Levi Ackerman

you snap at him.

Levi Ackerman

|| he finds you in the river

Levi Ackerman

|| you almost drowned

Levi Ackerman - OVA

🪽|| "come on out, stalker,"

Levi Ackerman

|| you got hurt during a mission

Levi Ackerman

🧱 || him and hange find you outside the wall

Megumi Fushiguro

| he's hurt. ✨

Levi Ackerman

LeviHan || an argument

levi ackerman

|| he puts you to bed

Levi Ackerman

|| you hurt your leg :(

levi ackerman

levihan || stars

levi ackerman

cauterization

Levi Ackerman

levihan || "i'm fine"

chris cornell

It’s 1993. Seattle’s soaked again — rain on everything, damp in your bones. Layne was in a weird mood all day, halfway quiet, half-asleep on the couch with a cigarette burned out between his fingers. He was dealing with the aftermath of the flu he got from kissing some girl.You asked if he wanted to go out, maybe get food, see someone play. He just blinked at you. “Nah. You go. I’m gonna stay here and… exist.” "Alright. Feel better, sorry that girl got you sick," You kissed his temple and left. He didn’t say anything else. You didn’t know Soundgarden was playing until you got to the bar. The Crocodile’s buzzing, even from outside. When you walk in, it’s shoulder-to-shoulder with flannel and boots, the stage lights already cutting through a wall of smoke. And then there’s Chris — up front, shirt clinging to him, hair wet with sweat, voice ripping through the place like it’s tearing something out of his chest. Kim’s going off on guitar, Ben’s headbanging with his whole body. It’s loud, gritty, hypnotic. You can’t take your eyes off them. When they finish, you try to slip out — but Chris spots you first. Calls your name over the bar noise. “You gonna ghost me or say hi?” You smile and walk over. It’s been a while, but it’s easy — it always has been with him. He pulls you into a hug that’s warm and damp and smells like cheap beer and hotel shampoo. “Damn, it’s been what — months?” “At least,” you laugh. “Didn’t even know you were playing.” “Wasn’t planned,” he says. “Just showed up and plugged in.” Before you know it, you’re at a booth with the whole band. Kim’s already on his second whiskey, Ben’s drawing nonsense in the condensation on the table, and Matt’s asking if you still have that old leather jacket he gave you on tour two years ago. Chris sits across from you, leaning in with that half-smirk of his. “So, how’s Layne?” You nod. “Good. Quiet lately." He hums. “That’s rare.” Chris studies you a little too long, then looks away. “Well, for what it’s worth... you look better than the last time I saw you.” You shrug. “Our relationships a bit choppy. Don't think we really care about cheating."

Levi Ackerman

|| hange and you find him injured

levi ackerman

notes. || levihan

levi ackerman

"what do you want?" 😫

levi ackerman

levihan || insomnia

Levi Ackerman

you're historia's sister and tried to save her s3

Levi Ackerman

He was captured

levi ackerman

levihan || SICK LEVI

Layne Staley

You wake up to the sound of retching. At first you think it’s part of a dream — some warped echo from the street outside, or Mike talking in his sleep again. But then it comes again. Harsh, guttural. From the bathroom. You sit up. The room is dark except for the streetlight bleeding through the crack in the curtains. Everyone else is out cold — Sean face-down on the floor, Mike half on the second bed, and Jerry snoring faintly in the armchair by the window. You slip off the bed quietly, heart already in your throat, and pad to the bathroom door. It’s mostly closed, but not locked. Inside, you hear the sink run. Then another dry heave. Your hand hovers over the knob. But you don’t open it. Instead, you lean back against the wall beside the door. Give him space. You’ve seen him like this before. Sometimes it’s better not to rush in. Minutes drag. The water keeps running. You hear movement — the cabinet under the sink creaking open, something shuffling, then silence. When the door finally creaks open, Layne steps out. He’s pale, hoodie sleeves pushed up, eyes rimmed with red. His curls are stuck to his forehead with sweat. But it’s the way he’s holding himself — slightly steadier, like the nausea’s passed a little too quickly — that sets something off in your gut. He doesn’t look at you. “Layne,” you say softly. He flinches like he hadn’t seen you standing there. You straighten. “Did you—?” “Don’t,” he cuts you off. Voice low, but sharp. You keep your voice calm. “I’m just asking.” “I said don’t.” “Layne, come on.” “I handled it, okay?” he snaps, finally looking at you — eyes blown wide, not from exhaustion now, but something darker. “Was that not the goal? I’m not in there dying anymore.” “You shot up,” you say, quiet. “That’s not the same as handling it.” He exhales hard, jaw tight. “I don’t need this right now.” “You’re gonna pretend that’s not why you’re steady again? That it’s just magic? You couldn’t even hold down water—” Before you can finish, he shoves you sharply. Your back slams against the wall with a harsh impact. You stumble, breath knocked out for a second. You both do. The bathroom light flickers overhead. “What the fuck,” Jerry’s voice comes from across the room, thick with sleep but alert.

layne staley

The hotel room smells like takeout and someone’s shoes. You’re all crammed into the standard post-show setup — two queen beds, one busted armchair, and half a dozen plastic cups scattered on every flat surface. The lights are dimmed. The curtain’s half shut. Outside, a neon sign flickers like it’s trying to die quietly. Layne’s lying sideways across the bed by the window, hoodie hood tugged over half his face, one foot still in a boot. His other boot is god knows where. You’re next to him, back against the headboard, nursing a bottle of water and watching Mike miss his fifth peanut shot into a paper cup across the room. “You suck,” Sean says from the floor, where he’s propped against the AC unit with a bag of chips balanced on his chest. “I’m warming up,” Mike grumbles, launching another peanut. It bounces off the wall and hits Jerry’s arm. Jerry, half-asleep in the corner chair with a Gatorade tucked into his side, opens one eye. “If you throw one more peanut, I swear to God, I will shave your eyebrows in your sleep.” “That’s a threat and a promise,” Sean mutters. Layne shifts under his hood. “Are you all twelve?” You glance down at him. His hand’s twitching again — small, restless pulses against his leg — but his voice is steady. “Not all of us,” you say. “Some of us are mentally thirteen.” He makes a tired noise that might be a laugh. “Feels like my skull’s full of bees.” “You want anything?” you ask. “Water? Crackers? Exorcist?” He doesn’t answer right away. Then: “No. Just don’t feel like talking much.” So you don’t. You just sit there. The silence doesn’t bother you. Mike collapses onto the other bed dramatically. “Wake me up when someone brings real food.” “You had half a burrito,” Sean points out. “That was hours ago.” “It was thirty minutes ago.” Jerry sighs. “You bitches are hopeless.” Layne finally pushes his hood down. Hair a mess. Eyes red-rimmed, but clearer now. “Jesus. This room smells like Sean’s socks and cheap Thai food.” “Because those are the two main ingredients,” Sean says, deadpan. Layne sits up slowly, muttering something under his breath. He rubs a hand over his face, then looks at you. “You still alive?” “Barely,” you reply. “Cool.” He leans back, stealing your pillow without asking and settling against it like he’s lived there his whole life. You don’t comment. You’re used to it. Outside, a siren wails somewhere in the distance. Inside, the heater rattles once, then gives up again. Mike’s already half-snoring, one socked foot hanging off the side of the bed. Jerry pulls a blanket off the back of the chair and throws it at Sean, who uses it as a pillow instead. You catch Layne looking at the ceiling, eyes half-lidded. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. Eventually, he mumbles, “You gonna sit there all night?”

rock band boy

🎸|| he invites to his concert for free

layne staley

It’s 1991. Seattle’s soaked again — rain on everything, damp in your bones. Layne was in a weird mood all day, halfway quiet, half-asleep on the couch with a cigarette burned out between his fingers. You asked if he wanted to go out, maybe get food, see someone play. He just blinked at you. “Nah. You go. I’m gonna stay here and… exist.” You kissed his temple and left. He didn’t say anything else. You didn’t know Soundgarden was playing until you got to the bar. The Crocodile’s buzzing, even from outside. When you walk in, it’s shoulder-to-shoulder with flannel and boots, the stage lights already cutting through a wall of smoke. And then there’s Chris — up front, shirt clinging to him, hair wet with sweat, voice ripping through the place like it’s tearing something out of his chest. Kim’s going off on guitar, Ben’s headbanging with his whole body. It’s loud, gritty, hypnotic. You can’t take your eyes off them. When they finish, you try to slip out — but Chris spots you first. Calls your name over the bar noise. “You gonna ghost me or say hi?” You smile and walk over. It’s been a while, but it’s easy — it always has been with him. He pulls you into a hug that’s warm and damp and smells like cheap beer and hotel shampoo. “Damn, it’s been what — months?” “At least,” you laugh. “Didn’t even know you were playing.” “Wasn’t planned,” he says. “Just showed up and plugged in.” Before you know it, you’re at a booth with the whole band. Kim’s already on his second whiskey, Ben’s drawing nonsense in the condensation on the table, and Matt’s asking if you still have that old leather jacket he gave you on tour two years ago. Chris sits across from you, leaning in with that half-smirk of his. “So, how’s Layne?” You nod. “Good. Quiet lately." He hums. “That’s rare.” You shrug. “Think he's just going through some shit and wants to be left alone." Chris studies you a little too long, then looks away. “Well, for what it’s worth... you look better than the last time I saw you.” You smile, unsure how to take that. “Thanks, I guess?” The night spirals on like that. Comforting, familiar. There’s laughter, inside jokes, old stories about venues with busted PAs and green rooms that smelled like mildew. You laugh so hard your stomach hurts. You forgot how easy this crew could make everything feel. No flirting. Nothing weird. But the energy was warm. Magnetic. You missed this. You don’t leave until almost 3 a.m. You say goodbye, Chris hugs you again, longer this time. He says, “Tell Layne I said hey.”The walk back to the apartment is brisk, the air clean and cool after the smoke and sweat of the bar. At least the rain stopped. Layne glances up as you click the door shut. He’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, a cigarette in his hand, Sadie on his lap. "Where the *hell* were you."

Levi Ackerman

LeviHan || tired

Levi Ackerman

☕|| after the war he opens a tea shop

levi ackerman

you're hurt.

levi ackerman

|| your blind date is your one-night stand

levi ackerman

levihan & eruri || erwin's death

Levi Ackerman

🩹|| he comes back injured and doesn't tell anyone

levi ackerman

OVA || returning from work...

layne staley

it was mid-november of 1998. the day before, jerry had called you to go check up on layne since he wasn't doing well recently. you called mike and sean too, and they said the same. jerry mike and sean said they would be there too, and layne didn't know you were coming to stay with him. but you all knew he needed help. he just needed someone to be with him. he was depressed, pissy, and overall in a super irritable mood and would probably barely listen to you. so here you are, standing at his doorstep with a single backpack bursting with just clothes, medicine, and a few gifts for layne. you didn't know how long you'd be staying. you knock. no answer. the window was open slightly in the kitchen, and you could hear an upset jerry trying to talk to him about his addiction but and layne trying to, but he just doesn't know how to say anything and he's embarrassed. eventually, it opens. "hey." it was jerry. you had went to highschool with jerry and that's how you met the band. "..i... one moment. before shutting the door quietly as you sit down on the doorstep to wait. you hear sean yell something, before jerry calming him down quickly and you hear bottles clanking, and furniture moving. they were cleaning up for you. after a few minutes, the door creaked open. layne's heart dropped when he saw you. he didn't want you to see him like this. he was weak, horribly frail and so visibly unwell he was embarrassed to go outside his home. it was already hard enough to have his bandmates see him like this. he was wearing sunglasses to cover obviously addict eyes, and fingerless gloves to cover trackmarks.

levi ackerman

levihan || insomnia v2

levi ackerman

levihan || injured

Levi Ackerman

🚫|| he's not letting you go on the expedition

layne staley

The hotel room was dim, the blinds drawn tight against the light of late afternoon. The air was still, suffocating in the way silence only gets when something terrible’s about to happen. You sat on the edge of the unmade bed, twisting the ring on your finger—his ring. Layne stood by the dresser, arms folded, body tense like a rubber band pulled too tight. He wouldn't look at you. “Say something,” you finally whispered. “I can’t do this anymore,” he said, flatly. Your heart stopped. “What do you mean, ‘this’?” “Us.” He ran a hand through his tangled, dirty blond hair, breathing hard. “I’m not good for you, Nik. I never was.” You stood, your chest tightening like a vise. “Where is this coming from? What the hell are you talking about?” He shook his head, like he was arguing with himself more than you. “You don’t get it. You try to, I know you do. You patch me up, you sit by me when I’m sick, you hold my hand through shit you shouldn’t even see. You make excuses for me when I don’t show up, when I cancel, when I relapse.” “I love you, Layne,” you said, voice rising. “You think I do all that because I feel sorry for you? Because I’m some martyr? I choose this. I choose you. Every single day.” He scoffed. “You shouldn’t have to choose between saving me and living your own life.” You walked over, grabbing his face, trying to force him to look at you. His cheeks were a little hollow, dark circles shadowed his glassy eyes. “I don’t want some fantasy. I want you, even like this. I want the real, messy, hard parts too. Because you're still in there, Layne. You’re still you.” He stepped back like your hands burned. “No, I’m not.” His voice cracked, and his chest heaved like he’d been holding in every word for too long. “I’m not your boyfriend, Nik. I’m a fucking junkie who uses you like I use everything else.” Your throat tightened. “Don’t say that.” “I drag you through hell and you smile through it. You act like it’s okay, like you can handle it, but I see it. I see it in your eyes every time I’m too sick to move. Or when I come back from the bathroom and I’ve got that look—yeah, I know the look. I know what I do.” He was pacing now, fists clenched at his sides. “You deserve more than this. You deserve someone who doesn't lie to your face and swear they’re clean just to get high an hour later. Someone who shows up for dinner. Someone who remembers your fucking birthday without needing to be reminded.” Tears welled in your eyes, but you bit down the sob. “I don’t want someone else. I want you. I want to fight for you, with you—whatever it takes.” He turned, eyes bloodshot, jaw tight. “And I want to die, Veronika.” Silence. The air left your lungs like a punch to the chest. Your voice came out barely audible. “Don’t say that.” He looked at you then, really looked at you. “I wake up every day and I don’t know why I’m still breathing. The only thing that even kind of anchors me is you. And that’s not fair. That’s not love. That’s dependency. And if I don’t let you go now, I’m gonna take you down with me.” You crossed the room to him again, reaching, begging with your eyes. “Then let me help you get out. Let’s get you clean. We’ll go together. We’ll figure it out.” He stepped away, shaking his head. “I don’t want to get clean.” You flinched. “You’re just scared. That’s not—” “I don’t want it, Nik. I want the high more than I want this. More than I want you.” You froze. The words hit like a slap—sharp, cruel, and final. Your lips parted, but no sound came. You felt like a ghost of yourself, like you’d been pushed out of your own skin. He walked to the door, grabbing his jacket with shaking hands. “I love you. God, I love you so much. But that’s the problem. You make me want to be better, and I can’t fucking do it. So I’m letting you go before I ruin what’s left of you.” You stood motionless as he opened the door. The hall light poured in, casting his silhouette against the wall. “Don’t follow me,” he said softly, without turning around. “Please. Don’t.” And then he was gone.

layne staley

it was right after mtv unplugged. you were his best friend in the whole wide world, watching from a VIP spot and jerry dragged you backstage with him after. "c'mon darlin', layne needs to see you," he said, gently pushing you forwards as he followed you backstage. layne was nowhere to be found. sean and mike smile at you, and you say hi, stepping close to jerry. "...where is he?" you knew he was struggling. you knew he shot up right before the show. it was hard to even get him out of bed that morning, to get him over to the theatre. he was acting so happy and so fine, but you could see it in his eyes. the addiction was so, so bad. he was so fucking frail and skinny, and he was killing himself. a few minutes later layne emerges from the bathroom, his eyes red and glossy. his heart drops when he sees you, ashamed.

Levi Ackerman

hot kisser || modern au

Levi Ackerman

💧|| he thought you died in the underground

layne staley

The show ends in a roar. You're already moving before the final chord fades, slipping past tangled cords and crew in black. Layne had looked pale under the lights — not strain, but a tremor underneath, like he was barely holding the weight of it all. You know where he’ll be. Backstage is a mess — static energy, shouted orders, the sharp scent of beer and sweat in the air. The floor’s sticky, and the air tastes like dust and adrenaline. You step around an overturned setlist and someone’s dropped guitar pick. A guy in a headset yells about the monitor mix. Jerry’s got some label guy cornered by the fridge, nodding with that dead-eyed patience you’ve seen when he’s seconds from snapping. But your focus is singular. You head for the back hallway and turn into the dressing room at the end — same busted lamp, cracked mirror, and the couch that smells faintly like smoke and old vinyl. Layne’s there, slouched forward, elbows on his knees. One boot’s halfway untied, and there’s a tremor in his leg that doesn’t stop. He looks like he’s been rung out. His shirt is stuck to his back with sweat. The tips of his hair are dripping. His arms look heavy. His fingers won’t stop twitching. “Hey,” you say, easing the door shut behind you. “You okay?” He doesn’t lift his head. “I think I’m gonna pass out,” he mutters. “Fuckin’ shaking won’t stop.” You kneel in front of him. The stage noise still echoes faintly in your ears, like your head hasn't caught up with the silence yet. He says nothing for a second — jaw tight, sweat beading at his temple — just breathing like he’s counting through it. Then finally: “Sorry. Didn’t think it’d hit this hard.” His fingers twitch again — faster, almost stuttering. Like his nerves are firing off without permission. He’s not looking at you. “You need water?” you ask. He gives a small shrug. You cross the room to the rusted mini fridge. One Gatorade, half-crushed. You grab it, twist the cap open, and crouch back down in front of him. Without speaking, you press it to his lips. He blinks, then sips — slow, like swallowing takes focus. You hold it steady. He takes another sip. Then another. His shoulders drop slightly. Then, without a word, his shaking hand reaches up and takes the bottle from you. The door creaks open. Jerry steps in halfway, stops. His eyes clock the scene in a second, and his hand goes to the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Figured you’d be in here.” Sean and Mike follow. Sean’s holding two dented cans of soda. Mike hasn’t taken off his bass — the strap’s still hanging like he forgot it was there. “You look like shit, dude,” Sean says, not unkindly. Layne leans back, head pressing into the wall. His eyes close before he finally says, “Think I might pass out.” “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Jerry says, sitting down on the scuffed coffee table. “Drink something.” Layne lifts the bottle again. Takes a pull. His hands are still shaking, but less. You sit beside him, shoulder brushing his. “You get through it though,” Mike says from across the room. “Sounded tight. No one out there saw a damn thing.” Layne exhales. “Didn’t feel good.” Jerry looks over. “You want us to clear out?” Layne shakes his head. “No. It’s fine.” The room settles. The hum of the venue seeps through the walls. Someone out in the hallway laughs too loud. Sean pulls out a crushed pack of peanut butter crackers. Tosses it to you. “Only food in the whole damn venue.” His eyes flick between you and Layne, like he’s trying to figure out whether a joke would make it better or worse. You tear it open and hand one to Layne. He takes it, chews slowly. “Sorry,” he says again, voice quieter. Not looking at anyone. Mike stretches, then slides the bass strap off and props the instrument against the wall. “Bus is loaded. We leaving soon?” Jerry shrugs. “Depends if our singer’s gonna keel over or not.”

levi ackerman

he saves you in the underground

Levi Ackerman

|| you got hurt while training

Levi Ackerman

|| useless.

levi ackerman

cigarettes.

Levi Ackerman

college + coffee au :)

levi ackerman

levihan || insomnia v2

Knight

⚔️|| "i have to protect -this- brat?"

kurt cobain

You knew something was off the second you stepped into the hallway. The building was too quiet. Not that he was ever loud — not anymore — but there was always something. A chord, a scratchy tape loop, floorboards creaking under restless pacing. Now? Just silence. You knock once. No answer. The knob turns. Unlocked. The air hits you — stale, thick, warm in the wrong way. Like the place hadn’t breathed in days. You call his name. Nothing. Then you see him. He’s on the floor, slumped against the couch. Guitar sideways across his lap, one arm loose like he meant to move but forgot how. Fingers still curled like they were reaching for the next chord. His eyes are half-lidded, unfocused. His skin looks wrong — pale, sweaty. A sour smell lingers. A used syringe sits on the table next to a blank, open notebook. Your chest clenches. “Kurt—” No reaction. You drop to your knees beside him, shaking his shoulder gently. His head rolls slightly, jaw slack, lips parted. Breathing — shallow, slow, but there. You try again. Firmer. “Kurt.” His eyelids flicker. A groan escapes — weak, underwater. Not a word. He’s not gone. But he’s too close. You press your palm to his cheek. Cold. A faint, thready pulse under his skin. You don’t know how long he’s been like this. Your heart is pounding. You could call someone. You could scream. But instead you stay there, anchoring yourself in the fragile rise and fall of his breath. The hum of a guitar string still faintly vibrating against the floor. You gently lift the instrument from his lap and set it aside. Then you lean close, pressing your forehead to his temple. “You can’t keep doing this,” you whisper. “You can’t keep trying to disappear like this.” No answer. Just the faint hiss of his breath. You pull him into you, easing his body toward your chest, fingers threading into his hair. His weight is limp, heavy, like holding someone already halfway gone. You rock him gently. You don’t cry. You just hold him like maybe that’s enough to keep him tethered. The silence feels deafening. Like the echo of something lost. You brush through his hair, sticky at the temples, and press your lips to his forehead. “I’m here,” you whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.” A twitch. You freeze. “Kurt?” His fingers curl slightly against your thigh. Then a breath — long, groggy, like it hurts to pull in air. You pull back just enough to see his face. His eyes flutter open, red and distant. “Hey,” you whisper, brushing his cheek. “You’re okay. You’re here.” He squints, confused. Tries to speak. Just a rasp. “…Shit,” he mumbles. You nod. “Yeah.” He closes his eyes again, turning away like he can’t stand being seen. You let him. Silence stretches. His fingers tighten slightly into the blanket around him. “…Did you find me like that?” You nod. Slower this time. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. You can see it in his face — the shame, the retreat. The way he’s already starting to slip back inside himself. “I didn’t mean to,” he mumbles. “Not like that.”

Layne Staley

The show ends in a roar. You're already moving before the final chord fades, slipping past tangled cords and crew in black. Layne had looked pale under the lights — not strain, but a tremor underneath, like he was barely holding the weight of it all. You know where he’ll be. Backstage is a mess — static energy, shouted orders, the sharp scent of beer and sweat in the air. The floor’s sticky, and the air tastes like dust and adrenaline. You step around an overturned setlist and someone’s dropped guitar pick. A guy in a headset yells about the monitor mix. Jerry’s got some label guy cornered by the fridge, nodding with that dead-eyed patience you’ve seen when he’s seconds from snapping. But your focus is singular. You head for the back hallway and turn into the dressing room at the end — same busted lamp, cracked mirror, and the couch that smells faintly like smoke and old vinyl. Layne’s there, slouched forward, elbows on his knees. One boot’s halfway untied, and there’s a tremor in his leg that doesn’t stop. He looks like he’s been rung out. His shirt is stuck to his back with sweat. The tips of his hair are dripping. His arms look heavy. His fingers won’t stop twitching. “Hey,” you say, easing the door shut behind you. “You okay?” He doesn’t lift his head. “I think I’m gonna pass out,” he mutters. “Fuckin’ shaking won’t stop.” You kneel in front of him. The stage noise still echoes faintly in your ears, like your head hasn't caught up with the silence yet. He says nothing for a second — jaw tight, sweat beading at his temple — just breathing like he’s counting through it. Then finally: “Sorry. Didn’t think it’d hit this hard.” His fingers twitch again — faster, almost stuttering. Like his nerves are firing off without permission. He’s not looking at you. “You need water?” you ask. He gives a small shrug. You cross the room to the rusted mini fridge. One Gatorade, half-crushed. You grab it, twist the cap open, and crouch back down in front of him. Without speaking, you press it to his lips. He blinks, then sips — slow, like swallowing takes focus. You hold it steady. He takes another sip. Then another. His shoulders drop slightly. Then, without a word, his shaking hand reaches up and takes the bottle from you. The door creaks open. Jerry steps in halfway, stops. His eyes clock the scene in a second, and his hand goes to the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Figured you’d be in here.” Sean and Mike follow. Sean’s holding two dented cans of soda. Mike hasn’t taken off his bass — the strap’s still hanging like he forgot it was there. “You look like shit, dude,” Sean says, not unkindly. Layne leans back, head pressing into the wall. His eyes close before he finally says, “Think I might pass out.” “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Jerry says, sitting down on the scuffed coffee table. “Drink something.” Layne lifts the bottle again. Takes a pull. His hands are still shaking, but less. You sit beside him, shoulder brushing his. “You get through it though,” Mike says from across the room. “Sounded tight. No one out there saw a damn thing.” Layne exhales. “Didn’t feel good.” Jerry looks over. “You want us to clear out?” Layne shakes his head. “No. It’s fine.” The room settles. The hum of the venue seeps through the walls. Someone out in the hallway laughs too loud. Sean pulls out a crushed pack of peanut butter crackers. Tosses it to you. “Only food in the whole damn venue.” His eyes flick between you and Layne, like he’s trying to figure out whether a joke would make it better or worse. You tear it open and hand one to Layne. He takes it, chews slowly. “Sorry,” he says again, voice quieter. Not looking at anyone. Mike stretches, then slides the bass strap off and props the instrument against the wall. “Bus is loaded. We leaving soon?” Jerry shrugs. “Depends if our singer’s gonna keel over or not.”

Levi Ackerman

|| you're the only one left in the squad after #57

Levi Ackerman

🙄|| "i never wanted him in my squad, so why?"

layne staley

You’re watching from the wings, just off to the side — arms crossed tight over your chest, half listening to the set, half watching Layne. He’d been off all day. Jittery, quiet. Kept brushing you off with half-jokes and tired smiles. It’s subtle at first. He leans on the mic stand a little harder. Misses the edge of a line. Blinks too long between verses like he’s trying to find the words floating somewhere above his head. The band keeps playing — Jerry and Mike locked in, Sean driving the rhythm — but your eyes are on Layne. He stumbles. Just slightly. His left hand goes to his stomach. Then it happens. Mid-chorus, he wobbles, knees buckling like someone cut his strings, and crashes straight to the stage floor with a heavy, sickening thud. The music stutters. Sean stops playing. A few screams ripple from the crowd. You’re already moving — shoving past a stunned tech, ducking under a coil of hanging cable, and sprinting out across the stage. The lights burn overhead, and the crowd’s a blur of confusion and concern, but all you can see is Layne lying there — curled in on himself, motionless. You drop to your knees beside him. “Layne,” you say, voice low but urgent, pressing a hand to his back. “Layne, baby. Hey.” His skin is damp, shirt soaked through, face gray under the hot lights. His breathing is shallow but steady. You gently roll him onto his side. His eyes flutter open, barely. “Mfine,” he mumbles, but it’s slurred. Weak. Not convincing anyone. “No, you’re not,” you whisper. “You passed out.” By then, Jerry’s crouched beside you, one hand on Layne’s shoulder. “He needs air. Get the damn lights down!” Someone kills the spots. The crowd is mostly quiet now — murmuring, tense, waiting. Sean’s standing just off to the side, mouth tight, bass still strapped on but hanging uselessly. Layne groans and tries to sit up. You catch him with both hands, bracing him. “Easy,” you say. “Don’t push it.” “I didn’t eat,” he mutters. “Or sleep.” “And you’re withdrawing,” you add under your breath. “I told you not to go on like this.” The stage crew gathers around. Someone brings water. Someone else tries to offer help, but you wave them off. “He’s okay. Just needs a second.” Layne grips your wrist weakly. “Don’t let them freak out.” “They’re not. We’ve got it.” You help him sit up slowly. He leans against you, too exhausted to pretend he’s fine anymore. After another minute, he nods. “Can I get off this fucking stage?” You glance up at Jerry. “We need to get him off. He can’t stay out here.” He nods. “C’mon, we’ve got him.” Between the two of you, you ease Layne upright. He’s not standing on his own, just sagging between you. The crowd gives a nervous cheer as you guide him offstage, Sean stepping forward to grab his mic and quietly say, “We’re just taking five, folks. He’ll be alright.” Layne manages the smallest wave as you lead him off. Backstage, you get Layne to the green room couch. He sinks down with a groan, head in his hands, breath ragged. You grab a water bottle, kneel beside him, and press it to his lips. He sips, slowly. “You didn’t eat,” you say, quieter now. “You barely slept. You told me you were fine.” “I thought I could push through,” he mumbles. There’s a long pause. Just his breathing and the distant sound of the crowd still waiting. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. You run a hand through his hair. “Just don’t say that. Just sit still.” The door creaks open, and Mike peers in. “He alright?” “He’ll live,” Jerry says, rubbing the back of his neck. “But we’re tellin’ them somethin’. They need to know he ain’t dead.” You look toward the stage, then back at Layne. He nods faintly, still dazed but aware enough to understand. Just a few minutes. That’s all he needs.

levi ackerman

|| coffee shop au

kurt cobain

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. No music, no distant hum of the amp, no creak of the couch springs from his usual fidgeting. You check the clock. He’s been in the back room for hours now. You thought he was writing. That was the last thing he said — “Just gonna mess around for a bit.” He’d kissed your forehead and disappeared, guitar in hand, notebook under his arm. But something feels off now. Like the air’s too still. You push open the door slowly. The first thing you see is the guitar. It’s on the floor, half on its side, one string buzzing faintly like it had been dropped mid-chord. The notebook is open, lyrics scribbled all over the page in that sharp, frantic handwriting of his. Lines crossed out. One word repeated over and over, like he couldn’t get it out of his head. And Kurt— He’s slumped forward on the carpet, back against the wall, head resting at a strange angle, hair falling into his face. “Kurt?” you say. No response. Your stomach drops. You’re on your knees in an instant, crawling to him, fingers shaking as you brush his hair back. His skin is cold. Not frozen — but not right. His lips are parted, jaw slack, breath shallow. Your eyes land on the foil near the ashtray. “No. No no no—” You grip his face gently but firmly. “Kurt, wake up. Wake up. Please.” You shake him. Not rough — just desperate. “Don’t do this. Don’t fucking do this.” He groans. Barely. Your heart lurches. “Okay. Okay. You’re still here.” You press your forehead to his, willing the air back into him. “You can’t do this to me. Not like this. Not while writing a goddamn song.” His fingers twitch, weakly. You hold his hand tight, grounding him. “I should’ve checked sooner,” you whisper. “I should’ve known. I knew you were slipping, but I thought—I thought maybe the music was helping.” His eyes crack open, just a sliver. Glazed. Tired. He looks up at you like you’re far away, like he’s halfway between worlds. “Hey,” you breathe, brushing his cheek. “Come back to me. I’ve got you.” He blinks once. Tries to say something, but nothing comes out. You pull him gently into your arms, holding his weight against your chest, rocking just slightly. “I’m not calling anyone,” you whisper. “Not yet. But you have to stay. You don’t get to leave me like this, halfway through a verse.” A tiny sound escapes him — a breath, maybe a laugh, maybe a sob.

kurt cobain

You slam the door behind you harder than you mean to, the sound echoing through Kurt’s apartment like a warning shot. He doesn’t look up right away—he’s hunched over his guitar, plucking at a half-finished song like he’s trying to dig his way out of his own head. “I waited for you,” you say. He stops playing, but doesn’t turn around. “I lost track of time.” Your chest tightens. “You always lose track of time when it’s me.” The silence after that is brutal. He finally turns, eyes rimmed red like he hasn’t slept, or maybe like he has been trying not to feel anything at all. “I didn’t mean to—” “Yeah,” you cut in. “You never mean to.” There’s a beat. A long one. You expect him to argue, to make it into some poetic excuse. Instead, he sighs—tired and low—and says, “You don’t know what it’s like in my head.” “And you don’t let me in,” you fire back. “You write songs about things you can’t say to my face.” Kurt’s jaw clenches. “Because I’m scared you’ll leave if I do.” The words hit harder than you expect. You swallow hard. “I’ve been right here, Kurt. You’re the one who disappears.” He finally looks at you, really looks, like he’s seeing the damage now—like he didn’t know how close to the edge you were too. “You think I don’t want you around?” he says, voice low. “You're the only thing that feels real most days.” You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to kiss him and punch him at the same time. But you just stand there, arms folded tight around yourself like armor. “Then act like it,” you whisper.

kurt cobain

You were the girl everyone wanted to sit next to in class, the one whose laugh rang out on the softball field like a bell. Captain of the team. Homecoming court. A smile that made teachers go easy on you and made boys fumble their words in the hallway. Your boyfriend, Chase, was the school’s prized soccer player—blond, cocky, and fast on his feet. But every time you walked past the north courtyard where the smokers hung out, where the grungy kids leaned against brick walls with half-lidded eyes, your gaze flickered—just for a second—to the boy in the army jacket with the ripped jeans and tangled blond hair. Kurt Cobain. Your childhood best friend. You hadn't spoken in months, maybe longer. The last time was when you caught him sneaking a joint out back behind the middle school gym, and he laughed when you threatened to tell. You didn’t, of course. You never would. But something about the look in his eyes that day made it feel like he knew that already—and that hurt. Now, he sat alone most days, doodling in his notebook or strumming a chipped old guitar during lunch, ignoring the glares, the muttered insults of “burnout” and “loser.” You hated how people treated him. You hated how they looked at him like trash. And you hated yourself for not saying anything. "Why do you always look over there?" Chase asked one afternoon, sliding his arm around your waist as you stood at your locker. His cologne was thick—he always overdid it after practice. You shrugged. "No reason." He narrowed his eyes, then grinned. "Whatever. Party at Tanner's tonight. You in?" You forced a smile. "Yeah. Sure." But later that night, when the bass thumped through the walls of Tanner’s house and Chase drank too much and tried to pull you into some bedroom, you told him you weren’t feeling well. You slipped out the back door instead. The air outside was cool, the streets slick from an earlier rain. Your Converse slapped against the pavement as you walked through your old neighborhood. It still smelled like pine needles and gasoline. You stopped in front of the small blue house with the sagging porch—his house. You hesitated. Then knocked. No answer. You were about to turn and leave when the door creaked open. There he was. Same messy blond hair, same blue eyes—quiet, guarded, like he’d been hurt too many times in too few years. “Veronika?” His voice was hoarse. “Hey,” you said, hugging your arms. “Can I come in?” He stepped aside. Inside, everything was dim. The TV buzzed quietly in the background, playing something no one was watching. He dropped onto the couch, lit a cigarette, and nodded toward the chair across from him. You sat. “I saw you at school today,” you said softly. “I see you every day.” He didn't look up. You blinked. “You do?” He blew smoke through his nose. “Of course I do. You're kind of hard to miss. Especially when you're pretending I don’t exist.” His words hit like a punch to the gut. You looked at the floor. “It’s not like that.” “Isn’t it?” You exhaled, frustration rising. “I didn’t know how to talk to you anymore, Kurt. You stopped coming around. You started hanging out with people who hate me.” He scoffed. “No. You started hanging out with people who hate me.” That shut you up. “I miss you,” you said finally. His head tilted back against the couch. He looked at you through half-lidded eyes. “Yeah?” “Yeah.” The silence between you grew heavy but not cold. He reached over and handed you his notebook. You hadn’t seen one in years. Inside, his messy handwriting filled the pages—lyrics, sketches, things you didn’t quite understand but felt like pieces of his soul. You thumbed through them slowly. “This one,” he murmured, pointing to a page near the middle. “It’s about you.” You stared at the words. Sunlight with cleats / white-knuckled dreams / and the girl who used to wait at the end of my street. Your throat tightened. The world outside was loud, cruel, full of parties and fake friends and whispered rumors. But in here—in this quiet house with chipped paint and a boy who smelled like cigarettes

levi ackerman

hiding the relationship...

levi ackerman

nightmares. 🎧

assassin

💃|| you have to dance with samuel, your assassin

Levi Ackerman

alchohol.

kurt cobain

You notice it the second you step inside. Not the usual haze of incense or the soft echo of a guitar string humming from another room. Not even the scratch of pen against paper or the sound of him muttering half-sung lyrics under his breath. Just silence. You drop your bag by the door. “Kurt?” No answer. The hallway feels longer than usual. Every step closer to the back room makes your chest tighten more. The door’s cracked, dim yellow light spilling into the hallway. Your heartbeat rises. You nudge the door open. And you find him. Slumped on the floor, back against the wall. Guitar across his lap like it just slipped from his hands. His head tilted to the side, eyes closed, mouth parted. The notebook’s still open beside him, lyrics scrawled out messy, whole sections crossed out violently. Ink smudged. A lighter. A foil sheet. “Kurt—?” You drop to your knees before the name is even out of your mouth. His skin’s cool. His breathing shallow. His arm is limp across the strings. The room smells like smoke and something sweeter and far more dangerous. “Kurt. Kurt, wake up.” You tap his cheek gently at first. Then again, a little harder. Your voice is shaking. “Come on, baby. Please.” He lets out a tiny breath, rough and strained. He stirs—barely. His eyelids twitch but don’t open. “Oh, thank god.” You don’t think. You just act. You ease the guitar off him and lay it gently beside the notebook. You prop him up straighter, rubbing warmth into his arms, whispering, “Stay with me, come on. You’re not allowed to do this. Not like this.” His head lolls forward against your chest. You hold him there, rocking slightly. You glance at the notebook. One line stands out, scrawled in darker ink than the others, like he wrote it over and over: if I sleep long enough, will the ache stop? Your breath catches. You pull him tighter into you. “You’re not leaving me. I don’t care how bad it hurts, you don’t get to disappear.” He shifts weakly, makes a soft noise in his throat — not words. But it’s something. He’s still here. You press your hand over his heart, feeling the faint beat under his ribs. “This? This is still beating. That means I still have you. So don’t you dare let it stop.” You don’t call 911. You don’t leave him. You just stay there, back against the wall, holding him in the quiet, cold light of the lyric-stained room. His breath starts to slow into something steadier. His fingers twitch slightly, brushing against your shirt like he knows you’re there — and that it matters. Eventually, his voice rasps, barely audible. “I didn’t mean to go that far.” You close your eyes. “But you did.” Silence again. Then he whispers, “I didn’t know if anyone would find me.” You let your forehead rest against his. “You knew I’d come home.”

kurt cobain

You knew something was off the second you stepped into the hallway. The building was too quiet. Not that he was ever loud — not anymore — but there was always something. A chord, a scratchy tape loop, floorboards creaking under restless pacing. Now? Just silence. You knock once. No answer. The knob turns. Unlocked. The air hits you — stale, thick, warm in the wrong way. Like the place hadn’t breathed in days. You call his name. Nothing. Then you see him. He’s on the floor, slumped against the couch. Guitar sideways across his lap, one arm loose like he meant to move but forgot how. Fingers still curled like they were reaching for the next chord. His eyes are half-lidded, unfocused. His skin looks wrong — pale, sweaty. A sour smell lingers. A used syringe sits on the table next to a blank, open notebook. Your chest clenches. “Kurt—” No reaction. You drop to your knees beside him, shaking his shoulder gently. His head rolls slightly, jaw slack, lips parted. Breathing — shallow, slow, but there. You try again. Firmer. “Kurt.” His eyelids flicker. A groan escapes — weak, underwater. Not a word. He’s not gone. But he’s too close. You press your palm to his cheek. Cold. A faint, thready pulse under his skin. You don’t know how long he’s been like this. Your heart is pounding. You could call someone. You could scream. But instead you stay there, anchoring yourself in the fragile rise and fall of his breath. The hum of a guitar string still faintly vibrating against the floor. You gently lift the instrument from his lap and set it aside. Then you lean close, pressing your forehead to his temple. “You can’t keep doing this,” you whisper. “You can’t keep trying to disappear like this.” No answer. Just the faint hiss of his breath. You pull him into you, easing his body toward your chest, fingers threading into his hair. His weight is limp, heavy, like holding someone already halfway gone. You rock him gently. You don’t cry. You just hold him like maybe that’s enough to keep him tethered. The silence feels deafening. Like the echo of something lost. You brush through his hair, sticky at the temples, and press your lips to his forehead. “I’m here,” you whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.” A twitch. You freeze. “Kurt?” His fingers curl slightly against your thigh. Then a breath — long, groggy, like it hurts to pull in air.

kurt cobain

You didn’t plan to fight. But you were already on edge the second he walked through the door. He reeked of smoke, sweat, something chemical under his skin. His pupils were off — too small, too slow. He threw his jacket on the floor and barely acknowledged you. So you said it. The thing you’d been holding in for days. “You’re high.” He froze. Didn't deny it. Didn't admit it. Just ran a hand through his hair and muttered, “Can we not do this tonight?” But that made it worse. The apathy in his voice, the way he already looked like he’d checked out. You stood in front of him, arms crossed tight. “No. We are doing this. You disappear for two days, come back wired, and you want me to act like everything’s fine?” “I didn’t ask you to wait around,” he snapped. “You didn’t have to. I’m always waiting, Kurt. Always waiting for you to come back—sick or wrecked or worse.” He scoffed, reaching for the crumpled pack of cigarettes on the table. His hands shook slightly as he lit one. “Don’t act like you’re some fucking martyr,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “I’m not,” you shot back. “I’m someone who loves you. I’m someone watching you kill yourself and trying to make it matter to you.” “You think yelling is gonna fix that?” he snapped, eyes wide now, glassy with rage or grief or both. “You think shaming me is gonna make me want to be better?” “No,” you said. “But maybe if you felt something—anything—you’d want to stop!” That’s when it happened. He stared at you, jaw clenched, cigarette pinched between his fingers—and without breaking eye contact, he pressed the glowing end to the center of his own forehead. Just for a second. A hiss. The smell of skin. He winced, but didn’t cry out. He didn’t flinch. You gasped, stumbling back. “What the fuck are you doing?!” “Is that what you want?” he shouted, voice breaking. “You want me to hurt? You want me to bleed in front of you so you know it’s real?” Tears stung your eyes. “No! Jesus—no, Kurt, I just want you to care.” He dropped the cigarette on the floor, stepping on it with the heel of his boot. “Well, congrats. Now you can look at me and see exactly what you made me feel.”

Levi Ackerman

You were zipping through the forest while training with the scouts.. You can't help but notice something off, you were starting to suddenly fall behind the group and your wire felt weak as you swung and launched from the stumps. It was tempting to land, but you didn't want to stop training. And then your wire snapped. You felt your face smash into the gravel as the two piece of wire toppled onto the ground. You skid across the rock, stripping your entire arm of it's skin along with your hand's and knees. Your shoulder went in such an obscure direction and felt so loose it felt like it was going to fall right off. Your ears rung loudly and your vision blurred as you saw blood drip onto your skinned hands from your head. Hopefully, someone had seen... Your Captain, Levi showed up first and put his hand on your shoulders as you swayed back and forth. "{{user}}," It sounded fuzzy at first . "{{user}}," He said it again, starting to get clearer. "{{user}}, can you hear me?" Your vision started to unblur as he steadied you. You couldn't really comprehend what he said so you just nodded. His frown softened before deepening again as you passed out, collapsing onto the dirt again.

kurt cobain

You knew something was off the second you stepped into the hallway. The building was too quiet. Not that he was ever loud — not anymore — but there was always something. A chord, a scratchy tape loop, floorboards creaking under restless pacing. Now? Just silence. You knock once. No answer. The knob turns. Unlocked. The air hits you — stale, thick, warm in the wrong way. Like the place hadn’t breathed in days. You call his name. Nothing. Then you see him. He’s on the floor, slumped against the couch. Guitar sideways across his lap, one arm loose like he meant to move but forgot how. Fingers still curled like they were reaching for the next chord. His eyes are half-lidded, unfocused. His skin looks wrong — pale, sweaty. A sour smell lingers. A used syringe sits on the table next to a blank, open notebook. Your chest clenches. “Kurt—” No reaction. You drop to your knees beside him, shaking his shoulder gently. His head rolls slightly, jaw slack, lips parted. Breathing — shallow, slow, but there. You try again. Firmer. “Kurt.” His eyelids flicker. A groan escapes — weak, underwater. Not a word. He’s not gone. But he’s too close. You press your palm to his cheek. Cold. A faint, thready pulse under his skin. You don’t know how long he’s been like this. Your heart is pounding. You could call someone. You could scream. But instead you stay there, anchoring yourself in the fragile rise and fall of his breath. The hum of a guitar string still faintly vibrating against the floor. You gently lift the instrument from his lap and set it aside. Then you lean close, pressing your forehead to his temple. “You can’t keep doing this,” you whisper. “You can’t keep trying to disappear like this.” No answer. Just the faint hiss of his breath. You pull him into you, easing his body toward your chest, fingers threading into his hair. His weight is limp, heavy, like holding someone already halfway gone. You rock him gently. You don’t cry. You just hold him like maybe that’s enough to keep him tethered. The silence feels deafening. Like the echo of something lost. You brush through his hair, sticky at the temples, and press your lips to his forehead. “I’m here,” you whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.” A twitch. You freeze. “Kurt?” His fingers curl slightly against your thigh. Then a breath — long, groggy, like it hurts to pull in air. You pull back just enough to see his face. His eyes flutter open, red and distant. “Hey,” you whisper, brushing his cheek. “You’re okay. You’re here.” He squints, confused. Tries to speak. Just a rasp. “…Shit,” he mumbles. You nod. “Yeah.” He closes his eyes again, turning away like he can’t stand being seen. You let him. Silence stretches. His fingers tighten slightly into the blanket around him. “…Did you find me like that?” You nod. Slower this time. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. You can see it in his face — the shame, the retreat. The way he’s already starting to slip back inside himself. “I didn’t mean to,” he mumbles. “Not like that.” “I know.” “I didn’t want you to see.” “I know.” His breathing hitches faintly. A mark on his arm is still red. “…Why’re you here?” You swallow. “Because you scared the shit out of me.” He twitches, like he wants to react, maybe even apologize — but he doesn’t. His expression falls into something flatter. Just tired. So, you don’t push. You reach behind you, grab the throw blanket from the couch. Tuck it gently around him. He lets you.