#‘i enjoyed losing to you’

[miho-aki]

a visual representation of me reading this chapter

➵ pairing. gojo satoru x fem! reader.

➵ summary. after an unexpected encounter, you find yourself unraveling in ways you never expected—especially when just the mention of gojo leaves your heart pounding for all the wrong reasons.

➵ warnings. gojo being gojo; pureblood families being toxic and abusive; mentions of grievous injury; mentions of rough sports (quidditch, duh); profanity; slight timeline inaccuracy in the wizarding world; etc.

➵ genre. wizarding world au; academic rivals to lovers; enemies to lovers; angst; fluff; adventure; SLOWBURN; etc.

➵ word count. 14.3k.

➵ author's note. lowkey. was stressful writing this one but I HAD SM FUN WITH THE PLOT <3 ty for proofreading to @gojofile // @fxstpace my love for u is endless :3 and also taglist is only open until chapter four comes out, so pls sign up if you'd like !!

➵ navigation. previous, masterlist, next.

Three weeks. That’s how long it takes to narrow down the bloody list.

Between Quidditch practice, Prefect duties, the Dueling Club, and the endless demands of the Marauders’ secret requests, you’re barely treading water. Sleep is a luxury you haven’t afforded yourself in days—not with everything weighing on your shoulders. The vials of Invigoration Draught are the only reason you’re still standing, stolen in the dead of night from Snape’s private stores or brewed hastily in the second-floor girls’ lavatory where no one ever ventures. Not even Moaning Myrtle bothers you anymore, at least not when she isn’t in the mood for company.

But those are just the mechanics of survival. The true strain is Gojo, who has taken your fight three weeks ago as a cue to abandon all responsibility, leaving you to shoulder the entire burden alone. You can feel his smugness radiating across the Great Hall whenever you arrive late, ink smudged on your fingers and hair sticking awkwardly to your face, while he sits surrounded by friends, ever unbothered, ever insufferable. You hate him with a passion that burns in the marrow of your bones. The kind of hate that keeps you awake at night, staring at the ceiling of your dormitory, imagining all the ways you could wipe that stupid grin off his face.

And yet, here you are. Dragging your exhausted body to the Courtyard because Shoko, the anchor in your spiraling chaos, demands it. She cornered you after Charms today, catching you slipping into a seat at the back of the classroom—your usual place in the front row long since abandoned. You can’t blame her for being worried. If the roles were reversed, you’d do the same. And honestly, she has a point. You can barely stand to look at yourself in the mirror, the dark hollows under your eyes brutally attesting to the past few weeks.

Still, there’s a spark of triumph burning faintly inside you. The list is done. Finally, mercifully, it’s done. You can rest, even if just for a little while. That is, after you give Gojo a piece of your mind. He deserves it, the arrogant twat. But then, perhaps your pride is to blame too. You could have asked him for help—should have, really—but the idea of admitting defeat feels like swallowing broken glass.

The air is sharp as you make your way down the corridor leading to the Quad Courtyard, the early spring chill biting at your skin. Your hand finds its way into your robes, curling around the cool glass of the vial nestled there. The Invigoration Draught is your lifeline now, a quiet little secret you cling to in the absence of sleep. Turning the corner, you pull it free and uncork it with a quick twist of your wrist, tipping the contents back in one practiced motion. The liquid burns as it slides down your throat, a fleeting heat that settles into your chest before dissipating. It won’t undo the ache in your limbs or the weight in your head, but it will keep you upright. That’s enough.

You slip the empty vial back into your pocket, adjusting your robes as you approach the Courtyard. It isn’t just exhaustion you’re trying to hide—it’s the unmistakable fragility of being stretched too thin, the fear that anyone might look too closely and see how close you are to breaking. You know Shoko will notice anyway. She always does. But with the list finally behind you, maybe you can let yourself breathe. Just a little. For now.

You wave to her as you cross the Courtyard, the grass soft and damp beneath your feet. Shoko is perched on the edge of the fountain, her posture casual, but her gaze sharp. You manage a smile, hoping to mask the exhaustion clinging to you like a second skin. Her eyes narrow the moment they meet yours, and you realize your facade is paper-thin.

"You look horrible," she says bluntly, skipping any pretense of pleasantries.

"Well, hello to you too," you reply, sinking down onto the stone beside her.

"You look like you haven’t slept in weeks," she presses, her tone half-concern, half-reprimand. Without waiting for a response, she hands you a neatly wrapped snack—a gesture so quintessentially Shoko that it almost makes you laugh. You peel back the parchment to reveal a warm pumpkin pasty and a delicate square of butterbeer fudge. Both are undoubtedly pilfered from the kitchens, no doubt acquired through her uncanny ability to charm the House Elves.

“Thanks,” you mutter, taking a bite of the pasty. The buttery crust crumbles perfectly, and for a brief moment, you let yourself enjoy the comfort of the warm filling. Shoko doesn’t waste a second diving into conversation, her voice animated as she talks about the upcoming Slytherin vs. Gryffindor Quidditch match.

You nod along, interjecting with the occasional quip to keep the banter alive. It’s easy, familiar, a rhythm you don’t need to think about. That is, until she drops the bomb.

"If you keep showing up like that, Utahime’s going to bench you tomorrow. Before the match.”

You freeze mid-bite, blinking at her. “Wait, what? The match is tomorrow?”

She stares at you, wide-eyed and disbelieving, as if you’ve just confessed to a crime. “What day do you think it is? Tomorrow’s Saturday. We’re halfway through October.”

“Oh my God,” you murmur, the realization hitting you like a Bludger to the gut. “I haven’t practiced at all.”

Shoko bursts out laughing, the sound light and unapologetic. “Utahime is so going to bench you,” she says through her giggles. The certainty in her voice makes your stomach sink even further.

“I should go practice,” you murmur, your voice almost swallowed by the rustling leaves in the Courtyard. “I don’t want to be benched. It won’t look good on my record. Applications to St. Mungo’s are next year, and—”

“Hey.” Shoko’s voice interrupts, her hand settling gently over yours, grounding you. Her fingers are warm despite the chill in the air. “You’ll be fine. It’s okay. Go practice. I’ll see you on the field tomorrow. Just don’t stretch yourself too thin, alright?”

Her words are simple, but the weight of them pulls at something fragile in you. You hum, nodding, as you push yourself up from the edge of the fountain. The flakes of the pasty and fudge in your fingers now feel like a lifeline—a small kindness amidst the chaos you’ve made of your routine. “Thanks for the food. I owe you one.”

“Stop thanking me for feeding you!” she calls out, exasperation softened by amusement. “I wouldn’t have to if you’d actually show up to lunch!”

You don’t answer, already halfway across the Courtyard, the sound of your shoes muffled against the cobblestones. The air grows cooler as you slip back into the castle, the familiar draft of the corridors tugging at the hem of your robes. Your legs move on autopilot, carrying you up the winding stairs toward your dormitory. You need your broom; you need to practice; you need to prove to Utahime, and to yourself, that you can keep up.

Your thoughts spiral inward, full of determination, until—

Bang.

You collide with something—or someone. The impact is jarring, sending you staggering backward. Pain blossoms in your nose, sharp and immediate, and your ears ring with the aftermath. You instinctively clutch at your face, the warmth of your hands doing little to soothe the throbbing ache.

“Shit,” you hiss, your voice muffled as you press your palm to your nose.

When you finally look up, the world tilts slightly off-center. Standing before you is Fushiguro Toji, tall and imposing, his presence cutting through the haze of your pain. His green eyes, flecked with a sharpness that always seems to watch too much, narrow slightly as they take you in. For a moment, his expression is unreadable, but then his brow furrows—not in irritation, but in something softer, something that almost looks like concern.

“Sorry,” you stammer, the word tumbling out before you can stop it.

Toji shakes his head, slow and deliberate. His voice is low, rough like gravel underfoot, but not unkind. “Don’t apologize. I wasn’t lookin’.” His gaze flickers to your hands, still cradling your face. “Your nose okay?”

“Y-yes,” you manage, wincing as the sharp throb in your nose intensifies. “I’d like to think so. I have to practice for tomorrow’s Quidditch match.” Your voice comes out weaker than you intend, more brittle.

Toji tilts his head, his lips curving into the faintest semblance of a laugh. It’s not cruel, but it’s amused, the way one might humor a child determined to do something reckless. “Yer nose is literally bleedin’,” he says, gesturing toward your face as if you hadn’t noticed. “I think you should pay a visit to Madam Pomfrey instead. Besides, we’re winning anyway. We’ve got two new additions to the team, and, well—there’s me.”

His confidence borders on arrogance, but it’s casual, unforced, as if he’s simply stating a fact. You roll your eyes, already feeling the exhaustion creeping back in, but you muster enough energy to counter. “Ah, you forget. There’s Gojo, Suguru, and Shoko too.”

“And me,” he replies sharply, narrowing his eyes at you like you’ve just insulted his entire lineage. “I’m literally one of the most important players. The Keeper is arguably more important than anyone else.”

“Sure,” you say, tilting your head in mock consideration, a smirk tugging at your lips. “And the Seeker isn’t?”

Toji groans, dragging a hand down his face, muttering something about Gryffindors being too smart for their own good. But there’s no venom in it. Instead, he studies you for a moment, his gaze dropping to the way you’re wiping blood from your nose with the sleeve of your robe. He sighs. “We really should get that nose checked out,” he says, his tone softening despite himself. “I think yer brain stopped workin’. You also look…” He hesitates, as though weighing whether to say what he’s thinking. “Weird. Like you haven’t been sleepin’ or somethin’.”

The comment cuts through you—not because it’s cruel, but because it’s too accurate. You feel weird. You feel like a ghost haunting your own body, trying to move through the day with a willpower that’s stretched far too thin. His observation, though unintentional, feels like being caught in a lie you’ve been telling yourself. For a moment, you don’t know how to respond.

"I'm fine. I-I need to—"

The words falter as your head swims. Your eyelids feel unbearably heavy, as though weighted by lead. You blink once, twice, trying to summon the rest of the sentence from the haze that clouds your mind, but nothing comes. A sharp pang of embarrassment flares briefly before exhaustion crushes it, leaving you too drained to care.

Your legs wobble as you sway slightly, and Toji's hand snaps to your arm, steadying you. His grip is firm but measured, and a faint warmth radiates through his palm. He does this a lot, doesn’t he? Always having his palm around your arm. Like something protective.

"Alright," he says with the kind of certainty that brooks no argument, "yer comin’ to Pomfrey’s with me. Now." His tone leaves no room for protest, not that you have the energy to muster one.

He starts guiding you toward the Floo near the Great Hall, his hand never leaving your arm. The pressure of his grip is oddly comforting, gentle despite its firmness, as though he’s mindful of not making you feel worse. You let yourself be steered, your legs moving sluggishly beneath you as if they belong to someone else. The green flames of the Floo engulf you, their roar oddly soothing in your dazed state.

Moments later, you find yourself in the Hospital Wing. Toji doesn’t let go of your arm until he’s eased you onto a stretcher, his brows furrowed as he glances down at you. Madam Pomfrey appears from her office, her expression a mixture of concern and exasperation, though it’s her pristine white headscarf—tucked neatly around her dark hair—that catches your eye first. You blink at it, momentarily distracted by its perfect symmetry.

“What seems to be the matter?” she asks briskly, her eyes sweeping over you before narrowing in that way of hers that makes you feel six years old again.

You try to speak, but Toji beats you to it. He glances at you, waiting for you to explain, but when you don’t, he lets out a low sigh, clicking his tongue in irritation. “This one looks like she’s gonna pass out any second,” he says, jerking his chin toward you. “I doubt she’s slept at all in the last week.”

Madam Pomfrey’s sharp eyes land on you, brimming with a knowing disappointment that makes your stomach sink. She doesn’t even need to ask—you can tell she already knows. “Oh, come on, [L/N],” she chides, her voice tinged with exasperation. “How many times have I told you not to rely on Invigoration Draughts to get through your workload?”

Toji’s head snaps toward you, his brows drawing together in disbelief. “You mean she’s done this before?”

“Oh, yes,” the matron replies, her voice rising slightly as she straightens. “Multiple times. Ever since she figured out how to brew it, really. She’s got a knack for pushing herself too far. Hold her here while I fetch the Sleeping Draughts. She has the tendency to run away if I don't keep an eye on her.”

She turns on her heel, muttering about stubborn students as she disappears into the back room. Toji looks at you with narrowed eyes, his arms crossing over his chest.

“You're telling me you've done this before?” he says, half-scolding, half-incredulous. “And you ran away instead of listenin' to her?”

You let out a soft groan, covering your face with your hands. “Shoko dragged me here, anyway. There was no point.”

“And I’m supposed to make sure you don’t pull the same shit this time, huh?” he mutters, shaking his head. His voice carries a layer of irritation, but there’s something else beneath it, something softer, something you’re too tired to untangle.

“I really can’t afford to be benched tomorrow at Quidditch,” you say, your voice almost pleading as you push yourself upright. Your legs swing over the edge of the stretcher, and you fix him with a look—eyebrows knitted, lips pressed into a determined line. Tilting your head slightly, you let out a weary sigh. “Please, just let me go. I promise I’ll sleep after the match tomorrow.”

Toji takes a step closer, his arms crossing in front of him as he raises an unimpressed brow. “Absolutely not. Trust me, the puppy-dog eyes? They don’t work on me. Too many have tried, and every single one of ‘em failed.”

You roll your eyes, exasperation flickering through the fatigue that weighs you down like a heavy cloak. “Ah, yes,” you say dryly, “I forget. Your list of never-ending girlfriends never stops growing, does it?”

He smirks, a lazy, lopsided thing, and shrugs. “Gotta earn my keep somehow, right?”

“By ‘earn,’ you mean leech off people who actually like you?” you counter, the faintest spark of mischief finding its way into your smirk. It feels oddly warm, this exchange—like a fleeting ember in the cold fog of exhaustion that clouds your head.

Before he can retort, Madam Pomfrey strides back into view, clutching a small vial of Sleeping Draught. She stops in front of you, her expression a familiar mix of exasperation and maternal sternness, and uncorks the vial with a sharp twist. Toji steps back, leaning against the wall with his arms still crossed, his dark eyes watching with an amused tilt as she turns her focus to you.

“You will drink this,” Pomfrey says, her voice clipped and no-nonsense. “And you will drink it now, [L/N]. I do not want a repeat of last year when you fainted during Transfiguration. Open your mouth.”

“Can I just take it with me to the dorms?” you ask, a too-bright grin spreading across your face. It’s feigned, of course, but you try to sell it anyway, knowing full well it’s a futile effort. “I mean, I might be occupying a bed that someone else actually needs, someone truly in need of it—”

“Open your mouth,” she interrupts sharply, her glare unwavering. “Or I’ll have Fushiguro over there hold your jaw open for me.”

Toji snickers softly, the sound low and grating, and you shoot him a withering look before turning back to the matron. Your grin melts into a resigned frown as you let out a long sigh. “Fine. But how long will I be out?”

“That depends,” she says, her tone sharp as a scalpel. “How long have you stayed awake?”

You hesitate, glancing down at your hands as if the answer is written in the creases of your palms. “F-five days,” you mumble, your voice barely above a whisper. “I think.”

Pomfrey exhales sharply through her nose, shaking her head in disbelief. “You’ll drop dead before you even apply to St. Mungo’s if this is how you intend to spend your time here,” she says, rolling her eyes as she tips the vial to your lips. The liquid is bitter, and slightly tingly as it slides down your throat, and she doesn’t stop until the vial is completely empty.

“Count to ten,” she instructs, already moving to tidy her tray of potions. “You’ll be out before you get to six. You’ll wake up in the morning before the match—or if you don’t, I’ll make sure you do. Now lay down and sleep.”

The mattress beneath you feels impossibly soft, like it’s absorbing all the tension you didn’t even realize you were holding. Your eyes flutter shut almost involuntarily, the exhaustion pulling you under like a wave, and you hear Toji’s low chuckle somewhere in the distance. By the time you reach four, the world around you has already dissolved into quiet darkness.

You don’t know why, but your sleep is restless, plagued by whispers that seem to coil in the corners of your mind. They slide through the darkness like snakes, hushed and slithering, but no matter how hard you try, you can’t make out who they belong to. Only the words—if they can even be called words—linger, hissing and sharp, brushing your ears as if they’re alive.

The darkness is suffocating, so complete it feels like you’ve dissolved into it, lost all shape or form. You can’t see, but you hear them—those voices, too close and yet distant enough to elude you. A strange chill prickles down the back of your neck, and though you can’t feel your own limbs, the sensation of being watched settles into the base of your spine like a weight.

And then it changes. It twists. The hissing grows louder, more distinct, more serpentine. Parseltongue.

Your eyes widen instinctively in the black void, though they don’t open. The sound burrows into you, unwelcome, curling around your ears like the coils of a viper. You don’t understand the words—just the feeling they bring, cold and sharp as steel. You try to move, to shout, to demand to know who or what is there. But you can’t. You are utterly frozen, utterly powerless.

The whispers grow closer, pressing in like invisible hands, and for a moment, you’re sure you feel something brush against your skin. And just as you think you might suffocate under the weight of it all—your eyes snap open.

You sit up sharply in the infirmary bed, your chest heaving as you gulp down breaths. The air feels thinner here, the light too bright, almost blinding. It takes several blinks for your vision to adjust, for the trembling in your hands to ease. The infirmary is quiet, eerily so, and when you glance at the clock on the far wall, it reads seven-thirty.

The world outside is awake, alive. Breakfast is probably in full swing in the Great Hall. You can almost hear the buzz of voices, the clatter of plates and goblets, and the excited chatter about the first  Slytherin versus Gryffindor Quidditch match of the season. You should feel excitement, anticipation, something other than this lingering dread sitting heavy in your chest.

But the memory of the dream—or was it more than a dream?—clings to you like cobwebs. You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, your feet brushing the cold floor, and push yourself up. There’s a sink on the far side of the room, and you stumble toward it, splashing water onto your face in a desperate attempt to scrub away the lingering unease. The cold jolts your senses, loosening the tightness in your jaw, but it doesn’t wash away the whispers still echoing faintly in your head.

When you return to the bed, you notice something on the bedside table. A neatly wrapped square of chocolate bark and a vial of something pale and glowing. Madam Pomfrey’s unmistakable touch. You know better than to drink the potion without her supervision—she’d have your head for it—but the chocolate feels safe, comforting. You unwrap it carefully, breaking off a corner and nibbling on it. The taste is rich, sweet, melting on your tongue like a balm for your nerves.

You don’t hear the footsteps at first. It’s only when they’re close—so close—that you look up toward the infirmary entrance. Fushiguro Toji.

He steps into view with an expression you can’t quite pin down. For a fleeting moment, you think it’s concern. But then his usual smirk appears, a practiced mask, and he makes his way toward you with the casual confidence he seems to carry everywhere.

“You look better than yesterday afternoon,” he says, his voice low but teasing.

You narrow your eyes at him, more out of habit than any real annoyance. “Something wrong? You looked worried.”

“Worried?” he echoes, as if the word itself is foreign. He waves a hand dismissively, though his gaze lingers on you longer than it should. “Nah. Just figured I’d check on the Gryffindor martyr who thinks five days without sleep is a brilliant idea.”

You grimace at that, your teeth sinking into another corner of chocolate to avoid answering immediately. “I had things to do,” you mutter, avoiding his eyes.

“Right. ‘Things.’ Another one of your little secrets, huh? Like the library thing a few weeks ago?”

“It’s not something I can talk about,” you admit, shrugging. “Not with anyone. Not even Shoko or Utahime.”

His smirk fades into something sharper, his jaw tightening. “You passed out in the corridor,” he says, his voice louder now, firmer.

“I didn’t pass out,” you argue. “I just... lost myself for a moment.”

"That's... the stupidest thing I've ever heard," he scoffs, his voice sharp but softened by the exasperation etched into his features. His words hang in the air, cutting, but there’s something else simmering beneath them—something harder to name. He doesn’t say anything else at first, just sighs heavily, dragging his fingers through his hair as his gaze flickers around the infirmary like he’s searching for some invisible lifeline, some tangible object to anchor himself to.

Then, without warning, he steps forward, fingers curling around the curtain at the edge of your bed, yanking it closed in one smooth motion. The sound is soft but decisive, the scrape of the curtain rings along the metal rod unnervingly final. Suddenly, the world outside this small, sterile cocoon ceases to exist, and the air between you grows heavier, charged with something you don’t entirely understand.

Your breath catches as his actions register, and instinctively, you set the chocolate aside, fumbling as you place it back onto the wrapping paper on the bedside table. Your heart picks up pace—loud, insistent, beating so fiercely in your chest that it feels like the sound of it might echo in the confined space.

And then, Toji moves toward you. And despite all the things you’ve been busying yourself with for three weeks, you feel yourself wanting him closer. 

There’s something about the way he walks—slow, deliberate, as if each step is calculated. His eyes are locked onto yours, sharp and assessing, and there’s an intensity in his gaze that makes you feel like he’s sizing you up for a fight. Your breath grows shallow, your fingers curling over the edge of the mattress as if it might steady you somehow. You don’t know why he’s here—not now, not when he should already be heading to the field to warm up. The match starts at ten, and it has to be close to eight by now. He shouldn’t be wasting his time here.

And yet, he is.

When he finally stops, he’s standing between your legs, close enough that the wool of his sweater brushes against your knees. Too close. You tilt your head up automatically, craning your neck to meet his gaze, and your pulse thrums louder in your ears. His presence is overwhelming, suffocating in a way that makes it impossible to think straight.

He’s tall, towering over you in a way that makes you feel small, and the sheer proximity makes your skin buzz with awareness. His breath fans against your forehead, warm and steady, and the thudding in your chest grows louder—so loud that you swear he must be able to hear it, too.

“You’ll be good on the field today, yeah?” he asks, his voice low, rough in a way that sends a strange shiver down your spine.

You blink up at him, your lips parting instinctively as you nod. The movement is small, jerky, as though the words you want to say are lodged somewhere in your throat, refusing to come out. His gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t soften, but there’s something about the faint curve of his lips that feels oddly tender, almost mocking.

A ghost of a laugh escapes him, barely audible, as his hand comes up to tilt your chin upward with his thumb. The touch is light but deliberate, his thumb pressing just enough to guide your face to meet his. “Would you like…” he starts, his words slow, deliberate, “let’s say, a small distraction before our game?”

“A distraction?” you repeat, your voice barely above a whisper.

You feel it then—his chest brushing lightly against your chin, the contact subtle but enough to make your skin prickle with heat. He nods, the corners of his lips twitching faintly as though amused by your reaction. “A distraction,” he hums, his tone almost gentle, though there’s something darker lurking beneath it. “Something to take the weight off your mind.”

Your hands move without thought, reaching up to rest against his chest. The wool of his sweater is soft under your palms, warm, grounding in a way you hadn’t expected. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your touch, and it’s almost unnerving how solid he feels, how real.

He watches you with an intensity that makes your throat tighten, his eyes flickering over your face like he’s trying to memorize every detail. There’s a softness there that catches you off guard, an unspoken question lingering in the air between you.

Your heart thunders in your chest as his other hand moves, his fingers brushing against the curve of your jaw. His touch is light but sure, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded patterns along your cheek. It’s tender in a way that feels almost unbearable, and you find yourself leaning into it without meaning to.

The way he looks at you—like you’re something fragile, something worth handling carefully—makes your breath hitch. It feels too much, too intimate, like he’s reaching into parts of you that you didn’t know existed. And yet, you don’t pull away.

He leans in closer, so close that the space between you is barely a whisper, and his breath ghosts over your skin. Your fingers tighten slightly against his chest, the fabric of his sweater bunching beneath your grip, and you feel the tension in your body coil tighter and tighter.

His voice is quieter now, softer, as he murmurs, “Let me help you.”

And then, slowly, carefully, he closes the gap.

You realize, with a sharp twist of embarrassment, that you’re far more inexperienced than you thought when it comes to kissing. That truth becomes glaringly obvious the moment Fushiguro Toji leans in, his arms bracketing you on either side, trapping you against the infirmary bed. His lips crash against yours with a fervency that’s all-consuming, his movements filled with a raw, unrestrained hunger that makes it hard to think, to breathe, to do anything except feel.

There’s a desperation to the way he kisses you, as though he’s been starved of something essential, and for some reason, you’re the only source of relief. A soft, involuntary sound escapes your lips—a moan, more a surprise to you than to him. Your hands find their way into his hair without thinking, your fingers threading through the dark strands, tugging lightly, experimentally. You feel him smirk against your lips, the hum of approval rumbling low in his chest, and his grip on your face tightens just enough to keep you firmly in place.

The kiss deepens, the press of his mouth becoming surer, more insistent, and you find yourself responding without hesitation, your body acting on instincts you didn’t know you had. There’s something dizzying about the way he makes you feel—like you’re teetering on the edge of the vast and uncharted, and you can’t decide whether you’re terrified or exhilarated.

But then, just as you’re pulling him closer, just as your body is tilting dangerously into his, he pulls away. The absence of his lips leaves you breathless, blinking up at him in dazed confusion as his smirk reappears, infuriatingly self-assured.

“I said, a distraction, [L/N],” he drawls, his voice low and teasing. “You’re getting carried away.”

You stare at him, chest heaving, your lips tingling from the kiss. Heat rises to your face, and you stammer, “I-I... I haven’t done that before. Sorry.”

His expression shifts, softening slightly as he processes your words. His hand still cradles your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone in a gesture that feels far too intimate. “Yeah?” he murmurs, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. “And how’d you like me being your first?”

Before you can answer, the distant sound of bustling breaks through the charged silence. Footsteps echo down the hallway, voices carrying—Madam Pomfrey’s voice among them. Toji stiffens, clearing his throat as he steps back abruptly. His composure returns in an instant, and he moves to pull the curtain aside, leaving no trace of the moment you just shared.

You feel the loss of his presence acutely, the warmth of him fading as Madam Pomfrey strides into the room, her sharp gaze sweeping over you.

“I trust you took the chocolate?” she asks, her tone brisk but not unkind. Her eyes flick to Toji, her brows lifting slightly. “And Fushiguro, you’re here already, I see.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Toji replies smoothly, his voice steady. “Came from breakfast to remind her about Quidditch warm-up. We’re supposed to leave in twenty minutes to meet at the field by nine.”

Pomfrey hums, nodding in approval as she turns her attention back to you. “Drink the vial before you go,” she instructs, pointing to the small glass container on the bedside table. “It’s a lesser dose of the Invigorating Draught to keep the body pain away. But mind you, you still need more sleep.”

You nod quickly, offering her a sheepish smile. “I’ll make sure to get back to my normal routine from today,” you say earnestly. “Thank you, Madam Pomfrey. Really. It won’t happen again.”

She gives you a knowing look, her lips twitching with faint amusement. “We both know you’re lying, [L/N]. But all right. Go on, then. Do well today, yes?”

You hop off the bed, grabbing the vial and uncorking it as you make your way to the door. The draught is bitter but effective, the warmth spreading through your body almost immediately. Toji trails behind you, offering Pomfrey a quick goodbye before the two of you step into the corridor.

The air feels cooler out here, sharper, as you glance at your watch. It’s later than you thought. You pause, turning to Toji. “I should get going,” you say, adjusting the hem of your Quidditch robes. “Utahime’s probably waiting for me in the Common Room.”

“I bet she is,” he replies, his voice laced with amusement. His eyes linger on you for a moment, and you find yourself drawn to the faint scar across his lips before meeting his gaze again.

“Good luck,” you say with a small smile, your tone teasing. “I hope you lose.”

“Of course you do, Gryffindor,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Don’t go fainting again.”

There’s a tug in your chest, a strange reluctance to leave him, but you force yourself to turn away. Hugging yourself lightly, you walk down the corridor, the sound of your footsteps echoing faintly. You don’t look back, though you can feel his gaze on you, and as you round the corner, a small smile creeps onto your lips.

By the time you reach the Gryffindor Common Room, the team is already assembled near the exit. Utahime spots you immediately, her sharp voice cutting through the chatter.

“And where in seven hells have you been?” she demands, her tone half-scolding, half-concerned. “I’ve been missing a Chaser since yesterday, and you didn’t even bother to show up for practice last night!”

“Infirmary,” you say simply, shaking your head lightly as if to tell her you’ll explain later.

Her eyes narrow for a moment before she sighs, exasperated. “Get in line. We’ll talk formations and head to the field. Got it?”

You nod, falling into step beside the other two Chasers. It's when your eyes land on Maki Zenin and Itadori Yuji, as they stand nervously on the other side of the line. You offer them a small smile, which they return, though their focus is already shifting to Utahime’s instructions.

As she outlines the strategy, your mind drifts momentarily, lingering on the weight of the match ahead. Slytherin has improved—everyone knows it. With players like Gojo, Shoko, Geto and Toji being good as they usually are, new players like Inumaki and Mai, the game will be anything but easy.

You sigh, steeling yourself. There will be teasing if you lose, no doubt about it. But you know that, whatever happens, today will leave its mark.

When you reach the field, the morning air is crisp, the sky a dull gray with the promise of clearer weather later in the day. The scent of damp grass lingers in your nose as you make your way toward the locker rooms, the sound of Utahime’s voice rising over the clamor of your teammates. She’s already rallying everyone together, going over strategies, but you barely hear her. You tune it all out, focusing instead on the motions of getting your gear on—shin guards, arm guards, knee guards. You secure your goggles, adjusting the strap until it sits comfortably over your forehead. Your broomstick leans against the bench beside you, ready to be picked up at a moment’s notice.

You’re tightening the straps on your gloves when Utahime approaches, her presence unmistakable even before she speaks. “You okay?” Her voice is quieter now, less commanding, edged with something close to concern. “Why were you in the Infirmary last night?”

Your hands still for the briefest second before you force yourself to continue lacing up your gloves. You glance up at her, hesitant, guilty, and the shift in her expression is immediate. Her eyes harden sharply, knowingly, the same way they always do when she pieces things together before you’ve even said a word. Shoko and Utahime have always been like this—able to read you like an open book, no matter how hard you try to shut them out. It’s been that way since your second year, and you’ve never stood a chance at keeping anything from them.

She crosses her arms over her chest, her nostrils flaring as she whisper-yells, “What is your problem? Before our first game? Really?”

You wince, your shoulders sinking slightly. “I’m sorry,” you mutter, bending down to grab her chest gear from the bench. You hand it to her carefully, the weight of her disappointment thick in the air between you. She snatches it from your hands, her jaw tight, her frustration radiating off of her in waves.

“Don’t apologize to me,” she says sharply. “Just try not to get yourself killed during the match. We already have our work cut out for us as it is.”

You frown, straightening up. “What do you mean?”

She exhales through her nose, adjusting her gear as she casts a glance toward the field. “Toji as Keeper. Gojo as Seeker. Geto and Shoko as Beaters, as usual. But now they’ve got Mai Zenin and Inumaki Toge. It’s practically a pureblood soup, except Suguru.” Her voice drops slightly, her lips pursing. “Shoko’s betting against us. She doesn’t think we’ll be able to win.”

Your stomach twists at that. You follow her gaze, taking in the sight of your teammates—some stretching, others already geared up, adjusting their grips. The weight of the match presses against your ribs, heavy and insistent, but you shake it off.

You reach out, placing a hand on Utahime’s shoulder, grounding both of you. “Hey,” you say, your voice steady, “we’ll be fine. We have you. Their Chasers have nothing on you.” You offer her a small, confident smirk. “You’re better than Fushiguro at what you do.”

Utahime stares at you for a moment before scoffing, but you see it—the slight easing of her shoulders, the flicker of amusement that softens her scowl. And that’s enough.

The game begins in your favor, if only just. The sky is a pale, grey blue, and the wind howls against your ears as you navigate through the rush of players. Itadori hovers high above the field, surveying the chaos beneath him like a hawk circling its prey. He hasn’t moved much—not yet. He’s waiting, watching. Below him, the match unfolds in frantic bursts of movement, the Quaffle trading hands so quickly it’s impossible to keep track for more than a second at a time.

Gryffindor leads by twenty points. It’s not much, but it’s enough to feel like the momentum is yours for now. You push forward, the Quaffle slipping through your fingers into Nanami’s waiting grasp. He flies in tandem with Mei Mei, their movements precise and effortless as they cut through the green and silver defense, closing in on the goalposts. You stay back, slightly behind them, your fingers tightening around your broom handle. You’re the safety net, the last line before a counterattack.

And then you see him.

Toji looms in front of the goalposts, watching the play unfold with infuriating calm, his body tense but unreadable. His grip on his broom is casual, effortless. He isn’t worried—not yet. And then, just as Nanami throws, he moves.

You see the smirk before you see the save.

The Quaffle rebounds off his forearm, spinning wildly into the open air before two blurs of green streak across your vision—Mai Zenin and Inumaki Toge, moving like twin daggers slicing through the sky. The Quaffle is gone in an instant, stolen from your team’s grasp before anyone can react.

And then you realize what’s happening.

Your heart pounds as you scan the field. At first, you think it’s coincidence, but then you see it for what it is: a mirror. Every movement your team makes, they replicate. Slytherin has stopped playing their own game and started playing yours. Every formation you attempt, they counter with eerie precision. A third Chaser lingers behind, watching—an old player, you realize, Kamo Noritoshi, slotted into the team like a missing puzzle piece. He isn’t rushing, isn’t chasing. He’s studying, reading your patterns, your movements. Feeding them back into his team like a conductor leading a symphony.

Nanami glances back at you, waiting for direction. But what do you do when your own strategy is turned against you?

You swallow, gripping your broom tighter. The hesitation lasts for only a second before you shake your head, motioning for Nanami to push forward. It doesn’t matter if they’re mirroring. You just need to break through. He understands immediately, nodding before diving forward, weaving past two defenders. He’s close. So close.

And then your stomach twists.

Across the field, moving like shadows on the edge of your vision, you see Geto and Shoko. Not advancing, not playing. Something worse. They pass a Bludger between them with their bats, calculated, measured, the way an archer tests their aim before loosing an arrow. Their eyes are locked on Nanami, tracking him with frightening precision.

They’re going to hit him.

If they land the shot, Nanami won’t just drop the Quaffle—he’ll drop out of the sky. You don’t think. You move.

Your fingers tighten around your broomstick as you surge forward, urgency sinking its claws into your chest. You barely have time to glance at Maki and Todo Aoi before signaling them to move with you. You need your Beaters with you. You need to get there before it’s too late.

Nanami has no idea what’s coming. And you don’t know if you’ll reach him in time.

"Guys!" Your voice cuts through the wind as you glance back at Maki and Todo, motioning for them to close in. They don’t hesitate. They’re right behind you, the three of you moving in tandem like cogs in a well-oiled machine. You barely notice the way your palms slick against the handle of your broom, the way your heart pounds so violently it drowns out the roar of the stadium. You’re too focused. Too set on the scene unfolding ahead of you.

Nanami is a target. He doesn’t even realize it.

You streak past Inumaki Toge, your breath sharp in your chest. A misstep, a fraction of hesitation, and you might fall off your broom—but that doesn’t matter now. The game isn’t fair, not today. Slytherin isn’t just playing to win. They’re playing to maim.

Your gaze locks on Geto, the way he maneuvers with that same unsettling calm he always carries. Too calculated. Too easy. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

"Maki, slow down!" you yell, jerking your broom lower, making yourself a smaller target. She listens instantly, adjusting her grip, her sharp gaze flicking toward you for the next instruction.

"Dopplebeater Defence," you call, your voice cutting through the wind. "Both of you—hit the Bludger at the same time! Make it collide with theirs!"

You don’t need to explain. Todo has been a Beater long enough to understand, and Maki was impressively experienced, despite being a new player. It’s a risky move, a technique Gojo had shown you in second year—one that required ruthless precision, perfect synchronization. Two Beaters striking a single Bludger at once, doubling the force behind it. Enough to knock another Bludger off-course.

It has to work.

You take a deep breath, lower yourself until you’re nearly horizontal against your broom. The Bludger is hurtling toward you now, whistling through the air like a bullet. If you miscalculate the timing, it’ll knock you straight off your broom. You hear the crack of bats against iron—Maki and Todo, perfectly in sync.

And then—impact.

The Bludger screams through the air, missing you by inches. You feel it graze just over your head, a rush of displaced wind knocking your hair into your face. It streaks across the pitch, colliding mid-air with the one Geto and Shoko had aimed at Nanami. The sound of impact is sharp, brutal, metal on metal, sending both Bludgers spinning wildly into the open air. Nanami’s eyes find yours, wide, startled, grateful. And then, he moves.

Before Toji can even blink, the Quaffle is through the hoop.

A triumphant grin spreads across your face as the stands erupt into cheers. You catch Shoko watching you from across the field, unimpressed, arms crossed. You wink at her. She exhales sharply, shaking her head before retreating back into formation.

Nanami loops around, keeping pace with you as you hover near the midfield, watching the play unfold. He’s still breathing hard, but his expression is calmer now.

"Thanks for that," he says, tilting his broom slightly so he can glance over at you.

"Anytime," you reply, rolling out the tension in your shoulders. Then, lowering your voice, you add, "I’m more worried about the Snitch. I can handle the field."

Nanami hums, scanning the pitch. "I haven’t seen Gojo."

You sigh at the mention of his name. "Don’t worry. He’s lurking around somewhere."

Nanami frowns, dodging a Bludger with an effortless twirl before shooting you a glance. "What do you mean?"

You shake your head. "He won’t let himself be seen until he’s seen the Snitch. He’s done this before, once or twice."

"Then we’re screwed," Nanami mutters, his tone dark, but there’s a glint of something sharp behind his words.

Your brows knit together just as the two of you dart past Mai, weaving through the chaos to steal the Quaffle. You flick a quick signal to Mei Mei, who shifts position to defend as you lead Nanami toward the goalposts.

"Why?" you ask, glancing sideways at him.

Nanami doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, his grip tightens around the Quaffle. He exhales sharply through his nose before finally saying, "Because Gojo Satoru is above us."

Your breath catches.

"Fifteen, maybe twenty feet," Nanami continues, voice edged with tension, "but exactly above us."

Your fingers fumble momentarily around the Quaffle before you recover, instinctively passing it off to Nanami. You don’t even process the movement. Your focus is elsewhere. You tilt your head back, searching the sky.

And there they are. Gojo and Itadori. Side by side.

The Snitch—glinting, flitting just ahead of them like a trick of the light. Your breath catches. Holy shit.

"Kento, get Mei Mei here," you call over the roar of the game. "I’m going back. I have to play defense, or get Gojo off Itadori’s tail."

Nanami’s head snaps toward you, his brows knitting together in confusion. "You—what?"

But his broom never wavers. He exhales sharply, glancing at Kamo Noritoshi and Mai Zenin before his grip tightens around the Quaffle. You already know what he’s about to do. A clean, brutal check—one he’s perfected over the years. And sure enough, just as two Slytherin Chasers align for a pass, he cuts between them, intercepting the play with ruthless efficiency so they can’t steal the Quaffle.

You don’t wait to see the outcome. You tilt your broom upward, signaling to Mei Mei, who swoops in seamlessly to take your spot. And then you’re climbing—higher, higher, higher—pushing your broom for all it’s worth.

The wind cuts against your face as you rise above the rest of the players, the field shrinking below you. You barely think, barely breathe. Your focus is locked ahead. On Gojo. On Itadori. On the sliver of gold flitting just beyond them.

Gojo is gaining on him.

Your broom is old, sluggish compared to Gojo’s Firebolt, but you push it harder, forcing every last ounce of speed from the worn handle. Your arms burn, your fingers aching from the grip you refuse to loosen. You won’t let him win. Not today.

You’re closing the distance now—just a few feet between you and him, the faint scent of broom varnish and wind catching in your nose. He doesn’t see you coming.

And then, he looks back. Gojo Satoru looks behind him. It knocks the breath from your lungs.

Because in all the years Gojo has played, through every brutal match, every near-impossible maneuver, he has never once looked back. He is always the fastest. Always ahead. Always calculating three—no, ten—moves in advance, too confident, too untouchable to ever check behind him.

But today, he does. At you.

"What in Salazar’s name are you doing?" he shouts, his voice almost incredulous. You want to roll your eyes, maybe even laugh, but you don’t. Because that’s when you see it—Itadori.

His body lifting, shifting, hoisting itself up. Your heart stops as you realize what he’s about to do. He’s standing. Itadori Yuji is standing on his broom.

A gasp rips through your throat as you force yourself forward, pushing until your fingers graze the fabric of Gojo’s robe. You have him. You could pull him back, could send him reeling, could foul him if you wanted to—but you don’t.

Because in the next breath, Itadori dives. His broom plummets beneath him, and for a single, terrifying moment, he’s free-falling. You hear a collective gasp from the stands, a sharp intake of breath from Gojo himself. But Itadori doesn’t panic. His fingers latch onto the handle at the last possible second, his body swinging with the momentum of his own reckless descent.

And in his hand, the Snitch. Golden, fluttering wildly, wings beating against his grip.

The stadium erupts.

Your brain stutters, your vision blurs, and you can’t quite grasp the moment as it happens—because Gojo is yelping in disbelief, because your own breath is caught somewhere between a laugh and a curse, because Gryffindor just won the match.

And just as you’re about to pull away, just as the weight of the moment settles, you realize something else.

Gojo let you catch him. On purpose. He let you win. On purpose.

The silence of the locker room is thick, settling over you like a second skin. After promising Utahime you’d lock up, you let yourself sink onto the bench, exhaling, pressing the heels of your palms against your eyes. The exhaustion isn’t just physical; it’s marrow-deep, a slow ache that radiates through every part of you. Your shoulders throb, your fingers cramp from gripping the broom too hard for too long, your shins sting beneath the tight guards still strapped to your legs. You should take them off. You should get up, peel the sweat-damp gear from your skin, but your body refuses to move, leaden and sore.

Then, a knock. Then another.

You blink, lifting your head, gaze hazy, breath slow. A shadow lingers just beyond the door, broad-shouldered, heavy in its stance.

"Hello?" your voice comes out rough, hoarse. No answer at first. Then, the door creaks open, and you recognize him before he steps inside.

Toji.

You sigh, setting your goggles down on the bench beside you. “You can come in, you know,” you say, voice still heavy with fatigue. “I’m decent.”

He chuckles, low, throaty, the sound flowing around the dimly lit room. And then you see him—hair mussed with sweat, a smirk tugging at the scar on his lip, his eyes sweeping over you in that slow, assessing way of his.

"No enchantments?" he muses, stepping in. He leans against the lockers, arms crossed over his chest. "How’s a Slytherin like me walking in here without getting hexed?"

"I took them off," you mutter. "Sometimes Shoko comes in after games. Didn’t want her getting cursed by accident."

He nods, thoughtful, then grins. "Guess you got lucky. It’s me."

"Guess so."

Your voice is even, but there’s something in the air now, something heavy and pressing, shifting the room into something smaller, more intimate. He moves, pushes off the lockers, steps closer. Close enough that the space between you barely exists. Close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off of him, the scent of sweat and something sharper, something dark.

“What, you didn’t wanna see me?” he says, voice playful, but his eyes flicker with something else, something more knowing.

You shake your head, letting out a tired chuckle as you lift one leg, fingers moving to unbuckle the straps of your shin guard. He doesn’t move away. He watches. And then, his hand closes around your calf. You freeze.

Your breath stutters. His grip is firm, warm, but not rough. He lifts your leg with ease, braces your foot right against his chest. Beneath your sole, the fabric of his shirt is warm, damp, the muscle beneath solid and unmoving.

A slow, quiet inhale. His thumb skims over the edge of the shin guard, almost absentmindedly, then he tugs at the straps, unfastening them with a precision that makes something coil hot and restless in your stomach.

A sharp gasp escapes you. Toji smirks.

“Never been touched there, have you?” his voice is low, a murmur meant only for you, but there’s something teasing in it, something that makes heat prick at the back of your neck.

"Shut up," you mutter, trying for irritation, but it comes out weaker than you want. Your fingers curl at your sides, gripping the edge of the bench. "You already know I haven’t."

He hums, amused, like he enjoys hearing you admit it.

"Just teasing, princess," he murmurs, softer now, almost gentle.

Princess. The word rolls off his tongue, something smug about it, something easy. Your pulse flutters against your throat. You hate how easily he affects you, how effortlessly he reads every twitch, every breath, every shift in your posture.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he presses your foot more firmly against his chest. Your breath catches. The heat of him seeps through the worn cotton of his shirt, his ribs expanding beneath your heel with every slow inhale. His fingers work at the last strap, pulling it free, peeling the shin guard away from your leg. The air feels sharp against your bare skin, exposed in a way that feels ridiculous, but Toji doesn’t look away. He watches you. Watches the way you tense, the way your breath shudders, the way your fingers tighten against the bench.

He knows. And worse, he enjoys it.

“Toji—”

Your voice is barely above a whisper, something uncertain curling at the edges of the syllables. He exhales, slow and measured, before releasing your leg. It drops to the floor with a dull thud, the absence of his touch leaving behind an invisible imprint, like a lingering heat in the air. You barely have a second to regain your balance before his hand is at your chin, fingers curling with a gentle but insistent pressure, tilting your face up toward his.

You go still.

His palm is warm, the pad of his thumb dragging lightly along your jaw, grazing over the rapid flutter of your pulse. He watches you with an expression you can’t quite name, something teetering between amusement and something deeper, something weightier.

“We can’t,” you murmur, wide-eyed. “Someone could walk in at any time—”

He scoffs, the sound low and unimpressed, tilting his head as he considers you. “Have you always been such a goody-two-shoes?”

You swallow hard, nodding before you can stop yourself, and Toji has the audacity to smirk, slow and knowing, like he’s already anticipated your reaction before you’ve even processed it yourself.

“You always answer questions honestly?” he asks, voice nothing more than a murmur.

“No,” you admit, quiet. “Only when I want to.”

His smirk deepens. “That’s my girl.”

Your breath stutters, your skin prickling under the slow, deliberate way he traces the slope of your jaw with his thumb. It’s not rough—not exactly. It’s careful and intentional, a touch that holds its own kind of weight.

You shift, fingers twitching at your sides. “Toji,” you try again, barely recognizing the way your own voice wavers. “What if someone comes in?”

“No one’s here,” he says, quiet, certain. “I checked. Both teams are back in their common rooms, every other student’s at the castle by now. There’s a few idiots still outside, loitering, but no one near here.” He tilts your chin just a little higher, like he’s forcing you to take in the certainty in his expression. “Trust me, princess.”

You exhale.

“Oh,” is all you manage.

Slowly, you push yourself to stand, your muscles still sore from the match, exhaustion settling deep into your bones. But even standing, you’re still nowhere near his height. The top of your head barely reaches his collarbone. He’s looking down at you with something unreadable in his gaze, something patient but expectant, like he’s waiting for you to come to some kind of inevitable conclusion.

You blink at him, slow and heavy-lidded. “‘M exhausted, you know,” you say finally.

His lips curl. “Want me to do all the work, don’t you? Brat.”

There’s a low amusement in his voice, a knowing edge to it, and you barely manage to hold back your grin as you let your hands rest lightly against his chest as you ask, “Would that be so bad?”

"I'm starting to think not," he murmurs, voice rough with something low and amused, something that simmers just beneath the surface. Then he’s leaning down, closing the distance between you, his lips pressing against yours with an ease that makes your stomach drop. The kiss is slow at first, exploratory, before you sigh into it, parting your lips just enough to let him in. He takes the invitation immediately, tongue sweeping against yours, tasting, teasing.

He laughs into your mouth, a low, satisfied sound, smiling even as he deepens the kiss. His grip tightens at your waist, pulling you flush against him, as if he’s intent on anchoring you there, on making sure you feel every inch of him, every shift of his muscles, every deliberate press of his fingers.

"I enjoyed losing to you," he breathes, mouth brushing against the corner of your lips.

You hum, tilting your head to press a kiss to his jaw. You have to rise onto your toes just to reach it, stretching up, but the effort is worth it when you feel the way he reacts—his breath stuttering, his hands gripping you even tighter. The kiss is messy, warm, damp from sweat, but you don’t care. You like it this way. You like having the burden off of your shoulders.

"I enjoyed winning," you whisper against his skin, grinning as he grunts, pulling you closer.

"I'm starting to think you enjoyed it a little too much," he mutters, voice low, teasing.

"I did," you admit, giggling, before trailing your lips down the column of his throat, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses there. His skin tastes like salt and heat and something distinctly him. You let your teeth graze lightly, sucking just enough to feel him tense beneath you. He makes a quiet sound, something between a wince and a hum of approval.

“And you said you weren’t experienced,” he rasps.

"I read," you murmur, lips brushing over the dip of his collarbone. "It’s the only experience I’ve got. Muggle romance books are quite... vivid, you know."

He exhales a laugh, low and gravelly. "Oh, are they?"

You nod, fingers tracing absentminded circles at the nape of his neck.

"They teach you how to kiss a man's neck in those books?" His voice is all amusement, all dark-edged curiosity. "Might have to get my hands on one of ‘em."

"I bet you'd put it to good use," you tease, looking up at him, tired but still wanting, still pressing as close to him as you possibly can.

His hands slide up, firm and deliberate, as he leans down, his nose brushing against your throat before his lips follow. His kisses are open, hot, unhurried. The first press of his tongue against your skin makes you gasp, legs suddenly unsteady beneath you. You grip the back of his neck instinctively, fingers threading through his damp hair.

"Oh, fuck," you breathe, eyes wide.

He smirks against your skin, dragging his teeth over the spot he’s just kissed. You shudder in his arms, a quiet moan slipping out before you can stop it.

"Didn't know it felt that good, huh?" he murmurs, still working his way along your neck, sucking, biting just enough to make you tremble.

You shake your head, fingers curling against him. “M-more,” you manage, voice barely above a whisper.

Toji stills for a second, then pulls back, studying you with something unreadable in his expression—half amused, half something else entirely.

"You keep saying things like that," he says, voice rough, "and I might start to lose control."

You blink up at him, dazed, breath uneven. "O-oh. We should stop before that happens, then."

He huffs a quiet laugh, running his thumb over the side of your throat, tracing the places where his mouth had just been. "Yeah," he agrees, though he doesn’t look entirely convinced. "Probably should."

You’re halfway up the stairs to your dorm when Utahime calls out behind you, "[L/N], are you coming to the party tonight?"

You pause, one foot on the next step, and glance back at her, brows furrowed. "What party?"

She gives you an incredulous look, as if the answer should be obvious. "To celebrate our win against Slytherin, of course," she says, shrugging. "Or, you might want to sleep, actually."

You shake your head, suppressing a yawn. "I’ll come for half an hour. Not more than that, though. I’m exhausted."

Utahime hums knowingly. "Alright. But beware, some of the students might be sneaking in Firewhiskey," she says, her lips curling into a mischievous grin. "I’m so happy today, I might just drink some."

"You’re of legal age," you deadpan, rolling your eyes. "You’re allowed to drink. Just make sure Kento or someone responsible keeps an eye on the younger ones. Last thing we need is a bunch of first-years drunk on our watch."

She snickers, nodding. "Right. Oh, by the way, no trouble locking up the locker rooms? You were in there for a while. I was going to check in case you fell asleep, but then you came back."

Your breath hitches—just for a second. The memory flashes through your mind unbidden. The press of Toji’s hands against your waist, his lips dragging over your neck, the weight of his body caging you against the lockers. A shiver runs down your spine. You clear your throat hastily.

"Oh, yeah," you mumble, patting your pockets. "Here, sorry." You pull out the keys and hand them over.

Utahime takes them, bumping her shoulder lightly against yours. "No problem, dummy," she says. "I trust you with it."

You blink at her, forcing a casual smile even as the phantom sensation of Toji’s breath against your skin lingers. Your voice comes out a little too high when you say, "I’m going to freshen up."

She doesn’t seem to notice, waving you off as she heads in the opposite direction. You exhale, shaking off the thoughts, and ascend the rest of the stairs.

The dorm is mostly empty when you step inside. Mei Mei lounges on her bed, a book held lazily in her hands, flipping a page without looking up. The other beds remain untouched, their occupants likely already at the party.

"Hey," you mumble, dragging yourself toward your desk. Your owl hoots softly as you run your fingers over its feathers, offering a half-hearted scratch behind its ear before collapsing onto your bed with a heavy sigh. For a moment, silence settles over the room. Then, a knock. Light, but deliberate, against the windowpane.

You groan, rolling onto your side to squint at the glass. Outside, bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight, a snowy owl perches on the ledge, its brilliant white feathers speckled with black and grey. Even before you open the window, you know exactly whose bird it is.

Hedwig. Satoru’s owl.

Scrambling up, you unlatch the window, letting her swoop gracefully inside. She lands on your desk, tilting her head as if scrutinizing you before dropping a neatly folded piece of parchment onto your lap.

"Thank you," you murmur, rubbing a gentle hand down her feathers. She preens under your touch, blinking slowly. Your owl simply watches her as she does.

Reaching for the box of owl treats, you grab a few and offer them to her. She takes them eagerly, nibbling at them as you unfold the note. The handwriting is unmistakable—looping and careless, yet undeniably elegant.

Meet me at the Room.G.S.

You sigh, rubbing a hand down your face, and glance at the snowy owl still perched beside you. Her pale feathers gleam like stardust against the dim candlelight.

"He works us both too hard, doesn’t he?" you mutter, scratching lightly under her chin. "Quite a twat, Gojo is."

You flip the parchment over with quick fingers, already reaching for your quill, the ink bleeding into the fibers of the page as you scrawl a simple reply—on my way, your initials curling sharply at the end. The response is short, dismissive, but Gojo will understand. He always does.

Hedwig tilts her head, watching you with intelligent amber eyes as you fold the note back into her talons. You run a hand over her smooth feathers, a quiet smile ghosting over your lips. “Take this to him, yeah?” The owl blinks once, as if unimpressed by the errand, before spreading her wings and taking off into the night.

Your gaze drifts to your own owl, Aether, perched regally near your desk, his feathers a luminous blend of rich browns and burnished golds. He reminds you of the morning sun, with how warm and gentle he is. 

“Mei, I’m heading out,” you call, stepping toward the dormitory exit. Mei Mei doesn’t glance up from her book, only flicks a wrist in acknowledgment, and you take that as permission enough.

The castle corridors are dim and hushed, the distant drip of unseen water echoing through the stone walls as you descend into the dungeons. Shadows stretch long across the damp floor, torchlights flickering weakly against the cold stone. It’s quiet—too quiet—but you know these halls well. You navigate them with the ease of someone who has long since memorized every crease on the stone floors, every whispering draft of wind.

By the time you reach the Room, your shoulders ache, exhaustion creeping into your bones. You sink into the sofa the second the door closes behind you, melting into the cushions with a relieved sigh. The air is warm here, the fire crackling softly in the hearth, its glow casting golden halos against the old wooden walls.

Your body is still, your eyes fluttering closed, when the fireplace erupts in a violent burst of green flames. You groan.

“Wow,” Gojo drawls as he steps through the Floo, dusting off his robes with an exaggerated flourish. "Look how happy you are to see me."

He’s already moving toward the long table at the back of the room, parchment and ink scattered across its surface in half-organized chaos. You push yourself up with sluggish movements, trudging after him, your limbs heavy with fatigue.

"The list is narrowed now," he says, tapping a finger against the board in front of him. "We check their ancestry next. Whoever’s closest to Salazar Slytherin is our culprit."

You barely hear him. Your mind is elsewhere, still lingering on the Quidditch match, on the way he had turned back—looked at you—let you win.

"Gojo," you say, voice tight, "we need to talk about what happened on the field today."

He doesn’t turn around. "This too, obviously," you continue, gesturing vaguely at the board, "but you let us win. That’s not fair—"

"Can you just shut up and focus?" His voice is unusually sharp, his head bowing slightly as he rubs his temples. "Let’s just finish this. Our usual work, this investigation—whatever you want to call it. Then I’m getting food and going to bed. Please."

You stare at him, stunned for a moment by the uncharacteristic irritation.

"What?" Your voice raises slightly. "No. You let me win. You gave up the Snitch to Itadori. You looked back. At me. And you never look back, because, in your words, you’re the greatest Seeker of our generation at Hogwarts."

Gojo exhales sharply through his nose, finally facing you. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something guarded about the way his jaw locks. "Well, I lost, didn’t I?" He tilts his head, eyes impossibly blue beneath the dim light. "You won, so just be happy with it, will you?"

"No," you step closer, refusing to drop it. "Tell me why you looked back."

"Fucking hell," he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I just did, okay? Now, why are you—" He stops abruptly, his entire posture shifting. His eyes narrow, sharp and focused, his lips parting slightly as if he’s just noticed something out of place.

"What’s that?"

His tone is different now. Not lighthearted, not teasing. Something else entirely.

You blink. "What’s what?"

His gaze flicks to your collar, his expression twisting into something unreadable. Slowly, his hand raises, finger pointing toward your neck. His brows draw together, knotted like a ship’s rope, a thread of unease laced into his voice.

You don’t understand at first. But then—oh.

Your breath stutters in your throat as realization dawns. The dull ache along your skin, the faint, lingering tenderness when his eyes bore into it. Hesitantly, your fingers reach up, pressing lightly against the spot. And, fuck.

It’s sore. A faint, blossoming bruise. Toji. Your stomach tightens.

"It’s nothing," you say, too quickly, dropping your hand like you’ve been burned.

But Gojo isn’t buying it. His gaze sharpens, scanning your expression, your hesitation, the way your shoulders have gone rigid. "What have you been doing?"

"What do you mean, ‘what have I been doing’?" You force a laugh, too light, too unnatural. "Why are we—"

"I should really be asking who you’ve been shagging," he cuts in, his voice lower now, his jaw tight. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something edged, almost mocking, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Your stomach flips, panic flaring at the edges of your mind. "Who I sleep or don't sleep with is none of your business," you snap. "Can we just get back to work?"

"So you only want to work when it’s convenient for you. Got it," he mutters, voice low, almost an afterthought, but laced with something sharp, something needling.

It’s infuriating, how easily he gets under your skin. Your hands clench at your sides, your jaw tightening as you walk past him, moving toward the board. "I did my part. You do yours. Check everyone's ancestry."

Gojo exhales, slow, measured, but you can hear the irritation in it, the way it sizzles between you like static. "It won’t take me as long as it took you to do yours," he says, and there is venom in it now, an unmistakable edge, something raw and unpolished in the way the words scrape against his teeth. "Three weeks is too fucking long to narrow down a list, especially when you know someone’s practicing dark magic right under our noses."

His voice is a weapon, cutting deep, slicing through flesh and bone, right into the most fragile, buried parts of you. Your fingers twitch at your sides, a heat rising up your spine, slow and simmering. His words actually contained malice now, and that made you seethe more than ever.

"I’m sorry, what exactly is your problem?" you turn to look at him, voice measured, though you can feel the sharpness curling at the edges of your words, barbed and coiled, ready to strike.

Gojo exhales again, longer this time, running a hand through his hair like he’s barely holding himself together. "You tell me," he bites out.

"I was in the Infirmary since yesterday, not that you care," you snap, crossing your arms over your chest. "But if I wasn’t, I would’ve gotten it to you sooner. Believe it or not, I have other responsibilities."

The room stills.

For a second, a single breath of time, his expression falters. His mouth parts slightly, and it’s as if the words have lodged themselves in his throat, unable to move past the disbelief settling over his features. He’s trying to say something, but nothing comes out, and then—

"You were in the Infirmary?"

The words are different now. They lack their usual sharpness, their casual cruelty.

"Yes," you say, rolling your eyes, refusing to acknowledge the slight shift in his expression. You turn back toward the board, hands moving with the precision of someone determined not to be affected as you point to a piece of parchment. "Most purebloods are in Slytherin and Gryffindor. We've only got around six or seven in Ravenclaw—"

"Fawkes."

His voice is lower this time. Steady, but heavy.

You don’t turn around.

"Just stop, for a second," he says, and there’s something unfamiliar about the way he says it, something unsettled in the spaces between his words. "What do you mean you were in the Infirmary? You seemed fine at the game—"

"Does it matter?" you cut in, finally looking at him, eyes sharp. "We’re working now, aren’t we? I’m not hindering your progress on this very serious matter."

Gojo’s nostrils flare slightly. "You were in the Infirmary and you didn’t tell me," he says, like he’s trying to understand it, like he’s trying to piece something together that doesn’t make sense in his head. "Obviously, that’s a problem. Of course it matters."

"Why?" you challenge, tilting your head.

His jaw tightens. "Don't tell me you've been skipping sleep and dosing yourself with Invigoration Draughts again."

You hesitate. Just for a moment. A flicker of guilt crossing your face before you school it away, pressing your lips together. "It doesn’t concern you," you say instead, carefully, deliberately. "You’re the one who gave me more shit to do, anyway."

Gojo exhales sharply, his hands flying up in exasperation. "I would’ve helped if you just asked!" he says, voice rising, incredulous. "All you had to do was ask for help! But no, you want to be the greatest, the most competent—"

"Oh, excuse me for wanting to be more like you!"

Your voice cracks, breaks open with something raw and burning, something pulled straight from the depths of your chest.

"Not all of us," you continue, breath hitching, "can afford to sleep in class and still pass every subject effortlessly. Not all of us can juggle being in every damn club, playing Quidditch, and somehow still come out on top without breaking a sweat!"

Gojo doesn’t say anything. Not immediately. His face is unreadable, but his hands have curled into fists at his sides, shoulders squared like he’s holding something back. Something unreadable flickers across his expression.

And for the first time tonight, you think you might have finally caught him off guard.

You leave the Room of Requirement not long after, shoulders stiff, pulse an uneven thing against your ribs. Gojo doesn’t stop you, doesn’t call after you, doesn’t do anything except turn back to the board and continue working, as if the argument hadn’t happened at all. As if you hadn’t just torn into each other like wolves snapping at the same scrap of meat.

Fine. Let him do what he wants.

You tell him, stiffly, that you’ll handle the usual Marauders’ business while he works on the genealogy of the people on the list. You don’t wait for his response before slipping out the door.

By the time you reach the Gryffindor common room, you can already hear the noise—laughter spilling through the corridors, the faint hum music. You hesitate for only a second before stepping inside, and immediately, you’re assaulted by the sight of it.

The room is alive with celebration, every corner threaded with streamers and floating ribbons. A long table in the back groans under the weight of drinks and plates stacked with food, the rich scent of butterbeer and treacle tart hanging thick in the air. Someone bursts into laughter near the fireplace, and you catch a glimpse of a pair of students dancing precariously on one of the sofas.

Your gaze drifts toward the drinks table just in time to see a sixth-year spike the punch. You roll your eyes but say nothing. You’re not in the mood to play prefect tonight. Then—

A hand grabs your arm, warm fingers curling around your wrist. You flinch, instincts sharp, but when you look up, it’s only Shoko. Her dark eyes are alight with amusement, a slow, knowing smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

"Hey," she says, voice bright over the hum of the party, "Congrats on the win today. I certainly didn’t expect you to see through Geto and my tactics."

Standing just behind her, Geto Suguru lifts his drink, nodding at you in quiet acknowledgment. His lips barely curve, but there’s something teasing in the way he holds himself, something easy.

You smirk. "I can read through you like a book, you know."

Shoko scoffs, looping her arm through yours. "Yeah, yeah," she says, before her eyes flick over you, sharp and assessing. "You also look better than yesterday. I’m guessing you finally went to the Infirmary?"

"I did," you groan, rolling your head back slightly. "She made me sleep all afternoon. And then through the night as well. Only woke up this morning before the game."

"And yet," Shoko says, tilting her head slightly, voice lilting, "you already went and snogged someone."

Your stomach drops. For the hundredth time today. 

"What?"

Her grin widens as she gestures vaguely toward your collar.

"Your neck is visible to everyone," Geto murmurs, voice smooth, almost lazy, as he sips his drink. "You might want to wear something that hides that very obvious bruise. Or at least, heal it. It’s about to turn purple."

And then, slowly, carefully, you bring a hand up to your throat. Again.

The skin is sore when you press against it. Warm. Tender. A telltale sting left behind by lips and teeth and hands that had pressed too insistently against your skin.

You exhale sharply, looking down at your hands, then back at them. "I should probably head in and heal this, huh?"

Shoko blows a loud raspberry, waving a dismissive hand. "Absolutely not. I say, you flaunt it. Look over there—two fifth-years snogging like they’ve just received their last rites. And there—our oh-so responsible seniors, already one button away from indecent exposure."

Your eyes follow where she’s pointing. Across the room, a pair of younger students are tangled together on a loveseat, oblivious to the world, and just beyond them, a group of seventh-years are laughing too loudly, half-drunk and clearly daring each other into something that will, inevitably, lead to detention by morning.

You share a pointed look with Geto, who only raises an eyebrow in that slow, unbothered way of his before you turn back to Shoko. "Yeah, well, I don’t exactly want my entire life on display like these people—"

"Oh, live a little," she interrupts, rolling her eyes as she grabs your wrist and tugs you forward, already leading you toward the drinks table. "Suguru, I’m getting this one a drink. Stay here in case Satoru shows up!"

"Shoko, no—"

"Stop protesting," she huffs, slinging an arm around your shoulders. "Your team won because of you. Those idiots wouldn’t have been able to do a thing if you hadn’t saved Nanami or chased after Gojo. So, come on, let loose for once."

You pout. "I told ‘Hime I’d go to sleep. If she sees me around, she might feel bad."

Shoko waves you off as if that’s hardly a concern. "I got it, don’t worry. I’ll cover for you." She pauses only long enough to grab a cup from the table, dipping it into the bowl of spiked punch before pressing it into your hands. "Here. Drink this."

You hesitate, staring down at the liquid, pink and unassuming, but when you glance up, Shoko is watching you expectantly, an eyebrow raised in challenge.

With a begrudging sigh, you lift the glass to your lips and take a sip.

The sweetness hits first—fruit, sugar, something deceptively light—but then comes the burn, slow at first, then sharper, threading fire down your throat. You wince slightly, swallowing against the heat. It’s not unbearable, but it lingers, warm and curling in your stomach.

Shoko grins, smug. "Not that bad, right?" She wiggles her eyebrows at you. "Told you so."

"Now tell me," Shoko says, tugging you back toward where Geto stands, her grip firm, her tone lilting with amusement. "Who have you been snogging?"

You shake your head, quick and dismissive. "It’s nothing."

But Shoko looks at you in that way she does, like she sees right through the layers you’ve tried to tuck yourself beneath, and suddenly, you feel bare. Exposed. A flicker of something unreadable flashes in her eyes before a slow, knowing smirk curls onto her lips.

Suguru, beside her, exhales a small chuckle, shaking his head. "This is fun to watch."

You pout, trying to glare at him, but it lacks any real weight, and Shoko merely doubles down. "Oh, come on. I told you about my first kiss being with Suguru, and how we both immediately regretted it because it felt like kissing my own brother. You don’t get to keep secrets from me." She leans in slightly, brows raised in expectation. "So, spill. Who was it?"

"This feels an awful lot like an interrogation," Geto mutters, taking a slow sip of his drink. "And manipulation. Also, what? You told her about that?"

"Obviously," Shoko deadpans, as if there could be no alternative, before turning back to you. "Now, [Y/N], I might as well know."

You swallow, shoulders curling in on themselves as if you can make yourself smaller, as if you can disappear beneath their scrutiny. The common room is too warm, the dim glow of floating candles too intimate, the chatter and music too distant for this moment to feel like just another conversation.

But at least it’s only them. No Gojo. No Utahime. No Nanami. No one else who could make this more of a spectacle than it already is. No one to guess that it had been Toji, that you had let him press you against the cold lockers, that his lips had been warm and rough against your skin, that you had wanted it.

You inhale, steadying yourself. Then, cautiously, you begin, "It was in the locker room. I’d removed the enchantments because I thought you were coming by, but—"

"I did not think we’d be getting details. Way to get a man invested," Suguru cuts in, grinning as he leans against the armrest of a nearby chair.

You shoot him a glare, then turn back to Shoko, whose smile is growing by the second, bright with amusement, with intrigue, with that deep, insatiable curiosity of hers.

"It’s…" You hesitate for half a second before finally letting the name fall, quiet, barely above the clatter of distant conversation. "Fushiguro."

Silence.

Shoko blinks. Once, twice. "I’m sorry—who?"

"I think you heard her well enough," Suguru supplies, his tone thoroughly unimpressed as he swirls his drink, watching you with mild interest. "But why him? Gross, he’s a leech."

You roll your eyes. "He’s nice enough to me." The words sound weak even as you say them, trailing off under their combined scrutiny. But you press forward, feeling the weight of their anticipation. "And we kissed in the Infirmary when I was there. Before the game."

"Oh my God," Shoko says, blinking rapidly, as if her brain is short-circuiting, her fingers pressing into her temples like she’s physically trying to process the information. "This is horrendous. How dare you not tell me the second it was happening?"

Suguru exhales an amused laugh, slow and easy, his head tipping back against the armrest of the chair. "Oh, look," he says, in the most nonchalant voice imaginable. "Satoru’s here."

Your heart drops so fast it feels like a free fall. The blood drains from your face, and for a horrible, disorienting second, you think you might actually be sick. You spin around so quickly your neck twinges, looking toward the entrance of the common room, eyes already scanning—

Suguru snorts.

You whip back to face him. "I ought to punch you. Why would you do that to me?"

"You’re too tired for a fight," he giggles, eyes half-lidded, thoroughly pleased with himself.

You sigh, dragging a hand down your face. "I really am." The exhaustion in your bones has settled in deep, an ache at the base of your skull, a dull weight pressing down on your limbs. "I think I’ll head in now."

"Alright," Shoko says, but she’s still shaking her head, still reeling from the revelation. "I’m still trying to recover from the shock you just gave me."

"Oh, pipe down," you roll your eyes, stepping back, reaching for some semblance of normalcy as you point to Geto. "You kissed him."

Suguru groans like he’s in physical pain, immediately shrinking into himself, his face twisting with mortification.

You wince, murmuring a quick apology before waving them both off, and then you’re climbing the winding stairs to your dorm, the noise of the common room fading behind you. The further you get, the quieter it becomes, the muffled chatter dissolving into nothing but the sound of your own footsteps, your own breath.

And yet, something twists inside you, something restless.

Because why had the mention of Gojo’s name sent a bolt of fear through you? Why had it made you sweat, made you press your palms against the fabric of your shirt just to ground yourself? Why had it stuck with you, clung to the back of your mind, even now, even after the conversation had ended?

And why—why is it that all along, all you can think about is the way Gojo looked at you earlier that night?

The way his face had twisted. The way his voice had shifted.

The way he had seen the mark on your skin and had immediately known, even before you had, that it was going to change something between the two of you. Perhaps forever.

© all works belong to admiringlove on tumblr. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

[omega-e123]

!! NSFW !!

cw: mild somnophilia(?), Cunnilingus, Vaginal sex. Fingering. Breeding kink.

In A Rut…

Prologue || Restraint || Part 3 (HERE) || Adoration

Indulgence

Depressed. Lonely. Unwanted. Those are the words that you’d describe how you’re feeling. You knew Shadow liked his personal space, but isn’t this a bit much? After being the only one initiating for a month straight, it’s finally taken its toll on you.

Rationally, you’re aware if Shadow didn’t at least tolerate your company, he wouldn’t give you the time of day. Let alone reciprocate affection when given. It still hurt, putting in all the effort suddenly.

It’s been a while since the last time you spent the night at his place. Not from the lack of asking. Shadow shot down every time it was brought up. The way he answered differed. Sometimes it was a flat, “No.” Other times he would go silent, deep into thought before politely declining. There was no tell whether or not Shadow was hesitating to say yes or to say no.

Tonight was the night. You practically begged him. Your hands clasps his, bringing it to your chest. Puppy eyes refuse to break contact even as he slightly turned his head away. “Pretty please Shadow? Pleaaaase? I really miss you. Just one night,” you implored.

Shadow grits his teeth. The glaring annoyance in his features conceal Shadow’s inner turmoil. Curse these damn thoughts. If only you were begging for something else. I’d give it all in a heartbeat.

Damn it— “Tch! Fine. For one night.”

It’s a good thing he already replaced those torn covers…

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

The plan was simple. You take his bed, Shadow takes the couch. With this arrangement, he can keep himself in check while you’re still able to get a peaceful night’s sleep.

What a fool he was hoping that you’d agree.

Even though Shadow insisted he take the couch so you can have his bed all to yourself, you countered with, “Well, if you’re going to sleep on the couch so will I! I didn’t ask to stay for the night for us to end up not sleeping together, idiot.”

At first, you tried to sleep with your head laid on his chest. Leg propped over Shadow’s torso. Normally, you both wouldn’t have a problem falling into a deep slumber like this. A subtle steady heartbeat coercing your body to drift away. Protective arms wrapped around your being. Tonight? You weren’t sure if who you’re nuzzling against was a hedgehog or a wooden log.

Try as he might, Shadow couldn’t relax his muscles. In and out. Focus on breathing. Nothing else.

Don’t pay any mind on how much his body has been aching for your touch. Ignore the hot breath that tickles his chest. Your sickly sweet scent filling up his nose. The way your crotch is pressed up against his hip.

You resign, noticing the rigid, mechanical breathing. Wordlessly peeling yourself off of Shadow to lay on your side, back towards him. Better not make him any more uncomfortable even though you really wanted to cuddle him. Give him space and let him chase.

Almost immediately, some of the tension Shadow was holding dissipates. Finally allowing himself to sink further into the mattress. The air feels like a thousand needles pricking him now that your warmth is gone. A heavy breath leaves him, not noticing he’s been holding it in this whole time.

It would be so much easier if he simply told you what is going on. Why he has been ‘distant’ for the past few weeks. Bringing up the topic feels too awkward, too… humiliating. Your partner is so stubborn when it came to asking for help. Shadow didn’t need to suffer alone at all if only he spoke up. You were more than happy to assist him whenever needed… this Shadow knew well.

Weight of the mattress shifts behind you. Springs crunching and squeaking underneath. You paid no mind as your consciousness stood at the border of dreamland.

As the last strand of thought was about to be plucked away, a paid of arms found purchase around your waist. Like a squeaky toy being squeezed, your eyes shot open and bulged out as you quietly squealed from the sudden movement.

Shadow’s body and yours press up against each other. Legs tangle with one another. A tender kiss is pressed to the back of your neck sending goosebumps down your spine.

Sleep finally drags you into the void.

ੈ✩‧₊˚

Moonlight peeks through the cracks of the black out curtains. Watching your every move. Shadows intertwine and dance upon the cool sheets of the bed. Ecstasy clings onto every inch of your skin. Combined sweat glistening due to the spotlight provided by the moon.

“Ngh.. haah.. Shadow—“

Your heart leaps out of your chest. The utterance of your partners name startles you awake. Wetness pools in between your legs from the dream. Underwear sticks uncomfortably to your cunt.

Heavy breathing combined with something hard pressed against your ass signals that you’re not the only one having a wonderful dream or maybe he was the cause? Pressure varies from light to firm in a nice rhythmic pattern.

Shadow’s arms are wrapped around you tight, unaware that you’re awake. His hot breaths that moan your name tickle your ear. One hand begins to wander. The inhibitor ring gets caught by the fabric, here and there, contributing to his clunky movements. Eventually it finds its way to the edge of your shirt. Shadow’s bare hand slides up your abdomen, between the valley of your breasts, before settling on a mound. Gently but firmly gripping it. Even though you call out his name, no response is given. Shadow continues to hump your ass, riling you up more. Hips begin to move in tandem with his, craving more friction. A whimper escapes past your lips, calling out his name once more.

What woke Shadow up was your hand squeezing the top of his. Blinking the sleep away, he became more aware of his actions.

Guilt swallows him up whole. Shadow mutters a rushed apology, “I didn’t— Forgive me.” His ears flick back momentarily in agitation as he begins to free his limbs from you. Although untangled your hand refuses to let go. When he sits up, so do you. Oh no, you’ve let this gone on long enough.

“Forgive you for what?”, you interject, worry laced in your words. Due to the low light in the room, you could only partially see Shadow’s expression. An oh so familiar mask of stone adorns his face.

He doesn’t move an inch. A good sign. It means he’s not immediately avoiding or distancing himself from you. A chance to reel Shadow back... To keep him grounded.

Silence follows your question. Again, you speak up, “What’s on your mind, my love? You’ve been acting odd these days. If there’s anything I can help you with…”

The void of the room stares straight back at Shadow. Thoughts collecting to form a coherent sentence. Finally he speaks, though not of his own volition. Words spill out before he could stop them, “That’s the problem. You can and you would. Taking advantage of you is not something I intend to do… but I might with my current state.”

Brows furrow and a deep frown sets on your muzzle. “What the fuck are you talking about.” May the gods praise you for your patience with this man—. Sucking in a sharp inhale you speak again,“Shadow.. It is not taking advantage for accepting my help. Otherwise I wouldn’t have offered in the first place. It’s not as if I’m physically unable to say no later down the line anyways,” your free hand reaches up to Shadow’s cheek, turning his face towards you, “So if you could please tell me instead of having me guess, I would appreciate it.”

Your hand is so incredibly soft. Shadow couldn’t help but lean into your touch. “It’s— rutting season,” he mutters under his breath.

“What?”

Although he’s facing you, his eyes refuse to meet yours. Shadow’s shyness announces its presence in the form of crimson staining his cheeks, “It’s.. supposedly the time of the year for hedgehogs having the urge to breed.” His tail thumps excessively at the thought of knocking you up. Reaching back, Shadow grabs his tail to hold it still.

The cogs in your brain begin to turn, putting the pieces together. This whole time he was acting touch adverse due to being overstimulated by your presence. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little disappointed that Shadow didn’t tell you sooner.

Taking too long to answer, Shadow takes your silence as judgement. “Hmph, I’m sleeping on the couch,” he announces, shuffling away from you.

“The hell you are! You’re finishing what you started tonight, mister.” Your partner is forcefully yanked back and pinned onto the mattress. Straddling him, you can see his features much easier. Eyes looking up at you widen in shock before narrowing. Shadow’s fangs flash in a mischievous smirk.

“You are aware of what you’re asking, right?”

“Uh, yes?”

Easy as flipping a pancake, you two switch positions. Your hands are in tight grips above your head. Shadow leans close to your ear, chests nearly touching. In a low sultry voice he says, “You sound unsure. Allow me to clarify: I won’t be done with you until you’re passed out or I’m empty, understood?”

It was as if a switch had been flipped inside him. Now that the laundry has been hung up to air, Shadow can finally indulge what he’s been craving for: you.

Scarlet eyes scan your features for any hint of fear, hesitation. Of course Shadow wants you to be comfortable and enjoy yourself while he lets out his urges.

Immediately your heart leaps into your throat. Excitement shooting through your system like electricity. The edges of your mouth twist upwards into a lopsided smile. “Loud and clear, Shad. You have a lot of lost time to make up,” you answer back cheekily. Finding your answer satisfactory, Shadow encapsulates your lips in a kiss. Starting slow, pacing yourselves, enjoying the moment.

Minuscule moans fill the silence here and there as the pace picks up. Wanting more contact, your hands struggle against Shadow’s grip. One hand lets go to snake under your shirt and massage your breast. The other adjusts to keep both of your wrists down.

So much stimulation but none quite what your body aching for. Legs squirm, complaining about the lack of attention on your bottom half. Your hips arch up, drawing out a guttural moan from Shadow. As you two part, a single string of saliva bridges the gap. He hushes you, “Behave and sit pretty. You can do that, right?”

Entranced, you simply nod your head.

“Good. I promise I’ll take care of you,” Shadow whispers, pecking your cheek. A kiss is pressed to your neck, your throat, collarbone. One after the other, he leaves a trail of kisses leading all the way down to your abdomen.

The smell of your cunt already abuses Shadow’s nose. Hunger grows within him. Patience is a virtue; however, nothing will stop this unholy night. A finger hooks to the hem of your underwear. Delicately Shadow pulls them down, stopping inches from revealing your clit. His lips encapsulates the bud, giving it a gentle suck and a flick of his tongue. A quiet gasp is pulled from you. From there he rips off the thin fabric, tossing it off the bed carelessly.

“Hey! That was my favorite pair!” You complained in a huff.

Teeth graze your inner thighs, causing them to quiver with anticipation. Your concern about the small fabric disintegrated by a simple act. A low feint chuckle can be heard if you listened closely. The underside of your knees are propped up over Shadow’s shoulder after he pulls you down closer by the hip bones. A nip near your pussy elicits a squeal of pain mixed with pleasure. Just as you were about to playfully scold Shadow, a drawn out moan fills the bedroom. His tongue dances over your clit. With each suck, your back arches, chasing his lips. Claws dig into your flesh, drawing little beads of blood. A silent command telling you to hold still.

“Shaaaadow~!” You cry out. So many sensations tingling your skin.

He backs off for a moment, blowing onto the folds of your pussy. Instinctively your knees buckle together.

A quiet, “Hnph,” signals Shadow’s satisfaction in teasing you.

It couldn’t be helped. He’s so aggressive, intending to devour you. Tension builds up in your torso but not quite close to snapping. The folds of your pussy spread as Shadow’s tongue slides up the slit and enters. Drinking up every drop of nectar.

Meanwhile, his bottom half has been busy, rubbing itself against the mattress in a steady rhythm. Every time Shadow got close, he would cease his movements for a second before continuing. All of his cum was going to go inside you.

Time is at a standstill, staring at the bedroom wall. You concentrate on the assault his mouth is currently conducting. Hands cling onto the sheets for dear life as you try to obey Shadow.

“Ah— ah.. please..” you manage out, nearly breathless. He pauses. Darkened eyes look up, waiting for you to continue with your train of thought. The loss of contact allows cold air to hit your cunt.

“Please, what?” Shadow asks politely as if he wasn’t just nose deep in you, “What is it that you need?”

“I need more.. more friction”

Now towering over you, your legs are nearly pressed to your chest. His hands propped on either side of your head, supporting his weight. Shadow’s cock effortlessly sliding between your labia “Mmnh. You’re going to have to elaborate more than that.”

This fucker. Teasing your entrance. One fell swoop and it’ll go right in. Your pussy clenches nothing at the thought, bringing attention of just how empty you are. “Need more.. more friction, please. I need you inside. Please, Shadow.”

“Your wish is my command, darling.”

You should have known better to think he was going to start fucking you. No surprise that Shadow travels back down, sliding a single digit in. You can feel his smug grin against your sex when you hissed out of disappointment. Another finger is added in, curling against your walls. Shadow’s free hand splays atop your belly.

Oh, how your pussy glistened with your arousal. Sweet nectar drip onto the mattress, creating a lovely pool. It might stain after tonight. Your needy cunt clenches around his fingers. That familiar tension rises back up as Shadow sucks and French kisses your clit. So red, puffy, and sore. He’s absolutely proud of his work.

Before you knew it, praises began to tumble out. Your hand reaches down to grab Shadow’s hand, holding it tight. Legs quiver as his hand picks up the pace. A third finger slides in easily. Stars enter the edge of your vision. The familiar bedroom ceiling now turning into a night sky.

“Love, you’re going to crush my hand,” he laughs. His ministrations continue while he rises up to lay next to you. Both of his legs capturing one of your thighs. “Keep them open for me.”

Arms reach underneath, pulling Shadow into a hug. You beg and plead him, “I’m close— I’m so close. Shadow I’m going to cum. Fuck, let me cum please.” When your nails dig into his back, a pleasureful growl bubbles up from his throat. In efforts to silence it, Shadow’s lips crash into yours. The taste of your slick swirling around.

Your hips erratically buck into his fingers, chasing that high. Like a mirror shattering into a million pieces, you had come undone. Screams of ecstasy reaches the heavens even with your teeth buried into Shadow’s neck. Wet slapping follows suit as he guides you through your climax. “Music to my ears. Ah, you’ve done such a good job,” Shadow whispers into your ear, slowing down his movements but not quite stopping. Tears nearly form from the overstimulation. To let him know, you whimper, “Too much”, into his chest, nuzzling in.

When Shadow pulls out, a pathetic mewl escapes past your lips. Already, you miss the warm feeling in your pussy. He brings up his sodden fingers and licks it clean before lifting your chin up to give you another taste. During this little break Shadow’s giving you, a warm palm caresses your cheek, lightly stroking it.

“You better not be tired, yet. I’m not done with you”

Caged below his body, his cock, seeping with precum rests on the low part of your belly. Even though your body is still recovering, it can’t help but shake in anticipation.

A sticky trail leads down to your entrance. The tip just barely prodding the entrance. Your hips instinctively want squirm, allowing it in. Looks like Shadow noticed as well, because he backed away just out of reach. He wants you bad; however, watching your cute little face twist out of frustration was simply too entertaining.

Here you thought that Shadow would be the impatient one, waiting so long to fuck your brains out. How the hell has he been able to keep it together now that finally got what he needed? Well, Shadow’s mind has been teetering on the edge. Holding it together long enough so you’re also enjoying it too. Not only mindless fucking to reach his objective. You’re not merely a means to an end.

“There’s only two things you need to remember, okay? My name, and that you’re mine.” To emphasize the last two words, Shadow slams his cock in one fell swoop.

Once again his claws sink into the sheets and mattress below, unable to contain his fervor. Because your cunt didn’t have enough time to adjust and accommodate Shadow’s length, it squeezes him tight. The sensation was not unwelcome. Pain and pleasure dancing in a delicate tango.

A long breathy moan is accompanied by his own animalistic growl. He does his best in earnest to stay still, savoring the way your pussy stretched and clenched around his cock. “Fuck you’re so good to me,” he moans, “You don’t know how much I wanted you— needed you.”

Shadow’s hips slowly pull back just to thrust deep into you again. The sudden motion causes you to grip tightly onto forearms. Your head tosses back with a gasp.

It felt like you were made for him. Made for each other. He starts to pump into you. Ass bouncing from the force. Shadow’s gaze never leaves your face. Every little expression you make, he commits to memory. The way you have to keep prying your eyes off of his to keep from being hypnotized, entranced. When you bite the inside of your lip or open your mouth for a silent cry of pleasure. Your eyes squeezing shut and brows knitting together, as you violently turn your head from hitting that right spot.

Not enough. Not enough. Not enough!

Your ear is captured between his lips, nibbling and sucking on it. The sensation tickles. You giggle, finally letting out that breath you’ve been unconsciously holding. Shadow whispers into your ear, “Good.. make sure you’re breathing. I’m going to pull you in closer, okay?”

Your hands are removed from him as he sits up for a moment to adjust. In order to gain better access, you are folded up into a proper mating press. Legs hooked onto the crook of Shadow’s arms. Knees on either side of your head.

The new angle allows him to hit you deeper and with the way your hips are positioned will perfectly hold his cum in. Mercilessly, Shadow pounds into your little hole. Despite his best efforts to redirect his fangs, they continue to land on multiple spots along your collarbone and neck. Bruises and bite marks for everyone to see who you belong to.

With each thrust, his dick kisses your cervix.

It’s a good thing you didn’t live in an apartment, but you were sure the neighbors across the street could hear your screams of euphoria.

You looked so lovely. Heavenly, even. Shadow wonders how he was able to snag an angel like you. Those three little words, Shadow doesn’t say them often enough as he thinks he should. You understand. His actions speak volumes much louder.

At the pace Shadow is going at, he’s not going to last very long. Judging by the way your face is scrunched up and the tension in your nether regions, you’re in the same boat.

“Relax. Cum for me, my love.”

That’s all it took for you to unravel once again. Shadow is pulled in for a tight embrace as you call out his name, telling him how much you love him. Your sweet words melt his heart.

Trembling, quaking, your orgasm rips through your body while Shadow continues to snap his hips, his own climax following close behind. If you weren’t so cock drunk, you’d have heard “I love you” tumble from your partner. Words that come out of your mouth are no longer coherent but rather a giant babbling mess. Your cunt milks every single drop his cock has to offer. His movements slow down.

Shadow’s body isn’t satisfied. Even if he wanted to, his hips won’t stop. Not until he drowns your cervix in hot sticky cum. Filled to the brim until it starts leaking out even with his dick plunged deep in.

“You’re mine. All mine.”

Round one of many.

[tiarpopdind]

The way they both fumbled makes me giggle

[mvost]

mikee

it's not a very big thing, but I couldn't get the thought of turtles getting (stealing most likely lol) cloaking brooches post-movie and wearing them pretty much all the time. not necessarily using the disguise, but still having them as a tool at any given moment. that seems cool... I genuinely thought that those brooches can only provide human disguises, but according to rottmnt wiki Draxum used it to turn into a. teddy bear. so that means they're capable of more than one form and?? that's so fucking interesting! what!

I'm constantly sad about rottmnt being cut short and not being able to expand on all the fun concepts and decisions in full, so such small things that give me a better understanding of mystics are my roman empire ngl. I wanna turn it in my head for a li'l bit, how long can it work for and how effective the disguises are and if you choose them yourself or if it's some kinda secret magic thing-y that you cannot control pretty much at all?? is it different for everyone and does it change with how strong mystical power of the host is? PLEASE.

[reineydraws]

i regularly think about mishanks immediately post luffy becoming pirate king and this is one of the fluffier ideas haha

also kind of the spiritual successor to my very first mishanks post :'))

[tringstarruuu]

Close ups:

Strawberry kisses 🍓💋 Lesbingyuan's first(??) date!!

Modern MXTX: 1 | 2 | 3

I'm opening commissions in this style! So if you're interested feel free to message me~ (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

At your side [End of Season 2]

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[ruubesz-draws]

New comic series featuring the Godzilla Brothers and Mothra :) Will we finally get to see Minus One and Mothra's first meeting?

Stay tuned!

Part 1

I nearly made a dumbass mistake lol:

[themeraldee]

Awkward sex prompt: homelander figuring out how to control his strength with a human reader, who still wants rough sex, but would prefer to be alive at the end of it.

[Masterlist]

18+ Only | 1.2k | Homelander x gn!Reader | Realistic sex. Communicating during sex. Choking. Penetration (but not specified). Fluff at the end.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“But I want you to.” 

It really should have been no surprise to Homelander when you requested he goes a little rougher on you in bed. At first he was taken aback, stopping the pace he was fucking into you with, jerking his head back as if offended, choking on his breath in surprise. You know who he is, bringing up the use of his strength is no small ask. But you’ve shown the signs before. He could hear the spike in your heart rate anytime he’d showcase the incomprehensible strength he possesses. Whether it was him moving heavy objects, accidentally bending steel frames in his penthouse or breaking furniture—like that one time he ripped the headboard off during a particularly fine blowjob—you loved it. Though he never thought that your dirty little thoughts went straight to him using that strength on you. 

“What if I can’t hold back?” He looks down where you’re right below him, all flushed and spread out for him. He’s been giving you a damn good time but it’s like you can never get enough of him. Always wanting more, more, more.

“You can. You’ve been doing it your entire life. Adding a tiny bit more pressure isn’t gonna change anything.”

The one thing Homelander loves about you the most is the pure trust you have in him. After all you’ve seen of him you still believe that there’s no world in which he would purposefully hurt you. So to hear you all but beg for him to use strength that has more than decimated many gets his heart soaring. The feeling of acceptance and unconditional love blooms warm in his chest spreading all the way out to the fingertips currently wrapped around your neck.

“Come on, what’s the point of being the strongest man in the world if you can’t rough me up a bit? I’ll tell you if it’s too painful okay?”

Your hand sat on top, your fingers tracing over his as you squeezed your hand.

“A little more.” You guide him verbally and manually. Your hand is still squeezing around his own until you reach a point where you’re satisfied with his confidence to do this himself and you pull your hand away. “Yeah, that’s it.” You squeak out a little breathlessly as he restricts your airflow.

“That’s good?” He asks, choking on his words halfway at the way you squeeze around him while he’s still lodged firmly inside you. He jerks with his movement, giving you a very short snappy thrust but after your little intermission where you taught him how to choke even this little sensation made you moan.

Homelander’s eyes widen when he realizes the sheer potential of your request. Not only could he hear your heartbeat, your shaky breaths and moans, he could now also feel them. Right against his fingertips. The moan vibrated against his hot skin, your heartbeat constantly thrumming all around him. He felt it in the way you were tight and clenching around him and now he felt it under his grip.

He released his hand a little, settling the palm of it in between your collarbones.

“See? Wasn’t that good? I love feeling your strength, let me have a little more of it.” You say it with such conviction, inviting him in, accepting him exactly—no, especially—because of the way he is.

The last thing Homelander wants is to not be able to fulfill your needs. As much as the thought of hurting you—actually hurting you—kills him, if it’s something you find excitement in he’ll be damned if he doesn’t deliver.

He pulls you down the length of the bed a little bit to give himself more space and with a grin he pins your wrists above your head, holding them down against the mattress with little effort. He knows he’s doing something right when that startles you, you let out a cute yelp that quickly turns into a moan. God, he could eat you up with the way you’re looking at him. But he’s gonna need to leave that for round two. Now he’s here to fulfill a wish.

He slowly picks up the pace. He’s thrusting slow and deep while his other hand freely explores your body underneath him, giving it generous squeezes as he goes. He’s testing the give of you. Learning where he can apply the pressure you so desperately crave. 

He’s fucking into your faster now, grunting at the sheer heat of you surrounding his cock with every slide. His hand glides up your body, settling back on your neck. He gives you a look as if he was warning you of what’s to happen. Yet he still manages to catch you off guard. With the snap of his hips and the iron-clad grip of his hand your eyes widen in what Homelander only translates to fear.

Immediately, he lets go.

“Why did you stop?!” You look at him, your own hand gliding across where his hand was squeezing a second ago, as if to chase the phantom feeling, recreating it yourself.

“Why did I stop? You got scared and I don’t want to fucking kill you!” He sounds angry but it’s mainly to hide the genuine worry that comes with this irresponsible play. It’s already hard for him to hold back anytime you’re having normal sex. Wanting him to rough you up conjures very different imagery in either one of your minds.

“Baby, the scary part is the best bit. I know you’ll stop before it’s too much. You can feel the give of my body. Let yourself feel that, okay?” You say softly, soothing his fears. In your entire relationship he’s not managed to hurt you, you don’t imagine it was about to start now.

“Now come on, I wanna cum with your hand around my neck.” You give him a cheeky smile that breaks him out of any doubts he had about manhandling you the way you’ve requested.

He’s given you exactly what you’ve asked for. Just enough squeeze and pressure that you feel so overwhelmed with the greatness of his presence pinning you down and nearly squeezing the life out of you that you succumb to your release. Homelander follows you there, unable to hold off after seeing the way you look at him with such adoration right after he let your airways open fully and you regained your senses. 

After you’re both beyond blissed out you snuggle up to one another, locking the jigsaw pieces of your bodies together.

Homelander traces a finger across the bruised finger marks wrapping around your neck. Part of him relishes in the way he’s managed to brand you where you won’t be able to hide it easily. Even with a scarf or a turtleneck, any slight move of the garment will expose the impressive size of your lovingly placed bruises. 

The other part of him isn’t that happy about it.

“I hurt you.”

“Duh! I wanted you to!” You scoff as if it was the most obvious thing.

His fingers trace over them some more before he leans in, placing a soft kiss against the marred skin.  

“You’re fucking crazy.” He lets out a little disbelieving laugh as he pulls you closer into his arms.

“Yeah, you’ve been rubbing off on me.”

“Nope, this is all you.” 

“Maybe. Hey, can we try spanking next?”

Taglist (you can add yourself to be tagged anytime I publish a new Homelander story): @infinetlyforgotten  @rafecamsgirlll @nervoussystemss

[otaku553]

You requested asks and I cannot think of anything serious so perhaps a silly one would be alright? 😅 If Ace and Sabo had to share a bunk bed, who do you think would get the top bunk? Would they fight over it? (Obviously with Luffy in the mix I feel like he'd want it but Luffy notwithstanding what you think?) It's such a sibling thing to fight over the top bunk I wonder how they'd be 😂 lol

OH ABSOLUTELY

They would definitely fight over the top bunk I think that’s just a natural law of siblings you always fight over the top bunk

I think before they resort to fisticuffs Sabo would try to negotiate his way with chores and other menial exchanges but this only works half of the time and only when Ace is up to negotiate otherwise they just fight a day’s worth of spars over it

[dollya-robinprotector]

Dress me up, make it tight, I'm your dolly You're my doll, rock'n'roll, feel the glamour in pink Kiss me here, touch me there, hanky panky~

Inspired from This post of @just-dol-headshots and this ask from @hakusins. Don't worry I'm still aiming for your ass Haku-Dean :) References and something under the cut

We all have to agree Bully Robin should have some softer and caring sides. When there's only them two and no one else is around to judge, he can let loose and slip back into that kinda of "Original Robin" we know and I love. I mean, that's what JDOLH made that got me into these swap messes from the beginning jsjkhskjhd you knowww the HUG!!

Reference: Barbie Girl (Aqua) and this cute ecchi Clamp Chobit piece

All in all I'm a pink bietch and Dollya won't be losing her V-card anytime soon that I can promise so hang in there okay mr.Bully.

edit: OMG THIS IS MY 1000TH POST TTOTT)) JKSDJLASKJKDLA

SELF-INDULGENT HERE WE GO

[chloesimaginationthings]

I want to eat your art

It's beautiful

Michael is also what first caught my eye but im staying for the entire style

I understand why Michael caught your eye first,,

[enemui]

If I was Cait, I would've simply hauled Vi to a private room with a bed, urgency and desperation and yearning be damned. I could be a privileged piece of shit with a history of violence against the impoverished innocents, but I'd still draw the line at having my first intimate encounter with my girlfriend, who was in prison since she was a kid (and I know this cause I was the one who bailed her out, even if it was for my own benefit), in a fucking jail cell (that her sister was locked in less than an hour ago!!!).

[picnokinesis]

LET YOU CUT ME OPEN JUST TO WATCH ME BLEED GAVE UP WHO I AM FOR WHO YOU WANTED ME TO BE

[bugflies00]

"watch out technoblade, tommy's angry at you" top 10 moments that killed thousands.

[lem0nicle]

VEX‼️‼️