pairings: 2hollis x fem!rockstar!reader

in which one late studio night hollis interacts with upcoming rockstar y/n aka rivka via twitter in 2023.

tags: hollis x reader, mutual pining, smau, rockstar gf.

→

taglist: @2bun22.

pairings: nettspend x stripper!reader

In which while heading backstage to meet her best friend after dancing at a private rolling loud pop-up y/n bumps into gunner as he's leaving his rolling loud set.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

nett: "Yo -- you going to the after?"

You: "Depends on who's asking"

nett: "I'm asking"

You: "Then yea, I'm on my way to my best friend"

nett: "Let me get your insta"

you grab the phone extended towards you, typing in your username and handing it back.

He held eye contact for exactly one second too long before his team pulled him away. You stood there in the hallway for a minute longer, your heels loud in the concrete floor as you finally continued your journey towards Jade. Then your phone buzzed.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

30 min earlier

You were still in your stage outfit— no time to change between your set at the club’s pop-up stage and getting to the festival grounds. Heels, bodysuit, the whole thing. Your access pass was swinging around your neck as you speed-walked through the backstage corridor, head down, texting Jade your location. You didn’t see him until you walked directly into his chest.

nett: “yo—”

You: “Oh my god, I’m so sorry—”

nett: “Nah you good, you good.”

You looked up. Red hair, bright eyes, silver chains catching the backstage lights, a little out of breath from being on stage. He was a taller than you expected. He looked genuinely unbothered that you’d just walked into him at full speed. You knew exactly who he was. You just weren’t gonna be weird about it.

You: “Good set tonight.”

nett: “Word? You watched it?”

You: “Not the whole thing, caught the last twenty minutes. The crowns was crazy though.”

nett: "Yeah it was cold. You perform tonight too?"

You blinked. The pass. The outfit. He’d clocked it immediately.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

You: "Pop-up stage. Club set.”

nett: "Which club?"

You: "Live."

nett: "Oh word, my boys were there earlier."

You: "Hmm, small world."

nett: "What's your name?"

You told him. He repeated it once, like he was testing the sound of it.

nett: “You got instagram?”

You: “You asking for my instagram while backstage at Rolling Loud.”

nett: “Yeah.”

You: “…Okay.”

He handed you his phone— unlocked, instagram already opened. Just like that. Nothing extra about it . You typed in your username and handed it back. He looked at it— and followed you immediately.

nett: “Follow me back.”

You: “I’ll think about it.”

He laughed—quiet and surprised. Like he didn’t expect you to say that. Someone called his name from behind him. He glanced back, then at you. Nodding his head, he headed towards his crew.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

→

taglist: @spectranix. @sweet2sin. @luvvconceal.

Parings: hollis x film!photographer!reader

tags: fluff, slow burn, strangers to lovers, mutual pining, miscommunication.

in which y/n and hollis always seem to run into each other at erewhon (no specified timeline)

wc: 1.2k

You weren’t supposed to be here.

Erewhon was a forty-minute detour from your apartment and a thirty dollar commitment just for a smoothie, which is why you’d only been twice before— both times dragged by your friend who swore the mushroom elixir (a/n: eeyuck) had changed her life. You didn’t believe her. You still don’t believe her. But you were out of oat milk and the traffic on Fairfax had rerouted you past the parking lot, and somehow, in a way you couldn’t fully explain to yourself, you were inside.

The produce section was quiet for a Saturday morning. Soft, filtered light. The kind of place that made you feel underdressed even in the light pink workout set with your hoodie pulled over.

You were staring at adaptogenic honey— three jars, three prices that made you feel vaguely ill— when you felt someone stop beside you. Not touching. Just close enough that you clocked them in your peripheral vision. You didn’t look up.

You read the label on the back of the honey jar twice without actually taking anything in.

“That one’s not worth it.”

You looked up.

He was already looking at the shelf, not at you. Tall— very tall, unbothered, a black hoodie pulled loose over his head. He reached past you— not quite past you, you had to shift slightly, and you did— and picked up the jar on the far left.

“this one.” He set it back without looking at you. “The other two are the same thing with different labels.”

You looked at the jar he’d indicated. Then at him.

He still wasn’t looking at you.

“How do you know?”

A beat of silence. He glanced over then, just briefly, like he was reassessing something. His eyes were dark, tired, and completely level.

“I read the back,” he said.

Then he moved down the aisle.

You stood there holding the jar he’d pointed to. You turned it over and actually read the back, then you read the back of the other two.

He was right.

You put the cheaper one in your basket and didn't look for him again. At least you tried not to. You were at the checkout when you caught yourself scanning the store again— a quick one-two, the way you do when you’ve misplaced something.

You couldn’t spot him.

You paid thirty-eight dollars for honey, oat milk, and a bottle of something green that you definitely didn’t need, and you drove home thinking about almost nothing.

── .✦

Three weeks later. Tuesday.

You were shooting on film— you’d been in Los Feliz all morning for a project that was eating at your life, a series of interiors that kept you not quite working, the light always a few degrees off from what you needed. By noon you were tired and hungry, so you stopped by Erewhon because it was there— you were already having the kind of day where you made poor financial decisions.

You were in line at the smoothie bar, staring at the menu— eyes unfocused, when you heard someone behind you order in a voice you recognized before you understood why.

You slightly turned your body to look behind you.

He was closer than you expected. He glanced at you at the same moment, and something shifted in his expression— not surprise exactly, more like a quiet recalibration, the look of someone filing something away.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hi.” you said back.

The person at the counter asked for your order. You turned back and gave it, slightly flustered, and when you slapped aside to wait you were aware of him stepping up behind you. You scrolled through your phone— mainly looking at the weather app.

He came to stand a few feet away, waiting for his order. You could feel the specific quality of his stillness. He wasn’t performing nonchalance; he just genuinely seemed to take up exactly as much space as he needed.

“You come here a lot?” you asked. You didn’t plan to.

He looked at you. “Enough.”

“Me neither,” you said, which didn’t quite make grammatical sense as a response, and he almost smiled— not quite, but almost, a small shift at the corner of his mouth that you would think about later in a way that annoyed you.

Your smoothie came up. You grabbed it and said, “see you around,” which also felt like a weird thing to say given you’d seen him twice, both by accident, in a store you rarely came to.

“Yeah,” he said, looking at you for a moment longer than what felt strictly neutral.

You walked out into the hot and bright afternoon light, drinking your smoothie down the sidewalk and thinking about the way he'd said yeah— like it wasn’t a dismissal, but like a small fire that was left open.

You told yourself you were reading into it.

You probably were.

── .✦

You started noticing a pattern after this one.

It was Friday evening, golden hour, the whole city doing that thing where it looks almost worth it. You’d been developing film all day in your friend’s darkroom, you smelled like chemicals, and your eyes hurt. You stopped at Erewhon for something that didn’t require you to cook.

You were in the already prepared food section, weighing the moral implications of spending twenty-two dollars on a grain bowl, when you looked up and he was standing there.

Across the aisle. Looking at the same wall of overpriced food with the same flat, considering expression he’d had the first time you saw him, like he was unimpressed but present.

He saw you at the same moment.

Neither of you said anything for a second.

Then; “Again,” he said. Not a question.

“Again,” you agreed.

He picks something up from the shelf and reads the back of it, and you watch him for a moment longer than you should have before you look back towards the grain bowls.

“You live around here?” you asked.

“Close enough.”

You nodded. You picked up the grain bowl. You put it back. You picked it up again.

“You always do that?” he asked.

You looked up. He was watching you with an expression that was almost— not amused, but adjacent to it. Attentive, maybe. Like you had his full attention and he wasn’t sure yet what to do with that.

“Do what,” you said.

“Change your mind.”

You thought about it. “Only when it costs twenty-two dollars.”

He made a small sound, low, that might have been a laugh, You felt it somewhere in your chest in a way that was disproportionate to how quiet it was.

“Get the bowl,” he said, and turned back to the shelf.

You got the bowl. You paid for it, walked to your car and sat in the driver’s seat for a moment before starting the engine.

Three times.

You’d run into him three times in a store you usually came to maybe once a month.

You thought about his eyes in the fluorescent-warm light. The way he looked at you like he was always in the middle of deciding something.

You drove home. Ate the grain bowl— it wasn’t worth wasting twenty-two dollars.

You went back the following Friday anyway.

── .✦

⭑ ⭑

taglist: @2bun22. @luvvconceal. @spectranix. @sweet2sin.

— 2hollis x reader (oneshot)

in which hollis and y/n meet at a hedi slimane photo shoot

The studio smelled like paint and expensive cologne— cedar, maybe, or whatever they burn in the lobbies of hotels you can’t afford. You found out about the casting call through a friend of a friend, one of those chain-texts invitations that feels like a rumour until you’re actually standing here, signed NDA tucked neatly in your bag, holding a small cup of espresso you didn’t ask for.

Hedi Slimane shoots like he’s conducting something intense and private. The whole room knows to keep their voices down.

You’re one of the five people seated along the white paper backdrop’s edge, waiting to be positioned. The stylist— a tall woman with paint stained nails— had looked at you for a long time before nodding to herself once, which you chose to interpret as good news.

That’s when he stepped in the room.

You don’t register him immediately because he comes in quietly, hands shoved into the pockets of a jacket that looked like it was sewn onto him, bleached hair a little damp, like he’s just come here fresh out of the shower. He’s on his phone. He says something into it that makes whoever’s on the other end laugh, then hangs up without saying goodbye.

One of the production assistants materializes at his elbow and steers him toward the rack of looks assembled for today. He flips through them with one hand, chin tilted up, unimpressed but not rude. There’s something about the way he moves— not performing anything, just existing in his body— that makes the room readjust itself around him.

You look back at your espresso.

“It’s gonna get cold.”

You look up. He’s standing way closer than you expected, reading the rack tag on a shirt and not looking at you.

“I know,” you say. “I hate espresso. I just don’t want them to see me throw it away.”

That gets him to look over. He has a face that does a lot with small movements— a slight shift at the corner of his mouth that might be amusement. “Then why’d you take it?”

“Someone handed it to me. I panicked.”

He laughs— a real one, short. He abandons the rack and comes to sit a few feet from you, leaning back on his hands. He’s wearing rings. Three on his left hand. (a/n:fuuuhhk😫)

“You do this a lot?” he asks.

“Model? oh god no. you?”

He tilts his head. “I’ve done a pretty good amount, nothing too extreme.” (a/n: you liar…i’m weak, i’m da dih.)

You nodded like you knew exactly who he is, because you do, and he clocks it, but neither of you make a thing of it.

“What's it like?” you ask. “being contacted for stuff like this.”

He thinks about it more than you expect him to. “Weird,” he says finally. “Like, strange to be seen by someone you admire. You spend so much time admiring from a distance, and then suddenly the distance is gone and you’re just—“ he pauses. “Standing in a room.”

“Terrifying.”

“Kind of, yeah.”

The stylist is reorganizing something on the other side of the room. Slimane is at the monitor, whispering to his assistant. The lights are being repositioned, which means there are twenty minutes at least before anything happens. The studio does its quiet-buzz thing.

“I listen to your music,” you say, You don’t overthink it. “Like a lot.”

He looks at you. Not expectant— more like he’s deciding something. “which songs?”

“Shedim, teenage soldier, plaster, fame runner, I always questioned it, GOD, king of the darkness. Those are good.” you don’t elaborate because you figure either he’ll know what you mean or he won’t.

He does. Something in him settles, like a held breathe released. “I had fun making those,” he says. “i’m glad you enjoy them.”

“don’t change anything about the way you make music.”

He nods slowly. He picked up a loose thread from the floor and wrapped it once around his finger, unwrapping it. “What do you do? Not this.”

“I write.” A pause. “Not music.” (a/n: ehh, girl shut it.)

“What then?”

“Other things… Essays mostly. Sometimes little short stories.”

“Hmm,” he says. “That’s actually really cool.”

The light clink into a position overhead, filling the space with a cooler, harsher, white. The room starts to reassemble itself. The stylist calls a name— not yours, not his.

He stands, brushes the back of his jeans. Then looks at you again, and there’s something easy and calming in it, something without agenda.

“That’s definitely cold now,” he says.

You look down at the cup. “Yeah…”

“Leave it. I’ll get you something else after. If we both make it out alive.”

You don’t read into it , and that’s exactly why it lands. “Deal,” you say.

He nods once, like a handshake, and walks toward the monitor where Slimane is waiting with his quiet, exacting attention, and you watch the room receive him— the way light does to certain people, finding the angles, and holding them.

You set the cup on the floor.

You wait.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

seconds later someone runs directly into you, spilling your water.

???: “yo my fault my fault my fault—”

You: “what the fu—”

You: "…oh.”

Nett: “oh?? that’s all you got?? i just soaked you”

You: “yeah and?? buy me another one then”

Nett: “…aight, fair.”

He ends up actually buying you another water. Then standing there, like he had nowhere else to be.

Nett: “you like dancing?”

You: “…why”

Nett: “just asking damn”

You: “yea, I like it a lot.”

You: “I actually work with my best friend Jade.”

Nett: “that’s hard actually.” (a/n: boy YOU hard)

Nett: “you gonna follow me back on ig?”

You: “hmm. I guess.”

You then get a text from Jade letting you know she was almost there.

When Jade finally reaches to where you and nett are standing you each bid your goodbyes heading off of the festival grounds.

10 minutes later

you receive an instagram notification from nett.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

After responding to nett, you locked your phone and turned to Jade.

You: “sooo.”

Jade: “what’s wrong?.”

You: “how would you feel about going to a different after…?”

Jade: “who’s?”

You: “nett invited us to go to his people.”

Jade: “girl…”

You noticed she was side eyeing you.

You: “bitch do you wanna go or nottt?”

Jade: “duhhh, we bout to turn up.”

Jade: “did he already send you the addy?”

You: “yea.”

Jade: “let me see.”

You unlocked your phone showing her the message.

Jade: “i’m looking this shit up.”

You laughed.

You: “you’re weird.”

Jade: “ i’m not weird, this is due diligence. also we have that duffel in the back with extra clothes.”

You: “ are you changing too?”

Jade: “yea.”

You: “ok, hold on.”

You reached to the third row now trying to grab the bag.

When you sit back in your seat you unzip the bag and you both start looking for an outfit.

You: “ouu I think i’m gonna wear this, this is cute.”

You showed her the outfit, thus being black chrome hearts leather pants, a black corset top with a chrome hearts leather jacket, and a studded belt.

Jade: “that’s cute asf.”

Jade: “ should I wear this?”

She showed you the outfit which consisted of a black body suit, high waisted jeans, and heels.

You: “yess, you bout to leave this party with somebody.”

Jade: “that too fast…”

You: “bye asf.”

By the time you guys were done changing the driver let you guys know you were pulling up to the house.

You guys get out of the truck.

You: “come take my picture.”

Jade: “ok rude ass.”

You: “ my bad, pleaseee.”

Jade: “come on.”

you hand her your phone and she starts snapping pictures.

You: “thank you boo”

blowing her a kiss.

Jade: “you’re welcome, now take mine.”

You: “alright.”

After you guys were done taking pictures you posted them on your story and texted nett that you were outside.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

← →

taglist: @2bun22. @spectranix. @sweet2sin. @luvvconceal. @chesspend. @gabisohot. @y-yasminn. @kingoveverything.

—cheater!xaviersobased x reader (oneshot)

in which xavier cheats on reader with someone she was once close friends with and she doesn’t know how to heal from it.

The playlist you made for him is still sitting in your spotify. 187 songs. You haven’t been able to delete it.

You stare at the ceiling of your apartment, the one he helped you pick out furniture for, the one where his hoodie is still hanging on the back of your vanity chair because you keep moving it to different spots instead of getting rid of it. It’s been three weeks. You’ve washed it twice and it stopped smelling like him after the first time, but you kept it anyway like some kind of punishment.

Your phone buzzes. You already know what it is before you look— another mutual sending you the same screenshots that apparently everyone in New York has seen by now. You don’t open it. You’ve memorized the details anyway, the way you memorize the lyrics to a song you hate but can’t get out of your head.

mia.

mia.

You two had been close since high school—the kind of close where you brought each other food to school and knew each other's parents’ names and talked about moving into an apartment together after graduation.

That fell apart junior year over something so stupid and small, the way friendships do sometimes, and you’d spent years at a comfortable distance. Not enemies. Just strangers who once knew everything about each other.

And then you’d introduced her to Xavier at a show in Brooklyn, eight months ago, because that’s just what you do when worlds start to collide. This is Mia, we used to be tight. Mia, this is Xavier, we’ve been together for six months, isn’t he—

You don’t finish the memory.

── .✦

The worst part isn’t even the betrayal in the abstract. It’s those specific details your brain keeps playing on a loop like a messed up stereo in a broken old truck.

That she knew. That she knew every fight you’d had with him, every insecurity you’d whispered to her in those careful, tentative texts you’d exchanged once you started building something back. You’d been so careful about it, so proud of yourself— look, I can let people back in, look how grown I am.

That he knew who she was to you. He wasn’t some stranger who didn’t understand the weight of it.

That neither of them told you. You found out the same exact way everyone else always finds things out— through a grainy photo, a comment section, someone sliding into your dms with a hey are you okay, hey I saw the post, hey, hey, hey… that told you everything before you even clicked the link.

You’d called Xav— Xavier first. Old instinct. He picked up on the second ring and said your name the way someone did when they weren’t expecting you to call, soft and hesitant, and you’d waited for him to explain it away, to give you something to hold onto.

He didn’t.

── .✦

You dragged yourself to the kitchen to make tea that you won’t end up drinking, standing at the counter while the kettle boils. Your best friend Selena texted you earlier: come over. we’ll watch some stupid reality tv show and I won’t make you talk about it. You haven’t responded yet. You don’t know how to explain that being around someone who loves you feels unbearable right now, like sunlight on a headache.

The thing nobody tells you about heartbreak— real heartbreak, the kind that comes with a double betrayal sewn into the lining— is that it doesn’t feel like sadness, exactly. It feels like disorientation. Like someone moved all the furniture in a room you knew by heart, and now you keep walking into the edge of things in the dark.

You trusted your own judgment. You trusted her. You trusted him. And all three turned out to be wrong at once, and now you don’t know which one of those failures is the one that keeps you up at night.

You pour the tea out without drinking it.

── .✦

You end up texting Selena back at 1am: yes, okay i’m coming over.

She didn't say anything when you showed up at her door in an oversized t-shirt with your hair thrown up. She just moved aside and let you in, handed you a blanket, and put on something mindless— some competitive show where people bake elaborate cakes in the shape of everyday objects. You sit on the couch with your knees pulled up and watch a man stress-frost a cake shaped like a stapler and you feel, for about fifteen minutes, almost like a person.

“You don’t have to figure it out tonight,” Selena says during a commercial break. Not looking at you. Just speaking out into the open.

“I know.”

“Or tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“You’re allowed to be emotional about it for a while.”

You pulled the blanket tighter around your body. On screen, a woman is crying over a collapsed fondant sculpture. You watch her collect herself, straighten up, and keep going.

“I don’t know how to stop loving someone and hating them at the same time,” you say, finally. “It’s like— I miss him. I miss her, even. How stupid is that?”

“It’s not stupid,” Selena says. “It just means you have a heart and you actually cared.”

You don’t say anything to that. You let it sit there.

Outside, the city keeps going— like always, it’s indifferent, loud, and alive. And you sit in the soft rainbow light of your best friend’s apartment, not healed, not okay, not over it. But breathing. Still breathing.

And that was enough for tonight.

taglist: @sweet2sin . @spectranix . @luvvconceal . @2bun22 . @chesspend . @gabisohot . @kingoveverything . @punkarchangel . @y-yasminn . @glitterandviolence13 .

pairings: 2hollis x fem!rockstar!reader

in which one late studio night hollis interacts with upcoming rockstar y/n aka rivka via twitter in 2023.

tags: hollis x reader, mutual pining, smau, rockstar gf.

← → taglist: @2bun22. @ibelieveinfairyz. @romansbbg. @anunfortunateoutcome. @2autumndrunk.

pairings: 2hollis x fem!rockstar!reader

in which one late studio night hollis interacts with upcoming rockstar y/n aka rivka via twitter in 2023.

tags: hollis x reader, mutual pining, smau, rockstar gf.

← →

taglist: @2bun22. @ibelieveinfairyz. @romansbbg. @anunfortunateoutcome. @2autumndrunk. @sippingonsin. @spectranix . @sweet2sin. @luvvconceal.