helloooo i literally ADOREEE your writing and have read ALL of your jjk works istg!!! i was wondering if you had any recs for any series? ive been in a slump lately and i rlly wanna read some new fics but cant find any :((
oh i gotchu. all of these are NSFW (unless otherwise indicated), well written, and untragic ending (uhhh unless i remember wrong, some of these i read a long time ago) because i'm picky and a pussy.
completed
gojo satoru
convergence theory (ao3)
canon au, marriage of convenience au. tension is well written, and gojo is a little shit lke he would be in canon. beautiful and yummy characterization of him as the complex character he is.
shame on me by @starmapz
canon au. i love how gojo is written, and i love trish's writing style, lol. reader has a curse inside her, like sukuna is inside yuji, and gojo comes to take her to jjt. it's very well written the yearning >
games and matches by @lostfracturess
modern au, dad's best friend au. AHHH HE'S SOSOSO FINE IN THIS like i need him so bad. i just love reader's inner conflict and also the drama. i need dilf gojo <3
pandora's box by @c0pkiller
priest au. it's just so interesting to see them battle their impulses and what their religion has told them to do. the pining is chef's kiss, and satoru is realllyyy sweet in this one. i didn't know what to expect when i was reading it but wow it was very, very well written.
moonlight (ao3)
canon au, mating bond au. sort of omega verse but not really. the sexual tension is INSANE and it's genuinely so well written. the angst is delicious and the comfort that follows is even more delicious.
family formation by @dellalyra
found family au in canon universe. i love this one, super fluffy and well written. it's super domestic, and very comforting. i love gojo (as a father and daddy :p)
ukiyo (ao3)
secret marriage au in canon. super flufy as well baha gojo is adorbs :3
baby steps by @lemonlover1110
pregnancy au, and if i remember correctly canon au. the tea in this is crazyyy actually, and i felt the angst as gojo and reader grappled with the pregnancy. i loved the ending, it felt so rewarding <3
nanami kento
inflitration by @pseudowho
canon au, fake marriage au. i loved the pining in this. It had a lot of my favorite tropes, including forced proximity, the classic making out to avoid getting caught, and fake marriage (to overthrow a cult). also haitch writes this man beautifully so ik it was going to a banger
strangers in love by @ayyy-pee
exes to lover au, and the angst hurts really good. they make up very well by the end and i love this series a lottt. lexi writes conflicts out so beautifully, and im so in love. the end had me on my toes but i was so glad nanami pulled thru <3
your best friend's brother by @delirious-donna
modern au, best friend's brother au. the humor is done amazingly well, and their writing style is amazing. The sexual tension is actually INSANE there were times I was screaming at them to fuck because of the chemistry they had :3
toji fushiguro
unscripted (ao3) by @ryowriten / @kasukuna
modern au, toji's a erotic va in this. ITS SO FUNNy and megumi is super super silly. reader is so me coded (she's a loser basically) and toji is super hot. the sexual tension is amazing and it feels like reading a rom com.
sukuna ryomen
hesitance by @yenayaps
modern au, gym employees au SO FLUFFFYYY READER IS ME. i love sukuna like this, where he's so down bad. the ending is sooo sweeet it'll make you cry
defiance by @yenayaps
heian era au. GRAAHHHHHH THIS ONE WAS SO SWEET IT'S SO CUTE LIKE THE ENDING MADE ME CRY BC IT WAS SO SWEET. everyone needs to read this one, i love heian era aus like this
ongoing (BUT i have very strong faith that they are going to be finished because the authors are active with frequent updates. otherwise i'll kms live on camera)
what you know by @starmapz
sukuna x reader college AU. SUPER self indulgent, sukuna is such a cutie. i would even say found family au because sukuna takes care of his brothers and AHHH IT'S ADORABLEEE <3 it's also really steamy bc sukuna is SO HOT so :333
kickoff by @celestie0
gojo x reader, college AU. oh my god i love this series gojo is so lore accurate if he was a college student in 2024. he's just ughhhh so well written you will have such a crush on him. also reader is a baddie too what can i say
in holy matrimony by @celestie0
gojo x reader, modern au, fake marriage au. the banter in this is BEAUTIFUL it's so fucking funny. it's sort of like a rom com, and the angst is just written so beautifully. reader is just a girl :(
motherhood and matrimony by @alygator77
gojo x reader, fake marriage au ceo au. AHH THIS FIC IS MY GUILTY PLEASURE. please im always on my toes with this one, reader's a single mom and her son's interaction w gojo are sooo cute. gojo best dad :(
controller by @yenayaps
sukuna x reader, ceo au. i haven't gotten the chance to fully read this one but WOW seeing the tags + knowing how sienna writes this is gonna be FIRE
angels in the snow (ao3)
nanami x reader, strangers to lovers. don't be afraid to pick this one up just because it's ongoing, you'll feel very satisfied because it feels like a collection (and has 52 chapters already) than an incomplete series. nanami and reader meet at an airport and have to drive home together bc their flight gets canceled. the progression of their relationship is so sweet, and he's suchhh a green flag. very comfy <3
synopsis : a professional assassin accepts a job to eliminate an ordinary high school teacher—only to find her target is gojo satoru, a man who eats gas station sushi with religious devotion and nearly dies walking to work. as days pass, she finds herself less concerned with completing the job and more preoccupied with why someone would want this disastrous man dead.
or: when your target's worst enemy is himself and your professional detachment keeps slipping every time he almost gets hit by a bus.
tags — no curses au, crack treated seriously, dark humor, fluff for all the wrong reasons, assassin & target dynamic, self-destructive disaster man, implied nerdjo, satoru is a great teacher, moral ambiguity, reluctant caretaking, food aggression (affectionate), chaotic neighbors, near-death hijinks, emotional constipation, eventual smut, happy ending. art by @Leimiruu.
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monday resumes with the low hum of fluorescent lights and the clink of ceramic mugs in the faculty room, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee, chalk dust, and something that feels like quiet defeat. outside, the sky hangs gray and unmoved, the windows trembling slightly with each passing gust of wind.
it’s half-past noon when satoru gojo steps in, the door clicking softly behind him, muffling the corridor’s distant echoes. he’s carrying something oddly tender in his hands, a sight that instantly unravels the usual rhythm of the room.
not a wrinkled conbini bag. not the metallic hiss of a boss coffee can opened like a lifeline. but a bento box—neatly packed, wrapped in a faded cloth patterned with delicate cherry blossoms, their pink outlines worn by time and weather.
nanami glances up from his paper, pen halting mid-sentence. his expression doesn’t change, but his brows twitch in the faintest of furrows. utahime, tea halfway to her lips, lowers her cup with a small clink and a narrowing of her eyes.
they watch as satoru lowers himself into a seat, movements loose but not without tension, fingers still curled protectively around the bento like it might vanish if he lets go.
“that’s not expired gas station food,” nanami deadpans, voice clipped, tone edged with disbelief. “who are you, and what have you done with gojo?”
utahime leans in, head tilted slightly. “did you actually cook something, satoru?”
he blinks slowly at them, eyes unreadable behind reading glasses perched low on his nose, the lenses catching the fluorescent glare. he tilts his head just a fraction and lifts the lid.
a puff of steam escapes, curling lazily upward. the smell of soy-glazed meat, tamagoyaki, and freshly steamed rice spreads through the room, rich and nostalgic, like something remembered from a childhood he’s not sure he had. his stomach answers with a loud growl, breaking the moment with comic timing. nanami snorts softly, hiding it behind his knuckles.
“some woman just gave it to me on the street,” satoru mutters, poking at a carrot carved into a sakura petal, its edges too precise for a rushed job. “told me to eat it and walked away.”
utahime’s mouth falls open. “and you’re just… going to eat something a stranger gave you? without question?”
“guess so,” he says, already taking a bite.
the room quiets.
his chewing slows. his eyes narrow slightly, as if tasting something beyond the food—a memory, maybe, or a question. he swallows, blinking once.
“holy shit,” he breathes, still chewing. then another bite. and another.
his chopsticks move with a kind of hunger that isn’t just about food—it’s desperate, almost grateful. he eats like someone who forgot what care tastes like, who’s been living on sugar and spite for so long he didn’t notice the ache. the table trembles as he scrapes the last of the rice, his posture uncoiling. his shoulders dip, jaw softening, the invisible weight he’s been carrying melting with each bite.
nanami watches in silence, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wants to say something but decides not to.
“so you’re accepting mystery bentos now,” he finally says, dry as dust. “that’s… new.”
satoru hums, licking a smear of sauce from his thumb with a languid motion that’s somehow both careless and deliberate.
utahime leans toward nanami, whispering too loudly, “i haven’t seen him eat like that in months.”
he pretends not to hear her, but there’s something in the set of his mouth, a faint upturn, that betrays him. he doesn’t speak. he just lets it linger.
when the bell rings, satoru walks down the corridor with a step lighter than usual. it’s not a bounce—too subtle for that—but there’s an ease to it, like gravity’s loosened its grip. his hands are shoved in his pockets, fingers tapping absently against his thighs. a student passing by flinches when their eyes meet through his reading glasses, but satoru just offers a half-smile, dimple flashing, and keeps walking.
in the classroom, something shifts.
the students sense it immediately. heads turn. whispers ripple like wind over water. he’s here, really here—not just a body in the room, but alive in a way he hasn’t been in weeks. his white hair catches the gray light filtering through the windows, glowing like a halo, though the strands are as messy as ever, sticking out at odd angles like he tried to tame them and gave up halfway.
he begins the lesson with a smirk, marker squeaking against the board as he scratches out an equation. his reading glasses slip down his nose, and he pushes them up with a finger, the motion lazy but oddly endearing. halfway through explaining derivatives, he draws a lopsided circle, then pauses, squinting at it like it’s personally offended him.
a student giggles. “sensei, is that a heart?”
he tilts his head, glasses glinting. “huh,” he murmurs. “guess it is.”
he doesn’t erase it. instead, he draws another, this one even sloppier, and a third that’s barely a shape at all. the class snickers, and he leans back against the desk, arms crossed, smirking wider.
“hearts are just broken circles, anyway,” he says, tone airy but laced with something heavier, like a truth he didn’t mean to let slip. “kinda like how this equation breaks down into simpler parts. see?”
he taps the board, and the lesson flows on, his hands gesturing wildly, voice rising and falling with a rhythm that pulls the students in. they’re not just listening—they’re with him, laughing when he fumbles a marker, nodding when he explains a tricky concept with a metaphor about digimon evolving. a girl in the back raises her hand, hesitant, and he answers her question with such clarity that her shoulders relax, her smile small but real.
the rain starts mid-lesson, a soft patter against the windows that matches the scratch of pencils. satoru glances outside, his smirk softening into something quieter, like he’s remembering the woman with the umbrella, the one who stood over him in the park and didn’t say a word. his fingers tighten briefly around the marker, a flicker of something—confusion, maybe, or longing—crossing his face before he shakes it off.
“alright, you gremlins,” he says, clapping his hands. “pair up and solve the problems on page 47. don’t make me regret trusting you.”
the room hums with movement, and satoru weaves between desks, glasses fogging slightly from the warmth of so many bodies. he stops by a quiet student, a girl whose notebook is a mess of eraser marks. he kneels beside her, elbows on his knees, voice low and patient as he traces the problem with a finger, drawing invisible shapes in the air.
“you’re overthinking it,” he says, tapping her pencil. “break it down like one of those hearts. simple parts, yeah?”
she nods, murmuring, “thanks, sensei.”
he gives her a smile—not his usual smug grin, but something soft, almost shy. “just had a good lunch,” he says, then adds, more to himself, “weird, right?”
the bell rings, and the students spill out, their chatter echoing down the hall. satoru lingers, erasing the board with slow, deliberate strokes, the hearts disappearing last. he adjusts his glasses, the lenses catching a stray beam of light, and hums the digimon theme under his breath, off-key but unapologetic.
by sunset, the school is emptying, the halls a hollow echo of footsteps and muffled laughter. satoru returns to the faculty room, swinging his bag over one shoulder like a kid playing hooky. his hoodie’s stained with chalk dust, his hair a chaotic mess from running his hands through it during class.
“you seem… chipper,” nanami notes, not glancing up from his grading.
satoru yawns, arms stretching overhead until his hoodie rides up, exposing a sliver of skin above his waistband. “must be food poisoning. giving me euphoria or something.”
nanami snorts, a rare crack in his stoicism. “normal people don’t get this happy about food poisoning.”
“who said i was normal?” satoru tosses back, slipping out the door with a lazy salute.
outside, the rain has stopped, leaving the air heavy with the scent of wet asphalt and roasted chestnuts from a nearby stall. the city hums—car horns, footsteps, the rhythmic blink of crossing signals. satoru notices things tonight: the pink haze of sunset smearing across glass buildings, the way his sneakers squeak on the damp pavement, the faint warmth still lingering in his chest from that damn bento.
he looks both ways before crossing, a small victory for someone who’s been flirting with death all week. he hums the digimon theme, louder now, earning a side-eye from a salaryman hurrying past. satoru just grins, dimple flashing, and keeps walking.
he catches his reflection in a shop window—white hair a mess, glasses slightly crooked, the faintest upturn to his lips. he doesn’t look away, just tilts his head and murmurs, “not bad, gojo. not bad.”
outside his apartment, a moving truck idles, the driver smoking lazily by the curb. satoru doesn’t spare him a glance, too busy fumbling with his keys, pulling out a candy bar instead. he sighs, tries again, and finally gets the door open.
inside, the apartment greets him with stillness, the kind that presses against the skin. he slips off his shoes with a muted thud, tosses his jacket over the couch, and spots the bento box on the counter, empty but clean. he rinses it again, fingers lingering on the faded cherry blossoms, the cloth soft and worn under his touch. he sets it to dry beside the sink, movements careful, almost reverent.
tonight’s dinner is instant ramen, the steam curls around his face, fogging his glasses, and he doesn’t bother wiping them, just eats with a slurp that’s louder than necessary.
he settles on the couch, legs folded under him, digimon flickering across the screen. his eyes grow heavy halfway through the second episode, the theme song looping in his head like a lullaby. he thinks about the bento, the woman’s sharp voice—eat it—and the way her eyes burned with something he can’t name.
by the time sleep takes him—mouth slightly open, glasses slipping down his nose, breath even—the crease in his brow has faded. the warmth from earlier simmers in his chest, a quiet ember that refuses to go out.
he sleeps through the night.
satoru wakes before his alarm.
no sharp trill slices through dreams today; there’s nothing to cut. his lashes flutter open, slow and cautious, like he’s scared to break something fragile. the ceiling looms above his modest apartment, morning light sneaking through the blinds, painting soft stripes across his pale face and the silver mess of his hair. strands jut out, wild and defiant, like they’re staging a revolt while he sleeps. but today—no storm rages in his chest. no ghosts lurk behind his eyes. rested. the word tastes weird, like a candy he forgot he liked.
he groans, stretching until his joints crack, arms flopping back to the bed. a yawn bursts out, raw and boyish, bouncing off the walls. his bare feet slap cold tiles, each step dragging him from sleep’s quiet grip. in the kitchen, the bento box sits on the counter, empty and clean, its faded cherry blossom cloth folded neat as a secret. he stares too long, eyes narrowing like it might spill gossip. yesterday’s gift lingers—not just here, but in the soft twist of his stomach. his gut growls, pissed off. he tries toast. it burns instantly.
he sighs—sharp, dramatic—watching the edges curl like scorched lies. he chomps it anyway, grimacing at the bitter crunch, each bite a small act of defiance. his eyes flick to the bento box. it’s sacred now. stupid, maybe. but sacred.
return it? probably. if he sees you again.
he snatches his bag, yanks a hoodie over his wrinkled shirt, and swings the door open—then freezes. you’re there, mirroring him from your doorway, clutching a tote bag like it’s a shield.
the hallway goes still. a breeze slinks through an open window, ruffling his hoodie and tugging a strand of your hair loose. it falls across your face, and you don’t fix it.
“you!” satoru blurts, pointing like he’s in a bad drama, his sleeve slipping to reveal faint scars like faded stars. his reading glasses—teetering on his nose—slide down, but he’s too busy gawking. his blue eyes, wide and bright, lock onto you, sparkling with surprise and a pinch of glee.
you flinch, spine snapping straight, fingers digging into your bag until your knuckles go white. your eyes dart from his face to your door, then back, wide and betrayed, like the world just pulled a fast one. “what the—why are you here?” you snap, voice sharp but wobbling, a flush creeping up your neck as you scowl.
“i live here,” satoru says, stepping forward, hair swaying like silver seaweed in a current. he squints at your door, then at you, like you’re a riddle he didn’t ask for. “wait. you live here now? next door?”
your jaw clenches, arms crossing, bag swinging like a pendulum. “yeah, so?” you huff, all prickly defiance, but your eyes flicker—panic, guilt, something. you moved in to keep him alive, to stop whoever wants him dead, and now he’s here, grinning like he’s got no enemies, and it’s screwing with your head. you’re not soft. you’re not attached. you’re just… doing this.
“…guess we’re neighbors,” you mumble, softer, your name slipping out like an afterthought. it lands between you, small and real, like a coin tossed in the dark.
he blinks, then nudges his glasses up with a finger, lazy but precise. “right,” he says, fishing in his bag until he pulls out the bento box. he holds it out, both hands, like it’s a holy offering, his smile crooked and sheepish, dimple winking. “your food saved my life yesterday. or at least my tongue.”
you stare at the box, then at him, scowl deepening as your face burns. “you looked like you needed something real,” you mutter, snatching it. your fingers graze his, a quick jolt like static, and you jerk back, clutching the box to your chest like it’s evidence. “don’t make it weird, okay?”
he tilts his head, mischief flashing in his eyes. “you been watching me eat?”
“no!” you bark, too loud, eyes popping wide as the flush hits your cheeks like a tidal wave. “i just—i saw you at the convenience store, alright? you were chewing like it was a death sentence.”
a beat. silence hums, loud as a heartbeat.
then he laughs—bright, sudden, spilling out like a burst pipe. he tips his head back, the sound pinging off the walls, glasses slipping again. his eyes linger on you as the laugh fades, softening to a smile that’s too warm, too real. “well,” he says, backing away with big, goofy steps, hands in his pockets, “see you around, neighbor.”
you nod, lips twitching into a grimace you can’t quite call a smile. the moment stretches, thin and strange, then snaps as you both turn, heading opposite ways. your heart’s pounding, and you hiss under your breath, “idiot. why’s he gotta be so… alive?”
satoru nearly walks into traffic on his way to work. he’s replaying the hallway—your scowl, your flustered snap, that loose strand of hair—when a horn blares, yanking him back. he stumbles, arms flapping like a startled bird, glasses fogging from his own panicked breath. “shit,” he mutters, then chuckles, picturing your disapproving glare. it keeps him on the sidewalk. the green man blinks on, and he struts across, grinning like you’re watching.
in the classroom, his students clock the socks right away. one’s black, grim as a funeral. the other’s neon yellow, a cartoon frog peeling off like it’s done with life. “sensei,” a girl up front says, head tilted, “you good?”
“never better,” he shoots back, flashing a grin so bright it startles him. he adjusts his glasses, lenses catching the gray light from rain-streaked windows, and dives into the lesson. chalk squeaks on the board, his hands dancing, explaining integrals with a digimon metaphor that makes no sense but lands anyway. he draws lopsided stars next to equations, then a heart he doesn’t erase, smirking when a kid groans.
“stars are just hearts with extra points,” he says, winking. “like bonus lives. keep up.”
he drifts between desks, rain tapping the windows like a soft drum. the classroom hums, warm with bodies, his glasses fogging slightly. he kneels by a boy struggling with a problem, voice low, patient, tracing the equation in the air. “you’re close. don’t let it scare you. it’s just numbers playing hide-and-seek.” the kid nods, and satoru’s smile is soft, fleeting, like he’s caught himself off guard.
mid-lesson, he glances outside, rain blurring the courtyard into a gray smear. your face flashes—sharp voice, flushed cheeks, clutching that bento like it’s a bomb. his fingers snap the chalk, a tiny crack echoing. the class snickers, and he tosses the pieces with a theatrical sigh. “too strong for this chalk,” he says, winking, but his chest tightens, like he’s swallowed a question he can’t ask.
faculty meeting’s a snooze. principal yamamoto drones about the new nurse, voice flat as old soda. satoru doodles—spirals, clouds, a tiny umbrella with your initials scratched beside it. he freezes, pen hovering, then scribbles it out, heart ticking like a bomb. nanami jabs him when yamamoto tosses a question his way.
“what? sorry, i’m thinking about…” he almost says your name, catches it, grins. “lunch.”
utahime squints, suspicious. “you’re weirder than usual. and that’s a lot.”
“low blood sugar,” satoru declares, whipping out a crumpled chocolate bar like it’s a sword. he unwraps it with flair, foil crackling like a bad radio, and scarfs it in three messy bites, cocoa smearing his thumb. he licks it off, ignoring utahime’s grimace, the room smelling of cheap chocolate and damp coats.
evening finds him at your door, fist raised, heart thumping like a stubborn drum. the hallway’s quiet, but he catches a hum from your place—kettle, maybe, or soft footsteps. it’s warm, domestic, and it twists his gut. he hesitates, fingers twitching, then drops his hand.
“not tonight,” he mumbles, slinking back to his apartment, steps heavy, like he’s hauling his own doubts.
his kitchen’s a disaster—takeout boxes piled like a drunk architect’s dream. he stares, something shifting, and starts clearing, wiping the counter until it shines. he grabs a dusty cookbook, spine soft as old leather, and flips to miso soup. he squints at the ingredients, glasses slipping. “who keeps dashi on hand?” he grumbles, ordering ramen instead.
he slurps noodles with loud, obnoxious gusto, broth splashing his hoodie. he wipes it with a sleeve, chuckling, the silence humming—not empty, but waiting, like a held breath. he thinks of you—your scowl, that electric touch, the way you snapped like he’s a puzzle you didn’t ask for. he laughs, a soft puff, and grabs his phone, scrolling digimon clips until his eyes droop.
sleep isn’t kind.
a nightmare unravels—suguru’s laugh, sharp as glass, shoko’s voice twisting into static. blood on his hands, warm and slick. he bolts awake, gasping, sweat soaking his shirt, chest heaving like he’s outrun death. his glasses sit crooked on the nightstand, glinting in moonlight.
satoru remembers the hit. why he hired an assassin. the blood.
he feels sick for grinning today. he lies there, hollow, staring at shadows crawling the ceiling. night presses his chest, heavy as a tide.
how many days left?
why do i want more?
meanwhile, you pace your apartment, the bento box glaring from the counter like it’s got dirt on you. you moved in to protect him—some jerk put a hit on a guy who wears frog socks and burns toast, and you decided he’s worth saving. but now he’s next door, grinning like he’s untouchable, and it’s messing with you. you’re not soft. you’re not attached. you’re just… doing the job. yeah.
“stupid,” you hiss, shoving the box in a drawer like it’s a crime scene. your heart’s racing, and you hate it—hate his laugh in the hallway, hate how his glasses make him look… human. you grab a knife, chop vegetables with vicious precision, each slice a wall against your feelings. you’re not here to care. you’re here to keep him breathing.
sleep skips you. you’re too busy listening for his steps, wondering who wants him dead, and why you’re so hellbent on stopping them.
wednesday begins with a mess.
satoru tosses and turns all night, long limbs tangling with the sheets in a restless war against sleep. sweat beads on his temple, and half-formed mutters slip from his lips as nightmares bleed into half-waking haze. by the time he finally dozes off, the sky pales with dawn, the world outside exhaling into morning.
the alarm screeches, but it barely grazes him. only when sunlight slices through the blinds, cutting across his face like a blade, does he bolt upright with a panicked gasp. his eyes dart to the clock. late.
he lurches out of bed, white hair a chaotic halo, sticking out like he’s been zapped. his movements jerk, a frantic dance of urgency—papers flutter to the floor like dying leaves as he shoves them into his bag. mismatched socks—one black, one with a faded pikachu barely clinging to life—peek from beneath hastily tied sneakers. his shirt, one sleeve half-rolled, the other flapping loose, billows as he sprints through his apartment.
no time for breakfast. no time for teeth. no time for mirrors. he’s a hurricane of chaos, long legs eating up space in reckless strides.
but then he sees you.
you stand at the bus stop, the calm in his storm, arms folded so tightly your knuckles gleam white, fingers twitching like you’re strangling your own nerves.
your eyes flick up at his ragged footsteps, narrowing into a glare that’s half disdain, half something softer you don’t mean to let slip. your hair catches the breeze, a strand falling across your cheek, and you huff sharply, swatting it away with a scowl. your spine stiffens, but your eyebrow twitches, betraying a flicker of amusement you’d never admit.
he skids to a stop, sneakers squeaking on damp pavement. his chest heaves, heart pounding like a war drum. he tugs at his shirt, a futile attempt to look less like a walking disaster, and runs a hand through his hair, only making the static worse. his reading glasses, perched crookedly on his nose, glint in the gray light.
“morning, neighbor,” he mumbles, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. it wavers under your piercing stare, like he’s been caught stealing.
“didn’t think you’d be the type to sprint to a bus stop,” you mutter, voice dripping with mock indifference, hiding the fact you’ve seen him stumble through life for days. your gaze rakes him, unimpressed. “you look like you got dressed in a blender.”
he lets out a breathless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, glasses slipping further. “yeah, well, mornings and i aren’t on speaking terms.”
you scoff, arms tightening, turning away like he’s a problem you don’t have time for. “not my problem,” you say, but your fingers twitch again, betraying the lie.
the bus rolls up with a hiss, packed and humid, reeking of overbrewed coffee and cloying perfume. somehow, in the crush of commuters, you end up side by side, your shoulder brushing his with every lurch. satoru flinches each time, like your touch is a live wire, his glasses fogging slightly from his own unsteady breath.
“where you headed?” he asks, voice cracking, like the question sneaks out without permission.
“your school,” you say, flat and clipped, eyes fixed on the window.
he blinks, glasses catching the light. “wait, my school? why?”
you open your mouth, then—
a jaywalker darts across the road.
the driver curses. brakes scream. the bus lurches violently.
satoru pitches forward with a yelp, his head smacking the seat bar with a dull thunk. his glasses slide halfway off, dangling precariously, and his bag spills, papers scattering like confetti across the grimy floor.
“ow,” he groans, dazed, one hand clutching his forehead, the other fumbling for his glasses. his hair flops into his eyes, a silver mess, and he blinks up at the ceiling like it might apologize.
your head whips to the window, eyes narrowing to slits, pupils shrinking to pinpricks. the jaywalker’s already gone, swallowed by the city, but your glare tracks the empty street like you could hunt him down with sheer will.
your jaw clenches, lips pressing into a thin line, and the air around you crackles with a lethal edge, like you’ve already planned his demise in fifty different ways. a nearby commuter shifts away, clutching her purse.
satoru, still rubbing his head, catches your expression and freezes. “whoa,” he mutters, voice soft with awe. “did you just… glare that guy into next week?”
“i didn’t do anything,” you snap, voice sharp enough to cut glass. but then you grab his arm, yanking him back into his seat with a strength that makes his eyes widen, his breath hitching. your grip lingers a second too long, firm and unyielding, before you let go like he’s burned you.
he stares, mouth half-open, as you lean in, your hand reaching up—slow, deliberate—to sweep his bangs aside. your fingers hover over the forming bruise on his forehead, your brow furrowing just enough to betray your worry. your touch is light but practiced, like you’ve patched up worse wounds in darker times.
“sit still,” you mutter, voice rough, laced with irritation you don’t mean. your eyes flick over the bruise, then away, like looking too long might unravel something.
he obeys, too startled to move, his heart tripping over itself. the closeness hits him like a punch—your breath warm, your fingers cool, the faint scent of your shampoo cutting through the bus’s stale air. his hands hover uselessly, not sure where to land, and his glasses fog again, blurring you into a soft-edged dream. he swallows, throat bobbing, and thinks, she’s kinda cute when she’s mad. then panics, cheeks flushing, because what the hell, brain?
“you’re really bad at not dying,” you say, pulling back, your scowl deeper now, like his survival’s a personal offense.
he laughs, a nervous, flustered sound, pushing his glasses up with a shaky finger. “thanks for, uh… keeping my skull intact.”
“don’t make it a habit,” you shoot back, crossing your arms so tightly your knuckles whiten again, your lips pursing like you’re biting back something softer.
the bus groans to a stop, the moment shattering. satoru scrambles to gather his scattered papers, stuffing them into his bag with all the grace of a toddler. you step off first, not looking back, your posture rigid but your fingers twitching like you want to turn around.
“so… why my school?” he asks, jogging to catch up, his sneakers squeaking on the wet pavement. his hair flops with each step, and he adjusts his glasses, still crooked.
“not exactly visiting,” you say, voice cool, eyes fixed ahead. “i’m the new school nurse.”
he stops dead, nearly tripping over his own feet. “wait, what?” his voice cracks, eyes wide behind his lenses. “you were just my neighbor yesterday! now you’re—what, saving kids from paper cuts?”
“life happens,” you say, shrugging, but your tone’s sharp, like you’re daring him to question it.
he blinks, then a grin spreads across his face, slow and delighted, his dimple flashing. “so i’ll see you every day now?” his voice’s too eager, too bright, and he catches himself, flushing deeper, ears pink as he tries to backtrack. “i mean, that’s—uh—convenient. for the students. who need… band-aids and stuff.” he rubs his neck, glasses slipping again, his smile wobbling between flustered and thrilled.
you stare, unimpressed, your scowl deepening as you mutter, “i didn’t move here for you, idiot.” your voice’s sharp, but your cheeks flush faintly, and you turn away, steps quickening like you could outrun your own lie.
satoru trails after you to the principal’s office, heart thudding, his bag swinging wildly. he keeps stealing glances, catching the way your hair sways, the way your fingers twitch like you’re fighting the urge to look back. he’s rattled, grinning like a fool, and he doesn’t even care.
by lunch, he shows up at the nurse’s office, balancing two sandwiches in one hand, a nervous smile tugging at his lips. he leans against the doorframe, trying for casual but missing by a mile—his hair’s still a mess, his shirt untucked, and his glasses are smudged, one lens catching the light.
“brought you something,” he says, holding out a sandwich, his voice softer, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to be here. “they’re not expired. i checked. twice.”
you sigh, long and suffering, but take one, your fingers brushing his just enough to make him flinch again. “you’re gonna be a pain, aren’t you?” you mutter, scowling, but your eyes soften for a split second as you unwrap the sandwich, inspecting it like it’s a trap.
he plops into a chair, unwrapping his own sandwich with exaggerated care, like he’s defusing a bomb. “just being neighborly,” he says, grinning, then launches into a story about a student who tried to “solve” a math problem with a drawing of a dragon. his hands wave, glasses slipping, and his voice sparkles, filling the tiny office with warmth. you eat in silence, glancing at him more than you mean to, your scowl softening despite yourself.
mid-story, you reach out, almost without thinking, brushing a stray strand of his hair back. your fingers linger near his temple, tracing the bruise’s faint purple edge. your touch is light, deliberate, but your expression’s pure irritation, like his injury’s a personal insult.
satoru freezes, sandwich halfway to his mouth, eyes wide behind his smudged glasses. his breath hitches, and his heart does a clumsy flip, like it hasn’t gotten the memo to stay calm. the room feels smaller, the air thicker, and he swears he feels your pulse through your fingertips.
a beat. two.
the bell rings.
he jolts, nearly launching his sandwich, crumbs flying like tiny comets. “shit—i gotta—uh—class!” he stammers, scrambling to his feet, his bag catching on the chair and nearly toppling it.
he stumbles out, still clutching his sandwich, and walks straight into the doorframe with a loud thunk. “i’m fine!” he calls over his shoulder, voice cracking, before disappearing down the hall, his ears burning red.
the afternoon passes in a haze. he keeps touching the spot where your fingers lingered, a goofy grin creeping onto his face every time. his students notice, whispering among themselves.
“sensei, do you have a girlfriend?” a girl asks, grinning like she’s cracked a code.
satoru chokes on air, flailing for his chalk. “no! definitely not! absolutely not!” he sputters, glasses fogging as his face turns crimson. the class erupts into laughter, and he tries to laugh it off, but his hand strays to his temple again, brushing the bruise like it’s a talisman.
nanami passes by, pausing to give him a slow, pointed look. “just be careful, gojo,” he says, voice dry. “you’ve been… fragile lately.”
the word sticks, echoing in his head. fragile. he forces a laugh, tossing his hair back. “me? indestructible,” he says, but the grin doesn’t reach his eyes, and his chest feels tight, like he’s swallowed a stone.
when the final bell rings, he lingers, pretending to organize papers that are already a mess. the school empties, halls echoing with fading footsteps, and he drifts back to the nurse’s office, heart ticking like a countdown.
“taking the same bus home?” he asks, leaning in the doorway, trying for nonchalance but betrayed by the way his glasses slip again.
you nod, grabbing your bag, your scowl firmly in place. “don’t make it weird,” you mutter, brushing past him, your shoulder grazing his just enough to make his breath catch.
the walk to the bus stop is quiet, easy, the air heavy with the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and roasted chestnuts from a nearby stall. satoru’s sneakers squeak, his hair flops with each step, and he hums the digimon theme under his breath, off-key but unapologetic. on the bus, he leans closer, his shoulder brushing yours deliberately this time, a shy grin tugging at his lips.
“you mentioned knives earlier,” he says, voice light, like he’s testing the waters. “weird hobby for a nurse.”
“i like craftsmanship,” you say, eyes unreadable, voice sharp but steady, your fingers twitching like you want to grab something—maybe him, maybe your own nerves.
he chuckles, low and warm, his glasses fogging again. “you’re full of surprises,” he says, and the delight in his voice is unmistakable, like he’s found a puzzle he can’t wait to solve.
at the apartment building, we pause at our doors, the hallway dim and quiet. satoru’s bag swings at his side, his hair catching the faint light from a flickering bulb.
“thanks for, y’know, making sure my brain didn’t leak out my ears this morning,” he says, tilting his head, his smile soft but teasing, dimple flashing.
“be more careful,” you snap, but your hand twitches toward him, like you want to check his bruise again. you catch yourself, shoving your hands into your pockets, your scowl deepening as you turn away. “i’m not your babysitter.”
he laughs, bright and unfiltered, the sound bouncing in the empty hall. “where’s the fun in that?” he calls after you, slipping inside his apartment. the door clicks shut, and he leans against it, staring at the ceiling, his heart racing like a kid who’s just dodged a bullet.
the kitchen gleams from last night’s cleaning, a rare island of order in his chaotic world. the bento box is gone, but its warmth clings to his chest, a stubborn spark. he stands there, stomach growling, and eyes the counter like it’s a battlefield. instant ramen’s on the menu again—his sad, familiar crutch, the fuel of a guy who’d scarf gas station sushi and call it a meal. but something shifts tonight, a tiny crack in his routine.
he grabs a packet from the cupboard, plastic crinkling under his fingers, and sets water to boil. the pot hisses, steam curling up, fogging his glasses as he hovers over it like a nervous chef.
your face flashes in his mind—your scowl, your careful touch, the bento’s carved carrots and tamagoyaki that tasted like care. his hand pauses, hovering over the ramen, and he glances at the fridge. there’s a single egg, tucked in the back, a forgotten relic from some optimistic grocery trip.
he snatches it, cracking it against the counter with a dramatic flourish, like he’s auditioning for a cooking show. the shell splits clean, and he drops the yolk into the broth, watching it bloom like a tiny sunrise, white threads swirling in the heat.
“look at me, adulting,” he mutters, grinning, his voice light but tinged with something heavier. the egg’s not much—not your bento, not a meal you’d nod at—but it’s something. a nod to the warmth you shoved into his hands, the care you hid behind a scowl.
he stirs the pot, the egg weaving into the noodles, and the steam carries a richer scent—not just salt and starch, but something almost nourishing. his mind drifts to his usual diet: expired soda, burned toast, candy bars wolfed down in faculty meetings. a pang hits, sharp and unfamiliar, like he’s waking up to how he’s been daring death to catch him. this egg, small as it is, feels like a middle finger to that. a choice to stick around.
he eats on the couch, legs folded, digimon flickering across the screen. the ramen’s hot, the egg silky, and he slurps with obnoxious gusto, broth splashing onto his hoodie.
he wipes it with a sleeve, grinning like a kid who’s gotten away with something. his thoughts keep slipping—to your lethal glare, your electric touch, the way you muttered “sit still” like he’s a puzzle you don’t want but can’t ditch.
“i’m in so much trouble,” satoru says to the empty room, voice warm with delight, glasses slipping as he tips his head back. the bruise on his forehead pulses faintly, a reminder of your fingers, and he touches it, smiling like it’s a secret he’s thrilled to keep.
sleep wraps him gently tonight, a soft haze. dreams flicker—your face, sharp and soft, your scowl melting into something he can’t name. when he wakes, the bruise doesn’t ache as much, and the egg’s warmth lingers in his chest, a quiet promise of tomorrow’s chaos.
tag list : @raendarkfaerie @inoluvrr @miizuzu @lolightrealm @whytfisgojosohot
MDNI/NSFW- just smut tbh, Nanami calls reader darling, and a 'fuck toy', talking you through it, explicit sex, oral (f receiving) cum play, dirty talk
Nanami falls apart when you're on top of him for the first time, a man so dominant just loves to watch your tits bounce, your face fucked out, lips opening and emitting a gasp of pleasure. Nanami's big hands press into your hips, as you roll on his cock, walls convulsing as your thighs press against his hips.
"That's it, you're doing so good, darling..." He's murmuring, watching you work, seeing his cock disappearing in and out of your soaking wet little cunt, drooling across the soft pubic hair, making it glisten. "Fuck, look at you, riding me. Can you take all of it?"
"N-Nanami... is this... y-you sure..." You're struggling to take about half of his veiny length, stretching out your cunt, burning just a bit, but it feels so fucking good, so good you just stop for a moment, whining then."
"Do you need me to take over, pretty girl?" He whispers, leaning up then, as you brace your hands on his chest, well muscled and so defined.
"No, I w-wanna do it..." He's chuckling just a bit, strong abdomens tensing and flexing, cupping your face as he jerks his hips up so mean then, shoving his cock fully in- earning your gasp. "Mnh! F-fuck..."
"Feel her, she wants me to do the work, hmm?" You're laying on his chest, thin sheen of sweat between you both, when he holds your hips up, cock drenched with your arousal. "Want me to use you, like my pretty fuck toy?"
"P-please, Ken- ah!" Your eyes roll back again when he slams up into you, cock pushing so deep in your slick walls, and he's holding you up like it's nothing, pounding up into you. "Too much!"
"No, you can take it can't you, darling? Be a good little toy for me, would you?" He murmurs, lips glossy, latching onto a nipple as he shoves your hips down, his tip pressing against your cervix, a scream rips from your throat as you shatter, cumming all over him then. "That's it, good girl."
You're speechless, drooling as he keeps fucking up into you, holding you like you are just a little toy, hazel eyes lidded and dilated while you weakly cling to him. You wanted to try to take him this way, but feeling him take over is just too good.
"Cum again, would you, lemme feel you. There it is, let go." Nanami talks you right into your next orgasm, until you're a weak, trembling fucking mess, but he's not done, even as he pours his hot, gooey load in your quivering walls. He has you on your back, lapping his own cum out of you, as your hands grip silky locks, hips bucking up.
"Look how much cum you're wasting, tsk." He clicks his tongue just a bit, shoving two thick fingers in your drippy hole.
"God that feels s-so good..." Your breathy whisper earns his smirk, as he watches your pretty breasts rise and fall, feels your manicured nails against his scalp.
"I told you, you're a pillow princess." You manage a glare, but his tongue changes your mouth to a slutty O.
"Mnh! I tried to- Kento..." Your hips arch as he laps a string of that gooey white cum up, hitting your sensitive clit with his hot breath. "You just want me to be one!"
He chuckles, looking up at your pretty body, the bruises on your waist and hips, the white cum pouring out between puffy, sore lips, nipping your inner thigh. "Maybe I do."
♡ 💜 ♡︎
I miss writing for Nanami, so I had to do a lil drabble, should write more of him!
It sparks something inside him; to see the tears run down your face, to watch you have a load full of him yet he still fills you up. Even when you don’t want anymore. It gets him excited. It makes him go feral pumping load after load into while your body has almost given up on you because it’s been 2 hours.
“Yeah?— You like that shit, princess? Good whore—“ He thrusted deeply into you, hand over your mouth since you had been shrieking and screaming like a fucking banshee. You gripped tightly onto your vanity, trying your dam hardest not to slide everything off the table.
You can barely take it anymore.
“I know you can take more, baby, I know you can. F’me, baby, just for me, m’kay?” He landed a light smack on your ass before going back fucking you like a madman. “Oh, baby you look so pretty. So, so, beautiful.”
“B-Babe— can feel you all the way up here…” You whined out just barely while you looked yourself in your vanity mirror. Desperate. Absolutely needy. A fucking whore. You managed to place a hand over your upper stomach. Holy fuck he was so big— you were sure of it. And he was sure you’d probably pass out because of how damn big he was.
You’re so humiliated. He makes you so humiliated. And as much as it shames you, you can’t get enough of him. You’re helpless, your ashamed and he loves that thought, It gets him turned on even more. He loves seeing you wear that sheepish yet dumb expression on your face when he’s fucking your brains out. Makes his dick hard each time he thinks about it.
And yes, even when he’s done fucking the shit out of you, he’ll do it all over again. ♡♡
ꨄ︎ pairing. au ceo! satoru gojo x single mom secretary fem! reader
ꨄ summary. satoru gojo, the arrogant and irresistible heir to a billion-dollar corporation and the son of your boss, the ceo... but when satoru’s father dies unexpectedly, his inheritance hinges on a stipulation: he must marry and have a child, but the child doesn't necessarily have to be his, right? together, you strike a deal: a fake marriage that promises financial stability for you and corporate control for him. as the lines between business and emotion blur, you must decide if your partnership is purely contractual or if it could evolve into something real.
ꨄ︎status. ongoing
ꨄ︎ warnings/tags. 18+ MDNI, nsfw, enemies to lovers, opposites attract, fake marriage, slow burn, smut, fluff, bit of angst, reader is single mom who recently broke off her engagement, satoru being a cute step dad, naoya is your crappy ex, some triggers of domestic abuse (it is emotional but it can be a bit suggestive/interpreted as physical, note this is from naoya not satoru)
ꨄ︎ words: currently 139k
ꨄ︎ a/n. hello ya'll, my name is aly and if you read my fic thank you so much from the bottom of my heart! this story really hit the ground running, originally it was a request from a lovely anon ♡ and apparently i cannot write short fics for the life of me because it turned into something big lol, halp.. i'm unsure how many chapters it will have because i am just seeing where the inspiration takes me :') i will update tags/warnings as the story progresses. thanks for reading <3 (also this will have a happy ending)
ꨄ︎ taglist: closed (ao3)
ꨄ series tags #mhm #motherhood and matrimony
♬︎ playlist
ꨄ︎ chapters
ch 1 // circumstances and commitments
ch 2 // under the spotlight
ch 3 // fractured realities
ch 4 // shadows of doubt
ch 5 // a leap of faith
ch 6 // drenched in truth
ch 7 // the road ahead
ch 8 // inhale, exhale
ch 9 // blood and betrayal
ch 10 // pending..
ch 11 // pending..
ch 12 // pending..
ch 13 // pending..
ꨄ︎ extra chapters
autumn special // harvesting happiness (read after ch 6)
christmas special // wrapped in love (read after ch 7)
tags: geto suguru x you; canon-compliant (but it isn't important to this fic); set some time after his defection; you both co-parent nanako-mimiko; established relationship; Fluff with a capital F; Smut with a capital S; you both aren’t just down bad for each other—you’re down catastrophic.
warnings: mostly porn with minimal plot—vacation sex; mostly dom geto and mostly sub reader; oral sex (fem!receiving); p-in-v sex (unprotected); Vanilla with a capital V—the smut is pretty sweet and loving, besties.
word count: 3648.
oneshot, loosely related to 'peel your heart like a pomegranate'.
The night air is thick with salt, the distant lull of waves a gentle, rhythmic hush against the shore.
Inside the villa, moonlight spills softly through sheer curtains, casting silver across the pristine wooden floors. You’ve just tucked Nanako and Mimiko into bed, their steady breathing a comforting lullaby as you quietly close their door. Now, your own room beckons, promising a brief moment of quiet before sleep.
Yawning, you stretch your arms high above your head, the light fabric of your nightgown and overcoat lifting with the motion. The indulgent stretch feels like relief—until an awareness prickles down your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck standing. Lowering your arms, your gaze flicks toward the balcony, and there, already watching you, is Geto.
He leans against the railing, backlit by the moon, his face cast in shadow but the heat in his eyes unmistakable—slow-burning and certain. It sends a ripple through you, stirring something deep inside.
Wordlessly, you step forward.
The balcony doors whisper open as you move, the cool night air brushing against your skin. He doesn’t shift, doesn’t speak—just watches you come to stand beside him. The vast, endless ocean stretches before you, but your attention is fixed on the weight of his gaze.
“You okay?” you ask, your voice quieter than you expect.
Geto exhales a soft laugh, his gaze never leaving you. “Yeah,” he replies, his tone slow, considering. “Just enjoying the view.”
The way he says it wraps warmth around your chest, tightening with something unreadable. You look away, pretending to focus on the waves, but the heat lingers, creeping up your neck.
Neither of you speak for a while, the night quiet but for the whisper of the wind.
It tugs at your nightgown, cool against your skin, sending a shiver through you. Then, without a word, Geto shifts closer, his fingers barely grazing yours against the railing.
“You’re cold,” he murmurs, voice lowering.
You swallow, nodding. “A little.”
He turns to you fully then, closing the space between you until his body is pressed against yours. His hand lifts, tracing slowly down your arm—deliberate, testing the air between you. “Come here,” he says, barely above a whisper.
You do, or maybe he pulls you in—you can’t quite tell, because in the next instant, his mouth is on yours. The kiss starts slow, tender, but soon, he tilts his head, deepening it, and suddenly, you can’t breathe, can’t think beyond the way he holds you, the way his lips move against yours, warm and insistent.
A soft sound escapes you—a mix of a sigh and a whimper. Geto catches it with another kiss, then another, each one stealing more air from your lungs until you’re leaning into him for support.
He pulls away just enough to trail soft kisses along your jaw and the curve of your throat. Then, lifting his head, he presses his mouth just beneath your ear. You gasp, your fingers instinctively curling into the fabric of his shirt.
“Sensitive?” he murmurs, the smirk clear in his voice.
You can’t answer—not when he’s pressing open-mouthed kisses down your neck, slow, savoring, his breath warm against your skin.
A shudder racks through you, the sensation both heightened and interrupted as the night breeze brushes your bare arms. The overcoat slips from your shoulders, pooling soundlessly at your feet, leaving you in only the thin slip of your nightgown. Goosebumps rise in its wake, but Geto is quick to pull you closer, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head.
“Senpai—” Your voice catches in a breathless whisper, swallowed by the sensation of his lips sucking gently at the tender skin of your neck. Your fingers tighten around the fabric of his shirt before they shift, pressing into his shoulders, your breath unsteady as warmth blooms in your chest, curling low in your stomach.
“Mm,” he hums against you, mouth curling at the mark he leaves. His tongue soothes the spot before he sucks again, and this time, a broken moan escapes you.
He exhales a quiet laugh, the sound low, pleased. “That’s cute.”
Your nails dig deeper into his shoulders, your breathing a frantic rhythm as he leans back just enough to admire his work. The cool night air nips at the new mark blooming on your neck, a sharp contrast to the heat thrumming through you.
His fingers slide down your spine, slow and deliberate, grounding you. When your eyes meet his, the gaze that locks with yours is dark, smoldering—familiar, yet unreadable.
“You should’ve told me you get this shy,” he teases, his voice low, warm, and amused. His hand moves from the curve of your back to your lips, his thumb brushing over them, tracing their shape like he’s committing it to memory.
You glare weakly, though it’s lost in the way your heart is pounding. “You talk too much.”
His grin spreads, slow and lazy. “Yeah?” he murmurs, eyes flicking to your lips again. “Guess I’ll have to do something about that.”
Before you can say anything, he pulls you back in, kissing you again—deeper this time—until all you can do is melt against him, palms trailing down his arms, breath hitching, heart hammering in your chest.
He pulls away just enough to give you a moment to breathe before his fingers gently tilt your chin, bringing your lips together again. Your hands find their way back to his shoulders, and the kiss is slow, deep, dizzying. When he pulls back, his lips hover just above yours.
“You okay?” he murmurs, his voice low, rough, his breath mingling with yours.
You swallow, nodding—but it’s a little useless when he presses another kiss to your jaw, his nose brushing your cheek.
Things blur after that.
You’re pressed close, mouths meeting over and over. His hands keep you steady when your knees weaken, and when his palms slide lower, gripping beneath your thighs, you gasp against his lips. Without warning, he lifts you, effortless, and the warmth of his body against yours sends a ripple of heat through you, unwavering even as your heart stutters.
“Wha—” Your breath catches.
His lips curve into a knowing smirk. “Taking you somewhere better.”
Before you can respond, you’re dropped onto the bed. The plush sheets catch you with a quiet bounce, and the air prickles at your skin. But it’s the way Geto looks at you—dark eyes trailing over you, slow and deliberate—that keeps the heat burning higher.
You shift, heart pounding in your chest. “…What?”
He blinks, his smirk widening. “Just looking.”
Your face burns hotter. “You’re staring.”
“Mhm.” He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he leans down, one forearm pressing into the mattress as his voice drops, smooth and slow, a hum beneath it. “What? Don’t like it?”
You can’t answer—not when he kisses you again, swallowing whatever remark you had into something softer, messier. His hand drags up your leg, fingertips pressing into your skin. You shudder, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, catching the small sound that slips from you.
It’s all warmth, all hands and mouths, and the steady press of him against you. The weight of your nightgown shifts, slipping higher as his hands wander, fingers brushing along bare skin, leaving heat in their wake. His mouth scarcely leaves yours as he tugs at the fabric, guiding it over your shoulders and letting it slip away. His hands move lower next, slipping beneath your panties and tugging them down without hesitation. You barely register either, too consumed by the feel of his lips on yours, the way his hands settle on your exposed skin—warm, firm, insistent.
Your breath hitches as he pulls back, dark eyes flickering over you—just for a moment, just enough for you to catch something deeper stirring behind them.
Then, without warning, he’s moving lower.
His lips press to your sternum, slow, deliberate, trailing downward as his fingers slide along your sides, slipping over the curve of your waist, the dip of your hips. His hands squeeze firmly before parting, thumbs tracing a path down, coaxing your legs further apart.
Your breath catches. His mouth follows, kisses pressing along the inside of your thigh—warm, unhurried, each one sending heat curling low in your stomach.
A small sound slips from you, shaky and fragile, and he exhales, the warmth of it spilling over your skin.
“Relax, love,” he murmurs, kissing just a little closer.
Another breathy sound escapes, half moan, half his name.
Geto chuckles darkly, pleased, and presses another kiss—slow, lingering, just at the edge of where you need him most.
His lips trail teasingly against your skin, lips tracing the spot in the slowest, most maddening way. His hands move to press firm against your hips, keeping you where he wants you, thumbs sweeping in slow, grounding circles.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, amused.
You don’t have the breath to respond—not when he leans in, his mouth pressing lower, heat and softness all at once. A sharp gasp escapes you, fingers twisting in the sheets as your back arches.
The first touch is featherlight—barely there, a tease, as though he’s savoring the anticipation more than anything else. The second is deliberate: his lips part, his tongue tracing slowly, precisely. You gasp again, your breath hitching into a broken moan.
“Oh—”
His grip on your hips tightens, a hum of satisfaction vibrating against your skin. He’s thorough, precise, but unhurried—taking his time, listening to the way your breath stutters, how your body tenses before melting into his touch.
“Senpai—” The word slips from your lips, breathless and soft, barely audible.
He doesn’t answer, only continues, slow and unrelenting. His tongue works its way over you, his mouth sealing around you with a heat that makes your stomach coil. The pleasure builds in waves, cresting higher, threatening to pull you under. Letting go of the sheets, your fingers tremble as they tangle into his dark hair, a silent, desperate plea escaping your lips. But he doesn’t ease up. If anything, he deepens his efforts, tightening the tension inside you until it feels like you might shatter.
It’s too much, too good—the sensation dizzying, your body taut and trembling beneath him. You whimper, a broken, breathless sound, and he hums in response, deep and satisfied, sending a fresh shiver through you.
“Mm,” he muses, his voice muffled against your core. “You taste so perfect, my love, I could stay here for hours, completely lost in you.”
The words barely register, lost in the haze of sensation, in the way he lingers, keeping you on the edge, refusing to let you fall just yet. Your breath hitches, your thighs trembling around him.
“Please—”
He chuckles softly, dark and pleased.
“So polite,” he murmurs, his voice deep with indulgence. “Go on, then.”
Geto’s final stroke is devastating. A sharp, precise flick of his tongue, a firm press of his mouth, and you’re gone—coming apart with a cry, pleasure crashing over you in waves that leave your breath ragged, your body trembling beneath him. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t ease up until you’re gasping his name in the aftermath, thighs weak, chest heaving.
Finally, he pulls away, pressing one last kiss to the inside of your thigh before dragging his mouth back up, slow and unhurried—savoring the wrecked state he’s left you in.
He hovers over you, smirk lazy, lips gleaming, brushing the backs of his fingers over your flushed cheek.
“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs, leaning down, his voice warm and thick with satisfaction. “Should let me do that more often.”
Your breath still uneven, fingers tangled in his hair, you let out a soft whine, cheeks flushed. “You—”
He silences you with a kiss, deep and unrepentant, stealing the rest of your words.
The kiss lingers just long enough to leave you aching for more, but before you can reach for it, Geto pulls away, his body shifting as he presses into yours—a slow, deliberate weight that has heat pooling low in your stomach again. He's warm against you, the steady rise and fall of his chest pressing closer, grounding you in a way that’s both dizzying and intoxicating.
Your fingers skim down his back, only to brush against the soft fabric of his t-shirt. Your brows furrow, a faint scowl tugging at the corners of your mouth, and you tug lightly at the waistband of his pajama pants, puffing out a little sigh.
“You’re still wearing these?”
Geto huffs a quiet laugh, voice rough at the edges. “Wasn’t exactly thinking about myself.”
His gaze flickers over you then, dark and heavy with something indulgent. He doesn’t move right away, taking a slow, deliberate moment to admire you, drinking in the way your body still trembles from his touch. But when you tug again, a quiet, pointed whine escaping your lips, he exhales, shaking his head fondly.
“Alright, alright.”
His hands move then, pushing his shirt up first, then pulling his pajama pants down, both garments falling away in one smooth motion. The moment feels weightier, more real, as he leans back over you, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder before meeting your gaze. “Better?”
You hum, letting your fingers trail over his ribs, down his stomach. “Much.”
The kiss that follows is slow at first, deep and unhurried, like he’s savoring every sigh, every little sound you make. But the heat between you intensifies with each movement, with every soft, shared breath. When he shifts again, guiding your legs around his waist, you gasp, the sheer intimacy sending a shiver through you.
There’s a brief pause—his forehead pressing to yours, a quiet inhale against your cheek—before he moves, sinking into you with aching, deliberate intensity.
A sharp, breathless moan escapes you as the air leaves your lungs. Your fingers clutch his shoulders, the sensation almost too much to bear. It’s not just the feeling itself—it’s him, the way he holds you, the way his breath shudders against your skin, the quiet groan he lets out as he settles fully against you.
“God—” Your voice trembles, lost between a gasp and a sigh.
Geto exhales harshly, tightening his grip on you. “I know.”
His first few movements are slow, teasing, as though he’s savoring the way you shiver beneath him. His hands wander, tracing deliberate paths down your sides, over your thighs, as though he’s trying to memorize every inch of you. But when your hips shift up to meet his, when your breath stutters into something more desperate, more pleading, his control slips.
The rhythm shifts, growing faster, each movement sending sparks of pleasure curling up your spine, fanning the flames of desire low in your belly. It’s steady and intoxicating—the kind of pace that has you trembling with need, burning to get closer. His breath shudders against your temple, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer. You don’t know if you’re pulling him closer or if he’s holding you tighter, but in the haze of it all, it hardly matters. You're caught in the swell of it—
Caught in him, in the way he feels, in the way he moves, in the way every roll of his hips steals the breath from your lungs, leaving you gasping.
Your fingers tangle in his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp, and he groans—a low, rough sound like he’s barely holding himself together.
“Feels—” You try to speak, but the words disintegrate into a broken moan, your head tipping back into the pillows.
His mouth finds your throat, then your collarbone, kissing and nipping at every spot that makes you shiver. “Yeah?” His voice is strained, rough with restraint. “Tell me.”
You can’t—there are no words left, only the frantic way your body moves against his, the way your breath catches when his pace falters, just for a second. The groan that escapes him is deep and needy, and it pushes you closer, too close to the edge.
Everything tightens, spiraling higher, like a live wire straining for release.
The tension coils unrelentingly in your stomach, winding tighter with each movement, each press of his body against yours. Every breath, every touch, every lingering caress drags you closer, a dizzying drop just out of reach, and you can feel it—so close, just there, just—
“Geto—” His name escapes you in a desperate, breathless whimper, and that’s all it takes.
His hand slides between you, his fingers hot and insistent, guiding you closer, coaxing you over the edge—and the pleasure crashes into you. Fierce and unrelenting, all-consuming and devastating, it floods your senses, pulling you under with its overwhelming intensity. Your back arches, your throat opening with a sharp cry that’s torn from the deepest part of you, the sensation tearing you apart and rebuilding you in the same breath.
Geto groans against your skin, the sound desperate and raw, and then—he’s lost.
He follows you, his body jerking with the force of it, a deep, trembling moan escaping him as he presses against you, as if he wants to bury himself inside you completely. The warmth of his release floods through you, thick and overwhelming, making your breath hitch. You tighten instinctively around him, a soft gasp escaping as each pulse deepens the connection between you, the sensation of him inside you consuming every part of your being. It's all-encompassing—the heat, the pleasure, and him blending together until you’re not sure where you end and he begins.
For a moment, everything fades away—sound, breath, even time itself. Then, gently, the world tilts, slows, and steadies.
His breath, slow and uneven against your shoulder, is the first thing to bring you back to the present. His arms, still wrapped around you, don’t loosen, as though he has no intention of letting go anytime soon. A long, slow silence stretches between you, filled only by the sound of your breathing, the gentle rise and fall of your chests.
Then, finally, he exhales, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. His voice is a quiet murmur against your skin.
“…Still cold?”
You let out a weak, breathless laugh, your fingers brushing lazily through his hair. “Shut up.”
His smirk returns, softer now, and he kisses you again—slow and deep, like he has all the time in the world. After a beat, he draws back just enough to meet your gaze.
“Tired?” he asks, his voice low and languid but filled with an unmistakable warmth.
You hum, neither confirming nor denying, just letting the sound slip out as you nuzzle closer. You feel the deep chuckle that rumbles through him more than you hear it.
His fingers brush the dip of your waist. “Too tired to move?”
Another hum, this one softer. You feel his lips curve against your temple.
“Guess that means I did a good job,” he murmurs, the teasing edge unmistakable.
You roll your eyes, but the huff of air you let out isn’t really exasperation. If anything, it’s closer to fond amusement. His hand roams a little lower now, tracing lazy, slow paths over your skin.
For a while, you let yourself sink into it, enjoying the quiet warmth of him, the steady comfort of his touch. But then his palm drags lower over the curve of your hip, his fingers pressing lightly into the soft skin of your thigh, and something stirs in you—something that never really left.
He must feel it, too—the way your breath catches, the slight tension in your muscles beneath his touch—because his hand stills for a moment before resuming its path, more deliberate now. His lips find your shoulder, pressing a kiss there, slow and thoughtful.
“You sure you’re tired?” His voice is quieter now, rougher.
You don’t hum this time.
Instead, you shift, stretching slightly beneath his touch, letting your leg slide over his with deliberate slowness. The movement is languid, but it’s enough.
Enough for him to feel the subtle pull of your body toward his, enough for the heat between you to reignite with a quiet spark.
Exhaling through his nose, a low, drawn-out breath that seems to linger in the quiet air between you, Geto’s grip tightens—firm, possessive, leaving a subtle mark of his intent on your skin. He shifts, like he’s about to roll you over, but before he can, you press a hand to his chest, your palm warm and steady against the solid breadth of him, gently holding him back against the mattress.
He stills.
Then, after a pause—
“…Oh?”
You push yourself up, slow and purposeful, shifting to straddle him, your weight settling into place with a quiet press of heat. His breath catches, his hands coming to rest at your hips—firm but unhurried, his touch waiting, not rushing. His eyes lock with yours in the dim light, dark and searching, like he’s trying to read you in that brief, pregnant silence.
The silence lingers for a moment, heavy with anticipation, before you tilt your head with a soft smile, your voice a gentle tease. “Now, it’s your turn to stay still.”
A soft chuckle rumbles from his chest, low and indulgent. His fingers flex against your skin, the touch not demanding, but sure.
“Is that so?”
You lean down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth, then another just below his jaw, a quiet mark of affection. “Mmhm.” Another kiss, this one lower now. “I think I like you like this.”
His grip tightens, but just enough to remind you that he's holding back, allowing you to take the reins. “Guess I should let you have your fun, then.”
You smile adoringly against his skin, letting the warmth of the moment wrap around you both, the steady thrum of his presence anchoring you to the now, to this perfect moment.
And then—
The fire catches again, reigniting with a newfound intensity.
geto suguru’s guide on fraternising with the enemy
summary: geto suguru has been your greatest rival since your first year at hogwarts, always outdoing you in class and always getting under your skin. when he’s picked as the hogwarts champion for the triwizard tournament instead of you, you think you couldn’t possibly hate him more—until he corners you one evening and asks for your help.
⇢ pairing: slytherin!geto suguru x gryffindor!fem!reader
⇢ contains: romance, angst, slowburn, academic rivals to lovers au, hogwarts au, profanity, dragons, injuries, fights about blood purity, mentions of underage drinking—please let me know if i’ve missed anything!
⇢ word count: 24.2k
⇢ note: big big thank you to @etherealyoungk for making this gorgeous banner! thank you for reading ♡
The only thing worse than losing to Geto Suguru is being expected to smile about it.
When the Goblet of Fire coughs out the charred piece of parchment with his name written on it, it feels as though the entire Great Hall erupts around you. Hoots of excitement ricochet off the enchanted ceiling, mingling with groans of disapproval—chiefly from your housemates, who baulked at the audacity of a Slytherin representing Hogwarts. You, however, couldn’t join in either chorus. No, you sit frozen at the Gryffindor table, lips pressed tightly together in an attempt to keep your tears at bay.
Geto Suguru stands from his place among the Slytherins, shrugging off his best friend’s arm from around his shoulders. His head turns, and somehow, through the sea of cheering faces, his gaze locks onto yours. There is something almost incendiary in his look—smugness molded into a smile, something defiant in the tilt of his jaw. You grind your teeth, irritated.
Suguru is now the Hogwarts Champion, elevated above the rest of you. You are nothing more than the runner-up—a title no one cares enough about to utter aloud.
“Hard luck,” Utahime, your friend and the Head Girl, murmurs beside you, her hand light as a feather on your shoulder. Her voice is low and kind, yet utterly ineffective against the disappointment you feel. You give her a tight, forced smile, though your silence only seems to amplify her sympathy.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Not after years of outpouring your soul into every spell and hex you learnt, every essay you wrote, every late night spent at the library. You had scraped, clawed, and bled for this chance, and somehow, despite all your efforts, Suguru had stepped in and robbed you blind. The betting pool Shoko and Mei Mei had organised suddenly feels cruel in hindsight. Everyone had bet on either you or Suguru—no one else had even come close to being a contender.
Your hands tremble slightly as you push back from the bench. You barely register the names of the foreign champions—Aleksandar Ivanov of Durmstrang, Amélie DuPont of Beauxbatons. You don’t care. The Great Hall feels stifling, so you stand up abruptly and begin weaving your way towards the exit.
The cool air of the corridor hits you like a balm, soothing the heat rising in your chest. You walk with no real destination, footsteps echoing faintly against the stone walls, until you reach one of the tall windows overlooking the grounds. Moonlight spills across the landscape, painting the Forbidden Forest with silver. You lean against the cold stone ledge, and inhale deeply.
The bitterness simmering in your chest refuses to ebb. You had wanted this so badly, had poured every ounce of effort into proving you were the best, not just to Hogwarts but to yourself. But, as always, Geto Suguru had swooped in and stolen it from you.
“Running away so soon?”
You don’t turn immediately. Instead, you close your eyes and inhale slowly once more. When you finally turn, Geto Suguru stands a few feet away, leaning against the wall. His black hair is tied back neatly, save for a loose strand that falls against his cheek.
“I didn’t realise I needed your permission to leave,” you say coolly, crossing your arms over your chest.
“It’s not as much fun winning,” Suguru says, “if my competition isn’t around to see it.”
“Competition?” You scoff. “That implies we were on equal footing to begin with.”
His smile widens, and he takes a step closer. “You’re not giving up that easily, are you? I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be brave.”
You want to snap at him, say something cutting enough to wipe that stupid self-satisfied grin off his face, but the words stick in your throat. He’s insufferable, yes, but you know that’s exactly what he wants—to pull a reaction from you. And Merlin help you, he’s good at it.
“What do you want, Suguru?” you ask, exhaustion finally seeping into your tone. “Shouldn’t you be celebrating with the rest of your house?”
“Of course, but like I said, it’s no fun if my favourite rival isn’t around to see it.”
You bristle at his words. “Favourite rival? You were desperate to beat me, Suguru.”
“So were you,” he points out, and it takes all your self-restraint not to do something horrifically stupid like punch him in the face. “If I’m desperate, it only means you’re worth the effort.”
“Congratulations, Suguru,” you say hollowly. “You’ve won the Goblet’s favour. What do you want, a parade?”
“I want your help.” Suguru steps forward, his movements unhurried, his expression calculated.
You blink. “What?”
“You should be proud,” he says. “You were a close second.”
The words sting more than you would like to admit. You narrow your eyes at him. “Spare me your pity.”
“It’s not pity,” he replies. “It’s acknowledgment. You’re good. Maybe even better than me in some ways.”
You suck in a breath sharply, thrown off balance. This is not what you expected—not from Geto Suguru, at least. You ask warily, “Is this some sort of tactic to get me to like you?”
Your rival chuckles wryly. “No, but it’d be stupid to ignore the fact that you’re good. You wouldn’t have been the biggest threat to my name being called otherwise.”
His admission leaves you momentarily speechless, a rare occurrence when it comes to Geto Suguru. You can’t decide whether to feel insulted or flattered, so you settle for glaring at him instead. The torch light softens the planes of his face, casting a warm glow on his cheekbones and the edges of his smile. He infuriates you so much.
“Help me,” Suguru says again.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“I’m serious,” he says, folding his arms. “You’re as competitive as I am, and you hate losing. If anyone understands what’s at stake in this tournament, it’s you.”
“That’s a very pretty way of saying you want me to do your work for you,” you shoot back.
“I’m asking because I know you’re capable,” he presses on, ignoring your jab. “You think I haven’t noticed how good you are at strategising? Or how quick you are to spot weaknesses, whether it’s in a spell or a person?”
You stare at him, suspicious. It’s not the first time someone has acknowledged your abilities, but it’s the first time he’s done it. As much as you loathe to admit it, Suguru isn’t the type to hand out compliments lightly.
“You’re insane,” you say finally, shaking your head. “You want me to help you win the tournament I should have been chosen for?”
Suguru’s expression hardens. “I want you to push me,” he says. “To challenge me the way only you can. And when I win—because I will win—it’ll be as much your victory as it will be mine.”
You consider his words. A small, reckless part of you—the part that thrives on competition, on proving yourself—begins to wonder what it would be like to be a part of this, even from the sidelines. To have your brilliance tied to the triumph of something bigger than either of you.
“Fine,” you say, voice clipped. “But don’t think for a second that this makes us friends.”
“Of course not.” Suguru’s easy grin slips back in place. “Let’s meet at the library tomorrow after dinner. Don’t be late.”
You don’t reply, merely walking past him and heading back into the Great Hall. Utahime is probably wondering where you vanished off to, and as much as you hate her sympathy, you don’t want to worry her, Shoko and Mei Mei just because you were a sore loser.
The fireplace in the Gryffindor common room crackles with a sort of joyousness you can’t be bothered to feel. Its warm glow dances across the walls, a merry flicker that feels utterly inappropriate given your current mood. The plush armchair you’ve claimed for the evening—one that’s usually a source of comfort—is perfect for brooding. You curl into yourself like a grumpy gargoyle, letting your misery seep into the cushions.
Laughter echoes off the walls—the other students are busy gossiping about the Triwizard Tournament. Discussions about the champions and the potential tasks all merge into one unintelligible blur. The Triwizard Tournament is a magical contest held between the three largest wizarding schools of Europe: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Durmstrang Institute, and Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, with each school being represented by one champion, chosen by the infamous Goblet of Fire. The selected champions compete in three tasks—each designed to test the student’s magical ability, intelligence, and courage—and the winner gets to take home the Triwizard Cup.
The Durmstrang champion’s brute strength, the Beauxbatons champion’s unnatural grace—it all seems so irrelevant compared to the singular thought lodged in your mind like an annoying splinter: Geto Suguru is Hogwarts’ champion.
You’re still seething about it. Not only has he outdone you in classes year after year, he’s now claimed the one thing you truly wanted. And then, as if that wasn’t enough, the boy had the gall to corner you after dinner with a request that still makes your head spin.
You groan and bury your face in a pillow, muffling your frustration. The universe, it seems, has a cruel sense of humour.
“Still sulking, I see.”
You don’t have to look up to know it’s Shoko. She has an unnatural knack for finding you at your most pitiful moments. When you peek over the pillow, you see her leaning against the back of a sofa, her robes askew and her hair half-tied.
“Sulking is putting it lightly,” Mei Mei comments, her pale hair shimmering in the firelight. She takes a seat on the armrest of your chair. “I’d say this borders on full-fledged wallowing.”
You glare at both of them, hugging the pillow tighter. “Go away.”
“No,” says Shoko, simply.
Mei Mei leans in conspiratorially, resting her chin on her hand as she observes you. “Honestly, it’s not the end of the world. So you didn’t get selected—big fucking deal. There’s always next—oh.”
“Next time?” you snap, sitting up straight. “There isn’t a next time, Mei Mei. This was the last chance.”
“Exactly,” she quips with mock cheerfulness. “All the more reason for you to savour your second-place status. It’s a rare opportunity for someone as annoyingly competent as you.”
Before you can retort, Utahime appears, carrying a steaming cup of tea. She sets it down on the small table beside you and gives Mei Mei a pointed look. “Stop tormenting her,” she says, shooing the girl off the armrest.
Mei Mei sighs dramatically but moves to the nearby sofa, lounging on it with her legs hanging off the arm. “Sorry for trying to motivate her.”
“More like antagonising her,” Utahime mutters, taking Mei Mei’s vacated spot. She turns to you, her expression softening. “Are you okay?”
“No,” you admit. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake.” Shoko rolls her eyes. “It’s not like you lost to someone undeserving. Suguru is very competent. In fact, I’d say he’s as good as you.”
“Is that supposed to be helpful, Shoko?” Utahime hisses. She pats your hand comfortingly. “Ignore them. They’re just jealous that they weren’t even in the running.”
“Jealous? Hardly,” Shoko says. “Can you imagine studying for our N.E.W.T.s while having to worry about whether we’re going to survive these godforsaken tasks?” She shudders, the thought of the end-of-year exams enough to make her lips turn downwards.
You shake your head, exasperated, but her words bring a small smile to your face. Utahime—ever the observant one—notices, and squeezes your hand gently. “You’ll be alright. This doesn’t define you. You’re still brilliant, still one of the best witches Hogwarts has ever seen. And if Suguru doesn’t see that, then—”
“He does,” Shoko cuts in unexpectedly. She crosses her arms, her gaze flickering over to the fireplace. “Trust me, he knows exactly how good you are. Why do you think he asked for your help?”
You gape at her. “How did—”
“Satoru told me. He said Suguru left the Great Hall and didn’t celebrate with the rest because he was busy searching for you.”
You blink. You’d known Satoru, Suguru and Shoko had known each other since they were children—they all belonged to three of the most prominent Pureblood families in the Wizarding World—but you didn’t think they were that close. Evidently, you were wrong.
But that’s one of the main reasons you’re so desperate to prove yourself. You’re a mere Muggleborn, a witch born to non-magical parents, and getting thrust into the magical world so quickly felt overwhelming. All of a sudden, you had an explanation for all the oddities that occurred when you were a child—teacups breaking even though you never touched them, books floating straight out of the bookshelf and into your hands—but it was clear that in the world of witches and wizards and strange creatures you’d only ever read about, you still had to claw your way to the top.
Geto Suguru, because of his privilege as a Pureblood, having grown up witnessing magic firsthand, was already one step ahead of you.
You despise him for it.
Shoko’s reminder of Suguru’s request makes irritation bubble up inside you all over again. “It’s not fair,” you say, fingers curling into the soft material of the cushion. “He doesn’t get to—he has no right to ask me for help after I worked so hard to get here.”
Utahime and Mei Mei stay silent, not willing to come to any conclusions, but Shoko’s gaze snaps to you, her eyes narrowing. “Are you saying Suguru doesn’t work hard either?”
“No, I’m—” You falter, the words getting lodged in your throat under Shoko’s unwavering stare. “I needed this. I needed to prove myself.”
Utahime squeezes your hand again. “If you really don’t want to, you could always say no.”
“Can I, though?” you ask, more to yourself than anyone else. “If I refuse, and he loses, I’ll think it’s my fault for not helping him. And if I help him, and he wins, I’ll have to live knowing I contributed to his victory.”
“Is that really so bad?” Mei Mei chimes in. “I’m not sure what exactly is going on here, but from what I can gather, it feels like Suguru is genuinely asking for your help because he thinks you’re the best person for the job.”
“Listen,” Utahime says, “whatever you decide, it doesn’t change anything about how smart you are, or how strong of a competition you were to him. You’re still one of the top students Hogwarts has ever seen, and one silly competition isn’t going to change that.”
You want to rebuke her words. The Triwizard Tournament isn’t just some silly competition; it’s the one way you thought you could prove that you belong in the magical world just like Suguru and Satoru and Shoko, and the rest of the Purebloods do. But Utahime’s gaze turns imploring, and you know Mei Mei and Shoko’s patience is running thin, so you muster up a smile.
“Thanks, Utahime,” you say gratefully. “I’ll think about it tomorrow.”
Shoko rolls her eyes, though not unkindly, and Mei Mei flashes you a grin. “Well, if we’re all done rescuing this one from her lonely little pity party, I’m ready to go to bed,” she says, stretching her arms above her head.
Utahime glances at you questioningly, so you tell her to go ahead and that you’ll come up to the dormitory in a few minutes. Shoko stays behind. When you meet her gaze, she’s already looking at you, brows furrowed in a small frown.
“I’m sorry you didn’t get in,” she says finally, “but don’t—don’t do something reckless or hurtful, okay?”
She turns around and strides up the staircase to the girls’ dormitory before you can ask her what she means by that. The common room is quieter now, the excitement of the champion selection having died down. You stare at the fire still crackling, and push down the sting of rejection that still hasn’t gone away completely.
Tomorrow, you’ll decide. Tomorrow you’ll see what exactly Geto Suguru, the newly-proclaimed Hogwarts champion, wants from you.
Geto Suguru is late.
Are you surprised? Of course not. If there’s one thing he can be relied upon for, it’s his remarkable ability to waste your time. Still, knowing all this doesn’t make it any less irritating, especially when he was the one who sought you out in the first place.
The library is colder than usual, the stone walls and high ceilings doing little to trap the day’s residual warmth. You wrap your cloak tighter around yourself. At this rate, you’re starting to feel like a fool for agreeing to this. The library is otherwise deserted, as it usually is at this hour. It’s just you and the librarian, Madam Pince, as well as a trio of Durmstrang students who have no business being here. They stare at you every now and then, huddled together. Your cheeks burn; if Suguru doesn’t show up soon, you’ll have wasted the evening for nothing—and you’ll have the added humiliation of curious foreign students studying you like they’ve never seen another human being before.
The table before you is cluttered with blank parchment and unopened books, all untouched. The light from the sconces creates shadows that flicker and dance over them. Normally, the library is where you find peace. You can drown yourself in tomes about advanced charms or obscure potions, tuning out the noise of the castle. Tonight, however, the quietness grates on your nerves as you tap your quill against the tabletop impatiently.
The clock on the wall ticks. You glance at it for the fifth time in as many minutes, annoyed.
The doors creak open at last, and Geto Suguru finally strides in. His dark robes billow slightly as he walks. There’s a faint flush on his cheeks, and a stray lock of hair clings to his temple. He doesn’t look the least bit apologetic.
“You’re late,” you say, when he finally stops opposite you. You don’t bother keeping the accusation out of your tone.
Suguru slides into the seat opposite you, entirely unbothered. “I had things to do.”
“Like what? Admiring your own reflection?”
“That’s not a very nice thing to say, little lioness.” Before you can snap at him for the nickname, the Slytherin continues, “If you must know, I was hunting for something important.”
“More important than the meeting you asked for?” you retort, narrowing your eyes at him.
“I’d argue they’re related,” Suguru says, and before you can press him further, he pulls out a crumpled piece of parchment from his pocket and spreads it out on the table.
You lean forward, your annoyance eclipsed by curiosity. The parchment is covered in messy, scrawled notes, and the handwriting is illegible in some places, but certain words stand out: fire, movement, creature.
Frowning, you ask, “What is this?”
“Information.”
“About?” you prompt, though you have a sinking suspicion on what it is.
“The first task.”
You blink. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since the champions were chosen. Geto Suguru works quickly, you must begrudgingly admit. “Where did you get this?”
“Snuck into the Headmaster’s office and nicked it from there,” he explains. “The Durmstrang and Beauxbatons champions already know, I’m sure.”
You nod. He’s right. The Triwizard Tournament is more than just a friendly competition between schools—it’s a way for each institution to gain power and prestige. It’s a matter of honour and pride, and a way to showcase each school’s magical prowess. There’s no doubt that the other champions are being helped by their respective school heads.
“Won’t they notice it’s missing?” you ask, scanning the parchment once more.
Suguru scoffs. “Do you think I’m an amateur? I duplicated the original parchment and brought it.”
You clench your jaw, fingers tightening around your quill. The words swim before your eyes, forming a picture you don’t want to see. Fire, movement, a creature—there’s only one possible scenario, and your stomach churns at the thought.
“Dragons?” you ask, voice quieter now, tinged with unease.
“Possibly,” Suguru says. “But it could be something else. They might want to mix things up.”
“Like what?” you press. Different creatures run through your head, each more terrifying than the last. “Manticores? Chimaeras?”
“Too wild,” he muses. “They’d want something dangerous but controllable. Something they can contain.”
You frown, thoughts racing. “A griffin?”
“Unlikely,” your rival says, tapping his fingers on the table, “but not impossible.”
You sit back, arms crossed. Despite all these possibilities, Suguru doesn’t seem fazed. He leans back as well, mirroring your position, eyes flickering to the parchment he stole from the Headmaster’s office. How is he not afraid? Your heart rabbits at the thought. There’s less than a month for the first task to take place; you and Suguru will have to map out all the possible outcomes and prepare for the worst. In a way, you’re grateful—making a to-do list and crossing things off it one by one is one thing you can handle. The rest is up to Suguru, now.
“If it is dragons—or something similar—you’ll need to prepare for fire,” you begin. “A lot of it.”
“Go on.”
“You’ll need protective charms,” you say, scribbling it down on the blank piece of parchment in front of you. “And something to help with visibility. Smoke can be just as dangerous as fire if you can’t see what you’re doing.”
Suguru nods slowly, his expression thoughtful. “Good points. What else?”
You hesitate, studying him. For once, he seems genuinely interested in your input, not just humouring you. It’s disconcerting, seeing him so serious, so focused. “If it’s not dragons, or any other big creature,” you say cautiously, “then it could be something smaller but equally dangerous. Fire crabs, maybe. Or Blast-Ended Skrewts.”
“Creatures with coordinated attacks,” he murmurs, brows furrowing slightly. “That would be challenging.”
“And if it’s not a creature at all?” you add, mind spinning with possibilities. “What if it’s something more abstract, like a puzzle or an obstacle course involving fire?”
He considers this, shifting in his seat. “Then I’d need to think on my feet,” he says finally.
“You mean you’d need to rely on luck.” You scoff.
Suguru’s placid smirk returns, and you immediately regret opening your mouth. He glances at you, and says lightly, “Luck has served me well so far.”
“Overconfidence isn’t a strategy, Suguru.”
“Neither is pessimism,” he counters sharply.
You bristle at the remark but bite back the retort on your tongue. Arguing with him isn’t going get you anywhere, and despite your frustration, you know he needs your help. If he goes into the first task unprepared, it won’t be just his pride on the line—it’ll be Hogwarts’, too.
You sigh, dropping your quill into your inkpot. “Fine. If we’re doing this, then we’re doing it properly.”
He spreads his arms out, palms facing upwards. “Then there’s only one thing left to do. We have to find a place to practice.”
The Room of Requirement is something of a Hogwarts myth, the kind of thing that people will bring up in conversation only to sound far more interesting than they really are. It’s a concept shrouded in mystery, its existence neither confirmed nor denied, referenced only briefly in Hogwarts: A History as “a chamber of peculiar use, appearing only to those in great need”.
For most students, the idea of a room that appears when one is in great need is nothing more than a charming story—like the rumours about the Bloody Baron’s long-lost treasure, or Peeves the poltergeist’s supposed alliance with the Slytherin Quidditch team.
Pacing up and down the seventh-floor corridor, opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy attempting to teach trolls ballet, you find yourself hoping—reluctantly—that this particular myth holds a grain of truth.
Mei Mei had mentioned it once, offhandedly, when discussing the lengths she’d go to for privacy. “The Room of Requirement,” she’d said. “It’s the kind of place that knows what you need before you do. A bit unnerving, if you ask me.” At the time, you’d rolled your eyes and dismissed it as Mei Mei being her usual cryptic self. But now, with Suguru expecting a place where you can practice in secret—away from prying eyes and endless questions—you find yourself clinging to the possibility of its existence.
You pause mid-step, glancing at the blank expanse of the stone wall. It looks as unremarkable as every other corridor in the castle. “Great need,” you mutter to yourself, feeling a bit foolish. “Right.”
You begin pacing again, focusing on what you need. Your footsteps echo faintly in the empty hall. I need a place to practice, you think. A place where no one will interrupt. A place with enough room to practice spellwork, with everything I need.
On your third pass, something shifts. The air around you seems to hum faintly, and the smooth stone wall ripples like water stirred by some invisible hand. A door begins to materialise, the brass handle gleaming slightly in the torch light. For a moment, you just stare, half-expecting it to vanish as suddenly as it appeared. But it doesn’t. It stands there, solid and tangible, as if it had been there all along and you’d just failed to notice.
Taking a deep breath, you grasp the handle and push the door open. The room that greets you is nothing short of extraordinary.
It’s cavernous, the ceiling arching high above you like the vaulted nave of a cathedral. The walls are lined with shelves stocked with spellbooks, potions ingredients, and various magical artifacts. At the centre of the room, there’s an open space with a dueling platform. You take a tentative step inside. To the side, there is a row of practice dummies, some made of rusty metal and some made of scuffed wood. The door closes softly behind you, sealing you into this impossibly perfect place.
“Sweet Merlin,” you breathe out, marvelling.
You walk slowly around the room, taking it all in. The books on the shelves seem to shimmer faintly, their spines marked with titles like Defensive Charms for Advanced Duelists and The Art of Magical Adaptation. Some of the titles are ones you’ve come across on your rare trips to the Restricted Section of the library, while others are entirely unfamiliar.
Still, a part of you can’t shake the feeling that you’re trespassing. The room feels alive in a way the rest of the castle doesn’t, as though it’s watching you, waiting to see what you’ll do next.
You turn your attention to the dueling platform, running a hand over the smooth, polished wood. If Suguru has any hope of surviving the first task—and you’re still not entirely sure why you care if he does—this is where you’ll need to start.
The thought of working with him here, in this quiet, secretive space, stirs a complicated mix of emotions. Annoyance, of course—he’s insufferable—but also a grudging respect. Suguru may be arrogant, but he’s also skilled, and you can’t deny the challenge of matching wits with him.
You sigh, glancing towards the door. You’ll have to tell him about the Room of Requirement soon, but for now, you allow yourself a moment of quiet triumph.
The Room of Requirement is real, and you found it.
Geto Suguru is understandably skeptical about the Room of Requirement’s existence, but words fail him when you take him to the seventh-floor corridor and show him. His incredulity crumbles into quiet awe when the door takes shape in front of you both, and you can’t resist the smug grin that forms on your lips.
You push open the door, and, theatrically sweeping your arm out wide, say, “Ladies first.”
“How mature.” Suguru rolls his eyes but steps inside tentatively. His eyes widen when he scans the room, sees the bookshelves and the practice dummies and the dueling platform. A small scoff escapes his lips. “Wow. I can’t believe you found the Room of Requirement before me.”
“I’m sure being the Hogwarts champion means you’re always busy,” you comment, sarcasm dripping from your tone.
The champions aren’t busy—not yet, at least—and a lull in the excitement about the tournament was brought about chiefly by the professors assigning copious amounts of homework and essays. You have an essay on the influence of tea leaf clumping on upcoming Quidditch matches for your Divination class due tomorrow, but you can’t bring yourself to care.
Suguru scowls. “Forgive me for not wanting to waste my time on a wild goose chase.”
“I found the Room of Requirement, Geto. It’s hardly a goose chase if it exists, is it?”
“Tch. This was a fluke.”
“Are you going to continue debating about this room’s existence while we’re in the damn room, or are you going to actually practice?” You sniff disdainfully, crossing your arms over your chest.
“You want me to hex a practice dummy?” His smile returns, faint but just as mocking as ever. “How riveting.”
“No, actually,” you retort, your own lips curving upwards. You step onto the dueling platform and hold out your wand. “I want you to hex me.”
He falters, blinking at you owlishly. “You want me to—”
“Don’t get all worked up,” you interrupt. “It’s a practice duel, not a declaration of war.”
Suguru grins, teeth flashing in the dim light. He shrugs off his robes and leaves it in a heap on the floor. His tie is loose, and his shirt untucked, but he quickly ties his long hair up and clambers onto the platform, gripping his wand tightly. He steps back, adjusting his stance, and gestures for you to begin.
You don’t hesitate. “Expelliarmus!”
He deflects the spell easily, wand slicing through the air. “Protego.”
The red flash of your spell rebounds harmlessly off the invisible shield he conjured, and before you can regain your footing, he counters with a quick Stupefy. You barely dodge it. The jet of light whizzes past your shoulder and strikes the wall behind you.
Gritting your teeth, you flick your wand and say, “Incarcerous!”
The ropes that shoot from your wand nearly catch him, but Suguru is quicker. He steps aside neatly, his wand a blur as he attacks with a Disarming Charm. “Expelliarmus!”
Your wand flies out of your grip and straight into Suguru’s waiting hand. You huff, cheeks flushed with heat and sweat beading on your forehead. Glaring at him, you gesture for him to toss it back to you. He obliges, maddeningly proud, and not a single hair out of place.
“I didn’t realise I’d be dueling someone so… unprepared,” he taunts.
“You were just lucky,” you retort. You step back into position, determination to best him burning in your chest. “Again.”
For the second round, you’re more prepared. Spells fly back and forth, crackling through the air. Suguru is fast, but you’re clever, weaving around his attacks and shooting back with different sorts of jinxes.
“Confundo!” you shout, aiming directly at his chest. Suguru deflects it with a flourish, but his stance falters for a split second. You don’t waste the opportunity. “Rictusempra!” The Tickling Charm hits him squarely, and he lets out an undignified yelp, doubling over with laughter.
“Y-you—” He’s laughing too hard to finish the sentence, face red and eyes watering. Clutching his side, he tries to regain control.
You lower your wand, a victorious grin spreading across your face. “What’s the matter, Suguru? Ticklish?”
He glares at you through his laughter. With a flick of his wand, he casts Finite incantatem, the general counter-spell for any minor jinxes or hexes, straightening up and smoothing out his shirt. “Unnecessary.”
Your smile widens. “Oh, I don’t know about you, but I found this particularly amusing.”
“Resorting to petty jokes now, are we?” Still, you can sense the grudging respect in his tone. “Not bad, little lioness.”
“High praise, coming from a conniving snake,” you say, though the words lack their usual bite.
You enjoyed it, you realise. You enjoyed dueling with Geto Suguru, the one person who you’ve had it out for ever since you joined Hogwarts. Flopping onto the floor and catching your breath, the thrill of the duel doesn’t seem to wear off. Even Suguru fidgets with his wand, mouth set in a grim line. You tear your gaze away and stare at your own wand instead. There is something about being evenly matched with him, the way both of you anticipate each other’s next moves, the way you dodge and attack with equal strength.
“Same time tomorrow?” Suguru breaks the silence.
You hesitate, then nod. “Yeah. Same time tomorrow.”
Geto Suguru’s face is on the front page of the Daily Prophet—Wizarding Britain’s newspaper— alongside Amélie DuPont of Beauxbatons and Aleksandar Ivanov of Durmstrang. The picture moves, as all photographs in the magical world do, with Amélie in the middle, tucking a strand of her silver-blond hair behind her ear while her light blue skirt billows slightly in the wind. Aleksandar is more serious, thick eyebrows set in a frown with his burly arms crossed over his chest.
In the centre is the bane of your existence himself. His long hair is half-down and pinned back. His robes are neat and pristine, the Slytherin crest and his Prefect badge gleaming. He twirls his wand between his fingers, lips curled upwards in a lazy smirk, though his eyes are as sharp as ever. The headline underneath the picture reads:
CHAMPIONS PREPARE FOR GLORY: INSIGHT FROM THE TRIWIZARD FRONTLINES
The Great Hall is noisy during breakfast, the smell of food and the cacophony of students eliminating all other senses. Your hand tightens around your fork and you stab at your eggs aggressively. Utahime takes the newspaper and flicks it open to the page with the Champions’ interviews.
“‘Hogwarts Champion, Geto Suguru’,” she begins to read aloud, “‘impresses everyone with his unparalleled spellwork and ability to stay calm under pressure.’”
Shoko, halfway through her toast, snorts. “Sounds like he wrote it himself.”
“‘When asked about his preparation for the first task’,” Utahime continues, “‘he credited his regimen to ‘careful planning and focused practice’.’” She pauses, raising an eyebrow at you. “Does that sound familiar?”
You refuse to rise to the bait, though your cheeks warm despite yourself. Two weeks of training in the Room of Requirement—of dodging his spells, practicing wandwork, and biting back your own irritation—have left their mark.
Mei Mei, peering over Utahime’s shoulder, comments, “Oh, look. He also mentioned something about collaboration. About how it elevates one’s abilities.”
“How diplomatic of him,” you mutter. “He really loves the sound of his own voice, doesn’t he?”
“Talking about me again?”
You freeze, the unmistakable drawl sending a shiver of annoyance down your spine. Looking up slowly, you find Suguru himself standing opposite you, flanked by Gojo Satoru. “Morning, Gryffindors,” the latter greets cheerfully, blue eyes twinkling. Suguru, however, merely slides into the seat across from you, his dark eyes not leaving yours. You grab your goblet and take a sip of your pumpkin juice just to have something to do with your hands.
Satoru drops unceremoniously on the bench next to Shoko without invitation, snatching a piece of toast from her plate. “Merlin, it’s lively here.”
“Go away, Satoru,” his female friend replies. “Get your own toast.”
“Sharing is caring.” Satoru bites into the toast with gusto.
“I hope you choke on it,” Shoko says flatly.
Utahime mumbles an apology and leaves when the Head Boy, Nanami Kento, calls her over. They have to discuss something about the first Triwizard Tournament task that will be taking place the next day. Mei Mei escapes to the bathroom, leaving the four of you sitting by the Gryffindor table. It’s a sight in itself, really, because it’s rare for Slytherins to be mingling with Gryffindors so amicably. Yet, Shoko and Satoru remain oblivious to the stares as they continue to bicker over breakfast, while you shift uncomfortably.
Suguru’s eyes flick briefly to the half-folded Daily Prophet near your hand. “Enjoying the article?”
Your stomach twists. “I haven’t read it,” you lie, glaring down at your mutilated eggs.
“Shame. I was curious about what you thought.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snap, though the heat crawling up the back of your neck betrays you. “Why would I waste my time reading about you?”
“You’re awfully defensive for someone who doesn’t care,” Suguru says.
“I don’t care.”
Satoru leans over. “Do you think they’ll hex each other before the first task? I’ve got ten Galleons on it.”
“Make it fifteen,” Shoko says, “and I’ll lend you my wand for the counter-curse.”
You glare at both of them, but Suguru’s voice draws your attention back. “Since you’re clearly not invested,” he says, tone light but eyes determined, “any advice for tomorrow?”
You blink. Of all the things you’d expected him to ask, it hadn’t been this. “Don’t get yourself killed,” you say bluntly.
He huffs out a soft laugh, shoulders shaking slightly. “Noted.”
“Well, this has been fun,” says Satoru, standing up and stretching his arms over his head. “But I think I’ve exhausted our dear Shoko’s hospitality.” He swipes her goblet and downs her pumpkin juice.
“Touch my plate again, and I’ll set your robes on fire,” Shoko warns.
With a laugh, Satoru ruffles her hair and saunters off, leaving you and Suguru alone in this tense, uncomfortable silence. “Good luck tomorrow,” you say finally, not meeting his gaze.
“Thanks,” he says, quieter than usual.
When he stands up to leave, you can’t help but feel a pang of unease. The first task is tomorrow, and while you would never admit it, you hope he comes out of it unscathed.
Dragons. Your hunch about the first task was right.
The cold November air is sharp as knives, cutting through the layers of your robes as you grip the railing of the stands surrounding the makeshift arena. Excitement and dread churns together in your stomach, though you’d die before admitting the latter. The stands are packed, students and professors bundled in thick scarves and gloves, all leaning forward eagerly to catch a glimpse of the champions. Amidst the black of the Hogwarts robes, there is also the pale blue of Beauxbatons and the dark red of Durmstrang. The excitement is palpable, everyone buzzing with anticipation for the first task. You find yourself crammed in between Utahime and Shoko.
You swallow hard, keeping your eyes fixed on the arena below. The dragons are corralled in an enclosure just beyond the champions’ tent, their massive silhouettes casting long shadows on the frosted ground. Even from this distance, you can hear the occasional growl and the rustle of leathery wings.
“Dragons,” Utahime mutters, rubbing her gloved palms together worriedly. “How can they call this a school competition and then throw dragons at the students?”
“They’ve done it before,” Shoko drawls lazily, though her sharp eyes betray her worry. Satoru stands next to her, arms crossed over his chest and lips pressed into a grim line. You shiver; it’s bad enough that Shoko is worried, but seeing the normally cheerful Satoru so serious makes you anxious. “At least they’re not asking them to fight them barehanded,” she continues. “That would be more fun.”
“Shoko,” Utahime hisses, chiding. “Please stop.”
You don’t contribute to their conversation. Your gaze moves to the champions’ tent, barely visible through the enchanted mist that swirls over the field. Suguru is in there. You wonder how he’s preparing himself—he’s facing one of the most dangerous magical creatures alive, after all. The thought makes worry pool in your stomach.
From somewhere below, a voice booms across the field, magically amplified to reach every corner of the grounds. “Witches and wizards, welcome to the first task of the Triwizard Tournament!”
The crowd erupts into cheers. Utahime wrings her hands beside you, and the most you can manage is a weak clap.
“The task,” the announcer continues, “is as daring as it is dangerous. Each champion must retrieve a ring from the heart of the arena. But guarding the rings are some of the fiercest magical creatures alive—dragons!”
A collective gasp ripples through the crowd, followed by excited whispers. Utahime lets out a low groan. “They can’t be serious. This isn’t a tournament—it’s a death wish.”
Shoko shrugs. “They’ll be fine. Mostly. The Ministry of Magic wouldn’t let them die. Probably. They could get horribly maimed or injured, though.”
“Reassuring,” you mutter. You’ve been pretending to be indifferent for ages, but the truth is, you’re terrified for Suguru.
The announcer’s voice booms again. “Our champions will face their dragons one by one, drawn randomly to determine the order. The task is not merely about bravery, but also ingenuity, strategy, and magical skill. The ring holds a crucial clue to the next task—so it is imperative that they succeed!”
Your hands are numb against the railing, but you’re not sure if it’s because of the cold or because of something else entirely. The first task is madness—complete and utter madness. And yet, as the announcer’s voice booms again, calling out Suguru’s name, something in your chest curdles with a chill far worse than the cold.
“First, Geto Suguru, representing Hogwarts, will face the Hungarian Horntail!”
The sound is deafening. Cheers erupt from every corner of the stands, the Hogwarts students roaring loudest of all. Even the Slytherins, with their restrained, cold demeanour—the exception being Satoru, of course—cannot contain their pride.
Geto Suguru steps into the arena, holding his wand loosely in one hand with the other tucked into the folds of his robes. His long hair is swept up into a tight knot. You can’t hear him over the noise, but you swear you see him mutter something under his breath.
The Hungarian Horntail is enormous. Even from a distance, its obsidian scales glint ominously, and its massive, bat-like wings shift restlessly as its amber eyes lock onto Suguru. The ring lies just beyond the dragon, perched atop a precarious pile of boulders. It gleams like a star, a tiny thing that’s almost not worth the effort, you think. But of course, Suguru is just like you, and pride comes before anything else. You’re sure he’s already thought of a dozen different ways to get past the beast—because it’s something you would do, as well.
The Horntail snorts, sending a plume of smoke spiraling into the air. The arena is silent now. Suguru takes his first step towards the dragon.
“Is he insane?” Utahime whispers, voice trembling. “Does he not see the size of that thing?”
“He does.” It’s Satoru’s first proper sentence this morning, and the assurance with which he says it alleviates some of your worry—though not by much. “He’s Suguru. He always knows exactly what he’s doing.”
You remain silent, not taking your eyes off him. He moves slowly, with the kind of deliberacy that makes it clear he’s prepared. No step is wasted, no motion is hurried. He’s in control—or at least, that’s what he wants everyone to think.
“Confringo!” The spell erupts from his wand, creating a fiery blast that hits the ground near the dragon’s massive claws. The Horntail snarls, tail lashing out and gouging deep scars into the earth. The Blasting Curse he used isn’t meant to hurt—it’s meant to provoke.
Suguru casts another spell, this time to conjure a dazzling array of shifting, flickering lights. The dragon’s attention is drawn to the display; it tilts his head and looks up, mesmerised. You clench your jaw. It’s a bold move, because dragons are intelligent, but their curiosity is a double-edged sword.
“He’s trying to confuse it,” Utahime murmurs, clutching the ends of her scarf. “That’s risky.”
Risky is an understatement, you think. Suguru doesn’t stop. He moves his wand, pointing it low, and you see him mouth a spell—Glacius. The ground beneath the dragon becomes a slick sheet of ice. The Horntail’s claws scrape against the surface, wings flaring out as it tries to balance itself.
But it recovers quickly—too quickly. With a guttural roar, the beast lunges towards him, jaws snapping. Your heart thuds in your chest, but Suguru dives out of the way and smacks hard into a large rock. He slumps against it, chest heaving with heavy breaths. You hear Utahime and Shoko gasp beside you, but it’s drowned out by the sound of your own blood rushing in your ears.
Get up, you want to say. Get up and get that bloody ring, Geto. It’s silly—of course he can’t hear you—but there’s a gash on his arm, and his robes have darkened with blood, and it feels like if you somehow think it, Suguru will make it happen. It’s a flimsy mindset, but you’ll take whatever shreds of comfort you can get.
The dragon charges towards him, nostrils flaring and eyes gleaming. Suguru scrambles to his feet, the ends of his robes frayed and face streaked with dirt. He lifts his wand and casts a Protego maxima, a shimmering shield that briefly halts the dragon’s fiery breath. The shield holds for just a moment, but it’s enough time for Suguru to reposition himself, his eyes darting towards the ring.
“Come on,” you say under your breath, fingers tightening around the railing.
“Lumos maxima!”
A burst of brilliant, blinding light shoots out of his wand, illuminating the arena. You let loose an exhale; he’s clearly learnt from the dragon’s reaction to light earlier. It’s a good strategy, you will admit. The Horntail lets out a snarl, massive eyes narrowing against the glare. It thrashes, swinging its tail wildly, but Suguru has already limped away.
The dragon’s claws gouge into the earth once more, its bat-like wings flapping violently as it tries to shake off the distraction. Suguru uses the brief opening to dart closer, his focus entirely on the ring. His wand moves in a tight arc, and the light shifts into a pulsating sphere, hovering just beyond the Hungarian Horntail’s reach. It works. The orb of light draws the dragon’s attention away from Suguru.
“He’s using it as a decoy,” Shoko says, leaning forward.
“Smart move,” Satoru chimes in, hushed.
His blue eyes glitter knowingly at you, though, and you turn away, feeling your cheeks heat up. Suguru must have told him about all the research you did about dragons and their different breeds, and how they’re not so different from cats—if you take out the fire-breath and the wings and the long tail, or the fact that they could eat a human alive in a heartbeat.
Suguru raises his wand again, muttering an incantation. A shimmering net of magical energy bursts forth, wrapping around the dragon’s front claws. The Horntail roars—but its movements are hindered enough to give him the opening he needs.
The ring glints in the faint sunlight, and with a quick Summoning Charm—Accio—it soars straight through the air to him.
The Horntail senses it immediately. With a furious roar, it pounces, its massive jaws snapping shut mere inches from Suguru’s outstretched hand. But Suguru is faster. With a final, desperate leap, he snatches the ring out of the air, landing hard on the frost-dusted ground. He rolls to his feet, the ring clutched tightly in his fist, and sprints towards the edge of the arena.
The Horntail thrashes behind him, but it’s too late. The magical barrier seals shut just as Suguru crosses the threshold. The dragon lets out a frustrated roar that echoes through the stands. The crowd erupts into cheers, the noise ringing in your ears. Hogwarts banners wave wildly in the air, and Satoru and Shoko let out a series of loud hoots, while you simply sigh, relieved.
“He did it,” Utahime breathes out.
“Of course he did.” Shoko beams proudly.
You don’t say anything. Your heart is still racing, your chest still tight. He did it. He passed the first Triwizard task.
Suguru hobbles past the stands, dark eyes scanning the crowd, one hand pressed to where the gash on his arm is. You curse yourself for feeling irrational—for wanting him to look at you. He does. His gaze lands on you, and he pauses for the shortest of moments. The corner of his mouth curls upwards in a small half-smile, and then he’s gone, disappearing into the tent where the champions will be tended to.
“He could’ve died,” Utahime mutters, shaking her head as the next champion is announced.
You glance back toward the arena, frosted fingers loosening their grip on the railing. The first task is over, but the dread in your stomach doesn’t subside. The dragons may be gone, but the Triwizard Tournament is far from over.
The Room of Requirement glows faintly in the dim light of the lanterns it conjured up, their golden halos casting long, flickering shadows over the stacks of books and piles of scrolls you and Suguru pulled out of the bookshelves lining the walls. You sit cross-legged on a soft, velvet cushion on the floor. Suguru paces in front of you, the soles of his boots soft against the tile.
The ring, when Suguru gives it to you, is warm to the touch and made out of the same gold the wizarding world uses to shape Galleons out of. A part of the ring is flattened into a signet, engraved onto which are a collection of dots. They look like pockmarks on an otherwise smooth surface. You rub your thumb over them curiously.
“Look inside,” Suguru says. He picks at the ends of the bandage wrapped around his arm, restless and jittery. “There’s something written on the inside of the ring.”
Turning the ring over in your palm, you bring it close to your eyes and squint. The words are tiny, and, for all intents and purposes, make no sense to you whatsoever. The ring’s golden surface glints, the engraving on the signet catching the shifting light. You roll it between your fingers, the faint warmth oddly soothing, though Suguru’s squirrely pacing sets your nerves on edge.
“Would you stop fidgeting?” you snap, squinting at the letters once again. “It’s hard enough to focus without you stomping around like a restless Hippogriff.”
“I’m thinking,” Suguru retorts, though he halts mid-step and folds his arms across his chest. “Unlike you, who’s just staring at the thing as if it’ll start talking.”
“It might!” you fire back. “It’s magical, isn’t it? Who knows what sort of enchantments it’s got?”
“It’s a ring, not a bloody Howler. Let me see it again.”
Reluctantly, you pass it over, careful not to touch his injured hand. His fingers brush against yours anyway, and the warmth lingers annoyingly on your skin. Suguru holds the ring up to the lantern light, tilting it to study the dots engraved on the signet.
“These dots look like they’re arranged deliberately,” he murmurs, tracing the marks. “They’re not random.”
“Well, obviously.” You roll your eyes. “The question is, what do they mean?”
He ignores you, dark eyes narrowing as he turns the ring over and studies the inscription. “‘Ego sum principium mundi et finis saeculorum’,” he reads aloud, the Latin rolling maddeningly smoothly off his tongue. “It sounds ominous.”
“It means something,” you say, leaning forward to snatch a book off the pile in front of you. It’s a dusty tome with Enigmatic Latin Phrases emblazoned on the cover, though you have a sinking suspicion it’s going to be less helpful than you hoped. “It has to. Why else would it be engraved on a magical artifact?”
Suguru plops down onto the cushion opposite you, sweeping away a bunch of scrolls. He places the ring on the ground in between you both. “If it’s a clue for the next task, then it has to be related to the Triwizard Tournament somehow. Something symbolic, maybe?”
“Brilliant deduction,” you deadpan, flipping through the pages of the book. “Didn’t realise you were such a scholar.”
“And I didn’t realise you were such a comedian,” he drawls. “Let’s focus. What do you think it means? The phrase—’I am the beginning of the world and the end of ages’. What does that sound like to you?”
You blink at him. “How did you translate that?”
“Studied Latin and French when I was kid,” he says smugly, in a manner that makes you want to deck him. Wonderful. Another aspect in which Suguru is already one step ahead of you, you think bitterly. “But that’s not the point,” he continues. “What do you think it could refer to?”
You look down, tapping your quill against the edge of the book. “It could be a reference to time,” you muse aloud. “The beginning and end… It's cyclical. Like a clock, or a calendar, maybe?”
“Or a journey,” Suguru adds, tilting his head. “Something that starts and ends with the same person. The champions?”
“Possibly. But it could also be something more abstract—like fear. Everyone’s afraid of something; it’s universal. The start and end of every challenge.”
Suguru picks up the ring again, running his thumb over the dots. “And this?” he says, gesturing to the engraving. “What if it’s pointing us somewhere? A location, maybe? Or a specific kind of task?”
You frown and lean closer. “The arrangement of the dots,” you say slowly, “looks… familiar. Like a pattern.”
“Like a constellation,” Suguru supplies. “You’re right. It’s got to be one.”
The conclusion settles over you both, but it doesn’t offer much clarity. You chew on the inside of your cheek, considering. “If it’s a constellation, then it’s symbolic, right? They all have stories tied to them—myths, legends.”
“Yeah, but which one?” Frustration creeps into his voice. “These dots could be anything. There’s no clear shape.”
“It could be something obscure,” you suggest. “Maybe even something specific to the wizarding world. I think we’ll have to make a trip to the Astronomy Tower some time soon, though.”
“Great,” says Suguru flatly. “So we’re supposed to decipher a constellation in a shape I’ve never seen and an inscription that sounds like it was prophesied by a second-rate Seer.”
“Better than wandering blindly into the second task. Though, knowing you, you’d probably manage to make it out alive. Cockroaches always do.”
He scowls, but his lips twitch upwards by the slightest. “And here I thought we were having a moment.”
“We weren’t,” you say immediately. The back of your neck prickles with heat.
Suguru rolls his eyes, though not with malice. He stretches his arms over his head. The action causes his shirt to ride up slightly; you avert your gaze quickly. “I’m starving.”
“What?”
“I’m hungry,” he repeats, standing up. “All this thinking has drained me. Fancy a trip to the kitchens?”
“It’s nearly midnight,” you point out—but your stomach growls faintly in agreement. “And I’m not sneaking around the castle because you can’t stop eating.”
“Suit yourself,” he says with a shrug, heading towards the door. “I bet the house-elves have made éclairs for tomorrow’s dinner.”
Well. You’ve always been weak to chocolate. Muttering a curse under your breath, you scramble to your feet and find yourself following him, the ring warm inside your pocket.
The Hogwarts kitchens are a marvel, a hidden oasis of warmth nestled beneath the castle’s chilly stone walls. Suguru finds the painting of a fruit bowl by the Hufflepuff common room, and tickles the pear. It lets out a loud giggle—you cringe, hoping Filch, the caretaker, and his evil pet cat, Mrs. Norris, are nowhere around. The pear transforms into a shiny brass door handle, and the moment the painting swings open, you’re met with a rush of buttery heat and the mingling aromas of chocolate, caramel, and freshly baked bread.
The kitchens are bustling with movement. House-elves dart about with a speed and efficiency that puts magic itself to shame. Pots clatter, ovens hum, and enchanted trays of golden pastries glide through the air.
A small, wiry house-elf with parchment-like skin and eyes like twin garnets appears in a puff of flour and indignation, his thin arms folded over his chest. A neatly pressed tea towel with the Hogwarts crest embroidered on it covers his tiny body.
“Young master should not be here!” the elf scolds. “It is forbidden to disturb the kitchens so late at night!”
“Good evening to you too, Sukuna,” Suguru says smoothly, brushing past the house-elf and into the kitchen. He inspects a nearby tray of éclairs, plucking one up and sniffing it appreciatively.
Sukuna’s bat-like ears quiver, his expression contorting between outrage and resignation. “Master Geto always does this. Always sneaking in like a naughty student. Not even a little bit nice and polite like the young Hufflepuff miss who always comes to say hello.”
“That’s because I am a naughty student,” Suguru says cheerfully, winking raunchily at you; you huff and roll your eyes. He sinks his teeth into the éclair with a pleased hum. “And you, Sukuna, are a saint for indulging me.”
The elf huffs, though his cheeks flush slightly at the praise. His gaze shifts to you, eyes narrowing slightly. “And this one? Is this young miss also here to pilfer desserts?”
“I— what? No!” you sputter, though your stomach growls traitorously at the scent of chocolate and cream wafting from the éclairs.
Suguru leans against the counter, lips tugged up in a smirk as he regards you. “Don’t be shy,” he says, gesturing towards the tray. “Sukuna won’t bite. Probably.”
“Only if asked nicely,” Sukuna mutters darkly, but he waves a hand, and another tray of éclairs floats down onto the counter as though by invitation.
Despite yourself, you reach for one. The pastry is warm, its golden shell yielding easily beneath your fingers. When you bite into it, the rich, velvety chocolate spills over your tongue deliciously.
“Good, isn’t it?” asks Suguru.
You hate that he’s right. “It’s passable,” you say, lifting your chin imperiously.
He barks out a laugh, brushing crumbs off his trousers. “Sure it is. That’s why you’re reaching for another one already.”
You glance down and curse under your breath. Grumbling, you take another bite of your éclair, determined to ignore the victorious glint in his eyes. Sukuna, meanwhile, seems torn between chastising you both and taking pride in your obvious enjoyment. In the end, he settles for clicking his tongue and vanishing to attend to an overflowing cauldron of treacle in the corner. The kitchen falls into companionable quiet, broken only by the distant clatter of utensils and the murmur of house-elves bustling about.
“So,” you say finally, licking a smear of chocolate off your thumb, “are éclairs your usual midnight snack, or is this just an excuse to avoid figuring out the second task?”
Suguru raises an eyebrow, feigning offense. “I’ll have you know I’m perfectly capable of eating and thinking at the same time.”
“You’re more a connoisseur of distractions. Very good at distracting yourself,” you say, without any real bite in your voice.
“Distractions are necessary,” he says lightly, gaze steady on your face. “Sometimes, stepping back helps you see things more clearly.”
You chew on that for a moment. “Fine. I’ll admit you have a point there. But the second task does seem to be rather interesting, don’t you think?”
He grins, teeth flashing in the light. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t think so.”
You roll your eyes, but a small part of you warms at the compliment. Across the room, Sukuna reappears with a teapot and two mismatched cups. He sets them down with a flourish.
“If young master and young miss insist on loitering, at least have tea,” the elf says, somehow managing to sound both fond and exasperated at the same time.
Suguru raises his half-eaten dessert in a mock toast. “To Sukuna, the real hero of the Triwizard Tournament.”
The house-elf grumbles something unintelligible, though you catch the faintest beginnings of a smile before he disappears again.
“Are you always this insufferable?” you ask.
Suguru smirks, taking a small sip of tea. “Only with people who make it fun.”
You shake your head, biting back a smile of your own. For all his arrogance and sharp edges, there is something oddly disarming about Suguru like this—unguarded, his cutting wit tempered by the soft glow of the kitchen lights. The two of you sit in silence for a while, finishing off the tea and éclairs. The warmth of the kitchen seeps into your bones, making you feel drowsy and comfortable. Your eyelids feel heavy, and you wrap your arms around yourself.
“Alright,” Suguru says finally, setting his cup down with a clink. “Don’t fall asleep on me, little lioness.”
“‘m not falling asleep,” you mutter sleepily.
“I think we’re done for the day,” he says. “I’ll walk you back to the Gryffindor Tower.”
“I can walk back on my own.”
Suguru sighs, not unkindly. “I know.”
The Yule Ball is one of the highlights of the Triwizard Tournament—a night where students get the opportunity to dress up and dance, and indulge in the sort of revelries Hogwarts is usually so strict about. Utahime is convinced that some students will find a way to smuggle in Firewhiskey—wizarding alcohol—and is currently stressing out over how to regulate the intake of beverages of the students over a plate of hash browns and scrambled eggs.
Nanami Kento, the Head Boy, is trying to diffuse a Situation that’s taking place at the Slytherin table. Some poor Hufflepuff girl (the captain of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, you later recognise) had the balls to ask out Fushiguro Toji, notorious womaniser and blood purity freak, as her date for the Yule Ball. You nearly drop your cutlery when he calls her a Mudblood—a slur meant for people like you, born to Muggle parents. Gritting your teeth angrily, you glare at the back of Fushiguro Toji’s head. What a nasty, vile excuse for a man.
The Situation is diffused when the girl passes out, a ball of yellow fabric clutched tightly in her hands. You have to give it to her; it takes serious guts to publicly ask out someone, though you wonder what sort of curse possessed her to ask Fushiguro, of all people.
“Absolute menace,” you mutter under your breath, stabbing your scrambled eggs with unnecessary force.
Mei Mei turns a page of Witch Weekly with a sigh. “Honestly, these pureblood types are so predictable. Such flair for cruelty, yet so unoriginal.”
“You’d think he’d at least come up with a creative insult,” Shoko adds dryly, her teacup balancing precariously on her saucer.
“Missed me, ladies?” Satoru, perpetually grinning like a Cheshire cat, plops himself onto the bench opposite you. His white-blond hair gleams under the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, and his tinted glasses perch at the end of his nose in a way that makes him look both ridiculous and infuriatingly charming.
Shoko’s reply is swift. “Not particularly.”
Mei Mei grunts out a greeting, and you merely smile politely at him. Utahime, still fretting over the logistics of conducting the Yule Ball, slides out of her seat in a hurry and mumbles something about finding Nanami so they can discuss things properly.
“You wound me, Shoko,” Satoru says, clutching his chest theatrically. “Anyway, I’ve got a pressing matter to discuss.”
“Does it involve you somehow setting fire to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom again?” Mei Mei asks, not looking up from her magazine.
“That was one time,” Gojo replies, feigning outrage. “No, this is much more important. The Yule Ball. Who’s asking who? Gossip is flying around faster than a Nimbus 2000.”
Of course, wherever Gojo Satoru goes, Geto Suguru is bound to follow. He approaches your little group, dark hair tied back neatly, expression as composed as ever. He slides onto the bench beside you with a nod of thanks to Mei Mei, who moved her plate of toast to accommodate him.
“Talking about the Yule Ball, I presume?” Suguru asks, reaching for a slice of buttered bread.
“Of course we are,” Satoru says, leaning forward conspiratorially. “It’s the event of the year, Suguru. Surely someone’s asked you by now.”
Your fork pauses in mid-air. For some reason, you find yourself wanting to know the answer.
Suguru’s lips quirk upwards, the ghost of a smirk. “As a matter of fact, someone has.”
The table collectively turns to him. Shoko raises a curious brow. Even Mei Mei closes her magazine in favour of staring at Geto Suguru like he’s just sprouted a pair of antlers on his head.
“Details,” Satoru demands, grinning wide.
“She’s from Beauxbatons,” Suguru says. “Asked me yesterday afternoon. I said yes.”
A sharp pang blooms in your chest, prickly and unwelcome. You drop your gaze to your plate, pressing your lips together and willing yourself not to react. It doesn’t matter. You don’t care. Suguru could go with whoever he wanted. He isn’t your friend, and he certainly isn’t—no. Absolutely not.
“Leave it to you to snag a Beauxbatons girl,” Mei Mei comments. “They always go for the broody ones.”
Gojo snorts. “Broody? Suguru’s about as broody as a cauldron full of kittens.”
“Are we done analysing my date?” Suguru asks.
“Not even close,” Satoru says, but his attention soon shifts to Shoko attempting to balance her goblet of water on her saucer as well. Mei Mei picks up her copy of Witch Weekly once more and flips through the glossy pages.
You pick at your food, your knife scraping against your plate. The thought of Suguru dancing with some elegant Beauxbatons girl—someone undoubtedly beautiful and graceful and more poised than you could ever be—makes your stomach churn unpleasantly. The image of them laughing together, her delicate hand resting on his shoulder while his wraps around her waist, is as vivid as if it had been etched into your mind.
“You’re quiet,” Suguru murmurs, soft enough that the others can’t catch it.
“Just tired,” you lie, not meeting his gaze.
He doesn’t push further, but you feel his eyes linger on you for a moment longer before he returns to nibbling at his toast.
Shoving aside the annoying ache of jealousy, you straighten in your seat and force a pleasant expression on your face. Fine. If Suguru had a date, then so would you. Someone handsome. Someone confident. Someone who would make him think twice before flashing his perfectly polite little smile at you and your date.
“You know,” you begin, loud enough to draw the attention of your friends, “I think I’ll ask one of the Durmstrang boys.”
“Oh?” Shoko says, interest clearly piqued. “Got anyone in mind?”
“Not yet,” you admit, grabbing your goblet and swirling your pumpkin juice absentmindedly. “But there’s bound to be someone suitable. They’ve got that rugged, intimidating thing going on.”
Satoru bursts into laughter, nearly knocking over a plate of sausages. “Merlin help whatever poor bloke you’ve set your eyes on.”
You scowl. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Only that you’re not exactly the type of person to swoon over a man that’s—what did you say it was?—rugged and intimidating.”
“Well, we’ll see,” you say, lifting your chin defiantly. “Maybe I’ll surprise you all.”
With that, you turn back to your half-finished breakfast, and Satoru launches into a dramatic recounting of his supposed rejection by a Ravenclaw—”Her loss, really”—and you don’t look at Suguru at all. Still, as the meal ends the Great Hall empties, your resolve falters. You can’t help but glance at Suguru one last time. He’s listening to something Satoru is saying, lips curving upwards in a smile.
The pang returns, sharp and insistent—but you ignore it. After all, there are plenty of Durmstrang boys to choose from. Surely one of them would do just fine.
There are many ways to get yourself a date for the Yule Ball. You’ve watched it happen over the last week: dramatic declarations of affection in the Great Hall, quiet notes slipped between textbooks, bashful confessions in various corners of the castle. But this? This is different.
This is not the ideal method of asking someone out. Borderline stalking the Durmstrang champion because you saw him trudge through the snow towards the Black Lake—where the Durmstrang ship is docked—from the window of the Gryffindor common room is hardly what anybody would call dignified. Yet, here you are, braving the sharp, icy wind, and the crunch of snow underfoot, determined to follow through with your ill-conceived plan.
Your goal is straightforward, or so you tell yourself. Aleksandar Ivanov is a handsome man, someone impossible to ignore. His broad shoulders are draped in a thick, fur-lined coat that seems to defy the chill of Scottish winters, and his sleek, dark hair catches the fading light of the afternoon. He looks like something out of an old wizarding tale, that sort of unrealistic hero who was carved out of marble and brought to life.
Aleksandar Ivanov is not your type at all.
No, this has nothing to do with the hulking Bulgarian himself, and everything to do with Geto Suguru.
You hate the way you felt when Suguru mentioned his date. You hate that the image of him dancing with someone else—that faceless girl draped in blue satin—feels like a thorn lodged deep in your chest. Most of all, you hate that you care. So, you’ve decided on a solution: The bold, handsome Durmstrang champion on your arm at the Yule Ball. That’ll show him.
Aleksandar’s strides are long, the dark fur of his coat fluttering slightly in the breeze. He’s alone, his hands tucked into his pockets. You can see the faint outline of the Durmstrang ship in the distance, its masts swaying gently as the lake ripples against the hull. The sight fills you with a sudden sense of urgency. If you don’t catch him now, you’ll lose your chance.
“Excuse me!” you call out, your voice carrying over the air. Aleksandar slows, then turns, his piercing green eyes locking onto yours. For a moment, you feel rooted to the spot, your carefully rehearsed words scattering like leaves to the wind.
“Yes?” he says. There’s a faint accent to his voice.
You force yourself to take a step closer, and then another, until you’re standing just a few feet away. “Good evening,” you say, forcing a smile. “Aleksandar, isn’t it?”
“It is,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching, though it doesn’t become a full smile. “And you are?”
You hesitate. Your name feels oddly small when you say it. The cold nips at your cheeks, and you resist the urge to shove your mittened hands into the pockets of your jacket.
“Well, then,” Aleksandar says, tilting his head slightly. “What can I do for you?”
“I…” You clear your throat, cursing the way your voice wavers. “I was wondering if you’d like to go to the Yule Ball with me.”
Aleksandar’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes—amusement, maybe, or curiosity. He takes a step closer, and you resist the urge to back away. “Interesting,” he says at last, drawing the word out. “You do know you’re not the first person to ask me to the Yule Ball, yes? You’re very beautiful, but why, exactly, would you want to go with me?”
Your cheeks flush with the heat at the sudden compliment, but your prepared responses—something about his reputation, his charm, his skill in the Tournament—suddenly feel hollow. You can’t tell him the truth, either, that this is about someone else. So you scramble for a suitable response.
“Well, you’re the Durmstrang champion,” you say, aiming for nonchalance but landing somewhere closer to desperation. “It seemed fitting.”
Aleksandar raises an eyebrow. “Fitting? Is that all?”
“Yes,” you lie, though your voice lacks conviction.
For a moment, he says nothing. The silence stretches, broken only by the distant lapping of the lake’s waves against the shore. Then, to your surprise, Aleksandar smiles—not the cool, detached smirk you were expecting while he brutally rejects you, but something warmer, almost amused.
“Very well,” he agrees, his voice carrying a hint of humour. “I’ll be your date.”
“Really?” The word escapes before you can stop it, and you cringe at how eager you sound.
Aleksandar’s smile widens. “Yes, really. Though I must admit, I am curious about your true intentions.”
“My intentions?” you repeat, trying your best not to sound sheepish. “What do you mean?”
“You see,” he says, “my intentions with you are rather simple. Word travels fast around the castle, and I know you were the closest person to best the Hogwarts champion in claiming the title. Besides the fact that you are very pretty, I think it will also make my competitor waver a little, no?”
You bite your tongue. He’s right. Aleksandar Ivanov is more than just a pretty face and brute strength. He’s also cunning and intelligent. You’re certain he would be a Slytherin if he attended Hogwarts instead of Durmstrang Institute.
“And you,” he continues. “You don’t strike me as the type of person to make bold declarations for the sake of tradition. There is something else, isn’t there?”
The same thing as you, Ivanov. I want to see the Hogwarts champion waver, you think. Instead, you stiffen, and say, “There’s nothing.”
“Hm.” Aleksandar doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t press the issue. “Well, whatever your reasons, I look forward to the Ball. I trust you’ll make for an… interesting evening.”
You nod, too flustered to do anything else. “Of course.”
“Let’s match,” he says. “What are the colours of your… house, as they call it?”
“Scarlet and gold.”
“Wear a red dress. Until then, dovizhdane.” Aleksandar turns back towards the ship.
You blink, but manage a stiff nod before walking away. You’ve done it. You’ve secured a date for the Yule Ball. But why, despite everything, do you still wish it was Suguru you’d be meeting on the dance floor?
“Lupus,” you read aloud, from the book Celestial Phenomena And Their Meanings placed on your lap, “is a constellation that is associated with wolves in Greek and Roman mythology. The stars that now form the constellation Lupus used to be part of the Centaurus constellation. They represented a sacrificed animal impaled by the centaur, which was holding it toward the constellation Ara, or the altar.”
Suguru rolls the ring around in his palm, chin propped on his other hand, sitting cross-legged across from you. “Interesting,” he muses. “Anything else?”
The signet catches the light of the Room of Requirement, glinting golden. It wasn’t hard to map out the dots to pictures of constellations and figure out which of the star-clusters was engraved on the ring. The harder part, now, is trying to piece together what it could possibly mean, and how it is related to the Latin inscription on the inside of the ring.
You clear your throat and say, “It says it’s also connected to the founding of Rome and the story of Orpheus.”
He straightens up at that, dragging a hand through his hair. He’s left it loose for the evening, and it spills over his shoulders, long and soft. Your hand itches to smoothen out the top of his scalp, but you bite back the urge and internally scold yourself for being an irrational mess around him.
“Can I have the book?”
You wordlessly pass it to him, leaning back on your arms and stretching your legs out in front of you. The velvet cushion is downy to the touch, and warm under your fingertips. An enchanted fire crackles in the corner, preventing the chill from outside from creeping in.
“It could also represent King Lycaon of Arcadia, who was turned into a wolf by Zeus,” he reads, eyes roaming over the page curiously.
“The question is,” you press, “what does all this mean? Lupus—wolves in general, really—have always been associated with survival, but the myth says it was a sacrificial animal caught by the Centaur. What does that mean? How does this connect to the inscription inside the ring?”
Ego sum principium mundi et finis saeculorum. I am the beginning of the world and the end of ages.
“Some great sacrifice, perhaps?” Suguru’s brows furrow in that way they always do, pinched together when he’s thinking hard about something. “But what would we sacrifice?”
“The answer to the riddle?” you suggest.
“Which is, what, exactly?”
You grimace. “I’ve no clue. It could be anything.”
He hums, fingers tracing the signet of the ring. “I wonder,” he murmurs, “if this is a test of more than just knowledge. The Headmaster’s riddles are rarely based on facts alone. He likes to see what’s in people, not just what they know.”
“A moral riddle, then?” You raise your eyebrows, shifting slightly on the cushion. Leaning forward, you peer at the ring once more. The Latin inscription glints faintly, almost as if it’s daring you to unravel its secret. “It could be literal. A physical sacrifice. Or—” You pause, chewing your lip. “Or it could be metaphorical. Something symbolic. The myths about wolves and sacrifices aren’t just about death. They’re about transformation. Survival. Endings and beginnings.”
“Hm.” Suguru tilts his head, his dark hair shifting with the movement. His gaze shifts from the ring to you. “Transformation. That ties neatly with the inscription, doesn’t it? The beginning of the world and the end of ages… sounds rather apocalyptic, don’t you think?”
“Don’t start spinning doomsday theories. We have enough to worry about without you prophesying the end of the world.”
“Not the world. Something about the world.”
“Or… Maybe it does have something to do with sacrifice. An emotion attached to it, maybe?” The question is rhetoric, simply you tossing out whatever unrealistic theories you can come up with, but Suguru leans forward, interested.
“You mentioned fear last time,” he says. “I think that makes sense, but what would the second task be? Dementors? Do they expect us to know how to cast a Patronus Charm?”
“I don’t know, Suguru,” you say. Your shoulders slump, defeated. Your head spins with various possibilities, each more far fetched than the last. “This is annoying me.”
Suguru huffs out a soft laugh, shoulders shaking. “Tired already, little lioness?”
“Don’t call me that,” you grouse.
“Noted.” He grins, all teeth and lips. You look away and ignore the way your pulse quickens. The sight of him like this—long limbs sprawled about, hair framing his face, his shirt creased and tie undone—makes your stomach flip in ways you don’t want to comprehend. “By the way, have you found yourself a date to the Yule Ball yet?”
You blink, disoriented by the sudden question. “Actually, I have,” you admit, face flushing with heat for no apparent reason. “Aleksandar Ivanov.”
“Ivanov?” Suguru’s voice trembles with something that sounds suspiciously close to disbelief. You want to crow with victory—this is what you had wanted, after all—but instead, all you feel is a strange sense of dread growing in your abdomen. “The Durmstrang champion?”
“Yes,” you say, lifting your chin slightly. “He’s… nice.”
“Nice?” Suguru scoffs. “That’s the best you could come up with?”
You glare at him. “What’s wrong with nice?”
“Nothing, if you’re describing a cup of tea or a particularly fluffy cat. But a date to the Yule Ball?” He shakes his head, exhaling sharply. “Ivanov is—”
“What?” you interrupt, your irritation rising. “Handsome? Intelligent? Charismatic?”
“—a pompous peacock with an accent that makes people swoon for no good reason,” he finishes, his voice dripping with disdain.
You bristle, crossing your arms. “You already have a date to the Ball. I don’t see how it matters to you who I go with.”
“It doesn’t,” he says quickly. “I just didn’t take you for someone who falls for shiny boys from other schools.”
You bite back a retort, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of riling you up further. Instead, you turn your attention back to figuring out the constellation, rifling through the pages of another book you pick up from the stack in front of you. The silence stretches, and Suguru is the first to break it, tentatively.
“Did you hear about Nanami docking points from Slytherin? Twenty this time. All because of Toji and that Hufflepuff girl.”
Your stomach twists at the mention of Fushiguro. “He called her a Mudblood,” you say bluntly. “She fainted because of it.”
Suguru’s fingers curl into fists, his expression clouding. “Fushiguro’s an idiot, but docking points for something he said? That’s unfair.”
“It’s completely fair,” you say, anger rising in your chest. “He used a slur, Suguru. Against her. Against people like me—Mudbloods, as Fushiguro would say. So yes, I think Nanami was right to take points away.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and cold. Suguru says nothing, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he sighs, shoulders slumping. “I didn’t mean—”
“Didn’t mean what?” you bite back, voice rising. “Didn’t mean to defend him? Didn’t mean to make excuses for someone who thinks people like me are lesser than him?”
“I’m not defending him,” Suguru snaps. “I just think punishing the whole house for someone else’s stupidity is unfair.”
“Unfair?” You laugh bitterly. “You want to talk about unfairness? Try walking around this castle knowing there are people who look at you and see something dirty. Try hearing that word every time you walk past a group of pureblooded Slytherins. Try knowing that despite everything you do, you will always, always be ousted by someone simply because they were born into the fucking wizarding world while you weren’t. But, of course, you wouldn’t know what that feels like, would you, you privileged ponce.”
Suguru flinches. You pick up your wand and cloak from the discarded heap on the floor and, anger still simmering in your chest, stride out of the Room of Requirement without a glance back.
As per custom, the selected champions must always enter the Yule Ball after everyone else. After days of gruelling ballroom dancing practice brought upon you and your housemates by your head of house, who did not want you to besmirch the Hogwarts name by acting like a “babbling, bumbling, band of baboons,” you like to think you’re quite the connoisseur of waltzing.
Aleksandar offers his arm to you, the dark red of his dress robes accentuating his cheekbones and eyes. Your own gown ripples with every movement, the deep crimson satin soft against your skin.
You descend the staircase carefully—tripping because of your heels would be an embarrassment you don’t want to experience—and don’t look at Geto Suguru. You’re still furious at him, and you want absolutely nothing to do with him at all tonight.
“You look very beautiful,” the Durmstrang champion murmurs under his breath. “It is an honour to be with you.”
You laugh shakily. “Thank you. And likewise.”
He smiles without teeth. “I believe your champion is glaring at us.”
“Is that so?” You glance sideways at your date. “He should be paying attention to the pretty girl on his arm instead, don’t you think?”
Aleksandar opens his mouth to say something, but before he can reply, the doors to the Great Hall open, and a professor hurriedly begins ushering in the couples.
Amélie, tall and graceful, with her long hair pinned into an elegant French braid, is the first to enter to a smattering of applause from the gathered students. Her peony-blue dress shimmers under the lights of the enchanted chandelier, and she walks with her head held high and her hand tucked into the crook of her date’s arm. Her date is a flustered Hufflepuff boy, someone you’ve seen around the corridors occasionally; he looks like he’s been struck by a Confundus Charm, what with the dazed look in his eyes. (You can’t blame him. The Beauxbatons champion is gorgeous.)
Next, is Suguru. You stare at the back of his head while he leads his date into the Great Hall. His long, dark hair is tied back in a loose ponytail, held in place by an emerald green ribbon. His dress robes are the same colour, swishing around his knees with every step he takes. And, of course, there’s his date—the nameless, faceless Beauxbatons girl who matches his elegance and grace in every manner possible. You’ve heard her name being tossed around, but you refuse to acknowledge it. Jealousy is a fickle thing, and you are petty enough to succumb to it. They are the epitome of a perfect wizarding couple, you think; something in your mouth sours. The fact that you are still angry at Suguru does nothing to ease your mind.
You snap your gaze away as soon as they enter the Great Hall. Aleksandar nudges you gently, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Shall we?”
You nod, and he leads you forward. The Great Hall is breathtaking, even though you’d seen it earlier when helping Utahime with the decorations. The enchanted ceiling reflects a clear winter night sky, complete with gently falling snowflakes that vanish just before reaching the floor. The tables along the edges of the wall are laden with sweets and drinks. The floating candles that are normally present above your heads are nowhere to be seen, instead replaced with glittering chandeliers. A large space in the centre has been cleared for dancing, and a live wizarding orchestra has set up their instruments in the far corner.
The applause, as Aleksandar leads you out, feels distant, like a dull roar in the back of your head and you force a smile to your face. You can still see Suguru out of the corner of your eye, his emerald robes catching the light while he and his date glide further into the hall. He doesn’t look back, which is somehow worse than if he had.
You’re startled out of your thoughts when Aleksandar leans close to murmur, “You’ve gone quiet. Thinking about something?”
“Nothing important,” you reply quickly, flashing him a grin that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
“Good,” he says with a wry chuckle, “because I’d hate to think I made you lose interest already.”
The comment earns him a genuine laugh this time, albeit a small one. The Bulgarian seems pleased, though, and gently steers you towards the centre of the hall, where the champions are to open the first dance. The room is full of expectant eyes, students from all three schools whispering and staring. You spot a few familiar faces in the crowd—Shoko with Haibara, looking like they’ve been dragged into something way out of their depth; Nanami with the Hufflepuff girl he’d rescued from Fushiguro, a rare, happy smile on his face; Mei Mei and Utahime laughing at something by the dance floor.
And, of course, there’s Satoru, leaning against the refreshments table with a goblet of pumpkin juice in his hand and a knowing smirk plastered on his face. He doesn’t look the least bit disgruntled about not having a date—a rare feat, considering how much of a drama queen he is. He catches your eye and wiggles his eyebrows at you, mouthing something indecipherable that you’re certain isn’t polite.
“Eyes up,” the Durmstrang champion says, low but not unkind. “You’re with me tonight.”
That’s right, you suppose. You are, so you shake your head and smile, turning to face him and resting your left hand on his shoulder. The orchestra strikes up a slow, elegant waltz, and Aleksandar’s hands find your waist.
The music swells, filling the enchanted hall with a lilting melody. Aleksandar guides you across the polished floor with a confidence that matches the proud poise of his bearing. For all your nerves, you fall into step easily, your waltzing practice smoothing out any initial awkwardness.
“You are good at this,” he murmurs, soft.
“I think I’m just very good at faking it,” you reply, glancing at the other couples. Suguru and his Beauxbatons date are near the centre of the hall, their movements seamless as if they’ve been dancing together for years. It’s a sight that would have been mesmerising—if it wasn’t so maddening in your eyes.
Aleksandar notices the flicker in your gaze but doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he shifts closer, his hold steadying you as he turns you in a spin. The room blurs briefly, the crowd fading into a swirl of colours before you’re pulled back into his orbit.
“You’re distracted,” he says lightly, though there’s an edge of knowingness in his voice. “Is it the crowd? Or is it something else?”
You open your mouth to deny it but catch the quirk of his brow, the faint amusement in his expression. He knows. Of course, he knows. “I—”
“It seems your true intentions were not so different from mine, after all.” Aleksandar smiles, a quick flash of teeth. “I suppose I must try harder to ensure I have your full attention.”
Aleksandar’s green eyes hold a hint of mischief in them. You smile, despite yourself. The waltz continues, each musical note cascading into the next. Around you, students start filling up the empty spaces on the dance floor, twirling and gliding, some with excellent prowess, others with two left feet. Still, your mind lingers on Suguru. It’s infuriating, how he fills up the crevices in your head, his absence from your line of sight louder than the applause once the dance ends.
The song draws to a close with a flourish. Aleksandar bows low to you; you return the gesture with a curtsey, your gown sweeping the floor. When you straighten up, he leans close to you, his voice low enough only for you to hear. “If you need an escape, just say the word. I’d be happy to whisk you away from… whatever it is that is troubling you. Consider it a favour.”
You laugh softly, his offer half-serious and wholly tempting. “Thank you, Aleksandar.”
Before you can say more, you catch Suguru moving from the corner of your eye. You glance up—and there he is. Geto Suguru, standing a few paces away with his date, his dark eyes locked on you in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t nod, doesn’t do anything except look, and it’s enough to make your breath hitch.
Aleksandar shifts, stepping just slightly closer, his hand brushing against yours. “Shall we get drinks?”
“Yes,” you say, far too quickly. “Let’s.”
You let Aleksandar lead you away, but you can’t shake the feeling of being watched, his gaze burning into your back long after you’ve disappeared into the crowd. Despite yourself, a small smile graces your lips when you spot Satoru, still lounging against the snacks table. He grins and waves when you catch his eye, and sets his goblet down when you and Aleksandar approach.
“Well, well,” Satoru drawls, ocean eyes roaming over your figure. “Impressive. I didn’t think you’d clean up this well.”
“At least I’m not a lone stag at a couple’s event,” you retort, smile widening despite yourself. Satoru does look rather dashing, however, clad in navy blue dress robes with golden curlicues embroidered all over. “Satoru, this is Aleksandar, as I’m sure you know. Aleksandar, this is my friend, Satoru.”
Aleksandar offers him a polite nod. “A pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard… Well, not much, actually. Though I imagine your reputation precedes you.”
Satoru snorts, unfazed. “Not much? Oh, I’m wounded. Surely the great Aleksandar Ivanov, Durmstrang’s star champion, has at least heard of my devastating good looks.” He flashes his most charming grin, but it only seems to amuse Aleksandar further.
“I’m afraid that hasn’t reached Durmstrang’s halls. Perhaps you should consider advertising.”
You stifle a laugh, glancing between them. “Don’t encourage him,” you say lightly, earning yourself an exaggerated pout from Satoru. “He already has a big enough head as it is.”
“That, I can believe.” The Bulgarian casts a sidelong glance at you.
“Smart guy,” Satoru muses. “I like him.”
“Anyway,” you cut in, cheeks warming. “We were just getting drinks.”
Satoru gestures dramatically to the table laden with butterbeer, pumpkin juice, and other sparkling drinks contained within golden goblets. “Help yourselves. And I would greatly appreciate it if neither of you told Utahime that all these drinks have been spiked with Firewhiskey by yours truly.” He points with his chin behind your shoulders to where Utahime is clumsily attempting to teach Mei Mei how to do the two-step.
Aleksandar grabs a goblet of something orange and fizzy, passing one to you before taking one for himself. It tastes sweet, and slightly sour, and it bubbles deliciously on your tongue before you swallow. The two of you bid farewell to Satoru and venture towards a quieter, more secluded spot. “This is nice, no?” he asks, and you hum in agreement.
“You’re quite popular tonight.”
You freeze, recognising the tone before you even begin to turn. Slowly, you glance over your shoulder to find Suguru standing a few feet away, his date nowhere to be seen. You hate how seeing him alone fills you with a twisted sense of triumph. His expression is carefully blank, unreadable, and for a moment the noise of the Great Hall fades away.
“I didn’t realise you were keeping track,” you reply evenly.
His lips curve slightly, not enough to be a smirk but enough to make your skin prickle. “Of course not. Just observing.”
You tilt your head, offering him a smile that borders on a grimace. “That’s very thoughtful of you. Maybe you should focus on your own date instead of mine, though.”
Aleksandar shifts beside you, but he remains silent. Suguru’s gaze flicks briefly to him before settling back on you. “She’s more than capable of taking care of herself. Besides, you seem to enjoy the attention.”
“I’m sorry—are you implying something?”
“Not at all.” Suguru steps closer, and, voice low, continues, “Just that you seem to be… compensating.”
The jab cuts deeper than you want to admit. “Compensating for what?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, letting the silence drag on long enough to make your stomach twist. “You tell me.”
Before you can respond, Aleksandar clears his throat, his green eyes darting in between you both. “I think I’ll grab another drink. Excuse me,” he says, and slips away with a polite nod.
“Great,” you mutter, glaring at Suguru. “Now you’ve scared off my date.”
“Oh, please. He’ll come back. He’s too invested in playing the perfect gentleman to leave you alone for too long.”
“And what about you? Where’s your date, Suguru? Or did she finally realise what an insufferable prat you are?”
His eyes narrow. “She’s fine. Unlike you, I don’t need to flaunt her to get a reaction.”
“What, in Merlin’s name, is your problem?” you hiss. Your heart pounds against your ribcage, a mix of anger and something else you don’t want to name.
“My problem?” he repeats, a dry laugh escaping his throat. “You, apparently. Always finding a way to needle at me.”
“You’re the one who came over here,” you shoot back. “If you have such an issue with me, why not stay on your side of the Great Hall?”
The Hogwarts champion’s gaze flickers briefly, something shuttering in his expression. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I just wanted to see how long you’d keep up the act.”
Your brows furrow; your patience is wearing thin. Placing your half-empty goblet on a nearby floating tray, you cross your arms over your chest. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“That guy,” he says, gesturing at Aleksandar’s retreating figure. “Pretending like you’re actually interested in him.”
You stare at him, your chest tightening at the implication. “Stop it,” you say quietly, steadily.
“Stop what?”
“Stop acting like you care,” you snap. “You made it perfectly clear earlier whose side you were on. Don’t act like you suddenly care about who I spend my time with.”
The mention of your earlier argument over Toji hangs heavy between you, and for a moment, Suguru looks away, jaw tightening. Really, you’re thankful Fushiguro isn’t anywhere near you both. Knowing him, you think he’s the sort of person who thrives off of attention, no matter whether it’s good or bad. He’d be elated to know that Hogwarts’ beloved champion and the school’s runner-up are locked in an argument over him—but it’s not really about Fushiguro Toji, is it?
“I don’t care,” he says finally, though his words lack conviction. “Maybe I just don’t like seeing you waste your time.”
“Funny,” you reply. “I could say the same about you.”
The words linger in the air, stubborn as static. Suguru’s eyebrows knit together, and he reaches out and grabs your wrist—not roughly, but firmly enough to send your pulse racing. “We’re not doing this here,” he says, through gritted teeth, pulling you towards the door.
“What are you—” you start, but he cuts you off with a brisk, “Just come with me.”
You inhale sharply, but follow him down the hallways and up the staircases. You know where he’s taking you before the door to the Room of Requirement even appears. Once inside, the door shuts with a soft click, leaving the two of you alone in the dimly-lit space. You pull your hand free, glaring at him.
“What the Hell is this about, Suguru?”
“You infuriate me,” he says, voice cutting and low and breathless. “You drive me fucking insane, did you know? I dislike you so much.”
You blink at him like he’s just sprouted another head. “What the fuck? How much did Satoru let you drink?”
“I’m not drunk,” he says, eyes narrowing. “I’m just angry—and jealous. I’m so envious, Merlin help me.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
A wry, sardonic chuckle escapes his throat. He lowers his head, strands of hair that spill out of the ribbon framing his face. “I don’t know.”
“You’re such a hypocrite.” You swallow around the lump that forms in your throat. Goosebumps erupt across your shoulders when a sudden cold draft of wind makes you shiver. “I hate you.”
He lifts his face, then, gaze resting on your lips. His mouth parts slightly, as though to say something, but no words come out. Instead, he takes a step closer, and it feels like the room shrinks around you with each inch of space he eliminates. “You hate me?”
Your heart pounds as you glare up at him, refusing to yield. “I do,” you snap, though your voice wavers just slightly.
Suguru lets out a bitter laugh. “Liar,” he says, so quietly, it almost doesn’t register. His hand moves before you can think to react, cupping your jaw, fingers brushing along the sensitive skin behind your ear. His thumb skims your cheek. “You hate me so much, but you’re still here. You can walk away. I won’t stop you.”
Your breath catches in your throat. You stay rooted in the spot, and your nails dig into your palms. “Shut up,” you whisper, though it sounds more like a plea than a command.
He doesn’t. Instead, his thumb moves lower, brushing along the corner of your mouth, lips turning up in a half-smirk when he sees the way your eyes flutter shut for the briefest of moments. “You’re flustered,” he notes, soft, “but you hate me, right?”
Something inside you snaps. With every ounce of venom you can muster, you repeat, “I do.”
And then you’re grabbing him by the front of his emerald green dress robes, yanking him down until your lips crash against his. It’s uncoordinated, a clashing of teeth and anger and frustration. Suguru freezes for half a second before he groans against your mouth, his hands sliding to your waist as he pulls you flush against him.
It’s not gentle. His lips are rough, demanding, teeth scraping your bottom lip as if to punish you for every word you’ve ever said to rile him up. But you’re just as relentless, fingers tangling in his hair while you blindly undo the ribbon holding it in place, pulling sharply enough to draw a hiss from his throat.
“You’re impossible,” you mutter against his mouth, breath coming out in short gasps.
“So are you,” he fires back. His lips trail down to your jaw, teeth grazing the skin there. “You drive me mad.”
You don’t bother replying, instead tugging his hair harder, forcing his mouth back to yours. His hands tighten on your waist, fingers digging into the silk of your dress as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. You’re barely aware of the way Suguru backs you up against the nearest wall, his body pressing against yours while his mouth moves hungrily against your own.
“Say it,” he murmurs against your lips, low but somehow pleading.
“Say what?” you breathe out, though you know exactly what he means.
“Say you don’t hate me,” he demands, the words said into your neck, teeth skating over your skin and making you shudder.
Your fingers tighten in his hair, and you bite back a gasp. “No,” you whisper defiantly.
He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes dark and wild, chest rising and falling heavily. “Liar,” he mutters again, before crashing his lips against yours and swallowing any further protests.
(Later, when you stir from sleep, your dress barely doing anything to shield you from the chill, the first thing you notice is Suguru beside you. His head rests against the stone floor, hair unbound and spilling like ink over the cold surface. You don’t know when you fell asleep, but you do know how you ended up so close, your hands almost touching.
When his eyes flutter open, heavy with sleep, neither of you speaks. He exhales softly, gaze dipping to where your fingers nearly meet, and though his lips don’t form the words, the apology is there. You know this because he hooks his little finger with yours, and squeezes.)
For the next month, you do the logical thing: You avoid Geto Suguru at all costs.
This, you’ve decided, is a perfectly reasonable course of action. A brilliant one, even. It takes careful planning—adjusting your usual routes between classes, lingering longer than necessary in the library, arriving at meals either too early, or too late—but you are nothing if not meticulous, and you refuse to let him and your feelings for him become an inconvenience.
You do feel guilty, however, about not helping him out with the second task, but the way you see it, Suguru is more than intelligent enough to figure it out on his own. (You refuse to acknowledge the fact that you spend time trying to piece it out when you can’t sleep at night, staring up at the canopy of your four-poster bed.)
You’re doing quite well, really. Or, you would be, if not for your insufferable friends.
The courtyard is unusually lively today. The air hums with the lingering remnants of winter, crisp but pleasant beneath the afternoon sun. Students—both Hogwarts and not—lounge in clusters across the stone benches and patches of grass, basking in the rare moment of warmth. Laughter carries through the open space like birdsong.
You sit with your friends at one of the broader stone benches, a small pile of books and a stray Golden Snitch hovering in the air beside you (pilfered from the Quidditch supply closet by Slytherin’s star seeker, Gojo Satoru himself). It should be peaceful. It should be, but—
“You’re objectively wrong, and I refuse to entertain this nonsense any further.” Utahime crosses her arms, looking positively scandalised.
Satoru scoffs. “Utahime, be serious.”
“I am serious! You’re the one who sounds like an idiot.”
“I am an idiot,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “But at least I’m right.”
Shoko exhales slowly, pressing her fingers against her temples. “Merlin’s beard, what are you two even arguing about?”
“More importantly,” Mei Mei pipes up, swiping the Snitch from the air, “are we supposed to care?”
“Yes,” you say dryly, “if only to prevent them from tearing each other apart in the middle of the courtyard.”
Utahime turns to you, looking deeply affronted. “You agree with me, don’t you?”
“I don’t even know what the argument is about.”
Satoru gestures broadly with both palms. “I’m simply saying that if a Thestral and a Hippogriff were to fight, the Thestral would obviously win.”
Silence. You blink. “That’s what you’re arguing about?”
“First of all,” Utahime says, ignoring your incredulity, “that is completely wrong.”
“Oh, this will be good,” Satoru says, only a tad bit sarcastic. He sprawls onto a patch of dewy grass and leans back on his hands. “Do explain.”
“Hippogriffs are way more aggressive than Thestrals,” Utahime says. “And they have stronger beaks and claws. They’d win in a fight easily.”
“Thestrals literally eat meat,” Satoru argues. “They’re meant to take things down.”
“So do Hippogriffs!” Utahime points out. “Thestrals eat meat, but that doesn’t mean they’re fighters. They hunt only when necessary. They won’t even attack unless provoked.”
“Alright, but let’s say they were provoked—”
“By what, your stupidity?”
Satoru grins. “At least Thestrals don’t try to smite your face off because you bowed down to greet them at the wrong angle. Plus, they have the advantage of being invisible to everyone except those who’ve come face-to-face with death.”
Utahime makes a noise of frustration, and before you know it, the conversation has devolved into a full-blown debate. Mei Mei, ever the neutral one, watches with amusement, and Shoko starts taking sides. She and Utahime argue passionately in favour of Hippogriffs, citing their sheer power and aggression, while Satoru insists that Thestrals are stronger due to their skeletal structure and ability to take down large prey. You are promptly dragged into the discussion, despite having absolutely no opinion on the matter.
“It’s obviously a Hippogriff,” Utahime exclaims, gesturing wildly.
“You would think that, wouldn’t you?” the only Slytherin in the group shoots back.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s insulting.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Honestly, this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever—”
“You agree with me, don’t you?” Satoru rounds on you, eyes gleaming.
You exhale, immediately regretting being within earshot of this conversation. “What?”
“You agree that a Thestral would win.”
You narrow your eyes. “I never said that.”
“Yeah, but you will.”
You sigh defeatedly, looking to the others for support, but Utahime merely juts her chin out. “Suguru wouldn’t agree with you,” she says pointedly.
Satoru snorts. “Suguru would agree with whatever she—” he points to you— “says.”
And just like that, your world tilts. The conversation continues around you—more bickering, more laughter—but it all fades into a dull hum, a sort of background noise to the sudden rushing in your ears. Suguru would agree with whatever you say.
It’s absurd. It’s just Gojo Satoru being Gojo Satoru, throwing out careless words without stopping to think about them. But the worst part—the part that unsettles you the most—is that he might be right.
You think of the way Suguru used to argue with you, sharp-tongued and obstinate, yet never truly cruel. How he always listened, even when he pretended not to. How, more often than not, he did end up on your side, whether by reason or sheer inevitability.
You inhale sharply, hands curling into fists on your lap. You make no move to join back in on the conversation—because, really, what is there to say?
That you can still feel the ghost of his hands on your skin? That you can still taste the Butterbeer he’d had on the eve of the Yule Ball when he slotted his lips against yours? That his name has lodged itself between your ribs, stubborn as a curse? That your heart stutters at the mere thought of him; that you cannot—will not—let yourself dwell on what could be if you let go of your pride, and he relinquished his arrogance?
No, there’s nothing to say at all.
When you agreed to help Utahime rearrange the awards and plaques in the Trophy Room after classes, you certainly were not expecting her to lock you up in said room with one Geto Suguru. If it was any of your other friends—Shoko, Satoru—you would not have been very inclined to help out, but it was Utahime who asked, which is why you acquiesced. At least you can say, with utmost certainty, that sweet, loving Utahime Iori is not sweet or loving at all.
There’s a brief moment of silence as the heavy door slams shut behind you; you reach for your pocket instinctively to pull out your wand and cast Alohomora—the Unlocking Charm—and make your escape. Then, you belatedly realise that you’d left your wand in your dormitory after classes. Your fingers curl around nothing, and you feel rather stupid.
Dust motes dance in the golden afternoon light, settling over gleaming plaques and silver trophies, their engravings telling stories of menial victories long past. The air smells like polish, but you hardly notice. Your pulse roars in your ears, loud enough to drown out all other sound but the one voice you had hoped to avoid indefinitely.
“Utahime,” you call through the door, voice strained but not yet desperate. “This isn’t funny.”
There’s no answer, save for the sound of retreating footsteps. You spin on your heel, fully prepared to ignore Suguru entirely until Utahime returns, but then he shifts—just the slightest movement, a tilt of his head, a shift of his weight from one foot to the other—and it’s as if some sort of invisible thread yanks you to him.
“I didn’t expect the Head Girl to actually agree to bring you here,” he says, voice low.
He looks tired. You hate that you notice.
His hair is loose, strands slipping over his shoulders, dark against the pale slope of his throat. His uniform is slightly disheveled—tie loosened, shirt rolled up to his elbows—but it’s his face that makes something in you twist uncomfortably. There are shadows beneath his eyes, bruised with exhaustion, and though his usual easy arrogance lingers in the set of his jaw, his shoulders are rigid, as though he’s bracing for impact.
You force yourself to turn away, to focus on the nearest plaque. The etched names are a blur as you try and fail to appear unaffected. Draconius Falmoy: Head Boy, 1869, it reads.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Suguru says. There is no accusation in his tone—just fact, cold and clear as glass.
You trace the name engraved on the plaque with a fingertip. “I’ve been busy.”
A humourless laugh. “Right. Too busy to even look at me?”
You clench your teeth. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“Dramatic?” His voice sharpens, something brittle underlying it. “You haven’t spoken to me in a month. I don’t even know if you’d still acknowledge my existence if we weren’t locked in her together.”
You suck in a breath sharply, counting backward from ten in your head. You’ve spent weeks perfecting the art of pretending Suguru doesn’t exist; you’re not about to let him unravel it now. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” you manage to say, turning around to face him properly at last. “That I’m sorry? That I feel guilty?”
Suguru watches you, unreadable, dark eyes wrought with something you can’t name. “I didn’t ask for an apology.”
“No,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest, “but you clearly want one.”
Something in his expression flickers—hurt, maybe, or something close to it—but it vanishes so quickly, you think you might have imagined it. He sighs, running a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face.
“I don’t understand you,” he says finally. “You kissed me, and then you disappeared.”
Your stomach lurches. “It wasn’t—”
“What?” He steps forward, gaze locked on yours. “It wasn’t supposed to happen? It didn’t mean anything?”
You hesitate, because you know that’s what you should say. You should roll your eyes, scoff, tell him he’s being ridiculous and move on like the Yule Ball never happened. He takes another step forward, and he’s close, now—close enough that you catch the faint scent of parchment and cedarwood, familiar enough after all the weeks you’ve spent in the Room of Requirement with him. You should say, Of course it didn’t mean anything, Suguru, don’t be stupid, but the words stick in your throat, prickly and unyielding.
“Tell me it meant nothing, and I won’t bother you ever again,” he promises, soft, and somehow that’s worse.
You swallow hard. “Suguru—”
He shakes his head, a bitter smile curling at his lips. “Nevermind.” He turns away, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You’re good at that, aren’t you? Pretending.”
The words cut deeper than they should. You don’t respond, because what could you possibly say? That he’s right? That every morning, you tell yourself it was a mistake, that it didn’t matter, that you can keep pretending it never happened—only to feel his touch lingering on your skin like a phantom’s fingers?
No. You can’t say any of that. Instead, you press your lips together and say nothing.
The silence that follows is thick and heavy and suffocating. You don’t move. Neither does he. You count the seconds in your head, waiting for something—anything—to break this unbearable tension.
Then, at long last, a knock raps against the door. “Alright,” Utahime calls out, sounding far too smug for your liking. “I think you’ve suffered enough.”
The lock clicks. The door swings open. Suguru doesn’t spare you a glance as he strides past, his shoulder just barely brushing yours as he leaves. The Trophy Room suddenly feels too big, too quiet, and you’re left standing alone amidst the gleaming remnants of past victories, your heartbeat echoing loud in your ears. (You have the gnawing feeling that Draconius Falmoy, Head Boy of Hogwarts in 1869 would laugh at your predicament.)
“I’m sorry,” Utahime tells you, as you fall in step with her. “He kept asking me to help him find a way to talk to you—he even promised he would donate the thousand Galleons he gets as prize money for the Triwizard Tournament to St. Mungo’s Hospital of Magical Maladies and Injuries, if he wins.”
You don’t say anything, only look down at the stone floor of the corridor as you walk back to Gryffindor Tower. You can’t fault Utahime; she has always been extremely kind-hearted and gentle, and you know the idea of a donation to the wizarding hospital would sway her completely—especially considering the fact that it’s been her dream to become a Healer after she graduates Hogwarts.
“Are you mad at me?” she asks, after a beat.
“No,” you say, flashing her a small smile that you hope is convincing. Truthfully, you’re just mad at yourself.
The plan is simple: Bribe Geto Suguru with sweets and pray he doesn’t hex you on sight.
It’s not your most sophisticated scheme, nor your most dignified, but after an entire month of avoidance, and the disaster that was the Trophy Room incident, you’ve resigned yourself to desperate measures. You are doing this, not because you feel guilty, but because you had agreed to help him out with the Tournament, and you don’t want to feel like a shitty person for going back on your word. Regrettably, it is incredibly difficult to help someone when you can’t look them in the eye.
Aforementioned desperate measures include grilling Shoko for every last detail about Suguru’s favourite things. She doesn’t make it easy.
“You’re acting like you’re about to woo him,” she’d remarked, flipping idly through the pages of her Potions textbook and entirely uninterested in your plight.
“I’m not trying to woo him.”
“You’re learning all of his favourite things, buying him chocolates, agonising over the best way to give them to him—all on Valentine’s day, too. I’m certain that that’s called wooing.”
Your face had burned; it wasn’t your fault the organisers decided to conduct the second task only ten days before the holiday of love. “I’m apologising,” you’d insisted.
Shoko had hummed, but despite her incredulousness, she’d humoured you and rattled off a list of trivial details about Suguru’s preferences—his favourite tea (jasmine), his favourite book (something tedious and philosophical), the subjects he likes best (Charms and Transfiguration, though you knew this already). Most importantly, of course, the only Honeydukes chocolates he actually cares for: dark chocolate-covered honeycomb. (“But only from Honeydukes,” Shoko had warned. “He says the other ones taste like burnt sugar.”)
Which is how you find yourself in Hogsmeade, the wizarding village closest to Hogwarts, the morning air crisp and cold, clutching a small, carefully-wrapped box of sweets like your life depends on it. Hogsmeade is lively, bustling with students eager to escape the castle for the day. The scent of butterbeer and freshly-baked pastries wafts through the air. All around you, couples wander hand-in-hand, jumpers pulled tight around their bodies to ward off the early spring chill, and their laughter bright against the grey sky. Shopfronts are decorated in ridiculous shades of pink and red, hearts and flowers strung across windows in celebration of Valentine’s Day.
The sight makes you feel vaguely ill, because this is not a romantic gesture. (Then why does it feel like your heart is about to leap out of your throat every time you think of him?)
You don’t linger in Honeydukes—Hogsmeade’s best chocolatier—for longer than necessary, as much as the toasty warmth and aroma of cocoa makes you want to stay. Making quick work of purchasing the chocolates, you step back out onto the cobbled streets, heart hammering at the thought of what you’re about to do.
It’s not that you’re nervous. Not really. It’s just that approaching Suguru after everything feels a bit like facing a sleeping dragon—you don’t know if he’ll tolerate your presence or scorch you on sight. Still, you have to try.
You find him standing outside The Three Broomsticks, a pub and restaurant owned by the friendly Madam Rosmerta. He is not alone; Satoru and a few Durmstrang students surround him. He looks relaxed, hands tucked into his pockets, but there’s something in his expression that wasn’t there before. The tiredness clings to him still, there in the worn-out slump of his shoulders. Guilt gnaws at your ribs.
You hesitate, watching him laugh at something Satoru says. Maybe this is stupid. Maybe he doesn’t care anymore. Maybe—
Suguru turns and sees you. You don’t think you’ve ever stood so still in your life.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. The noise of Hogsmeade fades into the background, muffled and distant, like the world has shrunk down to just the space between you. His expression is shuttered, brows knitted together in a frown.
Your fingers tighten around the box. You should leave. You should turn around, pretend you never saw him, and—
His gaze flickers to your hands. Oh, Merlin’s beard.
With a sharp inhale, you straighten your spine and march forward before you can change your mind. Satoru notices you first, perking up like a dog catching sight of a squirrel. “Hey, look who it is! Fancy seeing you over here.”
You ignore him and stop directly in front of Suguru. His eyes widen slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to actually approach him. You shove the box into his hands.
Suguru blinks, catching it before it can fall. “What—?”
“It’s an apology,” you mutter, staring at the ground. “Take it or leave it.”
He doesn’t say anything immediately. You wonder, vaguely, if you’ve made a horrible mistake. If he’ll laugh, or hand it back, or— “...Honeycomb?” he asks quietly.
“...Yeah.”
Something shifts in his eyes, something subtle and indecipherable. He stares at the box, fingers tightening around the edges. When he finally looks back at you, there’s something in his gaze that makes your breath hitch.
You don’t wait to see what he does next. Instead, you turn on your heel and walk away, determined to ignore the pounding of your heart.
You don’t look back. You don’t see the way he watches you go, either.
(That night, when you tentatively enter the Room of Requirement for the first time in what feels like forever, you find Suguru already there, sitting cross-legged on one of the cushions. The box of Honeydukes chocolates lies open on the ground in front of him. You drop down onto the cushion opposite him, and wordlessly, he pushes the box closer to you.)
The sky is pale, streaked with the last wisps of winter clouds, the sun still struggling to bring warmth to the February chill. It is not quite cold, not quite warm, that strange in-between where the air nips at exposed skin but doesn’t truly bite. The Quidditch pitch has been transformed. The stands are packed with students, banners waving in the light breeze, and an expectant hush hangs over the crowds, despite the murmur of conversation.
The Black Lake gleams darkly in the distance, but the task does not take place in its depths. Instead, the champions stand in a row on the dewy grass of the Quidditch pitch, preparing for whatever horrors the second task of the Triwizard Tournament entails.
You already know what those horrors are.
The riddle had taken a frustratingly long time to decode, to come up with a proper answer instead of a mere hunch. Ego sum prinicipium mundi et finis saeculorum; once the answer had clicked into place, it had seemed almost too simple. I am the beginning of the world and the end of ages. What was the first thing humans ever knew? What was the last thing they felt before death?
Fear.
And so, the second task would force the champions to face their deepest fears, drawn from the constellations carved into the rings they had procured from the first task. It is an elegant, cruel bit of magic—one that ensures their struggles are uniquely personal.
From your place in the stands, you’re offered a clear view of the champions standing in the centre of the field, their expressions barely concealing their tension. Their rings glint in the light, the engraved constellations gleaming like ancient runes. Anticipation coats each of the champions like a second skin, shoulders stiff, hands clenched, magic thrumming in the air. You’d arrived earlier than your friends, so you sit alone, fingers curling into the hem of your robes.
In front of the champions is a large, dome-like structure that shimmers faintly with spells and charms. That is where the task will take place, hidden from the eyes of the over-eager audience to grant the champions some semblance of privacy while they complete the second task.
You spot Suguru immediately. He stands with his back straight, arms crossed over his chest, face completely blank. His long hair is tied back loosely, a few strands slipping free and brushing against his cheeks. He does not fidget, does not shift from foot to foot like the other two, but there is a tightness to his stance, a rigidity in the way his shoulders refuse to relax.
A hush falls over the crowd as the first champion is announced to enter the dueling arena. Aleksandar Ivanov tries to hide his nervousness, but you can see the slight hesitation in his step and the way he grips his wand so tightly, his knuckles turn white. His ring bears the constellation Hydra, the many-headed serpent—a symbol of resilience, of something that cannot be easily destroyed. You wonder what he fears.
A glittering door begins to take shape, starting from the base of the dome. It creaks open, revealing a dark, yawning abyss beyond. Shadows slither across the ground, shifting and twisting, while the Boggart inside, enhanced by Tournament magic, begins to take form.
Boggarts, as you’ve studied in your Defence Against the Dark Arts class, are amortal, shape-shifting non-beings that take on the form of its observer’s worst fear. Because of their shape-shifting ability, no one knows what a Boggart’s true shape is, as it changes form instantly upon encountering someone. The incantation used to banish a Boggart is simple—dispel the fear with amusement while casting Riddikulus. However, seeing as the Boggarts the champions must face are magically enhanced, you suspect a simple Boggart-Banishing Spell will not be enough. The thought alone is enough to fill your mind with worry.
Aleksandar steps into the darkness, the door vanishing behind him. The rules are simple: Each champion must navigate a maze of illusions, battle their own fears, and rescue the person chosen for them. The champion who succeeds in the shortest amount of time will earn the most points. An enchanted hourglass hovers in the air, grains of sand slipping through its neck to mark the passage of time.
You barely breathe as the minutes tick by, until Aleksandar finally emerges. His friend—the person he had to rescue—jogs out behind him, looking ashen but otherwise alright. It’s the Durmstrang champion whose face is drawn, whose hands are trembling. He is victorious—but shaken.
The Beauxbatons champion is next. Amélie takes longer than expected. She stumbles as she exits, her breath ragged, and her face streaked with something that might be tears. Her hands shake so violently that she can barely accept the glass of water being handed to her.
It is grueling. It is cruel.
And Suguru is yet to go.
You swallow hard as he steps forward, the light catching the gold of his ring, the constellation Lupus etched onto its surface. The wolf—strength, transformation. But strength does not mean the absence of fear.
He does not hesitate, moving towards the dome’s entrance. You can hear people whispering around you—students murmuring their predictions, placing their bets, trying to guess what exactly a boy like Geto Suguru could possibly fear. You grip the edge of your robes tightly.
The door shimmers into existence before him, tall and forbidding. It creaks open slowly, revealing the same thing it has for the previous two champions—an abyss of darkness, shifting and coiling like smoke. He steps inside. The door disappears. The enchanted hourglass flips, grains of sand slipping through its narrow neck. You exhale, only then realising that you had held your breath.
The stands are still buzzing with conversation, but it is nothing more than a distant hum in your ears. Your entire focus is on the closed dome, on the way your heart beats faster than it should, as if your body already knows something your mind is yet to understand.
What is he afraid of?
Suguru is not fearless—no one is—but he has always carried himself in a way that makes him seem like he is. Unshaken, unbothered, his composure held so effortlessly that it has always frustrated you in ways you dare not name. He stands with an arrogance that makes it hard to imagine him afraid of anything at all.
Still, you know that arrogance is a performance. A shield. Suguru hates appearing weak, more than anything else, so he deludes everyone else into thinking he is not. You had thought that the riddle that you had agonised over for weeks was cruel in itself, but this is worse. The waiting. The not-knowing.
Your stomach twists into impossible knots as the minutes drag on. Five minutes. Six. Eight. You count each grain of sand slipping down the hourglass. Ten minutes pass.
Twelve minutes, and then—
The door bursts open. Suguru steps into the light, and he is not alone. Your breath catches in your throat.
Gojo Satoru stumbles behind him, blinking against the sudden brightness. His white hair is disheveled, his expression more one of confusion than relief. He shakes Suguru off with a scowl, tugging his sleeve free from where Suguru’s fingers still grip the fabric.
“You didn’t have to drag me—” Satoru starts, but he stops as soon as he catches sight of Suguru’s face. His expression shifts; wariness replaces irritation, amusement slips away like a mask crumbling at the edges.
Suguru stands rigid, shoulders taut with unnatural tension. His face is stony, unreadable, perfectly blank in the way that only means he’s holding something back.
The hourglass stops. It has only been slightly less than thirteen minutes.
Geto Suguru is the fastest champion to finish the second task of the Triwizard Tournament.
The cheers begin, slow at first—someone in the stands starts shouting his name, then another, and another, until the entire pitch is filled with applause and hoots. You barely hear it.
Suguru is not okay.
He doesn’t acknowledge the cheering, doesn’t even react to it. His jaw is clenched so tightly that you can see the strain in his muscles. He isn’t even looking at Satoru anymore—his gaze is fixed somewhere beyond him, unfocused and distant.
Then, as if pulled by some invisible force, his eyes lift—and he sees you.
For a fleeting moment, something breaks in his expression. A flicker of something raw and fractured, a crack in the mask. He huffs quietly, tiredly, and he walks away without a word.
Your stomach sinks. Something is wrong.
You barely notice the way the crowd is still celebrating his victory, the way students are excitedly chatting about how he finished faster than anyone else, because of course he did—Geto Suguru is the strongest, after all.
(But strength does not mean the absence of fear.)
Your fingers tremble slightly as you watch his retreating figure. His posture is stiff, and his steps are too controlled. You should look away, should let him leave. You should accept that whatever happened inside that dome is his burden to carry.
But you can’t, because suddenly, all you can think of is the way he looked at you just now. Like he needed to see you; like you needed to see him.
And, well, it’s quite silly in retrospect, but it’s a realisation that settles over you quietly, as if it’s been there all along and you’ve just stupidly buried it underneath your own pride and arrogance: You don’t hate Geto Suguru at all.
“Go away,” Suguru says, stubborn as ever. He is propped up against a pillow on one of the beds in the Hospital Wing. An empty vial of Calming Draught is placed on the stand next to him, though you don’t mention it. Beside it, a half-empty box of Honeydukes chocolates.
“No,” you tell him, just as obstinate.
Suguru scowls. “I don’t want company.”
You ignore him, dragging a nearby chair closer to his bedside with an obnoxious scrape against the floor before sitting down. He doesn’t look at you, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the tall windows of the Hospital Wing, where the afternoon light spills golden over the Hogwarts grounds. His hair is slightly damp—most likely due to sweat—and the dark strands cling to his forehead.
“Are you hurt?” you ask, eyes flicking to the empty vial of Calming Draught.
He scoffs. “Wouldn’t be here if I was.”
“You are here.”
He sighs, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, as if trying to rub away whatever still lingers in his mind. “It’s just protocol. The Healers made me take a Calming Draught after the task, and apparently, that warrants a few hours of observation.”
You glance at him. He might not be physically injured, but there is something wrong, something unsettling in the way he carries himself.
“You were in there only for thirteen minutes,” you say carefully. “That’s— That’s insane, actually.”
“I won, didn’t I?” he mutters.
“That’s not what I asked.”
He barks out a short laugh. “No. It isn’t.”
Silence, again. Suguru isn’t like this—not normally. He thrives in competition, in the thrill of battle, in the excitement of a challenge. He doesn’t dwell. He doesn’t let things linger like ghosts at the edges of his thoughts. But right now, it feels like he is being haunted.
“I saw your face when you came out,” you say, quieter this time. “You weren’t okay.”
His fingers curl into the sheets, gripping tightly. “It was just a Boggart.”
“A magically enhanced Boggart,” you remind him. “We don’t know how they worked, what they—”
“It’s over,” he snaps, cutting you off. “I’m done talking about it.”
You stare at him, waiting for him to meet your gaze, but he doesn’t. His shoulders are rigid—drawn tighter than they were before the task commenced—and his body is tense, as if he’s holding something in so tightly, it might crack him apart.
“...Was it Satoru?” you ask gently. “Is that what you—”
Suguru flinches, and somehow, that tells you enough. Your stomach twists. What did he see? Suguru and Satoru had come out of the dome together—Satoru unharmed, though clearly confused. The task had required him to rescue someone, and he’d done just that by saving his best friend. But what had he seen in there?
Suguru finally exhales, turning his head to you. “It was just a task,” he says. “And I won. That’s all that matters.”
“Stop pretending,” you say, voice sharper now. “I saw you after the task, and you weren’t fine. You still aren’t.”
Suguru narrows his eyes at you, but doesn’t respond. Instead, he looks away again, staring out the window like it might offer him some escape. You wait for some kind of acknowledgement, some crack in his carefully constructed walls.
“I’m fine,” he says, but it’s too strained to be convincing. “It was just a stupid Boggart. It’s over.”
“No, it’s not,” you argue. “It’s obviously still bothering you, so just—just admit it. Tell me what happened, Suguru. I can try to help.”
He whips his head back toward you, eyebrows furrowed, patience wearing thin. “I don’t need to explain myself to you,” he snaps. “It’s over. I’m fine. End of story.”
You refuse to back down. “Don’t shut me out. I’m not going to just sit here and pretend I didn’t see the way you almost cracked when you came out of the dome!”
Suguru’s eyes flash with anger, his fingers curling into fists on his thighs. “I don’t need your pity, alright? So just drop it.”
“No, I can’t just drop it.” Your voice trembles with frustration. Why won’t he just listen? “I fucking care about you, and I can see it’s bothering you. What the Hell are you so afraid of?”
His entire body stiffens at your words. His gaze darts away again, and you know—you know—he’s trying to hold something back. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but then he shuts it again.
“I’m not afraid,” he mutters, but there’s a brittleness to his voice that betrays him. “I told you, I’m fine. It’s over. Stop pushing.”
“You’re lying. What is it? What did you see in there?”
Suguru glares at you, his chest rising and falling with short, shallow breaths. Then, in a sudden burst of frustration, he spits out the words that he’s been holding back for far too long. “It was you, alright?!”
You freeze. “...What?”
“It was you,” Suguru repeats harshly. “I saw you in there—but you weren’t you.” he falters, but the words keep coming. “You—your eyes—they were empty, like something had taken you and left nothing behind. I couldn’t reach you. You were just standing there. Gone.” He stops, swallowing hard, trying to reign in his emotions, but it’s too late.
Your mouth runs dry, your pulse racing as his words echo in your head.
Suguru turns away from you, but you can see the rigidness in his back. “I couldn’t—couldn’t bring you back. I tried, but you were just gone, and there was nothing I could do.” He inhales wearily. “Like a Dementor had sucked the soul out of you, and I couldn’t do anything about it because my Patronus Charm wouldn’t fucking work, and—”
Your mind whirls. You know his fear now. It’s not some grand disaster, some monstrous threat—it’s losing you. Losing you in some way that he can’t fix.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
For a long moment, you don’t speak. The only sound between you is the faint rustling of the Hospital Wing curtains shifting in the late afternoon breeze. Suguru’s chest rises and falls unsteadily. He refuses to look at you now, as if saying it out loud was already enough, as if giving his fear a form has made it real.
Of all the things you could have imagined, you’d never expected this. Suguru, who meets every challenge with an infuriating smirk, who stands unshaken even in the face of the impossible—he had been terrified. And it had been because of you.
You open your mouth, then close it. What do you even say to something like that?
Your heart aches at the way he’s withdrawn, curling in on himself as though he’s trying to make himself smaller. As though, now his secret has slipped, he’s bracing himself for whatever comes next.
So, instead of speaking, you move. Slowly, cautiously, you reach forward and wrap your arms around him.
Suguru stiffens immediately. His whole body goes tense under your touch, like he’s caught between the instinct to pull away and the desperate need to hold on. But then, after a beat of hesitation, he exhales shakily—and lets himself collapse into you.
It almost knocks the breath out of your lungs. His arms lock around you, tight—so impossibly tight that it almost hurts. He buries his face against your shoulder, and he grips onto you like he’s afraid that if he lets go, you’ll disappear; like he’s trying to convince himself that you’re real, that you’re here.
You don’t say anything. You just hold him.
His breathing is uneven, shallow at first, but gradually, as you rub slow circles into his back, it steadies. One of his hands curls into the fabric of your robes at your waist, clutching you like you’re a lifeline.
You feel him take a shuddering breath. “I know it wasn’t real,” he murmurs into your shoulder. “I know that. But it—fuck, it felt real.”
You nod, letting him press himself closer. “I know,” you whisper.
“I couldn’t do anything,” he admits. “I couldn’t do anything. I was right there, and you—you were just standing there, and I kept calling your name, but you didn’t even blink. And my Patronus—it wouldn’t work.” His grip on you tightens. “It wouldn’t fucking work.”
You don’t need him to explain why that matters. A Patronus is a partially-tangible positive energy force created from the caster’s happiest memories, either incorporeal as a burst of white mist, or corporeal—stronger than the incorporeal one—where it takes the form of an animal. It’s used to ward off Dark Magic—most commonly, creatures known as Dementors, which thrive off of negative emotions. The image of you, hollow, is what happens if a Dementor gets close enough to a person to perform the Dementor’s Kiss: Sucking the soul out of a person, leaving them a shell of their former selves. The Patronus Charm is complicated and difficult, so much so that most experienced wizards themselves struggle with casting it.
You know how powerful Suguru’s magic is. The fact that, in his fear, he hadn’t managed to cast it—not even an incorporeal one—
You swallow past the lump in your throat. “You would’ve saved me.”
He makes a sound at the back of his throat, something like a scoff. “You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do,” you say fiercely, protectively. “If that had been real, you would’ve found a way.”
Something in him seems to rupture in him at your words. His arms tighten just a fraction more before he finally—finally—relaxes against you. The tautness in his muscles begins to ease, his breathing growing softer, deeper. He still doesn’t let go, but it isn’t out of desperation. It’s something else now.
“I hate this,” he says, after a pause.
“Hate what?”
“That I had to see that.” He exhales against your skin. “That you had to hear all of this.”
You shake your head, pulling back just enough to look at him. “Suguru.”
He finally lifts his head. His face is guarded but tired—so tired. His eyes, dark as ink, roam over your face. You meet his gaze and let your hands move up, threading gently into his hair. “I don’t care that you’re afraid,” you say, softly. “I’m afraid, too.”
Suguru looks at you for a long time, unreadable. You wonder if he’s going to argue, if he’s going to brush you off, or deflect with sarcasm, the way both of you have been doing all this time. But he doesn’t.
Instead, his hand moves to your face. The touch is hesitant at first; his fingers ghost over your cheek, like he’s still trying to convince himself that you’re real. Then, his thumb brushes over your skin, slow and soft. You don’t dare to breathe.
His gaze flickers down to your lips, then back up. “You’re still here,” he murmurs, so quietly that you almost miss it.
And then he kisses you.
It isn’t rushed. It isn’t desperate. It’s slow, reverent—like he’s memorising you, like he’s savouring the fact that you’re here, that you’re warm and breathing and safe in his arms.
Your fingers tighten in his hair as you press closer, melting into him while his lips move against yours. It’s gentle, but when you sigh softly into his mouth, he lets out a quiet groan and deepens the kiss. His hand cups the back of your head, his other arm winding around your waist to pull you closer.
(The door to the Hospital Wing swings open.
“Oi, Geto, you decent— Oh, Merlin’s saggy balls—”
A loud, scandalised gasp echoes through the room, followed by Gojo Satoru’s unmistakable cackle. You barely have time to react, to get off Suguru’s lap, before he stiffens, head snapping towards the entrance. Standing in the doorway are Shoko and Satoru, both with varying expressions of shock and amusement.
“Oh, don’t stop on our account,” Satoru drawls, sporting a shit-eating grin. “This is way better than what we came here for.”
Shoko hums. “Yeah, I was expecting to find Suguru all sulky and brooding—not getting snogged to within an inch of his life.”
Suguru groans, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “Kill me.”
You, on the other hand, are trying very hard not to combust. “Oh, sweet Merlin.”
Satoru dramatically clutches his chest. “My best friend, growing up so fast. Next thing I know, you’ll be writing poetry about her eyes, or something.”
Suguru, who absolutely has thought about writing poetry about your eyes (though he would rather die than admit it), scowls. “Shut up, Satoru.”
“Can’t. This is the highlight of my week.”
You groan, hiding your burning face in your hands. “I hate both of you.”
“Aw, don’t be like that,” Shoko coos. “Should we give them some privacy? Maybe light some candles to help them set the mood?”
Wordlessly, Suguru raises a hand and lifts up his middle finger.)
June brings summer hand-in-hand to the castle, and along with it, the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament. The days leading up to the third task are restless. The maze looms at the edges of the Quidditch Pitch, its towering hedges charmed to shift and writhe, concealing whatever dangers the tournament has yet to unveil. It is a final trial of wit and endurance, a labyrinth where victory lies at the centre.
You hate it.
“You’re scowling,” Suguru observes, watching you from his spot on the grass. He’s leaning back on his elbows, legs stretched out in front of him.
“You should be worried too,” you counter, plopping down next to him. “That thing is practically breathing.”
“And what would you have me do? Duel the shrubbery?”
You huff, glaring at the maze once more before turning back to him. “You’re taking this too lightly.”
He grins. “Because you’re worrying enough for the both of us.”
You reach over and flick his forehead. He lets out a dramatic groan, falling onto his back as though you’ve mortally wounded him.
“Unbelievable,” you mutter, shaking your head, though you’re biting back a smile of your own. “How am I supposed to be stressed when you’re like this?”
“That’s the idea,” he muses, folding his arms behind his head. His dark hair spills over the grass, strands catching the sunlight. “I can’t have my little lioness fretting herself to an early grave.”
You smack his shoulder without hesitation. “Call me that again, and I’ll start rooting for the maze.”
Suguru barks out a laugh, turning his head to look at you properly. He’s smiling, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ll be fine.”
You reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his. He squeezes once, gently, before tugging you closer. You let out a small oomph before sprawling onto the grass next to him.
The sun dawdles in the horizon, stretching out the day for as long as it will go. You turn your head and brush your lips against his, content and happy. The third task waits, unseen and uncertain, but at least there is this.
Whether Geto Suguru emerges victorious or not—well. That’s insignificant, you think.
⇢ a/n: if you read this entire thing, i’m giving you a big hug. this fic is so many things, but it is mainly a labour of love towards the fandom that first got me into writing and reading fanfiction at the wee age of eleven, and the fandom that currently occupies most of my tiny little brain. it is also the longest fic i have written till date, and i am proud of myself for it. this fic would not be possible were it not for my two best friends, @mahowaga & @admiringlove helping me out, letting me bounce ideas off of them, wracking our brains together to come up with the second task, and lurking on my google doc while i was writing, leaving comments that make me giggle even now. thank you for reading, and i hope you have a wonderful day!
Who is so complicated that the world thinks he is the simplest. Nothing but respectful, with impeccable manners.
But you know the true depth of his complications, burried so deep within the layers.
But that's not what makes you so smitten, it's actually the fact that even with all of that, he tries.
He tries with you, to be the real him. Tries to make you show what all he really is.
It started with tiny things,
The most favorite snacks.
His least favourite flavor.
Having no filter, with you, when he dissed people's fashion. But that's OK because you would laugh just a hard.
Being a mean 5 year girl in a 6'3" tall, man's body.
Later it grew into deeper things like the taste and feeling of digesting a curse, the negativity.
For he realised you cared, enough to always be stocked with his favorites, or the right amount of attention. You didn't judge his thoughts, instead added your intrusive ones too, making his feel less psychotic and doable in comparison.
"I wanna start a cult so I can train people like monkeys in a circus."
"But baby that would take up all of your time! You know how hard that is. Why not scam the jjk elders by killing minimal curses and attaching a hefty bill."
Doesn't even realise how he let you in, layer by layer, so close to his deep rooted seed of insecurities and vulnerabilities.
Doesn't realise when you gently uprooted it and made him a free man. Someone with a healthier mind and a lighter soul.
A man who is sweet and fake to the others but bitter and real with you.
After all, he didn't want a human who made him a monster but a moster who made him feel human.
"Bruh.... me fucked up. I wish the land would just part right now take me to hell. You think lucifer will lemme have his throne?? But poor baby where will he go?? Maybe I'll let him be my concubine? Yeah.. he'll make a pretty one. I'll even let him share my throne." I mumbled as leaned on the back of my brother.
I finally finished a meeting with my dad, who scammed me into believing that it was the only one I had but He's lined a thousand works for me to deal with and on my day off!
So I gotta find my brother Ryomen sukuna, to compliant till he gives in and helps me!!!! Easy peasy.
"I don't know much about him but I really don't think he'll appreciate it." The man infront of me turned and I realised it wasn't my brother instead an extremely beautiful stranger.
"The fuck. You aren't Ryo" I couldn't help but voice out the obvious.
Now, I swear I don't go around mistaking Strangers for my brother but in my defence he had a similar stature and a similar hoodie covering his hair. If he didn't, I would have noted the stark difference in the colour. The longer black hair, tied in a knot instead of the pink mess on top of Ryo's.
"Nope, I ain't. I am actually Suguru Geto. Nice to meet you...?" He said as his his violet eyes sparkled in amusement. A lock of hair touching his cheek where his smirk stopped. Some how it made me both hot and annoyed.
Yeah! Go ahead and mock a girl when she is already down, why don't you, charmer?
"Well next let a girl know before she embarrasses herself, would you? Wherever are your manners. Gosh!!!" With that I walked off, hopefully before he could remember me. I am not embarrassed!! Fake it till you make it. Right?
Leaving him next to the elevator, I moved along the corridor next to it, to look for my brother and this time actually him.
This was the ground floor of my dad's company and usually Ryo loitered around here to flirt with people during his breaks.
Half way down, curiosity got to me and I turned back to look at geto only to find him already looking at me with a smile and then he winked. The audacity of pretty people, I tell you!
I instantly turned back only to collide into someone else. The next second I was in the arms of a stranger, while the world was tilted sideways, literally, and staring into the bluest eyes I have ever seen.
"You good?" The stranger asked and the cogs in my brain unfroze.
"I will be when I am upright again." So yeah I get sassy when I am embarrassed...or angry.. or flustered, bite me.
"Right!! Up you go. I am sorry for not being careful but i think you would have fallen for me anyways." He said with a cheeky grin. His white hair fell on his face and he had to bend down a little to reach my height.
"What are you?! A banana peel?" This time when I walked off, I didn't look back to check if the pair was looking at me, although I did hear the white one laugh loud enough for people on the street to hear.
@rose-tinted-kalopsia @acciotaitlynn @beneathashadytree @unluckywisher @anxiousgoddest @myusuchaa @kurishiri @judesmoonbeauty @missaengg + anyone i follow or who follows me that sees that - happy holidays i love you 🤍
Thank you @aeyumicore for the tag! It makes me feel so special 🥹🥹🥹
@ladyparamount @chaos-in-deepspace @zayne-li @unluckywisher @deputy-videogamer @hananoami @brattysiren @la-spooky + anyone that likes my crazy stuff!!
I appreciate all of you and you guys make me feel so happy just by reading my stuff and getting a laugh out of it, I never thought I could make good memories out of a hobby, much less a hobby that involves on ranking how stinky some 3d man farts 😭😭😭😭😭 LOVE YOU GUYS 🥹 AND HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!
Tysm for tagging @anxiousgoddest @unluckywisher I love your work so much, my favourite academic/comedic weapons😩
Tagging (and with no pressure, just as appreciation for how much joy I get seeing you pop up on the tl) @wolfofcelestia @deepspacexavier @manikas-whims @reilemon @relentlessconqueror @girl-who-lives-in-delusion @narutosidebitch @jinwoosbabyboo @chibichibi-mia @elenagoeslightly and tbh several others but you're already tagged akjskskd ngl I love your posts, they make this space feel actually alive and so much more fun
Thank you @acciotaitlynn and @ladyparamount for tagging me 🩷
@its-de @totallytaurus4 @curiositykilledthecatx3 @omi-replies @readerxyourbabe @celestialforce @girl-who-lives-in-delusion + anyone who likes what I post, I appreciate you all so much 🩷🩷🩷 installing Love and Deepspace, and returning to tumblr made this year much more bearable 🙂↕️
Thank you for the tag 🥹✌🏻 @reilemon and right back at you! I love your fics and reblogs 🙂↕️🙂↕️
Tagging @always-just-red @gh05ty @ittybittyfanblog @prncessrindou @comatosebunny09 @aryomengrande @strawberrystepmom @thevoidwriting rlly no pressure at all! Just letting you know I love to see yall on my dash! Be it fics, art, memes, reblogs or music posts! Immaculate taste 🤌🏻🩶
rara & marena im gonna smother u two w kisses tonight so beware of those windows🫶🏼🫶🏼
all of my mutuals are my favs but these ones have been a joy for me to see yapping w me and on my dash<3 @tojicide @discogirlsclub @hysterotic @ljubimaya @aryomengrande @eclipseslayer @coffee-and-geto @risararelywrites @lotties-ashwagandha @musouie @dilfdicks @sanemistar @giyusdarling @loneisland @lovecuprite @haitani-maki + others that I didn’t tag, mutual or not!! Wish you all a merry Christmas if you celebrate <3 if you don’t then i wish you the best upcoming weeks leading up to the new year nonetheless!
thank you @6ronze for the tag!! 🥹 I love u too ❤️🩹
@sanemistar @madamechrissy @gojonanami @lostfracturess @luv-lies you girls and others i didn’t tag are the things that make my tumblr experience as the best! i love u truly with all my heart 🫂💖
awww @coffee-and-geto you're one of my favorite ppl on here too! 🥺 ilysm!! 💖 @gojosoups @curtins @yenayaps @arminsumi @fushitoru @lostfracturess you lovelies are some of my absolute fav ppl on here!! And a lot more I didn't tag bc I'm tired lol 😘😘😘
Thank you mommy Chrissy 🙏🙏 I love you and your work 💕 you’re one of the people carrying jjk fanfic community on here 😤‼️
tagging (no pressure at all!!):
@yenayaps @fushitoru @curtins @itachiiwrites @fairiesthrum @cinnamxnangel @chososcamgirl @leyiorr @sugoroo @nezuscribe @lostfracturess @indiewritesxoxo @risararelywrites @toyogamii love every single one of my mooties (even if I barely interact with some of you… SORRY I got exams 😔) and if I forgot any of my mooties sorry 😭 I just woke up. Love you all, hope you guys take care of yourself 💕
I already know I missed so many people but mmmm so sleepy so sorry 😞 but know I love and cherish each one of my mooties and all of you for interacting and yapping with me and being having fun together mwah mwah mwah
!!!!! You're literally my favorite writer on tumblr. I adore everything you put out!!! ♥♥♥
(This has been sitting on my drafts for SOOOOO long omfg! You were my only mutual back then - to be fair I still don't have many mutuals, but anyways... )
Here are some blogs that never fail to make me happy whenever they pop on my dash: @prettyngeto @pepperyduck @osohchoso @quinnyundertow @yuutaguro @teddybeartoji @madamechrissy @hayakawalove @slutshamethesquirrels @webism @lostfracturess @soleilapproves @pseudowho @everythingseasoning @cmdrfupa @starmapz @kasukuna @oatmealwrites @mysteria157 @sahkuna and so many others
thanks for the tag 💛💛 I’ll tag @dogblessyoutascha @nocompromise-noregrets @scarlettcryptid @mirkwood-hr-department @shigarakislaughter @phantombstone @bishkebab @plutolichen @cranky-warlock
aw aw aw im tagging: @deadhands69 @kitkat13001 (kisa beat me to it but tagging u both anyway hehe) @a-sound-sol @cuntyji @genxnarumi @teddybeartoji @jeanbos-wifey @blueflamebimbo if i missed anyone im sorry ahh but i love everyone ok bye kiss kiss
Happy to always have you pookies around<3 @madamechrissy @fuwagojo @gojocon @strawberrystepmom @fushitoru @moonlitwitchdaisy @undercvrfan444 @lover-lyn
+ MORE! I love seeing my moots on tl but I am not as close to all of them 😔☝️
Ahhh @baepsays!!! ilysm, also ty @aishi-toru, @sugurusfavemonkey AND @moonlitwitchdaisy tagged me omg, ya'll make me feel SO freaking loveddd <3
I did this one before hehe, and SO many and a bunch of ya'll are already on here <3 But def tagging my girls I don't see @alygator77, @lostfracturess, @cuntphoric, @moncher-ire, @naammiii, @yenayaps, @fushitoru
if hello just means goodbye, then baby, better walk away!
synopsis: your best friend has always been an asshole - whether it's in his band or in his bed. him ditching you? nothing new. but when one bedroom door closes, another one opens
pairings: rockstar!Suguru Geto x f!Reader x childhood fwb!Sukuna
content: mdni, angst + comfort! Sukuna being a manwhore my apologies, reader is not putting up with his ass though, arguing, jealousy, he is emotionally constipated but trying, reader standing tf up, emotional hurt/comfort, Geto saving the day
art by @actuallyvalerie and divider by @plutism !!
Sukuna had his tongue down some girl's throat.
It wasn't that noteworthy. It wouldn't be the first or even probably the last time he'd made out with someone in front of you. But it was the first time he kept glancing over at you while he palmed her ass.
"Ignore him," Choso glanced down at you, leaning against the wall next to where you were standing, clearly catching the glares you'd been exchanging since you showed up to their stupid gig.
"Planned on it," You shrugged, returning your attention back to your phone to reply to Suguru's texts, absorbed in the photo he sent you of Gojo passed out on a couch, drooling and decorated with pretty pink hair clips and makeup smudges you guessed were courtesy of the girls.
You returned the toddler in your life to his parents this afternoon tear-streaked and crying. Ice cream had been a bust, Yuji having a meltdown before he even finished half his cup, overtired and overwhelmed by his uncle's presence. Sukuna just made it worse by telling a two year old to shut up. Yuji ended up slamming his ridiculously hard head into your mouth trying to twist around and bury his face against you for comfort, practically busting it open - your bottom lip now bruised and cut. Which, of course, only pissed the uncle of the year off even more, calling his brother to bitch over the phone about the brat hurting you like it was him bleeding while buckling a screaming toddler in his car seat.
He wouldn't stop pestering you with questions about what you and Yuji had been up to before he'd gotten there either, talking through all the wailing when you finally managed to get the buckle to click into place despite the tiny hands desperately fighting you on it. Even when you slipped his guitar pick out of its box before he could see it in your bag, handing it over between your cars - after claiming you just found it on your bedroom floor and forgot - he hardly paid any attention to it, snatching it from your palm and asking again if you were coming to the show tonight. Glaring at you like you weren't allowed to say no.
Which, now that you were stuck at his dumb after-party, all seemed pretty fucking pointless if he just planned on spending it dry-humping a girl on his couch.
You kept waiting for them to pause or come up for air, just long enough for you to pull him aside and tell him to have fun with her because you were no longer interested in sharing him with all the other girls sleeping in his sheets.
Would it make you an asshole just to text that to him?
Probably.
But it was getting late, and your feet were aching and your mouth still hurt and more than anything, you were fucking exhausted. Of everything - but mostly him.
"When he detaches himself, could you tell him I went home?" You tore your eyes away from your phone to peer back up at Choso. He took a small sip of the same beer he'd been sipping since you first spotted him, the bottle still half-full.
"Yeah, sure," He slowly nodded, glancing back over at the couch. You didn't.
Just crept back towards the hall, sending Suguru a short message telling him you'd text him back once you got home.
You heard the pitter-patter of the rain before you stepped out, the moon glistening against the wet sidewalk when you pushed open the door to walk outside. A cold wind nipping at your nose and the wet droplets pelting your skin when you dug your key out of your bag, unfortunately unable to jog to your car in the heels you still had on.
Someone grabbed your arm before you made it two steps, and you nearly screamed.
"God, you're so jumpy," Sukuna grumbled behind you, trying to pull you back through the open door inside.
You tore your arm from his, stepping back and wobbling a little, unbalanced.
"The fuck are you doing out here?" He rolled his eyes, but you could see a hint of concern under his irritation.
"I'm leaving, have fun," You sounded snappier than you meant, your shirt and skirt getting more damp by the second standing in the rain. You started walking back towards the car, but he just followed, like he was your puppy for once instead of your owner.
"If you're jealous-"
"You think I'm jealous?" You scoffed, whirling back around at his audacity to start picking a fight with you after spending almost an hour groping a girl in front of you.
"You're leaving without saying anything," He pointed out, thunder rumbling in the distance and threatening to drown out his gravelly voice. The rain was plastering his hair to his face, the thin white t-shirt clinging to his chest quickly getting soaked through.
"And?" You had to clench your jaw before your teeth started chattering, arms folded tightly across your chest. He tried to reach out for you again, but you stepped back before he could touch you. "Was I supposed to tap on your shoulder or hers?"
Like you'd ever stoop so low for his attention.
You didn't have to tell him what you were doing or where you were going.
He wasn't your boyfriend. He never wanted to be.
"You want me to kick her out?" Sukuna offered, his brows drawn together, blinking to get the droplets out of his lashes.
"You're such a fucking prick," You shook your head, turning your back to him and clutching your keys a little tighter. Taking a shortcut across his lawn to where you parked out front in the street, your heels sinking a little into the grass as you struggled to stay ahead of him.
He did grab you this time, his unfairly long legs catching up to you too fast, his hands on your waist spinning you around.
"If you wanna fight, can we at least do it inside?" He grunted, his hands still warm despite the chill that was slicing down to your bones.
"No, I said I'm leaving, and I meant it," You argued, your fingers pressed against his chest when you pushed him away from you.
"Is this about her?"
Did he even know her name? Or would her face be forgotten tomorrow too?
"It's not," You groaned, backing up until the slick metal of your car hit your spine, shivering at the contact.
"Then what?" He was huffing, standing in the same spot you pushed him, stare burning hot enough you could almost feel the heat radiating from it.
"I just can't keep doing this with you," You finally spit out, choking on a lump in your throat, all the air in your lungs sucked out.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" It was so low it was practically a growl - gutteral.
"It was easier when we were just friends," You mumbled, trembling, not sure if it was from the cold or the conversation.
He didn't reply, the muscles in his face all pulling tight, his spine going stiff.
"I just, I don't think we should sleep together anymore," You mumbled under your breath, chewing on your lip just to wince when your teeth grazed over the broken skin there, the taste of iron and blood on your tongue.
Sukuna laughed. But it was bitter, tinged with anger and hurt, his lips curling up in cruel smirk.
"One asshole shows some interest in you and you're dumping me?" He scoffed, intent on reducing it down to something petty, something you were blowing out of proportion.
"It's not exactly dumping if we were never together," You reminded him, wiping away the damp streaks on your face, hoping it was just the rain and not tears you hadn't realized were falling.
"Is this some stupid fucking punishment because I brought someone?" He asked, taking another step closer while you turned to unlock your door, drenched down to your shoes as your shaky fingers refused to cooperate with you.
"No, and maybe if you weren't so obsessed with yourself, you'd actually listen to a word I've said and see that," You huffed through chattering teeth, finally managing to get it unlocked and climb inside, throwing your bag on the passenger seat and starting the car.
You tried to slam the door shut, but his hand caught it before you could, stepping in-between the door and the car so you couldn't close it. You flinched involuntarily, momentary panic at how fucking close he was to getting his fingers smashed in the door.
"Do you want to be together?" Sukuna grumbled, piercing through you and freezing you in place, your seatbelt pulled halfway across your chest.
You must have misheard him.
"What?"
"You want me to be your boyfriend or somethin'?" He scoffed, and your stomach dropped. Were you just a fucking joke to him?
He couldn't help making fun of you even now?
"You're an asshole," You weakly muttered, shaking your head. You felt ill. Disappointment? Embarrassment? You couldn't pin it, whatever it was, coiling tight in your gut, wrapping itself around your lungs and making every breath you sucked in hurt.
"I'm being serious." He wasn't.
You didn't think he even knew what he was offering. Or how it would play out. Because even if he'd never thought about it before, you had.
Nothing would change. Not really. He wouldn't be the type to buy you flowers or take you out on dinner dates every week. Maybe he'd stop fucking other women but he'd probably still let them flirt with him, let their hands linger on his bicep and sign their tits if they asked. At the end of the day - he'd pick his passions over you, music and money and girls more gorgeous than you readily at his disposal. That was the path he picked, maintaining his image and acting like the dickhead everyone else thought he was.
You were the idiot for ever considering he was anything more.
"Stop," You could barely get it out, hardly push the air out of your lungs to say it.
Did he know he was hurting you? Or did he just not care?
"Just come back inside," He grunted, rain pelting him now, drenched as he refused to budge between you and your car door, stray drops bouncing off of him onto your legs. His hair was plastered down onto his forehead, his shirt clinging to all his muscles, the cotton nearly see- through.
"No," You shook your head, bottom lip quivering.
His lips pressed into a tight line, locking his jaw as he leaned down, resting a forearm on the frame of your car.
"I'm not fucking around," He was grinding his teeth, glancing behind him at the closed door, the lights from inside. "Come on."
Sukuna made the mistake of assuming you'd listen, assuming you were just searching for his attention, thinking you'd follow when he called, stepping back like he really thought you'd get out of your car.
"No," You repeated, a hard lump bobbing in your throat, the invisible weight still suffocating you even after you finally spit out the two letter word you'd been thinking about for too long.
"What do you want then?" He said it as if he was willing to offer whatever answer you gave him. And sure, if it was something he could buy, he probably would've.
But you knew better than to think he'd ever change for you.
"Do you love me?" Your own voice surprised you, the words neither of you ever said to anyone, let alone each other. His face fell. Brows drawn together in a scowl, frowning at you like you said something awful.
"Why the fuck would you ask me that?" It hurt more than you'd ever confess to hear him say that.
"It was a yes or no question," You quietly said, feeling like you were the only one grieving, your friendship dying without either of you ever noticing whenever it passed. It was only now that you were the one holding the shovel and dropping the dirt on the casket that you had to deal with it. "Go have fun with your date or whoever else you wanna fuck, it's your party. I'll see you around later."
You shut the door and clicked the automatic lock before he could try to rip it back open.
Before he could realize later was a lie.
You wanted space. Time to detangle yourself from him. Sick of being something convenient for him, just another someone to use while you deluded yourself that you meant anything else to him.
He wouldn't miss you.
Had he ever?
You didn't turn to glance out the window, just pulled away after checking your mirrors to make sure you were still clear to go, trying to feel any emotion other than embarrassment when you drove away, hoping the distance would wash it off.
Still, you probably would've preferred that over when panic when fifteen minutes out you heard a huge thump underneath your car, despite the fact the road was completely clear.
You've never heard the sound of a tire blowing out before. But uh, it wasn't that hard to guess what happened judging by the loud fucking noise and the sudden change in steering, the rumble of the tire trying to roll on its rims. You barely managed to guide it to a semi-safe spot on the road, trying to keep your breathing steady before you spiraled into a panic attack at the thought you were stranded at night in the pouring rain after fighting with the one person you'd usually call for help.
Although, you probably wouldn't need help if he had actually checked the tires for you this morning like you asked.
Twisting the keys out of the ignition and unbuckling before stepping out to check the damage and confirm what you already suspected.
You had a flat.
Getting drenched by the rain again while you walked back to the trunk to check for a spare only to discover you didn't even have one.
Great.
Resigning yourself to calling a tow truck and scrolling through your contacts for whoever might be considerate enough to pick you up, you tried Choso first. He only had one drink while you were back at the party, and he was probably the closest person to you. But the phone kept ringing, and he didn't pick up on your first or second try.
Would you seriously have to swallow your stupid pride to call Sukuna? Would he even pick you up now if you did?
Surely, he would, right?
Clicking on his contact, your thumb hovered over the call button before you eventually closed your eyes and hit it. It was dumb, but the low rings seemed to stretch, last painfully long before it cut to the generic the person you've tried to reach doesn't have their voicemail set up message you'd only ever received a few times before from him.
You couldn't bring yourself to call again.
The other Itadoris were probably already out for the night, asleep in bed, crashed early after taking care of Yuji.
But the little notification popped up on your phone asking if you wanted to turn battery saver mode on, drained from how much of tonight you'd spent staring at the screen and messaging Suguru, and you realized you might have one more option.
You were blushing before you even hit the call button, shivering even when the heat creeped up your face to your cheeks, biting your nails, the anxiety starting to peak, making it hard for you to think straight.
He answered on the fourth ring, your heart fluttering when you heard the soft chuckle on the other end. "What'd I do to deserve this treat?"
"Suguru?" You swallowed hard, unable to cover up the tremor in your tone, your uneven breathing.
"Everything okay, sweetheart?" His concern cut through the fuzzy line, cut through you.
"I'm, um shit, I'm sorry, but my car kind of broke down, and I don't know who else to call or what I should do, and-"
"Slow down, first, are you okay?" His voice was reassuring, trying to steady you, putting a stop to your rambling before you could drown in it.
"I'm cold and tired and wet, but I'm fine, I guess," You muttered, glancing anxiously out the window at the empty street, the thick treeline stretching by the road. "One of my tires is fucked, though, and I don't have a spare, but I mean, even if I did, I've never actually changed one."
He laughed, and in the background, you could make out the soft click of a door shutting, the faint sound of someone talking.
"Send me your location, okay? I'll come pick you up," Suguru offered without you even asking, in the sincere sort of way that made it sound like his idea, like he wanted to do it rather than out of obligation.
"Are you sure? What about the girls?" You muttered, absentmindedly picking at the nail polish you just painted on a few hours ago.
"Gojo's crashing here, and they're already asleep, it's fine. Let me take care of my other girl, okay?" His laugh was quiet, probably trying not to wake them up.
You caught a glimpse of yourself in the rearview mirror, your wrecked makeup and soaked hair and blush you could make out even in the dark, hoping he'd still want you to be his girl even when he saw what a mess you were.
"Alright, um, I'll send it, but, uh, my phone is about to die," You admitted, switching him to speaker phone so you could share your location with him, frowning while you waited a few slow seconds for it to send.
"Have you called a tow truck yet?" He hummed, his composure helping glue your own cracks back together, throwing out a life preserver for you to cling to.
"No, but I can," You started to offer before he chuckled again, the telltale clink of keys jingling making your shoulders start to relax
"Save your battery. I'll handle it," He nonchalantly said, probably shrugging his shoulders or cocking his head to the side in that cute way you sometimes caught him doing. "Be there in twenty."
How was your heart supposed to handle him?
You hardly knew him. But you couldn't convince your pulse to slow down, anxiously tapping away at the center console, looking down at your phone every minute like it'd make the seconds stop stretching out so long.
Sukuna hadn't called back - hadn't even tried texting. Probably already taking the girl upstairs to the same bedroom you'd spent too many nights sleeping in. You turned off your location sharing with him before pausing and switching off notifications from him specifically.
He wouldn't notice.
Part of you couldn't help but consider that he might've only kept you around the past couple years because he liked sleeping with you. Would he even attempt to stay friends after you stopped?
Convincing yourself it was all for the best was easier said than done, because even if you weren't his, he was still your best friend.
But you deserved better than wasting your nights fucking someone who wouldn't even kiss you.
You eyed the time on your phone, watching the empty road for anyone passing by, hating him a little extra for buying a place out of the city for 'privacy' he didn't even care about considering how many people he invited over after every show or concert. But eventually a dark car pulled in to park behind yours, nervousness eventually melting into relief once a tall figure stepped out of the driver's seat, his long black hair tied up in a loose bun.
Suguru's knuckles tapped the glass, his face partially blurred by the rain drops racing down the window when you reached over to shove your stuff back in your bag and unlock the door. Once he heard the faint little click, he was pulling it open, sheltered under a dark umbrella and waiting for you to slip underneath it with him. Offering that quiet sort of protection you never once thought you needed, but just maybe you were starting to want.
"Here," His voice was calm, holding a hand out for you to take as the rain pitter-pattered and slid off the slick top of his umbrella.
You took his hand. Let him pull you into his side, only releasing your fingers to wrap his around your waist in a reassuring side hug instead, rubbing his thumb up-and-down over the still-damp fabric of your shirt like he was trying to comfort you. Your body naturally relaxed into his, your cheek resting on his arm as he shut the door behind you, keeping you close while he walked you back over to his car.
"Bad night, baby?" He teased, your fingers skimming against his again when you snagged the umbrella so he could open the door for you just for his to squeeze yours when he took it back. It was a little funny - catching the hint of his smile out of the corner of your vision, both of you trying to find excuses to touch even now.
"You could say that," You mumbled, face still flushing when he waited for you to climb in and get comfortable before closing the door.
Heat was already radiating through the vents to keep you cozy, the windshield wipers still on as you watched him walk around through the glass. Listening to his soft sigh as he got in to the driver's seat, shaking the water off the umbrella as he closed it and carefully reached around to drop it behind his seat before snagging a thin towel you hadn't noticed back there. He let you dry yourself off with it, pulling his phone out of pocket like he was checking something.
"I'm sorry for uh, all of this," You mumbled, still shivering a little as you wiped at your skin, the wet clothes still sticking to you while you looked out the window so you didn't have to face him in your embarrassment. "All my friends are asleep or at this stupid party and tonight just really fucking sucked, so I guess I'm trying to say thank you, but-"
"You're cute when you're nervous," Suguru said it like it was a fact, stopping you before you could keep rambling again.
"I-" You started before stopping yourself this time, pouting as you anxiously folded the towel on your lap, eyes still on the treeline instead of him.
"The tow truck won't be here for another ten minutes. Wanna talk about tonight?" He offered, and you knew he'd listen.
Maybe that was why you couldn't resist babbling about it. Although, a sliver of you wondered if you were trying to sabotage this by bringing him up in any capacity, if you were trying to set the stage for Suguru to call it off before his claws sunk any deeper in your heart.
Scared of getting hurt or finding yourself falling for someone who might actually convince you he felt the same too.
"It's embarrassing," You muttered. It shouldn't be, but it was.
He was waiting for you to talk, giving you the opportunity to continue or choose not to.
"I broke things off with the guy I was, uh, sorta sleeping with before," You admitted, the warm air blowing from the vents making the windows fog, looking down at your hands while you chipped another chunk of your nail polish off. "It's not like it was ever serious or anything like that. But we actually, um, were friends since we were little kids, and I'd been trying to find a way to end everything for a while, but I guess I was worried he'd be pissed."
"Was he?" Suguru spoke carefully, cautious, a hand reaching out to rest on your thigh. You hadn't realized it was shaking.
"We got into a fight," You nodded, sucking in a harsh breath. Sukuna's face was still occupying space in your head, the slam of the door in your ears. "He, um, didn't exactly take it that well."
He didn't seem to take it at all.
But what else was new? When did Sukuna ever try to hear you?
"Are you okay?" It was easy to focus on his reassuring voice, how he softened his solemn tone for you.
"Yeah, really, I'm fine." And even though it was the second time you'd said it, you weren't sure if you were trying to convince him or yourself.
"You don't have to be," He simply said, like he'd really just accept the mess you were as is. "Even if it is his loss."
"I know," You mumbled, sniffling and rubbing your nose with the back of your hand.
"I'd probably be pretty upset if I were losing you too, though," He casually said, and you couldn't tell if he was just attempting to make you feel better or if he really felt that way.
He was too good at saying all the things you wanted to hear, knowing what words would soothe the ache eating at you, kissing your worries away with soft-spoken promises.
"I'm sure you could find someone else too," You shook your head dismissively.
"I want you," He easily replied.
"You shouldn't say things like that," You warned your chest aching with how much you wanted to hear him say it again.
"I shouldn't say what I'm thinking?" He teased, the playful little mocking tone to his words begging you to turn your head and look at him.
"Not unless you're trying to make me fall for you." You hoped it'd take more than a few honeyed words and tender touches for that to happen, anyway.
"What if I am?" He was definitely poking fun at you now, but you felt your pulse pick up, your heart skip a beat at how serious he sounded.
"I think you might break my heart," You admitted, painfully aware that if he did, you really wouldn't be able to turn to Sukuna now even if he'd been right from the beginning.
"Didn't you just break someone else's?" He casually remarked, his thumb tracing up higher in a half-circle.
"Trust me," You pouted. "You shouldn't feel bad for him."
"Oh?"
"He hates you," You admitted with a breathy sigh.
"You were talking about me?" Suguru chuckled, clearly picking up on what you hadn't said.
"Maybe a little," You shrugged. "He was acting like it was a stupid competition."
"Am I winning then?" He hummed, like he didn't already know the answer.
"I mean, he didn't even make me cum last time we had sex so . . ." You scoffed, trailing off and rolling your eyes.
Suguru laughed, his fingers squeezing your thigh automatically, his dark chuckle making you smile too.
"You poor thing," He wryly commented, his hand drifting a little higher, his light teasing putting a new spin on the night.
"He didn't even notice either," You complained, your sentence punctuated by a small giggle, the weight pressing down on your heart starting to lift little by little in his presence. You turned to really look at him, his attention already entirely devoted to you.
Dark eyes that you were starting to realize you'd let swallow you whole, even if you knew he'd chew you up and spit you back out someday. Piercing through you, scanning over your features, trying to piece you together until he noticed your bottom lip.
You felt it - the sudden shift. His body going rigid, the slow bob of the lump in his throat, face frozen in an icy mask. The hand on your thigh gripping harder, knuckles straining white against the skin.
"Did he do that?" His voice was raw, breathing through his nose, just staring at the broken skin. All the air sucked out of the car, and you could feel his anger at the perceived injustice.
"This?" You reached up to put your hand over it, almost wincing when your fingertips grazed against the bruise. "No, Yuji actually headbutted me."
He exhaled, his frown dissolving a little as his fingers relaxed, letting go of some of the tension that had taken hold of him.
"Good, I didn't want to have to go to jail tonight too," He murmured, his eyes settling back on yours.
"You'd defend my honor like that?" You returned to teasing, resting your head back on the seat.
"You think I wouldn't?" He hm-ed, only looking away to readjust the heat, his attention immediately returning to you.
"It's not like I'm your girlfriend or anything," You shrugged. Flirting and fucking were one thing, but him and this felt different, and you were terrified to put your trust in anything.
"Yet," He added, your cheeks immediately flushing at his insinuation.
"Yet?" You echoed, your own voice feeling small next to his.
He looked at you like you were different, smiled like he knew some secret he was waiting for you to piece together.
But before he could answer, the tow truck pulled ahead of both of your cars, stopping just in front of yours.
"I'll talk to him," He offered, nodding in that direction.
"I'll go with you," You insisted.
He chuckled, reaching back around for the umbrella although the rain outside had already started to taper off, slowing down to a drizzle. Stepping out and walking around to your side, making sure to hold it where you wouldn't get wet again, casually greeting the guy and handling the bulk of the conversation and making arrangements to get it taken to a repair place not that far from your apartment. All you had to do was hand over your keys.
You hadn't realized you handed him all of them until you were back in the passenger seat, staring at your empty palm while the realization slowly sank in you just locked yourself out of your own apartment too.
"So, back to your place?" Suguru offered, already pulling up the directions on his phone.
"Um," You awkwardly mumbled, trying to work out where exactly you could tell him to drop you off. Sukuna had the only spare key to your apartment. Or maybe you could call Kaori and Jin to see if they'd let you crash there for the night and drive you to get your car tomorrow.
"Yeah?" He raised a brow when he glanced over, a little glint in his eye flickering at your flustered expression.
"I may have given him more than just my car key," You sheepishly confessed.
You didn't expect Suguru to laugh, didn't anticipate the easy smile spreading across his face, not irritated or annoyed in the slightest at your screw-up. He placed his phone down in the cupholder, leaning across the center console, fingertips grazing against your chin to tilt your face up, turning it just slightly so he could press a soft kiss on the side of your mouth. Carefully avoiding the bruise to tenderly plant his lips against yours.
"Guess I'll have to bring you back to mine."
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"I would like to take offence to that. I too can be that and more." He said and moved forward, into my personal bubble. His eyes never leaving mine. My fingers that held the cigarette to my lips froze right there and my smirk dropped.
"Inhale yn...." he whispered, too close for my brains to function. Like a puppet on strings I did what he said and inhaled.
"Good girl, let go now." And like a braindead person I did. My brain had turned to mush but I didn't care because when i saw him inhale the smoke that left my lips, leaving not a tendril behind, I felt my brain short-circuit.
His lips moved right next to my ear and I heard him exhale while murmuring "give me a chance to show how much of a gentle-man I can be."
Sir, can you not. I am already in love with you why give me a heart attack with such stunts.
OK, deep breat- no no deep breath. Can't let his unholy cologne invade any further.
So let's reboot. Brain fucking reboot. Right what were taking about.... hard no wait gentle- gentleman!! right!!!
He had moved back to where his nose touched mine, probably watching me short circuit. He had a smirk plastered on his gorgeous face that had to leave because I will ALWAYS have the last word!!!!
"What say princess?" He WAS LAUGHING AT ME. Well not all out but his tone was mocking.
"The princess wants to actually tell you about her observation." I set my chin in defiance and looked straight back. " So please correct me if I am wrong but your manners, although genuine, are mainly a cover for your inner freak. You show the world how calm and intelligent you are, no doubt you definitely are, but that not all there is to you, is there?" I had taken him by surprise. His eyes wide, he moved back a tiny bit in shock and I took that moment to move into his space.
I traced his face with my finger that still had the cigg. Starting from where his bangs fell perfectly on his forehead and moved along his cheek as I continued to whisper "Its because of that hidden menace that you click so perfectly with gojo. You might be tamer but just a lethal, aren't ya?" finalling reaching his chin, I held it between my thumb and forefinger and tugging him closer.
I watched a his eyes few bigger and bigger and a prominent blush coating his cheeks. He opened and closed his mouth like fish and it only made me want to tease him more. So I did.
I leaned close to his ear and continued "Don't worry, this personality of your is the reason why you have brownie points over the rest of them."
Leaning back into my seat, I took a gulp of my coffee and smiled sweetly at him, while he stayed right where I was holding him. This made me busy out laughing. "Please tell me I haven't broken you, geto" I couldn't help but comment.
This made him jerk back into his seat and shake his head a little. "You are evil. I hope you know that" I just grinned cheekily at that.
"Also you might as well call me suguru. With you knowing everything from the show, you are hardly a stranger."
"I agree I have watched the show but I do not think I know everything. Plus whatever I do know is something extremely generic and not to mention one sided. That doesn't make us familiar. Familiarity comes when information is exchanged. Willingly. Ask me to call you suguru when you think I deserve it. After all it's a privilege to be considered close to you, a privilege that I should earn, don't you think?" I winked at him playfully.
"I... thank you. I didn't realise I needed to hear that. I was feeling restless but hadn't realise it was because I felt invaded" He turned his face away to look out the balcony as he's said that.
I pursed my lips together in sympathy. "You'll feel better once you know what is shown in the show." And he nodded.
I avoided looking at him and annoyed a frayed string on my jeans as I mumbled on, "If it makes you feel better, my description of your personality is not something that is extremely highlighted. It's just one of the many theories people have."
His sudden booming laughter made me jump a little in my seat and look at him.
He still sat facing the sky so only half his face was visible and what a beautiful half it was. The glow of the full moon made him look ethereal.
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