college!geto x ballerina!reader | ballet au ; college au ; enemies to lovers | angst and fluff | oneshot - 1/3 complete | at JJKU, suguru geto excels in classical ballet – he's also the object of your greatest ire | 8k words
♡ looking for more geto? here you go!
say yes to heaven - lana del rey
summertime sadness - lana del rey
On the hottest day of July, even after the sun has scorched the concrete bone-dry, and the grass outside is starting to bake a golden brown, campus is swarming with students and almost every patch of dry grass is occupied by picnic blankets.
While you are distracted with the onigiris, Yuki grabs the last bottle of Pocari Sweat straight from the coldness of the 7-Eleven fridge. Her bony hands had shot out onto the shelf before your eyes could even register the damn thing.
Barely even midday, your eyelids are still heavy from only four hours of sleep.
"Sorry," the tall blonde grins, mildly apologetic, "early bird catches the worm."
The morning started off a mess; both you and Yuki had overslept your alarms because she had the genius idea of clubbing the night before. By the time you rolled into bed after getting home around six in the morning, when the birds started tweeting and the periwinkle sky was awash with golden sunlight, your alarms were left unset and your phone died soon after.
The first lecture of the morning was unattended. It is nothing important, but Nanami is meticulous and incredibly astute to those who are absent from his lectures; you are sure a disappointed email will find its way to you soon this afternoon, but that’s later’s problem and right now your hangover takes precedence.
"I'm gonna make you eat dirt like a worm." You grumble under your breath, hands circling around a cold can of green tea from the bottom shelf. Side by side, the onigiris line the fridge shelf beckoning you to grab one but only tuna is left. Eyebags hidden behind your shades, lips pursed, your stomach turns at the thought of scoffing down anything filled with fish.
"I'll let you have a sip." She laughs softly. "I need this more than you do."
The memories of last night’s mistakes come rushing back; just fragmented flashes of neon lights and deafening bass, sticky floors and the haze of a cheap smoke machine, laughter and lots of ‘what did you say?’ over the loud music. You remember Yuki dragging you deeper into the crowd, your hand clasped in hers as bodies pressed in from all sides, the air thick with heat and cheap, sickly perfume. After the blackout, you were met with the bright sunlight pouring through your open window, shoes still on, makeup smudged beyond saving.
Your head pounds as the two of you trudge to the cashier, the fluorescent lights overhead doing absolutely nothing to help. Just as you and Yuki shuffle forward, someone cuts in front of you without so much as a glance but you do not even need to look up to know who it is: The broad shoulders, the familiar fall of black hair fashioned into a half-up half-down formation.
“Come on, Geto–” Yuki drawls, “you being serious right now?”
Suguru Geto finally turns and shoots a cool grin at the tall blonde.
His eyes flick over you once, head tilted slightly. “You look like shit,” he says flatly. “Rough night?”
Your grip tightens around your drink.
“Missed you guys in class today.” He says smoothly. “Nanami noticed, of course.”
Yuki snorts beside you, her shoulder knocking lightly into yours as she leans past you to Suguru. “Oh, spare me,” she mutters, voice dripping with disdain. “Like you’ve never skipped a lecture in your life.”
But Suguru does not say anything as he finally steps forward to pay, completely unbothered and angular shoulders relaxed beneath his linen shirt like he hadn’t just inserted himself into your morning and made it ten times worse. You glare daggers at the back of his head, irritation flaring.
You hate him. There has not been a single day where you have actually enjoyed his presence because he always has something to say.
The first time you laid eyes on Suguru Geto was at a freshman induction event. You can still remember it.
In the large hall, loud with introductions and awkward small talk, everyone was hovering between curiosity and nerves, but he had looked completely at ease. There he was, leaning back in the hard plastic chair with his slender arms folded across his chest, his dark purple irises observing.
That interaction left a sour taste in your mouth because not only was he a pretentious cock, and has clearly never been humbled a day in his life, he’s also got the face carved by the gods themselves – the ugliness of within certainly does not match the pretty exterior.
You had barely gotten two words out before he shot you down with an uninterested look. The black haired man was sitting with three others, Satoru Gojo, Yuka Okkotsu, and this massive broad-shouldered guy with a scar running vertically down his lip, whose name you had not learned yet – but that was also the precise reason you ended up in Suguru’s bad books. Or rather, he ended up in yours.
“Oh, are you also majoring in Classical Ballet?”
It was innocent enough – and you aren’t the type to judge. A part of you thought that maybe this mystery hunk of muscle was majoring in something else but he was sitting with the other two at the induction so naturally you asked, to be polite. In all honesty, he looked less like a ballet student and more like someone who could bench press a building for fun.
Suguru let out a sharp laugh that cut through the hum of voices.
“Fushiguro?” he scoffed, tilting his head toward the towering guy beside him. “Are you dumb, or blind? Look at him– he’s clearly not on our course."
His expression was slightly amused and faintly condescending. Meanwhile, you could feel the heat creep up the back of your neck and your ears felt warm. Before the god awful silence could go on any further, Satoru Gojo leaned forward with an easy grin, clearly sensing your humiliation.
“Don’t mind him,” he said, waving a hand toward Suguru dismissively. “He just likes hearing himself talk.”
Yuta offered you a hesitant smile. “I’m Yuta, by the way.”
Even though the tension eased a little, Suguru still looked vaguely uninterested, leaning back in his chair and mentally checked out. But at least the others were at least making an effort. You nodded slowly, still mildly offended that he was so vile but grateful someone had attempted damage control.
“Fushiguro’s just here because we all came together.” Yuta said, nodding a head at the giant man. “He’s a sports science major.”
The large man, Fushiguro, gave a small nod of confirmation and said you could call him Toji. He was nice enough to hold his hand out, maybe because he felt bad that Suguru was such a dick, but nevertheless, you took it anyway and said your name is Y/N.
While that moment cemented your immediate dislike of Suguru Geto, his friends weren’t half bad. Unfortunately, the feeling only got worse from there. As the weeks turn into months, it becomes very clear that Suguru Geto simply does not like you either.
Even as he gives the two of you a flippant wave, sauntering out of the automatic doors of the 7 Eleven, you are still glaring at the back of his stupid head until he shrinks into a dot in the distance.
You see him everywhere. In technique classes. In lectures. At rehearsals. Ballet is a small program, and rehearsals are almost every single day which means there is absolutely no avoiding him. And somehow, every single interaction between the two of you is worse every time.
If it wasn’t for Yuki, you wouldn’t have hung around him and his group so much; but somehow by association, you get invited to almost every single group outing with him and his friends. He doesn’t even hide his distaste for you in a group setting.
Suguru has a way of speaking to you that feels like a constant test of patience. Even now in junior year, you feel as though you should have gotten used to his attitude but you still cannot stand him.
If you ask a question in class, he mutters something snarky just loud enough for you to hear. If you miss a step during choreography, he snickers like humiliating you is his life’s work. You despise him but you live with it. He is a talented dancer – that is the worst part.
By the end of junior year, the studio is basically your second home; even at night, in your dreams the familiar scent of rosin and worn wood clings to the air. The afternoon is mostly quiet – the day is too hot to do anything.
Having missed the lecture earlier, the two of you end up trudging to class with the ghost of this morning’s hangover having done a number on your energy levels.
As sunlight filters through the tall windows, catching the glossiness of your hair, your arms elongate as you bend over to stretch your leg on the barre wall. The mirrors stretch endlessly across the walls, reflecting rows of students standing at the barre as the pianist plays something jovial yet light.
Across the room, Suguru Geto is already there, hand on the barre, eyes already watching you through the mirror. Of course he is. He stands a few places down from Yuta, posture annoyingly perfect as he moves through a slow plié like the exercise had been designed specifically for him; on account of you meeting his gaze, he scowls and looks away.
At the front of the room, Kento Nanami stands with his clipboard tucked neatly beneath one arm, glasses perched low on his nose as he surveys the room; he is in a loosely tucked-in white shirt and some grey slacks. His blond hair is already a little messy from his large hands running through them.
“We’ll pause there,” Nanami says evenly.
Students step away from the barre, shaking out their legs and shoulders. The room fills with the soft sounds of stretching shoes and quiet murmurs. Nanami flips a page on his clipboard, a soft sigh slumping his shoulders.
“As you are all aware,” he continues, voice calm, “the department’s winter production will be Swan Lake.”
A small ripple of excitement moves through the room. Beside you, Yuki squeals quietly in delight. Leaning closer, she nudges your arm and whispers a fervent, “I knew it.”. Just three weeks ago, she swears that she had seen the costume department wheeling racks into storage; rows of white tutus, feathered headpieces, and soft layers of tulle that could only belong to swan costumes.
At the time, you had brushed it off as another one of her overenthusiastic theories because the costume department is always moving things around and the college has a production on next month.
Glancing up at everyone’s bright and hopeful faces, Nanami announces, “Over the next week, I will be selecting dancers for principal and supporting roles.”
Immediately, the room hushes and postures straighten. Even the most relaxed students look suddenly alert – every dancer knows what this means. The swan queen. Prince Siegfried. The roles everyone secretly wants. Competition is incredibly high; you are dancing for one of the most competitive ballet schools in the country. Your fingers tighten slightly against the barre.
“I already have an idea of who will be playing who.” Nanami says evenly. “I will be announcing the casting on Friday– you all have three days to confirm what I’ve already chosen.”
The room buzzes with whispers again, softer this time, eyes darting between friends and rivals alike. Everyone is imagining themselves in the roles, picturing the tutus and the solos, rehearsing the steps in their heads, the glory of a standing ovation.
Suguru exhales quietly through his nose because three days will not be changing a thing. He knows that Nanami has been watching everyone for weeks now.The way Nanami has been lingering at the edge of rehearsals, the extra attention paid during combinations, the long, thoughtful notes scribbled onto that clipboard; Nanami already knows who he wants and he hopes that it will be him. If Suguru is being honest with himself, which he often is, there are only two people in the entire class who realistically stand a chance at the principal roles. The thought sits in his chest like a splinter.
He forces his attention back onto his form in the mirror, then lowers into another plié, controlled and precise. His focus is shattered when the sound of a soft, unexpected sound drifts through the studio to his end. Your laughter makes his head tilt, irritation flickering behind his dark gaze. He swivels back to the barre, forcing his posture rigid, refusing to let his eyes linger any longer than necessary.
You manage to go through that class relatively unscathed, until it is nearly finished when the sun outside has died a little and the streets are awash with blue-orange hues. In the studio, students begin stretching out their shoulders, massaging sore calves and untying their pointe shoes. On the glossed floor, you sit with Yuki, Utahime, and Shoko. This morning, Mai had called in sick – apparently last night’s bender went too far.
Satoru’s voice is loud and jarring amongst the quiet chattering, and he has no shame about it as he stalks over with Suguru under his arm. They are flanked by Yuta and Noritoshi, who already have their coats on and bags slung over their shoulders.
You feel small under Suguru’s gaze on you; for someone who hates you, he sure does look at you a lot. He has that effortless, unreadable expression on his face again.
“Frat party Friday night. You all coming?” Satoru grins. “Sukuna’s… again.”
Suguru’s dark eyes flick toward you for the briefest moment, then he mutters, loud enough for his friends to hear, but as if you aren’t even there: “Does she really have to come?”
You scoff, loudly. Face immediately twisting; he barely eyes how your nose scrunches in open irritation as you lean back on your palms. “Oh my god, you are actually such a dick,” you say, not even bothering to lower your voice.
Satoru, completely unfazed, lets out a laugh, slinging an arm more firmly around Suguru’s shoulders. “Ignore him,” he says easily, flashing you a grin. “He’s in a bad mood because he got dumped last night– isn’t that right, Suguru?”
Suguru shrugs him off with a slight roll of his shoulder, expression barely changing. “Just saying, don’t wanna ruin the vibe.”
Your jaw tightens. For a moment, you just stare at him speechless, the heat of the day and the dull throb of your hangover sitting heavy behind your eyes.
“It won’t be fun unless you pretty girls are there,” Satoru sings, roughing up the top of your head with his abnormally large hand. This earns him a disgruntled groan from you. “Starts at ten.”
“I’ll be there.” You say poignantly, eyes not leaving Suguru. “Should be fun.”
Suguru’s eyes flick back to yours, sharper this time, something unreadable passing through those dark irises before he huffs slightly.
“Looking forward to it,” he says coolly.
Satoru groans loudly, dragging both hands down his face. “You two are exhausting.”
“He started it.” You shoot back.
Suguru lets the corner of his mouth twitch just enough to make it obvious that you amuse him. Sometimes. Satoru throws up his hands in defeat, muttering something about babysitting before throwing his arm around Suguru again and dragging the dark haired mass toward the door, still grumbling about acting civil. Beside you Utahime swallows a chuckle and you glance at the girls, all of them grinning knowingly, and for a moment the tension melts while confusion swirls behind your eyes.
“Nothing, nothing.” Shoko smirks, “the two of you are hopeless.”
“I thought he said he has an idea already– why the fuck is he still walking around with a clipboard?” Yuki fervently whispers to you, though her eyes are set on the wall ahead.
You sigh softly, warily eyeing Nanami’s tall figure drifting silently around the studio as he watches each person do their daily barre routine. He stops by Shoko for a moment, nodding slightly, and then Mai who is behind her with beads of sweat on her forehead, a delicate hand gripping the barre so hard that her knuckles are turning white.
“Maybe he’s still finalising.” You say quietly, moving in sync with everyone else as the pianist begins his next rendition. “He’s making me nervous.”
“I just hope it’s not me,” you hear Utahime whisper from behind you, “I cannot be fucked to be the lead.”
A small part of you wishes that enthusiasm and ambition could be suppressed in the same way Utahime manages her own. It would be much simpler if you could block all of it out and be happy on the sidelines, staying in the corps. The other half of you that craves the spotlight through discipline and gruelling effort does not want that to happen; ambition weaves itself into every muscle rippling as you extend your arm, your leg, rise on the tips of your toes whenever Nanami commands you to do it again.
It isn’t loud, the way you want things – and in truth, it never has been. Your ambition sits quietly beneath your ribs, persistent, woven into the hours you spend at the barre long after others have left, into the way you correct yourself without being asked – into every small adjustment no one else notices. You haven’t risen above the ranks in the way you deserve yet – everyone in this ballet school is extremely talented. You hope that Nanami will see you for once, though you know you will never beg for it.
But now so many girls must want to be the swan queen. It will take so much to truly do those roles justice; to slip between them is to hold both restraint and abandon in the same body, to be delicate and devastating all at once, and make it all look convincing. Yuki would do the role justice.
In the midst of your thoughts you can barely hear Nanami’s voice cut through the piano. He calls for a ten minute break, sensing how exhausted everyone is. In truth, the whole class has been on edge since his surprise announcement last week, and it has been made worse by the fact that he has been secretly watching everyone for weeks now. The entire room exhales in relief when the tall blond exits the room. People scatter to their bags, slumping down on the polished wooden floor, hands fumbling with water bottle lids.
Yuki exhales as she stretches her calf, body folded over while she rests her foot on the barre. “I must say – I’d be happy just doing the bit with the cygnets.”
“You don’t want the queen?” You ask, eyebrows furrowed.
This earns a scoff from her. “Hell no, first real production of our degree and dancing the lead? Do you know how much pressure that is?”
You shrug, “I thought it’d be a good opportunity to get your name out there.”
“I don’t think I want it enough, honestly…” Yuki muses, taking her bottom lip in between her teeth. “But I think you do, right?”
You hum, “I just don’t want to get my hopes up. You know how it is.”
Utahime hums behind you in agreement, stretching her arms above her head with a soft groan. “That’s exactly why it won’t be me,” she mutters.
You let out a small breath, gaze dropping to the floor. “There are too many talented people in this cohort,” you add, softer this time. “People who actually–”
“–have the talent to pull it off?”
Your spine stiffens immediately. You do not even need to turn around to know it is him, but when you do, he is already there leaning lazily against the barre a few feet away, arms folded with his stoic expression unreadable but dark eyes sharp. The sunlight pouring into the studio from the open windows just behind you catches on his dark hair, which has been tied up into a bun, a strand of it falling effortlessly down the left side of his face. In your silence, the corner of his lip twitches.
“You’re probably correct,” he continues flatly. “It won’t be you. God, that would take a miracle wouldn’t it?”
Your jaw tightens. If he wasn’t such a talented dancer, perhaps you might have just dismissed him. But you and everyone else knows of his raw talent, his discipline, so his words linger, unwelcome, pressing into the very insecurities you try so hard to keep buried.
“You’re fucking insufferable.” You say quietly, words hanging in the thick air between you.
Suguru doesn’t move. His arms remain folded across his chest but his eyes narrow at your words. “Am I?” he hums softly, tilting his head. “Or are you just upset because I said what you were already thinking?”
Yuki straightens immediately beside you, irritation flaring across her face.
You inhale slowly, steadying yourself, your fingers curling slightly at your sides. The familiar urge to bite back remains, to match his tone and say something hurtful towards him but you just scoff.
“For someone who clearly doesn’t rate me, you spend an awful lot of time talking to me unwarranted.”
Suguru exhales softly through his nose, gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than it should before he finally looks away and without a word, retreats to Yuta and Satoru when the doors open and Nanami returns.
“What a prick,” Yuki murmurs, “I don’t know how the others can stand him.”
“Beats me.” You murmur as the three of you take your positions along the wall again.
Nanami’s eyes scan the room before he gives the pianist a subtle nod and then the airy music fills the studio again. The air feels hot, buzzing with anticipation of exactly who he has chosen and who will have to make the cut next time. When everyone rises onto the tips of their toes, bodies elevating to pointe, you exhale, heart hammering and pulse still drumming from that interaction with Suguru. Perhaps there is some truth in his words, a reluctant acceptance that maybe you are not good enough. But the other part of you longs for a reality where Suguru ceases to exist, and you remind yourself that his words are exactly just that – words.
Your chin lifts as muscle memory takes over. Across the room, Suguru mirrors the same control, the same ease. His movements are sharp and effortless, as though not only does the music bend around him, but everyone else in the room melts away. You catch it only once, through the mirror, the way his absent gaze flickers toward you before he looks away again, dark irises focusing on anything other than you.
He is quiet for the rest of class, but you tell yourself the peace never lasts as long as you want it to.
The next day is tense. Usually Yuki and Shoko and everyone else would be buzzing about the frat party happening in the evening, or whatever motive is going on later, but the air is hot with anticipation in the studio today.
Nanami has spent most of the morning asking each girl to perform a one minute segment from Odile’s solo, and likewise, the same with Prince Siegfried’s variation in Act Three for the boys. Everyone watches each other with a kind of quiet scrutiny, like it is every dancer for themselves and no one is willing to admit it aloud. It’s tough, and enough to send your mind spiralling when you were all commanded to be in the studio ready to dance at 07:30 sharp. It is the earliest class Nanami has ever held, and he gave you all five minutes exactly to memorise the choreography from watching the respective video performance he had sent via email upon everybody’s arrival. A true test of everyone’s dedication to the art, and likewise, mental gymnastics because the anxiety has been eating away at you.
You hate to admit it but you think Suguru may actually get Siegfried’s part – he danced exceptionally well, effortlessly, like he was born for the role because every movement had truly been clean and controlled in a way that made it all seem instinctive rather than learned within five minutes. From where he sits now, arms loosely folded across his knees as he watches the others take their turn, Suguru feels the same restless energy that grips the room – hell, everyone feels it. He knows he did better than most with the little time he had and he does not need validation to confirm it.
Still, his gaze flickers, almost involuntarily, toward you. You aren't even looking at him, which is the worst part. He can’t even mouth something snarky at you to beat you down a little more. Something about you irritates the fuck out of him but he can’t pinpoint what it is; he sees you as another ambitious dancer trying to make something for herself. You’re nobody special.
He tells himself that it is all out of habit, that same critical lens he casts over everyone else, but his attention lingers longer than it should. You do not move like the others – there is something restrained about you that he does not see in any of the other girls.
Every extension of your leg, every tiny lift of your hand, carries a quiet intensity, and he finds himself noticing these menial details he normally would not give a damn about: From the way your fingers curved slightly, to the subtle shift of weight in your hips, to how your eyes flicked to the mirror before every turn – even down to the small breath you hold before you rise onto the tip of your pointe shoes.
By the time your solo ended, his head had tilted slightly, jaw tightening, but he had nothing to sneer at Yuta or Satoru or Noritoshi about you, so he only leant back on his palms with an indiscernible look on his face. You remember hearing him scoff as you finished and how it made you feel suddenly too aware of the twenty something pairs of eyes concentrating on you.
The anxiety soon subsided and you didn’t dare look Suguru’s way afterwards.
When Shoko’s left foot finally touches the polished floor again, Nanami nods and scribbles something onto the pad of paper he has in his lap. She sits down with a grimace on her face. Utahime puts a hand on her forearm reassuringly. She was the last.
“God, I forgot the last ten seconds of her solo.” Shoko murmurs, dragging a hand down her face.
“Don’t worry, at least you didn’t start crying like Yorozu did halfway,” Yuki says quietly. “I think I fucked the beginning actually.”
When Nanami finally rises to his feet, everybody in the studio stiffens; the weight of the morning, of the endless repetition, the anxiety of knowing your every movement has been scrutinised not only by him but your peers, bears down like a physical mass crushing you into pulp.
“Suguru Geto will be Prince Siegfried.”
A ripple of astonished murmurs spreads across the studio, disrupting the tense silence. The boys clap him on the back as he smiles triumphantly, head shaking in almost relief. A thick strand of hair escapes his bun and frames his face gently.
You hear Mai scoff behind you in quiet disdain. “Of course.”
For a moment, the words Nanami is speaking do not even register. Of course it’s Suguru – he is one of the most talented dancers here. You shouldn’t be surprised, and the hope that you might even get the main role starts dwindling.
Completely zoned out, the hum of the room fades into a muffled buzz, as your eyes cast towards the clipboard he has pressed against his side, crinkling his blue shirt.
Nanami announces the girl who will be dancing the swan queen. Suguru’s head snaps up – almost violently – eyes widening ever so slightly. The corner of his mouth twitches in surprise, amusement, disdain all at once. Stupid girl hasn’t even clocked what Nanami just said.
The muffling ceases as you feel a hand slap your shoulder and it brings you back to planet earth.
“Y/N! Y/N! Did you hear that?!” Yuki’s shrill whisper. “Oh my god– you’re going to be great.”
Yuki squeals softly and claps your shoulder, her grin almost painful in its enthusiasm. Utahime nudges you, eyes sparkling with approval. Shoko and Mai exchange quick, gleeful looks, patting your back. From across the room, Satoru’s booming voice cuts through the haze. “Fuck yeah, Y/N– let’s get it!”
The snowy-haired boy pumps a fist into the air, grinning like it’s a personal victory. When Nanami sends him a look of disapproval, Satoru lets his hand fall to his side, silence resuming once more as a sheepish look graces his light features.
It takes a moment longer for the sound of your own name to pierce the fog. “Y/N,” Nanami repeats, clipboard in hand, eyes still calm but unwavering. “You will be the swan queen.”
You can feel your pulse hammering in your ears as your eyes lock with Suguru’s from across the room. The weight of his gaze makes the feeling in your chest sink in heavier, planting you firmly to the ground even as Yuki’s strong hands are on your shoulders, tilting you on the slippery floor.
For a moment, all four limbs remain frozen; around you, the room is loud with murmurs, and soft claps, and somehow Satoru is still hooting and hollering, but it all feels distant, like you are hearing it from underwater while the world continues to spin on without you present.
On the other side of the room, Suguru’s eyes harden with realisation: Endless rehearsals. Late evenings that bleed into night. Endless hours in the studio, sweat-soaked and unforgiving, and bearing all of Nanami’s corrections barked out under the hot lights. Hours on end of holding your hand or pulling you into his body, skin on skin. You eye how he presses his tongue briefly to the inside of his cheek, his eyes narrowing as he looks away from you, accepting.
When the room finally settles, and Nanami has called out the rest of the cast, he dismisses everyone. Utahime, Yuki, Shoko and Mai will dance as the cygnets for the pas de quatre. Satoru has managed to bag Rothbart’s role. At least some rehearsals with Suguru will be broken up into some evenings spent with Satoru. Reluctantly, you look away from your dear Prince Siegfried and rise to your feet with everybody else. Still, that weird, tight feeling in your chest doesn’t subside.
“This is massive,” Mai praises, lightly nudging your shoulder. “Well-deserved, I’d say.”
Yuki grins. “Right? And lucky you, endless rehearsals with Geto.”
“If I don’t kill myself before the first show.” You mumble to yourself, the words slipping out before you can stop them.
Satoru’s voice cuts in, and before you can react, his lanky arm slings easily around your shoulders, pulling you into his side like it is second nature. To him, it probably is – you have lost count of the amount of times this man has done something similar at Sukuna’s infamous parties. Or on field trips.
His warmth jolts you slightly, and the haze of the hot studio suddenly dissipates.
The snowy-haired man grins down at you, shades already sliding halfway down his nose, unbothered as he always is. “You’ll be fine. You’re a great ballerina– like, actually good. Nanami’s not stupid.”
You huff softly in response, speechless somewhere between disbelief and amusement, but the warmth of the gesture settles something in your chest. “Yeah, I mean– lucky you, Rothbart.”
Satoru merely grins down at you, clearly chuffed with his own role. “Try not to fall in love with me on stage, yeah?” he adds lightly, giving your shoulder a squeeze.
Yuki fake gags, rolling her eyes. “You’re such a flirt.”
“I flirt with everyone– sorry, Y/N.”
This earns a quiet scoff from you, “You are not my type– sorry, ‘Toru.”
“I’m everyone’s type.” Satoru says decisively, hand clutching his chest in feign hurt. “Ask ‘Hime– even she had a crush on me–”
The girl in question turns bright red at this and she reaches across the group to swat him swiftly on the arm. “Do NOT bring that up again,” she grits. “Horrible, horrible boy–”
You roll your eyes, but there’s a faint smile tugging at your lips now, the tension in your chest easing just enough to let you breathe again.
Across the room, Suguru watches as he tugs his Converse on. He traces his best friend’s lanky arm hanging over your shoulders, to the way you lean into his side slightly as the whole group laughs at something Shoko has said. It is vehemently irritating. The whole thing is irritating. The way Satoru talks to you so easily, the way you do not shrug him off, the way you agreed without hesitation the other day when you were invited to Sukuna’s party tonight and you only said yes because you wanted to spite him. Under his breath, Suguru grumbles and cinches his laces so hard that it cuts off circulation to his already-sore feet.
But when Satoru stalks back over with his jacket slung over his shoulders and a shit-eating grin on his face, Suguru can only scowl and grumble another curse.
“Feeling friendly, are we?”
Satoru’s eyebrows draw together, “Yeah, we’re in the same group of friends in case you’ve forgotten.”
“Yeah but she’s fucking annoying,” Suguru bites, “and now I gotta see her tonight as well?”
“It’s just you who feels that way,” Satoru laughs, “you need to be civil if you’re going to spend the next few months with each other.”
“If I don’t kill myself before the first show.”
A wide grin spreads across Satoru’s face, slow and knowing, like he’s just connected two very amusing dots.
“Funnily enough, that’s what she said five minutes ago.”
But by the time the clock hits 23:30 and Delta Phi’s party is in full swing, that same irritation gnawing at his very bones has not gone away.
If anything, it’s settled deeper knowing that you will walk through the doors any second now or worse, you are already here under Satoru’s arm again or something.
Music blares loud enough to rattle the walls, bass thudding through the floorboards as bodies press together in dim, flickering lights, moving in waves to the song playing. The air stinks of weed and salt and sweet alcohol spilled onto the marbled floors. Somewhere along the way, Sukuna made one of the pledges drag a table into the middle of the room; now half the party has gathered around it, shouting over one another.
The pink-haired, tattooed man and his black-haired equal in muscle mass and stature, Toji Fushiguro, are hunched over, opposite each other; their elbows are planted firmly against the table, hands clasped tight. Sukuna grins under the strobing lights, white canines glinting in the luminescence.
Suguru stands amongst them, shoulder to shoulder with Yuta and Megumi, a red cup of something sweet and sharp held loosely in his hand. He lifts it to his lips, taking a slow sip, gaze fixed ahead.
Muscles ripple instantly, and Sukuna is still grinning, unhinged, while Toji’s expression stays flat, almost bored, like this show of strength is nothing more than a mild inconvenience. Black ink stretches and warps over Sukuna’s skin as the muscles in his forearm bunch and strain; meanwhile, a slow ripple beneath Toji’s pale skin can be seen as he pushes back inch by inch against Sukuna’s strong grip but both men hardly shift.
Suguru watches over the rim of his cup, detached, until the crowd breaks a little on the opposite side, and both you and Yuki weave into the front line with lazy grins and quiet giggles. He resists the urge to roll his eyes when Satoru opens his arms wide and the two of you shift under his hold instinctively.
From across the table, his snowy-haired friend sends him a smirk and this time, Suguru really does roll his eyes as he chugs the rest of his cup and throws it off to the side.
The whole thing is so chaotic you don’t even notice Suguru across the room. Someone keeps bumping into you from behind and you are sure that the back of your jeans has been dampened by one of the pledges spilling beer on you earlier. Sweat rolls down your back beneath the thin mesh of your cami. Satoru’s arm feels hot over your shoulders.
Yuki’s already nodding. “Yeah, fuck this heat– c’mon.”
Satoru peels himself away with a dramatic groan, throwing one last apologetic grin your way before letting himself be dragged off, and then you’re alone again with a bunch of frat guys and new pledges. God knows where Shoko is – probably smoking outside already, and Utahime was getting chatted up by Naoya Zenin the last time you saw her.
For a moment, it looks as though Sukuna might have tilted Toji’s arm a little on the wooden table but then with a decisive slam, the latter’s wrist twists just enough; his arm tightens in one clean, decisive motion before he slams Sukuna’s hand flat against the hard surface. In the midst of the room erupting, Sukuna barks out a laugh, loudly, and shakes his arm out as he leans back in his chair.
“Tch– Fushiguro, you got me again.”
Toji only huffs, rolling his shoulder with a satisfied grin. “And you think you can bench more than me?”
“I know I can bench more than you.” Sukuna laughs.
As Toji leans back in his chair, a pledge hands him a beer and for a brief second he catches your gaze. “Didn’t think you’d be the type to show up to one of these,” he calls to you, voice raising over the crowd.
You shrug lightly, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Didn’t think you’d win that so easily.”
Hands clap Toji and Sukuna’s back, the latter rising to his feet as a familiar sorority girl manages to capture his attention. Toji merely hums, smirking at whoever just congratulated him before he too, straightens up and lets his gaze flicker back to you.
“Come on, let’s get outta here.”
Since when were you and Toji close like that? Ugh. Half-turned away, Suguru watches with narrowed eyes as a girl who is pressed a little too close to his side, fingers grazing his arm, talks about… the last sorority party? Someone called Hana? He doesn’t even know anymore, yet he pretends to listen as his gaze follows your and Toji weaving through the crowd to a corner of the room.
Her voice is pitched just enough to be flattering and normally, he’d entertain it – but tonight, his mood is sour and seeing you here does not help, so he doesn’t.
You are leaning on your side a little, on the wall, still talking to Toji with a faint smile gracing your glossed lips. Toji seems more animated as he takes a swig of his bottle, laughing as he says something and then you’re mirroring him. Suguru watches intently as the giant hunk of muscle hands you his bottle and you manage to chug down the last of its contents.
You’re insufferable. Why are you even here anyway? To spite him, no doubt.
The girl says something which he didn’t hear. He nods anyway, layers of black hair falling over his shoulders.
“You’re not even listening to me, are you?” she says, half-teasing.
“Mhm–” he hums noncommittally, already looking away again.
The girl at his side says his name again, sharper this time. “Seriously, what are you looking at?”
Suguru blinks once, like he’s been dragged back into his own body. “Nothing,” he says flatly. “Tell me about Hana again?”
You feel a pair of eyes watching you, but for once you pull away from the temptation of looking and turn a little more to face Toji instead. He’s not exactly bad to look at.
“Honestly,” he says, voice loud against the music, “I didn’t expect you to show up tonight. Thought you’d be, I don’t know– practicing?”
You laugh softly, the sound carrying more freely than it has all week. “And miss seeing you lose to Sukuna? Never.”
Toji chuckles, shaking his head, and then tilts his bottle toward you in a small, almost ceremonial toast. “Well, congratulations, Swan Queen, right?”
“Yuta told me earlier,” he says, leaning into you. “Apparently you got the lead. Pretty big deal, no?”
Your pulse quickens, a warm rush of pride and the sudden awareness of his body heat threatening to bloom pink over your cheeks. “Yeah, that’s me,” you murmur, smiling sheepishly. “I’m super nervous to be honest.”
Toji laughs, clearly oblivious to the technicalities of ballet. “Well, I think Nanami has the right idea – guess that means I get to see you twirling around in a tutu or whatever.”
You chuckle again, shaking your head. “I don’t think you’d enjoy ballet.”
“Maybe you should invite me to your show.” He retorts lightly, eyes gleaming. “Guess I won’t know until I watch you dance for me, right?”
You could almost laugh. Half of you is surprised that Toji is flirting with you; you can probably count on one hand the amount of times he’s been confident enough to do this, given that the two of you have hung out in a group setting multiple times and interactions are always tepid. The other half of you thinks that Toji is a typical flirty frat guy so really, it isn’t all that surprising.
Across the room, Suguru hasn’t been able to tear his eyes away from you and Toji. Oh, how your very existence bothers him. Even though the girl at his side has leant in, soft lips brushing against the hollow of his neck, hands wandering lightly over his shoulder and down his broad chest, he is unable to focus.
Between the strong liquor coursing through his veins and the slight haze that has settled over his vision, eyes half-lidded in his drunken state, he feels like he might actually hate you. Every laugh, every glance, every small gesture you make towards Toji somehow makes his stomach tighten with something he is unable to explain apart from the fact that he finds you exceptionally annoying.
He grits his teeth and wills himself to concentrate on maybe getting his dick wet tonight, but when Toji’s hand brushes over your arm, something snaps and he finds himself pushing off the girl and through the crowd.
“You,” he growls suddenly, storming up to you, voice low and words slurring over the chatter and music, laced with bile and alcohol. “Are you done flirting with all of my friends?”
You glance up at him, frozen mid-laugh, the warmth in your chest screeching to a halt. “Excuse me?”
He sneers. “What? Satoru’s attention wasn’t enough for you earlier and now you gotta flirt with Fushiguro too?”
Beside you, Toji shifts and puts a steady hand on his friend’s shoulder with a heavy sigh. “Come on, man, you’re drunk–”
“I’m fine,” Suguru retorts, though he reeks of vodka. “I wasn’t talking to you anyway–”
“It’s a party,” Toji emphasises, “let’s not ruin it–”
Suguru laughs, head tilting at that dumb look on your face. His dark eyes narrow. It seems the drunken haze has sharpened his tongue instead of dulling it.
“You think because Nanami has made you the lead, you’re the shit now– is that it?” He continues. “You know what– you’re not even good enough to dance the lead. Nanami made a mistake–”
Toji cuts in. “What’s your problem–”
You lift a hand to Toji’s thick forearm, stepping in front now until you are face to face with Suguru.
His dark eyes are half-lidded, the faint glow of pink tinging his cheeks from the copious amount of drink he has been indulging in all night.
Your heart is hammering uncomfortably in your chest now; the pride you had felt minutes ago about being the Swan Queen collapses into hurt and humiliation. Hot tears threaten to blur your vision as the party fades into a dull roar but you blink it back.
“If you have an issue with Nanami’s decision, you take it to him in class– you don’t make it personal at some fucking party.”
Though your tone is firm, Suguru can hear the waver in your voice and for a moment he wants to back down, turn around like nothing has happened but months of pent up frustration and dislike claws its way up his slender throat.
“You’re a shit dancer and you’re fucking easy–”
Your face immediately falls, your hand falling to your side and fidgeting with the hem of your top. For a brief, horrifying second, all you feel is the weight of every syllable spat at you at the same calibre as bullets. But then something flickers behind his cruel eyes and his laughter dies, remnants hanging mid-air, when he sees your face, the hurt and disbelief in your eyes glassy. For a moment longer than necessary, sober clarity shatters the haze of alcohol and his features soften a little. He swallows.
You see it, but you don’t ponder on exactly what has changed between now and five seconds ago.
“Dude,” Toji mutters under his breath, a frown crossing his face, “come on–”
But Suguru just waves him off and he pushes that guilty feeling away. “Relax, I’m just being honest.”
Pushing past him, your hands tremble at your sides. You can feel the hotness in your cheeks, the way your top is clinging to your skin a little too much, and the music sounds deafening enough that it drowns out your pulse throbbing in your ears.
Yuki shouts your name, hopping off Choso’s lap from the couch as you walk past her to the front door. You never turn back, for fear that someone will see you are actually crying now – and at a party of all places. How embarrassing.
As Suguru watches your figure retreat further and further until you disappear out of the front door in a hurry, his hand twitches at his side. Toji sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Fucking idiot.
There is no denying there has always been a rift between the two of you; enough so that on the last camping trip the group went on, Suguru opted to stay in a completely different campsite and you had almost shoved him off the side of a cliff mid-hike when he wouldn’t stop complaining about you walking too slow.
The drunk male jolts a little when Toji claps a firm hand on his shoulder before letting him go with a slight shove.
“Just go home, man– you’re drunk.”
Suguru swallows hard. Toji leaves, shaking his head. Across the room, Yuki’s head turns from the open door, where music is spilling out into the quiet street, to Suguru’s pale face hardening under the flickering lights. Her light eyebrows draw together, seemingly piecing together what has just gone on, and without mouthing anything expletive, she huffs and leaves the party in search of you.
♡ looking for more jjk? here you go!
I'm sorry if this was dooodoooo - I really wanted to go a ballet!geto fic & had this idea but not sure if it's as enjoyable of a read as the ice skating one I wrote ooooops
