#(casting petty curses)

[hawkinsbnbg]

Steve who came from a long line of witches and was born with a healing pussy so powerful he could revive the dead with it. Worried about his safety, his parents had made him practice celibacy to keep his secret from ill-intentions and dangerous people.

Years went by, Steve grew up and continued to be careful about his secret and the fact that he was still a virgin. No one knew about it thanks to the womanizer reputation he had built around himself. It wasn't a permanent solution, but it was the best Steve had at the moment. And he was pretty sure he wouldn't need to use his ability anytime soon.

Except, Eddie Munson had tried to be cute and died a hero.

Now, with Dustin being so devastated by it, Steve had no choices but to lose his virginity to the town's freak.

If Eddie came back slightly different and declared Steve his bride , it was just the magic having done its job a little too well.

[deer-with-a-stick]

on one hand, if larian gave us raw rules for revivify/raise dead, you could do things like save Duke Ravengard without Mizora (ignore her, go to Iron Throne where he's going to be dead for some stupid reason, cast Raise Dead with a diamonds and boom. you can't tell me that he's been dead for more than 10 days when you find him) or just revive random NPCs for fun but on the other hand dear god the chaos

[falling-apart-burrito]

A list of known jinxes, hexes and minor curses for the aspiring petty sorcerer by the burrito wizard

Pay it forward

5 minutes after every other voluntary step, the victim takes an involuntary step forward. This effect stacks.

Possible incantations (hand gestures not included):

Two small steps for man, another small step for man

A thousand miles and 500 more

You have arrived past your destination

[fablerenown]

Listen, I have seen many a posts to the tune of "Hozier is a fae god!" Or "Florence is a fae god!" And I am here to tell you that neither of them are fae gods. Paramours, probably, maybe members of an Entourage, but gods? No.

You want to know who an actual fucking fae god is???

Kendrick Lamar.

The pettiness. The creativity. The persuasiveness. The accuracy. He had 110 million people across the nation today singing "a minooooor" like it was fucking nothing. This man has cast a thousand-year curse on Aubrey Graham's bloodline that cannot be undone through mortal means.

Now, THAT is some fae god level shit.

[nezuscribe]

arguing with arranged!gojo is difficult because he’s not used to arguing with women and you’re not used to arguing period.

it rarely happens, but when it does it gets really heated between the two of you. you pace around your room, huffing as gojo stands there with his arms crossed, nose flaring.

like that one time he found out that one of the new guards the brought in from the west was somebody you used to fool around with.

yeah that was bad.

“why do you even care!” you snap at him, and he can’t find a plausible reason aside from the fact that he was purely jealous.

this guard that they’d brought in from the west, much to your shock, was somebody you used to see in the late hours of the night. you never did anything frisky, just some shared kisses here and there.

but the moment you saw him, your whole demeanor changed. and gojo could tell. it took a bit of picking and prodding (which gojo is great at) but you eventually told him the story.

and he was not excited to hear it.

“i want him gone,” he tells you and you roll your eyes, shrugging indefinitely.

“fine,” you throw your arms up, “get him out. but what about those girls? you think i don’t want them gone whenever we walk into one of those balls or those dinners? when i see the way they look at you? you think that’s easy for me?”

“it’s different,” his tone is unwavering and cold.

you scoff, shaking your head in dismay.

“what? what’s so different? that i kissed him? big deal!” you feel like you want to cry and yell and jump and scream at the same time.

because it was different. for you. because the men didn’t seem to care that gojo had a new wife, or that he cared for her. but the ladies did. they gossiped in frenzied tones, batted their eyelashes at him even more as if that could cast him away from your spell.

so you didn’t know why he cared so much about this one man. why it should matter to him when he’s had far, far more experiences than you.

you felt hurt that he doubted you, angered with his hypocrisy, and tired from spending the entire day ignoring each other.

“this is going nowhere,” you mutter eventually, picking up your pillow as his eyes drop to your hands, “i’m sleeping somewhere else.”

“what-”

“and don’t follow me,” you bite out, not even glancing behind your shoulder as you begin to sulk out of your shared bedroom to your old one all across the estate.

and sure, maybe you’re not being entirely fair. there’s been some petty arguments when he bumps into one of his old girls, but it didn’t hurt nonetheless when he accused you of lying, when the conversation of your old romantic life was just never brought up.

you wipe at the stray tears on your cheek as you slug down the stairs, sniffling to yourself as you curse your husband to hell and back, when a force unlike any other picks you up from behind.

“what?” you squeal, your body manicured over a strong shoulder, your legs near his torso, your eyes facing his back as you kick at him, “let me go, i’m going to fall!”

“don’t make me laugh,” gojo murmured, one strong arm around your waist, the other around your thighs as he hauls you back up the stairs.

“i told you not to follow me,” you grumble, pinching his back but he doesn’t react.

“you’re funny if you think i’ll let you sleep alone.”

your brows furrow, feeling the need to kick him, but also not wanting him to drop you.

it doesn’t take long for him to reach your bedroom, opening the door with his free hand (unbridled strength if the greatest warrior of the north meant he could pick you up with just one hand) and plops you back on the mattress.

you prop yourself up on your elbows, looking away, hoping he can’t see the tear marks.

because it did hurt. his words hurt you. they cut deep. and he notices, his gaze softening slightly.

“don’t cry,” he whispers, leaning down to trace your tears away but you swat his hand off of your face.

“then don’t make me cry,” you say with a heavy sigh, siting upwards, back slightly hunched.

you take a deep breath, rubbing at your eyes as you glance upwards at him. it’s been a while since the two of you had fought, and the first time over something serious, and he looks awful.

“i don’t judge you for being with those girls,” you start with a heavy whisper, “you did what you could to stay sane. but don’t judge me for doing the same.”

gojo breathes deeply through his nose, blinking.

“you’re right,” he says after a heavy second, causing you too look up in confusion.

he nods again, his big hand cup your jaw, his thumb rubbing your cheek as he catches the stray tear from the corner of your eye.

“you’re right and i’m sorry,” he repeats, and you’ve never had somebody agree with you before, “i just…saw the way he looks at you and…i didn’t like it.”

you offer him a small nod.

“but he just looked at me,” you shift so that your resting on your haunches, hands in your lap. he towers over you, one hand going to cradle the back of your head.

gojo shrugs, like he can’t put it into comprehensible words how he felt when that guard looked at you with hunger in his eyes. how only he was allowed to look at you with such starvation.

“i didn’t like it,” he can only repeat, and you know he struggles with his emotions, spent years hiding them so that they wouldn’t become his weakness.

“do you want to sleep?” he finally asks you, and you slowly blink, trying to hide the tiredness from your face.

“i’ll still be here when you wake up,” he offers and you crack a small smile, trying to hide it from him.

but your smile drops as you think, eyes darting up to his.

“it’s okay to not like something, and it’s okay to feel angry that you don’t. but don’t ever, ever, make me feel like that again because of it.”

your stare is unwavering, and he feels a certain sense of pride in seeing that. and gojo nods, one steady movement as he drops down to his knees, trying to be level with your gaze.

“you have my full authority to strike me down if i do,” he promises, his hands cupping your face, his words serious but you can’t help but giggle.

“good,” you murmur, tugging slightly harshly on some of the strands of his hair as he winces, pushing you back onto the bed with the sheer force of his body, climbing up into you as he hold you close to him.

you let out another laugh as he acts like a bear cub, not wanting to move an inch away from your warmth as he cuddles into you, trying to finish his massive size compared to you.

the two of you laid in silence, a comfortable one, as he laid his head in your chest, hearing the steady rhythm of your heart.

“i am sorry,” he whispers, craning his neck to look up at you as he rests his chin on your sternum, “i’m sorry.” he says again, his words barely above a sound.

you blink again, moving some of the hair away from his face as you observe his sorrowful features.

“i know,” you whisper back.

gojo finds your hands, interweaving your fingers together, heart tugging when he feels your ring against his skin.

he brings the finger to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against the ring as you watch him silently. no other words needed to be said, no words left unspoken as he pulls you into his chest.

because no woman would amount to a sliver of you. and no man would amount to a morsel of him.

[cherrixpie]

HOW NOT TO DATE A SLYTHERIN

part three of five

↬ being harry potter's sister wouldn't make dating theodore nott any easier - which was why you tried to hide it. only, theo was starting to get reckless with your secret.

↬ sfw; angst + hurt/comfort; wc: 3.0k; cw: none; secret relationship trope, potter!reader, griffindor! reader

thank you for all the supportive comments! wait for part four for the big showdown...

( masterlist )

The streets of Hogsmeade were blanketed in a soft layer of snow, the air filled with the mingling scents of spiced cider and chocolate wafting from the shops. You tugged your scarf tighter against the biting wind, walking beside Harry while Ron and Hermoine trailed just behind, arguing about the practicality of enchanted earmuffs. The (way too) early christmas decorations hung from every storefront, casting warm, golden light onto the snow-covered cobblestones, and the faint sounds of caroling witches and wizards drifted down from somewhere near the Three Broomsticks.

“Can we stop at Honeydukes before we head back?” Ron asked, cutting off a string of heated reasons for her argument by Hermoine who glared at him darkly. “Honestly, Ron, that is your biggest concern? Buying chocolate frogs?”

Sharing a glance, both you and Harry rolled your eyes at their bickering. You chose to defend Ron, partly because if he hadn't proposed the trip to Honeydukes, you’d have. “It’s a valid concern. Not everyone can survive on determination and revision schedules, Hermione.”

The only response you received was a long sigh, audible even over the whistling wind. When a particularly strong squall almost knocked him against a house front, Harry cursed, glowering at the restless sky. “If the weather stays the same ‘til tomorrow's game, we’ll be knocked off our brooms before we can make Malfoy lose.”

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes at him. “Don't you mean, before we can win? Honestly, Harry, I think you’re approaching this very unproductively.” Ruffling a hand through his unruly hair, you smiled at his grim huff. “On the other hand, if petty hostility makes you fly better-”

“You’ve done this a lot lately,” Ron cut you off, earning another pissed look by Hermoine. “Defending them snakes.”

You had? Not that you had noticed, but yes, you may have subconsciously been a little defensive when your friends had badmouthed the Slytherins, seeing as you were dating one of the most sensitive and thoughtful people you knew, who happened to also be a Slytherin. “I am merely advocating for proportionality,” you mumbled, but your voice was picked up by a gust of wind, carried to the wrong ears.

You heard them before you saw them- a drawled out voice from behind, having the four of you turn on your heels. “Advocating for proportionality, are you, Potter? How very noble. I’m sure the world is thrilled to hear another Potter lecture.” A large group of Slytherins had been approaching from behind, unnoticed by all of you. Though shielded by green-bronze scarfs, you could make out the faces of your Slytherin classmates, as well as some sixth years. Flickering over the group, your eyes found Theo's and they locked in silent understanding. If you weren't mistaken, he gave you a little wink, but that might just as well have been a product of your imagination.

“That's rich,” Harry snarled back, ignoring your tugging at his robes to keep going. “Coming from you, Malfoy, who loves to hear himself talk so much he gets himself friends as silent listeners that applaud everything he says!”

Sensing an approaching conflict, you quickly counted the heads of the Slytherin group- you were looking at a four to ten ratio.

Red shot up into Malfoy’s cheeks and you caught a movement of his hand, sliding towards his wand. “Better be careful talking like that, Potter, didn't your parents ever reach you not to pick fights when you’re outmatched? Oh, wait,” he laughed gloatingly and you buried your hands in your brother’s robe in a preventive manner. “Guess they didn't have the chance before they were blown to bits!”

But your warning glare didn't only fix Harry, you had caught a dangerous look in Theo’s eyes as well. As if he had felt his eyes on you, he returned your gaze and his expression softened slightly. You breathed a sigh of relief. Crisis averted.

“LISTEN HERE, YOU TWAT!” Ron bellowed from next to you, shaking his clenched fists. Both you and Hermoine shot forward to hold him back, but you made the fatal mistake of letting go of your livid brother, who barged at Malfoy, not even bothering to pull out his wand. His fist collided with his face the moment Ron followed hot on his heels, tackling a surprised Zabini.

“Merlin,” Hermoine muttered and pulled out her wand. Neither of you got to join in the brawl, though, because a very exasperated Theo had strode forward, separated Blaise and Ron and jinxed both Drace and Harry in one move, making both of them jump back and stumble. Some of his friends groaned at him, deprived of the easy victory, but his infamous death glare brought upon them silence in an instant.

Before they could cause any more trouble, you ushered Ron and Harry back on their feet with Hermoine's help, hastily steering them away from the group.

“Hey, Potter!”

Both you and Harry turned around, but the Slytherin sixth year that had spoken was looking at you. “Spare us the moral superiority in the future. You’re as self-absorbed as your little Gryffindor gang. The way you talk, it’s no wonder you don’t have many friends outside Gryffindor. Who could stand you?”

Ouch.

The hurt must have been visible in your features for a second, because his friends howled and patted his shoulder in appreciation. Harry tensed under your grip, but you tightened it and pulled him along as you walked away, Hermoine and Ron hot on your heels.

The whistles and cackles of the group followed you all the way to Honeydukes. Neither of you spoke, Harry seemed to be fuming and you didn't dare say anything to set him off.

“Are you even listening to me?”

You weren't, and you looked at Hermoine apologetically. Instead of listening to whatever your friend had to say, your gaze had gotten lost somewhere at the Slytherin table. Particularly fixed on the dark haired boy in between Riddle and Malfoy, with the face of a brooding storm. Even from the far end of the great hall, you knew the expression as not simply his moodiness but simmering anger, meticulously controlled.

“I’m sorry,” you said sincerely and fixed your attention on Hermoine. “What were you saying?”

Sighing, Hermoine flipped open the evening edition of the daily prophet. Some snowflakes were still caught up in her hair, relics of your visit to Hogsmeade. “You’re awfully distracted. Is it because of what that idiot Langley said?”

“Who?” you asked, even though you knew exactly who she meant. His comment had hurt you, but it was nothing you wouldn't get over. No, what held your attention in a vice-like grip that felt oh so gentle was your dear secret boyfriend who, at this exact moment, rose from his seat at the Slytherin table, undoubtedly going for a smoke to the astronomy tower.

Hermoine passed your question over, opting to pretend to read the newspaper as you could feel her careful eyes on you. “He’s in the hospital wing, you know? Langley, I mean.”

“Did he choke on his spite?” You asked absentmindedly, swirling your fork through your soup as your eyes followed Theo leaving the Great Hall. The elegance of his long strides, his upright posture, the bounce of his dark curls. It was probably as good a time as ever to realize that you were utterly and irreversibly in love with that man.

“He got hexed, nobody knows by whom. But they contemplated sending him to St. Mungos, seems like he was hexed within an inch of his life,” Hermoine explained and a realization dawned on you. An image flashed before your waking eye- Theo's expression when you had shoved Harry away. You did believe him capable of hexing Langley into St. Mungos. But you also believed him capable of a high level of intelligence that was missing from this situation.

“Was he?” you asked in a neutral voice and Hermoine nodded, no longer pretending to be interested in the newspaper. “Rumor has it that Nott hexed him, but no eye witnesses have confirmed it to the teachers. Too scared of him and his friends, probably.”

You gave up on your fruitless attempts to transport the soup to your mouth. Abruptly, you stood up and shouldered your bag with a little more force than necessary. “I think I’m going to head to the astronomy tower, I still need to finish some star charts for Professor Sinistra.”

The heavy wooden door of the astronomy tower slammed open when you marched through forcefully, the sound echoing through the chilly, starlit space. Theo didn't flinch as you slammed your bag onto the ground. He was, of course, already there, leaning against the stone wall, cigarette perched between his fingers, the ember glowing faintly in the dark. It illuminated his face that was calm, almost indifferent. But the sharp line of his jaw gave him away. He’d been waiting for this.

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” you snapped, marching toward him with a heaving chest, partly from your run up the stairs, partly of fury. “What were you thinking, hexing Langley in broad daylight, in front of half the school if you can believe the rumors? Are you trying to get us caught?”

Theo exhaled slowly, smoke curling around his face like a shield. “You’re welcome, by the way,” he said, voice low and infuriatingly composed. “That guy deserved worse for what he said to you.”

You’d be lying if his dangerous dark eyes and the gravely tone of his voice didn't do something for you, paired with the fact that he had sent someone to the Hospital wing for you. But that wasn't the point right now. “You were reckless, Theo. What will your friends think? That you just snapped on a whim and decided to hospitalize the guy you hung out with?”

“They’ll trust that I have my reasons,” Theo said smoothly, making not attempts to step closer to your heaving form or meet your eye.

“And what if they believe that reason is me?” you challenged him. When he looked up, your eyes locked and the intensity of his gaze knocked the breath right out of your lungs.

“Then they do,” he simply said, making you gasp in protest. With a flick of his wrist, golden embers rained from his cigarette. “It would not be the end of the world. You wouldn't care, would you?” His gaze grew sharper and you felt utterly disarmed. “You only care that your brother and your Griffindor friends don't find out you’re dating a Slytherin.”

“I know where you’re going with this,” you pressed through pursed lips. “And it's not fair. If you were ready to admit to everyone you’re seeing the Chosen One’s sister, you’d already have.”

The force with which Theo stepped forward caught you off guard. Stopping in front of you, he leaned down and a cloud of smoke pulled you in. “I’ll do it,” he whispered to you, watching your reaction closely. “I’ll go right now and shout it from the fucking rooftops.” Crooking his head, he took a step back. “But you wouldn't want that, would you?”

You didn't answer, because you knew he was right. It was you who was trying to keep this relationship quiet, but it wasn't like you didn't have your reasons. One of them being how your friends would react, sure, but since Theo’s father was a death eater, the Order could see you as a liability as well.

Theo called your name and as if on command, you looked up at him. The cigarette lay glowing on the floor, he hadn't even bothered to smother the embers with his boot. “Are you ashamed of me?” There was a guarded vulnerability in his voice. So rare that you could do nothing but stare at him for a few seconds. Theo waited patiently, but he watched every little change of expression.

“I’m not,” you finally managed to say after you found your voice. You took a pleading step towards him, but he took one back as if on chance. “Are you sure?” he asked and a hint of bitterness laced his composed voice. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re fine with me being your dirty little secret.”

“You’re- you’re not-,” you stammered, your insides were squeezing painfully with the look he gave you. “Theo, you have to understand my situation here! I mean, you didn't even attempt to! You don’t understand what it’s like, Theo. I can’t just… parade this around. Harry, Ron, Hermione-they’d never let it go. And don’t get me started on the rest of Gryffindor!”

A humorless laugh escaped his throat. “You’re an idiot.” Flinching at his tone, you took a step back, but he stalked towards you predatorily. “Do you think you’re the only one who is under pressure here? Last time I checked, the people you answer to aren't ruthless murderers.”

He was right, you knew he was right. But there was a small, defiant part of you that just didn't want to accept it. “Just because you’re ready to tell them doesn't mean I am. They all see me as this perfect girl. I don’t get to make mistakes.”

This goddamn raised eyebrow that managed to stun anyone to silence appeared on his beautiful face. “And I’m the mistake, is that it? Great to know where I stand, Potter.”

“I didn't say that!” you protested, running your hands through your hair in frustration. Theo smiled bitterly. “You didn’t have to. You’d rather keep this quiet, pretend it’s not happening, because being with me doesn’t fit your perfect Gryffindor image.”

Anger started to bubble up in your chest once more and you clenched your fists, infuriated by his seemingly indifferent calm. “You think this is easy for me? Sneaking around, lying to my friends? If they found out about us, they’d never trust me again!” Your breath got caught in your throat as your voice grew quiet. “You don’t get it, Theo. I can’t afford to mess this up. People expect me to be perfect, and being with you… it’s not the safe choice. But it’s my choice, okay? Doesn’t that mean something?”

With an abrupt turn, Theo walked towards the railing and turned his back to you. A ruffle, a click, a soft golden glow and finally, a cloud of smoke rising from his figure as if he was burning from the inside. His voice was so hushed you had trouble understanding it, drawing closer but still keeping your distance. “You know, for someone so stubborn, you’re really bad at fighting with me.”

“That’s because I don’t want to fight with you.” you said imploringly, taking tentative steps toward him. Though he most certainly noticed even the most quiet of sounds, he didn't turn around. A long sigh left Theo’s lips and a large puff of smoke rose up to the stars. “Neither do I.”

“I’m sorry, okay?” you asked, fiddling with your fingers. “I know I’m not handling this the way you deserve.”

Finally, Theo turned around to you and you were taken aback by the sudden vulnerability in his expression. Theo’s features were often closed off, hard to read, unmovable. But now, his eyes were heavy with emotion- a mix of regret and sadness, though a light smile played along his lips. “I’m not asking for perfect. I’m just asking for you to … trust me.”

You closed the distance between you and Theo exhaled the last puff of smoke into the chilly night air before he stepped on his cigarette. His arms reached for you and you almost threw yourself into them. You hated fighting. Once around you, his hold tightened and you felt your face pressed up against his warm chest. The tremble of an exhale left your lips as you closed your eyes and relaxed in his hold. “I do, Theo. I wouldn't be here if I didn't. I wouldn’t be doing this- any of this- if I didn’t think you were worth it.”

You only got a soft rumble of his chest in response. His smell surrounded you, clouded you, and you thought to yourself you might get addicted to cigarettes if he kept smelling like them. “This might be a bad time for stuff like that, but… I've never felt like this about anyone.”

When you lifted your head from his chest, you found him already looking at you. And you had to appreciate how he must have turned down every wall he had so carefully constructed around himself to look at you with such a raw expression. “Me neither,” he almost breathed, locking your fingers. He shook his head disapprovingly. “Tesoro, your hands are ice bricks.”

“Why don't you kiss them better, then?” you asked hopefully, relieved to see a smile appear on his face. Theo brought your locked hands up to his lips and pressed slow, gentle kisses to the back of your hand. The soft tingle that followed his touch warmed your whole body.

“We’re going to have to actually talk about this, you know.” he said and you nodded slightly.

“I know. Just… not tonight.”

tag list: @annaisabookworm @empath-bunny @k0z3me @slutfordpr @aespaslut @kiarst @the-oracle-at-delphinitely-not @fakem0net @sammyreid @tulipsc @yasmin-oviedo @lazycrazyme

[cheralith]

— defenses.

characters ; michael kaiser || contains ; hogwarts!au, slytherin!kaiser, mild violence, description of injuries, blood mention, gn!reader, they/them pronouns word count ; 2.4k a/n ; a prequel of sorts to this

in his seventh year at hogwarts, michael kaiser ends up with his fifth detention already in the second term of the year. the previous four were merely for petty reasons—detentions, misuse of magic, whatever. this one was probably the most severe one yet, considering he landed a harsh blow to one of ravenclaw's beater's nose and had to be held back by his teammates from starting a full-blown fight with him.

the reason? you.

amidst the heavy rainfall that the ravenclaw and slytherin quidditch teams were playing in, your own teammate had confused you for an opponent just as you were chasing down kaiser, thinking you were a fellow slytherin player tagging behind him. it was difficult to decipher whether your cloak was green or blue since the rain and the silver clouds had melded all the colors together into a dull grey.

your teammate had chucked a bludger in your direction just as kaiser was about to score another goal, the heavy ball hitting your temple and causing you to get knocked off your broom much too harshly to plummet twenty meters. clearly the fall captured everyone’s attention—even kaiser’s, which made a ravenclaw chaser take advantage of the moment and steal the quaffle from him when he diverted his focus from the goalpost to you.

in that moment, however, kaiser barely noticed the steal, his focus solely in your tumbling form and before he could register what was even happening, he dived in headfirst. he didn’t process what was even happening until he saw his hand outreached to try and grab your cloak before you hit the ground.

the rain made had flying ten times more difficult. with every attempt at clutching your uniform as your body tumbled down, you seemed to be getting further and further away from kaiser. it wasn't until the referee had casted a slowing charm to delay your fall that kaiser was finally able to catch up to you and just barely managed to catch you a sly four feet before you collided with the ground.

the sound of the referee's whistle for a time out and the cheers from everyone in the stadium had been drowned out in kaiser's hearing as his vision focused on your unconscious form. he cleared the rain from his rain goggles to get a good look at you as everyone began to descend down and circle around you.

he slowly set your body down onto the grass, one hand cradling your head and the other around your waist. his heart thrummed with every movement he took, trying his best to handle you as delicately as a broken-winged butterfly. only when he took his hands off of you is when he noticed it.

crimson soaked his leather glove that held your head, the area that received the most impact. kaiser stared at it for a moment before glancing at your head and noticing a river of blood flowing down your temple, making him freeze. kaiser scrambled to his feet and backed away from you, as if any other touches might give you more damage than necessary.

everyone circled around you and him as they got off their brooms, with some of the headmasters rushing down the stands to make sure their student's safety was in check. jinpachi ego, the referee, shoved his way into the circle of the crowd, examining your form before calling for medics as he took off your goggles and part your hair to properly display the ugly bruise that was beginning to bloom on the side of your head. he held your head up in his lap and your jaw slacked, another river of red dripping from your lips to pair with the one seeping from your temple to stain your lips ruby.

the ravenclaw headmaster, teieri anri, had covered her mouth in horror as soon as she spotted you, her actions being mimicked by your teammates as they came closer into view. gasps and curses spilled from everyone as they saw your ruined form. kaiser heard your headmaster muttering a few spells to alleviate your pain as the medics quickly came to rush you onto a stretcher, covering you in a blanket to hide your form from the audience.

"shit, shit, shit..." igaguri, your teammate that had chucked the bludger mistakenly toward your way mumbled as his panicked eyes followed your covered form as the medics carried the stretcher out. "was that a foul? am i getting kicked off the team?"

kaiser's piercing blue eyes snapped to igaguri. before he could register what he was doing, he was already stomping his way over and clutching igaguri's robes in his fist, pulling his smaller form towards him.

"you fuckin' serious?" he snarled, baring his teeth towards the fifth year. "you just nearly killed your own teammate and you've got the fucking nerve to be more concerned with yourself?"

igaguri's expression turned from fear to angered confusion. his brows furrowed as his own hand wrapped around kaiser's wrist. "i didn't do it on purpose! i thought (y/n) was a slytherin following you!"

"you colorblind, you dumbass monk?!" kaiser's jaw tightened. "how the hell do you confuse blue for green?!"

"it was raining, you arrogant bastard!" igaguri countered, "no one could see shit! and look who's talking!? as if you've ever cared about anybody else except yourself!"

kaiser's scowl hardened, his fist tightening. igaguri was nowhere near his level of skill as a player. he didn't get to decide of how large his ego could get and how much he could display, so for him to be concerned with his own state despite ruining his own teammate's angered kaiser to a degree that he rarely ever felt. seeing igaguri position himself in a space that only kaiser can be one, where only the most skilled and egotistic of people could be in, felt suffocating. there was only room for one person of that caliber, and it solely belonged to him.

it felt humiliating having to temporarily put himself in igaguri's state, where he had to practically shove his concern for another down his throat, but if no one else was going to, he'll be the first.

ice shards formed within kaiser's glare. he pulled the younger boy up to make sure his words could fully penetrate into igaguri like knives.

"you and i and everyone knows that they're the best player on your team and that without their skills, you're fuckin' done for," he muttered.

his teammates glanced at each other worriedly, understanding that the tension of the atmosphere was thickening. if things start to escalate, there could be a chance that slytherin's quidditch team could be doomed and the chance at playing for the quidditch cup could falter.

kuon, one of their beaters, clapped a hand on his shoulder. "yo man, chill out. it's not like he did it on—"

kuon froze suddenly, letting go of kaiser's shoulder as soon as kaiser snapped his head back and aimed his glower at his own teammate. he didn't say anything, but kuon and the rest of the slytherin team understood that his look simply meant, "mind your business."

kaiser returned his attention back to igaguri.

"an ant like you has got no reason to be concerned with himself when clearly your stakes are all reliant on (l/n)," kaiser hissed. "you're nothing without them."

igaguri's frustration wavered at kaiser's words. his lip twisted, trying his best to not fully digest them and to not let them embed themselves into his brain as to not reduce himself to nothing more than just a mere background player. he may not be a chaser, but he still wanted to create a name for himself as a beater and to be the best one in the world.

igaguri glowered, his teeth baring a little too much for kaiser's liking. kaiser furrowed his brows, a little suspicious that his intimidation didn't seem to be working as much as he wanted to.

the fifth year smirked. "all that talk about being 'reliant' when you can't even be bothered to pass to your own teammates."

it was a blur after that in kaiser's mind.

all he remembers that one fist had collided with igaguri's nose and his other to his jaw, bone evidently cracking twice. he remembers more blood staining his glove. he remembers igaguri seemed to get further and further away, three of his teammates having to wrestle and pin him down as to not injure the ravenclaw any more.

it wasn't even that insulting, igaguri's remark.

kaiser knew he had a selfish play. everyone knew that. it was what made him a great player. he just felt the frustration boiling within him that igaguri just completely refused to acknowledge his actions, that he had not only injured his own teammate but also stopped kaiser from performing a goal. he supposes that he was just fed up with igaguri's attitude and that someone should teach him a lesson.

a coma was what kaiser heard. you were stricken with a comatose since the match and hadn't woken up yet, and it's been two months since then. your seats in class continue to collect dust and everyone noticed kaiser was much quieter than normal. kaiser himself wasn't used to it, especially since the silence that would normally arise from the bickering you and him did felt uncomfortable. from the whispers that went around the school, you had suffered severe trauma to the head and part of your jaw had been broken since the bludger was made out of iron, after all. igaguri had been suspended from the team for awhile since hitting a player with a bludger over the shoulders was strictly prohibited.

kaiser hadn't worked up the courage to go visit you in the infirmary, unlike many of your friends and fellow peers. he made such an abrash decision to finally do so in the late evening, where mostly everyone were in their respected dorms and kept their prying eyes away from him. he was used to the spotlight, but doing something as humbling like this? kaiser would rather drop dead.

he snuck out of his dorm as quietly as possible, since ness was quite a light sleeper and he didn't want his roommate tailing him. he made his way to the infirmary at almost the stroke of midnight and crept inside, thankful that nurse pomfrey went to go out and run an errand since visiting hours were over three hours ago and he didn't want anyone to catch him in the act.

he noticed that all the beds' curtain were bunched up, revealing all the empty beds, except for one. the second to last bed nearest to the window had its curtains drawn and kaiser only meant that the obvious was behind it.

he walked slowly over to it and pulled them back.

there you laid in the second to last bed near the window, the moonlight cascading your features. you looked peaceful, despite the horror that had been undone to you. your jaw had been fixed up properly, but it seemed that the head trauma still lingered. a bandage wrapped around your head, clearly fresh since it was still pure white with the exception of the blood that began to stain the side of it.

your breathing was stable, chest lifting up and down so gently like tides, indicating your heartbeat was still working properly despite your vegetative state. the bruise on your cheek was starting to finally yellow and kaiser could only stare at it before gazing at how your lashes softly rest on your cheekbones.

he turned to the small table that sat by your bed and noticed the amount of get-well-soon cards and bouquets that adorned it from friends, fellow students, and professors. kaiser noticed a specific, simple one in his vision, picking it up and reading it with hardened eyes.

i'm sorry, please know it was all an accident. rest up and get well soon. - gurimu igarashi.

he rolled his eyes before tearing it up into shreds and tossing the remnants out the open window.

kaiser pulled up a chair and sat himself down on it, feeling a little dumb that he didn't have anything for you. he sighed and continued to survey you before he rested his arms on your bed and settled his head on them, eyes focusing on your open hand.

"this is stupid," he murmurs, focusing on the stillness of your fingers. "you're stupid. for letting a dumb bludger get to you like this."

he felt stupid now that he remembered you couldn't really combat to his words. a heaviness sought itself onto his chest when kaiser was only responded with the quiet breathing escaping your colorless lips.

"thought you were better than this. did you seriously not see that bludger coming your way? and they call you the ace of ravenclaw," he snarked. "yeah right."

again, you responded in nothing but stillness. kaiser narrowed his eyes.

"that's what you get for trying to chase down someone like me," he scoffed. "you should know your place better. our team would've won, by the way. but no, you just had to go and create a dramatic-ass scene that stopped the entire game."

kaiser rolled his eyes, the frustration from before pooling up again. he wasn't necessarily exaggerating either, slytherin was indeed ahead of ravenclaw by two points during the match, but it was barely even thirty minutes in that you came tumbling down.

he closes his eyes and sees the memory of your rapidly falling figure in his vision. a strange panic had branched out within every nerve of his body during the time and he can almost feel the feeling back again when he remembers how harsh your cloak was draping behind you and how fast you were falling. he hated it, the feeling of immense dread towards something that wasn't a part of the traditional gameplay. you ruined his momentum and kaiser felt embarrassed that you were able to do so when no one else had been able to in the past few years he's played.

while he could do good without another person challenging his spotlight, quidditch had been dull and monotone without a proper challenger. it was his final year, and he wanted to go out with a bang. he scowled slightly, raising his head up to properly look at you. he looked at your open palm and poked it softly, as if to rile a reaction of your unconscious form.

"hurry and wake up soon," he mumbled, not noticing how your fingers twitched. "you stole that match from me. i want a rematch as soon as possible."

with that, he stood up stiffly and walked away from you, a heat rising at the back of his neck and a blush of red dusted his ears.

[uasyndrome]

Unspoken Heat

a/n: I made this because this has been on my mind FOREVERRRR. Idk why, but I love Lust Quirk au's (maybe because I love the idea of feeling obsessed and feeling desperately horny)!!! I've searched high and low and there's like none with shoto and I need some with my man fr. AWW I want to have his babies so bad. I WANT TO JUMP REALITIES AND LET HIM HAVE HIS WAY WITH ME FREAKING NOWW

I was going to make them do it from multiple rounds, but it's now basically 2 am and I'm tired T-T

Todoroki x Reader

warnings: smut, desperate/needy shoto, maybe self deprecation?, idolizing too/body(or person?) worship, cursing, maybe a lil ooc pervy bakugou?

The late afternoon sun bathed Musutafu in gold, casting long shadows across the sidewalks as you and Shoto Todoroki walked side by side, patrol jackets fluttering gently in the breeze. Your third year at U.A. had brought a sense of maturity to the class of 1-A, and work studies had become a near-daily responsibility. Today, the two of you had been assigned to patrol the central district, checking alleys, deterring petty crime, and just being a presence.

You walked in a comfortable silence, the air between you warm with familiarity. It was always like this with Shoto—quiet, but never awkward. He matched your pace effortlessly, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark hero uniform, the breeze catching a loose strand of his red-and-white hair.

"You did well back there," he said after a while, his voice calm but sincere.

You glanced up at him. "You too. You always handle tense situations like they're nothing."

He gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. "Not nothing. But... I feel more focused when you're with me."

Your heart skipped. There it was again. That subtle electricity that hummed in the space between you. A lingering gaze that lasted a beat too long. The accidental brush of hands that sent sparks across your skin. These little things happened often, but neither of you acknowledged them. You told yourself it was just closeness. Just friendship. Nothing more.

Except it never felt like just that.

As you rounded a quiet corner, your conversation was cut short by a sudden crash—a loud boom that echoed down the alleyway to your left. You and Shoto instantly fell into step, instincts sharp, bodies tense.

"This way," he muttered, already igniting frost along his right side.

You nodded, fingers flexing as your own quirk readied. When you turned the corner, a tall figure in tattered black robes stood in the center of the alley, glowing eyes visible beneath the shadow of a hood. Civilians had already fled, but the chaos told you this one wasn’t your average troublemaker.

"You two... interesting," the villain crooned. "So much tension... so much heat."

Your brows knit in confusion. "Who are you?"

The villain chuckled, raising a gloved hand. "Call me Eros. You won't remember it for long."

Without warning, a blast of pink-tinted energy surged toward you. You dodged, rolling across the pavement as Shoto countered with a jet of ice. The alley filled with steam where fire and quirk energy collided. You fought together seamlessly—as you always had—back-to-back, covering each other, coordinating with unspoken ease.

But in the chaos, one of the villain's tendrils of energy struck Shoto square in the chest.

Shoto staggered as you turned towards him to quickly observe his condition.

"Shoto!" you shouted, rushing to his side as Eros hissed and disappeared into a flicker of mist.

"I'm fine," he gasped, waving you off. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated, his skin flushed a shade deeper than usual.

"You don't look fine," you said, touching his arm gently.

He flinched.

His breath hitched visibly, like your fingers were fire.

You pulled back, startled. "Shoto?"

"I'm okay," he said again, but his voice was strained, tight, like he was holding something back. He wouldn’t meet your eyes.

You frowned in concern, stepping closer to him. "Let me help you back. You don't look steady."

Shoto hesitated, jaw clenched so tightly you could see the tension in his neck. "I'm—"

You looped an arm around his waist before he could protest again, carefully easing his weight against your side. His body was warm—warmer than usual. Not from fire, but from something deeper, something internal. You didn’t think much of it, assuming it was the aftershock of the villain’s quirk. The way he leaned into you, though… something felt off.

As you guided him through the empty alley, his breathing stayed shallow and ragged. He was quiet, unusually so, but you chalked it up to exhaustion. He was always quiet. Still, you could feel how his muscles trembled beneath your touch, how tightly his fingers curled at his sides as if holding onto control by threads.

You gave a soft laugh. "Guess this villain was more annoying than dangerous, huh? Weird quirk, though. Did it feel like anything?"

His voice came after a pause, low and hoarse. "Heat. It feels like heat. Everywhere."

You gave him a sympathetic smile, brushing his damp bangs from his forehead. "You probably need rest. That energy blast must’ve overwhelmed your system. You’re burning up."

He moaned softly at your touch, his jaw snapping shut, face flushing violently.

You froze. "Shoto?"

"I’m fine," he said quickly. Too quickly. But you let it go.

The walk back to the dorms was quiet. You kept a firm but gentle grip on him, not noticing the way his hand would twitch whenever your fingers grazed his hip, or how his breath caught whenever your body pressed a little too close. You didn’t see the way his eyes dropped to your lips when you spoke, or how his pulse throbbed visibly at his throat.

He noticed all of it.

Every brush of your hand. Every time your chest pressed against his arm. Every time your voice wrapped around his name like velvet. It was unbearable.

By the time you reached the dorm’s front doors, Shoto’s restraint was a fraying thread. He leaned harder into you, teeth gritted, his voice strained when he muttered, "I can get to my room. You don’t have to—"

"Don’t be stubborn. I’m helping you."

He didn’t have it in him to argue. You got him inside and helped him up the stairs. Your grip on his waist was steady, strong, and far too intimate for his overstimulated senses.

His room door clicked open, and you helped him to the edge of his bed. You reached down, kneeling to untie his boots, and when your fingers brushed his ankle, he nearly moaned.

Shame burned through him. He turned his face away, biting his lip hard.

"You really are burning up," you said softly, standing again. You touched his forehead and cheeks without hesitation, and it was like every nerve in his body exploded with want.

He couldn’t take it.

He grabbed your wrist gently but firmly, holding your hand away from his skin. You blinked at him, confused.

"Shoto...?"

His voice was raw, quiet, desperate. "Don’t. Please. I—"

You sat beside him slowly, your voice soft with worry. "Tell me what’s going on. Did the villain’s quirk do something to you?"

He looked at you finally, and the hunger in his eyes was unmistakable, though he fought to hide it. His cheeks were pink, his pupils blown wide, lips parted as if he couldn’t catch his breath.

"I don’t want to make you uncomfortable," he said, barely audible.

Your heart squeezed. "You won’t. I want to help you. You’re my friend, Shoto."

His chest heaved. Friend. That word stung in this moment. Everything in him screamed for more—for your mouth, your skin, your voice whispering anything but friendship.

But he swallowed it down. Forced it down.

He nodded stiffly. "Just... give me a minute. I’ll be okay."

You hesitated, then gave him a small smile. "Okay. I’ll check on you later, alright?"

When you stood and moved to the door, he gripped the bedsheets with white knuckles, shaking. As the door clicked shut behind you, he collapsed back onto the mattress, groaning in frustration.

Shoto exhaled shakily the moment the door closed, relief flooding him—he could finally stop hiding the aching erection you'd nearly grazed with your touch. Shoto stood frozen for a moment, heart pounding, hands trembling at his sides.

Gone.

You were gone.

And with your absence came a rush of relief so sharp it nearly made him groan. The pressure that had been mounting under your gaze—your concerned eyes, your soft voice, the warmth of your hand on his skin—it was unbearable. Torture. Divine, slow torture.

And now, finally, he didn’t have to hide it.

He collapsed against the edge of his bed, chest heaving as he scrubbed a hand down his face. “Shit…”

His cock was throbbing, straining against the fabric of his uniform pants—aching with every beat of his heart. It had been twitching all through your touch, your voice, the way your fingers had helped him. He didn’t even dare shift in place, afraid the friction alone might make him embarrass himself in front of you.

But now?

Now he was alone. No angelic presence to stop him. No soft, innocent eyes watching him like he mattered.

“Y/n,” he breathed, your name falling from his lips like a prayer. His fingers reached for his belt, unfastening it with shaky urgency. “I’m sorry…”

He whispered it like a confession—like breaking some sacred vow.

Because you weren’t supposed to be touched like this. Not by him. Not this way.

Not when he saw you as something more than he has ever seen anyone. Not when you were the only one who made him feel peace, made him feel real. You grounded him, softened the heat and chill in his blood with nothing more than a smile.

You weren’t meant to be worshipped like this—half-naked, in his fantasies, laid out across his sheets while he whispered your name with raw, needy reverence.

But god, he couldn’t help it.

He dragged his pants and boxers down just enough to free himself, his cock springing up flushed and already leaking. The cool air hit his skin and he hissed, his hips jerking slightly in response.

“I shouldn’t…” he whispered, voice hoarse. “You’re too good… too good for this.”

But the thought of you haunted him.

The innocent way you’d tilted your head earlier when asking if he was okay.

The way you’d sat between his legs to remove his shoes, completely unaware of how close your face had been to his erection. He’d had to clench his fists to stop from reaching out, from grabbing your hips and pulling you down onto him.

He wanted to see your eyes widen in shock—and then flutter closed with pleasure.

He wanted to hear you say his name, needy and breathless, while your walls fluttered around him.

“Fuck…” His head fell back, hand tightening around the base of his cock. The pressure shot straight to his gut, stars dotting his vision. “Y/n… you’d feel so good…”

He stroked himself slowly at first, thumb brushing over the head, smearing pre-cum down the shaft. Every tug of his fist sent a shiver through him, every breath a broken whisper of your name.

He imagined you hovering over him, straddling his lap, your soft thighs pressing against his hips.

He’d hold you gently—reverently—like you were breakable. Because you were. To him, at least.

Your touch alone had undone him.

He remembered that time you’d fallen asleep beside him during a movie night. The way your head had lolled onto his shoulder, your breath warm against his neck. He’d stared at the ceiling for hours after that, trying not to think about how natural it felt to have you close, to feel the weight of your trust in the curve of your body leaning against his.

Now, he pictured you like that—eyes fluttering open, lips parted, whispering his name as you straddled and sank down onto him.

He moaned, louder this time, stroking harder now. His hips bucked into his hand.

“I need you,” he choked out, voice strangled with desperation. “I need you so bad…”

His thighs tensed, abs flexing as the pressure built in his core—tight, scorching, unbearable. His free hand fisted the sheets beside him, knuckles white. Every inch of him burned, a fever he couldn’t sweat out.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he whispered, eyes squeezing shut. “You’re in my head—every damn second. I can’t stop thinking about you…”

His rhythm grew frantic—painful in its urgency.

Visions of you danced behind his eyes—arching for him, panting, whispering his name with flushed cheeks and hooded eyes.

“I’d take care of you… so gently…” he gasped. “You’d never have to beg. I’d give you everything.”

And with a strangled cry, his hips jerked off the mattress, his orgasm tearing through him like wildfire. Hot spurts coated his fist and belly, and he trembled through it—breathless, helpless, shattered.

He collapsed backward, chest rising and falling with shallow pants, your name still on his lips.

But the ache didn’t stop.

The fire didn’t fade.

The lust quirk still pulsed through his bloodstream, and the emptiness that followed release felt worse now—like he’d only scratched the surface of how badly he needed you.

He covered his face with one arm and let out a broken groan.

“…It’s not enough,” he whispered, voice cracked and hoarse. “God… it’s not enough…”

He didn’t know how long he could last before something snapped.

Before he snapped.

And the worst part was… all he really wanted was you. Not your body. Not your moans. Just… you. In his arms. Real.

And he didn’t know what to do with that kind of need.

Minutes dragged into an hour.

Shoto had changed out of his sticky boxers and his pants. The fabric kept clinging to his still-sensitive cock, and every accidental brush reignited that searing tension coiled low in his stomach.

The orgasm should’ve helped.

It should’ve.

But instead, it left him feeling more wrecked. More hollow.

He sat at the edge of his bed again, hunched over, damp strands of his two-toned hair clinging to his forehead. His shirt stuck to the light sweat on his back, and his thighs were tense, twitching occasionally from the phantom memory of your fingertips brushing his skin.

Why do you have this effect on me…?

He dragged a palm down his face, then through his hair, breathing hard. His cock had begun to swell again—painfully so, full and pulsing, begging for attention he was ashamed to give. Not again. Not with your voice still echoing in his head, the memory of your worried expression haunting him.

You were just being kind. That’s all.

He had to clench his jaw, dig his nails into the sheets, force himself not to buck his hips upward into the air like an animal in heat. The only thing that kept him from doing something reckless was the reverent, aching love he carried for you.

You’re too good for this, he told himself again.

You were sweet. Good-hearted. Light in his otherwise silent world. He’d seen the way you laughed with Kaminari, comforted Iida, sparred with Bakugou without flinching. You were so alive. And you let him be near that warmth.

You weren’t supposed to be the star of his darkest fantasies.

But it was impossible not to remember the way your lips parted when you were surprised—or the breathy little laugh you made when someone flustered you. The way your hoodie would ride up when you stretched after training, revealing the soft slope of your stomach and the waistband of your gym shorts.

And worst of all, that one time you’d laid down on the training room mats after a particularly brutal session. You’d been exhausted, eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed, limbs spread lazily. He remembered it too well. The sight had burned itself into his memory—your bare legs, the arch of your back, your chest rising and falling.

He’d had to excuse himself to the showers that day. Freezing cold. And it hadn’t helped.

Now, as the lust quirk sizzled through every nerve ending, that memory surged back with dizzying intensity.

His cock twitched, leaking steadily, He groaned and pressed the heel of his hand against it, trying to will the heat away.

“I can’t… I can’t keep doing this…” he whispered to himself, voice thick with guilt.

His hips rocked against his own palm, almost involuntarily. He breathed through his teeth.

“Y/n… fuck—” his hand curled tighter, knuckles white. “You’re perfect. Too perfect.”

The pressure built again, sweat beading on his brow, thighs tensing as he gritted his teeth through the sensation. He bit down a whimper.

She doesn’t even know what she does to me.

He wanted to be strong. To fight it. But he was slipping—crumbling, second by second. His body was betraying him, trembling with the need to be touched, held, taken apart.

And only you could do it.

Only you had the power to pull him from this precipice.

But you weren’t here.

And all he could do was ache.

You tapped your phone again, hoping for a new notification. Still nothing.

"He's acting weird," you muttered, voice just above the background buzz of chatter . You slumped into the chair beside Midoriya, pulling your knees up to hug them against your chest. "I haven’t heard from him since he went to his room."

Midoriya blinked, setting his chopsticks down. "Was it a bad patrol?"

"No," you said slowly. "He got hit by the villain’s quirk."

Midoriya straightened. "Oh—are you okay? Did it affect you too?"

"No, just him." You hesitated. “I think it… affected him in a weird way.”

Bakugou snorted from across the table where he sat with Kirishima and Denki, arms crossed, eyes narrowing like you’d just piqued his curiosity.

"You check if it’s some mental quirk? Might be messin’ with his head," he said gruffly.

"He seemed flushed," you said, cheeks warming as the memory surfaced. “Sensitive. Even when I just touched his arm.”

Kirishima blinked. "Wait, like—physically sensitive?"

"Yeah," you nodded. “It was like even the smallest touch startled him. He got all stiff and wouldn’t look me in the eye.”

Denki leaned forward with a mischievous grin. “Yo, wait, wait—are we talking, like, sensitive sensitive?”

You gave him a look. “What does that even mean?”

Kirishima, bless him, looked torn between smacking Denki or laughing. “Bro…”

Bakugou leaned in just a little, voice low and laced with mock innocence. “You sure you didn’t touch somewhere you weren’t supposed to, Princess?”

You choked on your own spit. “Bakugou!”

Kirishima and Denki burst into laughter.

"Man, what if he got hit with some kinda… y’know, body stimulation quirk?" Denki waggled his eyebrows. "Could be a total sensory overload."

You slapped your hands over your cheeks, trying to will away the heat that exploded across them.

"I'm going to sit with the girls," you muttered, standing up quickly and grabbing your half-finished plate. “You guys are the worst.”

“Aw, c’mon, we’re just teasing!” Kirishima called after you, still laughing.

"She totally touched his dick," Denki whispered to Bakugou, loud enough for you to hear.

"Wouldn't blame her," Bakugou muttered with a smirk. "That half-n-half bastard probably gets hard just hearing her voice."

Your face was on fire.

You stormed over to the girls’ side of the room and flopped down between Yaoyorozu and Uraraka.

“Rough crowd?” Mina asked with a sly grin.

You groaned. “The boys are being idiots.”

“They probably are,” Yaoyorozu agreed gently. “But are you okay? You seem genuinely upset.”

You sat up, clutching the pillow to your chest. “It’s Shoto. He got hit with a villain’s quirk today on patrol. He’s been acting weird ever since. Flushed, tense, avoiding eye contact—just… not himself.”

Uraraka tilted her head. “Was it a mind-affecting quirk?”

“No. It was weird. The villain kept saying strange stuff, like… we had tension or something. The quirk looked pink, kind of foggy. Like mist.”

Mina’s eyes widened. “Wait. Was the villain hot? Or like… sexy in a weird way?”

You blinked. “Uh. I mean… no? Just creepy.”

Mina leaned forward, suddenly excited. “Girl, I think it was a lust quirk.”

Yaoyorozu’s eyes widened. “That would explain the symptoms. Heightened arousal. Sensitivity. Mood imbalance.”

“You’re saying Shoto’s—”

“—basically dying of sexual frustration right now,” Mina finished, dead serious.

Your mouth dropped open.

“I-I didn’t mean to—I helped him back to his room earlier, I didn’t know—he was all flushed, and I thought he was feverish!”

Momo gently laid a hand on your knee. “If that’s what it is, he’s probably overwhelmed and embarrassed. But the quirk will fade. It always does.”

“Yeah, but,” you said softly, voice tight, “I left him alone. What if he’s not okay in there?”

Uraraka gave you a gentle nudge. “Then maybe you should go check on him again.”

Mina smirked. “Just, uh… knock first.”

You buried your face in your hands, groaning as the girls giggled and Momo offered a supportive smile.

You excused yourself from the table as soon as you could, and walked to the stairs. You climbed up the stairs two at a time. The hallway felt colder than usual as you made your way toward Shoto’s room.

You hesitated in front of his door.

Was this really a good idea? The girls had all but convinced you it was a lust quirk—and if that was true…

You took a deep breath and knocked softly.

Silence.

“Shoto…?” you called, pressing your ear lightly against the door.

Still nothing. But then—you heard it.

A muffled gasp.

The noise worried you a little. Especially since he hadn't answered you the first time either. You determined he must have not been doing anything too intimate, since you hadn't heard anything else. Your worry and curiosity for the poor boy took over.

“Shoto?” you whispered again, pushing the door open gently.

And then you saw him.

The room was dim, lit only by the low glow of his lamp. His hero uniform was strewn in pieces across the floor—jacket, gloves, undershirt. He sat on the edge of his bed, drenched in sweat, pants shoved halfway down his thighs. His chest rose and fell with heavy, labored breaths, one hand clenched in the blankets, the other wrapped tight around the thick length of his cock—slick, flushed, and painfully hard.

Your breath caught.

His eyes snapped up to meet yours.

For a second, neither of you moved. His face was a masterpiece of desperation—lips parted, cheeks flushed, a single line of sweat trailing down the curve of his neck. His eyes were wild with shame… and something deeper. Something darker.

“Y/n—” he rasped, voice cracking, utterly wrecked.

You stumbled a step back, stunned. “I—I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—!”

He groaned and turned away, jerking a blanket over his lap with a shaky hand. “Don’t go…”

That stopped you cold.

“I can’t—fuck—” His voice broke as he hunched forward, hiding his face in his hand. “I can’t stop thinking about you. It hurts.”

You stood frozen in the doorway, heart hammering in your chest.

“I tried,” he said hoarsely. “God, I tried so hard to hold it in. I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“Shoto…” you whispered, taking a tentative step inside.

“You were so close earlier,” he said, trembling. “ I could smell you, feel your warmth, and all I could think about was how perfect you looked… like you belonged there.”

Your knees weakened. “Shoto, the villain—”

“I don’t care about the damn villain,” he snapped, but not angrily. Desperately. “I’ve wanted you since before that fight. The quirk just made it worse. I can’t fucking breathe without needing you.”

The air felt electric. You could barely comprehend what you were seeing—what he was saying.

He leaned back slightly, eyes glinting through the shadows as he looked up at you. “You make everything feel quiet. Peaceful. Like I’m not broken.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

His gaze dropped to your lips.

“If I let myself touch you… I wouldn’t be able to stop.”

He clenched the blanket, jaw tightening. “You deserve better than that. Better than me losing control like some animal.”

But even as he said it, his hips twitched beneath the fabric.

“Then tell me to leave,” you said, softly.

His breath hitched.

“I can’t,” he whispered.

You step fully into Shoto’s room and quietly click the lock behind you. The soft sound seems to echo in the stillness, heightening the tension that already simmers in the air.

“Then don’t, Shoto,” you whisper, voice trembling with emotion.

His breath catches as he looks up at you—eyes wide, glassy with disbelief, as if his mind can't accept that this is real even as his body aches for you. His gaze roams over your figure, lingering, drinking you in with something between awe and hunger. You shift nervously under his stare, suddenly unsure of what to do next.

You’ve imagined moments like this before—soft, dreamy fragments tucked away in your mind during quiet nights—but now that it’s real, your hands feel too still, your heartbeat too loud. Do you kiss him? Touch him? Say something?

Your eyes flicker downward, catching the way the blanket over his lap rises and twitches with every breath he takes. The shape of him beneath the fabric is impossible to ignore. Just seeing you standing there like this—seeing him barely clothed and willing—is making him grind subtly against the blanket, his face twisting in pleasure so intense it’s nearly painful.

He hisses softly, trying—and failing—to stifle a low moan.

And that’s when it hits you.

He doesn’t need something perfect or rehearsed. He just needs you.

Taking a deep breath, you cross the room and straddle his lap, your knees sinking on either side of him. His breath stutters again, eyes locking with yours as his hands automatically find your waist, large and warm and trembling slightly. His hips jerk upward once, just barely, like his body can’t stop seeking yours.

His fingers dig gently into your sides, groping with reverence and need, as though he’s trying to memorize the feeling of you in his hands. The last of his restraint is hanging by a thread—and you can feel it fraying.

Your cheeks burn as your eyes lower, hooded with desire. “Shoto… don’t hold back,” you murmur. “You can touch me. I want you to.”

His gaze meets yours—dark and unreadable, but smoldering with something desperate and deep. You feel his breath fan across your lips as you slowly reach down and pull the blanket away.

Your eyes widen involuntarily. You knew he was big—had guessed from the way he shifted or adjusted sometimes—but now, seeing the reality of him, it steals your breath. Heat rushes to your face and pools deep in your stomach.

Before your thoughts can spiral, Shoto’s strong hand tilts your chin up, guiding your gaze back to him. And then his lips crash into yours—fervent, hungry, needy. The kiss is all-consuming. It’s not gentle. It’s not patient. It’s a confession. A surrender. A firestorm.

His mouth moves against yours like he’s starved for the taste of you, like you’re the only thing keeping him sane. You gasp into the kiss, fingers tangling in his hair, and that sound—you making that sound—shatters what little control he has left.

Everything about you is too much. The way you touched him. The way you looked at him. The softness of your skin, the way your breath caught when he kissed you, the tiny tremble in your voice when you whispered his name. Every second with you is a temptation too potent to bear.

“I need you,” he murmurs against your lips, voice wrecked. “You have no idea how much I’ve needed you.”

And he means it—body and soul.

Shoto flipped you gently onto your back, his touch reverent despite the heat rolling off him like a tidal wave. His lips crashed against yours again—hungry, unrelenting. You could feel how much he needed you in every kiss, every shuddering breath, every shaky brush of his fingers across your waist.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered between kisses, his voice hoarse and barely coherent. “If I’m being too rough… I—God, I don’t mean to be…”

His hips rolled helplessly against yours, the thick heat of him dragging against your soaked underwear, barely restrained. You gasped, your back arching instinctively at the overwhelming sensation.

“You’re not,” you managed, lips brushing his. “I want this. I want you.”

But he couldn’t stop—he couldn’t stop rutting against you, shame and pleasure colliding behind his blown pupils.

“I’m so sorry,” he whimpered, burying his face into the crook of your neck. “I don’t want to use you—I just… I need you so bad I’m losing my mind…”

You wrapped your arms around him tightly, grounding him. “Then let me help you,” you whispered. “You don’t have to hold back.”

He let out a sound between a groan and a sob, his forehead pressed against yours as his hips stuttered and trembled. You felt him tense—and then melt into you with a breathy gasp, his whole body shivering in release. Shame crept into his features immediately, his eyes flickering away, jaw clenched like he couldn’t bear to look at you.

But you cupped his cheek gently.

“Hey,” you whispered. “It’s okay. I’m still here.”

He kissed you again, slower this time—aching, longing, as though he couldn’t believe you were real.

And then his hands reached for your shirt, brushing it up slowly, hesitantly, until you nodded. His breath caught as each inch of your skin was revealed—his gaze hungry but awestruck, like he was looking at something sacred.

“Can I…?” he asked, voice trembling.

“Yes,” you whispered, heart pounding.

But when he began to shift, ready to press himself to you again, you touched his chest, stopping him gently.

“Wait,” you said, flushed. “You’re… really big, Shoto. I need to… prep a little first.”

His eyes widened, and he nearly choked on a breath. “Oh. Right—I—I didn’t think—”

His hands gripped the sheets beside you like restraint was physically painful.

“I’ll just—start slow,” you murmured, even more flustered now.

You slid a hand between your thighs, trying not to focus on the fact that he was watching—completely still, utterly silent. But when your fingers dipped past the hem of your underwear, he whimpered—actually whimpered—like he was in pain.

“You’re perfect,” he breathed. “Everything you do—every little movement—it’s…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

You gasped softly as your own touch teased along your entrance, trying to ease the tension inside you. It was vulnerable, messy, and deeply intimate—but the way Shoto watched you made it feel sacred. His pupils were blown wide, lips parted, and his hand twitched—itching to touch you.

“I can’t,” he breathed. “I can’t just watch…”

He knelt between your thighs, and before you could stop him, he took over—his fingers brushing yours aside, sliding in so gently, so perfectly it made your breath catch.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, voice shaking with restraint. “I want to make you feel good… not hurt you.”

You moaned, clutching his wrist as he moved inside you, curling his fingers just right. The pleasure hit fast—your body already hypersensitive from everything that had come before. When your release crashed over you, it made you tremble, thighs locking around his hand as you cried his name.

His jaw clenched. He looked at the wetness coating his fingers—then brought them to his mouth.

“Oh my god…” he groaned as he tasted you, eyes fluttering shut like he’d been starving and just got a taste of heaven. “I’ve waited so long to know what you taste like…”

And he didn’t stop there.

He leaned in, slowly, reverently, and lowered his mouth between your thighs as he pulled you underwear aside.

The last thing you saw before you cam again was the look in his eyes. It was as though they were screaming "I worship you".

“I’ve wanted to take my time with you,” he murmured, lips brushing your thigh as he just finished making you see stars with his tongue against your pussy. “But I don’t think I can tonight.”

You exhaled, your fingers tangling in his hair. “Then don’t hold back.”

His hands explored your skin like he was learning it by touch alone—slow, sure, until he reached the waistband of your underwear.

His fingers hooked around the fabric, but he paused.

“Tell me again,” he breathed, his forehead pressed to yours. “That you want this. That you want me.”

“I do,” you said without hesitation. “I want you, Shoto. All of you.”

He groaned—deep and quiet—and tugged your underwear down, revealing all of you to him. His eyes trailed down your body, reverent and ravenous all at once.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.”

“Yes you do. Shoto show me,” you said, pulling him back to you. “Show me how much you want me.”

That’s when he moved—slow, steady. His body fit between your thighs like he was meant to be there. His lips found your chest, worshiping you there, one hand caressing your hip as if grounding himself to the moment.

And when he finally aligned himself with you, his breath caught in his throat.

“You’re so warm…” he murmured, voice breaking as he started to ease in. “So tight. You feel like heaven.”

You gasped softly, your hands gripping his arms. The stretch, the fullness—it was intense. But Shoto never stopped watching you, checking your every expression, every sound you made, as he moved deeper inside.

When he was fully seated within you, he shuddered. His head dropped to your shoulder, and he held you there for a long moment, unmoving.

“I could stay like this forever,” he whispered, almost broken. “You’re everything.”

You kissed his temple, running your hands down his back. “Then don’t hold back, Shoto. I want to feel everything.”

He began to move.

Slow at first—deep, rolling thrusts that had your breath catching and your legs tightening around his waist. He moved like he was savoring every second, every squeeze of your body around him, every sound that spilled from your lips.

And then he picked up the pace.

His rhythm became desperate, intense, the bed shifting with the force of his need. He moaned your name into your neck, his grip on your hips growing tighter. Each thrust pushed you further into the bed, and yet all you wanted was more.

“Y/n—God, I can’t—I’m so close—” he gasped, voice rough and trembling.

You cupped his cheek, pulling him back to look into your eyes. “Then let go. I’m yours.”

The moment those words left your mouth, he buried himself deep and spilled inside you with a groan so guttural, so raw, it sent a shiver through your entire body. Not long after that your climax spilled from your tight walls as well, which pulled a shudder from the both of you. He trembled above you, clutching you like you were the only thing holding him to earth.

You held him as he came down, his chest heaving against yours, the sweat between your bodies making you stick to one another. Still, neither of you moved. The only sound was your breathing—steadying slowly as your fingers stroked through his damp hair and the lust quirk finally starting to wear off.

After a long moment, Shoto looked up at you, his expression soft. Reverent. Almost tearful.

“I love you,” he said. “I think I always have.”

You smiled, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “I love you too. I think I always have too".

[lizzyiii]

hi!! i have a request! what about a one shot for aemond x reader who is betrothed to him. she’s a baratheon girl or something but she gifts him the sapphire for his eye as a wedding gift or something along the lines of that?

ask and you shall receive...

The Sapphire Gift

pairing | aemond targaryen x baratheon!reader

word count | 5.1k words

summary | Of all his five daughters, Borros Baratheon has chosen you to be betrothed to Aemond Targaryen, much to your dismay. Seeking to forge a deeper connection with your betrothed, you decide to create the perfect wedding gift for him.

tags | fluff, fluff, toothrotting fluff, friends to lovers, aemond literally does not know how to communicate or court a lady, sarcastic!reader, awkward!reader, simp!Aemond, reader is just a typical seventeen-year-old girl, lowkey got second hand embarrassment writing this.

a/n | ooooh, this was so cutesy to write, I love writing awkward/sassy reader and simp/awkward aemond. Finished this in a solid 2 days💪. ALSOO I need moots, so anyway wanna volunteer as tribute????

likes, comments, reblogs are always appreciated ✨

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

“Why must it be me?”

Your voice echoed through the grand hall of Storm’s End, the walls adorned with the sigil of the mighty Baratheons. You stood before your father, Borros Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End, arms crossed defiantly, your brows knit in frustration.

“Because I have chosen you,” he replied, a casual shrug dismissing your protests, as he lounged upon the imposing ironwood throne that commanded the room. The flickering torches cast shadows across his weathered face, but his resolve remained steadfast.

Your heart sank further as you protested, “You have four other daughters to choose from!”

Borros began to tally your sisters on his fingers, his expression serious yet unconcerned. “Cassandra is already pledged to House Brownhill, Maris is too old to be of interest, and Floris is still but a child. Ellyn might have been a contender, but she reminded me that you are more closely aligned in age to the prince, which I daresay makes you more appealing to his eye.”

You bit back a curse aimed at Ellyn, whose selfishness felt like a betrayal in this moment, and muttered, “Emphasis on the word ‘eye’.”

“Fawn!” your father snapped, the nickname a remnant of your childhood, now wielded like a blade.

With a huff, you cast your gaze towards your mother, Lady Elenda, seated on a modestly adorned stool that contrasted starkly with your father’s opulence. Her fingers deftly worked at her embroidery, her belly round and pregnant with another child. “Mother, do you have naught to say about this?”

Elenda blinked slowly, her expression momentarily vacant before she smiled dreamily, “I have heard the prince is kind and benevolent,” she replied, her tone light and airy as your father nodded approvingly at her words.

You gasped, a hand flying to your chest in disbelief. “That is a complete and utter falsehood! Tales of his cruelty and wickedness abound, even in these halls. How could you deceive me so?”

Borros waved a dismissive hand, the irritation brewing like a storm within him. “So what if he has but one eye? He commands Vhagar, the largest dragon in the realm, and wields a sword as if it were an extension of his very arm. You shall ascend to the rank of princess, lacking for nothing.”

“But Father—”

“Enough!” His voice boomed, reverberating off the stone walls and silencing the murmurs of guards and servants alike. You could feel the weight of his anger pressing down upon you. Sighing heavily, you rolled your eyes, the gesture laden with pettiness. “This matter is settled. Prepare yourself; tonight we shall feast in honor of your betrothal. Do not sulk—it is unbecoming of a future princess.”

With a final glare that could wither a flower, you turned on your heel, storming away from the throne room, your heart heavy with the weight of your new fate.

King’s Landing was an entirely different realm compared to the windswept fortress of Storm’s End. Here, the sun cast a golden glow over the Red Keep, its warmth caressing the bustling streets of Flea Bottom, while in your home, rain seemed a constant companion, drenching the rugged cliffs and soaking through the halls of your ancestral seat.

The city thrummed with life—vibrant and teeming—overwhelming in its sheer size and noise. In contrast, Storm’s End felt desolate, where the only sounds were the howling gales and crashing waves that eternally assaulted its walls.

Settling into the royal court at the Red Keep was no easy feat, for you were keenly aware of the eyes that followed your every move. You quickly learned that here, every smile concealed secrets, and every word was a weapon to be wielded.

Queen Alicent Hightower, the Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, carried herself with grace befitting her station. Her demeanor was gentle, yet there was a steeliness in her eyes that hinted at the strength behind her polished exterior. On your very first day in court, she welcomed you with a kind smile, her piety clear as she extended an invitation to join her at the Great Sept for prayer.

Her tone was soft, but her words carried the weight of duty. You accepted her offer, though the idea of spending time in such hallowed halls made you uneasy. Alicent's warmth masked the political currents swirling beneath the surface, and you were acutely aware that every gesture here had meaning beyond what was said.

Then there was her eldest son, Prince Aegon. The first time you laid eyes on him, he reeked of wine, his eyes glazed and unfocused. Despite his title, he carried none of the nobility one would expect from a dragon’s heir. His indulgences were well-known, and his lack of decorum often left the court murmuring in hushed tones.

Aegon's gaze lingered on you far too long for comfort, the weight of it unsettling, as if he sought something that wasn’t his to take. His lecherous nature made you feel for his sister-wife, Princess Helaena, who appeared as trapped by her marriage as she was by the walls of the Red Keep. It was said that Aegon had grown old before his time, his twenty-one years bearing the burden of his vices.

Princess Helaena was a stark contrast to her husband. There was an otherworldly grace to her, a softness that seemed untouched by the cruelties of life. She spoke in riddles, her voice often drifting into ethereal musings that left you both puzzled and intrigued. Her words, though strange, reminded you of the whispers of the gods in dreams, distant yet profound.

Her presence was soothing, and you found solace in her company, even if her mind wandered to places you could not follow. Her children, Jaehaera and Jaehaerys, were a light amidst the shadows of the court, their laughter pure and untainted by the scheming that surrounded them. It was hard to reconcile that they were the offspring of Aegon.

But your thoughts always returned to one person—your betrothed, Prince Aemond Targaryen. From the moment you arrived in King’s Landing, you had been told stories of his fearsome prowess in battle, his unmatched skill with the sword, and the fearsome dragon, Vhagar, that answered his call.

Yet when your eyes met his for the first time, what struck you most was not his strength but the scar that marred his face—a reminder of the price he had paid for his ambition. It only added to his allure, a mark of his relentless determination. When he took your hand and pressed a kiss to it, a slow heat rose in your cheeks. His grip was firm but not unkind, and in that moment, you felt yourself swoon. After all, you were just a girl.

However, Aemond was not a man easily won. A moon had passed since your arrival, and with your wedding fast approaching, you had hoped to spend time in his company, to know the man behind the dragonprince’s mask. Yet, he seemed to slip away from you at every opportunity, his presence a fleeting shadow that vanished the moment you tried to reach for him. His evasions frustrated you, each refusal to join you in the gardens or to share a quiet moment only deepened the chasm between you.

It was said that dragons could not be tamed, only respected. But you longed for more than respect from your future husband. How could you hope to win Aemond's heart if he remained as distant as the stars that twinkled in the night sky?

Determined to change your fate, you devised a plan—a gift to offer Aemond before the wedding, something personal and meaningful that might draw him closer to you. From your balcony, you had often watched him train, his sword catching the sunlight as he moved with lethal grace. You had also stalked observed him in quieter moments, lost in the pages of ancient tomes in the Red Keep’s vast library. But no matter the scene, your gaze always drifted to the black leather patch over his left eye, a constant reminder of his loss.

Through whispered conversations among the ladies of the court, you had pieced together the story of that eye, taken from him when he was but twelve, during a violent skirmish with his own nephew. The knife had found its mark, leaving him disfigured and scarred in more ways than one. You could hardly imagine the pain he endured, the maester's delicate, grim task of removing what remained. The very thought sent a chill through you—what it must have felt like to be forever changed, to carry such a wound into manhood.

Jewelry had always enchanted you, especially the way it could transform even the simplest of gowns into something regal. And it was through that love of adornment that inspiration struck. Aemond needed something beautiful, something that would not only adorn him but perhaps bring a glimmer of warmth to that hardened exterior.

After much thought, you settled on a sapphire, deep and blue like the narrow seas, cut and shaped like an eye—a symbol of his lost strength and newfound resilience. It was a bold choice, one that you hoped would capture his attention, something that might resonate with the prince who had suffered so much.

With the sapphire crafted into an exquisite piece of jewelry, you wrapped it carefully, your heart filled with anticipation. The wedding drew closer with each passing day, and the idea of giving Aemond this token before the vows were exchanged consumed your thoughts. Would such a gift be enough to draw him out of the shadows, to make him see you as more than just his betrothed but as someone who truly wished to know him?

Desperation fueled your resolve. You decided to visit his chambers, scandalous though it might be, under the cover of night. It was unheard of for a lady to seek out a man in such a manner, but propriety seemed insignificant in the face of your growing desire to understand him.

Wrapped in a dark cloak to hide your identity from prying eyes, the gift cradled carefully in your hand, you navigated the winding, dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep. The moon hung high above the castle, casting eerie shadows along the stone walls as you walked with purpose toward his door.

Apprehension seized you as you approached, a wave of doubt crashing over you. What if he rejected your offering? What if he saw it as nothing more than a futile attempt to win his affection, which it kind of was. Yet before those thoughts could take root, you steeled yourself and knocked firmly on the heavy oak door, your heart pounding in your chest.

Moments passed in silence, each one stretching endlessly until, at last, you heard the soft thud of boots approaching from within. The door creaked open, and there he stood—Prince Aemond Targaryen. His long, silver hair cascaded freely over his shoulders, almost camouflaged against the loose white shirt he wore, which clung to the contours of his lean, muscular frame.

His single violet eye regarded you with a mixture of surprise and caution, the flickering light of the torches casting shadows across his sharp features. You found yourself momentarily breathless, caught off guard by the quiet intensity of his presence.

His gaze flicked to the dark cloak you wore, then back to your face, a question lingering unspoken between you. “My lady,” he began, his voice slow and deliberate, “it is late.”

You nodded quickly, casting a nervous glance down the dimly lit corridor. “Yes, I realize. May I come in?”

His lips tightened as though he was about to refuse, but before the words could escape him, you slipped past the threshold into the warmth of his chambers, your heart racing with a mix of adrenaline and nervous energy.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your gaze darting around the room, absorbing the details: the few books strewn across the table, the rich, intricate tapestries that adorned the stone walls, and the soft glow of firelight dancing in the hearth.

Aemond's voice was closer than expected when he spoke again. “My lady,” he repeated, causing you to jump slightly at his nearness.

You turned abruptly, releasing a nervous laugh. In the next moment, you remembered the purpose of your visit and hastily thrust the small, wrapped parcel into his hands. “I—I’ve brought you a gift.”

His brow furrowed in surprise as he looked down at the object now resting in his palm. “A gift?”

You offered a tight, awkward smile, feeling the heat rising to your cheeks. “A wedding gift, of sorts.”

You watched intently as he carefully opened the small package, revealing the deep blue sapphire you had commissioned. His expression remained guarded, though curiosity danced in his gaze. “What is this for?” he asked, his voice even.

Swallowing hard, you wrung your hands together and took a deep breath. “I thought… perhaps you might wear it in place of your eye patch.”

Aemond's eyebrow arched, his lone eye narrowing in sharp scrutiny. “A decoration for my injury?” There was no malice in his tone, but the words still cut deep.

Your heart sank, panic rising in your chest as you hurried to explain. “No, no! Not like that. I only thought…” Your voice faltered as the words tumbled out, your face flushing with embarrassment. “I thought the eye patch might be… suffocating at times. The sapphire—it’s strong and regal, like you. I thought it might be more—well, appealing. Not that your injury is unappealing, of course!”

You cringed inwardly, realizing how foolish you must sound. Eyes cast downward, you continued, “Sapphires are a symbol of wisdom, strength, and royalty. It felt fitting for you. But if I’ve overstepped, I’ll take it back.” You bit your lip, the weight of your own awkwardness pressing down on you. “Truly, it’s alright.”

Reaching out to reclaim the stone, you found your hand halted by his. His touch was firm, yet not unkind. “No,” Aemond said, his voice quieter now, almost contemplative. “I accept your gift, my lady.”

Relief flooded through you, though you could hardly bear to meet his gaze under the weight of your own mortification. Without thinking, you blurted out the first excuse that came to mind. “Oh! I just remembered—I’m to have tea with your mother.”

Aemond's gaze drifted to the window where the full moon hung high in the night sky. He raised an eyebrow, a subtle amusement curling at the edge of his lips. “At this hour?”

You nodded hastily, your laugh high-pitched with nerves. “Yes, well, a late tea, you see.”

Before he could respond further, you turned toward the door, only to misjudge the frame and bump into it with an audible thud. The embarrassment was almost too much to bear. “I wish you a good night, my prince,” you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper as you hurried out.

As you fled down the darkened corridor, you missed the rare sight behind you—the amused smirk that tugged at Aemond's lips and the way his expression softened as he gazed down at the sapphire, the light of the fire casting its blue hue across his hand. Intrigue flickered in his eye, a hint of something deeper, as he tucked the gem into his palm, the gift having made a more lasting impression than you could ever have imagined.

And now it was you doing everything in your power to avoid your betrothed. After that utterly humiliating encounter, where you had gifted Prince Aemond the sapphire for his eye, you had nearly thrown yourself from the balcony in shame. Every misstep, every nervous word, echoed relentlessly in your mind. The way he had looked at you, as though you were nothing more than a foolish girl… you could hardly bear it.

That night, you had made peace with a simple truth: it was perfectly acceptable if Aemond did not like you. You would fulfill your duty as his wife, give him heirs, and that would be the extent of your relationship. Yet, even as you tried to harden your heart, you couldn’t deny the yearning deep within you for something more—a connection, affection, or at the very least, understanding. But you’d sooner face a dragon than approach him again after such mortification.

Now, you found refuge in the company of Princess Helaena, sharing tea in her sunlit solar, where tapestries of butterflies and flowers adorned the walls. Helaena sat in her usual reverie, speaking in disjointed whispers about dreams and prophecies. You had grown fond of her strange, otherworldly nature, even if much of what she said left you puzzled.

Today, however, your tea was constantly interrupted by the young Princess Jaehaera, who was determined to climb into your lap as you attempted to drink. “You have such pretty hair,” she said, her small hands reaching to touch the loose strands that framed your face, her voice filled with innocent awe.

You smiled warmly, gently lifting a strand of her silver-gold hair to place beside your own. “Not as pretty as yours, my sweet princess,” you said softly. The Targaryen blood ran strong in the little girl, her pale locks shimmering like spun moonlight under the midday sun.

As Jaehaera continued to braid a piece of your hair, her twin brother, Prince Jaehaerys, was nestled in your lap, completely absorbed in a heavy tome recounting Aegon the Conqueror’s rise to power. You marveled at the child’s focus, noting how his somber demeanor contrasted starkly with his sister’s. It was strange, you thought, for a boy of only five summers to be so intent on reading a history so grim. His brow furrowed in concentration, a seriousness far beyond his years.

"You’ll grow to be as wise as your grandsire with all this reading, my prince," you commented with a chuckle, though you could not help but feel a touch of unease at how much the young boy seemed to carry the weight of his family’s legacy on his small shoulders.

Jaehaera giggled, abandoning your hair to cling to your arm. “I want to ride a dragon, like Vhagar!”

The mention of Vhagar brought an involuntary shiver down your spine, the thought of that ancient, fearsome beast ever-present in your mind. The mighty she-dragon’s rider, your betrothed, had taken to avoiding you as much as you had him, and though part of you was relieved, another part, buried deeper, ached at the distance.

As you entertained the children, Princess Helaena’s lilting voice broke the calm. "He dreams of fire and blood, my son," she said, her gaze unfocused as she stared at the window, her fingers idly tracing the rim of her cup. "As do we all."

You offered a polite smile, uncertain whether to respond or remain silent..

Your gaze shifted, drawn by the soft, deliberate sound of footsteps echoing through the confines of Helaena's solar. As you looked up, you immediately lowered your eyes, your heart racing, warmth flooding your cheeks as fluttering butterflies stirred restlessly in your stomach. Aemond strode through the door, his very presence commanding the room without a single word.

You felt his gaze upon you, sharp and intense. Jaehaera squealed with delight beside you, calling out, “Kepūs!” Her excitement was palpable as she clambered off your lap, rushing to his side. Even Jaehaerys, who had been so engrossed in his book, set it aside to greet his uncle.

You dared a glance up to find something unexpected—a soft, almost tender smile tugging at Aemond’s lips as he looked down at the children. The rare sight caught you off guard, but before you could process it, his expression shifted, and he cleared his throat, turning his attention to Helaena.

“Sister,” he began, his voice steady, respectful yet commanding. “Might I steal a moment of Lady Baratheon’s time?”

Helaena, oblivious to the way your pulse quickened, nodded lightly, her gentle smile untouched by the tension you now felt. “Of course, brother,” she replied, her tone light and dreamlike, as though she sensed nothing of the undercurrent between you and Aemond.

You felt the weight of their eyes upon you—Helaena’s distant curiosity, Jaehaera’s wide-eyed innocence, and Aemond’s watchful, unreadable gaze. You rose slowly from your seat, smoothing the folds of your gown as you murmured a soft farewell to the princess and her children, acutely aware of how unsteady your voice sounded.

Aemond stood patiently, waiting as you gathered yourself. His tall figure loomed over you, but there was no sense of impatience in his posture. When you stepped out of the solar, he turned and led the way into the dimly lit corridor, his footsteps echoing against the stone walls in perfect rhythm with yours.

The silence between you grew heavier with each step, and the farther you ventured down the shadowed halls of the Red Keep, the more you became aware of where he was leading you—back toward his chambers.

Your palms began to sweat, and your heart pounded with a growing unease. Why had he sought you out? Why now, after so many days of avoidance?

The corridor felt impossibly long, each step building the tension. Aemond’s back remained straight, his silver hair brushing the fabric of his black tunic, his long strides forcing you to quicken your own pace just to keep up.

When you finally reached the familiar door to his chambers, he paused, turning to face you, his one violet eye locking onto yours with an intensity that left you breathless. The silence stretched, thick and charged, as though the air between you crackled with words unspoken.

"You’ve been avoiding me, my lady," Aemond murmured, his piercing gaze sweeping over you as you walked into his chambers.

Your eyes widened just a fraction, masking your surprise with a nervous laugh. “Why on earth would you insinuate something like that?”

His voice, soft but steady, echoed from behind you as you stepped further into the dim warmth of his room. "Perhaps because every time I enter a room, you are always the first to leave."

Fidgeting with your fingers, you murmured, "I suspect you are just seeing things, my prince."

A slight smirk tugged at his lips as he replied, “Mayhaps it’s just my one eye.”

Your head snapped up in shock at his words, but before you could respond, you noticed the faint curve of amusement in his lips. For the first time since your engagement, you let out a genuine laugh, tilting your head. “Oh, so you can jest,” you teased, though you couldn’t help but wrinkle your nose in playful disapproval. “Though your delivery needs some work.”

Aemond’s smirk deepened, a flicker of something warmer in his gaze. “I shall endeavor to improve,” he replied with dry humor, his voice low.

For a moment, your eyes locked, the silence between you charged with a tension that wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. But then he cleared his throat, breaking the moment. “I called you here for a reason,” he said, his tone shifting as he turned away, walking toward his desk.

Your curiosity piqued as you watched him retrieve something—a finely crafted box, larger than you expected. He carried it with the same ease as he handled his sword, and yet there was a certain weight to his movements. He approached you, his expression unreadable, and extended the box in an indifferent manner. "A wedding gift," he said simply.

Your heart fluttered as you took the box, your fingers trembling slightly. As you lifted the lid, your breath caught in your throat. Inside lay a necklace—silver, adorned with diamonds that glimmered like starlight, white pearls cascading from its base, and at the center, a magnificent sapphire, almost mirroring the sapphire you had gifted him. It was stunning, more than anything you had ever imagined.

“Wow,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, as if the beauty of the necklace had stolen the air from your lungs.

Aemond’s voice softened, a note of vulnerability threading through his usual composure. “Do you like it?”

You met his gaze, your eyes bright with genuine surprise and gratitude. “Yes, yes, of course,” you breathed, a shy smile tugging at your lips as your heart raced with something more than just relief.

You looked at him, pure joy lighting up your face, entirely unaware of the soft, almost tender look in Aemond's eye as he observed you. Nodding eagerly, you gestured to the necklace. "Will you put it on me?"

Aemond inclined his head in silence, taking the necklace from its box as he motioned for you to turn around. You did so, gathering your hair and lifting it to reveal your neck. The warmth of his presence grew closer, and when his fingers brushed against your skin to secure the clasp, you couldn’t help but wonder if the caress was deliberate or merely your imagination.

When his hands finally withdrew, you released the breath you had been holding. Turning to face him, you tilted your chin up slightly. "How does it look?"

For a moment, Aemond’s gaze lingered on you, his eye fixed on your face with an unreadable intensity before it drifted down to your neck. "Your neck looks... long."

Your brow furrowed, confusion knitting your features. "My neck looks long?"

Aemond coughed, a rare sign of discomfort, and you could swear you caught the faintest hint of pink on his pale cheeks. He quickly amended his words, mumbling, "I mean, it looks nice. The necklace brings out your eyes."

A sheepish smile tugged at your lips as you nodded, feeling warmth bloom in your chest. "Thank you, my prince."

For a brief moment, your eyes flickered to the eye patch that hid his injury, wondering if the sapphire you had gifted him lay beneath. The thought of it being there, close to him, filled you with an unspoken sense of connection. You felt content to simply stand there, the moment shared between you without the need for words. But Aemond, shifting slightly under your gaze, seemed less at ease.

“I am late for training,” he said, his tone distant as though eager to escape.

You narrowed your eyes playfully, tilting your head in mock suspicion. “I thought you only trained in the mornings?”

His posture straightened, fists clenching at his sides as he looked away, clearly caught in his lie. The silence that followed made him glance toward the window. “It’s... a beautiful day.”

You hummed softly in agreement, not pressing him any further. “Yes, it is.”

Aemond hesitated for a moment before his eye met yours again, the faintest trace of vulnerability in his voice. “Mayhaps you would be interested in a walk in the castle gardens?”

Your heart skipped, and it took everything within you to suppress the wide grin threatening to break free. You feigned contemplation for a moment before nodding with as much grace as you could muster. “I would love to, my prince.”

And though Aemond kept his face composed, you couldn’t help but notice the slight softening of his expression at your acceptance.

In Aemond's eyes, despite your apparent obliviousness to his growing feelings, it was not hard to fall in love with you. There was a quiet strength in the way you carried yourself, a delicate blend of grace and fire that intrigued him.

He had always been reserved, more comfortable in the company of books and the sound of steel clashing in the training yard than in the presence of others. But with you, there was something different, something that drew him in against his better judgment.

Your laugh, though soft, echoed in his mind long after you left the room. The way your eyes sparkled with genuine warmth when you spoke to him—even when you were nervous—was a stark contrast to the calculated interactions he was used to at court.

You were not scheming, not vying for his favor or power. You were simply... you. And perhaps that was what made it so easy for his walls to crumble, little by little, without even realizing it.

When you smiled up at him, asking him to place the necklace around your neck, his heart had skipped a beat. It was such a simple request, yet the intimacy of it made him feel more vulnerable than any duel or battle could. In those moments, he found himself wondering what it would be like to let his guard down, to let you see the man behind the stoic façade.

Even now, as he led you through the corridors of the Red Keep, heading toward the gardens, Aemond couldn’t help but steal glances at you. Your presence beside him felt... right. The idea of loving you was no longer something he fought against; instead, it was a slow, inevitable truth that settled in his chest.

In time, he hoped you would see it too.

Headcannon: reader only sees the sapphire in his eye on their wedding night

Headcannon: this is before the dance of dragons and viserys is still alive

Headcannon: aemond is 18 and reader is 17

Ages of the Baratheon daughters:

Cassandra - 25

Maris - 22

Ellyn - 19

Reader (fawn) - 17

Floris - 13

ALSO you cannot change my mind - after having four daughters (canon) Borros Baratheon is def a girl dad!

Hope you enjoyed 💜

[cece693]

WHY SHOULD WE FOLLOW THEM BLINDLY?

pairing: percy jackson x male reader synopsis: Percy was conflicted, you were a traitor, siding with Luke to overthrow the Olympians, yet while the camp mourned the loss of the son of Hades, Percy was overcome with grief for the boy whom he liked. However, he will soon see you again—this time, persuading him to join Luke's side—and you're not above using petty tactics.

The campfire that had once blazed beside the amphitheater still smoldered in Percy’s dreams. Every night the wind off Long Island Sound swirled the ash into pale halos, refusing to let the embers die—refusing to let Camp Half-Blood forget that the son of Hades had stepped onto Luke Castellan’s ship of his own free will.

Chosen darkness over the gods.

Chosen to leave him behind.

Percy jolted awake, skin slick with sweat, sheets coiled around his legs like sea-wrack. Across the cabin, Annabeth slept in the other bunk, moonlight silvering the plane of her cheek. Guilt hummed beneath his ribs. She trusted him, believed his silence was grief—but each night his thoughts circled only to you. He saw again the Princess Andromeda easing away from the dock, you standing at the rail in borrowed armor, and that single backward glance: a flash of molten gold in your eyes before the darkness swallowed you.

The cabins had mourned in their own fashions. Chiron spoke of “lost potential”; Clarisse spat curses; Annabeth catalogued tactics Luke must have used to twist you. Percy said nothing. None of them understood the fissure running through him—how Sally’s death a month earlier had already splintered his faith, and how your absence levered the crack wider each day.

On the next night, you watched the camp from the treeline, wrapped in shadows and Hecate-wrought mist. Summer fireflies drifted above the strawberry fields; sentinel harpies glided in lazy spirals, blind to your presence. Luke’s final instructions pulsed behind your sternum: He’s the key. Show him the rot beneath the marble, the blood that oils Olympus’s gears. Break him, or win him.

Break Percy? No. You intended to free him.

You crossed the border unseen. The Poseidon cabin was cool, damp with the hush of distant tides. Seashell lamps cast a nacreous glow over driftwood beams. Percy lay restless, one hand still curved around Riptide even in sleep. When the cabin wards shimmered at your entry, his eyes snapped open, sea-green and stormy.

“You—” His voice fractured. “Gods, you can’t be here. If the harpies—”

You closed the door; your shadow elongated and slid across the latch until it clicked. “If they catch their golden boy harboring traitors?” Your smile tilts, half dare, half invitation. “They already believe you untouchable, Percy. Perhaps it’s time we let them choke on their illusions.”

He sat up, knuckles whitening on Riptide’s hilt. “Luke changed you.”

“Luke opened my eyes.” You correct him before stepping forward, lamplight revealing what months aboard the Titan’s fleet had carved you into—angular cheekbones, smoke-dark crescents beneath your eyes, a confidence plated like iron beneath skin. “He grieves you, Percy. Calls you the storm that could scour Olympus clean, if only you’d stop letting them shackle you to prophecy.”

Percy’s heartbeat flutters; you can almost taste the thunder-sharp jealousy sparking off him. “Luke’s no hero.”

“Oh, but he is, Percy.” Your tone drips honeyed mockery. “Brilliant, unstoppable—fighting for every camper Olympus tossed to the wolves. He sees the cracks in the gods’ marble thrones and dares to pry them wider.”

You let the words linger like expensive perfume, then study Percy as though deciding whether to pity or covet him. “Doesn’t it burn, knowing the gods would rather parade Luke as a cautionary tale than admit their own decay?”

Percy’s shoulders knot; salt wetness beads in the air, a brewing squall. “Luke betrayed everyone who loved him.”

“And Olympus betrays everyone it claims to love.” Your voice stayed velvet, blade hidden in the weave. “Tell me this: when your mother begged the gods for help—when she lay dying in that apartment while they debated non-interference—did your father lift a finger?”

The question lands like a blade. Percy flinches, sea-green eyes darkening like a storm. “Don’t talk about her.”

“She's the reason you fight,” you say softly, stepping close enough that his breath stirs the collar of your jacket. “But she’s also proof of how little they value you. Poseidon broke a centuries-old pact to claim you, but he couldn’t spare a fraction of that defiance to save the woman you loved most. The same council that hails you as their savior let her die—and then handed you a prophecy written in your own blood.”

You lift a hand, fingertips hovering near his jaw, not quite touching. “What loyalty do you owe them, Percy? To gods who dole out favor like drachmae at a rigged game, then call it destiny when mortals pay the price?”

Percy’s breath hitches when your fingers graze his jawline, but you don’t linger—you turn away, prowling the cabin as though inspecting a prize you might soon claim. Moonlight skims the fine leather of your jacket and catches on a nick at your throat, the faint crescent a blade left during one of Luke’s sparring sessions.

Percy’s gaze locks on that mark. “He did that?”

You hum, pleased by the edge in his voice. “Training leaves reminders. Luke likes to work close—hand on your shoulder, whispered corrections against your ear. He says I learn fast.”

The muscle beneath Percy’s eye twitches; the air thickens with brine. Good. Let him taste jealousy before he tastes freedom.

“You really trust him?” he asks, softer than the surf outside.

“I trust that he’d carve Olympus open if it meant keeping me alive.” You pivot, meeting Percy’s stare. “Can Annabeth say the same? Or will she kneel the moment Athena snaps her fingers?”

Her name breaks loose like a reflex. Guilt flashes across his face—memories of quests survived, promises traded in hushed midnight watches. You stride forward, cutting off the thought before it can shore him up.

“Annabeth loves you, yes, but she loves prophecy more. She loves the architecture of a heroic story—the boy who saves the world on schedule. The moment you step off that blueprint, she’ll love the blueprint more than the boy.”

The truth lands like salt in a fresh wound. Percy’s shoulders tense; guilt and anger knot in equal measure.

“Don’t,” he begins, defensive, but you press a finger to his lips.

You laugh, soft and cutting. “Annabeth,” you echo, as though tasting the word and finding it bland. “kneels at Athena’s feet, Percy. She’ll follow the owl wherever it roosts, even if it roosts on your grave. Her brilliance is a compass the gods forged for their own convenience. She’ll point you north toward their plan every time. And what does that plan promise you? A war you might win only by dying.”

Percy flinches, and in the tremor you hear the shatter of a belief sliding out of place. You press.

“Luke doesn’t want your devotion, Percy—he wants your rage. The part of you that watched your mother die and felt the sea tremble with it. The part of you that already knows prophecies are shackles disguised as glory.”

Riptide still lies forgotten on the floorboards. You toe the blade aside, then produce a slim drachma—all polished silver, stamped with Poseidon’s trident. “Heads,” you murmur, flipping it. The coin arcs between you, catching lamplight, flashing judgment. “Heads, you stay their dutiful champion. Tails, you carve your own destiny.”

The drachma lands on the back of your hand—trident up. Percy stares at it as though it’s mocking him. You catch his wrist, turn his palm upward, and drop the coin into it. “It’s rigged,” you whisper. “Every throw is heads to them. But with us?” You close his fingers around the drachma. “We melt the currency and mint new gods.”

Something in Percy breaks—not like glass, but like a tide-wall giving way. Jealousy, grief, and a bright, vicious hope collide in his eyes. When he exhales, the candleflames shudder; the briny tang of storm retreats, replaced by the ozone-sharp scent of a sea about to change course.

“What do I do?”

You smile, triumphant and tender all at once. “Meet me at the beach in one hour. Bring nothing that ties you to this place but your sword—Luke will be waiting offshore.”

He hesitates only long enough to glance at the bunk Annabeth has used yesterday. Guilt flickers, but you step into his line of sight, eclipsing it. “She’ll be safer believing you died a hero than watching you live a pawn.”

Percy nods—a single, decisive dip—and the cabin seems to sigh with the shift in fate. You lean in, brush your lips against the shell of his ear. “And, Percy? Luke may have taught me to fight…” Your fingers trail down his chest, claiming the steady drum of his heart. “…but I came back for you.” You turn, open the cabin door and walk away.

However, the cabin door is still whispering shut behind you when Percy’s fingers clamp around your wrist—salt-rough, decisive, impossible to mistake for the boy who once apologized every time he breathed too loud. He drags you back inside, wards sparking like struck flint as they reseal.

“Leaving already?” His voice is low, serrated at the edges. Moonlight cuts across his cheekbones, turning the sea-green of his eyes to deep, tidal jade. “You come here, rip my life in half, and think you can just…walk out?”

Before you can answer, Percy surges forward and kisses you, hard.

It is not the shy, sun-warm press of lips you envisioned long ago. This kiss tastes of riptides and broken oaths—of a storm surge pounding through a breach in the seawall. He brackets your jaw, thumbs digging just shy of bruising, and swallows the gasp he drags from your throat. Power hums under his skin; you feel it the way sailors feel depth in their bones—a pull that could drown or deliver, depending on his whim.

When he finally tears back, breath ragged, saltwater beads along his lashes like dew. “Luke’s name on your tongue,” he growls, “shouldn’t make me want to drown him. But it does.”

Your pulse spikes—part triumph, part danger. “Jealous, Sea Prince?”

“Possessive,” he corrects, voice dark as the trench beyond the continental shelf. “And tired of being the gods’ obedient weapon. You showed me that.” His grip shifts to the back of your neck, heat and claim in every fingertip. “Now you’ll show me everything else.”

A ripple of power answers the promise: seashell lamps flicker out, water condenses on the walls, and outside the breakers slam the shore in perfect rhythm with his pulse. The air smells of ozone and undertow, of something vast deciding to turn its teeth inland.

“Careful,” you murmur, though your own blood drums with fierce approval. “If you keep this up, they’ll call you the next great monster.”

“Let them.” Percy’s smile is a knife-flash. He reaches down—Riptide lies ready, bronze glinting—and snaps the pen into sword form with a practiced flick. But instead of angling the blade at you, he raises it to his own palm and scores a shallow line across the skin. Scarlet wells, bright against bronze. “Prophecies want my blood? Fine. I’ll spend it where I choose.”

He presses the cut to the nick at your throat—a mingling of salt and copper, oath and heresy—and you feel the cabin’s wards shudder as though something older than Olympus has been invited in.

[s4kura-tr3]

Meet once more

W: angst, character death, depression, happy ending, cursing. (Tell me if I missed any)

Summary: where a garden can change his good heart

Wc: 5.5k

The Heian era was a time of beauty and blood, where curses and sorcerers danced in an endless battle for dominance. Above the plains, high on an isolated mountain, lay the dark kingdom of Ryomen Sukuna, the King of Curses. His name was etched into history with fear and hatred, his four arms wielding death and destruction wherever he went. For all his strength and glory, Sukuna lived in solitude, his vast estate echoing with the silence of the dead.

His palace, a masterpiece of architecture, was shadowed by towering stone walls and intricate wooden beams. Yet, despite its magnificence, it was a tomb. No laughter, no warmth—only the howling wind and the occasional groan of old wood filled its halls. His servants were few and silent, bound to him by fear rather than loyalty.

But there was one place in his domain that thrived: his garden. It was a stark contrast to the desolation surrounding him, a lush, vibrant sanctuary filled with rare and beautiful flowers. Sukuna himself had overseen its creation, though he never allowed anyone to enter it. The garden was his alone, a quiet reminder of beauty in a world he despised.

It was this sacred space that she stumbled into one warm spring morning.

Sukuna was making his usual rounds, his steps slow and deliberate as he moved through the winding paths of his garden. The wisteria trees were in full bloom, their purple petals cascading like waterfalls. The air was fragrant and still. But as he turned a corner, he stopped.

There she was—a woman crouched among the flowers, her hands busy weaving together stems of wild daisies and chrysanthemums into a small bouquet. She was humming softly to herself, completely oblivious to the danger she was in. The sight was so unexpected, so absurd, that for a moment, Sukuna simply watched her.

Her presence disrupted the sanctity of his garden. The stillness he had cultivated for centuries was broken by the gentle melody of her voice and the rustle of leaves beneath her fingers. Fury bubbled within him, and he took a single step forward.

The sound of his footfall broke her trance. She froze, her hand halfway to her basket, before turning her head to look at him. Her eyes met his, and in an instant, her expression shifted from peaceful contentment to wide-eyed fear. She scrambled to her feet, the basket tumbling to the ground and spilling its contents.

Sukuna towered over her, his crimson eyes glinting like polished rubies in the dappled sunlight. “What do you think you’re doing?” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

“I—” Her voice faltered, but she swallowed hard and tried again. “I didn’t know anyone lived here.”

He stepped closer, his towering frame casting a long shadow over her. “You think that excuses your trespass? My garden is not a place for petty thieves.”

Her brows knitted together, and she shook her head quickly. “I’m not a thief! I didn’t know this was yours. I just… the flowers were so beautiful. I couldn’t help myself.”

Sukuna’s lip curled in disdain. He expected her to beg for forgiveness, to drop to her knees and plead for her life. Yet, while her fear was palpable, there was no groveling. Instead, she stood before him, trembling but defiant, her hands clenched tightly at her sides.

“You’re either incredibly brave or hopelessly stupid,” Sukuna sneered.

“I—” She hesitated, then straightened her back, forcing herself to meet his piercing gaze. “I meant no harm.”

He stared at her for a long moment, the silence between them stretching until it was nearly unbearable. Then, with a sharp flick of his clawed hand, he pointed toward the path leading out of the garden. “Leave. If I ever see you here again, I will not spare you.”

She didn’t need to be told twice. Grabbing her empty basket, she bowed her head quickly and fled down the path, her footsteps fading into the distance.

But she returned the very next day.

Sukuna had been expecting her. He had felt her presence as soon as she stepped into the garden, the faint hum of her aura a disruption he could no longer ignore. When he found her, she was kneeling in the same spot, carefully replanting a flower she had accidentally uprooted the day before.

His anger flared as he approached her, his footsteps heavy against the soft earth. “Are you trying to die, woman?”

She startled, looking up at him with wide eyes. For a moment, she hesitated, as though debating whether to flee. But then she squared her shoulders and met his gaze. “I… I thought it was the least I could do to make up for yesterday. I’m sorry if I caused any damage.”

Her quiet apology gave him pause. Most would have run at the mere sound of his voice, yet she faced him with trembling hands and a determined expression. “You’re an idiot,” Sukuna muttered, his crimson eyes narrowing.

“Maybe,” she admitted with a faint, nervous smile. “But I couldn’t leave it like this.”

Against his better judgment, Sukuna allowed her to stay.

Day after day, she returned. Each time, she brought a sense of life to the garden that had been missing for centuries. Her hands worked tirelessly to prune, weed, and water the plants, her soft humming filling the once-silent air. Sukuna found himself watching her from the shadows, his sharp eyes tracking her every movement. He told himself it was to ensure she wasn’t causing any damage, but deep down, he knew that wasn’t the truth.

She intrigued him.

Weeks turned into months, and her presence became a constant in Sukuna’s life. She spoke to him occasionally, her voice light and unassuming, as though she were unaware of the weight of his gaze. At first, he ignored her, offering only curt replies or silence in return. But slowly, without realizing it, he began to respond.

One evening, as the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting the garden in hues of gold and pink, she sat beneath a cherry blossom tree, her back resting against the trunk. Petals rained down around her, catching in her hair. Sukuna approached her, his footsteps soft against the grass.

“Why do you keep coming back?” he asked, his voice breaking the quiet.

She looked up at him, her eyes thoughtful. “Because the garden needs care,” she said simply. “And… I think you do too.”

Her words struck a chord deep within him, one he had long thought dead. Sukuna stared at her, his crimson eyes searching hers for any hint of mockery, but all he found was sincerity.

“You’re a strange woman,” he muttered, sitting down beside her.

Her smile was soft and genuine. “And you’re not as scary as everyone says you are.”

For the first time in centuries, Sukuna felt something stir in his chest—a warmth he had almost forgotten.

The days stretched into weeks, and their strange companionship deepened. Sukuna found himself lingering in the garden more often, his usual patrols of the mountain becoming an afterthought. She was there, her presence as natural as the flowers she tended, her hands bringing life to every corner of his once-forgotten sanctuary.

He had never been one for small talk, yet he found himself listening when she spoke. She talked about simple things—how the cherry blossoms were blooming earlier this year, how a rare species of orchid needed extra care. Sometimes she would ramble about her village, her family, or her childhood, her words painting a life so ordinary it was almost foreign to Sukuna. He listened, silently absorbing the details, though he rarely offered much in return.

But even he couldn’t ignore the way her laughter softened the edges of his harsh world, or how her smile seemed to brighten the very air around them. She was a disruption, a flicker of light in the darkness he had wrapped himself in for centuries.

One day, as the afternoon sun bathed the garden in golden light, she looked up from her work and asked, “Why did you make this garden?”

Sukuna was leaning against a tree, his arms crossed over his chest, watching her with his usual intensity. Her question caught him off guard. He had never told anyone the reason, never felt the need to explain himself. But something about the way she looked at him—curious, but never prying—made him pause.

“It reminded me that even in chaos, there’s order,” he said finally, his voice low. “That even in destruction, something can still grow.”

She tilted her head, her hands stilling as she considered his words. “That’s beautiful,” she said softly.

Sukuna scoffed, though there was no malice in it. “It’s practical. Nothing more.”

But her gentle smile told him she didn’t believe him.

The change in their dynamic was gradual. At first, Sukuna told himself it was her usefulness that kept her around. The garden had never looked more vibrant, and her care was unparalleled. But as time went on, he found himself seeking her out not for the garden, but for her presence.

She began to ask him questions—questions about his life, his powers, his reign. At first, he dismissed her curiosity with sharp remarks, but her persistence wore him down. He told her stories of the battles he had fought, the kingdoms he had razed, and the sorcerers who had dared challenge him. She listened intently, her eyes wide with a mix of awe and sadness.

“You’ve been alone for a long time,” she said one evening, her voice barely above a whisper.

Sukuna didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he looked out at the horizon, where the sun was setting behind the mountains. “Alone is safer,” he said finally.

“Safer doesn’t mean better,” she replied, her words hanging in the air between them.

He didn’t have an answer for that.

The turning point came one quiet night under the stars. The garden was bathed in silver moonlight, the soft chirping of crickets filling the silence. She sat beside him near the koi pond, her knees tucked to her chest as she stared at the water.

“I think I’ve fallen in love with this place,” she said softly, breaking the quiet.

Sukuna’s gaze flicked to her, his expression unreadable. “It’s just a garden.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s more than that. It’s… peaceful. It feels alive, even though everything else feels so uncertain.”

There was a pause, and then she turned to him, her eyes meeting his. “I think I’ve fallen in love with you, too.”

Her words stunned him. For a moment, he couldn’t speak, his crimson eyes locked on hers. No one had ever said such a thing to him—not with sincerity, not without fear. His first instinct was to dismiss it, to tell her she was foolish. But the look in her eyes silenced him.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he said finally, his voice rough.

“I do,” she insisted. “I know exactly what I’m saying. I see you, Sukuna. I see the man behind the power, behind the fear. And I don’t care about what others say. I care about you.”

Her words cut through the walls he had built around himself, leaving him exposed in a way he hadn’t been in centuries. Slowly, he reached out, his clawed hand brushing against her cheek. She didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned into his touch, her eyes never leaving his.

“You’re a strange woman,” he murmured, his voice softer than it had ever been.

“And you’re a complicated man,” she replied with a small smile.

For the first time in centuries, Sukuna allowed himself to feel something other than anger and emptiness. He allowed himself to care.

Their love grew like the garden—slowly, patiently, but undeniably. Sukuna found himself smiling more, his sharp edges softened by her presence. She brought warmth to his cold world, filling the empty halls of his estate with laughter and life. They married in a quiet ceremony under the cherry blossoms, with no witnesses but the flowers and the wind.

For a time, they were happy. Sukuna began to believe that perhaps he could have something good, something pure, in a world that had always been cruel.

But fate was not so kind.

The sorcerers came without warning, their spells shattering the peace of the mountain. They sought to destroy Sukuna, to end the reign of the King of Curses once and for all. In the chaos, they captured her, dragging her from the garden as she screamed his name.

Sukuna fought with a rage unlike anything the world had ever seen. His power tore through the sorcerers like a storm, their bodies falling like leaves in the wind. But when he reached her, it was too late.

She lay on the ground, her body broken, blood pooling beneath her.

“No,” Sukuna whispered, dropping to his knees beside her. His hands trembled as he cradled her face, his crimson eyes wide with disbelief. “No, this isn’t happening.”

Her eyes fluttered open, her gaze weak but full of love. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Don’t you dare,” Sukuna growled, his voice breaking. “Don’t you dare leave me.”

“I love you,” she murmured, her hand reaching for his cheek.

Before he could respond, her hand fell limp, and her eyes closed.

Sukuna’s roar of grief echoed through the mountains, his tears falling freely as he held her lifeless body in his arms.

Centuries passed, and the once-grand estate crumbled into ruins. The garden withered without her care, its beauty lost to time. Sukuna withdrew from the world, his heart hardened into stone. He stayed atop the mountain, a shadow of the king he once was, his mind haunted by memories of her.

The modern world grew around him, but he paid it no mind. Centuries passed, and the world moved on without him. The mighty King of Curses, once feared and revered, became little more than a myth whispered in forgotten tales. Sukuna no longer cared about power or dominance; even hatred had turned to numbness. His estate, once a palace fit for a god, had withered into nothing but a broken skeleton of its former grandeur. Stone walls crumbled, roofs caved in, and the lush, vibrant garden that once symbolized life had long since withered into decay.

Sukuna sat atop the hill in solitude, a silent monument to what he had lost. The days blurred into each other, the passing of time irrelevant to an immortal being. The world at his feet changed, skyscrapers rising like great mountains of steel and glass, cars roaring like beasts on paved roads. Yet his world remained frozen, locked in the moment her life had slipped from his hands.

He no longer wandered through the ruins of his garden; the sight of the overgrown weeds and the broken koi pond was unbearable. Instead, he sat in the shadow of the mountain, a lone figure in a shack that had become more of a cage than a home. The nights stretched endlessly, his mind looping through memories that refused to fade.

Then she came.

It was early spring, and the air was cool and crisp as Sukuna rested against the doorframe of his shack, his gaze distant as he stared at the valley below. The first thing he felt was a faint ripple in the air, an energy so familiar that it stopped him in his tracks. He thought he was imagining it, that his mind was playing cruel tricks on him again. But then he heard the soft crunch of footsteps on the gravel path.

She appeared suddenly, rounding the bend where the old garden gate used to stand. She didn’t look out of place—dressed casually in a light jacket, jeans, and hiking boots, her hands tucked into her pockets. She wasn’t supposed to be there; people rarely ventured this far up the mountain anymore.

Sukuna’s breath hitched in his chest. It wasn’t just that she looked like her; it was that she felt like her. The aura she carried, that undeniable warmth, was the same. His sharp crimson eyes drank in every detail—the curve of her face, the soft glint of curiosity in her eyes as she glanced around the ruins. It was her. Reincarnated, but undeniably her.

She hadn’t seen him yet, too focused on taking in her surroundings. She knelt to touch the weathered stones of what had once been a garden wall, brushing away moss with her fingers. “It’s beautiful, even like this,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Her voice struck Sukuna like a thunderclap. It was different, yet the cadence was the same, the softness that had once soothed him now filling him with a tempest of emotions. His hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms as he fought to keep himself from rushing to her. How could this be possible? How could she stand here, centuries later, as if fate had finally returned her to him?

Finally, she noticed him. Her head turned, her eyes widening slightly as they locked onto his figure. He stood still, his towering frame half-hidden in the shadow of the doorway. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“Oh,” she said, blinking. “I didn’t realize anyone lived up here.”

Sukuna’s voice, rough from centuries of disuse, came out like a low growl. “Who are you?”

Her surprise turned to slight embarrassment. “I’m… just exploring. I’ve heard about this place before, but I didn’t think I’d actually find it.” She gave a small, apologetic smile. “Sorry if I’m intruding. I can leave if you want.”

He stepped forward, his crimson eyes narrowing as he took in every nuance of her expression. Her mannerisms were different, more modern, but there was no mistaking her. It was her soul standing before him. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said gruffly.

Her brows furrowed slightly, her gaze flicking between him and the ruins around them. “I didn’t mean any harm. I just thought… this place feels special. Like it has a story to tell.”

His jaw tightened. A story. If she only knew.

She hesitated, her hand brushing over the vines that had overtaken the garden walls. “I know it’s run down now, but… it’s still beautiful in its own way. I can’t explain it, but it feels like this place is waiting for something. Or someone.”

Sukuna felt the weight of her words like a blade to his chest. He wanted to tell her everything—that this place was waiting for her, that he had been waiting for her. But instead, he swallowed the words, masking his emotions behind a cold exterior.

“The garden is dead,” he said flatly.

Her lips pressed together thoughtfully as she looked around. “It doesn’t have to be. Gardens can come back to life if someone takes care of them.” She smiled softly. “I’m good with gardens.”

Sukuna’s chest tightened. It was almost too much—the way she stood there, so full of life, speaking as though she were meant to be here. He clenched his fists, his sharp nails biting into his palms. “You think you can fix this place?” he asked, his tone colder than he intended.

She tilted her head, unbothered by his harshness. “Maybe. It would take some work, but I’d love to try.”

He stared at her, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Was this fate’s cruel joke, dangling her before him only to take her away again? Or was this his second chance?

Finally, he said, “The garden is beyond saving. But if you’re foolish enough to try, I won’t stop you.”

Her smile brightened, and for a moment, the world seemed a little less gray. “I’ll do my best,” she said, her voice full of determination.

As she turned to examine the overgrown garden, Sukuna watched her silently, his heart aching with a mixture of hope and fear. He had spent centuries in darkness, his grief carving him into something colder, harsher than even he had been before. But now, standing before him was a piece of the light he thought he had lost forever.

He would find reasons to keep her here, excuses to bring her back. He couldn’t lose her again. Not this time.

[gaddaboutgriffon]

Age reversal

Desiree is tired of losing to Phantom and decided to just go to another city and grant wishes there. She finds a natural portal in the realms and exits it into Gotham. We’ll say she grants a few petty wishes like being taller being prettier ect.

Then she runs across a 12 year old Damian saying he wished he was the eldest brother. She says “As you wish!” And there is the usual sparkle filled puff of purple smoke, but Damian remains the same. It isn’t until he gets a com from Tim a minute later he realizes his mistake.

All the bat kids were deaged to reverse order. Damian 12, Duke 11, Tim 10, Steph 9, Jason 8, Cass 7, and Dick 6.

Fortunately this happens while everyone is in there civil IDs and not actively on patrol. Bruce calls Zatana as this seems like it was a magic curse or something. While Damian is sent on a fetch quest to to round up his siblings and bring them back to the manor. Zatana and later Constantine say that this was caused be an Infinite Realms being and they can’t undo it unless they find the being who cast the spell.

Mean while Danny is wondering why Desiree hasn’t shown up in a while. Shrugs, maybe he is finally catching a break.

[inkpetrichor]

Nasty Dog! | Kuroo Tetsurou x f!reader

9.- Part nine

masterlist here<3

cw. MDNI. fem! reader. delinquent! reader. use of yn. smoking. cursing. angst. hurt/comfort. TW. dead dove: do not eat. sa/unwanted physical contact (non-consensual kissing). mentions of suicide and sh (past). dissociation (trauma response). emotionally intense arguments. cyberbullying. gossip. malicious photo sharing. violence. pls let me know if i missed anything. wc. 6k an. sooo i hesitated a lot on this one. this chapter is a little heavier. it contains intense and potentially triggering content, and while i worked hard to handle it with care and respect, please take the content warnings seriously. they're there for a reason. if you're not in the right headspace, if anything listed might hit too close—please don't push through just for the story. take care of yourself first. the chapter will always be here when and if you're ready. i trust you, my beloved readers, to approach it with the emotional maturity and self-awareness i know you have. i know you're not minors. i know you're thoughtful, empathetic people. and i appreciate you more than you know. so thank you—for being here, for reading, for caring. i love you. please be gentle with yourselves<3

Shibuya felt wrong that night.

Too quiet.

Or maybe it was just your panic, drowning out the chaos of the city.

Even the noise of cars and neon signs seemed muffled beneath the storm in your head.

When you got to the place, something in your gut twisted.

Off.

Rotten.

The streetlight above buzzed like a dying insect, casting sickly yellow light onto the damp concrete. The alley smelled of rust and old piss, and your shoes stuck slightly with every step, like even the ground itself didn't want you there.

Junpei leaned against the wall, hoodie up, his face half-sliced by shadow.

No Emi.

Just him.

The orange streetlamp carved hard lines across his cheekbones, but his eyes stayed buried in the dark.

You stopped dead in your tracks. Every nerve in your body fired at once.

"Where is she?" you asked, voice sharp and cold.

He looked up slowly. "She's not here."

Your pulse stumbled, then picked up at 100 per hour.

"...What?"

"I lied."

His voice was almost casual. He gave a small, sheepish smile like this was some petty misunderstanding.

"I just... I needed to see you."

Silence. Then a breath that came out too shaken.

"You said she was going to hurt herself."

"I had to get you here," he said like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. "You wouldn't have come if I told the truth."

Your blood ran ice-cold. Something ancient and primal surged up your spine.

The good old fight and flight.

But before you could move, he kept talking.

"I think about you all the time. I see you with that guy and it—it drives me crazy. You're not supposed to be with him. You're mine. You always were."

You took a step back, throat dry.

"You're a fucking psycho."

He stepped forward—and his hand shot out, closing around your wrist.

"I love you," he said. Like that explained anything. Like it was some kind of blessing. Like it was a reason.

Then he yanked you toward him.

His mouth crashed into yours.

Sloppy. Forceful. Wrong.

You froze. Your mind shut down.

You weren't in your body anymore. It was like watching through fogged glass.

Then his other hand gripped your waist, then slid—lower, insistent.

And with that—the glass shattered, and your body was yours once again.

Your knee came up in a second. Hard into his stomach.

He let out a choked grunt, doubling over—but you didn't stop.

You punched him once, then twice—fury guiding your fists before the pain even registered in your already injured hand. The sting only hit on the third swing, throbbing through your knuckles.

But that didn't matter.

And neither did his groans as he hit the pavement.

You stood over him, chest heaving and adrenaline shaking your limbs.

"Don't ever fucking touch me again," you spat, wiping the back of your hand across your lips like you could scrub him off.

He didn't move.

But that didn't matter.

You didn't remember the train ride home. Or if you even took it. Didn't remember the streets you cut through. Or unlocking the front door.

Just the sound of your lungs burning. The numbness in your legs. The way your skin crawled like it was trying to peel itself off your bones.

It felt unreal. Like a nightmare.

Like maybe it didn't happen. Like maybe you imagined it.

But when you kneeled on the floor of the shower and let the scalding water pour over your back—when you scrubbed and scrubbed until your skin stung raw—you knew the truth:

You didn't imagine it.

You couldn't erase it.

You couldn't scrub him out. Burn him out. You couldn't speak it aloud.

You tried—you tried to call Kuroo.

But your thumb hovered over his name for too long—imagining his voice. Imagining the way he'd say your name—soft and scared—and something in you fractured.

You couldn't handle the way he'd ask if you were okay. Not when you weren't. You couldn't deal with his voice right now—not the concern, not the gentleness.

So you didn't call him.

Didn't answer the texts that kept piling up.

Didn't open the one that just said, "I'm worried about you. Please say something."

Instead, you curled into your bed, knees tucked tight to your chest, and smoked until your lungs ached and your fingers trembled and the pack was empty.

It didn't help.

The ache behind your ribs didn't fade.

You sat in the haze until the air turned thick with smoke. Until the quiet became unbearable. Until the acid in your chest began whispering lies in your own voice.

Until the shame didn't just sink into your bones—

It became them.

You woke up to the smell of ash and the taste of old smoke in your mouth.

Your throat was dry. Your skin felt tight. Your limbs were too heavy to move like your bones had been replaced with concrete in the night.

You laid there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember what it felt like—yesterday. The morning before, when you woke up next to Kuroo and everything felt perfect. When you felt happy and full and finally safe.

His breath soft against your neck. His voice still sleep-heavy as he whispered your name.

That morning felt… warm.

Now the sheets were cold. The silence too.

No warmth pressed against your back. No lazy arm slung over your waist.

No heartbeat beneath your ear.

Just you.

Alone.

You showered again. Not because you thought it would help, but because your body needed something to do.

But the water didn't burn this time. You didn't scrub like before.

The weight inside your chest seemed quieter, but not gone.

You felt a little less shocked, a little stronger.

Still, the walk to school felt like something someone else was doing.

Your limbs moved, but you didn't remember telling them to. Your shoes struck the pavement in soft, disconnected thuds. The city was wide awake, but none of it felt real.

You didn't even register arriving at Nekoma's gates—until everything around you shifted.

It started subtle. A shift in the air pressure—stares, side-eyes, a sudden hush that trailed behind you like smoke—sticky, inescapable, impossible to ignore.

And then the whispers.

"Isn't that the girl from the pictures?"

"Wasn't she dating the volleyball captain?"

"Did she really hook up with Ookami Junpei?"

"Apparently they used to be a thing."

Your heart dropped like a stone into a frozen lake.

Pictures?

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. Once. Twice. Again. A steady pulse of notifications—sharp, demanding, merciless.

You didn't check. Couldn't. Whatever waited on that screen would scrape you raw from the inside out, and there wasn't much left to cut through.

And then—

"Kuroo's looking for you."

The voice barely registered. Familiar, maybe. Yaku? Kenma? It didn't matter. It sounded far away, like someone was shouting through water.

Your limbs grew heavy. The spring air clung to you, too thick, too cold. You were still wearing yesterday's bruises, even if no one could see them.

Every second stretched, unbearable. Until you felt him.

Not saw—felt.

The unmistakable force of him—barreling toward you like a loaded gun with no safety.

Kuroo.

"Y/N."

Your head snapped up.

And there he was. A storm system making landfall, jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscles ticking beneath his skin. His fists were balled at his sides, knuckles white.

And his eyes—God, his eyes— They burned. They weren't just angry. They were wrecked. A wildfire of betrayal and grief burning behind them with nowhere to go.

"Is it true?" he rasped.

His voice sounded raw, like he'd been screaming somewhere else already, somewhere you couldn't see, long before he found you.

It hit harder than any punch.

You felt everything all at once—

Kuroo. Tutoring. Class 5. The beach. Takoyakis your dad bought. Rumors. Emi. Shibuya. A mouth that didn't belong. Water too hot. Skin too raw.

The school gates yawned behind you like the maw of something ancient, waiting to swallow you whole.

"Is it?!"

His voice cracked across the courtyard, slicing it in half.

Some students flinched. Others stared. But most slipped past, sensing the detonation and giving it distance. Soon, it was just you and him.

You stood frozen in the eye of the storm.

"I saw the pictures." His voice was quieter this time, still hurt—but sharp. Like glass underfoot.

You looked away. Couldn't look at him. Not when he was looking at you like that.

"Please tell me you didn't fuck him," he whispered.

The world tilted.

"I didn't." Your voice barely existed. It came out like smoke from a dying flame. It wasn't enough. Would never be enough.

"So you didn't do anything?" he pressed. His voice spiraled, unraveling at the seams. "Nothing?"

You shook your head.

"What about before?" he asked, lower now. "Before we met. Before the tutoring."

Your breath caught—then froze.

And you watched the moment it broke him.

His fingers dug into his hair, yanking like he could tear the thoughts from his skull. Your silence said more than anything you could've uttered.

"Fuck," he hissed, pacing back. Hands dragged down his face. "Fuck. I'm an idiot. I'm a fucking idiot. No wonder you weren't picking up last night."

"Tetsurou—" your voice trembled. "I didn't cheat on you."

"Then what the hell were you doing there?! With him?!"

He whipped around, the sound of his voice so sharp—so hurt—it left invisible gashes down your spine.

The images in his mind were killing him. Junpei's hands. Junpei's mouth. Your silence.

You saw the poison eating him alive. And you had no antidote.

You wanted to tell him. God, you did.

But—

"I… I can't tell you."

His whole body stilled.

"What?"

"I can't tell you," you said again, firmer. "It's not my secret to tell. I want to explain—I do. But I can't. I'm asking you to trust me."

A beat of silence.

And then something in him… cooled. Not calmed. Hardened. Like steel cooling too fast.

"I can't."

You felt something crack under your ribs.

"What?"

"I can't," he said again. Quiet. And somehow, that hurt more than yelling. "I tried, Y/N. I really did. But there's just—there's too many holes. Too much evidence. Too many things you didn't say."

He rubbed his face, exhausted.

"You already broke my heart. The beach. Now this... I can't let you do it again—not a third time. I need to get away from you."

He didn't look angry anymore. He looked tired. Hollow.

"Tetsurou, I didn't fucking cheat on you," you choked out again, voice catching on splinters.

He flinched just slightly. Like your voice physically burned him.

He wanted to pull you in. To believe.

But when he looked at you—all he saw were the fucking pictures.

His mouth twisted. For a second, you thought he was about to say something cruel, something meant to hurt. His expression wavered between rage and devastation.

But then he exhaled again, lower this time, trembling.

And barely above a whisper—so quiet it cracked—he muttered:

"I need space. I can't even look at you right now."

The world stopped turning. The noise faded. The people. The school. Everything. Only him. Only you.

And the crumbling space between you where everything good had lived and died.

He meant it as mercy. As a 'I don't want to say something I'll regret.'

But in the moment, that intention didn't really land.

You stared at him. At the boy who once kissed you like he saw your soul. Who held your hand like it meant something sacred.

Now he couldn't even look at you.

And you? You couldn't even cry. Not properly, at least. Your body was too used to swallowing it down.

The ache inside your chest curdled, hardened, and twisted itself into something sharper. Something easier to carry than grief.

Hurt turned to fury. Anger calcified into armor.

"You know what?" you whispered, voice brittle. "Fuck you."

Kuroo's head snapped back to you, eyes wide.

"Excuse me?"

"Yeah. Fuck you. Go ahead. Believe the pictures. Believe whatever you want." Your voice shook, but didn't falter. "I'm a cheater and slut. I'm too much work... I already broke your heart, didn't I? Then leave me."

Every word felt like a bleeding wound. You didn't mean them. You didn't like the knives you were throwing.

But they were the only weapons you had left.

"I have enough shit to deal with already. If you can't trust me... then fuck you."

Silence.

Not stunned. Not even angry.

Just... sad.

He didn't argue. Didn't fight back. He just stood there, breathing like it hurt, like every word you spoke made it worse—and yet still, somehow, he couldn't deny any of it.

The unfairness sat in your chest like a boulder, immovable and cold.

You wanted to punch something. Scream until your throat bled.

But instead, you hid.

You turned. Walked fast—past the gate, across the grounds, to the corner of the school that always felt safest.

Kuroo let out a breath and turned to leave—when he saw her.

Emi.

Leaning against the wall just out of sight, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Her eyes were hollow—like the light behind them had been long gone.

She'd been there the whole time. Watching. Listening. Invisible.

She didn't look surprised. She didn't even look mad. Just tired.

Like this whole little dance between you two was boring her and hurting her at the same time.

Kuroo barely spared her a glance, a half-lidded look that slid past her like water. He kept walking.

And then—

"It's not true," she said, voice as calm as the smoke she was inhaling. She exhaled through her nose, the faint trail curling upward. Her eyes met his without hesitation.

He half-turned, jaw still tight. "Were you there?"

Her brow arched. She shook her head and took a slow drag.

"Then how do you know?"

"Because I know her," Emi said simply. "I thought you did, too."

That one hit deeper than he expected. His eyes narrowed, but something in his face twitched—like he'd been stabbed in the ribs but was too proud to flinch.

"Do you know what she was doing there, then?"

Emi squinted, tilting her head just slightly.

"I might."

He took a step forward, voice low. "Are you gonna tell me?"

She snorted. "Why do I always gotta do the dirty work for you two? I'm out here carrying the damn plot. How about you actually talk to each other for once?"

Kuroo huffed and turned again, footsteps sharp against the concrete.

And then—

"I tried to kill myself."

Sharp like a blade. Soft like a kiss.

He stopped in his tracks.

Emi stepped forward, already pulling out another cigarette like it was armor. She lit it with practiced ease, took a drag, held it in.

When she spoke again, her voice was flat. No sass. No bite. Like she'd hollowed herself to get the words out.

"In junior high."

Kuroo turned back slowly.

Emi rolled up her sleeve.

No flourish. No drama. Just a quiet, deliberate motion.

And there it was.

A scar. One long, brutal line that etched down her forearm and curved around it like a memory too jagged to ever smooth over.

Kuroo winced when he saw it. It physically hurt to look at.

"We went to the same junior high. Y/N and me. Hebinuma too," she began, voice low, like it cost her something. "Y/N transferred in a little late. By then Hebinuma already had her little kingdom. Rumors, isolation, backstabbing—standard queen bee shit."

Emi's gaze drifted skyward, her expression distant, like she was searching the clouds for a version of herself that never made it out of those years.

"I never even knew what I did to deserve it. One day, I just had a target on my back."

Her voice cracked faintly. Not enough to break—but enough to show it still lived under her skin.

You knew she still asked herself that question in the dark.

"But that doesn't matter. What matters is, one day, I broke a mirror and tried to end it."

She didn't flinch as she said it. Didn't rush. Just let it hang.

And then looked him dead in the eye.

"She has the pictures," she said, nodding faintly. Maybe to him. Maybe to herself. "Yeah. From the hospital. And whenever she remembers I exist, she comes back to remind me how easily she could spread them around. Just like she did with those photos of Y/N."

Kuroo's body locked up. Every part of him tensed. His fists clenched at his sides, jaw ticking hard enough to ache.

"We've made her delete them a hundred times. But she keeps backups. Always. Like it turns her on—knowing she can ruin me whenever she wants. That's the kind of bitch she is."

Emi flicked the ash off the end of her cigarette with a hard snap.

"My theory? Junpei probably called Y/N last night and told her I was gonna do something stupid. So of course she ran. Didn't ask. Didn't think twice. Because that's the kind of hot-headed, loyal idiot she is."

A strange kind of fondness edged into a smirk. Something caught between exasperation and admiration. Grudging, protective. Almost proud.

"Then Junpei kissed her—probably just for a second. Long enough to throw her off. Long enough for Hebinuma to get the shot."

She glanced back at him, her gaze sharpening. Her voice dropped.

"And she's good with a camera, you know? Real good. She doesn't need truth. She just needs a good angle."

Her eyes narrowed, deadly calm.

"And people believe her. Always. She could ruin my family with those hospital pics. Just a few lies in the right place and—bam. CPS, scandal, cops. That's how much power she has," Emi muttered, jaw clenched. "Or I don't know. Maybe that's just how fucking terrified I am of her."

She rolled her sleeve back down, the motion careful. Like she was tucking away a confession too sharp to keep showing.

"There. That's the story. Y/N didn't say anything because she wouldn't throw me under the bus to clear her own name—'cause she's stupid like that. So yeah. Now you know. Straight from the source."

She took a long drag. Crushed the butt under her heel with finality.

"You do whatever you want with that information."

Kuroo didn't speak.

He just stood there—stone still, jaw slack, hands flexing uselessly at his sides. Like every word she'd said had short-circuited him.

Then, finally, he breathed.

Ragged. Gutted.

He dragged both hands down his face, hard enough to leave red streaks, then shoved them into his hair and gripped hard—like he needed pain to focus.

"I… I need a second," he managed at last, voice wrecked and low. "I need to think."

Emi shrugged. "Yeah. You do that."

She didn't say it cruelly. Just tired.

"You talk to her or you don't," she added. "But this whole thing where you two run in circles and bleed for it? It's getting old tbh."

And then she stepped away from the wall, exhaling long and slow, and walked past him—past the gates to go find the gang.

You were sitting on the floor in your little hidden spot—knees to your chest, face buried in the soft fabric of your jacket. You weren't crying, not really. But every few seconds, a tremor ran down your spine like your body wanted to sob but your mind refused to let it.

You waited.

Waited for the hurt to fade. For the anger to settle.

Waited for Kuroo.

Because you knew he'd come.

But the hurt didn't fade. The anger didn't settle.

Instead, the silence swallowed you whole.

You sat there all day—back against the brick wall, eyes on nothing. The afternoon heat clung to your skin, but you didn't move. Didn't cry. Barely breathed.

At some point, our hands stopped trembling. The sting in your chest dulled to a bitter throb, then went cold.

And by the time the sun started to dip low, the version of you who had broken down the night before was long gone.

She'd been replaced by the one you knew how to be.

The angry one. The survivor.

Footsteps crunched across the gravel in front of you.

You didn't flinch. Didn't even look up.

"Took you long enough," you muttered flatly.

Kuroo's voice came out hoarse. Tight. "Had some shit to figure out."

"Yeah. Guess we both did."

Silence. Thin, barbed-wire silence.

Then—

"Emi told me of what happened in junior high."

Your head snapped up at him, eyes wide.

"She said you wouldn't tell me. Said that was the reason you were in Shibuya last night. Why didn't you just—"

"I was protecting Emi," you snapped. "Her secret."

Kuroo scoffed. Dry. Bitter. "Yeah? And where does protecting me fit into that? You know what it looks like? I look like a fool and a cuck to the entire school."

You surged to your feet, heat roaring in your chest.

"You think I wanted any of this?" Your voice rose and trembled, but you didn't back down. "You think I enjoyed getting fucking manhandled and photographed like some piece of meat?!"

His eyes met yours—dark and stormy. Pain flared behind them, not just his but yours too.

"Then why didn't you tell me?" he asked again, quieter now, like he was begging. "Why didn't you trust me?"

You laughed. A dry, hollow sound.

"Please. Like you trusted me the second you saw those photos? You looked at me like I was poison. Like I was already guilty."

He flinched.

"Maybe I should've told you," you said. "But I was scared."

He opened his mouth, paused, then dragged a hand through his hair—rough, frustrated, the strands sticking out in every direction.

"Scared of what?" he asked finally. "Of me?"

"No, idiot!" you yelled, voice breaking. "Of losing you! Of you looking at me like I was broken! Like I was disgusting! Like I wasn't worth fighting for anymore."

You wiped your eyes furiously with the back of your hand, hard enough to sting.

"And congrats," you spat. "You made sure of that real quick."

"That's not fucking fair," he snapped. "You're acting like you didn't give me every reason to doubt you."

"Oh, I'm sorry," you snarled, laughing darkly. "Was getting assaulted supposed to come with a fucking heads-up?"

Kuroo's eyes narrowed, stepping closer.

"That's not what I'm talking about."

You glared at him, daring him.

"You could've told me about him that night at my house. When I asked. Could've told me about Emi," he said. "You hid shit from me over and over. And now I'm the asshole because I hesitated for five seconds after someone handed me proof?"

Your fists curled so tight your nails bit into your palms.

"That wasn't proof. It was a setup. A fucking ambush."

Guilt twisted his face, but anger didn't leave either.

"You made it impossible to trust you!" he snapped. "You put walls around everything that mattered and then got pissed when I couldn't guess what was inside. Made it a goddamn puzzle I wasn't allowed to solve."

You stepped in close, face inches from his.

"Oh, poor you," you seethed. "Did I ruin your fantasy? Was I supposed to wrap myself up with a bow and hand you all the ugly pieces so you could decide if I was still worth it? Show you how fucking imperfect I was so you could come in and fix me? 'Bad girl fixed by the nice nerd guy,' Perfect fucking story, right?"

His jaw tightened, breath sharp. "I didn't want to fix you. I just wanted you to be honest."

"I was trying," you whispered. "I really was. But the second you had to choose to believe me, even if it was hard, the second it stopped being cute—you dipped."

He didn't respond. Couldn't.

"I didn't tell you about Emi because it wasn't my secret to tell. And because she nearly died, and I wasn't there. I couldn't protect her. And I still feel like shit for it."

His face flickered—guilt and shame crawling behind his eyes.

But you didn't stop.

"And you…" You inhaled sharply. "You're mad because of your reputation? Because people think you got cheated on? Is that what matters most to you?"

Kuroo's jaw clenched, but he didn't deny it. Didn't correct you.

"And you looked at me like that," you added, and your voice broke on the last word. "Like I was dirty."

You swallowed hard.

"And I feel dirty. I do. That fucker… he…" your breath hitched, the words came trembling, brittle. "All these punches—and for what? I couldn't even..."

Your eyes dropped to your hands like you resented them. Fists that had flown a hundred times in a hundred fights. That had drawn blood, broken noses.

All the fights. All that training with your dad.

Useless, when it mattered most.

You were the one who always hit first. Who protected everyone else.

But in the end—

You couldn't even protect yourself.

Kuroo's face collapsed. All the anger fell out of him in one breathless second. Guilt replacing it as it swept over him like a tidal wave.

Like he was only now, finally, realizing what those pictures actually meant. What had really happened.

And that he'd believed the camera instead of you.

You saw it hit him. Hard. His eyes widened slightly, like he was seeing it now—truly seeing it—for the first time.

Not the rumor.

Not the picture.

You.

His girlfriend.

The girl who was looking at her hands like they betrayed her.

"Y/N—" he rasped.

He reached for you, but when his fingers brushed your elbow you shoved it off, stepping back without looking at him.

"Don't." You pulled away. "It doesn't fucking matter anymore. It wasn't a big deal. I don't care."

"You do, though."

You glared at him, jaw tight. "You don't get to tell me how I feel."

"I'm not," Kuroo said, voice rough. "But I know very well what it looks like when you're trying not to feel."

You scoffed and turned away, arms crossed so tight they ached.

"And stop doing that too," he said sharply.

You blinked. "Doing what?"

"That," he snapped. "Pushing it down. Acting like it didn't fucking happen."

Your spine straightened.

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not."

The silence that followed bristled with static.

He stepped closer again. Not enough to touch, but enough for you to feel the weight of him.

"You're doing that thing," he continued, voice low, gentler. "Where you take something that should destroy you and just... shove it into some box and pretend it didn't hurt."

His tone wasn't accusing anymore. It was something softer. Something scared.

"And maybe that's how you survive, I get it. But it's not the same as healing. And if you keep doing it one day it's gonna eat you alive. One day you'll snap, and no one—including you—will understand why."

You looked at him then. Really looked. And for a second, your guard slipped.

Just a crack.

"Then what the fuck do I do?!" You stared at him. Your breath was shaky. "I'm... I don't know how to talk about this shit! I'm so used to swallowing it I forget there's another fucking option!”

He blinked, startled by the admission.

"You cry! Stop locking it up like it doesn't deserve air! Just—fuck—scream if you have to! Just don't shut down like this..."

There was a moment of silence. You exhaled, shaky and slow.

"You know what? Worst part is you're acually right."

Kuroo's face softened. But you didn't let it stay that way.

"But don't think that means I forgive you," you added quickly. "Because I don't. Not yet."

He nodded slowly, voice low. "I don't expect you to."

You turned your face away, arms still crossed, chest still aching—but lighter somehow.

You didn't know how long you stood there, breathing hard in the silence between you two.

The words hung between you like smoke—raw, half-said, unsatisfying.

You could still feel the shape of his hands in the air where they'd almost held you. The anger hadn't gone. The hurt hadn't either.

But under it, something softer stirred. Not forgiveness—not yet.

But something closer to understanding. Or the ache of it.

"I should've told you earlier. As soon as it happened," you muttered. "I do bottle shit up. I always have."

Kuroo looked at you—eyes bloodshot, but steadier now.

"And I should've trusted you," he rasped.

A small, bitter smile tugged at your mouth. "Look at us. Actually communicating."

He huffed a weak breath, something between a scoff and a laugh.

"I think that whole conversation counts, honestly. It's not like we don't communicate we just... Need better methods I guess."

You let your gaze drift down the gravel path, blinking hard.

A sound broke the stillness—a sharp, broken whimper.

You both turned.

And then you saw her.

Emi was walking toward you, eyes dead, lips parted, her grip tight in Hebinuma's hair—fisted hard at the nape of her neck.

Her usually neatly styled, bleached hair was in disarray, her makeup smeared, and her eyes swollen. Blood ran fresh from a cut on her lower lip.

Her expression was hard as she shoved Hebinuma forward, letting go and making her stumble and fall to her knees in front of you.

"Speak! Tell 'em what you told me."

Hebinuma didn't look much better—her nose was swollen, her right eye barely open and already bruising. Her hair was a mess and nail marks raked down the sides of her face and down her neck.

She whimpered, shoulders hunched inward like she could fold herself out of sight. Her hands trembled.

When she glanced up, it wasn't at you—it was at Kuroo. Like a cornered rat reaching for a predator's mercy.

"Kuroo-san..." she whimpered, barely audible.

"Speak up, bitch!" Emi screamed, her voice hoarse and shaking with unrestrained rage.

Hebinuma flinched, shrinking inward. But your eyes stayed locked on Emi.

Your best friend, your sweet Emi—who always hung back when fists flew—stood there, seething.

You'd never seen her like this before. Blood on her mouth. Fury in her eyes. You'd always taken the hits for her. But now... now she was burning.

When it became clear Hebinuma wasn't going to speak, Emi scoffed, rolling her eyes like she'd stepped in something filthy.

"She did it. All of it," she said, voice clipped and shaking. "She convinced everyone to spread shit about you and Kuroo. She told Junpei to call you so she could take the pictures and spread even more bullshit. The guys are looking for him right now. That motherfucker must be hiding if he knows what's coming. They're gonna beat the shit out of him."

Her shoulders lifted, then sank with a trembling breath.

"I don't know if it'll help, but I made sure her little friends spread the word that it was all a lie."

"Emi..." You surged forward, cupping her face in both hands. She flinched in pain, and your stomach turned. Her skin was hot beneath your fingers, raw around the bruises.

"She landed a good one," Emi said, voice trembling, trying to joke. "Right on the cheek. Gotta give her that." She shot a venomous glance at Hebinuma. But when she looked back at you, something cracked.

Her eyes were glossy, her voice small and soft like a kid waking from a nightmare.

"You think it'll bruise?"

"It better not—for her sake." You turned on Hebinuma, baring your teeth. "If you lay another finger on her, I'll fucking kill you. Got that?!"

Kuroo raised a hand like he meant to calm you—but his eyes were wide, locked on Hebinuma's battered face, flicking across it like he couldn't quite make sense of what he was seeing.

"I think Emi already did enough," he muttered.

You sneered, snapping your head toward him. You weren't done with him—not even close—but Emi's gentle hand on your shoulder grounded you, fingers curling just enough to keep you tethered.

"I started it," she said quietly. "I heard her admitting everything to her friends, so I just... yeah. And the fact she'd spread pictures of you getting fucking assaulted is just disgusting. What the fuck is wrong with her?"

Her voice wavered, the end trailing off.

"But I didn't do it just for you. I had to get her at some point, right? I couldn't keep leaning on you for protection... You spoiled me too much..."

"Idiot," you said, voice thick with anger and love. "You can lean on me whenever the hell you want. And fighting on school grounds means suspension. You know that."

"But… you're doing so good now." Her eyes flicked away, guilt bleeding into her bruised expression. "If you fought her, you'd go back to your old class, right? And you'd lose Kuroo too, because he would've thought you cheated, and that you and Junpei were really a thing…"

You glanced at Kuroo. His gaze had softened.

Guilt curled up his spine like a noose. His jaw clenched.

And then—

"Yo, Y/N! Here's the traitor!"

You looked up.

Kenkiba had Junpei by the collar, dragging him across the gravel like trash to be taken out. His face was bloody, lip split and cheek swelling, eyes blinking in and out of consciousness.

The rest of the gang trailed behind, their steps heavy and filled with intent.

Kenkiba's steps slowed when he saw Emi's face. His eyes widened in horror, and he surged forward.

You stepped aside without thinking, letting him rush to her side.

"Emi! Did Hebinuma do this to you?"

"You should see her face," Emi muttered with a weak chuckle. "But I think I twisted my ankle kicking her. It hurts, Kiba~"

He wrapped his arms around her as she sagged into him, the adrenaline finally fading from her limbs.

Behind them, Taiga grabbed Junpei by the scruff, making him stand up, and turned to Kuroo with a grimace.

"It's a lie, man. Y/N would never do you like that."

You waited.

For Kuroo to speak. To agree. Something.

But he'd gone still.

Too still.

His entire body went tight—shoulders locking, chest rising with slow, heavy breaths. His gaze zeroed in on Junpei like a sniper finding his mark.

And then, in a heartbeat, he moved.

Taiga barely had time to step aside before Kuroo's fist obliterated Junpei's jaw with a sickening crack. Junpei hit the ground like a sack of bones, blood spraying across the gravel.

Taiga and Inuzuka lunged, grabbing Kuroo by the arms, but he broke through—rage-fueled, vicious—just enough to land a savage kick to Junpei's ribs.

"IF YOU EVER FUCKING TOUCH HER AGAIN, I'LL KILL YOU!" Kuroo roared, his voice raw and shaking with fury.

He thrashed in the guy's grip, a storm given human shape. His face was twisted with a rage you'd never seen on him—feral, gut-deep, personal.

"YOU MOTHERFUCKER! TOUCH HER AGAIN, I FUCKING DARE YOU."

"Shit—volleyball nerd is strong, what the hell—" Taiga grunted, half in awe, half in alarm as he struggled to hold him back.

You stood motionless, frozen in place, trembling from the sheer heat of Kuroo's fury. He wasn't the composed, sarcastic genius you knew.

He was rage. Pure and unfiltered.

"Tetsurou-kun."

Inukai-sensei's voice cracked through the chaos like a gunshot.

Taiga flinched and muttered under his breath.

"Holy fuck."

He stepped from the shadows, arms crossed, expression grim.

"Tetsurou-kun, I think that's enough," he said calmly, though his voice carried the weight of command. "No one here wants to see you walk down that path."

He nodded to the boys, and reluctantly, they let Kuroo go.

But he didn't move.

He just stood there—trembling, fists still balled at his sides, sweat dripping from his brow, breathing like he'd just survived a war.

His eyes stayed wide and crazed, locked on Junpei who lay coughing on the ground, like if he looked away for even a second, the bastard would vanish before he could finish the job.

"I think it's safe to say we all have a clear picture of what happened here," Inukai-sensei continued, voice like velvet pulled taut over steel. "But as Y/N said, fighting on school grounds does mean a suspension. I'll take Hebinuma and Shiromaru to the infirmary. Then we'll go to the principal's office."

His gaze softened a shade as it landed on the two of you.

"You two need to talk."

Still, Kuroo didn't speak. Didn't blink.

Just stood there, fury and grief barely leashed under his skin, jaw clenched like he was trying not to break.

Inukai-sensei kneeled to ease a sobbing Hebinuma to her feet and walked off. The gang trailed after him, dragging Junpei's limp body with them.

And just like that—

You and Kuroo were alone again.

Next chapter↪

tags. @themoreeviltwin @taylordenae @rhea-sylvea @iluvikeu @tgnvhp @adangerousbalance @orphicarchive @tammytaamm @iluvmusicxoxo @rvm1ne @kuzoq @espressocandies @ashley95943734 @jayathelostdragon @kyokoyya @crystal-lilac @kuzuven0208 @lblackwood @evilari111 @chaoticotaku @uekarashi @talia-the-gemini

[tinfoil-jones]

In the Jerk Ford verse, how much does Dipper's and Mabel's relationship with Stan's differ compared to the canon verse, since Dipper doesn't idoalize Ford and Stan is more of a normal guy.

Stan and Ford swap places when it comes to which of their niblings gravitate toward them.

Stan diverges greatly from his canon self because he got support for his learning needs early on, and he wasn't treated as the dumb or 'spare' twin; he was the nice twin, the normal twin who had to could reign in his jack*ss of a brother.

He wasn't so much a protector as he was a caretaker, and he carried that role into his adulthood. When he went to Backupsmore with Jerk Ford and Fiddleford, he didn't initially know what he wanted to major in yet because his life had revolved around being a buffer damage control.

At first he shared a lot of core and science classes with Ford, but while Ford had a much more diverse interest in scientific disciplines, Stan found himself more interested in Chemistry.

But Chemistry alone didn't fill this need he had to take care of others the only thing people would ever notice him for, so he minored in Education; in the time it took Ford to get his 12 PhDs, Stan had gotten a PhD in Chemistry (Analytical) and a Masters in Education.

Dipper is closer to Grunkle Stan in the AU because after he saw his parents fight and his knowledge of their impending divorce, he's looking for a stable, and supporting figure in his life to calm his many anxieties.

It's not that Stan and Mabel don't like or love each other; they do! But Stan's so down-to-Earth and responsible that Mabel feels like he couldn't see things from her perspective because her heads up in the clouds. Although he does not judge or discourage her many eccentricities, he doesn't indulge in them with her like he did in canon. And whether or not he meant to, because of his focus on Dipper and his need for support, because Mabel reminded him too much of someone else he invertedly made her feel a little bit isolated, like Dipper in canon.

Her new ‘grunkle’ shows up and he’s… nothing like her Grunkle Stan. He’s so mean to everyone except for Grunkle Stan! He’s been like this his entire life, too- her Grandpa Shermie had always told her and Dipper to never mention or ask about him, like he was a cursed figure that grew in strength and nightmarish influence if you said his name enough times, like Bloody Mary or Candyman.

And though Dipper dislikes him as soon as they find out he's The Author, Mabel is more inclined to hear people out than her brother is, and tries to understand Jerk Ford or at least see what Grunkle Stan means when he says that his brother isn't some unfeeling monster, he just has a hard time showing people that he cares.

There's an energy and zeal with Jerk Ford that resonates with Mabel; he's been called mean, weird, petty and a freak, but he never gets in line with how society tells him he's supposed to act, he doesn't let other people dictate who or what he is.

He doesn't think she's too silly for her age.

And yes, he is really mean for no discernable reason, he doesn't let her or Dipper near his science stuff or take them on his mystery science missions (not that it stopped Mabel), and when he goes out with them in public he insists on using this on them:

(No amount of "We're twelve years old almost thirteen not two, you can't do this to us" stops him. Dipper thinks he does it to publicly embarrass him. Soos jokes he's been out of the dimension for so long he doesn't remember age appropriate child care)

But then he broke his arm and several of his ribs catching her and Dipper when the monument they were on was blown up by Gideon during mayoral elections (she saw Jerk Ford sprint out of the tree line to catch them, but he insists he just happened to be standing there and they fell on him). She knows he later used some kind of broken bone serum on himself to heal those breaks, but he still let her put a cast on his arm and decorate it with stickers and glitter to her hearts content, although he loudly complained about it the whole time.

She doesn't notice her brother stew in resentment over how Jerk Ford, who he hates, got the unconditionally supportive twin when he sucks SO BAD.

It was a bit of a gut punch for her when she went into Dippers bubble "Dipville" and saw his ideal Mabel, May-Thereal, is a super-enlightened and put together version of her.

[art by @tearosepedall]

[deadchannelradio]

as that post said i HATE "gotham is cursed" as a copout but mostly i just wish they would do more interesting stuff with it and not just blame Everything on it. gotham is cursed does not explain petty crime or homelessness or inequality or poverty.

what i like to think, which lets me weaponize the metanarrative, is that gotham is a city that is trying to tell a story. its been trying to tell the same story for a very long time, since whenever was the day that it was given the power to tell a story. and there have been batman-adjacent figures throughout history. It's changed over time, as society changes, as people change, but at it's core it's the same figure, the same story, the same pattern, becoming more and more extreme as it went, because once you raise the stakes in a story you have to keep raising them. Perhaps Bruce was the first one to name that figure/archetype, but he was in the same rut as the rest of them. He was burning himself out, he was going to die- he's said as such himself! and so the city needed to make a new character to take up the mantle of that archetype in order to keep telling the story.

and so, just as it ate the waynes, it ate the graysons. but for the first time since time immemorial the boy who fell into the rut climbed back out of it and he climbed out as something different.

dick does not succumb to the same thing that ate bruce, that ate the previous batmen! Dick becomes something so totally different. the puppetry here REALLY sells it. it's like. robin genuinely feels like a faerie. he's this bright shining laughing gleeful thing in an otherwise miserable story. jason's "robin gives me magic". robin doesn't really always feel like a child. he feels like a leprechaun or a poltergeist people keep calling him the light to batman's darkness and it's true! He changes the story fundamentally. patterns shift light starts eating back at the darkness that's been slowly consuming the story. And he gets older, he changes, he's not static in the way that everyone else is. the city now NEEDS robin in a way it has always wanted but never needed a batman, because dick grayson knocks the story completely offkilter. he cleaves the story to him. but then he starts leaving. that's terrifying for the city, that's terrifying for bruce. what if he doesn't come back. it does things to reel him back in but he keeps moving and changing and shifting in ways that the story isn't prepared for- people love him too much. the story isn't supposed to be about him. robin gets cast out of gotham as a punishment for leaving. for changing. for growing.

this doesn't work out, and now nothing is the same. the city builds a new Robin. it isn't ever the same as it was. it tries new things with jason, new plots, new stakes, raising them to the point where Jason dies. things just arent the same. they need dick grayson to come back. and so it puts another child in batmans care, because robin ensures that Dick Grayson will come back.

but the thing is is that Robin is not Gotham's. Robin came from far away but it needs him and then it lost him. And it keeps trying to replace him and nothing satisfies because robin is the name a mother gave her son very far away from there. and so it can't control robin and it can't control the story. robin chews these mfs up and spits them back out. robin eats at the story it's been trying to tell since the beginning. anyways there isn't fully a point to this i just find it as a useful tool to explain the soft and hard resets and how the timeline is so strange in gotham. the city is trying to write a story and frustrating itself when the characters don't play along or when it decides, like most writers, that it hates a plotline halfway through and scraps it. it can never make the characters fully play along with the narrative because it's a city. it doesn't understand people. it's never been a person. it can't understand or fully predict how people will react. it's trying anyway. and the stakes keep getting higher.

[lyrakanefanaticwriting]

heheheheheheh…… 😈😈😈

IF YOU SUBMITTED AN ASK IM SORRY BUT I SCROLLED DOWN AND I THINK THIS WAS MY OLDEST??? idk but i wanna do it from oldest to newest so as not to let anybody die from boredom as they wait eons and eons for my fics to come out LMAO

but here it isssss

Jealous Encounters

————————————————————————

“Last one.”

The woman’s voice is commanding, yet kind as she snaps the last photo of Lyra, Brady, Rohan, Savannah, and, as the photographer called him, Grayson, the “big intrigue”. After the first phase of the game, the remaining contestants were expected to do one small photoshoot, just to give paparazzi something to “chew on” as the game commences.

Alisa’s words, certainly not Lyra’s.

Lyra walked towards the exit, feeling both silly and uncomfortable in her all white outfit that the contestants all had to match in. But, as Grayson told her, it was just 5 photos.

Speaking of Grayson, he had went off to speak with Alisa about 5 minutes ago and hadn’t returned. Where was he?

Not that Lyra was entirely concerned. He’s an adult, Lyra told herself, and it’s not like he belongs to you, so don’t try and put a leash on him.

Still, her eyes made a quick search across the room and was disappointed when she saw the other contestants, Avery, Xander, Nash, and the photographer, but not him. Lyra’s shoulders tensed slightly.

“Looking for someone?” Lyra jumped slightly as a teasing voice spoke up from beside her. She turned her head to see Jameson Hawthorne and his cheshire cat grin staring back at her. Lyra couldn’t help the slightest sneer from making its way onto her lips.

“No.” she said, turning away. Frustration pulled in her chest, but Lyra reminded herself that being petty towards the Hawthorne’s would get her nothing, that Jameson Hawthorne was merely curious.

But somehow, whenever he became curious towards Lyra, it was only where Grayson was involved. He gave a mere shrug.

“Just checking.” he said, the smile still on his face. Then he pulled a little folded up sheet of paper out of his sleeve.

“I know Alisa said that this photoshoot was going to be it for PR until the game commences, but she had one last favour to ask of you.” Jameson said, handing the folded up sheet to Lyra. Lyra’s brows furrowed as she unfolded the paper and read its contents. Then, in the span of about 10 seconds, her jaw dropped.

“She’s making us run errands?” Lyra sneered, casting her thunder-stricken gaze upon Jameson. Jameson took a step backwards, lifting his hands up in defense.

“Her orders, not mine. And it’s just so we can finish up this whole for-the-press-photoshoot as quickly as possible.” he replied, and Lyra could tell that he was trying his best not to laugh. Lyra herself was trying her best not to scream at him, but yelling at a game master generally wasn’t the smartest idea.

“Go to editing room and tell the temp. “Alisa said send them out tonight?”” Lyra gritted out, reading the note. Jameson shrugged. She gave him a dead stare.

“Why,” she said, speaking slowly so as not to lose her temper, “does she need me to do this?” Jameson looked like he was holding back a smile, just barely, and Lyra’s stare only got deadlier.

“We were cutting it close on time when it came to these photoshoots, so the editing team needs to be done with the photos tonight.” he explained. Lyra sighed, before stomping away from him. Screw Jameson Hawthorne and his lawyer, she thought stubbornly, as she made her way to the editing room.

Throwing the door open with more than a little annoyance, Lyra walked inside, before calling out. “Temp?” Was all she said, frustration clear in her voice.

“That’s me.” Came an oddly familiar male voice. Lyra turned her head to the side, and her eyes widened immediately.

Any anger from before had been replaced with shock, because standing there, fidgeting slightly with a pen, was Brandyn, her ex from high school.

Lyra’s mind screamed a stream of curses.

But Lyra herself just gave a tight-lipped and confused smile.

“Brandyn?” she asked. He smiled back.

“Lyra. I was wondering how you’ve been doing these past few years.” he replied. Lyra tried her hardest not to make a face. It was hard to view Brandyn with a positive outlook, even when she knew he didn’t treat her all bad.

He gave her chocolates and flowers.

He’d lay under the stars with her and they’d talk about anything they liked.

He treated her decently… in private.

But in public? It was like he hardly knew her. Everybody was shocked when Lyra said she started dating him in late freshman year.

And yet the relationship ended before sophomore year even started.

He was simply too cold to her in front of others. He made her keep the relationship a secret for weeks on end, wouldn’t post her on any social media, and let his friends talk about her in terrible ways.

That last one is how she knew their relationship wasn’t saveable.

Lyra and her friends had been in the library one day, when she overhead Brandyn talking to his best friend, Jonah. Lyra hated Jonah, but Brandyn always reassured her that he was actually a really nice person.

Which, of course, was a lie, because the things he said about Lyra to Brandyn were disgusting.

He talked about the size of her thighs, her “cockiness”, and how he felt sorry for Brandyn that he had to settle for her. And what did Brandyn do?

He laughed. Not only that, but he agreed.

And that was the end of that.

“Lyra?” Brandyn’s voice brought her back to the present, and Lyra couldn’t stop a hard look from entering her eyes as she looked at him. That always happened when she got defensive.

He was about to say something else, probably about how they should “catch up sometime soon”, when Lyra cut him off.

“Alisa wanted me to tell you that the photos needed to be sent out tonight.” Lyra said. Her voice wasn’t angry, miraculously, but instead cold. Detached. And Lyra was glad for it. But still, Brandyn tilted his head at her.

“You’ve changed quite a bit. I mean, you really matured.” He told her. Lyra froze. Matured? Lyra faked a laugh.

“Was I not mature before?” she asked him. Brandyn laughed back.

“You were, but you’ve just grown.” he replied. Then he fixed his gaze on her, his eyes intruding. “And you’ve definitely gotten prettier.”

Lyra’s stomach dropped at those 5 words.

She did not want to be seen as pretty by a guy like Brandyn. She didn’t want to be seen by him at all. Brandyn was, in a word, pathetic, and she needed to get out of this room before he tried to restart whatever shit relationship they had dropped in freshman year.

Lyra was about to spew some excuse about how she “forgot that Alisa had something urgent to tell her once she came back”, when the door to the editing room suddenly opened.

Lyra turned around and saw Grayson walk in. She let out a breath.

“Lyra, Avery and Alisa need us to print out the before photos to compare and contrast.” Grayson deadpanned. Something about his tone told Lyra that he too didn’t like being sent out on these errands. Lyra took a step towards him, and, although she didn’t want to admit it, felt relieved that he was there. Brandyn was starting to tip-toe to subjects that Lyra didn’t want to reach, subjects about relationships, and Lyra needed somebody by her.

Especially if that somebody was Grayson.

She felt her stomach start to untwist as she walked closer to him. “Alright,” Lyra said with a half shrug. Her shoulders tensed one last time when she turned around to face Brandyn again.

“Bye, Brandyn.” Lyra said, not wanting to give him any false promises of “catching up soon” when that was the last thing in the world she wanted to do. He gave her a smile, too wide for her liking, and stared at her with those eyes of his that hung on her and followed her every movement. A lump grew in Lyra’s throat.

“See ya, Lyra.” Brandyn said. Lyra folded her arms over her stomach as she walked away, trying her best to make her face unreadable. And yet when she looked at Grayson, she knew he could see right through her. He held the door open for her, and Lyra walked out of the room, faster than she had ever walked out of a room in her life.

She kept a quicker pace than Grayson, but his legs were longer than Lyra’s, so he caught up immediately. They stayed silent at first as they walked side by side, and it was like that all the way down each and every single hall, until they reached an office. Grayson opened the door for her, before walking in himself and shutting the door behind him. Lyra let out a breath once she realized that Grayson must not have noticed the awkward tension between her and Brandyn, before he spoke.

“Brandyn.” he said suddenly. Lyra froze, her hand just about to reach out to the printer.

“Hm?” she said, turning around to look at him. Grayson wasn’t looking at her, as he typed something up on the computer in the office. His voice was as simple as possible, but his expressions were anything but that.

Grayson’s jaw was taut; every muscle im his face was rigid and currently hard as stone, and when Grayson typed, his movements were quick and borderline aggressive. Lyra raised a brow at him, curiosity rising in her.

“You’re on first name basis with the temp?” He said, his voice still in that detached and simple tone. Lyra looked away from him.

“We knew each other in high school. We were…” she trailed off. She really didn’t want to talk about what her and Brandyn were. “Friends.” Her words sounded lame and like a lie to her own ears, but Lyra didn’t care.

“But you don’t like him.” Grayson said. Something about his words seemed less like an observation, and more like an order. Lyra turned to him again.

“What?” She said, her brows furrowing. He finally looked at her.

“You don’t like him. And I’d be willing to bet on the fact that you hate him. Why?” He repeated, raising a brow at her. Lyra looked away again, pretending to press the buttons on the printer when Grayson hadn’t even sent the files to the printer yet.

“He’s just….” she trailed off, swallowing. “He’s an ex. From high school.” Out of the corner of her eye, Grayson went oddly still. Stiller than she’d ever seen him. But only for a moment, before his fingers were typing again.

“Ah.” Was all he said. But she could tell his mind was elsewhere. She turned to him.

“What is it, Grayson?” Lyra asked him, placing her hands on her hips. He glanced at her, and Lyra told herself that she was just imagining the way his gaze trailed over the hands on her waist before snapping to her eyes.

“What is what?” he asked her curtly, the look from just a moment ago gone. She rolled her eyes.

“You have something to say, Hawthorne. So say it.” she continued, gesturing with her hands for him to go on. He finally kept his gaze on her, not going back and forth from the computer to her eyes, and just stared.

Being under Grayson Hawthorne’s gaze was a curse and a blessing all at once, as it made two different sides of her fight for victory; the reasoning voice in her head would be begging Lyra to interrupt the moment, to do anything to tear his eyes away from her, meanwhile the part of Lyra that made her feelings towards Grayson much more complicated told Lyra to hold her breath, to stay still, to drag the moment on longer so that Grayson could keep those icy blue eyes of his on her.

Lyra hated the latter because it always won.

Finally, after the moment dragged on longer and longer, Grayson stood up.

“What did this ‘Brandyn’ character do, exactly, to make you feel so uncomfortable around him?” he finally said. Lyra’s body tensed. So he had noticed. She faked nonchalance. (Authors Note: yes i did write that with a grin on my face and depending on who’s reading it (whoevers brain is rotted like mine) u probably read it with a grin on ur face 🤨🤨)

“He’s an ex, Grayson. I’m not going to act all buddy-buddy around him.” she explained, the lie vague but luckily quick. He walked towards her, crossing his arms in a gallant manner, of course.

“If you’re going to lie, at least come up with a more believable one.” he told her. Lyra’s shoulders slumped slightly, and she gave him a look.

“Well… he was just an ass. That’s all.” she explained, looking away.

“That’s all?” he asked.

“That’s all.”

There was silence, and Lyra thought that was the end of it as he finally walked back over to the computer and clicked something. Lyra turned to the printer once she heard a beep, and realized she finally received the file from Grayson containing the pictures. She began to print it, when he spoke again.

“Lyra.” Was all he said, his voice taking on a tone she had never heard before. It was Grayson’s same swift way of speaking—except there was an edge to it. Lyra turned to him. He turned to her, and walked over to her. He was a mere couple of inches away from her in just 2 paces.

“I won’t ask you for anything, and if I can promise you this, I swear I never will again.” he started, his head dipped as he looked at her with an intensity that seemed to be radiating off his entire body. “But you just need to tell me this one thing.” Lyra was shocked. She didn’t expect him to care this much.

“Why does it matter?” she asked him, avoiding the question, as well as his eyes. His pupils dilated.

“It matters.” Was all he said. Lyra’s gaze snapped back to his, her chest rising and falling with every second that they spent staring, before finally speaking.

“We dated late freshman year.” she started. “I didn’t know him too well, but I had heard from some girls in my science class that he liked me. We started talking, and after that, began to date. It wasn’t too bad at first. It was sweet. He brought me flowers and chocolates on my birthday. But afterwards…” Lyra reminded herself she needed to get through this story as quickly as possible. The quicker she finished, the less time Grayson spent silently scheming against Brandyn in his head.

“Afterwards, he was cold. Distant. And, pretty clearly, embarrassed of me.” Lyra continued, shrugging. “One day, I was with my friends in the library when I overheard Brandyn talking to his best friend. The things they said about me…. well, they were pretty disgusting. Brandyn’s friend kept commenting on my legs, how he thought they were fat, that I was fat, and that Brandyn “must have been going crazy when he decided to date me because, after seeing my body, nobody in the right mind would ever even come close to me.” And Brandyn didn’t defend me. He didn’t say a single word in my defense. All he did was laugh, and say, “You’re so right”.” Lyra went still, and saw that Grayson did too. She said too much. All she could have said was that Brandyn’s friend talked shit about her and she was done with his behaviour. But instead, she told him things that, aside from the girls who were with her at the library, nobody else knew.

But when she looked at Grayson, there was no embarrassment, or awkwardness in his eyes. Only a quiet rage.

“Did you believe it?” he asked her. “What his friend said—did you believe it?” Lyra looked down.

“I wasn’t even 16 yet. People at that age can be easily influenced.” Lyra said, turning her head away from him so that Grayson wouldn’t see how badly those words had stung, how they clung to her skin for weeks and made her feel repulsive each and every time she even glanced at a mirror. But she knew that Grayson would be able to read every thought of hers with or without seeing her face, so she turned to him and gave his angry eyes a firm shake of her head.

“Don’t, Grayson.” she told him firmly, latching a hand onto his arm to capture his attention. His eyes flung to hers immediately, the anger in them having subsided slightly, yet was still there.

“Don’t what?” he bit out, his voice tittering on a dangerous edge. She narrowed his eyes at him.

“Don’t plan his downfall in your head. It was the ninth grade. And besides, he didn’t say that. His friend did.”

“But he agreed.” Grayson rebuked, and Lyra could see him trying to grapple with a calm feeling that he in no way looked. She gave him a look.

“Grayson. I’ll admit, he makes me a little bit uncomfortable now. But I know better than to hold somebody accountable for their actions from when they were barely 15. Let this go,” she told him. “Please.”

Grayson’s eyes widened slightly at her plead, and his jaw tensed. In fact, every muscle in his body looked tense and terribly rigid. There was utter silence for a good 10 seconds, before Grayson gave a slight nod, and, with rigid movements, walked back over to the computer. Lyra let out a sigh as she watched Grayson rip a piece of paper out of his pocket with aggressive movements. Someone’s still not over it, she thought. Then she watched him unfold the paper, read it’s contents, and start typing again. Lyra frowned.

“More orders from Alisa?” Lyra asked Grayson, desperate to change the topic and curious as to what he was doing. He glanced at her.

“Unfortunately.” he said. Lyra watched him type, wanting to interrupt the silence but also not wanting to address why the silence was even there in the first place. She didn’t understand why Grayson was getting so worked up over it—why he would hit the keys on the keyboard much more aggressively than usual, why the silent anger in his eyes was so prominent, why those eyes of his only got darker and angrier every time she mentioned Brandyn’s name. It just didn’t make sense.

Lyra turned around to sort through the papers that had been printing, arranging them from which one she remembered to have been taken of her first to the one she remembered to have been taken of her last. The topic of Brandyn was almost forgotten.

Almost.

“Lyra.” Grayson’s voice was so sudden, so sharp, that Lyra didn’t expect it. She turned to him.

“Yes?” she asked him. He didn’t meet her gaze.

“This…. Brandyn.” Grayson spoke his name with so much disdain that Lyra had to hold back a snort. “What made you even like him in the first place, considering his cowardly choices?” Lyra’s eyes narrowed, and she walked over to Grayson. He had his head hung, his eyes glued onto the computer as he did a half-crouch in front of it. Lyra stopped a mere few inches away from him, ignoring the tingling feeling that was settling in her stomach, and gave him a look from where she was standing. Grayson, having finally looked at her, stood up as well, regaining some height on her. He dipped his head down to meet her gaze the same way she was lifting her head up to meet his.

“Why does this matter to you Grayson?” she demanded, jabbing a finger at him. He crossed his arms, and Lyra crossed hers, raising a brow at him with a facial expression that could only be interpreted as go on, Hawthorne. He held her gaze.

“I don’t like him,” he finally admitted in a low voice. Lyra’s eyebrows shot up. “I don’t like how he treated you, and I don’t like how he continues to treat you. And anyway, I’m just curious I suppose.” He gave a half shrug, but there was nothing simple about the movement. Lyra’s mind hung on a part of his sentence.

“How he…. continues to treat me?” she repeated, meeting Grayson’s gaze. “What do you mean?” Grayson looked caught off guard for the slightest moment, before his expressions became neutral and much more dangerous. He stayed silent for a moment, before his facial expression shifted, turning into something unreadable.

“Do you see how he looks at you?” Grayson asked her. Lyra did see how he looked at her, but just gave him a small shake of her head. His jaw tightened.

“He looks at you like you’re just an object he can possess at any given time. Like you’re always going to be an option for him, and he can treat you however he wants because of it. I saw that look in his eyes. He thinks of you a certain way, and because of your… history with him, you must think of him the same.” Grayson said, his voice low with hostility and something else, something distant. “Isn’t that right?” Lyra froze. Maybe she hadn’t really had the time to think about it…. but that was right. That, combined with how his friend had talked about her a couple years back, was why she was so uncomfortable around him. She met his eyes, and she didn’t even have to say a word before he was nodding, like he saw how she knew he was right. He turned to the computer again.

“Now, my question remains unanswered: what was the appeal, Lyra?” he asked her, the hostility in his voice gone. Lyra bristled.

“Back to making demands, are you?” she asked, her tone thick with pettiness. He looked at her, the look full of annoyance. Lyra returned it. Then, he sighed.

“Please.” he deadpanned. Lyra glared at him, but spoke nonetheless.

“I don’t know, Grayson. He was sweet, and he cared for me.” Lyra explained. Grayson froze, before slowly meeting her gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he asked her, his voice cold and annoyed, “but did you just say you dated Brandyn because he was sweet and cared for you?” Lyra’s temper flared.

“I did. What about it?” she asked, placing her hands on her hips. Grayson gave her a blank stare.

“Those are pretty entry level requirements to dating somebody.” He gritted out, his patience clearly running out. Lyra threw her hands up in the air, as hers was as well.

“Well, that doesn’t make it any less meaningful. I know he’s an ass now. But at the beginning of the relationship, he was kind. And yes, he did care for me. Where else would I find that kind of affection as a 15 year old?” she asked him. Grayson gave her an unimpressed look.

“Perhaps from a house pet? Or a bank teller? He gave you the bare minimum and lower, Lyra.” he said, crossing his arms. Lyra rolled her eyes, but she knew he was right. Brandyn did treat her terribly, and was only decent to her at times she viewed as the “height of their relationship”.

“Well don’t you have a lot to say about my relationships.” Lyra said, looking away so he didn’t see the shame written on her face. She thought he was about to say something, when a text message notification sounded from his phone. He went to check it, and his jaw tightened.

“Alisa wants you to deliver the photographs to the temp.” he said, disdain dripping into his voice at those last two words. Lyra took the printed photos, squaring her shoulders and mentally preparing herself to survive another encounter with Brandyn, when Grayson stood up.

“I can deliver them for you.” Grayson told her cooly, yet something about his tone told Lyra that that was less of a suggestion and more of an order. Lyra gave him a look.

“No, Grayson.” she said. He raised a brow.

“Why not?” he asked. She huffed.

“Because you’re going to hold how he treated me in the ninth grade against him.” Grayson paused.

“I might. But only if he starts acting like an ass, which, from what I’ve seen and heard, won’t take long.” he reasoned. Lyra crossed her arms, striding up to him.

“For some reason, I don’t believe that.” she told him. Grayson raised a brow at her, stepping closer and sending shivers down Lyra’s spine from just the way his eyes held hers and how he was backing her closer and closer to the wall behind her. She let her eyes drift to his lips—but only for a second.

She’d kissed those lips before. And she hated how much she’d liked it.

“Well, it’s what he deserves.” Grayson said in a low voice. If he’d noticed the way Lyra’s eyes had previously darted to his lips, he didn’t comment on it. Lyra pressed her lips into a thin line to stop her brains crude thoughts.

“Why can’t you just let it go?” she asked him. The question was getting repetitive, but she needed to know. And, as the moment dragged on longer and longer, she really needed to know. He stepped closer to her, his face a mere few inches away from hers. His pupils dilated at the movement, and he tilted his head downwards more to meet her gaze. There was silence, before finally he spoke.

“Because nobody gets to treat you like how he treated you.” he spoke, the words low and quiet. Lyra couldn’t hide the slightest look of shock from tainting her features, and she prayed that he couldn’t hear her heart that was currently thumping out of her chest. Now her back was fully pressed against the wall. Breathe, Lyra, one side of her mind instructed her, whereas the other seemed to be repeating Come a little closer Grayson like a mantra.

Her cheeks flushed once she realized she was staring.

She knew she had to say something, so she spoke.

“Nobody, hm?” Lyra said, bringing her face even closer to his. She didn’t know what she was doing; it was like an unholy force had taken over her, as she took a hand and brought it to rest on his shoulder. Grayson’s pupils dilated at the touch, and his hands flexed at his sides before he stilled them. She glanced at them before her eyebrows raised slightly. There was something self restraining about Grayson’s movement, and Lyra realized that he was trying to be in control.

But this time, instead of him constantly trying to control a narrative, Lyra realized he was trying to keep himself under control.

Lyra met his gaze, her heart thumping in her chest at her prior realization. Suddenly Lyra was moving, her face coming closer to his with slow, hesitant movements, and Grayson came even closer, almost closing the space between them. Finally letting his hands unclench, he pulled her forward, and before Lyra could realize what was going on, he was kissing her. It was everything like their last kiss, but at the same time, it was nothing like their last kiss. The desire was still there, telling Lyra to deepen the kiss, to drag the moment on longer, but then there was something else, something rawer that came in the feeling of a deep and aching want. She didn’t know how badly she wanted to kiss Grayson Hawthorne until she was doing it. They separated for a moment, Grayson pulling back to look at Lyra with eyes a dark thundercloud grey, before Lyra wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him back down to her lips.

She knew this was wrong. She knew that he was a Hawthorne, and she was somebody who couldn’t and shouldn’t be affiliated with a Hawthorne. But her pounding heart was blocking out any and all of those thoughts as Grayson deepened the kiss, pressing Lyra’s back against the wall as he did. Suddenly, he was sliding kisses down her jaw, before his lips were moving to the space below her ear and he-

Both Lyra and Grayson froze as the door to the office opened.

Lyra’s eyes focused on the person in the doorway, and she had to physically hold back a groan when she realized who it was. Brandyn.

Grayson was about to step away from her, when Lyra grabbed his collar and pulled his lips back down to hers. Grayson seemed hesitant, before Lyra muttered the word “Brandyn”, and then he was kissing her back, sliding his hands down her shoulders to grip her waist. With every brush of his lips, Lyra was no longer sure if she had kissed Grayson Hawthorne to scare Brandyn off, or if she had kissed him because kissing Grayson Hawthorne was addicting.

A part of Lyra was sure it was the latter.

After a moment, the door to the office reopened, before shutting again.

Lyra counted in her head the amount of time it took Grayson to separate. 7 beats, and then his lips were parting from hers, and he lifted his head to look at her.

Lyra had never wanted to be able to see images in her head as badly as she did now, to cherish and hold to memory Grayson’s now tousled hair, his dilated pupils, the bit of Lyra’s lipstick that was smeared on the corner of his lip. Lyra brought her finger to it, and wiped her lipstick off his lips before meeting his gaze again. Her chest was heaving like she’d ran, and Grayson’s was doing the same, except Grayson was trying much harder to fake the idea that he was still in control, like he hadn’t lost himself earlier with every brush of his lips on Lyra’s.

She’d felt it then, and she knew that Grayson knew she felt it now.

There was silence for another couple of moments, before Grayson spoke.

“Seems like that temp is going to keep his distance from now on.” Grayson said, giving her a thrill once she heard how husky and deep his voice was. Lyra’s lips pulled themselves into the slightest smile.

“I mean, we did scare him off.” Lyra said, tilting her head at him. He gave her a smile, one that was wolfish and teasing and oh so gorgeous that Lyra’s heart stopped. She was about to say something, when Grayson got a text. He checked his phone, before the smile broadened. Lyra was caught off guard; Grayson smiling a smile like the one he currently had on his face was a surprise, but certainly not the bad kind.

“Temp’s gone on break, send the photos to Landon.” he read out. Lyra couldn’t hold back a laugh. They really had scared him off. She grabbed the photos from atop the printer and held them out to Grayson, holding his eyes.

“You’ll do the honours?” she asked him, the tingling in her lips still present. He looked at her, and Lyra knew she would be content to just have him give her those looks all day long. They were addicting for reasons that Lyra wasn’t quite sure of. Then he took the papers from her, his fingers brushing hers with an electricity that coursed through her body.

He kept his eyes on her as he spoke, and Lyra could hardly even remember a time where Brandyn had existed.

“With pleasure.”

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ummmm this was so long im sorry LMAO but damnnn i loved this request thank u sm @haniya1234 for sending the ask!!!