#This one was just easier for me to figure out is all

[theactualsunshinechild]

Seeing this post always immediately reminds me of a fun story from early on in my relationship that my partner and I affectionately refer to as

The Can Opener Incident

This was back in my college days. That semester I was living in a dorm that was more like a collection of small apartments on the very fringes of campus territory. My partner had come over to spend the night at my dormroom, and we were going about making some pasta in the little kitchenette. The pasta was already fully cooked and strained when we suddenly encountered a problem:

The canned pasta sauce I had bought was not a pop top, and rummaging around the kitchen for a can opener revealed that I had neglected to bring one.

Not one to settle for miserable, dry pasta on a cozy home date, I ran over to the dorm room next door and asked to borrow a can opener. They're a little startled to find someone knocking on their door at 9 PM, but they let me borrow it with no resistance. Upon bringing it back is when the problems truly began.

You see, all of my life I had used a can opener which you latched to the side of the can and twisted the knob to make the sharp ring cut into the top of the can vertically, parallel to the side of the can. This one looked similar, all the right parts were in the right places, so I gave it a shot... but nothing happened. My partner comes up and tells me I'm using it wrong, and I think to myself "oh, okay, so maybe he's used this kind of can opener before, I'll let him at it," and I hand it off to him.

The can opener my partner has used his whole life is the kind that you latch on to the TOP of the can, so instead of holding the handle at the side, you're holding it horizontally over the top of the can. I didn't know that kind of can opener even existed, so when he tried using this one his way, I looked at him like he was insane. This look quickly intensified as this method also didn't work. Things rapidly went downhill from there. He defensively explained the way his can opener at home worked, and I started pointing to the structure of the can opener and arguing why this one wouldn't work that way. We're a little frustrated, but it's nothing some pasta can't fix, so I propose I simply go over next door to the people who I borrowed the can opener from and ask them how to use it.

As I reached over to take it from him, he held it out of my reach.

"No! I'll figure it out myself!" He announced.

"What? Why? It's easier to just ask the owner," I argue, jumping around trying to get at the items.

"Because I can figure it out!"

Okay. Fine. I guess he wants to solve this like some kind of puzzle for enrichment. I give up and I wait. The fiddling begins. I'm standing there watching him try increasingly improbable methods of getting that thing to work over and over. The pasta is getting cold. He's testing methods that have already proven not to work, trying new methods that physically couldn't work, then trying the ones that have already failed us all over again. My stomach growls.

"We should really just ask," I grumble, hungry and frustrated.

"No, I've got this."

He does not fucking got this. I want my goddamn food and I do not have time for this puzzle solving.

"Give it here."

"No."

"I'm just gonna take it to the owners and ask them to show us how to use it, you can come with."

"No! I want to figure out out myself!!"

"And I want my food god fucking damn it!!"

This went on for a bit. The pasta was drying to the side of the pot and getting crusty. At some point during this yelling match I got so pissed off that I stormed out of my own apartment into the cold with no coat on.

'I need to make him see reason!' I thought to myself, making my way through the snow. One building over was where two of his friends were rooming together. I knock on their door, boiling with rage. It is 10 PM.

"Hey, can you come over? [Partner] is being completely unreasonable and obstinate over figuring out how a can opener we borrowed works and won't let me take it to the owner to ask. Please help me convince him to hand it over, I'm literally too short to wrestle it from him."

"Alright, let me grab my coat."

We head back over to my place to find my partner Still Messing Around with that godforsaken can opener.

"Let me see that for a second," says his friend, taking his coat off. I experienced a moment of relief, thinking to myself, 'Finally!' as my partner pouted for a second, but relinquished the can opener.

This peaceful glorious relief fizzled out into horror as his friend began to try to open the can the same way I had.

"That's weird. It really looks like it should work this way..." he mutters.

"Try it from the top, that's how my parents' works," my partner suggests.

"No no, that won't work, just give me a second to figure it out."

Oh my fucking god.

I stared blankly, watching them study the can opener and turn the can this way and that, both completely absorbed in finding the solution to this hour long problem. I was going to lose my fucking mind. Perhaps in that moment I really did. Shellshocked, I stood, wondering how it had come to this. I just wanted some fucking pasta and a relaxed night in, and instead I've gotten these goddamn STEM majors milling around in my kitchen at 10:25 PM arguing over how to use a can opener that isn't even mine. So I went and did what, in retrospect, I should have done ages ago: I went next door for help.

I can't imagine what my neighbor must have thought of me, showing up over an hour after borrowing their can opener, looking as if something inside of me had died, and, with a hint of desperation in my eyes, begging them tearfully to come next door and show us all how to use their can opener. Over an hour after borrowing it.

Well, whatever they thought of it all, they did oblige my pleas. Their arrival thankfully broke up the debate, and as all three of us watched intently as hawks over their shoulder, they cracked open that can of pasta for us.

Using it the exact same way I had tried at the start of it all.

It was just dull.

"I don't need a shopping list; with effort, I will remember that I need this item"

Okay but will you be able to remember that you already bought it? Because apparently I can't.

[spookwriter-xo]

Coppélia

Chapter 6 - The Kim Estate

Chapter Summary - A little bit of Y/N's backstory and her family's history. She gets a tour of the Kim Estate from San and Wooyoung and gets a brief glimpse into the boys' private lives.

warnings: San does get a little violent towards the end, and Wooyoung cracks a few sex jokes (MDNI)

Series Masterlist

The house I grew up in was nothing short of a prison. I had all the luxuries of high society, yes, but that didn't mean I felt the same warmth and compassion children should be surrounded with.

My father owned a fashion company, Belluxe, one of the biggest in our part of the world. He had a lot of ties with some dangerous and powerful people, and as I got older I realized how much it had really gotten to his head.

The power. The greed.

I was forbidden to talk to him when I was young, only if we had guests. If I did without permission, he'd get angry. He had only gotten physical with me once, and that was when our family bond broke forever.

I was nine years old, home from boarding school with Christmas like I normally would be. My younger sister was ecstatic to have me home, finally having someone other than our mother to play with. Our older sister, she wasn't around this time. I figured she'd stayed at school for the holidays, but as I got older I found out she had run away.

I went by a different name back then, first and last. I'd changed it once I was disowned at 17, wanting to leave that old life behind. It was a lot easier than it should have been, all things considered.

I remember we were sitting at the dinner table, the only sound coming from our cutlery scraping across the porcelain plates. My mother had asked briefly how school was, and I gave a short but honest answer; "It was alright."

My father leaned back in his chair, staring at the empty seat where my sister should have been. He cleared his throat, causing us all to turn our heads in attention.

"Chariya, you'll be the next heir." He says simply, my old name, it felt weird hearing it even if it was just a memory. "Since Chalita has failed to exceed my expectations."

My family was Thai on my mother's side. She'd named us all after members of her family still in Thailand, bringing a piece of her old life with her.

Mother and Father married after father knocked my mother up with Chalita, the eldest. My mother used to say he was a kind man until she gave him too many daughters and no son. I think she just used it as an excuse to hide the snake he really is.

"My love, she is too young-" My mother states before she is cut off.

"Enough! I told you not to speak against me." He shouts, slamming his fist down on the table. My little sister, Chaluai, begins to cry at the sudden noise. My mother bows her head and stands, taking Chaluai with her as she exits the dining room.

I stare down at my plate, hearing the sound of his chair creaking as he leans back.

"Your mother doesn't understand the ways of this world." He says. "But one day you will."

I was startled awake by a knock on the door, causing my body to jump from my skin.

"Hello?" I call out groggily, sitting up.

"Uhm... Y/N? It's San." A muffled voice from the other side of the door calls out.

"Right..." I murmur, the events from the last few nights creeping their way back into my head. I stretch and swing my legs over the side. My feet hit the wood as I shuffle towards the door, opening it slowly.

San stands there on the other side, wearing a suit a little different from the one he wore last night. His eyes widen as I open the door, quickly looking up.

"Just thought I'd wake you... Wooyoung and I are home whenever you want that tour." He says, finding the ceiling very interesting.

"Oh! Just give me a few minutes and I'll come find you." I say, fingers gripping the door. San nods before hurriedly rushing down the hall and towards the stairs. I watch him go before closing the door. He was a lot shyer than last night. Maybe something was on his mind.

I walk into the walk-in wardrobe and look around at all the luxurious clothes hung up for me. There was a cabinet in the center, inside millions of dollars worth of jewelry for me to choose from. I feel a shiver run up my spine at the sight. It had been so long since I'd seen anything like this, and it felt wrong.

I hadn't worked for it, I didn't buy it myself. These men had only met me last night yet they were already willing to spend millions on me. Why?

I settled on a simple top and skirt, slipping on some fluffy slippers that were positioned neatly beside my bed before making my way out into the hallway.

The eery silence shared with the darkness of the hallway settled a sick feeling in my stomach. It was so quiet, that no chatter or thumping of footsteps could be heard. I figured Wooyoung and San were downstairs somewhere, praying that they weren't the type to jump out and scare me.

I head towards the staircase, the scenery getting brighter as I peek down at the pretty white marble that now glittered in the sunlight. My hand slides down the railing as the stairs take me to the lower floor. I gaze at the paintings on the wall, one of all 8 of them positioned on and around a fancy-looking couch, and another with a younger-looking Hongjoong, who I assumed to be his mother, father, and brother.

I didn't know he had a brother, I wonder what happened to him?

I glanced left and right once I reached the bottom of the stairs, the house felt like a maze, going on forever in both directions.

"San? Wooyoung?" I call out, my hands finding my elbows as I glance around. I decided to go left, entering what seemed to be the main living room based on the three couches and the fireplace with a television situated above it. I reach my hand out and press my fingers into the plush cushions, feeling the soft fabric beneath my skin.

"Y/N?" A voice makes me jump, I turn around to see Wooyoung standing in the doorway I just walked through. He had a grin on his face. "Scared ya?" He says with a light cackle.

I splutter for a moment before crossing my arms tighter. I watch as he scans my figure, admiring my figure.

"Eyes are up here, Wooyoung." I tease, as he stares a little too long at my legs.

"Yeosang picked your wardrobe well." He says, ignoring my words and stepping a little closer. "Would prefer you don't wear it around me though."

I hold my hand up and stop him from coming any closer right as San enters from another door behind me.

"Hongjoong said we should give you a tour." He says gruffly, his hair looking a lot messier than it was when he visited maybe 20 minutes prior. I glanced at his knuckles, noticing the light bruising that had begun to blossom before he quickly hid them in the pockets of his jacket.

"I'm ready to start whenever you are," I say, offering him a smile which he hesitates to return.

"Well, this is the main living room. Pretty obvious since it looks like a living room." Wooyoung chirps, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. "Don't mind if San is a little quiet. He gets grumpy when he has to work early."

I glance back at San as Wooyoung starts to lead me through another archway into a large room. I gasped as the realization hit me that this was a ballroom. A large and grand ballroom, the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. There was a grand piano on a small platform tucked away into a corner, floor-to-ceiling length windows with a matching door that led out to the backyard and a large diamond-clad chandelier dangled from the ceiling.

I could feel Wooyoung's grin as I slowly moved away from him, my jaw hanging slightly as I walked to the center. There were mosaic patterns that formed a lily flower on the floor under my feet which made me smile.

"Seonghwa told us to open the curtains for you, they haven't been opened since Hongjoongs parents were alive. The only person that uses this room is Mingi when he wants to play piano." San says from behind me. "Hongjoong's mother painted the lily flower herself."

"It's a painting?" I ask, turning to look back at both of them in surprise.

"Doesn't look it right? She was extremely talented at making things look different than what they are." Wooyoung says, the same grin on his face.

The tour went on, and every room amazed me more than the last. The kitchen was huge, almost twice the size of my bedroom with a dining room attached to it which was just as big. My mind wandered to all the grand dinners they must have hosted when Hongjoongs parents were still alive. Did they host balls too? It would be foolish not to considering how beautiful the setting was.

There was a pool, a greenhouse, and even a golf course in the backyard. I glanced over the hill and caught a glimpse of a tennis court on the far side of the golf course. I wondered how many acres this house was on. We weren't that from the city, however I couldn't see any other buildings for miles.

Inside on the first floor, there was a two-story library, another 2 smaller seating rooms, and laundry/housekeeping quarters behind the kitchen. The hallways were twisting in all directions, as if intentional. Was the layout meant to confuse people? Maybe intruders?

It would be smart if it was, all things considered. The house was intimidating from the outside just on its own, getting lost on the inside felt like a terrifying idea.

"Do you guys have maids?" I ask my arm now linked with Wooyoungs. I'd hate to be a worker here, having to clean this house would have to take days. Not only that but cooking? Laundry? Maintenance work would be a nightmare too.

"We do, they have Sundays off." Wooyoung answers, leading me back to the main stairwell. "Upstairs is mostly bedrooms and bathrooms. Hongjoong's home office is at the end of the hall on the right." He adds.

I nod, my neck craning to look at the paintings lining the walls once again. There was a painting of a woman, a beautiful woman with long black hair and piercing green eyes with freckles dusting her cheeks. I stared at the painting for a moment, getting a sinking feeling that she was staring back.

"That's Aurora." Wooyoung murmurs, eyes on the painting too. "She was... The one before you." He hesitates to say, glancing down at me before looking back up at the painting. I let go of his arm and climbed a few steps to stand directly in front of her painting.

"She's beautiful... Pretty name too." I say softly, my eyes softening as more details reveal themselves.

"You would have liked her," San says, his arms crossed as he looks at the painting, a sad look in his eyes. "She was like you, not a dancer though... More of a reader."

"If you wanted to find her she'd only ever be in the library," Wooyoung says with a small chuckle. "Most of the books in there were gifts for her, from us." He says.

"What happened to her?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper as I turn back to them. They're both staring up at the painting, Wooyoung lowers his head and lets out a soft, pained sigh once he registers my question.

"We'll tell you in time. You should get settled first." San answers, his voice low.

Oddly enough, I didn't feel an ounce of jealousy. It was obvious she wasn't in the picture, whether she was alive or not. However, the pained look on Wooyoungs face and the behavior of the other boys when she is mentioned made me think it was the latter. I felt sad for them. It was obvious they loved her, maybe more than I would ever realize or truly know.

A part of me was envious of that fact. To be loved so unconditionally was something I had dreamed of since I was a little girl. But, another part of me was scared. Did their work have something to do with her death? It made sense in a way.

A loud crash made me jump from my thoughts. I look to San and Wooyoung who are suddenly on high alert before San grumbles something and storms off into the direction of the main living room. I glance at Wooyoung as I step down the stairs to follow but the man stops me.

"Don't follow him." He says in a hushed voice, gripping my hips in a tight hold as I glance behind him. My eyes widened, the door San had entered through at the start of the day was wide open with a man stumbling through. San grabs the man by the back of the neck and practically drags him back into the darkness beyond the door.

The man lets out a string of curses and begs as San slams the door shut behind them both, his cries fading into nothing the further they go.

"It's the basement," Wooyoung says, answering my question before I even had to ask. "It's the only place in this house that you are not allowed to go. Understand?" He says, his expression void of any playfulness I had come to associate with his character.

"I understand," I say, staring back up at him with the same wide-eyed expression.

"Good girl." He says with a grin, hand cupping my cheek briefly before moving away, heading towards the staircase. "Come, I'll show you everyone's rooms."

I glance at the door to the basement for a moment before following Wooyoung up the stairs.

I've decided to update the story consistently every Tuesday at 12 am (AEST). A Christmas special is being planned which will be set a few years after the events of this book.

I urge minors to not interact beyond this chapter, for it's going to start getting heavy from this point. I will be checking profiles to make sure so please have something to prove your age on your profile! I don't want to traumatize children <3

Also, I closed the taglist a little early however I'll be going through the comments and the past few posts and making sure I didn't miss anyone. If you aren't on it when this chapter is posted, I'll add you to the next one.

taglist:

@bellaptv @arilevenatz @my-atiny-kookie-rkive @hecateslittlewitchling

@neuviloved @monstacheol @latisthegenderfluidwannabealone

@vtyb23 @bigbabygremlin @professormingiglasses

@pinuspot @astral-trashcan @ateezswonderland

[syoddeye]

consequence / needling

price x f!reader | 1.9k words series directory | ao3 tags: tattoos, feelings, social media, shitty exes a/n: good news and bad news. ☕

you’ve never been much of a dancer, but you find a rhythm all the same.

john divides time between work and leave. grouses about tying up loose ends and mountains of menial paperwork about said ends, but he’s with you more often than not. you think you’re handling his comings and goings well until he sits you down for a talk after informing you he’ll be gone for two and a half weeks.

at first, it feels like critique all over again, the kind that makes you shrink into yourself. your instinct is to freeze up, say little, agree with him, and promise to do better next time he’s away. but john doesn’t let you fold into yourself, and he doesn’t take easy answers either. he’s calm and direct and speaks with disarming clarity. for someone who can’t discuss what his job involves, he’s honest about its realities. there’s no judgment in his tone, just a measured precision that leaves you feeling exposed, then immediately comforted. for the first time, you’re not left twisting in the wind.

he wants you to make informed decisions. to minimize the surprises you’ll inevitably experience. no more gut reactions, no more panic.

i need to know you’ll be alright. with or without me.

and he isn’t simply referring to his deployments. he speaks about a future without him, should you choose to walk away. 

this isn’t for everyone.

john’s right, of course. you know in your bones but don’t want it to be true. instead, you let yourself believe in the possibility of things working out, following the moments that feel good and easy, however fleeting. winter helps—the light snow smoothing over the ugly edges of everything outside, making it easier to laze about with him. he spends more time at your flat than his own, though he won’t even hear of you merging households yet. you don’t press him. rushing things is what got you here. a deep bruise always prepared to remind you of its ache.

99+. terrifying. absurd.

the espresso machine hisses as you wipe spilled milk off the counter with the edge of your apron. the rectangular shape in your pocket taunts you. you haven’t looked at your phone since you clocked in, and the impulse grows harder to ignore with every flat white.

it’s stupid. it’s not like you drew anything groundbreaking—just a sheet of cats with coffee mugs modeled after old-school greeting cards. a cute warm-up, nothing serious. you wrote a corny caption, meowcchiato or catpuccino, posted it, and went to sleep. you considered it a modest success when you woke to a dozen comments and new followers. then, some big-name tattoo page shared it, and it ballooned.

your fingertips dip into the canvas only for a group order to pop up on the screen, signaling the start of the mid-day rush.

on break, you step out back. the cold air hits like a reset button, your breath visible in cloudy puffs. shivering, you stare at the tower of notifications on your lock screen and swipe.

your eyes saucer at four figures. a thousand and some change likes. hundreds of comments and shares. two hundred more followers. you scroll through the new names, quickly following a few artists and legit-looking shops back before you feel weird.

one account catches your eye despite a sea of requests in your messages. a local studio you’re familiar with.

>> hey, looks like we are neighbors. i like the cats. i don’t think i recognize your work. are you an apprentice somewhere?

rechecking the post, you flinch. you neglected to remove the geotag. shit. so much for total anonymity. you respond before you think too hard about it. embarrassment rolls off of you like the vapor from your breath.

> hi, no i’m not. this is just a hobby.

another chance to check your phone doesn’t arrive until you’re off, due to meet john.

>> really? if you’re at all interested, i’ve got a friend opening apps in a month or two. >> happy to chat if you want to drop by the shop.

it feels like a trap. something oddly shaped like hope makes you walk into it anyway with a reply.

~~~~

she’s in a rush, already glancing at the clock before she’s even out the door. her scarf is half-tied, her coat slipping off a shoulder as she reaches for her bag, but john can’t help himself. he leans in and kisses her cheek, then the line of her jaw, quick and light like a thief. she huffs a laugh but doesn’t pull away.

“you’re going to make me late.”

he kisses the corner of her mouth, the scar on her wrist when she tries to push him off, the warm skin beneath her ear. his hands crawl under her open coat and up her sides to reel in for another. he fixes her coat, fastens the buttons, and ties her scarf, all without letting her up for air. when she finally pulls the door open, winter funneling through the crack, he lets her go with a goodbye. she steps out mid-laugh, and he’s left standing, smiling to himself like a fool.

with nothing but time to kill, he makes himself useful. 

cece follows as he tidies. he knows exactly what his girl buys at the shop now, what brands, what alternatives. he parks outside her building and catches himself smiling, almost laughing, at how far this has come. how it started with that dent in the car he now leaves at her curb, the little heart she’d drawn on the note that came with it, an act to placate an angry stranger. now, she draws them on the back of his hand when they lie in.

later, he fixes supper, the cat weaving between his feet. greets her when she gets in with a thin slice of parmesan with honey balanced on his fingers. before she bites the morsel off its perch, she holds up her phone with a frown.

“what am i looking at?”

“he fucking painted it.”

~~~~

you find out through an old classmate, an acquaintance utterly ignorant of everything.

of course, ben painted the breakup, the prelude, and the aftermath, repurposing it all for artistic expression. you picture him pretending to suffer, draping his self-inflicted misery over their history like he’s the victim. the sheer audacity of it—painting your pain as if it’s a fucking concept—makes you want to scream. you don’t even know what’s worse: the paintings themselves, his self-congratulatory smugness in the captions, or the fact that you feel anything when you see them. the nerve to twist everything into his own narrative. it’s infuriating, his reduction of everything into a palette of pity. you know that temporarily unblocking him to spy helps nothing, but you can’t help yourself.

ben reinterpreted everything, made it about his genius and his torment the way he always did. and what bothers you most is that you’re still trying to find yourself in his work, even now.

at least hannah stays out of the literal picture for once. bad enough ben depicts her as some sort of savior. a heavy-handed and garish fucking pieta-like feature. 'ben wanted to paint it, you know…had it all mapped out. i convinced him not to.' the rat.

you stare at the hard line of john’s jaw as he scrolls, barely able to appreciate his culinary efforts because his predecessor ruined your appetite.

“my offer stands.”

“what?”

“i’m inclined to sort him out for you. i know a man or two who owe me.”

~~~~

she makes him promise he won’t sic someone on the ex, and he obliges. he makes her feel better, and she draws another lazy heart on his skin.

cheek pressed to his chest, she sighs.

“you gonna to say anything to him?” 

“what’s there to say?”

“i can think of some words to make a sailor blush.”

she flicks his nipple. “i already cursed him out and threw wine at him.”

“think he’s doin’ this because you told hannah to fuck off?”

rolling to her side, she toys with the hair creeping down his chest. “i think hannah and i are irrelevant. swap us out with anyone else, and he’d come to the same, self-centered conclusion.”

“for what it’s worth, i think his work is…trite.”

a tired laugh rattles out of her, and she pats his stomach. “oh, wow, someone check on the sailor. must be blushing.”

cheeky.

he sweeps over her in one fluid roll, pushing her to her back and sticking his mouth to her neck. he ignores her squeals and her half-hearted battering. she protests, something about him leaving a mark, and he lifts.

“put one on me?”

“a hickey?” her chest heaves from their game.

“no. a tattoo.”

the meticulousness john admires translates into everything, that much is clear, given his girl’s stringent cleaning and the amount of ppe. he didn’t think he’d be treated to some gutter punk special, but it feels as professional as an amateur can get. considering the other places he’s spent time with open wounds, her flat feels like a spa.

the amount of shit he’ll catch from the boys, however? that worries him.

they discuss the design again. it already took the better part of an hour to select one from her burgeoning collection—she refuses to call it a portfolio, despite all evidence—and placement took another fifteen. shaving, regrettably, took only a few minutes. odd and intimate. when she brushed the shorn hair off his left pec and swept it into a dust pan, he forced himself to breathe.

“are you sure about this? i’m not a professional. this is permanent.”

he readjusts and pats the naked patch of skin. “i’m aware.”

the bite of a needle is nothing. compared to the puckered scar from a knife wound in his right thigh—it’s a pleasant burn. helps that the hand guiding it is light, the pressure deliberate and contained. plus, her tongue wets the corner of her lips so often, and that, paired with the pinch of her brow? he’d endure worse. cute.

he will not embarrass her and say it out loud. he doesn’t say a word. she’s finally distracted from ben’s paintings.

but she speaks when she switches to color, dabbing excess ink onto a paper towel.

“alright?”

“never better.”

“because i’m not a mind reader. if you’re regretting this now, say the word.”

“i’m not regretting a thing. are you?” 

she doesn’t immediately look up from the needle, fiddling with it. when she does, she shakes her head. “not a thing. moving onto color now.”

she carefully drags red into the design, then gold. the firm, short strokes spark a brief flare of discomfort but let nothing slip. he can take it. the silence lingers, shorter this time, and again, she breaks it.

“remember that silly cats and coffee sheet?”

“yeah?”

“i’ve been, uh, chatting with a local artist about it. he wants to meet. talk shop, i guess.”

his attention snaps from his chest to her. sly thing, biting her cheek to keep her expression as flat as possible. “go on.”

she meets his eye for a second, pulling her hand back to swap to green. “he wants me to bring my collection, if you can believe it.”

that ugly, possessive monster in his head cocks an ear. focuses on the wrong detail. he wrestles it into the thick mud of his thoughts and resurfaces with—”sounds like he thinks you have a knack for it. we have that in common.” good show.

“he thinks i might be good enough to try for an apprenticeship.”

this time, she holds his gaze. uncertainty writ large on her face. seeking.

“is that something you want?”

“yeah,” her lip twitches. a flash of something crosses her face. a wince? “yeah, it is.”

[silentscrying]

🎸 out of my mind ! 💿 track two: kowalski, status report

guitarist!ino x drummer!reader

summary: it's the annual battle of the bands at the fix, your college campus's iconic live music bar, and this year you're taking the stage as the drummer for indie rock group cursed technique. you know the competition is strong, but no part of you is ready for lead singer and guitarist takuma ino. you lock eyes at the edge of the stage, and something starts—something that might make you feel alive even more than the beat of the drums.

warnings: language, alcohol, mentions of drugs/drug dealing, toge bullying, unbearably cute dogs. || sfw. 9k words.

"I SHOULDN'T CUSS in this, right?"

It’s the day before the other four artists premiere their sets at Battle of the Bands, and you haven’t been home since six in the morning. You’re running on caffeine and spite and the pursuit of the story, parked on a high stool across the bar from the one and only Ieiri Shoko.

Toge leans on the counter beside you, opting to stand. He’s agreed to pay for the next snack run in return for you letting him be your partner. You both know you’re going to end up doing most of the writing, but you don’t really mind. Toge would if you asked him to, but you love this kind of thing in a way he just doesn’t. Plus, he’s better with a camera than you, and he’s taking photos tomorrow night.

You laugh, pulling out your phone to record. “You can say whatever you want as long as it’s honest. Be candid.”

“You might regret saying that!” Gojo calls from the back, and Shoko silences him with a glare.

“Are you coming or not?”

Gojo grins and finishes up whatever he’s putting away in the storage room, then strides out and leans his elbows on the counter.

“Do you mind if I record?” You point to the open voice memo app. “Makes it easier to quote you correctly.” You also just hate running interviews when you’re scribbling hand-written notes the whole time. You’d much rather have a genuine conversation and worry about the details later.

Shoko waves a hand airily. “No problem.”

“Absolutely,” Gojo says. “You can probably sell that for thousands.”

You set the phone on the counter, next to one of the tiny pumpkins scattered across it in celebration of the beginning of October. You and Toge bounce back and forth as you run through the standard start-of-interview checklist, having them spell out their names, getting their ages, hometowns, degrees, all that jazz. And then you launch into the stuff you really care about.

“So, you opened The Fix about ten years ago now, correct?”

Shoko nods. “Yeah, a little over two years after we graduated.”

You look at Gojo, whose eyes are even more alarmingly blue in the daylight. “And you were hired right away?”

“Utahime first, then me,” he nods. “Best for last, y’know.”

Shoko snorts. “We knew each other in school. I just took pity on him.” She smirks as Gojo’s jaw drops. “You can quote that.”

“Right, so all of you were friends in college. And you came together to start this place—what was the idea behind it?” Toge chimes in. “You said you studied nursing, Shoko?”

And you sit and listen as Shoko explains. Back in college, she was at the top of her class. By graduation, she’d been accepted to basically all the best med schools. She had her pick. She could do whatever she wanted. But she realized that what she wanted wasn’t that at all.

The medical field is brutal, she tells you. It’s all late nights and emotional burnout. People yelling at you, misplaced anger when you give them the bad news. Getting attached to people only to watch them waste away.

“I needed to get out before I got too far in. Maybe it was selfish,” she admits. “But I wasn’t cut out for it. I have so much admiration for medical professionals, but I couldn’t be one of them. A few clinicals and I was already feeling the consequences of giving too much of myself and getting nothing back.” She shrugs. “So I named it The Fix, as some kind of homage to the medical background. And I figured I’d just make sure it’s safe.”

Something sits heavy in her gaze as she stares at something behind you, middle distance, like she’s remembering.

“Why a college bar?” you ask, nudging the phone across the counter to pick up her voice better. “I mean, the extra security, thinking about underage drinking, dealing with a bunch of broke university kids. You could’ve just as easily opened a different bar in a more lucrative area. What was the appeal?”

She smiles crookedly. “Appeal. Well. My senior year, I was working in the local ER. And I saw… god. So many kids came in there needing their stomachs pumped, or kids who’d done laced drugs, gotten roofied, harassed, it was… I mean, it was a city university club scene. They weren’t safe. And I just felt like I needed to give them that. I couldn’t stay there as a nurse or a doctor. But I could do this.” She shrugs. “Sorry. That was probably way too much.”

“No,” you say quickly, smiling at her. “That was—that’s what we came here for. Shoko, that’s amazing. And it’s not selfish, taking care of yourself. You’re still here taking care of others.”

You don’t know Gojo well. Most of your stories about him come secondhand from Nobara, who knows him through Megumi. She paints the picture of a flamboyant, obnoxious bartender who’s more like a weird uncle to her than anything. From what you’ve seen of him at The Fix, you know this to be mostly accurate—he’s rarely serious, always taking flack from the students and giving it right back, ragging on Utahime, begging Shoko to play his playlist instead of Geto’s and knowing she’ll never cave. But now, as he listens intently to Shoko, you think you’re seeing another side of him.

There’s something troubled on his face as she speaks, like he wishes he could reach into the past and help. Like he regrets it.

The bar’s not the only thing that has a different side in the daylight.

“She’s right,” Gojo tells Shoko. It’s not much, but she looks up at him a bit surprised, something in her expression softening. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, not quite there but not quite not. “You’ve got a pretty big heart under all that RBF.” Shoko rolls her eyes, the moment over.

“What about you?” You turn to Gojo, nudging the phone his way. “Why a college bar?”

Shoko turns toward him, leaning a hip against the bar, just as curious as you are. “I think kids deserve to be kids,” he shrugs. “And if I—if we—can create a space where it’s actually safe for them to do that, it feels important.” His gaze shifts from you and Toge to the empty bar, the stage and floor and high-top tables that tomorrow will be full of music and laughter and students knowing they’re allowed to let loose here.

“There aren’t a lot of places out there that are exclusively for students,” he continues. “It’s this weird phase, college, where you’re figuring out who you are, trying to take risks without losing too much. It’s a lot. And you look at the crime rates, date rape drugs, theft, DUIs, in the city, and it’s just—this place gives them the room to learn and grow and mess around and have a good time without the danger of the… I don’t know. The outside world. Does that make sense?”

He drums his fingers on the countertop, then seems to abruptly remember the recording and stops. “I think it’s just… well, no one’s allowed to take youth away from young people. So that’s why I’m here.”

You wonder what Gojo was like in school. He majored in gender studies, which you’re pretty sure is what Todo is at least minoring in, too—you’re not sure how it’s applicable to anything, but Nobara says he likes to pull his diploma out from behind the bar and say he’s an expert in women. It seems a far cry from this rare, more subdued version of Gojo you’re seeing right now. You’d guess he’s grown quite a bit in the time he’s been here. And Shoko’s been here to witness it.

He’s not a business owner, like Shoko or Geto. And according to Nobara, he definitely doesn’t need this gig to make a living. He’s here because he wants to be.

“These last few years have been nice, in particular,” he offers. “Just ‘cause some of us have kids going here. I mean, you know the Fushiguros. Suguru’s got the twins. And I know Ino’s not Nanami’s kid, but they’re tight.”

“Wait, what?” Nanami is the bar’s primary security guy, a bouncer who never lets a fake ID fool him. He’s part of the reason this place is so safe. Toge spins to look at you as you blurt out the question, caught off guard. “Uh, sorry. I just didn’t—I didn’t know they knew each other.”

Shoko studies you with tired, intelligent eyes, and you can’t help but feel the tables have been entirely flipped. You’re the one being interrogated, wordlessly, by the woman across the counter. You feel like every thought in your head is scrawled across your face for her to read.

“Yeah,” Gojo says, unaffected. “Ino looks up to him a lot, I think. Even though he’s an old man who reads the newspaper for fun.” He snorts. “He’s a good guy, though. And Ino’s a good kid.” He finally clocks the way Shoko’s looking at you and cocks his head, appraising.

Thankfully, Toge cuts in with another question. “So, we’ll be around tomorrow for the bands and to take some photos and observe,” he explains, glancing at you to make sure he’s got the information right. “Will Geto be around?” You’d wanted both owners’ perspectives, and now that Gojo’s reminded you of the twins, you’re even more curious.

“Yeah, Suguru and Utahime will be here tomorrow night,” Shoko says. “And Nanami. Geto would totally be down to talk to you some other time, too, when it’s a bit quieter.”

“Amazing,” you say, pulling the phone back toward you. You’ll need details, follow-ups, but you need to process this first, write some things down while they’re fresh in your mind. ‘Thank you so much for this. We appreciate it.”

“Anytime, kid,” Shoko says, waving you off. “See you tomorrow.”

As you turn off the recording, Gojo and Toge have already devolved into conversation about the bands and predictions about tomorrow night. A few posters are scattered across a low table near the door, and you pick one up, smiling at the blocky lettering advertising Black Flash. There are posters advertising all of the artists, and they look amazing, straight out of one of the alt rock venues in the wider city.

“They’re sick, right?” Gojo calls, nodding to the posters. “I gotta hang those up, actually. Thanks for the reminder.”

You wave goodbye to Shoko and Gojo and lead the way out, Toge just behind you.

“Man,” he says, and you brace yourself, recognizing his teasing tone for what it is. “They said Ino’s name and you look like scared Bambi or some shit.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, elbowing him.

He holds his hands up. “I’m just living in pursuit of the truth! Like Kusakabe would want.”

“Is your camera battery charged for tomorrow?” you say in a blatant attempt at a topic change.

“Who do you think I am?”

“Toge Inumaki, chronically irresponsible student and—”

“Okay, sorry I asked, holy shit.” He sticks his tongue out at you. Then he hesitates, frowning, and then he’s pulling out his phone and calling someone in his favorites list before you can see who it is. “Hey,” he greets. “What? No, she didn’t kick me out. Hey. Hey.” You snicker and Toge glares at you, pressing the phone closer to his ear. “Yutaaa,” he whines. “Do you know where my camera battery is?”

—

Even when you’re not the one on stage, you live for Fridays at The Fix. Tonight you’re doing double duty—because of the dual elimination at the end of the round, all of the competing artists are here. It’s not a requirement, but you want to see what you’re up against, and the sentiment seems to have carried. You and Toge are also in reporting mode for your project story.

The band on stage right now is… well, you can’t say new wave metal is really your thing, but it’s definitely theirs, and the audience is loving it. The Cull, you write in your notes. Look up names.

You couldn’t make out the lyrics if your life depended on it. It’s three guys and a girl, vaguely familiar, but you’re fairly certain they’re seniors and absolutely certain they’re baked right now.

“God, this is loud.” Yuta winces, turning to face you, and then his eyes flicker to something over your shoulder. You divert your attention from the stage and just catch the brief commotion in your periphery. Nanami has a kid by the elbow, and he’s escorting him out the side door, expressionless. The kid’s obviously drunk out of his mind, tripping over himself, shouting something that Nanami doesn’t bother to respond to.

Maki follows your gaze and wrinkles her nose up in distaste.

“Who’s that?”

“My cousin,” she says flatly. You glance quizzically at Megumi, who is definitely standing five feet away and not being escorted out of the bar.

“Dude, how much family do you have at this school?”

She sighs. “Just Mai and Megumi and him. Naoya. He’s a piece of shit.”

“Clearly,” Toge says. “He broke the M theme. No respect for the family alliteration.” Maki kicks him in the shin.

“One last round for The Cull!” Panda calls from the stage, and your ears slowly, very gradually stop ringing with the raging new wave music. The stage techs get to work behind Panda as he introduces the next group.

“Up next, making their debut, we’ve got a sophomore girl pop trio. Give it up for MOTION CAPTURE!”

There’s a big cheer from the bar, and you turn to see Geto grinning. Three girls take the stage, the blonde one grabbing the mic and adding, “All caps!” The girl beside her is very obviously her twin sister, though her hair is straight and dark while the blonde’s is tugged into pigtails. Light and dark. The girl on keys has a long, black bubble braid that she pushes out of the way as she settles in to play.

The blonde plugs in her electric and calls out, “Alright, I’m Nanako.” She tests out a chord, the sound reverberating, filling the bar all the way up to its high ceilings. “That’s Mimiko, that’s Remi, and we’re just here to have a good time.”

“Hey,” a voice says behind you, and you jump. You turn to find Takuma holding two drinks, offering one to you.

“Oh! Aw, thanks, you didn’t have to do that. How much do I owe you?”

He rolls his eyes. “Nothing.”

“Takuma—”

“Nothing,” he reiterates. “Anyway, The Cull. Thoughts?”

You take the drink and try it while you think on your answer—it’s the same thing Nobara got you last week. How did he know?

“I didn’t really understand any of the lyrics,” you admit, shrugging. “They weren’t bad. Not really my genre. Do you know them?”

Takuma shakes his head. “I had a gen ed once with that Rin kid, but I don’t know the other ones. These girls aren’t bad, though.” He’s right—they’ve launched into an Olivia Rodrigo cover that’s actually decent. They could work on their voice control, but they’re young and fun and having a good time and working the crowd, and that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?

You sing along, alternating between your drink and exchanging quips with Toge and talking with Takuma. You like this new balance between your band and his, the easy camaraderie.

When the girls wrap up their set, you whoop and cheer and Kirara shamelessly watches Hakari move things off the stage, arms bare in his cut-off tank.

“You’re subtle,” Takuma tells her, and she tugs his beanie down over his face.

“Hey!”

You grab his drink before he can spill it and grin as he yanks his hat off and readjusts it. His hair is a fluffy mess underneath, and it’s kind of endearing.

When the girl pop trio is done, two guys take the stage, one in white and one in black. They’re clearly related, dark hair and pale skin and piercing eyes, and Panda introduces them as the Kamos. You don’t know if they’re brothers or cousins or what. But they’re good—they sing a few alt rock covers, play guitar.

“Damn,” Nobara sighs, a little longingly, her gaze settling on Choso as he takes over the chorus. “They’re…”

Beside her, Yuji wrinkles his nose. “Dude. That’s my half-brother.”

Nobara hums noncommittally. “And?”

He groans, tipping his head back and staring at the exposed beams of the ceiling, run through with colored lights. “Why does this always happen?”

Toge is taking more photos of them than is strictly necessary, considering your story is about the bar and not the band, but you let him have this. Scattered throughout the crowd are more kids with cameras, freshmen from the entry-level reporting classes with big underage stamps on the backs of their hands. Somebody mistook Toge for one of them earlier, and Maki hasn’t let it go all night.

You jot down atmospheric notes on your phone, little things that’ll help set the scene for your project lede, keeping an eye on the bar as much as you can. Geto has jumped in at the bar, which he usually does when the place gets busy, and Gojo is terrorizing Utahime again.

“How’d your interview go?” Takuma asks, nodding at your notes. It shouldn’t faze you so much that he remembers what you told him about your story, but you can’t help the little kick of your heart in your chest at the reminder.

“Good! Really good.” And then you catch sight of Nanami, back at the door after calling a cab for Maki’s asshat cousin. “Actually, Gojo mentioned you.”

Takuma’s brows shoot up. “Gojo? Why?”

Nanami has always seemed incredibly reserved, stony and silent in a way Takuma has never been. You don’t want to pry, but you’re also curious about the relationship between them, how they met, what they are to each other. The journalist in you wants to know.

And then there’s the part of you that just wants to know Takuma.

“Well, he was talking about the twins and the Fushiguros, and he kind of mentioned something about you knowing Nanami?” You try to sound casual, jerking your chin toward the door where Nanami is posted, like a tall, blond guard dog.

“Oh,” he says, surprised, but he shrugs, not seeming too alarmed by the question. “Yeah, I’ve known Nanami for… a long time. He’s kind of a mentor. He’s the reason I met Fushiguro in the first place, actually, ‘cause of him knowing Gojo.”

You’re considering asking how exactly they did meet when the Kamos wrap up, Nobara staring up at them dreamily, and the stage clears out for the final artist.

Whatever questions you had are thrown out the window, because you know who this is. Everyone knows who this is.

Fifth-year student and resident SoundCloud rapper, Ryomen Sukuna. Or D!SH0NORED1, according to the posters.

“Oh, here we go,” Megumi groans.

Despite his reputation on campus, you don’t know anyone who’s actually close to Sukuna, except Uruame. You mostly know that he deals at the skate park and that he’s clean about it.

And that his raps are truly, genuinely horrible.

He lets Panda give a stilted introduction and launches into a verse, mic too close to his mouth, making hand gestures or stepping to the beat of his backing track. His tattoos are even more stark and bold under the stage lights.

“My blood type’s B, your type is me, my zodiac Caprisun, it might be controversial but you’re still lookin’ at me, son!”

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Kirara mutters. “I’m gonna bleach my eardrums.”

“Caprisun?” Nobara whispers. “Oh, dude.”

You might be a terrible person for thinking it, but watching this guy’s performance makes you feel infinitely better about your odds of advancing in the tournament.

His final song is a new one he introduces as Frosted Flexin’, and Maki looks like she’s about ready to keel over dead.

“Frosted flexin’, I'm the cereal king, pourin' oat milk in the mix, yeah, I'm doin' my thing,” Sukuna spits in his low voice, swaggering up to the front of the stage. You are trying so hard not to lose it.

“Sukuna being an oat milk truther wasn’t on my bingo card,” Toge says.

“Got the swag of a squirrel and the brain of a dove, call me trash, but you're still showin' me love.”

“Thoughts on the amount of swag a given squirrel possesses?” you ask Takuma. He laughs, loud and bright, and then seems to very seriously consider the question.

“I don’t know if campus squirrels have swag. They live in luxury. They probably eat better than we do,” he says. You can’t argue that—you did once see a squirrel outside your sociology class run by with a full bagel in its mouth. “The wilderness squirrels, though, I think they got a scrappy kind of swag. Like, I wouldn’t cross them.”

You nod sagely. “I want them on my team in the apocalypse.”

He nudges you with a shoulder. “Am I on your team?”

You glance at him, make a show of looking him up and down. Maybe you’re imagining it, but you think he’s blushing a little. “I don’t know. How fast can you climb a tree?”

Sukuna is nearing the end of his song, now, saying, “Off-tune, out of sync, yeah, I know it's a sin, but you'll play it back twice 'cause I still might win.”

He actually, physically drops the mic and Hakari swoops in and catches it, clearing his throat and saying into it, “Yep, friendly reminder that equipment’s expensive! Everyone give our last artist of the night a hand, yeah?”

There’s scattered applause and more than a few confused faces as Sukuna lopes off stage, and Panda hops back up to explain the voting system for anyone who wasn’t here last week. “QR codes to the Google form are posted around the bar,” he says.

Out of all eight artists, the bottom two will be eliminated. You’re nervous. But voting was open last week too. You can’t vote as a member of the band, and it’s all done through school Google accounts to avoid double votes or the link getting sent out to non-students.

“Open until tomorrow morning,” Panda reminds the audience. “Results and second round schedules will be posted on the Instagram at some point tomorrow! That’s it for this Friday at The Fix. Have a great night, folks. Get home safe.”

Gojo whoops dramatically from the bar, and Panda gives him a weird look before getting off stage.

Your friends start heading toward the door, and you grab Toge and excuse yourself to catch Geto at the bar. Gojo sees you first. “The newsies!” he calls.

“Like the musical?” you say in lieu of a greeting. “Banger soundtrack.”

“I could dance on newspapers,” Toge says.

“Geto!” The Fix’s other owner smiles at you, soft and genuine. Part of his dark hair is pulled back and the rest hangs loose over his shoulders, a stark contrast to Gojo—like the Kamos, you think, or like Nanako and Mimiko. Light and dark. “We were wondering if you’d be down to set up a time to talk. Has Gojo told you about our story at all?”

Geto smiles, drying a glass and leaning against the bar. “He told me he’s gonna be the front page of every paper in the city, which I assume is a horrid exaggeration,” he says. Gojo looks affronted. “Shoko mentioned you’re doing a feature for class, though. I’d be happy to.”

“We have our Monday night class time open for field reporting the week after this one,” Toge offers. “Will you be around?”

“I will indeed. Utahime, too, if you want to speak to both of us. And Gojo won’t be here, which might be beneficial for you.”

“Suguru,” Gojo gasps, pretending to stagger back. “You wound me.”

“Mhm,” he says, unaffected. “What time works best for you two?”

You set up a time to interview Geto and Utahime, then say goodbye to him and Gojo and run to catch up to your friends. It’s a nice night, and since you didn’t have to deal with instruments, you all decided to walk.

“How goes the… journalisming? Journaling?” Takuma asks when you fall into step beside him.

“Good, all good. Reporting is maybe a better word, but valiant effort.”

“I like journalisming. Can you just submit words to the official dictionary? I’m gonna do it.”

“No,” Toge says, and you blink. He shrugs. “What? I tried once. But the only submission form I could find was for the Bureau of Linguistical Reality and it wasn’t like, a legitimate dictionary form. There’s all these requirements, it’s horrible.”

“What word did you try to submit?” you ask warily, not sure if you actually want to know.

“Some things,” Toge says solemnly, “are better kept secret.”

The night is hazy, only small rays of moonlight piercing through the cloud cover, and you make your way through the campus roads guided only by the streetlamps and Maki’s reliable sense of direction.

Part of you wants to ask Takuma to come over, or Yuji to insist the band come over to his place again, just so you can keep talking. But you have work to do, things to write and transcribe, lists of follow-up questions to make, and that’s only your workload for this one class. You still have exams this week, and you need to study now so you can balance it with rehearsals. Assuming you actually advanced to round two, that is.

And part of you worries you might be taking this too fast, too. You don’t typically integrate people into your life so quickly. You like spending time with Takuma and Kirara and Yuji and even Megumi, though he’s pretty quiet. You just don’t want to jump in too far too fast.

At your place, you say your goodbyes and head up to your room to get some work done. Toge uploads his photos and puts them in your project folder on Drive. And you spend the night doing what you do best, aside from drumming—writing.

Youth for the young: JU alumni run safest live music bar in city limits

You don’t even notice the time until it’s past one in the morning, and you’re nearly asleep at your desk. The dark has crept across your room, the only source of light the desk lamp and your laptop screen. Finally, you push the computer shut and flick off the light, flopping into your bed. A few missed messages pop up when you hold your phone up, wincing at the bright screen.

takuma: just letting you know i made the treacherous journey home safely takuma: many miles of hardship takuma: thought i was gonna die halfway there

You smirk and type out a reply.

you: did kirara have to save you takuma: i resent that takuma: (yes) takuma: wait why are you up it’s so late you: journalisming you: why are YOU up takuma: travel adrenaline takuma: (coding project due monday that i just started) you: TAKUMA

The next text to come through is a voice note, and you can’t help smiling as you hit play and his voice fills the open air of your bedroom.

“Okay, in my defense, I thought it was due next Monday. Which maybe isn’t my defense because it means I just can’t read due dates, or maybe I just can’t read, but I thought I had a lot more time and then one of my classmates texted me asking for help on this block of code and I told him I hadn’t started and he was like oh my god, Ino, it’s due in three days, and I was like no it’s not, we have so much time—turns out we don’t have so much time, so I’m over here staring at my screen until the vessels in my eyes pop—”

He yawns, and it makes you yawn too, despite the screen separating you. “Sorry, agh. Anyway, I have to write this program that uses some kind of randomized generator…”

You find your eyelids fighting gravity, exhaustion washing over you as he explains the project and all the reasons he’s not that worried about getting it done by Monday because actually he’s on a roll and it turns out the code isn’t that different from a similar project he did last year so he can just lift the main blocks over and wow, he’s tired, and you stifle a laugh as the voice memo comes to an end and he says, “Okay, gosh, I should go to bed. You should go to bed. Stop journalisming, Skip, get some sleep. G’night.”

You grin, plugging your phone in and sending him a voice memo of your own.

“I’m done journalisming. Still haven’t written that story on you, though. Night, Takuma.”

The last thing you see before you fall asleep is his reaction to your text. It’s a thumbs up, but after a few seconds, it disappears, replaced with a heart.

—

“I’m gonna die,” Nobara groans.

You’ve been checking Instagram every hour on the hour for the bracket results, but to no avail. The five of you are sprawled out in the living room, a Fleetwood Mac record spinning in the corner, cups of coffee and tea and scattered remnants of breakfast dotting the table and the floor and the windowsill.

You have post notifications on for the Battle of the Bands Instagram page, but you check anyway, as if you somehow missed it.

“Okay,” Maki says. “Cut it out. No phones.”

“Maki,” Toge groans. “How do we live with the suspense?”

“Go around and give a rundown of your week?” Yuta suggests.

“Aw, highs and lows, it’s like elementary school,” Nobara says happily. “I’ll go first! High: annoying slacker guy in my marketing class got a shit grade on the group project and the rest of us got As. Low: Skipper won’t give me Ino lore.”

“Lore,” you mimic. “I don’t have any lore. We’ve known each other for like, two weeks.”

“That’s enough time for lore,” she insists. “What’s your high? Ino?”

“Okay, jeez,” you say. “Maybe it’s that Toge and I had a really good first interview for our project story.”

Toge blinks at you.

“Fine, maybe it’s Takuma.”

Nobara grins in a way you can only describe as malicious. “Okay,” you say, pointing at her. “Low: whatever that is.” She sticks her tongue out at you.

“My low is Skipper bullying me in class,” Toge says. “And my high is she said she’d be my partner, so I’m not gonna fail.”

Yuta nods sagely. “Maki?”

“Uhh,” she says eloquently. “My parents won’t stop pestering me about fall break. But I aced a test on Thursday in anthro, so there’s that.”

“You’re not going home, right?” you ask. She shakes her head resolutely. Maki doesn’t go home unless she absolutely has to—one thing she and Mai actually have in common.

All of your phones go off at once, a mix of buzzes and beeps and Apple watchfaces lighting up, and Nobara screams. “I can’t look!” she cries. “Someone tell me!”

You click on the notification and pull up the post, heart racing.

The first slide is a generic Battle of the Bands announcement with the cool ass graphics you’ve been seeing on the posters. Whoever designs those needs a raise. The second image is the bracket for next Friday, with the first knockout round of three—only one group will move on to the finals. “Who is it?” Nobara asks anxiously, pacing the room. “Oh god, I’m gonna die.”

“Shibuya Incident,” you read off, unable to keep the smile from your face. “Angel.” Nobara groans overdramatically. “And the Kamos.”

You swipe to the next screen, heart in your throat. OCTOBER 18, it reads. THE CULL. CURSED TECHNIQUE. BLACK FLASH.

“Oh my god!” you scream. “Oh my god, we made it!”

Toge yanks you to your feet and starts hopping around the living room, and Nobara shrieks with joy as you pull her into the celebration. Even Maki and Yuta are sporting wide smiles as they watch the three of you bounce around like kids on a sugar rush.

“What, no Sukuna?” Maki teases when you’ve calmed down. Toge clears his throat and does his best impression, going as far as to make his pants sag a little around his waist.

“Frosted flexin’, I’m the cereal king, pourin’… uh, duh nuh nuh, something doin’ my thing,” he says in a deep voice. “Uh… squirrel? Somethin’ fuego, that’s Spanish, uhhh…”

“Oh my god, let me look it up,” Nobara cackles, pulling up SoundCloud. “It’s I’m the king of bad decisions, got a throne made of Legos, took a bite of my mic and said these bars are fuego.”

Yuta physically winces. “Does he really sag his pants like that?”

Toge shrugs. “It felt right in the moment.”

“Wait, who’s the other one eliminated, then?” you ask, running through the bands in your head. Yours, Takuma’s, Black Flash, the Kamos…

“Motion Capture,” Maki says.

“No, it’s all caps. You have to shout it. MOTION CAPTURE!” Toge hollers. Nobara snorts.

You aren’t entirely surprised, but you have a feeling the girls aren’t too put out about it. They’re young, too—they’ll have their time to shine eventually.

You grin, flopping back onto the couch. “Okay, rehearsal when? Tonight?”

“Yeah, I have to go to a friend’s to figure some stuff out for a project, but I’ll be back at like… five?” Yuta says.

“Oh, fuck, I gotta go too!” Nobara says, darting toward the stairs.

“Group project?” Maki asks.

“Shopping! I gotta pick Miwa up in like, ten minutes!”

Maki rolls her eyes fondly. Yuta stands up and grabs his bag, heading toward the entryway, and the rest of you gravitate instinctually to the kitchen. Nobara is out the door moments later with a wave and a shout, and Toge grins.

“What,” Maki deadpans, not a question.

“I printed memes to hide on her Polaroid wall. Be right back.”

You snort, turning your attention to the window to watch Nobara cruise down the block. The view of her sleek, small car is interrupted by Yuta’s jungle of plants.

“I hope they’re not too cold,” he says, frowning as he tugs a jacket on over his white hoodie. “Do they look okay to you?”

“Yeah,” you say, pointing to the one in the white, ovular pot. “Especially this one, it’s getting so big! What’s his name, Snorlax?” Yuta had a phase where he named at least six plants in a row after Pokèmon.

“No, that one’s Rika, after that TV show,” Maki corrects, not looking up. Yuta blinks, looks between her and the plant, whose vines have started to creep up the window. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. Both of your eyes on her have her looking up from her phone, expression flat and unaffected. “What?”

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “I didn’t know… anyone paid attention.”

Maki shrugs. “You talk to them out loud.”

“Yeah, I guess I do.” Yuta laughs and waves one last time before he walks out, closing the door behind him. You count to five in your head and then whirl on Maki, entirely unable to keep the shit-eating grin off your face.

“Kowalski, status report.”

She blinks at you. “What?”

“I said—”

“No, I know, just—on what? What happened?”

You groan, dragging the heels of your hands down your face. “Maki. Please.” You gesture wildly between her and the door, wondering if she’s genuinely this oblivious or if she’s just as good a liar as Mai. “Are you—did we not just witness the same interaction? Jesus, Maki, put the boy out of his misery!”

Seeing Maki frazzled is not a common occurrence. The most agitated you ever see her is talking about her family or trading passive aggressive jabs with Mai. This is an entirely new sort of disarray—she’s flustered.

“I—what?! I can’t do that! And he’s not miserable. He’s that nice to everyone.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands with your elbows on the counter. “Maki! He likes you. And your face is telling me you like him back.”

She scoffs, turning her head down and crossing her arms defensively. “I’m not messing things up by dating my bandmate. We live together, Skip, he’s my best friend, if things got messy—”

You hold up a hand. “First of all, offensive. I’m your best friend. Second of all, I hear no denial. Also, it won’t get messy. You are the two most mature people in this house and you know how to separate personal from practical. If anything, it’s gonna kill the vibes of the band and the house if you just keep stewing in the sexual tension.”

“Oh my god,” Maki groans. “There. Is. No. Sexual. Tension.”

“There’s always sexual tension,” Toge announces, walking in and jumping up onto the countertop, legs swinging. He looks between the two of you innocently. “What are we talking about?”

“You might be of some help, actually,” you say, turning to Toge with your hands clasped.

“Uh, actually? Not oh, Toge, you’re always so helpful, thank god you live with me and keep my life interesting—”

“Nevermind.”

“No, pleeease,” Toge insists, sticking out his lower lip. “What?” His gaze shifts to Maki, who’s blushing a furious red. His mouth turns into a small O. “This is about Yuta?”

You didn’t think she could get any more scarlet, but here she is.

“Does everyone think that?” she groans, throwing her head back in exasperation.

Toge shrugs. “I thought we were all just quietly skirting around it until you both snapped.”

“Nobara doesn’t skirt around anything,” Maki says.

“Well, there’s no way she doesn’t know,” you point out. “Maybe she just respects both of you enough to leave it alone.”

“Hah!” Toge snorts, poking you in the ribs. “That means she doesn’t respect you. She wants the Ino lore.”

“I’m gonna tell Nobara about the memes.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Abruptly, you realize you never got around to Yuta for highs and lows, what with the chaos of the brackets dropping. “Ah, guys,” you say. “We missed Yuta.” You pull up the house group chat.

you: YUTA DROP YOUR HIGH AND LOW IN THE CHAT you: YOU ARE NOT FORGOTTEN freak no. 1: yes you are utah: haha aw that’s nice utah disliked a message from freak no. 1 utah: uhh low is maybe that toge keeps leaving memes all over our room. like i keep finding them tucked in my notebooks and everything freak no. 1: SLANDER freak no. 1: LIBEL you: not the same thing freak no. 1: SHUT UP utah: high is someone remembers the names of my plants!! :) nobara: Sorry, using voice text while I drive. Who knows the names of your plants? You and God? utah: maki! :)

“Okay, well, respond,” Toge says, poking Maki in the side. She glares at him and likes Yuta’s message.

“Guys,” she says exasperatedly. “What the hell am I supposed to do? Does he know?”

And you’re not sure, honestly. You don’t know that Yuta is even aware of his own feelings, let alone aware that Maki reciprocates them. You shrug helplessly. “How about… ask?”

“Jesus,” Maki says.

“Not him, Yuta.”

Maki socks Toge in the shoulder and levels him with a disdainful look. “You are the bane of my existence.”

“And the object of all your desires,” Toge proclaims in a horrendous Bridgerton accent. He made you watch all of it with him in two days. Maki refused.

Now, she just shoves him, and he squeals as he falls off the kitchen counter.

“Children,” you sigh. “Do you need to be separated?”

“Yes!”

—

“Why is this so hard?” You stand with your feet planted on Takuma’s skateboard, which is confoundingly, entirely different than balancing atop your longboard. “Oh my god.” You lurch forward as the board rolls a bit to the left, unable to stifle the squeal that comes out of your mouth.

Takuma stops it with one foot.

“Your center of balance is lower on a longboard,” he laughs. “Like, here.” His hands wrap around your waist and you tense under his grip, and he immediately freezes, jerking his arms back. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”

“No! No, it’s okay,” you blurt, sheepish. “I just wasn’t expecting it, I—here.” You try to fight the blush furiously rising in your cheeks as you take his wrists in both hands, putting them back where they were. You clear your throat, suddenly too warm. “Um. Okay, so—do you turn the same way?”

“Pretty much. You just lean,” Takuma says, and you shift your weight to your heels, letting him steady you. “It’s a bit harsher than you would on a longboard, though. Unless you want me to send you right into kickturns?” His tone is teasing and you pretend to consider, tapping a finger against your chin.

“Mm. Maybe later.”

You’ve been at the skate park for a while now, and you’ve only recently ditched your longboard for the skateboard. Takuma brought the extra board you saw hanging on his wall the other day, and he uses it to demonstrate while you practice riding back and forth, getting a hold on your balance. After you feel like you can make it a good distance without pinwheeling your arms, you come to a staggered stop beside him.

A flash of blue-green hair grabs your attention, and you watch a kid in a lightning bolt hoodie slip under the ramps. The park has been pretty deserted today aside from a few guys doing tricks in the pit, a chilly Sunday with the sunlight muted by the clouds.

“Ooh, drug deal in action.” You poke Takuma in the side.

“Ah, probably Sukuna. He deals here all the time.” Sukuna’s business is one of those things everyone’s aware of but nobody talks about. He’s consistent and pretty safe, as far as drug dealers go, but he’ll deny any involvement while smoking a joint if he has to.

“Who’s space buns?”

“Uhh…” Takuma narrows his eyes, and the guy slips out again. “Damn, that was fast. Oh, that’s Hajime. Another senior, I think. They hate each other. Fastest deals I’ve ever seen.”

“I wonder how much of his songwriting is just… while he’s really, really high,” you muse. Swag of a squirrel doesn’t strike you as a particularly levelheaded thought, but hey, it’s certainly memorable.

Takuma leans in and says conspiratorially, “I’m pretty sure I heard him dropping bars here the other day when I was with Yuji.”

You snort and look up at one of the smallest ramps, one you think you could handle without falling on your face, and point to it with a raised brow.

“Oh, moving up in the world?” Takuma kicks his board up and starts walking over, and you do the same. Before you put the board down at the top of the ramp, though, you hold it up to the light, noticing a few short, white hairs caught on the surface.

“Is this… fur?” Maybe there was a cat hiding out somewhere when you were over. Kirara seems like she’d have a cat.

Takuma sighs. “Yeah, the dogs shed like crazy. It gets everywhere. I don’t think I even left that on the ground.”

Your jaw drops, and you stare at him until he looks back at you. “Dogs?”

“What? Yeah, Fushiguro’s—”

“Fushiguro has dogs? Dogs plural? In the house?”

“You didn’t know?”

“No!” you cry. “What? Oh my god! Where were they on Wednesday? How many? What are their names?”

Takuma leans back on the rail next to the ramp, grinning. “I can’t believe you didn’t know. Oh my god. They’re so cute. Tsumiki had them Wednesday, I think. Mandated auntie time. Do you wanna meet ‘em?”

“Do I want to meet them?” you repeat, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet. “Uh, yeah. Are they home? Oh my god. I love dogs.”

“I couldn’t tell,” he deadpans, but he’s smiling still. “Yeah, they’re home. And you can meet them if you go down this ramp without dying.”

“You’re cruel,” you say, situating yourself on the board. “But I will. And then I’ll meet the dogs and become their best friend and they’ll love me more than you and Megumi combined.”

“Confident.” He comes up beside you, checking your stance. The ramp didn’t look steep or long at all from your vantage point across the park, but now that you’re atop the board, it feels suddenly very steep and very long. “You got it. Just don’t panic, keep your stance.” He drops his own board and cruises down the ramp, hardly even trying.

“Okay, go!” he calls from the bottom. “C’mon, Skip, the dogs are waiting.”

“Oh, god,” you murmur, the wind catching your words and whisking them away. You ball your hands into fists and push off, planting your foot back on the board and trying to keep your knees bent, but not too stiff, as you careen down the ramp. Don’t panic, keep your stance. You’re at the bottom in what feels like nanoseconds, and the sudden shift from ramp to flat ground has you stumbling off the board with an embarrassingly high-pitched squeak of alarm.

“Nice!” Takuma laughs as he catches you, the board rolling a few more feet ahead. His arm is wrapped around your front, the other holding you up by the shoulder, and this time you don’t tense under his hands.

“Thanks,” you say a little breathlessly, grinning, the tiny spike of adrenaline making you almost lightheaded. He lets his hands drop when you’re steady on your feet, and part of you mourns the warmth a little. But there are more pressing matters at hand. “So, about those dogs?”

You opt for your longboard on the way back down your street, cruising along beside Takuma, who has his extra board tucked under his arm. You’ve got a lot to do tonight, all the last-minute preparation for another crazy week, but you can and will drop everything to pet a puppy. Or two. Always.

And they’re actual angels. Big, fluffy angels on earth, one white and one black, and they’re all over you the second you open the door.

“Hi!” you say happily, sinking down to their level. The white one immediately tries to burrow into your lap. “Oh, hello! You’re so nice, aren’t you?” You glance up at Takuma. “Where’s Megumi?” You grab the white one’s collar and check the tag—Shiro.

“Shiro thinks she’s a tiny dog,” he says, bending down to ruffle the fur behind her ears. “Uh, Fushiguro’s at the animal clinic. He works there Sundays. And Tuesdays, I think.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah, he’s a vet student. You didn’t know?”

“I did not.” The black one is licking your face, and you giggle and check his tag, too. Kuro. “Hi, Kuro. You’re a good boy, aren’t you?”

“He’s got such a soft spot for animals,” Takuma says as he kicks off his shoes. “You should see when they both try to sleep in his little twin bed. It’s ridiculous.”

“I love them,” you say, burying your face in Kuro’s scruff. “Hi, doggies. You’re awful cute, you know that? Mhm. Yes you are.”

When you finally look up again, Kuro’s cold nose nudging insistently at your palm, Takuma is leaning against the wall, looking down at you with his phone discreetly angled your way. “Takuma!”

He laughs, not bothering to hide it anymore, very clearly taking photos of you with the dogs. “It’s cute!” he insists. “I’ll send them to you. Proof for Fushiguro of your master plan to make them like you more than him.”

“And you,” you remind him.

“Well, I don’t know about that.”

You gesture pointedly to the two dogs, who are all over you and not him. It’ll be a nightmare trying to get all of Shiro’s white fur off your black jacket later, but it’s worth it.

“You’re new,” he says. “New scent. It’s the novelty factor. I am their favorite.”

“You sure? I’m pretty hard to compete with.”

He smiles, looking from you to the photos he took of you and the dogs. “Yeah,” he says. “You are.”

—

The first half of the new week goes by in a rushed routine of classes, homework, and rehearsals, each night ending with you collapsing into bed, new and old lyrics fighting for dominance in the back of your mind. Sticks re-taped and drum heads re-tuned, assignments turned in and drafts edited. Your classes are ramping up as midterms approach, and Yuta bounces between his own work and poking his head into everyone’s rooms, making sure they don’t forget about dinner.

Toge follows through on his snack run promise, and the two of you spend hours on Tuesday afternoon trading two different flavored bags of Doritos back and forth, Toge writing photo captions while you edit your story lede.

Takuma, Hakari, and Kirara have offered to help Cursed Technique record a single on Wednesday night, and the five of you have been drilling the new song you wrote up, down, and sideways.

Finally, Wednesday arrives, and you’re all crammed into the recording studio space, instruments set up and headsets tuned in.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Nobara says to Hakari on the other side of the glass. She taps a finger on the mic in demonstration, and you hear it in your own headphones.

“Great,” he says. “Skipper?”

“Skipper? I hardly know her,” Toge says, earning a harmless smack upside the head from Yuta and a not harmless smack upside the head from Maki.

“I will throw these at you,” you tell him, holding up your sticks. Toge sticks his bottom lip out, pouting.

A snicker from beside you draws your attention back to Takuma, kneeling just beside the throne as he adjusts the kick mic. He has you hit it a few times while Hakari monitors the levels. You feel oddly self-conscious like this, him looking up at you, but then he smiles and it’s not strange at all. It’s stupid how fast he can put you at ease with a look.

“Nice,” he says. “Okay, that should work, yeah, Hakari?”

It’s Kirara who answers, “Yeah, you’re good.”

Takuma stands up, claps his hands together once, and looks at you. “Okay. Kill it, Skip.”

“Yessir.” You salute him with a stick and he makes his way to the other room, closing the door behind him.

“All good?” Yuta asks, glancing at each of you in turn before giving Hakari a thumbs up. It’s strange to be on this side of the glass, to think about your music being played back, to think about it on Spotify, out in the world.

“Next Fix,” Takuma says into the mic, locking eyes with you through the window. “Take one in three, two…”

The song starts out simple. You click your sticks together near the mic, on two and four, while Maki lays down a four-bar loop.

Yuta keeps glancing at Maki while she plays, utterly unaware, and the look on his face is so soft you want to shake Maki by the shoulders until she does something about it.

Nobara’s got her eyes closed with the headset over her ears and her hands around the mic, entirely engrossed in the song.

“It’s comin’ on, comin’ strong, spinnin’ up out of the blue, mmm,” she sings, stretching out the vowels. “And I’m on the ground, bleedin’ out, until my next fix of you, ooh.”

Now you start up with a light rock beat, closed hat and a bit of a dragging buzz on the snare hits. Just as you transition into the beat, Toge comes in with some low chords and Yuta moves down the line in syncopated sixteenths.

Hakari is nodding approvingly and Takuma has a wide grin on his face, and you can’t help smiling back.

“I need it like a lung,” Nobara sings, swaying a bit. “I need it like a light. It’s got me twisted up. I need you here tonight, tonight, tonight, oh, oh, I wanna—”

And this part is your favorite—Nobara sings each two-syllable phrase while you pound on the toms twice, emphasizing it with the kick, and then the backup vocals echo her. Get my (get my) next fix (next fix) of you (of you, of you, of you.)

Kirara pumps her fist in the air twice, in time with the beat, and your bandmates can’t keep the smiles off their faces. You’ve got something here, you really do. This might be your best one yet.

When the song’s over, Nobara whoops and tugs off the headphones, jumping around the cramped studio space with a grin on her face. “That was so cool! Oh my god. Guys, we sound good. We actually sound good.”

“Damn,” Kirara calls. “Okay, girl drummer. Good shit.”

“Not bad for a first run,” Maki admits, adjusting her bass strap over her shoulder. “Do we wanna try recording backups separately at all?”

“Good call.” Takuma nods. “Let’s run that again without the backups and record them over, see what happens.” He’s in full producer mode, flipping switches, colored lights reflecting in his eyes as he and Hakari talk shop away from the mic. He’s good at this, you realize, running sessions like this, making sure things go where they need to go, that everyone’s heard, that things get done. It’s a little bit like watching him skateboard, or seeing him on stage. There’s a confidence to him here, a smooth, easy energy. He’s in his element.

“Alright,” he says after a minute. “Let’s hear that again.”

And you play it again. And again. And again. And you are so in love with this moment, with your band, with a couple rowdy kids on the other side of the window, the rasp in Nobara’s voice and the expression on Yuta’s face and Maki’s obliviousness and Toge’s consistent, head-banging keys, and your drums and your words and the music, and the lyrics feel right to you.

You need this like a lung.

directory | prev. |

jjk taglist open: just send me a message!

@shutuppeter @mikikkoo @reactwithjan @theclassbookworm @lilactaro @bisforbuse @risararelywrites @idkidk32

a/n: GUYS. loml @shutuppeter is so downbad for soundcloud rapper sukuna that she's writing fanfic of my fanfic😭 credits for frosted flexin' are all hers LMFAO so go check that out (MDNI for that one though).

yutamaki nation rise. also, i kinda love this fic. there may be spinoffs for other characters in the works...

[existential-crisis-of-the-mind]

Love Language (Jason Todd x Reader)

Prompt: Jason Todd with a gift giving love language

Jason Todd wasn’t the best good at- capable of expressing feelings of affection. Maybe it was just a byproduct of having skipped most of his adolescence, what with the interruption of being buried alive then resurrected in green goop. But whatever, maybe that was just speed running his character development.

What’s not so nice however, is that he’s missed out on those teen years of fumbling through relationship firsts. Sure, maybe they’d be awkward, and he’d look back and laugh at those memories today. But part of him feels like those adolescent years would be far more forgiving towards hesitant confessions and embarrassing slip ups.

Now he’s having to navigate it all as an adult. Unfortunately, it’s not all smooth sailing for Jason, what with his twin quest for revenge and justice as Red Hood blocking out most of his schedule.

The thing is, he has no issues knowing what affection should feel like. He’s experienced the butterflies in his stomach, his throat lodging up because he’s afraid he’ll say the wrong thing, sneaking glances and immediately averting his eyes when he gets caught admiring you.

He’s experienced the pre-date nerves, having to stare down the mirror to convince himself he’s got this (why is it so much easier to punch a bad guy then tell you that your hair looks nice??)

And he’s also experienced the post-date embarrassments, replaying moments where he felt like a total dunce cause of something he said without thinking (he swears up and down he was not being raunchy when he said he likes sleeping with you. He meant it in the literal sense! Your presence helps lull him to sleep)

No, he definitely has no issues in experiencing sentiments of love and affection. But man does he struggle expressing said feelings.

He’s not sure he’s the best at communicating his fondness towards you. At least not with words, given his tendency to put his foot in his mouth when it comes to matters of the heart.

He’s come to realize while he may not be the best with words, he’s a good listener with a keen eye for detail.

Er- okay, perhaps he could have a keener eye for detail, but hey a man’s gotta have his Achilles heel right?

And that is exactly why he’s stood in the living room right now, with three different pairs of vintage sunglasses neatly laid out on the coffee table in front of you.

His stiffens a bit at your questioning gaze before clearing his throat.

“So, do you remember last week, when you were helping me out with groceries and we passed that vintage charity shop on the way back to my place?”

You do have a vague recollection of passing by a well decorated store selling accessories and other Knick-knacks. You nod as you briefly recall pointing it out to him.

He takes your nod as a sign to continue, “Right so, you had pointed out the store, and I recall you admiring a pair of sunglasses at the window display… you said you’d buy it when you get your next pay cheque. But I thought I’d surprise you with it instead”.

Right, well you are surprised, so that bit was accomplished. Though you can’t help but note how he talks in terms of a singular pair, yet there are three (very stylish) pairs of sunglasses in front of you. So you were surprised and confused.

You look back at him, the question on your lips. But the slump of his shoulders and grumbled huff escaping him tells you he’s already figured out what you’re gonna ask.

“Now look, I remembered the shop… I just couldn’t recall which pair you were talking about. So I- uh, I bought all three of them”.

‘Great. Now she’s gonna think I’ve got the memory of a goldfish and I make poor financial decisions’

Jason barely suppresses a groan at the thought, averting his gaze in embarrassment.

“Look I think you’d look good in all of them, so yeah… I mean at the very least you like one of them right?” He asks, his voice faltering towards the end as he begins to doubt whether this was a good idea in the first place.

You barely suppress a laugh at his predicament. Of course he’d do this. Instead of just asking you, he’d rather just buy all three pairs to surprise you.

Your mind flashes back to all the times he’s voiced concern that he’s not expressive enough of his feelings towards you, worried that it would drive a rift between the two of you.

But you know that’s not true at all. He does care, he cares a lot. He’s just got a different love language, one that fits him all too well.

You shake your head with a smile as you rise up from the sofa, walking over to engulf him in a tight embrace.

“You’re such a goof you know that?” You mumble against his shirt. Jason mutters in protest though he wraps his arms around you without missing a beat.

You lean back to see his face, a bright smile adorning your features, “Thank you I love them, all of them. And I love you” you declare before pecking his cheek.

A short laugh escapes him, he takes a moment to drink in your happy smile before proceeding to flick your forehead.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“I’m no goof”

“Oh you’re not? Is that why you technically bought one pair of sunnies for the price of three?”

He rolls his eyes at your teasing, deciding not to respond lest he implicates himself further.

So maybe words of affirmation aren’t his thing, and maybe it will take him a bit longer to respond back with ‘I love you too’.

But that’s not to say that Jason Todd isn’t completely and hopelessly smitten with you.

—————————————————————————

God he’s so fun to write, a total deer in the headlights when he’s in love.

Should I try this with other love language prompts? Lmk if you have any suggestions!

[rini-rushed]

beloved pet.

☆ karasu x reader (gender not mentioned)

★ reader is pretty shitty all things considered | toxic couple dynamics | I DON'T CONDONE ANY OF THE (implied??) ACTIONS

notes: inspired by the songs beloved cat-> biz/LOLUET + my first time writing shitty people who're selfaware so please bare with me + ORIGINALLY was going to be kaiser but theres wine bottle hitting in the MV and i thought that i rather not write that

sypnosis -> during one night does karasu scale his surroundings like he does on the field, except now he uses it to learn more about the relationship he finds himself loving.

any normal person would leave right after you showed the signs, the signs that you weren't normal, you didn't think like a normal person, not normal about things, and sure as hell didn't do normal things.

but he wasn't exactly normal either, was he?

or maybe he was, and thats why he trapped himself in the cage of your love.

he didn't know how many hours had passed with this cold shackle grasping his neck, cold and barely heavy chains rolled off his shoulder and onto the bed, the curtains blocked the sky from giving him an idea of what time it was.

but all things considered, he knew he couldn't escape it.

he wouldn't.

even if the chain clasped around his neck and felt easy to break, Karasu knew better than to try and move against the impossible force, he knew his options were tied, but could you blame him?

you were just so cute and so eager to love him, and how could he refuse your affection? he'd be a fool to leave a ravishing figure like you, a fine little gal in a world of mindless fools.

oh but the pleasure of seeing you as a peer to a friend would be nothing compared to what the raven haired had felt a bit after the relationship was made official.

and what he found out after was nothing but a thrill to experience, it felt like with each day you spent together, the more transparent you became to him, more naked.

your silly antics like patting his hair, or whispering praises & cotton soft words, your soft caresses on his bed at night started to feel more calculated, oh he wasn't blind to any of that, you'd both be fools to assume that any of these things were to be gone unnoticed.

but he never minded any of it, especially if it meant you'd stay with him and kept lulling him to sleep with your soft charms, than his lips are sealed. whether he likes it or not.

karasu shifts in his spot in bed a bit more, feeling the shallow warmth over his body from his covers, it didn't even feel comfortable in his own bed anymore because of that fucking chain. it scales his senses to be chilly yet comforting, to remind him he's not alone.

it loops around his body, the most prominent one on his neck, that one was easy to feel, but there was soft weight rolling aournd his muscular torso, and even if the voices inside were whining and moaning to break the tiny metal vines, he ultimately ignored both the feeling and the voices.

it was easier to sit in this loving cage than trying to struggle to get out, even if the texture of the rusty chains would itch his skin like an annoying cat.

then came to the slightly more heavy metal bonds, cold snakes of silver could be felt entangled with his own legs, mocking the feeling of someone caring and cuddling with him as he slept.

as he drunk in his own observations of everything, he cracks open an eye, his surroundings confirmed himself to be on his bed, as for the chilly metal ropes he feels cuffing his limbs and neck..

his once vibrant purple eyes scale his physical surroundings, nothing out of the ordinary, just the way he had left it, he's about to lower his eyelids when a shiver seized him by the spine.

he tilts his head ever so slightly to see what was going on behind him, and thats when it hit him.

it was never chains or shackles or.. anything!

it was always you.

your legs in between his curled slightly around his thighs, your cheek resting on his nape buried deeper, your breaths pushing against his bare skin the intimate contact that wasn't even contact.

your arms around his torso only tightened ever so slightly, clinging onto him, bounding him to the bed, bounding himself to you.

like he was some pet, cuffed to their post, waiting for their owner to come home.

erm that was lowkey unorganized im sorry

#istilldontknowhowtoendthese...

@sharkissm cause you love ur man right...

tags:

@mininji @tofumiarchives @atlantic-sailor @the-lazyyy-artist

@rinitoshiplzdateme @fishii-writes @reapkusho

[cozymochi]

Okay gen question, how are you so good at anatomy? like I know its a mix of years of practice and experience. Mayhaps you can spare some tips on how ppl can improve theirs? Always looking forward to your works btw! Even the scribbles you think aren't decent are always such a nice treat to see <3

It being drilled into my system years ago in a drawing class specifically for that 😭 Then a character design class the next semester that added on top of it. BUT FOR CARTOONSSSSS (I have not accomplished anything in my life to utilize any of this.)

My main point of knowledge reference is this book though (OMG FREE INTERNET ARCHIVE PDF? Yes. Though I personally have a physical copy.) We didn’t really read the walls of text so much as just practiced the proportion stuff in the early pages ad-nauseam and some skeletons (not hyper detailed ones just making sure bones were where they should be). Tho admittedly I’ve been neglecting any studying. (This book came out in 1943 brrgh) DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I HAD TO DRAW THIS DIAGRAM? MORE THAN ANY PERSON SHOULD.

But hey, it works. I still sometimes end up referring back to it if I think I’m sucking (disclaimer: i think this often )

As far as I’ve come to know, how something looks visually doesn’t matter so much long as basic proportions are correct. Cuz even people without trained eyes for this sorta thing can recognize when something is proportionately wrong. Like, I guess on you know where everything is supposed to go, you can kinda do anything from there?? I think. It translated well when we were drawing real people who were not the “ideal” presented, and when moving to more stylized stuff with their own rules in a completely different course. So what if that leg doesnt look exactly like u think a leg looks anatomically— IS THE KNEE IN THE CORRECT SPOT? Yes? Then u did it.

Also that eyes are in the center of the face. Not the nose. JUMPSCARE!!!

Aaaa, this isn’t really an interesting answer. If I ever figured out better streaming outside if private discords I could probably make my points better rather than pulling a “here’s a textbook, figure it out” CUZ ITS LIKE. ITS OVERWHELMING WITHOUT A GUIDE AND 😭😭😭

I don’t know. I don’t think I have “anatomy” correct, just “proportions.” Cuz I wouldn’t be able to tell you what something is, just where something goes. Which… I think is a little more important and also a distinction I don’t really see anyone making in drawing.

Though, as much as I wanna be helpful in a more effective way, it’s really really really hard for me to articulate how anyone could improve theirs if I don’t know what the alleged problem areas are 😭 I find all this stuff to be case by case. I kind of do better if i can directly point things out and offer info from there instead of blank slate tips. If I ever figure out streaming outside of private discords it would probably be easier (literally doesnt own a functional up to date enough computer)

I guess focus less on “anatomy” and focus more on proportions since that does more of the heavy lifting? Unless ur a med student, then you probably should focus on anatomy

someone could die because you couldnt identify their coccyx

OKAY THATS IT THANKS AND SORRY

[too-many-rooks]

an au where Taverner agrees to giving River up to Frank would be crazy because like... would mi-5 even hope river would feed them back info? or would it be like just getting rid of a loose end like Taverner wanted to do since the training exercise? it's such a wild train of thought I love it

One of the reasons I’m so obsessed with Frank is all the myriad ways that he could totally mess River up, and why the idea of Taverner agreeing to Frank’s pitch, or maybe part of his blackmail failsafe demands being to let him nab him River is so fun, is that there’s just so many potential takes on it, and they’re all super interesting! Bc, yeah, yes all of these! Would there be a hope/expectation from River to be feeding information back, even after he’s essentially been sold and burned by them, and presumably growing increasingly indoctrinated and under Frank’s control? Mi5 have apparently been using Frank to do their dirt work for years, so is River joining the family assassin business/cult presented as just like… a wild secondment from Slough House?

Would Diana be tempted to just get rid of the problem/ constant thorn in her side that is River Cartwright? @sloughhousestaircase made the really interesting point of Diana being like ‘where were you x months ago when I needed to ditch this kid?’ Bc yeah, if Frank had approached her before River was sent to Slough House, and came under the protection of Lamb, and Diana still trying to figure out how to get rid of him, would she have been more tempted? Would she be able to pitch it to a much less disillusioned and more naive River as an undercover operation - but would she be able to mantain any level of control over him once he’s with Frank, and realising who he is, and how they’re connected?

Me and @countessrivers, who are very much driving the ‘River being part of his dads assassin cult’ train, have pitched each other a bunch of different ideas for how a Diana trading River scenario would go down, which a range across a whole spectrum of au’s from like, post s3 developing werewolf River needing to be trained and controlled (to be used as an asset by Diana,) and Frank coming in as like the werewolf specialist, (and then obviously indoctrinating his son and bringing him back to the werewolf pack at Les Arbres.)

Or more closely following on canon, Frank’s promise in the books that they’ll ‘talk soon’, maybe Frank finally being able to have a drink with his son once he’s finally out of extensive debriefing/medical treatment for Thames water in the lungs, which he can achieve by breaking into River’s flat and waiting for him and drugging his glass to knock him out, and making it easier to take his son home without any fuss.

There’s just, so many ways Frank could absolutely fuck up River’s life. And I think that’s beautiful.

[diminuel]

Mayhaps I’ll regret asking (because angst), but what are your Crocodile is Xebec's kid head canons? If you don’t mind sharing of course!

I don't actually have too many concrete head canons yet, just a general feeling that it would have been a difficult childhood for Crocodile. Though he might not actually consider it a difficult childhood?

He would have to survive God Valley and any potential hunt for Rocks' offspring there would have been. And in order to do that, this 8 year old kid would have had to been extremely resilient at that time already. Which would hint towards a life of having to fight for himself. He'd be a tiny child on a ship of insanely strong and violent people.

Would anyone have taken care of him? Would he have had to figure out how to survive himself? And this isn't particularly out of the ordinary from what we've seen of how Sabo, Ace and Luffy grew up. It's a very survival of he fittest world out there.

But I think Crocodile might not have considered this to be a particular hardship. It's just what it was. This is how you lived. There was maybe a bit of warmth from time to time (from Xebec? Newgate?) but in general Crocodile was supposed to grow up cold and hard and violent - adapted to a life as sea, adapted to be his father's legacy. (And Xebec, other than some of his contemporaries and ship mates didn't think that being a girl disqualified you from being a monster to wreak havoc on the seas.)

So by the time God Valley happened, it might have been known that Rocks had a child, so Crocodile should have been wiped out too. He makes it out some way, most likely by faking his death (there were sadly a lot of dead children on God Valley, it wouldn't have been hard to change clothes with someone. Maybe he makes it out with some of the other refuges, like Iva, Ginny and Kuma.)

So his name was on the list of people who died that day. Which brings me to the name.

It's a bit random, but I think Rocks D. Keres would suit him (or her, at that time) well? Wikipedia says of the Keres that they are "female death-spirits. They were the goddesses who personified violent death and who were drawn to bloody deaths on battlefields" in Greek Mythology (source) I think Xebec might be the kind of guy who gives his baby this kind of fateful, dark name. X3 And Keres just sounds kinda cool to be honest. (Of course Rocks D. Ile also sounds cool. I just like to be edgy *lol*)

Also I think in this AU Crocodile would reinvent himself after God Valley, so going with a male identity isn't really done for the sake of his gender identity. It's just easier that way.

Ah, another P.S. is that at one point Crocodile probably reached out for help from WB (potentially someone discovered who he was), his father's old crew mate, but WB didn't follow the call. Maybe WB thought it would be better for Rocks' line to disappear. It was a mistake, one that he regrets and learns from later, because he does better when he meets Ace. In any case, Crocodile will remember that betrayal. And it's probably after this that he called for Iva or they intercepted the call and came to help instead.

Anyway, some thoughts. All subject to change. I'm just playing through different ideas and we'll see what'll stick!

[hahnshands]

~ trouble ~

agathario college roommate AU stories

context: Agatha Harkness is an outgoing, people person who fits into every room steps into and every group she talks to, on the other hand her roommate Rio Vidal, could not think of anything worse than being that kind of person, she would much rather focus on her artwork as she is studying art but having Agatha as a roommate is proving to me a little more challenging than she first thought when Rio notices herself drawing a very familiar face…

pairings: agatha x rio extrovert!agatha x introvert!rio popular!agatha x artist!rio

Authors note: i’ll be updating this every now and then :)

The second Agatha Harkness walked into their shared dorm room on move-in day, Rio Vidal knew she was in trouble. Trouble because Agatha exuded the kind of cool confidence that made people want to orbit her. Trouble because Rio, the self-proclaimed queen of her own quiet solitude, the tortured artist, knew she needs to pass this year to graduate and it didn’t look like she was going to have a distraction free dorm room.

It didn’t help that Agatha’s side of the room was already immaculate—her bed made with precise folds, her books alphabetized, and a lavender-scented diffuser softly puffing away on her desk. Meanwhile, Rio had a half-unpacked suitcase on her bed and an open box of paints that she’d immediately forgotten about the second she found her sketchbook.

Agatha was eyeing the chaos on Rio’s side of the room with a bemused smile, “You’re one of those people”

“And you’re one of those,” Rio had shot back, waving a paint-streaked hand at the perfectly arranged lavender diffuser.

Agatha just laughed, brushing her sleek dark hair over her shoulder. “Stick with me, Vidal. You might learn something.”

A month into the semester, Rio was beginning to suspect Agatha had some kind of secret powers. There was no other explanation for how she managed to ace every class, charm every professor, and still find time to breeze into their room at night with perfectly styled hair and some wild story about how she’d ‘influenced’ the coffee shop barista into giving her a free latte.

“All I did was ask politely,” Agatha said one evening, lounging on her bed and flipping through a novel that Rio was certain she wasn’t actually reading.

“Sure,” Rio replied, smirking as she bent over her sketchbook. “You ‘politely’ hypnotized them into thinking you deserved it.”

Agatha quirked an eyebrow. “You make it sound like I’m some kind of witch.”

“Hey, if the pointy hat fits…”

Agatha’s laugh was low and throaty, the kind that sent a weird little shiver up Rio’s spine. She ignored it, focusing instead on the sketch taking shape on the page.

“Are you ever going to show me what you’re drawing?” Agatha asked after a pause, her tone light but curious.

“Nope,” Rio replied without looking up.

“Oh, come on,” Agatha said, leaning over the edge of her bed. “I’ll bet it’s brilliant. Is it me? You’ve been staring at me an awful lot lately.”

Rio’s pencil froze mid-stroke. Her brain scrambled for a retort that wouldn’t give her away. “You’re flattering yourself, Harkness.”

Agatha slid off her bed, crossing the room with that effortless confidence she always carried. Before Rio could protest, Agatha plopped down beside her on the floor, close enough that Rio could smell the faint lavender clinging to her sweater.

“Let me see,” Agatha said, her voice soft but insistent.

“No,” Rio replied, clutching the sketchbook to her chest like a lifeline.

Agatha tilted her head, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Fine. But I’ll figure it out eventually. I always figure things out, my love.”

Later that night, long after Agatha had fallen asleep, Rio sat cross-legged on her bed, staring at the sketch. It wasn’t finished, but the likeness was unmistakable—Agatha, with her sharp features and sly smile, caught mid-laugh.

Rio sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Trouble,” she muttered to herself.

PART 2

If Rio thought living with Agatha was going to get easier, she was delusional.

Further into the semester, Agatha’s relentless teasing had become as regular as Rio’s late-night sketching sessions. Every time Rio thought she’d found a way to ignore her, Agatha would up the ante—stealing glances at her sketchbook, throwing dramatic compliments her way, or offering entirely unsolicited critiques of her work.

“You know,” Agatha said one afternoon, sprawled on Rio’s bed like it was her own, “I’m starting to think all this brooding over your art is just an excuse to stare at me.”

Rio looked up from her canvas, her charcoal smudged fingers poised mid-stroke. “I’m sorry, what?”

Agatha propped her head on her hand, her dark hair cascading over her shoulder like she’d walked out of some impossibly chic fashion shoot. “You’re always hunched over that thing when I’m in the room. I’m beginning to think I’m your muse.”

Rio rolled her eyes, but her heart betrayed her by racing just a little too fast. “Don’t flatter yourself, Harkness.”

“Why not? You seem to do enough of that for me,” Agatha replied, her grin sharp and smug.

Rio muttered something under her breath and turned back to her drawing. The charcoal on the page was starting to smudge—Agatha’s sharp jawline softening at the edges—but she couldn’t bring herself to care. The truth was, Agatha had become a fixation for her. Not that she would ever admit it. Agatha’s confidence was already insufferable enough; the last thing she needed was for her to know she was the source of half Rio’s sketchbook.

“Come on, let me see,” Agatha said, swinging her legs off the bed and landing lightly on her feet.

“No,” Rio said automatically, shifting her body to block the canvas.

Agatha moved closer, her lavender perfume wrapping around Rio like a net. “Why not? Afraid I’ll fall in love with your depiction of me?”

“I’m afraid your ego will implode and take out half the campus.” Rio shot back

Agatha laughed, her voice low and throaty, and leaned over Rio’s shoulder. Her proximity was maddening—close enough that Rio could feel the warmth radiating from her skin. “You’re blushing, my love.”

“Am not,” Rio lied, hunching lower over her drawing.

Agatha reached out and gently tugged on the end of Rio’s ponytail. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered. You know that?”

Rio dropped her charcoal with a frustrated sigh. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“Not when I’m having this much fun,” Agatha replied, grinning. She perched on the edge of Rio’s chair, her knee brushing against Rio’s thigh.

Rio glared at her, though it lacked any real heat. “You’re infuriating.”

“And you’re still blushing,” Agatha teased, tilting her head as if studying Rio’s expression. “What’s the real reason you won’t let me see your art?”

For once, Agatha’s voice wasn’t mocking. The curiosity in her tone was genuine, and it caught Rio off guard.

“I just…” Rio faltered, her gaze dropping to the half-finished sketch. “It’s not ready.”

Agatha’s expression softened, though the playful glint in her eyes remained. “You’re such a perfectionist, Vidal. I’ll bet it’s stunning already.”

Rio hesitated, her fingers twitching toward the canvas. There was a part of her—a small, reckless part—that wanted to let Agatha see. That wanted to watch her reaction, to hear what she’d say about the way Rio had captured her in charcoal. But that same part also knew how vulnerable it would make her feel. And Agatha had a way of making vulnerability feel like a game she was destined to lose.

Agatha seemed to sense her hesitation, because she stood and stepped back, hands raised in mock surrender. “Fine. I’ll wait. But don’t think I won’t find a way to sneak a look eventually.”

Rio huffed a laugh despite herself. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” Agatha replied, her voice light but her gaze lingering just a second too long before she turned and flounced back to her bed.

That night, long after Agatha had fallen asleep, Rio sat cross-legged in the center of the room, her sketchbook balanced on her knees. She flipped through the pages, stopping at each drawing of Agatha.

There were so many. Too many. Agatha reading, laughing, gesturing with her hands as she recounted one of her outrageous stories. Each sketch was a fragment of Rio’s growing fascination—a fascination she wasn’t sure she’d ever fully understand. Finally, she stopped on the latest one. Agatha’s face, her smile just shy of wicked, her eyes glinting with something Rio could only describe as dangerous.

Rio picked up her pencil and leaned closer to the page, her hand moving almost of its own accord. She hated to admit it, but Agatha had been right about one thing: she was her muse.

PART 3

Rio had just finished a sketch and was debating whether to call it a night when the door to their dorm swung open. Agatha stumbled in, cheeks flushed, her hair slightly messed as she leaned heavily against the doorframe, a bottle of something amber-coloured dangling precariously from one hand.

“Riooo, my love,” she slurred, her voice thick with alcohol and mischief.

“No,” Rio said, not even looking up from her sketchbook.

Agatha blinked, taken aback by the interruption. She wobbled a little before stepping into the room and shutting the door behind her with her foot. “Rude. I haven’t even told you what we’re doing yet.”

“I don’t need to know,” Rio replied. “The answer’s no.”

Agatha narrowed her eyes, as if deeply offended. “You’re no fun.”

"Well, some of us want to graduate.” Rio muttered, flipping the page of her sketchbook while refusing to look at her.

Agatha groaned dramatically and flopped onto Rio’s bed, half spilling onto her lap. Her sweater had slipped off one shoulder, revealing smooth, freckled skin, and her dark eyes gleamed with something both reckless and knowing. “Come on, Vidal. It’s Friday. There’s a party downstairs. I’ve got alcohol. You need alcohol.”

“I need you to stop throwing yourself onto my bed,” Rio said, attempting to nudge her off. “And go to your bed.”

Agatha ignored her, propping her chin in her hand and looking up at her with a lazy grin. “What’s wrong? Scared you might have fun for once?”

Rio sighed, putting her charcoal down. “I’m scared you’ll get us kicked out of this dorm because you decide to drunkenly yell at the RA again.”

“That happened one time,” Agatha said, rolling her eyes. She tilted her head, letting her hair fall artfully over one shoulder. “Don’t you ever get tired of sitting here with your little pencils, sketching away while the rest of the world is having a good time?”

“Nope.”

“Well, I am tired of watching you do it; I can see you slowly turning into a hermit,” Agatha declared, sitting up and grabbing Rio’s hand. “Up. You’re coming with me.”

Rio started to protest, but Agatha pulled her to her feet with surprising strength for someone so tipsy.

“Agatha—”

“Nope. No excuses,” Agatha said, cutting her off. Her grin widened as she tugged Rio toward the door. “Atta girl, You’re not hiding in this room all night, my love. I won’t allow it.”

The party was in full swing by the time they arrived, the dorm basement vibrating with music and packed with bodies. Strings of cheap fairy lights flickered over the crowd, and the smell of beer and cheap perfume hung heavy in the air.

Agatha weaved through the crowd like she owned the place, still clutching Rio’s hand. She stole two red cups from a nearby table, handing one into Rio’s hand. “Drink. Loosen up.”

Rio grimaced at the cup. “I don’t even know what’s in this.”

“Exactly!” Agatha said, already halfway through her own drink.

Rio took a tentative sip and immediately winced. It was sugary and strong—the kind of mix that promised a headache in the morning.

“God, that’s terrible.” she muttered.

“Terrible but effective,” Agatha said, stepping closer. Her voice dropped to a teasing murmur. “Unless you’re afraid you can’t handle it.”

Rio narrowed her eyes. “I can handle it just fine.”

“Prove it,” Agatha said, raising her cup in a mock toast.

Rio huffed but downed the drink, the alcohol buzzing warmly in her chest as Agatha watched with an infuriatingly smug grin.

A few drinks later, Rio found herself on the edge of the dance floor, swaying awkwardly as Agatha pulled her closer.

“Relax, Vidal,” Agatha said, her hands on Rio’s shoulders, her voice thick with amusement and drink. “It’s just dancing.”

“I don’t dance,” Rio muttered.

Agatha laughed, her breath warm against Rio’s ear. “You’re doing it right now, darling.”

Rio rolled her eyes, but her heart was racing. The alcohol made everything feel fuzzier—lighter—but Agatha’s proximity made her feel like she was on fire.

“See?” Agatha said, her hands sliding down to Rio’s waist as they moved to the music. “You’re not bad at this.”

“That’s just you,” Rio managed, her voice embarrassingly breathless.

Agatha grinned, leaning in closer. Her dark eyes sparkled under the dim lights, and the scent of her lavender perfume mixed with the alcohol on her breath. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered.”

“I’m not flustered,” Rio said, her cheeks blazing.

“Liar,” Agatha whispered, her lips barely brushing Rio’s ear.

Rio swallowed hard, her mind spinning. Agatha’s teasing was relentless—the way her hands lingered on her waist, the way her voice dipped into something almost intimate.

“Do you always stare this much?” Agatha asked, her grin turning sly. “Or is it just me?”

“I’m not—”

“Well… You are.” Agatha interrupted, her voice soft but insistent.

Rio’s hands fidgeted at her sides. The alcohol was making her bolder, but she still felt out of her depth—her first time this close to another woman, to someone like Agatha, who radiated confidence even when drunk.

“I…” Rio started, but her voice trailed off.

Agatha tilted her head, studying her with a faint smirk. “What, Vidal? Cat got your tongue?”

Rio couldn’t take it anymore. Without thinking, she leaned in and kissed her.

It was clumsy and unsure, a burst of confidence fuelled by frustration and alcohol. Agatha froze for a fraction of a second, and Rio immediately panicked, starting to pull back.

But then Agatha’s hands tightened on her waist, pulling her closer as she kissed her back. This time it was deliberate, confident, with that same teasing edge Agatha brought to everything.

When they broke apart, Rio’s face was on fire. "I—uh—I didn’t mean—”

Agatha laughed softly, her forehead resting against Rio’s. “Relax, Vidal. It’s not the end of the world.”

Rio groaned, covering her face with her hands. “I can’t believe I just did that.”

“Oh, believe it,” Agatha said, smirking as she tugged Rio’s hands away from her face. Her expression softened—just slightly—and her voice dropped. “For the record, not bad.”

Rio blinked, her heart still racing. “Really?”

Agatha chuckled, stepping back and taking Rio’s hand again. “Come on, let’s get out of here before you combust.”

They left the party together, the cool night air hitting them like a splash of water. As they stumbled back to their dorm, Agatha glanced over at Rio with a smile that was almost genuine. “Not bad at all,” she murmured.

By the time they reached their dorm, the buzz was wearing off, replaced by a different kind of dizziness. Agatha let go of Rio’s hand to fumble for her key, her smirk still firmly in place.

“Stop hovering,” Agatha teased, shooting Rio a sideways glance as she finally unlocked the door.

“I’m not hovering,” Rio muttered, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets and refusing to meet Agatha’s gaze.

“Sure, darling,” Agatha said, stepping inside and flicking on the light. She turned, leaning against the doorframe, her eyes raking over Rio with a dangerous kind of amusement. “You’re very convincing.”

Rio froze in the doorway, every nerve in her body on high alert. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” Agatha asked innocently, tilting her head.

“Like you’re—” Rio faltered, the words catching in her throat.

“Like I’m about to kiss you again?” Agatha finished for her, her voice low and teasing. She took a slow step forward, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Or are you planning to surprise me again?”

Rio’s cheeks burnt, and she stammered, "I wasn't—"

Agatha’s laugh was soft but rich, and this time it lacked some of its usual edge. “Relax, Vidal. You’re so wound up. It’s kind of adorable.”

Rio crossed her arms, trying desperately to regain her composure. “You- You can’t just say stuff like that and act like it doesn’t mean anything.”

Agatha’s smirk faltered—just barely, but Rio caught it. For a moment, the tension between them hung heavy in the air, charged and uncertain. Then Agatha sighed, stepping back and flopping onto her bed.

“Maybe it doesn’t,” she said, her tone quieter but still playful. She glanced at Rio, her expression unreadable. “Or maybe it does. What do you think?”

Rio hesitated, her gaze dropping to the floor. The weight of the night—the drinks, the dancing, the kiss—pressed down on her. She didn’t know what to think, let alone what to say.

Agatha seemed to sense her turmoil because she rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand. Her smirk returned, softer this time. “Don’t overthink it, Vidal. You’re cute when you’re awkward, but you’ll give yourself a headache.”

Rio let out a shaky laugh, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“And yet, you kissed me,” Agatha countered, her grin widening.

Rio groaned, covering her face with her hands as she mumbled, “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”

“Not a chance,” Agatha said, her voice warm with laughter.

For a moment, silence settled over them, broken only by the hum of the desk lamp and the faint sounds of music still drifting up from the party downstairs. Rio finally dropped her hands, glancing at Agatha, who was watching her with that same maddeningly unreadable expression.

“Goodnight, Harkness,” Rio said, retreating to her bed and pulling the blanket over herself in one swift motion.

Agatha chuckled, leaning back against her pillows. “Goodnight, Vidal.”

As Rio closed her eyes, she could still feel the ghost of Agatha’s lips on hers, the scent of lavender lingering in the air. She told herself she’d deal with it tomorrow and figure out what it all meant, or maybe pretend it hadn’t happened at all, but deep down, she knew Agatha wouldn’t let her forget.

[apomaro-mellow]

Runaway Royalty 10

Part 9

Eddie spent the rest of the evening convening with his inner circle in one of the cave’s alcoves, speaking so quietly, there wasn’t a way to figure out where the conversation was going, even when Steve found reason to go by the mouth of it no less than three times. Not that he was counting. No, Robin was and before he could make his forth pass, she hooked her arm with his and dragged him off to the space she’d taken as their own. 

“I’d say you look as lost as a child but I’ve never seen a pup so forlorn as you right now.”

“I do not!”, Steve pulled his arm away and sat on the blankets provided to them.

Robin knew that pose. It was his ‘I’m going to sit in front of my vanity and primp’ pose that he did. Usually to ignore someone until they went away. But as he didn’t have a vanity-

“Where did you get that?”, Robin gasped as Steve took out a compact mirror.

“I always pack the essentials”, Steve said, looking himself over, fluffing his hair with one hand while the other held the mirror.

Robin rolled her eyes. “You can’t ignore me forever with that little thing.”

“I can ignore you just long enough.” He brought the mirror closer, looking for what, Robin couldn’t tell. Steve would spend hours in front of his vanity and Robin could never tell you what Steve had even changed. But he always seemed satisfied by the end of it.

Robin plopped down next to him, scooting until her head was in his lap. Steve was able to hold out for approximately thirty seconds before looking down at her. Only to see her eyes had gotten big, round, and wet. Steve groaned.

“Don’t use those against me. I’m the one who taught you how to do that.”

“I learned from the best”, Robin pouted.

Steve sighed and put the mirror away. Robin smiled in triumph and sat up, leaning her shoulder against his. Steve sighed again and nuzzled the top of her head. She may have been an alpha and he an omega, but he was still her big brother. That five minute difference meant something to  him.

“What are you thinking about?”, Robin asked.

“It’s silly.”

“Sillier than running away from home?”

“It’s as silly as thinking that we may need to return home”, Steve confessed.

Robin blinked and pulled away. “Wait, are you serious?”

“Eddie said that Prince Edwin’s disappearance is causing distress among his kingdom. With you and I gone, our kingdom won’t be too far behind.”

Robin frowned. “You don’t think there’ll be a coup, do you? Or a war? Just over us? There’s still a whole line of succession.”

“Having three royals suddenly disappear is no small thing”, Steve said.

“Yes, but we didn’t know about Prince Edwin when we did it”, Robin pointed out. “And do you really want to be apart from Eddie?”

Steve brought his knees up to his chest. “You know I don’t. I know this is just infatuation but I…it’s silly.”

“You’re very silly today.”

“Could it not become a true romance? If it were given time?”

Robin laid her head on Steve’s shoulder and rubbed her cheek against it, scenting him. “I think whatever you want to do, you should do it soon. It feels like our path and his will diverge soon.”

That night, they cuddled up close together and fell asleep. Royal blood dictated that after a certain age, they had to sleep separately. Common folk typically slept with their pack in nests but if the royal family did so, it made it all the more easier for assassins. They’d both missed being able to sleep with each other.

But when morning came, Robin tugged his ear gently, coaxing him awake. It might have been gentle, but he was still annoyed by it and tried going back to sleep. 

“You have a gentleman caller”, she whispered into his ear.

Steve stiffened and then quickly relaxed. He whispered back. “How long?”

“He’s been stalking for about ten minutes.”

He wanted to slap her. “And you didn’t wake me?”

“I’ve been trying.”

Steve turned onto his back, pretending to stretch and yawn, then rose to a sitting position. He fixed his hair up a bit just in time to hear Eddie’s footsteps move across their cave. But instead of continuing, as if he were patrolling, he paused at the mouth of it.

“Oh, you’re up.”

“I am”, Steve said, voice soft.

Robin could have rolled her eyes but she refrained. She knew Eddie was trying to talk to Steve but was being annoyingly coy about it. It was a little funny though, watching Steve put on the whole ‘demure omega’ act.

“Well good morning to you. And to you Robin”, Eddie gave a bow.

“Good morning Eddie. I assume you have business with my brother, yes?”

“That I do, if I may have your leave”, he said as he rose back up.

“Hmm, I don’t know, the last time you two were left alone-”

Steve threw the blanket off of himself, into Robin’s face and got up to meet Eddie at the mouth of the cave. “Ignore her. She doesn’t know when a joke has gone too far.”

Eddie chuckled as he watched Robin struggle under the fabric. “Oh but ‘tis no joke for me. She is your kin and an alpha at that. I intend to do right by the both of you.”

“And to what end?”, Steve asked.

“I invited you both to join my pack. That makes you my responsibility.”

“Is that why you wish to converse with Steve alone?”, Robin asked, finally getting to her feet.

Eddie’s cheeks flushed and he hesitated to answer just long enough for Robin to scoff. He was so incredibly obvious. He and Steve deserved each other, truly.

“Go on, the both of you. Just remember sound travels in these tunnels.”

Now Steve was blushing but he was already rushing Eddie out. It was odd, how short they’d known each other and yet he couldn’t wait to get him alone again.

“So what did you want to talk about?”, Steve asked, their arms linked together.

Eddie’s heart swelled when their gazes met. He couldn’t believe he’d come to care for someone in such a short amount of time. He may need to return as Prince Edwin, but that didn’t mean he had to part from Steve, did it? Eddie wanted to believe his fiance would understand. Wherever he was. Maybe Prince Stephen had gone to elope with his own lover, Eddie couldn’t be sure.

The only thing he could be sure of was the fact that he wanted more time with the omega on his arm right now. Not some faceless royal who he’d never met. Eddie led their stroll across the main cavern, towards his own space.

“I meant what I said. I invited you and Robin to join us. And I know we haven’t officially set it, but I already consider the both of you pack.” 

Eddie felt emboldened when he could smell Steve’s interest. When they got to his den, Eddie sat Steve on a pillow. One that seemed like it was meant for nicer places than a cave. A blanket over the mouth acted as a privacy curtain for the space.

“You heard what I said last night. I have to return home. Someone else will lead the bandits. But you and Robin you could…” Eddie knelt in front of Steve. “You could come and stay with me.”

“S…stay with you?”, Steve breathed out.

“I want to court you the way you deserve, Steve. For longer than a day, for longer than a month. You deserve love letters, and courting gifts, and for me to earn Robin’s approval.”

“You would do all of that? Welcome us into your home and promise me all of that?”

Eddie grabbed Steve’s hands. “I may not look like I come from much but we’ve got plenty of room.” It was all Eddie had thought about last night. Bringing Steve into the castle, introducing him to his family and being allowed to show the world his love. It was unorthodox, a prince courting and then marrying a commoner. But it was what his parents had done. That was something he’d been entirely truthful about.

Not many knew exactly what happened to the Bandit King. But Princess Tannis falling for someone below her station was well known. His parents would be hypocrites to not accept Steve. If they had a problem with it, he’d run away again. But Steve was meant for the throne.

“If I accept…”, Steve started, his hands smoothing up Eddie’s arms. “Would we be allowed to consummate the courtship?”

“I don’t see why not”, Eddie said, his own arms coming around Steve’s waist and bringing them to their feet. 

Their faces got close, pausing to savor their scents mixing when the blanket was pulled back, revealing Gareth. “I drew the short straw. Come and eat.”

Steve sighed but Eddie patted his hip. “All for the best, my sweet. I said you deserve better than a forest floor and I didn’t mean a cave.” Now that his path was clear, Eddie knew exactly what he had to do. What he wanted to do. Any thoughts of Prince Stephen had been completely erased from his mind. It was all just Steve, Steve, Steve.

Part 11 coming soon

[guhamun]

THESE PERPLEXING FEELINGS SEEMED to grow all the more, such akin to a tangled web of things he couldn’t quite figure out. It was like trying to pull a butterfly from it, the process one that was painstaking, and, if not done properly, could only make things worse. Jiyan’s comfort in his presence was one he could never quite understand among other things, yet despite knowing of his reputation, of the whispered rumors that could either be true or false, he still seemed so at ease with him. But why him? That was a question he had asked himself countless times whenever he was with the general. In the beginning, he had not exactly been the friendliest individual. His words had often been curt, and his interactions with Jiyan, as small as they had been, were strictly business with him merely wanting to know what it was they wanted of him, and then leaving to see it done. He couldn’t figure out how they had even reached the point that they had, and each time he tried to see where their initial path had diverged, he was left feeling even more lost than he had before.

     Jiyan’s nuzzling of his hand – him instinctively knowing that this was not a gesture done towards anyone else, only made things that much worse. And so, to try and figure out his thoughts and feelings, he wanted to hear the other’s again as if that would help get rid of the fog that constantly hung over him. For whatever reason, there was something about listening to them that made it easier to slot puzzle pieces into place. Nothing was said on his end once more as he moved his hand back to his side; only that silence that came when his mind was working over everything he was hearing and seeing. ❝It’s not like you to make assumptions about others, Jiyan. Rather than assuming what I would say, why not merely ask me the questions you want answered and see from there? I can’t read minds. I may be good at figuring out if someone wants to gut me, but this…is something else entirely. I can't promise that anything I say will make much sense either, but I'd attempt.❞ For you, at least. He glanced away, gaze peering off into the distance where the sun shone its brightest.

     ❝If I have upset you in any way, whether now, or in the past, I apologize. My intention was never to make you feel like some insect under a magnifying glass.❞ What had he done that warranted their last statement? ‘I really wish you could extend me the same patience and empathy I have with you.’ What did that even mean? He was frustrated because he didn’t quite comprehend what in the world Jiyan was talking about, yet he wasn’t quite sure what questions he was supposed to ask to make it make sense. Was he…upset with Calcharo’s callousness towards his own potential death? Was it how he just casually moved on from it? In truth, he couldn’t quite understand being dear to anyone in the manner that Jiyan spoke of. It all circled back to ‘why him?’ Why? He huffed, a small, sigh slipping from him. ❝We seem to be two men who are deeply lost about one another as much as we are about our own emotions. It’s like dumping oil on water.❞ In other words, they wouldn’t get anywhere without proper discussion.

     He understood that much now. 

Calcharo had remained quiet the entire time he spoke, and Jiyan didn't know if that was a good thing or not. He could tell they were listening to him, but it made him nervous as well. But, when they reached out to touch his face... the new scales that temporarily appeared on his jaw, all doubt and nervousness he had felt until then melted. Golden eyes closed as he sighed, allowing himself to enjoy the other's touch, allowing himself to reach out for what he hungered for and lean onto their hand. It wasn't the type of thing that a general should be doing, but he didn't care for any of that right now.

He was happy. Calcharo was so close to him, they were touching him, they existed in this very moment at the same time as him. It made him relax and feel hopeful. It was funny, wasn't it? He was no stranger to hope. After all, hope was what kept him going every day, hope was what he tried to inspire on his fellow rangers, hope was something he would cling to till his last breath. He liked to think that he understood hope well enough. But, while the reason for that type of hope was as clear as water to him, the hopefulness he felt whenever he was with Calcharo wasn't as clear. He could tell it was there, he felt it, and he knew he was hoping for something, for more. But it was frustrating, as well, to not know what that more looks like.

And then Calcharo talked, and the illusion of all being well and on the right track shattered. Still, he couldn't help the brief and weak laughter that passed his lips. It wasn't funny but, at the same time, it was. Careful, he allowed himself to nuzzle the mercenary's hand before pulling away. "Calcharo, have I not been doing just that this whole time? I explained everything, every single time, so what else am I supposed to say?" It took him a while to notice it, but he eventually realized that he was a painfully honest man, one that ended up letting his honest thoughts and emotions slip with those close to his heart.

But they asked him to talk, even if it was abstract and nonsensical, so he was going to talk. "Just like you, I don't like feeling exposed and vulnerable. There are things I would rather keep to myself, things I wasn't planning to tell anyone, but when I'm with you... I don't know, it's so easy to be myself." A pause followed, hesitation showing on his features for a second before he shook his head. "But that doesn't mean I'm okay with being prodded like a test subject. Calcharo, what do you gain from me explaining everything again? What's the purpose of it? It doesn't aid you in any way, so why do you ask things of me you know you wouldn't answer if I asked them of you?" He was frustrated at himself and at Calcharo, which was terribly unfair to the latter, as he couldn't even explain why he was frustrated in the first place. He was making no sense and he hated it. This wasn't like him at all. So he just sighed and rubbed is temples, try to gather his thoughts and make sense of the mess of emotions he was feeling right then.

"I don't know what I'm hoping for. I don't know what I'm feeling or why I'm being like this. I don't know many things, and I'm still on edge because you could have died a few days ago, and I don't know what I would do without you, you have become so dear to me, I can't imagine a world without you in it. But, despite it all, it appears that the fact you nearly overclocked is the last of your concerns. It's confusing and frustrating for me too, and I understand that you must have a lot of questions. I have them too. But I really wish you could extend me the same patience and empathy I have with you."

[aotopmha]

All of the takes from the higher end FFXIV players I've seen recently feel so out of touch/narrow-minded to me.

I see people complaining about healers when I ran the most recent dungeon as one just the other day and we wiped several times.

I already saw someone complain that the FFXI raid is "easier than Aglaia" when every single run I've had has taken a significant amount of timer and at least a one or two wipes on a boss or two (or more).

Compared to all of the other Alliance Raids, I actually feel like the challenge here is to learn faster play, rather than to avoid wiping. It's the first time I've seen an Alliance Raid reach the end tail of the timer.

Granted, this is the first time I've done anything "on content" (and I've only seen footage of older day one runs, so maybe previous first day runs of Alliance Raids were similarly difficult), but to me, all of this stuff at the very least feels so much more unique and substantial than a lot of the encounters in a bunch of the previous expansions; this feels really cool and unique in its own right.

Prishe's proximity attacks, the group fight with the Archangels (which has a pretty cool use of interrupts), and Shadowlord's twists on various AoE attacks themselves are really cool.

And to me difficulty isn't the only value of an encounter.

They just don't seem to understand that not everyone consumes the game the same way they do, don't seem to have the ability to put themselves in others' shoes nor have the ability to understand that only a small portion of players play at their level.

I don't play healer often and I felt challenged by the recent dungeon.

I felt this whenever I saw some complain about Endwalker encounters, as well, but there I got it better because I could understand the complaint about how formulaic some of the encounters felt.

All Dawntrail encounters have felt unique and, most of all, substantial, to me.

And that was my personal gripe with particularly Endwalker's patch content. Many of the bosses did not have mechanics which evolved and/or had quite slow-paced useage/distribution of mechanics.

I suppose a game has the responsibility to entertain players on all levels of play, but this time around I understand the complaints much less as I see a lot of truly inventive encounter design that brings in ideas the game hasn't used much before.

And even after I stepped into harder content (extremes), the normal content never automatically became a bore to me; just different type of content.

In the end, I suppose I just disagree with people's consumption philosophy, then.

I think the game doesn't need to be "hard", just "substantial", so I suppose it's a very specific difference of opinion, which simply clashes with this different perspective and doesn't gel with the reality within the game I've seen.

I hope those who are unhappy will get something that makes them happy, but I also struggle a bit to see what the encounter designers could do to please this perspective.

Just copy Ivalice step by step? Just complete bullshit with bad telegraphing? Because that's where I felt like a bunch of Ivalice's challenge came from. It was challenging because some of the telegraphing could take a bit to parse and at points only made sense if you paid attention to every little tiny detail. It was challenging because it was pretty unintuitive and while I enjoyed it a lot and the bullshit is "funny", it's not "fun".

Math isn't bad because of the math, it's bad because you have to figure out how it works first. It can tell you "vitals", but the first time you do this, you don't necessarily automatically make all of the connections in the short time the fight gives you. And I personally think this is an issue of conveyance/bad design.

How are you supposed to figure out you need to let the sniper shoot you rather than use to shield to shield yourself in the moment? Where is the logic in that?

Even the magnet stuff is actually good.

Good conveyance is vague, but still solvable in the moment, like Prishe's wind-up punches.

But as said, I suppose I consume video games differently than most FFXIV/MMO players because in my mostly single-player gaming experience bad conveyence/design isn't "part of the fun", it's just bad design.

I can love a game despite it having these issues in its encounters, but to me it is an aspect to criticize when it happens and despite the repetitious nature of MMO design, I think this issue shouldn't just be glossed over because I think you can do challenge without these clunky elements.

[grokebaby]

Visualize this as everybody you've asked the Oc Sweets ask to playing a paddel game with the ask as the paddel ball. The ask has gone from person to person, and now it's arrived back to you!

If your OCs were sweets/candy, which ones would they be? Especially MewMew and Evilicus!!!

Ooh and as an extra question, what's their favourite candy?

Oooooogghhhhhh me when. That which I put forth comes back to meee yahoo heehe (the fact that this is the second ask about this topic haha). I am bonked on the head by the ball. Kiitos :)

I think Mewmew would likely be marshmallows due to the immaculate softness and sugary sweetness. Just the whole vibe. I personally can't stomach marshmallows bc they're wayyy to sweet for me hahah... Mew could also easily be like a smores! Crunchy (the tech parts) with soft and melty stuff (bio parts and fuel). Doesn't that just sound yummy :) lol

The marshmallow (or s'more) would also be fitting bc of how.. Heavy? It is. Like. So much fat and you can't eat too many before you have to stop. At least that's it for me so. That adds to the Mewmew vibe (bc m is nothing if not Heavy Class and tanky!)

Though, I could also make the argument for Mewmew being like, fruit gummies? I have this specific zoo animal gummy type in mind

Bc haahaa artificial thing resembling a real animal :) but still!

Evilicus... Hmmm... I really wanted to say some Halloween candy here bc of the vibes.. Ev is so edgy. But I feel like something else would represent them better..

Let's say. Cake. Let me paint the picture for you. It's at least two tiered. It's got sharp and detailed frosting. It's got hard meringue spikes. It's got decorations and maybe a surface sculpted of almond paste. It's got plums and other dried fruits in the batter. Chocolate sauce. Raspberry sauce - red as blood. The raspberry sauce has the faintest hint of chili. The whole thing is in purple and black. Tadah! Evilicus.

.. Or, after being defeated it's a little fruitcake with chocolate ganache and berry sauce thrown on top. Still relatively fancy but definitely comprised of less.

As for what those two would like, it's gonna be very different from what treats they would be!

Mewmew -..... Cat treats. But if you asked about human candies the answer is probably cookies or candied fruit. More likely cookies but Mewmew likes fruits and veggies in general.

Evilicus - Hard to say, they don't eat much.. 🤔 I think rock candy would be fun for them though! Just like those nefarious power crystals they used to acquire in their glory days. I could also say lollipops and then like, banana bread and tiger cake, and other less sweet but still desert baked goods.

[shepscapades]

Why does Ren have 4 ears? Are they all real or is one set fake?

Hehe I’ve gotten this question a lot actually! They’re all real— I like to think hybridization isn’t always a clean balance of traits, so Ren just unfortunately ended up with two sets of ears— his Dog ears being much more receptive to sound, naturally— and sometimes when the extra intake of sound is too overwhelming, I imagine he wears earplugs in his human ears to help adjust :> it’s a bit weird, but idk! i like to make designs funky and nonconventional! I liked the idea that Ren had hearing struggles due to wonky hybridization and just kept the concept :>

[localwebslingers]

It had been about as awkward as he expected when Norman did show up, with a couple of doctors behind him by the looks of it, but Harry had been right. Despite how Peter had initially assumed it would go, the man didn't throw him out immediately, and even was what would pass for civil about him being there. Maybe not completely pleased that Peter was, and maybe hiding his surprise at the fact, but civil. It was the best that he could hope for really. By the time it was late enough he needed to leave, not because he wanted to but becuase Harry needed sleep and so did he, there was one more issue to talk around and Peter did his best. Explaining that he lived fairly far and he unfortunately wasn't always free to make the trip back to visit. But did so as often as he could, for as long as he could, and promised that he would be back as soon as he possibly could be.

There was nothing he'd have wanted more than to be able to stay in that universe for several days, even weeks, while Harry started readjusting but it wasn't possible. Not realistically, and as much as Peter loved Harry he couldn't just up and abandon his responsibilities back in his own universe. Knew that if there wasn't amnesia complicating things that Harry would agree and wouldn't hold that against him. For a moment as he explained, he thought that maybe there was understanding about it still there, in it's own way, but couldn't be sure.

Only a few days had gone by when Peter was able to step away again, and with the way his own city was it seemed like he could be away for more than just the afternoon. As long as he checked the news later that night to make sure that really was still the case. The time let him get the photos fully developed though, all of Harry's city rather than his own, figuring it would be the one to be slowly recognized the easiest. Taken when he'd left, before actually going home and after touching base with MJ to fill her in. Something Peter also had asked Harry about, because it wasn't for him to decide if people got to know sooner or not, or about how much they got to know. Now the photos were developed, and after stopping at the penthouse to grab a couple of small things, Peter made his way back into the lab.

It was even easier the second time around, both because he knew the way in and this time, they knew he was coming and to just let him in. Not that Peter exactly used the front door anyways, but at least when he passed someone in the hallway they didn't threaten to call security. He still wasn't even sure if there was security on site.

Peter pushed the same set of doors open to this time see someone already in the room. It was weird to see Conners in person again, even if it wasn't the same one. He shut the door softly behind him and this time, grabbed a chair to bring with him along the way before smiling a little at the two, "Hey, don't let me interrupt the talk, I can wait my turn." the camera in the corner was already focused on him and he again wasn't sure if that was security or if it was Norman watching his arrival. The chair was set at about the same spot he had been in the last visit, and Peter set the bag down on the floor for now to sit and wait for the conversation he walked in on to wrap up.

|| @inhcritance ||

The promise of pictures was welcome, as much as the teasing was. Because there, with so much of his attention in Peter, and only a sliver of it on the approaching footsteps, he couldn't help like that was the only whisper of normalcy he'd felt in ages. Something that felt right, and natural, and meant he did feel more like a person than a caged animal, even when faced with his father's astonishment, brief and guarded as it had been. Harry had even waved at him, his own amusement grim.

The days had gone by slowly, almost boringly, in a way. But if nothing else, Peter's visit had meant changes for good: with everyone keeping outside of the room, Harry was able to have conversations again. To actually talk, and inquire, and as much as he trusted only half of what he heard -because he had nothing to compare it on- it was... a beginning.

It also meant that as much as Harry kept feeling like his instincts were always a moment away from turning him dangerous, he was not so tense all the time. He even had been handed some old papers Connors had been looking over, once he was finished with that, and between them and the newspaper, at least he wasn't bored all the time.

It didn't escape him that having Connors be researching something so close to the Lizard Serum felt almost cruel, but he didn't push on it. He didn't want his doctor to think the only thing Harry remembered of him was his greatest mistake... for all it had saved Harry's life twice already. Maybe thrice, but that was just a theory centered around Peter.

Peter, who he'd been missing ever since he left, and he knew better than to show it too much, not before his father and his doctors, and not when he was used to them both being busy, even if he could hardly recall the specifics.

He'd actually been asking Connors about the paper he'd been reading, holding back his own frustration at how he lacked so many basics and yet twice something far more complex made perfect sense, when he noticed yet another set of steps, and so much of his annoyance vanished.

Because he was there for everyone else's safety, but he'd been used to being busy and now he was bored to no end.

@localwebslingers