#he was a danger to the students and faculty

[writingpandagoth]

Good Evening,

I absolutely love your work and wanted to ask if you have heard of the fan fiction writing topic called Hanahaki Disease? I’ve never seen a take with Severus Snape x reader. I’m wondering if you’d be interested writing this scenario. The reader has hanahaki because she is falling in love with Severus Snape. Something emotionally intense but with a happy ending. Let me know what you think?

Have a blessed day!

The way I SCREAMED when I read your request!!

I absolutely love the Hanahaki Disease storylines!

This was soo much fun to write I hope it makes somehow sense and you enjoy!❤️

Breath Between Blossoms

The war had left behind a quiet sort of devastation. Not the explosive kind, but something heavier—like dust on furniture long untouched. And in the wake of that silence, Hogwarts reopened, a little more fractured, a little more solemn, but still standing.

So were you.

You arrived in September with a battered suitcase and a new title: Professor. Defense Against the Dark Arts, to be specific—though you weren’t sure the title fit. You’d fought, yes. You’d survived. But teaching? That felt more dangerous than battle some days.

You weren’t expecting friendship, least of all from him.

Severus Snape was already a legend of sorts—half myth, half ghost. He had died, they said. Or nearly. Then come back. A hero, in quiet terms. The sort of man whose bravery was discussed in low voices, always followed by “but he’s still a bastard.”

And he was. But not to you.

Not at first, anyway.

It started with shared silence. Faculty meetings where you’d both sit at the far end of the table, offering no more than a nod. You didn’t try to make conversation. He didn’t try to avoid you. That was the extent of it—until the staff lounge incident.

You were grading essays late—curse theory, dry and full of teenage arrogance—when Snape walked in, a book in one hand and a tea mug in the other. He stopped mid-step, clearly not expecting company.

You offered a stiff smile. “I’ll leave.”

He raised a brow. “It’s a communal space, not my personal sanctuary.”

You blinked at him. He crossed the room and sat.

The silence that followed was… companionable, in an odd way. Two people existing in the same space without demand. A rare thing.

That became routine. You didn’t plan it. But somehow, every Wednesday evening, you both ended up there. Him with his tea and endless volumes on obscure magical theory. You with your essays and a tendency to mutter insults at poorly-written arguments.

The first time you made him laugh, you thought you'd imagined it.

One of your students had written that “the best way to deal with a Boggart was to hit it with a chair.” You said it aloud without thinking.

From the other side of the room: a short, startled huff. Almost a laugh.

You looked up. Snape’s lips twitched as he turned a page.

“Creative,” he murmured. “If deeply stupid.”

Your smile lingered longer than it should have.

It took weeks before the rhythm turned into real conversation. He was guarded, yes, but not unkind. He asked questions. Sharp ones. Listened closely to your answers. He never offered compliments, but sometimes he would pause after something you said, eyes narrowing slightly—like he was impressed but too stubborn to say so.

And you found yourself seeking those pauses.

You started noticing things. The way he drank his tea—too strong, no sugar. The faint streaks of silver in his hair. The way his voice softened slightly when discussing certain students, though he’d deny it if asked.

You caught yourself lingering outside the dungeons after staff meetings, hoping he might walk with you. Sometimes he did. Most times he didn’t. But the few times he did, you felt it.

The shift.

And it scared you.

Because somewhere between sarcastic commentary and side-eyed glances, between library arguments and quiet tea, your admiration grew roots. And roots, you knew, were dangerous things.

The night it truly hit you was unremarkable, at least on the surface. You had been complaining about a seventh-year who tried to use a Stunning Spell during a practical on disarming charms. Snape had rolled his eyes and said,

“At least he didn’t hit you with a chair.”

You laughed, loud, real. And he smiled—barely, but it was there.

It was small. It was everything.

Later that night, you couldn’t sleep. Your chest ached in a way that wasn’t quite physical. It wasn’t anxiety. It wasn’t fear. It was…

Love. Quiet. Blooming.

You sat up in bed, hand pressed to your heart—and coughed.

It was soft at first, but relentless. You staggered to your bathroom, thinking maybe you’d caught a cold, maybe the castle’s chill had finally sunk in.

You barely registered the wetness on your lip before you looked down.

A single white petal sat in your palm. Frilled edges, delicate veins. It glistened faintly in the candlelight.

No.

Your blood ran cold. You coughed again. A second petal joined the first.

No, no, no.

Hanahaki.

You’d heard of it. Everyone had. A tragic curse, a romantic horror story. Flowers blooming in lungs, fed by one-sided love. Slow and painful. Sometimes curable. Often fatal.

You told yourself it was a fluke. Maybe a transfigured ingredient from your classroom. Maybe a prank from a student. Maybe—

But you knew.

In the silence of your quarters, with flower petals in your hand and Severus Snape’s face in your mind, you knew.

You were in love.

And it was going to kill you.

—

Severus didn’t change much after the war. His sharp tongue remained, his silences just as heavy but around you, something had begun to shift. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t sudden. It was in the small things—his dry quips softened at the edges, his voice lowering when he asked after your day, his willingness to listen without biting back.

He brought you tea once after a staff meeting left you with a migraine. He didn’t comment when you looked at him longer than you meant to, only tilted his head slightly, like he was used to being observed but not minding this time. He began co-teaching a few sixth-year lessons, and even when you were certain he could’ve done other things, he didn’t seem to mind helping you. If anything, he waited for you to ask him again.

It was the kind of friendship that crept up without permission. Gentle, unspoken, steady. And every quiet laugh, every shared glance across the staff table, made it worse.

The petals began to come faster.

At first, you’d only cough at night, smothering the sound into a pillow, hand shaking as you wiped away pale, delicate petals. But it didn’t take long before the disease became bolder, less willing to wait. Soon you were stifling coughs during your lectures, casting quick cleaning spells beneath your desk. You carried handkerchiefs charmed to dissolve evidence. You stopped wearing light-colored clothing.

The flowers were no longer soft things. They tore their way out now—thicker, bruised at the edges, stained with blood. Each time you saw Severus, they grew more twisted. Each small kindness from him was another root tightening inside you.

But you didn’t want to stop seeing him.

You still passed him in the halls, nodded in your usual way. You still sat beside him at staff meetings when you could manage it, tried to hold steady when his knee brushed against yours beneath the table. You joined him once more in the staff lounge, though you avoided his eyes most of the time, afraid he might see too much.

You told yourself you could manage it. That it wasn’t as bad as it felt.

One evening, alone in your quarters, you staggered to the bathroom and caught your reflection in the mirror. Your skin was too pale. Your lips had lost their color. You pressed your palms to the sink just as the fit began—your body wrenching forward, mouth spilling petals into porcelain.

Blood followed.

You dropped to your knees and gasped for breath, feeling the burn along your ribs as if the flowers were curling into bone. When it passed, you stayed there a long time, cheek pressed to the cold tile, too exhausted to cry.

You hadn’t told a soul.

The next day, Severus handed you a worn copy of Advanced Hex Theory and said, in that low voice of his, that a recent lecture of yours reminded him of a passage. You took the book with trembling hands and smiled too brightly. He blinked at you, as if trying to place the shift in your expression, the tightness in your shoulders.

You turned quickly, walking away, but a cough burst free before you could make it to the stairs. You covered it with a fake laugh.

“Wrong tea leaf this morning,” you offered. “Choked on it.”

“You’re ill,” he said, not unkindly, but flatly. Observing. As if the fact had just landed for him.

“No. Just tired.” You forced another smile. “Hogwarts air is practically toxic. I’m adjusting.”

He watched you for a second too long, something unreadable in his eyes.

You didn’t wait for a reply.

You lasted another week before you went to Madam Pomfrey.

She took one look at you and her face fell. She didn’t need to ask. The petals in your hand said enough.

“Oh, my dear…”

“Please,” you whispered. “Don’t tell anyone.”

She was summoning diagnostic spells with barely controlled urgency. When the spell's green glow passed over your chest, she sucked in a breath.

“I need you to promise me.”

A long silence.

“It’s spread quite a lot,” she said quietly, almost afraid to confirm it aloud. She sighed. “I’ll do what I can to slow it. But you must understand—if this continues, and he does not return your feelings…”

“I know,” you said. You didn’t cry. You were too tired to cry.

“You need help. Rest won't help. You need to tell—”

“I’m not telling Severus.” Your voice cracked like dry glass.

Her gaze sharpened. “So it is him.”

You didn’t answer but you didn't have to.

She gave you a strong suppressants. Spoke in a gentler tone than usual.

“You’re running out of time. If you won’t confess, you must consider surgical extraction.”

You whispered, “I can’t lose the feeling.”

Even if it was killing you, it was still yours. Still real.

Pomfrey didn’t argue. She only touched your shoulder and said, “Then you need to be prepared to say goodbye.”

--

You stopped going to the staff lounge.

It wasn’t intentional—not at first. One week, you told yourself you were too tired. The next, you claimed you had too much grading. By the third, your absence became habit. Avoidance masquerading as self-preservation.

Because every time you looked at him, the pain in your chest surged.

The petals had come again. Not many—just one or two at a time—but enough to remind you. Each time you saw his name on the staff schedule, each conversation in the corridor, each dry remark from across the Great Hall… the ache deepened.

The flowers were feeding off you now.

Your body had become a garden of secrets.

The suppressant Pomfrey gave you helped, for a while. Made the coughing less frequent. Let you walk the halls without feeling like your chest was collapsing. But the petals still came. Smaller now, delicate. You almost convinced yourself that meant you were getting better.

You weren’t.

You started avoiding meals in the Great Hall. You kept your office door locked. You began arriving late to meetings, leaving early. Still, you couldn’t avoid him entirely.

“Professor,” he said one morning, stepping into your classroom just as you were wiping blood from the inside of your sleeve.

You startled, heart slamming.

He frowned. “You look pale.”

You laughed—dry, forced. “Occupational hazard.”

He didn’t smile. “You’ve been absent.”

“I’ve been busy.”

His eyes searched your face, unreadable. “You shouldn’t isolate yourself. It’s not healthy.”

You almost choked on the irony.

“Thank you for the medical advice,” you said, voice tight.

He left without another word.

You collapsed into your chair once the door closed, biting your sleeve to muffle the cough that came after. Three petals. One stained with red.

The turning point came in the library.

You were searching for a book on magical illness triggers, your mind foggy with exhaustion. You didn’t hear him until he was beside you.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Severus said, voice quiet.

You froze.

He looked tired too—dark circles beneath his eyes, jaw tense. “If I’ve done something to offend—”

“You haven’t,” you cut in. Too fast. Too sharp.

He paused. “Then why—”

“I just need space, Severus. Please.”

It was the first time you’d ever called him that aloud. His name. No title. Just him.

It stunned him into silence.

You left before he could respond.

That night, you coughed until your vision blurred. A handful of petals. Blood pooling in your throat. You collapsed beside your bed, trembling.

You didn’t sleep.

--

In the days that followed, you slipped even further into the routine of pretending.

You stopped eating regularly. Your clothes hung looser. You developed a quiet tremor in your hands and passed it off as stress. You spent more time at your desk than in your bed, coughing into scarves and praying no one knocked on the door at the wrong time.

The suppressants didn't work anymore but you didn't expected them to.

One afternoon, you were already in the staff lounge when Severus arrived. You hadn’t expected anyone else to come in. You were curled in the chair closest to the fireplace, head aching from the morning’s lecture, your throat raw.

He sat across from you and studied you in silence.

“You’ve been distant even more so” he said after a long pause.

“I just been tired.”

“Liar,” he replied, not with venom, but quiet certainty.

You shrugged, barely looking up.

“You’re pale. You’re thinner. Are you eating?”

“Yes.”

He tilted his head. “You don’t look like yourself.”

You stared into your tea. “You wouldn’t know.”

Silence stretched between you. Then, in a tone softer than you’d ever heard from him: “I notice more than you think.”

You couldn’t speak. Your hands tightened in your lap, willing your body to stay calm, to not betray you in that moment.

He stood slowly. “If you need something just—say it.”

And then he left, the weight of his words settling heavy in your chest.

You pulled out a handkerchief the moment the door shut and coughed until your ribs screamed.

The petals were crimson now.

You didn’t know how close the edge was, but you could feel something in your body giving way. Your magic was duller. Your steps heavier. You hadn’t dreamed in days—just flashes of heat, darkness, and the sound of your own lungs drowning in silence.

That's why you showed up again.

You sat beside him at meetings. You walked the same halls. You listened when he spoke and smiled when he looked at you like he didn’t want to look away.

Because you loved him. And that was the truth that bloomed brightest beneath your skin. Whether he ever knew or not.

You would stay near him until the very end.

Even if it shattered you completely.

—

You’d felt the shift the day before it happened. The coughing no longer brought fragments, but full, choking blooms—petals fused together, heavy and wet. It was like drowning from the inside out. Your chest ached constantly now, a dull pressure behind your sternum that no potion could ease.

You stood in front of your classroom, words coming slower than usual, wand heavier in your hand. The blackboard was half-full with chalk notes you could barely read. Your students were watching—most of them too tired to care, a few whispering behind their textbooks.

You tried to ignore the way your hands shook.

You told yourself: Just a few more minutes. Just get through the lecture. Then rest.

But your body was done pretending.

Your lungs spasmed mid-sentence. You gasped—one, short breath—and then dropped your wand.

The first flower came up whole.

It hit your desk with a soft, wet thud. White. A full lily, bent under its own weight.

Someone laughed—thinking it was a trick.

Then you coughed again, harder, doubled over as more flowers spilled from your mouth.

Lilies, Forget-me-nots and Chrysanthemum.

Your knees buckled. The room erupted in noise.

“Professor—?!” “Are you—?” “Someone get help!”

You tried to stand, tried to speak—but your body crumpled sideways, hitting the floor with a hollow crack. flowers scattered across the stone. One student screamed. Another froze in place, eyes wide with terror.

You heard nothing after that.

Only your own heartbeat. Faint. Slowing.

Then—nothing at all.

—

The sound of your body hitting the floor had students go wild. Some of them yelled out terrified alerting everyone.

By the time Professors arrived—wand half-raised, voice cracking with concern—your classroom was in complete chaos. A dozen wide-eyed students pressed against the walls. Others stared at the mess near the front: Flowers scattered all over the floor. Blood. Too much blood.

You lay motionless. One hand curled inward like a fallen petal.

Minerva who had arrived first tried to calm the students down. Flitwick was trying to keep students back while Sprout stared at the flowers in horror.

Severus pushed through the door and past students last trying to make sense of the chaos.

“What is going on?” he demanded, his voice too calm, steady.

Before anyone could say something, he saw it.

The flowers. The blood.

You.

For one awful, suspended moment, he didn’t move. His breath caught in his chest at the sight.

Then after what felt like years:

“Out of the way,” Pomfrey barked. “I need space.”

The second she was at your side, she cast a stabilizing charm, eyes narrowed in silent panic. Her hands moved quickly, checking for breath, for pulse, for any sign of what magic still lived in you.

“Severus,” she said without looking up, “I need you to carry her for me.”

He still stood frozen staring down at you.

"Severus! Now!" Pomfrey turned back to look at him.

He didn’t speak but he stepped forward, knees bending as he reached down and gathered you into his arms.

His jaw was tight as he turned, robes sweeping behind him as he followed Pomfrey out of your classroom.

The hallways were still as he carried you through them—every footstep a strike against the stone, your limp head resting just below his collarbone. A few professors emerged from their classrooms, stunned by the sight: Severus Snape, pale and expressionless, walking fast and silent with your unconscious body in his arms, blood on his sleeve and petals tangled in your hair.

He didn’t meet their eyes.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t stop.

When Pomfrey shut the Hospital Wing doors behind them, she cast the strongest privacy ward she knew.

Severus placed you on the bed without a word. He stood there longer than necessary, staring down at you like he couldn’t make the shape of your face mean anything logical.

Pomfrey moved around him briskly, casting diagnostic spells and muttering under her breath.

“She’s been coughing for months,” she finally said, her voice lower now. “Stubborn girl didn’t come until it was already advanced.”

Severus turned sharply. “Months?”

Pomfrey nodded once, tight-lipped.

“And you didn’t tell anyone?” His tone sharpened.

“She didn't want me to and I honored that. As you would have.”

He went quiet. Not because he agreed. Because she was right.

His eyes dropped back to you. Your chest barely moved.

He swallowed. “Who?”

Pomfrey hesitated.

“Poppy,” he said, low and dangerous.

She looked up. “I don’t know.”

“You just said—”

“I said she’s been sick for months. Not who caused it.”

He stepped closer to her, his voice rough. “You know.”

“She asked me not to tell. I gave her my word.”

He turned away, as if he couldn’t stand the sight of you so still and braced a hand on the wall. His knuckles were white.

“How long did she feel like this?” he asked, quieter now.

“A long time,” she said softly. “Long enough that she didn’t think she’d survive it.”

When she left the room, he stayed behind. Staring at the basin of withered flowers. The deep creases in the bedsheets. The shape of your mouth slack with sleep, but wrong—like life had forgotten where to rest.

He sat.

Then stood.

Then sat again.

And he began to think.

Who was it?

Who had let you get this far gone?

Flashes of memory returned in cruel detail—your smiles, your silences. The times you brushed off questions. The way you stopped looking him in the eye.

He hadn’t thought to ask, not really. You’d been pulling away, yes—but not enough to worry him. Not enough to make him believe this.

Now he traced back every step of your unraveling and wondered how much of it he’d seen—and chosen to ignore.

He imagined you in love with someone else.

A faceless man. Another professor. A ghost from the war. A letter tucked into your drawer that wasn’t his.

The thought of it—of you wasting away for someone who didn’t see you—turned his stomach.

And yet, he never once allowed the idea that it could be him.

Because if it was

He had failed you worse than anyone ever had.

--

Severus didn’t sleep.

He sat beside your bed through the night, then through the morning, then into the gray stretch of day that followed. Hours bled into each other, marked only by the soft ticking of the clock above the infirmary door and the slower, shallower rise and fall of your chest.

Each time he looked at you, he catalogued something new—how your hands lay unmoving atop the sheets, how your cheeks had hollowed. How even now, flowers still bloomed from your mouth in your sleep. Fewer, but full. Fragrant. Silent.

Pomfrey came and went. She said very little. Sometimes she would pull petals and flowers carefully out of your throat that didn't come out themselves. Each one bloody.

He crushed one between trembling fingers. The stem was still warm.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to go back. To the first moment he noticed your laugh. To the first cup of tea. To the goddamn hex theory book he’d left on your desk. He wanted to undo every polite exchange, every flicker of softness he let slip through. He wanted to unmake himself entirely if it meant sparing you this.

But the truth was he didn’t know how to save you.

He didn’t know how to save anything.

He tried to reason through it. To calculate, to deduce, like any other problem he’d ever solved.

Who had your eyes lingered on in the staffroom?

Who did you sit next to, besides him?

Had there been letters? A Visitor? A ghost from the war?

He would have handed you over without protest. He would have let you go.

He hated every scenario. And in each one, he imagined what it would take to pull that love from you, to make it his—if only long enough to save your life.

But the fear—the unbearable, brutal fear—was that there was no one who could save you.

That's when realization hit him. That you had chosen solitude. Silence.

That you’d rather die than burden someone with your feelings.

That was what finally shattered him.

Pomfrey tried to argue that he needed rest but he didn’t leave. He folded himself into the chair beside the bed like a man bracing for war and stayed there, unmoving, staring at you like if he just concentrated hard enough, he could will you back.

Pomfrey gave up after the third attempt to make him leave and walked out the infirmary with quiet grief and closed the door behind her.

You looked almost peaceful. Pale. Cold. A silver basin beside the bed held half a dozen wilted lilies.

“Fool,” he whispered, voice raw. “You foolish woman.”

His hand hovered near yours but didn’t touch it.

“Why didn’t you tell me? You should’ve told me.”

His voice cracked.

“You don’t even know. Do you?” His gaze flicked to your face. “You don’t know how I looked for you in every damned corridor this week. How I kept trying to convince myself you were fine—when I could see you falling apart.”

He stopped. Shook his head.

“Who is it?” he asked you, even though you couldn’t answer. “Who did you fall for that was worth this? Worth dying for?”

Silence.

“I—I wish it were me,” he said, quieter now. “But I told myself that was arrogance. That it was better if it isn't. That if it was someone else, I could live with that.”

He looked at you again, all that control unraveling.

“You should’ve told him,” he said. “Whoever it is. You should’ve said something. Let him choose. Let him try.”

He looked at you like you might wake. Like you might argue. But you stayed still. He finally reached for your hand letting the silence hold for a long time.

He bowed his head and gripped your hand tighter.

“If it were me…” he said, eyes shining with something he hadn’t let out in years, “If it were me… I wouldn’t have turned away.” 

His voice cracked.

“I would’ve kissed you in the staff lounge. I would’ve told you how impossible you make it to concentrate in meetings. I would’ve stopped pretending I didn’t feel everything you made me feel.”

He leaned in, his voice barely a whisper now, breaking under the weight of it.

“I love you. I love you and I should have said it weeks ago. Months. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t see it. I’m sorry I let you carry this alone.“

He exhaled, trembling. Pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes.

“I’m not a good man,” he said quietly. “But I would’ve loved you well.”

No answer.

He looked up again—and something inside him snapped.

“Merlin, please,” he whispered, leaning forward. “Don’t leave me, just give me something. Anything.”

Your chest stilled.

He leaned closer. Panic setting deep into his bones.

“You can’t do this!” he said. “You don’t get to carry all of this and die with it. You don’t get to choose silence over life.”

No breath. No movement.

“Come back,” he begged. “Even if it’s not me. Even if you wake up and say someone else’s name.”

He touched your cheek, gently. Cold.

“I’ll find them for you. I’ll give you the chance to tell them. I’ll—”

His voice broke and a sob forced its way out of his chest. 

He dropped to his knees beside the bed, fingers gripping the blanket as if he could anchor you to the world through sheer force of will. His forehead pressed to the back of your cold hand.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please don’t leave me.”

The words slipped out like a prayer, like a curse. His grip tightened. holding on with everything he had left.

“You can’t—” His voice cracked. “Don’t go without ever knowing how much you mean to me. Without letting me say it sooner. I was too slow. I always am.”

He bent lower, shoulders trembling now, as if years of restraint had collapsed under the weight of one final loss.

His hands slid from the blanket to your arm, wrapping gently, pulling you closer like he could will warmth back into you.

“Don’t do this,” he begged, voice splintering. “Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me with this. Wondering what it could’ve been.”

His head bowed low beside yours.

“I would’ve loved you,” he whispered. “I do. I love you. Please wake up so I can tell you. You still deserve to hear it. You deserve to know.”

His body shook with the effort of holding everything in — the grief, the guilt, the sheer terror of knowing what it meant if you didn’t come back.

“I can’t lose you,” he said again, broken. “Please, just stay. Just—stay.”

Silence.

And then—

A sound. Soft. Barely audible.

A breath.

At first, he didn’t realize what it was. He was too deep in the ache of it, too lost in the grief pressing hard into his ribs. But then you inhaled again—sharper, steadier—and his head snapped up.

Your chest moved. Your lips parted in a weak gasp.

Severus froze.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just watched, terrified that if he blinked, it would stop again.

Then your head turned ever so slightly, your brow furrowing like you were trying to pull yourself out of something deep, something dark.

And then—

“…Severus?”

Barely audible. More breath than voice. Fragile.

He flinched like he’d been struck.

His eyes met yours—just barely open, hazy, searching—and all the breath he’d held for what felt like a lifetime left him in one broken exhale.

“Don’t ever…” he whispered. His voice cracked. “Don’t ever do that again.”

You blinked slowly, confused. “What… happened?”

He choked on a sound that was almost a laugh, almost a sob. One hand rose to your cheek, thumb trembling against your skin like he didn’t quite trust you were real.

“You nearly died,” he said. “You—Merlin, I thought it’s too late.”

You tried to breathe again — slower this time, steadier. Your lungs ached, but the pain was different now. Less sharp. Like the roots had loosened.

Your voice came soft, fractured. “You were here?”

“I didn’t leave,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I couldn’t.”

You looked at him, at the way his hand shook in yours, at the tears he didn’t bother to hide. And then—something clicked.

“I’m awake,” you murmured, the words more breath than voice, “and I’m breathing… and you’re here…”

You stared at him, the weight of it landing all at once.

“You love me,” you whispered, like the words didn’t feel real until they left your mouth. „You love me back…“

He just looked at you stunned. Wide-eyed and then he realized.

His breath caught. His eyes flicked down to your lips, to the edge of the basin beside the bed still holding the last of the flowers.

“It was me…” he echoed, barely able to get the words out. “You were dying… for me?”

You didn’t answer.

More tears fell from his eyes and his voice cracked open completely.

“All this time,” he whispered. “You were in love with...me?”

You gave a small nod, and the movement alone nearly broke him.

He looked away, ashamed. “I told myself it would never be me wondering who...”

He turned back to you, devastation softening into wonder.

“And all I kept wishing was that it was me… so that when I said ‘I love you,’ it might save you.”

“you did” you said.

Those two words undid him.

He leaned in and kissed you.

No hesitation. No regret.

It was shaky. Gentle. Real.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead to yours. His voice trembled.

“I love you,” he said again, like a promise. “I’m here. My love. All of it. It’s always been yours. I promise I will never stop saying it.”

You exhaled against him. Eyes closing. Chest steady.

And this time, when you breathed there were no petals. No flowers.

Only air.

And him.

And love, finally spoken.

—

You didn’t remember falling asleep again, only waking to the soft sound of a chair creaking and the unmistakable scent of something herbal — not medicinal, but familiar.

The sun had sunk low, painting golden lines across the stone floor, and the castle had grown quiet in the way it only did after something awful had passed — like the whole place was exhaling.

You lay curled under the blanket that smelled faintly of lavender and old parchment, every part of your body still sore. But not in pain. Not dying.

Just recovering.

And Severus was beside you.

He hadn’t left. Especially since you’d woken.

He sat sideways in the chair, legs stretched out in front of him, one hand still holding yours like he hadn’t decided yet whether or not to let go. Like he might wake up and find you gone again.

You turned your head slowly toward him. “You’re still here.”

He looked down at you. “Obviously.”

“Have you slept?”

“No.”

“Eaten?”

“Not hungry.”

You gave him a look. He gave you one right back.

“I nearly lost you,” he said simply, like that explained everything. And it did.

You stared at him for a long moment, thumb brushing against his fingers.

“I didn’t think I’d ever get to hear you say it,” you whispered. “That you love me.”

He swallowed. His voice dropped low.

“I said it to you after...I regretted not telling you sooner”

“I know.” Your smile was small. Real. “I think… part of me heard you.”

He didn’t say anything — just watched you for a moment like you were something fragile and sacred all at once. Then, cautiously, he stood and leaned forward to sit beside you on the edge of the bed.

Your hand didn’t leave his.

“I would’ve said it sooner,” he murmured, “but I was too bloody terrified.”

You turned your face slightly into his palm. “Of what?”

“Of believing you could never love me back,” he said. “And of what it would do to me if you didn't”

You were quiet, and then: “I know that fear.”

His thumb brushed beneath your eye. “You nearly died with it in your chest.”

“And you brought me back.”

“That was your doing,” he said. “I only… answered.”

You shifted slightly, enough to lean into him. He let you, slowly lowering himself beside you until you were tucked against his chest. His arms moved around you with careful precision — like he wasn’t sure where you were still breakable.

“You’re allowed to hold me like I’m real,” you said.

He exhaled a breath against your hair. “You are.”

That night, you fell asleep in his arms.

No more silence kept between you.

No more secrets blooming beneath your ribs.

And in the hush between heartbeats, where breath once failed—

Love lived instead.

[batwingsrosa]

Was outing Remus Lupin as a werewolf a dick move?

Yes.

Was ist also completely justified?

YES.

[randomnameless]

are you still cooking your half nabatean lycaon AU ? If you're interested, there are some fics on Ao3 about him! In a more serious setting though he wouldn't be outed as a half nabatean

I've seen them!

Soon, he will have 10 properly tagged fics on AO3 !

(and i've read them all lol)

I think I can see what fic you're talking about in the "more serious setting" lol, but first let it be a "Rhea blows up Seteth's microwave by reheating a ravioli can AU" or a "WoH storytelling" AU, I suppose fics are fics, and they're both "serious" in their own way.

Maybe you meant "serious" as in the most "canon compliant" - still taking into consideration that we're talking about fanfics, aka, headcanons?

Discussing about headcanons - the way reasonable people do - is much like discussing about your favourite recipe, it's ultimately a matter of taste - You're not saying the recipe of the person you're talking to sucks, but you just say you prefers yours and don't force it on anyone else.

Now, why I don't put carrot in my curries -

iirc in this fic I'm thinking of and you might be talking about anon, the premise was basically an alliance, Willy has to marry a lady to secure an alliance with her father and get Gronder on his side for his future conquest.

If Rhea tells him about bby!Lycaon and marries him, his wedding is annuled, no alliance means more warfare and Adrestia needs more time to gather troops to march on Nemesis.

If she doesn't, the son he and his wife were supposed to have dies in childbirth and Rhea swaps the babies so Lycaon is raised by his dad and his stepmom, no one knows his stepmom isn't his mom, save for Willy himself and the nabateans.

In this setting though, children between nabateans and humans will either be humans, or nabatean, so no half-nabatean hijinks (and Lycaon was born a human).

---

This isn't the headcanon I'm rolling with - which prompted this entire cooking stuff lol - hybrid nabateans have more magic/power than humans, but less than full blooded nabateans.

With that being said, in a WoH setting, I couldn't legit see Rhea accepting to part or even to entrust her kid (half or not) to anyone else than her bros/relatives, maybe the trustworthy people of her Church and Willy himself.

But anyone else in Enbarr and its palace?

If the secret is out of the bag, Lycaon will become a dagger (or so she thinks!).

So he stays with his maternal family, or under their care.

Now, what about Willy?

The hc of the 120 bastard kids was just nonsense, but if we supposed Willy fucked like what the real world inspiration for Adrestia of old is supposed to be, I HC Willy should at least have some illegitimate kids.

Regarding the legitimate ones, what if he married someone, to form an alliance, and basically sealed it with the promise that their kid was going to become the next emperor?

It's plausible enough, that Willy survives the potential kid, due to receiving Rhea's crest he ages slower than his kid who might or not get a crest at birth (like the characters we see in FE16!).

With time, the alliance becomes void because hey, the heir isn't inheriting a thing since Willy's still alive and rocking his imperial armor - and looks younger than his own kid!

Should Willy contract a new alliance or would the people who joined him through this alliance bail out realising they would never have one of their people sit on Adrestia's throne ?

Or, even before realising that the "alliance made heir" will never get the throne since Willy can live up to 300 years, I got the idea/HC that Willy, much like your typical FE protag, starts with Bord'n'Cord and later ends up leading an army without needing to contract "alliances through marriages" to gain soldiers.

Both because of personal preferences lol, but also because it creates a precedent : if Willy marries the heir of land A who has 50 soldiers to offer in exchange of the throne, what if he later gets a proposal from land J who has 5k soldiers to offer for the same prize? If A's proposal looks good when Willy starts with 3 soldiers, later when he has 3k, wouldn't J's be better? In that situation, would A be casted away to have J instead?

However, the most serious issue in this "race for the throne" is, well, Rhea herself!

She's the Prophet who can perform miracles, totes call a giant divine beast to help her and is assisted by Saintly people who can perform the same miracles (and also maybe call giant divine beasts on their own?). The CoS has a lot of followers in Southern Fodlan, hell Enbarr is picked as the capital of the Empire because of Seiros' presence.

"300 devout randoms aren't the same as 300 soldiers and the CoS has no land to offer!"

Macuil is the source of magic and brags about it, what if he very relunctantly accepted to teach humans how to use magic, with the first humans he would have picked would have been the ones from the CoS? And we know Cichol's "blessing" makes lands grow more fertile, so while the CoS has no land to offer, the things they can offer are of a different worth.

Sure they're no 300 soldiers, but they bring mages and can create magic users + use magic/stuff to help Adrestia grow, as in, getting more food, healing and what not.

Add to that cocktail half-nab!Lycaon?

Like, there's a kid hanging out with the Saints - who looks like them - and is basically raised by them and hangs out with them, ages maybe as slowly as the Emperor, and is close to Seiros herself.

If there are any doubts about Lycaon's mom in the modern times, in this AU there would be none! Assuming Willy recognises him as his own, well, between heir X born out of an alliance to secure 50k soldiers to get the entire southern peninsula, and Jesus' son...

(hell even if Willy doesn't recognise him, he could still adopt him later on?)

Even if Lycaon isn't officialy in the race for the throne - by his sheer existence, he is a serious contestant, and all the more if the "human" heirs age as humans do, as opposed to Willy, Lycaon and the Saints.

Meritocracy happening means the young (?), martially talented, wise and fair (it might be a joke, but adrestians of old were lusting after nabateans in their stories/poems/songs...) Prince Lycaon has no competition for the throne, and it's not an alliance contracted 90 or 40 years ago that will be enough to push the claim of Prince/ss X over Lycaon's for the throne...

So the only solution to get rid of him is to push him down some stairs, and hope his death will be "natural" enough that people will believe he died of an illness - or maybe enlisting the help of some strange people wearing hoods and being really pale who promised to get rid of "this beast".

But I can't write/finish fics for shit lol, so i'm just throwing stuff here and there.

[whirlybirbs]

— CAN'T WE BE SEVENTEEN? ; shoto todoroki ; 焦凍

summary: he's loved you since he was seventeen. pairing: f!reader x pro hero!shoto ; reader was a 1-A student tags: mutual pining, heavy make-out, thinly veiled sugar daddy shoto, reader does not go pro, touya might be a dick but he's a hero now, shoto is bad at feelings wordcount: 5.6k a/n: i do not fucking know what came over me, enjoy your food my little todorokinas. yes the title is what you think it is. no i will not elaborate.

You never did go pro.

Truthfully, you thought there would be more pushback when, in your senior year, you announced your plan to pursue a degree in early childhood education with a focus on non-conforming quirk development. 

The War changed a lot. It changed you, your classmates, and the world. But, through it all one thing stuck with you:

What if someone helped Tenko Shimura?

How different would his life have been? How different would history have spun? 

You graduated at the top of your class and joined the faculty at Chiba Prefectural Preparatory School for Quirk Specialties two years ago. 

Chiba Prep was opened eight years ago in response to a societal cry for more infrastructure around what was dubbed "non-conforming quirks": a nice way to say quirks that can injure, maim, or kill. Maybe even all three on a bad day. Some parents still see their child being labeled as a non-conforming quirk user in the national database as akin to social suicide. 

You see it differently.

Your quirk allows you to manipulate emotions — anger, sadness, betrayal, love, hatred. If you can feel it, you can sink it into another's psyche deep enough to drive them to act. You can even imbue things with feelings. For example, a cup of warm milk can transform into more than just a simple comfort, now it can hold the feeling of home and safety, or even exhaustion strong enough to put even the biggest foe to rest. 

You could easily use your quirk with nefarious intent. 

You could steep hatred in someone's bone so deep it drives them to harm themselves. You could sew fury so solid into someone's mind it drives them to violence. 

Just a touch and you can control others with something so intrinsically personal it only exists within themselves: their feelings.

What makes you any different from little Asuke, a shy little girl with a quirk that allows her to see people's greatest fears, and then manifest and control them? You're convinced she can use this for good, if only with practice. In your mind, her future is bright and glimmering. Perhaps she will become a therapist, focusing on exposure therapy? Or, maybe the most prolific horror novelist in their time? 

Or, bright and sunny Tao — a transplant whose parents sought out Chiba Prep's specialized education — whose heteromorphic quirk makes his bodily fluids, namely saliva, eat through nearly anything but his own biologics. A sneeze is quickly the most dangerous thing in the world for the cheery, lizard-bodied class clown. 

He's just a boy given a quirk that needs more care. 

He isn't a villain-in-training. 

None of them are.

It's important to teach them that young — and as their teacher for Year 3 of their elementary schooling, you aim to hammer that in as much as possible. They deserve to feel normal. To feel loved and supported. They aren't scary, they're children. 

So, you take it upon yourself to insist on pushing for privileges like field trips. There aren't many public spaces that welcome the classes of Chiba Prep with open arms. Over the years, there have been plenty of incidents. But, a day trip into the city to visit Tokyo's Hall of Heroes is green-lit with bubbling excitement from both faculty, the children, and their parents. 

You usually keep your history as a graduated member of Class 1-A quiet. 

After all, you never did go pro.

And even still, Shoto Todoroki never stopped thinking about you.

He remembers that weekend everyone moved back in for their last year before graduation. He remembers you smiling at him, and helping him drag up a duffel of luggage from the common room to his dorm. You made a joke about how you're sure he got taller over the summer, and how his hair is longer now. You said you liked it. 

It was the beginning of the end, then.

His crush was a silent, smothering thing. It made it hard to think. Shoto had enough on his plate thanks to Touya's acceptance into the Villain Rehabilitation Program and his father's insistence on staving off retirement. Not to mention his parent's divorce — no matter how amicable, it was still a separation. Add on training, tests, studying, finals, and j-term classes... And a desperate, writhing, burning crush on the nicest girl in class? 

Touya's elbow digs into Shoto's side.

It drags him back to reality — to the stifled quiet of the historical Hall of Heroes. 

Suddenly, the doors to the wing squeak open, and a tour guide ushers in the elementary school class. The buzzing excitement and wonder are visible on each of their faces as the attendant — one of the HoH's lead tour guides — excitedly explains the newest, in-progress addition to the Hall:

Endeavor's wing. 

There's a whisper of awe that ripples through the children as their teacher and co-teacher follow, and as the class moves through the large, open space. They're staring up eagerly at the gilded statue in the center of the room. It's larger than life and intimidating. Years ago, Shoto might have had to fight the odd tremble in his knees at the reminder it brings: to be small in his father's shadow again. But, things are different now. 

Very different.

Touya scoffs. "I thought this wing wasn't open to the public yet."

"They're just children," Shoto hums, turning his back on the gaggle across the way to inspect the large mural winding along the back end of the installation, "I'm sure it's—"

"Oh, ho, no way!"

Shoto quirks his brow at his brother's outburst. His elbow digs into Shoto's ribs again. 

"Ain't that the pretty girl you never got the balls to ask out your senior year?" comes the rasped drawl of his older brother's voice. Touya is clearly amused, his white hair hanging in his eyes as he leans forward to squint, "She is cute, Sho'—"

"Shut up," Shoto grits, turning his head over his shoulder; he tries to bite back the flurry of nerves that ignite in his gut, "Stop talking."

It is you.

You look... good. 

Happy. 

You're crouched by a small, timid girl in the back of the crowd. Your hand is in hers, and you're pointing upwards at the large paneled screens replaying Endeavor's most historic fights. You're explaining something to her, your knees bent as you squat. You look... the same. As if in the six years since they graduated, you sat still in time. 

For a second, it's like he's seventeen again.

It's his senior year, and he's stuck at the corner of the gym's edge with a half-empty glass of punch in his hand. The lights are low, and there's slow music playing. His tie feels too tight. Bakugo keeps telling him to 'ask her to dance already', and Kirishima is considering bashing his head through the wall. Even Midorya is trying to persuade Shoto. 

"It's prom, man! C'mon, this could be your last chance—"

Touya is about to be a real pain in the ass — his favorite pastime — and make some comment about your ass, but when he turns to lob the one-liner at his baby brother, Shoto's gone.

Shoto is on the move.

The crescendo of gasps draws your attention first.

Then, the cry of "WOAH, IT'S SHOTO!" leaves you dumbfounded. The rippling murmur of excitement bleeds into the children as their eyes — and the eyes of the tour guide — widen at the sight of the approaching Pro Hero. 

Shoto Todoroki.

He looks... good. 

Really good.

He's a bit older, and a bit more filled out than when you were both teenagers. You can see the strength in his arms and shoulders — it's a distant echo of his father's physique, though Shoto is so much more elegant and much... prettier. He's always been.

For a second, you're seventeen again.

It's your senior year, and you're sprawled across Momo Yaoyorozu's bed.

They had finally wrangled out of you who your crush was: something they hadn't been able to do in all their years as classmates.

There's a sticky, Miss Midnight-themed face mask clinging to your expression as you try to flip through the large magazine in your hands as nonchalantly as possible. Mina's voice, as she paints Ochaco's nails a bright pink on the floor, is sweet and saccharine as she looks up at you.

"I think you and Shoto would be, like, the cutest couple ever." 

You're still crouched when the tour guide nervously — like she was caught doing something naughty — introduces The Pro Hero Shoto to the already-aware crowd of elementary school students and their teachers. It's like igniting a match; the uproar of excitement leaves you laughing as three of your boys push forward to bombard him with questions about his quirk. 

Asuke is smiling shyly, now. That's a small win. She's intrigued by the appearance of a real hero, not the "scary statues" — and her big, fat tears stopped rolling the moment you laid a gentle hand on her to quell her anxiety over the new environment with a push of comfort through your quirk. She unhooks her pinkie finger from yours as you guide her towards your co-teacher. 

"Boys," you call with a crisp air of authority as you stand and lead Asuke toward the bulk of the field trip group, "What have we learned about personal space?"

"It's fine, really, Insight," comes Shoto's voice; as warm and placid as you remember. 

"Insight?" mutters your co-teacher at the presumed hero-name; a look of confusion plasters itself on her face, and her big, feline ears perk up. She leans in to whisper in a way that borders on conspiratory, "Do you two know one another?"

"Old classmates," you confirm, not daring to get into the finer details.

Shoto's attention is entirely rooted in the way you manage the kids. There's something beautiful about the ease with which you handle the bouquet of students; you quell the excitement into a manageable decibel like it's as easy as breathing. 

"Shoto," you start as you gesture to him, "Has a very special quirk — Toyamai, he has ice like you. And, fire like Tojiro. He can regulate his temperature. Can anyone tell me what that means?"

There's a wave of hands shooting up, a few me, me, me's rise from the gaggle. 

You're using him as a teaching moment.

Shoto's smile is soft.

You nod at Ogomi, excitedly nodding as the reserved child speaks up. Normally, he hates public speaking. But, recently, he's started working with the speech pathologist during lunch. The boy bounces a little as he answers. "He doesn't g-get too hot, or too c-cold."

"Exactly! Isn't that cool?" you grin at the lazy attempt at a pun, "This is why it's important to learn about our quirks as much as we can!"

Touya thinks this whole thing is just too cute. 

You're different than he remembers — but, granted, things were sorta different last time he saw you. He was a little too busy tryna kill his old man and lil' Shoto. He's different now, too. A changed man! A real licensed hero. Support items and all. 

He hangs back. 

He... I mean, he is a jack-ass but he isn't gonna ruin this for Shoto. 

...It's kinda cute.

Just about as cute as Fuyumi said it was. 

Apparently, Shoto had opened up to her and Natsuo about his feelings after graduation — about how he regretted not doing anything about it. Fuyumi then told their mum, who then off-handedly mentioned it to Touya... and well Touya dug in because, duh, he is a whore for good gossip. He might be the family's black sheep, but Shoto is the glue that binds. 

And he deserves to be happy.

Your co-teacher is ushering the kids to the next installation — a viewing of All Might's Legacy, a new documentary following the retired pro's teaching career. It will be a good wind down for them, in comfy seats and the dark. It's hardly the sort of content an elementary school student would find riveting, but it is All Might. And they love him.

You hang back. 

Shoto's heart is hammering in his chest.

"Hey."

"Hi," you greet back, closing the door to the theater and stepping forward as you weave your arms around you, "Long time no see."

"Yea," Shoto breathes, his hands in his pockets as he meets you halfway across the museum's marble floors, "I... I see you're teaching."

His eyes are as pretty as they were back then. Slate grey and piercing turquoise. "I'm in my second year," you confirm softly, fiddling with the material of your sweater, "Congrats to your old man."

You gesture up at the statue, then wave around to the rest of the installation.

Shoto inhales, then nods; he's staring at your face, blissfully realizing you're just the way you were all those years ago. Kind. "I'll pass it along."

"How's he handling it?" you ask, your eyes raking across his expression and trying not to stick to the sharp slope of his jaw, or the bob of his Adam's apple, "Retirement, I mean."

"He's happy, I think. Touya and I are working together and... things are...  good."

Last month, Endeavor finally retired. He cited his age, and his dedication to passing his legacy to his two sons: Shoto and Touya. Shoto has planted himself firmly within the Top Ten in the last year or so, and shockingly, Touya isn't far behind. People love an underdog's redemption story, you suppose. 

And the underdog in question can read a room. 

This is getting a little too sexually tense for even him.

"Heeeeey, girl," he rasps out, staggering backward with a thumb over his shoulder, "Nice t' see ya. I'll let you two catch up, yea? I'm gonna go pop my head into the theater, see how the kids are handling the snooze fest on screen—"

You jump.

How long has he even been there?

"Hi, D— Touya," you strain, wincing a little; the rehab'd villain doesn't seem to mind.

"Hi, teach'. That cool with you?" he asks, wobbling his thumb and quirking a pierced eyebrow; it's comical, like he's trying to disarm you with humor, "Don't want you thinkin' I'm corrupting your youths—"

"It's fine," you breathe, ignoring the sting of age-old mistrust. You know better. Shoto wouldn't be here, with him, if Touya Todoroki hadn't changed. Endeavor wouldn't be entrusting his legacy to the ex-League of Villain member if he didn't believe in his capacity for good, "Just don't be disruptive."

Casting judgment on someone whose life was nearly destroyed by his own non-conforming quirk would go against everything you taught the kids anyway.

"Touya's whole thing is being disruptive," Shoto grits as his oldest brother slips silently through the doors, "I apologize for him—"

"No," you wave him off, laughing a little, "Don't. It's... nice to see you two together."

Shoto's expression is soft as he wanders a little closer. "It took time — and a lot of therapy — but we've all managed to come out the other side."

"That's great to hear, Shoto," you breathe, your eyes flitting across his face, "I'm really happy for you."

There's a long silence, then — and you can't help but ignore the roil of butterflies in your stomach. The eye contact is heavy with some unspoken thing, and both of your tongues are weighted by secrets-never-turned-confessions. 

It's like finally this dance you've been doing around one another for years breaks — and the two of you throw caution to the wind at the exact same moment. 

"Would you like to—"

"Are you free—"

Hesitant, slow grins bloom on both your faces.

"Dinner?" is all he manages after a sweet moment of soaking up your soft smile, "If you're available...?"

You make yourself available.

Yaoyorozu almost dies when you call her that night — winded from tearing through your entire wardrobe. You explained you had nothing to wear a-and you needed something nice, and you only have an hour to get ready, because Todoroki — yes, stop screaming, Todoroki — is picking you up at 8pm.

Little bro is nervous. Touya can tell. 

From his spot on the sofa, the white-haired ex-degenerate scoffs. Natsuo is digging around for some cufflinks in Shoto's dresser.

"Seriously, Sho'? A suit?" 

"It's a nice restaurant," his brother says tightly, adjusting the collar of the black button-down, "I booked the upstairs dining room for privacy." 

"Who the hell told you t' do that?" Touya quirks a skeptical brow.

"Father was the one who suggested it."

"...That old dog." 

Natsuo rolls his eyes at the exchange before throwing his hands as he emerges from the closet. "Do you have any links that aren't emblazoned with U.A. High School's crest?"

The ones in Natsuo's hands have his graduation year on them.

Shoto winces.

"Want me to ask dear ol' dog of a dad?" Touya snarks from the corner, his posture becoming less and less upright as he scrolls on his phone.

"Already did," comes the soft voice of Fuyumi; she's smiling, padding into Shoto's room with a velvet box, "He offered up his nicest pair. He also says not to screw it up with Insight. He likes her."

Of course, he likes her. You worked under Endeavor for a brief work-study period during your third year. Shoto remembers hearing grumbled praise over dinner one night about your talent for de-escalation.

"You told him who I was seeing?" Shoto asks incredulously, taking the box and working the cufflinks on. He's starting to feel exasperated.

Fuyumi nods, popping down beside Touya. 

"He asked. I'm not gonna lie to him."

"Did y' tell ma?" Touya rasps, peeking up over his phone to inspect Shoto's outfit. Not half bad, honestly. He looks good in all black. A man after his own heart, "M'sure she's gonna be real excited—"

"Yes," Shoto grumbles, "I called her earlier—"

"Chiba Prep is a really good school, y'know," Natsuo buts in as he tries to find a tie that matches Shoto's outfit. Ultimately, though, the middle brother decides against it and tosses the options over his shoulder, "They're, like, on the leading edge for quirk therapies."

"Hey, nerd? Quiet down. The big kids are gossiping," Touya shirks, turning back to Shoto, "What did mum say?" 

"She wants me to call her after—"

"One, you're gonna call mum the morning after," Touya raises a finger, "Because if you don't get laid, I'll be so fuckin' disap—"

Fuyumi slaps Touya's chest. He lets out a pained yelp at the solid smack.

"Uh, ow," he rubs his sternum. "An' two, take a deep breath. You look like you're gonna shit yourself. Those are my pants and they're expensive."

Shoto lets out a long breath. 

Fuyumi's smile is sweet like honey. "Aw, Sho'! It's gonna go great. You two have known each other for such a long time, and catching up is going to be amazing. Just be yourself! Confident and kind—"

"—Hold the door open for her, and pull her chair out," Natsuo adds as he adjusts Shoto's collar for him, "Car door, too—"

It's Touya's turn. He's dead serious. "—And do not chicken out on kissing her at the end of the night. I swear to god."

Easier said than done.

You never did go pro.

Those years of hardened battle instincts have lost their edge. You try to remind yourself this is just Shoto, not The Shoto — but you're a little lost in the whole celebrity of it all when he picks you up in a very nice, sporty little car with ENDVRplates. 

You answer the door and he forgets how to breathe.

He has flowers for you. They're blue and blooming and beautiful. 

Fuyumi's contribution. 

You settled then you were going to kiss him at the end of the night.

The restaurant is... nice. Really nice. The sort of nice you could never aspire to experience on your teacher's salary. Even the valet is a concept that has your head spinning. But, Shoto handles it all with cool ease. The entire time, his hand is settled on your lower back. 

It feels like you've been lit on fire.

You're glad Momo was able to create a dress fitting for the occasion. It's sleek and black. Comfortable, too. Not much can be said for your heels on that front, but it's fine. 

Somehow, Shoto managed to book the entire upper floor of this place in all its glimmering glory — it's just the two of you alone in a sea of tables. 

The waiter is pouring you a glass of the chef's suggested pairing of sake.

You thank him, smile, and take a sip as Shoto unbuttons his suit jacket and watches you. 

For a second, you're seventeen again.

Sero and Kirishima were always in cahoots when it came to parties back then — somehow, between the two of them, they always managed to smuggle enough booze onto campus to obliterate any semblance of promised sobriety from even the most stoic members of 1-A. 

You remember one night, after a lot of hounding, you finally gave in and joined a few of your classmates on the back lawn for a few drinks. 

A few beers turned into a cup or two of wine, and then another big gulp of whatever deranged jungle juice concoction Kaminiari managed to cook up. It tasted terrible, but you were too drunk to really care. Shoto was no better. He was nursing his fourth drink of the night — a rarity he was even drinking at all — and seemed completely fine with the way your arms brushed as the two of you sat close in the grass. 

He was always so nervous around you. Now, he just seemed... happy. 

"I can't believe there is only one week left until graduation."

Graduation day was the last time you saw him. 

Until this morning, that is. 

You smile into your drink. 

"What?" you ask when his eyes never leave your face.

His fingers twitch towards his own glass. Shoto blinks, then rolls his jaw. He was caught staring. He clears his throat, looking a bit shy. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" you press playfully, cocking your head to the side.

"You..." he starts, then bawks. You're stunning, and it's making it hard to even think straight. He thought these feelings might have mellowed out over the years but seeing you again has just reignited everything. He feels like a hormonal teenager again, "You look beautiful."

Your expression falters into something lovesick. You chew your lip. "You're not so bad yourself, Todoroki."

He manages a half-smile. "Touya had me worried the suit was a bit much."

The idea of Touya offering him advice on his outfit strikes a chord in your heart. It makes you smile even bigger than before. "Well, you can tell Touya that I like it. A lot."

You rake your eyes up and down him. On purpose.

He notices.

Shoto's face feels hot. 

He tries to shake the bone-deep want that has swept his entire body up in its grip, but it's difficult when every single word out of your mouth reminds him just how in love he was with you back in school. You explain, excitedly, why you chose to teach at Chiba Prefectural Prep and catch him up on where you've been living since graduating. He's pleased to learn you're still in the area, living in the city, and decidedly in love with the commute to the school. 

Shoto's always been a good listener — but you can see how much he's changed when he begins to speak about his career. He seems so much more sure of himself than he was all those years ago. It wasn't that he was... unsure... but, no. He was shy. Quiet.

Now, less so. 

It's adorable. 

Dinner comes and goes with conversation over sushi that is far too good for you to even process. It's easy talking to him. It was easy talking to Shoto back, then, too but... Things are different. You're both different. Not in a bad way, but in a way that feels like coming home. 

While you both wait outside for the valet, Shoto shrugs his jacket off and puts it over your shoulders without a single word. Suddenly, you're cradled in a warmth that's very Shoto — his cologne clings to the collar and you bury yourself a little deeper into it. 

Shyly, you step closer and steal his hand. It's calloused and warm. He laced his fingers with yours as if practiced. You bite back a grin. You give his hand a little squeeze when you spot the car coming around the corner.

His silence is calming — and he squeezes your hand back. When you look up at him, you realize he's already looking at you. 

His face is close. It's so... intimate. Very. Nearly better than a kiss. 

But, you've wanted to kiss Shoto Todoroki since you were seventeen. 

The valet driver interrupts the moment with a respectful call of Shoto's name and offers the keys with a shake of the hand. With a little bit of hesitancy, Shoto remembers the thing Natsuo said — the car door, too — and moves around the passenger side to open the door for you. 

It's sweet.

Really sweet. 

The car ride back to your apartment is punctuated with easy conversation — you ask him about Bakugo and Midorya, and you're pleased to hear they're both doing well. He asks about Momo, and if you still keep in touch with Mina and Ochaco. He smiles to himself when you admit you did call Momo for help with an outfit. 

"She did a beautiful job," Shoto breathes, a palm moving from the gear shift to brush over the dress' fabric on your thigh.

His hand settles there. 

Your stomach does a flip. 

You chew your lip, swallow down a sudden burst of nerves, and let your hand rest over his. You squeeze it. Shoto tries to focus on the road. His gaze drifts for a moment at a red light, his heterochromatic eyes dancing across your figure. 

Keep it together. 

He isn't seventeen.

He's twenty-five. He's a Professional Hero. One of the Top Ten in all of Japan. He's more than capable of keeping it together in the face of physical touch from the woman he's dreamed about for years. 

...Right?

Green light.

His hand is still on your thigh when he pulls up to your apartment. 

The touch is relinquished in favor of putting the sports car in park. 

It makes your chest ache.

Shoto swallows thickly.

Do not chicken out on kissing her at the end of the night.

He'll never forgive himself. But, admittedly, he's bad at this. He's not good at reading body language, or even knowing himself enough to realize he looks mildly terrified as you blink up at him in the passenger's seat. His heart is hammering a mile a minute.

What if you don't want to kiss him?

When would he even kiss you? Now? Or at the door?

Why does he feel like he's going to die?

"This was really... Shoto, are you okay?" you ask as you unbuckle your seatbelt; you pause, your brows knitting tightly. 

"What?" he asks, blinking back to the present moment. The look of fear disappears, "Sorry. Yes. I'm fine."

You're working his jacket off your shoulders, gently leaning to fold it neatly in your lap. Your voice dips low, into something playful. "You didn't look fine..."

"I—" Shoto clamps his mouth shut as he leans an elbow on the center console, "Sorry. I suppose I'm just nervous."

"Nervous?" you grin, a little giggle punctuating your words as you wriggle in the red, leather seat, "Why?"

Your expression makes his expression crack. He ducks his head as he huffs out a laugh. You continue to egg him on via expression alone. "I... Stop it."

"Stop what?" you push some more, your back pressed to the door as you face him in the car, "You're the one being weird—"

"I'm not being weird—"

"Then what's wrong, Shoto?" you tease in a sing-song voice.

"I'm nervous because I want to kiss you."

His words are punctuated by a slow look that takes in every inch of your face. Butterfly wings kiss your stomach walls. And your knees. You feel a little tremble in your chest. 

It feels like someone has sucker punched you square in the sternum. Shoto's no better. He isn't entirely sure what the expression on your face means. Is that... good? Are you happy?

Your voice is a little quieter now. You duck your head and fiddle with his suit jacket as you lean back against the seat, a little closer now. 

"You don't need to be."

Shoto's breath catches at that.

So, he makes his move.

His hand comes first — his calloused palm settles nicely against your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone as his pointer finger brushes the underside of your jaw. Shoto is slow. Methodical. It's like he's trying to ground himself in the moment. 

Truth be told, he thinks he might be blacking out.

Your eyes flit up his wrist — a dark leather band around his wrist with an expensive watch face, a dark dress shirt with glimmering cufflinks, strong arms and a broad chest, and you can see the dip of his collarbone where the top two buttons of his shirt remain undone. 

He looks so damn handsome with his sharp jaw, pretty eyes, and his trademark white and crimson hair. Even his scar is beautiful. 

The touch pulls you in like he's got his own personal orbit.  

Your elbows are braced along the center console, your eyes flicking across his face as his fingers continue to brush along the soft expanse of your cheek. You wring your fingers together. 

Then, his eyes stick to your lips.

"Can I kiss you?" he whispers, his breath fanning across your face. 

You never did go pro.

But, Shoto did. 

It shows. 

Because, at this moment, all you can do is nod feebly before you're swept into the sort of kiss people go to war for. It's the sort of kiss that sticks to your ribs, that feels like warm, fresh food. It's the sort of kiss that would drive you to the brink, that would make you nod and agree sure, let's get married and have three kids, let's name one after your father, and paint the house blue like your mother's favorite flower—

His mouth is eager, but not in an overbearing way. It's gentle. Slow. As if he needs to remind himself this is real and not some midnight fiction that leaves him aching and alone. Shoto reminds himself to be tepid, pliable, and easy, which is easier said than done when somewhere deep inside of him there's a seventeen-year-old screaming in victory. 

It's better than anything he could have ever imagined. 

And then you whimper. 

It's a sound tied between bliss and relief and it's muttered against his mouth as you lean in and let your fingers brush the fabric of his dress shirt. The tips of your fingers brush his abdomen and he flexes, the feeling foreign and warm. It warrants his other hand to drift to your face and you break for a breath; he doesn't care that there's lipstick smeared across his mouth. He's kissing you again — this time a little bit more feverish, a little bit more aching. 

You melt against him, this time your hands trembling to grip his wrists.

He needs to slow down.

He is not having sex with you in his father's car.

That's shameless.

He needs to slow down.

He has to, or he'll lose himself in this and he refuses to fuck this up. 

Shoto's breath is ragged when he finally peels himself away, his lip parted and eyes half-lidded. His grip on your face is still so soft, so gentle. It's very him. 

You're glad you didn't do this when you were seventeen.

It would have permanently altered your brain chemistry, you're sure of it. How could you ever kiss someone else again after that? 

He's rubbing your cheek with his thumb. You swallow, and try to level out your breathing. It's hard when he's still so close, when he's so... perfect. 

"I've wanted to do that," he murmurs against your cheek, "Since our last year at Yuei."

A well-kissed smile breaks across your face. You reel back, your nose wrinkling as you shake your head in disbelief. Shoto is smiling. A real smile. The sort that's so rare you can count on one hand the amount of times you've ever seen it in person. 

"Are you serious?"

"Very," he says, chastely pressing another to your other cheek as he leans back.

"Me too," you admit shyly, "Can we... do it again sometime?"

Shoto's eyes widen incrementally. Then, his smile eases back onto his face. 

"Are you free this weekend?"

"I can be," you reply easily with a honeyed look, "And I will be. For you."

"I get off patrol on Saturday around seven," he explains before asking timidly, "We could... do dinner again?"

"Works for me," you breathe as you move for the handle of the car door, "After all, I never went Pro. Weekends are free."

Shoto scoffs. 

Then, as you open the door and swing a leg out:

"Oh, and tell Touya I thought the suit sexy."

Shoto's laugh is dry. You leave his jacket on the seat and scurry into your apartment with a lovesick wave. He swears he sees the silhouette of a familiar ponytail greet you at the door, but he doesn't dwell on it. He waits until you're inside and the lights to the front door are shut off.

Then it hits him. He has another date with you this weekend. 

Not so seventeen anymore, Shoto Todoroki. 

[solar-wing]

⚣ Jason: The Rebel 🏍️

⚣🏍️ A/N → @swimmingpainterhandsfreak Jason's installment of the High School AU Courting series. One day, I will learn how to keep a fic under 10k words... today isn't it though. Conner's up next and both his and Dick's are linked at the end. Enjoy! WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI | Omegaverse | Courting Rituals | High School AU | Alpha Jason Todd | Omega Male Reader | Angst | Fluff | Humor | No one is a vigilante | Dick and Jason are not brothers | Jason is the stereotypical bad boy | Minor Character Death | Smut | Explicit Language | jealousy & Possessiveness | Oral Sex | Fingering | Dirty Talk | Rough Sex | Breeding Kink | Creampie |

⚣🏍️ Summary → Jason's always been misunderstood, except by one person. Someone who's always stuck by him and defended him even when others were against him. Now, he plans to make sure he's always by his side. How though?

⚣🏍️ Words → 38.9K

REBLOGS & replies are greatly appreciated, please! ❤️

⚣ ENJOY 🏍️

Jason Todd? Everyone knows who Jason Todd is.

Tall, broad-shouldered, and built like a damn Greek statue sculpted for war, he had the kind of physique that made gym rats jealous and made people think twice before testing him. His thick arms and solid chest stretched against whatever shirt he threw on, the fabric clinging to the kind of muscle that wasn’t just for show. Defined abs, powerful legs, and prominent veins running down his forearms made it clear: Jason Todd wasn't just strong—he was dangerous.

Wherever he went, people whispered, stared, or stepped aside, as if Gotham Collegiate Academy’s resident bad boy carried an aura that warned against getting too close. Some saw him as dangerous, untouchable, a walking storm wrapped in dark clothes and bad decisions. Others were drawn to him, intoxicated by the thrill of someone so effortlessly rebellious, untamed, and unpredictable.

He wasn’t just some brooding delinquent, though. Jason Todd had the kind of presence that made authority figures nervous and classmates curious. He was the guy who rolled up to school on a motorcycle, smirking at the rules he planned to ignore. The guy who didn't care about popularity but still managed to be one of the most talked-about names in the halls.

Everything about him screamed “don’t mess with me”, and yet—people did.

They stared. They whispered. They speculated. Because Jason Todd didn’t just look like trouble—he was trouble.

“How does a delinquent like him manage to get into one of the most prestigious schools in all of Gotham?”

“Well, obviously, he’s well connected. I mean, look who his friends are. If I were friends with the sons of two billionaires, I’d take advantage of those relationships too.”

Many—students and faculty alike—had their own speculations and theories about how someone like Jason was able to go to a school like Gotham Collegiate Academy. It wasn’t exactly classified information about where he came from or who his dad was.

BREAKING NEWS: NOTORIOUS LOCAL FIGURE ARRESTED IN CITYWIDE CRIME RING INVESTIGATION

“In a shocking turn of events, authorities have arrested Willis Todd, a well-known automotive shop owner with alleged ties to multiple criminal organizations, in connection to the recent string of high-profile robberies and thefts plaguing the city.

Law enforcement sources confirm that Todd, long rumored to have underworld connections, was taken into custody earlier today as part of an ongoing, large-scale investigation into organized crime operations. Authorities believe his business may have served as a front for illicit activities, potentially linking him to a wider criminal network operating across the city.

Details of the arrest are still unfolding, but officials describe this as a major breakthrough in the effort to dismantle one of the most elusive theft rings in recent history. More updates to come as this developing story continues.”

As one might imagine, Jason didn’t have the best home life.

Willis Todd had done the best he could with the scraps life had thrown at him. He’d fought, clawed, and hustled to carve out something—anything—that resembled stability for his son. If you had asked him, years ago, what kind of life he dreamed of for them, he’d never in a million years have said this.

Not handcuffs. Not mugshots. Not his son watching him get dragged away.

He swallowed hard, the weight of failure settling deep in his chest as he turned to face the boy he’d tried so damn hard to protect.

“Son... I’ve gotta go away for a while.”

His voice was rough, strained—like it hurt to say the words out loud. Maybe because it did.

Jason was only eight years old when his dad went to prison, left in the care of the only other family he’d ever known outside of his father and his deceased stepmother.

His birth mother? A blank face in a picture he’d never seen.

His dad never spoke about her. Never reminisced. Never even slipped up and said her name. If she was a ghost, she wasn’t haunting him—because ghosts left behind something. A memory. A whisper. A trace. She left nothing.

So, the only mother he had ever known was Catherine Todd, and even she had been taken from him too soon. Cancer, illness, something bad—he didn’t know what exactly. He only knew that one day, she was there, and the next, she wasn’t. Jason was five. Too young to understand, old enough to remember.

Life could be a lot of things, but for Jason? Kind wasn’t one of them.

His classmates wouldn’t understand that. Their biggest problems were petty fights, weekend plans, or the wrong shade of a designer bag. They called it “struggles.” Jason called it a luxury.

Because none of them knew what it was like to wonder if dinner would be stale bread or expired cereal with water.

None of them knew—and he was sure they never would—just how long it took for cereal to actually expire.

Maybe that’s why their nasty little words never got under his skin. Because how could someone like that hurt him? Someone who lost their mind over a scratch on their brand-new sports car? A missed vacation? A bad hair day?

They didn’t know strife. They didn’t know struggle.

Everything had been spoon-fed to them since birth. And yet, they had the nerve to look down on him.

They whispered about him in hallways, convinced he had cheated his way into Gotham Collegiate Academy—because clearly, someone like him couldn’t have earned it. Clearly, it had to be his best friends’ rich parents pulling the strings.

Jason laughed at that.

Because if they only knew the truth—that one of the few things Willis Todd got right was making sure his kid was damn smart—they’d choke on their silver spoons.

With no money for tutors or fancy lessons, what else was there for the youngest Todd to do?

Fix cars with his old man. Read every damn book the public library had.

And he did.

And yet, none of them would ever know it. Jason didn’t even really care to prove it, because there were only a few—a very small few—who mattered to him, especially one in particular.

So, while Jason Todd might have had the reputation of a reckless  who lived for trouble, the reality was different. He wasn’t aimless or cruel, nor was he the heartless rebel everyone assumed. Beneath the grit, the sharp edges, and the infamous scowl, there was someone intelligent, fiercely loyal, protective, and—though he’d rather chew glass than admit it—capable of being soft in the right company.

Despite coming from a family that had its fair share of struggles, Jason never played the victim. He worked for everything he had, even if past methods weren’t always… legal. He didn’t need peer validation, didn’t need approval from teachers or his peers. He had his real ones, and that was enough.

People made up their own stories about him.

Some called him a troublemaker—the kind you don’t want to owe, don’t want to cross, don’t want staring at you from across the hall with that sharp, unreadable expression. Teachers watched him closely, expecting him to lash out, to skip class, to prove their assumptions right. Parents warned their kids to steer clear, because a boy like Jason Todd? He had “bad news” written all over him.

Some called him a lost cause—whispered about how he didn’t belong at GCA, how he’d end up like his father, how one day, he’d stop showing up and no one would be surprised. The rich kids sneered, convinced he was some charity case riding on the coattails of his wealthy best friends, too stupid, too rough around the edges to have gotten in on his own.

And then there were the ones who just… wanted him.

Because trouble is intoxicating when it looks like Jason Todd.

Some wanted to know him—not the stories, not the reputation, but him. They wanted to understand what made him tick, what secrets he kept behind that dark, unreadable gaze. They wanted to be the one person he let in, the exception to his indifference.

And others? Many more than most would assume—just wanted him.

Because Jason Todd wasn’t just dangerous—he was gorgeous. All broad shoulders, sharp jaw, and muscle wrapped up in leather and bad decisions. His voice? Low, rough, like the distant rumble of his motorcycle on an empty road. His presence? Unshakable. People didn’t just see him—they felt him, like a pulse in the air, something you couldn’t ignore even if you tried.

And maybe that was the most frustrating thing of all.

Because no matter what story they made up about him—whether they feared him, pitied him, or wanted to pull him into the nearest empty bathroom stall and make a mistake—they all had one thing in common.

They couldn’t stop looking.

But one thing was clear: Jason Todd didn’t do relationships.

Which is why Gotham’s most prestigious high school was absolutely losing its collective mind over the rumor that he was seeing someone.

The only question was, who?

"Are you blind? It’s obviously Y/N," Sasha scoffed, rolling her eyes.

"OMG, yes! You’d have to be stupid not to see it. Those two have been orbiting each other since, like, birth," Manny gushed, practically bouncing in his seat. "They’re so cute together. I can definitely see Jason being a simp for him."

Kevin let out a low chuckle, spinning a football between his hands. "What is it with you omegas romanticizing some sappy, soft alpha?" he said, shaking his head. "You all act like an Alpha’s job is to whisper sweet nothings and play house. News flash—real alphas don’t do that shit."

He leaned back, smirking. "And Jason? No way in hell he’d be some love-sick puppy over an omega. He’s got everything an alpha needs to keep Y/N hooked—strength, presence, dominance, and the right kind of equipment to have him walking sideways. But then, only another real alpha like myself would recognize that."

Kevin threw a pointed look across the table. "Not like some of these soft-ass, house-trained alphas prancing around GCA—like his two little ballerina buddies, Dick and Conner." His smirk deepened. "They’re practically omegas themselves. No wonder they get along so well with you all."

A chorus of groans and eye rolls followed, earning Kevin a round of unimpressed looks from the group.

"Jesus Christ, Kevin." Sasha groaned, smacking him on the shoulder.

"What?" Kevin grinned, "Can’t say I’m not speaking truth."

"Oh yeah? Then I’m sure you won’t mind saying that to your football captain’s face, right?" Manny drawled, arching a brow in challenge.

Kevin’s cocky smirk faltered for half a second before he scoffed, shifting in his seat. "Pfft, I mean—come on, it’s just jokes. No need to get all serious about it. Besides, not like Conner would care anyway." He waved a hand dismissively, suddenly very interested in the football in his hands.

The table erupted into laughter.

"Yeah, that’s what I thought." Manny grinned, shaking his head. “Anyways, Jason might have that tough guy look, but it’s clear he’s got a soft spot. And that soft spot is Y/N. Because wherever Y/N is…”

Sasha suddenly perked up, her eyes locking with Manny’s as they both grinned

“...he ain’t never too far away.” They both finished together, laughing obnoxiously while slapping and hugging each other like they didn’t know what to do with themselves.

Clearly, some inside joke the two other boys at the table were not in on.

And while usually, he’d find the silly antics of his two friends amusing, Ethan, who had been mostly quiet up until now, suddenly scoffed, arms crossed as he leaned back in his seat. "Sure, Jason’s big enough to scare off anyone dumb enough to try something—but is that really enough? Y/N doesn’t need a guard dog. He needs someone who actually listens, someone who won’t just punch his way through every problem."

That earned him a few raised eyebrows.

"Oh?" Sasha smirked, resting her chin on her hand. "Do go on, Ethan. Tell us why Jason, our six-foot-plus human guard dog, isn’t good enough for sweet little Y/N."

Ethan rolled his eyes. "You know exactly what I mean. Jason’s… Jason. He’s reckless, doesn’t think before he acts, and he’s emotionally closed off. Sure, he can fight off anyone who looks at Y/N the wrong way, but that’s not what makes a good alpha. Y/N needs someone who actually listens, who knows how to handle emotions—not just punch his way through every problem."

The table went silent for half a second before Sasha let out a low whistle.

"Wow. That was a very heartfelt, totally unbiased take. Definitely nothing personal there."

Manny smirked, nudging Ethan’s arm. "Yeah, man. Sounds almost like… oh, I don’t know… someone who’s still salty over a 7th-grade crush on their lab partner."

Ethan’s face twisted into an immediate scowl. "Oh my god,  would you let that go? That was years ago."

"And yet," Manny grinned, "here you are, still pressed."

Kevin snorted. "And, dude, no offense, but Jason would break you in half. You may not be a direct threat being a Beta and all, but that dude’s got possessive written all over him. He barely leaves Y/N’s side.”

Suddenly, Manny and Sasha looked at each other again, “Wherever Y/N is…he ain’t never too far away.” The two recited together before bursting out into another fit of shits and giggles.

Ethan’s brow twitched as he shoved Kevin’s football off the table in retaliation.

"Whatever. Y’all are insufferable."

Jason Todd had always been a fixture in Y/N’s life, like a constant shadow, a familiar presence, something woven so deeply into his world that he couldn’t remember a time before him.

Their parents—specifically Y/N’s omega dad, his Papa, and Jason’s father—were old friends from high school. The kind of “old friends” that always made Y/N’s alpha dad narrow his eyes whenever the topic came up. Suspiciously long silences, pointed looks, a change of subject. 

"You and Willis were just friends, huh?" he’d ask, cutting into his steak with a little too much force.

Jason’s dad, leaning back in his chair with a lazy smirk, would take a slow sip of his beer before answering.

"Depends on what you mean by ‘just friends,’" Willis would say, all too pleased with himself.

Jason and Y/N never really understood why until they were older, when Y/N’s Papa would sometimes mutter about “old flames” and his Dad would immediately puff his chest out and skirt them away to their room to have a long serious “talk” that always ended with a bunch of noises and creaking.

Ignorance is bliss.

But whatever the nature of their parents’ past, one thing was clear: Jason and Y/N were inevitable.

Back when they were kids, Jason had been different. Lighter. Freer. Not as hardened by the world, not as reserved or closed-off as he was now. He was the kid who would laugh the loudest, drag Y/N along on every adventure, challenge Dick to races, and teach Conner the best hiding spots in the house. Their little group had been inseparable, but even among them, Jason and Y/N had always been the closest.

"C’mon, Y/N, hurry up!" Jason would yell, grabbing his tiny wrist and pulling him along toward his dad’s auto shop, the library, or some hidden corner of the house where they could plot their next grand adventure.

The two were inseparable, always up to something, always together, always getting into trouble with Dick and Conner.

Jason wasn’t as tough then, but his protectiveness over Y/N? That was always there.

"You’re not gonna cry, are you?" Jason would say, puffing out his chest whenever some bigger kid tried to push Y/N around. "‘Cause you don’t gotta. I’ll handle it."

And handle it he did. The amount of times Y/N’s Papa had to scold Jason for throwing hands on the playground was more than anyone could count.

But one of Jason’s favorite things—something he’d never admit out loud—was when Y/N listened to him read.

They’d sit on the floor of his dad’s auto shop, grease-stained books spread between them, Jason flipping through whatever novel he had gotten lost in that week.

"Do the voices," Y/N would insist, eyes wide with expectation.

Jason would groan, but he’d do it anyway—grumbling about how "annoying" Y/N was while still giving the best damn dramatic reading of a fantasy novel Gotham had ever seen.

And the motorcycle Jason rode today?

That was theirs.

"One day," Y/N had grinned, wiping grease from his hands as Jason tightened a bolt, "this is gonna be our ride. We’ll take it anywhere we want."

"Yeah?" Jason smirked, eyes bright with excitement. "Where to first?"

"Everywhere."

That had been a promise.

One Jason intended to keep.

Then everything changed.

Jason was eight years old when his dad was arrested. He had sat on the couch, legs swinging, watching the news in confusion as his father’s mugshot flashed across the screen.

The words didn’t make sense at first. "Criminal organizations." "Underworld connections." "Large-scale theft ring."

But then, he heard it.

"Willis Todd has been arrested."

And suddenly, everything made sense.

"Son..." His dad’s voice was rough, strained—like it hurt to say the words out loud.

Jason didn’t want to look at him.

"I’ve gotta go away for a while."

The words echoed in Jason’s head long after his father was dragged away in handcuffs. He didn’t cry. He just… stared.

And Y/N was there. Right beside him. Holding his hand.

That night, Jason packed a bag and moved in with Y/N’s family.

Y/N was thrilled. His Papa was more than willing. His father? Not so much.

"Are we really doing this?" Y/N’s Dad had muttered to his husband.

"He has nowhere else to go," his Papa had said simply, already making Jason a plate of food.

Jason pretended not to hear the hesitation, but he saw it. Felt it. He saw the way Y/N’s Dad watched him, waiting for the moment he’d "turn out like his father."

It wasn’t a secret that Y/N’s dad wasn’t exactly fond of Willis Todd. His suspicion extended to Jason, not because of who he was but because of who he might become. 

But he never did.

But Jason never did. And over the years, he grew on the man.

Maybe it was because Jason treated Y/N like the most important thing in the world. Maybe it was because, despite his rough edges, Jason never disrespected his authority. Maybe it was because Y/N’s dad saw the way Jason looked at his son, like he’d tear the world apart to keep him safe.

Either way, he softened.

So much so that by the time Jason was a teenager, the man who had once been his biggest skeptic had become his biggest supporter.

Which was why the man was also the first to set rules.

It was after Jason and Y/N presented—alpha and omega—that the rules slammed down like a damn gavel in court.

"No more sleepovers."

"No being alone in each other’s rooms with the doors closed."

"No unsupervised nights out."

Y/N hated it. "Dad, we’re not even dating."

"Not yet," his father had muttered.

Jason, for all his rebellious nature, didn’t argue. He understood better than Y/N did. Their dynamic had changed. Their instincts had shifted. And if anyone knew what kind of effect Y/N had on him, it was Jason himself.

So he didn’t fight the rules. He followed them—begrudgingly, but still.

At least, until he moved back home.

When Jason’s dad got out of prison, he went back home. He had no choice.

But the years that followed would be a lesson in cruelty—a slow, grinding proof that rock bottom is just a myth, and that no matter how deep you think you’ve fallen, there’s always further to go.

Jason’s knuckles ached.

His breathing was shallow, ragged, his heart hammering in his chest as he stood in the middle of the kitchen, fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms. Across from him, Willis Todd glared, nostrils flared, muscles tensed, shoulders squared like he was bracing for a second round.

The house smelled like anger. Like hot-blooded rage barely contained beneath thinly veiled restraint.

The table was half-shoved against the wall, the chair Jason had knocked over laying in splintered pieces on the tile.

Willis wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, eyeing Jason with something between frustration and reluctant respect.

"That all you got, boy?" he muttered, voice thick with warning.

Jason breathed heavily, chest rising and falling, his body taut with the kind of tension that had nowhere to go.

"You back to working for them, huh?" Jason spat, his voice low, seething. "You back to being some errand boy for the assholes that got you locked up in the first place?"

Willis’s eyes darkened.

"Watch your mouth, Jason."

But Jason didn’t want to watch his mouth. He wanted to spit fire, to hurl every bit of frustration, of disappointment, of betrayal onto the man who had ruined his life and was too damn selfish to realize it.

"You think I’m stupid?" Jason snapped. "Think I don’t see the extra cash? The new parts you’re suddenly able to afford for the shop?" His teeth clenched. "How long till you get caught this time? Huh? Another five years? Another ten? And what—then I’m supposed to just sit back and watch while they drag your ass off again?"

Willis’s expression twisted, his hands slamming down on the counter.

"That’s not your got-damn business, Jason!"

Jason’s laugh was sharp, humorless.

"Not my business? Not my—" He let out a breath, shaking his head, eyes wild. "I was the one sitting in that courtroom. I was the one watching Mom cry herself to sleep every night while you were inside. I was the one visiting you behind fucking plexiglass."

Willis’s jaw tightened.

Jason’s voice cracked, his breath shuddering. "Did you think I wouldn’t find out? For two seconds, did you consider that your son is a lot older now and can tell when his dad is up to some shady ass shit?”

A pause.

"I’m not a kid anymore, Dad."

Willis exhaled through his nose, his head shaking, fingers flexing at his sides.

"Then stop acting like one."

Jason snapped.

Before he even thought about it, his body had already moved, shoving his father back against the counter.

Willis was older, stronger, broader, but Jason was faster, fueled by something raw, something relentless. He saw the way his father’s shoulders tensed, not from fear but from instinct, from years of being someone people didn’t shove around without consequence.

For a split second, Jason thought Willis was gonna hit him back.

And maybe some twisted part of him wanted him to.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Willis’s hands gripped Jason’s shoulders, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, his voice dangerously low.

"You think you’re grown, huh?" His father’s breath was hot against Jason’s face, his grip tightening. "Think you can take me just ‘cause you got a little muscle now?"

Jason’s chest heaved, his eyes burning, his throat tight.

"I don’t wanna take you," Jason muttered, voice thick with something he refused to name. "I just want you to be better."

The words hit harder than any punch could have.

Because for the first time, his father’s expression changed.

The anger didn’t fade. But beneath it, beneath the frustration, there was something else.

Something that looked a hell of a lot like guilt.

Willis let go. Turned away.

Jason didn’t stay to see whatever expression crossed his father’s face next.

Because his legs were already moving, his body already acting on instinct, carrying him out the door, down the street, toward the only place that felt like home anymore.

Between his father’s absence, the taunts from classmates, and the weight of his own anger, Jason had never felt more like he was constantly on the verge of burning out. He hated visiting his dad in prison, hated seeing him in orange, hated the way their time together always ended with an alarm and a guard telling him to leave.

But, through it all, Y/N was there.

Every visit. Every fight. Every time Jason came home angry, every time he didn’t want to talk, every time he needed a way out.

"Window’s open."

Jason barely remembered the run to Y/N’s house. By the time his phone vibrated with the text signaling his green light to go in, all he knew was that his breath was ragged, his hands were shaking, and his body felt too tight, too wound up, too full of something that had nowhere to go.

His muscles burned, his blood ran hot, and the storm inside him—the one that started the second his father spat those words at him—was still raging, still clawing at the edges of his restraint, still begging for a way out.

He didn’t waste a second. Didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.

Just moved.

He scaled the tree like he had a hundred times before, the cold night air biting at his skin before he swung himself through the window with a practiced ease that should’ve been concerning.

And then—fuck.

The scent hit him first.

Warmth. Comfort. Y/N.

His room was dimly lit, golden hues stretching over the sheets, the books stacked on the nightstand, the sweatshirt Y/N had probably stolen from him days ago. But Jason barely registered any of that because his scent was everywhere—strong, thick, filling Jason’s lungs, wrapping around his senses like a noose.

Lavender and something sweeter, something uniquely Y/N, something Jason had spent years pretending didn’t make his pulse quicken and his instincts snarl.

And before he could even breathe properly, something solid, warm, and impossibly soft crashed into his chest.

Jason cleared his throat, shaking off whatever the hell that slip-up was, before huffing out an "Oof—" as Y/N burrowed against his chest, his body warm and pliant from sleep.

Jason staggered back, only barely catching himself as Y/N practically melted against him, bare skin brushing against fabric, his body all heat, all curves, all sleepy weight pressing into Jason like he belonged there.

And fuck, Jason was not ready for this.

"Are you okay?" Y/N mumbled, voice thick with concern but also soft, wrecked drowsiness, like he had been waiting for Jason even in his sleep.

His cheek pressed against the fabric of Jason’s hoodie, right over his chest, right over his got-damn heartbeat that was now slamming hard enough to break through ribs.

Jason sucked in a slow, measured breath, his grip on Y/N’s hips too tight, too desperate, his fingers twitching where they clutched the soft skin beneath his shirt.

He needed to answer. Needed to move, needed to do something other than feel.

But Y/N was in his arms, open and pliant, warm and vulnerable, pressing into him like he didn’t know what he was doing to Jason’s self-control.

And Jason was too wound up, too exhausted, too fucking weak to fight it.

His instincts screamed.

To pull him closer. To nuzzle against his throat, breathe him in properly, let that scent flood his system until it drowned out everything else.

His jaw locked tight—breath hissing between his teeth, his entire body coiled in restraint so fierce it made his bones ache.

He wasn’t okay.

Not even remotely.

But Y/N was here. In his arms. Holding him, grounding him, filling his senses with something so sweet, so intoxicating, it almost made the pain go away.

Almost.

Jason’s fingers curled tighter into Y/N’s shirt. He exhaled, low and rough.

"Yeah."

A beat.

His grip tightened.

"I am now."

Y/N gave a small tug at his hoodie.

"Come on. Bed."

Jason hesitated.

He wasn’t sure he could handle this.

But he let himself be pulled anyway.

The moment they hit the mattress, Y/N curled into his side like it was second nature, like this was where he belonged. One arm slung carelessly across Jason’s stomach, his leg hooking over his like he had every right to drape himself over an alpha twice his size.

Jason wasn’t two seconds from unraveling.

He already had.

His throat burned, his hands still half-clenched into fists, his mind still spinning with too many thoughts he didn’t know how to put into words.

And then—soft fingers.

Threading through his hair. Scraping lightly against his scalp.

Jason let out a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling in time with Y/N’s.

"I hate him," Jason muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

"No, you don’t."

Jason swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the fabric of Y/N’s hoodie. "I want to."

A pause.

Y/N shifted, pressing his ear against Jason’s chest, listening to the sound of his heartbeat.

"You don’t have to figure it out right now."

Jason let out a breath, his fingers unclenching as he lifted a hand to rest against Y/N’s back.

"You’re so damn small," Jason muttered, voice still rough, but softer now, the fight draining out of him.

Y/N huffed. "And yet, I’m taking up more space in this bed than you."

“Well, yes…because you’re a bed, sheet, and blanket hogger.”

Y/N lifted his head to turn an arched brow towards the alpha, “Don’t push it, Todd.”

Jason exhaled a short laugh, his shoulders finally relaxing.

He wasn’t okay.

Not even close.

But right now? With Y/N’s fingers tangled in his hair, with the scent of lavender and warmth pressing into his chest, with the sound of Y/N’s even breathing grounding him—

He could pretend he was.

And for tonight, that was enough.

Y/N was his anchor. The one thing in his life that didn’t feel like it would get ripped away. But Jason knew better than anyone—nothing lasted forever.

And deep down, he feared the day or even just the possibility of a day when Y/N might decide he was done dealing with him and would leave him behind, just like everyone else important to him.

But, as deep as that fear gnawed at him, the chance of it happening was slim to none as Y/N would constantly go out of his way to reassure Jason, without even saying it that he wasn’t going anywhere.

That didn’t mean there weren’t outside forces that would try to take the omega from him either. As they grew older, Jason would settle with the belief that life, the universe, Baba Yaga, or whatever mystical force out there had a bone to pick with him, and him only, as it seemed intent on trying to take the one source of his happiness away from him.

Then again, he is a teenager and thus has the dramatic capabilities of a thousand Broadway actors so there’s that.

But, as they grew older, and approached young adulthood, it became clear that Jason wasn’t the only one who wanted to have and keep Y/N in their lives forever, as more than just friends. He really should have seen it coming.

Y/N had always been the type to draw people in, all warmth and easy smiles, the kind of omega that had alphas tripping over themselves just to get a second glance. It had always been like that—even before they hit their secondary gender presentations, even before Jason really understood what it meant to want someone like this.

And for a long time, it hadn’t mattered.

Because Jason had always been there first.

Until the other alphas stopped just looking and started acting like they had a chance. It started to feel like he was one wrong move away from snapping, because for months—months—he’d been forced to watch, to endure the constant, infuriating reminders that he wasn’t the only one who wanted Y/N. And he’d been dealing with this shit for months now.

Or maybe longer. Maybe it had been years of this slow, creeping realization clawing at the edges of his mind, waiting for him to stop being such a dumbass and just accept it already.

Because everyone else already knew.

Dick had given him the look months ago, arms crossed, smirk way too fucking smug.

"Dude. You’re gone for him."

Conner had just snorted. "Oh, he’s been gone. We’re just waiting for him to catch up."

Even Y/N’s omega dad, who had always been nothing but warm and understanding toward Jason, had just patted his shoulder one night and sighed, knowingly.

"You poor thing."

Like Jason was some lovesick bastard everyone could see drowning except him.

And maybe he had been.

Because suddenly, everything felt different.

The way Y/N would lean against him without thinking, tuck himself into Jason’s space like he belonged there. The way his scent had stopped just being familiar and started being fucking intoxicating.

And worse—the way Jason’s instincts responded to it.

Like some primal, animalistic part of him had already decided—this is mine.

Like he was just waiting for Y/N to catch up.

But the worst part? The part that had Jason on edge, restless, constantly biting back frustration?

Y/N had no fucking clue.

None.

Didn’t notice the way people looked at him. Didn’t realize when alphas got too close, let their hands linger, smiled too long. Didn’t see the way Jason was this close to wrecking someone every got-damn time it happened.

And that?

That was gonna be a fucking problem.

Jason already had the reputation of a rebel, a problem, a walking time bomb just waiting to go off. A future delinquent, just like his old man.

And if things kept going the way they were going, he wouldn’t just live up to that reputation—he’d shatter it. Hell, at this rate, he’d outdo his father in record time.

Thankfully, Y/N, in all his infinite wisdom, had suggested Jason find an outlet for his anger, something to keep him from self-destructing.

"Maybe you just need something physical to work all that aggression out," Y/N had mused one night, casually twirling his pencil between his fingers as they lay on their stomachs doing homework.

Jason had immediately short-circuited.

His body froze, his breath caught, and suddenly, he was thinking about things that had absolutely nothing to do with exercise.

And Y/N—oblivious, innocent, completely unaware of what he’d just done to Jason’s brain—kept talking.

"You know, like boxing, maybe wrestling? Even just running?"

Jason exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing himself to shove the very unhelpful mental images away while also squeezing his front against the floor, thinking maybe if he suffocated it, his hard-on would go away.

Logic is key.

But, Y/N had obviously meant actual physical activity.

Not what Jason’s instincts immediately jumped to.

Which, in hindsight, was stupid, considering Jason was no stranger to the gym.

People didn’t just stop and stare at him because of his reputation, or because he was at a school they thought he didn’t belong in.

No—they stared because Jason Todd was built like a fucking problem.

Broad shoulders, a strong, sculpted chest, thick arms that flexed under the weight of whatever he was lifting.

A physique that made it painfully clear that Jason wasn’t just strong—he was the kind of strong that made people nervous.

And Y/N?

He wasn’t nervous.

He just smiled at him, completely unaware that Jason was barely keeping himself together. Then again, it always felt like he was keeping himself together.

Whether it was him standing in some random house on a Friday night, at some stupid house party he didn’t want to be at. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching Y/N laugh at something—head tilted back, eyes shining, fucking beautiful.

And then, some wannabe alpha sat too close, got too comfortable.

Jason watched as the guy brushed his hand along Y/N’s wrist, leaned in like he had the right, like he thought he had a shot.

Jason’s jaw locked.

Every muscle in his body coiled tight.

He smelled it before anything else—that faint hint of something territorial, a challenge.

Like the bastard had the nerve to think he could even compete.

Jason’s vision went red.

The next thing he knew, he was moving.

Didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. Just stepped forward, slid into the space between Y/N and the asshole, and let the weight of his presence do the talking.

The guy barely had time to register the shift before Jason was staring him down, slow, deliberate.

"Problem?" Jason asked, voice low, rough, dangerous.

The alpha froze, throat bobbing. "Uh—no. No problem, man."

"Yeah? Then move."

He did.

And Y/N?

Didn’t even notice.

Just turned to Jason with that same easy smile, like the alpha hadn’t just sent some dickhead running with a single look.

"You good?" Y/N asked, like Jason hadn’t just come within inches of wrecking someone for daring to touch him.

Jason gritted his teeth while subtly grabbing Y/N’s wrists, rubbing his fingers over it. "Peachy."

Or the night after another fight with his dad—yelling, slamming doors, Jason’s fists clenched so tight his knuckles ached, the rage still simmering beneath his skin like a lit fuse.

And somehow, like instinct, like fate, like the only goddamn place his body knew to go when everything else burned around him, Jason found himself in Y/N’s bed again.

The window had still been slightly open from where he’d climbed through, letting in a chill that should’ve cooled the room.

But Jason didn’t feel the cold.

All he felt was heat. Actually…

It felt like he was fighting for his goddamn life.

First, it was the scent—thick, saturating the air, clinging to him, sinking into his lungs. He barely made it through the window without feeling like he was about to be consumed whole by it.

That familiar sweetness, that pulsating warmth—overpowering whatever fucking candle Y/N had burning, drowning out everything else, until Jason felt like he was sinking.

Jason sucked in a slow, sharp breath because—fuck.

It was everywhere.

The scent. The heat. The subtle press of something soft and pliant nestled against his thigh, just beneath the sheets.

Jason went rigid.

Too close.

Too dangerous.

His instincts once again had snarled, a sharp, territorial need coiling deep in his gut, flooding his veins like an intoxicant he couldn’t shake off.

Because it wasn’t just warmth pressing against him—it was need.

It was the soft, feverish h eat between Y/N’s thighs, the part of him Jason had no business being hyperaware of, but couldn’t ignore if he tried.

And fuck, why was it so warm?

Jason’s breath came out rough, uneven, his fingers twitching where they gripped the back of Y/N’s hoodie like a lifeline.

He needed to focus.

On anything else.

But Y/N was breathing slow and steady against his chest, his scent thick, heavy, so got-damn sweet it was practically drugging Jason on the spot.

The omega was practically folded around Jason, wrapped up against him like a second skin, like he was meant to be there. His arms draped lazily across Jason’s stomach, his body tucking into his side, his leg hooking over Jason’s like it had every damn right to be there.

Jason clenched his jaw, shifting slightly, trying—failing—not to notice the slick heat pressed up against his hip, the way every slight movement had it rubbing against him in a way that was making his own situation dangerously uncomfortable.

Fuck.

The frustration, the exhaustion, the leftover anger from the fight with his dad—it all tangled with something deeper, something baser, something Jason knew damn well he shouldn’t be feeling right now.

Not when his cock was already straining against the fabric of his sweats, throbbing, aching, caught between desperate restraint and something far more primal.

Not when every primal, alpha-driven instinct in his body was howling at him to roll over, press Y/N into the mattress, and rut into that soft, needy heat until it was dripping with him—until it was stretched, swollen, stuffed full with his claim.

Not when his instincts demanded he take, ruin, own—mark every inch of that trembling body, make sure Y/N never smelled like anything but him again.

Not when the thought of knotting him, filling him, locking them together in something permanent, something carnal, something undeniably his made Jason’s entire body ache with the kind of need that bordered on pain.

Jason bit the inside of his cheek, hard.

How the fuck was Y/N sleeping through this?

How did he not feel what he was doing to the alpha? Not sense his utmost distress and peril at the situation he was in? 

Jason squeezed his eyes shut.

This is why sleepovers got banned.

Holy shit, this is exactly why sleepovers got banned.

And the worst part?

Jason was starting to wonder if those rules had been for both of them.

Or if they’d been for him.

Because this? This was torture.

A slow, burning kind of agony, caught between the instinctual need to take and the desperate need to stay right here, safe, wrapped in Y/N’s warmth, without ruining everything.

And fuck, he didn’t know which one was worse.

Y/N was the only thing that could steady him and wreck him in the same breath. The one person who could pull him back from the edge, quiet the chaos in his head— but also the one who could drive him out of his fucking mind without even trying.

He wasn’t sure how the hell he survived the night.

But the next morning, as he watched Y/N stretch, shirt rising to expose a sliver of bare skin, hair messy, eyes still heavy with sleep—

Jason knew.

He wasn’t gonna survive much longer.

So, that Monday night, Jason Todd did the one thing no other alpha had the balls to do.

He went to Y/N’s father.

Because Jason was done waiting.

And if he was gonna do this, he was gonna do it right.

The front door he was very familiar with but often never used felt heavier than usual.

Jason stood there for a solid ten minutes, hands clenched into fists, running through every possible outcome of this conversation like it was a goddamn battle plan.

He’d been in rooms with Gotham’s worst before when visiting his dad. He had thrown hands with grown-ass alphas and men twice his size. He had taken beatings, dealt with cops, lived through shit most people wouldn’t believe.

But this?

This was a new level of terrifying.

Before he could bitch out, the door swung open, and Jason suddenly found himself face to face with Y/N’s father—broad, unimpressed, and already raising an eyebrow.

"Jason."

Jason swallowed, forcing himself to meet the man’s stare head-on.

"I wanna court your son."

Better to just rip off the band-aid than keep beating around the bush…or not? He didn’t know—he was fucking nervous.

Silence.

The longest fucking ten seconds of Jason’s life.

Y/N’s dad just stared, unreadable as ever, before tilting his head slightly.

"That so?"

Jason nodded, standing his ground even as his heart tried to punch its way out of his ribcage.

Another long pause.

Then, the man exhaled, glancing over his shoulder before calling out—

"Babe, I owe you twenty bucks!"

Jason blinked. What?

A second later, Y/N’s other Papa appeared from the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel, looking annoyingly smug.

"Told you he’d get there before graduation," he said, waving a hand in Jason’s general direction.

Y/N’s father grumbled under his breath, reaching into his wallet. "Damn kid had me convinced he was gonna be dense about it forever."

Jason stood there, completely thrown. "You… bet on this?"

Y/N’s Papa smirked, leisurely counting the cash from his husband before finally locking eyes with Jason.

"Took you long enough."

Jason’s brain short-circuited. He didn’t know whether to feel relieved or deeply offended.

Then, with the kind of knowing smirk that Jason was all too familiar with from his son and that made his own stomach twist, Y/N’s Papa added,

"But just so we're clear—if you're officially courting my son, I can’t keep pretending not to notice your little late-night ‘visits’ through the window anymore."

Jason felt the heat rush to his face as his heart nearly slammed out of his chest.

Shit. One can imagine the very interesting and tense conversation that happened afterward as they waited for Y/N to come home, especially from the Omega’s father, who also was not overtly happy at the mention of the late-night visits.

That same night, when Y/N returned home and spotted the familiar motorcycle parked in his driveway, a warm flicker of anticipation bloomed in his chest.

Jason was here.

But that warmth was doused immediately when his eyes landed on him.

Jason Todd—the same Jason who could stare down a room full of people without flinching, who never backed down from a fight, who laughed in the face of authority—was sitting on his porch, hunched over, elbows braced on his knees, hands clenched into fists.

And he looked… nervous.

Not angry. Not frustrated. Nervous.

Y/N’s stomach twisted.

Jason could be furious, and it wouldn’t shake him. He could be bleeding, and Y/N would roll up his sleeves and handle it. But this? This was new.

His hands felt clammy as he climbed the steps, heart hammering, because Jason looking like this—like his mind was at war with itself, like he was fighting something bigger than his usual battles—meant something serious.

And serious, when it came to Jason, could mean a lot of things.

Y/N swallowed, trying to keep his voice steady. "Jay?"

Jason’s head snapped up immediately, like he hadn’t even heard him approach, like he had been too caught up in his own storm to notice the outside world.

And the second those piercing blue eyes locked onto him, something in Jason’s entire body just—unclenched.

Like he had been holding his breath this entire time and only now, now, that Y/N was standing in front of him, could he actually breathe.

Y/N stepped closer. "What’s wrong?"

Jason let out a slow, uneven exhale, then shook his head, like he was still trying to get himself together.

Then, finally, he spoke.

"Nothin’s wrong." His voice was rough, but softer than usual, like there was more sitting behind those words. More that he wasn’t saying yet.

Y/N narrowed his eyes. "Bullshit."

Jason huffed out a small, barely-there laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Okay, maybe not nothin’… but it’s not bad." He shifted, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself.

And that? That made Y/N even more nervous.

Jason never hesitated.

"Okay…not gonna lie, you’re kind of freaking me out here. What’s going on, Jason?"

Jason let out a long, suffering sigh, leveling Y/N with a flat stare—the kind that usually made people nervous.

But Y/N wasn’t people.

And the omega knew that look for what it really was.

Pouting.

Jason Todd—Gotham Collegiate’s most infamous bad boy, the alpha who had everyone either terrified or thirsting—was pouting.

All because Y/N had called him Jason instead of his usual nicknames.

Y/N barely had time to register it before Jason’s brow twitched, his voice dropping into a low, grumbling mutter.

"You know I hate it when you call me that."

Y/N arched a brow. "It’s your name."

Jason’s scowl deepened, arms crossing over his broad chest, making him look even more like an overgrown, sulky teenager. "Yeah, well… it doesn’t sound right when it’s coming from you."

And Y/N knew exactly what he meant.

Jason had never been just Jason to him.

He had always been Jay. Or, more notably—Jaybirdie—among other names to come.

The nickname was one of those things neither of them really remembered starting, only that, according to their parents, Jason had been obsessed with birds as a kid—specifically robins.

"I don’t know what it was," Y/N’s Papa had laughed once, recounting the memory. "But Jason had a phase where he was convinced he was a damn bird. Would run around flapping his arms, chirping, climbing everything in sight—"

"—still climbs everything in sight," Y/N’s dad had grumbled.

Y/N had beamed at a then nine-year-old Jason, eyes twinkling with mischief. "You’re like a little jaybird!"

And just like that—Jaybird and subsequently ‘Jaybirdie’ was born.

It was a name that had followed them through childhood, whispered between giggles under blanket forts, shouted across the playground when Jason was daring Y/N to keep up with his reckless stunts, scribbled into the margins of school notebooks when passing notes in class.

It was his name—a name no one else called him.

Because Jason had never let anyone else call him that.

Not even Dick, who had tried once in middle school only to be met with the most unimpressed, deadpan stare imaginable.

"Try that again, Grayson, and I swear to god—"

But when Y/N said it?

Jason melted. Not that he’d ever admit it.

After that, it became law—no one but Y/N called him Jaybirdie. And Y/N should ever call Jason anything but, or one of the other plentiful nicknames he’d had for him.

"Jason—"

…

Call the cops because the law’s been broken.

Jason, looking entirely done with this conversation, exhaled sharply and muttered—

"Whatever, just—here."

As if deciding something in real-time, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled something out.

Jason glanced at him, clearly catching his reaction, because his lips twitched, a shadow of his usual cocky smirk ghosting across his face. "Relax, sweetheart. Not that kinda box."

Y/N did not relax.

Because Jason still looked serious. And Jason only looked serious when things mattered.

Slowly, he opened the box, revealing a simple yet striking silver ring inside. Simple, unpolished, but solid. Sturdy.

Familiar.

Y/N’s stomach flipped because—holy shit.

It was made from one of Jason’s old bike chains.

The same damn chain Y/N had broken last year when he’d taken Jason’s motorcycle for a joyride and crashed it into a very unfortunate mailbox.

Y/N had come out with only a few scrapes, but Jason was still pissed. Not because of the bike.

Because Y/N had gotten hurt from it, even if it was in a small manner.

And now, here he was, giving him a ring made from that same damn bike.

Y/N almost teared up.

Almost.

Jason exhaled, rubbing a thumb over the metal before looking back up at Y/N, something raw flickering behind his eyes. "It’s for you."

Y/N’s voice felt stuck in his throat. "Jason, I—"

But Jason wasn’t done.

He stood up, stepping closer, pulling something else from beside him—a motorcycle helmet.

Sleek. Sturdy. And unmistakably red. A match to his own.

And somehow—everything made sense.

Jason exhaled slowly, shifting his weight like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.

Then, voice low, he said, "The ring's from the old chain. Figured it was fitting, since you can’t seem to keep your hands off my damn bike."

Y/N stomach did a flip at that, as he tried to hold in his nervous laugh. He just wouldn’t let that go. 

Jason smirked, but it softened almost instantly. He tapped the helmet.

"This is the real thing, though."

His voice dipped lower, softer.

"The helmet’s so you can always be with me. Whenever you wanna be."

Y/N’s throat tightened.

Because the motorcycle wasn’t just Jason’s.

It was theirs.

It was years of sneaking out, of riding under Gotham’s neon lights, of Jason showing him how to shift gears, of Y/N pressing his cheek against Jason’s back as the wind roared around them.

Y/N’s chest ached.

He knew what Jason was really saying.

Jason Todd didn’t share things. He didn’t give pieces of himself away to just anyone. But here he was, offering Y/N something that meant more than words ever could.

It was a delcaration, a silent I choose you, a this is forever if you want it to be.

Y/N’s throat tightened. "Jason…"

Jason held his gaze, shoulders tense, eyes unreadable. "Say somethin’, sweetheart."

Y/N didn’t think.

Didn’t hesitate.

He just moved.

One second, he was standing still. The next, he was grabbing Jason by the collar of his jacket and yanking him down into a kiss so deep, so desperate, so all-consuming, it stole the breath straight from his lungs.

Jason made a sound—low, surprised—but he recovered fast.

Really fast.

Because suddenly, strong hands were gripping Y/N’s waist, yanking him flush against a firm, solid chest, and—fuck.

Jason kissed like he fought—with everything he had.

Heat. Teeth. Desperation. Like he had been waiting for this, needing this, for a long, long time.

And Y/N?

Y/N was gone.

The feeling of Jason’s hands on him, the way his lips moved, the low, near-growl in his throat—it was enough to send a shiver down his spine.

The motorcycle helmet hit the porch with a soft thud, forgotten.

Jason was the first to pull back, just barely, his breath ragged, forehead still pressed against Y/N’s.

He huffed out a small, breathless laugh, voice a little rough but undeniably fond. "So… I’m guessin’ that’s a yes?"

Y/N, still dazed, still completely wrecked, somehow still managed to find his smart mouth.

“Technically, you never asked me a question.” His lips curled, teasing, knowing exactly what he was doing. “But, if I’m assuming correctly, then…” He tilted his head, smiling. “It’s a maybe.”

Now it was Jason’s turn to freeze. His expression shifted—lips parting slightly, brows twitching downward.

A full-body offense.

"A maybe?"

A full-grown alpha, pouting, arms wrapped around Y/N’s waist like a clingy damn koala. Jason nuzzled into his throat, breath hot against his skin, muttering, grumbling, sulking.

"Unbelievable."

Y/N bit back a laugh, hands sliding over broad shoulders.

"I mean, I dunno, Jaybirdie, you didn’t exactly—"

Jason bit him.

Not hard, just enough to make Y/N squeak—just enough to shut him up. Childish…but effective.

Jason pulled back, scowling, still clinging, and—fuck, he was adorable.

"Try that again," Jason grumbled, low, almost grumpy. "Because I swear to god, Y/N—if you leave me hanging with a maybe after all that—"

Y/N was laughing now, warm and breathless, hugging him back.

"Okay, okay," he hummed, fingers tangling in Jason’s hair, voice soft with something more real.

He pressed a kiss to Jason’s jaw, right over the spot he had just nipped.

"It’s a yes, dummy."

Jason huffed, but Y/N could feel his grin.

"Good."

And then—because Jason Todd was a menace—

He kissed him again.

Obviously, the school was buzzing with gossip the next day when Jason pulled up to the front entrance with Y/N perched on the back of his motorcycle, both donning their matching helmets like a damn statement piece.

But that? That wasn’t what had people stopping mid-step.

No, the real show—the thing that had the entire hallway vibrating with whispers—was the silver ring glinting on Y/N’s hand.

A ring that, at that exact moment, was enclosed in Jason Todd’s much larger one as he strode down the hall, cutting a direct path through the crowd without a single glance at anyone else.

Jason didn’t need to look.

He could already feel the stares.

And the thing about Jason Todd?

He thrived off that shit.

Shoulders squared, chin lifted, his entire presence radiated smug, alpha satisfaction as he led Y/N to his locker like he was escorting a prize only he had the right to claim. And judging by the bitching expressions of half the alphas in the building? He wasn’t wrong.

Jason’s chest puffed up just a little more, an unmistakable fuck you energy rolling off him as he caught sight of the bitter stares from guys who had never stood a chance in the first place.

Because, let’s be real—Y/N was never theirs.

And now?

Now, he never would be.

Jason squeezed Y/N’s hand, fingers tightening possessively around his while unconsciously playing with the ring on the Omega’s finger as they stopped at his locker. Then, finally, he flicked his eyes up, gaze lazily sweeping over the crowd of sulking, jealous bastards.

And fuck—it felt good.

Conner and Dick found them shortly after, spotting Jason still keeping Y/N tucked against his side like some overgrown, territorial wolfdog. But, to their credit, Jason wasn’t actively growling at them, which—by his standards—was basically rolling out a red carpet of acceptance.

The pair of alphas shared a look, an entire conversation passing between them as they took in the absolute sight in front of them.

Their two closest friends.

Finally. Together.

It was about damn time.

Dick, naturally, was the first to speak up.

Hands on his hips, grinning like a damn idiot, he let out a dramatic sigh. "Wow. So it only took you, what—your entire life to finally make a move?"

Jason’s eye twitched.

Conner snorted, crossing his arms as he tilted his head in fake contemplation. "I dunno, Dick. I think we might be giving him too much credit. Could’ve easily taken another five years at the rate he was going."

Jason scowled, shoulders tensing like he was about two seconds away from decking them both.

Y/N, however, was cracking up, pressing his face into Jason’s shoulder as he tried (and failed) to contain his laughter.

Jason turned that glare on him next. "Don’t encourage them."

Dick smirked. "Oh, no, no. Let him laugh, Jay. This is a monumental occasion." He pressed a hand to his chest, eyes mockingly emotional. "My little Jason—courting like a real alpha. Who would’ve thought?"

Jason clicked his tongue, face deadpan. "I will throw you down a flight of stairs."

Conner chuckled. "Relax, dude. We’re happy for you."

Dick grinned, slinging an arm around Jason’s shoulder in the worst decision of his life. "Yeah, bro. Really. We love this for you."

Jason immediately shoved him off. "Don’t touch me."

Y/N, still shaking with laughter, squeezed Jason’s hand, leaning up to peck his cheek. "They’re just messing with you, Jay."

Jason huffed, but Y/N could feel the tension leaving his body.

Conner smirked. "Seriously, man. Took you long enough, but… you did good."

Dick winked at Y/N. "And you must be so proud of him. Your big, bad alpha finally figured out how to ask you out. What an achievement."

Jason bristled. "Okay, I’m leaving."

Y/N just laughed harder.

“Oh, my FUCK! They’re so CUTE together!”

Manny screeched, nearly vibrating out of his skin as he watched Jason Todd—grumpy, brooding, anti-social Jason Todd—casually holding Y/N’s hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Down the hall, standing at their usual locker hangout spot, he, Ethan, Sasha, and Kara were practically witnessing a historical event.

Ethan, rubbing his ear with a pained expression, groaned. “Manny, volume please.”

Manny waved him off. “Oh, hush you with your sensitive ass ears. You are not about to tell me that this isn’t the most romantic thing you’ve ever seen in your entire life.”

Sasha gushed, practically vibrating with excitement. “I know! I heard from Caitlyn earlier that the ring Y/N’s wearing isn’t just some random accessory—Jason made it himself. Like, actually put it together with his own hands.”

Manny gasped, clutching his chest like he’d been struck. “Fanfiction could never…”

Unless?

…

Pfff, yeah right.

Kara crossed her arms, smirking. “Oh yeah, we totally suffered watching Jason Todd be a dramatic, lovesick idiot all this time.”

Manny nodded violently. “Exactly! And now LOOK AT THEM! They’re literally giving black cat/golden retriever energy. Ugh…my fucking dream. Oh, to be Y/N? Think I could find a witch to cast a spell to switch our bodies?”

Ethan, long-suffering, just sighed. “Manny, you seriously need to—”

“OH, SHIT! LOOK! LOOK! Jason’s GLARING at anyone who stares too long! MY GOD, HE’S FERAL! THIS IS BETTER THAN TELEVISION.”

Sasha actually cackled. “How long are you guys betting before he physically body-checks someone for looking at Y/N too hard.”

Kara raised an eyebrow. “I give it until lunch.”

Ethan, frowning at the sore sight, but not wanting to be left out hummed thoughtfully. “I say by next period.”

Manny, grinning like a madman, slammed a twenty on the table. “Bitch, I say ten minutes.

Kara grinned, shaking her head. “Y’all are terrible.”

Just a note: Manny won the bet.

After dropping Y/N off at his class, Jason leaned against the lockers, arms crossed, watching like he always did. Dick and Conner flanked him, still snickering and talking shit, their teasing only getting worse now that Y/N was out of earshot.

Jason, as annoyed as he was, just rolled his eyes, exhaling through his nose. He let them talk. Let them have their fun.

Because his focus was elsewhere.

And then—it happened.

One of Conner’s teammates—some over-bronzed, protein-powdered, roid-raging benchwarmer from Kevin’s crew—made the worst decision of his life.

The guy, a walking case of bad judgment and even worse acne, had been eyeing Y/N for weeks.

Just another alpha in the long line of idiots convinced he had a shot. Another poor bastard with a plan.

He was in the same class as Y/N. Had probably been waiting for the perfect moment to make his move—to ask him to the upcoming dance, maybe try his luck.

But the problem?

Jason got to Y/N first.

And Pimple Roid Rage?

He wasn’t handling it well.

Jason wasn’t oblivious—he’d clocked the guy’s pathetic pining a long time ago.

Always hovering near Y/N in class, standing just a little too close. Always watching him, lingering, waiting for a chance. Always shooting Jason dirty looks across the cafeteria, like some scorned, lovesick puppy who just realized his favorite toy was already claimed.

As mentioned before, one of the main reasons Y/N’s father had warmed up to Jason long before the idea of them becoming a couple was ever on the table was the younger Alpha’s unyielding protectiveness over his son.

Even back then, Jason had been watching out for Y/N, stepping in when necessary, making it very clear that no one—no one—was going to mess with him and get away with it.

So while Y/N’s father wasn’t exactly thrilled about the chaos after getting a call from the school’s principal, he also wasn’t disappointed, either.

Not even close.

If anything, it only reinforced his decision to grant Jason his blessing to court his son.

And, well…

The idea of having Jason Todd as a future son-in-law was starting to sound more appealing by the day.

So much so, in fact, that he may or may not have casually floated the idea of a wedding planner to his husband later that evening—

But…what even happened?

Well…

Long story short, Pimple Face decided to shoot his shot anyway, convinced that a little direct confrontation would somehow tip the odds in his favor.

And sure, Y/N was seated at his desk, but that didn’t stop the dumbass from getting bold—too bold.

One second, the guy was smirking, fingers daring to slip under Y/N’s chin, tilting his head up like he had any right to touch him.

The next?

The next moment, he suddenly was no longer in the classroom. Then, he was airborne. And, finally, in the blink of an eye, he was slammed against the lockers in the hallway—hard enough to leave a dent.

The entire hall went silent.

The air crackled with Jason’s fury, his teeth bared, shoulders squared, and one massive hand fisting the guy’s collar so tight his feet barely touched the ground.

"You must be out of your fucking mind." Jason’s voice was low, dangerously calm in the way that promised imminent destruction.

The guy gasped, struggling against Jason’s grip, panic flooding his expression.

Jason didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t move—except for his other hand, which slammed right beside the guy’s head, denting another locker on impact.

"Go on. Say something. Give me a reason not to make you regret waking up today."

Y/N, still processing, barely had a chance to breathe before Jason turned his dark, burning gaze on him.

"You okay?" The question was simple, but the way he said it—deep, thick with possession, with a silent tell me yes before I put him through the wall—made heat bloom in Y/N’s stomach.

Y/N swallowed, heart racing, breath shaky.

Not because of the alpha currently reaching zen with the metal lockers, fuck him. No, Y/N was currently trying to calm his racing heart because Jason was pissed.

And it was hot as hell.

Y/N exhaled slowly, pressing a hand to Jason’s chest—not to push him away, but to remind him he was there.

"Jay," he murmured.

Jason’s eyes flickered, still locked on Y/N, jaw clenched so tight it could shatter stone.

Y/N licked his lips.

"I’m fine."

Jason inhaled sharply. Then, after a beat, he turned back to the alpha, who was still choked up with fear at the menacing and disgusted look thrown at him.

“Touch him again and you’ll be lucky if any doctor is able to fix your hands,” He whispered, before letting go—shoving the guy aside like he was nothing.

The poor bastard stumbled, barely catching himself, before bolting down the hall like his ass was on fire. Within five minutes, the entire school was buzzing like a swarm of bees, whispers spreading like wildfire.

And in the middle of it all?

A very smug Manny, lounging at his own locker, grinning ear to ear as his phone pinged repeatedly—each notification another $20 from his very salty friends reluctantly paying up.

“Easiest money I’ve ever made,” he typed into the group chat, attaching a meme for maximum gloating.

Jason didn’t get suspended like he usually would’ve for a stunt like that, but the principal did still give him detention along with the other alpha for essentially sexually harassing Y/N. Y/N’s parents along with Willis both made it clear that if Jason was getting punished, so should the football player who put his hands where they didn’t belong in the first place.

Jason was merely defending him.

And the principal was smart enough to put them in separate classrooms for the duration of their punishment. More so for the benchwarmer’s protection, which didn’t help his ego.

Conner—who of course witnessed the whole thing firsthand—promised Jason he’d make the Alpha pay for it double at practice after the whole ordeal. And detention wasn’t too bad.

Ms. Ridges was the one monitoring, which basically meant Jason had free rein to do whatever the hell he wanted since she barely paid attention to anything other than her crossword puzzles.

So, naturally, Jason spent his time doing the most important thing possible—

Texting his omega.

Jason: this is 100% your fault

Jason: u need to stop being hot

Y/N: wow. tragic. truly.

Y/N: but i simply cannot do that. would be a crime to rob the world of… well, me.

Y/N: besides, I wasn’t the one who practically tackled Richie and left some poor kid’s locker looking like a car crash scene…

Jason:

Y/N: RUDE

This was their relationship and Jason’s courting almost in a nutshell.

Honestly? It was like watching two people who were already married—except they were still seniors in high school.

Jason had never made a big deal about courting the way other alphas did—at least, in his mind he didn’t. To him, it was just stuff he’d do anyway—whether they were friends, dating, married, or even enemies.

And who doesn’t love a good enemies-to-lovers trope?

If anyone brought it up, Jason would just roll his eyes, shrug, and mutter some bullshit about “formalities” and “making sure his dad’s happy.”

And by dad, he meant both of their dads.

Willis Todd was surprisingly traditional about this kind of thing—had even placed his own money on the bet with Y/N’s parents for when Jason would eventually propose. But more than that, he had made sure Jason did things right and respectfully.

He even helped make Y/N’s ring.

Y/N only figured that part out much later, which, in hindsight, made the gift all the more special.

And while Jason acted like the whole courting thing wasn’t a big deal…

Y/N knew the truth.

Because even though Jason’s version of courting wasn’t flashy like the rich preppy kids at their school, he damn sure took it seriously.

And, unlike half the wannabe alphas in their class, Jason prided himself on proving—every single day—that he was the best and only alpha fit for Y/N.

It was practically his day job. Just… without the pay rate.

Or salary.

Or health benefits.

Or a 401K.

Or a retirement plan.

...Actually, the retirement part might be included.

The point was, Jason didn’t need extravagant gifts or public displays of devotion. And not just because he couldn’t afford them.

He cared about the smaller things.

The thoughtful things.

The practical things.

It was Jason instructing Y/N to pop his hood, while making his way to the front of his car with that sexy, dominanting walk. Y/N had casually mentioned his engine making a weird noise while they were cuddling on the couch, and within 20 minutes, Jason went home to grab his toolkit and was back at the L/N’s residence working on the Omega’s car.

Apparently, Y/N was long overdue for an oil change. It’s not his fault he didn’t know though…he’s just a baby.

That night, Y/N’s Dad called Willis Todd to tell him what a hell of a son he was raising.

Which, considering the tense history between them? That was a big fucking deal.

It was also Jason volunteering to carry every single grocery bag inside after tagging along with Y/N and his Papa to run errands.

Y/N had barely gotten a single bag in his hands before Jason was already grabbing—snatching everything away from him while giving the omega an offended scowl and a look in his eyes that told him to just stand there and look handsome.

"Was Dad like this when he was courting you?"

His Papa, sipping his lemonade, didn’t even hesitate.

“Yep. Still haven’t carried a bag to this day.” And that’s on waiting for the right one.

But it wasn’t just groceries.

It was his bookbag, his schoolbooks, even a single notebook.

Because, according to Jason—

"Why should you carry it when I’m right here?"

It was Jason always walking Y/N home, opening the door for him, bringing him food, making sure he had medicine when he was sick.

And if anyone ever questioned it?

Jason would just glare, deadpan, and say—

“What, you think I’m gonna let someone else do it?”

Because no.

Jason Todd would not, in fact, let anyone else do it.

Hell would have snow days before that happened.

And Y/N would just smile, shake his head, and let him have his way.

He wasn’t the poetic type. He wasn’t going to write love letters or give corny, dramatic speeches.

But his actions?

They screamed devotion louder than words ever could.

Like when Y/N mentioned offhandedly that he liked a specific brand of snacks—and the next day, Jason was pulling them out of his book bag for him during lunch.

Or when Y/N shivered in class once—and Jason somehow had a hoodie waiting for him within minutes, placed over his shoulders like it was nothing. Or when Y/N sighed, exhausted, after a long day, and Jason just pulled him into his lap without a word, carding his fingers through his hair until he dozed off.

And Y/N would tease him about it.

“Jay, you’re basically already my boyfriend. What’s the courting even for?”

Jason would just grunt.

“Formality.”

Because Jason was damn sure he was going to earn Y/N’s parents' approval. And if he didn’t?

Well. That wouldn’t change a damn thing about what he was doing. But, it was nice to do it without having to hide or be sneaky.

Unless we were talking about his late-night visits—which only stopped for about a week. Then, Y/N texted him one night and…well, the picture is already clear.

He’d already been busted for the late-night visits, and while he was hesitant to outright defy his parents’ orders, he was—unfortunately, or rather very fortunately— far too weak to resist the sight of his Omega lounging around in nothing but a thin tank top and those damn sleep shorts that clung just a little too high on his thighs and rode up every time he shifted.

And it wasn’t always just about sneaking in to see Y/N—sometimes, Jason just needed an escape. A break from his own house. A place that actually felt like home.

So, while his parents weren’t exactly thrilled about it, they also weren’t too hard on him. That being said—Y/N’s dad was still strict. And very clear about his boundaries.

“You put a baby in my son… I put a bullet in your ass.”

He was half joking, half serious.

(…Mostly serious.)

But it didn’t do much to deter them. They were teenagers, after all. And now, with the shift in their relationship, those late-night sleepovers? Things had taken a very quick turn.

Y/N could feel it every time—the way Jason’s breathing deepened, the way his grip tightened just a little more than usual, the way his mouth brushed over the back of Y/N’s neck, slow, teasing, while he held him firmly from behind.

And then—his voice.

Low. Rough.

“You drive me fucking crazy, you know that?”

Y/N shivered. And, if he was being honest?

He was definitely at fault.

Ever since that one night—that one time and then every time after that Jason had slept over and had to fight every primal instinct not to pin Y/N down and rut into him—it was like walking on a tightrope every time he got into that bed.

Because Y/N?

Y/N was also a menace just like his boyfriend.

Always cuddling too close, rubbing against him, stretching in ways that made Jason’s self-control damn near non-existent.

And tonight? Tonight was no different.

Except this time?

Jason nearly gave in. He was seconds away from losing his fucking mind.

Y/N was already pinned beneath him, flushed and trembling, thighs slick and spread, making a fucking mess on the sheets. Jason had no business being this goddamn hard, this close to breaking, but Y/N wasn’t making it easy.

He should’ve rolled off, thrown himself in a cold shower, done literally anything other than what he was doing right now. But, no…what was he doing instead?

He was grinding against the omega, slowly, teasingly, letting Y/N feel every inch of his cock straining through his sweats, letting him ache for it, letting him need. Jason grinned against Y/N’s skin, slow and mean, fingers teasing along the slicked-up skin of his thighs, his ribs, his chest, taking his sweet, vengeful time.

Jason shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t be doing this.

Shouldn’t be grinding against Y/N, shouldn’t be letting his cock drag against slicked-up skin, shouldn’t be letting himself feel exactly how ready Y/N was for him.

Because fuck, he could feel everything.

Even through the thin fabric of his sweats, Jason could trace the heat of Y/N’s rim, could feel just how soaked he was, the slick dampening his own clothes—warm, wet, and so fucking inviting that Jason nearly lost it right then and there.

And then Y/N had to fucking whine. Loud.

Jason’s body reacted before his brain could catch up. His hand was over Y/N’s mouth in an instant, pressing firm, shutting him up.

Y/N went still immediately, wide-eyed, pupils blown, body locked in place like instinct had taken over. Jason exhaled slowly, nostrils flaring. His fingers curled around Y/N’s jaw, tilting his head back, holding him still, forcing him to meet his gaze.

“Do that shit again, and I’ll gag you next time.”

A high, muffled noise left Y/N’s throat, his thighs squeezing together, and Jason groaned, eyes dark, heated, fucking dangerous.

“Got-damn it.” Jason buried his face in Y/N’s throat, inhaling deep, his grip tightening, his cock throbbing painfully against his sweats. “You don’t even fucking realize what you do to me, do you?”

Y/N whimpered against his palm, his body trembling, soaking the sheets with slick, and Jason felt every second of it.

Every twitch. Every shiver. Every desperate attempt to move, to grind up, to find friction.

Jason let out a rough, breathless chuckle, voice dripping with authority.

“You wanna be loud? Huh?” His tone was mocking, taunting, sharp with amusement. “Go ahead, sweetheart. Let’s wake the whole fuckin’ house up. Let’s have your dad walk in here and see just how much of a desperate little mess you are for me.”

Y/N’s whole body fucking seized, a strangled whimper muffled against Jason’s hand, hips twitching upon instinct.

Jason grinned, sharp and knowing. “Oh, you like that, huh?”

He ground his hips down again, slower this time, deliberate, letting Y/N feel every inch of him pressing up against where he needed it most.

And then—

The scent shifted and Jason froze.

Something sweet. Something new.

His eyes snapped down to Y/N’s heaving, sweat-slicked chest, and fuck.

Y/N’s nipples were wet, a thin, milky fluid pearling at the tips, trickling down the curve of his ribs. Jason’s entire fucking brain short-circuited. Because he did that. He fucking did that.

A deep, guttural growl rumbled in his chest, pure fucking alpha pride flooding his system, primal instincts howling that he’d driven Y/N so far into arousal that his body couldn’t help but respond.

Y/N, half-dazed, still gasping, followed Jason’s heated gaze, blinking in confusion before—

His face went red.

“Oh my god—”

Jason grinned, slow and predatory, fingers sliding over Y/N’s nipple, smearing the warm fluid with his thumb, rolling it between his fingers.

“Would you look at that?” His voice was mocking, taunting, dripping with satisfaction. “And here I thought you weren’t desperate enough to soak the sheets for me, but now you’re fuckin’ leaking too?”

Y/N let out the most pitiful noise Jason had ever heard, body tensing, thighs clenching around his waist.

Jason groaned, his cock throbbing painfully, because fuck, this was it. This was the second highest form of omega submission, second only to being knotted.

This was his. His omega. His body, responding to him and only him.

Jason didn’t even realize he’d moved until his lips were wrapped around Y/N’s nipple, tongue flicking slow and teasing, collecting every drop.

The second it hit his tongue—

Jason fucking groaned.

Because holy shit.

Sweet. So fucking sweet.

It was warm and rich, like the deepest honey, but better, smoother, more intoxicating, rolling over Jason’s tongue like fucking liquid gold. Jason sucked harder, letting more of it coat his tongue, letting the taste sink into his bloodstream, burning him up from the inside out.

Y/N let out a wrecked, broken sob, body shuddering, back arching up into Jason’s mouth.

Jason growled against his chest, his free hand sliding down, gripping Y/N’s hip, locking him in place.

Mine.

His instincts screamed it, his body demanded it, and for one wild, dangerous second—

Jason nearly fucking snapped. Because he needed more.

He needed to bury himself deep, make Y/N take it, knot him right here, fuck him until his body couldn’t do anything but take Jason’s seed—

Jason ripped himself away, panting hard, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

Fuck.

Fuck.

"You’re lucky I’m not fucking you full right now. You’d be a fucking mess by morning."

Y/N whimpered, squirming, but Jason held him still, keeping his body pinned and pliant.

"Bet you’d like that, huh?" Jason murmured, dragging his tongue over the other nipple, groaning low at the taste. "Bet you’d love for me to fill you up, knot you right here, make you fucking take it."

Y/N shuddered, another helpless whine escaping, his body flushed all over.

Jason just grinned against his chest, loving how wrecked Y/N looked. His beautiful, leaking, slick-dripping omega.

“Gotta say, sweetheart,” Jason murmured, voice thick with amusement, dangerous in its slowness, “this is only fair.”

Y/N, half-gone, dazed and twitching, barely managed a breathy, “What—?”

Jason chuckled, dragging his fingertips through the thin, pearly streaks of fluid still trickling from Y/N’s nipples, spreading it, letting Y/N feel how messy he was, how exposed.

“Oh, you don’t remember?” Jason taunted, his grip tightening around Y/N’s thigh, pulling it higher around his waist. “Let me remind you, baby. You remember all those nights I slept in your bed? How you’d roll over and press that hot, needy mess against me?”

Y/N whimpered, cheeks burning, body tensing beneath him. The Alpha’s smirk widened.

“Yeah. Now you remember.”

His fingers dipped lower, sliding just close enough to tease, but not nearly enough to satisfy.

“You don’t know how many nights I woke up hard as a fucking rock because you couldn’t keep still,” Jason muttered, grinding his hips just enough to make Y/N feel exactly what that frustration built up to. “You’d rub all over me, make those little noises in your sleep, and I had to fucking sit there, suffering, pretending like I wasn’t about two seconds from flipping you onto your back and making you take it.”

Y/N let out the softest, most pitiful sound, thighs clenching, hips twitching involuntarily.

Jason groaned, pressing a teasing kiss to Y/N’s jaw, smug as hell. “And now look at you,” he crooned, mocking, mean, eating up every second of Y/N’s helpless little squirms.

“Dripping. Leaking. Practically begging for me.”

Y/N hid his face in Jason’s shoulder, shaking. Jason just chuckled darkly.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Jason murmured against his ear, his tone sickly sweet, full of smug satisfaction. “Can’t handle what you started?”

Y/N whined again, thighs clenching around Jason’s waist, slick dripping down between them. Jason felt it. Smelled it.

And fuck, he wanted to ruin him.

To press Y/N down, spread him wide, fuck him so deep he’d still feel it tomorrow. His instincts were screaming at him—breed, claim, mark, take.

It would be so easy. So fucking easy.

But Jason?

Jason was in control. He had to be.

Even as he felt his self-restraint slipping, even as his body was aching to give in, even as his mouth watered at the scent of slick soaking into the mattress—

Jason forced himself to stop.

He ripped his hand away from Y/N’s mouth, dragging his thumb across swollen lips, smirking when Y/N tried to chase it.

“That’s what I thought,” Jason murmured, voice thick with satisfaction.

Y/N let out a desperate, broken whimper, thighs still twitching, body still aching for more.

Jason smirked.

"Be patient, sweetheart."

Because when Jason finally knotted him?

Y/N wouldn’t be walking for a week. But, it seemed the omega was willing to try his luck tonight, as Jason felt fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his sweats, just barely brushing him—

Jason growled. A low, guttural warning.

“Stop.”

Jason’s grip tightened. His body locked up, every inch of him wired too tight, too hot, too close to breaking. He exhaled slowly, his breath hot against Y/N’s throat, trying to get himself under control.

“…Behave,” he muttered, voice low and wrecked, pressing a grounding kiss to Y/N’s shoulder.

Y/N barely managed a nod.

“Good boy. Not yet,” Jason exhaled through his nose, gripping Y/N’s chin, forcing his dazed gaze back up to him. His lips curled, but it wasn’t teasing—it was fond. “I want you,” Jason’s voice dropped, rough and thick with heat, his thumb brushing over Y/N’s bottom lip, lingering. “But not yet. Not like this. I’m not gonna—” He swallowed, voice softer now. “I wanna do this right. You deserve that.”

Y/N’s fingers curled into his shoulders, pulling him closer, pressing open-mouthed kisses along his jaw. Soft at first. Then hotter, needier, tongue flicking against his pulse point just to hear Jason’s breath stutter. And Jason—big, bad Jason Todd—fucking melted. His weight fully pressed down, his grip tightened, and suddenly—Y/N was flipped onto his stomach.

Jason’s breath was hot against his ear, his body grounding and deliberate as his hand slid between Y/N’s thighs, spreading them wider. His fingertips brushed against slick, damp shorts and Jason groaned, half in frustration, half in approval. “Oh fuck, baby. You’re driving me insane.”

Y/N whimpered, hips trembling, thighs slick and shaking, pressing against Jason’s hand like he couldn’t help himself. Jason smirked, voice thick with amusement. “Be patient.” Then, slowly, he sank his teeth into Y/N’s shoulder—hard enough to bruise, but not break skin. Y/N gasped, back arching, thighs clenching around Jason’s wrist.

Jason groaned, satisfied, his free hand sliding up Y/N’s stomach, palm pressed firm against his ribs, holding him in place.

Jason was really trying to behave himself.

Really.

But another look at Y/N—flushed, dazed, lips swollen from his teeth, completely pliant beneath him—and Jason lost his patience.

A low, wrecked growl rumbled in his chest, his body moving before his brain could stop him. His hands shot down, fingers hooking into the waistband of Y/N’s shorts and underwear, yanking them down in one sharp motion.

The next second—his own sweats and boxers were shoved down, his cock finally free, thick and flushed and aching—

And then—

Bare skin. Heat.

The moment Jason slotted their bodies together, the moment he felt the slicked-up warmth of Y/N’s entrance pressing right up against his cock, he nearly fucking lost it. A deep, animalistic groan tore from his throat, his hips rolling forward instinctively, grinding into the wet heat, the tip catching just barely against the soft, sensitive rim.

Y/N gasped, back arching, thighs trembling, and Jason’s restraint shattered. Because fuck, he could feel everything.

Every soft, wet, aching inch of Y/N’s body ready to take him. His cock throbbed painfully, the tip leaking against slicked-up skin, every muscle in his body tight, coiled, on the verge of snapping again.

He could just—

Just a little more—

Just one good push forward—

He could feel every inch of Y/N’s slicked-up entrance, could feel the wet heat pressing right against his cock, the way his body trembled, opened up, begged to be taken. But it wasn’t just that.

It was Y/N’s reaction.

The way he whimpered, the way he squirmed, the way he fought to get Jason inside. Y/N was clinging to him, arms wrapped around Jason’s shoulders, legs locked tight around his waist, hips rolling, grinding up, trying so fucking hard to pull Jason in.

“J-Jason—” his voice cracked, high-pitched, needy, fucking wrecked.

Jason growled, locking Y/N’s hips in place, holding him down, refusing to let him move.

Y/N whined. Loud. Desperate. Pitiful.

His fingers dug into Jason’s biceps, his nails scratching down his back, clinging, yanking, trying to push him deeper. Jason could feel the tremors rolling through him, could hear the whimpering little sobs, the broken, pleading moans, the way his omega was fighting to be claimed.

Jason smirked against his throat, mocking, cruel.

“That bad, sweetheart?”

Y/N nodded frantically, writhing beneath him, hips rolling up again, chasing the friction.

Jason tightened his grip, forcing Y/N down, refusing to let him have what he wanted.

“No—please—” Y/N was barely coherent, panting, gasping, eyes unfocused, lost in the need.

Jason chuckled, voice low, taunting, dripping with amusement.

“You think crying’s gonna change my mind?”

Y/N’s body convulsed and a wrecked sob tore from his throat. And it was the most beautiful thing Jason had ever heard.

So much so that he gave in—for just one second.

His hips rolled forward, letting the tip of his cock slide against Y/N’s entrance, pressing just barely against the slicked-up rim, letting Y/N feel just how fucking close he was to having it.

Y/N let out the most broken, shattered moan Jason had ever heard, full-body trembling, clinging to Jason like he’d die if he pulled away.

Jason groaned, lips pressing against Y/N’s ear, voice thick with restraint, rough with frustration.

“You want my dick that bad, sweetheart? Hm?”

Jason stopped. A sharp, wrecked inhale. A visible shudder. Then Jason’s voice—low, teasing, still full of hunger.

“Too bad.”

Y/N let out a full-body shudder, a sob of frustration, trembling beneath him.

Jason ripped his lower end away, forcing his hips back, shaking, panting, his cock still aching, flushed, dripping against his stomach.

Y/N whimpered at the loss, still shaking, still needy, still desperate. Jason smirked, but it was wrecked, his voice low, teasing, but tinged with frustration.

“You almost got me, sweetheart,” he murmured, grinding one last time before finally pulling away completely.

Y/N whimpered again, a helpless, wrecked sound that nearly undid him. Jason chuckled darkly, pressing his forehead against Y/N’s.

“Tell me who you belong to.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, lips parting, a full-body shiver rolling through him. Jason’s fingers tightened around his jaw, tilting his face up.

“Say it.” Jason’s voice dropped, slow and dangerous, thick with possession.

Y/N swallowed. “…You.”

Jason grinned, sharp and predatory.

“Damn right.”

And then, with a final bite to Y/N’s bottom lip, Jason separated them. He forced himself to breathe, forced himself to pull away, even as his cock throbbed between his legs, demanding to raid the fertile and lush sanctuary between the omega’s assailable thighs.

It really needed to be studied how he could go from damn near feral to soft in the blink of an eye.

One minute, he had Y/N pinned beneath him and then on top of him, breath hot against his skin, whispering filth into his ear—praising, promising, taunting.

The next?

He was cleaning the omega up himself, taking his time, hands slow and careful, his body still wired too fucking tight to even think about calming down. He was wiping him down gently, a warm, damp rag sliding slowly over sweat-slicked skin.

Once satisfied, Jason pulled out a fresh pair of underwear and shorts from the Omega’s drawer for him, turning around to give him privacy while he fixed himself up. His body ached, hard and unsatisfied, his dick pressing painfully against the waistband of his trousers, wanting nothing more than to penetrate, fuck, knot, breed.

He gritted his teeth, willing it away, finally tugging his own sweats back up before climbing into bed. He grabbed Y/N’s wrist and tugged him down. And instead of pulling Y/N against his chest like usual—Jason laid directly on top of him.

Y/N huffed. “Jay—”

Jason just grumbled, burying his face against Y/N’s chest, wrapping his arms around him like a goddamn teddy bear.

“Shut up…this is where I live now,” Jason muttered, voice muffled.

Y/N snorted.

Jason’s weight was solid and warm, his grip strong, but the way he nuzzled into Y/N’s skin was so soft that it was almost unfair. Slowly, Y/N lifted a hand, threading his fingers through Jason’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp.

Jason groaned in satisfaction, shifting closer, tucking his arms tighter around Y/N’s waist. Y/N smiled sleepily. “…Clingy.”

Jason scoffed, but it wasn’t nearly as gruff as it should’ve been.

“Shut up.”

But he didn’t let go. Not even a little.

If anything? He held tighter.

Because Jason Todd was many things.

A menace. A rebel. A walking disaster.

But when it came to Y/N?

Yeah…he was clingy.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” Jason murmured against his skin.

→ This story concludes on AO3:

☀️ | Jason Todd/Red Hood | ☀️

☀️ | Masterlists | ☀️

🏈 | Conner: The Jock | 🏈 • 😉 | Dick: The Popular Kid | 😉

[defectivevillain]

drowning in sentiment

pairing: Severus Snape/Reader

reader's race and gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used.

summary: Severus is quick to break the distance between you, as he kneels down next to you and places a hand over your forehead. “You’ve been dosed with Amortentia and you thought it pertinent to send a letter?" His voice possesses a confusing mix of irritation, fury, exasperation, and something surprisingly close to concern.

The following snippet is meant to serve as the sixth part to my ongoing series featuring Severus/Reader.

word count: 4k | ao3 version

Warnings: non-consensual drugging (amortentia), vomiting, nausea, unconsciousness, sickness, medical fare (think the infirmary, medical recovery processes, etc.)

Disclaimer: I do not support or condone the actions and beliefs of HP’s author in any way whatsoever. I thoroughly believe in fanfiction’s transformative, restorative, and healing power. Therefore, I write HP fanfiction not to encourage the author’s beliefs, but instead to directly challenge and disprove her prejudice; I write to further strengthen, validate, and support minority identities that are harmed by She Who Must Not be Named’s dangerous ideologies. I'm not taking any questions, comments, or criticisms regarding this. Don't like it? Don't read!

It all starts at lunch. At least, that’s your most educated guess. 

You ate your typical meal and drank from your goblet, just like every other lunch. None of these occurrences should’ve been indicative of future turmoil. Yet, hours later, when you find yourself hunched over your desk with tunneling vision, shaking hands, and sweat along your skin, you have to come to terms with the fact that something happened. You’re no Potions expert, but you know the telltale signs of an Amortentia dosage when you see them.

You summon a piece of parchment and grab your quill, writing a quick letter to Severus and handing it to your owl. Your owl lets out a weak chirp, pecking your forehead in evident concern before flying away. Severus will certainly be able to brew the necessary Potions to get the Amortentia out of your system. Ordinarily, you’d simply walk over to his office—but you’re not very confident in your ability to walk at the moment. Indeed, the moment you had gotten up from your desk, you were hit with such an intense wave of dizziness that you fell to the ground. You’ve since managed to move back to rest against the wall behind you, closing your eyes in a feeble attempt to distract yourself from the feverish sensation at your core and your blurring vision. 

Meanwhile, Severus is grading papers in his office when he hears an owl tapping at his closed window. He huffs and turns around, tempted to ignore the creature until he recognizes it as yours. The Potions master gets to his feet and opens the window, only for the owl to nearly collide with his chest as it frantically flies at him. Severus frowns and takes the parchment tied to its leg. The message only deepens his frown.

Severus, Apologies for disrupting you. When you get the chance, would you bring me some potions to treat Amortentia dosage? They’re for a student.

Severus stares down at the parchment for a moment longer, unease prickling along his skin. He wonders why you didn’t simply come to his office to ask him in person. Even more troubling is the uncharacteristic slant to your writing. He can’t seem to get rid of the unfounded feeling of dread settling in his chest as he looks at your message. It’s innocuous, and yet… he knows something is wrong. 

Furthermore, if the Potions were for a student, then you’d likely supply their name—after all, Hogwarts faculty are trained to practice ultimate discretion when it comes to the health of their students. Your messy writing and the omission of the student’s information aren’t significant on their own; together, however, they unsettle him. Your owl bats him with a wing, breaking him from his thoughts. Your owl—which is usually quite calm—seems to be stressed, too. Quickly coming to a decision, Severus heads for the door to his office.

And you’re now lying on the ground with your back to the wall with sweat dripping down the back of your neck. Your clothes feel extremely constricting and you want nothing more than to run out of your office and find the person who slipped you the potion, the object of your affections, the target of your obsession—

Suddenly, your office door is nearly thrown off its hinges as it slams against the adjacent wall. You look up at the sudden noise, only to find Severus standing in the doorway, looking truly menacing as he wears a furious expression on his face. “Severus,” you say. You don’t think you manage to successfully hide the relief you feel from your voice, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. You don’t have the energy —not when your skin feels like it’s oozing off of you into puddles on the ground. 

Severus is quick to break the distance between you, as he kneels down next to you and places a hand over your forehead. “You’re the one who needs the potion,” he states. His voice possesses a confusing mix of irritation, fury, exasperation, and something surprisingly close to concern. “You’ve been dosed with Amortentia and you thought it pertinent to send a letter?”

“It didn’t seem pressing at the time,” you choke out, shivering and sweating at the same time. You feel like you’re stuck in quicksand—even a small gesture with your hand feels like an uphill battle against a powerful current. 

“Merlin,” Severus mutters. 

There are tears sliding down your cheeks now. You wipe at your eyes, your hands trembling beyond belief as your vision tunnels and sways around you. The professor leans closer and you flinch, guilt flooding through you when you recognize the instinct.

But Severus doesn’t seem to take offense. He’s staring at you with a clinical gaze, taking in all of your symptoms and evidently developing a plan in his head. He opens the satchel at his side with nimble fingers, grabbing an unfamiliar vial. “Take this,” Severus implores. At your blank stare, he continues. “Don’t make me force you.” The dark expression on his face suggests that he will do exactly that, if necessary. After a moment's contemplation, you bring a shaking hand to the vial. Expecting him to relinquish his grip, you bring the vial to your lips and tilt it back—only to realize that Severus’ hand hasn’t left the vial either, instead moving it to your lips and ensuring you don’t drop it. The potion burns as you swallow it and you cough briefly, shuddering at the awful taste. 

Then a weak, utterly humiliating sound wrenches its way from your lips. Your skin feels like it’s on fire. “Severus—” you try to say urgently. Your words are garbled and your tongue feels far too thick to create anything coherent. In one last burst of energy, you try to reach out to him—only to succumb to the darkness creeping along the edges of your vision. 

You wake up in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing and, at first, you feel as if you’re a student. Then, the memory of what happened rushes back to you and you’re forced to remember that you’re a professor who was poisoned by a student. The thought unsettles you, so you try to distract yourself by looking around the space. 

To your surprise, Severus is sitting at your bedside, looking entirely unimpressed. The pinched expression on his face looks somewhat painful to maintain, yet his scowl is so deeply-set that it doesn’t even flicker in intensity. You try to avert your eyes, but it’s too late—he’s noticed you’re awake.

“...Hello,” you try. Severus arches a brow. For a long moment, there is nothing but a horribly tense silence that descends across the space. You glance around the Hospital Wing, relieved to find that there aren’t any students present. It’s embarrassing enough for Severus to be here—the last thing you need is for one of your students to see you like this. 

His form is strung together with a silent fury. “What could have possibly possessed you to consume a gift from a student?” Severus eventually seethes. It takes you a few moments to process that accusation. 

“A gift from a student?” you then ask, your voice a little hoarse. You clear your throat before continuing. “Do you really think so little of me? I’m not that foolish.”

Severus stills. “Where do you suspect the potion was, then?” he asks carefully, clearly sensing the implications of your confession. 

“It must’ve been in my goblet during lunch,” you answer. 

Severus’s expression morphs from vicious fury to calculating precision. “That is… even more concerning,” he admits with a stormy expression. “I will speak to the elves about this,” he concludes. 

“Severus, that’s not—” That’s not necessary, you want to say. Except it sort of is. You don’t want anything like this to happen again—you don’t want to feel doubtful or suspicious of the meals in the castle. Severus must sense your thought process, because he continues as if you hadn’t said anything at all. 

“The offender will be expelled,” he asserts easily, “since they are likely a student.” 

“Expelled?” you choke out, suddenly feeling lightheaded. Sure, you’re unsettled by the whole situation, but you don’t want to completely ruin a child’s future. Preventing them from returning to Hogwarts seems a little extreme. “Severus, expulsion is a little extreme. I don’t want that to happen; we can negotiate something less severe—”

“I don’t remember inquiring about your desires,” Severus states coldly, bringing you back to reality. You once again feel like you’re a student, as you’re coming face to face with the professor’s unflinching authority. You resist the growing urge to shrink back against the pillows at your back. “And need I remind you that administering Amortentia without explicit consent is a felony?” 

“No,” you sigh resignedly. You bring a shaking hand up to pinch the bridge of your nose. You’re still struggling to get a handle on everything that happened. It all feels like a blur. “I just… I don’t want to make this a big deal.” 

“This became a big deal when a Hogwarts professor’s life was endangered by a student’s foolish actions,” Severus asserts, raising a brow and challenging you to argue. You remain silent and, once he senses that you won’t voice any dissent, he continues. “Now, tell me who it was.” 

Somehow, that statement is what makes the reality of it all set in. You were so distracted by your symptoms that you didn’t stop to think and internalize the fact that a student was likely the one to do this. Someone in the castle wanted this to happen to you. At the mention of the culprit, dull grey eyes unwittingly come to mind. You’re suddenly hit with a horrible wave of dread and infatuation all at once, as the student’s visage appears in your mind’s eye. Even the thought of uttering their name is enough to summon the taste of bile. Every time you close your eyes, you see their cool gaze and shimmering hair and— 

You’re vomiting into the bowl at your side. When you’re finished, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and place your hands on the mattress, feeling the need to brace yourself. Severus vanishes the evidence of your sickness, which you are thankful for—the smell would not have helped your persistent nausea. He’s patiently waiting for your explanation, and it’s abundantly clear that you’re not going to be able to escape this. 

“Just—” you choke, shaking your head. It all feels like far too much. You take a shuddering breath, pretending not to feel as helpless as you do. Their name feels caught in your throat. A verbal admission is too much for you to handle right now. “Look at me,” you implore the professor. Severus understands quickly, as his eye contact with you quickly turns probing. You try to drop your Occlumency shields and summon the student’s visage to mind, showing Severus rather than telling him. The effort isn’t exactly difficult, given the potion that’s coursing through your veins. If anything, it’s harder not to think about the culprit. 

“Legilimens,” Severus says quietly. For a moment, it feels as if you’ve been plunged into ice water. There’s the faintest sensation of a frigid breeze rifling through your mind. Then, within moments, the professor’s looking away with thinly-veiled fury in his eyes. He seems moments away from walking out the door and interrogating the student, until a cough rips its way out of your throat and his attention is evidently thwarted. 

Severus squints at you before getting to his feet and approaching your bed. He places a hand to your forehead before holding your jaw and looking into your eyes, tilting your head slightly as he evidently looks for lingering effects from the potion. His hands are cool; you have to resist the urge to keep them pressed to your temple, if only because of the boiling feeling running along your skin. “I’ve provided a strict Potions regimen to ensure the Amortentia leaves your system,” Severus explains, his gaze flitting to the parchment on the bedside table. Then he looks at you sternly. “It is imperative that you maintain this regimen.” 

“Okay,” you say, too tired to argue or question him any further. You blink at him dazedly, struggling to clear your vision. The air seems to fall still. “Thank you, Severus.” Severus just nods, his right hand still cradling your jaw. The infirmary descends into a tense—but not uncomfortable—silence. 

There’s some bustling in the corner of the room. “You have another visitor,” Madam Pomfrey says, promptly breaking the strange moment that had been created between Severus and you. Severus leans back and nods at you, before making his departure. You watch him leave with conflicting feelings. 

“Albus,” you then greet the headmaster, who walks into the room with a concerned expression.

“How are you faring?” Albus asks, settling at your bedside. 

“I’m fine, thanks to Severus,” you respond honestly. You’ve been better, but without his help, you’d be feeling much worse. 

“He seems worried, the dear boy,” Albus says, leaning forward conspiratorially. “He has been on edge since you fell unconscious.” 

“Oh.” You’re not really sure what else to say. Judging by the way Albus is smiling, he’s trying to tell you something. You just don’t know what it is. 

Over the next few days, Severus accompanies you to every meal. He always performs spells to ensure nothing has been tampered with. You want to be thankful for the thought, but at this point, you’re just frustrated that you have to go to such lengths. 

You’re slowly starting to recover, though. The Potions regimen Severus left you is dwindling down, as you take lower doses with each passing day. But there are still lingering side effects. Your hands still have tremors; your vision still has brief bursts of painful clarity. You still feel a little nauseated when thinking about the student who constructed this charade.  

The paranoia has to be the most debilitating aftereffect of all, though. You’re sure it’s a logical response to a near-death experience, but it’s making things rather inconvenient. Despite all the reassurance you’ve been given—by practically every member of the Hogwarts staff and several Ministry officials—it still doesn’t feel like enough. You still have moments when you can’t even stomach the thought of eating—meal times spent huddled in a corner of your office, shaking as you’re assaulted with the prickling sensation you’ve grown to associate with Amortentia. 

You start to think you’re getting better. But then you get up from your desk late one night, only to crumple to the ground like a broken marionette. You can’t even push yourself up to your feet—instead left to slowly fade away on the floor of your office. You’re commanding your muscles to move but they’re ignoring your demands. Your skin is licked with flames and sweat. Suddenly, your throat feels extremely dry. Your office is spinning around you and, within seconds, you’re slipping into darkness once more. 

There is a cool cloth draped over your forehead when you wake. You stare up at the ceiling, your vision slowly returning to you. You attempt to push yourself up to a sitting position, but the effort is annoyingly difficult. There’s an almost imperceptibly quiet noise of frustration, before you’re being helped up with a hand on your forearm and another at your side. Your breaths are labored once you finally sit up. 

When your vision finally starts to calm down, you find yourself staring into familiar black eyes. “Severus,” you say. Your vision is spinning a little, but not enough for you to miss the irritated furrow to his brows. 

“I distinctly recall ordering you to notify me if any of your symptoms returned,” Severus states flatly. He looks entirely unimpressed. And damn it, now you’re feeling guilty again.

“…I didn’t want to bother you.” It sounds pathetic, even to your own ears. Severus briefly looks to the ceiling, as if wishing for it to swallow him whole and end his life. He seems to be exercising a nearly infinite amount of patience; you can tell by how much time he takes to respond.  

“This is the second time you’ve taken the liberty of making that decision for me,” he says coolly. It’s clear there’s a lot more he wants to say, but he holds his tongue. Instead, Severus scowls and casts a diagnostic spell. “No fever.”

“That’s good,” you say weakly. 

“The dosage must’ve been high,” Severus then says, his brows furrowed. You can’t tell if he’s speaking to you or himself, at this point. “It should be out of your system.” But it’s not, you think. It’s not out of my system, and I’m scared. 

“Severus—” you try to say. 

“It will fade soon enough,” he states. That’s as close to reassurance as you’re going to get. “Rest. I’ll ensure you’re awake to take your next potion,” he says sincerely. 

And so you rest.

Seeing you in this state unsettles Severus far more than he’d like to admit. He tells himself his concern is of a professional nature and nothing more. He’s concerned for his colleague; and the implications of this Amortentia incident. After all, the bare facts still paint a startling picture: a Hogwarts professor drugged by a student, in the Great Hall during mealtime. The castle has always been regarded as one of the safest places in the wizarding world; yet a staff member has been harmed within its walls. 

Severus expected you to show resistance at the thought of seeking out the culprit; he was surprised, therefore, that you allowed him to sort through your mind in his search. No one has shown him that kind of trust before. Yet you unflinchingly met his eyes, and implored him to look into the depths of your mind. 

Severus did nothing of the sort, of course. He did not want to betray your trust, and so his perusal through your mind was quick and purposeful. The unusually tangled web that structured your thoughts did not escape his notice, of course. He knows you to be a rational person; such disorganization is an indicator of a deeper issue. In your case, it is a sign that the Amortentia hasn’t been completely removed from your system. 

Severus spends an immeasurable amount of time brewing the potions needed for your treatment. Brewing is usually a tranquil experience for him. Yet, today, he’s lost in his thoughts as he prepares ingredients. Fortunately, for a wizard of his expertise, distraction will not truly affect the result. He does seem to be in the lab for longer than usual, but then again, he doesn’t typically have occasion for brewing these particular potions. If everything goes according to plan, Severus will not need to brew any more potions like this for you. 

When he’s finished with the first few doses, Severus breaks away from the lab and returns to his personal quarters. You’re reclined on the sofa, looking exhausted and…vulnerable. Severus tears his eyes away. Truthfully, he has never allowed someone into his quarters before. It’s strange. Severus was convinced he would dislike it—that your presence would feel like an intrusion. But he knew he would be able to care for your symptoms much more effectively if you were near. And somehow, the sight of you manages to alleviate some of his prior concerns. He’d daresay your presence comforts him. 

…Maybe the Amortentia was transferred to him, too. He scoffs at the unlikely thought, but decides to subject himself to a quick diagnostic spell just in case. As Severus suspected, there is nothing wrong. These strange feelings are entirely of his own creation.

You’ve been looking at him with such a trusting gaze throughout this healing process that it makes Severus want to vomit. He immediately wants to roll up his sleeve and force you to take in the warped mark across his forearm, if only to dispel you of the notion that he is in any way deserving of your trust. 

He only averts his eyes from your sleeping form instead, his throat feeling tight. What is it about you that provokes such sentiment within him? Severus shakes his head quickly. He doesn’t have the luxury to contemplate such things at the moment; right now, your health is the priority. 

When he has a moment to breathe, Severus informs Albus of the culprit. It slips his mind, for the briefest of moments, that the headmaster is stubbornly idealistic—and sees the best in everyone. Indeed, he should have expected Albus to provide an alternative method of disciplining the child. 

“Suspension,” Severus states blandly, glaring at the headmaster. “You believe suspension to be a suitable punishment for the unlawful administration of Amortentia.”

“And what would you suggest, Severus?” Albus asks, his eyes twinkling. He’s setting a trap for him. For some reason, unknown to Severus himself, the headmaster wants him to argue. 

“Expulsion, of course,” Severus scoffs. He isn’t sure what the old fool is trying to do here. 

“I can’t imagine your colleague was quite pleased with that suggestion,” Albus remarks, that damned twinkle in his eyes still taunting him. 

“Not at first,” Severus admits with a scoff. “Of course, upon discussing the likelihood of a similar incident occurring, the suggestion was better received.” He crosses his arms over his chest. 

“I see,” Albus responds. There’s a thin smile on his face. 

“What?” Severus nearly spits. “A professor has been drugged. This is no laughing matter, Albus.”

“Of course not,” Albus says sincerely. “Alas, I fear you are correct. Expulsion would be the wise choice. I shall inform the boy’s parents at once.”

Severus’s jaw clenches in irritation. That was far too easy. Albus is never so easily persuaded; and yet, he conceded without much argument. Just what does the old man have planned? The Potions professor regards him warily. 

“No need to be suspicious, dear boy,” Albus reassures him. The reassurance only makes Severus more suspicious. “I’m only thankful that you have found tolerable company here in the castle.”

Severus glares at him for several moments. His jaw is clenched and his teeth are gritted. “And how is this relevant, exactly?” he manages to spit out.

“It’s merely an observation,” Albus surrenders. He senses Severus is growing tired of this conversation. “And how is our young professor faring?”

“I’m developing an enhanced regimen to eradicate the Amortentia,” Severus responds, thankful for an excuse to talk about something else. “I brought my colleague,” he borrows the words of the headmaster, “to my quarters, to ensure proper adherence to the regimen.”

“Your quarters?” Albus asks lightly. He looks rather pleased with himself. The Potions professor’s wand hand twitches. “That’s rather forward of you, Severus.” Severus’s jaw nearly cracks with how hard he grits his teeth at the remark. Albus is wearing a victorious smile; the Potions professor immediately steels his composure and stares right back at the man. 

After what feels like far too long, the headmaster relents. “Keep me updated, Severus,” Albus remarks, his expression returning to an appropriate concern. 

Severus nods jerkily, before making his escape. He is never quite certain when a conversation with Albus will morph into an interrogation; this time was particularly catastrophic. He takes a few slow breaths as he returns to his quarters. 

Unsurprisingly, you are awake to greet him. Before either of you can descend into empty small talk, you’re breaking through the silence. “You… don’t mind me being here, do you?” you ask, glancing around the room as if realizing your surroundings for the first time. “I can return to my quarters, I’m sure.”

“Given the return of your symptoms, that would be unwise,” Severus says after a moment. It takes him longer than he’d like to formulate a response. “I’m afraid I will have to be… inconvenienced by your presence a bit longer.” Yes, it is truly inconvenient—because you provoke such unusual feelings in him. Every time he sees you in his quarters, he has these horrible urges to embrace… domesticity. It disgusts him. 

“If you insist,” you say hesitantly. Neither of you decide to acknowledge the tension that has settled in the air. Severus promptly returns to asking you about your symptoms, in an attempt to ward off these strange sentiments that spring to mind in your presence.

©2025, @defectivevillain | @defectivehero, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

endnotes: I feel like Severus is in a perpetual state of disgust: with himself, with the world around him... sigh. he's very fun to write for, though.

I genuinely forgot I wrote this and was so happy to find it in my drafts again. And then a few weeks passed and I forgot about it *again.* When I stumbled upon it again, I was very surprised to find it 99% complete, bahaha.

anyways, thanks for reading! <3

check out my other works, sorted by fandom.

general taglist: @its-ares @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall @kingkoku @the-ultimate-librarian @gayaristocrat @always-lying-to-you ; and tagging @sir-aadiboii because you sent me an ask about this series!

friendly reminder that i don't give permission for my writing to be shared to other sites, stolen, copied, translated, or used in any way. thanks!

[onelittlespiral]

Attention: Health and Safety Alert

Dear Students, Faculty, and Staff,

It has come to our attention that a serious outbreak of a virus illness has been seriously harming our campus community. We take this public health threat very seriously and want you all to be aware and alert so that you can stay safe.

As a matter of transparency, we want to be clear on the origin of this virus. The Frontal Recognizance Transmutation Arenavirus 24 (often called just arena or FRT-24) has been a known threat for some time, with clear symptoms from infected individuals. A research lab on campus was known to have been studying its effects. This particular strain, the alpha variant, was of particular interest, so when a sample went missing, we exhausted campus resources to locate it. We were unable to and are now deeply sorry to our campus community. We take full responsibility for the current outbreak.

FRT-24 is highly contagious, so it is important to know the immediate signs. Look for:

Sudden headaches or migraines

Dizziness or loss of vision

Fevers and chills, especially paired with heavy perspiration

Loss of cognitive functions

Rapid muscle swelling

If you are infected, symptoms may take up to three days to develop, and you may still be a vector in this time. As the disease takes hold, you may notice a change in mood, as a lack of interest in usual activities. Instead, the disease drives the infected towards spreading. Common hubs seem to be gyms, parties, and social gatherings. We have also noticed an uptick in fraternity membership this year, a possible sign of disease spread.

Know the signs in yourself or others, as often the infected will not show traditional signs of ailment. This student has given us permission to share his story:

This young man was a healthy Junior just a few weeks ago. He was a promising young academic in biochemistry, hoping to one day do research on emergent diseases. Since his experience with FRT-24, his life is forever changed.

The changes are alarming. He has gained over 100 lbs and been unable to focus on his studies. Instead, he was spending hours in the student rec center, consumed by his illness as he worked his body to exhaustion. Since his quarantining, he has been unable to answer any basic questions about his academic career or research project. Instead, he has shown a hallucinated knowledge of a personal training and fitness program. As an early vector, we are aware of at least 10 other students who were infected before his quarantine, and he is being held for further observations on disease progression.

Thankfully we have been able to identify the method of transmission. At this time, it seems bodily fluids are most transmissible method. It seems that this virus enhances the body in this respect. Those infected will often try to spread by any means necessary. They are very good at finding susceptible men, isolating them, and finding ways to expose them directly to their sweat, saliva, and in some cases semen. They will be desperate for any chance to get you alone with them, to join their ranks. Do no be drawn in by promises of muscle, of status, or ease of life. Their brains are no longer their own. They only seek to make you a drone for FRT-24.

While we are still in the early stages of understanding the virus, we would like to acknowledge the valiant work done by Dr. Pulaski and his team of researchers. They have lead the way in this fight, throwing themselves at this dangerous line of work. Without their noble sacrifice, we would be still months from understanding the origins of this outbreak. We have narrowed down the point of origin to a party held a few weeks ago in the PKE frat house. At this time, it is unknown if frat leadership was in any way involved with this outbreak.

Sadly, Dr. Pulaski was found earlier this week a few days after conducting interviews and performing sample retrieval from the PKE house believed to be the epicenter. He was found shirtless, flexing his newly formed muscles in the mirror at the student rec center.

When reached for comment, he only smirked and reported “feeling great, bruh,” a clear sign of decline. We are still uncertain if he has exposed any of his other researchers to the disease.

Remember, you are responsible for yourself and out campus community. If you suspect you or someone you know has been exposed, please report to the Student Health Center immediately for examination. In the mean time, please stay safe everyone. We will continue to keep you updated as we know more

Regards,

Dr. Brendan Host, President

Congrats @occamstfs on 2k followers. I hope you all enjoy a late entry to the party. Go out and check out the other writers under the #occam2000 tag, some great stuff in there. And don't worry, FML: Initiate is coming soon.

[another-fantasy-world]

Turning Tables

→ student!agathario x professor!fem!reader

word count ~ 2.1k

summary: You built your reputation on cold stares, brutal grading, and a mind sharpened by trauma, spite and caffeine. But when Agatha Harkness and Rio Vidal, two academic legends cloaked in power and mystery, walk into your classroom as students, everything shifts. They watch you like a challenge. Like a hunt. And for the first time, you're not sure who's in control. What begins as a lecture in literature turns into a slow unraveling of self; tense, electric, and laced with something far more dangerous than desire. You were the one meant to teach. So why do you feel like prey?

authors note: my first agathario fic skfnfkjx panicking so much. i've longed to write for this fandom yet has been scared until I swallowed my fear and asked @saphiccarma for help. So, I dedicate this to her, and to all of the members of the lesbian army behind agathario. I hope y'all like it 😔🦶

content warning(s): minors do not interact pls, sexual tension in the classroom, unhealthy dynamics, older students agathario and younger professor reader, might be smut in future chapters, psychological unraveling, loss of control, shitty writing, non-canon compliance, shitty characterization

═════════════

If someone had told you you'd become your mother before hitting thirty, you'd have told them to shove a pipe cleaner up their ass sideways.

But here you are, burnt coffee in hand, fake smile plastered on, trapped in the sacred hellscape of the faculty lounge. Surrounded by crusty relics in crocheted cardigans who quote Plato like it's a kink.

The worst part? You're one of them now. A professor. A fucking academic.

The university, though? Disgustingly prestigious. The kind of place that gets whispered about in overpriced cafés and college admissions horror stories.

State-of-the-art everything. A three-story library that's still expanding. Gyms that smell like money and ambition. Dorms so cushy they might as well be hotel suites.

With that kind of setup, it’s no wonder people assume you slept your way into the position.

Would’ve been easier if that were true.

But no. You didn’t climb the ladder by seduction. You clawed your way up fueled by childhood trauma, hatred, and a PhD’s worth of spite.

Now you’ve got two jobs, more money than you know what to do with, and just enough friends to keep from being labeled a total psychopathic freak.

A poetic little fuck-you to your dead mother who said literature was a waste of time.

You’re on your third cup of disappointment, pretending that bitter caffeine will buffer you from the social agony of the faculty lounge. It doesn’t. The couch springs are older than you. The conversation stinks of tenure, arrogance and ego.

At least your office is far enough from these fossils. Shame they won’t let you bring your own coffee machine, something about “budget regulations” and “fire hazards,” as if anyone here had enough energy to spontaneously combust.

“Professor Sunshine!”

Your eye twitches.

The nickname is less about warmth and more about fallout. You burn too bright. Students flee like they’ve looked directly at you for too long, and sometimes, they have.

You don’t mind. You get paid whether they cry or not.

“It’s Doctor Sunshine to you, Mr. Maximoff,” you say flatly, turning to the walking sports drink in khakis.

Pietro Maximoff grins like a frat boy who never quite grew out of hazing rituals.

“I see the sun’s shining less today,” he quips, snatching your mug and taking a bold swig. He grimaces. Good.

“Let me treat you to something better.”

“I make more money than you,” you shoot back.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Then I’m a miracle.”

He snorts. “Okay, hot stuff. Heard you’ve got two world-class historians in your class.” He wiggles his eyebrows like a cheap sitcom extra.

“And?” You're used to having famous people in your class, you wonder why Pietro even mentioned such a thing.

“Nothing… Just betting five bucks you can’t make them drop.”

“What are you? A college frat boy?” You scoffed at him, raising an unimpressed brow

“He was,” a silken voice interrupts, light and amused.

Wanda Maximoff appears beside him, graceful as ever, red hair tucked behind one ear like she’s the muse in a painting no one’s allowed to touch. She taps Pietro’s head with her ring-heavy hand before turning her attention to you with that knowing smile she always wears; soft, maternal, quietly terrifying.

The siblings were opposites. Complete opposites.

Sokovian History professor. Faculty darling. Her evaluations read like love letters. Where Pietro was all sweat and chaos, Wanda moved like silk in a summer breeze; graceful, calm, but with an undeniable weight to her presence. She was the kind of woman who didn’t need to raise her voice to be heard. When she walked into a room, conversations hushed, not out of intimidation, but reverence. Her voice, laced with a gentle Sokovian lilt, wrapped around every word like a spell cast with scarlet gloves.

Students clung to her every word, enchanted by her quiet brilliance. She didn’t lecture; she wove narratives. In her class, history wasn’t a timeline, it was a living, breathing creature, resurrected by the soft cadence of her voice and the stories that lived in her gaze. She taught with the care of someone handling old wounds, her fingers gentle on the past, her eyes sharp enough to see through it.

And there was something ethereal about her, something in the way her rings caught the light as she gestured mid-thought, or the way she always seemed to know more than she let on. A mother to her students, yes, but a terrifyingly perceptive one. She noticed everything. Remembered everything.

Even now, she was looking at you as if she already knew where your story ends.

Meanwhile, Pietro teaches Sports Science and gets fan mail from student-athletes and wide-eyed girls auditing his class. Last year, he lost the “Hottest Male Professor” poll to Professor Rogers and sulked for weeks.

“Fifty bucks,” Pietro says, doubling down.

You flash him a predatory grin. “Deal.”

Wanda sighs, long-suffering and elegant. “One day, you two will outgrow your pissing contests.”

You doubt it.

You brush off Pietro’s smugness, but his words stick like a dare. You don’t believe in omens, but something about today feels off.

You were right.

And fuck Pietro. You're never taking another bet from him ever again.

You enter the lecture hall like always: bored, bitter, buzzing on burnt caffeine. The room smells like old textbooks and anticipation. You’ve locked the door behind you; your usual ritual of academic sadism. No latecomers. No mercy.

But something’s off.

There’s a weight in the air, heat, almost. Not temperature, exactly. Just the kind of heat that coils down your spine, instinctive and ancient. You feel it before you even meet their eyes.

When you scan the room, your gaze skips past the sleepy freshmen and hungover upperclassmen until it snaps, front row, dead center.

Two women.

They sit like they own the space. Not trying to. Knowing they do. Confidence was oozing out from them in beautiful waves, they seemed like the embodiment of professional arrogance. Their eyes, although different in color, stare at you the same way. It felt heavy, yet not suffocating. It felt strangely comforting, and that thought alone sent shivers down your spine.

The one on the left has dark eyes like bruised velvet and a mouth made for ruin. The other leans back with a legal pad and the posture of a queen at court; unbothered, unreadable, untouchable.

Their gazes land on you with perfect stillness. No blinking. No flinching. Just that weight again.

And in that exact moment, you know.

You’re fucked. Deeply. Profoundly. Existentially.

They don’t look like students. They don’t look like anything you’ve ever taught.

You grip the podium like it’ll anchor you to reality.

You cleared your throat, breaking eye contact like it burned.

“If you're here because you thought this class would be easy. Get the hell out.”

The words came out flat, practiced. You always open this way, your voice is steady. Cold. Scripted. It’s the same line you give every year. It usually works. The scared ones scatter. The cocky ones get humbled after the first exam.

But not them.

They don’t even blink.

The tension didn’t lift. It coiled.

Like they were waiting for something.

Like you were the one being tested.

“If you’re still sitting here in five minutes, you’re agreeing to read the blood and bones of every civilization that ever wrote a word. You’ll write essays that rewrite your brain. You’ll drown in dead languages and sleep with metaphors under your pillow.”

You click the remote. The first slide glows behind you.

No one moves.

Especially not them.

The woman with dark brown yet silver-streaked hair leans back in her seat, languid. Deliberate. Her fingers trace something into the spine of her notebook, though you’re too far to see what. Her gaze flickers to you—sharp, ancient. Not tired, but measured. Like you’re a puzzle she's already halfway through solving.

Beside her, the one with a jaw like carved stone and a stare like a held knife to your throat doesn’t even try to pretend she’s paying attention to the slides. She only watches you as she nibbles on her pencil in a playful and annoyingly seductive way.

Then it hits you, like a brick that fell from 15 stories high.

You do know who they are. Everyone on campus does.

You mentally kick yourself for not realizing it sooner.

Dr. Agatha Harkness, expert in ancient texts, dead languages, and cryptic footnotes that even seasoned scholars refuse to touch.

Dr. Rio Vidal, historian of legal theory and the laws no longer written. To make it easier, she's a historian of law, but not the kind written in dusty textbooks. The kind etched in blood, carved in stone, whispered across centuries.

They’re legends in academia. The kind of people who give guest lectures that make other professors take notes. The kind of names that carry weight, and bite. Both with credentials that make your curriculum vitae look like a high school résumé.

They’ve taken classes before. Rumor has it that they're working on a PhD that you're pretty sure they already have. Wanda, in particular, had thoughts. She blabbered for an hour straight in your apartment once, her voice shifting from frustration to reverence and back again like she couldn’t decide whether to curse them or canonize them. You’d laughed at her, teasing her for being so dramatic.

Stress, admiration, annoyance, arousal, she cycled through all of it in a single paragraph.

You remember thinking she was overreacting.

Now, standing in front of them, you’re not so sure.

You didn’t look at your roster. You never do on the first day.

And maybe that was a mistake.

Because you didn’t know they’d be here.

You didn’t know they’d be like this.

You didn’t expect the air to shift with their gaze. You didn’t expect to feel watched. Studied. Hunted.

You turn back to the projector screen like it’s armor. Like it can block the way their eyes follow your every movement.

You speak. Words about Gilgamesh and Sumerian cuneiform fill the room. You’ve said them a hundred times before.

But your voice feels foreign in your mouth. Your pacing is off. You almost trip over a quote from an Epic because-

You can feel them.

Not in the way students usually feel. Not in the twitchy, distracted, too-online way. They’re quiet. Still. Intent.

Like they’re dissecting you. Or worse, understanding you.

Your pulse skips a beat. You’re hyper-aware of your throat. Your instincts whisper one word: run.

You clear your throat again. You’re not nervous. You’ve taught this class for years. You've spoken at conferences with stricter crowds and colder rooms.

You’re not nervous.

Your hand tightens around the remote. It was an attempt to keep composure, to stay strong.

“Attendance is irrelevant,” you say, voice clipped. You make yourself sound bored. Detached. Like you’re above this.

“This class will not cater to your schedules, your feelings, or your GPAs. You’ll pass if you earn it. You’ll fail if you don’t. I don’t do second chances.”

It comes out clean. Sharp. You're good at this.

You move through the next slide, keeping your eyes away from them. You’re aware of their presence like you’re aware of gravity; constant, invisible, undeniable.

“This is not a course in reading comprehension. We’ll be dissecting context, subtext, and cultural memory. We’ll read what was said, what wasn’t said, and what was forbidden to say.” You continue

You hear the faintest sound, a slight rustle of fabric followed by the soft creaking of university issued plastic chairs, and maybe a breath caught at the wrong moment. It’s quiet, but your brain latches onto it like a warning.

Still, you push forward. You have to.

So you did. Despite the magnetic pull they seem to both have, you managed to keep yourself together until the end of your orientation and the short discussion of your syllabus. You might be cruel, but you're not a monster to immediately begin a lesson on the first day.

The class ends like any other. You dismiss them. They rise.

And yet they don’t rush. In fact, they stay behind, the last students to ever walk out your doors.

Agatha meets your gaze for a breath too long. She doesn’t smile, not really. But her mouth moves like she might.

Rio tilts her head slightly, like she’s filing you away in a mental drawer.

“We’ll see you tomorrow, Professor,” one of them murmurs.

You don’t remember which.

You stay frozen long after they’re gone. Only whispers of their presence remain.

You’re used to narrating the room like a well-worn novel; predictable, underlined, annotated. But now, the chapters are being rewritten without your consent, and for the first time, you don’t know if you’re the author… or just a footnote in someone else’s story

You're definitely losing that bet.

[robin-evry]

In that case, how about Hermes!demigod!Yuu? I imagine how chaotic and fun it would be)

𝐓𝐖𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐈 𝐆𝐎𝐃 𝐘𝐔𝐔 ( 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐄𝐒 ) ⚡🪶

Hermes (/ˈhɜːrmiːz/; Ancient Greek: Ἑρμῆς) is an Olympian deity in ancient Greek religion and mythology considered the herald of the gods. He is also widely considered the protector of human heralds, travelers, thieves, merchants, and orators. He is able to move quickly and freely between the worlds of the mortal and the divine aided by his winged sandals. Hermes plays the role of the psychopomp or "soul guide"—a conductor of souls into the afterlife.

Number one trickster and trouble maker in nrc, the reason why riddle getting older by the day due to them just being there.

They do respect the rules but do not blindly follow them unlike riddle who see rules as absolute. Riddle is always tryna find ways to collar them but is unable due to being able to find loop holes in it as well having a good point.

Charismatic and an expert negotiator—whether it’s getting extra food from the cafeteria or convincing Riddle to relax, this trait is heavily wanted by Azul able to outsmart him in anyway and when he realizes it, it was already to late.

Also work as a messenger for the faculty, delivering paper work as well as messages. Would allow students to use their service but needs something in exchange like money and items.

Pulls harmless pranks in the school to pass time when they're bored. Similar towards their father possessed godly speed if anyone blinks, demi god!Yuu is gone. Need something delivered across campus? They’ll have it there before you finish your sentence. Trey once joked they should be the next Spade dorm leader’s errand-runner—Ace immediately regretted it.

Like I said if you want them to deliver something you have to give them something in exchange for their service they won't do this for free. Usually payed thru madol and school work for example a student asks demi god!yuu to deliver an important paper towards professor crewel in exchange to borrow their notes and copy their homework.

On multiple occasions in the binoculars garden they step on Leona tail multiple times but Leona was unable to catch up against them because when he was about to confront them, they already finished with their business there and already left.

Would photobomb people photos, if a student is taking pictures of themselves or something you can always find demi god!yuu posing in one of those pictures.

cannot sit still for too long—whether tapping their fingers, bouncing their leg, or literally pacing, they’re always moving. If forced to stay in one place for too long, they get visibly uncomfortable.

No one ever knows where they are at any given moment. One second they’re in the cafeteria, the next they’re on the roof of Ramshackle. Even Crowley is baffled by how they get around.

When they walk by, people sometimes feel a faint rush of air, even when there’s no wind. Some swear they hear distant laughter trailing after them.

As well demi god!yuu wear a pair of goggles gifted by their divine parents due to them running fast some particles can particularly hurt their eyes so it's very important to wear them to see and protect their eyes. Because if not they're unable to see due to running too fast.

During the opening ceremony, when grim open the coffin demi god!yuu left the coffin and explored the entire school ground in seconds realizing they're not in their world and they come back grim moving so slow and still opening the coffin that's just by their prospective when using their speed, everything seems it stop but it's moving just slow compare towards them due to moving so fast.

When grim released his fire magic and reeking havoc across the ceremony, demi god!yuu save multiple students from suffering dangerous burns by moving them somewhere safer. And the fire demi god!yuu created a small tornado by spinning to suck the entire fire and putting it out in seconds.

Pretty much a very laid-back person, If they don’t feel like doing something, they’ll weave an excuse so intricate that not even Azul can poke holes in it.

They "borrow" things constantly, but they always return them. This habit drives Riddle insane when his pens go missing, only to reappear in perfect condition a week later ( sidenote ; its out of ink )

They are able to pick up language easily when Lilia and malleus were speaking fae language they decided to respond in the language fluently shocking both of them and they can even speak fluently merfolk language, They can even speak towards animals.

When a group would corner them for trouble or exposing them for doing something bad, in a blink of an eye the trouble makers are dangling upside down by a rope and demi god yuu wiping their hands as if it was nothing.

They tend to tease people that are close towards them, when people say that they are too fast they always reply with "nah you're just too slow" and then leave laughing.

[recareels]

something ‘bout you

character: professor!alhaitham

genre: smut ; modern university au set in teyvat

notes: waaaah it’s finally finished!!! i have no idea how this piece got to be as long as it did but alas, here we are. this has got to be the longest blow job i’ve ever written ehehehe. as always, please heed the warnings and stay safe! | title credit: dangerous woman by ariana grande

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, fem reader, praise, professor/graduate student relationship, sir kink, face fucking, cum swallowing, a teeny tiny bit of manipulation, lying via omission, reader is a film and linguistics student, a bit of academic jargon but nothing crazy or crucial, dom/sub dynamics

words: 8k

synopsis:

Your hand moves entirely of its own accord, touch tiptoeing up his thigh in invitation, inching toward the half-hard lump in his trousers.  He catches your wrist just before you reach his cock, slim fingers braceletting your arm and squeezing once in warning.  “Are you sure you want to go down this path, sweetheart?”  Hooded teal observes you closely, irises shaded into a deep navy, glimmering under the chandelier lights.  The question drips from his lips in a dark, decadent murmur, simultaneously an enticement and a warning, his thumb idly stroking your skin as he awaits your response—an action that brings some semblance of comfort, despite the dangerous thrill sparkling in his eye. You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. Despite speaking to him for the duration of the night, you don’t know this man—don’t know his rank in the department or his status among his peers and how that may impact you in the future. On all accounts, it most definitely is not a good idea.  He seems to know so, too, if his timbre of caution is anything to go by, but that ray in his eye flares, begging you to say yes. “I want you,” you admit instead.

The banquet hall is small yet elegant, beige walls warmed by the fuchsia beams of the setting sun, streaming in thick strips through the floor-to-ceiling crystal windows. Silverware clinks delicately against fine china, glass champagne flutes clacking with front teeth as lips wrap around the edges, daintily mingling with the soft murmur of voices blanketing the room. 

Such is the life of a University of Sumeru elite. 

Classes don’t officially begin until Monday, but the entire graduate faculty of the Department of Linguistics had been invited to a prefatory mixer held at one of the grand hotels in the city. 

It is a long-standing tradition, the email invite had informed you, that the professors and supervisors of the department throw the graduate students—new and old—an intimate yet extravagant start-of-the-year dinner. 

It’s mostly meant for new students—only five accepted into the program per year—to introduce themselves to their colleagues and supervisors, becoming familiar with the faces they’ll be seeing for the next one-to-five years of their lives. 

You had been special enough to receive an acceptance letter into the PhD program, travelling from your Masters program in Liyue to the city of Sumeru to study under some of the most renowned scholars of the subject. 

And so now you stand, lingering near the immaculately organized table of hors d’oeuvres and fidgeting with the crystal flute between your palms, index finger absentmindedly tracing the rim as eager, interested eyes sweep across the room again, soaking up the atmosphere. 

You have worked so hard to get here, to get to this point, to stand in this room with the gilt-edged supremes of the scholastic world and be one of them—a part of this exclusive, highly-coveted club composed of the outstanding, the superior, the royals of academia.

A large, smooth hand yanks you, rough and abrupt, from your appreciative daydream, blinking rapidly as you stare up at the man who is unexpectedly talking to you—talking at you—as if he knows you well, already mid-sentence about the legend of King Deshret by the time your shock dissipates, concentration tuning into his frequency.  

“—And that’s why he went mad.”

Teal eyes hold yours, steady and intent and willing you not to look away, the fingers wrapped firmly around your bicep flexing the moment your stare begins to stray, watching through your peripheral vision as a man with white hair and rust eyes passes by, features set in hard stone. 

It is only after the man is out of earshot that your captor relaxes, fingers loosening but not fully releasing their grip on your flesh. 

“Thanks for that,” he says, suddenly sounding disinterested and distracted, gaze flitting around the room. 

“Was that true?” 

“What?” he looks back over at you, as if he’s surprised you just spoke to him. 

“Was that true?” you repeat. “I thought that since Nabu Malikata had warned him of the repercussions of the ritual prior to them performing it that he knew she’d die—that he knew she had chosen to die—and went mad with guilt due to him choosing his own selfish desires over the love of his life.” 

He shakes his head, swallowing a mouthful of his scotch. “A common misconception, often due to mistranslations and the incorrigible feelings of the translators themselves. Romantics, you know,” he shrugs, head tilting as he observes you, bright yet sharp eyes studying your face in slow, excruciating detail, as he he’s trying to divest your thoughts through your features. “Are you new? I don’t think I’ve seen you around the department before.” 

Razored teal glints like a scalpel as it attempts to dissect you, his scintillating gaze carefully shaving away at any pretences. 

“I am,” you confirm with a nod, struggling to suppress the pride tugging at the corners of your lips as you introduce yourself. “One of the three lucky souls to have been accepted as a PhD Candidate.” 

“Nice to meet you,” the man murmurs, giving your arm another little squeeze in greeting before finally releasing it. “I’m Haitham. Alhaitham, if you want to be formal, but Haitham is fine.” 

His body relaxes, shoulders no longer pinched, muscles no longer coiled as he gets more comfortable, leaning against a large column, his stance becoming permanent. 

“So, tell me. Where did you complete your Masters?” 

Your heart thumps against your ribs, pushing hard breath up your throat, nerves suddenly buzzing beneath the swelter of his intense stare, fighting the urge to shrink away from his fulgurous attention. 

“Liyue,” you say. “I studied under the guidance of Professor Zhongli.” 

“Oh?” he raises an eyebrow in lazy intrigue, notes of condescension glazing his tone, a small smirk adoring his lips. “That’s impressive.” 

“You know him?” 

“Everybody in the academic world knows him, sweetheart. I’m sure you know that, as well.” 

Bashful heat seeps into your cheeks, tingling little pinpricks of embarrassment sprouting beneath your skin. 

“Well, I just—”

“Please,” Alhaitham cuts your off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The man is a master in several subjects; there’s not a chance anyone who is a true scholar hasn’t encountered and studied his work. What did you study beneath him?” 

“Um,” you begin, wincing at how idiotic it sounds, a corner of his mouth quirking up. “I wrote my thesis under his supervision. During my undergrad I majored in linguistics and specialized in cinema studies, so naturally my thesis aimed at analyzing and dissecting the role and importance of language in film—more specifically, how particular language conveys meaning and impacts the psychology of the viewer, as well as how particular language influences, dictates and affects the way a viewer derives meaning from the piece.” 

“Wow,” Alhaitham breathes, and for the first time tonight he sounds genuinely impressed, sincerely interested, notes of intrigue imbuing his tone. “I’d love to read it, if you’ll allow me.” 

“Of course,” you preen, the pressure on your lungs letting up a little beneath his praise. “It took me nearly two years to complete, and under Professor Zhongli’s supervision I was even able to conduct field studies and experiments to gather information and data.” 

“Is that so?” his smirk grows into a lopsided grin, his eyes sparkling with supercilious amusement. “Like what?” 

“As I’m sure you’re well aware of, how a certain character speaks and the words they use says a lot about who they are and where they hail from, but that’s only half the equation. The other half depends on the viewer themselves—their own background, upbringing, experiences, beliefs, and intelligence all influence the way they will perceive and derive meaning from an individual film. The research concluded that, based on these factors, two individuals from separate classes more often than not arrive at substantially different meanings of the information provided from the same film.” 

“Well done,” he murmurs, appreciative, and you can’t help but glow beneath his words, his commendation a beam of nurturing sunlight, drawing you closer to his heat.

“Thank you,” you say, bowing your head respectfully. “And what about you? Are you a student?” 

He laughs, bright and warm, almost as if your mistake is cute. 

“No, no, I am a Professor.” 

“What do you teach?” 

“Syntactic Patterns in Ancient Runes, and Advanced Morphology,” he says easily. “Speaking of which, will you be TAing any classes this year?” 

“I will! Though I have not yet been approved to teach my own class, only tutorials for the first years. Understandable, I guess, since I’m a new student and all.” 

Your disappointment is palpable, hanging thick and heavy in the air, and his demeanour softens a little, a warm hand clasping over your shoulder.

“Cheer up,” he says. “I’m positive they’ll give you your own lecture the moment you hit your third year—those positions are usually reserved to upper-year PhD’s.” The tips of his fingers press into your muscles in a comforting massage, and you can’t help but lean into his touch a little, body deliquescing. “Which class will you be TAing for?” 

“Intro to Linguistics: Sentence Structure and Meaning,” you make a face, the thought sobering you slightly. “By the way, would you happen to know who’s teaching that class this year? There’s no professor listed on the website yet, but if they’re here I’d love to introduce myself.” 

Something darkens his eyes, his smile turned wolfish, a shock of unease unravelling slow and sticky in the pit of your belly.

“I wouldn’t worry about him,” he says dismissively, though there’s a shard of something submerged in teal irises, sharp and dangerous, glimmering beneath crystal lights. “He’s a jackass anyway. Antisocial, selfish, you know the type. Introducing yourself to him wouldn’t make much of a difference—he isn’t a fan of those overeager polite types, not unless they’re genuine.” 

“Oh,” you frown, deflating a little, ignoring the ice prickling at the base of your spine. “That’s a shame. I was hoping to be on good terms with him.” 

“I don’t think anyone’s on good terms with him,” Alhaitham mutters dryly, eyes narrowing as they sweep across the room, almost accusing in manner. “But who knows,” he says as he looks back at you, hard gaze palliating just a touch. “You might be the one to change that.” 

Confusion sprouts across your face, features crinkling as you draw in a breath to inquire, but a booming voice cuts you off, briskly announcing that it is time for dinner and requesting everyone take their seats. 

“Here,” Alhaitham murmurs as slim fingers cuff your wrist, leading you. “Come sit with me.” 

The dinner is several courses long, but you hardly remember any of them, too caught up in teal eyes and a velvet voice, in the hand that has found it’s way onto you knee, thumb stroking the bone in rhythmic motions through your tights, in the ankles currently tangled around your own, tightening every so often and hauling you a little bit closer—any time you say something that procures that amused little sound, playing on the back of his tongue; any time you say something that raises his brows and leaves his eyes shimmering, head tilted cutely in curious study.

The conversation flows seamlessly as the night passes, as servers bring and remove plates, as guests mingle around the ballroom, arriving to and departing from your table—but the two of you don’t dare move an inch, entirely captivated by your intimate discussion; heads bowed, legs locked, words murmured between the steadily dissipating space between your mouths. 

He tells you about his most recent excavation into the long lost tomb of a prince, about the runes he found intricately engraved on the gorgeous sarcophagus, about what they said and how they fit into his most recent collection of essays—highly coveted information, he had mentioned, sure to note he hadn’t told anyone about this; not until tonight, not until you, his voice taking on a slight air of incredulity, as if he can’t believe he just revealed such information so easily. 

You tell him about the research Zhongli personally funded after you were nearly expelled from the program for sneaking into the film reel archives despite being explicitly denied access—all in the pursuit of knowledge, of course, you had bristled with a roll of your eyes, insisting that such important pieces should not be so inaccessible to scholars—and of the many trips your valued Professor took you on, traversing film festivals across the whole of Inazuma. 

He tells you about his childhood in Sumeru, about what got him interested in semiotics and linguistics, about the first language he learned—and about how his grandmother taught him, eyes gone soft with fondness for the since passed woman. 

You tell him about your childhood in Fontaine, about scraped knees and local theatre and sparkling blue water, about your favourite Fontainian film movements and how they first sparked your passion for the performing arts. 

“I don’t know anything about Fontainian Neorealism or the Fontaine New Wave,” he admits, “but I do know that Sumeru has a flourishing arts and culture sector—and I assume that’s why you’ve chosen to study here. Am I correct?” 

“You are,” you nod with a small smirk, sipping on red wine. “It is exceptionally difficult to study Sumeru’s robust art history without actually being here. All I know are the things I’ve read in books—which are not nearly a suitable substitute for experiencing it with your own eyes.”

“Mm,” he hums in agreement. “Let’s make a deal, then.” 

“A deal?” 

“A trade, of sorts,” he begins, smirking when you blink twice in curiosity. “I’ll take you to a performance at Zubayr Theater, and you take me to see a Fontainan film. Sound fair?” 

“Sounds wonderful.”

A small smile graces his lips, wispy at the edges, a peculiar sentiment sparkling in his gaze. “It’s a date, then.” 

And you can’t help the fizzy feeling that starts to froth in your veins at the word, at the promise of seeing him again, of spending more uninterrupted time with him, just the two of you. 

It must show on your face in some way, must be evident in the sweet, girlish giggle that bubbles uncontrollably past your lips, because his smile stretches, still soft, and he chuckles gently, nothing more than a huff of breath on his tongue.

“I’m looking forward to it, too.” 

The palm cupping your knee is hot and heavy, his grasp flexing with his response, staying itself for a moment before it slides up your thigh, slow and careful and appraising, thumb stopping a millimeter shy from the hem of your short black dress.

Keen teal eyes stay trained on your face, focused in their evaluation, ready to analyze any slight change in expression his action may elicit.

But you only lean closer, legs spreading an inch or so wider, shuffling to the edge of your seat, a silent plea for more. 

A silent plea that does not go unnoticed by Alhaitham, as indicated by his small smile, sharp eyes dulling a little with their inquisition and fingers sinking into plush flesh, grip strengthening before relaxing again, the tip of his thumb stroking the material of your dress.

All without a single hitch in his words, swiftly and smoothly moving onto the next topic. 

And you only fall further. 

You can’t manage to keep your hands to yourself, either, it seems, touch vying and voracious for more of him: playing with the gold bangles encircling his wrist; twisting the gilded jade class ring pressed firmly against his second knuckle; drifting over the back of his hand, a single fingertip outlining the bones and veins contouring his flesh. 

He doesn’t appear to mind, though, flipping his hand over to gift you more access, allowing you to trace the lines of his palm with a manicured nail, his fingers spreading wider, presenting more of himself to you as you vividly discuss Metz and how he built his cinematic semiotics theory off of structural linguistics. 

His hand is nearly in your lap now, your thighs cushioning one another’s, knees bumping clumsily against the edge of each other’s chairs as you subconsciously try to inch closer, caught up in every fucking thing about him; his viscous voice, cascading over you like melty syrup; his vivid stare, so bright and full of passion it’s practically glowing; his magnificent mind, gears churning at a rapid yet efficient pace, producing ribbons of wisdom, flowing smooth and fluid from his lips, confident and self-assured. 

You’re drowning in him, submerging yourself further and further into his presence, more intoxicated by his aura than the wine roiling warm and sweet in your belly. It produces something insatiable, a starved clawing at your chest that grapples for more and more and more of him, every fragment of information you manage to extract doing nothing to satisfy the hunger, instead exacerbating the craving. 

You’ve never met anyone like him before; never met anyone so blunt and real and unabashedly themselves, never met anyone so sincerely scholarly, so dedicated to their studies, so zealous in their never-ending pursuit of knowledge.

It’s inspiring; it’s intoxicating.

Alhaitham’s mind is brilliant, beautiful, an ornate maze of thoughts, each one leading to something new, each one unravelling like the petals of a lotus, sparking further debates, remarks, ponders. 

You could get lost in here forever, you think—stumbling your way around sharp corners and down twisting corridors, consistently in awe of the next thing you discover. 

You must murmur it out to him, dreamy and wine-drunk and wrapped up in him, sentiments streaming seamlessly from your brain to your lips without your permission, because he laughs, the sound mild and tender, his gaze softening. 

“Is that so?” 

“Mm,” you nod, lazy and languid. “It’s so beautiful, Haitham.”

“I’ve never had anyone call my mind beautiful before,” he muses. “But I think it might be my favourite compliment to receive yet.” 

Bubbles of pride tingle behind your ribs, and your chest puffs out a little, spine straightening beneath his praise, murmuring out a little self-satisfied, well, then, you’re welcome. 

“Proud of yourself, huh?” he teases, though the notes infusing his voice are playful, his eyes shining as he studies you, cataloging your expressions.

“Yes, Sir,” you confirm. “You’re a hard man to please.”

“Oh, am I?” he snorts, head tilting in question.

“S’not a bad thing,” you continue, words slurred just a touch, heavy with admiration. Dainty hands find his own, your fingers beginning to toy with his, idle and absent-minded as they curl and straighten knuckles. 

“No?” he smirks, pinky catching yours in a swift hook. “I mean, you seem to be doing a pretty good job so far.” 

“I could do better, if you want me to.” 

It’s bold, brash, and entirely unbefitting, but the offer slips from your mouth without thought or consent, startling you in it’s veracity, a jolt of desire zipping through your veins. 

Your hand moves entirely of its own accord, touch tiptoeing up his thigh in invitation, inching toward the half-hard lump in his trousers. 

He catches your wrist just before you reach his cock, slim fingers braceletting your arm and squeezing once in warning. 

“Are you sure you want to go down this path, sweetheart?” 

Hooded teal observes you closely, irises shaded into a deep navy, glimmering under the chandelier lights. 

The question drips from his lips in a dark, decadent murmur, simultaneously an enticement and a warning, his thumb idly stroking your skin as he awaits your response—an action that brings some semblance of comfort, despite the dangerous thrill sparkling in his eye.

You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. Despite speaking to him for the duration of the night, you don’t know this man—don’t know his rank in the department or his status among his peers and how that may impact you in the future. On all accounts, it most definitely is not a good idea. 

He seems to know so, too, if his timbre of caution is anything to go by, but that ray in his eye flares, begging you to say yes.

Because the desire is too strong, a potent drug infusing your blood and hazing your brain, overwhelming your senses and overriding your better judgement, and you find yourself unable to resist, easily placing blame on the wine and the party and the undeniable allure of this stranger, instead of your own ravenous craving. 

“I want you,” you admit instead, the confession oozing from between pouted lips, stark with it’s honesty, unapologetic with your longing. 

Alhaitham laughs, low and smooth, watching you through thick, fanned lashes. 

“How do you want me?”

He’s playing with you now, a hawk toying with his food between razored talons, forcing his prey to go exactly where he wants it to. 

You can’t find it in yourself to care. 

“However you’ll give you to me,” you respond, brazen but sincere, glassy eyes wide and captivating his own. 

Teal searches your face for a moment, pries apart your features in search of falsities and finds nothing but unadulterated candour, so sheer it boarders on pathetic. 

“All right,” he finally says, hand smoothing along your wrist to press your palms together, lacing your fingers with his and giving a gentle tug. “Come.” 

You tread behind him like the sweetest little kitten, inebriated galaxies swirling in your irises, desperate and obedient and eager for your treat. 

But you’re just a touch too impatient, it seems.

Because he barely makes it to the washroom, free hand on the doorknob, intending to throw one last glance back at you—one final confirmation, are you sure? written in the motion—before you’re surging forward, soft palms cushioning a defined jaw, dainty fingers hooking behind the hinges and yanking, crushing his lips to yours.

It isn’t graceful in the slightest, a rough mangle of tongues and teeth, incisors catching on lips and canines scraping slick muscle, but Alhaitham recalibrates quickly enough, large hands curling around your hips and pulling you to his form. 

The door to the men’s washroom swings open as your knotted bodies fall through it, hinges loose and creaky, the metal handle slamming against the tiled wall, the resounding bang! bouncing throughout the room.

The stumbling of your footsteps echoes around you, obnoxious smacking of lips and slurping of tongues amplified by the open space as you gulp down his breathy little chuckle, the sound warm and tingling as it spills down your throat. 

A tangled mess of legs and limbs, you fall into the first available stall, rickety door whacking off the side, the lock jingling from the force. 

He allows you to crowd him into a corner, hinges of the flimsy door tinkering again as your legs slotting together and your tongues grind, tips teasing each other in curling little licks, catching one another and then slipping away, tracing the ridges of teeth, burrowing into the divots of cheeks. 

A strong hand stays wrapped around your neck, nails just barely nipping your skin as he grips you in place, his other hand busying itself with a palmful of your ass, fingertips planting bruises into soft flesh. 

A responding hiss slithers from your mouth into his, the sound massed on his tongue, the muscle folding around it and sucking, savouring your pain until it melts into his flesh.

Your hands are indecisive, traversing the buttons of his shirt and the loops of his trousers until, finally, they find his belt, fingers eager and vying as they pick at the heavy buckle, and he snorts. 

“It’s cute, how utterly desperate you are,” he mumbles into the kiss, slippery mouths sliding together, leavings streaks of saliva painted across chins. 

You are desperate, too desperate, and if you were of sound mind you’d be rightfully embarrassed of such behaviour, pawing at him like some impatient teenager, pathetically aching for more of him. 

But the wine and the glamour and Alhaitham’s intoxicating taste—cedar wood and mint, cloaked by expensive scotch—has cast a murky cloud over your brain, stuffing your skull full of nothing but ardour, dulling all of your senses, honing all of your needs, to him, him, him. 

The thigh wedged between your own, sculpted from strong, lean muscle, flexes twice, hitching up further into your core, a pitchy mewl spilling onto his tongue as a reward. You can feel his cock, hot and hard and pressed tightly against your hip, rutting into you in small, uneven little motions, dense heat sprawling, slow and sticky, in the pit of your tummy. 

“God, you’re already making such a fucking mess,” he nearly moans into your mouth, thigh tensing again in emphasis, cotton doused in slick arousal. “And I’ve barely even touched you. I guess you really do want me, don’t you?” 

And although his words are teasing, imbued with notes of playful mocking, his tone is sweet, almost as if he’s in awe of how honest you were. 

“S’bad,” you whimper, tongue sketching out the curve of his cupid’s bow. “So bad.”

“Yeah? Tell me,” he pants, a hand wreathing around your jaw, keeping your stare trapped in his. “Tell me what you want.” 

The demand is damp as it drifts across your face, scalding little pinpricks erupting beneath your skin, paired with a low whine of embarrassment. His gaze is too vehement, eyes wide and unblinking as they impel you, your own lids squeezing shut in the face of such fervour. 

“Ah!” the hand clamped around your jaw tightens. “Open them. Look at me, and tell me what you want. You’re a big girl, I know you can do it.”

It almost hurts to look at him, another bout of humiliation flushing through your veins as you squint, features twisted up in a wince. 

“C’mon,” he goads, fingertips thrumming against you cheek once in a fluent wave. “Where’s that big beautiful brain gone now? You were so eloquent at dinner.”  

“I—I wanna ride your cock!” you nearly sob, the profession a stringy plead shoved from your tongue, tangled in threads of saliva. “I really wanna ride your cock.” 

“Aw, how precious,” he clicks his tongue, as if it’s such a shame, words filtered through a slight faux pout. “Too bad naughty girls don’t get to ride my cock.” 

“Wh-What?” you blink, tears beading at the corners of your eyes, just barely caught in outer lashes. “Naughty?”

And, oh, the smile that spreads across his cheeks is downright sinister, eyes flashing with levity. 

“Do good girls put their hands all over a stranger’s cock?” he tilts his head, that shiny sliver in his iris catching in the light. “Does that not qualify as misbehaviour to you?”

“But—But I—I’m good!”  

The response is automatic, barreling up your throat and out your mouth before you have a moment to seize it, a fierce need to prove yourself igniting behind your ribs, eyebrows knit cutely as you stare at him, eyes beseeching despite your bratty tone. 

“Are you?” he raises a brow, eyes hard, but mirth plays with the corners of his lips. “Your behaviour thus far says otherwise.”

“I am!” 

Your gaze steadily holds his own, daring, challenging, insistent, your features scrunched up in a stubborn petulance.

“All right, prove it to me,” he says after a beat, exhaling an amused little huff. “Show me you’re a good girl and suck my cock.” 

And that’s all the encouragement you need, really, desperate to prove yourself worthy and capable as you slide down his body, knees on his toes, lidded stare never breaking contact with his own—heavy, dark, starving.

His collarbone, sharply prominent and peeking out from beneath his shirt lapels, heaves a little with his laboured breaths, the faintest sheen of sweat beginning to lacquer the bones, catching delicately in the fluorescent light. 

Nosing along the impressive bulge straining against his trousers, you hum a little in appreciation, trailing hot, humid kisses up the length in a haphazard outline. A hushed giggle vibrates in your throat as his cock jumps beneath your touch, begging for what Alhaitham would never dare to, tongue unfurling from your mouth to roll, slow and hard, over the clothed head. 

The slick muscle wraps itself around the tip as best it can, wet heat seeping through his pants as your tongue siphons his cock into your mouth, lips closing around the head and suckling, hard. 

A breath snares on his sternum, his hips twitching once in complement, chased by a low, alluring chuckle. 

“Huh,” he says to himself, though the letters are breathless. “I didn’t know good girls were little teases…” 

The implication is not lost on you, and you roll your eyes, grumbling out a muffled no fun into his groin before your fingers immediately get to work—button popped, zipper tugged, knuckles curled in the elastic waistbands, hauling his pants and briefs midway down his thighs. 

His cock is just as gorgeous as he is, thick and velvety and twined with pulsing veins that surge and swell the moment they’re wrapped in your tongue.

It’s impossible to silence the pathetic whimper of appreciation that spills from your throat the moment his cock is free, massive and magnificent, and you can’t resist nuzzling your cheek into it in admiration, catlike, the flushed head leaving a fat streak of pre-cum painted just below your eye.

A curse pries its way past his lips, fading into a breathy exhale, his fingers latching beneath your jaw and tilting your face to his, taking a moment to cherish the sight. 

You look so beautiful stained with him—glistening pre-cum dashed across your check in a perfect stripe; lips swollen and licked raw, shimmering with his spit—and he can’t help but stare, ravenous pupils having gnawed away at teal irises, desperate to soak up as much of the scene as physically possible, leaving nothing more than a thin ring to outline the orbs. 

His thumb swipes through the sticky substance, rubs it into your skin until it’s gone dry, seeped into the tissues and absorbed completely, and your neck strains a little, yearning to present more of your cheek to him, offering.

Another second or two passes as he grants himself one final moment of marvel, before his fingers release your head, a non-verbal command to continue. 

And you obey flawlessly, instantly. 

A dainty hand wraps around the base of his cock, tongue darting from between raw lips to lap kittenishly at the head, flattening along the curve and dragging twice in unhurried succession before digging the point into his slit, procuring another pretty pearl of pre-cum, oozing enticingly to adorn the tip. 

It’s so dense, so bloated it looks mere moments away from dropping, your tongue stretching out   far and wide in a precursory measure, ready to catch it when it falls. And it does, only a beat later, dripping slow and gross into your waiting mouth in a single strand, thick and viscid.

A hefty moan resounds in your throat as it seeps into your tastebuds, his flavour bitter and strong, fluttering lashes framing rolling whites. 

The noise that splinters in his throat is strained, yearning beneath a heavy hedonism, and his fingers tighten in your hair, a subtle caution. Smirking, your glance up at him again, sinful tongue laving lasciviously over your puffy lips, yet your eyes are not bratty, instead glittering with such potent awe it almost hurts, like he’s some sort of veneered saint, exalt pouring from your gaze. 

It crushes down on his chest, flattens his lungs and makes it difficult to draw in breath, oxygen stalling in his throat, the urge to yank you up and kiss the goddamn life out of you near unbearable as it tears at his chest. But he comes back to his senses, restraint held intact by a single spider silk thread, a dull, distant voice in the back of his skull reminding him of your task, of your lesson.  

You seem to know, too. 

No words need to be spoken, no warnings need to be issued, the hand around the base of his cock flexing slightly as it readjusts its grip, feeding him to yourself, taking him inch by inch down your eager throat. 

“S’it,” he encourages as he watches you, eyes lidded and hazy with lust. “That’s it, baby, take as much of it as you can for me.” 

The incentive, haunted by the ghost of potential praise if you succeed, only makes you more avid in your quest, throat stretching around his girth as you stuff it full of his cock, reflexes instinctively attempting to push him from the gummy column, constricting as you gag around the head.

It’s hard to know what he likes—how fast, how deep, how rough and filthy—but from the limited information you’ve gathered tonight, you can infer that he isn’t a fan of teasing; at least, not when he’s the one being teased. 

“A little more,” he instructs, but the command is gentle, a thumb skimming along the line of your jaw, hinges straining as you immediately submit, mouth opening wider, throat sexpanding further as you take more of him, more for him.

“Fuck, look at that,” he pants out, thumb caressing your jaw again before his palm cups beneath your chin, tilting your head up, the action inadvertently forcing his cock farther down your throat. “You’re so good.”

Blinking twice in response, you stare up at him, irises encrusted with stars of worship, their shine unhindered by the bleary gloss of reflexive tears that have already begun to collect, lashes clumped into soaked spikes, just barely keeping the torrent at bay.

He’s not sure he’s ever felt more respected, revered, in his entire life. 

Another blink—a quick beating of lashes—sends crystalline dewdrops flowing down your cheeks, the softest sniffle, half-stifled, shuddering delicately around his cock. 

“H-Hah,” he breathes out, an involuntary little sound pulled from deep within his chest, your agape mouth working itself open greater, lips stretching over his bulk.

He holds you still for a moment, takes time to admire such a pretty sight, hips jolting slightly, eyes watching as the bulge in your throat jumps, as you choke around him but don’t dare push him away, instead squeezing the base of his cock, attempting to jam it down even more. Your chin juts forward in a futile attempt to aid, salacious squelching echoing throughout the bathroom as you swallow, hard and with conviction, trying to lead him further into your body. 

The back of his knuckle swipes through a stream of glittering salt, collecting your tears on his skin and bringing it to his mouth, tongue washing over it slowly, savouring your taste. 

And you wait. 

How very good of you.

“Keep going, sweetheart,” he finally says as he releases his grip, permitting you to take control again. “Show me how much of me you can take down your throat.” 

And, really, that’s all of the enticement you need, head beginning to move the instant he demands it, mouth gliding down his shaft, slow and steady, until the tip of your nose just barely brushes your second knuckle. A pause, a mere millisecond for him to feel your throat convulse, before you’re pulling back up, lips puckering as they tighten around his shaft, glazing his flesh in a thin, shimmering film of saliva. 

Each stroke of your mouth has your pace accelerating, opting to keep your fist wrapped firmly at the base of his cock to steady it instead of allowing it to follow the trajectory of your lips.

It grows sloppy quick, your spit-soaked hand readjusting it’s slippery grip as your upper lip repeatedly bashes into it, the threads of saliva keeping your mouth and finger connected snapping each time your lips reach his head, nearly pulling off of his cock completely before your mouth sinks down again

“Yeah, yeah, there you go,” he grunts out, words torn around the edges, breathing raw and ragged. “Good girl, my perfect girl, doing so well for me.” 

A whine reverberates around his cock, your legs spreading slightly as your back bows and your neck arches, an ambitious attempt to take more of him, throat gaping and split open, drenched cunt grinding into the toe of his polished shoe. 

He groans a little, the sound tapering off into something choked and broken, his hips stuttering forward and involuntarily plunging his entire length down your throat, body retching at the abrupt intrusion. 

And suddenly, all of this isn’t exactly enough for you. 

Because while you can nearly fit all of him down your throat on your own, and while he seems to be more than satisfied with your progress, there’s still an inch or so that you’re missing, palm curled around it in a manner that’s almost protective, and you want to take all of him. 

You want to prove that you can take all of him, for him. 

A thick, milky string of spit and pre-cum dangles and droops heavily in the space between your lips and his cock as you peel your mouth from his shaft entirely, wrecked little coughs furling on your tongue, eyes wet and wide and full of reverence as you look up at him, imploring.

With a little effort, he hefts his lids open from their sedative state, staring down at you with glazed, gluttonous pupils, head tilting a little in inquiry.

“I want you to fuck my throat, Sir,” you rasp out in explanation, voice rough and raw, request grating against your throat. “Please, fuck my throat, Sir, please.” 

The plead is garbled, drooled out from the corners of your mouth curled in copious drivels of foamy spit, collecting on your chin and dripping off your jaw in viscous glass cords. 

Chest heaving with ragged breath, he watches as drool drizzles across your collarbone and exposed bosom, sticky and sloppy. You’re making such a mess—he’s making such a mess of you, and you’re so willing, so unwavering, raring for more. 

“Fuck,” he nearly whines out, the curse cracked. 

Deft fingers grip your face, blunt nails biting into your cheeks as he forces your head up further, an attempt to get a better look at you. 

“Yeah?” he breathes, the word drifting across your face, eyes hunting after it in an almost rabid manner. “You want Sir to fuck your mouth?” 

A whimper vibrates on your tongue, head nodding as best it can in his firm grasp. 

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, wanna take as much of you as possible, Sir; wanna take all of you, Sir; wanna be so good for you, Sir,” your head quirks a little, nuzzling into his touch. “Please, help me, help me show you how good I can be.” 

Your confession is molten and dreamy, flowing from your lips in one thick, continuous stream, your eyes limpid, desperate with the desire to please. 

“Though you’ve proven you are capable of doing it on your own, it’s precious that you’re asking for my help.”

A hum of contemplation rumbles in his chest, head tilting in observation, his scrutinizing gaze framed by heavy lids, eyes now slow and steady as they search your face.

“You need Sir to guide you, huh?” he’s asking as his other hand replaces your own, wrapping around the base of his cock and giving it two good, quick pumps before bringing the head to your lips, mouth obediently dropping open, a sound of confirmation playing on the back of your tongue.

Yes, yes, you’re nodding, tongue curling in the air a little, almost as if enticing him closer.

“No, not need,” he revises, smudging a thin stroke of pre-cum across your waiting, urgent tongue. “Want. Isn’t that right?” 

It’s true—you don’t technically need his assistance, could manage perfectly well on your own the task of sucking him off and stuffing your throat with his cum, but you want his aid; want to show him that not only can you succeed, but you can surpass.

“Please,” you whimper, the word a distortion trembling against the tip of his cock. “Please, help me be the very best for you, Sir.” 

Something sharp flashes in his pupils, hungry and craving and full of teeth, his chest stuttering with it—a growl he snuffs out, strangles in his throat before it can grow into a coherent response, replaced with a simple nod.

“All right, all right, baby,” he’s pacifying as you take his cock down your throat again, the hinges of your jaw straining as your mouth stretches around him. “Sir will help you out this time.” 

A mewl of thanks vibrates around his cock as he threads himself down your throat, his hips jerking once, fast and short, a matching whimper spilling from his lips. 

Delicate fingers curl in his waistband and tug a little, begging him to fuck deeper, and he concedes, groaning out breathy praise as your nose presses into that neat smattering of curls adorning his pubic bone, lips kissing the root of his shaft. 

“Christ,” he whines, hips thrusting forward a hint further as he leans back against the stall wall to get a better view, your throat tightening around him with the action. “So fucking gorgeous.” 

The stuffed full column of your throat ripples around him as you swallow with conviction, a greedy attempt to garner him even deeper into you, his shaft swollen and protruding in your neck. Tear-lacquered eyes close briefly, forcing streams of crystal to leak from the corners as you nuzzle into his groin again, the laudatory action causing gummy walls to spasm around his cockhead. 

“F-Fuck,” the curse fragments on his tongue, head tipping back against the flimsy stall wall, angular jaw and Adam’s apple on display. “Look at you, so full of me.”

There isn’t any more time to admire, though, as idle chatter, muffled and indistinct, seeps under the heavy washroom door, yanking both of you from the heavenscape you had conjointly created and shocking you with a bitter dose of reality. 

There’s no warning after that, the brute reminder of the steadily encroaching public entirely shattering whatever trance the two of you had been enveloped in, Alhaitham’s hips snapping sudden and sharp, fucking your throat with a renewed vigour. 

Your grip on his slacks tightens, knuckles curling over the waistband in a feeble attempt to help him, to pull him even closer, jaw wrenched open even wider as his hips work, so fucking dedicated to him, to pleasing him, despite the pang beginning to settle deep within the hinges.

It’s rough, and sloppy, and so fucking hot, scalding saliva smeared all over him—coating his thighs and dribbling down his balls and soaking the matted curls at the base of his cock, slippery and sticky and stained with you. 

“Doing so—so fucking good for me,” he pants out, pace never faltering. “My perfect little toy.” 

Something mangled and muted sounds in your throat, another pair of tears cascading down your cheeks and streaking them with pretty gleaming trails.

It hurts, your throat burning and fucked raw with every ram of his cock, your lungs beginning to shrivel as he smothers your breath, routinely shoved back down in time with the piston of his hips, chest swelling painfully beneath the backlog of unreleased air. 

Hiccups splutter around him as you desperately try to draw in tiny gulps through your nose, the fluttering of your throat eliciting another hoarse groan, tumbling from his lips. 

The ache in your jaw has radiated across your face now, a pounding in your temples keeping flawless rhythm with Alhaitham’s thrusts, a twinging in your cheeks weighing heavy on the bones, creeping into your sinuses.

Yes, it all hurts so very much, but you take it all for him, just like a good little girl is supposed to, just like he asked, just like you promised you would—dutiful, doting, devoted.

And even though his hips are ruthless, avid in their chase to catch his impending high, his grip is tender, the knuckles rooted against your skull firm but not painful as they hold your head in place, his thumbs massaging soothing little circles along your hairline.

You’re weeping around him now, a potent concoction of drool and tears trickling off your tongue in viscid strings, the slick muscle curled flush around the underside of his shaft, protecting sensitive skin from the edges of sharp teeth. 

A dull pain is beginning to seep into the tip of your nose, no doubt a response to the constant collision of your face into his pelvis, and you can feel the early formations of a bruise, fragile capillaries busted open from the consistent blunt force. 

“Oh, Christ,” he gasps, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before springing back open, gazing down at you with fervour. “M’gonna—ah, ah—” his hips judder, thumbs pressing into the sides of your head, steadying his grasp. “M’gonna cum, and I want you to—f-fuck—to swallow it all, y’here me? Don’t waste a single fucking drop.” 

And, well, you’re nothing if not unwaveringly obedient.

Two more drives of his cock, rough and rapid, and then he’s forcing hot, thick cum down your throat, stuffing the column full with his potent seed.

It’s so much, too much, and you sputter around him, the syrupy substance overflowing back up your throat and into your mouth to seep, slow and sticky, past the tight seal of your mouth.

But he helps you with that, too, holding your head still and pressing your face tightly to his pubic bone, ensuring that his cum shoots straight down your throat as his cock continues to throb weakly, weighting your tongue. 

And you, obedient little girl that you are, devour all of it, even the few stray dollops of cream that managed to escape your mouth and roll down his balls, tongue curling hungrily around them and sopping up the remnants with gentle sucking. 

Truly, you did not waste a single fucking drop. 

And he’s so proud of you. 

“C’mere, precious,” he’s breathing out once he’s sure you’ve swallowed it all, releasing his grip on your skull and hoisting you up, strong hands hooked beneath your armpits. 

He hauls you to your feet in one fluid movement, pliant legs struggling to find stable footing on the tiled floor, and props you up against his body, supporting you. Those big hands cup your jaw, tilting your face to his, aquamarine flying across your features—quick, but efficient—and surveying the damage.

“You were so perfect,” he murmurs, sowing a smattering of chaste kisses along the top of your head. “You were so, so perfect for me.” 

A response hitches in your throat, mangled by the sob desperately attempting to claw past it, and Alhaitham frowns, concern creasing his forehead. 

“Hey, you okay? Huh?” gentle palms tip your head up even further, thumbs killing tears as they swipe over your cheekbones. “You okay, sweetheart?” 

“M’fine, Sir,” you croak out, voice ruined but eyes filled with reverence. “Th-Thank you for giving me your cum.” 

The worry saturating his features is eradicated in an instant, eroded by tender awe, his lips twitching into a small smile as his eyes sweep across your face again—slower, this time, more deliberate, appreciative—thumbs continuing their soft caress. 

The sudden shouting of his name decimates any potential response before it has a chance to form in his mouth, a low growl of irritation rumbling in his chest. 

“Yeah,” he calls back, the moment the washroom door swings open, effectively halting the perpetrator in their steps. “I’ll be there soon. Give me a moment.” 

His voice is hard, stern, cold yet dripping with authority, the meek messenger squeaking out some semblance of acknowledgement before rushing from the room. 

You’re still sniffling, cheeks stained with dried, crusty salt, hair mussed and messy, and his frown returns as he looks back at you, his features pinched, reluctance weighing heavy on his form. 

“You’re sure you’re okay?” 

“I am,” you nod in his grasp, finally standing on your own two feet, as if to prove it. “Promise.”

His eyes hold your own for a moment longer, assessing, before he accepts your answer as truth, fingers beginning to fuss with his dishevelled tie. 

“All right,” he sighs out the words as he primps, palms smoothing down his shirt, wrinkles casualties from your fingers. “Take your time to regain your bearings.” He looks up, a sardonic grin on his face. “I, unfortunately, have business to attend to. Such is the life of a Sumeru professor.” 

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure it’s such a drag to be faculty at the top university in the world,” you snort. 

“Enjoy your ignorance while it lasts,” he retorts, but his smile has softened to something playful. “You’ll learn soon enough.”

“Looking forward to it, Sir.” 

“Good.” 

He refolds his lapels one last time, squaring his shoulders as he mentally prepares, turning toward the stall door.

“Oh, and uh,” hand curled around the stall handle, he pauses, throwing a glance over his shoulder, eyes shining with something mischievous. “Maybe next time you can actually ride my cock, like you wanted to.” 

Head quirking, confusion crinkles your brow, your eyes searching his face. Next time?

A smirk spreads across his lips, smug and supercilious. 

“See you in class on Monday, Teaching Assistant.” 

[cloudyluun]

Office Hours (p.4) | professor!harry

Summary: Secrets were always part of the game—but you never expected one to end it. One moment, you’re tangled in Harry’s world, caught up in whispered promises and stolen touches. The next? Everything unravels. A familiar voice. A name you weren’t supposed to hear. A truth that was never meant to reach you.

And just like that, the illusion shatters.

A/N: Part 4 is finally here!!! And oh boy, this one hurts. 🥲 The angst is off the charts, the betrayal is real, and the emotions?? A mess. (Just like Harry, honestly.) I had SO much fun writing this, and I hope you all enjoy screaming/crying over it as much as I did. Let me know your thoughts, and as always—reblogs, comments, and theories are so, so appreciated. Now, go forth and suffer. 😘

Wordt Count: 4,2k

Warnings: 

Heavy angst (seriously, this one hurts)

Betrayal & emotional devastation

Harry being a dumbass (again)

Mentions of alcohol (clubbing scene)

Breakup / heartbreak

Harry’s POV filled with regret

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

The next morning, you wake up feeling like your world has tilted off its axis.

Your head throbs, exhaustion clinging to your limbs like a weight you can’t shake. The sheets are tangled around you, suffocating, heavy with the scent of him. You shove them off, blinking against the early morning light spilling through the blinds, but it does nothing to clear the fog in your mind.

Your phone is still on your nightstand where you left it, screen black, as if waiting for you to wake up and face reality.

You reach for it, hesitation curling around your fingers like a ghost of last night. The moment your thumb unlocks the screen, the message is there, waiting.

Harry: We need to talk. This is getting dangerous.

A cold chill runs down your spine.

Dangerous.

You swallow hard, rereading the words like they might change if you stare at them long enough. He knew. He knew something was wrong, and instead of explaining, instead of giving you anything to hold onto, he left you drowning in uncertainty.

Your mind replays everything—the intensity of his touch, the way he claimed you in his office, the abrupt panic when someone knocked. The voice was female, familiar.

Your stomach twists violently, nausea clawing at your throat.

You want to believe it was nothing, that the fear in his eyes was just the risk of getting caught, that the voice on the other side of the door was just some faculty member, a student, anyone but what you fear it might be.

But the way he pushed you out, the way his grip had been tight, urgent—it didn’t just feel cautious. It felt desperate. Like he was hiding something.

Your fingers tighten around your phone.

You tell yourself you’re overthinking, but the doubt lingers.

Harry knows it will.

Knows you’ll wake up with questions, with that sharp mind of yours piecing things together, even if you don’t want to. Knows that the moment you walked out of his office, his world started cracking at the seams.

He barely has time to run a hand through his hair, to school his expression into something unreadable before he reaches for the door handle. His pulse is still thrumming, his body still electric with the ghost of you, your touch, your scent, the way you came undone beneath him.

But none of that matters the second he opens the door.

Emily.

She stands in front of him like a storm cloud, her arms crossed, a knowing look curving her lips.

“You’re hard to track down these days,” she says, stepping forward like she still has the right. Like she hasn’t been gone for months. Like she doesn’t know exactly why he’s been avoiding her.

Harry clenches his jaw. “What do you want, Emily?”

His voice is sharp, clipped. A warning. But she ignores it, like she always does.

Her gaze flickers past him, over his desk, the disheveled papers, the air still thick with the remnants of something intimate. Her smirk widens.

“I was going to ask how you’ve been,” she muses, tilting her head. “But it looks like you’ve been busy.”

His stomach turns, but his face remains unreadable. He doesn’t move, doesn’t let her see the way her presence alone has lit a fuse under everything he’s built, everything he’s tried to keep separate.

He doesn’t respond. He can’t afford to let her see how much she’s right.

She steps closer, her perfume—something expensive, something foreign now—curling in the space between them. Her eyes are sharp, dissecting, pulling apart the pieces of him that she still thinks she has claim to.

Then she smirks, because of course she does.

“Let me guess,” she says, voice coated in amusement. “A student?”

His silence is all the answer she needs.

And maybe, deep down, you already know the answer, too.

But knowing doesn’t stop the way your stomach twists violently every time your mind replays the moment in his office—the knock, his urgency, the way he shoved you out like a secret that needed to stay buried.

You try to focus on your classes, on anything other than Harry. But it’s impossible. Every lecture blurs together, every voice around you muffled beneath the pounding thoughts in your head. You’ve never felt this restless, this sick with uncertainty.

It must be written all over your face, because the second you slide into your usual seat in the lecture hall, Olivia frowns.

“You look like you saw a ghost.”

You force a laugh, waving her off, but you know she’s right.

You haven’t eaten. Haven’t slept. You feel like you’re coming apart at the seams, like if you let your guard down for even a second, all the questions, the doubts, the fear will swallow you whole.

Between classes, you finally snap, you pull out your phone and type the words before you can stop yourself.

You: Can we talk?

The message sends. You watch the screen. Wait.

Nothing.

You stare at your phone for what feels like an eternity, willing it to light up, for his name to appear, for something—anything—to give you a lifeline.

But there’s no response.

The unease grows into something unbearable. Hours pass, but the silence remains.

And finally, you snap.

You need answers. You need to see him.

That’s what you tell yourself as you step out into the cold evening air, pulling your coat tighter around you, your fingers clenched around your phone like a lifeline. The city buzzes around you—people laughing, cars honking, life moving forward—but your world has stopped. Frozen in the unanswered text, in the gnawing doubt that has been sinking its teeth into you since last night.

Your feet move on autopilot. The closer you get to his apartment, the harder your heart pounds, each step echoing in your ears.

He’ll explain this, you tell yourself. There’s a reason. There has to be a reason.

You reach his door. The hallway is eerily quiet. Your breath catches in your throat as you lift a hand to knock, hesitating, just for a second.

But then you try the handle.

It’s unlocked.

Something twists in your stomach, sharp and instinctual. Wrong.

You push the door open.

And you freeze.

Because the last thing you expect is to see her sitting on his couch.

Her legs are crossed, body draped over the cushions like she owns the place, a glass of wine in hand. She’s beautiful, effortlessly so. Her dark hair is pinned back in a way that screams elegance, her red nails tapping against the glass, a slow, deliberate rhythm that only adds to the suffocating weight settling in your chest.

Her eyes flick up when she hears you, sharp and calculating. And then she smiles.

“Oh,” she hums, standing as if she’s been expecting you. As if she already knows who you are. “You must be her.”

Your breath catches.

The air in the room shifts, charged and suffocating. Your vision tunnels, your brain scrambling to process the words, the meaning behind them, the implication—

Her.

Your pulse pounds, a steady, deafening beat in your ears. Your entire body locks up as you stare at her, as the pieces start clicking into place with terrifying speed.

And then—

“Y/N.”

Harry’s voice.

Low. Urgent.

You look up just in time to see him stepping out from the kitchen, a dish towel still clutched in his hand, his face a mask of pure panic the moment he sees you.

He stops dead in his tracks.

For a moment, no one speaks.

You and Harry lock eyes, and the way his entire body tenses, the way his throat bobs as he swallows, tells you everything before a single word is said.

The floor beneath you may as well crack open.

Because you already know.

You know before she even tilts her head, a slow smirk creeping onto her lips.

You know before Harry exhales sharply, his free hand running through his hair, as if bracing himself for the inevitable.

You know before she takes a step toward you, deliberately slow, like a predator playing with its prey.

And when she speaks again, her voice is smooth as silk, dipped in something cruel.

“I’m Emily,” she says, extending a hand you don’t take. “Harry’s wife.”

Your world collapses.

“It’s lies.”

The words barely make it past your lips, but they land. They settle between you like a finality, like a gavel crashing down in a courtroom, sealing a fate you never saw coming.

Harry flinches. His hands twitch at his sides, like he wants to reach for you, like he wants to fix this. But he can’t. He won’t.

Because there is no fixing this.

“Who is she?” You choke out, barely recognizing your own voice.

It’s raw, barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the suffocating silence like a blade.

Emily doesn’t hesitate.

She smiles—cold, knowing, like she’s been waiting for this moment. Like she’s enjoying it.

“As I’ve just said. His wife.”

The word slams into you like a freight train.

For a second, everything stops.

Your heartbeat. Your breath. The very foundation you’ve been standing on crumbles beneath you, sending you spiraling.

You stumble back, shaking your head so violently it makes you dizzy. “No.” The word bursts from your lips, sharp and desperate. “That’s not possible.”

You turn to Harry, waiting—begging—for him to tell you she’s lying.

That this is a mistake. That she’s just someone from his past. That this isn’t what it sounds like.

But he doesn’t.

He just stands there, his jaw tight, his shoulders tense, his silence the most damning thing of all.

You feel like you might throw up.

“It’s not what you think,” Harry finally says, but his voice is hollow, like even he doesn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth.

A sharp, humorless laugh rips from your throat. Your hands shake at your sides, your entire body thrumming with something between fury and devastation.

“Oh, really?” Your voice cracks, barely holding itself together. “Because it sounds like I’ve been fucking a married man.”

Emily hums, tilting her head, faux sympathy curling in her smirk.

“Technically,” she muses, “we’re separated.” She shrugs, inspecting her nails, as if she’s commenting on the weather. Then her eyes flick back to yours, sharp and ruthless. “But legally? He’s still mine.”

A sickening snap echoes inside you, like a rubber band stretched too far, finally breaking.

Your stomach twists, nausea clawing at your throat.

Your world is crashing down around you in real-time.

You think about every stolen moment. Every whispered promise. Every fucking time he told you that you were his.

That all this time, he was never truly yours.

Harry takes a step toward you. His face is tight, pained. “I was going to tell you.”

You step back so fast your heel almost catches on the rug. Your hands come up like a shield.

“When, Harry?” Your voice wavers, the first sign of the cracks forming in your carefully built composure. “After I ruined my life for you? After I let myself believe this was real?”

His throat bobs as he swallows hard. He wants to reach for you. You can see it in the way his fingers flex, in the way his chest rises and falls too quickly.

But he doesn’t.

Because he knows he doesn’t deserve to.

“It is real,” he says instead, voice quieter now, like he thinks that might soften the blow.

But it only makes it worse.

You let out a breath—ragged, exhausted, done.

“No.” Your voice shakes, but your resolve doesn’t.

You meet his gaze, one last time, letting him see it.

The moment you give up on him.

“It’s lies.”

The words seal something shut inside you. The last thread tethering you to him snaps.

You turn around.

And this time—

You don’t look back.

You can’t.

If you do, you might break.

Your legs move on autopilot, carrying you out of his apartment, down the hallway, through the stairwell, because waiting for the elevator feels like torture, like wasted seconds you could be using to get as far away from him as possible.

Your breathing is uneven, sharp, ragged gasps that don’t feel like they’re actually filling your lungs. Your vision is blurring at the edges, hands trembling so violently you have to ball them into fists.

You don’t know where you’re going.

You just know you have to get out.

The cold air smacks you the second you push through the building’s front doors. It stings against your overheated skin, bites at the exposed parts of you like punishment for being so fucking stupid.

For believing him.

For letting yourself fall.

You don’t realize you’re crying until a sharp gust of wind makes the wetness on your cheeks burn. You swipe at them harshly, furious with yourself, with him, with everything.

A door opens behind you.

For one agonizing second, hope flares in your chest, ugly, unwanted, but there anyway.

But when you hear the voice, it’s not his.

It’s her.

“Wow,” Emily drawls, footsteps slow as she steps onto the pavement behind you. “Didn’t even try to stop you, huh?”

A fresh wave of nausea rolls through you.

You squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling sharply through your nose. “Go fuck yourself.”

Emily hums, unconcerned. “Can’t say I’m surprised. He never was very good at holding onto the things he really wants.”

Your hands clench into fists at your sides.

You want to ignore her. You want to walk away.

But you can’t.

Because every single word she’s saying is feeding the thing inside you that’s already ripping you apart.

And she knows it.

So you turn.

You meet her gaze head-on, fire burning behind the devastation in your chest.

“Whatever game you think you’re playing,” you grind out, voice shaking but unwavering, “you can fucking have him. I’m done.”

Emily just smiles.

Like she’s already won.

And maybe, maybe she has.

Because the only person who could have proved her wrong is still standing inside his apartment, behind a locked door, choosing silence.

Choosing not to fight for you.

You turn around.

And this time, when you walk away—

It’s for good.

The words echo inside you like a cruel joke, rattling around your skull as you push forward, step after step, through the city streets.

You don’t remember the walk home.

It’s a blur, blinking streetlights, car horns blaring in the distance, the sharp chill of the wind biting at your skin. You feel detached from yourself, like you’re floating somewhere outside of your own body, watching a version of you that you don’t even recognize anymore.

Because that version of you?

She was naive.

She let herself fall into something dangerous, something messy, something that was never meant to last.

And now?

She’s paying the price.

You barely make it back to your apartment before the tears start falling.

The second you close the door behind you, the dam breaks.

A strangled sob rips from your throat, your knees buckling as the weight of it all slams into you at full force. Your fingers clutch at the fabric of your coat, your chest heaving as if you can’t breathe, as if no matter how hard you try, you can’t get enough air.

You don’t hear Olivia at first.

Not until she’s right there in front of you, her hands gripping your shoulders, her voice sharp with concern.

“Y/N—hey, hey. What the hell happened?”

You shake your head violently, trying to force the words out, trying to explain, but—

They get caught in your throat.

Because how do you even say it?

How do you put into words the way your entire world just imploded?

Olivia doesn’t wait for an answer. She just pulls you in, wrapping her arms around you tight, holding you like she’s afraid you might shatter completely if she lets go.

And maybe she’s right.

You bury your face into her shoulder, your entire body trembling as the sobs rip through you, one after another.

“I—” Your voice is barely a whisper, cracking with the weight of it all.

Olivia pulls back just enough to look at you, her brows furrowed in concern. “What?”

You swallow, hard, your throat raw.

“He was married.”

Her expression shifts instantly.

“What?”

You let out a broken laugh, wiping at your tear-streaked cheeks. “He fucking lied.”

Olivia stiffens. Her grip on you tightens, her entire body going rigid with rage.

“Are you—” She cuts herself off, inhaling sharply through her nose. Her eyes darken, her jaw tightening. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

You just shake your head.

And worst of all?

You let yourself believe he was yours.

The realization guts you.

It claws its way through your ribs, wrapping around your lungs like a vice, making it impossible to breathe, to think, to function.

Because that’s the worst part, isn’t it?

Not just that he lied.

Not just that he kept her a secret.

But that you let yourself believe.

That you let yourself fall so deeply into him, into this illusion of something real, something yours.

And it was never real at all.

That night, you don’t sleep.

You toss and turn in bed, your body aching from something deeper than just heartbreak.

It’s in your bones. In your blood.

A wound that no one can see, but one that’s still bleeding.

The weight of his betrayal settles like lead in your chest.

And no matter how many times you tell yourself to let it go.

You don’t know if you ever really will.

Harry knows he won’t.

The second the door slammed behind you, something in him fractured. Something deep, something vital, something that will never fully heal.

Now, he sits on his couch, head in his hands, his elbows digging into his knees, his mind a fucking mess.

He can still hear it. Your voice, raw and shaking, cutting through him like a blade. It’s lies.

You’d looked at him like he was a stranger. Like he was something filthy.

And maybe he is.

Across the room, Emily sighs, the sound laced with amusement. “Well. That went well.”

Harry’s head snaps up. His blood boils.

“Get out.”

His voice is low. Dangerous.

Emily smirks, crossing one leg over the other, making no move to leave. “Oh, please. You’re mad at me? You’re the one screwing your student while still legally tied to your wife.”

His stomach twists. He hates that word. Wife.

Hates that you heard it come from her mouth.

Hates that you believed it before he could tell you the truth.

“Ex-wife,” he grits out sharply, jaw clenched so tight it aches.

Emily just laughs. It’s light, amused, mocking.

“Yeah, well…” She finally stands, swiping her purse off the couch. “Good luck fixing this.”

She walks to the door like she’s already won.

And maybe she has.

Because when she shuts it behind her, the silence is unbearable.

Harry exhales sharply, his hands dragging down his face, his skin hot with frustration, regret, and self-loathing.

He should have told you.

Should have sat you down weeks ago and explained everything. Should have given you the truth instead of letting you walk blindly into this fucking mess.

But he didn’t.

He kept you and her in two separate worlds because it was easier.

And now?

Now he’s lost the only thing that mattered.

He leans forward, gripping his hair tightly, his breathing uneven. His chest aches in a way that isn’t just emotional, it’s physical. A sharp, twisting pain that radiates through him, coiling around his ribs like a noose.

His eyes flicker toward the coffee table. Your hoodie is still there.

You’d left it here a few nights ago. He remembers watching you walk around his kitchen in it, drowning in the fabric, laughing when he pulled you onto his lap and told you it looked better on you than it ever did on him.

Now, it’s just evidence of what he’s lost.

Harry grits his teeth, pushing up from the couch so fast his vision dips.

He needs to fix this.

He has to.

Without thinking, he grabs his phone.

His fingers move fast, typing and deleting and typing again, until finally, he settles on the only truth that matters.

Harry: I love you.

He sends it before he can stop himself.

Then he waits.

And waits.

And waits.

But the screen stays silent.

And deep down—

He knows it will.

The silence.

The nothingness.

The absence of you.

And still, he waits.

Harry sits in the dim glow of his apartment, the only light coming from his phone screen as it rests on the table in front of him, mocking him with its stillness.

The message is there. Sent.

Delivered.

But unread.

You’re not answering.

You’re not even looking.

His jaw locks. His fingers drum restlessly against his knee, his whole body tense, like he’s waiting for a bomb to go off.

Hours slip through his fingers, but the only thing he can focus on is that goddamn phone.

He doesn’t move from the couch.

Doesn’t eat.

Barely breathes.

His mind races, running through every possible way this could have gone differently.

If he had told you sooner. If he had fought harder. If he had pushed past his own fucking cowardice and made you believe in him before Emily got the chance to ruin it.

But the ifs don’t matter now.

The only thing that matters is that he lost you.

He swipes the phone off the table so quickly it nearly slips from his grasp.

His fingers hover over the keyboard.

He types:

I’m sorry.

Please, talk to me.

Deletes it.

Types again:

Y/N, please.

Backspaces.

Finally, his hands still.

His chest tightens.

And he settles on the only truth he knows.

Harry: I love you.

He hits send before he can stop himself.

And then—

Nothing.

The screen stays silent.

The minutes drag into an hour. Two.

No response.

And deep down, Harry knows—

You’re gone.

And you’re not coming back.

The bathroom is filled with music, bass vibrating through the walls as you swipe mascara over your lashes, refusing to let your hands shake.

Olivia is in the other room, hyping you up, her voice loud over the pounding playlist she threw on the second you told her you wanted to go out.

“That’s my girl!” she calls from the bedroom. “We’re getting wasted tonight.”

You force a smile, dragging the wand through your lashes one last time before stepping back, eyeing yourself in the mirror.

You look like yourself. Hair styled. Makeup flawless. The dress hugging your body is one Olivia shoved into your arms twenty minutes ago, saying something about how you needed to “remind the world you’re a fucking catch.”

But no amount of red lipstick can cover the wreckage underneath.

Your chest still aches. Still tightens every time you close your eyes and see him.

Don’t think about it.

Don’t think about his hands, his voice, the way he looked at you when you walked away.

Don’t think about the way his jaw tensed when Emily said wife.The way he didn’t fight for you.

Don’t—

Your phone buzzes.

Your breath catches.

You stare at the counter, at the way the screen lights up.

Harry.

Your stomach lurches. Your heart stutters in your chest, knocking against your ribs with something sharp and awful.

You don’t pick it up right away.

You don’t want to care.

But your hands move before your brain can stop them.

You blink, and then—there it is.

Harry: I love you.

The words blur together on the screen, your breath leaving your body in one sharp, uneven exhale.

Something cracks inside you.

And for a second—for a single, agonizing second—you waver.

You should feel something. Anger. Sadness. Hope.

But all you feel is tired.

Because he doesn’t get to say that. Not now. Not after everything.

Love isn’t a fucking bandage he can slap over the mess he made.

You swallow hard, your reflection swimming before you.

Somewhere in the other room, Olivia is singing along to the music, yelling about how you’re taking shots the second you get to the club.

You grip the edge of the counter, fingers pressing into the cool surface.

For a second, you think about answering.

About calling him. About screaming. About telling him that love doesn’t fix this. That love doesn’t erase lies.

But then—

“Let’s go, babe.”

Olivia’s voice is closer now, her grin wide as she steps into the doorway, hands on her hips. “Time to forget about that asshole.”

You inhale shakily.

You take one last look at your phone. At his name glowing on the screen.

Then you turn it off.

You shove it into your bag and grab Olivia’s hand. “Let’s go.”

You aren’t ready to deal with the wreckage he left behind.

Not tonight.

Tonight, you’re going to drown him out with flashing lights, loud music, and strangers who don’t remind you of him.

Tonight, you’re going to pretend he never existed.

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow, you’ll start learning how to mean it.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

taglist:

@oscahpastry

@mema10

@angelbabyyy99

@iloveharrystyles04

@cinemharry

@drwho06

@donutsandpalmtrees

@panini

@mads3502

@imgonnadreamaboutthewayyoutaaaa

@one-sweet-gubler

@rizosrizos26

@ciriceimpera

@everyscarisahealingplace

@hello-heyhi

@sexymfharriet

@lizsogolden

@hannah9921

@chicabonitasblog

@huhidontknowstuff

@berrywoods1245

@jennovaaa

@angeldavis777

@prettygurl-2009

@almostcontentcreator

@run-for-the-hills

@maudie-duan

@dipmeinhoneyh

[tinkerbellini21]

A Stranger's Jacket Series: Part 1

Evan "Buck" Buckley x plus size! reader

Word Count: 2.9k

Warnings: School Shooting, Gun Violence, Death, Blood, Angst MDNI +18

Authors Notes: As a master's student, I wanted to create a fic that I could easily write with minimal inaccuracies. I thought about doing a Nurse! Reader x Buck, but it was not flowing as easily as this did. This is also my first time writing for 911, so I hope it's okay!

Masterlist | Taglist

It was a normal day. Or so you thought. 

You were sitting in the graduate lounge, editing the notes you had taken for any missing student’s in your professor’s introduction class. The fan was on, providing a nice breeze on the sweltering hot day in LA. And it would have been great white noise if the fan wasn’t clicking everytime it oscillated.

The first sign was a pop. Your head popped up from the laptop you were working on, pausing as you listened for anything else.The second sign was another pop followed with screams. 

You quickly shut your laptop, moving to turn off the light and lock the two doors to the lounge. You were by yourself. Carefully, you maneuvered under the desk, pulling the chair in front of you and holding your bookbag to your chest as an extra layer of protection. 

The emergency alert system is blaring through the speakers of the building now. Your heart is beating out of your chest, banging in your ears with each thud. Your chest is tight, breathing hard yet trying to stay quiet. You bite your lip to avoid tears, afraid that if you let yourself cry it’ll turn into a sob. You feel nauseous and want to throw up. 

To distract yourself, you start repeating the lyrics of your favorite song at the moment. Yet despite your efforts, you can’t help but count the shots and hear the terrified screams and cries.You were trained to handle an active shooting as a graduate assistant, but you never thought you would have to be in a situation to do so.

You pull out your phone from your bag, quickly putting it on mute when it pings with a text. Your friends, thankfully not in the hall you’re in, are blowing up the group chat. You send a quick message to them that you’re okay, unable to focus on anything else but the sounds of danger.

You glance at the time. The last time you remember was around six minutes ago. There’s been at least 17 shots so far. Two minutes go by and it’s silent. The shooter must be gone.

So when there is a knock on your door, you jump, your hand slaps up to your mouth, biting down hard as you let out a cry.  

“Y/N, it’s Dr. Daniels. He’s in another department, let me in.”

You crawl over to the door that leads to the faculty offices, opening the door. Dr. Daniel’s has dragged himself down the hall, a trail of blood following him. You gasp, crouching to help drag him into the small office before shutting the door and locking it. 

You help him to lay under one of the desks, situating him on his back. You see his abdomen is bleeding through his blue plaid button up. You don’t have anything to hold to his wound. The only option is to take your shirt off.

You rip your t-shirt off, glad that you are in a modest sports bra and nothing more revealing. You both couldn’t give two shits about you being topless, too occupied with trying to survive.

It’s silent between the two of you. You are holding the shirt tightly onto the wound, blood seeping onto your fingertips around the edges of the shirt. You hear footsteps. You’re about to let out a loud sob when you hear the sound of radios and voices. The LAFD announces themselves and you feel relief. Help has come. 

“The 1st floor is clear.”

“10-56, shooter down in west stairwell.”

“Third floor is clear too.”

“Copy that. I need all hands on the second floor, now.”

You look up at Dr. Daniels. You had been staring at the wound and had zoned out, not noticing that Dr. Daniels is passed out cold.

“Dr. Daniels, wake up. Hold onto this, help is here. I have to unlock the door.”

No response. 

You make the decision to start screaming for help. You know the moment you move and take the pressure off of his wound, he is going to bleed out even faster than he already is. Your shirt is soaked with blood and even in the dark, with the lights flashing in the hallway, you can see him palling. 

“LAPD, I’m opening the door.”

The door is busted open. A black woman and a white male stand in front of the door. 

“He’s been shot, shot in the abdomen. He’s losing a lot of blood. He was awake but isn’t anymore. I should have talked to him and kept him awake.”

“It’s okay. What’s your name?”

“Y/N.”

“Okay, y/n. Let my officer take over and we’ll get you out of here.”

“No! I’m not moving until paramedics get here,” you taste salt, tears flowing down your cheeks as you sniffle “he can’t die. I won’t let him die.”

“Okay, we can do that. Let Officer Townsend check his pulse so we can get him proper help though, okay.”

You nod your consent, pressing hard on the wound. Blood is warmer and stickier than you thought it was. Thicker too. You can feel it building up on your hands.

The Officer moves closer. He squats down, careful not to touch you or bump you. He places two fingers on the man’s pulse before pushing on the radio. 

“Dispatch, we have a male victim, GSW to abdomen, faint pulse. Requesting immediate medics, room 2210.”

You glance back and the woman is gone. The officer kneels beside you, staying silent as he keeps his fingers on Dr. Daniel’s neck.

“I was in his class this morning, I-I GA for him. I’m 22 years old, I didn’t think… think that I would be in a shooting. I was trained for it, you know? I have heard sounds before that sounded like a gunshot, but it never was. And I heard it and I knew it was real this time.”

“You’re in shock. You said your name was y/n? Mine is Owen.”

“Yes.”

“What’s your major?”

But you shut him out, continuing your rambling. 

“I am supposed to meet my friends for lunch in half an hour. At 1. What time is it? I have to go change and wash off blood,” you look at the blood on your hands “oh my god, I-what if he dies? How do I tell his wife and two boys? That I was responsible for his death, that his blood was on my hands and he didn’t get to say goodbye. I can’t, I need him to live. Tell me he’s going to live.”

“You said you were a GA, what’s your major?”

“Political Science.”

“So you’re going to run for office one day?”

It’s the first time you crack a slight smile, shaking your head no. 

“No, I want to do administrative work. Maybe work for a congress member. Or teach.”

You hear more voices and footsteps. The female officer you saw earlier appears with a female and male. You feel instant relief when you see a medical bag on the female’s shoulder. 

“My name’s Hen and this is Eddie. Can we take a look at him?”

You nod, moving out of the way but still keeping pressure on his wound. The moment she crouches down and slowly slides her hand in place of yours, you let go and back up, sitting behind them to watch. The officer leaves, heading down the hall.

“Unconscious but responsive. Airway is clear, pupils dilated.”

The male, Eddie, grabs scissors, cutting the shirt open to examine the wound. Hen searches in the bag for gauze, passing it to him. He uses it to pack the wound. Hen places a pulse oximeter on his finger.

“Pulse is weak, likely major internal bleeding. Get the stretcher in here now.”

The two maneuver to place him onto the orange backboard. They count to three before lifting him onto the stretcher. A grey blanket is placed over him and they rush out of the room. Leaving you sitting on the floor, in a bra and blood on you, your stained shirt left behind on the carpet. 

You sit there for a while, not able to move. You stare ahead at the grey metal cabinet, feeling numb and not much thought. You’re sure everyone has mostly left by now, minus a few radios going off. What seemed like forever has ended abruptly, the first responders and police having worked quickly. 

The blood is sticky and warm, drying on your skin as you wait. Your hands feel tight, and the thought of germs that are not yours feels foreign and uncomfortable. The tears have stopped and are drying on your cheeks.

You push yourself up, fighting the urge to wipe your bloodied hands on your leggings. As you walk out of the room, you jump, startled by the presence of another person. 

“Hey, my name is Buck. I’m a first responder. Are you hurt?”

The handsome man stands in front of you, bending down slightly to look you in the face. To bring you back to reality and out of shock. If you weren’t in distress, you would have been shy to be in just your bra and a pair of leggings. You glance down at your hands again, seeing the blood start to turn a deeper shade of red as it dries.

“What’s your name?”

“No, I uh, it’s my professor’s blood,” you respond to the first question, not registering the second one. Your mind is too occupied with cleaning your hands. “I need to wash it off. The bathroom is down the hall, I should clean it off before I leave.”

“We can get you cleaned up outside,” he states firmly but gently “But you have to let me check you first.”

You can’t stop staring at your hands. The blood is drying now, turning a darker shade. What was once stick is now dry, leaving an entirely different sensation on your hands. You glance back at the floor- where your favorite vintage band shirt lays ruined. 

You shouldn’t be upset as you are about it, considering everything that just happened. But it’s the only thing that your mind will let you focus on.

“Hey, it’s okay. The shirt’s replaceable, isn’t it?”

You nod numbly. He leads you down the hall, but every step feels slow and unreal. You look into the classrooms, seeing one room with blood on the floor and a few personal belongings. The blood on your hand feels even more heavy and you have to tear your eyes away from the scene. You don’t even realize you have stopped in your place and are staring into the room until Buck taps your shoulder and encourages you to follow him. You feel like everything is distant. 

He leads you down the rest of the hallway to the stairwell. Just as he opens the wooden doors to the stairs, the air kicks on. As the old vents screech to life, you let out a small scream. 

“It’s okay, it’s safe.”

He stays right beside you, hand hovering a bit as if to catch you if you start to trip or fall down the stairs. 

When you step onto the concrete pad of the stairs outside, the air is hot and heavy. Compared to the darkness of the office and flashing lights in the hallway, the sun is bright, causing you to shield your eyes. When a light breeze comes out of nowhere and hits your lungs, you feel some relief. The air smells like sweat, asphalt, and a metallic smell- the blood still coating your fingers and palms.

Buck leads you to a firetruck, instructing you to sit down on the back, all of the ambulances are gone, only two fire trucks remaining and a few cop cars. He walks around the truck, opening a door before reappearing with a medic bag. 

“What’s your name?”

“y/n.”

“My name is Evan, but people call me Buck. y/n, I am going to put this on your finger to check your vitals, okay?”

“I’m fine.”

He grabs a pulse ox, putting it on your finger, ignoring your attempt to deny help. But he gives you no choice. Which in most scenarios, would not be fine, but in this case you finally decide that he’s just trying to help you.  

“You’re in shock, which is completely normal. If you want to share your thoughts, I’m here to listen.”

 He kneels down on one knee, looking at you. He shines a light into your eyes, checking if your pupils are reactive. You stare off, not paying much attention to the handsome man in front of you. When a hand is placed on your arm to bring you out of your state, you jump.

“You’re hyperventilating. I need you to breathe in through your nose and push it out through your mouth like this.”

He purses his lips as though he is about to whistle, emphasizing his breathing as he inhales through his nose. He holds it before letting it out through his lips. You start to mimic him, and slowly your pulse starts to decline, the beating in your chest fading back to a more normal rhythm. 

“That’s it, there you go, y/n. Doing great. Now let’s get you washed off, yeah?”

He comes back with some wipes and water, handing you the water while he waits with a few packets of wipes

“Here, you can rinse your hands and then these wipes are sanitizing. Since you don’t have any open cuts, you should be fine.”

“Thank you-” you trail off, trying to recall the name he gave you. 

“Buck.”

“Sorry. Thank you, Buck.”

You open the water bottle with your more clean hand, pouring it on your hand before the other, rinsing most of the blood off. Buck hands you some wipes as he takes the bottle with gloved hands, disposing of it properly. You wipe the little amount of blood on your stomach off and then use another wet wipe to sanitize your hand.

 You feel much better with clean hands, and Buck comes back with a black jacket that has EMS written on it, and yellow and grey reflective stripes across the arms and torso. 

“It may be a little warm, but it's a lightweight rain coat. I don’t have a shirt and the blankets we have will be hot.”

It’s a bit oversized, as you shrug it on. You smile up at him, pushing your hair out of the way. You remember you have a pocket in the side of your leggings, and you reach in there for the hair tie, wrapping your hair into a bun. 

He smiles and gives a quiet ‘atta girl’ as you get comfortable, pushing the sleeves up on the jacket. If he wasn’t so god damn hot, you wouldn’t have found yourself swooning as much as you are at the praise. Your heart rate picks up again and your cheeks get hot, for a different reason this time. 

“Do you want water? I notice you’ve been shaking, are you feeling nauseous or dizzy?”

“A bit nauseous.”

“Are you diabetic, y/n?”

“Uh, no.”

“Okay, have a seat then. I’ll get you water and I think I have a granola bar you can have. Your blood sugar is probably low from the stress.”

“You don’t have to,” you spit out, already feeling a bit out of place sitting here in gear, making Buck focus all of his attention on you “I can eat later. You should keep your granola bar. You’ve done plenty to help me, Buck.”

“It’s my job. You just lived through a school shooting and saved a man’s life. The least you can do is take care of yourself..”

You return a sad smile, realizing that some people may have died. But you bite your lip, willing yourself not to cry again. Instead, you focus on the sound of the door opening with a creak, then some rustling before Buck returns. 

“Hope you like chocolate chip.”

“I do. I have some money in my wallet I can give you for it.”

He laughs as he hands it to you, taking a seat on the bumper beside you. He watches you, and you feel a bit awkward as you stare at it. The more you think about eating it, the more nauseous you become.

“I don’t know if I can eat this. I feel like I might throw up if I do.”

“Just take a bite. I swear it’ll help.”

Your shaky fingers peel the wrapper open. Taking a bite, you’re careful not to make a mess or look stupid doing so. 

“You keep your money. College is expensive and this is nothing,” he pauses, “do you have anyone to call and pick you up? You should probably take a few days to rest.”

“Yeah, I can call my friend to pick me up. I drove here, but I don’t think I want to drive home right now.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” he pauses. “let me go ask Athena if I can go grab your stuff for you.”

“It’s okay, I can wait for it.”

“No, you at least need your keys and phone.”

Before you can further protest, the man is off of the back of the firetruck and jogging over to the officer. She glances back at you before turning to Buck. You see a nod and Buck turns around this time, giving you a thumbs up.

 Athena, the woman, puts the radio up to her lips, and he heads back towards you. A few minutes later, an officer brings you your stuff. You’re not sure how you got so lucky to have such a caring person take care of you.

 But you’re pretty sure you just developed a crush on a complete stranger. 

[koiukiy-o]

orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 007. the paper.

-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith? -> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance. -> wc: 3.3k -> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.

-> a/n: this chapter is a bit dry, and incredibly fast paced, the angst lords held my shoulders gently and demanded my cooperation, and who am i to refuse... > unfortunately not a good angst writer. hopefully the next chapter fills in some gaps :P -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

Professor Anaxagoras stood at the front of the lecture hall, one hand braced against the edge of the desk, the other holding a thick folder of notes he hadn’t opened.

“—the symposium will run the final weekend of the month,” he said. “Attendance is limited to invitees and selected applicants. Presenters will include faculty, visiting lecturers, and a handful of external contributors with the appropriate security clearances.”

You glanced up from your notes. Kira stopped doodling in the margin of her page. Even Ilias straightened a little.

Professor Anaxagoras continued, eyes flicking briefly to the back of the hall, as if confirming something invisible. “Among the guests: Socrippe of the Erythrokeramists, whose work on semiotic containment theory in sacred structures should be familiar to most of you—”

“...and, by unfortunate persistence of committee will,” Anaxagoras said with unmistakable restraint, “Cerces, formerly of this faculty.”

That got a few scattered reactions—raised brows, a murmur or two.

“You may know her from her former lectures in phenomenology. Some of you”—his eyes passed over the hall with unreadable stillness—“have studied under her. You will find no one more exacting in her critique of academic laziness.”

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until you let it out. The name lingers in the air.

“She specializes in ontology, and approaches metaphysics through embodied cognition. Expect poetry disguised as philosophy,” he said. “Or vice versa.”

Your pen stilled on the page.

Kira nudged you lightly under the desk, eyes narrowed in curiosity.

“She also,” Anaxagoras added, tone flatter now, “insists on calling the panel a ‘dialogic constellation,’ so prepare yourselves.”

Ilias made a face. “What does that even mean?”

“She thinks it sounds more participatory,” Anaxagoras replied, already turning toward the desk, “though experience suggests otherwise.”

“Socrippe of the Erythrokeramists,” he said, “representing a school that approaches spiritual inquiry through artistic interpretation. They concern themselves with the soul, with perception, and with questions of embodied truth—often through mediums most of you would not consider academic. They also lead artistic education across much of the western scholastic network, claiming creativity is essential to understanding.”

“Apuleius,” he said last. “Of the Nodists. Their position is… less subtle. They believe all things are numbers. Not metaphorically—literally.”

He turned back to the room, chalk still in hand.

“To the Nodists, mathematics is not a tool, but a medium through which spiritual logic is expressed. They treat equations as divine revelation. Apuleius is their youngest speaker in a decade. He may attempt to convert you.”

A ripple of laughter this time. Ilias muttered something about cult vibes.

He went on, with a slight pause, “Expect graphs. Animated ones.”

A quiet wave of laughter rippled through the room.

“The application window closes by the end of this week. No extensions. Submission requires a statement of focus and relevant academic record.”

You’re still in your seat by the time lecture ends, notebook open but mostly ignored now, letting the noise filter out around you.

You shift, elbow brushing Kira’s as she taps the cap of her water bottle against the edge of the desk. Ilias, who’s been half-slumped over his notebook for most of the lecture, perks up.

“You still applying?” Ilias asks Kira—too quickly, voice a little too bright, like he’s rehearsed it and still tripped over the delivery.

Kira glances at him. “I am.”

He blinks. “Wait, really?”

She nods, casual as ever. “Yeah.” Her eyes flick to you, unreadable for half a second. 

Ilias sits up straighter like he’s just been hit by lightning. “Oh. Uh. Cool. That’s cool. I mean, I was thinking about it. Just, you know—my grades, maybe not entirely be optimal for that kind of thing… But hey—if you’re applying, maybe I will too. Strength in numbers, right? Mutual suffering.”

Kira smirks. “If you make it, I’ll bake you a whole cake.”

“You’re underestimating how motivating that is,” Ilias says, already pulling out his tablet like he’s going to start the application right then and there.

“I’m hoping everyone else applies too,” she says, “Would be nice. Like a little field trip.”

From behind you, unhurried footsteps and an exaggerated yawn cuts through– low, rough, clinging to sleep.

You glance back to see Phainon making his way down from the last row, cardigan half off one shoulder, white shirt rumpled, one eye still closed against the light. Behind him, Mydei trails with quiet ease, carrying two bags like it was second nature. 

Phainon drops into the seat in front of you with a thud and immediately turns sideways to slump across your desk like gravity has personally betrayed him.

“If anyone asks,” he mutters, “I was here the whole time.”

“Obviously,” you say, nudging his arm off your notebook. “Nothing says ‘academic presence’ like arriving in slow motion after the lecture ends.”

He makes a muffled noise that might be agreement, despair, or both.

“You missed a lot,” Kira offers, lightly. “Prof talked about the symposium.” 

Phainon lifts his head just enough to look at you. “You’re actually applying, right?”

You blink. “No? For the millionth time, I am not.”

Mydei slides onto the table in front of you, legs swinging gently off the edge. He rests his chin on his hand and surveys the group like a tired tutor trying to gauge who did the reading. “I applied last night. I figured you might change your mind after…” His gaze cuts toward the hallway—where Anaxagoras had been—

You stiffen.

And then, as if summoned by the gods of chaos, Ilias flails into the conversation with all the grace of a brick in freefall. “I know made a legally binding promise not to bring it up, and I’ve honored that oath under duress.”

You close your eyes. “Ilias—”

“But someone else brought it up!” he continues, pointing a wildly accusatory finger at Mydei. “So technically, this is no longer my fault and I am absolutely allowed to say— he touched your hand!”

You drop your forehead to the table with a dull thunk.

“Ilias,” you mutter into the woodgrain.

“I saw it!” he insists, wide-eyed. “AnaxaY/N fingertip touch was monumental! And you– you went full system crash. I saw the cursor spinning-buffering wheel-blue screen of existential crisis all over your face!”

Kira raises an eyebrow, barely turning her head. “You’re not wrong,” she says, voice even. “It was painfully obvious, too.”

You shoot her a look. “Whose side are you on?”

She shrugs, unbothered. “I’m just saying. You paused while handing the phone back to him like the fate of the world depended on it.”

Ilias gasps in vindication. “Thank you! Finally, someone sees the truth.”

Kira takes a long sip of water, then adds lightly, “Besides, I think it’s sweet. Tragic, probably. But sweet.”

You scoff. “It was just an email.”

“Sure,” she says, her eyes glinting.

Ilias points at her, triumphant. “This is why Kira’s the only one here qualified to interpret sexual tension.”

You press your palms to your face. “Please stop saying sexual tension.’”

“Why?” Kira asks, tone playful now. “It’s starting to feel... accurate.”

Mydei lets the laughter die down before turning his attention back to you. His voice is gentler this time, quieter. “You don’t have to explain yourself. But if you are going to change your mind, make sure it’s because you want to. Not because someone brushed your hand and your brain rewrote its operating system.”

Your mouth opens, then closes.

“That’s not what happened, and I’m not changing my mind.” you mutter.

Ilias says from the table, still face-down. “As if I didn’t see you walk into a wooden beam afterward.”

Kira flicks a piece of bread at his head. “Enough.”

Mydei grins, stretching languidly as he slides back off the table. 

Phainon makes a low noise, something between scandal and amusement. “But seriously, a weekend of intellectual sparring in a windowless auditorium doesn’t interest you?”

Ilias gives him a look. “That can’t be a selling point.”

“I think Honour Roll’s applying,” Kira murmurs, nodding her head towards a guy taking notes… after class ended? “Had his hand raised before prof even finished the sentence.”

Ilias gives her a look. “Isn’t he the one who thought metaphysics was ghost biology?” 

You side-eye her. “He defined Cartesian dualism as a debate between two guys named Descartes.”

“He looked so proud, too.” 

She hides a grin behind her bottle. “At least he’s consistent. So,” Kira says slowly, “should we all apply and make this a collective breakdown?” and though she addressed the entire table, her eyes were fixed on you.

You raise a brow. “I just said I wasn’t applying.”

She shrugs. “People say a lot of things before peer pressure.”

“I am alarmingly immune to group influence,” you say.

Mydei tilts his head at you. “You’re really out?”

“For now,” you say, and tap your pen against the edge of the desk. “Not every mystery needs a dissertation.”

Kira leans toward the desk, elbow resting against the edge. “What’s a symposium even like?”

Mydei shrugs one shoulder, eyes still on the page. “Professor Anaxagoras never goes to those actually,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Too many vague theories and recycled arguments.” He mocks, albeit accurately. “Said it’s a waste of time.”

You pause, the words settling in.

You look at the open notebook in front of you, still mostly blank. Outside, sunlight drifts in across the floor, catching the edge of a scuffed boot, the curve of Kira’s pen, the fold of Phainon’s sleeve where he’s halfway to sleep again.

Mydei doesn’t elaborate, and Phainon doesn’t ask. He’s already slouching deeper in his chair, arms folded behind his head, eyes drifting shut again. “Wake me if enlightenment knocks,” he mutters.

Mydei flips his pen between his fingers. “If it does, it won’t be for you.”

The room’s mostly empty now, the last of the footsteps fading into the corridor outside.

You start gathering your things too. Kira stretches, rotating her wrist where she'd been fidgeting with her bottle cap. She nudges Ilias’ ankle lightly with her foot. “Come on.” 

Ilias startles like he wasn’t expecting to be addressed directly. “Me? You want me to–? Okay, yes. I am coming. Coming is what I’m doing.”

He scrambles to gather his things, nearly knocking over his water bottle in the process. Kira just watches, expression unreadable.

He swings the strap over his shoulder, catches it on the back of the chair, and nearly falls backward trying to recover.

Kira raises an eyebrow. “You good?”

“I’m excellent,” he says, voice going high and too fast. “Never better.”

She starts walking. “Right.”

He follows like a loyal, over-caffeinated puppy. “Did you know that pringles fit perfectly in a cylindrical tube because they’re hyperbolic paraboloids plotted over a circular domain?” 

Kira, mid-sip of her tea, blinks at him. "... Do you even know what that means?"

Ilias freezes for a split second, his eyes widening slightly. His hand hovers awkwardly over his fries, which he suddenly seems much less interested in. “Uh. I mean... yeah, totally. It’s... it’s like geometry or something.”

He clears his throat, trying to recover. “You know, math... shapes... real smooth stuff—yeah, I read about it somewhere.”

Kira watches him for a moment, her lips curling into a knowing smirk. “Sure you did.”

Ilias sighs dramatically and shrugs, defeated. "Okay, fine, maybe I don't exactly know what I’m talking about. But you were impressed, right?"

Their voices drift toward the door, Kira’s dry commentary punctuated by Ilias’s increasingly flustered rebuttals.

You’re still smiling faintly when your phone buzzes.

It’s an email.

From: Anaxagoras Subject: (blank) “Student, Appreciate your thoughts—if and when you have them. Regards, Anaxagoras”

That’s all.

Student?

You stare at the files attached:

Cerces_Entanglement.pdf Cerces_SubjectiveStructure.pdf

You’re still not applying. You haven’t changed your mind.

But you download them anyway.

It’s past midnight when you finally open it.

You’d told yourself you were just going to skim. One paragraph, maybe two—enough to say you’d looked. Enough to reply, if he ever asked.

But the first page pulls you in.

Cerces doesn’t write like she’s explaining something. She writes like the truth’s already there, and you’ve simply forgotten how to see it. The language is dense, sure, but it unfolds—slowly, precisely—like it was meant for people willing to do the work.

She makes a case for perception not as a filter, but as a force. Subjective experience shaping what is real, not just coloring it.

You don’t even realize how long you’ve been reading until the cursor on your half-finished assignment blinks back at you, still waiting. You blink down at your screen. Somehow, you’re already halfway through a side note you didn’t plan to write, tying Cerces’ structure-of-thought models to the assignment. 

You hadn’t meant to write that. You hadn’t meant to use any of it.

But here you are.

The question was already formed in your mind before his chalk reached the lower edge of the board the next day.

You didn’t raise your hand at first. You waited for the shift in tone he always used to signal the end of the main lecture arc. Waited for that half-step back from the board, the pivot, the glance across the room to see who had been keeping up. And when it came, you lifted your hand.

“Professor?” you said.

Anaxagoras didn’t sigh. He didn’t frown. He simply turned his head slowly, gaze catching on you with the kind of mechanical precision that suggested your voice had registered—barely.

You didn’t waver. “I had a question about the holographic encoding model,” you said, steady. “If we assume memories are distributed across a system rather than stored locally—does that imply the memory itself could exist as a form of interference pattern? One that reassembles partially, depending on context? Or is it more likely that what we call noise is actually unreadable signal?”

There was a beat of silence.

You felt it ripple across the room, a collective moment of attention, not quite tension—but close. Ilias, one row behind, sat up straighter. Kira had already lowered her pen, watching.

Anaxagoras didn’t speak right away.

He reached instead for the edge of the podium, adjusting a stray paper with unnecessary precision—his movements precise, composed, almost too still. The board still glowed behind him, but his eyes didn’t return to the projection. They flicked to you—once.

And then away again.

“Review the Feynman boundary analog,” he said flatly. “It’s in the assigned material.”

You blinked. “I did, but that doesn’t address the noise threshold—if the scale is nonlinear, wouldn’t that change the coherence—”

“You’ll find the constants you’re referring to in the last section,” he said, already turning back to the board. His voice held no edge, no invitation. “Try reading more closely.”

The dismissal was cold.

You sat there, notebook open, page half-filled with the equations you’d been working through during his lecture. The words hit sharper than they should’ve. 

“I did read it,” you said, softer than you meant to. Your voice sounded smaller in the large hall, like it didn’t belong.

Anaxagoras didn’t look back. He nodded once—mechanically. “Then read it again.”

No further comment. No elaboration.

He returned to his notes as if the exchange hadn’t happened at all.

You sat there, motionless, your pen frozen midair. Slowly, you closed your notebook, spine pressing against your fingers until it hurt. You didn’t speak again for the rest of the class. Just stared at the fading diagrams on the board, heart thudding low in your chest.

No rebuttal. No protest.

The cafe is buzzing with the usual mid-afternoon rush, students hunched over their laptops, friends chatting in the corner booths. But as you approach the counter, you can’t shake the knot in your stomach.

Kira is behind the register, her usual bright smile faltering slightly when she sees you. Her eyes narrow, a silent question forming as she taps your order into the system. You force a smile, trying to push past the unease creeping up on you.

“One medium cappuccino, please,” you say, voice steady enough to fool anyone who might be listening.

She presses the button to start the machine, but her gaze lingers on you, studying you in the way only she can. “You good?” she asks, her tone soft but sharp with concern. She’s already noticed—how could she not? The lines between your brows, the way you hold yourself too stiffly–

You shake your head slightly, waving it off. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired, you know? Assignment stuff.”

She doesn’t buy it for a second. You can see it in the way her lips press together, in the small shift in her posture as she pours the espresso, then expertly steams the milk. 

Once she finishes, she slides the coffee cup toward you. “Take a seat,” she says, her voice more firm now. “I’ll be right over.”

You try to protest, but she’s already grabbing a chair and pulling it out next to you before you can stop her. She’s nothing if not persistent.

You set your laptop down as she sits beside you, her expression gentle but resolute.

“So,” Kira says, casually glancing at your screen. “Tell me what’s up.”

You give her a half-hearted smile, opening your laptop again but not really focusing on it. “Seriously, Kira. I’m fine.”

She doesn’t budge, her gaze never leaving you as she tilts her head, considering you with all the patience she can muster. “You know you can be honest with me, right?”

You exhale slowly, your fingers hovering over the keys as you consider how much to say. The truth feels too tangled, too messy to admit out loud. But Kira is waiting, and she’s not going to let you distract yourself with your work.

With a frustrated sigh, you finally lean back in your chair and close the laptop. “It’s Anaxagoras,” you mutter, your eyes dropping to the table. “He’s just being weird. You saw him in class today, didn’t you?” 

Kira’s eyes soften, but she doesn’t say anything right away. She lets you breathe, lets the words settle into the air before she speaks. 

“I noticed. But you know he’s difficult to read,” she says gently. 

After a brief pause, you push her hand aside and open your laptop, scrolling until you find the email, still sitting there like a little landmine in your inbox. “He sent me this after I told him I’m not applying to attend the symposium the other day.” You flick the screen toward her.

Kira leans in, reading quickly. “‘Appreciate your thoughts—if and when you have them.’ Huh.”

“What?”

She gives you a flat look. “What did you reply?”

You blink. “I didn’t, yet.” 

“…Why not?”

“I—I didn’t know what to say?” you protest, a little too defensively. “It’s good. It’s actually really good. But if I just emailed back like, ‘Nice paper, Professor,’ I’d sound like an idiot. I was gonna sit with it. Think. Wait until I had something meaningful to say.”

Kira squints. “And how long has it been?”

You hesitate. “Two days.”

She stares at you. “Okay. So maybe that’s why he’s being cold?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—maybe he’s sulking.” A sudden smirk takes over her face.

You blink slowly. “...Sulking?”

Kira nods, casual as anything. “Mhm.”

You stare at her. “Why would he be sulking?”

She lifts a shoulder. “I dunno. You didn’t email him back.”

You frown, puzzled. “But... why would that make him upset?”

Kira looks at you like you just asked why water is wet. “’Cause he sent you a paper.”

“I know, but I’m sure he sends papers to people all the time.”

“Yeah,” she says, like that proves her point. “But he sent it to you. With a note. That said he’d appreciate your thoughts.”

You look down at your laptop, then back at her. “…But I haven’t had time to really sit with it yet. I didn’t wanna reply with something shallow like ‘cool’ or whatever.”

Kira nods like that makes sense, but only a little. That annoying grin is still plastered on her face. “Still. You didn’t say anything. And now he’s ignoring you.”

You tilt your head. “But that doesn’t mean he’s upset. Maybe he was just in a bad mood today.”

She squints a bit. “Yeah, but... he’s usually more focused on you. You know?”

You furrow your brow, trying to backtrack in your head. “... It was just an email?”

Kira shrugs. “Still.”

You nod slowly, still not really getting it, but also kind of… getting it.

Kira pats your arm. “You’re smart. But you’re kinda dumb, too.”

You blink at her. “Thanks?”

“Anytime,” she says, already standing to get back to the counter.

“…Alchemy,” Anaxagoras begins without preamble, voice steady, measured. “Despite the clichés, was never simply the pursuit of gold. It was the architecture of transformation—externally, yes. But also internally. Philosophically. Psychologically. In some theories, even mnemonically.”  

You glance up.  

Anaxagoras, meanwhile, walks slowly across the platform, gesturing without flourish. “Certain alchemic schools treated memory not as record, but as relic—something to be unearthed, transmuted, and occasionally… relived.”  

He pauses.  

“Cerces, for example, argues this too,” he adds, almost lazily, eyes skimming across the rows of students. “Though she does not call it alchemy.”  

And then—without warning—his gaze lands on you. Not unkind. Not pointed. But undeniably direct.  

“In one of her papers, she proposes a model where memory isn’t stored, but stabilized—by narrative. That stability is fragile, vulnerable to external disruption. So,” he says, as if this is all perfectly routine, “what happens when that narrative fails?”  

You blink. Slowly.  

“Chaos,” you say, forcing a bored tone, not bothering to lift your head. “Or a very dramatic existential crisis. Depending on your level of caffeine.”

You don’t look at him. But out of the corner of your eye, you catch the slight twitch of his mouth. Not quite a smile. But close enough.

You swear his voice is the slightest bit drier when he continues.

“Chaos, yes. Though Cerces might use the word collapse.”  

You flip a page in your notebook, already scribbling something down before you realize what you're doing.

Ilias leans in, whispering from the side of his mouth. “You didn’t tell me the secret midnight reading was actually good.”  

You keep writing. “Shut up, Ilias.”  

You would have replied sooner. You really would have.

It wasn’t because the paper wasn’t interesting—it was, annoyingly so. Precise and elegant and infuriatingly thought-provoking in the way only he could be. But you didn’t know what to say. Not yet.

Opening your laptop, you now see 1 unread message from: Anaxagoras@thegrove.edu Subject: RE: – Curious if any of the arguments held up under your scrutiny. —A.

Half of you wishes you could just smash your laptop (or your head) into the wall, but the other half of you is desperately trying to compose yourself long enough to make sense of what you’re about to do.

Before you know it, you have your phone pressed to your ear with a death grip. 

You check the time: 3:07 a.m.

Then you stare at the blinking cursor on your laptop screen. 

It rings six times before a groggy voice picks up.

“…What?”

“I need your help.”

A pause. Then Ilias exhales, clearly still half-asleep. “Are you in immediate danger?”

“Academic danger, if that counts,” you admit. “I’m trying to write an email to Professor Anaxagoras. I just… I’m stuck.”

There’s a long silence. You hear the creak of bedsprings.

“You called me at 3 a.m. to help you write an email?”

“Yes.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes,” you say again, calmly. “I’ve drafted five versions, none of them feel right. I’m overthinking the phrasing.”

“…Okay. What's the context?”

“I read through the papers he sent me. He followed up this afternoon and asked for my thoughts. I don’t want to send something too short, but I also don’t want it to sound like I’m trying too hard. I just want to sound competent.”

“Okay, reasonable. What have you written so far?”

“I’m worried I sound like I’m trying to seduce him. Sending an email that sounds like a confession of undying love for someone who doesn’t even know your middle name doesn’t seem appropriate.”

He groans dramatically. “Just read the damn drafts. I’m getting secondhand anxiety here.”

“‘Dear Anaxagoras, I hope this email finds you well. I have carefully reviewed your paper, and—’”

He cuts you off with a loud snort. “That’s the seduction version?”

You stare at the phone screen. “...I can’t tell anymore.”

“I’m crying, oh my god. Okay, what’s next?”

You glance at the most recent draft and read aloud: “Dear Professor Anaxagoras, thank you for forwarding the studies. I’ve reviewed them and would appreciate the opportunity to discuss a few thoughts, if you’re available.”

A pause. Then: “That sounds… fine? Why don’t you like it?”

“It feels a little generic. I don’t want it to sound like a template.”

“Well, you are emailing your professor. It’s not supposed to sound like a novel.”

You lean back in your chair, running a hand across your face. “I know. I just keep second-guessing the tone. I want to acknowledge that I’ve read and thought about the material, not just skimmed it.”

“Okay. Then add a sentence. Mention something specific.”

You nod slowly. “Maybe something like: ‘The section regarding recursive stability in cognitive patterning was especially relevant to my current work on--”

“Stop right there. It’s 3 a.m., I don’t have the brain cells to translate Nerd Latin.”

You adjust the wording slightly on your screen. “I think this version works.”

“Good. Send it.”

You hesitate for a moment, rereading. “Alright.”

You hit the button.

There’s a long, terrible silence. You stare at your inbox, watching the email disappear into the ether.

Ilias groans lightly. “There. Done. Crisis averted. I’m going back to sleep.”

“Thanks,” you say. “Sorry for waking you.”

“Night.” Click.

-> next.

taglist: @starglitterz @kazumist @naraven @cozyunderworld @pinksaiyans @pearlm00n @your-sleeparalysisdem0n @francisnyx @qwnelisa @chessitune @leafythat @cursedneuvillette @hanakokunzz @nellqzz @ladymothbeth @chokifandom @yourfavouritecitizen @sugarlol12345 @aspiring-bookworm @kad0o @yourfavoritefreakyhan @mavuika-marquez @fellow-anime-weeb927 @beateater @bothsacredanddust @acrylicxu @average-scara-fan @pinkytoxichearts @amorismujica @luciliae @paleocarcharias @chuuya-san @https-seishu @feliju @duckydee-0 @dei-lilxc @eliawis @strawb3rri-bliss

(send an ask/comment to be added!)

[cursedonyx]

I read the post about students reacting to mc dying in their arms. You should do the professors (including Black)

Thank you for the ask! 💚

Hogwarts Legacy Professors React to MC Dying in Their Arms

Link to student reactions here

⚠️Content warning for Death and Body Horror Below the Cut⚠️

Professor Hecat

Dina Hecat had rarely found herself as impressed with a student as she was with you. Your tenacity, your aptitude for magic, your ability to pick up new and complex defensive magic was unmatched, though Sebastian made a valiant effort to maintain a solid second place behind you. Such was your prowess that Dina thought you might make an excellent Auror, and determined to tutor you privately once you expressed an interest. It was a thrill to begin with, to teach you all the tips and tricks an Auror might need in their arsenal, you picking them all up as if it was as easy as breathing, to the point that Dina grew complacent.

She’d heard tales of your exploits during your fifth year, of course, and fought beside you during the Battle for the Repository. She was confident that you could handle anything thrown at you, and you impressed her over and over and over. But all it took was one tiny misstep, one foot wrong, and all her Ministry training and the reason behind it was thrown into sharp relief.

The troll was supposed to be an easy dispatch. You’d defeated one when you were brand new to magic, after all. Dina had taught you an advanced form of confringo, or at least, she’d taught you the theory. It was a powerful spell, a short step below feindfyre, and she was eager to see it in practice. But the troll had flung its club just as you began the incantation, and everything went wrong. You were distracted as it flew towards Dina, and you lost control of the spell.

The resulting inferno was too much for mere aguamenti, and there was nothing Dina could do but wait for the flames to die down, listening to you scream as you blundered about in the middle of the fire, unable to find a way out. When the smoke cleared, all that was left of you was a charred skeleton, your clawed hand leaving sooty streaks on her skin as she took it, hoping that this was some kind of nightmare, some kind of illusion or hallucination, anything but brutal, cold reality.

There was an investigation, of course. Why was a seventh-year student out fighting trolls? Why was this student doing so under the instruction of a faculty member that should have known better? Why had this professor allowed things to get so out of control?

Dina avoided Azkaban for her neglect by a narrow margin, but she had to give up her teaching post. She passed a little over a year later, having drunk herself to death, unable to cope with the guilt.

Professor Ronen

Abraham Ronen had always had such a love of fun and games, determined to make each of his classes a joy for his students. Yes, he recycled ideas through the terms, a large timetable in his office holding large lists of games he could incorporate that was appropriate for each year of Charms classes. But even so, after several years in his position, he found these games began to grow repetitive, and he wanted to liven things up.

That’s where you came in. Your ingenuity was famous throughout Hogwarts for a reason, and so he called on you one day after class, requesting your assistance in thinking up new games to play. He gave you a list of the spells he was to teach his seventh-year students, promising to waive your homework for a month if you helped out. You took to the task like a kappa to water, assailing Abraham with a variety of ‘games’ that would help the other students learn. The problem was, most of your games involved far too much risk for his liking, including trying to steal a dragon egg. Despite your protestations that you knew where to find one, Abraham wasn’t having it. But he’d promised, and you’d promised, and a deal was a deal.

So extreme were your ideas that when you proposed the still dangerous but comparatively tame idea of delayed-action bombarda combined with glacius, Abraham thought the idea of students running through a booby-trapped field, freezing the latent explosive spells, was a positively marvellous idea.

The students were less keen. They, unexposed to your particular brand of fun, saw the folly in such a practice. But you, determined that everyone should have fun, decided to be the first across the field. Abraham realised far too late just how foolish this game was, and had barely raised his wand as you danced across the minefield before disaster struck, and you were blown apart.

He tried his best to gather the pieces of you that rained down. A severed foot here, a shattered forearm there, holding his robes like an apron and gathering you up. It was futile, of course, for once a witch or wizard’s head is detached from their body, even the very best healers only have a few seconds to make it right.

He could never get that image out of his mind. One moment you were smiling, laughing, joking, teasing the others for their hesitancy, and the next you were in bits, everything that you were tumbling from the sky in slow motion. Every student in that class was scarred for life, set to fail their Charms NEWTs, fifty promising careers suddenly thrown down the toilet. Abraham resigned in shame, and did not go home to his wife. He wandered until he became lost, and lost himself until he found a cliff. Only by shattering himself on the rocks below could he find some form of atonement for his sins.

Professor Sharp

Aesop Sharp had always preferred to be somewhat gruff and stern. It kept his pupils in line, and his firm but fair approach ensured that everyone that took his classes passed with good marks, even if they had a tendency to blow things up, a practice he’d secretly taken to calling “doing a Garreth.” You, on the other hand, slipped past his guard. Maybe it was your incredible aptitude for offensive and defensive magic, or perhaps it was your endearing wit and charm. It could have been your happy-go-lucky nature, your ability to smile no matter how dire things seemed to be, always poking fun at yourself before anyone else. He found himself growing fond of you, thinking of you as some kind of wayward nibling.

He still had to give you detentions on occasion, of course, because even you couldn’t cheek the Potions Master and get away with it, no matter how well-intentioned your words had been. He found such hours to be more of a delight than a chore, happy to talk to you about anything and everything, even laughing a little as you revealed some of the mischief you’d gotten up to, things he’d normally give more detentions for.

One evening in the dungeons, you were cheerfully scrubbing out the cauldrons, and you asked him about is days as an Auror. You told him about an Ashwinder camp you’d caught wind of, and how you wished you could eradicate them. Aesop knew he should report it to Officer Singer and keep you out of it, but hell, he’d seen you fight, and there was something in him that yearned for that spark of excitement that came with defeating his enemies. He suggested travelling with you to wipe them out, considering it worth at least three detentions. You joked that this meant you had two free passes to be cheeky in class, and he told you not to push your luck.

If only he’d known. If only he’d taken a moment to think. If only he’d listened to his Auror instincts that told him this was a bad idea.

You’d both crept up on the camp, wands at the ready. There weren’t many of them, but enough to pose a bit of a challenge. Aesop had every confidence in you, he knew your skills after all, but unfortunately, the Ashwinders did as well. The moment they saw you, they didn’t bother with their typical hexes. They knew enough about you to know they couldn’t waste a second if they wanted to live. Three Killing Curses were sent your way, and one found its mark.

Aesop thought he knew loss when his partner was killed in Scarborough, but this was something else. Watching the light go out of your eyes, the ghost of your last, confident smile on your face, broke him like nothing had broken him before. He didn’t even try to resist when the Ashwinders took him, snatching his wand and throwing him in a cage along with the kneazles they’d poached. He couldn’t get the image of you out of his mind, your still body lying amid the debris of the Forbidden Forest, already ignored and forgotten by your foes, left for whatever scavengers crept through the night to feast. He refused food and water as he was dragged from one end of the country to the other, kept prisoner by those that had killed you. It took weeks to kill him, but one morning, lying on the floor of that cold, hard cage, he just didn’t wake up.

Professor Black

Phineus Nigellus Black preferred to let the students of Hogwarts think he was a cold-hearted, pompous bastard. It was much easier to work this way, easier to make the tough decisions a Headmaster of Hogwarts needed to make. Budget cuts, cancelling quidditch, extending exam season and banning Hogsmeade visits to ensure student safety was easier to weather if his heart was already hardened to the complaints and cries of woe, the bitter mutters, the whispered insults, the playground songs made up to poke fun at him. Yes, it hurt, but he was better than that. Stronger. Prouder. He had a job to do, after all, and Merlin only knew the previous Headmaster had left a hellish mess for him to set right. He had to be hard to be kind. He preferred not to pay attention to those around him, erecting a hard wall around his heart.

You, however… you were different. He heard about what you did in your fifth year, and though he found it hard to believe at first, he paid a bit more attention to you as time went by, and found the tales of your prowess were, if anything, undersold. Phineas made an effort in your final year to take you under his wing, seeing a potential candidate for the position of Minister for Magic in your future. He wanted to teach you the finer points of politics and bootlicking, introduce you to the right people, like the Gaunts, the Blacks, the Malfoys and more to give you the boost you needed to clamber up that slippery ladder. The only gifts he knew how to give.

You were resistant, of course. What kind of firecracker would you be if you weren’t? Phineas relished the challenge, demanding more and more of your free time until you began to understand just what kind of privileges came along with knowing the right people and scratching the right backs. Ominis knew it and used it to his advantage perhaps less than he should have done, but this seemed to tip the scales in Phineas' favour, and you finally began to listen and learn from his wise tutelage. He found himself swelling with pride as you whipped about your newfound allegiances, terrifying students and teachers alike, reining you in when you frightened Hobhouse so much he wet himself, his scolding gentle and warm. He might have had five children, but you showed promise.

Unfortunately, even the shrewd and clever Phineas couldn’t have foreseen the simple dangers of existing in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

He’d taken you to the trophy room, waxing lyrical about the famous witches and wizards that had come through Hogwarts, pointing out their accolades with relish, his hand on your shoulder, a rare and affectionate gesture of genuine pride. He told you that you could achieve just as much, perhaps more, if you applied all your skills and knowledge in the right ways. He even smiled at you, and his eyes were warm.

You asked to see a particularly bright medal on a high shelf, and Phineas, taking a leaf out of your muggleborn book, decided to give the other life a try, just for once. If a muggleborn could be as impressive as you, perhaps he didn’t have to use magic for everything. He tried to reach the medal by hand, even climbing on the shelf to do so, smiling as it made you laugh. He climbed down, medal in hands, his brow furrowing as your face grew ashen. The next moment, you had barrelled into him, throwing him out of the way of the falling shelf.

By the time he picked himself up, scolding you for your behaviour, it was too late. The falling shelves and shattered glass had crushed you, slashing your neck. By the time Phineas realised you weren’t just pratting about like you usually did, you’d bled out, your skin pale, your eyes wide and unseeing. Phineas sat on the floor beside your corpse, holding your fingers closed over the medal that read:

Most Impressive Display of Honour.

Professor Garlick

Mirabel Garlick had endured her share of enamoured students, villagers, and even fellow professors in her time. She dealt with it all with the grace and decorum that was expected of such a sunny personality, treating all and sundry with the same level of ardent attention and big, bright smiles. She had a soft spot for you though, someone who appreciated magical plants for the marvels they were. She didn’t mind when you stayed after class to quiz her on the less known properties of pufferpods or the right way to tamp down earth around a mandrake to ensure maximum comfort. She’d heard all about your little adventure to see the giant venomous tentacula, and had been curious about your knowledge ever since.

She was more than happy to help you grow your plants bigger and better than what the school board advised. She even cleared out Greenhouse Four for your personal use, encouraging you to grow things most students would only ever see if they were extremely unlucky. But she trusted you. She believed you knew what you were doing, swept up by your enthusiasm, tempted by her own curiosity to see just how far you could push your skills.

So it was that the pair of you ended up breeding a new kind of Devil’s Snare, one that was resistant to light and heat. It took time, and though you both occasionally wondered what the purpose of such a plant would be, you were too excited by the prospect of your experiments bearing fruit to worry about consequences. Mirabel should have known better. The only defence against a Devil’s Snare is light and heat, and both of you pushed away thoughts of protection against such a thing. It seemed playful, intelligent, happy.

It was early on a Saturday morning when Mirabel decided to look in on Greenhouse Four. It was only by chance that she had decided to do so, and she would spend the rest of her life wishing she had been five minutes sooner. She saw the Devil’s snare distract you with dancing tendrils as it had so many times before, only this time, you were too close. It wrapped you up faster than a spider wraps a fly, crushing the life from you. No matter how many incendios she cast, no matter how much she shouted and beat at it, even conjuring a torch to hold against the vines, all it did was hurt you more as it crushed the life from you, each snap of your ribs loud above your gasping breaths, the crunch of your spine grinding in her ears, the blood from your nose splattering on the floor as your lungs punctured, your eyes bulging out of their sockets. Even still you fought to draw breath until there was no more room in your chest.

Mirabel had never felt so helpless. She sank to her knees, waiting as the Devil’s Snare took you into its core to feed upon your corpse. She didn’t resist when the vines caressed her face, then wrapped around her throat, her wand lying forgotten on the floor of Greenhouse Four.

Professor Fig

Eleazar Fig had always had a soft spot for you. He’d watched you grow from a novice to a master in the space of a year, popular and clever, beloved by your peers and professors alike. He always made sure to make time for you in his office, sharing a cup of tea as you discussed your past adventures, gossiped about the students, or just had a jolly good chinwag. You both shared a love of adventure, and made time at least once a month to get up to mischief, whether it was investigating old ruins, clearing out mongrel dens, or just running the occasional errand for those in need. You delighted in having your mentor along for the ride, and he adored helping you where he could.

Unfortunately for you, your exploits over the years made you enemies. Though you helped a good many people and made plenty of friends, there were those that were hard done by when you stole from them or caused them trouble on behalf of someone else. Eleazar knew this, and made sure to continually warn you to watch your back, clucking like a mother hen. Perhaps he warned you too much, his words of caution becoming background noise as you continually avoided retribution for your misdeeds. Eleazar did his best to keep you safe all the same, ardently researching your enemies and eliminating plots before they came to fruition.

But after almost a year of no schemes against you, he dared to relax. He invited you out to lunch at Steepley and Sons, intending to enjoy a quiet cup of tea, some nice sandwiches, and perhaps even a slice of cake, his treat, of course. He wanted to catch up properly, to make sure you were happy, on top of your homework, getting on with your friends. You wanted to know how he was coping after Miriam’s passing, if he was back on the scene, how his work as a teacher was going, and can he please get you out of detention with Professor Sharp?

Neither of you expected after all this time there were still those that held a grudge. The young wizard helping Mrs Steepley was actually an Ashwinder, and they poisoned your cup of tea. It took a moment to take effect, but once it did, the only way to save you was locked away in Hogwarts Castle. Even accio couldn’t have got the antidote to you in time.

Eleazar watched as your face went ashen, seemingly sinking in on itself as you clawed at your throat. He caught you as you listed sideways, his eyes locked on yours, trying to comfort you, soothe you as you struggled to draw breath, not even a pin able to pass through the tightness of your throat. Your nails left bloody furrows on your neck, your feet kicking feebly even as someone ran for J Pippin’s, hoping he’d be able to help. Eleazar knew better. He just held you as your body jerked, the last of your life sliding through his fingers as he tried oh so hard to hold on to it, begging you silently to just hold on a little longer. You were all he had, the last spark of joy in his cold, dark life. Once you were gone, there was nothing left for him. A swift unforgivable curse delivered to his temple as he lay in his chamber was enough to ensure he could see you and Miriam again.

witchdoctorpirate ~💚

[uglypastels]

Your Logan fics have been great. I enjoy your style and how you write him. It’s so so good.

I had an idea while reading the brainwashed reader one:

Logan is on a mission to a bunker or lab or something for the X-men. Charles requested told him he had to go and help Scott. They go to this bunker and it ends up being a rescue for some mutants that were being experimented on and one of them once back at the mansion is having issues with controlling their power, and Charles asks Logan to help them. I picture the power being very volatile so Logan is there to help because he can take a hit and heal from it. Cause the reader is too scared to use the power on anyone and Charles told them he had the perfect teacher.

thank you so much!!

shoutout to @deceptive-daydreams for helping me come up with the details of this thing. had a lot of fun, as always, writing this request, so please keep em coming yall.

warnings: implied PTSD. platonic teacher/student dynamic. fire. explosions. swearing. anxiety. lots of banter and fluff.

Masterlist ~ X-Men Requests are Open

It had been two weeks since you had moved into the Mansion. Moved in. That’s all that you could bring yourself to call it, doing your best to not think about anything up to the moment that you had been ushered inside the large building and given a room to stay in for as long as you pleased. It had taken at least three days for you to actually get out of there, to let yourself roam the halls freely, reminding yourself that it was safe. 

For you, at least. No one would harm you here.

But not the same could be said about the rest.  

You had never been fully capable of controlling your powers, feeling more like they controlled you instead. When you were held captive, it was them who held power over both. But now that you were free, it was time for things to change. That much had been clear from the second you set foot in the mansion.

Professor Xavier had given you permission to make use of the Danger Room to train as long as you were under the supervision of one of the faculty members—something that should have given you comfort but instead only formed more anxieties.

‘I don’t want to hurt anyone,’ you confessed.

‘You can’t do this on your own,’ the Professor smiled softly. ‘As with any skill, a fine mentor is the first step to succeeding.’

You weren’t sure about that, but also knew that alone, you wouldn’t be able to get anywhere anyway. 

‘Don’t worry,’ the Professor read your mind. ‘I have just the teacher for you.’

⮿

You had recognised Logan as the man who had helped you escape. Who held your hand and hadn’t let go until you stopped shaking. Who gave you soft reassuring smiles whenever you saw eachother across the corridors, reminding you that were alright here.

You knew he was a skilled fighter, but, truthfully, you had not expected him to be the one Professor Xavier assigned as your supervisor in this training endeavour.

‘Show me what you got, kid.’ He said as he took off his leather jacket, and you immediately wish he hadn’t.

‘It’s probably better to keep it on.’ You stated, wincing at his exposed skin. He looked up at you, taking a moment to comprehend what you meant until the nickel fell with recognition.

‘Right.’ He put the jacket back on and leaned against the wall as you watched him expectantly for further instructions. ‘So, what do you do?’

‘You know what I do.’ You couldn’t help but laugh at the question.

‘Explain it to me again.’ He shrugged.

‘Well… I set things on fire.’ The words came out apprehensively.

‘No. I said, explain it to me. Dumb it down like I was a five year old.’ This felt ironically hard to do as you felt like he knew more about your power at this moment than you ever had.

‘I don’t understand—’

‘To be able to control your abilities, you got to understand it.’ Logan clarified. ‘Know what it is that you’re actually doing and you’ll know what to do to keep it contained.’

Yeah, if put like that, it made sense. It also sounded far easier than it was. Understand it, and you’ll be able to control it. Sure. You thought for a moment, back to school and the damn chemistry classes you hated, but now suddenly started to feel rather useful. ‘I uhh… manipulate atoms, rearranging them with the air and heat around them to cause objects to catch a flame.’

‘That’s more like it.’ He praised, and even though it barely meant anything, you felt yourself smile at the kind words. ‘How much have you got it under control?’ But then the question and his inquisitive glare down at you made you feel very aware of your body and your mind.

‘With uhm— with enough concentration I mostly I target the right object, but once the fire is up, I can’t contain it.’ Which was the most important part. If uncontained, the fire would just spread, destroying everything in its way. That much you already knew. You still woke up screaming from the memories of the radiant flames and screaming all around you.

‘And, nothing personal, but I gotta ask, controlling the fire also falls under your division?’ He had crossed his arms.

‘Uhm…’ you didn’t know how to respond to that. 

‘Only asking because we had this kid Jonny who could control fire, but he needed a spark to start it. Maybe you two are two sides of the same coin?’

‘No, I have managed it before. But never long. It would go up and down and up again, the way I wanted it to, but it was exhausting and then I couldn’t handle it and it would all go  to shit.’ You started rambling, and just like the fires, you couldn’t get yourself to stop.

‘Alright, alright.’ Logan spoke calmly. ‘First thing we gotta do is work on you.’

You blinked slowly.

‘It’s all the same with you elemental kind. It’s all in your head. If you can’t get your emotions under control, then the fire will never go out.’

‘That… makes sense.’ You took a deep breath and thought of all things sweet and soft and calm.

‘Alright, I haven’t got all day.’ He clapped his hands, and you tried to not let the loud sound get to you. 

Let the games begin. 

⮿

A few weeks went by, and you wish you could have said you were making progress. 

No, you had to be kinder to yourself. There was progress. It just wasn’t at the pace you had hoped to reach at this point. Logan had helped you with your targeting, and you could proudly say that you had reached an estimated 98% accuracy score. The larger objects you had no problem with, but the smaller and the further away things were, the more you seemed to struggle. Which was perfectly fine, Logan reminded you.

‘You expect to be able to hit a bullseye in the dark from a hundred yards away?’ 

‘I’m sure some people could,’ you mumbled, frustrated as you watched the wrong matchbox in the near line of 4 burn to a pile of ashes.

‘Beating yourself up about it is not gonna help you, kid.’ Logan said, already replacing the box with a new one. ‘Again.’

Knowing that complaining about his training methods would not help either, you simply squinted and focused on the third matchbox, doing your best to ignore the other ones lying around. They simply did not exist. All there was, was this one stupid matchbox— whoosh, and suddenly, the box was no more, just a pilar of blue flames. In your excitement at having finally hit your target, you had completely forgotten to keep the fire down. 

‘Shit, shit, sorry.’ You did your best to suppress it, but it seemed like the fire was in a funny mood today and decided to do the exact opposite of your demands as it grew by the second until Logan had no choice but to drench it with a bucket of water. 

⮿

‘Have you gone mad?’ You stared blankly up at Logan, who–much too confidently, in your opinion– positioned himself a few paces ahead of you. A cigar in hand. 

‘It’s clear that you need some incentive.’

‘I don’t think your death wish can be called that.’ You protested. ‘I’m not doing it.’ ‘Yeah you are.’ He simply said. ‘I’m the teacher. I’m telling you to light the damn thing, so get on with it,’ he growled as he put the cigar between his teeth.

‘Actually insane.’ You said to yourself. ‘There is no way this is going to end well.’

‘Focus sweetheart.’ He did his best to look calm and composed, but you saw how his shoulders tensed as you prepared to do the task. There was so much more you wanted to say to him, but you just had to block it out. All of him had to cease to exist. All you saw was the tip of the cigar. The tiniest layer of tobacco, the–

You shrieked as Logan’s face disappeared behind a cloud of black smoke as the cylinder in his mouth exploded. 

‘Oh my god, Logan!’ You ran to him, relieved as you heard him cough. With the smoke gone, you were happy to realise that it had only been the cigar that had exploded, leaving behind the tiniest but right where Logan had held it in his mouth. The rest of it combusted all around him. ‘Are you alright?’ 

His entire face was black with soot. You watched him wipe it off his eyes, blinking sporadically, clearly dazed from the explosion. You edged to repeat your question of concern, but before you had the chance to, Logan held a thumb up, spit the bud of the cigar out, and coughed out another thick cloud of smoke. 

‘All’s good, bub.’ And you would have believed him if not for the fact he sounded like a cat that had just been suffocated, his burnt throat squeaking out the vibrations of his voice. ‘Let’s try—’ he was about to suggest another exorcise before he erupted in another coughing fit. 

Easy to say you had called it a day after that.

⮿

‘Alright, easy now.’ Logan directed you. 

‘I know what I’m doing, Lo.’ You retorted. All day long, he had been just non-stop talking, making it very hard for you to focus on the job at hand.

‘Do you?’ He quipped, making you glare back at him just long enough for the fire to double in size. You cursed as you held it back down—at least, that’s something you were able to do now. 

‘You got to focus.’ He came over to you as you put the fire out completely.

‘Well, stop distracting me.’ 

‘That’s easy enough here, but what do you think out there’s gonna be like?’ He cocked his head at the walls, indicating the outside world, where indeed, there were distractions aplenty. ‘No one’s gonna give you time to do your breathing exercises in the real world, kid.’

‘Then why give them to me in the first place?’

‘I’m not the one you want to fight,’ was all he said in response. It had been months, and by now, he knew all there was to know about you in the learning environment. He knew how to push your buttons, fire you up and hose you back down. He could tell what you were thinking and it was infuriating that you could not figure out the same about him.

But, suppose that’s what made him the teacher and you the student.

‘Sorry,’ you sighed, letting yourself fall onto the ground, pulling your knees up to your chin. ‘It’s just so frustrating. We’ve been here for months and—’

‘And we’ll stay here for months more if that’s what you need to improve yourself.’ He squatted beside you. ‘You got this. No need to give up now. Or else my time here’s really been a waste, and I don’t take to that too kindly.’ He gave you that smile that once had only been reserved for quick passes in the hallway but now had become the favourite part of your nearly daily training sessions.

‘Sorry,’ you laughed. 

‘Don’t be.’ He got up, extending his hand as leverage as you got back onto your feet as well. ‘Think you got one more in you for today?’

the end.

thank you for reading 💗

if you enjoyed the fic, please consider reblogging and leaving a comment. or send a message via my inbox. requests are also more than welcome. 💗

[its-luna-noel]

roleplay | gojo x reader

“Is there something I can help you with?” he asks, his voice low and sweet. You raise an eyebrow teasingly. “Can I help you? ” You lean toward him, off the desk. Drop your voice a little. “Sensei.”

warnings: 18+, MDNI, f!reader, smut, roleplay, teacher/student roleplay, the skirt stays on, very brief foot action but i promise it's short

word count: 1.0k

part 3/31 prev. chapter | next chapter

masterlist | link to ao3

notes: hope you enjoy!

You’re sitting on his desk, swinging your legs back and forth as you watch Satoru lean back in his office chair. He tilts his head slightly, bright eyes slowly burning a trail along your entire body, his signature blindfold propped up on his forehead. He’s dressed in his faculty uniform, and you’re dressed in a little schoolgirl skirt that you know is driving him crazy.

“Is there something I can help you with?” he asks, his voice low and sweet.

You raise an eyebrow teasingly. “Can I help you? ” You lean toward him, off the desk. Drop your voice a little. “Sensei.”

A slow, sensual grin graces his handsome face. He leans further back in his chair, spreading his thighs and putting himself on display for you. “Sensei, huh?”

“Yeah. It looks like you really need help with something.”

“And what’s that?”

In response, you rest one leg on his lap, letting his eyes take in the thigh-high stockings you’re wearing. His eyes trail from your foot, which rests on his thigh, up your leg, following like the North Star until his eyes reach their destination.

His breath catches in his throat. With your leg lifted like this, he can see the dark lace of your panties beneath your skirt.

You smile a little and slowly move your foot, sliding up his leg until your toes just barely brush the straining tent in his pants.

Before you can even put pressure, before you can stroke and tease, he’s out of his chair.

He takes the leg that was on his lap and wraps it around his hips, stepping forward and pressing into you so that you can feel his arousal through your underwear. Your breath stutters, and Satoru just leans down, his face so close his nose nearly brushes yours.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “I could use some help.”

You gaze up at him, pupils blown wide as you take in his proximity. You can feel your body heating up in response to his touch, to the way his hand slides up your stockings and gently grips the plush flesh of your thighs.

Very softly, you moan. “Oh, Sa– sensei.”

He leans in further, his lips ghosting over the skin of your jaw until they brush against your ear. “Tell your sensei what you’re willing to do for him, babygirl.”

Your chest heaves as you pant. “Anything.”

“Anything?” He grips you a little harder. “That’s a dangerous offer, sweetheart. You sure you mean that?”

You just nod, and then his free hand tangles in your hair, and he’s kissing you.

His mouth is dominant, commanding, totalitarian. He leaves no room for hesitancy; he needs you now, and he’s going to take what he wants.

And so his hands grip your hips, and he spins you around until you’re bent over his desk, ass in the air, covered in that pretty black lace he loves so much.

With one hand, he lifts your skirt over your hips, holding it up against the small of your back. With the other, he yanks your panties down around your knees.

One of his feet kicks yours aside, forcing you to spread your legs further for him. The hand holding up your skirt presses down on your back, pushing you flat against his desk. You can hear his own clothes rustling as he pulls his cock out of his pants.

The tip is swollen and leaking precum, and he strokes himself once, twice, before lining himself up with your weeping cunt. He pushes aside your wet folds with the pretty pink head of his dick, grinning as you gasp.

He leans over your back, lips coming up to your ear. “Better be ready, babygirl,” he murmurs.

Then he shoves himself inside, groaning and dropping his head against your shoulder blade as you take him so perfectly. “God, babygirl,” he grunts, pushing forward with shallow thrusts until he’s buried to the hilt inside you. “You feel so fucking good. So tight, and wet, and fucking warm….”

You whimper at his words, eyes rolling back as the tip of his cock kisses a spot inside you that has your knees knocking against each other with pleasure. He sees your reaction and drives into that spot over and over again, taking you higher and higher until you’re seeing stars.

“S-s-sensei,” you gasp, breath trembling from between your lips as you take him.

He groans at the title and grabs your hips, fucking into you with new fervor. “Yeah, baby? You like that? You like when your sensei fucks you senseless?”

You nod, lips parted as you gasp and moan. You can feel a wave of heat coming, a coil tightening inside of you almost to a breaking point, and the pleasure just continues to climb until you just can’t fight it anymore–

“That’s it, pretty girl. Cum for your sensei.”

Your hips buck back against his, burning walls squeezing down around his cock as you cum with a flood, arousal and slick collecting in a frothing ring at the base of his dick as he fucks you through it.

He feels you tightening around him, and it drives him ever closer. He tries to hold on, gripping your skirt in his fist as he rails into you from behind, but the way you buck against him causes him to slide even deeper inside your perfect fucking pussy, and he can’t take it anymore. He feels his balls tighten and clench, and his hips stutter as he cums into your dripping cunt, painting your walls with white.

You both stay there for a moment, panting and trying to catch your breath. Satoru fixes your skirt, hands gentle despite the force with which he’d just taken you.

Finally, when you no longer feel like you’re going to collapse if you stand, you push yourself up from the desk. You look down at the scattered papers beneath you. “I’m pretty sure I just drooled on somebody’s assignment.”

Satoru just throws his head back and laughs.

thanks for reading! -luna xx link to ao3 | next