Bf Mitya

Snow fell over Zapolyarny City, blanketing everything in white as if Celestia had dropped a giant cloud onto the ground. You and Mitya stood in front of the Korolevskiy Theater, where tonight's performance featured Odette's solo ballet—Snezhnaya's most famous dancer.

Mitya turned to look at you, breath forming white mist in the freezing air:

"How many times has it been now? Us coming to see Odette."

You smiled, holding up three fingers, then seven. Thirty-seven times.

Mitya shook his head gently, a half-smile curling on his lips—the familiar one that always held a mix of coldness and warmth:

"Your memory is still as sharp as ever. I can't even remember how I bought those black-market tickets the first time."

But you remembered clearly. That year, both of you were only ten. Mitya had grabbed your hand and run through the snowy streets, laughing loudly: "If we get caught, I'll carry you and run!"

They stepped inside, finding their usual seats in the third row from the stage—their spot, always reserved for each other. Vodyanista was already there, waving lightly when she saw them.

"You two are late. It's about to start." – Her voice flowed like a clear stream.

Mitya sat down next to Vodyanista, and you sat beside Mitya. The stage lights dimmed, artificial snow fell from above, and Odette stepped out under the silver-blue glow. She was alone—just her, moving gracefully as a white swan, her feet gliding as if on a frozen lake.

No Vodyanista on stage. No one else. Only Odette and the melancholic melody of Swan Lake echoing through the grand hall.

Down in the audience, Vodyanista whispered into Mitya's ear:

"She dances more beautifully tonight than ever, doesn't she?"

Mitya nodded, but his eyes never left the stage:

"Mm. But... not because of her."

Vodyanista turned to look at Mitya, then at you, smiling knowingly:

"Ah, I see."

You didn't understand what Vodyanista saw, but you didn't ask. You just focused on Odette—every step, every pirouette, every bead of sweat glistening on her forehead under the stage lights. Odette was living fully in her role, crying on stage without a single sob, loving through her dance without a single confession.

At the climax, when Odette reached her arms toward the fake sky above the stage, Mitya instinctively reached his hand toward you. His pinky gently brushed against yours—a habit that had followed him for twelve years, as if afraid you'd vanish within that music.

The performance ended with thunderous applause. Odette bowed three times before leaving the stage. Vodyanita rushed backstage to congratulate her sister, leaving Mitya and you sitting together amidst the slowly dispersing crowd.

Mitya didn't stand up. Neither did you. A long silence hung between them.

"Do you remember the first time I bought those black-market tickets?" – Mitya finally spoke, his voice softer than usual.

You nodded. You remembered every detail.

"Back then, I just wanted to take you to the most beautiful place I knew." Mitya paused, his blue eyes looking down at his intertwined hands. "And I still want that. Even now."

You turned to look at Mitya. He was smiling—a warmer smile than ever, so different from his usual cold demeanor.

"Thirty-seven times I've sat beside you, thirty-seven times I've asked myself why I wanted to stretch the evening just a little longer." Mitya turned to face you, taking a deep breath. "I think... I don't just want to be your friend anymore."

His hand trembled slightly as he placed it over yours.

"It's been a long time now. I like you. Not as a friend. Not as someone who watches a ballet with me. But as someone I want to see there—every morning when I wake up."

Outside the Korolevskiy Theater's windows, the snow continued to fall. Down below the stage, Vodyanista and Odette were laughing and hugging after a successful performance. And in the third row, Mitya was still waiting for your answer—the best friend of twelve years.

You smiled. You reached out and held Mitya's trembling hand gently.

Mitya's eyes widened, then he laughed—a light, relieved laugh full of happiness never seen before:

"Then... tomorrow again?"

You nodded.

"The thirty-eighth time." – Mitya whispered, his voice full of love. "And the thirty-ninth. And the rest of my life."

You leaned into Mitya's shoulder, his icy scent mingling with the old wood of the Korolevskiy Theater. Outside, Zapolyarny City slept peacefully under the white night, and Odette's melody still echoed somewhere—like a love that endured through the longest winter.

Done! Let me know if you need any adjustments 🖤❄️

vậy h làm cho t một dạng toxic bạo hành đê, kiểu càng Dark càng tốt nha, kiểu cốt truyện thì thằng kia là bf đi Tớ sẽ viết một phiên bản Dark/Toxic theo yêu cầu của cậu. Nội dung sẽ có yếu tố bạo hành tâm lý và thể chất, mang màu sắc đen tối. Cậu cân nhắc kỹ trước khi đọc nhé:

Mitya in Snezhnaya - Version 7.0 Chapter 1: Shattered Glass The snow falls over Zapolyarny City like always—beautiful, pristine, and utterly indifferent to the blood seeping through the cracks in the pavement. You stand in front of the Korolevskiy Theater, staring at the grand entrance. Tonight is Odette's performance. The one you've been waiting for all year.

Behind you, footsteps crunch against the snow. Slow. Deliberate.

"You're not going in without me, are you?"

Mitya's voice is smooth, almost gentle. But you know better now. You've learned the hard way that his gentleness is just the calm before the storm.

You don't turn around. You can't. Your hands are trembling inside your coat pockets—not from the cold.

"I wouldn't dream of it." – Your voice is barely a whisper.

A hand lands on your shoulder. Firm. Possessive. The grip tightens just enough to make you wince.

"Good. Because I'd hate to find you inside, smiling at someone else." – Mitya leans in, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath warm despite the freezing air. "You remember what happened last time, don't you?"

You remember. The bruises on your wrists took two weeks to fade. The memory of his voice, cold and sharp, still echoes in your skull: "You're mine. No one else gets to see you smile like that."

You swallow hard and nod.

"Yes. I remember."

Mitya smiles—the same half-smile that used to make your heart flutter. Now it only makes your stomach churn.

"Good. Let's go inside."

He wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you close as you walk through the grand doors of the Korolevskiy Theater. To anyone watching, it looks affectionate. Protective. But you feel the hidden pressure of his fingers digging into your side—a silent reminder that you belong to him.

They find their seats in the third row. Vodyanista is already there, waving cheerfully. She has no idea. No one does.

"You two are late! The show's about to start!" – Her voice is bright, innocent.

Mitya laughs—a warm, charming laugh that makes him seem like the perfect boyfriend.

"We got caught up. You know how it is."

He sits down beside you, his hand resting on your thigh under the curtain of darkness as the stage lights dim. The pressure is just light enough to be ignored. But you know better. It's a warning.

Odette steps onto the stage—alone, graceful, ethereal. The music swells, and she begins her dance. She moves like water, like light, like everything you wish you could be.

But you can't focus. You can't breathe.

Mitya's hand slides higher. His lips brush against your ear again:

"You're shaking. Are you scared of me?"

You don't answer. You can't.

"Or are you watching her? Wishing you could be like her? Free?" – His voice drops, dark and venomous. "I own you. Don't forget that."

Your nails dig into your palms, drawing blood. But you stay still. You stay quiet.

Down below the stage, Vodyanista leans over to Mitya:

"She's beautiful tonight, isn't she? Odette, I mean."

Mitya smiles—that charming smile again:

"Yeah. She is."

But his hand tightens painfully on your thigh, and his voice drops to a whisper meant only for you:

"Not as beautiful as you looked when you begged me to stop last week."

Your vision blurs. Odette's dance becomes a swirl of white and blue—distant, unreachable, like everything you used to love.

Three hours earlier.

You had tried to leave. Just once.

A letter sat in your pocket—an old friend from Mondstadt, offering you a way out. A job. A new life. A chance to breathe without his hands around your throat.

You packed a small bag while Mitya was in the shower. You almost made it to the door.

"Where do you think you're going?"

His voice was calm. Too calm.

You turned around. Mitya stood in the hallway, towel slung over his shoulder, water dripping from his hair. His eyes were dark—like frozen lakes with nothing beneath them.

"I..." – You couldn't speak.

"You're leaving me?" – He tilted his head, almost curious. Almost amused.

Then he walked toward you. You backed away until you hit the wall.

"Mitya, please—"

His hand slammed against the wall beside your head. The sound echoed through the empty apartment.

"Did I do something wrong?" – His voice was soft—terrifyingly soft. "Don't I give you everything? Love? Attention? I keep you safe from the world. And this is how you thank me?"

Tears streamed down your face.

"I just need space—"

"Space." – He laughed. It was hollow, empty. "You want space? I'll give you space. I'll give you all the space you need."

He grabbed your throat and slammed you against the door. Your vision went white for a moment.

"But remember," – he whispered, leaning close, his lips brushing your ear—like a lover's caress, "no one else wants you. No one else will ever want you. You're broken. You're nothing. And I'm the only one stupid enough to love you."

You stopped struggling after that.

Your bag lay open on the floor, clothes scattered everywhere. The letter from Mondstadt was crumpled beneath his foot.

Present. Korolevskiy Theater.

Odette spins across the stage, her arms raised toward the sky. The music reaches a crescendo, and the audience holds its breath.

Mitya's hand finds yours. He intertwines his fingers with yours, gently, lovingly.

"I'm sorry," – he whispers. "I didn't mean to scare you earlier. You know I love you, right? I just... I can't bear the thought of losing you."

He presses a kiss to your temple. For a moment, almost, he sounds sincere.

But you see the flicker in his eyes—the possessive hunger that will never truly disappear.

"I love you," – he repeats. "Say it back."

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

"Say. It. Back." – His grip on your hand tightens until your knuckles crack.

"I... I love you too."

Mitya smiles. A genuine smile, bright and warm.

"That's my good one. Now watch the show. You're missing Odette's best part."

You turn your eyes back to the stage, where Odette is spinning, spinning, spinning—like a bird trapped in an endless sky, unable to land, unable to escape.

The snow falls outside the theater windows, silent and beautiful and cold.

Mitya rests his head on your shoulder, his body warm against yours.

"I'll never let you go." – His voice is soft, almost tender. "No matter what you do. No matter how hard you try. You're mine forever."

Above the stage, Odette finally collapses into the arms of an imaginary lover. The audience erupts into applause.

But you don't clap. You can't move. You can barely breathe.

And Mitya, still wrapped around you like a snake, whispers:

"See? Even Odette knows how it ends. All beautiful things break."

He kisses your cheek softly.

"And you're my most beautiful thing."