#who don’t take care of their land at all

[himasgod]

Can I request the Twst first years with an S/O who wears glasses? And one day while they're out her glasses fall and break so she asks the guy to be her "seeing-eye boyfriend" until she can get her replacement pair?

FIRST YEARS X READER

Where your glasses break

How would first years react if your glasses broke and you asked them to be your "seeing-eye boyfriend"?

The fall was almost cinematic—one second you're both walking through the courtyard with milkshakes in hand, and the next, your glasses clatter to the stone path with a crisp snap that silences your breath.

Ace blinks down at the broken frames.

“...Well. That sucks.”

Very helpful commentary.

You groan, squinting at the blurry world around you. Everything’s turned into a watercolor painting, pretty, but useless. You reach for your bag, already fumbling for a cleaning cloth or something that might do the impossible and fix them.

Ace crouches down beside you, holding up the broken arm of your glasses like a forensic detective.

“Yeah, no saving these. They're totally toast,” he says and grins.

“Guess you’re stuck with me now.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Your seeing-eye boyfriend. Come on,” he says, puffing his chest.

“I volunteer as tribute.”

“You? You’d lead me into Crowley's office just for fun.”

“Bold of you to assume I’d wait for an excuse,” he shoots back, clearly enjoying this way too much. Still, he steps in beside you, grabbing your hand with more confidence than usual.

“Don’t worry, babe. I’ll be your noble guide through the treacherous lands of blurry hallways and evil staircases.”

Honestly? It’s kind of adorable.

Except…

“Ace,” you hiss as you walk face-first into a hedge, “that was definitely a bush.”

“Oh, oops.” He stifles a laugh. “My bad. I was looking at a crow that looked kinda like Riddle.”

You smack his arm, and he catches your hand before you can escape.

“Okay, okay, for real this time. I swear I’ll guide you”

And he does. Sort of.

Ace’s version of “guiding” includes narrating everything in dramatic tones (“A wild vending machine appears!”), making traffic beeping noises at crosswalks, and waving off student with

“Move aside! VIP coming through.”

But in between the jokes, he’s surprisingly attentive. He warns you about uneven pavement. He helps you down stairs. He gently turns you in the right direction when you start to wander. And when someone asks why he’s being so clingy, he just says:

“Can’t help it. Gotta take care of my favorite person, right?”

When your new glasses finally arrive a few days later, Ace squints at you dramatically.

“Huh. You were even cuter when you were blurry. Guess I’ll just have to date you all over again in HD.”

The moment your glasses fall, Deuce gasps like he just witnessed a crime. You tripped over a rock and fell to the ground. He scrambles to pick them up before you can even get up.

“Are you okay?! Did you hit your head? Oh no—your glasses…”

One look at the snapped arm, and he looks genuinely distressed.

“I can’t believe I didn’t catch you! If only I’d moved faster—”

“Deuce, it’s okay,” you laugh softly, reaching out to pat his shoulder.

“They’re just glasses. I’ve got a backup pair somewhere, I just need to find them later.”

“But you can’t see without them, right?” He holds the broken pair like he’s holding a wounded bird.

“Then—I’ll help. I mean, I’ll… um. Be your… your seeing-eye… boyfriend?”

The way he says it makes you smile.

“…Yeah,” you reply, slipping your hand into his. “That’d help a lot, actually.”

Deuce turns red immediately. His grip on your hand tightens just a little.

Walking with Deuce as your guide is like navigating with an overenthusiastic, overprotective golden retriever. He’s very serious about the job. He announces every step, every turn, every uneven stone like he's defusing a bomb.

“There’s a crack in the pavement coming up. And uh—three steps down. Careful. Okay, good. We’re clear.”

Sometimes you have to stop and remind him not to overthink it.

“You don’t need to call out every single pebble,” you tease.

“I just don’t want you to trip!” he insists, puffing up. “What if you fall and break something? What if I let go and you bump into a wall? What if—”

You gently squeeze his hand. “Deuce. I trust you.”

That short-circuits him for a few seconds.

“…I won’t let you down,” he says, a little softer. “I’ve got you.”

And he does.

He slows his pace to match yours. Offers his arm like a perfect gentleman. Even tries to describe the world around you so you don’t miss out.

“There’s this really pretty bird in the tree ahead—it’s blue and has this weird feather that sticks up—kinda looks like it has a cowlick…”

When you finally get your backup pair of glasses a few days later and slide them on, Deuce stares at you with wide eyes.

“You’re amazing no matter what, but seeing your eyes properly again is…” He stops himself, going bright red.

“I-I mean—you look beautiful. Always. I’m just glad I could help.”

You smile, reaching for his hand again.

“You were the best seeing-eye boyfriend I could’ve asked for.”

He beams. “Anytime.”

The second your glasses hit the ground, Jack’s ears twitch. He doesn’t even hesitate—just crouches and scoops them up, holding the broken frames in his hand like they might somehow fix themselves if he stares hard enough.

“You okay?” he asks, already checking you over for injuries like a concerned older brother. “Did they cut you or anything?”

You shake your head, though your squint makes Jack frown.

“Can’t see much now, though,” you admit, trying to hold the glasses up to judge if they’re wearable.

They’re not. One arm’s completely snapped off and the lens is scratched.

Jack stands straight, folding his arms.

“Alright. Then I’ll walk you back to Ramshackle. Or wherever else you need to go.”

You tilt your head. “You sure?”

"Of course. I can’t just leave you wandering around blind. That’d be irresponsible.”

“Then… can you be my seeing-eye boyfriend for a few days?”

His tail stops wagging. You can almost hear the reboot noise in his brain.

“I—uh. That’s… yeah. I can do that.”

True to form, Jack is efficient, steady, and very aware of his job. He walks at your pace, always slightly in front or to the side so you have an anchor. He doesn’t talk too much—just enough to say things like “step here,” “slippery patch coming up,” or “handrail’s on your left.”

At one point, you trip slightly on a slope and instinctively reach for him—and Jack immediately grabs your hand, pulling you against his side.

“You good?”

“…Yeah,” you mumble, flushed from the sudden proximity.

Jack doesn’t let go. In fact, he holds your hand the rest of the way. Quietly. Warmly. His fingers are a little calloused, but they’re gentle.

When you get your replacement glasses, Jack glances at you with this subtle but very "Jack" kind of softness.

“Glad you got them back. But… if they break again, I wouldn’t mind helping you. Just so you know.”

He turns his head to the side quickly.

“…It’s not a big deal or anything.”

But his tail is wagging again.

The crack of your glasses hitting the ground is followed by Epel’s immediate gasp of, “Whoa—shoot! You okay?!”

He’s already dropped his bag to inspect the damage like a concerned old farmhand looking over a busted tractor.

“Ahh, the frame’s toast,” he mutters. “This sucks, sugar…”

You blink through the blur. “Everything’s fuzzy.”

“You want me to… walk you back or something?”

“Actually, you’re my seeing-eye boyfriend now,” you say, holding out your hand like you expect it.

He stares at you, face going pink so fast it looks like he was just slapped by the wind.

“Y-you can’t just say stuff like that without warning!!” he sputters, but then his hand grabs yours with no hesitation.

“I mean—fine! I can do that. No big deal.”

Epel is really trying to act cool about it, but his grip is just a little tight, and his ears are red for the first ten minutes of walking.

Unlike the others, he talks a lot. But it’s cute.

“Okay, sidewalk dips here. Careful. And—hold on, lemme go first and check if this puddle’s too deep. You ever step in one’a those and get water all in your boots? It’s the worst.”

He occasionally grumbles at people for walking too close to you.

“Watch it, pal. She can’t see, alright?”

At one point, you misstep and bump your shoulder into a wall, and Epel whips around like he’s about to punch the brick.

“I should’ve warned you! Dangit—sorry, sugarplum. Here, lean on me more, I’ll walk closer.”

He does, too. He even lets you rest your hand on his arm like some kind of prince.

When your new glasses arrive and you slide them on, Epel tilts his head.

“…Yeah. Still just as pretty.”

He pretends he didn’t say that.

You don’t let him pretend.

Your glasses hit the ground. The arm snaps. The lens pops out. You sigh.

Sebek screams.

“DISASTER! UTTERLY UNACCEPTABLE! HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN—?!”

You cover his mouth.

“Sebek. Please. Breathe.”

When he finally calms down enough to form words that aren’t shouting, he immediately drops to one knee to inspect the glasses like they’re some ancient relic from Briar Valley.

“This is a serious matter,” he huffs, standing tall again.

“You cannot possibly navigate this campus with impaired vision. What if you trip? What if you run into an obstacle? What if—heaven forbid—you encounter a DISGRACEFUL STUDENF who knocks into you?!”

You blink at him. “So… wanna be my seeing-eye boyfriend?”

He short-circuits for a full five seconds. You could hear the error tone.

“SEEING—BOY—WHAT? I—!” His face is rapidly changing colors, caught between panic, pride...

“W-well! If you insist! Of course it would be my DUTY to assist you!”

And assist he does.

Sebek walks exactly half a step in front of you at all times, loudly narrating your surroundings like a royal town crier.

“WE ARE APPROACHING A SET OF STAIRS. I REPEAT—A STAIRCASE. DESCENT REQUIRED.”

You try not to laugh. “Sebek, I’m right here.”

“I AM MERELY ENSURING MAXIMUM AWARENESS!”

Honestly? For all his dramatics, he’s weirdly good at this.

He even swats someone’s backpack out of your way at one point and scolds them for “failing to consider the visually disadvantaged.”

You almost feel bad when your new glasses arrive and you don them again.

Sebek blinks. “…Ah. You can see again.”

“Yep! Thanks for helping me so much.”

He nods stiffly, trying to hide how flustered he is.

“It was nothing. Merely what any exceptional man would do in such a situation!”

You step closer and kiss his cheek.

He explodes.

[rosierin]

in your court | atsumu miya

synopsis; he serves like a show-off, scores like it’s nothing, and winks like he knows exactly what he’s doing to her. (y/n) claps. rolls her eyes. maybe blushes a little. it’s all fun and games until she catches herself heading toward the locker hallway after the final whistle.

this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

It was rare—ridiculously rare—for all four of them to have a day off at the same time. Between university, shifts, internships, and whatever mysterious hours Suna kept, syncing up schedules was like trying to catch lightning in a bottle. But somehow, today lined up.

Atsumu’s match just so happened to land on it.

(Y/n) walked into the arena sandwiched between Osamu and Suna, the buzz of pre-game energy already humming in the air. The place smelled like polished floors and concession stand popcorn, like cold air and adrenaline. Music thumped faintly overhead. Fans were filing into the stands, voices rising like a tide.

“Does he know we're here yet?” Suna asked, adjusting his hoodie as they climbed the stairs.

Osamu lazily checked his phone, thumb flicking over the screen. “Mm, don't think so.” He shrugged, then glanced down at (y/n), a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “’M sure he’ll come runnin’ once he sees (y/n), though.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, brushing off the comment like it was second nature. Her eyes drifted around the arena, taking in the colourful banners and glittery signs lining the stands.

“We should’ve made one of those,” she said, tugging Osamu’s sleeve and nodding toward a group of fans waving a hand-painted poster with the players’ names in bold letters.

“Should’ve brought earplugs,” Suna muttered, eyeing the already-hyped Bokuto warming up near the net.

They settled in. The seats were decent—close enough to see expressions, far enough that they wouldn’t get hit by stray balls.

(Y/n)'s eyes scanned the court, skimming over the blur of black-and-gold jerseys until—

There.

Atsumu was standing near the baseline, bickering with Sakusa, if his flailing arms and exaggerated expressions were anything to go by. Sakusa, in turn, looked like his patience was hanging on by a mere thread, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and pointer finger.

(Y/n)’s lips twitched.

Atsumu turned his head mid-rant—and spotted her.

The change was instant. His whole face lit up, smile blooming like a sunrise. He raised a hand in a lazy wave, then, without hesitation, jogged toward the stands.

“See, what’d I say?” Osamu said, chuckling as (y/n) shot him a look.

“He’s like a puppy,” Suna drawled, glancing up as he jerked his head in greeting.

Atsumu reached the railing, still slightly breathless, but grinning like he’d just won the lottery. “Look who actually showed up,” he teased, gaze locking onto (y/n) like she was the only one there. “Didn’t think ya cared.”

“Mm, I don’t,” she said smoothly, smirking. “Osamu bribed me.”

“Damn. Was it food or money?”

“Both.”

He laughed. “Figures.” Then, tipping his head just slightly, voice dipping low: “Glad yer here, though.”

(Y/n) opened her mouth—whether to respond or deflect, she wasn’t sure—but a sharp whistle cut through the air, followed by the coach’s voice barking for players to regroup.

Atsumu clicked his tongue. “Duty calls.”

He took a few steps back, eyes still on her, a smug grin tugging at his mouth.

“Don’t blink,” he said, jogging backward a few paces. “I’m ’boutta put on a show.”

Then he spun on his heel and jogged toward the baseline, straight to the service line—shoulders loose, steps confident. He bounced the ball once, then caught it with one hand, rolling it lazily along his fingertips like he had all the time in the world.

The buzzer sounded.

The crowd swelled with cheers as the match officially kicked off, voices bouncing off the high ceilings, energy crackling in the air like static.

Atsumu stepped up to the baseline, spinning the ball in one hand as he sized up the court. The noise in the arena surged—clapping, chanting, shouting.

Then he raised his fist.

The crowd fell silent.

It was almost eerie, how quickly the volume dropped. The tension stretched, taut and electric, like the entire arena had drawn in a collective breath and was holding it in.

Osamu snorted beside her, leaning in just enough for (y/n) to hear. “Can’t believe he still does that.”

“Such a diva,” Suna added, arms crossed as he watched from beneath his hood.

(Y/n) stifled a laugh, biting the inside of her cheek. They weren’t wrong—he was dramatic, theatrical, always had been. But still… there was something kind of cool about it. The way he held the moment, owned the silence like it answered to him.

Not that she’d ever say that out loud.

Atsumu’s hand rose. His toss was clean, high.

And then he jumped.

His form was sharp, powerful. The moment his palm met the ball, it echoed—crack—cutting through the quiet like lightning.

The serve ripped over the net, too fast to track, slamming untouched into the far corner.

Ace.

The crowd erupted. Bokuto yelled something unintelligible and slapped Atsumu’s back with enough force to make him stumble. Atsumu turned, grinning, and pumped his fist with satisfaction.

Then, like clockwork, he looked toward the stands.

Found her instantly.

And with a face full of smug, he waggled his eyebrows.

(Y/n) huffed a laugh despite herself, clapping just for him. Idiot.

He went back to the line.

The next serve was just as clean—fierce and fast, skimming inches above the net. The game settled into rhythm, and with each rally, the heat in the room seemed to rise. (Y/n) watched, breath caught somewhere in her chest, as the match unfolded like choreography—fluid, fast, ferocious.

Bokuto was impossible to ignore, all wild limbs and explosive energy, hitting like the world might end if the ball touched the floor. Every spike was a declaration. Every yell a battle cry.

Hinata moved like lightning—impossibly fast, defying logic with his jumps, reacting before the ball even touched down. His sheer unpredictability made him a weapon and a blur all at once.

Sakusa played with cold precision. Every move was clean, efficient. He was deliberate in a way that felt lethal—like he saw the game two steps ahead of everyone else.

And then there was Atsumu.

He was everywhere and nowhere all at once—darting across the court with surgical control, setting from impossible positions, eyes always scanning. His sets were pure instinct, tailored to each hitter like he could read their minds. Not just quick, but clever. Every toss seemed to hang in the air for half a second longer than it should have, pulling blockers out of position before snapping into place—clean, perfect, untouchable.

He called plays with a sharp eye and an even sharper tongue, pushing his teammates but trusting them, too. He grinned through the chaos, jaw tight with focus, soaked in sweat and still somehow cocky as ever. Not just good—magnetic.

(Y/n) watched him in silence, heart thudding in her chest.

It was easy to forget, sometimes, how serious he could be. How brilliant. How sharp his game sense really was beneath all that bravado. She always knew he was talented—but watching him own the court like this? Watching him burn with that kind of passion?

It made something stir in her chest. Something proud. Something that felt a lot like adrenaline.

Atsumu glanced toward the stands again, tongue peeking out between his teeth as he adjusted his knee pads. He didn’t smile this time, didn’t wink.

But his eyes found her.

And for a split second, even from across the court, she could feel the charge between them like a current.

“God,” she breathed, the word slipping out before she could catch it. “He’s good, isn’t he?”

Suna hummed low in his throat, nodding once—slow and sure. Recognition from a fellow pro. No teasing. Just fact.

Osamu, on the other hand, puffed out his chest like he was the one being praised.

“Darn right,” he said, pride practically radiating off him as he leaned back in his seat. “All that hard work’s payin’ off.”

The spell broke when the ball was served again, but the charge lingered.

Even as the game carried on—sweat flying, feet thudding against the court—she kept catching herself watching him.

Watching the way he moved.

The way he played.

The way he made her feel.

Rallies stretched longer. The score climbed higher. Every point brought more noise, more pressure, more heart. There were impossible saves, stunning spikes, and moments so fast the crowd couldn’t even gasp before the ball hit the floor.

The Jackals fought hard. So did the opposing team. But in the end, it was the fire in their eyes that made the difference—the burn behind every leap, every block, every set.

And Atsumu—Atsumu was at the centre of it all.

And when the final whistle blew and the crowd rose to their feet, (y/n) stayed still for a moment, heart still racing.

Around her, the arena surged with cheers, players exchanging high fives and half-hugs at the net. Bokuto was already bouncing on his toes, dragging Hinata into a sweaty headlock. Sakusa gave a stiff nod of approval. Atsumu was all grins and flushed cheeks, soaking in the aftermath like it was his own private spotlight.

(Y/n) stood with the boys, clapping along, the adrenaline still buzzing in her fingertips. Around them, the crowd was spilling toward the aisles, voices raised in celebration, bodies pressing forward in every direction.

But her eyes were still on the court.

Or… where the court had been.

Players were dispersing, coaches shaking hands, the arena losing its shape in the blur of people moving. She caught sight of Bokuto waving to someone in the crowd, Hinata bouncing on his heels. Sakusa had already disappeared.

And then—just for a second—she saw Atsumu’s back, his jersey clinging to sweat, a towel slung over one shoulder as he disappeared into the tunnel.

Her breath caught.

Osamu caught it instantly.

“He’ll be headin’ toward the changin’ room,” he said casually, jerking his chin toward the back corridor. A knowing glint sparked in his eye. “That way.”

“I’m just going to—” she started, waving vaguely, but the heat in her cheeks betrayed her.

Suna smirked, tugging at the drawstring of his hoodie. “Gonna go congratulate him properly?”

Osamu snorted. “Tell ’im to keep it down if ya end up makin’ out in the lockers.”

(Y/n) huffed, flustered. “You two are gross.”

But she didn’t argue more than that.

And before either of them could say another word, she was already weaving through the crowd—shoulders squared, face warm, heart hammering.

Toward the hallway.

Toward him.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The hallway outside the Jackals’ changing room still pulsed with post-game energy. Cheers echoed faintly through the concrete walls, teammates’ laughter spilled out of open doors, and the lingering scent of gym floor polish and sweat hung in the air. The kind of buzz that felt electric and heavy all at once—like the match was still happening, somewhere just beyond reach.

(Y/n) stood near the corner, rocking on the balls of her feet, trying to look casual. Like she hadn’t been waiting there for the past ten minutes. Like her pulse wasn’t ticking just a little too fast.

She hadn’t seen him yet.

But when Atsumu rounded the corner, it was impossible to miss him.

Water bottle in hand, hair damp and tousled, skin flushed from exertion, he looked like the personification of adrenaline. Loose-limbed and glowing with victory. His grin broke wide the second his eyes landed on her, something fond and wicked lighting up his whole face.

“Well, well,” he drawled, smug and sun-warm, “If it ain’t my favourite supporter.”

She arched a brow, arms folding across her chest as the corner of her mouth twitched. “If it ain’t Japan’s number one setter.”

“You got that right, baby.” His voice was cocky, but his eyes gleamed when he said it.

As he slowed beside her, still radiating energy like static off his skin, (y/n) reached out and gave a firm slap to his chest—just over his heart, where the jersey clung.

“Good job out there,” she said, grinning. “You killed it.”

He actually curled in on himself a little, shoulders hiking up at the impact, a laugh bubbling out of him—light and almost boyish, like she’d caught him off guard.

“Thanks, angel. Ya flatter me.”

For half a second, his expression softened, something warm flickering behind the grin. Then it shifted, teasing again.

“What’re ya doin’ all the way out here anyway?” he asked, a smirk tugging at his mouth. His voice dipped a little lower, his eyes half-lidded, glinting with mischief. “You come to give me a victory kiss?”

(Y/n) snorted, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

Tilting her chin, she gestured behind him.

He turned, and sure enough—a cluster of fangirls stood at the far end of the hallway. One held a glittery homemade sign with “MIYA ♡” scrawled across it in big, bubble letters. Another clutched a volleyball and a phone like her life depended on both. All of them were watching, eyes wide and hopeful.

The moment Atsumu lifted his hand in greeting, a wave of squeals rippled down the corridor.

(Y/n) gave him an amused look. “You not gonna go entertain your fans?”

Atsumu turned back to her with a smirk that could melt gold. “Why, when my number one fan is standin’ right here?”

That one landed a little lower in her stomach than she cared to admit.

She cleared her throat, eyes flicking down, then back up to his face. “Anyway, you played really well. That last set was…” Her fingers fluttered in the air, vague but meaningful. “…kind of electric.”

His smile widened into something bright and boyish. “Kind of? Just kind of?”

A snort. “Don’t get cocky.”

He tilted his head, something playful dancing in his gaze. “Can’t help it when I’ve got you watchin’ from the stands. Makes a guy wanna show off.”

“Oh, so am I the reason you didn’t botch your serves today?”

He stepped a little closer, enough that she could feel the heat still rolling off his skin, the warmth of him brushing the space between them.

“Mm. Somethin’ like that.” His voice dropped low, almost coaxing. “Admit it. You liked watchin’ me out there." He cocked an eyebrow, almost like a challenge. "I think yer just too proud to admit it."

(Y/n)’s arms folded tighter, not as a shield—but as something to do with her hands. She shifted her weight onto one leg, her stance relaxed but purposeful. Then she tilted her chin up, looking at him through her lashes, a grin curling slow and smug across her lips.

“I think that you’re a shameless flirt, Miya.”

It sounded like a reprimand.

It felt like a dare.

He laughed, soft and low, like he was savouring her words. His gaze flicked over her face, and something about the way she was smiling now—bold, open, playful—made his chest feel tight in a way he’d never admit out loud.

“And I think you like it.”

The space between them shrank by inches. His hand lifted, slow and careful, and he brushed his fingers beneath her chin, tilting her face toward his. Her skin tingled where he touched. She didn’t step away.

Their eyes locked.

The world fell quiet.

She wasn’t smiling now—just watching him, gaze steady, challenging. But her breathing had changed. Her shoulders had stilled. Her lips parted just enough.

“Say it,” he murmured.

(Y/n) didn’t move. She didn’t speak. But she didn’t look away, either.

She could just almost feel his breath against her lips…

Her eyes fluttered shut.

Atsumu’s followed suit.

A throat cleared.

Sharp. Disapproving.

They both flinched like teenagers caught in the act.

Sakusa stood a few feet away, arms crossed, unimpressed.

Atsumu stepped back, hands raised like he was surrendering, that same shit-eating grin still playing at his mouth.

“Easy now. We were just talkin’.”

(Y/n) turned away slightly, fixing her hair like it mattered, cheeks burning.

“You’ve got no shame.”

“Never claimed I did,” Atsumu called over his shoulder as he casually re-joined Sakusa, still wearing that infuriatingly satisfied look.

Before she could collect herself, a familiar voice boomed behind her.

“HEYYYYY!!!”

An arm slung itself across her shoulders with all the weight of unfiltered excitement. Bokuto beamed down at her, hair still damp, jersey clinging to his broad frame. He smelled like men’s deodorant and sweat—like a boys’ locker room in a strangely comforting way.

“I’m so glad you came! It’s been forever, right?” he said, already squeezing her into a one-armed hug. “Did you see that spike?! It was insane, right??” He leaned back, eyes wide with anticipation. “Tell me it was insane—Hinata, you know the one!”

“Set two!” Hinata chimed in, popping up at Bokuto’s other side with a wide grin. “No—wait—set three! Whatever, it was INSANE!”

And just like that, she was swallowed by chaos. Caught between Bokuto’s enthusiastic replays and Hinata’s sound effects, swept away in a whirlwind of animated retellings, wild gestures, and overlapping voices that buzzed in her ears.

She smiled. Laughed, even. But even as she nodded along, her eyes drifted—

Atsumu was walking down the hallway with Sakusa, a towel slung over one shoulder, head ducked in casual conversation. But just before he turned the corner, he looked back.

Their eyes met across the noise.

His gaze dipped—slow, deliberate—giving her a once over before flicking back to her eyes. His lips curled into a smirk… then he winked.

(Y/n) exhaled sharply through her nose—more scoff than sigh—and shook her head, fighting a smile.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered.

But her heart didn’t quite agree.

[covenofagatha]

The psychology of love (Part 13)

The Punishment

You go to Agatha's office to see what she wants after your night of drunk-texting her

Word count: 6.3k

Warnings: spanking, masturbation, praise kink, slight degradation

What does she want? 

The possibilities seem endless: she wants to make sure you’re okay, she wants to yell at you for getting drunk, she wants to make sure you’re ready for the test, she wants to yell at you for never responding. 

All of them sound just as plausible for Agatha. 

So much for staying in bed the entire day. 

You groan quietly before sitting up. You have about three hours before your first class but not much time after it before your next one, and you don’t want to keep Agatha waiting until the evening, so best to just go now. 

There’s no telling how long you’ll be there for and maybe you can pull the excuse that you don’t want to come all the way back to your dorm after your meeting so she’ll let you stay with her. 

So you push yourself out of bed, your feet landing softly on the floor and you trudge to your closet to figure out what to wear. You still have your outfit from the bar last night on and the smell of alcohol still on your breath, so clearly after you got home, you got into bed and promptly passed out. 

An idea sparks in your head. If she is mad at you, maybe you can minimize that. You dig through your clothes to find a white top that shows just a sliver of your stomach and the black skirt you sent her a picture of the day of the mixer, the one she told you to save for another time. 

This seems as good of a time as any. 

And just in case, you find a lacy red bra and matching underwear. You feel slightly foolish for dressing up, especially if she’s going to get mad at you, but you’d rather be prepared in case things do take a turn. 

You grab your shower stuff too on the way to the bathroom. 

The warm water rinses away any trace of last night and you feel like a new person. You just stand there for a couple of minutes, letting the droplets run down your bare skin, processing everything. 

It’s not even three weeks into the semester and you’re entangled with a professor. She could get in serious trouble if anyone found out, she could be fired and have a hard time getting hired anywhere else, and she might lose credibility in the psychology field. 

And yet she thinks you’re worth it. 

That pressure, that assumption, weighs heavy on you and you don’t take it lightly. Last night, you got too close to accidentally spilling something potentially damning to Nat and Wanda. 

You need to be careful, especially when drunk. You can’t let Agatha down. 

Agatha, who you told last night that you masterbated with her perfume bottle because you’ve conditioned yourself to get turned on to the smell of her. 

You drop your head into your hands. You really need to just stop talking while you’re drunk. It doesn’t bode well for you. 

The shower starts to turn cold so you quickly wash yourself and then turn it off. You dry off and then go stand in front of the mirror to get dressed. 

The bra and underwear look good on you, the red a striking color against your skin, and they hug your breasts and ass in all the right ways. A part of you yearns for Agatha to get to see and you debate sending her a picture. 

But you might be in trouble with her, so you don’t think that would be appropriate. Although…that could be a good way to distract her. 

She already thinks you’re bratty enough, you scold yourself. Logic wins out in the end and you pull your shirt over your head and then slide the skirt up your legs. You pull the skirt up just a bit higher than you normally would so if you bend over, Agatha will be able to see your underwear clearly, because you can’t fully resist the urge to tease.

You brush your teeth and then comb your hair with your fingers and inhale and exhale slowly. Everything’s going to be fine.

A guy passes you in the hallway back to your dorm and looks you up and down but you keep your eyes trained on the floor. You open and close the door to your room quietly because Nat and Wanda are still sleeping. You think at least one of them has class relatively soon, but they look so peaceful that you don’t want to disturb them.

After you set your shower caddy down in your closet, you walk over to your nightstand and grab your phone. No extra notifications. You toss it on the bed and then shove the vial of Black Opium into your drawer before pulling the high heeled bottle of Good Girl. 

You spritz it over yourself and the smell of almonds, flowers, and cocoa fills the air. Maybe Agatha will get conditioned to it the same way you’ve gotten conditioned to Black Opium. 

The thought makes your clit throb. Both of you, conditioned to each other? Fuck. That’s a psychology experiment in itself. 

Just in case you don’t get to come back to your room, you throw your laptop and notebooks for your test tomorrow into your tote bag, slide your feet into your shoes and actually tie them, and shove your keys into the side pocket. 

“Something smells good, what is that?” Wanda asks, stirring in bed. You turn from the door, where your hand is resting on the handle. Her eyes flutter open to crane her neck up at you. 

My professor gave it to me and it’s called Good Girl. 

“Just a new perfume,” you say hastily. “Got to go, I’ll see you later.” 

She murmurs something but you don’t catch it because you’re already closing the door behind you. 

There’s other people leaving their rooms at the same time as you and the difference in where they’re going versus you—them to class, you to see the professor that you have something with—heats your cheeks up. 

You’re determined to go straight to her office, but your stomach grumbles and reminds you that you haven’t eaten a real meal since yesterday afternoon, so you swing by the dining hall to grab a bagel. 

The remnants of the hangover ebb away while you eat the bread and you start the trek over to the psychology building. As always, your heart rate grows faster and the pit in your stomach deepens. 

It’s the not knowing that’s the worst part. There was no way to tell what she wanted from her text, so you’re walking in with absolutely no clue of what she’s feeling. 

It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay. You repeat the mantra each time your foot hits the ground. She isn’t mad. And if she is, nothing will come from it. She might scold you a little but you think that’s the worst you’ll get. You just need to own up and explain what happened and hope she understands that you are just a college student and hanging out with friends is part of that life. 

It’s not like you haven’t been studying. 

You stop right outside her office, your eyes tracing over the Dr. Agatha Harkness on the sign next to the door. You take a deep breath in, hold it, and then slowly let it go. You fidget with your skirt, tugging it down just a little, and fix your hair. 

It’s okay. 

Reaching out your hand, you knock on the solid door. There’s no window so you can’t see in, and you have no idea what awaits you on the other side. 

“Come in,” Agatha calls, and you turn the handle. 

She stands up when you enter and your heart rate skyrockets. She’s wearing a baby blue button-down shirt tucked into loose khaki pants, held up by a black belt. Heels peak beneath them. Her hair falls down her shoulders again and she’s wearing a pair of round, black glasses. 

Fuck. 

If she notices the trance you’re in, she doesn’t say anything, but her lips are quirked up knowingly. She starts to walk toward you and you’re under the impression that she’s either going to kiss you or slap you. 

But she doesn’t do either—Agatha side-steps you and clicks the lock on the door handle. Her perfume seems even stronger today and you wonder if she did that on purpose. 

Your breath catches. 

No one can get in now. She wouldn’t have done that unless she’s going to do something. 

Is she going to finally fuck you here? If you knew all it would’ve taken was to admit that you masturbated with her perfume bottle, you would’ve done that ages ago. You’re almost mad that you didn’t admit it until now. 

Agatha circles around you while you stand rooted on the spot. You’re not sure if she wants you to move or say something but you don’t want to do the wrong thing. 

“How was your night?” she asks innocently, stopping right in front of you. Her gaze tears right through you, like she’s peering into your soul. 

“Oh, you know,” you chuckle nervously and Agatha arches an eyebrow. “Not too bad. Um, how was your night?” 

It’s a loaded question, one meant to gauge how she’s feeling about everything you said last night. You still can’t piece together what’s about to happen. 

Agatha smiles, bares her teeth, and the resemblance to a predator about to bite its prey is uncanny. “It was…insightful.” 

“Oh?” you rasp, heat suddenly eating you up. 

She takes a step back and drags her dark eyes up and down your body. You feel exposed, but in a good way. “I like the skirt,” she says, her voice low. She remembers it. “Did you wear it to get me in a good mood?” 

It takes you a moment to recall how to speak. “Is it working?” 

Agatha hums and does another circle around you, trailing her fingers over your arm, lower back, other arm, and then finally onto your stomach when she pauses in front of you again. Your breath catches and your muscles tense. 

And then her hand moves down until her fingertips rest right at the hem of your skirt, just under your belly button. 

You can’t breathe and you’re afraid to break eye contact. 

She leans in slowly and you instinctively tilt your chin up so she can kiss you, but she turns her head away and down at the last second, bending over to lick a hot stripe up the column of your throat. It’s right over the hickey she gave you this weekend, the one that has unfortunately all but faded completely, and you hope she’s going to give you another one. 

“I have one question,” she murmurs, a hot breath against your neck, and you repress a shiver. 

“Yeah?” 

Agatha nips at your jawline before pulling away and you gasp. Her hand falls from your waistline and you miss the warmth. 

She walks back to her desk and you follow without even knowing what you’re doing, letting your bag drop off your shoulder and to the floor. Agatha bends over the side of it to grab her phone from the other side and your eyes are drawn to her ass. 

But then she turns back around and stands up, scrolling through. You stand there, awkwardly shifting your weight from leg to leg. What is she looking for? She finds it and looks up at you with a smirk written on her face. 

You feel your stomach erupt with butterflies. 

“‘After the mixer I rubbed it against myself before I made myself come. Felt so good cause it smells like you,’” she recites. It’s your text from last night and you swallow roughly. Agatha could not look more gleeful. “What did you rub against yourself?” 

Your breath comes out strangled. “You don’t—?”

Her tongue pushes against the inside of her cheek as she takes a step closer to you. “I know,” she says quietly, her hand raising to push a lock of hair behind your ear and then cup your cheek. You lean into the touch, lulled into the false sense of security. “But I want you to say it.” 

Of course she does. You shouldn’t even be surprised right now, but the request almost knocks you off your feet. 

Is this why you’re here?

Will she give you a reward for saying it?

“I—I ordered a bottle of your perfume. Black Opium.” Even the name makes your clit pulse and if you squeeze your thighs together, you can feel the mess between them already. “I rubbed the bottle against myself after the mixer.” 

Your amended statement, the full truth, has Agatha’s eyes flashing and her thumb strokes over your bottom lip. “Good girl,” she mumbles and it’s like you’re drunk all over again. “You really did condition yourself for me, didn’t you?” 

There’s a thick heat in her voice and you know it’s turning her on as much as it turns you on. 

“Yes,” you breathe. 

But then she’s gone again, stepping away, and you watch with your mouth open as she pushes the sleeves of her shirt up to her elbows. Her lean forearms are on display now and she moves back to perch against the side of her desk and tuck her hands in her pockets. With her arms like that, it pulls the collar of her shirt further apart and you can see the pale skin of her chest. 

You almost fall to your knees in front of her and you wonder what she would do if you did. 

“The test is tomorrow, you know,” she says casually and the change in subject gives you whiplash. The atmosphere has seemed to tilt, become tense, and you’re vaguely aware that you’re on trial here. 

“I know,” you answer with a nod. 

Her eyebrow raises again and she fixes you with a stare. “So do you make it a habit of going out and getting drunk two days before exams normally? Or is that just for the important ones?” 

And there it is. 

The lines on her face are hardened and you feel like you might shrivel up. “I’ve been studying a lot,” you say defensively, “and I thought a break might help. It was just a night of fun. I was with my roommate and her girlfriend. I’m going to study today, but I’m feeling good about it.” 

Agatha regards you with a coldness and her disappointment hits you like a brick. 

“I’m sorry. I know it’s important and I am taking it seriously. I’m really trying—I just didn’t think one night out would hurt.” 

She stays silent and you think that might be worse than her reprimanding you. 

So you drop to your knees. You’re not thinking—that much is clear—but there’s no missing the surprise that flits across Agatha’s eyes. The carpet burns against your scabbed knee from tripping up the stairs last week but you don’t make a noise. 

A beat passes while you and Agatha just look at each other. Your chest heaves and falls heavily, matched by hers. Her fingers twitch in her pockets, like she’s resisting the urge to reach out and touch you. Your tongue darts out to moisten your lips and she tracks the movement with a stuttered breath. 

“Can I…Can I make it up to you?” you offer, putting as much desperation as you possibly can into the question. You bite your lip and look up at her through your eyelashes, the picture of innocence. 

Agatha lets out a small groan, just barely audible, but it goes straight to your cunt. 

“Do you remember what I said on Monday?” she asks. You frantically think back. Monday was when you had walked into class late in her sweater and hickey on full display, when she gave you the Good Girl perfume. 

When she called you a brat and you once again implied that she liked it. And then…

I won’t reward you for bad behavior. But…you might get punished.

Your breath catches in your throat and she smiles just slightly because she knows that you know. “You’re going to punish me?” But you’re not nervous—quite the contrary. 

Your cunt is aching. 

“Do you think you deserve to be punished?” she asks, smooth as silk, and it’s hard to think straight over the dizzying fog in your head. Is this a trick question? If you say no, will she punish you even more?

But there’s not a bone in your body that wants to disagree with her. Agatha locked the door for a reason. If it gets her hands on you, or yours on her, then you’d more than willingly accept whatever she gives you. 

“I do,” you say, throat dry so it comes out hoarse. “Please, Professor.” And then you watch as her cheeks visibly tint pink. The vein in her forehead is throbbing faintly and fuck—she looks like she wants you more than anything right now.

“Stand up,” she orders, slipping into this role easily, like she’s just been waiting for you to hand over control. You climb to your feet, swaying a little, and her eyes flash again. 

Agatha pushes herself off the desk and moves to the side. She gestures and you know in an instant what she’s going to do to you. Your clit throbs, more wetness seeps out of you, and you feel so hot. 

“Bend over the desk,” she says and she can’t contain the arousal in her voice. You step over slowly but it’s the most you can manage right now. You’re intoxicated again with her and her perfume that’s filling the air, but mixing with your Good Girl scent. It creates a burst of flavor, dark and sultry and permanent. 

Agatha gasps when you lean over, hip bones pressing into the desk, and you perch on your elbows. You can’t see her, but you feel her eyes on the swell of your ass. The skirt has ridden up, you’re sure of it, and you wonder if she likes the underwear you picked out for her too. 

“Spanking is a bit cliche, don’t you think?” you quip, fighting to keep your tone level. 

She huffs in amusement. “Would you rather I make you write ‘I’ll be a good girl’ fifty times?” 

You pretend to think about it for a second before replying, “No, ma’am.” You can’t suppress a giggle but you quickly stop when her fingertips glide up your leg, pushing your skirt up over your ass. 

Agatha traces the bottom edge of your underwear starting at your hip, down, down, down, until her fingers are almost between your legs. 

“If it gets too much, just ask to stop,” she murmurs. 

Before you can retort, she smacks your ass and a strangled noise falls from your mouth. The sting reverberates through your body and the fire inside you only burns brighter. 

She barely gives you time to recover before she spanks you again and a drawn out “Fuck” slips from your lips. Your head drops to rest on your forearms which arches your back and pushes your ass up. 

Agatha spanks the other cheek twice, one after the other with no time in between, and sweat starts to bead on your forehead. You wipe it off on your skin. 

“I thought you were my good girl,” she says with a mock sadness. 

“I am,” you whisper into your arms but she continues like she hasn’t heard you. 

“And yet—” she spanks you again, hard, and you cry out, “time and time again, you just keep showing me that you’re a brat.” 

You shake your head. She sounds so far away over the blood rushing in your ears. 

Her hand intertwines itself into your hair and she pulls your face up out of your arms. “What?” she asks. 

It takes you a few moments to collect your thoughts. There’s a blissful quiet in your head from the mix of pain and pleasure. “I want to be your good girl. Teach me to be your good girl,” you implore and you can almost hear her smiling. 

Agatha soothes your ass, rubbing over the bruised skin with a soft hand. You push further into her touch. “I will, honey. This is part of it. You need to learn.” 

And then she spanks you again and releases your hair so your head can fall back onto your forearms. You slide your arms down straight against the desk and inch further up it so your clit is almost touching the surface. If you rock your hips forward, you can get some pressure on it and the bit of relief you’re able to get is a breath of fresh air. 

Agatha chuckles, but lets you rut for now. “Are you going to get drunk two days before a test again?” she asks gently. 

You don’t answer, partly because the haze in your mind from your movements is distracting and partly because you haven’t been convinced not to yet. 

Her hands grip onto your hips and force you to stop. You let out a pathetic whimper and she spanks you again, this time on both asschecks. 

“God, look at you,” she coos and two of her fingers slide up and down your clothed slit. When she pushes your underwear against your skin, you can feel just how soaked they are. Her touch makes you whine and buck your hips, desperate for more, but she quickly retracts her fingers. “You really fucking like this.” It sounds like she’s in awe. 

You notice that tears from your eyes have dripped down onto your forearms and you sniff. “Please, Agatha,” you say shakily. 

What are you asking for? Neither of you knows and she even gives you a second to clarify, but when you don’t, she spanks you again. The pain has become muted now but the slap sound is loud as ever. It rings out, clear and resounding, and so does its message. You moan and jerk your hips forward, but you can’t get the same relief you were getting earlier. 

“Do you like this?” she asks. 

Another spank. 

“Yes,” you choke out, “please, fuck—”

Another spank. 

Tears fall freely down your cheeks and you taste the saltiness on your lips. All you need is a touch to your clit, one single touch, and you’d fall apart for her. Tension is building in your lower stomach and your breathing is ragged, loud 

Another spank. 

Your hands scramble for purchase against the smooth desk. Your body is ablaze with a heat you’ve never felt before. 

“Are you going to be a good girl?” Agatha croons softly, caressing your ass again. Her cool hands against your stinging skin and the short respite lets your muscles relax just slightly. 

“Yes,” you sigh. 

Her hands pull away and you have a moment of nothing before she spanks you with both hands. It’s the hardest yet and you cry out. Everything inside you is throbbing but the spank seemed final—maybe it is. 

“Are you going to get drunk two days before a test again?” she repeats and you don’t hesitate before shaking your head frantically. 

“No—no, I promise, I’ll be good,” you say insistently.

Agatha’s hands rest on your ass, lightly kneading the sore skin. There’s a thrill that runs through you at the thought of having her handprint imprinted on you. Even though you have your underwear still on, you think there’s a chance you could have something leftover. 

She moves her fingers up to fix your skirt—a flash of disappointment hits you that she’s not delving into your panties—and then she pats your lower back. 

You push yourself up onto your elbows and then to your hands and then turn around to face your professor.

Agatha reaches out to cup your tear-streaked cheek and you take in the wild, hungry look in her eyes, the redness in her face, the vein that’s fully throbbing now. 

She pulls you toward her and wraps her arms around you in an embrace. You collapse against her steady frame and tears fall from your eyes for an entirely different reason. 

“Are you okay?” she asks and you nod against her. Her breasts are pushed against yours and you inhale her scent deeply. She strokes your hair gently. “You did so good for me, honey. You’re such a good girl.” 

But the effect of the praise and the spanking and being this close to her is getting to you and you shift, almost unconsciously, so her thigh is positioned between yours. The weight against your clit forces a muffled groan out of your mouth and it feels like your body is vibrating with need. 

Agatha realizes what you’re trying to do before you even really start and she tuts before stepping back. Your mouth drops at the loss of stimulation and Agatha clucks her tongue. “That isn’t how this works, hon. You learned your lesson. That’s all you get for right now, until you earn more.” 

The urge to cry rolls over you and you want to stomp your foot. But that’s probably a good way to get another spanking. “But—” you start desperately, trying to think of some way that doesn’t end with you having to leave right now, “what about you?” 

“What about me?” she asks, drawing out the words one by one. 

“You don’t have to touch me, but can I touch you?” you ask, praying that she doesn’t see it as another reward for you. You give her your best doe eyes and turn your lip out. “You look like you need it. Let me be your good girl.”

Agatha thinks about it. “No,” she decides and your face falls. A thin smile plays on her lips. “But…since you were a really good girl and you took your punishment very well, I guess I could give you something.” 

Your mouth starts to salivate. 

She jerks her head over to the corner where two bookshelves meet. “Get on your knees over there and face the wall.” 

Heart pounding in your throat, you nod as you tremble and then slowly turn to walk over. You drop to your knees again and the carpet burns but you hardly even register. 

What is she going to do to you? Make you stay here all day? 

How is this a reward? 

But then you hear it and you whimper. 

The buckle of her belt. 

The sliding of it out of her belt loops. 

The unzipping of her pants. 

A moment of quiet rustling and then a sigh. 

Fuck. 

Fuck. 

Fuck. 

Agatha’s touching herself right now. With you right here. And you’re not allowed to watch or help or touch her in any way. This might be a worse punishment than the spanking. 

But you get to hear her at least. 

You don’t dare say a word because you don’t know the rules; instead, you read the titles on the book spines on the shelf and try to ignore how hot your face is getting. 

She’s rather silent for the most part, just a heavy exhale every now and then, but if you strain your ears hard enough, you think you can hear the sound of her wetness. 

And then there’s a squelch and you moan quietly. Is that her sliding a finger into herself? 

You shift to give your right knee a break and then switch. You want to peek more than anything—what would she do? 

But your ass still burns brilliantly and you don’t want to push her even more. You just wish there was something you could do. 

“Maybe, if you had behaved last night, you’d be the one doing this to me right now,” Agatha says wistfully and you whimper apathetically again. You twist your fingers into the fabric of your skirt and bite your lip. “Such a shame, really. You look so good on your knees.”

Another moan rips itself from your throat and you hear her breath hitch. Knowing that she’s affecting you this much is getting to her. 

“Please, please, Agatha,” you whine, plead, beg, “I want—please—”

She gasps, your desperation apparently a catalyst for her. You shift again and squeeze your thighs together, feeling the ruined fabric of your underwear sticking to your cunt. You want to turn around more than you want to breathe but you keep your eyes trained on the books. 

Personality Psychology: The Basics

Applied Behavior Analysis 

Handbook of Personality Disorders

Agatha sighs again and the words go blurry. Her breaths become shallower and shorter and the chair creaks every now and then and you picture her, just yards away, her hand down her pants, fingers inside in her pussy, fucking herself while she looks at you. 

At you on your knees for her in the corner after she spanked your ass raw. 

Your muscles are really starting to hurt now from the position you’ve been stuck in, but you can still hear Agatha so you can’t move. 

“Fuck,” she mumbles and it makes your brain short-circuit. Your mouth and eyes are both watering and you feel like you’re going to explode. 

“Agatha,” you pant and she inhales sharply—she likes when you talk. She likes when you use your words and it should’ve been so obvious. “Please, I want to taste you, I want to touch you, please, I need—I need you, Agatha, please—”

She moans, soft and quiet but unmistakable and you want that sound recorded so you can listen to it over and over until it’s all you ever hear again. 

"Agatha, please..."

“Oh, god,” she breathes and the world tilts underneath you. The chair squeaks again and you picture her head tossed back, hair falling over the back of her seat, face contorted with pleasure. 

Her heavy, ragged breathing fills the room but it calms down slowly and you’re shaking on your knees, your insides seared with a heat you haven’t felt before. Each time you’re with her, Agatha takes you to a new high and you wonder how long it’ll be before you reach the limit. 

Is there a limit? 

“You can get up now,” she tells you, her voice hoarse and raspy. You grab onto a shelf to pull yourself off your knees and your legs straighten with loud pops. It takes a moment to get blood back but you’re able to stagger around to look at her. 

Agatha is slouched in her chair, her hand still inside her unzipped pants. Her face is flushed but she looks satisfied and she hungrily rakes her dark eyes over you. 

You take two steps toward her before she takes her hand out of her pants and stands up. You watch her come closer, feeling vaguely like you’re in a dream with how your head is spinning. 

She raises her hand and your breath catches—she places her middle and ring finger of her left hand against your lips. Your eyes meet hers as you open your mouth and let her slip her fingers in. 

You lap at her wetness, moaning at the hot and sweet taste of her. A burst of heat tears through you again, adding to the already flaring fire in your cunt and you need her to touch you. 

Agatha pushes her fingers further down your throat and she smirks when you gag slightly. 

“Good girl,” she hums, voice low. Her perfume swirls around you and you think you might fall to your knees again. 

Her fingers slip out of your mouth with a pop and you lick your lips before beseeching, “Please, Agatha, can—”

“No,” she says and it’s final. Your face falls again but she pats you on the chin and gives you a crooked smile. “Now that you learned your lesson, you should go get some studying in. You lost a whole evening yesterday.” 

“How—I—you—” you stutter. You know that she just came, but how is she able to slip back into the mask so well? Meanwhile, you’re a complete mess. If she’s not going to touch you now, you’re about to run into the bathroom down the hall to take care of yourself because there’s no way you’re getting anything done. 

“You’ll figure it out, honey,” she says and presses a chaste kiss to your lips. You lean in for another but she rebuffs you, strolling away to sit back at her desk. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Let me know if you need any help with anything.” 

It’s a dismissal if you’ve ever heard one and you gape at her for a few seconds before nodding to yourself. “So if I do well tomorrow…”

She looks up from her desk and raises an eyebrow. “Yes, honey, I suspect you’ll finally get what you want then.” 

“What we both want?” you suggest.

“What we both want,” Agatha agrees with a wink. “You can leave the door open.” 

You stare at her for just a moment as if you’re memorizing what she looks like in the afterglow of her orgasm and then pick up your tote bag from the floor. 

There’s no one out in the hallway as you exit and you can’t help but be thankful because you think leaving a professor’s office looking this disheveled might raise some alarms. 

Your first class starts in about two hours now, so you’ll go to the campus library to study after the bathroom. 

In general psychology, you learned about motivation, specifically the Expectancy Theory, which suggests that motivation is driven by an individual’s belief that effort will lead to desired outcomes. 

Studying hard will lead to a good grade which will lead you to Agatha. 

Has she just been testing that theory too?

——

At nine on the dot the next morning, Agatha passes out the exams. She saves yours for last and when you reach out your hand, her fingers brush against yours. 

“Good luck,” she murmurs, giving you a quick wink before walking back to sit at her desk. 

You don’t remember the last time you’ve been this nervous for a test but when you look at it, you feel relief sink into your bones. You know this stuff. 

The multiple choice are easy and you breeze through all thirty, only getting caught on one here and there. But you reason it out and feel confident with your answer. 

The study guide was helpful, but you think just paying attention in class would have been enough. You’re not really sure how so many people fail this class. Even the questions about the biological approach aren’t too tough. 

When you get to the short answers, you glance up at Agatha and you find, with a jolt, that she’s watching you. She gives you an encouraging nod and you bite your lip before shifting in your chair and wincing at the soreness in your ass. She smirks like she’s proud of it, even though it was really hard for you to pretend like everything was fine yesterday when you ate lunch and dinner with Nat and Wanda while sitting in the uncomfortable wooden chairs in the dining hall. 

You turn back to the exam before you get too distracted. 

Explain the difference between objective tests and projective tests and give at least two examples of each. 

The memory of Agatha with the Rorschach cards in her office the second day of class flashes in your mind and makes your cheeks heat up while you start writing. 

It doesn’t take you long to answer that. You look around and see that everyone else is still on the first or second page of the multiple choice. One girl has her head in her hands and one boy looks like he’s just circling random answer choices. 

Meanwhile, you’re on the last one. 

Explain what neurotransmitters and hormones are. Give examples of both and their functions. Name the three main sources of hormones. 

This one takes a bit more thinking to answer and the frown on your face deepens when you get to the last part. You know the hypothalamus and adrenal glands—what’s the last one?

Fuck. 

You sneak another look at Agatha, who is tossing her hair back over her shoulder with her hand. 

The gonads. Yes, that’s it. 

You scribble it down quickly and then go through the test again, double-checking all your answers. 

It’s over. 

It all comes down to this. 

Exhaling slowly, you stand up and walk over to hand your test to her. She raises her eyebrow at you, silently asking how it went, and you give her a tight smile. Even though you feel like you knew mostly everything, there’s the irrational fear that you somehow got them all wrong. 

Agatha takes your test and you go back to your seat, your heart pounding so loud you half expect one of your classmates to complain. You watch your professor click her blue ballpoint pen and she goes through your exam. 

Her mouth twitches and she makes a mark for each question—a check mark or an x? She turns to the next page and does the same thing. The suspense is creeping up your throat and you want to leave the room because you can’t take it. 

Finally, she gets to the last page and her eyes scan your answer. She suppresses a smile and hope rises in you. 

And then she looks at you. Her blue eyes meet yours and you feel like you might throw up. 

Agatha nods, the corners of her mouth quirking up. 

You passed. 

Part Fourteen

Taglist: @lostbutlovely33 @diorrxckstar @whoreforolderfictionalwomen  @katekathry @onemansdreamisanothermansdeath @tayasmellsapples @natashashill @mybraininblood @mysticalmoonlight7  @cactuslover2600 @loveem0mo @readysteddiero-nance @lonelyhalfwitch @lesbiantortilla @crescendoofstars @sol-in-wonderland @ahsfan05 @gbab09 @sasheemo @agathaharness @live-laugh-love-lupone @chiar4anna @fuckedupforkhahn @lowlyjelly @sweetmidnights @n3bula-cats @m1vfs @agathascoven1 @500daysofmarissa @filmedbyharkness @autbot @claramelooo @dandelions4us @agathaallalongg @jujuu23 @21cannibal @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @jeridandridge @hannibalcanniballz @chloeelou02x @hapuchika @xblinkx2 @xanthreee @tobeawriter98 @warpdrive-witch

[lbjeff]

Then the Bats realize Davey who can use his words is more terrifying than when he not.

In the past he only terror people by dying in the most horrible ways. Now Davey torture them with BOTH his murdered body and his words

For examples

Flash: Wow, I hear that your child, Davey can talk now! Congratulations, B!

Davey, whom Flash didn’t see that he also there, appears behind him: Do you know what could happen to speeder when he trips on a rock? Their bones may be break though their skin, especially the knees

Then Davey chances his bones to make them peaks out of his skin.

Flash, hear the clack of bones and turn his face back like a classic horror movie character: Ahhhhhhhh!

But Flash doesn’t run cause he fear he would tripping latter

P/s: Flash Kid doesn’t believe him so he invite Davey to his house to prove his point. He would regret it latter

Or:

Hal just got back from his space mission and is talking about an alien he had met, who he had a quick fling with but broke up cause she wanted kids immediately. Davey happened to appear at Tower that day. This time Superman is doing the babysitting for Lois so he brings Davey along

Hal: In her planet, the woman is super hot while the male looks like slime in video games. It kinda weird

Davey: I see them before, in Clark’s files on endangered aliens at Solitude Fortress

Hal, still a little scared from the last time they met but is surprise that Davey could talk in sentence now: Wow, good job kid. What do you know about them?

Davey: They reproduce by the female put the eggs into the male’s body by kissing, then the eggs get bigger until it break the male’s stomach. That is the reason the female often look attractive based on universal standers while the male looks like slime. This way, the male mainly could find mate in their planet when the female could find mate in other planets

Hal, now a little afraid: Woah, your memory is good

Davey ignores him: If the female reproduce with other species, the eggs will break the father’s belly and may kill them in process. Like this.

Then Davey’s belly gets bigger and then bom, like the flesh bomb and cover everybody in blood and organs. It happens so fast so it take everyone a whole minute to processing what was happening

Davey, with his head lands on a table: And the time for eggs to hatch is maximum 1 month

Hal: OMG! That is the reason she gave me a funny look when I say see her next month and kissed her good bye

Davey: And the things that similar with their abortion drug is human’s liver. You are welcome!

Hal: No, I rather die than eating a humen liver! Batman, do something or I would die because I refused to eat your kid’s liver

Batman: Calm down, Hal. If it has similar structures with human’s liver then I would make make one for you, artificial one. And Davey, I believe Lois has talked to you about blood on people and furnitures

Davey: Sowey

Then he regains his human forms, claps his hands, open his sharpened fangs monstrous mouth and all the blood, organs “come back” to his body, through his mouth. (He does it for a show, the bloods on clothes and ground just disappeared). He didn’t take back the liver

Davey: You can keep it

P/s:

Clark: B, as you can see, Davey could talk pretty well now so you may take him home soon. Like today

Bruce: Well, I promise him to stay with Lois for a weekend. And he still didn’t say sorry right so guess I still need Lois’s help

Clark: Lois thinks he’s cute when he says his “sowey” so she hasn’t fixed him yet

Bruce: Fair enough. I would send Damian to your house to have a play date with Jon, he will help take care of Davey

Clark: Why do you think send another child to my house would solve things? And don’t pretend you don’t do it because you just has a fight with Robin and need to get him somewhere out of Gotham

Bruce: And Mr.Wayne will make time for journalists Kents for a special interview about his new kid

Clark: Well, I alway happy to help you to mentor your kids, especially Davey and Damian

Hal: Hey guy, I still need my “special” medicine

Bruce: Well, good for your health, you are not pregnant. Their specie only impregnate other species by sex, not just kissing like their own specie

Hal: Well, Not good to say, I still need those medicine

In galas that Bruce and Tim bring Davey along, to make him “socialize” more (it is Bruce’s idea)

Davey is chilling in his conner. A creep come near him to be “friendly” with Wayne’s kid

Creep: You are Davey Wayne, right? Well, everyone had thought your fist appeare in Gotham elite’s world would be your welcome gala. Guess Bruce isn’t paying attention to his strays like he did in the past

Davey looks at him, slowly change his lips into a “lunatic horror creature’s smile”, his pupils go wider until his eyes are two void black holes with green mist pour out and wandering around him.

Davey: And you will die in the basement in your house, the near lake one where you buried your hobbies. Being tearing apart by the “beasts” you keep

The creep too scared that he frozen in his place. And Davey chances to another conner to chilling and wait to terror another creep

Later that creep, fears of Davey’s words being true, planed to “erase” the guy he keeps to guard his “have fun” house. But he was killed by being chopped into pieces by those guys. Then he being burned alive in the lake house where he did tortured and buried his “ex hobbies”

And the Bats know about it after Batman do the investigation on a creep’s missing case

Tim: I said we should not break up Davey and Cocomelon. Now see what happens when Davey recovers his attention span

Dick: In his defense, he only said some words, the rest can’t be blame on him

Damian: Davey doesn’t need to be defended. He is just proving his crime solving talent, by killing the criminals before they could do more crime, with just his words

Bruce: That should not be encouraging!

Jason: What? Davey is just doing his innocent child thing and saying some “innocent talk”, everything happened to those creeps were because they were cowards

Bruce: They have been murdered

Jason: Yes, just like their victims

Davey Speaks

Davey: *hovering over the bed* Father. What is my purpose?

Bruce: *just woke up from a 15-minute nap after 48 hours of work and is sure he is hallucinating* What?

Davey: Why do I exist?

****

Davey: Candy! Candy!

Duke: You can get an apple.

Davey: Do you think this is a game? Candy. I want Candy.

Duke: What the fuck? You can talk?

Davey: No one will believe you.

****

Davey: Cookie!

Alfred: Master David, please refrain from shouting when you want something. Ask properly.

Davey: May I have a cookie?

[kindaasrikal]

It’s been stated in the show that it’s been years since the merge has happened. Meaning its been years since Morro chose to be the guardian of the Spectral Lands.

So, here are some headcanons.

I think some ghosts, like Soul Archer or Bansha, stuck around a bit to either mess with Morro, help him, or because they weren’t ready to leave. I highly doubt Morro and the others ghosts he was with were ever close, but they were the only things they each had, so i think they very reluctantly began to care for one another, as much as they were capable to at the very least.

Morro, after taking on the duty to be the guardian and guider for the Spectral Lands and for dead souls, was forced into having many conversations he didn’t want at the beginning as he helped people drink from the well. From Mystake and her cryptic words, where he learnt years ago how to translate from another, on his mistakes and his future. From a Sensei Garmadon who tells Morro that he is proud of what the other has finally become. From the other ghosts from his team (Bansha, Soul Archer, Ghoultar, Howla, Wrayth) very reluctantly giving him their thanks and well wishes. From previous elemental masters and their own wisdom. To those he killed himself. I don’t think he’s ever had to deal with so many people who had so many words for him.

Through the flashback episode with Sora and Arin, it’s shown many children are either missing or kidnapped, meaning many could also be dead due to tragic reasons. Imagine the amount of children Morro had to sooth before sending off.

Morro, as we know him, was a lot sharper and louder before. Now, however, he seems quieter and softer than he was, wise even. I think thats because he was forced into helping newly dead children. I think he saw himself in their eyes and couldn’t help but remember the child that died when he left the monastery and the teen that died in a cave alone. He can’t help but remember how scary it was. He can’t help the way he needs to protect these children and sooth their woes before they are sent to a better place.

Sometimes, i think some kids weren’t ready to leave yet, so they would stick around Morro who was forced into playing with them when it was safe. He would even spend hours getting rid of the souleaters to take care of the kids who stuck around.

When they would leave, he couldn’t help but feel weighed down by the loneliness.

He dissociates often now, not having much to do in between fighting souleater and guiding lost souls.

Sometimes, Morro hold conversations with the wind, as if he can still hear it like how it does even now. At least, he hoped his old friend still listen to him. Morro knows he can’t blame the wind for not listening though, not after all he’d done to it.

Morro is very melancholy now after years of fighting and surviving. Sometimes, the silence and simple tasks he now has is much appreciated.

Other times, he can’t help the way he stop and doesn’t move for hours as he thinks. And thinks and thinks and thinks.

As much as a lot of us miss his green streak, I think he was far too happy to have it finally gone from his head.

Imagine him having to convince the preeminent to drink from the fountain to pass on, i think that was the biggest test of his patience yet.

In the silence, newly arrived dead souls can hear the sorrow footsteps of a dance long forgotten.

He hums to himself often to fill in the silence. He isn’t used to everything being so quiet, usually having other ghosts or his wind beside him. Now though, all he really has is himself. All he really ever had, was himself.

At the beginning of it all and of his duty he would wait very panicky as he practiced a speech of apology over and over again for the ninja or Wu to show up.

I think Morro accidentally noticed Lloyd from afar and began panicking. When he finally made up his mind to go and apologise, he full on slumped when he noticed they already left. He started insulting himself right after.

When Morro first met the souleaters, he thought they were adorable little beast and wanted to tame one. Never again will he make that mistake.

He’s now capable of sleeping, thought he doesn’t need too, and its not like he could sleep with everything constantly going on around him.

When he met Arin, he really had to hold back the urge to both squish him and throw him off the damn mountain.

I think he’s gotten really used to having to stop idiots from running forward into their deaths part 2.

And thats all I’ve got here you guys go

[zoieru]

Lost puppy ~

In an alternate universe where Shibuya didn't end quite like that, Jujutsu Tech have landed themselves a bit of a lost-puppy conundrum - what to do with a newly allied Choso Kamo.

a/n + c/w ~ assume that Shibuya was more of a lower level incident, in which all your faves are just a bit worse for wear (or not, meanie) and this is the calm after the storm :3. Reader (afab) is a high level sorcerer. Part one of ? Introduction 𖹭 essentially a series that'll explore different situations with a choso who is learning about normal human stuff. Romance incoming?? ;))

No manga spoilers. ~ 2.1k

Choso sat in the corner of the room, back straight, hands resting stiffly on his knees. The room buzzed with low but firm voices, the jujutsu sorcerers around him deep in serious discussion. He could feel their eyes on him. Brief, darting glances that just barely concealed their concern and unease, each one reminding him that - despite being an ally - he was still something to be watched. Managed. Controlled. He kept his own gaze fixed on the floor, the polished wood beneath him somehow more comforting than their watchful stares.

"He can’t stay at the school," one of them said, concern clear in their tone. He didn't bother looking up to see who. "It's too risky. And he’s… inexperienced with human society, on a functional level."

Inexperienced. Choso rolled his eyes in his head. They weren’t wrong. He had no real understanding of human customs, their way of life much beyond the battles he had fought against and alongside them. It's not as though Kenjaku was a real guiding figure for anything that wasn't needed for his plans. And the things Mahito attempted to amuse himself with Choso had mostly ignored unless it was of immediate interest, mind set on his one track goal. That world felt like a distant concept, one he turned down in favour of curses for his brothers, one he wasn’t sure he could ever fully grasp.

"He's not a threat, but we can't afford to ignore the possibility that things could go wrong if he's left unsupervised and unacquainted," another higher up added, his tone a touch...quickened, impatient perhaps?

Before he could stop himself, Choso's voice, low and calm, cut through the murmuring conversation. “I'm not interested in harming anyone,” he said, his gaze lifting to meet theirs through his eyelashes. It wasn’t a plea, or anything really, just a statement of fact. Not that it would have much sway. "Or being a burden. I don't really care where I go."

“It’s not about whether you mean to harm anyone, Choso,” the balding man responded, carefully. “It’s about what could happen if you don’t understand this world. Your intentions may be pure, but you’ve spent your incarnated life as a curse, among curses. There’s a learning curve.”

The idea of needing someone to guide him, to rely on someone, grated on his nerves. He'd spent his life being the guidance, being the older brother, he wasn't used to and didn't want to be guided like a lost child, despite his acknowledgement of his lack of experience. I just want them to get on with it, pick somewhere, so I can be in peace.

"So what are the options, then?" A new voice. One he recognised. Yours. You'd been the one to find him, back when he was in that dazed state in Shibuya on the platform, distraught after nearly killing Yuji. You'd been...nice, confusingly, and at the sound of your voice he felt a subtle tug of your tentative fragile connection pull at him a little, albeit reluctantly.

"We could send him to stay with a sorcerer," a woman offered, casting a sideways glance in Choso's direction over her glasses. "Someone who can keep an eye on him, relieve the school of the pressure, and teach him a thing or two while he's there."

Choso's fingers tensed against his knees. The idea of being pawned off on some sorcerer, having to answer to them… it wasn’t appealing, but he kept his expression neutral and rather bored. Stay quiet, I’ll take anything just to get out of this room.

"And who in the hell is going to do that?" A different man, an old eternally grumpy sort of face, spoke up, voice louder, more...grating. He seemed rather appalled at the idea. "You think any one of us is going to be fine with a curse wandering around in their house? For that suggestion to have any standing, the sorcerer would have to be semi-grade one at minimum, and they'll still be taking a significant risk. Not to mention the fact you're essentially tasked with teaching him how to be normal!"

"I'll do it."

Choso didn't have time to even inwardly react to his words before a voice cut the man's droning off. Your voice.

It seemed to come out of your mouth before you'd decided for it to. The way he spoke, calling Choso a curse, while not entirely wrong, pissed you off for some reason. Choso’s eyes widened slightly, the unexpectedness of it, the surprise that someone had volunteered to take on such a monumental task, that it was you who had volunteered to do it, hit him all at once. He turned his gaze to you, his own dark eyes meeting yours in an unspoken question, pulse beating loudly in his ears with hot blood. Why... Everyone's faces seemed even more shocked than he was, but his eyes remained on you.

"You'll....do it," the old man echoed in a sort of bewildered whisper, surprise clear in his tone as he met your eyes, the others in the room suddenly focused on you. "Are you sure?"

You sighed softly, eyes on the man asking. "My apartment is on the outskirts, so there isn't a massive population around. I have a spare room. And I could probably last maybe two minutes longer than the average sorcerer before he would kill me. It makes sense." you explained slowly. It was clear you didn't think he would. Kill you, that is.

Choso felt a strange flutter in his chest at your dry assessment of the situation. The way you attempted to rationalise it, logic and humour mixed up with the dire nature of the task at hand, made the corners of his lips twitch in the hint of what might have become a smirk if the circumstances were different. He found it surprising, if not...endearing, oddly, how you had a dry, dark sense of humour that matched his own far more than anyone else's he'd encountered yet.

The others in the room, however, seemed more concerned with your wellbeing, and now perhaps mental wellbeing, less so with the logistics of it. "You'd be alone with him," the previous balding man spoke, his voice heavy with worry, but there was a hint of something else under the surface, disdain perhaps. Disbelief that anyone would volunteer to take this on, to take him on, rather than being forced into it after endless logistical planning. Choso felt his jaw tick slightly.

"He's unstable," the man continued. "We don't fully understand the capacity of his cursed technique, or his impulses." His eyes met Choso's with open suspicion. "He's a cursed womb. It's unprecedented, unpredictable, dangerous. We can't guarantee your safety."

Choso watched your eyes finally meet his own, then, for the first time since you'd volunteered. His usually sleepy-bored gaze was more curious now behind the stoicism he wore like a mask. He watched your lips tickle into a slight smile as you looked back at the man who had addressed you. "I know," you said simply, shifting in your seat. "It doesn't sound like you have a better alternative, though. And like I said, I'm more likely to survive longer than two seconds if he decides to go all kooky on me, so I have the highest chance here to call for help. But he said he wont do that, so..."

The room fell silent at your simple words, the others exchanging quick glances with one another. Choso's gaze was on you, though, eyes widening slightly with a mix of surprise and...something else, he couldnt place it. He could have smiled. He had no intention of going 'kooky', as it were. But still... You think you could last against me long enough? You're funny.

"You trust his word, just like that?" The old grumpy man asked, incredulity clear in his tone. Choso wasn't sure what to make of it, but he realised he was starting to find the way you dealt with this quite amusing. He watched as you sighed again, almost seeming bored with the conversation as if they were dredging on with something much less than a potential life threatening scenario.

"He's sitting here, quietly, while we all discuss his fate like he's some rescued puppy waiting to be rehomed, when, really, he could just blow us all up and leave himself. That's good enough evidence to suggest to me that all he wants is to get outta here," you explained. It was clear in your voice that it wasn't quite boredom you were experiencing, but a slight grating of your nerves at the way this was being discussed as if he wasn't a person, or wasn't in the room, despite there not really being another way.

The others around the room seemed surprised by the logic, the calmness in your voice, but none more than Choso. The words struck a chord within him, they made sense. Maybe you're smarter than I gave you credit for. He watched you closely as you spoke, his sharp eyes taking everything in with slowly growing interest. The way your fingers played with your hair almost absent-mindedly, the slight shift of your eyes, the subtle movements he had started to register as signs you were more anxious than you were willingly letting on.

The man sighed, seeming to finally give up the fight. "You make a point," he said slowly, glancing at Choso as if to make a final assessment.

The others began to murmur in agreement, nodding and exchanging glances. No one else raised any protest, seemingly content with your reasoning. After a moment, the man looked back at you. "If you're comfortable with it, I suppose the matter is settled," he said, his tone resigned.

"No, ask him."

Choso's eyes shot back to you as you said that, another wave of shock washing over him. Ask...me? He hadn't really registered that they hadn't asked for his opinion on the turn of events, not expecting them to. But you...you seemed to care if they did?

The murmurs fell away as the focus shifted to Choso, all eyes fixed on him, waiting for his response. He could feel their gaze on him like a weight, their words echoing in his mind.

His gaze flicked to you once more, expression betraying nothing of his thoughts as he considered you quietly. He could already tell you were unlike anyone else in the room, the first person to actually care to hear his thoughts on the matter.

Choso cleared his throat, his voice a quiet murmur in the room. "I'm fine with it."

His answer was simple, straight to the point, the lack of hesitation surprising the others in the room, but he found himself almost amused as he saw a brief smile on the corner of your lips. You were expecting me to say no?

His eyes followed you upwards as you stood, your chest rising with a deep breath, hands slipping into your pockets. "Okay. Well...time to go shopping with the new puppy, I guess," you mused. He needed essentials after all. "Is there anything else to sort out?"

There was a hint of surprise in the room, the other sorcerers exchanging glances at your casual tone, and Choso suppressed a smirk. You obviously weren't overly happy with the way he was being treated, or at least the way this was handled, and he found he sort of...liked that. More so because he could tell it was irritating the others around the room.

The balding man cleared his throat. "No, that's all," he said slowly, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked between you and Choso. "Be careful."

As you stood up, signifying the end of the meeting, Choso pushed himself slowly to his feet. His eyes didn't leave you, taking in the way you stuffed your hands in your pockets, expression betraying none of the curiosity he felt, remaining neutral, bored even.

He gave a slight nod at the man's words, more out of respect than genuine regard for his warning. "I won't cause trouble," he said gruffly.

His feet carried him silently out of the room after you. He kept his eyes on you, studying your every movement as you walked, the tilt of your head as you checked your phone, the slight glance over your shoulder to see if he was following. He couldn't help but find the situation almost ironic, almost absurd. She's taking me shopping? Despite himself, he wanted to smile.

He wasn't privy to the thoughts flitting through your mind as the reality of the situation set in for you, now having time to settle after the droning bureaucracy. While you had put on a confident front, your actions also somewhat surprised yourself. Ultimately, a semi-sarcastic, resigned and amused sort of notion settled in your mind.

I've just...adopted a curse person. Cute.

[aventurineswife]

so if the sahsrau and sagau characters made it to our world what would be the first thing they'd do would they try to find the reader or would they erect (hehe erect) some sort of statue or museum for you and your art also how would they treat the reader and assuming that the reader is like most people at the moment how would they react if the reader was living paycheck to paycheck?

If the SAHSRAU and SAGAU characters broke through into our world, it would be absolute chaotic worship meets reality check energy.

First Thing They’d Do?

They’d 100% try to find the reader immediately.

Their divine GPS (aka terminally over-romanticized sense of direction + desperation) would kick in. Most of them would tear through space and time like "WHERE IS OUR CREATOR??" while others like Welt or Nahida might be like, “...maybe we should get a lay of the land first.” But nah—Reader comes first.

And if they couldn’t find you right away? Expect a museum. No—a cathedral, actually. Statues, murals, and literal light shows. They’d start collecting every piece of your art, vent-post, old doodles, angsty OC lore, and unfinished works like they’re holy texts. (Even your high school sketchbook? Priceless artifact. Protected in glass.)

How Would They Treat the Reader?

Like you were the sun and the sky and the stars rolled into one.

Yanqing (or older male character if you don't want the kids here) would bring you tea and kneel like an ancient knight trying not to show his blush.

Acheron would speak in soft metaphors, treating you like a sorrowful dream made real.

Albedo and Silver Wolf would take apart your phone and try to understand how it connects to you.

Jing Yuan and Zhongli would treat your words like prophecies—“...the Creator said ‘I’m broke,’ which must be symbolic. We must fix this imbalance.”

Boothill would try to fight your landlord or job manager or whoever.

Dan Heng and Xiao would just silently keep watch over you like tired guard dogs with severe trauma and too much reverence.

Ayato, Blade, or Kafka might take a more... personal approach. You’re overwhelmed? You need someone to take care of everything for you? Consider it handled, sweetheart.

If You Were Living Paycheck to Paycheck?

First they'd be horrified. Like genuinely shaken. Because in their eyes, you're a divine being, the Source of Worlds, the One Who Created Them—and you’re living in mortal drudgery? You’re suffering? You're stressed about rent?

Oh, no no no.

Aventurine opens seventeen credit lines in your name and maxes them all out immediately to get you out of debt and into a comfortable apartment.

Nahida or Raiden Ei might try to completely overhaul modern society for your convenience.

Neuvillette and Bronya would go to your employer and issue divine litigation.

Childe just: "Let me fix it. Let me fix everything."

Pela and Cyno are putting your boss on trial.

Even someone like Kaveh would offer to live in your place for a week while you recover and maybe even cook for you. (You don’t know where he got the ingredients but it’s the thought that counts.)

And if you ever say: “I’m fine, really…”

They’d just be so quiet. Hurt. Like: “You shouldn’t have to be fine. Not alone. Not ever.”

Basically:

You’d go from paycheck-to-paycheck to gilded-idol-worship-meets-overprotective-cult-leader-found-family in the span of a single tear rolling down your cheek.

Would you like the world remodeled into a utopia? Because that's what they'd try to give you. And maybe... just maybe, you'd start to wonder if letting them stay was really such a bad idea after all.

[azaharinflames]

I saw this post and wanted to use it to speak on something else, bc it inspired me.

Because the thing is that Buck has been shown to take care of everyone in the firefam. To some degree or other, he’s been taking care of them all for a long time. And this season they’ve highlighted just how much he’ll go out of his way to help.

They’ve shown how he’s grown and matured, how he can be a mentor (814 with him and Ravi is a perfect example), how he can take charge of a situation and not crumble under the pressure.

That’s all good. That’s amazing character development if they land it.

But something they haven’t shown us? Is the firefam fully returning that. Not because they don’t want to, it’s just because they don’t see a necessity for that (I don’t want to say this in a malicious way. I just think it’s the most simple way of explaining it)

I think we will see Buck trying to hold everyone together (something I’ll argue has been hinted at in the trailer, when he goes to check on Chim), and he’ll be the rock for everyone else. And no one will reciprocate, because they have their own shit going on.

But you know who potentially will? Yeah.

The person who was there for him to help him escape from the army. The person who stayed behind and was shown to be worried for Buck. Of course he might feel bad for everyone else, but the show made a point of telling us his concern is Buck. And it’s the same person who’s been the only one to actually take care of Buck this whole season. The only one who fed him, when Buck has been feeding everyone else (quite literally).

This show can be very obvious with their metaphors and messages. They don’t do hidden, because the ones they do are easy to read - and I think this might be one.

Maybe, just maybe - they are gearing up for BT reconciliation based on Tommy being the only one able to clock Buck’s feelings about it all, and being the one to give him actual comfort about it.

[farfromstrange]

Do No Harm

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Blood

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: You wake up in the grasp of your kidnappers, and they are far from done with you. But they forgot to take one thing into account: The Devil of Hell's Kitchen.

Warnings for this chapter: ANGST, graphic descriptions of violence, kidnapping, blood, S1 plot, allusions to domestic violence and sexual assault

Word Count: 3k

A/n: Hi! It's been a while! In fact, since before Daredevil: Born Again came out. It's strange to write a story that takes place in season 1 of the original show after watching Born Again, but also weirdly refreshing to work with the Netflix version of Matt again. Anyway, this chapter takes place in episode 4. Hope I didn't disappoint.

Read Chapter 17: Blood here on AO3!

You still remember the day you first held a human heart in your hand. It was eleven ounces, the size of your fist, and still beating. The pale cadaver you encountered in your first year of medical school couldn’t have prepared you for what it would feel like: a terrifying honor and a privilege. 

The day you witnessed the miracle of open heart surgery for the first time was also the first time your hands felt destined for good. Becoming a surgeon was never going to bring back what you lost, but at least it gave you the feeling that all the agony you went through finally meant something. You held onto hope with all you had, made sacrifices, and scraped your knees praying to a God you never had faith in, but at what cost? 

You gave more than you’ve ever had, and you still keep losing. 

You jolt awake when your head hits the wall of the tiny trunk they stuffed you into, God knows how long ago. The already bleeding skin around your scalp burns with the sudden impact, and you cry out. Even the darkness seems blurry. You try to move, but the car hits another pothole, and you’re thrown back into the hard plastic with a force that makes your stomach churn. 

You don’t need a medical degree to figure out that you have a concussion, probably lost half a liter of blood, too. Your heart is beating so fast, so loud that you can taste it on your tongue. You must be stuck in an infinite time loop of misfortune because there is no reasonable explanation for why this keeps happening to you. And if the situation weren’t so grave, you would have laughed at the irony of it all.

You’re not scared. You know you should be, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. The pain is merely an old, familiar ache in your bones, so familiar that it has rendered you numb. Your mind is screaming for you to fight, even if it kills you, but your body has already flatlined. The memories flash in a sequence of distorted pictures before your inner eye. 

You swore to yourself that you would never let this happen. You swore you would never let a man lay a hand on you again. Over your dead body, you said, but no matter how hard you try to reason with the voices in your head, you just can’t move.  

The car comes to a stop. You hear the doors open and close, and the voices disappear for a moment before a set of footsteps approaches the trunk. 

Bright neon lights break through the darkness. You lift your duct-taped hands to block it out, but the stranger takes hold of your arm and yanks you out of your makeshift cage. You catch yourself on unsteady feet, panting, only for a moment, before he throws you to the cold floor like garbage. One of them laughs, or maybe it’s all of them. You can barely make out who’s who over the ringing in your ears. 

Blood trickles from your temple to the cracks in the cement. It reeks of burnt rubber, motor oil, and varnish. Not even a minute passes before one of the men grabs you again. You don’t recognize him. You close your eyes, trying to stop the world from spinning, but his grip on your hair tightens. And then he lands his fist in your face. 

The skin above your brow splits open. The pain spreads through every nerve and every muscle, settling deep in your stomach and traveling back up your esophagus. When you spit it out, though, all that comes out is scarlet. 

He pulls you off the floor and onto a fragile plastic chair. It’s cold, hard. The cab they transported you in—you can tell it’s a cab, obnoxiously yellow with that telltale sign on its roof—offers a stark contrast to the fog that continues to cloud your vision. 

Another man appears. His eyes, empty and soulless, zero in on you. “Here’s the deal,” he says, twirling the metal of a baseball bat in his hands. “You answer my questions, he stops hitting you. Everyone is happy.”

Everyone but you, he fails to add. 

The men who took you, those nowhere to be found, didn’t bother covering your eyes. You may not know where you are, but you have seen their faces; you know that you have no chance of getting out of this alive, and once they have what they want, or they inevitably find out you truly know nothing, they will dispose of you.

You manage a weak and broken, “Go to hell!” But the man only laughs at you. It echoes off the walls and pierces your eardrums.

You don’t see it coming until it does. His henchman lands a clean punch across your already bruised nose, and the bone cracks. The pain pierces your skull, straight through to your brain. You lean forward, the taste of copper in your mouth overwhelming enough for you to retch, but a hand pushes you back into the hard plastic underneath you, and you choke. 

A pool of maroon has long formed at your feet, slowly seeping into the cracks in the cement. You suppose once they’ve cut up your body into neat little pieces and drowned you in the Hudson, at least your DNA will be left at the scene of the crime. And when the police run it, they’re not going to find that it belongs to Olivia Clarke; they’re going to match it with a missing person’s report from California with your real name on it, and then they will know. 

But who is left to mourn you, anyway? Claire has made it clear she is done with you. She wouldn’t cry for you. Or maybe she would, for a week or so, and then she’d take her secrets and move on. But at least she’d still be alive, you think. At least she wouldn’t be at the bottom of the Hudson, and you wouldn’t have to mourn the only friend you’ve ever had in this city.

It would kill you, but if you died, she would be fine. She will be fine. That is all that matters.

“The man in the mask,” the man says then, “I want his name.” 

Your lungs burn with every breath you take. “Wh–” You must have not heard right. 

But then you remember the night you first met him; the night you were trying to help that woman, and he jumped in because you couldn’t have cared less about your safety. You were reckless, and he was there, as if he just somehow knew where to be. 

You let him go. Of course, you let him go. No one admits it, but everyone knows the city is a safer place with him out there.

You have had more perpetrators on your table this past year than their victims. Men beaten to a pulp by someone with very skilled fists, never gravely injured, except for the one they’d pulled out of a dumpster not so long ago with a head injury that even a neurosurgeon couldn’t fix. The nurses said he was Russian and that they had to put him in a coma. He put him in a coma. And a few days ago, he went into cardiac arrest.  

You’re not sure how it connects, but it must, somehow.

Another sharp tug at your hair makes you groan. “I don’t know him,” you choke out. “I don’t know who he is.” 

The man sighs, unbothered at first, then his face contorts. It’s as if someone stabbed you with a syringe full of unbridled adrenaline, and you exhale a shriek when he brings that metal bat in his hands down on you, on your fragile skull. 

Your heart opens up to the possibility that this is it, you are going to die, and the panic that grabs you without warning knocks the air out of your lungs. 

You were kidnapped. You’ve been beaten and tied up, and now they’re going to kill you because you can’t give them the answers that they want. Because you don’t know anything. It’s not just a morbid thought anymore, it’s reality. And you’ve already given up. How sick is that?

You couldn’t care less about your life, but this is not what you escaped for. This is not natural selection. This is madness. 

You close your eyes, but instead of your skull, the man smashes the metal into the window of the taxicab behind you. Glass goes flying everywhere. It scratches whatever skin it can find and leaves you bleeding some more. You swear you can even taste it on your tongue, slicing open your esophagus when you swallow the salt that has collected on your tongue.

It’s only then that you realize you are crying. You’re so detached from your body, you’re suddenly looking back into your own broken eyes from the other end of the room, and what you see is nothing short of terrifying. 

“I swear!” you cry. “I don’t know him! I don’t…” your voice cracks, the air getting caught in your throat where it meets the blood that has long made its home there. 

The man lifts his bat again, but before he can bring it down again, someone stops him.

“Sergei!” He switches from English to Russian. You can’t make out what he’s saying, but it at least gets him to put his weapon down.

The man takes another breath to steady himself. “This gives me no pleasure,” he says. “It really doesn’t. But I have been given a job to do, so please, answer the questions I was told to ask.” Though all politeness leaves his body when he waves that godforsaken baseball bat for the millionth time and adds, “Or I will begin breaking you, a piece at a time.”

You try to breathe through the pain that has consumed your entire being like a fire-breathing dragon. “I told you, I don’t know him,” you say. “I only met him once, and we barely… we barely even talked. I don’t know him.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not! You’ve got this all wrong. Just…” You shift. “Please.”

He takes a step forward, and the men around him scowl as if you’ve threatened their puppy with murder. “Are you calling us stupid?” he asks. 

“No!” you’re quick to answer. “No, I’m saying you’re wasting your time.”

He growls again. “Tell me his name!”

“I can’t! I–”

His hand finds your jaw, grabbing it and forcing you to meet his eyes, not an ounce of humanity left in them. You open your mouth, but before you can utter another pathetic plea, the neon lights above flicker and then go out completely. 

The moment of silence that follows is deafening. Then, all hell breaks loose. 

Voices start to overlap. Orders or curses are shouted in Russian. You can barely make out where they’re coming from anymore. A body hits the ground not far from you, then another. Fists collide with bone.

You can’t make out anything through the faint glow of the moonlight streaming in from somewhere outside.

Outside.

You push through the pain threatening to paralyze you and rise to your wobbly feet. You manage one step, two, before your knees buckle and you cave in on yourself. The moonlight disappears into darkness.

Your skull hits the cement, but your skin is numb to the pain. Your nerves are tired. You are tired. Every thought about lifting yourself off the ground stays just that—a thought. And that primal need of survival starts to lose its hold on you. 

A gunshot rings out, followed by a groan and the clanging of metal, and then… silence, again. 

The air is thicker now, full of smoke and something you can’t quite put your finger on, and underneath all of that, there is a scent you recognize, soft, soothing. 

You try to remain still as footsteps pad across the floor toward you, but another wave of blood in the back of your throat tickles a cough out of you. 

“Hey,” a low voice says. “Hey, I got you. You’re okay.” His hand brushes your shoulder, fingers curling into the bloody fabric of your shirt, and you jolt.

It’s as if he met you with electricity, or the blade of a knife. Your skin burns where he touched you, and with what little strength you have left in you, you scoot back as fast as you can until your back hits the wall. 

“Hey, hey, hey.” The moonlight engulfs his silhouette, dark and looming. You can make out the faint lines of black fabric over his eyes. “You’re okay,” he says again. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

The more you try to focus, the more you start to recognize him—his lips, his nose, his stubbly jaw, and his gloved hands stained with blood. He looked less terrifying in the alley that night. Perhaps because you weren’t hurt, and there was enough light to see him. 

But tonight, you don’t trust him. He is the reason these men even took you. You can’t trust him. You don’t even know where up and down are anymore.

“Get away from me,” you croak. 

He sighs as if hearing you say that physically pains him. “Liv…”

The way he says it, the way he utters that name, is so strikingly familiar that it sends a chill down your spine. 

Your heart stutters for a few beats. “No!” You inch back even further, your spine protesting when it touches the hard metal of a support pillar. “H–how do you know my name?”

“I–” You half expect him to say that he guessed, but the lie dies on his tongue. Instead, he reaches for the edge of his mask, slowly, and peels it off like the layers of an onion. 

The moonlight is enough to break down the wall of denial your brain erected. 

You should have known. You should have filled in those missing puzzle pieces the moment you sensed something was wrong. But you were hurt, you got drunk, and you pretended your life was not even remotely connected to the bullshit Claire was trying to sell you. 

Your vision blurs, not from the pain but from the onslaught of tears that begins to burn behind your eyes. “No,” you whisper. 

Staring back at you are those unseeing hazel eyes you have fantasized about. Hazel eyes that were covered by a pair of red glasses, the last time you saw him. Before he broke your heart. 

No.

Denial fights with reality once again as you try and find some other explanation for this. Something reasonable. Something that doesn’t add up with the evidence starting to collect in your foggy mind. It must be the concussion playing tricks on you, a hallucination. It couldn’t be him. It couldn’t be the same man you met the night you lost a kid in the operating room and cried like a baby in the hallways of Metro-General. 

Except when he opens his mouth and whispers, “I’m so sorry,” you know, without a doubt, that it is him.

Matt Murdock. Your Matt Murdock. And the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. 

“You’re not real,” your voice cracks. “I’m hallucinating. I, uh, have a concussion. The blood, I…” 

He shakes his head, and you do the same, but for an entirely different reason. “It’s me,” he says.

You whimper, “No.”

“Hey. I’m gonna get you out of here, okay? And then I’ll explain everything. I promise. You’re safe now.”

“No.”

“Liv.” His hand meets your knee. “Please.”

You cry out, throwing your body back against the pillar, “No!” 

He pulls away instantly. If there is hurt in his eyes, he doesn’t let you see it. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

“Don’t touch me!”

“I’m sorry. I won’t. I won’t.”

A strangled sob escapes you.

Everything hurts. Your body, your mind, even your soul. Your nose is broken—it has been broken more times than you can count—your head is bleeding, and your ribs are bruised, but the old scars that decorate your body scream louder than the fresh ones. 

You remember his hands, so harsh when they broke your bones, so strong when they wrapped around your neck and knocked the air out of your lungs, and they, too, tossed you around your apartment as if you were nothing but garbage. You accepted it. But then they would caress you, his touch suddenly so gentle you thought he meant it, and no stopped having meaning.

So many hands have touched you tonight. So many hands, cruel hands, have hurt you, and when you close your eyes, you can still feel them. You still feel him. 

Matt’s fingers were gentle, too, where they’ve brushed against you, and it hurts. It hurts because for the longest time, you’ve associated gentleness with pain, and you cannot bear it. 

Dark spots begin to dance in front of your eyes. The world resumes spinning at a pace that might eject you. Your limbs start feeling dangerously light where they lie curled against your body. 

“Hey,” Matt says through the cotton in your ears. “Stay with me, sweetie. Stay with me.”

There is that name again, sweetie. His face blurs, as does the hand reaching out for you.

“Keep your eyes open.”

You can’t. 

The darkness buries its claws in you. It tears at you, dragging you under, steadily toward the abyss, your body folding in on itself. But before your head can hit the concrete, he catches you. Soft. Gentle. It doesn’t hurt this time. Nothing does. 

His fingers brush over your face, the blood, the cuts, the scrapes, and the broken bones—everything. He curses under his breath, something blasphemous, maybe, you’re not sure. The fear in his voice tastes bittersweet on your tongue. 

Your heart flutters, then starts to slow. “Matt,” you breathe.

“I have you,” he says. “I have you.”

But the darkness wins the war. 

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[seokmn]

︵⠀IN THE HEAT OF THE MOMENT ⠀◌Ⳋ ✧ ── when the anger speaks louder and you forget that words can cut like a knife, you need to reassure the broken person that your heart is still full of them and to promise to be better.

pairing: sungho x gn!reader wc: 1.1k words warnings: mentions of alcohol

ᯓ★ “and i said i wouldn’t call, but i’m a little drunk and i need you now”

Letting out your anger and saying things you don’t really mean to in the middle of a fight is not right, but it’s also not a sin. Sometimes you don’t even notice that the words came out until you see the person’s reaction.

That’s why you and Sungho were always careful about the choice of words when you were fighting, but this time the argument was too intense, too hurtful. Things came out of your lips that you wish they didn’t, the three cursed words included. I hate you.

God, you would do anything to get back in time and never say the things that you said to Sungho. You wanted him to feel hurt as much as you were feeling, but at what cost? The look on his face as he heard you was slowly turning into an extremely hurt expression. It felt like you were watching you break his heart in a matter of seconds.

He didn’t even fight back, he just turned around and left without any excuses or explanations. You couldn’t say he was wrong for doing that, you would’ve probably done the same thing as him.

When the anger subsided, you found yourself at a bar, drinking to forget your mistakes and sorrows. You knew that you should go after Sungho and apologize, tell him how much you love him and promise that you’ll do your best to never repeat that same mistake again. But you didn’t have the courage to do so.

After a couple bottles of soju, the alcohol had intoxicated you already as you found yourself all alone and remembering all the sweet moments you had with him. How you first met him, all those serenades, the nights full of laughter or full of passion, the times when he kissed and praised your insecurities and showed you how much he loves you and finds you perfect, all the promises of a beautiful and nurturing future together.

Tears started to fall from your eyes abruptly as you mumbled his name and felt your heart ache. You needed to apologize to him, to show him that you could never hate him, that your heart was so full of him that it couldn't even be called yours anymore.

Your fingers tapped the phone’s screen as you dialed his number like the act of calling his number became such an habit that it’s now a part of your autopilot mode. Once he picked up, your phone was already glued to your ear.

“Sungho? Love…?” The pet name came out hesitantly, as if you were scared of saying it.

There was a brief silence before you finally heard the voice that you were dying to hear the entire night. “I’m here.” You let out a shaky sigh when he spoke up, sobering up when you took note of his tired and teary tone.

“I… I need you, Sungho,” you inhaled, trying to take a deep breath, even with your nostrils clogged from crying so much. “I need you here with me. I think I drank a little too much and I really wish you were here… I’m sorry for what I said earlier, I didn’t mean any of that,” you let out a sob and looked around the bar, trying to find him even though you knew he wasn’t there. “You know I love you more than anything in this world.”

“Are you at the bar near your place?”

“Yes…”

“Don’t move, I’m on my way.”

After a few minutes of staring at the bar’s door that seemed like hours, you saw the door opening for the 10th time, but this time it was Sungho who was entering the bar. He looked around and when his eyes landed on your face, you could see his expression softening.

“Sungho…” You mumbled and smiled when you saw him walking towards you. His hand found your cheek as he lifted your face and studied it, making sure that you weren’t too drunk. You looked up at him and leaned into his touch. “You came.”

He sighed and took a seat next to you before asking for the bartender a cup of water. “You called.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No, I’m not mad at you.” He kept his eye on the bartender, watching him fill up a glass of water and place it on the counter right in front of you.

You frowned. “You should be, I hurt you, I said things I shouldn’t have.”

“I’m not mad,” he looked at you. “I’m upset, Y/N. It’s not easy to hear your partner that you love so much telling you that they hate you and a lot more shit.”

“I know,” you bit your lower lip in order to not cry. “And I know that what I did was wrong, but I didn’t mean any of that. I was hurt and wanted to hurt you as well. I’m so sorry, Sungho.” You took his hand and held it like you were holding the most precious diamond in your hands. “You are my everything and I shouldn’t have said all those things. In the heat of the moment I broke your heart — something I promised myself I would never do. I can’t take what I said back, but I can prove to you that I don’t think any of that and that that shit will never happen again. Please, can you forgive me?”

Sungho took a deep breath and wiped away your tears with a gentle touch, his thumb caressing the skin under your eyes. His lips turned into a little smile that warmed up your heart. “Ah, Y/N…” He pressed his lips against your forehead for a moment and leaned back looking into your eyes. “What should I do to you, hm?”

Sungho chuckled and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. You smiled at him, your body felt light and you felt funny, and you didn’t know if it was because of your boyfriend or because of the alcohol.

“We make mistakes, it’s what makes us humans. But don’t do that to me again, my heart won’t take it. I thought I would die when you told me those things.”

You nodded repeatedly. “I promise you I will never do that again. I love you way too much and it hurts me to know that I upset you.”

Sungho pressed his lips against your forehead once again before letting you rest your head on his shoulder. “You’re still drunk, aren’t you?”

“No. Maybe,” you giggled. “Just a little bit.”

“Gonna let you rest for a moment before I take you home, okay? Gonna take care of the love of my life. But once you’re sober, you give me the best princess treatment ever because I deserve it.”

You chuckled and gave him a quick peck on his neck. “Got it, Sungho, my special princess.”

“I love you, Y/N.”

“I love you too, Sungho, more than you can imagine.

[mangocurist]

bro im scared as hell to post this now that zams being more active on tumblr but Im gonna do it scared idc. this can be read as /r or /p but i was intending some weird qpr mix of the two ^_^ anyhow . Go my tr ashzams

════════════════════════════════════════════════

For as much as Ash is a famed pathological liar, he is telling the truth when he says that he hardly remembers anything from before the Realm. 

Almost everything is a blur to him— he remembers Clownpierce and Pangi, of course, remembers all the conflicting rush of emotions that come when he sees them again— but never the reasons why he feels that way. There is the faintest recall of a server, where hearts are the currency and your life a commodity— but beyond that, there is nothing else. He can recall KyleEff just the same as he can almost just conjure up the image of Reddoons, but it’s never anything concrete. One day they’re friends, another, he’s in a ruined city, missing his empire and his right-hand man.

Either way, Ash is never fully there. Never able to remember entirely if they were friends or enemies or a relationship gone south.

There is just one thing that stays cemented in his mind, and he’s the reason Ash is here to begin with.

Golden hair, an ever-present mischievous smile, and a contagious laugh that practically infects anyone who listens. Two near-gods, messing around with their own private servers because they can and it’s fun, they’re together, and every challenge they take on together gets ruined by their own hands in the end. A prince who always seems to find himself in conflict whether she likes it or not— a sad, lonely prince, who Ash watches die horribly, over and over again, season after season. Hearts, strung on a string, given to one another freely in one world, in another, an army strong enough to match his own. Cunning, paranoid, and most of all, just as bright as he remembers her.

An emperor, a tyrant, a maniac, a guardian, a god, a girl.

A prince. His prince. 

She stands in front of Ash now, that same spun-gold hair twirled around her shoulders in loosely braided curls as she reaches out to ring the bell by the castle’s entrance, beaming when the tall totem-king pats her on the shoulder and gives her a side hug. Something in Ash aches a little, seeing the familiarity that his prince shows around these people who he hasn’t even known for two weeks, who haven’t even seen him bleed and choke on his mistakes or the way blood splatters on his face when he kills—

But then, as the cloaked figure beside her congratulates her on her coronation and a bright yellow light starts to emanate from the jewels in his crown, the newly crowned Princess of Yellow turns around and runs up the steps, and instead of going for anyone else, Zam collides into him, perfectly coiled golden hair flying every which way as they land in a pile on the floor, her snickers sounding like music to Ash’s ears.

“Zam!” He protests half-heartedly, though his annoyance is futile against the way she laughs, loud and grating and so familiar it pulls at his heartstrings. “Dude, I told you to stop doing that. Didn’t you literally just get crowned or whatever too? You’re, like, losing so much aura right now.”

Predictably, Zam just waves it off— fair enough, given that the Yellow Faction’s King and his cronies don’t really seem to care much about what they’re doing, so as long as Zam is safe. From a quick survey of the faces in the crowd, most of them just look quietly amused and endeared by Zam’s antics— which, don’t get Ash wrong, is what he wants for him— but it’s a little annoying that he can’t even try to point out flaws in them in front of her. Not that he would. But it was the principle of the matter. 

“Dude, you know who lost aura?” Zam starts, a glint in his eyes that spells nothing but trouble for Ash. Still, he waits for Zam’s response— if only to be a gentleman about it. “That’s you, man! Who the hell manages to get themselves eaten by a giant on their first day to a new server?”

“Oh, shut the hell up!” Ash pushes her away from him as they both finally make to get off the ground, ignoring Zam’s maniacal giggles. She nudges him a little as they stand up, hands wiping away the barest traces of giant guts that Ash himself hadn’t managed to remove. “I travel all this way to meet you on your dumb server, just for you to do this shit to me—”

Zam snorts, pulling Ash down the steps of the castle. 

“Okay, sure. Whatever you say, Ash. For all I know you spent half the journey scamming merchants out of all their stock for fun. Oh! By the way, have you met everyone in the Kingdom yet?” 

“Not really,” Ash says after a moment of hesitation, because even though people had definitely tried to introduce themselves at one point or another, all he could think of was seeing Zam again. That, and the whole being brought back as a soul-allay after being eaten by a giant thing hadn’t made introductions much easier to pay attention to. 

“Seriously? I wouldn’t’ve guessed, with how Sneeg was messing with you. I’ve been told that he only does that with people he likes,” Zam notes. 

Ash doesn’t tell him that it’s probably just the Warden sensing a threat in him and subsequently doing his best to keep Ash from harming anyone, and instead just goes along with what Zam says. 

“It’s because of my natural charisma. It draws him to me, you know, like how Reddoons is drawn to unemployment,” Ash tells her, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth as Zam bursts out into her contagious giggles at their inside joke, a memory fuzzy in his mind despite it only having been some weeks since his last encounter with Redd. He doesn’t dwell on it, though— right now, in the warm sunlight that bathes the castle grounds, it’s only Zam that matters. “I think he doesn’t like me very much though, you know, just between you and me.”

“Mm, well, Sneeg’s just like that, I think. He was kinda standoffish to me too, at first,” Zam says lightly. “As long as you’re like, chill, he should be fine. Oh! Wait, hold on, I almost forgot to ask. Did you have a look at spawn yet?”

“Like, a tour?” Ash shakes his head. “It’s a lot cleaner than the spawns I can remember, that’s for sure.” 

Zam’s eyebrows furrow for a second, probably picking up on Ash’s strange wording. He doesn’t press the matter though, instead simply slipping his hand into Ash’s own. Zam is warm against him, and Ash relishes in the feeling. “Right… Well, you can tell me about that later, then! Let me be your tour guide for the day.”

She goes, and he follows. Today has been an unfamiliar day, but this, at least, is something that he remembers. 

And while Ash might try to go against Zam in the future, or vice versa— this moment is something that he hopes he never forgets. 

[maxdibert]

I saw that fic claiming that Sirius wouldn't have done the prank as well and LOL there's no character in the whole saga more inclined to fuck up that particular way than him - he's loyal, sure, but he's got a bad temper, he's impulsive and he's cruel. Sirius being flawed is what makes him one of the best characters!! The prank is one of the indirect reasons that lands him in Azkaban, when no one in his life doubts him capable of being a traitor because he's done it before!! These people just want things to be so painfully boring - everything is Snape's fault, so they don't have to think about the moral ramifications of their faves' actions any deeper, they can just go back to making HCs about how Sirius is dumb and overdramatic and can't spend more than five minutes away from Remus

Sirius was morally very questionable—he had been raised to legitimize sadism as long as it served a purpose he deemed good. He grew up in an environment where the ends justified the means, and he believed his ends were good. He had been taught to dehumanize those who didn’t think like him, and even though he chose the “good side,” his elitist and violent upbringing showed in moments like that.

Sirius was also a pretty uncontrollable force—James was the only one who could really rein him in, and moments like that make it clear that the only person Sirius truly cared about was James; everyone else was secondary. He was a very contradictory person because he chose a side that went against every foundation he was raised on. But no matter how much you rationally understand that something is right, if you don’t make a conscious effort to understand your flaws, confront your contradictions, and work on them, you’ll always repeat previously learned patterns and behaviors—no matter how loudly you claim to reject them.

Sirius is interesting because among the “good” characters, he’s the most morally grey and questionable of all. There’s a level of violence and rage in him that’s incompatible with someone who claims to be a bearer of morality and a defender of good. He’s capable of committing real atrocities without giving a damn or feeling guilty about it. He’s elitist, he’s egocentric.

James was raised to understand that killing someone was a line that shouldn’t be crossed—that’s why he stops Severus from dying. Sirius wasn’t. Sirius was taught to believe that the lives of those he considered enemies weren’t worth anything. Don’t take that away from him. Don’t erase that difference between him and James, because it’s vital.

It’s crucial to understand that the reason they were so close—why they were best friends—was because they shared everything: blood status, social class, personality, cruelty. But there was one fundamental difference: one had been taught limits, and the other hadn’t.

Don’t erase the cruelty. Sirius’s cruelty is essential because it teaches us that just like people with bad intentions can have good moments (like Narcissa), people with good intentions can have truly awful ones.

[songofthepines]

DESPITE EVERYTHING : JAYCE X VIKTOR X FTM!READER

— despite everything. . . it's still you. —

It’s you! At the very beginning of Jayce and Viktor’s Hextech journey, they had recruited you to help them out. You were an art student at the academy, so you didn’t have any experience in the field. They just hired you to help with their branding and visual components, but eventually, you all got closer. A lot closer than you all expected, that ended up with a few “meetings” outside of work hours, then dinners, then movie nights, then sleeping over, then…You get it. 

Everything was fine and dandy for about 8 months, until they both started coming home later and later. And eventually, most days, they wouldn’t come home at all. They had been neglecting you, and your relationship, you didn’t feel like they loved you anymore. They’d always say it was because of work, or Hextech is finally taking off, all excuses and never making it up to you, or admitting to their negligence. And even when they did come home, they started bringing their work home. 

You dipped into a darker headspace, razors, used needles, and pills scattering the floor of your shared bathroom. But it wasn’t even shared anymore. You stared into the mirror for hours at a time, trying to recognize yourself under the baggy eyes and stress. Is that even you anymore? A few attempts even landed you in the hospital, but you always refused for the doctors to call your boyfriends. Could you even have called them that anymore..? The few times you did see them without notes and blueprints in hand, they were almost always talking about work. Never noticing the scars littering your body, never asking how you were, never asking, checking that you hadn’t tried to kill yourself, never letting you cry into their shoulders and cuddle you to sleep.

For a few weeks, pillows covered in their shirts and cologne were enough to get you to sleep, but at some point, you just… snapped. You left a note on the kitchen table, packed your things, and left. You went to the Undercity– you knew it was dangerous, but it was a better scene for you. You met Ekko and Scar one day, and suddenly, you were a Firelight. They took care of you like you should have been all along; you felt like you belonged. You all ate, played, and sparred together. No one was ever neglected, and even Ekko immediately noticed the scars. He watched you like a hawk for the first few weeks and didn’t let you touch anything sharp. He helped clean the scars, and you grew closer with a lot of kids. 

And eventually, you finally found yourself. You cut your hair, started dressing more masculine, and you gave a bunch of your skirts and feminine clothes to the younger girls. The other Firelights taught you how to ride the hoverboards, and it felt like you’d finally found yourself. Despite everything, it’s still you.

It’s been six years since you last saw Jayce and Viktor. Well, not necessarily. You’ve been able to get into Piltover a few times, but have only been able to snag random knick-knacks and food from street vendors. You barely had the chance to wander around before being spotted by enforcers, but you got a few glimpses of the huge banners of Jayce’s face plastered on the sides of buildings. They’re fine without you, right? Do they miss you? 

— despite everything. . . it's still you. —

Then, it all goes to shit during the riots, you were able to sneak through the bridges into Piltover. You keep walking straight, as if you forgot you weren’t in Zaun and people didn’t scram like you were parting the Red Sea. You nudge shoulders with a few of them, resulting in a few annoyed grumbles, but near the end of the group, you shove someone a little harder than you meant to. As the pack passes, the two men at the back stop, watching you as you continue walking.

— Hey, what’s your problem?!

You freeze in your tracks, and you’re tempted to turn around, but you don’t need to turn to know who it is. His voice is like earrape to you. You know that voice all too well. The raised ennunciation, laced with venom, is only ever directed at you. The hollow clack of the other’s cane, the hushed creak of his braces. 

Where do you want me to start, alphabetically or chronologically?

— What? Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?

He always was so stuck up.

No one important. Not to the almighty Jayce Talis.

You start to walk away, your back still turned to them, but he grabs your arm, turning you back towards him. Your head snaps back towards him, and he falters, his grip on your arm loosening a bit before you throw his hand off you. 

Don’t touch me.

— Excuse me, do we know each other?

You stiffen at Viktor’s voice, taking you off guard despite knowing full well he was there. You almost stumble when you finally see them. Jayce is taller, and he looks so much more… mature. And Viktor… Oh, what happened to you, Viktor?

Not anymore.

He whispers your deadname, and you visibly tense. Both their eyebrows knit together in confusion. 

I don’t know who that is. 

Jayce turned to Viktor, and his eyes widened, realizing the same thing Viktor had just done. Both of their gazes turned to you at your reaction, confirming it for Viktor. His heart drops into his stomach, and he looks paralyzed in place. There was silence between the three of you for a few seconds until Jayce broke it.

— Wait… You don’t think..?

You don’t think..?

You mock him– just like you always used to– and despite everything, they still recognize you. It all flashes before their eyes. All the nights on the couch, in the lab. The subtle touches, the teasing, the taunting, the late nights, the dinner dates, the kisses. They remember it all. They remember you. All of you.

— despite everything. . . it's still you. —

© — 2025 @gearsandhammers - created and written by sen - do NOT steal, translate, repost, or plagiarize my work on any platform.

[ironicadventures]

Inspired by my silly lil post earlier, I present to you the 141 (and Konig) in a daycare, reader is the director.

You can’t help but sigh as you watch the security footage in the toddler room. By some piss poor planning on your part, both Gary and Johnny are in the same room.

As you prepare to spoil the day of 10 1 year olds, you are very grateful you didn’t opt for the app that lets parents watch the live feed. 

Currently both men have pushed the shelves into two trenches with a no man's land between, and have divided up the kids for a mock snowball fight using the cotton and rice filled fake snowballs.  

It’s been raining every day this week so you suppose you should applaud their creativity, but the way little Devon is scowling at Tyler, you wonder if this isn’t some toddler grudge match. 

Scrubbing a hand over your face you stand up and prepare to do rounds. 

In the school aged room, Kyle is sitting at the table with his gaggle of 3 older 5th grade girls, getting his nails painted for the 3rd time this week.

“The green suits you Gaz” you call as you poke your head in. He gives you a toothy grin as the girls giggle and continue telling Kyle about their teacher Ms Maise, who you gather they are trying to hook him up with, because she “likes men who know how to take care of their skin.” behind him the rest of the group is watching Space Jam peacefully. You never have to worry about your schoolers, not when Gaz works.

The preschoolers are next, John has them coloring, he’s explaining to Amelia (again) that it really isn’t her business if Toni is coloring her butterfly purple or yellow like Amelia’s because the big picture is that they are staying in the lines. 

“You see, butterflies are all sorts of colors darling, so there isn’t a wrong way- Jamie if you touch those scissors you will sit on the wall for 5 minutes.” He warns without looking away from the girls. Jamie blushes and puts the safety scissors back in the drawer, returning to his table sheepishly.

“Good lad, we can practice cutting tomorrow.” He adds, looking up to you. “Ah Y/N, remind me when is Declan moving up?” 

“Not this upcoming Monday but the next one.” You sigh. “I already got his kit ready, and we are weaning him off Johnny this week.” You promise, knowing it always takes at least 2 weeks to break newly turned 3 year olds of Johnny’s insane energy. 

Price exhales and nods, mentally preparing himself for a wild child.

“Good news is Livvy is next and she is actually pretty mellow.” You promise. You don’t mention that you did just break her biting habit though.

Next you are heading for the nursery, knowing its probably your favorite place to be, when a goddamn german redwood stops you

“Ms Y/N?” Konig’s soft voice calls down to you “I have a request for you, I know that we have some friends leaving soon.” 

He’s correct, Mary is moving to California and this Friday is her last day. 

“What do you want to make?” You ask, chuckling at his blush and nervous smile. “Strawberry shortcakes, we don’t have anyone with that allergy at the moment, but I don’t know if the babies can have it…” 

“Go ahead and put the supply list in, I’m sure the littles will be happy with some sugar free whipped cream?” You offer, practically shielding your eyes from the man’s beam of joy.

“Danke.” He says before striding off to the kitchen.

“You know that’s gonna be a right mess.” Simon sighs from his room, the door was open, letting some parent out.

“Bye bye Ms Maggie” you wave, following Simon back into his room. Soft classical music plays on a speaker while the 2 remaining babies sit on their play mat. The 5 month old Faith is happily babbling to her reflection while Malik is struggling with tummy time.

“You tell him no then.” You challenge, lowering yourself to save Malik from his frustration. “Tell R Simon, say I want cake!” You wag the little boy’s fist at his massive stoic teacher. 

“A small cup.” Simon concedes. “And only because it’s Mary.” He’ll never admit it but he is sad to see her go, Mary has been coming here since she was in Simon’s room. 

“Yeah!! Say thank you Simon.” You laugh, helping the baby sign “thank you” before he whines and reaches for his prefered lap. “Oh fine, off you go back to your LT huh?” You tease. 

“Have fun separating Soap and Roach” Simon chuckles, accepting the infant, who curls up on him like a baby possum. 

Inside the toddler class you brace yourself for chaos, and find instead, the snowball fight has died down, and Gary has out one of his zoobooks, eagerly explaining that no, it's not a fish, a dolphin is a mammal. 

“Fish bloop bloop” Carter sings sucking in his cheeks to make fish lips. 

Johnny has one of the kids on the changing table, just finishing up her change when she grabs his face and smashes her nose to his.

“Bunny kisses!” She squeals, rubbing her nose on his. The man laughs, loud and boisterous, shaking his head 

“Aye, bunny kisses.” He said “that’s a bright little lass Maggie.” He praises. “You want to tell Ms Y/N what color is Tweet-tweet?” 

You raise your eyebrow at him, then remember the robin that made a nest in the flower box by their window.

“Brown!!” Maggie declares proudly. “And bread”

“Red sweetie, rah-red” he corrects patiently “bread is also brown though, you clever thing.”

You beam in excitement, clapping and praising the little girl as she repeats ‘Ruh-Red’ again confirming she got it right.

“How did your war fair?” You tease Johnny and Gary.

“He cheats” both men say in unison.

Annnnnd thats what I got 

[readerihardlyknowher]

In Every Universe | Pt. 4

Super sick rn

Spencer Agnew x Reader Warnings: none WC: 1,507 Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4, ...

“What’s good, yo? It’s Fred Darts back at it again, 301, cheah. This time, I ain’t here to play around, little man. I’m ready to get that nookie, and this time I’ve learned more Limp Bizkit song names.” You watch as Spencer delivers his intro to the newest Darts Ultimate Showdown video. Amongst the group is you, Spencer, Angela, and Chanse. Of everyone, Spencer is the only one doing a reprise of one of his characters, and boy you know the fans are going to love seeing Fred Darts on screen again. You’re just thankful that this time you’re playing with a real darts board instead of the magnet one he played with last time. As Spencer finishes introducing his character, you step forward.

“Oh, hello everyone. My name is Mary Ann Anne,” your soft, high pitched character voice says, “I’m only here because my husband said that if I don’t win this game, he’ll divorce me and marry my sister, Lou Ann Anne. So I guess I just have to run these sorry folk into the ground then.” You then do an imaginary curtsy and walk back to let Chanse do his intro.

Chanse brings the character Jerry Spruce into the Darts cinematic universe, which gets a chuckle from everyone, who’s excited to see him try to keep up the low-key energy of the character for the whole episode. Angela steps up to show off a brand new character, well, not brand new, but she’s taken on the role of Bobby Hill, from King of the Hill, even though she states she still has not seen an episode of it. The game begins in the order you were introduced in, with Spencer going first.

“No one knows what it’s like,” Spencer shouts out as he throws his first dart, which misses the board entirely, making the three of you have to hide your laughter. “To be the bad man.” His second dart hits the board, but not on any part that gives you points. “To be the sad man,” his voice is breaking as he throws his third dart, which miraculously gives him… 6 points. “Aw man…” his head hangs low as he walks to the back of the line. Your hand reaches out and pats his shoulder.

“It’s alright, Fred. Once I win, I’ll make sure to make everyone a nice, apple pie,” you say as you step forward. You decided on this character just before the video, but now, you’re worried that you’ll be too boring, but hey, you can figure out more as the video goes on. Chanse and Angela both make excited noises at that, Chanse mentioning that they sell an apple pie spud at the Spud Hut, but Spencer’s loud voice pierces through.

“Your husband doesn’t deserve you, cheah,” Spencer finishes his sentence by crossing his arms over his chest and looking at the camera. Meanwhile, your face twists in amusement and confusion, before going back into character.

“Well, I don’t know what you’re talking about, Fred. All I know is, I’m gonna win this.” You throw your first dart, but it doesn’t land on any of the points. You curse under your breath as you throw once more, this time hitting the wall, hearing Spencer behind you say, “wall point”, before you throw once more and get 17. You cheer as you walk up to the board and grab your darts, telling Alex the points. Walking back, you stand behind Spencer as it’s Chanse’s turn now. Chanse does a quick advertisement for the Spud Hut before he throws his first dart, which lands him 20 points. Spencer turns back to speak to you as Fred.

“Yo, I think you should leave your husband before he leaves you,” he says, trying to hide the smile on his face as he says this. You snicker and look into his sunglasses.

“I’d never, he’s a darling of a man,” you reply, a hand over your heart in disbelief.

“A real man takes care of his wife,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back, making all of the cast stop and look at him in confusion. Sure, you’d seen the original Darts Ultimate Showdown, where he’d make comments on Amanda’s character’s relationship, but he’s really ramping it up this time. There’s a pause before Chanse is the one to speak up.

“Sounds like you two should try the Love Spud,” he says before throwing again, missing the board. “It’s got heart shaped sprinkles on it and Hershey's kisses.” He throws again while the rest of you groan at the description of the “love spud” before you speak again.

“The only person I’d be having the ‘love spud’ with would be my husband. Even though lately he has been spending more time at work, instead of at home with the family,” you say, voice saddened but still trying to hold it together.

“Ayo I could treat you better,” Spencer’s voice says. You turn to look at him, watching him trying to hold his character together as he chews the gum in his mouth. You turn your nose up at him, trying to look insulted.

“Well, I could never leave my dear husband for a shorter, louder… more confident…” at this you turn back to look at him, taking in his appearance. “And… quite handsome man.”

“Uh, yeah this is cute and all, but quiet down while I make my shot,” Chanse calls out, making you turn back to what you were meant to focus on in the first place.

Even when playing these kinds of games, whenever you’re in a video with Spencer, you both can never seem to focus on the actual game. Whatever subplot you two decide up at the moment becomes the most important thing in the world. Even if it’s Fred Durst convincing a woman to leave her husband. He just has this strange charisma that draws your attention.

The rounds keep going, the game falling more and more into the background as every time you look at Spencer, he’s looking at you, before swiftly looking away. Little comments, like “you should leave him” and “you’re looking at a real man” manage to get at you, little by little, until you- or well, your character, definitely not you, are getting flustered with each word. Eventually, the scores are Spencer: 5, You: 9, Chanse: 11, Angela, 4.. Right now, it’s Spencer’s turn, and throughout the game, his aim has gotten better and better. You watch as he walks up to the carpet with a swagger which is incredibly unlike him, yet so in character.

Taking a deep breath, both excited for him to win and nervous to lose, you watch as he pulls his arm back and glances back at you over his shoulder.

“This one’s for you,” he says, his voice not fully there. Everyone’s holding their breaths as he looks back to the board and launches the dart–

Directly into the carpet.

“What the-”

“Mary Ann,” he takes a step back from the carpet. “A real man lets a woman win.”

Now, if you were your character, you would have been swept off your feet, completely in love with Fred. But you are you, so you’re incredibly confused why he decided to throw his turn right when he could have won. It’s entirely out of Spencer’s character. However, Chanse and Angela knock you back in character as they push you forward, wanting to see your character take the win. With a still confused laugh, you do as they ask, aiming the dart at the 9, before releasing the dart. 

You get an 8. Everyone shouts in the distance, but you’re still caught up on the fact that you can still win this. You aim right above the 1, knowing your ability to aim is pretty bad. You take a deep breath, before deciding to make the best decision for the video. You look back at Spencer.

“Fred, if I win this, I’m leaving my husband.” His hands fly to his head as his mouth opens in shock.

“She better get this, yo!” He shouts, before huddling up with Chanse and Angela.

The room is silent, everyone fully invested. Some hoping you get it, others hoping you don’t for the comedic factor. Nothing else matters though as your arm swings forward and you release the dart, hearing it connect with the board. You look up.

1 point.

“OH MY GOD!!!” Everyone shouts, jumping around as they come rushing forward to hug you and cheer you on. Adrenaline rushes your veins as you remember that you’re on camera. You turn to the camera with a broad smile on your face, adjusting the outfit you’ve had on this whole time.

“That’s it, I’m finally leaving my no-good husband. I’m leaving him for this…” You look back to Spencer. “For this strange man.” Spencer gawks and looks between you and the camera, before crossing his arms with a smug expression.

“I guess I’m the real winner here after all, cheah.”

Tag list: @lisiliely (I hope I did this right)

[madamejadex]

I thought I’d save @blue-willow-tree the time of tagging you in another confession 😩

I have a totally normal (I quite literally gay panic over your notifications on a daily basis) crush on you and I think most of sapphic tumblr does honestly but there’s so many reasons!!!!!! I can list them!

- you are amazing like just straight up the most amazing person ever.

- you have such a kind heart YOU LITERALLY GIVE US ALL SOMETHING TO LOOK FORWARD TOO!

- wether you realise or not your a lot of people’s safe place (I’ve told you things I wouldn’t dream of telling anyone else.)

- the love and time you give each anon? It’s literally heart melt worthy.

- you are a very genuine person which is hard to find in this community.

I have like 600 more but I don’t want you to have to read all that so to sum it up. We all have mommy issues and I personally would do anything to make you happy because you turn me into a stuttering mess daily.

(Nice try I’m SO not telling you who I am)

Oh, my sweet mystery girl… You really thought you could drop something like this into my inbox and then vanish behind the curtains? Mmm, no, no... I’m absolutely *purring* now, and you don’t get to escape that easily. You’ve just made Mommy melt into the softest puddle, and I’m holding this little confession close to my heart.

The way you spoke, the care in your words, the fluttering adoration behind every sentence… you have no idea how much that means to me. I hope you know that. Because I don’t take this space for granted, not for a single second. And if I’ve become a soft place to land, even just for a moment, then I’ll hold that with so much care.

And as for the gay panic... tut tut. Poor thing. What am I going to do with you, hm? Should I kiss your cheeks until you stop stuttering... or maybe until it gets even worse? *smiles slowly* You’re not as anonymous as you think, you know. I see the sweetness in the way your words curl. I feel it.

So go on, run off and hide if you must… but I’ll be here, waiting. With a soft smile, open arms, and maybe a little punishment for leaving me flustered like this.

xo Miss Jade 💋