than likely be brought up. This comic is the first instance of a school system like the one we have now. Now, this comic was based on an idea by Sapkowski. He gave the author of the comic run, Maciej Parowski, a basic idea and Parowski expanded upon it. To what extent Parowski expanded the idea isn’t really known. The schools could be entirely his own invention, but it is more likely that Sapkowski suggested them. It is extremely likely, however, that Parowski’s characterization of the Cats as a school influenced Sapkowski - especially considering the 18 year gap between the publication of Zdrada and the publication of Season of Storms. So when did Parowski’s fanon interpretation of Sapkowski’s outline become canon? Did it become canon? I personally consider it canon but not everyone does. 

Essentially what it boils down to is that there is a high chance that Parowski’s fanon directly influenced both Season of Storms and the Witcher games. And yes you can argue that Parowski’s work isn’t fanon because it was based on an idea by Sapkowksi but...that’s what all fanworks are - stories based on the original ideas of the author. The same can be argued about the show. Large parts of the show are Lauren Hissrich’s fanon interpretation of Sapkowski’s work yet it is a canon in its own right. 

In conclusion, Sapkowski never avoided fanwork like say, Neil Gaiman. In fact, he actively encouraged it in the case of Parowski and Hissrich. Whether or not he ever encouraged the game producers in any capacity is...highly debatable. There’s some serious tension there guys. I personally think that he did with his choice in how to end Season of Storms but that’s just me. From what I know of Sapkowski, the man is, quite frankly, far too proud to ever admit to being wrong about video games and the producers so draw your own conclusions on that one. 

But yeah, fanon has had a serious influence on canon in the case of the Witcher and there are so many different canons that separating the two entirely is more or less impossible. And I haven’t even talked about the pre-CDPR TTRPG, the CDPR TTRPG, the mobile gwent game, or the CDPR comic run, all of which fall into the liminal space of “not fanon but not canon either.” 

Please feel free to correct me if any of this is wrong or if you have read the original Polish copies of the books and some stuff I’ve talked about is translation error. Also if anyone has a translation of the pre-CDPR TTRPG stuff please contact me. I would do unreasonable things for a translation of them and would be eternally in your debt. 

[beantothemax]

@meme-boys-blog @snuurge ARE YOU READY?! iTS TIME FOR THE MOMENT YOU'VE BEEN WAITING FOR!!! Btw uh there's mentions of suicide and some strong language. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He has been looking ever since she vanished. 

Every free moment was spent chasing her. Speaking her Name and following the faint trail it set out. 

It always led to a cluster. Never a specific instance. It took less than a second to check if which one was the one she visited, but those seconds add up. And she moved quickly.

So it was a surprise when he finally caught up to her after all this time.

TOK-DEB-12211401, Instance #112511121519. 

——————

There’s a pair of students walking past a coffee shop. They’re friends, but not by choice. They talk about the project they’re working on, something about the history of Japan. A presentation is brought up, and one one of them offers to take most of the speaking role for it. Judging by the attitudes of one over the other, the presenter will probably forget this interaction moving forward, while the other will remember the kindness they shared.

The white haired woman smiles at this. It’s always the little things. The small tokens of kindness, the compliments on the street, the unusual acquaintance… Just as a butterfly flaps its wings, so too can a few words change the course of a story. It’s why Kuzé takes these nights out. To watch such mundanities; to be a spectator on the stage of life.

There’s a man across the street. He catches her eye from his… eccentric getup. An immaculate white suit, blonde hair in a small ponytail. A few people ask if he’s lost, but they don’t otherwise comment on his outfit. Interesting. If this is an Anomaly at work, she’d love to observe it before Darkwick gets their hands on it. 

Before she can drift to the next person, their eyes meet. Silver meeting abyssal black. His eyes go wide with an unreadable emotion, while she just smiles. It’s not the first time someone’s thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. But knowing Kaito Fuji, he would consider any girl worthy of that title. Kuzé goes back to her coffee.

There’s another passerby that catches her attention. A man in casual wear. He’s talking on the phone in an annoyed tone. At this time of night with that sway to his step, it’s certainly a drunken call about an ex-lover? No, it’s his boss. You wouldn’t complain about low pay to your ex. Or would you? Either way, a call like that is bound to-

“[]?”

It’s barely a whisper. A Name so arcane, so Other, it cannot be properly spelt with human language alone. It’s a collection of sounds and feelings, all for the listener to hear. The Name sounds like the soft chirps of birds on a summer’s day; the slight sting of the sun shining on one’s skin with the smell of fresh cut grass. A Name that paints a picture in mere utterance alone.

It pulls at her heart a little.

Kuzé whips her head around to the speaker- the white-suited man from earlier -and gives him a wide-eyed look before it sours into a scowl. He must have crossed the street a while ago. With his bright suit, it’s a surprise she didn’t notice. He’s standing a few feet away, his body still. 

He looks at her with such fondness; it’s enough to make her sick. A few moments pass before he cautiously closes the distance. A silent invitation accepted when there was none given.

Before he says anything, she interrupts him with a hiss. “Who are you, and where did you hear that Name?”

He stumbles a little when he takes a seat before examining her face with a shaky breath, “You- You don’t remember?”

“Answer the question.” 

A shaky breath, “I’m {}. We used to hang out between assignments?”

His Name matches the other in its otherworldly nature. It reflects the smell and feel of old parchment; ancient tomes of knowledge read next to a warm hearth.

A part of herself perks up in joy. Answering the question with flashes of memory.

His gray eyes light up into a shining silver,  “So you do remember. Where have you been Gabriel? I’ve been looking everywhere-“

“Do not call me that,”

…and dulled back to the shade of stormy skies. He searched her face, desperately trying to find answers to how his old friend could snap at him like a steel vise.

But yet, he persisted.

“…What happened?” 

“She found what She wanted.” She sighed. 

In the silence that followed, Kuzé could see the memories replay in front of him. Aged film reels spinning behind the curtain, trying desperately to find a certain scene. 

And when he found it. Oh, when he found it. The slight widening of eyes, the trembling of lips, that vacant look… He knows. He now knows what he looks at is no longer his old friend, but someone who embraced the Void in all its nothingness and majesty. 

Kuzé goes back to her drink. The conversation is done in her eyes. All he has to do now is leave in defeat.

“…I’m sorry.” He mutters. 

A sudden feeling of vertigo, like the world dropped out from her. Her cup falls to the floor. She meets his eyes with a harsh glare. A face of unparalleled focus. A stare where the contents of the soul is laid bare for the viewer to see. 

She knows, because she’s employed the same technique. Viewing every Name, no matter how small. Peeling back the layers and worming his way in like a parasite. Who does he think he is?

She ought to scar him, kill him, hurt him. The bridges were burnt. It’s only right.

But yet, she can’t bring herself to move. Why? Is it for her affection for the Ghouls? Possible detection? Condemning an entire instance and its people The Void just to kill {Rustling Pages and Hearthfire Warmth}… 

Finally, he withdraws, tears in his eyes and white as a sheet.

“You’re lucky we’re in public, {Rustling Pages and Hearthfire Warmth}.” And in this specific cluster. Though they wouldn’t mobilize immediately, Darkwick has eyes everywhere. She wouldn’t be surprised if a small force were to arrive in a few minutes if anything unusual happened.

Despite her bitter remark, he holds fast.

“Did you enjoy rifling through me? Did you have any fun?”

A breath in, then out.

“Find any fragments of her to cling to?”

 He wipes his face and composes himself.

“Oh come on, Uri. Was the truth too much to handle? Did you finally realize  your endless search was fruitles-“

“…Why did you try to kill yourself, [Birdsong And Sunlight]?” 

Power flows alongside the words. The force ushers commands to a person that doesn’t exist. It should have blown away, like ash in the wind.

But yet, it finds its mark. 

It digs into the deepest reaches of her and forces her to respond in a voice seldom used. It's soft and mature, but quiet. So unlike all the other women she prefers to imitate.

“Because there was no other way.”

{Rustling Pages and Hearthfire Warmth} leans down, meeting her eyes and speaking in hushed tones.

“...We need to go.” He urges.

She looks up. People stare at them. Her fit was enough to attract attention.

The wrong kind of attention.

—————

Leo Kurosagi was trying to crack the stupid passcode on this stupid program. It’d updated last night, and he’d been trying to figure out what changed besides the password fail message removing all mentions of that “High King.” 

Honestly, he could try brute forcing it, but the lack of a character limit would make it take forever. He’d rather not have his computer become a decorative fan for the next hundred years, thank you. The shadow wins yet another round. Ugh.

He opens a new tab and checks his inbox. His favorite illegal forum has been a bit quiet lately, but he’s sure he can find some “Anomaly” sightings to laugh at.

Cheap suit, bad editing, doctored recording, some actually good editing, AI generated image (ew), familiar glitches, bad audio, wait a second.

Looks like the video skipped the beginning part, cause the focus was covered in the visual bugs. He assumed the glitches were caused by emotions or some kinda aura bullshit, and whoever was there was having a moment. Audio was creepy to say the least. Loud and clear despite all the visuals. He watched it while pulling up another tab. 

…Huh. 

Should he tell Fuji that she’s cheating on him?

—————

“I’m sorry.”

“I shouldn’t have done that. I just…”

“…wanted to know she was still there, yeah?”

“Look, I didn’t think she was there either.”

“I know.”

“Hm?”

“You should have seen it. [Birdsong And Sunlight] was… shattered, and you were eating at the fragments.”

“Sounds appropriate. I’ve hated her for centuries.”

“Hated? Why?”

“Dunno. ‘Was a part of that false narrative I had.”

“For the longest time, I was convinced that she wanted to leave. I was convinced that no part of her remained. But when you said her Name…”

“I see. I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I know how much you- I mean, she- didn’t like looking at souls like that. I just needed to know for sure.”

“I forgive you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I think she would too.” “..Let’s start over, yeah?”

“Sure.”

“I’m {Rustling Pages and Hearthfire Warmth}, but you can call me Uriel.”

“Kuzé. Charmed.”

[They both laugh]

“Say, Uriel, have you ever learned to dance?”

“Haha… you know I never did.”

“How about singing?”

“I can do that.”

“Follow my lead.” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ GOD this was such a fun fic to write. I ended up recycling an old oc for this, and im so glad i recontextualized him. If you want some reference photos for him, i put together a couple picrews a while back: Picrew 1 Picrew 2 Picrew 3

Yes, his voiceclaim is KAITO the vocaloid, and yes, [Birdsong And Sunlight] is MEIKO. ^.^

:0!! vinegar fic!!! huzzah!!!

gonna be completely straight I am . not entirely sure what is happening here BUT your writing is crunchy as always. doing this to it

music too! yay! and picrews! double yay!

[lured-into-wonderland]

((OOC: Dropping Ponsol off here for a White Day return gift to follow after last month’s Valentine’s day. Feel free to do with this as you please just like with last month. Consider it canon to their interaction or not. I took some creative liberties.))

-

Over the course of the month, Ponsol and Nunnally met a few times to becomes better acquainted with one another. Not one to forget that she’d gifted him a flower a month ago on Valentine’s day, it only seemed fitting for him to return the favor.

It was more of a custom that his mother had taught him and his brother from an early age based off her culture, and it was something that he ingrained into his life. It was also a convenient way to build stronger connections with someone by giving a gift in return with this as an excuse.

He’d called her out for a quick meeting, and when she arrives, he holds out a bouquet of flowers for her. There was an assortment of yellow roses, delphinium, and orange alstroemeria flowers. “The meaning of these flowers can be succinctly summarized to one of friendship and appreciation. These are for in return for the flower you gifted me a month ago.” Of which, he had pressed to be made into a bookmark.

Despite how he looked and his general demeanor, he was quite good with his hands. He had an artistic flair and had a green thumb.

The flowers were wrapped in blue and green paper with a silver ribbon. “I picked out the flowers and set up the bouquet myself.” He explains so Nunnally didn’t think that some rogue florist was to take the credit for this bouquet arrangement.

Looking down at the flowers, carefully rearranging some of the blooms that shifted during transit, he hands the bouquet over to her. He had to admit he was in awe of his own talent and vision. “I do hope that you’ll come to enjoy the flowers and find them as beautiful as I find them. They were raised with much care.” After all, he did have a big hand in raising them.

“Perhaps one day, you can come visit the greenhouse where I raise a wide variety of flowers- it’s a part of my hobby, you see.” As one may expect from a guy who comes from old money, he spares no expense when it comes to his hobbies, and this included erecting an entire greenhouse to ensure his flowers grew in a safe and stable environment.

She was quite enjoying their not-so-often meetings. Ponsol turned out to be quite an interesting man with many secrets. Or so she thought. So when he invited her for a quick meeting, about a month later since they first had met, Nunnally did not expect to be presented with a large bouquet of flowers. Even more his words sounded surprising: a return gift. But why? Though no matter what his intentions were, Nunnally was happy and appreciated the gesture: --

“Oh, Ponsol! They are beautiful!” – she exclaimed as the man was handing her his generous gift – “But why suddenly bringing back that flower from over the month ago…!?” – no, Nunnally was not really aware of the ‘White Day’. Valentine’s Day was something she was familiar with, but the idea of returning the gift had never been introduced to her. Though she did enjoy the present. And that was obvious. She hid her face in between the flowers, thinking about information she had just been given. He did set up the flowers himself and he grew them as well. For whatever reasons she wouldn't really expect a man like him (or rather of his social status) to be interested in plants. Dirtying his hands and nails with soil. She had known so many of them, and no-one with the true love for flowers: --

“I’d love to.” – she easily accepted his invitation – “I love flowers, although I am not too good with them. My gardeners had never liked me trying to help…” – she laughed; Ponsol was happy to be able to follow his hobbies, but she could not complain either. After all it was natural that rich men were given more freedom than woman like herself. She did not like it, but she was simply accepting it trying to find her own way in the world – “Perhaps one day I’ll bring my painting supplies with me... Or at least a pencil and a notebook and try to draw your flowers…” – that was her hobby. One of the things she liked. As well as photography.

“So, what are your favourite flowers?” – she asked; suddenly thinking that her little present from back then might have been considered inappropriate for someone who owned the whole greenhouse. Though Ponsol seemed glad when she gave him that single flower, and he was always pleasant for her. And now these flowers: --

“I guess I wouldn't give you that flower if I knew you’re such a great gardener…” – she joked; but it was clear she was cheerful – “I am happy I did. Even if now it feels odd when I think about it.”  

“So, what other secrets do you have? Do you pilot a glider? Or take part in street races?” – she continued in a playful voice. But Nunnally was, indeed, curious.

“Do you like art?” – this time her question was more serious – “Next week I am opening a small art exhibition in the art gallery. It’s a charity event.”

“…would you like to join…?”

"I am desperately looking for a partner." - no, she was not, and her voice clearly indicated that.

@magicalheirponsol

[azul-marie]

flirtatious character intros. (various/goddess reader.) (1)

note: fem. reader. suggestive. 3rd person pov. feat. erron black, shang tsung, noob saibot, spawn, rain

hello mk/mk11 fandom! i’ve wanted to try writing this form of reader insert/imagine since i first began playing mkx/mk11, and i’ve finally done it. at least, i’ve written one part of it — i’d love to make this a miniseries for fun.

this particular set includes a divine/goddess reader interacting with a few male characters. i plan to add more roster characters in a second part, so please look forward to that. if there are any character inconsistencies, please let me know; i’d love to improve as much as possible. enjoy!

part 2 ; part 3.

erron black

erron black: well, ain’tcha a beaut.

name: have you come to earn my hand in blessings?

erron black: more like a hand in marriage, sugar.

erron black: i’ve never been one for worship.

name: you’re free to accept whatever truths you see fit, dear mortal.

erron black: if god’s as pretty as you, i wouldn’t mind getting down on my knees every once in a while.

erron black: hello, goddess.

name: you seem pleased to meet me, given our circumstances.

erron black: anytime’s a good time to appreciate a fine-looking lady.

name: i know what you are thinking, erron black.

erron black: honey, can you blame a man for trying?

name: i can certainly blame that perversive mind of yours.

name: there are many who desire your loyalty, erron.

erron black: might you be one of them?

name: only if it’s as genuine as your love of wealth.

shang tsung

shang tsung: what a magnificent sight.

name: it is the power the elder gods’ bestowed upon me at the dawn of my creation.

shang tsung: hm. yes, that too.

shang tsung: goddess.

name: sorcerer.

shang tsung: as cold as you are beautiful, i see.

shang tsung: your fellow gods are quite fond of you.

name: the brothers thunder and i have served the realms for eons together.

shang tsung: a shame they’ll miss you once i’ve taken hold of your soul.

name: i’m not interested in your gifts, sorcerer.

shang tsung: would you change your mind if i said they were gifts of worship?

name: i desire not your faith in particular.

noob saibot

noob saibot: i will succeed in accomplishing what shinnok could not.

name: and what is that, bi-han?

noob saibot: having you as my bride.

noob saibot: sweet death longs for your embrace.

name: death yields to thy goddess, bi-han.

noob saibot: in time, we shall be as one.

name: shadows are unbefitting divinity.

noob saibot: they yearn for your touch, goddess.

name: they shall have no part of me.

noob saibot: avert your eyes from kuai liang.

name: i have only blessings in mind for your brother.

noob saibot: blessings that are rightfully mine.

spawn

spawn: why’s a pretty little thing like you caught up in this mess?

name: i fight to serve those who place faith in me, that their worship be not in vain.

spawn: you’re in over your head, lady.

spawn: my, my.

name: something caught your fancy?

spawn: depends on how well you throw your punches, goddess.

spawn: picking a fight, aren’t we.

name: i simply wished to demonstrate my strength for you.

spawn: that all you’d like to demonstrate?

spawn: a goddess in the flesh. here to judge me for my sins?

name: i’ve come to test the sum of your might, spawn.

spawn: gutsy. planning to get me on my knees, have me beg for mercy?

rain

rain: grant me the godhood of my birthright.

name: if it should please the elder gods, so shall it be.

rain: i’d rather be pleasing you, goddess.

rain: we would be divine together, lady name.

name: (amused laughter) you are but a young boy in my eyes, little prince.

rain: i’ll make you see me for the god we both know i am.

name: you would do well to mind your words, prince rain.

rain: how so? afraid you’ll like them?

name: afraid you may earn a goddess’ ire.

rain: neither raiden or fujin are worthy of your affections.

name: who said anything of the sort?

rain: anyone can see how enamored they are with you, name.

rain: neither raiden or fujin are worthy of your affections.

name: and yet you are?

rain: i am fated to reign as a god and a king.