capricornlevi

[capricornlevi]

Where's the rest of mise en place??? Its been over 2 years ughhhhhh

While I genuinely am very sorry it's taking so long, this isn't the best way to get someone to 'hurry up' on writing something; I am currently working on it but I don't post things until I'm happy with it. I've rushed out other things in the past and it's never as satisfying to me as when I work at my own pace. I've never advertised a schedule for Mise en Place or described myself as an author who updates regularly, mostly to alleviate as much disappointment as I can. I am sorry to have let you down in that regard and I hope you keep reading it when it's finished. But I can't apologise for it not being finished yet, when, in the past two years, I've moved, changed jobs, had two health scares, been hospitalised, a thousand other things -- because I'm not a professional, I work full-time and there are weeks where I legitimately have about 30 minutes free to write. I'm doing all of this for the love of it, in the few spare hours a week I can get.

This isn't a sob story, it's just trying to explain that I don't get as much time to write as I'd like and I just can't rush things out. I'm working very hard on the four remaining chapters. I know exactly what's going to happen in them. Chapter 15 in particular is 90% finished. But I can't promise an end date and I can't rush any more than I am.

[capricornlevi]

closing night -- part 1 of 3: pre-show.

bandmate!gojo x reader

secret relationship, friends to lovers, friends with benefits, nsfw, mdni

part 1 wc: 1.6k

“On in ten!”

You hear your tour manager’s voice as it drifts down the hallway outside your dressing room; he’s knocking on every door he sees, one after another, doing his best to summon the five members of the band before the support act finishes up. Sighing wearily, he gives one last knock outside your room. 

“If you run late again you’ll have to cut the setlist short!”

At that, Gojo’s head lifts to meet your gaze, his lips shiny and pink from where they were just fixed around one of your nipples.

“D’you think he’s talking about us?” he grins. 

You roll your eyes while fighting back a smile of your own, already missing the sensation of his mouth. 

“It’d be pretty hard to go on without the guitarist and singer,” you quip, trying to straighten your posture from where you were previously backed up against the wall, shoulders aching from where the brickwork was digging into your skin. 

You’re caged in between his toned arms; he widens his stance to give you space but keeps his palms against the wall, his body still so close that you can feel his chest graze against yours when he breathes in. 

He pauses as though considering his options, tilting his head somewhat to the side and narrowing those icy blue eyes.

“But not impossible?”

You chuckle despite your initial unwillingness to give him the satisfaction. 

No, you internally reprimant yourself. You need to get it together. 

You’re something of a leader for the band, an anchor, guiding this ragtag group of your old college friends that somehow made it bigger than big, and so you feel a sense of responsibility you can’t seem to shake no matter how many tour coordinators or PR personnel join the crew. It would be completely irresponsible to be late for the second show in a row because of a clandestine hookup - no matter how tempting the thought may be - and so you reach down, arms weaving under Gojo’s, to reluctantly pick your shirt from where it was tossed on the back of an old office chair. 

Gojo makes a noise of disappointment at the sight but backs up to give you space to redress. He runs a hand through his messy white hair, soft tresses catching on his fingers as he brushes them back into place. 

You watch from the corner of your eye as he makes his way towards the wall-length mirror, no doubt surveying the eyeliner you helped apply –

it was the forced proximity that got you into this mess tonight, with you cupping his face with one of your hands to steady your grip, and him deciding to lean in just as you lifted the eye pencil from his waterline  – 

and, seeing no changes to be made, he double-checks his pockets to make sure he has some spare picks. He fishes one out and flicks it up into the air like a coin toss, catching it in his palm with ease.

His pre-show ritual. You know it so well it might as well be your own superstition.

With your clothes now back in the right place, you decide to join him by the mirror. He smiles at you through the reflection; you match it instinctively, without even thinking.

Your mind blanks for a moment as you try to recall what brought you over here in the first place.

Ah. 

Of course.

You need to make sure your appearance is satisfactory before taking the stage in front of thousands of people who paid good money to see you play on time. 

Which you will do, you assure yourself, glancing at the clock on the wall before back to the mirror. 

Thankfully, your own makeup lasted better than you thought it would. You raise a hand to grab your lipstick from the vanity but Gojo beats you to it, picking it up and slipping it into your palm without so much as saying a word. 

You give a muffled thanks while applying it to your lips, the lips that were kiss-slick just minutes ago, the lips that were asking him to do the most obscene things to you, things you’d been craving since you were last together like this. 

Now, eyes drifting away from your mouth, you see the reflected image of his unbuttoned shirt collar, spotting the platinum chain he wears as a good luck charm; again, you avert your eyes before he sees you looking. 

It’s funny, you think to yourself, how you’ve known one another for years, before he’d ever picked up a guitar and before you’d ever built up the courage to sing in front of other people, and yet this phenomenon of hooking up before (and after) shows is relatively new. 

It was last year, to be exact, when you had first tumbled into bed with each other, high on the adrenaline of finishing up a sold-out tour in your home city and the thrill of the new, perfect feeling of your lips on his. 

The word ‘tumbled’ being used literally – with Gojo’s height and the exhaustion of the performance, you had pretty much dragged him down on top of you in a mess of limbs and messy kisses, reassured by the fact that this was a one-time thing.

Except, tale as old as time, it most certainly was not just one time. He’d slept over at yours that night – he’d done it before, of course, though it used to always be on the couch - and you’d ended up going for another round the next morning. That one was harder to explain away; there was no adrenaline, no impulse. It happened naturally. Organically. As though it was something you had always been doing. 

And so you both decided that to be the official party line: it was like you’ve always been doing this. There was no need to discuss it with the other members … or with each other, for that matter. Whenever you had a stolen moment before a show, after a photoshoot, late at night on tour when everyone else was out partying, you’d gravitate towards him without a second thought, and he’d welcome you in with hedonistic touches and pretty words of praised whispered in your ear.

Then, afterwards, things went back to normal. Back to being the best of friends. To your knowledge, nobody else suspects a thing.

It was truly the best of both worlds, you thought, having the best parts of friendship with all the satisfaction of amazing sex, and with someone who knows you so well. You'd been lonely for some time before that -- you know how aggravating it is to complain about things like that since you'd achieved your dream, and there's so much about fame that you love, but none of it changed that fact that you craved something real. Everyone you met before you made it big looks at you differently, and everyone you meet now wants something from you. Gojo does neither, really, he expects nothing from you other than to be the person who he shares his lyrics with, knowing you'll leave genius little notes in the margins, signing it off with a little smiley face. He trusts you with that, and everything else is a welcome extra.

It's a perfect system, honed over the last year. Mutually beneficial and foolproof.

But recently, your system is proving to have a few flaws you hadn't expected; last week, you’d both gotten carried away, lost in your own minds, and it had made you late for the show. You’d never been late to a single gig before in your entire career, and the feeling had unsettled you deeply. It only took a few excuses about your alarm not going off for the others to believe you, but you hated lying to them, and you’d hated that something that was once so simple has now turned into something that is teetering on the edge of combustion. 

You had wanted to address it today, which is why you’d invited Gojo in under the guise of getting ready together. Obviously, things had gotten carried away, but it’s still on the tip of your tongue, burning in your mouth, begging to be said.

You turn your head, looking directly at him instead of facing his reflection. He does the same, eyes fixing on your own in a way that makes you think he can read your mind. 

“‘Toru, I think we should talk –”

“Two minutes!” 

Your tour manager’s now-desperate shout snaps you out of your spell. You blink up at Gojo, processing a hundred things at once, shaking your head softly.

“Nevermind, it's nothing --"

“Let’s go play the best show of our lives first, hm?” Gojo offers, tone gentler than you would have expected. He’s still his confident, assured self, but there’s a lilt of something else in his voice. It’s comforting.

You just nod.

Now isn't the time for distractions. It's time to enjoy the peak of your career, the pinnacle of your success. On that, you know you both agree.

Turning around for one last glance in the mirror, you turn to half-walk, half-sprint out of the dressing room, leaving Gojo to lag back for a few moments so as not to seem too suspicious.

Your manager is too distracted by seeing you and shoving an earpiece into your ear to notice Gojo slip out of the room, pacing down the hall towards the stage. 

When your manager hurries you stageside, Gojo’s waiting there as though he’s been hanging around all day, guitar strap slung over his strong shoulders. 

He smiles, the same one he gave you in the mirror. 

You smile back.

Show time. 

[capricornlevi]

nsfw // mdni

jean who wears a thin silver chain with nearly every outfit, out of habit more than anything else; a relic from his awkward early teenage years where he didn't know how to dress or what an accessory even was. he hasn't made massive progress in that regard, even he admits it, preferring plain black jeans and some band t-shirt over anything fancy, but the silver chain has become a reliable fixture in his life. he's fallen asleep with it on, sometimes. he'd even go as far as to say he feels bare without it.

but one thing he can't understand is your fixation on it. when he first built up the courage to approach you at the bar -- connie in his ear providing a drunken, barely legible pep-talk -- and you'd entertained his advances far longer than he expected, he saw your eyes drift down to his collarbones more than once. he figured the silver had just caught the light or something.

but then, when he first kissed you, and that gentle peck turned into something more, you'd hooked a finger around the tiny metallic links to pull him close. you weren't rough, careful not to break the clasp, but he remembered the feeling of the chain grazing the back of his neck, something hot and exciting curling low in his stomach.

and now, with you finally in his bed and with him buried deep inside you, he thinks he finally understands your fascination.

as he covers you with his body, your beautiful thighs spread open for his hips to drive in deep, you look down at the chain dangling over your bare chest, leaving goosebumps where it touches your sensitive skin.

at the slightest tug of it, jean angles his head in whatever direction you desire -- if you lead him towards your neck then he fastens his lips there, nipping beneath your ear and by your pulse point until your spine arches. if you change direction and guide him lower, he peppers kisses down the front of your throat before reaching your chest again, hungry for every moan that escapes your lips. he could spend a lifetime here, with you showing him exactly how you need to be touched.

then, when you're so close to the edge that you can't even speak, only articulating fractions of syllables as he thrusts deeper, faster, harder, you rest a hand against the nape of his neck, pulling him close so that his forehead is pressed against yours. when you both finish together, whispering repetitions of each other's names, he feels your fingertips, still at the back of his neck, tracing carefully over each loop of metal.

if he wasn't attached to that chain before, he certainly is now.

[capricornlevi]

Levi

[capricornlevi]

erwin doesn't think of himself as a jealous man, until he recognises that the burning, vicious, covetous, destructive ball of heat in his chest only appears when he sees the way your shitty fiance throws his arm over your shoulders.

it's so ... coarse. undignified. exactly what he would have expected from a politician's son, he scoffs to himself, seeing how the man wraps his arm around you and pulls you in without any grace, handling you as though you're in his way, as though you need him to guide you.

the prospect of you wedding that man sours erwin's stomach. as high-profile an event as these nuptials will be, he would sooner die than suffer the sight of it. duty be damned.

and so imagine his barely-contained glee when you knock on the door of his chambers one night, your face tear-stained and eyes full of that same fury he recognises so well, having left that ungrateful, insipid bore and now seeking comfort where you know you'll find it.

and he knows you so well, you tell him yourself, since that first night you danced together at your engagement ball, you knew erwin would never, ever hurt you.

he has no intention of it. long having forfeited the idea of marriage, in an instant he rethinks it all -- he'll give you a wedding, he'll give you children, if you want them, he'll give you his retirement if you so much as whisper it.

and though the sensation of envy is gone, a new beast has taken its place -- a possessiveness that has an iron grip on his chest, pressing down so hard he can barely breathe, stifling every other thought that could conceivably enter his mind.

how he'll enjoy showing you how you deserve to be touched.

[capricornlevi]

would anyone here guess that i ran a superwholock blog on here during my formative teenage years. and if yes please be mindful of how that news will be received

[capricornlevi]

privated some old stories bc im having an identity crisis over my writing

[capricornlevi]

touch-starved levi who can come untouched from a finger grazing along his lower stomach

[capricornlevi]

mornings after

[capricornlevi]

don't go Nanamin don't go

[capricornlevi]

Fever

18+, whimpering!Higuruma, mmm.

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In the small lonely hours-- those which should have been silent and sacred-- Higuruma Hiromi groaned to wakefulness again. You felt the fever pounding off him, abed with your own furnace. Rolling over with a whisper of sheets, you murmured in the dark.

"Can't sleep?"

"Can't...can't fucking sleep," Hiromi moaned. His palms, hot and dry, pressed over his face. He groaned into them, panting and shivering. "God, anything-- anything to sleep-- drugs, a hammer, just hold a pillow over my face--"

You laughed into your pillow, but Hiromi just grimaced. With one forearm concealing his eyes, his mouth puckered like a child about to cry. You felt a wave of pity, and sighed against his chest, kissing the downy black hair upon it until he shivered. His shivers deepened as your lips grazed over his nipple.

"I could help," you whispered, scratching your fingernails through his hair. Hiromi's eyes fluttered closed, his cock flooding with blood to thicken, too dumb for reason.

"You could just...lie there looking beautiful--" Hiromi laughed, rusty and mirthless, "--and I'll make you feel good--" His breath hitched, his cock beginning to tent beneath the sheets, now, "--and you could sleep."

With one arm still over his eyes, Hiromi gripped the plush of the thigh that you had begun to glide over his lap, grinding his half-thickened cock against his belly. Hiromi swore beneath his breath, and revealed one eye, rueful and stern.

"...s'not very fair," he tutted. His one revealed eye glimmered at you, smudged coal and embers, his jaw shaded with stubble. "That's against the rules."

"Ah yes. The sex rules."

"Rule Number One--" You laughed over Hiromi, licking his nipple into your mouth until his voice stuttered to a halt. His hips flicked up, in a pathetic attempt by his fever-wracked body to pleasure itself.

Hiromi, too pissed off to accept being rendered so base, still didn't notice you reaching over him to the bedside drawer as you suckled on his chest, flicking your tongue over his nipples and leaving petals to bloom.

You rose above him, straddling his pyjama'd lap, and hitching your oversized t-shirt up only enough for him to glimpse the edges of your bare sex. Hiromi dropped the arm from his eyes fully, his jaw slack, his sight fixed on the promise of your pussy. He swallowed hard, his throat sore, his spit hot, his head throbbing.

"...rule...rule number one..." Hiromi continued, only half committed. He faltered, his head arching back and shuddering himself to a full erection when you waggled a vibrator idly before you.

"Rule number one," you parroted, shifting his pyjamas down just enough for his cock, roastingly hot, and filled with fire and blood, to bounce, heavy, onto his belly, "nobody gets off while the other does not."

"Oh...f-fuck--" Hiromi whimpered, his arm back over his eyes the moment your hand encircled his cock. You pumped him, stroking slowly, and gently, until veins traced his length like the River Styx. "Please--please, please...want you to..." Hiromi broke off, swallowing his guilt for such needy demands.

You pre-empted him, shifting to wetten his cock head between your folds, stroking back, and forth, stealing his gasps with a pussyjob that made his toes curl. He whimpered again, bucking up into your hand, begging into the night.

"Shhh," you whispered, raising just enough to notch him at your entrance, and lower yourself down with agonising tenderness, "just...let me."

Hiromi moaned his pleas for every inch that he penetrated you.

"--unnnnghhh fuck-- haaah...that...that...should be illegal, I..."

Hiromi's mind had gone blank. In his feverdrunk daze, all he could feel was the slick, tight grip of your pussy, moulding around his cock until he could feel every ridge of you; the way your core licked his foreskin down until the most sensitive parts of his cock were pleasured. He bucked just once, weak and mewling your name.

Too lost in ecstasy, and certain he'd fill you with his seed in a pathetically short time, Hiromi felt the buzz of a vibrator laid on the patch of black hair above his cock. Arching and panting, Hiromi jerked his head forwards, staring at where you were joined, and felt you sink until your clit fell flush with the vibrator.

He melted back onto his pillows, looking up at you in worship, to hear you moan.

"Oh m-my god...if you think I'm getting nothing out of this, Hiro, I swear to god..."

"...most gorgeous...so gorgeous...good girl..."

Riding him like this, with every last millimetre of his cock inside you, stuffed you all the way to your belly. Seeing how Hiromi panted, half pleasure and half fever, you knew he felt the kiss of his cockhead against your cervix just as much as you did. His tip squelched deep, in a tight little vacuum, sucking the pleasure from him.

With the thick, insistent buzz of the vibrator against your clit, you hand to plant your hands on ribs just to stop your knees from shaking.

Hiromi's murmured pleas were half-baked, addled and aching for release; you caught only jumbled words-- tight. Come. Please. Sorry. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Love you. Thank you.

You didn't ride Hiromi, as much as grind him deeply within you. Too greedy for fullness, and knowing that all he needed to orgasm was to feel you milking him, you barely rose off his cock. The rhythmic sucking noises, hushed by the night, sounded belly-deep and sinful. The vibrator barely broke the silence, either, so muffled was it by your pussy.

Hiromi's arms ached to the bone. With one draped above his head, the other lifted only enough to pleasure himself with squishing the plush of your thigh, where it embraced his hips. He stroked you, tender, and hoping he could convey his gratefulness through that touch alone.

When you whined his name, fucking down harder and pressing your nails into his skin, Hiromi felt the hook behind his navel, and the beginning of the end.

Hiromi bit the back of his arm, muffling his own pitiful moans. Pleasure dragged through him, unbidden, the ache in his back and balls dreadful and desperate for release. He couldn't stop his impending orgasm if he tried; he could have spilled over his own belly, just from the grip of your hand.

"--f-fuck...my love, I'm...so sorry-- I'm..."

"...s'okay...close...I'm close-- Hiro--"

---u-ungh...c-coming...fuck...fuck-- best drug, s'the best...so good..."

Hiromi jerked within you, filling you with hot, sticky spurts of cum, thickened by dehydration. He moaned in time with the convulsions, inky black commas of hair across his forehead, and his head plunging back into his pillow.

He couldn't remember the last time an orgasm had wracked through every fibre of his body like this, rendering him electric, alive with crackles and sparks.

His face contorted in bliss, the depth of him inside you, and the lazy spurts of seed, sent you over the edge with him. Your knees splayed out sideways, impaling you onto him completely; combined with the vibrator, you came hard enough to make him whimper, as your pussy twitched the last few drops of cum from him.

Sighing, and trembling, your hands fumbled to turn the vibrator off in the dark. You let your head fall back in peaceful reverence, stroking patterns on his tummy. Eventually, you whispered in the dark, with his still hot cock plugged inside you.

"...feel any better?"

A pause...and a soft little snore.

With his arm over his eyes again, pale and exhausted, Hiromi slept. You smiled, languid. You snuggled down, nestling him and his release within you and covering him with your body.

"...good. Sleep...sleep well, Hiro."

[capricornlevi]

my new year's resolution is to *sounds of thunder* finally *people screaming in the distance* update my masterlist

[capricornlevi]

Can I request a Nanami x fem!reader who’s an artist that loves to sketch/paint him?

cliché as it may seem, you could spend an eternity admiring your husband. just watching him breathe, the slow and steady rise of his chest under his blue linen shirt, knowing there's a heart beating under there and that, to use his words, it's just as much yours as it is his.

oh, you could stay here for hours, just admiring him.

especially in this light -- the warm hues of the setting sun casting a glow over his face, his sharp features softened in sleep as he naps alongside you in the porch swing.

you both had come out to sit here for a breath of fresh air after dinner, with you throwing your legs across nanami's lap and him smiling, placing a tender hand on your thigh and resting his shoulders back against the cushion to 'just close his eyes for a moment'.

that 'moment' was about a half-hour ago.

you don't mind one bit, however, since you keep your art supplies in a box next to this swing. careful to move gently so as not to disturb him, you managed to pull out your sketchbook and some pencils, putting your skills to work by trying to capture the likeness of your favourite subject.

distantly, you hear the caws of seabirds and the sounds of local fishermen hauling their little boats ashore. it's now a familiar sound, one you and nanami have grown accustomed to since moving here a year ago, but you still hope it doesn't wake him.

you glance over; a gentle gust of wind blows some strands of hair into his forehead, but he doesn't stir. you adjust your grip on your pencil and get back to work.

minutes pass and the light starts to wane, but you feel you've finished the outline. you can work on the detailing later, when you can use your watercolour pencils to capture the warm hazel of his eyes, the few streaks of silver in his hair -- the sign of a happy retirement, he jokes -- not to mention your favourite new feature of his, the scattering of freckles across his nose that he's acquired from days spent like this one.

"did you get my good side?"

nanami's voice is sleep-laced but achingly fond. he's smiling, eyes fluttering open to try and peek at your sketchbook, but your brow furrows with worry.

"did i wake you?" you ask. for too long, sleep had evaded nanami, and so any disturbance to his rest sparks a bit of fear inside you.

he shakes his head, "no, my darling," and shifts his hand from your thigh to your waist, pulling you in closer for a slow kiss that melts your worries away.

"so," he says when you finally bring yourself to pull away, gesturing to the paper in your hands. "can i see?"

"it's not finished," you clarify, suddenly a little self-conscious as you glance down at the sketch. "i haven't tidied it up yet --"

you look back up to nanami.

it takes just one look from him, one adoring look that feels more like an embrace, for you to hand over the sketchbook into his waiting hands.

he pauses, surveying the drawing of him in this seat with your porch and your house in the background, and he blinks once, twice, before his smile is back, reaching his eyes and making them crinkle at the corners.

"some day," he says, slow and careful. "some day, i'd love to see myself like you see me. but things like this," his thumb grazes over the drawing before he takes your hand in his. "get me a lot closer."

[capricornlevi]

started watching seraph of the end guren ichinose i wont u

[capricornlevi]

"workin' new years for the third time in a row should be illegal," atsumu scoffs, shoving another fistful of popcorn into his mouth. he's perched up on the glass counter closest to the exit, meaning he can slip off quickly if the cranky night manager sticks his head out of his office to check up on you two. "who wants to spend midnight in a movie theatre, anyway?"

you sigh, more fond than frustrated. "you've worked three new year's eves in a row and still don't know the appeal of our late night when harry met sally showing? it sells out by Halloween."

you're sitting in front of the register, having dragged some old folding chairs out from storage to rest on until close. the lobby is dead, and you've got an eye on the security cams to see if anyone leaves the packed screen down the hallway. if you're being forced to work late into the night, you'll at least be comfortable.

you hear a door creak and pause, checking to see if you're about to be scolded for pouring yourself another slushee on the company dime. when no manager surfaces, you return to the conversation, with atsumu stifling his yawn with more popcorn.

"'course i know about it," he chimes back, running his non-popcorn-holding hand through his messy blond hair. "just don't get it, is all, and i don't know why we're always the ones stuck on the holiday shifts, 'specially since we already did christmas eve."

"we're college students, 'tsumu. bottom of the pecking order in terms of festive rostering, i'm afraid."

he sighs, checking the clock behind the nacho display case -- you follow suit, seeing the second hand tick closer and closer to midnight. four minutes til new years, another thirty-ish before closing.

"want a refill on that slushee?" atsumu asks, sliding off the counter and stretching out his shoulders. his black t-shirt lifts slightly and you make an effort to ignore the toned muscles peeking out from underneath. "also -- those chairs look more comfortable than the counter, so I'm gonna steal one too."

even if you didn't know he was captain of the college volleyball team, you could likely guess from the strength in those arms as he shifts some boxes out of the way to take a seat next to you.

"yes please," you answer sweetly, a beat too late, throwing him a beaming smile as he rolls his eyes in mock annoyance.

as he gets back up, he calls out, "cherry, right?"

something flutters through your chest as you call back to him, "right."

"heathen. blue raspberry is superior in every way."

it's your turn to scoff now. "there's no such thing as a blue raspberry, it's a made-up flavour. at least everyone knows cherries are red."

atsumu appears at your side again, handing you the drink. as you accept it with a smile, he places one of his cold hands on your forearm, laughing as you wince and shift away.

"you're ridiculous," you say, half-chuckling and half-earnest. "here i am, spending new years eve toiling away with you, and this is the respect i get."

"i never promised respect -- i promised slushees," he points out, eyes glinting as you meet them. "and we're not exactly toilin' away, i gotta admit."

you take a long sip of your slushee, hoping your lips don't stain red before the customers file out later.

atsumu clears his throat awkwardly, as if he's debating finishing the sentence.

"and it's not so bad, with you," he continues slowly, almost sheepishly.

in the years you've worked together, you have never heard him sound so ... earnest. turning your head to meet his eyes again, you see them diverted to his hands.

"not so bad with you, either, 'tsumu," you reply softly.

he looks back up to you. "i mean it, y'know. even if i wasn't workin', i wouldn't mind ... bein' with you. i mean -- i'd -- i'd like it, spendin' new years with you ..."

"i know what you mean," you gently interrupt him for both your sakes -- his, to relieve him of his uncharacteristically anxious rambling, and yours, so you can figure out how to get your heart beating at a normal pace. you turn in your chair to face him properly, lips curled up into a small, barely-there and very overwhelmed smile.

just as he's about to say something else, you see his eyes flick back to the clock.

"ten seconds," he mumbles, a few strands of hair falling into his forehead. you reach your hand to brush them out of the way for him.

"five," you smile, dipping your head in closer, and when you see atsumu do the same, you continue.

"three."

"two."

"one."

it's a slow kiss, slower than you'd ever expected. atsumu never did things slowly, never took things at any pace other than chaotic, but this is different. he handles you carefully, his hand at the nape of your neck as he pulls you closer to him, lips moving against yours as if savouring every part of every second he gets to do this. as though he's imagined it as much as you have.

you kiss him until you feel as though you're running out of air. when you finally pull away, you marvel at the light pink flush painting atsumu's pretty cheekbones, the look of longing written across the rest of his features, the way his eyes battle between focusing on your face or your lips.

"happy new year, 'tsumu," you whisper, and his smile matches your own.

"happy new year," he says, hushed and low, before leaning in to kiss you again.

you have another twenty-five minutes, after all. and for the first time in your time working here, you're grateful that this theatre schedules when harry met sally so late into the night.

[capricornlevi]

happy new years my lovelies!