#m writes things | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

silentium-symphony · 1 year ago

Text

A Lamb in Wolf's Clothing (Link x Reader) SMUT

(a/n) hey ya'll! i'm so sorry for going MIA for a few months--as some of you may know, I have just recently graduated from college, so there are a lot of big changes happening in my life right now! i appreciate your continued patience with me :) this fic was commissioned by the lovely @mistressofdeathsblog! thank you for giving me such a fun prompt, I had a lot of fun trying smth new and I hope you enjoy it too!

before you start reading, please take special note of the cw below. also, please remember that this is not a healthy relationship you want to emulate and is written for the sole purpose of entertainment. if you are in a relationship that strips your autonomy and you feel unsafe bringing this issue up to the offending party/parties, please reach out to someone you trust. there is no power in staying if there is no freedom to leave. stay safe out there.

and ofc, since this is smut, minors do not interact with this piece.

cw: dubcon, afab!reader, ooc!link since i highly doubt Hylia's Hero would be so life-alteringly possessive of their lover, tp!link, reader being chased, reader being held against their will, blood, tight spaces, swearing, name-calling, dumbification kinda??, cunnilingus, doggy, mirror/standing sex

wc: 5k

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

Sweat and blood dribbled down your forehead, stinging your eyes with a salty, metallic bite. Thorn-kissed hands grasped and blindly waded through thick patches of bramble. The dark, bristling whips that surrounded you worked every exposed piece of skin into a raw, bloody mess quivering from the forest's cruelty.

You couldn't care less.

The birds overhead guffawed at your efforts as splotches of pale moon danced mockingly, titillatingly along the cold earth. You chased every moon patch with the frenzy of an escaped convict a morning away from freedom.

Because that's what you were, really.

The beginnings and ends of thoughts knotted and frayed into each other, flurrying your head into a cohesive garble. Just how big was this forest? It looked like a sprawling mess from the fortress you were locked up in, but it was absolutely impenetrable now that you were in the thick of it. It was as if the very woods were enchanted to keep you from ever escaping.

A ring of pain hooked the topside of your foot, propelling all of your momentum downwards and towards the forest floor. You couldn't even scream before you bashed your cheek through a thin layer of crusted mud. The cold soil caked your flushed cheeks--the only shred of relief you've felt since your mad sprint to freedom.

Your spine slinked up into a curl--a pathetic attempt to get up, to begin your chase again, but your battered body refused to endure further abuse. (E/C) eyes flitted about you, trying to interpret the shadows that danced and weaved through the trees.

Running in this state would be pointless. You dug your forearms and elbows to crawl towards an ivy overhang that promised hidden refuge and curled into as tight of a ball you could muster. The silky white dress he gifted you had been ripped past recognition. The airy fabric that once brushed your ankles now clung tightly to your blood-laced thighs, soiled from the toils of flight. You pulled your legs closer; your lungs fought for precious breath against your pounding heart.

What a shame. If only it weren't beating so fast, you might have heard the crack of a single twig located too close for comfort.

From several paces into the unseen was a pair of blue eyes misted over with sinful hunger; your quivering, shorn form was scintillating to watch and feasted his mind with imaginations more heart-racing than the last. Your blood, sweat, and tears mixing with your natural scent proved to be the most tantalizing olfactory cocktail, scattering his thoughts into overdrive.

He hated the rush he got from seeing you like this--lost and confused without his guidance through these nested thorns, yearning for warmth and safety he knew he could provide (and had been providing since you stumbled into his castle that fateful day).

Why did you leave him? Was he not enough for you? But he'd given you everything! Everything! Freshly made home-cooked meals, tailored clothes that hugged your form, a bed warmed by him, his body...

He could still feel the soft plush of your flesh sinking and dimpling in his hands as he thrust into you with the faux tenderness of a starved man. Your beautiful eyes locked with his own, only leaving to disappear into the back of your head. Your mouth agape to let the cutest sounds escape...

If you were happy with him, why were you leaving him?

Not waking up to your face smooshed into his pillows, not beholding you in all the pretty silk and ribbons he had lying around, not fucking you in every position you could possibly think of, not spending every waking moment with you...

Why, he'd rather die.

If it made you happy, he'd allow the ambrosial drippings of freedom to bead your lips.

If it made you happy, he'd let you delude yourself into thinking you were far enough from the castle to be away from him.

But only for now. Link prided himself on his chivalry and patience, but even that was growing thin from your incessant attempts of escape. He was going to have to show you why it was such a good idea to stay here with him, forever and ever and ever.

You were nodding off now, it seemed. The way your head kept dipping and rising in a futile attempt to stay wary was so adorable, he just had to ravish you right then and there! He had barely managed to stave off his intrusive thoughts as he stalked closer to you, still clinging closely to the dark cloak that hung off twisted branches.

You saw something shift from the corner of your eye; your neck snapped up and a croak clawed out of you.

"Who's there?!"

Silence.

Why was it so quiet?

Had it always been so quiet?

Where have the birds gone?

A familiar silhouette emerged from the trees.

"L-... Link..." Your throat, parched and scratched from heaving the cold night air, rang a voice unfamiliar to you.

Azure eyes that once beheld you with all the love in the world now stare back with deadpan coldness. Words need not be exchanged here; his presence alone blew any hope of escape in the next breeze that ruffled his fur.

A calculated step towards you retreated you further into your little alcove, a prayer that the ivy could take you in as one of its own on your lips. There was no telling what he was thinking, or how close to the edge he was. But that look, that hunger.

That familiar, craved look your body knew too well pulsed anxious tingles through your fingertips.

Another step.

Then another.

Another.

Finally,

He was here.

You could feel him, all of him--his hot breath against your arms, his fur bristling against your thigh, his warmth freezing your blood where it ran. You hadn't realized how much you were shaking until you heard the rhythmic shifting of ivy buzzing into your ear.

He pressed his head into your lap, prying you open to make way for him. And you sat there, obeying him like the perfect little doe you were. As he lazily dragged a tongue across your thigh, lapping at the dried blood that crusted your flesh, he looked up. Relief, adoration, love. That stifling comforting, possessive protective obsession love that he had so readily wrapped you in the moment he met you. For a moment, he looked like a lamb in wolf's clothing.

So many thoughts swirled inside you, your brain numbing to prevent overstimulation. But amongst the chaos, a single thought backdropped every complicated emotion you were feeling.

He had found you.

Had it not been for the blood drumming through your ears and temples, you would have thought time had frozen in this purgative state. He was splayed atop you now, seeming to rest from his hours-long stalking; he wasn't crushing you, but it was clear he had all the control in this dynamic. Any undesirable shift away from him, to preserve your own personhood, would most certainly have led to a 'gentle' nudge toward him.

A single cobalt eye lazily cracked open after a million years ticked by. His piercing gaze, though fringed with some life, made it abundantly clear that your race to freedom was placed at an indefinite standstill. He had never once snapped at you, but the fear lodged in your chest informed you not to test him further.

He hauled himself up, joints locked from inactivity popping to life as he arched into a long stretch. His carefree pose hinted at obliviousness--borderline forgiveness--to your impertinence, but you knew better.

Link never forgets.

He eyed you again with a sort of child-like excitement that twisted your gut into a sickening pattern. His tail arced to and fro, painting his excitement in broad strokes. He wedged his snout between the small of your back and the wall and firmly pushed you forward, scooting you a couple inches toward your prison home.

You knew better than to anger him.

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

Link's skillful navigation through the thorns was unimpeded by your clinging onto him. It had taken hours to get to where you once were, but a quarter of that time for the wolf. The gloomy castle you had called your home for months (years?) broadened into view until you could clearly see its spires puncture through occasional clouds. The moon, basking in its celestial sovereignty, jeered at your return.

Link slipped through a tiny crack in the iron-clad door, made by the wolf confident in its tracking and retrieving abilities. You slugged off him with practiced movements; a sound akin to obscene magic asundering flesh preluded your captor's transformation. Grisly black fur gave way to sand-blonde hair; the worn, patchwork shirt which heralded his humble beginnings as a rancher ran taut against the back you had spent several minutes clambering onto.

He continued looking ahead unblinkingly as you idled a few paces behind him, your chest constricting and mind frenzying with murky anticipation. Your nerves, frayed from adrenaline and brain-altering fear, now swam in the heavy nothingness of silence; you were a breath away from weeping before a tenor tone disturbed the still.

"Let's get you cleaned up."

Silently, you both moved through the halls, paying the torchlit shadows the special type of attention one gave to the mundane in moments choked with awkwardness. Worn, freshly torn hands bunched the hem of your dress until your knuckles whitened. A part of you wished to never reach your destination, preferring thickened stillness over the unpredictable inevitable. You rounded a familiar corner and gathered the shreds of your sanity to brace yourself for whatever may come.

The sullen wooden door gave way to the man's heave and you followed him in. A large bathroom decorated only with the essentials filled your view. As Link ran the faucet, your eyes absently glazed over the rickety plumbing he had installed to transport hot spring water to the tub. For the first time since his transformation, he turned to you.

"Strip."

His clear, authoritative tone cut sharper than any thorn that had shredded you. Eyes downcast, your fingers wrought the straps of your dress further, further down your shoulders. Your skin burned from your clammy fingers; you blamed it on the steam that had begun filling the corners of the room and ignored the heavy, heated stare placed on you by the male.

Link followed your dawdling, hooking his fingers under the hem of his shirt and lifting it to reveal a stomach sculpted by years of farm work and adventuring. The straps of your dress coiled close to your elbows before settling by your ankles. Your hands immediately scattered to cover your exposed parts as Link finished undressing himself, his fully erect length blurred by warm mists and (eventually) a deftly wrapped towel.

He reached over to squeak the faucet shut; the comforting, monotonous lull of running water now halted to scant droplets. After pulling out the small basket of rags and soap, he sat on a bar stool and beckoned you with a lone finger.

"Come here. You're filthy."

You shuffled out of the shredded dress and forward, keeping your eyes trained on the end of the tub where he sat. The wanton desire for a hot bath waived your concerns over the situation, dulling your fears enough to throw a leg over the edge and sink everything but the top half of your face below the water.

The warm panacea cloaked you in an elixir of ease, and a satisfied groan unintentionally lapsed your lips; your hand figuratively slapped over your mouth when the air honeyed into something...

Sinful.

Link dipped a small bucket into the bathwater and slowly poured it over your head, calloused fingers expertly combing through knotted, crusted strands. The hardened skin tenderly brushing the back of your neck jolted heated memories to the forefront of your mind.

You could still feel the harsh, almost desperate grip laced in your hair as he pounded you from behind, panting sweet promises to give you more for the rest of your lives. Your face, buried in his pillows, blindly nodded along to the specifics of what he had said, your mind too blurred to focus on much else aside from your umpteenth high of the night.

The warm water felt like a cold deluge and a noticeable shiver ran through you. Soapy hands stopped caressing your scalp.

"(F/N)?"

"H-Huh?"

"How about we play a little game?" Link murmured suddenly, absently twirling your locks in his fingertips. Had it not been for the taut fingers interweaved through your hair, your surprise would have been more apparent.

"What... What game?"

"A little game similar to hide-n-seek." He started languidly, as if savoring every vowel that lisped his tongue. "If you can evade my capture until dawn, I will guide you to the forest's edge so you may leave. However..."

Rough fingerpads traced up the side of your bicep as darkened ears caught your quiet, involuntary gasp.

"If I catch you... You're mine. Deal?"

Throat tightening and heart palpitating, your mind fought to keep its last ounce of calm as your captor's hand circled to your front to cusp and knead your--

"What's the catch?" You breathed, somehow managing to divert your attention away from Link's sinful reaches.

"There is no catch, but there are rules." He pecked your cheek, his lips curving into a soft smile that thinly veiled iller intents.

"You are allowed to hide anywhere in the castle grounds and use whatever means necessary to hide from me, so long as neither of us gets seriously injured... The moment you step foot in that forest, I will claim you where you stand. Is that fair?"

Was this a trick?

A sick joke meant to dangle tonight's failure in your face?

Surely it was... But what if it wasn't?

His steady stare that peered shamelessly through your soul conveyed a degree of seriousness and sincerity required to make a truthful statement.

"How do I know that you won't go back on your word?"

"I have never lied to you." He gritted his teeth. "Can you say the same?"

The genuine hurt masking his eyes ached your chest, but the tiniest shred of dignity you had left netted the apology that almost escaped your mouth.

"Is there anything else I should know before I make my decision?"

"No. I have told you everything you need to know and will uphold my end of the deal. The final decision is yours."

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

Moonlight masqueraded through the gaping windows, streaking drab grey pillars with hints of alabaster. The halls which you have called home for what felt like time immemorial now crowded your vision with a foreign bite, sinking into your flesh an unnerving uncertainty around every corner.

Your neck swiveled on all axes, one eye trained in front of you and the other separating the benign from foe that hid in every dancing shadow. Bare feet pattering against olden stone filled the gaps in between each racing heart beat, drumming your ears in a never-ending symphony of chase.

Legs aching, quaking, begging for proper rest are promptly ignored, outcompeted by the more urgent matter at hand.

Your final gambit for freedom.

You cursed under your breath as you ascended a spiraling staircase, your lungs burning with the rage of a thousand suns from heaving in the cold, arid air. The stone floor kissed knicks into the soles of your feet as you skidded around a corner and madly dashed down the hall, shifting down a narrow crawlspace that branched off from the main hall.

Whispered hisses and curses bounced off the tightening walls as rough-hewn stone jagged into your skin, reopening recently closed wounds from the brambles. You could only pray that Link was far enough away to not pick up on freshly streaked blood.

A familiar carpet--the one from the main hall--filled your view and you slowed your shimmying into a momentary pause. You fought to see through your grimace to peer around the corner and hoped that your heart wasn't beating loud enough to mask the signs of your stalker.

All good...?

You scooted out of that uncomfortable position and ducked towards the exit.

The private gardens opened up to you. Trails of ivy found residence in the cracked grey of decayed walls and the fountain was spewing the most delicious water your parched throat had ever seen. You circled the mini courtyard, your frenzied mind shunting the garden's haunting aesthetics in search of a practical hiding place. To your right was the more open space of the main courtyard, and to your left were the untrimmed topiaries of Hyrulian heroes commemorated only in flora.

Streaks of morning were just beginning to tip the horizon.

Your feet teetered toward the right, but a certain non-human shadow slinked past the threshold. All color drained from your pallor as you scurried around the topiary's wide base and hid behind the cloister's stone pillar. The sounds of flesh ripping and reanimating shot through the air; tears began to freely flow as a carefree whistle ambled closer to you.

"My, my... It's almost daybreak. I must find my beloved soon, or else I'll lose her forever."

The sky was just beginning to tinge a magenta-red.

"Is she... Hiding by the door?"

Boots clicking against stone rang like a departed's dirges. Your clammy fingers dug into the side of your face--a feeble attempt to muffle your whimpering.

"Is she... Behind these topiaries? No? Hm... But I'm getting close, aren't I, (F/N)?"

All strength, all hope, had been sapped from your body; your knees locked and buckled.

"Oh? Have we always had a little walkway back here? What a wonderful surprise! I know my darling would love it here."

Your vision darkened.

Leather nestled softly into your face as the heat of another poured and mingled with the cold stone pressed to your back.

"Guess who?" He sang.

You felt all your muscles simultaneously release their tension; your legs folded in on themselves, but secure arms hooked them under and hoisted you bridal style.

As you were carted inside the dark fortress, the morning sun greeted you in its soft-rayed glory.

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

The stale castle air flooded your lungs as your body was unceremoniously tossed onto the bed. A hand tightened around your wrists and hot, agitated lips locked with yours before your brain could register the cotton plush of your sheets. His other hand feathered up your thigh, learned fingers grazing all your tender spots and teasing your thoughts into a foggy mix of want.

Your figure writhed uselessly under him as he flattened you further into the bed, using his full weight to keep you pinned where he wanted. The hand that carried out its sinful ministrations below shot up to seize your cheeks. Rough fingerpads bruised the softer flesh as he craned your neck to make way for his lips, flushed with a feral red and coated with soft proclamations of domination.

"You're mine... All mine..."

Hot breaths ghosted the surface of your neck, tickling a heated whine out of you. Your needy noises hitched into a gasp when you felt moistened lips lock onto your skin, suckling and teething the flesh into discolored patches. Rich vermilion fringed with a sinful violet bloomed below your jawline, trailing down and darkening with each claim closer to your chest.

He yanked the noisome dress down, exposing all of your chest to him. The snaps of cloth ripping from its handles and the sudden whip of cold air across your most sensitive parts pierced a jolt through your body. He pulled away to admire the shades of purple and red marring your fair complexion, a visual reminder to the dust haunting old halls and courtyards lost to time that you were his, and his alone. A lone tongue swirled around an irritated bud.

Trembles quaked through you--from heated anticipation or disgust, you were unsure. He hooked his fingers back into your cheeks and pried your face to look into his own. Sky-blue eyes, which once beheld you in crinkled happiness, had dimmed into a hazy navy clouded with lust.

"So pretty... My gorgeous, gorgeous girl."

Soft lips brushed your forehead, ambled down to your nose, and finally settled on your lips.

"My good girl."

Lips warmed with depraved whispers silenced around your bud. Starved suckling backdropped the more apparent whimpers scratching your throat, dredged in pleasure with a dulling edge of resistance. Scarred skin delicately cusped your mounds, tweaking and flicking your perkiness until it was a rosy red.

Your growing sensitivity stung tears into your eyes. Achy hands, now free from his grasp, grappled onto sinewy shoulders but did little to convey genuine discomfort. A deep groan purred from his chest as Link balanced your sore bud in a soft knead between his teeth. A pop filled the room.

"Let me see those eyes."

Your eyes wedged open to see blown-out blues taking all of you in. Your heart pounded a flush into your cheeks and christened an unholy flame to spread through your core.

"That's it... Now watch me..."

He dragged his body lower and lower, his eyes unwavering from yours for even a second. Steady hands balled into the collar of your dress and tore through the silk, the symphony of rips bouncing off the walls and knocking coherence out of your head. His lips matched the pace of the ragged unveiling and chased progressively exposed flesh with soft kisses, down, down, and farther down. Feverish breaths along your inner thighs sent chills up your spine.

"Watch me as I make you cum for me."

Hands gnarled from knighthood knotted into the delicate lace separating him from his prize, tearing it apart with ease.

"Link, hold--ah!"

Your eyes shot to the back of your head as your mouth gaped into a silent 'O.' An orchestra of colors, conducted by a madly indulgent maestro, symphonized into a crazed, otherworldly experience. His tongue coiled and stretched into you with the practiced precision of many amorous nights while his thumb circled the space around your clit, teasing the nub until agony. It was only a matter of time before your impassioned gasps and pleas competed with the downright sinful wetness Link lapped below.

"Tell me you love this--that you love me."

"Link, please! Just give it to me please, please, please...!" The top of your head rolled further into your pillow when the painful prick of a pinch shot too much for too short a time.

"Don't look away. Don't you dare look away, you filthy slut." Deft fingers plunged into you until pleasure fried your brain. "You'll cum when I tell you to."

Your whines and whimpers hiccuped into full sobs for release, whistled with pleas and promises you both knew you wouldn't keep.

"You'll love me forever, right? You'll be my good lil' cock slut forever, right?"

"Yes! Yes, I promise! Please Link, just let me cum already, please!"

You damn liar.

He pulled away, coldly gazing at the weeping, quivering, gasping mess of his beloved.

"Link...? W-why did you--"

"Your heart may have forgotten, but your body remembers..."

His sweet lips, tinted with a hint of bitter longing, moved with yours in a desperate, crazed dance. Every lust-filled, haggard groan ripped from his lungs masked the quieter crack running up his heart.

The bed creaked from the sudden redistribution of your weight as he spread you on all fours. He aligned himself to your entrance and, in a single motion that he had done hundreds of times, completed you. A wail, colored in pleasure and streaked with pain, contrasted Link's blissed-out groan. Tears brimmed the corner of your eyes; each droplet slipped down your cheek in time with his frenetic pounding until it had thickened into a steady stream.

He wasted no time in his pursuit for pleasure, hitching his pelvis to your ass, pulling away, and slamming back in with the gentleness of a starved wolf ripping into a lamb. His fingers dug crescents into your hips as he adjusted himself, propping one of his legs up to angle himself deeper and faster into you.

He was stretching you past your limits, and every thrust was accompanied by a heated flash of pain. Your upper half sunk towards the bed as he moved your hips higher, closer to him. Helpless (E/C)s stared at the creaking bedpost while your whitening knuckles dug through the sheets clumped in your hands. A salty mixture of tears and saliva pooled on your pillow as honeyed cries haunted your walls.

"What, is my princess not having a good time?" He jeered, reaching over to give your engorged clit a cruel flick and your ass an even crueler slap. "What does my baby want me to do to her? Huh? What do you want me to do to your tight pussy?"

"L-Link, It hurts! It's too--!"

The side of your quivering hips slammed into the mattress and forced you on your back. Your face snapped into the pillow when his writhing tongue replaced his thick cock, tonguing and lapping at your dripping pussy as if your ambrosia would be the last thing he was to taste. He pulled out and spat on your entrance, pressing his tongue flat against your pussy and swiping up towards the clit that he coiled.

"Mmph... Fuck, I love you... Give me more... Gods, give me more."

A bruising ache pressed into your hips as his frenzied circling spurred faster, faster, faster. Pleasure dizzied your senses towards a dark void; the familiar knot in your stomach that ached to unravel popped with the abrupt re-emergence of Link.

"Mm, tight as ever... How're you feeling, my dove?" He husked, ragged breaths encapsulating the shell of your ear.

"Too b-bi--Link, you're too big!"

"Shhh... You can take it. You've taken it hundreds of times. C'mon, squeeze my cock like a good girl."

"It's so--Link, you're stretching me out, I need to--"

"Not yet. I'm not done fucking you yet." He swiveled you back on all fours and pounded you into the mattress, your cries and pleas be damned. Slender fingers snarled through your tresses and strained you away from the pillows that held your screams.

"When I'm ready, I want to watch you cum all over my cock." His erratic pounding slowed for a split second, enough time for a certain thought to come and go. "I want you to see it too."

Your abused cunt finally had a moment to breathe and process; if only your brain had that same luxury.

The bed sighed a relieved groan as Link crawled out and wrapped his arms about your lower abdomen to hoist you up. When it was evident that this pathetically limp curl was the best you could do, toned forearms hooked under your knees and spread your legs in the most vulnerable position you've ever been in. With a huff, Link brought you front and center to the mirror. You both watched breathlessly as he lowered you onto his slicked cock, sinking every inch into your gummy walls.

"Fuck, you're so tight... I need you, (F/N)..."

His crazed pistoning began once more; the sensations that ransacked your body were unlike anything you'd ever experienced before. The tip of his cock so easily, so effortlessly rammed into your sweetest spots; every thrust he slammed into you turned you into a shamelessly shaking, overstimulated mess.

"Look at you," he hummed darkly, "look at all the sin running down your legs."

Link's voice was so far away now. The way he kept disappearing into your sopping cunt and your juices dribbling over your thighs consumed your every thought. The only tangible you could feel was the building pressure coiling in your gut, tightening with each passing second.

"So beautiful... So tight... Don't you want to do this forever? Hm? Don't you want to be ruined by me forever and ever?"

His teeth sunk into your neck, adding to the carnal collection and ripping a hoarse cry out of you.

"You're my good girl, aren't you? My good girl... You're all mine--all fucking mine."

Veins marbled his arms and forehead as he nuzzled into your neck, tongue tracing the edge of every bite. The labored grunts that occasionally wheezed out of him, along with his stuttering hips, signaled that he was teetering closer and closer to the edge. Hooded blues stared piercingly into your own, weighed down by mindless intoxication. His lips brushed a flame through the curve of your ear.

"Look at me..." He purred. "Look at me and confess your lust to me."

A shattered cry, followed by a wave of profane heat, collided with your system. Winced eyes lolled to the back of your head while you spasmed and twitched in still arms. Your violent clenching and knowledge of your release strained a guttural growl through Link's chest as he spurted his cum as deep as it could go. Thin, white threads coated your walls and trailed out your still-plugged hole until drips of sin stained the stone below.

Link tripped to the foot of the bed, his body folding into the sheets the second his foot made contact with the wooden post. With arms wrapped comfortably around you and the familiar presence of your spent lover, you passed out the moment your body recognized blissed finality.

As you commenced your near-immediate foray into the realm of dreams, a familiar voice--soft yet broken--rang through your last layer of consciousness.

"Sleep well, my dove. If eternally precarious possession is the closest thing we will ever have to love, I will gorge myself on it."

492 notes · View notes

out-of-the-blue-comic · 29 days ago

Text

Hope to get this next update done by the end of the month! In the meantime, here's a sneak peek of what's to come.

#curator's note #sonic the hedgehog #out of the blue au #comic wip #sonic au #sth #I'm going on a trip later this month #so I'm going to try and get this done as much as I can before that trip since I'll be away from my tablet for a week.#one thing I'll say writing action scenes: Yes!#Planning and drawing said action scenes: k i l l m e n o w

133 notes · View notes

crsssie · 6 months ago

Text

foresight, for life

word count: 6.5k || banner art by chicll on bluesky (her prometheus art >>)

warnings: nsfw, smut (but like, one scene)

summary: the future means nothing to the titan of foresight

The future means little to nothing to the god of foresight.

Everything is known, including the nymph who has stumbled upon the gates of Olympus, eyes locked on his as he stares down.

"Nymph."

"...oh gods..." You mumble. "This was not what I saw."

He raises a hand as Aetos flies towards you, ready to end you once and for all, but you dodge, crying as you do.

"Oceanid! Not a god!"

He stares down at you as he holds a hand out back for Aetos, staring down at you as you stand there. Small. You're much smaller than he is, that's a given considering he's a titan, and when he stares at you, there are hundreds of futures that could spawn. However, the most obvious of which is the one in which you die to Aetos. You are in no shape to be dodging a second attack from an animal so fast, and he ponders if it would bring any entertainment if you were to simply pass. It would be a waste, considering that one vision goes as far as picking you up on a chariot. How strange.

"I am not... a god." You mumble. "I have been told... or seen that you simply harbor ill intent to gods and not the others."

He lets you breathe, letting Aetos soar up to scout the area, and you fiddle with your fingers behind your back, watching as the titan stares at you.

"You are lost."

"Most certainly so."

"You knew how to get here."

"Apparently."

Scary. The hand burnt from the fire for humans and the red eyes of a titan are daunting, and you are in no position to be able to beg for mercy. You are not the human he cherishes, and you are not a god that could hold their ground. The wound on his stomach is wrapped in bandage and red with tears, and for a moment you wonder if you could be able to heal him with the final bit of spring water you've managed to haul with you despite your limited foresight dragging you all the way up Olympus. It seemed to be useless against the titan himself, though. Always intriguing to see how it all seems to freeze at the sight of the man himself.

"You are a nymph."

"Minor goddess of foresight, but it matters not since I am not worshipped and neither am I treated as one." You blink. "My foresight is nothing compared to yours, Lord Prometheus."

"Then why lie upon meeting me?"

"You know, lord."

"I wish to hear it from your mouth. I know of what you could say, not what you will."

"I did not wish to die. The eagle scares me. I am in no condition to be fighting. I am on the final bits of spring water."

"You may heal me. Or, try. There are plenty chances that you would fail."

"I am aware." You pause. It isn't surprising he knew that you had entertained the thought. "But my foresight is useless when it comes to you, lord."

"Make haste."

"You trust that I will not harm you?"

"In the few in which you do, you fail."

"Ah." You fumble with the sac, and you blink up at him. "It would be best to, um, sit or lay down, my lord."

He sits as you instruct, and you whisper a quiet affirmation as you reach to unwrap the bandage, hands gentle on his skin as you let the water pour into the wound and watch as it reforms. There is a quick glow of blue and then his skin is fixed, and you stare at the scar that is leftover, but not the wound that is long gone. You close the rest of the water and reach for the bandages once more, wrapping them carefully as Prometheus stares. Delicate fingers on his stomach as you're practically shaking.

You do not wound him in any possible future.

"Is there anything beyond the gate?"

"There is not. It is simply the void for the time being." He stares. "The princess is fighting below."

"Shall she win?"

"The future lays yes."

"I see." You mumble.

You take two steps back as the Titan gets back up, staring down at you as he blinks.

"Speak. Of your reward you wish to hold."

"I have none. You must know so, my lord."

"You scale the mountain of the gods for no reason?"

"I had simply the foresight that I must be here. Seeing as I have healed you, I believe once I return back down, I will know what is next."

He stares at you as something shifts in the air, Aetos back as it tells Prometheus of what has happened, and you stare at the eagle.

"How incredible." You mumble.

"The gods were not expecting that I would befriend it."

"Yes, but it is pretty." You whisper. "The gold of the stars."

The eagle rattles its feathers as you hum.

"Well, I shall be off—"

"There is no future in which you survive the descent." Prometheus stares at you, and you blink back at him.

The titan is lying to you. That much you know simply because in a glimpse as you had seen while you were making your way up, you had spotted the very edge of Greece and the ocean where your sisters rested when you head down, but you do not pry. You are certain that he knows you know. You wonder what has caused an interest in you from the Titan, but you wonder if you are too terrified to find out. In the future you had seen, you survived, but you had also returned up the mountain with a new flask of spring water. You wonder if you only survive if you return.

"And if I return?"

"Then you survive in most cases."

"I see." You pause.

You spot a short-haired goddess with a transparent forearm, and you pass her briefly as you rush onto the eagle, and she approaches you after defeating him to ask if you are being held hostage.

"I shall... return." You mumble. "I assure you, Lord Prometheus. I am not running away. The future in which I see requires me to return in order to progress. I am, unfortunately, important as of right now."

"Make haste."

"Understood."

The futures in which you had fought back disappear from the possibilities, and he watches the princess fight. Up, die, down, live.

Up.

Down.

Death.

Return.

He knows where she resides, and perhaps it is an act of mercy or the sheer fact that in every future possible he does not touch upon the crossroads. Where the missing children of Nyx reside. The fates are in the hands of Chronos and so he, yet it seems that both he and the other daughter acknowledge that there will be change as long as the princess prevails. Change that could not be seen with the prince.

Change that can be seen with the addition of you.

You had been visible in only one possible future — the one in which you had managed to make it up the mountain prior to the princess, and somehow it had occurred. It knocked out plenty of futures with such a simple change. It was so simple, yet he would not have been able to do it. Everything moves with precision, and when you make it back up, dangled by the claws of Aetos and dropped unceremoniously into Prometheus' arms, a squeak past your lips as you scrambled out of his arms out of a fear.

You fear that he will be angered.

He lets you misunderstand. There is only one future for you.

There are multiple for him.

It is a constant shattering of the self. Prometheus understands it. It has seeped far into his bones and become a part of him. He is no longer bothered by it. He has learned to coexist with the world and its possibilities. Yet, yet it is refreshing to see a linear foresight in the form of you. A nymph who was worshipped as a god, who received snippets of the future in the form of strange flashes according to his foresight. A nymph who carried her spring water around and heals titans who were violently opposed to the gods. There is no good nor bad to you — only a future in which you can see. You continue linearly to the future that you are certain of.

He is above you to some extent, he thinks.

It's why you hide above the pillars of the chamber, peering down at the princess fight Prometheus, her moves readable to you, and you well aware of when he would win and when he would lose. It's why you let water dribble out of your flask into your palm before she arrives at certain times, fingers gentle on his skin as he stares down at you.

But he prefers the silence of not needing to fight anyone and sitting with you on the pillar to watch over the destruction of Olympus to everything else. In the quiet moments where you do not have foresight, and he simply ignores everything that he knows. The knowledge of the universe is the burden that a titan must carry. It is a burden that even you carry, even if your options are limited. There is little to be picky about. It seems you understand that just as well as he does. It is intriguing that you only know the sure future.

Foresight of all, or foresight of one.

"My foresight is nowhere near as strong as yours." You scratch your cheek, water on your fingers as Prometheus leans back against a pillar, letting your fingers smooth over his wounds. Gods and titans seldom need healing, but it felt nice to feel the coolness of water on his skin that would not burn off immediately from the flame in his right. You are also gentle, skin less jagged and gentle against his, hands unscarred and clean of all traces of labor or hardship. He doubts it is because you lack it — he knows it is not because you lack it. It is simply because the water on your hands has made it so that no jagged skin on your body would go unforgiven.

But it is not that he is enamored with you. It is not that he finds you intriguing. It is not that there was a singular moment in the future where he pictured the two of you in a chariot. No. It was not all of that. It was the sheer simplicity that despite the possibility that you could have attacked or reported, you did not. Instead, you had used the last of your water, fingers smooth against his stomach as you had healed the hole in his abdomen — restoring his stomach. You are no god. You a a simple nymph with a strange ability to see snippets of your future. He wonders if you had seen the same chariot.

You do not show it — he knows it. You have not seen that future quiet yet.

In the case that Chronos were to win, then you would be a nice trophy of war.

Though, you might go with him willingly without breaking or coercion.

But, in the linear future you see, there is no victory for his side.

"The princess is too strong." You simplify it.

He knows. He knows that is the future you see. The future you see tends to run more finite than the infinte that he sees. There is a certain sense of truth or reality that only exists in your future. The one that you see. Prometheus does not understand why he seems so fixated on knowing how you know, but he doesn't speak. He mentions not even a word to the others. Chronos needs not to know that Prometheus is hiding a nymph at the tip of Olympus, or that the future is grim for the both of them.

No.

You will continue to tell him the outcomes of his battle, and he will continue to fall for the reality in your words. There will be a cycle that continues until the princess can figure something out, he supposes.

He catches your thoughts occasionally — in the strange futures where you give into impulse and touch his hair, or in the strange futures where you grab the hand with fire, but you never act upon anything. You stay distant so that he does not feel uncomfortable. Everything you do in the present is done out of a worry that he will see a future in which the majority of possibilities end with his hand around your throat and you pass. However, it comes as not much of a surprise that you do eventually succumb to such urges.

"May I touch your hair, Lord Prometheus?"

"Be gentle." He leans his head down to you, and you reach to pinch it between your fingers, lashes fluttering as you stare in awe. Almost as though you had never had to press your fingers through his hair to heal the wounds on his skull. Yet, he stares through your soul as you still, eyes continuing to stare as you try your best to ignore the way he's staring at your skin. You're good at ignoring things. In most of the universes where you survive, you ignore the implications of taking care of him, playing innocent whenever the princess comes. As though the pouch of liquid were for yourself and not the titan.

"In case the flames injure me." you tell the princess.

But the truth is, you do not care for too much. The same way that Prometheus is at the gates of Olympus because it greatly increases the chances of the princess' victory, you sit perched up top to heal him again and again because it greatly increases the chances that he will survive if it ever comes to it. In the singular future you see in spots, Prometheus has to survive. You make that much obvious in the way you tend to him while the princess runs again and again. There is no point in fighting her way to the top when she has discovered the way to seal time for good.

It gives you a little downtime with Prometheus.

"My lord. Did you join the fight for the sake of the humans?"

"There is no future in which the humans will be happy under the rule of the gods."

"But they do not survive if the titan takes over."

"So you are aware."

You sit cross-legged across from him, blinking at him slowly as you tilt your head.

"You are here for the princess, then."

"Was."

"And what now?"

He stares at you, glow of fire too much for you as you look away to Aetos.

"I ought to keep you as a war trophy."

"That would be amusing." You rummage through your pouch, huffing when there is none else but water. "Why me, my lord? Not the eagle?"

"Aetos has become a friend."

"And I have not?"

"Not yet."

"I see."

The princess stops by on occasion in between her fights with Time to talk to you after defeating Prometheus. You hand her materials that she might need for the way down, and she offers you a bottle of nectar that you take with a light laugh in your voice. She is sweet. You admit that much. Even in the flash of the future that you see briefly when your fingers brush hers as you talk, she is wonderfully charming all the same. So, you tell her that there is really no reason for her to be gifting you nectar like this.

"I aid the titan, princess."

"Not Time. The titan who has reason to be angered." She reasons, looking behind you as Prometheus manifests.

"I see." You blink. "Let me offer you something in exchange."

You hand her a flask of spring water, waving as she rushes off now that Prometheus had returned.

"You aid us both."

"Just as you do."

Your fingers smooth over his skin like a ritual, wounds cleared and skin restored, his eyes digging into the color of your cheeks, hand gentle as he reaches to hold it, earning him widened eyes from you. You could not turn down his advances even if you had begged him. There is too much of a difference in status, and you are no foolish nymph. You let him brush his thumb over your cheek, blinking at him gently as he stares. He could snap you if he really wanted to. There is the looming threat that he could wrap his hands around your neck, squeeze, and you would pop. Yet, you can not do anything if he bores of you.

You still do not understand why he had decided to keep you alive.

A gloved hand and fire.

His palm squeezes against your cheek, and you blink owlishly at the texture of the glove.

"You can not say no."

"I dare not to." You fiddle with your fingers, staring at him through your lashes as he hums. "Forget you nymphs can die."

"We are immortal, not indestructible." You close your eyes, leaning into his touch.

He stares and stares, eventually drawing his hand from your face, your eyes fluttering open as he hums.

"You died in one future."

"I did not die in mine."

How reassuring.

The next time the princess brings Prometheus to ruin, you ask her if she has pomegranates. She offers you one of power, and you turn it down. The fruit, not the pom, and she tells you no. You offer her a handful of seeds and request that she bring only one to you her next trip upwards. A full fruit, unbruised if possible. Not that it makes much of a difference. You simply craved the fruit since you were up here anyway. Too scared to leave the titan — you tell her.

When she leaves, Prometheus returns, and you are back to your ritual.

Cold hands, warm skin. You let him wrap his fingers around your wrist this time — you don't move as he does. You blink at him owlishly, his palm warm on your wrist, your skin heating up at his touch. It's a strange sense of domesticity — no. It's just simple warmth. It had been a while since there had been any warmth at all. The land had frozen over ever since the House of Hades fell to Time. The winter is cold. It is comforting to feel the warmth of fire again after such a climb. You only hope the princess will hand you a pomegranate her next time up.

Your wrist warms from his touch, and you watch as he squeezes, hold firm as you blink slowly at him.

"It does not wound you."

"No." You blink. "It surprises me."

He squeezes harder, and you blink. Stare. You articulate your fingers, blinking at him slowly as he loosens his hold, letting you slip your wrist from his grasp, hand stuck in his as he squeezes. He stares. He knows it all, and you only know one future. It matters not. You do not know your future of him or with him, but he knows. He knows the future with you. You have to learn to trust that he will not harm you. Learn to understand that it is fine if you do not know what comes next. He will, and somehow, he will guide you.

You do not have the foresight for the Titan of Foresight.

Yet, you catch snippets of a possible separate future when you ask for things. Futures where you did not ask. There is a sense of amusement from the titan somehow when you don't. He stares at you, eyes semi-hard but still peering, cock of a brow upwards as you blink owlishly at him.

"If I may."

"If you may what?"

You dig your nails into your palms before releasing, breathing as you ask.

It is always a yes. You've pressed your hands up his arms, given them a squeeze, and he has run his palm up your bicep and rested his forehead against yours. His hair that tickles your forehead, and your skin that is cool against his. You wonder if he understands that the intimacy sends jolts down your spine, your heart racing in your chest when he touches you. He might. He might do it to get a reaction out of you. You would not know if he does.

You stare into the red of his, blinking slowly as his thumb brushes over your pulse point, pressing down as your heart races in your ears.

"You are embarrassed."

"It goes without saying." You mumble, cheeks warm.

"The heart races."

"Yes."

"For what reason."

"You know, my lord."

"I must hear it from your lips."

Your voice loses itself in your throat, and he hums, lips in the ghost of a smile as you purse your own and close your eyes. Too much. Too honest. Your heart threatens to break out of your chest and end your immortality right there, and you blink slowly when you finally do open your eyes, the titan still staring.

You would not dare to confess that you like him. It would be inappropriate for a mere nymph to do so.

"Will you say it?"

"I can not, my lord."

"Then learn to accept it." He presses his palm to your cheek, thumb brushing your bottom lip as he leans in.

Aetos screeches above the two of you.

You bounce off immediately, back upon the pillar, heart racing as you hold it, hiding your face in your hands with a battering heart as you feel Prometheus' gaze linger on your hiding self. The red of his eyes dig into the flushing of yours, and you peek through your fingers when you hear the arrival of the princess, staring down. He would win this fight, unfortunately. She is wounded quite harshly from Strife, and it would be hard for her to survive without the revivals she leaned upon in order to defeat the titan.

Your words hold true, especially when you watch the princess cling onto her final moments, the bong of doom shaking over her head as she yells for a quick pause, holding out a pomegranate before she returns.

"For... the nymph."

Prometheus takes the pomegranate from her hand, and you hop down as you hold your hands out for the fruit.

"I refuse to participate." He stares.

"Alright."

You reach to peel the pomegranate, surprised when Prometheus does it instead, fingers digging into the fruit as he cracks it open for you, offering you the fruit as his hands stain red. You thank him, fingers brushing his as you take the fruit, red seeping onto your own to match his as you squeeze it for the juice, seed pressed to your nails as you stain. The red becomes so much more apparent with the nails and fingertips, humming to yourself quietly as you peel out the seeds, fingers gentle as you offer them to the titan. Instead, he slides them past your lips, staring as your lips part to take his offering, your fingers tugging at Prometheus' belt to have him bend down.

"I must heal you." You whisper.

"Offering me the spoils of effort." He mumbles. "How strange of you."

You blink, brushing his bottom lip with your thumb when he lowers, and you have him sit once more. Rest up. You tell him, water cold in your hands as he stares at the glow of blue. A strange dynamic the two of you have evolved into, he thinks. You're so breakable like this, nimble and pliant, skin softer under his palm as he grabs you. You're incredibly easy to break. But it's not that it matters. He can not break you. You do not need to be broke. You would listen to him if he asked out of fear. Fear or affection, he wonders.

What is the future that is visible in your eyes? You do not know your future with him.

He knows that you do not. Each step you take has a million other possibilities. You obey his word because of the hierarchy. He digs his fingers into your skin, skin soft and arm small. It matters not this or that. It matters only that it seems you only seem to care about him. You fear things that you do not speak upon, and you learn to accept his motions. His hands are gentle when he holds you, and he tells you when the princess or Aetos is to arrive to avoid scaring you. You're jumpy when he's affectionate with you.

Like a fawn caught in the wild.

In a way, you learn to accept his affection, still insisting on occasion that he would bore of you and that you should not reciprocate — you dare not to. Heavens knows how many lovers he has had or how the gods do not devote themselves to someone or something. You worry of trivial things. He does not see a future in which you will not be by his side. Regardless of what form of companionship you take, you are there in every future.

You are shyer with your affections, offering fruit to him when the princess defeats him and brings you items from her garden. You offer her seeds in return. requesting that she bring only one or two items from the seeds you've given her. You do not know how many times it has been since you've been handed grapes to enjoy. If she notices that you take care of the titan, she does not mention it. You would prefer that she just ask you upright, but you find it endearing that she lingers past the gate and peeks at the two of you as Prometheus sits down for you to fix him up.

She's quite cute — that goddess.

Prometheus whispers for you to rid of her, but you do not listen, hand smoothing up his abdomen and over the clots of gold that have formed. The intimacy tears at your skin, raking down your back in ripples as you whisper to end it all, begging him quietly to simply let the goddess pass. It would not hurt. Unless it would hurt his pride. She is visibly a sensible person. It would not hurt to let her go once or twice considering that Chronos could not know.

He tells you not to worry about it.

"When it all ends, I will return to my punishment."

"I expect it to be different this time." You whisper, fingers smoothing against his face as he sits you in his lap.

"My punishment? The chances are minuscule, nymph." He closes his eyes, melting into your touch as you hum.

"My foresight says change."

"Then your foresight we will depend on." He closes his eyes, letting your fingers scratch at his scalp, your skin cool against his as he rests his forehead on yours. "Do not break, dear nymph."

"I will not under your care, my lord." You mumble.

"Am I still all that is to you?"

You jump in your skin when the sound of the princess approaching breaks through the silence.

"You did not warn me." You frown.

"Prefer to see you squirm."

You stay seated on the top of the pillar as you blink slowly, hiding your face from the embarrassment, praying that it will pass.

When the princess wins, she leaves you with the message that Chronos is to fall soon after a while.

"I am in the process of sealing him away for good."

"I see." You whisper back as she hands you a handful of figs.

"More than one?"

"I believe you share these with the titan."

You laugh, cheeks warm as you send her off, sound of Prometheus' return behind you as you turn around to make the offering, handful of figs in your hand as he stares down.

"Feed me, dear nymph."

You take one from your palm, pressing it to his lips as he eats it, and you press one to Aetos' beak as it squacks at you. Then, you press one to your own, biting down as the meat of the fruit rips in your mouth, sweet against your tongue as Prometheus stares, wounds fresh on his skin, gold staining his body as you place the figs in your pouch.

"Chronos shall be falling."

"I am aware." He closes his eyes as you run your thumb under his eyes.

"Will you let the princess go next time if she succeeds?"

"If she succeeds."

"I'm sure she will."

"Not certain?"

"She has that kind of charm." You hum. "May I?"

"And what would that be?"

"I dare not to ask outright."

"Then kiss me, dear nymph." He leans down, lips brushing yours gently.

You kiss him, lips hesitant as yours brush his once more, shaking slightly as his hands find your face, palms rough against your cheek as you close your eyes and lean in, head tilted back slightly as he leans over you, body swallowing yours as his lips swallow yours, and you shake gently. His hands steady themselves on your cheek, and eventually your mind spins with the lack of air — there is no lack of air for a nymph, but your chest burns and your head spins, heat pooling in your lungs as you whimper for air, whimpering into his lips as he makes not a sound.

You gasp, pulling back as he chases, one hand sliding down to wrap around your neck delicately, fingers hot against your throat as you swallow, muscles flexing under his palm as his lips find yours again. He's parched, you think. Hasn't had a sip of water since his chaining in the sea, and saltwater is no good to drink. He tastes like the heat of the fire you had observed when curious, peering quietly at the flame that he had been chained over. It burns and scorches your throat but your head boils beautifully at the feeling of his lips on yours, sparks sparkling down your spine, your eyes closing once more. Death is frozen in time — it no longer matters. You can not pass.

When Prometheus finally lets go of you, the warning sound of the princess' footsteps light against the marble stairs and vision of the future in his eye as he tucks you behind him gently, eyes meeting the princess as he lets Aetos land on his hand. The princess locks eyes with you as you offer a shy smile.

"Time has been weakened."

"I lack one final item."

"Then fetch it. Do not disappoint, agent of change." Prometheus stares, watching as the princess rushes past the three of you.

"You let her go." You whisper.

"You should have known."

"I do not know your future, my lord."

"Then of yours?"

"That, I know."

Prometheus tells you that he is to fight the princess one final time when she returns after defeating time.

You understand it as well, circles drawn in his palm as he sits down, free hand resting on your thigh with an occasional squeeze, gentle smile on your lips as you trace the lines and scars, humming quietly. The flame in his hand is warm against your fingertips, and he controls the fire as to not burn you — but you like it. He knows you do. He knows you flush not from embarrassment but from affection. That much is apparent. If anything, you appreciate the warmth that his body brings to yours.

"The princess returns in a while." You mumble, flushed as he pulls you closer, forehead pressed to yours as his lips part, skin of your neck pinched between his canines, hard enough to draw gold. You whimper from the tearing of skin, squirming in his grasp as he bites harder, Aetos soaring off to aid Chronos' troops as Prometheus traps you in his arms, tongue out as he laps at the dribbling blood. You hold back sound, neck craned to the side as your lashes flutter.

"My lord."

"It does not hurt, does it?"

"No, but it is a strange sensation." You whisper, heat melting down your spine and pooling between your legs, and Prometheus bites.

It's hard to not bite when you look and sound so sickeningly sweet, hands flying to your face that he has to pry away with his much larger ones, panic rising up your throat when he towers over you, and he thinks that perhaps you should not be taken on the marble at the end of the rebellion, but foresight be dammed. His mind is overdriven with the sound slipping past your lips, your bottom lip quivering as he lifts both your legs lifted up as he measures out himself, hips flush against yours as you gasp and cry about it not fitting.

"My lord—"

"Prometheus." He pinches at the skin of your collarbone, and you scramble to ground yourself, fingers pressing into the marble until the blood drains and it is the same shade of white, eyes wide as you shake your head.

"L-lord Prometheus. It won't—"

"You are immortal, dear nymph."

"I am immortal, not indestructible." You whimper as he nudges himself against you, thumb finding your pebble of nerves, brushing gently as you flutter around nothing.

"You crave it."

"I fear it."

"It coexists." He presses a hand to your chest, and you inhale. "Breathe for me, dear nymph."

You exhale, drawing a breath in when he pushes past your entrance and into you, your throat suddenly full and lashes wet at the sudden intrusion. He reaches down to wipe at your tears, forehead pressed to yours as he syncs your breathing with his, deep breaths past his lips as you follow, sheen on your body glistening as the moon hangs in the sky. His free thumb wipes at the tears, and you paw at his chest, nails dug into your palms to not tear the wound on his chest, and he brushes your bottom lip.

"It won't hurt, dear nymph."

"Does not—" You furrow your brows, closing your eyes. "change that I wish not to hurt you."

"It takes more than a nymph to tear a titan." He reaches for your hands, unclenching them as he has you press them to his chest. "Worry not."

"Can't see your future." You whimper, voice broken as you breathe. "Don't know if—"

"Then trust that I do." His thumb at your clit gives it a gentle nudge, and he holds back a groan at the way you flutter around him. "Dear nymph."

"You can—" you swallow, panting, sweat trickling down your forehead as you exhale. "move, dear... Prometheus."

"I will not hurt you."

"I trust that."

You're sickeningly sweet under him. He moves slowly at first, trying to keep you comfortable, foresight in hot flashes before his eyes, stilling when he needs to, moving when it seems you are comfortable again. Eventually your heavy breathing turns into jagged syllables of what resembles his name, and his mind stills with the way his hips drive into yours, and your nails dig at his forearms, still too scared to rip his chest, and he grunts when you do spill over the edge and cry his name with beads in your eyes and a vice between your legs. He follows shortly after, and he rakes his mind for a future in which perhaps he could fit all of himself in you, but when you reach for his neck, he pushes it back.

"Well done, dear nymph."

Your eyes close from exhaustion.

You stay that way. Your mind turns off and you are not awake when Chronos is sealed. You are, however, aware of it all, flashes of the future in your mind as you see a chariot of gold, startling you awake. You stay in the embrace of Prometheus, rubbing your eyes tiredly as the future is revealed to you sweetly. You lean on his chest and close your eyes once more, matching your breathing to his as he rubs at your forearm.

"The princess is coming."

"Yes."

"And Time has been sealed."

"Correct."

"And you are to be punished once more."

"It is inevitable."

You laugh a little when you remember what Prometheus' punishment ends up being.

"You are aware?"

"We will be alright."

There is a sense of urgency this time, Prometheus thinks. He is not so much of a coward as to run off since Chronos himself has been defeated, but he worries of what will happen to you if you were to be captured. Too many possibilities, and you refuse to share the one that has been revealed to you. Yet, he is no match for the princess, defeated once more as you watch his body disappear. He must be back to nursing, but his body returns immediately, unable to access the rest that Chronos had once provided him. The titan is defeated, and he is next.

"You must not trap him, princess." You land on the ground of the chamber, hands gentle as you take hers and stare at the coughing titan. "I shall take him to my spring if I must. He must not go back."

"Nymph, you must not be—"

"I shall steal him if that is what it takes." You whisper. "His wrath has been justified. It always has been. Both of us are aware of such a small fact."

"Then the olympians. It does not justify what he has done to the gods."

"The gods are simply prideful. After all, did he not purposefully weaken himself for your sake these fights? He had been punished for offering fire to the humans." You offer. "I am not saying that he must get away free of all punishment. I simply ask that you are to request for a simpler punishment. Perhaps something less gruesome than what was previously sent for him."

"And what do you propose?"

You whisper into the princess' ear, but you know Prometheus knows what you have said.

"How does that sound?" You look up at the titan as he stands up, Aetos back on his hand.

"What a hit to my pride."

You grin, lips curling upwards as you laugh.

"Will the gods know?"

"Not with the fates back where they belong."

"Very well." The princess nods. "Do invite me, yes?"

"Of course." You hum, cheeks warm as she's gone from the door.

"It will occur?"

"My foresight says yes."

Prometheus learns to trust you.

And, well, if the princess hears news about a new chariot being in the works by Hephaestus, then it is not her place to tell for whom or for what.

#you ever write smth n then blink n then get embarassed bc “oh god why me” im not strong enough for this each time i start a tag i die #hades game x reader #hades 2 x reader #☾.nsfw #hades 2 #☾.fics #prometheus x reader #prometheus hades game x reader #hades game #the thing was i went on a lore dive n found out he actually has a wife n i went “NO FUCKING WAY” so here we are #bluesky user chicl if u r seeing this n would not like your art to be used in this lmk... 'm sorry :(#prometheus hades #reader insert #prometheus

162 notes · View notes

givemedamage · 7 months ago

Text

ultimately!

#ELIIIIIIII YOU CANT SAY THAT ELIIIIIIIIIIII #audiof from not even emily latest video go watch literally its so fuckingfunny #dont even ask me how eli fits in hance' 5'2 dad's clothes pls ok #my art #digital art #oc art #anthro art #not even gonna lie i thfought i wasnt gonan finish this but we pulled thru #if quality gets murdered i will cry #swhy are all my favorite drawings baby sugar and eliyah interacting #i like themb #i was gonna add fucking comical cartoon slipping noises when her antler popped off but imovie literalsly. it didnt work it wpuldnt let me #vid too biggy #also noahs ark esque announcement for ppl thta read my evil ramble tags i miiight nuke sanguinary univers bc i love my ocs too much to like #like i dont wanna marry my first idea and i love them too much to box them into a project I PERSONALLY FEEL LIKE I FUMBLED LIKE #OK LITERALLY NO INSULT WHATSOEVER TO ANYONE WHO MIGHT LIKE IT BUT IT WAS my firsy ever comic and i feeeeel like i can do betteeerrr a #meowweooww #like if it was small things i wanted to change i could juts panel edit but its like. major things like when i started chapter 1 i had #LITERALLY NO PLAN JUST MY nerdy vampire obsession. which is still present. giggle h #breaking news boygirl learns that they arent rlly proudof the writing in comic thye started when they were a teenager #ALSO I LITERALLY HAVE LORE THAT IVE. BEEN MAKING THAT CONTRADICTS THINGS (? PROBABLY) SO ok trust me ok just trust m #also yes this is what i’ve been working on except that animatsuon i mentioned with eli crying because priorities or someth #not except wtf i mean insyead or some other shit #also i just looked at this wall of text on mobile and like ew shut up little gay

148 notes · View notes

stevie-petey · 3 months ago

Text

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 Higgins 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.

“Higgin 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?”

–

Higgins 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. Higgins 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 Higgins, 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 Higgins, 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.

⌑ series masterlist

⌑ if youd like to buy me a coffee ☕︎

⌑ please feel free to like, reblog, and comment. i adore hearing from you guys :)

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #rockstar!steve harrington #stranger things fic #m's writing #AHHHH IM SO FUCKING EXCITED #IVE BEEN DYING TO SHARE THIS WITH YALL #ENJOY <3333

584 notes · View notes