#Red Hat Training

[teophan]

a fantastic commission from @themetalhiro of my Dungeons & Devil Fruits 5e Sniper Marksman, Vinsmoke “Starfall Gunner” Beretta!

it was an absolute treat to work with you, looking forward to the next opportunity to do so!

[grand-red-n-blue-gay-tournament]

Part 2 Round 1 Match 8

Black Hat and Dr. Flug vs Min-Gi and Ryan

Black Hat and Dr. Flugslys from Villainous.

Min-Gi Park and Ryan Akagi from Infinity Train.

[superconductivebean]

#1539

I disdain and hate Engish dialogue punctuation. I'll explain.

With M-dashes for dialogue and quotation marks for thoughts and inner monologues, the text is objectively a lot easier to read without actually reading the script. You're aware of what to expect, grammatically, and can adjust to the author's pace this way.

I am a fast reader, it's all vital for me and it's a generally good exercise to try and implement grammar as a pace marker.

But the way English-language allows for random placements of the spoken speech is aggravating; it's not, technically, the language's fault, but I totally understand why people constantly feel lost or don't understand the system completely. I don't understand it either, and in a sense, I reject and resent it.

How are you supposed not to if everything looks exactly the same?

Especially when it allows this to exist:

"A lengthy line of dialogue", character A says. "A line that belongs to its own paragraph and is poorly indicated, if at all", character B adds. [Unrelated things are happening here and it's not clear why they're not their own paragraph.] "Line." [who said that???]

Bonus point if there is no indication and the reader is expected to utilise the power of cosmos to understand who said what lest they don't want to reread an entire scene multiple times to simply be able to digest it.

It's partly author's fault. A paragraph is a concealed thought, it should be lone in most cases, but intertwined with everything else. We as authors should always remember this.

But the language allows to mush these thoughts together. It creates a sense of the flow, yes, to write like this; but then its reading is done backwards. You have to look at the end of the next sentence to know who said it, then read the line, then read everything assembled together, and even if your eyes were trained to do that in seconds, it's tiring and unnecessary. Cute but rocky flow, perhaps you shouldn't write like this, maybe it's better to opt out for something like this:

"Line." "Line?" "Line x10." "Oh. Line then."

If a paragraph is a concealed thought, the thought can also be a compound of smaller thoughts. Yet they shouldn't be convoluted or smooched together too tightly they're nigh impossible to untangle?

With M-dashes, this would look like this:

— A lengthy line of dialogue, — character A says. Character B adds: "A line that could still be its own paragraph but now fits as it is clearly marked as an addendum BEFORE the line begins; could be possible with the previous example but is rarely, if ever, structured this way". [Things became their own paragraph.] — Line. — Still unclear who said that but at least it is its own thing now.

And this is one of two cases when "" aren't used for thoughts and inner dialogues; another one is when your entire dialogue is back and forth and can be presented as its own paragraph.

It also makes the text read extremely fast because you take in the sentence structure first and then populate it with words and senses.

I'm angry at this, evidently. A lot of thought goes into where it should not belong—ttp it feels like a honest downgrade from Russiаn. The punctuation should be the rail regulating of reading, not a labyrinth or a some kind of twister game.

[evisiontechnoserve]

Red Hat Certified System Administrator - RHCSA Online Training - Evision Technoserve

Evision Technoserve provides comprehensive Red Hat Certified System Administrator (RHCSA) Online Training, tailored to deliver thorough knowledge of Linux system administration. The course covers key areas including system installation, configuration, network management, security, and troubleshooting. With hands-on labs and real-world scenarios, participants develop the practical skills required to efficiently manage Red Hat Enterprise Linux environments. This training is ideal for those aiming to pass the RHCSA certification exam and take the next step in their careers in system administration and IT management.

[where-theres-a-farm]

How big are those thighs?

...is this what Civvies do with the holonet?

big enough to sit on, how 'bout that?

[em1i2a3]

Lovers

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: The Thunderbolts go to a club downtown for the night, and while there Bob and Sentry are having a tough time watching you flirt with a guy.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, and Jealousy (the spicy triforce). Bob and reader are both aware of each other's feelings but want to remain friends to not ruin the team dynamic in case things go sour. Sentry is extremely jealous in this, and we love jealous Sentry I say…He’s also a bit possessive but…That’s him lol, Bob is just trying to be a good guy and keep things calm, but Sentry is really ripping into him for fumbling the ball.

Smut Warnings: Semi-Public Sex (happens in a private washroom, but it’s inside a club), Unprotected P in V (hahahaha…please wrap it up), Fingering, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), and a Praise/Worship Kink cause Sentry and Bob are pleasers just trying to stake their claim lol, there’s also light choking, and some dirty talk….And Overstimulation to a degree. And some aftercare.

Author’s Note: Jesus lord, I loved this request, and I loved the ideas that came from it, and thank you so much for requesting it! It was so fun to write this possessive type of Sentry, and I loved writing the clashing dialogue between Bob and Sentry too. Whew, thank you again @leopard-skin-pillbox-hat-ok for such a fun little thing!

Word Count: 10,244

The music was thrumming like a heartbeat Low, slow, and thick with heat. Everything in the club was moving like smoke–dark, senseless, and breathless. The lights stuttered across the floor like strobe-starved lightning, painting bodies in quick colourful flashes of red, violet, blue, and green.

But Bob wasn’t looking at the lights, or the crowd, or the Coke Zero he hadn’t touched, or even his teammates–who were scattered around the booth behind him, too caught up in cheap liquor, bottles of beer, and loud conversation to notice the slow-motion train wreck unraveling across the club floor.

His attention was on you, and it felt like he was two minutes away from being pronounced dead.

You were standing at the bar with your back turned slightly to him, talking to some guy with a drink in his hand and too much confidence in his stance. It looked like he had forgotten to button his shirt up completely and his chest was puffed out and exposed like he was a bird trying to perform a mating call of sorts. It was easy to spot how he was flirting with you, he would lean in close and say something, and you would return the favour by doing the same. Bob swore every time you moved closer to him it felt like the world was shifting beneath his feet.

Because your dress was–

”God made flesh.” That’s what Sentry had called it the moment he saw you walk out of your room tonight, and he hadn’t shut up since.

It was satin, maybe. Something dark and indulgent and soft. It hugged you like heat and spilled ink–clinging to every line of your body like it had been painted there. The hemline flirted with your thighs as you shifted your weight, fluttering like it was in love with your legs.

And those legs–Bob was going to have a stroke. They were crossed casually at the ankle, and the muscle of your calves were perfectly defined in heels that made your whole stance shift in the kind of way that rewired his brain chemistry. They pushed your hips out just enough to make his breath catch. Your waist cinched so elegantly it looked like it had been sculpted. And your skin–which was shimmering in the club lights–looked like something a god would ruin themselves to touch.

And that’s exactly what was happening.

“Look at her,” Sentry hissed from somewhere behind Bob’s ribs. Every syllable was thick with acid, and pure, unobstructed worship, “She’s glowing…And so fucking open tonight. She should be at our side. In our lap. Not fawning over that little man-child with mousse in his hair.” Bob’s jaw clenched at the rage that echoed through his head.

”S-She’s not fawning,” He muttered under his breath, his knuckles going white around the glass of Coke Zero he was holding, “She’s j-just being friendly.” He added, fluttering his lashes in the strobed haze.

“Look at her. She’s leaning in! He touched her hip when she laughed, did you happen to miss that part?” Bob let out a huff.

”I didn’t miss anything.” He replied, bringing the rim of the glass up to his lips to cover the way his mouth was slightly moving.

“Then explain why you’re sitting here doing nothing while he tries to take what’s ours.” Bob exhaled through his nose, slow and shaky, taking a fake sip of the carbonated beverage, feeling his grip tightening around it slightly, like he was going to possibly break it. “You made the choice. Not me. I would’ve taken her in our bed by now. I would’ve lit the fucking sky gold with the sound of her voice.” Bob dropped his hand to his thigh, fingers digging into the loose denim of his jeans–the ones you had convinced him to buy–like he could claw the heat out of his skin.

Across the club, you tilted your head back to laugh. That kind of laugh. The one Bob had heard a hundred times–but never when it wasn’t his words that caused it.

And you looked–God, you looked like every dream he wasn’t allowed to have anymore. One hand resting lightly on the bar, nails painted in something subtle that caught the colored lights like stardust. Your other hand gestured as you spoke, animated and bright, your shoulder dipping as you leaned in again, saying something to the guy–who took it as an invitation to move closer. He was smiling. He was saying something back.

You nodded at him, smiling with the widest one you had, and tapped your glass against his before taking a sip.

Bob’s eyes followed the movement of your throat as you swallowed, his heart beating too loud in his ears.

“She’s not even thinking about us.”

“S-Shut up,” Bob hissed quickly, but it was loud enough to make Walker glance over briefly before going back to his beer and the conversation the rest of the group were having behind him.

“You think you were noble, don’t you? Waiting, respecting her and the team…You think that means something when someone else can just step in and touch her like that?” Bob wiped the sweat off his brow, as the heat began to curl within him, but it didn’t seem to help. He could feel it–the static under his skin, like something golden and furious was trying to claw its way out from inside him.

“You said no to her. You told her she was too important to risk. Now look at her.” You pushed your hair out of your face with a laugh and turned just enough to give Bob a partial view of your profile. The lips gloss he watched you apply at the beginning of the evening in the reflection of someone’s car window glistened. The lights behind the bar lit up your eyes like candlelight through amber glass, and you still didn’t see him looking.

That hurt worse than anything.

He shifted in the booth, uncomfortable in his own skin, and burning hot. His foot tapped against the sticky floor beneath the table, a stuttering rhythm that matched the beat of the music–or maybe it was matching his panic.

“This is when I wish I had my own fucking body,” Sentry growled, “At least then I could make my own decisions instead of running them by a human who’s afraid of his own fucking heartbeat.” Bob flinched. It was small. Barely a tremor across his shoulders. But the heat that followed was almost unbearable, as it sunk into his bloodstream. It pulsed beneath his skin like magma, like light trying to find the cracks in his weak mental armour. His fingers twitched against the table, then he curled them into a fist before dropping it into his lap, trying to hide the shaking in his hand.

“She should be with us,” Sentry snapped, “I’d be on my knees every night for her, I’d hold her in my arms and love her the way she deserves, and she certainly wouldn’t be pressed against some arrogant fuck like that.” Bob’s eyes flicked back to you, just in time to see it. The guy’s hand moved to your waist, sliding around to pull you in closer. His mouth was way too close to your ear, and your face tipped slightly toward him, smile still soft, lips parted.

And Bob–snapped.

His body lurched forward like something had yanked him by the ribs, and the booth creaked. The table shook when his knee slammed into the bottom of it.

Walker and Ava both turned their heads at the sound, but Bob didn’t move forward again.

He sat back down, hard, chest heaving. His elbows braced on the table. His hands pressed flat to the surface to steady himself, shaking. And the golden light beneath his skin flickered–just for a second–visible, crawling like electricity beneath his veins.

“Bob?” Yelena’s voice cut through the haze like a blade. Her brows were drawn, beer still in hand. She leaned across the table. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer, he didn’t even try to look up at her. He was staring at the floor, like it was safer than looking back up at you.

“Tell her to back off. Tell her we’re in the middle of planning out how to quietly rip the arm off that guy touching Y/N…”

“Bob.” Yelena’s voice sharpened, knocking on the table in front of him, “Hey.” His jaw clenched.

”I’m fine. I-I’m fine.” He responded, feeling a bead of sweat dripping down his temple.

”Bullshit.” She shot back. Then she was moving around the table, boots scuffing the floor. Bob tried to avoid her, turning his face away, but she caught him by the jaw fast, fingers sharp and rough, twisting his head toward her. The moment her eyes met his, she immediately connected the dots.

”Oh Jesus Christ.” She hissed, realizing his eyes weren’t just blue anymore, they were streaked with little tendrils of gold exploding in the irises and hazing over the pupils.

“Let me take it from here,” Sentry whispered, “Clearly you’re not handling it.”

“I-I said I’ve got it.” Bob groaned, squeezing his eyes shut like he could shove Sentry back down by sheer willpower.

“Got what?” Walker called from across the table, leaning his arm along the backrest, “What’s going on with him tonight?” He asked, motioning to Bob. Yelena didn’t answer. She was too busy calculating how far they were from the nearest exit. Bob rubbed a hand over his face, trying to cool the flush from his cheeks, trying to breathe through the pulse climbing in his throat.

”I’m controlling him,” He muttered, “He’s pissed but I’m controlling it.” Walker leaned forward a bit, catching the gold that began to shimmer even more in Bob’s irises.

”Doesn’t look like it,” He commented, eyes narrowing at the shimmer that caught in the strobe lighting, then slowly Walker's gaze drifted across the club, over the pulsing bodies, and past the sharp glow of the bar lights–landing on you.

You were still tucked close to that guy, still laughing, and still glowing in that dress, like the universe was trying to punish Bob through you. Walker’s face twisted in understanding, his lips twitching up with cruel amusement.

”Oh,” He drawled, “Ohhhhhh.” Yelena didn’t even look up to him, she kept her eyes trained on Bob.

”Walker, I swear to god.” She warned, already hearing the chaos brewing in his tone.

“You guys look parched. I’m gonna get another beer,” He said, grabbing a spare glass off the table, “And maybe a water for Bob before his brain starts draining out of his ears.” Walker added, pushing himself up from the booth, stretching like he had all the time in the world.

”Walker!” Yelena snapped, but it was too late, he was already moving.

“Oh good,” Sentry crooned inside him, smug and mocking, “Walker. A real man. Watch and learn, Bob. A simple waltz up to the bar, a charming line, a hand on her arm–easy extraction.” Bob let out a long, agonizing groan, pressing a trembling hand to his temple to try and ease the headache that was starting to bloom.

Meanwhile, Walker was on the move. He weaved through the crowd with a practiced ease, long strides–relaxed in the most approachable way possible–glass in one hand, beer bottle in the other. The lights flickered across his white t-shirt and a few girls near the edge of the dance floor gave him lazy once-overs as he passed. He smiled–small, effortless–and tipped his head in greeting, before continuing his journey. He didn’t stop until he was directly beside you.

You didn’t notice him at first, you were too wrapped up in whatever your bar companion was saying. But the moment Walker’s shoulder nudged yours gently, you turned–surprised–and the guy’s arm slipped from behind your back, falling away like it had never belonged there to begin with.

”Hey,” Walker said casually, setting the beer and the empty glass down on the bar, “Fancy seeing you still upright. Thought you’d be buried in that guy’s awful smelling cologne by now.” You raised an eyebrow at him, confused and slightly amused.

”Excuse me?” You said, watching Walker lean in just enough for the crowd and the music to blur around you both, his voice low and loaded with too much amusement to be harmless.

”You might want to ease up on the flirting…Bob’s halfway to going supernova back at the booth.” He said, propping his elbow onto the bar. He smelled like strong wheat from the beer he was nursing, but he still seemed levelheaded enough to know what he was saying to you.

“Bob?” You questioned.

”Yeah,” Walker nodded toward the table, where Bob sat with his head in his hands. From where you stood you could see the faint glow of the veins in his forearms, like someone had poured sunlight into them, with the crown of his hair fluffed and messy–probably from him ruffling it in his hands. “You know–your broody golden retriever…The one who’s got the sleeper build of a house?”

“He’s not–“ You huffed, “He’s not mine…” Walker snorted at the comment.

”Could’ve fooled me. Pretty sure you own at least seventy percent of his emotional stability and sanity at this point.” Your eyes narrowed at him as you took a sip from your diluted tequila pineapple.

”We agreed, okay? It was mutual. We said it would be a bad idea–if things went wrong–“ Walker held up a finger.

”Right, right. Let me stop you there, Professor Logic. Because right now Bob’s glowing like a fucking star over there and Sentry has been pacing inside his skull, dying to come out. So clearly this little ‘mutual’ agreement is not really holding up.” You stiffened.

”He hasn’t;’t said anything.” Walker laughed under his breath.

”Of course not. It’s Bob. He’d rather implode than inconvenience anyone. But maybe you should go get your sight checked, sweetheart, because you’re acting absolutely blind if you think feelings just vanish because you both agreed to not ‘ruin the team’.”

“Hey, that's not fair.” You muttered.

”Isn’t it?” He shot back, standing a little straighter, “You’re over here flirting up a storm while Bob’s swallowing the sun god. He wanted you. He still wants you, and just because he respects the boundaries you two have, it doesn’t mean y’all are fully over things. Get what I’m saying?” You glanced again toward the booth–just in time to see Bob brace his hands against the table like it was the only thing anchoring him to this plane of existence. Even across the room, you could see the way his chest was rising and falling too fast. The light beneath his skin had intensified–glimmering like heat lightning under the surface of his forearms.

Your voice dropped low. “What do you expect me to do?”

Walker blinked at you, incredulous. “I don’t know, go over there and calm the guy down? Maybe take him somewhere private and talk to him before he fucking levels the building?” He leaned in a little closer, his tone dropping into something more serious, less flippant. “Y/N, it’s Sentry. He doesn’t particularly have a track record for waiting or being nice about things that don’t go his way…God complex. Remember?”

You swallowed, nerves climbing up your throat like vines. “And you think I have that kind of power?”

Walker didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smirk. He just looked at you with the flattest, most terrifyingly honest expression you’d ever seen on him.

“I’m very sure you’ve got his soul in your hands by this point,” He said, voice sharp and quiet. “Now go. Before the floor starts vibrating.”

You hesitated, looking back at Bob again–he was shaking. Hands trembling like static was crawling up his arms, light flaring under his skin in pulses that didn’t sync to the music anymore. His jaw was clenched. His whole body coiled like a live wire seconds from snapping.

Walker’s hand landed briefly on your shoulder, grounding. “Go, Y/N.”

You didn’t need to hear anything else.

You set your glass down with a soft clink, the condensation from the cup already dampening your fingertips. Then you moved–shoulders squared, eyes locked, heart racing harder than the music pulsing through the club’s foundation.

The crowd pressed around you like water, dense and shifting. Heat clung to your skin, sticky with sweat and perfume–an overwhelming blend of cheap gin, sugar-rimmed cocktails, body spray, smoke, and that faint metallic tang of overstimulation. Neon light sliced through the dark like a broken kaleidoscope–flickering greens, bleeding reds, and deep violet strobes that stained everything in shadow-glow and fleeting brilliance.

You pushed past a couple tangled together mid-dance, the woman’s laugh sharp and high-pitched, her partner’s cologne a cloud of amber and pine that made your nose twitch. Your heels stuck momentarily to the floor in patches–spilled beer or soda underfoot–but you didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Because you could see him now.

Bob.

He looked like he was breaking open.

Yelena was still in front of him, tense and braced with her arms folded, her whole body coiled like she was trying to intercept a detonation. You reached her, placed your hand firmly on her shoulder. She looked up at you, eyebrows already drawn–but one glance at your face was all it took. She didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, jaw tight, and stepped aside to return to her original spot in the booth.

And then–Bob.

His head lifted, slowly.

And when his eyes found yours–it was like gravity halted in his mind.

The gold in his irises was brighter now, sparking outward like little sunbursts, threads of molten light veining toward his pupils. But it was the look on his face that undid you. The moment he realized it was you, standing there, reaching for him. All of that raw, volatile tension melted into something that looked like disbelief. Like hope.

His shoulders dropped a fraction. Not relaxed–no, he was never fully relaxed when he was like this–but the storm behind his eyes shifted, just enough to make room for something else. Something softer. The glow faltered like a candle wick flicked by breath, almost like it was a display of relief.

Slowly you reached forward–not grabbing, not pulling, but touching–and let your fingertips drag over his forearms, before your hands found his wrists. You could feel his skin burning, damp from sweat, and his pulse was bounding against your touch, as if something was ready to snap beneath the surface. You curled your fingers around his wrists with deliberate gentleness, and leaned forward.

The light behind you turned gold for a moment–just a flare, like the universe was echoing the chaos inside him. Then the shadows returned, and it was just you in front of him, wrapped in heat and pulse and light. Then your scent hit him–it wasn’t perfume in the traditional sense. Not heavy. It was perfectly you.

It was citrus first–sharp, bright, alive. Like cracked-open blood orange rinds in summer. Zest clinging to skin. Tangy and awakening. Then came the softer notes. Something warmer underneath. A trace of sugar and salt and skin–like sunlight on bare shoulders and the faintest whisper of crushed mint leaves. It was dizzying. It was you. The way you always smelled when you were flushed and warm and a little too close. Bob inhaled like he was starved of it, and Sentry sucked it in like it gave him a new life source.

Then you leaned even closer.

Your body was just shy of touching him, but he felt the heat of you radiating off your skin. Like you were burning through your dress, through the space between you. He could see the outline of your shoulder rising and falling with each breath–too fast. Just like his.

Then–your voice.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It was spoken directly into the space beside his neck, close enough that he could feel the shape of the words before he could understand them. Your breath was warm, and carried the scent of alcohol on it–sweet, sharp, sticky.

Pineapple juice. Cool and sugary. The bite of cheap tequila clinging to the edge. And something cooler than that–mint, from whatever cocktail you’d been nursing. It made the air between you feel electric.

“Come with me,” You said, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear, voice low, tight. Bob’s pulse stuttered. His mouth parted on instinct, like he wanted to say your name, or please, or thank you, or yes, but nothing came out.

Only a nod.

His whole body moved like it wasn’t his own–shoulders curving toward you, the heat in his veins recalibrating, his spine straightening just enough to stand.

You didn’t let go of his wrist as you pulled him through the crowd.

He followed behind like a shadow tethered to your spine–quiet, massive, burning with a light that wasn’t fully human. Every step sent heat crawling along your skin, your grip on him like a lifeline.

You moved fast, past the dance floor and toward the back hallway lined with faux-industrial brick and flickering sconces trying too hard to mimic candlelight. The music was muffled here, pulsing through the drywall like a heartbeat trapped behind ribs.

The private washroom door stood at the end of the hall–sleek, black, and marked with a gold “STAFF ONLY” plaque. You didn’t hesitate. Just reached for the handle, shoved it open, and dragged Bob in after you.

The door shut with a click that sounded louder than a gunshot. Then the lock turned under your fingers–decisive, final.

It was dim inside.

Not in the way that suggested filth or neglect–but in a way that almost felt…deliberate. The club had clearly spared no expense here. There were soft amber bulbs tucked behind frosted glass sconces, casting a faint, honeyed glow that made the marble counters shimmer faintly. The walls were a deep slate gray, matte and textured, broken only by a massive, ornately framed mirror that stretched across the length of the main wall above the sink. The countertop was pristine, black quartz polished to a gleam. A vase of dried eucalyptus sat beside the soap, filling the air with a clean, herbal sharpness that cut through the lingering sweat and smoke on your skin.

The moment you turned to face him, Bob was already braced near the sink, one hand gripping the edge like he needed it to keep standing. His chest was heaving. The golden veins beneath his skin were glowing more than ever–flickering like wire left too long in the fire.

You crossed the room, slow but steady, until you were standing just in front of him–barely breathing–with a bit of space between the two of you so you weren’t crowding him.

“What the hell is going on with you tonight?” Your voice was a mix of caution and heat. Not cold. Not scolding. But demanding in a way only someone who knows the truth of a person could manage.

Bob didn’t answer. His eyes flicked up to yours, and for a second, it wasn’t just him.

It was both of them. Bob and Sentry.

That glow behind his irises was too alive. Too bright. His jaw was locked, his pulse hammering visibly in his throat, the cords in his neck drawn tight like wires on the verge of snapping. When he didn’t speak, you stepped closer.

“I thought we agreed,” You said, softly. “We said it was a bad idea. That it could ruin everything.”

Bob finally opened his mouth, but the voice that came out was not fully his.

“That wasn’t my agreement.” His tone was deeper. Not menacing, but vast. Like something old and radiant had peeled up from beneath the surface of his soul. His shoulders twitched like he was trying to contain something stretching underneath his skin.

You stared at him, mouth parted slightly.

“I didn’t get a say,” Sentry added through him, his tone thick with restrained hunger. “He locked me out of that conversation. Said it wasn’t safe. Said you deserved better than both of us. But I’ve been watching him crumble over you every night since…And it’s not fair to me that I need to watch that when I have no choice but to follow whatever he says!” Bob jerked his head slightly, like he was trying to shake the voice off, but you saw it–the way his pupils dilated, the way his hand on the counter tightened until the stone cracked faintly under his palm.

“That guy–” Bob’s voice finally surfaced, raw and hoarse. “T-The way he touched you–your waist–your shoulder–” His throat bobbed. “I couldn’t breathe.”

You stepped closer to him, still not enough to invade his space.

“I wasn’t going to do anything with him.”

“That doesn’t matter,” He croaked. “Y-You were smiling like that. You were laughing. Not at my words. A-And he got to touch you.” His hands curled, trembling, and you realized then: he wasn’t angry at you. He was in agony.

“Bob…” You breathed.

“I told myself I could handle this. I thought–I thought staying away w-would make it easier,” He whispered, forehead bowing like he was seconds away from collapse. “But then I s-saw you tonight, and you were just–fucking perfect–and all I could think was how badly I-I wanted to touch you. Not Sentry. Not the god. Just me.”

Your breath hitched.

The air in the room shifted–less like breathlessness now, and more like a burn. A shared ache. The kind you only ever get from not touching someone you need.

“You think I don’t want you too?” You whispered, eyes locked on his, not daring to move. “You think that was easy for me either? You think I don’t go back to my room every night and have to lie in a bed that smells like you from your laundry detergent leaking into my sheets?” Bob’s breath hitched–his whole chest trembling with it. His lips parted like he might say something, but he didn’t. He just stared at you with that look. Like you were the only thing keeping him stitched together. Like if he blinked, you might vanish.

Your next breath barely made it out. “I want you. Even when I try not to. Even when I say I don’t.” There was a long pause in the room, just the sound of your breaths and the thumping bass of the music outside the enclosure of the washroom.

Then suddenly, Bob moved.

It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t even rough. But it was immediate. Like something inside him snapped loose and came tearing to the surface. His hands were on your face in less than a second—big and hot and trembling at the edges. One cupped your cheek, the other cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as his forehead dipped to yours. The air between you ignited.

And then he kissed you.

It was not sweet.

It was not soft.

It was desperate–an open-mouthed, spine-scorching, knee-buckling kind of kiss that tasted like panic and longing and gold-lit hunger all poured into one unsteady breath. His mouth slanted over yours like he was trying to carve your shape into his bones, like he was afraid he’d never get another chance. And God, he kissed like he needed you to keep existing–like he’d die if he didn’t.

You gasped into it, just once–surprised not by the kiss, but by the heat behind it–and the second your knees gave a tremble under your heels, Bob caught you.

He growled low against your mouth, not Sentry, not quite Bob–just that middle place where desire lives. His arm locked around your waist, and he spun you with frightening ease. Your back hit the cool edge of the quartz sink counter, and then his hands were everywhere–gripping your hips, dragging them flush to his, his fingers digging into the hem of your dress like he couldn’t figure out whether to lift it or tear it.

You moaned into his mouth–quiet, bitten off–and he groaned back, kissing you harder, deeper, messier.

It was sloppy. Wet. Your lips sliding together again and again as your breaths came sharp and heated. His tongue brushed yours and it felt like fire jumped between your ribs. You couldn’t even think. You were clinging to his shirt like it was the only thing holding you upright.

Bob pulled back just a fraction–just enough to pant against your lips, his breath catching on every syllable.

“You’re not stopping me,” He whispered, voice shredded with disbelief, “You’re not telling me to stop–”

You kissed him again before he could finish, grabbing his jaw, tilting him into you, dragging your teeth across his bottom lip as his hips pressed tighter against yours. And God, the way he reacted–his fingers twitching against your waist, his hips stuttering forward like he couldn’t help himself.

“G-God,” He hissed, and the heat of it pulsed out of him like an aftershock.

His hands dropped to the backs of your thighs, slowly despite the chaos. His palms swept up your legs–warm, wide, shaking–until he was holding you just beneath the curve of your ass. Then he lifted. You gasped as he hoisted you effortlessly up onto the counter, the cold stone biting against your skin through the dress, the sensation making your spine arch.

Bob stepped between your knees and immediately pressed himself against you again, lips finding yours in a kiss so deep it tilted your head back. His hand slid up the column of your neck, cradling your jaw, his thumb brushing just beneath your ear like he needed to memorize every inch of you.

And then–he moaned.

Not loud, but raw. Pained. Like the taste of you was killing him and healing him at the same time. His tongue swept into your mouth, slow and slick, and your hands tangled in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan again–deeper this time, almost guttural.

His hips rocked once into yours, slow and hot, grinding into the space between your thighs, and you gasped against his mouth, your nails digging into his shoulders. It felt like every part of him was begging for contact, like he was trying to melt into your skin. His fingertips dug into your waist as he pressed his hips forward again, slower this time, savouring the way your body responded to him, how your thighs widened even more to cradle his body.

Your fingers untangled from his hair, reached down to curl your fingers around the wrist of the hand that held your waist, guiding him toward the skin of your thigh, skin to skin–your dress had ridden up high enough that he could feel the heat of you radiating through the minimal barrier you still wore. His breath caught. You pulled back from the kiss just enough to whisper.

”Touch me.” The syllables broke him open immediately. He didn’t ask if you were sure. Bob’s hand slid upward–slow, shaking–and then it was there. The pad of his fingers brushed the damp, sheer fabric stretched over your aching core, and he gasped so sharply his forehead thudded softly against yours.

“Oh–God–” He whispered, voice breaking on the edges. “You’re already–J-Jesus, you’re so wet.”

You whined, head tilting back slightly, lips brushing his jaw, and Bob nearly lost it right then.

“Is it for me?” He breathed, fingers still resting there, just barely pressing into the heat between your legs. His voice trembled, and it wasn’t just Bob anymore. Sentry laced every syllable with awe and hunger.

“Tell me it’s for me,” He begged.

You nodded, lashes fluttering, as heat crept up onto your cheeks. “Always for you.”

He let out a noise–half groan, half prayer–and his hand moved. Gentle at first, like he was afraid to break you. His thumb found your clit through the soaked fabric, rubbing in slow, languid circles. Just enough pressure to tease, not enough to satisfy. Your thighs tensed around his hips, your fingers curling into his shirt.

“Oh my god, Bob–”

That shattered him.

His mouth dropped to your neck, open and hot, breath thick against your pulse as he worked you with growing intensity. He mouthed at your skin–kissed and nipped his way up to the underside of your jaw while his fingers kept moving, pressing deeper now, sliding the soaked fabric aside with a gentle kind of desperation. His fingertips met your slick heat, and the soft, wet sound of it made him moan like he was being touched instead of you.

“Y/N,” He rasped, “You’re d-dripping… I h-haven’t even done anything to you yet–Jesus”

He slipped two fingers between your folds, not inside–just gliding through the mess you’d already made for him. His thumb resumed its rhythm on your clit, and your whole body jolted in response, a soft cry leaving your lips. Bob was panting.

“I wanna drop to my knees. I wanna taste you. Right here. Right now. Please.” The words were guttural. Frantic. Worshipful. Sentry was behind them, clawing upward like holy fire, but Bob was still there–guiding him with restraint, grounded by the weight of your body in his hands.

You grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him towards you, crashing your mouth into his again. He kissed you like he was drowning and your breath was the only oxygen that could save him.

Without breaking the kiss, without warning, two of his fingers slipped inside you–slow, thick, and deliberate.

You gasped into his mouth–sharp and shuddering–your spine bowing against the sink as your thighs clamped tighter around his hips. The stretch made your legs tremble. You fluttered around him, hot and soaked and so desperate for him it almost hurt.

Bob groaned like the feel of you was enough to knock him out cold.

“Oh–God,” He hissed against your mouth, his forehead dropping to yours as he stilled his hand for just a moment, overwhelmed by how tight and wet you were. “Jesus Christ… You’re so perfect inside. So warm–clenching around me like you need it.”

His fingers curled inside you.

You moaned–loud and broken–your body jerking in his grip. The sound echoed in the marble and tile of the washroom, obscene and beautiful.

“Y-Yes,” You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulder blades, “Don’t stop–Bob–please don’t stop–”

His mouth kissed down your jaw, hot and open, and his other hand slid up your throat–giving it a gentle squeeze, holding you steady like he didn’t trust anything else in the room to support you. His fingers began to move inside you–deep and slow, keeping them curled just right, searching for that perfect spot. His thumb stayed at your clit, rubbing in firm, tight circles, coaxing more slick from your body with every grind of his palm. Every stroke was deliberate. Precise. Designed to make you fall apart for him.

“So good for me,” he breathed against your neck, his voice cracking with need, “So fucking pretty like this. Dripping for me, clenching around me—fuck, baby, you’re singing for it.”

You whimpered again, your thighs shaking.

“I knew you’d be like this,” He groaned, thrusting his fingers deeper, harder now, the wet sounds of it nearly enough to make you come on their own. “So fucking sensitive. I bet you could come just like this–on my hand–if I kept going. You want that? You wanna soak my fingers?”

You couldn’t even speak. You nodded, breath hitching, your mouth open in a silent plea.

Sentry surfaced again in his voice–darker, deeper, reverent.

“She was made for this,” He growled from behind Bob’s teeth. “For us. Look at how she falls apart–so soft for us. So fucking holy between her legs–”

Bob kissed your cheekbone, your temple, your jaw, between every ragged syllable, his fingers never stopping their rhythm, driving deeper, stroking harder.

“I’d worship you every day if you let me,” He whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear now. “I’d wake you up with my mouth, I’d pray at your thighs–I’d give up the sky if it meant I could die with you wrapped around my fingers like this.”

Your breath hitched violently, knowing it was still Sentry projecting through Bob’s mouth.

He kissed the hinge of your jaw, and then the corner of your mouth, his thumb pressing firmer against your clit as he felt you start to pulse harder around him.

“Y-You’re close, aren’t you?” He panted, his voice breathless and holy, “I can feel it. God, I-I can feel it. Let go for me, Y/N. Let go–come for us–please.”

And with a soft, choked sob, you did.

You shattered around his hand, back arched, mouth parted in a desperate cry as your orgasm slammed through you like a wave of white-hot electricity. Your walls fluttered and clenched around his fingers as your thighs shook and your hands clawed for purchase against his shoulders, his chest–him.

Bob groaned like your orgasm was something he could feel.

He didn’t pull away.

He kept his fingers deep inside you, slowly working you through it, coaxing every last tremor from your body with soft murmurs against your throat.

“That’s it…You’re such a good girl.” He rasped. The voice had shifted–richer now. Darker. It vibrated behind your ear like a drumbeat made of light and thunder. Reverent. Possessive. Starved.

Sentry, of course it was him.

You barely had time to react before his hand slowly slipped free from you–slick, trembling, and soaked. You gasped as he dragged his fingers up, just enough for the cool air to kiss your wetness and make your thighs twitch. And then–

He lifted them to his lips.

He licked you off himself with obscene patience, tongue flattening to savor the taste, eyes fluttering shut for just a second like he was drinking in divinity.

A low, broken moan rumbled in his chest. “Mmm–fuck, you taste like you were made for me.”

When his eyes opened again, they weren’t just Bob’s anymore.

Still blue–but ringed in a molten glow so vivid it felt like looking at the edge of the sun. Gold flecked and shimmering. Two forces inside one gaze, breathing in sync. Worship and hunger, restraint and ruin.

Both of them.

“You feel that?” He murmured, pressing his forehead to yours as his still-wet fingers traced the curve of your jaw, smearing your slick along your cheek like a mark. “That was you. That light in me. That burn. You’re what keeps us sane.” Another kiss–softer, gentler, but so hot it made your breath hitch.

“I need more,” Sentry groaned, voice rasping like smoke and lightning. “I need to taste it from the source.”

You swallowed thickly, still panting, your thighs twitching as aftershocks rolled through you. He kissed the corner of your mouth again, and then dropped his lips to your throat, mouthing at your pulse point as he whispered, “Help me. Help me take these off you.”

Your panties.

His hands were already sliding beneath the hem of your dress, brushing along the backs of your thighs as he began to drag the soaked fabric of your underwear down inch by inch, reverent as a priest unwrapping holy cloth. It clung to you–drenched, ruined–and Sentry groaned when you lifted yourself up slightly so the fabric slipped past the curve of your ass. You wiggled around, as he slid the underwear off you completely, crumpling them up in his hand, like he was planning on holding them the entire time–or to steal them so he could have them as a keepsake to remember this night.

He dropped to his knees in front of you like a man possessed, the dress bunched up at your hips now, your bare thighs spread on either side of his broad shoulders.

The sight of him down there–gold-flecked eyes wide, flushed lips parted, hair wild from your hands–it was nearly enough to make you come again.

“You’re the altar,” Sentry said, voice low and trembling with need, “And I’m the fucking disciple.”

And then his mouth was on you.

No hesitation.

No teasing this time.

Just devotion.

His tongue licked a long, slow stripe up your dripping slit, and he moaned–loudly–like he was finally allowed to breathe again. Then he latched onto your clit with a kind of desperate reverence, flicking it, sucking it, licking it in the exact rhythm he’d found with his fingers.

His hands slid up your thighs–warm and huge and trembling–and gripped your hips, holding you in place as he worshipped you with his mouth. Every movement, every wet sound echoed in the marble air. His groans blended with your broken moans, his tongue devouring you like he was starving.

You threw your head back, one hand flying to the counter behind you, the other tangling in his hair.

“Sentry–Bob–fuck…Both of you…Please–”You begged, panting like you were in heat. Your voice only fueled the hunger.

He growled into you, the vibration sending another jolt through your spine, and his hands tightened on your hips.

“I can’t get enough,” He groaned between strokes, voice wrecked and thick. “I could die here. Right between your thighs. Heaven and hell, all at once.”

You felt another orgasm building–fast, blinding–your breath catching with each wet circle of his tongue, each drag of his mouth over your clit, each filthy moan he spilled against your folds like worship.

And just before you shattered again, he looked up at you.

Eyes glowing gold. Lips soaked in you. His voice broke the last thread of restraint you had:

“Come for me again, goddess.”

And you did.

Violently. Beautifully. Every nerve ending setting alight with the crash.

You cried out his name–or maybe both their names–as the pleasure crashed through you, seizing your thighs around his head, dragging his mouth deeper as your body gave out.

But he didn’t stop.

He licked you through it, past it, deeper–drinking from the source like he’d promised, moaning like your taste rewrote his soul. When your body finally slumped against the mirror, still trembling, still slick and wide open for him, he rose slowly from his knees.

His lips were red. Glossed in your slick. His breath was heavy.

And when he leaned in again, cupping your face with one hand, you leaned into his touch like your neck had melted, jelly-soft and pliant beneath his palm. Your body still trembled in the aftermath of your orgasm–nerves frayed, thighs twitching, your breath a ghost of what it once was. His touch grounded you, burned you, and worshipped you all at the same time.

His gaze drank you in—lips wet, pupils blown wide and gold, voice dipped into something low and wicked as his mouth ghosted the edge of yours.

“What a great introduction, hm?” he murmured, the words dragging across your pulse like velvet-wrapped sin. “You’ve never really met me before… not like this.”

The tone in his voice was soft. Sweet, even. But beneath it was the weight of something divine. The kind of reverence that made your spine ache and your thighs twitch all over again. He kissed you before you could respond–slow and consuming, dragging the taste of yourself across your tongue as if to remind you what he’d just done.

You whimpered into it, and he smiled against your mouth, a low hum vibrating from his chest.

“But I’m not done yet,” He whispered into your lips–so soft, so sensual, it made you clench reflexively around nothing. His hand slid from your cheek to your throat again, not to grip–just to feel your pulse. To feel how hard it was racing beneath his palm.

“I’ve barely begun to show you what it’s like,” He added, nuzzling his mouth along your jaw, the edge of your ear. His voice was molten honey, golden and dripping into every breath. “To be worshipped by a god.”

His hand on your thigh curled inward again, slowly dragging up the bare, damp skin until his fingers slid between your folds once more. You gasped, your hips twitching against the marble counter as he stroked you lazily, like he was testing to see just how sensitive you were now. His lips ghosted over your jaw, kissing along your cheek until he reached your temple.

“You’re shaking again,” He murmured, tongue peeking out to taste the salt-sweet sweat clinging to your skin. “You gonna fall apart for me one last time, sunshine? Hm?”

You nodded without hesitation, breathless and dazed.

“Good,” He breathed, curling his fingers over your thigh again, dragging your legs open wider. You were still trembling when your hand reached down between your bodies, fumbling with the buckle of his belt.

He hissed quietly, the sound a shudder against your skin as you worked it open. The clink of the metal was deafening in the quiet of the washroom. You felt the tension in his body ripple the moment the leather slid free of the clasp—his hips pressing forward involuntarily as you popped the button of his jeans.

“W-We’re still in the club,” you whispered against his mouth, panting lightly, tasting yourself on his tongue. “People are gonna wonder where we are… I–we should deal with this and then go home. You can fuck me properly at the compound. I’ll let you take me apart in the shower. You’ll have me screaming your name all night, Bob, I promise–”

But he shook his head before you could finish.

One hand came up and cupped the side of your face, the other curled under your thigh again, holding you open with trembling reverence. He leaned in–kissed you hard, deep, so full of hunger it felt like he wanted to swallow your words down and burn them into ash.

“No,” He breathed against your lips. “No more waiting. We’ve waited long enough.” You felt the bulge in his jeans throb against your thigh as he growled, low and full of restrained power.

“I’m gonna fill you right here,” He whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, then lower–your cheek, your throat, your collarbone–every word pressed into your skin like a brand. “I’m gonna fuck you so slow and so deep, you’ll be leaking with me when you walk back out into that club.” His fingers brushed your jaw again, holding you steady, trembling. “And you won’t be able to do a thing about it.” You gasped as he said it, your fingers slipping under the waistband of his boxers, finding the velvet heat of him–hard, pulsing, so heavy in your hand.

“I’ll make you wait to clean up,” He murmured, kissing beneath your ear now, voice dark and golden, “Let you walk around soaked in me until we get back to the compound. Then I’ll take you again in the shower. I’ll fuck you slow under the water with your thighs shaking around my hips, and I’ll do it just to remind you…”

He kissed you–hard. Deep. With teeth clacking together, and tongues battling, before pulling back.

“…Who you belong to now.”

The words sent a sharp, hot pulse through your spine.

You could barely breathe.

He nudged his jeans down just enough, and you helped–sliding the fabric down over his hips with frantic hands until he was free. The thick length of him brushed your thigh, hot and pulsing, and when you looked down, your breath caught.

The tip glistened in the light from the pre-cum dripping out of it, the head was flushed a blush red as if it was dying to be inside you. He looked unreal–godlike–and you were dizzy from the sight of him alone.

Your thighs spread wider, instinctive. Wanton.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” He whispered hoarsely, his hand gripping the base of himself, guiding the tip to your slick folds. “So many fucking nights. I thought I’d die with the taste of you on my tongue and never get to feel this.”

And then–slowly–he pressed in.

The stretch made your breath catch, your spine arch, your thighs tighten. He was careful. Controlled. Like the act of entering you was a ceremony. You whimpered, body pulsing around him as the thick head of his cock breached your entrance, and then more. Inch by glorious inch. So slow it hurt. So perfect it made your eyes sting.

“Dear l-lord…” Bob groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck, kissing the sensitive flesh there. “You’re–God–you’re gripping me like you were made for this…” You cupped his jaw, pulled his face up to look at you as he sank deeper, until your bodies were fully joined. Chest to chest. Heart to heart.

And that’s when you saw it.

His eyes.

The constant battle.

Blue–bright, tender, full of reverent awe. But flickering beneath? Gold. Liquid fire. Sentry. The god…Aching for more. Needing to lose control again. And for a moment–just one–Bob blinked like he was trying to hold them both together for you.

“Bob…” You whispered, stroking your thumbs over his cheeks. “I see you.”

He choked on a breath. His hips rolled, slow and trembling, dragging himself out an inch before sliding back in–smooth, deep, deliberate. His eyes fluttered shut and then open again, barely able to hold your gaze. You cupped his face tighter, grounding him. His body shook with restraint.

“You’re both here,” You moaned, barely audible. “And I want all of it.”

Bob groaned into your mouth and kissed you–so slow this time. Like he was memorizing the shape of your lips with his own. Then his hips began to move again. Long, fluid strokes. Deep, sensual. Every grind sent heat coiling through your belly, and every time he slid inside you, the air in your lungs thinned.

Your legs wrapped around his hips.

Your hands held his face like prayer.

And his thrusts grew stronger.

Still aching.

But with that edge.

That divine, desperate edge.

The god was surfacing through every roll of his hips, every whispered groan, every broken syllable of your name. You could feel it in the way he filled you–perfectly. Over and over. Each time deeper. Each time just a little more heated. His body coiled like a storm, the breath behind his moans glowing brighter with every thrust.

“Mine,” He groaned, forehead pressed to yours, “You’re mine. Always been mine…”

You nodded, clinging to him. “Yours.”

His hands gripped your hips tighter.

And the light in the room began to flicker.

As if the whole club could feel what was happening in the dark.

In the holy quiet, where gods and mortals broke together.

His thrusts became less measured–still deep, still slow, but trembling at the edges with something close to ruin. The kind of surrender that came from months of restraint finally breaking. Each roll of his hips ground deeper into you, filling you so completely you swore you could feel him in your chest. The wet sounds of your bodies meeting echoed in the marble air, obscene and beautiful.

You clung to him, fingers dug into the muscles of his back, your thighs tightening around his hips with every thrust. Your foreheads pressed together. Noses brushed. Breaths mingled.

And then his mouth found yours again.

You gasped into it–sharp and high as a particularly deep thrust hit the spot inside you that made your toes curl–and Bob moaned into your mouth like it tore something sacred from him. His tongue slipped between your lips, slick and hungry, tasting you with a reverence that made your chest ache.

You kissed him back like you were trying to memorize every second.

Tongue against tongue. Teeth catching lips. Moans swallowed between gasps.

“Y-Y/N,” He groaned, barely audible. “You feel so good. So fucking good around me–so tight. You’re pulling me in like you want to keep me forever.”

“I do,” You whimpered, voice cracking with need. “I want to keep you. All of you.”

And that broke something in him.

His thrusts deepened–slower, but harder now. Grinding into you so completely you could barely breathe. The counter beneath you shook. The mirror behind your spine rattled faintly with each rhythm, like even the room couldn’t hold this kind of heat.

You could feel him trembling–every muscle drawn tight beneath your hands, his hips beginning to stutter with every roll forward. His breath came out in harsh bursts against your cheek, and when he buried his face in the crook of your neck again, he let out the rawest moan you’d ever heard from him.

“I’m close,” He gasped. “Y/N–I’m gonna come. I’m gonna fill you–fuck–I wanna know that you’re going to be dripping me all night.”

You cried out, tightening around him. Your own orgasm was on the brink again–high, searing, right there at the edge.

“Do it,” You begged, voice breaking. “Come inside me, Bob. Please–need to feel it. Need to feel you lose control.”

His hips faltered–just once–and he groaned through gritted teeth, his body coiled like it couldn’t decide whether to detonate or dissolve.

And then–he reached between you again, his thumb finding your clit one last time.

“Come with me,” he whispered, voice burning gold and low and full of promise. “Let go, sunshine. Let go with me.”

You clung to him. Kissed him.

And you shattered.

Your cry tore from your mouth and into his as he kissed you again–hot, open, gasping. Your orgasm hit hard and fast, convulsing through your body as your walls squeezed around him like you never wanted to let him go.

And that’s when he followed.

His hips stuttered, slammed in deep one last time, and then he was moaning into your mouth–loud, guttural, his tongue still tasting you as he spilled inside you. You felt every thick, hot pulse of him, the way his body shook against yours, how he trembled through it like the pleasure was too much, too full, too holy.

You stayed like that.

Locked together.

Mouths still joined, breath shallow, bodies twitching in the aftermath.

When he finally pulled back just an inch, his lips ghosted over yours. His forehead dropped against yours again, and you felt him shake–every exhale breaking against your cheeks.

”J-Jesus…I-I think I was blacking out during that.” Bob laughed softly–still breathless, still inside you, his face pressed into the crook of your neck like it was the only place he knew how to breathe. You could feel him twitch inside you, still hard, still so achingly present even in the aftermath of all that heat. His breath was warm and sticky against your throat.

You laughed, too–just a little–low and shaken but real.

“I couldn’t tell who was in control,” you murmured, dragging your fingers gently through the sweaty strands at the back of his neck. “Hopefully he’s not mad I called him Bob.”

Bob pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, lips curling in a crooked grin that barely held together at the corners. He kissed you once–soft, quick, like a punctuation mark–before resting his forehead against yours.

“I’m sure h-he doesn’t care,” He said, voice hoarse and honey-warm, “He’s definitely shut his mouth now…H-He’s been talking my ear off all night. Especially when you were with that guy.”

You smirked, brushing your thumb along the curve of his cheek. “Sentry… The god of jealousy.”

Bob hummed a low, amused sound in his throat. “We were both jealous. He just…H-Has a really bad w-way of handling it.”

Then he turned slightly–still inside you, and you gasped at the movement—his body shifting as he reached out and slapped the silver button on the paper towel dispenser with the side of his palm. The mechanical whir filled the room in a way that felt both hilarious and wildly surreal.

“What are you doing?” You asked, brows furrowed in amused disbelief. Bob grinned, pressing a kiss to your neck, then leaned forward again to turn the faucet on with one hand.

“Making sure we don’t stain that pretty little dress,” He murmured, grabbing the paper towel and wetting it under the warm water. “It’s p-probably already ruined…But we shouldn’t make it worse, and w-we should at least do some damage control on it…I’ll pay for the d-dry cleaning.”

You laughed–really laughed this time–and he smiled into your skin like it was the best sound he’d ever heard. Bob gently wrung out the warm paper towel over the sink, his body still braced between your thighs, chest rising and falling with labored breaths. The faucet murmured behind him as he turned it off, and the only other sound was the distant thud of club music vibrating faintly through the floorboards beneath your heels.

Then he leaned back slightly, his hands moving to rest lightly on your hips as he looked down between your bodies to assess the aftermath.

He sucked in a quiet breath, eyes narrowing slightly. “Huh.”

You blinked at him, trying not to laugh. “What?”

Bob tilted his head, considering. “It’s not t-too bad,” He said, voice still rough and fond, “But I might have to ask you to c-clench a bit when I pull out–just so I can press this t-there and stop the cum from dripping out before you get your underwear on.”

Your brows lifted. “Sounds like a plan…Speaking of my underwear though…Where are they?”

Bob glanced around like he was replaying the last thirty minutes in his head, then leaned over your shoulder and reached for something just behind the soap dispenser.

“T-Thought they got lost,” He muttered with sheepish relief as he picked up the damp, balled-up fabric, still slightly warm from your skin. “Thank goodness t-that’s not the case… Would’ve been pretty bad if it w-was.”

You bit back a grin, your voice teasing. “Would’ve had to walk back out to the club bare underneath this dress, huh?”

Bob groaned softly, burying his face in your neck for a beat. “Don’t t-tempt me.” Then he pulled back again, lips brushing your cheek as he met your eyes. “Ready?”

You nodded once, steady, and clenched instinctively around him–tight, holding him for one last second. Bob hissed quietly at the sensation, groaned, and then slowly, gently pulled out.

The loss of him made you gasp–a subtle ache, a sudden emptiness–but he was already moving, already bringing the warm, damp towel between your thighs with a kind of reverent tenderness that made your breath hitch. His touch wasn’t clinical or rushed. It was slow. Careful. Like he was scared he’d hurt you if he moved too fast.

You watched him.

Watched the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his lower lip was caught between his teeth as he wiped you clean with the warm wet paper towel. It brushed between your folds with gentle pressure, catching his release as it began to spill out of you. He dabbed and swept delicately, making sure not to press too hard, his other hand holding your hip, grounding both you and him to the moment.

And the whole time, he was glancing up at you, watching your face–checking, silently, for any sign of discomfort.

Your chest swelled.

The intensity of it hit you like a fourth climax, softer this time–emotional instead of physical. This was Bob. Always Bob. The way he cared, the way he noticed, the way he never made you feel like you were too much.

You reached up, both hands rising to cradle his jaw as he finished, and his gaze flicked up to you just in time for your mouth to catch his.

You kissed him slowly–no hunger, no urgency. Just tenderness. Just that aching, quiet thing that had been living in both of you for months.

When you pulled back, your voice was hushed, but it carried all the weight of truth behind it.

“So…” You whispered, brushing your thumb over the very very light stubble along his jaw, “I guess we’re throwing that whole ‘no dating for the team’ thing out the window, huh?” Bob’s lips curled into the softest smile, something crooked and reverent and completely undone.

“S-Seems like it,” He murmured.

And then he kissed you again–gold-lit, warm, and entirely his.

[nezuscribe]

𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader

summary: six years ago, when they placed that sorting hat on your head, nobody expected for it to assign the muggleborn to the slytherin house, but it did. six years later, you find yourself as alone as the day you walked through those doors. little did you expect the prince of slytherin, the pureblood maniac himself, gojo satoru, to be the one to coincidentally fill your empty hours.

warnings: gojo is a pureblooded slytherin, slight angst, slight messy makeout

word count: 12.6k

note: part two is out now! comments and reblogs are always appreciated! thank you to @jadeisthirsting for beta reading as always!

part two

slytherin!gojo masterlist + jjk masterlist

When you were little, all the strange and peculiar things that happened to you, such as Ms. Bromsely, the awful maths teacher's desk going up in flames, or Patricia Gallaghers rings disintegrating after she teased your dress, were chalked up to chance or just something else.

Your mother was too busy covering extra shifts down at the pub to worry about it, so she rarely made an occurrence to the meetings your headmaster had scheduled, resulting in very awkward meetings with just you as you were explained how peculiar it was that you always seemed to be in the middle of all these weird occurrences.

So when that brown spotted owl almost crashed into your bedroom window at the ripe age of eleven, explaining that you were chosen to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, you suspected that one of your classmates was playing a cruel joke on you, but alas, it turned out to be very real. 

You were whisked away soon enough, stumbling your way in some sort of haze through Diagon Alley, and then in a blink of your eyes, you found yourself waving goodbye to your mother from that red train, on your way to a life you may have only imagined when you were younger, dreaming of a place far away from where you were.

And you loved it.

The feasts, the history-soken steps that you walked on every day to get to class, the little town that was within walking distance that you could go to every weekend. 

While most of the students here had been introduced to this early on in their lives, you hadn’t. Your mother was just as shocked and as bewildered as you were all those years ago, and given your special circumstances, sometimes you wondered if you were yet to see the thick of it, wondering if some things were hidden from you given your upbringing, given your blood.

But you blinked out of your stupor, being brought down from your daydream to the sound of quills scratching, the smell of faint smoke burning in the background, and the quiet sounds of different animals in their cages. All of these tall-tell signs of the transfiguration classroom. 

After years of spending time in this classroom, it slowly became one that you’d look forward to, and despite most Slytherins having an aptitude for potions or defense against the dark arts, transfiguration was where you shined the best.

The light that carded through the high arching windows illuminated the desks, and you were glad seeing how the back of the classrooms was usually the most poorly lit place. Unfortunately, they’re the only places you found yourself sitting throughout the years, which is just another reason why this specific classroom in itself brought you a slight sense of comfort. 

“...cross-species and inter-species transfiguration is one of the most difficult, if not the most difficult, sort of transfiguration to achieve. Even the most accomplished witches and wizards find themselves struggling with it,” you watched as Professor McGonagall walked around the front of the classroom, her graying hair pulled into a tight bun behind her head, her emerald robes swaying behind her like green waves, “The only way we were able to replicate this form of magic is through ancient runes.” 

Her eyes raked over all the students of the class, to make sure that everybody was understanding the weight of her words. As seventh years it was expected that you all would be ready to face the challenges of such a high-level class. But especially with Professor McGonagall, seeing just how difficult her classes usually were. 

“Of course, this was all covered during your fourth years, so I hope that some of you,” she gave a knowing look over her glasses, “Remember your lessons.” 

You momentarily caught her eyes.

You squirmed in your seat, knowing that her displeased look was directed to the Gryffindor’s sitting next to you. The boy to your left had his mouth open in a large yawn, promptly shutting it when McGonagall looked at him, and the girl to your right was busily finicking with a piece of parchment, trying to figure out how to enchant it so that it could turn into a swan to send to her boyfriend who was sitting across the class. 

You loved Hogwarts. Most of the time. 

The reason why you usually found yourself at the back of class, sitting with people you barely knew, and the reason why you were yet to experience most of the core memories other witches and wizards your age experienced was because you weren’t welcomed the way other would be by their assorted houses. 

Nearly six years ago, when Professor McGonagall placed that sorting hat on your head, you didn’t know what to expect. 

You had heard from some of the people that you sat near on the train that Gryffindor was best. Of course, the boy who said it came from a family of Gryffindors, but his friends seemed to agree with him. Ravenclaw was only for the smart people, which you hoped you might be sorted into and Huffelpuffs were known for their loyalty, which, judging by your mother's statement about how you dared to leave home, you didn’t have much of. 

But the Slytherin house seemed…forbidden. 

At least for you, anyways. 

“And what about that girl we saw?” One of the boys pointed outside the carriage window into the little hall outside, pointing to a much older girl wearing green robes, walking with some other friends who wore adorning colors, “What house is she in?” 

The other boy, who seemed to have the most knowledge out of anyone, scoffed, shaking his head. 

“Not for you, sorry,” he leaned in closer as if he were telling a secret. You tried to listen in, not making it obvious seeing how you weren’t any of their friends and how this was the only cart available with space, “That’s the Slytherin house.” 

“Why’s it not for me?” The other boy argued, his face pulled into a scowl.

“Well, Slytherins are many things. Ambitious, cunning,” the other boy said but shook his head disapprovingly, “But above all else, they’re all purebloods. Some are half-bloods, but even that’s rare. You’re coming from a muggle family. My father works at the ministry, and he says that some of the people in his department who were Slytherin still despise muggle-borns and muggles even long after they’ve left.”

So you had a basic understanding of what to expect. Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or Gryffindor.

But when the hat cried out “Slytherin!” you almost jumped in your seat, looking behind you at the professor, your face of hesitancy surely mirroring hers. 

And you soon found out that the boy on the train (who was sorted into Gryffindor, big shock), was right. Word spread quickly that a muggle-born was sorted into Slytherin, the first in centuries, and that it surely must’ve been a mistake. 

But the sorting hat doesn’t go back on its word, and what was said was done. So six and a bit years later you found yourself as the pariah of your own house and were forced to fade into the background to avoid any further trouble. 

“...and this is the one project in which I’m having you work with partners, picked by me, of course. The research that is needed to go into this is too much to be done alone.” Professor McGonagall continued, and you perked up in your seat a little bit, your brows furrowing at her words. 

You felt a part of your heart race at the thought. Normally when professors assigned partners, it either left you with a fellow Slyhterin who hated your existence and forced you to do the project on your own, or somebody from another house who didn’t know you and forced you to do the project on your own. 

Your tongue felt heavy as she began reading off the paired names on her list, your hands becoming clammy. 

“Miss Finnegan and Mister Belton. Miss O’Shea and Miss Adan,” The girl next to you, who you quickly pieced together was Leila O’Shea groaned, her face depleted as she realized she wasn’t going to be paired with her boyfriend, and you watched as she sulkily went to the other girl's desk. 

You listened in anticipation as she went down the list, your heart beating loudly and comically in your chest the closer it seemed that she was getting to the end. 

“Mister Reeve and Mister Thompson,” she paused momentarily as she watched the two boys clap each other on the back, her lips threatening to quirk up into a smile, just waiting to read what foolishness they were going to write, “Miss Ward and Mister Green,” you felt like you might be getting off the hook, that maybe she took pity on you but it all came crashing down when she looked at you, a knowing look in her eyes far worse than pity as she read your name along with perhaps the singular person you would’ve paid all your money to not be paired with, 

“…will be with Mister Gojo,” you heard some of your housemates laugh out loud, some of them pushing at the boy and ruffling his hair as if he were the one that was going to face the brute of everything. He sat near the front, and you could see a flash of his white hair as he begrudgingly began to pack his things up, having no choice but to sit next to you seeing how the seats next to him were filled up. 

You watched as she rolled the piece of parchment back up as if she hadn’t just sentenced your public execution, and she raised a singular thin brow at the faces that were looking back at her, “Well? Get a move on. This essay is due in a month.”

You tried to take in a deep breath, your eyes trained on the blank piece of parchment in front of you as if you couldn’t hear his footsteps getting closer and closer to you, as if you didn’t just feel his robes brush up against your legs as he sunk into his seat.

This can’t possibly be happening.

Anybody would’ve been better than him. Even Marley Petterson and her constant poking and teasing about how your clothes were held together by scraps, and how you must’ve lived with mud people before you came to Hogwarts would’ve been better than him. Being forced to be a partner with the Prince of Slytherin was torture, and you wonder if after all these years Professor McGonagall was just now starting to show her distaste towards you. 

That day on the train was the first time you heard his name. 

“You see that boy? The one with the white hair?” The boy discreetly pointed out the window to one of the kids standing outside your cart. All the other boys hurriedly nodded, each craning their necks to get a better look at him, “He’s a Gojo. He comes from a line of Slytherins, each one worse than the one before. They’re purebloods, obviously. You wouldn’t find a speck of anything else in them. They’re rich too, filthy rich. They could buy this school if they wanted to.” All the other boys guffawed, but he seemed serious as if this stranger's family was nothing to be taken lightly. 

“When it comes to Slytherins, there are four families to be wary of. There’s the Gaunts and the Malfoys. There’s the noble house of Black, but lastly…them. House Gojo is one that every other wizarding family steers away from.”

After the day you were sorted you also quickly realized why most wizarding families stayed away from them. His word seemed to be law, and all the other Slytherins, especially those in his inner circle, held him to it. 

You peeked from the corner of your eye, watching as he unpacked all his supplies, his face contorted in obvious anger and disgust, and you thickly swallowed. You had done a good job in staying away from him these past couple of months, fortunate enough to only be called a mudblood and an offense to their ancient house a couple of times by him and his posse. 

His left-hand ring finger almost caught your eye in the sun, the gold ring with his house emblem shining brightly, a clear reminder of your difference with him, and you tried to hide your old school bag, riddled with holes and stains, something you just couldn’t replace. 

When he was done unpacked, he sat there for a couple of seconds, the silence between the two of you thick and heavy. You felt like you could choke on it, your fingers twitching to do something, to leave.

“...this is insulating…” he was talking to himself, shaking his head in disbelief as you sat awkwardly, not knowing what to do.

Gojo Satoru wasn’t one for many words. You had observed him from afar, long enough to see that aside from the occasional words he’d exchange with his closest friends or the few times he’d mutter traitor under his breath when the two of you locked eyes, he was a more brooding type of person. 

When he was angry, he hid it well. His cheeks might’ve flushed a bit, his nose flaring, but he never made an outburst. Which is why, at this moment, you could tell that he wasn’t in a particularly elated mood. 

“I…” you started, your mouth going dry at the way his eyes snapped to you, cold and cruel, “I can do the essay. I’ll get it done in time…if you want.” 

Most times your partners would just tell you to do the work, expecting (and knowing), you’d just say yes and go along with your day. But here, you couldn’t afford to let your guard down, rather having your pride be bitten at rather than your overall self. 

You heard him snort, his nose wrinkling in disgust as he rolled his eyes. 

“What? And have you do everything wrong?” His voice was hushed and clipped as if talking to you a second longer than needed would ruin him and everything he and his family stand for. 

He unrolled his piece of parchment, opening up his book as he kept his head down. 

“Well, I’m fairly decent with transfiguration,” you spoke up, trying for a smile that quickly fell when you felt his eyes burn into yours. For most of your time at Hogwarts, the only times you’ve ever really spoken to Gojo was when he was hurling insults at you, his words spurred on by his group of friends behind him. 

Gojo Satoru knew his worth. He knew that his family name would last through centuries and that the gold his family owned could buy out the entire ministry if they wanted to. Those around him treated him as such; as if his word was law. It also didn’t help that he was incredibly charming, growing into his looks over the years. 

You watched as he grew taller, his lanky figure now filled out with muscles that you could sometimes see through the baggy uniform. His eyes were always a topic of conversation, the infamous Gojo blue. His arctic white hair grew a little longer, sometimes falling in his face when he wasn’t aware. He was gorgeous, and you couldn’t even lie to yourself that he wasn’t.

Aside from his looks, he was also freakishly smart. If he hadn’t been sorted into Slytherin you were sure that Ravenclaw would’ve been fitting for him as well. He was always top of the class with O’s on every exam. 

Above all else, he knew his difference from everybody else. Even his closest (pureblooded) friends weren't even near his level. Even before he could walk, he’s been told of this. Not only that but he’s been told of the vileness of muggleborns. How their nature threatens the very fabric of wizarding society, and how muggles who have somehow been blessed with magical abilities are below humans, that they don’t deserve the rights every other witch and wizard has. 

Which means that you, the sole muggle-born in Slytherin, stood against everything Gojo Satoru believed. You were an abnormality, inhuman, somebody that he should resent for even existing.

“Well, we could always divide the work…?” You offered, your feet anxiously bouncing on the ground as you waited for his response. One of the blessings of sitting so far away from everyone else is that sure, they looked over to see how this was going, but at least they couldn’t listen in as you embarrassed yourself even further. 

His eyes darted over to your paper, blinking once, deep in thought. 

He sighed deeply through his nose, swallowing thickly as he gave you a singular, curt nod. 

“Hm,” he hummed, not even sparing you a glance as he began going to work, his pen scratching against the paper as his eyes began reading over the page, “But I’ll read what you write,” he said quickly, “I refuse to have my rank tank just because you mudbloods can’t do your work properly.” 

Mudblood  

After six years of it, you know you should’ve gotten used to it, but the stinging in your chest would argue otherwise. 

Your shoulders sank, eyes falling to the ground as your fingers fidgeted. You murmured something inaudible as you opened your book to the page McGonagall instructed you to. 

—

The days moved on and everything continued as it always did. 

The essay you had to write with Gojo was a slight hindrance in your usual schedule, but the two of you worked in silence in class and never interacted outside of it. Sometimes when his elbow would accidentally bump into yours as the two of you were busy writing he’d make a sort of noise in the back of his throat, his hand snatching back quickly as if you had somehow burnt him, but that was the most of your interactions. 

Sometimes when you were in the common rooms, late at night, you could hear him talking with his friends, talking about how heinous and ridiculous it was that McGonagall paired the two of you together, but you tried to ignore it.

That following week you found yourself back in the transfiguration classroom, working away quietly as you tried to understand the scriptures on the pages you had to read. You found yourself lucky that this subject was the one you might have some sort of talent in, seeing that this sort of ancient magic was just as difficult as McGonagall made it out to be. 

You heard some mumbling next to you, your eyes discreetly looking over at your partner, only to find his head in his hands as his brows furrowed in both annoyance and confusion. 

“...what does this…?” You heard him say to himself, watching as he flipped the page back and forth as if he was missing something. 

You looked back at your work, the talking around the room drowning out whatever it was that Gojo was saying to himself. 

Or at least you tried to drown out the noise, if not for the fact that your partner made some sort of sudden movement that managed to knock his ink bottle down, spilling ink all over the table. You moved your work to the side, watching as some of the ink soaked into your robes.

“Fuck,” he snapped, moving suddenly from his chair so that the ink would drip onto his clothes, “damn it,” he looked around almost helplessly, his hands clenching in anger after seeing all his hard work soaked up in black. 

“Wait,” you suddenly say, your arm outstretching over his body, watching as his head snaps over to you, “Stop moving for a second.”

He didn’t have much time to bite back at how dare you order him around because you had already begun to pull out your wand, flicking it on a quick movement as you murmured “tergeo,” watching as the ink slowly yet surely began clumping up in the middle of the table, going back with snake-like movements into its bottle. 

There was a beat of silence. 

Gojo sat still in his seat, his lips pursing as he finally let out a deep breath. He pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing at his eyes. 

“Thanks,” he said, but it seemed like he had to bite the word out, choking on it as if thanking you was taking too much of his mental willpower to do. 

You nodded briefly, still watching him as he settled back into his seat. 

“Uh,” you scratched at the back of your neck, knowing that you’d probably regret asking this in a matter of seconds, but somehow not able to stop yourself as you continue talking, “I don’t mean to be rude, or intrude, but is everything alright?”

You hold your breath as you watch Gojo sigh, his eyes shutting briefly. You braced yourself to be snapped at, to be victim to yet another reminder of how much you’ve tarnished the Slytherin name, but he just shakes his head. 

“No,” he seethes, but when he peeks over at you he licks his lips, gnawing on the inside of his cheek as he grabs his papers, moving it over to the middle of you two as he motions to it, “Everything is not alright. Something’s wrong with the book…and I have no idea what. I’ve read this page at least twenty times and it makes no bloody sense to me,” 

You try to hide your surprise. 

That’s probably the most he’s ever spoken to you without any mention of your muggle heritage. 

You move in a little closer to look at what he’s pointing to. You try not to heat up under his stare, squinting your eyes as you try to make sense of what it was he was writing, trying to hide your reactions when you realize that he was doing most of it wrong. 

The point of this essay was to learn about the origins of cross-species transfiguration, and eventually an animagus transformation and how it even came to be. 

You had to reference at least five other books and scrolls to piece together the correct herbs and spells needed to even begin the process. McGonagall honestly probably told everybody to reference the textbook because there was nothing in it. This essay was a testament to how many people went out of their way to learn about the true nature of transfiguration. 

What Gojo had written was something you were sure almost everybody else was writing as well, a mistake you almost made. His research was simple and black and white, and he was getting everything wrong because he was missing at least ten different very important points. 

“So,” you swallowed nervously, chewing on your already chapped lips, “You have the main ideas down,” which was a lie, “But there are just some things-” Before you could even finish your sentence the bell tower chimed once, twice, and then a final time, telling everybody that their class was over. 

All around you people began hurriedly packing up, surely excited for lunch, the chatter of conversations growing in volume, and you didn’t have to look at Professor McGonagall to know that she was irked by her student's sudden enthusiasm to leave. 

Gojo sat motionless, still looking over at you, waiting impatiently for you to finish. 

“I…” you scratched at your hands, “I can’t go over everything right now, but tomorrow I’ll bring in the other-” He raised his hand, packing up his bag as he cut you off. 

“No, not tomorrow, I’m already behind,” you watched as he shoved his papers into his leather bag, “Just explain it now.” 

You wanted to laugh, not knowing how long it might take to explain your twisted thinking process to him and you doubted he wanted to stay in this classroom with you for a minute longer. 

“Well, there’s quite a bit of things,” you searched for the right word, “Missing. I have to study for the potions exam right now, but I’m going to be in the library tonight anyway. I could show you then…?” 

You stood at your chair, your eyes looking up into his, wavering. 

What did you just do? Surely he’d laugh now in your face, roll his eyes at how absurd it was that you could even suggest such a thing, just as he usually does.

Instead, he looks at you, then at his paper, and then at yours, which is at least three pages long at this point. He’d never admit it out loud, but you were understanding this assignment better than him and nobody in his group seemed to understand it as well as you were. 

“Fine,” he runs a hand through his hair, the white sticking out between his fingers like snow perched on grass.

Your brows furrow, your lips pursing together in sudden confusion. 

“What, okay,” you fiddle with your fingers, tugging on them in that anxious way you always do, watching him tighten the straps on his bag, “But wait, what time…” You try to call out but he has already left, his robes swaying behind him as you stand alone at your seat.

You slowly begin to pack up, your thoughts running at what you have just done.

—

The potions exam went well enough, but you couldn’t stress out about it too much right now. 

After dinner (which you ate earlier than most, too anxious to be late), you made your way to the library, found a table near the back, somewhere that didn’t get a lot of foot traffic, and set up your workstation for the time being. 

Amongst many of the amenities Hogwarts had, the library was one of them you loved dearly. 

It wasn’t usually too busy, but it filled up quickly the night before some exams. But you didn’t mind it, you liked being surrounded by people. In the Slytherin common rooms, you usually had to wait until everybody had filtered out or had gone to bed before you could make your way down, not wanting to face their icy looks or the way they’d talk behind their hands when you were near, so you opted to be in the library above anything else. 

The muted sounds of pages turning, of people talking in hushed whispers, and the books that would sometimes rearrange themselves were calming. You liked the candles that were lit carefully around the large room, illuminating it deep into the night. 

You made sure that the work you had already written was set out, your quill resting straightly adjacent to it, your ink pot above it. Your pile of books sat neatly to the left. You wanted to seem as organized and as composed as you could, this might be your one chance to show the prince of Slytherin that you weren’t the slob he must imagine you as. 

The clock on the wall ticks, and you note that it’s nearly ten minutes till five. You chew on your lips, cracking your fingers as you keep your eyes trained on the door, waiting for the familiar mop of white hair to appear. 

After the first ten minutes, you begin fidgeting again, moving your papers centimeters above where they were as if they could appear any straighter. You weren’t wearing the usual house robes, and you hoped that your decision didn’t cause him to walk in, scan the area, and leave because he didn’t see what he expected to see. 

But you pushed those worries aside, just doing your best to watch the people who filed in and out of the large double doors. 

After the clock struck six, you began to stop looking at the doors, instead choosing to just get some work done while you were here, and opened up one of the books. Of course, he probably just lied just because he wanted to. There might be some of his friends standing outside, snickering as they watched you wait stupidly. 

You felt your cheeks heat up in embarrassment, feeling like an idiot.

For the next half hour, you busied yourself with reading about the start of the animagus process, about the mandrake leaf, and the strenuous process of keeping it on your tongue for an entire month. 

Around you, you could hear the scrapping of chairs on the floor, and how most of the people were beginning to leave seeing that it was getting pretty late. The library closes promptly at eight, and although it was an hour till that happened, most people left till then. 

Your eyes flitted to the door, not seeing anybody, and deflated. 

Stupid, you repeated in your head. 

So you began shutting the books strewn out in front of you, packing them all up in your bag as you rubbed at your tired eyes. Madam Pince also made a deal if you left any ink splotches on the table, so you cast a quick tergeo charm to clean up any spots you might’ve missed. 

“You’re leaving?” 

You looked up from the table, eyes squinting to see his tall figure standing in front of you, his face flushed red, sweat dotting on his brow bone as a bit of his hair stuck to his face. Gojo was panting, his chest heaving up and down as if he had just run across the entire castle, and his brows were creasing in the middle, looking down at you as you seized your packing. 

You note his green quidditch robes and muddy boots. 

“I, um,” you looked at the nearly empty table in front of you, and you shook your head, giving him a small smile, “No, no, I just got here.” 

He looked at your bag, as if not believing you, but not caring too much as he hummed in the back of throat, rounding the table, and plopped himself down in the seat in front of you. 

Wordlessly, Gojo began taking out his supplies, and you figured you might as well, setting everything back up to where you initially had it.  You watched as he slyly looked around the two of you, his shoulder becoming less tense when he realized it truly was just the two of you left in the library. 

“Practice took up too much time,” he mindlessly explains, a clear explanation for why he looked so different from the put-together self he usually is. He pushed some of his hair out of his face, his breathing still a little erratic. 

You nod, swallowing thickly as you pretend to understand the ins and outs of quidditch. 

You were aware that amongst one of the many things Gojo could do, on his long lists of talents (which if there was a list would consist of his ability to speak five languages or his incredible ability to calm any creature down), was that he was an amazing seeker. 

While you weren’t very familiar with how quidditch worked, despite trying to best to follow along with others' conversations as you listened in, you could understand that his forte on a broomstick wasn’t talked about just because he was Gojo Satoru. 

He was fast on his broomstick, and thought it could be chalked up to the fact that every year he came to practice with the newest model, he could whize past anybody. He was nimble as well. With how large his hands were, larger than the other house seekers, he was able to secure a win for almost every single match ever since he got recruited. Last year he was named captain of the Slytherin quidditch team, so you were able to piece together that he got held up with the recent tryouts.

“That’s um,” you scratch at your arm awkwardly, “That’s alright…okay so I’ll try to be as quick as I can, but there’s a lot that McGonagall wants us to do,” you start slowly, letting his get situated as you push forward the first book that helped you out, “Oh, that textbook doesn’t help…right now,” you quickly said as you saw him pull out the assigned reading, saw how he looked at you for a second, his face scrunching up in an unreadable emotion. 

“This one is good, though,” you motion to the one in front of you. 

Gojo’s movements are slow as he takes it, eyes scanning over the title until he looks back at you. 

He doesn’t do much talking, you decide. 

“This book covers cross-species transfiguration, but it briefly mentions inter-species transfiguration. But the author referenced this one,” you pull out the other hefty textbook, sliding it over to him, “And this covers all things related to inter-species transfiguration and then goes into animagus transfigurations.” 

You pause, biting your cheek to stop you from rambling on. Transfiguration was something that you could talk about forever and ever, and you’d never really talked about out loud to anybody else up until now. 

“McGonagall said that the essay was on inter-species, she never mentioned animagus transfiguration,” Gojo said suddenly, pushing the two textbooks back, letting out a heavy sigh as if this was all a waste of his time.

You nod slowly, picking at some of the skin around your nails.

“R-right, and you’re right,” you quickly sputter, nodding, “But because cross-species and inter-species transfiguration are so close together, I doubt that this was what she wanted our month-long essay to be about. Which is why,” you pull out some old essays you had done earlier in the year, “I referenced back to these animagus essay’s we had done. I mean, she wouldn’t introduce us to the topic and then drop it for no particular reason, right? I suspect she wanted us to piece the two and two together.”

Gojo gently took the papers from your outstretched hand, his eyes raking over your words, and then back to the textbooks. He seemed to read it intently as if things were slowly starting to click for him. 

“Which is why the textbook she gave us isn’t really helpful, because it resembles more of an herbology textbook rather than transfiguration. So I think that this textbook, if anything, should be referenced at the end of the essay, seeing how it mentions the mandrake leaf and the properties of the chrysalis of a Death’s-head Hawk Moth. It’s all instructions on how to become an animagus without saying it.”

His eyes, a different shade of blue in the candlelight, watched your every moment. He listened carefully as you eventually did end up rambling, watching the way your face, on its own accord, twisted into a proud smile at your clever handiwork. 

You abruptly stop to catch a breath and glance up at him apologetically. 

“I’m sorry, I went too fast,” you shake your head, rubbing your temple in your hands, tired from staring at textbooks for as long as you’ve had. 

“No…it made sense,” Gojo murmurs suddenly, his lips pulled into a thin line as he quickly looks away from you, back down to his work which was now surely long after your in-depth analysis, twisting and turning that gold ring on his finger, the one he always wore, the symbol of his family crest as he looked through the books you had offered him. 

You stay silent, not knowing what to do, resting back in your seat, picking your nails. 

“Well, that’s all of it,” you rub your hands against your pants, your dry eyes blinking a couple of times, yearning for sleep.

“You could’ve said this during class,” he said, still reading, his attention preoccupied, as if this was a hindrance to him. 

You wet your lips, trying not to clench your hand in anger, frustration, and years of pent-up emotions, as you slowly nod, pulling the leather strap of your bag over your shoulders as you begin to stand up. 

“Right, sorry,” you apologize quietly, taken aback when he suddenly looks up at you, as if startled but you didn’t feel like spending any more in the presence of someone who despised you anyways, “goodnight,” you bid farewell, not noticing how he had opened his mouth to say something, scurrying out of the library as you make your way back to the common rooms before he could.

—

The next day at transfigurations, the two of you didn’t speak to one another at the beginning of class, like normal. 

You took out your books like normal, as did he, and began writing silently, like normal. Everything was going normally until he suddenly paused, his hand wavering above his essay as he set his quill down, turning his head over to you.

“Can I see what you’ve written?” 

You stop writing, eyes darting to the side as if you had misheard him.

Gojo points to the papers you’ve been working on as if you didn’t understand his first command. 

Wordlessly, you pass it over to him. 

He reads it over a couple of times, flipping through your endless pages, muttering some words to himself now and then. You would wager that compared to other people you had made far more progress in terms of how much you’d compiled, so you weren’t necessarily worried about the time restraint on this essay. 

You couldn’t say the same for him, however. 

You’ve never seen him look so intense, his brows furrowed and his lips pursed in clear concentration. He almost seemed frustrated, and it was a strange thing to see from somebody so usually put together. 

“Our work together is too divided, it looks like we haven’t been working with each other,” Gojo says as if that wasn’t purely what was the issue. 

You didn’t say anything, wanting to see what idea he’d propose.

“I need to finish the rest of these texts,” he jutted his chin to the textbooks you had given him last night, “We can work on the essay after classes are over, in the common room.” 

A part of you wanted to laugh at him as if he had just joked. 

But Gojo Satoru was not a joking sort of person. You rarely saw him smiling, even when with his friends, and it was even rarer for him to say something of any comedic value. Which could only mean that he was being serious and that he truly was proposing to work in the common rooms with…you.

A little snort escapes your lips, looking at him as if he were crazy. He looked at you as if you were the crazy one.

“I don’t go to the common rooms after class, it’s too busy,” you explained slowly to him, wondering if he was daft and even after all this time didn’t take the time to understand your situation. 

He blinked, eyes narrowing. 

“...and?” 

Your head tilted to the side, confused. 

“Well…there’s people there,” you explain even further. 

He scoffs, rolling his eyes as if you were stupid. 

“Ironically, that is the point of a common room.” Gojo looks back to his essay, picking up his quill as if he were done with this conversation, but you pushed.

“Right,” you say more curtly, nose flaring, ��For you, it might be. But people don’t want me there.” You say, a truth that you had to stomach, something that you grew used to after too many unsavory encounters with other Slytherins when you tried to come down to the common rooms during social hours. 

“So during the hours of two to eight, you don’t go to the common room?” He didn’t even look up, his voice sarcastic, not believing such an insane thing.

“No.” You reply as if it was obvious as if he should at least know that this is why you rarely ever make an occurrence unless it’s early in the morning or late at night. 

That finally gets him to stop and look at you, confusion woven into his expression. 

“What?” He set his pen down again, and you noted that his eyes seemed a different shade of blue when he was confused, a little bit lighter than usual, he seemed like he was the only one not in on some sort of joke, “So from two to eight you just stay in your room?” 

You shake your head, playing with your fingers. 

“I’m not always in my room,” ignominy clear in your tone, “Most days I either go outside and do my homework or go to the library.” 

You hate the attention this brings to you from him. You’ve never had such a long conversation with somebody in your own house, let alone Gojo. You hated the way he looked at you as if you were either lying your arse off or even worse…pity?

But you almost shook your head at that thought. The great Gojo Satoru pitying you? 

“What if it’s raining?” He asked, pushing you to see if you were telling him the truth. 

“Then I go to the library,” you said as if it was obvious, mainly because to you it was. This was the usual schedule that you’ve become used to over the years, something you’ve just forced yourself to become used to despite wanting everything in your soul to go to the common rooms like everybody else, to laugh at their stories, to talk about your lives, like you were supposed to. 

“What if the libraries closed?” 

You squirm under his heavy gaze, wondering how the topic of transfiguration got turned around to him interrogating you. 

“Um, well, right now, because of the weather, I’d probably just go up to the astronomy tower if the library was closed. They don’t have lessons during the day. Or I’d probably just find a broom closet and do my work in there.” 

His head tilts just a bit, his lips quirking up into a disbelieving smile as if he just caught you in your lie. 

“In the dark?” Gojo presses, and you can hear the people around you already beginning to pack up their supplies, the class nearing its end. Had you spent this much time talking that you wasted nearly half an hour?

“I’d cast a lumos spell,” you argue, packing up your things as you break eye contact with him. You take your paper back, making sure the ink has dried before putting it in your bag. 

“I’ll be in the library,” you say finally, making sure that was the end of it, “See you there.”

—

In some strange way, meeting up with Gojo in the library became part of your routine. 

Every night at seven, after his quidditch practice would end, he’d run all across the entirety of campus to work on your transfigurations essay together. 

The two of you still didn’t talk much, but it was different nonetheless. 

“I’m tired,” Gojo suddenly announced, the candlelight flickering on and off from his face. 

You could visibly see the dark circles that were under his eyes, how he slouched (which was uncommon for him, seeing how he usually sat as straight as a ruler wherever he was), and how he couldn’t go four minutes without letting out an exhausted sigh. 

“You should take a break,” you muttered, not paying attention, head still stuck in your book as you continued to read the rest of the paragraph you were reading. 

Gojo snorted, rolling his eyes at the prospect. 

“I can’t take a break,” he dragged his hands across his face, “I need to finish this essay, the quidditch games in two days, and Snapes up my arse about that potion exam.” 

Your eyes flickered up to his, startled at how much he had spoken, but then tried to mask your surprise by looking back down to your book.

“Potions wasn’t too bad,” you offer, “And I can finish the last bits you have,” you look back up, putting your hand out, a silent ask for him to give you whatever it was that he had written so far. 

He clicked his tongue against his teeth, silently passing over his stack of parchment, and you scanned through it quietly, shrugging as you nodded once more. 

To be honest, the two of you were far ahead of the other students in your class. He had eventually concluded on his own that you’d be wasting more time not working together, so you guessed that he just had to suck up a bit and bite back on his pride and work with a muggle-born.

His rush to finish the essay was spurred on by the plethora of other things he needed to do, a drawback of being the prime and perfect Slytherin prince everybody made him out to be. 

“You don’t have much left,” you deduce, “I can just write about the Scalivier trials,” the trial in which a man refused to register with the ministry that he was an animagus, “I’ll have it done by Saturday, I’m nearly done with my bit.”

You slide his essay back to him, but stop when you see the perplexed look on his face. 

“Saturday’s the quidditch game?”. 

Your eyes dart to the side, squinting a bit as you try for a laugh. 

“…and?” 

He scratches at his temple, tilting his head to the side. After these past couple of days working with you, he’d be wrong to say that he became more and more increasingly perplexed with you. Six years he spent watching from afar, muttering words to his friends about the absurdity of your existence, but now that he was able to see you from up close, a part of him has to agree that you’re an enigma he’s never been able to crack. 

You don’t say much during class, you don’t talk to many people, and if he was being honest, in that sense, you mirrored him. You were reserved, but the times he picked and prodded at you, you seemed to open up. You don’t have any friends from what he could tell, often eating at the end of the table during the meals. He watched sometimes to see you during the common rooms during the times in which you said you never came, a part of him thinking he’d be able to catch you. 

Gojo Satoru would never admit it, but in a way, he had become interested in you.

“Well,” Gojo didn’t like to be the one confused, hating being perceived as if he didn’t know everything, which is something he prided himself on most of the time, “After the game, there’s the usual…party,” he bit out, hating the word, because it was so unruly from the usual balls and galas he was forced attend, too many people sweaty and jumping, “In the common room.” 

You blink owlishly at him, fidgeting with your quill, twisting and turning it around in your hand. 

“Right…so I’ll be here.” 

Now it was his turn to blink slowly. 

Was this really that hard to understand?

“Coming to the library after a quidditch game seems a bit anticlimactic, don’t you think?” He leaned back in his chair, playing with the green and silver tie around his neck. You wondered how he could bear to wear it even after classes were over, that even his most posh friend ditched their formal wear the moment they got back to their dormitories. 

“Thankfully I don’t go to quidditch games, so for me, it’s just climatic,” you said, smiling at your little joke, covering your mouth as you yawned, tired and longing for your bed. 

He sat up in his chair suddenly, looking even more shocked than before. This was the most emotion you’ve ever seen him emmett before and you didn’t know what to do with it. 

“What? Why not?” He seemed so startled that you almost wanted to laugh. It was strange seeing somebody you had regarded as stoic look like he did now. 

You shrug, rubbing your fingers across your eyes as you let out another yawn, resting your chin on your palm. 

“I went once, during my first year, but everybody seemed rather annoyed that I was there, and they crowded in front of me so I couldn’t see anything,” you recall back on the memory, one that you could remember vividly, “and I don’t know,” you’re suddenly very thirsty, your cheeks heating up the more he stared at you, laughing uncomfortably, “I don’t really understand…quidditch, so it works out in the end. And I also get to have some time to myself in the common room to do my homework, you know, unlike usual.” 

Gojo didn’t say anything for a couple of seconds, and you tried to pretend that you had read something interesting to not embarrass yourself any further with your mindless babbling. Sure, he might be willing to work with you now, but that didn’t mean that Gojo Satoru was up for a friendly conversation with you.

You looked at him briefly, feeling your stomach churn a bit to see that he hadn’t stopped looking at you.

“Everything alright?” You asked. 

He nodded, biting on the inside of his cheek as he picked up his quill, a wordless agreement that the conversation was over.

—

Transfiguration the next day went by oddly silent. 

Gojo didn’t talk to himself now and then, he didn’t sigh his exasperated sigh, and he didn’t peek up every once in a while to check how much you’d written since the last time he had looked over. 

You didn’t pay it much attention, keeping your head down, your eyes to yourself. Silence was better than being reminded of your muggle heritage, which even then, Gojo had yet to remind you these past weeks.

Briefly, you looked up from what you were doing to see if Professor McGonagall was walking around or sitting at her desk, but in doing so you felt Gojo shuffle a little in his seat as if he had felt your sudden movement. 

“Tonight…” he started and you quickly nodded, waving off any of his worries. Of course, you chided yourself, he’s anxious about the quidditch match, nothing else.

“Yes, yes, I know, you have quidditch tomorrow. I’ll finish up what I have left and then start reading about the Scalivier trials tonight,” you finished for him, tracing some of the wood grains of the table with your finger. 

He shakes his head. 

“Not that - and I’ll finish up the trials by Sunday,” he’s avoiding eye contact, and if you didn’t know any better it seemed like he was trying to find his words, as if they had slipped from his tongue and were dangling in the air for him to grab, “Tonight…tonight, don’t go to the library.” 

You purse your lips, trying to smile to see if that was his goal, maybe he was trying to be funny.

“Would you like to meet in one of the broom closets then?”

You felt even more lost after it seemed like he was debating taking up your offer, but his eyes shone a bright shade of aquamarine, and his cheeks twinged a slight shade of pink. 

Strange. 

“No,” he chewed on his lip, as if he were anxious, a preposterous thing to even think, “No, come down to the common rooms around eight.” 

The cursed clock tower chimed, three loud rings, and it cut the two of you off once again. 

“Look, I told you-” you go to say but he cuts you off.

“I know, just come down.” He was being so cryptic, and he looked so on edge that it was starting to freak you out. He was already beginning to pack up, his eyes snapping to his group of friends that were nearing the two of you, and he quickly looked back down at you, his head dipping down urgently. 

“Eight. Be there.” 

—-

You couldn’t say you weren’t at least a little apprehensive. 

You were so nervous that you just stayed up in your room, not even coming downstairs for dinner as you waited for the clock on the wall to read eight. 

Why were you so nervous? You first asked yourself, but then asked the more logical question, what did Gojo want with you?

The minutes on the clock seemed to take hours to pass, and the hours seemed to take days. It was such a slow process, and you knew it would be going faster if you were doing something more productive with your time until it was necessary, but you couldn’t. 

The other girls in your dorms could come in and out, sometimes exchanging glances with their friends when they saw that you hadn’t moved from your spot, but they didn’t ask any questions, opting to just leave you be. 

You were picked at your fingers, cracking your knuckles, and finally, finally, the small hand pointed to the eight on that ancient clock. 

Funnily enough, even though you had been mentally waiting for this to happen, you waited for a couple of seconds, trying to calm yourself down, nodding to yourself that this wasn’t anything big and that you were just overreacting. 

Slowly, you rose from your spot on your bed, a little dent in the mattress from just how long you’d been sitting there. You turn the handle of the door, taking in yet another deep as you take a tentative step outside the safe sanctity of your room. 

The common rooms are usually more busy on Friday nights, and that might’ve been a blessing in disguise as you’re able to slip past most people, keeping your eyes peeled for a flash of white hair. 

You scan the couch area, the sitting area, and the large window that looks into the black lake, but you don’t see him. It’s only until you look near the entrance to the common room, the large oak double doors, do you see him. 

It seems like he’s scanning the area as well, blue eyes looking everywhere until they fall onto yours, and you’re able to sneak past some people watching as he cocks his head in the motion of the doors, and before you could do anything else, he leaves, and you take it as your sig to follow him.

You’re glad that nobody’s looking your way as you push the two doors open, looking to your right to see him waiting for you. 

You go to open your mouth to speak but he beats you to it. 

“Follow me, and be quick,” he’s already walking and you have to nearly jog to get to him, walking at a much faster pace seeing how his legs were abnormally long, “Put these on over your clothes.” 

Gojo throws you a pile of ratty-looking uniforms, but the more you open up the folded mess you come to realize that they’re old quidditch uniforms. In fact, when you’re finally able to get a good look at him you realize he’s wearing adoring green robes. 

You don’t say anything, multitasking as you walk and shrug over the (huge, it was practically dragging on the floor) robes, buttoning them up as quickly as you could without tripping over your feet, the quidditch uniform, or over the stones. 

He looks at you briefly, and he’s glad that you’re too busy trying to figure out how the robes are supposed to fit over you to notice the way his lips quirked up slightly at the look of you at the moment. 

“Put this on too,” he says once you're finally done, handing you another huge helmet, and you take it silently, pulling it over your head. 

The helmet is way too big for you, as it nearly hangs over your eyes, and you can barely see anything with it on, and you pause, a smile making its way onto your face as you push it up only for it to fall again.

You stop walking for a second, and when Gojo looks back he sees the helmet masking most of your face up until your nose, the only thing he can see is your large grin, the sleeves of the uniform enveloping your hands, reaching to your knees, and for the first time, he hears the softest sound, 

You’re giggling as you try to figure out how to tighten the straps on the helmet, not able to see where Gojo is because you have your head tilted down, struggling with the buckle until his boots come into your field of vision. 

All of a sudden you feel a hand tip your helmet upwards, and your smile falters when you now see his face, the way his eyes are swirling with different hues of blues, something you notice that happened when he was battling multiple emotions at once. You can tell that there’s a small, barely noticeable smile on his face, surely from how insane you look right now. 

You’ve never seen him look so at ease. His shoulders seem more relaxed, his jaw not clenched. It helped that he looked like he was smiling for once. 

But there’s no time to think as you feel the brush of him on your skin, his slender and swift fingers working fast and expertly at tightening the strap under your chin. He looks focused, his white brows scrunched up the way he always does when he’s trying to figure out a transfiguration rune. You feel your breath lodge in your throat. When he’s satisfied with how it was resting on your face his hands drop to his side, and his eyes slightly widen, as if he just realized what he had just done. 

He cleared his throat, looking around the hall to make sure that nobody was around, and he turned his back as he began his brisk pace out to wherever it was that he was taking you.

You walked, corrected, ran with him for a little more until he brought you to one of the openings of the castle, the one that led directly to the quidditch fields. 

“Where,” you were a little out of breath, noticing how the sun was nearly about to set, and also knowing that you sure as hell didn’t have a pass to be out this late, “Where’re we going?” 

“To the field,” he said, which was the answer you were most dreading. 

“Right, I can see that,” you feel hot under all these layers, despite the fact that it was late October and the weather was biting at best, “Why are we going out to the fields.” The breeze that was hitting your cheeks was stinging, so you were at least glad in that aspect that the quidditch robe offered you some sort of warmth. 

“Ravenclaws practicing right now,” Gojo said, turning around to look at you for a fleeting second, “I need to see what Nanami’s strategy is, and you need to learn quidditch.” 

You almost trip. 

And you need to learn quidditch.

His words were ringing in your head, possibly even louder than the blood rushing to your ears. He had to be lying, or have some sort of cruel prank planned out. He must be waiting for his friends to run out from behind one of the stands so that they could tie you to a tree. Not that he’s ever done that, but also not the first time it’d be happening at the hands of other Slytherins. 

Because sure, while you might’ve offended him in saying you didn’t understand how quidditch worked, that wouldn’t mean that he, Gojo Satoru, the Prince of Slytherin, hater of all muggle-borns alike, would be taking time out of his life to fix this wrong.

You should’ve just run the other way, ditched the scratchy uniform somewhere, and ran back to your dormitory, somewhere where you’d at least be safe from experiencing any sort of humiliation. 

But the closer that the two of you neared the stands, the more you felt confused. Because nowhere could you see any other Slytherins, and he was right, the Ravenclaw team was practicing right now, if the flashes of blue and white from above you meant anything. 

Which could only mean that…? 

Gojo finally stops at the stairs that lead you up the stands, his hand on the wooden railing. 

“We’re going…up?” 

He snorts, nodding as he ushers you to move. 

“Obviously,” his voice now seems more amplified with his small and cramped winding staircase, “I’m not going to be observing them from the ground.” 

You’re the one that’s ahead, so you try to go even faster so that he won’t be held up behind you, but everything is moving too fast. Did he give you these robes so that you’d seem like another player? So that you wouldn’t be marked up if you were seen out of your dormitory so late at night?

When you finally got to the opening, you were able to hear the yells that the Ravenclaw players were enhancing with one another. You hold the tarp that acted as the door above your head, heading over to one of the seats in the far back, feeling Gojo right on your tail. 

It had been years since you were here since you looked out into the fields. The stands were high, and the winds were stronger up here. Gojo sat where you were, to your right, and you waited silently to see what he was going to do. 

Nanami was the Ravenclaw seeker as well as the captain. You could see the flash of blonde hair as he flew by, the other team members either watching him or practicing with their respective posts. 

Gojo rested his elbow on his thighs, leaning in as he observed intently. 

Eventually, after a minute or two, he sat back up, leaning in closer to you. You could feel his hair ticking your temple, his nose inches away from your cheek as he began to talk. 

“In quidditch, you have seven players on each side. One seeker, one keeper, three chasers, and two beaters.” 

You nod, following along. 

“You see number seven?” He points to the guy flying around near the three tall hoops, and you nod again, “He’s a keeper. He makes sure that the other team doesn’t get any balls into the hoops.” Gojo is leaning even closer to you now, and you can feel half of his body pressing up against yours. You feel like you're heating up, and not because of the excessive quidditch uniform you’re wearing. 

“The beaters, number four and two,” he then points to the boy and the girl flying around, holding wooden bats, “try to protect their team from the bludgers; which is this black ball that sort of follows around team members, trying to knock them off their brooms. Those bats ward off the bludgers.” 

You make a mental note of everything he’s saying, trying not to be distracted by the fact that you’re being given a quidditch lesson from Gojo Satoru. 

“The chasers, which are the rest of them, aside from Nanami, throw around the quaffle to each other. Every time they get it through the other team's hoop, they score ten points…do you follow?” Gojo pauses, looking at you and you push your helmet up so that you can see him, giving him a confident nod. 

“All that’s left is the seeker-” 

“Which is you, right?” You cut him off, rubbing at your nose which was now freezing at this point. 

Gojo pauses, eyes flickering to you as he raises a brow. 

“I may not know quidditch but I’m not daft,” you tell him.

For a second there, you swear you could see the start of a smile play on his lips.

“Yeah,” he says, almost softly, “I’m the seeker.” You’re too busy looking ahead to notice that he’s busy looking at you, so you continue to talk. 

“...plus, Kento was telling me about it a while ago. He said you were really good.”

This time, his brow raised even further. 

“You know him?” 

You shrug, your eyes following the quick and hurried movements of all the players, too focused on their practice to notice the change in Gojo’s voice, or overall, the change in his entire demeanor. You must’ve missed how he slightly tensed up, or the way his eyes narrowed. 

“We had potions with Ravenclaw last year, remember?” You turn slightly to look over at Gojo before you go back to watching, “He helped me with some of my brews, but we talked about other stuff!” You had to raise your voice, the wind was getting stronger, “And Quidditch came up!”

Gojo’s nose flared momentarily before he swallowed thickly, his jaw ticking as he tried to focus back on the practice as well. 

“A-anyways,” he cleared his throat, not remembering that last time he choked on his words, “The seeker catches the snitch. I can’t see where it is now, but once the snitch is caught, the game is over.” He tried to push some of the hair out of his face, getting annoyed at how it kept getting stuck in his eyes. 

“I need to get something, I’ll be back,” Gojo murmured in your ear, pushing himself off of the seat as he walked in front of you disappearing down the stairs within seconds. 

You glanced at where he left but found yourself looking back to the players, your face breaking into another excited smile when you began to piece together what Gojo had just told you, finally able to understand quidditch after all these years.

The sun had set and the stars were peeking out through the sky, and you watched the players as they furiously rode around, each one tense and stressed for the match that would be happening tomorrow. 

You tried to hide yourself in the background as much as you could, now feeling a little more out in the open with Gojo gone.

The minutes ticked by and yet Gojo didn’t come back. Now and then you found yourself looking at the stairs, eyes darting back and forth from those on their broomsticks to where you had first entered from. 

Slowly yet surely, you found yourself in that position the first night you saw him at that library. 

When the Ravenclaw players slowly began dissenting from the air, running off the fields as they went in from shelter from the old, you felt a part of your stomach twist. 

This was all part of his plan, you concluded, shivering to yourself as you tried not to feel let down, or even worse, like an idiot for thinking anything had changed, that you had maybe actually begun to have a friend after seven years.

You feel your eyes water, either from the wind or from everything, and you make your way for the stairs, your lips trembling as you suddenly start to feel claustrophobic under all the clothes you're wearing, your fingers slipping and sliding as you try to take that wretched helmet off of your head.

You feel like if you go any faster you’re going to trip and tumble down the stairs, and it doesn't help that you’re already too distracted with trying to take the helmet off. You sniffle, your eyes blurry as you feel your heart beat rapidly in your chest. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

You couldn’t even tell if you were thinking that in your head or saying it out loud as you neared the end of the never-ending stairs, unbuttoning the buttons of the scratchy uniform as you bundled everything up in your hands, wiping at your wet cheeks with your palm.

Amongst all the things people have done to you over the years, this wasn’t the worst. You’ve had your room ransacked, your trunk thrown into the river, your shoes stolen on multiple occasions. You’ve been called a mudblood more times than you’ve been called your own name, and none of these things were actually done by Gojo. 

Perhaps you thought that deep down, maybe he could change. That maybe after all that time spent in the library, talking to you, controlling some of his laughs at your awful jokes, he saw that maybe muggle-borns weren’t as bad as he thought they were. 

And yet tonight you suffered your first prank, if that’s what this could even be called, at his hands. It didn’t hurt because of its nature, but because a naive part of you actually thought that he could’ve been your friend. 

But none of that mattered now, not that you-

“Where are you going?” 

You stop in your tracks, your head whipping around to the voice.��

It was now fully dark outside, the moon and the spare candles that were lit around the castle and the stands were the only sources of light. You could see his figure standing a couple feet away from you, his white hair like a beacon in the night. 

He takes a couple tentative steps closer to you, close enough so that you can see the furrow of his brows and the small pout on his lips. Damn it, you wanted to curse, you could hate him more if he didn’t look so pretty. 

“Back to the castle,” you snap, wiping at the corners of your eyes, throwing down the old uniform and the oversized helmet on the ground near his feet. You sniffle, looking to the side so that you won’t have to see his face.

“What?” He steps closer to you and you take a step back, your head still turned, eyes trained on the dewy grass, “Why?” You try not to think too much about the two sets of brooms in his hands, or how for some strange reason, he actually sounded dejected that you were leaving.

Letting out a shaky breath you laugh curtly, crossing your arms over your chest as you look up to the sky, counting the stars, wondering if that could calm you down. 

You hear the grass crunch under his feet, the warmth of his body as he comes in close to you. 

Why does he care? 

“I brought you a broom,” he holds it to you so you can see the outline of it, “Here,” he bends down to pick up the helmet you had thrown to the ground, “At least put this on,” he’s already securing it on your head, not noticing the way your lips were trembling, his fingers brushing up against your chin once again but you don’t him faster it, smacking his hand to the side as you rip the helmet off your head, throwing it with more force on the ground. 

“S-stop,” you murmur harshly, wiping at your cheeks, “Stop, stop whatever it is you’re doing-” 

“I’m not doing anything,” he snarls, his eyes a dark shade of navy blue, “So stop crying, I don’t know what it is you think I did.”

He’s angry now, good, it’ll be easier to yell at him if he’s just as amped up as you are. 

But when you finally look at him and get to see his face, it’s not the kind of anger you’re feeling. His eyes are narrowed, his eyebrows pulling together down the middle the way they do when he’s confused, the way you often see him looking like when he’s frustrated at your cursed transfigurations essay. He’s not angry at you because of you, he’s angry because he doesn't understand where your frustrations are coming from. 

He’s at least a head taller than you, looking down as his chest heaves slightly, waiting for you to say something, anything, so that he could explain himself for whatever it is he’s done wrong. His cheeks are a little pink, either from the cold or…something else, and his hair is messy, no longer kept the way it usually is. 

Gojo looks different.

And you don’t know who it was that moved in closer, whose rational mind slowly turned irrational as you two took another step towards the middle, but all you do know is that the two of you didn’t care as you roughly grabbed him by his robes, tugging him in as you slammed your lips to his. 

It happened in an instant, your lips moving against his soft one, your hands gripping onto that fabric for dear life. And for a second, you begin to pull away, your eyes opening in shock, but there’s no use, because Gojo slams his lips down onto yours as he pulls you into his chest. 

It’s rushed and messy, your teeth clash against one another, your hands going up from his chest as they intertwine around his neck, your fingers tugging on his long white strands and you hear him groan into your mouth. 

He moves fast, biting at your lips, one hand sprawled on the expanse of your back, the other one behind your neck, almost cradling the back of your head, tilting your head upwards to meet him. His tongue prods at your lips, and somehow, mindlessly, you part them a little more, moaning quietly at the way his tongue explores your mouth. 

Gojo leads you a little back, so that you’re up against one of the wooden pillars of the quidditch stands, offering you more stability, a good thing, seeing how you feel like you're becoming lightheaded, soon about to faint. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, heavy on your lips as he dips down again to kiss down your chin tilting your head up to expose the column of your neck, “Fuck,” he says once more, diving down as he sucks and bites at your skin, his movements growing faster and more erratic once he hears the soft and sweet mewls that escape your swollen lips. 

“G-gojo,” you whine, feeling hot as his hands travel across your chest, cupping your tits through your thin sweater as he continues to kiss down your neck, tugging some of the material down so that he could leave even more marks across your collarbone, “G-god, oh my god,” 

His pants tighten at your voice, his pupils dilate at the way you're pawing at him, pulling at him, needing him. 

“Satoru,” he says against your skin, “Not Gojo. Not you.” 

He’s delirious, he kisses you like you’re the air he’s been missing his entire life, and holds you to him as if you’re the only furnace in a land barren with snow. He needs you. 

Your fingers are lost in his hair, pulling and tugging, hearing the way his breathing stutters when you do so. 

One of your hands drops down to his chest, feeling at the skin that’s exposed from where his uniform was pulling up, and when your cold fingers make contact with the skin resting taunt on his stomach you swear you could hear him almost whine, his head momentarily dropping into the crook of your neck as he urges you to continue, holding your wrist tightly, pushing it up further. 

Your eyes find his, your breathing coming out in short spurts, and he seems so far gone, so transfixed with how you look under him, that the two of you fail to hear the footsteps that come near where the two of you were.

“Who’s there?” 

A voice calls out, and you see somebody behind him standing with a lantern. 

You push Gojo off of you, but he stays put, looking over his shoulder, shielding your body with his. 

“Oh, fuck off Taylor,” Gojo calls out, anger and irritation laced into his voice.

The boy's eyes widen when he realizes how it is, the blue and white Ravenclaw robes dashing away into the distance, the lantern long gone in a matter of seconds, but it’s no use. 

When Gojo looks down at you, you’ve been given too much time to come back to your senses. 

You push him away from you, and this time he moves.

You take a deep breath, not looking at him as you wipe at your spit-soaked lips, blinking rapidly as you try to make sense of what happened. 

He didn't say anything, but you could hear the quiet pants that escaped his lips, trying to catch some air. 

You open your mouth to say something but close it promptly, shaking your head in disbelief. 

You don’t think twice as you make your way back to the castle.

---

(part two)

taglist (CLOSED): @satorusemepls, @mokonasenpaiposts, @kao-ri, @rinxgojo, @notsochillnerd, @astral-hydromancy, @holylonelyponyeatingmacaron, @tedbunny333, @13-09-01, @mynameislove1, @hyunsuks-beanie

[tusharrajput1434]

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[mywritersmind]

JUST FRIENDS - LN4

summary : just friends…? in which lando and his best friend have a night out like any other, until a spicy song starts and lando can’t take it any more.

or: they make out to the song sports car

listen up : kissing! talk abt sex! tate mcraes new song sports car was on repeat so enjoy.

words : 1507

⋆｡‧˚⋆

I pull down the visor, the mirror greeting me as I swipe on my lipstick. I’ve gotten oddly good at doing my lipstick in fast cars, specifically, my best friend's fast car.

Lando shifts gears as I finish my last touch up and slap the visor shut, “Red’s a little bold, no?” He glances at me, his eyes hot against my skin as he adjusts his grip on the steering wheel.

“When have I been anything but bold?” I blink, shutting my lipstick and handing it to him. I don’t miss the slight smirk at our routine.

He pockets it, shaking his head as we pull up to the club. Lando gets out first as I check out my nails, knowing damn well he’ll be at my door in seconds.

He opens it, looking at the people staring with a blank look. Then he looks at me, my skirt short and my heels high. I walk past him and straight into the club.

He follows me, his head down, probably an excuse to look at my ass. He slips his hand in mine as the crowd gets tighter, people screaming and saying hi to us left and right.

Our group is easy to find, all cheering as we arrive and immediately pushing drinks into us. The club is small and pretty private, but loud as fuck and filled with the smell of smoke, alcohol, and lust.

The dance floor is packed, the Dj raised along with little glowing stands which bottle girls and randos dance on.

I tug on Lando’s shirt, a white button up that’s already halfway undone, and offer him a drink. “Who’s gonna drive you home if i’m fucked?” He says plainly.

“Oh you’re driving me home, now? I thought you’d piss off with your new supermodel of the week.” I raise a brow and such on a lime.

His eyes flick to my lips, “I could say the same for you, love.”

“I am the supermodel, darling.” I wink, getting dragged away by my friend who’s laughing at the interaction and landing myself on the dance floor.

I’m two drinks down when I see him again, a girl flushed in his lap and his hat backwards on his head.

He’s talking and she looks absolutely fucking absolved in his words, probably drooling over his accent or his lips. Yet as he rattles off, probably talking about his new car or training, his eyes are set on me.

They practically burn my already hot skin, my arms going up as I dance with the music. It’s funny, really.

My best friend is Lando Norris. We get looks everywhere we go, yet the one look I can’t get over is how his eyes track me.

He’s got a girl in his lap and I've got a guy grinding behind me, yet I can’t seem to shake him. I watch his tongue sweep against his teeth, his eyes moving to my legs smoothly.

The girl puts her hand on the back of his neck, getting him to look at her. She’s not smart, if she were, she’d bother with a guy who’s actually looking at her.

He’s looking at me again, his gaze now flicking back and forth between me and the man behind me. I have a slight smirk on my face as I turn around to look at him.

He’s hot. Dark skin and eyes to match, I bite my lip before moving my hands to his shoulders and bring him in. He’s sweaty but the kiss is hot, I just hate that it’s so hot because my best friend is watching all of it.

Once the guy goes in for another kiss, I dodge it and make my way over to the bar, leaning up against the cold surface and wiggling my fingers at the bartender.

Lando is at my side seconds after I take my first sip of the icy drink. I pretend to not see him. “Lemme try.” He goes to take a drink but I swiftly pull my hand away, shaking my head.

“No way, Mr. Sober.” I grin as he leans against the bar, his head tilted slightly back and making his hair look godly. “Who’s gonna drive me home?”

“So you’re coming with me?” He stands up a bit straighter, “Not gonna find that guy?”

‘That guy’ in question is probably already fucking a girl in the bathroom. I laugh, “No. My best friend has separation anxiety, so.” I shrug as he grins and pushes off the bar.

“Dance with me.”

“Not a chance, Norris.”

His teeth catch his lips, making me look down at them. Fuck him and his fuck boy tactics.

“You’re Lando Norris!” a guy stumbles up to us, clearly pissed and far too excited to see Lan.

He mumbles about getting a picture and just as I walk away I hear Lando say, “Yeah, mate…”

I hand my drink off to someone, my hands in my hair as I groan and shake the feeling of Lando teasing me.

A few girls scream near me and I don’t realize it’s because of the song change until I hear the lyrics.

Hey, cute jeans

Take mine off of me

I laugh as someone pushes into me, not everyone knows the song, but almost everyone knows her voice. I find my friend, her hand tightening on mine as she pulls me to the center of the dance floor.

Before I know it, I'm screaming the lyrics that Tate leaked to me on top of the raised glass. My friend is messing with her hair and shaking ass as she sings along.

In the alley in the back

In the center of this room

With the windows rolled down

Boy, don’t make me choose

I laugh, throwing my head back and swinging my hips. I barely realize my friend is gone until her figure is replaced by Lando in front of me.

“You like this song?”

I raise a brow, “Yes?” I keep dancing, pretending that every part of me is aware of how close he stands.

I think you know what this is

I think you wanna, uh

I sing along still, until it gets to the next lyric, my mouth shutting as Lando watches me.

Oh, but you got a sports car

A grin takes over his face, cocky and completely evil. “I like it too.”

“Oh? You like Tate now?”

“I fuck with fucking and I fuck with cars… seems like enough to me.” His hand finds itself on my waist, pulling me tighter.

This is dangerously close to crossing our lines.

We could go again like three, four times

“Am I your type, Y/n?” He’s speaking into my ear now as butterflies hit my stomach, “Want me to fuck you in my sports car?”

I hold his arm in an attempt to not fall off this fucking stand. He looks way too good, his hat gone and his hair messy.

“Don’t get cocky now, Lan.”

“Oh, like you’ve been in other sports cars?” The quirk of his brow makes my heart beat faster.

I think you know what this is

I think you want a ride

I shake my head, “We’re just friends.”

“Friends who kiss other people in front of each other for fun?” He pulls me closer, staring down at me, “Try again, Y/n.”

While you drive it real far

“So what are we, Norris.” I stand him up, still not taller but my confidence building, “I dare you to tell me.”

He swallows, his adam's apple bobbing as his face leans closer, “How ‘bout I show you?” At this moment, I know i’m completely fucked.

Oh my guy-uy

You don’t wanna waste my time-ime

His hands are gripping me tighter as his head dips and his lips crash against mine.

Let’s go ride-ide

Let’s go ride-ide-ide

Oh, my guy-uh

My arms snake around his neck as his tongue parts my lips and slips into my mouth. It’s too hot, especially for the public to witness but I'm too kiss drunk to care.

He kisses me harder, his hands at my hips and dipping below my waist band so his fingers press against my bare skin. I bite his lip a bit and pull him in tighter against me.

Lando bites me right back. I whisper it against his lips, not holding myself back from the lyrics, “I think you wanna, wanna.” He kisses me again, his hand at my ass and his breath hot against me, “But you got a sports car.”

I feel his lips morph into a smile against mine, his kiss deepening as if he’s hungry for me. I move my hands to his hair, his groan vibrating against me.

“Let’s go.” He says over the sound of the music and people below us.

“Where?” I ask, still breathless and too close to him to pay attention to anything else.

That damn smirk is back as he tugs at my hand, “My sports car.”

[cossindiaa]

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[lewsedici]

next top wag | oscar piastri x fem! footballer! reader

summary; in the world of formula one where wag culture is a big thing, everyone can agree that oscar piastri is the best one

fc; mallory swanson ( my girllll )

warnings; none (?)

note; uswnt/woso x f1 is my niche anyways plz ignore the dates on the tweets LMAOOAMZLS

masterlist !

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚ ༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚ ༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚ ༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

yourusername uploaded to their story !

[caption 1; one last date night w this grand prix winner before the olympics 🙁🤍] [caption 2; bonjourrrrr, parisss]

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚ ༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚ ༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚ ༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

liked by oscarpiastri, trinity_rodman, and others !

yourusername: 3 for 3 in the group stages ! onto the quarterfinals!

oscarpiastri: wow

oscarpiastri: my gorgeous beautiful amazing talented goal scoring machine 😍

yourusername: osccccc🫶

username: OSCAR WAG!!!

username: all he does is drive n obsess over his talented football gf i love him😞

trinity_rodman: LETS GOO!! *liked by yourusername*

username: road to gold!!🙂‍↕️

username: these olympics have been so fun so far 😭🙏

username: Y/NNNNN!!!

sophsssmith: 3 for 3 meaning 3 goals in 3 matches 🤭

yourusername: what can i say😁

username: come to arsenal plz❤️

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚ ༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚ ༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚ ༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

oscarpiastri uploaded to his story !

[caption 1; bonjour?] [caption 2; when bae is basically an olympic medalist already]

yourusername OSCAR JACK PIASTRIIIIII

yourusername I HATE U😭😭😭😭

oscarpiastri uhmmm if u didn’t knock australia out of group stages we’d be having a different conversation 🥱

yourusername girl bye 😭

yourusername be proud of ur gf🙄🙄

oscarpiastri who says i’m not 🙄

oscarpiastri go back to training u have a gold medal to win tmrw

yourusername i’ll win it for u my wag😘😘

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚ ༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚ ༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚ ༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚ ༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚ ༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚ ༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

liked by oscarpiastri, sophsssmith, and others !

yourusername: a tough few weeks but it was all worth it to win gold with my girls 🥇

sophsssmith: girl YOUU won us gold 😫

oscarpiastri: she’s so talented right ☺️☺️

trinity_rodman: y/n come get your man 😭

oscarpiastri: yeah i’m her man😁

yourusername: guys i’m trying my best here but he already messages the every mclaren worker abt the gold medal😭

username: literally SCREAMED when y/n scored in the final😫

username: USA USA USA

username: STRUT LIKE YOU MEAN IT!!🐆

lavellerose: queen 👑 *liked by yourusername!*

username: yall see trinity’s comment abt oscar 😭😭

username: he’s such a simp i’m in tears 😭

landonorris: wow super cool y/n

yourusername: cooler than u

oscarpiastri: now that is a fact 😁

landonorris: ???????

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚ ༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚ ༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚ ༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

liked by yourusername, landonorris, and others !

oscarpiastri: a few weeks ago, you were in hungary to witness for my first win and now, i’m in paris after witnessing you scoring in the final to win gold, so unbelievably proud of my best girl❤️ i love you, my gold medalist 🥇

tagged; yourusername

yourusername: OSCAR JACK PIASTRIIIII

yourusername: I LOVE U MY HUNGARIAN GP WINNER😭❤️‍🩹

oscarpiastri: she loves me guys omg

landonorris: i can hear him giggling from here

oscarpiastri: you’re just jealous🥱

yourusername: guys plz

georgerussell63: oscar is in his wag era 💅

yourusername: call him next top wag

oscarpiastri: i think me willingly wearing 2 american flags, a cowboy hat, your jersey, and paining red white and blue lines on my face makes me the best wag🥱🥱

landonorris: begging you y/n please tell me you have a picture 😭

yourusername: I GOT YALLLLL

charles_leclerc: congratulations, y/n!!!

yourusername: merciiiii!

username: if u listen closely u can hear me sobbing 😞

username: oscar is dating the most gorgeous girl omg

username: ME AND WHOOOOO💔

username: they are so cute 🙁

lewishamilton: congratulations y/n on gold!🥇

yourusername: thank u lewisss🫶

oscarpiastri: did i mention i was there

alex_albon: yes plenty of times in the groupchat ( btw congrats y/n too! )

maxverstappen1: yeah he threatened crashing into all of us if we didn’t congratulate you yourusername

yourusername: ????? oscarpiastri explain ??

oscarpiastri: no thank you

[n0rmal-cat]

Yandere Farmer x Thief reader- simple instructions

[yeah sorry for whatever is happening, let me know if there’s any trouble]

You wake up with a groan, dreading the morning light that floods your senses like a harsh reminder of your dreary existence—cold, dark, and uninviting. You’d gladly slip back into sleep, surrendering to the comforting embrace of oblivion. But as you turn over, expecting the familiar hardness of an abandoned building’s floor beneath you, you instead find yourself nestled on a soft pillow. Where are you?

You glance around the room, and the sunlight streaming through the window suggests it’s probably mid-day. "How did I end up here? Did I sleep with someone?" you wondered.

Rising from the bed, you stretch your limbs, stepping out of the bed feeling a softness beneath your feet. "Wow, carpeted floors, fancy... oh, and pyjamas damn." Just then, the door creaks open, must be the lucky-.

"Didn't I tell you to get up before seven?" His voice sends a shiver down your spine. "You!? I thought you were... it wasn't a dream?!" you yell in surprise. "I wouldn't call you stealing from me a dream, but I assure you, I'm entirely real." He removes his hat, revealing beads of sweat trickling down his face and a slight sunburn marking his arms—no, stop that!

"So what time is it, then? If you wanted me up, why didn't you just wake me?" you ask. "Half past eleven. Now tell me, if I woke you up, would you have learned?" His accent is thick as he steps closer, his presence closing in. "A dog needs to be trained, doesn't it?" He stops right in front of you, an imposing figure. "Now, back on the bed." Heat floods your cheeks, turning your face as red as a ripe tomato. "W-what?"

"What, you don't understand simple instructions?" He towers over you, commanding. Without a word, you find yourself sitting back on the bed, heat coursing through you. He kneels before you, grasping your ankle with one hand and sliding the soft fabric of your pyjama pant leg up while rummaging through his pocket with the other. You bite your lip you hadn’t anticipated things taking this turn, but if you’re honest with yourself, you aren’t complaining. You release a shaky breath and close your eyes in anticipation.

A soft click resonates in the silence, and you snap your eyes open, realization dawning as you look down. "What is..." You gaze at your foot, wide-eyed. "Did you put an ankle monitor on me?!" Staring up at him in disbelief, he dusts off his hands with a satisfied smirk.

"How else am I supposed to ensure you don’t run away before you repay your debt?" You’re left speechless, taking in the situation, words failing you. "I'll be downstairs. Get ready and come down quickly because you're already on thin ice, pest." With that, he strides out of the room, leaving you in stunned silence. You lift your foot, inspecting the monitor strapped to your ankle. Etched in golden lettering is the name "August."

"I don’t know if I should feel turned on or pissed off... I guess I’ll get dressed." You make your way to the closet, which is a chaotic jumble of clothes none in the same size or style, and most appear to be barely even cleaned. After some debating , you settle on a simple shirt paired with overalls, the only outfit that seems relatively clean.

After getting ready, you make your way downstairs, trying your hardest not to make a sound. Even though he already knows you’re in the house, it’s a habit you picked up over the years of breaking into people’s homes. As you reach the kitchen, the man you now suspect is ‘August’ is busy cooking something unidentifiable.

The air is thick with an odour that hits you like a freight train—reminiscent of rotten meat. You quickly cover your nose, suppressing a gag. "Do you normally make this much noise when you try to sneak up on someone?" he comments without turning around. "Well, it’s hard when whatever you’re cooking smells like shit..." He hums to himself, his demeanour unperturbed. "Should I gag you as well? You seem to run your mouth a lot. Your food is already on the table."

And so it was, a perfect picture of pancakes, bacon and eggs, but again with the smell of...whatever that was in your nose you couldn't bring yourself to eat anything.

"So what are you cooking then?" you move to try to see what was on the pan but he blocks you with his shoulder.

"my lunch, now eat" his tone firm.

"ah I don't think I can eat right now-" you started to protest, but he spun around, gripping both your shoulders "I had leniency on you in the morning, I made you a full plate for you, lord knows you haven't eaten in a while"

"you don't know that"

"I've watched you on my cameras steal my excitement and sell it off just to get a meal, I quite literally see my logo in the pawn shop every weekend I go back to buy my own stuff, did you not question why you kept taking the same plow every time?"

He seated you forcefully at the table, you couldn’t help but feel a mix of emotions, it felt nice to be here, I mean he was right, the last decent meal you had was well...

"ok fine ill eat the damn food, can you at least tame your 'lunch' to a different room?"

"I already ate" he crossed his arms, a bit of sauce dripped down his chin, you narrowed your eyes at him as you cut into your pancakes.

“So, what am I supposed to do to repay this debt?” you asked, chewing.

“You’ll be working for me, just as I said—feeding the animals, helping me carry food to the stalls,” he replied, leaning forward.

“You don’t really look like you need much help with that,” you mumbled through a mouthful of food.

He leaned over on the table with his hand "And I definitely don't, but I told you I would train you wouldn't I?"

"I guess..."

he took your chin with his rough hands "When you're done come out to the back, but I want that plate to be clean" You feel a knot in your stomach as you nod.

“Good job,” he praised, "I'm glad you can understand simple instructions" Your face travelled with his hand as he walked out through the back door.

You swallowed hard, the remnants of your meal suddenly feeling heavy in your throat. “Holy shit…”

[Please be patient with me I had a rough day, the art is 70% done I’m just not in the right mood.]