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Your body oozes nostalgia as you drive through your hometown, windows down, at night in the dead of summer. What kids now consider "oldies" blast through your speakers, disrupting everyone in your car's path. Some things never change.
If you were alone, the moment might be bittersweet. But just as soon as you enter the small town's limits, you're pulling up to Connie's family home — which you almost drive past because it's been painted blue sometime in the past ten years, and all the trees in the front got cut down.
Sasha and Connie stumble outside. The sight lurches you back to high school, where you're picking them up after Prom — piling into your shitty Jeep to make your way down the shore for Prom weekend — only now you drive a sleek sedan, and a neatly-packed bag is tucked away in your trunk instead of a sloppily-stuffed backpack, half-full of stolen beer cans you copped from a friend's older brother.
"Hiiiii!" Sasha greets you as you step onto the pavement, a beamy, pumped up grin spread across her face as she pulls you into a warm hug. "God, we haven't seen you in ages!"
"You two are too good to visit a city-slicker like me," you joke, falling into Connie has he wraps you into a tight embrace, "but I'm happy t'see you guys." Your words are muffled against his chest, trapped in the wrinkles of his t-shirt, but they're honest.
Sasha slips into the passenger seat while Connie gets in the back. He immediately asks for the aux cord — but your car doesn't have one. You only use Bluetooth, now, and it takes forever to get his phone connected. He puts on a song from some new rapper he discovered; he used to listen to classic rock. You wonder if he still does.
"Jean went to Reiner's," Connie explains as you take off, "so we can just pick them both up there."
"…Reiner?" Your brows furrow slightly. "Braun?"
An awkward silence ensues. It's not that Reiner is a bad guy or anything, he's just … one of those kids you forgot about the second you graduated. He ran in different circles … was on the wrestling team, went to trade school … meanwhile you and your friends all participated in either football or cheer, and went to four-year universities away from home.
"Well y'know how Jean had to move back here a few months ago…" Sasha draws little hearts on the dashboard as she explains, "I guess Rei was part of the crew that worked on the extension to his mom's house. They expanded their kitchen and added a bedroom, did you know that? His grandmom had to move in after his grandpa died…"
You let Sasha ramble on as you try to think back to where the hell Reiner Braun lives. Connie saves you the trouble, leaning between the seats: "Timber Creek Trailer Park. The one on Scrivens Drive."
"Thanks," you murmur faintly, turning a corner so you can loop back around. "So…you're all friends with Reiner, now? And he's joining us…?"
"Awh, yeah, he's such a sweetheart," Sasha gushes, "you'll really like him. I dunno why we didn't hang with him in high school."
"We had our heads in our asses," Connie snarks, "dude's a great guy and we were wastin' our time with dickheads like Floch."
"Oh my God, Floch!" Sasha shakes her head, "I saw on Facebook that he got his third DUI like, a week ago."
Your hands grip the steering wheel a little tighter as the song switches to a familiar R&B tune that you all used to play constantly. Sasha sings it from the top of her lungs, her bad pitch unchanged by time.
You'd been to Timber Creek Trailer Park once, not for a particularly pleasant reason, just to give some Senior head when you were a Freshman: a mistake that you paid for dearly in social currency. Gravel crunches beneath your tires as Connie guides you through the maze of mobile homes. "He has a place of his own," he explains, squinting through the window, "but he comes back here 'cause he takes care of his mom most nights. She had a stroke a year ago."
They speak about him with such familiarity that it makes you nervous. Sasha and Connie have remained close over all these years; they went to the same school, and now they rent together a few towns over. Jean, like you, had moved further away — but a nasty round of layoffs kicked him back to where he started. You went into this "reunion weekend" knowing you'd be playing fourth wheel to your oldest friends, but adding a stranger to the mix makes playing catch-up feel even more daunting. You feel like an intruder on their lives … a reader of someone else's story.
"Here! The red one," Connie jabs a finger past your face. You coast to a stop, the movement turning on some motion-sensored lights, just in time for two shadows to appear in the doorway. Jean comes outside first, cooler in one hand and a duffel bag in the other. Behind him? A stacked wall of muscle.
Reiner Braun had always been big. He was, after all, the best wrestler your school district had seen since 1971. But he wears it … differently, now. Older. With confidence. He hit some kind of second growth spurt, too; he's all wide with biceps that could probably crush your face, a little softer than his cut figure back in the day, but …
"You'll catch flies," Sasha presses a silly lil' smooch on your cheek as she whispers it to you — a tactic you two used to use whenever you wanted to say something about a cute boy. "He's single, if you were wondering."
Jean and Reiner join Connie in the backseat. Jean greets you jovially, bursting into a long-winded story about how he almost forgot to make the reservation at the hotel because his mom threw out his day planner. Reiner doesn't get a word in edgewise, but your eyes meet through the rear-view mirror, and his crinkle in the corners slightly as he smiles.
The beach is an hour away. Connie and Jean prattle through a variety of random conversations, dragging Reiner in for a third opinion when needed. You and Sasha catch up quietly in the front, but the chitchat always seems to falter when Reiner's deep baritone hits your ears, and only resumes when Sasha pokes you on the shoulder to recapture your attention.
You're all tired by the time you get to the hotel because, well … it's a Friday, and everyone (other than Jean) has already suffered a long day's work. You agree to meet up in the lobby for breakfast at eight before breaking off to your rooms; you and Sasha share two queens with stiff sheets and creased edges. She brought facemasks and you brought popcorn and chocolate: the perfect setup for an evening of gossip and deep-talks and projections for the future. Sasha's still mourning her breakup with some fancy chef that chose to drop everything and move to a different country for 'opportunities', whatever that means. Her parents, bless their hearts, have adopted another kid; this one's sixteen with sticky fingers … but a sweet girl, apparently, who likes to draw. Connie leaves balled-up, stinky socks everywhere and Sasha's about to break the lease because of it.
"Enough about me," she says through a mouthful of snacks, "whattabout you? I hope y'r not still fucking around with Floch … I mean … God, three DUIs?" Her smile fades at your downcast expression. She blinks in shock. "Wait, you cant be serious …"
"It's not like we got back together or anything…" you nibble on a candy, "but, we …. slept together. A few times."
Sasha's quiet for a moment, the loud hum of the air conditioner filling the silence, before she nudges you mischievously. "Well I know the perfect guy to distract you from that train wreck."
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
The sand is already hot enough to burn the soles of Reiner's feet as everyone steps onto the sand, but it doesn't seem to phase the rest, so he keeps his comments to himself. He helps drive the umbrella into the ground as you and Sasha lay down blankets, turning to Connie and Jean soon after, who are that day's sunscreen dispensers, making sure 'the ladies' (Jean's words, not Reiner's) are properly covered.
Reiner hasn't really struck up the nerve to talk to you yet; that torch he's held for you since middle school is ever persistent, placing you on a pedestal that seems far out of reach. He thought age would perhaps mute those feelings, but it seems his schoolboy crush has devolved into grown-man lust, drawing his eye to you more than what's socially acceptable.
You're in the prettiest bikini he's ever seen. It looks expensive … and he didn't even know expensive swimwear was a thing until he sees the way the fabric slinks across your hips elegantly. His eyes fixate on the smooth curves of your calves and thighs and hips — an ass man through and through — but he can't help but take a peek at the most perfect tits contained by two cherry-red triangles whenever he gets the chance. He's fighting for his life as you oil yourself up, hands slipping and sliding all across your exposed skin. Sasha helps you with a spot on your back … you arch toward her, short-circuiting Reiner's brain as your ass sticks up in the air at the motion, and he must look like an idiot because before he even has a chance to re-hinge his jaw, he's receiving a firm whack on the back of the head from Jean.
"Let's go, big guy," he snickers, "Connie brought a football. We're gonna toss it around."
Reiner has never been much of a beach-goer, but he starts to understand the appeal as the day continues. It's relaxing, first and foremost: the sound of waves and gulls … children screeching happily as cold water licks their feet … the rest of the world seems so distant: his problems, small. When he gets too hot he can just take a dip in the ocean; it's still early in the season, and sure, the temperature is cool enough to numb his ankles, but they warm right up whenever you come to join him. Sasha's always in tow, of course — as are the guys — and he still hasn't managed to talk to you properly. He feels like a neanderthal, all chopped-up sentences and nervous laughs. His limbs are heavy and his brain slows whenever you're in his periphery, as if he's trapped under some siren's spell.
The day ends when Connie announces he's about to have heatstroke and Sasha complains that she'll die if she doesn't eat a full meal soon. The night, however, is just starting: first dinner, then the casino, and finally, Club Paradis.
Dinner is good; it's at a Cuban restaurant, with big portions and bottomless mojito pitchers. Gambling is underwhelming; Reiner puts twenty bucks into a slot machine, and in return, gets a seventy-four cent voucher. At least he didn't lose all twenty dollars … only nineteen and twenty-six cents!
You have a little more luck, investing one-hundred in a game of blackjack and doubling it … only to drop down to one-hundred-and-ten after a game of roulette. You've been sipping on some fruity cocktail since stepping onto the casino floor, and Reiner's on his second beer. It's easier to talk, now; he leans into your every word, listening to your tale of the workplace admin, Gale, and her thirty-years-younger 'work husband', who was just promoted to mid-level management. You theorize that the older woman had something to do with it, but you're "not a gossip", and "who are you to judge?"
By eleven, it's time for Club Paradis. Everyone went back to their rooms to get ready; Reiner's glancing at his reflection, applying some aftershave onto his neck, wondering if jeans and a v-neck are too casual for a place like this. His worries evaporate, though, as soon as his vision is assaulted by a bright, yellow Hawaiian shirt hanging loosely on Connie's wiry frame.
"The ladies love it," he swears, winking, "but I don't think you care about impressing the 'ladies' tonight, eh? Just … one lady."
He's not wrong, and after his and Jean's relentless teasing about Reiner's "gawking" on the beach, Reiner doesn't even try to refute it. "Somethin' like that," he mumbles, "way outta my league, though."
"Don't give us that self-deprecating shit. You're doing way better than her, dude. Sash told me earlier that she's miserable in the city … still hooks up with Floch sometimes when she's desperate."
"Floch?" Connie's jaw drops. "Still?"
Jean nods, tossing Reiner a knowing smirk. "And just sayin' … she was staring at you just as much as you were, my friend. 'Specially in the water. And did you notice how close she leaned in when you were talking downstairs?" Jean pops his collar, "she doesn't cozy up to just anyone like that."
"We were just talking…"
"Uh-huh. Well. If you wanna do more than "talk", just put the 'do not disturb' thingy on the door. We don't mind crashing in the other room."
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
The music is loud and your ears are bleeding. Sasha and Connie are off being each other's wingmen, in a competition to see who can collect the most phone numbers. Jean found a pretty girl to dance with, or rather, dance on, hips grinding into hers sloppily with a Jack and Coke sloshing around in one hand, her waist in the other.
Meanwhile, you and Reiner have been at the bar nearly the whole time, alcohol blurring the day's mounting nerves into animated conversation. He's funny and sweet and smart and sensitive … and handsome. So handome, in fact, that your eyes, which usually like to wander in a place like this, have been glued to him all night: the way his Adam's apple scrapes along his throat when he swallows his drink, the way his fingers, thick and textured, drum along the sticky wood when he orders another beer … the way his honey eyes cut to yours when he shyly asks if you want another gin and tonic — on him.
Each time you hit the bottom of your glass, you notice your body has drawn inadvertently closer to his. You're so close that you can feel heat radiating from him … can smell the soap and aftershave lingering on his skin … traces of Pabst and fresh mint on his breath. Sometimes, you're swapping stories in giddy pitches, and others, you're sipping drinks in charged silence.
Now's one of those times; the topic of Bertholdt Hoover's wedding and Reiner's role as best man has come to its natural end. Your lips clamp around the tiny red straw poked between ice cubes, focus drifting to the dance floor, wincing as you catch sight of Jean shoving his tongue down his dance partner's throat.
"You look like you could use a refill."
The voice next to you is not Reiner's. It's deeper, more serious … not predatory, but assured. Certain that you'll accept his offer. He's broad and blonde, not unlike the man who has been keeping you company all night, but something about him is cold and detached. A shorter guy sits in his shadow, thoroughly unimpressed with the atmosphere and the people that occupy it, watching his friend's attempt to pick up a girl with a raised brow.
"She's alright, I already got her one."
Reiner's forearm slides across the bartop to cage you. It's a protective stance, if not a little territorial. Arousal swims deep in your belly at the display, and you lean into the small gap that exists between you, smiling politely at the stranger. "Thank you, though. For the offer."
He tilts his head, eyes flashing with understanding … and annoyance. "I see. Sorry … for interrupting."
"No problem at all," you wave a hand. "Enjoy your night."
With a nod he turns back to his friend, whose lips are now quirked into an amused smirk. You should probably move, but you don't; you stay firmly planted on Reiner's chest, breath hitching as he rests his lips against the shell of your ear. "I don't wanna 'nother drink, to be honest," he admits, "I want you."
On autopilot, you nod eagerly. He slaps a tip on the counter and leads you out, hand on the small of your back, palm pressing into the silky fabric.
Little time is wasted once the door's card reader flashes green; he's all over you in a heartbeat, trailing sloppy kisses down your neck and exposed collarbone, only to coast back up to your mouth and crash his lips onto yours. Your hands fly to his shirt — a dark gray v-neck that had been clinging to his pecs sluttily all night — fingers curling beneath the hem and lifting it above his head, revealing a muscled stomach, accented by a mouth-watering happy trail, and a broad chest coated in soft, golden hair.
"'M gonna start blushin' if ya keep starin' at me like that," he grunts, pulling away, slowly twirling you around so your back is facing him. His fingers are rough against your smooth skin as he unzips the little black dress, but they're gentle and warm, and you're melting beneath them.
Left in a skimpy set of lace, Reiner exhales, grabbing the meat of your ass with both hands, pulling your cheeks apart only to watch them slap back together. You wiggle teasingly, skin flush with liquored anticipation, and squeak in surprise as he picks you up and plops you face down on the bed. You shuffle up onto all fours, only to be pressed into the meanest arch, one arm flattening your shoulders to the mattress while the fingers on his other dip beneath the strip of cloth covering your soaking cunt. "Stay just like this," he murmurs, releasing the pressure on your back as he rolls your little thong down your hips and to your knees, exposing yourself completely to him, minus the bra that's still miraculously in tact.
You have no time to prepare yourself before he's grabbing your thighs and licking a long, hot stripe between your folds, making you twitch with surprise, and your eyes nearly roll back into their sockets when he finds your clit almost immediately, slurping it up and rolling the soft muscle of his tongue across it. You buck into the touch, somehow already close, and he doesn't stop eating until you're fisting the sheets and crying out his name, the mounting pressure in your belly snapping as you orgasm all-too-soon.
You don't even know if your vibrator has ever made you cum that quickly, but here you are, dripping onto—
"Want you to ride my face," Reiner draws your wandering mind back to him, mouth shiny with your release. He's standing at the edge of the bed, now, covered from the waist-down, although a sizeable bulge has tented his jeans. "Been wantin' it all day."
Your hand reaches for his fly, thumb and pointer finger seizing the zipper and dragging it slowly down, taking your sweet time so you can catch your breath. "Only if I get to taste you, too," you bargain, wetting your lips as he starts to shuffle out of his remaining clothing. The imprint of his dick beneath his briefs his intimidatingly large, but you're up for the challenge; you've been thirsting after the guy since you laid eyes on him yesterday, and you can't back out now just because he's a little a lot bigger than you were expecting.
"You sayin' you wanna sixty-nine?" he huffs a laugh, running a hand through his hair. "Can't say I've actually ever done that before."
"It's fun," you smile, rearing up on your knees so you can kiss him again. He stoops down to meet you half-way, and you can taste yourself in the exchange; the kiss doesn't break as he peels off his briefs and climbs onto the bed, mattress dipping beneath his solid weight. His hands deftly unclasp your bra, tossing it to the side, and he lets you roll him onto his back as you grind your cunt down his thick shaft, trapping a lip between your teeth as you think about how deliciously he'd fill you.
"Nope," he stops the movement, eyes glued to the spot where your bodies meet, "'m still hungry. That can wait."
You blush, nodding, letting him guide you one-hundred eighty degrees around until your pussy's hovering over his face and your mouth is placing feathery kisses along the velvet-swathed veins of his cock. He spreads you wide apart before yanking you down onto him, tongue burying itself deep inside of your tight, wanting hole, nose grinding against your puffy clit.
Trying to distract yourself from cumming too-fast again, you wrap your lips around his head and suck, flicking your tongue across his slit and catching the salty pre that's been accumulating there. He groans into you, griiinding your hips down, squishing his fingertips into your thighs, bucking deeper into the wet heat of your mouth. You take him enthusiastically, trying to match the vigor with which he's devouring you, palms flat into the hard muscle of his quads. It takes you a few tries, but eventually you manage to relax enough to nudge him into the back of your throat, and you must be doing something right because his mouth stills its assault, struggling to continue as he's pulled into the feeling of how sweet you pull him in, drool forming in the corners of your stretched lips.
You take turns with who distracts who; the room is full of wanton noises — pants and grunts and whines — and the few times he decides to detach his mouth from your cunt it's to feed you praise that only encourages you to take him deeper — faster — to the point where the hairs at his base are saturated with your spit.
"Fuck, you're doin' so good, baby," he groans, lifting his hips to rut into you, licking his sticky lips — slick with your second orgasm — as he takes a peek between your thighs to watch his cock disappear into the depths of your throat. It's damn near pornographic the way you're taking him, making the prettiest, filthiest noises … but he really shouldn't have looked, because seeing it's enough to make his balls tighten and shoot his load before he can even try to stop it. "Shit — haaah, fuck — sorry —" he grits his teeth as you keep on sucking, working him into an overstimulated haze; he nips at your thighs, nuzzles them, takes a few more tastes before you both end up jelly-limbed lumps cuddled up next to each other with stupid grins on your faces.
"We didn't even get to the main event," you giggle when you realize he's about to start dozing off, ear pressed against his pounding heart. "Don't you wanna…?"
"Mm, no," a beefy arm curls around you, pressing your naked body flush against his. "Gotta take ya out t'dinner first … and it will not be in some trashy casino, I can promise ya that."
"Ooh — such a gentleman." You try to brush off his sentiment with a joke, but something about his earnest tone strikes a dangerous chord in your heart, warming you completely.
aot masterlist // main masterlist
request: thank you @disturbyakuya for requesting 'riding reiner's face' and @the-nightingales-world for requesting 'beachside date with reiner'. hope you guys enjoyyyyy
dew yaps: this is sooooo my state-coded. lowkey doxxing myself with this one. i love where i grew up tho, this is a love letter to my trashy lil corner of the world <3 and of course a love letter to reiner <3
Mornings can be considered as the chill time of the day, especially on weekends when no one has to rush to their jobs early in the morning. Waking up to the soft sounds of bird chirping outside, the wind dancing along with the trees and the morning rays of the sun crawling into your room despite the efforts of your curtains, giving the room a soft morning light as you slowly opened your eyes to the soft rays of sunlight coming from your window.
Weekends will forever remain your favorite part of the week, having to wake up at the time you desire, appreciating the morning hue in your room, and more importantly, embracing the warmth of the hands around your waist and holding you gently.
Turning to take a good look at your dear boyfriend who's sleeping with a smile on his face, white hair ruffled up from sleep, his soft blue eyes hidden from the world as he is still in dreamland, and soft snores escaping his lips. Despite being a great warrior, your dear Phainon is the softest man you have ever known in your entire life. Everything about him brings you a sense of warmth and comfort, it's simply impossible to believe that a man like this carries the destruction in his veins.
You slowly leaned up to plant a soft kiss on his cheek before gently removing his arms from around you in order to get up and prepare a nice breakfast for the two of you. Phainon has been busy clearing out the dark tide and coming home late into the night and extremely tired, even though he never shows it you know he is tired and wants to rest.
The moment you snuck out of the room and shut the door behind you softly, you headed straight to the kitchen to get to work. Phainon has always woken you up with a nice breakfast in bed and you want to do the same for him. So you got to work. Eggs cooking in the pan, bacon in another pan cooking as you chop some tomatoes and cucumbers to finish making breakfast just the way Phainon likes it before he wakes up.
As you are cutting pieces from the freshly baked sourdough bread, you felt a pair of strong arms wrap around your waist as the familiar chin of your boyfriend lands on your shoulder and his lips planting a soft kiss on your cheek.
"Good morning my love." He muttered softly, placing yet another kiss on your cheek before turning to look down at what you're doing.
"Good morning, how was your sleep?" You replied, putting the knife down and turning your head to press a soft kiss to his cheek, earning a soft hum from your boyfriend who quickly turned his head to kiss your lips.
"What are you making?"
"Sunny side up with bacon, sourdough and some veggies. It was a surprise breakfast in bed for you until you woke up."
"And have breakfast without you? My day would be cursed by the aeons yknow."
"Okay I think you're overreacting-"
"Last time I left home without having breakfast with you I lost in a duel against Mydei so I'm never doing this again." His reply earned a giggle out of you as you took the eggs off the stove and put them in two separate plates.
"Don't laugh! Look I have another proof, remember when I lost our polaroid picture that we took on our very first date? That day I also didn't have breakfast with you!"
"Oh yeah I remember that, Tribbie called me that day telling me all about how you were pouting the whole day. But we have other polaroids too, some of them are from our first date."
"But I don't want to lose any memory of us. They are the only thing keeping me sane in this never ending war." You turned off the stove, turning in Phainon's arms to look up at him as you gently cupped his face in your hands with a soft look adorning your face.
"My dear, I'll always be here with you. You will always start your mornings with me in your arms, go back home after a long day and I'll be there welcoming you with open arms and greet you with a kiss, your days will end with us sleeping together in our bed. Every day I will be there, and I will always support you, hug you, kiss you, and give you all the love and comfort you deserve and more."
Your words left the deliverer silent for a few seconds before he hugged you closer to him, his head dropping on your shoulder and taking a deep breath. You wrapped your arms around him, slowly moving your hand up and down to give him comfort. War has always left the citizens of Okhema in fear and unrest, you included, even the view of Phainon going out everyday to fight against the dark tide has left a deep sense of doom in your heart. Even after the constant reassurance of Tribbie, Aglaea and Hyacine, you always worry about Phainon's safety and pray to the worldbearing that he comes back safe and sound.
Your thoughts were interrupted by the soft kisses Phainon is leaving on your shoulder.
"I love you," kiss "I adore you," kiss "I see you," kiss "I always think of you," kiss "I won't hesitate to burn down the cosmos if anything ever happens to you." another kiss. With every kiss Phainon has landed on your shoulder, you can feel him tremble slightly as he kissed your shoulder.
Your hand reached up to softly brush his hair as he raised his head to look at you and the look in his eyes caused you to tear up. The look of absolute love, yearning and adoration in his eyes that can never be described in words, a look that anyone in the universe can tell that he is so in love with you. You pulled him into a soft and slow kiss, savoring the emotions pouring out of him as he pulled you closer to him as he kissed you back with much love and passion.
"Every second with you is a blessing for me, thank you, my darling (name)."
Today's morning is filled with so much warmth and love so strong it can make the laughter tear up. Mornings with Phainon will always be special for you.
Kiss Because of Confessed Feelings with Wakasa Imaushi
Wakasa Imaushi x Gen!Reader
Warnings: none, fluffy as hell, vv cute
Word Count: 0.6k
Also, maybe consider signing up for the 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐦!!
Wakasa knows that your bravery is incredible. How do you protect the people you care so deeply for? He always admired you for that. That’s how it started away as admiration. He’d watch as you protected the other gang members, even if they were members you’d never met beforehand. He thought your kindness was naïve at first, but it’s something he’s grown to really like about you. Of course, you’ve grown popular because of your kindness, and you’d get quite a few admirers from it. Something that irked Wakasa to no end.
Whenever an admirer confesses their feelings, you politely reject them, and they’d feel less irked. Wanting a concrete answer as to what was happening, Wakasa went to Shinichiro for advice.
“You seriously don’t know?” Shinichiro asks his weirdly dense friend.
“No, that’s why I’m asking you,” Wakasa replies with his signature bored expression. Shinichiro gave Wakasa a look before continuing.
“Well, it seems to me,” Shinichiro starts. “That you might have a thing for Y/N.”
“Huh?” Wakasa utters, shocked.
“Yeah, I think you like them,” Shinichiro repeats. Wakasa never thought about that possibility. However, he would have to admit that you are beautiful. Maybe that is the case.
So, ever since Shinichiro helped him understand his real feelings for you, he became a small mess because of it. Any time you sat by him during meetings or you guys were paired up to do things, he was a mess. However, he’d never outwardly show it; he’d try to keep his normal composure around you. Little did he know, you are way more observant than that. You notice how he always made a point of avoiding your touch and compliments. Something he never did before.
One day, while the two of you were sitting together at a park late at night waiting for Shinichiro, you figured you should ask.
“What’s up with you lately?” you question. “You’ve been acting strange.”
“Strange?” Wakasa asks. He knows exactly what you mean, but for his own sake, he’s playing dumb.
“Yeah, you don’t talk to me as much, and you’ve been weirdly distant,” you say. “Did I do something to upset you?”
“No,” he says simply.
“No?” you repeat, wanting him to go on, but he doesn’t. “Okay, then what is it?” Wakasa doesn’t know whether he should be honest. He knows you reject pretty much everyone, so he’s sure you’ll do the same with him. He remembers how Shinichiro said it’s essential to be confident when it comes to romance. However, Shinichiro isn’t exactly known for his courting skills. But maybe it’s worth a shot.
“I like you,” he simply says.
“Huh?” You’re in complete shock.
“I have for some time now,” he admits.
“Really? I had no idea,” you try to think if you’ve seen or recollected any signs, but you come up short.
“Well, yeah, anyway,” Wakasa says, wanting to change the subject.
“I like you too,” you blurt. Wakasa’s eyes widen in surprise. This he did not expect.
“You do?” he asks.
“Yeah, I have since joining,” you tell him. “I just never said anything because I didn’t think you cared about stuff like that.”
“Well, you’re wrong about that,” he says somewhat jokingly.
“Seems so,” you agree. You reach out your hand for Wakasa, who takes it easily. He uses your hand to pull you close to him, and when your face is a few inches away from his, you kiss him without hesitation. As you kiss, you feel his fingers interlock with yours more affectionately, and his thumb rubs over your hand. The best first kiss you could ask for.
"Your lines are sloppy." A curt voice spoke over his shoulder, haughty in tone and confident in nature. Qifrey jumped in his seat, surprised by the uninvited voice. He was often used to people letting him wallow in his misery, so this was a change of pace, he just wasn't sure if it was welcomed or not.
He looked to his side to see a child's face, probably someone around his age, whose eyes were glaring at his magic seal. A raised eyebrow and disgusted look, he could only imagine the type of person you were. Haughty and all-knowing, like the other apprentices who shame him for his lack of knowledge. It took a lot of restraint and coaching from his master to not lash out when he was taunted.
The second thing he noticed about you was the clothing you were wearing. They were simple in colour, the solid white being a standard for most apprentices. Yet yours were adorned in golden and red accents. The crest on your chest was his final clue that you were someone of importance. Whose life would matter if you went missing.or:
if a man without an eye cannot see, can a person with no heart feel? in under 9000 words.
᯽ qifrey x gn! reader
᯽ tags: Angst, Hurt/No Comfort, Canon Typical Violence, WHA Manga Spoilers, Mentions of Human Experimentation, Body Alteration, Slight Body Horror, Amnesia, Class Differences, Slight Rivals to Lovers, Unrequited Requited Love, don't worry qifrey is still very much in love with Olruggio but this isn't about them, Reader is Vinanna's child, Reader uses They/Them pronouns, this is a love story just with little love!!, more tags to be added in future chapters
᯽ This fic is sponsored by the WHA Manga and how much it aches me. Seriously, if you haven't finished it through, then please do not read this fic. And if you choose to keep reading, please not not say I warned you! Originally, this was supposed to be one chapter... But I fear there's going to be at least three... I hope you still enjoy!!
Click here for the AO3 link!!
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CHAPTER ONE: nothing in my heart is hoping that you'll come back.
There was much to learn for Qifrey when he was brought back to the assembly. The sights and sounds of the magic surrounding him captured his young heart – proof that there was more to life than the box he was forced into. Quite literally in his case. The kind old man even let him wander around with no supervision, free to ask any and all questions his little mind could conjure.
To his credit, it was easy to be curious when you had no base knowledge to go off of. Bless his heart, Qifrey would try to summon what little he could remember – using the odd sense of deja vu that he would feel or try to piece together a story based on the scars on his body. Yet nothing. The Brimmed Hats were very thorough with their memory erase, and all that was left was to bury his body.
After all, what is the point of keeping a person with no memory? It's just an empty husk – no past to give context for its life and no future for it to aspire to.
Qifrey understood that feeling all too well. He didn't have a family that he knew of. (They were probably dead.) He couldn't tell anyone where his home was. (Any time he tried to think, all he could think of was that cursed box.) He didn't even know simple questions about himself, like what was his favourite colour? (Blue – at least he thinks it is. But not blue like the ocean; but like the bountiful sky he was barred from seeing.)
(In his darkest moments, where he lies awake at night, he often thinks about how Qifrey was not even his true name. He thanks Beldaruit for gifting him an identity, but there will always be a hole that he won't be able to fill. He has learned over time to make a name for himself – He is Qifrey the Apprentice and no one would be able to take that away from him. Yet the mind, as wondrous as it is, is also the heart's most dangerous ally, for only it can think about the alternate universes where he is not Qifrey but a boy with a family.)
(Please don't take my life again, he begged, but there would be no one who would listen. He would soon learn to make that decision for himself.)
Beldaruit was certainly wise, and with his age comes a certain way to manipulate the truth to fit his narrative. And he wasn't wrong; technically, Qifrey can't be an Unknowing if he doesn't know anything to begin with. The other sages agreed, although Vinanna was always wary of him. He supposed that it couldn't be helped as the 'Wise in Principle'. It was her job to keep all of witchkind in check, and he stood as the biggest threat to their security as of late.
Even after an extermination attempt, if one cockroach survives and is left alone, another infestation is bound to follow.
Perhaps one day, Qifrey would be a grand enough witch so that he may drown out all of the scum that has infected him. Maybe then he will find his eye and all the memories stolen from him.
But for all his effort, he couldn't make these spells work for the life of him. They would technically perform – the fire will burn, and the wind will blow – but it never takes the form he needs it to be. Nor go in the direction he wants for it to go. Even with Beldaruit's gentle encouragement, there always seemed to be something that would go awry.
(He just wanted to create a spell that would keep him dry.)
It seems as though the olden witches were right in their decision to create the pact. If magic were truly for everyone, shouldn't everyone be able to use it intuitively? Instead, he was struggling just as a child would struggle to write. Vinanna was right to be suspicious of him; he truly was an unknowing.
But it wasn't fair – not his stolen memories nor his distaste for water. Qifrey was barely a man, and he was sure that if his mother were around, he would still have been considered her child. Except he would never know what his mother was like, or if he even had one. His entire life was ripped away from him, sitting somewhere next to his missing eye.
Qifrey gripped his hair, ripping it from his skull. His head seared with pain as the ache of his ignorance and the sound of the rushing water around him. It unfortunately didn't help that the entire assembly felt like his little box, except this time, he had plenty of people to share his personal hell.
Did he even need magic? Qifrey thought to himself. Part of him was willing to run away to the outside world, away from the rules and regulations that bound his hands and silenced his tongue. He was quite young, and there were always ways for him to grow – both in stature and in spirit. Perhaps if he focused on his body and not his penmanship, then perhaps he could brute force his way through the Hats.
But if they can use magic without creating a magic seal (if his research is to be trusted), then simple knives wouldn't fare all that much against his most loathed foe. His frustration was even enough to mask the scent of roses that appeared. Weren't they under the ocean? Were flowers that fragrant even survive down here?
"Your lines are sloppy." A curt voice spoke over his shoulder, haughty in tone and confident in nature. Qifrey jumped in his seat, surprised by the uninvited voice. He was often used to people letting him wallow in his misery, so this was a change of pace; he just wasn't sure if it was welcomed or not.
He looked to his side to see a child's face, probably someone around his age, whose eyes were glaring at his magic seal. With a raised eyebrow and a disgusted look, he could only imagine the type of person you were. Haughty and all-knowing, like the other apprentices who shame him for his lack of knowledge. It took a lot of restraint and coaching from his master to not lash out when he was taunted.
The second thing he noticed about you was the clothing you were wearing. They were simple in colour, the solid white being a standard for most apprentices. Yet yours were adorned in golden and red accents. The crest on your chest was his final clue that you were someone of importance. Whose life would matter if you went missing.
Unlike him, so forgotten by the world that even he is left ignorant of his own existence.
(Qifrey wasn't wrong. It was just a shame that no one could find you in time.)
When he didn't react to your taunt, eyes focused back to his paper and pen, you scoffed. You placed your body between his focused face and the desk he was hunched over. Qifrey – ever the menace but still a gentleman at heart – pushed away from your invading frame, glaring at the intrusion into his personal space.
"What in the devil is your problem?" he sneered, trying to push you out of his way. All of the assembly apprentices were the same; if they weren't fearful of him, then they were trying to pester him to leave. At least he had the conviction to stay and learn; that's more than what he can say about those who had magic handed to them.
"Your magic isn't stable, which makes the flame weak." You turned away, looking back at the desk. Once you have deemed his seal sufficiently scrutinized, you point at it. "See? The lines are shaky, and the sigils aren't centred. You're never going to get your desired result if you rush like this."
"Aren't the best witches supposed to be able to draw their seals with speed?" Qifrey asked with an annoyed tone. It was one thing to hear Master Beldaruit's gentle criticism, but here you were lambasting his poor attempt at magic.
"Yes, but they also master precision first." You turned back around to look him in his eyes – or eye in his case. You squinted, and he could almost see the slight recognition on your face. "You're the unknowing stray Uncle Beldaruit brought in." Damn it, of course you knew who he was. Now he had to face the same ridicule that he's been receiving from everyone else.
"Quite the harsh way of putting it?" he said with a sardonic smile. Qifrey was finally able to push past you and went to gather his belongings from the little desk. So much for being able to work in peace away from the bustle of the Assembly. He often found himself by the outskirts and near the water barrier in order to find some form of serenity. The occasional droplets that burned his skin made him good at preventing him from letting his guard down. "Now, if you excuse me, I am going to work elsewhere."
Before he could turn away, you managed to surprise him.
"My apologies, I understand how that term can be insulting." You didn't make an excuse, nor did you mince your words to downplay what you have done. Perhaps you had more sense than most of the apprentices that he's had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting. "Unfortunately, there isn't a more… kinder way to explain your kind."
"To your dismay, we are not some otherworldly creature that hides under your bed." Was it truly strange to have people who weren't born into magic enter your world? If knowledge was best shared so that it could be innovated and improve the lives of people, then why were you witches so hellbent on keeping it a secret? He would follow your fallacious rules if only to keep learning about this magic that has ruined his life.
"Well forgive me that I've never had to interact with an unknowing– I suppose human would be a more fitting term." Your insufferable tone returned, long gone any regret from your voice. Qifrey was always confused when the other witches referred to the 'unknowing' as human, as if everyone wasn't made of the same flesh and blood. There was a story in his heart of how the world came from clay, even if he couldn't picture where exactly it came from.
Yet before he could continue this banter – that Qifrey begrudgingly found some enjoyment in – the Sage of Distrust fell from the sky and landed behind you. Great, not only did he have to deal with you and your insufferable voice, he now had to pretend in front of Vinanna that he was a functional member of magic society. Not that he isn't, but he knows that she is looking for one chance to put him on trial once again and cast him out into this cold and unforgiving world.
"Dear grandchild?" Her voice was still stern; he wouldn't dare call her soft. But when the great Sage spoke to you, there was an exasperated fondness in her eyes. Like a person who watched their cat knock down another vase. Perhaps you had more of an edge than he gave you credit for.
"Come now, it's almost dinner time, and your parents are worried for you." She turns to Qifrey, and with all warmth drained from her heart, she acknowledges him for the first time during this interaction. "You best return to your master, young one. Beldaruit tends to worry for strays that wander too far from his care."
Qifrey understood quickly where you get your blunt tongue from.
He nodded, bowing slightly with respect. As much as he thought respect should go both ways, he wasn't about to create a scene with you present. He didn't have the chance to make a clean exit when you turned back to call out to him.
"Using fire magic to create a drying spell is needlessly difficult. Try using water magic and use a sigil to repel it away from you." Qifrey internalized the advice, actually finding it quite helpful. Logically, it would make the most sense to try to repel water rather than to loop the fire magic to endlessly keep him dry. But bless your heart, you weren't aware of his aversion to liquid, and he'd rather not practice with something he was petrified about.
Although maybe it would be best for him to become a master at it. It would be the best way for him to overcome his fear. His poor, unfortunate heart, you gave him much to ponder over this evening.
Despite the growing distance between the two of you, Qifrey could still hear your grandmother chastising you for speaking to him. Whispered warnings about how you must stay away from that boy and how he might drag you back to that group again. It was the again that caught his attention, wondering what Vinnana could possibly have meant by that. Perhaps the two of you had more in common than he thought, but he shrugged that thought away. There were more important matters at hand, like implementing your advice into his spell.
After he composed his thoughts, he gathered his things and rushed back to the centre of the Assembly, but not before running into another nuisance.
"I see you've met the Great Sage's grandchild!" Olruggio's voice perked up from the side. Qifrey observed him, and with the way he was leaning casually against the wall, it seemed like he watched that entire bastard. What a nosy bastard, and he didn't have the decency to even step in and save him from his humiliation.
"I didn't know the Sage even had a child, let alone a grandchild." He stopped to acknowledge his fellow apprentice, because calling him a friend made his heart creak and his eye ache.
Olruggio hummed with acknowledgement. "Yes, they don't tend to make an appearance often, letting the more public spectacle fall onto the Sage and their parents. But from what I've heard, they're a prodigy at their craft and every master has been begging them to join their atelier."
Qifrey would hope that you would be half decent at magic. Perhaps that's why you were judging his own seal – probably to see where you would have been had you been born to a regular family. But then how much of your success could be attributed to you as a person rather than the family crest you carried on your chest?
"Besides, they're quite a beauty aren't they? Dare I say they're the prettiest witch in our cohort of apprentices?" Olruggio started to daydream about being your knight in shining armour, and Qifrey could see what he held for you was a childish fantasy at best. He refused to feed into any more delusions that his peer would come up with.
Qifrey does agree, though, that you were quite pretty – pretty annoying that is.
(He dares not think about the way his heart quickened and creaked when you stared at him. Your stare was so heavy that he was tempted to spill all of his secrets at that moment. Whoever you were, you were dangerous to him – your beauty, the most complicated spell and your tongue, the sharpest knife. And he realized all of this before noticing that his left eye started to function less and less as the days went on. The smell of those sweet roses that permeated from your skin was going to haunt him for the rest of forever. Or at least if he was a weaker witch, that was what he thought would happen.)
But it was alright, because he would never have to see you again. The two of you hovered in different social and magical classes. Sure, he was the apprentice of the great Wise in Teachings, and the two of you were apprentices; but that didn't change the fact that you were of noble blood – practically royalty in the eyes of his peers and elders – while he was just some eyeless boy the Sages took pity on.
So when the next day, you plopped down on the bench where he was eating lunch, sitting in the spot where Olruggio usually occupied, he raised his eyebrow with suspicion. You had no food with you, so you weren't looking to sit and have a meal. And if you were, he was sure that any of the other tables would have pushed their own to have you grace them with your presence. He could feel the envy radiating off of the other apprentices – not that he minded all that much. Still, his curiosity was piqued. Why were you here with him and not somewhere else?
"I heard that you have a history with the Brimmed Hats?" From the way you were so sure of yourself, Qifrey didn't know why you even bothered to ask. If he had to suspect, you probably heard from the conversations your grandmother had with your parents. How aggravating that his lack of life was reduced to table-side gossip for you and your family.
He didn't respond to that allegation, just simply nodding to confirm your already confirmed suspicion. You hummed, placing both of your hands onto the table to lean closer and whisper once again into his ear. He tried to keep a straight face, but once again the alluring scent of roses almost lulled him to comfort – a dangerous thing for his poor heart.
"You would be best if you stayed away from those wicked fiends." Your face was solemn, with none of your usual charm– or lack thereof. Qifrey understood why your words held more weight than usual. The talk of the Brimmed Hats was almost forbidden in the assembly, where the adults would rather live in a false reality where everyone followed the pact to the letter of the law. But when it comes to human laws that were treated like natural rules, there will always be those who argue against them. Perhaps it is where their convictions lie, or perhaps they simply wanted to break from the norm.
Yet this agreement not to acknowledge their existence made his investigation harder. No one was willing to speak to him – even after the 'I lost all of my memories' pity card he abused to get what he wanted. But his pain, albeit a little exaggerated for maximum emotional manipulation, wasn't enough to unlock the silence forced upon the people. Even Olruggio would subtly veer his curiosity away towards the more childlike wonder that came with magic.
Except for you. You didn't flinch nor looked away with guilt.
"Who are you to stop me from confronting them?" Qifrey never did like when anyone told him what to do, and he certainly didn't like being condescended to. A quiet anger simmered under his skin, the way a tree would radiate scorching heat when out in the sun for too long.
Your hand goes to the base of your throat like you were going to clear your throat, but there was a slight tension in your neck. It almost looked like you were struggling to breathe. You tried to open your mouth to say something, but all Qifrey heard were choked gasps and a frustrated groan.
"Just… heed my warning," you said after taking a deep breath. You stood up and walked away as if nothing had happened. As if he didn't get a small peek behind your facade, of a young child who was terrified of others making the same mistake as you did. But he wasn't going to listen to you – he couldn't. Not when, for the first time since he begrudgingly called this underwater prison a home, he found a lead for those dreaded Brimmed Hats.
Qifery apologized to you in his head; he was about to keep you close for the most selfish reasons. It will all be worth it if he can get his eye back. Then, he would be able to properly admire you and all your glory with both of his eyes.
(He didn't need to know that you had your own reasons to keep him close. You weren't naive; the minute you issued your warning, you could see in his eye that he was not going to let this go. That was alright by you, as long as he didn't bring your shared past close to home. You clutch your necklace, praying that the magic seal inscribed upon it will last another day before it needs to be redone.)
When you had started joining the disaster duo on their hijinks and adventures, Olruggio had asked Qifrey why you had started to join them. "It's not that I'm complaining," he said, hands up in surrender. "But isn't it a little odd that the Sage's grandchild has decided to join two nobodies?"
"You're the prodigy of Godfrey, and I am the apprentice of the Teaching Sage; we're not exactly nobodies," Qifrey clarified. You had brought a certain calm to his reckless plans and Olruggio's constant panic. Whenever either of the young boys veered too far on either end of the emotional scale, you brought them back to centre. It was refreshing having someone be normal – well, as normal as you could be.
The Knights Moralis were tasked to tail you in your everyday life. You weren't even able to walk inside a humble store without having at least two guards standing outside of it. Qifrey found it absurd; yes, you were a child of a Sage, thus were privy to extra protection; however, if the Great Hall was as safe as everyone claimed, then why were you in need of such surveillance? Even if a conflict were to arise, it wasn't like the Great Hall was in a shortage of witches to lend their aid. And even then, he would begrudgingly mention that you were a talented enough witch on your own to handle yourself.
Qifrey watched as you tried to run away from your guards, your little strides failing to outrun the pace of the Knights. It was almost sad seeing you like this, and in his kindness (really pity), his arm shot out from the alleyway and dragged you to him.
"What are you doing?" you whispered harshly, refraining from yelling so that the Knights don't find you. You didn't resist his hold, following him to wherever you thought he was going.
Qifrey didn't say a word until the two of you stood in front of his humble abode. Beldaruit had offered a place inside his own home, but Qifrey thought it would be best for him to have some level of independence.
(The less attached he was, the better it was for his health anyway.)
"You can stay here if you ever need to run away from the Knights," he offered, opening the door to his room. It was less grand than what you were probably used to, but it was his, and he would take pride in it.
You stood there, head turning back to where the Knights were. After taking a moment to ponder – really, it was an obvious decision from the start, you had walked inside his room. Qifrey then walked in himself and closed the door behind him.
Neither of you had spoken a word, content to sit in the awkward silence. Qifrey had tried to speak up – at least ask how your day had gone, but you had raised your hand to silence him. He huffed, not even knowing why he had offered his room as a sanctuary. Yet it was obvious in the way your shoulders sagged and your breathing deepened that this was the first time in a while that you were able to relax.
(At least, relax as much as the two of you could.)
The first time that this happened, you had let him know that this was never going to happen again. Fine by him, he thought. He couldn't spend another moment with your pompous self. But then the second time, you wandered in because you were in the neighbourhood. The third time, you were breathless and in need of a break from running. By the fourth, Qifrey had stopped believing your excuses.
"You're allowed to admit that you missed me," Qifrey teased, poking your heated cheeks. You didn't confirm his accusation, moving to sit on his bed. But you didn't deny it either.
Qifrey had once thought that this was part of his plan – a ploy to have you lower your guard and give him information on the Brimmed Hats, but he soon got distracted by other conversation topics. Slowly, he realized that he'd learned a lot of things, but none about the Brimmed.
Over these interactions, Qifrey had come to learn more about you beyond the basic information he heard on the street. You specialized in wind magic, creating gusts to help you float or harsh blades in the name of self-defence. That wasn't to discredit the other forms of magic you knew, but it was clear you prefer to wander in and out of the room, like a breeze in the wind or a ghost haunting the living. He had also come to learn that despite your refined upbringing, it often took you half a moment to remember what emotions were. In a room full of laughter, yours would be the last he would hear. Qifrey supposed it was just a quirk of who you were, so drilled with the idea of etiquette, you didn't dare breathe if it wasn't the correct thing to do.
He'd also come to learn about the things you disliked; the knights were an obvious one, but you also disliked the general crowd and the performed flattery that they provided. The two of you had a shared dislike for the watery walls that surrounded you, and he was surprised to learn that you didn't care for physical touch. It was a shame considering how often he found people granting themselves access to your body.
Qifrey, for what it was worth, had tried to reciprocate the information that you had shared, but the more he tried to think about the little facts about himself, the more rage he felt at what was robbed from him. But still, that didn't stop him from finding peace in these mundane conversations; you were not the Sage's blood, nor was he Beldaruit's stray. Just two children who were able to find friendship with each other.
(Yet after every meeting, his eye would sear with pain, and your heart would be left aching. A phantom pain of what was to come.)
Qifrey had learned through the hard way that the thing you hated the most was when people would spit gossip about you when your back was turned, which unfortunately was quite a common occurrence for you. "I don't understand why people are entitled to information that serves them no purpose," you had once complained to him.
He remembered the one time he had to witness it.
Whispers tend to follow regardless of where you go. It was to be expected given that you are a descendant of a Sage, yet willingly surrounding yourself with those who were below your status. Those rumours didn't bother you all that much, always holding your head above the water. But there was once when someone had asked you about an event a few years ago – a disappearance of sorts. They taunted you, asking how a witch of your calibre could have been taken, even if you were too young to hold a stable pen.
When he saw that person again with a black eye and missing teeth, Qifrey asked you what had happened. He really meant to ask what did you do to that poor child.
"They were prying into business that didn't concern them. I merely gave them a reason to not look any further." Your tone was absolute, and your voice was casual, as if you had done something like this before. In most cases, taking violent action such as this would have landed you on trial with the Knights Moralis, but when your grandmother was the head of it all, it made sense why you hadn't faced any consequences.
Still, he didn't ask you any more questions, lest you decide to take his remaining working eye.
Despite your refined and sharp edges, Qifrey noticed that it wasn't your natural state of being. You were blunt and enraging at points, but you were never rude on purpose. Whenever he would struggle with a spell, your advice would come in absolutes – do this, and you won't fail. For better or worse, you never hid the knowledge that you knew. It took Qifrey a few months to learn that's how you show your care.
He even saw it in how you interacted with the younger apprentices, taking the time to earnestly answer their questions regardless of how simple they were. You helped them use the right sigils and gave them advice to keep their little hands steady. Qifrey thought about how you would have made a fantastic master and how wonderful your atelier would be. He'd volunteer to be your watchful eye – fiercely protecting your borders from any threats that would dare to lay harm. Somewhere far away in the valleys in the Zozah Peninsula, where you and he can be far away from the stiff air of the Great Hall.
Qifrey hissed in pain, hand clutching his missing eye. You looked over with your eyes furrowed and mouth open to say something. He waved you off, letting you know that it was nothing and for you to attend to your makeshift students. It didn't stop you from keeping your eye on him.
(He couldn't forget a conversation he heard in passing between two fruit vendors. Of course, they were talking about you because it seemed that the Great Hall didn't have anything else better to talk about. But for once, they weren't criticizing you for some minuscule reason. "It's quite strange to see them like this," one of them spoke in hushed whispers. His eye kept glancing toward the Knight stationed not too far off. "Ever since… their incident, they haven't been the same.")
("Quite a shame too, they were such a bright child. The only ray of light in this underwater city.")
He often wondered what had happened for you to become so jaded. Was it the expectations unfairly placed on your shoulders? The ones you carried with such grace, it was as if you were born with it. Or perhaps it was something darker – something that he knew too well yet couldn't remember.
"Couldn't sleep?" Your voice had broken his concentration, ending another night where all of his thoughts led back to you. You sat beside him on the log – a makeshift seat used to sit around a campfire. Under the light of actual stars, your eyes weren't as dull as usual, and your shoulders weren't as stiff. He liked to see you like this, a glimpse of the child that you kept protected in your heart.
The two of you sat in silence – another thing that he loved about you. Unlike you, many of the other people he's interacted with in the Great Hall would ask him countless questions, from his magic to his past to even about his master. Qifrey didn't have your patience to answer all of them, giving the shortest answers so that he may exit as quickly as possible. Even Olruggio, despite being one of his closest friends, would often fill his silence with his thoughts. He has come to enjoy hearing Olruggio speak, but sometimes, he just wants quiet. Silence that didn't demand to be ended.
You and your darling heart had granted him that peace.
Olruggio snored off to the side, lying on top of a portable sleeping cot that he had brought with him. Qifrey smiled as he watched his friend, both amused and baffled as to how he could fall asleep so quickly. Did he not have dreams that would leave him awake and unsettled? Until the next time he has to fall asleep? He watched his beloved friend as he breathed the air like it wasn't a struggle. Perhaps one day, he too would never feel that rush of panic.
"Do you ever wish you could sleep as peacefully as him?" Qifrey asked, eye turning to look at your face shining in the moonlight.
You pondered for a moment, letting his question linger in the air. In that quiet moment, Qifrey took his time to observe you. Under the watery prison of the Great Hall, it was clear that you were missing some colour in your face, always tinged a soft blue. But you glowed under the glow of the sun and the light of the moon, colour coming to your face. Utterly ethereal and completely divine, if he had to ascribe a face to the Star who fell for the Silverwood Tree, it would be yours.
(Wood creaked under his bones and he winced at the pain in his head, begging for his heart to become the seed it was always meant to be.)
As much as he wished to confess to you – despite the odd pain it would bring whenever he thought about it – he kept his mouth shut. Even on the small chance that you actually felt the same towards him, your status was too much of a difference between you. He would never want to drag you down with him, lest you become subject to even more gossip and vitriol.
A domesticated stray was still a stray at the end of the day.
"I do, though it's quite concerning to see him lose his guard so suddenly." Your criticism was softened by the fondness in your voice. "Doesn't he look like a tired cat who spent the day lazing around?"
"He does," Qifrey chuckled, his own care for Olruggio tainting his voice. He often wished that he could spend forever with the two of you – the most important people in his world. "I do wonder what kind of nightmares a noble child such as yourself would have to suffer. Did your tailor bring you clothing in the wrong shade of red yet still worth more than the gross earnings of the peninsula?"
You scoffed, opening your mouth to retort to his claim, but nothing came out. Yet again, Qifrey saw the words you desperately wanted to say get stuck in your throat. But this time, you didn't cough like you usually do. Instead, you took a deep breath and continued with a forced deflection. "Do you often have nightmares of what the Brimmed Hats did to you?"
Qifrey took in a sharp breath. He never spoke about his time with those damned witches, and to your credit, you never asked him about it further after that lunch. Even when Olruggio would become curious as to why Qifrey was so intent on hunting the Brimmed down, you would expertly redirect his attention to something else. You never asked, and he never answered, even if he didn't have anything to go off of.
"It's hard to have nightmares when there isn't anything to remember," he spoke honestly. His hands shook at his vulnerability, and his head seared in pain. After years of repressing his emotions, it somehow felt worse to let it all out.
"I suppose we can count that as a small blessing." You didn't say anything after that, continuing to amuse yourself with the odd sound Olruggio would let out. As much as he wished to agree with you, Qifrey needed answers to everything: his past, his eye and where his future would take him.
A true blessing would be to remove this veil of ignorance. If no one else was going to do it for him, then he would have to do it himself.
After taking his third test, Qifrey had known what his next course of action would be. It was only natural for him to head towards the Tower of Tomes. They say that every single book and writing relating to magic appears in the tower, and surely that would have to include any notes the Brimmed Hats wrote about him. Even a single page would be enough for him to deduce what had happened to him all those years ago.
Qifrey explained the thought process behind his plan with a manic glee, pacing around the room as though he were a mad scientist. "It's a perfect plan!" he exclaimed, ignoring the concerned look his friends were giving each other.
Olruggio, always wanting to be supportive of his friend, was concerned with how obsessive he was becoming. The adventures they were going on, the sneaking out to the outside world and the discoveries they would make were all good fun for him. Yet the minute Qifrey reminded them that his sole focus was on the Brimmed Hats, his mood would sour. Learning about magic to better their skills and help the Unknowing – that had been his reason to become a witch. To see his most dearest perverse such a dream into something that focused on vengeance pained him.
"Promise that once you discover your past in the Tower, you leave it behind to focus on your future," Olruggio pleaded. What was the point of a future if it wasn't one where the three of you were together? To his credit, Qifrey had agreed to his request. He, too, desperately wanted to be free of a burden he was ignorant of.
You, on the other hand, were more hesitant to let him go. Constantly, you would ask if this was truly as he wanted and that perhaps the result of his pursuit of knowledge shouldn't be the answers he desired. That the journey was enough for it all to be worth it, even if he never got the answers he sought. Perhaps even letting the Knights continue their pursuits and putting his need for revenge aside.
"How dare you ask me to leave all of this behind?" he snarled at you when you made your concerns known. You were sitting in your tower, so high that the suffering and plight of those below were unknown. You would only care for the water flooding your people if you were inconvenienced by the smell of their rotting bodies. "The Knights Moralis were never going to grant me the justice that I deserve. Unlike you, I don't have the benefit of being missed." There was enough disdain in his voice to make you step back, but your face didn't lose its composure.
"Fine, go and discover their secrets. But do not come crying to me when the answer isn't what you wished it to be." With that, you walked away, leaving behind a resolute Qifrey. His heart panged against his better judgment, for he truly wished that you would come with him. For support? For comfort? He wasn't sure – Qifrey just has come to realize that he needs you more than he's comfortable with admitting. With another headache and a heart that was ready to burst, Qifrey walked away to find Olruggio and come up with a plan.
It was a disaster. Despite how many scenarios Qifrey had simulated, there had been no feasible reason for him to expect this.
A Silverwood Tree. The Brimmed Hats not only took away his eye and past, but they had also violated him so heavily that he cannot have a future. They had decided to rip him into shreds, dig their hands inside of his body for their sick need of knowledge. The Tower of Tomes had plenty of stories on this topic; some myths and legends of people turning into Silverwood Trees and some fact-based research about why this phenomenon occurred. But the information he needed was not there, even after pouring through every page and volume.
There was no cure – his only option was to wait out his days until his skin turned to bark or he died before then.
His head sears with pain. His fingers turned into branches and his hair into leaves. Olruggio's sacrifice spares him a few more years. All in a blur that he would remember for the rest of his waking days. Yet for now, he blocks the memory like a dam in a river, opting to just wait for Olruggio to wake up. There would be time to ruminate and examine his memory, but now he wished that he were back in his room.
He wishes that you were there with him– no, he can't think of you like that. Unless he wished to see Olruggio's pain go to waste.
"Have you come to find your answer, Qifrey?"
Qifrey's head perked up when he heard your voice, whipping his body to see you standing at the edge of the forest. You might have been a figment of his imagination, given that he wished for your presence a few moments before. But as you walked closer, covering Olruggio's unconscious body with your cloak, he came to realize that you were very real.
"Well?" You raised your eyebrow, stopping just short of the edge of the cliff. You didn't sit down next to him as you'd usually do – deciding to loom over him like the ancient statues of bygone witches.
"I didn't learn anything." He couldn't look you in the eyes as he lied. So Qifrey decided to look over the horizon, jealous of the birds flying above with no care in the world. Were they not empathetic to the fact that his entire world had been uprooted for reasons he cannot remember?
"Qifrey, if you are going to lie to me, be a man and do it to my face," you scoffed, kneeling down to meet him at eye level. Your hands gently held his chin, and you moved his face, petrified eyes meeting calm ones. "Are you going to tell me now?"
"There is nothing to tell!" he jerked away from your comforting touch and stood to move away from you. He heaved with rage that he would never be able to bask in your warmth – that someone who wasn't aware of your disdain for the small closets and your love of stars would have that pleasure. He isn't physically able to be the man that you deserve. Even if he was able to shed the title of pitied stray, he couldn't love you in the way that you deserve.
There would be no loving words that would make poets blush. Nor would there be grand romantic gestures with the help of his magic. It pained him to admit it, but he loved and respected you more than to trap you in a stagnant marriage. It would hurt to see you with another man, but perhaps that pain would do him some good.
"How did you even find us here? I thought you didn't want any part of our plan today." Qifrey crossed his arms and stood a few feet away from you. Perhaps if you hated him, it would make this forced separation more bearable.
"I happen to be in the area and saw Olruggio run around in distress," you explained, keeping your voice level despite his indignation. Qifrey often wished that you broke a little more of your shell, to step further away from the dignified noble persona that you were boxed into.
("Quite a shame too, they were such a bright child. The only ray of light in this underwater city.")
"Well as you can see, everything is alright here. You know how Olruggio is, always passing out at the most inopportune times–"
"I'm aware of the parasite that you are afflicted with."
What? Qifrey's mind had gone blank at your statement. What had you meant by that?
Neither of you said anything else, and every time you tried to open your mouth, you stopped before you could let any of the words out. He pleaded with you, begging you to answer the plethora of questions that bombarded his psyche, yet you didn't answer any of them. Qifrey was starting to believe that you couldn't answer any of them.
Instead, your hand slowly went around your neck, fiddling with the necklace you had guarded fiercely. You refused to take it off, despite the amount of teasing the two boys had put you through. Qifrey even once tried to snatch it away from you, before you scratched him with a crazed look in your eyes. It was the most emotion that he'd ever seen on your face. He wished to see more of that side of you.
When your necklace fell from your neck, he would come to realize why you were so protective of it.
From the roots of your hair to its ends, your hair slowly transitioned from what he thought was your natural colour to white with a silver hue. The same as the snow that Olruggio spoke fondly of when he thought of home. The same as the leaves of the Silverwood Trees in the various magical shops.
The same as his own hair, and he had come to realize the reason for his hair. There must have been a magical spell on the necklace – an illusion spell perhaps, that kept your hair a different colour.
You were like him. You were also infected with a Silverwood Tree.
"Why didn't you tell me any of this? Why keep it a secret from me?" he cried, eyes tearing up at the betrayal. You had known what his problem was and perhaps you even knew of a solution, yet you kept your mouth shut. And for what reason? Because the entirety of witch society was so content with turning a blind eye to the suffering of others because it wouldn't fit their narrative?
What is the reason for compiling all of the knowledge under this starry veil if it is only good for it to be locked up in a tower?
"I thought we were friends– I thought you cared about me!" Anger had become a familiar friend to him, always sitting right under his skin, waiting for a day to be released. You shouldn't have been the recipient of his rage, but you were a representation of everything he had come to hate about the magical world he was forced into. You were privileged enough to be born into a magical family of high status, and you would never understand why there were people who hungered for answers like a starving dog. Not when the whole world was open to you at the tip of your pen.
You did not take kindly to his accusation, stepping forward into his personal space. "I never kept anything from you! It's not my fault that they–" a violent cough interrupted your speech, leaving you keeling into the ground. You tried to continue to speak to defend yourself and your decision, but you continued to choke and cough, to the point where you spat out blood. It was only when you tried to stop speaking did your pain end.
Qifrey stood above you, concerned and confused. There were points over the years you had known each other where he noticed this odd quirk, but this is the worst he had ever seen it.
You didn't say anything else; your throat was probably still raw from the coughing fit. Kneeling onto the ground, you beckoned Qifrey to come closer, to which he obliged. He knelt in front of you, still keeping his safe distance. You still beckoned him closer, and even with every cell of his body saying otherwise, he still listened to you.
Qifrey sat so close to you that he could see every detail about your face, from the little imperfections in your skin to the ways your eyes had dimmed, despite the sun hanging above you. Olruggio was right, you were absolutely beautiful, and he had been a fool to convince himself otherwise. Now, he would never have the chance to let you know.
"What I am about to show you, you must promise me you won't tell anyone else." Your voice was hoarse, borderline threatening in tone. It wasn't fear that had made him comply, and he didn't want to put a name to that feeling. He nodded, letting you continue.
You tipped your head back and opened your mouth, sticking your tongue out. He thought that this was an odd position, and he was about to stand out of embarrassment, but his eyes noticed a little scar underneath your tongue. Except it wasn't little. There was symmetry and sigils to it.
It was a magic spell etched into your skin – something that even the freshest of apprentices knew was deeply forbidden. Qifrey stared at it, taking note of the sigils that formed on your skin. He may not know much about forbidden magic, but given his knowledge, he could probably deduce what the purpose of the spell was. It was to keep you silent, and he had an idea about what.
If the Silverwood Tree inside of him was placed inside of him, it was because of the Brimmed Hats… and you had the same parasite, and there was someone who was trying to silence you…
"If you cannot verbally answer my questions, then could you nod an answer?" he asked. An affirmative nod had urged him to continue.
"Was it the Brimmed Hats?" You nodded.
"Did they wipe your memory after?" You shook your head. Why had they spared your memories but taken away his?
"Could you recount your time with them?" You shook your head again. The magic seal on your tongue was put there to keep you quiet, causing you to agonize in pain, and then to talk about your experiences. It was a shame that he wouldn't be able to use your memories.
"Where was the Silverwood Tree implanted in you?" Your hand went over your chest, where your heart was– or supposed to be. Those damned Brimmed Hats took away the heart of the most caring person that he knew. He was going to get his eye and your heart back so that you both could be whole once again.
(Your lack of emotion had started to make sense. How could anyone expect you to emote like a 'normal' person when you didn't have the function to do so. If he cannot see without an eye, it would make sense that you would not be able to feel without a heart.)
Qifrey stood up, eyes cold with rage and focus. He held his hand out for you to hold, pulling you up to your feet.
"Thank you kindly for letting me know of your secret. I promise to hold it dear in my heart, so long as you do the same with me." It warmed his heart knowing that he was the only one who knew you and granted him a sick satisfaction that he would be the only one who did. And he even knew that you would do the same for him.
"Your secret will be safe with me. But we cannot be as close as we once were," you say, an apologetic smile on your lips. He could see the remorse in your eyes and the guilt in your heart. You were right, neither of you could be in the same room together, alone and with no one with a buffer. Lest the tree sprout again, and poor Olruggio would have to lose his memories once again. The permanent ache in his heart left by your absence would at least do well to quell the comfort.
He tried to memorize your face as much as he could, not knowing when the next time he would see it would be. It was awful that he couldn't see you grow into the elegant young adult that you were born and bred to be. Nor would he be able to take you to his dream atelier in the Zozah Peninsula, far away from the nonsense of the Great Hall.
"I understand," he said, nodding solemnly. He walked back to the edge of the cliff and sat back down, waiting for Olruggio to wake up and to pretend that everything was alright. Qifrey hadn't known when you walked back to the Great Hall, just that eventually, when he turned around, there was a sign of you or that you had even come all this way.
Into the wind, he whispers a confession that his heart would never admit. He hoped that the winds would be kind and carry it all the way back to you.
(When you arrived at the edge of the forest, your path had been blocked by tangled vines. You weren't sure where they had come from, but this was no issue for you. You pulled out your little book of premade spells, finishing the seal to summon the wind and slice your way home. It did the trick, and you went on your merry way. But there was a voice in the wind from the boy you had come to care deeply for, despite every reason to not.)
(You pretend you didn't hear it, lest you join the forest. But truly, would it be that awful? At least you would be consumed with the comfort of knowing that you were loved by someone.)
not because his resting bitch face puts people off.
not because he’s got an inherent i-would-rather-not-be-here energy, though it certainly doesn’t help.
not even because he would flat out say “i don’t like you,” if someone tries to chat him up, or make up outrageous excuses to scare people away. a couple infectious diseases may have been name-dropped approximately ten seconds into a conversation before.
no.
it’s because he gets hornier than a dog in heat.
you need to leave for the miyas’ birthday dinner? guess now you’re both gonna be twenty minutes late because someone got bricked up sniffing your perfume.
making breakfast in nothing but suna’s old jersey and panties? don’t blame him if you suddenly find yourself bent over the kitchen counter with him all pressed up against your back, rubbing his bulge against your ass.
you can’t even try on sweaters without being stuck in the changing room for another fifteen minutes, attempting to suppress the slick noises as you give him a quick handjob. you didn’t even take anything off. damn dog got hard watching you put more stuff on.
then there’s the parties, where you can never leave when you want because suna’s already got a decorative pillow placed suspiciously over his crotch by the time you sidle up to him on the couch with a tired “ready to go?”
“i need a moment,” he mutters, and your eyes linger on the pillow placement just long enough to realize what’s happening.
“oh my god, rin, you idiot,” you gape at him. “we fucked before we left the house so this wouldn’t happen.”
he shrugs, a wall of complete indifference despite the boner. “you looked hot, mingling and shit. i almost came in my pants when you started talking to akaashi.”
you blink. “…do we wanna unpack that right now?”
“no.” he shakes his head, then settles back against the cushions. “but seriously, i need you to sit somewhere else. or go into another room so i can’t see you. we might be here for a while.”
★ geto suguru’s guide on fraternising with the enemy.
pairing: slytherin!geto suguru x gryffindor!fem!reader
synopsis: 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.
tags: romance, angst, action, rivals to lovers, hogwarts!au. profanity, jealousy, mild violence, etc. please let me know if i missed anything!
word count: 24.1k
a/n: reposted from my old blog with minimal changes, for posterity.
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.
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.
“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 to 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 as her teacup. 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 Satoru being 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 sleeves 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.
The 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 principium 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, 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: this fic is also part of a collaboration i wrote with my friend a while back. check out ravenclaw!nanami fic here :)
nsfw. mdni.
entry for: the blind bet @the-memokeepers
survival show!au x reluctant allies
5.6k words
Thirty-nine days. Twenty-one people. One survivor. As numbers dwindle and your tribe merges with Kento’s, you’re forced into an unlikely alliance. But maybe it’s not as bad as you think … especially when he has himself buried in you by day thirty-one.
"What would you do if there were a merge right now?"
Kento squints at the camera, face pulled into a severe expression, warm sea breeze ruffling his hair as he lazes beneath the confessional palm tree. He'd consider himself in paradise if he weren't surrounded by cameras, idiots, and, worse of all, literally starving. Not to death — yet — but damn close to it. "Well that'd be great."
The cameraman sighs. "Remember to answer as if the audience can't hear my question."
"Oh — right," Kento's jaw ticks, "it would be in my best interest if we merged today."
"And why is that?"
"Hiromi and I are outnumbered — 2:5. If Bertahan tribe beats us today, the Bonehead Alliance is definitely gonna give one of us the boot."
"And who is in this 'Bonehead Alliance'? Do they call themselves that?"
Kento scoffs. "Toji, Sukuna, Mei Mei, Yuki, and Misato make up the 'Bonehead Alliance'. Hiromi and I started calling them that after Sukuna and Toji started chucking coconuts at each other one night and knocked the water jug right into the fire. Buncha boneheaded idiots."
"So you're hoping for a merge so you can team up with the remaining members of the Bertahan tribe?"
"Yeah — I'm hoping Hiromi and I can rope Bertahan into an alliance, so that way it can be 6:5. We'd have the advantage, then. Finally I won't be on the bottom."
"Do you think you'll get along with the four that remain?"
Kento thinks about it, leafing through all of the information he's gathered about the opposing tribe from seeing them at challenges. "I think I'll get along with them alright. I'll probably approach Suguru first … he seems grounded. Normal."
"And the others?"
"Satoru's cocky — a little obnoxious — but a great athlete. He can help keep immunity with our alliance. Shoko's smart — she might win some of the puzzle-centric games … and she seems to be the mastermind behind their little group, so I bet she'd help us get pretty far … but I definitely wouldn't want her in the final three. And that other girl … I forget her name … the teacher? Yeah, she'll be the most annoying. But — a number's a number. I'll do what I have to."
"What makes her annoying?"
"Well she's the one who's all cheery, right? The one who's into astrology and whatever?" Kento scoffs upon the cameraman's affirmative nod. "Yeah, women like that make me wanna blow my brains out."
"Are you hoping for a merge today?"
You stare out at the ocean for a few seconds, watching the aquamarine waves batter the shoreline. Malaysia is so beautiful … and you are so, so hungry.
"Hello?"
"Sorry!" You glance toward the camera, eyes fluttering apologetically, maintaining that airhead persona the producers expect of you. "You asked if I'm hoping for a merge?"
"Yep, there's only eleven people left on the island. Your tribe has four, whereas Mengakhali have seven. Everyone's betting on a merge."
"A merge is probably gonna happen, yeah … but I don't want it to," you pout. "Shoko, Toru, Sugu, and I have gone through so much together! What if the merge breaks us apart?"
"There can only be one Survivor, y'know. You guys will have to betray each other at some point."
"Ugh, don't remind me." You dig your toes into the sand, resting your chin on your knees. "I mean, don't get me wrong … I'll be the last one standing," a devious smile overwhelms your features, "but I hope we can at least make it to the final four before having to turn on each other."
"Do you know anything about the other tribe's alliance situation?"
"I got to chat with Misato on the sidelines a few days ago. She said that everyone's working together except for Kento and Hiromi. The only reason those two are still there is because their team keeps winning."
"Come the merge, do you think you'll want to team up with them?"
"Pft, absolutely not." You wrinkle your nose. "I would not team up with those two. Ken seems like he has a giant stick up his ass, and he managed to piss off, like, everyone on his tribe. Heck — he even pisses off some of the people on my tribe with his snarky comments during challenges!"
"So, what, you're hoping to vote him off first?"
You shrug. "Yeah, Kento will probably the first one voted off during the merge. Oh well … as long as it isn't me."
DAY 25
Jeff Probst, as always, looks better fed and rested than all the competitors combined. He beams his obnoxiously perfect smile at the group of malnourished and sleep deprived castaways, waving a basket of buffs in the air as he announces the merge enthusiastically. No one's surprised, but they still let out whoops of excitement for the cameras, yanking off their old tribe's buffs in exchange for the new orange ones.
"Today's challenge is for reward," he explains when everything settles, "where you'll be taken on a beautiful boat ride to Khuantan Beach. You'll have a feast waiting for you, along with private surfing lessons, a bonfire, and — best of all — the opportunity to shower, brush your teeth …"
You sigh dreamily at the thought of using toothpaste for the first time in twenty-five days, and in your eyes, this is now the most important challenge of the entire competition. "Now y'won't smell so bad," Satoru teases, large hands landing on your shoulders, giving them a firm squeeze. You roll your eyes, shoving him away.
"Last time I checked, you're the one who literally shit the bed…"
"Those coconuts were rotten! Not my fault!" A blush creeps up his neck in embarrassment, complimenting the sunburn on his pale chest.
You refocus on the game, glancing around at your new tribemates, wondering who will be the best option for an alliance. If you can get the Mengakali girls on your side … plus Satoru, Shoko, and Suguru … that will be seven against four. Even better — you know that Toji and Sukuna don't really get along with Kento and Hiromi — so it'll be easy to pick them off one by one.
That's going under the assumption, though, that the Mengakali girls will consider breaking their alliance … which consists of five people, whereas yours consists of four. They still have the majority, and you have a feeling 'girl power' won't be a convincing enough argument to give that up; the more likely course of action for Mei Mei, Yuki, and Misato will be to stick with their original group. They'll probably work with Bertahan to give Kento and Hiromi the boot, but after that? Your Bertahan Four are back at the bottom, with nowhere to go but the jury.
In other words: things aren't looking great. Of course teaming up with Kento and Hiromi is also an option, but as you glance toward the two men — stoic and adorned in dirty business-casual clothing as opposed to your little bikini, Satoru's neon blue board shorts, Shoko's athletic wear, and Suguru's harem pants — you just have a gut feeling that they really won't fit in.
"Alright, this challenge will be played in pairs, and the winning team will get to choose one additional pair to join them for reward. There are eleven of you — so one person will have to sit out. Talk amongst yourselves to decide who that is."
Misato begrudgingly volunteers after it becomes apparent that nobody is willing to give up their spot. Jeff continues, handing out tiny scrolls to each player. "On the scroll is a color. Five colors — five pairs. Find the person with your same color and then we'll begin."
You unravel your paper, which reads 'YELLOW', stomach swirling nervously as it always does during challenges. You aren't the least athletic player remaining, but you certainly aren't the best, and while you're not stupid, you aren't the top pick for puzzles, either. In essence: you're pretty average. And at this point in the game, it's both a blessing and a curse; a blessing because it'll keep you under the radar … and a curse because it means you're unlikely to win individual immunity. You'll have to ride on others' coattails until the end.
People immediately start pairing up. Gojo and Toji (totally unfair, by the way), Yuki and Suguru, Mei Mei and Hiromi, Sukuna and Shoko…
You wince as a stiff board of muscle appears before you: Kento Nanami, in all his glory, looking utterly unimpressed. With a sheepish smile you try to make a good first impression, sticking out your hand … because, well, you figure a businessman like him will appreciate a handshake. With a frown he accepts it; his handshake is strong, and while his palm is soft, there are callouses ridged along his fingers. Yours are dainty in comparison, and your handshake probably feels like a dead fish, clammy and unpleasant.
"Kento Nanami," he introduces gruffly. And then, almost amused, "but you already knew that. Why are you shaking my hand?"
Your cheeks flush in embarrassment. "I figured it was the polite thing to do. We've never been formally introduced."
Before your rocky start can flounder any further, Jeff starts to explain the reward challenge. You've never been so happy to hear him start yapping.
Nanami considers himself a professional, but it's hard to be that way when he has a clear view of your tits as they press up against his chest. A coconut is trapped between your pelvises as you try to navigate across a balance beam, and his fingers are digging into the flesh of your hips to stabilize the two of you. No one on the island smells particularly pleasant — especially during challenges, where everyone's sweating and coated in sand, mud, and who knows what else — but there's an underlying citrusy scent clinging to your natural musk that's making him blush.
He doesn't know what's worse: this, or earlier in the challenge when your (impractical) bikini bottoms slipped down to your knees as you jumped from the starting platform. While it will be blurred out on the television, Nanami had no such luxury; he saw the whole thing … the sharp tanlines, the smooth globes that jiggled slightly as you made impact with the foamy ocean … and the briefest, smallest glimpse of your pussy from behind.
It was perverse, really, how much effort he had to put into keeping his dick soft. The island is full of girls in bikinis … so seeing you fall out of yours shouldn't have had such an immediate effect on him. And now, here he is, fighting that same battle as your breasts bounce precariously against him, breath coming out in soft pants. "Are we almost there?" you complain, taking another step backward. Nanami, who is the one facing forward, assesses the distance that remains.
"Only ten or so more steps," he promises. "You're doing good. Y'any good at puzzles?"
Something about those scraps of praise nearly sends you tumbling off the beam. Your breath hitches, and your hands grasp onto his sweat-slicked shoulders even tighter. "Yeah, I'm alright. You?"
"I'm not bad." He watches as Gojo and Toji haul themselves up the ladder that leads to the final step of the challenge. Sukuna and Shoko, in second place, are leaping off the balance beam. You and Kento are in third. "Think we can make up lost time there?"
"Toru's good at puzzles. You wouldn't think it, but he's actually really smart," you grumble, "so — doubtful. But the silver lining is he'll probably pick us for the reward."
"Why not Shoko or Suguru?"
"He'll wanna scope you out," you say honestly. "You and Hiromi are the wildcards right now."
Nanami hums in understanding as the end of the balance beam finally arrives. You both break apart to let the coconut drop; Nanami hops off first and literally fireman carries you to the ladder, lips twitching upward at the sound of your winded laughter.
As expected, Satoru and Toji win. And — to your and Nanami's delight — Satoru convinces Toji to pick your team for the reward. The four of you pile onto a small speedboat as the others depart in a defeated silence; you immediately sink into the spot next to your friend, while Toji and Nanami sit an awkward distance apart.
When you arrive at your destination, you acknowledge that Khuantan Beach is beautiful, yes, but what's even more beautiful is the array of food arranged on a sturdy table of polished wood, right alongside four small buckets that contain one toothbrush each, toothpaste, soap, shampoo, conditioner…
"I think I'm in heaven," you murmur dreamily, resting your head on Satoru's bicep. "You'll have to roll me out of here. I plan on eating it all."
"Not gonna happen," Toji scoffs gruffly, grabbing a plate and immediately diving into the array of meats. "I need to fuckin' eat. Sukuna's dumb ass spilled our rice the other day. Been livin' off of bugs n' shit."
"Good thing we're going to our camp for the merge then," Satoru shovels rice, vegetables, grilled fish, and fruit onto his plate. "We've got plenty of rice, spices, a stockpile of coconuts, some fishing gear…"
"Your team always seemed to fight harder for rewards than immunity," Nanami observes.
"That's 'cause we were," Satoru smirks, popping a piece of melon into his mouth. "In hindsight? That was stupid on our part. But at the beginning we had some dead weight we really wanted to get rid of. Old Man Yoshinobu, for starters …."
"And Mahito," you roll your eyes, "that guy was a freak."
"And then Naoya was an ass to all the ladies, so of course we had to give him the boot …"
"But now you're in the minority," Toji points out.
"Yes, thank you for the reminder!" Satoru's smile is bright and cheery despite the sarcasm dripping from his words. "Speaking of, any chance you two wanna team up with us?"
The invitation is received with just as much enthusiasm as one would expect: Toji shifts uncomfortably, not wanting to outright say 'no' to spare any hard feelings with future jury members. Nanami looks a bit more open to the idea, glancing up at you from across the buffet of food, but his attention is just as soon captured by some beer bottles on ice. He swipes one with hearts in his eyes and collapses onto one of the plush pillows laid out in the pretty tent the producers had set up.
After eating enough for a small army, bathing is in order. The guys let you go first, and you practically sprint toward the small outdoor shower, stripping down behind the privacy wall faster than you'd ever moved in your life.
Toji lets out a low whistle from the tent, craning his neck to get a better look. None of them can see anything scandalous, but your shoulders and head are peeking up over the top, and your legs from the knees-down are visible. It leaves a lot to be imagined, but they're all managing to paint a picture.
"Man, if she were on my tribe, I guess I woulda lost a lot, too," Toji grunts to Gojo. "Woulda been blinded by those tits. Makes a guy like me act stupid."
"A lot of things makes a guy like you stupid," Nanami remarks, taking a sip of his drink, catching a hint of lime from the small wedge sitting on the bottle's rim. He's trying to make himself feel superior to the dumbass next to him, but is he really any better? He's drooling over a girl's kneecaps right now.
"Maybe that's why you lost today," Toji fires back. "Saw you starin' at her like a creep."
"Now, now, let's be nice," Gojo grabs a pear from a nearby bowl and takes a large bite, juice dribbling down his chin and forearm. "But — I will admit — our first challenge I got a bit distracted. When we had to do the chicken fight … man … having a pretty girl's pussy squished up against your neck on live television is no joke."
"We shouldn't be talking about her like this," Nanami scolds. "It's wrong."
"Ah yes, Mr. Stick-Up-The-Ass is here to ruin the fun like always." Toji rolls his eyes, getting up for his third beer. Gojo giggles to himself, head tilting back, eyes closing — preparing for a nap.
"Man, I haven't even kissed a girl in, like, 30 days," he complains sleepily. "I was hopin' this season would turn out to be like Micronesia … except, y'know, I wouldn't let m'self get played like Ozzy did …" his words slur as his breathing slows; Nanami is honestly impressed at how fast the guy falls asleep. Toji also remains absent, going off to do a confessional, leaving just the two of you as you return with a fluffy robe — another reward perk — tied around your body.
"Your turn!" you chirp, licking your freshly cleaned teeth happily, "feels like heaven."
The challenge was hard.
The shower was tempting.
But the most trying encounter with you on this day has to be now, watching you face plant into the waves over and over again as you do your best to participate in the surfing lesson.
The wetsuit clings to you sinfully. Nanami's thankful they're in pretty deep, because at least the water's hiding his half-chub. He assumes Gojo and Toji are in similar states given their increasingly awkward behavior.
Gojo's teasing you relentlessly from his board, reminiscing on the nasty fall you'd taken all of five minutes ago. Toji doesn't even need the lesson anymore — because the guy is basically Hercules — and he's just paddling around, waiting for the next big wave to come, stealing glances at you but not talking. Nanami's trying to pay attention to what the instructor is saying, but you keep bumping into him as you slip and slide around.
"Sir, can you help her?" The instructor asks, exasperated. He has his hands full trying to correct Gojo's posture, largely having given up on you. Nanami sighs and nods, turning toward you fully.
"Does your jaw ever relax?" you try to joke, pushing your hair out of your face, scrunching your nose as you find a piece of seaweed tucked between the strands. The jab is an attempt to distract you from the fact that he looks like a God right now, wetsuit half-unzipped, the top floating by his waist as his chest and torso are on full display, gleaming in the golden sunlight that hints at evening's approach. You really shouldn't be phased, seeing as you have Satoru and Suguru's musculature to fawn over on a daily basis, but something about Kento's touch earlier today has left you all hot and bothered.
Nanami can't deny that most of his 'annoyance' is just an act at this point. He actually finds you quite charming. You revealed off-camera that the whole astrology thing was a played-up bit requested of you by the producers … and that confirmation allowed him to get off his high horse and start actually taking notice of your personality instead of just your body.
With feigned reluctance he helps stabilize you as you slide onto your board, sighing as you start to slip. You really are hopeless.
"It's the wetsuit!" you complain. "It's slippery!"
"At least you aren't in that ridiculous bikini," he murmurs, imagining how that skimpy thing would probably be ten miles away by this point, dragged off by a current.
You blush at the comment, glancing down at your pruning fingers shyly. "Did you … see …"
"Oh yes, I saw everything," Nanami snorts, gripping your surfboard and guiding it over the gentle waves. He avoids your gaze by watching out for more aggressive whitecaps. "Quite the first impression, I'll say."
"Did you like the view at least?"
His eyes dart to yours — and you stare back at him with the most devious expression. He'd have to be a complete idiot to not pick up on the sudden shift in tone, and he waffles back and forth on whether or not he should entertain your flirting.
Ah, fuck it.
"It certainly could have been worse."
You smile cutely, resting your chin on the board. The two of you quickly forget the whole reason why you're even out there in the first place, surfing lessons be damned.
Of course — none of this is private. The cameras pick up on it immediately, and the people behind them grin amongst themselves.
DAY 26
"So … you seemed to be getting on pretty well with a certain someone last night."
Nanami releases a deep sigh, thinking back to that stupid lapse in judgment where he basically cuddled you during the reward bonfire … on national television. He blames it on the alcohol, the high of being showered, and … well … you.
Because the more time he spent with you that day, the faster he realized that he was gonna have a problem.
"We got … close. Yes."
"Any talk of strategy?"
Nanami clears his throat, scratching the back of his head. "Well, yeah, her and Satoru confirmed that Hiromi and I are pretty screwed unless we join their alliance. So we'll join up with the Bertahan Four as planned … that's six against five. We'll pick off the Bonehead Alliance and then … fight amongst ourselves, I guess."
"Any concerns about a blindside?"
"No concerns about a blindside yet. Bertahan seems pretty desperate, and Toji made it clear yesterday that he had no interest in working with them."
"Does this new alliance have anything to do with —"
"No," Kento shuts the question down, "this alliance is the smartest move for Hiromi and I right now. That's it."
DAY 31
You've been formally acquainted with Kento Nanami for seven days.
But, of course, seven days on a remote island with nothing to do but talk all day paves the road for substantially deeper relationships than seven days with some Joe Shmoe you meet on the streets of Tokyo. Kento and Hiromi have adapted to your group surprisingly well, and while there was some earlier drama about Hiromi potentially switching sides, Kento was able to successfully talk him out of it.
But last night, Mei Mei, the last one standing in the 'Bonehead Alliance', was sent home. Now there's only six left: you, Satoru, Suguru, Shoko, Nanami, and Hiromi … and it's time to start getting serious.
Paranoia is starting to creep into the edges of your psyche as Satoru, Shoko, and Suguru break away to "bathe", leaving you behind with Nanami and Hiromi. Sure, the four of you had agreed to never let the two men be alone so they don't go idol-hunting, but despite this, you can't help but worry that Satoru, Shoko, and Suguru are cementing a final three alliance without you.
Nanami seems to pick up on your concern. You two have been a steady stream of flirting and longing glances since returning from your reward: a misfortune to your tribemates, and a golden ticket to the producers. "Wanna go on a walk?" he asks, standing up, sliding his buff from his neck up to his head, pushing his hair out of his face. You nod, teeth worrying your lip. Hiromi barely notices the two of you leave, shirt tossed over his eyes as he tries to get a nap in. The cameras follow as you leave the treeline and walk diagonally toward the water's edge, following a route in the opposite direction of where Satoru, Shoko, and Suguru disappeared to.
"I've been meaning to talk to you," Kento murmurs softly, "about being in the final three with Hiromi and I."
You play with the tips of your hair, glancing out at the sunset. The pretty sparkle of the ocean is drowned out by your nauseating hunger, your swelling disappointment regarding your alliance (whether it's justified or not), and Kento's proximity. His skin is warm as it brushes yours — dress pants sagging low on his hips due to the inevitable weight loss everyone experiences in the game.
"It makes the most sense for you," he continues, "since most of the jury don't like Hiromi or I. If you go up there with Shoko, Satoru, or Suguru, it'll be way harder to win."
While you can agree with some of what he says, he isn't presenting the whole picture.
"I'm not an idiot, Nanamin," you murmur. "You and Hiromi have played a really good strategic game … fighting from the bottom until we reached the merge. And you're both strong players. You've gotten individual immunity twice, now, and Hiromi once…" you sigh, resisting the urge to glance back at the camera and flip it off. You want to cry — exhausted from a poor night's sleep, starving, stressed, and annoyed at the giant microphone hovering behind you. "You wanna take me to the end 'cause I'm the only one of the Bertahan Four that you can beat."
He doesn't try to argue, because it's true.
"But … it's not like I have much of a chance with them either." You sniffle. "I don't wanna betray them, though…"
"You've gotta betray someone at some point," Nanami argues, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "Just think about it. No pressure."
You nod, leaning your head onto him. The camera crew's having a field day; one of them gestures at you to stop and stare out at the ocean so they can get a romantic shot. Nanami's getting a little antsy — you can tell by the way his muscles are tensing, and the shifting of his posture as he waits for the closeup to cease.
"Once you guys get what you need, can you get outta here?" He asks bluntly, running the hand that isn't tracing patterns on our skin through his hair. "Unless you plan on changing the show's rating to Mature."
You squeak in surprise at his candor. The crew gets the hint and starts trailing away after a few final shots, leaving you and Nanami alone on a part of the beach that's hardly ever visited. The sun is sinking ever lower, and the formerly-depressing conversation shifts into something a bit more playful as Nanami tugs at the strings of your bathing suit.
"I haven't washed off yet today," he admits. "Wanna take a dip?"
"But you smell so fresh," you lie, smiling. "How will —"
Kento cuts you off by pressing his mouth onto yours. It's gentle and sweet — and sure, it might feel like moss is growing on your teeth … but at least you're both in the same boat.
You're surprised it took him this long, honestly, but you're happy he made an actual move before one of you gets voted off the island. He breaks away slowly, pressing his forehead against yours and drawing your body closer to his. "Y'know I thought you were just like all the other girls at first," he mumbles honestly — and a little shamefully. "If you watch this back when you get home … I … probably said something offensive in a confessional."
"Right back at ya," you laugh, kissing him again, threading your fingers through his soft hair.
"Ever since you flashed me your ass I've wanted to do this," he admits. "Well — I wanted to do some less savory stuff. But now I'm just happy to hold ya."
"That was an honest mistake!"
"Uh-huh, yeah, I know." His conviction is lazily thrown together, already forgotten as he starts to drag you toward the water. He's unbuttoning his pants, sliding them past his thighs, leaving him only in a pair of grey briefs. Daylight is fading quickly and you can't see everything … but what isn't hidden in the shadows is the large bulge tenting his front. "Should I … take these off too?"
He asks in case you want to reconsider, but you're already tossing your top to the side and stepping out of your bottoms. Nanami soaks in the sight greedily as he pushes down his briefs — and his cock, rigid and imposing, slaps against his toned stomach.
"Should probably put our clothes up on a tree," he remembers, thinking back to when Gojo's shorts were carried out to sea, never to be seen again. You watch him bend over to collect your discarded garments, inspecting his form hungrily as he pads off shamelessly nude. You take this as an opportunity to dip into the water, gentle and warm.
When Nanami returns, he does not hesitate to pick up where he left off. He cups your jaw and smashes your lips into his again, sliding a hand down the curve of your spine all the way until it reaches the meat of your ass. He kneads the flesh, exhaling softly, deepening the kiss as he guides you both further into the water.
"Ken…" you sigh headily, looping your arms around his neck as he grinds against you, cock nudging between your folds before it slips onto your stomach, tip smearing precum across your skin, though it's quickly washed away.
"I wanna take my time with you," he murmurs, "but it'll put a target on our back if we stay out for too long."
You nod in understanding, letting him hoist you up so your legs are wrapped around his waist. The water's buoyancy makes you weightless, but his dick does not appear to get the same treatment. It feels heavy against you, pressing shallowly — teasingly — against your dripping core. He can feel the difference between your arousal and the sea that surrounds you; he now knows that the slick of your heat is going to be something that he won't be able to forget easily … a drug that will consume him for as long as you're in the game.
He pauses for a moment, wondering if it's smart to be doing this … because with the way his heart is racing, he's suddenly concerned that he's going to become a hopeless fool for you, assuming that isn't already the case . If you face off in the final three, God help him — he'll probably quit and cast his own vote in your favor.
"What's wrong?" you ask against his mouth, pulling away slightly. He closes the distance in an instant, shutting his mind to the warning bells as he refocuses on the woman attached to him, naked bodies melting together as he presses into you. He groans in pleasure as he notches himself inch by inch into your tight cunt, rubbing soothing circles on your thighs as you stretch to accommodate him.
"So…full…" you pant, nails — which are in desperate need of a manicure — scratching softly into the solid muscle of his back. "Ken, shit, you're —"
"You're so fuckin' tight," he grunts, "nff, Jesus fuckin' Christ —" he mentally pats himself on the back for not blowing his load as soon as he bottoms out. Your gummy walls are quivering around him, molding to his shape. He stays there for a moment, just enjoying your warmth, detaching his face from yours as his mouth ventures toward your breasts, placing sloppy kisses down your neck in the process. You whine, shifting your hips for friction — and who is he to reject you?
He slowly drags himself out so you're only impaled on half of him before he sinks you down again. With no issue at all he's already bumping against the spongey spot that makes your eyes flutter closed in pleasure, head nuzzling into the crook of his neck. "Faster, Ken …" you mumble, nibbling at his skin, salty with sweat and ocean mist.
He doesn't have to be told twice. The pace increases slowly but surely as he drags you up and down the infinite length of his cock, and before you know it he's practically jackhammering into you, making you see stars as you cry out into the approaching night, palms pressed flat against his back, breasts jiggling against him with each thrust. He's panting in your ear, breath hot and sensual, whispering your name — a hedonistic prayer.
"Gonna — gonna cum," he warns. "Want me to pull out—?"
"N-no, y'can cum in me." You have too much pride to say please, but the needy lilt in your tone betrays your true feelings. Nanami's hips become flush with yours as he presses your bodies together, shuddering with his release. You feel its warmth spurt against your walls and fill you to the brim, and the way you clamp down around him as it happens would have made him cum again immediately if his body were capable.
"Stick with me 'til the final three," he breathes, kissing you again, grinding slowly. "And then lemme take ya out on a date when we get out of here … 'cause y'know … I'll be a millionaire after all of this."
"Haa-ah, so confident?" You can't really tell if you're talking or if you're moaning, still stuffed full of his cock, brain a little fuzzy. "Maybe I'll — mmf — seduce Toru a-and S-Sugu … 'nd they can take me to the—"
Nanami lifts you as if he's going to disjoin your bodies — only to practically drop you back down. He smooshes into your cervix with the intensity, still hard. You gasp, insides all mushy and warm at the way he's looking down at you: gentle and kind, a far cry from the uppity asshole you'd chalked him up to be at the beginning. The sun's just a speck on the horizon, now — dipping lower with each second.
"Nuh-uh, you're mine now." He thrusts one more time for emphasis before letting you go for real, smacking your ass lightly as you head back to shore. He lets himself admire the view, which is intentional this time around, and not a wardrobe malfunction.
You re-dress in silence, casting coy looks at each other in the strengthening moonlight. He grabs your hand once you're ready to head back to camp, lacing your fingers together. "I'll do it," you murmur after a while, squeezing his hand gently. "You, me, and 'Romi. We'll all go to the final three."
welcome to the blind bet, an event where the odds decide the participant’s fate. two wheels are waiting at the table: one packed with alternate universes, the other stacked with tropes. wherever they land is the hand you play.
they say every gamble has the potential to pay off. spin the wheels, take the risk, and place your bet. the table is open, and the next move is yours. let’s see where our participants’ chips have fallen.
please note that some fics may contain content not suitable for minors. please practice discretion. graphics and dividers made by @romance-au.
🃏 ROLL #1.
participant: @yunisl
gamble: spy!au x forced proximity with nagi seshiro
results here!
🃏 ROLL #2.
participant: @yunisl
gamble: time travel/time loop!au x sickfic with alexis ness
results here!
🃏 ROLL #3.
participant: @mikiruie
gamble: circus!au x brother’s best friend
results here!
🃏 ROLL #4.
participant: @eliza-and-her-monsters
gamble: omegaverse!au x forced proximity
results here!
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participant: @syynon
gamble: pilot!au x brother’s best friend
results here!
🃏 ROLL #6.
participant: @tokkiwrites
gamble: summer vacation/summer fling!au x love at first sight
results here!
🃏 ROLL #7.
participant: @romance-au
gamble: hanahaki!au x rivals to lovers
results here!
🃏 ROLL #8.
participant: @chokifandom
gamble: greek mythology!au x office romance
results here!
🃏 ROLL #9.
participant: @m1ckeyb3rry
gamble: grim reaper!au x right person wrong time
results here!
🃏 ROLL #10.
participant: @zozo-01
gamble: vampire!au x mistaken identity
results here!
🃏 ROLL #11.
participant: @sichore
gamble: underground fighter!au x forced proximity
results here!
🃏 ROLL #12.
participant: @spaceport-alpha
gamble: road trip!au x enemies with benefits
results here!
🃏 ROLL #13.
participant: @jellyluchi
gamble: 1920s!au x sickfic
results here!
🃏 ROLL #14.
participant: @yunisl
gamble: dragon rider/dragon tamer!au x marriage of convenience
results here!
🃏 ROLL #15.
participant: @milksnake-tea
gamble: royalty!au x reluctant allies
results here!
🃏 ROLL #16.
participant: @devileyeswriting
gamble: dating show/survival show!au x reluctant allies
results here!
🃏 ROLL #17.
participant: @lumissandbox
gamble: fae!au x secret admirer
results here!
🃏 ROLL #18.
participant: @yuechihua
gamble: hanahaki!au x marriage of convenience
results here!
🃏 ROLL #19.
participant: @kisscenes
gamble: detective!au x fake dating
results here!
🃏 ROLL #20.
participant: @bleachplease
gamble: hanahaki!au x meet cute
results here!
thank you for participating! we hope you enjoyed the event ♡
— the memokeepers.
Synopsis: Sunday Oak leads a mundane, tiresome life, sequestered away in his seaside estate as he is — right up until the day the ocean sends him a half-dead mermaid who he has no choice but to fall in love with.
HSR Masterlist
Pairing: Sunday x F!Reader
Word Count: 13.9k
Shell Divider: @/slipng
Content Warnings: reader is a mermaid, descriptions of an injury, reader lives in sunday’s bathtub for a hot second, sunday is somewhat suicidal in the beginning, dan heng is either a highly dedicated phd student or an undercover perv or both depending on your interpretation, kind of unserious but also serious at times it’s a strange mix, i think this may be ooc but lowk idk and also idc, smut (m!receiving oral because i’m not figuring out the logistics of fish pussy, mdni please!), 60% second person narrative / 40% third person sunday pov, happy ending !!
A/N: happy mermay to all who celebrate .. i thought I would be bereft of any offerings until a couple of days ago when i was randomly struck with the sunday bug and now here we are .
Today, the sea is quiet, and as Sunday Oak walks along its frothy edge, he wonders what it would be like to drown in it. A bird held under water…he could do it, he thinks. He could cover his eyes with his wings and his mouth with his hand and he could just do it. There’s no one there to stop him — Robin is at a concert, Gopher Wood is at the Oak Manor, and he’s never had friends to invite to accompany him to the beach estate he is sent to every summer for his fragile health. There’s servants, but they won’t notice, not before it’s too late. He glances at the horizon and thinks, well. It might not even hurt all too much.
He has no reason to rush, so he draws his cardigan closer around his shoulders and continues to toe through the sand, careful not to let the waves lap at his leather boots. Even here, even now, he is cautious, pristine. He is half-sure that even as a corpse, he will still be beautiful. It’ll be just as if he’s sleeping, his eyes closed, his wings sodden and salty and limp but without a feather out of place. They’ll find him and bury him but not before they paint that terrible, lovely scene, the contrast of it all, his gold halo against the cerulean sea, lifeless and pale on the fine white sand.
I hope Professor Himeko is the one who does it. Ah, I should’ve added that to my will…
As he takes a step towards the yawning ocean, he remembers, absurdly, his college roommate. It gives him pause, because he hasn’t thought about him in ages, so why now? But he can’t stop himself from pulling out his phone and looking at that old contact, the photo outdated, a headshot taken at a career fair neither of them needed to attend. Seawater seeps into his socks and his wings flutter nervously, his thumb inching towards the green call button, although he knows it’s meaningless. What would they even talk about? What could he possibly say to a stranger that could change any of it?
Hey. Been a while. Sorry I never reached out. Things have been shit. How about you? Good? That’s good. See you around, I guess. Er, or maybe not.
“Alright,” he says aloud, taking a deep breath, his gaze trained on the red sand. “This is — what?”
He knows this beach, he grew up on this beach, he will die on this beach. Red sand — but this beach’s sand has always been white. The red is a flaw, a scar, something ugly and wrong and before he knows it he takes off at a run, following the sanguine streaks to their hideous origin. Then he’s gasping and calling that old roommate of his, because there’s no time for propriety or selfishness and he’s the only one in the world, the cosmos, who Sunday can trust with this.
“Sunday? It’s been a while—”
“Dan Heng,” he says, tripping on the familiar name. “I need you here. Now.”
“Excuse me?”
“There’s a mermaid,” Sunday says, feeling faint and dizzy at the sight of the long wound dragging from the mermaid’s torso down to the tip of her forked caudal fin. “Dan Heng, there’s a mermaid and she’s bleeding everywhere, I don’t know what to do—”
“I should’ve known it would be some bullshit,” Dan Heng says in that reassuringly detached way of his. “Send me the address. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
True to his word, Dan Heng comes almost immediately, cutting off Sunday’s spiraling panic quite neatly. There’s a certain way about Dan Heng that inspires serenity, a self-assuredness in his demeanor that causes Sunday to sigh in relief. It doesn’t hurt that he studies Marine Biology; undoubtedly he’ll know what to do, which is good, because Sunday most certainly doesn’t.
“You were not exaggerating,” Dan Heng says, pulling a roll of gauze out of his beat-up old backpack. It’s the same one he used in college, and in a very distant part of his mind, Sunday makes a note to give him a new one at the earliest occasion. “I can’t even fathom what could’ve happened to her.”
“What do we do?” Sunday says, watching as the mermaid’s silver-black-blue scales vanish beneath Dan Heng’s careful bandaging. Her eyes are pressed closed and she is still, her chest immobile. “Is she even breathing? By Xipe, Dan Heng, I don’t think she’s breathing!”
“Relax,” Dan Heng says. “Mermaids are like frogs, they primarily breathe through cutaneous respiration. As long as she’s kept moist, she’ll get oxygen through her skin just fine. She has bigger issues to worry about; namely, she can’t swim like this, which is basically a death sentence for her kind.”
Something fierce and angry and hopeless flares in Sunday’s stomach at that. Dan Heng stands and dusts his hands off, sighing in disappointment, and Sunday can tell he hates it, too. After all, mermaids are reclusive and shy, rare to encounter, rarer to touch and feel as Dan Heng just has. Anyways, what was the point? Sunday begged Dan Heng to come and Dan Heng wasted an entire roll of gauze and it was all doomed, so why did they do it? Why did they save her just for her to die?
“Isn’t there anything we can do?” Sunday says.
“There’s not much literature on mermaids,” Dan Heng says. “We could take her to the university I’m getting my PhD at, but they’ll probably stick her in the lab in the name of progress.”
“No,” Sunday says immediately.
“I thought you’d say that,” Dan Heng says. “I don’t know, Sunday. Look at her. We don’t even know what injured her, but it’s almost certain that if she’s released, she’ll be captured or killed or worse. Which is the lesser of the two evils?”
He’s handing the burden of the choice to Sunday. It’s not indifference, because that’s not a sin Dan Heng has ever been guilty of, and it’s not apathy, because Dan Heng’s not capable of that, either. It’s something peculiar to Dan Heng, and for once, Sunday is actively grateful for it.
“I’ll take her,” he says. Dan Heng takes out a bottle of water and pours it over the mermaid, who shudders a little in her sleep at the sensation. “My bathtub is big enough to keep her, and I have nothing else to do, anyways.”
“Yup,” Dan Heng says, already tucking his hands around the mermaid’s tail and motioning for Sunday to take her torso. “I thought you’d say that, too.”
Sunday glances back at the sea one more time, and then he reminds himself that there’s no hurry. He can come back another day, another time. He has an eternity to die, after all. Then he leans over, encircles his arms around the mermaid’s waist, and holds her chest against his, waiting to feel her heartbeat before motioning Dan Heng forward.
You wake up in a terror, your fins slapping against marble before you squeal in pain at the protests of a freshly-wrought injury. You suppose it doesn’t matter that your enclosure is hardly big enough to swim and hardly deep enough to submerge yourself when you are incapable of doing either, but you are still frightened.
You’ve heard of places like these, your mother called them zoos and she said your father drove himself to death in one. Have you been jailed and put on display just as he was? Did they hobble you to prevent you from escaping once again? You thrash about in protest, slamming your tail against the lip of the bath, sending bottles flying, shattering and releasing their perfumed contents into the air, turning the entire room heady with the scent of flowers. It hurts but you bear it, you must.
The door swings open, and two men rush inside. You splash a wave of water toward them, but the taller of the two raises his hand and flicks it out of the way before it can hit them, his handsome face filled with concern.
“Vidyadhara,” you sneer, because the sea-dragons were once companions of your kind, but they turned traitor long ago and return now only to lord over your people.
“Please, lady mermaid, you mustn’t overexert yourself,” says the Vidyadhara’s companion, who is slender and winged, his hair the color of driftwood and his eyes the shade of sunken treasure. You don’t know what he is but he is entrancing in a way that you are sure must be dangerous, so you turn your nose up at him, too.
“He’s right,” the Vidyadhara says. “You’re gravely injured. Struggling like this will only make it more difficult for you to heal.”
You scowl at them in an attempt to look intimidating, but when your tail is stiff from bandaging and there’s cloth covering your chest, you look more like a land-walker throwing a tantrum than an ocean predator in your own right. The Vidyadhara is unimpressed, and the winged man outright ignores you, gathering the jagged shards of crystal you tossed everywhere into a neat pile out of the way.
“Are you with them?” you say. The two exchange looks before the winged man steps forward and offers you his hand. He must know that you could yank him into the water with you, could overpower him even as you are and drown him, so for him to give it so willingly means that it’s a trap of some sort. You eye him suspiciously but do not take it, instead glaring at the Vidyadhara, who is insufferable but at least not deceitful.
“With who?” he says. The winged man withdraws his hand, and now it is the Vidyadhara’s turn to sit cross-legged at the edge of the bath, his chin in his hands as he looks down at you. You don’t bother even pretending to drown him, for it will come to nothing, and instead settle for watching him warily. “The ones who did that to you? No, we found you on the beach and saved you. You ought to be thanking us right about now…though I can understand why you aren’t.”
“What happened to you?” the winged man says. There is a profound melancholy to him; you don’t believe the Vidyadhara realizes, but the air around him reeks of it, thick and heavy and sad. You wrinkle your nose and wish you could splash him clean, but for some reason, you’re quite sure he wouldn’t be very receptive to it.
“Don’t act like you don’t know,” you say, crossing your arms and sinking deeper into the water, which is as pleasantly warm as a bay after a day of sun.
“We don’t,” he insists, and he raises his hand again, but you flinch away before he can touch you. “I found you bleeding on the beach and called Dan Heng for help. He studies sea creatures, he knows better than anyone what to do and he’s the only reason you’re still alive.”
“It’s true,” the Vidyadhara, Dan Heng, says. “Surely you have some awareness of your own condition. You’re not even native to these waters, are you? If we hadn’t brought you back here, you’d be shark food or a museum exhibit by now.”
Your fins twitch pitifully, and you think back to the icy waters of your home, where your pet orca must be wondering why you haven’t yet returned with the rest of your pod. How sad. How strange. A mermaid with torn fins and a gashed-up tail who sits in a bathtub with a Vidyadhara and his companion because she cannot swim away. Shark food or a museum exhibit. Would it be better or worse than this? You don’t know.
“Why did you do it?” you say.
“I didn’t need a reason,” says the winged man. “You were suffering, and I couldn’t bear to watch you in pain any longer.”
“What Sunday said, but also, I’m working on my thesis right now, and you would make for a great primary source,” Dan Heng says. “I was hoping I could ask you some questions when you’ve warmed up to us a little more.”
You blink. “Thee-sis?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sunday says. “More importantly, you’re alright, and you can stay here until you’re better.”
“The word ‘can’ implies a choice in the matter,” you say. “Whether I like it or not, I’m trapped here, aren’t I?”
Sunday purses his lips but does not respond. Dan Heng massages his temples and mutters something under his breath about stupid Halovians and ridiculous mermaids.
“We can’t let you go in good conscience,” he says, a little louder this time so you can all hear him. “Not like this.”
“Lady mermaid, we really only wish to help you,” Sunday says.
“You can help me by leaving me alone,” you say, and you make sure to only splash him, because you daren’t go after Dan Heng, who will ensure it is a moot point anyways.
The deluge washes over him and leaves him looking soaked and spindly and utterly miserable. You giggle, waiting for him to say something cruel to you in response, but he only gestures for Dan Heng to follow him and then bows deeply, gallantly.
“As you wish,” he says, and then they both are gone, leaving you to hum whalesongs in the dim, curtained light.
“Believe it or not, she’s actually quite docile as far as merfolk go,” Dan Heng says. Sunday raises a brow. There’s many words he’d use to describe the mermaid — unreasonable, flighty, messy, mistake — but docile doesn’t rank particularly highly amongst them. “I’m serious. She barely even tried to drown us. Of course she’s frightened, but can you blame her for that? No doubt we’d be the same in her shoes.”
“I suppose so,” Sunday says. His head hurts a bit, right behind his left brow, which means he’s going to have a migraine soon, but he doesn’t want Dan Heng to leave just yet, so he resolves to ignore it.
“I’ll write up some instructions on how to take care of her before I head out,” Dan Heng says. “It shouldn’t be too hard. You’ll just have to change her bandages every so often and buy fish and seaweed for her to eat. Oh, and eventually she’ll need a bigger enclosure...but that can be a worry for later. For now, keeping her alive is the priority.”
“Can’t you stay a bit longer?” Sunday says, a little more desperately than he planned to. He and Dan Heng haven’t really spoken at length about anything but the mermaid, but he didn’t realize how much he missed his company, any company, until he had it again and was faced with the prospect of losing it. “I mean, it’d be rude of me to let you leave without at least offering dinner.”
Dan Heng frowns. “I really would like to say yes, but I have an Intro to Biology course to teach in the evening, so I need to leave soon. I’ll be back in when I ca to make sure everything is progressing as it should, though, and of course if there’s an emergency you can call me.”
“Right,” Sunday says. He wishes he could say he had things to do, classes to teach or a job to work at, but his position as Head of the Oak Family is more of a figurehead role — a richly compensated figurehead role, but one nonetheless. He’s sent to the seaside like a child, for his health and so that his self-appointed councillors can do as they please with the Oaks’ power; he might’ve cared, once, but now it just exhausts him, so he lets him do what they want, with the sole caveat that they leave Robin alone.
“You know, Sunday,” Dan Heng says, giving him an odd look. “You can also just call me if you feel like it.”
It’s a nice sentiment. They both know he won’t do that, he’s too proud to admit to any such failings, but it’s nice of Dan Heng anyways. Instead of thanking him, though, Sunday merely nods and then holds up his phone.
“I just got the document. I’ll do my best,” he says. “Farewell, Dan Heng.”
“See you soon, Sunday,” Dan Heng says. “Let me know if anything needs clarifying, though I’m sure you’ll be able to figure it all out. You were always like that.”
The document is written in clinical, scholarly language, almost like the outline to a research paper, with bolded headings and formatted bullet points. There’s a section for food — Sunday’s stomach turns when he sees that most mermaids prefer eating raw fish to anything else — and another for wound care, as well as general tips for expected behavior and customs to be aware of when interacting with her.
Don’t smile with teeth. If she doesn’t have much exposure to land-dwelling species, she’ll take it as a threat. Don’t be hesitant. Mermaids are very good at sensing emotions, and she will likely prey on any insecurity with swiftness. Don’t trust her — please, please, don’t trust her. There are many things we do not yet know about merfolk society, and what might seem friendly to us could be a thinly-veiled threat on her behalf. She will definitely drown you if you let her.
Sunday. It is absolutely imperative that you do not let her.
It begins like this: Sunday comes to the bathroom, not meekly, but softly. He tosses fish at you, and then he watches as you eat it. Sometimes he brings you seaweed, too, and once he even brings oysters, which are a rare delicacy underwater and do soften your heart enough that you lessen your teasing slightly, albeit not by such a margin that he would actually notice a difference.
The Vidyadhara, Dan Heng, does not return for a while. You don’t mind it, really, because Sunday is easier to torment than his friend. He is pliant in a way Dan Heng was not, gentle where Dan Heng was stern, and when you fling water and insults at him he does not say anything, though you can feel his irritation simmering in the air. He’s not like the Vidyadhara, who felt nothing at all; it’s restraint, that’s the long and short of it. He feels so terribly and very much that it overwhelms him into an amusing silence.
You don’t know how many days it’s been when he enters with bandages and a glass jar, an apprehensive look on his face. The air smells pungent and sharp, a little like the mouth of a drunkard but colder, meaner, and when you peer at him, sniffing the air to confirm, you’re aggravated to find that he’s otherwise empty-handed.
“What is that?” you say, nose wrinkling.
“Dan Heng says it’s just about time to clean your wounds and change the bandages. We don’t want any infections,” he says, setting the jar and the bandages on the rim of the bathtub and taking a step back. “Can you do it yourself, or do you want me to?”
“Of course I can,” you snap, though it’s a bit of a lie. Under the sea, wounds are left to heal on their own, without any interference. It’s natural that way, and those with graver injuries, the kinds beyond recovery, know to let themselves sink and die to a shark’s maw or a ship’s anchor. That’s what should’ve happened to you, you’re not an idiot and Dan Heng said as much upon your first meeting, anyways.
You’re quite sure you can figure it out, though. How difficult can the medicine of the land-walkers be? Yet your fingers are unused to the knots Dan Heng has tied, for seaweed cannot wind in the tight ways of the gauze, and it’s only your own vanity that pushes you to pretend to keep trying for fear of how Sunday will react.
He watches you fumble for a minute before, slowly, he places his hand on your arm, stilling it without a word. You tuck your chin to your collarbone and stare at your tail, because you don’t want to know what kind of expression he’s donning. Is it pity? Mockery? Something else? You don’t know which would be worse, so you try to pretend he’s not there at all, but it’s difficult when his cold fingers trail from your bicep to your sternum, finally removing that accursed shirt he put on you, undoing the buttons and setting the soaked blue fabric aside.
His knuckles brush against the underside of your breasts, and to your surprise, a jolt rushes down your spine, causing your ventral fin to twitch as the sensation coalesces into a strange, hot pit in your stomach. You’ve never felt anything like it before, but you’re not opposed to it in the slightest — in fact, to your surprise you find you want it, you want his hands to roam higher or lower or somewhere, anywhere, as long as he keeps doing that, whatever that is.
Yet Sunday appears deaf and dumb to your longing; or, if he is aware of it, he must put it down to something else, because he does not linger, continuing his delicate path towards the impossible knot over your navel, untying it deftly and then beginning the careful task of unwinding the bandages which cover most of your tail and torso.
The removal of the gauze feels like a sigh of relief. Between them and the shirt, you’ve felt a little suffocated, though Dan Heng was kind enough to bring supplies that at least allowed you to breathe even when you are so wound up. Still, nothing is better than the feeling of your bare skin in the water, and as Sunday rolls up the messy discard, you splash yourself, as much out of joy as to avoid looking at the wound for any longer than you have to.
“This might sting a little,” Sunday says when he is done, breaking the spell he unwittingly put you under. You cock your head at him, for you cannot possibly fathom what he means by that. How could a dollop of white paste possibly hurt? So you only hum and wait for him to approach, that medicine from the jar coating the fingers that he presses to your stomach—
You shriek and slam your tail into him, bowling him to the ground, which you would’ve apologized for if your body didn’t feel like lightning was arcing through it. He tries to stand but you hiss at him, baring your sharp teeth, a threat in any language. He mirrors you awkwardly, but you sense no hostility behind it, confusing you even more, your fins flaring despite how it tears at your wound.
“Stop!” he says, his wings flattening against his neck in fearful deference. “Stop, stop, I’m sorry, lady mermaid, I was only smiling. It’s a friendly gesture for land dwellers, I didn’t mean to threaten you, I thought you were attempting to — I’m sorry. Dan Heng told me, but I still…”
Smiling. You’ve never heard of the custom, but his explanation does make sense. You think you remember Dan Heng and Sunday smiling like this at one another, and they certainly seem to be friendly with one another. You nod slowly, though when he once again attempts getting up, you slap your tail against the bathtub in warning.
“What did you just do to me?” you say. “What was that — that thing you put on me? It hurt more than the wound itself!”
“It’s an antibiotic meant to clean the flesh,” Sunday explains, still lying on his back, resigned to his fate, limbs and wings splayed out and askew. “It’ll prevent infection and expedite healing. I know it’s painful, but it’s necessary to make sure you don’t get worse, because that will definitely hurt more.”
You eye him warily, and then you push the jar towards him, nodding for him to take it.
“Put it on yourself,” you say.
“What?” he says. “That’s just a waste. I’m not hurt.”
“Put it on yourself, and prove that you are telling the truth, that that is not just some kind of poison meant to kill me from within,” you insist. He has the nerve to huff a little before dipping his fingers in the paste, swirling them about and pulling the sleeve of his white shirt back so he can dab it on his wrist. Then, without even getting up, he offers his wrist to you, as still as a shipwrecked statue when you lean over and nudge your nose against it.
Beneath the medicinal stench is a fragrance you’ve come to associate with him, a fragrance you could never find under the sea, not even if you searched for a million years. The few land-dwellers you’ve met before have made you gag, stinking of sweat and that drink they call wine, disgusting and foul, with rotting teeth and festering scrapes. But Sunday, he’s not like that, he is musky and warm and pleasant and you would lay your cheek upon his heart to grow closer to the source of him if you were not so opposed to his very existence, his unbearable capture of you.
It doesn’t seem as though he’s suffering, which means he must be telling the truth. You don’t want to say sorry, necessarily, but you do prod at him with your caudal fin, begging him to look at you and then slowly, hesitantly, allowing your mouth to curve in the way his had.
“Are you—?”
“Smiling,” you say, uncomfortable with the kindness and the gesture alike. “You said it signified friendliness for your kind.”
His eyes light up, and then he scrambles to his feet. “So you’ll let me…?”
“Yes,” you say. “I will believe you this time, but if I find you lied, if I find this ann-tie-buy-ought-ick is a cause and not a cure, even your Vidyadhara friend will not be enough to save you from my retribution.”
“Alright,” he says. “Yes, yes, that’s fine. Thank you.”
Despite your acceptance, you curl into yourself as he takes out another dollop of the paste, peering at him shyly from beneath your lashes. You feel it’s almost worse now that you know the pain is coming, now that you’re aware he will brand his cruel healing into your ragged tail, but to his credit, he is slower this time, allowing you to observe the paste sticking to his index and middle finger, to poke where it gathers on his palm before he begins the methodical task of slathering it over your wound.
You’ve never cried before, you’re fairly certain, but tears well in your eyes and a small sob escapes you unbidden as the antibiotic settles into your frayed scales and delicate skin, worse than any jellyfish sting. You don’t know how you are still awake, how you haven’t yet died from the agony of it, but you remember, barely, that Sunday promised this will help you. Things will be worse without it. You will never return to the sea if you cannot suffer through this tragedy, so you grit your teeth and endure it.
And if small whimpers occasionally break the surface as Sunday finishes applying the paste before wrapping your tail and torso back up with gauze, he gives you the grace of playing the fool, although he does, when he retreats, stroke your arm gently, once, twice, thrice in comfort, quickly enough to be called an accident but purposefully enough that you know it wasn’t.
That night, he brings you oysters, removing the meat for you himself, feeding them to you with thin fingers that brush against your tongue every so often, as if he, too, cannot bear the thought of apologizing but wants, in his own way, to repent.
“Dan Heng, I’m a monster,” Sunday groans as soon as his old roommate picks up the phone, which thankfully he does on the first ring.
“I think you’re just generally dramatic, but sure, let’s pretend you’re right. What makes you say that?” That’s something Sunday’s always appreciated about Dan Heng; he’s no-nonsense, doesn’t pull punches or put up with melodrama.
“The mermaid,” he says. He can almost feel Dan Heng perking up through the line at the mention of his newest research fascination, who he has not yet found time to see, leaving it to Sunday to email him reports of his findings, which generally consist of mundane things like an observed fondness for oysters. “I was changing her bandages the other day.”
“Is she okay? Did you hurt her? Did she hurt you? Mermaid tails are incredibly muscular, she could definitely do a lot of damage if she hits you with it, injury or no injury.”
Sunday thinks back to how effortlessly she knocked him over and scoffs, although he is inspired to feel a little grateful. To hear Dan Heng tell it, she could’ve done a lot more than she did, so a bruised tailbone and sore wrist feel like a small price to pay.
“Worse,” he says. “Way worse.”
“Way worse?” Dan Heng says, and then there’s a muffled sound on the other end of the line. “What happened? Is she…alive?”
“I — I think I groped her!” Sunday says.
The line is eerily silent before Dan Heng coughs and clears his throat. “Bailu, you should go for a bit. I’ll help you with the rest of the problem set once I’m done with this.”
Sunday freezes. “Bailu? Who is Bailu?”
“I may or may not have been in the middle of hosting office hours when you called,” Dan Heng says. “And Bailu may or may not be the freshman who just overheard you say that.”
“Dan Heng!” Sunday screeches, his wings clamping over his eyes out of embarrassment. “What is wrong with you? Why would you pick up my call in the middle of your office hours?”
“In my defense, I didn’t think you were going to loudly announce you groped your mermaid when I answered!”
“I think I’m going to faint,” Sunday says, though his embarrassment is undercut with a shameful thrill when Dan Heng calls her his.
“Don’t do that, it’s not like she knows who you are. Just tell me everything. What happened? How?”
“Do you promise not to judge me?” Sunday says.
“Sunday, we are far beyond the point that my answer to that question actually matters.”
Sunday supposes there is some reasoning to that statement, so, with his wings still obscuring his face, he begins to explain.
“I took off the shirt I lent her so I could undo her bandages, and, well, when I started undoing those very bandages, my hands brushed against her breasts!”
There’s a pause. “And?”
“What do you mean, and? Isn’t that wrong enough?”
“Not really. It’s not like you were doing it with any sexual intent. You were performing a medical procedure, that’s hardly monstrous. I wouldn’t be surprised if I touched her by accident when we found her on the beach, and I’m sure she’d understand if I did. It’s not a big deal, unless — wait, how did she react? If she was uncomfortable, I can see why you’d be worried.”
“Uh, no, she didn’t seem uncomfortable. She didn’t really do anything, that is. I think one of her fins twitched a bit, but other than that, she seemed alright.”
Dan Heng coughs again. “Would you know which fin, by any chance?”
“One of the ones by where her hips would be, if she had legs. Why? Does it matter?” Sunday says. For some reason, Dan Heng swears under his breath.
“Just….never mind for now. How was she otherwise? Did she cooperate with all of it?”
“She hit me with her tail when I first tried applying the antibiotic salve,” Sunday says, his back twinging at the memory.
“That’s not surprising, sadly. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to help you. You’re not too beat up, are you?”
“It’s okay. I’m fine, and we reached an understanding afterwards. She even smiled at me,” Sunday says.
“Didn’t you read the PDF I sent you? Smiling is an aggressive thing for her species, that’s not exactly an understanding.”
“No, I know, I know. At first she did it out of hostility, and I made the mistake of smiling back — don’t lecture me! I apologized, told her it’s a friendly gesture for our people and explained the purpose of the medicine, and then she smiled before saying she was doing it in the way we do. She wasn’t lying, either, because then she sat there and let me treat her without any fuss besides a bit of crying,” he says.
“Interesting.”
“I fed her oysters afterwards, too,” he feels compelled to add, not wanting Dan Heng to think he’s mistreating her. “She likes them. I think it made her happy.”
“Sunday, I hope you know you are an idiot.”
“What?” Sunday says, a little startled at the sudden switch in Dan Heng’s demeanor.
“I would explain, but I’m actually interested in seeing how all of this plays out, so don’t worry about it. Just keep doing whatever you’re doing, and please know that you never have to hide anything from me.”
“Okay, thanks, but why’d you say it like that?” Sunday mutters.
“All I’m saying is please report every single interaction you have with her, no matter how mundane or embarrassing it would be. This is for my thesis, so do a good job, please.”
“As you wish,” he says. “I should go now. It’s about time for her lunch, and I don’t like being late.”
“Yeah, Bailu’s been waiting for a while, and I think her problem set is due in a couple of hours, so I should, uh, probably explain things and help her with that…”
Sunday hangs up without another word, deciding then and there that he’ll never leave his house again.
You try touching yourself under your shirt once or twice, running your fingers over your chest and waiting for it to feel like that. And it’s nice, it’s definitely nice, but it’s not the same as when Sunday did it. Is it some kind of land-walker magic? You want to ask, but something stops you, your tongue growing heavy whenever he enters the bathroom, rendering you mute and stony and drawn.
“I’ve commissioned a pool for you,” he says one day while you snack on dried kelp. You’ve never had it dried until now, but the crunch and the salt of it are so pleasant that you’re something of an addict by this point. “It’ll be more comfortable than sitting in a bathtub, I’m sure. Whenever Dan Heng comes around next, we’ll move you there.”
The prospect of getting to swim makes your heart sing, so you try that thing again, that land-walker gesture, baring your teeth out of friendliness and fondness instead of fear. Sunday smiles back at you, and you recognize it for what it is — an acceptance, an understanding, an amicability.
He’s trusting of you now in a way he wasn’t before, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, leaning against the wall with his feet tucked up but easily within your reach. You could drag him into the water and drown him if you wanted, you’ve considered it once or twice, but every time you stop before you can move. You don’t want him to drown. You don’t know what it is you do want from him, but it’s not that. It’s not death.
“Are you ever going to tell us what happened to you?” he says, breaking you from your reverie. His eyes are closed, and he is so serene that, if he had not spoken, you’d think he was asleep. “Clearly, it was something horrible.”
Your wound has made steady progress in the time you’ve been living in Sunday’s home, but it’s still raw and angry and resistant to movement and touch and healing. According to Sunday, whose source is the Vidyadhara Dan Heng, it’ll take a while before it knits over completely, and then another while longer before your muscles regain enough strength that you can return to the ocean safely. You have no frame of reference, so you have to trust him, but you miss it, there’s no doubt about it; you miss your orca and your mother and the silvery glaciers of like home.
“You don’t have to tell us,” he continues, cracking an eye open and then extending his hand towards you. He does that often, though you’ve never taken it. It’s his way of telling you can trust him, you’re pretty sure, but the thing is that you don’t trust him, not fully, not yet. “Just me.”
Or, at least, you didn’t.
You can see him swallow when your damp fingers interlace with his dry ones, his throat bobbing as he widens his legs and lets them drop into the water so you can fit between them, resting your head on the hard plane of his stomach. He wraps one arm around your shoulders, petting the space between them in a way that, for some reason, causes you to begin to weep.
“They tried to capture me,” you whisper. “We were returning home for the summer, and I saw a turtle caught in a net, so I went to free it.
“My mother warned me not to; she said that all inventions of men are to be feared, that the land-walkers have their tricks and their ways. I should’ve known better. I did know better, but I went anyways.”
He stroked the back of your head as, inexplicably, you grip the white silk of his shirt, clinging to it as if he could change it all, as if he possessed some miraculous power that would allow him to go back and make it so nothing ever happened. Of course he does not; of course there is no such thing; but it soothes you a bit, to cry and to let him caress you as you hold onto him like you will be sick if he leaves.
“It was a trap. You are smart, I’m sure you saw that coming. They were, ah, what is the word that the land-walkers use…poachers? Pirates? We call them whale-killers, for our great cousins are their preferred prey, but these whale-killers were not in search of whales.”
“Mermaid hunters,” Sunday says, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “It’s a highly illegal practice, but when those in power will pay good money for a pet mermaid of their own, the laws aren’t always enforced. Despicable.”
“They wrapped me in netting and pulled me onto that ship of theirs,” you say. “It was nothing like this place, all dirty and dank and filthy, the water blooming with algae and larvae, the men foul, drunk, sick in both body and mind. The fish they tried to feed me was rotting, Sunday, I could see the maggots wriggling beneath the scales before I slapped it away.”
His fingers dig into your skin, and it’s absurd to think that such a mild Halovian could ever protect you, but in that moment he is a shield between yourself and the rest of the world. You cannot believe you ever thought he might be one of them. He is not capable of that injustice, that immoral, indelible wrongdoing. Despicable. Disgusting. He is neither. He is not as they were.
“I killed their captain,” you say. “He showed me his rusting spear and told me he’d kill me if I misbehaved, so I hit him with my tail for his daring. He dragged that polearm through me in retribution, and so, with the last bits of my consciousness, I beat him to death with my own fins, for I could not stand the thought of him continuing to exist, to trap anyone else as I was trapped. If only I had met him in the waters, I’d have drowned him as I’ve drowned so many other whale-killers, he’d be dead before he knew it…but instead, they tossed me from the side of the ship without ceremony. I suppose they did not want to manage my corpse when it began to wither. I suppose that was where they drew their line.
“I don’t remember much from there. I knew I was going to die, too. I would sink to my death and that was the way of things, but I guess I washed up on the shore instead, and that’s where you found me. How lucky I am, that you were there. Had you been much later, you might’ve been met with nothing more than a picked-over skeleton.”
Sunday is quiet for a second, and then, softly, so softly you wonder if you’ve imagined it, he says, “I went to the beach to die.”
“What?” you say. His irises are dreamy and clouded over, as though he is looking through you instead of at you, as though his body is still entangled with yours but his mind has drifted away on swift currents, gone somewhere distant and lonely. “Why?”
“Life under the sea is simple,” he says. “Life on land is difficult. I have no great desire for that ultimate ending, not normally, not yet, but that day…I thought that maybe it might not be the worst thing to give myself to the sea and let it choose the course of my destiny. It was never a choice for me, lady mermaid; it was mere and simple lethargy. When you have nothing, you also lose nothing, change nothing. It was like that.”
You grab him by the shoulders before he can protest and drag him into the water with you. He yelps and sputters, but before his surprise can mature into proper fear, you curl your tail around him and press your lips to his, your eyes fluttering closed as you focus solely on the ebb and flow of his mouth, his tongue, the heady emotions pulsating off of him, the way he pulls you closer by the back of your head as though he is making some demand, some imperative command you have no choice but to listen to.
It’s different to kiss someone out of the water. The all-encompassing embrace of the ocean concentrates into that singular point of contact before it vanishes in favor of something that is entirely him, entirely Sunday, something that tastes like him and smells like him and makes you want to chase after him when he pulls away, cheeks flushed and wings batting nervously, the feathers lightly touching your face and then fleeing again before you can grow properly accustomed to their downy feel.
“I am deeply sorry,” he says, though he does not move from where he all but lays atop you, his hands now braced against the wall for balance and distance.
“Whatever for?” you say.
“I don’t — I mean, for land dwellers, kissing someone is different. You only do it when you desire them, and I know it must be different for mermaids, yet I let you do it anyways—”
“It’s not,” you say lightly.
“Huh?” he says.
“It’s not different,” you say. “Well, maybe a little. There’s no need for us to kiss one another, but if there is a land-walker who we admire, who we desire, as you said — a handsome sailor caught in a wreck, perhaps, or a pretty maiden cast away from a ship — we might kiss them, we might lend them our breath so that they can live. So, isn’t it the same?”
“Then why did you kiss me?” he says, regaining enough self-possession to jump out of the bathtub, leaving you to watch him as he rubs a towel over the wet ends of his hair, his eyes wide and pupils blown.
“Because, Sunday,” you say. “You saved me from certain death, and so, I want you to live.”
Dan Heng’s office is small and windowless, tucked away in an obscure corner of one of his university’s many science buildings. Sunday feels like a fugitive slinking through the hallways with a hood over his head, flinching every time he passes by a girl. Any one of them could be Bailu, after all, and although logically he knows Bailu has no reason to be able to recognize him, just the idea that she might is enough to make him nigh-paranoid.
He waltzes in without knocking, although he has not told Dan Heng that he’d be coming; it was a bit of a spur of the moment decision, really, and he doesn’t think he can handle talking about it over the phone, so all he can do is keep his fingers crossed that his friend isn’t busy.
Luckily, he is at least in his office. Unluckily, there’s a girl sitting across from him, lavender-haired and wide-eyed, a pencil gripped in her hand and several chemical reactions badly drawn on a piece of graph paper in front of her. Dan Heng smiles slightly when he sees Sunday, which coming from him is as good as beaming in welcome, and then he nods at the girl.
“Bailu, this is my college roommate Sunday,” he says. “Sunday, this is Bailu.”
“Nice to meet you,” Bailu says. “You’re the one with the mermaid, right? Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone or anything. I only know because I happened to overhear you the other day.”
Sunday’s not sure whether he wants to murder Dan Heng or pass away himself or both. But he’s polite and also doesn’t want to make even worse of an impression on Bailu than he already has, considering she already probably thinks of him as some kind of mermaid molester, so he only nods at her.
“Likewise, Miss Bailu.”
“Did you need something? I’m surprised you came all of this way, I would’ve thought you’d be too busy,” Dan Heng says when there’s an unnatural silence, none of them knowing quite what to say.
“I was hoping I could talk to you,” Sunday says. Thankfully, Bailu gets the hint, putting her stuff away in her bag and muttering something about how she’ll never get her problem set done at this rate.
“Do you want tea?” Dan Heng asks when the door swings shut behind her. Sunday almost refuses, but then he remembers his sister once told him that herbal tea is excellent for nerves and anxiety, and considering his supply of both is well past overflowing, he nods, taking a seat in the hard-backed chair Bailu just vacated as Dan Heng starts the kettle.
“Thank you,” he says when Dan Heng hands him a steaming cup of something that smells like peppermint before sitting across from him. “You should’ve taken her.”
“The mermaid?” Dan Heng says. “Why do you say that? Based on everything you’ve told me, she really likes you.”
“I know,” Sunday says. “I like her, too, but too much. Dan Heng, she — I — we kissed in the bathtub!”
Dan Heng stares at him for a second before snorting. “It’s about time.”
“Pardon?” Sunday says.
“I figured out pretty quickly that you didn’t realize, but you know, everything you’ve been doing for her is essentially a watered down version of what we know about mermaid courtship rituals. Oysters are a rare delicacy for them, so they’re commonly fed to potential mates to express interest, and the treatment of her wounds could subconsciously be taken as a form of allogrooming, which you should be familiar with, as it’s present in Halovian bonding as well,” he says.
Sunday remembers that Dan Heng called him an idiot the other day, and suddenly he is quite sure that no descriptor has ever been more apt. How could he have known that mermaid traditions were so different and then not thought for even a moment that he might be conveying something other than what he meant to? Just because he was not playing music and bringing gifts for her, as was the Halovian way, did not mean that he was not indirectly telling her he wanted her; similarly, just because she did not sing to him or preen his feathers did not mean she did not accept his longing.
“Also,” Dan Heng says, pulling out a tablet and using a stylus to draw circles on a diagram of a mermaid’s tail. “These were the fins that twitched during the breast incident, correct?”
“Can we please call it something more dignified?” Sunday says before holding the tablet closer and nodding. “But yes, I think so.”
Dan Heng hums, taking it back and snapping it shut. “Right. So, she was aroused.”
“Aroused?”
“Do I need to explain what that means to you? I’d really rather not,” Dan Heng says, and for the first time Sunday realizes his friend’s entire face is bright red and he’s avoiding his gaze.
“No, I know what that means, I just — I can’t — what is wrong with me?” Sunday says. His stomach twists and turns in a million knots, and the room begins to spin, or is it that he’s the one spinning and everything else is still? The cup of tea slips from his grasp, and it’s only Dan Heng’s quick Cloudhymn magic that prevents it from spilling everywhere, although Sunday barely registers it. “How could I do that to her?”
He’s sick. He’s sick, he’s sick, he’s so sick. How is he any different than those mermaid hunters who captured her? They would’ve sold her to a politician or a billionaire who would’ve done the same things as him, who would’ve rubbed their grimy fingers over her chest and fed her all of the oysters she could’ve ever wanted until she fell prey to their charms, just as she fell prey to his. He’s itching all over, he’s taking his coat off and his wings are beating restlessly and his thoughts keep spiraling and spiraling, she doesn’t deserve this, she doesn’t deserve him, she’d be better off with Dan Heng, at least Dan Heng is a Vidyadhara, they’re related to mermaids, Dan Heng would’ve known what he was doing and would’ve stopped it, the monster is him, Sunday Oak, how could he do that to her? His mermaid. His, and what did he do to her? He—
A spray of warm, lavender-scented liquid breaks him out of his daze. He blinks. Dan Heng uses his Cloudhymn magic to slap him across the face with his lavender tea again, and then once more for good measure.
“Sunday. Did you ever take any introductory biology courses back in school?” he says.
“Yes, everyone has to,” Sunday says, wondering what the correlation could possibly be.
“Do you remember what the classifications for a Level 0 Intelligent Species are?” Dan Heng says.
“Uh, it’s been a while, but I think capable of rational thought was one?” he tries. Dan Heng nods, emboldening him to continue. “Intelligent speech, advanced societies with familial structures, and nonthreatening when approached?”
“The last one was actually amended a couple of years after we graduated to be ‘amenable to negotiation.’ The followers of the Hunt didn’t like the old wording,” he says. Sunday thinks back to the few followers of the Hunt he’s met and decides that the request makes sense. “Otherwise, yes.”
“Why are you quizzing me on things you’re meant to be teaching?” Sunday asks.
“Do you think the mermaid is capable of rational thought?” Dan Heng says.
“Obviously,” Sunday says.
“And intelligent speech is a given,” Dan Heng says. “Has she mentioned anything about familial structures or societies or anything like that?”
“I think their lifestyle isn’t quite the same as ours, so I don’t know if I would say society in the way we describe it, but she has talked about her mother, so I guess that implies some kind of a familial structure,” he says.
“And she did negotiate with us when she first woke up, even if she was a little aggressive about it. You know what that means, right? Mermaids, including your mermaid, can be considered a Level 0 Intelligent Species. Relationships between species within the same intelligence classifications are completely normal, and Halovians, like mermaids and Foxians and the Vidyadhara, are considered to be Level 0,” Dan Heng says, handing him his peppermint tea back.
“You don’t get it, Dan Heng,” Sunday despairs, downing half of the cup in one gulp, internally thanking Cloudhymn magic for keeping the drink at the perfect temperature. “She told me how she got that wound. It was mermaid hunters, they captured her and mistreated her and when she killed their captain, they threw her in the sea and left her for dead. But what if she hadn’t done that? What if she was taken to land and sold to an aquarium or a businessman or something like that? They’d do the same things to her that I did, and they’d be imbeciles for it, so doesn’t that mean I’m one, too?”
“No,” Dan Heng says. “Firstly, you didn’t pay someone to kidnap her, you literally saved her life, and secondly, you haven’t even done anything! Yes, you unintentionally courted her, but she’s the one who reciprocated, isn’t she? You didn’t even know what you were doing. I’m more worried about you, in truth. She wants you, but do you want her?”
“Yes!” Sunday says. “Yes, of course I do. Who wouldn’t?”
“I can think of a few people,” Dan Heng says. “Seriously, though. You want her. She wants you. Your species are intellectually compatible. What’s the issue?”
There’s not really an issue when Dan Heng says it like that, which means there’s not really an issue, period. Sunday wants to argue anyways, wants to say that he’s at fault for this, that he shouldn’t feel this way, but then he remembers how the mermaid wept when she embraced him and told him of her past, how genuinely she looked at him when she said she wanted him to live, how she liked to tease him with her words and her fins, and he thinks that maybe this is not a fault but a fate. And if that is the case, then does it matter how it came about? Maybe not. Maybe the sea spoke its answer to him a long time ago, if only he had had the mind back then to hear it.
Twilight paints the sky in muted shades of indigo and orange when Sunday returns to you, a little more flustered than he usually is, with a basket of oysters tucked under his arm. You’ve never sensed this kind of shyness emanating from him, and it’s strange enough that you flick him with water in reprimand.
He looks up with wide eyes, and, inexplicably, a pink-coral blush blossoms on his fair cheeks before he returns to the oysters with doubled intent. Figuring you won’t get an answer until he decides to speak of his own volition, you settle for watching him, how deftly his fingers work and how his brows scrunch together endearingly in concentration on the simple task.
“Dan Heng told me,” he says when he offers you the first bit of meat from his hand. “About the oysters. That they’re, um, a mating ritual for your species.”
“You didn’t know that?” you say.
“Not at all, and I would like to stress that it was not my intention whatsoever. Halovians have different ways than mermaids — we bring gifts and sing songs for prospective mates. Allogrooming is a measure of friendship, not attraction, and food is shared communally amongst all, not just bonded pairs,” he says.
“I see,” you say. It shouldn’t matter to you. It doesn’t matter to you. So why do you feel disappointed and embarrassed and childish? You shouldn’t have assumed anything. His kindness is a characteristic of his species, just as Dan Heng’s objectivity is one of his and your temper is one of yours. You weren’t special. He wasn’t touching you and feeding you and kissing you because he wanted you. It was just his manner and your naivete at play, nothing more.
You don’t care. You don’t care. You don’t care you don’t care you don’t care you — you just want to hide in a sea cave and hug your orca and pretend like Sunday isn’t a man you’ve ever met or thought about or kissed or any of it.
“Lady mermaid,” he murmurs, so tenderly that you suddenly cannot fathom ever not knowing him. Placing a string of pearls around your neck, he bows his head at you, and there it is again, his shyness from earlier, but mixed with something else, something shivering and foreign but pleasant, surely pleasant. “May I sing for you?”
The pool is set to be finished soon. Sunday told his servants it’s of the utmost importance that it’s filled with saltwater from the sea, and they are too used to their master’s odd whims to question it, only exchanging glances before promising him that it will be done.
Right now, it is an empty construction, but Sunday still likes to sit on the deck and gaze upon it. He thinks she will like it, or at least he hopes she does, although really anything should be better than his bathtub, which is larger than most bathtubs but is still just that, nothing more. Still, he really did put effort into designing the entire thing, reading through every article and textbook he could find about mermaid habitats, trying to remember things she had mentioned about her home under the sea.
It’s enormous and made of white stone, the bottom bedded with sand and shells and even a thicket of seaweed so that she can sleep comfortably on the floor at nights. Gardenia bushes bloom around the edge, and one corner ducks under a tall, arched ceiling and a patio where he’s arranged chairs so that he can sit comfortably with her as she swims, even if it’s raining, even if the sun is so bright it would burn him otherwise.
If her recovery takes too long, he’ll bring her other fish to keep her company. One of the textbooks he borrowed from the library said that mermaids will often take other sea creatures as their pets — the most common are seals and whale sharks, but there’s very few marine animals that aren’t fond of the rulers of the ocean. There’s an aquarium nearby, he could ask to borrow something from them; he’s Sunday Oak, head of the Oak Family name and fortune, there’s no way they’d say no if he waved enough money and status around. He wonders if she would like an octopus, one of the small, elephant-eared ones, or maybe a seahorse, as colorful and bright as any flower. It’s all the same to him, anyways. Whatever she wants, he’ll find it, he’ll bring it for her, no matter how far he has to go in pursuit.
His phone buzzes, a text instead of an email, which means it’s probably important. Opening it, he rolls his eyes when it’s just a two-word message from Dan Heng: any updates?
For a moment, he’s not sure what to say, if he should even tell him anything. Yes, Dan Heng. I sang to her and then I fled, but not before I kissed her. And oh, how you would envy me if you knew what it was like to kiss a mermaid, to drink the champagne of her mouth, to finally breathe when you have spent your entire life thus far suffocated. Did you know that’s why they do it? For a mermaid, kissing is not love but life, or maybe they are wiser than we land dwellers and understand those two things are synonyms. How you would resent me. How you would long to be me, if only you could.
All he types, however, is not much. Simple. To the point. That’s all that matters. That’s all that Dan Heng needs to know.
In a good way?
Yes. In a good way.
“Dan Heng will come visit you soon,” Sunday says. Even when he doesn’t need to feed you or change your bandages, he comes to sit with you, telling you stories about his sister, singing you her songs and, if you are lucky and he is not as particularly self-conscious as he typically is, leaning in to kiss you quickly before standing and leaving. It’s never as much as you want, but it’s more than you’ve ever had, so you do not whine about it, even if you do miss him when he goes, boring as the bathroom is.
“Your Vidyadhara friend?” you say. Sunday nods, and even though you weren’t particularly fond of him when you met him before, the prospect of seeing someone new does excite you, and anyways Dan Heng is meant to be something like your primary doctor, so maybe he’ll give you a clean enough bill of health that you can finally go home. Your tail doesn’t ache as much anymore; you think it’s at the point that it’ll heal even if it’s left alone, but of course Sunday is the fussy type, so he is as meticulous as ever.
“He’ll interview you and look you over and make sure you’re progressing as planned,” he says. “But I have a surprise for you. Do you think you’re strong enough to get up if I help you?”
“I think so,” you say, tossing one arm around his shoulder and using the force of your tail as well as his strength to push yourself onto the ledge of the bathtub, laying there limply until he wheels a chair over and maneuvers you so that you can sit in it, tucking your tail onto the seat so that your long, trailing fins do not catch on the wheels. “Are you taking me somewhere?”
“Yes,” he says. “The pool is finally finished. I thought you might appreciate more space, and since you’re doing well, I thought it was worth trying with just the two of us and leaving Dan Heng’s help as more of a failsafe than anything.”
He wheels you through his manor, which is enormous and empty and nothing like the Sunday you know. That Sunday wears shirts with the sleeves rolled and the top two buttons undone, his wings relaxed, a smile present on his face more often than not, so who is that stiff-backed, stern, suited man you see in the paintings? He looks like Sunday, his name is Sunday, but he’s not him, and you’re relieved when you enter the backyard and he gently tips you into the pool and you can efface that awful visage from your mind for good.
It takes you a moment to adjust to swimming again, but it comes back naturally, easily, the salt water alleviating your pain, the grief in your muscles melting away as you stretch out luxuriously, lying amidst the sand and the seaweed and closing your eyes. This is the greatest gift you’ve ever been given, an ocean in miniature, so painstakingly constructed that if you allow your mind to wander, you can forget that you aren’t home in the first place.
Sunday is sitting by the edge of the pool, his pants folded up so he can swish his legs in the water without wetting them. Surely he can see you approaching him, but he pretends like he does not, acting surprised when you tap his leg with your fin and then splash him playfully in the face.
“Is it to your liking?” he says, and maybe it’s the unadulterated daylight or maybe it’s something else, but he almost appears to be glowing, his bright halo casting gold onto his perfectly-made features. “You cannot yet return to the ocean, so I did my best to bring the ocean to you.”
“You didn’t need to do all of this,” you say. “You could have left it as an empty pool of water, and I still would’ve thanked you. Seashells, sand, seaweed and flowers…it is too much. What will you do with it when I am gone?”
“I shall keep it just as it is,” he says, half-teasing but half-serious, too. “In case you ever want to come back.”
This earns him another lighthearted splash before you duck under the water and tug at his ankles, resurfacing to find him looking down his nose at you with raised brows, though he cannot feign displeasure for very long.
“Do you mean to drown me after all, lady mermaid?” he says.
“I’m only looking,” you say. “They’re so inefficient and silly. What do you call them again? Flippers? How do you swim anywhere with them?”
“Tarsis, metatarsis, phalanges,” he says. “Feet, not flippers, meant for walking, not swimming.”
“Tarsis, metatarsis, phalanges,” you repeat. “Your ‘feet.’ Then what are these?”
“My tibia and fibula,” he says as you run your fingers along the divots of the muscle, entirely fascinated by how it feels, so unlike your tail, which is densely packed and rough. Sunday is soft everywhere, not a jagged edge or broken scale to be found, and you find yourself suddenly obsessed with this anatomy lesson. You want to learn it, you want to know the name of every different piece of his that you’ve never seen on anyone else but him. “My shins and calves.”
“Shins and calves,” you say, and then you lay your head in his lap, splaying your fingers over the very tops of his legs, which are so perfectly made for you to rest like this. “And these?”
“Femurs,” he says, his voice a little strained for some reason, though you can’t imagine why. “Thighs.”
“I like them,” you say, kissing the inside of them over his pants for emphasis. He flinches but does not push you away, though you can hear how, for some reason, his heart begins to pound faster. You do it again, and his heart rate spikes even more. “Mermaids don’t have thighs. Such a pity, I almost wish we did…and here?”
“My pelvis,” he says when you point at the place where, if he were a merman, his tail would begin. “Hips.”
“Hips,” you say. They’re a bony construct, you can feel the points of them as your hands wander from his sides to the seam where his legs meet his torso, the joint elegant in a way that the transition from skin to scale never could be. “Oh, what is—”
He inhales sharply, his knuckles white from his grip on the edge of the pool as every inch of him all but trembles. You tilt your head at him, confused, your palm still resting over the bulge in between his legs.
“Did I hurt you?” you say.
“No, you — you didn’t hurt me,” he says. “It’s just — I’m sensitive there, all land dwellers are.”
“Can I see?” you say, for now that you have been given this new mystery you are entirely enticed by it. You want to see this sensitive place of Sunday’s, you want to touch it and claim it and know it in a way no one else can. Without waiting for an answer, you begin to fiddle with the button, which earns you a small, strangled okay from somewhere deep inside of him.
He does not say anything when you pull his pants all of the way off and set them to the side in a wet heap; when you tug at the waistband of his boxers — seriously, you will never understand why land-walkers instead on wearing so many things — he does not help, too focused on painstakingly undoing every fastening on your soaked shirt, pulling it off of your shoulders, leaving you free and bare. You don’t even have the time to be confused by the suddenness of it, because then he inches forward, bending down to kiss your hair and cupping your breasts in his hands.
“What is it called?” you ask before he can distract you further with featherlight touches and kisses along your temples, your hairline, your jaw.
“Corpora cavernosa,” he says. “Corpus spongiosum. It’s a reproductive organ.”
“Corpora cavernosa and corpus spongiosum,” you say. “Doesn’t it have another name? How pelvis is hips and tibia is shin, isn’t there some other way to call it?”
“Yes,” he says, avoiding your gaze, though you can tell he notices when you bat your eyelashes at him, his words coming out strained, through gritted teeth. “Cock.”
“Hm,” you say. “I see. Can I feel it?”
“What?” he says, a little shrilly. “You — what?”
You’re not sure why he’s so surprised, it feels like a bit of a natural conclusion in your mind, but you repeat carefully, slowly, so that you are not misunderstood.
“Sunday,” you say. “May I touch your cock?”
His face turns rosy, his wings covering his face as he hums in agreement. Immediately, you graze your open palm along the underside of it, marveling at the silkiness, the smoothness of the skin, the heat and the heaviness of it. You’ve never seen anything like this, like a land-walker’s cock, and your ventral fins swish with involuntary excitement, although he has long since given up on touching you back.
When you flick your tongue against his tip, you’re delighted to discover that it tastes a little salty, a little like home. You only meant to do it once, experimentally, but you cannot help doing it again, though a breathy groan from Sunday stops you before you can continue.
You almost ask if you’re hurting him once more before you remember what he said, that land-walkers are sensitive there, and then you finally realize that that emotion he sometimes feels around you, that pleasurable, shy, shivering one, is want.
“Does it feel nice when I do that?” you ask him.
“It does,” he says, and his wings still guard his face but you’d wager it’s as red or redder than before.
“Can I keep doing it?” you say. He pulls one wing back a bit, peeking at you shyly through the feathers, and you try your best to smile at him, hoping that that land-walking gesture applies here, too.
“Do you want to?” he asks.
“Yes,” you say. “Yes, please, Sunday, I want to.”
“Okay,” he says. “Keep going, then. If you want to, then I, ah, I certainly won’t stop you.”
You watch him as you drag your tongue along the length of his cock, taking careful note of which places and ministrations prompt small noises and movements from him, focusing on them so that you can hear his lovely, musical gasps over and over and over again.
“Careful,” he says, drawing his hips back, away from your eager mouth. “If you keep doing that, I—I’ll—”
He takes your hand in his, squeezing tightly and using it to replace your lips, pumping up and down before, abruptly, the tension in his body and the air alike dissipate, melting away into an overwhelming, contended fondness, his pleasure coating your neck and dripping down into the hollow at the base of your throat.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his fingers still interlocked with yours, his free hand roaming over your hair, your cheeks, your chin.
“Why?” you murmur, the exhaustion rolling off him making you sleepy yourself.
“I used you without any thought of what makes you feel nice,” he says, and then he kisses you thoroughly, apologetically, like he is begging you to understand, to set right his wrongs. Pulling back only slightly, he murmurs against your lips: “Let me make it up to you, lady mermaid.”
“Make it up to me?” you say, your drowsiness fleeing the instant he kisses you one more time before taking your nipple into his mouth. “Oh.”
With a swift maneuver of your tail, you yank him in the water with you, holding onto him tightly as he shows you the land-walking way of saying sorry.
“This is an incredible enclosure,” Dan Heng says, dipping a toe into the mermaid’s pool and then flashing Sunday an approving grin. “You’ve outdone yourself. Don’t get rid of it when she leaves, okay? I might bring specimens here instead of the lab, it’s certainly nicer than anything at the university.”
“Of course, you’re welcome to,” Sunday says, because any excuse for Dan Heng to visit is a good thing. “I’m sure she won’t mind if you have to bring anything even while she is here.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose,” he says. “Mermaid!”
“Vidyadhara!” she calls back, appearing and whacking her tail against the surface of the water, attempting to splash him despite her knowledge of his Cloudhymn magic. Dan Heng is unfazed and unharmed; the only one doused is Sunday, who is used to it at this point and doesn’t even fuss.
“I’m here to look at your injury and see how you’re recovering. Will you cooperate, or do I need to sedate you?” he says. She glances at Sunday nervously, and he blinks in what he hopes is a reassuring way.
“She’ll cooperate,” he says to Dan Heng when she only ducks back under the water. “Lady mermaid, you know I would not bring him here if I thought he would harm you. Please do as he says, it’s for your benefit.”
Silence.
“I’ll feed you oysters afterwards if you’re good.”
“Fine,” she says, manifesting suddenly at Dan Heng’s feet, offering him her tail and smiling sweetly. “Do as you’d like.”
Sunday returns to the kitchen to prepare her oysters, trusting that Dan Heng can more than handle himself, as well as trusting her to keep her word. He would never admit it aloud, but it does please him a little to know that even now, she holds no fondness for anyone but him, that he is different from everyone else, that there is a certain regard and relationship between them both that goes beyond anything he’s ever known before.
“Good news,” Dan Heng says, entering the kitchen casually, like he’s done it a million times before. “The scar is pretty nasty, but she’s fine otherwise.”
“Do you mean she’s healed?” Sunday says.
“Yes, she doesn’t seem to have any issues with movement or any limitations to her range of motion. The scar is a little unsightly, but mermaids don’t place much value in things like that — her fins are still large and healthy, so she’ll be considered as attractive as ever to her people. She should be able to acclimate back to life under the sea pretty quickly,” Dan Heng says.
“No,” Sunday says instinctively. Dan Heng, who has just taken a bite out of an apple, furrows his brow at him. “We can’t just send her back! The ocean is dangerous, what if she gets captured again? What if she gets hurt and I’m — we’re not there to help her? Mermaids don’t have medicine or anything like that, if she gets hurt again…and not to mention those mermaid hunters are still out there! They’ll try to take revenge if they find her, she killed their captain and they hate her for it…it’s so dangerous, there’s no way we can just let her go! She needs more time.”
“She does, or you do?” Dan Heng asks, chewing on the fruit, his voice level, detached. Sunday’s racing thoughts screech to a halt, which is a typical effect that Dan Heng has on him, always knowing what to say, for better or for worse. “Sunday, you can’t keep her here forever.”
“Why not?” he says, and he feels like a little child again, Gopher Wood taking him by the hand and leading from his ruined home. “Why must she go?”
Dan Heng finishes the apple, tosses the core in the trash, and then gives Sunday a sympathetic look. Sunday is obstinate, he always is, but for once, Dan Heng does not stand stubborn and cold in his way; instead, he is gentle when he speaks, kind, his thundercloud eyes compassionate instead of reserved and guarded as they usually are. Sunday knows before he even says anything that he will be right, because Dan Heng always is, and he will hate it, because Sunday always does.
“That’s not a question,” he says. “You have to let her go home, Sunday.”
“No, I don’t,” Sunday says, but without any vigor or conviction. “I won’t.”
“You will,” Dan Heng says. “If you really love her, you will.”
Sunday and Dan Heng help you into a wheelbarrow filled with saltwater, each taking one handle and looking entirely ridiculous as they pull you after them. Dan Heng does not struggle quite as much as Sunday does, but he is also not quite as determined, so they both end up putting in equal effort, which you find rather humorous, as it is slow and convinces you that you never want to be a land-walker, not when their lives are clearly so inconvenient.
“Does it matter where we drop you off?” Dan Heng says. His Cloudhymn magic is keeping the sloshing water from spilling over, so there is a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead; taking pity on him, you use your caudal fin to wipe it off and pat his cheek gratefully.
“No, it’s all the same. My home is far away, anyways, in a place with glaciers and ice floes, so I’ll have to swim a great distance regardless of where I start off,” you say.
“Wonderful,” Dan Heng says. “We can just stop here, then.”
You’re on a wooden dock, the ocean stretching out as far as the eye can see. It’s beautiful, so beautiful, and tears gather in the corners of your eyes. You’ll be home soon. Your entire life, everyone you had to leave behind, they’re all waiting for you there, somewhere beyond the horizon. Beneath the surface, you’re sure the whales are singing, and there’ll be fish to play with and an entire world you can swim around, as many times as you’d like, and save for the scar down your tail, it will be as though this whole ordeal never happened.
“Hey,” Sunday says. Dan Heng has taken a few polite steps away, inspecting a tidepool with the utmost of interest, as though the secrets of the universe might be contained in its shallow depths. “You’ll be careful, won’t you?”
“Yes,” you say.
“Don’t trust any land dwellers. They’re not all as kind as Dan Heng and I,” he continues.
“I won’t,” you say.
“Your tail should be fully recovered, but if it starts to hurt again, make sure to rest it until it’s better,” he says.
“I will,” you say.
“And—”
“Sunday,” you say, chuckling a bit at his fretting. “I’ve lived my entire life under the sea. I’ll be alright, I promise.”
“I apologize,” he says. “I just…”
“I know,” you say, reaching your arms out towards him, allowing him to bury his face in the crook of your neck, stroking along his spine. There are so many things you could possibly say to him, but there aren’t enough words in the universe to explain the only of them that actually means anything, so you simply cling to him and hope that Halovians, like mermaids, can understand the intent behind that. “I know.”
“You can always come back,” he says. “My dear mermaid. I won’t change anything. It will be just as you left it, and if you ever want to…you can always, always come back to me.”
You don’t have an answer, so you simply kiss him, savoring his taste, his scent, his everything. You don’t want to forget him. You don’t want to forget a single detail of him, you want to memorize him as he is now and keep the effigy close to your heart forever.
“Are you ready?” Dan Heng says. You’re not sure when he returned, but, combing your fingers through Sunday’s hair, you nod at the Vidyadhara, who nods back and prepares to tip you back into the sea, where you belong. “Farewell, then.”
“Farewell, and good luck with your thee-sis, Dan Heng,” you say, and then, one final time, you smile at Sunday. “Goodbye, Sunday. Thank you for everything.”
“No,” he says. “Thank you.”
Today, the sea is quiet, and as Sunday Oak sits on the edge of a nondescript wooden dock, he wonders if it’s just as quiet in a place far away, a place with glaciers and ice floes and beautiful, beloved mermaids. If he were a better swimmer, perhaps he’d submerge himself, perhaps he’d jump in and keep going until he found that place — that is to say, until he found her. But he cannot swim that well, it’s not something expected of a Halovian, so he is left to sit and watch the placid waves and imagine what she might be doing, wherever she is.
He didn’t think he would miss her this much. Robin is back from touring, and she was delighted to learn that a mermaid was a guest in their home, although she left before they could meet. Dan Heng speaks with him even though he has no reason to; the two of them meet for lunch once a week, and Dan Heng has introduced him to the rest of his friends, who accept Sunday as quickly as if he’d been with them from the start. By all definitions, he has never been happier, so why is it that he finds himself coming to the seashore, to the dock, even now? Why is it that he wishes he could see her again, even just once, even just to tell her that he thinks of her so often it physically pains him?
Abruptly, the dock shakes, as though something very heavy has hit it, and before Sunday can scramble to his feet, a large black-and-white fish he’s only ever seen in textbooks pokes its head out and regards him curiously. It’s an orca, a sea-wolf, although this one is acting more like a puppy than anything, even nudging him playfully with its snout when he gapes at it for too long.
“Are you lost or something?” he says, because sure, he’s not getting a PhD in marine biology the way Dan Heng is, but even he knows that orcas aren’t native to these waters. The orca lets out a clicking noise, and then it splashes him. He frowns at the orca, about to chide it for its rudeness, but then a silvery tail knocks him into the water and a pair of arms catches him before he can sink too far beneath the surface.
“Hello,” she says. “I see you’ve met my orca. I think she likes you.”
“Is it really you?” he breathes, and the mermaid, his mermaid, smiles at him, her tail wrapping securely around his legs and her head leaning against his chest. “What are you doing here? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she says. “I just…wanted to see you.”
Before he can respond, her orca whistles excitedly and rams into him, rubbing against the breadth of his body in greeting. And Sunday has never really considered himself to be an animal person, but the orca is kind of sweet, and now his mermaid is laughing as she tells her pet to be careful with him, so he thinks to himself, well, maybe this isn’t so bad.
Then she’s helping him back onto the dock and kissing him, her hands toying with his waistband and her tongue lapping against his own, so he throws caution to the wind and decides, for once, to stop thinking at all.
contains/tw: medical play, intoxication, dubcon, slight somnophilia if you squint maybe, top!shoko, bottom!reader, shoko gives you laughing gas & then fucks you essentially 😌
wc: around 1.5k
ty to @delzinrowe for beta-reading! 💙
this was originally written for kinktober but- ya know clearly we didn’t make it that far. figured y’all would still wanna see this though 🙈
remember you are responsible for your own media consumption!! 💙
“I’m not going to give you enough so you’re completely knocked out and unable to consent.” Shoko stated, drumming her gloved fingers along the blue cannister of nitrous oxide as if contemplating whether or not she really wanted to do this. Usually Shoko was always down to experiment in whatever ways you were curious about in the bedroom. Though sometimes she had to admit, the list of curiosities took her to places she had never even thought of.
Like now… late at night in her office, you sprawled out on her examination table being asked to be fucked while under the influence of laughing gas. “I’m giving you my consent now.” You spoke with a huff, hugging a knee to your chest while your cheeks turned pink in mild embarrassment. “But if you don’t want to do this then-”
“Yes because that is precisely why I dragged out this massive canister of laughing gas and have you currently laid out on my examination table right now.” Shoko sassily remarked as she let her gloved hands roam over your precious body causing you to squirm ever so slightly. “I just need to be sure that if you want to stop then you can tell me.”
“I won’t want to stop.” You spoke, arms encircling around her shoulders with the slightest arch into her touch. Shoko was already intoxicating enough as it was. The addition of the canister of laughing gas lingering in the corner of your eye only caused the slightest hint of adrenaline to creep into your veins.
“I certainly hope not.” She murmured, lips brushing against your neck in a way that only made your breathing quicken. A slight introduction of tension within your figure that already had her cooing gently against your skin. “Shhh, darling I need you to relax.”
You watched her hands reach out to pluck the oxygen mask from her vast array of medical supplies, shaking hands drifting upwards to grasp onto her arms as you gulped a slightly anxious lump down your throat and nodded. “That’s my good girl.” She whispered, hands gently brushing back your hair. With one twist of her hand she flicked the machine to life and enclosed the mask over your nose and mouth. The sudden extra flow of oxygen causing your eyes to widen ever so slightly at the first brush of air.
It had been a while since you had undergone any procedure that would require the addition of the laughing gas. But at the first hit of air the world suddenly felt lighter, widened eyes turning into fluttering ones as her fingers delicately caressed your cheek while her other inched towards the waistband of your pants. The hint of an airy moan stilling on your lips as you felt the cold air hitting your thighs the moment she began to strip you. “Sho…”
“Shhh… baby girl, I’ve got you.”
The gas tasted sweet within your airways, adding a new feeling of sensitivity amongst every single one of her touches however light they might’ve been. Touches that once more had you arching up into your touch as a breathy whimper spilled from your lips as you felt her lips trailing lower. “Sho… please-” It felt like the fight of your life just to get the words out. You were in such a daze, the world blurring around you, but it wasn’t nearly enough to not be able to comprehend how badly you wanted her. Needed her.
“Shhh… patience, pretty girl. Let me take my time with you.” The feeling of her fingers sliding through your folds had you gasping in response. The floaty feeling of the chemicals causing a small giggle to spring up from your lips. One that Shoko only echoed in amusement. “Does that feel good, baby?”
All you could manage to get out was another moan, legs spreading on instinct the moment you felt her soft lips brushing against your inner thigh. “So good…” You spoke through a breathy moan, fingertips brushing against her brown head of hair, vision still blurry in front of you as if you were seeing stars.
Your giggles from the gas turned into a small whimper of pleasure the moment you felt her warm tongue gliding through your folds. Jaw dropping with a series of pleasurable heavy breaths sounding from your lungs as she gently lapped at your wet cunt like a thirsty dog running into a puddle of rain. “O-Oh Sho… Sho, it feels so good.”
It almost felt like you were floating on a cloud with the way the sweetness of the chemicals mixed with the feeling of her tongue beginning to sink through you center and connect with your bundle of nerves. A type of euphoria that had your eyes rolling back, suddenly fixated on how soft her hair felt in between your fingers. Though the vibrations of a moan from her end had a slight squeal sounding from your lips.
“I need you to stay with me, sweetheart.” She lightly chastised, the sudden departure of her lips from your glistening pussy causing you to whine in response at the pause of pleasure.
“Yes Dr. Ieiri.” You didn’t know if it was because of how high you felt that the title slipped out on instinct or if it was intentional, either way it seemed to make Shoko bristle in response as she sent another moan up through your core.
“That’s my good girl… such a good patient for your doctor.” She murmured, gloved hands sprawling out across your stomach as her mouth connected back to your clit, tongue massaging the swollen bud with enough pressure that had you crying out with all of the strength you had left in you.
Slowly you let your hips lift from the examination table, Shoko’s arms only tightening around your thighs as she continued to devour you in the way you knew only she could. Placing those incredible open mouthed kisses against your folds that you knew had to be dripping with arousal by now. You weren’t sure what felt better, the way her mouth seemed to move against you so effortlessly or the way the chemicals pumped the sweetness through your airways. What you did know though was that in combination it was complete and total bliss. You could’ve laid there forever as she made love to you with her mouth.
Your breathing heavy as ever as your moans only grew louder, slipping into a daze where it felt as if all you could comprehend was how good it all felt. A climax rushing to the surface much quicker than you would’ve liked leaving your mouth hanging open with a sudden cry, “Sho! Sh-Sho, I’m gonna…”
“Shhh, my love, I’ve got you.” Your hands felt numb until her own laced through you fingers, giving them the slightest squeeze. “Just let go for me.”
The relief flooded through your body the moment the release hit, almost as if your body was just waiting… waiting for her permission as she caught all of the sweet nectar with a moan of her own. Lips still glistening even as she inched away, bits of her blue gloves now a stark white as she let them travel up your quivering thighs. Chest heaving with breaths that still remained just as heavy as before, forgotten about the oxygen mask entirely until she removed it from your face. “Sho…”
“I’m right here, my love.” She whispered, one hand caressing your face while the other reached outwards to shut off the canister of chemicals. It had felt like hours that you been under, still barely conscious even as she shut off the flow of gas. “You alright?” She murmured, soft lips brushing against your forehead and hairline.
“Dizzy… cold-” You murmured through a shiver causing a long sigh to fall from her lips as she nodded.
“Typical side effects.” She answered, the most careful thumb running along the curve of your cheekbone. “Was it good, at least?”
You couldn’t tell what it was exactly, the high of the orgasm or the post-high of the laughing gas- somehow the question made a giddy laugh spring to your lips. A question that definitely didn’t require a verbal answer.
“It better have been… I could lose my license for this.” Shoko stated, eyes briefly rolling up towards the sky. Though you both know that she wouldn’t, even if you didn’t feel like you had the energy to speak the slurred words. All you could do was hum as you let your body slump against hers the moment you felt a gentle arm sliding around the back of your shoulders, almost as if she was trying to settle in behind you.
You couldn’t choke out much during the comedown of the high, even as you opened your mouth the only thing that your vocal cords seemed to be able to utter was a quiet, “Sho…” a word that had a soft smile tugging on the ends of her lips as she brushed them against your temple with the utmost delicacy.
“I’m right here, darling girl… I’m not going anywhere.”
Credits: line dividers by @omi-resources & other dividers by @strangergraphics 💙
synopsis: you and satoru gojo absolutely do not have a thing for each other. you only spend time together because of your shared affection for his dragon. at least, that’s what you keep telling yourself—because there’s no way you’d ever fall for the most insufferably cocky, sharp-tongued, ridiculously charming dragon rider on the entire isle of berk… right?
alternatively, in which a dragon plays matchmaker and you save satoru’s ass.
tags: fluff, mild angst, smut (oral sex, unprotected sex, fingering, riding), action, frenemies to lovers, how to train your dragon!au. pining, idiots to idiots in love. profanity, injuries, blood, reader almost drowns, etc.
word count: 16.1k
a/n: art by _3aem on x. reposted from my old blog :)
“Piss off, Gojo.”
Satoru Gojo does not piss off. You’re fairly certain he doesn’t know how to. It’s stitched into his DNA, being an annoying twat on the good days and an all-round prick on the others.
“I would,” he says. “But Sukuna really wanted head pats and for whatever reason, he thinks mine are unsatisfactory.”
The aforementioned Sukuna, of course, refers to his dragon—the last-remaining Night Fury on the Isle of Berk.
“You couldn’t have picked someone normal to bond with?” you ask the dragon.
Sukuna blinks slowly, entirely unfazed, then shifts his massive head a fraction closer to your shoulder. His scales catch the sunlight like dark, wet marble, but the way he’s leaning into you gives him all the menace of a particularly clingy housecat. A housecat with fire breath, razor claws, and the ability to level a village if he ever got bored enough.
Satoru, stretched out on the grass beside him, grins. “Don’t blame Sukuna,” he says, resting his weight back on his palms like he owns the hill, the sky, the whole bloody island. “He can’t help liking you better.”
“Everyone likes me better.”
“Mm. Bold claim.”
“True claim,” you retort. You scratch absentmindedly under Sukuna’s jaw, right where the scales give way to smooth skin, and he lets out a deep, throaty rumble of pleasure. It vibrates through the ground beneath your feet, a sound that would send most of Berk sprinting for the hills. You barely flinch. He’s impossible not to soften toward—something Satoru has weaponised far too often.
“I’m just saying,” Satoru drawls, “you might be his favourite person on the island.”
“He doesn’t have many options,” you say.
“Wow. And here I thought we were friends.”
You roll your eyes. “We are not friends.”
“Acquaintances?” he tries, silver hair glinting in the sunlight and blue eyes far too bright and mischievous and knowing.
“Barely.”
“Brutal,” he says. “You talk to all your barely-acquaintances this much?”
“Only the ones who refuse to shut up.”
“That’s most people, though.”
“Maybe you’re the problem,” you shoot back.
It’s exhausting, really, how he manages to talk in italics, every word tilted just enough to keep you bristling. He’s the single most aggravating man on the entire Isle of Berk—and that’s saying something, considering the place is full of dragon riders who think personal boundaries is a suggestion, not a rule.
You’d like to say you hate him. Really, you would. It would make things simpler. But hate implies he occupies actual space in your head, and the problem—the infuriating, inescapable problem—is that you refuse to give him the satisfaction.
“Why are you even here?” you demand finally, because you’ve learned the only way to deal with Satoru Gojo is to stay on the offensive.
“Sukuna wanted pats,” he repeats.
“Pretty sure Sukuna can find his own way here.”
“Yeah,” Satoru says, grinning wider, “but I can’t.”
You blink. “Are you—are you implying you used your dragon as an excuse to see me?”
“No,” he says immediately, dragging the vowel out. “Definitely not. I have so many better things to do.”
“Name one.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Thinks for a second. “…Patrolling?”
“That’s not better.”
“Depends on who you ask.” He falls back fully onto the grass, folding his arms behind his head, one long leg bent at the knee. The picture of ease, like he hasn’t just dropped the suggestion that he wanted to see you and then refused to elaborate. Like he hasn’t steadily been driving you insane since the day you met him.
The wind shifts over the hill, carrying with it the salt of the distant sea. Berk stretches out below—scattered houses of stone and timber, smoke curling from chimneys, dragons wheeling in the sky above the watchtowers. Out past the cliffs, the ocean flashes silver under the sun, calm for now but never for long.
“Illegal trapping’s been getting worse,” Satory says idly after a moment.
You glance at him. “And yet you’re here annoying me instead of dealing with it?”
“Hey, I’m off-duty.”
“You’re never off-duty.”
“True,” he admits, shameless. “But my boss doesn’t need to know that.”
You roll your eyes. The boss in question is Yaga the Vast, chief of Berk, who has approximately zero patience for stragglers like Satoru and yet, somehow, keeps putting him in charge of things anyway. Probably because when he isn’t being insufferable, Satoru is annoyingly good at his job.
Sukuna shifts closer again, massive head nudging your shoulder with a low whuff. The force of it nearly knocks you off balance.
“He’s so needy,” you mutter, scratching under his jaw again.
Satoru props himself up on his elbows to watch. “You love it.”
“Do not.”
“Do too.”
“Do not.”
“Do—”
“Finish that sentence,” you warn, “and I swear I will throw you off this hill.”
He smiles, unbothered. “Can’t, gorgeous. Sukuna would just catch me.”
“Shame,” you say.
Sukuna rumbles again, louder this time, as if laughing at the both of you. Which is ridiculous, obviously. Dragons don’t laugh. Probably. You’re still scratching absentmindedly at his jaw when the shout comes from below the hill.
“Gojo! We’ve got movement near the cliffs!”
It’s one of the younger riders—Yaga’s apprentice, maybe. You don’t remember his name. He’s sprinting uphill, out of breath, waving both arms wildly.
Satoru sighs. “And here I was enjoying my day off.”
“Trappers?” you ask, already knowing the answer.
“Yeah.” He pushes to his feet. “Looks like it.”
The apprentice finally reaches the top, panting. “They spotted nets near the west cliffs,” he manages. “Could be setting up for a catch.”
Satoru dusts off his hands lazily, as though he hasn’t just been summoned to go handle the exact kind of people who would love to get their hands on a Night Fury. On Sukuna. You glance at the dragon, who’s gone very still beside you. His tail flicks once, sharp and restless.
Satoru notices too. “Relax,” he tells him softly, before turning that insufferable grin back on you. “Rain check on the head pats?”
“Not my dragon,” you remind him.
He winks. “Technicality.”
With that, he swings easily onto Sukuna’s back, all long limbs and practiced motion, like he was born in the saddle. Sukuna launches into the sky a moment later, wings snapping wide, dust kicking up in their wake. You watch them go, a dark shape against the sunlit clouds, until they’re nothing but a speck over the cliffs.
You’re still staring at the empty sky when the young rider clears his throat.
“Uh… hi,” he says awkwardly. He’s about your age, maybe a bit younger, with a nervous energy that makes you want to pat him on the shoulder and tell him to relax. He’s holding a map, which he’d pulled out of his pocket and now folds and unfolds with frantic hands. “You’re, uh, you’re the mapmaker, right? The one who lives by the sea?”
“That’s me,” you say, forcing yourself to look away from the horizon.
He nods, relieved. “Right. Yaga said to give you this. It’s the new coastline for the north. He said you’d be able to sketch it out better than anyone else.” He holds out the piece of parchment.
You take the map, unfolding it to see the jagged lines and rough sketches of a coastline you haven’t visited yet. The lines are crude, but the general shape is there. “Thanks,” you say. “I’ll get on it as soon as I can.”
“Right,” he says. “So… you and Gojo. You guys are… close?”
You stiffen. The question is innocent, but it feels like an accusation. “No. Not at all.”
He looks skeptical. “He talks about you a lot. Like, a lot lot. Says you’re the only person who can keep up with him.
You fight the urge to groan. “He’s a liar.”
“Yeah, he is.” The young rider laughs, a short, nervous sound. “But I don’t know. It’s weird. He’s always, like, looking for you. Or waiting for you.”
You don’t know how to respond to that. It’s too close to the truth. You just shrug, then look at the map. “I should get going. I have a lot of work to do.”
“Right. See you around, then.” The rider turns to leave, jogging down the hill with a newfound energy, happy to escape the awkwardness.
You look at the map, then at the sky where Sukuna and Gojo disappeared. You can’t stop thinking about the way Gojo smiled when he told you that Sukuna was just an excuse to see you. It was a joke, you know that. He’s always joking, always playing with words. But the way he said it… it felt like there was a kernel of truth in it, a tiny, infuriating admission that you didn’t want to acknowledge.
You trace the lines on the map, but your mind is elsewhere. You’re picturing him, the way he looks when he’s serious, the way he talks when he’s trying to get under your skin. You’re picturing Sukuna, the way he leans into your touch, the way he rumbles with contentment. You’re picturing the two of them, a perfect pair of chaos, a storm of annoying energy.
You shake your head, trying to clear your thoughts. You have work to do, a map to sketch. But you can’t help but wonder if Gojo and Sukuna are okay. You can’t help but wonder what he’ll say the next time you see him.
A soft breeze, smelling of salt and distant rain, carries the sound of Sukuna’s contented rumble. You look up from your work, the firelight from your cottage flickering on the parchment in your lap. The Night Fury, a silhouette against the moon, lands with a soft thud, a dark shadow in the growing dimness. You can’t help the small, reluctant smile that tugs at your lips. It’s a happy sound, that snort of his, and it’s hard not to feel a little bit of warmth toward the gigantic reptile. The smile vanishes the moment you see Satoru Gojo dismount.
He slides off the dragon’s back and lands on the packed dirt with a huff. His silver hair, usually perfectly styled, is now adorned with a scattering of leaves and twigs. He looks ridiculously pleased with himself.
“Looks like you had a hard day,” you say, voice dry. You don’t bother looking up from your map, a new survey of the eastern coast that is proving to be a nightmare of jagged inlets and hidden reefs.
“The hardest,” he replies, walking toward the fire. Sukuna follows, a low purr rumbling in his chest as he nudges your shoulder gently. You stroke the smooth scales under his jaw.
“Did you, by any chance, get your head stuck in a bush?” you ask pointedly.
He laughs. “Just a little turbulence. But don’t worry, it was for a good cause.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Oh? And what’s that?”
“Well, you know,” he says, pulling a stray leaf from his hair. “I had to make sure the trappers didn’t get away. Can’t have them messing up the ecosystem, can we?”
“But your impeccable hair and abysmal flying skills get a pass, I suppose.”
“Priorities, you know.” Satoru sits down on a log across from you, the firelight glinting in his bright blue eyes. “What are you up to? Still drawing pretty pictures of rocks and water?”
“I’m creating an accurate navigational chart for the fishing fleet,” you correct. “So that they don’t end up on the bottom of the sea.”
“Right, right. Important work,” he says. “You’d be a lot faster if you had some help.”
“I’m perfectly fine on my own.”
“I’m just saying,” he drawls, “a second pair of eyes could be useful. Especially mine. They’re very, very good eyes.”
You roll your own. “I’m not interested in your help, Gojo. Or your eyes, for that matter.”
Sukuna, who had been contently nuzzling your shoulder, chooses that moment to let out a slow, mournful sound, as if he understood the conversation and is deeply disappointed by your attitude. He nudges Gojo’s head with his own, then your shoulder again. He goes back and forth, like a pendulum. It’s slightly annoying.
“See?” Gojo says, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Even Sukuna agrees. He thinks we should be friends.”
“Sukuna thinks you should be less annoying,” you counter, reaching out to pat the dragon’s large head. He lets out a low rumble, pleased.
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Satoru says. He leans forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He told me on the way here that he thinks we would make a very handsome couple.”
You snort. “He has terrible taste. You’re lucky he hasn’t left you for a better rider.”
“Impossible,” Satoru scoffs. “I’m the best. And he knows it.”
“And the most modest, too,” you mutter.
Sukuna lets out a deep, throaty rumble, and gently nudges you closer to the fire. The action is subtle, but a piece of your parchment slips off your knee and lands with a quiet rustle on the ground near Satoru’s feet. He bends down to pick it up, his long fingers brushing against yours as he hands it back.
“Clumsy,” he says, but the glint in his eyes tells you he’s not talking about the paper.
You ignore him, focusing on the map, but your hand trembles slightly, and the ink bleeds on the line you’re trying to draw. You let out an exasperated sigh, and Sukuna, with a loud huff, settles down between you and Satoru. It’s a deliberate move. The dragon’s nothing more than a massive, scaly chaperone.
“Look at him,” Satoru says, his voice softer now. “He’s tired. Trappers, you know. They’re more persistent than usual.”
“Did you catch them?”
“Most of them. They had nets—one almost got Sukuna. If he hadn’t been so fast, it would have been a rough night.”
You look at the dragon, who is now snoozing with one eye open, the firelight catching the dark, wet-looking scales on his hide. A sudden wave of protectiveness washes over you, a familiar feeling when it comes to the dragon. But then you look at Satoru, and see the deep weariness in his eyes, the faint lines of stress etched around his mouth, and that familiar wave of protectiveness becomes tangled with something else, something you refuse to name.
“You should get some rest,” you say, the words feeling foreign and heavy on your tongue.
He looks surprised. “Worried about me?”
“I’m worried about Sukuna,” you shoot back, and the warmth in your stomach curdles into a familiar acidity. “He needs his rider to be in top form. The last thing he needs is to be stuck with a tired, insufferable oaf.”
He laughs. “You wound me. But thank you. It’s nice to know someone cares.”
“I don’t care,” you insist, and you know you’re lying. You also know he knows you’re lying. It’s a game you play, a tense, stupid dance.
Sukuna lets out a snort. He flicks his head towards Satoru, then towards you, as if to say, just talk to each other, idiots. You want to kick him. Affectionately, of course.
“Well,” Satoru says. “I suppose I should go. Duty calls and all that.” He stands up, stretching his arms over his head before shaking it.
“You’re going back out?” you ask, a note of alarm in your voice that you can’t control.
“Nah,” he says, smiling a little softer now. “Just kidding. Yaga told me to stay put until morning, ‘cause he said I caused enough trouble for one day.”
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
He reaches down and ruffles Sukuna’s head, though his words are addressed to you. “I’ll be back tomorrow for some more pats, okay?”
Sukuna huffs happily in response.
Satoru turns and walks away, a long, lanky shadow disappearing into the darkness. Sukuna watches him go, then turns his gaze back to you, his garnet-coloured eyes flashing. He nudges your hand again. You know what he wants. He wants you to talk to Gojo. He wants you to go after him.
You sigh. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not his keeper. I’m not yours, either.”
Sukuna snorts, a clear, exasperated sound, and settles his massive head on your lap. He’s warm, a solid weight of comfort in the cool night. You don’t bother to shoo him away. You simply sit there, under the moonlight, and stare into the dark where Gojo disappeared.
“It’s a fool’s errand,” you say, dropping the rolled-up parchment onto Yaga’s desk with a resounding thud. The Chief of Berk, a man with a beard as formidable as his temperament, looks up from the horn he’s polishing.
“What is?” he asks.
“This,” you say, pointing an accusatory finger at the map. “The north coast. It’s impossible to draw from the ground. I’ve only been there twice, and I spent most of the time trying not to fall to my death. The cliffs are sheer drops. The inlets are jagged and hidden. I need to map it from above.”
Yaga stares at you for a long moment, his gaze unwavering. You hold his stare, a silent challenge. You’ve never been one to back down from the Chief, a fact that both annoys and impresses him.
He sighs. “Fine. You’re right. You’ll need a rider.” He looks around the hall, his eyes scanning for a likely candidate. Your heart sinks into your stomach when he lands on the very last person you want to see.
“Satoru!” he bellows.
Satoru Gojo, leaning against a support beam, in the middle of conversation with Yaga’s apprentice, gives you a little wave.
“Yeah, boss?” he calls out.
“You’re taking our mapmaker to the north coast,” Yaga says. “She needs to draw it from the air.”
“Pleasure’s all mine, Chief,” he says, sauntering over to the desk. “North coast, huh? A little chilly for you, isn’t it?”
You resist the urge to punch him. “I’ll manage. Let’s just get this over with.”
He claps his hands together. “Excellent! My calendar is wide open.”
The next morning is cold and brisk. A light mist hangs over the village, and the air smells of wet stone and woodsmoke. You’re waiting by the flight academy, a satchel slung over your shoulder and your sketchbook clutched in your hands. You’ve been waiting for ten minutes, which is ten minutes longer than you’d like.
Just as you’re about to turn and leave, you hear a loud, familiar whoosh of wind and the deep, throaty rumble of a Night Fury. Sukuna lands right in front of you. Satoru leers at you, seated on his back.
“Ready to fly, gorgeous?” he asks.
“I’m ready to get this done,” you correct.
You climb onto the dragon’s back, settling behind him on the saddle and placing your sketchbook and charcoal pencils carefully in your lap. Sukuna lets out a low purr, a rumble that you can feel vibrating through your body. He nudges his head back, giving your hand a soft, affectionate lick.
“He’s excited,” Satoru says. “He loves when we all go out together.”
“He’s excited about the snacks I brought him,” you say, pulling a piece of dried fish from your satchel and holding it out to Sukuna. He devours it in one gulp.
“You brought snacks?” Satoru asks. “For the dragon, and not for your very handsome and talented pilot?”
“You are not my pilot, and you are not getting any of this fish.”
He kicks his feet against Sukuna’s side, and the dragon launches himself into the air. You grip the saddle, your knuckles turning white. The wind whips at your hair and clothes, and you close your eyes for a moment, letting the sensation of flight wash over you. It’s a feeling you’ve never gotten used to, and it’s always a little terrifying, a little exhilarating.
Satoru leans back. “You’re good at this. Not screaming, I mean.”
You grit your teeth. “I’m a mapmaker, not a child. I’m used to dangerous situations.”
“Oh, I know,” he says, and you can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “You’re the one who saved my ass, remember?”
The memory of that night, of his blood on your hands, of the raw fear in your gut, flashes through your mind. You shiver, a cold feeling that has nothing to do with the wind.
“I’d rather not,” you say.
He doesn’t respond. Sukuna, as if sensing the shift in the atmosphere, lets out a low, questioning snort. He banks left, heading toward the northern cliffs.
The gentle, rolling hills of Berk give way to a brutal, unforgiving coastline. The cliffs are dark and jagged, the sea a churning mass of white foam. You pull out your sketchbook and begin to draw.
You work for hours, meticulously sketching every rock formation, every inlet, every hidden cove. You direct Satoru to turn this way and that, and he, for once, doesn’t argue. He lets you work, his body a steady, comforting presence in front of you, ensuring Sukuna’s movements are smooth and controlled.
At one point, you get so focused on a particular series of sea caves that you lean too far over the edge of the saddle, and almost lose your balance. A long, strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back against a warm, solid chest. You stiffen, your body rigid with surprise.
“Careful,” Satoru whispers, his breath warm against your ear. “Don’t want you falling to your death.”
You push him away, heart pounding. “I had it under control.”
“Sure, you did.”
Sukuna lets out a low, knowing chuff, a sound that makes you want to smack him. You ignore him, focusing back on your drawing, but it’s hard to stop thinking about the feeling of his arm around your waist, the warmth of his body against yours.
“You’re quiet,” he says after a while.
“I’m working.”
He hums. “Right. I just thought, you know, we could talk. Get to know each other. Since we’re going to be hanging out more often, we might as well be friends.”
“We are not going to be friends,” you say for what feels like the hundredth time.
“We are,” Satoru says. “We’re a team. You and me. And Sukuna, of course.” He reaches forward and strokes the Night Fury’s head, and the dragon rumbles with contentment.
“He’s your dragon,” you mutter.
“He likes you, too. More than me, I think,” Satoru says, and there’s a flicker of something in his voice—something soft and genuine—that makes you look away from your sketch and at him instead. His eyes are fixed on you, a strange mixture of warmth and… something else. You can’t quite place it.
You look away, your heart pounding again. You can’t handle this. You can’t handle this man, this dragon, this strange, dangerous intimacy that has sprung up between you.
You land back in the village as dusk is falling. The air is colder now, and the stars are beginning to peak out. You slide off Sukuna’s back, your legs shaky from the long flight. You feel a hand on your arm, steadying you.
“You did good,” Satoru says.
“So did you,” you say.
He smiles, a real smile, one that reaches his eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners. It’s a smile that you realise you haven’t seen very often. It’s a smile that makes the hollow cavity inside your chest where your heart lies skip a beat.
You turn away, clutching your sketchbook to your chest. “I’ll bring this to Yaga in the morning.”
“Right,” he says. “I’ll see you around.”
You walk away, but you can feel his gaze on your back. You can feel the warmth of his hand still on your arm. You don’t look back.
You make it to your cottage, but you don’t go inside. You sit on the stone step, your sketchbook still in your hands, and stare at the sky. You think about the north coast, about the cliffs and the caves, but also about Satoru. About the way his arm felt around your waist, about the way his smile made you feel, about the way he wasn’t being annoying for once.
You hear a soft thud. Sukuna stands behind you, a small branch in his mouth. He drops it at your feet. A branch from a Night Fury’s nest. He jabs at your hand with his nose, his eyes fixed on yours.
You know what he’s doing. He’s trying to tell you something. He’s trying to tell you that Satoru is not so bad. There’s a place for you in his life, in their life.
You reach down and pick up the branch, then look back at the dragon. You sigh, a long, drawn-out sound.
“You’re a terrible matchmaker, you know that?” you whisper to him.
Sukuna lets out a low purr and nudges you again. You don’t know what to do. You’re a mapmaker, a person of logic and order, and this man and his dragon are nothing but chaos. There’s absolutely no way anything good could ever come out of this.
“Head pats? Again?” You shoot Satoru an unimpressed glare, though the effect is rather diminished by the fact that you’re hanging upside down, trying to fix a hole in your roof. “At least come up with a better excuse.”
“Can’t. The dragon wants what the dragon wants,” Satoru says. “And what the dragon wants, the dragon gets.”
You grunt, shoving a loose thatch of straw back into place. Your ankles are looped around a wooden beam, your torso dangling over the edge of your cottage’s roof. The world is a strange, inverted place from this angle. The grass is a vibrant green sky, the clouds are a white, fluffy ground. Satoru Gojo’s annoyingly perfect face is floating in the air below you. He’s leaning back, his hands in his pockets, watching you with a smile. Sukuna is a little ways off, chewing on a large branch.
“And what the dragon wants is for me to risk breaking my neck just so you can make a terrible joke?” you ask.
“No, no, the dragon wants head pats,” Satoru corrects, shaking his head. “I’m just here to deliver the dragon to the head pats. A simple go-between.”
“You’re a go-between for your own dragon?”
“Look, it’s a complicated relationship,” he says. “He’s a very discerning dragon.”
You roll your eyes, a motion that makes your head throb. You pull yourself up, muscles straining, and clamber onto the roof. You sit on the ridge, straddling the peak, and pull a loose piece of wood from the hole. The wood is rotten, and the smell of mold and wet earth makes you wrinkle your nose. A sudden gust of wind snatches a loose piece of cloth from the edge of the roof, and you watch as it flutters to the ground and lands directly at Satoru’s feet.
He picks it up and says, “Lost something?”
“It’s just a rag,” you say.
He examines it, shaking it out with a flourish. “Looks like a perfectly good rag to me.”
“It’s not,” you say. “It’s old and worn out. Just leave it.”
He doesn’t. He folds it carefully and places it in his pocket, before walking over to where Sukuna is lying, and pulls out a piece of meat from his saddlebag. He tosses it to the dragon.
“So,” Satoru says. “Roof problems?”
“No,” you say, “I just enjoy dangling from high places.”
He laughs, a clear, loud sound that makes your stomach feel weird. “I get it. You’re a thrill-seeker. It’s one of your many charming qualities.”
“I’m not a thrill-seeker,” you say. “I’m a mapmaker. I prefer quiet, predictable things.”
“Still,” he says, “here you are, hanging from a roof, and here I am, your friendly neighbourhood… well, whatever I am.”
You groan. “You’re a pain. That’s what you are.”
“And you’re my favourite pain,” he says. “You’re the only person on the entire Isle of Berk who doesn’t fall all over themselves to talk to me.”
“That’s because I have a working brain.”
He laughs again, and you find yourself staring at him. He’s leaning against Sukuna’s side, his arms crossed over his chest. His silver hair catches the sunlight, and his bright blue eyes are fixed on you. He’s the most infuriating man you’ve ever met, but you can’t deny that he’s also breathtaking.
You tear your gaze away, a flush of heat creeping up your neck. You turn back to your roof, your hands shaking slightly as you try to hammer a loose piece of wood into place. You miss, and the hammer clatters to the ground, landing with a soft thud on the grass.
“Fuck,” you say, eloquently.
Satoru bends to pick up the hammer, turning it over in his hands. “For someone who claims to like quiet, predictable things, you have a funny way of living on the edge.”
You scowl down at him from the roof ridge. “I’m fixing a hole, Satoru. Not fighting a dragon barehanded.”
“Could be both, if you fall on Sukuna.”
Sukuna, hearing his name, glances up, tail flicking idly. He looks like he’d catch you if you fell. Probably. Maybe. If he felt like it.
“Very reassuring,” you mutter. “Give it back.”
“Come get it,” Satoru says, grinning.
You glare at him. He leans back against Sukuna’s side, one long leg crossed over the other. He looks like he could stay here all day, bothering you from ground level while you slowly lose your mind above him. You wipe the sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist. The sun’s beating down hard, pressing heat into the back of your neck. Your hands are already splintered from the wood, your hair sticking to your cheeks. You have an entire day’s worth of mapping to do but here you are, arguing with Berk’s most irritating dragon rider over a hammer.
“Fine,” you say. “Keep it. I’ll just tell everyone you bullied me into falling off my own roof.”
“But you didn’t fall,” he says. “Yet.”
You wish you could throw something at him. Preferably something heavy. Like a rock. Or maybe the entire cottage.
Instead, you clamber down from the roof ridge to the small platform just under it, wiping your palms on your trousers. From here, the world tilts alarmingly close. Satoru watches your careful descent with the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth.
When you reach the edge, you stretch your hand out. “Hammer.”
He taps it against his chin thoughtfully. “What do I get in return?”
“Your continued survival.”
“Tempting.” He tosses it up, easy and careless, then finally lobs it towards you. It arcs through the air, spinning end over end, and you snatch it out of the air just in time, the impact jolting through your wrist.
“Show-off,” you say.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
You don’t dignify that with a response, instead crawling back to the hole and fitting the new piece of wood into place. The hammer thunks steadily as you nail it down, the sound mingling with the wind and the distant crash of waves against cliffs. Satoru hums something under his breath, a lazy, tuneless thing. It carries upward, curling under your skin despite yourself.
You focus very, very hard on the roof.
When the piece finally holds, you sit back, wiping your forehead again. Your arms ache, your knees are bruised, and you can feel bits of straw clinging to your hair. Glorious, really.
“Done?” Satoru asks.
“For now,” you say.
“Good,” he says, pushing off Sukuna’s side. “Because Sukuna’s patience is running out.”
At the mention of his name, the dragon lets out a short, sharp huff, nostrils flaring. The branch he was chewing lies in two neat halves at his feet. His pupils have gone wide, round as coins—his version of puppy eyes.
You narrow yours. “This is emotional blackmail.”
“It’s effective,” Satoru says cheerfully, already strolling over to you. “C’mon, he’s been waiting all day.”
You glance from the dragon’s enormous, hopeful stare to Satoru’s infuriating grin and feel, very distinctly, like you’re being tag-teamed.
“Fine,” you mutter, hopping lightly off the lower edge of the roof. You land in a crouch, knees absorbing the impact, then stand and dust yourself off. “But only because he asked nicely.”
Satoru bows low, one hand over his heart. “As the humble messenger of the dragon, I thank you for your generosity.”
“Shut up,” you say, but there’s no real heat behind it.
Sukuna lowers his massive head as you approach, scales gleaming like wet stone. He makes a low, thrumming sound as your hand comes to rest between his eyes, the tension in his frame melting instantly. It’s absurd, how such a creature—so powerful, so feared—can melt into warmth at something as simple as a touch.
You scratch behind his jaw, feeling the rumble travel through your palm. “You deserve a better rider,” you murmur, just loud enough for Satoru to hear.
Satoru presses a hand to his chest. “Wounded. Absolutely gutted.”
“You’ll live.”
He leans against Sukuna’s shoulder, close enough that you catch the faint scent of wind and leather and something warm underneath. “You always say that like you’re sure.”
“I could be wrong,” you say sweetly.
“Now who’s emotionally blackmailing who?”
You roll your eyes. The wind picks up again, tossing Satoru’s hair into his eyes. He doesn’t move to fix it, just grins at you through the mess like he knows exactly what kind of picture he makes—irritatingly golden in the sunlight, with the dragon at his side and the whole damn world under his heel.
“You really are full of yourself,” you say finally.
He tilts his head. “Takes one to know one. Speaking of which, did I tell you about the trappers that thought they actually had a chance against Sukuna? Even I don’t stand a chance against Sukuna, and that’s saying something.”
“Trappers?” You raise an eyebrow, keeping your hand moving against Sukuna’s scales. “I thought you lot scared them off two weeks ago.”
“We did,” Satoru says. “Or so we thought. But the funny thing about pests—” He leans lazily against Sukuna’s massive shoulder, folding his arms. “—is that they always crawl back when you’re not looking.”
You frown, not at him for once, but at the idea of it. “Where?”
“Southern Coves,” he says. “A little group at first—three, maybe four men. We figured they were amateurs, probably thought they’d make their fortune dragging a few Terrible Terrors back in cages. Easy enough. Send them running, burn a net or two. Job done.”
The way he says it—casual, dismissive—doesn’t sit right with you. It rarely does, when Satoru Gojo talks about problems like they’re inconveniences rather than… well, problems.
“But then?” you prompt.
“But then,” he says, drawing out the words, “we found another group. Bigger. With better equipment. Steel nets, reinforced cages, the whole shebang.”
Your hand stills against Sukuna’s jaw. “Reinforced cages?”
“Mhm.” He tilts his head, watching your reaction like it’s more interesting than the story itself. “Not something you find lying around unless you’ve got coin. Or connections. Or both.”
Sukuna shifts beneath your touch, nudging his head into your palm like he can sense the tension in your shoulders. You scratch harder, both to soothe him and yourself. “That doesn’t sound like a coincidence,” you say.
“It doesn’t sound like much of anything,” Satoru counters flippantly. “Could just be a few desperate men pooling what they’ve got. Could be something else. Either way, we’re keeping an eye on it.”
“And by we you mean…”
“The riders. Me, Suguru, Kento, Haibara—the usual.”
You narrow your eyes. “You mean the same group that considers dive-bombing into cliffs a legitimate training exercise?”
“Worked out fine for me,” Satoru says with a shrug.
“Everything works out fine for you,” you shoot back.
That earns you a flash of his grin—bright, boyish, and infuriating. But it fades, just a little, and he says, quieter, “Doesn’t always.”
It’s the kind of admission that makes your stomach twist, because it’s true. Riders don’t always come back. Dragons don’t always survive. Trappers—real trappers, the kind with coin and steel and a hunger that isn’t easily sated—don’t play fair.
You exhale slowly. “You think they’re after Sukuna.”
“Everyone’s after Sukuna.” He says it like it’s a joke. “Last Night Fury, blah blah blah. People can’t help themselves.”
You glance at Sukuna. His pupils are still round, content beneath your touch, but his tail lashes once, like even he knows the weight of those words. A rare thing: fear dressed up as restlessness.
An unease worms its way beneath your ribs. It feels like the calm before a storm, the air just a shade too still, the sea too quiet. The trappers Satoru described don’t seem like scavengers chasing scraps. They’re organised. Equipped. Waiting for something—or someone. You hate it. You hate that Satoru can stand opposite you, hands tucked in his pockets, as though the world isn’t about to tip over its edge.
“You should be more worried,” you say finally.
“I worry plenty.”
“You don’t act like it.”
“Would it help if I wrung my hands and wept dramatically at your feet?”
“I’d pay good money to see that,” you say automatically. Sukuna nudges you again, harder this time, nearly knocking you off your feet. You steady yourself with a laugh that comes out thinner than you’d like. Satoru watches the two of you, his smile softened into something that almost looks like thought. Then, just as you’re about to ask another question, a shrill whistle splits the air from somewhere down the hill.
“Show time.” Satoru straightens, stretching his arms overhead. “Sounds like they’ve spotted another group near the coastline.”
Your stomach sinks. Already?
Satoru clicks his tongue, turning back to Sukuna. “Up, big guy.”
The Night Fury rises in a smooth, graceful motion, all coiled muscle and gleaming scales. His wings snap open, blotting out the sun for an instant, and you step back instinctively. Satoru sings into the saddle. He doesn’t look at you until Sukuna’s already crouching low, ready to launch.
“Don’t worry too much,” he says. “We’ve got it handled.”
“You don’t know that.”
He grins down at you. “Sure I do. I’m me.”
“Again?” You stare at Yaga the Vast like he’s sprouted another head—which, considering the man’s already broad shoulders and beard thick enough to hide a small family of sparrows, would be quite a sight. “You want me to map out the north coast again?”
“Yes,” Yaga’s voice rumbles, his arms crossed over his chest. The firelight in the great hall casts half his face into shadow, making him look even more immovable than usual. “But this time, you go deeper. Past the cove, beyond the breakers, to the inlets we’ve yet to mark. Unless we map out our neighbouring areas, how will we be able to defend Berk?”
You blink slowly, as if stalling will make the task shrink back into sanity. “Defend Berk from what, exactly? The world’s deadliest flock of puffins?”
“From anyone who thinks Berk is ripe for the taking,” Yaga replies. His thick fingers drum against his arm. “We can’t pretend we’re isolated forever. Already, the trappers sniff at our borders.”
You mask the prickle of unease that shivers down your spine with a scoff. “So your solution is to send me to traipse along the most dangerous stretch of coast known to dragon or man?”
“You won’t be alone. Take that scoundrel of a dragon rider with you.”
You groan, dragging both hands down your face. “Not him.”
“As if there were any other scoundrel I could mean,” Yaga says, almost indulgent.
“Satoru Gojo,” you say, lowering your hands and scowling, “is less of a companion and more of a—what’s the word—parasite. Loud, obnoxious, impossible to get rid of once he latches on.”
“He’s effective,” Yaga says.
“He’s insufferable,” you say.
“Both can be true,” he says. “And if you want Berk defended, if you want us to have some place to safely hide, or if you want your precious maps to mean something, you’ll take him with you. End of discussion.”
You gape at him, outrage coiling hot in your chest. But before you can muster a reply sharp enough to singe even Yaga the Vast’s vast beard, a familiar voice cuts through the hall.
“Did somebody say my name?”
Of course. Speak of the devil and his Night Fury, and both shall appear.
Satoru Gojo strolls in; his hair is a windswept mess of silver, his tunic is half-untied, and there’s a cocky grin already plastered on his face. Sukuna pads in behind him, the great black beast moving silent as shadow, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim hall light.
“Perfect timing,” Yaga says. “You’ll be escorting our mapmaker along the north coast. Deep waters. High cliffs. Dangerous territory. See to it that she comes back alive.”
“Yes, boss,” Satoru replies. His gaze slides to you, and his grin widens. “Couldn’t stay away from me, huh?”
Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “Believe me, if I had a choice between this and swimming naked through eel-infested waters, I’d be halfway to drowning by now.”
“Romantic. You always know how to make a man feel wanted.”
Sukuna rumbles low in his throat, the kind of sound that could be a laugh if dragons were capable of such a thing. You swear he’s mocking you, too.
Yaga heaves a sigh. “Enough. The pair of you leave at dawn. Supplies will be waiting at the stables. Make sure you chart everything—caves, currents, shoals, nesting grounds. The more detail, the better.”
You open your mouth to argue, to plead, to hurl one last desperate objection into the flames. But Yaga fixes you with the kind of look that ends battles before they begin. You clamp your jaw shut.
“Fine,” you mutter. “At dawn.”
“Looking forward to it,” Satoru says brightly, clapping you on the shoulder. “You, me, the sea, a few deadly cliffs. It’ll be fun.”
You glare at him. “You have the worst definition of fun I’ve ever heard.”
He leans down, so close you catch the faint scent of leather and salt. “That’s because you haven’t tried my kind of fun yet.”
Before you can throttle him, Yaga clears his throat. “Gojo,” he says. “I want your usual post-mission report for this one as well. How Sukuna flies, how he fights—everything. Not a single detail should be omitted.”
“Not just that,” Yaga presses. “Every maneuver. Every burst of speed. How he responds under pressure. The trappers are adapting. If they’ve learned to counter one type of dragon, they’ll learn to counter another. We need to be ready.”
“Of course, boss.”
Satoru says it so confidently that it makes you want to hit him with the nearest tankard. He doesn’t care about reports—he’s probably never written anything down properly in his life—but somehow Yaga keeps trusting him with “observations” and “evaluations.” And somehow those “reports” always end up getting him exactly what he wants: more freedom, more lenience, more time spent to annoy you.
“I’m serious,” Yaga says. His gaze sharpens, sliding briefly to you before returning to Satoru. “I want precision. Not exaggerations, not flourishes. If there are trappers along that coast, I want to know how they move, what they use, where they hide. If Sukuna faces them, I want to know every reaction. Understand?”
It’s subtle, that pause on Sukuna’s name, but it hooks in your gut like a barbed fishing line.
“Your last report,” the chief continued, “was ten pages of what Sukuna ate, and a drawing of your own face in the margins.”
You can’t help it—a bark of laughter escapes you. Satoru grins wider, like he’s proud of the memory.
“Historical accuracy,” he defends breezily. “Someday, bards will want to know I was the handsomest man alive while Sukuna was saving lives.”
Yaga doesn’t look amused. In fact, the firelight catches on the hard planes of his face, casting the deep creases at his brow into shadows that look almost like cracks. “Enough,” he says, but this time there’s a finality to it—like stone slamming into place, sealing a tomb.
You should probably let it go. Keep your head down, accept the assignment, and try not to imagine all the ways you might die tomorrow. But Yaga’s words stick in your ears like thorns. He’s always been thorough, sure, but the way he said it makes something twist uneasily in your gut.
Why does it feel less like he wants a record of Berk’s defenses and more like he wants a catalogue of its weaknesses?
You frown, shoving the thought down before it can root itself. Paranoia. That’s all it is. Spending too much time around Satoru Gojo rots the brain.
“Sir, yes, sir,” Satoru says, snapping a salute. “We’ll chart your cliffs, your caves, your currents, your… cozy little hidey-holes. And if the trappers do come sniffing around, we’ll have a nice little map all drawn up for them, won’t we?”
It’s meant to be a joke. You know it is.
Yaga’s eyes cut to him, sharp and assessing, but then—to your surprise—soften into something close to approval. “Just bring me the report.”
You’re dismissed. Or maybe exiled. Hard to tell with Yaga.
Satoru stretches like a cat as you both step out into the night air, his hair catching silver in the moonlight. Sukuna slips behind him, shadow melting into shadow, only the gleam of his garnet eyes betraying him.
“This is gonna be fun,” Satoru says.
You snort. “You heard him. Reports, details, flight maneuvers—like you’re some glorified scribe. What’s he going to do, publish a book?”
“Who knows? Maybe Yaga just really likes bedtime stories.”
“You’re going to fall if you keep bending over like that.”
The words brush the back of your neck, almost lost to the roar of the wind. Satoru’s voice, of course, because if anyone was going to ruin the thrill of flight over the North Sea cliffs, it was going to be him.
“I’m not bending over,” you snap, leaning forward on Sukuna’s broad back to adjust the rolled parchment strapped at your hip. “I’m securing the maps so they don’t blow away. Some of us actually care about documenting this trip.”
“Mm,” he hums, far too close behind you. “You say that, but it looks a lot like you’re presenting yourself to me.”
You jerk upright so fast you nearly throw yourself off balance. “I will throw you off this dragon.”
Sukuna rumbles beneath you, wings slicing through the wind. The cliffs roll past below—jagged teeth rising from the sea, waves smashing themselves to froth at the base. A treacherous coast, all jagged rocks and narrow inlets, the sort of place even seasoned dragon riders avoided unless they had a death wish. But, you remind yourself, you’re riding with Satoru Gojo. Death wishes are practically stitched into his skin.
“Relax,” he says lazily, shifting so that his chin rests on your shoulder, bold as anything. “If you fall, Sukuna will catch you. Probably.”
“Probably?”
“Eighty percent sure.”
You elbow him hard in the ribs. He laughs. The wind whips against your face, tugging at your hair and lashing past your chin. You should be focusing on the coastline, on the cliff formations and hidden coves Yaga wanted mapped. Instead, you’re stuck with Satoru practically wrapped around you like an overgrown barnacle.
Below, the sea shifts from deep sapphire to frothing white, currents curling against each other in unpredictable swirls. You sketch the outline hastily, balancing parchment on your knee, your fingers stiff from the cold. The smell of salt, the tang of brine—it all presses sharp in your nose, mixing with the faint smoke curling from Sukuna’s nostrils as he exhales.
“You’re making that bay too small,” Satoru says, peering over your shoulder. “It’s at least twice that size.”
Your head snaps towards him. “You’re a dragon rider, not a cartographer. Shut up.”
“I’m just saying,” he says. “If you want this to be accurate, maybe listen to the guy who’s actually looking down at it.”
You jab your charcoal against the parchment with unnecessary force. “I am looking down. You think I’m staring at the clouds?”
“Wouldn’t blame you. They’re very fluffy today.”
You grit your teeth. It’s either throw him off Sukuna’s back or commit to your map and pretend his voice doesn’t grate against your ears.
The coastline curves sharply, forcing Sukuna to bank hard. The sudden tilt knocks your knee against the saddle, the parchment slipping sideways in the wind. You swear under your breath, catching it just before it can flutter away.
“Careful,” Satoru drawls. “Wouldn’t want all your precious squiggles to drown.”
“They’re maps,” you snap, tucking the roll more securely under the leather strap. “Not squiggles.”
Sukuna lurches again, this time with a force that wrenches you off balance completely. One moment you’re clinging to leather straps, the next, you’re weightless—dangling over empty air, your stomach dropping out as the sea roars up to meet you. Your scream is swallowed by the wind.
Cold air slams against your face, your limbs flailing as the ocean surface rushes closer, white spray licking like fangs. You think, absurdly, that this is it. Yaga will get his precious map back water-stained and half-torn, and Satoru will laugh at your funeral pyre.
The sea devours you whole. Salt scorches your mouth, icy shock steals the breath from your lungs, and the water closes like a fist around your ribs. You kick, thrash, but the waves drag you under, tangling your limbs. The North Sea swallows you whole, dragging you down, down, down. Your maps slip free, parchment dissolving into sodden clumps as the current claws them away. Panic claws harder.
Through the blur of bubbles, a shadow streaks above—massive wings cutting the sky. Sukuna. You can just make out the gleam of his scales as he dives, but the current twists you sideways and drags you deeper.
You feel hands.
Hot even through the freezing water, strong fingers hook beneath your arm and haul you against a solid chest. Your head knocks against leather and chainmail. You cling without meaning to, nails biting into Satoru’s sleeve as he kicks upward, legs cutting the water with terrifying strength. The world tilts again, the suffocating weight of the sea giving way to open air as he breaks the surface.
You cough, choking up brine, the cold biting so deep it feels like your bones are splintering. But there’s air—ragged, salty, glorious—and Satoru’s arms are still wrapped around you, keeping you afloat.
“See?” he says, breathless. “Told you one of us would catch you.”
“Shut—” you hack, spitting seawater in his face, “—up.”
With one arm, Satoru signals upward, and Sukuna swoops low, skimming the waves. The dragon’s vast shadow falls over you both, wings slicing the mist. With a smooth, practiced motion, Satoru boosts you toward the saddle. You land gracelessly, half-sprawled, coughing into your sleeve. Sukuna steadies his flight. Moments later, Satoru swings up behind you, water dripping from his hair.
You twist, glaring, salt-stung eyes narrowing. “You dropped me!”
“I saved you,” he says.
“If you’d stop distracting me, I wouldn’t have fallen in the first place.”
“Aw, admit it,” he says, tugging you back against him as Sukuna banks into the wind again. “You wanted me to play hero.”
Your jaw locks. You want to scream, punch him, and shove him straight off Sukuna’s back. But the truth sticks bitter at the back of your throat: without him, you’d be a corpse rolling in the tide right now.
Instead, you grit out, “The only reason you’re still alive is because I’m too cold to kill you.”
“Sure, gorgeous,” Satoru says, far too cheerfully for someone who just dove into the North Sea like a loon. He pats Sukuna’s neck. “Land over there, big guy.”
Sukuna banks again, wide wings slicing through the mist as he angles toward a rocky shelf jutting from the cliffs. It’s not much—a spit of grass clinging stubbornly to stone, slick with sea spray and battered by wind—but it’s flat enough for a Night Fury to perch. The dragon’s claws scrape against the stone before he settles down.
You peel yourself upright, every muscle trembling from the cold. Water streams from your hair and sleeves, soaking into the saddle leather, dripping in miserable rivulets down your legs. You feel like a half-drowned cat.
Satoru swings off Sukuna and immediately shivers, shaking out his hair. Droplets fly everywhere.
“Ah!” You swipe your face with your sleeve. “Do you mind?”
“Not even a little,” he says.
You clamber down less gracefully, boots squelching against stone. The moment your feet hit solid ground, the wind slices through your wet clothes. Your teeth chatter so hard it feels like they might rattle loose.
“Right,” you say, hugging your arms around yourself. “Let’s make this quick. I need to salvage what I can of the map before—”
“Before your hands freeze off?” Satoru interrupts. He crouches to scratch Sukuna’s chin, even though he’s dripping seawater like a broken barrel. “Sorry, cartographer, but your squiggles can wait. We’re both shaking. That’s a fast track to hypothermia.”
“I’m fine.” Your voice wobbles with a shiver. “We don’t have time to—”
“You’re not fine.” He straightens, eyeing you in that annoyingly perceptive way of his. “Your lips are purple. You’re shivering so hard I can hear your knees clacking. Don’t make me be the sensible one here, sweetheart—it feels unnatural.”
You glare. “If I die of cold, I’ll haunt you.”
“Oh, you already haunt me.” His grin softens the jab. “Now, strip.”
“I— Excuse me?” you splutter.
“Your clothes are soaked,” he says matter-of-factly, already tugging at the laces of his tunic. “Wet fabric sucks the heat right out of you. The best thing we can do is get ‘em off, huddle together, and hope Sukuna doesn’t roast us in our sleep.”
You blink at him, scandalised, even as another violent shiver racks your body. “You’re insane.”
“True. But I’m also right.” He pulls his tunic over his head in one easy motion, tossing the dripping cloth onto the stone. The setting sun’s light catches across his bare skin—broad shoulders, pale scars scattered across his abdomen, lean muscle shifting as he moves.
You pointedly do not stare.
“You’re ogling me,” he says.
“I’m glaring at you.”
“Your glare looks a lot like ogling.”
“Die.”
“Already almost did,” he says lightly, wringing out his sleeves. “Your turn.”
Every inch of you bristles at the command. Still, the damp fabric clinging icily to your ribs argues louder than your pride. You peel off your own tunic with stiff fingers, ignoring his wolf-whistle, and spread it on a rock to dry. The wind hits your bare skin, covered only by the slip you’ve worn inside, cold and merciless, goosebumps rising instantly.
Satoru’s eyes flick toward you, lingering longer than you like. He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t need to. The curve of his mouth says enough.
“Don’t you dare say a word,” you warn, hugging your arms over your chest.
“Not one word,” he promises. “Plenty of thoughts, though.”
You groan, dragging your hands down your face. “This is torture.”
“No, this is survival.” Satoru pats Sukuna’s flank, and the dragon obligingly lowers himself, curling his massive body into a crescent. His wings arch inwards, a living shelter against the wind. Heat radiates from his scaled belly.
“See?” Satoru gestures grandly.
You want to argue. You really, truly do. But your legs wobble under you, and the promise of warmth tugs at you. So you crawl into the nook of Sukuna’s body, pressing against his side. Satoru follows, sprawling next to you, then tugging you firmly against him. His skin is startlingly warm, even damp as it is, and his arm slides around your shoulders.
“Move,” you grumble, trying to twist free.
“Nope,” he says, tucking his chin on top of your wet hair. “You’ll freeze.”
“You’re unbearable.”
“So you’ve said. Multiple times.”
You want to snap back, but the heat of him seeps into your skin. Sukuna’s breathing is a thunderous rhythm behind you, the rise and fall of his chest as steady as the tides. Satoru’s warmth presses into your back, his heartbeat steady against your spine.
The shivering ebbs. Your eyelids grow heavy.
You think, just before sleep drags you under, that maybe it isn’t so bad—being held like this, the storm kept at bay by dragon wings and an irritating idiot who refuses to let you drown or freeze. You’d rather die than admit it out loud.
“Oh, my Gods.”
The voice snaps you awake like a slap. Your eyes peel open blearily, gritty from salt and sleep. The first thing you see is scales—Sukuna’s broad, ridged side, still warm beneath your cheek. The second is pale dawn light seeping over the horizon, turning the sea into hammered silver. The third, and the worst by far, is Yaga’s apprentice standing ten paces away, gawking at you like you’ve sprouted a second head.
You jolt upright so fast your skull cracks against Satoru’s chin.
“Ow—fuck!” Satoru lurches back, clutching his jaw. His hair is sticking up in ten different directions, his chest bare, his arm still heavy across your waist. He blinks owlishly, still half-asleep, then follows your line of sight.
“Oh,” he says. “Morning, kid.”
The apprentice—gangly, freckled, barely old enough to grow a proper beard—turns a shade of crimson so bright it could signal passing ships. His dragon, a lumbering Gronckle, looks pointedly in the other direction as though it, too, is practicing modesty. The apprentice’s mouth opens, closes, then opens again. “I—uh—you—Chief Yaga sent me—”
You scramble upright, hugging your damp tunic to your chest as though it might shield you from the apprentice’s wide-eyed horror. “It’s not what it looks like.”
The boy squeaks. “It looks like you and Gojo—”
“It doesn’t,” you snap. Heat crawls up your neck, sharp as the morning chill.
“Actually,” Satoru drawls, still lounging half-naked against Sukuna’s side, “it’s exactly what it looks like.”
You kick him in the shin. He hisses through his teeth but grins anyway. Bastard.
The apprentice makes a strangled sound and stares very hard at the cliffs instead. His ears are scarlet. “Chief Yaga said—he said it was urgent. Two dragons were stolen last night.”
“Stolen?” you ask.
He nods quickly, eyes still fixed anywhere but at you. “By trappers. They slipped past the watch posts by the southern coves. Took a Nadder and a Zippleback. Riders tried to give chase, but they were gone before dawn.”
You freeze, cold in a way seawater could never manage. Images slam unbidden into your head: chains biting into scaled hides, muzzles forced over mouths, wings bound and flailing. Dragons screaming as they’re dragged into cages.
“Shit,” Satoru says, the first hint of sharpness cutting through his lazy tone. He pushes to his feet, water-dark trousers hanging low on his hips. Sukuna rumbles beside him, wings twitching restlessly.
The apprentice swallows, wringing his hands, as his Gronckle hovers above the ground. “The Chief sent me to find you. He said you’re needed immediately—both of you. He was… angry that you weren’t at the watch last night, Gojo.”
You flinch. Angry. Of course he was. You were out here, tangled up in a mess of salt, warmth, and sleep, while dragons were dragged away into darkness. Your stomach knots.
Satoru’s hand brushes yours. “Not your fault,” he murmurs.
You want to believe him. You don’t.
“Which direction?” Satoru asks crisply.
“East,” the apprentice answers. “Towards the mainland, we think. Scouts found broken nets on the tide and claw marks on the rocks, but… there were too many tracks. More than just one ship. It’s—bigger than usual.”
You hug your tunic tighter, your unease curdling into something colder. Too many tracks. Bigger than usual. And Yaga, always conveniently aware of where the trappers struck, always pushing for maps that stretched further, deeper, as though he wanted Berk’s vulnerabilities laid bare on parchment. Something ugly stirs at the back of your mind.
“Great job finding us, kid,” Satoru says. “Go on back, tell Yaga we’re on our way to Berk.”
The apprentice nods and urges his Gronckle away. Silence stretches after his wings vanish into the horizon. The only sound is the crash of waves and Sukuna’s low, restless growl.
You finally tug your tunic over your head, the fabric clammy against your skin. “Two dragons. Gone. While we—” You swallow down the lump in your throat. “While we weren’t there.”
Satoru’s gaze flicks to you. “We’ll find them.”
You want to argue. Want to spill the unease clawing at your ribs—that this isn’t coincidence, that someone is feeding the trappers information, that Yaga’s heavy insistence on maps and watch-posts feels less like defence and more like design. But Satoru swings into the saddle, his hand extended down to you, and all you can do is shove the suspicion somewhere deep down where it won’t choke you.
Later. You’ll think about it later.
The ride back to Berk is wordless. Sukuna cuts through the dawn sky with a speed that makes your bones rattle, the wind lashing your damp hair against your cheeks. The village comes into view—first the crooked rocks of the cliffside, then the smoky thatched rooftops, and finally the wide stone courtyard where riders and dragons gather in knots of uneasy conversation.
Yaga waits at the centre of it all, arms folded across his massive chest. His scowl alone could ward off a sea storm. You’ve seen him angry before, but this—this is something else.
Sukuna’s talons scrape stone. Riders hustle across the square, tightening harnesses, checking saddlebags, shouting clipped reports to one another. Dragons bristle and shift, their restlessness bleeding into their humans. You slide down from Sukuna’s saddle, boots hitting the stones. Satoru follows, rolling his shoulders once.
“Come,” Yaga’s voice booms from the centre. “Where were you?”
“Taking the north coast maps you wanted, remember?” Satoru says. “Thought you’d be proud I was finally listening.”
Yaga’s jaw ticks. “While you wasted time drawing cliffs, two dragons were stolen from right under our noses. A Nadder and a Zippleback. Good, loyal beasts, now likely in chains.”
You open your mouth—an instinctive we didn’t know, we would have been there if—but Yaga’s eyes cut to you, and the words wither in your throat.
“And you,” he says, quieter but no less cutting. “Distracted.”
Your cheeks burn hot as a furnace. You force yourself not to look at Satoru, not to flinch under Yaga’s disappointment.
“Careful, Chief,” Satoru says, stepping forward. “Sounds almost like you’re blaming us instead of the ones who actually stole the dragons.”
Silence. Riders shuffle uneasily at the edge of the square, pretending to busy themselves with tack and gear. Yaga exhales. He gestures with a curt hand, and says, “Enough. We’ve no time for excuses. Gojo, you’ll take Sukuna east. Track the trappers. If they’ve gone towards the mainland, we need to know which paths they’re using. Don’t engage. Don’t be reckless.”
“Reckless?” Satoru echoes. “Chief, that hurts me.”
“It’s meant to.”
Yaga turns to you. You think—hope—he’ll send you with Satoru. You’ve flown the coasts enough times now, you know the currents, the cliffs, the possible landing points. Together, you’d be faster.
“You,” Yaga says instead. “Stay here. The maps you made—finish them. Copy them properly, mark all the coves and hideouts. We’ll need every detail if we’re to tighten our defenses.”
“But—” You start. “With all due respect, I should go too. I was with Satoru when we—”
“No.” Yaga’s eyes harden, the finality in them brooking no argument. “We need accuracy more than we need an extra set of hands in the sky. Your maps will serve Berk better than you will.”
Heat floods your chest: anger, shame, suspicion all jumbled together. The same suspicion that had gnawed at you when the apprentice spoke of too many tracks, bigger than usual. The same suspicion that whispers now: why does he care so much about these maps?
Satoru’s hand brushes yours again, quick, almost hidden. When you glance at him, his expression is unreadable, but his mouth quirks, almost imperceptibly, in reassurance.
“Don’t worry, gorgeous,” he says aloud, stretching his arms. “I’ll bring your lizards back safely. Maybe even some extra, if they’re feeling friendly.”
“Go,” Yaga growls.
Satoru vaults back into Sukuna’s saddle. The Night Fury launches skyward in a storm of wings and air, climbing so fast your stomach flips just from watching. He doesn’t look back, but you feel his absence immediately, like the ground beneath you has shifted.
“Chief,” you try again, forcing the tremor out of your voice, “if there are more ships than usual, if this is bigger than—”
“Finish your maps,” Yaga cuts you off, turning away.
You stand there for a long moment, your fists clenching around nothing, as riders murmur and scatter and dragons snort restlessly at their sides. Something in your gut twists again, sharp and certain. Yaga doesn’t just want you out of the mission. He wants you blind, and you don’t know why.
Satoru Gojo doesn’t arrive back with the rest of the riders and it takes you about four hours to swallow down your pride and admit that something has gone terribly, horribly wrong.
At first, you tell yourself he’s late because he’s lazy. Because he got distracted chasing a gull or decided to nap on Sukuna’s back somewhere over the cliffs. That’s his style, isn’t it? Careless, infuriating, utterly impossible to pin down. But when the other riders return—faces set in grim lines, dragons shuffling uneasily on the packed earth—there’s no trace of him.
The knot in your stomach hardens into stone.
The courtyard empties slowly, mutters and wary glances trailing after you as you linger by the dragon pens. You can’t ask them where he is, not when your throat is tight with fear. You can’t ask Yaga either—at least, not openly, when you already suspect he doesn’t want you to know the answer.
Instead, you find the apprentice.
He’s lugging a basket of fish towards the Gronckle pens, shoulders hunched. You stride over and plant yourself in his path.
“Where’s the Chief?” you demand.
The boy nearly drops the basket, mackerel slopping over the edge. “Wh-what?”
“Yaga,” you say. “Where is he?”
He stammers. “He—uh—he’s in the great hall, I think. With some of the elders. I’m not supposed to—”
You move before he can finish. The great hall looms at the centre of Berk. Its roof rises steeply, carved dragon heads snarling from the beams. The heavy double doors are shut, but a warm glow seeps from the cracks—torchlight, flickering against the chill dusk. You shouldn’t be here. Yaga will flay you alive if he catches you sneaking where you don’t belong. But the thought of waiting, sitting idly while Satoru doesn’t come back doesn’t sit right with you.
You slip inside.
The hall stretches wide and long ahead of you, the walls lined with shields and old weapons that gleam in the light. Long tables stretch out across the floor, empty, a few littered with tankards and scraps of parchment. The far end is dominated by Yaga’s chair, carved from mahogany, massive enough to dwarf even him.
It’s empty.
You turn away from the chair—because on the nearest table is your map.
Or rather, it should be there. The stack of parchment you left after your last session of furious sketching is gone, only a faint smear of charcoal dust staining the wood. The straps you’d used to tie them together still sit at the edge of the table, neatly coiled, but the maps themselves have vanished. Your stomach lurches.
The map of the north coast. The one you risked half your life to sketch, nearly drowned for. Every cove, every inlet, every hidden path marked out in careful strokes of charcoal—gone.
Your hand curls tightly around the strap left behind, the leather cutting into your palm. The room spins, your thoughts snarling into one conclusion: if Yaga has the maps, he didn’t take them to protect Berk. And if he doesn’t have them, then someone else does. And Satoru still hasn’t come back.
You hurry out of the hall, past the empty pens, past the wary stares of villagers who pull their cloaks tighter as you barrel through. The sky is already bruising into night, gulls wheeling overhead in harsh cries that grate against your nerves. You don’t think. You just turn—towards the cliffs, the only place that makes sense. The north coast, where your maps pointed. Where Satoru isn’t supposed to be.
The path narrows as you climb. The wind rises, sharp and cold, tugging at your tunic. The sea roars below, white foam smashing itself against black rock. Each gust shoves at your balance, each step rattles your teeth. You know these paths—you’ve sketched them, charted them—but tonight they feel alien, hostile.
Your lungs burn. Your legs ache. Still, you push forward, clutching your side, muttering curses under your breath.
A shadow moves above you, massive fast, cutting across the purpling sky. The figure drops lower, angling towards you. You stumble to a stop, heart hammering, and tilt your head back.
Sukuna.
The Night Fury flies through the dusk, scales glinting dark blue where the light catches. His cry rips through the cliffs—sharp, haunting, enough to send a flock of puffins exploding from their nests. The wind from his wings slams into you, sending you staggering backwards.
He’s alone. The dragon banks sharply, almost skimming the sea, and you see a saddle still strapped tight, leather dark with seawater, reins dangling loose.
He lands on the cliffs just ahead of you, talons tearing furrows in the stone. His wings flare wide before folding in, each movement rippling with tension. He’s restless, furious, his chest heaving and his tail lashing like a whip.
“Sukuna,” you breathe, your voice cracking.
He turns at once, those twin rings of garnet eyes locking onto you. Recognition flares, but it’s not soft. It’s sharp, wild, like he’s on the edge of bolting right back into the sky. His nostrils flare, smoke curling as he huffs out a growl.
Your legs move before your mind catches up. You rush towards him, arms out, words tumbling uselessly from your mouth. “Where is he? Where’s Satoru?”
Sukuna lowers his head, nostrils flaring again as though scenting the wind. His scales are slick with salt, his wings ragged from the flight, his whole body coiled tight with an agitation you’ve never seen in him before. He paces, restless, claws scraping sparks against the stone. The saddle’s empty. Satoru’s gone.
The thought claws at your skull, frantic and ugly, but you push it down, shove it away, refuse to let it root. “Take me to him,” you say. “You hear me? Take me to him!”
Sukuna freezes. His head tilts, eyes narrowing, sharp and assessing. You think he’ll refuse, that he’ll vanish into the sky without you. But he shoves his massive snout against your shoulder, hard enough to nearly knock you flat. His wings flare again. It’s not an invitation. It’s a command.
Your hands fumble with the saddle’s straps as you clamber up, fingers numb, stomach twisting. The moment you’re seated, Sukuna surges forward, leaping into the air and spreading his wings. The world drops away beneath you, cliffs shrinking, sea spreading endless and merciless below. Wind tears at your face, your hair, your clothes. You clutch the straps tightly, the air freezing your cheeks, your heart slamming so hard you can’t tell if it’s fear or relief.
Sukuna doesn’t soar, doesn’t play with the air currents or bank lazily just to terrify you the way Satoru likes to. He cuts through the night like an arrow, wings beating ruthlessly, each downstroke flinging you forward until your stomach lurches. The North Sea yawns before you, and the cliffs crawl past in uneven shadows.
“Where are you taking me?” you shout, though the wind steals most of it away. Sukuna’s neck stiffens, his flight angled low, purposeful.
The further north you go, the rougher the landscape grows. The cliffs rise higher, crueler, sharpened by centuries of waves gnawing at their base. The moon breaks through the clouds in flashes, silvering the rocks. You’ve charted these shores on parchment, every inlet and alcove, but in the dark, they look unfamiliar.
Sukuna dives. The drop rips the breath from your chest and tears your stomach into your throat. You can only cling and pray as he folds his wings tight and plummets. At the last possible instant, he flares his wings wide, landing with a shuddering crash onto a stretch of uneven stone, claws biting through moss and shale.
You scramble down, your boots skidding on slick rock as Sukuna growls. Ahead, the cliffs hollow into a cove, a natural amphitheatre of stone and sea. Torches burn inside, small orange flames that lick against the rock, wrong against the wild dark.
In the centre of it all: Yaga.
The Chief of Berk stands with his arms crossed, broad shoulders squared and cloak snapping in the wind. His great beard glints ruddy in the torchlight. But it isn’t him that makes your heart stutter. It’s what’s at his feet.
Satoru.
He’s on his knees, wrists bound in thick rope, head tilted at an insolent angle that doesn’t quite hide the blood streaking down his temple. Even half-slumped, gagged with a strip of cloth knotted cruelly between his teeth, he radiates infuriating carelessness—eyes narrowed, expression hovering between boredom and mockery.
You make a sound—something strangled, something useless—and stumble forward, only for Sukuna to block you with a sweep of a wing. He growls again.
“Finally,” Yaga says. His voice booms off the rock, heavy, immovable, the kind of voice that fills halls and commands loyalty. “I was beginning to think you’d abandoned him.”
“What are you doing?” you manage to ask.
“What I should’ve done the moment that creature set foot on Berk.” His eyes cut to Sukuna. “That dragon is too dangerous to be left in the hands of a fool. Or worse, shared between fools. Give him to me, and I may let Gojo live.”
Satoru makes a muffled noise behind the gag, rolling his eyes so hard you half-expect them to stick. You can almost hear his voice anyway: Don’t listen to the old man, gorgeous. He just wants my dragon ‘cause he doesn’t have one of his own.
Your chest feels too small, your pulse hammering against your ribs. “You—you can’t mean that. Sukuna’s not a weapon. He’s not—”
“He’s a Night Fury,” Yaga says. “Do you have any idea what that means? The power he carries? No village could stand against us if he were ours. No trapper would dare threaten us. Berk would be untouchable.”
“He’s not yours,” you say.
Yaga’s gaze flicks past you. “And yet here he stands, listening to your commands. Think, child. You’ve seen the cliffs, the danger at our borders. Berk is one storm away from ruin. I won’t gamble its survival on the whims of a dragon who answers only to Gojo.”
Satoru gives a muffled, derisive laugh that earns him a kick to the ribs. He tips his head back, gag muffling whatever clever retort he tries to spit out.
“Is that why you funded the trappers to surround your own village, Yaga?” you ask, mustering up all the courage you own.
Yaga stills. His boot rests against Satoru’s ribs, his shadow thrown long against the cove wall. His lips twitch beneath his beard—not surprise, not shame. Annoyance.
“You shouldn’t know that,” he says slowly. “The apprentice talks too much.”
“You set them on us. You set them on him.”
A sound splits the night—metal ringing against stone, boots crunching over gravel. From the shadows at the edges of the cove, men appear. Rough-spun leather, ragged furs, nets rolled thick over their shoulders. Their faces gleam with salt and grease, their eyes hungry. Dragon trappers. You know them by the stink alone: fish oil, blood, old smoke. They slip from the dark like wolves, more than a dozen, their movements practiced, circling.
The torchlight catches iron chains coiled in their fists. Hooks. Bolas. Shackles built for wings, not wrists.
“You’re working with them?” you say.
“I’m using them,” the chief says. “They have the means, the tools that I don’t have.”
You think of the maps gone from the hall, the apprentice’s trembling mouth, the sidelong glances of riders who returned without their strongest, without him. Pieces snap into place with a sickening clarity.
“You sold us out,” you whisper again. “You sold him out.”
“I did what I had to. Berk survives because I make hard choices. You, girl—you make sketches. You play at your little maps, but I—I see storms on the horizon. Dragons beyond counting. Trappers fattening themselves on our weakness. Do you think a village of fishers and smiths can stand against that? No. But with a Night Fury—with that beast, Berk rules the seas.”
Sukuna’s growl reverberates through the rock beneath your feet. His pupils pinprick, his wings hitch upward, every line of his body coiled to strike. You know he understands enough: tone, intent, threat. He does not know, yet, how to forgive.
“Tell me,” Yaga says, low and inexorable, “what’s one boy’s life against the safety of a whole people?”
Satoru chooses that exact moment to lurch upright against his bindings, muffling something sharp and entirely unhelpful through the gag. You catch the roll of his shoulders, the tilt of his chin. One boy? Try national treasure, old man.
You almost laugh.
Chains rattle. The trappers are closing in. Their boots scrape the shale, torches lifting higher, nets poised to fly. The scent of pitch and iron stings your nose. There aren’t raiders in passing—they’re hunters, professional, and they’ve been waiting.
You step forward, planting yourself between them and Sukuna’s flank before you even think it through. “If you think he’ll ever obey you, you’re a bigger fool than I thought,” you bite out. “Sukuna isn’t a weapon. He isn’t yours to wield.”
“He will be.”
The nearest trapper lunges. A net arcs through the air, weighted corners sparking as they whip forward. You throw yourself sideways, but you needn’t have bothered—Sukuna’s blast rips it to cinders mid-flight. The explosion lights the cove for a split-second, dazzling white, searing afterimages into your vision. Rock shatters, smoke plumes, men scream.
The Night Fury roars.
The sound is primal, thunder given flesh. Sukuna surges forward, plasma bursting from his jaws in ragged, relentless blasts. Trappers scatter like startled crabs, some diving for cover, others spinning their chains desperately to keep him back. One man screams as his bolas ignite mid-spin, molten metal splattering his arm.
You drop to Satoru’s side in the chaos. He turns his head sharply, eyes catching yours, blue in the firelight, furious and alive. Your fingers fumble at the knots. The rope is soaked with seawater, swollen tight, cutting into your palms as you fight with it.
“Hold still,” you hiss, though he’s hardly moving.
He snorts through his gag. The knot slips at last. The rope slackens, and Satoru jerks his wrists free with a hiss. He tears the gag from his mouth, coughing once before grinning up at you, that same insufferable smile that somehow hasn’t dulled even after being tied and bloodied.
“Miss me?” he drawls.
You shove his shoulder. “Get up.”
“Oh, I plan to.” Satoru’s gaze flicks past you, to Yaga still looming at the centre of it all.
Sukuna lashes his tail, knocking two trappers flat, and whirlls his head back towards you both, plasma building in his throat again. The trappers rally, more of them pouring from the shadows at the mouth of the cove, their nets glowing with oil to withstand fire, their bolas gleaming with sharpened edges meant for wings. Their shadows jitter grotesquely against the cove walls, wolfish and endless. Sukuna’s blasts have rattled them but not broken them—they circle tighter, nets at the ready.
A horn splits the night.
It’s high and keening, rolling down from the cliffs above: Berk’s call to arms.
Shapes tear through the dark sky. Dragons. Not one, not two—a little less than a dozen, wings beating hard, riders silhouetted against the clouds. Their cries cascade through the air—the iron thrum of Nadder wings, the heavy, beating thunder of a Gronckle, the shriek of a Zippleback.
The riders dive. Bolas meant for Sukuna snap backward, suddenly tangled in fire. A trapper screams when a Deadly Nadder’s spines pin his arm to the cove wall. Yaga’s apprentice clings desperately to his dragon—far too small for this fight, a Gronckle, wings buzzing frantically—but his horn blast keeps sounding, rallying the others.
“Traitors!” Yaga bellows. His face is red with fury, veins bulging in his temple. “Do you side with him over your own chief?”
“Over a traitor, yes!” the apprentice shouts back.
The cove fractures into chaos—dragons wheeling, trappers shouting, nets burning in mid-air. Sukuna tears through them, plasma lighting up the night. You turn towards Satoru, only to freeze.
Yaga’s hand clamps down around your arm, thick and brutal, yanking you off your feet. The world spins; your back slams against his chest, his arm like an iron band around you. He drags you towards the cliff’s edge, gravel skittering into the black maw of sea below.
“Stop!” His roar drowns even the dragon cries. “Or she falls!”
Sukuna halts mid-pounce, talons gouging sparks in the stone. The other riders hover, their dragons’ wings beating the air in slow, heavy pulses. Even the trappers hesitate, chains slack in their hands. The sea crashes below, white foam gnashing against the rocks, a drop so sheer it makes you feel nauseous.
Yaga’s breath rasps against your ear. “The Night Fury, girl. Give him to me or you’re gone.”
You twist, fighting against his grip, nails digging into his arm, but he’s immovable, a wall of muscle and conviction. He jerks you closer to the edge, and the heel of your boot slips on loose gravel. Your weight tilts towards the abyss.
Somehow, impossibly, you make eye contact with Satoru—astride Sukuna. His white hair gleams in the torchlight. Sukuna crouches beneath him, plasma pulsing faintly in his throat, tail still twitching.
Satoru’s lips move.
Eighty percent.
You blink, barely comprehending. “What?” you croak out.
Eighty percent.
Suddenly, you know. He wants you to trust him. He wants you to fall. It’s insane. It’s impossible.
The apprentice screams your name from somewhere above. The riders shout warnings. The trappers lunge forward, seeing their chance. Yaga tightens his grip, preparing to hurl you like discarded cargo into the sea.
You make the choice first.
Your knees buckle, and you let yourself go slack. His grip loosens in shock—just enough. You wrench sideways, twist hard against his hold, and throw yourself forward into the air.
The sea roars up to meet you. Wind tears your scream to shreds. There’s only the black water yawning wide, jagged rocks slick with foam—until Sukuna dives down, his wings folded tightly. He rockets down the cliff face, plasma sparking in his jaws. You glimpse Satoru’s silhouette against the stars, leaning low in the saddle, eyes locked on you.
The air sears past your skin, the spray of the sea already stinging your face. Claws close around you.
Sukuna’s talons scoop you from the air. The force of it nearly rips the breath from your lungs, but the relief, the sheer surge of it, blinds you more than the wind. He angles upward in a steep climb, wings snapping wide, hauling you clear from the rocks and the ravenous waves.
You’re pressed tightly against his chest, his claws curled just enough to cage you without harm, his scales hot with exertion. Above you, astride the saddle, Satoru twists in his seat, grinning down at you.
“See?” he calls. “Told you. Eighty percent.”
You want to kiss him. You also want to scream. Instead, all you manage is a hoarse, furious, “You’re an idiot!”
Your first kiss with Satoru Gojo occurs because of Sukuna.
Not because you wanted it to. Gods, no. You’d rather have wrestled a Gronckle with one arm tied behind your back than admit you were even remotely tempted by the smirk plastered across Satoru’s stupid face. But Sukuna, traitorous beast that he is, decided that enough was enough.
It starts when the Night Fury refuses to let either of you down. You’re sore from the fight, ribs aching where Yaga had grabbed you, salt still drying and sticking to your skin. You’ve been through enough for one night, and all you want is the ground. Just solid ground beneath your feet.
Sukuna, it seems, has other ideas.
He lands not on the village cliffs, not near the dragon pens, but on the highest bluff overlooking Berk. A windswept place where he knows neither of you can escape quickly. He lowers his head, eyes narrowing with that calculating look he always gets when he’s three steps ahead of everyone else.
You try to slide off the saddle. His tail lashes, blocking your path.
“Really?” you snap, shoving at the scaled wall of muscle. “I’ve had enough for today.”
“He just doesn’t want us to leave,” Satoru supplies. “Can you blame him? We make such a great team.”
You whirl on him. “You nearly got yourself killed.”
“Nearly. Keyword.”
Your teeth grind. The wind snaps your hair into your eyes, the sea growls far below, and Satoru is—well, Satoru. All flippant grins and infuriating calm, as if Yaga’s betrayal, the trappers, the near loss of Sukuna, none of it left so much as a scratch on his spirit.
You jab a finger at his chest. “You think this is funny? You were gagged and tied and—”
“—and you swooped in and saved me,” he says. “Admit it, you couldn’t stand to see me suffer.”
“You—” you splutter. “I— That’s not—”
Sukuna rumbles, wings settling around you both like a barricade. His eyes gleam faintly in the dark, twin garnets pinning you where you sit. You realise too late: he’s cornered you.
Satoru tilts his head. “You hear that? He’s saying we should kiss and make up.”
“He is not,” you say flatly.
“He definitely is,” Satoru insists. He leans in just slightly, enough to test the boundaries, enough for your heart to betray you by stumbling over itself. “C’mon. Wouldn’t want to upset him. He’s had a rough day too.”
You glare, but the problem is that Sukuna seems to agree. He nudges the both of you closer with the blunt force of his snout, nearly toppling you into Satoru’s lap. The dragon huffs smoke, satisfied, before curling into the stone and laying his head flat as though to say, Now behave.
You should shove Satoru away. You should storm off, make the climb down the cliffs yourself, risk the dark. Anything but this.
The adrenaline of the fight still thrums through your veins. Your pulse hasn’t slowed since you saw him bound on his knees, blood dripping from his temple, smirking like a madman even then. You remember the feel of the ropes cutting your palms as you freed him, the wild terror that maybe you’d been too late.
Maybe that’s why you don’t shove him away. Maybe that’s why you let him close the distance, why your lips meet his halfway in a kiss that’s less a decision and more a consequence, inevitable as the tide.
It’s clumsy, at first. You’re too angry, he’s too smug. But he softens into it, just a little, and you hate the way the ground seems to tilt under your feet, how the world narrows to salt air and warmth and the reckless promise of him.
When you finally break apart, breathless, Satoru grins like he’s just won a war.
“Knew you liked me,” he says, blue eyes sparkling.
You shove him hard in the shoulder, though your face burns. “That was for Sukuna,” you say.
The dragon rumbles again, smug as any beast can be. Satoru only laughs, tipping his head back, and pulls you in for another kiss.
It’s ecstatic, the feel of Satoru’s tongue lapping at your folds.
His tongue is wet and hot as it laps over the sensitive nerves, and you can feel the way he hums happily as he laps at the juices that drip onto his waiting mouth. You’re sure his face is going to be covered in your slick by the end of this, but it seems like he couldn’t care less, if his moans and groans are any indication. Your fingers tangle in his white strands of hair, gripping hard to keep him where you want him. His arms are wrapped around your legs, keeping them open as he feasts on your cunt. You can see the muscles in his back flexing as he tries to get closer, get deeper, and you can only hold on for dear life, feeling the way he drives you higher and higher towards your orgasm.
Satoru is making a mess of himself, and you know he has a thing for being covered in your slick.
The moment the thought passes through your head, you can’t help the cry that escapes, a full-body shiver wracking through your body. He groans into you, the sound vibrating against your skin, and you feel his tongue move in a way that you know has him spelling his name, over and over again. You tug at his hair, trying to move him, but his arms tighten and he doesn’t budge.
You let out a moan, trying to speak. “Satoru, I—I need you. Inside me. Now.”
He wraps his lips around your clit, sucking harshly. “One more, gorgeous. Give me one more, and then I’m all yours.”
You whine, feeling the heat in your stomach build, and Satoru continues to eat you out. Your back arches off the bed, and you grip his hair tighter. Your thighs start to close around him; he lets go of one of your legs to press two fingers into your heat, pressing right into that spot that has you crying out his name, curling his fingers as his tongue flicks rapidly over your clit. Your body shakes, and you cry out his name, feeling the way your cunt tightens and throbs around his fingers.
Satoru groans, moving his face away from your core and watching as the aftershocks of your orgasm make your body tremble. He pumps his fingers slowly, prolonging your pleasure, and you whine at the sensitivity.
He smiles softly, kissing the inside of your thigh, before removing his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and licking the juices that cover them. He lets out a pleased moan, eyes locked onto yours, and moves to kiss you.
His lips are warm, and you taste yourself on his tongue. It only serves to rile you up more when you feel the way his cock throbs where it presses against your thigh. You raise your legs to wrap them around his hips, and you push him lightly. Satoru moves willingly, letting out a moan as he lies on his back. He grips the sheets in anticipation, watching as you straddle his lap. He groans, feeling the way your cunt settles on his thighs. You smile, running a finger down his chest, and he bucks his hips in response.
You let out a gasp when the tip of his cock rubs against your folds. He moans.
Satoru’s hands grip your hips tightly, and his thumb rubs circles on your skin. You can feel the way he trembles under you. Your hand wraps around his cock, pumping lightly; he whines. You position the tip at your entrance, rubbing it against your clit, and moan.
“Stop teasing,” he groans, and you grin.
“Or what?” you taunt, grinding against his length. “Are you going to punish me, Satoru?”
He growls, hips jerking upwards. You gasp, feeling the tip rub against your folds, catching at your slit, and try to lower yourself. But Satoru tightens his hold, not letting you sink further onto his cock. You glare at him.
“I should,” he says, and suddenly his arms are around you, flipping you onto your back.
He settles between your thighs, his arms framing either side of your head. His hair falls into his eyes, and you can feel his cock brushing against your folds. You move your arms to wrap around his shoulders, nails scratching lightly down his back.
Satoru groans, burying his head in your neck, nipping lightly.
“Fuck,” you breathe out, feeling his hips jerk.
The tip of his cock rubs against your clit again. He lets out a breathless laugh.
“I will,” he responds—only to be interrupted by a loud, keening wail from outside your cottage door.
The sound is so piercing, so demanding, that for a moment you think some villager has wandered into mortal peril right outside your door. But no—no, you recognise that guttural, almost petulant cry. You and Satoru both freeze.
“Was that—” you start.
Another wail, louder this time, rattles the hinges of your cottage, followed by the unmistakable scrape of claws against wood.
Satoru drops his forehead against your collarbone. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
The Night Fury wails again, insistent, tail thudding against the doorframe. You bite back a laugh, half-giddy, half-exasperated, and say, “I think someone wants attention.”
Satoru lifts his head, hair mussed and eyes narrowed. “He’s the worst cockblock in history,” he mutters. “Tell him to go hunt some haddock or terrorise the chickens, or—Gods, literally anything else.”
The next sound isn’t just a wail. It’s a low, mournful croon that slides under your ribs and squeezes. Sukuna isn’t just loud—he’s lonely.
You soften, even as Satoru makes a strangled noise of despair above you. “Satoru…”
“No,” he says, rolling off you onto his back. “No, no, don’t you dare give him those eyes. He doesn’t deserve those eyes. I was right there, gorgeous—right there.”
You’re already tugging your tunic back over your shoulders, laughing despite the ache in your belly. “He’ll tear the cottage down if we don’t.”
Satoru throws an arm over his face, groaning into the crook of his elbow. “I hate him. I actually hate him.”
But when you slip to the door and crack it open, Sukuna is there, his massive head lowered to the threshold, those garnet eyes glowing with expectation. He snorts the moment he sees you, bumping his snout against your chest.
“Alright, alright,” you murmur, your hands automatically smoothing over his warm snout. “Head pats. Happy?”
Sukuna rumbles, pressing harder into your palm. Satoru groans again. “Unbelievable. My dragon just stole my girl. I’m doomed.”
You glance over your shoulder to find him sprawled on the bed, hair a disaster, chest heaving, the blankets thrown over the lower half of his body. He’s sulking. You grin.
“Maybe he just knows when to step in,” you tease, scratching gently at Sukuna’s scales.
“Step in? He barged in.”
Sukuna lets out a little huff and nuzzles harder against your hand.
Satoru groans once more, louder this time, dragging the pillow over his face. “I’m moving out.”
a/n: thanks for reading! i have a habit of turning sukuna into animals lol he was also a horse in my old gojo tangled!au
suna rintarou x gn!reader
1.4k words / best friends to lovers
idek man. but @saezzi (thank yew for reading it over) said it was ok so @.@ anyways first hq piece yay
you like suna rintarou a little too much at 1:19am in bed, with his hand on your back, drawing odd patterns over your (his) t-shirt. his other hand is holding his phone, youtube on, playing a video of deep sea diving and swimming with sharks.
you're sleepy and the atmosphere is perfect, and he looks like a dream when he's painted by the soft glow of your bedside mood lamp. pink and purple hues blur the line between friendship and something more.
you roll over into his arms, slotting your face into the crook of his neck.
"going to sleep?" he asks. you hum an affirmative sound, eyes already closed. he echoes it back.
he doesn't get off his phone, and the soft blue light emanating from the device keeps you in the limbo between consciousness and sleep for just a while longer.
long enough to feel him shuffle—minimal movement but it's easy to tell when you're all pressed up like this—angling his face toward you, then the softness of his lips when they kiss your forehead.
but suna is soft and he is warm, his hand is back to stroking your skin, and you're too far gone to know if it was real or a figment of the fondness you nurture for him.
you like suna rintarou a little too much at 3:29pm on the crowded train home, but you've found two empty seats to yourselves at the very end. you're by the window, dizzy with your eyes closed and your head on his shoulder because the lady across the aisle has enough perfume to suffocate the entire carriage.
the train ride is mostly quiet but the sun is loud and has no regard for your peace. it blares down on you even through the thin curtain that separates you and the glass window, like miya atsumu when he's been deprived of attention for a while.
your eyelids twitch, then a shadow befall your face. when you peek an eye open, suna's got his big hand over your head like it's all just so casual. you tilt your head to look at him, but he only coaxes you back on his shoulder. you're not sure if he notices the heat of color on your cheeks, but he doesn't comment either way.
"go to sleep," he says, completely unfazed by the solar assault on his own eyes. "i’ll wake you when we get there."
you like suna rintarou a little too much at 8:18pm in the third set of a match that has dragged on for way longer than anyone expected. he moves like a blur on the court, and you're the always the first person to jump from your seat whenever he blocks a spike or lands a clean hit.
"sunarin!" you would yell, holding up a sign with his name in bold glittery letters, loud enough to drown out some of the miya fangirls.
suna would find you no matter where you are in the stands. he looks to you first every time, because catching that bright grin of yours is always better than raucous cheers from his teammates.
it's easy to categorize the neutral expression on his face as indifference, but you know him better than most. know that the slight quirk of his lips communicates something only you two can understand.
it's warm, so fuzzy that you don't notice the way the rest of the team follows suna's line of sight, nor the teasing and knowing smiles when their gazes land on you.
"i'm your first supporter, rin," you had said once upon a time, back when you were just children, your hands bandaging his scraped up knees after volleyball with the other neighborhood kids. "i'm your biggest supporter!"
years later and you're still watching him from the bleachers, still wearing that smile so bright it could rival the sun.
the match resumes, he goes back into position but his eyes remain on you for a second longer.
you like suna rintarou a little too much at 12:22am on a midnight snack run with the miyas, even though half your attention is divided on atsumu who keeps throwing pointed chuckles at suna because the convenience store cashier is not subtle at all.
maybe she doesn't need to care about subtlety when she's that pretty. every brush of her fingers against suna's as he hands her your shared items seems deliberate. you're standing right here—probably looking like chopped liver to a woman on a mission—and you don't know if suna notices her flirty smiles or if he just doesn't care, but that spark of irritation flares up inside you anyhow.
when he pulls out his wallet, you're still huffing internally, already picturing how this next minute could play out. she'd bat her eyelashes, put on a devastatingly beautiful smile and suna would cave because he's still just a man after all.
someone gasps—atsumu, likely—and you snap out of it just fast enough to catch the cashier slump slightly. she glances at you, and you're looking over suna's shoulders to find him fishing out some bills, but he's holding the wallet open for longer than you think is necessary. in the transparent photo slot is something you thought you lost a while back, a polaroid of you making a silly face at the camera. he's there too, barely visible peeking out from behind, but he was looking at you.
suna thanks the cashier politely and grabs the plastic bag from the counter. when he leads you out the door by your hand, you don't even need to look back to know it's atsumu who's squealing into his palm.
you even like suna rintarou at 7:12am on a cloudy sunday morning, maybe a little less than usual when he's pounding on your door like he's about to kick it down any second now.
"what the fuck?" you snarl when you catch him on the other side of the threshold. "i was sleeping!"
he's out of breath, his hair's all wind blown, that lanky figure of his leaning against your doorframe as if he’s about to pass out. even half-asleep, you know that he's not supposed to be here. no, he's supposed to be on a stuffy bus with the rest of his teammates on the way to a tournament in another city.
three hours away for three weeks. you already said your goodbyes last night, already sent him off with a handmade bracelet for good luck.
"i just…" he starts, but it comes out ragged because there's still not enough air in his lungs. he steps forward regardless, uncaring of your disheveled appearance—messy bedhead and your sleep shirt hanging off one shoulder—and pulls you all up into his personal space.
there's a sheen of perspiration on his forehead that you spot from this close. you hear the incessant buzzing of his phone in his pocket, but suna doesn't seem bothered so you don't ask. one of his hands finds the nape of your neck, not unfamiliar, but still quite foreign in this context that you haven't yet deciphered.
"i need to do something," he says, his voice much more even now. and you would ask question what on earth could he possibly need to do at the ass crack of a sunday morning, but his other hand finds the small of your back and you feel the butterflies again, rampant and insane.
"rin…"
then he's leaning in until there's no space between you at all. his lips on yours, tasting faintly of mint and the mango gummies you gave him in case he got carsick. the sky is still cloudy, but you're kissing him back and suddenly you don't mind at all that he almost broke down your door and disrupted your much needed day off.
you're dumbstruck when he pulls back with cheeks rosy and lips shiny, and his gaze is fixed on your mouth. sharp eyes now softened, pupils all dilated. you don't reckon you look any better.
what the fuck.
maybe the thought actually comes out in a dazed mumble because your best friend is laughing lightly, his hands still holding you close. "you're not coming with us this time," he says. "i'm gonna miss you."
and it's on a gloomy sunday morning in the threshold of your home that you realize, belatedly, despite all the signs and blurry lines and knowing grins from the miyas, that suna rintarou likes you too.
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Phainon's days after the fall of Irontomb have returned back to their peaceful times, this time without the threat of the dark tides or the endless cycles where he has to watch his friends and family die in front of his eyes again and again, cycles where he had to kill his friends with his own hands.
These days are finally over, and the young boy from Aedis Elysiae can finally relax. Except, he couldn't.
He can't relax and sleep peacefully when these same years and cycles keep haunting him in his dreams, causing him to have restless nights and sometimes not sleeping at all. The constant nightmares began affecting his sleep schedule so much that his body would feel tired most of the day but Phainon acted as if nothing is wrong, to avoid his friends and family's suspicion.
"Since when did you start drinking coffee?"
This was the start of his act slipping in front of others, when Cipher caught him drinking a large cup of coffee, "If Mydei saw you, he would go on an hour long lecture as to why coffee is bad for you. Plus I remember you saying you don't like the taste."
"That's because you got a bad flavor, salted caramel latte is superior." Phainon said smugly, taking another sip from his cup as his cat eared friend gasped.
"How dare you insult matcha latte like this? Not only do you not have no taste in fashion, you also don't have any taste in coffee." Cipher argued, glaring at her friend who started giggling at her reply.
"Sure sure, I dare you to change my opinion."
"Oh I will! Once I get my hands on a strawberry matcha latte I will change your opinion about matcha!" She said as she stomped away towards the coffee shop, leaving Phainon on his own drinking his coffee.
She has a point. He has never taken a sip of coffee in his life, everyone who knows him know that fact. They all know that Phainon sees no need for caffeine, as long as he sleeps fine then there's no need for him to drink coffee. And Cipher is not a person who stays silent either, soon everyone knows that he started drinking coffee. Mydei took the most offense out of this fact and as Cipher expected, he went on his lecture about the bad effects of coffee.
"Phainon, are you alright?" The gentle voice of Aglaea never fails to bring Phainon's heart and soul at peace, she is as gentle as her titan and can always tell when something was wrong. Noticing his friends are all distracted with the debate between Mydei and Cipher about coffee, Phainon turned to Aglaea with a solemn look on his face.
"It's just… I keep getting nightmares about all those cycles, they keep haunting me that I just can't sleep at all. The dreams would be too much sometime to the point where I can't bring myself to go back to sleep again." Phainon replied honestly, the Goldweaver gave hima gentle smile as she placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Phainon, you have experienced so much in those cycles and had to handle everything on your own. You carried so much on your shoulders in all those years that your mind has been scarred by such events. There is still pain in your heart, it's normal that you can't recover from such events in a blink of an eye. What you need to remember is that we are all here for you, look around you." Aglaea started, gesturing with her other hand at his friends who are still hooked to the debate. "We are all here, we are all alive. You go back home every day to your parents greeting you with open arms, we also come to Aedis Elysiae every week to spend time with you there. This is the Era Nova that we have always dreamed of, Amphoreus has welcomed a true dawn. If you ever need someone to listen to you or someone to talk to we are all here for you."
Even after all those years, all those cycles, Aglaea has never lost her caring and gentle nature. He gave her a gentle smile and nodded slowly, her words sinking deep into his thoughts.
"Thank you Lady Aglaea, honestly, with the astral express coming tomorrow I think I won't have those nightmares as much."
"That's the spirit! Now c'mon, let's go stop this debate before it goes on all night. Even that professor has joined them."
The night with his friends made him forget about the terrible nightmares, even as he returned back home and settled into his bed. The young man's mind kept drifitng to the Astral express crew who are coming tomorrow, he can't wait to see them again.
"Meet (Name), they're a friend of ours from Planarcadia and wanted to join us in our trip here. They are really cool and nice, I'm sure you guys will like her."
Phainon expected to see all members of the astral express as always, but this vist they had a new person on board, a person who is looking around Ochema city like it's the most exciting thing in the world.
"Woah! It's just like in the comic!" (Name) said excitedly as they looked around, before stopping in front of the chrysos heirs with a polite smile.
"Hi! Nice to meet you all, I'm (Name), a streamer from Planar- Wait!" (Name) stopped, running up to the white haired man with a glint in their eyes, "Are you fluffnon?"
"Fluffnon?" He asked in confusion, causing the young streamer to take out a comic from their bag and opening it to a specific page, a page that contained a drawing of Phainon as a…. white puppy? and he's fighting flame reaver….. who is also a puppy.
"This is fluffnon! You are him! He's my favorite character from the comic!"
Phainon's face was flushed as he stared at the comic in (Name)'s hands as Mydei and Cipher's laughs filled his ears.
That was how Phainon met (Name), and he was also picked by them to give them a tour around Amphoreus.
As time passed, he started to get to know you better and everything about you was an important piece of information for him. You kept telling him about your travels, your streams, gave him a copy of all the volumes of Fluffy across the blue and even got him hooked to the series as you two would start talking about it and how adorable the characters look.
"So, are you really as strong as Fluffnon?" You asked, sitting next to Phainon as you two admired the sea from the shores of Aedis Elysiae, it was a long day of you spending it all with Phainon in his hometown. The guy didn't lie when he said the best spot in all of Amphoreus where you can watch the sunset is here in Aedis Elysiae.
"Of course I am! I used to drag titans from the sky." Phainon replied, raising his arms to flex his muscles. "Wanna see proof?"
"Sure, what will you-" (Name)'s words were cut off as Phainon stood up from his position and picked them up with just one arm, causing them to yelp and wrap their arms around his neck with one hand around their knees and looking down at them with a smirk.
"So, what do you think?" Phainon muttered, his eyes locking with theirs as the night breeze softly brushed against the two. The action has caused a blush to coat (Name)'s face as they looked away from him.
"Point proven! Now put me down." They replied as Phainon began walking back to his home.
"Phainon! I said put me down! I can walk on my own!"
"Too late, I'll take you back home myself." Phainon replied with a grin on his face.
"But I need to go back to my hotel in Ochema!"
"It's really late, just stay over at my place."
"But-"
"Stay the night? Please?" He said, so softly it might've been a wish he is making to the aeons. His eyes held so much emotions that you couldn't bring themselves to say no. You have heard about the cycles from both the trailblazer and the chrysos heirs, you heard about how Phainon went through thirty three million cycles to fight back against Zandar and the awakening of Irontomb, but Phainon has never told you in his own words how he feels about all of this, all you saw was him being all smiley and enjoying every day life with a smile on his face.
So you agreed, and is currently staying over in Phainon's guest room, curled up under the covers as you slept peacefully after a long day.
Your sleep didn't last long, you woke up in the middle of the night feeling parched. Nights were quiet compared to the city, even nights in Ochema city are quieter than the chaotic nights of Planarcadia, especially if you live in the hustle and bustle of Duomension city. Amphoreus can be considered to be a nice getaway from the chaos of Planarcadia and that is something you are quite grateful for.
As you quietly left your room to make it to the kitchen, you looked out the window at the tranquil view of the village outside, maybe you can stay out there for a bit before going back to bed.
Your journey was interrupted by soft whimpers that echoed in the corridor of the house, you were confused as to where the sound was coming from but decided to ignore it.
But you heard it again.
And again.
And again, and even soft ruffles were heard softly. And the sounds were coming from Phainon's bedroom. You stood in front of his door as his whimpers echoed from outside his door.
"I'm doing this just because I'm worried." You muttered to yourself before softly opening the door to a heartbreaking scene. The white haired man was curled up in his bed shivering, tears running down his eyes as he was breathing heavily.
This scene in front of (Name) was all they needed to understand why Phainon hates talking about the time before irontomb was defeated, you only heard about it from the others but never from him. Phainon was suffering nightmares from those times so much that he doesn't want to even think about them during the day since they already haunt his mind during the night.
(Name) slowly walked up to him and sat down next to him on the bed and softly started trying to wake him up by poking and shaking him gently.
"Phainon? Wake up, it's okay. You're okay, it's just a dream. Please wake up." Your gentle calls and gentle pushes were enought to get him to wake up. He woke up in a cold sweat, his heartbeat beating so loudly he can hear it in his ears and his vision was so blurry he couldn't see who was seeing in front of him. Soon his vision came back to him and he stared at you as you stared at him with concern.
"Phainon?"
"I'm fine."
"No you're not."
"I am-" "No, how long have you been having those nightmares?"
Phainon was silent for a while, refusing to answer the question. You stared back at him, your hand reaching out to softly rest next to his. He looked down at your hand that is resting next to his, still refusing to answer your question.
"Was it ever since the whole irontomb situation was over?"
He replied with a nod.
"Do you wanna talk about it?"
"I can't get over it." Phainon started, looking up at you. "I can't forget the cries, the screams, the horrific murders of the people as the flames englufed them. I can't forget how I killed all my friends in cold sweat over and over and over again for thirty three million cycles, I can't forget how my friends begged and screamed as I killed them and took their coreflames. I can't even bring myself to look them in the eyes and act like everything's normal, even if they tell me that they understand and still see me as a dear friend but I can't. I can't act as if everything is alright when every time I see them I remember how I murdered them thirty three million times. I am not a good person, I will never be a good person."
"Phainon, was there anything else you could've done? You were put in a very compromising situation. Either let irontomb be born or not, and that was the only way to stop irontomb at that point. You are not an evil person, your friends love you and know that you are a hero in their eyes. You are a hero in the eyes of everyone in the cosmos, you are a hero in my eyes." (Name) replied, their hand sliding to rest on top of his as they spoke to him. "You are amazing just the way you are, you will need time to heal from all of this and I am ready to be with you in every step along the way."
Phainon was silent when you were done, your hand still resting on his before he moved his hand to hold yours tightly as he looked up at you with tears brimming in his eyes.
"Thank you (Name), I can't guarantee that the nightmares will stop abruptly but I'm so happy that I met you, someone who I can seek comfort in." Phainon muttered, a few tears escaping his eyes that you reached out to wipe from his face.
"Do you want me to stay?"
"Please."
"Okay, I'll be here."
For the first time in a while, Phainon was able to sleep without any nightmares coming his way, sleeping peacefully in (Name)'s arms.
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