#Sustainable Swing Tags

[lilacxquartz]

TO SAVE A BROKEN SOUL • suguru geto x cursed spirit fem!reader

ao3 link • masterlist • next chapter >>

summary: roaming around the forest as a neutral cursed spirit spirit, you stumble upon a temple, not quite knowing what sort of nightmare awaited you from the inside.

tags/warnings: dead dove, (upcoming) non-con, violence, yandere, reader insert, weekly updates, dark, multi chapter, horror

Chapter 1: Found

Wandering around the forest in the dead of night was essentially second nature to you. It was survival, plain and simple.

It was how you got by.

Moving from one point to another without a single destination in mind, never knowing where you’d end up next—that’s just what being a cursed spirit was; to be stuck in a perpetual state of endless, aimless drift.

Your journey was lacking direction and your benign existence had swallowed away any purpose you could have had. Regular humans would call this being a ghost, but it felt much worse than that.

To have no purpose, nor an escape.

And despite calling yourself a neutral entity, you stayed far away from human settlements, never daring to get too close. You knew better than to risk it. Accidents were inevitable if you lingered a little too close to people (or a little too long), so you simply didn’t gamble the chance to begin with.

It was easier that way.

It was safer.

The fine line of what separated you from being a neutral spirit and a malevolent one was very thin though, but could have been defined by how you fed. Rather than tempting fate with the potential of human flesh, you chose restraint, resigning you to either not feed at all or to keep your feasts confined to what you found within the forest.

(But the desire was always present; gnawing away at your gradually lapsing self control, clawing at your core—so desperate to let slip… waiting for that perfect moment.)

Sustainability wasn’t that much of a necessity for you otherwise. After all, you weren’t truly alive; at least not in the same way that humans (and living things overall) were.

But sometimes you couldn’t help but crave it. The scent and taste of human flesh—so sickeningly sweet and almost intoxicating—seasoned with the essence of their negativity. A delicacy so potent yet so forbidden.

In that aspect, you were always starving, but you also didn’t mind. The hunger kept your senses sharp which in turn, kept you focused. It was a bitter reminder of who (or what) you could become should you ever let it consume you.

So instead, you roamed. You wandered. You cruised through the trees not bothering a single soul, as a neutral, almost dormant being.

However, this neck of the woods that you found yourself within different somehow. Despite passing through it countless times before, you somehow never stumbled across this particular temple.

The realisation that you were treading on human property hit you all too late, noticing the structure only when you were halfway up a path of rooted stairs. Extinguished lanterns hung above, charred ashes escaping from the blackened wicks, swinging off of overgrown wooden beams that framed along the path.

At first, you thought that it was abandoned.

But just as you were about to take a step inside, intending to take refuge for the night…

…A sound froze you in place.

Footsteps.

Quickly snapping out of your daze, your innate response was to retreat in fear of being spotted. Not everyone could see cursed spirits, but you couldn’t afford to take that chance, knowing that in doing so, you risked compromising your very existence.

But you were all too slow.

A young girl had already caught a glimpse of you; her eyes locking onto your position. A wave of panic swept over you and without thinking—you bolted—desperate to fade back into the inviting darkness of the woods. Back into the shadows where you belonged. Away from the prying eyes of people, or worse, by the unforgiving gaze of sorcerers.

To be seen, to be even be acknowledged for a split second, was to invite danger and that was a price that you simply could not afford to pay.

In your rushed escape, your arm caught on a loose branch that tore into your marbled flesh. The wood cut deep, chipping away at your body like brittle stone. You seethed in pain, emitting a high-pitched whine as inky black blood spilled from your wound, trailing behind you and painting a dark path that led to your position.

You attempted to tune into the forest, to isolate whether or not someone was behind you; hearing the twigs that snapped underfoot like spreading wildfire closing in behind you in a stalking cresendo—they were right behind you—ready to close in at any second.

Your own nerves betrayed you, catching you off guard as your clarity soon became clouded with a surge of panic. Every instinct screamed at you to run in all directions at once, daring you to abandon all sense of logic and to give into your instincts, maybe even…!

But it was all too late.

They caught up to you.

(And whoever it was, they weren’t the least bit kind.)

A sharp gasp escaped your lips as strong hands clamped around your shoulders, wrapping fingers that dug into your flesh to keep you solidified in place. Such horrid pressure that radiated off of the assiliant that felt almost suffocating in how they grounded you. Not only did they manage to capture you, but they also have managed to have rootyou to the spot, sealing off your final window of escape.

Unable to say a word, you instead choked as your breath tore harsh against the air, feeling yourself be thrown backwards. More blood continued to pour as you tanked the landing impact, watching with unease as a tall figure caged you in. You remained statued as they pushed your body right up against the bark of the tree, demonstrating such strength that it began to crack and splinter.

Their touch felt unforgiving, despite the unmistakable scent of being human.

(So who was the real monster here?)

Your mind continued to scream danger, urging you to move, to do anything that didn’t result in remaining still. Every remaining instinct urged for you to fight back before your demise was met, before your existence was erased entirely, before—

“Trying to slip away so soon?” a chilling male voice asked, catching you in the midst of your spiralling thoughts. Their tone was cold, yet somehow deceptively gentle, only seeming to unsettle you further.

You couldn’t trust them.

Not with an introduction like this.

You faltered, your sights submitting to the looming figure before you. Your instincts continued to run wild as your mind warred with itself, begging—pleading—for you to get away, to please, please escape. In a last ditch effort, you tried to push past the man, clawing at his skin in a bid to push him away from you.

But in doing so, you only managed to piss him off further.

Before you even knew it—before you could even react—you were dislocated, struck down and dislocated.

Did he get a hit on you…?

Without a moment’s pause, you involuntarily slumped against the tree, your legs giving way. Your vision blurred as you desperately attempted to focus on the man before you, the moonlight just barely illuminating his face.

From what little you could make out, he could have been a shaman or perhaps even a monk. His attire was traditional, something you recognised as a religious garment.

A peculiar thought crossed your mind: since when were buddhist monks so violent?

He flicked his eyes to the wound you inflicted on him before meeting with your gaze again. “That hurt.”

Once again, you tried to back away, your words barely coming out to defend your cause.

“I-I haven’t even, I haven’t touched the temple,” you blurted out, your delivery barely coherent. “Please, just… let me go.”

You stared him down with an intense glare, hoping to challenge him into finding reason but instead all he did was mirror your gaze; leaving you pooling with confusion (and maybe even dread).

Maybe he wasn’t a regular human, but rather a sorcerer instead.

You really hoped not though, because then you would be in some serious trouble.

His eyes narrowed, his tone remained serious and cold as he spoke up once again, “So you’re admitting that was you lurking around the temple?”

Nodding, you scanned around the vicinity seeking an opportunity to exit, but there was none.

“I won’t come back if you let me go,” you promised.

However, the man didn’t waver. Instead, he seemed to be almost entertained(?) at your attempt to negotiate, as if your behaviour was oddly human to some extent given your status. “Bit of an odd one, aren’t you?”

He crouched down, extending a couple of pinched fingers to tweeze your chin and point your jaw towards the moonlight. You writhed under his grip, feeling unsettled by his invasive and unyielding stare.

“Quite pretty too,” he murmured with backhanded praise, “…for a cursed spirit.”

“Let go of me, I’ll leave and—“

“—hm?” he caught you mid plea. “Who said anything about you leaving?”

“Aren’t you going to kill me?” you asked, your voice carrying a hint of reluctance the longer you remained in his company. You weren’t naïve; you understood fully well what sorcerers were capable of.

What their jobs were.

“Kill you?” he mused, his expression remaining unreadable. “I could. I might. But for now, I’m simply curious about you,” he paused, taking a moment to admire your appearance once again, “so, why don’t you come with me?”

You shook your head violently, attempting to back away as far as you possibly could but he didn’t let you get very far, if anywhere at all.

Instead, he pulled you to your feet as he stood up, his voice adopting a threatening edge, “Let me rephrase that for you,” he leaned in just a bit closer, “come with me or I will exorcise you. Your choice.”

Feeling torn, you finally resigned your fate to the hands of the strange monk. Your stomach gnawed with furious hunger, begging for you to sink your teeth deep into his flesh as both a punishment as well as a chance to buy time to escape. Yet, there was something about him that at the same time that overrode such an urge, something that made you drop your guard around him at long last—and—against your better judgement, to even trust him.

So in the end, you gave in after all, choosing to follow him back to the temple.

Unaware of all the dark plans that he had in store for you.

~~~

this is part 2 of lilac’s bite sized yandere nightmares

[o-sachi]

Busted Lip ‧₊˚ ⋅ One Shot (Request)

ଳ an ice pack should be enough to heal a busted lip, but you have another trick up your sleeve

ଳ character; hiragi toma (wind breaker)

ଳ tags; fluff, soft toma, gn reader, no y/n, ume silliness

[🐟]: To anon who requested a hiragi fic... thank you from the bottom of my hiragi-loving heart.

This was far from an unusual sight—Hiragi coming back from a scuffle and requiring you to patch up any injuries he sustained. But, as often as it happened, he would still insist that he was "a grown man" and that he could handle first aid on his own.

Too bad for Hiragi but you were more stubborn than he was. Despite his protests, it would always end up with him yielding to your commands.

He'd try to look annoyed and displeased with that grumpy look on his face, but the slight tint of red on his cheeks would betray him each time. At the very least, you'd spare the poor man of your teasing.

The Vaisravana unit came back to the school grounds a little later than expected. You were sure that if it were anyone else dating Hiragi—they'd already be shaking in their boots. But not you. You trusted Hiragi and his strength that no one would be able to take him down. Besides, you were also being pep talked by Ume as the two of you waited for them on the Furin rooftop.

"Ume-san, which part of town did they even go to? It's taking so long and I miss Toma already."

A booming laughter erupts from his chest. "They probably took a detour—buying us some food or something. Don't worry."

Oh well, it was always food with Ume. But if he isn't worried then, why should you be? You sat back in your seat, marveling at the setting sun before you while Ume continued taking photographs of his plants.

You sigh, longingly—and as if on cue—the doors to the rooftop swing open abruptly. A smile stretches on your face upon seeing Hiragi and all the other members on his unit. But your smile quickly turned lopsided once you noticed his busted lip. Hiragi thought he was being smart, trying to turn his head sideways and hoping that you wouldn't notice the glaring injury on his face.

Ume, on the other hand, was frowning for totally different reason and it had something to do with them coming back emptyhanded.

"You guys took so long and here I thought you were bringing back food..." With the way he pouted, it was almost impossible to tell that he was the top dog of Furin.

"Who said we were bringing ya back food?" Hiragi retorts, scratching the back of his neck.

Suo steps in with the usual calm expression. "It took us a while to come back because we encountered a couple of townspeople who requested our help."

Ume nodded. "How about we go get some food then and enjoy it up here? Hm? How does that sound?"

Nirei and Suo were on board as they always were with Ume's plans. Sakura insisted that he'd be heading home already, but that wasn't allowed on their watch. And Sugishita would go just about anywhere Ume wanted them to.

You already knew how Hiragi would respond, but would you felt being a little cheeky today in exchange for him making you miss him too much. Standing up from your seat, the grainy sound of the wooden chair against the concrete floor prompted the boys to look at you.

"Toma, you stay here with me," you say, firmly.

The others started snickering and teasing Hiragi who had the biggest scowl on his face—a scowl which was directed at them, of course. God forbid that he look at you with such a nasty expression.

They bicker a little more, wishing Hiragi good luck before he faces your "wrath". Exasperated, he shakes his head while everyone else filtered out of the rooftop. Once it was the two of you left, Hiragi glanced over at you.

"Ya thought that was funny hm?" he asks as he made his way over to you.

You watch as he pulls a chair closer to yours and you smile sweetly at his question. "They did laugh though, didn't they?"

He plops down on the chair with an exaggerated huff. Walking all afternoon was tiring enough and here you were—being brazen as ever. In front of the others too no less.

"You're a real piece of work," he murmurs. Normally, that sentence would have you raising your brow, but it came from Hiragi. He had a strange way of showing affection—not like you minded it.

You point a finger at his face, more specifically, the lip that was swelling up. "That. That's the real piece of work here. What happened to you huh?"

Hiragi clicks his tongue. It was naive of him to think that you'd let him get away with it without so much as an explanation. Seems pretty easy to do, but the fussing that would occur thereafter was the one thing he wanted to prevent.

Looking off to the side, he muttered beneath his breath. "Sakura hit me with a sign..." He spoke so softly as if the less you heard, the less you'd care about his busted lip.

Your brows furrow in confusion. You understood what he said, but at the same time you didn't.

"A sign? What sign? What were you guys up to?"

"We were helping an elderly couple put up a new sign on their store. So all of us hoisted up the sign and we were supposed to do it on my count of 3. But that damn kid doesn't know how to listen and hoisted too early."

His gaze wandered down to his feet, perching his elbows on his knees. "...Hence the busted lip."

A sigh of relief left your lips. Thankfully it wasn't a result of a fight this time. You could already imagine the kind of back-and-forth they had earlier with that sign. It made you giggle a bit—thinking about Hiragi and Sakura pointing fingers while everyone else stood awkwardly.

As soon as you stood up, his eyes were on you. "Where are ya going?"

"To the infirmary, duh. I'm getting you an icepack for that lip."

You were already a few steps ahead when he stopped you. A firm grasp was on your wrist as he held you in place. "Ya don't have to. Just stay here. It'll get better on its own."

You turn to look back at him. His gaze was firm, telling you that he was absolutely adamant that you stay put. Not wanting to be that overbearing partner, you give up on it.

Instead, you looked back at him with the same intensity. You two did this quite often which resulted in the others calling this little thing of yours as "flirting". Your own brand of flirting that is.

But a cheeky grin broke out on your face again at a silly thought that had crossed your mind.

"If you don't want an icepack and if you don't want me to move... well, I thought of a remedy that doesn't require any icepacks or me leaving here."

His interest... or trepidation, rather—was piqued.

Whatever "remedy" you have up your sleeve, he knew it was just another way of saying, "Oh I have another way to tease you and make you look like a fool in love."

Great. Just great, knowing that he had to indulge you as the good boyfriend that he is.

"What is it th-"

His sentence cuts off once you had your hands cupping his face and your lips on his. For someone weaker than him, you sure were strong enough when it came down to it. You pulled him down to your height while keeping your lips locked.

For a moment, you let him pull away. You wondered what kind of expression he'd make after this stunt that you pulled.

"Seriously?"

Once again, he tries to convince you about how disgruntled he was. But with the way his lips bent, it was clear he was trying to suppress a smile. How adorable, you thought.

The only attacks Hiragi couldn't defend against were the flurry of kisses you planted all over his face. His lips, cheeks, the tip of his nose, forehead—none of those were safe from your affections.

Before you knew it, the smile he had fought hard to subdue had made its way on his face. His own hands cupped your face, finally reciprocating the fondness you so kindly showered him with.

Your little moment, however, was interrupted by a squealing Ume.

"Hey, Nirei, get this on camera!"

... to which everyone else face palmed.

Not only did he ruin your fun, but he gave away their presence. So nothing was caught on camera that day.

Hiragi let go of you, giving you one last gentle gaze before scowling at the idiots that interrupted the two of you.

Well, he had to teach them a lesson before they could tease him, right?

ε( ε ˙³˙)ɜ ｡° ⚬ ｡ likes and reblogs are appreciated

pls do not translate/copy/reupload my work on other platforms.

o-sachi © 2024

[irisintheafterglow]

As Long As You Love Me (bf!gojo x you)

summary: things just feel so off lately; at least he's there to keep you grounded.

wc: 1k

cw/tags: angst/comfort, established relationship and pet names (babe, baby, love, angel), college!gojo, implied depression/anxiety but nothing explicit, mentions of food and eating, mild language, yeah he's such a simp for you and would burn the entire world down for you

note: is this painfully self indulgent? very. do i have the feeling that other people need this besides me? definitely. hope you enjoy, take care of yourself babes <3

likes, reblogs, and replies are always appreciated :)

“Hey, gorgeous. Checking in on you again. D’you mind if I swing by your place? I forgot my charger and I really need to finish that lab report. Also, it’s an excuse to kiss you until you’re sick of me. Kidding! But, not really. Anyway, I love you. I’ll be there soon!”

He knows in his gut that something’s off when you haven’t responded to his calls for four hours. To tell the truth, the calls were going through to your phone, but you’d let it ring until it sent him to your voicemail. It was too much and you were too tired to do anything but stare at his photo appearing on your screen, well-lit by the afternoon sun but feeling the darkest you’ve felt in weeks. It was a terrifying situation, feeling the strong grip on reality you maintained for so long start to slip from your fingers. Without warning, the air stopped feeling comforting, food stopped tasting delicious, and the laughs of your friends slipped through one ear and out of the other. It was overwhelmingly distressing but even your body felt too exhausted to cry. So, what was there to do but lay in bed and wait for your energy to come back? 

Opening the door for him is what you could do. 

He didn’t really give you a choice, with his incessant knocking that would definitely end up in a noise complaint from your neighbors if you didn’t unlock the door. Ever so slowly, you drag yourself out of bed and down the hall, wiping the dark circles under your eyes like it would make a difference. A glance at the side table by the door revealed no charger of Satoru’s, just some of his rings and your keys with the little Winnie the Pooh charm he’d gifted you a few months back.

“Because you’re my honey!” He was giving you one of those sideways grins again, the one where his head tilted to the side like a kid who’d got caught eating cookie dough straight from the bowl. “You’re so sweet that I have an addiction, just like Winnie the Pooh.”

“I don’t think Pooh has an addiction, sweetheart,” you giggled, leaning back into his arm stretched over your shoulders on his couch. “It’s just his favorite food.”

“You’re right. There’s no way that he could maintain homeostasis with just honey, so he must be taking other things to sustain–”

“Satoru, I love you. Please stop talking,” you say tenderly and cover his mouth with your hand, abruptly pulling away when his tongue darts out to lick your palm. He flashes a sharp canine at you in spite of your protests of disgust, gently taking your chin to pull you close enough for him to kiss you. “I love you, even though you do weird shit like that.”

“You love it when I do that ‘weird shit.’ It keeps our relationship interesting,” he argues against your lips. 

“That’s one way to put it,” you reply and he’s kissing you again before you have the chance to tell him off again. If you could, you would bottle that moment and keep it in a jar, drinking it anytime you started approaching the edge again. Your heart aches even before you’ve finished twisting the door handle; he was going to see you at a low point he hadn’t seen from you in a while, and the thoughts of being a burden were already nudging the back of your mind. With as much courage you could muster, you finally swing open the door and see him standing against the wall with a bag of divine smelling food. 

“There you are, I was worried I’d have to sneak in through your window like we’re in high school again,” he greets warmly, glowing in a way that wasn’t blindingly hot like the sun. Everything about him radiated safety, something that you didn’t know you were craving until he was with you.

“I couldn’t find your charger anywhere, love. I’m sorry,” you say quietly, taking the plastic bag from him and setting it on the counter. You can tell he’s being careful around you, as much as he’s trying not to show it. Your limbs feel like dead weight and, even with Satoru so close, you just wanted to lie down again. “I looked on my desk and the kitchen table and–”

“Yeah, there’s no charger here, baby. I made that up so I could come over and spend time with you,” he admits and it pulls the tiniest smile out of you. “There’s my angel; I missed your smile, even if it’s a little too weak right now.” When he steps close enough, your forehead fits in the crook of his shoulder and you exhale deeply, swallowing the mix of confusion and sorrow suddenly rising in your throat. His arms snake around your waist, holding you firmly against him, unwaveringly confident in his ability to keep you safe. 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Satoru,” you whisper on his skin, swallowing thickly again. “I was doing so well and now I’m not. I don’t know what happened.”

“You don’t have to know what happened, baby. You know that something is off, and that’s what matters.”

“How is that more important than the reason why this is happening?”

“Because it means I can help you through it, even if we don’t know what triggered it,” he replies without hesitation and a few tears escape down your cheeks. It feels good to cry on his shoulder and have him hold you, even when you don’t feel worthy of love. “Let’s eat, and then we can go back to your bed. Is that okay?”

“Mhmm,” you hum and his lips press a line of kisses on your forehead. His eyes suddenly widen and you can’t help laughing when your ears pick up the sound of his stomach rumbling, loud and persistent. “When did you last eat, baby?”

“I was waiting until I got here and the car ride was torture,” he laments, returning to his typical, dramatically lovable demeanor. 

“Thank you, Satoru. I don’t deserve you.”

“Yes, you do. You deserve the world and so much more, and I would give them to you if you asked.” 

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

[throughgoalsandbaskets]

A Demon's Guide to Anthropology 2

Part 2: sunlight

Word count: 655

Tags: use of 'MC' and they/them pronouns, brief description of a pill bottle and vitamins, rushed and short, fluff

★ ——— —— —

MC going back to the human world periodically over weekends and denying staying in the Devildom over breaks despite claiming they wanted to confused Mammon.

It had been explained to him a thousand times, and yet he'd seem to forget just as soon as it was said. He simply didn't understand.

One one particular return to the human world, Mammon went straight to the source of all his confusion, sat down on the bed, propped his elbows on his knees, and stared with a seriousness one would only see in his gaze at a casino.

The human who brought such emotion from him murmured to themself as they packed a small bag about needing to keep a bag ready to stunt this constant packing and unpacking only a few things, and Mammon stayed silent in thought.

When MC stood, bag slung over a shoulder, Mammon pounced like a cat.

"So.." He drew it out nice and slow, swing casual despite his body language showing he clearly wasn't being such a thing.

"Why do ya need to go back so much?"

MC blinked and raised a brow, turning to look at the greedy demon. A flash of amusement formed in their eyes, a companion to their confusion.

"Didn't Lucifer explain this to you, like, a billion times?"

Mammon scoffed and grumbled, mumbling under his breath about the question and the realities of it before giving his response.

"It's not my fault! I-I'm just curious, but it's not like I care or somethin'! You're just a human why can't I ask? You're in my care, so just cough it up you-!"

He cut himself off when he heard laughing coming from above, glancing up and watching the object of his torment wheeze and laugh, covering their mouth to poorly hide the humor they felt.

"I-I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's just.. I need to go back, it's not that I want to. Humans can't survive without sunlight," they explained.

This only brought more questions than answers, along with a sense of growing urgent dread.

"You what?"

"Yeah, humans need sunlight to survive. Why do you think I take these?" MC held up a small bottle labeled with their name on top. Inside of it was a few clear capsules. Vitamins, Mammon is quick to put a name to them.

"W-Well, I just thought- I just-" He huffed and crossed his arms, pouting like a spoiled child denied their wants.

"Without sunlight humans die, so I take these to sustain myself each day here, and go back to the human world with Solomon whenever we can."

It all made sense partially, but Mammon knows truthfully it wouldn't make a whole lot of sense even with a dumbed down human anatomy lesson. This once, he conceded and allowed himself to not fully understand, despite his sin making him internally scream for answers on his human's health.

"But," MC began again, causing the sulking demon to perk up and look at them from where he sat on the bed and where they stood. "If you're good next week, I'll ask Lucifer and Lord Diavolo if you can come next time? Just don't tell anyone, I don't want the others knowing I'm only taking you."

MC knew just the right answer to cheer the avatar of, and immediately to hide his rebounded embarrassment, Mammon turned his head to the side and scoffed, arms crossed.

"You think I can't last a week? I'll show ya that I can last a month!"

The humans merely shook their head and sighed, readjusting the hold on their bag, and giving a small smile.

"Sure thing, Mammon. And pigs can fly."

The demon gave a squawk once he realized what that meant, the human beginning to leave as they laughed.

"HEY!"

[absolutelybifurious]

Rules: you will be given a word. then you share one sentence/excerpt from your wip(s) that starts with each letter of your word!

tagged by @pikapitou and @clytemnestraaa who gave me PLAY and DREAM so i guess i'll do both bc i'm a greedy bitch (from stripper and magic fic in no particular order)

P - “Please, Buck,” Eddie says, and he’s still got his eyes shut. He’s got his hands on the back of his couch, like he’s trying to pull himself up from a ledge.

L - “Like you need a job,” Albert huffs.

Buck drops his head back into the booth as the waiter drops the tequila off at the table. “I do need a job. I need consistency. I need something other than my parent’s shut-up-and-leave-us-alone money. Just because I’ve got that doesn’t mean I don’t wanna do something.”

A - And it’s like a plea, it’s like standing at the gates of Heaven and watching them creak and swing open. It’s everything Buck’s ever needed. He takes a couple more steps, and he stares the brown of Eddie’s eyes, and knows – knows how bad Eddie needs him. Knows, despite everything, despite every mistake, this is exactly where he’s supposed to be.

Y - “You’re scared?” Buck asks.

Eddie’s eyes rush up to his, wide again. “Yeah, I am, because…” He swats at one of the bugs that lands on his shoulder. “I get you think this is some storybook wonder or whatever, but it’s dangerous. Before you showed up tonight, I almost…”

D - “Don’t do that!” Buck lets out a breath, then starts the car. “Don’t say things like that. Don’t look at me like—I promised myself I wasn’t going to fuck you until you were well-rested. I am demonstrating Sisyphean levels of restraint, so you cannot look at me like that.”

R - Ravi is a flirt. It’s normal, but Eddie can’t help the feature length film that blares through him, of Buck and Ravi talking, flirting, of Buck realizing how much easier Ravi is, how nice Ravi’s eyes are, how funny and comfortable Ravi is to be around. He pictures Buck grabbing his shoulder, explaining that it’s been fun, that he does care about him, but there’s something easy and uncomplicated about Ravi. The thing with Eddie just wasn’t sustainable. It was never going to work.

E - Eddie’s eyes dip to Buck’s mouth, then up to his eyes. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll make you,” Buck says simply, and he’s nearly got his mouth on Eddie’s – does, in fact, have the first, technicolor burst of it, when a blur of motion catches in the corner of his eye.

A - skipping because there's already an A.

M - “Move,” Buck says. “I’m not listening to anything while you’re bleeding out in front of me.”

“Oh, shut up.” Buck’s so tempted to pick him up and toss him over his shoulder, just to shut him up. “It’s not, Buc—” Buck tries to push him out of the way, but Eddie plants his feet. “Can you—can you relax? It’s not that deep. I’ll treat it in a sec—”

that was so fun but also stressful bc my god i should use more words anyways, tagging @inell @tidesreach @eddiebabygirldiaz @playinginthunderstorms and @coldbam, your word is WAIT.

[mlm-writer]

Peter Parker & the 5 Love Languages Headcanons

Pairing:  Peter Parker (TASM) x Gender Neutral Reader Rating: General Audience Summary: The Big Tober Day 11 - The 5 Love Languages

Words of affirmation

Peter is not that good at words, he often gets a little tongue-tied. He can’t help it. He is just always enthralled by you and it makes it hard to get the words together. 

Peter also sometimes just doesn’t know what to say. He is really more a man of action. 

He loves to be on the receiving end of it though. His whole face lights up when you praise or compliment him. Words mean a great deal to him, especially since he hangs onto everything you say to him. 

Acts of service

Peter is a big acts of service guy. He would do anything for you, especially helping you with college work. He has this big brain anyway, what better use for it than helping you?

Peter would clean your apartment if you’re going through shit. 

Peter doesn’t like being on the receiving end of this very much. He is prone to feeling like a burden. Sure he appreciates it, but too much makes him uncomfortable and it is too much real quick. 

When he is sick and you offer to take care of him, he will accept, but he must and shall repay the favour or he will feel bad about it. 

Gifts

Peter will mostly give flowers, but when he has been on a trip without you, you can bet on a tacky souvenir. 

Favourite gifts are t-shirts, snowglobes and fridge magnets. 

When you give him something, he will cherish it each time. 

Peter keeps everything you give him in a box or puts it on display or uses it daily. He loves to show off whatever you give him as well. He is just so cute about it. 

Quality time

One of Peter’s favourites. Just being together makes him happy. 

Peter also loves trying new things with you. Tinkering with left-over components is one of his favourite things to do, but he also likes to cook with you or bake. 

Pottery workshop was one of the favourite things you did together. 

Peter is a bit clingy. He wants to have quality time all the time. 

Physical touch

Ultimate favourite!!!

Like I said Peter is a little clingy and this extends to physically clingy. 

Why do you think he likes swinging together? 

It's all about the hand holding, comforting hugs and cuddles on the couch while bingeing something. 

Peter also needs that reassure sometimes that you are unharmed. He lives a dangerous life and he needs that physical confirmation that you're alive and safe in his arms. 

—————

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[bakuliwrites]

Veins of Gold- Dabi x Reader

Fandom: BNHA/MHA

Relationship: Dabi|Touya Todoroki x Reader

Rating: 18+, MINORS DNI

Tags: Fluff and Smut, Oral S*x, Blowjobs, PIV, Emotional S*x, Soft Dabi, Blood (Dabi's Tears), Shower S*x, Some Angst

Summary: On the one hand, he’s disgusted by how gentle you are; but on the other, Dabi feels a wretched gratitude. A desperate yearning for you to keep going. How long has it been since anyone has shown him any ounce of tenderness? Any iota of softness? You are the only one in his recent memory that has even bothered. And you do it not out of pity or sorrow. But so frustratingly out of love. Dabi hardly feels worthy. Dabi sees himself as a failure, but you are always there to remind him how loved and cherished he truly is.

Read here in this post or over on my AO3.

As Dabi stands before the bathroom mirror, he’s reminded of when he was little: sitting on the granite counter, watching his father shave. He was mesmerized by the razor gliding through white, foamy shaving cream. He couldn’t wait to be just like dad, both as a future hero and everything that comes with being an adult. Including shaving. 

“Dad, when will I get to shave?” Touya’s tiny voice asks as he swings his legs back and forth, the hollow reverb of his heels tapping against the cabinets ringing in his ears. To him, shaving is the mark of being a man. Of being old enough to be a hero. Just like dad. And probably just like All Might. 

“When you’re older, Touya,” his father grunts, not taking his eyes off of his own reflection in the mirror. Being older was a concept that was so far out of young Touya’s vision. Being older would take forever and a day. In the meantime, however, he could practice for his impending adulthood. Touya would take to standing next to Enji in the mornings, a razor protected with a safety guard pressed to his chin. His father would squeeze out a bit of shaving cream and slather it on to Touya’s little face, who would then copy his father’s motions. Touya tried so hard to embody everything he thought his father was. Everything his father wanted him to be. 

The very first time Touya tried to actually shave, he was twelve. He’d noticed the tiny outcroppings of stubble on his chin earlier that day. Delighted, he hid himself in the bathroom and pilfered one of his dad’s razors. With shaving cream lathered on his face, he set to work. Almost immediately, he felt the sharp slice of it cutting his fragile skin. Blood trickled down from the thin sliver on his cheek. The wound bled, and bled, and bled. This wasn’t the first time he’d hurt himself in his pursuit of emulating his father. And it most certainly wouldn’t be the last. 

Now, as Touya stands before the bathroom mirror, Dabi stares back at him. He finds himself inspecting his skin for any open cuts, but not because he’s been shaving. Burned follicles don’t grow hair anymore. Instead, he’s looking to see if he’s sustained any injuries from his latest battle. His lithe body is covered in burns, piercings and staples holding together what remaining healthy flesh he has left. He looks pieced together haphazardly. Like at any moment, his flames could burst through and singe away the remnants of what remains of Touya Todoroki. 

Good, Dabi thinks to himself with a scowl, Let it all burn. What good has my body ever done for me? Weak. Pathetic. Incapable. 

All his body has ever done is betray him. It can’t withstand the power he possesses. What’s the point of having such a beautiful gift if he can’t even use it without hurting himself? His father saw the irony in it. Too bad Touya was too stupid to realize that. 

Dabi cards his fingers through his spiked hair. The face that stares back at him has lost the vibrance of youth, the enthusiasm of his childhood. Touya is worn down, weary, crumpled. Dabi’s wrath flickers in his irises, blue flame swimming in pools of white, the dark center of his pupils deep, abyssal.

So much for making his father proud. Dabi is the embodiment of Enji’s disappointment. His scarred skin is a daily reminder of Touya’s ultimate failure. Sure, his firepower rivals Endeavor's. Maybe even surpasses it. But the sacrifice he’s had to make to attain that level of power has been monumental. His purpled, pierced, stapled skin is proof enough. 

Haggard, he lets his hands rest against the counter and hangs his head. Sometimes, looking at himself is painful. He can feel the memory of flame, searing his skin, making it blister and burn. The ashen air of the forest scalding his esophagus, parching his lungs. The puckered, leathery bags under his eyes make him look constantly exhausted. So much of his skin is that way now: tired. What a gruesome sight, he thinks to himself.

“Fuck,” he swears quietly, noticing the trickle of blood pooling from one of the staples in his cheek. He must’ve snagged it on his shirt when he was undressing. Frequently, his clothing or bedsheets get caught on his piercings, tugging at the metal and, in turn, pulling at his skin. He’s gotten used to the feeling, often not noticing until he finds a dark little spot of dried blood. 

Dabi grabs a nearby washcloth, wetting it under some warm water and pressing it against his cheek. He hardly notices you entering the room until he feels your hands snake around his waist, gently ghosting along his hip bones and settling on his stomach. You must have heard his outcry, summoned by the whispered profanity. The tiny, featherlight kisses you lay upon the length of his spine attempt to gently pull him from his self-flagellation. Even if you have no idea what’s going through his head right now, he knows you can probably tell. 

“Hmm,” you hum against him as your lips reach his shoulder blade, “What are you thinking about?” 

Failure. Disappointment. All the weak, negative emotions he wouldn’t dare show anyone else in the League. Dabi is confident. Cocky. Nonchalant. To the rest of the world, he’s enigmatic and driven, passionate and grandiose. He puts on a show for everyone else in order to hide the soft, vulnerable corpse of Touya buried in his soul. He shrouds himself in hatred and anger. A protective cloak of flame that drives back anyone who tries to guess at who he really is. 

However, your gentility has always been capable of drawing him out of his darkness. Your touch is a beacon in a foggy sea, piercing light out of a curtain of dense, impenetrable mist. Before he can say anything to you, you come around to his side, noticing the washcloth he’s got pressed against his face. He feels his tense muscles loosen at your touch, the heaviness of his thoughts lifted just a little.

“Did you cut yourself again?” you whisper softly, brows furrowed with concern. 

“Yeah. Damn staple got caught on my shirt,” he returns, chuckling ruefully. You gesture for him to hand you the washcloth and he obliges. Tenderly, you dab at the wound, careful not to snag the cloth on the staple either. Crimson blooms across the surface of the white towel, the scent of iron hanging in the air, sharp and metallic. Dabi gazes at you, wondering why you’re with him, before glancing at himself in the mirror. He can’t fathom why you’d want to touch his gnarled, scarred skin. He reaches down to rest his hands on your hips, feeling the hint of bone beneath soft, supple skin. Every inch of you is plush, a welcome sensation on his calloused fingertips. Dabi is edges, angles, sharpness, while you are velvety, rounded, tender.

You set the washcloth down on the counter before gently tracing the divide between Dabi’s scarred and unscarred skin. His burns are wrinkled, leathery under your touch, a sensation only broken when you graze one of the smooth metal piercings that hold him together.

“Pretty gross, huh?” he puts forth, watching curiously as you move to caress the angles of his cheeks. “Gross,” not because they’re scars. “Gross,” because they are constant reminders of what a letdown Touya was to his father. In their folds, they collect Dabi’s self-loathing and malcontent. Every day, he marvels at the fact that you don’t pull your hand away in disgust when you touch him. He wonders if you can feel the wells of resentment that pool in every wrinkle.

“Not in the slightest,” you return quietly, a loving beam dancing on your lips. You rest your hands on either side of his face. Your eyes are searching for other cuts he might’ve missed. On the one hand, he’s disgusted by how gentle you are; but on the other, Dabi feels a wretched gratitude. A desperate yearning for you to keep going. How long has it been since anyone has shown him any ounce of tenderness? Any iota of softness? You are the only one in his recent memory that has even bothered. And you do it not out of pity or sorrow. But so frustratingly out of love. Dabi hardly feels worthy.

“You’re like Kintsugi,” you suggest. He looks quizzically at you, yanked abruptly from his melancholic ruminations.

“What?” he questions, tilting his head slightly to the side in confusion. Another soft smile from you. That damn smile.

“Kintsugi,” you repeat, “It’s the art of piecing broken pottery back together with gold.” As you say this, you slide a thumb over one of the gilded piercings underneath his eye. 

“Much like a vase or a bowl that’s been broken, you’re being held together again by veins of gold. You might’ve been shattered by something in your past, but you didn’t let it break you,” you go on, tone suffused with affection. Dabi merely stares at you, wide-eyed and confused. Normally he would scoff at something like that. Say, “That’s stupid,” and dismiss the idea. But for some reason, when you say it, it’s endearing .  

“I don’t think anyone’s ever compared me to a bowl before,” he teases, trying to downplay the sentiment. He’s not sure he’s worthy of being compared to an artwork as elegant as that. He feels more like he’s been pieced back together with thin concrete and jagged shards of metal.

“Well, there’s a first time for everything!” you laugh, lighting up the tiny bathroom with your smile. And Dabi finds himself smiling with you, though he raises a skeptical eyebrow at your suggestion. Your look softens once again as you caress the pads of your thumbs against the angles of his cheekbones. 

You make Dabi feel seen. Heard. Paid attention to. And not for his potential to surpass a great hero. Not for his power or any expectations you might have of him. You don’t have any expectations and you certainly haven’t imposed any on him. You embrace him, Dabi, Touya, as he is. At this very moment in time. You don’t see him as Touya, who will surpass All Might. Or Dabi, who will end Endeavor (and likely himself in the process). You have asked for nothing in return. Your kindness and love have never been conditional. This is the first time in a long time he’s felt companionship without obligation or condition.

“I think you wear your strength beautifully, Touya,” you breathe. Touya, he loves it when his name, his real name, flutters from your lips. You’re the only one that gets to call him that now. It’s a secret the two of you share. Soon, the world will know it. But not yet. For now, he’s Dabi to everyone else, but you.

Dabi, Touya, whoever he is, grits his teeth. He can't cry anymore. Not since he burned away his tear ducts. But he can feel the sting of evaporated tears in his eyes. Dammit, why is he so emotional around you? Dabi pinches the bridge of his nose, squinting and turning away. He doesn't want you to see him like this. Weak, tragic. He bites his tongue, hoping it’ll stop the impending flow of sanguine tears. 

"Hey," you whisper gently, turning him towards you, pressing kiss after kiss to his jawline, all the way to the corners of his lips. 

His singed ducts leak warm blood. It flows down his cheeks, stains them crimson, and drips to the floor beneath. The droplets splatter, tiny massacres on the clean ground. He feels your thumbs on his cheeks, quick to wipe up his metallic tears. It's all too much sometimes: his self-hatred battling with your uplifting words. Your constant, radiant affection. 

Dabi feels frustrated that he's not able to as easily express his love for you as you are for him. Often he feels pent up, stifled, unsure of how to go about showing you how much you mean to him. You grace him with your love so easily, so readily. All he feels he can do is greedily accept it and hope you know how much you mean to him. But that doesn't cut it for him. No, he needs to show you.

He leans down, breath fanning softly against your lips as he whispers, “You’re too good to me.” 

A breathless tension hovers between you before you make the move to close the distance, tongue tracing his parted lips, begging for entrance, while his hands ghost along your curves. As your palms smooth over the lean muscles of his abdomen, Dabi deepens the kiss, tongue grazing your teeth. Your nails drag along his stomach, sending electric tingles throughout his whole body. Your kisses grow sloppy, yearning and needy. Dabi’s hands can’t get enough of you. He’s kneading the supple flesh of your thighs, grabbing handfuls of your ass, and wanting desperately to free the strain in his pants. Your hand moves to palm his growing bulge, drawing from Dabi a salacious moan. 

He’s tugging at your shirt, parting from you just long enough to slip it over your head. He smirks at the whimper you release when he lifts you into his arms, letting you wrap your legs around his waist. 

“Join me in the shower?” he breathes between kisses. All you can do is nod enthusiastically, unable to form words as Dabi dips his head to ensnare the pert bud of your nipple between his teeth. He carries you towards the shower, setting you down to get the water started. While you wait for it to warm up, Dabi toys with the hem of your underwear, tickling the tender flesh of your pelvis before dipping his fingers into your heat. He drags two along your wet folds, sucking a breath in through his teeth as you make quick work of his pants. They drop to the ground, pooling around his feet, followed by his underwear. His cock springs free, relieving some of his building pressure. 

“So wet, just for me, babygirl,” Dabi purrs, mischief dancing in his cerulean eyes. His fingers are slick with you as he teases your entrance, hungrily capturing your lips again. Your tragic mewls and pathetic whines are music to his ears as he thrusts two of his fingers into your entrance, his thumb circling your clit. He feels your fingers grasp his dick, swiping your thumb over the bead of cum that sits at his tip. His moan reverberates through your chest as you pump rhythmically, slow and languorous. He follows suit, fingers moving slow and purposeful. He holds out his free hand under the shower stream, checking to see if it’s warm enough for you. Satisfied, he quickly withdraws himself from you, chuckling at the whimper you release as he leaves you empty.

His smirk is positively devilish as he meets your eye. His gaze is intense, dark with lust, as he slips his two slick fingers into his mouth. He licks them clean, dragging his fingers torturously slow past his lips, releasing them with a wet pop.

"Fuck, doll, you taste delicious," Dabi groans, gently pushing you into the shower and shutting the glass door behind the two of you. 

“Touya, you’re terrible,” you coo, and he can’t get enough of how flushed you are. He’s blazing, heat building in his core, fire burning through his veins. As soon as the water hits his skin, it starts to evaporate, filling the shower with steam. He pulls you close to him, your body flush to his. His erection prods at your stomach while his hands massage your tits. He’s about to lean down to capture your lips with his again when your eyes fill with an impish glee.

“Sit,” you command, lips curving into a coy smile. Dabi’s dick twitches with your demanding tone. God, he loves it when you take control. He obliges, like a good boy, sitting himself down on the little stone ledge in the corner of the shower. His cock curves upwards, sitting pretty against his stomach, cum glistening at the tip. There’s a flash of white hair at the base of his dick, leading up in a fine line towards his navel. He watches with wide, blue eyes as you kneel before him, trailing kiss after kiss up the insides of his thighs. You’re extra careful over any of his staples and burned skin, nibbling gently and only leaving love-bites on his healthier flesh. 

“Shit,” he grunts as you inch closer to his cock. You giggle, clearly delighted by Dabi’s blushing cheeks and dopey, glazed look. Your eyes are filled with a playful light as you press a light kiss to Dabi’s swollen tip. He lets his head fall back as you drag your tongue along his length, a raspy groan escaping his lips. Your fingers grasp his thighs, digging into them, while you take him in your mouth. Your skilful tongue swirls around his tip. He tries his best not to move too much, but he can’t help the bucking of his hips as you bob your head up and down. 

Dabi grasps at the glass for purchase, pressing his palm to the steamy surface, leaving behind a smeared handprint as you take him even further into you. His legs are shaking with how close he is, but he’s not quite ready to finish yet.

“Fuck, baby, so close,” he grunts, vapor rolling off his overheated body, “Wanna- come inside you.” 

With his struggling plea, you let your mouth slide off his cock, rising to smash your lips against his. He returns your hungry kiss with equal desperation, tasting himself on you, salty and warm. He pulls you onto his lap, hands gliding with ease over your slick curves. He can’t get enough of you as he lines you up over his erection, slowly lowering you onto him. You moan into him, filling him like burning smoke. His hands grip your ass, fingers digging into your tender flesh. He holds you there a moment, the feeling of your tight cunt around his sensitive dick making him joyously dizzy. 

“You feel so fucking good,” he groans, pulsing up into you. 

“Ah!” you gasp, grasping the tiny hairs at the nape of his neck, “Touya, you make me feel so amazing.” 

You grind your hips into his, the lewd slap of skin on skin made even louder by how soaked the two of you are in the shower stream. Inside you, Dabi feels whole. He feels safe, loved, complete. He envelops you in his arms, holding you close as you ride him, your lips finding their way to the sensitive skin beneath his ear. Here, in the sanctity of your home, in the safety of this shower, Dabi forgets what it means to be forgotten. To be abandoned. The world the two of you inhabit is temporarily limited to this steamy shower, hidden in an eden of vapor and water. 

When Dabi exhales, a wispy trail of smoke pours from his lips. You ignite him, warm lamplight on a pleasant summer night. He’s drunk on you: on your body, your adoration and love. He draws you up, feeling your walls shuddering around his twitching cock. He presses his forehead to yours, wanting to feel as close as he possibly can while the two of you come undone. 

“Touya,” he hears you breathe over the gentle roar of the shower. Your eyes are bright, the corners crinkling joyously as you twitter, “You’re beautiful. So beautiful, my darling.” 

Dabi feels himself break. Never in a million years would he have imagined himself here, cocooned by your warmth and affection, learning how to love himself. Learning that he is loved and cared for and cherished by someone. His cock twitches one final time before Dabi releases into you, threads of hot cum filling you to the brim. Your walls pulse around him and your eyes squeeze shut as you ride Dabi through your orgasm. Your pace is erratic, hips rocking against his. Your lips crash into his, fervent kisses passed back and forth as you each reach ecstasy. 

Dabi feels tears spill over his cheekbones, but this time, they’re not imbued with blood. Molten gold flows from him, snaking in sparkling rivers down his face, pooling in his scars. Your whispered, “I love you, Touya,” graces his ears. He returns this with equal fervor. 

When Dabi is positive he’s spent himself in you, he makes sure you’ve ridden him to your content. He litters your collarbone and breasts with kisses as you catch your breath. He carefully slips himself out of you, feeling his hot cum dripping down your thighs. When you lean back, he beams at your flushed cheeks and radiant smile. Black hair dye drips down his shoulders, washing away and circling the drain, leaving the hair on his head a stark white. You gently card your fingers through it.

“You are stronger than you know, Touya,” you coo, nuzzling your nose against his, “You are so loved. So adored.”  

He presses his forehead to yours, letting his eyelids fall shut as you wrap your arms around him. You remind him that he is not a failure. He is not a disappointment or a burden or forgotten. All the pain of the past, the agony of his present, and the impending future are forgotten when he is encompassed in your light. His body isn’t entirely useless. It can bring pleasure to someone dear to him. It can bring pleasure to himself, too. His flames are destructive, but he does not always have to destroy. He can create, he can build, and he has you to remind him of that. 

“Kintsugi, ” he murmurs, finding endless comfort in the way your fingers softly brush through the pale strands of his hair, “I guess I can get used to being compared to a bowl.”

Your chuckle makes him smile.

“A very beautiful bowl,” you laugh as he beams, pressing his lips to yours. 

A/N: Finally finished this fic! It's been a lot of waffling back and forth between what direction I wanted to go with it, and from it, several other Dabi fics have been born. Those won't come out for a little bit though. But you can certainly look forward to more Dabi smut from me! For now, I wanted to write something soft and spicy for him. I adore Dabi. I think he is so beautiful and passionate. I love him as a villain. His backstory is so very sorrowful. I wanted to give him some comfort and peace. As always, thank you for reading! Any likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated. I hope you are all doing well in this new year! Lots of love!

[misted-dream]

🦢 A WALTZ IN THE DARK ₊˚⊹ ˚ ༘ ⋆

ACT I THE ROLE. | to the programme

chapter info . . . content enemies to lovers (not really enemies or lovers yet), mentions of minor injury sustained from dancing, plot-heavy chapter basically exposition, maybe fluff? warnings smoking, profanity w. count 6.7k

series synopsis . . . the first and last time you and doyoung danced together was 5 years ago. 5 years since the mishap that founded your mistrust of him, at least as a duet partner. with the annual swan lake showing rolling around, you think you finally stand a chance to audition for the leads: odette and odile. it's every ballerina's dream to play this role at least once in their career. little do you know, rumour has it that kim doyoung just so happens to be auditioning for the role of prince siegfried this year.

tags @00127am

Truthfully, it’s claustrophobic out in the hallways. Despite it being well-ventilated and well-lit, there’s a stuffy feeling of being cramped into a space that crawls up onto your skin, pricking up goosebumps along with it. You prop one leg up on the barre that lines every inch of every wall within this building, bending your torso at your hip and pushing towards your knee in a straight line. The other dancers around you do the same. The energy in this corridor is unspoken, but there’s a shared feeling of anxiousness. It’s been at least 20 minutes since the last dancer was called into the audition room; no audition needs to take 20 minutes. Unless, they’re so spectacular to the point where the directors have forgotten they were still auditioning people for the roles. 

Not just any role though. The role. The role of Odette, and by the same token, the role of Odile. The lead female role for the Swan Lake Ballet. It’s been regarded as one of the most difficult roles to play because of how stark the contrast is between these two characters that are supposed to look the same, so naturally, logic suggests that the same ballerina must dance these two, so very different characters.

You set your back upright again, feeling an adequate enough stretch in your hamstrings. The dancers amongst you are all individually in their own worlds. Last year, you didn’t even sign up to audition for the lead. Though, not many people did. It was pretty much guaranteed that the prima ballerina would get it. This year, however, she opted out of auditioning and suddenly, there was an influx in interest for the part. Your whole life, you’ve been training for such an occasion—you can’t let it slip past you now.

“Y/N!”

A voice calls out. You turn your head in the direction of the voice. A pretty ballerina slips by the woman with a clipboard in her hand. The dancer’s light brown hair is pulled back perfectly, a full bun sitting in the back of her head. She waves a quick goodbye to the people inside the room before she steps out into the hallway.

“Yes, that’s me.” You say before bending down to pick up your dance bag, swinging it onto your right shoulder.

The woman doesn’t say anything else, she simply rotates her body sideways to allow some space for you to step in through to the room.

As soon as you’re inside the audition room, you see a seated panel of four people, two of whom you recognise: the company’s director and the choreographer. Both the pride and joy of the Paris House of Ballet. There’s an air of iciness that surrounds them. You set down your bag by the edge of the wall and saunter towards the spot marked with masking tape in the middle of the room. 

“Whenever you’re ready,” the director, Colette, beams at you.

You purse your lips together, kneeling down in front of the tablet set out for auditionees to put on the music they’ve chosen for their piece. A soft piano melody begins. The panel immediately recognises it as the Dying Swan. The melancholy tune floods the square audition room, and you let the music overtake and guide your every movement.

The piece is beginning to come to an end. You’re sat on top of your heel with one leg pointed straight out in front of you. The swan’s final moments, she’s still fighting for her mortality. With one last flare of her wings—your arms—you envelope yourself. Arms crossed at the wrist resting on top of your ankle, and you bow your head, your forehead touching your shin. You wait a few seconds before uncrossing your wrists and getting up onto your feet, as gracefully as you can. Looking up at the panel, you’re met with satisfied smiles. Internally, you release a deep sigh.

Colette looks to her sides, and then she begins, “Your grace is incomparable. Truly, very well done.”

One of the people whom you don’t recognise chimes in, “One of the best we’ve seen so far.” He nods, looking pleased with you and himself.

Colette’s smile is sturdy on her face. “Now, how are your fouettés?”

As soon as you step one foot out of the audition room, someone is already there waiting to pounce. “How was it?” Karina asks ecstatically.

Your shoulders jump up a bit at her excitement, “-You scared me.”

She widens her eyes expectantly, waiting for you to answer her question.

“It was alright. I did well enough on Odette’s part.”

Karina rolls her eyes, “Is that what you think? Well enough?”

You’re eyeing down the water fountain at the end of the corridor, someone stood right in front of it as they’re filling up their bottle. A tall man waltzes past, his head turning towards you for a brief moment. As quick as he came into view, he leaves all the same. You’re stuck looking at where the outline of his body was, eyes boring holes into the beige-painted walls of the corridors.

“Hello?” Karina’s voice brings you back to the present.

“Yeah, sorry. What did you say?”

Monday mornings are never usually too bad. This Monday morning may prove your hypothesis wrong, though. The casting of the characters for Swan Lake were said to be posted up today, up on the bulletin board. They could just send out a mass message but your company insists on doing things the conventional way, only like back a decade ago. It’s tradition, they’d said, dancers all huddle up to hopefully find their names next to the character they auditioned for. 

You’re hoping the same as you begin your commute to work this morning.

You swipe your ID card against the reader and the glass doors click open. Already, you can see a group of people, some wearing their practice outfits whilst others look they they just walked in with their puffer jackets on, all crowded around a rectangular pillar that stands in the middle of the staircase—separating the stairs that go up and the ones that go down. 

Curiosity spikes within you, an unease settling in the pit of your stomach. This is it. You walk over to the crowd that’s garnering more people by the second. 

“Y/N! Here!” You hear Karina’s voice from somewhere in the horde, and then a hand tugs at you. She pulls you through the mob of dancers, all eager to find their names plastered on the wall, until you’re stood next to her. You’re about two people away from the bulletin board, and once they move out of your way, it’s blatantly in your face. The plain piece of paper is titled: ‘Swan Lake Showing Castings.’

Your eyes skim past the castings for the male dancers and straight to the bottom half for the female dancers. You land on where it says ‘Odette/Odile’ and the name next to it: Juliette Martin. Not yours.

“Look!” Karina points at the paper, index finger underlining the role for Odette/Odile’s understudy. And there it is. Your name printed out next to the role of the understudy. Karina is visibly shaking with excitement, definitely more so than you. If anyone didn’t know better, they’d probably think that your name was Karina’s.

“Oh my god!” She flings her arms around you, and in her embrace, you shuffle out of the mob of people together. “You got it!”

“The understudy,” you remind her lowly. You attempt to soften your tone with a light, “Well,” and a shrug.

She’s not phased by your disappointment. “Still. You should be proud of yourself,” she leans her head forward, “I am. Proud of you, I mean.”

Her words force a smile onto your face and you manage out a quiet, ‘thank you.’

You’re in the middle of the barre routine, foot pointed out to second, when you feel a tap on your shoulder. Thinking that it’s your mentor’s way of telling you to fix something—it could be anything really, straighten your back, tuck in your pelvis, turn out, point your toes more—you settle for standing up taller and rolling your shoulders back. She taps you again, in the same spot. This time, you turn to look at your mentor; maybe she’ll feel like actually specifying her request, unlike usually. Her coarse, grey hair frames her face in artistically messy strands, the rest of it pulled back into a quick bun, unlike the neat, meticulously combed ones that ballerinas normally gravitate towards wearing. Once your mentor has your attention, she signals towards the door to the studio. You drop your arms from the barre, eyebrows raising at your mentor with all your four fingers pointing to your chest. She nods. This whole interaction is carried out in silence, as to not disturb the rest of the dancers going through the routine. You half-walk, half-jog on your tiptoes towards the studio doors, and the director is waiting by the frame.

She steps out and you follow her into the hallway. Finding a nearby bench, she sits down and prompts you to do the same.

The cold from the metal bars of the bench is insulated by your joggers, one leg pulled up to above your knee exposing the tights underneath, while the other sits where it’s supposed to. 

You breathe in, “What can I do for you?” You try to put on a convincing smile.

“Did you see the castings this morning?” The director begins.

You simply nod, not knowing where this conversation will go.

“Well, Juliette dropped out of the show this morning.”

“Oh,” you voice. And then the revelation hits you. You repeat, “Oh,” this time with full understanding of the director’s implications.

“So…” Colette’s lips are slow to curve into a smile, “You’re our lead.”

Your stomach flutters upon hearing those words, your mouth hung slightly agape. An excitement inches up to your face, the muscles in your cheeks spark up. “I mean, yeah. I’d love that. But why?” Colette notices the tiniest sliver of hesitation in your tone.

“Personal stuff—she didn’t know if she can stay in Paris for the next 3 months to train.”

You nod in understanding. “That’s a shame.”

“Some things can’t be helped,” Colette responds. “So, you’ll do it?”

“I’d love to.”

“Great!” The director’s face lights up as she puts her own hand over yours. “Training should start as soon as possible, so…” she looks down onto the floor to think, “The day after tomorrow?”

The way this conversation happened, it’s like you’re continuously a beat behind Colette. “I can look over the routines by myself tomorrow, no problem. Wouldn’t that be better? So we don’t have to wait an extra day?”

“Oh, no.” She gives a starry-eyed shake of the head. “Your training starts with partnering. You know, to test the chemistry.”

You mouth a subtle, ‘Oh.’

“Did you see who got the role of Siegfried?”

You let out a soft chuckle, “No. I kind of zoned out when I saw that I was the understudy.” A sudden wave of self-awareness engulfs you after that sentence uttered with unfiltered honesty. If Colette picked up on that, she made no show of it.

“I don’t know if you know him, actually. Kim Doyoung got the part.”

Kim Doyoung.

You knew him. No doubt, you knew him.

You lay in bed, eyes staring at the ceiling. The covers are pulled all the way up to your chest despite it being warm enough that you don’t need to sleep with the covers on. As you shut your eyes, an all-too-familiar memory plays out in your head.

It’s 5 years ago. You’re a fresh face to the company having just graduated from the Paris Conservatory for dance. It’s a spring day, the trees outside the studio building are beginning to blossom again. 

It’s partner practice and the mentor decided that today is the day that everyone will try some lifts. Not that extraordinary, you’d been lifted countless times even during your days learning at the conservatory. Kim Doyoung just so happened to be stood next to you when the mentor announced this. You didn’t know anyone in the class back then, seeing as you’d just joined, and he made no conscious effort to go seeking out a particular partner, so naturally, the two of you partnered up.

You didn’t know who he was at the time, just the fact that he was undeniably handsome. A combination of both sharp and soft features to him; if he was anything as a partner, it was that he’s easy on the eye.

The mentor demonstrated a lift which consisted of the male dancer lifting his partner all the way up in the air over his head, while she arched her back with both feet pointed downwards; arms stretched out nearly in a 90 degree angle from each other.

Someone had counted to 3 and that’s when you jumped, assisting him the most you could as he lifted you well over 6 feet above the ground. The lift went fine. The mentor then suggested a variation in which the male dancer supports the weight with only one hand. And you don’t know what happened, but presumably Doyoung tried to hold the lift with a single hand, and that’s when it started going downhill.

There was a little instability in your core and you told him to put you down. He listened, or at least tried to, but the balance was thrown off. He was still holding the weight with one hand when he tried to wrap his free hand around your waist again. Before you know it, the fabric of your leotard did you no good and you started slipping from his grip. Being forced to basically propel yourself down, it came too unexpectedly, and you landed on the floor without properly bracing your knees. Rookie mistake, you’d thought even in the moment.

That day, you didn’t think much of it. But then your dominant leg started hurting throughout the day, especially your knee. When you went to the infirmary, the nurse advised you to take a few days off from dancing; the pressure of being en pointe wouldn’t help the shock from the impact of your landing. Few days then turned into 2 weeks, courtesy of a second opinion from the physician that you thought would help argue your case—which was to continue dancing.

Doyoung obviously saw the injury take place, and you can’t be sure if he took notice of your absence in class for the following two weeks. But that was the first and last time you ever partnered with him. And you made yourself a promise to never dance with him, again.

Up until now, it’s been pretty easy living up to that promise. Key words: until now.

Even getting up out of bed this morning was something you thought over more than once. Were you really ready to go ‘test the chemistry’ with the man that you more or less held a grudge against for the past 5 years? You know that you should let it go, it’s been 5 years—and besides, it’s not like the accident rendered you completely unable to dance again. And it wasn’t on purpose. You had to remind yourself of these facts every time you start feeling a sting from your knee shooting through your entire leg.

You walk into the studio, curtains to the windows drawn all the way back, the view of the city reflected on one of the walls entirely lined with mirrors. Colette is already there, alongside Rafael, the choreographer, and Doyoung is there, too.

“Just on time!” Colette greets you brightly.

You catch Doyoung’s eyes for a split second as you walk further into the room. His face carried an expression, one full of indifference. Does he recognise you?

You pull the strap of your bag off your shoulder, and drop it down in the corner of the room right in front of the mirror.

“Shall we get started?” Colette’s voice piques your collective attention. “The first duet we’re running over is the Act 2 pas de deux. I assume we’re all familiar with it?”

Her question is met with a couple of silent nods.

In Act 2, the Prince, Doyoung’s character, meets Odette, your character, for the first time. Prince Siegfried absolutely revels in Odette’s beauty, grace, and reserve.

Rafael pushes off the windowsill and makes his way over to you and Doyoung, standing in the centre of the room with an unnatural distance between you. You don’t know if he recognises you or not, and you’re not sure which option’s worse. A, that he recognises you but fails to even acknowledge his mistake that you’ve been stuck thinking about for the past couple of days, or B, that he doesn’t even recognise you because whatever happened was that insignificant to him.

Rafael begins to mark out the routine, highlighting the part in the duet— the pas de deux—where Siegfried caresses Odette’s face with his fingers, turning her head towards him. Following this intimate moment between the characters, there’s supposed to be two consecutive lifts performed by Siegfried that makes it appear like Odette is floating in the air. You’re standing very, very still as Rafael mimics these movements with little effort. 

When he’s done, he asks a simple, “Got it?” before turning to face the speakers. Doyoung utters a quiet, “Yeah,” but you can only manage a nod that Rafael catches in the reflection.

And so, the music begins.

You take your place slightly off centre with Doyoung a little bit behind you. He takes slow, conscious steps towards you. His hand reaches out, fingers with the goal of landing softly on your chin. And they do. The pads of his fingers are cold to the touch, sending a shiver down you as you turn your face to look at him. Before you get the chance to properly look at him, your cue to take centre stage comes. In a fluttering-like motion, you quickly alternate between each foot putting pressure on your toes, bringing your arms to fifth up above your head. There’s a build-up in the music, and you feel Doyoung’s fingers tightly wrapped around your ribcage. The anticipation builds in Colette. But then, you call out, “Wait!”

Confusion colours Colette’s face, “What’s wrong?”

Rafael pauses the music, leaving the room in silence. Doyoung’s fingers loosen around you.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you admit with a clean-cut honesty. You put mind to not catch a glimpse of Doyoung’s reflection in the mirror before you.

Colette chuckles, “What do you mean?”

“I can’t be Odette.”

A stillness falls over everyone in the room, but particularly Colette. You meet her eyes, and there’s an uncharacteristic air of apathy to her. “You’re kidding. I mean, you didn’t even—”

Rafael physically takes a step in between you and Colette, Doyoung still silent in the situation. Rafael holds up a palm in Colette’s direction, then turns to face you. “Let’s start again in 10 minutes—is that okay with everyone?” 

You glance over at the mirror and see Doyoung’s reaction. He widens his eyes in annoyance, and leaves the centre of the room, heading straight for his stuff on the side.

A thinly rolled cigarette sandwiched between your lips, you flick on the lighter and bring up the flame to the end of the stick. You take a slow drag before resting your forearms on the railing that outlines the balcony, cigarette tucked in between your fingers. On one hand, you’re glad that Rafael stepped in before Colette could explode, but on the other, he’s now set a precedent that you’ll be happy to cooperate again in 10 minutes' time. You don’t know if that stands true. And it’s looking more like 5 minutes now that you found your way out here to have a quick smoke.

You hear the door behind you swing open as you take another drag. The sound of chatter mixed in with cutlery clanging together in the canteen rushes out into your ears. You look back over your shoulder, and it’s Rafael.

“Mind sharing?” He walks over to the edge of the balcony next to you, eyes looking pointedly at the cigarette in your hand.

Funnelling out a puff of smoke with closed lips, you flick off the ash and pass the stick to him.

“Colette send you out here to get me?” You watch as he inhales.

He shakes his head, eyes looking down as he sucks in before breathing out. There’s a few seconds of silence in between him shaking his head and actually beginning to speak. “If this is going to work, you’re gonna have to trust him.”

“Raf, you know what happened. The last time I trusted him, I couldn’t work for 2 weeks afterwards.” He gives you your cigarette back and you take it in between your thumb and your index finger.

He sighs. “I do know what happened, and I know it was an accident.”

“If it wasn’t an accident, it really wouldn’t help your case here,” you take another long, deliberate pull.

Rafael pauses, slowly observing you as you exhale smoke from your lips. “Don’t you have some faith in him as a dancer? That he’s improved throughout all these years?”

He’s met with no response from you.

“You know, that was the last time he ever made a mistake like that in partnering. How’d you think he kept his job these 5 years?”

“Last mistake as far as you know.” Your words come out more sharply than anticipated.

“If you’re still uncomfortable, that’s fine. It’ll just be a shame to replace you—Colette loved your audition.”

Replace? Not even 10 minutes and there’s already throwing around of the word ‘replace?’ You suppose you did explicitly state, “I can’t be Odette,” back there. Guess it’s no one’s fault but your own.

“He’s dedicated. Driven. You can trust him.”

You can trust him. Those 4 particular words echo around in your head.

You follow Rafael all the way back to the studio. Colette watching as Doyoung is in midst of a solo routine. He comes to a halt when he sees the pair of you step into the room. Colette and Rafael exchange a look, not too particularly sneaky about it, either.

“Happy to see you join us again,” Colette stands from her chair, palms pushing against her knees, “Ready to do your job?”

You suck in a deep breath through gritted teeth, “Yeah.”

“Same part again, with the lift.” Colette delivers those last three words with extra care.

And so, the music plays, the same melody reverberating off the walls of the room. It’s like you’re living in déjà vu. The same scene plays out with Doyoung reaching out to trace his fingers along your jaw. There’s still a stiffness in you, prominent enough that you’re aware of it, when he touches you.

The music crescendos. His fingers laid flat against your rib again, preparing to lift you up in the air. There are multiple challenges to this. One obviously being your mistrust in your partner, which is crucial in duets. The other being the condition that you’re supposed to look dream-like, ethereally graceful while simultaneously being hauled up into the air, with nothing supporting you but the arms of a man whom you’d rather not even look at, let alone get lifted by.

You can trust him.

Alongside the music cue, you bend your knees into a plié and when you straighten your legs again, the familiar thrill of being thrusted high up into the air takes over you. Following the choreography, Doyoung sets you back down, and before you know it, you’re propped up again. Your arms flutter lightly, resembling the wings of a swan as the back of your wrists meet each other over your head, arms mimicking an ellipse. 

Doyoung carefully helps you regain grounding by setting you back down slowly, his hands still tight around your waist. When he finally lets go, he mutters into your ear, “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

You turn around, met with the same expressionless face as when you first saw him earlier.

“That was…” Colette interrupts, “…standard. Chemistry needs a little working on, but nothing time can’t fix.” For some reason, you feel like that was meant for you with the way Colette’s looking pointedly at you.

With the newly added responsibility of your lead role, your schedule is now a little fuller, and brighter. Mondays and Tuesdays are solo training days, whereas Wednesdays and Thursdays are partner practice, specifically with Doyoung. Your company has always had a policy where despite whatever specified training there is for whatever show that’s currently getting worked on, Fridays were always company class days. Meaning that every dancer—the corps de ballet, every artist, soloist, even the principal dancers—come and train together. It’s like that saying that corporate businesses have, “We’re not a team, we’re a family.” Except you can feel a bit more of the ‘family’ aspect here than you probably can at some corporate job.

The weekends are the weekends. You’re not on the clock, but there’s still an unspoken understanding that you will be dancing, practicing, training, especially now with a role like this.

It’s Friday afternoon. You’re tucked in the corner somewhere, next to Karina, both observing the quick demo that the instructor is going through in the centre of the massive stage, just big enough to occupy all the dancers of the Paris House of Ballet.

The instructor tells the pianist to begin playing the piece, and the first row of dancers take position at the back of the stage.

“So, how was training yesterday?” Karina tries to contain her feverish squeal as she asks.

You bite back a smile at her exhilaration. “It was good.”

“When are you going to start giving me details without having me to ask for them?”

“It was nothing special. I don’t know what you want me to say.” You respond, watching the dancers as they travel across the stage in a multitude of jumps and leaps. 

“Nothing special?” Karina elbows you in the side. You follow her eyes to see who’s across the room.

Doyoung stands in line for the next group of dancers to take the stage. A loose black tank top hangs onto his exposed shoulders, grey joggers sitting low on his hips. The stage lights do nothing but highlight his arms; how every muscle in them pull and stretch in different directions as he moves them.

You pull away from ogling at him. “Nothing special,” you repeat. “I don’t even think he recognised me.”

“You’re joking.”

“No. A man nearly ruins your life and doesn’t even remember you. What else do we expect?” 

You and Karina share a chuckle, and the pair of you walk into the stage lights, preparing for the first position of the sequence.

It’s been a week since your first practice session with Doyoung. A week makes it sound like you’d gotten some time to warm up to him, when in reality, you’ve seen him three individual times for practice, and not any of those times did he even try to make casual conversation. Or less even, small talk.

You’re expecting today to be no different. Spend 8 hours with each other; 8 hours with his hands all over you; 8 hours pretending like you’re desperately in love—only for the pair of you to not even catch glimpses of each other outside the practice room.

You’d just finished running through another one of the many duets you have with him, this time as Odile, when you read the less-than-satisfied expression Colette has on her face. Uh oh.

She exhales sharply. 

“It’s been a week.” Colette uncrosses her legs and pushes her glasses up into her hair. She stands up, one hand on the barre that disrupts the otherwise continuous panel of mirror on the wall. “One week. And you two still look like you’d rather piss at windmills than take your jobs seriously. Now, don’t get me wrong. Y/N, you’re very good at the rejection part—the falling in love part, not so much.”

The first time that you and Doyoung’s characters meet, he’s already head over heels for her. She, however, isn’t so keen on accepting his adoration, and it takes at least several dances before she’s done dismissing him.

You shoot Doyoung a quick glance. He has his hands on his hips, one of the sleeves of his T-shirt rolled up to his shoulder. “Well, it’s not easy to have chemistry with someone as dull as a rock,” you bite out.

That catches his attention.

“I’m sorry? I’m not the one who first freaked the fuck out the first time we practiced.” A record, truly. He said more than 5 words to you in conjunction at once. Not that that accomplishment is enough to distract you from what he said.

“You wanna know why I freaked the fuck out?” You take a step closer to him. “It’s because you—”

“Enough!” Colette cuts between the two of you. “You two obviously have some differences.” That’s putting it lightly, you thought. “You don’t need me to remind you that you’re professionals. So, stop acting out whatever lovers’ quarrel you have, and focus on the honeymoon phase, instead.”

She sits down on the floor again, crossing her legs. “Need I remind you that our version ends with Siegfried and Odette dead, so you two better sell it to the audience while they’re alive.”

You and Doyoung slowly look at each other, both reluctant. He’s the first to drop his gaze as he takes his position behind you, readying himself for another showing of his strength that the routine calls for.

Before you leave practice that night, Colette requests that you stay behind. You prepare yourself, thinking that it’s a reprimanding from her telling you to act more hopelessly enamoured. But she doesn’t. Instead, she asks to see your fouettés.

That’s the thing with the role of Odile. She’s incredibly fierce. Maybe it’s due to the fact that she’s the literal daughter of a dark magician who can magic up some spirit to possess her. In Act 3, she’s supposed to flawlessly execute 32 fouettés in succession, without once losing her balance. Basically, 32 full turns on your toe and landing it perfectly afterwards, as if that’s not the most nauseating thing in the world to do.

In your audition, you did maybe three or four turns. Now, Colette’s basically asking you to do that, but times 10.

It’s a challenge, no doubt, and it’s one that you’re not sure if you can take.

You settle yourself. Feet in fourth position—dominant leg in front, and the non-supporting leg at the back. Your arms out in second to the side of you. And you push off of your back foot. If there’s one trick to keeping your balance, it’s spotting. Pick a spot anywhere in the room, and only look at that spot when turning.

The foot that you’re spinning on continually drop back down to gain momentum to push off onto your toe again. It’s no easy feat. You’re about 10, 11 turns in when you start to feel the effects of dizzying. Having the option to end now—though incomplete—but at least with the standards of your turns up to par, or fighting through to the very last turn, you decide on stopping now. 

You land the ending, coming down in a plié before rising up onto your toes in a relevé. 

Panting, you drop your arms to catch your breath. You look at Colette, trying to hide the eagerness in your eyes.

“I’ll need to see an improvement on those, too,” she says in an icy tone, “Don’t let me down.”

You find yourself walking in the streets of the city at night on the last day of the weekend, heading towards the practice studio. Sure, you could wait a few more hours before it’s time for you to clock in, anyway, but you couldn’t. Not really. Especially not after the comment Colette made a few days back.

You press your card up against the reader and the familiar sound of the doors clicking open resonates in your ears. 

You settle into your personal practice room, making no effort to turn on the lights. The windows that line the entirety of one side of the room is enough to let the lustre of the moon shine through, bathing the studio in a pale light.

You pull on your pointe shoes, wrapping your toes in a bandage-like material beforehand. Unlocking your phone, you look for the audio file that Colette sent to you of the very orchestra that will be performing alongside you in a few months’ time. Each orchestra performs each piece differently, however slight the difference is. It’s better to practice directly to them to get a hang of their nuisances, Colette’d said.

The music blares out from your phone, the tempo fast and the atmosphere lively. Your feet instinctively take their positions, and you push off on cue with the music.

No matter how many times you try tonight, there just seems to be something off. Either the spins are alright, but you lose your balance upon landing, or your supporting leg just wants to give out, or both. For most of the tries, it was both.

You come out of a failed series of fouettés. Bending over, you drop your hands to your knees, simultaneously trying to catch your breath. Then, that’s when you feel it. The ever-so-familiar acute stinging in your leg. For a moment, it’s so overwhelming that it physically causes you to scrunch your face up until it wears away a little by itself. A cloud of defeat looms over you.

You pick up your bottle off the floor and decide to go fill it up by the fountain outside. This part of the studio is much more modernised than the rest. There are two main hallways connected by a square courtyard—the garden, as the architects called it. The garden is enclosed within four entirely glass sliding doors, allowing access from every side. You don’t really know who’s watering the plants in the courtyard, because if it was up to the dancers, you know that those plants would’ve died a long while ago.

The room allocated to you is along one of the two hallways, directly facing the south side of the garden. You step out, heading towards the water fountain that stands in the middle of the two corridors, facing the west entrance to the courtyard.

You’re pushing down on the button to fill up your water bottle when you hear a tune that you immediately recognise. It’s the same one that you were just relentlessly listening to—or practicing to.

There’s a slight crack in one of the doors opposing yours. Tightening the lid on your bottle, you decide to quietly make your way over to the room on a whim. Who else is here on a weekend night? And practicing to the same piece as you?

You discreetly try to peek your head in, the crack in the door only allowing you to see a slight sliver of the practice room.

At first you don’t really see anything. Just the sound of the vivacious music. Then, a shadow of a figure leaps high up into the air, flying past the tiny window of what you can see before you can register it. You don’t want to think it, but it can only be one person.

One other person who has a part in this piece.

The music suddenly stops.

“Stop hiding.” A voice calls out.

You freeze. Your hunched over positioning has you locked.

Shit. What do you do?

“I know you’re there.” The voice sounds again. A bit ominous on your behalf, if you do say so.

Quietly, you push open the door, allowing yourself to see more than just a sliver of the room. The lights aren’t turned on. 

Crouched over in front of the mirror is the one and only person you didn’t want to see: Doyoung. 

His dark long sleeve shirt only thinly veiling his torso, contrasted by his light plaid pants. He watches in the mirror as you step one foot, then another into his practice room. The beam of the moon illuminated his face, making it visible to you even from a distance that he’s been here for at least a while with how the sweat glistened on his face and neck.

Say something. Anything.

“I didn’t know you practiced ’til this late.” You say, swinging your water bottle and holding it with both hands behind your back.

“I could say the same for you.”

Was that an insult or a back-handed compliment? Or maybe you’re just reading too much into it.

Doyoung moves his foot out from under him with a groan, so now he’s sitting on the floor. He tears his eyes away from you in favour of whatever he’s looking at on his phone. A prolonged silence falls upon the room. If it was anyone else in the room with you, it probably won’t be as uncomfortable, but it’s not.

You rock onto the balls of your heels, about to turn back around and leave, but Doyoung breaks the silence.

“I’m sorry. For what I said the other day… and for what happened.” 

He utters the last part of his sentence so quietly that you can barely make it out. Half-stunned, half-confused, you stare at him. So, he does recognise you.

You steadily take step after step towards him until you’re at a normal distance for a conversation between two people, then you sit down next to him.

“I forgive you.”

“What? Like that?”

“Yeah. People are often surprised at what maturity can do for you as an adult.”

For a split second, you’d swear he was holding back a chuckle. “That coming from you?”

You twist off the lid to your water bottle to take a sip, “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

He leans back onto his hands behind him. A beat passes. “So, where’s my ‘sorry’ back?”

You set down the bottle in front of you. “If you’re expecting something back, then it wasn’t a real apology.”

He drops his head to the side to look at you. Eyes dark, a careful consideration of you sitting there next to him. Doyoung swallows tightly. There’s a steady rising and falling of his chest.

“I am really sorry. I never knew what happened after, then. I only found out when Rafael told me recently.”

“I guess I didn’t expect you to know.”

A new wave of silence washes over the two of you, only this time, it’s by degrees less uncomfortable than the last.

Doyoung lifts his palms from the ground and crosses his legs, imitating your position on the floor. With his shift in positioning, there comes a shift in energy as well.

“Obviously, I want to do well. But I don’t want to look good owing to the fact of my partner’s lack of skill…” He says with an arched brow.

“Yeah…” you tilt your head at him, “Not the most desirable pitch. Try again.”

His lips twitch in an attempt to hide his smirk from you. “I’m saying… I’m willing to put our differences aside for this one time. For both of our sakes.” He extends his hand out to you, as if to initiate a business handshake, “Deal or no deal?”

He’s dedicated. You can trust him.

You look at him, then his hand, then back at him again. Leaning forward, you fit your palm into his, “Deal.”

END OF ACT I

a/n thank you for reading part one of AWITD!! i would love any opinions or feedback on it :)

© misted-dream 2024

[sleepyfan-blog]

Jam two

Author’s Note: This is the next part in Cedric’s adventures in the husbandry AU! Thank you to @kit-williams for allowing me to borrow Arnault, Roland, Bakerin and Angela, thank you to @c-u-c-koo-4-40k for allowing me to borrow Pyrus and @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan for allowing me to borrow Hura. First. Previous. Next

Tagged: @egrets-not-regrets @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @i-am-a-dragon34

@the-pure-angel @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

Warnings: none, please ask me to tag you if something bothers you

Summary: Cedric drops off the thank-you jam with Angela and Arnault. He then swings by the bakery run by Roland's bonded for some pastries and bread before returning to base.

“Thank you for the homemade jam, Cedric… But I can't eat this much jam on my own before they go bad. And you've worked so hard on making them, keep a couple for yourself.” Miss Angela instructed Cedric as she gently pressed five of the jars back into his hands.

Brother Arnault, who had picked up and opened one of the jars as she had spoken, stuck a spoon inside of the jar, scooping up a mouthful. His eyes lit up and he said “Don't worry, my Angel, it won't be a chore to finish off these jars. This is delicious! Here, have a bite.” He offered her another spoonful of jam.

Angela sighed “Arbaukt, you're not supposed to eat jam by the spoonful! It's meant to be spread on bread or toast, or as a filling for pastries.”

“Ja, ja, jam. I am eating it incorrectly. But try it! So good.” Arnault playfully answered back, smearing the jam on a piece of bread and presenting it to her with a small grin.

Angela hummed and took the piece of bread, swiftly eating it “Oh! This is really good. Where did you get the blackberries? I know they're in season right now.”

“I went foraging for them in the forest nearby. I made sure to leave plenty for others.” Cedric answered, a small smile on his face, delighted that they both liked his gift. “Are you sure you don't want all of the jam?”

“It's very delicious, but as I said before, we wouldn't be able to eat through all of the jars of jam before some of them went bad. Which would be a shame, since you made such tasty preserves.” Angela explained, gently reaching up and patting one of his shoulders. “That was not a challenge by the way, Arnault. I can see you eating the jam from the jar.”

Arnault gives his bonded a small, devious grin as he deliberately brings the spoon of jam to his mouth and eats it, ice blue eyes shining with mischief "We have five jars of this delicious jam, and I could eat an entire jar of jam all by myself with no trouble. It must have taken Cedric hours to make this much jam, not counting however long it took him to gather the berries in the first place. I am merely enjoying the jam in it's purest state as a compliment to mein little brother who worked so hard to make this for us, liebling."

Angela sighed, though she was also smiling "You make excellent points. And I haven't had home-made jam like this in a long time. Was there anything else that you needed or wanted, Cedric?"

The young apothecary shook his head "No, I just wanted to drop off my thank you gift... Are you sure you don't want all ten jars of jam?"

"Yes, truly. While I suppose Arnault could eat most of them, and he probably will anyways, you should also enjoy the fruits of your labor, Cedric. Have you saved yourself a jar?" Angela explained with another small smile.

"... No, I hadn't saved any for myself. I went out to collect the berries and went through all of this specifically to make food gifts for others." Cedric answered, shuffling his feet a little. His mentor had taught him a number of food preparation techniques as well as how to hunt and forage in a number of different environments and worlds. While Astartes required several times the number of calories baseline humans did and normal human food did little to sustain them, even what little that did provide nourishment could be the difference between life and death. Also, preserved and shelf-stable goods like this were always a hit on worlds where bartering was the norm - and even one jar of jam could provide a tremendous boost in morale on an otherwise shit mission when shared between brothers, or shared with mortal troops. Sweet things like this weren't necessarily good for the body, but did nourish the soul.

"Keep one of the jars for yourself, and I'm sure that you can get good trades for the rest of those. This is excellent." Arnault advised Cedric, reaching out and ruffling the larger Black Templar's short silvery blond hair. 

"Yes sir." Cedric answered with a nod, heading off.

~

Cedric swung by the bakery that Brother Roland's bonded ran, waiting in the line that often formed as soon as she opened the doors. The smell of freshly baked bread made his stomach rumble in appreciation as his mouth watered. While he wasn't as... Focused on bread as his older brother, he definitely appreciated how tasty and varied bread could be in the third century. It far outshone most of the bland and tasteless starch rations that he'd had being trained by the Mechanicus and during his time with his fellow Black Templars in the 41st millennium. 

He was content to wait for as long as needed, holding onto the basket with the five jars of jam in one hand as he looked at the many delicious baked goods on offer. Cedric had been given some of the local currency to spend and planned on getting some of the very delicious sourdough bread... But there were so many other delicious things to try as well! It all looked so good, and the young space marine was having difficulties deciding what he wanted to eat. 

There was a large group of teenagers in front of them, their voices overlapping with one another as they rapidly spoke in one of the native languages, looking at the selection of goods for sale with clear glee and joy. The blue hair of one of them caught Cedric's attention, and it took him a moment to realize why.

Plucking up his courage, he cleared his throat, moving a little closer to the group, hopefully without seeming as if he was trying to loom over them "Excuse me... Is your name Crystal?" 

The teenagers turned to look up at him, as well as one middle-aged baseline human. The baseline human puffed up a little, their eyes narrowing as they looked him up and down, stepping in front of Crystal as they spoke "And just who is asking, space marine?"

Cedric hadn't expected to be met with this much open hostility and flustered "I... I was just... Asking. One of your charges seemed familiar to me, as we met briefly. They seemed worried the last time we met, and I wanted to reassure them that I am fine and doing well."

The middle-aged baseline human's eyes narrowed a little further "And just why would they be concerned that you could potentially be in trouble? Don't most of you go stomping around in packs? Then again... It's rare to see one of you lot running around without any armor, either."

Crystal elbowed the adult baseline out of the way, beaming up at him "Hi Cedric! It's good to see you again. Thanks for getting me out of that tight spot a month or so ago. Ignore Mrs. Spencer, she's always like this. You look good! What's in the basket?"

"Don't mention it. We all get into tight spots from time to time. I'm just glad I was able to help you before things could get out of hand. And I'll show you what's in the basket!" Cedric responded with a bright smile, pulling out one of the jars of jam "I spent most of today picking, cooking and canning these. I've brought a couple for Bruder Roland and his bonded as a thank you gift."

"That's really thoughtful of you, Cedric? Is it for anything in particular, or just something you felt like doing?" Crystal asked curiously.

"Brother Roland has been very kind to me, and welcoming as I've been adjusting to life here on Terra." Cedric explains, a small smile appearing on his face as he thought back on fond memories with one of the kindest and most patient firstborn Black Templars he'd ever been blessed to meet. "His bonded has been equally kind to me as well."

"I'm glad to hear that, you can talk to him if you're having any issues with anyone on that base you live on?" Crystal asked, peering up at him, concern in her voice.

"Of course." Cedric answered, making sure to keep the smile on his face. He suspects that miss Crystal is referring to his panicked reaction to a certain first-born brother, but considering that particular Older Brother has left the city, quite possibly the immediate area within a couple of days of visiting the base, it's not like he needs to trouble Roland or Arnault about Petras just yet... Hopefully Petras won't come around again while he and his fellow primaris brothers are on base and everything will be fine. 

Just then, Roland walked up to them from behind the back counter. "Hallo Cedric. Misty said that there's an Astartes in the shop, and went to go get me. Are you here for a particular reason, or for brot?"

"I came here for both brot and to give you and your bonded this." Cedric answered, handing him two of the jars of blackberry jam. "I've made this myself. The date it was canned and it's contents are written on the label right here."

"Danke, we will enjoy this. If you're willing to wait for another ten minutes, there will be sourdough rolls freshly baked from the oven." Roland offered, smiling a little at his younger brother.

"That sounds wonderful! Thank you very much. I was also thinking about getting the... Erm.. Hazelnut-chocolate filled croissant? That sounds tasty. And one of those savory pies. I'd like six of the sourdough rolls once they're ready, please. I've got the money for all of it, give me a moment." He answered, shifting the basket so that it was in the crook of one of his arms as he patted his pockets, pulling out the roll of currency he had been given, counting out the tiny paper bills out. "I think this is correct?"

Roland took the bills, reading the numbers "Ja, you are correct. I'll get the other things packed up and ready for you to go." He walks back around the counter and calls out, his voice warm with love "Lieeebliing~! Cedric is here and he wants five of the sourdough rolls once they're out of the oven! He also came with a present for us both."

Miss Bakerin comes out from the kitchen and beams as she spots Cedric. She walks over to where he's standing and gives him an affectionate pat on the shoulder "Thank you, Cedric. I'm sure we'll very much enjoy the blackberry jam. It's good to see you again."

Cedric ducks his head a little, smiling "Thank you, miss. I hope you both enjoy the jam." He tilts his head a little and says after a moment "I hear a timer going off?"

Roland is already in motion, with his bonded following after. Roland explaining as they both head back to the cooking area "That would probably be the macarons, which are these very small, but delightfully snappy and light sandwich cookies. They are very fiddly to make properly."

"Ah. Good luck with the macarons!" Cedric answered with a small smile, content to wait until his requested rolls were ready.

The middle-aged human spoke up again "How were you able to hear the alarm? I can't hear it." 

"Hmm? Oh, I have very sensitive hearing." Cedric answered honestly. 

They hesitated for another moment or two, before one of the other teenagers they were accompanying called for their attention, as the group had made it to the front of the line. 

~

Cedric made his way back to the base after getting the pastries and bread he had ordered, nibbling on the croissant he had purchased, enjoying the buttery taste of the pastry as well as the sweet and nutty taste of the filling. He still had three jars of gift-jam left, though technically he supposed he had two. He had tasted the jam during the creation process and had found it quite delicious...Perhaps it wouldn't be selfish if he kept back a jar for himself? But who should he give the remaining two jars to? He hummed in thoughtful consideration as he headed through the main entrance of the base before stopping dead in his tracks. 

He could hear all sorts of arguments, all over the base. He could see Pyrus running through the main entrance hall, one hand curled around something, the other giving his brothers a rude gesture as he yelled over his shoulder "I'm not going to be sharing this! It's clearly a gift for me, and it's delicious."

Cedric backed up a couple of steps so that Pyrus wouldn't possibly run into him and called out "Hi Pyrus... What's going on?"

"Hmmm? Oh, someone left me a jar of the jam that they've been making for hours. Some of my brothers are trying to bother me into sharing, but since it's a gift, and I don't feel like it, I'm not going to." The Salamander Scout explained, slowing down to a stop, revealing the jar of jam that he'd left for Pyrus. The lid was off and some of the contents had already been eaten. "I think a lot of people were hoping that the mystery jam-maker was going to leave some of whatever they were making in the communal pantry, but that hasn't happened. Some people were gifted jam and there've been some... Heated arguments as to whether or not those gifted with jam should share with everyone else. I'm of the opinion that if those without jam want some, they can either go buy or trade for their own jam. Or make it themselves, following one of the many recipes that are available on ancient terra to use."

"Oh... Oh dear. I hadn't expected that the jam would cause such chaos..." Cedric murmured, his eyes wide as he shifted from foot to food, feeling his ears warm. 

"You were the one who made the jam? Thanks for a jar, it's really good! Am I supposed to eat it right out of the jar, or are there other ways to eat it?" Pyrus asked, dodging several of his brothers' grabby hands gracefully.

"Yeah." Cedric answered, briefly explaining how he'd gotten the berries to make the jam, and that he'd made thank you jam for those to whom he was grateful for their help in one way or another, finishing with "I really wasn't expecting the base to be in such an uproar... I do have a couple of jars of jam left over... Maybe I should leave it in the communal pantry, so that hopefully the squabbling settles down?"

Pyrus hummed a little as he shoved a couple of fingers inside the wide-mouthed jar, scooping some of it up and licking it off of his fingers as his brothers loudly protested around him "I suppose you could, but it's your jam, you know. You could keep it for yourself. Its' really good."

"I... I suppose I'll think about it?" Cedric offered, mildly overwhelmed and deeply guilty as to just how much chaos he had inadvertently unleashed. 

"Good! See you later, Cedric!" Pyrus answered before running off elsewhere into the base, his brothers on his heels. 

~

Cedric had made it most of the way to the communal pantry when he heard his name being called out. He turned, spotting Apothecary Hura making his way down the hall. "Yes, sir?" The young Black Templar called out, making his way over to where the ancient Death Guard was.

"Hello young Cedric. I wanted to thank you for the jam. It is most delightful!" Hura purred at the younger apothecary.

"I'm glad that you like the jam, sir. I. Uhm. Did not expect the jam to be such a... Contentious thing." Cedric admitted.

"You'd be hard-pressed to find an astartes who doesn't crave fast carbohydrates, especially when hungry. Especially since the smell of you cooking the jam was lingering around the base for hours, there were many hopeful marines wishing for a taste. Not that you should feel guilty, of course! You made it, and therefore you should decide who does and does not get the jam." The Chaos marine murmured serenely, dripping a finger into his jar of jam and eating it. "Things will settle down in a day or two, worry not."

"I... Alright. Thank you, sir." Cedric mumbled. He still felt bad for unintentionally causing trouble among the ranks of his firstborn brothers. It was something to keep in mind about how much uproar had been made over a little bit of jam....

"If you do feel the urge to make jam again, I encourage you to do so, and if you need a taste taster, I would be happy to volunteer." The death guard offered with a small grin.

"I'll keep that in mind. Do you have anything that you'd change about this jam, if you could? Is it too sweet, or too sour?" Cedric asked, hoping that the food was good, but that could be just his own tastebuds. 

"Only how much is in the jar, though that has more to do with the size of the jar, rather than it's delightful contents. The jam itself is wonderful. I will be storing my jam in this base, as some of my more impulsive chaos brethren would try to take this and then I would have to gut them for their foolishness." Hura hummed "I have labeled this jam jar as mine and I suspect no one here will touch it, especially as I have clearly eaten some already."

"I'm really glad that you like the jam sir. I worked hard to make it." Cedric answered, beaming at the praise. 

"I can taste the care and effort you put into making this. Mmm, I hear a fight starting nearby. I am going to go watch. See you later, youngling!" Hura called out before casually turning around and leaving.

Cedric sighed internally and continued to the communal pantry. Inside were a couple of bickering Space Wolves and twice as many Ultramarines all arguing with one another. All six of the firstborn brothers seemed very focusing on whatever argument they were having, so Cedric slowly and carefully made his way around them. 

Unfortunately, they were in the middle of the jam section, so Cedric was forced to wait until one of the Space Wolves lunged at an Ultramarine before swiftly placing two of the three jars of blackberry preserves on the shelf on the spot where B-named fruits or berries were to be placed, as it was currently empty, and had blueberry jam there previously.

The young apothecary slowly made his way towards the exit, doing his best to pretend that he was invisible and that none of them could see him, if they did happen to look in his direction and hoped for the best. 

"And just where do you think you're going, pup? Don't think I don't see and smell you sneaking around." One of the Space Wolves growled out. He was huge for a firstborn loyalist, with scars that crisscrossed his face and neck, and disappeared under his shirt collar. 

"Uhm... To my assigned room, sir? Why?" Cedric answered earnestly. 

"And why were you in the pantry, if you're headed to your room? You're a big fucker, too. I don't recognize you." The same large Space Wolf rumbled. 

"... I grabbed some crackers?" Cedric answered, showing him the box of plain crackers he had grabbed - he thought that they would pair nicely with the jam he had stashed in his room for his fellow primaris brothers, along with the fresh bread he'd purchased from Miss Bakerin. "I've been on the base for about... Seven months now, sir? Which is pretty much the entire time I've been on Ancient Terra."

"Hmph. Scouts running about out of armor, only do so because of mischief reasons. What's your name, pup?" Large Space Wolf huffed. 

"... I was brought to ancient terra without my armor, as I had been brought here in my sleep in a place where I could sleep out of armor." Cedric countered, sulking a little at the idea that he was out of armor because he wanted to cause trouble. It's not as if he could be in his armor, anyways.

"... Ah. Tough luck there, lad. Well, off you get." The large Space Wolf huffed, dismissing him with a flick of one of his hands. 

"Yes sir." Cedric answered with a silent sigh of relief, quickly leaving the pantry and returning to his room. 

Once there, he flopped down onto his bed with a low groan, rolling himself up into the wonderful, weighted quilt that Miss Angela had made for him, drifting off to sleep. 

[ectogeo-rebubbles]

Can I have Siskarak fanfic recs, please? I've only read a few (can't remember too well at 3AM; one on the Defiant comes to mind), and I was surprised by how well the vibe worked!

Oh absolutely. 😈 Fair warning that I’m gonna rec a LOT of my own fics bc I’m shameless like that, but also because I’ve written like 25% of the Siskarak fics that exist. 😂 Of course in addition to my little ramblings, please check all the tags and summaries on these and just read the ones that speak to you! 💖 And now, in no particular order:

so, I lied, I cheated by me - My beloved siskarak novella!! 🥰 It’s an In the Pale Moonlight AU where Sisko and Garak fake an affair to explain why they are meeting together secretly all the time now, so that no one will realize it’s actually bc they’re conspiring to bring the Romulans into the war. It’s a VERY cracky premise, and I then treat the implications of that premise with the utmost severity haha. It’s a big clusterfuck of them making each other worse and ruining each other’s lives but I did aim for a hopeful ending for them and for their healthier relationships (siskasidy and garashir). I’m so proud of it, I have some planted some insane character insights into there that I truly can’t figure out other simpler ways to express/convince people of than by writing them into a complicated angsty porny ITPM-but-way-worse fic.

And Scene by Flazéda (peternurphy) - Obsessed with this one. Sisko and Garak have to go undercover at a sex club, and I am just such a sucked for fake relationship scenarios. I’m also never not thinking about the moment in this fic where Sisko muses internally on how spanking Garak’s ass with a paddle is satisfying in the same way as swinging a baseball bat.

Moonlight Still Casts Shadows by Warpcorps @spocksbeanies - This one is SO HOT. It’s post-ITPM and Sisko is continuing to compromise his morals in delicious, sexy ways to accomplish his goals. 😈 (He’s having sex with Garak to keep him happy and working for him.)

Decadence: In His Service by JA Chapman is soooo good and sooo insane and I want to read approximately 10k more words about the messy, messy scenario described. Siskarak is only a secondary ship, the main one shown is Sloan/Sisko. I don’t particularly buy into it as realistic, but this fic ask all kinds of questions and offers NO answers, and I am driven insane by it every day, I do still recommend. XD

Exaltation by @hellostuffedtiger is another good one involving Sloan and it is much closer to canon than the above hahaha. Sisko and Garak have casual sex, then discuss S31 and Sloan and how to protect Bashir.

going up, going down by me - Crackfic to the max, haha! Garak gives Sisko a blowjob in the turbolift and they get caught.

Plausible Deniability by katiemariie is really interesting and reading it helped kick off my interest in the ship! I do have some small quibbles with it bc I don’t really buy that Garak isn’t interested in Bashir or that Siskarak could actually become a sustainable romantic ship, but oh man other than that the dynamic is great here!

Captain’s Whore by @the-last-dillpickle - Garak pettily making sure everyone knows he’s Sisko’s mistress is just so fun and delightful 😂

partners in crime by anonymous surprise, it was me lmao - A tasty little post-ITPM PWP where Sisko does a bit of introspection about himself and Garak’s effect on him.

you’re a criminal as long as you’re mine by me - This might be the one on the Defiant you’re thinking of. It’s set during Second Skin. I wanted to write a lower stakes, chiller, flirtier Siskarak dynamic here and I really really like how it turned out 🥰

A few more very short fics by me:

me and the devil walking side by side

lying down with dogs

dirty little secret

never loved nobody fully (alternate Siskarak ending) (there’s also a podfic of this drabble by klb and blackglass and horchatapods… I know at least one of you is on tumblr and I can’t remember which rn)

Not super shippy but def have some fun and somewhat charged Sisko and Garak interactions:

Farce of the Prophets by @cardassiangoodreads - This one involves Garak messing with Sisko a little bit haha. It’s got those fake relationship elements I love so dearly 🥰

Dance of Fools by stuffedtiger - More Siskarak fake relationship stuff 😈 They dance 🥰

redacted by me - Garak and Sisko figuring out how to work together when they are both stationed on Starbase 375 at the beginning of s6.

This was so fun to put together, thanks for this ask, I love gushing about my fave siskarak fics 💖

[velvetvexations]

You seem a bit confused about what traps are, anon, or else whoever gave you that impression is. A "trap" is not really a character archetype at all, it's just a transmisogynistic* meme term that originated on 4chan to joke about male characters who look feminine enough to be mistaken for girls. Mostly it gets play nowadays as a synonym for femboy, but whereas hysteria about "the fb slur" is absolutely just hysteria, objections to "trap" are legitimate because that really is coming from a transmisogynistic place.

*see, I can talk about transmisogyny!

It's necessary to lie because the goal isn't doing anything productive, it's sustaining a bubble of Matrix they've created where they're constantly under attack from the ultra-popular transandrobros trying to socially murder the dolls. It's just a deluge of completely insufferable claptrap to keep their audience captivated with outright falsehoods. Even now, if you go into the transmisogyny tag, you can find other white transradfems repeating apricot-aligator's racist lies about Black misandry, because they don't engage with anyone they disagree with. They aren't interested in learning or doing anything good for anyone. It's just sharing masturbatory angst back and forth while picking on whatever targets they can swing at to keep feeling like martyrs.

"Velvet commented on my post even though it wasn't very popular" good I'm glad their public transphobia wasn't popular.

They do not have remotely constructive shit to say about transmisogyny, I would despise them enough purely for their takes on trans women's issues. Even at the most fundemental levels they are so incredibly wrong that it's amazing anyone gets to the end of each sentence without their brain leaking out their ears.

[stereopticons]

fic pride friday

Rules: Post your favourite line or passage from as many of your published works as you’d like. Let yourself feel proud of your creations! Tag as many people as you post snippets, so your fellow fic friends can be proud, too.

Thanks for the tags, @rmd-writes and @kiwiana-writes! I struggled with this because apparently I’ve never written anything in my life! So I’m sure once I post this, I’ll go oh damn I can’t believe I forgot x!

Tagging @hippolotamus @blackandwhiteandrose @rosedavid @indestructibleheart @mostlyinthemorning @filet-o-feelings @nontoxic-writes

Under the cut because it’s a lot of words

a long winter of indifference

The gap between their bodies is maybe six inches at most, but to David, it feels like miles. That little sliver of Egyptian cotton might as well be the Marianas Trench for as impossible as it feels to traverse, and every night they don’t cross it, it gets a little wider.

The crack on David’s heart gets a little wider, too.

David isn’t sure when it all started, can’t pinpoint a moment when it all began to fall apart. It was insidious; by the time he noticed something was wrong, the chasm between them had already formed.

If pressed, David would probably say it started with Clint’s heart attack around Thanksgiving. Though it was relatively minor—thankfully—the recovery was still long, and Patrick put a lot of miles on his old Toyota driving between Schitt’s Creek and West Canthor. David tried his best to be supportive, but the stress of keeping the store running while Patrick was away, of sleeping alone more nights than not, of constantly worrying about the Brewers—all of them—was caustic and ate away at the soft parts of him. The strain caused Patrick to shut down and to shut David out.

By the time Patrick was able to return to their lives, the holiday rush was in full swing. Neither of them had the time or energy to deal with anything that wasn’t the store, let alone the ever expanding rift between them.

The resulting infinitesimal shift in their marriage grew and swelled with each little stressor—the anemic sales throughout December putting a strain on their savings, the damage the cottage sustained in an early January snowstorm, all the little swipes and jabs they’ve taken at each other in the intervening months—and now David is staring at the rigid line of his husband’s back, afraid that something’s been irreparably damaged.

It’s been a long time since things felt this hopeless.

tangle and stretch

Patrick is thirty-two years old when David asks him if he believes in soulmates, and this time, he’s prepared.

“Yes,” he answers without hesitation.

David turns to stare at him. “You do?”

“You seem surprised.”

“Well…yeah,” David replies, still staring at him with his mouth hanging open. “I mean, you are the numbers guy.”

“Ouch, David,” Patrick teases. David rolls his eyes. “Do you want to know why I believe in soulmates?” David looks hesitant, his still-ever-present fear that the other shoe is going to drop evident on his face. Patrick takes his hand gently. “I didn’t used to. But when I was ten, I saw a boy on the cover of a magazine.”

Patrick tells him about the magazine, about the Christmas cards, about watching A Little Bit Alexis. About losing him and finding him again years later at a moment that he sorely needed him. By the end, they’re both in tears.

“That’s why I believe in soulmates, David,” Patrick says, gingerly wiping a tear from David’s cheek with his thumb. “Because how else can I explain how I ended up here?”

your secret’s safe with me

Of all the Big Relationship Moments in all those rom-coms David made her watch, Stevie never expected that “picking your lover up at the airport after a long time apart” would be a thing that she’s into. There’s nothing romantic or sexy about airports in general; in fact, airports are probably the exact opposite of everything she finds attractive. But despite all of that, there’s butterflies in her stomach and a tingling at the base of her spine when she sees Ruth appear at the top of the escalator leading down to baggage claim. It only intensifies when Ruth spots her and breaks into a wide grin.

They don’t leap into each other’s arms, but it’s a close thing.

“Hi,” Ruth murmurs, her breath ghosting across Stevie’s neck as Ruth pulls her into a hug. Stevie inhales deeply, wrapping herself in the scent of Ruth–a strangely intoxicating mix of her fancy perfume and the scent of paper and ink. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” Stevie sighs, sinking into the embrace. She’s never been one for public displays of affection outside of making out in bars, but it’s been too long. She leans up and presses a kiss to Ruth’s soft lips, relishing the taste of her mango lip balm and the coffee she must have had on the plane. It’s a relatively chaste and quick kiss because, well, airports. But it still kindles a small fire low in Stevie’s belly, one that she hopes they’ll have plenty of time to tend to later.

let my love fix you up

He’s not able to finish the sentence but he doesn’t need to. Patrick already knows. He can’t say he hasn’t had the same feelings bubble up inside him, like when the store was robbed or when David was in a car accident last winter. It’s the price of loving someone, he supposes, the crushing fear of losing them.

with a hand on your side of the bed

Last night was a revelation, in more ways than one. Of course it was wonderful to have the privacy to finally connect, and he’s certainly keen to repeat the experience, preferably as soon as possible. But he was surprised to realize how nice it was just to be able to fall asleep together, and even nicer to wake to find Patrick still there. He hadn’t quite dared to hope for it—there were too many mornings back in his old life that he woke up alone and lonely in a bed far too big for one. But Patrick stayed. And despite the morning breath and the under-eye bags and whatever crime his hair was committing, Patrick still brushed a curl off his forehead and kissed him and told him he was beautiful.

And how, after all of that, is David expected to go back to sleeping alone?

Sighing again, he flips over on his side and picks up his phone. The glow of the screen lights up the room and he squints at it as his eyes adjust. He wants to text Patrick, but he’s likely already asleep. And anyway, what would he say? It seems too early in the relationship to say sleeping in your arms ruined me for ever being able to sleep without you, no matter how true it might be. (Actually, the truth of it scares David more than a little. It’s too soon to think like this, in always and forever but he can’t help it.) He could just say I miss you, because that’s just as true, but he doesn’t want to come across as too needy. They’re already past the point in a relationship when people usually get tired of him, so he feels like he’s living on borrowed time.

His phone vibrates in his hand and a notification from Patrick pops up.

Can’t sleep. Miss you. Thinking about last night.

Before he types out a response, David hides his smile behind his hand, even though there’s no one around to see it.

coming home to you

Stevie thought that if she ever got the chance, she’d put the town in her rearview mirror and never look back, but the chances did come, from David first, then from Mr. Rose, and both times she chose to stay. Somewhere along the line, sometime between when the Roses crash landed in her life and when they left again (some of them, anyway), the town grew on her.

It’s been years now, but every time they pull into the cottage’s driveway after she’s been away, she thinks back to that afternoon when she and David sat on the hood of her car and she told him he’d won. It’s been years now, but it’s still true. And maybe she won a little bit, too.

the lie between your teeth

David spent years meticulously building up walls, brick by brick, protecting the already charred exterior of his marshmallow heart. It only took Patrick a few minutes to find the tiniest chink in David’s armor, a few days to pull down the highest walls, flaying him bare in a way that so few people have been able to.

After that, David just gets angry. Angry at Patrick, angry at his parents for landing them in this situation, angry at Uncle Eli for the same, angry at everyone, but worst of all, he’s angry at himself. He should have had better self-preservation instincts than this, should have known that landing in a ridiculously-named tiny town in rural Ontario wasn’t going to fundamentally change the course of his relationships.

[brisquad-unit-4402]

iluna and details

whenever i see anime characters i'm always fascinated by if they were more realistic, or more detailed, you know, the little elements of people that animation studios just don't have the budget nor time nor medium to depict. so this ficlet is a love letter to all the beautiful parts of people that can't really be captured until you're living in their lovely presence!

this wasn't originally an iluna post. it was actually for all of the nijien boys, you see, i worked on it as a warmup before my bigger projects, and a place for me to practice shorter fic. but i was so charmed by the concept and how fun these were to write that i wanted the girls in on this too...! i'll slowly work on the other units as time goes on and i work on more projects

tags: established relationship, fluff, gender neutral reader

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

🤟 Kyo Kaneko

He calls himself an asshole and you'd be the first to agree. He's comfortable enough with you to poke fun at you, and when you tease back it's a game you both play to win. He's yours, after all, and it rolls off him like water off a duck's back, because he knows when to back off or go all in. His energy shines moonlight into the pitch dark. No matter what, he always has something to say that makes the night seem so much less bleak.

But the moon needs to sink to calm, and he stays late into the night with drive fierce enough to silence himself. He sits at his desk. Candy blue hair is swept back in a headband, but the dyed locks curl out in front of his face as he writes.

He is so determined, and the stars against his back wish they had his grit. The pencil wavers, bounces, swings this way and that as he thinks. The eraser presses the skin underneath his lip before the answer comes to him.

For all the resolve in his apple-green eyes are, the lids can barely sustain it. There are too many thoughts for one body to hold. The night creeps longer and his eyelashes flutter closed.

You see what the moon sees in him, this supercharged soul, the light that shines off his wit, the quiet resilience to keep going. Traces of moonbeam cross along his soft skin, the hoodie over his shoulders, hair the color of the sky. The patterns of lights follow as you carry him to bed.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

🐰 Maria Marionette

She lives in long sleeves. Your jacket suits her like a charm, even though it's much too big for her little body. Especially because it's too big for her body. It's so rare to see her without long socks that stretch far above the hem of her skirt.

Her knit socks brush against your legs as she sits. The movie has long been forgotten by you in favor of admiring her delicacy. She fits so perfectly in your lap, a stand to a centerpiece, a matching set, do not separate.

When she recognizes the look in your eye she curls closer to you, and when she can't get enough she musters up the courage to slip off her jacket.

Along the bends of her arms and the links upon her fingers you see everything she is so scared of. Sweeping lines stretch across her skin, pale and geometric, and perfectly wrapped around the diameter. They're symmetrical. Ball joints. Articulation imprinted in scars, the only sign flesh was once porcelain.

She is so gorgeous in her vulnerability. She is so gorgeous in her everything, her body and soul, no matter the form. You press your lips along the white scarring between her knuckles.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

💫 Aster Arcadia

He has to be one of the most intricate pieces of art in the world. There’s no other explanation. His makeup never fades even as his eyes crinkle when he smiles, and when he presses his lips together right before laughing out loud.

And sometimes you can’t even tell when it’s grooming or just how harmonious he was formed. His makeup never fades, but his air sparkles, thousands of strokes of gas and space dust and matter swirling around his body, the edge of a nebula, the collections of what makes solar systems burst and catch fire.

There is electricity when he moves. The earth bends around him. Not a hair is out of place even in moments when just touching him is like placing your hands against a plasma ball.

He is so beautiful and so unfathomable and so innately himself.

He shivers when you press against sensitivities but you doubt he could ever understand the coursing under your veins, the push and pull of gravity, the molten core. The effect he has on you.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

👼 Aia Amare

No matter what she does, she is feather-light. Her steps are easy to miss, so she sneaks up on you without even trying, and when you jump in surprise she titters in musical tones. When she reaches out to touch you, she is your pedestal. Her hands are strong but gentle, the mark of an artist, and the briefest skim against your skin leaves impressions like you are nothing but soft clay.

She is feather, and coated in downy white, and songbird and stars in the clouds. Her heavens soften her. If you didn't know a thing about her, you'd imagine her so fragile that she could float away with a breath.

But for as light as she is, she is intense. Waves roar in time with her noise. There is so much spirit and so much energy within her. The brightness turns blinding, but only when she wants it to.

She slips off the glasses, and you are reminded of the bristles that make up a feather. The lenses mute the color, but without them, cool mint freezes over so strongly that her gaze burns. Pale lashes fame the searing ocean. Slighter than a suggestion, but so prominent you know there is nothing earthly like her, you see the motion of curling rings hidden inside the green and blue. A sprinkling of gold between the rods. The glisten rotates in wheels. Eyes upon eyes upon eyes within eyes. Feather.

She places them back over her eyes, and her artisan hands motion around your body while you're struck with something unknowable. Her league is dimensions away from yours. You're blessed.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

🛸 Ren Zotto

You could never mistake him for a simple human. There's too much under his surface even when he tries, but he never does try. The horns upon his head protrude too high to fall under a lowered head.

In bright light, if you can focus, you’d think the green in his veins turns blazing. Focus harder and you realize it runs along the skin itself with the suggestion of a shining, scaled teal, before it disappears entirely.

You swear there's more teal in his hair that isn't swallowed by dark. It's soft and fine as you brush your fingers over him, and you can barely even see the undertone.

"It's not really black," he says. "Human eyes just perceive it as black because they don't have the anatomy for it."

The word- his color- is unpronounceable to human tongues. It requires a trill between fangs you don't have.

But you try anyways, and as it turns into a spit of nothing he laughs with you. You press a kiss to his unpronounceable hair. When his smile relaxes his fang catches on his lip.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

💅 Scarle Yonaguni

She is made entirely from her own creation. Love and care finds a home within her body, and stumbles around clumsily and spreads out through peals of laughter. There is nothing quite like her because she is everything around her; she is ember and she is ash, as much as she is ideal and reality, as much as she is exuberance and moderation. To chase and to heal. Architect of her own path, with so many miracles stored in her fingertips, all of them within simple delights.

Warmth trails through all she touches. The folds in her books, the keyboard turning shiny from use, crosses along the T's and dots above the I's. The way she holds you so tightly as if you were the only source of heat, even though she exudes fire all her own.

Cocoa and cinnamon follow her, a champurrado musk, and you can't place where the spicy scent comes from. It lingers in her hair and along her skin, those miracle fingertips that spend so much love and care of what she enchants, and you are no exception. When she runs her nails along your jawline the smooth blend puts you at ease.

All her cinder catches in your throat. Her touch is hypnosis. It's familiar, and home, and comfort. It's adventure and joy and discovery. You can't get her scent out of your mind, and when it finally grants you peace, the chocolate has already marked you endeared.

[crybaby-bkg]

sᴄᴏʀɴᴇᴅ | ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴇɴ

Bakugou x f!reader Warnings/Tags: simp Bakugou, hero battles, gun usage, bullet wounds, hero injuries, blood, self doubt, you and Bakugou both sustain injuries, an allusion to death of unnamed villain, quick mention of gore, PTSD flashbacks, a mention of drugging/non consensual alcohol use, grooming, mention of previous kidnapping, Yakuza members, mention of vomit once, mention of addiction, allusion to rape although it never happens, Word Count: 7k Minors/blank/ageless blogs DNI!

Main Masterlist AO3

As the days passed on, your classes with Professor Kubo were going by great. She was teaching you a fuck ton, and she tied some of her lessons into vigilantism in order for the connection to make the transition easier. You loved it so far, even if there were a few pieces in the foundation of hero society that you didn’t necessarily agree with. 

After about two weeks of lessons, were you ready to go patrolling with Bakugou, although you had to pick up your costume first. All of it was kinda daunting, honestly, knowing that people would make a big fuss about you being with him, some new hero nobody’s ever seen before. You were worried bigger villains would come out of the woodworks, try to take a shot at the number four hero with you accompanying him, just to throw him off. You were even scared of the fangirls, and how they would react seeing you walk with him, maybe even sharing a kiss or two in the alleyways. 

Your face warms at the thought of that, tucking your chin to your chest as you glance at Bakugou from the other side of the elevator. He’s cussing someone out on the phone, but he looks over to you, catching your eye and lifting an eyebrow in question. But you don’t say anything, try not to stare at the way his stupid lips purse when the person on the other side of the phone says something stupid again. 

When you finally reach the floor that Eddie resides on, does he finally get off of the phone. Bakugou doesn’t say anything, only gestures a hand in front of him for you to get off first, and follows after you in the open studio. 

“Finally, you’re here!” Eddie calls out with a grin, clapping his hands at your arrival. “I just finished your costume last night, it really stumped me.” He tells you, whizzing away from you just as quickly as he approached you. He turns on his heel, beelining to a small walk-in dressing room that you hadn’t noticed before. You send Bakugou a look, but he only shakes his head at you. 

“Go ‘head,” he tells you, voice gruff as Eddie holds the door open with a grin. You eye the eccentric man, slowly walking into the dressing room. 

“If you made me some ugly shit, then I’ll blow your kneecaps out.” You promise him, pulling the handle to the door closed yourself. His face lights up before he disappears though, and you hear him mumble something to Bakugou about character development. Shit head. 

You turn to the only piece of clothing on a hanger clipped to the back of the door, your eyebrows damn near touching your hairline as you take everything in. You had let Eddie know a couple of days ago that you wanted to change his original design some; no long sleeves, nothing heavy for flexibility, and definitely no heels. So what hangs in front of you now makes you a little more than giddy with excitement. 

**

“Goddamn, it doesn’t even take you this long to get ready in the morning! What’re ya doin’ in there?” Bakugou asks after a few minutes, banging his fist lightly on the door. You ignore him in favor of taking all of it in, turning this way and that, face softening at the sight in front of you. This feels…right. 

“You need some help?” Bakugou asks in a lower tone next, and you can only imagine the way his face is pressed to the door, how his ears are probably redder than your tattoo. You swing the door open quickly, snickering at his pained grunt when you hit him with it, muttering, 

“No, pervert.” But you’re smiling as you exit, eyes casted low as you stare down at yourself. “Whaddya think?” You ask him and Eddie, smoothing a hand down your legs as you finally work up the courage to look at them. 

Eddie is smiling bigger than you’ve ever seen, jumping up and down on the balls of his feet, clapping all six of his hands excitedly. He’s blabbering on and on about something, but as you turn to Bakugou, whose eyes finally open after rubbing his nose, does he still. 

His eyes roam your figure, and you would think that you’d feel icky, feel slimy and gross and too vulnerable at the way he drinks you in. Like how Mr. Riku would stare at you whenever you’d come home and he would be lingering in the hallways. Like how men would stare at you whenever you’d walk down the street in leggings and dresses. Like how your abuser would stare at you whenever he dressed you up all prettily. 

But…it doesn’t. It doesn’t give you those same feelings of bugs crawling under your skin, of bile rising to the back of your throat. No, instead, with the way Bakugou looks at you, you feel—you feel confident? Is that the word? Like you could strut and model in only a paper bag and still hold your chin high, your smile unwavering? The way he looks at you makes you like what you’re wearing, makes the self blame of needing to wear something bigger, looser, less revealing, dissipate right into thin air. 

And you didn’t even think that this costume would be worth the way he trips over his words and how his eyes haven’t left you yet. 

Your new costume consists of a sage green halter romper, the legs reaching down just below your knee with built in kneepads in the thick material. There are different spaces and pockets, where you guess you’ll fit multiple guns and knives onto, even a tanned belt that holds more weaponry and ammo. There’s barely a slither of skin where the dull brown knee high boots meet the material, heavy and tall, with even more pockets for weapons. You have forearms sleeves that hide a small compartment for small medical tools, and what you’re guessing, even more knives (damn, that’s a lotta weapons). There’s a sleeveless jacket that comes with it, reaching the back of your calves and a hood that hides a majority of your face, and thankfully, your ass too. 

“I tried the mask on, but I figured you guys would wanna see the costume without it first.” You mumble after sometime has passed with both of them admiring you. It seems to snap Bakugou out of his trance, shaking his head as he straightens his back, hands resting on his hips. He nods to you once, before gesturing to the dressing room for you to retrieve it, movements mechanical and awkward. 

“Gotta get the full effect.” Bakugou grunts to you, one of his hands covering his mouth, eyes still captivated by you in your new costume. Your face burns at how fucking shameless he is, turning quickly to get the final piece of your costume. You click it into place before turning around again, Eddie swooning dramatically. 

“Can I get your autograph?” He asks you, voice high pitched as he bounces on the balls of his feet again. You only roll your eyes at him, biting back a laugh before looking at Bakugou again. 

“It’s nice, right?” You ask him, fiddling with the heavy material of the mask. It’s more form fitting than your previous one, and covers your face only from your nose on down with a circular space open for your mouth, curving around your jaw perfectly. It’s a dark brown, almost black in color, the feeling heavy but the fabric soft like velvet, etchings of sharp teeth around the hole where your mouth lies. It feels a little similar to your mask as the Red Medusa, and in a way, you feel as though you’re paying homage to your roots. 

“Really nice.” Bakugou says simply, hand still covering his mouth before he drags it down, reaching around to scratch at the back of his neck. He clears his throat a few times, eyes drinking you in, and you spin for him because he looks like he’s fucking dying for you to do so, but so hesitant in asking. 

“How does it feel?” Bakugou asks you, arms crossed before he fits them in his pockets and then hangs them loosely by his sides before crossing them again. It makes you laugh at how awkward he is, face scrunching up at his reddening cheeks and frown when he sees that you’re catching on to him. 

“Really great, actually,” you answer, standing in front of the wall length mirror beside the dressing room (why so many mirrors, you have no clue). You admire yourself, nodding a few times as you take everything in. “It’s really comfortable, easy to move in, has a lotta pockets. I love it, thank you.”

You direct the last part to Eddie, reaching over to shake his hand. He grins at you, the other five arms reaching out to shake your hand too, and you can only laugh and shake your head at his excitement. When you finally pull away, you step back, staring at yourself once more in the mirror. 

This feels…really right. Makes you feel whole, like you’ve been missing out on what you should’ve been doing this whole time. But you won’t forget the Red Medusa, and you vow to continue on helping those who need it most. 

…

“Ready for your first day patrolling?” Bakugou asks you as you stand outside of his agency’s building. Everything has become so daunting so quick; the reality of the situation hitting you like a ton of bricks. You had basked in the attention and praise (not that you’d admit it if anyone asked) when you showed off your new costume to Bakugou’s friends. It all felt so easy, just a sweet little intermission before the real show began. And as it was starting, you could feel your heart palpitating behind your ribs. 

What if you were a complete fuck up? What if the civilians hated you? The material of your costume is thick and durable but—but what if someone tears through it and reveals your tattoo? Your identity? How would the public treat you then? 

“Hey, look at me.” Bakugou barks at you, making your eyes swivel from their unfocused gaze across the street to his face. He looks angry, with the black eyeliner smudged around his eyes and his mask covering his face. But, as you squint, you can see the worry creasing the lines of his forehead, his hesitancy to reach a hand out to you. You let him, feel the heavy weight rest on your shoulder, ground you into the moment. 

“Ain’t no need to be freaking out, okay? I’ve seen what you can do, and you’re gonna fuckin’ kill it. You hear me?” He asks you, squeezing you once as he ducks down to maintain eye contact. You swallow thickly, shaking your head as if to clear away the thoughts before you sigh heavily through your nose, feeling the nerves start to roll off of you, albeit slowly. 

“Yeah, I got you.” You mumble, balling your hands into fists before releasing the tension. Make your body as tense as you can, build up all that anxiety and fear—and release it. Something a shitty therapist had told you before, but you guess the advice wasn’t so bad now. You do that once, all over, eyes clenching shut and your shoulders tensing again before releasing with another sigh. 

“I’m ready.” You say, voice more determined this time. But your confidence shakes when you look at Bakugou, and he’s fixed you with this funny look, a cross between confusion and holding in a laugh. 

“Fuck was that? Were you tryna hold in anxiety shits?” He asks, finally letting go of you as he stands tall, arms crossed over his chest as his smile becomes bigger the more you glare at him. 

“Shut up, and let’s go.” You mumble instead of gracing him with banter he was expecting, but he laughs heartily anyway. It gains some looks from a few passerby’s, unused to the big bad Dynamight letting out such a sound in public, his guard down completely. You only elbow him in the ribs, his laughter abruptly cut off, before you snicker yourself and start your journey down the long streets of Musutafu. 

“This is boring,” you say not too long after starting patrolling, huffing under your breath. Only a few hours had passed after starting, and it wasn’t anything to write home to. He was eerily quiet when switched from Bakugou to Dynamight, and you could tell that he wouldn’t shift back until you two were safe in his office again. There also wasn’t a lot of people out today, which both calmed you and bored you some more. So, paired with the little conversation and what feels like aimless walking, you didn’t really see the point of all this. 

“Promise you, you’d like it better this way.” Bakugou grunts out, his heavy grenade armory grazing your arms and hip. You resist the urge to bump him back in fear of accidentally setting one of those things off. Instead, you huff and roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“Why would I like to just walk around in these heavy ass boots for hours if I’m not kicking ass?” You bemoan, head falling back on your shoulders dramatically. Bakugou sucks his teeth at you, head turning as he opens his mouth to say something, when a loud explosion goes off in the near distance. Both of your heads whip up to see what happened, finding someone in the air above the exploding building, cackling, as their eyes shoot out something red. 

“Well, thanks a lot. You just talked up some shit to happen.” Bakugou mutters under his breath, clicking his tongue, before he jumps into action. He doesn’t give you any warning besides that, crouching down before blasting up to the sky, taking off in the direction of the villain. 

“Don’t blame me, asshole!” You call out after him, immediately taking off as quick as you can in their direction. Your heart jumps in your throat, the rush of being back in action taking over. Fuck, you missed this. Missed chasing villains, missed beating their asses to a pulp, lighting them up with holes from your guns and knives alike. 

Back in the agency, Bakugou had taken you to their weaponry room, helped you pick out all the toys you’d wanna use while in battle. You had never seen a collection so pretty, and to know that you’re packing the best of the best only boosted you even more. 

When you get to the scene after what feels like hours, Bakugou is already fighting with the villain. Half of the building has already collapsed, so you take it upon yourself to help those who are trapped under rubble, calling for backup on your earpiece for the pieces of debris that’s too heavy for you. 

You’re pushed to your knees from the wind force when Bakugou is sent flying past you, only a few feet away. He curses loudly, shaking soot from his hair as he tries to stand, faltering at the last second. He doesn’t look at you, though he calls out, 

“Get these people outta here!” Before he takes off again for the villain, sending rubble flying through the air. 

“Don’t tell me what to do!” You yell back at him. You turn back to the civilians, trying to stay as calm as you can for the people who are panicking, ushering them outside of the villain’s vicinity. It looks like he can only shoot people with a razor thin glare from his eyes, and can’t expand it any further, and it would take a loss of focus from his battle with Bakugou to try to hurt anyone else. So, you think the people leaving should be good for now. 

When you’ve cleared a majority of them away, do you finally look overhead at how Bakugou’s doing. He looks…slower, than he usually is, and that pisses you the fuck off for some reason. How could he fucking slow down at a time like this? On your first day—how could he—how could he have a fucking hole in the middle of his stomach coming straight out of his fucking back?!

“The fuck are you doing up there?” You screech to him, pulling out the longest muzzle gun you have, strapped to the entirety of your thigh. You load it up, keeping your eye on the battle, hissing through your teeth as if in pain, too, when the villain slices through Bakugou’s calf next. He yelps in pain but keeps pushing himself, throwing himself at the villain, who just barely dodges his blast. 

“Get the fuck outta the way,” you murmur to yourself, holding the gun up, finger on the trigger, your other hand supporting its weight. You squint your eye as you try to get a good look at the dude, his quick buzzing movements, wonder how the fuck he can fly and have laser eyes at the same time. Maybe he’s found himself ahold of those quirk enhancers? But it can’t be—he wouldn’t be able to have two quirks, if that was the case. 

As you mull it over in your head, you and the villain’s eyes lock. It sends a chill through your body, makes your mouth curl into a Grinch-like smile, before you fire off multiple rounds through the air. The barely there whizzing sound slices through the silence of the city, as it strikes the man in his belly and the sides of his neck. You go to celebrate, but find Bakugou, quicker than lightning, diving in front of you. 

“Fuck!” He yells out through gritted teeth, as he falls to the ground in front of you, body curled up. You stumble back, confused, eyes flittering from the villain falling from the sky, to the hero in front of you. 

“The fuck are you—oh my gods,” your voice drops to a whisper as you step over Bakugou’s body, finding three new holes in his body. “When the fuck—how—what?” You mumble to yourself, dropping to your knees as you press your hands to his gaping wounds. They’re thin, but the skin around the holes sizzles, hot to the touch, like the laser burned right through his flesh—literally. You look to Bakugou’s face, scrunched up in pain, in question. 

“Fucker took a quirk multiplier.” He grunts out, pushing himself up with one hand, the left one he lays on injured with a hole in his bicep. “He sent out, fuck, multiple lasers all at once when you fired off at ‘em. Could barely even see them in the air.”

What? You hadn’t seen shit. Was it because your gun was in your peripheral? Had you gotten that cocky from shooting one guy that you had completely let your guard down and—and now this? Now, the first person, the first man, who has given you so much grace than you would’ve ever thought you deserved, jumps in front of you? Are you really that helpless? Do you need a hero to save you every fucking time? 

“You’re not my Prince Charming for saving me, dumbass.” You grit through your teeth, but Bakugou can hear the plain fear and worry in your voice. So he only smiles at you, laughs through a wet cough, as he glances down at your hands pressing on the wounds at his chest and stomach. 

“I never liked Rapunzel much, anyway.” He tells you, fighting to stand up when you hear the rubble moving, the villain standing hundreds of feet away from you. But his eyes are focused solely on the two of you, his mouth curled back in a snarl as he holds the bloody side of his neck. 

“Wrong Disney movie, stupid.” You mumble, heart picking up pace again as the reality of the situation sets in. You called for backup ten minutes ago, and yet no one’s here. So it looks like this’ll be all left to you. You reload your gun again, cocking it, as Bakugou sways beside you, looking worse for wear. 

“Don’t fuckin’ count me out, yet.” He snarls, wiping the blood starting to drip from the corner of his mouth as he pulls off his damaged grenade. But he looks like fuckin’ shit, with all the holes in his body and the way his eyes glaze over. 

“Save your energy.” You command him, lifting your gun once more as the villain starts going on this unnecessarily longwinded rant about life and society fucking him over. You couldn’t give two shits to listen, much less care. As the man starts hollering to the tops of his lungs, voice hoarse, you fire off another few rounds to his body. 

He screams like a banshee, head flinging back in pain but he continues trekking on, fiery eyes lit aflame. Bakugou ignores your command, rushing to the villain again, but its too late when he sends another laser at you. 

You don’t move enough in time to keep it from slicing through both of your fucking hands. From the back of your left hand holding the barrel, through the flesh, going through your right hand that holds the trigger, grazing the side of your neck as you did his. An involuntary scream rips through your mouth as you drop the gun, a frustrated howl tearing through you as your hands begin to shake from the pain. 

Fuck, what the hell could you do now? Your hands were what kept you strong, close distance is what kept you strong, hand to hand battle is what kept you strong. What the fuck could you do now that you were rendered useless? 

Would this be your life as a hero now? Rendered fucking incapable because a villain could point out your weakness in only a fifteen minute battle? Was that all it took to be put down like some rabid dog that was only ever bark? How could you have been so strong as the Red Medusa, and become so weak as—as—

“Fuck you!” You hear Bakugou scream out, your head whipping up to the source of his voice. You’ve got to get out of this self pitying bullshit, and fucking help him. 

Your stomach churns at the sight of Bakugou pinned under some rubble, his arms strayed out to the sides, facing down to the concrete. The villain kneels above him, smiling something sinister, as he grabs the sides of Bakugou’s head, eyes peeled back and wide and unnerving. 

He’s gonna fucking kill him. 

What can you do? What the fuck can you do when you can’t feel your hands anymore? When your body is frozen in shock at the sight of someone you considered a friend, something more, could die right in front of you? What can you fucking do?

Can you…can you use it? Does it still work? Does a quirk that has lain dormant for years still know how to run when called upon in dire moments like these? Will…will it all work out in the end? 

With a concentration you haven’t been able to muster since you were nothing but a victim, you focus on the man in front of you. The man that opened his home to you, his arms, his comfort, his friendship, his love. You focus on his heartbeat, find it thumping wildly in your head, find his veins pumping blood through his body, find his sweat running from his pores. 

And you hope—with the desperation of a mortal praying to a god to have mercy on their sinful soul—that it still works. 

The world goes quiet for a moment, before an ear shattering explosion desecrates the concrete from underneath Bakugou’s hands, sends his body alongside the villain’s soaring into the air. The force of the blast sends you flying back, guarding your face from the raining debris, wipe soot away from your eyes before you blink up. 

Bakugou looks like an angel, you think. One that brings merciful death, as he holds the villain up by the collar of his ripped shirt, his ashen hair a halo from the suns rays. The other hand cups over the man’s eyes, before a small explosion lights up his face, an agonizing scream ripping from his throat. Bakugou falls back to the ground gracefully, setting the man down amongst the rubble, before he straightens his back, sharp gaze suddenly focused on you. 

“What did you do to me?” Bakugou asks in a rough whisper as he stomps over to you, crouching in front of you as he looks down at his hands. They seem to be pulsing with life again, his arms seem to be heavier, a feeling surging through his veins that he’s never felt before. 

“Did you kill him?” You ask quietly, eyes focused on the limp body a few feet in front of you. Bakugou blinks at you before looking over his shoulder, turning back to you as he swallows thickly. 

“We’re not supposed to kill villains.” He tells you, sounds robotic, like its something he’s been trained to say over and over again. You think back to Miruko in that alleyway those few years ago, covered in blood, her heel trailing brain mass and bones, and you think. You think she must’ve never learned that in hero courses. 

“I didn’t ask what you’re supposed to do.” You counter, heart in your throat, hoping you can avoid the obvious question of why Bakugou must feel like a gods blood runs through his veins now. 

Thankfully, a flood of people come rushing to the scene, heroes and paramedics alike. The rest of the time goes by in a blur, as Kirishima explained that there was another villain closer to the agency, and they believed that it was all a set up. 

It goes in one ear and out the other though, as you hold your hands out for the healer to close the wounds in your hands. She’s an older lady, who smiles at you so sweetly that it makes your eyes well with tears, for some reason. She moves onto Bakugou next, and it takes a little longer since he was struck more than you. 

“You know,” Bakugou starts suddenly, making your eyes whip from your healed hands to his tired eyes. “I thought you’d have trouble with me just taking over.” He admits, smile soft as you roll your eyes playfully at him. 

“If it was me and the villain alone, then I’d be able to handle myself. But I knew I could do other things while you fought him alone.” You shrug to Bakugou, thanking the healer when she finishes with him and patters off. Bakugou turns to face you as you both sit on the back of the ambulance van, a stupid fucking smile stretching his face, eyes low and lazy. 

“So you trust me? Without even having to prove myself as a hero to you?” He asks, and god, you wanna fucking strangle him. You pull his ear harshly, frowning when he only snickers under his breath. 

“Shut the hell up, nerd.” You grumble to him, pulling him in for a quick kiss when you don’t think anyone’s looking. You pull away when things start to get too heated, face suddenly hot as you sit against the cold metal of the van. Bakugou stares at you for a long while, his head cocked to the side as if in thought. You already know what he’s gonna say, so you nod once to him. 

“I’ll tell you when we get home. About everything.” You promise him in a whisper. He’s satisfied with that, nodding to you, watching the busyness of the scene unfold in front of the two of you. 

…

When you return home, you both shower separately before you find yourself in his room. You haven’t been in here much, besides cleaning him up when he was injured and repeating that occurrence a few more times once he realized that you could care for him. He patters around you while you lay on the floor, putting some stuff away, before he lays down beside you. You’re in the space between his bed and under his TV, and it feels a lot less daunting this way. 

Baby steps, you tell yourself. He kinda asked you out a few days ago, and its something you’ve been mulling over. You guys have been moving a little out of order, but laying beside him in his bed feels a bit too daunting at the moment. So you lay on the floor, close to the bed at least, and tell yourself that things will move further when you’re ready. 

“Did you feel like a deity had taken over your body earlier when that villain had you pinned?” You whisper suddenly, hands folded over your stomach as you look up at this painted ceiling. Bakugou stiffens beside you before he relaxes, turning his head to face you, but you don’t meet his gaze yet. 

“I did.” He answers simply, waiting for an explanation. You toggle the words around in your head for a few moments, trying to push back all the fears and worries that start to eat away at you. You’re not used to talking about this—not with men. The last time you shared this, you had been whisked away, seemingly forever forgotten by the law. You swallow thickly, blinking back the onslaught of tears you wished never came up whenever you opened up about yourself. 

“My quirk is called power augmentation.” You blurt out, let it spill all over yourself as you let out a shaky breath. “It’s the ability to enhance the powers of others, but not to strengthen myself.” You laugh weakly at the irony of it all, blink away rapidly falling tears as they muddy up your hairline. 

Bakugou swipes one from your cheek, and you flinch away in surprise. He pulls back, his breath caught in his throat before you relax, finding his warm hand between your bodies, signaling him to wipe away the rest. He does, silently, as you fight off the sob that makes you want to curl into a ball beside him. He’s quiet for entirely too long, his eyes soft when you finally turn to face him. 

“When we discussed you becoming a hero,” he starts off slowly, brows pulling in in confusion. “You said you didn’t have a useful quirk. Thought you didn’t have one at all.” His voice falls to a whisper, the air between you two heavy and thick as he seems to think back. You remember telling him, Yuu, and the other heroes, that you might not have a useful quirk or anything, but you can protect the people who need saving Had even dubbed yourself as quirkless, as to avoid suspicion. He just hadn’t pieced the complicated pieces of the puzzle together yet, as you can both protect people without a quirk because it never did anything for you personally, and it didn’t change the cause that you were fighting for. 

“It was easier to pass it off as being quirkless, in all honesty. I didn’t want to be taken advantage of again.” You confess, throat seizing up when you realized that you’ve revealed too much. 

Or…maybe its time to start opening up more, especially if you want to further whatever you have going on with Bakugou. How could he understand who you were if he only ever knew what you projected for him to see? How could he ever get further with you if you only ever kept your walls up? You couldn’t be gator and moat and castle and helpless princess all at once. You refused to be any of that, anymore. 

“When I was nineteen, I met this guy. Didn’t have any family or any good friends, really, to tell me to stay away from him and his gang.”

“You were involved with a Yakuza member?” Bakugou asks in surprise, turning on his side to face you, head propped up in his hands. You match his form, nodding solemnly. 

“The leader of them, actually.” You whisper before continuing, eyes focused on the carpet between you two. “He was older than me, like twenty eight, but talked about how mature I was. How I was leagues ahead of other women my age, that he needed someone like me by his side. And I was equal parts terrified and struck in amazement. Me? Who grew up without shit to my name, why did someone so powerful like him need me?” 

Your eyes well with tears as you recall the story you hadn’t told anyone in so long, much less another man. But Bakugou listens so attentively, his eyebrows screwed up, jaw tightening, but he rubs your flank when your breaths become heavy and staccato. 

“I told him, early on in our relationship, what my quirk was.” You confess, eyes clenching shut as you can’t help but beat yourself up over it again, despite how long ago it happened. “I shouldn’t have done that, but nobody taught me to guard myself like that, you know? I knew how to fight, but I didn’t know how to fight off silent and slow attacks like that.” 

Your teeth grit in frustration as you try to keep the sobs at bay, but Bakugou only nods his head, cups your jaw, helps you unclench your teeth. A defeated cry falls from your lips, your head bowed as you collapse back down to your side again, and he only follows suit as he shushes you. 

“You can’t blame yourself—don’t fuckin’ blame yourself for that slimy piece of shit creeping in on you.” Bakugou tells you, his words firm but his voice gentle. You nod, rubbing a hand over your face as you lay there, defeated as you think back on the hell portion of your life that you never would’ve thought you could escape. 

“When I first showed him how much my quirk could augment his, he praised me so much. Made me feel like I had a purpose, like I finally made my mark on the world. But then,” you swallow thickly. “But then he started draining me. I can boost other peoples’ quirks, but it starts sucking the life outta me the more I do it. He didn’t care about me though, he never really did. 

“And when I refused to use my quirk on him after seeing how he’d destroy the fuckin’ city—he kidnapped me.” You laugh humorlessly, as your eyes unfocus on the dip of Bakugou’s collarbone peeking out from his black tank top. “Kept me in his stupid fuckin’ hideaway houses, would keep me high and drugged up so I couldn’t fight back. It didn’t make my quirk weaken any, only seemed to give him an unlimited amount of strength somehow, so he used it to his advantage.”

Bakugou’s face twists in disgust at that, his hands curling into fists under his head and in between your bodies. But you place your palm over his, gently, your eyes telling him do not grow angry for me, although his own answer back how could I ever be peaceful? 

“Did it ever go beyond just using your quirk?” He asks you, voice grated and low, but he tries to keep it soft for you. Tries to keep the quietness of the bedroom still, even though your shuddering breaths creak in the conversation like an old floorboard. 

“He tried to assault me,” you answer, head bowed low, chin tucked to your chest. “A few times, actually. But, no matter what, I never lost my anger, and I screamed bloody fuckin’ murder every time. He told me that he thought my real quirk was an ear-splitting scream.” You laugh humorlessly at that, but Bakugou only continues to frown, eyes searching your face when you finally look at him. 

“How’d you escape?” He asks you. Your eyes fall to his mouth, how the corners pull down so deeply, the stubble under his lip. It helps bring you back to the moment, as you slowly inch your hand into his, until he holds it, gentle, like you’re only porcelain doll and he, a bull. 

“Started making myself throw up the shit they’d give me, so I could stay more aware. It was fuckin’ hard, trying to actively fight an addiction forced upon me, while finding a way to escape,”

“But you did it.” Bakugou cuts you off, his eyes round and soft and so understanding. Your heart pangs in your chest as the tears start to well up again, a shaky smile finding your face as you nod at him. 

“I did it.” You repeat, wiping away a tear with your conjoined hands. “I have no clue how, honestly, my mind blocks out a lot of memories from that time, since he kept me for a little over three years.” Bakugou winces at that, but you continue. “But, I’d gotten my hands on one of his followers phones, tipped off where their hideaway was with the clues around me, and jumped out of an open window when the opportunity arose. 

“He wasn’t supposed to be home that day, but he came there like he knew that that was the day I would start fighting back. Him and his lackeys chased me for what felt like hours, but I just kept running. Dodging and fighting them until,” your voice runs dry at the thought, at the picture in your mind that plays out for you. 

“Until Miruko saved me.” You say in a quiet rush of breath. “I don’t know where her and Endeavor came from, but she just started whooping their asses, killed them, until there weren’t any left. Endeavor was trying to help me calm down but—but I had heard about him and what he did to his family all those years ago. So how could I trust another man that I knew was abusive in that moment, you know?” 

The silence is deafening, when you finally look at Bakugou. He has this unreadable expression covering his face, eyebrows drawn tight and his mouth set in a thin line. He doesn’t say anything for a while, but brings you in tightly for a hug. 

“Don’t pity me.” You tell him through clenched teeth, even though your nails dig into his skin through his thin shirt, your tears wetting his shoulder. 

“I could never pity the strongest person I know.” He whispers, means it, and you an feel the genuineness seeping off of him. It makes the tears fall even harder, your body going limp as it feels like you’ve finally expelled all that you’ve been holding in for what feels like forever. 

When he lets go of you, you don’t want to leave the comfort, the warmth of his arms. So you stay there, head inched back until your eyes meet his own again, your arms loosely wrapped around his middle, his doing the same. 

“I presented myself as quirkless because I didn’t want anyone to take advantage of me again.” You repeat, and this time, he gets it. He nods silently, squeezing you close to him once more when he sees your lip tremble. 

“I’d never do that. Fuckin’ ever.” He promises you, pecking your forehead when he loosens his grip once more. You thank him quietly, eyes falling to his lips once more. 

“I thought that if I didn’t use it again, then it would die away inside of me, you know? It’s easier to say I’m quirkless than to say I’m only ever useful to other people, but never myself.” You try to laugh humorlessly again, but Bakugou tuts at you. He places a finger under your chin and tilts your head back until you’re forced to look him in the eye again. 

“You don’t have to be useful to other people in order to be worthy or good enough. I’m thankful to have you here with me, no matter the condition, because I love you as the person you are.” Bakugou confesses, his eyebrows downturned as his tone goes soft. Your eyes widen at his words though, a shaky little smile etching onto your face as you scoot up a little until your nose brushes his. 

“You love me?” You parrot, watch the confusion on his face creep up before it reddens with embarrassment. “I think we’re moving a little backwards here, Bakugou.” You whisper, eyes falling between his own shy gaze and his twitching mouth, his ears perking up at the use of his name. 

“Yeah, you got me telling you I love you ‘nd shit, and you never even agreed to date me.” He scoffs playfully, eyes rolling into his head before he smiles softly. Your own face burns at that, hands squeezing around his hard middle as you brush the tip of your nose against his own. There’s barely any space between you two now, your shared breath hot and electric. 

“Really? Never gave you an answer to that, huh?” You tease. 

“Nope.”

“Oh, well, I answered you in my head.” You shrug at him, lips brushing his own without ever really giving him a kiss. Bakugou’s eyes are low at that, mouth inching to claim yours, voice low. 

“And that answer was?” He asks you, head tilting ever so slightly. You match him, licking your lips, tasting his own cherry lip balm covered ones in the process. 

“Yeah. The answer is yes.” You nod, barely getting the words out before his lips slide against your own. Bakugou hums against you, his mouth fitting perfectly in yours, his hands bringing you closer to his body. 

As you lay there, tangled in limbs on his bedroom floor, you wish you could go back in time. Wish you could tell nineteen year old you that things do get better; that your choices do become smarter; that life does love you a little more than you thought it did; that you are worthy; that you are good enough; that you deserve kindness; gentleness; softness; love. That you deserve every good thing to come to you from now on, and forever more. 

chapter eleven

please do not repost or rec on tik tok!

tag list: @endlessfreaky @iamaconfusedpan @blueshome

[rumade]

How to get baby poo stains out of clothing! No bleach

Dunno how useful this will be to my rag tag bunch of followers (most of who I presume do not have a baby), but I made a video about how to get baby poo stains out of clothes.

I really want to get back into the swing of having a youtube channel; with a focus on craft and sustainability

[s-creations]

26 Ways to Feel Mortal - I: Illumine

26 Chapters based around experiences that newly arrived Geno experiences while trying to find the Star Pieces.

Fandom: Super Mario & Releated Fandoms, Super Mario RPG Rating: Teen and UP Audiences Relationship: Mario/Geno (Nintendo), Mario/Princess Peach (Nintendo) Additional Tags: Rating for Teen needed for later chapters, but shouldn't be to worrisome, I'll have warnings if I'm worried, Poly relations!, Main characters will always be named, Minor characters will arrive as needed, the chapters are not in a specific order, just meets the needs of the given word, please be aware of spoilers.

Warning: It's getting a little gay in here. XD

Illumine: (verb) Light up; Brighten.

Nimbus Land was still in full swing even as the sun started to sink below the horizon. All thrilled to know that their king had not been sick and that Mallow had finally returned home. Much like the celebration at Seaside Town, there was an array of food and music filled the slowly chilling air. 

However, there were a few stark differences this time. This celebration took place in a large, outdoor dance hall. Ornately decorated and lit with the largest golden chandeliers the party had ever seen. Garro demoed his creations, each party member getting their own golden statue. Finally, Geno was actually participating this time around. 

He joyfully partook in the food that lined the large table, mainly the sweets. Even after Peach asked that he eats something sustainable. The conversations, while few and far in between, were flattering with the citizens thanking Geno from saving them. Eventually he claimed a table and chair, feeling a little overwhelmed by everything. Deciding to just enjoy his pile of sweets while he watched everyone dance. Foot tapping to the beat of the music.

“Hey you,” Mario approached, “You doing okay over here?”

Geno nodded, swallowing his latest bite before answering with, “I’m not one for socializing, apparently.” 

“That’s fine, you don’t have to. Hope you don’t mind if I join you?”

“No, go ahead.” Geno smiled as he watched Mario pull up a chair so they sat next to each other.

“So, this is, what, the second party you’ve been to?” asked Mario.

“Well, technically I wasn’t very attentive during my first one.”

“Oh, right.”

“I will note that this one is far more enjoyable.”

Mario laughed at that, Geno holding back his laughter as he’d just taken a large bite.

“That’s good to hear.”

They fell silent for a while. Geno casually follows the dancers before him. Fascinated at how people could move in such a way and make it look effortless. Some even appeared to be gliding, floating across the floor as if not held down by gravity.

“Did you want to dance?”

Geno was pulled back to Mario, the human’s cheeks holding a soft pink. “What?”

“Dance, did you want to dance?”

“Oh, uh, probably not the best idea. You didn’t see my first few steps. Not exactly graceful.”

“It’s been awhile since then. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

Geno shifted nervously, “...I’d rather not risk ruining everyone’s good time.”

Mario frowned at that, “You won’t.”

“I’ll be safe over here. I’m okay, trust me.”

The attempt to move away from the request fell on deaf ears. As the next second Geno was gently, but strongly, pulled from his chair. His soul shivering with nervousness as Mario led him further onto the floor.

“W-Wait, Mario!”

“You’ll be fine, I promise.”

Geno’s nerves were not helped when they stopped near the center of the floor. “Are you sure about this?”

“Everyone’s enjoying themselves, no one’s even looking at us. Here, put your hands on my shoulders. And I’ll place my hands here…”

The panicked fear Geno held fell away and replaced with absolute joy as Mario placed his hands on the puppet’s waist. “O-Okay, what do we do now?”

“We just say to the beat,” Mario said easily, already moving to the music. Geno felt a little jittery when he started to move as well. Eventually falling into the same rhythm as Mario. “There, see, you got it.”

“I still feel strange,” Geno mumbled weakly, “and we’re not moving like everyone else.”

“Dancing has a lot of different movements. We’re just taking it slow. Don’t worry about what everyone else is doing.”

Letting out a slow breath, Geno lowered his shoulder to try and relax further. His eyes couldn’t remain still though. With Mario so close, Geno felt weird just staring at the human. But looking elsewhere resulted in watching everyone else dancing which would raise Geno’s worries once more.

“Have I told you that Peach attempted to teach me to ballroom dance?”

Geno’s eyes landed on Mario, who was smiling softly.

“No. I don’t think you have.”

“It was a disaster. Apparently, I can combo jumps like no one before me, But moving in an elegant formation is just not for me. Just can’t do it.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”

“Peach couldn’t walk for a week.”

Geno couldn’t help but laugh. The sound somehow rang louder than the music playing. But he didn’t seem to notice, slowly calming down “I thought you were supposed to keep her safe?”

“Hey, I do that just fine!”

“Uh huh, sure you do.”

“Well, just for that.”

Geno let out a rather unflattering shriek as he was suddenly lifted off the ground. It quickly turned into another round of laughter as he was easily swung around. Gently being put down on the ground with Mario wrapping his arms around Geno gently.

“Don’t do that!” Geno hissed, still giggling.

“You’re laughing, you liked it.”

“Shush, I can’t believe you did that.”

“You’re still giggling.”

“Shush! I’m trying to be mad at you.”

“Oh, guess it’s time to fix that.”

The joyous laughter rang out once more. This time joined by Mario’s. Both seemed to ignore the music as they continued to rather clumsily twirl around the dance floor. Others were enjoying the display with their own, far more quiet laughter. 

This interesting dance stopped when the song started to come to an end. Both breathless from the movement and laughter, which was dying down to heavy breathing. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Geno pointed out.

“You love me for it.” Mario easily argued back.

His already furiously thumping soul seemed to leap from his body. Geno gave a nervous but please smiled as he whispered back, “I do… I really do…”

The room suddenly started to grow dim. The previous song ending with a new, slower song now starting. Following with the quiet calm, Mario silently pulled Geno closer. Wrapping his arm around the puppet’s waist tighter, having Geno rest his head on the human’s shoulder. The other hand gently gripped onto one of Geno’s.

It felt as if he soul was singing. Geno closed his eyes as he relaxed further into Mario’s hold. He hadn’t felt this comfortable, this content, this happy before. It was a confusing feeling but something that Geno was more than willing to immerse himself in the feeling. For as long as he’d been alive, even with the lowest points he’d met, he’d never felt so alive before. 

He loved being here. He loved fighting for and defending those who couldn’t. And he absolutely love and adored- 

“Geno?”

Said puppet hummed softly.

“Are you…glowing?”

At that, Geno opened his eyes. The cracks where the joints connected had beams of lights emitting from them. The hollowed portions of his body seemed to shine from the same light. All of this was made more apparent by how dark the room had become. Geno hyper aware of how many eyes were on him. 

“T-This is new…” Geno said weakly, offering a little laugh. He looked back to Mario when he felt a hand placed on his cheek. The human looking absolutely star struck. 

“Mario?”

Face breaking into a warm smile, Mario gently pulled the other forward to press his lips to Geno’s cheeks. 

“You’re beautiful.”

Geno was certain his Star companions could see him from their home with how brightly he shined.