#m's writing

[stevie-petey]

GASOLINE (S.H.)

it starts out simple enough.

photograph the februarys in exchange for a cheap place to live. all you have to do is go to their gigs, take a few pictures, and hope that they like them.

it starts out simple enough.

until the bands frontman, steve harrington, begs for more.

CONTAINS: fem!reader, slow burn, roommates to friends to are they lovers ? (worse), messy feelings and situationship, sexual tension, alcohol dependency, unhealthy coping mechanisms, probably unrealistic depictions of band life in the 80s but idc the vibes are there.

playlist ‧₊˚.

track one: i wanna get off

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.

track two: but youre such a tease

now officially the februarys concert photographer, you hit the road with them on tour. how bad can three months be stuck inside a small tour bus with steves needy hands and songs reserved only for you ?

track three: you did me bad

with tour winding down and an album set to be released, tensions inside the tour bus grows. when the already blurred lines between you and steve get crossed, the fallout of your relationship nearly sends the band spiraling as well.

track four: but i wanna go faster

recording an album is hard enough when the person steve has written every song for cant look him in the eye. its even harder when said person is also his roommate. and it definitely doesnt help that the rest of the band thinks its steves fault. now hes stuck on yet another tour bus with you. and everyone else. for six months.

track five: gasoline, pretty please

screaming crowds and flashing lights with steves name on everyones lips. everyones lips but yours; the lips he cant forget. when you get offered a job that would force you to leave the februarys behind, steve only has one last chance to beg you for more.

LAST UPDATE: 5/25/25

MAIN MASTERLIST

if you’d like to buy me a coffee ☕︎

[xtangerinefilmx]

a drink

summary: a patrol shift with Joel ends a lot better than you could hope for

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

word count: 1.3k

warnings: cursing

The snow crunched under your boots and you could see your breath puff out in front of you. The Wyoming winter chilling you to the bone despite all of your layers. As pretty as all the snow and quiet in the woods was, your favorite part of the patrol was being paired up with Joel Miller. Resident Grump of Jackson. At least that’s how you saw him. Everyone else stayed clear of him… besides a good chunk of women after they’d had a few at the Tipsy Bison. 

Others were scared of Joel. You… you wanted him. There was over two decades between the two of you, a dark past clouding him, and you still couldn’t kick the feeling of butterflies any time you saw the man. The worst part was that you’d barely spoken in the months he showed up back in Jackson with his daughter/not daughter. Joel wasn’t much of a talker in general, outside of his family. You’d be embarrassed to admit that you’d try to walk by their table in the dining hall just to hear his voice. To put it short you were down bad in the most humiliating way. Even if nobody else knew. Or at least you hope nobody did. It was rare the two of you were alone anyways. You’d take the silent companionship found out on patrol, taking in beautiful sceneries like the one in front of you: Joel riding through the peaceful forest on horseback in front of you. 

“We can stop up ahead before we head back for today,” Joel’s gruff voice said, his head slightly turning back to you. You only hummed in response. 

A few moments later Joel stopped his horse in a small clearing, a shed covered in snow stood in the treeline. Joel hopped off his horse and moved towards it, going to retrieve the log book to record your patrol. Usually you’d stay on your horse to wait for Joel to finish, but this time you hopped off and followed behind him. 

“No need to get off your horse, darlin’. I’ll be done in a minute,” Joel said.

“I just wanted to see the view, I haven’t done this route since the snow started sticking,” you explained, moving past him to look down the hill behind the shed. The ravine was a pretty sight in the winter, but in reality you knew you were just stalling for more time with Joel. 

“Five minutes, then we need to head back before it gets dark,”  he sighed, much to your surprise. You’d expected more grumbling before he allowed you to indulge in the view. 

You stayed there to soak it in for a moment, listening to the scratch of him writing your names in the logbook before turning back towards him. There were a few flecks of snow stuck in his greying hair, now quite a bit longer than when you’d met him. Still just as hot.

“You keep staring long enough you’re going to bore holes into my face, babydoll,” Joel said, obviously trying to hold back a chuckle at your expense as he closed the logbook. Okay, so maybe you were more obvious than you’d previously thought. 

“Sorry,” you mumbled, turning your face to hide the blush creeping across your face. 

“Don’t be,” he said, putting away the logbook as you started to move back to the horse. Trying your hardest not to seem embarrassed. “It’s not like I haven’t done my fair share of staring at you.”

That got you to stop in your tracks, only furthering your embarrassment at how eager you became after hearing that. You didn’t say anything, but you heard him approaching slowly behind you. 

“Couldn’t stop after my jackass of a brother pointed out that a certain someone had a little crush on me,” his voice was quieter now, coming closer. You stayed still, fearing if you moved a muscle you’d wake from a dream. Or you could be in shock. You weren’t sure yet. “Didn’t believe him, but then I kept catching you in the dining hall. You’re not very subtle.”

“Hmm, maybe I was just waiting for you to notice. Was worried your eyesight was already going bad, old man. Thought you’d pick up on the 20 something year old giving you googly eyes quicker,” you joked, finally able to form words as you felt the heat of him at your back. This was definitely not how you thought your little detour would go, but you were determined to see whatever was going on through. 

Joel was silent for a moment before you felt his hands on your shoulders and him moving you to face him. “Well, now that I’ve noticed, will you actually stop to talk to me when you see me? Or are you going to keep sneaking glances like I’m the last cookie?” 

You took a moment to respond, to entranced by finally getting to see his face up close and personal. All the finer details of the face you were so fond of; his crow’s feet, the grey in his facial hair, the scars. If you were braver you’d reach out to touch him.

“Where’d you go in that pretty head of yours?” Joel asked, and you could see how smug he was about the effect he had on you. You replayed moments in your head where your paths had crossed, wondering when Tommy had made his brother aware of your infatuation with him. If Joel had seen how you’d gone soft at the way he’d keep Ellie under his arm during community bonfires, or if he’d seen the way you blushed when he’d help you onto your horse for patrol. Each moment building up his courage to call you on it. 

“I think I have a better idea, you should take me for a drink at the Tipsy Bison. Then, I’ll get to stare at you all I want,” you blurted out. He already knew about your crush, so you didn’t have much to lose at this point. That caused him to actually laugh, a sound you hadn’t heard yet. You wanted to keep making him make that noise. 

“I think I like that idea, but are you sure you wanna be seen with an old man like me?” Joel tried to make it seem like he was joking, but you could see the slight shift in his eyes. He was self conscious about the age difference.

“I’d like to see someone try to say something,” you said. You were a grown adult, and there was nobody in Jackson who could tell you what you could and couldn’t do when it came to this man. Not when he was looking at you with the softest eyes, cheeks brushed with pink from the cold. You wanted to… to kiss him. 

So you did. 

You lifted yourself up onto your toes and quickly pressed your lips against his cold cheek. An urge from deep inside pushing you to give the man reassurance. You could smell leather and soap on him, a little sweat. You wanted more already. 

When you pulled back you chanced a look up at his reaction. It took a moment for him to process, but you were rewarded with a gentle smile and a shine in his eyes. 

“We should get back around 3, how about we clean ourselves up and I’ll come to yours around 7 and we can walk there together?” Joel suggests. Already moving you both back towards your horses. 

“Sounds good, old man,” you teased. “Now, how about we race back and try to get to those drinks a little faster.” You tried to beat him getting onto your horse, but as soon as the man heard the word race he was already swinging himself up onto his. 

“That’s not fair!” You called after him as he took off ahead of you. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t have called me an old man, honey,” Joel laughed over his shoulder. “Loser has to get the drinks.”

You couldn’t wipe the cheesy grin on your face the whole way back to Jackson, looking forward to a drink or two with Joel Miller.

a/n: I'll be adding more parts to this one shot to make it a little series, need some winter fluff in my life. written at work and not beated, so yell at me if there's any issues with the fic <3

[peerreview3d]

Blaming my oomf 黑白像素 for bring up how the memory gun scene is both a funeral for a wedding. With Ford wearing what was supposed to be his wedding suit, dressed to his nines, to erase Stan's mind, essentially killing him. But death is also a release, for them to start anew at the cost of everything, blank slate not tainted by the bitterness between them.

And with Stan kneeling in front of Ford, proposing to the love of his life that he's been chasing for 30 years, his memory a wedding ring. Full of promises for a better future, and putting his trust in Ford.

A scene that Ford definitely had at some point, of himself in his wedding suit with Stan kneeling in front of him. But he never expected it to be like this, he never wanted it to be like this

[thedaslut]

Have a short solavellan ficlet, set immediately after VG (Obviously spoiler heavy)

Solas does his best to keep it together but… these past few minutes have been some of the most exhausting of his life, and that's including the fight with Elgar'nan's archdemon just before then. He barely registers the bleak greyness, the monochrome light as he finds his knees buckling and vision swimming.

But he does feel the warmth as his vhenan grabs him to steady him, hears her voice as she calls his name - though the sound of it is muffled and distorted he knows it from her lips.

She speaks to him as he's lead to a fallen pillar. He thinks she tells him to look at her, but he's not sure. He does anyway. He sees two of her, and the thought that he's twice as happy flits through his mind and makes him smile.

"You look a mess, vhenan," she says, both of her smiling back. "Rest. I am here. I will be here when you wake up."

He could obey and lean back, he knows. Already his beloved is searching through her field-kit with a deft hand that looks like something Ghilan'nain would approve of in his swimming vision, but he doesn't close his eyes or look away. He doesn't want to. He never wants to stop seeing her.

Still, his vision dims as she works, cleans, heals. Pulsing darkness at the edges, or perhaps simply blinking. He closes his eyes when she whispers something reassuring and reaches up to the gash over his eye with a needle and thread and he doesn't open them again. He says something, he thinks it is her name, and it feels like a promise.

He's warm when he wakes up.

The prison has never been warm.

Opening his eyes is not as easy as he thought. One eye is swollen, and both hurt like a bad headache with reinforcements. He doesn't feel heavy - his armor removed - and he is resting his head on a red piece of cloth. Vhenan's sash, he realizes when he turns his face towards it and catches her scent. Still the same, after all this time. Her coat covers him best it can, and it warms more than just his frame.

Something in front of him flutters as he breathes. It takes a good while for him to focus his gaze on it.

The grey rock of the prison is as familiar to him as it gets, cold and merciless like the past. But from a crack within the stone a bright, green sapling has unfolded two leaves that dance with his breath.

He lifts his head, and sees light. Warm light, sunlight. He feels wind, light and gentle. At the edge of his hearing he can hear flowing water.

And not too far away from him, but far enough for him to know that she's been exploring, is his heart. Standing within a sunbeam that turns the grey stone around her golden.

Her hand extended, a tiny whisp dancing in her palm. A guest, who slipped through cracking walls? Or something formed here where he meant for no life to thrive?

A breath of relief, a sob of a pain ended, the pain in his eyes washed away as tears form. She was right. It wouldn't be terrible if they are together.

[warmblanketwhump]

hello hello! after an accidental hiatus, I'm back with an entry into the surrender an ask game that @save-the-villainous-cat and @epiclamer put together where we all swapped asks. thanks so much for doing this!!!

here's my ask: Hi! I’ve become obsessed with your Hero Gets Yanked By An Upstanding Citizen Into Their Window And Into Their Heart post and I was wondering if you could- maybe- on the off chance- if you have time- come back to it for another scene? I just love the duo’s dynamic so much, the lovable hero who is trying a little too hard at any given chance, and the citizen who is wholly unafraid to manhandle a superhero into their home and into their life. That’s the vibes I was getting from their short interaction anyway- I love them so much aaagugfyduhijigififiguftgb your writing makes me go insane” Submitted by @yourheartonfire

The hero checks once, twice behind their shoulders, then collapses on to the rickety fire escape. It's off the beaten path, away from anyone. Sure, there's a little prickle of guilt that it's a Saturday night, and there are probably dozens of crimes afoot that need their attention.

But the past few weeks have run them absolutely ragged. If they didn't know better, they'd think that someone was scheming against them deliberately. call after call, summons after summons, each one more dire than the last.

People count on them—people need them, and they like the feeling of being needed. But they're exhausting, aching, injured, absolutely spent. Their leg throbs with a recent injury that they haven't had time to treat, and they can't remember the last time they slept more than three hours at a time.

They lean their head back against the scarred brick of the apartment building, letting their eyes slip closed....

.....and when a wailing siren sounds in the distance, the hero tries not to whimper.

Get up. It's time to go.

And they do get up. Too quickly.

Their toe catches on the edge of the rickety fire escape, and before the hero can react, they're falling, tumbling, twisting, too exhausted and spent to do anything to stop the inevitable pull of gravity on their body.

The last thing they see is the extended metal overhanging of the fire escape before pain shot through their body, and darkness overtook them.

_________________

The hero hoped that when they awoke, they'd somehow find themselves in their own spase, yet comfortable bed, that the last two months had been just a nightmare.

Instead, they hear frustrated, disembodied grunts and feel someone pulling at them, tugging them over something hard and metal and painful for their aching body.

"Get...in...here..."

The hero wants to swat the hands away, but their limbs are dead weight at their sides, and their voice gets stuck in their throat when they try to cry out. So darkness falls again.

_________________

When the hero wakes a second time, they're aware of a throbbing in their bad leg and a pounding in their head, and an ache that's more painful than anything they've ever felt. They're in a dark room, save for a softly glowing salt lamp in the far corner, and they're aware of being tucked under a thick, soft blanket on some sort of couch or daybed.

It's comfortable, safe, warm—and wrong. They have no idea where they are or who they're with, nor how long they've been there, nor how many lives have been lost while they've been knocked unconscious.

They try to call out, but the "hey" comes out as more of a raspy whisper, and the blanket is far too heavy for them to toss from their broken body. In their efforts to move, something gets knocked over with a crash.

"Hey, hey, hey now, don't move. Shhhh." A figure darts into the room and the hero feels two hands against their shoulders, pressing them back into the bed.

"W--where..."

"You're....here. At my apartment. Figured I didn't want to leave you out on my fire escape all night." The shadowed figure flicks on another lamp and the hero winces, hand flying to touch their face—

Their bare face.

A strangled cry flees their throat. Not only have they failed their city, but someone's seen their face, seen how utterly, desperately ordinary they are beneath it all. This someone knows who they are and could ruin it all. Their eyes flicker up to see the stranger standing at the foot of their bed, holding their disguise tenderly in their hands.

"I'm so sorry....I didn't want to take it off, but you were bleeding from a pretty nasty forehead cut, and I didn't want to leave it too long." The stranger's hand lightly ghosts over their hairline, and the hero realizes there's some sort of thick bandage over where the throbbing is radiating from. "I won't tell a soul. Promise. If you have some sort of mind control....thing, you can even erase my memories, if you want, but you need like....a ton of medical attention first. I've done first aid and an outdoor wilderness survival class a couple times, but you probably need some kind of doctor, but I get if you don't want to do that with your identity and all that...."

"Won't....won't bother you" the hero slurs, trying to sit up again, before collapsing back down. Try as they might, they couldn't leave this cursed couch.

"Oh no, no, you're not bothering me at all. You just sorta...freaked me out, is all. And there was a TON of blood, and I couldn't just leave you there, so I just kinda—" the stranger motions with their hands "yanked you right in here, did some first aid, and here we are." The stranger adjust the blankets, tucking the hero in tighter. "You looked pretty banged up."

I supposed I did, the hero muses to themselves. "It's....been a rough few weeks. But I'm okay."

"You sure?" The stranger's brows furrow, and their hand gestures to their leg. "I'm no doctor, but that gash on your leg looks...pretty bad. Shouldn't someone be looking after that?"

Hero hears the subtext of the question. Shouldn't someone be looking after YOU?

The hero isn't quite sure what to say to that. How long has it been since someone tended their wounds, tucked them in, brought them in from the elements, and asked how they were?

"I'm....I'm alright." Hero's mortified to hear the smallest wobble in their voice.

"Hero, that's not what I asked." The stranger's voice is firm, yet gentle, their hand resting on their uninjured knee.

"Right." The hero sniffles, suddenly unable to speak.

The stranger seems to understand the thousand thoughts of the hero's mind that flood the silence, then gently pats their other uninjured leg. "Well, in that case, it's time we get started now that you're awake. I'll get the bandages, and we'll really get you cleaned up and take stock of how much healing you've got ahead of you. No promises, though—I told you, it's only a couple first-aid classes, so don't you judge my wound dressings."

Hero's suprised to hear their own thin, crackly laugh. "Wouldn't dare."

[talesofthepinktape]

Duty

Context: another one-shot about my ATLA OC, Daiyu. It talks more about her background, specifically with her parents and her older sister.

Word count: 8,348 words

WARNINGS: child neglect and mistreatment. Abuse of power and a brief instance of child abuse from a character named Lady Hana. Ozai being Ozai. Semi-graphic mention of self-harm (I don't think it's too graphic, but I'd rather be safe than sorry.) Brief moments of swearing and anger. Implied alcoholism in a background character. Daiyu's family don't mean to suck but they still end up failing Daiyu more often than not. I think that's it, I'll add more if needed. Obligiatory note for my bad writing, also didn't really edit ooopppsss.

At one point, there had been sweetness in her family.

            Admittedly, the memories were ones that she’d have to squint and scratch at to unveil. Regardless, after some prying she could vaguely remember it—her father’s tender hugs, her mother’s goodnight kisses to her head, her sister’s soothingly rubbing at her shoulders during tense moments.

            Of course, the sweet gestures were always saved for behind closed doors—it wasn’t expected (or, more appropriately, approved of) to see a family with a reputation like hers to be as weak as showing affection.

            How would the court react to her father General Zhulong, Prince Ozai’s childhood best friend and most trusted advisor, picking up his daughter and swinging her around in a hug? How would it appear if her mother Lady Dongmei, Fire Lord Azulon’s handpicked bodyguard for both of his sons, stepped out from her post to greet and coo at her children? No, no, it simply wouldn’t do.

            This duty was just simply expected of her family. The Song family—the family that produced generation after generation of skilled firebenders, and highly believed to be the ones to invent lightning bending. Since the beginning of the Fire Nation, they’d faithfully served the Crown and done whatever they’d asked. Daiyu’s grandmother had been Fire Lord Azulon’s most trusted advisor before her passing. Daiyu’s mother was, as mentioned prior, the fierce bodyguard of both Princes and had been assigned that at a young age. Even her father, after clawing his way up from peasantry and impressing the court, had no issue fitting in with the family code of service. It hadn’t ever been an issue with him—being loyal to Prince Ozai, his friend since saving the prince from a mugging and fighting off thieves together, came naturally to General Zhulong.

            Daiyu longed to be like them. To be seen as loyal and dutiful and honorable. And if following her family’s code of inconsistent kindness would help her, if wearing that emotionless mask would get her on the path, then so be it.

            And maybe sometimes discomfort would gnaw at the edges of Daiyu’s mind as she watched her friends be so openly… comfortable with their families. Whether it be Ty Lee openly crying out with joy and running to greet her parents or Zuko being attached to his mother’s hip; whether it was even Azula basking in Ozai’s praise or Mai receiving a kiss on the head from her father, Daiyu learned to push down the longing so adjust the carefully practiced mask.

            (“Why can’t we be more like Ty Lee and her family?” Daiyu could remember asking one night through a pout.

            “Oh my sweetling, I’m so sorry,” her mother murmured, eyebrows knit with sadness, “We just can’t allow ourselves to show that kind of… weakness.” Dongmei grimaced at the final word, though Daiyu hadn’t noticed.

            Instead, the four-year-old simply gazed down at her blanket and uttered out, “Oh.”

            Dongmei’s shoulders slumped as she gazed down at her youngest. She took a deep breath before leaning in, capturing Daiyu’s attention as she stroked her daughter’s hair, “But just know, that your father and I love you and Jiaying very much. More than anything.”

            Daiyu nodded, eyes brightening just slightly. Dongmei smiled softly, lips quivering in the subtlest fashion as she ducked down to press a tender kiss to Daiyu’s head. Maybe Dongmei would hope that Daiyu would remember from their conversation the declaration of love, the sweet kiss to her temple, the silent vow of devotion. But in reality all Daiyu would recall were those fateful words—

            “We just can’t allow ourselves to show that kind of… weakness.”)

***

            While her parents were bound by duty, her older sister Jiaying had less qualms with bending the rules. Zhulong and Dongmei kept their spines straight and gazes stoic, while Jiaying strutted about with the cocky swagger of a confident youth wherever she pleased.

            Jiaying was ten years older than Daiyu—at this point, fifteen to Daiyu’s tender age of five. Jiaying was a firebending protégé, and quickly getting the hang of lightning bending—yet another member of the Song family to be a master of her element.

            They didn’t have a whole lot in common—their ages, their personalities, and even who was or wasn’t a bender were all different between the two. It sometimes showed, in Jiaying’s stalling to find something to discuss with Daiyu, or in Daiyu’s awkward shuffling to approach her sister in public. Yet, they loved each other—and unlike their parents, Jiaying wasn’t afraid to be open about it.

            Whereas Zhulong could be relied on for an approving nod and Dongmei for the smallest of smiles, Jiaying was much more blatant. She made it a point to greet her baby sister with a high five or a hug, and always tagging on an affectionate nickname at the end of her greetings. Jiaying took Daiyu with her everywhere—to her training sessions, to her adventures down to the market, and sometimes even to her visits with Jiaying’s betrothed, Prince Lu Ten.

            Of course, Jiaying had a side of her that most older siblings did—a teasing side. She loved to pull pranks on Daiyu, whether in public or in private. Daiyu would always have to hold back tears when her sister tripped her in front of all the nobles or brought up embarrassing stories in front of Jiaying’s firebending peers, but she just remembered her mother’s words and straightened her spine like her parents did.

            And sometimes Jiaying would go too far. Sometimes she’d say the wrong thing or be too harsh in her jokes, and Daiyu would have to excuse herself before going off to cry in the closest private room. On those days, her parents would scold Jiaying in the privacy of their home. And Jiaying would always end up slinking into Daiyu’s room with a treat or a toy in her hands and an apology on her lips. Daiyu would forgive her sister, and they’d spend the rest of the night talking—or, however long it took for Daiyu to fall asleep.

            Daiyu was five at that point, and had learned a routine: her parents would gift her and Jiaying the subtlest forms of affection in public. And in private affection couldn’t be guaranteed either—what with how busy their roles kept them—but you could always count on comforting cuddles and kind words when they were around. But Jiaying was a blinding sun, and marched to the beat of her own drum—she’d hug Daiyu, encourage her, and prank her whenever and wherever she pleased.

            And Daiyu didn’t know a whole lot at her tender age, but at that moment it felt like enough.

***

            Daiyu was six when she was assigned caretaker of Prince Zuko and Princess Azula.

            To the Fire Nation officials, she was the perfect choice—a member of the Song family, one of the Fire Nation’s most influential and powerful families, continuing their direct service to the Crown was appropriate. Her father carried this out as the ruthless general leading the Crown’s armies, her mother kept to this vow by being Ozai’s loyal and protective shadow, and her sister would continue the tradition by marrying Lu Ten and fighting in their armies. Daiyu had her part to play, and, according to the nobles around her who suddenly cared so much, she was just so much wiser than the other children her age.

            “An excellent choice to guide the Prince and Princess,” said one official with an approving nod.

            “Is the age not of concern?” said another with an eyebrow raise. The second official’s gaze had a mocking glint that made Daiyu shift in her seat.

            “She might be younger than the Prince and Princess, but she has double the maturity of most her age,” said a third, “She could be a good influence on them.”

            “Well, how soon could she start?”

            “What about the Prince and Princess’ training? How can a non-bender oversee that?”

            “We’d need to get her to start lessons with the Lady Hana as soon as possible. We can’t afford to have the child sitting around and doing nothing.”

            “Oh, and also—”

            “But what about—”

            Words and phrases blurred together with Daiyu’s vision. Her breathing quickened and her hands began to shake.

            The council was asking her to become a caretaker to the royal children. Oversee the lessons, make sure they were fed and healthy, ensuring they were presentable to court, mediate their arguments… she was six. Daiyu was six, two years younger than Zuko, and two months younger than Azula. How was she supposed to take care of them?

            “—Lady Daiyu?”

            She jerked herself out of her thoughts, suddenly aware of all eyes on her. Her eyes instinctively flickered past all the other faces at the table—up to the furthest chair on the left side, where her father sat with his fingers laced together. Her eyes went further past to the shadows of the room, where her mother no doubt lingered. On instinct, Daiyu straightened her spine and raised her chin in Ozai’s direction.

            “Yes, my Lord? I’m sorry, my mind escaped me for a moment. It won’t happen again,” Daiyu said in her rehearsed, “wise beyond years” tone. Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth, weighing her down.

            “I was simply asking for your answer,” Ozai purred, gaze relaxed yet sharp and zeroed in on her alone, “What do you say? Will you take up the honor and responsibility of preparing my children for glory?”

            She gulped. Her eyes went back to the shadows—Dongmei made her presence known, eyes bright and a genuine smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Daiyu’s eyes went back to that chair—Zhulong’s orbs held an approving light, and pride rolled off of him in waves.

            Daiyu faltered, When was the last time they were this proud of her? In public, in front of the court and everyone?

            Dongmei’s smile. Zhulong’s pride. Daiyu’s eyes went back to Ozai. A moment passed, then two, and her mouth opened with a reply.

***

            “I’m so proud of you, my sweetling, you made the right choice today,” Dongmei gushed. Daiyu sat in front of her mother as Dongmei gently ran a brush through her long, black hair.

            “Thank you, Mommy.”

            “Oh, my love, you’ll be brilliant,” Zhulong said, “And really, there’s no greater way to serve the Fire Nation than to serve the royal children. They’ll be the next generation, and you’ll be the reason they continue the legacy of our people.”

            Dongmei nodded enthusiastically, “Like your father said, love. Our family has been serving the Nation in many ways over many, many years. You’re helping continue our service, and we’re so proud of you.”

            A knot formed in her stomach. Where was this when she scored top grades in her class? Where was this when she got the leading part in the school play? Daiyu gulped, twiddling with her fingers yet again. She spoke through the sudden dryness in her throat, “B-but Mommy, Daddy, I-I don’t know what to do or how to help them. Will you be there to help me?”

            Behind her, Dongmei gently set down her brush. Across from her, Zhulong rose from his chair and came to sit in front of her. Someone spoke, but her heart’s sudden pounding drowned out who, “My dearest, you’ll be fine. You know more than you think. And besides, no one was an expert on the first day. Both of us have had our learning curves, so has your sister, and now so will you. It’ll able be worth it to make the Fire Nation and the Royal Family better.”

            The other—whoever it was—spoke now, “You’ll learn, I promise. You’ll do great. Others have come before you and succeeded, and you’ll join their ranks in making our nation all powerful. Hey, you’ll be just like Master Tao. Don’t you love Master Tao?”

            Master Tao, Crown Prince Iroh and Prince Ozai’s own caretaker. He was a few years younger than Prince Iroh, and was still present in the palace to this day. He was a favorite at court, with his gallant nature and booming charisma. Her parents had a point—Tao was beloved and respected, two things Daiyu wasn’t. Though it also made her think of what her classmates said—how, apparently, Tao spent all his free time at the bar owned by one her classmates’ parents. Apparently, he spent a lot of his time staring off into space and slamming back as many drinks as he could.

            “Yes,” Daiyu managed with a forced smile, “I’ll be just like Master Tao.”

            Her parents’ cheer was drowned out by her heart’s continuous pounding.

***

            “So, caretaker, huh?” Jiaying’s soft voice broke through the darkness of her room. Daiyu jumped from her bed, too lost in her thoughts to have even noticed her older sister. The older girl was playing with the golden charm bracelet—a gift from Prince Lu Ten. In all her years alive, Daiyu had never seen her sister take the bracelet off.

            “You’ll have to be sharper than that, kid,” Jiaying said with a soft smirk. Daiyu’s gaze remained wide-eyed, though her shoulders stiffened and then slouched. The elder’s smirk dropped at that, a stricken look taking over her features, “Shit, sorry kid, I didn’t mean it like that.”

            Jiaying quickly crossed Daiyu’s bedroom, sitting herself next to Daiyu. She hesitated before throwing an arm over Daiyu’s shoulders, “I’ll be there. As much as I can, at least. I can make some excuses over having more stuff to teach Zuko and Azula. An-and Lu Ten said he’d make up some stuff about wanting to be around longer. I’ll help you as much as I can, kid. I promise. You won’t be alone.”

            Daiyu simply stared at her sister, eyes still wide and unblinking. Jiaying shifted uncomfortably. She opened her mouth to say something else, when she was suddenly interrupted by Daiyu throwing herself into Jiaying’s chest.

            It took Jiaying a second to recognize the dramatic heaving of her shoulders. It took her another to absorb the sounds of sobs echoing in the room. It took her a third to realize why her shirt was suddenly wet.

            Tears sprung to her own eyes. Jiaying sat there for a moment, before clearing her throat and wrapping her baby sister up in her arms.

            Nothing would get to Daiyu. Not while Jiaying was there.

            She’d make sure of it.

***

            Daiyu’s first year as caretaker came with messes and mistakes. She messed up on schedules, appointed the wrong teachers, and stuttered when presenting their progress in council meetings. But she also got Azula to learn lightning bending, helped Zuko unlock his firebending via old tips from a scroll, and mediated their arguments to perfection.

            (Her father hugs her in public for the first time at the ceremony marking her new duties. Her mother makes a declaration of her love and pride in front of the whole court. Her sister holds her hair back when Daiyu heaves up her dinner as anxiety wrestles and wins. Daiyu is seven now.)

            Daiyu’s second year as caretaker came with new faces and adjustments. Somehow, Mai and Ty Lee ended up being added to her nest of clients. Her duties go from juggling Zuko’s sensitive cluelessness and Azula’s blunt cruelty with their formal duties, to coaxing Mai out of her gloomy funks and soothing Ty Lee’s insecurities.

            (Her father lets her sit in on one of his meetings, perched on his lap and smiling brightly—never a public sight before. Her mother takes Daiyu as her “date” to a formal ball, and they spend the night with theirs hands locked and smiles shining like stars. Her sister talks her down from her gasping panic attacks. Daiyu is eight now.)

            Daiyu’s third year of caretaker sees her finally settle into a routine. There was the first year of scrambling and grasping for stability, when the stability she sought slid through her fingers like sand. And then there was the second year of being thrown off her axis, with more on her plate and duties becoming overwhelming. And now there is the third year, where her days pass in blurs of duty duty duty—

            (Her father gushes about her to visiting nobles. Her mother sings her praises to whoever listens. Her sister is shipped off to war, and reluctantly leaves Daiyu to handle her breakdowns alone. Scratching at her arms and ripping at her nails becomes her new coping mechanism. Daiyu is nine. The world is already swallowing her whole.)

***

            Prince Lu Ten is dead. Crown Prince Iroh returns from Ba Sing Se a failed general with no heirs. Whispers fly through court about who would succeed Iroh once he passed—Lu Ten was his only child, after all.                  

            Jiaying returns home with no victory to boast of and no betrothed to hold her in tender moments. Her wry smirk is replaced with a twisted snarl, and the light in her eyes is more akin to the glint of a sharpened knife than that of a bright spark. Her shoulders are fixed in a permanent tense slouch, and the rest of her frame is like a tightly wound coil, always ready to spring. She constantly has a hand on her golden bracelet, as if someone was going to rip it away at any moment.

            Zhulong tried to greet her during her return, and Jiaying simply pushed past her father without a second glance. Dongmei tried to coax her out of her room for dinner, and Jiaying simply hissed that she wasn’t hungry and slammed her door.

            Daiyu was only nine, but she thought she understood why Jiaying was so angry. Lu Ten had been her whole world—or, at least, that’s what Jiaying had said to Daiyu once when talking about the prince. The rest of it could be pieced together. Much like with Daiyu, Zhulong and Dongmei loved their first born but were bound by their duties. They were frequently busy, and sure they spent some time together as Jiaying learned bending, but it was still irregular. The other children had shrunk away in fear at Jiaying’s power, but Lu Ten hadn’t wavered once. He’d come to Jiaying with an open mind, and they won each other’s hearts in the end.

            Jiaying had expanded her circle a bit since then, but it didn’t change how Lu Ten had been the first and, for a while, the only.

            Daiyu thought of that as Jiaying slammed her way through the house, curses being uttered every now and then.

            Her sister once felt like a safe place, but now Jiaying’s security had been replaced by rage and despair. And that scared Daiyu more than anything.

***

            Her teacher as caretaker was the Lady Hana. She was effective and diligent, but also cruel. Lady Hana seemed to relish in the power her role gave her. It had been too many times where Daiyu had run to Jiaying through the tears in her eyes, and just as many where Jiaying had used all of her self-control to not attack the elder each time.

            Lady Hana had had less complaints as Daiyu settled into her role, but she still remained in the background… ready and waiting to strike.

            Today had been the Lady’s day to attack. Daiyu had messed up, once again—she hadn’t been watching Zuko close enough, and the older boy had fallen out a tree he was climbing to impress Mai. He’d broken his wrist, and it was all Daiyu’s fault (or at least that’s what Lady Hana told her during her lecture.)

            Lady Hana’s reprimands usually consisted of lectures that lasted who knows how long, consisting of the cruelest words and petty insults tossed in whenever she could. But today, the teacher had escalated—had grabbed Daiyu’s wrist in her hand, and her firebending kicked in to begin to burn at Daiyu’s wrist.

            Daiyu had shrieked in pain the moment it happened, and wrenched her wrist away. She hadn’t even taken a second to look at the Lady’s reaction or excuse herself, instead bursting from Lady Hana’s office.

            She sprinted through the halls, the courtyard, and the palace to her home. Her parents hadn’t been home (away on business, shocker), but Jiaying had been. Daiyu’s older sister was seated at the kitchen table when Daiyu ran in sobbing.

            “Whoa, what happened to you?” Jiaying asked with an eyebrow raise. She took note of Daiyu holding her wrist, and her expression barely changed. She kept fiddling with her charm bracelet.

            “I—Lady—it—please—I—Jia—”

            A huff and an eyeroll as she crossed her arms, “Just spit it out already, Daiyu. C’mon, I don’t have time for this nonsense.”

            Daiyu took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to school herself. She remembered everything taught in her lessons—taught to her by Lady Hana and—

            Her breathing quickened, sobs growing more aggressive as Daiyu’s shoulders heaved. The world spun out from under her, “Jia, please, I can’t—she hurt me—”

            Jiaying said something, but Daiyu couldn’t hear anything over the sudden ringing in her ears. She swore she could taste blood in her mouth.

            A sudden grab on her wrist made Daiyu scream. Jiaying snarled, “For fuck’s sake, Daiyu, learn to grow up already. So what, your teacher hurt you? People hurt each other all the time. You’ve got to grow up already and just deal with it like the rest of us—”

            “OWWWWW! JIA YOU’RE HURTING ME STOP IT!”

            Jiaying blinked and startled at her sister’s primal screech. She gazed down at where her hand held Daiyu’s injured wrist, and her stomach sunk. The area that originally only looked a bit red and dry was now a deeper shade of crimson, and had begun to blister. The newly burned area was in the shape of Jiaying’s hand.

            Jiaying practically threw herself into the kitchen counter as she stumbled away. Daiyu collapsed to the floor, sobbing and wailing.

            “Oh, oh Daiyu, I’m so—” bile rose in her throat, “I—I—oh sweet girl, I’m—”

            The bile was going to win. Jiaying stumbled out of the kitchen, out of the house and Daiyu remained in a heap on the floor.

            Pain flashed through her entire being, weeping and tearing at her.

            I need my mommy, I need my daddy, I need—her thoughts ran rampant, blurring together images of her parents and her friends and Jia and oh spirits, had the pain gotten stronger?

            Her parents weren’t here—they wouldn’t be back for a few days. She could try her friends—no. No, it wasn’t an option. She was their caretaker; she was supposed to solve their problems. It wasn’t their place to see her so weak. Daiyu couldn’t betray her duties like that. Even through the fire blazing through her, that message was burned into her very being.

            The medic, she warbled in her mind, the medic will help.

            She pulled herself off of the ground, stumbling through her home. Jiaying hadn’t even closed the door after running out, leaving it ajar. Daiyu pushed past, tears clouding her vision and her steps more like a clumsy stumble. She barely dodged the puddle of vomit by the front gardens in her quest to find the medic.

            Daiyu wandered without seeing through the courtyard. She was vaguely aware of people’s mouths opening and jaws going slack as they took their second glances. Daiyu thought she saw some try to approach, but she simply pushed past them.

            Weak, Daiyu, you’re weak, she thought spitefully, Letting the court see you like this. Making Jiaying angry. Zuko hurt on your watch.

            The sun was suddenly so blinding in the open courtyard. Wait, courtyard? When had she gotten there? She was going to go to the medic. Where were the medics again?

            Iron pooled in her mouth. Light burned her eyes. Her wrist pleaded with her, pleaded for something. Her heart beat out a new rhythm.

            “DAIYU? What’s wrong?”

            Huh, that sounds a bit like Azula, was the last thing Daiyu thought before her vision went black.

***

            A second-degree burn. Severe exhaustion. Emaciation. Scars from probable self-harm. All things the medic had somberly prescribed her with.

            She could hear the bits and pieces of conversation as she slowly stirred awake. Daiyu’s brown eyes blinked slowly as she took in the sight before her. The medic stood before her parents (when had they gotten back?!), the medic’s eyebrows tilted down in a gentle frown and her hands somberly linked together before her.

            Zhulong was practically a statue, but his eyes were screwed shut. Daiyu could see his hands clenched into fists, and she thought she could see them shaking slightly—alongside the quivering of his lips. Dongmei was equally as still, but her body was stuck with one hand held over her mouth and the other gripping at her stomach. Her dark brown eyes were wide and shimmering with tears.

            “Mommy? Daddy?”

            The words escaped before Daiyu could stop them. Zhulong and Dongmei jumped a bit, before reality set in and they were suddenly at her bedside.

            Zhulong held a hand in both of his, pressing several kisses to her head and face. Daiyu thought she felt the drip of tears, but that feeling was overwhelmed by Dongmei gently scooping her into a hug. Dongmei’s tears were more obvious, shaking at her mother’s shoulders.

            “Oh, my dearest love, I’m so sorry,” Dongmei wept, “How are you? What do you need?” None of them noticed the medic silently slip away. Daiyu was left reeling over the last question. What did she need? But what about her friends? Did Azula attend her history lesson? Did Zuko end up passing his latest firebending test?

            “How about some water, honey?” Zhulong suggested, pulling back just long enough to pour her a cup from the tea set by her bedside. Dongmei reluctantly parted, but busied herself with helping Daiyu sit up. Zhulong gently refused Daiyu’s attempt at holding the cup, insisting at holding the cup as Daiyu sipped.

            Daiyu found she greedily chugged the water, droplets remaining on her chin. Daiyu rose an arm to clear it off, but was beat by Dongmei using her sleeve to dry off Daiyu’s face. Zhulong gently pushed Daiyu’s long hair away from her face, tucking the strands behind her ears. He rested a tender hand on her upper back.

            “How are you feeling, love?” Dongmei inquired gently.

            Daiyu blanched, her memory filling her with shame as she stammered, “I-I’m sorry.”

            Her parents blinked, and took a moment to look at each other. Dongmei pressed, “For what? You have nothing to apologize for.”

            “Yes I do,” Daiyu replied with a frown, “I was weak today. I’ve been weak. I won’t be like that anymore, I promise.”

            Her parents both sputtered, but Zhulong gathered himself first, “What do you mean by… weak?”

            “Well, I cried and passed out in front of everyone like a loser.”

            “You are not a loser, and you are certainly not weak. Who made you feel like this?”

            Daiyu shifted, “Well, Mommy told me that we can’t afford to be weak.”

            Zhulong’s gaze turned sharp towards his wife. Dongmei’s eyes shut, a deep sigh escaping her lips. The older woman took a second before opening her eyes and fixing Daiyu with a steady gaze, “Daiyu, I—I can’t even begin to explain. I—there’s no excuse. I failed you and I’m so sorry. Did,” she gulped, “did you feel like you had to hide how you felt?”

            Ignoring her voice breaking, Daiyu thought for a second and simply said, “Yes.”

            A sob abruptly tore its way from Dongmei. Zhulong wrapped an arm around his wife and reached forward to hold Daiyu’s hand with his free one. Conflict made a mask on his face. He opened his mouth to say something, when a knock sounded. Zhulong paused before sighing and raising his voice just slightly, “Come in.”

            “I’m sorry,” were the medic’s first words, “I just came to check on Daiyu.”

            “Oh, please, go on,” Zhulong said, rising from his chair. Dongmei reluctantly followed him, eyes still trained on her daughter. “I need a moment with my wife, anyways.”

            “Mommy, daddy, is everything okay?” Daiyu asked, eyes wide.

            A pause hit the room. Zhulong looked at Dongmei, who pointedly avoided his gaze, and then Daiyu, “Yes, my love. Everything will be fine.”

            Daiyu nodded, gazing at her parents. A thought hit her, “Where’s Jiaying?”

            Her parents looked at each other. Zhulong cleared his throat, “Jiaying’s put in an immediate request to be transferred. Her request was granted, and she’ll be leaving soon. She’ll be working with General Zhao.”

            Daiyu’s eyes bulged out of her sockets, her stomach sinking. Her sister? Leaving? Was she leaving because of her?

            “We have much to talk about, sweetheart,” Zhulong said, leaning forward to rest a hand on her knee, “But we can talk later. Just rest for now and get better. We’ll be here.”

            “You will?” Daiyu’s eyes brightened.

            Zhulong gulped, a guilty tint in his eyes, “We will.”

***

            Jiaying never came to say bye. The closest sign of a farewell came with Jiaying leaving behind her cherished golden charm bracelet—the one Lu Ten had gifted her so long ago, the one she never took off. The apology seemed to radiate from it. Daiyu wasn’t sure what to do with it.

            The medic was happy to report her burn would heal. Daiyu was good to go in a few days burn-wise, but they opted to keep her in the medical wing for a while long for her exhaustion and emaciation (… whatever emaciation meant, at least.)

            Her friends kept her busy in the meantime. Zuko and Ty Lee were the most frequent visitors, with Zuko reading her stories that Ursa had shown him and Ty Lee showing off her newest acrobatic tricks. Mai and Azula visited as well, but they stuck mainly to the background. Though, it didn’t change the fact that Mai would pretend to leave with everyone else when visiting hours were over, only to sneak back in later in the evening and sit by her bedside. Or that Azula came in the earliest hours of morning, and would switch posts with Mai until she had to attend to her lessons.

(Of course, Daiyu pretended to be asleep during these times… well, sometimes. Other times she was actually asleep.)

And her parents kept their promise. If they weren’t there together, one of them would be a constant by her side. Her mother sang her songs and braided her hair. Her father told her stories of his life growing up and would affectionately mess up her hair. Jiaying remained a prominent absence… Daiyu still didn’t know how to feel about it.

It was one evening when her parents were both present that they were summoned by Prince Ozai. Daiyu didn’t miss the surprised look her parents shared.

“Right,” Dongmei said with a forced smile, “We’ll leave in just a minute. Did he say where?”

The medic hesitated, “... in the Agni Kai chambers.”

Another look. The medic nodded and left.

“Well, goodnight sweetheart,” Zhulong said, standing to his full height.

“Sleep well, my love, we’ll see you tomorrow,” Dongmei said, leaning down to kiss her forehead. When Dongmei pulled away, Zhulong dipped in to drop his own kiss. Her parents then smushed her in a hug between them.

“You’ll be back home tomorrow,” Zhulong stated happily after they had separated, “… maybe we’ll have to talk about some things.”

Dongmei nudged her husband, “But that’s for tomorrow. We do need to talk, but you rest for tonight.”

Daiyu nodded happily. She hesitated, and then stated, “I love you both. A whole lot.”

Her parents beamed. Her father warmly replied, “And we love you too. More than anything.”

Daiyu gasped and grinned, “Really?”

A twin pair of chuckles, “Yes, really.” More farewells were uttered before her parents took their leave.

Daiyu went to sleep, smiling and heart full.

***

(What happened that night, after her parents, wouldn’t be told to Daiyu until she was older.

After Zhulong and Dongmei left Daiyu to her peaceful dreams, they made their way to the Agni Kai chamber.

“I don’t get why he chose there to meet,” Dongmei uttered under her breath.

“Ozai is sometimes… peculiar. I’m sure he had his reasons,” Zhulong replied. Dongmei simply hummed her agreement.

What happened that night was simple, but impactful. Her parents would meet the then Prince in the chamber, and his first words to them were,

“I will be Fire Lord in twenty-four hours. You both will be by my side and in my court.”

The husband-and-wife duo froze in shock. Before either of them could say a word, Ozai plowed on, “He’s been given a colorless, odorless poison. It’s already in his system. His last request will be that I be made Fire Lord; Iroh doesn’t have the heirs to continue the line, anyways,” he sighed, “I need you both to get to work. We need to begin showing our power to the other Nations, and looking for the Avatar. Zhulong, you’ll—”

“Wait just a damn minute,” Zhulong burst out, “W-what do you mean you’ll be Fire Lord? And what’s this of a… poison? Who would even provide it to you?”

“None of your business, General,” Ozai snipped, “And didn’t I make it obvious? I’ll repeat it, I know sometimes peasants like yourself sometimes have a hard time comprehending information.

Dongmei snarled, “Watch your tongue, Ozai.”

He raised an unimpressed eyebrow, “Save it with the snarls, Dongmei. Now isn’t the time to back down, both of you will be on my court come morning.”

Zhulong gazed in disbelief, “You’ve killed him. You’ve killed your own father and robbed your brother of the throne… but why?”

“Because,” Ozai bit, “I am the one deserving of the throne. My father is weak and passive. My brother spends his time losing wars and moping. But I have never been like them, and I never will. I will find and kill the Avatar, I will make the other nations bow at my feet and beg, and no one will stop me.”

Zhulong staggered back. Over the years, he’d been given warnings from Iroh… warnings about Ozai’s true nature. But he’d always scoffed at his warnings and ignored them. He’d even told Dongmei to disregard his words!

“We won’t let you,” Dongmei insisted, chin raised, “Both of us could take you.”

“And risk imprisonment? Execution?”

“It’d be worth it,” Dongmei hissed, “To keep the Fire Nation from being ruled by scum like you.”

“Neither of you will do a damn thing.”

“And how do you know?”

“Well, you wouldn’t want anything to happen to your daughters, would you?”

Zhulong snapped out of his daze, and his sharp intake was matched with his wife’s.

“You wouldn’t dare.” Dongmei’s voice trembled with rage.

“Well, you’re right to an extent,” Ozai rolled his eyes, “Jiaying will get herself killed sooner or later on the battlefield, she’s never been the brightest bulb.”

Dongmei lunged forward, and Zhulong held her back, barely restraining himself. How could he do this? Zhulong thought to himself, rage and despair warring in his heart.

“But the non-bender, the weakling… what was her name again? Oh, right. Daiyu. Well, she certainly does a lot around the palace… wouldn’t it be a shame if she got into an accident?”

“Don’t,” Zhulong pleaded. The man he once called friend simply fixed him with a blank stare. He released his grasp on Dongmei to collapse to his knees, “Please, Ozai, brother, don’t harm my girls. Please. We’ll do anything.”

“Then I’d suggest you both step carefully and follow my instructions,” Ozai commanded, “Do as I say and I’ll keep your daughters, you little Daiyu, alive. If not, well… something can be arranged for the spare.”

Zhulong gazed at his so-called brother in utter horror, “How… how could you do this?”

“Listen to me, brother, I’ve always been like this. You and your wife here have just been too starry eyed to notice,” Ozai straightened, “Go and get some rest. Our work begins tomorrow. I’ll expect you at my ceremony.”

He strode out of the Agni Kai chamber, leaving Zhulong on his knees and Dongmei standing helplessly.

***

Daiyu wakes the next morning to learn that Fire Lord Azulon is dead, and that his last decree was that Prince Ozai would be his successor.

Her parents collected her for the ceremony… and they were both ghosts. Both were as pale as the moon, and it looked like they’d been crying. Nothing showed on either of their faces as the family watched Ozai be dubbed the new Fire Lord. Zuko and Azula are Prince and Princess.

Daiyu is nine when her parents seemingly pull away entirely. Gone were the days of her father holding her on her lap during council meetings, or her mother taking her out to balls. Gone were the days of her father even sending the smallest nods of approval, or her mother sharing secret smiles with Daiyu. They both had, over the span of one night, turned into public statues. Their gazes were blank, their movements stilted and rehearsed.

The only time they weren’t completely emotions were in rare cases, where if you looked at the right time you’d see one or both of them gazing at Ozai with something in their eyes. Something dark and angry that Daiyu couldn’t put a name to.

And then there was their home life. Her already barely present parents became ghosts in their own home, being sent on constant missions by Fire Lord Ozai. And when they were there, they kept staring at Daiyu with sadness in their eyes, and pulling back. With nights like that, Daiyu was sometimes secretly glad they’d both be gone—sometimes it was better to love the memory of a ghost than be treated like one by those around her.

Daiyu was nine. The last time she spoke to her sister, she’d screamed at her, burned her, and then run away to another post. The last time she’d spoken to her parents… well, it hadn’t been speaking as so much as sitting in awkward silence.

She was now caretaker to the Crown Prince and the Princess. She didn’t think her burden could grow any further, but fate had a way of surprising her.

***

Daiyu’s eleven when Zuko challenges his father, and is marred and exiled because of it. The smell of his burning flesh is imprinted into Daiyu’s memory, reminding her… reminding her of her sister.

Her stomach was in knots as she approached the room where Ozai plotted with his men. Daiyu knew her father would be stoically present, and her mother would be in the shadows.

Her presence was announced by an aide, and Daiyu tried not to shrink as every eye in the room swung towards her. She pointedly ignored the gazes of her parents as she bowed.

“Fire Lord Ozai,” Daiyu stated.

“Lady Daiyu,” he said flatly, “What is it?”

Remember to be brave, she told herself. Daiyu cleared her throat as she straightened, “I… I have a request. For you, if you don’t mind hearing it.”

Ozai sighed, “Just get on with it, girl. What is it you want?”

A moment of hesitance led to a firm, “I don’t have all day, you know.”

“Yes, yes, of course. My apologies, my Lord, it’s just… Prince Zuko has been sent into exile for his… transgressions,” That was a grown-up word, right? “General Iroh has volunteered to go with him. I would like to request that I be sent alongside them to search for and capture the Avatar.”

A gasp echoed across the room, drowned by the sound of a chair screeching as her father rose abruptly. Her mother’s feet padded on the floor as she slid out of the shadows. Their stricken looks of shock were almost identical.

Fire Lord Ozai didn’t react to any of it, simply humming, “And why should I send you, girl?”

Because I want to be there for my best friend. Because I want to make sure he isn’t alone, she thought. But she voiced, “Because for decades, my family has served yours. My grandmother was Fire Lord Azulon’s most trusted advisor. My mother is your faithful bodyguard, and my father one of your top generals. My older sister is one of the brightest soldiers in the field, and helped train Prince Zuko and Princess Azula in firebending. I’d like to continue what my family started and be of service to the Crown Prince. I might be young, but I’ve learned a lot by being the caretaker of the Royal Children. I’ve learned combat over the years, and would be able to defend Prince Zuko in battle. It’d be an honor to help Prince Zuko on his quest, and bring the Avatar back for you, my Lord.”

She almost wanted to pat herself on the back for going through the whole speech without stuttering. Instead, she kept her gaze fixed on the contemplating Fire Lord.

“Hmmm… a decent proposal,” he sniffed, “But not a horrible one. I’d like to see what your parents think of this. General Zhulong? Lady Dongmei? Your thoughts?”

All eyes turned to her parents. Daiyu’s eyes trailed to them a second after everyone else.

The room held its breath as her parents shared a glance.

***

Daiyu would leave with Zuko and Iroh a week later. Her parents had stiffly given their agreements in the meeting, but later that night it felt like hours had passed with her parents pleading with her to reconsider.

(“Please, my love, please consider staying. It’s not too late to tell Ozai you’ve changed your mind,” Zhulong pleaded. Dongmei stood behind him in silent agreement.

“Why are you two so against this? You approved earlier,” her next words were more of a spit, “Besides, it isn’t like you two ever pay any attention to me. Nothing’s going to change for you, you act like I’m not here anyways.”

Silence filled the room.

Zhulong and Dongmei were unsure of how to act around Daiyu after that fateful night with Ozai… how do you face the one you love more than anything, that you’d burn down the world for, and know that your ignorance and decisions have put them in direct danger? How do you not drown in guilt looking at your child, and knowing that they will always have a target on their heads because of you?

How do you face them? But also, how do you let them go? How do you let them go off into exile for who knows how long, to search for someone who might not even exist?)

Daiyu had all of her things packed and deposited onto the ship. She stood on the deck, swaying absentmindedly on her feet as she gazed up on her new home for… now.

Azula had said her goodbyes that morning before going off to attend to her duties. The princess had hesitated for a moment before crushing her into a hug. “… promise you’ll come back,” Azula had muttered.

“I promise,” Daiyu replied instantly, returning the embrace.

Mai and Ty Lee had just left. Ty Lee hadn’t hid her tears as she threw her arms around Daiyu. Ty Lee swore up and down she’d show Daiyu all the cool acrobatic tricks she’d learn when Daiyu returned. Mai had given her a quick one-armed hug, nodded, and wished her luck. Her quiet request about looking after Zuko had been made after a moment of silence. Daiyu’s response had been an instant vow of protection. Mai allowed her glimmer of a smile, then told Daiyu she’d miss her before taking her leave.

Now all Daiyu had to do was get on the ship and leave. It was… easier said than done. Something was holding her back from getting on the boat. Zuko had been the first one on, before the sun had even risen. Iroh had gotten on board with all of his teas and merriness. They were all most likely just waiting for her.

Now or never, Song, get a move on, she told herself. Daiyu took a deep breath, before going to take that first step—

“Leaving without saying goodbye, my love?”

She froze at the sound of her mother’s voice. She thought they might’ve forgotten or… were too mad to say goodbye. Daiyu turned, seeing both of her parents approach.

Daiyu sputtered, “You... you both showed?”

“Of course we did,” Zhulong said, frowning gently, “We wanted to say goodbye.” His voice wavered at the last word.

“I didn’t think you’d want to,” Daiyu burst out as her parents reached.

“What? Why did you think that?” Dongmei questioned.

“I-it’s just you both have a lot of responsibilities,” she fiddled with the sleeves of her tunic, where all her scars hid beneath them, “I thought you’d be busy.”

“Not a chance we’d miss saying goodbye to you, petal,” Zhulong stated firmly, “Never.”

“… I thought you’d both be mad,” Daiyu admitted, “I was mean. What I said a-about you two not paying attention. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.”

“Oh, my dearest love,” Dongmei sighed, reaching forward to cup Daiyu’s face in her hands, “We could never be mad at you. You’ve done nothing wrong. We’ve both failed you, and we can never apologize enough.”

“You were right, about us not paying attention,” Zhulong admitted, resting a tender hand on the back of Daiyu’s head, “Your mother’s right, we’ve failed. And we can never make up for it… we just hope that you know we love you. More than anything. I swear.”

Daiyu blinked the tears away from her eyes. She’d dream so many times of them saying those words. She couldn’t remember the last time her mother had stared at her so tenderly, or when her father had last spoke more than a single sentence to her.”

“I-I—” I want to go home, “I’ll miss you both, so much. But I’ll be back, I promise.”

“We know, sweetheart,” Zhulong said with a sad smile, “We’ll see each other again. I know it.”

And then her parents, at the same time, reached out to hug her.

The feeling of two sets of warm, loving arms wrapping her in their embrace made her burst into tears. When had been the last time they’d hugged her? When had been the last time she cried? Daiyu didn’t have the answer at the moment. All that mattered was her mother rubbing soothingly at her back, and her father’s soothing coos. The emptiness and the coldness that draped over her like a shadow was fought off by her parents’ love.

She didn’t know how long they hugged for, but she knew the moment was interrupted by soft footsteps.

“Zhulong, Dongmei, Lady Daiyu… I’m so sorry to interrupt,” Iroh said softly, looking at the trio with a melancholy warmth, “We must get going. The ship is ready to sail.”

Daiyu reluctantly parted, wiping furiously at her eyes and fixing her hair, “Right. My apologies, General, for keeping you waiting.”

“Oh, my girl,” Iroh chastised gently, “Our families know each other well enough, you can drop the formalities. Just call me uncle.”

Daiyu’s eyes darted to her parents for permission, and they both chuckled through their tears as they nodded. She flushed as she murmured, “Alright… Uncle.”

Iroh chuckled, “See? That’s more like it. Go on, Lady Daiyu, I’ll be up in a moment.”

Daiyu nodded. She was about to go, when she turned back to address her parents, “I love you both. And if you see Jiaying, tell her I love her, too.”

Her parents almost broke again. Dongmei inhaled shakily, “We all love you too, sweetling, very much. More than anything.”

Daiyu beamed through her tears, before rushing up to the boat. She wouldn’t know how, earlier that day, Ozai had come to her parents and assured them that Daiyu being in exile wouldn’t make her safe from him. How he always had someone ready to carry out his orders. She wouldn’t know how her parents had come to Iroh, swallowing their pride to apologize and beg for him to protect their youngest daughter. She wouldn’t know that Iroh told them there was nothing to apologize for, and vowed to protect Daiyu with everything he had.

But maybe she didn’t need to know. At least, for now.

***

Over the years, a few ideals had been printed into her mind. As she stood on the bow of her home at sea, they painted themselves out for her: perceived, image, reputation. The trio of words had molded themselves into Daiyu’s mind over the years—they almost felt like an irreplaceable part of her at this point. The words made her straighten out her spine, push her shoulders back, and school her softer facial features into an icy cold mask. It was those qualities that made the generals and nobles of the Fire Nation give out approving nods and murmur praises; it was what made her peers shrink away and avert their gaze. It was what made her parents push her away in public; it was what made their home a ghost town.

Even now, the few moments of familial love couldn’t drown out years of conditioning and training. For a few seconds, she was her parents’ baby girl. But now she had to resume the role she’d had since the tender age of six—Lady Daiyu Song, the assigned caretaker of the Crown Prince Zuko and Princess Azula. Promising combatant, loyal servant, and dignified lady-to-be.

Like many Songs before her, she’d shed her weaknesses to do what was expected of her. Like many Songs before her, she’d allow her desire of love and tenderness to be snuffed out by the shackles of duty.

It was her duty, after all.

THE END

[therestofmyfandoms]

as a writer i really enjoy writing for myself and my own enjoyment, which i really think is the core of what every writer should aspire for. doesn't matter what it is, so long as you enjoy it, yknow.

however. it makes writing incredibly self-indulgent fanfiction. hard. mostly with the fact that if i'm stuck with something, a line or a plot point or what-have-you, i dont exactly. have someone to ask. i suppose this could be solved by having a beta. but what person is going to read my several different works that im working on (all wildly different fandoms n genres) and be able to help. idk

[awearywritersworld]

thinking of corporate executive!nanami nervously asking his wife if she'd like to fill the newly open position of his personal assistant.

your eyes widen with excitement, a small giggle passing your lips. "are you sure you won't get sick of me?"

he regards you incredulously. "don't be silly, sweetheart."

after that, nanami brags to whoever will listen. colleagues, clients, consultants, friends. no one is safe.

he goes on and on about his lovely wife and how lucky he is that you're willing to work with him.

the number of people who tell him they could never do that with their spouse, that spending so much time together would drive them crazy— it truly shocks him.

"oh no, not my wife," the typically stoic business man says dreamily. "honestly, it drove me crazy being away from her all day."

[heartorbit]

MWAH!

[mournfulroses]

Catherynne M. Valente, from The Bread We Eat in Dreams; "The Red Girl," published in 2013

[bishy437]

he won

bonus:

[stevie-petey]

track one: i wanna get off

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

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

Rating: general, some swearing

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

Words: 15.4k

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

enjoy :)

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And would Nancy agree?” 

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

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

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

“I thought you hated freelancing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Christ, Y/N.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jonathan…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You won’t.” He promises. 

– 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t jinx it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ready?” Nancy asks you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No fucking way…” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You laugh. “Noted.”

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

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

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

“None of you are neat freaks, huh?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The Februarys?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His smile widens. “The one and only.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fictitiousness is intriguing. 

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

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

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

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

Already it’s been decided. 

– 

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, please.”

“Be right back, gorgeous.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re the one who started it!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

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

“Please pick up a box and shut up.”

– 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who the hell are you?”

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

“I was here last week. You weren’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not in the slightest.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

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

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

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

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

– 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Got any other brilliant ideas, then?” 

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

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

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

“Pretty terrible.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you think, Y/N?” 

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

Yet Steve still wants to consider your input.

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

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

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

Robin and Nancy look at each other in disgust. 

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

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

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

“I didn’t know they played there.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– 

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

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

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

“Neither can my boyfriend.”

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

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

Guess they found a way into the venue, then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He lets you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Showtime.”

– 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You take what feels like endless pictures. 

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

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

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

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

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

Steve finds you immediately.

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

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

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

He’s performing for you. 

Only for you. 

– 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think so.”

“Good enough for me.”

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

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

– 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, sure, come right in.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When don’t you have a question?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have a family lawyer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A lot of things happen at once. 

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

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

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

Jonathan gulps, nods. “Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s why I do it.”

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

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

“I’ve always thought he was useful.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which is ultimately what ends up happening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because technically she is.”

“I’m eighteen.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No I won’t–”

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

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

 Dustin nods. “Yeah. It’s economics.”

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

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

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

“As I’ll ever be.”

– 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But they’ve never been more alive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone turns around. The room stills. 

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

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

“Well, what do we have here?” 

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

“Do not.” 

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

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

Maybe Max’s family lawyers will be useful. 

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

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

“I know a good lawyer.”

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

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

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

Silence. Pure, utter silence. 

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

“It’s true, dudes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The beginning of it all.

-

⌑ series masterlist

⌑ if youd like to buy me a coffee ☕︎

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

[xtangerinefilmx]

let me take care of you

summary: din's stressed, you take care of him...

pairing: (din djarin/the mandalorian x fem!reader)

word count: 2.1k

warnings: 18+ only, smut ahead, language, etc (let me know if i missed anything)

“Baby, you have to stop beating yourself up. Things like this happen. It’s not like it was your fault,” you found yourself trying to calm Din down as you followed him into the house. 

It had been a few weeks since you started working at the gym with Din, and today a pipe had burst causing the gym to leak in various places. The plumber that Din had called said it would take about a week to fix and patch up, which in your opinion wasn’t that bad. Din had a loyal clientele, so it wasn’t like they were all going to jump ship just because it would be closed for a week. Din, though, thrived on running a tight ship. The one leaking pipe was obviously stressing him more than it should.

“I should have hired someone else to inspect the building before I signed the lease. Could have avoided this whole thing,” Din huffed as he continued into the kitchen.  

“Baby, it’s a problem that’s already being fixed. You can’t beat yourself up over it,” you said. 

Din just huffed as he opened up the fridge to grab a water bottle. You could tell he was tense, and that he wasn’t annoyed with you . But it still stung that he was having a huffy attitude with you. He took a long gulp before shutting the door and sitting down at the table.

“I know, baby. I just can’t help but feel like I could have avoided this whole thing,” Din grumbled, looking up at you with an almost pouty expression. 

“Yeah, well sitting around moping isn’t going to help anything,” you offered a small smile. You had him push his chair back so you could seat yourself in his lap. “Now we have a whole week off from work. We can take Grogu out and just have a relaxing week.”

Din just hummed in agreement as he buried his face in your neck. Your hands reached up to scratch at his scalp to help ease his tension. 

“And now we have until 4pm to pick Grogu up from daycare, so how about I help you release the rest of this stress?” You lowered your voice as you spoke, hoping he’d catch the drift. And of course he did.

“You don’t have to ask twice,” Din chuckled, standing and taking you with him as he carried you out of the kitchen. Your giggles echoed through the hall as he made his way to the stairs. 

“Put me down before you throw out your back, old man,” you laughed. 

“Baby, you watch me lift weights all day. I think I can carry my fiance up the stairs,” Din replied, not dropping you before ascending the stairs. 

“Okay, hotshot. But take me to the bathroom first. We’re gonna have a nice bubble bath before we do anything else,” you told him. 

“Is there anything I can say to convince you to move the bath for after?” Din asked huskily. Usually you’d give in easily, but you wanted to take care of Din like he always did for you. 

“Nope, into the bathroom we go,” you pointed to your bedroom as you spoke. 

Twenty minutes later you both were soaking in the scalding water, surrounded by piles of lavender scented bubbles. You’d made Din sit in front of you so he could rest back against your chest, your hands working shampoo into his curls. The stress seemed to leave him as he leaned into your touch. It was moments like this where you could appreciate what a softie he was. Gone was the tough guy in the gym, and in his place was this cuddly man who just wanted constant affection. 

“I could die happy like this, mi amor,” Din whispered. 

“I’m glad you’re enjoying this. Now hand me that cup so I can rinse your hair, baby,” you told him. 

He listened to you, moving forward so you could rinse the suds out. You silently appreciated the way the bubbles ran down his muscled back. God, he was so beautiful. And he was yours. 

Once the soap was all washed away you leaned forward to press gentle kisses along his tan shoulder. Din didn’t say anything, but you could feel his body shiver slightly at the feel of your lips on his wet skin. Feeling emboldened, you moved your hands to trail around his waist as you continued your attention on his shoulders. It didn’t surprise you at all to find him already half hard when you grasped his cock in your hand gently. 

“Fuck, baby,” Din bit out as you began to stroke him slowly. Letting him harden in your grasp. 

“Shhh, my love. Just relax,” you whispered. “Let me take care of you.”

Din’s head fell back onto your shoulder as his whole body relaxed into yours. Only the sounds of soft moans and whimpers echoed through the bathroom as you continued moving your hand up and down his length. You still had hours before you had to pick up your son, so you were in no hurry at all. Din’s hands had found their way down to grip at your thighs where they bracketed his hips.

“Baby, if you keep this up I’m gonna fuck up our bath water,” Din chuckled, sounding out of breath. 

“Hmm, but I like having you all vulnerable like this for me. Tell me what you want to do to me and maybe I’ll let you out of this tub,” you said. 

Din seemed to sit and collect his thoughts for a moment, trying to keep his thoughts straight. 

“I want you on top. Wanna see you take what you want from me,” Din grunted. “Baby, wanna feel your hands around my throat.”

Well, that was a surprise. Din usually liked to take control in the bedroom. Though it shouldn’t be that shocking seeing as he needed to give up some of that control especially now.

“Sounds a bit more like what you want me to do to you rather than the other way around. I’ll let it slide though, because I wanna see what you look like coming apart beneath me,” you teased him.

You released him from your grasp, gently pushing him forward so you both could exit the tub. Still, there was no rush to dry off and run to the bed. The two of you took your time drying each other off with a towel, your hands lingering as they worked over him. Usually the two of you were in a rush to get as close as possible. This time you were going to take your time.

Once inside your bedroom you pushed him back towards the bed, enjoying the heavy gaze he had focused on you. There was no denying the way the two of you made each other feel. Din sat obediently on the edge of the bed, making it easy for you to straddle his lap. He was already hard from you touching him in the bathtub and he moved his hips upwards to grind himself into you. You let out a soft gasp that was promptly cut short by Din capturing your mouth in a kiss. 

You let yourself melt into the kiss, your hands burying themselves into his still damp hair. Din’s hands moved to your ass, gripping like his life depended on it. You could spend hours just making out with Din if he asked, and you had done that before. He just made everything feel so good. It ended up being you, though, who pulled away first. You wanted to take care of him and he wasn’t going to get in the way of your plans.

You pulled his head back to give you access to his neck, biting and sucking wherever you could. 

“You’re so pretty, baby. And so fucking strong. How’d I get so lucky with you?” You began whispering between making love bites on his neck. “Grogu and I are the luckiest people on earth to have you. You take care of us so well.”

Din let out a whimper at your words. It was obvious that he was someone who craved words of affirmation, and you were more than willing to provide them for him. It was the least you could do, and it wasn’t like you were lying.

“You wanna lay down for me, baby?” You asked him.

“I’ll do anything you ask of me, fuck,” Din panted. He was already becoming worked up, fighting his instinct to take over and fuck you into the next lifetime. 

“Good to know, now move,” you giggled as you moved off his lap. He awkwardly pushed himself up the bed to lay his head on a pillow. 

You pulled your hair out of the clip you’d put it in before crawling up the bed until you were positioned on top of him. Sitting nice and polite with your wet core resting right on his erection. “I’m already wet and you’ve barely touched me. I just kissed you and then I’m ready to go,” you praised him. 

“It feels like you’re buttering me up for something,” Din chuckled, but his cheeks were blushing bright red. 

“Nope, just want my man to know how much I want him all the fucking time. What? You don’t believe you’re the reason I’m dripping right now?” You teased as you began grinding your hips to offer the poor man some friction. 

“Shit.” Was all that came out of his mouth in response, letting himself enjoy the feeling of your slick folds running up and down his length. 

“Now you’re going to lay back and let me take care of you, okay?  Don’t make me tie your hands down if you try taking control. You don’t need to try and please me, baby. You just do, ” you told him before reaching down to grab his cock in your hands.

The foreplay could wait for another time. You wanted him inside you. Both of you let out groans of pleasure as you guided him inside of you. Right where he belonged. 

Din’s hands went instinctively to your waist to guide his movements, but you automatically grabbed them and pushed them to the mattress. 

“Let me be in charge, baby,” you told him before quickening your movements. He simply nodded before tightening his eyes in pleasure. “I thought you liked me on top because you thought I was pretty, Din. Open your eyes. Look at me.”

Din immediately complied, his eyes dark with lust. Your hands rested on his chest, stabilizing you as you began to bounce yourself up and down on him. He let out a grunt at your change in pace.

“You are… You’re so fucking pretty when you take my cock like this,” Din told you, already out of breath. He was getting close, which wasn’t a surprise seeing as you’d already gotten him halfway there in the tub. You were eager to help him get there, ignoring the fact you probably weren’t going to cum this time. You knew Din would more than make up for it when you went to bed later that night. 

You reached your hand down, wrapping your fingers around his throat. Just like he’d asked for. You weren’t experienced with choking someone so you just applied light pressure, unsure of whether or not you were doing it ‘right’. 

Din’s fluttered a bit, and he bucked his hips up going deeper inside you. Well, there was your answer. He seemed to like this new element to sex very much. 

“Baby, let me touch you. I’m close,” he managed to get out. You knew he’d want to help you cum even though this was about him. 

“No,” you told him simply before quickening your pace. The tell tale signs of his body seizing up warned you before he came with a muffled cry inside of you. His body went lax beneath you, obviously sated.

“Fuck, you didn’t even cum baby,” Din finally said as you got from on top of him. 

“This was about you,” you said as you lay yourself next to him. “We can go again tonight if it’s really bothering you.”

“Why not right now. If you give me a few minutes I’ll be ready again,” Din said as he nuzzled his nose into your hair.

“No, right now we are going to take a quick nap before we have to go pick up a three year old from daycare. Now sleep, old man,” you told him.

And who was Din to turn down a mid afternoon nap with you wrapped up in his arms?

a/n: just a repost of one of my fics from ao3! hope you enjoy, feedback is greatly appreciated!

[peerreview3d]

Something about Ford being physically protective towards Stan, putting his hand in front of him to stop him from stepping into any danger, quickly pulling him into safety, putting himself in front of Stan w/o realising, shielding Stan from even the possibility of danger.

It's just something Ford picked up during all those years of dimension hopping, he gotta keep his companions safe from whatever danger they're facing after all. It's standard etiquette, I watch your back, you watch mine. And when it comes to particularly tricky situations, you don't really get the luxury that is a verbal warning.

Usually Stan would groan and complain about it, saying that he doesn't need protecting -"I'm not made of glass, y'know." "I'm a grown ass man, Sixer."- if not for the fact that he found it EXTREMELY hot, and he didn't know why.

Maybe it was the blatant display of courage and assertiveness, maybe it was the fact that Ford was so close to him that he can practically feel the warmth of Ford's body, maybe it was the way Ford would press his large hand -he loves those hands so much it's actually driving him insane- over Stan's mouth to keep them quiet...Maybe he does need protecting.

[talesofthepinktape]

April 17th, 2024: Nest

A/N: the prompt for this piece came from @creativepromptsforwriting monthly prompts list. This one, for the 17th of April, had the word "nest" attached to it. Since this prompt is about an OC of mine I've never written about before, I'll give some context.

Context: this one-shot focuses on my OC, Daiyu and is set in Avatar: The Last Airbender. Daiyu is the youngest child and only non-bender in a high-ranking Fire Nation family. Growing up, her family essentially forced her into becoming the caretaker of the Prince and Princess, and eventually their friends (Mai and Ty Lee).) She was essentially parentified by all the adults around her, and never really learned to prioritize herself. Throughout the show, I imagine that she'd learn to love herself and make herself a priority. This is just a one-shot that sort of peers into her mindset.

This was also written in, like, two-ish (?) hours and is not edited at all lol. I'm sorry for how terrible this likely is lol.

The baby bird was small and delicate looking, even from a distance, but the stark white of its feather made it stand out. It was difficult for Daiyu to tell what type of bird it was—then again, it was sort of difficult to see much of the outside from the heavy shells of the Fire Nation Royal Palace. But alas, Daiyu was nine and determined, so she kept her gray eyes dialed in on the sight. The baby bird was balanced at the edge of its nest, its mother hovering close by. Daiyu had zoned out the palace aide’s lecture a while ago, having instead focused on the progress of the bird.

There had been five baby birds in total, but each had taken off already. The one left was still flapping its wings nervously, ignoring its mother’s gentle attempts at takeoff.

“Daiyu!”

Her whole body jerked and stiffened at the harsh bark, her eyes snapping away from the winged duo to the palace aide. The aide—whose name she couldn’t even remember—had her lips drawn in an angered sneer, flames practically dancing in her dark eyes.

“Have you not been paying attention this entire time, you foolish girl? You have responsibilities! What in spirits’ name are you even looking at anyways?” the aide snarled.

Daiyu’s eyes flickered back to the nest, barely having time to absorb the mother and the baby still being there, as she stammered out a shaky, “I-I’m sorry, i-it was just—”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter, child,” the aide interrupted, her hand raised. The gesture was meant to simply stop Daiyu, but the girl couldn’t hold back the instinctive flinch. The flinch didn’t escape the aide’s vision, and Daiyu could’ve sworn she saw the barest hint of a smirk. “What matters is you preparing the Prince and Princess for their week ahead. Now, you’ll be accompanying Zuko—”

In her steadfast observation, Daiyu had almost forgotten about her duties. Right. She’d been six when her parents had informed—no, ordered—that she befriend the Fire Lord’s children and serve them in whatever way they needed. Initially, Daiyu was excited at the prospect and jumped at it. At first, it had almost been fun—making meals for the Prince and Princess, gathering toys for them, finding the best trainers for their bending. But then it’d grown tiresome—having to cool down Azula from her temper tantrums, soothing Zuko’s insecurities, always cleaning up after their messes.

It hadn’t taken long for the responsibilities to extend to Mai and Ty Lee, as well. Daiyu couldn’t even remember the last time she’d been with her friends (were they really her friends if her only role was to babysit them?) and had simply been having fun, instead of having to worry about the next task on her list.

And to their credit, they all seemed to be uncomfortable with her forced role, at the very least. Mai would find Daiyu, curled up in a ball in a corner and shaking with tears trailing down her face, and would simply sit quietly with a hand on her shoulder while the younger girl calmed down. Azula’s sharp features would soften just the slightest bit at the fatigue in Daiyu’s eyes and the exhausted curve of her shoulder before she’d quietly tell Daiyu to go take a break. Ty Lee would entertain her with her acrobatic tricks, distracting her with chatters of aura colors and how much fun it’d be to see the world. And then Zuko was the most vocal about it, standing up abruptly as he spotted the cruel palace aide. His eyes would glow from anger, a command barked at the aide in Daiyu’s honor.

So, yes, at least her friends were aware of the unfairness. Yet Mai’s comfort would only be temporary, Azula’s order would last an hour before the aide or Daiyu’s older sister would track down the non-bender and drag her back, Ty Lee’s chirping would be interrupted by the same duo, and Zuko’s protests would be quieted by Daiyu’s hand on his shoulder.

She couldn’t measure up to her family’s success. Daiyu wasn’t the notorious personal bodyguard of the Fire Lord, like her mother. She wasn’t the feared and ruthless general, like her father. And she wasn’t the brilliant, firebending prodigy like her older sister. She was just a girl. As far as Daiyu was concerned, the only way she could measure up to their greatness was by trying to forge her friends into a path of glory for themselves. It became apparent to her early on that Daiyu wouldn’t be known for her work on the front line—so why not be known for being the one behind the scenes?

While her mind wandered and reflected, her hand frantically scribbled down the aide’s plans for the week. As the aide turned her back to retrieve something, Daiyu’s eyes flickered out the window to the nest and her heart sunk.

The baby bird and its mother were gone.

***

It marked about a year since Ozai had banished Zuko, and since Daiyu had requested to go along with him. Their journey for the Avatar had taken them across the globe, and there were several moments where Daiyu smiled as she remembered Ty Lee’s reassuring chatters about traveling.

It had been too long since she’d been with her friends. They wrote often—Azula and Mai were, to a pleasant surprise, frequent writers. Ty Lee wrote the most—penning entire essays about the guards she (tried) to talk to that morning, or the new acrobatic trick that she just had to show Daiyu next time they met. Azula was probably next up; she boasted about her progress in training and mocked Zuko (or as she exclusively referred him to, in what was condescending even through ink, Zuzu), but would always cap off her letters with a command for Daiyu to keep in touch. And Mai wrote the least—and it was often a repeat of her complaints of boredom and her parents’ hovering—but she still made sure to tell Daiyu about what type of flowers were planted that week or what kinds of birds flitted about.

And yet speaking of birds—Daiyu remained carefully perched in the embrace of a tree. She kept her arms draped over a branch and her feet slotted into the nooks of it as her gray eyes excitedly kept watch. A small, white baby bird was just about to take flight. It was flapping its wings, excitedly toeing the edge of its nest. Even its mother, keeping watch from behind, was straightening with pride.

This week’s journey had taken them closer to the Earth Kingdom—in some tiny village that Daiyu couldn’t remember the name of. While Zuko was off searching for leads (and Iroh searching for tea), she’d wandered off after discovering an independent path. The path had taken her up and down, left and right, winding throughout the forest. With her satchel full of water and food, she’d been content to bask in nature for the afternoon as she followed the path’s guidance.

The path had led to a small, secluded lake. Fresh grass and vibrant flowers stood tall around it, with trees arching up in unique patterns. The lake itself was clear and cool, fishes merrily swimming about. Frogs croaked, hopping around in the dirt and mud while insects and bugs zipped about. Daiyu had forged a lunch (?) for herself out of berries and nuts she’d found around it. When she had spotted the baby bird in its nest, her eyes had widened as she scrambled up a tree that was an appropriate distance away.

And now, Daiyu’s limbs were contently flayed about as she focused on them intently. Moments like these—where she felt light and carefree—were rare ones. There’d been occasional afternoons as a girl where she’d had no responsibilities, and even then she’d been content to sit back and watch as her friends played games. Moments like these had become even rarer since traveling with Zuko, as her best friend’s gaze grew increasingly tinted with anger and resentment with each day. And Daiyu knew that in an hour or two, she’d have to pack up and turn back around. She knew she’d have to return to the ship and explain to a fuming Zuko where she’d wandered off to. She knew she’d have to sit patiently as he vented on and on about whatever issues were bugging him, without ever being asked about how she was doing.

But that was in an hour or two. For now? Daiyu had the birds.

The baby bird’s wings were flapping even more energetically, excited chirps floating through the air. Daiyu grinned in excitement, leaning forward on her perch. The baby bird began scurrying around, almost hopping in place as it prepared. It ruffled out its wings, turning its gaze to the horizon. The young one almost seemed to begin ducking forward, but abruptly halted to a stop. It turned its gaze back to its mother. Daiyu squinted and leaned forward even more, testing the delicate balance of her branch.

The protesting groan of the tree was drowned out by the young one’s actions. Whatever communication passed between mother and child seemed to encourage the baby bird. It turned back around.

It fluffed its wings.

It hopped in place.

And it began to move forward—

“DAIYU!”

It felt like the entire lake flinched, joining Daiyu in her surprised jerking motion. A startled shout escaped Daiyu—her feet slid out of her perch, and her arms flailed as she fell from her position. Air whooshed past her as she went tumbling, and her hands scrapped painfully on bark as she just barely managed to grasp onto a below branch. Her hands gripped it tight, her body swinging wildly as she attempted to still and calm her movements.

Her heart pounded out of her chest as her body swung to a stop. Her steely gaze was stuck to the branch, testing its strength, before moving below her. Her once pounding heart decided to switch paths and skip a beat at the sight of Zuko, his hands on his hips and a disapproving scowl on his face. Yet, if she looked carefully, Daiyu could’ve sworn there was concern there. Next to him, Iroh stood with a surprised and curious look on his face. The look didn’t stay there for long as he laughed heartily.

“Daiyu, my dear, what on earth are you doing up there?” Iroh asked, stepping closer to her tree.

Daiyu glanced back up at the branch, flicked over to the where the baby bird had been startled into staying, and then back at her companions, “Ummmm… just hanging around?”

Her weak question drew another hearty laugh from Iroh. Zuko stepped forward, mouth open and ready to undoubtedly bite off a scolding comment. Zuko took in his friend’s carefree grin and bright eyes—he hadn’t seen that from her in a while.

The Crown Prince instead held his tongue. He swallowed and called up to her, “Well, how do you plan to get down?”

Daiyu seemed to falter at that, her gaze still bouncing around. She absentmindedly swayed her body from left to right at the question. “Well, you see, the funny thing is my Prince is that I, as of now, do not have a plan. Unless you count swaying as a plan. If so, then I plan to sway.”

Iroh grinned, shaking his head fondly as he looked up at her. A smile fought at Zuko’s face, but he kept it down to barely a curl. With a rare softness in his voice, Zuko told, “And that might be fun for now, but you can’t sway forever.”

And Daiyu, a future Lady of the Fire Nation and one of the Prince’s most trusted allies, decided to respond by sticking her tongue out and blowing a raspberry.

This time the smile on Zuko’s face escaped. Iroh stepped closer to the tree, “This, Lady Daiyu, might be one of the few occasions where Prince Zuko is right. You cannot sway forever. Just let go, and we’ll catch you.”

Iroh had barely finished his sentence before Zuko slid up to his side. The trio had been in stickier situations. Uncle and nephew shifted around, extending their arms to catch the youngest member of their trio. After they situated, forming a human basket with their arms, they glanced up expectedly at Daiyu in her tree.

Daiyu looked at them, glanced back to check on the bird still gaining confidence in its nest, and back at her companions. She shrugged, “You’ve won this time, Uncle Iroh.” Daiyu let go, batting aside the butterflies in her stomach as she dropped through the air with a squeal. Air zipped past her, catching on her hair and her clothes before stilling as she landed. Daiyu was quick to spring out of their embrace, straightening and gazing at her now bloodied palms.

“How badly did you injure them?” Zuko asked, grabbing at her hands. He peered at them closely, while Iroh hummed softly in the background.

“Not too bad, I’ve had worse,” Daiyu shrugged.

“I’ll patch them up at the ship,” Zuko swore. Daiyu made a noise of agreement before craning her head back.

“Check it out, I think that baby bird was—”

A figure burst forth from the path, startling all three of them. They instantly snapped into defensive positions; gazes focused on the stranger.

“Prince Zuko!”

The title resulted in a confused shift from the trio before adrenaline slowed down and made them take in the stranger’s Fire Nation uniform. They all relaxed at the sight. “We think there may have been a lead! We have to go!”

In a slip second, whatever softness lived in Zuko was buried by his hardened demeanor. His face hardened and his shoulders straightened, “Well, what are we waiting for? Everyone, back to the ship. NOW!”

Daiyu and the guard both jumped, while Iroh remained steady. Zuko wasted no time barreling forward, and Daiyu followed right behind him. The sting in her palms was neglected for the habit of following her Prince’s lead.

And perhaps if the Lady had stayed behind a moment longer, she would’ve seen the baby bird finally flap its wings and take off into the sky.

***

These moments of unfiltered joy were becoming few and far in between. With the threat of Ozai on their backs and the approach of Sozin’s Comet, everyone had been a bit quieter. More on edge. It had been Aang’s idea to take a break at the tucked away beach area and take a day off. Sokka and Toph were quick to agree, while Katara and Daiyu needed more of a push. Ultimately, however, the afternoon resulted in Team Avatar frolicking and splashing in the cool water.

Daiyu’s face almost hurt from the stretch of smiling. She’d taken a breather, sitting herself on a towel laid out across a rock. Daiyu was careful to not mess up the crown of delicate pink and yellow flowers on her head. Earlier in the day, shortly after all five of them had begun to participate in the relaxation period, Sokka had stopped splashing at Aang to ogle Daiyu (which was, admittedly, quite typical of the Water Tribe boy.)

Katara had used her bending to drench Sokka in a wave. Despite her attempts at embarrassing her big brother, Sokka had simply jumped to attention and ran off in the distance—yelling that he had something of extreme importance to do. The rest of Team Avatar simply gazed at each other and shrugged before resuming their activities—it had quickly turned into a splashing contest, with the team of Katara and Aang going against Toph and Daiyu.

Around thirty to forty-five minutes later, Sokka strutted back. A proud smile lined his features, and his shoulders were pushed back as he presented a carefully constructed flower crown to the group. “My dearest lady Daiyu,” he had proclaimed dramatically while bending to his knee, “I present you with a crown only as half as beautiful as you are.”

Daiyu, whose face had turned scarlet, bounded out of the water and to her boyfriend with a giggle, “Well thank you, my beloved warrior. I shall accept this crown generously!”

She’d barely maintained the dramatic demeanor as she fixed the crown onto her head. The couple had ignored the trio reacting in the background.

“BOOOO!!!!”

“Get a room!”

“Really? On our day off?”

Needing a break, she’d sent Sokka back off to the water with a kiss to cheek (which he may or may not have almost fainted at receiving.) And now, she was content to simply watch her friends play about. Daiyu tried to brainstorm what they may need to do later—where to sleep, where to get food. Yet, she was quick to shake off those thoughts. Even Toph was able to spot her moments of worrying, and her friends were always quick to take the pressure off of shoulders.

(“We’ll figure these things out together,” Katara had said once, with a kind smile. Aang had nodded in agreement, “Yeah, like Katara said. We’re a team, we’ll figure it out.”)

Maybe instead she’d think of what else to do on her day off. Sokka would almost definitely want to take her out on a “date”—or at least do something to spoil her. Aang would be ecstatic to play a game of some kind, and Toph would be thrilled at the prospect of beating Aang in said game. And Katara would most likely just be content to float around the water, using her bending to forge a path for them to follow. A smile bloomed on Daiyu’s face at the ideas.

Alright, maybe Aang’s suggestion of a day off was a good one.

Daiyu hummed a song as she let her gaze travel. It was truly a beautiful area—thick and heavy trees stretching up high, boasting deep green leaves and succulent fruits. Rocks of varying size and shape splayed along the warm dirt. If she ventured out more, Daiyu was certain she’d find multi-colored seashells and vivid starfish clinging to the rocks.

As her soft gaze roamed around, it settled on a nest in the distance. Her head tilted as she leaned forward.

Was it…? Daiyu thought, squinting against the warm rays of sun. Sure enough, a small white bird stood alone in its nest and Daiyu briefly wondered where the mother was. She shook her head—the last time she’d seen a bird and its mother had been around two years ago, after wandering away from Zuko and Iroh—

Her heart caught in her throat at the thought of the them. Daiyu was thrust back into those memories—of Zuko, his gaze wide in disbelief, betrayal, and anger. Of Iroh, unconscious and marred by lightning. More memories clawed to the surface—of Azula, and her staggering frame as she took in Daiyu with her enemy. Of Mai, with her single raised brow expressing her shock. Of Ty Lee, her horrified gasp and hands clasped to her face.

Conflict and sadness tugged at her heart, taking it hostage in their unyielding grasps. Daiyu knew deep down that she did the right thing—joining Aang and Team Avatar. But she couldn’t forget the looks on the faces of her friends. Could she even call them her friends anymore? They probably didn’t see her as one. It was as Zuko had said—no, spit: she was a traitor and nothing more.

Daiyu took a shuddering breath, keeping her eyes on the unsure baby bird. She knew that she had to break away eventually—she couldn’t carry on like she had been. Baring the weight of everyone’s problems and never taking care of herself would’ve killed her at some point. And she felt so loved in Team Avatar. She was sure her Fire Nation friends loved her (or, at least, was somewhat sure), but her newfound friends made her feel included and cherished in a way like never before.

Katara actually listened to her problems, and provided the comfort that Daiyu had never had. She reassured her that the Fire Nation girl had no reason to be insecure, and would always keep a protective eye out on the non-bender. Aang would encourage her to goof off and forget about her duty for a second—his main method being gently tripping her with his air-bending. This would always coax her into chasing after him in a playful rage, spending their time laughing and running about. Even Toph showed her care in her own unique way—always picking Daiyu’s side in their playful arguments, choosing her for a team on their games, etc.

And then there was Sokka, who practically worshipped her. It made Daiyu blush and smile just thinking about it. He was always holding her hand and sticking close by, making sure she had drunk enough water and eaten enough. He always pushed her hair out of her face, or even brushed it in the mornings when it was quiet and just the two of them.

A softer smile took over her face, hugging her knees close to her chest. Longing for her old friends still tugged at her chest, but a newer, gentler feeling wished to take its place. She’d still think about her old friends, her old life; but at least Daiyu had found a family to settle into.

Family. Huh, on second thought, Daiyu didn’t think she’d ever had a proper family. Sure, she had parents and an older sister, but the relationship there was strained at the very best. And her old gang of friends had certainly tried to be a family for her (and she for them), but all of their efforts fell through. It was just a half-hearted attempt at it, with ideas jotted down but never finished.

But here? With Sokka and Katara and Toph and Aang? That attempt was complete.

Something cold and wet splashed at her face. Daiyu gasped at the interruption, but soon let her smile grow to a grin as Toph approached.

“Okay, princess, you’ve spent enough time moping out here,” the Earthbender stated, her hands on her hips. Her unseeing eyes roamed near Daiyu, and something soft almost passed over her features. Toph shifted a little in place, “… something going on?”

Daiyu paused, her eyes going back to the baby bird. Her heart leapt and she straightened as she witnessed the baby bird dart forward, flapping its wings. It took off into the sky, curving and soaring about the clouds. Ecstatic chirps floated through the air; the bird’s glee infectious. The bird didn’t stay for long—it simply flew over to a couple of trees down. There, a small gathering of birds and one larger one awaited the lone flier. They all seemed to crowd their sibling in congratulations. The mother sat back, but attentively gazed at her children and was straightened with pride.

Daiyu shook her head, grin in place and eyes on the bird, “No, nothing’s going on, Toph.” Daiyu’s gaze went back to the younger girl, softening. Daiyu carefully removed her flower crown and set it down next to her. Next, she gracefully stood and stretched. Daiyu smirked, “C’mon, let’s go kick their butts.”

Toph’s face broke out into a grin, “Now, that’s more like it! You can be my mascot!”

The Earthbender darted back to the water and Daiyu laughed at her friend’s actions. Her gaze went back to the bird and its flock.

If the bird can figure things out, then so can I, Daiyu thought as she rejoined her friends in the water, one step at a time.

[therecoveryquotes]

You are who you decide to be... I hope you're the kind of person that fights, because that's the only way to win.

— E. M. Youman, The Prince's Plan