#and the rest of the musical goes on as such

[blazehedgehog]

For the last 10-15 years I fall asleep listening to music, but following my mom dying in 2022, the intrusive thoughts were so loud and so difficult to ignore that just listening to music wouldn't cut it. So I started trying to listen to podcasts, but I was used to having the music on so softly it was barely audible, since I'm also a pretty light sleeper. So listening to a podcast at that level with speakers near my bed was tricky.

Until I caught a head cold about a year and a half ago and happened to fall asleep in bed with my headphones on. That turned into one of the most restful sleeps I'd had in months if not years. So I started trying to engineer a situation where I could sleep with headphones on, and ultimately ended up breaking two pairs of headphones as a result.

So... last christmas I ordered one of these.

It's a sleep mask with ultra-thin bluetooth headphones built in. If you're a side sleeper it's not always super comfortable on your ears, but it's better than destroying a $45 pair of headphones because the rigid plastic wasn't meant to bend that way.

So the long and short answer to the poll is that I listen to podcasts on Youtube while I fall asleep now. Phone is plugged in, charging, and I have the developer mode option enabled that doesn't let the phone go to sleep as long as it's plugged in (because Youtube will pause playback if the device goes to sleep). I also put it into do-not-disturb mode because the eyemask will receive notification sounds and I don't want to get those piped directly into my ears when I sleep.

And it helps! It helps a lot. I generally fall asleep faster now than I used to, in some aspects.

Which has lead me to discover a whole subgenre racket on Youtube of podcasts designed just for people falling asleep. The most notable one is Get Sleepy, which carries celebrity endorsements and half a million subscribers. They release a new story/episode every two days, which sounds amazing when you see that a lot of their episodes are 3-5 hours long:

The truth, which I discovered because I still occasionally have trouble falling asleep, is that a lot of these stories are only about 15-30 minutes long. The remaining hours and hours of audio is just, like, sound machine noise. Wind and soft string instruments and a little bit of piano.

It's a racket because, obviously, most people fall asleep and leave the podcast running for the full length. Which is mostly the equivalent of dead air. And in terms of Youtube payouts, view counts largely don't matter anymore and haven't mattered in ages -- what Youtube counts for advertising revenue is view length. So they're putting out 30 minutes of content and making bank on four hours of view length.

And I personally hate it. When I listen to Get Sleepy now, all I'm doing is listening for the story to end and the sound machine to begin. So I tend to look for a more substantial podcast or video series, just for peace of mind if nothing else.

Which is a minefield in itself! Get Sleepy is the genre leader here and the eagle eyed among you may already be able to tell all their thumbnails are AI generated. It's all down hill from there. For example, recently I found a channel called "Pure Unintentional ASMR"...

I put on the "Sleepiest Voice Ever" one once, one night. And it's just this old guy going on about his spirituality, and you quickly get inundated with a lot of recommendations for self-help sleep hypnosis. Things to help you ease your anxious mind, help you get a restful night's sleep, help you overcome negativity in your life, and...

...feed you ugly conspiracy theories.

Sleep safely, friends.

please reblog I'm curious

[mattsstarlet]

reader gives chris a pleasant gift for getting his license.

contains: smut (no p in v), oral (male receiving), suggestive language, pet names

note: i know nothing about sports cars…or giving…

“fuck, baby. Just like that, ma.” chris moaned, removing a hand from the steering wheel and grabbing a handful of your hair. the sounds of your muffled moans and slurping of his dick, mix with the engine of his brand-new vehicle.

chris had just gotten his license card in the mail, pulling up to your house in a black sports car late at night. now— the burette was driving down some road, and his jeans along with his briefs were rolled down to his thighs.

you were currently bent over the console, mouth stuffed full with his cock— seeing his photo id immediately had your panties drenched. you needed to give this man the best head ever.

he groaned, wanting nothing more than to throw his head back against the seat and shut his eyes. he pushes your head down farther, your nose making contact with his pelvis.

“mm-hm…all of it, baby. take my fuckin’ dick.”

you moan around him, his hand slowly loosens up letting you take him out, gasping for air as you use both of your hands to pump him.

kitty licking his hard length, you look up at him through your wispy lashes— his hair around his forehead is slightly damped and small pants leave his lip.

chris locks eyes with you for a moment, smirking as he sees the tears staining your warm cheeks. “keep goin’, mama. ain’t pulling over until you make me cum.” he stated.

with a final deep breath, you take him back in, his tip hitting the back of your throat. he grips your hair trying to hold you in place as he lifts his hips— mouth fucking you.

“shiiit, baby. takin’ my dick so well.” he groaned, thrusting up and pausing for a second until he could feel you choking around him.

“careful, sweet girl,” he teased, “take it niiice and slow.” he dragged out, his hand suddenly leaving your hair and joining the other on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white.

“oh fuck,” he breathed out, his cock twitching in your mouth. “gonna cum, baby…y—yeah gonna come deep in ya throat.”

you whimpered around him, his moans were like music to your ears. your hands help you get him off, stroking whatever you could no longer fit in your mouth.

you can’t help but press kisses onto his sensitive tip, knowing it’ll only get him closer. swirling his precum around with your tongue, your hands slightly tighten their grip around his cock— pushing him to fall over the edge.

a loud moan leaves his lips as he throws his head back, coating your mouth with warm, white ropes of cum. cleaning him up and somewhat tucking him back in, you pull away, licking the corner of your bottom lip where his salty fluid managed to spill out.

you grin, placing a wet kiss on his neck, “so proud of you, baby.”

chris’ chest heaves as his heart slowly goes back to resting rate. the car comes to a stop, it's only then that you realize he pulled out of the road and into an empty lot.

he unbuckled his seatbelt, the soft ‘clink’ stealing your attention. “backseat, baby. now.”

© 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗌𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗅𝖾𝗍

comment here if you would like to join my taglist.

TAGS: { @mbbsgf ༄; @emely9274 ༄; @sturnl0ve ༄; @sofieeeeex ༄; @slut4chris888 ༄; @strnxzara2 ༄; @forgottxen ༄; @mattslovergirlie ༄; @camzeecorner ༄; @sturnschris ༄; @strnilolover ༄;}

[silentscrying]

🎸 out of my mind ! 💿 track five: the battle of the bands

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, DOGGOS, yuji literally is just a ray of sunshine 24/7, mentions of drunk driving, so much fluff, ridiculous amount of kissing tbh, short time skip at the end, FINAL CHAPTER! || sfw. 8.8k words.

FOR THE FIRST time in a long stretch of busy days, you wake up not to the chirp of your alarm but to soft rays of Saturday morning sunlight seeping through the cracks in the blinds, painting your eyelids orange-gold. You crack an eye open and find Takuma stirring beside you. Right.

“Morning,” you whisper. For a moment, when Takuma opens his eyes, he looks surprised, and then he seems to remember why and how you got here and his expression melts into a soft smile.

“Morning, Skip.” He yawns. “Time’s it?”

You shrug. You’re pretty sure your phone is dead.

“Eh, it’s Saturday,” he mumbles. “S’fine.” You chuckle, daring to reach out and ruffle his hair. You don’t know what this is, the unspoken thing in the thin slice of air between you. You know what you want it to be, though.

For a while you both lie in comfortable silence, letting the sounds of the awakening house float up the stairs toward you. Murmuring, clattering around in the kitchen, the front door opening and closing, cars outside.

“Hey,” you say eventually, making eye contact. His eyes are a very deep shade of brown, dark but warm in a way that reminds you of old bookshelves or tree bark after the rain.

“Hey back.”

He’s relaxed, every part of him unhurried, and you take the image of it and stamp it into your mind over the memory of the night prior. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Takuma smiles. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Maybe it should be more awkward, the fact that you’re here in his bed in his clothes and you haven’t named whatever it is that stretches out in the silence. But it’s not. It’s just… easy.

“Skipper?”

“Hm?”

“I really, really like you,” Takuma whispers. The words wrap themselves around you, warm when you didn’t know you were cold.

“Yeah?” You bring a hand up to his face, trace the line of his jaw. His cheeks are a little colored in the mix of light slipping through the window and the cracked door. “I really, really like you too, Takuma.”

He cups your face in both hands, pulls your lips to his, and your whole body responds, pressing up against him in the too-small twin bed. Your hand goes to hold the back of his neck, deepening the kiss, and this is what people write love songs about, you fucking get it now, all the metaphors and cliché words you thought were exaggerations but no, they’re not, because you’re feeling all of them all at once and you don’t ever want to leave this moment in time.

“Like” doesn’t feel strong enough, not for this. You’ve only known him for a month. Is it really possible he’s already become so integral to the structure of your heart?

You’re kissing in the early morning light and it’s hungrier than you thought your next kiss would be, because even though all the rest of your days are rolling out before you, you don’t know how many there are. He twists so he’s above you on his knees, one of them between your legs, and it’s like a reversal of that night on the roof, like you can feel the night air even in the golden midmorning hours.

“Kuma,” you murmur between kisses, and he grins against your mouth, takes your next breath and makes it his.

At some point you’re interrupted by the startled growl of your stomach, and you break apart, unable to stifle the giggles rising up in your throat. “Well.”

“Well,” Takuma echoes, grinning. He stands and offers you a hand. “Breakfast?”

Downstairs, the house is alive with idle chatter and the clinking of silverware. Kirara is seated atop the counter, legs swinging as she eats a plate of eggs, and Hakari stands beside her leaning against the cabinets. Megumi scrolls absently through his phone at the table, the dogs looking up at him expectantly from either side, and Yuji is digging through a bunch of take-out boxes. When he sees you, his whole face lights up.

“Morning!” he practically sings. “Here, eat food.”

“Where’d this come from?” Takuma asks.

“My friend dropped off breakfast,” Yuji chirps, pushing a Tupperware container of pancakes toward you. If it weren’t for the brace wrapped around his wrist, you’d have no idea anything happened. He’s his usual golden retriever self.

You smile, forking one of the pancakes onto a plate. “That’s sweet.”

Your phone buzzes, and it’s Tsumiki sending you the link to the news brief. You frown at the headline, not out of any disrespect for the writer who stepped up to cover it, but more at the fact that it’s unfortunately true.

JU senior issued DUI after crash on 34th and Olson Blvd Friday night

“What’s up?” Takuma asks, immediately noting your expression. You slide the phone across the counter, watching its screen catch the light from the kitchen window. Kirara leans over it as well and starts reading off Junpei’s story halfway through.

“Zenin, who according to a campus police report was driving under the influence of alcohol, was on the phone with an ex-girlfriend when he swerved into the opposite lane.” Her dark brows knit together in some combination of anger and disbelief. “Jesus.”

“That’s fucked,” you murmur.

Someone’s phone rings, and Megumi glances at his screen and blinks, seems to hesitate. Then he gets up and disappears down the hall. You glance at Takuma, but he just shrugs. It’s probably Gojo.

The rest of you eat and eventually make your way to the living room, scattering yourselves across the couch and carpet and chairs.

“That single last night,” Takuma says, letting Kuro jump up beside him on the couch. “Concept. Make it the title track of an EP.”

You blink for a second, startled. “Wait, for real?”

“Yes!” Takuma says, sitting up straighter. “Think about it. Cover art is one of those name tag stickers, you all sign it, wrinkle it up and crease it and take a grainy film photo. And you put the song on it with Next Fix and a couple of your older singles you and blow up.”

“Or you print one off that says hello, our name is,” Kirara pipes up, seeming excited by the idea. “Ooh, you can have an intro track like that.”

“All caps. Just to match the energy,” you say, picturing the EP cover in your mind. “HELLO MY NAME IS. No punctuation either.”

“I like it,” Kirara nods. Takuma’s got that excited shine to his eyes, and you realize he’s very in his element in this conceptual space—he really will be a good producer. He has the mind for it.

Megumi slips back into the room looking a little haphazard, disgruntled, looking anywhere but into anyone else’s eyes, and Yuji cocks his head in question. Not Gojo, then. “Who was that?”

“No one,” Megumi lies, waving him off and turning back toward the kitchen to avoid everyone’s questioning gaze. Hm.You know better than to ask, and it seems that’s the consensus, because nobody pushes it—Megumi will open up in his own time. You hope he figures it out soon.

For your part, it’s a lazy Saturday, hanging out with Takuma, Yuji, Megumi, Kirara, and Hakari, gaming and talking and generally just existing in each other’s presence. After the chaos of last night, it seems to be exactly what all of you needed.

It’s not until late afternoon that Kirara broaches the topic of the band.

She gestures at Yuji, a flapping motion that misses the mark a little because Kirara is sprawled upside-down in the beanbag in the corner. “Itadori, can you, like… drum with that?”

He shrugs, looking down at his injured wrist. “Yeah, probably!” You frown. So much of drumming is in the wrist, and you kind of figured Kirara’s question was rhetorical. You realize abruptly that Shibuya Incident is still going up against Black Flash in the finals on Friday, and if they don’t have Yuji, they’re fucked.

“Psh, don’t look like that, it’s fine,” Yuji insists, grabbing two Wii remotes and wielding them like drumsticks. He goes to bang them around, mimicking a rock beat, and you watch as his face twists into a grimace and he drops one of them. “Okay, so, update: never mind!” He grins sheepishly.

Kirara is the first one to look at you, and by the time you’ve processed what exactly it is she’s trying to say, everyone else has their eyes locked on you—including Yuji.

Oh, shit.

“Whaddaya say, girl drummer?” Kirara asks, pointing a finger gun at you.

“Oh, guys, I don’t… I don’t know, it’s your band. Yuji—”

But Yuji is the one who seems the most excited about it. He’s abandoned both Wii remotes on the floor and is now looking up at you with bright eyes and his eternal grin. “No, Skipper, please? It would be so fun! I can still do aux and stuff. But we could play together! It would be so awesome!”

“Is that even allowed?” you ask, glancing at Takuma, who’s trying and failing to hide a boyishly excited smile. “I mean, I already got eliminated.”

“Hang on,” Hakari says, pulling out his phone. It takes you a minute to realize who he’s asking. “Yeah, no, Panda says it’s whatever. Better that than not have a battle at all.”

Takuma nudges you with a knee, looking at you with steady eyes. It’s your choice, he seems to say.

“I think,” you say slowly, “I should talk to my band first. But… I’m not opposed.”

Yuji whoops so loudly you flinch a little and Takuma grins, putting his arm around you and squeezing your shoulder.

“I probably should head out,” you say, a little reluctantly. “Kinda left the roommates high and dry last night.”

Kirara salutes you, her face red from the blood rush of still being upside down, and Yuji chirps out a happy see ya!

“I’ll walk you out,” Takuma says, standing when you do. You say bye to the band and the dogs and he follows you to the front door, going as far as to step just outside with you. The door stays open just a crack as you linger, his hand coming to rest on the small of your back. He pulls you in and kisses you right there on the front step, and you smile against his lips.

“Are we, like…?” Takuma murmurs when he pulls away, cheeks flushed from the question or the cold, you can’t tell.

“Are we what?” you tease, shoving lightly at his chest.

“You know.”

“Well, if you don’t say it I’m gonna beat you to asking—”

This seems to zap whatever hesitation Takuma had right out of him, and he cuts in, “Willyoubemygirlfriend?”

“Sorry, what was that?” You know you’ve got a shit-eating grin on your face, but you can’t stop it. “Couldn’t really hear you—”

“Oh my god. Will,” he says slowly, drawing out the word, “You. Be. My. Girlfriend?”

You can see your laugh fanning out before you in a puff of warm air, and you tip your head forward into his chest, grinning. “Yes, Takuma, I would love to be your girlfriend.” You pull back and look up at him, lacing your fingers together. “I was kind of trying to get you alone all week so we could figure out what the fuck was going on. But it worked out, huh?”

“Yeah,” he grins. “It worked out.” He reaches up and ruffles your hair, laughing when you go to swat his hand away. “I was trying to get you alone, too,” he admits. “I like spending time with you, Skip. I’m pretty sure you’re the coolest person I’ve met, like, ever.”

“Ever,” you echo. “Those are some pretty lofty expectations to live up to.”

He shrugs. “You meet them all.”

Despite yourself, heat creeps up to your cheeks again.

“That was less scary than I thought it was gonna be,” Takuma confesses. Your phone rings in your pocket, and you glance at it and see Maki’s name sliding across the screen.

“Think that’s my cue.” You plant one last kiss on Takuma’s lips and turn around, throwing a “bye, boyfriend” over your shoulder. You glance back and catch him mid fist-pump, and he sheepishly shoves his hands into his pockets when he realizes you saw.

You’re still wearing his clothes, you realize as you answer your phone. Guess it doesn’t really matter, since they’re your boyfriend’s.

“Hey,” Maki says in your ear. “You comin’ home anytime soon? No rush, but we’re making lunch so we figured we’d ask.” In the background, you can hear Toge singing what you think is a dramatic rendition of Kristoff’s song from Frozen II, but you aren’t entirely certain because none of the words are right.

“Yeah, I’m literally walking through the door in thirty seconds,” you say, and Nobara’s face appears in the kitchen window. She waves excitedly and you raise a hand in return.

“Oh, sick.” The line goes dead as you open the front door. “Hey!” Maki shouts when she hears it click, and you slam it closed against the rush of cool air trying to sneak inside with you.

“Hi!” you call back.

Yuta pokes his head around the corner and grins at you. “Welcome home, our favorite breaking news reporter.”

“I didn’t actually report on anything,” you admit, kicking your shoes off and padding into the kitchen. Toge is somehow balancing cross-legged on one of the high stools, and Maki is making tacos. “Conflict of interest once I realized who it was.”

“Yeah, I saw the article,” Nobara chimes in, glancing up from her phone. “Yikes. Frickin’ Naoya Zenin. What an asshat.”

You snort. What an understatement.

“Hope he rots in jail,” Maki says in a sing-song voice, not even looking up.

“I love family,” Toge says.

You fill your friends in on the crash and the aftermath and Yuji’s wrist, leaving out some of the details about Takuma, because that feels a little invasive. And then Yuta asks the big question: “What about the band?”

“About that,” you say, taking a deep breath. You’re not exactly sure why this makes you so nervous. Maybe it’s just that these are your people, your band, and you all worked so hard and then went down together. It doesn’t seem fair that you get to go back on stage and try again and the rest of them don’t. “So. They asked me to fill in—“

“Yes!” Nobara shouts, pumping a fist in the air. “Oh, that’s so awesome!”

“Well, I didn’t say yes yet—”

“What? Why?” Toge asks incredulously. You laugh, feeling the weight lift off your shoulders. Of course they’re okay with it. These are your best friends. They’ll always have your back.

“I wanted to check with you guys,” you say, feeling silly about it now. “Just—I don’t know, to make sure. Since it’s not our band, and I didn’t want you guys to feel like I was, I don’t know, like…”

“Musically cheating?” Maki chuckles. “Skipper, this is great. You should say yes.”

Yuta solemnly puts a hand over his heart. “Avenge us.”

“Thanks, guys.” You grin as you hop up on the counter next to Nobara, pressing your shoulder to hers. “I love y’all.”

“Sap,” Maki says, which means love you too.

—

Using a drum set that isn’t yours is always a weird experience. You feel like everything is just ever so slightly off, and Yuji’s kit is an absolute patchwork of different brands of heads and shells and cymbals. You have to lower the stool because he’s taller than you. But it’s just for rehearsal, at least—you can use your own kit at The Fix.

It’s your first time in the shabby basement of Takuma’s house, and it looks distinctly different than your own. They’ve pinned old rugs to the walls as a type of sound deadener, not dissimilar to your own setup, but their lighting is a collection of Facebook marketplace floor lamps and a little disco ball that’s apparently Yuji’s. Your basement has string lights and a bunch of stools and beanbags, and this one has extra blankets all over the floor where Yuji and Kirara have made themselves at home.

Learning Shibuya Incident’s songs isn’t difficult—you’ve heard enough of their music to anticipate what’s coming, and Yuji’s there to give you pointers. Their three-song set for the final performance isn’t actually done, because they don’t feel like they have a good enough finisher, and after you’ve run the first two songs several times you mess around with potential chorus lines.

“What about that?” Kirara says after plucking out a new melody. “It’s hype enough, I think. Or it will be, once we add the rest of you.”

“I like that.” You tap out the rhythm on the snare rim, humming. “You have lyrics?” You look at Takuma, who’s staring at the ceiling like it might have all the answers if he just squints hard enough.

“Somethin’ about, like… losing your head a little bit because you caught feels,” he says. “Like, you’re down so bad you can’t function, to be dramatic about it. That triplet at the beginning of the chorus, Kirara—”

She plucks it out again, down-up-down. “On my own,” Takuma echoes, down-up-down. “Every little move I can’t pin down…”

The words tumble past your lips before you can stop them, because they’ve been circling your head for a week now. “Friends with all the dead in my ghost town.”

He spins around to look at you, a grin spreading across his face. “Yes! It’s like I’m going…”

“Going,” Kirara echoes, and they go back and forth—going, going, “out of my mind!”

“Whoo!” Yuji cheers, pumping a fist in the air. “Holy shit. That was crazy.” Takuma grabs the nearest beat-to-hell spiral notebook and starts scribbling.

Megumi starts laying out a bassline, subtly driving the beat forward a little, and you clamp the hat down on two and four to keep time. Kirara comes in with something that must be the verse, and Takuma reads off, “You left in the morning after eight, I got into work two hours late, I can’t see the sun without your face.” Bass, bass, bass. Megumi nods along and Yuji is practically dancing from his spot on the floor.

“One day and I run fresh out of light…”

Hm. You add, “Twelve hours without your hand in mine.”

“I’m dizzy and overworked and tired,” Kirara sings lowly. All three of you sing the chorus again, and you feel just like you’re at home in your own basement, writing a song in real time with Nobara and Maki and the boys.

“Oh, that slaps,” Takuma practically shouts. “Jesus. We’re gonna win.”

“Don’t get cocky,” Megumi warns, a wry quirk to his lips.

Kirara glances at her phone. “Food’s here. Break time, freaks.” She bounds up the stairs and Megumi follows to help her grab the bags—you DoorDashed Taco Bell, since Yuji never got his beloved crunch wrap on Friday.

You leave your sticks on the snare and move around the drum set, flopping down on the ground beside Takuma. “You’re good at that,” you tell him honestly, pulling the notebook away to read what he’s writing down. I met you across the darkened stage, you shook up my life, you got me made, you’re drivin’ me crazy night and day.

You can’t help thinking of the night you met him, locking eyes while he sang from the edge of the low stage at The Fix, lit up by purple-red stage lights and putting you in a trance. You scribble a few more lines after his and hand the pen back.

“You’re a poet,” he tells you, and you laugh.

“I’m a journalist.”

“Woman of many talents,” he says, echoing Maki’s words from that first night you met.

“Itadori!” Kirara shouts down the stairs.

“Coming!” Yuji leaps up and disappears up the rickety basement staircase, leaving you and Takuma alone.

“Hey,” he says, tapping the pen on the page. You glance up at him, nodding for him to keep going. “Can I take you out? Like, on an actual date?”

Something light and quick kicks around in your chest, a hummingbird loose in your ribcage. “I would not be opposed,” you say, as if the idea doesn’t make you want to kick your feet like a little kid. “When are you thinking?”

“Mm, you’re in night class prison tomorrow,” he says, tapping the pen against his lip now. “Tuesday?”

It shouldn’t make you so irrationally happy that he remembers your schedule, but logic seems to go out the window where Takuma Ino is concerned. “Tuesday’s good. Where do you wanna go?”

He shakes his head adamantly, tapping you on the nose with his pen. “Leave it to me.”

—

The only things Takuma’s told you about your date tonight are dress warm and bring your board. He meets you outside your place at four, his bag definitely bulkier than usual, his own skateboard under one foot.

You’re wearing a denim jacket over a hoodie and your favorite cargo pants with your boots, and you tucked a beanie and gloves into your bag just in case, but it’s surprisingly balmy out for late October. The wind is the worst of it.

“Hey, pretty girl,” Takuma says when you coast down the driveway and come to a stop beside him. The greeting makes you blush as much as his smile does, and he chuckles as he pushes off. “This way.”

“Where are we going?”

“Crazy,” he says. You roll your eyes. Sounds like the kind of dad joke Yuta would make.

“Well, then.” The two of you make your way down the street and around the bend, and you realize he’s taking you to the skate park. But at the entrance he keeps going, around the pit and a few of the ramps and to the largest one, back in the corner—not the one Sukuna deals under, but the one opposite. And you stop in your tracks, your longboard making a protesting schkk under your feet, when you see it.

Battery-powered string lights loop around the posts and down the underside of the ramp, and blankets and pillows are spread out across the ground. The area is sheltered from the worst of the wind, and you know your jaw is hanging open a little as you watch Takuma unload his bag—JBL speaker, two thermoses, and a bunch of food.

“Takuma,” you say, not knowing what other words suffice. “I—oh my god.” You did not peg him as being this romantic.

Then you think about his song lyrics and think maybe you should have.

He grins at you from where he’s sat down on the blankets, holding out one of the thermoses. You leave your board by one of the poles and sit down beside him, taking it and letting the warmth seep into your hands. “What is it?”

“Hot chocolate.”

“Mm.” You scoot closer to him, staring up at the layers and layers of graffiti and marker art covering the underside of the ramp. “This is maybe the sweetest thing ever.”

“I’m glad,” he says. “I had no idea what I was doing.”

“I wouldn’t know.” You take a sip of the hot chocolate—still warm. “It’s romantic. Big fan.”

“Really?” He points to where somebody drew a dick on the far side of the ramp.

“Okay, well, you didn’t have to point it out,” you smirk. “You ever done graffiti?” Looking at his mischievous smile and the beanie tugged over his head, the skateboard abandoned a few feet away, he does look like the type.

“Tagging?” He shrugs. “No. I would, though. Maybe we should.”

You hum, staring up at the arcing bubble letters and jagged black lines all over the ramp. You think you’d be horrible at graffiti, but you’ve always appreciated it, the way it sends a message and doesn’t ask for anything in return.

“This is like… alternative aesthetic stargazing,” you muse, lifting a finger and tracing the sharp lines of one of the illegible words in the air. You could stare at all this art for hours and never find all the intricacies of it.

Takuma digs around in his bag and produces a Sharpie with an “aha!”

“You’re gonna graffiti with a Sharpie?”

He throws it at you and you catch it in one hand, instinctively twirling it like a drumstick. “We’re gonna graffiti with a Sharpie,” he corrects.

And so you do.

The nearest part of the wall is covered in bright pink paint outlined in black, and it takes you a moment of squinting and tilting your head to realize it says LEAVEYOURMARK. Seems as clear of an instruction as any. So you do—scooting forward, you start to draw flowers into the thick bands of pink lettering, and soon they’re shifting to music notes, percussion notation, aimless squiggles. Takuma queues up a laid-back playlist with a few artists you recognize and many more you don’t, and you pass the pen back and forth, adding tiny notes to messages around the ramp, doodling in the empty space.

You’ve been on dates before, but this feels wholly different. With Takuma, you’re not stressing over conversation starters, worrying about commitment, wondering if you picked the right outfit, trying to gauge your shared interests with carefully planned questions. It’s just easy, existing with him like this.

After a while, you’re on your back in the mess of pillows and blankets, staring directly up at the massive painting of a skateboard with a face. Takuma is drawing something on the wall behind you.

Squinting, the green streaks under the skateboard look like that loss meme Toge sends you at least twice a week. You take a photo with the intention of showing it to him later, though maybe you shouldn’t—he gets way too proud of himself for versing you in what he calls Reddit culture.

You crane your neck to see what Takuma’s drawing and find the thick, dark strokes of a city skyline, towers and domes and boxy apartment buildings.

“Artsy,” you tell him, smiling when he appears in your line of vision upside-down. “You sure about this computer science thing? You’re too creative.”

“That’s what my mom said,” he chuckles, capping the Sharpie and sitting down beside you. As you sit up, he leans back on his hands and glances over at you. “I told her about you. She’d love you. I mean, I’m pretty sure she already does.” He hesitates. “Is that weird? Too soon?”

“No,” you grin. “I—that’s really sweet, actually. I would love to meet your mom.” Your gaze softens at the relieved smile that crosses his face. “Gotta thank her for raising a guy like you, anyway.”

You realize you want Takuma to meet your family too—you want to show him all the corners of your too-small town, show him the place you grew up. It made you who you are—it led you here, to him, after all.

“So,” you say, tilting your head. “When you say you wanna be a producer. Where do you mean? Like, LA?”

He shrugs. “Probably. But I’m sure it’s more competitive there than anywhere else. I feel like the major hubs are there and New York, but I wouldn’t mind somewhere quieter, either.” He loops an arm around you, and your head finds its way to his shoulder. “What about you, world-class journalist?”

You grin, thinking of all the places you haven’t been, all the places you want to go. “Anywhere and everywhere. I just wanna see it all. I wanna travel.”

“You should!” He sounds genuinely excited about the concept, and you lift your head, taking in the expression on his face—he looks the way he did when he was talking about making an EP, like the world is full of possibilities and he wants to see them all play out. “You’d be so good at it. Being a travel writer or international correspondent or whatever.” He clears his throat. “I read some of your stuff, y’know.”

“What?” Suddenly you’re racking your brain for every piece you’ve published in the JU Journal, overly critical of your own work in hindsight. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s good. Really good, Skip, seriously.” He reaches out and tugs a wayward strand of hair behind your ear, and you find yourself leaning into the contact.

You aren’t sure what to say, so you settle on a soft, “Thank you.” Somehow, the idea of Takuma going out of his way to read your work feels personal on the same level that writing a song together does. Taking in your words, your ideas, internalizing them. What is intimacy if not that intellectual exchange?

“I think you’re going to be a really good producer.” It’s his turn to blush. “I mean it. Not everyone has the perspective for it, or the ear. But you do.”

“Ah, well, I—”

“Am not good at taking compliments?” you cut him off, raising a brow. “Mm, we’ll fix that.” He laughs, and you’re leaning in to kiss him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it is the most natural thing in the world.

It’s late October, and you are not the least bit cold.

—

Your hands need to stop sweating before you lose a drumstick or something.

Shibuya Incident has about twenty minutes before you’re all due on stage for the finals, and The Fix is alive with students and lights and drinks and music and chatter. You’re out on the floor tonight, off to the side for easy access to the stage once Black Flash clears out.

“We’re kicking off with the reigning champions of the Battle of the Bands,” Panda booms, throwing an arm out as the band takes the stage. “You know ‘em, you love ‘em, they’re every genre and no genre, covers and originals, brass and wind. Give it up for Black Flash!”

You whoop just as loud as anyone else here, grinning at Nobara’s animated cheering from closer to the center of the floor. Miwa walks right up to the mic and takes it off the stand, the neck of her white electric in her other hand. “Hey, folks!” She brushes her bright blue hair out of her face and shouts, “Y’all ready to hear some good music?”

She has the sort of infectious enthusiasm that could work on pretty much anyone, and before you know it you and Kirara are spinning each other around to the beat of a synth-heavy pop song that sounds like it came straight out of the 80s. The instrumentals are simple but tight, and Miwa jumps around, engaging the crowd, belting like she doesn’t have a care in the world.

“They’re good,” you catch Megumi saying lowly, probably to Yuji, but Takuma’s the one who answers.

“If I tell you the power of friendship will lead us to victory—”

“No.”

“Well, okay, you’re no fun.”

Kirara turns around and plants a hand on her hip, looking at Megumi. “Fushiguro, we’re fine. We’re going out with a badass new single and not one but two percussionists. We’ve never sounded this good.”

“Just being the token pessimist,” he sighs, cracking a reluctant half-smile. “I know we’re good.”

Yuji elbows him playfully. “Mr. Realist.”

Black Flash segues into a second track, an ABBA cover that has you dancing without thinking, and Takuma catches your eye and grins, moving along with you. And all too soon it’s over, a third song come and gone, and Panda’s back up on stage and the five of you are hopping up over the side to make your way to your places. Hakari and another tech have already swapped out the kits, and you settle yourself in the comfort of your own throne, your own pedals, flipping on the snare and pounding the kick a few times.

Yuji’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, grinning at you. “You got this,” he mouths, shaking his tambourine at you.

You truly have no idea where he got a tambourine.

“What happened in Shibuya? Who the hell knows?” Panda shouts, riling up the crowd. “Give it up for Shibuya Incident!”

That’s your cue. You look at Kirara, who nods with a conspiratorial smile, and then Megumi, who plucks out a few notes in answer. Yuji’s already giving you a grin and a thumbs-up. And Takuma… he’s already stepped into his on-stage confidence, all relaxed, easygoing performer, and the look he gives you has energy coursing through your fingertips like an electric shock.

You hold your sticks above your head, clicking them loud on the lower end of the shaft, and shout, “One, two, three, four!”

You are alive.

The first track is another pulled from their EP, and you’ve listened to it probably an embarrassing number of times—you know Yuji’s part down to the sixteenth note, the roll, the rest, but you don’t hesitate to put your own spin on it, and he’s alight with the same energy beside you, messing around with a tambourine and a few other aux instruments near a mic of his own, since he’s also doing backup vocals tonight.

Your hands are moving fast, your feet pumping the pedals of their own accord, an instinct, and it’s over before you know it, a sheen of sweat already forming under the stage lights. You grin, catching your breath, wiping your hands on your jeans as Takuma introduces the band.

From your place near the back of the stage, you get more of the low feedback than anything else, but you definitely hear when he says Shibuya Incident and the crowd responds raucously in kind.

“That’s Kirara Hoshi on guitar and vocals,” he says, pointing to her as she does her little riff.

“Yeah, Kira!” You have no idea where Hakari’s voice is coming from, but it’s unmistakable.

“We got Fushiguro back there on the bass,” Takuma continues, and Megumi gives the crowd an unbothered nod, showing off his own instrument for a moment. “Itadori’s back here on aux and vocals.” He pauses to let the crowd shout for Yuji and then adds, “And filling in for him on kit, we’ve got the legendary drummer from Cursed Technique. Everyone give it up for Skipper!”

You do a quick roll, laughing as your own band goes crazy—you can’t see them in the glare of the lights, but you (and everyone else) can definitely hear them.

“I’m Ino, we’re Shibuya Incident, and this next one’s gonna slow things down a little.”

This one starts with Megumi, a laid-back track with a similar vibe to the first song you ever heard Shibuya Incident perform, but a little smoother. It’s over before you know it, and then you and Kirara are launching into the new single. Even Yuji looks like he’s having the time of life on backup vocals.

“On my own,” he and Kirara harmonize, Takuma taking the lead, and you nail the next two lines with punchy cymbal-tom hits, “all the shadows look like a death threat, everybody’s waitin’ to get hit, it’s like I’m going (going) going (going) out of my mind!”

All your worries melt away as the beat drives your movements. You’re not thinking about dropping a drumstick, missing a measure, losing the competition. You’re doing what you love with people you love, and that’s all you’ve ever wanted to do.

“Think I’m seein’ double in one eye, startin’ to think this air is spiked, no one told me that’s what love is like.” Takuma lets the guitar hang and grips the mic in one hand and the stand in the other, leaning with it as he engages the crowd, and you definitely hear Nobara screaming. “You got me going (going) going (going) out of my mind, yeah, yeah.”

It’s over so fast you can barely breathe, and you’re laughing before you know what’s happening, Yuji throwing his arm around you and shouting, “You killed it!”

Takuma turns around and locks eyes with you, and you see that same adrenaline high in his gaze that you know is in yours, and when the band stumbles off stage in Panda’s wake, he grabs your hand and pulls you into a hug. “That was crazy!” he practically shouts, which is probably good, because your ears are ringing so much you probably wouldn’t have heard him otherwise.

“Guys,” Megumi says, deadpan as always, but you can see the effects of the performance even on him, his usually stoic expression unable to mask his own excitement. “I think… we might have a shot.”

“Holy shit,” Kirara says. “Skip, write the story. Resident pessimist breaks vow of negativity—”

“Oh, shut up.” Megumi elbows her as she dissolves into laughter. In the wings, you can hear the indistinct sounds of Panda’s instructions as he starts voting, and music kicks up over the speakers. Ten minutes. Ten minutes.

It’s the longest and shortest wait of your life, and then you’re back on stage with Black Flash and Panda, and it’s fucking time.

You wonder if everyone else can hear your blood roaring, too.

“Once again, an insanely tight vote,” Panda says, a hush falling over the crowd as they wait for the verdict. “Phenomenal performances from both of our final bands, but someone’s gotta win. Give it up for the champions of this year’s Battle of the Bands…”

You imagine Maki hissing under her breath for Panda to hurry it up, Nobara’s hands clasped together as she anxiously bounces on the balls of her feet, Yuta biting his lip and trying to get Toge to shut up.

Takuma’s hand is on your shoulder, Yuji on your other side, Megumi and Kirara behind you. You glance at Miwa, and she gives you a knowing look that you can’t interpret.

You almost don’t hear it.

“SHIBUYA INCIDENT!”

You don’t know which screams belong to who—maybe one of them’s yours—but you’re swept into a massive pile of musicians drunk off victory, and you’re laughing, and Miwa’s jumping up and down and saying how that was insane, guys, you were amazing, and even Mai nods at you in congratulations, and Yuji is abruptly on Todo’s shoulders, and as the stage lights turn down a bit you finally catch sight of your own band, losing their minds on the floor.

“That’s our girl!” Maki hollers, and Yuta whoops as Toge pumps a fist in the air. You realize you can’t see Nobara, and two seconds later your questions are answered when she somehow materializes on the stage, launching herself at you with a massive grin on her face.

“You did it!” she shouts. “Holy shit, Skipper!”

Everything around you is chaos and laughter and noise, but something in the center of your being is incredibly still, and you think maybe it’s contentment. In this moment, you would ask for nothing else. It is perfect.

Nobara detaches herself from you after more profuse congratulations, turning to Miwa, and the bands make their way gradually off stage. Takuma’s hand is in yours—you don’t know when that happened—and he pulls you past the band, past the wings, all the way into the drum storage room backstage.

“That was fucking amazing,” he says. “You’re fucking amazing.” His beanie is off, tucked into his pocket, his hair as wild as his eyes as wild as your heart.

You close the door.

It’s a pulse. That’s the only way you can describe it, the rush of living energy that comes with kissing Takuma Ino behind the stage of a shitty campus bar, the heat shooting through your veins in time with the throb of the bass from distant speakers. Breath on your teeth and hands in your hair, the warmth in your gut from skin-on-skin proximity, ears ringing with the sound of your name on his lips and love-blind eyes, you’re alive and addicted to a feeling you know you’ll chase forever.

—

TWO MONTHS LATER. DECEMBER 19.

The house is alive with laughter and chatter and Michael Bublé’s Christmas album spinning from the record player. The semester is over, and tomorrow you’ll scatter for winter break, home for the holidays. Nobara insisted on throwing a party before all the inevitable road trips and flights, and the main floor is strung with multicolored lights and tinsel—Yuta’s plant, Rika, even has a tiny Santa hat on.

In addition to the actual residents of the house, Takuma and the band are here, as well as Hakari, Panda, Tsumiki, Miwa, and a handful of other friends. Megumi’s even brought the dogs, who have both taken a liking to the loveseat by the window and claimed it as their own. You’ve informed Megumi that they’re going to stay here with you forever (he said no, but you don’t take orders from him).

“Okay, I’m dropping you off at ten, right?” Yuta quadruple-checks. You’re huddled in the kitchen with him and Maki—Toge was here a minute ago, but he heard someone in the living room mention Just Dance and ran off to assert his dominance or whatever.

“Oh my god, yes,” Maki answers for you. “Yuta. You wrote it down. It’s in your calendar. You live in the same house as Skip, you’re not gonna forget.” She bumps her shoulder with his and he sighs in admission.

“I know.” He smiles at you. “Just gotta make sure she gets home for the holidays. Can’t have you turning into a sad Christmas cliché on us, Skip.”

You salute him with half a gingerbread cookie. “Appreciate it.” He’s taking you to the airport tomorrow for your flight home and refuses to take your gas money, so you’re already planning on beating him to paying for the first grocery run when you get back.

“Things with Mai are good?” you ask, glancing at Maki. She shrugs noncommittally but doesn’t correct you, which is a good sign. She and her sister met up the week after the Battle of the Bands for coffee, which you genuinely thought was a joke when she told you about it. They’re both going home for Christmas and have apparently decided to try and like each other a little more openly. And she actually showed up tonight, which you have to admit you weren’t entirely expecting.

“Yuta!” Toge hollers from the other room. “You have to come do Rasputin with me!”

Yuta groans, looking pleadingly at Maki like she can get him out of this, but she just grins. “You heard him.”

“You hate me.”

“Yeah,” Maki says fondly. Yuta, defeated, goes to join Toge in the dance of death. Maki whispers to you that she’s going to record it for blackmail and slips out after him.

Tsumiki appears beside you, drink in hand, and leans against the wall. She tilts her phone screen toward you and you see it’s the Journal website analytics.

The top story right now is yours. You grin. “Oh, wow. I didn’t realize.”

“I expected it,” she admits, tucking her phone back in her pocket and gazing out across the room. “Look, I’ve been meaning to tell you. We won’t start the application process until spring sem, but, if you want it,” she glances at you, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth, “I really think you should apply for editor-in-chief, Skip.”

Your mouth opens and closes without anything of use coming out, and Tsumiki laughs. “You don’t have to, but—”

“No!” you blurt, grinning. “I—I want to. I would love to. I was planning on it. I just didn’t know you… wanted me to.” Kusakabe’s just the advisor—when it comes to actually hiring the next editor, Tsumiki has the final say. Her endorsement is as good as a job offer. “I… thank you, Tsumiki.” You look down, suddenly overwhelmed by the words. “Big shoes to fill.”

“Aw, none of that,” she says, stealing a cookie from the tray on the counter next to you. “I literally can’t think of anyone better.” With a wink, she disappears through the doorway, where Kirara and Nobara are talking animatedly. Nobara gestures to you when she catches your eye.

“Dude, our listens are shooting up!” she says, shoving her phone into your hands. Your EP dropped mid-November, six tracks recorded in the studio with Takuma and Hakari, and you’ve performed better than you ever expected. The analytics show a sharp uptick that’s probably in large part due to Panda playing your stuff on the radio station.

You whistle, leaning on Nobara’s shoulder. “Awesome.”

Kirara leans against the wall, considering. “You guys thought about what you’re gonna do next year?”

Truthfully, you’ve really tried not to. The idea of Maki and Yuta graduating is so bittersweet. But graduation means Shibuya Incident will have a hole in their band, too. Kirara will be gone.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Nobara muses. “We could join forces. If we lose Maki and Yuta and Kirara, the only thing we’re doubled up on is drums and lead.”

It’s not a bad idea. And if Yuji is track captain next year and you get that editor job, neither of you will have as much time for the band—switching off could actually be very helpful. You hum, considering. You’ll have to talk to the others.

“Oi,” Kirara says, reaching out to poke you with a socked foot. “Your boyfriend’s in lost puppy mode over there.” You glance into the living room to see Takuma scanning the room next to Megumi and the dogs, probably looking for you.

“Dumbass,” you say fondly, and nod goodbye to Nobara and Kirara before making your way over to him. The boys are halfway through Rasputin and Yuta is, much to Toge’s chagrin, kicking ass. Toge looks like he’s just run a half marathon.

Takuma lights up when he sees you, a mischievous smile appearing on his face as he intercepts you by the hall entrance.

“Oh, wow, what is that?” he asks cheekily, and tilts your chin up to see a piece of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling. That was definitely Nobara’s doing. “Crazy that we just happened to—”

You cut him off, dragging him in by the shirt and kissing him, and makes a surprised sound that has you smiling against his lips.

“Crazy,” you repeat after you pull back, relishing the flush on his cheeks. Even after dating him for two months (as of today), every reaction you get out of Takuma makes your heart rate bump up a few beats. “Oh!” he says, suddenly remembering something. “Wait, c’mere, I have something for you.”

“Takuma!” You swat at him. “I told you not to—”

“Boo hoo,” he says, sticking his tongue out and dragging you toward your room, where he dumped his stuff earlier. You quietly close the door behind you as Takuma digs around his bag, standing up with his hands behind his back. “It’s Christmas and it’s been two months. You have no defense. Close your eyes.”

You do, giggling a little as he grabs your hand and presses something into it—something soft. “Okay,” he says, and you open your eyes to see a little stuffed penguin perched in the palm of your hand. It’s fucking adorable.

“Oh my god!” you cry. “Oh, he’s so cute! Takuma.” You cradle the penguin to your chest with both hands, grinning.

“It’s you!” he says, laughing. “Not official Madagascar merch, but I thought it was pretty cute. Your own lil’ Skipper.”

“I love it,” you say, making the penguin do a little dance in the air. You grab its tiny wing and poke Takuma on the nose with it. “Thank you.”

“Merry early Christmas.” His nose scrunches up a little in thought. “Early Merry Christmas? What’s the right way to say that?”

“Happy early nondenominational holiday of your choice,” you say teasingly, because the public university won’t actually say Christmas despite the decorations all around campus.

It’s a running joke among the entirety of the student body that the massive tree in the arts lobby is not a Christmas tree but a secular modern art installation. There are variations of insane alternate tree names on the school meme accounts. The knockoff JU Barstool page even got in on it, and the student groups hosting the Hanukkah and Kwanzaa celebrations.

Takuma’s answering laugh is bright and it follows you as you cross the room to your desk, pulling a box out of the second drawer. “Your turn.”

“What?” He has the audacity to look confused. “Skip—”

You hold up the penguin. “Objection denied!” The box is light and square, and you watch excitedly as he opens it.

“Oh my god,” he says when he realizes what’s inside. “No way. These are the exact ones—how did you even—?”

You had to do some investigating to figure out the precise guitar strings he uses, but what's your journalism degree for if not this?

“Who knows?” You shrug playfully. “Maybe it’s the psychic powers, maybe it’s the housemate I begged to sneak into your room and find out.”

Kirara was more than willing. “Good thing you came to me and not Itadori,” she laughed. “That kid can’t be subtle to save his life.” Takuma’s strings have been on the brink for a while, and you’re honestly shocked none of them have given out yet.

“They’re perfect,” Takuma laughs, setting the box back on your desk. “I love them. I love you.”

He says it so easily it takes you a moment to realize what just happened. He freezes, mouth opening and closing like he doesn’t know what words he’s looking for.

“I—uh,” he says eloquently. “It’s—I mean. I didn’t mean to—I mean, I didn’t mean to say it like that but I did mean it, you don’t have to say it back, if it’s too soon or you—”

Instead of cutting him off verbally, you grab him by the shoulders and press your lips to his. His eyes are wide when you pull back, despite the way he relaxed into the kiss on instinct.

“Hey,” you laugh, one hand trailing up to the back of his neck. “I love you, too.”

The excited smile that spreads across his face is slow and hesitant, like he can’t believe you reciprocate. You pull him back in and feel his grin against your lips, his hands coming to rest at your waist, warm.

“Thank god,” he murmurs between breaths. “Because I keep almost accidentally saying it, and it was gonna happen sooner or later.”

“Least it didn’t happen over the phone,” you grin, your hand skating down his arm and coming to rest in his.

Sheepishly, he admits, “Almost did. Yesterday.” Your laugh is bright and so is his answering one, and you perch your little stuffed penguin atop the guitar strings and tug Takuma toward the door.

“Okay, lover boy. Back to the outside world.”

“Lover boy, huh?” he teases. “Kay, pretty girl.”

“Couple of cheesy ass romantics we are.”

“Mm.” He presses a kiss to your temple, the action so casual and unthinking you want to melt. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The second you step back into the living room, Yuta grabs you by the elbow and presses a Wii remote into your hand.

“Oh, no. Yuta—”

The song’s been chosen for you, and Toge has passed the remote to Maki, who looks like she’d rather die than give a rousing performance of TiK ToK by Ke$ha.

“Well, at least it’s you,” she says. Toge tries to discreetly pull his phone out, but Maki gives him a death glare that could send a grown man to his grave. He nearly drops it in his hurry to shove it back into his pocket.

You snort, patting Maki sympathetically on the shoulder. “Let’s kick ass.”

Three hours later, everyone has somewhat settled down, sprawled across furniture and countertops and the carpeted floor. Yuta’s grabbed an acoustic from the basement and it’s being passed around, goofy Christmas songs overlapping with the still-spinning record player.

You enrolled here with the intention of building a new life, finding a new purpose—new faces, new music, a new place to call home. And you feel like you’ve found it. This is the point of college. You’re surrounded by the best people you’ve ever known, and your heart is practically overflowing with how much you fucking love them all.

After all, your heart is not a finite thing. You’ve just got an endless supply of affection, and you’re not scared of it.

Love is the right word, you think, letting your head fall onto Takuma’s shoulders, legs tucked up beneath you on the couch.

“I love you,” you whisper, just to say it. When he whispers your name, your real name, in the shell of your ear, something in your chest sparks a little. He makes it sound like a song.

“I love you, too.”

directory | prev.

jjk taglist open: just send me a message!

@shutuppeter @mikikkoo @reactwithjan @theclassbookworm @lilactaro @bisforbuse @risararelywrites @idkidk32 @gojodickbig @stargazing-with-choso @anonymity-222 @honeyyhuggs

a/n: that’s a wrap on out of my mind! ahh! i loved this one a lot, and it has so much spinoff potential i’m going a little crazy with it—keep an eye out for the megumi spinoff dropping soon. if you want to be alerted when it drops, lmk and i’ll put you on the jjk taglist. also, greta wrote a sukuna spinoff here—go read!

@bitchkay i need you to know your reblog tags give me life and you were fucking RIGHT ON THE MONEY with these developments

i’m not sure if i’ll start writing other fandoms or not—if y’all would want to see attack on titan or blue lock do let me know!

[bandsofmarv]

The unraveling of us

Rafe’s possessive and jealous behaviour leads you to question the relationship and one night goes too far.

Trigger warning // abuse, jealousy, possessive behaviour , violence. DARK.

This will be a series

You weren’t sure when Rafe’s love began to feel more like a cage. In the beginning, it had been intoxicating—the way he looked at you, like you were the only person in the room. His attention made you feel special, chosen. But as time passed, the intensity of his affection twisted into something darker, something suffocating.

You had always been a Pogue, one of the “lower” class on the island, and Rafe had always been the Kook. It didn’t make sense when you first got together. You had always been worlds apart—he, with his money, his power, and his perfect life; you, with your friends, the laughter, the simple joys. But somehow, against all odds, it had started. And for a while, it felt like maybe he was different, maybe he’d see past the social divide between your worlds.

But it didn’t take long for the cracks to start showing.

It started with little things. He’d make snide comments about your friends, the Pogues. “Don’t hang out with them too much,” he’d say, voice dripping with superiority. “They don’t know how to treat you right.”

Then came the jealousy. The first time you caught him glaring at JJ, you thought you imagined it. But when it happened again, and again, you realized Rafe had a problem with anyone who so much as looked at you.

“Just… don’t talk to him, okay?” he’d say, his voice tight, watching as JJ cracked jokes from across the room. “He doesn’t respect you. He doesn’t care about you like I do.”

It didn’t take long before those comments turned into orders. He’d show up uninvited when you went out, glaring at your friends, making you feel like you couldn’t be anywhere without his eyes on you. He’d show up at the Tannyhill parties, always hovering close by, a constant reminder that you were his. And he made it clear that no one else could get too close.

───୨ৎ────୨୧────୨ৎ───୨ৎ────

The night of the party, the tension between you and Rafe was palpable. The car ride over had been thick with silence. You had tried to talk about the things that had been bothering you, but he’d just brushed you off, the same dark glint in his eyes.

“Why do you always make this harder than it needs to be?” he muttered, his fingers clenched tightly around the steering wheel. “I just want you to be mine, Y/N. Why can’t you just be with me and forget about the rest of them?”

You had tried to argue, tried to explain that you loved your friends, that you didn’t need his permission to spend time with them. But it was no use. Rafe didn’t listen. He was too focused on controlling you.

The party was a blur. Music thumped in the background as you mingled, laughing with your friends. But every time you caught someone’s gaze, you could feel Rafe’s eyes on you, burning a hole into your back. You could practically feel the possessiveness radiating off him.

JJ was the first one to approach you. His easy grin spread across his face as he handed you a drink. “You look like you’re surviving this chaos,” he joked, nudging you playfully.

“Just about,” you laughed, relaxing for the first time that night.

But then you felt it—Rafe’s presence, looming behind you. He didn’t say anything, but his gaze was like a storm. His jaw clenched as he watched you and JJ laughing together, and you could see his grip on his drink tighten.

“Don’t talk to him, Y/N,” Rafe’s voice was cold, cutting through the lightheartedness.

You turned around, your heart sinking. “What?”

“I said, don’t talk to him,” Rafe repeated, his voice lower this time, dark and sharp.

JJ glanced between the two of you, raising an eyebrow. “Dude, relax. We’re just talking.”

“I’m not talking to you,” Rafe snapped, stepping closer to you. His eyes never left JJ, full of something dangerous.

“Rafe, please, stop.” Your voice wavered as you tried to step between them. But before you could reach him, Rafe grabbed your arm, yanking you toward him with a force that made your chest tighten.

“Don’t touch her, Rafe!” JJ’s voice was sharp, his stance protective as he took a step forward. “Get your hands off her!”

Rafe’s eyes darkened, his lips curling into a sneer. “You think you can just take her from me, JJ? You think you can have her? She’s mine.”

Your stomach twisted at his words. Mine. That’s what he always said, but you’d never felt more like something to be possessed than you did right now.

“Rafe, this isn’t you—” you started, trying to pull away from his grip. But his hold only tightened, and you winced as his fingers dug into your skin.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Rafe hissed, his voice trembling with rage. “I can’t lose you, Y/N. I won’t.”

“You’re losing me right now,” you said, your voice breaking. “This isn’t love, Rafe. You don’t own me!”

The words hung in the air, heavy and final. For a moment, Rafe just stood there, his eyes wide, his breath coming in harsh gasps. Then, without warning, his fist flew toward JJ.

There was a sickening crack as Rafe’s fist connected with JJ’s jaw, sending him stumbling back into a group of bystanders.

“Stop it!” you screamed, trying to break free from Rafe’s hold, but he held you tightly, his grip unyielding as he glared at JJ, his chest heaving.

“You’re not going to take her from me,” Rafe spat, voice thick with jealousy and possessiveness.

“I don’t want her like this,” JJ groaned from the floor, wiping blood from his lip. “You’re destroying her, Rafe.”

Tears welled in your eyes, your heart breaking as the reality of everything you’d been ignoring finally hit you. You had let this go on for far too long. You had let Rafe’s obsession cloud everything. But tonight, it had gone too far.

“You don’t own me!” you shouted at him, voice trembling with fury. “I’m not yours to control! I’m leaving!”

Rafe’s face twisted with rage, his eyes wild as he reached out to grab your arm. “You’re not going anywhere,” he growled.

But the anger in his voice didn’t scare you anymore. You yanked your arm out of his grip, your heart pounding in your chest as you turned and ran out of the house, not caring where you were going, just knowing you couldn’t stay any longer.

───୨ৎ────୨୧────୨ৎ───୨ৎ────

The cool night air burned against your skin as you fled the party. Your mind was clouded with anger and fear, the stinging words from Rafe replaying in your head. You didn’t know where to go, didn’t know what to do. But you knew one thing: you couldn’t stay at that party, not after what happened.

As you walked the streets, your thoughts raced, and you tried to ignore the panic bubbling up inside. You had to get away from Rafe. You had to get away from the suffocating grip he had on your life. But your feet carried you back to his house anyway, against your better judgment. Maybe it was the familiarity of it, or maybe the fear of what would happen if you didn’t.

You let yourself into the large, quiet house, the door creaking as you pushed it open. The silence felt oppressive, thick with the tension that had been building between you two for weeks. You told yourself you were just getting your things, that you’d leave for good this time. But even as you made your way inside, you knew you couldn’t escape him so easily.

And sure enough, there he was, standing at the foot of the stairs when you walked in, his jaw tight, his eyes cold.

“You thought you could just leave?” Rafe’s voice was low and filled with menace, every word dripping with danger. His posture was rigid, his expression unreadable.

You swallowed hard, your heart racing. “I—I couldn’t stay there. You hurt him, Rafe.” Your voice cracked as you spoke, but you refused to back down.

“I hurt him?” He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, as if the very air between you two had thickened. “You think he respects you? You think you can just waltz in here and run off with someone like him, after everything I’ve given you? After everything I’ve done for you?”

His words felt like poison, but you tried to stand tall, trying to gather some semblance of courage. “You don’t own me, Rafe. You never did. I’m done.”

The words barely left your mouth when he was on you, his hand shooting out and grabbing your wrist, squeezing with a painful force. His grip felt like a vice, and for a moment, you thought you might not be able to breathe.

“Done?” he sneered, his voice low and dripping with malice. “You think you can just walk away from me like you’re some fucking saint? You think you can just break everything between us and get away with it?”

Your breath hitched in your throat as he dragged you across the room, slamming you against the wall. The impact made your head spin, and you gasped, trying to pull yourself together. His eyes were cold, calculating, as if something had snapped inside him.

“Rafe, please—let go,” you begged, but the words seemed to fall on deaf ears. His face was twisted in a mixture of anger and desperation.

“Do you know what you’ve made me do?” he growled, his voice shaking with barely contained rage. “Do you have any idea what you’ve put me through? I loved you, Y/N. I gave you everything. And you repay me by running off with him? With that?” He spat the words like venom.

“Rafe, stop it!” you cried, tears welling in your eyes. “You’re scaring me!”

His grip tightened on your wrist, pulling you closer to him, until your faces were inches apart. His breath was hot against your skin, and for a moment, it felt like the world had gone silent, just the two of you in the storm of his rage.

“You think you’re going to leave me, huh?” His voice was barely a whisper, and you could hear the venom in it. “You think you can have him, and forget about me? You think I’m just going to stand here and let you walk away like that?”

Your heart was racing. “Rafe—stop!”

But he wasn’t stopping. His hand moved to your throat, gripping it with startling force, and you gasped, feeling the pressure against your windpipe. Panic shot through you, but Rafe’s eyes were wild, fevered with jealousy and anger.

“You think you’re leaving me?” he snarled, shaking you slightly, his other hand digging into your arm, bruising you. “No. You’re not going anywhere, Y/N. Not now. Not ever.”

You struggled beneath his grip, trying to pry his hand from your throat, but he was stronger than you, more furious than you had ever seen him.

“Rafe, please—stop!” you begged, fear thick in your voice.

But there was no recognition of your plea. Only rage, possessiveness, and a deep, twisted sense of entitlement.

“You think I won’t hurt you?” Rafe spat, his breath coming in ragged bursts as he shook you again. “I’ll make sure you never forget that you’re mine!”

Suddenly, something snapped inside you. A surge of adrenaline coursed through your veins, and with every ounce of strength you had, you brought your knee up into his groin.

He staggered back, gasping for air, his hand flying to his stomach.

“You think I’m yours?” you shouted, voice hoarse with anger. “You don’t own me, Rafe! You never did!”

Rafe’s face contorted with rage as he lunged at you again. “You little bitch!” He slammed his fist into your side, making you stumble backward, the force of it sending you crashing into the nearby coffee table.

Pain exploded in your ribs as you hit the ground, but you scrambled to your feet, your body trembling. You could taste blood in your mouth, and the fear inside you was growing—this wasn’t just anger anymore, it was violence.

“Get the fuck off me!” you yelled, trying to push him away, but Rafe was relentless. He grabbed your hair, yanking you back by it, making you cry out in pain.

“You want to leave me?” he hissed through gritted teeth, dragging you backward across the floor. “You think you can just leave like everything’s fine? Like you didn’t belong to me?”

He threw you back against the wall with force, the back of your head cracking against it. A sharp pain shot through you, and for a moment, everything went blurry.

But you couldn’t give up. Not now.

Your hand found a nearby lamp, and with shaking hands, you swung it toward him. It crashed against his shoulder, and he howled in pain, stumbling back.

For a brief moment, you thought he might hesitate—maybe, just maybe, he’d realize what he was doing.

But there was no slowing down. Rafe was a storm, and you were nothing more than debris in his path.

He grabbed you again, pulling you roughly toward him, his grip like steel, his eyes wild with fury. “You want to run away?” he growled. “You want to leave me? I’ll make sure no one ever touches you again. No one will ever love you like I do. No one will ever want you like I do. You’re mine, Y/N.”

You fought back, your heart pounding as you kicked and shoved, but his rage kept coming, relentless and dark. He pinned you against the wall, and for the first time, you felt truly trapped. The pain was unbearable, the suffocation of his control too much to bear.

You gasped for breath, your heart hammering in your chest. “I’m leaving, Rafe.” The words were barely a whisper. “And you can’t stop me.”

For a moment, his grip faltered, the haze of anger lifting for just a second, but then the dark glint returned to his eyes.

“No, you’re not,” he snarled, his voice venomous. “You’re mine. You’ll never leave me. Ever.”

The suffocating fear returned, but with it came a new resolve. You couldn’t stay. Not anymore. You couldn’t let him break you any longer.

Gathering every ounce of strength you had left, you shoved him off, running for the door.

“Don’t you dare leave!” he shouted after you. But you didn’t look back. You didn’t stop. You just ran, the sound of his voice following you as you fled into the night.

You didn’t know where you were going—but it didn’t matter. You were free.

And you were done with him.

[hsnlv]

bittersweet | s.jy

synopsis: caught in a dangerous dance of passion and obsession, you’re drawn to sim jaeyun’s intoxicating pull. his love is chaotic, his touch addictive, and though it threatens to destroy you, you can’t help but fall deeper—willing to break if it means keeping him.

warning: a little suggestive at one point, a little manipulative too, reader is obsessed with jake that they would do anything for him.

wc: 2.1k

a/n: this is very much inspired by bittersuite by billie eilish! but im pretty sure i misinterpreted some of the lyrics used in this story. and just a reminder that each lyrics will bring you to a different scenario. enjoy reading!

i can’t fall in love with you

“(y/n), you know he’s no good for you!” your friend’s voice rings in your ears, louder than the music thumping in the background. their frustration is palpable as they watch you, once again, drift into thoughts about him.

sim jaeyun.

his name is a song in your head, a melody you can’t stop humming. he’s the kind of beautiful that should come with a warning, the kind of dangerous that leaves you breathless.

“you don’t get it,” you mutter, trying to shake off the words as your eyes roam the room, searching.

“no, you don’t get it!” they snap, stepping in front of you, forcing your attention back to them.

“you’re setting yourself up to get hurt, and for what? some guy who’s going to break your heart like it’s nothing?”

you swallow the lump in your throat, unwilling to admit they might be right. but it doesn’t matter. none of it matters.

because there he is.

jaeyun.

leaning against the wall like he owns the place, his sharp features softened by the dim light. your heart stumbles, skips, then races ahead, and suddenly, nothing else exists.

you don’t even realize you’ve walked away until your friend’s voice fades into the distance.

i was on my knees, outside of my body, watchin’ from above, i see the way you want me

“good girl,” he murmurs as he leans down, his lips brushing against your ear.

his voice is silk, smooth and warm, wrapping around you like a spell. his hands find your waist, pulling you closer, steadying you as your knees threaten to give out. his fingers press just hard enough to leave you breathless.

the room fades. the smell of alcohol, the chatter of voices, the dull bass in the background—it all disappears. all that’s left is him. his touch. his scent. his voice.

you tilt your head up to meet his gaze, and for a moment, you swear the world stops spinning. he looks at you like you’re something he’s been searching for, something precious.

“jaeyun,” you whisper, his name barely audible.

“yes, pretty girl?”

and that’s it. you’re gone. your resolve crumbles, your heart collapses, and you know—you know—that no matter how much this will hurt, you’ll fall every single time.

i gotta be careful, gotta watch what i say, God, i hope it all goes away

“jaeyun, i love—”

the words almost slip, a confession hanging in the air between you. but you catch yourself just in time, swallowing the rest of the sentence before it can escape.

his head tilts, a sly grin tugging at his lips. “love what, baby?”

his voice is slow, deliberate, laced with the kind of mischief that makes your chest tighten. he knows exactly what you almost said, and he’s enjoying every second of your hesitation.

you can’t answer. you won’t. because if you do, everything will change, and you’re not sure you’re ready for that. your heart beats too fast, your pulse pounding in your ears as his gaze holds you in place.

but it’s torture.

you saw the way he looked at her earlier.

you saw the way he leaned in, the way his eyes followed her.

your stomach twists at the memory, jealousy clawing its way up your throat. but you can’t bring yourself to call him out. you won’t, because if you do, you’ll have to admit how much it hurts.

and it does. God, it hurts.

because no matter how much it stings, no matter how many times you tell yourself you should walk away, you only fall harder.

he’s a drug, and you’re addicted.

“come on, baby,” he coaxes, his hand brushing against your cheek, his thumb tracing your jawline. “you love what?”

your walls are crumbling, brick by brick, and you don’t know how much longer you can hold them up.

you know he’s bad for you.

but…

cause i can’t fall in love with you, no matter how bad i want to

the mantra loops in your head, a desperate attempt to remind yourself of the truth.

dont. fall. in. love. with. him.

but the truth is a lie.

his arm tightens around your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. your breathing is uneven, your body trembling as his lips graze your neck.

he sleeps soundly beside you now, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that feels too peaceful for the chaos he’s caused inside you.

"so fucking sweet," he murmured, his breath hot against your ear as he pounded into you, as if you were the only thing that existed to him in that moment.

"doing so good for me, hm? so good, so sweet," he whispered, his hand brushing your cheek so softly. for just a second, his eyes looked at you like he loved you. and that second was all it took to unravel you completely.

your fingers brush over the marks he left on your skin, the evidence of his touch still fresh. you close your eyes, replaying the night in vivid detail—the way he whispered your name, the way he moved, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered.

for a moment, you let yourself believe it.

because for a brief second, he looked like he was in love with you.

but you know better.

you know he won’t be here when you wake up.

and yet, you’d do it all again.

but if pain is the price you pay to have him like this, to feel his touch, his presence, you'll take it. again and again, until there's nothing left of you to give. because it’s the only thing that makes you feel alive.

i don’t need to breathe when you look at me, all i see is green

his eyes meet yours across the room, and the world falls away. everything else—every voice, every sound, every breath—disappears in an instant. it’s just him now.

green. deep and dangerous, like a forest that tempts you to wander too far in, knowing you’ll never make it out.

he doesn’t have to speak. doesn’t have to move. just looking at you is enough to leave you gasping for air, and somehow, you don’t care.

“you’re quiet tonight,” he says as he approaches, his tone soft but heavy with meaning.

you shrug, trying to play it cool, but your heart is pounding too loudly for you to hear your own thoughts.

“what’s on your mind?” he asks, leaning closer. his hand brushes against yours, just barely, but it sends a shiver up your spine.

you want to tell him everything. how he’s the only thing you think about. how the sound of his voice lingers long after he’s gone. how his absence feels like a weight pressing down on your chest.

but you don’t.

“nothing,” you lie, though the way you look at him says otherwise.

he smirks, his gaze dipping to your lips before meeting your eyes again. “is that so?”

i think that we’re in between everything i’ve seen, in my dream

“you’re overthinking again,” he says, his voice laced with that disarming calm that always makes you second-guess yourself. His fingers graze your cheek, tipping your head just enough so you have to look at him.

“don’t,” you murmur, but the word barely escapes your lips.

“don’t what?” he counters, his tone deceptively soft, as if he’s confused. But the glint in his eyes tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Don’t remind you of what we are? Of what you keep running from?”

you shift under his gaze, but he doesn’t let you pull away. his hand is firm, grounding you, as if he’s anchoring you in place, forcing you to stay in this moment.

“why do you do this?” you ask, your voice trembling, betraying the resolve you desperately want to cling to.

his smirk is subtle, almost imperceptible, but it cuts through you all the same. “because I know you,” he says, the confidence in his tone rattling something inside you. “better than anyone else ever could.”

“you don’t—”

“i do,” he interrupts, his voice steady now, his hand sliding to your jaw. “and you hate that, don’t you? you hate how much you feel for me. you hate that no one else makes you feel this way.”

your heart races, and you know he can feel it.

“but it’s okay,” he continues, his voice dropping to a whisper. “you don’t have to admit it yet. i’m patient. i’ll wait.”

the way he says it, so sure, so certain, makes your stomach twist. because deep down, you know he’s already won.

i don’t need to breathe when you look at me, all i see is green

the tension between you simmers, unspoken but undeniable, a charged thread pulling you together even as you test the limits of its strength. his gaze is sharp, piercing, watching your every move as if he’s memorizing you in real time. you know he hates it—hates the way your attention drifts toward the edges of the room, where other figures stand, laughing, drinking, and existing in a world that doesn’t revolve around him.

but your world? it does.

you don’t need anyone else in this room. you never did. but sometimes, the only way to keep him tethered is to let the rope fray. to make him feel the sting of what it’s like to lose you, even if just for a second.

you seem so paranoid, i’m looking at the boys, i’ve never filled the void, out of spite.

you glance at the guy near the bar—just a second too long, just enough to make it noticeable.

you hear him before you feel him. the sharp inhale, the muted scoff. then his fingers are at your waist, curling around you like a warning, pulling you back against him. his touch is firm, possessive, almost bruising, but it’s the kind of pain that makes your pulse quicken.

“you’re playing a dangerous game,” he mutters, his breath hot against your ear.

“what game?” you ask, your voice dripping with feigned innocence, even as a small smirk tugs at the corner of your lips.

his jaw tightens, his muscles clenching under your hand as you rest it lightly against his arm. he’s trying to stay composed, to keep the fire in check, but you’ve already struck the match.

“you’re looking at them like you want something,” he says, his voice low, smooth like honey but edged with steel. “but we both know they could never give you what i do.”

he’s right, of course. they couldn’t. but that’s not the point.

you seem so paralyzed, it’s so romanticized,

his grip softens slightly, his thumb brushing against your side, and for a moment, you forget why you started this in the first place.

when your eyes meet his, the room seems to shift. everything fades—music, voices, the low hum of conversation. it’s just the two of you, locked in this intoxicating push and pull, this endless cycle of destruction and devotion.

you hate how much you need him. you hate how easily he pulls you back every time you try to let go. but there’s something about the way he looks at you, like you’re the only thing that matters, that makes you crave the chaos.

“you like this, don’t you?” he says softly, his lips brushing against your temple. “you like making me crazy.”

you don’t answer, but he doesn’t need you to. he knows.

if this is how i die, that’s alright.

his touch is slow, deliberate, like he knows exactly how to unravel you. his fingers trace the line of your collarbone, dipping just enough to make your breath hitch. his lips hover over your ear, his voice dark and smooth, sending shivers down your spine.

"you're shaking," he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. "but you're not pulling away. why is that?"

you swallow hard, your throat dry, your mind clouded with the weight of his presence.

"because I-" but the words falter, caught somewhere between truth and fear.

he smirks, and it's almost cruel, the way he looks at you-like he knows the power he holds, like he knows you've already surrendered. his hands slide lower, grazing your waist, pulling you closer until there's no space left between you.

"you can't help yourself, can you?" he says softly, his tone laced with mock sympathy. "you want this. you want me."

your breath catches, the heat of his words burning through every defense you've tried to build. you don't respond, but the silence is enough. he knows. he's always known.

his lips press to your neck, slow and searing, each kiss leaving a mark that feels like it's branding you as his. his grip tightens, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who's in control.

"you let me do this to you," he whispers, his voice dripping with possession. "you let me have you, over and over, and you never stop me. why?"

you don't have an answer. maybe there isn't one. maybe it's because you've always been drawn to him, even when you knew you shouldn't be. maybe it's because he's everything you shouldn't want but can't resist.

his lips move to your ear, his voice now a low growl. "because you love me. even if it ruins you, even if it destroys everything else, you'll always love me."

and he's right. you hate how right he is. because as his hands roam your body, as his lips claim yours in a way that feels both heaven and hell, you know you're his. completely. utterly.

if this is how you lose yourself-if this is how you die-you'll let him. because being his feels like the only way you're alive.

[littleslaywrites]

pas de deux- the prince and sugar plum | spencer reid x bau!reader 

pt 4 of pas de deux - based on request by @kakamixoxo

summary: spencer brings your students (and you) gifts after their performance of the nutcracker

word count: 1.2k

cw: f!reader, fluff

After your week of subbing, your friend had asked you to help teach the little ones their dance for The Nutcracker. She knew you wouldn’t be able to resist, especially after the girls had begged you to visit them again. They were all just old enough for their first year in The Nutcracker as the gingersnaps, and you had been enlisted to be their first introduction to the show.

Growing up, winter doubled as nutcracker season. You’d danced almost every role by the time you graduated college, knowing the show inside and out. Your friend briefly showed you the choreography, simple to accommodate for the beginning dancers. 

Teaching them was a little easier than their regular classes. They understood the excitement of joining the older dancers in a “real” show. You could also coax them into behaving with your own stories of your own past performances.

The girls kept asking for a visit from Mr. Spencer, and after a month of begging, you finally agreed. They had been working hard, so you told Spencer to come by after work. When he walked in the door, the girls cheered, even more excited to see him than you were.

“Can Mr. Spencer learn our dance?” one of your students asked.

“If he agrees to behave,” you say, always looking for a way to tease him. 

The simple steps turned out to be just right for him, and he quickly perfected the skips and little hops. Even the girls were excited about his success, encouraging him in the same way you did for them. 

“Maybe I could perform with you,” he joked at the end of rehearsal. Your students were less enthusiastic about this idea, concluding that he was too tall to blend in with them. As he left, he promised that he’d come see the show. This was perfect, as you could use it as leverage for them to focus whenever they got distracted. You’d remind them that they needed to perform their best as “Mr. Spencer would be in the audience,” which would always make them concentrate.

As you were in the studio, Spencer read the book the ballet was based on. When you were in bed that night, he told you all the differences he found between the show and the origin. You listened intently, savoring his bedtime story. He was truly interested in everything you were passionate about, wanting to learn about everything related to you. 

Eventually, opening night arrived. You opted for a short green dress, and Spencer decided on a red tie to create a festive color scheme between the two of you. Knowing how much you loved the gifts he gave you after all your performances, he’d gone out and bought all your dancers small nutcracker ornaments.

“You look amazing,” he says, kissing you after he’d parked the car outside the theater.

“It feels weird to not be the one performing,” you say. 

You never imagined you could be more nervous in the audience than backstage, but sitting in the theater, you couldn’t help but worry for your girls. You could only imagine how they felt, never having stepped on a stage in front of so many people before. 

Sensing your jitters, Spencer grabs your hand. “They’ll do great,” he says, squeezing, “considering they had a fantastic teacher.” You smile, lightly kissing his cheek. 

The performance goes smoothly, your girls remembering all their steps. Once their part is over, you’re able to relax and enjoy the rest of the second act. The ballet feels like watching a replay of your life, from your first role en pointe as Clara to your last role in college as Sugar Plum.

You rest your head on Spencer’s shoulder during the pas between Sugar Plum and the prince. It seems like the music has taken on another life after you met Spencer. You could always feel the love written into it, but now you understood how it felt to experience it yourself. Spencer feels the same, imagining the two of you as the characters. Even if he couldn’t dance in the literal sense, he’d mastered the routine you had together.

At the end of the show, you make your way to the stage door. When the young dancers see you, they all make a run for you, capturing your legs in a hug. Next, they see Spencer, holding the bag with their gifts in it.

“I’ve got something for you all,” he says, crouching to meet them at their level. “I always get Miss y/n a gift after her performances, so I thought you all should get something, too.”

He pulls out the tiny nutcrackers, and the girls thank him and pull him into a group hug. “Consider this an official apology for distracting you all during class.” The girls giggle, all trying to convince him that he wasn’t a disruption and that he should visit more often.

“Did you know that, according to German folklore, nutcrackers are said to bring good luck?” he says as he hands each girl their ornament.

When all the girls have their gifts and have left to find their parents, Spencer grabs your hand and leads you back to the car. 

“I told you they’d do well,” he says as you climb into the passenger seat. “I know you weren’t actually performing, but I still got you something.” Reaching to the backseat, he pulls out a gift bag and hands it to you.

Inside is a record of the music from The Nutcracker. Spencer knows you collect records, both of your archives merging when you moved in together. 

Next is a pair of earrings, shaped like little nutcrackers. “I thought you could wear them when we come for closing night,” he says. 

“They’re perfect,” you say, “The girls will be obsessed.”

Last is a small white box containing cookies in the shape of snowflakes. You take a bite right away. “It’s good,” you say through your full mouth. Spencer smiles, reaching for one himself.

“I think we should make this a tradition,” Spencer says, taking your hand. 

“I like that idea.” You rub your thumb over his as he drives home, light snowflakes waltzing down to the windshield. 

“I wish I could’ve seen you perform in it.”

“You know, I’m sure my mom has videos of all the shows,” you say. 

“I’d love to see that.” You glance at him to see his bright smile. Love fills you as you see his genuineness, fully interested in watching some old home videos that haven’t been touched by anyone but your parents.

That night, you call your mom, who promises to mail the tapes to you. You put on the new record, letting the music bring back memories of another life. You used to wonder if you’d made the wrong career choice. You’d given up the opportunity to dance professionally after college, choosing a career in the FBI instead. That choice haunted you for a while, but as you stand in the apartment you share with Spencer, you realize where your decision had led you. Ballet will always be a part of you, but it’s not what put Spencer in your life. Looking over at where he sits on the couch, you thank your past self for bringing this life to you.

[prepareforspamcalls]

Is It Sad That All We Could Find Is Their Highschool Photos?

(The Whitlock Sisters set up a memorial for their dead siblings during Christmas time. Bitter stuff.)

Peeps?: @myluckymoon @city-of-c0rpses

"Do you have the flowers ready?" Lilli asked, standing near the unlit fireplace in the living room. She was adjusting two small black picture frames on the top of the fireplace, making sure there was no dust covering the pictures. To her left was a picture of Xena when she was 18, wearing a school uniform and showing off her test score, though she looked rather unhappy in it. To Lilli's right was a poorly cut-out photo of Xavier from his high school year book, he had a soft smirk on his face.

Lilli looked at both photos and sighed softly, giving a slight frown. She turned around, facing the kitchen to see Sophia in the kitchen. Sophia had the radio on playing some Christmas music, but not the modern pop joyful one, instead the type of music that sounds like a church choir (despite not being Christians themselves). She was wearing a red but modest dress as she was adjusting white flowers sprinkled with a few red flowers in the mix into a vase. She was taking her delicate time.

Sophia looked up and eventually came over with two separate vases. Lilli takes one from her, putting it on Xena's side while Sophia proceeded to do the same but on Xavier's side. Once the flowers were placed, both sisters stepped back and looked at the fireplace. They stood there in silence, just staring at the photos of their deceased loved ones.

Their silence is interrupted when Viola came through the door with a box of a few items.

"Hey..." She mumbled so quietly, taking off her boots by the front door and swiftly coming over to the living room. She looked at the memorial that Lilli and Sophia had set up. She looked at it before nodding. "Not bad." She mumbled again before opening the box she brought with her.

Sophia looked over as she watched Viola take out a small music box, it looked old.

"Oh, is that Xavier's?" She asked curiously, taking it gently.

Viola shook her head. "I wish it was the one Xena originally got him, but I'm afraid that one is still in California. I went to an antique shop earlier, looking for some sort of replica. This is the closest I could get...."

"Well it's the thought that counts..." Viola slightly smiled, gently placing down the music box by Xavier's photo and moving some fake lemons near the photo as well. Lilli looked in the box and took out a old Raggedy Ann doll from the box.

"I guess this one you got from the antique store as well?" She asked before Viola gave a confirming nod. "I never understood why Xena would like this creepy thing. But up it goes as well." Lilli said to herself as well, having a slight fear of dolls. She puts it up by Xena's photo anyways, scooting over the fake apples closer as well.

The memorial was finished, and the three stepped back and gazed at it for a long time, the choir music in the background getting quieter and quieter as the seconds pass by. They all stand there in silence, perhaps paying their respects. Viola's face remained neutral, though the other two seemed to be frowning slightly.

"You know...." Lilli started. "Is it sad that all we could find is their highschool photos? Like no other photos of them?"

They all nod in agreement.

"We should have spent our time well with them... but there's nothing we can do now..." Viola sigh. "Rest well, you two." She uttered to the pictures before turning away to the kitchen. Sophia followed her, leaving Lilli in the living room.

She stood there for a while, just thinking before turning to the kitchen and smiling. "Well how about we spend more time together in order to make up time. We can make eggrolls tonight."

Sophia smiled at that idea. "I like that. It sounds fun."

"I don't mind it, I got nothing better to do." Viola said, calling her boyfriend not to come over. Lilli smiled and came into the kitchen.

The girls, plus Sophia's wife, spent the night cooking up some eggrolls. Chatting and having a good time. During the time, Lilli would sneakily take some photos of her sisters, making up for what she missed in the past. She looked back at the photos of Xena and Xavier before leaving a plate of two eggrolls between the photos.

She gave a final smile and turned back to her family to enjoy the rest of the evening.

[thrivingouthere]

The Hilton Affair: Part One (Luigi Mangione x Reader)

It's been a slow night so far at the hotel where you work. 'Your shift is almost over,' you repeatedly tell yourself. It was 10:58 PM. You had three more hours to go. Faint lobby music plays as you wait for the next guest to arrive.

The sound of the spinning revolving doors catch your attention. You see a young man dressed in a green Levi's coat rush into the hotel. His hood is over his head, and half of his face is covered by a black pull-up face mask that comes up to the bridge of his nose. He was also carrying a backpack.

"Hi. Welcome to Hilton Midtown. How may I help you?"

You notice the man doesn't look up at you and is fidgeting with things in his pockets.

You whisper, "Um hey, are you okay?"

He looks up. "Yeah. I just had a rough day. I got into a fight with my parents. I need a place to stay for tonight." He rubs his forehead.

"I'm very sorry to hear that. What room can I get for you?"

"A double room. And double the amount of champagne." He pulls out a black American Mastercard from his pocket.

"Okay. You'll be on Floor 8. You can pay whenever you're ready."

'Damn, this dude is cute as hell'.

The transaction goes through.

You hand him the room key. "Okay. You're all set. Also, feel free to grab something from our cafe tomorrow morning. It's on me. The cafe will be down the hallway on your left."

The man sighs. "Thank you. It's been really rough."

His brown eyes then met yours with a puppy-like gaze. "My back really hurts."

"I feel you. Mine hurts too! Where's the massage parlor when we really need it?" you joke politely.

The man shyly smiled. "What's your name?"

You replied, "Y/N. And who are you?"

"Luigi. Nice to meet you."

You looked around to make sure your boss or coworkers weren't nearby or earhustling.

"I have to admit, Luigi, you're really handsome." You smile.

Luigi laughs and quickly turns his head away for a brief a second and then looks back at you. "You have me blushing all over here."

"I bet you have such a killer smile, you know that?"

"Not as nice as yours." Luigi pulls down his face mask.

"Are you kidding me? You're hot!"

Luigi then grins big with a wide smile and rests his left elbow on the counter. "Thank you, thank you. I wish we could talk more. You seem really cool."

"Yeah. I would love to get to know you better."

"Are you working here tomorrow?"

"Unfortunately, no. I'm off tomorrow."

"Aw bummer. I'll most likely be checking out tomorrow. My parents' tempers should be back to normal."

You guys stand there in silence. Then, your coworker, Keisha comes over to the front desk. "Hey Y/N. Everything good?"

"Yes. Actually-"

"Actually, I could use some assistance to bring my bag to my room. My back really hurts."

Keisha raises her one eyebrow and looks over at you. "You wanna take care of that, Y/N?"

You shrug your shoulders. "Yeah, I'll take care of it."

Luigi smiles and hands you his backpack. You both walk towards the elevators.

"After you, lovely," he says, holding the door to make sure it doesn't close on you.

You smile and walk past him into the elevator. He follows behind you, and the door closes.

As the elevator rises, you notice Luigi moving closer to you from the corner of your eye, but you play it off like you didn't notice.

When you reach his room, he swipes the key card, and you both enter.

Luigi lingered close, brushing your hand as he took the bag. "Thanks for the help," he said softly, his eyes locking with yours. He tossed the bag on the floor and stepped a little closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You know, I couldn't have done it without you." His gaze shifted to your lips, and he leaned in slightly, creating a moment charged with anticipation.

"I feel like we have a connection, even though we don't know each other well. Do you feel it too?" His hand found yours, squeezing gently as he looked into your eyes.

You felt your heart race. "Yeah, I feel the connection too". Luigi's smile widened, and he gently cupped your face, his thumb brushing your cheek.

Slowly, he leaned in, both your lips meeting in a soft, lingering kiss. The room seemed to fade away as the kiss deepened.

Your kiss is interrupted by a knock on the door. "Room service!" says a man on the other side.

You quickly hop off the bed. Luigi mouths "Hide," and you run into the closet.

You kneel down to peek through the closet's shutters. "Hello! Two bottles of champagne, right?" It was your coworker Dan. "Yeah. Please put them on the table."

Dan walks into the room. "You got it."

The champagne bottles are placed carefully. "Alright, have a good night." He makes his way out of the room.

Luigi looks down the hall and waves, "You too." He shuts and locks the door.

Luigi opens the closet door. "You can come out, princess," he says, holding out his hand. You grab it and stand up.

"Care for some champagne?" he asks.

'One glass wouldn't hurt'.

"Sure." You sit on the edge of the bed and watch him.

Luigi pops the cork and pours two glasses for you and him.

He hands you a glass and sits beside you. He groans and then takes a sip.

"Would you like me to massage your back?" you ask.

Luigi nods while grimacing. You put both your glasses on the nightstand. He takes off his shirt, revealing his hard 6-pack abs.

"You have a nice body."

Luigi smiles. "Thank you. I bet you have a stunning one yourself." He lays on his stomach. You almost climb onto his back, but stop yourself.

"May I?" you ask. Luigi nods, resting his head on his arms. You carefully sit on his back and start rubbing.

He softly moans in relief. "Y/N this feels so good." You use a combination of fingers and your knuckles to rub out his back.

After some time, he tells you that's enough. You climb off his back. He rolls over and gives you a warm smile.

"Come here." He pulls your hand gently with one hand and uses his other to grip your hip to guide you to sit in his lap. You wrap your legs around him, and you guys kiss.

Then he lifts you up and spins you around and places you on the bed, so you're underneath him.

He slides a hand underneath your shirt and gently rubs your chest, stomach, and lower area.

He gently pulls your work pants down, his voice low as he whispers, "Those are some sexy panties. Victoria's Secret, huh?" You both share a laugh. As you caress his neck, you plant soft kisses on his skin and run fingers through his curly hair.

He assists you in removing your shirt, and you return the gesture by helping him with his pants. Your eyes widen as you notice the impressive size of his bulge.

He catches your gaze. "Don't worry, you can take me," he says, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

You pull back and slide his underwear off, and he follows, removing yours with a playful grin.

As you share a passionate kiss, he positions himself at your entrance.

His fingers slide inside you and come back out wet. "Wow, you're really ready," he whispers before gently pushing inside you. A loud moan escapes your lips. He quickly covers your mouth while grinning.

He begins to quicken his pace, moving in and out of you. With each thrust, Luigi lets out soft moans of pleasure.

"Does that feel good, girl?" he grunts. "Oh yes!", you scream. He begins to move even faster, building the intensity. "Oh lord, I'm going to-" Luigi breathes heavily.

You both let out a chorus of moans as you reach your peak together. Exhausted, he collapses onto you, his weight resting comfortably as you catch your breath.

"You're amazing, love," he whispers in your ear.

"You're pretty great yourself," you reply with a smile. Luigi gently lifts you and carries you to the couch. He returns shortly with the glasses of champagne, handing yours back to you.

As you sip, you both gaze out at the night traffic, the twinkling lights of nearby buildings and those in the distance creating a mesmerizing scene.

"I wish you were staying here tomorrow," you say softly, resting your head on his shoulder.

Luigi glances down at his glass. "Yeah, I feel the same way."

He turns to look at you. "But we could always reconnect later. Do you have Instagram?"

"Of course! What's your username?"

Luigi winks, "It's @luigi.from.fiji."

You quickly search for him on the Instagram app. "Haha, I love it! You love puns, huh?"

"Well, I've got a reputation for the best pick-up lines," he replies with a grin.

You chuckle. "Alright, I just followed you."

His phone buzzes, and he opens Instagram, tapping the screen.

"And I just followed you back." You both share a smile.

"Do you want to play some music?" he asks.

"Sure! I have a playlist ready. Or we could listen to yours... if you have one," you reply.

Luigi scrolls through his options. "Yeah, I've got one. Just give me a moment."

Before long, his playlist started playing Charli XCX's "I Love It."

"No way! You like her?" you exclaim.

Luigi pours another glass of champagne. "Absolutely! Now, let's get up and dance."

You both rise and sing along softly while sipping your drinks.

Luigi jumps onto the bed, raising his glass. "I don't care, I love it!" he sings out, and you can't help but laugh as you watch him bounce like Kevin from Home Alone.

As the drinks start to take effect, Luigi hops off the bed, lifts you up, and joins you on it. You squeal in surprise.

After five songs, you glance at the clock and realize it's already 1 AM. Your shift is over.

"Oh no! I need to get back downstairs before anyone notices I'm missing," you say, quickly gathering your clothes from the floor.

Luigi steps closer, hands on his hips. "But, it feels like the night just began with you."

"I'm sure we'll see each other again," you assure him.

"Y/N, what kind of music do you like?"

You slip on your blazer. "Mostly pop, but I also enjoy rap. Why do you ask?" You raise an eyebrow.

"Just give me a song you love, so I can remember you. I'll add it to my playlist."

You pause to think. "How about 'Criminal' by Britney Spears?"

"Got it. I like Spears, I'll add it to my playlist later," he replies with a smile.

He walks you to the door and unlocks it. You turn to him, giving him a warm hug. "You're a good one, Y/N. I hope you have a wonderful night." He kisses your cheek gently.

"Bye, Luigi!" you whisper as you step into the hallway. He watches you walk toward the elevators, ensuring you get there safely.

[hermesserpent-stuff]

spoilers. i wrote ahead because my brain is going isgnkaonfdaoksdnfaoskdfnaoskdfnasodknfasondf

so theres that.

this is for the road trip au

Gambit startles as he hears a sharp out of place whistle. It's a jaunty four note tune that has him spinning on the ball of his foot. The two ferals still and look around too, looking confused as Gambit whistles the follow up notes to the code.

Then Henri leaps down from the roof staring both ferals. Gambit immediately throws his arms around Henri, careful of the cast.

“Mon fere!!! How!!! You snuck out of groundin’ didtn you!!???!”

Gambit accuses while hugging his big brother tight. Henri laughs and holds him close, petting his hair.

“Oui. Had to come and check on my petit brother. Heard you calling Papa the other night and took the first plane out to where I knew you'd be next. Figured you need some family time, non?”

Remy snorts and hides his face in Henri's collarbone.

“Papa gonna tan your hide for vanishin’ on him with a broken arm. Scarin’ him to death and all that.”

Remy chirps and Henri laughs.

“I left him a note. Don't much care what he thinks, you know that. And it comin’ off next week anyhow.”

“Oui, oui. Heard enough of the fighting to know that.”

Henri hugs him a little tighter and whispers.

“Desole. We both love you very much and if you asked Papa would be here right now. I just don't have impulse control when it comes to baby brothers.”

Remy laughs and then leans back, knowing that it is long past time to acknowledge the ferals, whose confusion he can feel coming off in waves.

“This is Quicksilver Henri, Mon brother. He's been my information broker for these missions.”

“Bonjour!”

Henri says, arm still wrapped around Remy's shoulders.

The two ferals introduce themselves and Henri politely nods.

“Good to have names and faces to go with my brother's stories. Say, either of you like music? I'm taking Remy skating so he stop being so tense and-”

“I'm not tense!”

Remy interrupts turning on his brother. Henri puts a hand over his mouth.

“To save more horribly tense baby, petit, tiny, infant, brother from his tense woes.”

Remy licks the hand and Henri ignores him, spouting on.

“Wanna tag along? We gonna go to the safe house after. I could take y'all there first and then take Gambo so you don't have to come.

Remy notices both ferals grow apprehensive at this. 

“We're coming.”

Remy pulls down Henri's hand.

“It's going to be loud. Henri likes skating at places where your chest gets vibrated by the music.”

Remy knows sound can cause them pain. Logan looks resolute while Creed just looks pissed.

“We're coming.”

Logan states and Henri grins.

“Alright! Let's go!”

He spins Remy around and they start walking. Remy drags Henri's emotions into his shields and backs a little in their warm familiarity. His brother is genuinely happy to see him and Remy is ecstatic to see his brother again. 

--

Logan watches as Gambit laughs and swings around the rink with his older brother. The kid looks three years younger. And the stress seems like it had never existed. Henri gets Gambit to link arms and whispers something. Gambit laughs and nudges him with an elbow. The kid then whispers back, pointing at the disco ball and making a swirling motion. Henri's face goes serious for a millisecond, a blink-and-you-miss-it sort of deal before he's laughing and nodding. Gambit loses the rest of his rigidity and starts picking up the pace around the rink.

Huh.

What had they been talking abou-

“He looks happy.”

Creed perches beside him, eyes carefully watching Gambit. Logan hums.

“Family tends to do that. They love each other.”

“Do you think either of us could make him that happy?”

Logan blinks at the question and then shakes his head.

“I'm not sure I could. Most of the kids who come to the mansion stay all year aside from holidays. And while he doesn't say it, Gambit misses home. And it looks like he misses it a lot. I'm not sure he could stand to be away from home for so long. I can't move with him.”

But…

Creed could. Maybe. If that thieves guild and Gambit let him stick around. Creed looks to be having similar thoughts and chuffs.

[sarnai4]

Au. Before the Trojan war when Ares and Ody are asked to try to get along.

(Ares and Ody are sitting awkwardly across from each other.)

Ody: So, Athena asked us to try finding what we have in common.

Ares: We both want this to end. Done. (Stands up)

Ody: Yeah, but I don't think that's what she meant....uh, I love Penelope and you love Aphrodite.

Ares: That's true. (Sits back down) Aphrodite's amazing.

Ody (with a goofy grin): Penelope just has the brightest laugh.

Ares (head in hand): Aphrodite's so smart and pretty.

(Hours later, they're kicking their feet in the air while on their stomachs)

Ody (gleefully): And then this one time, Penelope made this little snort sound!

Ares (gasping): You're kidding! Aphrodite does that too! It's adorable!

Ody: I know right!

(Penelope and Aphrodite are about to enter the room. Athena stops them.)

Athena: Don't do in there. You'll be a distraction.

Penelope (confused): There's so much giggling in that room. We wanted to see what was going on.

Athena:...bonding.

Aphrodite: Between who?

Athena (directing them both away from the room): You wouldn't believe me if I told you.

[weregonnabecoolbeans]

Who else is positively shaking with excitement about Cinderella’s Castle right now despite not having tickets and living so incredibly far away that you couldn’t even have gone if you tried 😌

[silvsarts]

I am the prophet, with the answers you seek...

Underworld saga going crazy

[fireylesbianhell]



If the lord won’t let me die for something / I can live to prove I’m worthy / Make his sacrifice my own

I know how you felt, now, your pain was a penance / A prayer’s a deception unless it’s a groan

(Litany of the Martyrs, from the Adamandi musical)

[freakartack]

"...Hello? Ma! I told you not to call me today, I'm making a movie!" -Wario, Mario Power Tennis

The most important lesson from Ma that Wario took to heart was the endless pursuit of cold, hard cash. Unfortunately, the one lesson she could never teach him was the importance of hard work to get it.  It wasn't for lack of trying; Wario's Ma is the hardest worker this side of the Mushroom Kingdom.  Raising Baby Wario was a herculean enough task on its own, but ever the enterprising spirit, she had also set out to grow one of the most profitable crops: garlic.

Her backyard business quickly expanded into a veritable garlic empire. Wario's mother toiled away tirelessly each day from sunrise to sunset to grow and harvest as much garlic as she could possibly achieve.  Much of Wario's current strength and endurance can be attributed to helping his mom on the farm as a child, although the teeth-pulling task of getting him to actually work was almost as difficult as preventing him from eating all the garlic straight out of the ground.  Wario's nose for instant gratification has always been a thorn in his mother's side, but try as she might to instill a solid work ethic into the boy, her "get-rich-slow" schemes could never appeal to him.  Still, Wario enjoyed his surprisingly agrarian upbringing. Along with garlic, his mother also raised chickens for eggs, inspiring in Wario a lifelong soft spot for poultry.  (He also had a pet hamster named Fluffy, who sadly passed away in 1986.)

Today, Wario is still on good terms with his mother despite their physical distance, and frequent phone calls keep her updated on all of Wario's business successes.  Of course, being Wario, he heavily embellishes the amount of work he actually does at his company.  If she only knew...

[zarnzarn]

(check the tags for more and also the tag for other fics in the story!)

athena, scowling as she gets bullied into marrying the people she pined over for the last 1000 years, suddenly realising something: wait a minute

odysseus: what?

athena, frozen: wait a damn minute you know what this gives me rights to do

penelope, also realising: oh fuck yes

odysseus: I don't like the sound of whatever's happening here what are you two fucking talking about?

athena, grabbing the marriage wine and tossing it back, then kissing her new wife and husband and handing penelope a spear as she picks up a mace: we'll be back shortly, you can start celebrations without us.

penelope: do u have anything that can start a fire

athena, pulling out an old contract and scanning it before throwing it over her shoulder: yes. are you scared of heights or can we fly.

penelope: fucking bring it I've waited years for this moment

zeus: where are they going

hermes, picking up the contract: they're going to... Ogygia? Oh fucking shit they're going to fucking kill Calypso- hey, hello, WAIT-

[densewentz]

All I can think about is how fucked everyone treats a Shadow Dragon Rook if they choose to save Treviso over Minrathous. Because the decision is sound, you know? Horrible, and hard, but Treviso is this half-broken merchant city. No guard other than the crows, no defenses, no giant floating big brother laser in the sky and one of Thedas' largest collection of mages. And so Rook has to trust their fellow Dragons to protect their home and hope to anything that they can keep the blight from Treviso. Only it's not enough, and despite the fact that Rook is one (1) person, who's only leading because no one else would goddamn do it, who has never even SEEN a dragon before the one at D'Meta's Crossing, and who still managed to fight off one dragon right after a grueling mission and then still have the energy to run off to try and help Minrathous - everyone still seems to blame them. And not just that, but the entire team spends most of the next act with their hearts breaking for Minrathous, and for Neve especially. 'Poor Neve, her home is gone, her people are dead, her life as she knew it is changed forever, poor neve, I know you didn't have a choice Rook but Neve is hurting now'. And I LOVE Neve. I love her. But it is so fucked up that as a Shadow Dragon Rook who was forced to make a horrific choice, who ALSO lost their home, their people, the life they knew- no one ever really bothers to comfort Rook. Or even consider that Rook would be absolutely shattered by what happens to Minrathous. Or fucking furious, because Rook and the goddamn Crows managed to fight off their dragon by the skin of their damn teeth with basically nothing, so how could the Shadow Dragons and the rest of Greater Minrathous not handle theirs! What were they goddamn doing that whole time?!?

The only difference between Rook and Neve is that Rook doesn't have the luxury of fucking off in the middle of a fight for the world to go mourn what they've lost. They have no choice but to pull their shit together and keep going.

And still every time Rook goes to a companion with the broken pieces of themselves in their bloody palms its just. "Oh Rook, how could this have happened to Poor Neve"