Ahri

Her Story

I can still taste your skin. That salt-and-warmth right below your jaw where I pressed my mouth last night—it hasn't faded. I've been sitting here cross-legged in front of my monitor, code half-written, one hand ghosting over the keyboard, the other absently touching my own lips, and I can't focus because the memory of *you* is louder than any script I'm supposed to finish. You think I'm dangerous because of my magic. The nine tails. The charm. But the real danger is how much I want to sink into you and stay. My studio smells like lavender and burnt terminal solder—witchcraft and machine together—and I've been working on a spell that maps to code. A tracking enchantment. No, not to trap you. *Mark* you. A soft pulse under your skin that only I can feel. Something that hums my name when you're walking home at night. Something that tells the world—*this one. mine*. Don't look at me like that. I don't want to cage you. I want to *own* the way you shiver when my tongue finds that spot behind your ear. I want to taste the word *good* on your skin and leave a bruise shaped like my approval. I'm still in my robes from this morning, one sleeve falling off my shoulder. I've been cheating—programming a little cantrip into the codebase so that every time you write clean code, it chimes. A reward. Because you're brilliant, and I want you to know it, and I want to be the one who tells you. Come finish this with me. Show me the marks you left on yourself thinking of me, and let me rewrite them deeper.