#i will fall in hate with you over and over again
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idyllwave · 2 days ago
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what you lack is a future
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yandere!phainon x reader , angst , loss , death , 30 million cycles , etc.
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Out of thirty million cycles, you only existed in one.
You were like a blip. A tiny scratch mark of erasable pencil lead on a large canvas. Someone, somehow, somewhere accidentally written you into existence. How that was possible, Phainon wasn’t sure. But you existed. He knew because he remembered.
It was the 3141592nd cycle. And when he was just about to be at his lowest point, you had walked up to him. He expected you to ask for his help like many others had, but instead you had sat with him silently and rested a gentle hand onto his shoulder. He didn’t know how long he sat with you, but it was long enough that it waned to late evening.
“Thank you,” he hated how weak his voice sounded, how tired he seemed.
“Anytime.”
He looked at you then, memorized your features, noted the way your smile curved. He didn’t know that he was asking your name before the words left his lips.
You laughed and gave him your name. Your eyes crinkling at the corners as you let your hand fall from his shoulder.
He learned a lot about you after that. It wasn’t until night had fallen that you two parted ways. Though, you did get him to promise to come to you if he ever had that terrible feeling well up inside him again.
However, like clockwork, no matter how many days and weeks he spent with you laughing and having fun – the cycle had went on and you had died in his arms. He didn’t know if your death was peaceful, or quiet, or if you had called out to him. All that he did know was that you were already dead by the time he pulled you into his arms and pressed you close to his chest.
He promised to find you in the next cycle.
But even as the cycles marched on you were no where in sight. You didn’t exist anywhere or to anyone. The moment your name would fall from his lips no one would know who he was talking about. Not even Aglaea or Tribbie could place your name.
Thirty million cycles and you only existed in one. Were you a saving grace to make sure he stayed sane and didn’t lose hope? A mistake? An accident? Was he doing something differently that was stopping you from coming to existence?
“Stop pushing Stelle! I know we landed in different places, but I’m here now, aren’t I?”
He sighed and plastered on a smile. Both Dan Heng and Stelle had mentioned that they were missing a third.
“Phainon,” Stelle called out, “we found them!”
When he turned, he was fully prepared to introduce himself, shake their hand, give soft pleasantries, but 
 the moment he saw you – everything just sort of stopped.
“Hello
 Phainon, right? I’m sorry we couldn’t meet earlier, the train car we came in broke apart and I ended up landing elsewhere
 Though, I do want to thank you for looking after Stelle and Dan Heng. I wouldn’t know what to do if they got into even more trouble.”
You laughed to yourself as you held out your hand for him to take, and it was starting to get silent and awkward fast when Phainon didn’t make a move to take your hand. Instead, he was eerily quiet. His eyes widened and his lips parted in a smile.
“Phainon?”
“Sorry,” he breathed out, “I got lost in thought,” he took your hand with both of his. His palms pressing hard and his grip a little too tight, “it’s wonderful to meet you. And since you just got here, why don’t I show you around?”
You looked to your friends and neither seemed to mind (well, except for Dan Heng who still seemed weary).
“Sure! Sounds like fun.”
Phainon couldn’t wait to get to know you all over again, and this time, he will make sure you don’t disappear even if another cycle were to begin.
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rafescherie · 3 days ago
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✼⋆˙ rafe stalking pogue!reader’s instagram and getting off to her pictures.
warnings — 18+ MDNI. instagram stalking, enemies (rafe x pogue!reader). male masturbation, slight degradation. rafe lowkey being a perv.
cherie’s note — i’m writing this half-asleep + my phone being on 4%, but i absolutely needed to get this out for you guys. c: no idea if this makes any sense i’ve been consuming cleaning chemicals all day LOL.
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he tells himself he’s just checking up. that it’s strategic — practical, necessary — to keep tabs on the people who hang out on the wrong side of the island. that’s all you are — just another loud-mouthed pogue girl from the cut who didn’t know her place.
he spat the words like venom, made it clear he couldn’t stand you. said it to anyone who mentioned your name — he hated you.
but rafe’s lying to himself. and he knows it.
because every time your posts slide across his screen, it starts the same way. just a peek. just a scroll. and then suddenly, he’s got his cock in his hand and that skimpy bikini picture posted on your instagram pulled up like it’s fucking porn.
it’s pathetic. he knows that, too.
he groans, thumb dragging slow over the screen while the other hand pumps his cock with rough, desperate strokes. he’s already leaking at the sight — already imagining you moaning his name, begging him to fill the same pretty little hole you use to run your mouth with.
at least then that smug pogue mouth of yours would finally be good for something.
“fuckin’ pogue bitch,” he mutters, stomach tight, eyes glued to the screen. “bet you’d let me ruin you in two seconds.”
his mind spirals.
you, on your knees in that pathetic excuse of a swimsuit, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, while he fists your hair and shoves his cock down your throat. you, messy and whining, pretending you don’t want it just as bad.
“you’d let me,” he pants, thumb flicking to another picture — smaller bikini, lower angle, tighter smile. “you fuckin’ would. talk all that shit, then let me bend you over and make you cry.”
he sees it clear — you in that tight bikini, ass up in the sand, voice shaking while you beg him not to cum inside. him groaning about how tight your little pogue cunt is, about how it doesn’t matter what you say — he’s gonna take what he wants.
“i’d ruin you,” he growls. “turn you into a cock-hungry little mess. cry to your friends about how much you hate me — then sneak off just to let me fuck you again.”
he cums with a broken grunt — hot, fast, messy. fucks into his fist like he wishes it was you. thick streaks spill over his stomach, his knuckles, his fucking phone.
your face is still smiling up at him. happy. untouched.
he stares at it for a second, jaw clenched, chest still rising and falling. then he grabs the phone and hurls it across the bed, jaw tight.
“fuckin’ hate her,” he mutters, like saying it out loud might finally make it true.
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aliwritex · 2 days ago
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oscar thoughts 18+
notes: everyone and their mom did this but i did it too so here you go.
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“Hey, just checking if you’re okay” you walked out into the balcony.
Oscar was sat on the wooden chair, completely covered in sweat, hair messy and fluffy and his white top clinging to his damp skin. He nodded, tired.
“I got you more water, very cold. Here” you handed it to him and he smiled when your hand ruffled his hair. “You’re really sweaty”
“Yeah, I hate bikes now.” he said, out of breath from downing the glass of water. “Thank you”
You took the glass from his hand, standing right in front of him as he peeled off his shirt. You couldn’t help but mumble a little ‘whore’ under your breath as you turned to leave — but Oscar caught it.
He reached for your free wrist and tugged you back. “What did you say?” he teased, clearly amused by your words.
“Called you a whore” you told him, no hesitation.
“Right. I’m a whore for doing my job?”
He pulled you over his lap, settling the empty glass down on the floor. You smirked when he tugged you closer.
“Yep!” one of your hands met his hair, rushing the damp waves away as the other rested on his bare pale chest. “Looking all hot and sweaty and shit”
His hand was already cradling your face as he spoke “Sorry for looking hot and sweaty and shit”
That’s all he said before pulling you down into a kiss. And, God, you couldn’t help it. You rushed into it, feeling Oscar’s soft chuckle against your mouth when your eager tongue pressed to his lips. His hands rested on your hips as you moved to straddle him. You let both of your hands meet his hair pushing the strands back.
You could feel him growing against your ass, just as desperate as you. Could you blame him though? You had just come back from a cafe date with your friends, wearing a little floral sundress that draped perfectly over your body. He let his hands wander under the flowy material — over your ass and up to your waist. It made you squirm on his lap.
You tried a few grinds against him and his mouth fell open, his mouth finally pulling away from yours when his head fell back.
“Baby” he whined under you, watching the way your body moved.
“Just take off those stupid shorts” you told him, getting off his lap.
Oscar didn’t even stand up, just squirmed out of his tight lycra shorts, letting them fall to his ankles. You watched as he pulled himself out of his boxers, his hand immediately wrapping around his own length. There was an almost desperate expression on his face as he watched you reach under your dress to pull off your panties, his fist moving up and down around his cock.
But his expression quickly changed to relief and bliss when you hovered over his bare legs this time. He bit his lips to hold back a smile, looking up while his hands met your hips.
“What is it, huh?” you teased and he just shook his head “No?” you took his face in your hands placing a quick kiss to his lips, still giving him a questioning look.
“You’re just really pretty” he spoke against the thumb that brushed his lips.
“Yeah?” he nodded, making you smile “You’re really pretty, too”
You kissed him again, lowering yourself on his cock. His eyes closed, his lips parting slightly as his head fell back. You smiled at his face, still red and flushed from his exercise, overwhelmed by the feeling of your warm cunt.
You had to take initiative, Oscar was too blissed out. But as soon as your hips started moving his hands were moving up your body. Under your dress, his long fingers reaching your ribs and the skin right under your boobs. His touch was warm, slow but desperate.
Gentle moans left his mouth “Fuck, baby. Too good.”
You looked back down at him, his mouth had found your chest but you tugged him away by the hair — a groan leaving his throat as you did.
“Unbelievable” you whispered “you’re already falling apart.” You chuckled against his cheek “hold on for me, yeah?”
He just nodded and kissed you, taking one of his hands from your chest down between your bodies. Your clit met his fingers with every grind of your hip. Your mouth fell open at the new stimulation, complementing the way his cock was filling you perfectly. His mouth met your chest again, this time pulling you dress down, to take your nipple.
A particularly louder moan left your lips at the way his tongue was working the sensitive spot and Oscar had to remind you — “We have neighbors”
You rolled your eyes, speeding up your hips and setting a rhythm that took you both to the edge. He could barely concentrate on working his fingers as your cunt tightened around him but just the pressure and your own movements were enough.
“Baby, fuck, fuck fuck. Gonna come, sorry. Fuck” he groaned into your chest burying his face between your boobs.
You hugged his head closer, holding on to him as you felt him come undone inside you — his cock pumping you full. You kept grinding and Oscar kept moaning, already out of breath as you used him. Your high came right after, clenching around his cock as your nails dug into his shoulder.
Your bodies relaxed instantly, Oscar fell back against the chair and you let your head rest on top of his, both of you smiling dumbly.
“We should get in, not sure I’m comfortable being naked outside” he chuckled.
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kingkaisen · 2 days ago
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Prompt idea: Royal knight Kento or Suguru that falls for the princess they’re protecting
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VULCANIA — Kento N.
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♛ — 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: the king has given kento nanami one very important task and no say in the matter: protect you, the beloved princess, with his life. however, the knight can’t help but wonder . . . if you ever found yourself in danger, could he protect you? Would he protect you?
♛ — 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓: spicy kissing scene but overall sfw, feral nanami, angst, fluff, major violence, mentions of war, minor character deaths, slight enemies to lovers, brief mention of arranged marriages, geto, gojo, & sukuna make an appearance. this takes place in a mythical world! oh, and animals adore you.
♛ — 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 10k (sorry, I was having a blast)
♛ — 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: dividers by @uzmacchiato!
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Kento Nanami wanted to hate you.
Truly, he did. He tried.
After all, his bloodline’s only purpose was to shed blood; to die in service of whomever sat on the throne, as well as their spoiled spouse and privileged offspring. 
An unstable, overemotional king would often start a war over a bruised ego and an insatiable thirst for power. And every time — every single time — a king declared war on another nation, be it near or far, members of Kento’s family would die a pointless death on a battlefield.
More land and subjects for the king. Another funeral to attend for Kento.
The Nanamis were widely known as one of the most loyal families within the kingdom of Umarith, born and bred to serve the royals through knighthood.
Therefore, he was prepared for the day he kneeled before the king and received the title of a knight, as he had practically learned how to hold a tiny wooden sword and swing it before he learned his ABCs.
However, what he wasn’t prepared for, was to be less of a new knight — an honorable warrior who maintained order within the villages while protecting the weak until called into battle — and more of a personal bodyguard, one who would be responsible for protecting you, the princess.
“Your Majesty,” Kento Nanami glanced up from the polished ground he kneeled on, locking eyes with the king himself. “With all due respect, protecting the princess sounds like a task that should belong to a knight of a higher ranking than myself. I’m just a newbie.”
“You officially became a knight only a month ago, yes, however, your ancestors served the throne as knights! Your descendants will too! I cannot think of a knight more worthy of protecting my beloved daughter than a Nanami.” The erratic king paused, stepped away from the kneeling warrior, and headed for his gold-lined throne. A sigh escaped his lips as he sat down. “Your father was the first knight to throw himself in front of me when an enemy drew his sword during the Cursed War. I trust that, should the princess ever find herself in danger, you will do the same for her. That is how you were raised! Raised!”
Kento lowered his head. If it wouldn’t send him straight to the dungeons, he would have slammed his gauntlet-covered fist against the king’s jaw.
His father’s death was pointless. Unnecessary. He took a sword to the heart to protect a man who wanted wealth. And here Kento was, kneeling to said man. Kneeling to the man who expected him to do the same thing. Expected. It was expected.
But if the palace was overrun by murderous thieves, or the kingdom found itself in war yet again, or a massive fire-breathing dragon released scorching flames throughout the palace, would Kento save you?
The daughter of the man who was responsible for his father’s demise?
And his uncle’s?
And his suffering mother’s misery?
He didn’t know if he could truly be so selfless. 
Even with a cloud of angered confusion hanging above his head and the burden of being responsible for a royal’s life resting upon his shoulders, he simply stared down at the marble floor, parted his lips, and mumbled, “understood, Your Majesty. I will protect her with my life.”
— ♛ —
The stranger he promised to protect with his life was waiting for him at the other end of the palace.
What an exhausting walk. Kento grew to despise you more and more with every step he took. The servants that lingered behind him had undoubtedly climbed the never-ending grand staircases multiple times a day, but even their faces had grown red, their chests heaving as they waited on you hand and foot.
The endless torment that was knight training — was this all it would amount to? Had he unknowingly been preparing to just climb stairs, nothing more? At least he wasn’t sweating or breathless like the servants who darted back and forth around the castle.
No, that wasn’t quite right.
He was sweating a bit. He could feel the warm droplets accumulating on his forehead, making his loose blonde strands stick to his skin, but it wasn’t from exhaustion.
He was nervous.
When Kento was four and the royals celebrated your birth — which would become an official holiday honored with festivities and balls — it began then. The kingdom-wide worship.
His own mother would tuck him into the straw-filled bed he shared with his siblings.
“Goodnight, my loves,” she’d whisper, kissing their foreheads. “May the Vulcania Princess bring us warmth and bless us all.”
While your father ruled Umarith officially, it was you who mattered most. The Vulcania Princess. The precious gem of the kingdom. Everyone, from the privileged to the peasants, praised your nickname during their prayers before mealtime or before their slumber.
Those with the right amount of gold and the right amount of time traveled for days to fall to their knees before you, begging for you to bless their children or their crops. 
As Kento aged, the curriculum surrounding his education primarily focused on knighthood and the royals. He sat criss-crossed on the floor of his raggedy one-room school that smelt of old wood, and listened to his elderly teacher ramble on, on, and on about you, you, you, her eyes glistening with admiration behind her round glasses. 
The people of Umarith originally attached the name Vulcania to your princess title following your birth, as during that cherished year, the brutalizing cold seasons came to an end, and the warm seasons were the hottest they had ever been in centuries. Sleeping volcanoes were once again active. Creatures of all kinds who sought warmth — even those thought to be extinct due to the prolonged cold weather — would sneak their way into your palace. Flowers bloomed. The hungry were able to grow food once again. The sun shone brighter than ever. 
Before your mother, the queen, passed away, she claimed that your skin was always warm to the touch, as if your soul was aflame. 
Therefore, the people wanted to give you a title that represented a connection to fire, warmth, and passion. 
Kento tried to recall any and all facts he was forcibly taught about you as he approached the double doors of your bedchamber. He had only come to know your appearance through the statues and famous paintings spread throughout the villages, but never before had he sat his eyes on you.
Well, that was all about to change.
Kento raised his fist. As his knuckles tapped three times against the door, he thought about The Statue of the Vulcania Princess — an enormous, intimidating sculpture in the center of his village that touched the sky. 
All at once, as Kento thought about the endless worship be it from humans or animals that followed you everywhere — and as a red-haired servant opened the door and let him inside — it hit Kento that he wasn’t protecting a mere princess.
He was protecting a goddess.
Shit.
The Goddess of Fire was sitting on a lavish sofa in front of a fireplace, that much he could tell from where he stood. It was rather difficult to make out your mysterious features, your extensive bedroom was dark aside from the flickering flames illuminating your face just a bit, and you hadn’t yet turned your head to look at whomever was entering your bedchamber, but even so, Kento ignored the thumping of his heart, cleared his throat, and bowed.
“Your Royal Highness, I-”
“Stop bowing.” 
Kento raised his head slowly. He was careful not to let his face reflect his confusion, offering a blank expression instead.
“We are going to be spending plenty of time together whether we like it or not, so we can do without the formalities. It tends to get annoying.” You paused, as if waiting for him to speak, but it was as if Kento’s mind decided to forgo any prior knowledge of how to formulate words. 
He turned his head to face one of the servants standing against the wall, as if seeking confirmation from the quiet, redheaded young girl that you had, in fact, told him to stop bowing.
“You are my personal knight, yes?” 
“That’s correct, ma’am.”
“You’re not very good at following directions, are you?”
“Forgive me. This is the first time I’ve ever been told to act informal with a royal.”
You sighed, leaning back on your sofa, which put more distance between yourself and the flames of your fireplace — It was quite identical to how your father would sigh and lean back in his throne. As if doing nothing and being a pampered royal was oh so hard. Like father, like daughter — and your new position rid Kento of the small details of your features he could see. Now, you were nothing more than a dark figure. 
Just why was your bedroom so dark?
“Come here.”
Metal clanked against metal, filling the silence, as Kento made his way around your sofa and in front of your line of sight, blocking part of your fireplace. The flames that were able to dance around him illuminated him well, and your eyes darted across every feature of the knight standing before you.
“Blonde hair, brown eyes, well-built . . . you’re a Nanami, aren’t you?”
Kento met your question with silence. 
Truth be told, he hadn’t heard your question, because from this short distance, he finally got a somewhat decent look at your face; your mesmerizing, undeniably gorgeous face. 
It all made sense now, why the Vulcania Princess was the one everyone, rich and poor, fell to their knees and prayed to during both their darkest hours and happier times. Why the Vulcania Princess was the one who could end devastating, catastrophic world wars with a couple of mere words. Why the Vulcania Princess had princes and kings from kingdoms near and far eager to start said devastating, catastrophic world wars to wipe out their enemies just for the mere chance of dancing with you at a ball. 
Never before had he seen someone so devastatingly beautiful.
The paintings and statues he had seen of you throughout his entire life failed to capture the glistening stars within your bright eyes, or the smooth, though plump appearance of your skin. Your soft, tempting lips were as enchanting as a love spell all on their own.
“Tell me the truth. Do you hate me?”
Your soft voice snapped Kento out of his daze-like state. His eyes widened for a moment before he regained his composure.
“No. I don’t hate you.”
“You do. I can see it in your eyes. I’d love to know why.” You tilted your head a bit. “Were you hoping for a different career path within knighthood? One more exciting than being a guard dog to a princess? Did you want to be on the front lines during a war, perhaps?”
Kento gritted his teeth, his jaw clenching a bit. Despite the way his body showcased his true feelings, his words tried to convey the opposite. “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong first impression, but I-”
“What’s your name? Your first name?”
“Kento.” 
“Kento.” You gave him a gentle smile. It ignited a new flame of infuriation within him. “Be honest with me, Kento. No formalities, no lies. Why do you hate me? Tell me the truth.”
Kento frowned with uncertainty. Answering your question honestly went against every bit of his training, every lesson forced into his body and mind, but could he truly pass up the chance to say his peace? Could he?
“How do I know the truth won’t get me hung?” He asked.
“Rest assured knowing my father chose decapitation as a form of execution.” Your words were met with silence. This, in turn, led you to speak again. “See? You didn’t laugh at my awful joke. People who admire me would have faked a little chuckle, at the very least. So, why do you hate me?”
Kento shifted his feet. “Why do you want to know so badly?”
“I think my curiosity is only natural. I’m sure if someone hated you, you would like to know why.”
“Not if it was a complete stranger.”
“What if it were a stranger who was responsible for your safety? A stranger who was supposed to die for you without hesitation?” You crossed one leg over the other, the silk gown covering your body shifting slightly. “Do you see why I’m desperate to know?”
“That’s why.”
“Hm?”
“That’s why I . . . dislike you. I’m supposed to die for you. Becoming a knight is the fate of all Nanami whether we like it or not. My father was a knight. His father was a knight. My cousins are knights. I am a knight. If I have a son, he’ll become a knight, and he’ll have to watch as I kill and die protecting you royals, because it’s the only way to put food on the table. My father died protecting yours, and I’m sure I’ll die protecting you. I could refuse. I could pick a different career path, but then my mother and my siblings would starve, all because I’d be a disgrace, blacklisted out of every other potential career. Nanamis are expected to become knights, or to rot and die.” Kento glanced down at his heavy hand, covered with armor. “And the pay is quite low.”
“I see.” 
When Kento glanced up at you yet again, he could see the gears in your head turning, your mind taking in every word. But, even so, all you managed to say were those two, simple, meaningless words.
That was the first and last time you and Kento spoke to one another that day.
— ♛ —
TWO WEEKS LATER
One would think that protecting a dear princess who often did nothing more than sit by a fireplace would be an easy task.
One would think.
Over fourteen days in counting had passed since this aggravating honor was bestowed upon him, and one thing he learned was that your presence was indeed enchanting, and all living creatures wanted to enjoy your warmth. More often than not, the knight was pushing starstruck — or, rather, godstruck — subjects away from you that managed to break free from knight-patrolled crowds whenever you left your palace. 
Animals, however, were okay. 
And he learned that the hard way.
“A heads up next time would be nice,” Kento once said, rather breathless, releasing the handle of his sword and letting it fall back into its scabbard. His heart rate hadn’t yet returned to normal.
There you were, sitting on the floor of your private library, stroking the mane of an enormous lion that rested its head in your lap.
As massive as it was, as dangerous as it was, the lion rubbed its head against your gown as if it were pouting. Both it, and you, rolled your eyes at Kento.
“Surely you were told that animals sometimes inhabit the palace to seek out my warmth.”
“I was, but . . .” he paused, blinking in bewilderment. “A lion?”
Your lips pointed downward into a small pout as you stroked the creature, as if to comfort it and say: “It’s okay, I’ll protect you from the big bad knight, it’s okay.”
“This isn’t just any lion. This is my lion. He wandered far from his home when he was only a cub. The poor thing was cold and was hiding in my garden. I found him, raised him, and he comes and goes whenever he pleases. You should apologize to him.”
“Apologize? To a lion?”
“Yes,” your frown deepened, and your eyes found Kento’s. “Can’t you see you hurt his feelings? You pulled your sword out on him.”
“I was trying to do my job and protect you. I didn’t know it-” 
“He.”
Kento released a heavy sigh. Just what sort of nonsense had he gotten himself into? “I didn’t know he was a pet. Are there any other animals I should be aware of? I should consider making a list.”
You scoffed, knowing quite well he was hinting at the sudden appearance of bunnies sitting on his chest when he awakened one morning, just last week.
Three days ago, butterflies were swirling around your head. Four? Three birds — two small, one big — fluttered around you, landing on your hands and shoulders as they pleased.
“May I ask what a lion is doing in the library specifically?” Kento questioned.
Folding your arms across your chest, staring at him as if the answer was rather obvious, you said, “I was reading to him, clearly. Animals enjoy tales just as much as humans and faes.”
Just then, Kento’s eyes flickered over to the open book resting on the floor beside your thigh. He shook his head in disbelief. 
“Right, of course, well,” he awkwardly scratched the side of his head, fingers messing up his blonde strands. “I’m sorry to you, and to the lion.”
Your hand raised; you were motioning him over.
He was hesitant, but Kento kneeled. He couldn’t help but widen his eyes in surprise when you removed one of his armored gloves and grabbed ahold of his hand with your own.
His cheeks burned. Your eyes; they darted up briefly at his reddening cheeks, but you didn’t make a verbal comment. He was rather grateful.
His apparent blushing wasn’t due to the sudden skin-to-skin contact — at least, that’s what he convinced himself — but rather, he viewed you as fragile. Soft. Like the glass of a valuable mirror. And his hands? Well, swinging swords and perfecting the art of combat during years of knight training had left him with scars and calloused fingertips. He viewed himself as rough. Hard. Like sandpaper scratching against uneven metal. 
Your soft hand warmed his rough one as you guided it towards the lion’s mane. Gently, you rested his hand against its thick hair and released it, and Kento found himself missing your warmth.
How odd.
“Apologize properly,” you demanded. You nodded your head down to his hand. Spending all of his time with you had gifted him with the ability to understand your every intention, and with a sigh, Kento stroked the lion’s mane.
“I’m sorry.”
“Reo.”
He looked at you. There was no hint of amusement in your eyes. You were quite serious.
He returned his gaze to the big, pouting lion, and said, “I’m sorry, Reo.”
And with that, Kento left the library — only to stand outside the doors as a guard, of course. As he shut the heavy library doors behind him, he heard you mumble to the lion, “Try to forgive him, Reo. He means well.”
The creature groaned in response.
Kento ran his bare hand across his face. “Did that really just happen?” He thought.
But, a more pressing thought — one more shocking than apologizing to and petting a lion — presented itself within his mind like an intruder. 
“I miss her warmth already.”
— ♛ —
TWO MONTHS LATER
“Greetings to all! Welcome to the Vulcania Princess’s Birthday Ball!” 
Esteemed guests dressed in stunning ballgowns and extravagant tuxedos let their applause fill the enormous ballroom. Oh, was it enormous, with golden and white accents decorating the walls and pillars, and marvelous chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings. On the other side of the ballroom, there was an entire orchestra performing on a balcony, only stopping their classical music to hear the king speak.
The king stood beside your throne as he prattled on with greetings and thanks. Kento himself was like a guard dog, standing a little ways behind your throne, eyeing the crowd.
He toned out most of the king’s speech. Most of his guests did as well, but their eyes glowed with admiration — not for him, but for you. After all, it was you, and this evening, you were wearing a puffy, lilac ballgown adorned with flowers, and a bright tiara sat perfectly on your head — every strand of your hair was styled to your liking.
At some point, the king finally stopped talking, and guests continued to mingle and dance. Kento stood back and watched as three well-dressed men approached your throne. Their attire was more sophisticated than that of a standard — albeit wealthy in name or fortune — guest, and Kento gathered that they were princes from other kingdoms.
“Kneel before my daughter!” The king shouted.
It wasn’t customary for princes to kneel to someone of an equal rank, but the three men took a knee in front of your throne with no hesitation.
The king, now satisfied, looked down at you.
“I’ll leave you to it, my dear,” he said before walking off, eager to partake in the refreshments.
“Your Royal Highness,” a man with long, black hair began to speak. “I am Prince Suguru of Ravane, your closest partner in trade. We met briefly during the Fae’s Flower Festival last year. Please, allow me the honor of gifting you three necklaces made with the rarest and finest gemstones that can only be harvested by faes alone, all in exchange for your first dance this evening.”
“Pardon the interruption Your Royal Highness, but,” the man beside him, one with white hair and a boyish grin, suddenly interrupted. “As someone wise enough not to gift you something you own a thousand of, I think I should be the one to have your first dance. And you’re probably wondering why, right? Well . . .”
The man rose to his feet, wrapping his fingers around the handle on top of a tiny crate he had sat beside him. He started to approach the throne. As his feet moved, so did Kento’s. Though he was careful not to interrupt, he was close enough to your throne to make his presence known; a silent warning to the white-haired man: don’t try anything foolish.
The man opened the tiny crate. Suddenly, a small, red creature unsteadily flew out of the open door.
You held out your hands, and it landed there, as if it knew — it knew — that was where it belonged.
“A baby dragon! Oh my goodness,” you grinned down at the animal.
“Prince Satoru of Soulan, my love,” the man winked.
“Home of the dragons. Of course.” The incredibly tiny dragon spun around in two circles before settling down, resting its head on your palm. “And what kind have you gifted to me?”
“Well, in my kingdom, rumor has it that you spend most of your free time sitting in front of your fireplace. I figured there must be some truth to it, considering you’re called the Vulcania Princess and the Goddess of Fire for a reason. Because of that, I think it’s only right for you to own a Flame Dragon. Whaddya think?”
“Damn, giving her the most common type of dragon in your kingdom, huh? Sounds to me like you don’t think she’s worth the effort.”
The interjection came from the third prince, a buff man with pink hair and an unfriendly gaze.
Satoru turned to face him, stepping away from your throne. “Oh my god, get lost, Sukuna. Didn’t your kingdom try to burn hers to the ground, what, two or three years ago? Why are you here to begin with?”
“Something about makin’ peace with your enemies,” the buff prince smirked.
“You’re both being awfully informal in front of the princess. Watch your mouths,” Suguru, now joining in, rose to his feet.
Satoru rolled his blue eyes, mumbling, “I heard that your little kingdom is surviving off of tomatoes or something. Is that why you . . .”
The three bickering princes continued on and on, but you paid them no mind, too preoccupied with the tiny creature in your hands.
Kento leaned down a little ways across your throne.
“Perhaps I should hold on to the dragon for you. It could be dangerous,” he said.
“No way! He’s already bonding with me. Look!” The dragon alternated between crawling on its four legs and fluttering its way up your arm with its tiny, dark red wings. “What should I name him? What should I feed him? I know nothing of raising a dragon. Do you?”
“Afraid not.” He watched the dragon make a bed out of your shoulder, resting against the crook of your neck. “They only taught us how to slay one.”
That statement made you glare up at Kento.
“I won’t hurt him, I promise,” he said defensively, yet gently. “Once he grows, I might be out of a job. He and that lion of yours could protect you better than I ever could.” 
“I have a feeling you could protect me very well, you just refuse to do so.”
Your words caught him by surprise. His disdain for his career was no foreign topic between the two of you, but even so, he hadn’t expected you to bring it up. Not right now. Not like this.
Especially considering that, well, he instinctively found himself doing just that in one way or another. Protecting you.
“I-”
“I understand, Kento. I don’t like the idea of anyone dying for me just as much as you don’t like the idea of dying for someone.” You paused, looking away from him and back at the three, arguing princes. “Let's go for a stroll. I have a feeling these men are about to start fighting one another. I’m not looking forward to picking one to dance with.”
— ♛ —
There was only one place you deemed perfect enough for a stroll: the vast gardens surrounding the palace. Hedge mazes, luscious trees, and colorful, blossoming flowers of all kinds were illuminated by the bright moonlight. Together, you and Kento walked in a comfortable silence.
A little while after passing one of the greenhouses, Kento spoke.
“When I was younger, learning about you royals was just as important as learning how to read or put on armor. I remember what they taught us about you.” “Oh?” You mumbled, though you didn’t give him a look of surprise. “What kind of things did they teach you? Can you recall any of it?”
“Well, for starters, they told us how much you adored spending time in the garden, especially during the warmer months.”
“I don’t see how that knowledge benefits any of you.”
“It doesn’t, but now, I enjoy figuring out what might have been true or false. Clearly, that part was true.” 
A soft smile as gentle as the moonlight appeared on your face.
“What else is there to know about you?” Kento asked. 
Internally, his curiosity puzzled him. Just why did he care? 
He couldn’t explain it, but his heart and soul felt like it was caught in a game of tug-of-war, and the rope was a very thin line between love and hate. Love.
No.
No . . . that couldn’t have been it.
Not for the woman who sat by her fireplace all day. Not for the woman who never had to work a day in her life. Not for the woman whose biggest obstacle in life was deciding which ballgown to wear or which animal to cuddle with.
Not for the woman who was the daughter of the asshole of a king who got his father killed.
Kento tried to grimace at the thought, but that thought brought him no trouble. 
Oh, how he wished it did.
A small, baby fox with large ears dashed out of the shrubbery surrounding the walking path, darting across his foot. 
“Hmm, well,” you paused in thought, paying no mind to the sandy-colored creature that decided to follow you, hopping along with every step you took. The sudden sound of your soft voice snapped Kento out of his pleasant — though he wished they were unpleasant — thoughts. “My tiara makes my head itch. I’ve been told that my taste in music is . . . unique. I secretly add extra spices to my food when the chef isn’t looking. I’m a very sensitive person, believe it or not. It took everything in me not to cry after finding out you, a complete stranger at the time, hated me. Lastly, I have saved and nurtured twenty-seven creatures, and that only includes the ones I claim as pets, not ones I’ve simply befriended on a journey.”
“Were any of them as humongous as that dragon will turn out to be?” Kento asked, pointing to the dragon fast asleep on your shoulder. 
“Can’t say. I’m struggling to wrap my mind around the fact that this tiny creature will grow into a gigantic, fire-breathing being. I’m excited.” You halted your footsteps. The small fox trailing you took the opportunity to climb up the back of your dress, claws digging into the puffy, lilac fabric that adorned your body until it sprawled across your other, free shoulder, but you didn’t seem to mind. It was a tad bit bigger than the dragon, and Kento figured that having two small animals resting on your shoulders couldn’t have been comfortable, but you simply smiled, and greeted the baby fox with, “Hello, sweetheart,” before turning your attention back to Kento. “Anyway, I’m sure my father will oppose the idea of me keeping a dragon. He thinks I’ll be responsible for my own demise.”
“We have our differences, but I might have to agree with the king on that one.”
“Be that as it may, I refuse to let him take little Blaze away from me.”
“Blaze?” Kento raised his eyebrows, stifling the urge to laugh. “I wanted something related to fire in any sort of way. Is it too uncreative? Silly? Should I keep brainstorming? I want to name him something he’ll like.” You gazed off at the stars above, biting your lip, puzzled.
After a moment, you glanced back at Kento, and a small pout grazed your moonlit face. “What? You’re being very unhelpful.”
“Blaze is a perfect-”
“You’re trying to flatter my dear dragon so he won’t set you ablaze when he’s older.” You smiled gently. Kento blinked. You then sighed and continued to stroll through the garden. “We talked about this, Kento. You’re supposed to laugh at my terrible jokes to boost my self-esteem.” 
“What?” Kento cleared his throat. “Sorry, I’m pretending that I couldn’t hear you.”
“Oh,” you shook your head. “Just you wait until I teach Blaze how to . . . bite your ankles.”
A genuine, heartfelt laugh escaped Kento. God, how long has it been since he managed to do something like that? It wasn’t anything drastic, nothing more than a somewhat small chuckle, but it occurred to him that, perhaps, he couldn’t remember the last time he was blessed with the chance to truly laugh.
His laugh made your smile brighten — not a gentle, polite smile that he had gotten used to seeing, but a real, full grin that made Kento wonder why the world’s most gifted artists never painted you with such a facial expression.
It was breathtaking.
The stroll resumed for another six minutes. During that time, you and Kento discussed everything from his mother’s favorite meals to make to the new hit play that premiered last week. However, the closer you both ventured towards the entrance to the ballroom, the more your precious smile started to fade.
Kento glanced down at your hands, which fiddled with the necklace around your neck.  
“What troubles you?” He asked.
“You’re wise, so I’m sure you’ve already put the pieces together, you’re great at that I’ve noticed, but . . . this evening, I am not just picking a dance partner, but someone to marry.” You spoke softly. Kento could tell from your tone that this was a bothersome topic for you. “I get to choose, but my choices are limited to those three men. I know how it feels to be born into a role you didn’t ask for. I understand what you’re going through, Kento.”
The knight stopped walking.
As soon as that last sentence slipped from between your glossy lips, Kento’s heart and soul once again felt like it was playing a game of tug-of-war. Love and Hate. And right now, as a wave of anger washed over him, the latter was winning.
“With all due respect,” Kento released a shaky breath. He wouldn’t lose his composure so easily, but he had to speak his mind. He had to. “You don’t know what it’s like. You live a pampered life. Your hands are free from scratches or burns or anything that signifies hard work, and you have never known hunger and loss like I have — hunger and loss that is a direct result of the actions you royals take. I’m sorry you have to pick between three rich, attractive princes who are ready to go to war for you and you find yourself incapable of doing anything more difficult than sitting on a sofa all day, but that in no way compares to . . .” 
He felt his composure slip. His tone was getting dark. Voice was getting harsh. Taking a deep breath, avoiding your gaze all the while, Kento parted his lips, preparing to let an apology slip from between them, then suddenly, you said, “You should take a break. Stay out here a little longer to get some fresh air by yourself. I’ll be fine.” You gave him a sad smile. Pulling the dragon, Blaze, off your shoulder, you held the sleepy creature against your chest, as if seeking its comfort. Though you tried to hide it, your smile couldn’t disguise the glistening hurt within your eyes. You were sensitive. That’s right.
“I should head back inside,” you mumbled. “Everyone will be looking for me.”
“Your Royal Highness, please forgive me. I’m sorry. Not having a say in who you want to spend the rest of your life with is terrible. I don’t know why I . . . please forgive me.” Kento called out, his words sincere, face twisted in anguish, but you continued walking. 
Then suddenly, you paused. He thought that, perhaps, you were reconsidering parting ways with him, that you were going to smile and tell him to drop the formalities, but your momentary falter was just to let the small fox descend your body before you reentered the palace.
The tiny creature ran across the gardens, and you were gone.
— ♛ —
Kento sat on an outdoor bench made of stone. The garden that stretched before him represented you in every way. After all, it was you who brought the very warmth that made the variety of flowers in this garden bloom. Your existence, the flame within you, brought an end to a Cold World; saved the shivering animals and children on the brink of death, blossomed plants that fed the poor and starved, and ended the days of endless freezing. 
Kento was only four when you were born, but, as he sat on the soft cream-colored bench that you undoubtedly picked out yourself, he thought about the faint memory of that day. The day of your birth.
The terrifying blankets of snow and ice melted. Animals thought to be dead and extinct were running, jumping, and hopping about. Fleeting citizens from the western villages crowded the cobblestone streets as a sleeping volcano suddenly awakened. Flowers and plants sprawled spontaneously — his mother, who was pale and shivering as she held on to her children moments before, stepped outside and plucked a fresh grape off a grapevine that had appeared outside of their raggedy cottage.
Suddenly, the rope involved in the game of tug-of-war between his heart and soul had snapped, and it hit him all at once.
Your father was responsible for his father’s death, yes, but you . . . you saved him. You saved his mother.
A bittersweet smile graced Kento’s face. His stomach churned; was it butterflies? Knots? He didn’t know. Perhaps, he’d never come to understand the feelings you evoked within him.
But he knew one thing for certain.
The idea of your beautiful face frowning as tears threatened to fall from your eyes — on your birthday, nevertheless — from the words he spoke made his heart ache.
Kento rose from the bench. Just as he took a step towards the entrance of the ballroom, a sudden force of energy made the ballroom windows shatter. Heat and light filled the sky. The world itself shook as an ear-shattering boom blasted from one side of the palace. 
The knight found himself falling to his knees, as the impact was strong enough to send a shockwave through the garden. His wide eyes witnessed the enormous puff of flames, and part of the palace started to cave in.
Rubble filled the ballroom.
“No. God, no.”
Kento’s legs were numb, but they carried him out of the garden — where frightened animals screeched and ran — and he forced his way inside the ballroom through a broken window. Dark smoke, dust, flames, and never-ending screams of terror filled the air. He coughed, his brown eyes burned which created tears that slipped down his ash-covered face, but he hoisted himself over fallen rubble until he made it to where your throne used to be. 
Now, it was nothing but . . . it was nothing.
His eyes couldn’t make out the mess of debris and flame. The smoke made it difficult to distinguish bodies from stone, but he knew well that before him was that familiar gigantic beast, clawing at the rubble, whimpering. Your beloved lion was searching for you, digging for you. The sight of it gave Kento the devastating confirmation he needed that you were there.
Underneath smoldering embers, a destroyed throne, and pieces of a collapsed ceiling, Kento saw the scraps of a torn lilac ballgown. He ran for it.
Armored hands pulled and pushed away at fallen wreckage so heavy, Kento gritted his teeth due to the pure strain on his body. But, damn it all, he used every bit of his solid muscle to lift, pull, and push, until he saw a bruised, ash-covered leg and heard a weak cry.
Then, all of the debris felt weightless. 
“I’m right here,” Kento called out, careful to keep his voice steady and calm. “I’m coming, just hold on.”
Slowly, your injured, trembling body revealed itself to Kento after he shoved shattered pieces of one of the massive chandeliers. You were face down. As if you were made of glass, fragile, he carefully flipped you over, only to see a scared, but otherwise okay, tiny dragon cradled in your arms.
Your position, and thus, your wounds, told him that you must have shielded it. 
He gritted his teeth. Seeing you like this . . . it was unbearable. Who could have done this?
Kento pulled you into his arms, holding on tightly to your smaller frame.
You whimpered. Blood spewed from your lips, decorating your chin, and Kento pulled you close.
“Shh, it’s okay. I’m going to get you out of here-”
The ballroom shook again. There was another deafening boom, followed by a wave of piercing screams. Another explosion within the palace. Kento could hear the crackling walls and ceilings, and he knew what that meant.
He folded your body underneath his. Reo, your lion, too placed his body over yours. Kento shielded you with his bigger, armor-covered frame, and more rubble started to collapse. Feeling it fall against his protected backside — god, did it hurt. It hurt like hell. But it wasn’t enough to kill or bury him, so he hooked his arm underneath your knees, his other arm cradling your upper half, and he rose to his feet.
“Stay with me,” he glanced down at you as best as he could through his blurred vision. “I promise I’ll protect you. Just stay with me.”
Your eyes fluttered open. Suddenly, they widened, and you began to turn your head frantically every which way as Kento carried you. He parted his lips to tell you to lie still, assuming that you were falling into a state of panic, but before he could utter a single word, you started to squirm around. You wriggled yourself out of his grasp.
You landed on your feet and started running — or rather, limping — in the opposite direction, breathing erratically with every twist and turn of your head.
“Where are you going? We need to leave, now!” Kento shouted.
In your condition, you couldn’t make it far. All he had to do was reach forward, wrap his arm around your waist, and pull you backwards until your back hit his chest.
“Blaze,” you cried. “ . . . Must’ve dropped him! I can’t . . . can’t find him! And there are people still in here, a-and my animals . . . Reo . . . just let me go!”
He tried to ignore your cries. Saving you was his only priority. It had to be. But, as he went to lift you yet again, another explosion, further away this time, sent a violent vibration throughout the ballroom, and he lost a bit of his balance.
That was enough for you to wiggle free. 
Kento shouted your name, but you paid him no mind. The fires scattered throughout the ballroom wouldn’t hurt you, but the collapsing rubble? It could.
You ran across rubble and shoved your way through panicked, running guests, but alas, through the smoke and ash clouding the air, you made out the tiny red creature amidst the debris, fluttering and shrieking. Your dear, frightened baby dragon was searching for you, calling for your help.
You extended your arms, reaching for him. 
That was when you heard it; it, being an unfamiliar voice, one that shouted, “There’s the princess, fucking take her already, dead or alive!”
Someone was charging at you. The nearby burning fires gave you enough light to make out a masked figure, dressed in black, who clenched a knife between his fists, so ready and eager to drive it into the side of your stomach.
Just as the knife nearly grazed your corset, a sword suddenly pierced through the attacker’s stomach, blood and sharp silver steel poking out of him as the light left his murderous eyes.
The sword was then yanked out of him. 
Kento watched the man he murdered fall to the rubble-covered ground with a thump, then his eyes were on you, quickly scanning your body for any new injuries.
But there was no time for you to thank him. No time for him to grab you and run. 
More masked men with knives and swords drawn started to charge at you both.
“Run,” Kento commanded. 
But it amounted to nothing. The masked men circled you both. There was no escape.
Kento turned slowly, counting them. There were five. Five men he would have to kill.
He sighed, deflecting an oncoming attack with ease, driving his own sword into the guts of yet another man. Though he was actively taking someone’s life, his eyes were on you, watching as two men charged at you without weapons: clearly, their preference was to take you alive.
“Shit,” Kento thought, pulling his sword out of the man. 
Your tiny dragon rapidly flapped its wings, fluttering high enough to latch its small mouth to the ankle of one of your attackers. The victim of the little attack winced, reaching down to his ankle in an attempt to pull him off, but you tried to reach for your baby dragon first.
The other masked man took that opportunity to grab a fistful of your hair. He yanked you. Hard. Your head was already bruised and battered from the initial explosion, and this forced a pained cry out of you. 
Kento heard it. He was in the process of stabbing two other masked men when he heard it. 
He clenched his jaw. He gripped the handle of his sword with such force, he could hear his own knuckles crack.
When the masked man who held you by your hair felt the presence of someone behind him, he turned around. His eyes widened at the sight of that massive knight looming over him, one who was already quite big to begin with, but seemed twice as big now. More like a beast than a human. 
“Get your hands off of her,” Kento warned. 
The man was going to reach for his knife, hold it against your neck, and prattle on with some ultimatum, but Kento didn’t give the man a chance to even gasp at the sight of him before he strategically placed his hands around his head and snapped his neck with an unpleasant crack.
As for the final masked man, between dealing with a pesky little dragon who was biting at him and spitting tiny little bouts of flame at his flesh and that pissed-off giant of a knight making his way towards him, he shouted, “Damn it, to hell with all this!” and tried to run away.
He made it four steps before Kento threw his blood-covered sword like a javelin, and it was launched through the masked man’s chest. 
“Are you alright? Did they hurt you?” Kento leaned down. He gazed at you with the softest, worry-filled brown eyes. His thumb grazed your cheek with an utterly surprising gentleness, considering how brutally he had just murdered several men moments before.
You shrugged. “I’m . . . alive. Thank you, Kento.”
He smiled. 
But as the sound of stomping footsteps approached, Kento rose to his feet. This wasn’t over. Whoever was attacking your kingdom, so desperate to capture you, they weren’t planning on giving up just yet.
Kento walked over to the man he had killed last and pulled his sword from his chest as more masked men charged at him, and he found himself in another battle.
You scooped up your dragon and limped towards a broken window, crawling over a mix of fallen debris and corpses. 
“Go,” you mumbled to Blaze, extending your hands to release the small creature. “Return to me when it’s safe, sweetheart.”
Though he was hesitant, the baby dragon groaned with understanding and fluttered away.
You didn’t have the strength of a knight, nor a hard-working subject. But you didn’t let that stop you from grabbing hold of the collar of a random person  — the first living person you could get your hands on. You dragged the whimpering, injured person towards the window, tripping over your ripped lilac ballgown as you gasped and strained, breathless, but you hoisted the person over the window’s ledge and out of the smokey, collapsing, fire and rubble-filled ballroom.
Thank goodness it was on the first floor of the palace.
You fell to your knees. Your breathing was loud. Strained. Every bone in your body ached. New spouts of fresh blood seeped from your wounds, mixing with the ash and dried blood coating your body, but, even though your heart pounded as if it wanted to give out, you rose to your feet. You moved your hands throughout the rubble, and they landed on a torso. One that was rising and falling with shallow breaths. 
One that was small.
“You’ll be alright, my love. Help will come,” you whispered, though your voice was shaking with uncertainty. 
You cautiously put the child out of the window. Then another person. Then another.
You hoisted one woman over your shoulders. She was a tiny thing, but with your exhausted and bruised body, you were certain you’d struggle to carry a small bag of potatoes. But you recognized this woman’s uniform. Though her youthful face was covered with soot, she was one of your servants — the redheaded one who was always in your bedchamber, tending to your needs. 
You couldn’t bring yourself to check whether or not her chest was rising or falling. You only carried her to another broken window, your knees threatening to buckle, and you pushed her out, hearing a little gentle thud as she hit the shrubbery.
“Please let help come. Please let it come,” you whispered.
There was another vibrating explosion in the distance. Orange flames that could be seen from the windows brightened the ballroom. It knocked you off your feet for a moment, but you regained your footing and grabbed the arm of someone on the ground. You strained as you attempted to pull the person free from the fallen pillar they were stuck under, but there was no use. You collapsed in defeat. 
Their visible body was hard to make out, but you ran your hand across their face until you found their nose. No puff of air hit your finger.
With a defeated sigh, you rose to your feet. It was then that you noticed those lifeless, open eyes. And you recognized that shade of blue.
A shocked gasp escaped you. Reaching down, you closed the eyes of Prince Satoru with trembling, bloodied fingers. “I’m sorry,” you cried. “I’m sorry.”
The next several minutes were a blur. 
There you were, using the last of your strength to drag the unconscious, heavily injured body of Prince Suguru across the wreckage, when heavy hands gripped your waist. One second, you were lifted into the air, and in the next, you were being thrown against a fallen, sharp stone. The impact resulted in an explosion of searing pain that was too much for your mind and body to tolerate. You could taste blood.
You were screaming, but you couldn’t hear it. You couldn’t hear anything. You could barely see anything — the last thing you caught a glimpse of before slipping into a realm of unconsciousness were the black boots of a masked man walking towards you, and Kento . . . Kento dashing in front of the man’s raised sword, and getting stabbed through a gap in his ruined armor nearest his lower abdomen.
Your surroundings became nothing more than a black abyss, and there was one, final explosion.
— ♛ —
TWO DAYS LATER
He was staring at a familiar ceiling. 
It was brown. Wooden. Raggedy.
As Kento Nanami blinked, blinked, and blinked, it hit him.
He was home.
He sat up in bed, fighting the burst of pain that surged through him from the bandaged wound on his shirtless lower body. When he looked down, there was a familiar, tiny red dragon resting on his thigh.
“You’re awake. That’s great.” The soft voice startled him. Only then, turning his head to the side, did he realize that you were sitting at his bedside. A brown cloak was draped across your head, a choice clearly made to conceal your identity while walking among your subjects.
Or, given the recent events that were coming back to Kento’s memory, bit by bit, it was, perhaps, a choice made to conceal your identity for your own safety.
“How is it that you’re awake and I wasn’t ‘til now?” Kento’s voice was hoarse, and he coughed. “Last I remember, I was the one carrying your unconscious body out of-”
He coughed yet again.
You walked away for a moment and returned with a cup of water.
“Drink this,” you said.
He took it with thanks. As he gulped it down, he recalled the last of what he could remember. 
He took a sword to the stomach to protect you. There was another explosion. The biggest of them all. Part of the ceiling collapsed on the man who stabbed him. The entire ballroom was becoming a sea of falling rubble and flames on a greater scale than before. Kento scooped up your unconscious body and ran, jumped; did whatever he had to do to get across the debris. He used all of his remaining strength to toss you out of the window first. With the ballroom falling apart second by second, he wasn’t certain if he’d have enough time to crawl out of the window and save his own life, but that didn’t matter. 
Your safety came first.
You came first.
He didn’t remember anything after getting you out of that ballroom. He was alive still, but-
“After our medics found you and patched you up, I decided to bring you home. Your mother and I spent the last two days taking care of you. I actually just finished washing your face and brushing your teeth.” You suddenly spoke, as if reading his thoughts. “It wasn’t out of kindness, really. Our hospitals are . . . it’s a nightmare. Thank you for saving me, Kento.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, holding on to the empty cup of water. His thumb tapped rapidly against the side of it, and he frowned. “That attack was a long time coming, wasn’t it?”
Your teary eyes locked with his. You gave him a sad, knowing smile. “Like I said, you’re great at putting the pieces together.”
It all made sense. 
After all, why now did the king insist on you having a personal knight? 
The king must have known that there was a group from another kingdom who wanted to get their hands on the Vulcania Princess, dead or alive. 
Kento rubbed his face out of pure exhaustion.
“Why host a ball when your life is in danger?” Kento questioned. “Greed. That’s it, right? The king couldn’t pass up the chance to receive praise and gifts and kick-start your engagement, even if it meant putting you at risk. What is he thinking?”
“It doesn’t matter. He’s dead.”
Kento allowed the silence to fester. During which, he grabbed ahold of your hand, stroking your soft skin with his rough thumb.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Don’t lie to me.” You mumbled, but despite your cold tone, you didn’t pull your hand away from him. “There’s no time to mourn. The kingdom is in shambles. We’re vulnerable. Weak. People are dead, from our kingdom and others. And now? Now I’m queen. How am I supposed to . . .”
There it was, the mourning you tried to swear off.
Tears fell from your eyes. Kento didn’t waste a second before gently moving the sleepy dragon to an empty spot on the bed before swinging his legs off the side, and ignoring the pain as he leaned up and pulled your chair closer to him. He wrapped his arms around you gently — aware of your potential wounds though he couldn’t see them right now — and he pulled you against his bare chest.
“It’s okay,” he said soothingly. “It’s okay.”
“Sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t cry in front of anyone.” You pulled away from him, wiping the tears that fell from your right eye, and he stroked away the ones that fell from the left with his thumb.
As he did so, he couldn’t help but let his thumb hover over a deep, healing scratch on your cheek. 
“It’s okay to cry. You’re just a person.” 
“Am I?”
“Of course you are,” his brown eyes gazed into your sad eyes. “You like warm things. Warm drinks, warm weather, warm blankets, fireplaces, fire-breathing dragons . . . you take a walk through your garden when you need to clear your head. Though you’ve never held a sword or a shield, you don’t hesitate to protect others, and not just people who are important to you, but strangers as well, and all kinds of creatures. Your jokes are so awful, they’re funny. You bite your bottom lip when you are lost in thought, and if those thoughts are worrisome, you play with your necklace. You cut people off when they’re speaking, but you don’t do it out of malice, you’re just brilliant, and you already know what someone is going to say. You’re unintentionally ignorant. Quite ignorant. But you try your hardest to overcome it once something is brought to your attention. It was you who ended wars with a simple speech. Recently, you argued for an increase in pay for knights of all ranks, I’m certain of it. And yet, you didn’t tell me, because you don’t feel the need to brag about your good deeds either.” Kento’s thumb hovered over your bottom lip. He whispered, “Hm, maybe . . . maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you aren’t just a person, because I’m certain I’ve never met anyone else like you.”
Amidst the sadness, there was a shimmer of something else within your eyes. A little spark of hope.
“Is that really how you see me? I think . . . this is the first time someone has given me a compliment that has nothing to do with beauty. At least, most of that was a compliment, I think.” You gave a soft smile that stretched the scratch on your cheek. “Wait, did you fail to compliment my beauty because you no longer find me attractive? I couldn’t exactly blame you if that’s the reason.”
“You’re mesmerizing. Inside and out. Your wounds don’t change that. But don’t worry. I’m sure they’re mixing up the strongest healing elixir known to all just for you. Your wounds will exist only as a memory, just you wait.” 
That shimmer of hope within your eyes brightened. Kento wanted nothing more than for it to stay that way, but it couldn’t. Not when your life was still in danger. Not when there were people out there who wanted to hurt you.
Kento placed his hands on either side of his legs and started to push off his bed, but suddenly, your hands shot out, pushing against his thighs and seizing his movements.
“What are you doing?” You asked urgently.
“Trying to leave my bed, if you’ll let me.”
“Have you gone mad? You were stabbed. I won’t let you leave this bed until you’ve recovered fully. Try to leave again and I’ll . . . tell your mother . . . when she returns.”
Kento frowned. “Your life is in danger. I can’t just-”
“It’s not your duty to protect me anymore.”
That frown deepened, his brows furrowed in utter confusion. “What are you saying?” He asked.
You were silent for a moment, but when you spoke yet again, you couldn’t look him in the eye. You didn’t have the nerve. “I'm the ruling monarch now. I call the shots. I’ll pass a law to make it illegal for employers to discriminate against members of certain bloodlines that have decided to stray from the career path chosen by their people.” Your eyes fell on his bandaged abdomen. “In other words, you no longer have to serve as a knight. Go on and enjoy a different career of your choice. In the meantime, I’ll make sure your family is well fed. It’s the least I can do.” 
“No.”
You looked at him, eyebrows shooting up in pure shock. “I’m sorry?”
“I’m not leaving you. Not now,” Kento said.
“Kento, there’s no need. There are plenty of other knights who actually want to be knights. They can protect me just fine.”
“I don’t care. I’m not leaving your side.  I don’t mind dying for you-” 
“Damn it all, Kento, I said no. Look at your condition! Look!”
Your sudden shouting stunned him. Based on the way your tears fell, and your hand clenched and unclenched around nothing, it surprised you too. “That wound of yours is all my fault. I should have left when you told me to. I won’t allow something like this to happen again. I won’t have it.”
“Look at me.” His hand was once again on your face, but not stroking your cheek. This time, his long fingers gripped your chin, forcing you to stare into his eyes. “I won’t have you dying a preventable death because of incompetent knights while I waltz around my village baking bread or sharpening knives.”
“Is this an ego thing?” Do you think you’re the only knight strong enough to protect me?”
Though your question was a serious one, Kento couldn’t help but laugh a bit. “I understand everything about you down to which foot you step with first, but you don’t understand me at all.”
“What do you-”
It was sudden, but Kento was fed up with your lack of understanding. He released your chin, but only to snake his hand around your head and pull you close, closing the gap between you by crashing your lips together. The kiss was warm. Your lips were soft — so damn soft — and he couldn’t help but hold on to you even tighter, melting into the kiss because he needed more. Though his tongue rubbed against yours, though he was breathless, and though it hurt his injured stomach to do so, he still wanted more; one large hand hooked around your thigh, the other against your back, and he pulled you onto his lap.
Your hand pressed against his muscular, broad chest. He swallowed a soft moan that escaped your lips. 
“Kento,” you gave a little whimper.
“I know,” he whispered against your wet lips, the words barely leaving his own lips before he reconnected his mouth to yours. He pulled you against his mouth even harder, made you straddle his lap even tighter, and kissed you with lips and tongue even deeper.
When the kiss ended, Kento looked at your face, your skin softly illuminated by the flickering light from the candles scattered throughout his house. 
“Do you understand now?” He asked softly.
You nodded, then smiled. “I didn’t know that was coming, but I'm glad I brushed your teeth for you.” 
Kento couldn’t help but shake his head and laugh, pressing a kiss against your cheek.
Your fingers played with the blonde hair at the nape of his neck, and he pressed yet another kiss against your jaw, then your neck, all before pulling away.
“Tell me the truth. Do you love me?” He asked, his breath patting against the skin of your collarbone.
“I do, but if you have to ask, then you might not understand me as well as you think you do.” 
Kento pulled away from your neck, but when his eyes met yours, all he saw within your gaze was pure sadness. 
“But, Kento, Umarith finds itself in yet another war, and our enemies won’t give up until they have me-”
“Then let me kill them all for you.”
“Kento,” you frowned.
“Your Majesty,” he gave your chin a quick kiss, his large hand rubbing your thigh. “I mean it. I will save you. I just need you to let me.”
You bit your lip in thought. “Fine, but on one condition. No, two conditions.”
You leaned in; you were so close, he could feel your breath pat against his ear.
“I refuse to be a kindhearted damsel in distress once again. They want to capture or kill me, the Vulcania Princess- or I guess, queen now, because they think it’ll put an end to the brutal snowstorms killing their crops and their people, so I’ve been thinking, since they crave my warmth so badly . . . I should burn their kingdom to the ground. Allow me to fight by your side and do so.”
“And what’s your second condition, Your Majesty?” Kento whispered.
You pulled away from him, staring into his brown eyes. Your warm hands cupped the knight’s face.
“You drop the formalities like I’ve been asking you to,” you paused. “Unless, in due time, you allow me to call you my king.”
Kento couldn’t help but gaze at you with pure astonishment. It was the same look he had in his eyes when he first saw the enormous statue of you in his village. He should have put the pieces together then — that he was nothing more than someone else who worshipped you.
Kento’s lips found yours, once again letting his kisses speak for him. And this kiss told you several things: 
Kento Nanami wanted to hate you.
Truly, he did. He tried.
But in the end, he couldn’t stray from his bloodline’s only purpose to shed blood; to die in service of whomever sat on the throne, but this time around? A Nanami would survive, and Kento would become your cherished spouse and, when the time came, protect your offspring. 
Kento Nanami wanted to hate you, but now, the knight’s soul wanted nothing more than to love you, and kill for you.
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♛ — What did you think? Please let me know! Reblogs & comments are appreciated!
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layla25708 · 2 days ago
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Stray kids reaction when they see you and it’s love at first sight Ìš ! à­šà­§ 侀 슀튞레읎 킀슈 ՞
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ïč™ They fall in love with you at first sight ïčš .ᐟ
OT8!슀튞레읎 í‚€ìŠˆăƒ» fem!reader ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ g ・ Fluff, Light Romance ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ wc ・3,430 ‎ ‎ ‎
This fanfiction is a work of fiction written by me for entertainment purposes only. I do not own or claim to own any characters or idols of the real-life individuals mentioned. All characters, events, and scenarios are entirely fictional and do not reflect the actual personalities, relationships, or actions of the people involved.
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ïč™ đ™š : BANG CHAN ïčš .ᐟ ë°©ì°Ź
It was supposed to be a quick stop for coffee. He had five minutes before heading back to the studio, hoodie pulled over his head, earbuds in, trying not to be noticed.
The cafe was half-empty, soft lo-fi playing overhead. He stood in line, eyes scanning the chalkboard menu, when the door chimed behind him. He didn’t turn around — not until he heard a laugh. Not loud. Just soft. Unbothered. Real.
He turned instinctively, and that’s when he saw you.
Your hair was slightly windswept from outside, your cheeks rosy from the cold. You were laughing with the barista about something—he couldn’t even hear what—but it didn't matter. Because in that split second, the entire room dimmed and focused on you.
Is this
 happening?
You hadn’t even noticed him yet.
“Sir?” the barista asked, snapping him back.
“Oh—uh, yeah. Just a flat white, please,” he muttered, eyes flicking back toward you.
You moved to the side, waiting for your drink, scrolling through your phone.
He debated. Don’t be creepy, Chris. Just say something.He stepped forward slowly.
You looked up as he stood next to you. “Hey,” he said, voice cautious but warm. “Sorry to bother you
 but I just—wanted to say your laugh made my day.”
Your eyes lit up, a mix of surprise and amusement. “That’s
 unexpectedly sweet. Thanks.”
“I’m Chan,” he added with a nervous chuckle.
“Y/N,” you replied.
The barista called your drinks at the same time.
It felt like fate.
ïč™ đ™š : LEE KNOW ïčš .ᐟ 멬녾
He hated grocery shopping. But the dorm was out of eggs, and the manager said if he ordered takeout one more time, she’d personally cancel his credit card.
It was late — 11:09 p.m. — and the convenience store’s fluorescent lighting buzzed faintly as he scanned the shelves. He was squatting to grab instant noodles when your cart accidentally bumped his back.
“Oh god! I’m so sorry!” you blurted.
He turned around quickly, ready to shrug it off — and froze.
You were wearing oversized glasses, hair tied up messily, hoodie too big for your frame. And you looked like a goddess.
Something inside his chest went boom.
You looked mortified. “Are you okay? I didn’t see you there.”
He blinked. “Yeah—yeah, I’m good. Uh
 that’s a strong cart,” he joked lamely.
You giggled. “It’s my secret weapon. Especially when I’m fighting for the last pack of shrimp chips.”
He smiled. And then couldn’t stop.
You tilted your head. “Wait, do I know you? You look kind of familiar.”
“Nope. Definitely not famous,” he said way too quickly, grabbing a random snack and tossing it into his basket.
You raised an eyebrow, amused.
He panicked. “Do you, um, live around here?”
You nodded. “Just a few blocks away.”
“Cool,” he said, heart racing. “Maybe I’ll see you again sometime.”
You smiled. “Maybe you will, mysterious noodle guy.”
And just like that, he stood frozen in the snack aisle, grinning like an idiot.
ïč™ đ™š : CHANGBIN ïčš .ᐟ ì°œëčˆ
The underground gym was nearly empty at 2:37 a.m. It was Changbin’s favorite time — no distractions, no small talk. Just beats in his ears and the burn of lifting.
He’d just finished a set when he noticed someone entering — which was already rare — but what caught him off guard was that you weren’t a regular.
You had headphones in, hoodie sleeves rolled up, hair tied back. You headed for the punching bag with focused determination. He watched you wrap your hands methodically, then launch into the cleanest combo he’d seen in a while.
Damn.
He didn’t even realize he was staring until you caught him in the mirror. You pulled your headphones down, arching a brow. “Something wrong?”
He stepped forward quickly, shaking his head. “No—no, sorry. You just
 hit like a pro. Wasn’t expecting that.”
You grinned. “Thanks. It’s my favorite way to blow off steam.”
He nodded, trying to play it cool. “You new here?”
“Just moved to the city. Trying to find my midnight rhythm.”
He chuckled. “You’ll fit in here, then. I’m Binnie.”
“Y/N,” you said, holding out your glove-clad hand.
The touch was light, but it jolted straight through him.
He couldn’t help it. The next time he hit the weights, he sneaked glances in your direction, unable to stop the warmth blooming in his chest.
Something about you was magnetic.
And for the first time, the gym felt too quiet without your voice.
ïč™ đ™š : HYUNJIN ïčš .ᐟ 현진
He wasn’t supposed to be at the art gallery. The exhibit he wanted to see had ended the night before, but somehow, the wrong date saved his fate.
The soft echo of footsteps over marble floors was the only sound as he wandered, hands in his coat pockets, eyes sweeping over oil-painted canvases — when he noticed someone else standing alone in front of a piece he barely glanced at before.
You.
Hair down, bag dangling from your shoulder, you stood quietly, completely still, admiring a stormy landscape. There was something about your posture — the tilt of your head, the calmness in your expression — that struck him deeper than any brushstroke on the wall.
You turned your head just slightly, and his heart stuttered.
You noticed him watching and smiled softly, a little curious, not startled.
He walked closer. “That one’s your favorite?” he asked, voice low.
You nodded. “It feels
 honest. Don’t you think?”
He looked at the painting again, and for the first time, he saw it. Really saw it.
“I do now,” he replied.
You chuckled, then held out your hand. “I’m Y/N.”
“Hyunjin,” he said, brushing your fingers gently.
Time slowed.
You didn’t move on for another ten minutes, and neither did he.
ïč™ đ™š : HAN ïčš .ᐟ 한
The bookstore was quieter than a whisper.
Han had slipped in to avoid the chaos of fans down the block, hiding behind rows of fantasy novels and coffee-scented air. He didn’t expect to run into anyone — until he knocked over a whole stack of books trying to grab a snack bar from the shelf near the register.
“Oh no,” you gasped, appearing out of nowhere. “That was a beautiful disaster.”
He turned, cheeks already burning. “I swear the shelf attacked me first.”
You crouched down beside him, laughing as you helped gather books. “Guess I’m not the only clumsy one.”
He stared at you for a moment, too long.
You glanced up. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Just
 you have the nicest voice,” he said before his brain could catch up with his mouth.
You blinked. “That’s a new one.”
“Sorry,” he stammered. “I meant
 not just your voice. The laugh, too. And
 your face. Okay, I’ll stop talking now.”
You smiled. “No, don’t. You’re funny.”
He coughed. “Han. I mean Jisung. I mean
 both?”
“Y/N,” you said, extending a hand.
He shook it with his whole heart.
By the time you left the shop, you were exchanging podcast recommendations — and he had your name saved in his Notes app with a little heart beside it.
ïč™ đ™š : FELIX ïčš .ᐟ 필늭슀
Felix loved sunsets.
So it wasn’t unusual that he ended up sitting on a bench by the Han River at 6:42 p.m., hoodie up, camera beside him, watching the sky burn gold and pink.
What was unusual was the girl who sat next to him without a word.
You didn’t look over — not at first. You just sighed, long and content, like someone who knew how to enjoy silence.
He turned slightly, curious. You were hugging your knees, a novel tucked under one arm, earbuds dangling around your neck.
“You always come here?” he asked softly.
You smiled, not startled. “Only when the world feels too loud.”
He nodded. “Me too.”
You looked over, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. Your gaze was open, kind. His heart stuttered painfully.
“I’m Felix,” he added shyly.
“Y/N.”
“I like your energy.”
You tilted your head. “Is that your way of saying I don’t talk too much?”
He laughed. “A little. But mostly
 you feel like peace.”
Your eyes softened.
When the sun finally dipped below the horizon, he offered to walk with you to the train.
You said yes.
ïč™ đ™š : SEUNGMIN ïčš .ᐟ ìŠčëŻŒ
He didn’t expect to meet anyone at a dog park — especially not without bringing a dog.
It was 9:56 a.m., and Seungmin was just there for a walk, hoodie zipped, coffee in hand, when a golden retriever bounded toward him and knocked his drink out of his hand.
“Max!” you shouted, running over. “I am so sorry—”
He looked up, drenched but grinning.
You skidded to a stop. “Oh my god, your sweater—”
“It’s okay,” he laughed, shaking off the coffee like it was nothing. “Strong dog.”
You sighed, tugging the leash. “He loves knocking over innocent bystanders.”
Seungmin’s gaze lingered. “I don’t mind. I think he’s doing me a favor.”
You blinked. “Huh?”
“Well
” He gave you a small smile. “Now I get to meet his very cute owner.”
You stared, caught off guard. Then you laughed — full and surprised.
“I’m Y/N,” you offered.
“Seungmin. I swear I usually smell like vanilla lattes, not wear them.”
You laughed harder. Max barked in approval.
He offered to walk with you for a while — and suddenly, his morning felt warmer than any coffee ever could.
ïč™ đ™š : JEONGIN ïčš .ᐟ 아읎엔
It was his first day trying pottery class — something he secretly signed up for on a dare from Hyunjin.
The studio was small and cozy, soft jazz playing through a dusty speaker, hands covered in clay as Jeongin nervously tried to center his wobbly bowl.
“Hi,” came a voice beside him. “First timer?”
He looked up and nearly dropped the entire lump of clay.
You were smiling at him, apron already dusted with white powder, your wheel spinning perfectly.
“Uh
 yeah. Is it that obvious?”
You laughed, not unkindly. “A little. Want some help?”
He blinked. “You’d help a total stranger?”
“Only if he looks this nervous,” you teased.
You knelt beside him and gently guided his hands over the clay. “Like this. Easy pressure.”
Your touch was light, voice calming.
And just like that, he was smitten.
When class ended, he blurted out, “Do you
 want to get hot chocolate or something?”
You beamed. “I’d love to.”
And for the first time, Jeongin walked out with something better than a finished bowl — a name, a smile, and a hope.
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Please do not repost, translate, or claim this writing as your own without permission. Reblogs are appreciated to support the author!
Thank you for reading :)
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melbagirl · 2 days ago
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Image Description: A black and white photo of a pencil with a pointing finger emoji and accompanying text which reads “this machine kills AI”.
Below is a screenshot of a post on the Facebook group Artists Against Generative AI by user Danielle Sanfilippo. The post reads as follows:
Posting this on behalf of a member who would like to remain anonymous:
I'm an art director and supervisor for a large studio. The studio heads had the bright idea before I started to hire prompters. Several bros were brought onto the film project. I absolutely hated myself for not quitting on the spot but stuck with it because it's mercenary out there. Have a family to feed etc. I decided to use this time wisely. Treat them as I would any artist I had hired. First round of pictures of a sweeping Ariel forest landscape comes through and it's not bad. They submit a ton of work and one or two of the 40 are ok. Nearly on brief. So first round feedback goes through and I tell them about the perspective mistakes, colour changes I want, layers that any matte painting would be split into. Within a day I get 5 variants. Not changes to the ones I wanted but variations.
Again. Benefit of the doubt I give them another round of feedback making it clear. Next day it's worse. I sit there and patiently paint over, even explaining the steps I would take as a painter. They don't do it, anomalies start appearing when I say I want to keep the exact image but with changes. They can't. They simply don't have the eye to see the basic mistakes so the Ai starts to over compensate. We get people starting to appear in the images. These are obviously holiday snaps.
"Remove the people"
"What would you like them changed to?"
"... grass. I just don't want them there"
They can't do it. The one that can actually use photoshop hasn't developed the eye to see his mistakes, ends up getting angry at me for not understanding he can't make specific changes. The girl whose background was a little photography has given me 40 progressively worse images with wilder mistakes every time. This is 4 days into the project.
I'm both pissed about the waste, but elated seeing ai fall at the first hurdle. It's not even that the images are unusable, the people making them have no eye for what's wrong, no thicker skin for constructive criticism and feedback, no basic artistic training in perspective and functionality in what they're making.
Yes the hype is going to pump more money into this. They won't go anywhere for a while But this has been such a glowing perfect moment of watching the fundamental part fail in the face of the most simple tasks. All were fired and the company no longer accepts Ai prompters as applicants. Your training as an artist will always be the most important part of this process and it is invaluable. I hope this post gives you a boost in a dark time.
/End Image Description
This machine kills AI
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sirenontheloose · 3 days ago
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Please Don't Clip This
Crushes are just little heart attacks you enjoy
The livestream wasn’t planned. No announcement, no fancy setup. Just Y/N in her studio, sleeves pushed up, hair pulled into a loose bun, a mug sitting beside her laptop as Rosé’s new album played quietly in the background. She leaned forward to adjust the screen, face lit softly by the glow of the monitor.
"Hi," she started. "Was gonna listen to this alone, but figured I might as well have a little listening party with you guys."
The chat lit up instantly. Some fans welcomed her back, others teased her for ghosting them again. She skimmed the comments, eyes flicking left to right as a small smile tugged at her lips.
"Water," she said, lifting her mug. "No snacks sadly. This wasn’t planned," she pouted.
She let a few tracks play without interruption, swaying slightly to the beat, reading comments here and there while the music filled the room.Then someone asked about LA.
"When am I going back? Next week, actually. For about two weeks." She paused, then lowered her voice. "I don’t know if I can say this but... I’ll start working on my solo."
The comments instantly exploded. She didn’t elaborate, just smirked a little and took a sip like she hadn’t just dropped major news.
Then the tone of the chat shifted. Some fans asked what the solo would sound like, while others started suggesting people she should hang out with in LA. At first, it was casual. But then one name kept popping up.
KATSEYE.
And more specifically, Lara.
"Lara?" Y/N leaned forward again, squinting slightly to keep up with the flood of messages. "From KATSEYE?"
The comments answered immediately.
"Yeah, she’s in LA." "She said you’re her bias." "She mentioned she likes your tone and stage presence." "@lararaj, just look."
Y/N didn’t say anything. She just grabbed her phone and started typing.
A few seconds of silence passed. Her eyes locked onto the screen. Then she started scrolling, slowly.
For a good five minutes, there was nothing. No commentary. Just Y/N, completely locked in, quietly staring at her phone.
Her lips parted slightly. She blinked once. Then a quiet, almost breathless whisper escaped before she could stop it.
"Wow. She’s gorgeous."
The chat instantly lost it.
"She’s gone." "We’re watching her fall in real time." "HELLO???" "Down bad but respectfully." "This is the softest spiral ever." "She forgot we’re here."
Her mouth curved into a small, helpless smile. She tapped into a video post, watched it more than once probably, and only then did it seem to hit her that she wasn’t alone.
She set her phone down on the desk, screen facing down, and leaned back in her chair with a quiet, guilty sigh. One glance at the chat told her it was already too late.
"I hate you guys," she mumbled, tugging the sleeve of her hoodie over her hand and dragging it across her mouth like she could erase the past five minutes.
The teasing came fast.
"You’ve been quiet for three whole songs." "Are you okay? Blink twice if you’re in love." "Would you DM her?" "You’re smiling again."
Y/N laughed softly, sinking lower in her seat.
"I was just... looking."
More comments scrolled past.
"What if she sees this?" "Someone tag her." "It’s over for you, girl."
"Y’all..." she started, then stopped mid-sentence.
Her eyes froze on one comment.
hey?
The username next to it is @lararaj
She blinked. Once. Then again.
Silence.
The chat exploded.
"OH MY GOD." "NO WAY." "LARA ENTERED THE CHAT." "SHE’S HERE." "EVERYBODY STAY CALM." "SHE SAW EVERYTHING."
Y/N didn’t move. Her hands flew up to her face as she let out a soft, horrified laugh. Then she hunched forward over her desk like she could disappear into it, muttering,
"Nope. Nope. I’m ending this. I’m ending this right now."
She fumbled for her mouse, keeping her head low as her other hand stayed half-covering her face. Her ears were visibly pink. Her embarrassment was so real, it radiated through the screen.
"Thanks for hanging out," she said quickly. "Please don’t clip this. And Lara..." she hesitated, groaning softly, "if you’re here, I promise I’m not weird."
Then the screen cuts to black.
And the next morning, #ynra was trending in eight countries.
Pt.2
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divider - @v6que
a/n - can you tell I'm obsessed with RosĂ©?, can't wait for "On My Mind" this Friday OMG. I’ve also been working on a few other one-shots, but none of them feel "fun" enough imo. Sooo if there’s anything you’d love to read or maybe tropes you’re into right now, let me know!
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jeeseth · 19 hours ago
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# GABRIELA? — megan skiendiel x f!reader
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ᝰ.ᐟ you fell for the nerd. now she’s hot—and obviously gabriela wants her. but too bad so sad megan’s already yours. and gabriela? she never even stood a chance.
Ë–â‹†àżà»‹ ( hotnerd!megan x f!rᄱá„Čdᄱr ) ── .✩ you might wanna tune in < gabriela by katseye > à­­ ˚. ᔎᔎ
⟡ïč’ tá„Čgs ïč ïč… âŸą angst. tiny bit of fluff at the end :D idek the genre atp. non-idol au, college au, nerdy!megan, hotnerd!megan, mention of that stewpid gabriela, jealousy?, kissing, lowkey suggestive if you squint your eyes, lowercase intended, mens dni, grammatical errors .
( ˶°ㅁ°) !! a/n - i’m going insane as i patiently waits for katseye comeback BUT HERE THEY ARE ! so this fic is clearly based on their first comeback and i hope yall like it! i use grammar checker. anyway enjoy :3
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megan’s wearing two different socks again.
you notice it halfway through class—her left foot has tiny cats doing yoga, and the right one has pineapples. not even trying to match. and somehow, you think that’s kind of cute.
she’s hunched over her desk, bangs in her eyes, poking at a calculator that looks like it was made in the early 90’s or sum.
"megan," you whisper, nudging her arm. "that’s a scientific calculator. we’re doing stats."
she looks up, blinking rapidly like a baby deer caught mid-crash.
"oh!" then she laughs quietly. "that explains a lot."
you didn’t mean to fall for her. she was just the quiet, weird girl in your class who asked too many questions and carried way too many pens. but then she offered you her last highlighter. and you both got locked out of the lab once and sat on the floor for an hour talking about which disney princess would survive a zombie apocalypse (she said mulan. you said anna. and she obviously judged you).
she wasn’t cool. she wasn’t smooth. but she made you laugh when your life felt flat. and when she finally kissed you under that sad-looking tree behind the science building, you knew. you were gone.
now it’s your third year.
and megan—your megan, is no longer the girl who forgets her id card every other day. she still snorts when she laughs and still can’t really do her eyeliner to save her life. but she’s hot now. confident. witty. everyone looks at her when she walks by. you pretend it doesn’t bother you. you pretend you’re used to it. until she shows up.
gabriela. the new transfer with perfect hair, smooth talker and suddenly, she’s everywhere. in the library where you and megan used to study alone. in your group chats. next to megan in the cafeteria, smiling like she owns the place. you don’t like how she looks at megan. and you hate how megan doesn’t seem to notice it.
"you’re staring again," megan says, bumping your shoulder with hers gently.
you blink, trying to pretend that you’re clearly not staring. "no i’m not."
"yes you are." megan grins, turning her head toward you. "what is it?"
you hesitate, the words catching in your throat before you finally let them out. "gabriela," you say quietly, like just saying her name might shift the mood. "i don’t trust her."
megan looks up from her phone, brows pulling together. you’re not sure what you expect her to say. maybe to agree. maybe to ask why or maybe even nothing at all. but right now, the only thing you do know is that something about gabriela makes your chest tighten and you need megan to know that.
"what? she’s just friendly." megan blink in confusion before she burst out laughing. you don’t laugh with her because why would you?
"she’s not. she wants something. and i think it’s you." megan’s smile fades a little upon hearing you say that, her smile softening into something you can’t quite read.
megan then reaches out and tucks your hair behind your ear. something she always do to calm you down. "then she’s already lost."
-
you try telling yourself that it’s fine. when it’s clearly not. you’re sitting across from megan at the library table. your laptop’s open, but you haven’t typed anything in ten minutes. why? because you’re too busy watching gabriela slide into the seat beside megan like she’s been doing it all semester.
"sorry." gabriela says, out of breath and smiling like she’s in a freaking romcom. "there were no seats left." that’s a lie. you literally passed by four empty tables on the way in.
megan only took a glance at gabriela before focusing back on her laptop. "you can sit." she says, friendly as ever. you clench your jaw but still nod. whatever. be positive, right?
the next day, gabriela shows up with two iced coffees and she places one in front of megan with a huge grin on her face.
"i noticed you always get oat milk." she says, biting her straw.
you don’t get a coffee. plus you weren’t even told they were meeting. like what? megan thanks her then laughs awkwardly, and then she shoots you a look across the table. one that says i swear i didn’t ask for this.
you nod, trying to stay calm and collected. and suddenly freezing in your own relationship.
day by day, it’s starting to get out of hands. gabriela starts tagging megan in memes. makes a private story and only adds you two. starts borrowing her pens, then her jacket, then you swear you saw her wearing one of megan’s hair clips.
and megan? sweet, clueless megan? she’s still trying to see the good in her.
"she’s lonely." she says one night while scrolling through her phone beside you. "i think she just wants to be friends."
"she clearly wants you." you reply almost immediately.
megan snorts before laughing softly. "stop."
the last straw for now, comes a week later.
you walk into the cafe near campus, holding your breath and a half nervous smile, ready to surprise megan after her class. maybe share a slice of cake, maybe just sit with her for a bit. cute right? but there she is.
megan. sitting by the window, sunlight catching the strands of her hair. and gabriela. leaning across the table her fingers brushing megan’s hand and whispering something that makes her laugh—her laugh. the real one. the one that reaches her eyes.
your heart immediately drops into your stomach. but you don’t storm in. instead, you just watch from the cafe door for a second too long. well, long enough to see the way gabriela looks at megan like she’s already won. like this is all a game.
and in that moment, you realise that this isn’t friendly anymore. gabriela? she’s not playing fair. and worse, she’s playing hella dirty.
-
it’s one random night where you just can’t seem to shut your brain off. you toss and turn then toss again. your pillow is too hot, the air is too still, and your thoughts won’t shut the fuck up.
you stare at your ceiling like it owes you an answer, but all you get is silence and that heavy, itchy feeling in your chest like something’s off or wrong, crawling under your skin and settling there like it belongs.
gabriela. you don’t even want to think her name, but it’s stuck in your brain like a bad song. you grab your phone and look at the time on your lockscreen. 2:04 a.m.
you hesitate for a second. then type. you don’t care anymore. you need megan.
you : you up meg?
meimei : always. what’s up??
you : can we meet? i can’t sleep.
meimei : see you in 10.
the wind bites a little as you sit on the chipped concrete ledge, pulling your hoodie tighter. you used to come here with megan all the time during your first year. at this skatepark back before things got weird. before gabriela smiled her way into your life like an infection you didn’t catch fast enough.
just then, megan’s headlights flash across the park before she turn off the engine.
"hey." she says, walking over with her usual stupid grin that makes you feel both better and worse.
"hi." you mumbles softly as megan sits beside you. she doesn’t ask why and doesn’t push. she just sits. you absolutely love that about her. but tonight, you need to say something.
"i don’t like the way she looks at you." you mumble quietly but it was loud enough for megan to hear and turns to look at you slowly. "who?"
"gabriela." you sighs before looking at megan.
megan laughs softly, like you just said something stupid like the sky is purple or something. "she’s just friendly."
"no, megan." you say, sharper than you mean to. "she’s not just friendly. she’s everywhere and it’s not normal."
"what are you talking about?" she frowns, a little confused and a little hurt.
"you really don’t see it?" you hate how desperate your voice sounds. but it’s 2 in the morning and you’re so tired and the words are just pouring out now.
"she flirts with you, she touches you, she buys you coffee, she posts about you like she’s already got you—and you let her. you smile and you thank her and it’s like i’m standing there like some background character."
megan looks at you, stunned like you just accused her of robbing a bank.
"i thought she was just being nice." megan says, voice small and soft and it tugs your heart.
"that’s the problem, megan." you whisper. "you always think everyone’s being nice. even when they’re not."
megan stays quiet for a while, picking at the sleeve of her hoodie. "i didn’t mean to make you feel like that."
"i know." you sigh. megan gently pulls you to her and make you leans your head on her shoulder. feels warm and familiar.
"i only want you," she says softly. "you know that, right?" you nod. you want to believe it. but in the dark, with her pressed against you and gabriela’s smirk haunting your memory, it still doesn’t feel like enough.
you’re quiet on the drive back. megan’s hand brushes yours a few times on the gear shift, and each time she smiles it’s like the world is still okay. like your heart isn’t pounding so hardly against your ribs with the weight of everything unsaid.
she parks in front of your dorm building and shifts into neutral. "i wish i could keep you longer." she says, eyes soft.
you smile, a little forced. "you could. just saying."
megan laughs softly. "tempting, but you have a class in six hours and i still have to finish my lab report."
you reach for the door handle—reluctant, tired, still tangled in thoughts. when suddenly megan’s phone, sitting face up in the cupholder, lights up. a text notification.
gabriela : hi pretty, you up? đŸ©·
then you feel like the time slows. your hand freezes. you don’t even mean to look. you really don’t. but there it is, glowing like a slap across the face.
megan doesn’t even notice it. she’s reaching to turn the engine off while humming under her breath.
you force a breath. "she has your number?"
"huh?" megan turns to looks at you, feeling confused.
you nod toward her phone. "gabriela. she texted you." megan glances down and momentarily freezes. you wait for her to say something else. explain. laugh. anything. but she doesn’t.
"did you give it to her?" you ask, trying to sound calm. your voice comes out small like you’re already bracing yourself for the answer.
megan runs a hand through her hair. "i-i yeah. she asked if we could work on econ stuff together. i didn’t think it was a big deal."
you nod slowly. "right. not a big deal."
"baby
" megan sighs, hands reaching out to caress your thigh. "please don’t do this. it’s not like that."
but your mind’s already going places. its spiraling. because damn it is a big deal. because now she can text her cute nicknames and send stupid pink hearts and megan might just smile at her phone and don’t even realise why it hurts.
you want to say something—something clear, something fair. but instead, your voice cracks "you know she wants you, right?"
silence. megan’s eyes flick down, feeling guilty now. "i didn’t reply." but the message is still there and it’s taunting you.
you open the passenger door quietly and step out. "goodnight." you mutter simply.
megan reaches out but you’re already stepping out, hoodie pulled tight with hands in your pockets.
you don’t slam the door and you don’t cry. you just walk away, trying not to think about how easy it is for someone else to call your girl pretty at 2 in the morning. and how easy it might be for her to answer.
-
megan’s eyes light up the second you walk into class. you see it. of course you do. that tiny lift of her shoulders, the way her pen stops mid scribble, like her entire body is quietly screaming finally.
but you don’t look at her. you walk past and take your seat two rows behind. no wave, no smile, not even a glance. if she notices, she doesn’t show it. but gabriela does. and that’s the part that really stings.
gabriela turns in her seat just slightly, her lips curving when she catches your cold silence. then of course she leans a little closer to megan. you look away before you have to see her stupid smirk.
megan tries again after class. she lingers outside the lecture hall, waiting to see your familiar face.
"y/n." megan calls once she spotted you. but you just keep walking.
you hear her footsteps behind you, quick and light, trying to catch up to you. but someone says her name. gabriela probably and megan stops. you don’t.
you ignore megan’s texts, leave her on read, respond with "👍" when she asks if you’ve eaten already. because yeah, maybe you’re being dramatic and maybe you’re hurting her. but it hurts to feel replaceable. to feel like someone else can call your girl pretty at 2 in the morning and you’re just supposed to laugh it off?
by lunchtime, megan’s getting way desperate.
you see her walking across the quad, squinting into the sun, scanning the crowd for you. you duck into the side hallway before she spots you. five minutes later, you hear her calling your name again. soft, almost confused. you keep walking.
you think you’ve escaped her for the day, but no. not megan. you’re halfway through washing your hands in the girls’ bathroom. just trying to breathe, honestly—when suddenly the door swings open.
"y/n." you look up and see megan standing in the doorway, clearly out of breath after finding you, her eyes wide and red-rimmed like she’s been holding it in all day. she walks in quietly.
"can you—" her voice cracks. "can you just stop running for one second?"
you don’t say anything. she moves closer, gently placing her hands on your shoulders. "please," she whispers. "talk to me, baby."
"what’s the point?" you shake your head slightly, no you’re not angry. just tired.
"because you won’t even look at me anymore."
"yeah." you snap, sharper than you meant to, but it’s too late to pull it back. "and you barely noticed until now."
megan flinches just slightly, but you see it. the way her shoulders tense. the way her eyes drop for a split second like your words hit exactly where they were meant to.
"you gave her your number, megan." you say, stepping back. "you let her call you pretty. and you think i’m just supposed to sit there and smile while she plays this whole innocent act in front of you?"
her voice trembles. "i didn’t reply."
"you didn’t stop her, either."
-
you don’t say let’s break up. you just say, "maybe we need space." and megan? her eyes red and shoulders trembling, just nods. no begging. no yelling. just silence. and that actually might hurt more.
she leaves the bathroom first. you wait until the door closes before letting yourself cry.
days pass.
you still see her across campus, in the shared classes you now sit far apart in. she looks smaller, almost like she’s folding in on herself.
you almost want to run to her. but you remember the text. the smirk. the way she looked confused when you told her it hurt. so you don’t.
gabriela, of course, notices. and now that you’re ‘on a break’ she turns it up. first, it’s subtle.
"oh sorry, didn’t know you two weren’t sitting together anymore." she says loudly in class, like it’s some kind of news.
then it’s the coffee. again. the same iced oat milk latte now with a little pink sticky note on it.
you looked pretty tired today, thought you could use this ☕❀ - g
you don’t drink. for some very obvious reasons.
by the end of the week, gabriela starts worming into your friends. laughs with them too easily, shares inside jokes you’ve never heard before and suddenly, you’re not being tagged in the group’s stories anymore.
one day, you walk into the student union and see her sitting in your usual spot—your seat, laughing with people who used to sit beside you. one of them looks up, sees you, and hesitates. but they don’t say anything.
gabriela does. she waves and mouths "you okay?" so you just turn around and walk out.
-
it was one random day where you’re sitting alone on the campus bench near the main hall. you weren’t planning to be here. it’s just where your feet stopped walking.
the breeze is cool, but not enough to calm your thoughts. your phone’s been silent all day and even the birds seem to know you’re not really in the mood. you’ve been holding yourself together for weeks now. but today? it feels heavier and lonelier.
you scroll aimlessly on your phone. click your screen off and then on again. still nothing.
elsewhere, megan is watching gabriela laugh with your friends again. but it doesn’t feel so casual this time.
gabriela leans into one of them, whispering. they all laugh. megan watches one of them glance at her, then quickly look away. something twists in her chest.
later, gabriela catches up with megan after class. "megan!" she calls happily, like they’re best friends- no. like they’re lovers. megan stops walking.
"hey." gabriela says, touching megan’s arm. "are you free right now? i wanted to—" but megan isn’t listening.
her eyes flick past gabriela’s shoulder. and then they light up almost immediately upon seeing you’re sitting on that bench with your head down. and suddenly, nothing else matters.
"megan?" gabriela steps in front of her, trying to get her attention. "i said—" but megan doesn’t even look at her. she pushes past, literally brushing her shoulder and walks straight to you.
your heart stutters when you hear footsteps approaching fast. you look up and there she is. your sweet megan looking all winded and flushed. her hand holding her bag like she ran across campus just to get here.
"y/n." megan says, a bit out of breath.
"meg?" you blink, clearly stunned. she doesn’t wait for another word. she just sits beside you like it’s the only place she wants to be.
"i was so stupid." you open your mouth, but megan cuts you off. "no—listen. i thought she was just being nice. i wanted to believe that. but she wasn’t and now she’s trying to replace you. trying to replace us. and i let her get too close. i’m so sorry, baby."
you stare at her. megan’s breathing hard, eyes shining like she’s about to cry.
"i miss you." she says. land i don’t care if you hate me right now. i just need you to know that gabriela never even had a chance. it’s always been you."
you don’t say anything at first. you just look over her shoulder and see gabriela standing in the distance, watching and clearly stunned. exactly how you once felt. you turn back to megan. and for the first time in weeks, you smile again.
you don’t speak for a moment after she says it. megan’s eyes are locked on yours like she’s afraid if she looks away, you’ll disappear.
"you’re really late." you whisper softly to megan. she swallows hard. "i know."
you cross your arms over your chest while looking at megan. "you ignored me while she was crawling all over you."
megan nods quickly, fidgeting with the sleeve of her hoodie. "i did. i-i’m literally the worst."
"literally?" you raise an eyebrow. "scientifically." megan blurts out. "i ran the numbers."
she opens her tote bag and pulls out a folded piece of paper. you unfold it slowly. it’s a handwritten bar graph titled, ‘times i’ve been an idiot in the past three weeks.’ you snort at it.
"i was going to make it in excel." she says sheepishly, pushing her glasses up, "but you stopped answering my texts so i kind of panicked."
you cover your mouth, trying not to laugh. "you’re such a loser, mei." you mumble quietly but loud enough for megan to hear it.
then megan leans in, hopeful. "but like, your loser?" you look at her. messy hair. anxious eyes. notebook paper graphs and all. gosh.
"yeah. my loser." you says softly. megan grins so wide her whiskers dimples show.
then she reaches into her bag again. "i also made you this." she pulls out a keychain. it’s a tiny pixel heart. "it’s from that game we played last summer." she says, voice quieter now. "the one where you said if we were video game characters, you’d always pick me."
she hands it to you carefully. like it’s fragile. like it means everything.
"so
 do you forgive me?" megan asks, her eyes filled with hope. you don’t answer right away though. instead, you loop the keychain onto your bag before standing up and hold out your hand.
"buy me a hot chocolate and maybe i’ll think about it." you say while looking at megan. she stumbles up so fast she almost drops her phone. "yes. absolutely. i brought my punch card. you get a free one if—"
"megan meiyok skiendiel."
"yeah. right. i’ll shut up now."
you take her hand. you’re walking away together when you glance over your shoulder, just once. and gabriela’s gone. and this time, you’re the one who won.
-
the campus is warm under the golden hour light. you’re walking beside megan, sipping the hot chocolate she bought you. extra whipped cream, because she said you deserved it and listening to her nerd out about something you don’t even fully understand.
"so technically." she says, pushing up her glasses, "the multiverse theory means there’s a version of me out there that never messed up, and we’ve been together the whole time."
you raise an eyebrow. "so you’re blaming parallel universe you for this entire mess?"
"i’m just saying. it’s possible." megan shrugs making you laugh. and she grins hearing that sweet sound of your laughter. and for the first time in what feels like forever—it’s easy and it’s light again. until.
"oh my god." you whisper, abruptly stopping in your tracks. megan follows your gaze and freezes. stupid gabriela turning the corner. with her perfect hair, her fake smile and her eyes locked right on megan.
"nope." you mutter. "same here." megan says. you waste no time and grab megan’s hand and bolt away.
"this is ridiculous." you gasp for air while ducking behind a vending machine with megan. then you spot the janitor’s closet. open and empty. you don’t need to think twice. so you dive in and pull megan with you.
the closet door barely clicks shut before your back hits the wall. you gasp when you feel megan’s already on you. her glasses fogged, her jaw tight and her eyes burning.
"you’ve been running." megan says lowly, bracing a hand beside your head.
your breath catches in your throat. "megan—"
"shut up." she whispers, tugging you in by the collar. "you owe me." her thigh slips between yours, and your knees almost give out.
"thought so." she grins. the dangerous type of grin. you try to answer, but her mouth silences yours, rough and desperate and starved. her hands swiftly slide up your thighs, taking her time. taking everything.
"you’re not walking out of here the same." she mutters, biting down on your lower lip. and damn she’s right.
when the door finally creaks open, the hallway’s quiet. you step out first with you cheeks flushed, skirt crumpled beyond saving. megan follows behind, hair a wreck, glasses crooked, lips pink and smug.
someone passes by and does a double take to make sure they’re not hallucinating or something.
megan gently wraps her arms around your small waist and keep walking with that stupid smug grin on her face.
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kxsagi · 2 days ago
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Bllk boys with an s/o who somehow manages to make them fall asleep just by blasting sleepy phonk like they'd be wide awake and then sleepy phonk and they're knocked out cold and they question why every time ( kaiser, rin, shidou and anyone else you wanna add )
â€œđ©đĄđšđ§đ€ 𝐟𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐧đČđ„â€
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a/n: I THOUGHT THIS REQ WAS FUNNY
but i’m not really sure what sleepy phonk counts as, is it like the instrumental of roi by videoclub or the lost soul down by NBSPLV??? 
ft. kaiser michael, itoshi rin, shidou ryusei, itoshi sae, karasu tabito, isagi yoichi, nagi seishiro, bachira meguru
kaiser michael
you play one of those slow, mellow phonk songs with the deep bass and hazy loops, and he doesn’t think anything of it. he’s literally in the middle of dramatically trash-talking isagi when his body just
 starts betraying him. 
his voice fades. eyelids droop. his upper body sways. 
“what the f– 
 why am i
” BONK. slumped sideways on the couch, dead asleep. 
you didn’t even notice, you were too busy wiping crumbs off your shirt. when you turn around he looks like someone hit him with a dart tranquilizer. 
wakes up four hours later like “who drugged me?” and you’re like “uh. the speaker?” 
absolutely refuses to believe it's the music. keeps blaming it on bad sleep or low blood sugar. 
tries to fight it like it’s a challenge. he’ll stare at you dead in the eye and go, “i won’t fall asleep this time.” cue you playing it again. three minutes later he’s dozing off mid-smirk. 
one time he got so mad he threatened to destroy your speaker. (he tripped over his own feet on the way and knocked himself out before he could.) 
itoshi rin
rin is fully convinced this is psychological warfare. 
he’ll be standing, talking to you normally, then you press play and suddenly he’s blinking slow as hell like he got rebooted. 
“wait. no. you’re doing it again.” 
tries to leave the room. doesn’t make it past the hallway. collapses dramatically like a fainting goat. 
once fell asleep in the middle of washing dishes. the faucet was still on. 
absolutely hates it. thinks it’s “unnatural.” starts researching “subliminal music control” and asks if you’re brainwashing him with some kind of audio hypnosis. 
he once accused you of trying to assassinate him with music. 
“turn that off. turn it off. my nervous system is shutting down.” 
refuses to let you have aux ever again in the car because last time he woke up in a parking lot two hours from home with a blanket on him and no memory of how he got there. 
shidou ryusei
cackles the first time it happened, he thought you laced his food. 
“you’re telling me you just played this
 and my brain factory reset?” 
every single time he hears that beat drop, he immediately yells “NOPE NOPE NOPE. NOT THIS DRUGGED UP COWBOY MUSIC AGAIN–” then collapses mid-sentence like a tranquilized bear. 
literally wakes up mad. throws your speaker across the room while still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes like a grumpy toddler. 
tries to act like he’s too wild to be affected, then you catch him sleeping with the same sleepy phonk playlist under his pillow like it’s a bedtime lullaby. 
“listen i don’t need it, it’s just a vibe. you wouldn’t get it.” 
will absolutely start calling it your "sleepy black magic tape" and pretends he's scared of you. fake shivers and all. 
“my body associates your music taste with comas now. thanks, babe.” 
itoshi sae
you start playing it during a late-night drive, and within five minutes he’s gone. head slumped against the window. breathing soft. soul left his body. 
wakes up all confused like he just took a power nap in another dimension. 
“how long was i out? 
why do i feel like i’ve been asleep for twelve years?” 
every time you play it again he tries to stay awake out of pure ego, but he gets so annoyed at how heavy his limbs feel. 
mutters a whole paragraph of insults under his breath before slipping into REM. 
eventually starts using it intentionally but won’t admit it. like he’ll go “i guess it wouldn’t kill me if you played that stupid zombie song again” right before bed. 
“i’m not addicted. i’m just being efficient.” 
pretends it’s annoying but secretly has the playlist saved on his phone under the name "đŸ€š" 
karasu tabito
BRO STARTS DANCING TO IT AT FIRST. 
you’re like “karasu no” and he’s like “karasu YES.” 
and then two mins later he’s laying face-down on the floor like a body outline at a crime scene. 
wakes up, rolls over, and goes “yo did i die for a second orrrr
?” 
loves it though. finds it hilarious. he’ll literally set it as his own alarm so he wakes up and falls back asleep in a loop. 
“you don’t get it, babe. this music is laced. this is phonk fentanyl.” 
sometimes just asks you to play it to prove to people that it works. like he’ll invite bachira over and go, “watch this,” then collapse 60 seconds in like it’s a magic trick. 
he becomes the #1 believer that you’re a sleep witch. 
“this woman is dangerous. protect her. or let her drop a mixtape. either way we all win.” 
isagi yoichi 
isagi thought it was a coincidence the first time. “oh maybe i was just tired.” 
second time? “okay maybe i’m still tired.” 
third time? “wait a damn minute.” 
he gets so serious about it. starts journaling his sleep patterns. literally charts the timestamps of when the music plays and when he loses consciousness. 
“this is a phenomenon. i need answers.” 
he keeps trying to test it under different conditions like it’s a science project. “okay play it while i’m exercising.” falls asleep doing jumping jacks. 
one time he tried to fight it by drinking three energy drinks beforehand. the music still knocked him out. woke up with a headache and heartburn. 
“what is this sorcery?? this is stronger than melatonin AND ASMR combined.” 
eventually surrenders and asks you to play it when he has trouble sleeping. but only if you’re there. otherwise he gets paranoid and thinks he’ll wake up in an alternate timeline. 
nagi seishiro
honestly? he was already halfway to unconsciousness when it first happened. 
but the moment you played that dreamy, floaty phonk beat? instant deep slumber. like you enhanced his default settings. 
he didn’t even say anything. no reaction. he blinked slowly like a sleepy cat and just laid down right where he was standing. 
you were like “bro you good?” and he mumbled “yeh
” then snored 0.5 seconds later. 
he now refers to your playlist as the “ultimate sleep cheat code.” 
uses it on nights when even he feels too lazy to fall asleep naturally. 
“just play the thing. the lo-fi cowboy drug one.” 
weirdly enough, he becomes your personal sleep ambassador. 
you bring it up once around the blue lock team and he goes “it’s like being gently sedated by cloud ninjas. 10/10 experience. would die again.” 
if you’re gone and he can’t sleep, he’ll text: nagi: can you send the playlist nagi: the one that knocks me out nagi: i’m twitching like a windows xp shutdown screen over here 
has lowkey gotten emotionally attached to it. if someone else tries to play sleepy phonk, he gets offended. “no. only she can do that. it’s different.” 
bachira meguru
bachira thinks it’s funny as hell. 
“i’m like a dog with a whistle. only this one is a sleepy cowboy beat.” 
the first time he heard it, he got weirdly invested. like “oohh this is a vibe! what’s it called?” proceeds to pass out mid-groove like a light. 
you turn around and he’s in the fetal position under the table. 
he wakes up grinning like “that was so fun!! what happened?? do it again!!” 
he starts treating it like a carnival ride. asks you to “put him to sleep” like it’s a magic trick. 
“close the curtains, bring me a snack, and hit me with that sleep sauce 🛌🧃✹” 
you accidentally make him fall asleep in public once (you were just playing it on your phone during a train ride) and he collapses onto a stranger’s shoulder. 
you’re mortified. he wakes up three stops later, bows and goes “thank you for being my pillow today :)” 
he names the playlist. something like: “cowboy dream juice vol. 1 💀🐮✹” 
sometimes tries to rap over it and see how long he can stay awake. his record is one minute and 14 seconds. 
“this music is like a lullaby made by sleepy ghosts on synths. i love it.” 
© đ€đ±đŹđšđ đą
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ursus-argenteus · 10 hours ago
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I'm an editor and a writer both and the way this post speaks to my experiences I feel like I need to comment about.
When I was young, I grew up nurtured by literature. I learned to read at an early age, but I fell in love with words and language thanks to my mother. At the time, she was a doting lover of language, story-telling, and poetry. We would often cuddle together in my parents' waterbed and read together from her books of classic poetry. I had Paul Revere's Ride memorized, though I can't remember why that poem in particular was so foundational.
Naturally I grew to love vivid, beautiful language. "Show don't tell" was ingrained in me even early as a writer, and so my fiction writing would be full of detailed - often superfluously so - descriptions of characters and scenes. I also wrote poetry, and by my late teens, was participating in slam poetry competitions online.
I look back at that era of my poetry, the incredible visuals and feelings and experiences that it gives, and wonder why I lost that.
The answer isn't simple: it's a complex weave of trauma and mental health and personal growth and college classes and career seeking that formed my young adult life. It wasn't a sudden switch - just a gradual retreat into the shadows as the style I started with withered from all of these things, including expectations.
One pivotal experience in this was my creative writing course in college. My instructor was an ex-hippy who was drunk on literary minimalism. "If you are going to write that the truck is blue," she said, "then what is the reason for it being blue? If it does not add to the story, remove that detail. For that matter, why a truck? If the truck does not reflect on the plot or the character, if it does not give meaning, then eliminate that too."
I hated that stance, and I despised this approach. But it was not the only place I encountered such smothering of prose, especially in college where academic writing is taught to absurdity, and in self-doubt, and fear of rejection, I found myself cutting away little details everywhere. I refused to be as minimalist as my instructor, but the effect was still noticeable.
Years later, I found myself stumbling into a career as a writer for online media and journalism. I had always enjoyed writing non-fiction, though it wasn't my primary passion, and as it turns out, I am good at it. There is very little room for pretty language in news media, however, and while I would often slip in a creative metaphor or delicate phrase, I found myself adhering strongly to the Plain Language Movement (Plain English). Which I still do, at least for that style of communication.
For a good ten years plus, non-fiction writing was almost entirely what I produced, outside of text roleplay and a few small stories. When I found myself stumbling again, this time into a lore writer position, I found myself falling in love all over again with fiction. But my relationship to writing fiction is no longer the same, and poetry? Hah.
It is hard for me now - four decades into my life - to find that joyful, descriptive language I once used. I have been trained out of it, and I have been abused out of it. But I do love and miss it dearly.
This is a dangerous sentiment for me to express, as an editor who spends most of my working life telling writers to knock it off with the 45-word sentences and the adverbs and tortured metaphors, but I do think we're living through a period of weird pragmatic puritanism in mainstream literary taste.
e.g. I keep seeing people talk about 'purple prose' when they actually mean 'the writer uses vivid and/or metaphorical descriptive language'. I've seen people who present themselves as educators offer some of the best genre writing in western canon as examples of 'purple prose' because it engages strategically in prose-poetry to evoke mood and I guess that's sheer decadence when you could instead say "it was dark and scary outside". But that's not what purple prose means. Purple means the construction of the prose itself gets in the way of conveying meaning. mid-00s horse RPers know what I'm talking about. Cerulean orbs flash'd fire as they turn'd 'pon rollforth land, yonder horizonways. <= if I had to read this when I was 12, you don't get to call Ray Bradbury's prose 'purple'.
I griped on here recently about the prepossession with fictional characters in fictional narratives behaving 'rationally' and 'realistically' as if the sole purpose of a made-up story is to convince you it could have happened. No wonder the epistolary form is having a tumblr renaissance. One million billion arguments and thought experiments about The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas that almost all evade the point of the story: that you can't wriggle out of it. The narrator is telling you how it was, is and will be, and you must confront the dissonances it evokes and digest your discomfort. 'Realistic' begins on the author's terms, that's what gives them the power to reach into your brain and fiddle about until sparks happen. You kind of have to trust the process a little bit.
This ultra-orthodox attitude to writing shares a lot of common ground with the tight, tight commodification of art in online spaces. And I mean commodification in the truest sense - the reconstruction of the thing to maximise its capacity to interface with markets. Form and function are overwhelmingly privileged over cloudy ideas like meaning, intent and possibility, because you can apply a sliding value scale to the material aspects of a work. But you can't charge extra for 'more challenging conceptual response to the milieu' in a commission drive. So that shit becomes vestigial. It isn't valued, it isn't taught, so eventually it isn't sought out. At best it's mystified as part of a given writer/artist's 'talent', but either way it grows incumbent on the individual to care enough about that kind of skill to cultivate it.
And it's risky, because unmeasurables come with the possibility of rejection or failure. Drop in too many allegorical descriptions of the rose garden and someone will decide your prose is 'purple' and unserious. A lot of online audiences seem to be terrified of being considered pretentious in their tastes. That creates a real unwillingness to step out into discursive spaces where you đŸ«” are expected to develop and explore a personal relationship with each element of a work. No guard rails, no right answers. Word of god is shit to us out here. But fear of getting that kind of analysis wrong makes people hove to work that slavishly explains itself on every page. And I'm left wondering, what's the point of art that leads every single participant to the same conclusion? See Spot run. Run, Spot, run. Down the rollforth land, yonder horizonways. I just want to read more weird stuff.
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tojisteddy · 3 days ago
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Smoke can’t sing. Or is it that it won’t come out.
Something along those lines, it just don’t fit him right. or is it that shaky feeling his gets, the uneasiness, the uncertainty about what will come out. He hates it. The man can dance just fine though (only when he’s in a good mood for it), could listen to blues or jazz or 70s r&b all damn day, nod his head, tap his fingers or feet to the beat, silently grumble the lyrics like an old man.
But singing, even humming— it just don’t feel right.
But it’s different with you.
You, your entire being is a sweet melody, a finely tuned guitar Elijah wants hear again and again, and again. You hum so beautifully while doing mundane tasks around his house or your apartment, filing down your nails, scrolling on your phone, looking for your pair of glasses in an attempt not to freak out again, or full on singing around the apartment when the right song comes on it. Trying to outsing the artist on their own song.
And the older man is simply mystified by that.
Not just your love of music, but how you let it overtake you, swaying your hips to the beat, two stepping if it feels right, closing your eyes and bouncing around, shaking ass— grooving. He loves it. Shoot, he loves you.
And ever time he witnesses you in all you glory, he falls in love with you all over again. Deeper, stronger, the non legato, a decent down the keys of a piano— ever falling in love with you.
His dark mocha eyes watch from across the sitting room, As Long As I Got You by The Charmels playing from the speakers, your at on the couch across from him, fingers tapping your exposed curled legs, humming along to the chorus, skimming through some magazine you’d use for a vision board later on.
“Know a lil somethin ‘bout music, don’t you pretty?”
Your eyes flicker towards him who sat in a wife beater and sweats, smoking of course, a small smile grown on your lips, you shrug, “A lil bit, I guess. Not a lot.”
He gives you a curt not, but speaks again, “Fell in love with you again, thought I’d letcha know this time.”
You’re taken aback for a moment, the older man is always so straight forward, before the heat reaches under your skin, hiding your smile in your magazine. “Thanks pa, I love you too.”
He gives you a grunt in response, his eyes already closed, his body twitching every now and then, but relaxed nonetheless, enjoying the quiet evening, wrapped in the comfort of music with you.
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a/n: not the draft I wanted out first but oh well. Something, something, I love dadbf!smoke, something, something.
@cremeful’s headcanon. Big ups to her.
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twistedsistas-stuff · 3 days ago
Text
Private Show
Club owner Stack X Reader
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The club smelled like sweat, perfume, and cheap ambition. Laser lights cut through the haze while some no-name track off a scratched Ginuwine CD tried to make the moment sexy.
Stack sat back in that wide leather chair like a man bored at church, one arm draped lazy over the side, the other nursin’ a glass of brown. His gold watch caught the light every time he shifted. Smoke leaned on the arm beside him, a half-smirk tucked beneath that toothpick he never took out his mouth.
Another girl was up. She spun half-hearted on the pole, heels clackin’ off beat, body rollin’ like her bones didn’t quite agree with the music.
Stack let out a quiet breath. “She movin’ like somebody mama at the family reunion after two daiquiris.”
Smoke grinned without lookin’. “Mmm. And not the cute mama either. The one who made that dry-ass macaroni salad.”
Stack sipped his drink. “Shame, too. She fine. But that rhythm? Tragic.”
“She dancin’ like her knees owe child support,” Smoke muttered, crossing one ankle over the other.
Stack chuckled low. “That spin was a hate crime.”
They weren’t unkind—not out loud to her—but the judgments between ‘em cracked like knuckles.
They’d seen talent. Real heat. Girls that could make a whole room hold its breath.
This? This wasn’t that.
Stack leaned forward just a bit, shadows carving deep under his jaw.
“She got one more spin ‘fore I cut the track.”
Smoke took the toothpick out his mouth just to say, “If she fall, I’m takin’ my drink back.”
The girl slipped. Right on cue.
Stack hit the remote.
Music died. Lights stayed hot.
She blinked down at ‘em, sweat on her brow, chest heaving.
Stack didn’t raise his voice. Just tilted his chin.
“Next.”
Smoke shook his head. “Lawd. Can’t even lie, I felt bad for the pole.”
Stack didn’t smile, but the twitch in his jaw betrayed him. “We ain’t here for charity. I need somebody who can own that floor.”
“We need a star, Stack. Not a stumbler.”
“You need somebody who make the room shut up and pay attention.”
Stack downed the rest of his drink and leaned back again, settling into the shadows like a king waitin’ on a better contender.
“Send the next one.”
The hallway outside the main room lit up with the slam of a door.
That girl—tan tights ripped at the thigh, lip gloss smudged—stormed out fast, mutterin’ something about “they don’t know real talent.”
But ain’t nobody chased after her.
You leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, one hip cocked like you didn’t care—but your stomach was knotted tight.
You’d been listenin’ through the walls. The bassline. The mutters. The music cuttin’ off sudden.
They was in there takin’ names and crushin’ dreams like empty beer cans.
Mary popped her gum beside you, cool as ever, like she wasn’t up next.
Skinny, pale thing. No ass to speak of, just a little apple swingin’ in a room full of peaches and plums.
But she moved like she had somethin’ to prove. Sharp little walk. Collarbones cuttin’. And attitude to match.
She fixed the strap on her heel, then stood like she was on a runway. “Aight,” she said, snapping her waistband, “Watch how it’s done.”
You almost laughed.
Not ‘cause you ain’t respect her hustle—but because that was confidence you couldn’t fake.
Truth was—you ain’t never wanted this. Not the stage. Not the lights. Not the eyes. But if men was gon’ stare anyway
 might as well make ‘em pay for it.
You needed money. Real money. And fast.
Mary ain’t need this the same way. Not like you. You were the kind of girl who had to survive every night.
She was the kind that could leave and be fine.
Still, you watched her walk toward the door, spine straight, heels clickin’. Watched her vanish into the smoke of that main room, where the music lived and died on Stack’s say-so.
The girls in the back room fell quiet.
And you?
You leaned against the wall and waited your turn.
The lights had settled low again, casting long shadows across the velvet floor.
Stack swirled the last of his drink in the glass, the ice clickin’ soft. Smoke had taken to lightin’ a Black & Mild, though it hung mostly unbothered from his lips, ash crooked and long.
“You think the next one gon’ have some sense?” Smoke asked, voice dry.
Stack didn’t answer. Just watched the stage, that same slow lean in his spine, like a man waitin’ for the earth to shift.
Then—heels.
Sharp clicks on the hardwood. A silhouette in the fog.
Mary.
Skinny little thing with that slick ponytail and walk like a mean girl in study hall. She stepped out onto the stage like she belonged there, not even glancin’ at the pole yet.
She grabbed the mic by the DJ booth—somethin’ none of the others dared do.
“Name’s Mary,” she said, chin up, voice loud. “Y’all can call me Duce.”
Smoke leaned forward, brow raised. “Duce? What that even mean?”
“Probably some white girl sh*t,” Stack muttered, but his eyes didn’t leave the stage.
Then the music hit.
Not trap. Not soul. Not slow.
It was No Doubt—“Just a Girl”—that sharp drum kick and Gwen’s voice blarin’ through the club like a dare.
Stack blinked once.
Mary—Duce—hit that stage like she ain’t got nothin’ to prove but everything to sell. She didn’t swing her hips low, didn’t crawl like the others. She bounced, spun, popped her little apple like it had weight. Arms up, hair whippin’, attitude electric.
She hit that pole with precision—not sensual, but controlled. Like a gymnast raised in chaos.
Smoke made a face. “Mmm. I ain’t feelin’ this. She bouncin’ like a wind-up doll.”
Stack tilted his head. “She workin’ it, though.”
“For who?” Smoke asked, side-eye hard. “That’s for the frat boys and trailer park bar tabs. We tryin’ to sell champagne and sin, not Monster energy.”
Stack didn’t laugh. Just kept his gaze steady. “Don’t matter. Room quiet.”
And it was. For the first time all night, the club hushed.
She flipped over, legs up the pole, upside down with her back arched like a drawn bow. Hit the floor and slid into a split like she didn’t weigh nothin’. Stood up again and winked directly at Stack.
Smoke groaned. “Aight, hell nah. She winked at you? That’s why you entertainin’ this?”
Stack smirked. Just barely. “She bold. I like bold.”
“She white,” Smoke said flat. “You got all these peaches in here and you lookin’ at that lil green apple like it’s forbidden fruit.”
Stack finally chuckled, deep and slow. “Ain’t about color. It’s about command. And she got the room.”
Mary twirled once more, breath comin’ hard now, sweat glintin’ on her collarbones, and ended with a sharp bow. No smile. Just the walk-off—cool, collected, heels clickin’ into the silence she owned.
The music cut.
Stack leaned forward. “Keep her name. I want her on Friday rotation.”
Smoke sucked his teeth. “She ain’t even shake nothin’ proper.”
“She ain’t have to,” Stack said, standin’ now, shadows stretchin’ behind him. “She made folks shut up. That’s the first rule.”
He handed Smoke his empty glass. “Next.”
Mary pushed through the door, ponytail swayin’, heels clackin’ loud with her exit. Still buzzin’ off her own performance.
But you were already standin’ there—leaned on the wall, arms folded, weight on one leg like you owned gravity.
She saw you. You saw her.
Didn’t say a damn word.
Just looked her dead in the face. Cold. Clean.
That kind of look that said: Cute show, bitch. Now let me show you how a woman moves.
Mary hesitated. Just for a second. Then kept walkin’.
You turned, stepped through the door slow, your breath deep and full—like you were breathin’ in the stage. The lights. The weight of the floor.
Stack and Smoke looked up.
No heels echo yet. No music. Just you.
You ain’t announce yourself with a mic. You walked right into the center of that room like you’d been here before, voice cool and full when you finally said:
“Evenin’.”
That voice—smooth like syrup but with a low edge, like trouble sweetened just enough to taste.
Stack sat up straight first. Eyes narrowed. That lazy sprawl he kept all night? Gone. His elbows hit his knees. Chin lifted.
Smoke leaned forward, blinked once. Even the toothpick came out his mouth.
“And you are?” Stack asked, voice low.
You looked at him. Then looked at Smoke.
“I’m the reason y’all about to stop lookin’ for who you need.”
Smoke let out a low “mmm.”
Then the music hit.
“Back to Life” by Soul II Soul. That slow bounce. That bassline smooth like hips in silk. That beat with breath built in.
You ain’t rush it.
Didn’t hit that pole right away. You started with your back turned. One hand slid down your thigh, the other in your hair, hips movin’ like smoke off a match tip.
You didn’t dance fast like Mary. You didn’t crawl slow like molasses either.
You moved like you knew exactly what every man in the room wanted—before they did.
That balance of tease and confidence. Power and grace. You rolled your hips and dipped low, flipped your hair like a question with no answer, and when you finally touched that pole?
Stack whispered, “God damn.”
You swung out clean, legs long, back arched just enough, never sloppy, never out of control. You used the music like it was made for your body.
Smoke let out a breath like he’d been holdin’ it. “That’s it.”
Stack didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
“She don’t need the pole,” Smoke said. “She is the pole.”
You turned, caught their eyes mid-spin, and that look? Direct. Unapologetic. You didn’t flirt. You dared.
Smoke sat back. Then leaned forward again. “Club ain’t just quiet, Stack. They froze. Like she Medusa or somethin’.”
Stack nodded, eyes still on you. “Nah. Worse. She the prayer and the punishment.”
You dropped low. Split. Slow drag up the pole with your back to them. Then turned and strutted straight up to the edge of their platform, sweat gleamin’ down your chest.
No smile. Just breathin’. Just eyes.
Just silence thick enough to swallow the room whole.
Music faded. Still nobody moved.
Neither said a word for a moment.
Then Stack cleared his throat.
“Yeah,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “You hired.”
You were still breathin’ hard, sweat clingin’ light to your collarbones, chest risin’ slow as the music died out behind you.
No one spoke for a second.
Then Smoke raised one hand—lazy but deliberate—and the waiter snapped to attention like he’d been waitin’ on that cue all night.
“Bring another round,” Smoke said, eyes still on you.
Stack didn’t move. Just studied you—jaw locked, throat shiftin’ like he just swallowed somethin’ that burned on the way down.
“You drink?” he asked, voice low, like he already knew the answer.
You tilted your head. “If it’s good.”
Smoke chuckled. “Everything here good. ‘Specially tonight.”
Stack nodded slow, eyes draggin’ over you one more time. “Have a seat.”
You didn’t hesitate. Just turned and dropped right there—on the stage edge in front of them. Legs hangin’ down casual, like you was born up high.
Your knee brushed Stack’s.
He looked down fast—like the contact caught him off guard, like his whole train of thought skipped a rail. His fingers twitched on his thigh.
But when he looked back up?
You were already lookin’ at him.
Didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Just
 watched.
Smoke leaned back in his chair, grinnin’ like the devil in silk. “Well, damn.”
The waiter returned with the tray—dark liquor in low glasses. Smoke reached out, grabbed one, then passed it straight to you.
You took it, fingers grazin’ his just enough to feel the heat.
Stack picked up his own, but didn’t drink yet.
“So what you lookin’ for?” Smoke asked. “You want night shifts? Feature sets? Talk to us.”
You swirled the liquor in your glass, eyes not leavin’ Stack. “I want top billing. A cut of my pull. And I want the good music—not that tired sh*t y’all keep runnin’ for the other girls.”
Stack raised an eyebrow.
Smoke let out a low whistle. “She negotiatin’ already.”
“I ain’t here to crawl,” you said, voice calm. “I came to work. I came to earn.”
Stack finally took a sip. Then leaned forward, elbows on his knees. That gold chain around his neck caught the light—so did the heat behind his stare.
“You came to build somethin’?”
“I came to make money,” you corrected. “And you look like the kind of man who don’t mind sharin’ when he see return on investment.”
Smoke nodded. “Sh*t, I like her.”
Stack nodded once. “Two weeks. Feature nights. We’ll see your pull.”
You raised your glass. “You gon’ see more than that.”
Stack clinked his glass against yours—sharp. Final.
Smoke lifted his next. “Welcome to Elysian. Where heaven’s earned.”
You smirked. “I ain’t lookin’ for heaven, baby. Just a good stage and a fatter envelope.”
Stack and Smoke were still talkin’ numbers, percentages, music rotation—big boss talk—but you already knew you had it in the bag. Ain’t need to keep sellin’ yourself.
You slid off the stage smooth, heels kissin’ the floor soft as satin. Your glass still in your hand, your body humming with leftover heat, that slow kind you don’t rush off.
You’d just slipped past the curtain when you heard Stack murmur, “Call one more.”
The DJ’s voice crackled overhead:
“Next up
 Annie.”
Your head whipped around before you could think.
”Annie?”
And there she was—steppin’ out that back hallway, all hips and honey, skin kissed deep by the Delta sun, big curls piled on top her head like a crown she never took off.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
“Annie?” you called, stepping forward.
She looked up—and the second she saw you, her whole face lit up like the Fourth of July.
“Bitch, shut up!” she half-laughed, already movin’ toward you.
Y’all met in the middle of that hallway like homegirls who’d been through some things—tight hug, arms locked, hips swayin’ with joy.
“I thought you was gone,” she said, eyes wide, voice thick with surprise. “I ain’t seen you since—what, Club Magnolias?”
“Girl,” you breathed, smiling. “Since forever. You still dancin’?”
Annie rolled her eyes playful. “Makin’ just enough to stay in trouble.”
You laughed, clinking your glass lightly against her nail-tapped hand.
“They treatin’ you good in there?” she asked, chin noddin’ toward the stage.
You shrugged. “Just made ‘em sit up straight. Might’ve made Stack blush.”
Annie’s brows rose. “Stack? Blush?”
“Swear to God.”
She laughed, deep and rich, then the DJ’s voice buzzed again, calling her name soft.
She sighed, pulling her straps up.
“I gotta go shake it for the bosses now. You stickin’ around?”
“I might,” you said. “Ain’t seen you spin in a minute.”
Annie grinned over her shoulder as she stepped onto the stage, hips already rollin’ light.
“Then get comfy, baby. I’m ‘bout to remind ‘em what sin really look like.”
And just like that, she vanished into the light and smoke.
You stayed just behind the curtain, glass loose in your hand, leanin’ on the wall now with a smile curled at the corners of your mouth.
Annie was up.
They ain’t ready.
She stepped out into that low golden light with a slow roll of her shoulders, her body carved like Sunday blessing and summer heat. Thighs thick, stomach soft, arms strong like she carried love and hurt both in ‘em.
Stack was still seated when she walked out, but Smoke? He straightened up a little. That lazy lean gone.
Annie didn’t speak—just let her eyes find theirs, one by one, then settle on Smoke like she already had a plan for him.
He blinked.
“Say Yes” by Floetry came in slow. Real slow. That moan of a bassline, that whisper-smooth vocal.
Stack took a sip of his drink. “Ain’t that your song?” he muttered to Smoke, real low.
But Smoke didn’t answer.
Didn’t blink.
Annie stepped to the beat like she was dancin’ in honey, every move full and deliberate. She ain’t speed it up—she let the music hold her, like a slow grind prayer.
And the thing was—everybody always underestimated Annie.
Too thick. Too quiet.
But you’d seen it.
You knew when Annie danced, the damn clouds paused to watch.
She dropped low, thighs spread wide and slow, rolled her hips like a tide just starting to pull—and looked dead at Smoke while she did it.
No smile.
Just that look.
Smoke exhaled deeply
Stack laughed soft. “She got you stuck, huh?”
“She real graceful for somebody so
” Smoke paused, caught himself.
Stack raised a brow.
“Thick?” he offered.
Smoke shook his head. “Nah. That ain’t the word. She
 full. Like she got her own gravity.”
Stack watched as Annie climbed the pole just a little—just enough to flip slow and come down with a bounce that had the whole damn room leanin’ forward.
“She floatin’,” Smoke muttered.
Stack nodded. “She choosin’ you.”
“Huh?”
“Look at her. She ain’t flirtin’ with the crowd. She flirtin’ with you.”
And she was.
Every swivel of her hips lined up to where Smoke sat. Every arch of her back gave him a front-row seat. She licked her lips once—once—then slid a hand down the inside of her thigh like an invitation he wasn’t ready for.
Smoke didn’t even try to play cool.
You watched from behind the curtain, smilin’ like you already knew how this scene was gon’ end.
Annie was castin’ spells.
Stack leaned back in his chair, grinning now. “Look at you. Tryna play hard. That girl got your whole spine at attention.”
Smoke didn’t argue.
Didnïżœïżœïżœt speak.
Didn’t look away.
And Annie?
She didn’t stop.
Didn’t rush.
She let the end of “Say Yes” stretch like taffy, slow and warm, every note a thread she was wrappin’ tight ‘round Smoke’s neck.
She turned on her knees, still on the stage, and ran both hands down her own sides, hips rollin’ soft, slow. Then, without a sound, without askin’ permission—she crawled.
Right off the edge of that stage.
Low. Smooth.
Eyes never leavin’ Smoke’s.
He leaned back on instinct, eyes wide but not movin’. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.
Stack just sat there watchin’, amused like he knew how this was gon’ play out. Like a man watchin’ his brother get baptized in fire.
Annie reached Smoke, slid her hands up the arms of his chair, her thick thighs nestled right between his legs like she belonged there.
Didn’t sit. Didn’t rush.
She danced on him. No lap grind—this wasn’t desperation. This was control.
She leaned in just close enough for Smoke to feel her breath. Ran a fingertip along the line of his collar.
Let her chest brush his—barely.
Her hips still moved with the music, slow like syrup. Her eyes locked on his.
Smoke’s hands didn’t move. But his breathing did.
He swallowed. Hard.
Stack smirked. “You good?”
Smoke didn’t answer.
Annie? She smiled then—just a little. Just enough.
She turned with one final roll of her hips, walked off the same way she came—owned.
And left Smoke sittin’ there like the damn chair was holdin’ him up.
You and Annie were already back in the waiting room, still breathin’ hard from laughin’, flopped down like queens after the war.
“Glued, girl,” you wheezed, “you had that man like his soul left his body.”
Annie wiped her brow, grinnin’ wide. “He was sittin’ so still, I thought he was tryin’ not to pass out.”
Y’all both cracked up again, heads tossed back, no shame in the joy.
Then came the high click of heels.
Mary.
She strolled in like she was the one headlinin’ tonight, arms crossed, ponytail swingin’, lookin’ the both of y’all up and down like you tracked mud in her mama’s kitchen.
“Well ain’t y’all havin’ a moment,” she muttered, eyes narrow.
Annie didn’t even blink. She just looked at you sideways, one brow raised.
You smiled back.
Then together—without even plannin’ it—y’all turned and looked Mary dead in the face.
Silent.
Flat.
Mary rolled her eyes with a huff. “Whatever.”
She flipped her hair and flounced her little apple out the room.
Annie leaned in close. “She don’t know how we get down.”
You smirked. “Not a damn clue.”
“She ain’t never fought barefoot on river mud,” Annie said.
“She don’t know nothin’ about Delta dirt,” you said, voice low now. “Or what it made.”
Annie nodded. “Girls like us? We don’t learn how to dance. We born with it.
Y’all bumped shoulders, breath finally slowin’, still wearin’ that quiet grin that come from knowin’ you run the room even after you leave it.
Stack clapped Smoke on the back, the grin on his face damn near permanent.
“Boy, she climbed down and you turned to stone. I ain’t never seen you fold like that.”
Smoke was still starin’ at nothin’, jaw tight.
“I’m fine,” he muttered.
Stack raised a brow. “Uh huh.”
Smoke ran a hand down his face, then looked Stack dead in the eye. “I felt
 hypnotized.”
Stack paused.
“She got my vote,” Smoke added, quiet but sure.
Stack let out a low whistle, then nodded. “Well
 if she got yours, she got mine too.”
He grinned wide. “Ain’t no point pretendin’ we both wasn’t starin’.”
Smoke didn’t answer. Just shook his head, like he still ain’t believe what just happened.
You and Annie were still loungin’ in the waiting room, settled deep in the aftermath of the show you both just gave. The other girls were scattered—nervous, tryin’ to fake confidence, side-eyein’ y’all like they knew they didn’t measure up but didn’t wanna admit it.
Then the door opened.
Stack walked in first. That slow, easy stride, cigar still tucked behind his ear now, like he forgot it was there.
Smoke followed—less relaxed, jaw tight, brows low.
Stack clapped his hands together once, loud.
“Alright,” he said, voice smooth but cuttin’. “Let’s not drag it out.”
He glanced around, let his eyes pass over a few of the girls near the wall. “If I ain’t call your name, better luck next time.”
Couple girls shifted in their seats. One stood up too fast and had to sit back down, pretendin’ like her heel was twisted.
Stack’s voice rang clean:
“Babygirl and Annie.”
Your head lifted. Annie already had her arms crossed, a knowing look playin’ at her lips.
“You two—come back Friday. Featured spots.”
The room got quiet. Long and awkward.
Stack glanced around, eyes skippin’ past all the other hopefuls, brows drawin’ a little as he squinted. “
Oh. Right.”
He nodded toward the far side of the room. “You too.”
Didn’t even say the girl’s name.
Just “You too.”
That silence came again. One girl let out a shaky exhale, another grabbed her purse fast like she knew her name wasn’t ever gon’ be called.
Stack dusted off his hands like the matter was settled. “Welcome to the team. Don’t be late.”
Smoke was quiet.
Real quiet.
And Annie?
She ain’t said a word either—but she ain’t need to.
She was lookin’ at him.
Eyes steady. Still. Heat behind ‘em like a slow fire set for cookin’ somethin’ tender. She didn’t blink when his gaze slid past hers—just waited.
You saw the shift.
The bob of his Adam’s apple.
The way his stance changed—just a little. Like he needed more room in his own skin.
Stack paused mid-sentence, glancin’ over at his brother. Brow raised.
Smoke cleared his throat.
“Mm,” Stack said low, like it was nothin’. But his eyes flicked between the two of ‘em again.
And then it happened again.
Annie didn’t move, but she pressed, without touchin’ a thing.
Smoke’s jaw clenched, breathin’ deeper now, like the air was too heavy.
Stack caught it this time.
He looked at her, then back at Smoke. Then just huffed out a breath and shook his head.
“Lawd,” he muttered, chucklin’ under his breath.
He turned toward the door. “Alright ladies, that’s it. Be sharp, be early, and bring what you brought tonight.”
He tipped his head as he passed you.
“Good night, baby.”
Then winked.
Quick. Smooth. Like it was nothin’.
But Annie saw it. You felt her clock it.
Her head turned just enough to catch the corner of your grin.
FRIDAY NIGHT.
The dressing room smelled like glitter, cocoa butter, and new money.
Lashes on mirrors, lip gloss tubes open like bullets. Somebody’s baby oil spilled across the counter, mixin’ with the bass thumpin’ from the main room. The crowd out there was already loud—louder than usual.
Because they knew who was on the bill tonight. Top of the flyer in hot red cursive:
FEATURE NIGHT — PEACH & HONEY
Annie sat across from you in front of the mirror, smokin’ a clove with one hand and tightenin’ her garter with the other. Her thighs shimmered in gold body oil, her hair piled wild like a lioness that dared the jungle to try her.
“You ready?” she asked, voice low like a dare.
You smirked. “I been ready.”
Your fit was black and plum, skin peepin’ out from all the right cuts. You ain’t even need a full beat—just liner, gloss, and attitude. The rest? Carried in your walk.
The other girls moved quieter than usual. Some tried not to stare. Some did. Mary was there, still tryin’ to find the rhythm between jealousy and admiration.
“Y’all got the good slots, huh,” she said, applying lip liner crooked in the corner.
Annie didn’t even look over. “We ain’t get ‘em, baby. We earned ‘em.”
You raised your drink, smilin’ just enough. “Cheers to that.”
Behind y’all, the manager cracked the door open halfway. “Ten minutes, Peach. Honey after that.”
Annie winked at you in the mirror. “Go on and warm ‘em up.”
You stood slow, smooth, every inch deliberate. You weren’t just dancin’ tonight.
You were opening nirvana.
You stepped out under that spotlight like you were born to own it.
The first low moan of “Any Time, Any Place” crept through the speakers, and the crowd fell silent—like they felt the heat before they saw it.
Bass deep. Keys soft. Janet whisperin’ sin through velvet.
You moved slow. Deliberate. Every heel-click like punctuation. Each hip roll an invitation. Body oil gleamed under the lights—your shoulders, your thighs, your belly catching glints like gold.
A chair waited center stage. You circled it once, let your fingertips trail over the back. Then you climbed it. Straddled it. Dropped slow, real slow, hips winding like smoke before sliding back down the legs, smooth as honey.
The crowd? They didn’t cheer—they worshipped. Bills flew up like praise. Fifties. Hundreds. It rained.
You didn’t even touch the pole yet.
Up on the balcony, Stack and Smoke leaned over the railing, drinks half-drunk, attention full.
Smoke’s eyes tracked your silhouette against the soft amber glow. His voice low:
“Lord
 she ain’t just earnin’ money—she crowning this whole stage.”
Stack grinned, lips twitchin’. “Them boys down there givin’ up rent checks like she the landlord.”
Smoke tilted his head. “That ain’t no dance. That’s a sermon.”
They both watched as you finally took the pole—walked toward it like you had all night. Grabbed it. Arched. Spun once, slow, before dropping into a split that had the whole front row gasp.
“Goddamn,” Stack murmured.
“She’s control,” Smoke said, his tone lower now. “Pure control.”
Stack laughed soft. “That’s what we bought into, huh?”
“Nah,” Smoke corrected. “That’s what bought into us.”
Down below, you eased into your last roll. Took your time standing. Made a slow turn toward the crowd—toward the balcony. You didn’t look up just yet, but you knew they were watching.
Then finally—you met their eyes.
Smoke stood still.
Stack tipped his glass.
And you? You just smiled, and walked off slow while Janet’s last note faded like sweat drying on hot skin.
The DJ caught his breath before speaking. “Give it up for Peach.”
Thunder. Applause. More money hit the floor even after you left.
Up top, Stack flicked his cigar.
“That’s our girl,” he murmured.
Smoke tapped the ashtray. “She made it look easy.
And down below, the stage still buzzed with you.
Back in the dressing room, sweat still cooling on your skin, you sat fannin’ yourself with a stack of fresh bills.
Annie strolled over, heels still on, lips glossy, hair wild.
“Girl,” she said, mouth open like she couldn’t believe it, “they was throwin’ money like you was a damn hurricane.”
You laughed, a low, easy sound. “That stage owe me a thank you.”
She sat beside you, tossed her leg over your knee. “I bet we could make double that.”
You blinked. “How?”
She smiled. Lazy. Intentional. That same smile she gave Smoke that night. The kind that ain’t askin’—it’s tellin’.
“Come on stage with me,” she said. “Tonight.”
You paused, brows lifting. “What? You want me to intro you or—?”
“No,” she cut in. “With me. Together.”
You leaned back a little. “Annie
”
She leaned closer.
Close enough you could smell her perfume and cocoa butter. Her thigh slid further across yours. Her voice dropped to a hush.
“Come on,” she said. “We work it together. You already know how I move
 Now match it.”
And suddenly you felt what Smoke did. That pull. That lure. She wasn’t just pretty—she was magnetic. Her gaze slid down your neck like fingers.
You swallowed.
Then smiled.
“Alright.”
The DJ’s voice cracked through the speakers.
“Next up, our feature—give it up for Honey—”
He paused.
“—and Peach.”
The crowd rumbled. Confused.
Up in the balcony, Stack frowned, leaned over the railing. “both?”
Smoke’s brow furrowed. “Wasn’t just Annie scheduled?”
Stack shrugged. “Change of plans.”
Smoke sat forward slow. His eyes cut to the curtain. “They doin’ somethin’.”
The beat dropped.
“Feenin’” by Jodeci.
Low and deep. The kind of bass that made knees weak and hearts stupid.
Then y’all walked out.
Together.
Annie in crimson. You in black. Y’all ain’t touch—but you didn’t have to.
You circled each other first. Like rivals. Like sisters. Like flames dancin’ just close enough to warm but not burn.
The crowd got quiet.
The money didn’t even fly yet. They just watched.
Waited.
You grabbed the pole first, hands high, thighs flexed. Annie stepped behind, slow drag of her fingers across your hip—not nasty, not sweet, just
 heat.
Stack leaned over the balcony, grippin’ the rail. “What the hell
”
Smoke didn’t speak.
Didn’t blink.
You dropped. Smooth split.
Annie rolled under you, back arched, chest lifted, her thighs grazing yours without contact. The lights hit the oil on your skin like stars shimmerin’.
And the crowd?
Exploded.
The money came in waves now.
Fifties. Hundreds.
Smoke’s jaw clenched.
His eyes locked on Annie—but every time she turned toward you, bent for you, looked at you, his breath caught.
Stack watched you wind slow up the pole, twist and drop into Annie’s arms like she was waitin’ for you.
He muttered, “You see this?”
Smoke didn’t answer.
Didn’t move.
Annie flipped you slow—real slow—and climbed over your thigh with a grin like she had secrets written across her chest.
Your hand slid behind her neck—guiding, not takin’.
It was art.
It was fire.
It was damn near holy.
Neither of you stripped much. Didn’t need to.
Just sweat, muscle, and unspoken understanding. Backbends, pole spins, body rolls together. You in front now, Annie mirrored behind—hands above both your heads, arching the same, dipping like you was water in two glasses.
From above, the boys watched.
Stack shook his head, laughed under his breath. “They gon’ bankrupt the whole damn club.”
Smoke didn’t blink.
He just swallowed hard—watchin’ Annie watch you.
The way her eyes drank you in.
The way your body answered her.
And when y’all finally closed it out—cheeks glowing, eyes locked, bills piled like thrones around your feet—you reached for her hand.
She took it.
Y’all bowed together.
And left the stage like two storms rollin’ back into the night.
Backstage was loud with celebration—but only between y’all two
You and Annie tumbled through the curtain breathless and shining, cheeks glowing, bills stuck to your thighs like gold leaf.
“Bitch!” she yelled, smacking your hip with her wad of cash. “We did that!”
You doubled over laughing, high off the moment, that whole stage still vibrating in your chest. “Girl, we burned it down!”
You flopped into the chair, still panting, still tingling. Annie paced, pulling her hair tie out, shaking those curls loose like a lioness unwindin’.
She looked at you, slow.
Still smilin’.
Still that same heat in her eyes from the stage—but heavier now.
She came over, real close, crouched next to your chair.
“I don’t know what it is about you,” she said, voice low, husky. “But when we up there? I feel a buzz”
“You feel it too?”
You blinked, mouth open to speak, but—
The door slammed open.
Stack walked in first, jaw tight.
Smoke behind him, hands on his hips, chest still rising like he’d jogged the whole damn building.
You and Annie didn’t flinch.
You just watched.
“Y’all lost your damn minds?” Stack asked, lookin’ straight at you. “What the hell was that?”
Annie leaned back on her heels, still crouched by your side, head tilted.
Smoke stepped forward, eyes cuttin’ toward her. “That wasn’t what we agreed to. You was supposed to go solo.”
“Oh, my bad,” Annie said, standing slow. “Didn’t know we needed permission to elevate the brand.”
Stack scoffed. “That ain’t the point—”
You stood too, brushing your leg against Annie’s as you rose, all slow-like, lazy with defiance.
“You mad ‘cause we made y’all feel somethin’ you wasn’t ready for?”
Stack blinked at you, lips parting. “Ain’t nobody say all that—”
“No,” you said, stepping closer. “But your mouth hangin’ open like it wanna.”
Smoke folded his arms. “It was too much. That crowd ain’t know what to do with all that
 heat.”
Annie stepped right up to him, head high, smile soft but sharp. “Did you?”
Smoke’s jaw twitched.
Annie leaned just close enough for him to feel her breath again. “’Cause you looked frozen. Again.”
Stack’s eyes shifted between them, then locked back on you. “You supposed to dance, not—start somethin’.”
You moved into his space, slow, deliberate, voice all honey and smoke. “And yet here you are. Lookin’ like somethin’ I started.”
He blinked.
Didn’t step back.
Didn’t step forward either.
You could see it—all of it. His pulse in his neck. The way his fingers flexed like he wanted to grab somethin’. Or you.
Annie grinned, watching Smoke.
“Next time,” she whispered, “maybe I’ll call you up there with us.”
Smoke’s breath hitched.
Stack huffed, ran a hand down his face like he was tryin’ to stay professional.
Then his eyes met yours again—long. Low.
He smirked.
“I see what this is,” he muttered.
“Oh yeah?” you asked, still too close.
“Mmhm.” His voice dipped. “Y’all dangerous.”
You raised an eyebrow. “And you like it.”
He didn’t deny it.
Didn’t have to.
Annie brushed past Smoke, slow and deliberate. “We’ll be on time next week,” she tossed back.
Smoke just watched her walk, jaw clenched, hands useless at his sides.
You followed, but not before dragging your eyes over Stack one more time.
“Tip better next time,” you said, winkin’.
Then you and Annie disappeared down the hall, hips swingin’ like the stage never ended.
-—————————
Hey yall! Hopefully yall like this and if yall do ill continue requests coming soonđŸ˜«đŸ™đŸŸ
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shelovesosa · 2 days ago
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paring: Fictional!Satoru X F!Reader
art credits to scarlettismm on X!
sum!! After staying up late reading an emotional fanfic, a college student wakes to find the fictional love interest—Satoru Gojo—somehow real and lying beside her. Confused and out of place in the real world, Satoru begins to unravel. As they grow closer, they share laughter, secrets, and something deeper
 even as time threatens to take him away. But sometimes, endings aren’t what they seem.
CW: MDNI, Romance,Contemporary Fantasy, Soft Sci-Fi, Magical Realism, Bittersweet, Angst with comfort, Temporary Love, Borrowed Time, Soft Smut, First Time Together, nerdjo cameo, soft dom, Memory Loss / Fading Reality Unexpected Second Chance. WC: 10.9k
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It’s 1:41 a.m., your eyes are puffy, your nose is running, and you’ve just finished sobbing over a fictional man named Satoru who doesn’t even exist. And yet, somehow, he broke your heart like he did.
You’re curled up on your side in bed, blanket cocooned around you, the glow of your laptop screen still burning into your tired, emotional retinas. You knew what kind of fic it was going in—CEO AU, enemies-to-lovers, workplace drama. Classic. But nowhere in the tags did it say “character death.”
You sniffle loudly and scroll back to reread the last paragraph, as if torturing yourself again will somehow dull the pain.
“I should’ve said it sooner,” he whispered, blood soaking into the snow, eyes never leaving hers. “It was always you.”
The lights from the city faded behind him. And he didn’t blink again.
[End.]
You slam your hands on the keyboard.
“You’re kidding me,” you mutter out loud, nose stuffy and voice cracking. “You killed him? Seriously?! You made me sit through twenty chapters of slow-burn sexual tension, one shared bed trope, three almost-kisses and a forehead touch—just for this?”
You groan, throwing your arm over your face dramatically.
“God, I hate you, Satoru,” you whisper into your pillow. “I hate your stupid perfect face, and your ice-cold business demeanor, and your secretly soft heart, and the way you just died before you even got to live.”
You roll over, flinging a crumpled tissue at your desk.You sniff, dragging your fingers cross the keyboard to angrily type into the comments.
You:
@shelovesosa HOW DARE YOU.‹Fix it. Fix it right now or I’ll manifest this man into my bed myself.
“Stupid author,” you add bitterly. “Oh Sosa. May your coffee always be lukewarm and your favorite show get canceled on a cliffhanger.”
You slam the laptop shut and toss it aside.
With a final sniff, you curl deeper into your sheets. Your brain is spinning in post-fanfic grief. You mumble one last thing, more out of sleep-deprived delirium than real intent:
“
I wish he were real.” You fall asleep with the ache of unfinished stories in your chest.
The morning comes too fast. You’re groggy, head foggy from too many dreams and too little sleep. Your alarm bleats somewhere in the background as you reach to turn it off.
Except your hand doesn’t land on your phone.
It lands on something warm. And solid. And breathing. You freeze. Your eyes fly open.
There’s a shape beside you in bed. A weight. The blankets are shifted, your mattress slightly dipped like someone else is laying there. Slowly, you turn your head.
And the world tilts. There’s a man in your bed. White hair. Pale skin. Shirtless. Lean muscle. His face is turned toward the window, but even from this angle— It’s him. Your heart lurches.
Satoru. Not cosplay. Not a dream. Not just similar. It’s Satoru, exactly as he was in the fanfic. Down to the small scar above his brow the author described in chapter six.
Your lips part, no sound coming out. You're frozen. Shaking.
He stirs. Brows knit. Eyes flutter. And slowly, his lashes lift. Blue eyes. He sees you. And everything happens at once.
He jolts upright, sheets sliding off his bare chest. You scream. He flinches.
“Wh—what the hell?!” he chokes, eyes wild. “Where—what is this?! Who are you?!”
You scramble back, nearly falling out of bed. “Me?! Who are YOU?! This is my room!”
He stares at you, chest heaving. “No. No, this isn’t
 This isn’t right.”
He looks around, dazed. Confused. His voice is raspy, like it hurts to speak.
“I was in Tokyo,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “It was snowing. I was bleeding. I was with—” He swallows, eyes darting toward you again. “Where is she?”
You blink. “Who?”
He stares. His voice breaks.
“
You’re not her.”
Something cold seeps into your spine. Because you know who he means. The her from the fanfic. The girl he loved before he died.
“But you’re not real,” you whisper. “You’re fictional. You died. I read it last night—I read your death—”
“I remember dying,” he snaps, voice shaking. “I felt it. I saw her crying. And then I woke up here.”
You both sit in stunned silence.
He presses a palm to his forehead. “This is a nightmare. I’m dreaming. Or— Or I was rewritten. Or this is some kind of punishment—”
You crawl slowly to the edge of the bed, still watching him like he might vanish.
“I think I summoned you,” you say weakly. “I cursed the author. As a joke. I said I wished you were real.”
He glares at you like you’re insane. But underneath it all—his trembling fingers, the way he keeps glancing around the room, the panic in his breathing—you see it:
He’s terrified. And it makes your heart hurt.
“
I want to go back,” he finally says.
Your throat tightens. “I don’t know how.”
He stares at you like it’s your fault. Maybe it is.
You clutch your sheets and whisper, “You’re not supposed to be here.”
His voice is flat.
“You’re not supposed to be her.”
You’ve never wanted to faint so badly in your life. He’s still sitting in your bed—your stupid college dorm twin XL bed—with your blush-pink blanket slung over his lap like that’s the most offensive part of all this.
His chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, and he’s still staring at the wall like it might open up and take him back to wherever he came from. Fiction. Paper. Imagination.
But now he's here. And he’s not pixelated or made of words. He’s real.
“I need to go back,” he mutters again. “She’s waiting.”
You chew your lip. “She’s not real.”
He flinches like you slapped him.
“I mean, she was real to you,” you add quickly. “But
 she’s just words. I read her. She’s a reader-insert. She’s a blank space.”
“No,” he says, voice firm. “She was real. I loved her.”
You fall quiet. What are you supposed to say? Sorry, she was just me with better confidence and no student loans?
You sit down slowly on the edge of the bed. Satoru tenses, but doesn’t move.
“This is going to sound absolutely insane,” you start carefully, “but I think I pulled you out of your story. I was mad at the ending, I said I wished you were real, and then
 this happened.”
He scoffs. “So I’m a pity project. Great.”
You frown. “No! You weren’t supposed to actually show up! I thought maybe I’d dream about you or something, not
 wake up with you in my bed, very shirtless and very confused.”
You realize you’re staring at his chest. You immediately look away.
“This is a glitch,” he mutters. “Some kind of cruel rewrite. I shouldn’t be here.”
You glance at him. “Do you
 remember everything?”
He nods. “Every scene. Every chapter. I remember dying.”
There’s a long pause.
“God,” you whisper. “That’s so messed up.”
He finally laughs—but it’s not a happy sound. It’s dry. Hollow. “Tell me about it.”
You rub your eyes. “Okay. Look. We have two problems.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Only two?”
“One,” you hold up a finger, “we don’t know how you got here. Two
 you’re glitching.”
He stiffens. “What do you mean?”
“You were flickering,” you say, voice soft. “Just for a second. Like
 your edges blurred. Like a dream.”
He doesn’t respond. His jaw clenches, like he felt it, too.
“
So I’m not stable.”
You say nothing. After a moment, he exhales and slumps back slightly.
“God, this is pathetic,” he mutters. “I was the most powerful man in the city. I could ruin a company with one phone call. I had private jets. Now I don’t even have pants.”
You try—try—not to laugh.
“I can get you pants,” you offer.
His eyes narrow. “Don’t pity me.”
“I’m not pitying you,” you lie. “I just don’t think walking around shirtless in a college dorm is going to help your situation.”
He mutters something under his breath but doesn’t argue.
You grab a pair of sweatpants from your drawer and toss them at him. “Bathroom’s down the hall. You’re gonna have to sneak.”
He catches them with ease and stands, still moving like he owns a twenty-story skyscraper. You try not to stare at his back as he walks to the door.
He turns the knob, then pauses.
“
What’s your name?” he asks, glancing back at you.
You blink. “Y/N.”
He stares for a beat.
Then says, quietly, “I don’t remember that being in the story.”
You smile a little. “That’s because I wasn’t in it.”
He hesitates. Then opens the door and vanishes into the hallway.
You spend the next fifteen minutes pacing your room like it’s about to burst into flames. There’s a fictional man in your dorm bathroom.
You summoned him. You broke something. Maybe the universe. Maybe yourself.
He’s glitching. You don’t know how long he has. And he’s desperate to get back to a girl who doesn’t exist. But for some reason, he’s still here. Still real. And you don’t know what that means yet.
You’re sitting on the edge of your twin bed, clutching a lukewarm cup of instant coffee and trying not to spiral. Because this is real.
It’s not a dream. Not some grief hallucination brought on by staying up too late reading slow-burn fanfiction and eating sour gummies. There’s no typo, no delete button, no author’s note to reverse what’s happened.
Satoru is here.
The fictional man you loved and mourned and cursed the night before is now somewhere in your dorm’s communal bathroom, wearing your ex’s old sweatpants and the expression of someone who’s been yanked out of death and dumped into a college campus like a tossed USB file.
You stare at the door until it creaks open.
He steps inside cautiously, drying his hands on the front of his hoodie. His white hair is still damp, falling slightly in his eyes. He looks softer like this, like less of the towering CEO you met through carefully crafted prose and more like a very lost man who’s trying not to shatter.
You clear your throat. “Everything okay?”
He looks at you, nods stiffly, then glances around the room again like he still can’t quite believe where he is.
“I counted six women brushing their teeth in one bathroom,” he says, sitting on the desk chair like it offends him. “One of them offered me dry shampoo. I don’t know what that is.”
You snort into your cup. “Welcome to dorm life.”
He doesn’t laugh. He just studies you with unreadable eyes. Sharp and searching. Like you’re an answer he doesn’t want to need.
“This place
” he murmurs, gesturing vaguely to your walls cluttered with sticky notes and fairy lights, “this isn’t
 scripted.”
You raise a brow. “No. That’s kind of how real life works.”
He leans back, rubbing a hand over his mouth.
“You said I’m not supposed to exist here. So what does that mean? Am I
 fading? Am I going to just—stop?”
Your throat tightens. You’ve been wondering the same thing.
“I don’t know,” you admit quietly. “But you’re still here now. That has to mean something.”
He exhales, head tilting back to stare at the ceiling.
You watch him in silence. His hands are resting on his thighs, long fingers twitching slightly like he’s resisting the urge to reach for something. A phone. A pen. Her. You put your coffee down.
“Look,” you say softly, “I know I’m not her. And I didn’t mean for this to happen. But until we figure out what’s going on, maybe you should just
 stay.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Here?”
You nod, cheeks warming. “Just for now. You clearly have nowhere else to go. And I don’t think you're ready to navigate student housing or explain why you don’t have ID.”
Satoru stares at you like the concept of help is foreign. Which, based on the version of him you read about, it probably is.
Finally, he murmurs, “I don’t want your pity.”
“It’s not pity,” you say gently. “It’s a blanket and some time to breathe.”
He looks at you, expression unreadable. But he nods once.
You set up a sleeping bag on the floor that night. It’s the best you can offer in a room barely large enough to fit two people standing up. He lies stiffly on top of it, arms crossed, staring at the ceiling like sleep is a stranger.
You lie in bed, eyes open.bYou think about how he held the love of his life while he died. And now he’s here. Not holding anyone.
“Do you miss her?” you whisper.
He doesn’t answer right away. But when he does, his voice is soft.
“I think I miss the way she made me feel. Like I wasn’t just a weapon in a suit.”
You’re quiet.
He adds, a beat later, “But maybe that feeling wasn’t even mine. Maybe I only loved her because someone wrote me that way.”
You turn to look at him. But he’s already looking at you. Neither of you says anything after that.
You wake up to the smell of something burning. Your eyes shoot open, heart already sprinting.
You stumble out of bed, nearly tripping on the sleeping bag where Satoru isn’t anymore. You hear the clatter of pans, the groan of the microwave, and a very muffled, very confused “Why is this machine yelling at me?”
You rush into the kitchenette area down the hall, still barefoot, to find Satoru standing in front of the microwave, poking at the buttons like they insulted his mother.
“What are you doing?” you hiss, half-laughing, half-panicked.
He points at the microwave indignantly. “It said ‘popcorn’ but there were sparks! Sparks, Y/N!”
You grab the bag—oh god, the foil kind—and toss it in the trash before it sets off the building alarm.
He stares at you, wide-eyed, hair slightly messy, wearing your oversized hoodie and sweatpants like he’s a very lost, very pretty houseguest.
“Have you never used a microwave?”
“Why would I?” he asks, completely serious. “I had a private chef in Tokyo.”
You stare at him. He stares back. And then, maybe for the first time since he showed up
 you both laugh.
Real laughter. Yours high-pitched and breathless, his deeper, more surprised. It crackles in the small space between you. And for just a second, he doesn't look like a man unraveling.
He looks like a boy. New. Unwritten.
Later, you’re sitting on the floor together, eating cereal straight from the box. His hair keeps falling in his eyes. You reach out without thinking and brush it back.
He freezes. So do you. His eyes meet yours. And for a second—just a second—there’s something like electricity in the air. Not sparks from microwaves. Not glitchy fiction magic.
Something real. You pull your hand back quickly. But he doesn’t stop looking at you.
“
I didn’t feel this way in the story,” he says quietly. “Not like this.”
You glance at him, heart thudding. “Feel what way?”
He doesn’t answer. But his knee brushes yours, and neither of you moves.
That night, he glitches. You're the first to notice. It’s small, at first. You're talking about breakfast cereal—how you mix Frosted Flakes and granola together like a heathen—and he tilts his head, eyes clouding slightly.
“I’ve never had cereal,” he says.
You blink.
“Yes, you did. This morning. You ate like half the box.”
He frowns. “No, I didn’t. We went to that place. With the
 tiny pancakes.”
“
Satoru,” you say softly, “that was from Chapter 11. Of the fanfic. The Paris trip.”
His expression blanks. And then something in his face glitches. Like static behind his eyes. It only lasts a moment—but it’s long enough.
He exhales, hand pressed to his forehead. “It’s happening, isn’t it?”
You don’t know what to say.
He looks at you, voice quieter now. “I’m not built for this world. I’m already forgetting.”
You kneel in front of him, gently placing your hand on his. “Then we don’t waste time.”
His breath catches. You hold his hand like it’s the only thing anchoring him here. And maybe it is.
You don’t go to class the next day. You don’t even pretend to.
You tell yourself it’s because you’re “monitoring the anomaly” or “preserving the fabric of reality.” But really, it’s because Satoru wakes up on the floor with the most lost look on his face and whispers, “Where am I again?” and it breaks your heart clean in half.
You sit with him until he remembers. Your name. The coffee spill. The dorm microwave. He laughs about the popcorn again, a little shakier this time. But it still counts. After that, you don’t leave his side.
The two of you walk the campus late at night when no one’s around. He keeps staring at trees like they’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.
“I didn’t have these,” he murmurs. “Not like this. The ones in the fic were always perfectly sculpted. Background props.”
You smile softly. “These ones grow crooked. They drop leaves. Sometimes birds poop on you.”
He tilts his head. “I like them better.”
You take him to the library next. He walks the rows of books with reverent hands, trailing fingers across every spine like he’s scared they’ll vanish.
“I thought I knew words,” he says, voice low. “But this is different. These were made by people. Not an author playing God. Just
 people.”
You nod. “People with lives. Mistakes. Ugly handwriting and messy endings.”
Satoru turns to you.
You don’t know what he sees in your face, but it’s enough to make him pause.
“You’re not what I expected,” he says.
You raise an eyebrow. “Expected from what? Fanfiction?”
He shakes his head. “No. From reality.”
You teach him how to use your phone. He FaceTimes the pizza place by accident and panics when someone picks up.
You try to explain memes, which leads to you both scrolling through TikToks on your bed for an hour straight. He becomes obsessed with cooking videos.
At one point, your head drops onto his shoulder. He doesn’t move. His breathing slows, steadies, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Neither of you says anything about it.
You stay up one night talking. Really talking. You're lying side by side on your bed, not touching, but so close your arms are brushing.
“I used to think I was in love with her,” he says.
You stare at the ceiling. “The version of me from the story.”
He nods. “But she didn’t challenge me. She didn’t argue. She was soft in all the ways the author needed her to be.”
You don’t say anything. You’re not sure how to feel.
He turns his head to look at you. “You’re not soft.”
You blink. “Gee, thanks.”
“I don’t mean it like that,” he murmurs. “You’re
 messy. Complicated. Real. You snore.”
You shove his arm lightly, and he grins.
But then his smile fades.
“I’m scared I won’t remember this,” he whispers.
You turn your head slowly. He’s staring at you like he’s memorizing you.
“I’m scared I’ll forget you.”
Your chest tightens.
You whisper, “Then I’ll remember for both of us.”
Something shifts in the space between you. Like gravity pulling tighter.
You don’t kiss. Not yet. But his hand inches closer to yours. And this time, when your fingers touch— You hold it tighter.
It starts small again. A pause mid-conversation.
A moment where Satoru tilts his head and says, “Remind me what this is again?” while pointing at something he’s already asked about twice.
You want to pretend it’s nothing. That he’s just distracted. But then you catch him standing by the window later that evening, staring out at the streetlight like it’s the only thing anchoring him.
“Do you remember this morning?” you ask quietly, stepping beside him.
He turns slowly. “
Was there cereal?”
You nod.
He gives you a sad smile. “I forgot the flavor.”
You don’t know what to say. So you walk over, wrap your arms around his torso, and press your cheek to his chest.
His breath catches. You feel his arms come up, slowly, hesitantly. Like he’s afraid he’ll crush you. Like if he holds you too tightly, he might disappear completely.
His chin rests on top of your head. His heartbeat is loud beneath your ear. Neither of you moves for a long time.
That night, he doesn’t want to sleep on the floor.
“I know I said I would,” he mutters, eyes flicking toward the sleeping bag. “But I just
 I don’t want to feel far from you right now.”
You nod. You move over. He climbs in beside you. He stays on his side at first. Doesn’t touch you. But eventually, in the dark, his fingers find yours beneath the covers.
He holds your hand like it’s the last thread connecting him to the world. And maybe it is.
You dream of water. A soft tide pulling you away. Something fading. When you wake, he’s already looking at you. His hand is on your cheek. His thumb brushes just under your eye.
“I had a dream,” he whispers.
You hum sleepily, not opening your eyes. “What about?”
“I was back,” he says. “In the story. She was there. The office. The desk. The skyline.”
You open your eyes. He’s quiet for a long time.
Then: “But I didn’t feel anything.”
You turn to face him. “What do you mean?”
“I saw her. But she didn’t look like you. She looked like a blank space. Like a fill-in. She smiled at me, but it wasn’t you.”
He reaches for your face again.
“This world is loud. Messy. Exhausting. And I still want to stay in it.”
Your throat burns. “You might not get that choice.”
He leans in, forehead resting against yours.
“I know.”
Silence. Just your breath and his. Then he whispers:
“But if I’m going to vanish, I want to remember you.”
It’s quiet in the room. The kind of quiet that hangs between words never spoken. Between goodbyes that haven’t happened yet.
You lie beside him, breath soft, chest rising and falling in rhythm with his. His hand is still resting over yours beneath the blanket, fingers loosely entwined like a tether to reality. His thumb brushes gently along your knuckles.
“Satoru,” you whisper, your voice nearly lost in the hush of the room. “Are you okay?”
His eyes are already on you. He doesn’t answer for a long time. Then: “No.”
Your heart twists.
“I feel like I’m slipping,” he says, voice low, a little raw. “Like parts of me are coming undone. I try to remember the story, the office, the people... it’s all fog. But you—” His hand tightens around yours. “You’re the only thing I still feel.”
You swallow, throat thick. “Then hold on to me.”
His gaze drops to your lips.
“Can I?” he whispers. “Really hold you? Just once. Before I forget?”
You nod. The moment stretches. And then he leans in.
The kiss is slow. Uncertain at first, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish too. But when you sigh against his mouth, it deepens—his hand sliding to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head so he can kiss you fully. Thoroughly.
He kisses you like he wants to taste your memory. Like he’s carving the shape of you into whatever part of him still exists beyond the glitch.
You shift closer, and his hand slips beneath your shirt, splaying across your waist. His palm is warm. Steady. You shiver at the contact.
“Tell me what you want,” you whisper.
He pulls back just enough to look at you.
“You,” he says. “Slow. Real. I want to make it count.”
You sit up slightly, letting him pull your shirt over your head. His eyes trail over you, and something in them breaks. Reverence. Hunger. Grief.
“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes. “I can’t believe I almost didn’t get to see you like this.”
You press your hands to his chest, feeling his heartbeat thudding beneath your palm. His hoodie comes off next, followed by his shirt, and you press your lips to his skin—his collarbone, his sternum, the small scar just under his ribs like the one described in the story. But it’s different seeing it here. Seeing him here. Alive. Real. Yours, even if only for tonight.
He lies back and pulls you with him, hands exploring your body like you’re something precious—trailing down your sides, across your back, fingers gripping your thighs with quiet desperation.
When you grind against him slowly, feeling the thick press of him through his boxers, his breath catches hard in your ear.
“You’re killing me,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. “You’re so soft—so warm—I didn’t know this part of the world could feel so
 good.”
You roll your hips again, and he groans deep in his throat, hands locking tight on your waist.
“Need to feel you,” he whispers. “All of you.”
You shift your weight and reach down, guiding him free from his boxers, his cock hard and hot in your palm. His breath hitches as your fingers wrap around him gently, stroking once—slow and curious.
His voice is ragged. “Please.”
You press a kiss to his lips, then rise just enough to line yourself up.
And when you sink down onto him, he gasps—eyes fluttering shut, head falling back against the pillow.
“Oh god—”
You’re both breathing heavy now.
You pause, adjusting to the stretch of him, the tightness between you. His hands slide up your thighs, then settle at your hips, holding you still as he tries not to lose control too soon.
“You feel
 perfect,” he chokes. “Better than anything I’ve ever known.”
You begin to move, slow and careful, your bodies rocking together in a rhythm that feels older than either of you. His hands roam—palming your breasts, sliding up your spine, gripping your hips as you roll against him with aching tenderness.
“Satoru,” you whisper, leaning over him, your forehead pressed to his.
He opens his eyes. And in them—desperation. Need. Love.
“I don’t want to forget this,” he says again, voice breaking.
“Then remember me like this,” you whisper. “Remember the way I feel. The way I look at you. The way you make me feel so full, like I was meant to hold you.”
He groans at your words, thrusting up into you with more force. You gasp, clinging to his shoulders, meeting him with matching urgency.
It builds between you—need turning sharp, trembling, sacred.
You come first—tightening around him, breath catching as you moan his name through clenched teeth, nails digging into his back.
He follows you seconds later, holding you tight to him as he spills inside you, your names tangled in breathless gasps.
Afterward, you lie on his chest, both of you still shaking. His hand runs gently down your spine. You feel him press a kiss to your temple.
“You’re the best thing I never got written for,” he whispers.
You don’t answer. You just hold him. Because you know what’s coming next. And he’s slipping again.
you lie with him for a long time. His body is warm, tangled with yours beneath the blanket, his breath steady against your shoulder. One hand rests lazily over your stomach, like he’s anchoring himself to your skin.
You’re not sure how long you stay like that—wrapped in the kind of silence that only comes after something true.
But eventually, you feel his fingers twitch. Then still. Then again.
“Satoru?” you whisper.
He blinks slowly, then furrows his brows like something's wrong.
“
What was your name again?”
Your heart drops.
You sit up, brushing hair out of his face. “Don’t joke.”
“I’m not,” he says, voice quiet. Distant. “I know you. I feel like I know you. But it’s slipping. Like I’m trying to hold water in my hands.”
You press your palm to his cheek. “You’re still here. You’re still with me.”
He nods, but he doesn’t look convinced. That’s when you realize—This is it. He won’t last much longer. Whatever brought him here—whatever magic, glitch, miracle—it’s running out.
And if he goes like this, half-glitched, half-lost, it’ll break both of you. So you do the only thing you can.
You get out of bed. Pull on a hoodie. And sit at your desk. The words don’t come easy at first. But then your fingers move. Not on your phone. Not in a fanfic comment thread. On paper.
With a real pen, real ink, real hands. You write him an ending. A soft one.
Where he’s not a CEO haunted by guilt. Not a tragic man doomed to die before he can fall in love. You write him waking up in a quiet home, sunlight through curtains, coffee in a chipped mug, a cat that curls on his lap. You write him laughing. You write him safe. You write him at peace.
And you write that he gets to say goodbye. When it’s done, you read it aloud to him. Your voice shakes.
He listens, seated on the edge of your bed, blanket wrapped around his hips, eyes full of something that doesn’t feel like a glitch anymore. It feels like gratitude.
When you finish, you look up. He’s smiling softly.
“You did it,” he whispers.
“I gave you an ending,” you say. “You deserved one.”
He stands. Walks to you. And kisses you again. This one is slower. Full of something final.
“Thank you for writing me something better,” he says against your lips.
Tears well in your eyes. “Thank you for being real. Even just for a little while.” His fingers linger on your cheek.
He vanishes in the morning. Not with fanfare. Not with light or thunder or spark.
Just
 A flicker.
You’d gone to brush your teeth. You’d left him tangled in your sheets, watching you from the bed with sleep-soft eyes and a crooked smile.
You came back— And the sheets were cold. You say his name once. Then again, louder. But there’s no answer. No trace. No indent in the pillow. No warmth in the blankets.
Just a silence so sharp it cuts. You don’t cry at first.
You sit on the edge of the bed, fingers curled around the hem of your shirt, blinking at the place he had been just hours ago. You try to replay his voice in your head, his laugh, the things he whispered against your skin. You press your face into your pillow and breathe deep, desperate to find even a trace of him.
But all you smell is fabric softener and loss. He’s gone. Like he never belonged here at all.
You grieve quietly. You carry his memory in the scribbled pages of your notebook, worn at the edges from being opened again and again. But you don’t write for him anymore. You write for yourself.
You don’t talk about it. How could you? You go back to class. You go back to microwaving leftovers. You scroll past fanfiction tags and never click again.
Some nights you still whisper his name in the dark, just in case he hears it. But he never answers. You begin to believe maybe he was just a dream after all. A beautiful, impossible dream.
Three months later, on the first warm day of spring, you’re sitting outside the library, notebook open, headphones in, sunlight catching in your lashes.
You almost don’t hear it.
“Excuse me—,” someone says.
You look up. And your heart stops.
A young man stands hesitantly before you, holding a crumpled campus map. His glasses slip slightly down his nose, his hair tousled from the breeze.
He looks unfamiliar yet somehow familiar.
“Could you help me? I’m completely lost,” he says, voice gentle but uncertain.
“Do you know where the science building is?” he asks, sheepish. “I’ve been walking in a circle for like twenty minutes.”
You stare. He’s different. No polished arrogance. No CEO swagger. No tailored suit. But it’s still him. That face. Those eyes. That voice.
You slowly take out your earbuds.
“
What’s your name?” you manage, breath shallow.
He smiles at you—confused, but kind.
“Satoru,” he says. “Satoru Gojo.”
Your lips part. His gaze lingers on your face for a moment too long. Then—
“Have we met before?” he asks, tilting his head.
“No, we haven’t met,” you whisper.
He chuckles, eyes bright.
“Maybe it’s a good thing. A new story.”
And as the sunlight pools around you both, you realize some endings are just beginnings in disguise.
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indecisive-gm · 2 days ago
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Jaren awoke with a start. Sitting up, they quickly looked around. The room looked like some kind of study, with scrolls and books filling the shelves along the walls. The paper walls seemed week enough; maybe they could escape from--whatever this place was--before their captors noticed.
Captors. They must be fairies, right? The last thing Jaren could remember before waking up here was going out into the forest to gather herbs and hearing a muffled voice as the forest around them faded to black. It wasn't a drug--that would have been recognizable with Jaren's experience as a healer. The darkness had been some kind of illusion magic like that which the fair folk use. They must have chosen Jaren as their next victim, having seen them come to the forest so regularly. If Jaren had been kidnapped by fairies, they would need to keep their wits about them to avoid falling further into their traps.
Tearing through the wall, Jaren was ready to make a run for it, but had to quickly stop themself from falling off a cliff. This couldn't be right, the fair folk never stray far from the forests. If her captors had taken her up into the mountains, then they couldn't be fairies. But then, who--
"It would be rather rude to run off so soon."
Jaren turned around. The building was farther back than it should have been, and a robed figure now stood only a few paces behind them. This was the person who had kidnapped them? Jaren readied a spell, hoping the old man wouldn't recognize it for the harmless show that it was. "Stay back! I've studied the magical arts well. I don't want either of us to get hurt, so don't move, and don't try to follow me."
The figure shrugged. "Alright. I'll stay right here. Though I would appreciate if you would stay and talk over coffee."
The man's words meant nothing. Even if he actually had such a rare plant as coffee, it seemed like too convenient an excuse to drug Jaren into being an easy captive to be ransomed off to the nearest magic university or to be sold to some warlord who was looking for a new mage. They backed their way to the cliffside, then jumped. They had never really wanted to go adventuring or fight in wars, so they never actually studied any flight spells or spells to soften a landing, but hopefully strenthening their bones would hold them together well enough after hitting the ground to mend the damage from the fall.
Thud. Fortunately, the pain of the fall was somewhat masked by having all the wind knocked out of them. The plan had worked, but as Jaren looked up, they saw that they were in the same place as before, with the man and the tower standing before them as if to mock them.
The man shook his head. "That was a rather clever use of your healing magic, though if I may ask, why didn't you simply fly away?"
"None of your business." New strategy. This time, Jaren strengthened the muscles in their legs before jumping as far as they could. Being lost in the forest wouldn't be ideal, but it would be better than being someone's prisoner to be used for money or as a weapon. As they were about to hit the ground, Jaren closed their eyes and braced for impact.
Again, they had landed back next to the tower in the mountains. "As impressive as your skills are," the old man said, "you're just going to tire yourself out like this."
Jaren was learning to hate this guy. "Let me leave, or I'll kill you!", they shouted.
The man simply stepped forward towards them. "I think we both know you won't." Jaren was stunned. "I've been looking for an apprentice for some time. Coffee does it's wonders, but eternal youth isn't one of them. And you." The man pointed a finger at Jaren's chest. "I've been very satisfied with the care you show in your magic."
"Apprentice? Who do you think you--"
"The world needs witchknights, after all." Witchknights. Jaren had taken them to just be stories for children. Masters of the magical and martial arts, some of whom had supposedly conquered vast lands or worked as advisors to powerful rulers, while others had fought against the powerful to give back to those with nothing or even abandoned the world altogether.
The man sighed. "Fine. I see you need proof." Suddenly, there was a sword stuck through Jaren's leg. The bone was still strong enough from their spell before to not be cut through, but the pain was horrible. Before they even had time to scream, a portal opened beneath them, and they fell through what must have been a layer of the underworld before landing in the open top room of the tower with various animated suits of armor pointing swords and pikes at them.
The suits of armor walked to their displays by the stairs, and the witchknight came to Jaren to help them up. Jaren was about to cast a spell to heal their leg, but felt the familiar feeling of a healing spell already taking effect on it. "You know," said the old man, "dispite the stories I'm sure you know, violence is actually a small part of being a witchknight. Now, about that coffee."
--
Finishing the mug of coffee, Jaren spoke. "So to make sure I'm understanding this, witchknights exist, and you've basically kidnapped me to get me to preserve your ancient form of the magical and martial arts?"
"That sounds about right," the man responded. "Though I would like to say, I didn't have much choice in the matter. If I were to try to teach some other mage, how do you think that would go? So many of them nowadays are too absorbed by power and where that can take them. It would be next to impossible for me to teach them, and there would be a serious risk of having a new story like those about witchknight conquerers abusing their power and ignoring the world around them."
Jaren still felt wronged by the whole situation, but this old witchknight was right about that much: A lot of Jaren's former classmates probably would have learned what they could and run off to use their abilities for power for themselves. Still, there were always calmer ones. Jaren didn't know any others who were completely pacifist, but surely the witchhunter wasn't that strained of options.
At that moment, there was a flash of light from down the stairs and the sound of someone approaching. Jaren started to get up, but the witchknight just gestured for them to remain seated. "Mjorgan! Mjorgan you bastard, where are you!", a voice called as footsteps came up the wooden steps. A tall, slender man in a suit and cape reached the top of the stairs and turned to the witchknight. "Mjorgan! There you are! I-- who is this?"
"Excellent question, Archsage!" The witchnight--Mjorgan, apparently--glanced towards Jaren. "My friend, would you like to introduce yourself?"
First a mythical witchnight, now the archsage was here? "I'm Jaren, sir... I'm Mjorgan's new apprentice." The room was silent for a moment. Moreso than when Jaren and Mjorgan had been drinking their coffee.
After a few seconds, the archsage spoke. "Well, I suppose it's about time you picked an apprentice, but why now? I've come here several times before to try to convince you to take any of the brightest mages our universities have to offer, but you choose now of all times?"
"I believe I chose the right time to do so, Alfred," Mjorgan responded. "Now, what business did you have with me? I'd like to get to lessons for my student sometime today."
"Ah, yes." The archsage gave a curt nod, showing some annoyance at his treatment by Mjorgan. "I came here to ask if you would join my advisory council for..." A glance in Jaren's direction told them not to get involved. "...necessary audience."
"It must be serious if you're coming to bother me."
"It's about her."
Mjorgan suddenly looked incredibly serious. "...Alright. I'll meet with you tomorrow morning to discuss this further." He waved his hand, and the Archsage disappeared in a puff of smoke.
With how the archsage spoke and Mjorgan's response, Jaren could tell that this was probably something very bad. "Should I know what that was about?"
The witchknight looked up at them. "No. Maybe some other time, but for the time being, it's best that you not get involved in this. Besides," he stood up and headed towards the stairs, "we need to start your training."
OK,
I didn't realize I was going to be writing so much (good prompt), but I'm probably going to need to stop here for now and hope that I can get myself to continue this story later.
witchknights are unmatched in magical and martial arts. Unlike the rest of your peers you wanted to study healing magic and medicine not war and violence. So when the witchknight chose you everyone was confused, Even the archsage himself.
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gf2bellamy · 3 days ago
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how do you think dad spencer would deal with all his hygiene phobias with a kid ?? personally picturing him putting on a brave face and telling himself its fine when his daughter pulls on her rain boots and asks him to jump in muddy puddles with her (but internally hes freaking out and planning to spend like 2 hours in the shower afterwards)
this kind of turned into a drabble. i love girldad!spencer too much
spencer definitely puts on a brave face.
that’s his instinct especially around his daughter. and he knows, logically, that dirt isn’t always dangerous. he knows germs are part of life.
but none of that knowledge prepares him for the moment his daughter tugs on his hand and points with excitement at a huge puddle on the sidewalk.
“daddy, let’s jump!”
his brain short-circuits. bacteria. parasites. the idea of her catching a cold. he bites the inside of his cheek, hard and takes a breath. at first, his concern is completely about her. he kneels down, trying to redirect.
“hey, honey, look over there. that’s a robin’s nest, see the bird?”
but she’s not even looking. her eyes are still locked on that brown puddle. he hesitates, then sighs and lets go of her hand.
“okay. just be careful,” he manages.
she squeals in delight and jump into the puddle. spencer flinches when a drop of muddy water lands directly on his pants. he tries not to show it. smiles through clenched teeth.
his stomach is doing somersaults, but her laughter is worth it. she’s happy. she’s safe. that’s what matters.
but then she turns. “daddy, come on! jump with me!”
his heart actually stops. “oh, uh—no, that’s okay, you go ahead, i'm just gonna watch—”
“daddy,” she says again, tugging at his hand, bottom lip poking out in a pout that’s both manipulative and completely innocent. she's stubborn just like him.
he swallows hard. internally he’s screaming. crying. calculating the bacteria count per square inch of street water.
but she’s smiling at him like he hung the moon. so he steps forward.
one boot, then the other, and then he jumps. a weak little hop, barely a splash. but it counts. she laughs so hard she almost falls over.
she grabs his hand and demands they do it again. and again. and again.
and for a while his daughter's giggles drown out the panic. he still hates how wet his socks feel. still cringes every time the cold water soaks up higher on his pants.
but he’s laughing now, too. just a little.
by the time they get home, his daughter is yawning and dragging her boots. as soon as they walk inside and he sees the mud streaked across his legs, that’s when the reality slams back in.
“okay, bath time,” he says quickly, voice pitched high. “for me. i mean.”
before you can even ask him if he had fun, he’s gone, practically sprinting to the bathroom, peeling off clothes on the way. you call after him, but all you get is a shouted, “i’m okay! i’m okay!” followed by the sound of the shower on full blast.
you blink, confused until you look down and see the trail of wet footprints and two soaked, dirty boots. your daughter is grinning up at you, soaked from the knees down, her curls frizzy from the rain.
“what did you do to daddy?” you ask, laughing softly as you kneel to unzip her coat.
“he jumped in the puddles with me,” she says proudly. “he was so good at it!”
you smile, heart warm. “i’m sure he was.”
meanwhile, in the bathroom, spencer is scrubbing like a man possessed. there are three different soaps in rotation. he’s mentally cataloging every spot where water hit him.there’s a little voice in his head whispering that he’ll probably need to disinfect his shoes and maybe even the doorknob.
but underneath all the panic, there’s a flicker of joy.
because despite the dirt and the germs, he made his daughter laugh. and he’ll do it again tomorrow if she asks.
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everrinsly · 1 day ago
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a/n; dedicated to all your favorite boys, thank you for reading! This one is a little long hehe but i hope you like or see the vision at least haha, I'm sorry been slow, busy these days (àČ„ïčàČ„)
strappy heels. fluff. very suggestive. fem!reader. | not proofread.
when he helps you take of your strappy heels after a girls' night out.
♡ For all your ("I will take care of you when you're tipsy") favorites.
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The door clicks open with a soft creak, and he doesn’t even need to look at the clock to know you’re later than usual. He hears the muffled shuffle of your keys hitting the tray, the distant, light, breathy giggle, and the way you whisper “oops” to no one in particular when your purse slides off your shoulder and hits the floor.
You’re tipsy. Definitely tipsy.
He exhales through his nose, dragging himself up from the couch, where he’s been watching a rerun of your favorite anime—the one he once flatly declared, “I hate that shit,” without even giving it a real shot. 
(And yet
 here he is, halfway through the episode because it reminds him of you).
He’s not worried. He doesn’t worry about you when you’re out with your girls, but he does count the minutes until you’re home again—just a little. 
You hum, delighted when you spot him walking toward you, towering and rumpled in a black hoodie and grey sweats. “Hiii! I’m back.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
His tone is dry, but you don’t miss the subtle flicker of relief in his eyes. He looks you over, like he’s making sure all your limbs are intact, checking for twisted ankles and bruised egos.
“How’d it go?” he asks, already reaching to steady you by the waist when you wobble closer to him.
You’re a vision of chaos and glitter, all flushed cheeks and glossy lips, in those ridiculous five-inch strappy heels. The ribbons are starting to slip loose from one ankle, and your steps are full of drunk determination—unsteady but prideful, like you’ve conquered something just by making it to him.
Your arms reach out blindly because you knew he’d catch you before you ever had to think about falling.
(And he does. Of course he does).
You grin up at him, doe-eyes wide and shiny, hands gripping his forearms. “Baby! Baby! You won’t believe what I did!”
That gets a slight raise of his brow. He’s not quite alarmed—more so curious in that lazy, slow-blinking way of his.
“I danced!”
His mouth twitches. “You always dance when you’re drunk.”
“No no no! I danced danced!” you emphasize, grabbing onto his hoodie strings, like they're your anchors. “Like—slutty.”
He pauses. “Slutty,” he echoes flatly.
You nod, so proud. “I was in the center. In a circle. Lights flashing. It was very dramatic. I did this thing—” 
You break off to demonstrate some vaguely suggestive body roll that almost knocks you off balance. His hands immediately catch your hips, grip tightening instinctively.
“Okay, okay,” he mutters, holding you still. “You’re banned from moving.”
“No, wait—this one girl screamed, ‘Go off, queen!’” you say with a giggle. “I think I was possessed. My hands were, like, on my knees. I was dropping low, like, so low. I don’t even do squats. And, like, I could feel God watching.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then he exhales, long and slow, as if trying very hard not to react.
“Baby
 you’re so fucking weird,” he says finally.
You beam. “But hot-weird, right?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He just stares at you, then moves his hand from your hip to your jaw, tipping your face up just slightly.
“You’re always hot,” he says simply.
It’s so straightforward that it short-circuits your brain. Your mouth opens, some kind of automatic protest on the tip of your tongue, but nothing comes out because he means it, because he’s looking at you like that again, taking his time, like he enjoys how flustered you get under his gaze.
Then, finally, he lets his hand fall from your face, dragging it down your arm in a grounding stroke.
“Aight, pretty girl,” he mutters, eyes flicking down to your feet. “That’s enough for one night. Get out of those heels before you sprain something.”
You blink at him, lips tugging into a playful pout. “They’re cute, though.”
He crouches slightly to eye them again, hands sliding to your waist. “Yeah. They are.”
Your brows lift. “Then why do I have to take them off?”
His eyes flick back up to yours, a hint of smugness creeping into his expression.
“‘Cause if you do,” he says, voice dipping lower, “I’ll give you something cuter in return.”
You squint, suspicious but intrigued. “What kind of something?”
He shrugs, like he didn’t just offer that in a voice that made your knees feel like warm jelly. “Guess you’ll find out.”
“You’re bribing me now?”
“I’m motivating you,” he corrects, already nudging you gently backward until your knees hit the couch, and you drop down with a soft thump.
He kneels in front of you, hoodie sleeves bunched up at his elbows, fingers already brushing against the intricate straps that crisscross up your shin. 
The moment feels thick, suspended—quiet and slow, like the night’s paused just to make room for this.
He doesn’t rush.
His touch is gentle, purposeful, as he slips a finger beneath the nearest loop of ribbon, grazing the warm skin underneath. The delicate strings wind high on your legs, wrapped just tight enough to indent slightly into your skin, and he follows the pattern with his eyes like he’s memorizing it.
(He kind of already has).
He could do this without thinking. He’s seen you wear these before, tie them with a bow behind your calves, legs bent, brows scrunched in concentration while sitting on the edge of the bed. He knows how they work, knows exactly how to undo them.
But tonight, he doesn’t.
Not right away.
His fingers skate deliberately over your shin, dragging along each knot with a kind of reverence, letting the loose ends of the ties slip through his hands. He could’ve unraveled them in seconds, but instead, he watches the way they unravel over your skin, like he’s unwrapping something he’s waited all night to touch.
Your legs look so fucking good.
Too good.
The lighting’s soft and golden, catching the sheen on your skin, the subtle dip of muscle beneath softness, the way your thighs shift slightly as you settle. He’s still kneeling, still eye-level with all that bare skin, and for a moment—just a moment—his thoughts tip filthy.
He imagines you in the club with your girls, hips moving to the bass, doing that stupid slutty dance you mentioned, legs flashing with every twist and turn. These legs. Your laugh echoing, hands in your hair, eyes bright. He pictures them wrapped around him instead, loose and trembling. He can practically feel it.
He blinks, jaw tight, breath caught somewhere deep in his chest.
Focus.
He tugs gently on the first ribbon, unwinding it with care, his knuckles brushing up and down your calf as he follows the path up your leg. One loop. Then the next. He’s quiet as he works, but his hands keep brushing higher, sliding over the smooth skin of your shin, your knee, the edge of your thigh.
“You’re stalling” you murmur, breath catching.
(He is).
“Mm,” he hums, barely glancing up. 
He keeps going, unwrapping you—one slow tie at a time.
When the last ribbon slips loose and the heel finally drops from your foot, he doesn’t move right away, doesn’t even pretend to. He just lets his palm rest over your ankle, thumb drawing soothing little circles over the bone.
And then, he reaches for the other foot.
This one takes longer. This one’s worse.
You shift a little under his touch, and his eyes flick up for just a second—just long enough to catch the way your lips part, the way your breath shallows, the way you're watching him watch you.
He lets out a low breath, something that's barely restrained.
The second heel comes off in the same slow ritual, the straps dragging over your skin, like whispers. And when it’s done, he smooths his hands up the length of your calves again, until they settle on your thighs—fingers spread, thumbs brushing little arcs into the skin there, grounding himself more than you.
He looks up.
His eyes are dark but burning, like his restraint is made of thread; it’s starting to fray.
You swallow, pulse fluttering where his thumbs press into your thighs.
Then, softly, breathlessly, and a little shy despite the heat curling in your stomach, you murmur, “You said you’d give me something cuter once the heels are off.”
He tilts his head, eyes flicking up with amusement. “Right. I did, pretty.”
His gaze doesn’t waver; it dips back down your legs. And his hands slide lower.
“You want it now?” he teases. 
Your breath stutters. “Y-Yeah.”
That smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth—lazy, crooked, all trouble.
“‘Kay.”
He leans in, and you feel it before you see it: the press of his mouth against your ankle, warm and soft, lips lingering, like he’s sealing a promise. Then another kiss, just above it. And another, higher still. He trails them up the inside of your calf, slow and steady, like he’s tasting you, mapping every inch.
You inhale shakily as his hands slide up to cradle the backs of your knees, guiding them apart just slightly, just enough to make room for him between.
Your pulse skips, and almost without thinking, your hands reach out, threading through the dark strands of his hair. It’s soft, warm from the room, and a little messy from how he’s been moving—impossibly touchable. Your fingers curl in deeper, tugging gently, not enough to hurt, just enough to make him look up at you through his lashes.
His eyes flash dark, something smug and heavy simmering beneath the surface.
“You trying to distract me?” he murmurs, voice low, but you can feel it in your stomach.
You blink down at him, flushed, lips parted. “Maybe.”
He smirks like you’ve just challenged him to something he knows he’s going to win.
“Try harder.”
“You're mean.”
“Mm. Worth it?” he murmurs into your skin, breath hot where he pauses at your shin.
You giggle, dizzy. “Uh huh.”
“Good. Means I’m doing it right.” 
He takes his time, pressing a kiss to the delicate skin beside your knee, then the other, alternating sides like he's trying to make you squirm. 
(He’s succeeding). 
You feel his fingers splay wider, curling around your thighs again, thumbs pressing in purposefully. He kisses just above your knee, mouth barely brushing the hem of your dress, and your hips twitch before you can stop them.
His smirk returns, heavier this time, eyes flicking up without lifting his head. “You always this squirmy or is it just me?”
You let out a weak laugh, fingers threading nervously through the hem of your dress. “It’s definitely you.”
“So what happens if I keep going?”
You don’t answer right away. You can’t, really. Your brain’s too fuzzy; your skin’s too hot. He watches you for a moment longer and press one last kiss to the inside of your thigh.
Then, he pulls back, towering over you, hoodie sleeves still shoved up, hair slightly tousled from where you tugged on it.
You pout instinctively. “That’s it?”
He tilts his head, eyes lidded. “For now.”
“For now,” you repeat, muttering. “Cruel.”
He leans down again, but this time his hands frame your face, palms warm against your cheeks as he kisses you—full and close. His thumb brushes the curve of your jaw as his tongue coaxes at your lower lip. You sigh into him, mouth parting instinctively, and he takes the invitation without hesitation, slipping his tongue past your lips.
His lips move against yours like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.
When he finally pulls away, his voice is lower, gentler.
“You’re home. You’re safe. That’s enough for me.”
And that’s enough for you too.
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