#it doesn’t need to be spelled out for it to be so

[shiimmer]

cherry kiss

sevika x f!stripper!reader

warnings! pole dancing (if that can be taken as a warning), public sex(??), fingering, orgasm denial, pussy slapping, slight choking, cunnilingus, masturbating, hair pulling, dom!sevika, sub!reader, sevika is a bit mean but we love it, she gets called ma’am once

men and minors dni!!

no mentions of y/n, but reader is called by her stage name cherry

word count: 3.4k words (i got a little too passionate…)

ৎ୭ summary: sevika found herself in a strip club, only to end up getting a lot more than a simple lap dance.

note: wrote smut for the first time in years, and idk how to feel. excuse me if this is absolutely shit, i was sleep deprived every time i was writing this. sorry for any errors, english isn’t my first language. not proofread!!

it isn’t exactly the place sevika usually finds herself in. strip clubs are not her thing. she prefers action over mere watching, but today just wasn’t it. not even a good lay in babette’s brothel can save her sour mood, which is more than surprising even for her. she doesn’t even know why she’s here. she just needs a distraction, and she knows the quietness of her place would only deepen her stress, which is something she really does not want right now, no matter how well she can handle it.

so here she is, in a strip club, surrounded by cheap smelling perfume, neon signs casting some light around the dimly lit place. boasting laughter, cheers and all sorts of other noises she’d rather block out from men around her fill her ears as they watch women dancing on the stage and sway around the pole. sevika, however, is completely silent. almost eerily so.

she just watches. glares, more like as she sits in the booth, awaiting another stripper nicknamed cherry, as the announcer says. ‘silly choice of a name,’ she thinks. her leg bounces under the table, swirling the whisky she just took a sip of on her tongue as the curtain spreads open, revealing you, and her body goes still. it’s like a spell, and sevika isn’t quite sure what has her so mesmerized the second you appear on that long, runway-like stage, neon lights shining on your almost naked body, the way they enhance the confident aura you give out. her grey eyes are focused solely on you, almost as if she’s judging your every movement. from the sway of your hips, to the subtle bounce of your breasts in that skimpy red bra as you stride toward the pole and your fingers wrap around the metal one by one.

a low hum rumbles in the back of her throat, a mixture of curiosity and appreciation while watching you perform. you clearly know what you’re doing, that sevika can see, and it works. even on her. she’d rather die than admit it out loud to anyone, but you have your charm to you and she likes it.

it’s like she’s not even blinking, at least that’s how it feels to you. you notice the woman’s gaze the second you approach the pole, and how it never moves away, not even when she takes a sip of her whisky. your coworkers shared their experience whenever they left the stage, saying how sevika’s glare caused them to nearly mess up their performance. in all honesty, it had made you nervous yourself while you waited for your own turn. dancing before a woman of such power, it’s nothing like dancing for all those nobodies who salivate over a sliver of skin shown. but as you had taken a first step on that stage, with your gaze immediately falling on her, all of that vanishes into something else, something you just can’t explain with words.

you give it your all, making sure to give her the show she never forgets and possibly needs, based on the worn out look she wears on her face. your body moves to the rhythm of the same song you always have to dance to. the song you’re normally so sick of, now gives you a rush. you dance with newfound passion, happy to show off your skills and body to silco’s number two. you play with her, yet you give her the most of you. fingertips lingering on your skin a second longer as you caress your body, from your hips to your breasts. looking over your shoulder when you’re turned towards the pole, the corners of your lips twitching up when you bend forward, showing off your thong-clad rear. it’s all for her, and you are absolutely enjoying the attention.

the endless cheering and lewd comments from men are fully blocked in your mind, your goal as clear as piltover’s sky. you want to make this woman watch you until the very end, to have her gaze on you and you only.

and oh, does it work. sevika’s gaze does not move away from you even when your performance ends and you go back backstage, and you’re certain her eyes are focused on your thighs as you walk. the euphoria you feel after this dance was nothing you’ve ever experienced. for the first time since working here, you’re almost disappointed that you had to leave the stage. your theme song that usually drags on suddenly felt short. you want to give her more of you, all of you.

you sulk in your seat, fixing up your neatly done makeup. there isn’t any need to fix it, you just want to get your mind off of the woman, but it’s completely useless. her grey eyes pollute your brain, and you can still see them when you close your eyes. never in your life were you this desperate for someone, it’s almost embarrassing. you sigh and put the makeup brush done, pursing your lips together. you wonder if you’ll see her again, if you’ll get to dance for her just like you had just a moment ago. you would give her more than just a plain dance show, so much more.

your thoughts get abruptly interrupted by your boss, her voice loud and demanding as she calls out to you. all you can do is hold back an eye roll and get up from the chair, making her way over to her with a look that can only be described as ‘i don’t get paid enough for this.’

“you’re expected in the vip salon,” she bites, her wrinkles crinkling under that heavy layer of makeup. “it’s a very important guest. don’t fuck it up.”

she taps your chest with her point finger, long nail stabbing your skin, and leaves the backstage. you watch her arrogant stomp, scoffing under your breath as soon as she’s far enough from you to not hear it. she calls every guest important, even the scummiest man in zaun is a ‘special guest.’ you know why she says it, she wants you to do your best, to not embarrass her brand, but it quickly gets annoying than encouraging.

your heels thump against the floor as you walk slowly to the salon, your mind running at full speed. you can only hope it’s sevika, but a part of you doubts it. there is no way she liked your performance so much she’d pay for private dance, right?

oh, how wrong you were.

the second you open the fluffy curtain, you’re met with those same steel eyes, belonging to none other than sevika. you eye her up and down, taking in the way she sits on the couch, her muscular thighs spread open and her exposed arm thrown over the backrest. you linger on the bare part of her lower stomach, abs peeking out of the crop top and v-line disappearing under the waistband of her pants. it’s a downright sinful sight, almost picture worthy.

“i didn’t pay for you to just stand there, did i?” her deep voice catches you off guard, and your eyes travel back up to her face. she’s smirking at you, fully aware of your gawking.

you can only pray to janna to survive this dance, secluded in a small room with this dangerously sexy woman.

“right. sorry,” you give her a small apologetic grin while walking to the small music box in the corner to tune in a song.

your hands are shaking a little, but it’s hardly nervousness. it’s excitement, anticipation, maybe even a hint of arousal. your blood is running hot, and you can feel a kick of energy, as if dosed on shimmer. none of your customers made you feel this way, but her.

your hands are already wrapped around the silver pole with your back facing her, ready to move to the music until her voice echoed in your ears.

“come here.”

your whole body stiffens, the music blocked out in your mind. being a stripper for years, never had you actually danced in front of a client. it’s sort of a rule for you; just watch but no touch, but when it comes to sevika, you are more than ready to forget it all just to please her. you pull yourself away from the pole and walk up to her, hands running over your sides. her eyes never leave your face and, by the gods, shivers run down your spine in waves, running all the way between your legs.

three more steps, and you finally stand between her spread thighs, and only now that you stand so close you notice just how damn thick they are. she looked better up close, no art or photo of her could do her justice, that you are sure of. a smirk makes its way on sevika’s lips as she watches your hips sway, your fingertips tap and stroke your skin. she is so into it, her hand is practically itching to just grab you by the waist and drag you down on her thigh.

it’s as if your minds link for a moment, because your smaller hand finds hers, guiding it to your stomach. sevika doesn’t react, at least not visibly, though you can’t say that about yourself. the second her rough, calloused palm runs over your abdomen to your hip, your body reacts on its own, almost like it isn’t even connected to your brain. she pulls you down on her leg, chuckling under her breath as your breath hitches. she has you where she wants you, and you can only comply to her every wish.

“babette’s is a few blocks away, y’know?” you mutter breathlessly, and you can only curse yourself out for how affected you are by her mere presence. it’s embarrassing, humiliating even, but you are oh so close to not give a single fuck. “someone can catch us here.”

sevika chuckles once more, liking your slightly mouthy attitude. it makes her want to put you in your place, take out her bad mood on you in all the ways she can. “by the way you’re reacting, i doubt you even give a damn,” her voice fills your ears, laced with a playful biting tone. “cherry.”

you suddenly feel coldness of a metal on your arm, pointy ridges of metal fingers digging into the flesh. she moves you around like a rag doll, like you weight nothing to her, until you straddle both of her legs and your thighs are spread apart. “tell me, what kind of services can you offer for extra coin?” she teases you, her thick fingers toying and pulling on the string of your thongs, making it snap back to your skin. “besides a little lap dance.”

the air is thick with tension, pushing down on your shoulders. it’s an intense, sexual sensation, one you can barely get enough of. you feel as if you are getting dragged by the ankle into the deep pit of unbridled lust, and it bubbles deep in your belly. you crave her.

you yearn for her.

“for you? anything,” you muster up the last bits of your attitude and smirk at her, your hand coming up to her right shoulder to steady yourself. “free of charge.”

it’s all sevika needs, and in a matter of seconds, she pounces on you, her lips running along your pulse. she doesn’t kiss, not yet. she merely toys with you, shapes you to her liking until you are but a mess. every touch of hers has a purpose, and unlike in a brothel, she is taking her sweet damn time. she’s frustrating herself by this point, all of the shit she had to deal with were simmering under the lid and ready to leak out, but something in her told her to utterly wreck you.

the music continues to play, silencing every small noise that escapes from your mouth. her fingers start to travel lower, following the fabric of the lace until the fingertips hover just above your clothed clit. she doesn’t even brush over it, yet you can feel your cunt clench around nothing. you bit on your bottom lip as sevika’s fingers linger on your thong, cheap cherry taste of your lipstick hitting your tongue.

“means that i can do this, right?” she asks into your skin, finally putting pressure on your clit. you jump in her lap, the sudden touch making you flinch away.

sevika doesn’t let you move away. she only chuckles when her mechanical arm goes down to your hip, pinning you to her lap like you are her trophy. there is no way she’s letting you go now, she wants to see you tremble.

your mind is hazy, and so foggy you can barely think of anything other than her, and the feeling of her fingers circling over your sensitive clit.

“do anything you want. i’m here to give you a show, aren’t i?” you try to keep your bravado, but it collapses like a house of cards the second her hand slips under the fabric, touching your cunt.

“fuck, you’re wet,” she laughs at you, pulling away from the crook of your neck to look into your eyes. “are you that desperate, or what?”

you cry out in pleasure as an answer, which is all she needs. her fingers tease your clit, circling it, pinching it between her thumb and point finger, which only makes you wetter for her. it’s as if you’ve never had a good fuck in your life, and she is there to fix that.

sevika continues to tease you for a few lingering seconds, simply enjoying the sight of you crumbling beneath her touch, until she moves lower and leaves your swollen bundle of nerves twitching, yearning for contact. she doesn’t waste time to slip not one, but two of her fingers into your drenched hole, stretching it out.

“oh fuck,” you groan out once you feel her fingers move, pumping into you in a rough, but slow pace.

she keeps them curled just right, brushing over that sweet spot that makes your back arch and your eyes roll back. it’s clear that she is experienced, because she knows just how to touch you to keep you shivering in her lap. you drop your head to look at her hand moving between your legs, but sevika doesn’t allow you that for long.

her prosthetic hand shoots up to your neck, cocking your head upwards to keep you from looking away. she only applies little pressure to your throat, not hard enough to choke you out, but rather a little warning.

“eyes on me, cherry,” she rasps out, her eyes so intense it sends shivers down your spine. “be a good girl.”

her voice has you clenching around her fingers, pathetic mewls of pleasure rolling out of your mouth. you have no choice but to keep your gaze on her, your sight blurry and slightly unfocused as sevika’s fingers continue to fuck your cunt. as much as she enjoys the sounds you’re making, your voice is slowly starting to get louder than the music that still plays in the background.

with the metal hand on your throat, she tugs you forward, crashing her lips on your in a bruising kiss to swallow the moans you’re letting out. she doesn’t give you a chance to let you dominate the kiss as her tongue slides into your mouth. she is in charge, and she’s letting you know it.

the taste of hard liquor and smoke hits your tongue, but you’re too deep in pleasure to cringe at the taste. in all honesty it turns you on even more. the sensation of her thick fingers, pumping in and out of your drenched pussy combined with her mouth on yours make you go crazy. you are so close, your orgasm just a few thrusts away.

the way your walls clench and unclench tells sevika that you’re about to cum, but where is the fun in giving you what you want so early. she pulls her fingers out, and when you try to whine in protest, she lands a few hard smacks on your cunt. you can feel the slaps even through the fabric of your lingerie, that’s how rough she is.

“not yet, cherry. i’m far from done with you,” she mumbles when she pulls away from the kiss, her lips glistening with the mixture of your and her saliva. she grins, reaching for one of many fluffy cushions and throwing it on the floor underneath you. “on your knees.”

she lets go of your throat, letting you sink down on the floor. your knees nuzzle into the softness of the pillow, hands falling on the buckle of her belt to undo it. sevika lifts her hips when you unbutton her pants, letting you pull them down along with her underwear. she pulls one leg out to spread her legs more, giving you space to get closer.

you don’t dive in right away. instead, you run your tongue over her thighs, all while looking up at her. it’s like your little revenge on her for teasing you before, and for not letting you cum. sevika grits her teeth, her nostrils flaring a little. a woman normally with patience of steel is suddenly a ticking bomb, ready to explode.

her real hand moves to your hair, grabbing a fistful of the strands. she doesn’t pull at it, but her grip is tight. “don’t test my patience. not today.”

the tone of her voice, authoritative and commanding gives you chills, your cunt once again clenching around nothing. your eyes wander over her body until it stops on the wet mess between her muscular legs, and that’s all it takes to convince you to give her what she wants.

“yes, ma’am,” you whisper, and sevika’s grip on your hair loosens just enough for you to move.

with one final glance at her face, you delve your tongue into her cunt, moaning at the taste of her. your nose nudges against her swollen clit, which makes her let out a deep moan. her whole expression falters as you eat her out, curses and noises escaping her mouth like a mantra, a sinful prayer.

“you’re good, cherry,” she praises you breathlessly, fingers combing through your hair. “you sure you – oh, fuck – didn’t choose a wrong profession?”

you don’t give her an answer, your mouth being too busy with her pussy to talk. you eat her like a woman starved, like she is your last meal. you can feel her slick staining your chin, but you can hardly care. you only have one goal in mind, and that’s to take her over the edge.

your own cunt throbs whenever she moans, or accidentally tugs at your hair when your tongue laps at her clit. you’re desperate for release, just as you are desperate for her. your hand slowly slides into your panties, chasing your orgasm as your fingers rub your clit.

sevika can see what you’re doing, but all she can think about is how well your mouth pleases her. she tries to compose herself, to last longer, but the burning sensation in the pit of her stomach is getting unbearable, the coil ready to snap at any moment. all she needs is one final push.

and you give it to her. your lips wrap around her clit, sucking on it, which is what sends sevika over the edge. she throws her head back and moans out loud, not even caring who might hear outside of the salon. she cums into your mouth, her thighs squeezing your head. your own orgasm follows right after, and you whimper into her cunt. your back arches, you can’t pull away nor can you catch a breath, not when her muscular thighs keep you in a lock. your whole lower face is buried in her cunt for a few seconds, and you have to tap on her thigh to let you go, your lungs begging for air.

she looks down at you and realization hits her, her legs spreading apart again to let you move. you both gasp for air when you pull away, pants filling the room. the music stopped playing a while ago, and it dawns on you that your time with her should’ve ended minutes ago. yet you find yourself unable to actually leave the salon, not when you have just silco’s second-in-command cum like that.

sevika, who is not in a better state than you, feels the same. she grins down at you, her hand caressing your hair with gentleness that’s almost uncharacteristic to her.

“you may be a stripper, cherry, but i think you just found yourself a regular.”

[thedandeliongarden]

(red text in the following refers to words used in their original / translation context, and I chose red because I ran out of other colours - did the bit I knew more about first)

Yeah tiki is a pretty ridiculous appropriation. Am I understanding correctly that it means something along the lines of “sacred ancestor”? I’m struggling a little because looking it up is… not a fruitful exercise… so I’d like to check I’m understanding correctly.

I can offer a bit more on the topic of mana/mana, since I’m pretty attuned to that (I actually already knew it was a polynesian loanword / import and the guy who did it was scummier than a pond during an algal bloom) that often gets conflated with the biblical story because the siren call of folk linguistics (aka making shit up) is ever-alluring.

Anyways.

I’m a little curious about the term magicka here - as far as I can tell from a cursory search it’s literally only used to mean magical energy in the elder scrolls game(s?), where otherwise it’s a fairly uncommon word that means “a spell or ritual”.

So it’s more correct usage-wise to say magicka is a stand in for mana (in the game sense) than the other way round.

I think the problem you’ll run into arguing that mana should not be used is that it is so entrenched as the word for magical energy, and so far ahead of the competition:

You occasionally see magic points or spell points, but the former is often abbreviated to mp and interpreted as mana points (another common usage) and both are a bit clunky (being 2 words rather than a proper term) and lame if we’re honest (which probably explains mana’s dominance)

I have encountered other setting-specific words, but none of them were particularly memorable or broadly applicable (and often, as with magicka, they’re an incorrect usage of their word).

So the problem you’re going to run into is that the english word for magical energy is mana, and if you want that to change you need to have a better option to replace it with, otherwise you’ll struggle to accomplish anything.

While I’m (obviously?) not polynesian myself, I’m also not sure it needs to change. Magical energy might not be a technically correct translation / use (…I guess you could argue it makes sense for the contemporary concept of a sorcerer, but that’s such a narrow case it’s silly to even bring it up really) but it isn’t exactly unflattering. I can see the case that it’s insulting because it conflates polynesian culture with backwards mysticism but… look, a majority of folks don’t even know the word is originally polynesian, and honestly the type of magic is presented with often positions itself more as being a beacon of civilisation and rational thought

In a very real sense it’s more like a false friend than anything else at this point (and this happens all the time with e.g. french words in english - beef is not the same as bull/cow but is roughly adjacent), and the scumminess of the guy who brought it over doesn’t change that (and arguing that something is bad because the person who made/started/spread it was bad is honestly a bit of a fruitless purity culture pursuit).

Now that I think about it I’m wondering if a more accurate translation of mana would be something like gravitas?

So… yeah. I’d like to hear your thoughts on all that, sorry it’s a bit long!

people will just use polynesian words completely incorrectly with completely made up meanings while being really offensive and won't even care huh lol

[dexteri0us]

i think i'm 'bout to explode, i can taste the tension like a cloud of smoke in the air

pairing: dexter morgan x f!reader

warnings: hints of fluff, smut - unprotected sex, slight spanking (hand and belt), oral (f receiving), fingering, spitting, slight choking, biting, dom!dexter, blood (i mean, obviously, he's a freak); sassy dexter

summary: requested: "...morning sex with dexter before he goes to work..."

w/c: around 5k

a/n: your wish is my command. thanks for requesting! :)

You and Dexter were perfect for each other – or close enough. You loved his bluntness, his dry sense of humor (which wasn’t always humor) and his demons, whatever they were. You had your suspicions, but you had yet to muster the nerve to ask him directly about them. It was so frustrating, because you prided yourself on opening controversial or inappropriate topics. You kept telling yourself that you were just afraid of losing the tension between the two of you once you’d call him out on his nocturnal disappearances.  

Some nights, he’d come home at an ungodly hour, collapsing into the bed beside you like gravity finally caught up with him. Occasionally, you’d wake to his stubble brushing your cheek as he laid kisses along your face. More often than not, you were too tired to make something out of it, and usually, you also assumed he’d just gotten off on something else, because he would sigh and nuzzle into you like he was still riding en endorphin rush.

You rarely engaged in a sex in the middle of the night, unless he demanded it. Once, you told him he could do whatever he wanted with you. Yours and Dexter’s sex life had its own intricate taxonomy:  I am objectifying you right in this moment and want your body sex or my hormones are acting up sex. The list was long, really, but at the very top was something went wrong sex. That was your favorite, but too bad for you, because it wasn’t very often that you got to experience it. Dexter is very careful and focused most of the time. He doesn’t make mistakes. The bright side of that: you’d never ever get tired of it. Those nights felt like Christmas. No. Better than Christmas.

One evening, he came home earlier than usual (you weren’t even asleep yet). He was so angry. So frustrated. And you wanted to help. You set aside the book you were reading (it was about a woman who fell in love with a sociopath. safe to say, it was an intriguing read) when he stormed into the room. You crawled to the foot of the bed, watching his sharp movements with wide eyes as he took off his army green shirt.

You’d always imagined yourself grinding on him while he wore his uniform. And that time was no different. But that night wasn’t about you. It was about him. Well, partly.

“Can I help?”

“No.” his tone was clipped as he continued to move frantically around the room.

You weren’t sure if you should push his buttons. Your heart beat out of your chest from the nerves. Part of you thought maybe you should back off; the other part – it thrived on the uncertainty, the thrill of not knowing how far you could push before he snapped.

“I could make you something to eat…”

Horse shit. You couldn’t cook to save your life, and he knew that. But he just scoffed, the corner of his mouth twitching into a humorless smirk.  

“How about a bath? I could light those lavender candles and throw in one of my bath bombs.”

“I said no.”  

You were still kneeling on the bed, dressed in your checkered shorts and a spaghetti strap tank top. Trying to act as innocently as possible.

“Do you want–”

He finally charged toward you, cutting you off mid-sentence. “Do I need to spell it out?”

Finally. Bait taken.

You looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes, slowly rising to your knees. The top of your head barely reached his chin, forcing you to tilt your neck to meet his gaze.

You started placing kisses along his collarbone, trailing up over his shoulder and to his neck. Your hand rested on his chest, palm splayed over his heart.

“Any chance I can sub in for one of them tonight?” you murmured, your lips brushing against his skin.

His brows furrowed and then shot up. “Them?”

You felt the sudden quickening of his pulse beneath your hand. You nibbled on your lower lip as you nodded.

“Who’s them?”

Instead of answering, you tanhled your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and pulled him down into a kiss. It was a reassurance, a promise that you’d always be there. Okay, maybe you did it because you didn’t want him to leave you. You didn’t want to activate a chain reaction.

He leaned into you, his hands sliding to your waist, holding you. When your lips parted, your forehead rested against his.

“You tell me, Dexter. Or don’t. I don’t care. But I want you to be happy. Do whatever you need to me if that’s what it takes.”  

Pathetic? Most definitely. But who cares? He secretly loved it when you got like this ��� whiny, needy, entirely his.

His hand cupped your right cheek, his thumb brushing a faint vertical line against your skin, the nail scratching just enough to leave a fleeting mark. But his gaze darkened again, pupils dilating, like he was replaying unhappy memories.

He kissed you then – hard and insistent. His hand circled your neck, his thumb pressing just underneath your ear, while the rest of his fingers gripped the other side, his pointer brushing against your earlobe. Your hand instinctively shot up, clutching his forearm as if steadying yourself for what was coming.

Long story short, he fucked you that night, like never before. And since then, you’d been relying on your own version of Thorndike’s Law of Effect: if you wanted to ignite that fire in him, to get destroyed by him, you had to be a brat. Acting like you had control was the fastest way to make him prove otherwise. Sometimes you suspected he loved control more than he loved you. You’d told him that once, and he’d said you were being dramatic. Again. Well, you could still weaponize it.

The problem was, Dexter was otherwise a calm and patient boyfriend. He tolerated your antics with an almost infuriating ease, whether it was leaving the windshield wipers on long after the rain stopped or overbuying carrots at the farmer’s market only for him to help you eat the whole bowl of carrot salad. He even helped you find reliable owners for the stray cats that always “followed” you home. He was so good to you, and that’s why you always had to wait for something to go wrong. That’s when he was at his weakest and that’s when you struck.

Today’s the day. It was Friday and you didn’t have any classes, so you hadn’t set an alarm. You usually managed to wake up before 8 am – not too early, not too late. But this time, it wasn’t the sunlight or your internal clock that stirred you awake. It was the sound of chewing. Muffled munching, punctuated by the occasional scrape of a fork against a plate.

You cracked your eyes open, squinting as the golden rays of the early Miami morning sun flooded the room. You groaned softly and turned to look at the clock on the bedside table. 7:42. Acceptable.

Blinking the sleep away, you shifted your gaze to Dexter. He sat propped against the headboard on his side of the bed, a plate balanced on his lap, spearing pieces of egg and bacon with his fork before shoving them into his mouth.

What the fuck?

He never ate in bed. One time, when you’d brought a bowl of popcorn to share during a movie night, he’d almost thrown you out.

“I’m not a clean freak. You just can’t even drink out of a bottle without spilling it all over the place,” he’d said. Well, he wasn’t wrong, but you’d managed to convince him anyway.

Now, though? Now he was the one violating the sacred no-food-in-bed rule.

“Morning,” you mumbled, your voice still groggy as you reached for him.

He paused, registering your movement, and turned to you. His fork hovered mid-air as his gaze softened, just enough for him to take your hand and press a kiss to your knuckles. It was a gentle gesture, the grease from his lips lingered on your skin.  

“Hey,” he said, offering a weak smile. His voice carried a strange edge too, almost shaky.

You watched him carefully, he turned back to his food and with a quick flick of the remote, he raised the volume on the TV you hadn’t even noticed was on.   

The screen showed a reporter standing in front of a crime scene, her voice urgent as she rattled off details about a recent incident. They flashed an image of a man – the criminal – and then back to the reporter.

Your eyes darted from the TV to Dexter. His brow was drawn low, his stare almost predatory as he watched the broadcast. His jaw tightened and released, the muscles flexing as he chewed. Occasionally, his teeth ground together, producing a faint, grating sound.

He was in the mood. And it hit you.

He never ate in bed. He wanted you to provoke him. A slow smirk curled your lips.

“Careful, Dex. You might intimidate the reporter through the TV.”

His grip on the fork tightened and chewing came to an abrupt halt. He exhaled sharply through his nose, not amused.

“Not today.”

“Did someone leave a typo in their lab report or what?”

He stuffed the rest of his food into his mouth without so much as glancing at you.  

“Drop it.”

“Oh no, did Masuka out-gross you again?”

The plate clattered onto the bedside table with a force that made you flinch. Before you could react, he was on you. In a flash, his hand gripped your cheeks, his face hovering dangerously close to yours.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

That was easier than you thought.

“Funny? No. I think I’m just observant.”

His eyes narrowed, dark and unrelenting as he studied you. His grip on your cheeks tightened just enough to make your lips purse.

“Is that what you call running your mouth until you get yourself in trouble?”

You couldn’t help it. Even with his face inches from yours, his hand firm on your cheeks, you smirked. “Please, Dexter, you’re all bark and no bite.”

Now you were just being annoying. He was actually all bite and no bark. His jaw ticked anyway, a muscle jumping just beneath his skin. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your lips as his nose brushed against your cheek.

“You really want to test that theory?”

You tried to shrug, but his grip on you made the movement awkward.

The air between you was thick, electric. His eyes searched yours, and you finally saw that primal tweak of his.

Then, without a warning, he released your cheeks and grabbed your wrists, pinning them to the bed on either side of your head. His strength was effortless, his movement precise.

“If you don’t come at least four times until I have to leave for work, I’m not gonna let you come for four weeks at all.”

Shit. Four weeks is a long time. That’s a whole month!

“Now you’re setting ultimatums?”

“Your time is running out, you sure you want to talk back?”

And that was your cue to finally keep your mouth shut.

“Good girl.” He said, the words sending a jolt straight through you, and you became acutely aware of the wetness pooling in your sleep shorts.

“On your knees. Grab the headboard.”

You obeyed without hesitation, pressing your chest into the mattress as you shifted onto your knees, sticking your ass into the air. You felt the fabric of your shorts clinging to your slick pussy in a way that was both uncomfortable and relieving.

Dexter moved behind you, his hand brushing over your hips, the touch almost gentle before he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your shorts. He tugged them down, watching the material stick to your pussy, making his cock twitch in his pants. You squirmed under his fingers as they brushed against the skin of your thighs, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“Jesus, you’re sopping wet. Am I even surprised?” He said, bringing his fingers to your cunt and skimming them along the center from your hole, down to your clit. As he grazed that little spot, you bucked your hips into his hand, only for him to retreat it and bring it down in a swift move, slapping your clit and sending a tingling into your stomach. You moaned, not expecting him to get rough so soon.

Then, he kneeled next to you. You were too afraid to turn your head, but you could see with your periphery vision the tent in his pants. He brought the middle finger and the ring finger of his left hand to your mouth, and you opened without hesitation, wrapping your lips around them as he slid them all the way in. For you, it was awkward from that position, the fingers hooked in the corner of your mouth, forcing it to tilt slightly.

Once he decided that they were wet enough, he removed them and the same arm reached under you, his forearm touching your stomach as his fingers, now slick with your saliva, reached your pussy. They slid between your folds with ease, the two fingers pinching your clit between, before rubbing circles into it.

The tension in your stomach coiled tighter with each movement. You squirmed under him, needing more than he was giving you, and he knew that. But when you started moving too much, he slowed, barely grazing the sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Dex,” you whined, your hips moving, trying to chase the friction he was withholding. But his only answer came in a form of a slap to your ass. Your mouth opened in a silent cry, and your hand instinctively let go of the headboard and reached for your cheek in order to sooth the pain. But before you could touch your own skin, his free hand was wrapping around your wrist, holding it high and causing your muscles to strain.

“Don’t make me tie you up. You don’t have time for that.”

You nodded in silent obedience, and you gripped the headboard again, focused on not letting go. His hand was still teasing your clit while his other hand reached from behind and played with your hole, your slickness sticking to his fingers. For a moment, he was enjoying the feeling of it, of you on his fingers. Then he spread the wetness up and over your asshole. He only teased your back entrance, returning to your pussy and plunging his fingers inside, making your grip on the headboard tighten, as well as your walls around his fingers.

Dexter’s fingers worked you expertly, curling upward to hit that spot inside you that made your eyes roll into the back of your head. The movements of both his hands were in sync, the combination driving you to the edge as he upped the pace, relentless and unforgiving his fingers thrusting deeper, while also pinching your clit harder and occasionally grazing a nail over it, sending shivers down your spine.

The room was filled with the sounds of your gasps, Dex’s occasional grunts and most importantly, the squelching sounds of your drenched cunt. You were almost embarrassed by it, and Dexter made sure you felt that shame.

“Listen to yourself. So messy.”

Your response was a broken whine, your body trembling as his fingers curled just right to hit that devastatingly perfect spot again and again and again. His other hand maintained its tormenting rhythm on your clit, switching between sharp pinches and soft, tantalizing circles as your juices dripped from your hole to your clit.

Your knuckles became white from the hold you had on the headboard, your focus on not letting go and letting go at the same time. The pressure pulled you further under, and when he felt you clench around him, he pressed harder, his fingers moving with even more intensity.

“You wanna come?”

“Yes,” you whined, your body shaking with the overwhelming sensations.

“Don’t forget your manners, sweetheart.”

The pressure was unbearable now, your release so close you could taste it.

“Please, can I come?”

“Go ahead.” He growled, his fingers resuming his relentless pace, the wave of pleasure hitting you like a tidal force, crashing through every nerve in your body. You cried out, your body convulsing with the intensity of your climax. Your thighs trembled and your grip on the headboard faltered, but you were quick to remember to hold on, otherwise he wouldn’t let you ride it out.

Dexter worked you through the aftershocks, his fingers slowing but still keeping you riding that high until you were an overstimulated mess beneath him. When he withdrew his hand, you thought he’d give you a moment to gather up, but instead, in a quick motion, he was behind you, spreading your ass and burying his face between your cheeks.

Your body twitched as you felt him press his tongue flat on your puffy clit, shaking his head from side to side before catching it between his lips and sucking on it. The stimulation too much, you even tried to pull away even though you didn't really want to. It was to no use anyway, he followed you and his hands pushed against the small of your back, limiting your movements. He kept sucking on your bundle of nerves, his nose nudging your wet opening.

The thought of him being this messy alone made you so fucking horny and needy, as if you weren’t at the maximum capacity to feel those things.

Dexter pulled another whine out of you when he tugged on your clit with his lips, pulling back until he let go with a pop.

“You get so fucking sweet when you’re on your on your knees.” He said before returning his tongue to your pussy, running it flat up and down your lips, spreading your cunt and mixing his spit with your juices before he slurped it all up.

Your hand itched to let go of the headboard and cover your pussy to give your swollen clit a rest, but you were afraid of what he might do if you disobeyed again.

Besides, eating you out was his favorite thing in the world, and bad things would happen if you deprived him of his favorite activities.

One time, he’d made you ride him for so long until it was physically impossible for you to lift your ass. He’d proceeded to call you lazy, and had you dared, you would have slapped him.

Now, too much was at stake. He flicked his tongue against your clit repeatedly before finding your entrance and plunging it inside, the wet muscle massaging your walls. He loved your taste, he loved how you squirmed, he loved how slick and sticky you were. And you loved how animalistic he was about it, and how he didn’t care that you were overstimulated.

He dragged his tongue in and out of you, and then finally, it returned to your clit, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot. And the slightly sharp sensation was all it took to send you over the edge again. Your pelvis twitched against him, his hands squeezing the flesh of your ass, dragging his nail against you aggressively and leaving red scratch marks behind.

You loved them more than bruises. You could get bruises anywhere, sometimes they appear, and you don’t even know how. That's a common knowledge. But chafed, irritated skin? You know exactly how it gets there. You remember it. It evokes memories.

He hummed against your hot, wet flesh, the vibrations only accelerating your orgasm. You mewled, almost screamed, but you didn’t want to seem overdramatic. Your cum spilled straight into his mouth and he drank it all down as if he didn’t want to waste a single drop. He caught it on his tongue, licking you through the orgasm. Your upper body felt so numb, while down there, it was like fireworks. And when you finally started coming down, he slowed down, laying kisses over your pussy lips and your butt and your thighs. You felt the wetness his mouth left behind, your slick slowly drying on your skin. It was almost comforting, feeling him be so soft. You felt like curling up to him, falling asleep in his embrace.

“Three to go. You think you can make it?” He asked, and you heard him move behind you, followed by the sound of his buckle as he removed his belt.

You looked at the clock. 8:02. You didn’t think you could, but even if you did, it was in his control. He was just manipulating you to think that it was yours. Or he was just mocking you. He knew you weren’t stupid.

“You think you can?”

The leather belt came down on your ass, to the same place he’d slapped before. You made a note about checking out that bruise later.

 “You’re only giving me reasons to spank the shit out of you.” He said, dragging the belt across your ass, before touching the curved part to your pussy. Once it was gone, you waited for Dexter to hit you there too, but the blow never came.

“Let go of the headboard.”

Your brows furrowed, but your confusion quickly disappeared when he hooked the belt around your neck, yanking you upwards, your back against his chest and his clothed cock nestled between your ass cheeks.

You subtly ground against him, making him purr into your ear, which made you smirk. He gripped both ends of the belt in one hand, while his other arm snaked around your waist, his hand slipping under your tank top and squeezing your breast. The way he pinched and tugged on your nipple made you buck into him with more force, and he reciprocated, grinding against you, giving in to his own pleasure. Then his hand disappeared from your body and you heard the sound of him spitting into his palm, before he brought it to your pussy. As if you weren’t completely drenched. He knew you loved how disgusting the thought was. How lewd you felt when he did that.

For him, this was nothing compared to the things he did during his free time.

Then without a warning, he released one end of the belt, causing you to collapse face-first into the bed. He unbuttoned his khaki pants and pulled his cock out before grabbing your arm and turning you on your back.

You finally got a good look at him - strands of hair sticking to his forehead, his eyes dark framed by lashes that looked like he'd used an eyelash curler (something you envied him). You admired him. Not just for his look, though that part was obvious. He knew he had women turning their heads in his direction. But they didn’t know the brilliant mind beneath it all. He was so clever, so undeniably smart, and that was what truly excited you. That a neat man with a compartmentalized brain like his could get so messy when it came to sex. Like now, all sweaty, his cock leaking onto the sheets. Some of the precum probably landed on your cunt too. The thought alone sent another wave of pleasure building deep in your abdomen.

He leaned down, his tongue flicking into your pussy in one swift motion before crawling over you and capturing your lips in a kiss, making you taste yourself on his tongue. His hand slid to your neck, his thumb pressing firmly against your pulse point, making you aware of how fast your heart was pounding. You moaned into his mouth as he applied a touch more pressure for a split second, giving him the chance to slide his tongue deeper into your mouth. You sucked on it, tasting the tanginess that he'd collected from your lower lips.

Without warning, with just a sublte shift of his hips, he was inside you. A low moan escaped him as he felt the tightness of your walls, and you let out a soft whimper at the stretch. He didn’t move at first. He kept kissing you and his hand slid down your body, squeezing your boob again, rolling the nipple between his fingers. Lowering his head, he wrapped his mouth around your sensitive peak, sucking gently on your tit. Your fingers tangled into his hair, your nails scratching lightly against his scalp, pulling him closer.

His teeth grazed your sensitive nub, sending a jolt through you, and in one fluid motion, his arm snaked beneath you, lifting and sitting up as he pulled you onto his lap. He started thrusting his hips into you, holding you in place, his cock gliding effortlessly along your slick walls.

Leaning forward, his lips found your other breast, his tongue tracing lazy circles around your nipple before his mouth opened wide, taking in as much of your soft flesh as he could. You arched against him, your back curving as your hads pressed his face closer, your head tipping back in ecstasy.

He kept on fucking you, hitting that sweet spot inside of you that made you dizzy. He drove his cock into you, quickening the pace, a sign that he was getting close. His arms around you tightened and then suddenly, you felt a sharp pain originating in your breast and going straight to your pussy, making you clench around. He was fucking you hard and deep, and when you looked down, you saw him still latched onto your tit, his upper lip covered in crimson.

You felt the sting from the way he was sucking on you, and when he finally removed his lips from your breast, you saw red drops dripping down your breast, the blood leaking from the bite marks where his upper teeth sank into your skin. You were mesmerized by it, and you wanted more. You pushed his face back against your sore nipple and Dexter surprisingly didn’t argue. He licked the blood off you and sucked again while ramming into you. Your body shuddered, and finally your third finish was brought on by a couple of additional thrusts of his hips. Then he laid you flat on the bed and chased his own release. You pulled him up by the chin, meeting his lips in a sloppy kiss as he fucked you hard and fast until he spilled inside of you.

Once you both came down, he was lying on top of you. You wrapped your arms around him, squeezing him affectionately, because you were so content that he was there with you.

But you were yanked out of your dreamland when he rose to his feet, making your brows furrow.

“That was only three,” your tone couldn't be more confused, as he headed to the bathroom.

“Yeah, but I need to shower and pick new clothes to wear. Can’t go to work with your cum all over my pants.” He came back to the bedroom with a smile on his face, as if he just hadn’t fucked the shit out of you. “Last one’s on you.”

“On me?”

“Yes. Make yourself cum before I leave. If you don’t, you know the consequences.”

He gave you a quick peck on the lips before disappearing into the bathroom.

Asshole. He knew you’d lost the ability to make yourself cum shortly after you’d started sleeping together. But luckily, you had your stash of toys that might help you with your problem.

With the roll of your eyes, you rolled over and reached into your nightstand, but in that moment, he peeked from around the corner.

“Oh, and your hands only.”

“What? That’s not fair!”

His face dropped again.

“You want to tell me what’s fair and what isn’t?”

You slammed the drawer shut and fell on your back, your body bouncing on the soft bed.

“Good girl. And no cheating. I’ll keep the door open. If I so much as hear something else that isn’t your fucking scream, I swear you’ll have to work your ass off to make me let you come ever again. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

You hadn’t done this in a long time. It almost felt unnatural. But despite that, your fingers dropped to your clit, and you began pushing yourself over another edge. Or at least you tried. But it was pointless. You tried to squeeze your wounded breast to get that rush going, but it didn’t have that effect this time. It only made you sweaty.

He managed to finish his shower before you made yourself orgasm, obviously. When he entered the bedroom with a towel around his waist, he looked at you with feigned pity.

“Aww… Don’t tell me my baby needs a manual to get herself off.”

“Dex, come on. You know I can’t make myself orgasm,” you tried to reason with him, but he wasn’t going to budge.

“I can’t do two things at once, I’m only one person,” he argued, as if it was the most logical thing in the world. “This is for your own good. I gave you an opportunity to make it to four before I have to leave. It’s not my fault you’re not capable.”

You huffed, bringing your fingers to your pussy again, stuffing them inside yourself and trying to fuck yourself, but again, to no avail.

He even laughed at you, and when you opened your eyes, you saw him already with his work bag slung over his shoulder, hands casually tucked in his pocket. You’d lost.

“Fuck, I wish you could see yourself. So desperate. It’s like your world has been destroyed.”

“It kinda has.”

He came to your side of your bed where you were still lying with your hand between your legs. He leaned over you, brushing the hair that stuck to your forehead and placing a soft kiss there.

“Take that as a lesson. You shouldn’t take a bait if you can’t handle the hook.”

And with that he turned on his heel and left, leaving you wrecked and messy, the most agonizing four weeks of your life just now beginning.

a/n2: i'm thinking it's kinda more vanilla than i intended it to be, but oh well... thank you for reading!!

[levisolace]

[9] Expendable Hearts (Levi x F!Reader)

Chapter 9: Small Steps

WC: 7,433 Chapter Warnings: none Summary: Everyone in Levi's life knows he only ever dated one girl and that she left him wrecked, bitter, and heartbroken. Many years later, she's back in his life and he doesn't know what to do. story masterlist | prev chapter > next chapter

“Sir, should I make you morning tea?” 

Connie asked, his voice careful but laced with curiosity. Levi looked up from the stack of reports on his desk, his expression as unreadable as ever. Connie stood at the door, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

Levi’s eyes flicked to the clock on the wall, his lips pressing into a thin line. He didn’t need Connie to spell it out for him; he’d already noticed you weren’t here the same time as yesterday. He leaned back slightly, folding his arms over his chest.

“No need,” Levi said curtly. 

Connie raised a brow, clearly intrigued but knowing better than to push Levi’s limits. “Alright. I’ll leave you to it, then.”

As Connie disappeared out of his doorway, Levi let out a soft exhale and glanced at the empty cup on his desk. The air felt heavier than usual this morning, though he wouldn’t admit it aloud. The truth was, he was actually looking forward to your presence, as begrudging as it made him feel.

For someone so insistent on “making it up to him,” you were a bit inconsistent about showing up with a cup of hot tea in hand, ready to push through the invisible barrier between you two. His gaze lingered on the door, his mind drifting to whether you’d finally decided it wasn’t worth the effort anymore. It’s only been yesterday since your promise, did you already change your mind?

He shook the thought off quickly. It wasn’t his concern if you did. At least, that’s what he told himself. 

It wasn’t until 30 minutes later that the door to Levi’s office creaked open, and he looked up just as you stepped inside. You looked far from your usual self—your shoulders slightly hunched, dark circles under your eyes, and a weariness in your step that you couldn’t quite hide.

“Good morning,” you murmured, your voice softer than usual, as though even speaking was an effort.

Levi’s sharp eyes narrowed, scanning you for a moment longer than necessary. He noted the pale cast to your complexion and the slight tremor in your hands as you placed the tea on his desk.

“From the café you asked for yesterday,” you added, trying to muster a polite smile.

He leaned forward, his gaze flickering to the cup before returning to you. “You look like hell,” he stated bluntly, his voice carrying a mix of irritation and something softer—concern, perhaps, though he hid it well.

You blinked, startled, before letting out a short, breathy laugh. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Levi leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Didn’t realize running late also meant showing up like you haven’t slept in weeks. What happened after yesterday?”

“It’s nothing,” you replied quickly, brushing off his question. “Just… didn’t get much sleep, that’s all.”

He studied you for a moment, clearly unconvinced. “Tch. Doesn’t matter how good the tea is if you’re falling apart while delivering it.”

“I’m fine,” you insisted, standing straighter. “Really.”

Levi raised a brow, clearly skeptical, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he reached for the tea and took a careful sip. You waited, holding your breath, unsure if he’d approve.

After a moment, he set the cup down and gave you a curt nod. “It’s better.”

A flicker of relief crossed your face, though you quickly tried to hide it. “Good. I’ll remember that for next time.”

Levi glanced at you again, his gaze lingering. “Next time,” he repeated flatly, though the edge in his tone had softened. “If there’s a next time, get some sleep first.”

You handed him a small smile. “I’ll be here tomorrow, too. Same time—earlier time. Same tea.”

Levi’s brow raised at your declaration, though he didn’t say anything. Instead, he reached for the tea again, sipping quietly. 

You lingered near the door for a moment, uncertain whether to leave as you had yesterday. But something about today felt different—or maybe you just weren’t ready to step back into your own world yet.

Instead of leaving, you took a few hesitant steps back into the office, your eyes wandering across the shelves and the framed photos lining the walls. You take your time admiring each picture like it was an art museum. 

Levi watches you from his peripheral, curious to see what you were doing. After a while, he had enough of the silence. He leaned back in his chair, watching you with a raised brow.

“Didn’t realize this was a tour.”

You shot him a small grin, your fingers grazing the edge of a sleek model of what you assumed was the Stohess street layout. “It’s impressive. You’ve come a long way.”

He didn’t immediately answer, but you caught the faintest flicker of pride in his expression. “Took years. A lot of trial and error.”

Your curiosity grew as you continued observing. “This model—was it your idea?”

“Partly,” Levi said, his tone even. “Marketing team thought it’d help investors visualize the growth potential. Turns out they were right.”

You nodded, trailing your fingers over the polished surface of his desk. “And these?” You gestured to a collection of framed photos of Stohess street—before and after shots of the transformation.

“Documentation,” he said simply, though his voice softened slightly. “Reminds me how much has changed.”

You turned back to him, meeting his gaze. “You’ve built all this… from scratch. Do you ever stop to think about it? How far you’ve come?”

Levi’s lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, you thought he might brush off your question. But then he shrugged, looking almost uncomfortable. “I think about it when there’s time. Doesn’t happen often.”

You leaned against the edge of his desk, tilting your head at him. “You should, you know. Give yourself credit. This is… amazing.”

Levi’s gaze lingered on you, his expression unreadable. “You don’t have to stick around to tell me that,” he said, though there was no bite to his words.

“I know,” you replied, your smile softening. “But I wanted to.”

For a moment, the office was quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioning. Levi looked down at the tea you’d brought, then back up at you. Instead of commenting on your overstayed welcome, he gestured toward the chair opposite his desk.

“If you’re going to hang around, at least sit. You’re making the place look uneven.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, settling into the chair. “Fine. But only because you asked so nicely.”

You lowered yourself into the chair across from his desk, shifting to get comfortable as Levi watched you with narrowed eyes. His eyes shift to you from his laptop. “Don’t you have work to get to?”

You shook your head, offering a half-smile. “Took a sick leave today.”

Levi’s brow furrowed, his expression sharpening with concern. “You’re not feeling well?”

You shrugged, avoiding his gaze. “Just tired, that’s all. Figured I could use the day to catch my breath.”

He didn’t seem convinced. His lips pressed into a thin line, and his gaze lingered on the faint shadows beneath your eyes. “Tch.”

You tilted your head, confused. “What now?”

“Still overworking,” he said bluntly. “You gotta let go of bad habits.”

Your smile wavered as you looked down at your hands. “I’m not… overworking. I’m just busy.”

Levi scoffed, the sound soft but sharp enough to make you glance up. “Busy? You look like you haven’t slept in days. You don’t need to work yourself into the ground to prove something.”

“I’m not proving anything,” you said, a hint of defensiveness creeping into your tone.

“Then what are you doing?” he countered, his voice calm but firm. “Running yourself ragged for what? You can’t fix everything by burying yourself in work.”

His words hit closer to home than you wanted to admit. You shifted in your seat, feeling suddenly exposed under his scrutinizing gaze. “It’s not like that,” you said quietly, but even to your own ears, the words sounded hollow.

Levi sighed, his hand brushing against his desk as he leaned forward slightly. “Take care of yourself, or you won’t be able to take care of anything else. It’s not that complicated.”

You blinked at him, surprised by the rare softness in his voice. For a moment, you considered brushing it off, changing the subject, but the sincerity in his expression stopped you. Instead, you gave a small nod, your voice subdued. “I’ll try.”

“You’d better,” Levi muttered, reaching for the tea you’d brought. He took a sip, glancing at you over the rim of the cup. “Otherwise, I’ll be stuck telling you this every time you show up late with some overpriced drink.”

Despite yourself, a quiet laugh escaped your lips. “Noted.”

You leaned back in the chair, letting a moment of silence settle between you both before speaking up again, your voice softer this time. “Would it be alright if I stayed for a while? I promise I’ll be quiet. Just… not feeling up to being alone right now.”

Levi stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. His hand hovered over the stack of papers on his desk, as if weighing the inconvenience against the awkwardness of saying no. Finally, he let out a sigh, rubbing his temple with his free hand.

“Fine,” he muttered, though the tone made it clear he wasn’t exactly thrilled. “But don’t expect me to entertain you. I’ve got work to do.”

You nodded quickly, a small smile tugging at your lips despite how tired you felt. “Thank you. I’ll stay out of your way.”

True to your word, you remained quiet, occasionally glancing around his office with a mix of curiosity and admiration. The clean, minimalistic décor suited him—everything in its place, not a single thing unnecessary. 

As you sat quietly in Levi’s office, the rhythmic scratching of his pen filled the space like a steady metronome, grounding you in the moment. He worked with a precision and intensity that was uniquely him, his focus unwavering as he sifted through documents and signed off on reports. It wasn’t just the tasks themselves that impressed you—it was the way he carried himself, the quiet command he had over every detail, every decision.

Your gaze drifted across the room, taking in the meticulous organization of his desk, the framed certificates on the wall, and the subtle but distinct logo of Stohess Stone Group etched into a plaque near the window. This wasn’t just an office—it was the culmination of years of effort, persistence, and vision.

And it was all his.

Erwin’s words from last night echoed in your mind, a haunting reminder of what you had learned. Levi had poured himself into this, not just for success, but as a way to cope. To prove something. To build something that might have brought you back. The realization hit you again, heavier this time. Everything he’d created, the street that flourished under his guidance, the empire he now managed—it was all born from a belief that he wasn’t enough for you to stay.

Your chest tightened, the weight of guilt pressing down on you. You’d spent the last few days trying to figure out how to make it up to him, but now… you weren’t sure if you even could. How do you apologize for something that shaped the course of someone’s entire life? For a wound that turned into a foundation, for better or worse?

Levi flipped a page, his expression neutral but focused, and you couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking. Did he still resent you? Did he even want you here, in this space he’d built for himself? Or had you already overstayed whatever tentative truce the two of you had formed?

You looked down at your hands, twisting them in your lap. The guilt simmered, pulling you into a spiral of self-doubt. What could you possibly say to him that wouldn’t sound hollow? You’d already promised to make things right, but standing in the shadow of everything he’d achieved, your promise felt painfully inadequate.

The silence was too much, and before you could stop yourself, you spoke.

“Are you happy, Levi?”

The question came out softer than you intended, but it landed sharply in the quiet room. Levi didn’t even glance up, his pen pausing only briefly before continuing its steady movement across the page.

“Why are you asking me that this early in the morning?” His tone was clipped, dismissive, as if brushing it off might make it disappear entirely.

You swallowed hard, your hands gripping the edge of the seat. “I just… I was wondering.”

“Wondering?” he echoed, finally looking up. His brow furrowed as he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “What kind of question is that? Especially from you.”

The way he said “you” stung, but you pressed on, unwilling to let it stop you. “All this,” you gestured vaguely around the office. “It’s… incredible, really. But I just—do you even like the person you’ve become?”

Levi stared at you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a scoff, he looked away, his focus shifting to the window behind his desk. “Tch. What does it matter?”

“It matters to me,” you said quietly, but with enough conviction to make him glance back.

Levi sighed, rubbing a hand across his face before finally answering, his voice low. “It’s not about being happy. It’s about getting things done. Making things work.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He shot you a sharp look, but there was less bite to it this time. “I don’t know,” he admitted finally. “I never really thought about it. Doesn’t matter anyway.”

You bit your lip, the guilt twisting tighter in your chest. You didn’t say anything after that.

Levi’s jaw tightened, his gaze dropping back to the desk. “Is any of us truly happy?”

You hum, opting to offer him a slightly amused smirk. “Yeah, guess you’re right about that.”

He didn’t respond, but the quiet that followed felt heavier than before. Levi didn’t look at you again, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his pen stilled in his hand.

He was lying. And you both knew it.

“Can I lie down on your couch?”

The next question is the opposite of your odd questions this morning, still odd but humorous this time. Levi shrugged, “Suit yourself.”

For a while, the only sound was the faint scratching of Levi’s pen and the distant hum of office activity. You found the stillness oddly comforting, a reprieve from your own frantic pace. You even removed your shoes, put in your earpods, and scrolled away on your phone. But as the clock inched closer to noon, your stomach growled softly, and you shifted in your seat.

Levi didn’t look up but spoke anyway. “If you’re hungry, there’s a vending machine down the hall or I could ask Connie to get you something.” 

You hesitated, then cleared your throat. “Actually… I was wondering if you’d have lunch outside with me.”

That made him pause. He set down his pen, finally meeting your gaze with a raised brow. “Lunch?”

“Yeah,” you said, forcing a casual tone. “It’s the least I can do, since you’re letting me crash your office. Plus, I’m on sick leave, remember? I could use something decent to eat.”

Levi leaned back in his chair, regarding you with a skeptical expression. “You’re not going to ask me to eat at Stohess, are you?”

You chuckled lightly, shaking your head. “No, no. I’ll let you pick the place this time.”

He seemed to consider it, his gaze narrowing slightly as if searching for any hidden motive. Finally, he sighed, shrugging. “Fine. But if you don’t like it, don’t blame me.”

Relieved, you smiled. “Deal. Just… nothing too fancy. I’m trying to keep things simple today.”

Levi muttered something under his breath about being dragged into things, but you could tell he wasn’t as annoyed as he pretended to be. Instead, he picked up his phone, scrolling through a list of places he knew.

“Alright,” he said, finally standing. “Let’s get this over with. Get up.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, standing as well. “You make it sound like a chore.”

“Just don’t make me regret it,” he shot back, but there was a faint softness in his tone that eased your nerves.

Levi didn’t say a word as he grabbed his coat from the back of his chair, slinging it over his shoulders in one swift motion. He looked at you, his expression unreadable.

“Come on,” he said flatly, gesturing for you to follow.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Where are we going?”

“Lunch,” he replied curtly, already heading for the door.

Scrambling to keep up, you grabbed your bag and hurried after him. He didn’t wait, his pace brisk and determined as he made his way down the hallway and out of the building. You noticed how the employees subtly stepped aside as he passed, their gazes respectful, even nervous. It was a stark reminder of the person Levi had become—someone powerful, influential, and commanding in ways you hadn’t fully grasped until now.

The cold autumn air nipped at your skin as you followed Levi down the bustling street. His hands were shoved deep into his coat pockets, his gaze fixed ahead. He didn’t speak, and you didn’t dare break the silence, too preoccupied with your own thoughts.

After a short walk, Levi stopped in front of a small restaurant tucked between two larger establishments. Its unassuming exterior was decorated with warm string lights and a hand-painted sign that read The Midnight Hearth. He opened the door and stepped aside, waiting for you to enter first.

“After you,” he said, his tone clipped but not unkind.

Inside, the restaurant was cozy, with wooden beams, mismatched chairs, and the smell of freshly baked bread wafting through the air. It wasn’t flashy or overly modern, but it had a charm that immediately put you at ease.

Levi led you to a table near the window and slid into the chair opposite you, picking up the menu without so much as a glance in your direction. You followed suit, unsure of what to say.

The silence stretched as you scanned the options, but your thoughts kept drifting back to him—his earlier admission, the weight of his words, the lines of stress etched into his face.

Finally, the server arrived, and Levi ordered with a familiarity that suggested he’d been here more than once. He looked at you expectantly when it was your turn, and you fumbled through your choice, your nerves suddenly making it difficult to concentrate.

When the server left, you found yourself staring out the window, the tension between you thick and unspoken. Levi broke it first.

“This place isn’t fancy,” he said, his voice low, almost defensive. “But the food’s good.”

You looked at him, surprised he was even addressing the choice. “It’s perfect,” you said honestly.

He grunted in response, leaning back in his chair. “Don’t expect me to bring you here every day.”

You smiled faintly, the corners of your mouth tugging upward despite the heaviness in your chest. “Noted.”

The food arrived quickly, and for a while, the two of you ate in silence. But it wasn’t the tense kind of silence from earlier. It felt more… comfortable, like an unspoken truce.

As you picked at your plate, you finally worked up the courage to ask, “Do you come here often?”

Levi raised an eyebrow, his fork pausing midair. “Why? Planning to stalk me now?”

You rolled your eyes, a small laugh escaping before you could stop it. “Just curious.”

He shrugged, taking another bite. “Not really. Physically, anyway. Connie gets me takeout when I ask him to.”

You nodded, your gaze drifting to the other patrons. “That makes sense. You’re a busy person.”

Levi didn’t respond, but when you glanced at him again, you thought you saw the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.

Levi set down his fork, leaning back in his chair as he looked at you with an unreadable expression. “So,” he said, his tone casual but laced with something playful, “do you plan to come pester me every day now?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his demeanor. “Pester you?” you repeated, feigning offense. “I wasn’t aware I was pestering you.”

He raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Bringing tea, hanging around my office, asking me philosophical questions first thing in the morning—sounds like pestering to me.”

You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms with a mock pout. “It’s called making it up to you.”

Levi’s smirk grew a fraction wider, though his eyes softened as he looked at you. “Ha,” he breathed out an amused expression, followed by a tone light but probing. “How exactly are you planning to make it up to me, anyway?”

You hesitated, suddenly feeling self-conscious under his sharp gaze. “I… I’m still figuring that out,” you admitted, avoiding his eyes as you pushed a piece of food around on your plate. “But I’m serious about it. I want to—no, I need to make things right.”

For a moment, Levi didn’t say anything. When you glanced up, his expression had shifted, the teasing edge replaced by something quieter, more thoughtful. He rested his elbows on the table, his hands clasped loosely as he studied you.

“Well,” he said finally, his voice softer than you expected, “if you’re serious, don’t overthink it. And stop making that face.”

His words hit you harder than you anticipated, and you swallowed the lump rising in your throat. You shake your head, lightly slap your cheeks, and bring out a wide smile. “Fine,” you said.

Levi had to hold back a laugh at your actions. He looked away and gave a small nod, returning to his food without another word. But the weight of what he’d said lingered between you, unspoken but understood. 

And just like that, something heavy, but not quite all, had been lifted off your chest. 

Levi set down his glass of water and glanced at you. “How’s work?” he asked, his tone casual but carrying a hint of genuine curiosity.

You paused, surprised by the question. “It’s… fine, I guess,” you said, shrugging slightly. “Busy as always. A lot of cases coming in this month.”

He nodded, his gaze steady. “Cases keeping you up at night?”

You let out a small laugh, though it lacked real humor. “Sometimes. The tougher ones tend to stick with me, you know? But that’s part of the job.”

Levi studied you for a moment before responding. “Doesn’t mean it’s good for you.”

You looked up at him, caught off guard by the subtle concern in his voice. “It’s not like I’m the only one who overworks themselves,” you countered, raising an eyebrow.

“Tch.” Levi’s mouth twitched in a faint smirk. “I’m better with it now.”

“That’s… good to hear,” you said softly, lowering your gaze to your plate.

In an attempt to keep the conversation going, you began to tell him about what you do on a daily basis, your new coworkers, and the boss you’re slowly warming up to—Pixis. 

“Pixis Dot?” 

A brow raises from you. “You know him?”

Levi shrugs. “A little. It’s Erwin who knows him.” 

“Oh, that makes sense,” you think out loud. It’s Erwin, of course he knows everyone in the city. 

“So, your coworkers,” Levi starts, his tone neutral as he finishes chewing. “Have they been treating you well?”

You nod, spearing a piece of your meal with your fork. “Yeah, they are, surprisingly. I thought it’d be more distantly competitive. We’re talking about lawyers here, y’know?”

Levi’s lips twitch, almost forming a smirk. “Cutthroat by nature, huh?”

“Something like that.” You chuckle softly, setting your fork down. “But they’ve been helpful—supportive, even. It’s a little shocking how decent they are.”

Levi lifts his glass of water, his gaze steady. “And that blonde-haired man you were with at the restaurant… your coworker?”

You blink, caught off guard. “Blonde-haired man?”

“The one who was with you that night at the restaurant,” Levi clarifies, his tone clipped but casual enough to mask any deeper intent.

“Oh, Nanami?” you say, realization dawning. “Yeah, he’s a coworker. Why?”

Levi shrugs, taking a sip of water. “Just curious. You seemed… comfortable with him.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “Comfortable? Is that a bad thing?”

“Tch,” Levi mutters, setting his glass down. “Didn’t say it was. Just making an observation.”

You can’t help but smirk, leaning forward slightly. “Is this your way of trying to figure out if there’s something going on between us?”

His expression doesn’t waver, though his silence speaks volumes.

“There isn’t,” you continue, unable to resist teasing him a bit. “Nanami’s just a coworker and a good friend—a fellow “workaholic” they said.”

Levi’s gaze remains unreadable, but you think you catch the faintest flicker of relief in his eyes. “Good. I’d hate to hear you’ve developed a lousy taste.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “And what exactly does that mean?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, instead picking up his fork and resuming his meal. “Just means I hope your taste in men hasn’t gone downhill.”

The comment hangs in the air, laden with unspoken meaning. You bite your lip, unsure how to respond, so you let it pass, focusing instead on the warmth creeping into your chest.

Somehow, your heart swells that he cares about who you’ve been with or who you might be with. There’s been none that mattered, you want to tell him, not much as he did, anyway. But that’d be too much for now. 

“Someone’s been busy.”

You glance up from setting your bag down, only to find Pieck leaning casually against your office doorframe, her arms crossed and her expression entirely too amused. She raises an eyebrow at you, her grin as sly as ever.

“What?” you ask, feigning innocence as you pull out some files from your bag.

Pieck takes a slow step inside, her sharp eyes taking in every detail of your appearance. “You’ve got this glow about you lately. And don’t think I haven’t noticed how you’ve been sneaking out during lunch breaks. Someone’s definitely keeping you entertained.”

You sigh, shaking your head but unable to stop the faint heat from rising to your cheeks. “Pieck, I’m not sneaking out. I’ve been… visiting a friend.”

“A friend, huh?” she teases, pulling out the chair across from your desk and plopping down in it like she owns the place. “And does this ‘friend’ have a name? Or do you just refer to him as the reason you’re suddenly so chipper these days?”

You glance at her warily. “I’m not chipper.”

Pieck lets out a dramatic gasp, leaning back in her chair. “You’re not denying it’s a him, though. Oh, this is good.”

You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Pieck, please. It’s not what you’re thinking.”

She leans forward, resting her chin in her hand as her grin only grows wider. “So you are seeing someone.”

“No,” you protest firmly, sitting down and opening your laptop. “I’m not seeing anyone.”

“Hmm,” she hums, entirely unconvinced. “So, you’ve just been casually visiting this ‘friend’ during your lunch breaks, bringing them coffee, and probably making googly eyes while you’re at it?”

You give her a pointed look. “It’s not like that.”

Pieck smirks, tilting her head. “If you say so. But you should know, friendships like that usually come with a free side of unresolved feelings. Maybe even a sprinkle of heartbreak, if you’re lucky.”

Her words strike a little too close to home, and you fumble for a retort. “It’s complicated,” you finally say, hoping she’ll drop the subject.

But this is Pieck you’re dealing with. “Oh, I bet it is,” she says with a chuckle, standing up and stretching. “Don’t worry, I won’t pry—much. But if this friend of yours is the reason you’re smiling more, I say keep visiting him.”

You watch as she saunters toward the door, her laughter trailing behind her.

“And for the record,” she calls over her shoulder, “you really do have a glow. Whoever this is, they’re doing something right.”

You exhale, resting your forehead in your hand. Pieck might be too perceptive for her own good, but she isn’t entirely wrong. Something had shifted over the past week with Levi—though you’re not sure yet what it all means. You don’t know what it is but it’s helping you and your relationship with Levi. Maybe even more for you. Waking up these days feels a lot lighter than it had been for the past years. 

It’s late at night. You’re comfortably lying on your bed on a Saturday when another message came through from Levi. You’ve been texting quite frequently for the past few days. Earlier today, you told him to enjoy the party. To your surprise, he was actually doing the opposite—opting to text you throughout the night to update you on what was going on. 

It’s a disaster here. Moblit’s already passed out, Miche’s running some drinking game like it’s the Olympics. They roped Erwin in too.

You laughed softly, imagining the chaos at Moblit’s bachelor party that Levi was invited to. Another message buzzed through. 

Everyone’s drunk. Connie keeps trying to out-chug someone. It’s pathetic. 

You smiled, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. Your mind raced for something lighthearted to say. Finally, you typed:

Just leave when it dwindles down. No use staying if you’re not enjoying.

The response was almost immediate.

Should I? 

You chuckle. It’s been known that Levi would just leave a party if he wanted to. A simple grace of his presence is enough for him to say that he had been to the party and that was that. And yet an idea came through your mind. You hesitated before sending your next message. It was a bold thought, one you hadn’t planned on voicing until you were typing it out.

If you want, you can just steal a few bottles and come over here.

Your heart leapt the moment you hit send. You stared at the screen, fingers tightening around the phone as you braced yourself for a dismissive reply—or worse, silence. But then, Levi’s reply popped up, short and simple as always.

Alright.

Your eyes widened. He agreed? You reread the message twice, waiting for him to backtrack, to tack on some excuse about being too tired or having responsibilities. But nothing came.

Now, it was your turn to overthink. Was this a mistake? What were you even going to say to him if he showed up? Yet, despite the nerves crawling up your spine, a strange excitement settled in your chest.

You texted back quickly.

Let me know when you’re on your way. I’ll be waiting.

Levi’s reply was almost instant.

Sure.

You set the phone down, pressing your palms to your cheeks in an effort to cool the heat that had crept there. You tell yourself that it’s just a casual visit. But you know the truth—you had crossed a line somewhere, and you weren’t sure if that was a good thing or the worst idea you’d ever had.

In a fit of panic, you actually squeal like a teenage girl as you run to the bathroom to fix yourself. You’re already done with your skincare for the night, ready to sleep. You were wearing a simple white shirt and pajama shorts. You pondered changing to better ones but that would make it more awkward, won’t it? Would he even notice?

A few minutes later, the knock on your door was firm but familiar. You glanced at your phone—he hadn’t texted that he was on his way, but here he was. With a deep breath, you pulled the door open and froze.

Levi stood there, a pack of beers dangling from one hand, his expression unreadable in the dim hallway light. The sight instantly took you back to college: the two of you sneaking out into the crisp night air, a six-pack in tow, finding hidden corners to share quiet moments over stolen drinks. The weight of nostalgia hit you square in the chest.

“You gonna let me in, or should I just drink these in the hallway?” Levi’s voice was dry, but there was a faint flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“Oh, right—sorry,” you stammered, stepping aside to let him in. “I wasn’t expecting… well, this.”

He raised an eyebrow as he walked in, glancing around your apartment. “What? You’re the one that suggested it. 

You shut the door behind him and leaned against it, watching as he casually set the beers on your small kitchen counter. He seemed completely at ease, but for you, it was anything but.

“I did,” you admitted, your voice softer now.

Levi turned to you, his gaze steady. “Yeah. Just like old times, huh?”

You smiled, “yeah.”

There was a pause as the memory hung in the air between you. Those nights had been different—easier. Back then, you hadn’t carried the weight of unresolved feelings, unanswered questions, and years apart.

“Did you drink there?” you asked finally, gesturing to the beers.

Levi shrugged, pulling out two bottles and popping them open with the opener you handed him from your drawer. He handed one to you and kept the other for himself.

“A little bit,” he said simply, before taking a sip.

You stared at the bottle in your hand, the cool glass grounding you in the moment. “I didn’t think you’d actually come”

Levi leaned back against the counter, his expression unreadable again. “It won’t be weird if you don’t make it weird.”

You let out a soft laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. “No. I guess not.”

“Good.” He tilted his bottle toward you in a silent toast, and you tapped yours against his.

As you took a sip, you felt a small knot in your chest loosen. Maybe things weren’t exactly normal, but for now, they felt… okay. The rest could wait. Tonight, you’re just two friends sharing beer together.

The two of you sat on the couch, each with a bottle in hand. The dim light from the lamp in the corner gave the room a cozy, almost nostalgic glow. Levi had started recounting the chaos of Moblit’s bachelor party, his tone dry but tinged with subtle amusement.

“You should’ve seen them. Moblit thought it’d be a great idea to challenge Miche to a drinking contest,” he said, shaking his head.

You let out a laugh, already picturing the disaster. “I don’t know about Moblit’s drinking habits but I already have an idea how that went down.”

“Moblit passed out after three shots. Miche kept going just to rub it in.”

You laughed harder, covering your mouth as you tried to catch your breath. “That sounds about right. Poor Moblit, though. It’s his party.” 

“He woke up before I left,” Levi muttered, taking another sip of his beer.

The conversation flowed easily, and you found yourself savoring every word. Levi wasn’t one to talk much, so when he did, it felt like you were being let into a part of him he rarely showed.

“So, what about Connie?” you asked, leaning forward. “He’s your secretary, right? I didn’t know he hung with your circle.”

Levi raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Connie? He’s one of Mikasa’s friends.”

“Mikasa?” you repeated, not having heard of that name in a while. She’s Levi’s distant cousin who stayed with him and Kuchel for a short while back when you weren’t even close. She would sometimes visit Levi back in college. 

“Yeah. She introduced me to Connie when I was starting out. Said he was an idiot but dependable. She wasn’t wrong.”

You grinned. “He is dependable, but an idiot? That’s harsh.”

Levi shrugged. “He’d agree. He’s good at his job, though. Took to it faster than I expected.”

“You sound like you’re proud of him,” you teased, nudging his shoulder lightly.

He scoffed but didn’t deny it. “He’s grown up. Better than most of the people I’ve had to deal with in this line of work.”

The two of you fell into a comfortable rhythm, trading stories and laughter. For the first time in a long time, it felt natural—like the years apart hadn’t created an unbridgeable gap.

As Levi talked about his employees and the antics at the party, you found yourself watching him closely. The way his usually sharp features softened when he allowed himself to relax, the faint smirk that appeared whenever he found something amusing—it all reminded you of why you’d been drawn to him in the first place.

It was rare to see him like this, and you knew it. So, you tucked the memory away, a quiet reminder that maybe, just maybe, things between you weren’t as broken as you feared. On the third bottle, a slight buzz is going on in your head, your laughter turns into hazy giggles, your words slurring a little, and the distance between you and Levi is a lot less than when you first started out.

As the night wore on, you began to notice the subtle signs of exhaustion creeping over Levi. The way his words grew slower, his responses shorter. His eyes, usually sharp and piercing, softened with the haze of sleep tugging at him. He rested his arm on the back of the couch, his beer bottle empty on the table between you.

“You look tired,” you said gently, looking into his eyes. You’re sitting shoulder to shoulder now so your faces were a bit close to each other. 

Levi raised an eyebrow, a ghost of his usual sarcasm in his tone. “Thanks. Always nice to hear.”

“I mean it,” you said, ignoring his quip. “You’ve had a long night, Levi. You should rest.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted, shifting as if to sit up straighter, though the motion only seemed to emphasize how drained he was.

You gave him a pointed look, crossing your arms. “You don’t look fine. Stay here tonight.”

Levi blinked, the suggestion catching him off guard. “Here?”

“Yes, here,” you said firmly. 

He glanced toward the door, hesitation flickering in his eyes. “I don’t want to bother you.”

“You’re not bothering me,” you replied quickly. “Besides, it’s late. No one’s going to hold it against you for getting some rest.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, his gaze meeting yours as if searching for any reason to argue. But instead of pushing back, he sighed, the fight leaving him.

“Fine,” he muttered, leaning back against the couch. “But don’t think I’m doing this because you’re convincing.”

You smiled, hiding your relief. “Sure, Levi. Whatever you say.”

As you got up to stretch while yawning, you caught the faintest curve of his lips. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to tell you that, at least for tonight, Levi didn’t mind staying.

“And you’re taking the bed,” you said firmly, standing with your hands on your hips as Levi gave you a flat look from the couch.

“Why? I’m fine here.” He gestured lazily at the cushions, though his tone was more annoyed than convincing.

“You’re not fine,” you argued, pointing at the couch. “This thing is terrible. I wouldn’t let my worst enemy sleep on it.”

Levi arched an eyebrow, leaning back slightly as if testing your claim. The faint creak of the cushions didn’t help his case. “It’s fine for one night.”

“It’s not,” you countered, crossing your arms. “You’ll wake up feeling like you got hit by a truck. Just take the bed, Levi. I’m not going to fight you on this.”

“I’m not kicking you out of your own bed,” he said, his tone definitive. “That’s final.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning against the armrest of the couch. “You’re not kicking me out. I’ll sleep in the guest room, or on this death trap if I have to.”

Levi sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to summon patience. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stubborn,” you shot back. “But I’m not budging on this. You’re tired, Levi. Just sleep in the damn bed.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before finally letting out a resigned breath. “Fine. But only because I don’t feel like arguing anymore.”

“Good,” you said, flashing him a triumphant smile. “I’ll grab you some fresh clothes and blanket.”

As you headed to your closet, you heard him mutter under his breath, something about “bossy” but you chose to let it slide. By the time you returned, Levi was already making his way toward your bedroom, his usual air of composure slightly softened by exhaustion.

“Thanks,” he said quietly as he passed you, his voice low but sincere.

“Don’t mention it,” you replied, watching as he disappeared into the room.

When the door clicked shut, you couldn’t help but smile to yourself. It felt good to take care of him for once, even if he’d grumble about it later.

An hour had passed, and you were still wide awake, shifting uncomfortably on the couch. The cushions were too thin, the springs poking through in ways that made it impossible to find a good position. Your back throbbed, and you let out a quiet groan as you rolled over again, glaring at the ceiling in frustration.

You’d insisted Levi take the bed. You were proud of that small victory—until now.

The sound of a door creaking open broke the silence, and your heart leapt into your throat. You glanced toward the hallway, half-expecting to see a shadowy figure, but instead, Levi stepped out.

He was barefoot, wearing your shirt and the pair of sweatpants that you assumed run in his size. His hair was a little messier than usual. He rubbed at his neck, his expression a mix of exhaustion and mild irritation.

“Why the hell are you groaning like an old man?” he asked, his voice low but carrying clearly in the quiet of the apartment.

You sat up, wincing as the movement sent another twinge through your back. “I wasn’t groaning,” you lied, trying to sound casual. “Just… adjusting.”

Levi raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorway. “Adjusting to dying on that piece of crap?”

“It’s fine,” you muttered, avoiding his gaze. “Go back to bed.”

He didn’t move. Instead, he sighed, his voice softening as he said, “You’re clearly not sleeping.”

“I’m fine,” you insisted again, though the wince that followed betrayed you.

Levi watched you for a moment, his sharp eyes taking in your obvious discomfort. Then, without a word, he walked over and stood beside the couch, staring down at you with that same unreadable expression he always wore.

“Get up,” he said simply.

“What?”

“Get up,” he repeated, gesturing toward the bedroom. “You’re not sleeping here.”

You blinked at him, surprised. “Levi, I told you—”

“And I’m telling you to stop being stupid and just lay down beside me,” he cut in, his tone firm but not unkind. “There’s plenty of space, and I’d rather not hear you groaning like a dying cat all night.”

Heat rose to your cheeks at his bluntness. “I—”

“Don’t argue,” he interrupted, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re already making this awkward. Just take the bed.”

You hesitated, your pride battling against the undeniable relief the offer promised. But the way he was looking at you—exasperated but sincere—finally tipped the scales.

“Fine,” you muttered, throwing off the thin blanket you’d been using.

Levi stepped back, giving you space as you stood up. He didn’t say anything as you followed him to the bedroom, and you weren’t sure if that made the situation better or worse.

When you both lay down, the silence stretched out, awkward but strangely comforting. The bed was warm, the mattress soft, and for the first time that night, your back stopped aching.

“Thanks,” you mumbled after a moment, keeping your eyes on the ceiling.

“Just go to sleep,” Levi replied, turning onto his side.

Despite his words, there was something in his tone—soft, almost gentle—that made you smile faintly as you closed your eyes. For the first time in hours, sleep came easily. Maybe it was the alcohol… or maybe it was the pair of arms that wrapped around your waist that pulled your back flushed to his warm chest later that night.

© levisolace. please do not copy, translate, claim any of my works. my works are cross-posted only on my ao3 account. reblogs, asks, and comments are also greatly appreciated. thank you.

[paperstorm]

Thanks for the tags @ironheartwriter @heartstringsduet @henrygrass and @nisbanisba!!

May I offer just a little bit from a scene that truly is one of my favourite scenes I have ever written.

-

“You know, I, uh …” TK lets his fingers wander over the strings, the rich sound of the acoustic floating through the cavernous theater. “I was supposed to come see you a few months ago. But I … um.”

TK swallows. Scattered shouts from the crowd bounce off the walls. He hadn’t decided, yet, whether he was going to talk about it on stage. He knew it would be a massive elephant in every room if he didn’t, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to summon the courage. Tonight, Carlos’s words from earlier in the week keep ringing in his head – his praise for the honesty and vulnerability in TK’s lyrics.

“I had some shit to work out,” TK says, settling on keeping it vague. He doesn’t doubt every person in the place knows what he’s talking about, he doesn’t need to spell it out for them. “So, I wanted to say I’m sorry for keeping you waiting, Chicago, and I really, really want to thank you for showing up tonight. It means a lot to me.”

The audience is momentarily deafening, and TK catches more than a few screeched We love you’s! Smiling and plucking at the strings, he says, “I love you guys, too. And I thought, uh. As a thank you for understanding why I had to cancel the last show, and for being willing to reschedule our night together, I thought maybe I’d play you guys something that I’ve never played live before.”

Laughter bubbles up out of him as the racket they make nearly brings the rafters down.

“Is that a ‘yes’?” he teases, to continued screaming. “Because it’s a song about you guys, actually. It’s about how much I love being here with you, and how scared I was that I was gonna let you down when things in my life weren’t going very well.”

The words catch in his throat. Movement distracts him for a moment and TK glances to his left, to find his bandmates in the wings, just out of sight of the crowd but visible from where he’s standing. Carlos, TK notices after a second, is with them. He smiles, and TK’s shaking hands calm just a little bit.

Tagging @theghostofashton @birdclowns @reyesstrand @strandnreyes @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut

@carlos-in-glasses @actual-sleeping-beauty @thisbuildinghasfeelings @herefortarlos @heartstringduet

@goodways @alrightbuckaroo @lightningboltreader @freneticfloetry

@liminalmemories21 @nancys-braids @whatsintheboxmh @bonheur-cafe

@reasonandfaithinharmony @thebumblecee @never-blooms @lemonlyman-dotcom

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[silentscrying]

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

guitarist!ino x drummer!reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you coming or not?”

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

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

Shoko waves a hand airily. “No problem.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up,” you mutter, elbowing him.

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

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

“Who do you think I am?”

“Toge Inumaki, chronically irresponsible student and—”

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

“Who’s that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He rolls his eyes. “Nothing.”

“Takuma—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey!”

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

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

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

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

Nobara hums noncommittally. “And?”

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

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

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

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

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

Takuma’s brows shoot up. “Gojo? Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, here we go,” Megumi groans.

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

And that his raps are truly, genuinely horrible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I could dance on newspapers,” Toge says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smirk and type out a reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

“I’m gonna die,” Nobara groans.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Toge blinks at you.

“Fine, maybe it’s Takuma.”

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

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

Yuta nods sagely. “Maki?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Motion Capture,” Maki says.

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

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

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

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

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

“Group project?” Maki asks.

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

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

“What,” Maki deadpans, not a question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kowalski, status report.”

She blinks at you. “What?”

“I said—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nevermind.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You wouldn’t dare.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus,” Maki says.

“Not him, Yuta.”

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

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

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

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

“Yes!”

—

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

Takuma stops it with one foot.

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

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

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

“Mm. Maybe later.”

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

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

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

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

“Who’s space buns?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What? Yeah, Fushiguro’s—”

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

“You didn’t know?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait, really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you,” you remind him.

“Well, I don’t know about that.”

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

“Great,” he says. “Skipper?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You need this like a lung.

directory | prev. |

jjk taglist open: just send me a message!

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

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

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

[rainbowswirlything]

Neopets Lore (and Theory) - Faerie Aging and Faerie Populations

Here's another fun poking-at-the-Neopets-canon post about faerie aging and population numbers (this is a long'un, so to be nice I'll put a Keep Reading break in to make it easier to scroll past in the #neopets tag. ;))

1. Faeries are very long-lived, and don’t seem to grow old. In Fyora’s and Illusen’s Neopedia articles, their ages are listed as “Ageless.” (Jhudora’s age, for the record, is listed as “She’s certainly not telling.”)

"Go on. Ask. See what happens."

Neopets, in contrast to faeries, have been described as mortal (such as in the Altadorian Book of Ages—“Siyana, the First to Rise, blessed [the city's] mortal heroes with the gift of great longevity”—plus I’m pretty sure Jhudora calls you a pitiful mortal or something like that as one of her quest-completion messages), which implies that faeries are immortal—that they don’t die of old age. (They do seem to be able to die of other causes; there’s at least one faerie ghost out there—Valeane, from the “Aethia and the Battle Faerie” Neopedia article.)

2. Faeries appear to, at minimum, go through a “teenager” phase during which at least some of them attend a school called the Faerieland Academy, though what that actually involves, age-wise, seems to be ambiguous—in the Neopedia article for Kaia, whose backstory involves leaving her homeland of Shenkuu to attend the Faerieland Academy, her age is simply listed as “Younger than most of her kind.”

"I'm [ambiguous] years old!"

It’s not known whether Kaia is literally a teenager when she goes to the Academy, or if faeries age differently—it’s possible, as long-lived beings, that they age more slowly and reach the faerie equivalent of adolescence at a much older age than Neopets (or humans); likewise, it’s possible that faeries are “born”/created from magic and never go through a baby/young child stage, jumping straight from nonexistence to the equivalent of teen-hood. (I don't believe an infant or toddler-stage faerie has ever shown up in canon.)

3. The ongoing existence of the Faerieland Academy implies that faeries are being born/created at a fairly steady rate—there’d be no need for a school for young faeries if there weren’t an ongoing stream of faerie youths to be schooled.

(It’s not impossible that Neopets might attend the Faerieland Academy as well—there’s an old TCG card that references a “Faerieland Magic Academy” that Neopet would-be mages could attend. However, this may not be the same as the Faerieland Academy that Kaia and other faeries go to, and Kaia’s article doesn’t mention her interacting with other Neopets as students—only faeries.)

"And all of those faeries are jerks!"

4. It’s not clear how faeries are born/created.

At least one faerie mentions her mother—in the “Aethia and the Battle Faerie” Neopedia article, Aethia introduces herself as “student of Shyvara, daughter of Dreeana.” There is also an item called “Illusen’s Family Recipe Cake,” which means that Illusen presumably has a family that passed down the recipe for that cake.

However, it’s never clearly stated whether these familial relationships come about through birth or adoption. It’s possible that faeries reproduce through parthenogenesis, or--given that they're magical creatures--just use some sort of spell to conjure up children out of thin air. It’s also possible that faeries simply pop up spontaneously from Neopia’s natural magic (or something like that) and are then adopted by an adult faerie, though that option raises an obvious question—what happens if a young faerie pops into existence somewhere remote, without any faeries or Neopets nearby?

(The worst option, of course, is for faeries to be like ants or honeybees, in which the Queen is responsible for producing all the eggs necessary to keep the colony going. I would not wish that on Queen Fyora--it seems like an awful lot of work, and ruling a city-state seems hard enough on its own.) (Though there's a part of me that's strangely amused by the idea of faeries being insect-like enough to have a grub-like larval stage.)

"Why would you even suggest that."

5. However it is more faeries enter Neopia, here we run into a problem—that is, population.

If faeries don’t die of old age, and more faeries keep being born/created… eventually you’re going to start seeing overcrowding.

This presents a few possibilities:

a) Faeries do actually die of old age; it’s just that none of them have hit that age yet.

If Dr. Sloth's Neopedia article is to be believed, Neopia as we know it came into existence around 2,000 years ago—prior to that, Neopia was a wasteland without Neopets or faeries, until one day the world spontaneously became covered with greenery and Neopets popped into existence (much to Dr. Sloth’s dismay—he’d liked having a nice wasteland to fill with cool mutants!). It’s possible that faeries do have a maximum lifespan, but it’s simply higher than the number of years faeries have existed as a species. After a certain point, therefore, the faerie population could then stabilize.

b) Faeries do actually die of old age, and some have already done so, but faeries don’t like to talk about it—and might even deliberately hide their mortality from Neopets.

We know that Fyora has been Queen for at least 1,000 years (since she was the one to seal away the Darkest Faerie 1,000 years ago), so faerie lifespans would have to be at least 1,000-plus-however-old-Fyora-was-when-she-became-Queen, but (again, assuming the Dr. Sloth article is accurate) less than 2,000-and-change.

(As a side note, it’s implied that Fyora wasn’t the first Faerie Queen; according to the description of the (on-site item) book A New Day, Fyora was once an “up-and-coming faerie princess,” which raises the question of what might have happened to the previous Queen—untimely death, abdication, or something else?).

c) Faeries don’t die of old age, but after a certain point they leave Neopia in some manner.

Perhaps they abandon their physical forms and ascend to a higher plane of existence, or merge back with the natural magic of Neopia, or something… which seems a lot like death, actually, depending on one’s spiritual beliefs. Or maybe faeries have a retirement home on a planet next door (though that really just kicks the overpopulation can down the road).

d) Faeries don’t die of old age, don’t disappear from Neopia, and are, at some point, going to have to grapple with the whole overpopulation issue.

Digging too deeply into that train of thought could get a bit more dystopian than I’d necessarily like from a petsite, but hey, there it is.

"What a depressing topic..."

6. Leaving aside future concerns about faerie overpopulation—how many faeries are there, anyways?

There isn’t a solid answer for the whole of Neopia, but the Neopedia does give a few specific numbers that could be used.

The “A Dark Faerie” and “A Light Faerie” articles both have estimated populations for dark and light faeries—25,000 for dark faeries, and 33,000 for light faeries.

If we were to take those numbers and extrapolate them for the other elements—the mean of those two numbers is 29,000, so for this exercise we’ll assume that’s a reasonable average for each element—we’d get around 174,000 faeries in Neopia.

However, that is definitely not the total population, because there’s another source of faerie population data: the Neopedia article for Faerieland.

According to that Neopedia article, the total population of Faerieland is 1,620,000, 80% of which is composed of faeries. 80% of 1,620,000 is 1,296,000 total faeries—and that’s just in Faerieland; there are also faeries living outside of Faerieland (though the ratio of non-Faerieland faeries to Faerieland faeries is unknown).

Still, this leaves us with a few options:

a) Normal option: Whoever wrote the Faerieland Neopedia article simply didn’t use the numbers from the “A Dark Faerie” and “A Light Faerie” articles (which is fair enough; it’s not like those population numbers were a vital part of Neopets lore that would cause issues if retconned) Besides, other aspects of those articles are a bit outdated anyways--the dark faerie article straight-up says that dark faeries are evil (vs. the current canon that they can be good or evil, like any other faerie).

b) Hilarious option #1: The population numbers in the “A Dark Faerie” and “A Light Faerie” articles were accurate to the state of Neopia at the time the articles went live, but the faerie population has exploded exponentially in the years between those articles and the Faerieland article. How or why this could have happened is anyone’s guess, but now faeries have a massive Baby Boom generation.

c) Hilarious option #2: The population numbers in “A Dark Faerie” and “A Light Faerie” are accurate; dark and light faeries are extremely outnumbered by faeries of every other element.

If we were to assume that literally every dark and light faerie lives in Faerieland (demonstrably not the case, but let’s roll with it for now), then that’s a total of 1,238,000 faeries who are neither dark nor light vs. 58,000 total who are. Assuming a relatively-even population distribution between earth, air, fire, and water (though you could argue that there’d be a lower ratio of water faeries, as given that they have mermaid tails instead of legs they’d likely prefer to live in… well… the water), then that’s around 309,500 faeries of each of the non light/dark elements, which would mean there were a little over 9 faeries of any other of the “main” elements for every light faerie, a little over 12 faeries of any of the other “main” elements for every dark faerie, and, grouping the dark/light and earth/air/fire/water elements together, a little over 21 non-dark/light faeries for every dark/light faerie.

But again—that’s only using Faerieland numbers. The numbers from the “A Dark Faerie” and “A Light Faerie” articles appear to be for all Neopia, so the ratios would be even more lopsided as long as there are significant populations of faeries outside of Faerieland (which is surely the case; I don’t think Balthazar is walking right into to Faerieland and bottling faeries in the streets).

"Personally, I think we could use a few more of us around... but at least dark faeries are in the same boat."

But really, this one can probably be chalked up to those two older articles having relatively-arbitrary numbers slapped on them years before the Faerieland article was written and someone having to ask themselves "hey, Faerieland seems like a pretty big city... what's a reasonable population?"

[sapphiresaphics]

Okay, I’m seeing a lot of people saying that the themes and character arcs don’t make sense in Arcane.

So I’m gonna help you out a little bit.

Arcane is about duality. Viktor spells it out for you in the episode of the same title: “the message hidden in the pattern.” It’s two sides of the same coin. Good and bad. Oil and water. Topside and bottom. Magic and science.

Every single aspect of this show, including the structure of both seasons, follows this theme template. It even extends into characters in the show. For example: Vander is big, but gentle. Silco is weak, but vicious. Piltover is supposed to be this bastion of reason, but they do the most heinous of acts to the poor.

This is why there are two cities. This is why there’s conflict between the two. This is why season 1 was about the fight for respect, and season 2 is about the fight against oppression and fear. This is why Ekko gets transported to a “good” future, while Jayce goes to a “bad” future. Hextech can be used for the greatest of goods, but can also be used for the most wickedest of evils.

This is also why characters shift their arcs between seasons. Caitlyn starts out with principals and morals, but in season 2 she loses them and becomes corrupt. Jinx starts out crazy and untamed, but then she becomes sane and calm. Sevika goes from taking sides and infighting amongst each other to trying to hold everyone together. Jayce goes from idealized scientist to corrupt politician. Viktor starts with noble intentions but then becomes selfish and uncaring.

So I really do not understand what people mean when they say the themes are “confusing” because they really are not. The themes are quite transparent and upfront about it.

So if at any point you feel something doesn’t make sense, try thinking about it in terms of duality and see if there are any earlier parallels that the show is drawing from. Like how we are introduced to Powder falling off a building and needing Vi to catch her, to ending on Jinx falling off a building and needing Vi to let go. Every single scene has a point and a counterpart somewhere else in the show.

I also think that’s why 2 seasons is all we needed. I do not think this theme of duality would’ve worked with a show that didn’t have dual seasons, you know?

I dunno, just some thoughts to think about.

[rita-repulsa-ke]

The nice one

Sometimes Agatha falls into the trap of thinking of Rio as the nice one.

It isn’t even true! She’s feral and weird, growls at people who get too close, gets them chased out of towns by prophesying someone’s death or proudly proclaiming Agatha her lover. But she buys fruit from passing children and listens to people’s woes and is generally a little more friendly to the world than Agatha, who hates to have her time wasted and is often mean for her own amusement.

So sometimes Agatha forgets who she’s traveling with, until they hear a shrill voice screaming for help, a child of 8 or so splashing desperately in a creek alongside the path they’re currently walking. Rio pivots immediately, lopes over and crouches at the edge of water, Agatha a few steps behind.

When Agatha glances down, she finds that the look on Rio’s face can only be described as excited, watching events unfold with parted lips and wide, unblinking eyes. She has her knife in her hand, tip flicking back and forth like a cat’s tail.

“Hey, Rio…” Agatha murmurs, eyes flicking between her lover and the drowning child.

Death doesn’t spare her a glance. That annoys Agatha to a frankly unreasonable degree, she hates when she’s not the center of Rio’s attention. And even she is having trouble simply standing and watching this. No matter what Rio occasionally accuses her of, she isn’t actually heartless.

The spell is easy enough, a quick swirl of her magic and the waters rise, spit the sobbing child on to shore.

Now Rio’s attention is back on her, a frown on her lips, sulking in a very human way, like she’d been deprived of a promised delicacy.

Agatha shrugs innocently. “You can’t really expect me to watch a child drown,” she points out. “That would be monstrous.”

A few feet away, the child, a girl, is still coughing up water. Agatha ignores her entirely.

“Ags, you are a monster. Does it matter that it’s a child?”

“I think it’s supposed to?” Agatha says. She’s heard that somewhere, anyway.

Rio sighs and comes to her feet. “Make it up to me,” she instructs, almost orders and Agatha isn’t sure how to feel about that at all, so she just watches Death glide past on bare feet to crouch next to the half-drowned girl.

“Are you all right?” she asks.

The child nods, trembling. As Agatha watches, mildly incredulous, Rio gently coaxes some information out of her, where she’s from and that she knows the way back home.

“Ags, give her your cloak, she’ll freeze getting back.”

“What? No!” Agatha snaps. She likes this cloak, it looks good on her.

Rio rolls her eyes, but finds one of their blankets, wraps it around the girl, manages to get a smile out of the girl by producing a flower out of thin air and handing it to her before she sends her on her way.

“Okay,” she says, standing up and turning her attention back to Agatha. “Where to next?”

Agatha only stares. “…I don’t understand you at all.”

Rio snorts. “That’s because I’m ineffable.”

“I really don’t think that’s it. What was all that about?”

Rio has moved too close, barely a step away from Agatha. It’s actually comforting, she used to it by now, the continuous presence of Rio in her personal bubble. “All what?”

”Why were you so nice to her?”

Rio shrugs. “She was scared and she’d almost drowned and it didn’t cost me anything. So why not?”

“You wanted her to drown!”

Rio sighs plaintively, leans her weight against Agatha’s side. “I did,” she agrees, a touch wistful. “I always like to watch. But it didn’t happen that way. Someone interfered.” She giggles to herself. “Suddenly Agatha Harkness is bothered by death.”

“I’m bothered by Death all the time,” Agatha murmurs. “…Did you really have to give her the blanket? Now we need another one.”

Rio offers her the smug smile of someone who has been planning this particular bit of innuendo for a while. “I have other suggestions for staying warm.”

Agatha groans loudly. “You know, my sweet, you may be a great and mysterious force of the universe, but your flirting technique could use some serious work.”

Rio frowns, kicks her foot against the dirt. “…I thought it was nice.”

“All I’ll say about it is that it’s good you’re gorgeous,” Agatha says, which makes Death fix her with an icy, unimpressed look, an expression that would terrify most people.

It only pleases Agatha. Annoying people, even (or perhaps especially) her lover, is her favorite pastime. “…Hey, I did say you were gorgeous. Does that get me any points?”

“No, but if you kiss me now, I’ll forget all about it.”

“What a hard choice,” Agatha murmurs, pulling her lover to her, kissing her slow and sweet, one arm around the other’s woman waist. When she finally pulls back, Death, ineffable and endless, is practically melted against her.

“Hey,” Agatha says thoughtfully. “Does this mean I’m the nice one?”

Rio raises her head from where it was buried against Agatha’s shoulder, somehow without engaging most of the required muscles. “…Sure, Agatha. You’re the nice one.”

“I always thought so,” Agatha lies. “Come, m’lady,” she says, taking Death’s hands in hers.

“Where are we going?” Rio asks, though they both know she doesn’t really care.

Agatha flashes her a wicked smile and gets to feel Rio’s hand tighten around hers, eyes widening again with excitement, but this time all of it correctly centered on Agatha. “Well, you did tell me to make it up to you.”

Promises is cute, the apple has Rio buying fruit from a child.

[mydadleft471]

Okay to anyone who cares because this show has destroyed me hehehe

Anywho, spoilers for Arcane Season 2 Act 3…

Or just Season 2 in general.

what the fuck.

Okay. Okay. I love the lesbians. But the CaitVi sex scene seemed kinda… off? Like the making out and shit was good (ahahaha I’m so bisexual it hurts) but like… Vi just got abandoned by her sister. Her sister that she’s had a VERY troubled relationship with, one she just got back and almost died protecting. Now she’s out and about and has implied that she’s going to do something drastic. And Cait just walks in there all sexy and she’s like “did you think we needed that many guards on the bridge teehee wink wink” and they just start fucking? Like I’m all for it, but it just feels very… off. I would’ve liked it better if they had angry sex in the scene where Vi founds out Jinx was arrested. Idk. Felt off to me.

And and and… Jinx’s “sacrifice?” I’m saying that lightly because people have pointed out very good reasons to why she might still be alive and she just left which opens up a whole other can of worms but that’s beside the point! Anyway, like… it felt so pointless! She’s fought and survived and dealt with so much loss and grief and I understand that Silco told her to walk away and break the cycle but… that’s Silco. The man who never forgave Vander (maybe he did in the “is there anything so undoing as a daughter” scene but ya know) and paid the fucking price? Why couldn’t Jinx break the cycle of hatred and learn to coexist with her sister? To deal with her mistakes head on? To help put that explosive power to good use? It just doesn’t make sense in my brain. I hated it tbh. It felt like such an intentional (shallow) emotional grab to “kill” one of the most beloved characters in the series. Maybe it’s just me, but I hated it.

Mel is cool tho. She is such a woman. A fucking powerhouse and it felt so good to watch her use her golden powers.

So is Ekko. I love him. He’s done so much. I love the consensus that they had to throw Ekko into the wild rune thingy otherwise he’d be too productive and save everyone before anything ever happened. That’s so him.

Poor Jayce. He went THROUGH IT. And Viktor’s design? The way his mask literally splits his face? And the gay power and ultimate sacrifice they did at the end? YES. So fucking good. Viktor’s scenes have been STUNNING this season and I’ve been eating it up like stuffing and gravy on Thanksgiving.

Arcane is certainly a one-of-a-kind show. I’ve never felt so emotionally invested before. I’ve never cried and then danced around my room with joy in such a small amount of time before. Fortiche (I think I’m spelling that right) had the weight of the universe on their shoulders, and boy did they deliver, but there are a few hang-ups. That doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy the show or I want my time back. Absolutely not. I loved the ride and I’ll definitely be thinking about Arcane for a long time. What a show.

[sloanesallow]

Mama's Potatoes

Sebastian can't cook. Good thing the Niffler can. (Written for the OHL Discord server November prompt; "Comfort Food".) Sebastian Sallow x F!MC (Siobhan Sloane) Tags: Fluff, domestic married life, pregnancy, Sebastian can't cook and you can fight me, Peter the Niffler. 1.7k words [Ao3] | [Wattpad] | [Tumblr Masterlist]

Sebastian doesn’t know what he’s doing.

It’s a rare feeling. He’s not stupid—he wouldn’t be the youngest curse-breaker at the Ministry if he were—and usually knows how to handle a daunting situation. Crazed Inferi, dangerous artifacts, unusual hexes, you name it. But this…this is a new level of difficulty.

He’s been standing in the kitchen since sunrise, flipping through old cookbooks and Sloane’s recipe journals, looking for something—anything—within his skillset. Despite his wife’s numerous demonstrations and seemingly limitless patience, he has never quite gotten the hang of cooking. If his father-in-law were there, he’d scold Sebastian. What self-respecting man can’t cook for his pregnant, bedridden wife?

He hates this, hates that he isn’t good at something so simple.

It should, in theory, be akin to potions, which he excels at. But alchemy isn’t the same as cuisine—you can’t just throw everything in a pot and hope for the best—not if you want it to taste good. Cooking is science, not magic, regardless of how easy Sloane makes it look. Maybe that’s why she’s so good at it, because she insists on doing it without spells. She’s a natural, and Sebastian…

Well, it’s a good thing he provides in other ways.

With the birth of their child imminent, however, she’s resigned to the bed, on strict orders from the nurses at St. Mungos to keep off her feet. This leaves Sebastian in charge of the meals, which he knows are lackluster, even if Sloane never complains. If they were still in London, he’d pop out and grab something from the local shops, or hire one of the house elves in their old building as a cook. But they moved to the countryside in preparation for Little Sallow’s arrival, settling down where he’ll need to be self-sufficient.

What he wants is to prepare something hearty and healthy, something warm to lift her spirits before the baby comes. Sebastian allows himself five more minutes of wallowing in self-pity before opening another worn journal, hoping he’ll see something he’s helped Sloane make before. These recipes aren’t in her familiar script, but he quickly finds something promising—Beef Stew.   

Except…half the instructions are in Irish.

Sebastian grumbles to himself—just another thing he hasn’t mastered. He’s learned a few languages in his lifetime, largely due to the thirst for knowledge and travel associated with his work, but Irish isn’t one of them. And while his wife is of Irish descent, she speaks it so infrequently that he never caught on.

“This must be her mum’s,” he says aloud, discouraged. He continues to read over the old parchment and the idea of surprising Sloane with one of her mother’s recipes is too enticing to shake.

Sebastian is nothing if not ambitious.

The best-case scenario is that he manages to cook a delicious meal. Worst case, he blows up their kitchen. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Emboldened, he gets to work, rolling up his sleeves and clearing off the counter so he has space to prep. Instructions in hand, he grabs everything he needs—or thinks he needs—pots and pans and cutlery, and lights the stove with the flick of his wand. Before he can do anything else, it is yanked out of his hand and he whirls around to find Peter, Sloane’s beloved Niffler, already stashing the wand away in his pouch.

“Merp!”

“Hey!” Sebastian shouts before clenching his jaw, glancing toward the hallway that leads to where Sloane is still sleeping. He looks back at Peter in annoyance. The two tolerate each other, but mostly bicker about who Sloane loves more. “Give that back, Peter. I need it—”

“Merp!” he interrupts, batting Sebastian’s hand away when he tries to touch his fur.

Sebastian sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t have time for this.”

Peter makes a series of noises that sound very much like the Niffler is mocking him as he stares at the tattered journal in Sebastian’s hands.

“What?” he sarcastically laughs. “Are you going to help me?”

For a Niffler, Peter is incredibly expressive, furrowing his brow and blinking his beady little eyes. “Merp.”

Sebastian can’t believe he’s about to have a Niffler be his sous-chef. “Fine.”

“It’s beef stew, at least I hope it is,” he continues, reading over the recipe again. “Sloane must have it memorized because I’ve never seen her use this.”

Peter chitters.

“Right,” he mumbles, moving to the cold box where they keep their perishables. “At least this is in English. Two pounds of roast, cut into small cubes.”

Sebastian places the parchment-wrapped meat on the counter before scratching at his chin. “One point of…what is…prátaí?” He frowns, reluctantly looking at Peter for guidance.  

The Niffler huffs and carefully scales down the side of the counter before scurrying toward the garden door. He pushed through the little flap Sloane installed, poking his head back in a moment later to glare.

“MERP!”

Sebastian follows after the little beast until they are in the middle of Sloane’s vegetable garden. There’s a little bit of everything, and even though they have the space (and magic) to grow whatever her heart desires, she’s kept a modest size. Peter digs at the soft soil, right beneath a small plot marker that reads Mama’s Potatoes.

“Oh,” Sebastian hums, feeling dumber than before. He grabs a nearby basket before crouching down to take the unearthed potatoes from Peter. “Since when do you know Irish?”

“Merp,” Peter answers, as if to say ‘I’m smarter than you, Sallow’.

The Niffler continues to roam the garden, bringing Sebastian the vegetables and herbs he needs for the meal. When the basket is full, the two head back inside where Peter monitors the prep work with an intimidating aura that rivals Papa Sloane.

Sebastian follows the instructions the best he can, relying on memory and Peter’s so-called translations. He tenses every time routinely grabs his wrist to correct his movements, wondering if he should hand over the knife to let Peter cut the vegetables but figures. Then again, the last thing he needs right now is a knife-wielding Niffler. 

He cooks the meat in a hot skillet until the cut pieces are lightly browned, before moving on to the vegetables—sauteing the diced onion, garlic, rosemary, and bay leaves until they are soft. Peter pushes over the bottle of red wine, and Sebastian carefully pours the liquid into the pan, stirring until Peter gestures to add the beef broth. Once everything is combined, he adds back in the meat and secures the lid before placing it into the hot oven.

“Should be ready in…” he reads over Mama Sloane’s instructions.

“Merp,” Peter chirps, tapping the counter three times.

“Three hours,” Sebastian nods.

He takes some time to tidy up and quietly sneaks down the hall to see his wife still fast asleep. Too nervous to leave the food unattended again, he makes himself comfortable on the floor in front of the oven and starts counting the minutes as they pass by. Peter joins him for a little while but eventually disappears, only returning when it’s time to add in the rest of the vegetables.  

An hour later, Sebastian holds his breath, protective mitts trembling as he pulls the steaming pot from the oven. He prays to Merlin, and maybe a few other deities, before slowly lifting the lid to inspect the final product. Peter climbs back onto the counter to peer inside, his bill opening slightly as he sniffs the air.

“Want some?” Sebastian quips, scooping a hefty portion into a bowl.

Peter shakes his tiny head. “Merp.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Sebastian mutters, taking a bite for himself. It’s not bad, though he isn’t sure if that means it’s good, either. It certainly tastes just about the same as when Sloane makes it, but doubt swirls in his mind. “I hope she likes it.”

If he hoped for some semblance of encouragement from Peter, he doesn’t receive it. Instead, the Niffler huffs and leaps from the counter before scampering away. Sebastian reminds himself to find the little troublemaker later so he can get his wand back. Good thing Peter can’t perform magic—right?

Sebastian places the bowl onto a tray, along with a spoon and a cloth napkin. He tears off some bread from the loaf he (barely managed) to bake the day before and runs back out to the garden to pluck a few flowers for good measure. After steadying his nerves the best he can, he ventures back down the hall to the bedroom.

Sloane is awake now, reclining in their bed, eyes closed as she smooths her hands across her rounded belly. She glances up as Sebastian crosses the threshold, surprise lighting up her expression when she spots the tray in his hands.

“You cooked?” she asks, struggling to sit up. Sebastian quickly sets the food down on the nightstand so he can help her, softly laughing at the way she’s too focused on the steam rising from the bowl to cooperate. She sniffs the air. “Is that…my mother’s stew?”

He falters when he notices the shine of tears in her eyes, making sure she’s comfortably leaning against the pile of pillows. Her emotions have been heightened, to put it mildly, throughout the pregnancy, but he still didn’t anticipate tears.

“Hey, hey,” he coos, brushing back her hair and swiping his thumbs across her cheeks. “It’s alright, sweetheart. I just wanted to make sure you don’t starve.”

“Well I am starving,” she whines and he holds back his amusement, kissing away her pout.

“Here,” he says, making sure Sloane has a good handle on the bowl before leaning back. “I uhh…hope it turned out right.”

Sloane takes a moment to take in the aromas, smiling at him with glossy eyes as she stirs the bowl. “Thank you.”

Sebastian can’t respond, not when he’s still terrified that he’s done something wrong. He watches her, unblinking, as she finally takes a taste. As soon as the spoon is in her mouth, her eyes go wide and she goes still. He panics, leaning forward to grasp her shoulders and tug the spoon from her hand and mouth.

“Sloane? What is it—oh fuck—” he curses, heart racing, clumsily placing the food back on the tray before fussing over her again. “Did I poison you? Are you dying?”

Sloane snaps out of the trance to shake her head, her mouth twitching into a shaky smile. She grabs one of Sebastian’s hands and presses it to her enlarged abdomen. His chest tightens for a completely different reason when she finally speaks.

“I think the baby’s coming.”

[meli-writes]

Cupcakes

Shut off the lights. Count the float. Lock the front door, from the inside. Check the parking lot is clear. Lock the back door, from the outside. Go home and forget the shitty fucking day she just had—

“Uhh, hey?”

“What the fuck!?” Brooke screams. “Shit fuck.”

Her hand dives straight into the handbag, spiked to match her face because corporate hasn’t managed to send an inspector out here in three years, and her middle-aged boss thinks it ‘reminds him of his daughter.’

She’s still rifling through, for miniature mace or a non-existent switchblade, when the voice coughs and continues, “Could I—”

“You fucking left — earlier,” Brooke interrupts, dipping the toes of her coffee-stained sneakers into the bronze disc under the lamppost. She stares the not-quite stranger down, leaning on the twisting chrome of her bike, and sneers, “I saw you ride off earlier. The lot was clear.”

It had seemed like six dudes at the table. All heckling at each other, bumping leather-clad shoulders to fit into the booth. It was enough of a red flag for her to instinctively glance around, looking for anyone else unlucky enough to be closer. Of-fucking-course not.

And it wasn’t until she was standing there, plastered with an agonised smile that cracked the poison-frog make-up around her eyes, that she realised two of those shoulders were hers. Now the biker girl rolls them softly, but it’s still obvious how much bigger she is than her; and even if it’s lost on the clueless bitch, it’s not on her.

“And I did,” the biker admits. “But I also rode back a bit earlier. Didn’t realise you couldn’t see me but look, if you want me to leave again I can—”

“Fucking leave.”

“—I’m Chip, by the way,” she continues — stumbled inelegantly over the sudden, apparently unpredicted and obvious answer. “I wanted to apologise — for earlier.”

“And I want you to leave,” Brooke says; hand still stuck in the bag, and a snarl stuck pressing her cheeks up against her nose.

The biker girl — 'chip' — looks at her, crossed eyes peering through a messy thicket of poisonously-dyed hair that the internet says tells men to fuck off and never actually does. It at least seems to make Chip do it, pivoting her boot to flick up the bike's kickstand.

Brooke huffs to herself — at herself — for what she knows is a dumb idea, “Wait.”

“Do it,” she orders. “Apologise.”

“Ah. Shit. I uhh—” Chip the biker mutters, pulling on the creased edges of her jacket. “I’m— sorry?”

“For what?” Brooke presses.

“For like— when you were asking about desserts, and I said I wanted the uhh…”

Now Brooke doesn’t need to hear her say it — because it’s been looping in her head all fucking afternoon. But she does want to hear it, so she taps her foot and watches the full-head taller muscle-girl jump in time with it.

“I asked for four cupcakes. Two in the front.” Chip looks at her like she’s lost, like Chip didn’t remember exactly where the diner was so she could drive hours back through empty farmland to be here. “And two in back.”

Brooke doesn't let up on the sharply pointed directions, "Meaning?"

“That I wanted to see your tits and ass,” Chip admits, at least finishing quicker than Brooke can pour a new cup of hours-stale diner coffee.

Brooke hums for a spell, and then, “You’re a pig. You know that, right?”

“Yeah I—”

“Ha!” Brooke laughs, mouth curling to show the neat set of bedazzled, overdue braces, and watching Chip blush through chocolate-chip freckles.

“I just wanted to show off to my brothers. Fit in with them while still being,” Chip mutters while fumbling at a pride patch evidently torn-off and resewn a dozen times over, “me.”

“They’re assholes, okay,” she offers weakly, “but they accept me.”

“And for hanging out with them, trying to fit in with them, that makes you what?”

“Also an asshole.”

“Ding!” Brooke snaps her fingers, and lets the dozen-or-so beaded and paperclip-chain bracelets slip down her coffee-spill burn-spattered arm. “You done?” she asks.

“Yeah. That was it. Sorry,” Chip says and glances towards the lot exit and the moon peeking over the decades-rusted diner sign. “Maddy, yeah? It’s an empty road so if you wanna watch and make sure I’m gone before you leave yourself—”

“No.”

“Uhh…”

“It’s a fake name on the uniform. You know for assholes like you,” Brooke says, and enjoys letting Chip bake in the discomfort. After a few aching moments she offers a reprieve, “I’m Brooke. And you are a chauvinist, leatherdyke asshole.

But— if I had to go home right now, I’d be fingering myself all night to you.”

Chip chokes on the gum that’s been circling in her cheeks for the past hour, and nearly tips her bike over from stumbling back into it, and doesn’t get any words out before Brooke’s popped the buttons of the undersized, clashing, retro-teal diner shirt, and dropped it on the concrete to show off the black lace push-up underneath.

It’s not hiding anything. It’s not meant to.

“Cupcakes, you said?”

“Fuck,” Chip manages to muster at last, and sees her own breath in front of her. “W-wait. Isn’t it kinda cold out here?”

“Then give me your jacket, and keep my cupcakes warm with your hands,” Brooke says straightforwardly, and once Chip shakes the stupor she hangs the leather morass over Brooke’s shoulders and lets it swallow her except for the bare front; runs her hands up to squeeze fat tits together, slipping a hand under the band to massage the marks from wearing a fuck-me bra to a nowhere diner for work all-day.

Brooke herself is looking down Chip’s arms, taking the scuffs and scars from stupid brawls with drunk brothers and learning to ride after to keep up with them. She lets her own hand push into Chip’s crotch, smiles when she feels how hard Chip is.

“You were thinking about this too, weren’t you?” she asks.

“Y-you don’t mind that I’ve got one?”

“No,” Brooke snickers, and then pauses to correct. “No, not at all.”

She leans in closer, letting her breath fall in Chip’s ear, the lust pulsing through her stripping composure, “But you’ve been thinking about it between my cupcakes. Haven’t you?”

Chip’s entire self shakes, as if she came just from hearing it. “Yes!” she blurts out. “I-I mean— yeah, totally, that sounds hot.”

“Hmm. Be patient then,” Brooke says as she pulls back, running through the split in Chip’s top to claw at her back and rake a hand through home-clipped hair. “Wanted to apologise,” Brooke parrots. “Sure. Wanted to get rewarded more-like, for fucking trailer-park chivalry.”

Every part of the giant butch melts between her fingers, except for the one part she can see fighting and losing to her thick, leather pants. “We’ll get to you,” she tells it. “First though…”

“Ahh! Hold on—” Chip squeals, as Brooke flips her luridly-short skirt up and mounts Chip’s thigh. It doesn’t even feel like she’s wearing anything underneath, and Chip shakes herself as she thinks how close her uninvited hand came earlier today.

“Shush,” she’s told, and it’s easy to be quiet and listen to nothing but the tatted-up, college drop-out dream that’s fucking herself on Chip’s prostrated, shuddering thigh to the tune of the thud-thud in her chest.

“They’re riding leathers,” Brooke reminds. “They can get wet.”

---

(Masterpost)

[steampunkhobo]

If you don’t think Young Mungo had a happy ending don’t talk to me 😤❌

[bakudekublogblog]

kacchan is standing before him, openly weeping, childishly professing he wanted a forever with him and Izuku is like ?? kacchan haha do you have brain damage ?? horikoshi when I fucking catch you

[stuck-in-jelly]

Obsessed with how Claudia and Soren view magic.

Claudia views magic as something amazing and special, even dark magic despite having to ‘harvest’ from living creatures in order to use it. Because in the end how could something that helps her friends and family be bad? How could something that saved an entire kingdom from starvation be evil?

Soren meanwhile doesn’t care about dark magic vs primal magic. In his eyes Dark magic can be used for immense good just as much as Primal magic can be used for horrific evils. At the end of the day all magic has ever done is divide people and cause years of suffering.

But they are both such hypocrites (affectionate).

Claudia views dark magic as a gift, something to take pride in having. But when she is finally broken down she reflects back she feels disgusted at herself for viewing living creatures as parts. Then when pushed into a dangerous situation she cried out “Don’t make me! Don’t make me do dark magic!”

Soren believes the world would be better without magic at all. Yet he turned to it, he looked his father in his eyes and said “You have your other way! Dark magic.” Not caring that Viren explained the original spell was a primal spell and the new spell would require a terrible sacrifice.

[scooberish]

Scooby Doo fans when the autistic character exhibits autistic traits: 😡🤬