#one day i will afford that................

[call-spoiler]

in 11th grade i was somewhat broke, and couldn’t afford to take the bus home from school. this was pretty inconvenient bc all the rich kids with their cars drove past and laughed at us. one day in second semester food studies, some dumbass was playing around with the frozen spinach bags and ended up pouring the liquid into a cup. he says to the class, “whoever drinks this gets 5 dollars.”

silence. everyone goes back to working. we all hate this guy.

i then realize five dollars is enough to pay for bus fare that day, and the next morning. going to pick up that glass of condensed spinach water and downing it was one of the most embarrassing experiences of my entire life. i hate spinach. must’ve gone green bc the teacher got really mad and sent me to the office.

still got my five dollars though!!

what is THE worst thing you've ever drank. all liquids acceptable. please tell me what it was, bonus points for why

[doggiewoggiez]

still unable to access the money that'll save us from this hell. can't afford to live. we have food thank god but our bills are hitting. had to get a new phone cuz mine broke.

like that broken. i promise my new one was the cheapest my phone plan would give me.

it is degrading begging for pity and for money and i hate it but we still need help. im a couple hundred over drafted because of electric bill and we haven't even paid last months water. this upcoming electric bill will be high because we needed to use the houses emergency heating system during the last freeze (regular central heating is broken). phone service is gonna go out in two days if we can't pay it. please help us. if i had the energy to id make a better post but this is just killing me. I've been doing this nearly a year and I swear I'm trying so fucking hard to fix things and make it work. I'm sorry.

Please if anyone can help still...

PayPal - Kofi - Cashapp

[solaceseven]

crawling back to you

pairing: sukuna x reader

genre: angst

inspired by the song do i wanna know? live at bbc by hozier

it’s been three months.

three months since the door slammed shut behind you, leaving nothing but silence in your wake. three months since you walked away, and sukuna didn’t chase after you—not that night, not the morning after, not the weeks that followed. he told himself it was for the best. that this was what you wanted.

but now, as he sits alone in his dimly lit apartment, the weight of your absence pressing down on him like a vice, he wonders if he made the biggest mistake of his life.

the buzzing of his tattoo machine is the only thing that keeps him sane most days. his clients come and go, faces he barely registers as he inks intricate designs onto their skin. it’s the only time his mind goes quiet—when his hands are busy, the hum of the machine drowning out the thoughts he doesn’t want to face.

but the second the machine powers down, reality creeps back in. and reality is cruel.

because no matter how hard he tries, you’re everywhere.

he sees you in the smallest things—things that shouldn’t remind him of you, but somehow always do. In the flicker of a neon sign outside the shop that hums the same soft glow as the fairy lights you used to hang in your room. in the faint scent of vanilla and jasmine that lingers when someone walks past him on the street, never quite matching the way it clung to your skin. in the half-empty coffee cup sitting on the counter, lipstick smudged at the rim, and he’s reminded of lazy mornings when you’d steal sips from his mug, laughing when he grumbled but never really minded.

you’re in the song that plays softly from the radio while he works—one he never paid attention to before but now knows every word to because it was always on your playlists. in the chipped black nail polish on his coworker’s hands, a fleeting reminder of the countless nights you sat cross-legged on his couch, painting your nails and teasing him for being too still as he let you paint his, too.

but worst of all, he sees you in his reflection—tired eyes that have lost their edge, the weight of regret carving its place in the lines of his face. in the faint traces of your touch that still linger like phantom sensations along the tattoos you used to trace absentmindedly with your fingers, as if memorizing every inch of him.

and when his coworkers scroll through their phones, laughter echoing through the shop, there you are again—captured in a fleeting Instagram story from some party last weekend. grainy, imperfect, but unmistakably you. smiling, carefree, eyes crinkling in that way that always made something in his chest tighten. and god, how he hates the way it guts him, wishing—aching—that he was still the reason for that smile.

you unfollowed him. he noticed immediately.

one day, your name was gone from his notifications, your profile nowhere to be found. he tried not to care. tried to convince himself that it was just social media. but it gnawed at him. you were cutting him out piece by piece, and all he could do was watch it happen.

he lurks in the shadows, hoping one of your friends posts something—anything—that gives him a glimpse of you. It’s pathetic, he knows, but it’s the only thing he has left.

there’s a bitter irony in it all. he was the one who pushed you away first. always keeping you at arm’s length, never letting you in too close. you wanted more—deserved more—but he couldn’t give it to you. not when vulnerability felt like a weakness he couldn’t afford.

and now? now, he craves your presence like a man starved.

the shop is quieter than usual tonight. it’s late, and everyone else has left. sukuna leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, the faint hum of traffic outside barely audible through the thick walls. the glow from his phone screen flickers beside him, but he doesn’t touch it.

not yet.

he’s been doing this every night. sitting here, contemplating. the urge to reach out is unbearable, but something always stops him. pride, maybe. or fear.

fear that you’ve moved on. that you don’t want to hear from him. that he’s too late.

his chest tightens at the thought.

he tried to fill the void, but nothing ever worked.

not the long hours at the tattoo shop, where he threw himself into his work until his fingers ached and his mind blurred. not the mindless scrolling through social media, hoping—not that he’d ever admit it—that he might catch a glimpse of you. not the empty nights spent lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for exhaustion to drag him under.

nothing could distract him from the ache of missing you.

his friends tell him it’s time to move on. they say three months is long enough to let someone go. that there are plenty of people out there. but what do they know? they didn’t spend endless nights memorizing the shape of your smile, or the way your eyes softened when you looked at him, like he was the only person in the world. they didn’t hear the quiet affection in your voice when you whispered his name in the dead of night, your fingers tracing lazy patterns over the tattoos on his chest like you were trying to commit every line to memory.

his friends didn’t feel the weight of your absence like he did—the way it settled deep in his bones, heavy and inescapable. they didn’t know how every morning, he still reached for you instinctively, only to be met with the cold, empty space beside him. how even now, he still slept on his side of the bed, as if leaving room for you just in case.

how could he fall for someone new when he was still so busy being yours?

they didn’t see how badly he broke you when he shut you out.

the memory of your last fight is still fresh, even after all this time. you stood in the doorway, tears brimming in your eyes, asking him—begging him—to just let you in. to tell you what he wanted. and all he gave you was silence.

he thought you’d stay. you always had before. but that night, you walked away. and now, the silence is all he has left.

his fingers twitch toward his phone, but he stops himself. what’s the point? you deserve better than a half-assed apology three months too late.

but then he thinks about the what-ifs. what if you’re waiting for him to reach out? what if you’re lying in bed right now, staring at your phone, wondering why he never called?

he can’t take it anymore.

the weight of missing you presses down on his chest, suffocating and relentless, until it pushes him off his chair and out the door before he can even think twice. it’s reckless, stupid—but so is love, isn’t it?

the streets are quiet at this hour, the hum of the city softened under the cloak of night. his hands are shoved deep into his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold, but none of it matters. all he can focus on is you. the thought of you, maybe asleep, maybe curled up in bed with your phone just out of reach. maybe dreaming of something—someone—that isn’t him.

the thought twists like a knife in his gut.

he walks with purpose, even though every step is a silent war between hope and dread. what if you don’t open the door? what if you tell him to leave? what if someone else is there?

he shakes the thought away.

it’s been three months, but it feels like no time has passed at all. and yet, it feels like forever.

before he knows it, he’s standing outside your apartment building, staring up at your window. the soft glow of light seeps through the curtains, and he wonders if you’re still awake or if you’ve just fallen asleep with the lamp on, the way you used to when reading late into the night.

his heart pounds so loudly he’s sure it’ll wake the whole block, but still, he climbs the stairs. each step echoes in the silence, a quiet reminder that there’s still time to turn back. but he doesn’t. he can’t.

and suddenly, he’s there. in front of your door. it’s familiar and foreign all at once.

he doesn’t have a plan. he doesn’t even know what he’s going to say. all he knows is that the thought of another night without you is unbearable.

he raises his hand to knock but hesitates. his breath is shallow, his pulse erratic.

but then, before he can stop himself, his knuckles rap gently against the door.

seconds pass. each one heavier than the last.

then, the faint sound of footsteps. the quiet click of the lock.

the door opens, and there you are.

soft, bleary-eyed, wrapped in a blanket, and so heartbreakingly familiar that it steals the breath from his lungs.

“sukuna?” your voice is quiet, confused, and laced with something that might be disbelief.

he swallows hard, the weight of the past three months pressing down on him all at once. “i know it’s late,” he says, voice rough and barely above a whisper. “i know i shouldn’t be here. but… i couldn’t stay away.”

you blink at him, and for a moment, there’s only silence. then, softly, “why now?”

his throat tightens, and he runs a hand down his face, exhaling shakily. “because i’m tired,” he says, voice cracking under the weight of everything he’s held back. “tired of trying to forget you. tired of pretending i’m okay. i’ve tried. god, i’ve tried. but i can’t. i miss you.”

his voice cracks at the end, and he hates how raw he sounds. how vulnerable. but it’s the truth. And right now, that’s all he has left to offer.

he sees the flicker of emotion in your eyes—the conflict, the hurt, the love you’ve tried to bury—and it guts him.

“i’m sorry,” he whispers, voice thick with regret. “i’m sorry for not being enough. for not being what you deserved. i know I fucked up. i know i wasn’t always what you needed me to be.”

his hands tremble as he clenches them into fists at his sides. “but i swear… i’ll do better. i will. i promise you.”

his voice is raw now, barely more than a whisper. “just… tell me it’s not too late.”

you stare at him, eyes glossy, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and something softer. and then, finally, you step back just enough to let him in.

and for the first time in three months, sukuna breathes.

[insidekatmind]

Forgiveness~Lee Myung-gi

Wearning: angst and sweet

Request: yes!

Myung-gi had accepted the invitation because he had no choice. The debt from cryptocurrencies was suffocating him, and with a baby on the way, your baby ,he knew he had to do something. From the moment he decided to participate, he had started avoiding you. He did it to protect you, to spare you pain, but the absence hurt just the same.

When he woke up in that sterile room, classical music echoed in his ears. Around him were rows of bunk beds and confused faces. He no longer had his clothes, nor his personal belongings. He felt lost. Then, among the crowd, his eyes landed on you.

He had found you.

Without thinking, he rushed toward you, his heart pounding in his chest. But you ignored him. Completely. As if he didn’t exist.

Three days passed like that. Myung-gi watched you from a distance, torn between the relief of seeing you alive and the fear of what was coming next. He knew you had survived the first two games, but the third was approaching, and just the thought of it terrified him. He wanted to talk to you, to come closer, but he didn’t want to add more stress to an already unbearable situation.

Then the third game began.

They called it Mingle. The players had to stand on a spinning platform, forming groups based on the number announced by the robotic voice. Those who failed would be eliminated.

Chaos erupted. Pushing, shouting, desperation. Myung-gi moved quickly, trying not to be trampled. When the number “2” was announced, panic reached its peak. And then he saw you.

You were alone. Your group had abandoned you at the last second.

Without thinking, he ran to you. People were shoving and fighting to save themselves, but he couldn’t afford to waste time. He grabbed your wrist and, with all his strength, pulled you toward one of the safe rooms, pushing aside anyone who tried to get in his way.

As soon as you crossed the threshold, the door locked with a metallic click. You were trapped inside. Alive.

Myung-gi was breathing heavily, but his grip on you softened. For a long moment, he just stared into your eyes, as if trying to memorize your face.

“I won’t let anything happen to you or our baby.” His voice was low, almost a whisper, filled with emotion.

He was still holding your wrist, but gently now. He had so many questions, but only one certainty: you were never supposed to be there.

You sighed and hugged him. He was surprised by your reaction, but he didn't hesitate. He closed his arms around you, bringing you close to him. He could feel your heart pounding against his chest.

He buried his face in your hair, inhaling your scent. It felt like a lifetime since he had been so close to you, since he had held you like that. The familiar warmth of your body against his was both comforting and torture.

After what felt like an eternity, he pulled away just enough to look at you. His gaze was intense, filled with a mixture of protectiveness and guilt."You shouldn't be here," he whispered, tracing the line of your jaw with his fingers.

His touch was gentle, as if he were afraid to hurt you. But there was also a certain possessiveness in the way he held you, as if he were trying to carve your presence into his memory.

“I needed the money for the baby,” you whispered. His expression darkened as you mentioned the reason behind your presence in that infernal place. Anger, fear and regret all twisted on his face.

"You shouldn't have come. It's too dangerous. Especially in your condition."He put a protective hand on your stomach, as if trying to shield the baby growing inside from harm.

You could see the worry etched in his features.

"What if something happened to you both? What if I lost you..." his words trailed off, too afraid to even voice the thought.

He pulled back, his eyes roaming over your face, as if trying to convince himself you were really there, physically unharmed.He let out a deep sigh, trying to control the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

"But you're here now," he said, his voice firmer now. "And I won't let anything happen to either of you. I promise."You smiled and hugged him.

The moment you smiled, some of the tension in his body released. He held you tighter, burying his face in the curve of your neck."God, I've missed you," he murmured against your skin. "I didn't know if I'd ever hold you again."

He nuzzled your hair, his hand rubbing circles on your back.

"I'm sorry," he eventually said, his voice rough with emotion. "I'm so sorry for everything. For disappearing. For not being there for you. For putting you in this situation."

“I forgive you,” you whispered.

Your words, soft and soothing, made his chest tight. He closed his eyes, a wave of relief crashing over him.

"Thank you," he responded, his voice cracking. "I don't deserve it, but thank you."He pulled back to look at your face, searching your eyes. He could see the forgiveness in your gaze, the kindness you could still have for him despite everything. It only made his regret more profound.

[elysiuminfra]

please help me survive being unemployed and also not get sued for overdue student loans

i've been unemployed for a couple months and i've sent out application after application, i've had interview after interview, and nobody has hired me. i am trying so hard to find a job right now. on top of that, i received a letter in the mail about my overdue student loans being sent to collections, and we are already living on a razor's edge with our budget. we can't afford groceries already. my girlfriend is the only one with a job and they just don't make enough.

it's been a rough year so far. i lost my insurance, i've been job hunting for months, and now if i don't start paying off my debt SOON i'll get dragged to court. my bank account is empty and i don't know what to do.

all i need is 142 dollars a month until i can get a job, and then i'm in the clear. i'm already sending out applications every day. i'm trying. i've tried opening commissions, but i don't have enough reach, and not enough clients. once i get a job i'll be okay. until then i'm drowning.

please consider tossing me whatever you want, anything helps, or just reblogging. if i clear above 142 dollars then i can put that towards food.

vm: cknelysium ca: cknelysium ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/cknelysium

[springgirlshowers]

Desktop Struggles

Summary: You think the worker at this internet cafe is cute, a little weird too, you’ve made multiple attempts to get his attention.

CW: kissing, oral (f receiving), fingering, p in v, biting kink?, overstim, multiple orgasms, smut galore!

WC: 3797

def inspired by this post ! tell me if u can spot my little hints at joosty being a vamp (•ᵥ_ᵥ•)

You didn’t really need to go to this place all this much. You had your own computer at home, and it definitely wasn’t as old as the ones in the cafe.

It wasn’t much of a cafe, you could get coffee. But it was bitter and disgusting. It was either that or water from the dispenser. Which you didn’t trust most of the time either.

You came across it when you had to complete an essay, but your laptop was getting fixed. So you had to stop by the Internet Cafe. Open 24/7. It was nearby and affordable.

But what kept drawing you back to that building was the cute receptionist. Actually. You weren't sure if he was a receptionist. More of a mix of receptionist/janitor/computer engineer. He was a worker. Probably the only one, it was always just him and sometimes the manager there.

Soft and slightly messy blond hair, faint black eyeshadow smudged on his eyes, numbers tattooed on his fingers, other tattoos littered his arms and peeked out from underneath his sleeves.

You knew his name. Joost. You saw it on his jacket. He had his own desk at the back, it was on the elevated part on the floor and next to the office door.

He spent most on the time typing on the keys, a cigarette hanging loose from his lips as he puffed even though there was a no smoking sign right next to him. Sometimes coming down from his desk to pick up trash people left behind.

Or he’d occasionally flip through the magazines he’d get from the metal display rack in the corner, next to the poorly taken care of chinese evergreen plant. He always picked up the medical ones, any that included anything about blood on them.

You figured out different ways to talk to him or get him over to where you were sitting.

You’d purposely mess up things on the computer, disconnecting it from the internet, unplugging the wires in the back of it, claiming that you had no idea how it happened, they must’ve been loose!

Or you’d pretend you didn’t know how to use certain features, hoping he’d teach you. Telling him that working with technology wasn’t your strong suit and other things like:

“Sorry, I can’t figure out how to insert a photo onto this document. Do you know how to?”

“Can you help me with the copier? I think it might be jammed just need to copy a few papers for one of my classes.”

“Could you show me how to print out documents? I need to print out an essay.”

Or asking him how much time you had left to keep using the computer.

Honestly, all these attempts sound quite pathetic. But what could you do? You had a silly crush on a worker at this cafe.

Though there was one incident. After you heard a little bit of arguing coming from behind that office door. You saw Joost come walking out angrily, black trash bag in one gloved hand and a cd in the other.

You watched him bend down and begin to look under the empty desks, scraping the old hardened gum off them. It was a bit funny watching him try to fit under and into the tiny space with how tall he was.

He stopped to look underneath the desk next to yours. You watched as he looked around underneath.

His hair looked so soft, you wanted to run your hands through it, you almost did actually, but you stopped yourself, putting your hand back onto the mouse instead.

You heard him scraping the CD against the wood, but then, you felt his fingers graze the skin of your leg. It was more than a graze honestly, more of him dragging his hand smoothly and slowly down your leg.

Your breath hitched as you felt his touch, his abnormally cold touch. You thanked the heavens you decided to wear shorts that day.

“Sorry, lost balance for a moment.” He said once he stood up.

Which was a complete and oblivious lie, especially with that small smile you saw on his lips.

Now it was particularly late tonight. You and a random old guy were the only ones left using the computers. You originally came here to study, but you ended up looking at clothes online and random intriguing articles.

You sighed quietly to yourself, it was late, nearly midnight. You could go back to your apartment, but you knew you’d be doing the same thing on your laptop there.

Eventually the man collected his things and left. Now it was only you and Joost in the building.

You opened up another tab and went into your documents, trying to figure out what you could mess up or play dumb about this time.

You decided to make a mock resume, you didn’t have the effort nor the energy to go through the process of making one tonight.

Then your next step was disconnecting the printer from that computer and disconnecting the internet, again.

You eyed Joost throughout your process, he was flipping through another magazine with a cigarette that was nearly a stub in between his lips.

You let out a dramatic scoff of disappointment as you slumped back in your chair to get his attention. It worked. Joost looked over with furrowed brows.

“Oh, sorry. I’m trying to print out a resume and the wifi disconnected so now I can’t connect to the printer either.” You shrugged and let your hands fall back onto the desk, a little frown on your lips.

Joost let out a small breath before crushing his cigarette into the overfilled ashtray before getting up and coming over. You had to hold back your smile.

He leant over behind you, he’d never done this before. Usually when he was helping someone, he’d just stand to the side and tell them what to click and what to type.

This time, he had his left hand splayed out on one side of the desk, his right doing the same. He had you caged in with his long arms, his face next to yours.

You tried to not let your breath stagger. But failed due to his next move.

He moved his hand onto the mouse, you’d hadn’t moved your house off the mouse yet. You couldn’t move it now. He moved the cursor around and clicked. Acting as if your hand wasn’t even under his at all.

“Even the old ladies here don’t have as many as issues as you do with the computers here.” Joost scoffed out a laugh, his other hand moving to type.

“I guess I just keep choosing the bad computers.” You joked, trying to mask your nervousness.

“Yeah. I guess you just keep thinking you can get away with disconnecting the internet on them too.” He said blankly, your eyes widened. He stopped typing and stopped moving around the mouse.

“You do realize I’m not that oblivious right? I know you’ve been doing this on purpose.” You saw him turn his face to you in your peripheral vision. You kept staring straight, too scared to meet his eyes.

“Come on, liefje. If you wanted my attention to me you could’ve just came up to my desk. You can’t keep messing up the computers, we worked hard to get these, you know?” He was scolding you, yet his tone of voice was soft. It almost sounded like he was trying to reassure you, comfort you.

“I can help you with other things instead of computers. You should’ve just told me what you wanted. A conversation, a smoke, a kiss?” There was no way he said that. He had to be joking.

You tried not to give any physical reaction to his last suggestion, but yet your body betrayed you with the smallest movement. Your eyes flickered down to his lips. Joost grinned.

“All you had to do was ask.” He teased, he brought his face closer, seeing if you’d take the leap of faith and move first. You did.

Your lips eloped around each other, you opened your mouth slightly, allowing his tongue to slip in. Continuing to kiss, you carefully stood up, shoving the chair away with your foot as you tangled your hands into his hair.

His hands moved to your waist, causing your shirt to rise slightly as he moved you back a bit to where the top of your thighs were pressing against the desk. You took one hand out of his hair to push the keyboard behind you, taking a seat on the edge of the desk.

It was embarrassing how quickly he was able to wipe away your bravery and get you flustered instead.

Joost pulled away, eyeing your body up and down. Without warning, he went for your neck. His lips kissing it all over, leaving trails of red spots all over the skin.

Then he pulled away. Stepping back. There was a long moment of confusion and embarrassment as he walked away, then relief as you watched him turn the light up sign that said ‘Open’ off, flip the sign on the door to the side that said ‘Closed! Be back soon!’ and drop the cheap white plastic blinds to cover the glass windows and locked door.

In seconds, his lips were back on you, his hands roaming madly all over your body. They cupped then squeezed your tits roughly, he smiled against your skin when he heard your breath hitch.

At one point he must’ve of taken his fingerless gloves off. You felt the skin of his palms once his hands slipped under the hem of your shirt, rubbing up and down on the smooth skin of your stomach. Waisting no time, he pulled your shirt up and off your body.

“Eager, are we?” You giggled at his rushed movements to unclip your bra next.

“You’ve been giving me those eyes for months.” He said through a breathy chuckle, he was right. You had been giving him fuck-me-eyes since you first saw him, he was pent up, and couldn’t wait any longer.

His large hands grasped your breasts again, he kissed all along your chest, soon taking one nipple in his mouth. Teasing it with his tongue and sucking on it as his hand squeezed the other.

His hand and mouth swapped places, giving your other boob the same treatment. His kisses trailed down and stopped just above the waistband of your sweatpants. You kicked off your shoes, knowing what was next to come. He quickly pulled down your pants, the urgency making you giggle.

You spread your legs farther apart, he pressed a kiss to your clothed cunt. It was oddly….romantic.

He peppered kisses along your thighs as his fingers hooked around your panties, removing them as well. He hooked his arms around your thighs, pulling you down but giving you enough space where you lay back on your elbows on the desk.

He trailed kisses along your thighs, occasionally nipping and biting them before finally bringing his attention to your pussy.

“Cute.” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t even give you any time to think of what he meant before he dove in and worked his tongue like a madman. His tongue sloppily lapping at your opening as his nose brushed against your clit.

One hand tangled into his hair in response, your nails scratching his scalp. He moaned into your cunt at the feeling, the vibration of his noise adding more to the pleasure.

Your other hand had a white knuckle grasp on the edge of the desk. His mouth was bullying your bud, then his hands pressed against your thighs to prevent you trying to close them.

Worse, he gripped onto the back of your knees, pushing them up to where you could sit the heels on your feet onto the desk edge.

This new position felt lethal, the feeling making you let out a silent scream as your face contort as you mumbled out ‘Oh God’ multiple times.

He only dove deeper, mouth moving to suck on your cunt. You rolled your hips against his face and your hand gripped tighter at his hair as you came. Your head lolled back as you rode through your orgasm. You expected him to stop, to break away from you. But he continued.

He kept lapping at your cunt, his dick painfully hard against his pants due to the pathetic noises you were making. Your legs were already sore from tensing your muscles so much, already a sheen of sweat forming on your skin.

You whined and whimpered and squirmed, trying to close your thighs and push his head away. But nothing could stop him, he was on a fucking roll, drunk off your juices.

In an attempt to get your hand a more stable spot on the desk, you moved it back, accidentally your hand went onto the keyboard behind. The old plastic board slipping and hitting into the neck of the blocky computer. No damage was done, just a bit of a shock to both of you.

“Shit! Sorry!” You giggled nervously, embarrassed at your accident. Joost pulled back and let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head.

Honestly, he was already running out of air, but he had to get that second orgasm out of you. So, he got off his knees, moved his mouth to your tits, and his hand to your cunt.

He rubbed two fingers against your slick before easily slipping them inside you, immediately curling and moving at a quick pace. Your body trembled.

You were already so sensitive, already so close. You wrapped your arm around his neck. He chuckled at you hanging onto him, your nails dug into his shoulder while you tilted and laid on your own upper arm as you mewled and whined.

His eyes never left yours as your jaw hung open and you cried out. Your other hand grabbed onto his wrist as you came undone for the second time.

“Ohhh I know, I know.” He cooed, resting his forehead against your temple, slowing down the movements of his fingers, and whispering praises to you and peppering soft kisses to your cheek and the side of your lips, soon moving your head to kiss you properly.

His movements came to a stop and he pulled his tattooed fingers from you, kissing you firmly but slowly.

“Was that too much? You okay?” He said after breaking away, pressing his forehead to yours.

“No. I’m okay.” You gave him a breathy weak laugh, your eyelids droopy as you stared at him. “We can keep going.”

“You sure?”

“Please, I wanna keep going.” You begged. Joost only smiled before giving you another long passionate kiss before stepping back, taking off his tan jacket, and grabbing you by the hips to turn you around.

You giggled as he pressed a hand to your back, pushing your front to lay on top of the table. The noise of his belt unclipping and hitting the floor along with his pants added 10x more excitement flowing through your veins.

He teased the tip of his cock inside you, then he pulled out. Then he did it a few more times before showing you mercy, rubbing his cock in between your folds before finally sinking into your cunt.

You whined at the stretching sensation. Joost smoothed his hand over the side of your stomach, whispering little encouragements and praises.

“You’re doing perfect, schatje. I know you can take me.” He leaned down to press small pecks to your back.

He gave you a moment to get used to the stretch of him inside you, you nodded as your signal for him to go ahead.

His thrusts started off slow and pulling out slightly, gentle. Then he would pull out all the way and go all the way back in, giving slow deep strokes.

He stopped, then immediately began to thrust into you at a high pace. It caught you off guard and made you arch your back as you cried out.

The room was filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, your moans and whimpers, and Joosts breathy groans.

Your hips were hitting into the wooden sides of the desk. You let out a small noise of discomfort at one point and Joost noticed.

“You okay?” He asked, his brows furrowing in concern, his pace slowed a bit.

“Mhm. Please don’t stop, don’t- please!” You cried out, your moans were getting much louder now. Your voice nearly echoing throughout the room, embarrassingly. This caused Joost to clamp his cold hand over your mouth and shushed you.

He pulled you up, your back against his chest as he continued to thrust into you, you let out a loud whine against his hand.

“Shhh, you can’t be too loud, liefje. We don’t want anyone outside hearing and knowing what’s going on in here, right?” He turned your head back slightly so you could see him.

You whined into his hand and nodded. Your moans were muffled by his hand, but still loud enough to drive him fucking crazy.

This angle of his cock hitting inside you was overpowering, you lifted your hand up to grab onto his forearm.

“Aw schatje, you gonna cum?” He cooed, not even bothering to try and fight back the toothy grin on his face.

You scrunched your eyes shut, nodding frantically and whining.

As you clenched around him and cried out against his hand, he dug his teeth into your neck, not hard enough to pierce the skin, but a perfect amount of pressure where it was pleasing.

His thrusts slowed and came to a stop once you began to jerk and twitch. He took his hand off your mouth, moving to the center of your chest as his other was wrapped around your waist. Pressing small kisses to the side of your face and neck, occasionally nipping at it.

Surely you would’ve fallen over if it wasn’t for his large hands keeping you pressed against him. Your breath hitched repeatedly and your thighs were shaking against him as he kept himself buried inside you.

Carefully, he helped you lean back down, you kept yourself up using your tired arms.

Without warning, he began to pound into you again, and you began to moan and sob out loudly in pleasure.

His hand was quick to cover your mouth again, you could hear him chuckle behind you.

“Fuck, just a bit longer, liefje. You can hold on for a bit longer, yeah?”

“Mmph, mhm!” You nodded, his hand still covering your mouth. He chose to be evil as his other hand moved to your clit, two fingers rubbing quick circles. You let out an embarrassing squeal.

“Think you can give me one more while you wait?” You didn’t even have to try and give him your answer, you cried out into his hand as you hit your fourth and final orgasm of the night,

At this point, his hand was the only thing keeping your head up. Your lips were smushed against his palm and your eyes were rolling into the back of your head. Your arms were barely enough to keep yourself up.

You were putty in his hands, moaning mindlessly. It was beautiful.

He kept his hand on your mouth while he moved his other from your clit to hold onto your waist, holding onto so tight there’d be marks by morning. He was pulling you back as he thrusted into you.

His movements soon became sloppier and he removed his hand from your mouth so he could grasp onto your waist with both hands.

You clumsily let yourself lay onto the desk, hands tightening into fists, your nails digging into your palms.

Your loud mindless moans and walls squeezing around him pushed him over the edge.

He spilt inside you with an exasperated groan and a few harsh deep thrusts. Giving you one last hard thrust after he finished. Just to get a small yelp out of you. Bastard.

He pressed kisses to your back as you rested the side of your face against the table, laying himself against you but not putting all his weight on top of you. Your body was trembling against him as you both caught your breath.

“Fuck. Still okay?” He checked again after bringing his head up, looking at you sweetly as he smoothed back damp strands of hair away from your face.

“Absolutely. Are you okay?”

“Of course. A bit sweaty, but I feel amazing.” He scoffed playfully.

“I don’t understand how you’re still so cold though. I feel like I’ve been in a sauna.” You laughed, picking your head up.

“I don’t understand either. I’m always cold for some reason.” He lied. He knew the reason.

“You might have an iron deficiency, you should get that checked out.” You joked, a lazy grin on your face.

“Probably should.” He grinned back before leaning back up, pulling out slowly and apologizing quietly when he heard you wince.

You pushed yourself up using your hands, stabilizing yourself for a second then grabbing your shirt and bra that both had landed onto the privacy wall next to the computer.

By the time you turned around, Joost already had one glove back on (the hand that didn’t finger you), put back on his pants and tan jacket. He was holding your sweatpants and underwear.

Jesus Christ, he moved fast.

“Sit down, you’re too shaky. Let me help.” He suggested, you leaned back against the desk again.

He bent down, holding your ankle softly to help you step into your panties, sliding them up and doing the same with your sweatpants. And he put your shoes back on for you.

It was silly watching him be so gentle despite that a moment ago he was just pounding into you so hard that the entire row of computers were shaking.

He stood up and tucked away a few stray hairs that had fallen in front of your face. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders lazily, his hands moved to your waist, thumbs rubbing over the fabric. The gears were turning in his head, he was hesitant to speak.

“So…you’ll be back tomorrow? Cause- I mean- I don’t mind that you stay longer than most customers. I really don’t mind at all.” He nervously shrugged, looking away from your eyes and fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.

He was flustered. Cute.

“Maybe, will I get a discount?” You teased, tilting your head at him. Giving him a dramatic pout for extra measure.

“I’ll think about it.” He narrowed his eyes playfully and bit back a smile. It was definitely a yes.

[kellycataclysm]

"Read to me...?"

"Anything for you..."

I was so thrilled to have the chance to work with my wonderful and talented friend @itsmeglycine on another commission of Lyra and Harvey. I'm just a fangirl fangirling, what can I say? This piece is so beautifully tender and cosy and just the most perfect thing for me to gaze on as I work on the final chapter in their long fic. Is this a glimpse into their loving and passionate early days or a look into their blissfully happy future? Could be both but something tells me this fits so well with where we're at in their story now. These two sillies are just so deeply in love, having weathered the storm, and their writer can confirm they've arrived at their happy ever after. Imagine the end of a long day, finally a moment of quiet and Lyra slips onto his lap, listening to his smooth and gentle voice as she falls asleep. I can't imagine anything better.

(Also... she's wearing his shirt... the one he wore here.)

(Also... Of course she wants to drape herself over him... have you seen the man? He is fine! The shirt sleeves...? I'm looking at those forearms like a Victorian man afforded a glimpse of ankle. That tie and those few buttons...? Stop it. And don't even get me started on his hands! I'm sure when she wakes up, refreshed from her nap, she'll have a little fun with her man. He takes such good care of her, she is only too keen to return the favour...)

Thank you so much for working with me again! You are wonderful! <3333

[cillians-sweetheart]

Hihihi could you please Write for Jim from tds?

Ofc he’s so daddy 😋

Maid For Pleasure - Jim TDS

Jim Murphy(38) x Cleaner!Reader(18)

Plot: Y/N becomes desperate for a job while in school and comes across a house cleaning gig that ends up suiting her, and her employers needs quite well.

Content: age-gap, smut, dubcon, pervy Jim, dirty talk (m), dominant Jim, slight degradation, spanking, adultery (m), cvm trapping, porno type plot

(Because we don't know Jim's last name in The Delinquent Season, we're just gonna say his last name is Murphy in this scenario.)

Being a broke, College student -freshly 18- I was in desperate need of a simple job I could do after school to be able to afford my basic needs. I would search every day at the part-time jobs listed in my area, but all required too many hours that I didn’t have. It wasn’t just my school hours it cut into, but studying hours I urgently needed to pass.

I was already doing well in school because most of my time was spent studying and spending extra hours in class unlike everyone else who had jobs to attend to. I had a choice, either get some money so I can feed myself, or be the greatest student in all my classes. That second choice was for sure tempting but probably not the right choice in the end. I’m not someone who’s overly comfortable with asking for money. I’d rather starve.

After several, continuous hours scrolling through the internet in my dorm room bed, my eyes catch a listing for a “Part-time house cleaning - paying $20/hour.” It was perfect. Easy, and well paying. I instantly clicked the link and read further. “Available during mornings and noon between 9:00am - 1:00pm.” I could easily go during my lunch break and free period around 11am. So I clicked apply.

It wasn’t until the next morning I had seen an email from Jim Murphy accepting my application. I was pleased to see I could start today at 10am. Quickly I got up and out of bed, got ready in a comfy, but cool outfit that I wouldn’t mind dirtying while slaving my way through this man’s house. I didn’t doll up fully, but made myself presentable enough to hopefully keep this job until I can find something more ideal.

I waited around my dorm until the time came for me to leave. When I did I was emailed an address on one of the middle class streets. Definitely someone who could afford a maid.

I pulled up to the house with my hair pulled back in a messy bun, my makeup light and my clothes tight but comfortable. After taking a few -several- deep breaths I got out and knocked on the front door. A slim man with a kind face opened the door to me and introduced himself as, “Jim.”

“Y/N.” I grinned in return to him. His eyes slowly gazed from up and down my face and figure. As if he wasn’t expecting his cleaner to be someone like me.

“Please come in Y/N. Apologies for the clutter. Children.” He chuckled, with an almost flirtatious grin.

“No worries,” I smiled. “This is my job.”

Jim went back to continue his work in the kitchen on his laptop, quickly typing and occasionally sipping tea for a mug. His dark brown glasses laid comfortably on the bridge of his small nose, and his legs slightly spread beneath the table.

I purposely cleaned every other room first before I made my way to the kitchen because if I’m being honest I didn’t expect I’d feel almost flustered around him. And because of that I avoided him to not embarrass myself. I knew he was married and I’d respect that, but I couldn’t help finding him handsome. He was and I couldn't control that. I’d manipulate myself into believing my attraction towards him was purely his fault to hide from the shame.

Finally the time came where I had absolutely nothing else to do in any other room in the house. Not even a speck of fuzz on the carpet. I kept my head down coming into the kitchen, reframing from any and all eye contact. I wiped the counters, vacuumed the floor, dusted and lastly scrubbed every surface from the floor to the cabinets.

I felt while on my knees scrubbing around the edges of the furniture, eyes on me. But each time I’d peer between my legs, Jims eyes were glued to his computer screen. I made out that I was probably just paranoid, and jittery with that need for affection.

But I wasn’t. Really every time I’d refocus myself to cleaning, Jim’s eye would glance from the screen to between my legs. In his mind, he imagined the feeling of my plump ass in his hands and the feeling of it rubbing against his lap. The thought alone made him painfully hard. His aching bulge pressed tightly against his jeans. And of course, my skin tight leggings fit perfectly around the shape of my pussy. The sight was so clear and perfect.

Being on my hands and knees scrubbing at the floor, Jim couldn’t look away as my hips, and ass moved in sync with the motion of my arm. Each scrub they jiggled and began providing an easier view as I bent my chest lower, and lower to the tile floor.

Jim grabbed at his bulge in his pants and had stopped worrying if I caught him staring. He was far too deep into the fantasy of ruining my little body to care. He swore under his breath and his hand tightened around his pulsing cock under his jeans. While I on the other hand hadn’t had a clue what was going on behind me.

Suddenly Jim stood from his chair and came up behind me. “I think you missed a spot… on the counter.” He stated with a tone I couldn’t identify.

“Sorry sir,” I quickly stood to my feet, still not looking him in the eye. “I’ll clean it.” I quickly, with my rag, walked to the granite countertop and began to scrub the surface. I could hear, and feel Jim slowly moving closer to me from behind.

“That’s good…” He purred, coming close behind me, his hips and boner rubbing against my butt. “Just like that.”

I froze. Jim’s hands laid onto my hips and his hard cock pressed against my pussy through my leggings.

“Don’t stop, just pretend I’m not here love” he leaned down with his hot breath on my neck. I continued to slowly stroke the counter with my damp rag. I felt panicked, and uneasy. But the feeling of him rubbing against my clit made me unbelievably wet.

“Mr Murphy…?” I whimpered, gripping the counter.

“Mhm?”

“What are you doing?” I asked with my voice shaky and unsure.

“You wouldn’t believe how long it’s been since I’ve touched such a young, beautiful body,” he whispered to me. “I need this. I need to touch you.” Completely avoiding my question.

My skin felt hot and my cheeks went red at his words. And suddenly his big rough hands tugged at my leggings, pulling them down my plump ass. I wanted to say something but all that came out was a muffled whine.

Jim quickly undid his belt from behind me. The sound made my whole body freeze in place.

“You want this baby?” His voice was low and lustful as he stroked his now bare cock against my clothed clit.

I squirmed in return to him, “mhm..” I moaned.

“Yeah?” His hand gripped firmly to my plushy hip. “Is that why you wanted this job? To be fucked like a little maid?”

I was speechless. By his sudden dominance and the power he held on me, and the way I’d do whatever he told me scared me.

Jim, with one easy movement, ripped my little pink panties down my legs. I felt the cool breezy on my wet bare skin, and then his hot tip brushing between my slits. From behind me I could hear him groan at the sight. “Such a pretty little pussy,” He squeezed my soft thighs and spread them to look closely at my needy hole. “Good girl…”

Without a warning Jim began to push his throbbing cock into me. The deeper he went, the more he groaned, “mm, oh you’re so tight…” His hips pressed against my butt.

I could feel his thick cock stretching my wet walls, and hitting deep in my cervix. I gripped the countertop and my eyes rolled up while he began to slowly thrust himself into me. “Oh that’s good…” He moaned and his speed, and force grew pleasurably hard. My little body being fucked senselessly against his countertop, legs shaking and moaning far too loudly for my liking. I tried to bite my lip holding my sounds back, but each time I did Jim would slap my ass forcing me to whimper and moan at his command.

The sweet sound of moans, and wet skin slapping filled the room. My pleasure made me almost scream as he forcefully beat me with his cock. And the way he’d slap my ass made my pussy drip and tighten around him.

“Fuck…” He squeezed my ass pounding me forcefully, “You feel so much better than my wife… god you're just so sexy.” He groaned with an assertive tone. “You like that? You want my cock?”

“Mhm” I moaned with my eyes rolling into my head. I felt so close with the force of him hitting every good spot. I squeezed against him trying to hold back, but the pulsing and wetness caught his attention.

“Cum for me.” He demanded and landed a hard slap on my ass. “Cum on my cock.”

With the way his voice sounded, my legs shook and my pussy fluttered and pulsed against his cock. My sweet fluids dripped down my leg and soaked his length. I moaned so loudly he finally held his hand over my mouth muffling my orgasm.

I stood there barely able to keep myself up while he finished beating my insides. I couldn’t stay quiet as I continuously came until he pulled out. And when he did he stroked his cock eagerly, his cum spitting all over my clit and aching hole. It was hot, and thick. And before I could do anything he yanked my panties up, trapping his hot cum on my pussy.

I felt sticky and sensitive, and Jim quickly lifted his pants. He grabbed me and pulled my back against his chest. “You’re such a good girl,” he purred. “I want you back here next week. And I’ll show you something that’ll need cleaning.”

I left his house and he paid me $200 cash. I felt like a prostitute in a way, but also real happy that I could finally take myself out to dinner and have something to look back to when I’d get into bed tonight.

[janeyseymour]

Two Roads Diverged In A Wood

summary: a great valentines day prompt for @jeridandridge

WC: ~2.25

When Melissa broke up with Gary, you couldn’t necessarily state that you were shocked. Were you happy this might mean that you could have your shot with the gorgeous redhead? Perhaps. Did you enjoy seeing the shift in her attitude since very publicly rejecting his proposal of marriage? No. It was quite clear to you that the second grade teacher was miserable. Did she regret her decision? Not in the slightest. Did that make it any easier on her heart? No.

“For what it’s worth,” you lean in and tell her softly. “I think you did the right thing following your heart.”

“Thanks,” Melissa sighs, lips quirked to one side. “Doesn’t make it any easier.”

“I know,” you pat her arm affectionately.

“I gotta pay for the vending machine now too,” the second grade teacher grumbles. “You know how much I was saving not having to pay?”

You can’t help but laugh at that question. Melissa Schemmenti could quite possibly be the only person who would think about something as trivial as paying for her snacks and iced tea after going through a breakup.

“Probably a lot,” you chuckle.

“My body is used to having at least two iced teas a day now,” the redhead rolls her eyes. “I can’t afford that.”

When there’s an iced tea sitting on her desk for the next two weeks when she gets in, she just smiles softly to herself and thanks you quietly once she enters the staff lounge. 

As it would be, breaking up with somebody you’ve been in a relationship with for a few years sucks. It sucks even more when Melissa remembers that Valentine’s Day is just around the corner. The redhead is only reminded of this when everyone is talking about what they’re doing for the holiday.

“Melissa, you’re always more than welcome to join Gerald and me,” Barbara offers kindly, although she knows Melissa won’t take her up on it.

“I ain’t crashin’ your Valentines,” the second grade teacher quips. “I’ll do a lot of things, but I ain’t doin’ that.”

“You always know that you’re able to,” Barb tells her best friend. 

“I… uh, I don’t have any plans other than to paint and watch television if you just wanted to come over and veg out with me,” you offer quietly. 

“That’d be really nice,” Melissa says softly, and she nudges you gently as a thank you.

Once lunch is over, Barbara practically swarms her work wife. “You’re really going to go over to Y/N’s?”

The redhead shrugs. “I think it’ll be a nice reprieve from all of the hectic-ness of Valentine’s Day, especially this year.”

“You think that’s a smart idea? To go over to her house when she’s part of the reason you broke it off with Gary in the first place?”

Melissa bites her lip nervously, but she doesn’t say anything. Again, she just looks to her friend and gives half a shrug in response. 

Valentine’s Day, as it always is, is chaotic as ever. The Abbott crew just barely manages to avoid another Halloween candy fiasco again. You send the sugar-high children off to reign hell on the streets or with their parents with a relieved sigh. Over lunch, you had told your redheaded guest she could head over anytime after 5. And now that you’re leaving, you figure that maybe you should stop by the store to make this significantly more difficult holiday easier to bear for the second grade teacher.

It’s not the most difficult thing in the world to shop for Melissa. You know she prefers red wine, so you grab a bottle of that. Flowers are easy- she likes anything pink, red, or white. You grab a bouquet of roses dotted with a few baby’s breath and hope that she likes them. Chocolate is always a hit with anyone. You do opt for some of the nicer chocolate and grab a pack of strawberries. Maybe the two of you can decorate some together. With a sigh, you throw a bag of white chocolate chips into the basket. If that doesn’t seem like the right move though, you do place a container of tiramisu in your cart as well. As for dinner, you had told her that you were planning on just ordering takeout, and you stick to your word.

By the time you get home and haul your groceries into the house, the clock is reading 4:50. Ready to be out of your work attire, you tell yourself you’ll put everything away while you’re waiting for the redhead. A few moments later, you’re descending back down the steps and into the kitchen with your pink sweatpants on and a comfortable hoodie. Sliding your slippers on as you go, you go about putting everything away. You’re interrupted a few minutes later to the doorbell ringing, and your phone going off with a text to let you know that Melissa had arrived. 

“It’s open!” you call as you finish putting everything away. No sooner do you hear the front door open, and your colleague is kicking off her shoes at the front door. “Kitchen!”

Footsteps approach, and when you turn with the flowers that you had bought for the woman, Melissa smiles softly.

“Those are gorgeous. Who got you those?”

“They’re for you, dumb ass,” you smirk as you hand them over. “Happy Valentine’s Day.” 5She instinctively smells them, the smile on her face only getting sweeter.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Melissa whispers, although you can tell the small act practically made her day.

“I didn’t,” you chuckle. “Now, what do you want to order for dinner?”

Once the two of you have finally decided on dinner (it ends up just being Chinese takeout), you reach for the wine glasses and the bottle of wine that you picked up for the occasion.

“You don’t like this wine,” Melissa notes softly as she watches you expertly open her preferred drink and pour her a serving.

“I don’t,” you chuckle. Then you reach for the cabinet again and pull out your own glass of wine. “But you do, so…”

“Did you pick up this bottle specifically for me?”

You shrug with a smile and lead the redhead to the couch. On the table, there are a few different canvases for the two of you to pick from, different brushes, paints, and old takeout containers filled with water.

“You paint?” the second grade teacher raises a brow.

A bit shy, you point to the elegant landscape above your television. “I painted that.”

Green eyes widen and turn to you with shock. “So what the hell are you doing being a teacher?”

“It’s just a hobby of mine,” you chuckle. “All for fun.”

“Well, I sure as hell can’t paint like that,” the redhead looks to you.

And as supportive as ever, you just give her an encouraging smile. “That’s the great thing about art and painting. It doesn’t have to look like that. As long as you, or someone who is lucky enough to see it, feels something when they look at it, it’s art.”

“You would say something like that,” Melissa rolls her eyes playfully. “And mean it so earnestly too.”

You just continue to smile as you pick up a brush. You silently push your coworker to pick up her own brush, which she does.

“What are you planning on painting?” Melissa asks you.

“I don’t have much in my kitchen, so I’m thinking just some little canvases to hang… think silly home goods sayings,” you chuckle. And with that, you reach for a canvas, reach for a bottle of paint, and get to work.

You only work for a few minutes on one canvas, painting cow-like spots in pinks and browns on it, before moving to another and doing the same to another canvas. And while you’re waiting for your work to dry, you see that Melissa is simply watching you.

“I thought we were doing this together,” you note as you reach for your wine glass and take a sip.

Red hair swishes from one side to the other. “I- the way you work is… wow. I could never do that.”

Your brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“So freely… in silence.”

If silence is the issue, you can sure as hell fix that. “I’ll be right back.”

You miss the way those striking green eyes are trained on your ass. But you’re back in a  few seconds with a guitar in one hand and a ukulele in another. Perfectly drawn on brows lift.

You don’t give her a verbal answer, only sit down, silently instruct her to pick up her brush again, and begin to play a soft tune on the guitar. Your voice begins to lay over the instruments beautifully, and after a few minutes, Melissa’s canvas is covered in beauty- that’s the only way you can describe it. You set your instrument down with a satisfied smile.

“See? You just needed some inspiration. That’s beautiful,” you compliment quietly.

Your colleague rolls her eyes. “It’s a bunch of colors.”

“But you felt something while I was singing, right?” you ask. “You were moved and let it all flow through you?”

The redhead glances down at her canvas. And it looks… she’s somewhat impressed with how nicely she blended the colors. “Yeah. But now I don’t know what to do.”

It’s then that the doorbell rings, and your dinner has arrived. The meal is pleasant, conversation flowing easily between the two of you. It also gives you a chance to let your partially finished painting dry.

Once you’re finished cleaning up your takeout containers, you smile at the redhead and pour her a bit more wine. Then you pick up your paint brush.

“You’re adding more?” she asks.

“Just the last few details,” you chuckle softly. On one canvas, you paint a few vines before pulling out your sharpie and writing “Love Grows Here” in your loopy script. On the other, you paint a simple line art espresso cup before writing “I like you a latte” underneath of it. You set the two pieces of art down with a satisfied look on your face.

“How?” Melissa asks simply. “How do you just… know how to do that?”

You shrug before looking at her canvas. “What are you going to add to yours?”

“I- I don’t really know,” she admits.

You give it another glance before suggesting softly, “Maybe you could add a few little vines and flowers and write a quote on that underneath.”

Those full lips quirk to the side in thought before it’s clear that an idea strikes her. The woman picks up a brush and gestures for you to pick up your guitar again. You oblige her request, although you’re a bit confused. And then you begin.

By the time you’re finished the first song, Melissa’s tongue is poking out of the side of her mouth in concentration as she paints… two paths?

“I’m just going to start getting dessert ready,” you promise her as you set your instrument down.

You’re able to heat up the chocolates that you bought earlier, bring out the strawberries, and carry them on a tray out to the coffee table when you see that Melissa has now picked up the sharpie and is writing a quote in the middle of her canvas. 

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I- I took the one less traveled by. And that has made all the difference.-Robert Frost

“Frost?” you ask softly as she finishes crossing the ’t’.

Two shoulders shrug up and down. “I always liked that poem.” Then her eyes catch a glance at what you’ve brought into the room. “Chocolate covered strawberries?”

“They are,” you laugh. “But I figured it might be fun to be able to decorate them, or at least dip them in ourselves while we watch a movie or something.”

Green eyes light up as you settle in next to her.

The both of you end up eating your fair share of dessert before relaxing into the couch together. The way that the cushions lay, you’re sitting quite close to each other. Your hip is practically on the edge of her thigh. The blush creeps into your cheeks quickly.

You sit there quietly, as does she. The movie plays softly until you feel a soft cheek rest itself on your shoulder. When you look down, you expect the redhead to be asleep, or at least dozing. But she isn’t. She’s fully coherent and watching the movie with full attention. You can’t help but smile to yourself, your cheeks feeling ever so slightly warm.

“You good?”

“Just… relaxing,” Melissa mumbles into your shoulder. “And you’re warm.”

You can’t help the soft chuckle that falls off your lips as you wrap an arm around her and pull her closer. After a few minutes, you feel an arm delicate drape itself over your waist.

Melissa would never admit it, but this is the first time she’s been held in a long time- longer than she would’ve expected, with the feeling of being safe. Her guard is down, and she has not a care in the world as the movie quietly drones on around the two of you.

At some point, the two of you must fall asleep because the next thing you remember is glancing at the clock and it being two in the morning.

“Lis,” you mumble as you shake her shoulder gently.

Her eyes peel open, and she looks enraged at being woken up before she realizes she’s still with you- she’s still in your arms. “Hey. Sorry I fell asleep.”

You smile. “Nothing to apologize for,” you whisper. “I fell asleep too.”

“Well, I guess I should get out of your hair,” Melissa mutters as she tries to disentangle herself from you. But you keep your hold on her.

“Just stay the night. It’s two in the morning, and I don’t want you out there this late.” Yeah… that’s why you want her to stay the night; it definitely isn’t because she’s warm and loving and…

“Okay.”

And so, the two of you stumble your way up the steps for the night, falling onto the bed unceremoniously as the exhaustion truly seeps its way into your bones. Her head rests in the crook of you neck as the two of you fall asleep tangled together for the first time. You can only hope that it won’t be the last time. Maybe, by next Valentine’s Day, you’ll actually be a couple- not just two coworkers with lonely souls longing for each other. 

[thecheshireprincess]

Because all of two people said they wanted to read my newest story obsession, here's a sneak peek at my favorite chapter I've written . . .

Let me introduce you to:

The Game Itself

A Chishiya x childhood best friend reader (Niragi's sister!) fic

Content Warning: Mentions of an abusive father, mentions of reader trending toward a panic attack, canon-typical violence, curse words, Niragi is in here and is a menace

A/N: This chapter takes place well into the story, having already introduced many of the main characters and some important plot points. None of my own twists are spoiled by reading this chapter first, and I think it's the best representation for how this story will be 😘 I hope you love it 💕

You lean back with a sigh, relaxing into the plastic beach chair set in front of the glittering pool packed with bodies. The sun is high in the sky, and the citizens of The Beach are happily drinking it in. That's not the only thing they're drinking in, mind you - it's mid-afternoon, and the party is absolutely raging. The music is bumping, the drinks are flowing, and the people are doing what people at The Beach do best - celebrating life. It may seem macabre, to party the days away when you're forced to face deadly games by night, but honestly it feels kind of right when you aren't really sure how much longer you have left to live.

Chishiya sits at your feet, one arm draped lazily over your bare calves and the other holding him upright on the chair. As usual, his face is devoid of any emotion, but you know he is enjoying the opportunity to people watch and get some sun. Even he isn't a vampire, after all.

You spend a few moments studying the people yourself - many splashing around drunkenly in the refreshing pool water and others dancing uninhibited around its edges, everyone looking free as can be. How must it feel to not have to worry about anyone in the Borderlands but yourself? How easy it must be to not have the two most important people in your life stuck here with you, wondering if today is the day they're going to die.

You feel the familiar tight feeling in your chest start to build, and force yourself to shake away those suffocating thoughts - you simply cannot afford to panic here.

You turn your attention instead to playing with the beads adorning the straps of your emerald green crochet bikini. The suit was new, wearing it outside of your room for the first time today. It was special to you - Kuina had found it while she was out for a game last week, saying it had reminded her of your sparkling eyes. The gift made you feel loved, and the suit made you feel sexy.

Rolling the wooden beads between your fingers seemed to help settle your nerves. When your breathing finally returned to normal and the simple anxious task was no longer needed, you sigh loudly, covering your face with your arms and flopping further back into the chair. Bored.

Chishiya smirks, raising an eyebrow. The man very nearly laughs at the dramatic habit that was very you. "Bored already, hm?" He hums, "Coming down here was your idea after all."

"Yes, but I thought there would be more excitement" you whined, flailing your arms widely to accentuate your point. Chishiya sweeps his eyes over your form, looking at you with amusement.

He's about to say something more when he's interrupted by the arrival of two familiar figures - a nervous looking guy with shaggy black hair, and a fit, muscular girl with a cute bob cut. Chishiya squeezes your calf to get your attention, flicking his eyes toward them as they sit down apprehensively on two beach chairs across the pool from you. It was the two newcomers from the most recent executive meeting, and before that, your 5 of Spades game. Arisu and Usagi.

"So they decided to stay after all," you muse, sitting up in interest and folding your legs underneath you. You scoot your body closer to your friend, your thigh brushing against his, as you continue to observe the couple. You briefly wonder what had happened to his blonde friend, and the one they'd been trying to get medical help for. In a place like this, it's probably best not to ask.

The blonde turns his head to study your face, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear as he does, "I can't imagine that it would have gone over well had they declined Hatter's offer." You feel a slight shiver run down your spine at Chishiya's intimate touch. That's new, you note. He had brushed your hair behind your ear like that many times in your life, and only now does it take your breath away. You hum distractedly, still staring at the pair but suddenly feeling very far away from the events taking place around you.

You grin brightly, then, having noticed Kuina skipping over to them. She plops, likely uninvited, down on the chair beside Arisu, her unlit cigarette hanging characteristically in her mouth. There is no doubt in your mind that she was already teasing them about the relationship between them, despite having just introduced herself.

Kuina was confident like that, and you loved that about her. Well, except for when she was teasing you and Chishiya. You blushed slightly just thinking about it, wondering when you had started becoming so flustered about your best friend. You duck your head at these thoughts and pretend to study the sparkly manicure Kuina had given you last night.

You and Chishiya were still just best friends, right?

Within a minute or two, the air had turned from relaxed to tense, and your neck snapped up to find out why. Your discerning eyes land on the militants, of course, you really should have guessed. The hostile and generally power hungry group of The Beach's "personal protection unit" were filing into the party, sure to flash their weapons at anyone looking. The smart people were avoiding their gaze entirely, and the stupid (drunk?) people were openly gawking. You rolled your eyes, how typical.

Leading the charge onto the pool deck was Aguni, looking cold and calculating as usual, with your brother following close behind. Your eyes narrowed, having not seen him for a few days.

"Looks like you're about to get your excitement after all," Chishiya whispered, his breath tickling your ear. You took in a sharp breath in anticipation; the full militant corp was standing at arms looking ready to fight, at the pool. Could this mean the fall of The Beach could be coming sooner than you previously expected? Anxiety swirled heavily in your stomach, fingers subconsciously finding the wooden beads again.

You look to Niragi, the one person who would normally soothe your frayed nerves with just a glance, but feel even worse seeing the wild look in his darkened eyes. Had your relationship truly deteriorated so much in a matter of weeks?

Being all the way on the other side of the pool from them, you're unable to hear Aguni's request, but Niragi was quick to obey. He moved towards Usagi, pulling her roughly up to her feet.

You watch with widened eyes - had Aguni asked for Usagi? What would he even want her for? Nothing good, certainly. Maybe you overestimated his kindness and empathy the day he saved you in the 9 of Hearts game. Or maybe this place really does create monsters out of men - you could certainly see that in the long-haired man across the pool from you, once soft and caring, now swinging a gun around without a care in the world and physically threatening a girl not much older than you. Hell, you see it even in yourself, having been happy enough to let everyone but Chishiya die from the second you landed in this wretched place and started playing.

You're shaken from your reverie when Arisu springs up from his place beside Kuina to help Usagi. You groan in despair, knowing full well that your brother would only be further provoked; Borderlands-version Niragi has an extremely short fuse. Kuina also looks displeased, as though she'd literally just told them not to mess with them, which she probably had.

The people of the party are now definitely watching, but openly pretending not to be. If you didn't feel so anxious at the situation, you'd probably laugh at how nosy and indiscretion drunk people truly are.

You find yourself standing instead, ready to close the distance between your perch and where Niragi has now thrown Arisu to the ground, kicking him repeatedly in the stomach. You felt like throwing up watching the display. Memories flooded your mind of watching your father do the exact same thing to the tall man who was now delivering the blows. It was taking everything in you to not curl up in a ball crying like you always had when the two men in your family were fighting. No, this time you had to put an end to it. This time you would be brave and fight.

"You're going to try to save them, aren't you?" Chishiya mumbles in concern, knowing this scene was likely triggering to you. You knew he wanted you to stay out of it, but you just couldn't help yourself.

"I can't sit back and play victim anymore, Shiya," you whisper. You move swiftly around the pool, before you could lose your nerve or Chishiya could stop you.

"Niragi, please. They're my friends," you plead with the violent man, grabbing onto his forearm as he delivers another crushing blow to Arisu's ribcage. The people of The Beach were now actively watching the scene, fully invested in your family drama. You're unsure of why you called the couple your friends, when you just barely know their names. All you know is that you don't want to watch your brother kill the poor guy, and you definitely don't want to find out what Aguni had planned for Usagi. Or was it that you couldn't stand to see your sweet brother hurt someone the same way he had been hurt so many times in his life?

Niragi ceases his assault on the boy and rips his arm from your grasp. He gives you a full once over in the process, his cold eyes meeting yours for the first time in days. You feel real, raw fear filling your system, something you haven't felt since leaving your father's house for the last time 8 years ago. You'd never felt smaller in your life than you did now, shrinking under Niragi's brutal gaze.

Taking a shaky breath, you muster the shiniest, prettiest puppy dog eyes you can, peering up at Niragi through long eyelashes. "You won't hurt them, right? I'm friends with them."

Niragi continues glaring intimidatingly down at you, in what you realize is disgust. He doesn't address your concerns, but instead has something else to say.

"Put some fucking clothes on, you look like a slut" he spits fiercely, his pierced face now just centimeters from yours. The tight feeling in your chest had returned in full force, threatening to suffocate you.

You stumbled back as if he'd struck you - Niragi had never spoken to you like that. Your stomach dropped, and it took all of your willpower to maintain your composure. You obviously couldn't cry in front of all these Beach idiots, gaping at the two of you like you were the best soap opera in the Borderlands. You turn your head to escape his intense gaze, and put your tongue in your cheek to keep the tears from spilling over. You want soap opera? I'll give you soap opera.

Looking back up at your brother, you cross your arms over your chest. "What are you going to do, make me?" you implore him brattily. Niragi seethed, pierced eyebrow arching, looking like he was seriously considering slapping the attitude right out of you. You stand your ground, the way you should have every other time you've faced a monster like this.

As you and Niragi stare each other down, the initial cause for your dispute long forgotten, Aguni and the others have become distracted by Hatter's arrival. One side demanding peace, and the release of the newest members of the beach; the other begging silently for chaos to ensue. The tense atmosphere surrounding you indicates the balance of power between the two leaders was indeed in jeopardy.

After what feels like hours of strained silence, Aguni ultimately yields to Hatter. The Beach seems to collectively release their held breaths as Aguni and the militant corp flock away to another part of the resort. Usagi quickly tends to Arisu, leading him back into the building to treat his wounds and get to safety. Meanwhile, you have your own struggle for power going on.

Niragi still stands towering above you, obviously not in the mood for your games. He unbuttons his black and white collared shirt, draping it over your shoulders, "Go. Change. Not a request." His fingers wrap tightly around your forearm, aggressively yanking you towards the entrance to the hotel. The force that Niragi had exerted on you nearly sent you careening into the pool still glistening mockingly at your feet, but luckily Chishiya had appeared in just the right position to catch you. Unbeknownst to you, the two exchange a brief look before Niragi skulks off to find Aguni and his other lunatic friends.

The panic within you threatened once more to boil over and your brain simply shuts down - this day had been too fucking much. In your daze, you barely register Chishiya dragging you inside, away from the curious and scrutinizing glances of The Beach citizens. You were embarrassed, confused, and fucking mad.

Just as you passed through the swinging double doors and into the air-conditioned building, Kuina fell in step with you two. She let a reassuring hand fall on your shoulder, squeezing it for comfort. At her kind touch, you feel your carefully crafted resolve finally crumble to the floor. Chishiya knew immediately that you were done for, lifting you easily into his arms and allowing you to ground yourself in him. He carried you protectively the rest of the way to his room as your thoughts thundered around in your head like a wild storm.

You had been lying to yourself your whole life, Niragi had been lying to you your whole life. He promised that your family wasn't broken, that you weren't broken. You guessed it was too much to ask for you to remain untouched by your father's special brand of cruelty. That one day, you'd likely both become just like him.

And now Niragi had. He called you a slut, degrading an outfit that had made you feel beautiful. He embarrassed you in front of an audience. He grabbed you so hard you could see his fingerprints etched in your skin. He was just like him and this time you knew you wouldn't escape.

It was then that you knew - this game that you were playing was much more dangerous than you had initially realized.

♤ ♡ ◇ ♧

OKAY so I got a little carried away 😅 Yes this was supposed to be a sneak peek, but believe it or not it's not even the entire chapter 🤭

Who's ready for the whole story?

[teddypoi-qd]

{ID - Series of tweets from @/grumpwitch about working in a public library:

"Things I have learned about the general public whilst working at the library: 1. A huge number of people under 20 can't face clocks, having grrown up with only digital ones.

2. Many people don't know how to spell "library." It's in our email address. This causes problems.

3. A disturbing number of young people don't actually know how book-lending at the library works. They assume it costs money! Teach your children about libraries!

4. Crime and thriller are basically the same thing in many cases. In fact, we have doubles of books because of that.

5. People use hidden codes like asterisks to mark which books they've read! The system will let you know if you've already borrowed something! Just ask.

6. If an automatic door breaks, people will walk into it instead of reading the sign at face height.

7. Libraries are a godsend for blind and deaf people and not just for audioboks. They can come for help with filling out forms and getting directions.

8. Some elderly people go through books at a TERRIFYING rate. They are to be feared and respected. 9. Some people are so afraid of computers that they will come to you with a query and then become upset if you offer to look it up on the compute instead of in a book.

10. Some poeple have never, ever used a telephone. Especially older women. Their husband did it for them.

11. The DWP fuck over everyone but especially the most vulnerable and I haven't met a single library worker who hasn't helped struggling library users with food or phone calls or even a cup of tea when it's cold and they can't afford heating.

12. The Job Centre regularly lie to people and like to tell them that they can get services at libraries that simply do not exist. We will try our very best to help you get what you should have been given at the Job Centre.

13. Most banks assume that everyone has an email now. In fact, some people have trouble proving they exist at all without one.

14. Library folk are good folk. We do this because we are passionate about it. We have to be.

15. Libraries aren't quiet anymore. They're community hubs now. They may have quiet study areas but most libraries are bustling with activity. Between kids' classes, singing and memory groups for those with Dementia, crafts sessions and noisy office equipment, don't expect silence.

16. Libraries remain the only place where you can spend hours in a publically-accessible building without being expected to spend money. Parents come to entertain their children for free on wet days. People in poverty come for a warm place to sit. Libraries are a haven.

17. Some people will go their entire lives only reading 2-3 authors but still have enough material to read a book every month. (See also: Danielle Steel, James Patterson, Clive Cussler, etc.)

18. A library lives and dies by the staff on the counter. You can have the best funding, all of the books and tech in the world but you'll only get footfall if your staff go above and beyond. Sometimes even that doesnt work, though and it's frustrating.

19. We're funded based on footfall. I've seen staff cry because we lost a youth group to a private hall that has fancier facilities like a cafe. We need all the footfall we can get.

20. Staff are hitting their head against walls volunteering to create events, classes and groups only to have them shot down because local councils don't understand social media or want to charge for it. I can't overemphasise just how much unpaid work staff do.

21. Most of the facilities are only working because staff pay out of pocket to get things working. My manager bought a new laminator when we couldn't afford one. She buys in colouring materials for kids. We sometimes bring in our own stationary. We even buy lightbulbs in.

22. Authors don't like to visit little libraries because they don't get paid. Bookstores often pay.

23. The "sexy librarian" trop has actually done a LOT of harm and has caused countless incidences of sexual assalt by men who can't tell the difference between porn and reality.

24. Old ladies keep libraries in business. Old ladies who read are the best. Old ladies who can tell you exactly which page features the most gruesome murder scene are the very best.

25. Library staff ALWAYS want to know what you thought of the book. We want to know what to recommend to others!

26. I'm not supposed to have favourite library users but I do: I love library couples, who bicker over each others' reading tastes or share books and then argue about the themes. I also love the autistic kids with special interests. I will crawl over hot coals to get you a book about the specific type of train you are interested in, tiny child. I will listen to you tell me about it in great detail. I will try to remember for the next time you come in.

27. The single best moment, for me, is when a library user graduates from Young Adult to Adult and suddenly the entire library is open tothem! They can read anything! No more tiny teen section! All of the classics! Sci fi! Horror! They often get overwhelmed.

28. And finally, because I've spammed you long enough and because my typos are mounting up, remember this: Library staff can overcome many challenges but Book Gods help you if you deprive us of caffeine. You don't want to see what happens then.

END ID}

[ariadnehelx]

—🌹 'THE PRINCE'S ROSE: ch one. arrival.

“I don’t like any of them, grandmother.”

But one could tell that Kinich hadn’t even properly looked at any of the women in front of him. Kinich’s eyes scanned across the room, his gaze sweeping judgmentally over the gathering of beautiful women sitting across the hall. Bored, he tried his best not to roll his eyes at his current predicament. His grandmother sat on her throne next to him, smiling. It was clear that she had high hopes for these women, but…

They all seem so stuck-up. Such were like the noblewomen of the kingdom who had spent their lives in luxury and wealth, the empress supposes. She sighed, and then she stood up.

“Welcome, noble daughters of the kingdom, to the palace. As you are all aware, I have decided to get my son, the future King of Natlan, married. This means that I need to find a suitable wife for him. And in two week’s time, that woman will be decided..." "One of you thirteen noblewomen.” The Empress carried herself with the air of a highly eminent and respected royal, and she was, setting an example for you.

You glanced around your surroundings, biting your lip with slight dread. There were all these beautiful women around you sitting beside you, just how would you compete against them?

Not to mention — was that Lady Mualani? Surely a friend of the crown prince would be the most favoured lady here? You couldn’t afford to lose this opportunity, time was ticking.

“As such, the royal council and I have come to the decision to hold a royal contest. The outcome of which will decide the future Empress. Every other day, there will be a competition to test which lady among all of you is the most competent, the most capable. Only the best of the best can rule this kingdom in my place one day…” she paused, gazing intensely from left to right.

The crown prince didn’t seem especially enthusiastic about this arrangement. His eyes narrowed at some women shamelessly winking at him, trying and failing to get him to notice them.

But the Empress had insisted that he was just at the right age to choose a suitable wife. And now, he must find someone. Not that anybody in front of him seems decent enough, but he supposed he couldn’t judge based on looks. Although… looks seemed to reflect perfectly the personalities of most of the noblewomen.

“The winner of each days’ competition will be held in high regard, of course. We will consider them the most. The winner of each competition also gets the privilege of spending additional time with the crown prince at the end of the day," The Empress couldn't suppress a smile at this. "However, the final decision shall be made by him, the last day of the competition will be a ball. I wish you all good luck.” When the Empress had finished, she pardoned herself.

Murmurs among the women rippled across the room like waves, signifying the beginning of this selection. You were given two rules, and only two.

One, only the left side of the palace was forbidden for any of the guests to visit, save for the gardens. Two, small meetings with the prince on free days were allowed as long as they weren’t taking up too much of his time. And respect and kindness towards palace staff and the royals, of course, and even though it wasn’t expressed clearly the Empress knew she would be able to pick out the kind-hearted ones from the foul.

You were given the freedom to roam the halls of the palace, too. Because, if one of you were to be the Empress of this palace, you’d need to get used to this place.

So, you chose to wander a bit. The architecture of the palace was lovely; your eyes were blessed. But, perhaps it was for this reason, that after a while of exploring cluelessly, you suddenly jolted into someone. You let out a grunt. At first, you thought it was potentially a guard, and so you turned around to apologize, but the words were stuck, and didn’t come out of your mouth when you realized you had bumped into none other than the prince.

The prince. Way to make a first impression. You cursed yourself in your head.

For a moment, he only stared at you. Scoffed. If he wasn’t already irritated with the women who, up until a week ago, he had no intention of marrying, he must've certainly been now. He dusted over his clothes, his lizard-like eyes scrutinizing over your form. “I- my apologies, Prince Kinich, I wasn’t looking where I was going- please excuse me-” you stammered, afraid that he already saw you as a clumsy girl. Your head was bowed down in embarrassment at this prospect.

“Move out of my way.” he simply muttered. You turned to the side, and he didn't even spare you a glance and continued to wherever he was going before. When you were sure it was solely you in the great big hallway, you slapped your forehead. The entire time you trudged back towards your guest room, you couldn’t help but wonder if your clumsiness had ruined everything already. And the competitions hadn’t even started… great. Sleep didn't come to you quickly that night, either. Secretly, however, when Kinich laid on his bed that night, waiting for sleep to take him, he wondered if you, the first decent-looking and respectful woman in a group of snobs, although a klutz, would change his outlook on this contest. No, he scoffed. All these ladies were the exact same.

Right...?

notes. this is going to be one of the shortest chapters i think, but don't worry; things are about to get interesting quickly!

-> TAGLIST! @adres-tia, @sparklz02

—🌹 'THE PRINCE'S ROSE: masterlist. next.

[ashen-char]

life makes love look hard

ship: anora x reader (gender neutral)

summary: reader has a tough day. anora comforts you.

word count: 1700+

notes: requested here and ani x reader won the poll soooo here ya go!

The apartment is a new development in the young couple's lives. Anora had just pawned off the ring, tired of clinging onto the horrific 48 hours it represents. She's moving on with you now. Selling it represented that. Suddenly able to afford a deposit, the two of you had scouted a cozy studio in Manhattan. Closer to HQ so Ani didn't have to take the subway so often, closer to your work too. It made sense.

It's barely decorated. You two haven't had the time to unpack much, just the essentials. Her clothes are in the closet, both of your products lining the vanity and bathroom counters. The rest are still in boxes. No shelves to put them onto yet, just bare white walls that are starting to make you feel claustrophobic. The apartment feels heavier than usual, like the walls are pressing in just a little too much. The air is stale, thick with the kind of silence that makes everything worse instead of better. And your brain is screaming at you - bored but too overwhelmed to do anything. You’ve been sitting in the same spot on the couch for who knows how long, staring at nothing, the day’s weight heavy on your shoulders.

Anora notices you on the couch, staring into space. "Bad day?" Anora asks. She keeps her voice casual. Not meaning to press but she’s already dropping onto the couch next to you, slinging an arm over the backrest like she’s settling in for a long night.

"Yeah. Been... rough," is all you can offer.

You don’t elaborate right away. You know Ani's waiting for more, and that you should get over the hard part and put words to how absolutely sucky this whole day has been, but even the thought of saying more exhausts you. Instead, you stare at the same spot on the floor you’ve been glaring at for the past fifteen minutes. Hoping maybe it’ll swallow you whole. 

Anora lets the silence stretch. She’s good at that - knowing when to push and when to let you breathe. When to tease and make light of things, or when to be serious. But eventually, she exhales, reaches over, and flicks your knee.

"Alright, I'm officially calling it," she announces, "you’re going through it. Bad."

"That obvious?"

She grins. "Yeah, what can I say? I just know you that well, babe." Then she shifts closer, resting her elbow on her knee, eyes locking onto yours with that sharp, focused expression she gets when she’s getting serious. "So, ya gonna tell me what happened, or do I have to fuckin' guess?" Ani jokes.

You hesitate. Which sucks. You take pride in the fact that you two communicate, hell, even over communicate sometimes. Part of you wants to brush it off, to tell her it’s nothing. Don't waste your mental energy on things you can't change, it'll just upset you more. But the words get stuck in your throat. You don't want to brush this off. Don't want to say it's nothing, because that would mean accepting it. That this is the way the world works.

Anora notices. Of course she does. She reaches out, tugs at the sleeve of your sweatshirt - not hard, just enough to ground you. "Hey," she says, softer now. "It's me. I'm here, yeah? No judgement."

She turns her body to face you, one hand cupping your cheek to tilt your head towards her. Her big brown eyes search yours, filled with warmth and worry. Sometimes it's like Anora can sense your distress from a mile away, like it makes her own heart ache. You know that she wants nothing more than to take it away, to fix whatever has you so clearly suffering.

"I know I ain't no therapist, but you don't gotta go through this alone. I'm your girl, remember?" She gives you a little smile, trying to coax one out of you in return, even stroking your cheek. "Seriously. Lay it on me."

So you do. "When I was making breakfast, one of the eggs was rotten so I ruined three eggs - you know how I do that thing where I put crack 'em all into one bowl so I can scramble and salt it evenly. And eggs are so expensive these days," you tell her. The words get easier when you're looking in Ani's eyes. She's just nodding and humming but you feel your shoulders get lighter. Sharing the burden that you were holding alone. "Didn't have time to cook any other breakfast, so I went to work hungry. Stomach rumbled during my presentation today, that was fucking humiliating."

Groaning, you lean forward and hide your face in Ani's neck. She smells like vanilla and that cherry blossom mist deodorant she likes to wear, plus something light and fruity. "No one said anything, but they probably thought I was unprofessional. Bad at time management, at least." With a deep inhale, you try to let the nagging thoughts go.

Saying it out loud makes it sound so insignificant now, and it's kinda embarrassing that you were getting so worked up about it. Logically you know that it's the culmination of all the small things, the feeling that nothing was going right all day, that finally drove you to this brink of turning your brain off. "I sound stupid. Whiny," you whine.

"Hey, hey... don't you dare feel stupid," she chastises lightly. "You're human. Life's a fucking rollercoaster sometimes, yeah? The little things, they can take a real toll. Doesn't make shit less hard if they're small, or silly. They matter to me because you matter to me."

Ani holds you like this for a long moment, letting you hide away from the world in the warmth and softness of her embrace. Her fingers thread through your messy hair, stroking through the strands so you can focus on something else. Her presence has always done wonders for you.

"Okay," she says. "So do you want the ‘life is unfair but you’ll get through it’ pep talk? Or do you want me to threaten someone for you? Because I’ve got some pretty creative ideas."

You snort, and she grins like that was her plan all along. "Seriously," she continues, nudging your foot with hers. "Whatever you need, I got you. Distraction? Done. Validation? Also done. Want me to say something so ridiculous you forget why you’re even upset? Babe, that’s my fuckin' specialtyyy," she drags out.

You shake your head, but the weight in your chest feels a little lighter. "You’re an idiot," you mumble.

"Yeah," she shrugs, "but I’m your idiot." 

She tips your chin up, forcing you to meet her gaze and stop hiding against her chest. After what feels like a minute, Anora leans in, resting her forehead against yours. Her breath is warm on your face as she whispers, "I hate seeing you like this. I hate that you had a shitty day, and I hate that I couldn't be there to make it better." She pulls back a bit to cup your face in her hands, her thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. "But you'll always have me.

Anora shifts, getting more comfortable, but she doesn’t let go of you. Instead, she leans in a little, her voice dropping to something lower, almost conspiratorial. Letting go of that serious shit for a second to let her lovable personality shine through again.

"You know," she says, tapping her fingers against your arm like she’s idly counting down to something, "I was gonna drag you out tonight. Thought about taking you to that 24-hour diner, ordering a pile of fries so obscene the staff would probably talk shit about us in the kitchen. And getting them to top up our coffee over and over of course." She tilts her head. "But you seem more like a ‘stay here and rot’ kind of sad tonight. Am I right?"

You let out a laugh. You do love getting that shitty diner, but staying in sounds best. At least for your mental state. "Yeah." Ani knows you get like this sometimes, and she's never handled it with anything but playful acceptance. You get so tired. Not just physically, but deep in your soul. 

"Cool. Then I’ll rot with you."

She kicks off her boots and you complain about her wearing her shoes inside again. As she placates your huffs, she pulls a blanket over the both of you. Then - because she’s Anora - she grabs the remote and starts flipping through streaming services without even asking what you want to watch.

"Let’s see," she muses, scrolling with the kind of lazy confidence that you love in her. There's never back and forth about what you two want to eat, never any indecision. "Do we go with something so bad it’s good, or something so good it makes you forget life sucks? Oh, or maybe one where other people's lives are so bad it makes you feel grateful for your own life's brand of shittiness?"

You shrug against her. "Don’t care."

"Bold of you to let me decide." She smirks. "I could make you watch some artsy foreign film with no subtitles, just to mess with you."

"You wouldn’t," you say with a glare.

She raises an perfectly plucked eyebrow. "Wouldn’t I?"

You roll your eyes, but you don’t stop her when she finally settles on some home makeover show - one of those absurd ones with a host who never runs out of quips, gaudy design choices, and way in-depth explanations of what they're going to change. It’s exactly the kind of thing that requires zero emotional investment but sucks you in for a binge, which is perfect.

The opening scene plays, bright flashes of the house's 'before shots' lighting up the dim room, but Anora’s attention is half on you, like she’s checking to see if this is working. If you’re still too lost in your own head.

She nudges you again, softer this time. "Hey."

You glance over, and she looks at you with that same mix of teasing and something steadier, something real.

"I’m serious, you know," she says. "You don’t have to deal with anything alone."

The words settle in, warm and steady, sinking past the exhaustion and the heaviness of the day. You don’t know what to say back, so you don’t say anything at all. You just lean against her, let the show play, let the world outside feel far away for a little while.

Eventually, you muster a "thank you."

Anora doesn’t push for more. She tugs the blanket higher over the both of you, and mutters, "like I said. I gotcha. Whatever you need."

[threepandas]

Bad End: Earth Shaker

People call them "Contracts" but few, if any, ever read the fine print.

Maybe it's because of all the media from my first life; the horror stories and tales of deals gone wrong. Yet it seems like I alone, remain cautious. Careful. It feels like I alone, even understand the concept of "a deal with the devil". Though granted... not by that exact wording.

There are no devils here. IS no Christian Heaven or Hell. (As far as I can tell.)

But... but oh, there is so much more. And all of it is dangerous.

There are demons, yes, but they are creature made of malicious Energies. So too, exsist spirits. Minor and major Gods. It is a full and complete fantasy set up. They whole package. A wonderland of world building. And? A horror story to live in.

Those self same demons? Eat people. Attack travelers. Trains. And those Spirits? Fight for dominance in some sort of ever shifting court intrigue, using mortals as power sources and pawns. Are just as, if not more, destructive then the demons!

But, oh. What of the Gods?

What OF them? Do you think they care?

Beneath the glamorous adventures and magical veneer of the Story, this world was a rotten thing. Barely holding together. Yet... yet it was all I had, now. And that terrified me. Because I could not protect... anyone. Could I? Not.. not a single soul.

In the Story, the Protagonist (bless his empty little head) went to a magical academy. Met friends and foes. There was a love story and eventually? He saved the day. Huzzah. Good for him. But... here was the problem. The one which haunted me so.

That Love story? The "girl" he fell in love with? A nice, if proper, young lady from a house far above his station. But, oh! It was a turn of the century magical fantasy! He became famous! Wealthy! Saved her life with his incredible power! Of course her family approved in the end.

I did not want to BE his love story.

He was... a nice young man. Really! But... but it was like talking to, well, a high school student. Which he effectively was. And I? Had already been in college. Damn near graduating! (Not that I was bitter. No. Of course not. Perish the thought!) Only to then? Reincarnate and go on to live over a decade more.

I was at least twice his age.

The day I'd look at him as a romantic prospect? Is the day I'd gouge my own eyes out. That is a CHILD. My whole class is full of children. It's... exhausting. Ha! "Mature one", indeed. "Class mom", indeed! If only they knew.

But now? Now‽ The school wanted us to make Contracts! For a fucking GRADE! It was horrifying. Ill conceived and frankly? A GREAT way to push kids to over reach themselves. Try and Contract with a more powerful Being then they could handle. Get burned up or used.

"Mandatory". Ha! Mandatory my ass. I should refuse. If I was sane, I was refuse. But the problem was?

The school was fronting the Contact materials and safety arrays.

It was the safest chance I'd ever get. Fuck. Damn it.

So I read. I read and I read. Research til my eyes cross. Practice writing until my hands cramp. Splurge on the highest grade calligraphy instruments and inks I can afford. And with my allowance? And years of saving up? I'm literally buying alongside royals.

But it's the CONTRACT that takes the most time. I have to research law. Act under the assumption that I will be faced with some sort of malicious genie. It... gods, it can only end poorly. I know this. Yet? Here I stand.

Doing it anyway.

(I am a fool... aren't I?)

Unlike my fellow students, I don't do a vague Call All. While yes, the odds are higher for a response (due to it being basically an APB), you will have no control over what responds. Better to call for something specific and fail, in my mind. Then at least? You can plan ahead.

Besides, with the sheer quality of the materials I'm using? Someone will answer. They won't be able to resist. It's like leaving a box of diamonds on the sidewalk.

It takes all day, slowly, carefully writing out the hundreds of thousands of sigils and qualifiers. The "if X then Y, except when Z unless AB" of it all. I magically drain myself twice. Have to eat trail mix on the floor then nap in the corner. I rented the hall for the week, but... once begun? Only an IDIOT would open the safety arrays to leave.

Great way for foreign influences to completely fuck up your spell work. Either try to harvest the building Energies or, more likely, sabotage the Contract for a friend or ally, so they get more then they should. Fuckers.

After nearly two days? It's done. Still, I wait. Even as the air nearly burns with power. The scent of Green so over powering it's like someone dumped a cologne aisle on the floor. Wood and moss and old growth. Deep dark, pitch black earth. Petrichor. All humming, Humming, HUMMING like a bow string pulled back as far as it can. Straining, shaking, desperately ready to release the tension and STRIKE.

But I am no fool.

I wait for my energy to refill. Wait for a nap and some food to clear my mind. For all my papers to be nicely in order. I have called upon you, not the other way around. You can wait. (Because, frankly? I haven't even called you yet!)

Contract ready, I step into place. And each step, as it lands, is like the falling of trees and the baying of hounds. Thunderous in the sudden silence. Crashing as they fall. It is not me, whoever does this, the heraldry is both dramatic and not something I've ever even practiced. The scent of Green is thick enough now to choke. I'm genuinely surprised that the scent alone has not inspired plant growth.

My meticulous work surges to life, like it was a beast, only barely holding itself a bay. Like it can no longer. Roots and vines, made of then thousand shades of green-Gold-GREEN light shoot forward and up. Restrictive and choking. I am consumed in seconds.

I have to remind myself not to panic. To keep my feet still. As long as I don't move? I am safe. It is all for show. Like a cat, arching it's back. They can't truely hurt me. Bruise? Yes. But true, actual injury? No. It would hurt THEM too.

"Well, now, what have we here?" Mused a voice beyond comprehension.

It was eons of growth, beneath aliens skies. The cries of animals long lost and longer dead. Things that weren't and have never been, but could have. Growth, growth, GROWTH. Hunting and savagery and Death. Trees so tall the eclipse the heavens. Roots so deep they consume the world. Each leaf a tapestry. Decay. Growth from the rotting.

My... my ears were bleeding.

The vines-roots writhed in agony and pleasure under the weight of those few words. And... and that wasn't right. S-something was wrong. Very, very wrong. A spirit wasn't supposed to be that... that powerful.

I could FEEL the Safety arrays all but screaming under the weight they were trying to hold. Like toothpicks trying to hold up a mountain range. W-what? What was happening? I picked an earth spirit! Statistically, the calmest and mildest out of all available options! So... so why...‽

"Not going to bargain, kid? Plead for power and wealth?" The next sentence was no less agony then the first. Like being slammed by a wall of power. "Or are you here to make demands? Hmmm? I'm curious, honestly, to see where this one goes. It's been a while, after all."

The world had a pink tint. I... I tasted iron. Ha ha... oh god. Shit. I fucked up. I knew I should never have agreed to this stupid fucking-!

Wet dribbled down my face. A wheezing gurgle rattled my lungs. My heart was racing... but... but I could get enough air. I tried to suck in more. But the wet gurgle only got louder, as pink tinted foam worked it's way up my throat. Filled my lungs. I couldn't breathe. Something wet trickled from my ears. I Couldn't Breathe!

"Ah. I forgot about that. Fragile little creatures, aren't you?"

Unhurried steps casually strolled closer. Iron flavored foam clogged my air ways, as muscles spasmed, and creeping tendrils of darkness began to work their way closer, around the edges of my dying eyes. The world was muffled yet I could hear him perfectly. My sense were burning out, yet he imprinted himself beyond that. What had I summoned? Oh god... what had I done? W-what had I-‽

A calloused, treebark colored hand (the shade ever shifting, just ever so slightly) passed through the vines. Rather, the vines parted for it. Sun warm. Glowing as though containing that sunlight itself. Big. It... it was a strong, gardeners hand. A hunter's. Yet at the same time... unmistakable for anyone but that of a powerful man's.

Casual in it's impropriety. Sliding through my hair to grip the top of my head like it was simply his due. His skin... buzzed against me. Was almost too hot. Like standing near a live wire. And...? Then...

Then everything was gone.

My lungs free and clear. My eyes sharper then they'd ever been. Hearing so crisp, the silence of the room around us was nearly vertigo inducing. It was like my body had been reset to factory settings. Upgraded. I shuddered, eyes clenching shut. Because even with the pain gone? The horror was still there. The memory of the taste still lingered in my mouth.

"There we go, good girl. All fixed." There was a condescending lilt to his voice. His hand didn't move. Just tightened lightly and dragged, forcing me to tilt my head up, if I didn't want my hair pulled. Making me look him in the eyes. They were shifting, lazily, between hawk and wolf gold even as I watched. "Now, you were trying to be clever, yes? Had your little plan and every thing. Come on, let's hear it. I'm curious to see where this scheme goes. You always think your so creative, after all. So bold and new."

I wanted to send him back.

Now.

Fuck this. Fuck, grades. To hell with "mandatory". I'd drop out if I had too. Gods damn it, I'd go be puppy boy Protagonist's Love Interest if I had too! This was insane. I... I fucked up so bad. Earth spirits don't glow. Light spirits glow! For obvious reasons. But you know who does‽ Who FUCKING DOES‽‽ Gods.

"Ah, ah~." He chided, all but curling over me as he loomed.

There was laughter threatening to escape his control, hidden in his voice. Mocking amusement in the deliberate non-smile that kept him from baring his teeth in a grin.

"Don't go running now. Not when you've already invited me in." Phrasing. Horrifying phrasing! "You wouldn't want to be rude would you? There are Rules, after all. And you know better. Don't you, little thing?"

I wanted to laugh hysterically. Cry a bit. Fuck. God DAMN IT. FUCK! He's right. Of course he is! He mocking me with it! Shit. Oh god. Fuck, damn it! O-okay... I... I can... I just-!

Fear? Truely is the mind killer. For long moments, I could not move. Could barely bring myself to breathe. My mind, a horrible static. But... like slowly forcing yourself to unclench a white knuckled grip. One finger at a time. I... I made myself focus. Tried to bring my arm up. Miraculously, the vines let me. I held the Contract I had written out.

"Oh? And what's this then? Deman-?"

I could feel the pages leave my hand. Hear the rustle as they were flipped. The ringing silence, as he registered what it was he held. But my eyes were closed. I... I didn't want to see the end coming. Maybe I was a coward for that. But damn it, gods damn it, I was scared!

Ļ̵͎̬̙̲̈̽a̶̡̻͕̐̿̆͜ȕ̵̡̠͕̹̌̎̊̔g̷̡̟̞͓̬̿h̴̦̻̼͌́̚t̶͍̑e̴̹̓̚͠r̶̹̳̺̀̿͊̓

Crashing of horns against horns, the bray of dying beasts. Cracking growing and the fall of mighty trees. Mycelium surging through deep dark soil. Ripping flesh. Hunting cries. Green and grow. GREEN AND DEATH. Green Green Green Green Green Gree-!

"Audacious little pet! Aren't you? Oh, you do think your clever!" Amusement sang like venom and traps yet to be sprung. Dying, dying, DYING-! "Oh dear. Again? My poor thing. Hold still. This 'spiritual partner' will make it all better, hmm?"

The hand was back. Cradling my lolling face. W-when had I? G..Gone limp? I can't feel my legs. Can't feel... can't feel.... c-cant f...feel...

GREEN.

I gasp in air, like a drowning man final breaking the surface. My face is sticky. Blood? Tears? Gore? I am terrified to know. Don't have the strength to lift my own head. My magic is being all but ripped out of me. Faster and faster. Like it's being drained into a bottomless pit.

Something beyond sunlight, beyond growth, is reaching back. The very Concept of nature made manifest. What did I summon? What creature? What GOD?! Did I SUMMON?! Please. Forgive me. I.. I didn't mean too! I swear! Please! P-please!

"You know? It's been far too long, since I've had an excuse. I needed a good vacation. And to think," A second hand comes up to cradle my face, with a terribly deceptive gentleness. Tilting my head this way and that, as though to inspect me. "It comes with a free pet. Oh you're going to be so very amusing, I can already tell."

"But don't worry, pet." He nearly crooned. Clearly warming up to his own idea. "I take care of my things."

"And I can just tell. I am going to adore you."

[admiringlove]

➵ 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.

[bloodywankers]

tw; yandere, manipulation, controlling behaviour, forced marriage, cult analogy, slight misogyny blue lock chris prince | politician au | 3.4k words | unedited | turn your brain off while reading plz | blue lock masterlist

Politics is a hard career, especially when you’re honest to a fault and inflexible. You should be able to look past things, close your eyes and turn your back here and there. That’s what Chris thought, at least. His life is so much easier when he spews whatever words are trending that week and makes a few promises people will forget by the time the next big thing happens. Just smile and wave. It’s not like anyone would find out about all his back door deals, and even if they tried to, the crime rate in the city is high, it’s not uncommon for nosey journalists to get into hot water with some roaming criminal. To show up mangled and bloody the next morning on the news. 

“And that’s why I pledge to help reduce the crime rate in our city!” The blond proclaimed loudly as a string of chants left the audience. Politics is easy when people are naturally attracted to you and blindly follow whatever nonsense you come up with. As people started to quiet down, Chris said his goodbyes, and reporters swarmed him as he left, one after another. Asking about anything from his latest policies to what he thought about some recent events the media wouldn’t shut up about. Not that he planned to answer any of them, it's hard to keep up with all your lies when there’s no premeditated script. And anyway, he's a busy man, he has places to be and things to do and can’t afford to waste his precious time on something so trivial. 

“What’s on my schedule now?” 

“You were invited to a college gathering, after that, you’re scheduled to have dinner with the police commissioner.” 

He said entering his car, the drive would be short, and the venue selected was nearby after all. 

“I won’t stay long, make sure to be on standby—” 

He said, exiting the vehicle, but his sentence was cut short as the male bumped into someone, looking down to find a woman, clearly distraught for whatever reason. 

“Ah… I’m really sorry; I wasn’t looking where I was going.” She said, offering a polite bow before walking off, too preoccupied with whatever was on her phone screen to care much for who he was. Not that he minded, it's easier when they don’t recognise him. “Anyway, as I was saying, I’ll call you before I'm about to come out, so make sure to be on standby, we can’t afford to be late to the meeting with the commissioner.” Chris said, walking into the venue as he heard a faint ‘Yes sir.’ in the background. 

It was easy to spot the tables reserved for the reunion, what with the chatter, loud greetings from old classmates bragging about their success and offering of unwarranted financial advice to fill their own pockets. It was a diverse bunch, well, as diverse as one from an elite university could be. 

“Chris!” One of the men exclaimed, waving at the man to catch his attention. The blond couldn't help but wince at the sight, from his loosened tie and red cheeks, Chris could tell he was drunk, the unmistakable stench of alcohol coming from him upon closer inspection only further proof of it. Not that he cared; he was only here to offer polite greetings and sit around for a while before leaving. Just enough to fulfil whatever common courtesy required he does.

“It’s so hard to get a hold of you these days. You're acting like one of those big politicians now that you've become a mayoral candidate.” Another classmate slurred in a drunken stupor, Chris couldn't care enough to remember who he was. 

“Come on, you know how busy it is, I barely get time to do anything at all with elections coming up.” He replied, a large smile and boisterous laughter following suit, careful not to let any displeasure slip out. “You have to help me out once you become mayor, I've been telling everyone how we used to be best buddies back in college, same soccer team and all. Let me in on any juicy stock info you get your hands on.” The blond didn't offer a concrete reply, instead pouring the stranger more alcohol. He couldn’t wait to leave. 

“Anyways, you’ll never guess what happened earlier. Y’know [name]?” The bottle in Chris’s hands almost dropped as he turned towards the man. There were few names he remembered, even fewer that could warrant such a reaction. 

“Yeah, the one you used to be super into, chairman [last name]’s daughter? I remember I even have pictures of you two from graduation. Yeah, she came in earlier. Apparently, she cut ties with him and became a school teacher.” 

“A school teacher?” All dignity he had upheld previously was thrown out the window as Chris leaned forward, eyes set on the man speaking, resembling more a nosy housewife than a seasoned politician. 

“Yeah, she's hot as hell now, too, look on the far left on the table in front of you.” 

It was embarrassing to admit that he still thought about you, not when you two ended it all on such a bad note before you graduated and you vanished from sight. He couldn’t help but be curious as to what you looked like now if you still had the same habits and if you would still look at him with the same contempt as you did before. Truth be told, he still wasn’t over it, even after all this time. 

“That’s [name]?” 

“Yep.” 

What a coincidence, he thought. You’re the one he had bumped into earlier. He hadn’t paid attention back then, but you had the same hair and dress; he was sure it was you, now that he heard it, you have the same voice as well. Maybe it was destiny. He couldn't help what happened next, almost as if his body moved instinctively.��

“Hey, if it isn’t [name]! You remember me?” Maybe others would have thought it shameless to approach someone when their distaste for you was well known throughout the cohort, but if Chris had even an ounce of shame, he probably wouldn't have made it as far as he had done. 

“Sorry?” You looked uncomfortable, now that you could look at his face clearly, he was sure he recognised him. It would be insulting if you had forgotten him after only a few years. 

“I’m not sure…” Look at you avoiding eye contact, how cute. 

“S’a shame, we used to be real close back in college.” He had just rolled his eyes moments ago when a classmate claimed they used to be close friends, and now here he was using the same trick. Inviting himself to the spot next to you, someone was already seated there, what with the half-drunk glass of water and plate of food placed there, but seeing as they were nowhere to be found, he was sure they wouldn’t mind moving. 

He tried striking up a conversation with you, trying any possible way he could to be closer to you than he already was, it felt so refreshing to see you after all these years. In contrast to his lovestruck state, you tried brushing him off a few times, changing the discussion to something others could join in on, distracting him just enough to slip away. Ask about his recent TV interview or political career. Unfortunately for you, he was a master conversationalist, Chris knew what you were doing and, if anything, found your attempts to distance yourself quite adorable. 

However, unfortunately for him, time passed faster than he would like to admit, his driver having to escort him out before he missed his dinner plans. He cursed himself for not asking for your number, considering the sheer amount of people there, he was sure you would have agreed, after all, it would be hard to reject him in front of them all if you were still as much of a pushover as you were back then. 

/ 

You never liked Chris, if anything, you dreaded the moment he started approaching you. No single event caused this distaste; rather, it was just the discomfort that came with being with someone so sociable. He had a bad habit of forcing you out of your comfort zone, whether he realised it or not. But you were sure he did. 

You were eager to push back your chair and storm out of the gathering at any moment. Had it not been for your old classmate who insisted you attend this time around, that it had been ‘far too long’ and that you’d never seemed to attend the get-togethers she organised’, maybe you would have ignored the invitation sent your way this time as well. However, despite the unpleasant run-in with Chris, the event went well. No one spoke too much of your fallout with your father or how you practically threw your degree aside to pursue a career as a ‘meagre teacher’ this time. Not nearly as much as they did in the past, at least. And you managed to come home early, so while you had no intentions of putting yourself through that again, you thought it had gone quite well. 

Furthermore, you were tired of uprooting your life time and time again, and you enjoyed your new work as a kindergarten teacher. Children had always had a soft spot in your heart, and you couldn’t help but melt when they tried to act grown-up or pronounce big words or even just waddle around the classroom that looked so large from their eyes. You worked at a good school, not the most outstanding but decent regardless, so you were rightly taken aback when you were informed that a politician would be visiting, something about wanting to promote his campaign. You were sure there were better ways to go about that than visiting a school with children who couldn't care less if he did want to bomb innocent civilians or not.  

But that was that, and you didn’t linger on it too much, not until you saw a familiar set of blond hair walk in, slicked back and in his signature suit. Surrounded by a crew of cameramen and assistants hoping to catch every second to not miss what could’ve been the next big headline. 

You could feel your heart drop as he flashed a grin your way. All left for you to do was pray that the amount of cameras surrounding him would put him off from approaching you too much. 

He was good with children, just about as good as he was with most people, making sweet promises and spewing encouraging words their way. 

“[name]! Fancy seeing you here as well.” He said, motioning you to join him as he painted with some of the children. The familiarity he used to refer to you caused the cameraman to immediately perk up. 

“You know, miss [name]?” One of the kids asked. 

“No, it’s not—” 

“Yep! Me and your teacher go way back!” The people present on sight seemed to be eating this up, Chris merely laughed and went on colouring, trying to attempt polite conversation with you here and there. 

You were sure he knew what he was doing. He’s no fool; if there is anyone who should know the weight of words, it should be him, the one who made a career out of them. So you waited until the crew slowly left, and the children were all taken by their parents before letting out your frustrations on him. 

“What’s your problem?!” 

Maybe you could’ve been more mature about how you went about this, voiced your concerns like a responsible adult and asked for his understanding instead of lashing out like this. But Chris had never been one to care about others’ feelings, so you were sure reasoning with him would have been in vain. 

“You weren’t just visiting some kids; there was an entire hoard of cameras behind you. You know this better than anyone else. ‘go way back??’ What are you trying to do?” 

“We both went to the same college. It isn’t a lie to say we were well acquainted. At least up until you decided to run off to who knows where.” If you weren’t so focused on the man in front of you, maybe you would have noticed the one hidden behind a nearby wall–the cameraman from earlier.–“That was years ago. You gain nothing out of doing this, so why-!” You stopped yourself mid-sentence, reminded of the futility of arguing with someone as thick-headed as him and the frustration that would ensue afterwards. Rubbing your temple in hopes of relieving some of the tension before walking away, offering Chris one last glare as you did. If you had stayed for longer, maybe you would have seen red that dusted on his uncharacteristically blank face or the shoddy attempt to cover it with his hand as he stared at your figure until it disappeared out of sight. 

/ 

You had always avoided the spotlight, especially from strangers, but the very next morning, even before whatever they were filming at the school had aired, there was already article after article featuring pictures of you and Chris together from the day before. He didn’t expect it to come out so soon, but it didn’t feel unpleasant to see photos of you two in every cheap tabloid in the city–even if you were just standing together. And while most of the rumours were fuelled by speculation alone, he could already picture your reaction of sheer panic. After all, you were still the same [name] he remembered, the same one he had created. You would curse yourself for allowing this to have happened as if you could’ve never predicted your entire life would be turned upside-down because of an ex you hadn’t talked to in years. 

Few knew this, but Chris Prince had two loves in his life–politics, the one everyone was sure to guess, and his college sweetheart, [name]. The one he could never manage to charm no matter what he said or did, the one that saw through his act and saw him for what he was. A slave to society, the worst type of human, with no morals or convictions besides what would make him the most money or give him the most praise. But you failed to notice one thing about him, and that was his conviction to make you his own little passion project. Where he took the plain quiet [name] and turned her into something nobody could look away from but could never touch because you would be his. His diamond in the rough, the one that he found and polished. Somehow, Chris succeeded in inserting himself into your life, not a boyfriend–you had never made it official–but not a friend. Because friends don’t decide what you wear or eat or who you talk to or kiss you in the empty classroom. Looking back on it, he was probably one of the main reasons you left it all behind as soon as you graduated, disappeared off the face of the earth and didn’t contact anyone you knew up until that point. He made you realise how unfit you were for that world and how quickly you buckled under pressure. Once you settled into teaching, a passion you didn’t know you had, you thought you could leave it all behind. Live as you wanted, if only you hadn’t run into that old classmate who instantly recognised you and insisted you attend. If only you weren’t spineless and incapable of saying no when it mattered. 

Even so, like a fool, you hoped nothing would change, but absence makes the heart grow fonder, and Chris thought it was time you come back to your rightful place. You ran off at such an inconvenient time, right when he started taking off in the eyes of the public. He was still young and inexperienced, and so he made the mistake of letting you slip out of his grasp, one he regretted until he met you again that day. Now that you were on his home turf, he couldn’t just let you go again. So, as he raved about the rights of women, he thought about all the ways he would tie you down until you couldn't even think of leaving him. 

That’s why his crew that day consisted of such loose-lipped people, that’s why he let those remarks slip and didn’t react even when all sorts of rumours about you two spread. After all, Chris had always been one to skillfully dodge questions about marriage, the type that seemed uninterested in anything that wouldn’t increase his approval ratings so this was bound to be something big. At least, that’s what most people thought. Now, as he dialled your phone number, all that was left was to see how much his acting had improved. 

“Hello?” Your voice was faint, he could tell you were a wreck right now. 

“[name]? You have to help me, otherwise, I’ll lose it all!” 

If Chris’ grin wasn’t as wide as it was, anyone seeing him would think he was equally–if not more– shaken by the recent events than you were. You most certainly did as he went on a spiel about how the career he worked so hard to build all these years is about to crumble, all because of you. No sane person would believe any of this but your state was far from it. You had never fared well under stress after all. 

“Help you…? What could I possibly do?” You spoke so softly he couldn’t believe just yesterday your words were laced with pure spite. That’s when he said something so ridiculous even he couldn’t believe himself. 

“We have to make it seem like we’re in a relationship. Some old classmates released photos from college–the rumours are getting out of hand nothing I say will be enough to quench them, please understand it’s so close to elections I can’t lose when I’m so close. [name], please!” It wasn’t a complete lie, photos from college had been leaked, but he wasn’t entirely helpless. Chris could, if he wanted to, pull some strings. But this was just so much more entertaining, to see you walk straight into his grasp again. 

Most people would laugh at his sorry excuses, curse and hang up but most also think they’re immune to cults until they’ve been fully indoctrinated into thinking aliens have invaded us and that death is the only solution. Your little disappearing stunt had been troublesome but years of work had not yet been undone. The way you dressed was still as he had taught you, your figure was still the one he worked you to the bone to obtain and your posture the one he made sure you’d never deviate from. The only difference was that even you couldn’t see through him anymore, after all, there was nothing to see. 

Once you were within his grasp everything else came easy, like a slippery slope you could never climb back from. First, it started with publicly announcing a relationship that never existed. Then a marriage under the pretext that nobody would take him seriously if he just messed around with a girlfriend like a child. If you ever questioned him he would just flip the narrative on its head, it was your fault this happened, you almost ruined his career, are you sure you didn’t do all this to marry him? It’s okay, he’ll love you regardless because he’s a kind, loving husband. And eventually, it’ll become a reality, you–just like everyone else–will convince yourself you’re undeserving of someone like him. 

‘You want to have children? You’re right, it’s about time we have a couple running around, anything for my wife!’ He’s glad all those run-ins with large happy families and visits to children's hospitals and orphanages paid off, otherwise, he’s had to use more… unsavoury methods.

‘You’ll have to quit your job because of the pregnancy? It’s okay I’ll take care of you!’ He was getting tired of it anyway, now he can have you all to himself.

Even if one day you wake up from your trance, it’s too late now because there’s nothing left of you but the parts that constitute Chris Prince’s wife. If the eyes are the window to the soul then Chris must have long sold his and now he’s ridden you of yours too.