#beside you in the moonlight

[pseudomonacarriea]

@ardensfides asked:

✐ - Felix, TWST

send me a ✐ for a random sentence starter from my muse (1-1500) — tw: profanity, mild nsfw, long list -- Accepting! Number: 1267

❛ Coming from your mouth, it has the ring of truth, but I doubt anyone would believe me if I told them. ❜

It's true. While he was fine keeping their relationship under wraps, he also knew that no one would believe him for taking this step forward with Tesla. No one would believe him right off the bat, though if they heard it from her - that's a different story. She's a horrible liar.

"So this arrangement is fine. However, should someone try anything,"

Felix's tone dips a little as he takes a step forward.

"I have no problem giving you something to show that you're mine."

Was he teasing her? A threat? A promise? It's Felix, so it could be anything.

[gamerkinz]

i know soul is the designated monster energy guy but cmon i deserve some too as a treat,, i promise i will be responsible with caffeine :3

[rapturously]

𝐬𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡, 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞.

┊ count orlok x fem!reader.

✠⠀༷ ゜ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: intended to be a sacrifice for the strigoi haunting your village, your escape brings you face-to-face with death incarnate.

read part 2 here.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.4K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut, dubious consent (mild hypnosis/dreamlike state), loss of virginity, monsterfucking, vampire antics (scent kink, bloodplay), stockholm syndrome, mild title kink (heavy use of my lord), shadow sex/fingering, female masturbation, voyeurism, extreme possessive/obsessive behavior.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this is arguably the most enjoyment I’ve had writing a fic in a long time. I really hope that you love it as much as I loved writing it! any support is greatly appreciated! I would absolutely love to write more Count Orlok after this, for sure!

ICE-LADEN GALES NIPPED AT BARE FLESH, LIKE THE COLD PRICK OF A KNIFE — ONLY TENFOLD. ROPE CHAFED RAGGED AGAINST SOFT SKIN, AND YOUR FEET SEEMED TO CARRY YOU FAR AWAY, INTO THE DESOLATE HILLSIDES OF TRANSYLVANIA.

A sacrifice — a sweet, mourning lamb, given to the butcher, bound together to keep the darkness from devouring your village. That was what you were, some pious creature to be torn apart by a wolf that prowled through shadow.

Only the cruor of a virgin would expunge the evil that lay within the mountains, your blood, offered to the devil.

Many girls had come before you, maidens that willingly succumbed to their fate, screams snuffed out with the trees as their witness. There was not an ounce of subservience within you, no desire to meet your end alone, to become another notch on the post.

Tears stained your cheeks, liquid salt chilled as it settled upon your features, now steeped in dirt as you stumbled through forested wilderness. Winters were dangerous — the biting ice gnawed at your bones, threatening to rip away your extremities.

Before your fellow villagers could put you to the blade, you fled — naked, bitten by frost, alone with only monsters to nip at your heels.

Their desperate cries echoed into the night, the sound of begging — pleading to be spared without their tribute. Groomed to become an inevitable feast for the creature that tormented your village, you could no longer sit idly by and wait to die.

Beneath your breast, your heart clenched, pounding like that of a drum as it howled within your ears. The whiplike scratch of the wind raked across your body, leaving you heaving, fighting against encroaching exhaustion.

In the distance, torchlight grew dim — those who knew of Nosferatu did not dare venture into the woods or the nearby mountainside. Strands of garlic and crucifixes shrouded the borders of your village, superstitions workings to keep the creature at-bay.

Twigs and undergrowth beneath the snow scraped across your feet as you continued to blindly stumble through the forest, emerging onto the other side, where the bridge rested. Beside it, an obelisk — holy relics, strands of garlic, a sign.

‘TURN BACK, OR MEET DEATH’, it read, the script having weathered with the passage of time. The bridge led to a winding path, a path that could only lead to your inevitable demise. Blood began to ooze from your soles, flesh agitated, lips becoming chapped by the wind.

The Carpathian Mountains stood vigil, an impenetrable wall of ancient rock that kept you from the castle that lay between snow-laden peaks. Wisps of snow fluttered from dusky skies, illuminated only by silvery slats of moonlight.

A haze surrounded your vision — exhaustion coupled with the inevitable shroud of frostbite, and yet, something propelled your forward. Respite awaited you in the form of cold earth and maggots if you continued, the spectre of death hovering above you.

With weak steps, you crossed the bridge, hands still bound together, rope having ripped away at the velvety flesh around your wrists. Shadows became listless, alive, as if something moved within the forest, and still, you wandered forth.

There were worse creatures than wolves and bears in the forests, mere fodder to something archaic, an ancient evil feared by your village for decades. Old maids whispered tales of the Castle Orava, home to a den of monsters considered to be servants of the devil, a harbinger of hell.

Foul magic was at-work, they claimed — and yet, you felt drawn for reasons unexplainable. It was as if you were being lured into open waters, dark and treacherous, as black as a bottomless pit. Despite the heaviness of your body, you carried on, bare and blistered.

The path became even, a seemingly-endless stretch of black woodland that broke away to reveal a gate, as ancient as the landscape itself. Even through your blurred vision, shapes danced within darkness, as if they were grinning.

A wheeze of exhaustion bubbled up within your throat, parched and hoarse, flesh beginning to submit to the earth below. You could not recall when you had fallen, crawling toward the gate as if it would be your salvation.

Hoofbeats crackled against the dirt, a distant dream, like the wisp of a memory that soon dissipated — only, it was reality.

Before your body gave way to the blissful kiss of death, a shadow approached, casting its oppressive hand across you. It was veiled by darkness, a presence most enigmatic, something that you hadn’t experienced before.

Nails as sharp as talons ghosted above your satiny flesh, now marred by bruises and by nature’s cruel sting. Your breathing became shallow, strained by a sudden wave of nauseating terror as this shadow swallowed you whole, blanketing you in what you believed to be eternal darkness.

Oh, how you longed for it — for death’s final caress.

Dreams muddled themselves with waking nightmares — and you were trapped, the lamb screaming in the woods, unable to run free. It was the same stretch of dark forest, eyes following you from penumbra, a gloom so dour and terrifying that it rattled your spine.

Running, running, running — it was all you could remember, falling to your knees in the chilled earth, stone biting at your flesh, bones begging for rest. The gleam of torchlight and the shimmer of the blade still haunted you, the executioner preparing to give your blood to protect your village.

In the howl of your terror, the wood seemed to close in around you, like a wrought-iron cage, its thorns drawing blood from your ragged skin. You wanted to scream, to cry out, beg for a savior — and yet, no sound emerged, only ash.

There, in the endless obscurity of a long night, was he — the creature.

Claws that extended from ashen digits reached for you, took hold, and you felt his grasp close in around your throat. No pleas of mercy escaped your tongue, now turned to stone. Death was what you expected in the maw of this shadow — and it never came.

Its hands did not squeeze, with no intent to snuff the air from your lungs. It wasn’t the hold of one desiring death, like that of strangulation, but the embrace of lust. It was unfamiliar — cold, exhilarating, unyielding — and yet, you never wanted anything more.

No visage ever emerged, only the sheen of crimson-stained fangs that sought your breast, the stench of something foul permeating your surroundings. There was no pain — his bite was akin to the caress of a lover, lacking maliciousness, lacking the gnash and tear of a predator.

Hunger — you could feel it burning like an open flame within your throat, his famine. A creature that starved, with an appetite so unorthodox that it was your blood he craved.

With a strangled gasp, you awoke.

Woodlands were exchanged for the frigid, stone interior of an ancient castle, fixtures remarkably old, possessing macabre decor. Your gaze flickered to the ghoulish countenance of a gargoyle hanging above a roaring hearth, heart nearly leaping from your chest.

Whatever dream you awoke from, you could not discern it from reality, a thought that frightened you to no end. Surrounded by the thick, cured hide of a grizzly, you found yourself bare, still lacking a scrap of clothing. The hide was large enough to preserve your modesty, if you had any left.

The rope that had shackled your wrists together was no more, nonexistent — only raw wounds remained. This castle was cursed, a place of horrors beyond your imagination; you could not explain the semblance of reprieve that you felt.

Licks of comforting heat soothed your icy bones, the simmering fire bringing you a semblance of peace, no matter how threadbare. This newfound environment seemed haunted, decrepit — the furnishings were covered in a layer of dust.

It was luxurious, fixtures fit for that of nobility, a lifestyle that eclipsed your own existence back in the village. Now, you belonged to nothing, with no home to return to. Your traitorous actions would be met with punishment, if you were to return.

The floor beneath you was crafted of stone, covered in a layer of dust. Tangles of cobwebs stretched across the mantle above the hearth, roused only by the ghost of a draft that fluttered throughout the room.

Beside the hearth, sat a tub — the gold had tarnished, making it appear dilapidated, as if it were weathered by the elements. Steam rose from the water inside, as still as a silent pond.

A soft groan escaped you, body wracked with the frigid sting of agony, one that made your stomach turn as you approached the bath. It was unusual, the placement — your desire for cleanliness outweighed your skepticism.

Wobbling legs trembled like leaves upon a windswept branch as you sank into steaming water, causing you to hiss at the intrusion against your wounds. The heat did wonders, offering relief from the stab of ice, from the cruelty of the Carpathian cliffsides.

It was still dusk, the hour of the bat, a night that left you with a constant presence of dread. The creature, the man you saw — his shadow had not left you, as if pieces still lingered within your heart as you scrubbed yourself free of grime.

The groan of withered hinges gave way to the weight of the cast-iron doors, adorned with the heads of snarling hounds. Light pooled in from the crack in the door, causing gooseflesh to rake along your spine, followed by a shiver.

Something pulled you — like a puppeteer orchestrating a show, strings that bound you to some medieval presence beyond the doors. The flames within the hearth began to flicker, their light diminishing, waning to little more than smoldering embers.

Fear took root within your heart, its tendrils seizing within you, filling you with a wave of disquiet. Despite the warmth of the water, your flesh screams with an icy chill, throat growing thick as you reached for the bear’s hide.

Shame rippled through you, still bare and exposed beneath the mountain of fur. Firelight illuminated the next room, far more vast than the one you awoke in. Shuffling forward, you grasped at the edge of the door, benumbed iron firm beneath your palm.

A dining hall stretched before you, an ornate table lined with tall chairs that were made from the finest of pelts, yet worn by time. In another lifetime, this castle might’ve been beautiful — instead, it was a mausoleum of the damned.

An ornate candelabra sat atop the table, wisps of smoke drifting from extinguished wicks. A sizable pitcher sat beside a pair of wine glasses, glass contained within some metallic design that twisted around the base.

Two chairs had faced the roaring fireplace, a hearth that dwarfed the size of the one in your quarters. Your footsteps were feather-light as you crossed the threshold, carrying yourself closer to the table.

“Hello?” Whispers to an empty room stirred something within the shadows, accompanied by the garish bark of hounds. Icy dread coalesced within the pit of your stomach as you looked around, fearful of your intrusion.

A door opposite of you opened, moved by a nameless shadow, whose frame eclipsed all slivers of light — an ominous void, as black as pitch. Two hounds snarled at the spectre’s heels, leering through the corridor’s darkness.

Strigoi — the revenant of pestilence, now standing before you. You should’ve been terrified, thrown yourself at its mercy, but instead, you remained petrified where you stood.

For the briefest of moments, your eyes fluttered, and the shadow no longer occupied the space within the hallway. The door slammed shut, the thunderous crack of iron reverberating throughout the room.

The hounds paced forth, growling at you as they settled somewhere along the fringes, laying down alongside scaling stone columns. You swallowed the growing lump within your throat, chewing at the inside of your cheek.

Flames shuddered in the wake of an archaic presence, akin to an icy gale, and with it, the aura of something horribly foreboding. The shadow appeared at the head of the table, each ragged breath evoking a low, guttural growl.

“Sit.”

It was inhuman, his voice — akin to thunder shaking the mountains, like the roll of a dark tide, dragging sailors into its unforgiving seas. He spoke your native tongue, Dacian, and yet it sounded harsher from his lips, wrought with blades.

Through pools of dim firelight, you caught a glimpse of his visage — sharp and pointed, stone-faced and garish. His features, whilst gaunt, possessed all of the markings of a nobleman, attire bearing sigils of royalty, crafted of fine pelts.

With trembling hands, you lowered yourself into your seat, shrouded by the warmth of the grizzly’s hide, ensuring that you were concealed from his view. That pang of hunger you felt in your dream, a ravenous appetite — you could feel it again.

The plate placed before you is nothing more than a generous portion of bread, somewhat stale from constant exposure to acrid air. Your stomach gnashes with hunger, the sting of starvation — you dared not touch it.

“Eat,” His command reverberates throughout the hall, enough to cause a wave of gooseflesh to permeate your skin, dancing along your spine. “Thou shall refer to me as thy lordship.” You had not yet extended your gratitude — he must’ve plucked you from the snow.

Without an ounce of hesitation, your teeth greedily sank into bread, pulling it apart with the fervor of some wild animal. You were not a noblewoman, nor a maiden with any title or dowry — merely the daughter of a carpenter.

“My Lord,” What did one say to a creature that once terrorized your home, to a myth now manifested into flesh? “I — I must thank you, for your hospitality.” Reduced to a mere shrew in his presence, you chewed whatever piece of bread lingered in your mouth.

It was you, his lamb — intended to be his sacrifice, his sated hunger, sparing your village from the terror of his curse.

Another snarl emerged from him, accompanied by each rasp of his breathing, a noise that perplexed you to no end. Strigoi were dangerous — servants of hell itself, creatures born of dark sorcery, ones that had no place in the natural world.

Akin to a mere wisp of shadow, he manifested at your side, pouring a goblet of wine for you, the liquid a dusky crimson. Your gaze never dared to look him in the eyes, feeling the ghost of his finger dance across your cheek.

Such warmth, such feebleness — the beating of your heart only seemed to race with a pang of exhilaration. His flesh was akin to an endless winter, as cold as ice, like roughened leather, decaying beneath the earth.

“Drink.”

Your lips had not tasted wine as lavish as the chalice he presented you with, and it felt saccharine upon your tongue. Greed consumed you, prompting you to drink as if it were your lifeblood.

Long had this castle stood, many centuries of history contained within walls as old as time. A Count, a nobleman he had been in life, a black sorcerer. You, this enchantress, maiden of nothing — you would be his bride, his obsession, his unmaker.

From the rotten gloom of his fortress, he had preyed upon your village for years — years spent in-fear of this serpent, feeding upon the young and old. Blood was blood, and it did not matter the age, so long as his appetite was satiated.

“What do you intend for me?” Your voice was little more than a trembling mewl, expecting to be submitted to dark magics or something far worse. A low grunt stirred within his throat, nail dragging along the curve of your jaw.

With great restraint, his hand recoiled, leaving your warmth as he considered your inquiry in silence. You were intended for him — not as a sacrifice, but as something more, if you were willing.

Centuries spent in his eternal tomb, centuries spent waiting for you — Orlok had crossed oceans of time, wading through endless night to find you.

“Thou must rest — no blade shall find you here.” He rumbled, looming like some dark cloud above your head. It was your scent that drove him to madness, drowned within the concoction of oils placed into the bath. It was a scent he would covet fervently.

A hitch formed within your throat, and your terror had diminished, but only enough to keep you from shaking with dread. You did not understand what he wanted from you, why he did not tear you limb from limb, the fate that had befallen many of your kin.

No blade that wasn’t his own, you pondered, chewing at the inside of your cheek until the flesh was raw. Blood coalesced, sanguine drops attracting the sudden, sharp ire of your host, whose black eyes glittered with bewilderment.

“My Lord, I — I do not understand …” Uncertainty began to permeate your tone, cadence wrought with a newfound fright. Your blood ran cold, heart leaping into your throat as your chest tightened with a great and terrible worry.

“Rest.” His growl ripped through him, reverberating from his chest like the snarl of a feral beast. You skittered from the chair, still swathed in bearskin as you retreated to the room you came from.

Perhaps, he had mistaken your fear as something ungrateful. He had not slaughtered you yet, making you an unwitting guest within his home — you should’ve been offering your gratitude without protest.

The flame within the hearth had dissipated in one fell swoop, as if some storming gale had swept throughout the hall, stealing all light with it. Darkness swallowed your surroundings, and the Count had disappeared entirely, as if he had manifested into shadow.

A shudder coursed along your spine, sending you clamoring into the false comfort of your chambers. The door had shut before you, as if propelled by some unseen force, prompting you to move towards the bed behind you.

Not even the velvet curtains could offer you security, as if they were transparent, or nonexistent. You could still feel the chill of his breath against your cheek, the sensation of his claw tracing along your jaw — you should’ve been repulsed.

Instead of abhorrence, you felt a deep-seated yearning — a blistering desire that you hadn’t experienced before, a tether that anchored you to this being. You feared yourself, the amalgamation of sensations rousing within you as you crawled beneath the sheets.

Sleep would not find you — not here.

Your dreams were no longer yours, bound to him — whatever slumber you could find, you were subject to these visions, lascivious in nature. Whatever rest you could find was disjointed, interrupted by dreams so real that you were convinced of their tangibility, as if you could reach out and touch.

It was him you dreamt of, coming to you at an ungodly hour, claws raking across your bare flesh as he unraveled your sheets. The constant penumbra kept him concealed from you, and yet, you burned to see him fully.

He touched you in your dreams, appearing between your legs as you bared your soul to him, a figure so impossibly large and intimidating. It was guilt and trepidation you should’ve felt, laying with the scourge of your people, a baneful serpent.

Instead, it was euphoria — a desire to bind yourself to him, to cage yourself within his grasp. Spindly digits caressed along your body, nails ghosting above your breasts, traveling to the plane of your stomach.

Unclean — that was what you were, piety now stained in his shadow. Even that did not perturb you as you reached for him, wisps of air being stolen from your lungs as he leaned closer, teeth scraping against your sternum.

“Please,” You had begged him to continue, to bring you a pleasure that you had not yet experienced. “Do not stop.” Whatever pleas fell from your mouth had been for naught — and you awoke with sweat-slick skin and startlement.

As your eyes fluttered open, you were flustered to find the heavy warmth of arousal between your thighs, sheets tangled around your body. Embarrassment turned to frustration, throat dry as you adjusted yourself to the darkness of your chambers.

“Thine body yearns, starved for embrace,” Like the clash of thunder, his voice shook the room, emerging from the pitch surrounding you. You did not know where he was, but he was here with you — physically. “A lamb seeking the shepherd.”

An icy breeze fluttered throughout your quarters, moonlight glistening along the curtains surrounding the bed — and you saw his shadow beside you. Exposed, you drew the sheets around you, with a shame so sharp, and yet your skin gave so easily.

That familiar knot of dread bubbled within your stomach, gooseflesh crawling along your body as you wrapped your arms around you. “I feel your shadow upon me — I should not want you.” You whispered into the gloom.

A growl stirred from the strigoi, and he burrowed into your shame, settling into your bones. “Thine will is your own — it is in your nature,” He rumbled, and that was when you saw him, lingering at the foot of the bed. “Give thyself to me.”

It was your agonizing shame that kept you from crawling to him on all fours like some beast, starving for any scrap of touch. You wanted him, in your own twisted way — wanted him to shield you from your kin, to take you, to live within your ribs.

There was no life left for you in the village — the kin that amassed to put you to the blade, left in the woods for him were not your friends. Perhaps, that was what drove you all along, pushing you into his embrace.

His tendrils wrapped themselves around your mind, no thoughts left untouched, each crevice now surrendered to the Count. He could taste your burning lust, your desire to belong, to belong to him — and he craved such sentiments.

“What little life you had, now belongs to me. Give thyself, willingly — I shall satisfy this craving, and your flesh will be mine alone.”

In the slim fade of silver, you saw him — gaunt and pale, like that of an apparition. In life, he might’ve been called handsome, comely — your disgust should’ve kept you away, made you flee. You were rooted to the bed, able to meet his stare.

Hues as black as pitch, swirling with a hunger unending, an eternal appetite that demanded to be sated by you. He watched you hawkishly, his shadow descending upon you, the phantom sensation of fingers dancing across your collarbone.

Enraptured by the Count, your enticement only seemed to blossom, unfurling from your chest with a wave of want. Instead of hiding yourself from him, you sluggishly allowed the sheets to drop, breasts pebbling from the chilled air.

“I am yours — and only yours, my Lord.”

With a breathy declaration of your devotion, a snarl bubbled from his throat, a sound that sent shivers cascading down your body. Your legs untangled themselves from the sheets altogether, nakedness now exhilarating instead of humiliating.

It was as if you were eased down by some unseen presence, as clawed, shadowed hands bid you to recline into the feathered bed beneath you. The Count did not move from the foot of the frame, leering at you with an ugly obsession.

“Think only of me.”

Whatever supernatural abilities he possessed, he used them, as if you were placed back into the vision you’d had before. His tone rattles your insides, a booming timbre wrought with something dark and enigmatic.

Phantom sensations drift along your body, the touch of another foreign to you. You have used your own hand before, but this feels exhilarating, like a gale of frigid wind ghosting across your frame.

Arousal coalesces between your legs, a slick heat that oozes onto the sheets. It is your scent that vexes him so, the scent of a siren, the call of your sanguine soul.

Without a thought, your hand shyly drifts to your chest, kneading into one of your breasts. Your skin prickles when he makes a sharp, throaty growl of satisfaction. His ghostly claws rake along the supple flesh of your thighs.

A moan escapes you, one of delight as you begin to sink into his presence. For now, he is content to observe, his shadow partaking instead of his physical being — it will not be that way for long.

Soon, your flesh would join — you would become bound to him, and he to you, a union abhorred by many. He reveled at the thought of you, flesh eternal, revealing yourself to him like the unfurling petals of a flower.

No longer shrewd beneath his covetous glower, you freely touch yourself, squeaking out a myriad of sounds from your throat. “Take all of me, beloved.” You exhale, the pad of your thumb flicking across your swollen nipple.

The use of such an intimate title evokes a ragged, strained exhale from your paramour, whose obsession rages like that of a tempest. His phantom claws trace along your body, circling your unattended breast.

It kneads just as you do, sharp talons continuing to tease the pebbled bud, drawing out a mewl from your sweet lips. Gooseflesh erupts across the back of your neck, another wave of arousal flushing through your frame.

A heated ardor burned between your thighs, soon to be soothed by the ghost of gnarled digits. Spectral claws continue to revel in your velvety flesh, seeking your arousal as the shadow traces across your cunt. It makes you writhe, one hand grasping desperately at the sheets.

A strangled whimper emerges from you, back beginning to arch into his salacious embrace. He continues to watch from his place at the foot of the bed, breathing unnaturally hoarse, strained with a wanton need.

Warmth exhumes from you like the lick of an open fire, extinguishing his gravely chill. The Count’s gaze greedily consumes your contorting form, able to hear the erratic beating of your heart, your mouth torn open, his name upon your lips.

No curse had befallen you, save that of devotion.

Phantom digits find the pearl of your cunt, teasing the clutch of nerves before vigorously circling it. Your knees buckle, eyes fluttering shut as you succumbed to such unholy appetites.

“Give in to thine own desires.”

That gravelly purr coaxes you to seek your satisfaction, and you mechanically obey, as if transfixed by his voice alone. A sharp exhale splits your ribs, and the hand that once grasped the sheets soon finds its way between your legs.

An unnatural sheen permeates his black hues, one that seems appeased with your subservience. No dead heart could beat — his skeletal frame had not felt such fervor for centuries.

Again, you look to him, as if wanting him to witness your lust, fingers dancing along your swollen folds. Your digits seek to roll across your slit, eliciting a whine from you as you begin to touch yourself.

Dragging your legs against the sheets, you keep them parted, two fingers sluggishly rutting against your nethers. A phantom hand caresses along your stomach, nails raking from navel to sternum, and then to your throat.

The pressure sends a spike of adrenaline through your body, the sensation unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. You think of him in an untoward manner, unbecoming of a maiden, lascivious fantasies that make you sigh.

Ghostly caresses layer themselves across your chest, and you swear you hear him shift throughout the room, drawing closer to you. Your thumb languidly circles your pearl, teeth gnashing at your lower lip.

A throaty moan rips from your diaphragm, wrought with ecstasy as you pleasure yourself, one palm kneading at your breast. The other is spirited, ministrations laced with desire as your digits find your entrance.

His shadow is oppressive, a force that blankets itself across your body, and for a moment, you see a vision of him, crawling over your flesh. Your thoughts are molded to him, able to be toyed with — your Lord makes you see his own whims.

It became difficult to discern dreams from reality, imagining his hands roaming your form, claws sinking into your flesh, his brand. You call out to him, a whimpering plea that begs him for release.

Arousal mounts, burning heavy within the pit of your stomach as you squirm, pushing two fingers into the tight heat of your cunt. The noises are sinful, a myriad of strained moans intermingled with crass strokes of your digits.

The Count’s phantom hand continues to squeeze at your throat, nails digging into the silken flesh of your neck. A sharp exhale emerges from your lips, toes beginning to curl at the concoction of sensations assaulting your body.

You alone had grown intimately acquainted with your own body, and yet he handled you as if you had been lovers for centuries. Ghostly digits begin to toy with the pearl of your cunt, causing your muscles to twitch.

“Please,” A supplication to the shadows, wanting some release for your overwhelming pleasure. It swarms you from all around, senses invaded with his dominating presence. “My Lord, please!” Your cunt clenches around your fingers.

A growl erupts from the pitch, his gaze fixated upon you as he looms closer, hovering above your writhing frame. The scent of your cruor ensnares him like a wolf to a rabbit, and he finally moves to perch beside you.

His garb only makes him seem impossibly statuesque, hand hovering above you as his sorcery intensifies. Your back arches, feeling his shadow purse around your pearl, enough to make you fist at the sheets.

Ecstatic digits piston themselves in and out of your nethers, coated in a thin layer of slick, thighs shifting together in an attempt to relieve any ounce of friction.

Higher — you climb toward your release, chasing after it with a thinly-veiled desperation. Shadowy sensations move across your body like liquid smoke, squeezing beneath your jaw, continuing to circle around your clit.

You are temptation incarnate — his devotion to you is a powerful thing, just as yours is to him. Sharp, jagged teeth hover above your breast, and the Count succumbs to his hunger, at last.

Pain blossoms throughout your breast, and yet you hadn’t felt an ecstasy quite like this. It was blinding, white-hot as it consumed you whole, swallowing you within the abyss of lust. Teeth break flesh, tasting your cruor upon his tongue.

No drink could compare to that of your sanguine ichor, no sensation — the Count drank from your breast, a possessive snarl ripping through his chest. He bristled at the feeling of your warm palm cupping the nape of his neck.

A crescendo of moans tore through you as you approached your peak, digits continuing to dip inward, curling within your cunt. It became strained, body trembling with an onslaught of ecstasy.

Claws begin to stroke along your tresses, as if easing you into submission, coaxing forth a release that makes you scream. Your body curls toward him, cunt slick with your mess as you find your satisfaction, at last.

A warm rush of your essence soaks the sheets, the scent enough to drive your paramour to madness. It furthers his bloodlust in a way that entices you, another wheezing exhale leaving him.

A rough tongue slithers against your sternum, stained in crimson as he openly feasts from you, and you do not recoil. Your peak seems to work in-tandem with his appetite, feeling his claws ghost above your breast.

Muscles ache with spasmodic twitches, chest flourishing with the sting of agony as it spreads throughout your sternum. Instead, you invite him closer, digits stroking at the greying, decayed flesh, allowing him to sup upon you.

His gravelly voice seems to intensify within the recesses of your mind, speaking to you through a distant haze. “Thine flesh belongs to me,” He rumbles, and you hold him closer. “As this flesh belongs to thee.”

He does not touch you, leaving you with some aching void that can only be filled by him — he alone will satisfy the craving.

[sonarspace]

❝ TOUCH ME, TAKE ME, KISS ME ❞

ft. gojo, geto & shoko. (4some)

꒰ synopsis. where celebrating new year’s with your best friends turns into something much more intimate—one kiss at midnight isn’t nearly enough.

warnings. MDNI. college au. fem! reader, fōursome, mutual pining, unprotected p in v, orāl (f! and m! receiving), fingerıng (f! and m! receiving), clıt stimulation, overstimulation, dirty talk, shared partner dynamics, voyeurism, slight dom/sub vibes, hair pulling, teasing, praise kink, body worship, light biting/marking, cųm play, & multiple orgasmś.

the cabin was exactly what you’d expect from satoru gojo – unnecessarily luxurious, tucked away on the outskirts of a snowy mountain town, and equipped with every amenity that screamed rich kid with too much money to burn.

“seriously, satoru, who the hell needs a jacuzzi in their living room?” shoko teased, setting her duffel down by the entryway. the bubbling water glowed from the built-in lights, steam curling lazily into the warm space.

gojo smirked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his black hoodie. “it’s about the vibes, shoko. the experience. and, i dunno, maybe i just like having options.”

geto, sitting cross-legged on the couch, glanced up from his phone. “yeah? and when’s the last time you used it?”

“hey, i brought you guys here, didn’t i? sounds like ungrateful energy to me,” gojo shot back, though his grin didn’t waver.

you chuckled softly, toeing off your boots near the fireplace, letting the heat seep through your socks. the large windows stretched across the far wall, showcasing the snow falling steadily outside, blanketing the trees under the silver moonlight.

“he’s right, though,” you chimed in, peeling off your jacket. “we could’ve rung in the new year at some regular house party. but instead, we’re here. cozy, secluded... not the worst way to spend our last new year as college students.”

“see? someone gets it,” gojo said, flashing you that familiar, lopsided grin.

you rolled your eyes, but the truth was, you didn’t mind. the four of you had been close since your freshman year, and as the years piled up, so did the late-night study sessions, spontaneous road trips, and drunken confessions after long nights out. this felt like a full-circle moment. one final hurrah before graduation came sweeping in to change everything.

shoko tossed herself onto the couch beside geto, tugging off her beanie and shaking out her hair. “so, what’s the plan? drinking games until midnight, or are we just free-styling it?”

“why not both?” suguru said, stretching an arm behind her, fingers brushing lightly against your shoulder where you leaned against the armrest. the contact was subtle, but you felt it linger.

gojo raised a brow, tilting his head dramatically. “i was thinking strip poker.”

shoko snorted, flicking his forehead. “sure. you’d be naked in five minutes.”

“is that supposed to be a problem?”

your eyes flickered to suguru, catching the small smirk pulling at his lips. his gaze met yours for half a second, dark eyes flickering with something unreadable, before dropping back to his phone.

this wasn’t the first time you’d caught the lingering tension between everyone – the casual touches, the way shoko’s gaze would sometimes linger on you a little too long, or the moments gojo’s hands would rest on your lower back at parties, guiding you through crowds when he didn’t really need to.

you weren’t oblivious. but none of you had ever crossed that line.

yet.

“alright, let’s start with drinks,” you suggested, pushing yourself to your feet. “anyone want to help me?”

“i got it,” geto said, standing with an easy grace. “come on.”

as the two of you headed into the kitchen, shoko and gojo’s quiet laughter echoed softly from the living room, the crackling fire filling the otherwise silent cabin.

suguru leaned against the counter, watching as you rummaged through the cabinets.

“so,” he started, his voice low and smooth, “how are you feeling about tonight?”

you glanced over your shoulder. “in general? or is this a ‘we’re about to graduate, what are you doing with your life?’ kind of question?”

his lips quirked. “both, maybe.”

you sighed, grabbing a bottle of whiskey. “i’m trying not to think about it too hard. tonight’s about celebrating, not panicking about the future.”

he nodded thoughtfully, but his eyes lingered.

“you know,” he mused, stepping closer, “satoru’s not wrong. it is kind of a waste to let this cabin go to waste.”

“what are you suggesting?” you teased, pouring the whiskey into a glass.

suguru’s gaze dipped, trailing over you slowly before flicking back to your eyes. “just saying… midnight’s a good time for new experiences.”

heat prickled your skin under his stare, but before you could respond, gojo’s voice rang out from the other room.

“hey, you two! quit flirting and bring the damn drinks!”

you laughed, but suguru didn’t move right away. instead, his fingers brushed lightly against your wrist as he grabbed the bottle from the counter, his touch lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch.

yeah. tonight was going to be interesting.

the drinks flowed easily, laughter spilling into the warm cabin air as the four of you huddled near the fireplace, sprawled across the plush rugs and oversized pillows. suguru sat beside you, his knee brushing yours with every shift, while gojo leaned against the couch, one long arm lazily slung around shoko’s shoulders.

“alright,” gojo drawled, tipping back his glass. his eyes glittered behind those obnoxious shades he insisted on wearing inside. “time for a game.”

“drinking game?” shoko asked, already halfway through her second glass of whiskey.

“nope.” gojo’s smirk curled wickedly. “truth or dare.”

you snorted, shaking your head. “what are we? sixteen?”

“don’t knock it,” suguru said smoothly, his eyes half-lidded as he sipped his drink. “it could be fun. besides, satoru’s incapable of suggesting anything mature.”

gojo shot him a look. “this coming from the guy who suggested skinny dipping in the hot tub an hour ago.”

“that was different. it was an intellectual suggestion.”

“sure it was.”

shoko waved a hand dismissively. “fine. truth or dare it is. but no stupid shit like licking the floor or whatever. we’re not in a frat house.”

gojo grinned, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “who’s starting?”

your hand shot up, aiming for the path of least resistance. “truth.”

“boring,” gojo muttered, but there was mischief behind the slight pout. “alright, fine. if you had to kiss one of us at midnight, who would it be?”

the room fell quiet for a beat too long. you felt three sets of eyes zero in on you, the weight of their attention thick enough to taste.

“uh—” you faltered, heat crawling up your neck.

“careful,” suguru murmured beside you, voice low and teasing. “we’ll know if you’re lying.”

your gaze flicked to his, catching the flicker of something darker in his expression. your heart thudded a little harder.

“i dunno,” you hedged, taking a slow sip of your drink. “depends on the mood, i guess.”

gojo leaned closer, grinning like he’d already won. “that’s not an answer.”

“then take it as my answer.”

shoko laughed, leaning back against the couch cushions. “she’s playing it safe. smart girl.”

but the tension lingered, subtle but persistent, weaving through the air like smoke.

“my turn,” suguru cut in smoothly, tilting his head toward gojo. “truth or dare?”

“dare, obviously.”

“kiss shoko.”

“easy.”

without hesitation, gojo leaned down and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to shoko’s lips. she didn’t pull away – if anything, her hand slid lazily up his arm, nails grazing lightly against his skin before they parted.

“you guys have done that before,” you pointed out, trying to ignore the heat twisting low in your stomach.

“multiple times,” shoko replied, smirking. “you’re late to the party.”

gojo winked. “jealous?”

“not particularly.”

but the idea lodged itself somewhere deep. maybe it was the alcohol warming your veins, or the way suguru’s hand rested against the small of your back, light but possessive, but the thought lingered.

midnight wasn’t that far off.

the countdown started around 11:50. the drinks were mostly forgotten by then, the four of you curled closer near the fire, the alcohol buzzing quietly in your heads.

“five minutes,” gojo announced, his voice dropping to something smoother, almost suggestive. “better start thinking about that kiss.”

shoko stretched her legs out, crossing them at the ankles. “maybe we should just kiss each other. take the guesswork out of it.”

your stomach flipped at her casual tone, but when you glanced at suguru, his gaze was already fixed on you.

“not opposed,” he said softly.

gojo made a low hum of approval, sitting up straighter. “why not?”

“you’re all serious about this?” you asked, voice tipping toward incredulous, but your pulse betrayed you, hammering against your ribs.

“you’re curious,” suguru countered, brushing his knuckles against your thigh.

and you were. the tension had been building for years – subtle glances, fleeting touches, unspoken things hanging just out of reach.

“alright,” you relented, the words tasting like adrenaline on your tongue. “fine.”

the countdown echoed on the tv screen, bright against the dim cabin.

ten.

nine.

suguru shifted closer, his thigh pressed against yours.

eight.

seven.

gojo’s gaze dropped to your lips, his grin softer, teasing.

six.

shoko leaned into your side, her arm brushing yours.

five.

four.

your breath hitched as suguru’s hand curled under your chin, tilting your face toward his.

three.

two.

one.

their lips met yours at the same time – suguru’s mouth warm and steady, while shoko’s was softer, tasting faintly of whiskey.

you lost yourself in it, your hand fisting in suguru’s shirt as gojo’s hand brushed against your lower back, slipping lower, pulling you closer.

and just like that, the line dissolved completely.

the kiss started playful—soft touches, slow exploration—but the heat behind it caught quickly, sparking into something heavier. suguru’s fingers brushed your jaw, coaxing your lips open as his tongue slid against yours, slow and possessive. shoko’s mouth trailed along your neck, leaving wet kisses against your pulse, while gojo’s hand slipped under the hem of your sweater, his palm warm as it splayed across your waist.

you broke the kiss with suguru only to meet shoko’s lips, her tongue teasing against yours as she pressed closer, her hands slipping down to rest on your thighs. the space between the four of you seemed to vanish, replaced by the weight of wandering hands and shared breaths.

gojo groaned softly, nipping at suguru’s bottom lip before tugging him back by the collar, stealing a kiss that left no room for subtlety. suguru didn’t resist, his hand tangling in gojo’s hair, tilting his head to deepen it. the sight had your breath catching, heat pooling low in your stomach.

“god, you two,” shoko muttered, smirking against your lips. “it’s like watching a porno.”

“jealous?” gojo quipped, pulling back just enough to catch his breath, his eyes glittering with amusement.

“maybe.”

“you get her,” suguru said smoothly, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip. “we’ll be back.”

before you could question it, gojo grabbed suguru’s wrist and led him out of the living room, disappearing into the hall with low, breathy laughter echoing behind them.

the absence of their presence left you and shoko tangled together on the rug by the fire, the crackling flames casting soft shadows across her face.

“guess it’s just us,” she murmured, her fingers tracing light patterns over your thighs.

“seems like it,” you whispered, barely able to focus with the heat of her body pressed so close.

shoko didn’t waste time once the boys left the room. her lips crashed into yours, all tongue and teeth, as if she’d been holding back for too long. you could feel the heat radiating off her as her hands roamed your body, tugging at the edges of your sweater until it slipped over your head.

her palms were warm against your bare skin, fingertips skimming the soft curve of your breasts, and you gasped into her mouth, arching into her touch.

“fuck,” she whispered, eyes trailing down your body, drinking you in like she couldn’t get enough. “been waiting to get my hands on you all night.”

you let her take control, her nails scraping lightly down your back as she kissed a path to your collarbone, sucking a bruise into the delicate skin.

your sweater, jeans, and everything else ended up in a pile near the fireplace, leaving you bare and vulnerable in the soft flicker of firelight. shoko settled between your legs, her hands pressing your thighs apart with a confidence that had you squirming beneath her.

“you’re so wet already,” she murmured, dragging a single finger through your folds. “you like this, huh?”

you could barely nod, the sensation making you dizzy.

her mouth followed, soft lips trailing over the inside of your thighs, her tongue flicking out to catch the slick gathering at your core.

“fuck, shoko,” you gasped, hips bucking when she sucked your clit between her lips, the warmth of her tongue making you shudder.

her grip on your thighs tightened, nails digging into the soft flesh as she kept you pinned, her mouth relentless.

“stay still,” she mumbled, voice muffled against you.

it was impossible. you tugged lightly at her hair, desperate for something to hold onto as she worked you closer to the edge, her tongue curling just right.

you didn’t even notice the sound of footsteps until shoko pulled back slightly, glancing over her shoulder with a smirk.

“oh,” she hummed, licking her lips. “you two back already?”

your gaze snapped to the doorway.

gojo and geto stood there, completely bare, their cocks hard and already dripping.

“we were enjoying the view,” gojo said, his voice deeper, laced with something dark as his gaze fixed on you.

geto stepped forward first, his eyes hooded as he stroked himself lazily, clearly not in any rush. “didn’t know you’d start without us.”

“you two looked busy,” shoko teased, swiping her thumb across her bottom lip, catching the glisten of your arousal.

“don’t stop on our account,” gojo added, stepping closer, his hand wrapping around the base of his cock as he knelt beside you.

shoko chuckled, glancing down at you with amusement in her eyes. “what do you think?”

you didn’t know how to answer, too overwhelmed by the weight of their attention—the way geto’s dark gaze lingered on your mouth, the curve of gojo’s smirk as he ran his fingers along your inner thigh.

“she can take it,” geto murmured, brushing his lips along the curve of your jaw. “she’s been good so far.”

shoko shifted lower, her breath hot against your core, but this time, geto was beside her, his lips pressing soft kisses to your clit before shoko’s tongue joined him.

“fuck—” your breath hitched, your back arching off the floor as their mouths worked in tandem, the slick warmth of their tongues too much.

gojo, not wanting to be left out, moved behind you, his lips ghosting along your neck as his fingers slid into your pussy, curling to meet the rhythm of their mouths.

“so fucking pretty,” he whispered into your ear, biting lightly at the lobe. “you like being the center of attention, don’t you?”

you couldn’t answer, too caught up in the overwhelming sensation, your body trembling as the knot in your stomach tightened.

“c’mon,” shoko coaxed, her tongue circling your clit faster. “let go for us.”

you did, a sharp cry leaving your lips as your orgasm tore through you, your hips jerking uncontrollably as shoko and geto didn’t stop, their mouths and fingers milking every last drop of pleasure.

when you finally opened your eyes, dazed and breathless, geto was already shifting, settling between your legs as gojo moved to take his place beside shoko.

“don’t be greedy, shoko,” gojo teased, his lips brushing yours as geto lined himself up with your entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing inside.

shoko’s hand slipped beneath your jaw, guiding you to look at her as geto thrust into you, stretching you wide.

“you can give us one more,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to yours as her lips hovered inches from your mouth. “be a good girl for me, yeah?”

geto’s cock stretched you to the hilt, the fullness making you shudder as he bottomed out, his forehead pressed against yours. shoko’s hand traced slow circles along your cheek, grounding you with soft touches even as her other hand slipped lower, two fingers pressing against your clit, slick from how drenched you were.

“you’re taking him so well,” she whispered, her thumb brushing your bottom lip. “but you can take more, can’t you?”

you nodded weakly, body already trembling, but the praise made your stomach flutter.

gojo shifted, moving behind you, his lips trailing lazy kisses along the curve of your shoulder. “gonna open you up even more,” he murmured, his fingers dragging down the length of your stomach, teasing along the edge of your folds where geto’s cock stretched you.

you felt his middle finger slip inside, pressing against the soft spot geto wasn’t reaching. the sensation was dizzying.

“so fucking tight,” gojo hissed, sliding another finger in beside the first, stretching you further. “can feel how deep suguru is inside you.”

shoko’s breath tickled your lips as her fingers drifted lower, joining gojo’s as he stretched you open, the combination of their touches leaving you gasping.

“so sensitive,” shoko cooed, pressing soft kisses along your jawline, her fingers brushing light circles around your clit.

gojo’s third finger slipped inside, the stretch nearly overwhelming, and your nails dug into the rug beneath you as your back arched, your body tightening around them both.

“fuck,” geto grunted, his cock twitching inside you. “she’s squeezing me like crazy.”

“feels good, doesn’t it?” gojo teased, his smirk audible even if you couldn’t see him. “she’s so warm… bet you won’t last long.”

geto’s grip on your hips tightened, his thrusts slowing, each drag of his cock purposeful as he pushed deep, grinding against the spot that made you tremble.

you whimpered, barely able to take it all in, your body stretched beyond its limits but craving more. shoko kissed the corner of your mouth, her lips lingering just long enough to make you chase after her, your tongue brushing against hers in a soft, needy motion.

“i can feel how close you are,” she whispered, her fingers pinching your clit just enough to make you jolt. “you’re trembling.”

gojo’s fingers pressed deeper, curling in a way that sent sparks shooting through you, and you nearly sobbed from the intensity.

“you’re holding back,” gojo whispered in your ear, his lips brushing against your earlobe. “let go, sweetheart. we’re not stopping till you’re a mess beneath us.”

geto groaned, his pace faltering, hips snapping faster as he chased his own pleasure, his grip bruising in the best way.

shoko dipped her head lower, trailing soft kisses down your neck, her hand leaving your jaw to tug gently at one of your nipples, rolling it between her fingers as her other hand continued its teasing strokes over your swollen clit.

“give it to us,” she coaxed, her voice laced with a softness that made your chest ache. “you can take it, pretty girl. just one more, i know you can.”

your breath hitched, the knot in your stomach tightening as the pressure mounted.

“fuck—shoko, i’m gonna—”

“i know,” she whispered, her lips pressing to yours in a soft, breathless kiss.

the wave hit you hard, your walls fluttering around geto’s cock as your orgasm crashed over you, your hips jerking up to meet his thrusts as gojo’s fingers kept curling inside, stretching you open further.

“that’s it,” gojo growled, pulling his fingers out just as geto’s pace grew erratic.

“fuck, i’m close,” geto grunted, thrusting hard one last time before he groaned low in his throat, spilling into you with a slow roll of his hips.

shoko kissed you through it, swallowing your soft cries as geto leaned forward, his forehead resting against your shoulder, chest heaving.

but they didn’t stop.

geto groaned low in his throat, his hands gripping your hips tighter as he gave one last deep thrust, burying himself fully inside you as he spilled, warmth flooding your core.

your body trembled, the overstimulation leaving you breathless, forehead pressed against shoko’s shoulder as she ran soft fingers through your hair, grounding you.

“fuck,” geto whispered, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths as he pulled out slowly, his cum slipping down your thighs, sticky and warm against your skin.

but even as geto leaned back, his hands still lingering on your hips, gojo wasn’t done.

his cock throbbed against your thigh, heavy and slick with precum, the tip flushed and desperate for attention.

you felt his gaze on you, his hand sliding over your jaw to tilt your face toward him.

“think you can help me out, pretty girl?” he murmured, his lips brushing yours in a teasing kiss, but his hips were already shifting closer, his cock pressing insistently against your palm.

you nodded, the quiet desperation in his voice making you throb, still sensitive from geto’s lingering touch. your fingers curled around him, warm and slick as you stroked slowly, feeling the weight of him in your hand.

“fuck, just like that,” he groaned, tipping his head back slightly as his hand covered yours, guiding your pace.

meanwhile, shoko shifted in front of you, her bare thighs brushing against your waist as she straddled you, her hands resting on your shoulders for balance.

“don’t forget about me,” she teased, voice low, but there was heat in her eyes as she grabbed your wrist, guiding your fingers between her legs.

her slick heat coated your fingers immediately as they slipped inside, making her moan softly against your ear, hips rolling to meet your touch.

“you feel that?” she whispered, her forehead pressed to yours, panting softly. “been wanting you to touch me like this all night.”

your palm pressed deeper, thumb brushing over her swollen clit, and she gasped, biting down gently on your bottom lip as her hips bucked forward.

but shoko wasn’t one to let you do all the work.

her other hand drifted between your legs, her fingers brushing over your overstimulated core, dragging through the mess geto left behind.

“so messy,” she murmured, her tone soft and teasing, but there was nothing gentle about the way she slipped two fingers inside you, pressing into the heat that still fluttered around nothing.

you whimpered, arching into her hand as your own pace on gojo faltered, your grip tightening around his cock.

“shit—” gojo hissed, his breath stuttering as your fist squeezed him just right, his hips jerking up into your touch.

“i’ve got her,” shoko murmured to gojo, her lips grazing your ear as she thrust her fingers deeper, her pace slow but deliberate. “she’s so tight, aren’t you, baby?”

you couldn’t form words, only broken moans slipping past your parted lips, drool glistening as it trailed down your chin, your jaw slack beneath the intensity of it all. shoko’s fingers curled deep inside you, pressing against that spot that made your thighs tremble violently, your entire body arching into her touch.

her thumb circled your clit in slow, deliberate motions—not too much, but just enough to have you writhing beneath her, the friction driving you higher with every slow roll of her hips against yours.

“look at you,” geto murmured, dark eyes fixed on the way you twisted between them, shoko’s hand buried up to her knuckles inside you.

without a word, he leaned in, catching the trail of drool with his lips, kissing gently along your jaw before letting his tongue brush over the corner of your mouth, warm and unhurried.

“you’re taking her so well,” he said softly, his breath fanning over your lips before pressing a kiss to the hinge of your jaw, his palm cupping your cheek tenderly.

shoko’s teeth scraped over your neck, biting gently before soothing the mark with her tongue, her fingers never faltering.

“i know you can give me one more,” she coaxed, her voice soft but firm, curling her fingers until you nearly sobbed into her shoulder. “come on, baby, let me feel you.”

your hips rocked into her hand on instinct, chasing the pressure as pleasure coiled tighter inside you, her fingers coaxing you toward the edge.

“she’s close,” gojo groaned, his cock twitching in your palm as his eyes dragged over your body, flushed and trembling beneath shoko’s touch.

his hand slid over yours, guiding your strokes as his breath stuttered, his hips jerking forward to chase your fist.

“let go for us,” shoko whispered, her tongue tracing the curve of your ear, and with one last slow curl of her fingers, the tension inside you snapped.

your body trembled violently, thighs clenching around her hand as your orgasm surged through you, knocking the breath from your lungs.

shoko kept going, fucking you through the aftershocks, her fingers stroking deeper to draw out every last shiver until you were limp against her chest.

“fuck,” gojo hissed through gritted teeth, his grip on your hand tightening as he spilled hot and thick against your fingers, painting your skin with a satisfied groan.

for a moment, the room was quiet, the only sounds the soft crackling of the fire and the heavy weight of your breathing.

you lay there, muscles lax and trembling, shoko’s fingers still lazily circling your clit as she pressed soft kisses against your shoulder, grounding you in the afterglow.

“you were perfect,” she murmured against your lips, smiling softly as she finally slipped her fingers free, slick and glistening with your release.

geto brushed his thumb along your jaw, tilting your face toward him as he kissed you, slow and deliberate, his touch warm and steady.

“happy new year,” shoko whispered, her forehead resting gently against yours, and you couldn’t help the quiet laugh that slipped out between heavy breaths.

“happy new year,” you echoed softly, sinking further into the warmth of their bodies against yours.

an. HAPPY NEW YEAR BELOVEDS 😼😽😸! what are some new years goals y’all have? one of mine is to grow my tumblr following n get better at posting more 🤞🏽

[gojofile]

geto suguru’s guide on fraternising with the enemy

summary: geto suguru has been your greatest rival since your first year at hogwarts, always outdoing you in class and always getting under your skin. when he’s picked as the hogwarts champion for the triwizard tournament instead of you, you think you couldn’t possibly hate him more—until he corners you one evening and asks for your help.

⇢ pairing: slytherin!geto suguru x gryffindor!fem!reader ⇢ contains: romance, angst, slowburn, academic rivals to lovers au, hogwarts au, profanity, dragons, injuries, fights about blood purity, mentions of underage drinking—please let me know if i’ve missed anything! ⇢ word count: 24.2k ⇢ playlist: the course of true love never did run smooth ⇢ note: big big thank you to @etherealyoungk for making this gorgeous banner! thank you for reading ♡ (read on ao3 here!)

The only thing worse than losing to Geto Suguru is being expected to smile about it.

When the Goblet of Fire coughs out the charred piece of parchment with his name written on it, it feels as though the entire Great Hall erupts around you. Hoots of excitement ricochet off the enchanted ceiling, mingling with groans of disapproval—chiefly from your housemates, who baulked at the audacity of a Slytherin representing Hogwarts. You, however, couldn’t join in either chorus. No, you sit frozen at the Gryffindor table, lips pressed tightly together in an attempt to keep your tears at bay.

Geto Suguru stands from his place among the Slytherins, shrugging off his best friend’s arm from around his shoulders. His head turns, and somehow, through the sea of cheering faces, his gaze locks onto yours. There is something almost incendiary in his look—smugness molded into a smile, something defiant in the tilt of his jaw. You grind your teeth, irritated.

Suguru is now the Hogwarts Champion, elevated above the rest of you. You are nothing more than the runner-up—a title no one cares enough about to utter aloud. 

“Hard luck,” Utahime, your friend and the Head Girl, murmurs beside you, her hand light as a feather on your shoulder. Her voice is low and kind, yet utterly ineffective against the disappointment you feel. You give her a tight, forced smile, though your silence only seems to amplify her sympathy.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Not after years of outpouring your soul into every spell and hex you learnt, every essay you wrote, every late night spent at the library. You had scraped, clawed, and bled for this chance, and somehow, despite all your efforts, Suguru had stepped in and robbed you blind. The betting pool Shoko and Mei Mei had organised suddenly feels cruel in hindsight. Everyone had bet on either you or Suguru—no one else had even come close to being a contender. 

Your hands tremble slightly as you push back from the bench. You barely register the names of the foreign champions—Aleksandar Ivanov of Durmstrang, Amélie DuPont of Beauxbatons. You don’t care. The Great Hall feels stifling, so you stand up abruptly and begin weaving your way towards the exit. 

The cool air of the corridor hits you like a balm, soothing the heat rising in your chest. You walk with no real destination, footsteps echoing faintly against the stone walls, until you reach one of the tall windows overlooking the grounds. Moonlight spills across the landscape, painting the Forbidden Forest with silver. You lean against the cold stone ledge, and inhale deeply.

The bitterness simmering in your chest refuses to ebb. You had wanted this so badly, had poured every ounce of effort into proving you were the best, not just to Hogwarts but to yourself. But, as always, Geto Suguru had swooped in and stolen it from you.

“Running away so soon?”

You don’t turn immediately. Instead, you close your eyes and inhale slowly once more. When you finally turn, Geto Suguru stands a few feet away, leaning against the wall. His black hair is tied back neatly, save for a loose strand that falls against his cheek. 

“I didn’t realise I needed your permission to leave,” you say coolly, crossing your arms over your chest.

“It’s not as much fun winning,” Suguru says, “if my competition isn’t around to see it.”

“Competition?” You scoff. “That implies we were on equal footing to begin with.”

His smile widens, and he takes a step closer. “You’re not giving up that easily, are you? I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be brave.”

You want to snap at him, say something cutting enough to wipe that stupid self-satisfied grin off his face, but the words stick in your throat. He’s insufferable, yes, but you know that’s exactly what he wants—to pull a reaction from you. And Merlin help you, he’s good at it.

“What do you want, Suguru?” you ask, exhaustion finally seeping into your tone. “Shouldn’t you be celebrating with the rest of your house?”

“Of course, but like I said, it’s no fun if my favourite rival isn’t around to see it.”

You bristle at his words. “Favourite rival? You were desperate to beat me, Suguru.”

“So were you,” he points out, and it takes all your self-restraint not to do something horrifically stupid like punch him in the face. “If I’m desperate, it only means you’re worth the effort.”

“Congratulations, Suguru,” you say hollowly. “You’ve won the Goblet’s favour. What do you want, a parade?”

“I want your help.” Suguru steps forward, his movements unhurried, his expression calculated.

You blink. “What?”

“You should be proud,” he says. “You were a close second.”

The words sting more than you would like to admit. You narrow your eyes at him. “Spare me your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” he replies. “It’s acknowledgment. You’re good. Maybe even better than me in some ways.”

You suck in a breath sharply, thrown off balance. This is not what you expected—not from Geto Suguru, at least. You ask warily, “Is this some sort of tactic to get me to like you?”

Your rival chuckles wryly. “No, but it’d be stupid to ignore the fact that you’re good. You wouldn’t have been the biggest threat to my name being called otherwise.”

His admission leaves you momentarily speechless, a rare occurrence when it comes to Geto Suguru. You can’t decide whether to feel insulted or flattered, so you settle for glaring at him instead. The torch light softens the planes of his face, casting a warm glow on his cheekbones and the edges of his smile. He infuriates you so much.

“Help me,” Suguru says again.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“I’m serious,” he says, folding his arms. “You’re as competitive as I am, and you hate losing. If anyone understands what’s at stake in this tournament, it’s you.”

“That’s a very pretty way of saying you want me to do your work for you,” you shoot back.

“I’m asking because I know you’re capable,” he presses on, ignoring your jab. “You think I haven’t noticed how good you are at strategising? Or how quick you are to spot weaknesses, whether it’s in a spell or a person?”

You stare at him, suspicious. It’s not the first time someone has acknowledged your abilities, but it’s the first time he’s done it. As much as you loathe to admit it, Suguru isn’t the type to hand out compliments lightly.

“You’re insane,” you say finally, shaking your head. “You want me to help you win the tournament I should have been chosen for?”

Suguru’s expression hardens. “I want you to push me,” he says. “To challenge me the way only you can. And when I win—because I will win—it’ll be as much your victory as it will be mine.”

You consider his words. A small, reckless part of you—the part that thrives on competition, on proving yourself—begins to wonder what it would be like to be a part of this, even from the sidelines. To have your brilliance tied to the triumph of something bigger than either of you.

“Fine,” you say, voice clipped. “But don’t think for a second that this makes us friends.”

“Of course not.” Suguru’s easy grin slips back in place. “Let’s meet at the library tomorrow after dinner. Don’t be late.” 

You don’t reply, merely walking past him and heading back into the Great Hall. Utahime is probably wondering where you vanished off to, and as much as you hate her sympathy, you don’t want to worry her, Shoko and Mei Mei just because you were a sore loser.

The fireplace in the Gryffindor common room crackles with a sort of joyousness you can’t be bothered to feel. Its warm glow dances across the walls, a merry flicker that feels utterly inappropriate given your current mood. The plush armchair you’ve claimed for the evening—one that’s usually a source of comfort—is perfect for brooding. You curl into yourself like a grumpy gargoyle, letting your misery seep into the cushions.

Laughter echoes off the walls—the other students are busy gossiping about the Triwizard Tournament. Discussions about the champions and the potential tasks all merge into one unintelligible blur. The Triwizard Tournament is a magical contest held between the three largest wizarding schools of Europe: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Durmstrang Institute, and Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, with each school being represented by one champion, chosen by the infamous Goblet of Fire. The selected champions compete in three tasks—each designed to test the student’s magical ability, intelligence, and courage—and the winner gets to take home the Triwizard Cup.

The Durmstrang champion’s brute strength, the Beauxbatons champion’s unnatural grace—it all seems so irrelevant compared to the singular thought lodged in your mind like an annoying splinter: Geto Suguru is Hogwarts’ champion.

You’re still seething about it. Not only has he outdone you in classes year after year, he’s now claimed the one thing you truly wanted. And then, as if that wasn’t enough, the boy had the gall to corner you after dinner with a request that still makes your head spin.

You groan and bury your face in a pillow, muffling your frustration. The universe, it seems, has a cruel sense of humour.

“Still sulking, I see.”

You don’t have to look up to know it’s Shoko. She has an unnatural knack for finding you at your most pitiful moments. When you peek over the pillow, you see her leaning against the back of a sofa, her robes askew and her hair half-tied.

“Sulking is putting it lightly,” Mei Mei comments, her pale hair shimmering in the firelight. She takes a seat on the armrest of your chair. “I’d say this borders on full-fledged wallowing.”

You glare at both of them, hugging the pillow tighter. “Go away.”

“No,” says Shoko, simply.

Mei Mei leans in conspiratorially, resting her chin on her hand as she observes you. “Honestly, it’s not the end of the world. So you didn’t get selected—big fucking deal. There’s always next—oh.”

“Next time?” you snap, sitting up straight. “There isn’t a next time, Mei Mei. This was the last chance.”

“Exactly,” she quips with mock cheerfulness. “All the more reason for you to savour your second-place status. It’s a rare opportunity for someone as annoyingly competent as you.”

Before you can retort, Utahime appears, carrying a steaming cup of tea. She sets it down on the small table beside you and gives Mei Mei a pointed look. “Stop tormenting her,” she says, shooing the girl off the armrest.

Mei Mei sighs dramatically but moves to the nearby sofa, lounging on it with her legs hanging off the arm. “Sorry for trying to motivate her.”

“More like antagonising her,” Utahime mutters, taking Mei Mei’s vacated spot. She turns to you, her expression softening. “Are you okay?”

“No,” you admit. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake.” Shoko rolls her eyes. “It’s not like you lost to someone undeserving. Suguru is very competent. In fact, I’d say he’s as good as you.”

“Is that supposed to be helpful, Shoko?” Utahime hisses. She pats your hand comfortingly. “Ignore them. They’re just jealous that they weren’t even in the running.”

“Jealous? Hardly,” Shoko says. “Can you imagine studying for our N.E.W.T.s while having to worry about whether we’re going to survive these godforsaken tasks?” She shudders, the thought of the end-of-year exams enough to make her lips turn downwards.

You shake your head, exasperated, but her words bring a small smile to your face. Utahime—ever the observant one—notices, and squeezes your hand gently. “You’ll be alright. This doesn’t define you. You’re still brilliant, still one of the best witches Hogwarts has ever seen. And if Suguru doesn’t see that, then—”

“He does,” Shoko cuts in unexpectedly. She crosses her arms, her gaze flickering over to the fireplace. “Trust me, he knows exactly how good you are. Why do you think he asked for your help?”

You gape at her. “How did—”

“Satoru told me. He said Suguru left the Great Hall and didn’t celebrate with the rest because he was busy searching for you.”

You blink. You’d known Satoru, Suguru and Shoko had known each other since they were children—they all belonged to three of the most prominent Pureblood families in the Wizarding World—but you didn’t think they were that close. Evidently, you were wrong. 

But that’s one of the main reasons you’re so desperate to prove yourself. You’re a mere Muggleborn, a witch born to non-magical parents, and getting thrust into the magical world so quickly felt overwhelming. All of a sudden, you had an explanation for all the oddities that occurred when you were a child—teacups breaking even though you never touched them, books floating straight out of the bookshelf and into your hands—but it was clear that in the world of witches and wizards and strange creatures you’d only ever read about, you still had to claw your way to the top.

Geto Suguru, because of his privilege as a Pureblood, having grown up witnessing magic firsthand, was already one step ahead of you.

You despise him for it.

Shoko’s reminder of Suguru’s request makes irritation bubble up inside you all over again. “It’s not fair,” you say, fingers curling into the soft material of the cushion. “He doesn’t get to—he has no right to ask me for help after I worked so hard to get here.”

Utahime and Mei Mei stay silent, not willing to come to any conclusions, but Shoko’s gaze snaps to you, her eyes narrowing. “Are you saying Suguru doesn’t work hard either?”

“No, I’m—” You falter, the words getting lodged in your throat under Shoko’s unwavering stare. “I needed this. I needed to prove myself.”

Utahime squeezes your hand again. “If you really don’t want to, you could always say no.”

“Can I, though?” you ask, more to yourself than anyone else. “If I refuse, and he loses, I’ll think it’s my fault for not helping him. And if I help him, and he wins, I’ll have to live knowing I contributed to his victory.”

“Is that really so bad?” Mei Mei chimes in. “I’m not sure what exactly is going on here, but from what I can gather, it feels like Suguru is genuinely asking for your help because he thinks you’re the best person for the job.”

“Listen,” Utahime says, “whatever you decide, it doesn’t change anything about how smart you are, or how strong of a competition you were to him. You’re still one of the top students Hogwarts has ever seen, and one silly competition isn’t going to change that.”

You want to rebuke her words. The Triwizard Tournament isn’t just some silly competition; it’s the one way you thought you could prove that you belong in the magical world just like Suguru and Satoru and Shoko, and the rest of the Purebloods do. But Utahime’s gaze turns imploring, and you know Mei Mei and Shoko’s patience is running thin, so you muster up a smile.

“Thanks, Utahime,” you say gratefully. “I’ll think about it tomorrow.”

Shoko rolls her eyes, though not unkindly, and Mei Mei flashes you a grin. “Well, if we’re all done rescuing this one from her lonely little pity party, I’m ready to go to bed,” she says, stretching her arms above her head.

Utahime glances at you questioningly, so you tell her to go ahead and that you’ll come up to the dormitory in a few minutes. Shoko stays behind. When you meet her gaze, she’s already looking at you, brows furrowed in a small frown.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get in,” she says finally, “but don’t—don’t do something reckless or hurtful, okay?”

She turns around and strides up the staircase to the girls’ dormitory before you can ask her what she means by that. The common room is quieter now, the excitement of the champion selection having died down. You stare at the fire still crackling, and push down the sting of rejection that still hasn’t gone away completely.

Tomorrow, you’ll decide. Tomorrow you’ll see what exactly Geto Suguru, the newly-proclaimed Hogwarts champion, wants from you.

Geto Suguru is late. 

Are you surprised? Of course not. If there’s one thing he can be relied upon for, it’s his remarkable ability to waste your time. Still, knowing all this doesn’t make it any less irritating, especially when he was the one who sought you out in the first place.

The library is colder than usual, the stone walls and high ceilings doing little to trap the day’s residual warmth. You wrap your cloak tighter around yourself. At this rate, you’re starting to feel like a fool for agreeing to this. The library is otherwise deserted, as it usually is at this hour. It’s just you and the librarian, Madam Pince, as well as a trio of Durmstrang students who have no business being here. They stare at you every now and then, huddled together. Your cheeks burn; if Suguru doesn’t show up soon, you’ll have wasted the evening for nothing—and you’ll have the added humiliation of curious foreign students studying you like they’ve never seen another human being before.

The table before you is cluttered with blank parchment and unopened books, all untouched. The light from the sconces creates shadows that flicker and dance over them. Normally, the library is where you find peace. You can drown yourself in tomes about advanced charms or obscure potions, tuning out the noise of the castle. Tonight, however, the quietness grates on your nerves as you tap your quill against the tabletop impatiently.

The clock on the wall ticks. You glance at it for the fifth time in as many minutes, annoyed.

The doors creak open at last, and Geto Suguru finally strides in. His dark robes billow slightly as he walks. There’s a faint flush on his cheeks, and a stray lock of hair clings to his temple. He doesn’t look the least bit apologetic.

“You’re late,” you say, when he finally stops opposite you. You don’t bother keeping the accusation out of your tone.

Suguru slides into the seat opposite you, entirely unbothered. “I had things to do.”

“Like what? Admiring your own reflection?”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say, little lioness.” Before you can snap at him for the nickname, the Slytherin continues, “If you must know, I was hunting for something important.”

“More important than the meeting you asked for?” you retort, narrowing your eyes at him.

“I’d argue they’re related,” Suguru says, and before you can press him further, he pulls out a crumpled piece of parchment from his pocket and spreads it out on the table.

You lean forward, your annoyance eclipsed by curiosity. The parchment is covered in messy, scrawled notes, and the handwriting is illegible in some places, but certain words stand out: fire, movement, creature.

Frowning, you ask, “What is this?”

“Information.”

“About?” you prompt, though you have a sinking suspicion on what it is.

“The first task.”

You blink. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since the champions were chosen. Geto Suguru works quickly, you must begrudgingly admit. “Where did you get this?”

“Snuck into the Headmaster’s office and nicked it from there,” he explains. “The Durmstrang and Beauxbatons champions already know, I’m sure.”

You nod. He’s right. The Triwizard Tournament is more than just a friendly competition between schools—it’s a way for each institution to gain power and prestige. It’s a matter of honour and pride, and a way to showcase each school’s magical prowess. There’s no doubt that the other champions are being helped by their respective school heads. 

“Won’t they notice it’s missing?” you ask, scanning the parchment once more.

Suguru scoffs. “Do you think I’m an amateur? I duplicated the original parchment and brought it.”

You clench your jaw, fingers tightening around your quill. The words swim before your eyes, forming a picture you don’t want to see. Fire, movement, a creature—there’s only one possible scenario, and your stomach churns at the thought.

“Dragons?” you ask, voice quieter now, tinged with unease.

“Possibly,” Suguru says. “But it could be something else. They might want to mix things up.”

“Like what?” you press. Different creatures run through your head, each more terrifying than the last. “Manticores? Chimaeras?”

“Too wild,” he muses. “They’d want something dangerous but controllable. Something they can contain.”

You frown, thoughts racing. “A griffin?”

“Unlikely,” your rival says, tapping his fingers on the table, “but not impossible.”

You sit back, arms crossed. Despite all these possibilities, Suguru doesn’t seem fazed. He leans back as well, mirroring your position, eyes flickering to the parchment he stole from the Headmaster’s office. How is he not afraid? Your heart rabbits at the thought. There’s less than a month for the first task to take place; you and Suguru will have to map out all the possible outcomes and prepare for the worst. In a way, you’re grateful—making a to-do list and crossing things off it one by one is one thing you can handle. The rest is up to Suguru, now.

“If it is dragons—or something similar—you’ll need to prepare for fire,” you begin. “A lot of it.”

“Go on.”

“You’ll need protective charms,” you say, scribbling it down on the blank piece of parchment in front of you. “And something to help with visibility. Smoke can be just as dangerous as fire if you can’t see what you’re doing.”

Suguru nods slowly, his expression thoughtful. “Good points. What else?”

You hesitate, studying him. For once, he seems genuinely interested in your input, not just humouring you. It’s disconcerting, seeing him so serious, so focused. “If it’s not dragons, or any other big creature,” you say cautiously, “then it could be something smaller but equally dangerous. Fire crabs, maybe. Or Blast-Ended Skrewts.”

“Creatures with coordinated attacks,” he murmurs, brows furrowing slightly. “That would be challenging.”

“And if it’s not a creature at all?” you add, mind spinning with possibilities. “What if it’s something more abstract, like a puzzle or an obstacle course involving fire?”

He considers this, shifting in his seat. “Then I’d need to think on my feet,” he says finally.

“You mean you’d need to rely on luck.” You scoff.

Suguru’s placid smirk returns, and you immediately regret opening your mouth. He glances at you, and says lightly, “Luck has served me well so far.”

“Overconfidence isn’t a strategy, Suguru.”

“Neither is pessimism,” he counters sharply.

You bristle at the remark but bite back the retort on your tongue. Arguing with him isn’t going get you anywhere, and despite your frustration, you know he needs your help. If he goes into the first task unprepared, it won’t be just his pride on the line—it’ll be Hogwarts’, too.

You sigh, dropping your quill into your inkpot. “Fine. If we’re doing this, then we’re doing it properly.”

He spreads his arms out, palms facing upwards. “Then there’s only one thing left to do. We have to find a place to practice.”

The Room of Requirement is something of a Hogwarts myth, the kind of thing that people will bring up in conversation only to sound far more interesting than they really are. It’s a concept shrouded in mystery, its existence neither confirmed nor denied, referenced only briefly in Hogwarts: A History as “a chamber of peculiar use, appearing only to those in great need”. 

For most students, the idea of a room that appears when one is in great need is nothing more than a charming story—like the rumours about the Bloody Baron’s long-lost treasure, or Peeves the poltergeist’s supposed alliance with the Slytherin Quidditch team.

Pacing up and down the seventh-floor corridor, opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy attempting to teach trolls ballet, you find yourself hoping—reluctantly—that this particular myth holds a grain of truth.

Mei Mei had mentioned it once, offhandedly, when discussing the lengths she’d go to for privacy. “The Room of Requirement,” she’d said. “It’s the kind of place that knows what you need before you do. A bit unnerving, if you ask me.” At the time, you’d rolled your eyes and dismissed it as Mei Mei being her usual cryptic self. But now, with Suguru expecting a place where you can practice in secret—away from prying eyes and endless questions—you find yourself clinging to the possibility of its existence.

You pause mid-step, glancing at the blank expanse of the stone wall. It looks as unremarkable as every other corridor in the castle. “Great need,” you mutter to yourself, feeling a bit foolish. “Right.”

You begin pacing again, focusing on what you need. Your footsteps echo faintly in the empty hall. I need a place to practice, you think. A place where no one will interrupt. A place with enough room to practice spellwork, with everything I need.

On your third pass, something shifts. The air around you seems to hum faintly, and the smooth stone wall ripples like water stirred by some invisible hand. A door begins to materialise, the brass handle gleaming slightly in the torch light. For a moment, you just stare, half-expecting it to vanish as suddenly as it appeared. But it doesn’t. It stands there, solid and tangible, as if it had been there all along and you’d just failed to notice.

Taking a deep breath, you grasp the handle and push the door open. The room that greets you is nothing short of extraordinary. 

It’s cavernous, the ceiling arching high above you like the vaulted nave of a cathedral. The walls are lined with shelves stocked with spellbooks, potions ingredients, and various magical artifacts. At the centre of the room, there’s an open space with a dueling platform. You take a tentative step inside. To the side, there is a row of practice dummies, some made of rusty metal and some made of scuffed wood. The door closes softly behind you, sealing you into this impossibly perfect place.

“Sweet Merlin,” you breathe out, marvelling.

You walk slowly around the room, taking it all in. The books on the shelves seem to shimmer faintly, their spines marked with titles like Defensive Charms for Advanced Duelists and The Art of Magical Adaptation. Some of the titles are ones you’ve come across on your rare trips to the Restricted Section of the library, while others are entirely unfamiliar.

Still, a part of you can’t shake the feeling that you’re trespassing. The room feels alive in a way the rest of the castle doesn’t, as though it’s watching you, waiting to see what you’ll do next.

You turn your attention to the dueling platform, running a hand over the smooth, polished wood. If Suguru has any hope of surviving the first task—and you’re still not entirely sure why you care if he does—this is where you’ll need to start.

The thought of working with him here, in this quiet, secretive space, stirs a complicated mix of emotions. Annoyance, of course—he’s insufferable—but also a grudging respect. Suguru may be arrogant, but he’s also skilled, and you can’t deny the challenge of matching wits with him.

You sigh, glancing towards the door. You’ll have to tell him about the Room of Requirement soon, but for now, you allow yourself a moment of quiet triumph.

The Room of Requirement is real, and you found it.

Geto Suguru is understandably skeptical about the Room of Requirement’s existence, but words fail him when you take him to the seventh-floor corridor and show him. His incredulity crumbles into quiet awe when the door takes shape in front of you both, and you can’t resist the smug grin that forms on your lips.

You push open the door, and, theatrically sweeping your arm out wide, say, “Ladies first.”

“How mature.” Suguru rolls his eyes but steps inside tentatively. His eyes widen when he scans the room, sees the bookshelves and the practice dummies and the dueling platform. A small scoff escapes his lips. “Wow. I can’t believe you found the Room of Requirement before me.”

“I’m sure being the Hogwarts champion means you’re always busy,” you comment, sarcasm dripping from your tone. 

The champions aren’t busy—not yet, at least—and a lull in the excitement about the tournament was brought about chiefly by the professors assigning copious amounts of homework and essays. You have an essay on the influence of tea leaf clumping on upcoming Quidditch matches for your Divination class due tomorrow, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

Suguru scowls. “Forgive me for not wanting to waste my time on a wild goose chase.”

“I found the Room of Requirement, Geto. It’s hardly a goose chase if it exists, is it?”

“Tch. This was a fluke.”

“Are you going to continue debating about this room’s existence while we’re in the damn room, or are you going to actually practice?” You sniff disdainfully, crossing your arms over your chest.

“You want me to hex a practice dummy?” His smile returns, faint but just as mocking as ever. “How riveting.”

“No, actually,” you retort, your own lips curving upwards. You step onto the dueling platform and hold out your wand. “I want you to hex me.”

He falters, blinking at you owlishly. “You want me to—”

“Don’t get all worked up,” you interrupt. “It’s a practice duel, not a declaration of war.”

Suguru grins, teeth flashing in the dim light. He shrugs off his robes and leaves it in a heap on the floor. His tie is loose, and his shirt untucked, but he quickly ties his long hair up and clambers onto the platform, gripping his wand tightly. He steps back, adjusting his stance, and gestures for you to begin.

You don’t hesitate. “Expelliarmus!”

He deflects the spell easily, wand slicing through the air. “Protego.”

The red flash of your spell rebounds harmlessly off the invisible shield he conjured, and before you can regain your footing, he counters with a quick Stupefy. You barely dodge it. The jet of light whizzes past your shoulder and strikes the wall behind you.

Gritting your teeth, you flick your wand and say, “Incarcerous!”

The ropes that shoot from your wand nearly catch him, but Suguru is quicker. He steps aside neatly, his wand a blur as he attacks with a Disarming Charm. “Expelliarmus!”

Your wand flies out of your grip and straight into Suguru’s waiting hand. You huff, cheeks flushed with heat and sweat beading on your forehead. Glaring at him, you gesture for him to toss it back to you. He obliges, maddeningly proud, and not a single hair out of place.

“I didn’t realise I’d be dueling someone so… unprepared,” he taunts.

“You were just lucky,” you retort. You step back into position, determination to best him burning in your chest. “Again.”

For the second round, you’re more prepared. Spells fly back and forth, crackling through the air. Suguru is fast, but you’re clever, weaving around his attacks and shooting back with different sorts of jinxes.

“Confundo!” you shout, aiming directly at his chest. Suguru deflects it with a flourish, but his stance falters for a split second. You don’t waste the opportunity. “Rictusempra!” The Tickling Charm hits him squarely, and he lets out an undignified yelp, doubling over with laughter.

“Y-you—” He’s laughing too hard to finish the sentence, face red and eyes watering. Clutching his side, he tries to regain control.

You lower your wand, a victorious grin spreading across your face. “What’s the matter, Suguru? Ticklish?”

He glares at you through his laughter. With a flick of his wand, he casts Finite incantatem, the general counter-spell for any minor jinxes or hexes, straightening up and smoothing out his shirt. “Unnecessary.”

Your smile widens. “Oh, I don’t know about you, but I found this particularly amusing.”

“Resorting to petty jokes now, are we?” Still, you can sense the grudging respect in his tone. “Not bad, little lioness.”

“High praise, coming from a conniving snake,” you say, though the words lack their usual bite.

You enjoyed it, you realise. You enjoyed dueling with Geto Suguru, the one person who you’ve had it out for ever since you joined Hogwarts. Flopping onto the floor and catching your breath, the thrill of the duel doesn’t seem to wear off. Even Suguru fidgets with his wand, mouth set in a grim line. You tear your gaze away and stare at your own wand instead. There is something about being evenly matched with him, the way both of you anticipate each other’s next moves, the way you dodge and attack with equal strength.

“Same time tomorrow?” Suguru breaks the silence.

You hesitate, then nod. “Yeah. Same time tomorrow.”

Geto Suguru’s face is on the front page of the Daily Prophet—Wizarding Britain’s newspaper— alongside Amélie DuPont of Beauxbatons and Aleksandar Ivanov of Durmstrang. The picture moves, as all photographs in the magical world do, with Amélie in the middle, tucking a strand of her silver-blond hair behind her ear while her light blue skirt billows slightly in the wind. Aleksandar is more serious, thick eyebrows set in a frown with his burly arms crossed over his chest.

In the centre is the bane of your existence himself. His long hair is half-down and pinned back. His robes are neat and pristine, the Slytherin crest and his Prefect badge gleaming. He twirls his wand between his fingers, lips curled upwards in a lazy smirk, though his eyes are as sharp as ever. The headline underneath the picture reads:

CHAMPIONS PREPARE FOR GLORY: INSIGHT FROM THE TRIWIZARD FRONTLINES

The Great Hall is noisy during breakfast, the smell of food and the cacophony of students eliminating all other senses. Your hand tightens around your fork and you stab at your eggs aggressively. Utahime takes the newspaper and flicks it open to the page with the Champions’ interviews.

“‘Hogwarts Champion, Geto Suguru’,” she begins to read aloud, “‘impresses everyone with his unparalleled spellwork and ability to stay calm under pressure.’”

Shoko, halfway through her toast, snorts. “Sounds like he wrote it himself.”

“‘When asked about his preparation for the first task’,” Utahime continues, “‘he credited his regimen to ‘careful planning and focused practice’.’” She pauses, raising an eyebrow at you. “Does that sound familiar?”

You refuse to rise to the bait, though your cheeks warm despite yourself. Two weeks of training in the Room of Requirement—of dodging his spells, practicing wandwork, and biting back your own irritation—have left their mark. 

Mei Mei, peering over Utahime’s shoulder, comments, “Oh, look. He also mentioned something about collaboration. About how it elevates one’s abilities.”

“How diplomatic of him,” you mutter. “He really loves the sound of his own voice, doesn’t he?”

“Talking about me again?”

You freeze, the unmistakable drawl sending a shiver of annoyance down your spine. Looking up slowly, you find Suguru himself standing opposite you, flanked by Gojo Satoru. “Morning, Gryffindors,” the latter greets cheerfully, blue eyes twinkling. Suguru, however, merely slides into the seat across from you, his dark eyes not leaving yours. You grab your goblet and take a sip of your pumpkin juice just to have something to do with your hands.

Satoru drops unceremoniously on the bench next to Shoko without invitation, snatching a piece of toast from her plate. “Merlin, it’s lively here.”

“Go away, Satoru,” his female friend replies. “Get your own toast.”

“Sharing is caring.” Satoru bites into the toast with gusto.

“I hope you choke on it,” Shoko says flatly.

Utahime mumbles an apology and leaves when the Head Boy, Nanami Kento, calls her over. They have to discuss something about the first Triwizard Tournament task that will be taking place the next day. Mei Mei escapes to the bathroom, leaving the four of you sitting by the Gryffindor table. It’s a sight in itself, really, because it’s rare for Slytherins to be mingling with Gryffindors so amicably. Yet, Shoko and Satoru remain oblivious to the stares as they continue to bicker over breakfast, while you shift uncomfortably.

Suguru’s eyes flick briefly to the half-folded Daily Prophet near your hand. “Enjoying the article?”

Your stomach twists. “I haven’t read it,” you lie, glaring down at your mutilated eggs.

“Shame. I was curious about what you thought.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snap, though the heat crawling up the back of your neck betrays you. “Why would I waste my time reading about you?”

“You’re awfully defensive for someone who doesn’t care,” Suguru says.

“I don’t care.”

Satoru leans over. “Do you think they’ll hex each other before the first task? I’ve got ten Galleons on it.”

“Make it fifteen,” Shoko says, “and I’ll lend you my wand for the counter-curse.”

You glare at both of them, but Suguru’s voice draws your attention back. “Since you’re clearly not invested,” he says, tone light but eyes determined, “any advice for tomorrow?”

You blink. Of all the things you’d expected him to ask, it hadn’t been this. “Don’t get yourself killed,” you say bluntly.

He huffs out a soft laugh, shoulders shaking slightly. “Noted.”

“Well, this has been fun,” says Satoru, standing up and stretching his arms over his head. “But I think I’ve exhausted our dear Shoko’s hospitality.” He swipes her goblet and downs her pumpkin juice.

“Touch my plate again, and I’ll set your robes on fire,” Shoko warns.

With a laugh, Satoru ruffles her hair and saunters off, leaving you and Suguru alone in this tense, uncomfortable silence. “Good luck tomorrow,” you say finally, not meeting his gaze.

“Thanks,” he says, quieter than usual.

When he stands up to leave, you can’t help but feel a pang of unease. The first task is tomorrow, and while you would never admit it, you hope he comes out of it unscathed.

Dragons. Your hunch about the first task was right.

The cold November air is sharp as knives, cutting through the layers of your robes as you grip the railing of the stands surrounding the makeshift arena. Excitement and dread churns together in your stomach, though you’d die before admitting the latter. The stands are packed, students and professors bundled in thick scarves and gloves, all leaning forward eagerly to catch a glimpse of the champions. Amidst the black of the Hogwarts robes, there is also the pale blue of Beauxbatons and the dark red of Durmstrang. The excitement is palpable, everyone buzzing with anticipation for the first task. You find yourself crammed in between Utahime and Shoko.

You swallow hard, keeping your eyes fixed on the arena below. The dragons are corralled in an enclosure just beyond the champions’ tent, their massive silhouettes casting long shadows on the frosted ground. Even from this distance, you can hear the occasional growl and the rustle of leathery wings.

“Dragons,” Utahime mutters, rubbing her gloved palms together worriedly. “How can they call this a school competition and then throw dragons at the students?”

“They’ve done it before,” Shoko drawls lazily, though her sharp eyes betray her worry. Satoru stands next to her, arms crossed over his chest and lips pressed into a grim line. You shiver; it’s bad enough that Shoko is worried, but seeing the normally cheerful Satoru so serious makes you anxious. “At least they’re not asking them to fight them barehanded,” she continues. “That would be more fun.”

“Shoko,” Utahime hisses, chiding. “Please stop.”

You don’t contribute to their conversation. Your gaze moves to the champions’ tent, barely visible through the enchanted mist that swirls over the field. Suguru is in there. You wonder how he’s preparing himself—he’s facing one of the most dangerous magical creatures alive, after all. The thought makes worry pool in your stomach.

From somewhere below, a voice booms across the field, magically amplified to reach every corner of the grounds. “Witches and wizards, welcome to the first task of the Triwizard Tournament!”

The crowd erupts into cheers. Utahime wrings her hands beside you, and the most you can manage is a weak clap.

“The task,” the announcer continues, “is as daring as it is dangerous. Each champion must retrieve a ring from the heart of the arena. But guarding the rings are some of the fiercest magical creatures alive—dragons!”

A collective gasp ripples through the crowd, followed by excited whispers. Utahime lets out a low groan. “They can’t be serious. This isn’t a tournament—it’s a death wish.”

Shoko shrugs. “They’ll be fine. Mostly. The Ministry of Magic wouldn’t let them die. Probably. They could get horribly maimed or injured, though.”

“Reassuring,” you mutter. You’ve been pretending to be indifferent for ages, but the truth is, you’re terrified for Suguru.

The announcer’s voice booms again. “Our champions will face their dragons one by one, drawn randomly to determine the order. The task is not merely about bravery, but also ingenuity, strategy, and magical skill. The ring holds a crucial clue to the next task—so it is imperative that they succeed!”

Your hands are numb against the railing, but you’re not sure if it’s because of the cold or because of something else entirely. The first task is madness—complete and utter madness. And yet, as the announcer’s voice booms again, calling out Suguru’s name, something in your chest curdles with a chill far worse than the cold.

“First, Geto Suguru, representing Hogwarts, will face the Hungarian Horntail!”

The sound is deafening. Cheers erupt from every corner of the stands, the Hogwarts students roaring loudest of all. Even the Slytherins, with their restrained, cold demeanour—the exception being Satoru, of course—cannot contain their pride. 

Geto Suguru steps into the arena, holding his wand loosely in one hand with the other tucked into the folds of his robes. His long hair is swept up into a tight knot. You can’t hear him over the noise, but you swear you see him mutter something under his breath.

The Hungarian Horntail is enormous. Even from a distance, its obsidian scales glint ominously, and its massive, bat-like wings shift restlessly as its amber eyes lock onto Suguru. The ring lies just beyond the dragon, perched atop a precarious pile of boulders. It gleams like a star, a tiny thing that’s almost not worth the effort, you think. But of course, Suguru is just like you, and pride comes before anything else. You’re sure he’s already thought of a dozen different ways to get past the beast—because it’s something you would do, as well.

The Horntail snorts, sending a plume of smoke spiraling into the air. The arena is silent now. Suguru takes his first step towards the dragon.

“Is he insane?” Utahime whispers, voice trembling. “Does he not see the size of that thing?”

“He does.” It’s Satoru’s first proper sentence this morning, and the assurance with which he says it alleviates some of your worry—though not by much. “He’s Suguru. He always knows exactly what he’s doing.”

You remain silent, not taking your eyes off him. He moves slowly, with the kind of deliberacy that makes it clear he’s prepared. No step is wasted, no motion is hurried. He’s in control—or at least, that’s what he wants everyone to think.

“Confringo!” The spell erupts from his wand, creating a fiery blast that hits the ground near the dragon’s massive claws. The Horntail snarls, tail lashing out and gouging deep scars into the earth. The Blasting Curse he used isn’t meant to hurt—it’s meant to provoke.

Suguru casts another spell, this time to conjure a dazzling array of shifting, flickering lights. The dragon’s attention is drawn to the display; it tilts his head and looks up, mesmerised. You clench your jaw. It’s a bold move, because dragons are intelligent, but their curiosity is a double-edged sword.

“He’s trying to confuse it,” Utahime murmurs, clutching the ends of her scarf. “That’s risky.”

Risky is an understatement, you think. Suguru doesn’t stop. He moves his wand, pointing it low, and you see him mouth a spell—Glacius. The ground beneath the dragon becomes a slick sheet of ice. The Horntail’s claws scrape against the surface, wings flaring out as it tries to balance itself.

But it recovers quickly—too quickly. With a guttural roar, the beast lunges towards him, jaws snapping. Your heart thuds in your chest, but Suguru dives out of the way and smacks hard into a large rock. He slumps against it, chest heaving with heavy breaths. You hear Utahime and Shoko gasp beside you, but it’s drowned out by the sound of your own blood rushing in your ears.

Get up, you want to say. Get up and get that bloody ring, Geto. It’s silly—of course he can’t hear you—but there’s a gash on his arm, and his robes have darkened with blood, and it feels like if you somehow think it, Suguru will make it happen. It’s a flimsy mindset, but you’ll take whatever shreds of comfort you can get.

The dragon charges towards him, nostrils flaring and eyes gleaming. Suguru scrambles to his feet, the ends of his robes frayed and face streaked with dirt. He lifts his wand and casts a Protego maxima, a shimmering shield that briefly halts the dragon’s fiery breath. The shield holds for just a moment, but it’s enough time for Suguru to reposition himself, his eyes darting towards the ring. 

“Come on,” you say under your breath, fingers tightening around the railing. 

“Lumos maxima!”

A burst of brilliant, blinding light shoots out of his wand, illuminating the arena. You let loose an exhale; he’s clearly learnt from the dragon’s reaction to light earlier. It’s a good strategy, you will admit. The Horntail lets out a snarl, massive eyes narrowing against the glare. It thrashes, swinging its tail wildly, but Suguru has already limped away. 

The dragon’s claws gouge into the earth once more, its bat-like wings flapping violently as it tries to shake off the distraction. Suguru uses the brief opening to dart closer, his focus entirely on the ring. His wand moves in a tight arc, and the light shifts into a pulsating sphere, hovering just beyond the Hungarian Horntail’s reach. It works. The orb of light draws the dragon’s attention away from Suguru.

“He’s using it as a decoy,” Shoko says, leaning forward.

“Smart move,” Satoru chimes in, hushed. 

His blue eyes glitter knowingly at you, though, and you turn away, feeling your cheeks heat up. Suguru must have told him about all the research you did about dragons and their different breeds, and how they’re not so different from cats—if you take out the fire-breath and the wings and the long tail, or the fact that they could eat a human alive in a heartbeat.

Suguru raises his wand again, muttering an incantation. A shimmering net of magical energy bursts forth, wrapping around the dragon’s front claws. The Horntail roars—but its movements are hindered enough to give him the opening he needs.

The ring glints in the faint sunlight, and with a quick Summoning Charm—Accio—it soars straight through the air to him.

The Horntail senses it immediately. With a furious roar, it pounces, its massive jaws snapping shut mere inches from Suguru’s outstretched hand. But Suguru is faster. With a final, desperate leap, he snatches the ring out of the air, landing hard on the frost-dusted ground. He rolls to his feet, the ring clutched tightly in his fist, and sprints towards the edge of the arena.

The Horntail thrashes behind him, but it’s too late. The magical barrier seals shut just as Suguru crosses the threshold. The dragon lets out a frustrated roar that echoes through the stands. The crowd erupts into cheers, the noise ringing in your ears. Hogwarts banners wave wildly in the air, and Satoru and Shoko let out a series of loud hoots, while you simply sigh, relieved.

“He did it,” Utahime breathes out.

“Of course he did.” Shoko beams proudly.

You don’t say anything. Your heart is still racing, your chest still tight. He did it. He passed the first Triwizard task.

Suguru hobbles past the stands, dark eyes scanning the crowd, one hand pressed to where the gash on his arm is. You curse yourself for feeling irrational—for wanting him to look at you. He does. His gaze lands on you, and he pauses for the shortest of moments. The corner of his mouth curls upwards in a small half-smile, and then he’s gone, disappearing into the tent where the champions will be tended to.

“He could’ve died,” Utahime mutters, shaking her head as the next champion is announced.

You glance back toward the arena, frosted fingers loosening their grip on the railing. The first task is over, but the dread in your stomach doesn’t subside. The dragons may be gone, but the Triwizard Tournament is far from over. 

The Room of Requirement glows faintly in the dim light of the lanterns it conjured up, their golden halos casting long, flickering shadows over the stacks of books and piles of scrolls you and Suguru pulled out of the bookshelves lining the walls. You sit cross-legged on a soft, velvet cushion on the floor. Suguru paces in front of you, the soles of his boots soft against the tile.

The ring, when Suguru gives it to you, is warm to the touch and made out of the same gold the wizarding world uses to shape Galleons out of. A part of the ring is flattened into a signet, engraved onto which are a collection of dots. They look like pockmarks on an otherwise smooth surface. You rub your thumb over them curiously.

“Look inside,” Suguru says. He picks at the ends of the bandage wrapped around his arm, restless and jittery. “There’s something written on the inside of the ring.”

Turning the ring over in your palm, you bring it close to your eyes and squint. The words are tiny, and, for all intents and purposes, make no sense to you whatsoever. The ring’s golden surface glints, the engraving on the signet catching the shifting light. You roll it between your fingers, the faint warmth oddly soothing, though Suguru’s squirrely pacing sets your nerves on edge.

“Would you stop fidgeting?” you snap, squinting at the letters once again. “It’s hard enough to focus without you stomping around like a restless Hippogriff.”

“I’m thinking,” Suguru retorts, though he halts mid-step and folds his arms across his chest. “Unlike you, who’s just staring at the thing as if it’ll start talking.”

“It might!” you fire back. “It’s magical, isn’t it? Who knows what sort of enchantments it’s got?”

“It’s a ring, not a bloody Howler. Let me see it again.”

Reluctantly, you pass it over, careful not to touch his injured hand. His fingers brush against yours anyway, and the warmth lingers annoyingly on your skin. Suguru holds the ring up to the lantern light, tilting it to study the dots engraved on the signet. 

“These dots look like they’re arranged deliberately,” he murmurs, tracing the marks. “They’re not random.”

“Well, obviously.” You roll your eyes. “The question is, what do they mean?”

He ignores you, dark eyes narrowing as he turns the ring over and studies the inscription. “‘Ego sum principium mundi et finis saeculorum’,” he reads aloud, the Latin rolling maddeningly smoothly off his tongue. “It sounds ominous.”

“It means something,” you say, leaning forward to snatch a book off the pile in front of you. It’s a dusty tome with Enigmatic Latin Phrases emblazoned on the cover, though you have a sinking suspicion it’s going to be less helpful than you hoped. “It has to. Why else would it be engraved on a magical artifact?”

Suguru plops down onto the cushion opposite you, sweeping away a bunch of scrolls. He places the ring on the ground in between you both. “If it’s a clue for the next task, then it has to be related to the Triwizard Tournament somehow. Something symbolic, maybe?”

“Brilliant deduction,” you deadpan, flipping through the pages of the book. “Didn’t realise you were such a scholar.”

“And I didn’t realise you were such a comedian,” he drawls. “Let’s focus. What do you think it means? The phrase—’I am the beginning of the world and the end of ages’. What does that sound like to you?”

You blink at him. “How did you translate that?”

“Studied Latin and French when I was kid,” he says smugly, in a manner that makes you want to deck him. Wonderful. Another aspect in which Suguru is already one step ahead of you, you think bitterly. “But that’s not the point,” he continues. “What do you think it could refer to?”

You look down, tapping your quill against the edge of the book. “It could be a reference to time,” you muse aloud. “The beginning and end… It's cyclical. Like a clock, or a calendar, maybe?”

“Or a journey,” Suguru adds, tilting his head. “Something that starts and ends with the same person. The champions?”

“Possibly. But it could also be something more abstract—like fear. Everyone’s afraid of something; it’s universal. The start and end of every challenge.”

Suguru picks up the ring again, running his thumb over the dots. “And this?” he says, gesturing to the engraving. “What if it’s pointing us somewhere? A location, maybe? Or a specific kind of task?”

You frown and lean closer. “The arrangement of the dots,” you say slowly, “looks… familiar. Like a pattern.”

“Like a constellation,” Suguru supplies. “You’re right. It’s got to be one.”

The conclusion settles over you both, but it doesn’t offer much clarity. You chew on the inside of your cheek, considering. “If it’s a constellation, then it’s symbolic, right? They all have stories tied to them—myths, legends.”

“Yeah, but which one?” Frustration creeps into his voice. “These dots could be anything. There’s no clear shape.”

“It could be something obscure,” you suggest. “Maybe even something specific to the wizarding world. I think we’ll have to make a trip to the Astronomy Tower some time soon, though.”

“Great,” says Suguru flatly. “So we’re supposed to decipher a constellation in a shape I’ve never seen and an inscription that sounds like it was prophesied by a second-rate Seer.”

“Better than wandering blindly into the second task. Though, knowing you, you’d probably manage to make it out alive. Cockroaches always do.”

He scowls, but his lips twitch upwards by the slightest. “And here I thought we were having a moment.”

“We weren’t,” you say immediately. The back of your neck prickles with heat.

Suguru rolls his eyes, though not with malice. He stretches his arms over his head. The action causes his shirt to ride up slightly; you avert your gaze quickly. “I’m starving.”

“What?”

“I’m hungry,” he repeats, standing up. “All this thinking has drained me. Fancy a trip to the kitchens?”

“It’s nearly midnight,” you point out—but your stomach growls faintly in agreement. “And I’m not sneaking around the castle because you can’t stop eating.”

“Suit yourself,” he says with a shrug, heading towards the door. “I bet the house-elves have made éclairs for tomorrow’s dinner.”

Well. You’ve always been weak to chocolate. Muttering a curse under your breath, you scramble to your feet and find yourself following him, the ring warm inside your pocket.

The Hogwarts kitchens are a marvel, a hidden oasis of warmth nestled beneath the castle’s chilly stone walls. Suguru finds the painting of a fruit bowl by the Hufflepuff common room, and tickles the pear. It lets out a loud giggle—you cringe, hoping Filch, the caretaker, and his evil pet cat, Mrs. Norris, are nowhere around. The pear transforms into a shiny brass door handle, and the moment the painting swings open, you’re met with a rush of buttery heat and the mingling aromas of chocolate, caramel, and freshly baked bread.

The kitchens are bustling with movement. House-elves dart about with a speed and efficiency that puts magic itself to shame. Pots clatter, ovens hum, and enchanted trays of golden pastries glide through the air. 

A small, wiry house-elf with parchment-like skin and eyes like twin garnets appears in a puff of flour and indignation, his thin arms folded over his chest. A neatly pressed tea towel with the Hogwarts crest embroidered on it covers his tiny body.

“Young master should not be here!” the elf scolds. “It is forbidden to disturb the kitchens so late at night!”

“Good evening to you too, Sukuna,” Suguru says smoothly, brushing past the house-elf and into the kitchen. He inspects a nearby tray of éclairs, plucking one up and sniffing it appreciatively.

Sukuna’s bat-like ears quiver, his expression contorting between outrage and resignation. “Master Geto always does this. Always sneaking in like a naughty student. Not even a little bit nice and polite like the young Hufflepuff miss who always comes to say hello.”

“That’s because I am a naughty student,” Suguru says cheerfully, winking raunchily at you; you huff and roll your eyes. He sinks his teeth into the éclair with a pleased hum. “And you, Sukuna, are a saint for indulging me.”

The elf huffs, though his cheeks flush slightly at the praise. His gaze shifts to you, eyes narrowing slightly. “And this one? Is this young miss also here to pilfer desserts?”

“I— what? No!” you sputter, though your stomach growls traitorously at the scent of chocolate and cream wafting from the éclairs. 

Suguru leans against the counter, lips tugged up in a smirk as he regards you. “Don’t be shy,” he says, gesturing towards the tray. “Sukuna won’t bite. Probably.”

“Only if asked nicely,” Sukuna mutters darkly, but he waves a hand, and another tray of éclairs floats down onto the counter as though by invitation.

Despite yourself, you reach for one. The pastry is warm, its golden shell yielding easily beneath your fingers. When you bite into it, the rich, velvety chocolate spills over your tongue deliciously.

“Good, isn’t it?” asks Suguru.

You hate that he’s right. “It’s passable,” you say, lifting your chin imperiously.

He barks out a laugh, brushing crumbs off his trousers. “Sure it is. That’s why you’re reaching for another one already.”

You glance down and curse under your breath. Grumbling, you take another bite of your éclair, determined to ignore the victorious glint in his eyes. Sukuna, meanwhile, seems torn between chastising you both and taking pride in your obvious enjoyment. In the end, he settles for clicking his tongue and vanishing to attend to an overflowing cauldron of treacle in the corner. The kitchen falls into companionable quiet, broken only by the distant clatter of utensils and the murmur of house-elves bustling about.

“So,” you say finally, licking a smear of chocolate off your thumb, “are éclairs your usual midnight snack, or is this just an excuse to avoid figuring out the second task?”

Suguru raises an eyebrow, feigning offense. “I’ll have you know I’m perfectly capable of eating and thinking at the same time.”

“You’re more a connoisseur of distractions. Very good at distracting yourself,” you say, without any real bite in your voice.

“Distractions are necessary,” he says lightly, gaze steady on your face. “Sometimes, stepping back helps you see things more clearly.”

You chew on that for a moment. “Fine. I’ll admit you have a point there. But the second task does seem to be rather interesting, don’t you think?”

He grins, teeth flashing in the light. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t think so.”

You roll your eyes, but a small part of you warms at the compliment. Across the room, Sukuna reappears with a teapot and two mismatched cups. He sets them down with a flourish.

“If young master and young miss insist on loitering, at least have tea,” the elf says, somehow managing to sound both fond and exasperated at the same time.

Suguru raises his half-eaten dessert in a mock toast. “To Sukuna, the real hero of the Triwizard Tournament.”

The house-elf grumbles something unintelligible, though you catch the faintest beginnings of a smile before he disappears again. 

“Are you always this insufferable?” you ask.

Suguru smirks, taking a small sip of tea. “Only with people who make it fun.”

You shake your head, biting back a smile of your own. For all his arrogance and sharp edges, there is something oddly disarming about Suguru like this—unguarded, his cutting wit tempered by the soft glow of the kitchen lights. The two of you sit in silence for a while, finishing off the tea and éclairs. The warmth of the kitchen seeps into your bones, making you feel drowsy and comfortable. Your eyelids feel heavy, and you wrap your arms around yourself.

“Alright,” Suguru says finally, setting his cup down with a clink. “Don’t fall asleep on me, little lioness.”

“‘m not falling asleep,” you mutter sleepily.

“I think we’re done for the day,” he says. “I’ll walk you back to the Gryffindor Tower.”

“I can walk back on my own.”

Suguru sighs, not unkindly. “I know.”

The Yule Ball is one of the highlights of the Triwizard Tournament—a night where students get the opportunity to dress up and dance, and indulge in the sort of revelries Hogwarts is usually so strict about. Utahime is convinced that some students will find a way to smuggle in Firewhiskey—wizarding alcohol—and is currently stressing out over how to regulate the intake of beverages of the students over a plate of hash browns and scrambled eggs. 

Nanami Kento, the Head Boy, is trying to diffuse a Situation that’s taking place at the Slytherin table. Some poor Hufflepuff girl (the captain of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, you later recognise) had the balls to ask out Fushiguro Toji, notorious womaniser and blood purity freak, as her date for the Yule Ball. You nearly drop your cutlery when he calls her a Mudblood—a slur meant for people like you, born to Muggle parents. Gritting your teeth angrily, you glare at the back of Fushiguro Toji’s head. What a nasty, vile excuse for a man.

The Situation is diffused when the girl passes out, a ball of yellow fabric clutched tightly in her hands. You have to give it to her; it takes serious guts to publicly ask out someone, though you wonder what sort of curse possessed her to ask Fushiguro, of all people.

“Absolute menace,” you mutter under your breath, stabbing your scrambled eggs with unnecessary force.

Mei Mei turns a page of Witch Weekly with a sigh. “Honestly, these pureblood types are so predictable. Such flair for cruelty, yet so unoriginal.”

“You’d think he’d at least come up with a creative insult,” Shoko adds dryly, her teacup balancing precariously on her saucer.

“Missed me, ladies?” Satoru, perpetually grinning like a Cheshire cat, plops himself onto the bench opposite you. His white-blond hair gleams under the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, and his tinted glasses perch at the end of his nose in a way that makes him look both ridiculous and infuriatingly charming.

Shoko’s reply is swift. “Not particularly.”

Mei Mei grunts out a greeting, and you merely smile politely at him. Utahime, still fretting over the logistics of conducting the Yule Ball, slides out of her seat in a hurry and mumbles something about finding Nanami so they can discuss things properly. 

“You wound me, Shoko,” Satoru says, clutching his chest theatrically. “Anyway, I’ve got a pressing matter to discuss.”

“Does it involve you somehow setting fire to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom again?” Mei Mei asks, not looking up from her magazine.

“That was one time,” Gojo replies, feigning outrage. “No, this is much more important. The Yule Ball. Who’s asking who? Gossip is flying around faster than a Nimbus 2000.”

Of course, wherever Gojo Satoru goes, Geto Suguru is bound to follow. He approaches your little group, dark hair tied back neatly, expression as composed as ever. He slides onto the bench beside you with a nod of thanks to Mei Mei, who moved her plate of toast to accommodate him.

“Talking about the Yule Ball, I presume?” Suguru asks, reaching for a slice of buttered bread.

“Of course we are,” Satoru says, leaning forward conspiratorially. “It’s the event of the year, Suguru. Surely someone’s asked you by now.”

Your fork pauses in mid-air. For some reason, you find yourself wanting to know the answer.

Suguru’s lips quirk upwards, the ghost of a smirk. “As a matter of fact, someone has.”

The table collectively turns to him. Shoko raises a curious brow. Even Mei Mei closes her magazine in favour of staring at Geto Suguru like he’s just sprouted a pair of antlers on his head.

“Details,” Satoru demands, grinning wide.

“She’s from Beauxbatons,” Suguru says. “Asked me yesterday afternoon. I said yes.”

A sharp pang blooms in your chest, prickly and unwelcome. You drop your gaze to your plate, pressing your lips together and willing yourself not to react. It doesn’t matter. You don’t care. Suguru could go with whoever he wanted. He isn’t your friend, and he certainly isn’t—no. Absolutely not.

“Leave it to you to snag a Beauxbatons girl,” Mei Mei comments. “They always go for the broody ones.”

Gojo snorts. “Broody? Suguru’s about as broody as a cauldron full of kittens.”

“Are we done analysing my date?” Suguru asks.

“Not even close,” Satoru says, but his attention soon shifts to Shoko attempting to balance her goblet of water on her saucer as well. Mei Mei picks up her copy of Witch Weekly once more and flips through the glossy pages.

You pick at your food, your knife scraping against your plate. The thought of Suguru dancing with some elegant Beauxbatons girl—someone undoubtedly beautiful and graceful and more poised than you could ever be—makes your stomach churn unpleasantly. The image of them laughing together, her delicate hand resting on his shoulder while his wraps around her waist, is as vivid as if it had been etched into your mind.

“You’re quiet,” Suguru murmurs, soft enough that the others can’t catch it.

“Just tired,” you lie, not meeting his gaze.

He doesn’t push further, but you feel his eyes linger on you for a moment longer before he returns to nibbling at his toast.

Shoving aside the annoying ache of jealousy, you straighten in your seat and force a pleasant expression on your face. Fine. If Suguru had a date, then so would you. Someone handsome. Someone confident. Someone who would make him think twice before flashing his perfectly polite little smile at you and your date.

“You know,” you begin, loud enough to draw the attention of your friends, “I think I’ll ask one of the Durmstrang boys.”

“Oh?” Shoko says, interest clearly piqued. “Got anyone in mind?”

“Not yet,” you admit, grabbing your goblet and swirling your pumpkin juice absentmindedly. “But there’s bound to be someone suitable. They’ve got that rugged, intimidating thing going on.”

Satoru bursts into laughter, nearly knocking over a plate of sausages. “Merlin help whatever poor bloke you’ve set your eyes on.”

You scowl. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Only that you’re not exactly the type of person to swoon over a man that’s—what did you say it was?—rugged and intimidating.”

“Well, we’ll see,” you say, lifting your chin defiantly. “Maybe I’ll surprise you all.”

With that, you turn back to your half-finished breakfast, and Satoru launches into a dramatic recounting of his supposed rejection by a Ravenclaw—”Her loss, really”—and you don’t look at Suguru at all. Still, as the meal ends the Great Hall empties, your resolve falters. You can’t help but glance at Suguru one last time. He’s listening to something Satoru is saying, lips curving upwards in a smile.

The pang returns, sharp and insistent—but you ignore it. After all, there are plenty of Durmstrang boys to choose from. Surely one of them would do just fine.

There are many ways to get yourself a date for the Yule Ball. You’ve watched it happen over the last week: dramatic declarations of affection in the Great Hall, quiet notes slipped between textbooks, bashful confessions in various corners of the castle. But this? This is different. 

This is not the ideal method of asking someone out. Borderline stalking the Durmstrang champion because you saw him trudge through the snow towards the Black Lake—where the Durmstrang ship is docked—from the window of the Gryffindor common room is hardly what anybody would call dignified. Yet, here you are, braving the sharp, icy wind, and the crunch of snow underfoot, determined to follow through with your ill-conceived plan.

Your goal is straightforward, or so you tell yourself. Aleksandar Ivanov is a handsome man, someone impossible to ignore. His broad shoulders are draped in a thick, fur-lined coat that seems to defy the chill of Scottish winters, and his sleek, dark hair catches the fading light of the afternoon. He looks like something out of an old wizarding tale, that sort of unrealistic hero who was carved out of marble and brought to life.

Aleksandar Ivanov is not your type at all. 

No, this has nothing to do with the hulking Bulgarian himself, and everything to do with Geto Suguru.

You hate the way you felt when Suguru mentioned his date. You hate that the image of him dancing with someone else—that faceless girl draped in blue satin—feels like a thorn lodged deep in your chest. Most of all, you hate that you care. So, you’ve decided on a solution: The bold, handsome Durmstrang champion on your arm at the Yule Ball. That’ll show him.

Aleksandar’s strides are long, the dark fur of his coat fluttering slightly in the breeze. He’s alone, his hands tucked into his pockets. You can see the faint outline of the Durmstrang ship in the distance, its masts swaying gently as the lake ripples against the hull. The sight fills you with a sudden sense of urgency. If you don’t catch him now, you’ll lose your chance.

“Excuse me!” you call out, your voice carrying over the air. Aleksandar slows, then turns, his piercing green eyes locking onto yours. For a moment, you feel rooted to the spot, your carefully rehearsed words scattering like leaves to the wind.

“Yes?” he says. There’s a faint accent to his voice.

You force yourself to take a step closer, and then another, until you’re standing just a few feet away. “Good evening,” you say, forcing a smile. “Aleksandar, isn’t it?”

“It is,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching, though it doesn’t become a full smile. “And you are?”

You hesitate. Your name feels oddly small when you say it. The cold nips at your cheeks, and you resist the urge to shove your mittened hands into the pockets of your jacket.

“Well, then,” Aleksandar says, tilting his head slightly. “What can I do for you?”

“I…” You clear your throat, cursing the way your voice wavers. “I was wondering if you’d like to go to the Yule Ball with me.”

Aleksandar’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes—amusement, maybe, or curiosity. He takes a step closer, and you resist the urge to back away. “Interesting,” he says at last, drawing the word out. “You do know you’re not the first person to ask me to the Yule Ball, yes? You’re very beautiful, but why, exactly, would you want to go with me?”

Your cheeks flush with the heat at the sudden compliment, but your prepared responses—something about his reputation, his charm, his skill in the Tournament—suddenly feel hollow. You can’t tell him the truth, either, that this is about someone else. So you scramble for a suitable response.

“Well, you’re the Durmstrang champion,” you say, aiming for nonchalance but landing somewhere closer to desperation. “It seemed fitting.”

Aleksandar raises an eyebrow. “Fitting? Is that all?”

“Yes,” you lie, though your voice lacks conviction.

For a moment, he says nothing. The silence stretches, broken only by the distant lapping of the lake’s waves against the shore. Then, to your surprise, Aleksandar smiles—not the cool, detached smirk you were expecting while he brutally rejects you, but something warmer, almost amused.

“Very well,” he agrees, his voice carrying a hint of humour. “I’ll be your date.”

“Really?” The word escapes before you can stop it, and you cringe at how eager you sound.

Aleksandar’s smile widens. “Yes, really. Though I must admit, I am curious about your true intentions.”

“My intentions?” you repeat, trying your best not to sound sheepish. “What do you mean?”

“You see,” he says, “my intentions with you are rather simple. Word travels fast around the castle, and I know you were the closest person to best the Hogwarts champion in claiming the title. Besides the fact that you are very pretty, I think it will also make my competitor waver a little, no?”

You bite your tongue. He’s right. Aleksandar Ivanov is more than just a pretty face and brute strength. He’s also cunning and intelligent. You’re certain he would be a Slytherin if he attended Hogwarts instead of Durmstrang Institute.

“And you,” he continues. “You don’t strike me as the type of person to make bold declarations for the sake of tradition. There is something else, isn’t there?”

The same thing as you, Ivanov. I want to see the Hogwarts champion waver, you think. Instead, you stiffen, and say, “There’s nothing.”

“Hm.” Aleksandar doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t press the issue. “Well, whatever your reasons, I look forward to the Ball. I trust you’ll make for an… interesting evening.”

You nod, too flustered to do anything else. “Of course.”

“Let’s match,” he says. “What are the colours of your… house, as they call it?”

“Scarlet and gold.”

“Wear a red dress. Until then, dovizhdane.” Aleksandar turns back towards the ship.

You blink, but manage a stiff nod before walking away. You’ve done it. You’ve secured a date for the Yule Ball. But why, despite everything, do you still wish it was Suguru you’d be meeting on the dance floor?

“Lupus,” you read aloud, from the book Celestial Phenomena And Their Meanings placed on your lap, “is a constellation that is associated with wolves in Greek and Roman mythology. The stars that now form the constellation Lupus used to be part of the Centaurus constellation. They represented a sacrificed animal impaled by the centaur, which was holding it toward the constellation Ara, or the altar.”

Suguru rolls the ring around in his palm, chin propped on his other hand, sitting cross-legged across from you. “Interesting,” he muses. “Anything else?”

The signet catches the light of the Room of Requirement, glinting golden. It wasn’t hard to map out the dots to pictures of constellations and figure out which of the star-clusters was engraved on the ring. The harder part, now, is trying to piece together what it could possibly mean, and how it is related to the Latin inscription on the inside of the ring.

You clear your throat and say, “It says it’s also connected to the founding of Rome and the story of Orpheus.”

He straightens up at that, dragging a hand through his hair. He’s left it loose for the evening, and it spills over his shoulders, long and soft. Your hand itches to smoothen out the top of his scalp, but you bite back the urge and internally scold yourself for being an irrational mess around him. 

“Can I have the book?” 

You wordlessly pass it to him, leaning back on your arms and stretching your legs out in front of you. The velvet cushion is downy to the touch, and warm under your fingertips. An enchanted fire crackles in the corner, preventing the chill from outside from creeping in.

“It could also represent King Lycaon of Arcadia, who was turned into a wolf by Zeus,” he reads, eyes roaming over the page curiously.

“The question is,” you press, “what does all this mean? Lupus—wolves in general, really—have always been associated with survival, but the myth says it was a sacrificial animal caught by the Centaur. What does that mean? How does this connect to the inscription inside the ring?”

Ego sum principium mundi et finis saeculorum. I am the beginning of the world and the end of ages.

“Some great sacrifice, perhaps?” Suguru’s brows furrow in that way they always do, pinched together when he’s thinking hard about something. “But what would we sacrifice?”

“The answer to the riddle?” you suggest.

“Which is, what, exactly?”

You grimace. “I’ve no clue. It could be anything.”

He hums, fingers tracing the signet of the ring. “I wonder,” he murmurs, “if this is a test of more than just knowledge. The Headmaster’s riddles are rarely based on facts alone. He likes to see what’s in people, not just what they know.”

“A moral riddle, then?” You raise your eyebrows, shifting slightly on the cushion. Leaning forward, you peer at the ring once more. The Latin inscription glints faintly, almost as if it’s daring you to unravel its secret. “It could be literal. A physical sacrifice. Or—” You pause, chewing your lip. “Or it could be metaphorical. Something symbolic. The myths about wolves and sacrifices aren’t just about death. They’re about transformation. Survival. Endings and beginnings.”

“Hm.” Suguru tilts his head, his dark hair shifting with the movement. His gaze shifts from the ring to you. “Transformation. That ties neatly with the inscription, doesn’t it? The beginning of the world and the end of ages… sounds rather apocalyptic, don’t you think?”

“Don’t start spinning doomsday theories. We have enough to worry about without you prophesying the end of the world.”

“Not the world. Something about the world.”

“Or… Maybe it does have something to do with sacrifice. An emotion attached to it, maybe?” The question is rhetoric, simply you tossing out whatever unrealistic theories you can come up with, but Suguru leans forward, interested.

“You mentioned fear last time,” he says. “I think that makes sense, but what would the second task be? Dementors? Do they expect us to know how to cast a Patronus Charm?”

“I don’t know, Suguru,” you say. Your shoulders slump, defeated. Your head spins with various possibilities, each more far fetched than the last. “This is annoying me.”

Suguru huffs out a soft laugh, shoulders shaking. “Tired already, little lioness?”

“Don’t call me that,” you grouse. 

“Noted.” He grins, all teeth and lips. You look away and ignore the way your pulse quickens. The sight of him like this—long limbs sprawled about, hair framing his face, his shirt creased and tie undone—makes your stomach flip in ways you don’t want to comprehend. “By the way, have you found yourself a date to the Yule Ball yet?”

You blink, disoriented by the sudden question. “Actually, I have,” you admit, face flushing with heat for no apparent reason. “Aleksandar Ivanov.”

“Ivanov?” Suguru’s voice trembles with something that sounds suspiciously close to disbelief. You want to crow with victory—this is what you had wanted, after all—but instead, all you feel is a strange sense of dread growing in your abdomen. “The Durmstrang champion?”

“Yes,” you say, lifting your chin slightly. “He’s… nice.”

“Nice?” Suguru scoffs. “That’s the best you could come up with?”

You glare at him. “What’s wrong with nice?”

“Nothing, if you’re describing a cup of tea or a particularly fluffy cat. But a date to the Yule Ball?” He shakes his head, exhaling sharply. “Ivanov is—”

“What?” you interrupt, your irritation rising. “Handsome? Intelligent? Charismatic?”

“—a pompous peacock with an accent that makes people swoon for no good reason,” he finishes, his voice dripping with disdain.

You bristle, crossing your arms. “You already have a date to the Ball. I don’t see how it matters to you who I go with.”

“It doesn’t,” he says quickly. “I just didn’t take you for someone who falls for shiny boys from other schools.”

You bite back a retort, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of riling you up further. Instead, you turn your attention back to figuring out the constellation, rifling through the pages of another book you pick up from the stack in front of you. The silence stretches, and Suguru is the first to break it, tentatively.

“Did you hear about Nanami docking points from Slytherin? Twenty this time. All because of Toji and that Hufflepuff girl.”

Your stomach twists at the mention of Fushiguro. “He called her a Mudblood,” you say bluntly. “She fainted because of it.”

Suguru’s fingers curl into fists, his expression clouding. “Fushiguro’s an idiot, but docking points for something he said? That’s unfair.”

“It’s completely fair,” you say, anger rising in your chest. “He used a slur, Suguru. Against her. Against people like me—Mudbloods, as Fushiguro would say. So yes, I think Nanami was right to take points away.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and cold. Suguru says nothing, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he sighs, shoulders slumping. “I didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t mean what?” you bite back, voice rising. “Didn’t mean to defend him? Didn’t mean to make excuses for someone who thinks people like me are lesser than him?”

“I’m not defending him,” Suguru snaps. “I just think punishing the whole house for someone else’s stupidity is unfair.”

“Unfair?” You laugh bitterly. “You want to talk about unfairness? Try walking around this castle knowing there are people who look at you and see something dirty. Try hearing that word every time you walk past a group of pureblooded Slytherins. Try knowing that despite everything you do, you will always, always be ousted by someone simply because they were born into the fucking wizarding world while you weren’t. But, of course, you wouldn’t know what that feels like, would you, you privileged ponce.”

Suguru flinches. You pick up your wand and cloak from the discarded heap on the floor and, anger still simmering in your chest, stride out of the Room of Requirement without a glance back.

As per custom, the selected champions must always enter the Yule Ball after everyone else. After days of gruelling ballroom dancing practice brought upon you and your housemates by your head of house, who did not want you to besmirch the Hogwarts name by acting like a “babbling, bumbling, band of baboons,” you like to think you’re quite the connoisseur of waltzing.

Aleksandar offers his arm to you, the dark red of his dress robes accentuating his cheekbones and eyes. Your own gown ripples with every movement, the deep crimson satin soft against your skin. 

You descend the staircase carefully—tripping because of your heels would be an embarrassment you don’t want to experience—and don’t look at Geto Suguru. You’re still furious at him, and you want absolutely nothing to do with him at all tonight.

“You look very beautiful,” the Durmstrang champion murmurs under his breath. “It is an honour to be with you.”

You laugh shakily. “Thank you. And likewise.”

He smiles without teeth. “I believe your champion is glaring at us.”

“Is that so?” You glance sideways at your date. “He should be paying attention to the pretty girl on his arm instead, don’t you think?”

Aleksandar opens his mouth to say something, but before he can reply, the doors to the Great Hall open, and a professor hurriedly begins ushering in the couples. 

Amélie, tall and graceful, with her long hair pinned into an elegant French braid, is the first to enter to a smattering of applause from the gathered students. Her peony-blue dress shimmers under the lights of the enchanted chandelier, and she walks with her head held high and her hand tucked into the crook of her date’s arm. Her date is a flustered Hufflepuff boy, someone you’ve seen around the corridors occasionally; he looks like he’s been struck by a Confundus Charm, what with the dazed look in his eyes. (You can’t blame him. The Beauxbatons champion is gorgeous.) 

Next, is Suguru. You stare at the back of his head while he leads his date into the Great Hall. His long, dark hair is tied back in a loose ponytail, held in place by an emerald green ribbon. His dress robes are the same colour, swishing around his knees with every step he takes. And, of course, there’s his date—the nameless, faceless Beauxbatons girl who matches his elegance and grace in every manner possible. You’ve heard her name being tossed around, but you refuse to acknowledge it. Jealousy is a fickle thing, and you are petty enough to succumb to it. They are the epitome of a perfect wizarding couple, you think; something in your mouth sours. The fact that you are still angry at Suguru does nothing to ease your mind.

You snap your gaze away as soon as they enter the Great Hall. Aleksandar nudges you gently, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Shall we?”

You nod, and he leads you forward. The Great Hall is breathtaking, even though you’d seen it earlier when helping Utahime with the decorations. The enchanted ceiling reflects a clear winter night sky, complete with gently falling snowflakes that vanish just before reaching the floor. The tables along the edges of the wall are laden with sweets and drinks. The floating candles that are normally present above your heads are nowhere to be seen, instead replaced with glittering chandeliers. A large space in the centre has been cleared for dancing, and a live wizarding orchestra has set up their instruments in the far corner.

The applause, as Aleksandar leads you out, feels distant, like a dull roar in the back of your head and you force a smile to your face. You can still see Suguru out of the corner of your eye, his emerald robes catching the light while he and his date glide further into the hall. He doesn’t look back, which is somehow worse than if he had.

You’re startled out of your thoughts when Aleksandar leans close to murmur, “You’ve gone quiet. Thinking about something?”

“Nothing important,” you reply quickly, flashing him a grin that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Good,” he says with a wry chuckle, “because I’d hate to think I made you lose interest already.”

The comment earns him a genuine laugh this time, albeit a small one. The Bulgarian seems pleased, though, and gently steers you towards the centre of the hall, where the champions are to open the first dance. The room is full of expectant eyes, students from all three schools whispering and staring. You spot a few familiar faces in the crowd—Shoko with Haibara, looking like they’ve been dragged into something way out of their depth; Nanami with the Hufflepuff girl he’d rescued from Fushiguro, a rare, happy smile on his face; Mei Mei and Utahime laughing at something by the dance floor. 

And, of course, there’s Satoru, leaning against the refreshments table with a goblet of pumpkin juice in his hand and a knowing smirk plastered on his face. He doesn’t look the least bit disgruntled about not having a date—a rare feat, considering how much of a drama queen he is. He catches your eye and wiggles his eyebrows at you, mouthing something indecipherable that you’re certain isn’t polite.

“Eyes up,” the Durmstrang champion says, low but not unkind. “You’re with me tonight.”

That’s right, you suppose. You are, so you shake your head and smile, turning to face him and resting your left hand on his shoulder. The orchestra strikes up a slow, elegant waltz, and Aleksandar’s hands find your waist.

The music swells, filling the enchanted hall with a lilting melody. Aleksandar guides you across the polished floor with a confidence that matches the proud poise of his bearing. For all your nerves, you fall into step easily, your waltzing practice smoothing out any initial awkwardness.

“You are good at this,” he murmurs, soft.

“I think I’m just very good at faking it,” you reply, glancing at the other couples. Suguru and his Beauxbatons date are near the centre of the hall, their movements seamless as if they’ve been dancing together for years. It’s a sight that would have been mesmerising—if it wasn’t so maddening in your eyes.

Aleksandar notices the flicker in your gaze but doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he shifts closer, his hold steadying you as he turns you in a spin. The room blurs briefly, the crowd fading into a swirl of colours before you’re pulled back into his orbit.

“You’re distracted,” he says lightly, though there’s an edge of knowingness in his voice. “Is it the crowd? Or is it something else?”

You open your mouth to deny it but catch the quirk of his brow, the faint amusement in his expression. He knows. Of course, he knows. “I—”

“It seems your true intentions were not so different from mine, after all.” Aleksandar smiles, a quick flash of teeth. “I suppose I must try harder to ensure I have your full attention.”

Aleksandar’s green eyes hold a hint of mischief in them. You smile, despite yourself. The waltz continues, each musical note cascading into the next. Around you, students start filling up the empty spaces on the dance floor, twirling and gliding, some with excellent prowess, others with two left feet. Still, your mind lingers on Suguru. It’s infuriating, how he fills up the crevices in your head, his absence from your line of sight louder than the applause once the dance ends. 

The song draws to a close with a flourish. Aleksandar bows low to you; you return the gesture with a curtsey, your gown sweeping the floor. When you straighten up, he leans close to you, his voice low enough only for you to hear. “If you need an escape, just say the word. I’d be happy to whisk you away from… whatever it is that is troubling you. Consider it a favour.”

You laugh softly, his offer half-serious and wholly tempting. “Thank you, Aleksandar.”

Before you can say more, you catch Suguru moving from the corner of your eye. You glance up—and there he is. Geto Suguru, standing a few paces away with his date, his dark eyes locked on you in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t nod, doesn’t do anything except look, and it’s enough to make your breath hitch.

Aleksandar shifts, stepping just slightly closer, his hand brushing against yours. “Shall we get drinks?”

“Yes,” you say, far too quickly. “Let’s.”

You let Aleksandar lead you away, but you can’t shake the feeling of being watched, his gaze burning into your back long after you’ve disappeared into the crowd. Despite yourself, a small smile graces your lips when you spot Satoru, still lounging against the snacks table. He grins and waves when you catch his eye, and sets his goblet down when you and Aleksandar approach.

“Well, well,” Satoru drawls, ocean eyes roaming over your figure. “Impressive. I didn’t think you’d clean up this well.”

“At least I’m not a lone stag at a couple’s event,” you retort, smile widening despite yourself. Satoru does look rather dashing, however, clad in navy blue dress robes with golden curlicues embroidered all over. “Satoru, this is Aleksandar, as I’m sure you know. Aleksandar, this is my friend, Satoru.”

Aleksandar offers him a polite nod. “A pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard… Well, not much, actually. Though I imagine your reputation precedes you.”

Satoru snorts, unfazed. “Not much? Oh, I’m wounded. Surely the great Aleksandar Ivanov, Durmstrang’s star champion, has at least heard of my devastating good looks.” He flashes his most charming grin, but it only seems to amuse Aleksandar further.

“I’m afraid that hasn’t reached Durmstrang’s halls. Perhaps you should consider advertising.”

You stifle a laugh, glancing between them. “Don’t encourage him,” you say lightly, earning yourself an exaggerated pout from Satoru. “He already has a big enough head as it is.”

“That, I can believe.” The Bulgarian casts a sidelong glance at you.

“Smart guy,” Satoru muses. “I like him.”

“Anyway,” you cut in, cheeks warming. “We were just getting drinks.”

Satoru gestures dramatically to the table laden with butterbeer, pumpkin juice, and other sparkling drinks contained within golden goblets. “Help yourselves. And I would greatly appreciate it if neither of you told Utahime that all these drinks have been spiked with Firewhiskey by yours truly.” He points with his chin behind your shoulders to where Utahime is clumsily attempting to teach Mei Mei how to do the two-step.

Aleksandar grabs a goblet of something orange and fizzy, passing one to you before taking one for himself. It tastes sweet, and slightly sour, and it bubbles deliciously on your tongue before you swallow. The two of you bid farewell to Satoru and venture towards a quieter, more secluded spot. “This is nice, no?” he asks, and you hum in agreement.

“You’re quite popular tonight.”

You freeze, recognising the tone before you even begin to turn. Slowly, you glance over your shoulder to find Suguru standing a few feet away, his date nowhere to be seen. You hate how seeing him alone fills you with a twisted sense of triumph. His expression is carefully blank, unreadable, and for a moment the noise of the Great Hall fades away.

“I didn’t realise you were keeping track,” you reply evenly.

His lips curve slightly, not enough to be a smirk but enough to make your skin prickle. “Of course not. Just observing.”

You tilt your head, offering him a smile that borders on a grimace. “That’s very thoughtful of you. Maybe you should focus on your own date instead of mine, though.”

Aleksandar shifts beside you, but he remains silent. Suguru’s gaze flicks briefly to him before settling back on you. “She’s more than capable of taking care of herself. Besides, you seem to enjoy the attention.”

“I’m sorry—are you implying something?”

“Not at all.” Suguru steps closer, and, voice low, continues, “Just that you seem to be… compensating.”

The jab cuts deeper than you want to admit. “Compensating for what?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, letting the silence drag on long enough to make your stomach twist. “You tell me.”

Before you can respond, Aleksandar clears his throat, his green eyes darting in between you both. “I think I’ll grab another drink. Excuse me,” he says, and slips away with a polite nod.

“Great,” you mutter, glaring at Suguru. “Now you’ve scared off my date.”

“Oh, please. He’ll come back. He’s too invested in playing the perfect gentleman to leave you alone for too long.”

“And what about you? Where’s your date, Suguru? Or did she finally realise what an insufferable prat you are?”

His eyes narrow. “She’s fine. Unlike you, I don’t need to flaunt her to get a reaction.”

“What, in Merlin’s name, is your problem?” you hiss. Your heart pounds against your ribcage, a mix of anger and something else you don’t want to name.

“My problem?” he repeats, a dry laugh escaping his throat. “You, apparently. Always finding a way to needle at me.”

“You’re the one who came over here,” you shoot back. “If you have such an issue with me, why not stay on your side of the Great Hall?”

The Hogwarts champion’s gaze flickers briefly, something shuttering in his expression. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I just wanted to see how long you’d keep up the act.”

Your brows furrow; your patience is wearing thin. Placing your half-empty goblet on a nearby floating tray, you cross your arms over your chest. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“That guy,” he says, gesturing at Aleksandar’s retreating figure. “Pretending like you’re actually interested in him.”

You stare at him, your chest tightening at the implication. “Stop it,” you say quietly, steadily.

“Stop what?”

“Stop acting like you care,” you snap. “You made it perfectly clear earlier whose side you were on. Don’t act like you suddenly care about who I spend my time with.”

The mention of your earlier argument over Toji hangs heavy between you, and for a moment, Suguru looks away, jaw tightening. Really, you’re thankful Fushiguro isn’t anywhere near you both. Knowing him, you think he’s the sort of person who thrives off of attention, no matter whether it’s good or bad. He’d be elated to know that Hogwarts’ beloved champion and the school’s runner-up are locked in an argument over him—but it’s not really about Fushiguro Toji, is it?

“I don’t care,” he says finally, though his words lack conviction. “Maybe I just don’t like seeing you waste your time.”

“Funny,” you reply. “I could say the same about you.”

The words linger in the air, stubborn as static. Suguru’s eyebrows knit together, and he reaches out and grabs your wrist—not roughly, but firmly enough to send your pulse racing. “We’re not doing this here,” he says, through gritted teeth, pulling you towards the door.

“What are you—” you start, but he cuts you off with a brisk, “Just come with me.”

You inhale sharply, but follow him down the hallways and up the staircases. You know where he’s taking you before the door to the Room of Requirement even appears. Once inside, the door shuts with a soft click, leaving the two of you alone in the dimly-lit space. You pull your hand free, glaring at him.

“What the Hell is this about, Suguru?”

“You infuriate me,” he says, voice cutting and low and breathless. “You drive me fucking insane, did you know? I dislike you so much.”

You blink at him like he’s just sprouted another head. “What the fuck? How much did Satoru let you drink?”

“I’m not drunk,” he says, eyes narrowing. “I’m just angry—and jealous. I’m so envious, Merlin help me.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

A wry, sardonic chuckle escapes his throat. He lowers his head, strands of hair that spill out of the ribbon framing his face. “I don’t know.”

“You’re such a hypocrite.” You swallow around the lump that forms in your throat. Goosebumps erupt across your shoulders when a sudden cold draft of wind makes you shiver. “I hate you.”

He lifts his face, then, gaze resting on your lips. His mouth parts slightly, as though to say something, but no words come out. Instead, he takes a step closer, and it feels like the room shrinks around you with each inch of space he eliminates. “You hate me?” 

Your heart pounds as you glare up at him, refusing to yield. “I do,” you snap, though your voice wavers just slightly.

Suguru lets out a bitter laugh. “Liar,” he says, so quietly, it almost doesn’t register. His hand moves before you can think to react, cupping your jaw, fingers brushing along the sensitive skin behind your ear. His thumb skims your cheek. “You hate me so much, but you’re still here. You can walk away. I won’t stop you.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You stay rooted in the spot, and your nails dig into your palms. “Shut up,” you whisper, though it sounds more like a plea than a command.

He doesn’t. Instead, his thumb moves lower, brushing along the corner of your mouth, lips turning up in a half-smirk when he sees the way your eyes flutter shut for the briefest of moments. “You’re flustered,” he notes, soft, “but you hate me, right?”

Something inside you snaps. With every ounce of venom you can muster, you repeat, “I do.”

And then you’re grabbing him by the front of his emerald green dress robes, yanking him down until your lips crash against his. It’s uncoordinated, a clashing of teeth and anger and frustration. Suguru freezes for half a second before he groans against your mouth, his hands sliding to your waist as he pulls you flush against him. 

It’s not gentle. His lips are rough, demanding, teeth scraping your bottom lip as if to punish you for every word you’ve ever said to rile him up. But you’re just as relentless, fingers tangling in his hair while you blindly undo the ribbon holding it in place, pulling sharply enough to draw a hiss from his throat. 

“You’re impossible,” you mutter against his mouth, breath coming out in short gasps.

“So are you,” he fires back. His lips trail down to your jaw, teeth grazing the skin there. “You drive me mad.”

You don’t bother replying, instead tugging his hair harder, forcing his mouth back to yours. His hands tighten on your waist, fingers digging into the silk of your dress as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. You’re barely aware of the way Suguru backs you up against the nearest wall, his body pressing against yours while his mouth moves hungrily against your own.

“Say it,” he murmurs against your lips, low but somehow pleading.

“Say what?” you breathe out, though you know exactly what he means.

“Say you don’t hate me,” he demands, the words said into your neck, teeth skating over your skin and making you shudder.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, and you bite back a gasp. “No,” you whisper defiantly.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes dark and wild, chest rising and falling heavily. “Liar,” he mutters again, before crashing his lips against yours and swallowing any further protests.

(Later, when you stir from sleep, your dress barely doing anything to shield you from the chill, the first thing you notice is Suguru beside you. His head rests against the stone floor, hair unbound and spilling like ink over the cold surface. You don’t know when you fell asleep, but you do know how you ended up so close, your hands almost touching.

When his eyes flutter open, heavy with sleep, neither of you speaks. He exhales softly, gaze dipping to where your fingers nearly meet, and though his lips don’t form the words, the apology is there. You know this because he hooks his little finger with yours, and squeezes.)

For the next month, you do the logical thing: You avoid Geto Suguru at all costs.

This, you’ve decided, is a perfectly reasonable course of action. A brilliant one, even. It takes careful planning—adjusting your usual routes between classes, lingering longer than necessary in the library, arriving at meals either too early, or too late—but you are nothing if not meticulous, and you refuse to let him and your feelings for him become an inconvenience. 

You do feel guilty, however, about not helping him out with the second task, but the way you see it, Suguru is more than intelligent enough to figure it out on his own. (You refuse to acknowledge the fact that you spend time trying to piece it out when you can’t sleep at night, staring up at the canopy of your four-poster bed.)

You’re doing quite well, really. Or, you would be, if not for your insufferable friends.

The courtyard is unusually lively today. The air hums with the lingering remnants of winter, crisp but pleasant beneath the afternoon sun. Students—both Hogwarts and not—lounge in clusters across the stone benches and patches of grass, basking in the rare moment of warmth. Laughter carries through the open space like birdsong.

You sit with your friends at one of the broader stone benches, a small pile of books and a stray Golden Snitch hovering in the air beside you (pilfered from the Quidditch supply closet by Slytherin’s star seeker, Gojo Satoru himself). It should be peaceful. It should be, but—

“You’re objectively wrong, and I refuse to entertain this nonsense any further.” Utahime crosses her arms, looking positively scandalised.

Satoru scoffs. “Utahime, be serious.”

“I am serious! You’re the one who sounds like an idiot.”

“I am an idiot,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “But at least I’m right.”

Shoko exhales slowly, pressing her fingers against her temples. “Merlin’s beard, what are you two even arguing about?”

“More importantly,” Mei Mei pipes up, swiping the Snitch from the air, “are we supposed to care?”

“Yes,” you say dryly, “if only to prevent them from tearing each other apart in the middle of the courtyard.”

Utahime turns to you, looking deeply affronted. “You agree with me, don’t you?”

“I don’t even know what the argument is about.”

Satoru gestures broadly with both palms. “I’m simply saying that if a Thestral and a Hippogriff were to fight, the Thestral would obviously win.”

Silence. You blink. “That’s what you’re arguing about?”

“First of all,” Utahime says, ignoring your incredulity, “that is completely wrong.”

“Oh, this will be good,” Satoru says, only a tad bit sarcastic. He sprawls onto a patch of dewy grass and leans back on his hands. “Do explain.”

“Hippogriffs are way more aggressive than Thestrals,” Utahime says. “And they have stronger beaks and claws. They’d win in a fight easily.”

“Thestrals literally eat meat,” Satoru argues. “They’re meant to take things down.”

“So do Hippogriffs!” Utahime points out. “Thestrals eat meat, but that doesn’t mean they’re fighters. They hunt only when necessary. They won’t even attack unless provoked.”

“Alright, but let’s say they were provoked—”

“By what, your stupidity?”

Satoru grins. “At least Thestrals don’t try to smite your face off because you bowed down to greet them at the wrong angle. Plus, they have the advantage of being invisible to everyone except those who’ve come face-to-face with death.”

Utahime makes a noise of frustration, and before you know it, the conversation has devolved into a full-blown debate. Mei Mei, ever the neutral one, watches with amusement, and Shoko starts taking sides. She and Utahime argue passionately in favour of Hippogriffs, citing their sheer power and aggression, while Satoru insists that Thestrals are stronger due to their skeletal structure and ability to take down large prey. You are promptly dragged into the discussion, despite having absolutely no opinion on the matter.

“It’s obviously a Hippogriff,” Utahime exclaims, gesturing wildly.

“You would think that, wouldn’t you?” the only Slytherin in the group shoots back.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s insulting.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Honestly, this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever—”

“You agree with me, don’t you?” Satoru rounds on you, eyes gleaming. 

You exhale, immediately regretting being within earshot of this conversation. “What?”

“You agree that a Thestral would win.”

You narrow your eyes. “I never said that.”

“Yeah, but you will.”

You sigh defeatedly, looking to the others for support, but Utahime merely juts her chin out. “Suguru wouldn’t agree with you,” she says pointedly.

Satoru snorts. “Suguru would agree with whatever she—” he points to you— “says.”

And just like that, your world tilts. The conversation continues around you—more bickering, more laughter—but it all fades into a dull hum, a sort of background noise to the sudden rushing in your ears. Suguru would agree with whatever you say.

It’s absurd. It’s just Gojo Satoru being Gojo Satoru, throwing out careless words without stopping to think about them. But the worst part—the part that unsettles you the most—is that he might be right.

You think of the way Suguru used to argue with you, sharp-tongued and obstinate, yet never truly cruel. How he always listened, even when he pretended not to. How, more often than not, he did end up on your side, whether by reason or sheer inevitability.

You inhale sharply, hands curling into fists on your lap. You make no move to join back in on the conversation—because, really, what is there to say?

That you can still feel the ghost of his hands on your skin? That you can still taste the Butterbeer he’d had on the eve of the Yule Ball when he slotted his lips against yours? That his name has lodged itself between your ribs, stubborn as a curse? That your heart stutters at the mere thought of him; that you cannot—will not—let yourself dwell on what could be if you let go of your pride, and he relinquished his arrogance?

No, there’s nothing to say at all.

When you agreed to help Utahime rearrange the awards and plaques in the Trophy Room after classes, you certainly were not expecting her to lock you up in said room with one Geto Suguru. If it was any of your other friends—Shoko, Satoru—you would not have been very inclined to help out, but it was Utahime who asked, which is why you acquiesced. At least you can say, with utmost certainty, that sweet, loving Utahime Iori is not sweet or loving at all.

There’s a brief moment of silence as the heavy door slams shut behind you; you reach for your pocket instinctively to pull out your wand and cast Alohomora—the Unlocking Charm—and make your escape. Then, you belatedly realise that you’d left your wand in your dormitory after classes. Your fingers curl around nothing, and you feel rather stupid. 

Dust motes dance in the golden afternoon light, settling over gleaming plaques and silver trophies, their engravings telling stories of menial victories long past. The air smells like polish, but you hardly notice. Your pulse roars in your ears, loud enough to drown out all other sound but the one voice you had hoped to avoid indefinitely.

“Utahime,” you call through the door, voice strained but not yet desperate. “This isn’t funny.”

There’s no answer, save for the sound of retreating footsteps. You spin on your heel, fully prepared to ignore Suguru entirely until Utahime returns, but then he shifts—just the slightest movement, a tilt of his head, a shift of his weight from one foot to the other—and it’s as if some sort of invisible thread yanks you to him.

“I didn’t expect the Head Girl to actually agree to bring you here,” he says, voice low.

He looks tired. You hate that you notice.

His hair is loose, strands slipping over his shoulders, dark against the pale slope of his throat. His uniform is slightly disheveled—tie loosened, shirt rolled up to his elbows—but it’s his face that makes something in you twist uncomfortably. There are shadows beneath his eyes, bruised with exhaustion, and though his usual easy arrogance lingers in the set of his jaw, his shoulders are rigid, as though he’s bracing for impact.

You force yourself to turn away, to focus on the nearest plaque. The etched names are a blur as you try and fail to appear unaffected. Draconius Falmoy: Head Boy, 1869, it reads.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Suguru says. There is no accusation in his tone—just fact, cold and clear as glass.

You trace the name engraved on the plaque with a fingertip. “I’ve been busy.”

A humourless laugh. “Right. Too busy to even look at me?”

You clench your teeth. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” His voice sharpens, something brittle underlying it. “You haven’t spoken to me in a month. I don’t even know if you’d still acknowledge my existence if we weren’t locked in her together.”

You suck in a breath sharply, counting backward from ten in your head. You’ve spent weeks perfecting the art of pretending Suguru doesn’t exist; you’re not about to let him unravel it now. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” you manage to say, turning around to face him properly at last. “That I’m sorry? That I feel guilty?”

Suguru watches you, unreadable, dark eyes wrought with something you can’t name. “I didn’t ask for an apology.”

“No,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest, “but you clearly want one.”

Something in his expression flickers—hurt, maybe, or something close to it—but it vanishes so quickly, you think you might have imagined it. He sighs, running a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face.

“I don’t understand you,” he says finally. “You kissed me, and then you disappeared.”

Your stomach lurches. “It wasn’t—”

“What?” He steps forward, gaze locked on yours. “It wasn’t supposed to happen? It didn’t mean anything?”

You hesitate, because you know that’s what you should say. You should roll your eyes, scoff, tell him he’s being ridiculous and move on like the Yule Ball never happened. He takes another step forward, and he’s close, now—close enough that you catch the faint scent of parchment and cedarwood, familiar enough after all the weeks you’ve spent in the Room of Requirement with him. You should say, Of course it didn’t mean anything, Suguru, don’t be stupid, but the words stick in your throat, prickly and unyielding.

“Tell me it meant nothing, and I won’t bother you ever again,” he promises, soft, and somehow that’s worse.

You swallow hard. “Suguru—”

He shakes his head, a bitter smile curling at his lips. “Nevermind.” He turns away, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You’re good at that, aren’t you? Pretending.”

 The words cut deeper than they should. You don’t respond, because what could you possibly say? That he’s right? That every morning, you tell yourself it was a mistake, that it didn’t matter, that you can keep pretending it never happened—only to feel his touch lingering on your skin like a phantom’s fingers?

No. You can’t say any of that. Instead, you press your lips together and say nothing.

The silence that follows is thick and heavy and suffocating. You don’t move. Neither does he. You count the seconds in your head, waiting for something—anything—to break this unbearable tension.

Then, at long last, a knock raps against the door. “Alright,” Utahime calls out, sounding far too smug for your liking. “I think you’ve suffered enough.”

The lock clicks. The door swings open. Suguru doesn’t spare you a glance as he strides past, his shoulder just barely brushing yours as he leaves. The Trophy Room suddenly feels too big, too quiet, and you’re left standing alone amidst the gleaming remnants of past victories, your heartbeat echoing loud in your ears. (You have the gnawing feeling that Draconius Falmoy, Head Boy of Hogwarts in 1869 would laugh at your predicament.)

“I’m sorry,” Utahime tells you, as you fall in step with her. “He kept asking me to help him find a way to talk to you—he even promised he would donate the thousand Galleons he gets as prize money for the Triwizard Tournament to St. Mungo’s Hospital of Magical Maladies and Injuries, if he wins.”

You don’t say anything, only look down at the stone floor of the corridor as you walk back to Gryffindor Tower. You can’t fault Utahime; she has always been extremely kind-hearted and gentle, and you know the idea of a donation to the wizarding hospital would sway her completely—especially considering the fact that it’s been her dream to become a Healer after she graduates Hogwarts.

“Are you mad at me?” she asks, after a beat.

“No,” you say, flashing her a small smile that you hope is convincing. Truthfully, you’re just mad at yourself.

The plan is simple: Bribe Geto Suguru with sweets and pray he doesn’t hex you on sight.

It’s not your most sophisticated scheme, nor your most dignified, but after an entire month of avoidance, and the disaster that was the Trophy Room incident, you’ve resigned yourself to desperate measures. You are doing this, not because you feel guilty, but because you had agreed to help him out with the Tournament, and you don’t want to feel like a shitty person for going back on your word. Regrettably, it is incredibly difficult to help someone when you can’t look them in the eye.

Aforementioned desperate measures include grilling Shoko for every last detail about Suguru’s favourite things. She doesn’t make it easy.

“You’re acting like you’re about to woo him,” she’d remarked, flipping idly through the pages of her Potions textbook and entirely uninterested in your plight.

“I’m not trying to woo him.”

“You’re learning all of his favourite things, buying him chocolates, agonising over the best way to give them to him—all on Valentine’s day, too. I’m certain that that’s called wooing.”

Your face had burned; it wasn’t your fault the organisers decided to conduct the second task only ten days before the holiday of love. “I’m apologising,” you’d insisted.

Shoko had hummed, but despite her incredulousness, she’d humoured you and rattled off a list of trivial details about Suguru’s preferences—his favourite tea (jasmine), his favourite book (something tedious and philosophical), the subjects he likes best (Charms and Transfiguration, though you knew this already). Most importantly, of course, the only Honeydukes chocolates he actually cares for: dark chocolate-covered honeycomb. (“But only from Honeydukes,” Shoko had warned. “He says the other ones taste like burnt sugar.”)

Which is how you find yourself in Hogsmeade, the wizarding village closest to Hogwarts, the morning air crisp and cold, clutching a small, carefully-wrapped box of sweets like your life depends on it. Hogsmeade is lively, bustling with students eager to escape the castle for the day. The scent of butterbeer and freshly-baked pastries wafts through the air. All around you, couples wander hand-in-hand, jumpers pulled tight around their bodies to ward off the early spring chill, and their laughter bright against the grey sky. Shopfronts are decorated in ridiculous shades of pink and red, hearts and flowers strung across windows in celebration of Valentine’s Day.

The sight makes you feel vaguely ill, because this is not a romantic gesture. (Then why does it feel like your heart is about to leap out of your throat every time you think of him?)

You don’t linger in Honeydukes—Hogsmeade’s best chocolatier—for longer than necessary, as much as the toasty warmth and aroma of cocoa makes you want to stay. Making quick work of purchasing the chocolates, you step back out onto the cobbled streets, heart hammering at the thought of what you’re about to do. 

It’s not that you’re nervous. Not really. It’s just that approaching Suguru after everything feels a bit like facing a sleeping dragon—you don’t know if he’ll tolerate your presence or scorch you on sight. Still, you have to try.

You find him standing outside The Three Broomsticks, a pub and restaurant owned by the friendly Madam Rosmerta. He is not alone; Satoru and a few Durmstrang students surround him. He looks relaxed, hands tucked into his pockets, but there’s something in his expression that wasn’t there before. The tiredness clings to him still, there in the worn-out slump of his shoulders. Guilt gnaws at your ribs.

You hesitate, watching him laugh at something Satoru says. Maybe this is stupid. Maybe he doesn’t care anymore. Maybe—

Suguru turns and sees you. You don’t think you’ve ever stood so still in your life.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. The noise of Hogsmeade fades into the background, muffled and distant, like the world has shrunk down to just the space between you. His expression is shuttered, brows knitted together in a frown.

Your fingers tighten around the box. You should leave. You should turn around, pretend you never saw him, and—

His gaze flickers to your hands. Oh, Merlin’s beard.

With a sharp inhale, you straighten your spine and march forward before you can change your mind. Satoru notices you first, perking up like a dog catching sight of a squirrel. “Hey, look who it is! Fancy seeing you over here.”

You ignore him and stop directly in front of Suguru. His eyes widen slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to actually approach him. You shove the box into his hands.

Suguru blinks, catching it before it can fall. “What—?”

“It’s an apology,” you mutter, staring at the ground. “Take it or leave it.”

He doesn’t say anything immediately. You wonder, vaguely, if you’ve made a horrible mistake. If he’ll laugh, or hand it back, or— “...Honeycomb?” he asks quietly.

“...Yeah.”

Something shifts in his eyes, something subtle and indecipherable. He stares at the box, fingers tightening around the edges. When he finally looks back at you, there’s something in his gaze that makes your breath hitch. 

You don’t wait to see what he does next. Instead, you turn on your heel and walk away, determined to ignore the pounding of your heart. 

You don’t look back. You don’t see the way he watches you go, either.

(That night, when you tentatively enter the Room of Requirement for the first time in what feels like forever, you find Suguru already there, sitting cross-legged on one of the cushions. The box of Honeydukes chocolates lies open on the ground in front of him. You drop down onto the cushion opposite him, and wordlessly, he pushes the box closer to you.)

The sky is pale, streaked with the last wisps of winter clouds, the sun still struggling to bring warmth to the February chill. It is not quite cold, not quite warm, that strange in-between where the air nips at exposed skin but doesn’t truly bite. The Quidditch pitch has been transformed. The stands are packed with students, banners waving in the light breeze, and an expectant hush hangs over the crowds, despite the murmur of conversation. 

The Black Lake gleams darkly in the distance, but the task does not take place in its depths. Instead, the champions stand in a row on the dewy grass of the Quidditch pitch, preparing for whatever horrors the second task of the Triwizard Tournament entails.

You already know what those horrors are. 

The riddle had taken a frustratingly long time to decode, to come up with a proper answer instead of a mere hunch. Ego sum prinicipium mundi et finis saeculorum; once the answer had clicked into place, it had seemed almost too simple. I am the beginning of the world and the end of ages. What was the first thing humans ever knew? What was the last thing they felt before death? 

Fear.

And so, the second task would force the champions to face their deepest fears, drawn from the constellations carved into the rings they had procured from the first task. It is an elegant, cruel bit of magic—one that ensures their struggles are uniquely personal.

From your place in the stands, you’re offered a clear view of the champions standing in the centre of the field, their expressions barely concealing their tension. Their rings glint in the light, the engraved constellations gleaming like ancient runes. Anticipation coats each of the champions like a second skin, shoulders stiff, hands clenched, magic thrumming in the air. You’d arrived earlier than your friends, so you sit alone, fingers curling into the hem of your robes.

In front of the champions is a large, dome-like structure that shimmers faintly with spells and charms. That is where the task will take place, hidden from the eyes of the over-eager audience to grant the champions some semblance of privacy while they complete the second task. 

You spot Suguru immediately. He stands with his back straight, arms crossed over his chest, face completely blank. His long hair is tied back loosely, a few strands slipping free and brushing against his cheeks. He does not fidget, does not shift from foot to foot like the other two, but there is a tightness to his stance, a rigidity in the way his shoulders refuse to relax.

A hush falls over the crowd as the first champion is announced to enter the dueling arena. Aleksandar Ivanov tries to hide his nervousness, but you can see the slight hesitation in his step and the way he grips his wand so tightly, his knuckles turn white. His ring bears the constellation Hydra, the many-headed serpent—a symbol of resilience, of something that cannot be easily destroyed. You wonder what he fears.

A glittering door begins to take shape, starting from the base of the dome. It creaks open, revealing a dark, yawning abyss beyond. Shadows slither across the ground, shifting and twisting, while the Boggart inside, enhanced by Tournament magic, begins to take form. 

Boggarts, as you’ve studied in your Defence Against the Dark Arts class, are amortal, shape-shifting non-beings that take on the form of its observer’s worst fear. Because of their shape-shifting ability, no one knows what a Boggart’s true shape is, as it changes form instantly upon encountering someone. The incantation used to banish a Boggart is simple—dispel the fear with amusement while casting Riddikulus. However, seeing as the Boggarts the champions must face are magically enhanced, you suspect a simple Boggart-Banishing Spell will not be enough. The thought alone is enough to fill your mind with worry.

Aleksandar steps into the darkness, the door vanishing behind him. The rules are simple: Each champion must navigate a maze of illusions, battle their own fears, and rescue the person chosen for them. The champion who succeeds in the shortest amount of time will earn the most points. An enchanted hourglass hovers in the air, grains of sand slipping through its neck to mark the passage of time.

You barely breathe as the minutes tick by, until Aleksandar finally emerges. His friend—the person he had to rescue—jogs out behind him, looking ashen but otherwise alright. It’s the Durmstrang champion whose face is drawn, whose hands are trembling. He is victorious—but shaken.

The Beauxbatons champion is next. Amélie takes longer than expected. She stumbles as she exits, her breath ragged, and her face streaked with something that might be tears. Her hands shake so violently that she can barely accept the glass of water being handed to her.

It is grueling. It is cruel.

And Suguru is yet to go.

You swallow hard as he steps forward, the light catching the gold of his ring, the constellation Lupus etched onto its surface. The wolf—strength, transformation. But strength does not mean the absence of fear.

He does not hesitate, moving towards the dome’s entrance. You can hear people whispering around you—students murmuring their predictions, placing their bets, trying to guess what exactly a boy like Geto Suguru could possibly fear. You grip the edge of your robes tightly.

The door shimmers into existence before him, tall and forbidding. It creaks open slowly, revealing the same thing it has for the previous two champions—an abyss of darkness, shifting and coiling like smoke. He steps inside. The door disappears. The enchanted hourglass flips, grains of sand slipping through its narrow neck. You exhale, only then realising that you had held your breath.

The stands are still buzzing with conversation, but it is nothing more than a distant hum in your ears. Your entire focus is on the closed dome, on the way your heart beats faster than it should, as if your body already knows something your mind is yet to understand.

What is he afraid of? 

Suguru is not fearless—no one is—but he has always carried himself in a way that makes him seem like he is. Unshaken, unbothered, his composure held so effortlessly that it has always frustrated you in ways you dare not name. He stands with an arrogance that makes it hard to imagine him afraid of anything at all.

Still, you know that arrogance is a performance. A shield. Suguru hates appearing weak, more than anything else, so he deludes everyone else into thinking he is not. You had thought that the riddle that you had agonised over for weeks was cruel in itself, but this is worse. The waiting. The not-knowing.

Your stomach twists into impossible knots as the minutes drag on. Five minutes. Six. Eight. You count each grain of sand slipping down the hourglass. Ten minutes pass.

Twelve minutes, and then—

The door bursts open. Suguru steps into the light, and he is not alone. Your breath catches in your throat.

Gojo Satoru stumbles behind him, blinking against the sudden brightness. His white hair is disheveled, his expression more one of confusion than relief. He shakes Suguru off with a scowl, tugging his sleeve free from where Suguru’s fingers still grip the fabric.

“You didn’t have to drag me—” Satoru starts, but he stops as soon as he catches sight of Suguru’s face. His expression shifts; wariness replaces irritation, amusement slips away like a mask crumbling at the edges.

Suguru stands rigid, shoulders taut with unnatural tension. His face is stony, unreadable, perfectly blank in the way that only means he’s holding something back.

The hourglass stops. It has only been slightly less than thirteen minutes.

Geto Suguru is the fastest champion to finish the second task of the Triwizard Tournament.

The cheers begin, slow at first—someone in the stands starts shouting his name, then another, and another, until the entire pitch is filled with applause and hoots. You barely hear it.

Suguru is not okay.

He doesn’t acknowledge the cheering, doesn’t even react to it. His jaw is clenched so tightly that you can see the strain in his muscles. He isn’t even looking at Satoru anymore—his gaze is fixed somewhere beyond him, unfocused and distant.

Then, as if pulled by some invisible force, his eyes lift—and he sees you.

For a fleeting moment, something breaks in his expression. A flicker of something raw and fractured, a crack in the mask. He huffs quietly, tiredly, and he walks away without a word.

Your stomach sinks. Something is wrong.

You barely notice the way the crowd is still celebrating his victory, the way students are excitedly chatting about how he finished faster than anyone else, because of course he did—Geto Suguru is the strongest, after all.

(But strength does not mean the absence of fear.)

Your fingers tremble slightly as you watch his retreating figure. His posture is stiff, and his steps are too controlled. You should look away, should let him leave. You should accept that whatever happened inside that dome is his burden to carry.

But you can’t, because suddenly, all you can think of is the way he looked at you just now. Like he needed to see you; like you needed to see him.

And, well, it’s quite silly in retrospect, but it’s a realisation that settles over you quietly, as if it’s been there all along and you’ve just stupidly buried it underneath your own pride and arrogance: You don’t hate Geto Suguru at all.

“Go away,” Suguru says, stubborn as ever. He is propped up against a pillow on one of the beds in the Hospital Wing. An empty vial of Calming Draught is placed on the stand next to him, though you don’t mention it. Beside it, a half-empty box of Honeydukes chocolates.

“No,” you tell him, just as obstinate.

Suguru scowls. “I don’t want company.”

You ignore him, dragging a nearby chair closer to his bedside with an obnoxious scrape against the floor before sitting down. He doesn’t look at you, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the tall windows of the Hospital Wing, where the afternoon light spills golden over the Hogwarts grounds. His hair is slightly damp—most likely due to sweat—and the dark strands cling to his forehead.

“Are you hurt?” you ask, eyes flicking to the empty vial of Calming Draught.

He scoffs. “Wouldn’t be here if I was.”

“You are here.”

He sighs, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, as if trying to rub away whatever still lingers in his mind. “It’s just protocol. The Healers made me take a Calming Draught after the task, and apparently, that warrants a few hours of observation.”

You glance at him. He might not be physically injured, but there is something wrong, something unsettling in the way he carries himself. 

“You were in there only for thirteen minutes,” you say carefully. “That’s— That’s insane, actually.”

“I won, didn’t I?” he mutters.

“That’s not what I asked.”

He barks out a short laugh. “No. It isn’t.”

Silence, again. Suguru isn’t like this—not normally. He thrives in competition, in the thrill of battle, in the excitement of a challenge. He doesn’t dwell. He doesn’t let things linger like ghosts at the edges of his thoughts. But right now, it feels like he is being haunted.

“I saw your face when you came out,” you say, quieter this time. “You weren’t okay.”

His fingers curl into the sheets, gripping tightly. “It was just a Boggart.”

“A magically enhanced Boggart,” you remind him. “We don’t know how they worked, what they—”

“It’s over,” he snaps, cutting you off. “I’m done talking about it.”

You stare at him, waiting for him to meet your gaze, but he doesn’t. His shoulders are rigid—drawn tighter than they were before the task commenced—and his body is tense, as if he’s holding something in so tightly, it might crack him apart.

“...Was it Satoru?” you ask gently. “Is that what you—”

Suguru flinches, and somehow, that tells you enough. Your stomach twists. What did he see? Suguru and Satoru had come out of the dome together—Satoru unharmed, though clearly confused. The task had required him to rescue someone, and he’d done just that by saving his best friend. But what had he seen in there?

Suguru finally exhales, turning his head to you. “It was just a task,” he says. “And I won. That’s all that matters.”

“Stop pretending,” you say, voice sharper now. “I saw you after the task, and you weren’t fine. You still aren’t.”

Suguru narrows his eyes at you, but doesn’t respond. Instead, he looks away again, staring out the window like it might offer him some escape. You wait for some kind of acknowledgement, some crack in his carefully constructed walls. 

“I’m fine,” he says, but it’s too strained to be convincing. “It was just a stupid Boggart. It’s over.”

“No, it’s not,” you argue. “It’s obviously still bothering you, so just—just admit it. Tell me what happened, Suguru. I can try to help.”

He whips his head back toward you, eyebrows furrowed, patience wearing thin. “I don’t need to explain myself to you,” he snaps. “It’s over. I’m fine. End of story.”

You refuse to back down. “Don’t shut me out. I’m not going to just sit here and pretend I didn’t see the way you almost cracked when you came out of the dome!”

Suguru’s eyes flash with anger, his fingers curling into fists on his thighs. “I don’t need your pity, alright? So just drop it.”

“No, I can’t just drop it.” Your voice trembles with frustration. Why won’t he just listen? “I fucking care about you, and I can see it’s bothering you. What the Hell are you so afraid of?”

His entire body stiffens at your words. His gaze darts away again, and you know—you know—he’s trying to hold something back. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but then he shuts it again.

“I’m not afraid,” he mutters, but there’s a brittleness to his voice that betrays him. “I told you, I’m fine. It’s over. Stop pushing.”

“You’re lying. What is it? What did you see in there?”

Suguru glares at you, his chest rising and falling with short, shallow breaths. Then, in a sudden burst of frustration, he spits out the words that he’s been holding back for far too long. “It was you, alright?!”

You freeze. “...What?”

“It was you,” Suguru repeats harshly. “I saw you in there—but you weren’t you.” he falters, but the words keep coming. “You—your eyes—they were empty, like something had taken you and left nothing behind. I couldn’t reach you. You were just standing there. Gone.” He stops, swallowing hard, trying to reign in his emotions, but it’s too late.

Your mouth runs dry, your pulse racing as his words echo in your head.

Suguru turns away from you, but you can see the rigidness in his back. “I couldn’t—couldn’t bring you back. I tried, but you were just gone, and there was nothing I could do.” He inhales wearily. “Like a Dementor had sucked the soul out of you, and I couldn’t do anything about it because my Patronus Charm wouldn’t fucking work, and—”

Your mind whirls. You know his fear now. It’s not some grand disaster, some monstrous threat—it’s losing you. Losing you in some way that he can’t fix.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

For a long moment, you don’t speak. The only sound between you is the faint rustling of the Hospital Wing curtains shifting in the late afternoon breeze. Suguru’s chest rises and falls unsteadily. He refuses to look at you now, as if saying it out loud was already enough, as if giving his fear a form has made it real.

Of all the things you could have imagined, you’d never expected this. Suguru, who meets every challenge with an infuriating smirk, who stands unshaken even in the face of the impossible—he had been terrified. And it had been because of you.

You open your mouth, then close it. What do you even say to something like that?

Your heart aches at the way he’s withdrawn, curling in on himself as though he’s trying to make himself smaller. As though, now his secret has slipped, he’s bracing himself for whatever comes next.

So, instead of speaking, you move. Slowly, cautiously, you reach forward and wrap your arms around him.

Suguru stiffens immediately. His whole body goes tense under your touch, like he’s caught between the instinct to pull away and the desperate need to hold on. But then, after a beat of hesitation, he exhales shakily—and lets himself collapse into you.

It almost knocks the breath out of your lungs. His arms lock around you, tight—so impossibly tight that it almost hurts. He buries his face against your shoulder, and he grips onto you like he’s afraid that if he lets go, you’ll disappear; like he’s trying to convince himself that you’re real, that you’re here.

You don’t say anything. You just hold him.

His breathing is uneven, shallow at first, but gradually, as you rub slow circles into his back, it steadies. One of his hands curls into the fabric of your robes at your waist, clutching you like you’re a lifeline.

You feel him take a shuddering breath. “I know it wasn’t real,” he murmurs into your shoulder. “I know that. But it—fuck, it felt real.”

You nod, letting him press himself closer. “I know,” you whisper.

“I couldn’t do anything,” he admits. “I couldn’t do anything. I was right there, and you—you were just standing there, and I kept calling your name, but you didn’t even blink. And my Patronus—it wouldn’t work.” His grip on you tightens. “It wouldn’t fucking work.”

You don’t need him to explain why that matters. A Patronus is a partially-tangible positive energy force created from the caster’s happiest memories, either incorporeal as a burst of white mist, or corporeal—stronger than the incorporeal one—where it takes the form of an animal. It’s used to ward off Dark Magic—most commonly, creatures known as Dementors, which thrive off of negative emotions. The image of you, hollow, is what happens if a Dementor gets close enough to a person to perform the Dementor’s Kiss: Sucking the soul out of a person, leaving them a shell of their former selves. The Patronus Charm is complicated and difficult, so much so that most experienced wizards themselves struggle with casting it. 

You know how powerful Suguru’s magic is. The fact that, in his fear, he hadn’t managed to cast it—not even an incorporeal one— 

You swallow past the lump in your throat. “You would’ve saved me.”

He makes a sound at the back of his throat, something like a scoff. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do,” you say fiercely, protectively. “If that had been real, you would’ve found a way.”

Something in him seems to rupture in him at your words. His arms tighten just a fraction more before he finally—finally—relaxes against you. The tautness in his muscles begins to ease, his breathing growing softer, deeper. He still doesn’t let go, but it isn’t out of desperation. It’s something else now.

“I hate this,” he says, after a pause.

“Hate what?”

“That I had to see that.” He exhales against your skin. “That you had to hear all of this.”

You shake your head, pulling back just enough to look at him. “Suguru.”

He finally lifts his head. His face is guarded but tired—so tired. His eyes, dark as ink, roam over your face. You meet his gaze and let your hands move up, threading gently into his hair. “I don’t care that you’re afraid,” you say, softly. “I’m afraid, too.”

Suguru looks at you for a long time, unreadable. You wonder if he’s going to argue, if he’s going to brush you off, or deflect with sarcasm, the way both of you have been doing all this time. But he doesn’t.

Instead, his hand moves to your face. The touch is hesitant at first; his fingers ghost over your cheek, like he’s still trying to convince himself that you’re real. Then, his thumb brushes over your skin, slow and soft. You don’t dare to breathe.

His gaze flickers down to your lips, then back up. “You’re still here,” he murmurs, so quietly that you almost miss it.

And then he kisses you.

It isn’t rushed. It isn’t desperate. It’s slow, reverent—like he’s memorising you, like he’s savouring the fact that you’re here, that you’re warm and breathing and safe in his arms.

Your fingers tighten in his hair as you press closer, melting into him while his lips move against yours. It’s gentle, but when you sigh softly into his mouth, he lets out a quiet groan and deepens the kiss. His hand cups the back of your head, his other arm winding around your waist to pull you closer.

(The door to the Hospital Wing swings open. 

“Oi, Geto, you decent— Oh, Merlin’s saggy balls—”

A loud, scandalised gasp echoes through the room, followed by Gojo Satoru’s unmistakable cackle. You barely have time to react, to get off Suguru’s lap, before he stiffens, head snapping towards the entrance. Standing in the doorway are Shoko and Satoru, both with varying expressions of shock and amusement.

“Oh, don’t stop on our account,” Satoru drawls, sporting a shit-eating grin. “This is way better than what we came here for.”

Shoko hums. “Yeah, I was expecting to find Suguru all sulky and brooding—not getting snogged to within an inch of his life.”

Suguru groans, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “Kill me.”

You, on the other hand, are trying very hard not to combust. “Oh, sweet Merlin.”

Satoru dramatically clutches his chest. “My best friend, growing up so fast. Next thing I know, you’ll be writing poetry about her eyes, or something.”

Suguru, who absolutely has thought about writing poetry about your eyes (though he would rather die than admit it), scowls. “Shut up, Satoru.”

“Can’t. This is the highlight of my week.”

You groan, hiding your burning face in your hands. “I hate both of you.”

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Shoko coos. “Should we give them some privacy? Maybe light some candles to help them set the mood?”

Wordlessly, Suguru raises a hand and lifts up his middle finger.)

June brings summer hand-in-hand to the castle, and along with it, the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament. The days leading up to the third task are restless. The maze looms at the edges of the Quidditch Pitch, its towering hedges charmed to shift and writhe, concealing whatever dangers the tournament has yet to unveil. It is a final trial of wit and endurance, a labyrinth where victory lies at the centre.

You hate it.

“You’re scowling,” Suguru observes, watching you from his spot on the grass. He’s leaning back on his elbows, legs stretched out in front of him.

“You should be worried too,” you counter, plopping down next to him. “That thing is practically breathing.”

“And what would you have me do? Duel the shrubbery?”

You huff, glaring at the maze once more before turning back to him. “You’re taking this too lightly.”

He grins. “Because you’re worrying enough for the both of us.”

You reach over and flick his forehead. He lets out a dramatic groan, falling onto his back as though you’ve mortally wounded him. 

“Unbelievable,” you mutter, shaking your head, though you’re biting back a smile of your own. “How am I supposed to be stressed when you’re like this?”

“That’s the idea,” he muses, folding his arms behind his head. His dark hair spills over the grass, strands catching the sunlight. “I can’t have my little lioness fretting herself to an early grave.”

You smack his shoulder without hesitation. “Call me that again, and I’ll start rooting for the maze.”

Suguru barks out a laugh, turning his head to look at you properly. He’s smiling, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ll be fine.”

You reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his. He squeezes once, gently, before tugging you closer. You let out a small oomph before sprawling onto the grass next to him. 

The sun dawdles in the horizon, stretching out the day for as long as it will go. You turn your head and brush your lips against his, content and happy. The third task waits, unseen and uncertain, but at least there is this.

Whether Geto Suguru emerges victorious or not—well. That’s insignificant, you think.

INTERESTED IN MORE? CHECK OUT THIS HEAD BOY!RAVENCLAW!NANAMI FIC SET IN THE SAME UNIVERSE BY @mahowaga!

⇢ a/n: if you read this entire thing, i’m giving you a big hug. this fic is so many things, but it is mainly a labour of love towards the fandom that first got me into writing and reading fanfiction at the wee age of eleven, and the fandom that currently occupies most of my tiny little brain. it is also the longest fic i have written till date, and i am proud of myself for it. this fic would not be possible were it not for my two best friends, @mahowaga & @admiringlove helping me out, letting me bounce ideas off of them, wracking our brains together to come up with the second task, and lurking on my google doc while i was writing, leaving comments that make me giggle even now. thank you for reading, and i hope you have a wonderful day!

[fangdokja]

One of them wants to marry you. The other wants to make sure he never does.

♡ Book. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Various! Otome Isekai Characters x Fem. Reader

♡ Word Count. 3,171

♡ Yandere! Crown Prince who has always been entitled to everything—land, power, wealth, and most importantly, you. His right to you is absolute, written in blood and ink across every history book that dares to speak of the royal line.

♡ Yandere! War Hero who was never promised anything but carved his way through battlefields, knee-deep in the viscera of fallen foes, until he stood before you. Not by birthright, but by the sheer will to survive where others fell.

♡ Yandere! Crown Prince who sits beside you, hands clasped over yours like a steel shackle. "You don't need to lower yourself to common filth," he murmurs, gaze locked on the War Hero. "You were made for palaces, not trenches."

♡ Yandere! War Hero who only grins, boots kicked onto the palace table, still stained with the dried blood of a hundred men. "And you were made to sit on your ass while others do the killing. Forgive me if I find that unimpressive."

♡ Yandere! Crown Prince who tightens his grip on your fingers, a barely restrained tremor running up his arm. "You’re nothing but a hound."

♡ Yandere! War Hero who flashes a wolfish smirk. "And yet, she feeds me scraps. Doesn't that make you feel insecure?"

♡ Yandere! Crown Prince whose smile is all polished gold but whose rage is a quiet execution. "The difference between you and me, mongrel, is that I own what I love."

♡ Yandere! War Hero who laughs like the last dying breath of an enemy. "And yet, here she sits, leaning towards me. Looks like your leash slipped, your highness."

♡ Yandere! Crown Prince who has held a blade to his general’s throat for less.

♡ Yandere! War Hero who doesn’t flinch at the Crown Prince’s threats because he’s had worse. The last man who tried to kill him succeeded—for five minutes, before he was dragged back to life by battlefield surgeons who stapled his soul to his bones.

♡ Yandere! War Hero who is obsessed with the way you placed your palm against his blood-slicked cheek after he returned from battle, as if he were still human, as if war had not made him something else entirely. Who still hears your voice over the screams, the thunder, the cacophony of steel meeting flesh. He doesn’t believe in destiny, but he believes in you.

♡ Yandere! Crown Prince who stares, seething, as you sit beside the War Hero, dabbing at a cut along his jaw. His fists clench.

“You forget your place, soldier,” the Crown Prince hisses, voice low, dangerous.

♡ Yandere! War Hero who meets his gaze, unbothered. “And you forget yours, my lord. You are the heir to a kingdom. I am the shield that keeps you from wearing your guts like a sash.”

“You think that shield will protect you from me?”

The War Hero shrugs. “Try and find out.”

♡ Yandere! Crown Prince who very much would love to, if not for your hand on the War Hero’s wrist, grounding him, soothing something feral just beneath his skin. That is what enrages him most. Not the defiance. Not the insolence. But the fact that it’s working. That you can calm the storm with a touch.

♡ Yandere! War Hero who smirks, tilts his head. “She chose me.”

♡ Yandere! Crown Prince who intends to undo that mistake with blood and fire.

———

♡ Yandere! Archduke who catches you at the opera, dressed in silver and moonlight, sitting in his private box like you belong to him. And then there’s a crash—

♡ Yandere! Master Thief who swings from the rafters like a damn circus act, landing with a bow as if breaking into an event full of armed guards is just another Tuesday.

“Really? This is your plan?” the Archduke drawls, unimpressed. He lifts a glass of wine as if toasting to the sheer audacity. “You thought you could just waltz in here and steal her?”

“Oh no, Your Grace,” the Master Thief grins, flashing something sharp and gleaming between his teeth. “I don’t waltz. I prefer the tango. More hands-on.”

A gunshot. The Master Thief dodges. Your ears ring. The opera continues. Nobody reacts. The nobility is used to bloodstains on the carpet.

♡ Yandere! Archduke who never misses a shot but isn’t aiming to kill. No, he’s aiming to maim.

♡ Yandere! Master Thief who laughs, dashing across the balcony with inhuman agility, plucking a jewel-encrusted knife from an unfortunate lord’s throat. “A bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

♡ Yandere! Archduke who sneers. “Says the one who thinks theft is a love language.”

♡ Yandere! Master Thief who winks. “It is when you do it right.”

♡ Yandere! Archduke who places a gloved hand over yours. “She isn’t yours to steal.”

♡ Yandere! Master Thief who twirls the stolen dagger. “Then let’s see if she wants to be taken.”

You, who really just wanted to enjoy the damn opera.

♡ Yandere! Archduke who burns down an entire village because you let the Master Thief steal a kiss from you. "Collateral damage," he sighs, boot on the charred remains of someone’s grandmother. "Next time, I’ll aim for a city."

♡ Yandere! Master Thief who breaks into your chambers nightly, the smell of fresh blood and stolen perfume lingering in the air. "Shame about the guards," he grins, slipping a diamond ring onto your finger. "It’s a perfect fit. Like it was always meant to be there."

♡ Yandere! Archduke who sits on his throne, dagger in his palm, knuckles white. "You reek of him," he murmurs, voice colder than the corpses he stacked just to see you smile. "Tell me. Did he make you laugh?" His grip tightens, knuckles cracking. "I’d rather tear out your tongue than let you amuse another man."

♡ Yandere! Master Thief who laughs at the execution order with his name on it, flipping the royal decree between his fingers like a cheap playing card. "It’s cute, really. You think bars can hold me? Your Archduke should know by now—I steal more than just gold."

♡ Yandere! Archduke who drags you to the highest tower, the wind howling like the ghosts of everyone he's butchered in your name. "Look down. See that? That’s what happens when you pick the wrong man." He tilts your chin up with the edge of his blade, smile thin as a razor. "Luckily for you, I’m still willing to forgive. If you beg."

———

♡ Yandere! Supreme Mage who doesn’t need to see through dimensions to know when a threat is coiling around you like an unseen parasite. Who can taste betrayal like an iron tang in the air. Who can hear the pulse of magic in every living being, except when you smile at him, because that? That is utterly dead inside.

♡ Yandere! Supreme Mage who materializes in a crack of golden light, robes billowing with unspoken fury, and says, "Ah. So you’ve taken to harboring rats in your bed. How quaint. Should I fetch the plague doctor, or would you prefer to let it fester?"

♡ Yandere! Enemy Spy who grins at him from his place on your couch, casual as a corpse cooling on the battlefield. Who doesn’t bother to get up, just keeps one hand on your thigh like a brand, like a claim, like he’s daring a man who can rewrite reality to try something.

♡ Yandere! Enemy Spy who lifts a hand and waves lazily. "Well, if it isn’t the arcane psychopath. I was wondering when you’d show up. You always get so twitchy when she has company."

♡ Yandere! Supreme Mage who doesn’t react, because he doesn’t need to react. The air warps with unspoken threats. Your entire apartment creaks, the walls tightening as if reality itself is afraid of what he will do. "Your presence here is a mistake, spy. One I am going to correct."

♡ Yandere! Enemy Spy who exhales, all long-suffering patience, and pats your knee. "See, this is why we can’t have a healthy social life, sweetheart. Your little pet magician thinks anything that breathes near you is a threat."

♡ Yandere! Supreme Mage who steps closer, not bothering to touch the ground, because why should a god walk when he can hover like the nightmare he is? His voice is a blade wrapped in silk. "That is because everything near her is a threat."

♡ Yandere! Enemy Spy who rolls his eyes, leans in closer to you, and mutters, "He’s not wrong."

♡ Yandere! Supreme Mage who obliterated an entire country in a fit of rage once. Who still has the map with that nation’s name scribbled out in blood. Who claims it was a scientific experiment in large-scale elemental magic. Who insists it had nothing to do with the fact that you had been taken there as a prisoner of war.

♡ Yandere! Supreme Mage who personally designed the magical chains shackling the enemy spy to his dungeon wall. Who carved sigils into his flesh with a surgeon’s precision. Who watches, with the detached amusement of a scholar, as the spy’s body twists and heals around the enchantments. Who calls it "an intellectual curiosity." Who calls it "a favor" to you.

♡ Yandere! Enemy Spy who sneers through bloodied teeth. Who only laughs when Supreme Mage’s spellwork attempts to break his mind. Who survived the war solely on instinct, subterfuge, and the kind of unholy endurance that makes lesser men shudder. Who grins, sharp and defiant, as he croaks, "You should let her decide, shouldn’t you?"

♡ Yandere! Supreme Mage who nearly detonates the entire fortress at the mere suggestion.

"Decide?" His voice is an earthquake barely contained. His robes ripple like liquid shadow, edged in embers. "What is there to decide? A parasite does not negotiate its way into a host’s body. A stray dog does not ask to be let inside. You think yourself an equal? A competitor? You're a mistake of nature, a statistical anomaly."

♡ Yandere! Enemy Spy who only grins wider, spitting blood onto Supreme Mage’s pristine white marble floor. "You sure talk a lot for someone who’s scared."

♡ Yandere! Supreme Mage who moves too fast to track. One moment he’s across the room, the next his hand is buried in the spy’s chest, fingers curled around his still-beating heart. Who leans in, slow, deliberate, his breath scalding. "I could make you forget her name," he whispers. "I could wipe every last thought of her from your mind. Your love, your obsession, your entire self—gone."

♡ Yandere! Enemy Spy who, despite the pain, despite the mind-breaking agony, still smirks. "And yet," he wheezes, "you haven’t."

♡ Yandere! Supreme Mage who yanks his hand back, seething, as the spy collapses into ragged, victorious laughter. Who turns to you, his golden eyes alight with something feverish, something frantic. "Say it," he commands. "Tell him he is nothing. Tell him he does not exist to you."

♡ Yandere! Enemy Spy, gasping, wheezing, forcing himself to sit up. "Or..." he rasps, tilting his head, "tell him you like me better."

♡ Yandere! Supreme Mage who is one syllable away from setting the entire continent on fire.

———

♡ Yandere! Demon King who built his empire on charred corpses and centuries of conquest. Who sits upon his throne of ivory bones, fingers idly tapping against an armrest carved from the skull of a fallen archangel. Who looks at you like a relic from a past life, something fragile, something beloved, something that must be locked away lest the world taint you. Who commands with absolute authority, but speaks your name like a prayer, like a secret only he should be allowed to know.

♡ Yandere! Demon Assassin who has killed more kings than he can count, but never this one. Who has worked at the Demon King's side for millennia, yet the moment you entered his line of sight, he knew he would tear down empires for you. Who moves in silence, in shadows, in the spaces between light and dark, but his voice is a rasp against your ear, whispering things he knows the Demon King will kill him for saying. Who stands with knives in both hands, one for his enemies, one for the man who dares to keep you from him.

♡ Yandere! Demon King who does not know the meaning of sharing. Who watches you speak to the assassin with a gaze so searing the air warps around him. Who clenches his jaw hard enough that his fangs pierce his own tongue, and the taste of his own ichor only fuels his fury. Who has conquered dimensions, obliterated civilizations, and yet the worst betrayal he has ever known is watching you, his beloved, listen to another man.

♡ Yandere! Demon Assassin who has spent centuries perfecting the art of killing, but only now does he feel alive. Who watches the Demon King unravel with a sick sort of amusement, knowing he alone has gotten under his liege’s skin. Who stands just close enough to you, his presence a silent claim, his movements too fluid, too casual, as though daring the King to react. Who lets his fingers brush against yours when handing you a blade, his smirk widening as the Demon King’s aura cracks the stone beneath them.

The throne room is a masterpiece of destruction. The walls still drip with the remains of some poor fool who displeased him. The air is thick with the scent of burning marrow, but it is not enough to drown out the suffocating silence between the two men.

“You’re awfully bold today,” the Demon King murmurs, voice like smoldering embers. His clawed fingers drum against his throne, slow, deliberate, like a war drum before the first strike. His eyes, the color of old blood, do not leave you. “Are you enjoying this?”

♡ Yandere! Demon Assassin who grins, unbothered by the killing intent in the room. “Immensely.”

♡ Yandere! Demon King who stands, and the entire castle groans in response, the weight of his wrath fracturing the very foundation. Who does not appreciate amusement unless he is the one indulging in it. Who steps forward, each movement a barely restrained act of violence, a king whose patience has run dry.

“Come here,” he commands, but it is not to his assassin. It is to you. To his treasure.

♡ Yandere! Demon Assassin who laughs under his breath, stepping in your way before you can move. “She’s not a dog, your Majesty.”

♡ Yandere! Demon King whose smile is a thin, sharp thing, carved from disdain. “No, but you are a corpse.”

♡ Yandere! Demon Assassin who tilts his head, eyes gleaming. “Try me.”

♡ Yandere! Demon King who does not lunge—kings do not lunge, kings do not brawl. No, he merely lifts a hand, and the walls explode with jagged obsidian, the floor splintering into a pit of hellfire at the assassin’s feet. The room screams with infernal energy, a tangible force meant to bring lesser beings to their knees.

♡ Yandere! Demon Assassin who does not flinch. Who rolls his shoulders like this is a game and he is a predator that has just caught the scent of something fun. Who flicks his wrist and summons a thousand shadows, each one an extension of his will, a sliver of darkness with a killing edge.

♡ Yandere! Demon King who clenches his fist and the assassin’s shadows shatter.

♡ Yandere! Demon Assassin who raises a brow, impressed but not deterred. “Touchy.”

♡ Yandere! Demon King who does not take well to insolence. Who does not take well to you still standing beside the assassin.

You, who sighs in the middle of the impending bloodbath, utterly unphased. “Are you two done?”

♡ Yandere! Demon King who turns to you like you’ve personally betrayed him. “You’re defending him?”

♡ Yandere! Demon Assassin who smirks, nudging your shoulder with his own. “Adorable, isn’t it?”

♡ Yandere! Demon King who snaps, his power manifesting in a cacophony of screams from the walls themselves. Who reaches for you, but the assassin is faster, grabbing you by the waist and yanking you into his grasp, pressing a blade to your throat—not to hurt you, never to hurt you, but to taunt the king.

♡ Yandere! Demon Assassin who grins against your ear, voice a ghost of amusement. “So, who do you think would win?”

♡ Yandere! Demon King whose eyes glow with hellfire, whose fangs glint like a beast denied its prey. “You will die screaming.”

♡ Yandere! Demon Assassin who kisses the top of your head, just to make it worse. “Maybe. But I’ll die with her.”

♡ Yandere! Demon King who does not like that answer. Not one bit.

———

But here’s the thing.

Did they really think you were an idiot?

You, who has watched their egos clash like titanic beasts, who has dangled yourself like a prized trophy between them, knowing full well what you were doing. You, who let them think they were winning.

You, who used every second of their pathetic posturing to plan your escape.

♡ Yandere! Crown Prince who turns, realizing you’re gone—

♡ Yandere! War Hero who curses under his breath, scanning the battlefield—

♡ Yandere! Archduke who demands his spies find you immediately—

♡ Yandere! Master Thief who suddenly wishes he had locked you in a cage when he had the chance—

♡ Yandere! Supreme Mage who reaches out with his magic, only to find—nothing—

♡ Yandere! Enemy Spy who grins, because honestly? He saw this coming, and he's a little impressed.

♡ Yandere! Demon King who roars, shaking the very foundations of the underworld—

♡ Yandere! Demon Assassin who merely chuckles, licking a stray drop of blood from his blade.

You, vanishing into the night, leaving behind nothing but chaos, war, and the memory of a coldblooded glare.

After all… if you can’t fight the system, might as well use it.

Let them tear each other apart.

You? You have better things to do.

You walked away.

Free.

Fucking imbeciles.

────────────

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General TAG LIST of “Whispers In The Dark”: @keisocool , @elvabeth , @elloredef , @mjsjshhd , @lem-hhn , @yuki-istired , @lilyalone , @starryperson

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology ♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. ♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World. ♡ Book 4 [you are here]. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows. ♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

[dcxdpdabbles]

Bruce: Dick, I like you to meet Danny and his little brother Jason. They're going to be living with us for a while.

Dick: What? Why?

Danny: Bruce is hiding us from the Wolves. They wanted me to join their gang for some quick cash or be killed in the crossfire, but I knew it would lead to an early death, and I couldn't leave Jason on the streets. Not after our mom died. So I struck a deal.

Dick: What kind of deal?

Bruce: As you know, Batman and I, have a understanding -

Jason: They kiss in the moonlight.

Danny: Jay! Hush up! But it's true, we know you're dating Batman.

Dick: *Snort*

Bruce: *clearing throat* I am not dating Batman.

Jason: Sure ya ain't.

Bruce: In any case, Danny gave Batman all the information he knows about local originated crime. Not just about the Wolves but five of the major crime families controlling the streets, and I've agreed to shelter the boys until Batman and Robin can ensure their safety for this knowledge.

Dick: Really? You think Batman would have considered chatting with Robin before making such a big decision. Then again he's just a sidekick isn't he?

Danny: Hey, don't you disrespect Robin. He's the only one with heart in this stupid city.

Jason: Yeah, respect our hero, or you'll face our wrath. We're scary!

Alfred: Lads, I've made the arroz con leche that you requested. I know it's won't be as good as your mother's, but I do hope I came close.

Jason: Oh boy! *Picks up spoon*

Dick: Oh yes, I'm shaking in my boots at the threat of your wrath.

Danny: Look, Dick is it? Fitting name, by the way, I can tell you aren't happy to have us here but relax. It's only temporary. We aren't going to replace you or steal your trust fund. Besides, you won't even know we're here.

Dick glancing at Jason:

Dick: Right. I won't notice you at all

Danny: Yeah so if you want to sneak Robin in for some fun time that's cool to-

Dick: *chockin* Excuse me!?

Bruce fighting a grin: Relax Dick, I already knew about Robin sneaking into your room last night. Do tell your boyfriend to use the front door, I'll love to meet him.

[strnilolover]

٠ ࣪⭑ chris comes home to find you sleeping in his clothes

chris unlocked the front door quietly, his movements slow as the day’s fatigue weighed heavy on his shoulders. he set his keys down gently, kicked off his sneakers, and padded toward the bedroom. ready to collapse on the bed and drift off into a much needed sleep.

when he approached the door, his hand reached for the handle, slowly opening it. and when he stepped into the room, his eyes found you and he just about melted.

you were sprawled out in the middle of the bed, sound asleep, wearing one of his worn t-shirts and a pair of his boxers. the shirt was far too big on you, the neckline slipping off one shoulder, and the boxers were loose, bunched slightly at your hips from how you’d curled up.

one of your hands rested on the pillow he used every night, and the other was tucked under your chin, your chest rising and falling with soft, steady breaths.

chris froze in the doorway, his lips quirking into a gentle smile. his heart swelled at the sight, all the tension in his body ebbing away.

he tiptoed closer, crouching down beside the bed to take in the peaceful expression on your face. the soft glow of the light highlighted the curve of your cheek, and his fingers itched to brush your hair back from your face, but he stopped himself, not wanting to wake you.

chris sat there for a few moments, just watching you, his own exhaustion forgotten as he soaked in the sight of you completely at ease, wearing something of his.

he hadn’t realized how much he needed this—this quiet, intimate reminder of how deeply he loved you and how much you meant to him.

eventually, he stood, moving as silently as he could to change into something more comfortable. he swapped his jeans and hoodie for a pair of sweats and a plain t-shirt, then turned off the lamp, leaving the room bathed in moonlight. sliding under the covers, he moved closer to you, careful not to disturb your sleep, and wrapped an arm gently around your waist.

you stirred slightly at the contact, a small sigh escaping your lips as you instinctively leaned back into him, nuzzling your head into the crook of his neck. chris pressed a feather-light kiss to your temple, as he tightened his hold just a little.

“goodnight, baby,” he murmured softly against your skin, letting his eyes close as the warmth of your body soothed him.

[yoru-exe]

PHAINON ࣪ ִֶָ ⋆ . call my name

as overly formal and unnecessary as it sounds, the amphoreus' hero has always been lord phainon to you. while it comes with great honour and respect, much like how it applies to your master; lady aglaea, it feels like there's a barrier between you and him, and he doesn't really like that, considering that he'd like to know you better, closer.

so naturally, he revels in making you drop the honourary title, and the best way to make you do so (based on his countless personal experiments of trial-and-error, which he very much enjoyed) is to catch you off guard. shock you enough to make you forget all about the formality, enough to make you see him not as just amphoreus' hero, but as phainon himself.

one of the times that happened was when you found a lost little girl in the wood. so you asked around the village nearby if she's familiar. you were starting to get some leads when you stumbled upon an elderly man who commented, "my, what lovely family you three look".

"no, we're not-".

"well, thank you so much, good sir. unfortunately, they're not family members. we're actually looking for this child's parents. although i'd like to note that i do look forward to starting a family with this woman".

"phainon!".

of course, that's just one method of making you fall into his plan. there's trill in guessing how you'll react. the blush that never fail to paint your face rosy red always manage to make him fall deeper for you. but nothing made him completely weak than you calling his name consciously out of your own choice.

not even mydei's hardest punch to his gut could do as much damage as you do in this situation.

he was looking at the moon one night all alone when you appeared beside him. "someone seems busy with his thought. would he be so generous to share?", a teasing tone laced your words, making him chuckled. you always seem to know how to calm his nerve when it's going wild.

"just.. thinking about the battle to come. do you think we'll make it this time?". from the hill you're standing on, the ruins around the perimeter glowed under the moonlight. the destruction they faced was unmistakable. from the way he sympathetically shifted his gaze upon them, you guessed that perhaps it's from his previous battle, one that you didn't embark together with, one that he failed.

without warning, you took his hand in yours, caressing circles on the scars on it, a gentle smile gracing your lips. "of course we will, because you have me by your side", you announced pridefully, so full of confidence that it felt contagious on him. "and you by mine, phainon".

you voice was so low, as if a whisper of a mother soothing her crying child, or a girl confessing to her lover of her affection. but he heard you loud and clear.

although, he felt like he needed you to repeat that again because his system was in a mess from you saying his name that he didn't get to savour it to its fullest.

"no, that only come once".

safe to say that he spent the rest of the night begging that you call his name like you just did. but where's the fun in a challenge if you just give him what he wants?

⊹₊ author's note ₊⊹

this is kinda silly, but someone implied that phainon isn't as innocent as what we originally thought he would be did something to my brain chemistry. and you know what? good for him. this man needs some fun before he d***

[pseudomonacarriea]

“We are royalty, so we have been taught not to show our feelings on our faces. It’s something like a ‘habit.’ ”

Tessa speaks off-handedly after Felix has finally posed a question most would find to be 'rude', but she didn't mind it really. Given how they had arrived here as a means to establish amicable political ties, it wasn't all that surprising that he would at some point make a pointed comment regarding her perpetual deadpan and lack of expression. At the very least, his tone tells her that he has no intention of getting close. Or so she thinks.

"Is that all you wanted to know?"

Royalty AU -- Not Accepting -- @ardensfides

Putting distance between harem members and the future queen isn't uncommon. The way that she does it, always holding them out at arms length and letting them have will is what bothers him.

"I know; I used to be a duke's son. But the way you do it - a habit or not, you're hiding something. It's written on your face."

Having caged her between the wall and his arms, the man narrows his gaze. It wasn't the first time he's tried to ask her this question, and nor would it be the last until she comes out and tells him.

"I want to know why you don't use us. Having autonomy while in someone else's castle is strange."

He has a feeling this won't turn out the way he wants. Does he have to get his answer out another way? But what'll work? Instead of wracking his brain, he waits, taking a step closer so their faces are mere centimeters apart.

[lalunanymph]

MASTER OF ME

SUMMARY sylus purchases a kitten hybrid from an auction and dotes on her very, very well.

WARNINGS kitten hybrid, pet play, collars, leash, nipple play, clit play, mirror sex, explicit smut, unprotected sex, dirty talk, master kink, language, overuse of the kitten petname, riding, clawing, possessive behaviour, slight humiliation and degradation, sylus is soft for his kitten

DAWN SAYS couldn't stop thinking about sylus and his fave kitten hybrid ...,....,,,. so now you all have to suffer with me ,,,, inspired by this post

"Who do you belong to, kitten?"

Your thighs burned with the effort to keep yourself upright, your vision going blurry from how heavenly his thick cock felt rutting against your gummy, slick walls.

"Mhm," you moaned, arching your back, the tinkling chime of your collar accompanying the sloppy symphony of your bodies meeting together in carnal bliss.

Sylus was brutal with his ministrations, one hand wrapped around the bubblegum pink leash clasped to your pink diamond-studded collar; the sight of his engraved name on the tag shining in the moonlight filling him with a sick surge of masculine pride.

"Come on, kitten," he goaded, leaning in to run his tongue under the line of your collar, making you shiver. "Answer me. Who do you belong to?"

The sound of your heavy breathing and his ragged grunts shattered the quiet of his bedroom air, the dark shades of his monochromatic lair absorbing the sins of both your ecstatic bodies; making you feel like he was claiming you right in the belly of the beast.

He pushed your head down into the mattress, leveraging on your supine position to dick you down harder. The slap slap slap of his balls hitting your ass resounded around the room, reminding you of how much you belonged to him.

Body, soul, mind.

Sylus Qin owned every inch of you.

He moved his lips to your ear, your tawny tips twitching at the sensation of his hot breath caressing the sensitive flaps.

"Please," tears thickened your voice, and you fisted the black silk sheets, holding onto them for dear life.

Despite being unable to see him, you heard the smirk in his tone when he deepened the angle, hitting a spot inside of you which made your knees buckle.

"Sweetie, I think you can do better than that."

The thick trunk of his arm wrapped around your neck, using it to hoist you up, and your resistless gaze landed on the mirror across the bed.

Intending to rub your humiliation in your face and remind you how helpless you were without him, Sylus pinched your cheeks together with his other hand, forcing you to watch the way his slick cock pounded into your willing pussy; stretching the muscles tightly around his thick, meaty girth.

The tip of his cock hitting your G-spot made you mewl, your claws catching in his arm around your neck. But, Sylus didn't mind the pain. Those wounds would heal anyway, and besides, he was much more focused on making his sweet little kittie cry.

"Be good and tell me—" he grunted, emphasizing each word with a heavy thrust of his hips. "Who. Do. You. Belong. To. Kitten?"

Once upon a time, that question would've made you bristle and sink your claws into the closest jugular; reminding of the conditions you were brought up in before you were purchased during an underground auction by the one and only elusive leader of Onychinus.

Shrouded in mystery and long regarded as an urban legend, the sight of his blood-red eyes and the smirk upon his pale lips made you shrink back in horror.

That was until he stroked your head and your ears, running his fingers down your back while murmuring in his low, soothing baritone that, "I am not going to hurt you, kitten."

Slowly, you began to warm up to him. The horrors you led as a hybrid stolen from a Linkon City lab faded into the recesses of your rare nightmares; your life as Sylus’s precious lap kitten the only one you recognized.

The sight of his large palm trailing down your body, straight to your core, made you clench down on him in anticipation.

Shit... Sylus choked down on a curse, fighting to retain his self-control.

He knew you could force a kitten to do what you want, but you could always entice her with a tempting treat.

"Does that feel good, kitten?" The caress of his warm breath against your neck tingled your skin, nipples puckering from the sensation.

Mhm... your teary moans gave way to sharp mewls when he started to rub your clit in tandem to his blunt mushroom cock head hitting your sweet spots.

"This pussy loves me so much... can you hear her purr?"

Sylus clamped a hand over your mouth, muffling your moans so you were forced to listen to the wet sounds of your walls sucking him, spitting him out, drooling over his length.

Such a lewd display made you dizzy with lust, your claws stabbing harder into his arm, making him bleed.

"Oh, kitten. My helpless, sweet, little kitten..." He pressed his lips to your ear, letting you hear every filthy moan, every ragged, hitched gasp as he fucked deeper into you.

"I'm going to devour you, my sweet one. Tame you. Tease you. Until you finally admit you're mine."

Your whimpers were fuel for him to double down on his brutal pace, his fingers digging into your waist with a bruising force.

Sylus cursed under his breath when your walls tightened around him, the sight of your obvious submission reflected back from the gilded, black mirror; the sight alone edging you closer to the point of no return.

Like what you see, kitten? Do you love belonging to me?

The scent of your sweet musk burned his nose.

You were the sweetest sin melting on his tongue.

Sylus slid his fingers around the slippery little bud between your legs, the sloppy circles forcing your eyes to roll back into your skull; your thighs twitching and abdomen tensing.

The scent of your impending release tantalized the tip of his tongue, and with a cruel smile, he let you dance right towards the edge, encouraging you to cling to the lip of your first orgasm of the day.

"Master," your hitched gasp of his honorific drew a flame of possessive flame flickering in his chest. "I–I'm close... so close..."

Dropping his fingers down to his side and effectively leaving you hanging, Sylus ignored your paltry gasp of despair, snickering quietly as he slowed the roll of his hips. Intentionally denying your toe-curling orgasm.

"Master..."

Your puffy lips puckered into a pout, those pretty eyes shining with fustration.

In one smooth motion, Sylus slid out of you, the sensation of gaping emptiness where your cunt was once stuffed with him making you cry out, grinding your teeth.

Turning you onto your back with the cockiness of a man who controlled every aspect of your pleasure, Sylus’s crimson eyes burned with an intense, sadistic glee.

He shoved you down to the floor, onto your knees, and spread his toned thighs, beckoning you closer with a tug of your leash.

"You know how much I hate it when you deny me, kitten," the fall of his silvery locks across his face gave him a rougueish air. He grinned, jutting his chin at his stiff cock that was coated from base to tip in your arousal. "As punishment, I want you to pleasure me and think about how much you're denying me as much as I am denying you."

Your stubby tail twitched, and you sucked on your sharp teeth, debating if you should disobey him and pleasure yourself.

As if he anticipated what you might do, Sylus shot you a glare.

"I dare you to do anything funny, kitten. Defy me, and I will make sure to edge you for the remainder of this session with that 20-inch dildo you hate. Is that what you want?"

The loathing you had for that toy was enough to deter you from acting out, your ears drooping docilely.

"I'm sorry, Master."

Sylus exhaled a chuckle, his mood switching as he rubbed your ears affectionately. "I know my sweet girl will never disobey me. Isn't that right, kitten?"

Your answer was given in the form of your lips hovering over his weeping tip, your tongue darting out to lap at the treacly precum dribbling down his length in clear drops. The flavor of his musk and skin saturated your taste buds, making your insides clench down with unadulterated desire.

Sylus didn't have to ask you twice—his good kitten was trained to please him at the snap of his fingers.

Eagerly, your hot mouth swallowed him, bringing his cock to the back of your throat where the bitter taste of his cum nearly made you gag. But, Sylus clasped his hand around your neck, forcing you to keep him there; to not choke on and disappoint him.

Blinking your watery eyes, you moaned, the sound muffled from his thick length cutting blocking your airway, his fingers tightening around your throat.

"Mhm, mhm."

This blatant show of dominance and the slight degradation in his smug smile made you clench down hard on thin air; your hips shunting in circles as if seeking a cock to sink down on.

Your cheeks puffing, full of his cock, made something in his chest twinge.

Sylus didn't care for your claws sinking in his thighs, the stinging pinch blurring the lines of pleasure and pain in his mind.

The sight of your pretty lips stretched around his cock, tongue running over his thickset balls, sucking on the plump tip of his flushed and leaking head, was enough to make Sylus renounce any gods in favor of worshipping you for the rest of his life.

"Oh, kitten." Shaky fingers threaded through your hair, this blip in his composure boosting your cocky arrogance.

"Does it feel good, Master?" You mouthed around his cock, "Do you feel good?"

Sylus grunted, lost in the pleasure to notice you were mimicking his earlier teasing.

In one swift movement, your perception changed from staring up at him, to being on your back, face-to-face with his boastful smirk.

Sylus grabbed your wrists in one hand, showing off his strength by keeping them pinned above your head, while his other palm wrapped around your throat, tightening around your custom collar.

He didn't need to glance between your thighs to know his cock was breaching past your tight muscles; your thighs shuddering like an electric current was running through them.

"Master!"

You gasped; back arching, hips circling and nipples tightening. Holding him closer, you clung to him like a vine to a tree that was being rocked apart by a hurricane, unyielding in your dependency on him.

Rather than chastising you for your impertinence, Sylus responded in kind, throwing your legs over his shoulders.

Pausing to take a moment, he kissed your ankles and shins, before sliding deeper into your warm and welcoming cunt, a groan of ecstasy falling from his parted mouth.

The raunchy squelching of your bodies meeting together in such erotic intimacy was second to your flow of moans, which grew pitchier and more heated the faster he began to thrust in-and-out of you.

Sylus removed his hand from around your throat to grab your thighs, holding you open. The sight of your pretty tits jiggling with every punishing thrust was the stuff of his lewd dreams, and unexpectedly, he bent his head close, tonguing your sensitive and pert nipples.

Fuck—you're so sensitive. He bit down on the turgid points, nibbling on them like a cat roughing around it's favorite toy.

But, he knew you could take the pain, take his punishments; you were always his perfect, pretty kitty.

Sylus trailed one hand to your swollen and puffy clit, rubbing it in tandem to his punishing strokes.

"Say it, kitten."

Stars pressed behind your closed lids. Every line in your body was taut with the release you were fighting to hold back, waiting for his permission to let go of the tension he's been simmering in your body since an hour ago.

Sylus was nothing if not meticulous in his dark compulsions, expertly dragging out the ache to not give you what you want.

You're so close you can almost taste it, yes? He taunted you, tweaking your sensitive clit, enjoying how your body heaved and shook.

Sylus moved his fingers to your pointed nipples, twisting them with enough sadistic glee to bring tears to your eyes.

You yelped, "Master!" and he chuckled darkly, hooded crimson eyes locked on the sway of your hips struggling to fuck him back.

"Please." Syrupy. Desperate. "Please let me cum."

He chuckled throatily. "Nuh-uh. Not until you tell me what I want to hear."

Your independent streak was no match for his tenacious desire to own every inch of you.

Giving up your willpower for a taste of his reward, you squeezed your eyes shut, thrashing your head from side to side as you choked out your admittance:

"You. I belong to you, Master Sylus."

The curve of his grin cutting through the thin skin of your throat belied his tender nuzzling.

Your entire confession sparking his desires to watch you come undone for him and him alone.

"Good girl," he drawled in his husky baritone, releasing your wrists so you could tangle your hands in his hair.

Drawing you impossibly closer, Sylus's large palms spanning around your waist tilted your lower body, forcing you to take every heavy thrust. Despite the brutal treatment, your pussy withstood the hard-driving surge of his hips; hearts in your eyes from his bruising ministrations.

Sweat dripped down your back, staining his ebony sheets, and you turned your blurry gaze to the ceiling, surprised to find a latest addition to his bedroom.

Sylus playfully nipped your jaw, sensing your distraction.

"Do you like it? Do you like this mirror I installed for us, kitten?"

Your breath lodged right in your throat, your burning eyes unable to tear away from the sinful sight unfurling before you.

The view of his broad back roped with stacks upon stacks of muscles undulating under your paws drew your awe. The red lines from your claws digging into his pale skin created a stark contrast to the bruises in the shape of his mouth littering your neck like sensual, possessive marks.

From this angle, you could plainly see him thrusting into you, the languid roll of his hips fucking you so obscenely filling your head with delirious delight.

You love this, baby? Fuck, I can feel you squeezing down on me so good.

His tongue traced a path from your neck to your jaw, ending at your lips as his final destination.

Sylus wanted this sensation of pleasure to last for days; where you could feel him every time you walked, sat or breathed.

Use me, baby. He nipped your lower lip. I'm all yours to be used.

Your feral instincts took over and you straddled his lap, hovering your wet pussy over his throbbing dick.

Your lover and Master arched a brow at your boldness, his hands slotting naturally onto your hips.

"So, is this how you want to play?"

He hissed, throwing his head back when you controlled the motions, sinking down on him inch by delicious inch. Sylus hadn't expected his dick to be so fucking sensitive.

Oh, fuck, you feel so good, his shaky exhalation boosted your pride.

Move, baby. I need you to move.

Sylus bucked his hips, fucking into you impatiently from below.

His eyes locked onto the ceiling mirror, taking in the sight of your sweet body sitting pretty on his dick, riding it like you only had one chance in your nine lives to make him proud.

Sylus grabbed your leash, using it to guide your rutting hips. He loved how you choked whenever he tugged on it too hard, a smirk etched on his handsome face.

Master...

He knew what you were going to say before you could even say it.

Of course, he did.

Sylus knew his kitten better than anyone else.

"Go ahead, darling. I want you to cum."

A twitch of your hips; your mouth fell open in a silent scream.

Shit, I'm coming—he cursed, tightening his grip around your leash, forcing your head back, his hips stuttering as his orgasm blazed through him.

Sylus nudged you off his dick, using his hand to jerk himself off, groaning at the streaks of white decorating your belly. The last rope of warmth shoots from his spasming head, spurting onto your spent pussy.

Using one dextrous finger, he coated it in cum, swiping off the excess and bringing it to your lips.

"You're too good for me, sweetie," he hummed, eyes darkening when you lapped at his cum-coated finger obediently.

Nuzzling your face into his palm, you practically purred, draping yourself across his chest as you stretched your limbs, the deepset engraving on his name on your collar's pendant stirring his dark, possessive feelings further.

"I liked the little touch with the mirror," you murmured, turning your face slightly to catch the reflection of your slick and naked body atop of his.

Sylus tightened his arms around you, his laughter trailing off into a low growl.

"Anything for my sweet kitten."

His voice softened, tips of his fingers grazing your cheek. A silent I love you he wasn't ready to say just yet.

You might belong to him wholeheartedly, but in this moment, Sylus was as much yours as you were inexplicably his.

a/n: oh to be living a life as sylus's lap kitten, i need to be her STAT

comments and rbs are appreciated <3 your love for my works means the world to me 🫶

© all works belong to lalunanymph. do not copy, repost or claim as your own. do not share across other platforms

[preciosapascal]

Sleepless Nights

Summary: another sleepless night in jackson for both you and your neighbour Joel.

Warnings: MINORS DNI 18+, NSFW, alcohol consumption, unprotected sex (don’t be silly, wrap your willy), pinv, oral (f receiving), dirty talk, pet names, fingering, pussy pronouns

Word count: 3.4k

Pairing: Jackson!Joel x f!reader

A/N: thank you guys for so much love on my first post last week!! <3 (that you can read here) I’m trying to get through my drafts because I have far too many. Ty again, feedback is appreciated 💝

Reading a book in front of the fire every night was becoming overwhelmingly tedious. You've read the books you have from cover to cover so many times you could probably read them with your eyes closed.

And then one night a month or so ago, you decided to sit on your porch in the middle of the night and saw your neighbour Joel on his. It quickly became a sort of habit for the two of you. Talking til the sun comes up a few nights a week.

Tonight’s no different. Tossing and turning in bed, books boring you half to death, the sound of the fire crackling becoming somewhat annoying at this point, so you step outside.

Joel's already out there, a glass of whiskey in hand, and staring up at the night sky. His head turns as you open your door, a hint of a smile on his lips.

"Here she is. Can’t sleep again?” he asks, though he knows the answer.

As soon as his raspy voice reaches your ears, your skin prickles with goosebumps and it's not because of the cold breeze.

"Can I ever?" you reply, scoffing a laugh quietly.

He lets out a soft hum in response, nodding in agreement. "Nah, me neither recently." he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “What’s keepin’ ya up tonight then, darlin’?”

"I have no idea, it's driving me crazy." you sigh, wrapping your plaid blanket over your shoulders a little tighter and sitting on the old used-to-be white wooden chair on your porch.

He hums in agreement, seemingly a man of few words tonight. He silently observes you as you sit down before speaking again.

“You tried countin’ sheep?” He quips, taking another sip of whiskey.

“and the pigs and the horses and every other fuckin’ animal on that damn ark.” you mutter, scooting the chair sideways to face him better.

He can’t help the gruff laugh that escapes him, shaking his head. It makes you smile as you wrap the blanket tighter around your shoulders when a cool breeze runs through you. A brief silence falls, but it’s comfortable.

"Can't remember the last time I slept through the night. Been a long damn time." he admits, exhaling softly from his lips and shifting in his seat on the bench, resting his free arm over the back. "it's a nice night, though."

You nod with a small smile and look up at the night sky, taking in the stars and the deep blue colour. "Yeah. Makes a change from what’s happening outside these gates.”

He looks over at you as you take in the beautiful sky above you. Every damn time he looks at you, it drives him almost insane. He turns his head forward, swallowing.

"Did you wanna-" the words escape Joel's lips before he can think about them first, leaving him staring straight ahead for a second. When he glances at you he's met with a nod, urging him to continue. He hesistates for a moment but decides to run with it.

"-wanna...join me?" he finishes, nodding towards the empty space on the bench beside him and the bottle of whiskey on the floor.

Every time you've done this, you've been on your respective porches that're directly next to each other. The prospect of getting closer to him makes your tummy flutter.

You nod softly as you rise from the wooden chair and step down your porch steps, boots crunching in the blanket of snow that’s fallen for what seems like weeks, and up the steps of his porch before sitting next to him, the old bench creaking softly.

Joel looks at you as you sit down. The thought of having you this close crossed his mind a few times as you spoke till the early hours.

Seeing the moonlight touch your skin, the way you wrapped yourself up in the plaid blanket, you were just the sweetest thing he’d ever seen.

You could feel the warmth of his body against your side, making you want to wrap yourself around him. He holds up the bottle of whiskey, in your direction.

You take the bottle from his hand and swig it, letting the amber liquid warm you up on it's way down.

He takes the bottle back from you when you offer it to him, also drinking from the bottle since his glass is now empty. He wipes his bottom lip with his thumb and leans forward with his elbows on his knees.

You both relish in comfortable silence again for a little while, sharing the bottle of whiskey. You realise something feels different. Like a shift of energy.

When Joel eventually sits back, you rest your head on his shoulder. He looks down at you, shocked at first but enjoying the feeling, and rests his arm on the bench behind you. He could smell the vanilla from the soap you use and it took all his strength not to bury his nose in the crook of your neck right there.

Your head on his shoulder and the weight of your body against his was both simultaneously soothing, and incredibly torturous. For weeks, he’s spent countless hours of the night talking to you. He loved listening to the sound of your voice, making him wonder what it would sound like to hear you whispering his name.

What you don’t know, is whenever you go back inside, he spends the night fisting his cock in his bed, imagining being buried inside of you. And what he doesn’t know is you’ve let your hands wander in the early hours, imagining his huge hands all over you, fingers inside you, mouth on your cunt…

It didn't take long until both of you had nearly finished half the bottle of whiskey and with each passing second, Joel's guard was lowered more and more. The buzz he was beginning to feel was only adding to his internal struggle.

He glances in your direction again; studying the relaxed look on your face. His self restraint was quickly becoming non-existent.

Without thinking, he suddenly raises his hand, slowly running his fingers through your hair and tucking a strand behind your ear. The small gesture, combined with the soft look in his eyes made your thighs squeeze together.

And, it didn’t go unnoticed.

He feels the way you shift against him when he does that, sees the way you squeeze your thighs together. How could he not? Joel lets out a shaky exhale, his free hand flexing on his thigh.

You notice his hand on his thigh, as if he’s itching to do something with it and you snap.

“Joel…” you speak, the breathy tone unintentional.

Joel nearly chokes. The way you just spoke his name, he’s never seen you like this. His hand stops in your hair, fingers curling slightly in the soft locks. You’re already looking up at him as his eyes roam down to your face.

Even in the dim light of his porch, Joel can see the lust in your eyes, realsing they must be mirroring his own. It ignites something inside of him, his hand moving from your hair to wrap around the side of your throat. His thumb brushing along your neck.

“Please kiss me.” you whisper, not caring how desperate you sound.

Joel was a strong man, but he was only human and even he could only handle so much. Hearing those words from your lips, in that voice, he was fucked. His fingers trail from your throat to the nape of your neck as he pulls you in for a kiss.

You’re unsure how it happened, but one minute you’re making out on the porch and the next you’re straddling his lap on his couch. Your boots and blanket on the floor in the hall.

Joel’s hands slide to your hips, gripping them tightly, his lips traveling to your jawline and down to your neck. “Mmdarlin’-” he mumbles against your skin, nipping and sucking at the sensitive flesh.

You gasp quietly and instinctively roll your hips as his hand slides up your shirt, fingers splayed over your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your right breast.

He groans at the sudden movement of your hips, his own bucking up in response. “S’all it takes, huh?” He murmurs, continuing to kiss and nip your neck with his hand up your shirt. “Few kisses from me and you’re a mess, ain’t that right, darlin’?”

Fuck, he was so right. You’re soaked already and he’s barely fucking touched you. A pathetic “yes” is all you can muster. You can’t get enough of him, hands roaming over his broad shoulders, fingers straying to thread through the greying curls at the nape of his neck while still rolling your hips.

He moans low in his throat when your fingers brush against the back of his neck, his eyes falling shut. “Shit-” Joel murmurs, his hands moving from your hip and side to grasp them hem of your shirt.

His eyes are still closed at the sensation as he blindly pulls your shirt off of you. He opens them to discard your shirt somewhere behind him and sucks in a sharp breath when he looks back to you.

“Fuckin’ Christ…” he whispers before pulling you closer to kiss along your collarbone. His kisses move lower and his hand pulls one of the cups of your bra down, then he flicks his tongue against your nipple.

“Oh-” you gasp softly, hand trialing up to his curls once again. A low moan escapes him at the taste of you and he continues for a little while before moving to the other one, giving it the same attention.

While his mouth is occupied by your chest, his hands travel over your body, resting on your ass and encouring you to grind on him a little harder.

“Tha’s it, baby.” he rasps against your skin as you grind yourself down on him harder. He reaches one hand from your ass to unclasp your bra.

Baby baby baby. It echoes in your head like a beautiful symphony. You want to hear him to say it over and over again.

When your bra falls away, he throws it aside with your shirt and then kisses up the valley between your tits, his hands coming up to cup and squeeze them gently before kissing up the side of your neck and back to your lips.

You kiss him back, your fingers pulling at the buttons of his shirt, trying to undo them. When they’re undone, you push it off of his shoulders. He’s so hot.

He taps you, signalling you to stand up and when you do, he pulls you closer by your belt loop. “C’mere.”

He starts unbuttoning your jeans and yanks them off your legs, leaving you in only your panties. His eyes zero in in the damp patch, then he turns you around you pulls you onto his lap, your back against his chest and his thighs spreading yours wider.

You want to protest that you can’t see him until his hands trail over your thighs. One comes up to hold you against him by your stomach and the other slips into the front of your panties, making you gasp. His index and middle finger tips tease you, running lightly over your folds.

He’s teasing you, and he’s enjoying every second with his smug ass grin against your neck. “Look at you.” he coos, “she’s achin’ for it, baby.” he whispers, resting his chin on your shoulder as his fingers move further down, collecting your arousal before using it to rub your needy clit.

“Shit…Joel…” you whimper, as his fingers rub tight circles against you.

“I know baby, I know.” he says between more kisses and nips to your shoulder. “you just keep on makin’ them pretty sounds, hm?”

His fingers rub a little faster and it’s as if he knows exactly what you need, how your body works. “just gimmie one like this, sweet girl. one like this and then you can have my cock.” he promises, salt and pepper scruff tickling your skin as he speaks.

It’s all too much and not enough at the same time. His body against yours, his lips and tongue on your skin, his fingers working you over - you’re a mess, whimpering, moaning, letting any noise out that wants to escape. Your fingers dig into his jeans clad thighs, desperate for him.

“need your- hmmph -your cock, Joel. Please.”

“Y’do?” He coos, his fingers slipping down to your needy hole once more to collect more of the wetness there before returning to your aching bud. “come for me like this first n’ I’ll fuck you real good, darlin’.”

Those words have you moaning and whimpering even more. You’re squirming, desperately clinging onto his thighs as you feel yourself reach that edge. “Tha’s it, baby. Tha’s right, c’mon now.”

His gruff words are what does it for you, your back arches off of him as you come, thighs trembling and a string of moans, and breathy whispers trail out of your mouth.

“Good girl.” he murmurs praises against the shell of your ear, fingers still coaxing every last bit of your orgasm from you. His fingers gradually come to a stop against you and he places a quick kiss to the spot under your ear.

“Wanna see ‘er.” he mutters, carefully plopping you down on the couch, ripping your ruined panties off and spreading your thighs for him. He watches as your cunt clenches around nothing, begging to be stuffed full of him. A low moan escapes him at the sight as his thumbs spread your lips apart.

“Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.”

You watch him in awe as he gets a proper look, his thumbs gently running over your glistening folds before one prods at your entrance, illiciting a moan from you. “Can I give ‘er a little kiss, baby?” he asks, already leaning down, brown eyes on yours.

You’re nodding your head before you even fully process the question. You’ve imagined this so many times. He wants to tease you, wants to tell you to ‘use your words’ but he can’t, he needs this just as much as you do.

He wastes no time, diving in like a man starved. He licks a longe stripe from hole to clit first, moaning against you, sending shockwaves through you.

His lips and tongue don’t let up, tasting your release, the tip of his tongue teasing your still sensitive nub gently before sucking it into his mouth, making your hips jerk. He chuckles lowly at that and then moves down and fucks you with his tongue, his beard scratching deliciously against your thighs.

“Oh god-” you whine, fingers threading through his curls, making him hum appreciatively. You don’t give a damn how desperate and needy you sound, this man is working you over like you’ve never been before.

He replaces his tongue with two fingers, teasingly dipping them in and pushing them slowly all the way in before he pulls them all the way back out to do it again. “So fucking sweet.” he groans, flicking his wrist up to curl his fingers inside of you. Your moans, your body, you, have got him rutting against the couch like a teenage boy.

“Need to fuck this pussy now, baby. Can I?” he asks, looking up at you, though you and him both know the answer to that. His cock strains against his jeans to the point it’s starting to hurt.

You nod eagerly, letting go of his curls. “Yes, please, need you.”

He pulls his slick coated face and fingers away from your dripping heat and you almost whine at the loss of contact. He stands up and you can see he’s rock hard through his jeans. He unbuckles his belt, the sound of metal clinking exciting you as you track his movements.

When he’s free of his jeans, he sits down, patting his legs for you to come over and you obey quickly. As you move over, he pulls himself out of his boxers, resting the waistband under his heavy balls. You glance down, almost salivating at the sight.

You run out of time to look as he pulls you over, gently but impatiently. “C’mon, sweet girl.” he mutters, lazily stroking his huge cock from base to tip a couple times and you position yourself above him. He runs the tip of his cock through your soaked folds, touching your clit and making you moan. He chuckles, doing it a couple more times before notching at your entrance.

You move forward slightly before slowly sinking down onto him, both of you moaning. One of his hands grip your hip as the other grabs one of your asscheeks as his head falls back against the couch. “Goddamn…” he grits.

You slowly move against him, grinding your hips. “Fuck…needed this….needed you.” you ramble as his cock fills you perfectly. He matches your movements, thrusting up into you. “Yeah? Me too, fuuuck, me too.” he groans, his breathing picking up.

“Look at me, baby. Yeah, tha’s it. Wanna see that pretty face while I fuck ya.”

You meet his eyes and he looks as wrecked as you. Pupils blown, cheeks flushed, panting. It’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. You interlock your fingers behind his neck, riding him faster now. It’s as if you have zero control over what comes out of your mouth.

“C’mon now, ride that cock, pretty girl.” He grunts, smacking your ass and encouraging you to move against him a little faster now.

You ignore the burning sensation in your knees, making it your mission to be full of his come as soon as possible. His hand slides from your hip to the nape of your neck, pulling you in for a messy kiss.

The lewd sounds of skin meeting skin fill the room, you can hear how wet you are and it only spurs him on more. He swallows all your moans, pushing his tongue into your mouth.

He hold you in place and ruts up into you, hitting that spot over and over, making you clench around him. “Makin’ a mess a’my cock, fuckin’ drippin’ all over me ain’tcha?” he almost growls against your lips, pistoning his hips into you.

Your eyes roll back as you moan his name like a prayer. “M’gonna come inside this pretty pussy, baby. That what you want?”

You’re cockdrunk. Everything he says, everything he does just makes you want him even more. “Yesyesyes.” you whine. “Gonna come.”

“Yeah? Gonna milk my cock for all its worth? jesus you’re so fuckin’ tight.” His words are filthy, a stark contrast to the tone he speaks them in, making your cunt clench around him as you teeter right on the edge.

“Mmpleasepleaseplease.” you whine, fingers tugging on the hair at the nape of his neck again. That makes him moan and he buries his face into your neck.

“Fuck, I can feel it. C’mon, gimmie another one. Lemme feel you.” he murmurs against your neck. You can feel his warm breath agaisnt your skin, and that mixed with his cock hitting the right spot over and over and his massive hands gripping you send you straight over.

“Joel-” you try to let him know but it happens so fast, your back arches and your head falls back. His movements falter slightly as you grip his cock like a velvet vice.

“Ah, fuck, look so pretty like this baby- shit-” he mutters as his orgasm washes over him too, his head rolls back, his brow furrowed and his mouth open as he lets out a string of breathy curse words and grunts and fills you up with ropes of his hot load.

You’re both in a state of bliss, breathing laboured, skin shining with sweat. Joel rests his forehead against your shoulder, trying to control his breathing. His hands now delicately running over the parts of you he gripped tight as your cheek rests against his head.

“Y’know what?” You say after a moment, moving your face from his head, your arms hanging loosely over his shoulders.

He slowly lifts his head up and tucks your hair behind your ear. “What, sweetheart?” he asks softly.

“For the first time in months, I’m actually tired.” you say, a lazy smile on your face. He exhales an amused puff of air from his nose, smiling up at you.

“Yeah, yeah me too.”

[seumyo]

bakugou’s never been happier to do this alongside you.

The sound of Bakugou’s ringtone—specifically one for those calls—the kind that only came when villains decided to cause trouble at ungodly hours—jolted him awake on the second ring. The kind that meant neither of you were getting any more sleep.

He groaned loudly, his voice raspy from sleep. “Son of a—” He didn’t even finish the curse as he snatched his phone and squinted at the glowing screen. “What the hell is it this time?”

Beside him, you stirred, mumbling groggily as you pulled the blanket over your head. “Is it another one?” you asked sleepily, your voice muffled.

Bakugou ignored you for the moment, his phone pressed to his ear as the barking voice of the dispatcher filled the room. His brows furrowed deeper, his scowl turning deadly as he listened to the report. “Villains in the old district? At this hour? Those bastards don’t sleep or somethin’? Yeah, yeah—I got it. We’ll be there.”

He slammed the phone down on the bed, letting out a deep sigh as he scrubbed a hand down his face. “Goddamn it. I hate this stupid job.”

You let out a small laugh beneath the blanket. “Liar.”

Bakugou glared at the lump of fabric that was you—his partner. “What’d you just say?”

“You heard me,” you teased, peeking out just enough for him to see the drowsy smile on your face—which can barely be seen with the dim light of the moonlight outside the bedroom window. “You love this job, Kats. You’d combust without it.”

“Like hell I would,” he muttered, standing up and running a hand through his already messy hair. “I’m only outta bed ‘cause I don’t trust those extras not to screw up.”

“You’re up because you want to. Big difference.”

“Whatever.” Bakugou shot you a glance over his shoulder. “Hurry your ass up. Don’t got time for you to sit there all cozy like we ain’t got villains to blow up.”

You didn’t budge.

“Give me two minutes. I just need to—hey!”

Bakugou had moved without warning, stomping back to the bed and scooping you up in one fluid motion. You let out a surprised squeak as he effortlessly picked you up, blanket and all, and cradled you against his chest.

“Katsuki!” you protested, trying to wriggle free. “What are you doing?!”

“Shut up,” he grumbled, barely sparing you a glance as he carried you toward the door. “You’re slow as hell when you’re tired. This’ll save time.”

“You can’t just carry me every time we get called in!”

“Watch me.”

He stomped down the hallway, his bare feet thudding against the wooden floor, while his voice dipped into a string of curses. “Stupid villains. Stupid middle-of-the-night calls. Stupid hero work. I’m gonna blast whoever’s causing this into the next century.”

You couldn’t hold back your laughter now, your head falling back against his shoulder. “You sound like a cranky old man.”

“Keep talkin’ and I’m droppin’ you,” Bakugou threatened. “Why the hell are you laughin’? Think this is funny?”

“Very. You’re like my happy pill.”

“Yeah? And you’re heavy,” he grumbled, though the way he carried you effortlessly said otherwise.

“Excuse me?!”

A corner of Bakugou’s mouth quirked up as he looked down at you, amusement flickering in his eyes despite his perpetual scowl. “I didn’t say nothin’. Quit wastin’ time.”

You smiled against his shoulder, listening to him grumble about this whole ordeal. He sounded pissed—like the world had wronged him personally by waking you two up—but you could see the truth in his actions. His grip was steady, his movements careful as he carried you to where your hero gear was waiting. It was such a Bakugou thing to do: grumble and complain, but still take care of you without hesitation.

By the time you make it to the gear room, Bakugou carefully sets you down on your feet. You wobbled slightly from the sudden shift, and Bakugou’s hand instinctively shot out to steady you.

“Oi, don’t fall on me now.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you murmured, rubbing your eyes before turning to grab your hero suit. “You’re way too grumpy for someone who just carried me all the way here. Admit it—you love being a hero.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“You do, though,” you teased, already halfway into your gear. “I know you do.”

Bakugou clicked his tongue, but he didn’t argue. Instead, his voice softened just enough to make you pause. “I wouldn’t do this job if it meant leavin’ you to deal with shit alone.”

You stilled, looking at him from the corner of your eye. He was standing by the doorway now, fully suited up and waiting for you, his face set in his usual determined scowl. But something about the way he looked at you, about the small, unspoken truths in his words, made your chest feel warm.

“Y’know, you’re so sweet to me at the most inconvenient times. Why can’t you say things like that when I don’t look like I’ve been ran over by a truck because I’m sleep deprived?”

“Die.”

“Is that your way of saying you love me too, Ka-tsu-ki?”

He scoffed. “Hurry up, dumbass. We’ve got work to do.”

“Ha! You didn’t deny it, so I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Shut up, you’re annonyin’.”

You smiled faintly, finishing the last of your preparations before walking over to him. “But you love me.”

“Of fucking course,” Bakugou said, opening the door and stepping out into the brisk night air. “Let’s go. Those idiots could only hold out for so long ‘cause they really had to call us in.”

You followed close behind, still smiling to yourself as you fell into step next to him. Despite his grumbles, despite the curses under his breath, Bakugou had never been happier. Because at the end of the day, no matter how ungodly the hour, you were always there—and as far as he was concerned, nothing else mattered.

Because he loves this job—especially when he’s doing it alongside you.

SEUMYO © 2024, PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[leona-hawthorne]

LEONA-HAWTHORNE’S KINKTOBER

october 3rd. theodore nott — toys, voyeurism, bondage.

theodore nott x fem reader

summary ; you have some… interesting experiences with theo when you and your friends decide to spend the night in an old haunted manor. words ; 5.1k warnings ; toys (use of dildo and vibrator), unprotected piv, bondage, voyeurism, 18+ content

navigation kinktober masterlist

The crisp October night wrapped itself around you like a cold embrace, the wind whispering through the overgrown vines that clung to the rusted iron gates before you. The abandoned manor loomed in the distance, a decaying relic of the past, its towering silhouette dominating the sprawling grounds.

"Are we seriously spending the night here?" Pansy's voice wavered between excitement and fear as she glanced at the foreboding mansion.

"Of course," Mattheo grinned, his usual cocky demeanor unfazed. "Nothing wrong with a little ghost hunting with friends."

Blaise snorted, smirking. "Yeah, unless we end up as ghosts ourselves."

"Relax, you nitwits. It's just an old house," Draco muttered, rolling his eyes as he pushed open the creaking iron gates.

You shivered, instinctively pulling your cloak tighter around your shoulders. "Theo, are you sure about this?" you asked softly, your gaze flickering to your boyfriend standing beside you. His sharp features were illuminated by the pale moonlight, his hair falling lazily over his eyes. He glanced at you, smirking as his hand slipped into yours, sending a wave of warmth through the chill.

"Don't tell me you're scared," he teased. "It's just an old house."

"You said it was haunted," you reminded him, trying and failing to keep the tremor out of your voice.

Theo's smirk widened. "Rumors. Superstitions. Nothing you need to worry about."

With a playful tug, he pulled you forward, leading you through the rusted gates.

When you reached the massive oak doors, Theo paused, glancing at you over his shoulder with that same teasing grin. "Still want to go inside?"

Your heart hammered in your chest, the oppressive energy of the place thickening the air, but you wouldn't let him see your hesitation. You swallowed hard and nodded, determined not to back down now. Not in front of him.

"Good girl," he murmured, his voice laced with approval.

With a forceful push, the doors groaned open, revealing the dark, decaying entrance hall. The air inside was colder than outside, thick with dust and the scent of mildew. Torn tapestries lined the walls, forgotten remnants of a grandeur long faded.

You groaned, glancing around in disbelief. "Remind me again why I agreed to this?" you muttered, frustration mingling with your mounting anxiety.

Theo led you deeper into the manor, his steps confident as if he'd been here a thousand times. The others followed behind, their footsteps echoing through the grand, dilapidated space. Cobwebs hung from every corner like old lace, and the weight of the silence was almost suffocating. Theo turned to you, extending his hand once more.

"So," he said with a grin, "what do you think? Spooky enough for you? Let me know if you need someone to hold your hand."

You shot him a glare, though the knot in your stomach betrayed your bravado. Your fingers brushed lightly against his. "Shut up. I told you, I'm not scared," you grumbled, though the darkened hallways told a different story.

Your heart thudded in your chest, the mix of fear and his teasing making your pulse quicken. “But I won't lie, there is something about being here that makes my skin crawl," you admitted, barely above a whisper, as you unconsciously inched toward him.

His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you slightly closer. "I thought you weren't scared," he teased again, though his voice was softer now, almost amused. "Maybe you need a big, strong man to keep you safe after all."

Rolling your eyes, you elbowed him lightly. "I said shut up."

His lips curled into a gleeful smile, clearly enjoying your unease. "Lucky for you, love, I'm here to save the day." With your hand firmly in his, he led you further into the manor, the old floorboards creaking beneath your every step.

The shadows deepened as you ventured further inside, their long, jagged shapes seeming to reach for you. Theo's grip tightened on your hand, offering silent reassurance as the cold stone walls closed in. "We should stick together anyway," he mused, his tone lighter now. "Safety in numbers, right?"

Eventually, the two of you found yourselves in a grand sitting room, the large windows covered with tattered, moth-eaten curtains. Faded portraits lined the walls, their painted eyes tracking your every movement with unnerving accuracy. A cold, dead fireplace loomed at the far end, its once-mighty hearth now filled with lifeless ashes.

"Cozy," Theo smirked, wandering over to a dusty bookshelf. He trailed a finger along the spines of the old books, eyeing them curiously. "I bet there's some fascinating reading material in here."

You snorted, rolling your eyes as you playfully nudged him. "Only you would think about books in a place like this, nerd."

Before he could reply, a loud thump echoed from upstairs, causing both of you to jump. Theo's eyes widened momentarily before he composed himself with a chuckle.

"Probably just the others... or maybe the ghosts," he joked, his hand resting protectively on the small of your back.

With a shared look, the two of you headed back to the foyer, where your friends were gathered, lounging on worn furniture and discussing their next move.

"Well, well, looks like our little explorers found nothing but dust and cobwebs," Lorenzo called from his spot on an aged velvet sofa, a grin plastered on his face. "I say that’s enough sightseeing for now. We’ve got a whole night ahead of us. How about we liven things up with a game of Truth or Dare?"

Theo rolled his eyes. "Truth or Dare? Seriously, Enzo? What are you, fourteen?"

Mattheo chuckled, shrugging. "What else are we gonna do in a place like this?"

"Fine, fine," Theo said, throwing up his hands. "But I’m only playing if there’s alcohol involved." He turned to you with a wicked grin. "Since my lovely girlfriend is feeling so bold tonight, why don't you start us off? Truth or dare?"

You met his gaze, unwilling to back down from the challenge. "Dare," you replied, lifting your chin defiantly. "I'm not afraid of a little challenge.”

A slow grin spread across Theo's face. "Alright, I dare you..." He paused dramatically, letting the tension build. " ...to kiss me. Right here, in front of everyone.”

The collective groan from your friends was almost comical. "That's hardly a dare," you scoffed. "I mean, you are my boyfriend."

"Maybe I just wanted an excuse to kiss you," Theo shot back with a cheeky grin.

You rolled your eyes, but your annoyance couldn't hide the small smile tugging at your lips. "You're such a show-off.”

Without further hesitation, you stepped forward and kissed him deeply, your fingers threading through his hair as your lips moved together. You blocked out the catcalls and whistles from your friends, focused only on the warmth of Theo's body pressed against yours. His hands roamed your back, pulling you closer, and for a moment, the eerie manor and all its dangers faded away.

As you broke apart, breathless, Theo smirked, his forehead resting against yours. "Much better than I expected," he murmured, his tone filled with playful pride.

You blushed, looking away. "Shut up. You got what you wanted."

Theo's low chuckle vibrated against your skin as he nuzzled into your cheek. "Oh, I did indeed," he purred, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. "Now, who's next?"

Lorenzo's mischievous grin widened as he turned toward Mattheo, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Truth or Dare, Riddle. You're up."

Mattheo leaned back, stretching lazily before his dark eyes flickered toward Lorenzo. "Dare, of course. Give me something good."

The game spiraled from there, the room filling with laughter and mock indignation as truth after truth was spilled, and dare after dare was accepted with varying degrees of bravado. Lorenzo had Blaise sprinting across the room in his underwear, Pansy revealing a rather scandalous secret about her latest fling, and Mattheo howling in laughter after being dared to serenade one of the portraits on the wall.

It wasn't long, however, before the attention returned to you, and the smirk on Lorenzo's face sent a chill crawling down your spine. His gaze lingered on you for a beat too long before he spoke.

"Y/N," Lorenzo began, the edges of his grin sharp. "I dare you to go up and explore the attic."

The room fell into a heavy silence, all eyes suddenly on you. Your heart clenched, beating too fast as you turned to look at the darkened staircase leading up to the second floor. The attic? You had barely been able to stomach walking through the front doors, let alone venturing into the bowels of the ancient manor—alone.

"Go to the attic... alone?" you repeated, your voice sounding far smaller than you'd intended. The shadows seemed to press closer, thickening the air.

Theo's fingers tightened around your waist, his familiar warmth grounding you for just a moment. You could feel his smirk without needing to look. He loved this, loved teasing you, loved pushing you to your limits just to see how far you'd go. And you hated that it worked every single time.

"Too much for you, love?" he whispered, his breath hot against your neck. "Because I can always come with you." His voice dropped lower, becoming a rumbling hum that sent a shiver racing down your spine. "Just imagine—us, together, in the dark... how thrilling that could be."

Your mouth went dry as his words sent your imagination spinning. You could feel the others watching, waiting for your response, but all you could focus on was the heat of Theo's body against yours and the way his fingers trailed possessively down your arm.

Theo's grin widened as he nipped at your earlobe, voice dark with amusement. "What do you say, Y/N? Want me to hold your hand?"

You huffed, pushing away the growing tension. "Shut up," you muttered again, glaring at him in mock irritation, though the playful twinkle in your eyes betrayed the act.

His hand slid from your waist to your lower back, and he leaned closer, whispering, "If you're too scared to go, just say the word. No shame in admitting it."

Your breath caught as his words lingered between you, a challenge wrapped in seduction. You squared your shoulders, unwilling to let him win. You'd spent far too long playing this game with Theodore Nott, and you weren't about to back down now.

"Fine," you said, louder this time as you stepped away from him, brushing his hands off with a deliberate flourish. "But I'm not going alone." You shot him a pointed look. "You're coming with me."

Theo's smirk softened, the gleam of triumph in his eyes unmistakable. "Of course I am," he murmured.

Lorenzo groaned dramatically from his spot on the couch. "Oh, come on, that's cheating! She's supposed to go by herself."

Mattheo chuckled from the other side of the room, shaking his head. "Let them have their fun. At least one of us might get something out of this trip to hell."

Ignoring the banter, Theo wrapped an arm around your shoulders and steered you toward the staircase. The creaking of the old wood echoed through the hall as you ascended, each step a reminder of the isolation waiting above. The air grew colder, thicker, the musty scent of forgotten years clinging to every surface. The hallway stretched out before you, dimly lit by the moonlight filtering through the cracked windows.

Theo's grip on you tightened as you reached the attic door, its old wooden frame warped and splintered with age. He paused, his hand on the doorknob, glancing at you with a raised brow. "Ready for this, love?" His voice was soft, teasing, but there was something darker flickering in his gaze, something that made your stomach flip in anticipation.

You hesitated, the weight of the dare pressing down on you like the air in the old manor, thick and suffocating. But with Theo by your side, that familiar heat spreading through your veins, you nodded. "Yeah."

With a smirk, Theo twisted the knob and pushed the door open with a loud creak.

The attic yawned before you—dark, dust-choked, and thick with an eerie stillness that made your skin prickle. Cobwebs clung to the rafters, and the only sound was the faint rustle of wind outside, whispering through the cracks in the walls.

You took a tentative step inside, the floorboards groaning beneath your weight. Theo was right behind you, his presence a steadying force as you ventured further into the darkness. Your heartbeat thudded in your ears, each step sending a pulse of adrenaline through your veins.

There was a four-poster bed lying in the middle of the attic, as if the people who lived here all those years ago had used it as a bedroom.

Theo, ever the opportunist, moved closer, running a finger along the edge of the mattress.

"This place really does have a certain charm, doesn't it?" He turned to you, a wicked glint in his eye. "Almost romantic, don't you think?"

Before you could respond, he pulled you onto the bed beside him, the springs creaking under your combined weight. His arms snaked around your waist, pulling you close as he nuzzled your neck.

“Romantic? That’s funny. You’re too horny for your own good, Theodore Nott.”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest as he leaned in, lips grazing your ear. "Guilty as charged, love. But what can I say? You bring out the worst in me."

His hands roamed your body, tracing the curves of your hips, slipping under your shirt to tease the sensitive skin of your lower back. His touch ignited sparks across your flesh, and you found yourself arching into him, craving more.

With a deft tug, he pulled your shirt off over your head, tossing it carelessly aside. His gaze raked over your exposed torso, lingering on the swell of your breasts tucked away beneath your bra before meeting your eyes with a smoldering intensity. "Beautiful," he breathed, voice husky with desire. "Absolutely stunning."

He pulled back for a moment, swiftly running a hand over his face. “I actually, um… found some pretty interesting things of yours the other day. In your dorm.”

Your eyes narrowed, cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and indignation. “What are you talking about?" you demanded, trying to keep your tone steady despite the sudden rush of heat coursing through your veins at the thought of Theo rummaging through your belongings.

Theo's smile widened, an amused glint dancing in his eyes as he reached into his messenger bag. He pulled out a small pink vibrator, waving it tauntingly before setting it on the bedside table. "This little number, for instance," he purred, leaning in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "I must say, it looks quite impressive."

Next, he produced a purple silicone dildo, holding it aloft like a trophy. "And then there's this... rather large toy you've got stashed away. Quite the collection you've got going on here, love." His gaze flicked back to your face, drinking in your reaction with a knowing smirk.

"How do these magic tricks work, hmm? Do they come with instructions, or are you an expert in carnal delights already?"

You felt your face flush even hotter at the sight of your most intimate belongings being waved around so casually. A surge of anger mixed with humiliation threatened to overwhelm you, but you forced yourself to maintain a facade of nonchalance.

"When did you even find those?” you murmured embarrassedly.

Theo's smirk deepened as he watched the play of emotions across your face—the blush staining your cheeks, the tension in your jaw, the defiant spark in your eyes. It was a delicious combination, one that stirred his blood and set his nerve endings alight with anticipation.

"Last week, when I stayed over at your dorm," he replied casually, as if discussing the weather. "I was looking for some cigs in your nightstand drawer while you were in the shower and well..." He shrugged, a picture of feigned innocence. "They just sort of jumped out at me.”

He traced a finger along the length of the dildo, humming thoughtfully before he moved closer, his fingers trailing up your thigh as he sat on the edge of the bed beside you. "Quite the naughty girl, aren't you, love?" He leaned in, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, tongue delving deep to claim every inch of your mouth.

As he kissed you deeply, Theo's hand slid higher, fingers brushing the waistline of your jeans, unbuttoning them before dipping underneath to caress the smooth skin of your inner thigh. His touch was electric, sending shivers racing up your spine as he teased the sensitive flesh mere inches from your core.

"So, tell me, baby," he murmured against your lips, breaking the kiss to trail his mouth along your jawline, nipping at the tender skin beneath your ear. "You prefer this—" He held up the dildo, wiggling it suggestively, “—fake cock when you have the real thing right here, always ready and willing?"

His fingers continued their maddening exploration, inching closer to the heat of your center with each passing second. His thumb rubbed against your clit through the thin barrier of your underwear, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. You bit your lip, trying to stifle a moan as he continued to tease you.

"I mean, they're cute and all, but nothing compares to the feel of my cock buried deep inside you, does it?" He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered. He gestured to himself, his meaning clear. One hand drifted down to palm the bulge straining against his trousers, a silent invitation, a promise of pleasure.

"Is my girl really that impatient, hm?" he mused, a teasing lilt to his voice. "That she can't just wait for her boyfriend to come and fuck her senseless whenever she needs it?"

His fingers slipped beneath the waistline of your pants once again, teasing along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. Your breathing hitched as his touch grew bolder, fingertips brushing against your clothed sex with feather-light strokes. The ache between your legs intensified, your panties dampening with each passing second.

He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating through you like a physical caress. "Using these cheap substitutes instead of demanding what she really wants. Why don’t you give me a little demonstration?"

His hand cupped your mound possessively, applying pressure that made you squirm.

You gasped sharply as Theo's fingers pressed against your aching sex, the contact sending shivers racing down your spine. Your hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more friction, more relief from the throbbing need building within you.

“It’s not like that…” you mumbled. “Just… please…”

"Please what?" Theo arched a brow, a mocking tilt to his lips. "You think you deserve real dick right now after keeping secrets from me? After using toys behind my back like some desperate slut?"

He withdrew his hand abruptly, leaving you aching and empty. Rising from the bed, he stepped back, folding his arms across his chest as he leveled you with a stern look. "Strip. Now. Let's see how much of a show you can put on for me."

Theo's gaze raked over your body, his eyes lingering on the swell of your breasts, the curve of your hips. He licked his lips slowly, deliberately, a predatory gleam in his eye. "Come on, baby. Don’t get shy now. Show me what you've been hiding."

You kicked off your shoes, and as you unclasped your bra, he drank in the sight of your full breasts, nipples pebbling under his heated gaze. Lower still, past the dip of your waist and flare of your hips, until your jeans pooled at your feet, leaving you clad in only a scrap of lace.

“Fuck, look at you," he growled appreciatively, palming the growing hardness in his trousers. "Such a pretty little thing, aren't you? All mine to play with."

He relaxed back on a nearby armchair. "Now then, why don't you show me exactly what these toys of yours can do?"

Theo lounged back in the chair, his eyes never leaving you as you stood there trembling, exposed and vulnerable. A wicked grin spread across his face as he watched you with hooded eyes. “Go on then, sweetheart. Show me how you like to be fucked. Pretend I'm not even here."

As you grasped the dildo, he panted softly, drinking in the sight of your hand wrapped around the smooth plastic. He reached down to adjust his bulge, the fabric of his pants bunching obscenely as he watched you remove your panties.

You leaned back, spreading your legs wide in a lewd display, but you didn’t know what to do with the toy in your hand. Not when he was right in front of you.

A cruel smile played about his lips as he saw the hesitation in your eyes, the reluctance in your movements. "What's wrong, love? Suddenly shy? You weren't shy when you were fucking yourself silly with these, were you?"

With trembling hands, you brought the toy to your lips, flicking your tongue out, tracing the contours, coating it in saliva. Then, you trailed it lower, over your collarbone, between the valley of your breasts. You circled a nipple with the toy's tip, gasping at the sensation.

"There we go. Now, move it down and start rubbing it against your clit. Nice and slow. I want to see you squirm."

He reclined further into the chair, making no move to join you, simply observing your every move with an air of dark amusement.

You whimpered, feeling exposed and humiliated as you followed Theo's instructions. Your cheeks burned with shame as you brought the dildo to your aching sex, rubbing the slick head against your swollen clit.

You bit your lip hard enough to taste blood, fighting back tears of mortification. But beneath the embarrassment, a spark of arousal ignited, fueled by the knowledge that he was watching you so intently.

Your hips began to rock instinctively, the toy gliding through your wet folds, stroking places that made you shudder and moan quietly. You couldn't meet his gaze, too ashamed to see the smug satisfaction in his eyes.

"That’s my girl… Now, put it inside you where it belongs. Fill up that greedy little cunt.”

With a shaky breath, you aligned the dildo with your entrance, pushing it in gradually. Your walls clenched around the intrusion, and you cried out at the feeling. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you forced yourself to relax, letting the toy sink deeper.

"Fuck, look at you taking it like a good little slut," Theo drawled, leaning forward in his chair to get a better view. He reached down to stroke himself lazily, his thumb rubbing circles over the straining bulge in his trousers.

Reaching for the smaller vibrator on the bed beside you, he tossed it onto the sheets. "Pick it up. I want to hear you scream as you cum all over both of them. Show me how well you can multitask."

Your hands shook as you fumbled for the small device, turning it on with a buzzing whine. You positioned it against your clit, the vibrations sending jolts of pleasure through your core. Your hips rolled faster, the dildo thrusting in and out of your stretched hole in rhythm with the toy's relentless stimulation.

“Come on. Make yourself cum while I watch you rut on that toy like a bitch in heat. I want to hear you moaning like the desperate whore you are.”

Theo's eyes gleamed with sadistic glee as he watched you writhe in ecstasy, your moans echoing off the walls. The obscene sounds of your self-pleasure filled the room, mingling with the creaks of the bed and the soft buzzing of the vibrator.

"That's it, baby. Fuck yourself senseless. Show me just how depraved you can be when you're alone with your filthy toys," he sneered, stroking himself harder through his trousers.

As the pleasure built to a fever pitch, your inner muscles clamped down on the dildo, milking it for all it was worth. With a keening wail, you came undone, your whole body shaking as wave after wave of intense orgasm crashed over you.

"You're so beautiful when you lose control like that," Theo purred.

He sat up straighter in his chair, his eyes burning with a dark hunger as he watched you collapse back onto the bed, spent and panting. "Look at you, covered in sweat and cum... Such a lovely mess."

He rose slowly, unbuckling his belt and freeing his aching cock. It sprang forth, thick and pulsing, already leaking precum. With a wicked grin, he climbed onto the bed, positioning himself between your splayed thighs.

Theo grabbed your wrists roughly, pulling them above your head and securing them to the headboard with silky ropes. He repeated the process with your ankles, spreading your legs obscenely wide and tying them to the footposts.

"Just relax, love. This won't hurt a bit," he murmured, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he bound your wrists above your head to the headboard.

Once you were completely immobilized, he stepped back to admire his work, licking his lips as he drank in the sight of your helpless, exposed body.

"I think it's time I took my turn playing with you," he rasped, trailing a finger along your slick slit. "Open up for me, sweetheart. Let me fill this greedy cunt with something real."

Theo's fingers probed your dripping entrance, circling the rim before pushing inside. He groaned low in his throat at the feel of your velvety walls clenching around him. "Fuck, you're still so tight... Even after all that."

He worked two fingers deep, pumping them slowly as he watched your face contort with pleasure. His thumb found your sensitive clit, rubbing firm circles over the bud. "I bet you'd love to have my cock instead, wouldn't you? To feel me splitting you open, filling you up until you can't take anymore?"

His voice dropped to a husky whisper. "Tell me you need it. Beg me to fuck you raw."

Your chest heaved with ragged breaths, your body trembling from the aftershocks of your intense climax. As Theo's fingers delved into your sensitive flesh, you bit your lip hard, trying to stifle the moans that threatened to spill free.

His words sent a shiver down your spine, the image of him replacing those fingers with his thick, throbbing cock making your pussy clench hungrily. You wanted it, craved the sensation of being stretched and filled beyond capacity.

"Yes," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. "Please, I need it. I need you inside me."

Theo smirked as he heard your breathy pleas, his ego swelling at the power he held over you. “Such a dirty, needy girl for me, aren’t you?”

With a growl of triumph, he lined himself up, the blunt head of his member nudging insistently at your entrance. In one swift motion, he hilted himself inside you, stretching you deliciously around his thick girth.

"Fuck!" he snarled, pulling nearly all the way out before slamming back in. The bed frame rattled with each powerful thrust, the obscene sound of flesh smacking against flesh filling the room. Theo set a brutal pace, pounding into you with single-minded focus, determined to make you scream.

Theo's hand shot down beside your body, grasping the vibrator. He turned it up to its highest setting, the intense vibrations making your entire pelvis quiver.

"This should really get you going, doesn't it?" he sneered, grinding the toy against your clit with each punishing thrust. "Feeling my cock splitting you open while this thing eats at your poor little pussy..."

His words were punctuated by the lewd slap of skin on skin as he continued to rail into you, his heavy balls slapping against your ass with each brutal stroke. The dual sensations of the vibrator and his cock driving into you relentlessly pushed you closer and closer to the edge.

Your body jerked violently as the vibrator hit full force, the intense vibrations making your clit throb in time with Theo's merciless thrusts. The restraints held you in place, forcing you to submit to every punishing stroke, every deep, grinding push against your cervix.

Pleasure and pain blurred together, the overwhelming sensations threatening to short-circuit your mind. Tears streamed down your face, your vision blurring at the edges as you teetered on the brink of another explosive orgasm.

Your toes curled, your back arching as much as the bonds would allow, trying to take him even deeper.

You cried out, writhing around, the restraints holding you back as he used you mercilessly, tears pricking your eyes. His free hand grabbed at your tits, roughly squeezing them as his thumb flicked over your nipple.

"Don't hold back now, cum for me, pretty girl," Theo commanded, his own climax rapidly approaching.

Theo felt your walls spasming wildly around him, signaling your impending orgasm. He redoubled his efforts, pistoning into you with ruthless intensity as the vibrator buzzed against your clit.

"That's it, baby, make a mess for me,” he muttered, his own release coiling tightly in his abdomen.

Your cry of ecstasy echoed through the room as you shattered, convulsing beneath him in the throes of an intense climax. Theo rode out your waves of pleasure, prolonging your orgasm with deliberate thrusts.

Just as he was about to crest the peak himself, he abruptly pulled out, leaving you empty and aching. With a few quick strokes, he spilled his seed across your stomach and chest, painting you in his essence.

Theo collapsed beside you on the bed, chest heaving as he caught his breath. After a moment, he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you against his side.

"I love you, baby.” He pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, his touch soothing as he wiped a strand of sweat-dampened hair from your face. “Let’s clean you up.” And with a flick of his wand, the white fluids covering you were gone.

“Our friends probably think we’re dead by now, you know. We’ve been up here for so long,” you murmured.

“Darling, I’m pretty sure they’re smart enough to know that the screaming coming from up here wasn’t because of ghosts.”

kinktober taglist: @mattheoriddles-slutt @theeslutintheroom @esmerai-artemis @gigival @cloudyyydayzzz @sn000py @abeoavita @yesiamthatwierd @shaquilles-0atmeal @roseofsharron438 @iouinotes @romantasyreader28 @c3liaaaaa @daenerystorgaryen @emma-grace0 @tori-303 @ilovehpb0ys

© leona-hawthorne 2025. please do not copy, translate or repost any of my writing.

[solxamber]

Ruined || Riddle Rosehearts

In which he slowly realizes that he'll never be able to look at anyone else, he's been ruined for everyone else but you.

Riddle’s hand trembled slightly as he lingered over the pastry display, his eyes darting between options. The thought of indulging felt reckless, wasteful even, but the ache of exhaustion gnawed at him.

You stepped beside him, your presence a quiet anchor. Without hesitation, you gestured to the strawberry tart.

“That one,” you told the waiter, your voice steady. “He’ll have that.”

Riddle blinked, startled. “But I—I didn’t even—”

“You didn’t have to say anything,” you replied gently, turning to him with a small, knowing smile. “You’ve had a long week. This will help.”

When the tart arrived, he stared at it like it was some foreign object. Slowly, he took a bite. The sweetness hit his tongue, and his chest constricted—not from the sugar but from the overwhelming realization: you knew.

You had seen his fatigue, his silent need for comfort, and you didn’t push or pry. You just… provided.

He couldn’t meet your eyes after that, afraid they might betray the way his heart ached—aching because no one else had ever seen him like you did.

It was late at night, and Riddle sat on the dormitory steps, his arms crossed tightly against the evening chill. He’d come out for fresh air, but he’d forgotten how biting the breeze could be after sunset.

You found him there, looking small and cold under the moonlight. Without hesitation, you draped a blanket over his shoulders.

He blinked at you, startled. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Riddle,” you said softly, crouching down to meet his gaze. “You don’t have to freeze to death just to think. Take care of yourself too, okay?”

He stared at you, his heart stumbling over itself. The way you said it—it wasn’t pitying or scolding. It was kind.

You stood up, ruffling his hair lightly before heading back inside. He watched you go, the blanket still warm around him, and realized with a pang that no one else had ever made him feel so… cared for.

Riddle’s pen paused mid-signature as he glanced at the stack of paperwork on his desk. It had been shrinking steadily for the past week. Tasks he usually had to chase others down for were already complete. Events he’d normally plan were already organized. Even the Heartslabyul garden had been pruned to perfection.

At first, he thought he’d finally whipped the dorm into shape, but a quick inquiry revealed the truth: you. You had been handling the tasks quietly, never asking for credit or praise.

When he caught you refilling the ink on his desk before slipping out of his study, he finally confronted you. “Why?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

You tilted your head, smiling softly. “I know you can handle it, Riddle. You always do. But that doesn’t mean you have to do it alone.”

His heart tightened painfully at your words. He sat back in his chair, feeling a warmth spread through him that no one had ever sparked before. Who else would do this for me?

Riddle wasn’t one to admit weakness, but the fever had hit him hard. He barely remembered collapsing into bed, but when he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was you.

You were slumped over beside his bed, your hand still holding his, a damp cloth on his forehead and an empty glass on the nightstand.

His throat tightened. He tried to sit up, but the movement disturbed you. You blinked awake groggily, immediately sitting upright. “You’re awake!” you said, brushing your fingers across his forehead to check his temperature. “You’re still warm, but better than before.”

Riddle stared at you, his chest tightening at the sight of your tired eyes and messy hair. “You stayed here… all night?”

“Of course,” you said, as if it were obvious. “You’d do the same for me.”

The warmth in his chest spread until he couldn’t look at you without his heart pounding. He didn’t deserve this—your care, your kindness—but he wanted to, desperately.

The duel had been a simple training session, but when a stray spell came too close to Riddle, you had thrown yourself between him and the blast without a second thought.

Riddle caught you before you stumbled, pulling you close to steady you. His eyes widened as he realized what you’d done. “Why did you—?”

“Reflex,” you said, brushing yourself off like it was nothing. “I know you’re strong, but it was heading right for you.”

Riddle felt his heart lurch. You didn’t step in because you doubted him. You stepped in because you cared.

He realized you’d done it before—pulling him out of harm’s way, even when it wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t patronizing; it was just… you.

He couldn’t stop the blush creeping up his neck, spreading to his ears. “You don’t have to protect me,” he muttered, his voice softer than usual.

You grinned, nudging him playfully. “Yeah, well, someone’s got to make sure you don’t get singed.”

Riddle looked away, hiding his burning face. He couldn’t even find the words to respond, too overwhelmed by how much he wanted to pull you into his arms and never let go.

The moment the teapot cracked, Riddle’s world narrowed to that single shattering sound. He stared at the broken pieces, his hands gripping the porcelain as his chest tightened. It wasn’t just a teapot—it was his control, his composure, his legacy.

“Riddle.” Your voice cut through the panic, calm and resolute. You stepped closer, holding out your hands. “Give it to me.”

“I can’t,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “It’s irreplaceable. My mother—”

“And I’ll fix it,” you interrupted firmly, your gaze unwavering.

His breath hitched. “You can’t just fix something like this.”

“Riddle.” Your tone softened, but your resolve didn’t waver. “Trust me.”

Something in your voice broke through his panic. Against every instinct, he handed the pieces to you.

The next day, you presented the teapot to him, its cracks filled with shining gold. He held it in his hands, staring at the transformed porcelain.

“You used kintsugi,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.

You smiled. “I figured something this important deserved to be beautiful, even with its flaws.”

He couldn’t speak. All he could do was hold the teapot and try not to fall apart as he realized that no one else would have done this for him.

When a classmate asked him out, Riddle was so blindsided that he barely registered their words. He stared at them, their earnest expression blurring into the background as a single thought consumed him: It’s not them. It’s not you.

His mind betrayed him, conjuring images of you: your quiet understanding, the way you smoothed over his rough edges without hesitation, the way you saw him.

The classmate’s words faded entirely, and all he could think was that they didn’t know him—not like you did. They wouldn’t care for him like you did, wouldn’t anticipate his needs, wouldn’t challenge him, wouldn’t ruin him the way you had.

“I… I can’t,” he finally choked out, his voice trembling.

He walked away, his hands shaking, his heart a storm of realization. You had set a bar so high that no one could reach it. You had unraveled his meticulous rules, his expectations, and left him longing for something he’d never allowed himself to believe he could have.

Later that day, as he wandered the courtyard, still shaken by the confrontation, he saw you passing by. You were laughing at something Ace had said, your smile bright and easy, the sunlight catching on your hair.

The world stopped.

It hit him like a spell to the chest. He would never, could never, love anyone else. No one else could make him feel the way you did. No one else could understand him like you.

You turned slightly, catching his eye, and offered him a small wave before continuing on your way.

Riddle pressed a hand to his chest, trying to steady the wild thrum of his heart.

You had ruined him for anyone else—and he didn’t want to be unruined.

Masterlist

[anyarose011]

Et tu, Brute?

Pairing: Emperor Geta x Reader x Lucius

Summary: You went by many different names: "Rome's Delight", "The Woman with the Golden Mouth", "Geta's Favorite Whore", and "Julia". None of these were your true name; all used just to dehumanize you as nothing more than a slave. When the General Acacius returns from conquering Numidia, and you meet one of the slaves that was brought from the bloodshed, you hope to reclaim not just your freedom...but power along with it.

Part 1 of 2 (Masterlist)

Warning(s): Depictions of rape and SA [not shown], slavery, cannon typical violence, minor Stockholm Syndrome, major character deaths, historical inacuracy [but I tried my best to make it somewhat accurate] and Spoilers for Gladiator II

I saw this movie once, watched Game of Thrones at the same time, and cranked out a story where you, the reader, know how to play "The Game" (but also not because let's keep it kinda realistic) I'm gonna be honest, this might be a hot mess, and I used a script I found online (but Idk how accurate it is). Also, this first part is just mainly story based with the events of the film the SECOND part will focus on reader and Lucius' relationship (including smut, you sluts {I am also slut, don't worry}.

I do want to say though that the depictions of SA are in no attempt to romanticize them. I also decided not to write out the specific scenes because I myself am a survivor, and wanted to focus more on the protagonist's growth. The trauma still affects her story, but I do not want to write rape scenes merely for shock purposes.

Also, if you name is actually "Julia"...no it's not :)

Word Count: 16.1k

It was your own fault, that was what they tried to make you believe.

How dare you not wish to participate in the public baths, how dare you desire to bathe in the place you felt most safe.

Foolish, foolish girl. You were not even safe on your own porch in the house you grew up in.

Your father hadn’t been the wealthiest of merchants, but before he passed into the Elysian Fields after his death that year, he had made a fortune; so much as to buy a bathtub for your house.

If anything, you had bathed at night when you believed no one could see you not for your own modesty, but to prevent anyone from stealing it.

Yet, one particular night, a man had spotted you.

The Emperor Geta of Rome had watched your naked form glisten in the moonlight as you washed the most intimate areas of your body; sighing at the feeling of being clean after the day, only for your soul to feel tainted once morning broken.

Guards had nearly broken the hinges off the front door to your house, and dragged you to the palace. You had lived in that house for your entire life, the same neighbors beside you, yet as you kicked and screamed…none helped.

You had grown tired once in the palace, and the eldest of the twin emperors stood before you. He cupped your chin.

“What is your name, girl?”

You answered him, attempting to speak with venom, but the quaking of your voice betrayed anxiety.

He hummed, repeating your name. “Why are you all alone?”

You huffed. “My mother died in the battle that is childbirth, and my father was lost to an ailment in his loins.”

“You have no brothers?” Geta questioned, his eyes running down your form. “No husband?”

“They called my father strange for leaving me his possessions.”

“He mustn’t have passed on so long ago.”

“Why does the death of my father concern you if you only seek my body?” You questioned.

A smile twisted upon his lips. “Perhaps I like to know my fruit before I devour it.”

And he kissed you.

You had been kissed before, but this was the first time you hadn’t wanted to be. You hadn't expected him to be serious about devouring you. His teeth sank into your chin, then your cheeks, until they were finally upon your lips.

It was the first time, in all your life, you felt your body grow cold and freeze despite his hands wandering over you, pulling at the thin fabric of clothing that covered you.

You fell to the floor, clinging to it desperately as he tried to lead you to his chambers. You had expected him to order one of his men to kill you, or have them carry you…

Instead, he took you right there. He simply lifted his own robes then yours and stole what wasn’t his to take.

All you remembered of that was counting how many pillars were in the room.

You were one of his several concubines. Yet, despite being the newest, you were his favorite.

“Julia,” he whispered to you in the night a month after he had made you his. A month after he had decided to call you by his mother’s name instead of your own. “are you awake?”

You mewled, sitting up. “I am now, my love. What is it?”

Geta smiled, holding out a stack of parchment. “Look at what some of the men found in Carthago.”

You rubbed your eyes as the lamps in his room brightened before looking down at the crudely written words. Geta looked at you in earnest.

“Can you read them?”

A few days prior at him and his brother Caracalla’s birthday festivities, it was revealed that you spoke five languages: Latin, Phoenician, Aramaic, Hebrew, and Greek. Your father had taught you every single one of them to fend for yourself amongst all kind of people.

Now, it was nothing more than a shameless trick Geta used to his amusement.

“Rome’s Cleopatra,” he deemed you in front of the crowd. “the Woman with a Golden Mouth”.

Everyone in that room and all of Rome knew that your ability to speak so many dialects was not the only reason he gave you that title.

Still, as you lay in his bed with crumbling parchment in hands, you forced a tender smile. “Yes, I know what it says. Would you like to know?”

He laid his head in your lap without another word.

Months passed, and he had grown kinder…only when it was night, and even so, that was only when the moon was full.

There wasn’t a day where your body hadn’t ached from the turmoil he put you through. It was hard to discern when he would want you to be small and subservient to him, or confident and commanding in matters of the bed.

The handmaids that were blessed to not be in bed with him would bathe and coddle you as best as they could, for even through your suffering, you tried your best to treat them with kindness.

You didn’t even know who you were after the fourth month of being Geta’s slave.

Gone was the girl who had a peaceful life; there was now the Emperor’s Pet.

General Marcus Acacius returned to Rome after overtaking the kingdom Numidia in the emperors’ names, and it was the first time you were in his presence. It was certainly a surprise that Geta would string you alongside him on personal matters that had nothing to do with sex.

The general would glance at you every so often, and his look of pity felt more violating that any of the times Geta, or his brother, or anyone else in all of Rome had looked at you.

Upon the general’s return, a series of games at the Colosseum were to be hosted, among parties that would last for the remaining week.

The first was at Senator Thraex's home.

“My little Julia,” Geta caressed your cheek as you sat upon his lap in the makeshift throne. “might you fetch me another cup of wine?”

You nodded, taking his cup and kissing his hair. “I shall, my love.”

He ran his fingers down your neck as you got off of him and made your way to the barrels. Yet, as you passed an open door, something caught your eye. Peeking around the somewhat crack in the door, you saw a few men sat in the room, chains around their ankles and their wrists.

One of them, more muscular than the others with brown curls, held his head low. His skin wasn’t as dark as other men from Africa Propria, but not as pale as the Germanic lands.

When his eyes met yours, you saw a pale blueness only seen in the sky on a summer’s day.

Gasping, you hid behind the door for only a moment before looking again. His gaze was still on you. Deciding to end the strangeness of the situation, you spoke.

“I’m sorry.” You apologized.

He said nothing; you tried again.

“I’m sorry.” You said in Greek.

The look in his eyes changed to confusion, but he said nothing.

“Hebrew?” You questioned. “Aramaic? Phoenician?”

“You speak Phoenician?” He asked as if he hadn’t heard it in forever.

You nodded. “I speak five languages.”

“Ah,” he answered in your native tongue to your surprise. “Rome’s Cleopatra.”

Your nose scrunched as if you smelt something rotten. “You understood me the first time?”

“I did.”

“So why not say anything?”

“What am I to say to your pity?”

You hummed. “I do not pity you, I was showing respect.”

He scoffed. “Respect? Am I a man that looks as if I deserve respect?”

“I believe every man deserves respect so as long he is kind.” You glared at him.

The man shook his head, sighing. “You are a foolish child if you believe that men can be kind.”

“I haven’t for quite a while.” you stated. “I pray that it is the hope that kills me.”

He questioned. “And not one of the emperors?”

“What is your name, slave?” You crossed your arms.

He huffed, drawing his eyes away from you and clenching his fists before relaxing them. “Hanno.”

You nodded. “They call me ‘Julia’.”

“But that is not your name.”

It was blistering hot that particular day, but you felt your body run cold; the same cold you felt when Geta…when he first…

“Who says it is not my name?” You challenged.

“You are merely a concubine,” he said. “you are not a part of his lineage, and therefore, your name is not ‘Julia’.”

You do not know why you seethed with so much rage from his words. You did not even spit on him; you merely stomped away from that door, filled up the emperor’s cup, and went back to Geta.

“It took you nearly a millennium to come back, my sweet.” He scoffed yet kissed your bare shoulder. “I was beginning to worry.”

You shook your head, leaning against him as you sat on the arm of the throne. “You mustn’t over me, my love.”

“You seem distressed.” Caracalla teased beside you. “This is a festivity; you should be merry!”

All you did was smile and nod. It was a pleasant change from the parties you were forced to attend in the past; you weren’t the center of attention, and this was the first time Geta dressed you in the bright colors everyone else wore instead of white.

You could pretend you were royalty for a day.

Not so long after you came back, both Thraex and Macrinus, a stable master who traveled far and wide for new gladiators, approached with their own champions to fight.

You were not even at the Colosseum, and yet, violence still had to be played for everyone’s amusement.

Hanno entered from the door you had previously been at, and another man entered from the opposite side of the room. Both were given swords.

“Brother,” Hanno began. “let us not kill each other for their amusement-.”

The other man struck him without hesitation. You had seen fights before, but none like this. It was ruthless, quick yet drawn out. Hanno lost his sword in the middle of it all, leading to him smashing a flowerpot over his opponent’s head.

The fight was still not done, he rose up on his feet and took his sword from the ground, raising it high above him. Hanno, against all odds, knocked him back onto the ground and took the sword just as they both sood, stabbing his opponent in the chest.

A chorus of cheers and groans echoed in the room. Geta arose from his seat, laughing and applauding as you sat there, eyes as wide as they could be at the bloodied sight before you.

“Remarkable! Gladiator, which part of the Empire do you hail from?” He questioned Hanno. Hanno stood stoically, glaring at the emperors before him. Geta tutted, turning to you. “Julia, open your golden mouth and-.”

“-The gates of hell are open night and day.” Hanno interrupted in the common language. “Smooth the descent, and easy is the way: But to return, and view the cheerful skies, in this the task and mighty labor lies.”

Geta smiled. “Ah…a poet!”

The rest of the world fell away as you could not tear your gaze away from the man laying on the floor. If he hadn’t died from his wounds, he would’ve from choking on his own blood.

“-You understand, don’t you?” Geta asked.

You sat in your own personal chambers that night for the first time in a while. You were never overjoyed to be in his bed, but being sent to your own perplexed you.

Then, he simply told you that you were to be General Acacius’ for the night.

“He’s sacrificed so much, my little Julia.” Geta combed his fingers through your hair to soothe you. “I refused him once already; I cannot do so again. Do you understand?”

The emperor had never shared you with anyone. He wasn’t delicate with you, but at least you knew what to expect.

He clenched your jaw. “I do not care to ask you a third time, girl.”

“Yes,” you squeaked. “I understand, Geta.”

Nodding, he softened his hold, leaning his head against yours. “You are still mine alone; I promise, it will only be us after tonight.”

You swallowed thickly. “Okay.”

“There she is.” He kissed your lips before pulling away and standing. “He will be in right away. Do not fret, I told him to be gentle with you.”

Geta left through your chamber doors without another word. There you were, sitting on your bed, draped in silks you should have known were given to you out of lust and not out of kindness. Your eyes trailed to the empty vase on a table beside your bed.

You didn’t know what possessed you that night, but you yanked it off the table, and smashed it on your bed. The handle of the door began to rattle. Quickly pushing the shattered pieces under your bed, you hid a shard behind your back and sat at the head of the bed.

In came General Marcus Acacius, wearing only a thin overshirt that went down to his knees. You’d done this game of seduction many times with Geta, how different could it be for him? Grabbing the bottom of your night dress, you raised it until it bunched up your thighs, revealing your bare center to him.

He took a hitched breath. “My lady-.”

“-What troubles you, general?” You asked then smiled with gritted teeth. You felt your hand begin to ache as you squeezed the vase shard.

Marcus furrowed his brow, and as if he already knew, he said. “Cover yourself and show me what is behind your back.”

Your eyes dropped along with your heart. Still, as his face turned into a scowl, you cooperated. Handing him the shard and quickly pulling your dress back down, you spoke with intensity.

“If you will not stab me before you rape my corpse, then I shall throw myself from the nearest window and allow the people of Rome to defile me. I will not lie on my back and take it anymore.”

He took a deep breath, holding the sorry excuse for a weapon in his hand. “It is unwise to tell the enemy your plans.”

…What?

“It would serve you greatly to control the faces you make before harming a man as well. Yet, above all,” He held the shard out to you. “your enemy is not afraid to kill you; you should feel the same.”

“Why do you tell me this?” You asked, still not believing it.

Marcus sat up. “I believe we can help each other, my little dove.”

“How?”

He lowered his voice. “You have heard of the gladiator Maximus, his dream of a free Rome, yes?”

“Yes.”

“A dream that cannot be obtained from the rule of two emperors.” He lamented. “My wife and I, along with several others, plan…to fulfill our shared dream.”

They were going to overthrow Geta and Caracalla.

“What gives you reason to believe I won’t say a word of this to them?” You asked.

He smiled for the first time since you’d seen him. “That freedom belongs to you.”

“I…I’m still lost. How will I be of any use?”

“Emperor Geta favors you considerably. He is a man, and not a cunning one at that. There are ways to wear foolish men down.”

You nodded, beginning to understand. “There’s always a woman.”

“There’s always a woman.” He solidified. “Gain the trust of the public; make them love you, and they will not see the emperor’s whore but a woman of the people.”

“And how will that dethrone them?

He smiled. “My wife and I will meet with the counsel tomorrow night. I will send for you.”

You scoffed. “Geta said that after tonight I am just his alone.”

“Then I’ll refuse to give him Persia and India.”

“He’ll have your head.” You berated. “Besides, I don’t think he’d believe my cunt would be worth two countries.”

Marcus shrugged. “Considering he only wants you to himself, I have no doubt that it is worth that much. But I am unable to confirm it.”

You sighed. “Even if he’ll allow it, he’ll send a guard with me.”

“I am not one to invite a third into the bedroom.”

“Then where shall-?”

“-Little dove,” he interrupted. “the city was not built in a day, therefore it cannot be emancipated in one.”

Gods help and forgive you for being impatient on wanting to be free. Still, you composed yourself. “Alright.”

He nodded, standing up. “I will be seeing you on the morrow, one way or another.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“For what, child?”

You swallowed thickly, avoiding his gaze. “Not forcing yourself upon me.”

Marcus’ face softened, and he lowered himself to your height as you sat on the bed. He took your face into his hands, and you immediately tensed when his face drew closer to yours.

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. “it’s not that kind of a kiss.”

With a tenderness that reminded you of your father, he placed his lips on your forehead and pulled away. Giving you one last knowing nod, he promptly left your chambers.

You wanted to do nothing more than shed tears of happiness, yet for no reason at all, you could not cry.

Your father had only taken you to the Colosseum to watch mock animal hunting. Even when your friends invited you to watch gladiator fights or other public executions, he had found ways of making you stay far away from them.

There was a strange humor in sitting in the best chair for your very first gladiator duel. That being in the front as Emperor Geta ran his hand up and down your back.

In utter honestly, you tried to stray your attention away from the fights, speaking more with Caracalla of all people. He was more erratic than Geta by far, and it was more difficult to tell when he would be kind one moment, then out for blood the next.

Yet at least he was open about being cruel, unlike his brother.

When you would watch the fights…a familiar face seemed to catch both you and the general’s wife’s, Lucilla, eye.

The man with light skin yet hailed from Numidia…Hanno.

You hadn’t recognized him at first, for it wasn’t his mere presence that drew you to finally look at the event before you. No, it was the way he fought.

Most men previously had attacked with brute force; just stabbing the beast and hoping it would die. Hanno fought with wit. Simply using the sand beneath his feet as an advantage, blinding and tricking the rhinoceros to run directly into the wall.

He was cunning…he commanded the men beside him as if it weren’t the first time he’d done so in his life.

Then, when it came to deciding his fate when all seemed lost…Geta turned to you.

“My love,” he played with a strand of your hair. “shall I show the poet mercy, or bloodshed for your entertainment?”

Even if it weren’t Hanno, your answer would have been the same. “Mercy.”

As a hush fell over the crow, Geta rose his thumb up, sparing him. As cheers erupted, Hanno shook his head.

“No, no mercy.”

Geta furrowed his brow. “Gladiator, we have spared your life. No one refuses-.”

“-I would sooner face your blade than accept Roman mercy!”

Thus, the fight continued. An act of defiance…Peculiar…Quite peculiar.

Both you and Marcus were correct about the night; Geta did indeed allow you to go to the general’s house, but only if you were escorted by a trusted guard. When you arrived, Marcus immediately draped you in a cloak, practically covering your face and had excused as not wanting the staff to tell his wife of who he was bringing into their house.

Marcus led you into his chambers, and there you saw two people. Apparently, they weren’t even apart of the counsel; simply paid to pretend to be both you and the general as the guard would listen outside, assume it was the two of you fucking.

He had certainly thought through every little detail.

Marcus pushed on a stone in his chambers, revealing a hidden door. You had only heard of these within stories, and as he led you down the darkened passage with only a torch in one hand, and the other holding yours, you had never felt more alive since your past life had been stolen.

You were welcomed to a room filled with dozens of the senate you had passed by in the palace. How strange it was to see them all huddled into a dimly lit room, plotting the demise of the men they initially swore to serve.

An arm looped through yours, and it was Lucilla. She whispered into your ear.

“Whatever you have to say, speak it to me, and I shall speak to them.”

You turned. “Why must I not speak for myself?”

“I only allowed you to be here if Marcus agreed to not let your voice be heard.”

“What?”

“I will explain more to you soon after, I vow it.”

Thus the meeting began. In all truthfulness, you were only able to understand the bare minimum: In a few days’ time, Marcus would lead five-thousand men into Rome to overtake the thrones of the empire, and thus destroy them, restoring the Roman Republic.

When the conversation turned to you, you were merely referred to as an informant who had the closest relationship to the emperor.

It still perplexed you as to why you needed to remain anonymous; there was an excellent chance they would know you as ‘Geta’s Favorite Whore’.

Yet, you did your best to inform the counsel of a plan you had simply created on the spot (they did not need to know the latter part of it).

You would gain more favor from the public, while at the same time, putting Geta’s worries to rest about any uprising or dislike from the majority of the empire.

How you would do that…it was fortunate that they didn’t ask you to give specifics.

Once the meeting ended, you were taken back up from the secret passage, yet instead of going back to the chambers, you felt Lucilla take your hand and lead you down another path.

You couldn’t even get a sound out before she said. “It is alright; he knows I want to speak with you in private. We will not take long.”

She led you up into the bath area of the house. It was quite beautiful; the tub wasn’t made of porphyry, but that did not make it any less exquisite. There was something about it being lesser of the baths you’ve had in the palace. It wasn’t entirely reminiscent of the one you had at home…

But you felt safer.

Lucilla had been gentle in pulling off your robes, and never once did it feel wrong. You were a woman and so was she. She never pulled or scratched your skin, and you knew that she only felt sorrow when she gazed upon the bruises and wounds you had received from Geta.

“How long have you been at the palace?” She questioned as she carded herbs through your hair.

You glanced at her, sighing. “I’ve stopped counting…months, I know.”

“Were you forced to leave any family? Brothers, sisters, children?”

“No. My mother died birthing me, and my father was taken half a year ago to an ailment emperor Caracalla also suffers from.”

She hummed. “Have you ever been in love?”

You laughed the most genuine laugh ever since you became a slave. “Why on earth would you ask that?!”

“I am merely curious!” She teased. “You are truly beautiful, and there is no doubt that men would throw themselves off cliffs for you; but it matters most of who you would choose.”

Her question scraped your mind. There had been times you were fond of, even lusted over, men both your age and older…but love? The only one you experienced would be storge; perhaps philia…but eros? Agape?

“I don’t think I have been.” You answered. “Have you?”

She nodded, a forlorn look in her eyes, but smile upon her mouth. “Twice.”

“Twice?” You couldn’t help the nervous giggle that left your throat. “It can happen twice?”

“It’s possible, yes.”

“And who have you willingly fell captive to?”

“Marcus is the most recent, though there are days I do not understand what he sees in me. Then…the father of my child.”

Lucilla poured water upon your head to wash out the soap in your hair, and a silence fell over both of you. One that was broken when you spoke a name.

“Lucius…”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“He-he had gone missing all those years ago, hadn’t he?”

“He had.” She ran the bar of soap over the top half of your body. “I believe he must’ve been around your age when he ran away.”

“And there hasn’t been any sign of him since?”

“No.” She answered right away.

You curled into yourself. “I apologize if I upset you my lady-.”

“-No. I…I love talking about him.”

You managed a gentle smile to soothe her. “What was he like?”

“Headstrong.” She chuckled. “Wanted to become a gladiator more than anything in the world. Yet, he was gentle, and kind as well. He…I believe he would’ve adored you.”

You shook your head. “Maybe when we were children, but I don’t think so now.”

“It’s hard to judge.”

Whilst the air between you turned into more intimate topics, the question that had weighed on your mind was brought to light. “Why did you not allow me to speak or show my face tonight?”

Lucilla stopped her ministrations. You looked up at her, and the look she wore bore an exhaustion that you had felt recently.

“I know too well the cruelties of men.” She began softly. “My brother had done everything to keep me from ever resisting him…he had done everything. I had only wished for someone to be there with me at every moment when I faced his abuse.”

Words; simple words that meant everything to you was what made you weep.

There was no warning at all. Once she was finished, tears sprang to your eyes, and you felt your sinus clog up. Even as you tried to tear yourself away from her comfort, she merely wrapped her arms around you in an embrace from a mother you had never felt.

“I don’t want to go back.” You begged. “Please don’t let me.”

She kissed your hair. “I’m so sorry.”

“No!” You sobbed. “I-I don’t want to! Please, please, you can’t make me. I-I-I-!”

Lucilla shushed you, rocking you back and forth. “Do not weep. You will be free beside all of Rome, and the past months of your life will be nothing more than a distant, horrible dream.”

You pulled away just enough to look at her. “You-you must promise me something.”

“My child-.”

“-Promise me and I shall help you overthrow them until my last dying breath!”

She stared for a moment before nodding. “Yes. What is it?”

Your lip quivered. “When I die, you must bind my legs with chains or ropes when you bury me. I have,” you whimpered. “I have been told of men who dig up the bodies of girls and…”

Lucilla kissed your forehead before holding you once more. “I vow I will honor your wishes.”

All you could do was believe her.

There were more times than not the Emperor Geta would talk about filling you with his seed as he bedded you. You never were able to discern if he was serious about wanting to give you a child (they would be his, not yours).

It all became too real when you didn’t bleed that month.

Yet, you also did not feel sick in the morning, and your breasts hadn’t swelled. You still had urinated on wheat seeds for several weeks, but they had not sprouted.

You weren’t with child…yet there was nothing stopping you from convincing Rome you were. It would certainly be a risk; for there was no telling how Geta would react. But that was a risk you were willing to take.

Once a week, you were allowed to go outside the palace during the day, and you had chosen then to venture out into the numerous markets. It was nice to speak with the merchants you knew from your childhood. Some were elders who would watch over you when your father was busy, others were friends who had grown up with you.

“Now what would a little empress want with commoner’s food?” A man’s low timbre voice asked behind you.

Turning your head, you saw Macrinus standing before you with a curious grin. You mirrored it. “That’s not an appropriate title for me.”

“Ah, you are correct.” He nodded. “My apologies, ‘Lady with The Golden Mouth’. Or do you prefer ‘Rome’s Delight?’.”

“You may call me whatever you wish if you’d like.” You forced a laugh and turned back to the merchant you had known since you were a babe. “I’ll take a sack of wheat and small bag of garlic, Gaius.”

“Of course, lady Julia.”

Not even a childhood friend could say your real name. A tight smile formed upon your lips when he turned to sack the wheat before you. Macrinus spoke again.

“You still didn’t answer me about why you’re exactly here.”

“I am not an empress.” You turned to him. “I am not a queen from another realm, I am not even a lady. I am a lowly whore that was fortunate enough to be chosen by the emperor. I like to keep my own schedule from before, so I am aloud to bake my own bread.”

He hummed. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

Gaius handed you the sack of wheat and garlic, and you held out three silver coins. He shook his head. “No, just a copper-.”

“-Please.” Was all you said.

He hesitated, then took them from you, smiling. “May Fortuna rain a thousand blessings upon your head.”

“And unto you as well.” You curtsied and turned on your heel to leave.

Macrinus walked beside you. “How generous you are.”

“I try to be.” You decided to change the topic. “You are in charge of Hanno, are you not?”

“I certainly am, why do you ask?”

“Just out of interest.” You shrugged. “There is talk of him being similar to the one Maximus from years ago. Many admire him already and it has only been a day.”

Macrinus laughed. “It is my duty to entertain the people. I noticed though that you are more prudish of the games.”

“I must admit, I am not used to the violence.”

“A sheltered girl?”

“Ashamedly so.”

“There is no shame at all. So, it is the Numidian that has captured your affection?” He teased. “How scandalous for the young empress to fall for a slave.”

You chuckled. “Nothing of the sort, I just find him amusing.”

“Oh, I am more than happy to let you see him alone if you ever so desire. You don’t need to wander upon him at another party.”

Your carefree air fell once he asked that. “I don’t know what you-.”

“-It’s alright.” He interrupted. “There’s nothing wrong with being curious, I am only concerned for your own safety.”

You stood taller, a shy smile upon your lips. “I am capable of taking care of myself, sir.”

“Of course my lady, why else would you be out here in the streets of commoners without a chaperone?”

Purposefully, you turned onto one of the crowded piazzas where the music and laughter was the loudest. You grinned from ear to ear.

“Oh please, don’t tell me you volunteered yourself to keep me safe.”

He laughed. “No, just wanted to say hello.”

You didn’t have time to respond, as one of the performers had recognized you. Ah, a girl that lived in the house across from yours when you were children! You still remembered her name, and after you passed your belongings to Macrinus, she pulled you into the circle of performers, dancing with you.

You laughed the most you had that year; in fact, you swore your bruised your ribs just from the sheer joy you felt. You don’t know how long you danced and sang with those who were your neighbors and friends, but just as you felt your feet begin to give out, Macrinus put his hand on your shoulder.

“I believe you should go back to the palace and rest.”

Nodding, you said farewell to your companions and took the bag of wheat and garlic back from him. “You are right, thank you so much.”

He grinned. “Let me escort you back.”

“No,” you walked ahead of him. “I wish not to bother you anymore. Good day, Macrinus!”

You lost yourself in the crowd, purposefully making it harder for him to follow. Once you were in the palace, you rushed into the kitchen, holding the sack of wheat behind your back, you greeted the cooks and snuck into the small pantry. You set the sack down on a shelf and pocketed two single reeds, along with an onion.

That night, Geta had called you into his chambers. Before going, you had cut the onion and brought it to hover around your eyes. You were crying by the time you were at his door. Immediately, he took notice of your reddened eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

“What is it, what’s wrong?”

You shook your head, only crying more. It was less because of the onion now, and just everything coming down crashing onto your shoulders once more. Geta pulled you into his chambers by your shoulders, sitting you on the bed.

“Tell me now what is bothering you.” He commanded.

You shook your head. “I-I can’t-.”

“-Now, Julia!”

Taking a deep breath, you reached into the pocket of your breast, taking out the two reeds and setting it in his hand. He furrowed his brows.

“I do not understand.”

You took a deep breath. “The handmaids have given me wheat and barley seeds ever since I have arrived. If they grow, then that means…that means I am with child.”

The look on his face spoke it all. You were certain you were dead.

“I-I didn’t know how you would feel, and-and so I-.”

He crushed you in an embrace, attaching his lips to your jaw. “Jupiter has blessed me.”

It was the first time you felt happiness in his presence. Of course, not because of him, but still joy. You returned his embrace, sighing in relief. “You are happy?”

“Happy?” He pulled away, holding your face in his hands. “There is nothing in this world that could sadden me right now. I will have an heir.”

As long as it was a boy (if it were real at all).

You feigned your smile and leaned into his touch. “I am fortunate to give you one.”

“And I am most fortunate to have you.” He laid down and brought you with him.

Perhaps, in another life, he was kind to you and didn’t only value you until you gave him a child. Perhaps you would be in love with him, and he would make you empress

But you weren’t fortunate to be born into that fantasy.

You wished nothing more than to sit with Marcus and Lucilla as you made your way into the emperor’s booth of the Colosseum. The three of you had managed to speak to one another, but only about meaningless things. Still, you just enjoyed their company.

 It would be more exciting that day. A naval battle, the Naumachia. The arena was filled with water and sea creatures you could never even possibly imagine. It was a wonder in and of itself how all the ships managed to fit themselves in the arena.

“Caracalla,” you said to the brother beside you as you were about to take your seat. He looked up upon hearing his name. You handed him the bag filled with garlic. “I finally found some for you.”

He grinned from ear to ear. “And you say that if I mix this with myrrh, I shall be cured?”

“It should treat the lesions on your skin.” You corrected. “This is what I did for my father.”

He died of the same ailment, but Caracalla didn’t ask; simply smiled. “Thank you, dear sister.”

You nodded, sitting down on the arm of Geta’s throne that would have put you in the middle of him and his brother. He wrapped his arm around you.

“You’ve been far kinder these days.” Geta pointed out.

“Perhaps that means I’ll be the most agreeable mother.” You jested, kissing his cheek.

He smirked, and as the man on the far end of the Colosseum began to announce the games, Geta stood up and rose his grail.

“I would like to propose a toast!” He yelled. The crowd fell silent, and you felt your skin crawl away from you. Geta continued. “To the health of wives and to mothers. Especially to my lover, Julia, who carries my son the moment as we speak!"

An eruption of applause and cheers filled the stadium. You blushed upon the praise, and genuinely wanted to hide yourself from the gaze of everyone; especially the ones closest to you. You could feel both Marcus and Lucilla’s eyes on you, attempting to hide their shock and perhaps horror. The worst was that of Macrinus.

He knew. Just from the look of him (or perhaps it was your own paranoia), but he had to have known from the moment you bought the wheat.

Still, they all applauded, and ones the excitement of your supposed pregnancy died down, the enthusiasm for the battle was born.

It was perhaps the one event you could stomach. While you could still clearly see men dying, it wasn’t as horribly bloody as the prior. Were you becoming numb to the cruelty of these games because you were pretending…or were you letting the game invade your head?

As several ships collided within the growing chaos, men would either die from their fellow man or would simply fall into the water and be devoured by beasts you had never seen until then. Your eyes had been following Hanno the whole time, whether purposefully or not.

Words could not describe the terror that had been brought upon you as you saw him aim his crossbow at the booth you sat in.

You did not think the arrow would pierce you, but it did. It longed into your right shoulder, and a cry you had no idea you were capable of making tore through your throat.

Tears blinded your vision, but the screams from the whole arena deafened your ears you could not even hear what Geta was saying to you.

You could barely make out Marcus’ in front of you as he snapped the body of the arrow and then hoisted you into his arms. You’d never been carried like this as a woman; only as a child by your father.

The heat of Rome felt hotter that day as the pain in your shoulder only grew tighter and tighter as if your skin was going to stretch away from you. The next thing you knew, you were laid upon a cold, solid surface, and sound returned to your ears.

“It’s alright, you’re alright.” Geta shushed, brushing your hair. “You’ll be okay.”

Someone stuck their fingers into your wounded shoulder, and you could only scream. A tender hand laid itself on your cheek, and just from touch alone, you knew it was Lucilla.

“Do not touch her!” Geta hissed, swatting her away.

“No, no!” You whined, reaching out and holding onto her.

Lucilla dropped to her knees, kissing every part of skin that was available, mumbling. “I know, I know. This too shall pass, you are stronger than you believe, my dear.”

Then, just like that, you felt the arrowhead leave your body. The pain was still excruciating beyond belief, but all that was left was for your arm to be wrapped in cloth, and to rest.

One of the guards in charge of the gladiators approached you when you were finally able to sit up.

“My lady,” he began. “did you happen to get a look at the man who shot you?”

“She’s only starting to recover!” Geta snapped. “How dare you. She carries my child, and-!”

“-It’s alright, Geta.” You soothed.

You could’ve done it. Told him with full confidence that it was Hanno. There would have been your chance of power; to kill the man who had nearly killed you.

Yet…you were vindictive and wanted to do it yourself.

“I have no memory.” You told him. “It happened so fast.”

How horrible it is that Geta would stop forcing you to pleasure him only when you were supposedly with his child and injured. You assumed that if you were suffering from only one of those ailments, than he still would’ve held you down and used you.

You thought nothing else would happen that night. You would simply speak to one another, pretending to be completely enamored by his existence, and then lie down to sleep.

Of course, that would be too peaceful.

You were awoken gently, to your surprise, by Geta shaking you. Humming, you rubbed your eyes. “What is it?”

“The general and his whore wife.” He gritted his teeth. “They planned to kill us.”

You shot right up, forgetting about your injured shoulder, and let out a cry. Geta helped you stand, and that was when you saw Caracalla standing before you, his monkey companion Dundus perching upon his shoulder.

“How-how do we know?” You stammered, not having to feign your terror.

Neither of them answered, and the three of you were led out into the throne room. There before you in their night clothes just as you were, Lucilla and Marcus.

Geta approached them first, seething. “The honor, the dignitas that Rome has bestowed upon you. All this you have forfeited by your treachery. Thanks to the civic virtue of men like Macrinus and Thraex your insurrection has been revealed-.”

 “-Torture me if you want,” Marcus shook his head. “but please, don’t lecture me.”

Geta’s face turned almost as red as his hair. “Your name and deeds will be forgotten, lost to history! You are damned to oblivion!”

“You damn me?” He laughed. “I don’t care. Everything is forgotten in time. Empires fall… and so do Emperors.”

Caracalla rose from his seat, reaching for his brother’s sword. “Why wait? I'll gut him right now!”

Geta grabbed onto him. “Brother! Brother! His death must be public.”

“Public, yes. Hang his entrails from the city gates!” He pointed at Lucilla. “Crucify her!”

“No!”

All eyes fell on you after your outburst. Even you froze in place, feeling bile begin to rise up within you. Geta let go of Caracalla. “‘No?’ You say? What would you have me do then?”

Swallowing thickly, it was hard to speak as tears began to fall. You held your stomach. “Crucifixion is…it’s…”

His face dropped into a scowl. “You aren’t saying I should let them live, are you?”

“No-!”

“-Then which is it?!”

Your voice fell silent as your chest constricted, and you could barely breathe. Your mouth would move, but nothing came out; not even strangled noises of desperation.

“If I may, your grace,” Macrinus stepped forward. “I believe she means to bring equal punishments to the crimes committed.”

Geta furrowed his brow. “I do not know what you speak of.”

“Please, let the rest of them out of the room so I might explain more clearly.’

He considered his words, then turned to his guards. “The criminals to the dungeons, my brother to his chambers, and my love-.”

“-I wish to be alone tonight.” You stated.

The emperor scoffed. “What?”

“The babe.” You began. “I-I have helped many women deliver their children, and what has always caused an early birth is stress. I-I cannot take any-anymore of it, or I fear…”

Finally, he took in the sight of your fearful face. Sighing heavily, he said. “Put my lady in her chambers for tonight.”

“Thank you.” You kissed his hand.

You were led into your own chambers, and once the door was shut, you threw yourself onto your bed and wept. You wept until you were wailing into the night, you wept until your eyes were as red as the sun in the morning, you wept until it hurt to continue to do so…

It was unknown how long you had cried, but the opening of your bedroom door is what alarmed you. Snapping your head over in the direction, you were shocked to see Macrinus.

“The general and his wife’s fate has been decided.” He stated.

You held a pillow to your chest, rubbing your reddened nose. “And what is it?”

“The emperor has chosen to let the gods decide, and Acacius will fight against Hanno tomorrow in the arena.”

“You mean you convinced him to.” You glared.

Macrinus approached you. “May I try some of the bread you have baked, my lady?”

You held no confusion when he asked you that. Surprise, yes; but you knew what he asked. You took a deep breath. “I believe I don’t understand.”

“The wheat you bought only days ago.” He reminded. “You said you would bake your own bread. Surely, you didn’t use it as false proof of you carrying the emperor’s heir?”

You didn’t dare look at him. Even when he laid his hand on our back, rubbing circles over your nightdress. “I wish to help you, my child. You must be willing to help me first.”

That was why he also didn’t alert Geta of your betrayal…unless, he had no idea of your alliance with Marcus and Lucilla.

“What is it that you want?” You asked.

“All in time.” He soothed. “I wish to give you the privilege to speak to someone.”

You finally looked at him, your eyes wide. “General Acacius?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I am unable to escort you to the dungeons below the palace. Yet, I can take you to the pit of gladiators.”

“It is easier for you to take me out of the palace than below it?”

“Take you to the man who nearly overthrew the emperors?” He chuckled bitterly. “Not possible. I cannot grant you the gift to say goodbye, but I can allow you to bargain for his life.”

You blinked. “Hanno?”

“Correct.”

“How can I leave the palace at this hour, after what has just happened?”

“You underestimate the silence men will take when it is weighed in gold.” He tutted. “I can only give you ten minutes with him. Will you go or not?”

You were forced to decide quickly…This could be your chance. He had nearly took your life the other day, and the pain in your shoulder was just a growing reminder of that. If he were dead…there was no way you could overtake him.

Yet, you learned that, in a world of men, you didn’t have to be stronger than them: Only smarter, and faster.

“I will go.”

You had hidden a kitchen knife under your bed the moment you had your own chambers. Geta had gifted you several colorful ribbons he loved to see you wear in your hair. He perhaps did not expect you to tie one around your waist under your gown, securing the knife.

Macrinus led you swiftly from the palace to the gladiator pit, which was thankfully not a long walk. You ignored the stares and intrigued calls from the other men as you treaded the halls. You were stopped by a door. Macrinus didn’t even warn Hanno who stood shirtless in his cell, only opened the door and let you enter.

“I’ll rattle the door when it’s time.” That was all he said and left.

Hanno didn’t even seem alarmed. “And what is Rome’s Delight doing here?”

Your blood boiled upon seeing him, yet you remained calm. “I have come to make a bargain; a plea.”

That was when the puzzlement appeared on his face. “And what is that?”

“The man you will fight tomorrow, you must spare him.”

“Why should I?”

Your grief and despair had made itself known to everyone around you for the past few days; yet, in that cell, only with Hanno as your witness, did he see your rage.

“He is the one who saved my life when you meant to steal it!”

The only change you saw in him was his jaw clenching. Other than that, nothing. “The general?”

You only nodded.

He sighed, brushing past you and shaking the door. “Macrinus!”

“What are you doing?” You hissed.

“I will not have you waste your breath on that man.”

“I will give you anything you desire.”

Hanno faced you. “Then you can deliver his head on a platter for me.”

You gawked as he walked away.  “What have I ever done to you?”

“What?”

“Do you truly hate me that much?!” You turned back to him, getting closer. “Kill the man that is the reason I am still here?”

The last thing you thought you would hear left his lips: A laugh. No, not a genuine one. One that you yourself have released on multiple occasions when you have been in disbelief.

“You truly believe everything that happens is because of you?” He taunted. “Has the emperor been filling your mind with so many delusions of grandeur, you can no longer conceive a world where you are not the center of it?”

“Is it so difficult for you to answer my question because you are a fool, or because you wish to not admit it?” You hardened your tone.

“What is your question, my empress?”

“Why did you shoot me?!”

“The arrow was not meant for you!”

You felt your shoulders drop upon the confession. Your aggression ceased only because of your bewilderment.

“Then who?” You asked.

He backed away. “The general you so wish to defend.”

“Whatever it is that he has done, it can be solved with-.”

“-He murdered my wife.”

Hanno said it so easily. No pain, no rage, nothing. It was a fact, and that was what he wanted you to know.

And how stupid you had been. No one in all of Rome was pure of heart; including Marcus. He was a war general; how could you think he wouldn’t have committed sins against the innocent?

“Why so silent, my lady?” He asked. “Are you in disbelief that he has enemies?”

“I didn’t know that.” You admitted.

“That the general is too a monster, or that he killed the only thing in my life worth living for?”

“And that is your desire?” You prodded. “Take his life so that he may die knowing his wife will be ravaged by wolves?”

When he charged at you, you barely had enough time to reach in your dress and unsheathe your knife. Hanno stopped himself just in time for the tip to kiss his chest. Nothing to cause any more harm than a scratch.

Even though you were not the one hurt, you breathed as if you were. He stared down at you as you shrunk under his gaze, and the two of you remained frozen. That is, until he grabbed both your wrists, and rose them above your head.

“I am only merciful because the general still breathes.” He spoke so only you could hear. “If your bastard of a lover had put him to the sword this night you chose to visit me, you would be dead before you could scream.”

Your nose was an inch from his, that was how close he stood to you. His breath caressed your skin, and you turned away in disgust. He let go of your empty wrist, yet still held the one with the dagger.

“Did you believe you could kill me tonight?” He asked, yet you said nothing. Hanno then brought the dagger to his breastbone, angling it upward. “Do not stab head on; stab up.”

Silence and an iron gaze was your reply.

He then hovered it to the pulse point of his neck. “If you want a quick death, right here; with a thinner blade, preferably.”

Then, he placed the tip just above his brow. “If you need information out of a rat, and you have the stomach to do so, drag it across. It will make the mightiest of men cry like a child in the night.”

“You are clever and a skilled warrior,” you finally said. “what is it you want me to tell you?”

“That you will leave it up to the gods and to me if your general lives or not.”

“But I cannot.” You dared to dig the blade just a little into his skin, and his breath hitched. “My desire for him to live is stronger than for you to die.”

Hanno finally let go of your wrist, and you immediately retracted the knife from his brow. “So do you wish to try again to kill me?”

“I wish for you to show mercy.”

“Mercy?” He questioned. “Mercy upon the man who pillaged my home and killed my wife? Mercy for the one who has made me a slave?”

“I too am a slave and-.”

“-And?!” He cried. “And there is nothing! You are draped in silks whilst I in chains and are bathed in clear waters while I in blood, yet you say we are the same?!”

You swallowed your anger, knowing it would bring you nowhere. “You entertain the horrid creatures of Rome; I am forced to pleasure the emperor. We perform differently, but we are still slaves.”

“You are with child.” He stated. “Will that child also be a slave though the emperor is quick to claim it is his heir?”

The crackling of the torches in the room only added to the fire th in your soul. If not contained correctly, you would surely burn and take him with you.

 “A child…yes.” You relaxed, folding your hands. “A child that I could command to be Geta’s. Perhaps, if I wanted to have the brothers slaughter one another, I could say it belongs to Caracalla. Or, if I despised you anymore than I do at this moment…I could say that it is yours.”

Hanno’s eyes dropped in recognition, saying softly. “You carry an empty womb.”

You nodded. “It is the same as your honor.”

Moments later, the door behind you rattled, and Macrinus spoke even when you didn’t. “The time is up, my little empress.”

You bowed your head to Hanno, curtsying. “Sleep well.”

He said nothing in reply, and you turned on our heel, leaving the cell. You pulled your hood back over your head as Macrinus led you through the darkened streets of the city.

“Did you get what you came for?” He asked.

“No.” Was your immediate reply. “And I do not know truly what I wanted.”

The day was as blistering hot as the others, yet the stare Lucilla gave you as she was being led into the emperor’s viewing box made your blood turn to ice. There was not a hint of wrath upon her face; there was nothing at all.

She already looked as if her soul had been stolen.

“How does your shoulder fair, dear sister?” Caracalla brushed his fingers over your arm.

A watery smile was upon your lips like second nature. “It still aches, but it heals, thank the gods. And your overall health?”

He sighed. “I do not know how much longer I have upon this earth.”

“Do not say such things.” You squeeze his hands. “If the gods will it, you shall live for another hundred years.”

He kissed your hands that held his. “I hope so, my love.”

Your grin fell upon the title, and Geta immediately sat you down on the chair behind him that was beside Lucilla’s. He gave an apologetic look.

“He only grows more confused by the day.” He caressed your cheek. “You are well?”

You were far from it, but you could not say that. “Your son feels better now.”

Geta smiled, lowering his head down to kiss your womb. “He will need all his strength.”

The announcer on the other side of the arena yelled to gain everyone’s attention. “From the vanquished city of Numidia, the victor of three contests in the Colosseum, the barbarian Hanno!”

You watched as he ran up from the pit, sword in hand. On the other side, you watched at they brought in Marcus. You could barely look at his already beaten figure. The announcer continued. “Will challenge General Marcus Acacius for his treason against the lives of the Emperors and the enemy of the State!”

The two approached one another on the sandy field. Even from where you sat, so close to them, you could barely make out the look in their eyes. You assumed their was hatred, but your own eyes must have deceived you, because you swore you saw a hint of regret within Marcus’ own gaze.

You blinked and the battle between the two had begun. It was a different level of insanity at how they fought. Marcus was decades older than Hanno, and yet, there were moments where the Numidian had to keep up with him.

Than, the roles would be reversed.

Blood stained the floor of the Colosseum as they fought. Then, when all feel silent between them, and Marcus could barely stand, his lips moved as he spoke to Hanno, then raised his hand.

He yielded.

The patrons of the arena began to mumble amongst themselves, growing louder and louder. Geta rose to his feet. “Romans! What say you?”

In an instant, choruses begging him to be spared overpowered the few that wanted him to be killed. Geta shut his eyes, raising his hand, and they were silenced.

“The gods have rendered their judgement.”

His thumb pointed downward, and the crowd erupted in dissent. Your heart was forcing itself to beat out of your chest as you could only stare at the sight of Hanno glaring down at the general before him.

He tossed his sword to the side.

You hadn’t even noticed Caracalla stood until you heard him yell. “Kill him, kill him!” Like an angered child.

“Is this how Rome treats its heroes?!” Hanno shouted, staring at the audience all around him and pointing his sword. “If his life has no value, what are yours worth?”

Geta stepped up onto the barrier, balancing between the viewing box and a fifteen-foot drop into the arena. He held his arms out to his side, his sleeves dropping to the ground, and his pale face was red. “The gods have spoken! Kill him!”

From all sides of the stadium, hundreds of archers aimed their bows at the center of the battleground. Yet, none fired. Caracalla jeered.

“In the name of Jupiter, kill him!”

The arrows were released, and they screamed like none other as they fired into the center. As they pierced Marcus’ body, you did not know you had been wailing in fright until Geta had slapped you.

“You mewling cunt!” He cursed. “You wish to weep over the man who nearly had you killed?”

Blood fell upon your tongue from your bruised lip, and you did not dare to look at him nor Lucilla.

“Death will be too good for you!” She cried with all of her heart.

The noise from the crowd died as if the people themselves had done so. Then, just like the confused murmurs when Marcus yielded, the same began to grow and grow into a call of rebellion.

It was all in your ears. Lucilla’s weeping, the curses from the crowd, the panic of the emperors…but you stood absolutely still.

With hooded eyes, they drifted up to see that Geta stood just on the edge of the barrier, his back turned to you. Your gaze fell to the ground below you, and it was only then you realized how high up you truly were.

You do not know who or what willed you to, but you then looked at Hanno still the center, covered in blood. As if he knew what you would do, he shook his head.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Macrinus grabbed your arm roughly when you took one step towards Geta.

The emperors turned to him upon his appearance, and Macrinus loosened his grip on you before saying. “For our safety’s sake, we should leave.”

“Yes.” Geta stepped down, wrapping his arms around you. “We should.”

You never knew there was a safe house in Rome until you were forced into it. Perhaps that was the reason for it being a safe house, so that no one knew of it. Yet, apparently, almost all of the roman citizens found it that night. Or, they were simply rioting wherever a free patch of land was.

The cries played in your ears despite them being behind heavy walls of the safe house, and you dared not to peek out the windows as the several fires would temporarily blind you. In the house was you, Macrinus, Dondus (Caracalla’s pet monkey, although he’d call him his other half), and the twin emperors.

“How is the babe?” Geta asked as you sat with your head hanging low.

Of course he would ask that. You didn’t look at him. “He is in fear for his life.”

“I understand,” he sighed. “but there-.”

“-But what?” You finally looked at him, hissing. “Chaos has fallen upon the city because of your actions.”

“There was nothing else to do.” Geta glared at you. “He and his bitch were plotting to kill us! If I’d let him live-.”

“-Don’t you hear them?” Caracalla cried out from his seat, holding Dondus. “They’re calling for our heads! She is right, you brought this upon us!”

Geta placed his hands on him. “Calm yourself, brother. The Praetorians will put down this crowd like they have others-.” The money upon Caracalla’s shoulder chirped out in anxiousness from the people outside. “Keep the ape still!”

“Beware of how you speak to Dondus!” His brother berated.

“Perhaps,” Macrinus finally intervened. “you should take Dondus and Julia elsewhere. The noise outside is too much for them; you should comfort one another someplace quieter.”

Caracalla nodded, gathering up Dondus and moving to help you stand, but Macrinus reached his hand out first. You took it, and as you stood, he said into your ear.

“I will find you on the right side of the hall.”

This was not the time nor place for riddles, but you could not react in any sort of way. You looped our arm through Caracalla’s and walked out of the room, hoping to find somewhere quieter.

“I’m afraid,” you confided in him, truthfully.

“I am as well.” Was all he could say.

You stopped in the middle of the hall once he found an open door. “I…I need time with my own thoughts. Please.”

He nodded, cradling Dondus closer to his chest before entering the room, shutting the door tightly. Within the minute, you watched as Macrinus approached you from the other side of the hall.

You spat. “What do you want?”

“I know I stole your moment of vengeance, and for that, I apologize.” He stood before you. “But let me make it up to you.”

“How could you possibly?”

From his cloak, he brandished a knife, holding the handle out to you. You took it without hesitation, yet question was still upon your face. “I do it myself?”

“You could,” he shrugged. “or, you could have his own brother do so.”

“Caracalla? He is senile.”

“Then I have a proposition for you.” Macrinus pointed to the door Caracalla was behind. “Convince him that Geta will destroy all of you if he is not disposed of. Convince him that, as the new emperor of Rome, he will need more trusting subjects. I shall be his second in command, and you shall be free.”

You furrowed your brow. “Who shall be first?”

“The monkey.” He smirked. “Do you believe he would put me above him?”

It sounded so simple; too simple. Yet, as the crowd began to die down, and you could no longer hear their protests from outside, the quietness brought to you what you had always known: You would never be your own person again so long as Geta breathed.

You held the dagger to your heart, saluting him. “I shall do my duty.”

He nodded. “May the gods be with you when you do, Brutus.”

An insult to most, and while it shocked you, you took it in stride as you stood outside the door. You made yourself look smaller, more afraid, and hid the dagger within your cloak as you entered the room.

There, sitting upon the floor, was Caracalla and Dondus. Like a scared child, he held the monkey close to him, grooming one another as if it was the only thing to bring comfort.

“Caracalla?” You whispered.

He stared up at you, and you noticed he had been crying. Immediately, you sat before him, bringing him into your arms.

“Nothing was ever mine.” He cried, embracing you. “Everything was ‘ours’, always. Even in the womb, he gripped the umbilicus in his tiny fist to deprive me of air.”

“He did?”

“Certainly, one cannot forget.”

You pulled away only to hold his face tenderly in your hands. “You must listen to me, for what I tell you is dire. Your brother wishes to blame you before the Senate; for what happened, for the chaos in the streets-.”

“-That is a lie!” He tore himself from you. “I didn’t do it!”

“I know that, but they don’t. No testimony is more damning than that of a brother against another.”

“He lies! He always lies!” He sobbed.

“He’s very persuasive.”

“What will they do to me?”

“I don’t dare imagine, but…gods above, I don’t wish to know what they will do to Dondus.”

His jaw quivered with the rest of his body. “What-what shall we do?"

You sighed. “I…I have a proposition, but it is most outrageous and-.”

“-Julia,” he begged, grabbing your hands. “dear, sweet sister, please tell me.”

Breath shuttering, you reached into your cloak and held the blade out to him. “Slay your brother tonight. You shall be crowned the sole emperor of Rome when morning comes, and Dondus, the child I carry, and I will be safe.'

He took it, yet still had that look of terror. “This…It has always been he who led everything. I do not know who to trust or-or who to command.”

“Then let me-.” You stopped yourself, eyeing the monkey that lay at his legs. You held your hand out to him, and Dondus climbed into your arms. “Let us help you. Claim Dondus as your first in command, and I your second.”

You wished the same as Lucilla and Marcus; to have Rome be a free empire. Yet, you would have to free Lucilla yourself before that happened.

Caracalla nodded yet said. “You-you are with child. You will become delirious as time progresses.”

And he was the epitome of having a clear mind.

“I will need a third.” He settled.

You shook your head. “That has never been done before-.”

“-I will be emperor!” He screamed. “If it is to be done, it shall be done!”

Raising your hands in surrender, you pleaded. “It shall, it shall! For a third…Macrinus. He has been loyal and informed us of the general’s betrayal.”

“Yes, yes Macrinus will do.” He grabbed your face and pressed his lips against yours. It didn’t even truly feel like a kiss, yet it shocked you nonetheless. “You are the wisest woman I have ever met, dear sister.”

You nodded, forcing a smile. With that, he stood on his feet and left the room. IT would have been easy to stay in there and wait for his return…

Yet, you wanted to be the last thing Emperor Geta saw.

No fear toiled within your body as you approached the throne room, not even when you hear the cries that you knew belonged to Geta. You walked through the doors, watching as Geta held his hands up in fear, begging his brother to spare his life as he was forced onto his knees, trying to stop the knife in Caracalla’s hand.

“I love you!” Geta squealed, staring up at him through tears “You are my brother, I love you!”

You moved to stand behind the younger twin, glaring at the man before you. Geta’s eyes dropped in relief.

“My love, my love, please help me!”

There was nothing uncertain about how you grabbed Caracalla’s hand that held the dagger. With eyes unblinking, you guided the blade into Geta’s throat, pushing it further and further as blood drained from his mouth.

The emperor was dead, and you would sleep like a child once more that night.

There was something inside of you when you awoke that morning. Not the child you had lied to all of Rome about; it felt like a parasite. You threw up an hour after you woke up, but when you checked with the healers, they said that there was nothing ailing you.

Was it…guilt? No, no it could not be.

Was it possible to feel guilt for the act of killing someone, but not feeling it for who was killed?

You had no time to debate these issues as if you were a philosopher.

Dressed in your finest silks, you made way into the room where the hundreds of senators met, carrying a hefty sack beside you. You sat in a chair next to Macrinus.

“You have done well.” He said softly.

You smiled. “Only because of you.”

Your gaze turned to Caracalla, who sat in one of the two thrones that were there for him and Geta. He looked like the worst you had ever seen him be. A blood rag had been placed at his feet.

“Now I am the only one.” He began, voice low. “I was the true us, and he was the false me. We were always ‘we,’ all our lives, but now I am only I, me, alone.”

The senators look at one another in silent terror. The only ones to not feel fear were you and Macrinus.

Caracalla continued. “My hand held the blade, but my father’s hand guided mine. I was the puppet, dancing on his string. As Emperor, I have convened the Senate to appoint my First Consul and bestow upon him the power to administer the military and civic functions of the Empire.”

He tossed his hand to the second thrown, revealing his fury companion. “I name Citizen Dondus!”

Where the senators were beyond terrified, they were now confused. Macrinus was the first to rise, applauding. “Hail Dondus!”

You repeated his sentiment, clapping with vigor. Caracalla and the rest of the mortified senators applauded all repeating ‘Hail Dondus!’.

Once the excitement died down, Caracalla resumed. “As is custom, I am naming a Second Consul to advise the First and to assure his integrity. Though you will find that Dondus is incorruptible! As Second Consul, I name…”

Macrinus took one step forward.

“The mother of the future heir to the throne, Julia!”

All eyes fell upon you, standing taller than you ever had done in your life. How strange it was though, that the same reaction to a monkey being assigned first in command, was to you, a woman.

Utter silence, until Caracalla applauded enthusiastically. Like sheep, the senators followed; all but Macrinus.

“Yet, as mother to the heir,” the emperor said after finishing. “it is apparent she shall be incompetent for majority of her advising. So, for the first time in the history of Rome, I name Citizen Macrinus as my third!”

Even with this third twist in a counsel, the senators seemed more so relieved at the decision. Macrinus did not smile or even acknowledge the honor, simply stared ahead. Caracalla gathered Dondus in his arms.

“There will be a triumphal parade to celebrate. There will be games and mass executions! Long live the Empire!”

“Long live the Emperor!” You and the senators all yelled.

The Emperor Caracalla carried the First Consul Dondus sweepingly out of the hall, to the Senate’s terrified silence. You picked up the sack that had been beside you this whole time, then making your way to the center of the room.

You opened the sack, and out fell Geta’s decapitated head. The Senate gasped and gagged at the sight of the former emperor’s head. You almost felt sorry for the horror they felt that whole time. Yet, there horror is what would bring you fortune.

“This is what befell your emperor.” You pointed to the head at your feet. “He was slaughtered by the one who shared a womb with him. Tell me, senators, is this who we must trust to maintain the greatness of the Roman Empire?”

They did not glance at one another in uncertainty; no, no they were listening to you.

You continued, your heart stammering. “I am not the one who will stand with you for the rest of my days, it is the son I carry within me. And if it is my son who will become emperor, then there must still be an empire for him once he is born. Hysteria has poisoned the streets for decades now, it is time to put an end to it!”

Murmurs and nods of approval began to echo amongst the counsel.

“Every single one of Rome’s children matters; from the beggars to the emperor himself. If one falls, so shall the rest of the Empire. I have walked beside the lay people of the city, and they feel betrayed by the former emperor for the murder of their beloved general. To right this wrong, I call for the release of Lucilla, daughter of Marcus Aurelias.”

Not one of the hundreds of senators made a sound. Deep within you, you knew that there wouldn’t be much rejoicing over Lucilla’s freedom, but you still had to try.

“The people adored her for far longer than they adored the general!” You pleaded. “If we kill her only for the amusement of the elites, then the children of Rome-!”

 “-Shall live.”

You turned to Macrinus, who finally stepped all the way forward.

“Forgive me,” He bowed mockingly. “my lady, but for a woman complimented to have a golden mouth, you have no idea what you are saying.”

A few of the senators chuckled.

“You wish to free the woman who mean to have you, and the emperors killed?” He questioned.

You refuted. “I wish to show the world that Rome is capable of forgiveness.”

“A desire so foolish, only the emperor’s favorite whore could have it.”

“Another word of slander out of your mouth, and I will have your tongue removed!” You stood toe-to-toe with him.

He grinned like the devil, and just from your outburst alone, no matter how warranted it had been, he had you. Macrinus stepped away, looking around at the senators.

“Me thinks the little girl believes she is Marcus Aurelius himself born again.” He straightened his tone. “What say you, senators? All in favor of releasing a traitor to the Empire, speak.”

Not one of them said ‘aye’. If you weren’t under a sheer amount of duress, you would’ve seen perhaps a few faces of inner turmoil, debating on calling for Lucilla’s release.

Yet, no one said a word because they shared the one thing that will contribute to the death of humanity: Cowardice.

Macrinus tutted. “Now, dear Julia and I happen to have, through good fortune and not a little skill, the remaining emperor’s ear. We can speak reason in it and tame the madness in the street. Yet, I will leave the domestic work of calming the emperor to his second in command. As for myself, to restore order to Rome, I will need power over the affairs of the state. Including command of the Praetorian Guard. The decision is in your hands. Ballot or hand?”

One hand rose immediately. Another followed, then ten, then thirty, and then, all of them. He provided no evidence for his cause…yet there was a unanimous decision.

Macrinus held his hand out to you, and you could only stare up at him in question.

“I believe we shall take the seats that are rightfully ours.” He said lowly.

Carefully, you slipped your hand into his, and he led you up the stairs to sit upon the chair that belonged to Geta, while he took Caracalla’s.

This would be the first and the last time a woman ever sat upon the emperor’s throne.

After being embarrassed that morning, you paced around your chambers. Perhaps you could have found Caracalla and gave him the same reasonings the senate did not listen to. Perhaps he could somehow see to the logic that would be in setting Lucilla free.

No, of course he wouldn’t. Even if his mind was sound, he still knew she was apart of the coup to try and have him dethroned; killed in his mind’s eye.

As your mind grew heavy with existential possibilities towards the future, the door to your chambers opened. Stopping where you stood, you watched as Macrinus entered.

“Now, try to make me understand this," he shook his head. "I let you have your vengeance on the man who used you as a slave, I promised you freedom, and yet you wasted it.”

You clenched your jaw. "How dare you-."

“-How dare I?” He tensed his voice. “How dare I keep silent about your lie? How dare I give you the privilege to take your revenge? I have saved you more than you believe I have harmed you, lady Julia."

The name had always bothered you, but with one emperor dead and the other incapacitated, you assumed it would stop.

Now, it only enraged you more; or perhaps that was just because it was Macrinus saying it.

You glared. “It was your own mistake to believe you were the only one who desired power.”

He took a deep breath, then moving to sit on your bed. “Sit beside me, Rome’s Delight; I have a story to tell you.”

“I am not a child, you may tell me in short.”

“You are not the only slave wishing to be free.” He pulled back the collar of his clothing, revealing a branded ‘M.A’ “You are lucky enough to not carry your master’s mark, but were a slave nonetheless. Marcus Aurelius spoke of peace while still using violence against those who served him.”

Swallowing your pride thickly, you said. “I’m sorry.”

“You have learned now, that is all that matters.”

“But Lucilla will still be dead.” You tried to keep your voice steady. “She wanted the emperors to be gone as much as you, but she will-."

“-Her father enslaved me.”

“Her father is dead; and if taking his empire wasn’t enough, than killing his last child will satisfy you?"

Macrinus clutched your arm, fingers tightening with every word. “I would be careful with how you speak to me. I wish to offer you one last ounce of kindness before I regret it. Now tell me, Brutus, will you accept me as Rome’s new emperor?”

You had all the right to say it was Caracalla, but you thought better of it. So, with the softening of your entire person, you nodded. “I accept you.”

He dropped your arm. “I’ll let you say goodbye this time.”

Macrinus led you down into the dungeons of the palace, and he was right; somehow it was more heavily guarded than the gladiator pit. Even when the worst of the worst prisoners sneered or jeered at you, your sorrow and anger could not stir your fear.

The door to one of the cells was open, and you ran in just as Lucilla turned to see you.

“Five minutes.” Was all Macrinus said before locking the door and leaving.

You embraced one another when he left. Neither of you said anything, just clung to each other as if the world itself would tear you apart.

“Forgive me, mother Lucilla.” You choked up.

Lucilla pulled away, taking your face into her hands. “Sweet child, there is nothing to forgive.”

“I failed you.” The tears finally came. “I was right there in the senate’s room, I-I told them the chaos that would befell Rome if-.”

“-You were in the senate’s room?” She sounded as if her breath had been stolen.

You nodded. “Yes, but they wouldn’t listen!”

“My dear girl,” she smiled. “if you were able to even get half a sentence in, than they listened! My father but sixteen years ago said that it was a shame I had been born a women, for I would have been a magnificent emperor. Yet, here you stand; you who had been once a slave, rose above into having a sear in the senate council.”

Still, no matter how much pride she held, your own shame outweighed it. “I still have failed you.”

“I have already accepted my fate.” She whispered. “I must take care of those who matter to me before I leave this earth.”

“Do not say such things!” You cried. “I’ll still find a way to save you.”

“Hanno is my son.”

You expected her to deny your attempts at rescuing her, you even expected her to coddle you, curse you…but this?

“What?” You uttered.

“He is Lucius Verus Aurulius,” she said gently. “second of his name, but the first son of Maximus Decimus Meridius.”

“The-the gladiator?” Was somehow the first question you asked.

“Yes.” She nodded. “Lucius didn’t run away, I sent him. With him as heir to the empire, I know many would not rest until he was dead. How was he to fight for a claim he knew nothing about? Now, he is here; and I am no longer frightened of dying.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to!”

She shushed you, combing her fingers through your hair. “I can speak to you until the earth is burnt by the sun of how I have made peace, but I know that will not work. So, I have two final requests for you.”

“Anything.”

Lucilla walked to the small desk she had in her cell, then picking up a scroll loosely wrapped in twine. She handed it to you. “My first is to give this to my son before tomorrow. It…explains a great deal of things I do not have the time to say to him.”

You took it, holding it to your heart. “And the second?”

She smiled, wrapping her arms around you and kissing the side of your head. “To take care of him as I intend him to take care of you.”

It was not the first time that day your eyes had grown. “He despises me.”

“If the gods are merciful, then I truly believe you will both come to see eye to eye as the only two who remain.”

“I nearly killed him.” You admitted. “The night before his duel with Acacius, I brought a knife with me and stabbed him; well…not enough to harm him.”

Lucilla shook her head, giggling. “He will need someone who disagrees with him.”

You found yourself laughing along with her, even through your sobs. She pulled away from you, wiping your tears. “He is a good man. He may deny it but believe me when I tell you.”

“I trust you.” You nodded.

She took a deep breath. “I will be with you, even when I’m gone.”

“I…I know.”

“Now go before I beg you to stay.”

You forced yourself away from her before you could change your mind. You could not even look at her as you left her cell and went up the hall. Just in time, you remembered to hide the scroll as Macrinus approached you.

“Leaving so soon?” He asked.

Sighing, you said. “She’s…inconsolable. I couldn’t bear another moment with her.”

Macrinus nodded. “You should rest for the remainder of the day. It has been quite exhausting.”

“Yes,” you agreed. “it certainly has.”

It was the first time that night you were forced to sneak out of the palace on your own. Fortunately, you remembered the route you took to the Gladiator pit and managed to dodge any of the guards on patrol that night.

The pit proved to be more difficult as the overseers of it had less space to watch over, yet you still somehow managed to maneuver them.

Perhaps the gods were on your side.

“Hanno.” You whispered once you found his cell.

The man turned over his shoulder once he heard your voice and approached with a scowl. “What are you doing here?”

You wasted no time, holding out the scroll. “Your mother told me to give you this.”

He paused for only half a beat. “My mother died when-.”

“-Your mother is Lucilla, daughter of Marcus Aurelias.” You whispered fiercely. “And you are Lucius, the lost son.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours as he reached down to the latch of the door, and cracked it opened. “Get inside.”

Though you wished to, you didn’t question how he had unlocked it and only walked in. He shut the door tightly, then took the scroll from you. You stood there as he unraveled it to read. His face changed every few seconds, ranging from distress to downright confusion. When he was finished, he looked at you.

“She gave this to you?” You nodded. “Why?”

“I was allowed to say goodbye to her.”

“From Macrinus?” He tested. “Was this before or after you attempted to steal his power?”

“I was cruel to you.” You admitted. “Even after discovering Acacius had pillaged your home and murdered your wife, I expected you to show mercy. I am astounded you did, but as I look back, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t. My desire for the general to live extends to your mother; if not more. She did not give up my name at any moment despite the fact I too was apart of the coup to try and overthrow the emperors. I cannot simply let her die.”

Lucius stared at you, his gaze intimidating yet at ease. He approached you. “You wish to save her life?”

“More than anything.”

“It is a rumor that Macrinus was the one to puppeteer Caracalla in slaying his brother. But…it wasn’t him, was it?”

Breathing deeply, you looked at the floor. “It was I.”

“Look at me.” He commanded softly, and you did. “Would you kill again if it meant protecting her?”

Your mind said ‘yes’ without a moment’s hesitation, but your heart only sunk into your stomach at the thought. It must have been apparent on your face, for he said.

“There is no shame if you are unable to.”

“I will be with him in the emperor’s box.” You said, determination in your eyes. “I will simply need you to buy me time in the arena. It shall be done.”

Lucius nodded, and released along breath before saying. "I treated you harshly. I...I don't believe I would have survived what you have been put through."

You picked at your fingers. "I think you would have."

"No." He solidified. "I wouldn't."

A silence fell between the two of you. There wasn't a hint of discomfort; as if, for the first time, you felt seen.

“You never told me your name.” Lucius uttered.

You pressed your lips together, shrugging. “It was never important.”

“It has been,” he said. “and it is now. You know my true name, if I am to understand you as how my mother wishes I do, then I must know yours.”

Your mouth parted to speak the first syllable, but even that had felt foreign. You instead lied. “I do not remember it.”

As he looked at you, the steely gaze you always knew began to disappear. “You must remember how it sounded from your mother’s mouth.”

“She died before she could hold me.”

“Then your father.” He walked closer to you, yet you felt no fear. “It does not matter if he was wretched or kind, he spoke your name and your name alone. What did it sound like?”

Like he loved you. Even when he was cross, he never raised his voice. You hated more than ever how tears started to build within your eyes.

“Geta had beaten me until I could no longer use it.” you confessed. “It will feel like poison upon my lips.”

“Then whisper it to me so you will scarcely have to move them.”

You had been lain down on a bed and had every bit of a man touch and invade your body. Even before the emperor, you had lain with people in the past of your choosing…

But none of that amounted to the intimacy you felt in that cell as Lucius stood nearly chest-to-chest with you, hovering his ear over your mouth as you finally (finally) spoke your name aloud.

If the heat of his body lingering over yours did not set your entire being aflame, it was the breath he released once he said.

“It’s a kind name.”

It was all too much for you, so you pulled away from him, drying your eyes. “I…I will pray for your safety.”

He outheld his hand to you. “Strength and honor.”

A saying you had overheard people use as they entered the stadium. You shook his hand. “Strength and honor.”

You didn’t expect to be in the parade Caracalla raved about the day prior. Yet, there you were, draped in the finest and most colorful silks with jewelry in your hair. Inside your sleeve, you’d hidden the same kitchen knife you attempted to stab Lucius with.

You were sat beside Caracalla, who had Dundus upon his shoulder, and who had only grown more delusional since the day prior.

“Where is my brother?” He pulled on your sleeve like a child as you were escorted from the float and into the Colosseum.

A watery smiled pulled upon your lips, and you soothed him. “He feels most unwell today.”

“He should be here.” He sulked as you walked. “He would be happy for me.”

“And he is.” You lied. “You will see him again shortly.”

That managed to ease him, and you both were seated in the emperor’s box with Macrinus. It didn’t escape your vision how hundreds of Praetorians also circled the entire arena. As the time to the match grew closer, you did your best to calm your own nerves. This would be for the good of Rome. Once it was done, you would be able to rest easily again.

It was then you watched as, on one side of the Colosseum, a wagon was rolled out into the center of it. Tied to a pole, dressed up as if she were Venus herself, was Lucilla. All that attempt at soothing yourself was gone once you saw her eyes.

“Must we kill Lucilla?” Caracalla questioned.

You couldn’t even snidely repeat his question to Macrinus you were in such a state of anxiety. Macrinus responded.

“Until she is dead, you will never know peace.”

Thus, the event commenced. The announcer himself even sounded guilt-ridden as he spoke of the crimes Lucilla was being charged with. Treason, betrayal, all of it only anguished the spectators even more to see her being prepared for execution.

“Let it not be said that the Emperor is not merciful!” He yelled. “The queen will be granted a champion to defend her!”

Out from the other side of the arena came Lucius. Half of the Praetorians held their weapons to the man, while the other half faced the civilians as if expecting them to riot. Once again, at the sight of the scene before them, it would not surprise you.

You had been taught one a many myths by your father, mainly belonging to the Greeks. You were Cassandra; blessed by Apollo to speak of prophecies but cursed to not be believed.

When it seemed that hope was gone…Lucius rose his sword, and hundreds of gladiators sprinted from all sides.

The crowd and Caracalla were in an uproar at the excitement. Pandemonium ensued as the gladiators began to climb the barriers and civilians were attempting to enter the arena. The sound of arrows screaming entered your ears; so much so you could not hear what Macrinus was saying to another man, and why Caracalla was screaming.

You simply blinked, and once your eyes were open, you watched as Macrinus dove a needle into the side of Caracalla’s neck, killing him.

Only a gasp tore through your throat, having no ability to scream. Your body soon found reason to move, and you rose to your feet, remembering your duty. Macrinus had acquired a crossbow, aiming it towards Lucilla and Lucius now at the center of the arena.

You rose the knife from your sleeve, charging towards the man. The arrow was fired, and you leapt upon his shoulders.

He moved wildly, trying to force you off of him. You made attempt to slash his throat, but it made contact with his eye instead.

Still…he overpowered you. Flipping you over him, you dropped down into the arena, your head colliding with the ground.

The sky was orange above you when you opened your eyes. Your head had never felt so awful before, and you were surprised you could even sit up. All around you, bodies littered the Colosseum floor. If there was not blood laid before you, there were swords and shields.

Your eyes drifted to the center, and now sunken to the floor, was Lucilla on her wagon. You forced yourself to stand and walk towards her.

When you could see the arrow sticking in her chest, you began to run.

Climbing atop the wagon, you untied the ropes around her hurriedly.

“Mother,” you begged. “mother, can you hear me?”

“I am still here, sweet child.” She whispered weakly.

“Save your energy now.” You managed to free her, and then pulled her to your lap.

“I will be seeing my beloveds now.” She smiled.

“No,” you hissed. “you are going to live.”

She reassured. “It is alright. I have fulfilled everything that was asked of me, and what I wished for.”

“Mother-!”

“-You will look after him, won’t you?”

You wanted to cry; you wished that sadness was the first thing you felt. But no, it was anger. Still, you nodded. “I will, but you will be there to make sure he takes care of me too!”

“He shall.” Was all she said.

“You will live, just please stop talking.”

“I love you.”

“Lucilla…” Your voice broke.

“Tell Lucius I would do this all again for him.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Lucilla rose her hand to your cheek, brushing it tenderly one last time.

Her eyes were held open as she went limp in your arms. You closed her eyelids, knowing her gaze would haunt you.

You did not move for the first hour, nor did you cry out in despair. It was when the sun was completely gone, and you tore yourself away from her corpse did you collapse into a fit of sobs.

The ugliest sounds were released from your mouth as you could barely stand. You do not know how long you cried, but when you could finally move again, you crawled to the nearest sword, and trailed it behind you before climbing back up onto the wagon.

You tied the rope from her body around her legs, and brought her back into your lap, sword in hand.

There was no rest for you that night. You would nearly drift off into sleep, but you couldn’t bring yourself to give in until you could bury her properly. You also couldn’t bring yourself to bury her at the same time.

When you had lost time altogether, and the sky was purple as twilight broke, a gentle hand shook you.

Raising the sword in surprise, you felt your body relax once you saw Lucius. You should have asked how he survived, what happened to Macrinus, anything else…but all you said was.

“I wouldn’t let anyone touch her.”

He nodded, tears threatening to fall as he gazed upon his dead mother. He took a deep breath. “May I take her?”

You handed her to him, and he took her into his arms. You scooted off the wagon, your eyes reddened and exhausted.

“Where,” you cleared your throat. “Where should she be buried?”

“I…” He heaved. “I know where my father’s grave is.”

“Okay.” Was all you managed.

And you walked by his side, neither of you knowing what your fate would befall in Rome.

Yet…once both slaves, you were now free.