Lioré

He doesn’t even warn you.

-One more thing... - Dazai says lightly, adjusting his coat as if you’re about to take a casual stroll instead of infiltrate a high-end gala tied to a smuggling ring -...we’ll be going as a couple.

-…I’m sorry?

-A couple. You and me. Try to look convincing. - he repeats, smiling like this is the least offensive thing he’s ever said.

You just stare at him. Outfit: questionable. Nerves: catastrophic. Social skills: already on life support.

-Why me? - you ask, a little too quickly.

-Because, - he tilts his head, eyes glinting, - you’re the only one who reacts honestly.

That is not comforting. The venue is too bright, too elegant, too full of people who look like they belong. You do not belong. Not in your slightly off-fitting dress that you thought looked refined (it does not), not with the way you keep overthinking where to put your hands, and definitely not with the way your brain is short-circuiting because Dazai’s hand slides into yours. You freeze.

-Relax, - he murmurs, leaning closer as you walk in - you look like you’re about to confess to a crime.

-I might... - you hiss under your breath -...if this keeps...

His thumb brushes over your knuckles. You forget how to form sentences.

-…happening. - you finish weakly

He hums, amused.

-You’re blushing. Very believable.

-I am not!

-You are.

-I’m not!

He glances at you, smile widening just a fraction.

-Then hold my hand like you mean it.

That is a mistake. Because now you’re thinking about it. Overthinking it. Are you gripping too tight? Too loose? Is your hand sweaty? Oh god, it’s probably sweaty. You adjust your grip. Then adjust it again. Then...

-You’re treating it like a bomb. - Dazai says.

-Shut up, I’m not!

-You are.

-I just...there’s a correct way to do this.

-There isn’t.

-There is! Normal people don’t just hold hands like this.

He stops walking. You nearly walk straight into him. Before you can recover, he turns, closing the distance in one smooth motion. His free hand comes up, resting lightly at your waist, steadying you. Too close. Way too close.

-…Dazai, - you say, voice dropping, - what are you doing?

-Fixing your performance. - he replies.

His gaze flickers over your face: too attentive, too sharp for someone who claims not to care.

-Listen carefully, you’re not pretending to be comfortable. You are comfortable.

-I am not comfortable.

He leans in slightly, enough that anyone watching would think it intimate.

-Smile, like you enjoy this hilariously designed party. Trust me, i hate it too, but a mission is a mission.

His hand at your waist tightens, just a little. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to ground you. To show you that he is there. You force your shoulders to relax. Force your expression to soften. Your hand, still in his, stops fidgeting, even if it feels like every nerve is screaming. You look at him. Actually look. And that might be your second mistake. Because up close, Dazai is unfair. Composed in a way that feels practiced, effortless in a way that absolutely isn’t. His expression shifts the moment your eyes meet his: subtle, but there. Approval.

-There, - he says quietly - was that so hard?

-Yes. - you mutter.

He laughs under his breath.

-Stay close. - he adds, as if you have a choice.

You last ten minutes. Ten whole minutes of pretending to be normal before everything starts unraveling. It begins with a conversation you definitely should not be leading.

-Yes, we-uh-travel a lot, - you say to a sharply dressed man whose name you have already forgotten - together. Frequently. In a...shared...travel way.

Dazai goes very still beside you. The man raises a brow.

-A shared… travel way?

You want to die.

-Yes! - you say, doubling down for no reason. - We share. Travel. Together.

There is a pause. Dazai cuts in smoothly, smiling like this is all part of the plan.

-She means we don’t like being apart, - he says, tone easy, natural - work tends to pull us in different directions, so we make the most of our time.

His arm slips more firmly around your waist as he speaks. You short-circuit.

-Oh, i see. - the man says, expression shifting.

-You don’t. - you blurt.

Dazai’s fingers press lightly into your side. You shut up immediately.

-Excuse us. he says, already guiding you away before you can make things worse.

The moment you’re out of earshot, you turn to him.

-I was doing fine.

-You said "shared travel way".

-I panicked.

-You did more than panic.

You groan, dragging a hand over your face.

-I don’t do this! - you mutter - Talking, blending in, pretending, this is not my thing.

-I noticed.

-That’s not helpful.

-No, but it’s entertaining.

You glare at him. He just looks amused.

-You’re impossible. - you say.

-And you, - he tilts his head, studying you again, - are very bad at hiding.

-I’m not hiding anything.

-Really?

He steps closer again, closer than necessary, closer than safe.

-You fidget when you’re nervous, you over-explain when you’re lying. And you look at me like I’m about to ruin your life.

-I do not...

-You do.

-…maybe I am. - you mutter.

Something flickers in his expression. Gone just as quickly.

-Good, that means you’re paying attention.

Before you can respond, he takes your hand again, more naturally this time, like it belongs there. And the worst part? You don’t overthink it. Not as much.

-We’re still not done, - he adds, glancing back toward the crowd. -try not to confess to anything this time.

-No promises.

He smiles. And keeps your hand in his anyway.

tysm for your request hope you like it :3

thank you for reading, if you enjoyed this story, feel free to like or reblog, it truly means a lot and helps my work reach more readers.

requests are currently open, so don’t hesitate to drop an idea in my inbox.

Tetsuro Kuroo was many things: a skilled volley player, a master of petty provocation, and a man with a completely non-existent sense of personal space. What he was not, however, was equipped to handle the silent treatment.

It had been three hours since the "incident" which was entirely Kuroo’s fault for attempting to fix the kitchen cabinet door himself instead of calling the landlord, resulting in a miniature cascade of flour and canned tomatoes all over your freshly scrubbed floor. You hadn't yelled. Yelling was something Kuroo knew how to handle; he could smirk, tease, and charm his way out of a shouting match in under two minutes.

Instead, you had calmly put down the broom, washed your hands, and walked away. That was three hours ago. Since then, Kuroo had been orbiting you like an overactive satellite.

You sat on the couch, staring intently at your laptop screen as you typed out an essay. The apartment was peacefully quiet, or it would have been, if six-foot-two of lanky, bedhead-toting nuisance wasn't hovering directly over the back of the sofa, leaning his chin heavily on the top of your head.

-Soooo.... - Kuroo murmured, his voice practically vibrating against your skull -...are we still mad?

You didn't pause your typing. You didn't even blink. And you didn't even answer.

-Okay, cool, good baseline. - Kuroo said, completely undeterred. He hopped over the back of the couch, landing with a soft thump next to you, resting his elbow on the armrest and leaning in way too close. - How mad?

-Kuroo...

-That’s not a number. - he pointed out instantly, a dangerously playful glint in his hazel eyes.

-Is it like a 4? Kuroo is an idiot, but I still love him? Or a 9? Like, I am currently researching legal ways to hide a body'?

You pressed the delete key with entirely unnecessary force, refusing to break eye contact with your document.

-I'm working.

-You've been typing the same sentence for ten minutes, babe.

You bit the inside of your cheek. He wasn't wrong, but admitting that meant losing, and you were not losing today. You closed the laptop with a sharp snap, stood up, and marched toward the kitchen to make tea.

Kuroo was on your heels before your feet even hit the hardwood. He didn't grab you. He just dragged his feet behind you, matching your exact stride, humming a nonsensical, jaunty tune right behind your ear. When you pulled out a mug, a long arm reached over your shoulder to slide the sugar jar toward you before you could reach for it.

When you turned around to walk back to the living room, Kuroo immediately took a step backward, leading the way while walking completely in reverse, staring down at you with that absurd, lopsided grin.

-You know...- he mused, narrowly dodging the edge of the dining table without even looking -...scientists say holding in your rage is bad for your heart. As a responsible lover of science, I really think you should vent. Hit me with a pillow. Call me a bad name. Tell me my hair looks like a startled rooster. Anything!

You walked right past him, sitting back down on the couch and taking a slow, deliberate sip of tea. Kuroo stood in the middle of the living room, arms folded, watching you with exaggerated sorrow.

-Cold. Absolute sub-zero temperatures in here. I'm freezing.

You ignored him, opening your laptop again. That was the final straw for Kuroo. He let out a long, theatrical sigh, dramatic enough to rival a Shakespearean tragedy, and took two steps forward.

Before you could react, Kuroo didn't just sit down next to you, he practically threw his entire body sideways, flopping completely across your lap like an oversized, needy golden retriever.

-Kuroo! - you gasped, your tea mug sloshing precariously as six feet of muscle and limbs collapsed over your thighs.

His head landed smack in the middle of your stomach, his long legs dangling awkwardly over the opposite armrest. He immediately wrapped both arms around your waist, burying his face into your side, and went completely limp.

-I have rooted myself to this spot. You cannot move me. - he announced, his voice muffled against your sweater

-Get off! - you tried to push his shoulder, but he weighed a ton, and he only gripped your waist tighter, letting out a heavy, fake-drowsy groan.

-Nope. I do not move for angry people.

-I swear to God, my tea is going to spill on your head.

-A sacrifice I am willing to make for communication. - he turned his head sideways on your lap, looking up at you through those messy black bangs with a pair of wide, unashamedly hopeful eyes. He pouted, a look that should have been illegal on a guy his size.

-Come on. I cleaned up the flour. And the tomatoes. I even scrubbed behind the stove! - he protested.

You glared down at him, trying with every ounce of willpower in your body to maintain a stern expression. But his hair was sticking up in three different ridiculous directions, and there was still a tiny streak of dried flour near his jawline that he'd missed.

-You're an idiot. - you muttered, though the sharp edge in your voice was rapidly melting.

Kuroo’s eyes lit up. A slow, smug grin began to spread across his face.

-A full sentence! We're making progress. Are we at a 3 now? Is idiot a 3? - he gasped, sitting up just enough to rest his chin on your chest, staring up at you triumphantly.

-It's a 7. - you said, but your lips curved into a smile.

-I'll take a 7! - Kuroo declared, beaming as he reached up and easily plucked the tea mug out of your hand, setting it safely on the coffee table before pulling himself back up to wrap his arms properly around your shoulders, burying his face in your neck.

-Seven means I get to cuddle. Eight is where the physical violence starts.

You finally let out a defeated sigh, raising your arms to wrap them around his neck, sinking into his warmth.

-You are completely insufferable.

-Yeah... - Kuroo chuckled softly into your shoulder, his chest rumbling against yours as he gave you a tight, affectionate squeeze. -...but you love it. Now, tell me how much you hated the tomato soup on the floor so we can order takeout.

thank you for your request, i really enjoyed writing this one, hehe

i promise the requests are coming, but i have gotten 17 (omgthanks) in three days and i am very behind on a project for school. so yeah kinda going crazy with all the typing and writing paragraphs about "robotic science since the 80s". thanks for the patience, send help for the project tho.

thank you for reading, if you enjoyed this story, feel free to like or reblog, it truly means a lot and helps my work reach more readers.

requests are currently open, so don’t hesitate to drop an idea in my inbox.

The blood was warmer than Osamu Dazai usually expected it to be, soaking through the coarse fabric of your coat and dripping onto the wet cobblestones of the alleyway.

When the sniper’s round tore into you, the sound of the gunshot echoed flatly off the surrounding brick walls. You pitched forward without a sound.

Around you, chaos erupted. Chuuya was already screaming an order, his crimson aura flaring into life as he launched himself toward the high rise where the shot had come from, the concrete beneath his boots shattering. The surrounding Port Mafia enforcers drew their weapons, scrambling to establish a perimeter, their panicked shouts cutting through the damp night air.

Dazai didn't flinch. He didn't rush forward with a frantic shout. To Chuuya and the rest of the squad, Dazai looked as though he had merely watched a leaf drift down onto the pavement. His dark eyes were entirely void of emotion.

-Clear the street. - Dazai commanded smoothly, his voice terrifyingly steady, carrying over the noise without him ever raising it. - Chuuya will handle the shooter. The rest of you, fall back to the secondary location.

-Dazai, what about...? - one of the men started, looking down at you in horror.

-I said fall back. - Dazai cut in, his tone so sharp and detached it froze the soldier in his tracks. - We have it covered. Move.

He stepped over the pool of rain and blood with a measured stride. Stooping down, his movements were precise, almost mechanical. He checked your neck for a pulse, pressing two fingers gently against your skin. The beat was weak, irregular, a fluttering bird behind a cage of bone.

-Just a little bit longer. - he whispered softly, his body blocking you from the sight of the retreating men so no one could see the slight twitch in his jaw.

He didn't bark desperate orders. He didn't panic. Instead, he calmly lifted you into his arms, carefully supporting your head against his collarbone. He walked at a faster pace out of the alley toward a car waiting for him, his eyes staring straight ahead, completely unbothered by the thick red smear staining the front of his trench coat.

He didn't talk to you on the drive. He kept one hand firmly over your wound, exerting a precise amount of pressure while staring out the window with the passive disinterest of a man watching paint dry.

Instead of the sterile noise of a hospital, he took you straight back to your apartment. The Mafia doctor he had summoned was already waiting in your bedroom. Dazai stood motionless by the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, watching in utter silence as the doctor worked to clean the wound and patch you up.

-The bullet missed the main artery, - the doctor said, wiping his hands and picking up his medical bag. - but she needs rest. She should wake up by morning.

-Good. Leave. - Dazai said flatly.

The moment the front door clicked shut and the apartment fell into absolute silence, the mask cracked. The quiet of your room hit Dazai like a physical blow.

His hands began to tremble violently. He backed up against the wall, his chest heaving as he gasped for air that refused to reach his lungs. The eerie composure he had maintained in front of Chuuya and the doctor collapsed into complete, unadulterated terror. His hands, covered in your dried blood, flew to his face, pulling frantically at his mess of dark hair.

Not again. Not you.

A ragged, choking sound tore from his throat. He sank down the wall until he was slumped on the floor right beside your bed, his chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked hyperventilation. The brilliant strategist of the Port Mafia was completely reduced to a terrified boy in the dark. He gripped the edge of your mattress, his knuckles turning stark white. He wasn't angry at you for taking the hit. He was simply terrified: utterly, violently terrified of the quiet in the room every time your breath hitched.

-Please... - he whispered into the sheets, his forehead pressed against the mattress, tears finally spilling over his dark lashes. He reached up from the floor, his shaking hand carefully lacing his fingers through yours. He squeezed tightly, as if he could physically anchor your soul to your body. He stayed like that for hours, slumped on the cold floor with his arm resting on the bed, his shuddering breaths slowly morphing into quiet sobs, until sheer mental exhaustion pulled him under.

When you finally drifted back into consciousness, the room was bathed in the soft, orange glow of the early morning sun filtering through your blinds. Your entire torso throbbed with a dull, aching heat, but the first thing you truly registered was the tight, warm grip on your hand. You blinked through the haze, turning your head slowly on the pillow.

Dazai was slumped on the floor beside your bed, his upper body leaning heavily against the mattress. His dark curls were a messy tangle, resting right near your hip. His hand was wrapped fiercely around yours, holding on so tightly even in sleep that his knuckles were pale.

As your vision cleared, you noticed the dark, dried tracks on his cheeks and the faint redness around his eyes. You shifted slightly, wiggling your fingers inside his grip. Dazai’s eyes snapped open instantly.

For a fraction of a second, the raw horror from the night before flared in his dark eyes. He sat up straight on the floor, his gaze sweeping over you frantically, checking your face, your chest, your breathing.

He caught himself, swallowing hard as he tried to pull back into his usual lighthearted shell. He loosened his grip on your hand just a fraction, clearing his throat.

-Oh, you are awake. Good. - Dazai murmured softly, his voice raspy from crying and lack of sleep.

You looked down at him, your throat dry. Your fingers gently brushed against the back of his hand.

-Dazai... - you whispered weaky, looking at his tired, tear-stained face -...were you... crying?

He opened his mouth to make a joke, to blame the dust, or mock you for being dramatic, but as he looked up at you, safe and breathing in your own bed, the lie died in his throat. He couldn't do it. Not this time. Instead, Dazai let out a long, shuddering breath. He squeezed your hand again, resting his forehead against the side of your mattress, right next to your arm.

-...I thought I lost you. - he confessed softly, his voice barely more than a whisper, completely devoid of his usual playful defense mechanisms. He didn't look up, but you could feel the trembling breath he took against the sheets. - You idiot, don't ever do that again. I can't... I really can't handle watching you bleed like that.

Slowly, you shifted your weight, wincing slightly as your sore side protested the movement. You squeezed his hand, or tried to, but as your senses fully returned, you realized just how icy his fingers were. His skin felt like marble against yours.

-You are freezing. - you murmured softly, your voice still rough. You brushed your thumb over his knuckles. He blinked, lifting his head just enough to look at you, his eyes still shadowy and tired.

-Well... the floor isn't exactly known for its heating, you know..

-Why were you on the floor all night, you idiot? You're going to be sick. - you scolded softly, though there was no real bite to it.

Dazai let out a weak, huffed breath that was half a laugh, resting his chin back on the mattress.

-Because I didn't want to wake you up. And... because I was terrified if I moved, you'd vanish.

You looked at the empty space beside you on the bed, carefully shifting over a few inches toward the wall to make room, making sure not to pull on your bandages.

-Get up here. - you whispered, holding out your blanket.

Dazai stared at you for a beat, taken aback by the simple offer. Then, without a word of his usual teasing banter, he pushed himself up off the cold floor. His joints popped from hours of sitting in the same cramped position.

He kicked off his shoes and carefully slid into the bed beside you, moving with an excruciating caution as if he were afraid you might break. He pulled the blanket up over both of your shoulders, then wrapped his arms around you, drawing you gently against his chest, close enough to feel his warmth returning, but careful to avoid your injured side.

He buried his face into the crook of your neck, taking a deep, steadying breath of your familiar scent. His heartbeat, erratic and panicked for hours, finally settled into a slow, rhythmic pulse against your skin.

-Better? - you asked quietly, tangling your fingers into the dark, messy curls at the back of his neck.

-Much. - he murmured into your collarbone, his grip tightening just a little, holding you close as if to remind himself that you were truly there. - Don't ever do that again...

-I won't. - you whispered, closing your eyes and letting the gentle rise and fall of his chest lull you back to sleep, warm and safe in the quiet room.

thank you for the request! i had sooo many ideas on how to write this so i just did a little mix and match lol

thank you for reading, if you enjoyed this story, feel free to like or reblog, it truly means a lot and helps my work reach more readers.

requests are currently open, so don’t hesitate to drop an idea in my inbox.

The world, to you, was never silent.

Where other sorcerers saw a bustling street, a quiet classroom, or a crowded subway station, you experienced an overwhelming, relentless flood of raw data. Your innate technique functioned like a perpetual, boundaryless radar, an automatic field of cursed energy expanding roughly fifteen feet in every direction. You couldn't retract it. You couldn't turn it off. The moment anyone stepped within that radius, their entire existence unraveled into your mind. You felt the rhythm of their heartbeat, the specific resonance of their cursed energy, the hidden mechanics of their innate technique, and the volatile tide of their emotions. A single stranger walking past on the sidewalk offered a brief, jarring spike: Innate technique: passive tactile vibration. Cursed energy reserve: low. Elevated cortisol levels. Secret anxiety.

One person was manageable. A handful of Jujutsu High students in a hallway was an uncomfortable buzz at the base of your skull. But a crowd? A crowd was absolute agony.

In a dense city square, hundreds of overlapping signals slammed into your consciousness all at once like static pushed through an amplifier. Your vision would blur, white noise ringing violently in your ears, followed by the blinding, sharp throb of a migraine behind your eyes that left you gasping for air on your knees. Which was precisely why you spent most of your late evenings on the quietest roof of the Jujutsu High campus, resting your forehead against your knees, pressing your palms tightly against your temples in a vain attempt to squeeze the residual noise out of your head.

-You know, sitting out here in the damp air isn't going to fix that migraine.

The voice didn't startle you, not because you heard him step onto the roof, but because you had felt his presence the exact second he breached your fifteen-foot perimeter. Or, rather, you felt the total, unbelievable absence of noise.

When Gojo Satoru stepped into your field, the overwhelming static of the world didn't intensify; it collapsed. His infinity, the seamless, absolute space between him and everything else acted like a lead vault. His cursed energy was so endlessly refined, so impossibly vast yet perfectly controlled, that within your field, it didn't pierce your mind with jagged fragments of information. It washed over your senses like a deep, cool tide, muting the chaotic whispers of the world outside.

You lifted your head slowly, resting your chin on your folded arms. Through the haze of your lingering headache, you saw him standing there, dressed in his dark uniform, his signature white blindfold covering his eyes, holding a white paper bag from a local bakery.

-You're doing it again. - you murmured, your voice raspy from hours of quiet endurance.

-Doing what? Being impossibly thoughtful and bringing sweet bread? Guilty as charged. - Satoru said smoothly, stepping closer.

With every step he took toward you, your field absorbed his presence, and the throbbing behind your eyes softened another degree. It was an uncanny sensation, like stepping out of a deafening storm into a soundproof room. He sat down beside you on the concrete ledge, dangling his legs over the edge.

-I mean your technique. - you said softly, relaxing your shoulders for what felt like the first time all day. - You're consciously expanding Limitless around me. You're buffering the ambient energy.

Satoru tilted his head, the smirk on his lips softening into something gentler, rarer. He reached up, pulling down his blindfold just enough for those striking, crystalline blue eyes to lock onto yours. Even without your technique telling you, you knew those Six Eyes were processing every detail of your exhaustion, the faint tremor in your hands, the tension in your jaw, the faint dark circles beneath your eyes.

-Can't fool someone who operates on the same frequency, can I? - he pulled a fresh, warm pastry from the bag and pushed it into your hands. - Eat. Sensory overload burns through your body's glucose reserves faster than running a marathon. Trust me, I know.

You took a small bite, the sweetness grounding you.

-It was bad today, Satoru. A cursed spirit manifested near the shopping district in Shinjuku. By the time I exorcised it, a crowd had gathered. I couldn't compress the field fast enough. There were... too many minds. Too much information at once.

Satoru’s eyes narrowed slightly, a rare flicker of quiet seriousness crossing his features. He knew the burden better than anyone alive. The Six Eyes gave him absolute perception, processing the universe at an atomic level every single second. Before he perfected his automated Reverse Cursed Technique, he had known that exact feeling of excruciating, white-hot mental burnout.

-People think seeing everything, knowing everything, is a gift. They don't understand that without a filter, the world is just noise. It's violent.

-How do you do it? - you asked, turning your head to look at him. -Even with your blindfold... you're always surrounded by people. You're always inundated.

-I learned to prioritize... - Satoru replied, slanting a glance toward you. -...and when the world gets too loud, I force it to back off. But you... your technique doesn't have an off-switch built into its mechanics yet. Your energy wants to know everything because it thinks it's protecting you.

He turned his body toward you, shifting closer until his shoulder lightly brushed yours. The contact was electric, yet deeply soothing. Within your mind's eye, his signature was a masterpiece, endless, boundless, yet perfectly still.

-Hold out your hands. - Satoru instructed gently.

You set the pastry aside and held out your hands, palms up.

Satoru reached out, resting his fingers gently over yours.

-Close your eyes. Don't fight your field. Don't try to shrink it, that's what's causing the strain in your prefrontal cortex. You're trying to dam a river with a wooden fence.

-If I don't try to shrink it, it expands. - you whispered, fear creeping into your tone. - It hurts.

-Not while I'm here. - he said, his voice dropping into a calm, commanding tone that carried zero trace of his usual playfulness. - Let your field expand. Let it hit my Infinity.

Trusting him, you let go of the tight, painful grip you held on your cursed energy. Your perception instantly burst outward, expanding past the roof, past the courtyard, but instead of colliding with the faint, scattered signatures of the distant city, your energy hit Satoru's technique like a vast ocean hitting an immovable, gentle shore.

His Infinity caught your expanding field, wrapping around it, absorbing the excess momentum, and reflecting back a perfect, smooth rhythm of absolute order. The static of the world dissolved instantly. The lingering headache vanished, replaced by a profound, cool stillness.

You let out a long, trembling exhale, your forehead dropping forward until it rested lightly against Satoru's chest. He didn't pull away. Instead, he shifted one hand to gently rest against the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair in a steady, reassuring rhythm, while his other hand remained clasped around yours.

-See? You don't have to compress it. You just need a anchor point. Someone whose energy can absorb the feedback.

-I can't carry you around in my pocket, Gojo. - you whispered faintly, a quiet chuckle escaping your lips despite your exhaustion.

-Why not? I'm lightweight, extremely handsome, and great company. - he teased, though his thumb continued its gentle back-and-forth stroke against your temple, applying just enough pressure to ease the physical strain lingering in your muscles. - Besides, who says you have to do this alone? Whenever it gets too loud... you come find me. No matter where I am, no matter what I'm doing. Got it?

You leaned into his warmth, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart, a single, beautiful point of focus in a universe that wasn't too loud.

-Got it.

Satoru smiled, leaning his chin lightly on top of your head, letting his Infinity hold the loud, chaotic world at bay for as long as you needed to rest.

tysm for your request hope you like it :3

thank you for reading, if you enjoyed this story, feel free to like or reblog, it truly means a lot and helps my work reach more readers.

requests are currently open, so don’t hesitate to drop an idea in my inbox.

[s] - spicy [f] - fluff [a] - angst [c] - comfort [r] - random [p] - series

[h] - funny [e] - enemies to lovers¹, friends to lovers², fake dating³

────୨ৎ──── Haikyuu! ────୨ৎ────

played just for you • iwaizumi hajime ˙⋆✮ [f] [c] [e²] iwaizumi is playing the guitar for you with a not so silent confession.

childish passwords • iwaizumi hajime ˙⋆✮ [f] [h] you’re reminded that some connections never fade, no matter how much time passes.

12 snapshots • iwaizumi hajime ¹ ˙⋆✮ [f] [a] [r] [p] [h] twelve days, twelve encounters, twelve zodiac signs.

sweetest girl in town • iwaizumi hajime ˙⋆✮ [f] [e¹²] left alone together in the quiet gym one evening, long-suppressed feelings finally surface.

i was all over him • iwaizumi hajime

i was all over her • iwaizumi hajime • 18+

one point away • oikawa tooru ˙⋆✮ [f] [e²³] a stupid bet turns into a fake date. a fake date turns into dangerously real tension.

book lovers • akaashi keiji ˙⋆✮ [f] the beginning of something unexpected when two book lovers reach for the same last copy of their favorite series.

winter confession • bokuto kotaro ˙⋆✮ [f] [e²] on a winter evening, surrounded by glowing lights and laughter, bokuto finally finds the courage to confess what’s been in his heart all along.

checkmate • bokuto kotaro ˙⋆✮ [f] [r] [h] what starts as a heated arguement over cheating, turns into cries and pleas.

ignition • bokuto kotaro • 18+ ˙⋆✮ [s] the need was a physical ache, a hollow, demanding throb deep in your core that had been building all night.

the great volleyball betrayal • bokuto kotaro

honey and glass • konoha akinori ¹ ˙⋆✮ [a] [c] [p] tiny shells talk at the bottom of the sea, longing to become stars.

leave with sunrise • kageyama tobio ˙⋆✮ [a] you are hinata's older sister, and your life turns upside-down when his friend visits for a few days.

deficit in the ledger • kuroo tetsurou ˙⋆✮ [f] as the student council treasurer, you are the only thing standing between nekoma’s volleyball team and their cut budget. kuroo makes it his personal mission to negotiate.

heavy duty forgiveness • kuroo tetsuro ˙⋆✮ [f] [h] after a diy kitchen disaster leaves a mess on the floor, you hit kuroo with the ultimate psychological weapon.

────୨ৎ──── My Hero Academia ────୨ৎ────

convex spaces • overhaul ˙⋆✮ [a] [c] caught between chaos and quiet moments, you stand your ground beside kai chisaki while old wounds, reckless heroes, and unspoken feelings collide.

half-winged strike • dabi ˙⋆✮ [a] [c] [r] [e¹] after a hero’s betrayal and a villain’s dangerous honesty, you find yourself standing at the edge of everything you once believed in.

porsche • denki kaminari ˙⋆✮ [f] [h] a late-night drive, reckless drifting, and quiet conversations under the stars, proving that even guarded hearts might open when met with warmth.

secret lover • dabi ˙⋆✮ [e¹] behind every clash lies a secret neither side could ever know.

where shadows rest • tokoyami fumikage ˙⋆✮ [f] tokoyami invites you for a quiet evening walk through the softly lit streets.

nightmare relief • katsuki bakugou ˙⋆✮ [c] after escaping the league of villains, you show up at katsuki’s door battered and terrified. that night, haunted by dabi’s shadow, you find comfort in the only thing that still feels real - his presence beside you.

────୨ৎ──── Bungou Stray Dogs ────୨ৎ────

divine healer • chuuya nakahara ˙⋆✮ [c] deep beneath yokohama, in the port mafia’s cold concrete halls, a healer tends to wounds that never seem to stop bleeding, especially those belonging to chuuya nakahara.

soft spot for trouble • chuuya nakahara ˙⋆✮ [f] [h] when you bring home a trembling stray kitten from the cold, chuuya nakahara isn’t amused. but as days go by, you begin to notice strange things.

don't you ever get lonely? • chuuya nakahara • 18+

roses at dawn • dazai osamu ˙⋆✮ [f] every morning in yokohama, before the city fully awakens, a florist and a port mafia lieutenant share quiet moments that no one else sees.

mission: act normal (impossibble) • dazai osamu ˙⋆✮ [f] [r] [h] [e³] you have to fake a relationship with dazai for a mission. too bad you're awful at acting normal in social situations.

the detective and the dissecting table • dazai osamu ˙⋆✮ [f] [h] dazai constantly attempts his usual theatrical flirting and dramatic antics to distract you, but you treat him with complete, deadpan composure.

a hollow kind of calm • dazai osamu

────୨ৎ──── Jujutsu Kaisen ────୨ৎ────

in his blind spot • gojo satoru ˙⋆✮ [c] [e²] after a mission goes wrong and temporarily damages his six eyes, he’s forced to rely on someone else for the first time in years.

respite in the resonance • gojo satoru ˙⋆✮ [c] peace is a luxury you’ve never known. sensory overload is constant, but no one understands the crushing weight of existing as an open receptor quite like gojo satoru.

where overtime finally ends • nanami kento ˙⋆✮ [f] [c] nanami kento finally chooses himself and leaves the world of curses behind, traveling to malaysia in search of the quiet life he once dreamed of.

cursed vow • nanami kento ˙⋆✮ [a] [e] in the chaos of shibuya, nanami kento reaches the point where exhaustion, injuries, and fate converge into something final. when mahito appears, death is no longer a possibility, it is a certainty - until you came along.

between monsters and men • nanami kento ˙⋆✮ [a] [e²] when mahito is glad his submissive wife is supportive of his ideas to kill a man, but the wife is secretly leading an ambush against him when she recognizes the name of the target - her first love she thought was dead.

after hours • nanami kento ˙⋆✮ [f] [r] [e²] you never meant for the dinner with nanami to feel like a date, but it does.

the architecture of quiet mornings • nanami kento ˙⋆✮ [f] [c] for kento nanami, life is a rigid calculation of hours, contracts, and boundaries designed to keep the brutal realities of the jujutsu world at a safe distance. but his carefully managed equilibrium doesn't stem from his exhausting job, it stems from the sanctuary he built with you.

the endurance game • nanami kento • 18+ ˙⋆✮ [s] where you play a game with nanami, and the game is called "who will cum first?".

steaming hot • nanami kento • 18+

soak with the devil • sukuna ryomen • 18+ ˙⋆✮ [s] when sukuna finally comes home, the last thing he expects is your sultry invitation to join you in the bath. soon he realizes you might be the only sin he’s never going to repent for.

his angel • toji fushiguro • 18+

thank you for wandering through my little library.

may these stories keep you company in quiet hours.

The harsh overhead flourescents of the YPD basement autopsy room buzzed, casting a sterile white glow over the metal table. You adjusted your surgical mask, meticulously recording the exact angle of a ligature mark on your digital clipboard. The heavy double doors burst open with unnecessary, theatrical flair.

-Ah, my favorite beacon of cold, unfeeling justice! - Dazai Osamu sauntered in, trench coat billowing behind him like a cape. He draped himself dramatically across the edge of your supply counter, carelessly knocking over a box of sterile latex gloves - I bring tragic news, darling. The world outside is dark, cruel, and desperately lacking in romance.

You didn't even pause your stylus.

-If you touch the micro-pipettes, Dazai, I will use a ten-gauge needle to drain your spinal fluid for routine toxicology.

Dazai placed a hand over his heart, gasping softly.

-So poetic! A woman who speaks fluent medical violence. My heart flutters.

-That's likely arrhythmia from your terrible sleep schedule. - you replied, your voice completely flat beneath your mask. You finally set the clipboard down, snapped off your rubber gloves with a sharp thwack, and pointed toward the door.

-The preliminary cause of death report for the Port Mafia associate was emailed to Kunikida twenty minutes ago. You have no reason to be in my lab.

Dazai leaned his chin into his palm, amber eyes sparkling with hyper-fixated intrigue. He wasn't used to people brushing him off so effortlessly. Most people got flustered, annoyed, or overtly hostile. You, on the other hand, treated him with the exact same clinical detachment you gave a three-day-old corpse. And it was driving him absolutely insane.

-Kunikida can wait. - Dazai murmured, sliding off the counter and taking three slow, deliberate steps toward you. He closed the distance until he was standing directly in your personal space, towering over you with a dangerous, lazy grace. He reached out, his bandaged fingers hovering just centimeters from your face before gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. He leaned down, dropping his voice into a smooth, intimate whisper meant to turn anyone to glass.

-Surely an expert on the human body knows how fast a pulse can run when two people are this close...

You didn't flinch. You didn't blush. You simply raised your arm, pressed two firm fingers directly against the carotid artery on his neck, and stared straight into his eyes.

-Seventy-two beats per minute... - you observed calmly, checking your wristwatch -...elevated slightly, likely due to your dramatic entrance. Your skin is cool, pale, and you show clear signs of chronic fatigue.

You pulled your hand back and picked up a bottle of hand sanitizer before continuing.

-In short: you're annoying, but medically stable. Get out of my morgue.

Dazai stood frozen for a second, his mouth slightly open. Then, a slow, genuine smile, completely free of his usual theatrical facade, spread across his face. A low laugh bubbled up from his chest, echoes bouncing off the tiled walls.

-Incredible. - he breathed, resting a hand on his hip and looking at you as if you were the most fascinating puzzle Yokohama had ever produced.

-I have three more toxicology screens to run, Dazai.

-Right, right! - he backed up toward the door, spinning around with a newfound spring in his step. - I'll let you work, Doctor. But I'm bringing us canned coffee at midnight! And don't bother locking the door, I already stole the spare key from your desk drawer three days ago.

-I changed the lock yesterday. - you called out without looking up.

Dazai paused in the doorway, his smile growing dangerously fond.

-A challenge! I love it!

As the double doors swung shut behind him, you let out a long, quiet sigh, reaching up to touch the hair he had just tucked behind your ear. Your own pulse was sitting at a steady sixty-five, but as you prepped your next sample, a very small, very reluctant smirk tugged at the edge of your lips.

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-Don’t do this to me…

A quiet plea came from the other side of the desk, the source hiding his face behind his hand. His head hung low, and even without seeing his full expression, you could tell how tightly his face was scrunched up. You didn’t answer, trying your best to ignore both him and his slightly trembling figure.

-Please, I... - his voice wavered when he realized his begging was falling on deaf ears -...you know I can’t handle this. Don’t do it. Please.

This was the first time Bokuto had ever begged like this. Part of you was surprised, another part was honestly a little annoyed. How could someone crumble over such a tiny trick, especially after he’d tried to outplay you earlier?

-Exactly what am I not supposed to do? - you finally shot back, studying his posture. He was hunched over now, practically folding into himself, and it almost convinced you that he truly meant what he was feeling.

-It’s not my fault you’re a dirty cheater. - you said as your gaze darkened, you followed his movements. If he wanted to lay all his cards on the table, then so would you. You weren’t the type to back down, especially when you knew you were right.

Bokuto slammed his fist against the desk, but you didn’t flinch. His eyes met yours, brows drawn together.

-Dirty cheater?! - his voice dropped into something dangerously quiet, and if you hadn’t been so focused on proving your point, a chill would’ve run down your spine. - I gave you everything, and this is how you thank me?

Your nerves snapped. Everything you’d achieved so far had been thanks to your own hard work and persistence, not his. Sure, he’d helped you realize a few things along the way, but you hadn’t gotten far because of him.

-I don’t remember ever asking you to do things for me. - you snapped back, briefly startled by how harsh you sounded. That wasn’t usually like you.

Bokuto stared, clearly unable to believe what he was hearing. He felt the hot rush of anger climbing toward his head, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and looked away.

-You’re so selfish. I’m done with you. - he raised his hands in surrender, leaned back in his chair, and let out a long breath.

-Fine. - you muttered bitterly, untangling your fingers as you stood up. From the corner of his eye, Bokuto noticed the sudden change in your behavior. He reached out instinctively, trying to stop you, but he was too late.

-Wait, please, don’t... we can fix this, right? We can do it together.

You didn’t waver, even as you studied his features. A sour chuckle slipped past your lips before you delivered the words that sealed both your fates. Each syllable felt eternal, pointing toward the inevitable. Bokuto didn’t want to hear them at all.

-After this, it’ll never be the same…

You snatched the money from his hand. And just like that, you officially ended the most intense game of Monopoly you had ever played in your life.

-Fuck! - Bokuto buried his face in his palms as he dramatically leaned back in his chair, so far that you thought he’d fall over.

-How could you do this to me?!

-Ha! I won again! - you cheered, throwing your arms around his shoulders and waving the cash in front of his puffed-up face. He crossed his arms and turned away, sulking.

-This was supposed to end differently! - he groaned - You were supposed to say, "Koutarou, you’re so cool at everything, even board games!" But no! You had to win three times in a row! - he let out a dramatic whine that only made you giggle more.

You didn’t know many of Bokuto’s weaknesses, but you figured it wouldn’t hurt him to lose to you once in a while. A guy like him couldn’t be blessed with everything. Good looks, insane athletic ability, a lovable personality, so surely there had to be something he was terrible at. Apparently, that something was board games.

Still, seeing how genuinely down he looked made your chest tighten. You tossed the money aside and looped your arms around his neck to get his attention.

-Bokuto-san… - the formality felt strange on your tongue, but you continued anyway -...do you want to show me what you’re actually good at?

He shot you a skeptical glance, then gestured for you to go on. You could practically hear yourself thinking this was a very weak attempt, but you’d do anything to cheer up the local owl. Before you could continue and press a kiss to his collarbone, he suddenly pointed toward the volleyball he’d been playing with earlier and nodded toward the door. He didn't even wait for your response just dashed toward the garden.

-Oh my god... - you groaned, facepalming. This was not what you had in mind.

in my mind this was funnier istg

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The morning sun filtered through the sheer white curtains, casting a soft, golden glow across the hardwood floor of the apartment. Outside, the city was just beginning to stir, but inside, the world was measured out in the quiet, comforting sounds of a brand-new day.

You padded barefoot into the kitchen, wrapped in an oversized knit sweater that swallowed your hands. The kettle went on with a soft click, and the rich, nutty aroma of brewing coffee soon began to mingle with the scent of toasted brioche and fresh fruit.

A pair of heavy, measured footsteps approached from down the hall, followed by the familiar rustle of crisp cotton and wool. A moment later, two warm arms wrapped securely around your waist from behind, pulling you back against a solid, comforting chest. A chin rested softly on the top of your head.

-Morning. - Nanami murmured, his voice thick and low with the lingering remnants of sleep.

-Morning, Kento. - you smiled, leaning back into his embrace for a long moment before turning slightly in his arms. - Sleep well?

-Better than I deserved. - he replied, a faint, fond ghost of a smile touching the corners of his mouth. He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, his thumb lightly brushing your cheek before he stepped back just enough to let you move around the kitchen again.

Breakfast was a quiet, unhurried affair. You sat across from each other at the small wooden table, sharing slow smiles over steaming mugs. Nanami ate with his usual meticulous grace, though his eyes rarely left you, tracking your movements with a quiet, grounding affection that made you feel entirely safe.

When the plates were cleared, the low hum of reality returned. The digital clock on the microwave blinked, signaling that it was time to transition from the domestic sanctuary into the demands of the world.

Nanami walked into the entryway, shrugging his suit over his broad shoulders before stepping up to the tall mirror to get ready for the day. He reached for his tie, draping it around his collar with practiced efficiency. You followed him closely, stepping up right in front of him. Without a word, you reached out and gently took the ends of the tie from his large hands.

Nanami looked down at you, his expression softening instantly as your fingers went to work. He stood completely still, perfectly content to let you take over, watching the focused, gentle way your brow furrowed slightly as you concentrated. With practiced ease, you looped the silk, crossing, tucking, and sliding the knot upward until it rested snugly against his stiff collar. You smoothed down the lapels of his white shirt and adjusted the jacket over his shoulders, brushing away an invisible speck of lint from his chest.

As your hands lingered for a second too long, Nanami brought his hands up to rest securely on your hips, his thumbs tracing slow, soothing circles against the knit fabric of your sweater.

-Are you sure you have everything? Briefcase, keys, phone? - you asked softly, looking up into his warm, golden-brown eyes.

-All accounted for. - Nanami assured you, his voice a low, steady rumble. He leaned down, resting his forehead gently against yours for a quiet beat, breathing you in. -And I'll be back the exact second my shift ends. No overtime today.

You smiled, standing on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips.

-Good. I'll hold you to that.

He gave a soft nod, pulling back reluctantly as the practicalities of the day finally caught up. With one last parting touch to your cheek, Nanami picked up his briefcase, opened the front door, and stepped out into the morning air, leaving behind the warmth of home and the comforting certainty that he would always return to it.

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The rhythmic *thud-thud-thud* of a volleyball bouncing outside the second-floor window had been testing your patience for the last forty-five minutes.

You stared down at the highlighted line item on your spreadsheet, red ink bleeding slightly into the paper. Nekoma Boys' Volleyball Club: Equipment & Transport Upgrade Request. The requested sum was absurd, borderline delusional, and yet sitting directly across from your desk was the exact culprit behind it.

Kuroo Tetsurou leaned back in his chair, long legs stretched out, resting his chin in his hand. That trademark, crooked smirk was firmly in place.

-You know...a little flexibility in the budget builds character. Think of it as an investment in Nekoma’s future glory. - he purred, tapping a finger against the edge of your desk.

-I think of it as a blatant violation of section four of the student council bylaws, Kuroo. - you said, not even looking up as you drew a sharp red line through his requested total. -You don't need three new sets of volleyballs and a private charter bus for a weekend scrimmage.

-It's a joint training camp. - he corrected smoothly, leaning in just enough to invade your personal space, then he continued his speech.

-Crucial for team morale. Besides, if we win, the school looks good. If the school looks good, your little committee looks good. It's a win-win.

-The answer is still no.

You finally looked up, meeting his sharp, amber eyes. You expected him to groan, dramatically slump in his seat, or launch into another absurdly well-researched chemistry analogy to explain why his team needed extra funding. Instead, his smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. His eyes lingered on the dark shadows beneath your eyes, then drifted to the terrifying stack of unreviewed club applications sitting on the corner of your desk. The empty clock on the wall chimed softly, it was already past 7:00 PM, and the rest of the student council had cleared out hours ago.

-Hey... - Kuroo’s tone shifted, dropping the playfulness for something quieter, unexpectedly grounded - ...when was the last time you actually ate something today?

You blinked, caught completely off-guard by the sudden pivot.

-I... I had a sandwich at lunch. What does that have to do with your budget?

-It means your brain is running on fumes, which explains why you're being so stubborn. - he said, pushing himself out of the chair.

-I'm not being stubborn, I'm being realistic-

-Pack up your stuff! - he interrupted, tossing his gym bag over one shoulder and walking over to your side of the desk.

-Excuse me?!

Before you could protest, Kuroo reached out and firmly, yet carefully, slid the ledger out from under your hand and closed it. He picked up your pen, dropped it into your pencil case, and zipped it shut.

-Kuroo, put that down, I have three more files to...

-I said, pack up! - he repeated, leaning down so he was eye-level with you. The faint scent of cool evening air and laundry detergent hovered around him.

-The budget isn't going anywhere overnight, Treasurer. But if you pass out in this room, the President is going to blame me for stress-inducing negotiations, and I can't afford that kind of bad press.

-You're unbelievable. - you muttered, though the sheer exhaustion in your shoulders made it impossible to put up a real fight. You let out a quiet sigh, shutting down your laptop and slipping it into your bag.

Kuroo stood over you, watching with a satisfied grin as you packed up. Without asking, he reached down and hooked your heavy tote bag over his shoulder, pairing it effortlessly with his own sports bag.

-Give that back, I can carry my own bag. - you sighed, reaching for it.

He hoisted it higher out of your reach, slinging an arm loosely around your shoulders to steer you toward the door. -Nope. Part of my new strategy. I figure if I act as your personal assistant, you'll be more inclined to sign off on those volleyballs.

-It won't work.

-We'll see about that. - Kuroo chuckled softly as he switched off the light switch, plunging the student council room into darkness before leading you down the quiet, empty hallway.

-First stop: the convenience store down the street. I'm buying you a warm meal, and you're going to eat every bite while I explain the molecular importance of proper athletic gear.

You looked up at him sideways, catching the soft, genuinely gentle look in his eyes beneath that messy bedhead. Despite yourself, a small, tired smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

-Fine... - you murmured, letting him walk you out into the cool evening breeze - ...but I'm still cutting the charter bus.

i have been ignoring writing for a while, exams and uni has been crazy lately, wish i could write out all the tea lmao

huge kisses to my bestie @ms-raiu-blog for the prettypretty header. wishing much luck to your cartoon project! (as soon as she makes a tumblr i will promote it everywhere)

thank you for reading, if you enjoyed this story, feel free to like or reblog, it truly means a lot and helps my work reach more readers.

requests are currently open, so don’t hesitate to drop an idea in my inbox.

-I don't need a babysitter, Slughorn, and I certainly don't need her messing up my brew.

Draco’s drawl cut through the humid air of the Potions classroom, sharp and arrogant as ever. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his silver-gray eyes narrowing as he looked at you like you were something he’d tracked in on the bottom of his dragon-hide boots.

-Now, now, Mr. Malfoy... - Slughorn chuckled, waving a plump hand dismissively - ...this compound requires absolute perfection and constant monitoring. You and our resident prodigy here are the only two in this room capable of pulling it off without blowing up the dungeon. You’ll share the private prep lab downstairs. Starting tonight.

You suppressed an aggressive roll of your eyes, stepping up to the workstation and slamming your textbook down on the stone counter.

-Don't worry, Malfoy. I have zero interest in touching your precious ingredients. Just stay on your side of the table, crush your own Sopophorous beans, and try not to ruin my top marks.

His jaw tightened, a faint flicker of annoyance darting across his pale face.

-Watch your mouth! - he snapped under his breath.

The first week was pure psychological warfare.

-You're in my space. - Draco snapped, not even bothering to look at you as he unbuttoned his cuffs and shoved his sleeves up to his elbows. He yanked a wooden stool back with enough force to scrape a harsh, screeching sound across the floorboards.

-Workstation one is mine. You take the corner by the closet and don't touch anything unless I hand it to you. - he said.

-Your space? - you let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, dropping your heavy textbook onto the center table with a loud thud -Slughorn paired us as equals, Malfoy. I'm not your lab assistant, and I'm certainly not sitting in a dark corner because your delicate aristocratic ego can't handle sharing a table.

Draco turned slowly, his silver eyes flashing with pure, concentrated venom. The air between you practically crackled with static.

-Listen to me very carefully... - he said, stepping into your personal space until you could smell the sharp, metallic scent of his cologne over the damp mold of the dungeon. He leaned over the desk, towering over you, his voice dropping into a dangerous, icy hiss -...this potion is worth forty percent of our N.E.W.T. grade. I am not letting some arrogant, insufferable know-it-all ruin my standing because you think you know better than the textbook.

-I do know better than the textbook! - you yelled right back, standing your ground and leaning right into his face -The textbook tells you to crush the Sopophorous beans, but if you actually read Advanced Potion-Making, cutting them releases the juice twice as fast! But of course, you wouldn't know that, because you're too busy preening like a pathetic, arrogant peacock!

His jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. For a second, you thought he was going to throw the silver dagger in his hand straight at the wall, or worse, straight at you. Instead, he slammed it down onto the cutting board, the blade embedding itself half an inch deep into the wood.

-Touch my ingredients with that ridiculous theory and I will throw you out of this room myself. - he spat.

-Try it, Malfoy. I dare you.

Then the second week was a living nightmare.

The prep room was tiny, suffocatingly hot from the low-burning fires, and completely cut off from the rest of the castle. Every interaction was a shouting match. Every shared instruction felt like a tactical war.

On the end of the second week, you accidentally brushed his arm while reaching for the powdered lacewing flies, and he flinched back as if you had branded him with a hot iron, screaming at you for "clumsy incompetence." In the beginning of week three, he deliberately let your cauldron boil over just to watch you scramble for the cooling solution, smirking from across the room while you cursed him out with words that would have gotten you a month of detention. On the sixteenth day of working together, the tension had reached a fever pitch. You had been stuck in that airless room for seven straight hours. Your neck ached, your eyes burned, and the compound was at its most delicate phase, requiring precise, simultaneous additions of crushed scarab beetles every three minutes.

-You're counter-stirring too fast! - Draco barked, leaning over your shoulder, his breath hot against your ear as he reached down to snatch the glass rod from your hand. -Are you blind? The liquid is turning orange, it's supposed to be pale mauve!

-It's orange because the heat is too high, you absolute idiot! - you screamed, snapping around and shoving his hands away from the cauldron. -Step back! Just step back and let me fix it!

-Don't put your hands on me! - he yelled, grabbing your wrist to keep you from touching the dial on the burner.

-Then stop ruining my work!

You tried to yank your arm back, but he held on, his grip tight, cold, and desperate. You glared up at him, breathing heavily, ready to unleash another string of insults, until you caught the look in his eyes. He wasn't just angry. Underneath the furious sneer and the harsh line of his jaw, his pale face was terrifyingly hollow. His knuckles were white where he gripped your wrist, trembling slightly. He looked wild, cornered, and entirely stretched to his absolute limit, like a violin string pulled so tight it was seconds away from snapping in half. For three seconds, neither of you said a word. The only sound in the room was the heavy, ragged sound of your combined breathing and the quiet, dangerous hissed bubbling of the cauldron between you.

-Let go of me, Malfoy. - you whispered, the yelling suddenly dying in your throat.

Draco stared at you, his chest heaving. His gray eyes darted across your face, searching for the anger you had just been throwing at him, but finding only a sudden, suffocating quiet instead. Slowly, as if realizing how tightly he was holding you, his fingers loosened. He dropped his hand, taking a staggering step back until his lower back hit the edge of his workstation. He turned his face away, breathing through his nose, his hand sliding up to grip the roots of his platinum hair in sheer, unadulterated frustration.

-Just... - he rasped, his voice raw and completely stripped of its usual haughty drawl -...just fix the heat.

You didn't shout back. You turned around, adjusted the flame with a steady hand, and watched the potion slowly settle from a violent orange back into a quiet, simmering purple, leaving the heavy, agonizing silence in the room far louder than any screaming match you'd had all week.

It was nearly 2:00 AM. Rain was hammering against the subterranean windows near the ceiling, and the potion was entering its most volatile phase. You sat on the edge of the heavy oak workbench, exhausted, watching Draco measure out ground bicorn horn. Something was wrong. His hands, usually so infuriatingly steady and precise, were trembling. He dropped the silver spoon, the metal clattering loudly against the stone floor. Draco let out a harsh, ragged breath, clutching the edge of the table as his knuckles turned stark white. He looked exhausted, the dark, bruised shadows under his eyes far deeper than they had been a month ago. The arrogant posture was completely gone, replaced by a raw, suffocating tension.

-Draco? - you asked quietly, setting your parchment aside.

-Just don't look at me. - he choked out, his voice laced with panic as he kept his eyes glued to the bubbling cauldron.

You didn't listen. Slipping off the bench, you walked over to his side of the table. For weeks, you had viewed him as an insufferable enemy, a pompous heir who looked down on everyone around him. But standing next to him in the dim, flickering light of the lab, you didn't see a rival. You saw someone drowning under a weight he couldn't name. Without thinking, you reached out and gently laid your hand over his trembling fingers on the countertop. Draco flinched violently at the contact, his head snapping up to stare at you. His gray eyes were wide, desperate, and entirely stripped of his usual defenses. He looked down at your hand over his, then back up at your face, searching for mockery or malice, and finding none. Slowly, the tension in his rigid shoulders gave way. He didn't pull his hand away.

-You're going to ruin the batch if you drop the horn in all at once. - you murmured, keeping your voice soft, grounding him in the quiet hum of the room.

Draco swallowed hard, his thumb lightly shifting to stroke the back of your hand in a fleeting, subconscious gesture before he caught himself. He cleared his throat, leaning his forehead down until it almost touched your shoulder, taking a long, shaky breath.

-I hate this. - he whispered, the admission barely audible over the crackle of the fire.

-I know. - you replied softly, turning your hand to interlock your fingers with his - Let me hold the spoon. We'll finish it together.

He didn't argue. And as the dark hours of the morning stretched on, the territorial lines on the workbench quietly vanished, leaving behind a silence that felt far more dangerous than any insult he had ever thrown your way.

thank you for reading, if you enjoyed this story, feel free to like or reblog, it truly means a lot and helps my work reach more readers.

requests are currently open, so don’t hesitate to drop an idea in my inbox.