#like they didn’t even stop when there was no one else to perform for

[kxsagi]

Hi can I request Bllk boys with a karaoke enthusiast reader? They can go karaoke for 4 or 5 hours straight and know a variety of songs, and they can sing a whole song even if there’s a rap part in it :))

“𝐤𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐫”

a/n: mic snatcher gf is so me

header pic is actually mine from when i went to japan! i love karaoke there sm it's unhealthy 😭😭😭

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, bachira meguru, kaiser michael, shidou ryusei, itoshi sae, karasu tabito, ness alexis

isagi yoichi

he thought karaoke would be a fun, relaxing break. he thought you’d sing a cute love song and shyly nudge him to sing one, too. what he didn’t expect was to be seated for five straight hours, watching you go from adele to eminem to high school musical duets with yourself. 

he tries to keep up and sings sugar by maroon 5, thinking it’ll impress you. it does, but mostly because you harmonize with him out of nowhere and hit the falsetto better than adam levine himself. he literally stops mid-line just to look at you like, “how are you real.” 

at some point he’s like, “do you wanna drink some water?” and you go, “no. i wanna do nicki minaj’s verse in monster.” 

and you do. flawlessly. 

isagi’s face is in full admiration mode, but also minor existential crisis because you just spat bars while staring him down and now he doesn’t know if you wanna kiss him or fight him. 

still claps like a proud husband after every song. always. 

itoshi rin

you dragged him here. literally. he said, “karaoke is loud and pointless.” and you said, “shut up emo boy, it’s bonding time.” 

rin didn’t even get to sit before you were already putting on ultraviolence by lana del rey. and not just singing it. performing it. like you were the ghost of a 1960s hollywood starlet with a tragic past. 

rin sits in the corner, arms crossed, absolutely stone-faced. except his ears are red. 

eventually you hand him the mic and go, “c’mon, sing with me. be the toxic man in this duet.” 

it’s promiscuous by nelly furtado and timbaland. he says no. you keep singing anyway and he caves halfway through, quietly mumbling the lines until he’s suddenly belting it with a vein in his forehead. 

after three hours, he finally mutters, “... you’re really good.” you wink. “i know. now let’s do a kpop dance.” rin dies a little inside. 

nagi seishiro

he thought it was a nap date. like, nap room or something. you said karaoke and he just blinked. “do i have to move?” 

you promised him he could sit the whole time. what you didn’t say was that he’d be emotionally wrecked from watching you sing usher’s confessions part II with so much passion, he started questioning who wronged you. 

nagi only sings when you let him do the lazy, talk-singing verses. like pitbull’s hotel room service. you both call him “mr. worldwide” for the next hour and he doesn’t even fight it. 

at one point he lies down across the seats and watches you do three rap songs in a row. he lazily throws a pillow at you and goes, “you’re scary good. like, villain origin story good.” 

you grin and ask for a duet. you pick kiss me thru the phone. nagi’s too lazy to hold the mic so you hold it for him. 

he falls asleep by hour four and you put sunglasses on him so he looks like he’s still vibing. 

mikage reo

you said “karaoke” and he showed up in a designer outfit like it was a concert. your concert. he brought you a bouquet and called you his pop star gf before you even sang a note. 

first song you perform? flawless by beyoncé. reo is on his feet. reo is clapping. reo is crying a little. 

“that’s my girlfriend!” he shouts in a karaoke room with no one else in it. 

when you let him pick a song, he chooses beauty and a beat and tries to be justin bieber. you destroy him by doing both jb and nicki’s parts. with choreography. 

he’s flailing like, “HELLO??? DID YOU JUST SUMMON NICKI MINAJ???” 

reo insists on matching outfits for karaoke now. like glittery couple shirts and sunglasses. you’re down for it. you look like a power duo from a drama. 

he records you singing and posts it with the caption, “my multitalented queen > your faves.” 

bachira meguru

soulmates. chaos. pure, unfiltered energy. you two turned the karaoke booth into a full-on music festival. 

he picks songs at random, doesn’t even care if he knows the lyrics. you freestyle the rap parts and scream the choruses together while doing jump squats on the seats. 

once you both did a duet of low by flo rida and you hit the apple bottom jeans line so hard he actually slipped on the floor. 

you call yourselves the “karaoke goblins.” 

every song is a competition but also a performance. when you sing lady gaga, he does backup choreo. when he sings the marias, you become his hypewoman. 

there’s a moment where you sing something super emotional and bachira just sits there quietly, then whispers, “yo, that was angelic. i think you healed my inner child.” you bow dramatically and say, “now i’m doing doja cat.” 

“OHMYGOHS BOSS MODE UNLOCKED.” 

kaiser michael

he was smug. too smug. “karaoke? you sure you can keep up with me, babe?” 

fast forward an hour later: kaiser is breathless after attempting usher’s yeah! while you’re on your sixth song with no break, flawlessly switching from kendrick lamar’s verse to a whistle note bridge. 

he starts fake coughing. “i need– i need vocal rest.” 

you go, “no, get up, you’re featuring on dangerous woman with me now.” 

he can’t believe you actually hit the ariana grande high notes. or how you memorized pitbull’s chaotic speech in timber. like you didn’t just sing it, you channeled him. 

kaiser is convinced you were a popstar in a past life. every time you do a rap verse, he turns into your manager, hyping you up from the sidelines. 

“THAT’S MY GIRL. WORLD DOMINATION. GLOBAL CHARTS.” 

by the end of the session, he’s lost his voice and you’re still bouncing, asking, “one more?” 

he wheezes, “who are you, and how do i propose?” 

shidou ryusei

chaos recognized chaos. when you walked into karaoke holding a playlist labeled “bangers only”, he fell in love. 

you did a full nicki minaj medley back-to-back: anaconda, starships, and super bass. 

shidou was standing on the table. shirt half off. screaming. 

he says things like “spit that fire, mama” and gets booed by staff. 

you two turn every song into a war. “who can be louder, crazier, and more dramatic?” the answer is always you, but shidou refuses to accept that. 

he once sang taylor swift’s you belong with me in a death metal voice just to compete as if nirvana didn’t exist. 

you countered with a slowed-down, haunting cover of hotline bling. he’s in awe. he’s in love. 

“marry me.” “this is the fifth time you’ve asked tonight.” “and it won’t be the last.” 

itoshi sae

he hates karaoke. he’s never said it, but the way he looks at the mic like it personally offended him gives it away. you invite him and he just sighs and goes, “do i look like someone who sings katy perry at 10 PM?” 

you reply, “no, but you look like the guy who’ll sit there judging me while i flawlessly execute seven different eras of taylor swift.” 

that’s exactly what happens. you sing dress and he’s sitting in the corner sipping a canned coffee like a bitter ex who just got exposed on live TV. 

except he’s secretly impressed. very impressed. especially when you rap. like, you're going bar for bar on kendrick’s DNA and he’s just blinking like, “since when can she breathe fire?” 

when you try to drag him into a duet, he only agrees if he can be the background guy in something chill. so you do best part by daniel caesar and he deadass sounds angelic. 

he leans over after and murmurs, “that was tolerable. but only because you carried.” 

later, he catches himself humming a song you sang. and then he shoves his hands in his pockets and mutters, “karaoke’s not that bad, i guess.” 

karasu tabito

bro thought it was a joke at first. like you were gonna sing a little, go off-key, giggle about it. 

NO. YOU WALKED IN. WARMED UP YOUR VOCALS. PICKED AGORA HILLS. AND DEMOLISHED IT LIKE YOU WERE BORN IN A STUDIO. 

karasu was frozen. slack-jawed. his soul briefly left his body during the “like fortnite i’mma need your skin” part. 

he’s the type to talk during your performances but only to hype you up. “YO SHE’S COOKING–” “BRO SHE’S GOT BREATH CONTROL.” “I’M SCARED, BUT I’M TURNED ON.” 

he asks you to do a duet with him and you’re like sure :) and he picks dilemma by nelly and kelly rowland. halfway through, he fake cries into the mic. 

“EVEN WHEN I’M WITH MY BOO, all i think about is you 😩” 

you do the dramatic eye-roll and keep singing with a straight face like a pro. 

he can’t keep up and it enrages him. “you’re not even sweating? how are you not sweating???” 

he forces you to take a break just so he can perform something. it ends up being sexyback by justin timberlake with far too much confidence and pelvic movement. 

you tell him to stop and he says, “you started this war, babe. you wanted the full karasu experience.” 

ness alexis

karaoke? oh he lives for it. you barely even get the sentence out before he’s like, “yes. when. what’s our setlist. do we match?” 

the karaoke room is decked out because he booked the fancy one. disco lights. tambourines. a mini fog machine. 

you do the entirety of telephone by lady gaga and beyoncé, and ness is filming it with the reverence of someone witnessing a religious experience. 

“YOU’RE A STAR. I’M TWEETING THIS.” 

he picks songs based on aesthetic. you’re doing mariah carey with soft lighting and moody poses. you’re doing britney spears with hair flips and sunglasses. 

he sings justin bieber and makes it a full fan service show. baby has never been performed with so much falsetto and finger hearts. 

when you do a rap song, he turns into your hype crew. he’s throwing fake money in the air. he’s pretending to pass out. 

“SHE’S RAPPING EMINEM! SHE’S DOING THE FAST PART!!OH MY GOSH OH MY GOSH.” 

ness is also the one who plans “karaoke themes.” like, 2000s hits night. or boy band night. 

once said, “if we don’t duet mr. brightside with full choreography, are we even in love?” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[chrissssssmut]

Can you write a Kazuha smut using this

https://nhentai.net/g/434185/1/

PLIABILITY

Kazuha x Male Reader

You always knew Kazuha was graceful—every fan did. But now, stripped bare beneath her, pinned to the mattress while she straddles your hips in nothing but a silky black bra, you're learning something else entirely.

She’s deadly.

"You're already hard," she hums, running her fingers down your chest, slow and elegant, like tracing choreography. “Didn’t even have to touch you properly yet.”

You groan. “Kazuha…”

Her smirk curves. “What? Embarrassed?”

She leans forward, balancing perfectly on your hips—her thighs squeezing tight around you like she’s mid-performance on stage—and brushes her lips against your ear.

“Do you know how many hours I trained to move like this?” she whispers, breath hot. “How much core control it takes to keep a man begging under me?”

Before you can answer, she lifts one leg—high, graceful, ballerina-perfect—and swings it over your shoulder as she shifts into a side split on your lap, fully seated on your cock.

You gasp.

Her pussy swallows you in one go, tight and warm and already soaked.

“Fuck, Kazuha—!”

“Mmm,” she moans, eyes fluttering as she adjusts. “Deep already? Guess all those stretches paid off.”

Her hips roll forward in a slow, calculated grind—muscles flexing in rhythm, every motion purposeful, trained, devastating. She looks like she’s on stage again, except the performance is just for you.

“Eyes on me,” she says, tilting your chin up. “If you cum too soon, I’m going to tie you up and leave you halfway hard for the rest of the night.”

You nod quickly.

She giggles. “Good boy.”

You never stood a chance.

Kazuha rides you like she’s in full control—each bounce choreographed, fluid, her core holding her steady as she angles her hips to hit your most sensitive spots again and again.

And the way she bends—god—one leg still perched on your shoulder while the other stretches behind her in a full back arch, hair swinging, back muscles rippling.

“Bet you didn’t think your little ballerina crush would ride you in a perfect penché,” she pants, her hands planted on your chest, nails digging in with every slam of her hips. “Feel how deep you are right now? My flexibility’s all for you.”

You’re shaking, hands fisting the sheets.

She smirks. “You’re about to lose it, aren’t you?”

You nod again, desperate.

“Not yet.”

She pulls off—suddenly, cruelly—your cock slick and twitching. She crawls up your body and straddles your face, lowering herself until her soaked pussy hovers just above your mouth.

“Then eat,” she commands. “And don’t stop until I say.”

You moan, tongue already flicking up to meet her. She sits down fully, hips grinding against your face, riding your tongue with the same brutal elegance.

"God, yes... You love this, don't you?" she gasps, rolling her hips in a figure-eight. “Bet you fantasized about licking my thighs backstage. Being under me while I practiced.”

You groan in agreement, licking her deeper. She tastes divine.

And when she cums—shuddering, thighs clenching around your head like a vice—she doesn’t let up.

"Keep going," she breathes, grinding her release into your mouth. "You don’t stop until I say I’m finished."

Eventually, Kazuha lets you breathe again—but not for long.

She flips you over effortlessly, pressing your chest to the mattress. Then she grabs your hips, pulls you back into position, and slides onto you again—this time from behind.

She sinks down, then folds herself over your back in a deep forward bend, her chest flush against your back, arms snaking around you.

“I can bend in ways your last girl could never dream of,” she moans into your ear, riding you slow and deep. “And you’re going to take every inch of it.”

You feel her tighten around you—like a vice—and you’re right at the edge again.

“Can I cum?” you beg, voice ragged. “Please—Kazuha—I can’t—”

She pauses. Lifts her hips slightly.

Then slams down. “Now.”

You cry out, spilling deep inside her as she keeps riding through it, taking it all, milking you dry.

She hums in satisfaction, even as you twitch inside her. “That’s it… such a good little toy.”

She finally collapses onto your chest, sweaty, breathless, still pulsing around you.

“You’re not done though,” she whispers against your ear.

You whimper.

Kazuha only laughs, sitting up again—stretching effortlessly into a high straddle split across your hips.

“I’m still flexible. Let’s see how many more times I can break you in half.”

Your chest is still heaving when Kazuha leans forward and kisses your sweat-slick cheek, her lips soft, breath hot.

"One orgasm and you're already shaking?" she whispers sweetly, even as her hips are still lazily grinding on your half-hard cock. “I thought you said you could keep up with me.”

You try to respond, but all that leaves your mouth is a breathy moan as your oversensitive cock twitches inside her.

Kazuha giggles. "That’s what I thought."

She places her palms on your chest and starts rolling her hips again—slow, teasing, with that dancer’s rhythm. Your nerves are on fire, your brain short-circuiting, and yet she looks unbothered, completely in control of her body… and yours.

“Do you want to know exactly how flexible I am?” she asks, licking her lips as she rises up until just your tip remains inside.

You nod dumbly.

She smirks.

"Then watch me."

Kazuha shifts into reverse cowgirl, still facing away, giving you the perfect view of her toned back and flawless ass. Then, slowly, with unreal grace, she lifts one leg straight up—vertical—until her ankle is pointing toward the ceiling. A perfect standing split, all while your cock is buried inside her.

"Hnnn, fuck—feel how tight I still am even like this?" she moans, rotating her hips in a grinding figure-eight with that leg raised. “Bet your ex could barely touch her toes while riding you.”

You can barely breathe. She's completely vertical, cockwarming you while showing off a ballet pose *most pros can’t hold sober—*and she's moaning like it’s nothing.

"This is what years of pliés and arabesques trained me for,” she whispers filthily, lowering her leg and dropping her ass hard into your lap. “To ruin men like you.”

She starts bouncing, slow at first—controlled, devastating. Every slap of her hips echoes with lewd, wet sounds that fill the room.

“Look at how I move,” she growls, glancing over her shoulder. “Every motion? I learned it in the studio. All those hours stretching, sweating, perfecting lines—just so I could fuck you in a full side split like this.”

She slides forward, spreading her legs fully into a straddle split while staying completely impaled on your cock. The stretch is inhuman, her thighs flat against the sheets, and you’re watching your cock disappear inside her with each elegant grind.

“Fuck—you’re twitching again. Gonna cum already?” she teases, circling her hips faster. “I thought I told you—I’m the one who decides when you're done.”

You whimper.

Your body’s on edge again—painfully hard, overly sensitive—but she’s relentless. She leans forward, ass still pressed flush to your hips, arching her back into a deep bridge, hands planted beside your legs as she bounces harder now.

Her moans grow louder. Higher. Hungrier.

Then she twists her torso slightly—balancing one hand on your thigh while the other reaches behind her—and pulls her own leg behind her neck.

"Bet you didn’t know I could fuck you in a needle pose, huh?” she breathes, lips parted, sweat dripping from her chest. “You’re not even touching me, and I’m still using every muscle in my body to milk your cock.”

You choke on your own groan.

She leans down again and slaps your thigh. "Don’t even think about cumming yet. You want to cum again, you’re gonna earn it."

Kazuha rolls off you suddenly, leaving your cock throbbing in the air. She stands up and gestures toward the mirror across the room.

“Get over there,” she orders. “On your knees.”

You obey, dazed and horny, kneeling in front of the full-length mirror as she approaches from behind.

She drops into another perfect front split right behind you—then reaches around and strokes your cock slowly, deliberately.

“Look at yourself,” she murmurs into your ear. “Look how pathetic you are. Shaking. Leaking. All because your ballerina knows how to bend her body.”

She strokes faster.

“You want to cum? Tell me how good I look when I ride you like a stage prop.”

“You—fuck—you’re so hot, Kazuha—your legs, your hips—your control—I can’t take it—”

She squeezes the base of your cock suddenly, stopping everything.

“Then beg.”

“I’m begging,” you pant. “Please… let me cum. I need it.”

She grins, releasing your shaft and positioning herself behind you. She guides your cock back inside her from behind, sinking in slowly as she slides into a full forward fold, her chest pressed to your back.

“I’ll let you cum, baby,” she whispers, wrapping her arms around your neck. “But only after I grind the soul out of you.”

And she does.

Grinding in slow, deep, sinewy rolls, her split-held hips never breaking rhythm. She bounces on your cock like a dancer marking every count, core locked in control, every thrust deeper than the last.

Her words keep coming—filthy, cruel, perfect.

“Feel that stretch? My thighs open just for you.”

“Most men only dream of a girl riding them in a side tilt—you’re inside one.”

“Cum inside me, baby. Fill up this trained little cunt. I’ll squeeze it out of you with every muscle I’ve built for the stage.”

You lose it.

You explode inside her with a groan so loud it startles you. She moans, clutching you tight, riding every pulse of your orgasm as she cums again too—shaking, gritting her teeth, whispering your name into your neck like a melody.

Afterward, she’s still flexible. Still dangerous. Still in control.

You’re the one who collapses, panting.

Kazuha just giggles, stretching her arms overhead in a flawless back arch as she straddles your chest.

“Encore?”

You don’t even answer. You just nod.

You’re hers until curtain call.

[sxuma]

The space between us -- itoshi rin x itoshi sae x sibling fem!reader

notes: You were their whole world yet they left you behind. What could possibly bring them back to you again? cw: Angst-fluff, healing relationship, wholesome -3.5k words-

You used to believe the three of you were unbreakable.

You, Sae, and Rin. The Itoshi siblings. A perfect trio.

The memories felt like something out of someone else's life now. But once, they were the best part of yours. The late nights spent building pillow forts in the living room, whispered secrets during thunderstorms when Sae let you hide under his blanket and Rin pretended he wasn’t scared too, or heated fights over who got the last rice ball or who got to pick the next show on TV. It always ended in laughter. Always. Sae always gave in first, sighing like an old man. Rin would make the dumbest faces, eyes crossed, tongue sticking out just to make you giggle.

And you? You had been the center of it all.

You weren’t just their little sister. You were their sidekick. Their princess. Their biggest fan. You were the bridge between them, the glue, the one they always tried to impress.

Especially when it came to soccer.

They taught you, once. Back when Sae was still home and Rin still looked at him like he hung the stars. You remember the afternoons in the park, the way Rin would roll the ball toward you with exaggerated slowness, grinning as you fumbled to stop it. Sae was way more serious about it, he’d try to correct your posture, gently guide your foot, explain how to kick “with your laces,” whatever that meant. You could barely keep your balance.

They’d both get frustrated, but never at you. Only at each other.

“She’s not doing that because I told her to,” Rin would mutter.

“Well, she should,” Sae would snap. “Because you’re teaching her wrong.”

“I’m not! I’m just trying to make it fun!”

You’d stand there in the middle, clutching the ball, trying not to cry.

But then Rin would sigh dramatically and flop to the grass arms spread wide as Sae would groan like he couldn’t believe he was stuck with two idiots. And you’d laugh, because they were idiots, but they were your idiots.

After every “training session” Sae would take you to the corner store. He always let you pick out whatever candy you wanted. And then he'd buy two extra, every time, without fail. “in case you drop one” he’d say, handing them to you like a secret between the two of you.

They used to be your entire world.

And for a while, you were theirs too.

But things changed.

It wasn’t sudden. It crept in quietly, like a crack in a glass window you didn’t notice until it shattered. One day, you woke up and realized they were speaking to each other less. Another day, you noticed Rin didn’t cheer during Sae’s matches anymore. Then they stopped coming home together. Then they stopped speaking altogether.

Then it was just you. Alone in the middle of two people who once held your hands like you were everything.

They left home, each in their own way. Sae to Spain. Rin to Blue Lock. They said goodbye with quiet voices and soft smiles, telling you to be good, promising to text. And they did. For a while. But the messages turned from real conversations to short replies. From “How was school?” to “Happy birthday.”

They never forgot your birthday. Every year, without fail, there were gifts. Expensive. Neatly wrapped. Rin sent hoodies and plushies with sarcastic notes. Sae sent shoes, gadgets, perfumes you couldn’t pronounce. But it was never them. Never their voices. Never their arms around you. Never their laughter.

-

Your birthday felt like a hollow performance. You used to cry when you were younger, when the gifts arrived without them. Now you just smiled at your cake and told your parents you were grateful.

They didn’t come home anymore.

They didn’t even call.

And still, every weekend, you’d turn on the TV. You’d see them. The whole world saw them. Sae with his cold, perfect passes and impassive face. Rin with that fierce stare and explosive speed. You watched, feeling proud...and unbearably bitter.

You watched them glare at each other on the field. You watched the distance that used to be inches stretch into miles. You watched two people you loved forget how to love each other.

-

You started keeping track of the last time you heard their voices.

It had been nine months.

The day everything fell apart started like any other. You went to school. You smiled when the teacher called on you. You answered politely. You kept your head down.

But someone had posted a video the night before. A slideshow of photos. One was of you and your brothers when you were kids, maybe eight or nine, beaming in your matching jerseys. Sae’s hand on your head. Rin’s arms around your shoulders. It had once been your favorite picture.

Now it was being picked apart in the comments.

“No wonder Rin and Sae don’t talk. Look at the sister LOL.”

“She must be the disappointment.”

“Did they adopt her??”

The whispers at school were louder than usual. The stares longer. Someone knocked your bag off your desk during class. You didn’t even look up to see who. At lunch, a bottle of juice exploded all over your uniform. You stood there, dripping, blinking back tears. No one helped.

You tried to laugh it off. You tried to stay calm. But it built up. And when one of the girls leaned over and whispered, “Do you think they even remember you?” something inside cracked.

You ran. Out of the gates. Down the street. Past the bakery Sae used to take you to when you got good grades.

You didn’t remember unlocking the front door. You didn’t remember kicking off your shoes. All you remembered was the ache in your chest. The horrible, sharp pressure that wouldn’t go away.

The house was quiet.

Your parents wouldn’t be home until late.

You were too dizzy to think. You didn’t know who else to call.

Your thumb hovered over the group chat. The one that hadn’t been active in months. "Itoshi Bros + Lil Sis."

It was probably muted.

You didn’t care.

You pressed the video call button.

And to your shock, Sae picked up.

His face filled the screen. He looked tired, hair slightly tousled, brows furrowed in concern. “Hello?”

Then Rin picked up too. “What the hell?”

You couldn’t speak.

You just sobbed.

Heavy, ugly sobs that cracked through your throat and left you breathless.

Neither of them spoke right away. You heard Rin whisper your name like he hadn’t in years. Sae’s face went stiff.

“What happened?” Sae asked. His voice was low. Controlled.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

You were curled up on the floor of your room, hugging a pillow, your phone clutched in your hand like a lifeline.

“I’m coming home,” Sae said quietly.

You thought he was lying.

But then Rin said, “I’ll be there first.”

You cried harder.

Sae landed that night.

Rin arrived thirty minutes after.

They didn’t knock. They had their keys.

You heard the door open, and for a terrifying second, you wanted to hide.

You heard footsteps. Running.

Rin came in first.

Then Sae.

You weren’t dressed nicely. Your face was blotchy, your eyes red. But they didn’t seem to care.

Rin dropped to his knees beside you. “What the hell happened?”

You broke again.

It came out in stutters. Between sobs. You told them about the bullying. The video. The messages. The juice. The way you felt like everyone hated you for being related to them.

They listened.

They didn’t interrupt.

Not once.

When you finished, your throat was raw. You expected silence. You expected them to leave again, maybe pat your head and say they’d take care of it.

But Sae surprised you.

He sat beside you and pulled you into his chest.

Rin didn’t even hesitate. He curled against your other side, resting his chin on top of your head like he used to when you were five.

“I hate this,” you whispered.

Sae’s arm tightened.

“I hate that you guys don’t talk anymore,” you said, voice trembling. “I hate that we’re not a family anymore. I hate that I’m the only one who seems to miss it.”

“Don’t say that,” Rin said. His voice was quiet.

“I do! I hate watching you fight on TV. You’re my brothers. You were my best friends. Now I don’t even know who you are anymore. I feel like I’m not even part of this family—”

“You are,” Sae said, cutting you off. “You always were.”

“You could’ve fooled me.”

Silence.

Then, quietly, you added, “I just… I just want to go back. Just once. Can we just… I know it’s dumb, but can we cuddle? Like when we were kids?”

You expected them to laugh.

But neither did.

Sae sighed softly and stood up, helping you to your feet. Rin followed without a word.

They led you to the living room.

You laid on the couch, squished in the middle. Rin curled around your left side, arm over your waist. Sae took your right, hand resting on your shoulder.

It was cramped. It was awkward.

But you hadn’t felt that safe in years.

-

You woke up to the smell of toast and the sound of footsteps.

The couch was empty.

You blinked, sat up, and looked around.

A note was on the table.

“Be back by lunch. Business to handle.”

You didn’t know what that meant until your phone exploded with messages.

“DID YOUR BROTHERS JUST SHOW UP TO SCHOOL???”

“BRO RIN AND SAE ITOSHI CAME TO OUR CLASS.”

“Did they beat him up? They LOOKED LIKE THEY WERE GONNA.”

You stared at the texts.

Then another one came in. From Sae.

“Handled it. Also switched your school. Private tutoring starts next week. We’ll be home for a while.”

Then Rin sent a photo. A selfie of the three of you from the night before. You were squished and half-asleep in the middle, cheeks puffed from crying.

Rin: “Next time, call sooner, dummy.”

And attached, just beneath it, another photo.

A picture of a soccer ball.

Then a second photo: a pile of candy on the kitchen table.

Sae: “Training starts again today. We’ll go slow this time.”

You cried again.

But this time, it was the good kind.

[omnitrash]

How do you think some of the self aware characters would react knowing the player had a very obvious favourite?

Like their favourite is Nero and they absolutely spoil him in red orbs compared to other characters. Or their favourite is a non-playable character like Nico and they purposefully stay for 10 minutes on the shop screen just to see her lol

Uhhhh, okay, I think I’ll do these in mini scenarios. Hope that’s ok, so, fuck it we ball, HERE WE GO-

Self Aware Dmc!! - Playing Favorites!!

Dante Sparda- if he was your favorite, he’d be excited. But also extremely cocky about it. Of course he’s your favorite!! He’s been the main character for the first three games and the one you use the most, no duh you choose him! He’d waste no time in bragging to anyone he could force to listen. And the others could try to shut him up but he knew they were jealous! Especially his brother and his nephew. I mean sure, he ended up fighting with them more because he kept teasing them over your bias towards him but it’s not his fault you had good taste! But if he wasn’t, he’d get pouty and whiny about it. He’d make his combos a little easier for you if you weren’t good at getting them yet and even go as far as to mess with the code just to get in your favorite’s way! Not too much though, just a bit. He wouldn’t want to ruin his little sweetheart’s gameplay, after all

“I’m your favorite…? Wha- uh I mean of course I am!! Never doubted it for a second, sweetheart!!”

“Huh?! Why them?? I’m so much better than them sweetheart!! That’s not fair!!..don’t worry little sweetheart, I’ll change your mind soon enough”

Vergil Sparda- he’d be surprised, to say the least. He never focused on such childish preferences like picking favorites but if his dearest angel saw him as such, he’d have no objection. Unlike his little brother, he wouldn’t outright brag like he knows he would but he’d definitely show it in more subtle ways…like actually reminding him through whispers and then later getting into a fight with him. Something that Nero and others have had to stop several times. Otherwise if it’s towards the others, he doesn’t bother to actually show off…not verbally at least. If anyone payed attention, they’d notice his demeanor seemed more confident. Acting more haughty than usual. If he wasn’t the favorite however, he’d like to think he’s indifferent towards it. Thinking he has better things to do than be jealous of not being your favorite…but then he realizes he’s just as attention hungry as everyone else and tries to make you pick him by performing much more whenever you choose to play as him.

“Your favorite?…I see. I have no need for such childish titles but if my dearest angel sees me as such, I won’t object to it.”

“…huh…and to think I was above such jealousy..no matter. It’s only a matter of time until I prove I’m more worthy of your bias, my dear”

Nero Sparda and Kyrie- the couple would be rather flustered and surprised that you’d pick both as your favorite and not separated. Didn’t you obsess over Nero the most?? Well, not like they minded this, they don’t think they had the heart to be jealous over the other and something tells them you’d feel bad if you choose to favor only one of them too! Their little angel was so sweet. Ahem- anyway. They’re glad to know you like them that much, often gushing about it -mostly Kyrie- between the two of them. Nero, though, would try and brag about it to the rest of the cast, with Kyrie trying to stop it as to not cause any trouble. If they weren’t your favorites though, they’d support one another in coming up with ideas to change that! Nero would do his best to outperform the others in combat (like father like son, after all), Kyrie would do her utmost to do her best performance while singing (she remembers you saying you liked her voice after all). However sometimes, they’d sneak in some extra cutscenes to give you more time with them. Smiling at the other when you’d give them attention and gush over them. It made their efforts worth it

“They…like the two of us? As their favorites??” “Yeah!! Isn’t that great, Nero?” “I-I guess so, Kyrie…” “They’re so cute! I’m sure they didn’t choose only one of us because they’d feel bad” “Yeah. I can see that…poor snowdrop”

“Shit, we’re not their favorites?” “Aww…oh! Maybe I can sing for them more! They said they liked it, didn’t they?” “Yeah…and maybe I can amp it up with the combos” “Good idea!! And we can give them more cutscenes of us!!” “Atta girl Kyrie. Let’s get to work” “Right, Nero!”

Trish- she’s be amused if she was you’re favorite. By all means, she doesn’t hate it, but she finds it funny how -how was it, ah right- “down bad” you were for her. Even though you knew she was just a demon based on Eva’s appearance, you didn’t treat her as such and never compared her to the human woman. You fell for her and her only…she loved it. She saw no need to brag about your bias towards her, but if any of the cast mentioned it she saw no issue in reminding them of your favoritism. Like Vergil, she’d show it in more subtle ways like acting more confident than usual. If she wasn’t though, she’d try to include herself in the game more often. Giving her little spark more content of her since they always seemed to gush over her the little times she was on screen.

“How sweet…do you really like me that much, little spark? I’m honored~ I really do appreciate it…thank you, my dear spark. For seeing me as me..”

“Hm…it seems like I need to work harder to have your eyes on me for a little longer, little spark. No matter…I’ll make sure you’re shocked by my skills”

Lady- she’d be startled by it, if she was your favorite. Like Trish, she doesn’t have much content, mostly interacting with her little doll through brief cutscenes or if you played as her in Dmc4 during her time in Fortuna. But seeing you gush over her and spoil her in red orbs is…nice. She supposed it wasn’t bad. She didn’t see the point in bragging about it, but she’d seem more cocky than usual. The way she carried herself seemed more elevated, as if your bias towards affected her entire demeanor (though the same could be said about everyone else). If she wasn’t your favorite, however, she’d be agitated. She wants her little doll’s attention, damn it!! And she’s not above playing dirty to get it. Whether that means she has to manipulate the code to mess with others or amp up her ammo and make it easier to play with her, she’ll do it. Anything to get her doll’s gaze on her and her only

“I’m your favorite…? Tch, whatever. Guess it ain’t that bad, dolly. I could get used to it..”

“HUH?! What d’you mean I’m not their favorite?!…fine! Guess I gotta take things into my own hands then. I’ll have your eyes on me soon enough, little doll”

Nicoletta Goldstein- she’s off the fucking walls. Her little Tinker Bell picked her as their favorite?! Oh that’s rich! She’s gonna be bragging it in Nero’s face any time she can. A lil’ ol’ mechanic like her? Who ain’t even playable and she’s the bias? She’s having the time of her life. She’s flattered that she was picked, appreciating the ways you’d stick around the Home Screen to see her for as long as you could before staring the next mission or a new run of the game. If she wasn’t a favorite though, she’d shrug it off. She’s not that typa’ girl who would get stuck on that kinda thing (unlike the rest of cast). She’d just go on about her work like usual and if she happened to impress you, then that’s good enough for her!…wouldn’t stop her from messing with Nero’s equipment though. Just a little bit, that’s all

“Well I’ll be! I’m the little Tinker Bell’s favorite! Ain’t they the sweetest thing?…fine fine, go on to your next mission boys. I won’t hold ya’ back any longer. Heh”

“Hm…so the favorite’s someone else, huh? Whatever, their choice not mine…won’t stop me from messing with Nero’s gear though…heheheh…”

[dozybeez]

Practice Makes Imperfect (Pt. Two)

A perfectionist ballerina struggles to find her rhythm-not just in her mandatory hip hop class, but in life itself. When she turns to Hoshi, a laid back hip hop major, he helps her see there is more to life than just structure and control.

→ part one ... → part three coming soon

pairing: college au! kwon soonyoung x ballerina f!reader

word count: 5.7k

content warnings: slowish burn with eventual smut, internalized perfectionism, performance anxiety, academic and artistic burnout, emotional repression, subtle corruption kink, drugs and alcohol. MDNI

authors note: in no way do I think I'm a good writer. I wrote this a while ago just for self indulgence and decided to post it for fun, so please understand.

songs for this chapter:

- Star Shopping by Lil Peep

The morning after your shame spiral feels unreal, like maybe you dreamed it.

But you didn’t. Your body remembers.

There’s a soreness in your calves from pushing too hard in your late night rehearsal. A bruise forming low on your shin where you clipped the barre in frustration. Your mind might try to rewrite it as fiction, but your muscles know better. They ache with the truth.

You move on autopilot—again. Coffee, schedule, notes, quiz. You go through the motions like a well-oiled machine, but something’s… off.

Because now there’s a new thought crouched in the corner of your brain. Something raw and humming like feedback in a speaker.

Him.

The boy from the studio. Blonde dyed hair, sweat-drenched tank top, chain catching light. The way he moved—messy, fluid, arrogant as hell. The way his eyes locked onto yours when he caught you watching. That split-second before you bolted.

You haven’t stopped thinking about it. Which is… annoying. Inconvenient. Unacceptable, actually.

You don’t even know his name.

And yet, when you enter the dressing room before class that morning, you’re suddenly hyper-aware of every sound around you. Like your ears are tuned for static. Like some part of you is listening for him even when you’re trying not to.

“Did you see Hoshi’s routine in class yesterday?”

The name catches you mid-sip of your protein shake.

You freeze.

You recognize a few of the girls clustered near the vending machines—one with red hair always seen leaving jazz class, another who shares your math lecture but never bothers with notes. They’re mid-conversation, low and fast.

“I swear to god, he doesn’t even try. It’s disgusting.”

“I know,” one of them groans. “He’s like… terrifyingly good. It’s like watching gravity bend.”

You crouch to adjust your shoelaces, pretending it’s intentional. Your hands are trembling.

Someone laughs. “I heard he doesn’t even choreograph half the time. Just freestyles. Like… pure muscle memory and vibes.”

“God, I’d die for that kind of flow. He just gets music.”

“And don’t even get me started on the face.”

More laughter. A dreamy sigh. “He’s like the final boss of the department. You don’t even challenge him—you just try not to look like an idiot next to him.”

Your throat tightens. The laces slip from your fingers. You already feel like an idiot next to him — especially after being caught creeping on him the night before.

You feel your throat tighten, air catching awkwardly between swallows. Their words sink into you like ink bleeding through paper. Not just the compliments—those sting, yes—but the tone. The awe. The weight behind his name.

Hoshi.

You hadn’t known what to call him. Now you do.

And apparently, everyone else does too.

You knew he was good. One look at him dancing last night and that was obvious. But this? This was something else. He’s not just talented—he’s legend-tier. The kind of person people whisper about. The kind of person you definitely don’t want catching you slack-jawed outside a studio door like some repressed Victorian ghost girl.

You tie your laces too tight and wince.

The bell chimes. Class in ten minutes. You yank your jacket on, zip it up to your chin like armor, and march out without saying a word.

Your heart’s beating a little too fast. You tell yourself it’s just caffeine.

But deep down, you know better.

⸻

The studio is hot.

Sweat-slicked air, pulsing bass, the bite of harsh fluorescent lights overhead—everything feels too loud. Too close. You’re in uniform: charcoal gray leggings, a slate-blue wrap top cinched perfectly at the waist, and your warm-up jacket hugging your arms like it was made to hold you together. Soft-looking, but structured. Nothing about it is accidental.

You haven’t taken the jacket off all day.

You need the weight.

It feels like the only thing keeping you from coming undone.

Your bones feel too sharp without it.

The others around you are rolling their shoulders, cracking jokes, warming up with that easy looseness you haven’t felt in your body once this week. You stretch silently against the wall, jaw locked, heart already sprinting even before the music starts.

You’ve practiced this routine. Mapped every count. Studied the instructor’s foot placement, her weight shifts, the shape of her hands as they cut through air.

You know what it’s supposed to look like.

But every time you try, it’s like your body can’t remember how to speak the language.

“From the top!” your professor calls, already clapping the beat into existence.

The music drops heavy. Everyone moves as one—but you can feel yourself lagging before you even start.

You hit the counts, technically. Your arms are sharp, your chest pops when it’s supposed to. You pivot cleanly on beat, land with control. But it’s wrong.

It’s all wrong.

Where the others melt into the rhythm, you punch through it.

Where they ripple, you snap.

Where they glide, you grind your joints into the floor like you’re trying to force the groove into submission.

You’re not off-time. You’re just… tight. Artificial. Like a machine doing an impression of something human.

And it shows.

You see it in the mirror—the way your movements pull focus for the wrong reasons. You don’t look cool. You don’t look confident. You look terrified.

The music stops.

Silence stretches, and you feel the moment gather around you like a storm.

Your professor steps forward, hands on her hips. Her mouth is tight. Not cruel, exactly. Just tired. Like she’s done trying to find a gentler way to say this.

“Okay,” she says. “Let’s cut the music.”

You freeze. Everyone else does too.

She looks at the group, but her eyes settle on you.

“You’re not getting it.”

Your throat tightens.

“You’ve had a week. And I know you’re trying. But at a certain point, effort doesn’t matter if it doesn’t translate.”

You blink hard. Swallow it.

She keeps going.

“You’re holding tension in every limb. You’re not listening to the rhythm—you’re fighting it. There’s no soul in your movement. It’s just… choreography.”

Something behind your ribs twists.

“You’re technically clean, sure. But this isn’t ballet. This style needs release. Personality. Groove. And right now? You look like you're bracing for impact the entire time.”

Someone shifts their weight behind you. The sound makes you flinch.

The professor sighs. “Honestly? I don’t think hip-hop is for you.”

The words split the floor beneath you.

“I don’t say that lightly,” she adds. “Some people just don’t have the body language for it. That doesn’t mean you’re not talented—it just means you need to play to your strengths.”

Your spine straightens like it might hold back the heat crawling up your throat. You nod once, sharp and tiny.

She claps her hands again. “Alright, everyone else, back to position.”

You step out of the line.

No one says anything, but you can feel their eyes grazing over you like stray knives.

You walk to the back wall, crouch down, pretend to retie your shoe.

You don’t trust your face.

You don’t trust what’s rising inside you.

Because the thing is—you’ve been corrected before. Critiqued. Ballet is criticism. It’s pain. It’s sharpening your body into something useful.

But this feels different.

This feels like rejection.

You’ve never been told you didn’t belong in a style. Never been told outright to give up. And not in front of a full room.

You stare at the scuffed rubber on your sneaker. Try to blink away the sting building behind your eyes.

You should walk out. Shake it off. Prove her wrong next week.

But you can’t stop replaying it.

You’re not getting it. You look like you’re bracing for impact. I don’t think hip-hop is for you.

A part of you wants to be angry. To dig in your heels and overtrain until your knees give out.

But another part—smaller, quieter—is tired.

Tired of forcing it. Tired of failing in private and pretending it’s growth. Tired of dancing like you’re scared of being seen.

And that’s when it happens.

A flicker behind your eyelids. A memory you didn’t invite.

A boy alone in a studio.

Sweat on his jaw. Shirt clinging to his back. Limbs loose, music pouring through him like he trusted it. Like his body wasn’t a cage—it was a current.

You hadn’t realized, last night, what exactly you were watching.

But now?

Now you think maybe it was freedom.

The kind you’ve never felt. Not in your choreography. Not in your skin.

You don’t want to ask for help. You never do.

But the words from your professor are still ringing in your ears like bruises.

And suddenly, swallowing your pride feels easier than drowning in it.

⸻

You don’t know what you’re doing here.

The hallway hums with the kind of midnight stillness that makes every fluorescent light buzz louder than it should. Your shadow follows you in pieces—fractured by the low glow bleeding from under Studio C’s door.

You’re wearing what you always wear when you need to feel in control.

High-waisted black leggings, freshly laundered. A fitted ribbed tank top. Your sleek zip-up jacket, zipped halfway and snug across your ribs, sleeves pushed to your elbows with deliberate symmetry. There’s a tiny monogram stitched near the collar—just your initials, delicate and silver, like even your clothes are expected to perform.

Your ballet teacher once said sweatpants were for people who had already given up. That if you looked relaxed, you were relaxed. That discipline wasn’t just about how you danced—it was how you entered a room. How you carried your body. How you never looked uncertain. Never looked soft.

You believed her. You still do. Which is why being here—like this—feels like a betrayal.

You’re standing outside the one place you swore you wouldn’t come back to. Studio C.

You stare at the door. Music pulses faintly behind it—muffled bass, a steady rhythm. It’s looser than last time. Less aggressive. Still, it makes something tighten behind your ribs.

You open the door.

The hinges creak.

He’s already dancing.

Back turned. Shirt darkened with sweat. Blonde hair a mess. His shoulders are moving in slow, syrupy pops that melt into a glide, like his body is chewing on the beat before swallowing it whole. You almost lose your nerve.

Then he turns.

He doesn’t stop.

Just meets your gaze like he expected you.

A smirk tugs at his mouth as he hits one last move, lets the music carry his body into a final spin, and hits pause with a smooth flick of his fingers.

Silence falls.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he says, breathless but amused.

You ignore the comment. “Can I talk to you?”

He tilts his head, studying you like he’s trying to figure out what changed.

You don’t wait. “I need help.”

He blinks. A pause.

“With…?”

You exhale. “Hip-hop.”

The smirk sharpens. “You?”

You cross your arms. “Yes.”

He wipes his forehead with the hem of his shirt, revealing a flash of toned stomach, then lets it fall back into place.

“Didn’t peg you for the type to ask.”

“I’m not,” you admit, jaw tight. “But I need to get better. And I don’t have time to figure it out on my own.”

His eyes narrow slightly, considering.

You press on. “I’ll pay you.”

That gets a reaction.

He scoffs, laughing once—short and disbelieving. “You’re offering me money?”

“Yes.”

“You serious?”

You shift your weight. “I don’t expect you to do it for free.”

He walks toward you slowly, water bottle in hand, expression unreadable.

“Let me get this straight,” he says. “You snuck in here last night, watched me like I was an exhibit, ran off like your hair was on fire—then show up again tonight, ask for help, and throw cash at me like it’s a tutoring session?”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I’m not trying to insult you.”

“Too late.”

You square your shoulders. “I just—don’t usually ask people for things. And I wasn’t sure if you’d say yes.”

He watches you for a long moment. Something in his face softens—not enough to be obvious. Just enough to feel it.

“You’re used to earning things,” he says quietly. “Not being given them.”

You don’t answer.

He sets the water bottle down. “Keep your money.”

“But—”

“I don’t want it.”

“Why not?”

He shrugs. “Because it’s way more fun messing with you for free.”

Your eyes narrow. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Wildly.”

Another beat passes between you—tense, sharp.

Then his tone shifts.

“You really want help?”

“Yes.”

“Then lose the attitude.”

Your arms tighten across your chest. “This is my normal tone.”

“Yikes,” he mutters.

You roll your eyes.

He grins, and somehow it makes the space feel smaller.

“Alright,” he says, stepping back. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

You blink in surprise. “Wait—what? Right now? No. We have to schedule this.”

He shrugs, as if it’s no big deal. “Schedules are boring.”

“I need a plan,” you insist firmly.

He smirks. “Fine. When?”

You glance at your watch, already calculating. “Seven tomorrow night.”

He nods without hesitation. “Seven it is.”

You take a deep breath and turn toward the door.

You try not to flinch when it clicks shut behind you.

⸻

You arrive at the studio twenty minutes early, nerves tightening every muscle. The polished floor gleams under the harsh fluorescent lights, reflecting your precise posture. You’re here early because that’s what you do—you prepare, you control, you own every second before anything even starts.

You pace softly near the door, hands clasped tightly in front of you. Your ballet jacket, monogrammed with your initials, feels heavier than usual, like armor against the unknown.

Minutes tick by. You check your watch again, breath shallow, heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and something like dread.

Then, the door creaks open.

He strolls in—ten minutes late—with a lazy grin and an easy confidence. His hair is messier than before, strands falling over his forehead like he just rolled out of bed. He’s wearing a loose black graphic tee and baggy jeans, sneakers slapping softly against the floor. No sense of urgency, no hint of apology.

“Sorry, I’m fashionably late,” he says, flashing you a crooked smile that’s equal parts cocky and disarming.

You narrow your eyes but say nothing.

He drops his bag carelessly by the wall and stretches, cracking his neck as if the day’s been too easy so far.

You clear your throat. “We agreed on seven.”

He shrugs, that trademark smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You get here early, I show up late. It’s the perfect balance.”

You bite back a retort and instead set your jaw, stepping forward. “Let’s get started.”

He laughs, pulls out his phone, and taps play. The bass rolls through the room, deep and steady, vibrating in your chest.

He moves first, fluid and unforced, every motion dripping with effortless cool. You try to mirror him, but your body is stiff, bound by years of discipline and control. Your arms don’t flow; your feet hit the floor like you’re following a script you can’t rewrite.

He glances your way, amusement flickering in his eyes. “You look like you’re trying to dance your way out of a straightjacket.”

You flush, cheeks heating, but refuse to break. “I’m just warming up.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Alright, Tightwire,” he says, the nickname catching you off guard, “let’s see if you can loosen up.”

“Tightwire?” You blink at him, incredulous. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He grins, eyes twinkling with mischief. “It means you’re wound tight—like you’re balancing on a wire—but I’m kinda curious to see if you’ll fall or fly.”

You glare, but a reluctant smile tugs at your lips despite yourself.

He shrugs. “Hey, gotta call it like I see it…”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Just trying to keep things interesting.”

The music shifts, a little faster now, and you try again, letting the beat pulse through your limbs. Your movements aren’t perfect, but they’re softer, less mechanical. He watches with that half-grin, like he’s betting on you to surprise him.

“You’re getting there,” he says after a moment. “But don’t think too much. Dance isn’t about thinking. It’s about feeling.”

You nod, biting your lip, trying to absorb the advice even if it goes against everything you’ve been taught.

He steps closer, voice dropping just enough to make you lean in without realizing it. “Come on, tightwire. Show me you can let go.”

And maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to believe you can.

The bass rolls steady through the studio as he steps back, watching you with that laid-back, half-amused expression like this whole thing is just a game to him. You feel the weight of his gaze—not heavy, but definitely there, sizing you up like he’s betting you’ll crack under pressure.

You press your lips together, squaring your shoulders. Precision is your armor, but in this moment, it feels more like a cage.

“Alright, so what now?” you ask, voice sharper than you intend.

He shrugs, leaning against the wall with that easy confidence that drives you nuts. “Now, you stop thinking so much. Feel the music. Let it move you instead of fighting it.”

You glance at him, disbelief flickering across your face. 

A slow grin curls at the corner of his mouth, eyes flickering with that mix of teasing and challenge he wears like a second skin. He leans back against the wall, arms crossed, studying you like you’re a puzzle he’s just starting to solve.

“You’re a ballerina, right?” His voice is low, almost casual, but there’s an edge to it—as if he’s daring you to prove him wrong. “I’m guessing, based on the way you move—tight, deliberate. Ballet’s all about control. Precision in every muscle, every breath, everything locked down like a well-rehearsed script.”

He pushes off the wall, stepping closer, his gaze sharp but not unkind. “Hip hop? It’s a whole different game. It’s about letting go. Feeling the music pulse through you, even if it’s just a crack open—enough to catch the rhythm before it slips away.”

You bite your lip, trying to wrap your mind around what letting go even looks like. The idea feels like a foreign language to your body, which has been trained to hold tight, stay perfect, never falter.

“Look, I don’t expect you to suddenly turn into a free spirit. But maybe just loosen the grip a little? Stop trying to tame the music and ride it instead.”

His casual tone contrasts with the intensity of his gaze, and for a moment, you catch a flicker of something real beneath the playfulness. It’s a challenge, but not a cruel one. More like a dare.

You cross your arms, meeting his eyes steadily. “And if I fall?”

He shrugs again, grinning. “Then I’ll be there to catch you.”

That small, unexpected softness undercuts the smirk, and your chest tightens. You want to push it aside, remind yourself this is just practice, just dance, nothing more.

You nod slowly, taking a breath. “Fine.”

He grins wider. “That’s what I like to hear. Now move.”

He steps back, giving you space, but his eyes never leave you. The music shifts—low bass curling around the edges of the room like smoke, thick and slow. He doesn’t speak again. Doesn’t offer instruction. Just waits, arms loose at his sides, like he’s already read the ending and isn’t in a rush to spoil it.

You plant your feet, pulse ticking in your throat like a second metronome. You know how to move. You’ve moved your whole life. But this? This feels like standing on a ledge with no choreographer telling you when to jump.

Still, you try.

You raise your arms—already wrong. Too rigid, too formal. You catch yourself and lower them again, forcing a breath through your nose. The beat rolls on. You take a step, then another, mirroring what you’ve seen in class. What you’ve seen him do.

It doesn’t work.

You’re too upright. Too precise. Each movement feels like it’s passed through six filters of correction before it even reaches your limbs. You know you’re getting it wrong—can feel it in the resistance of your own body.

You glance up. He’s watching, expression unreadable, one brow arched just slightly, but not mocking. Just… waiting.

“I look stupid,” you mutter.

“No,” he says, arms crossed again, voice lighter now. “You look scared.”

You bristle, heat flaring in your cheeks. “I’m not scared.”

He tilts his head. “Then what are you holding onto so hard you can’t move?”

The question lands harder than you expect. Because you don’t have an answer. Or maybe you have too many.

You look down at your feet. “I don’t know how to be bad at something,” you say quietly.

There’s a beat of silence, and when you lift your gaze, something in his face has shifted—like he sees it now. The pressure. The fear. The weight of always being the best, or at least looking like it.

He steps closer, close enough that the air between you feels warmer, like static before a storm. “That’s the thing, ballerina,” he murmurs. “You’re not supposed to be good yet. You’re supposed to fuck up.”

You blink. “Is that how you learned?”

He laughs under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Are you kidding? I looked like a wind-up toy on a sugar high my first time dancing. Arms everywhere. Legs doing God knows what. It was tragic.”

A startled laugh escapes you before you can stop it. He grins, triumphant.

“There it is,” he says. “You laugh like someone who doesn’t let themselves do it often.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s less bite in it now.

“Okay, again. But this time? Don’t think. Just feel.”

You square up, shifting your weight. Let the bass ripple up from the floor into your spine. Your body still resists—but less than before. You move again. It’s not perfect. Not even close. But for a few seconds, it’s not about perfection.

He watches you closely, not correcting, not stopping you. Just… watching.

And somehow, that’s what makes your hands loosen. Just a little.

⸻

You don’t want to stop.

Even when your muscles ache. Even when the sweat is dripping down your spine and your chest rises in sharp, controlled breaths like you’re trying not to let on that you’re gasping. You’ve gone through the combo five times now, and not once has it felt right. Not once have you felt like you deserved to be here.

“I’m good,” you say quickly as he pauses the music. Too quickly. “We can keep going.”

But Hoshi tosses you a look over his shoulder like he’s heard this before. Like he’s not buying it.

“Nah,” he says, already flopping down onto the studio floor like gravity pulled him there. “You’re gonna burn yourself out if you keep chasing the ghost of whatever ‘perfect’ means in your head.”

You hesitate, hovering awkwardly near the center of the floor.

“I’m fine,” you insist, but your voice lacks conviction now.

He props himself up on his elbows, sweat-dampened hair curling at his temples. “You’ve got this edge like you think the world’s gonna end if you take five minutes.”

You bristle. “Some of us don’t have time to waste.”

His eyes narrow slightly—not offended, more curious. “That why you’re always wound so tight? Afraid of losing a second?”

You don’t answer, but you do lower yourself down, slow and stiff, like surrendering is a foreign language. Your limbs ache in protest, and the cold bite of the studio floor against your back makes you shiver.

For a moment, there’s just breathing. The hum of fluorescent lights. The ghost of the bass still buzzing under your skin.

Then, casually, he says, “You know, I just realized—I don’t even know your name. Been calling you Tightwire in my head this whole time.”

You turn your head to look at him. He’s watching you, one arm folded behind his head, that same smirk playing on his lips before you answer with your name.

He nods once, like he’s storing it away somewhere private. “Nice. I’m Hoshi, by the way.”

“I know,” you say, a little too fast.

His brow arches. “Oh?”

You glance away, trying not to let your ears burn. “Some people in the dressing room were talking about you. Said you’re insanely good. A little cocky.”

He laughs—full-bodied and unbothered. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You don’t say anything, but your lips twitch like you’re fighting a smile.

He stretches his arms above his head with a groan. “You always this intense?”

You lie back again, letting your gaze fall to the ceiling. “Only when I’m awake.”

He whistles low under his breath. “Damn. What’s it like in that brain of yours?”

You don’t answer. You don’t really know how to. But something about the quiet between you shifts—thickens, softens. Not quite tension. Not quite comfort. Just... awareness.

He breaks it with a chuckle. “Better tighten that bun, Tightwire. We’ve got a long way to go before you stop looking like a ballerina trapped in the wrong movie.”

You sit up slowly, chest still rising fast. “I want to get it right.”

His voice is softer this time. “You will.”

And for the first time tonight, you almost believe him.

Almost.

But belief is a luxury you don’t let yourself touch yet.

You stay quiet, letting the echo of the music and the pounding of your pulse fill the space instead. He doesn’t press. Just leans back on his hands, eyes skating lazily over the ceiling like he’s already half-tuned out.

You rise slowly, every muscle sore, every line of your body aching with the unfamiliarity of it all. The floor feels harder than usual beneath your feet. Or maybe you’re just feeling how far you have to go.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks, casual, like it doesn’t matter either way.

You pause. “I need an exact time.”

That makes him glance up. He smirks. “7 sharp, then.”

You nod, already halfway to the door, spine straight, jaw locked.

His voice follows just before it closes behind you. “Better stretch tonight, Tightwire. Tomorrow’s worse.”

You don’t answer.

But your fists curl tighter around your jacket sleeve, and your steps are clipped all the way back to your dorm.

This isn’t working yet.

But you’ll make it.

Because you don’t know how not to.

⸻

The studio is cooler than last time, lights dimmed low to soften the harshness of the mirrors. Outside, twilight is bleeding into the campus sky—pale pinks and grays washing over the windows like a lullaby the room refuses to listen to. Here, the bass thumps quietly through the speaker in the corner. Not loud. Just enough to vibrate under your skin.

You showed up early again. Of course you did.

This time, Hoshi wasn’t ten minutes late.

Just five.

He strolled in with a Gatorade in hand and his hoodie half-zipped, sleeves pushed up to his elbows like he might start dancing or start a fight—either seemed equally possible. His sweatpants hung low on his hips, worn from use but somehow still stylish, and the tank he wore underneath clung to him in a way that was definitely unfair. His hair was tousled again—purposefully careless, like the rest of him.

He took one look at you pacing, gave a low whistle, and said, “Tightwire’s back.”

You didn’t rise to it. Just uncapped your water bottle and muttered, “We said seven.”

He held up his Gatorade in a mock toast. “And here I am. Growth.”

Now, fifteen minutes in, he hasn’t said much else.

And it’s driving you insane.

He’s been circling the room, hood down now, hands in his pockets, as if this were a museum and you were the exhibit. Every so often he hums or nods with the music, eyes following your movements—noting something. Calculating. You hate how much you want to know what he’s thinking.

You’ve been moving since you got there. Sticking to the choreography he gave you yesterday, step by step, beat by beat. You’ve practiced it in your dorm room, in your head, in your dreams. You thought today would feel better.

It doesn’t.

You’re already sweating.

Not from exertion—but from frustration. Every move sticks. Every beat slips through your fingers like water.

You push through another pass of the routine, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the mirror. You’re on beat. Technically. Your footwork is clean. You hit your marks.

So why does it still feel wrong?

You stop mid-step, breath ragged, palms curling into fists at your sides.

Behind you, Hoshi whistles low under his breath. “That looked painful.”

Your glare shoots straight through the mirror at his reflection. “It wasn’t painful.”

He strolls closer, tapping the volume down on the speaker. “It was like watching someone file their taxes in dance form.”

Your jaw tightens. “I’m doing the steps.”

“Exactly.” He drops into a lazy crouch, arms resting on his knees. “You’re doing them. Not feeling them.”

You exhale sharply and turn to face him. “Not everyone can roll out of bed and move like their bones are made of rubber bands.”

He smirks. “Flattering. But rubber bands don’t have this much charm.”

You don’t laugh. You’re too keyed up. “I just want to get this right.”

“Why?” he asks simply. “Why does it have to be right instead of real?”

You falter.

“I mean, when did you decide hip hop had one right answer? You’re not solving an equation.”

“No, I’m trying not to embarrass myself,” you snap.

He stands again, stretching his arms overhead. “You’re trying to ace it. That’s the problem.”

You fold your arms. “So you’re saying don’t try?”

“I’m saying…” He studies you a beat too long. “You’re dancing like you don’t trust yourself. I wanna see what you do trust.”

You blink. “What?”

He nods toward the center of the room. “Ballet. Show me.”

Your brows knit. “Why would you want to see that?”

“Because,” he says, voice low but sure, “I’ve only seen you in defense mode. I wanna see what you look like when you’re home.”

Your spine straightens instinctively. “I can’t just… do it.”

He raises a brow. “Why not?”

“I need my shoes.” Your voice comes out sharper than you mean. “And I need to warm up. And I haven’t done my back stretches yet. I have rituals y’know… I don’t—”

You stop yourself, but it’s too late. The panic already cracked through.

His head tilts, eyes catching yours. “Hey,” he says, tone gentler now. “Then do that. Do all of it. I’m not going anywhere.”

You swallow hard.

“I didn’t mean—” you start, but he cuts in, not unkind.

“Don’t act like time’s your enemy,” he says. “You’ve got it. Use it. However you need.”

That silences you more than anything else.

Because he’s not wrong.

Time is something you’ve always tried to outrun. To out-schedule. To dominate before it could dominate you. You don’t know how to exist in a moment unless it’s mapped, controlled, checked off.

But right now? There’s no clock dictating your start. Just Hoshi, leaning against the mirror, giving you space.

So you nod slowly. “Okay. I just… give me a second.”

“Take ten,” he says with a shrug. “I’ll be here.”

You move to your bag, fingers finding the soft, worn fabric of your ballet shoes. The satin slips through your hands like breath. You sit down and begin your quiet ritual—each wrap of the ribbons like a thread sewing you back together. He watches, but doesn’t speak, doesn’t rush.

You roll your ankles out, then rise, poised and still.

And finally—when it’s just you and the studio and the silence that lets you breathe—

You dance.

No music. Just the memory of it in your bones. The stretch and pull, the rise and fall. Every movement cut with precision, but this time, there’s something else in it too. A flicker of emotion. A note of defiance. Grace sharpened by something personal.

And Hoshi watches.

He’s quiet now, back pressed to the mirror, arms crossed loosely over his chest. But his usual smirk is gone. Replaced by something still, almost reverent. He watches the way your muscles glide beneath your skin, the way your lines slice through the air with deadly accuracy—like you’re carving out space in the world just by existing in it.

But there’s tension there, too. A tightness at the edge of every perfect landing. Like you’re trying to escape something that’s stitched into your very ribs. He can feel it in his chest as he watches you turn—controlled, contained, clenched.

Like you’re dancing against an invisible wall, not with the room around you.

You finish with a single, poised breath, shoulders lifted, jaw set like a blade.

And still—he doesn’t say anything.

Not right away.

He unfolds his arms slowly, and it takes him a second to find the right words. His gaze stays on you, steady. No teasing, no flash of teeth. Just something deeper now. Almost sad.

“You’re really good,” he says, voice low and a little rough. “But you look like you’re suffocating.”

⸻

Tag List: @minafrost @codeinebelle @sojuxxi @bestboileeknow @angelsbitx @socialsymphonies

(Let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist <3)

[u1timat3-m0gg3r]

---

“When the Devil Listens”

A Remmick × Y/n One-Shot

(If Remmick somehow managed to get into the juke.)

Clarksdale, Mississippi, 1932. A hush fell over the juke joint as Remmick stood in a dim corner, the dim lamplight slanting across his pale face. His Irish accent was soft, cultured—never threatening. He had come disguised as simply another patron, just another music lover… but he was there for more. Much more.

In Sinners, Remmick infiltrates the juke joint under the guise of respect for Black music and culture—only to reveal a hunger for its soul . He watches with fixed concentration as Y/n—a singer with grace, warmth, and a voice that carries the weight of ancestral blues—steps onstage after Sammie. Her notes thread through the room like prayer, summoning something ancient in Remmick’s core.

He’s captivated. For years he’s craved connection—having turned others to vampires before—and here was genuine magic.

---

After her set, Remmick edges closer as Y/n packs up her guitar, offering polite praise. “Your voice... it carries depth I haven’t heard since Ireland.” His tone is earnest, magnetic.

She glances at him, wary. “Thank you.” Her eyes search him—there’s curiosity, but caution too.

He smiles—soft, open. “You share truth. Most perform to hide.”

She hesitates, then nods. “That’s what I try to do.”

Something in her honesty resonates with him. Not prey. Not performance. Realness. Vulnerability. Remembrance.

---

In the days that follow, Remmick arranges “coincidental” meetings—bumping into her at the supply corner, at the back door. He offers help with her equipment. She’s reserved, but polite; he’s respectful.

He feels something he hasn’t felt in centuries: longing that isn’t about feeding. He begins to watch her laugh with the patrons, sharing jokes, carrying stories in her eyes—a living pulse of community, life, and music.

He should pull back. The mission is to claim her gift—to harvest its power. But he doesn’t.

---

One night, he finds her sitting outside the juke joint under the moonlight. She’s at a loss—her cousin hurt, the place shaken. He kneels beside her, hands folded respectfully.

“Your heart… it’s strong,” he murmurs. “Music that lives in people—it doesn’t belong just to one soul.”

She turns, uncertain. “You speak like you feel this.”

He hesitates. “I do.”

And when she looks at him, he sees trust flicker in her gaze. It’s a warmth he never expected—and now he can’t stop chasing it.

---

Their connection deepens in whispered conversations between sets, silent moments in the darkened alley—simple gestures: touching a guitar’s neck, handing her a fresh towel, offering understanding where others judge.

In that closeness, Y/n unwittingly softens him. He no longer sees a source—just a person whose heartbeat he wants to protect.

---

But the night comes when Remmick’s plan unravels. The mob, the threat, the violence—it all erupts.

He confronts Y/n in the chaos, voice breaking through gunfire and screams. “I tried—to stay away from the hunger.”

She holds his gaze. “I saw you.”

He falters. “I didn’t want to be what I’ve been.”

Y/n reaches out and touches his chest, over his heart. “Then don’t.”

It’s not forgiveness she offers—it’s possibility.

---

In the final quiet after violence, as dawn seeps into the wrecked juke joint, Remmick kneels by Y/n. His voice is raw, charged with centuries of longing and regret.

“I could return to the darkness,” he whispers. “But with you… I feel something else.”

She takes his hand—steady, unwavering. “Then let that guide you.”

He bows his head, lips brushing her fingers. “I think… I’m falling in love with you.”

Her answer is soft, certain: “Then stay.”

---

In that wounded ruin of music and blood, Remmick finds something more dangerous than supernatural power: real connection. And perhaps, a way back to the life he’s forsaken.

He stays, he listens. Even as the sun rises and he burns, he stays for her.

---

[camficdiner]

may I get a [1.1] [2.7] [3.1] [4.3], with a little bit of the reader playing hard to get in a way 😻

☕️ Cam’s Fic Diner — Order 035

🍒 Thank you to the sweetest angel who submitted this. you asked for reader playing hrd to get? You absolutely nailed it., and your server sweetly deliver, really,  I’m obsessed.

Enjoy your meal love, hope you like it, (if you do, you already know where the tip jar is) 

💬 “Love So Sweet, Heart With Teeth”

✨ Description and prompts:

Character: Jack Hughes

Prompt: accidental coffee spill, popstar!reader, enemies-to-lovers,

Word count: ~1.8k

Type: Fluff with bite 

⸻

🛼🍒✨🧁

You met Jack Hughes once. Briefly. Unfortunately.

Backstage at the AMAs. You had just finished a performance in a latex jumpsuit and six-inch rhinestone stilettos. He was standing with his brother and a couple of other hockey players, clearly out of place but invited through someone’s management connection. He caught your eye and smiled. Pretty boy. Sharp jaw, tousled hair, the smugness of someone who always gets what he wants.

You walked past. He didn’t introduce himself. Just said, “Bet you don’t sing live in heels like those.”

You turned, stunned. “Bet you’ve never had to do anything besides skate and smile, huh?”

He laughed. “Touché.”

You walked away, blocked him on Instagram, and didn’t think about it again.

Except you did.

Because Jack Hughes was the kind of beautiful that annoyed you. The kind that stuck.

—

Months later, it’s spring in SoHo.

You’ve just wrapped a studio session and decided to treat yourself to a caramel oat milk latte from your favorite tiny café. You’re wearing oversized sunglasses and an even bigger chip on your shoulder. The last few interviews have been brutal. You’re tired.

And then you slam directly into someone while turning the corner.

Your coffee spills.

So does theirs.

You both gasp, pulling back, and you’re already groaning — your sweater is soaked, his hoodie is completely ruined — when you look up.

Oh, come on.

It’s him.

Jack Hughes. Again.

You blink behind your shades. “You.”

He looks equally stunned. His baseball cap is slightly askew. His sweatshirt now carries the full force of your oat milk rebellion.

“You remember me?” he asks.

“Unfortunately.”

He grins. “You blocked me.”

“Because you were annoying.”

“Still am,” he says cheerfully. “But I owe you a coffee now.”

You roll your eyes. “You owe me a dry cleaning bill.”

He laughs.

You don’t.

You walk away.

His eyes trail after you like heat.

—

He tells Luke later, “She hates me.”

Luke is scrolling TikTok. “She’s a pop star. She probably hates everyone.”

“No,” Jack mutters. “She specifically hates me.”

—

Your tour hits the East Coast in May. Sold out.

Final stop: Prudential Center.

You’re not surprised when the staff tells you someone from the New Jersey Devils is on the guest list. What surprises you is who shows up in VIP.

Jack. Alone. Hoodie again. Baseball cap again. Lowkey this time. Subdued. He doesn’t try to come backstage. Doesn’t wave. Just watches.

Your eyes catch his mid-set.

You smirk.

He’s doomed.

—

You post a photo that night.

You in your stage look. Backlit. Smirking into the mic.

Caption: funny how the ones with teeth always smile the softest.

He DMs you anyway.

jackhughes: still hate me?

you: yes.

jackhughes: what if i bring you coffee and shut up this time

you: you, shut up?

jackhughes: i’ve grown

you: oat milk. light caramel. don’t mess it up

jackhughes: what if i bring two and make you laugh?

You stare at the screen.

Your fingers twitch.

Then—

you: one chance, golden boy. don’t blow it.

—

The café is tucked away in Montclair. You chose it because it’s quiet, and you didn’t expect him to actually show.

But he does.

On time. With coffee.

He sits across from you, hoodie again, hair tousled.

You sip slowly. “You really don’t shut up, huh?”

He grins. “Still trying.”

You watch him. Carefully. The edge is still there — he’s smug, sure of himself. But beneath it, you see something else. A little softness. Maybe nerves.

“You’ve been telling your teammates about me,” you say flatly.

His brows lift. “Who told you?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“I only said you were talented,” he says quickly. “And scary. But mostly talented.”

You stare.

He leans forward. “And beautiful.”

You blink. “Is that your move?”

He tilts his head. “No. My move is asking you out again.”

You hum. “I don’t date hockey players.”

He sips his drink. “Why not?”

“Too many stories.”

“I’m not a story,” he says, voice quieter.

You watch him. The way he fidgets slightly. The way he glances at your fingers wrapped around the cup. The way his cheeks tint pink when your knees brush under the table.

And you remember the first time.

How cocky he was. How smug.

But now? Now he looks almost nervous.

You lean in, just slightly. “Still hate you.”

He smirks. “Good. Keep me on my toes.”

You sip. Let it hang. Then smile.

Maybe just a little.

Maybe enough.

[killerkendallroy]

CHAPTER ONE

INTO THE VIPER NEST

NEW MONEY: A ROMAN ROY X READER SERIES

MASTERLIST WORD COUNT: 4.6k

“You can’t just say ‘it’ll be better next quarter’ and wait for the money to magically come. That’s like telling a dying kid their tumour stopped growing. Yeah, it sounds good on the surface but it doesn’t mean they’re not still riddled with cancer.”

Warnings: Succession canon themes including but not limited to: Mentions of swearing, sexual jokes and connotations, corporate jargon, etc. Mentions of cancer, a bunch of Florida slander

The lead up to your first day was as luxurious as it was nerve wracking. You’d booked yourself a myriad of different treatments and appointments to prepare; a hair appointment to touch up your roots, a mani-pedi, several different facials you didn’t quite understand but was convinced your skin needed and a massage to try and work out the kinks and knots throughout your spine. God, that was what you needed. You had so much tension and stress held in your shoulders even the masseuse commented how surprised she was that someone your age was so tight.

After you closed your eyes, you were out like a light for the remainder of the two hour massage. You didn’t mean to fall asleep but it was that deep, soulful kind of rest that came when someone else was literally handling your relaxation for you. At the end of your session, the massage therapist shifted the aromatherapy in the room to a blend of peppermint and rosemary essential oils to ‘invigorate you’ compared to the previous lavender and chamomile, before gently nudging you awake. Momentarily disoriented and slightly embarrassed that you’d nodded off in the first place, you lifted your head and apologised to her, but she simply gave you a kind little smile like she’d seen this happen time and time again. Which she had.

“Your body really needed it,” she said quietly, smiling like a permanently zenned-out monk. Without a single stress in the world it looked like. Or a single wrinkle.

You’d chosen to move to New York and stay in an Airbnb until you found the right place to live. You didn’t want to rush into finding the space you’d someday call home. You’d donated the majority of your furniture rather than take it with you, give or take a few sentimental items. It was mostly from IKEA and Target; cheap flat-pack furniture styled nicely in your little condo. It would have been more of a hassle to hire interstate removalists to put it all into storage than to just donate it and buy new pieces once you settled in.

One week to pack everything up, two weeks to be a tourist in your new city, and one week to mentally prepare.

Now, you laid in the bed of your Airbnb, still half asleep but rolling over to turn off your alarm as you woke up in the morning. Today was the day you’d decided to make a shopping spree day, specifically for buying clothes for work. You’d stalked a tonne of your future colleagues on LinkedIn to see what type of performative bullshit they all wore, sussing out their outfits as you scrolled. You were lower middle management back in Florida, leading a team of 5 junior staffers and rocked up to work in jeans. Which was an impressive feat in itself give you were only in your late twenties but something told you shopping at H&M and Zara wouldn’t quite cut it anymore.

New York was one of the fashion capitals of the world, not to mention you were now upper middle management in one of the biggest media companies in the world. You were overseeing a team of 20, things were different. Your image mattered a lot more whether you wanted it to or not. You were ‘important’ now. To some people. Not most, but some.

Opening Google on your phone, you typed ‘where do rich people buy clothes in NYC’ and mentally sighed at yourself for searching something so blatantly dumb in the first place. But hey, it provided you with the results you were looking for so maybe it wasn’t so dumb after all. Bergdorf Goodman, Saks Fifth Avenue, and the long list of luxury designer stores on Madison Ave… Perfect. You figured you’d start with Saks; recognisable, convenient, and it was a department store that housed dozens of brands under one roof. Easy.

You walked through New York City with your head slightly tilted up, not quite enough to gawk but definitely enough to stick out amongst the locals. Someone who doesn’t really belong here. Not yet. Maybe not ever but fuck, it was just so big. The buildings stretched impossibly high, their glass facades reflecting the sky in fractured blues and silvers. A pigeon nearly clips your shoulder, and a yellow cab honks at another car that runs a red light which makes you flinch and step back from the kerb, yet no one else moves a muscle. They move through the city streets with practised ease.

The closer you got to Fifth Avenue, the more curated everything feels. You passed a woman walking a dog in a knit sweater and she didn’t even glance at you when you smiled politely. Neither did the doorman outside a residential building whose awning was embroidered like royalty. Nor did the food delivery guy riding past on a bicycle. You tried not to take it personally that they didn’t smile back; New Yorkers were just like this.

Inside the 10 storey store, you didn’t bother looking at any of the prices on the various items (if they even had prices displayed) which sounded like fucking lunacy, but you told yourself that today it didn’t matter. Waystar gave you more than enough to have the kind of spending spree you’d only ever seen in movies, yet still have the confidence that you could afford the total at the end. The lump sum of money wouldn’t last forever if you kept this type of frivolity up permanently, but kicking off this new era of life with a fancy new wardrobe couldn’t hurt.

And fuck, you looked good on your first day.

Waystar Royco in its most simple and basic essence was a fucking behemoth of an empire, and with majority of their business divisions based out of New York, the Manhattan office was a sight to behold. How could it not, with its 60 storeys of corporate slaves and money hungry psychopaths?

Your new Prada heels clicked against the polished floor of the lobby as you approach the marble reception desk and you politely stood in front of one of the receptionists. Waiting. Longer than expected. Just…waiting.

“Name?” she asks, barely looking up at you. You answer and she types a few times without so much as an acknowledgement, then you wait again. And she types some more. And you keep waiting. Finally, she nods and looks up at you for the first time. “You can head up to level 48, someone will meet you there.”

Cold. Direct. Blunt.

How very New York of her.

The numbers on the elevator panel blink as you move higher and higher, your ears popping faintly. You’re not sure if it’s the altitude or the nerves but finally you reach the 48th floor. The doors slide open with a quiet hiss, revealing the Parks and Cruises division floor but before you can even look, you’re startled by a loud voice.

“It’s you!” Greg exclaims loudly. Excited and shocked yes, but far too loud for 9 in the morning.

“Greg?!” The name slips out of your mouth before you can curb your surprise, your brows furrowing in confusion.

“Hey!” He says shaking in his head in disbelief and debating in his head whether or not a hug was unprofessional. He’d leaned forward slightly like he was about to, then decided against it at the last second.

“You…work here?” You questioned, not sure if you were shocked at the fact he was here in New York or whether he was still employed by Waystar at all. The last time you’d seen him he was in a dog costume being escorted away by security. You were certain he would’ve been fired after that.

“Yeah, I’m in New York now, yeah,” he chuckles, ushering you with his hand to follow him down the hall. “Y’know it’s so weird, Tom told me to meet you here after reception messaged him and I was like, ‘oh I wonder how many people in cruises have the same name as the chick from management training’ as in like, the same name as you, but here you are. How are you? Oh my god, this is so crazy… You’re like, a proper manager now.”

He keeps talking as you walk, a stream of words filling the silence like a soundtrack you didn’t ask for. You look around at everyone clicking and typing away at their monitors, a quiet hum of corporate droning that doesn’t match the energy bubbling out of him. Somehow, it’s comforting. It lets you think that this place doesn’t consume every part of a person and make them miserable. Not completely.

“Wait, you work for Tom? The guy who just replaced Bill?” You ask, given Tom was going to be your new manager too. Surely Greg wasn’t a manager too, right?

Greg spins around to walk backward for a moment, grinning down at you like he’s introducing you to a theme park ride. “Tom? Yeah, he’s my boss. I don’t really have a title yet per se, but I report to him so… Oh! Wait until you see your office. It’s got a sweet view.”

You bite down on the inside of your cheek, trying and failing to hide the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “I have my own office?”

“It’s not as big as some of the other ones but it’s got a couch in there so…that’s pretty cool.”

For a moment, it doesn’t matter that this role came wrapped in NDAs and dotted lines, that this office came with so many strings it was impossible to detach from them. All you can picture is stepping inside, setting down your bag, and knowing the space is yours. Yours to work, to think, to breathe.

Greg stops in front of a glass door halfway down the hall, gesturing proudly like a realtor showing off a penthouse. He points to the blank name plaque mounted next to it, glossy and untouched.

“They’ll order you a proper name plate, don’t worry,” he says, like that’s the final seal of legitimacy. Then, with an exaggerated sweep of his arm, he pushes the door open. “Home sweet home.”

The desk sits adjacent to the window, sleek and immaculate. Empty shelves line one wall, still bare and a small charcoal couch hugs the opposite side. A little stiff-looking, like no one’s properly sat on it a bunch of times and made a butt print.

You walk straight to the floor‑to‑ceiling window, fingertips brushing the glass as if to prove it’s real. You’ve never seen New York from this high before, especially since you’d flown in at night so seeing it now felt surreal. Like a tiny fake Lego city.

“Holy shit…” The words slip out under your breath before you can stop them.

Behind you, Greg lets out a soft chuckle. “Yeah,” he says, leaning a long arm against the doorframe. “That was, uh… pretty much my reaction too. You kinda forget you’re up this high until you, like, go past a window. Then it’s like, oh wow, this is huge.”

He closes the office door behind him but he doesn’t move too much closer, doesn’t crowd the moment. He just lets it hang there and gives you space to soak it all in. Somehow that makes it feel more significant, the silence of it all. You stand there for a moment longer, gazing down at the city you’ve moved to that’s promised so much yet taken so much in return.

Your gaze drifts back to Greg and for a moment it’s like your words get caught in your throat. “This is… fuck,” you exhale. “I can’t even string a sentence together right now I’m so shocked.”

The sound of your voice feels smaller in the space, like it doesn’t quite fill it yet. Greg gives a shy shrug, sitting on the couch like he’s trying to make the moment feel more relaxed. Through the glass walls, you spot a couple of heads lifting from screens across the floor. They’re quick glances, calculated and sharp, disappearing as soon as you acknowledge them. But the message is still strong. They’re watching you not only because you’re new, but because you’re young, a female, and a manager.

“It’s kind of overwhelming… But you’ll get used to it soon-” he starts to say before he’s cut off by Tom pushing open the door and tapping his knuckles against the glass.

“Knock knock,” he says out loud, punctuating it with a hollow laugh like even he knows how forced it sounds. His grin is wide, corporate, performative. The kind of grin that had been practiced in boardrooms and polished during cocktail hours.

“Greg…” Tom’s voice drips with mock scolding, staring him down. “You’re not scaring away our new friend already, are you?”

You straighten instinctively and shake his hand with a polite smile that you hope hides the flicker of nerves under your skin. “If it isn’t the man, the myth, the legend… You must be Tom Wambsgans.”

“And you, must be my shiny new hot shot from Florida.” He grins, taking a relaxed seat on the arm of the couch next to Greg. Somehow making the 6 foot 7 man seem small in the leather cushions. “How was it, down in our most penis shaped state?”

“I mean… It’s sweaty, humid, reeks of cheap sex and piss…” you joke, trying to keep the conversation light after being thrown off by your new boss talking about penises in your first introduction. “Guess it is America’s dick.”

“Born and bred Southerner?” Tom asks with a subtle grimace, hoping and praying you weren’t. Nothing against people from the South, he just…didn’t like them at all.

“God no, I grew up in DC. I only moved down to Orlando a few years back for work.”

“Good, good. Well, I’ve gotta run to a meeting but I just wanted to pop in and say hello. And I’ll see you at the quarterly review this afternoon,” he says to you before turning towards Greg and nudging his head towards the door for him to follow. Which Greg does, like his ever loyal puppy.

Tom strides down the hall towards his office, Greg trailing half a step behind. The nice midwesterner energy Tom had in your office; the easy grin, the overfamiliar jokes, the whole ‘teamwork makes the dream work’ vibe he had going on, melts the second they’re both out of earshot.

“So,” Tom says, his voice dropping just enough to make Greg lean in to hear. “What do you think? Is she a good egg?”

Greg blinks, caught off guard by how fast Tom had flipped the switch. He still wasn’t used to it yet. “Uh, good egg? I mean, yeah? She seems nice. Normal. Like, super normal. I actually met her at management training a few months back...”

Tom barks out a laugh, already settling behind his desk, fingers flying across his keyboard to look you up online. “You? Greg? Went to corporate daycare?” He lets out another laugh, shaking his head like the very thought of Greg enrolling in management training was absolutely absurd. “Bet Grandpa Ewan helped you get into that one, huh?”

Greg stayed silent, which only answered Tom’s question and confirmed his suspicion.

Meanwhile Kendall Roy, the epitome of psychopathic corporate slaves, stood in his father’s glass office staring at the skyline of the city. Desperate his whole life to take over Logan’s empire and grow the Roy family legacy to an even larger scale, Kendall had worked tirelessly for years on end to try and get his father’s approval. He told himself he wouldn't rest until he became CEO but even then he wouldn't stop until he was dead.

He'd work from the moment he woke up to the rare moment he fell asleep, majority of his nights fuelled by cocaine and adrenaline. At one stage his estranged wife Rava had given him an ultimatum: check into a rehabilitation facility or lose visitation rights of his two children Sophie and Iverson. Reluctantly, he went to rehab. Not for Rava, not for his Dad, not even for his children which he said was his main reason. No, no, he went to rehab to clear his name as a 'coke head' for the sake of his career.

It wasn't until his father Logan had encountered a recent stint in an Intensive Care Unit that Kendall received the news that he was not stepping up as the new CEO of Waystar. It killed him inside, knowing how power hungry his other siblings were and that his lifes greatest competition was not yet over.

Now, he was co-COO with his little brother Roman.

Major bummer.

“Yo Rome, I need you to drop in on the parks meeting for me.”

“And what, make sure Wambsgans isn’t fucking drowning?” Roman says without looking up from his phone. “His big ass hockey town shoulders practically make him a walking buoy.”

“Sure, whatever, but the division is down on last quarter and I need you to sus it out for me.”

“Why do I have to do it? You know operations better than me, you’ve been doing it for however many fucking years.”

“Cos we’re co-COO’s now and that means we fucking, uh, share now. Fifty-fifty, dude. And I have to go meet Lawrence from Vaulter.”

Roman groans and stands up from the couch, shoving his phone in his pocket reluctantly. “Fine, I’ll go…” he whines. “When is it?”

“Check your cal.”

Roman squints at his brother, “Or you could just tell me what time the meeting is?”

“It’s at 11:30. Check your fucking calendar.”

“Was that so hard?“ Roman scoffs. “Could’ve just told me the time when I asked but noooo… Robo-Ken over here is only programmed to say shit like ‘check your cal’ and ‘optics’ and fucking, ‘synergy’ instead of talking like a normal fucking human.”

Downstairs, the bottom of your heels scuffed ever so gently against the carpet as you walked down one of the never ending corridors, scanning each room number for the right room number.

"Thirty one fourteen, thirty one fourteen..." you mumbled under your breath, repeating the specific identifier over and over again to not forget it.

You were still breaking in the pair of heels you’d bought on the weekend and they pinched at your toes with every step. There’s something weirdly poetic about it, you thought. The way they felt wrong on your feet, the same way this whole new life feels like a costume you haven’t broken in yet. The discomfort isn’t enough to stop you, but it’s there as a reminder that luxury doesn’t always mean ease. The money sitting in your account, the new apartment and the fresh wardrobe filled with tailored clothes… It all fit, technically, but not without a little ache underneath the surface.

Eventually you found Room 3114 and waited outside quietly for the current group to finish up inside. Two men who you assumed were also fellow managers within the Parks and Cruises division, approached the same room, giving you a polite smile before continuing their conversation in a hushed tone.

"You reckon that had anything to do with him getting the new title? Man, if only there was another Roy daughter to fuck, then I would get a promotion too," The first man scoffed, provoking an eye roll from the second before you hear Tom from the other end of the hall.

You weren’t the only one to get a sporadic, out of the blue promotion it seemed. Great timing on Waystar’s part to be fair, putting you on a leave of absence until the start of the new quarter when Bill Lockhart’s retirement would create the need for a structural reset. They brought in a replacement for him, created several new roles including yours, and made a bunch of existing roles redundant. It was looking like a fresh start for Parks and Cruises.

Tom walked with purpose, a hint of cockiness in his step and an overarching sense of power in his stride. He knew that he worked hard for his new position in the company, with or without the help of his fiancée. "Shaking the tree folks, shaking the tree," Tom called out as he approached the room, swinging the door open and smiling at the previous meeting holders until they got the hint and left.

The rest of your colleagues took their seats along both sides of the long table, opening their laptops and notebooks in anticipation for Tom to begin presenting. It was a brief moment of quick introductions before Tom jumped straight into action, outlining the company's position on where they wanted the Parks and Cruise division to grow. It was a spiel all too familiar to them, a new manager telling their team how excited they were for innovation, change and growth, all for them to end up becoming empty, unfulfilled promises.

The presentation he had prepared was a high level plan to how the Parks division was to increase revenue; a very straightforward meeting to most in the room. Enthusiastic about working capital as one could be, his presentation was halted about a half hour in, when the door slid open from Roman.

"Hey, just- Pretend I'm not here," he said, moving to an empty chair that he was now rolling to the back corner of the room.

"Roman, hey! I didn't think you'd were attending… Normally Kendall joins us but uh, we’re just running through last quarter to realign on our plan moving forward. Thanks for joining us buddy. Take a seat, get comfy," Tom grinned, his smile wide like a nervous Cheshire Cat as he continued.

You suddenly grew self-conscious that the Roman Roy had joined the meeting. You’d never seen any of the Roy's in the flesh let alone shared a room with one. All of the men in the room seemed to shift in their demeanours, their backs straightening and their focus sharpening. You’d only heard stories about Roman but the majority of them weren't particularly positive testaments to his character.

You remembered during your college days the majority of the boys in your economics classes had an unhealthy infatuation with Kendall and Roman Roy. They viewed them as the epitome of success; their idols, their inspiration. They wanted to become them. On one hand, they were the sons of a billionaire media mogul who brought fresh and innovative ideas to a traditionally old-school industry. On the other hand however, they didn’t seem shy away from the drug fuelled partying and Playboy-esque gallivanting — they were truly a finance bro's wet dream brought to life.

"Wait, go back to that other slide. Yeah, that one. Can I- I’m just gonna stand real quick," Roman interrupted, getting up from his chair and moving to the front of the room where Tom was presenting on the screen. His 'can I?' was rhetorical, since he would have taken over the meeting regardless of Tom's answer.

He stood next to the screen with his arms folded across his chest, inspecting the data in front of him. He was equally as threatening as he was captivating. Every man in the room stared in both fear and admiration. The only other woman in the room looked bored to her core. But she was like, in her sixties so you kind of expected her to be bored. You would be too if you’d dealt with this corporate bullshit for that many years.

"This number, with the minus in front of it? This isn't good. This makes me feel like we’re getting fucked in the ass," he pointed, tapping one of the dozens of numbers on the screen.

"Ah yes, brilliant call out. I'm uh, I'm actually going to let someone else on the team take this one, just to see who’s been paying attention. Who’s across Tokyo?" Tom laughed, knowing full well he was caught off guard by the negative figure just as much as Roman was. It was a new role to him too but he didn't have the courage to admit he didn't know everything.

The room fell silent as the group of grown men pulled faces to look like they were deep in thought or trying to recollect a memory that didn't exist. Some even went as far to flick through their notebooks or squint at their laptop screens for semblance that they were ‘organised’.

“How much is this expansion thing costing us? And how much are we gonna make from it? Someone, anyone...” Roman asked the room.

“We anticipate that revenue figure will increase next quarter looking at our current trend line,” one of the other managers says.

Way to state the fucking obvious, you thought.

“How though? You can’t just say ‘it’ll be better next quarter’ and wait for the money to magically come. That’s like telling a dying kid that their tumour stopped growing. Yeah, it sounds good on the surface but it doesn’t mean they’re not still riddled with cancer.” Roman scoffs.

You stifle your laugh to be professional but a small, single sound sneaks out. Nobody really notices, but Roman does. Tom does. As they both look at you, you quickly look down at your notebook and flick through the quick high-level notes you’d written earlier that morning. Fucking lucky, of all the things you thought to write down in preparation for this meeting, BrightStar Tokyo’s expansion was the main one. You’d worked on the expansion for the past two years so you were pretty familiar with it, but not the exact financial figures until now.

You breathe in slightly before speaking, “We’ve budgeted for 320 billion yen so far.”

“In USD that’s like, what? 2 bil?” Roman mutters to himself.

You answer, “2.2 billion.”

"Fucking hell…” Roman trails. He narrows his eyes as if he’s trying to put his finger on whether you were a new face or if he’d met you before and simply just forgotten.

"Oh! Roman, everybody, this is our new Strategy and Planning Manager. It’s her first day today, so go easy on her," Tom laughs.

Your fellow managers give polite smiles and mutter their hello’s before looking back at Roman in front of the screen. Roman was far too important to learn the names of each and every 'civilian' he interacted with but something about you intrigued him. He used the word civilian like he was some sort of fucking superhero, placing an extreme point of difference between himself and those outside the elite. He couldn’t name a single other fucker in the room apart from Tom and Greg, and even then he’d called his cousin Craig for several weeks.

Roman’s first thought was ‘must be bring your daughter to work day’ given you were so young but surprisingly, he bit his tongue.

He looks around at the rest of the room. “First day and she can answer a simple question…” he says before looking at Tom with a semi-impressed eyebrow raise. “Where’d you find her?”

“Florida.”

Roman screws his face up in disgust and flicks his head towards you, “You’re from the South? Ew.”

“Definitely not,” you say, almost too fast to have thought about your answer. “I moved to join Waystar 6 years ago.”

He nods, acknowledging your tenure with the company rather than assuming you were fresh meat looking at all of this with the eyes of a kindergartener. “Okay Florida, what do you think… Are we fucked or is it a mild penetration?”

“Just the tip, we’re good.” You smile, glancing at Tom who looked relieved that Roman wouldn’t be telling Logan how fucked the division was. You give him a slight nod as if to say ‘I’ve got your back’ with the hopes he’d have yours in future. Fingers crossed.

“Super vanilla.”

Taglist: @gxilds @zenbyo @sweetnettlessting @lilacbe @aullyjay @violet1661

COMMENT IF YOU WANT TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST xoxo

[lamambanegro]

bloodsworn part I.

[vampire!bucky barnes x f!reader]

synopsis: Original story where y/n is a recently single Black millenial living in modern day Seattle. On a whim you take a backpacking trip through Europe and through a series of events, find that you are the mortal woman unknowingly promised to vampire king Bucky Barnes.

themes/warnings: language, power imbalance, worship, obsession, vampire human dynamics, violence, eventual enemies to lovers, eventual smut (18+),

bloodsworn part I. exit wounds.

The rain hasn’t stopped in three days.

Typical for late winter in Seattle, but this one feels heavier, more personal, like the city itself is mourning with you. You stand at your apartment window, tea gone cold in your hands, watching the gray water streak down the glass like veins.

Your suitcase is open on the floor. Half-packed. Half-committed. A mirror of you. You haven’t told anyone where you’re going. Not really. You left a vague away message on your work email: Taking some time to reset. Will check in intermittently. That should buy you at least a week before anyone starts asking questions. What are you running from?

Not who. That’s too easy. He’s already gone. Breakups are never easy. You’re running from the echo. The emptiness that follows a person who tried to be understood and was instead asked to shrink.

He said you were "too hard to read." That you felt distant. That he never knew what was going on in your head. He never asked, not really. Just got frustrated when your silence wasn’t for him to solve. You'd given more than people realize,stayed longer than you should’ve, until even your solitude felt like someone else's shadow. Until you realized: you didn’t know what you sounded like anymore, not without someone’s expectations in your ears.

So you bought a one-way ticket. No plan. Just Europe. A few months of drifting. Of remembering how to be in your own mind again. You’ve always been good at disappearing when you need to. But something about this trip feels different. Like you’re not just leaving. You're being pulled.

Your phone buzzes. A weather alert. Another storm rolling in. You finish your tea, already cold and bitter, and zip the suitcase shut.

You land in Budapest at dawn.

The airport is quiet, cast in a pale, fluorescent hush that makes everything feel dreamlike. You pass through customs, retrieve your bag, and walk out into the cold Hungarian morning. The air feels different here, sharper, like it remembers things Seattle’s clouds never could. You blink up at the sky. Overcast, but not raining. That feels like an omen in itself.

The hostel you booked is tucked away on the Buda side of the city, near the castle. You take a tram through streets lined with faded baroque facades and peeling iron balconies, everything stitched together by tram wires and silence. You pass old churches with blackened spires. Statues of kings you’ve never heard of. And alleyways that seem too narrow to be accidental.

Your room is small but clean. Warm. You shower, change into something layered, and set out with your camera, your notebook, and a feeling of freedom.

Just you and your shadows.

You spend the next few days wandering the city, crossing the Chain Bridge at sunset, climbing up to Fisherman’s Bastion, ducking into pubs with mismatched furniture and sticky floors. You feel lighter here. Looser. No one expects you to perform, to shrink, to explain.

But there are strange moments too.

A woman on the tram stares at you with wide eyes and murmurs something in Hungarian you can’t translate. A dog growls when you pass an old bookstore. You see your reflection in a shop window, only, for half a second, you swear it wasn’t moving when you were.

Then, on your fourth night, you dream.

You're walking through cobbled streets lit only by torchlight. Everything smells like stone and smoke. You hear music, something stringed, minor key, ancient. And then you see him:

A man at the end of the street. Stoic. Still. Eyes like iron. Hair black as night. Skin pale as the moon. He doesn’t speak, but the moment you look at him, your whole body reacts like it’s been waiting for him. Like your blood remembers what your mind does not.

You wake with a start.

There’s a single train ticket on your nightstand. You didn’t buy it. It’s dated for tomorrow morning, one-way, to a town you’ve never heard of.

Viscri.

Your name is written on the back. In old ink. A hand you’ve never seen. And beneath it: “It’s time.”

The train ticket sits in your hand like a dare.

You stare at it over breakfast, alone in a cheap café that smells like burnt espresso. Viscri. You looked it up. Tiny village. Carpathian Mountains. Population under five hundred. No Instagram geotags, no travel blogs. Just a few grainy photos of a crumbling fortified church and some vague tourist copy about “stepping back in time.”

Absolutely not where you intended to go.

You had your sights set on Vienna next. Art museums, cute thrifting options, overpriced pastries. Familiar enough for comfort. European enough to feel like you’re doing something with your life.

So you toss the ticket in your bag, because littering isn’t cute, and you board the train to Vienna. 

But three hours in, the train slows.

And then it stops.

A mechanical voice buzzes over the intercom in Hungarian. People murmur. The man across from you checks his watch and sighs. A conductor walks through, explaining in clipped English:

“There is problem with the track ahead. We will be rerouting to smaller line. Temporary stop in…Viscri.”

Your blood runs cold. You blink. Surely not.

But an hour later, you’re with the rest of the train passengers, standing on the narrow platform of a town that looks like a forgotten fairy tale, fog clinging to rooftops, hills rolling out behind the village like a sleeping giant. It’s eerily quiet. No taxis. No tall buildings. Just old houses and stone roads.

A crow watches you from the roof of the station. The train idles longer than it should. Something inside you twists. Stay, it says. You don’t know why.

So you do.

From the platform, you watch the train leave the station. Your boots crunch on gravel and you take a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

Within the hour you find a place to stay, a small hostel run by an old local woman named Magda. She doesn’t ask for your passport. Just looks at you for a long time before finally saying, “Room for you is upstairs.”

You ask about the rerouted train. She shrugs. “Trains come. Trains go.”

That night, you dream again.

This time, you’re in a stone room lit with a thousand candles. A man kneels before you, his head bowed, face hidden. His voice is reverent, raspy and broken:

“I have waited lifetimes to kneel here.”

You wake in a cold sweat, breath caught in your throat.

In the early morning with the window cracked, the sunlight, thin and gray, leaks through sheer curtains. You shower. Dress. Pull on your heaviest coat and wrap a scarf around your locs to block the wind. Then you head out into the town.

Viscri is beautiful in a way that feels slightly wrong, like a set built too perfectly. Cobblestone streets curve gently through rows of pastel-painted homes with wooden shutters and iron gates. Horses pull carts past centuries-old houses, and a large hill rises at the edge of the village, crowned by a crumbling church with an iron bell.

You pass locals who pause in their tracks to look at you.

Not just glance, stare.

Some nod politely. Most don’t say a word.

One man crosses himself.

You tell yourself what you’ve always told yourself: People stare. You’ve got a look. You're a Black woman alone in a very white, very quiet village tucked into the bones of Eastern Europe. You’ve got American written all over you. You remind yourself not to take it personally.

You stop by the quaint town bakery. The woman behind the counter hesitates before taking your money, then sets a hot roll in a paper wrap without a word.

A group of children follow you for a block before their grandmother grabs one by the arm and mutters something sharp in Romanian. You catch a word or two, străină. Stranger. Sânge. Blood.

You keep walking.

Eventually, you find yourself at the base of the hill. The old church is calling to you, and you’re not the type to resist curiosity. So you climb.

The trail is quiet, the air colder up here, and by the time you reach the gates, your heart is pounding, not from fear, but exertion. That’s what you tell yourself, anyway. 

The church is older than anything you’ve ever touched. The wooden door is partly ajar, its hinges rusted with time. Inside: silence. And the scent of candle wax long gone cold.

You take a few careful steps forward. The floor creaks. Dust motes dance in a shaft of winter light cutting through a cracked window.

And then, a whisper. Right behind your ear.

“She walks the land.”

You spin. No one’s there.

The door slams shut.

You steady your breath and rub your gloved hands together. The old wood door that slammed shut behind you now hangs slightly ajar, swaying in the breeze like it never moved at all.

You glance around the empty nave.

Nothing but pews, cracked stone walls, and candle stubs melted into sconces. Still, you feel watched. Not threatened, just seen. Like someone has been waiting for you to step foot inside this place again, even though you've never been here before.

You’re halfway to the altar when the rustle of movement behind you makes you pause.

A priest, if the black and heavy silver cross are anything to go by, has stepped through a side door near the pulpit. His hair is white and thin, his skin weathered like old parchment. He looks right at you.

And he frowns.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, his accent thick but his English clear.

You raise an eyebrow. “I’m just looking. I thought this place was open to the public.”

“Not to you.”

That stops you. You shift your weight slightly and fold your arms. “Excuse me?”

He walks closer, slow and deliberate, and for a moment you brace yourself, not for danger, but for disappointment. You’ve met this kind of man before. The gatekeeper type. The one who thinks your presence is a disruption. He stops a few feet from you and lowers his voice.

“You carry his mark.”

Your jaw tightens. “What are you talking about?”

He reaches into his coat and pulls out a small iron charm. It’s a twisted symbol, part sigil, part something that looks vaguely like an eye. He presses it into your hand, and it’s almost as if it glows in your hand.

“When he comes for you,” the priest says, “you must not go willingly. He will say you belong to him. But he lies. You must not drink. You must not answer. And whatever you do, do not step into the woods past the village.”

You blink.

“Wow,” you say flatly. “Do you rehearse this with all the tourists, or just the Black ones?”

The man doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t flinch.

He simply says, “He will find you before the week ends.”

You step backwards outside into the cold, mountain air and don’t look back. But the charm is still in your palm. You don’t remember picking it up.

The sky has darkened by the time you make it back down the hill. The sun never really came out, but now it’s hiding entirely, folded behind thick gray clouds as the cold seeps deeper into your coat.

You don’t pass anyone on the way back to the hostel. Just the wind and the sound of your boots on stone.

The door creaks as you open it. Magda isn’t at the front desk. A single lamp glows behind the counter. Everything feels quieter than it should.

Your room upstairs is exactly as you left it, bed made, window cracked, your scarf draped over the back of the chair. But something feels off. You scan the space. Nothing’s missing. Nothing’s moved. Still, your chest is tight when you close and lock the door behind you. You drop your coat onto the bed and pull out your phone. Two bars. Not bad, considering.

You scroll through your messages until you find the one person you know will pick up no matter the time zone.

Maya.

Ride or die.  Has known you since undergrad. The only person who called to check on you after the breakup and sent you three tea sampler kits and a list of action movies “for mood.”

You press call and bring the phone to your ear.

She picks up on the second ring.

“Hey, love. You okay?”

Your throat catches for a second, and you sit on the edge of the bed, wrapping one arm around your waist.

“I’m fine,” you say too quickly. Then softer: “Just… needed to hear someone not warning me about ancient curses.”

“…I’m sorry, what?”

You exhale a laugh, but it sounds hollow. “I found this old church today. A priest basically told me I’m cursed or claimed or something, and I don’t know, he was acting so weird. I think I freaked him out.”

“He freaked you out, you mean.”

You nod, forgetting she can’t see you. “Yeah. That too.”

“Where are you again?”

“Tiny mountain village. Viscri. I didn’t even mean to come here. The train was rerouted. But… I don’t know. Everyone’s been acting strange. I’m thinking I’ll go to Brașov tomorrow, or maybe head to the coast. I’ve got options.”

“Do you want me to help you book something? I can Venmo you for a hotel.”

“I’m okay. Just needed a human voice.”

There’s a pause. Then:

“Well don’t let the creepy Europeans get to you. Now go make yourself some tea and sage your weird little hostel. I’ll text you links for places to stay near the train station in Brașov. Get some rest.”

You nod. “Thanks, M.”

“Anytime, girlie.”

You end the call. Your room is still. Quiet. You move to put your phone down, and pause. Because the charm the priest gave you?  The one you swore you left in the chapel? It’s sitting on your nightstand again. Right next to an envelope.

You stare at the mail. It’s addressed. Just one word, in elegant black ink: Beloved.

You feel it before you touch it. The hum. The pull. You hesitate. Then you reach for it with the same care you’d give to a relic or a bomb. The paper is smooth and thick, aged but uncrumbling. You unfold it, and a scent drifts upward, something rich and dark. Like cedarwood. Iron. Rain on stone. The handwriting is perfect. Old-world. Every letter purposeful.

I have dreamed of you for a hundred years.

When your ancestor made the vow, he wept for what it would cost. And I swore I would not come for you until the time was right. Until the stars turned and the blood ripened and you stood on sacred ground of your own free will.

You are here.

And I am waiting.

You may run, little flame. You may deny me. You may even hate me.

But the bond is written in the marrow of the world. And when you are ready, you will come to me.

—B

You lower the letter to your lap, heart thudding in your chest like a warning, or a memory. The room feels smaller now. And then…

A soft thud outside your window.

You turn sharply. There’s no one there. Just a gust of wind curling the curtains and the faint scent of something burning. You close the curtains. But deep in your chest, a strange warmth coils.

Like something ancient inside you is stretching after a long, long sleep...

part ii: what you carry

[coldkidcookieneck]

Title: The Pages You Fell Through

Summary: A soldier with no place left to call home. A book that never let go. And a world that shouldn’t exist, until you fall right through its pages.

Author's note: Hey dear readers, I can’t believe I’m finally sharing this, my very first story featuring Colonel Brandon (yes, the Colonel Brandon 🥺💐). He’s always been my favourite, and I’ve always felt he deserved more love than he ever got, especially more than Marianne ever gave him, let’s be honest. So let me know what you think, and hope you guys enjoy reading it.

Pairing: Colonel Brandon x Fem Reader

Cross-posted on AO3

===============================================

The rain had stopped sometime in the early morning, leaving the air damp and heavy with the scent of old stone and rose bushes. Inside the Carrington manor, the silence was so precise it felt staged—an unspoken ritual of control, all sharp corners and polished judgment. Even the wallpaper seemed to stare.

You sat motionless in your childhood bedroom, perched on the edge of a bed that looked like it had never been slept in. The pale drapes hadn’t moved since your mother had them tailored to match your debutante gown. The furniture gleamed, untouched by affection or time.

The only thing out of place was the military bag on your bed.

And the letter of acceptance folded inside it.

Your fingers didn’t reach for it. Instead, they brushed against something older. Softer. The worn leather spine of a book that had traveled with you through storms far worse than this.

Sense and Sensibility.

It had been tucked into a chest in your grandfather’s attic when you were ten. You weren’t supposed to be exploring, let alone snooping through heirlooms. But when you found the little volume wrapped in old linen, it felt like fate. You'd spent the entire summer hiding under an oak tree, reading it beneath the leaves and branches, heart pounding at every footstep like you might be caught stealing treasure.

But you hadn’t been caught.

He’d found you.

“That one’s got more heart than a regiment of men, my little one,” your grandfather had said with a crooked grin, ruffling your hair as you clutched the book to your chest. “Keep that close. It’s braver than half this bloodline.”

He’d been your compass ever since. Your shield when the rest of the family stared down their noses. He never asked you to be more polite, more polished, more perfect. He just asked you to be you.

Little One. That was his name for you. No one else ever used it, and you never let them try.

You curled your fingers around the book now like a lifeline. You hadn’t told him about the letter yet. Part of you wanted to see the look on his face—proud, defiant, unshaken by the scandal it would cause. Another part of you wondered if this time, even he wouldn’t be able to protect you from the storm that was coming.

But you’d already made up your mind.

Tonight, the Carrington family would host yet another gala in a ballroom of chandeliers and champagne smiles. And when it ended, after the masks slipped and the guests departed, you would do what no Carrington ever dared.

You would tell them the truth.

You were joining the military.

Not because they wanted you to.

Because they didn’t.

And you were done pretending.

The ballroom shimmered with gold and empty praise.

Crystal chandeliers sparkled above heads bowed in performative laughter. Silver trays floated through the crowd, gloved hands serving champagne to people who cared more about appearances than substance.

You stood at the edge of the chaos, wrapped in emerald silk that your mother insisted on. The dress pinched your ribs and flattened your spirit—polished, perfect, and so very not you.

Across the room, your siblings glided from conversation to conversation like they were born for this. The golden children. Their futures lined in silver spoons and framed degrees.

You? You were a decoration. A tolerated presence.

A disappointment.

Your mother’s hand landed lightly on your arm. “Smile, dear. You’re frightening the Earl’s daughter.”

You didn’t look at her. “She should be frightened.”

“Don’t be childish,” she hissed. “We agreed. No scenes.”

We had agreed on nothing. You were just playing along—for now.

“I said I’d wait until the end of the evening,” you replied coolly. “I’m keeping my word.”

Her grip tightened, nails digging into your skin beneath the sleeve. “You’ll ruin everything.”

You turned, meeting her gaze head-on. “Maybe everything needs ruining.”

Across the room, you caught your grandfather watching. He raised a brow over his glass. You gave him the faintest nod.

Soon.

So, you waited patiently till the party ended.

Hours later, the guests were gone. The music had faded. The room was empty but for the scent of roses and whiskey and long-buried resentment.

You stood in the drawing room, shoulders back, facing the three people who had shaped your life in vastly different ways.

Your father was already drinking.

“You’ve embarrassed this family,” he snapped before you could speak. “All this—this rebellion. This stunt. The military? Do you understand how that reflects on us?”

You did. Perfectly.

“I understand that it finally reflects me,” you said. “And I’m done living as someone else’s ideal.”

Your mother, seated stiffly beside him, dabbed her eyes but said nothing.

Cowardice, dressed in lace.

“You’ve always been difficult,” your father sneered. “Ungrateful. You could’ve had anything.”

“I wanted purpose, not pearls.”

The glass in his hand shattered against the hearth.

And then he raised it.

But his hand never reached you.

A sharp crack filled the room as a cane smacked hard against your father’s wrist. The drink clattered to the floor.

“Touch her again,” your grandfather said coldly, “and I’ll forget you’re my son.”

Everyone froze.

“I may be an old man, but I’m not blind. She’s the only one in this house with the guts to live her own life. You should all be ashamed.”

You stood taller as he crossed the room and laid a hand on your shoulder.

“You go be a soldier, Little One. And don’t you dare apologize for it.”

The manor was cold the morning you left. Not from the weather, but from the people inside it.

No one came to see you off.No mother wringing her hands.No father pretending to be proud. No siblings sneaking one last hug.

Just your grandfather—waiting in the driveway in his pressed coat and polished boots, as if he were heading to war again instead of saying goodbye to his granddaughter.

You’d packed light. A duffel, your issued gear, and the worn copy of Sense and Sensibility tucked safely in your jacket pocket, right where it belonged. The only thing brought from home or your previous life.

The drive to the station was quiet. Familiar roads blurred past, the silence heavy but comforting. He didn’t speak until he parked beneath an old oak tree on the outskirts of the estate, right around the corner from the station—your reading tree.

Without a word, he reached into his coat and pulled out a folded letter, bound with a delicate, faded ribbon.

“I meant to give you this sooner,” he said, voice a little rougher than usual. “It belonged to your grandmother. She tied it around every letter she wrote me while I was deployed. Said it was her promise I’d always come home.”

You took it carefully, fingers brushing the soft silk. It smelled faintly of lavender and unfolded the letter by carefully removing the ribbon. You read the words written in his careful handwriting:

You will always be my little one no matter where you are and keep the book and this letter, with you. Even steel needs a heartbeat. Love you dearly, Grandpa.

“I thought,” he continued, “you might need something to hold you steady when things get loud.”

The letter was light in your palm, but it felt like it carried a thousand memories.

“I already have the book,” you whispered, throat tight.

His eyes crinkled in that way they did when he was proud but trying not to show it. “Books are for when the fight is over. Letters… they’re for the middle of the storm.���

You hugged him fiercely, that ribbon pressed between your hearts, and he just laughed and whispered, “You’ve got the soul of a soldier and the heart of an angel. “Go make them eat their words, Little One.”

You didn’t look back when you boarded that train.

You knew he was watching until you disappeared.

Months later....

You didn’t check the mail anymore. Not since you cut contact with everyone back home— Everyone except him.

So when you spotted the crisp cream-colored envelope tucked between supply reports and terrain maps, your breath caught.

Your family crest. Wax seal intact. Cold. Precise. As if your last name alone still demanded respect you’d long since abandoned.

It couldn’t be—

No.

Your fingers hesitated before tearing it open, dread crawling up your spine.

Miss,It is with regret that we inform you of the passing of General Alexander Carrington.Services will be held privately. Attendance not required.

No signature. No warmth. Not even a “sincerely.”

Just a death notice delivered like an invoice.

Your knees went weak. You sat hard on the edge of your cot, the world tilting sideways. The barracks buzzed around you, but it all felt muted, wrong. Like the ground had shifted beneath your boots.

You clutched the letter in one hand, the ribbon your grandfather had given you in the other.

No “Little One.”No memory.No him.

He was the last real piece of home. The only one who ever saw you for who you were. Who looked past the dirt under your nails and the steel in your spine and called it bravery, not rebellion.

You'd already lost your place at the dinner table. Now you'd lost your anchor.

You didn’t cry. Not really.

But the ache settled in your chest like a second heartbeat. A quiet throb of grief pulsing just beneath the surface.

“Lieutenant?”

You blinked. Lewis, your partner, stood in the doorway, holding two coffees and a protein bar. His expression softened the moment he saw your face.

“What happened?”

You looked away, forcing your voice even. “Just some mail.”

He didn’t push. Just handed you the coffee, clapped a hand to your shoulder, and sat in silence.

But there was no time to mourn. Not here. Not now.

“Lewis,” you called out sharply. “Let’s move. Command tent. Now.”

He blinked at your voice—low, strained—but followed without hesitation. No questions.

Inside, mission chatter had already begun.

“Target coordinates shifted again,” Lewis muttered as you rolled out the new map overlay. “That’s the third time this week.”

You frowned, eyes narrowing at the movement patterns. “That’s not random.”

“Intel says recon team’s pinned. We’re extraction. Sector Echo.”

“Too hot,” you said under your breath. “They know we’re coming.”

“Maybe that’s the point.”

Your commanding officer stormed in, barking orders before you could dig deeper. “You leave in ten. Locked and loaded.”

And just like that, there was no more time to grieve.

Minutes later, you were armored, armed, and climbing into the back of a tactical truck with five others. Desert wind lashed at your face. The weight of your gear was second only to the weight in your chest.

Lewis smirked beside you. “Lieutenant,” he said, voice low, “you ready to kick some ass ?”

You managed a tight grin. “Only if you don’t slow me down.”

Twenty clicks out, the first blast hit.

A ripple in the earth. A sound like the world tearing itself open.

The vehicle behind you flipped into the sky—metal and flame in a single breath. Screams followed. Smoke and sand swallowed the horizon.

“AMBUSH!” someone roared.

You hit the ground hard. Rolled. Came up on your knees, gun raised. You fired. Moved. Fired again.

Too many hostiles. Too fast.

Lewis was dragging a rookie behind a broken dune wall. You followed, diving beside him as bullets chewed through the air above your head.

“THEY JAMMED COMMS!” someone shouted.

Of course they had. This wasn’t bad luck. This was a trap.

Your hand instinctively moved to your chest—not for your weapon, but for the letter. The book.

He wouldn’t have run. You wouldn’t either.

“Cover me,” you growled to Lewis.

He opened fire. You sprinted forward. Dodged left and and then you heard it.

A whirring. A click. And then,

BOOM.

The impact sent you flying backwards. Dirt and concrete screamed around you.

Pain shot through your abdomen you slammed into the wreckage. Your ears rang, your vision blurred by brilliant, blinding flash.

A noise that didn’t belong. A rip through space, like time itself had cracked.

You felt your body lift off the ground, weightless.

You clutched at your jacket, at the book. At the last thing you had left.

Then darkness.

You didn’t remember falling. Only the heat and the fire—and then suddenly, quiet.

Your cheek was pressed to damp grass, not hot sand. The air was cool, scented with wildflowers and pine, not diesel fuel and gunpowder. Your lashes fluttered open, blurry with pain and confusion, and the sun that filtered through the trees above you was soft. Golden. Gentle.

You blinked.

Birds.

Birds were singing.

No comms chatter. No drone of engines. No shouted commands.

Just… the breeze.

Your hand instinctively reached for your side. Warm, sticky blood clung to your fingers. The wound burned beneath your ribs, radiating into your shoulder and neck. You sucked in a hiss between your teeth.

Training kicked in. You pulled off your outer jacket and tied it tight around your middle. A crude pressure bandage. It would do for now.

Slowly, you pushed yourself up to your knees, vision swimming. The clearing stretched out in front of you, edged by dense woods. No sign of your team. No smoke. No gear.

No wreckage.

You stood unsteadily, boots crunching softly against leaves and gravel, and staggered forward. Your body screamed with every step, but confusion numbed the worst of it. Trees gave way to an open path, and ahead, rising beyond a gentle slope—was a town.

A real, actual town.

Not the run down outposts you were used to, but a cluster of charming buildings with thatched roofs, ivy-covered chimneys, and cobblestone streets. You crouched in the brush, eyes wide.

A horse-drawn carriage passed by.

What the actual hell?

You rubbed your eyes and looked again. Women in bonnets and gowns. Men in coats and cravats. No cars. No phones. No modern anything.

Your breath caught in your throat.

This can’t be real. I’m dreaming. Or I’m concussed. Maybe this is the afterlife.

But then your hand reached inside your jacket on instinct. Felt for the only thing that ever brought you calm.

The book. Still there. Still real. Sense and Sensibility.

Your breath hitched.

Stone, elegant, towering. With wide green lawns, proud columns, and the precise silhouette you’d traced a thousand times with your eyes across your favourite pages.

The manor....Delaford.

You nearly sobbed.

You knew the outline of every pillar. Every tree. Every carved window frame. Not because you’d seen it, but because you’d imagined it. Lived it. Through pages. Through your grandfather’s voice.

This wasn’t just a hallucination. It was something more, something deeper.

It was real.

But your body was failing you now. Your legs buckled just outside the estate grounds. The pressure from the wound throbbed relentlessly, your breathing ragged.

Behind you, the distant barking of a dog.

Voices.

Panic kicked in.

You stumbled behind a thick copse of trees and bushes, crouching low, breath shallow. Your vision blurred again.

Footsteps.

A man's voice. Low, cultured. Concerned.

And then… darkness crept at the edges of your mind as your knees gave out fully, your hand clutching the book even as you fell. The final image burned into your brain before everything went black was of that same magnificent estate,its silhouette against the golden sky like a memory you’d never lived.

A dream. A page comes to life.

And then, nothing.

The early morning air was heavy with mist as Colonel Brandon guided his horse along the familiar outskirts of Delaford. The countryside, though lush and peaceful, did little to soothe the restlessness that had plagued him of late.

He had woken before dawn again. Another dreamless night. Another empty breakfast. Another letter from Sir John, urging him—kindly, persistently—to make an appearance at Barton Park. “The Dashwoods have come,” the note had read. “Charming ladies, Brandon, you must visit!”

Brandon sighed. It was not that he disliked company. But too often, the laughter and warmth of others only reminded him how long it had been since he'd felt either.

His life, though well-ordered and respectable, often felt… unfinished. As if something had once begun and never found its way to the end.

Lost in thought, he might’ve missed the hounds barking if they hadn’t grown frantic. One of them darted sharply toward a thicket near the boundary line.

“Down, Caesar,” he called, reining in his horse.

But what he saw next made him freeze mid-step.

There, crumpled beneath the gnarled branches of an old oak, lay a woman.

At first, he thought she was a servant, perhaps, or some injured traveller. But as he drew closer, the sight unsettled him. She wore no dress, but trousers, oddly cut and unfamiliar. Her jacket was strange too, stained with blood on the side. Her boots looked more suited to war than to walking. And clutched tightly in her hand was a small, worn book.

He crouched beside her, careful not to startle. Her breathing was shallow, her brow damp with fever. And she was young. Far too young to be out here alone, and dressed like—well, like no one he had ever seen.

He pried the book gently from her fingers. The cover was plain, smudged with dirt and barely legible. He turned it over in his hands, finding no name, no inscription. Just well-worn pages and a folded corner where she’d last stopped reading.

Brandon frowned, unsettled by a strange, inexplicable tug at his chest. Something about her felt… important. As if the universe had just dropped a question in his lap and dared him to ignore it.

He lifted her carefully, surprised by how light she was, and how tightly her fingers had gripped the book, even unconscious.

Who was she? And what in God’s name had happened to her?

As he turned back toward Delaford, Brandon cast one last glance at the thicket behind him, now silent again. The morning had begun like any other.

But something told him—it would not end that way.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

[gimpwithoutorgans]

People saying that Armand wore those slutty outfits as Fake Rashid purely for Daniel. Like Louis wasn’t picking out those outfits for Armand everyday🤨. Like they weren’t in a 24/7 Master/servant dynamic that didn’t even stop when Daniel WAS ALSEEP. Like Louis didn’t also know from reading Daniel’s thoughts he was lusting after Fake Rashid. It’s never too late to buy Loumandaniel stock!

[luna-azzurra]

10 Quiet Ways Your Character Is Breaking Their Own Heart (And Pretending It's Fine)

These are the betrayals that aren’t loud. They don’t come with fireworks or screaming matches. These are the small, slow deaths. The ones that your character lets happen... while smiling politely.

» They say yes when they desperately want to say no. Every. Damn. Time. They show up when they're exhausted. They agree to things they hate. They make themselves smaller, softer, easier, because "good people" don’t make waves, right? (Spoiler: they're drowning.)

» They keep chasing people who only love them halfway. It's not even subtle anymore. They know these people leave them on "read," show up late, make them feel like an afterthought. But they cling anyway, spinning every scrap of affection into a story about hope. (It’s not hope. It’s hunger.)

» They refuse to believe good things are meant for them. They’ll hype everyone else up. They’ll believe in everyone else's dreams. But when something finally good lands in their lap? They’ll panic. Push it away. Tell themselves it was a fluke. (Because being disappointed feels safer than being lucky.)

» They’re waiting for closure that will never come. An apology. An explanation. A miracle where someone says, "You were right, and I was wrong, and I’m so sorry." They wait years. Decades. Lifetimes. But deep down, they know: some people never come back. Some stories just end without punctuation.

» They’re hoarding all their "almosts" like treasures. The job they almost got. The love that almost worked. The version of themselves they almost became. They replay those maybes like a greatest hits album. (Meanwhile, real life is slipping by while they mourn possibilities.)

» They’re performing a version of success they secretly hate. Look at the Instagram. Look at the LinkedIn updates. Look at the shiny exterior. It looks like winning. But every trophy they collect feels heavier, not lighter. Every promotion tastes a little more like ash. (Turns out, chasing someone else's dream is still losing.)

» They forgive people who aren’t sorry. Not because they’re enlightened. Not because they’ve healed. But because it’s easier to pretend it didn’t hurt than to sit with the fact that it did—and that the person responsible doesn't care. (Some wounds scar better when you stop pretending they were accidents.)

» They punish themselves for still being soft. The world told them, again and again, that soft things get broken. And they believed it. So every time they feel too much? Every time they cry or hope or trust? They tell themselves they’re weak. Stupid. Embarrassing. (They're not. They're just still alive.)

» They downplay their own magic. They call their talents "lucky breaks." Their beauty "average." Their intelligence "no big deal." They shrug off compliments like they're dangerous. Because deep down, they've been taught that being remarkable makes you a target.

» They cling to the idea that if they just work harder, they'll finally be enough. They believe in meritocracy like it’s a religion. That if they hustle hard enough, self-sacrifice deep enough, burn themselves to ash perfectly enough, someone, somewhere, will finally say, "You're worthy now." (They were always worthy. The system is just broken.)

[edenarchives]

♯┆𝐅𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐓 .ᐟ — 𝐁𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐆𝐎 𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐈

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You’ve faked it with every guy you’ve ever worked with. Every scene, every moan, convincing, but never real. Then Bakugo happens. One scene turns into something else entirely and now you can’t stop thinking about him, and you’re starting to wonder if it was ever just a scene.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+ content. smut, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, fingering, rough sex, praise, light degradation, dirty talk, light choking, possessiveness, semi-public sex (on set), creampie, light aftercare, porn industry setting, blurred emotional lines, language.

PART TWO

You weren’t nervous. Not really.

You’d done this a hundred times. With all the big names—Keigo, who liked to make everything a performance; Touya, who had a thing for whispering filth like he was telling you a secret; even that wild three-way with Shindo and Hitoshi that still topped your subscriber requests.

So no, this wasn’t nerves.

This was something else.

Maybe it was the name on the call sheet. Bakugo Katsuki.

He was the guy. The one who didn’t just act like a powerhouse on camera—he was one. Every scene he was in got clipped, shared, memed, thirsted after. The kind of raw intensity people couldn’t stop watching. Or jerking off to.

You included. Not that you’d admit it out loud.

Okay. Maybe once. When you were wine drunk and swiping through his catalog. Maybe twice. Maybe more.

You’d watched him wreck other girls. Watched the way his hands gripped hips like he owned them. The way his mouth dragged moans out like he knew exactly what buttons to push. You always told yourself it was research. Prep for the inevitable scene.

Now here you were, in the makeup chair, legs crossed, phone in hand, trying not to stare at the clock. You didn’t even get this antsy for award shows.

You shifted your hips a little. God, you needed to get a grip.

“Five minutes, Y/N,” someone called from set.

You gave a casual wave, sliding your phone into your bag. Cool. Easy. You’d done this before. You were the girl. The one who always looked good, always knew her angles, always gave the most convincing moans. No one ever knew they were fake.

No one needed to.

You only did this for the money. Never caught feelings, never chased orgasms. You could finish on your own time. You always did.

But when you walked onto set and saw him—arms crossed, shirtless, sweatpants hanging low, like the cameras were already rolling—your breath hitched.

And then his eyes locked on you.

Bakugo didn’t smile. He smirked. All sharp teeth and slow drags of his gaze. Like he was already undressing you in his head.

“‘Bout time,” he said, voice low and cocky.

You raised a brow. “Don’t get cocky, Dynamight.”

He stepped forward, close enough that you had to tilt your chin up. He smelled like something spicy—cologne, sweat, and danger. His smirk widened.

“Too late, princess. I’ve seen your work. Bet I could make you actually cum.”

You laughed. It came out a little shaky. “You think you’re the first guy to say that?”

“Nah,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek like he had every right to touch you already. “But I’ll be the first one to prove it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your stomach flipped anyway. Cocky bastard. You weren’t new to bold claims—hell, you’d heard that same line from half the industry. But something about the way he said it, all low and sure like it was a promise, made your pulse skip.

You turned away before he could see the heat rising to your cheeks.

The scene started like any other.

Lights. Camera. Action.

You were on your back, legs spread, eyes half-lidded. Your moans were perfectly timed, your hands moving just how they were supposed to.

Bakugo was above you, teasing at first, fingers trailing up your thigh, smirking like he had all the time in the world. You tried to stay in character. Tried to focus.

But then his fingers actually slipped inside, and holy shit—

You bit your lip.

That felt… different.

His fingers weren’t just thrusting. They curled. Pressed. Rubbed against the spot you usually had to hunt for on your own. And when he looked down at you, his eyes weren’t blank or performative. They were locked in. Watching every twitch of your mouth. Every hitch in your breath.

“You always fake it this early?” he muttered under his breath, so low only you could hear.

Your stomach flipped. Your thighs tensed.

“What?” you managed, voice barely a whisper.

Bakugo chuckled. It rumbled low in his chest.

“You’re tight,” he said, dragging his thumb over your clit just right. “But you ain’t clenching like you mean it. Not yet.”

And then he sucked on your inner thigh.

Not for the camera. Not for show.

For you.

Your back arched on instinct.

“Relax,” he murmured, lips brushing against your skin. “I got you.”

And you hated—hated—how badly you wanted to believe him.

He didn’t start slow.

He licked into you like he was starving, like he’d been starving, and this was his first meal in weeks. His tongue was hot, wet, relentless—flicking against your clit in firm, practiced strokes that had your legs trembling before you could even bite back the first moan.

You weren’t acting.

Not anymore.

Your hands gripped the sheets beneath you, white-knuckled, and your lips parted like you wanted to say something, but all that came out was a broken little gasp.

“Oh fuck—”

He hummed against you. Smug bastard.

“Don’t hold back now, princess,” he murmured, dragging his tongue up your slit slow, then latching back onto your clit like he owned it. “Let’s show ‘em what it looks like when it’s real.”

You whimpered. Whimpered. You didn’t do that.

Not even when Keigo pulled out the toys. Not even when Touya did that breathy thing in your ear.

This was different.

You tried—tried—to keep it together, but his mouth moved like he already knew every inch of you. Tongue swirling, lips sucking, fingers still working inside you like he wasn’t giving you a fucking choice. He knew exactly where to press, where to flick, when to slow down and when to pick it back up again.

And it wasn’t even for the camera.

It was for you.

Your stomach coiled, tight. Too tight.

Your breathing hitched. Your thighs started to shake. You were going to—

“No,” you gasped, voice panicked, eyes fluttering. “Don’t—fuck—I’m—”

“Yeah you are,” Bakugo growled, pulling back just long enough to look at you. His mouth was wet with you, lips swollen, eyes wild. “C’mon. Don’t fake it. Just fuckin’ let go.”

And then he sucked—hard—right over your clit.

Your body snapped.

The orgasm hit like a wave crashing through you, ripping the air from your lungs. You didn’t fake it. You couldn’t. Your moans were raw, broken, punched out of you like the wind got knocked from your chest. You shook, hands flying to his hair, thighs locking around his head as your back arched off the bed.

And he didn’t stop.

Kept going. Licking, pressing, dragging your orgasm out like he wanted to ruin you.

You came again, again, before you’d even come down from the first.

Your voice cracked. “Bakugo, I—I can’t—”

“Yeah you can,” he muttered, not letting up for a second. “You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good. Look at you.”

You couldn’t. Your vision blurred. Your whole body was buzzing, on fire, shaking like you’d lost control of every single nerve ending. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You didn’t lose it like this.

But god, he was still licking you through it, fingers still curling right there, his voice low and wrecked as he talked you through it like he wanted to brand the sound of your orgasm into your memory forever.

“You gonna cum for me again?” he asked, voice gravel and heat, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

You nodded, desperate, lost.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say it’s real.”

Your lips trembled.

“It’s real,” you gasped, breathless, broken. “It’s real, fuck I’m gonna—”

And just like that, you came undone again. Loud. Messy. Helpless.

Bakugo didn’t stop until your hips were twitching, your thighs were soaked, and your moans turned into soft little sobs of overstimulation.

The lights above you still burned hot. The cameras were still rolling. But everything else felt far away—muted, blurry, unreal. Your legs were jelly. Your chest rose and fell like you’d just run a marathon. And Bakugo was still between them, licking his lips like he’d just tasted something forbidden and planned to do it again.

Your brain was still fogged when he stood, stretching to his full height.

Then his hands were back on you, big and warm and so sure, gripping your waist like he owned it. He flipped you over effortlessly, face down, ass up, skin still hot and damp with sweat. Your thighs trembled when they spread open again, already overstimulated and soaked.

Bakugo slid his hands up your back. Slow. Possessive.

“You feel that?” he murmured, leaning over you, his cock grinding against your ass with lazy pressure. “That twitch in your legs? That little shake?”

You nodded weakly, eyes fluttering.

“That’s mine now.”

Your breath caught as he pulled his hips back. You barely had time to process before the thick head of his cock was pressing against your entrance—hot, heavy, and already wet from you.

“You ready?” he asked, but it wasn’t a question. It was a warning.

Then he pushed in.

Slow. All the way to the hilt. Letting you feel every inch. Stretching you open, filling you to the fucking brim. You choked on a moan, fingers gripping the sheets like your life depended on it.

He didn’t move at first. Just stayed there, buried deep inside you, letting your pussy throb around him.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, hips flexing. “So fuckin’ tight. Can feel you squeezing me already.”

You were. He hadn’t even started moving yet and you were clenching around him like you didn’t want him to leave.

Then—he moved.

A slow drag out. A sharp thrust back in. Deep. Deeper. Your mouth dropped open. No sound came out.

“That the spot?” he murmured, hips rolling again, hitting the same angle, slow and deliberate.

You nodded, gasping.

“You better fuckin’ tell me when you’re close,” he growled, pace still maddeningly slow. “I wanna feel it. I wanna hear it.”

He reached around and pressed two fingers against your clit, rubbing soft, teasing circles that made your arms give out. You dropped to your elbows, back arching like he’d wired you for pleasure.

Then he started really fucking you.

Not fast. Not rough. Just deep. Every. Single. Stroke. Reaching places that made your eyes roll back. His hips snapped forward with just enough force to jolt you up the bed, his fingers never leaving your clit.

You moaned into the mattress, voice high and broken.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “That’s the fuckin’ sound I wanted.”

You were spiraling. Every thrust, every rub, every low growl in your ear sent you closer to the edge.

“Bakugo, I—I’m gonna—”

“Yeah?” he grunted, hips picking up speed, still hitting that spot that made your toes curl. “Then fuckin’ cum for me.”

You shattered.

You clenched around him so tight he groaned, biting down on a curse as your body trembled under him. Your moan punched out of your throat, high and wrecked and real.

But he didn’t stop.

“Oh fuck—fuck, wait—” you gasped, hips twitching as he kept thrusting, dragging you straight into another orgasm with no break.

He leaned over you, voice low in your ear. “Not fakin’ now, huh?”

You shook your head wildly, whining into the sheets.

“Bet you never came like this on set before,” he said, voice rough. “Bet no one’s ever made you cum like this off it either.”

He wrapped a hand in your hair and pulled gently, just enough to lift your head.

“Say it.”

You could barely speak. “No one. No one but you.”

“Damn right.”

His thrusts sped up, rougher now, deeper. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, joined by your wrecked little gasps, your whines, the slick mess between your thighs.

“You hear that?” he said, low and smug. “That fuckin’ sound your pussy’s makin’? That’s all me.”

You whimpered, and he slapped your ass—not hard, just enough to make you clench again.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he groaned, hips stuttering. “You’re gonna make me cum just like that.”

And then he slammed into you. Hard. Once. Twice. Over and over. You screamed—literally—as another orgasm crashed through you, your body locking up, eyes rolling back.

“Fuckfuckfuck—” he gasped, and then pulled out just in time to stroke himself twice, thick ropes of cum painting your back, his voice ragged as he came with a low, wrecked growl.

You collapsed.

No faking. No poses. Just you, ruined on the sheets, shaking and soaked and completely fucking gone.

Bakugo dropped to his knees behind you, panting. He grabbed a towel off the edge of the bed, wiped you down gently—so gently it made your chest ache.

“You good?” he asked, voice quiet now. Careful.

You nodded, still dizzy. Still pulsing. Still floating.

“I came so many times I lost count,” you whispered, dazed.

He chuckled, cocky and low. “Good.”

You rolled onto your side, trying to catch your breath.

“That was supposed to be a scene,” you mumbled. “That felt like a fucking movie.”

Bakugo leaned in, kissed your bare shoulder, then smirked against your skin.

“Baby,” he murmured, “that was just the warm-up.”

You snorted softly, still breathless. “You’re insane.”

“You love it.”

Your legs were still trembling, body wrecked and used and buzzing. But something else was humming under your skin now. That ache in your core—not from need, but from power.

You rolled over, slow and deliberate, dragging your fingers down his chest. His eyes tracked every movement.

“Get on your back,” you whispered.

Bakugo raised a brow but didn’t argue. He leaned back against the pillows, smirking like he thought he still had the upper hand.

His hair was damp with sweat. His lips were swollen. His chest rose and fell in hard, uneven breaths. You’d never seen him like this.

Your grin widened.

You leaned down and kissed him—soft, slow, way too good to be acting. Then you sat back, hips lifting off him, and slid down his body.

“Where you goin’?” he rasped, half-laughing, half-breathless.

You looked up at him from between his thighs, eyes dark, lips parted. “Didn’t say I was done with you yet.”

His breath caught.

You licked up the underside of his cock—slow, teasing, wet. He twitched in your hand, muscles tensing as you took your time, letting your mouth work him like you had something to prove. And maybe you did. Maybe you just wanted to see him fall apart the way he’d done to you.

You looked up, mouth wrapped around the tip, and saw it—the crack in his composure. The soft clench of his jaw. The desperate twitch in his thigh. The helpless sound he made when you sucked just right.

“You’re so sensitive, you’re not gonna last,” you said around him, lips brushing the head.

His fingers gripped the sheets. “Don’t—don’t stop.”

You didn’t.

You kept going, messy and perfect, tongue flicking and mouth sinking deeper, until he was panting, until he was cursing under his breath, until his hips jerked off the bed.

And then you pulled off, slow, dragging your tongue over the tip one last time.

He made a noise—wrecked.

You climbed back up his body, straddling his hips again. His hands found your thighs like muscle memory, gripping tight.

You leaned down, lips brushing his jaw.

“Beg.”

He froze. “What?”

You rolled your hips once, just enough to feel the slide of his cock against your slick entrance.

“Say it,” you whispered. “Tell me you want it.”

Bakugo swallowed hard. His voice was low, rough. “I want it.”

You licked the shell of his ear, teasing. “Not good enough.”

His hands trembled where they held you. Then he growled, breath hot.

“Please.”

You stilled.

“What was that?”

He gritted his teeth. Looked up at you like he hated how much he meant it.

“Please,” he repeated. “I want you. Need you. Fuck, I’ll say whatever you want—just ride me.”

You smiled. Real. Slow. Lazy and smug.

Then you sank down on him—deep, wet, tight—and his whole body arched beneath you, a broken moan punching out of his throat like you’d ripped it from his chest.

His hands flew to your hips.

You rode him slow. Sweet. All control. And when he finally came again—loud, raw, completely undone—you kissed him through it. Held him through it.

And when he whispered your name afterward, soft and stunned, like he didn’t know what just hit him

You smiled. Because for once, it wasn’t just acting.

Neither of you moved right away. His arms were still around you, chest rising and falling under your cheek, skin damp with sweat, muscles twitching beneath your fingers. Your heart was still beating too fast, and so was his.

Eventually, though, you had to get up. Had to move. The spell didn’t break, exactly—it just faded enough to remember where you were, who you were, what this was supposed to be.

You pulled on your robe in silence, legs still shaking slightly, and glanced at him across the bed. He sat up slow, pushing his hair back, watching you with something unreadable in his eyes. Like maybe he had more to say, but didn’t know how. Or didn’t think he should.

You hesitated.

So did he.

“Um…I’ll see you around,” you said, trying to make it sound casual, even though your voice came out a little too soft.

“Yeah,” he said, standing and reaching for his clothes. “Guess you will.”

Your stomach twisted, weirdly tight, but you smiled anyway. You nodded once, turned, and walked off set without looking back.

You didn’t see the way he watched you go.

Didn’t see the way his fingers flexed like he wanted to reach for you.

Didn’t hear the low, quiet fuck that slipped from under his breath when the door finally shut behind you.

You got home and didn’t even shower right away.

You peeled off your clothes slow, every muscle sore in the best possible way, and collapsed into bed wearing nothing but an oversized hoodie and your post-fuck glow. Your thighs ached. Your voice was half-gone. Your lips were still swollen.

You looked wrecked.

You felt worse.

And yet somehow, the only thing you could think about was him. The way he’d looked at you. The way he sounded saying your name. The way his hands had held you after like he wasn’t ready to let go.

You tried to distract yourself. Pulled up the scene, freshly posted not even an hour ago.

It already had thousands of likes. Hundreds of comments. More than anything you’d dropped in months.

You scrolled.

StepOnMeY/N: Holy shit, that was unreal.

BbyBakuGo: not y/n faking with everyone but bakugo

ToyasToy: Was that real? Tell me that was real.

It was.

You scrolled further.

KeigoOfficial: I feel personally offended. Gonna have to step my game up. Rematch y/n?

TouyaTodo: faked it? With me? damn. i must be losing my edge. hit me up when you wanna make it real doll.

You smirked.

Your DM notifications were blowing up. People you’d worked with. People you hadn’t. Everyone suddenly curious. Hungry. Competitive.

Your stomach flipped. It was fun. It was flattering. But none of it hit quite the same.

Then you saw it.

BakugoK: Already need more from my favorite girl.

You stared at it.

Read it once.

Twice.

A third time, just to make sure it was real.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your fingers went numb. You sat up in bed, heart pounding in your chest like it was trying to escape. Because what the fuck did that mean?

You clicked on his profile. Double checked that it was him.

It was.

No emoji. No game. Just a single comment that said everything and nothing all at once.

Already need more.

Favorite girl.

You slammed your laptop shut and screamed into your pillow. You kicked your feet like a schoolgirl. You laughed—hysterical, breathless, completely losing your mind.

Then you opened your laptop, stared at the comment again, and whispered out loud to no one

“Oh my god.”

Because yeah—you’d done this a hundred times. But this one was different.

[carnalcrows]

LAVENDER'S BLUE

summary: You weren’t supposed to be seen. But one night, one dance, and one stolen look from a boy you didn’t know was a prince changes everything. Now the kingdom is looking for you—and you have to decide if you’re brave enough to be found.

pairing: prince charming! gojo saturo x cinderella! male reader

content warnings: 18+, romance, fluff, angst, smut (oral + p in a), bottom male reader, signs of abuse, reader has chronic back pain, rats.

word count: 9.0k --- spotify playlist

best viewed in dark mode

There’s a quiet to the attic that doesn’t exist anywhere else in the house.

It settles after midnight, when the girls are done with their games and their laughter has thinned to silence. When your stepfather’s footsteps stop echoing through the halls. When the fire burns low and the wine is gone, and there’s no one left to perform cruelty for.

It’s only then that the house exhales—and you can breathe.

You sit on the floorboards beside the bucket you haven’t emptied yet. The rag in your hands is damp, skin-roughening with soot. It’s not a real task, not something that anyone told you to do. You just needed something to keep your hands busy. Something that gives shape to the hours between darkness and dawn.

Your fingers are raw. Your knees ache. There’s ash on your sleeves and a splinter in your thumb, but you don’t mind. The attic is cold, yes, but it’s yours. Or at least—it's the one place no one else bothers to climb. That counts for something.

You glance toward the slanted window tucked beneath the roofline. The sky is silver. Cloudless. The moon stares back at you like it knows something you don’t.

You lower your eyes before it can say anything out loud.

⋆｡°✩

There are mice in the attic. They keep their distance.

You’ve never named them—not out loud—but they come and go often enough that you’ve started to recognise them. One of them is missing a patch of fur behind the ear. One always carries crumbs bigger than its body. One skitters in tight circles before settling, like it needs to outrun its own shadow.

You think they must be cold too. Winter came early this year, and the insulation in the upper floors is barely more than memory. The girls have fireplaces and velvet robes. You have a blanket that smells like dust and the long sleeves of your mother’s old shirt, which you’re not supposed to wear but do anyway, under your tunic. Hidden. Just for warmth.

Sometimes, the mice come closer when you hum under your breath. You pretend it’s a coincidence.

⋆｡°✩

The house used to be warm. You remember it that way—brief flashes of your mother’s hands kneading dough in the kitchen, her voice humming off-key while she watered the herb pots by the windows. Back then, the floors didn’t creak like they were grieving, and sunlight used to touch the corners of the room without shame.

Now, it’s Geto’s house. Not in name, maybe, but in power. His daughters move through the rooms like they were born from silk and contempt. They call you by your name when they need something scrubbed, but otherwise, you’re “him.” Or worse.

You used to try to win them over. You tried for a long time.

And then you stopped.

Now you keep your head down and your back straight. You work quickly, quietly. You sleep with your door locked. You speak only when spoken to, and not even always then.

There is safety in silence.

⋆｡°✩

The announcement comes over burnt toast and tea that tastes like bark.

You’re not meant to sit at the table, but Mimiko was too distracted by her own reflection this morning to complain, and Geto likes to pretend he doesn’t see you unless he’s scolding you. You’ve learned to drift along the edges of the room—quiet, invisible, but still useful.

“There’s to be a royal ball,” Geto says, flipping the parchment open with a lazy flick of his fingers. “Every eligible noble and commoner invited. Apparently, the prince is looking to marry.”

You don’t react. You butter the toast without looking up.

Nanako lets out a delighted gasp. “A royal ball! Father, we’ll go, won’t we? We’ll need gowns. Jewels. A carriage—”

“Slow down, sweetheart,” Geto replies, folding the parchment again. “There’ll be time.”

“He shouldn’t go,” Mimiko chimes in suddenly, her voice sickly sweet. “He’ll be there. Can you imagine?” She turns to you with a sharp smile. “You, in the presence of royalty? You’d embarrass the kingdom.”

There’s a pause. Just long enough for the moment to sting.

You don’t look at her. You nod, eyes fixed on your plate. You’ve become good at that—at swallowing down every little hurt before it blooms.

“That’s settled then,” Geto says, as if he were the one being mocked. “He stays home.”

You don’t ask who’ll clean the house before they leave. You already know.

⋆｡°✩

That night, you find yourself standing at the attic window again, forehead pressed to the glass.

It’s a habit you picked up as a child—watching the moonlight slip across the world while you imagined someone, anyone, looking back.

You used to tell yourself that one day, someone would. That someone would see you and know you. Not as a servant. Not as an afterthought. But as a person with a name, and a voice, and a heart that beats just as loudly as anyone else’s.

You don’t really believe that anymore.

But you watch the moon anyway.

Just in case.

The morning after the announcement, the house becomes unbearable.

There are fabric samples strewn across every chair. Shoeboxes lining the hallway. Perfumed letters arriving by raven—twice, even thrice a day. Mimiko and Nanako move through the rooms like glittering tornadoes, screeching over colour palettes and necklines, screaming at seamstresses who pretend not to flinch.

You scrub the floors while they argue about lace.

They barely notice you anymore. You’re just the shape that keeps the house polished. A pair of hands. A name they speak only when something’s spilt.

You try not to mind.

You’ve had practice.

⋆｡°✩

Geto brings in a mirror the size of a door and installs it in the dining room. “For fittings,” he says, waving off the servants as if he weren’t one once himself.

He stands behind his daughters as they twirl and pout, appraising them like fine art he expects someone else to purchase. He corrects posture. Adjusts wrists. Tells Mimiko she’s standing like a peasant. Tells Nanako she’s gaining weight.

You fold linens in the corner and try not to breathe too loudly.

He never looks at you. But you feel his disapproval anyway. It clings to your skin like ash.

⋆｡°✩

The day of the ball arrives like frost.

You wake before the sun, dress in silence, and sweep the staircases before anyone else opens their doors. There’s a rhythm to it now—scrub, rinse, repeat. The ache in your spine is familiar and comforting in its own small way. Pain, at least, is consistent.

By noon, the house smells like citrus oil and powdered sugar. The dresses are hung. The carriage is polished. Everything is perfect.

Except for you.

You stand by the front hall with the box of hairpins still in your hands as Geto makes his final inspection.

He nods once, satisfied. Then turns to you.

“You’ll stay here,” he says flatly. “Don’t open the windows. Don’t leave the house. And for heaven’s sake, stay out of sight.”

You nod. Of course.

The carriage pulls away.

And just like that—you’re alone again.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t cry.

You’re not a child anymore. You don’t believe in being rescued, and you don’t believe in magic. This world is a hard, cold thing, and there’s no use wishing it weren’t.

Still.

You wander through the empty rooms with the kind of quiet you imagine the dead must carry. Your hands drag across polished bannisters, past doorknobs and glass and velvet cushions that were never meant for you.

In the sitting room, a single slice of cake sits abandoned on a tray.

You don’t touch it.

Instead, you climb the stairs. Past the bedrooms. Past the locked study. All the way up to the top. To the attic. To the place you belong.

And when you close the door behind you, the weight settles over your shoulders like it always does—familiar and heavy.

But tonight, it feels just a little bit heavier.

Maybe because you let yourself imagine it.

Just for a moment.

⋆｡°✩

The sound comes just before nightfall.

A knocking—no, not quite. More like a sharp pop, a crack of air and wind and something older than both. It echoes, muffled, through the floorboards beneath your feet.

You freeze.

It happens again. Then silence.

You step cautiously toward the window, half expecting thunder, or maybe fireworks from the palace.

But the sky is clear. The world is still.

And the only thing staring back at you is the moon.

⋆｡°✩

The sound doesn’t come again.

You wait for it. Still, as the dust motes floated in the dying light. Ears strained. Eyes fixed on the floor, as if the silence might shift again, rupture again, give you some kind of sign.

But there’s nothing.

Just your own breath. Just the wind outside, curling soft fingers against the attic window. Just the ache in your knees, the sting in your wrists. The familiar weight of another evening with nowhere to go.

You stand there for a long time.

You think—maybe you imagined it.

Maybe that’s just what happens, when hope slips through the cracks of your ribs and you don’t catch it in time.

You move to sit down.

That’s when the second knock comes.

Not from below. Not from outside. But from within the attic.

From behind the wall.

You freeze.

Not a ghost. You don’t believe in those.

Not a thief. What kind of thief breaks into the attic?

There’s a creaking, low and almost…exhausted. Like the wood itself is trying to speak. Like something ancient is being disturbed, pulled awake by the wrong hands.

And then—

A sigh.

You swear you hear a sigh.

Soft. Dry. Slightly annoyed.

“Alright,” comes a voice. Flat. Unimpressed. “That’s enough dramatics. Move.”

You backpedal so fast you knock over the bucket.

The rag hits the floor with a slap. Water spills into the cracks between the boards. You don’t even look at it. You’re too busy staring at the corner of the attic that had definitely been empty before.

It isn’t empty now.

There’s a woman.

Or—at least you think she’s a woman. Her robes are a little too long and mismatched, and there’s a cigarette tucked between her fingers despite the fact that the chimney doesn’t reach this far. Her boots are muddy. Her expression is somewhere between world-weary and mildly inconvenienced.

She looks like she’s been late to every appointment she’s ever had and hasn’t felt guilty about a single one.

And she’s standing in your attic like she owns it.

You open your mouth to speak.

She beats you to it.

“Don’t scream,” she says, not unkindly. “You’ll scare the mice.”

You don’t scream.

You don’t move either.

Which is probably for the best, because she’s already walking toward you like this is normal. Like you’re the one intruding.

“I was aiming for the cellar,” she mutters. “But nooo, the magic said ‘aim for the heart of the house,’ and look where that got me. Dust in my lungs and you looking like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You finally manage to find your voice. Sort of.

“Who—”

“Shoko,” she says, waving a hand as if that answers anything. “Let’s skip the dramatic introductions, yeah? I’m on a deadline.”

You stare.

She exhales through her nose, then gives you the same look someone might give a plant that’s taking too long to grow.

“You’re him,” she says, lighting the cigarette with a flick of her fingers. No flint. No match. Just…fire, like it was waiting for her.

You don’t answer.

“Don’t do that,” she says. “Don’t look at me like you’ve never seen someone make a dramatic entrance before. I thought all you attic-dwelling waifs lived for theatrics.”

You shake your head slowly. “I don’t know who you are.”

Shoko tilts her head.

“Well, no,” she says. “Not yet.”

⋆｡°✩

“You’ve got the look,” she says, nudging a cobweb out of the way with the back of her hand. “The quiet sort. Watches windows. Hums to keep from screaming.”

You’re still not speaking.

She sits down without asking. Cross-legged right on the attic floor like she wasn’t conjured into existence five seconds ago. Her cigarette smoke spirals toward the beams and settles around her like a crown of ash.

“I know what this is,” you finally say, voice quiet. “You’re a dream.”

Shoko snorts. “God, I wish.”

You don’t answer. The bucket of water seeps closer to your heel, a cold bloom against the wood. You stare at it. At her.

She doesn’t blink.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” she says, softer now. Not gentle, but closer. Like she’s trying. “I’m here to help.”

You shift your weight. Not quite toward her. Not quite away.

“Why?”

She flicks ash from the tip of her cigarette. It disappears before it hits the ground.

“Because you deserve it.”

You blink.

She goes on. “I’m not saying that in the philosophical, vague-fairy-tale sense. I mean it in the plain, unromantic, real-world way. You’ve done the work. You’ve survived. You’ve kept your heart from going sour even when it would’ve been easier to let it rot.”

You laugh. It’s small and brittle.

“I don’t think anyone would call me kind.”

“I didn’t say kind,” she says. “I said whole. You still have a piece of yourself that no one’s broken. That’s more than most.”

She says it so casually that it takes you a second to understand she meant it as a compliment.

You don’t know what to do with that.

You sit, slowly. She watches, but doesn’t comment.

The floor creaks beneath you. The attic is very still.

She speaks again. “Do you want to leave?”

It’s such a simple question.

Do you want to leave?

You stare at her. Your tongue feels thick.

“I can’t.”

She shrugs. “Didn’t ask if you could.”

You swallow.

“I want—” you start, then stop. “I don’t know what I want.”

“Sure you do,” she says, ashing the cigarette onto nothing. “You’ve just been taught not to say it.”

Your hands twist in your lap. She waits.

You say it like it hurts.

“I want to go. Just once. I want to be in a room where no one looks at me like I’m something to step over. I want to be wanted, just for a night. I want to know what it feels like to be seen.”

Shoko nods.

You stare at her. “That’s stupid, isn’t it?”

“No,” she says. “That’s a wish.”

⋆｡°✩

The air shifts.

It’s subtle—but you feel it. Like the attic exhales again, but this time with purpose. Something loosens in the walls, in the dark, in the shadows that have been your only company for years.

Shoko stands.

She snuffs out her cigarette on her palm. No mark. No burn.

When she speaks again, her voice is something older.

Not louder. Not deeper. But ancient. Measured. Like the moment you speak it aloud, it’ll echo.

“Then let’s give you your night.”

⋆｡°✩

She doesn’t wave a wand.

There’s no burst of glitter, no chorus, no sudden wind that tosses your hair back and makes your heart race. Nothing theatrical. Nothing pretty.

Instead, Shoko simply raises one hand—palm open—and exhales.

And the attic breathes with her.

The shadows bend first. Not away from the light, but toward it, curling like they’re waking up from a long sleep. The corners of the room soften, then blur, then ripple like heat above flame. Your breath catches in your throat.

There’s a sound, like thread pulling from cloth. And then—

Light. Dim at first. Then rising, warm and heavy like honey poured slow over your skin.

You don’t flinch.

You can’t.

It wraps around you. Not tight. Not painful. But thorough. Like it’s measuring. Weighing. Choosing.

Your shirt dissolves at the cuffs. Not burns—dissolves, the fabric unspooling into the air like mist. You lift your hands, startled, and they don’t feel like your hands anymore.

Shoko hums. “You’re lucky. Some people resist it. You—you’re letting it in.”

You blink at her, mouth dry. “Letting what in?”

She looks at you then, really looks, and says:

“Yourself.”

⋆｡°✩

The clothes build themselves, stitch by stitch.

It starts at your collarbones—warmth, pressure, then silk. Deep charcoal, almost black, but edged in silver so fine it could be moonlight. It fits perfectly, even before it finishes forming. Like it knew the shape of you before you did.

The sleeves wrap next—long, smooth, elegant. A flash of something translucent near the cuffs. Not ruffles, but something more fluid, like smoke in fabric form.

A jacket follows. Trimmed with silver thread, small accents that catch the dying light from the attic window. The kind of detail no mirror would ever see, but someone who was looking at you—really looking—might.

Your boots reform around your feet. Soft. Sleek. Practical enough to run in, but elegant enough to be remembered.

You don’t know how to breathe.

Shoko watches.

The final piece is a brooch—small, just over your heart. A pin in the shape of a crescent moon. Not garish. Not royal. Just… honest.

“I don’t understand,” you murmur, voice catching.

She doesn’t smile, but her voice is kind when she answers. “You don’t have to. Just wear it like you do.”

⋆｡°✩

The light fades.

The attic returns.

But you don’t.

You’re still you, but taller somehow. Straighter. Shoulders set. Like the weight hasn’t disappeared—but you’ve finally grown strong enough to carry it.

Your hands shake.

You press them against your chest. The fabric beneath your fingertips is real.

“I’m not supposed to be there,” you whisper.

Shoko flicks her cigarette back into her fingers and lights it with a snap.

“You’re supposed to be wherever you want to be,” she replies. “And tonight? You’re going.”

⋆｡°✩

You turn toward the attic stairs.

“Wait,” she says, and you freeze.

She tosses something into your hands.

Shoes.

Polished leather. Silver-buckled. Sleek, precise. The kind of shoes made for palace floors, not soot-stained attics. You run your thumbs over them. They’re real. Solid. One is slightly warmer than the other, like it’s holding onto something the world hasn’t seen yet.

“Enchanted?” you ask softly.

Shoko exhales smoke through her nose. “One of them.”

You blink. “Just one?”

She shrugs. “You only need one to be remembered.”

⋆｡°✩

The carriage waits at the edge of the estate.

It wasn’t there before. You would’ve heard it. Seen it. But now it sits beneath the moonlight like it’s always belonged—quiet, waiting, wheels perfectly clean despite the muddy road.

You don’t ask questions.

Shoko didn’t explain where it came from, and you didn’t ask.

You step down from the attic, cross the now-silent halls in a suit that doesn’t touch the floor when you move. The house doesn’t know you anymore. The wallpaper doesn’t sneer. The stairs don’t groan in protest. Even the silence has changed—it watches you now, instead of swallowing you whole.

You don’t look back.

Not at the staircase. Not at Geto’s study. Not at the kitchen where you used to stand barefoot and bleeding. That life still lives here, but you’ve stepped out of its skin.

For one night.

The coachman doesn’t speak. He tips his hat. The door opens. You climb in.

And the wheels turn toward the palace.

It’s farther than you thought.

You’ve seen it only from a distance—sharp spires against the horizon, gold-glass windows catching the sun like a promise. But up close, it’s something else entirely. Too large. Too luminous. The kind of place that exists outside time.

You step out into torchlight and laughter.

Music filters through marble arches. Strings and woodwinds. A swell of something grand, something old. People in silks and satin flow up the staircase like water—gloved hands, high collars, laughter polished and practised.

You shouldn’t be here.

But you are.

And no one stops you.

⋆｡°✩

The ballroom doors are wide open.

No guards. No fanfare. Just an invitation in the shape of light.

You cross the threshold on steady legs.

The floor is mirrored marble. Chandeliers drip crystal firelight. The ceiling stretches into a painted sky—cherubs and constellations you don’t recognise.

No one looks at you.

And somehow, that’s worse than the mocking would’ve been.

You drift along the edges at first. One step. Then another. A glass in your hand that you didn’t ask for. A compliment tossed over someone’s shoulder, not meant for you but close enough to sting.

And then—

He enters.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t see his face at first.

Just the way the room bends.

People part. Eyes turn. Laughter softens into interest. Not fear. Not awe. Just something deeper. Like gravity. Like inevitability.

And then he steps forward, and you understand.

White hair, sharp-cut and careless. A smile that looks carved into something ancient and shining. His coat is midnight blue, collar open just enough to be casual, cuffs rolled as if he’s already done dancing and plans to do it again.

There are jewels on half the people here. Gold on everyone else.

But he doesn’t need either.

He is the light in the room.

You don’t know his name.

You don’t even realise he’s looking at you until it’s too late to look away.

⋆｡°✩

You try to look away first.

That’s your mistake.

Because now he knows.

You’re not sure how you know he knows—but you do. It's in the tilt of his head. The slight quirk at the corner of his mouth. Like your gaze didn’t just find him, but called him.

And he’s answering.

He moves through the crowd like it was always meant to part for him. Not fast. Not eager. Just easy. Certain. As if he’s done this a hundred times before and always ends up here.

At you.

Your throat is dry. Your hand tightens around the glass you never drank from.

He stops in front of you.

Up close, he’s worse. Or better. You can’t decide.

His eyes are bright—too bright. The kind of blue people write songs about and then spend the rest of their lives trying to forget. His hair is a mess of silver and moonlight, and his smile is almost too much. Like he knows it is, and uses it anyway.

He glances down at your untouched drink.

Then back up at you.

“Not your thing?” he asks, voice low, amused. Not mocking. Not yet.

You manage a reply. “Wasn’t thirsty.”

“Lucky me,” he says. “Neither was I.”

He reaches out. Takes the glass from your hand. Places it on a passing tray without looking.

Then he holds his hand out to you.

Just like that.

As if you’ve already said yes.

As if you’ve always said yes.

“Dance with me.”

Not a question. Not quite a command. Just an expectation. A possibility.

You stare at his hand. At the long fingers. The pale wrist. The soft flash of a silver cufflink shaped like a star.

“I don’t know how,” you say quietly.

He leans in, just slightly. Just enough to make your breath stutter.

“That’s alright,” he says. “I do.”

⋆｡°✩

The music isn’t loud.

It doesn’t need to be.

He walks you to the centre of the room like it’s normal. Like every person isn’t watching. Like the marble floor doesn’t ache under your feet, trying to whisper, this isn’t for you.

But he holds your hand like it is.

And when you move—when your feet remember how to follow, when your body remembers joy—he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t lead you like you’re fragile. He lets you catch up. Lets you breathe.

And when you do—

You start to smile.

Not wide. Not bright. Just a little. Just enough.

But he sees it.

His smile answers yours.

And the world keeps spinning.

⋆｡°✩

The music fades into something slower.

Your chest is still rising too fast, but his hand is steady at your back. He hasn’t let go. Not once.

Every step, every turn, he watches you like there’s no one else in the room. Like this isn’t a palace. Like this isn’t a dance among royals. Like you’re not somewhere you shouldn’t be.

Like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

“Still nervous?” he asks, voice low, just under the violin swell.

You glance up. His smile is soft now. Tilted. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t be.

“I didn’t know it would be this easy,” you say.

He raises a brow. “Dancing?”

“Being seen.”

He doesn't laugh. Doesn't look away. Instead, he slows you to a stop, right there in the middle of the floor.

His hand slips from your waist to your wrist.

“Come with me,” he says.

⋆｡°✩

He leads you out through the back hall, past open doors and gilded arches, until the palace swallows its own noise. The music fades behind columns. The warmth of the crowd falls away.

You step into a quiet corridor, and then—

A garden.

Not the one guests passed through. This is smaller. Older. Half-forgotten. Wild vines along the stone. A cracked marble bench. The scent of lavender and something sweeter underneath—like sugar left in the sun.

It’s moonlit and hidden and yours.

You inhale, and it fills your lungs like a prayer.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod.

He lets go of your wrist but stays close. Too close. You feel his breath near your temple. He’s taller than you’d realised on the dance floor.

“Do you bring all your dance partners here?” you ask, not meaning to sound like anything—but it comes out softer than expected. Curious.

His smile quirks, lazy and real. “Only the ones I want to keep a little longer.”

Your heart kicks once. Stupid thing.

“I’m not exactly... worth remembering.”

He looks at you then, full and unguarded.

“Funny,” he murmurs, “I was just thinking the opposite.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t say anything.

His gaze drops to your mouth. Brief. Barely there.

But your breath stutters anyway.

You want to close the space between you.

He’s already leaning in.

His voice is barely a whisper now.

“What’s your name?”

You hesitate. You’d almost forgotten that you hadn’t given it.

“I—”

DING.

The first chime hits like a stone to the chest.

DONG.

You flinch.

He pulls back, startled.

DING.

“No,” you whisper.

The air shifts. Your jacket tightens. Something in the fabric shudders like it’s remembering itself.

You take a step back.

“I’m sorry.”

“Wait—” he starts, reaching for you.

DONG.

“I have to go,” you say, already turning.

“Wait! At least tell me who—”

DING.

You’re gone.

The night is breaking, and the magic is pulling you with it.

You run.

Not elegantly. Not the way you danced.

This is a stumble-sprint, half-flight down the corridor, heart pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to get back to him. The marble floors blur. Gold columns, oil paintings, half-turned faces in distant rooms—none of it matters now. Only the ache in your chest and the way the air grows heavier with every step.

The magic is unravelling.

You feel it in your sleeves first. The seams loosen. The silver edging at your cuffs begins to smoke and vanish, the way dew fades from a blade of grass. You press your hands to your chest like you can hold it all together—but the fabric keeps melting under your fingers.

The music is gone. The laughter behind you is too far to matter. All that exists is the echo of your boots—no, just one boot now—against the floor.

You don't remember when it happened.

Just that you turned a corner too sharp. That your foot slipped. That something caught for a second and then gave way.

You look down.

Your right foot is bare.

The enchanted shoe is gone.

You double back.

It’s lying on the stairs.

You don’t go back for it.

You can't.

DING.

The ninth chime.

The gold embroidery at your hem vanishes mid-step. The jacket fades, thread by thread, until all you’re left with is the thin, patched tunic underneath—too short now. Yours, but not yours anymore. The magic never fully disguised your body. It just made the weight feel lighter.

You grab the stair railing as the garden doors disappear behind you.

The tenth chime echoes off the stone.

You’re almost at the exit.

You think you hear your name.

Not your real name. Not the one Geto calls you with disdain. But yours. The one only someone who sees you might say.

But it’s too late.

You hit the gravel outside barefoot, panting, lungs burning with cold air and regret.

The eleventh chime splits the sky.

You don’t look back.

⋆｡°✩

Somewhere behind you, he stands at the top of the staircase. His gloves are in his pocket. His coat is unbuttoned. He’s not looking at the crowd.

He’s looking at the stairs.

And the single shoe left waiting.

⋆｡°✩

The twelfth and final chime rings out.

Midnight has come.

And you're already disappearing into the dark.

You wake before the sun.

You always do, but today it feels different.

Not because your body hurts—though it does. Not because the air is cold—though it bites.

But because something inside you is too quiet.

Like your chest has been scrubbed hollow.

The attic doesn’t look any different.

The boards still creak when you shift your weight. The frost still kisses the corners of the glass. The mice still rustle softly in the wall like they don’t know anything has changed.

But it has.

You sit up slowly, fingers curled in the edge of the blanket that isn’t warm enough. Your knees are sore. Your palms sting. The magic’s gone, and it didn’t leave anything for you to hold except—

Your breath catches.

You look down.

There it is.

Nestled at the foot of your bed.

One shoe.

Not both.

Just the right one.

Silver-buckled. Unscuffed. A quiet gleam to the leather that doesn’t belong to this world.

The matching pair had vanished with the rest of the suit. But this one stayed.

Of course it did.

You don’t touch it.

Not yet.

You just stare.

Your chest tightens slowly, like the ache has to rebuild itself from the edges in.

You replay the night in pieces.

The ballroom. The music. The boy with the moonlight grin and the storm in his eyes. The garden. His hand on your back. His voice, soft and certain, asking for your name like he’d keep it safe.

You wonder if he’s looking for you.

You wonder if he’s still at the top of those stairs.

You wonder if he’ll know you now, in patched sleeves and soot-stained soles.

If he’d want to.

You press the heel of your hand into your chest, hard.

Just to feel something.

⋆｡°✩

Far from the attic, in a palace where the candles never burn low, a king lies dying.

Not with drama. Not with blood or fury or breathless speeches. Just… slowly.

Quietly.

Gojo sits beside him.

He’s not dressed for grief. Still in the same half-wrinkled clothes from the night before—collar askew, hair a mess, the ghost of the ballroom clinging to his shoulders.

He hasn’t slept. Hasn’t moved since the garden emptied and the last guest was sent away.

He hasn’t spoken.

Not until now.

“I met someone,” he says softly.

The king doesn’t open his eyes, but his mouth twitches. Barely there.

“A noble?” he rasps, voice like dry paper.

Gojo almost laughs. “Not even close.”

The king hums. A tiny sound. “Thank god.”

That earns a real smile. Faint. Brief.

Gojo leans forward, fingers curled tight over the blanket. “I didn’t get his name. Didn’t even ask. He ran. Lost a shoe.”

The king’s chest rises slowly. “Romantic.”

“Frustrating,” Gojo says. “He was real. Not… shiny. Not faked. I think he looked right through me and still stayed.”

The king doesn’t speak for a long time.

Then—

“Then go,” he says, hoarse but sure. “Go find the one who saw you.”

Gojo’s throat closes.

The king’s eyes stay shut.

“You’ve carried this crown too long,” he murmurs. “Go be loved, Satoru. Don’t let this place kill that part of you.”

There’s silence.

Then Gojo bows his head.

“I will.”

⋆｡°✩

The king dies two days later.

The mourning bells toll across the city. The gates are draped in black. The court dons solemn silks and speaks in hushed tones.

Gojo buries his father quietly.

No fanfare. No grand declarations. Just a hand pressed to the coffin and a whisper no one hears.

He returns to the throne room with quiet thunder.

No coronation. No applause. Just a man in mourning with the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders and something softer clenched between his hands.

A single shoe.

Silver-buckled. Clean as memory. The only piece of the night that didn’t vanish.

The court hushes when he steps to the dais.

He speaks without ceremony.

“I’m not here to celebrate a title,” he says. “I’m here to honour a promise.”

A ripple of confusion passes through the crowd.

Gojo lifts the shoe for all to see.

“This,” he says, voice steady, “was left behind by the person I danced with at the royal ball.”

Murmurs rise. Names, questions, whispers like wind.

Gojo’s next words cut straight through.

“I don’t know their name. Or where they came from. But I know how I felt.”

Silence now. Even the courtiers lean forward.

He breathes in. Then:

“Find them.”

The prince’s men arrive two days later.

They come in pairs—one to carry the shoe, one to carry the threat of a sword.

Some houses greet them with fanfare. Others slam the door. But in every room, they kneel before the hopeful, the desperate, the delusional, and ask them to try it on.

None of them fit.

None of them feel right.

⋆｡°✩

Toji doesn’t really want to be here.

He’s already threatened to eat the shoe twice. Nanami pretends not to hear him.

“You’re not putting it in your mouth,” Nanami says flatly as they stand in front of a bakery.

“I wasn’t gonna put it in,” Toji replies. “Just, you know. Scare the kid a little.”

“No.”

“They’ve got sugar tarts in there.”

“We’re here for the shoe.”

“I can multitask.”

Nanami sighs and knocks.

⋆｡°✩

Three houses later:

“This is a waste of time,” Toji mutters.

“It’s a royal command,” Nanami answers, like that means anything.

They’re standing in front of a weeping blacksmith.

“I swore I saw the mystery person,” the blacksmith says, tears in his beard. “They were in my dream. Had wings. Glowed.”

Nanami pinches the bridge of his nose.

Toji offers him a handkerchief. “We’ll send word if we find them, yeah?”

The blacksmith sobs louder.

Toji pats him on the shoulder.

“You tried, champ.”

⋆｡°✩

Back at the estate, the air has changed.

You don't notice at first. You're doing laundry. Small, quiet motions. Wrists in soap, eyes on the window.

But when you climb back up to the attic, the door is open.

That’s not right.

You never leave it open.

You step inside.

Geto is waiting.

He’s holding something in his hand.

It takes you a moment to register it. To understand what you’re looking at. To realise it’s yours.

The other shoe.

The one the magic didn’t claim.

Geto doesn’t look angry.

Worse.

He looks resigned.

“I knew,” he says, voice low. “The night you came home. I knew it was you.”

You don’t speak.

There’s something brittle in your chest. Like glass.

Geto turns the shoe over in his hand. “It was supposed to be Mimiko or Nanako. Anyone else. Someone who could give this family something back. But you—”

He shakes his head.

“I married your mother for love, you know.”

You flinch.

“I was a servant. Just like you. She didn’t care. She saw me. She chose me. And then she died. And I got stuck. In this house. With bills, and mouths, and nothing to show for it but my hands and my daughters.”

He looks at you then, sharp and quiet.

“You think I hate you,” he says. “I don’t.”

You want to speak. You don’t know how.

“I envy you,” he finishes.

Then he drops the shoe.

And before you can move—before you can breathe—he steps on it.

It doesn’t break.

Of course it doesn’t.

The magic’s long gone.

So he picks it up instead.

And throws it out the window.

You hear it hit the gravel outside.

And then—

Click.

The door locks behind you.

Geto’s footsteps fade down the stairs.

And you’re alone again.

Trapped. Silenced.

But not invisible anymore.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t move right away.

You hear Geto’s footsteps fade, one by one, until the house swallows them whole. Until the only sound left is the wind against the glass, and the beat of your pulse behind your eyes.

The lock clicks again in your mind. Sharp. Final.

And then—

Nothing.

Just quiet.

You sit.

Not gently. Not with grace.

You drop straight to the floor, legs folded awkwardly, palms flat on the cold wood. The air smells like old wood and soap. Like sorrow dried into the beams.

Your hands curl into the sleeves of your shirt. Not to hide. Just to feel something.

The window glows with late morning sun. Too bright to pretend it’s still night. Too soft to call this anything but cruel.

You swallow.

You whisper to no one, “It wasn’t supposed to matter.”

The words hang there.

And then—

A scritch.

Then another.

Soft and quick, like tiny feet against the baseboard.

You blink down.

Yuji, the one with the torn ear, darts into view. He stops near your feet. Sits up on his haunches like he’s checking on you.

You offer him your palm.

He noses it once. Then skitters away to the corner where Megumi and Nobara have already gathered.

There’s a scrap of ribbon there. Frayed. Half chewed.

And a single wooden spool.

You don’t know how they found it. Or why they’re bringing it to you.

But they do.

You exhale.

“I’m not making a new shoe,” you say quietly.

They freeze.

You soften. “...Thank you, though.”

Yuji does a little hop. You can almost hear him say you’re not done.

You lean back against the wall.

You look at the door.

The lock is still in place.

The window is still too small.

Your limbs are still tired.

But something in you is standing up.

You’ve never asked to be found before.

But now— Now you know what it felt like to be seen.

And you’re not letting that disappear without a fight.

Bang bang bang.

Not a gentle knock.

Not the kind nobles use.

The door shakes in its frame.

Mimiko shrieks from somewhere down the hall, “Father—!”

“Coming,” Geto calls, voice too smooth, too fast.

He brushes dust from his sleeves and opens the door with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Nanami doesn't smile back.

Toji doesn’t look like he’s ever smiled at all.

The taller one—Toji, in dark military trim and boots that leave real dirt on the clean floor—looks over Geto like he’s furniture. Nanami, perfectly pressed and sharply polite, holds a velvet-lined box in his hands.

Inside it, nestled like a relic, sits the shoe.

The room tightens.

“We’re here on royal command,” Nanami says, calm as a cut. “Every household within the capital must comply.”

Geto’s smile doesn’t falter. But his fingers twitch at his sides.

“Of course,” he says. “My daughters will be thrilled.”

⋆｡°✩

The twins are anything but.

They stumble into the drawing room in matching silks, half-dressed and sweating.

Mimiko tries to charm. Nanako tries to lie. Both try on the shoe.

The shoe does not fit either of them.

Not Mimiko, who tried to stuff her foot in sideways, biting her lip like pain might be mistaken for grace.

Not Nanako, who screamed at the guards and insisted it was her shoe—until Nanami calmly pointed out it would have to be her right shoe, and she’d shoved her left foot in.

Both of them are red-faced now. Geto looks pale.

Nanami closes the velvet box with finality.

“That’s all,” Geto says quickly, stepping between them and the door. “Thank you for your time, but as you can see—”

“We appreciate your cooperation,” Nanami says, already half-turned. “We’ll be on our way—”

And then— CRASH.

Not subtle.

Not small.

Wood shatters. Something heavy hits the floor above. Then a thud. A clang. Another loud bang, like someone’s trying to tear a room apart.

All three men freeze.

Geto doesn’t blink.

“Old house,” he says lightly. “It groans.”

Nanami narrows his eyes.

Toji’s already turning.

“It came from upstairs,” he says.

“No need,” Geto says quickly. “We told you, it’s just—”

“Storage,” Toji finishes, stepping forward.

And then—

A fourth voice speaks, smooth as silk:

“Open it.”

The knights turn sharply.

So does Geto.

Because one of the guards—the one who had been silent this entire time, helmet shadowing his face, standing too still in the corner—steps forward.

And removes his helmet.

White hair falls loose.

Eyes like the end of a sky.

It’s him.

The prince.

No coat. No crown. Just a low voice and a gaze that could slit a throat with kindness.

“Check the room,” Gojo says.

Toji doesn’t hesitate.

He moves toward the stairs.

And Geto?

Geto stops breathing.

⋆｡°✩

Meanwhile, upstairs—

You’ve already broken a chair.

The window’s too high, and the door won’t give, but fury moves faster than fear.

You threw the table against the wall. You shattered a glass jar. The room is in chaos.

Not because you thought someone would hear you.

But because if you’re going to be locked away again—this time, the walls will remember you were here.

And downstairs, they just did.

⋆｡°✩

The door gives way with a shudder and a kick.

Toji steps inside the attic like he’s seen a thousand rooms like this—and hates every one of them. He doesn’t speak at first. Just scans the broken chair, the shards of glass, the boy standing in the middle of it all like a storm passed through him and didn’t finish the job.

You square your shoulders, fists tight.

“I’m not going quietly,” you say.

Toji raises a brow.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says. “Not until you try on the shoe.”

⋆｡°✩

You’re still stunned when you’re led down the stairs.

The house feels different now—seen, somehow. You don’t flinch when Geto glares. You don’t look at the twins when they hiss your name like it’s a curse.

Because all you see is him.

Gojo.

Not in a dream. Not behind a mask.

Just him.

And he’s looking at you like you invented music.

⋆｡°✩

“I didn’t know,” you say softly.

His smile curves at the edges. “Good.”

You blink. “What?”

“I wanted to be seen as me, not as—” He waves a hand. “Royal disaster. Golden boy. Walking headline.”

“You’re still ridiculous,” you mutter.

“Mm,” he says, “but you danced with me anyway.”

⋆｡°✩

Nanami brings the shoe.

It still gleams like it remembers the night better than you do.

You kneel.

Your fingers tremble.

You fit your foot inside.

It slides in like it never belonged anywhere else.

A quiet settles over the room.

Nanami exhales, almost like relief.

Toji nods once.

The twins make some sound between a gasp and a wail.

And Gojo?

He takes two steps forward.

Then drops to one knee.

No theatrics. No ceremony.

Just him.

And you.

And the weight of everything you both carried here.

“I don’t know your name,” he says. “But I’d like to learn it every day.”

You swallow.

His hand is warm.

“Will you marry me?”

You stare at him.

Then, slowly, like something new is blooming in your chest—

You smile.

And take his hand.

The palace feels warmer now.

Not because of the sun. Or the gilded windows. Or the three-tiered cake that someone dropped during the reception and tried to blame on the reindeer.

But because of him.

Gojo stands beside you on the balcony, arm loose around your waist, his thumb brushing idle circles against your side like he still can’t believe you’re real.

You’re both still in partial wedding attire—him with his jacket tossed over a chair somewhere, you barefoot, crown lopsided, shirt collar unbuttoned and clinging just a little to your throat. You should probably be inside. The court is probably looking for you.

But the garden below is quiet.

And the air tastes like late summer and the end of something you never thought would happen.

⋆｡°✩

“What happened to them?” you ask, leaning into him just enough to be smug about it.

He hums. “Geto’s under investigation for falsifying noble status. Pretty sure he’s banned from the capital for life. Last I heard, he’s trying to sell spiritual healing potions out of a cart in the countryside.”

You snort. “And the twins?”

“Assigned to community service. Fifteen years of it.”

You blink. “What do they do?”

“Paint fences. Clean royal kennels. Muck out stables.”

You try to look sympathetic.

You fail.

⋆｡°✩

The sky is peach-gold now.

You lean back against the railing, one hand braced behind you, and Gojo’s eyes trace the line of your neck like he’s memorising it.

“What?” you ask, smirking a little.

“You’re too pretty for this world,” he says easily. “I might have to exile you just to stop fights.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re not exiling me. You married me.”

He steps in closer.

“I did, didn’t I?”

His hand settles just under your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. His smile turns softer.

Hungrier.

“Wanna kiss your husband?”

You grin. “Maybe.”

He doesn’t wait for permission.

⋆｡°✩

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice like velvet warmed in sunlight.

You don’t answer. Just let your fingers trail down the line of his collarbone, slow and curious, feeling the heat beneath his skin. You’re still a little dazed from it all—the ceremony, the kiss, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the kingdom.

Maybe the world.

Gojo watches you with a softness that doesn’t match the grin tugging at his lips.

“Still thinking about saying yes?” he teases, tilting his head.

You hum. “I’m thinking I want to kiss you again.”

“Be my guest.”

You lean in. He meets you halfway.

The kiss starts gentle—lazy, even. But there’s something under it now. Something hot and restless curling between your ribs. Your fingers move to his jaw, then to the back of his neck, dragging him just a little closer. He obliges with a pleased sound, deepening the kiss, mouth parting just enough to catch your breath between his lips.

He tastes like sugared wine and strawberries, and you swear you could drown in him.

By the time you break apart, you’re breathing harder than you expected. Your eyes meet, close enough to feel the words before you say them.

“I want you,” you whisper.

It comes out raw. Honest.

Gojo stills. Just for a moment.

Then—

“Yeah?” His voice is lower now. Rougher around the edges. “You sure?”

You nod.

“Then come here.”

⋆｡°✩

He lifts you before you realize he’s moving. Hands strong, steady, one at your back, the other beneath your thighs. You yelp softly, laugh against his throat, and he huffs out a breathless chuckle that turns into something deeper.

The doors to your chambers are already cracked open. He kicks them wider.

The room beyond is quiet. Candlelit. Fresh linens, tossed shoes, and half a glass of wine still left untouched on the bedside table. You don’t see any of it.

Just him.

He sets you down gently, reverent in a way that makes your chest ache.

You sit on the edge of the bed as he leans in, hands braced on either side of your thighs, lips ghosting over your cheek, then your jaw.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, voice low and warm.

You reach up. Thread your fingers into his hair.

“Kiss me like you did that night,” you say. “And don’t stop.”

He grins against your mouth. “Gladly.”

And he does.

⋆｡°✩

The world falls away the second his lips meet yours again.

There’s no crowd here. No music. No kingdom watching. Just the sound of his breath and yours, the rustle of fabric as fingers drag slowly down your back, and the warm press of his palms against your skin like he’s memorising every inch of you.

You pull him closer. He goes willingly.

The kiss deepens. His mouth is hot and sure, moving with a rhythm that makes you dizzy. His tongue brushes yours, and you gasp into him—your fingers clutching the back of his shirt, your legs parting slightly as he slots himself between them.

He presses you gently back onto the bed.

The sheets shift beneath you—soft, crisp, faintly perfumed—and his weight follows, settling against you with a slowness that feels like worship.

His hand cradles your face as he kisses you again, slower now. Lingering. Like he has all the time in the world.

“Still sure?” he asks, voice hoarse at the edges, lips brushing your cheek.

You nod, breath caught in your throat. “I want you.”

Gojo exhales like he’s been waiting to hear that his whole life.

“Okay,” he whispers, “I’ve got you.”

⋆｡°✩

He doesn’t rush.

He undresses you carefully, easing your clothes from your body piece by piece, always watching, always touching, like he’s unwrapping something sacred. His hands trail down your arms, your ribs, your hips—every inch of your skin kissed, touched, praised.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, not like a compliment, but like a fact.

His own clothes fall away soon after, and when he kneels above you, bare in the candlelight, you forget how to breathe.

He’s strong. Slender. Scars across his stomach, down his hip—each one traced gently beneath your fingers. His eyes darken when you touch him, a low sound humming from his chest as you explore him with quiet wonder.

He kisses your chest, your stomach, the inside of your thigh. Each press of his mouth is tender, reverent. You shiver when his lips ghost lower—when he parts your legs with one slow sweep of his hand and settles between them like he was always meant to be there.

When his tongue touches you, your fingers curl in the sheets.

He’s slow. Gentle. Languid.

Learning you. Reading every twitch of your hips, every gasp, every whispered plea. He hums when you moan, the sound low and satisfied.

You arch when he wraps his arms under your thighs and pulls you closer.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispers, voice rough and thick with want.

And he does.

With his mouth, his fingers, his voice—coaxing you open, unravelling you gently, turning heat into warmth into fire.

By the time you come undone, you’re panting, legs trembling, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer.

He doesn’t leave you. Doesn’t pull away. Just presses slow kisses to your skin and climbs up to meet your mouth again, breath catching as he feels you cling to him.

You reach for him. Trace the line of his jaw.

“Take me,” you whisper.

And he does.

⋆｡°✩

He enters you slowly, carefully, stopping when you tense, kissing your throat until your body melts into his again. His hand finds yours against the pillow, lacing your fingers together as he presses deeper.

It’s intense. Full. Your breath stutters, and his does too.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod.

He starts to move, and it’s overwhelming.

His weight on you, his breath on your neck, the way your bodies move together—every thrust angled with care, every sound he makes pressed against your ear like a secret. He moans when your hips rise to meet him. Groans when you say his name like you mean it.

He doesn’t look away. Watches you fall apart underneath him. Watches your lashes flutter, your mouth part, your breath hitch.

“Fuck, you feel incredible,” he says, voice wrecked.

You pull him down, kiss him hard, gasping against his lips as heat blooms low and deep in your core.

He speeds up—just enough.

The sound of skin on skin, the headboard creaking gently, the rhythm of his hips, your hands in his hair—it all builds into something slow and bright and utterly consuming.

You fall apart first, back arching, thighs clenching around his waist.

He follows with a gasp, pulling out just in time, his hand stroking you through it as he spills onto your stomach with a trembling groan.

⋆｡°✩

After, he’s quiet.

He wipes you down gently, kisses your chest, your temple, your knuckles.

Then he pulls you into his arms, your head tucked beneath his chin, his thumb stroking slow circles into your spine.

You’re half-asleep when he whispers, “I’m never letting you go.”

You smile.

“You better not.”

Later, as the sun dips below the rooftops, you’re sprawled together on the balcony, limbs tangled, cheeks flushed, breath finally slowing.

He presses his forehead to yours.

You close your eyes.

The world is quiet again.

Until—

Scurry scurry.

You open one eye.

Yuji. Then Megumi. Then Nobara.

The mice dash across the stone railing, tails twitching, feet fast, all three heading for the figure standing just beyond the edge of the light.

Shoko.

Still in her boots. Still in her long coat. Still impossibly cool.

She holds out one palm.

The mice leap into it without hesitation.

She glances at you and Gojo, sprawled out and glowing like kings in love.

“Cute,” she says.

You sit up. “You stayed?”

She lights a cigarette with a flick of her fingers.

“Nah,” she says. “I just came to collect my assistants.”

Gojo squints. “Assistants?”

“They picked you,” Shoko says, looking directly at you.

You blink.

She exhales a thin ribbon of smoke into the sky.

“My job’s done.”

And then— She vanishes.

Just like that.

⋆｡°✩

You sit there for a moment.

Gojo’s hand finds yours.

The stars come out.

And this time—

You don’t wish on any of them.

You already have everything you asked for.

Taglist: @zolass @edensrose @tamias-wrld @ilovesugurugeto69 @planetxella @mazettns @longlivegojo @midnight-138 @literallyrousseau @vimademedoitt @useless-n-clueless @flatl1n3 @hikaurbae @lexkou @razefxylorf @abrielletargaryen @coco-145 @eagleeyedbitch @deathofacupid @gayaristocrat @porcalinecunt @whatsaheartxx @thecringes2000 @sageofspades @g4vcat @itsrandompersonyall @blvdprn @blueemochii @sappychat @onyxxxxqq @axetivev

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

[ovaryacted]

SPECIAL TREATMENT

─ Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x fem! reader || WC: 1.2k

CW: MDNI/18+. NSFW. SMUT. Age gap implied [Michael is canon age, reader is 25+]. Power imbalance situation [Attending/Resident]. FWB dynamic, sort of. Past mentions of smut in different instances. Oral (m & f receiving. Unprotected p in v. Heavy praise kink. Everything is consensual & mutual. They’re freaky idk. A tinge of yearning. Reader has hair & is a beast at medicine. Note: I have not watched The Pitt yet, so I apologize for any mischaracterizations lolz.

Hi. I honestly don't know what this is. It came to me in a dream after I yapped with @superhoeva in the DMS, and now she's tormenting me to keep writing for Mista Dr. Robby. Now I'm sucked into this world that I didn't even know existed lmao. Anywho, walk with me for a second here, let me cook! Reblogs, comments, and likes are greatly appreciated. Proofread by moi. <3

NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | AO3

It all started with two simple words.

“Good job.”

Seven letters. One singular statement. A term of encouragement familiar to practitioners all over the Pitt, and of course it’s not unknown to you. Always said in recognition of one’s efforts, and in this family you’ve meshed with in the emergency department, it went a long way to hear that phrase after the intense shifts you all had to handle.

Though with Dr. Robby, it had a second meaning.

Sure, he recognized everyone’s hard efforts in saving lives, pairing his words with a nice pat on the shoulder and his signature smile. But he would never admit to giving you special treatment, at least away from prying eyes.

As a fourth year resident in the Pitt, you’ve already made somewhat of a name for yourself, and it didn’t go unnoticed by your other colleagues, especially Dr. Robby. You impress him on a daily basis, your quick reflexes in adapting to current situations is a trait he’s always admired, your ability to keep your cool in moments that would otherwise crack everyone else brings a mix of admiration and envy. You weren’t particularly the sensitive type, often reminding him of Dr. Abbott and his demeanor at times, but he knows it’s because you’re determined, because you hold yourself to a different standard and aim to command any room you step foot in regardless of the circumstances.

He can sympathize with that, he was like that years ago. It’s nice to watch the spark take over when you’re in your element.

You can be confident and borderline cocky at times, but never arrogant. You barely flinch when you need to crack open someone’s chest, or when you were covered with blood after a particularly extreme trauma, steady hands working despite the adrenaline running through you. Michael liked when you called the shots before he did, and usually he didn’t need to ask for your thoughts on the cases assigned to you when you were already so persistent in sharing your resolutions.

He had no choice but to commend you for your hard work, always slipping a quick “good job” after doing something right or a “job well done” once things were taken care of. You’d never show it to anyone else, but Michael knew the impact of his words, how your eyes gleamed for the slightest second as you fought off the urge to smile. It was amusing to say the least, so he didn’t stop, he couldn’t, not when it encouraged you to push your own limits, to be the best, if not for yourself then for him.

He reveled in it.

Your consistent performance is what resulted in this mess you found yourself in. Going from being Dr. Robby’s trusted and favorite resident to something more over the course of a year was enough to give you whiplash.

It began with a brief “pep talk” in an empty on-call room. You thought you had fucked up royally on the last patient you had, that maybe Dr. Robby had a different opinion towards your approach. Yet, he surprises you when he leans down to kiss you, your breath hitching in your throat and instantly reaching to grasp his shoulders, fingers digging into the material of his hoodie in an attempt to bring him closer.

Those two little words became a frequent saying in the safety of his apartment, where you often went after your shifts synched up. Michael always needed to give you more than just words, to feed you the reverence you deserved—craved even.

He always tells you when your lips were wrapped around his length, sucking lavishly while he keeps your hair out of your face. Your throat grew sore from the tip of him slipping inside, lips plump with your constant sucking. Pulling away with a smile on your spit covered face and placing a wet kiss to his crown, the words tumble out of him with a groan.

“That’s a good girl. Taking all of me like that. Good job, baby.”

Or when it was his head between your thighs, licking and eating at you with such fervor, your thighs shake every time. Clutching at his head, you’ve already fallen over the edge twice, and it was never enough for Michael. Like an addict, he ate you up until his jaw ached, refusing to leave his spot from your cunt until tears streaked down your face and your overworked pussy throbbed from all of his attention. Despite his overwhelming touch, he was always there to keep you grounded with his slick covered mouth.

“Doing such a good job for me. You got one more in you, right? One more and I’ll give you what you need.”

And the other instances where he was inside you? Those were probably your favorite pastimes.

Your legs were hanging loosely over his hips as he pummeled into you, back arching up as your arms slung around his neck. Moaning against the side of his throat, Michael cradled the back of your head with one hand, the other keeping your lower back at the right angle, letting his cock fill every crevice so deliciously you had no other choice but to just take him. Completely smothered under him, your senses were overwhelmed with him; his scent, his touch, his voice. Tears pooled at your lash line, cheeks warm under the intense gaze of the man hovering above you, stuttering on your own breath that turns into a moan at the precision of his thrusting. He only smirks above you, lifting up one of your thighs to his shoulder and diving inside you even deeper.

“Been such a good girl for me, letting me take care of you like this. I know, I know. I got you.”

Your moment of daydreaming is cut short as you’re back in the commotion of the Pitt, the beeping of the machines and people yelling here and there grab your attention once more, deciding to look down at your clipboard to review what else was on your roster for the day.

“Reviewing the caseload?”

You didn’t need to look in the direction of the person’s voice to know it was Dr. Robby, slyly eyeing up at you from where he sat, typing some notes on the computer. The black glasses he wore sat on his sharp nose, a staple to the rest of his appearance along with his cargo pants and baggy zip-up.

“Had so much on my plate I started to lose count. You still want me to handle that patient in Room 5? Heard it was a bad one.” He glances at you, slightly tilting his head to the side with the faintest smug grin on his aged face.

“Yeah, I do. Plus, I know you’re always up for a challenge. I’ll be there in five.” You rolled your eyes at that, shaking your head with a sigh and turning on your heel to head towards your next patient, fully aware of the set of eyes following you from behind.

You didn’t mind being Dr. Robby’s favorite resident. After all, a little special treatment never hurt.

©️ ovaryacted 2025. Please don’t repost, copy, translate, or feed into any AI. Support your fellow creators by reblogging, commenting, and liking!

[sttoru]

tags. dad!toji x wife!reader. fluff. reader gets called ‘doll’

“toji, you’re gonna break that thing,” you stifle a laugh as you watch your husband’s muscular form squeeze into one of the playground equipments. megumi is on his lap, giggling as he gets to experience what it’s like to go down a slide with his parent.

toji rolls his eyes and grumbles something along the lines of ‘the damn brat forced me to’. you know how weak that man gets when his son looks up at him with those big, sparkly blue eyes. you’d have given in to megumi’s requests as well if you were in his place. thus you don’t blame your lover at all.

“papa, go!” the little boy pats his dad’s thighs, excitedly smacking the muscles. the pure glee on his tiny face makes you smile as you witness the scene from the bench nearby.

“give me a sec, kid,” toji responds with a grunt. his legs are pressed tightly against each other, trying to wiggle down the slide. his body isn’t going anywhere— not even moving down one centimetre.

you can’t help the laugh that erupts from your throat while you watch toji struggle. the confused and impatient look on megumi’s face as he glances up at his father is pure gold. “papa go?” your son pouts and squirms.

this is embarrassing for toji. he can’t wait to get off and go home. the only thing he can do is pray that no one else sees this view of a grown ass man stuck on a slide.

you pull out your phone and start recording the hilarious sight. “hun,” you call out to toji, covering your mouth while giggling behind the camera. “you can do it!”

your humorous encouragement makes the dark-haired man kiss his teeth, “tsk, quit that.” he manages to move his legs in a certain way so he could glide down. the process however is quite. . slow.

toji’s body stutters and goes down the slide in a wonky way. megumi is not amused at all as he sits there and stares downwards, cheeks puffed up. he expected to go much faster than this.

the toddler looks like he’s about to complain the moment he reaches the bottom.

“mamaaaaaa!”

as expected, the little boy quickly hops off toji’s lap, leaving his humiliated dad sitting at the end of the slide. megumi runs off to you and jumps up onto your lap, an angry yet adorable frown on his face. he whines and hugs you, refusing to face your husband who’s walking towards you.

toji scoffs at the sight. “oi, you ungrateful little shit,” he comments and crosses his muscular arms over his chest, “y’ should be thanking me for squeezin’ my ass up on that tiny thing.” he glances down at his son who’s clearly sulking in your arms, disappointed in his performance.

you’d usually scold toji for using such foul language around the kid, though you can’t stop yourself from giggling at the situation. megumi actually got offended by his dad being unable to properly go down the slide with him; it’s adorable.

“no, papa shit!” megumi retorts unexpectedly, causing you to laugh even louder. you shake your head and try to make a serious face - to reprimand your child from saying such words - only to fail.

toji clearly didn’t expect the boy to mimic him again. he raises an eyebrow and you know he’s not going to hold back. that man will fight anyone, even his own son who’s only a toddler.

“whadd’ya say there, bud?” your husband huffs and takes a step forward. megumi squeals as he feels the intimidating aura of his dad get closer to him. he squirms off your lap and runs off into the playground, squeaking.

you watch your child scurry off in attempt to escape toji. you grin to yourself, seeing the excitement return on megumi’s face at the aspect of playing with his parent.

toji runs a hand through his messy black hair as he sees the toddler run around the park, excepting him to follow and play with him. he wouldn’t admit it out loud, but it’s adorable how his son never stays mad at him for long.

it perfectly describes the father-son relationship they have. he wouldn’t want to have it any other way.

toji then shoots you a smirk, leaning down so you’re face to face. he flicks your forehead gently and pinches your cheek, reminding you of one thing before going off to chase after megumi;

“i’ll be dealing with ya later for that video y’ made, doll. don’cha think i forgot.”