#will i just stand there will i look away i need to lock in

[moonlightwritingf1]

The Kiss Tax | LN4

💋 summary ━━━━━━━ Y/N doesn't like Lando's stubble.

💋 pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

💋 word count ━━━━━━━ 2.2k

💋 warnings ━━━━━━━ +18, sexual content, oral sex (f receiving), fingering

Based on this request.

Lando’s lips brushed against Y/N’s, his hands cradling her face like she was something delicate, something precious. She leaned into him, her fingers sliding into his curls, tugging him closer, needing more. But then—the scrape of stubble rubbed raw against her skin. She winced, yanking her head back with a sharp inhale.

“What?” Lando froze mid-kiss, his hands still framing her face, his eyes searching hers.

“Your stupid stubble,” she hissed, rubbing the tender spot on her chin. “It’s like kissing a cheese grater. I told you I can’t stand it.”

His brows arched, a slow, defiant smirk spreading across his face. “Oh, come on. It’s not that bad.”

“Not that bad?” She shot him a glare, crossing her arms. “It’s horrible. I’m not kissing you again until you shave it off.”

Lando tilted his head, his smirk deepening. “Really? You’re going to deny yourself this”—he leaned in, his lips brushing the corner of her mouth, his voice dropping to that low, husky tone that made her stomach tighten—”because of a little stubble?”

She turned her face away, trying to ignore the way her pulse quickened. “Yes. Because it’s not a *little* stubble. It’s like barbed wire.”

“Barbed wire.” He laughed, leaning back on the couch, his arms spread wide. “Dramatic much?”

“I’m serious, Lando.” Her voice was firm, but the way her lips twitched betrayed her. “I’m not putting up with it. It’s uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable.” He repeated the word slowly, as if savoring it. His eyes narrowed playfully. “So, what you’re saying is, you’re a bit of a princess when it comes to this stuff.”

“A princess?” Her voice rose, her jaw dropping. “Excuse me? I’m not the one walking around with a face like a cactus.”

“Cactus.” He laughed again, shaking his head. “First barbed wire, now cactus. What’s next? Sandpaper? A rusty knife?”

“Don’t tempt me,” she shot back, but the corners of her mouth were curving now, despite herself.

Lando leaned forward again, his face inches from hers, his smirk turning devilish. “You know, I think you secretly like it. I think you just like giving me a hard time.”

“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes, pushing at his chest, but he didn’t budge. “I don’t secretly like anything about it. It’s scratchy, it’s irritating, and I’m not letting you near me again until you fix it.”

“Fix it, huh?” His voice dropped, a low rumble that sent a shiver racing down her spine. His hands slid to her waist, pulling her closer. “What if I fix it right now? What if I make it all better for you?”

She tried to hold onto her annoyance, but the look in his eyes—teasing, warm, and just a little bit dangerous��was making it impossible. “Fine,” she said, her voice softer now. “Go on, then. Fix it.”

He grinned, pressing a quick kiss to the tip of her nose before standing up. “Stay there,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Don’t move.”

“Where are you going?” she called after him, though she already knew the answer.

“To fix the cactus,” he threw over his shoulder, disappearing into the bathroom. The sound of water running and the faint buzz of his razor filled the quiet apartment.

Y/N leaned back on the couch, shaking her head, but the smile tugging at her lips was impossible to ignore. Lando always knew how to turn things around, how to make even their little quarrels feel like foreplay. And no matter how much she fought it, she loved him for it.

When he returned, his face clean-shaven and smooth, Lando’s gaze locked on hers with an intensity that made the air between them crackle. He tilted his head, his eyes glinting with that familiar mischief. "Better?" he asked, his voice a low purr, edging closer until his presence filled her space.

Her fingers reached up, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the warmth of his skin sending a shiver up her arm. "Much," she admitted, her voice soft but laced with the slight teasing lilt he loved. The corners of her mouth curved, but before she could say more, his lips were on hers, hard and insistent, and the world narrowed to the feel of him.

Lando kissed her like he was memorizing her, mapping her lips with his tongue, his breath mingling with hers in a rhythm that was all theirs. His hands framed her face, and he deepened the kiss, pulling her closer when she thought it wasn’t possible. He loved kissing her—loved the way her lips softened under his, the way she gasped into his mouth, the way her fingers curled into his shoulders as though she couldn’t get enough of him. Each kiss felt like a revelation, something new yet familiar, like coming home after a storm.

For Y/N, kissing Lando was like diving into the ocean and forgetting how to surface. His lips were soft yet demanding, a contradiction that left her dizzy. Each time their lips met, it was like the first time—raw, electric, and achingly sweet. Fire sparked low in her belly as he nipped at her bottom lip, drawing a sound from her that he swallowed hungrily. She loved the weight of him, the pressure of his body pressing her into the couch, making her feel thoroughly claimed and utterly wanted.

Her breath hitched as one of his hands slid into her hair, tugging gently to expose her neck. The scrape of his tongue against her pulse point made her stomach clench. She slid her fingers into his curls, and he groaned when her nails dragged across his scalp. Kissing him felt like surrender, like defeat, but it wasn’t that. It was something more, something she hadn’t learned how to name yet.

Lando pulled back, barely an inch, and smirked at how breathless she was. His thumb brushed over her swollen lower lip, and he watched raptly as she exhaled sharply. "You’re beautiful like this," he said, his voice rough. He loved seeing her unravel for him, loved knowing he was the one who could make her forget everything but his touch.

"Flatterer," she teased, her voice raspy but still laced with that playful edge. Her cheeks flushed as she tried to stem the warmth radiating from her chest.

"Confident," he corrected with a low chuckle, leaning in to kiss her once more before nipping at her ear. "Always confident when it comes to you."

Before she could respond, Lando was on his knees in front of her, his hands sliding under her thighs to pull her closer to the edge of the couch. Her oversized t-shirt rode up slightly, revealing the curve of her waist, and she shivered as his fingers hooked into the lace of her underwear.

“Lando—” she started, her voice already breathless as he tugged the fabric down her legs, letting it fall to the floor. Her cheeks flushed, but his eyes—dark and hungry—held hers, and for a moment, she forgot how to breathe.

“Trust me,” he whispered, his voice low and gravelly, his lips brushing the inside of her thigh. The warmth of his breath sent a shiver racing through her, and when he leaned in closer, her legs instinctively parted, giving him the access he sought.

Lando’s gaze flicked up to hers, his lips curving into a smirk. “So perfect,” he murmured, his voice thick with reverence. “God, I could spend hours here.” He dipped his head, his tongue dragging a slow, deliberate line up her slit, and she gasped, her hands flying to his hair.

He chuckled against her, the vibration sending a jolt straight to her core. “Tastes so fucking good,” he rasped, his tongue swirling around her clit with a rhythm that made her hips jerk. “You always react so beautifully for me.”

Her head fell back, a moan escaping her lips as his tongue worked its magic, lapping at her in long, slow strokes before flicking over her sensitive bud with precision. “Lando, oh my god,” she panted, her fingers tightening in his curls. “That feels—that’s so...”

“I know,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to tease her with his breath. “But don’t stop talking. Tell me how good it feels.”

She bit her lip, her hips lifting instinctively as he dipped his tongue inside her, the sensation sending sparks shooting through her. “Please, don’t stop,” she whimpered, her voice trembling. “It’s—it’s so good, Lando. I can’t...”

He hummed against her, the sound vibrating through her very core, and she gasped when he slipped a finger inside her, curling it just right. “You’re so wet,” he growled, his lips brushing her clit as he spoke. “Always so responsive for me. It drives me fucking crazy.”

His finger began to move, thrusting in and out in a steady rhythm as his tongue continued its relentless assault on her clit. The dual sensation was overwhelming, and she could feel herself hovering on the edge, only for him to slow down, his teasing smirk evident even without her looking at him.

“Not yet,” he murmured, his breath hot against her skin. “I want to make you feel every second of this.”

She whimpered, her nails grazing his scalp. “Please, Lando, I need—”

“Need what?” he interrupted, his voice thick with mischief. “Tell me.”

She barely managed to form coherent words as he added a second finger, stretching her perfectly, his tongue circling her clit with maddening precision. “I need to come,” she choked out, her voice breaking. “Please, baby, let me—”

“Good girl,” he whispered, and that was all it took. His lips closed around her clit, sucking hard, and she came with a cry, her body shuddering violently as waves of pleasure crashed over her. Lando didn’t let up, working her through it until she was whimpering, her body limp and trembling.

When he finally pulled back, his chin glistening, he looked up at her with a smirk that made her heart skip a beat. “So,” he said, his voice rough with desire. “Did I clean my face completely?”

She laughed breathlessly, her fingers tracing his jawline. “Yes,” she replied, her voice soft and sated. “You did.”

Lando’s lips lingered on the inside of her thigh, his breath warm against her sensitive skin, igniting another spark despite her already trembling body. He crawled up her body, slow and deliberate, his movements smooth, like a predator savoring his prey. When his face hovered just above hers, their breath mingling, he smirked—that cocky, heart-stopping smirk that always had her knees buckling.

“Good,” he whispered, his voice thick with satisfaction, before his lips crashed onto hers in a deep, possessive kiss. His tongue tangled with hers, claiming her mouth with the same intensity he’d claimed her body mere moments ago. She moaned softly into him, her hands sliding up to grip his shoulders, holding onto him as if he were the only anchor in the world.

When he finally pulled back, his breathing ragged, he gazed down at her with an intensity that made her heart pound. “Still mad about the stubble?” he teased, his thumb brushing her cheek.

She chuckled, the sound low and sated. “I think you’ve more than made up for it,” she murmured, her fingers tracing lazy circles on his back.

“Good,” he said again, his lips curving into a satisfied grin. He pressed another kiss to her lips, this one softer, slower, lingering long enough to make her sigh. Then he shifted, pulling her closer until their bodies were wrapped around each other like they were meant to be and somehow always ended up, a tangle of limbs warmth. And everything else melted away.

He reached for the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch, and gently wrapped it around them. Her head rested on his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulling her into a contented daze. For a while, they simply lay there, the silence between them thick with unspoken promises and lingering desire. And then, softly, Y/N broke the quiet.

“You know,” she started, her voice playful but with a hint of vulnerability, “you’ve made it really hard for me to stay mad at you.”

Lando chuckled, the vibrations of his laughter rumbling through her. “Good,” he said again, his fingers idly tracing shapes on her arm. “That was the plan.”

She tilted her head to look up at him, her gaze searching as she asked, “But what about me? Aren’t I supposed to be the one who keeps you in check?”

His smirk returned full force, teasing and irresistible. “Oh, I think you keep me plenty in check,” he replied, leaning in to kiss her temple. “But maybe, just maybe, even Lando Norris isn’t as in control as he’d like to believe.”

She laughed lightly, punching him softly on the chest. “Careful,” she teased, her eyes sparkling with mirth. “That admission might hurt your ego.”

“For you,” he replied instantly, his voice softening as he cupped her cheek with his free hand, “it’s worth the risk.”

Y/n’s breath caught, her smile softening as she gazed at him. “You’re such a romantic,” she murmured, something in the way she said it both light and serious—warning, acceptance, warmth all rolled into one.

He grinned, pressing another affectionate kiss to her hair. “Only for you,” he whispered. “Only ever for you.”

[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 ♡

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Running away so soon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Help me,” Suguru says again.

“Are you out of your mind?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Still sulking, I see.”

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

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

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

“No,” says Shoko, simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gape at her. “How did—”

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

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

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

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

You despise him for it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Geto Suguru is late. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like what? Admiring your own reflection?”

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

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

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

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

Frowning, you ask, “What is this?”

“Information.”

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

“The first task.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You frown, thoughts racing. “A griffin?”

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

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

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

“Go on.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Overconfidence isn’t a strategy, Suguru.”

“Neither is pessimism,” he counters sharply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sweet Merlin,” you breathe out, marvelling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tch. This was a fluke.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t hesitate. “Expelliarmus!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Same time tomorrow?” Suguru breaks the silence.

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

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

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

CHAMPIONS PREPARE FOR GLORY: INSIGHT FROM THE TRIWIZARD FRONTLINES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Talking about me again?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t care.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks,” he says, quieter than usual.

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

Dragons. Your hunch about the first task was right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lumos maxima!”

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

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

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

“Smart move,” Satoru chimes in, hushed. 

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

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

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

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

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

“He did it,” Utahime breathes out.

“Of course he did.” Shoko beams proudly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good, isn’t it?” asks Suguru.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you always this insufferable?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

“I can walk back on my own.”

Suguru sighs, not unkindly. “I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Details,” Satoru demands, grinning wide.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aleksandar Ivanov is not your type at all. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Scarlet and gold.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I have the book?” 

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

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

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

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

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

“The answer to the riddle?” you suggest.

“Which is, what, exactly?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Not the world. Something about the world.”

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

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

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

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

“Don’t call me that,” you grouse. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re quite popular tonight.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That guy,” he says, gesturing at Aleksandar’s retreating figure. “Pretending like you’re actually interested in him.”

You stare at him, your chest tightening at the implication. “Stop it,” you say quietly, steadily.

“Stop what?”

“Stop acting like you care,” you snap. “You made it perfectly clear earlier whose side you were on. Don’t act like you suddenly care about who I spend my time with.”

The mention of your earlier argument over Toji hangs heavy between you, and for a moment, Suguru looks away, jaw tightening. Really, you’re thankful Fushiguro isn’t anywhere near you both. Knowing him, you think he’s the sort of person who thrives off of attention, no matter whether it’s good or bad. He’d be elated to know that Hogwarts’ beloved champion and the school’s runner-up are locked in an argument over him—but it’s not really about Fushiguro Toji, is it?

“I don’t care,” he says finally, though his words lack conviction. “Maybe I just don’t like seeing you waste your time.”

“Funny,” you reply. “I could say the same about you.”

The words linger in the air, stubborn as static. Suguru’s eyebrows knit together, and he reaches out and grabs your wrist—not roughly, but firmly enough to send your pulse racing. “We’re not doing this here,” he says, through gritted teeth, pulling you towards the door.

“What are you—” you start, but he cuts you off with a brisk, “Just come with me.”

You inhale sharply, but follow him down the hallways and up the staircases. You know where he’s taking you before the door to the Room of Requirement even appears. Once inside, the door shuts with a soft click, leaving the two of you alone in the dimly-lit space. You pull your hand free, glaring at him.

“What the Hell is this about, Suguru?”

“You infuriate me,” he says, voice cutting and low and breathless. “You drive me fucking insane, did you know? I dislike you so much.”

You blink at him like he’s just sprouted another head. “What the fuck? How much did Satoru let you drink?”

“I’m not drunk,” he says, eyes narrowing. “I’m just angry—and jealous. I’m so envious, Merlin help me.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

A wry, sardonic chuckle escapes his throat. He lowers his head, strands of hair that spill out of the ribbon framing his face. “I don’t know.”

“You’re such a hypocrite.” You swallow around the lump that forms in your throat. Goosebumps erupt across your shoulders when a sudden cold draft of wind makes you shiver. “I hate you.”

He lifts his face, then, gaze resting on your lips. His mouth parts slightly, as though to say something, but no words come out. Instead, he takes a step closer, and it feels like the room shrinks around you with each inch of space he eliminates. “You hate me?” 

Your heart pounds as you glare up at him, refusing to yield. “I do,” you snap, though your voice wavers just slightly.

Suguru lets out a bitter laugh. “Liar,” he says, so quietly, it almost doesn’t register. His hand moves before you can think to react, cupping your jaw, fingers brushing along the sensitive skin behind your ear. His thumb skims your cheek. “You hate me so much, but you’re still here. You can walk away. I won’t stop you.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You stay rooted in the spot, and your nails dig into your palms. “Shut up,” you whisper, though it sounds more like a plea than a command.

He doesn’t. Instead, his thumb moves lower, brushing along the corner of your mouth, lips turning up in a half-smirk when he sees the way your eyes flutter shut for the briefest of moments. “You’re flustered,” he notes, soft, “but you hate me, right?”

Something inside you snaps. With every ounce of venom you can muster, you repeat, “I do.”

And then you’re grabbing him by the front of his emerald green dress robes, yanking him down until your lips crash against his. It’s uncoordinated, a clashing of teeth and anger and frustration. Suguru freezes for half a second before he groans against your mouth, his hands sliding to your waist as he pulls you flush against him. 

It’s not gentle. His lips are rough, demanding, teeth scraping your bottom lip as if to punish you for every word you’ve ever said to rile him up. But you’re just as relentless, fingers tangling in his hair while you blindly undo the ribbon holding it in place, pulling sharply enough to draw a hiss from his throat. 

“You’re impossible,” you mutter against his mouth, breath coming out in short gasps.

“So are you,” he fires back. His lips trail down to your jaw, teeth grazing the skin there. “You drive me mad.”

You don’t bother replying, instead tugging his hair harder, forcing his mouth back to yours. His hands tighten on your waist, fingers digging into the silk of your dress as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. You’re barely aware of the way Suguru backs you up against the nearest wall, his body pressing against yours while his mouth moves hungrily against your own.

“Say it,” he murmurs against your lips, low but somehow pleading.

“Say what?” you breathe out, though you know exactly what he means.

“Say you don’t hate me,” he demands, the words said into your neck, teeth skating over your skin and making you shudder.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, and you bite back a gasp. “No,” you whisper defiantly.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes dark and wild, chest rising and falling heavily. “Liar,” he mutters again, before crashing his lips against yours and swallowing any further protests.

(Later, when you stir from sleep, your dress barely doing anything to shield you from the chill, the first thing you notice is Suguru beside you. His head rests against the stone floor, hair unbound and spilling like ink over the cold surface. You don’t know when you fell asleep, but you do know how you ended up so close, your hands almost touching.

When his eyes flutter open, heavy with sleep, neither of you speaks. He exhales softly, gaze dipping to where your fingers nearly meet, and though his lips don’t form the words, the apology is there. You know this because he hooks his little finger with yours, and squeezes.)

For the next month, you do the logical thing: You avoid Geto Suguru at all costs.

This, you’ve decided, is a perfectly reasonable course of action. A brilliant one, even. It takes careful planning—adjusting your usual routes between classes, lingering longer than necessary in the library, arriving at meals either too early, or too late—but you are nothing if not meticulous, and you refuse to let him and your feelings for him become an inconvenience. 

You do feel guilty, however, about not helping him out with the second task, but the way you see it, Suguru is more than intelligent enough to figure it out on his own. (You refuse to acknowledge the fact that you spend time trying to piece it out when you can’t sleep at night, staring up at the canopy of your four-poster bed.)

You’re doing quite well, really. Or, you would be, if not for your insufferable friends.

The courtyard is unusually lively today. The air hums with the lingering remnants of winter, crisp but pleasant beneath the afternoon sun. Students—both Hogwarts and not—lounge in clusters across the stone benches and patches of grass, basking in the rare moment of warmth. Laughter carries through the open space like birdsong.

You sit with your friends at one of the broader stone benches, a small pile of books and a stray Golden Snitch hovering in the air beside you (pilfered from the Quidditch supply closet by Slytherin’s star seeker, Gojo Satoru himself). It should be peaceful. It should be, but—

“You’re objectively wrong, and I refuse to entertain this nonsense any further.” Utahime crosses her arms, looking positively scandalised.

Satoru scoffs. “Utahime, be serious.”

“I am serious! You’re the one who sounds like an idiot.”

“I am an idiot,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “But at least I’m right.”

Shoko exhales slowly, pressing her fingers against her temples. “Merlin’s beard, what are you two even arguing about?”

“More importantly,” Mei Mei pipes up, swiping the Snitch from the air, “are we supposed to care?”

“Yes,” you say dryly, “if only to prevent them from tearing each other apart in the middle of the courtyard.”

Utahime turns to you, looking deeply affronted. “You agree with me, don’t you?”

“I don’t even know what the argument is about.”

Satoru gestures broadly with both palms. “I’m simply saying that if a Thestral and a Hippogriff were to fight, the Thestral would obviously win.”

Silence. You blink. “That’s what you’re arguing about?”

“First of all,” Utahime says, ignoring your incredulity, “that is completely wrong.”

“Oh, this will be good,” Satoru says, only a tad bit sarcastic. He sprawls onto a patch of dewy grass and leans back on his hands. “Do explain.”

“Hippogriffs are way more aggressive than Thestrals,” Utahime says. “And they have stronger beaks and claws. They’d win in a fight easily.”

“Thestrals literally eat meat,” Satoru argues. “They’re meant to take things down.”

“So do Hippogriffs!” Utahime points out. “Thestrals eat meat, but that doesn’t mean they’re fighters. They hunt only when necessary. They won’t even attack unless provoked.”

“Alright, but let’s say they were provoked—”

“By what, your stupidity?”

Satoru grins. “At least Thestrals don’t try to smite your face off because you bowed down to greet them at the wrong angle. Plus, they have the advantage of being invisible to everyone except those who’ve come face-to-face with death.”

Utahime makes a noise of frustration, and before you know it, the conversation has devolved into a full-blown debate. Mei Mei, ever the neutral one, watches with amusement, and Shoko starts taking sides. She and Utahime argue passionately in favour of Hippogriffs, citing their sheer power and aggression, while Satoru insists that Thestrals are stronger due to their skeletal structure and ability to take down large prey. You are promptly dragged into the discussion, despite having absolutely no opinion on the matter.

“It’s obviously a Hippogriff,” Utahime exclaims, gesturing wildly.

“You would think that, wouldn’t you?” the only Slytherin in the group shoots back.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s insulting.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Honestly, this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever—”

“You agree with me, don’t you?” Satoru rounds on you, eyes gleaming. 

You exhale, immediately regretting being within earshot of this conversation. “What?”

“You agree that a Thestral would win.”

You narrow your eyes. “I never said that.”

“Yeah, but you will.”

You sigh defeatedly, looking to the others for support, but Utahime merely juts her chin out. “Suguru wouldn’t agree with you,” she says pointedly.

Satoru snorts. “Suguru would agree with whatever she—” he points to you— “says.”

And just like that, your world tilts. The conversation continues around you—more bickering, more laughter—but it all fades into a dull hum, a sort of background noise to the sudden rushing in your ears. Suguru would agree with whatever you say.

It’s absurd. It’s just Gojo Satoru being Gojo Satoru, throwing out careless words without stopping to think about them. But the worst part—the part that unsettles you the most—is that he might be right.

You think of the way Suguru used to argue with you, sharp-tongued and obstinate, yet never truly cruel. How he always listened, even when he pretended not to. How, more often than not, he did end up on your side, whether by reason or sheer inevitability.

You inhale sharply, hands curling into fists on your lap. You make no move to join back in on the conversation—because, really, what is there to say?

That you can still feel the ghost of his hands on your skin? That you can still taste the Butterbeer he’d had on the eve of the Yule Ball when he slotted his lips against yours? That his name has lodged itself between your ribs, stubborn as a curse? That your heart stutters at the mere thought of him; that you cannot—will not—let yourself dwell on what could be if you let go of your pride, and he relinquished his arrogance?

No, there’s nothing to say at all.

When you agreed to help Utahime rearrange the awards and plaques in the Trophy Room after classes, you certainly were not expecting her to lock you up in said room with one Geto Suguru. If it was any of your other friends—Shoko, Satoru—you would not have been very inclined to help out, but it was Utahime who asked, which is why you acquiesced. At least you can say, with utmost certainty, that sweet, loving Utahime Iori is not sweet or loving at all.

There’s a brief moment of silence as the heavy door slams shut behind you; you reach for your pocket instinctively to pull out your wand and cast Alohomora—the Unlocking Charm—and make your escape. Then, you belatedly realise that you’d left your wand in your dormitory after classes. Your fingers curl around nothing, and you feel rather stupid. 

Dust motes dance in the golden afternoon light, settling over gleaming plaques and silver trophies, their engravings telling stories of menial victories long past. The air smells like polish, but you hardly notice. Your pulse roars in your ears, loud enough to drown out all other sound but the one voice you had hoped to avoid indefinitely.

“Utahime,” you call through the door, voice strained but not yet desperate. “This isn’t funny.”

There’s no answer, save for the sound of retreating footsteps. You spin on your heel, fully prepared to ignore Suguru entirely until Utahime returns, but then he shifts—just the slightest movement, a tilt of his head, a shift of his weight from one foot to the other—and it’s as if some sort of invisible thread yanks you to him.

“I didn’t expect the Head Girl to actually agree to bring you here,” he says, voice low.

He looks tired. You hate that you notice.

His hair is loose, strands slipping over his shoulders, dark against the pale slope of his throat. His uniform is slightly disheveled—tie loosened, shirt rolled up to his elbows—but it’s his face that makes something in you twist uncomfortably. There are shadows beneath his eyes, bruised with exhaustion, and though his usual easy arrogance lingers in the set of his jaw, his shoulders are rigid, as though he’s bracing for impact.

You force yourself to turn away, to focus on the nearest plaque. The etched names are a blur as you try and fail to appear unaffected. Draconius Falmoy: Head Boy, 1869, it reads.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Suguru says. There is no accusation in his tone—just fact, cold and clear as glass.

You trace the name engraved on the plaque with a fingertip. “I’ve been busy.”

A humourless laugh. “Right. Too busy to even look at me?”

You clench your teeth. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” His voice sharpens, something brittle underlying it. “You haven’t spoken to me in a month. I don’t even know if you’d still acknowledge my existence if we weren’t locked in her together.”

You suck in a breath sharply, counting backward from ten in your head. You’ve spent weeks perfecting the art of pretending Suguru doesn’t exist; you’re not about to let him unravel it now. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” you manage to say, turning around to face him properly at last. “That I’m sorry? That I feel guilty?”

Suguru watches you, unreadable, dark eyes wrought with something you can’t name. “I didn’t ask for an apology.”

“No,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest, “but you clearly want one.”

Something in his expression flickers—hurt, maybe, or something close to it—but it vanishes so quickly, you think you might have imagined it. He sighs, running a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face.

“I don’t understand you,” he says finally. “You kissed me, and then you disappeared.”

Your stomach lurches. “It wasn’t—”

“What?” He steps forward, gaze locked on yours. “It wasn’t supposed to happen? It didn’t mean anything?”

You hesitate, because you know that’s what you should say. You should roll your eyes, scoff, tell him he’s being ridiculous and move on like the Yule Ball never happened. He takes another step forward, and he’s close, now—close enough that you catch the faint scent of parchment and cedarwood, familiar enough after all the weeks you’ve spent in the Room of Requirement with him. You should say, Of course it didn’t mean anything, Suguru, don’t be stupid, but the words stick in your throat, prickly and unyielding.

“Tell me it meant nothing, and I won’t bother you ever again,” he promises, soft, and somehow that’s worse.

You swallow hard. “Suguru—”

He shakes his head, a bitter smile curling at his lips. “Nevermind.” He turns away, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You’re good at that, aren’t you? Pretending.”

 The words cut deeper than they should. You don’t respond, because what could you possibly say? That he’s right? That every morning, you tell yourself it was a mistake, that it didn’t matter, that you can keep pretending it never happened—only to feel his touch lingering on your skin like a phantom’s fingers?

No. You can’t say any of that. Instead, you press your lips together and say nothing.

The silence that follows is thick and heavy and suffocating. You don’t move. Neither does he. You count the seconds in your head, waiting for something—anything—to break this unbearable tension.

Then, at long last, a knock raps against the door. “Alright,” Utahime calls out, sounding far too smug for your liking. “I think you’ve suffered enough.”

The lock clicks. The door swings open. Suguru doesn’t spare you a glance as he strides past, his shoulder just barely brushing yours as he leaves. The Trophy Room suddenly feels too big, too quiet, and you’re left standing alone amidst the gleaming remnants of past victories, your heartbeat echoing loud in your ears. (You have the gnawing feeling that Draconius Falmoy, Head Boy of Hogwarts in 1869 would laugh at your predicament.)

“I’m sorry,” Utahime tells you, as you fall in step with her. “He kept asking me to help him find a way to talk to you—he even promised he would donate the thousand Galleons he gets as prize money for the Triwizard Tournament to St. Mungo’s Hospital of Magical Maladies and Injuries, if he wins.”

You don’t say anything, only look down at the stone floor of the corridor as you walk back to Gryffindor Tower. You can’t fault Utahime; she has always been extremely kind-hearted and gentle, and you know the idea of a donation to the wizarding hospital would sway her completely—especially considering the fact that it’s been her dream to become a Healer after she graduates Hogwarts.

“Are you mad at me?” she asks, after a beat.

“No,” you say, flashing her a small smile that you hope is convincing. Truthfully, you’re just mad at yourself.

The plan is simple: Bribe Geto Suguru with sweets and pray he doesn’t hex you on sight.

It’s not your most sophisticated scheme, nor your most dignified, but after an entire month of avoidance, and the disaster that was the Trophy Room incident, you’ve resigned yourself to desperate measures. You are doing this, not because you feel guilty, but because you had agreed to help him out with the Tournament, and you don’t want to feel like a shitty person for going back on your word. Regrettably, it is incredibly difficult to help someone when you can’t look them in the eye.

Aforementioned desperate measures include grilling Shoko for every last detail about Suguru’s favourite things. She doesn’t make it easy.

“You’re acting like you’re about to woo him,” she’d remarked, flipping idly through the pages of her Potions textbook and entirely uninterested in your plight.

“I’m not trying to woo him.”

“You’re learning all of his favourite things, buying him chocolates, agonising over the best way to give them to him—all on Valentine’s day, too. I’m certain that that’s called wooing.”

Your face had burned; it wasn’t your fault the organisers decided to conduct the second task only ten days before the holiday of love. “I’m apologising,” you’d insisted.

Shoko had hummed, but despite her incredulousness, she’d humoured you and rattled off a list of trivial details about Suguru’s preferences—his favourite tea (jasmine), his favourite book (something tedious and philosophical), the subjects he likes best (Charms and Transfiguration, though you knew this already). Most importantly, of course, the only Honeydukes chocolates he actually cares for: dark chocolate-covered honeycomb. (“But only from Honeydukes,” Shoko had warned. “He says the other ones taste like burnt sugar.”)

Which is how you find yourself in Hogsmeade, the wizarding village closest to Hogwarts, the morning air crisp and cold, clutching a small, carefully-wrapped box of sweets like your life depends on it. Hogsmeade is lively, bustling with students eager to escape the castle for the day. The scent of butterbeer and freshly-baked pastries wafts through the air. All around you, couples wander hand-in-hand, jumpers pulled tight around their bodies to ward off the early spring chill, and their laughter bright against the grey sky. Shopfronts are decorated in ridiculous shades of pink and red, hearts and flowers strung across windows in celebration of Valentine’s Day.

The sight makes you feel vaguely ill, because this is not a romantic gesture. (Then why does it feel like your heart is about to leap out of your throat every time you think of him?)

You don’t linger in Honeydukes—Hogsmeade’s best chocolatier—for longer than necessary, as much as the toasty warmth and aroma of cocoa makes you want to stay. Making quick work of purchasing the chocolates, you step back out onto the cobbled streets, heart hammering at the thought of what you’re about to do. 

It’s not that you’re nervous. Not really. It’s just that approaching Suguru after everything feels a bit like facing a sleeping dragon—you don’t know if he’ll tolerate your presence or scorch you on sight. Still, you have to try.

You find him standing outside The Three Broomsticks, a pub and restaurant owned by the friendly Madam Rosmerta. He is not alone; Satoru and a few Durmstrang students surround him. He looks relaxed, hands tucked into his pockets, but there’s something in his expression that wasn’t there before. The tiredness clings to him still, there in the worn-out slump of his shoulders. Guilt gnaws at your ribs.

You hesitate, watching him laugh at something Satoru says. Maybe this is stupid. Maybe he doesn’t care anymore. Maybe—

Suguru turns and sees you. You don’t think you’ve ever stood so still in your life.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. The noise of Hogsmeade fades into the background, muffled and distant, like the world has shrunk down to just the space between you. His expression is shuttered, brows knitted together in a frown.

Your fingers tighten around the box. You should leave. You should turn around, pretend you never saw him, and—

His gaze flickers to your hands. Oh, Merlin’s beard.

With a sharp inhale, you straighten your spine and march forward before you can change your mind. Satoru notices you first, perking up like a dog catching sight of a squirrel. “Hey, look who it is! Fancy seeing you over here.”

You ignore him and stop directly in front of Suguru. His eyes widen slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to actually approach him. You shove the box into his hands.

Suguru blinks, catching it before it can fall. “What—?”

“It’s an apology,” you mutter, staring at the ground. “Take it or leave it.”

He doesn’t say anything immediately. You wonder, vaguely, if you’ve made a horrible mistake. If he’ll laugh, or hand it back, or— “...Honeycomb?” he asks quietly.

“...Yeah.”

Something shifts in his eyes, something subtle and indecipherable. He stares at the box, fingers tightening around the edges. When he finally looks back at you, there’s something in his gaze that makes your breath hitch. 

You don’t wait to see what he does next. Instead, you turn on your heel and walk away, determined to ignore the pounding of your heart. 

You don’t look back. You don’t see the way he watches you go, either.

(That night, when you tentatively enter the Room of Requirement for the first time in what feels like forever, you find Suguru already there, sitting cross-legged on one of the cushions. The box of Honeydukes chocolates lies open on the ground in front of him. You drop down onto the cushion opposite him, and wordlessly, he pushes the box closer to you.)

The sky is pale, streaked with the last wisps of winter clouds, the sun still struggling to bring warmth to the February chill. It is not quite cold, not quite warm, that strange in-between where the air nips at exposed skin but doesn’t truly bite. The Quidditch pitch has been transformed. The stands are packed with students, banners waving in the light breeze, and an expectant hush hangs over the crowds, despite the murmur of conversation. 

The Black Lake gleams darkly in the distance, but the task does not take place in its depths. Instead, the champions stand in a row on the dewy grass of the Quidditch pitch, preparing for whatever horrors the second task of the Triwizard Tournament entails.

You already know what those horrors are. 

The riddle had taken a frustratingly long time to decode, to come up with a proper answer instead of a mere hunch. Ego sum prinicipium mundi et finis saeculorum; once the answer had clicked into place, it had seemed almost too simple. I am the beginning of the world and the end of ages. What was the first thing humans ever knew? What was the last thing they felt before death? 

Fear.

And so, the second task would force the champions to face their deepest fears, drawn from the constellations carved into the rings they had procured from the first task. It is an elegant, cruel bit of magic—one that ensures their struggles are uniquely personal.

From your place in the stands, you’re offered a clear view of the champions standing in the centre of the field, their expressions barely concealing their tension. Their rings glint in the light, the engraved constellations gleaming like ancient runes. Anticipation coats each of the champions like a second skin, shoulders stiff, hands clenched, magic thrumming in the air. You’d arrived earlier than your friends, so you sit alone, fingers curling into the hem of your robes.

In front of the champions is a large, dome-like structure that shimmers faintly with spells and charms. That is where the task will take place, hidden from the eyes of the over-eager audience to grant the champions some semblance of privacy while they complete the second task. 

You spot Suguru immediately. He stands with his back straight, arms crossed over his chest, face completely blank. His long hair is tied back loosely, a few strands slipping free and brushing against his cheeks. He does not fidget, does not shift from foot to foot like the other two, but there is a tightness to his stance, a rigidity in the way his shoulders refuse to relax.

A hush falls over the crowd as the first champion is announced to enter the dueling arena. Aleksandar Ivanov tries to hide his nervousness, but you can see the slight hesitation in his step and the way he grips his wand so tightly, his knuckles turn white. His ring bears the constellation Hydra, the many-headed serpent—a symbol of resilience, of something that cannot be easily destroyed. You wonder what he fears.

A glittering door begins to take shape, starting from the base of the dome. It creaks open, revealing a dark, yawning abyss beyond. Shadows slither across the ground, shifting and twisting, while the Boggart inside, enhanced by Tournament magic, begins to take form. 

Boggarts, as you’ve studied in your Defence Against the Dark Arts class, are amortal, shape-shifting non-beings that take on the form of its observer’s worst fear. Because of their shape-shifting ability, no one knows what a Boggart’s true shape is, as it changes form instantly upon encountering someone. The incantation used to banish a Boggart is simple—dispel the fear with amusement while casting Riddikulus. However, seeing as the Boggarts the champions must face are magically enhanced, you suspect a simple Boggart-Banishing Spell will not be enough. The thought alone is enough to fill your mind with worry.

Aleksandar steps into the darkness, the door vanishing behind him. The rules are simple: Each champion must navigate a maze of illusions, battle their own fears, and rescue the person chosen for them. The champion who succeeds in the shortest amount of time will earn the most points. An enchanted hourglass hovers in the air, grains of sand slipping through its neck to mark the passage of time.

You barely breathe as the minutes tick by, until Aleksandar finally emerges. His friend—the person he had to rescue—jogs out behind him, looking ashen but otherwise alright. It’s the Durmstrang champion whose face is drawn, whose hands are trembling. He is victorious—but shaken.

The Beauxbatons champion is next. Amélie takes longer than expected. She stumbles as she exits, her breath ragged, and her face streaked with something that might be tears. Her hands shake so violently that she can barely accept the glass of water being handed to her.

It is grueling. It is cruel.

And Suguru is yet to go.

You swallow hard as he steps forward, the light catching the gold of his ring, the constellation Lupus etched onto its surface. The wolf—strength, transformation. But strength does not mean the absence of fear.

He does not hesitate, moving towards the dome’s entrance. You can hear people whispering around you—students murmuring their predictions, placing their bets, trying to guess what exactly a boy like Geto Suguru could possibly fear. You grip the edge of your robes tightly.

The door shimmers into existence before him, tall and forbidding. It creaks open slowly, revealing the same thing it has for the previous two champions—an abyss of darkness, shifting and coiling like smoke. He steps inside. The door disappears. The enchanted hourglass flips, grains of sand slipping through its narrow neck. You exhale, only then realising that you had held your breath.

The stands are still buzzing with conversation, but it is nothing more than a distant hum in your ears. Your entire focus is on the closed dome, on the way your heart beats faster than it should, as if your body already knows something your mind is yet to understand.

What is he afraid of? 

Suguru is not fearless—no one is—but he has always carried himself in a way that makes him seem like he is. Unshaken, unbothered, his composure held so effortlessly that it has always frustrated you in ways you dare not name. He stands with an arrogance that makes it hard to imagine him afraid of anything at all.

Still, you know that arrogance is a performance. A shield. Suguru hates appearing weak, more than anything else, so he deludes everyone else into thinking he is not. You had thought that the riddle that you had agonised over for weeks was cruel in itself, but this is worse. The waiting. The not-knowing.

Your stomach twists into impossible knots as the minutes drag on. Five minutes. Six. Eight. You count each grain of sand slipping down the hourglass. Ten minutes pass.

Twelve minutes, and then—

The door bursts open. Suguru steps into the light, and he is not alone. Your breath catches in your throat.

Gojo Satoru stumbles behind him, blinking against the sudden brightness. His white hair is disheveled, his expression more one of confusion than relief. He shakes Suguru off with a scowl, tugging his sleeve free from where Suguru’s fingers still grip the fabric.

“You didn’t have to drag me—” Satoru starts, but he stops as soon as he catches sight of Suguru’s face. His expression shifts; wariness replaces irritation, amusement slips away like a mask crumbling at the edges.

Suguru stands rigid, shoulders taut with unnatural tension. His face is stony, unreadable, perfectly blank in the way that only means he’s holding something back.

The hourglass stops. It has only been slightly less than thirteen minutes.

Geto Suguru is the fastest champion to finish the second task of the Triwizard Tournament.

The cheers begin, slow at first—someone in the stands starts shouting his name, then another, and another, until the entire pitch is filled with applause and hoots. You barely hear it.

Suguru is not okay.

He doesn’t acknowledge the cheering, doesn’t even react to it. His jaw is clenched so tightly that you can see the strain in his muscles. He isn’t even looking at Satoru anymore—his gaze is fixed somewhere beyond him, unfocused and distant.

Then, as if pulled by some invisible force, his eyes lift—and he sees you.

For a fleeting moment, something breaks in his expression. A flicker of something raw and fractured, a crack in the mask. He huffs quietly, tiredly, and he walks away without a word.

Your stomach sinks. Something is wrong.

You barely notice the way the crowd is still celebrating his victory, the way students are excitedly chatting about how he finished faster than anyone else, because of course he did—Geto Suguru is the strongest, after all.

(But strength does not mean the absence of fear.)

Your fingers tremble slightly as you watch his retreating figure. His posture is stiff, and his steps are too controlled. You should look away, should let him leave. You should accept that whatever happened inside that dome is his burden to carry.

But you can’t, because suddenly, all you can think of is the way he looked at you just now. Like he needed to see you; like you needed to see him.

And, well, it’s quite silly in retrospect, but it’s a realisation that settles over you quietly, as if it’s been there all along and you’ve just stupidly buried it underneath your own pride and arrogance: You don’t hate Geto Suguru at all.

“Go away,” Suguru says, stubborn as ever. He is propped up against a pillow on one of the beds in the Hospital Wing. An empty vial of Calming Draught is placed on the stand next to him, though you don’t mention it. Beside it, a half-empty box of Honeydukes chocolates.

“No,” you tell him, just as obstinate.

Suguru scowls. “I don’t want company.”

You ignore him, dragging a nearby chair closer to his bedside with an obnoxious scrape against the floor before sitting down. He doesn’t look at you, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the tall windows of the Hospital Wing, where the afternoon light spills golden over the Hogwarts grounds. His hair is slightly damp—most likely due to sweat—and the dark strands cling to his forehead.

“Are you hurt?” you ask, eyes flicking to the empty vial of Calming Draught.

He scoffs. “Wouldn’t be here if I was.”

“You are here.”

He sighs, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, as if trying to rub away whatever still lingers in his mind. “It’s just protocol. The Healers made me take a Calming Draught after the task, and apparently, that warrants a few hours of observation.”

You glance at him. He might not be physically injured, but there is something wrong, something unsettling in the way he carries himself. 

“You were in there only for thirteen minutes,” you say carefully. “That’s— That’s insane, actually.”

“I won, didn’t I?” he mutters.

“That’s not what I asked.”

He barks out a short laugh. “No. It isn’t.”

Silence, again. Suguru isn’t like this—not normally. He thrives in competition, in the thrill of battle, in the excitement of a challenge. He doesn’t dwell. He doesn’t let things linger like ghosts at the edges of his thoughts. But right now, it feels like he is being haunted.

“I saw your face when you came out,” you say, quieter this time. “You weren’t okay.”

His fingers curl into the sheets, gripping tightly. “It was just a Boggart.”

“A magically enhanced Boggart,” you remind him. “We don’t know how they worked, what they—”

“It’s over,” he snaps, cutting you off. “I’m done talking about it.”

You stare at him, waiting for him to meet your gaze, but he doesn’t. His shoulders are rigid—drawn tighter than they were before the task commenced—and his body is tense, as if he’s holding something in so tightly, it might crack him apart.

“...Was it Satoru?” you ask gently. “Is that what you—”

Suguru flinches, and somehow, that tells you enough. Your stomach twists. What did he see? Suguru and Satoru had come out of the dome together—Satoru unharmed, though clearly confused. The task had required him to rescue someone, and he’d done just that by saving his best friend. But what had he seen in there?

Suguru finally exhales, turning his head to you. “It was just a task,” he says. “And I won. That’s all that matters.”

“Stop pretending,” you say, voice sharper now. “I saw you after the task, and you weren’t fine. You still aren’t.”

Suguru narrows his eyes at you, but doesn’t respond. Instead, he looks away again, staring out the window like it might offer him some escape. You wait for some kind of acknowledgement, some crack in his carefully constructed walls. 

“I’m fine,” he says, but it’s too strained to be convincing. “It was just a stupid Boggart. It’s over.”

“No, it’s not,” you argue. “It’s obviously still bothering you, so just—just admit it. Tell me what happened, Suguru. I can try to help.”

He whips his head back toward you, eyebrows furrowed, patience wearing thin. “I don’t need to explain myself to you,” he snaps. “It’s over. I’m fine. End of story.”

You refuse to back down. “Don’t shut me out. I’m not going to just sit here and pretend I didn’t see the way you almost cracked when you came out of the dome!”

Suguru’s eyes flash with anger, his fingers curling into fists on his thighs. “I don’t need your pity, alright? So just drop it.”

“No, I can’t just drop it.” Your voice trembles with frustration. Why won’t he just listen? “I fucking care about you, and I can see it’s bothering you. What the Hell are you so afraid of?”

His entire body stiffens at your words. His gaze darts away again, and you know—you know—he’s trying to hold something back. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but then he shuts it again.

“I’m not afraid,” he mutters, but there’s a brittleness to his voice that betrays him. “I told you, I’m fine. It’s over. Stop pushing.”

“You’re lying. What is it? What did you see in there?”

Suguru glares at you, his chest rising and falling with short, shallow breaths. Then, in a sudden burst of frustration, he spits out the words that he’s been holding back for far too long. “It was you, alright?!”

You freeze. “...What?”

“It was you,” Suguru repeats harshly. “I saw you in there—but you weren’t you.” he falters, but the words keep coming. “You—your eyes—they were empty, like something had taken you and left nothing behind. I couldn’t reach you. You were just standing there. Gone.” He stops, swallowing hard, trying to reign in his emotions, but it’s too late.

Your mouth runs dry, your pulse racing as his words echo in your head.

Suguru turns away from you, but you can see the rigidness in his back. “I couldn’t—couldn’t bring you back. I tried, but you were just gone, and there was nothing I could do.” He inhales wearily. “Like a Dementor had sucked the soul out of you, and I couldn’t do anything about it because my Patronus Charm wouldn’t fucking work, and—”

Your mind whirls. You know his fear now. It’s not some grand disaster, some monstrous threat—it’s losing you. Losing you in some way that he can’t fix.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

For a long moment, you don’t speak. The only sound between you is the faint rustling of the Hospital Wing curtains shifting in the late afternoon breeze. Suguru’s chest rises and falls unsteadily. He refuses to look at you now, as if saying it out loud was already enough, as if giving his fear a form has made it real.

Of all the things you could have imagined, you’d never expected this. Suguru, who meets every challenge with an infuriating smirk, who stands unshaken even in the face of the impossible—he had been terrified. And it had been because of you.

You open your mouth, then close it. What do you even say to something like that?

Your heart aches at the way he’s withdrawn, curling in on himself as though he’s trying to make himself smaller. As though, now his secret has slipped, he’s bracing himself for whatever comes next.

So, instead of speaking, you move. Slowly, cautiously, you reach forward and wrap your arms around him.

Suguru stiffens immediately. His whole body goes tense under your touch, like he’s caught between the instinct to pull away and the desperate need to hold on. But then, after a beat of hesitation, he exhales shakily—and lets himself collapse into you.

It almost knocks the breath out of your lungs. His arms lock around you, tight—so impossibly tight that it almost hurts. He buries his face against your shoulder, and he grips onto you like he’s afraid that if he lets go, you’ll disappear; like he’s trying to convince himself that you’re real, that you’re here.

You don’t say anything. You just hold him.

His breathing is uneven, shallow at first, but gradually, as you rub slow circles into his back, it steadies. One of his hands curls into the fabric of your robes at your waist, clutching you like you’re a lifeline.

You feel him take a shuddering breath. “I know it wasn’t real,” he murmurs into your shoulder. “I know that. But it—fuck, it felt real.”

You nod, letting him press himself closer. “I know,” you whisper.

“I couldn’t do anything,” he admits. “I couldn’t do anything. I was right there, and you—you were just standing there, and I kept calling your name, but you didn’t even blink. And my Patronus—it wouldn’t work.” His grip on you tightens. “It wouldn’t fucking work.”

You don’t need him to explain why that matters. A Patronus is a partially-tangible positive energy force created from the caster’s happiest memories, either incorporeal as a burst of white mist, or corporeal—stronger than the incorporeal one—where it takes the form of an animal. It’s used to ward off Dark Magic—most commonly, creatures known as Dementors, which thrive off of negative emotions. The image of you, hollow, is what happens if a Dementor gets close enough to a person to perform the Dementor’s Kiss: Sucking the soul out of a person, leaving them a shell of their former selves. The Patronus Charm is complicated and difficult, so much so that most experienced wizards themselves struggle with casting it. 

You know how powerful Suguru’s magic is. The fact that, in his fear, he hadn’t managed to cast it—not even an incorporeal one— 

You swallow past the lump in your throat. “You would’ve saved me.”

He makes a sound at the back of his throat, something like a scoff. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do,” you say fiercely, protectively. “If that had been real, you would’ve found a way.”

Something in him seems to rupture in him at your words. His arms tighten just a fraction more before he finally—finally—relaxes against you. The tautness in his muscles begins to ease, his breathing growing softer, deeper. He still doesn’t let go, but it isn’t out of desperation. It’s something else now.

“I hate this,” he says, after a pause.

“Hate what?”

“That I had to see that.” He exhales against your skin. “That you had to hear all of this.”

You shake your head, pulling back just enough to look at him. “Suguru.”

He finally lifts his head. His face is guarded but tired—so tired. His eyes, dark as ink, roam over your face. You meet his gaze and let your hands move up, threading gently into his hair. “I don’t care that you’re afraid,” you say, softly. “I’m afraid, too.”

Suguru looks at you for a long time, unreadable. You wonder if he’s going to argue, if he’s going to brush you off, or deflect with sarcasm, the way both of you have been doing all this time. But he doesn’t.

Instead, his hand moves to your face. The touch is hesitant at first; his fingers ghost over your cheek, like he’s still trying to convince himself that you’re real. Then, his thumb brushes over your skin, slow and soft. You don’t dare to breathe.

His gaze flickers down to your lips, then back up. “You’re still here,” he murmurs, so quietly that you almost miss it.

And then he kisses you.

It isn’t rushed. It isn’t desperate. It’s slow, reverent—like he’s memorising you, like he’s savouring the fact that you’re here, that you’re warm and breathing and safe in his arms.

Your fingers tighten in his hair as you press closer, melting into him while his lips move against yours. It’s gentle, but when you sigh softly into his mouth, he lets out a quiet groan and deepens the kiss. His hand cups the back of your head, his other arm winding around your waist to pull you closer.

(The door to the Hospital Wing swings open. 

“Oi, Geto, you decent— Oh, Merlin’s saggy balls—”

A loud, scandalised gasp echoes through the room, followed by Gojo Satoru’s unmistakable cackle. You barely have time to react, to get off Suguru’s lap, before he stiffens, head snapping towards the entrance. Standing in the doorway are Shoko and Satoru, both with varying expressions of shock and amusement.

“Oh, don’t stop on our account,” Satoru drawls, sporting a shit-eating grin. “This is way better than what we came here for.”

Shoko hums. “Yeah, I was expecting to find Suguru all sulky and brooding—not getting snogged to within an inch of his life.”

Suguru groans, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “Kill me.”

You, on the other hand, are trying very hard not to combust. “Oh, sweet Merlin.”

Satoru dramatically clutches his chest. “My best friend, growing up so fast. Next thing I know, you’ll be writing poetry about her eyes, or something.”

Suguru, who absolutely has thought about writing poetry about your eyes (though he would rather die than admit it), scowls. “Shut up, Satoru.”

“Can’t. This is the highlight of my week.”

You groan, hiding your burning face in your hands. “I hate both of you.”

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Shoko coos. “Should we give them some privacy? Maybe light some candles to help them set the mood?”

Wordlessly, Suguru raises a hand and lifts up his middle finger.)

June brings summer hand-in-hand to the castle, and along with it, the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament. The days leading up to the third task are restless. The maze looms at the edges of the Quidditch Pitch, its towering hedges charmed to shift and writhe, concealing whatever dangers the tournament has yet to unveil. It is a final trial of wit and endurance, a labyrinth where victory lies at the centre.

You hate it.

“You’re scowling,” Suguru observes, watching you from his spot on the grass. He’s leaning back on his elbows, legs stretched out in front of him.

“You should be worried too,” you counter, plopping down next to him. “That thing is practically breathing.”

“And what would you have me do? Duel the shrubbery?”

You huff, glaring at the maze once more before turning back to him. “You’re taking this too lightly.”

He grins. “Because you’re worrying enough for the both of us.”

You reach over and flick his forehead. He lets out a dramatic groan, falling onto his back as though you’ve mortally wounded him. 

“Unbelievable,” you mutter, shaking your head, though you’re biting back a smile of your own. “How am I supposed to be stressed when you’re like this?”

“That’s the idea,” he muses, folding his arms behind his head. His dark hair spills over the grass, strands catching the sunlight. “I can’t have my little lioness fretting herself to an early grave.”

You smack his shoulder without hesitation. “Call me that again, and I’ll start rooting for the maze.”

Suguru barks out a laugh, turning his head to look at you properly. He’s smiling, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ll be fine.”

You reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his. He squeezes once, gently, before tugging you closer. You let out a small oomph before sprawling onto the grass next to him. 

The sun dawdles in the horizon, stretching out the day for as long as it will go. You turn your head and brush your lips against his, content and happy. The third task waits, unseen and uncertain, but at least there is this.

Whether Geto Suguru emerges victorious or not—well. That’s insignificant, you think.

⇢ a/n: if you read this entire thing, i’m giving you a big hug. this fic is so many things, but it is mainly a labour of love towards the fandom that first got me into writing and reading fanfiction at the wee age of eleven, and the fandom that currently occupies most of my tiny little brain. it is also the longest fic i have written till date, and i am proud of myself for it. this fic would not be possible were it not for my two best friends, @mahowaga & @admiringlove helping me out, letting me bounce ideas off of them, wracking our brains together to come up with the second task, and lurking on my google doc while i was writing, leaving comments that make me giggle even now. thank you for reading, and i hope you have a wonderful day!

[gf2bellamy]

lipgloss — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: you leave a lipgloss mark on spencer's cheek content warnings: nothing a/n: i malfunction when i see glasses spencer

You let out an exaggerated sigh, slumping forward as you rested your chin on your hand. Across from you, Spencer sat at his desk, completely engrossed in his work, the soft scratch of his pencil against paper filling the otherwise quiet bullpen. His brows furrowed in concentration as he made notes in the margins of his case files. 

“Spencer,” you whined, drawing out his name. “Do you think Hotch would say anything if I just went home?” 

Spencer glanced up at you, his honey-brown eyes softening the way they always did whenever he looked at you.

“I think he might,” he admitted, tilting his head slightly. “But you could always say you weren’t feeling well. Technically, boredom is a form of mental fatigue.” 

You let out another sigh, this one even more dramatic. “I’m just so bored,” you groaned, dragging out the last word. 

Spencer’s lips twitched in amusement before he returned to his notes. You stared at him for a moment, then perked up as an idea struck you. 

“I’m gonna make myself a coffee,” you announced, standing up and stretching. “Do you want one?” 

Spencer shook his head with a small smile. “No, that’s okay. But thanks.” 

He picked up his pen, going right back to his work. You lingered for a second before stepping closer to his desk, your lips curling into a small, mischievous smile. With no one else in the bullpen, you leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. 

Spencer froze. His pencil slipped from his fingers, rolling across the desk. His head snapped up, his face already turning an unmistakable shade of pink. 

Your smile widened. “What?” you teased, tilting your head. 

“You—” He blinked rapidly, his blush deepening. “We’re at work.” 

“And?” You arched a brow, feigning innocence. 

Spencer opened his mouth, then shut it, clearly searching for a response. Finally, he huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head before picking up his pencil again. 

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, but the small, fond smile on his lips gave him away. 

You grinned. Mission accomplished. 

You made your way to the break room, yawning as you prepared yourself a much-needed cup of coffee. The scent of freshly brewed caffeine filled the air, and just as you reached for a mug, you heard loud voices echoing from down the hall. 

Garcia and Derek. 

As you poured your coffee, you caught snippets of their conversation—mostly Derek chuckling about something Garcia had said, followed by her dramatic gasp. They had obviously just come back from their little break.

By “little break,” they meant sneaking off to grab food somewhere without telling anyone. Classic. 

Once your cup was full, you wrapped your hands around the warm ceramic, only to immediately flinch and mutter a curse under your breath. Too hot. You blew on it a few times before deciding to just endure the heat, making your way back to the bullpen. 

The second you stepped inside, you were met with two pairs of wide, mischievous eyes locked onto you. 

“Oh my god, it is hers,” Garcia said, practically vibrating with excitement. 

You froze mid-step, raising an eyebrow. “Uh… what?” 

Your gaze flickered between them and Spencer, who was now sitting at his desk, very clearly avoiding eye contact. His ears were turning a suspicious shade of pink. 

Slowly, you walked over to your desk, setting your coffee down as you eyed them warily. Garcia and Derek were standing on either side of Spencer’s desk, arms crossed, looking like they had just cracked some kind of case. 

“Okay,” you said cautiously, dragging the word out. “Why are you all looking at me like that?” 

Silence. 

Spencer, still blushing, pretended to be very, very interested in his paperwork. Garcia and Derek, on the other hand, exchanged a knowing glance before Derek let out a low chuckle. 

“You sneaky little thing,” he teased, shaking his head. 

“What are you talking about?” You sat down slowly, still staring at them like they’d lost their minds. 

Garcia gasped dramatically. “Don’t play innocent! We know what you did.” 

Your heart skipped a beat. “What—?” 

Derek smirked, arms crossed over his chest like he’d just won the lottery. “Your lip gloss.” 

You blinked. “What about my lip gloss?” 

As if on cue, your lips instinctively pressed together, feeling the slight tackiness of the gloss you’d applied earlier. Garcia let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking her head. 

“You left a mark,” she said dramatically. “A very clear mark, right on Dr. Reid’s cheek.” 

Panic surged through you. 

Your eyes darted to Spencer, then to Garcia and Derek, then back to Spencer again. He was already looking at you, and now it all made sense—the blushing, the way he had been avoiding your gaze, and the way Garcia and Derek were practically bouncing with glee. 

Oh. Oh god. 

You leaned in slightly, taking a closer look. And there it was. A faint but unmistakable pink smudge on his cheek. 

Spencer huffed, finally speaking up. “She’s not letting me wipe it off,” he accused, nodding toward Garcia. 

Garcia gasped, placing a hand over her heart in mock offense. “Excuse you, Doctor! It’s called preserving evidence.” 

Derek chuckled. “Yeah, man. We gotta document this. It’s not every day you get physical proof that you two are—” 

“Shh!” you hissed, eyes widening as you quickly glanced around the bullpen. 

Your relationship with Spencer was still a secret, and the last thing you needed was someone overhearing this conversation. You shot both Garcia and Derek a glare, but they were absolutely thriving off of your reaction. 

“Relax, sweetheart,” Derek teased. “It’s just us.” 

You turned back to Spencer, who was looking at you expectantly, silently pleading for help. With a sigh, you grabbed a napkin from your desk, stepping closer to him. His eyes flickered to yours as you hesitated for just a second before reaching out, gently swiping at the mark on his cheek. 

His skin was warm beneath your touch. 

You tried to focus, but you could feel Garcia and Derek’s eyes burning into you. 

“There,” you murmured, inspecting his face. The lip gloss was gone, but his blush? Very much still there. 

Garcia clapped her hands together. “Awww, that was adorable.” 

Derek grinned. “Man, if y’all think you’re still fooling anyone—” 

Spencer groaned, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Can we please move on?” 

Garcia waved him off. “Fine, fine. But just know—this isn’t over.” 

She and Derek finally turned away, giggling to themselves as they walked off, no doubt already plotting their next round of teasing. 

You sighed, rubbing your temples before glancing at Spencer. He still looked flustered, but there was a small, barely-there smile on his lips. 

“You okay, genius?” you asked softly. 

He nodded, exhaling as he glanced at you. “You know they’re never gonna let this go, right?” 

You sighed dramatically, shaking your head. “Yeah. We’re doomed.” 

Spencer chuckled, and despite everything, you couldn’t help but smile too. 

Even if Garcia and Derek were onto you, at least work wasn’t boring anymore. 

[liahaslosthermind]

𝑬𝒍𝒚𝒔𝒊𝒂𝒏

Summary: The 4 times the Night Court’s Shadowsinger mentioned… someone, and the first time his family got the promise of an answer. 

Content: Angst, with the promise of future fluff

Warnings: Angst, I like making Azriel sad sorry, I also take the ‘mate talk’ in the Azriel/Nesta/Bryce bonus chapter and rewrite it to fit this story. I also haven’t read CC yet so apologies if Bryce is OOC Azriel x OC [not introduced in this part]

*Slight spoilers for the Azriel/Nesta/Bryce bonus chapter

Bryce turned to the fae female next to her, “You have a mate, don’t you?” Nesta simply nodded in response, a slight smile forming on her face, followed by a deep blush. “Do you?” The red head directed at Azriel.

Nesta’s stomach dropped. She knew it was a sore subject for the Shadowsinger. What with everyone else in his family being mated except for him-

“I do.” He said, a trace of apprehension in his voice. Nesta’s head snapped to face him so quickly that her vision spun for a moment, causing her to stumble.

Regaining her footing, she barked out, “Azriel? What the fuck do you mean?”

The trio stopped walking for a moment, tension settling over the once calm night air. She gave him a demanding, and slightly betrayed, look. Even though his eyes met hers, Azriel kept quiet. Bryce simply looked between the two, face wrinkling in the awkwardness of the moment.

“Ah. A sore subject, I guess?” Bryce laughed, or tried to, it only came out forced and uncomfortable. 

“Who, Az? How come I had no idea? Does anyone know?” There wasn’t anger in her voice, just hurt. 

He had to bite back his usual replies, the ones he gave to his family when they tried to ask questions or bring up the topic without him bringing it up first. Not that he ever did. 

“She’s-” he swallowed. Cauldron, when would he finally be able to talk about her without wishing the world would swallow him whole? “It’s not something I want to discuss right now, especially with present company.” He sent a pointed look at Bryce. He couldn’t hide the misery in his tone this time though as he took a deep breath and continued, “I will tell you about her, Nes. One day. I’d just rather do it on my own terms. On my own time.” Nesta opened her mouth, seconds away from arguing, when he put a hand on her shoulder, “Please.” he begged, softly. 

The glimmer of silver in his eyes caught her off guard, gave her such a knee jerk reaction of protectiveness that she gave him a crushing hug. It was strange, this feeling. Azriel, the broody, closed off, terrifying, annoyingly perceptive, kind, and unbelievably loving friend she never knew she needed had just revealed a part of himself she could tell he kept locked away for good reason. The thought that even the mention of his mate could bring him to tears made her heart break in a way she thought impossible after all she had been through. 

She took a deep breath as she pulled away, “When you’re ready,” she agreed.

He smiled back at her, while it was genuine, one of the few he reserved for his family, there was still insurmountable pain in his eyes. 

Nesta turned back to Bryce, “Can you play more of your music? Just none of that screaming one.” She asked, shaking her head at the memory of the Death Metal genre she hadn’t liked when the redhead had played it for them. 

She smiled softly as she felt Azriel squeeze her hand in a silent Thank you before he let go. 

The High Lord sat, feet propped up on his desk. “When do you head out for Rosehall?” He asked.

Azriel, standing by the window to the right of his brother, answered, “The morning after Solstice.” Rhysand grimaced when he heard the mask of indifference his Spy Master had in his voice. “I still need to pick up a gift before I go.”

Rhys took it for the invitation it was. “Would you buy her something from me? On my account this time.” He tried to put on his commanding-High-Lord voice as he said it, but he knew very well that Azriel wouldn’t listen to the last part of his request even as his brother smiled in agreement as he walked out of the room, sending an inclination of goodbye to his High Lady in the chair across from her mate. 

“Rosehall? What female is he visiting the day after Solstice?” Feyre spoke into her mate’s mind. 

Despite Rhys’ usual inability to keep anything from his mate, he couldn't bring himself to explain, couldn’t bring himself to cross the very clear lines his brother had set all those years ago. 

“It's not my story to tell. And don’t ask someone else, if any of them know, they also won’t talk.” 

Certainly not the answer she had expected, as was evident by the look on Feyre’s face.

“And if I ask Azriel?” she inquired.

“It will just bring up things he isn't ready to share. He will come to you- come to us- some day.” ‘One day’ Azriel had promised his family long ago, long before their family had been as big as it was now. “I just pray it's under better circumstances.” 

Feyre froze, feeling the weight of mixed negative emotions flowing down from her mate’s side of the bond. For once, she was even more confused after asking Rhysand for more information. 

“Well, I believe we’ve reached the threshold of faked amiability before one of us attacks the other. We should quit while we’re ahead.” Eris said as he stood up from his chair, starting to grab his papers without so much as a glance to his reluctant hosts. Even years after their alliance was set in stone with the agreement from the Night Court to back Eris’ claim to his father’s throne, even after fighting beside them in war, these faked niceties could only go on for so long before the claws came out. 

No one in the Night Court’s Inner circle could say there was anything but relief to see the Autumn Court’s High Lord walk away. But before they could let out a breath of relief, Eris stopped and turned to the Shadowsinger. 

“I have received word that your… gift has been finished. I will send someone to get it to you within the week.” 

Azriel’s head quickly snapped to Eris, “And they were able to meet all my requests?” He asked, not caring that everyone else in the room watched the interaction with fierce intrigue. 

The eldest living Vanserra boy scoffed, “I assured you they’d be able to.” Azriel let out a relieved breath at that. While he’d known Eris’ court capable of such a thing, it wasn’t much more difficult than lesser magics, but hearing it confirmed ignited hope he didn’t know he still carried.

“Thank you. She’ll love it.” The Spy Master replied earnestly, much to Eris’, as well as the rest of the Inner Circle’s, shock. 

The red haired fae simply schooled his features and nodded in response before winnowing away. 

Despite the heaviness all the secrets and questions caused, everyone remained silent as they watched Azriel slip out of the room. 

The dining room had been filled with loud chatter for the weekly family dinner. Love filled teasing and relentless jokes put everyone in a good mood. Nothing felt better to the Night Court’s Inner Circle than being all together. Unfortunately, it had to come to an end. 

“I’ll be leaving for a few days.” Azriel told Rhysand, who was sitting to his left at the head of the table. “I’ll be back for Solstice.” He quickly added. 

“I thought you were leaving the day after?” 

“I was, but the package I had been waiting on came, and I’d like to deliver it as soon as possible. I’ll drop your gift off too.” With that, Azriel got up, nodding a quick goodbye to his family, before disappearing into his shadows.

It wasn’t a request to have a few days off. He hadn’t asked if his High Lord could spare not having his Spymaster for a little. He didn’t even wait for any sort of goodbye from the rest of his family. He just left, the house sending his place setting away to be cleaned, as if he had never been there in the first place. 

Once again, everyone had questions, concerns, for their friend. But no one spoke up, as per usual. 

Until the one fae in the room with truly no information in the matter grew concerned enough with everyone’s immediate change in attitudes. 

“Where is he going?” Elain asked, looking between her friends and family. 

She saw on everyone's faces, in their eyes that refused to meet hers, that no one would tell her. Till she sent a look, full of concerned innocence, to Cassian. 

“Rosehall” He blurted out. “Or at least, I assume that's where he is going.” The last part was directed towards his older brother. 

“Where is this Rosehall?” Feyre asked, feeling he invitation Elain’s question had opened into the untouchable subject. 

The High Lady, like her second oldest sister, sent a look to Rhys, knowing he'd break for her under an embarrassingly small amount of pressure. 

“None of us know,” he gave in, “He goes at seemingly random intervals. Sometimes he’s there, often, for months. Then he will go quite a while without any visits.”

“Is it his mate? Is that who he is seeing?” Nesta inquires. 

The word seems to suck all the air out of the room. His mate. Azriel’s mate. Their brother’s mate.

Nesta’s stomach drops at the looks she receives from Cassian and Rhysand. 

They didn’t know. 

As she opens her mouth to speak, she’s cut off by a palm smacking the table.

“Enough! You all know damn well this isn’t what he would want. The only reason you all seem so comfortable talking about it is because he's gone, too preoccupied to leave a shadow behind.” Mor argues. “He has asked one thing of us in the 500 years he has been by our side, to let him- let them- be.”

With that, she winnowed out of the room, leaving a suffocating mix of guilt, confusion, and concern behind. 

Everyone could feel his presence the second he got back to the house. The light and happy Solstice air seemed to vanish in an instant. The shadows suddenly alive and wreathing. 

Rhys and Cassian had gotten up to check on their brother. While he had said he’d be gone till Solstice, they had assumed he would be there the full day to celebrate with everyone. But he had missed celebrations, for both Solstice and Feyre’s birthday, had missed dinner, and had sent no indication that he was even alive. His mental walls had been as fortified as ever, not letting Rhysand nor Feyre in the numerous times they had tried to check in. 

Their walk over to their brother’s room became a run, followed by the rest of the family, as they heard a loud crash. 

The room was dark, but they could make out the faint outline of the broken mirror and Shadowsinger standing in front of it, holding his hand as blood seemed to drip from a wound. In the dark, the sight was unsettling, but in the light, it was far worse. 

Cassian moved quickly, leaving Rhysand and the rest of the Inner Circle by the door in stunned silence. 

“Woah-” Cassian said as he lifted Azriel’s hand, causing his brother to pull back in startled shock. He hadn’t known they were coming. Hadn’t sensed their presence even then they were right in front of him.

“It’s okay, Az. But we need to clean out the wound. Make sure there aren't any shards in-” The general stopped as he looked at the Spymaster, seeing the tears streaming down his usually stone cold face. 

All he could do was help him sit down as Mor, seemingly better equipped to handle the situation, came over to kneel in front of her long time friend. 

“Az?” She took his uninjured hand in hers, her other hand going to his face to wipe away the tears. “Come on, maybe you shoul-”

“She’s gotten worse.” He admitted, his voice noticeably wobbling, “So much worse, Mor.” 

Mor quickly looked at everyone else, seeing the shock, the empathy, and worse of all, the pity. She knew more than the others, not the full story, not even close, but enough to know that their reactions were part of why he kept all of it a secret. He couldn’t handle their emotions on top of his.

By the time she looked back, she saw that Azriel had noticed it too. She could see him shrinking back into himself, trying to hide everything. 

She couldn’t let it happen again. 

“Let me in, Azriel. Don’t pretend, don’t go through 200 more years of this.” She pleaded. Luckily, this seemed to pull him back out. “Let us all in, please?”

“I can’t- I don’t want pity.” He admitted.

Rhysand spoke up this time. “Is that what you think this is? Just pity? Az, come on. We all love you, we want you to be happy. But we don’t want fake happiness. Seeing you like this makes us all upset, because we love you. Please, let us prove it. Let us in.” Rhysand begged. 

Azriel gave them all a onceover, emotion showing so clearly in his face, in his eyes, that no one seemed to be able to breathe. 

He took a deep breath before speaking up, “Tomorrow. I’ll explain- show you all, tomorrow. For now, I’d just like to celebrate Solstice, and your birthday, Feyre, with my family.” 

The air lightened up a little bit at the promise. Tomorrow, they’d all face what Azriel had been dealing with alone for 200 years. But tonight, they would all celebrate Solstice, the return of light and promise of a brighter future, as a family. 

[snowysosturn]

Fire & Desire - Matt Sturniolo Part 13

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13

Pairing: Y/n x Matt Sturniolo

Summary: Y/n has always clashed with Matt. Despite working for Chris’s clothing brand and being close with Nick, her relationship with Matt has always been tense at best. While being forced to be around each other more, their animosity turns into something deeper. Can they overcome their differences, or will their fiery emotions tear them apart?

Warnings: angst, tension

The morning sun spilled through the sheer curtains, my head was still heavy from last night, and my body feeling sheer exhaustion of what had happened. I had barely slept, replaying the scene at the restaurant over and over in my mind. The embarrassment, the sting of Matt’s words, the way I had to walk away while holding back tears.

A soft knock at my door made me wake that bit more. "Hey, you awake?" I hear Nick’s voice from through the door. 

I remembered I locked it once Matt left last night so I pulled myself from my bed and unlocked the door letting Nick to come in. I turned and walked back to my bed, sitting up against the headboard, pulling the covers around me. Nick closed the door behind him before standing at the end of the bed. "Alright, spill. What the hell happened last night? You left, and then Matt stormed in looking like he just saw a ghost."

I exhaled, rubbing my temples before looking at him. "Your mom asked Nate if he was seeing anyone, and he said no, which was fine, right? But Matt decided to make it seem like that was some kind of rejection for me, like I was meant to be upset about it. Then, out of nowhere, he brings up to your mom and dad that Nate and I went on a ‘date’, which you know yourself wasn’t even a date, so then Nate tried to clarify that we were just friends, but Matt just kept pushing it. Then he said that I was a quick fuck and then friend zoned. Right in front of your parents." I swallowed, feeling the embarrassment all over again. 

Nick’s eyes widened slightly, but his expression darkened. "What the fuck?"

I scoffed, shaking my head. "Yeah and I’m so embarrassed if your parents heard that last part because first of all, I had just met them, and second of all, it’s just not even true. It made me look bad, it made Nate uncomfortable, and Matt acted like he had some right to embarrass me like that."

Nick sighed, running a hand through his hair. "No I get why you’re upset like he was way out of line. But listen, when Chris and I came back in, our parents said you were lovely and that they hoped you felt better soon. I’m telling you they didn’t hear that part."

I let out a slow breath of relief. "Really?"

"Really" Nick nodded. "They just thought you weren’t feeling well and needed to leave early."

I sank back into my pillows, finally feeling like I could breathe a little easier. "Good. Because I swear, I was ready to dig a hole and disappear forever."

Nick laughed. "Nah, no disappearing allowed. But are you gonna talk to Matt about it?"

I frowned, staring at the ceiling for a moment. "We did last night kinda, but I’m still so angry. And the worst part is, I don’t even know why he acted like that. It was like he wanted to embarrass me."

Nick shrugged. "Matt’s an idiot. He says dumb shit, but he also knows when he’s messed up. I guarantee you, he feels like shit about it right now."

"Good" I muttered, still unwilling to entertain the idea of forgiving him just yet.

Nick sighed again but didn’t push it further. "Alright, well, the four of us are going out with my parents for the day. You coming?"

I shook my head. "I think I’m just gonna stay back here today, I just want things to die down."

"Thats cool." He stood up, stretching. "Try not to overthink it too much, alright?"

I gave a half smile. "Easier said than done."

As Nick left the room, I rolled onto my side, staring out the window at the pool below. I knew I wouldn’t be able to just brush this off, but at least, for now, I could breathe a little easier knowing that Nick’s parents didn’t hear Matt’s words. Still, the anger remained, simmering just beneath the surface. Eventually, I decided I needed some air, some sun, some quiet, and a break from all the tension.

I slipped out of bed and grabbed my swimsuit, opting for a tiny bikini that I knew would be perfect for lounging by the pool. The straps sat snug against my skin, the warm morning air already filtering through the open balcony doors as I pulled my hair up out of my face. After tossing on a loose cover up, I slid into my sliders and grabbed a towel before heading downstairs.

As I reached the foyer, the others were gathered, chatting and getting ready to head out for the day. The energy in the room was light, filled with laughter and the occasional clatter of sunglasses being thrown into bags. As soon as they spotted me, they greeted me, well everyone except Matt, who didn’t even glance in my direction.

Chris was the first to speak. “You coming with us?” His tone was casual, but his eyes scanned my face like he was checking in.

I shook my head, adjusting my towel over my arm. “Nah, I think I’m going to take it easy today. Just chill by the pool and relax.”

Nate nodded approvingly. “Honestly? Probably the smarter move.”

Chris shot me a small smile. “Enjoy the sun. We’ll be back later.”

I returned the smile, forcing the tension from last night out of my mind. “You guys have fun.”

With that, they all filed out the front door, their voices fading as they disappeared down the steps. The villa was suddenly silent, the only sound being the faint rustling of palm trees outside.

I exhaled slowly before grabbing an ice tea from the fridge and making my way out to the pool, letting the warm sun wrap around me as I laid my towel down on one of the lounge chairs. Finally, peace and quiet.

I stretched out on the lounge chair, letting the sun soak into my skin as I sipped on the cold drink. I had left the villa door open, wanting to hear when everyone got back, but after a while, another sound caught my attention. 

A knock.

Frowning, I sat up, adjusting my bikini top before grabbing my cover up and slipping it over my hips. I wasn’t expecting anyone, and the guys wouldn’t have knocked, they had keys.

As I rushed barefoot across the cold tile floor, I hesitated for a second before pulling the door open. 

A mailman stood there, holding a large box. He barely glanced up before handing it over. “Delivery for Fresh Love.”

I furrowed my brows but took the package, feeling the weight of it in my arms. “Oh, thanks.”

With a nod, he turned and walked back down the driveway. I shut the door with my foot and carried the box to the kitchen counter, setting it down with a small thud.  I smirked, realizing this must be the personalized samples Chris had mentioned, the ones he ordered for all of us.  I pulled out my phone and snapped a quick picture of the box before opening up my messages with Chris.

Me: Personalised samples just got delivered.

A few seconds later, the typing bubbles appeared.

Chris: Sick! You check ‘em out yet?

I glanced at the box, debating if I should wait for him or just open it now.

Me: Not yet. Was gonna let you do the honours.

Chris: Okay cool. We can do a shoot with them at sunset later.

I bring the box up to Chris’ room and set it on the bed so he can see everything when we get back in. If we’re doing a shoot I want to look extra radiant and glowy, and that won’t happen from standing inside the villa. I grabbed one of the body oils in my room before making my way back out to the pool. I poured a little into my palm, rubbing it over my legs as I stretched back out on the lounge chair.

Matt’s POV

We were halfway through the guided tour when Chris suddenly checked his phone and said, “Oh, the personalized samples came in. Y/n just texted me.”

Hearing her name wasn’t helpful. Not when I hadn’t been able to get her off my mind since last night, and god how she looked in that bikini earlier didn't help. I kept my eyes straight ahead, pretending I didn’t care, but my mom didn’t let it slide. “Oh, Y/n is such a lovely girl” she said with a warm smile, then turned to me. “Is she feeling better now, sweetheart?”

Before I could even begin to answer, Nick cut in smoothly. “Yeah, she’s fine. Just needed a bit of sleep.” His tone was light, brushing off the question like it wasn’t worth pressing. He knew me well enough to know that I didn’t want to talk about it, especially not here, not in front of everyone.

I kept my mouth shut and just nodded in agreement, though the truth was, I felt far from fine. Guilt sat heavy in my chest, chipping away at me. Last night, I had let my emotions get the best of me. I let jealousy, because let’s be honest, that’s exactly what it was, take control, and I lashed out in the worst way possible. I had said something cruel, something I couldn’t take back. And knowing Y/n, she wasn’t the type to just let it roll off her shoulders. She put up walls, and I had given her every reason to keep me on the other side of them.

The more I thought about it, the worse it got. I had no right to be mad at her, no right to act like what she did or didn’t do with Nate, or anyone else for that matter, was any of my business. But that hadn’t stopped me from taking a low blow, from making her feel small in front of people who barely even knew her. If she had done that to me, I’d be furious. So what did that say about me?

I exhaled, dragging a hand through my hair as I barely registered the tour guide’s voice. My mind was somewhere else entirely.

I had to make this right.

I knew I had a way to make it up to her, it was something I should've done ages ago. And now, I could only hope it wasn’t too late for her to forgive me.

Y/n’s POV

I was sitting outside on the patio, a plate of food in my lap as I watched the sun dip below the horizon. The sky was painted in soft shades of pink and orange, the kind of sunset that made everything feel a little quieter, a little more peaceful. It was one of those moments I wished I could freeze in time, just me, the sunset, and the distant sound of waves hitting onto the shore.

But then, the front door swung open, breaking the stillness.

The familiar sounds of shuffling feet and tired voices filled the villa as the guys returned. I set my plate aside and stood up, making my way inside to greet them.

“Hey” I said, leaning against the kitchen counter as they walked in.

They all looked exhausted, Chris, Nate, Matt, and Nick, their faces slightly sunburnt, their hair tousled from the slight breeze and even though they didn’t say much at first, their body language said it all.

Chris let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair as he took his cap off. “Long day,” he muttered. “We were out in the sun for way too long, and I think it’s catching up to everyone.”

Nate groaned in agreement, tossing his sunglasses onto the counter. “I need, like, ten hours of sleep.”

Matt didn’t say much, just nodded, his jaw tight. He looked at me for half a second before glancing away, like he was trying to avoid something, most likely me. I ignored the sting in my chest and forced a small smile.

“Yeah, we’re all wiped” Nick added, stretching his arms above his head. “Think we’ll just stay in tonight, order some takeout, crash early.”

“That’s fine with me” I said, realizing I was more drained than I thought. Between being in the sun all day and everything that happened last night, I could use a quiet night too. “I left that box in your room” I say turning to Chris.

“Cool I’ll have a look now, we can take pictures tomorrow evening instead, when everyones a bit more awake”

And with that, Chris, Nate, and Matt didn’t waste any time disappearing into their rooms, clearly eager to knock out for a bit.

Nick lingered behind, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m gonna shower first, but after that, I’ll come to your room? We can just chill for a bit, a movie maybe?.”

I nodded. “Sounds good.”

I walk up to my room, kicking the door shut behind me as I switch on the TV. The smart TV mounted on the wall was a lifesaver, especially on nights like this when there wasn’t much going on. I sink onto the bed, remote in hand, sifting through Netflix, too see if theres anything both Nick and I would like. The knock on the door wasn’t enough to pull my attention from the screen since I assume it’s Nick, I don’t even think twice before calling out, “Come in.”

But it’s not Nick.

It’s Matt.

He stands there in the doorway, looking uncertain, a silver metallic gift bag dangling from his fingers. Looking like the same one I spotted in his room next to my ‘Thank You’ card. For a moment, neither of us speak. We just stare at each other, the weight of unspoken words thick in the space between us.

My tone is blunt when I finally ask, “Are you alright?”

Matt doesn’t answer. Instead, he lifts the bag slightly, as if offering it to me. His expression is unreadable, something between nervousness and determination.

“What is it?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

“Just look in it” he says quietly.

I hesitate for a second before reaching out, taking the metallic bag from his grasp. Peeling back the layers of tissue paper inside, my breath catches in my throat.

It’s my locket.

The delicate chain pools in my palm, the pendant glinting from the sunset shining in my balcony window. My fingers tighten around it as I snap my gaze back up to Matt, my heart pounding.

“Where did you get this?” I demand, my voice barely above a whisper.

a/n : most of this is a bit of a filler soz

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[kdollikesthighs]

The last time: part 1

Itzy Lia x m reader A/N: Like all my itzy part 1s I'm trying out, this has no smut yet. Just fluff. Smut will come in the next chapters. Word count: 2,568 words

The music is loud, but not loud enough. This place smells like sweat and cheap alcohol, the exact same mixture you can find at any college party. People shout over each other, cups crinkle under people’s dancing feet, and everyone is touching everyone.

You should be enjoying yourself, but even the loudest distractions can’t prevent your eyes from being locked on to Lia.

She stands near the edge of the room, far away from the life of the party, arms crossed, tears swelling in the corners of her eyes but refusing to spill over. Her boyfriend—the eternal class act that he is—leans in close, probably spouting some bullshit. His expression is all smooth confidence, but hers is hurt. You don’t need to hear what he’s saying. You already know. You saw him, lips on another girl, bodies flush against each other like Lia never existed in the first place. And now, he’s feeding her some excuse, no doubt in his mind that she will just swallow it like she always does.

But something’s different this time. She’s not buying it, and she’s not giving in. And then, just like that, he sighs, throws up his hands, and walks away. No fight, no desperation. He just walks away from her like she was never worth the effort.

You don’t even hesitate. No time to. She’s your best friend after all. You move.

Lia barely reacts as you step in beside her, but when you nudge her arm, she exhales, already privy to your antics. “Not now.”

“If it’s up to you, it’s not ever,” you correct. You don’t wait for permission. You snag a bottle of whiskey from the counter next to her and pop the cap. “Drink with me!”

She hesitates. She’s reluctant. “I don’t feel like drinking.”

“And I don’t feel like letting you mope tonight.” You take a swig straight from the bottle and hand it to her. It burns, but it’s bright and distracting. “Come on. When was the last time you lived a little?”

She eyes you, then the bottle, then you again. Something shifts in her expression—anger, defiance, something that reminds her of memories long buried. She snatches the bottle from your grasp and takes a drink. It burns, and she coughs, but she doesn’t hand it back.

You grin. “That’s the spirit!”

She scoffs through the coughs, but the corner of her lips twitch. “Shut up.”

You’re already scanning the party, looking for something to pull her out of her own head. There’s a group playing beer pong, hyping each other up like they’re at the Olympics. Perfect.

You drag Lia along with you, as you approach the would-be champions. Without warning, you grab a ball off the table and line up a shot. The guy who was about to throw blinks at you. “Dude, what the hell?”

You ignore him and flick your wrist towards victory. The ball arcs, bounces once, and lands straight into a cup. The crowd reacts with a mix of cheers and protests, but you don’t care. You turn to Lia, smirking with satisfaction, and hand her the next ball. “Your turn.”

She stares at you. Her body is shrinking, and it looks like she might retreat into her shell. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re up.”

Lia glances at the crowd watching, the challenge hanging in the air. She looks at you, your smile going from one ear to the other encouraging her to partake. She takes a deep breath, takes the ball, straightens her shoulders, and throws. The ball drops into a cup flawlessly.

The room erupts. The guy whose game you interrupted throws his arms up in disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Lia doesn’t gloat. She just picks up the cup, downs the beer inside, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand like she’s been doing this her whole life. Then, she looks at you.

You whistle. “Damn.”

She smirks. “What can I say?”

You step in close, voice level adjusted to be just for her. “This is fun, isn’t it?”

She exhales, something loosening in her. “Yeah. It kind of is.”

But you’re not stopping here.

You scan the room for the next move. You spot it, your next target—an old speaker, unattended and inviting on a counter, playing the same overplayed pop song. With Lia in tow, you stride over and connect your phone. The music cuts off, and a few people groan, but you just open your library and hit play.

A completely different song blasts through the room. Something more obscure, something wilder.

People react immediately, some booing, others cheering. Lia’s eyes react instinctively. “Wait, this song—”

“You like this song,” you fall in, leaving no doubt about the reason for your choice.

She laughs, the sound light, unburdened but restrained. “I do.”

“So dance.”

She hesitates, but you grab her hand, spinning her once. She stumbles into you, laughing despite herself. The party moves on around you, but for a moment, it’s just the two of you, caught in your own little world.

You can see it on her face. For the first time tonight, Lia isn’t thinking about him.

But the moment shatters. Your efforts were beginning to bear fruit, but they were spoiled too soon.

From across the room, he approaches. Her boyfriend’s voice, loud and annoyed, pierces the carefully crafted atmosphere. “Lia, what the hell are you doing?”

You don’t even have to turn to see him pushing his way through the crowd, eyes locked on her, clenched fists like he was preparing for a fight. The fun, the freedom, it all fades from existence, from her face—hesitation, guilt trying to creep back in.

Not this time. You’ve seen it happen countless times before now.

You lean in close, voice out her boyfriend's reach. “Let’s get out of here.”

She looks at you, uncertain of it all.

Then, her boyfriend calls her name again, sharper this time, as if she’s making another mistake. But she knows better.

Lia grabs your wrist in her first act of defiance. “Let’s go.”

You don’t need to be told twice. You let her lead you outside the house, but once outside, the roles reverse. You don’t let her pause, let her stop here. Instead, you take her even further away from the party to the first and best thing your mind can think of.

The arcade is alive with flashing neon lights, the chaotic symphony of electronic jingles and mixed reactions filling the air. You shove a few bills into the token machine, spilling a handful into your palm before tossing a few to Lia. She catches them like it’s a practiced act, but her expression is skeptical.

“You seriously dragged me to an arcade?” she asks, raising an eyebrow at your great escape.

“You seriously gonna tell me you’re too cool for this?” You grin, nudging her towards the air hockey tables. “Come on, we’re settling this once and for all. Air hockey. I used to smoke you all the time. Loser gets a punishment.”

Lia chortles, but there’s a flicker of amusement behind her eyes. “You’re on.”

You pick your table, and from the second the puck drops, it’s war. Lia is fast, but her shots are wild. She misses easy blocks, fumbling the paddle once, but she’s so caught up in the fun she doesn’t notice how you start easing up, letting her slip goals past you. When she scores the final point, she throws her arms up, victorious.

“Destroying you has never felt better,” she teases, gloating as if she just settled a lifelong rivalry.

You roll your eyes in mock annoyance. “Alright, alright. Fair’s fair. What’s my punishment?”

She taps a finger against her chin before smirking. “Close your eyes.”

You sigh but comply. You’re not a sore loser, not after choosing to be one. A few moments later, she presses a cold can into your hands. You pop it open and take a sip—immediately regretting it. “What the hell is this?!”

Lia bursts into laughter. “Carbonated milk. Consider it payback.”

You sputter the concoction, wiping your mouth of its filth. “That’s foul.”

Her grin is as proud as it was mischievous. “Exactly.”

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself. You’ve missed this. Missed spending time with her. “Alright, let’s move on. I’m winning you something.”

You drag her to the claw machine, and she crosses her arms, unimpressed. “Please, these things are rigged.”

“Not when you’ve got my skills.” You crack your knuckles, putting on an exaggerated show of focus as you deftly maneuver the claw. Lia observes your performance, still skeptical, until the claw actually snags onto a small stuffed bear and holds on long enough to drop it into the chute.

You scoop it out and hand it to her, the bravado of a man who won a teddy bear ten times the size you just had. “Told you.”

She takes it, eyes softer than before. “I… didn’t think you’d actually get it.”

“Guess I’m full of surprises.”

She holds the bear against her chest for a moment before stuffing it into her bag. “Alright, I’ll admit. That was kind of sweet.”

“Kind of?”

She rolls her eyes in the same mock annoyance she must have learned from you. Or was it you who learned it from her? Either way, she doesn’t argue any further.

Eventually, you both step out of the arcade looking for your next distraction, the night air cool against your skin. Lia stretches her arms over her head, exhaling. “Alright, what’s next?”

You glance around, spotting a near-empty grocery store parking lot, an idea sparking in your mind. A childish smile spreads across your face. “I think I see our next challenge.”

Lia follows the direction of your gaze to an abandoned shopping cart and lets out an incredulous laugh. “No way.”

“Oh, come on. You trust me, right?” Your rebuttal is tempting, tempting enough to get her to hum as she considers it.

She shakes her head but, to your delight, climbs into the cart. “Alright. Just don’t kill me.”

You take a running start, the wheels rattling as you push her through the empty lot. Lia shrieks high pitched and filled with life, clutching the sides as you pick up speed, laughter bubbling past her lips. It’s reckless and stupid, but it feels good—feels free.

When you finally slow down, she’s breathless, her face suddenly inches from yours. She doesn’t move away. You don’t want to either.

The cool air becomes heavy, something new unraveling in the little distance between your eyes.

Before you can say something you didn’t stop to think about, Lia clears her throat and looks away. “We should—keep going. What’s next?”

You nod, shaking off the moment just as easily as it came. “Let’s go find something else to conquer.”

You end up outside a rundown photo booth near an old convenience store, its flickering sign barely hanging on. The joy on your face says everything Lia needs to know. She eyes it, then you. “Seriously?”

“Come on. Gotta commemorate the night somehow!”

She huffs, exhaling air through her nose in a quick burst but follows you inside. The cramped space forces you close, her shoulder pressing into yours as she scoots barely into frame. The first flash goes off as she makes a face, sticking her tongue out.You paint a big smile on your face for the picture, throwing an arm around her to pull her into the frame for the next one.

Then, right before the third flash, you can feel Lia’s body tense up against yours. She’s planning something. She looks at you, really looks at you, before smirking mischievously. You can’t help but wonder what prank she has planned to pull on you, but you’ll let it happen nonetheless. Cheering her up was worth it all.

And then, instead of some grand, over-the-top stunt, she does something quieter. She leans in, sliding deeper under your arm, her head resting against your shoulder. Her fingers interlock with yours, and she doesn’t let go.

The camera flashes.

You glance down at her, your chest squeezing tighter then when you were pushing her around in a cart. She doesn’t say anything, just stays there, close, warm. The playful air shifts—becomes something calm.

She doesn’t move away, doesn’t laugh it off. Just holds your hand a little tighter, waiting. You rub your thumb over hers. It’s soothing. You’re just friends. You had never even considered Lia as something else. But what if…?

The next flash of the camera captures the sudden stillness, the quiet storm brewing between and inside of you.

You let out a breath, finally looking away. “Come on,” you murmur, squeezing her hand once before standing. “I know where we can go next.”

As you step out into the night, Lia doesn’t let go of your hand right away. She lingers, thumb brushing against your skin before finally, hesitantly, letting it slip away. Neither of you comment further on it.

After a few moments of walking in silence, you glance at her. “You remember the old jungle gym?”

She blinks, then lets out a soft laugh. “From middle school? The one we used to sit at, talking about nothing for hours?”

“Exactly, that’s the one! Haven’t been there in years.”

Lia tilts her head, considering. Then she smiles, a green light signal to go ahead. “Let’s go.”

You climb to the top of the jungle gym together, the city humming in the distance, but here, beneath the stars, everything feels still.

Lia stretches out, staring up at the sky absentmindedly. “It’s weird. I can’t remember the last time I’ve done this.”

“What? We used to climb this thing all the time.”

She chuckles and shakes her head. “No, not that! Just… let go like this.”

You watch her, the way her hair falls against the worn metal, the way the moonlight catches in her eyes. “We used to do that too all the time,” you remind her. “Back when we had nothing better to do than waste time here.”

She smiles faintly. “Yeah. Before everything got… complicated.”

You don’t say anything, only offering a smile that reaches half of your lips. You just watch her as she rolls onto her side, propping herself on an elbow facing you. “Why are you doing this?” she asks suddenly, eyes searching yours as if they’ll provide the answer.

You blink, caught off-guard by the sudden question. “What do you mean?”

“This.” She gestures vaguely around her and towards you. “Dragging me around, making me forget about him.”

Your throat tightens. You think about saying something inflammatory about her boyfriend, but don’t even want to let a thought of him taint this place. “Because I hate seeing you like that.”

She studies you, her gaze flickering over your face. She looks down. Her smile is small but real. Like she’s happy she’s here now, but already mourning the fact that it won’t last. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s easy when you’re with me.”

When you’re starving, and you have a bite, you only end up craving more. That same hunger is consuming Lia right now. She’s feasting on this moment, indulging in every reckless, fleeting moment like she's been starving for it. Watching her like this, so alive, enjoying each minute she has—you can’t help but feel the hunger too.

[woozinhos]

Vernon Minghao one night stand or threesome?

Notes: hi anon I decided to go with Vernon one night stand hope you enjoyyy <33

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.

It's a warm, sultry night as you make your way down the street, the sounds of the city humming around you. You're on your way home from a party, the effects of the alcohol still buzzing through your system. Suddenly, you feel someone brush past you in the crowd, their touch lingering a little longer than necessary. You glance over your shoulder to see who it is, and lock eyes with a handsome stranger.

The stranger gives you a casual nod, a sly grin on his face as he looks you up and down. He's tall and lean, with messy dark hair and eyes that seem to sparkle with mischief. You can tell from the way he carries himself that he's confident and carefree, the kind of guy who knows he looks good and has no problem using it to his advantage. He falls into step beside you, his long legs easily keeping pace with your own.

"Nice night," he comments, his voice smooth and deep. You can't help but feel a little flustered under his intense gaze, your heartbeat quickening slightly as he continues to walk alongside you.

"Yeah, it is," you manage to reply, trying to sound nonchalant despite the butterflies in your stomach.

"I'm Vernon, by the way," he says, extending a hand towards you. "And you are?" You take his hand, feeling a jolt of electricity shoot through you at his touch.

"I'm [your name]," you reply, hoping he doesn't notice the slight tremor in your voice. Vernon's handshake is firm, his grip lingering for a moment longer than necessary before he lets go.

"Nice to meet you, [your name]," he says, a smirk playing on his lips. "You going home alone tonight?" You can feel a flush rising to your cheeks at his question, and you struggle to come up with a response.

"Um, yeah, I guess so," you say, avoiding his gaze. Vernon notices your discomfort and grins, clearly enjoying your reaction.

"You don't sound too thrilled about that," he teases, his eyes glinting with amusement. You can feel your cheeks burning even hotter as he continues to tease you, but you try to keep your cool.

"Well, I just didn't really have any plans tonight," you reply, trying to sound casual. Vernon takes a step closer to you, his body mere inches from yours now.

"So you're saying you don't have anyone to keep you company tonight?" he asks, his voice low and seductive. As he gazes down at you, his eyes dark with desire, you realize that this is a side of him that he doesn't usually show. There's a hunger in his expression, a raw and primal need that he's clearly struggling to control. He takes another step closer, closing the gap between you completely.

"And what about you?" you manage to ask, trying to regain some of your composure. "Don't you have someone waiting for you?" Vernon chuckles, his breath hot against your ear.

"No, I'm all alone tonight," he replies, his voice sending shivers down your spine. "And I'm feeling a little...lonely." His hand comes up to gently brush a strand of hair away from your face, his touch sending sparks through your body.

"Maybe we could keep each other company," he suggests, his eyes burning with intensity. You can feel your heart racing in your chest as you stand there, trapped between the wall and Vernon's body. He leans in even closer, his lips hovering just millimeters from your ear.

"What do you say?" he whispers, his breath hot against your skin. Your breath hitches in your throat as his lips brush against your ear, the softness of his touch sending tingles down your spine.

"I...I say yes," you stammer, your body betraying your desire for him. A satisfied smirk appears on Vernon's face as he hears your response, his eyes gleaming with triumph.

"Good," he murmurs, his hands coming to rest on your hips. "I was hoping you'd say that." He pulls you through the city streets, his long strides eating up the distance between you and his apartment. The whole time, his hand is wrapped tightly around yours, as if he's afraid you'll slip away from him. Finally, you arrive at his apartment building. He leads you inside and up the stairs, his grip on your hand never loosening.

As you walk down the hallway, the tension between you seems to thicken, the air almost electric with anticipation. You reach his apartment door, and he fumbles with his keys for a moment before finally getting it unlocked. He pushes the door open and ushers you inside, his eyes never leaving your body as he does so. He flashes you a cocky grin as he walks towards his bedroom, his voice dripping with innuendo.

"Make yourself comfortable," he says over his shoulder. "I'll be right back." You watch as he disappears into the bedroom, your heart pounding in your chest. You look around the apartment, taking in the sparsely furnished but cozy space. It's clear that Vernon doesn't spend a lot of time here, but there's something about it that feels warm and inviting.

"Come on in, babe," you hear Vernon call from the bedroom. "I'm ready." You step into the bedroom, your eyes immediately drawn to Vernon who is sitting on the edge of the bed, a sly grin on his face. He pats the spot next to him, beckoning you closer. You sit down next to him, your body tingling with anticipation and a hint of nervousness. He turns to face you, his gaze roaming over your body with a predatory gleam in his eyes.

"What's going on?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. Vernon chuckles softly, reaching out to brush his fingers along your jawline.

"Just trying to get you in the mood," he replies, his touch sending shivers down your spine. His lips find yours in a searing kiss, his hands moving to grip your shoulders as he pushes you down onto the bed. He follows you down, his body pressing against yours as he deepens the kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth. He breaks the kiss, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he hovers above you.

"God, you're so damn beautiful," he growls, his hands sliding down your body. "This was the best idea I've ever had." His fingers dance over your skin, sending waves of pleasure through your body. He moves his mouth to your neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive flesh there as his hands continue to explore. His hands move with purpose now, expertly undoing the buttons on your shirt and pushing it off your shoulders. He pulls back for a moment to take in the sight of you, his eyes raking over your exposed skin hungrily. He reaches for the waistband of your pants, his fingers hooking into the fabric and tugging them down slowly.

He can't seem to take his eyes off of you, his gaze filled with a mixture of desire and possessiveness. He sits up and begins to undress himself, his muscles rippling with each movement. His shirt comes off first, revealing a chiseled chest and toned abs that make your mouth water. You can't help but admire the way his body looks, your eyes drinking in every inch of him. He notices you staring and smirks, flexing his muscles playfully.

"See something you like?" he teases, his voice low and seductive. He finishes undressing and stands there, completely naked and shameless. His eyes never leave yours as he moves closer to the bed, his body a perfect specimen of masculine beauty. He crawls onto the bed, his movements predatory and graceful. He hovers over you once more, his hands pinning your wrists above your head as he gazes down at you.

"You're beautiful," you whisper, your voice filled with awe. He chuckles softly, leaning down to nuzzle your neck.

"Not as beautiful as you," he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. He reaches for the bedside table and grabs a condom, his fingers expertly ripping the package open. He looks down at you with a smirk, his eyes dark with desire. He rolls the condom onto himself, his movements slow and deliberate.

He positions himself between your legs, his body poised and ready to take you. He leans down to kiss you again, his lips moving against yours in a passionate dance. As he kisses you, he slowly pushes himself inside you, filling you up completely. He groans into your mouth as he bottoms out, his body shuddering with pleasure. He breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed in bliss.

"You feel amazing," he whispers, his voice rough with desire.

"So do you," you manage to gasp out, your body trembling with need. He begins to move, his hips rolling against yours in a slow, steady rhythm. His movements become more forceful, each thrust sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breaths sending shivers down your spine as he murmurs words of praise and desire into your ear.

"Oh god, Vernon... harder," you moan, your fingers digging into his back as you cling to him. He growls at your words, his pace quickening as he pounds into you with increasing intensity. He grips your hips tightly, using them as leverage to drive himself deeper inside you. He can feel your body tightening around him, signaling that you're close to the edge. He grits his teeth, his own climax rapidly approaching as he continues to pound into you relentlessly.

"Come for me," he whispers, his voice strained with need. He reaches down between your bodies and finds your clit, his fingers rubbing and teasing it in time with his thrusts. Your body trembles as you reach your peak, your back arching off the bed as you cry out his name. The sound of your release pushes him over the edge, and he buries his face in your shoulder as he comes with a low, guttural moan. He collapses on top of you, his body trembling with the aftershocks of his orgasm.

He wraps his arms around you, holding you close as he tries to catch his breath. He rolls onto his side, pulling you with him so that you're cuddled up against his chest. He runs his fingers through your hair, his touch gentle and soothing as he holds you close. He looks down at you with a sly grin, his eyes glinting mischievously.

"So what do you do for a living?" he asks, his voice low and playful.

[yasikeu]

The studio was quiet except for the lingering echo of Heeseung’s voice still vibrating in the room. You stepped inside, closing the door softly behind you, the air thick with the familiar scent of his cologne.

He was in the booth, headphones over his ears, eyes closed as he sang into the mic passionately. The sound of his voice rich, full of longing.

Heeseung had been gone too long. Too many concerts, too many interviews, too many nights apart with nothing but a phone screen between you both. But now, he was right there, standing metres away from you.

He slowly opened his eyes

The moment he saw you, his voice faltered, and his lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling with sudden awareness. He ripped the headphones off his ears. “Give me a sec,” he muttered into the mic before stepping out of the booth and running up to you, embracing you fully.

“You’re really here,” he sighed, arms wrapping around your waist as he pulled you in, his warmth consuming you.

“I missed you so much,” you whisper, pressing your face into his shoulder, inhaling his comforting scent.

His hands tightened on your hips, fingers clutching onto you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he let go in that moment. “Fuck, I missed you more,” he murmured, his lips grazing your ear.

“How have you been doing?” you asked.

“Terrible, everything has been so hard without you.” he pouted, his grip on you getting tighter.

You shivered at the heat of his breath, the way his voice dipped lower, rougher. Your fingers carassed his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp as you leaned in.

The kiss started slowly, like he was trying to relearn the shape of you. But the moment he heard a soft moan slip from your mouth, he lost all patience, something inside him awakened.

His hands slid up your back, dragging you closer towards him.

His tongue parted your lips, deepening the kiss even more, swallowing the small whimpers that left your mouth as he pinned you against the control panel. You could feel the cold surface stinging onto your lower back, but you didn’t care—not when his hands were slipping beneath your shirt, his palms hot and fiery, contrasting your cold skin.

His lips trailed down your jaw, his teeth teasing on the sensitive spot beneath your ear. You whined, arching into him, he groaned against your flesh, hips pressing against yours desperately, letting you know just how much he wanted you too.

“Need you so bad,” he rasped, hands already tugging at your top and pulling it over your head. His eyes darkened at the sight of your body, pupils dilated. “Fuck, baby, you’re gorgeous.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “You act like you haven’t seen me naked before.”

His jaw tightened, fingers gliding down your stomach, pausing at the waistband of your jeans. “You don’t understand how much I’ve missed seeing you like this,” he muttered, voice thick with frustration and hunger. “It’s been weeks.”

Your breath stuttered as he unbuttoned your jeans, sliding them down slowly as he stared at you intensely, his fingers tracing every inch of exposed skin. You gripped onto his shirt, eager to feel him, to remind yourself what his skin feels like against yours. “Look at how needy you are,” he teased. “Tell me what you want, baby.”

“Want you to take it off” you whimpered quietly, biting your lip.

“Hm? Speak louder,” he demanded.

“I want you to take your clothes off and fuck me, I need your cock so bad Heeseung,” you purred.

He smirked with satisfaction when he finally heard what he wanted before helping you and tossing his shirt aside, his pants following immediately after.

Without wasting another second, Heeseung attached his mouth back onto yours, kissing you like he’s been starved of you, like he’s been counting the days, the hours, the minutes until he could have you again. His hands roamed freely, exploring and claiming every part of you.

You broke the kiss just long enough to whisper, “Lock the doo-”

His breath hitched. Then he grinned. “Already did, baby.”

“You have no idea how much I need you,” he groaned, like he had lost all control of himself.

Your body was trembling and aching for him. “I need you too.”

His hands moved with urgency, peeling away the last barriers of clothing between you, leaving you bare against the cool surface of the mixing desk.

The sight of his thick cock dripping with precum right infront of you made your cunt throb so hard.

He lined his tip up against your slit, his breath shuddering as he pushed in, slow at first, getting used to the feeling. Your gasp filled the studio, your fingers gripping his shoulders as he stretched and filled you in the way you had been craving for weeks.

“Shit,” he breathed, his head leaning back, his hands gripping your hips. “You always feel so fucking good.”

You whimpered, wrapping your legs around his waist, urging him deeper. “Please, more,” you whined desperately.

The sensation was everything you had been fantasising of and even more, the sheer intensity of having him inside you again after so many nights apart felt like heaven. He started to move, his hips rolling rhythmically, each thrust stretching your tight walls even more than you could have ever imagined.

He shifted his angle, hitting that perfect spot that made your eyes begin to tear up. “Oh my god yes, right there Hee, that’s perfect,” you gasped.

“Been dreaming about this,” he groaned, his lips trailing down your chest, his tongue teasing sensitive skin. “About you.”

“I’ve been thinking about you every day hee, dreaming about how good it would feel to be filled with your cum again.”

“Were you this needy without me? Hm? I bet your fingers couldn’t satisfy you enough like my cock does, greedy slut.” he rambled, thrusting in and out of you relentlessly.

You could barely think, having to remind yourself to breathe every few seconds. Every thrust dragged you closer to your climax.

“You close, baby?” he murmured against your neck.

“Yes baby, fuck,” you nodded, biting your lip, overwhelmed by the way he fucked you and moaned in your ear with every thrust. He gripped your thigh, deepening the angle of his cock, pleasure crashing through you in sharp, aggressive waves causing you to tear up even more.

He finally shot his warm load inside of you, filling you up all the way.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, still tangled in your sweaty bodies, pulses still racing in time with each other perfectly.

“I don’t think I’m letting you leave this studio tonight,” he murmured, a smirk tugging at his lips.

[revscarecrow]

Hi Rev! That time is upon us once again, do you have any tips for first time protesters?

1. Wear nice walking shoes cause you are going to be out there for a bit and your feet will hurt.

2. Have a game plan. Are you down to get physical? Are you able to be arrested? No shame in saying no. I'm not much for physical altercations with the police myself. But you need to make that decision before your blood starts boiling. The energy is infectious and will lead you to make mob mentality decisions. Remember what you decided and don't go beyond that limit.

3. Weather appropriate precautions. If it's hot bring sun screen and water if it's cold bring a coat. It's simple but most of what I did as a street medic was giving people water or blankets.

4. Have a number you will call if you get arrested. Memorize it or write it on your arm in sharpie. Mom dad lawyer friend whatever. Someone for if things go tits up.

5. Cops don't like being filmed doing messed up stuff but they will do it. Violence comes after dark. The news won't stand around all day so after some b roll and an interview or two they will go home. Then they can interview the cops in the morning where they can say a couple of bad actors caused a scene and they were arrested but largely the protest was peaceful (or was a riot if you aren't white). This will be an easy way for them to get away with kicking your ass. This happens every time a protest goes long.

6. Go with a friend. It just feels good to have someone you know watching out for you.

7. Have an escape plan and park your car a bit away from the protest. They like to camp out the local parking areas to catch protestors who evaded the police cordon.

8. Password lock your phone. Don't use biometrics. A password lock keeps the cops out when they arrest you. They can't force you to give that information.

9. Cops don't like lefties. If you are not a right wing loser they do not give a shit about your rights.

10. Most of this shit will not come up for your first protest but I want to prepare you for the wildest shit so you are ready for it when it happens.

11. People will yell at your from cars etc. Fuck em. People will say your protest doesn't matter. Fuck em.

12. Your protest isn't just about trying to get the government to do whatever. It's mostly about making connections. It would be rad if the government caves but it's not likely until your protest reaches a critical mass. If your numbers can be ignored they will be.

13. For your first time protest just go have fun. Don't stay out late or get physical just do a simple version. Do the chanting and make friends. Like with any group there will be creeps so be on the look out for that but most of those people are gonna be cool people.

14. Thank you. We need people who are out there doing the things. Make connections we've gotten so distant and it makes us easier to fuck with.

[chaiihuo]

GUNSLINGER . . . ft. boothill

cw :: boothill x f. reader. nsfw. mdni. established relationship. gun play. f. masturbation. fingering. petnames. praise. oral fixation. overstimulation. wc. 2.3k

note from the lamb :: i am forever thankful to nick for having this on their blog still

this was a private moment, one boothill really shouldn't have been watching. but he couldn't help himself.

he had been planning to be gone the entirety of the three day weekend, but his scheduled bounty had gone much quicker than he intended, and he had made it home in just two days.

he had expected you to already be there when he opened the door, expecting that you'd have come running to the door when you heard his house key in the lock of your front door. but there was nothing but the still furniture of your shared home. you were nowhere in sight, and boothill had assumed maybe he just happened to come home while you were out.

until he looked down and saw your boots still lined neatly against the entry way wall. curious, he kicked his own boots off— leaving him about an inch shorter— before wandering down the hall. he'd need to wash once he greeted you, sweat, dirt and mud dirtying his hair, body and clothes.

he went down the hall towards your room, the next most likely place for him to find you. it made him a little excited, imagining you curled up in bed wrapped in a tight bundle of blankets, in the middle of a circle of pillows and stuffed animals, probably dreaming about him. he'd like to think, at least. he'd wake you up by peppering your face and neck with kisses, and you'd be so excited when you woke up to see his face.

when he pushed the bedroom door open, he found you in bed but you definitely weren't sleeping. boothill stood completely still in the doorway, seemingly unnoticed by you, his eyes wide and practically glued to your body.

your body that was writhing and squirming on your shared bed, hips jerking and twitching upwards as your fingers slid and rubbed in and around your cunt. boothill lost track of the minutes as they passed, watching your fingers dip in and out of your hole, rubbing quick and frantic circles around your clit.

he felt his face get hot, so hot it felt like someone had lit a match against his skin, eyes wide as he watched you.

but you weren't really getting anywhere. and boothill felt a little bad, watching you and listening to all the whiny, almost pathetic sounding moans and whimpers that fell from your lips.

he stepped closer to you, the gentle metal clanking of his body finally alerting you to his presence. it was nearly comical how you jumped, pulling your hand away from between your legs like you were caught doing something wrong.

"b-boothill ?!" you stared at him with wide eyes, "y-you're home.."

boothill chuckled, a little smirk on his face, "well try not to sound too excited darlin'," he was standing at the edge of the bed now, staring down at you. his hands reached out, fingers wrapping around your ankles. he pulled you down the length of the bed, earning a surprised yelp from you. he pulled you down so your legs from the knees down dangled off the end of the bed.

he kept your legs spread open, arms hooked under your knees. "you don't gotta stop just cause i'm here, baby doll" he said, eyes fixed between your legs.

"boothillll" at your embarrassed whine, the cyborg's eyes moved up to your face. your lips were swollen and pink from biting and sucking on them, shiny from your drool. your cheeks were puffy from your pout, streaked with tears, and hot from embarrassment.

"alright, alright" boothill lowered your legs back onto the bed "i'm jus' kiddin', doll. don't gotta get all whiney with me" he wasn't really kidding all that much though. he wouldn't mind watching you for hours and hours if you'd be so kind as to let him. he climbed up onto the bed, body propped up over yours like he was doing a push-up over your body. he lowered his body, arms bent at the elbows, pressing firm kisses over your face. "did you finish ?" he asked, raising his eyebrow.

you looked up at him, brain still flustered from having been caught. you shook your head 'no'. boothill's bottom lip stuck out. "oh, you poor baby" the sly, confident smirk twitched at the corner of his exaggerated pout. "you want help, pretty girl ?" he asked

you nodded your head, a little too quick to react. a low and rough chuckle left boothill before he raised himself off the bed, and made his way to the bathroom. he could hear your frustrated whines, and the sheets moving on the bed as you shuffled around, as he turned the bathroom faucet on.

while waiting for the water to get hot, he undid the holster strapped to his thigh. he released the cylinder, pushing the last three bullets out so all the chambers were empty. when the water from the faucet got hot enough it began fogging up the mirror, he tucked the three bullets into his cheek, gnawing down on them as he soaked a wash rag in the steaming water.

he ran the soaked cloth up and down the barrel of his gun, rubbing away the build up of soot and gun powder off the carbon steel weapon. when he was satisfied with his work, he returned to the bedroom. you were still more or less in the same place he had left you, which filled him with a little more pride than he'd like to admit.

the galaxy ranger made his way over to you, setting the empty the gun on the bed near your head, he undid his heavy belt, falling on the ground joined shortly by his gun holster. he joined you on the bed, hand curling over the back of your neck to bring your face to his. the kiss he pulled you into was a little rougher than his kisses usually were, pushing his body impossibly closer to yours, hand firm on the back of your neck, keeping your mouth against his.

his sharp teeth bit and grazed against your lips, tongue filling your mouth like it was meant to be there. his free hand trailed down your body, stopping only once to slide under the loose fitting tank top to pinch at and brush his thumb over your nipple.

your hips bucked forwards, brushing up against his thigh. his hand moved down, pushing your hips back down onto the bed. he only needed one hand, and not much of his strength to hold you down.

"just be patient, baby doll," he mumbled. his kisses had left you out of breath, panting for air. not boothill, nothing ever left him out of breath. nothing ever would. "never not givin' you what you wanted" he added, though mostly to himself.

his hand trailed down your bare hip, moving to your crotch still warm and wet and ready for him. and his fingers slid in with ease, they slid back and forth without any friction or resistance. "there we go" he drawled, "there's a good girl"

metal fingers moved with a steady pace, pumping in and out of your hole, spreading and curling to rub against the special spot amongst your spongy walls.

your own fingers had made their way to your mouth, lips wrapped around your index and middle finger, sucking and drooling around digits, muffling your dirty noises. it was always like this, always had something in your mouth. his fingers, your fingers and, when boothill was feeling really nice, the length of a silicone cock.

the hand under the back of your neck slid out from under you, a motion you didn't even notice until it took hold of your wrist, pulling your fingers from your mouth. they left the suction of your lips with a wet 'popping' sound, followed by a series of whines, head straining to reach them again.

"stop it" boothill wasn't trying to be mean. he just had something better to fill your mouth with, you just had to wait a second. your struggles stopped, clinging to every word and order boothill gave you.

he reached out on the bed next to you, grabbing his recently cleaned and unloaded six shooter. "close your eyes for a sec" when your eyes fluttered shut, boothill brushed the muzzle of his gun against your bottom lip. the cold of the metal made you shiver, eyes almost shooting open to look. it was such a stark difference to how warm boothill usually was. but you kept them closed tight. "open up"

he used the muzzle to push your bottom lip down, opening your mouth. he slid the barrel in, careful not to grind the metal against your teeth. your eyes shot open, making brief eye contact before they shot down to the gun barrel in your mouth.

"calm down, calm down," like he read your mind, "just relax. keep breathin' baby"

you took deep, shaky breaths through your nose, jaw relaxing around the cylindrical steel. your slacked jaw gave boothill the leeway to move the barrel. with the fingers of his other hand still knuckle deep in your cunt, unmoving, his other hand slid the barrel of his six shooter over your tongue.

it didn't take long before he was comfortable enough in his movements, pushing the barrel back far enough that it caused your body to jerk and gag. he repeated the movement, moving the barrel back before pushing to the back of your throat again.

he did it over and over, unblinking as he watched your face. it was soaked soon enough, lips covered in slabber, cheeks puffy and streaked with tears and sweat. a symphony of gags and sobs were muffled by the gun.

it wasn't until you'd acquired so much drool and spit around the gun that it was running down your chin, leaving streaky lines all the way down your neck, did he decide he was satisfied.

boothill pulled the gun from your mouth, the motion simultaneous with him pulling his fingers from your cunt. you took a deep gasp for air the second the gun left your mouth, coughing and sputtering from the temporary lack of air. boothill revealed in the noises.

but he only let himself a few seconds of taking in the situation before moving on. he moved down, pulling your legs over his hips to keep them spread open. he brought the gun down to your crotch, metal still dripping in your saliva. he used the muzzle again, using it to trace circles around your hole, front sight brushing against your clit. your legs squeezed at his sides, instinctively trying to close your legs, blocked by his body.

"boothill" you whined "boothill please"

the man raised his eyebrow, his movements stopped. "please what ?" he asked. he knew exactly what. he just wanted to make you say it.

"boothill" you whined his name again

"come on, baby. i ain't a mind reader." his movements continued, so slow it barely did anything to relieve the hot pulsing sensation in your crotch. "you gotta tell me what you need"

you sniffled, whining through your words "i need ta... need ta cum"

boothill smirked, "look at you" his tone was proud, like he just successfully taught a pet a new trick. "see, it ain't so hard usin' your words"

he pushed the barrel into your pussy, moving it slowly until he couldn't push any more of it in. he held it still, watching your face as it scrunched and brow furrowed, waiting until it relaxed. "ya ready for me to move it ?" he asked

you nodded your head feverishly, desperately even. "please. oh please boothill"

that was all he needed. the motion went from zero to a hundred, using the barrel of the gun to fuck your pussy. the dull sound of clanking metal was quickly drained out by the noises that spilled from your lips. a series of moans, pleas, squeals, and whimpers that sounded like a gospel song in boothill's ears.

your feet kicked in the air behind him, fingers gripping at the sheets around you as boothill's movements never subsided, not even for a second. if anything, they got quicker, rougher. fucking you harder with his gun.

he could do it forever, he'd never get tired, never even lose his breath. he could go on forever, he wanted to. wished he could. maybe he could get kinda close to feeling like it.

your hips raised off the bed, meeting boothill's thrusts. your core tightened, legs shook and jerked in the air. you reached out, your hands desperately trying to grasp at boothill's arms. if for nothing else than to ground yourself, you couldn't do anything to stop him even if you wanted to. his strength outmatched your by leagues.

"b-boothill !" your mouth hung open, panting for air, eyes rolling towards the back of your eyes. you repeated his name through your gasps, fingers moving to grip the sheets again.

"yeah baby ?" he cooed, feigning sympathy. though it was only partially pretend.

your eyes shut tight, gasp hitched in your throat min-inhale. the moan you let out as you came around the revolver's barrel sounded unreal, like it came out of a film. it was definitely worthy of being in dirty movies. high pitched and squealing, legs kicking out straight before falling limp behind him.

the orgasm hit hard, and the overstimulation came soon after. boothill didn't stop his movements, still thrusting the gun back and forth, in and out, of your pulsating cunt. "n-no ! o-oh boothill ! boothill 's sensitive !"

boothill clicked his tongue, leaning down kissing and licking away the tears that streaked the fat of your cheeks. "come on, baby" he whined, almost teasing the whiny way you spoke to him, "you can do more. don't take this away from me"

[lure-of-writing]

Priority

Word count: 4.2k

Warnings: none

Summary: Bodhi is in love with you. Hopelessly in love. Unfortunately for him he can't say anything about it.

If you asked Bodhi when he first met you two things were certain. One, he would tilt his head to the side and raise an eyebrow in question. Two, he would give a small shrug of his shoulder before saying “Uh I don’t know?”. His statement always sounded more like a question. In his defence why would he know the answer to that question. There is no point in time where Bodhi can pinpoint the moment you entered his life. Unfortunately or fortunately depending on who you asked, you have always been there. Always a constant in his life and he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“Oh come on Bo don’t be like this.” You tilt your head slightly, your lashes batting so strongly he swears that there is a draft in here. Bodhi doesn’t budge, he keeps his arms crossed over his chest with a slight twitch in his clenched jaw. “You know I didn’t mean it right?” The teasing in your voice softens, just a little, just enough to know you really didn’t mean anything by your comment.  “As cool as Xaden is, I could never replace you with him.” You pause for a moment before adding “His ego is too big for me.” Bodhi glances down at where you were sitting on the ground next to the chair he was sitting in. Bodhi wanted to say something sarcastic right back at you, but he couldn’t, the jealousy burning in his throat wouldn’t allow him to. Even if he could say anything he wouldn’t be able to; the way you were looking up at him, like you needed him to know you were only joking. Like what he thought truly mattered to you, it rendered him speechless. 

 Your friends- Liam, Garrick, Xaden and himself were spread out in Xadens room talking about nothing and everything all at once. Garrick being the instigator he is just had to ask you who you would pick to be stranded with and of course you being you said his cousin. He knew you were just trying to mess with him. To get under his skin. And it worked, of course it did. Bodhi would never admit it to anybody but he felt like he was always walking in Xadens shadow. Always second best, never good enough to be picked first. Your lighthearted teasing didn't make him feel any better, not when the jealousy hit harder than it ever had before. 

Bodhi said nothing as you stared up at him. He stared down at you as you looked up at him, a frown was starting to replace your teasing smile. He hated that look, despised it really. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was seeing you sad. “Are you really going to give me that look?” he muttered, and you didn’t miss the annoyance painting his voice. But the moment he finally looked at you again you knew he truly didn’t mean it. With your eyes locked onto his nothing else in the room existed besides you. God he could never be mad at you, not when you look at him like that. 

 The glare he sent Garrick wasn’t missed by you but you couldn’t help yourself when you leaned your body to rest fully against his leg. Placing your head against his thigh. Bodhi would never reject your touch, not when it was so familiar. He craved the feeling of your body against his, more often then he would care to admit.  With Bodhi ignoring you, Liam picked up the conversation, you were trying to listen but all of your attention was on Bodhi. Truly you felt bad about hurting his feelings. While he would never admit that you did, you could see it in the way his jaw set, hands flexing against his arms and his eyes flickering away from yours to hide his hurt. Bodhi could feel the guilt coming off of you in waves. Without even thinking about it he gently brushes his fingers through your hair. He may be talking to Garrick but you knew his attention was on you. This was his way of letting you know that he accepted your apology. The words “i’m sorry” never tumbled out of your lips but the way you leaned further into him and periodically glanced up at him in worry was an apology to him. Words weren’t needed, they never have been, at least not between the two of you. 

“Bo?” The light nudge against his legs pulls his eyes away from Garrick and back to you. “Yeah?” His response was equally as quiet as yours was. His voice felt thick with an emotion he refused to acknowledge. He didn’t stop his ministrations. Instead he found that spot behind your ear and rubbed gentle circles on it before resting his hand on the base of your neck. His fingers still tangled in your hair. “Ya’ know I would never replace you right?” The guilt mixed with an undercurrent of pleading broke his heart.  “I know sweetheart.” His whispered words sound a little rough even to him. But he meant what he said. Gently he squeezes the back of your neck in an unspoken promise. He wasn’t going anywhere, no matter what you were to follow. 

“You couldn’t get rid of me even if you tried.” His words were an afterthought but he meant them. Bodhi bent forward slightly to reach eye level with you. His other hand that wasn’t tangled in your hair cupped your cheek softly turning your face to look at him. The limited space between you forces a sharp inhale of air into your lungs. Bodhi didn’t miss your near silent gasp or the way your eyes flickered over his face before looking at his lips and then back to his eyes. “Sweetheart I’m gonna need you to stop worrying in that pretty little head of yours, ok?” His voice was quiet but you felt them as if they had been screamed at you. That nickname he gave you never failed to make your heart skip a beat. He watched as you took in a shaky breath before lightly nodding your head. “Ok.” Glancing between your eyes he waited until he saw the guilt slip away and he swore love replaced it.

He needed to pull away, put some space between the two of you before he did something he would regret. Leaning forward just a bit more he angled your head up just slightly so he could place a kiss against your hairline. His lips lingered for a moment before pulling away. His eyes found yours again and you saw the small smirk forming on his lips. Maybe he should have kissed you on the lips he thinks to himself, especially with the way a flush of red makes its way to your cheeks. He wonders what would happen if he kissed you.  After a light tap against your cheek he removes his hand and sits back in his chair, refocused on the conversation you hadn’t been aware of. His hand never leaves your hair though. With Bodhi’s focus back on whatever conversation was happening you lay your head back down onto his leg. The gentle kiss you place against his leg is enough for his brain to short circuit. The glide of his hand in your hair stops mid stroke. Bodhi feels his breath hitch in his throat while he was frozen for a second. Without thinking he hand tightens its hold on your hair before releasing once more. 

Bodhi has never been more grateful to not have your eyes on him. The way his jaw tightens. The way his chest rises and falls just a little bit quicker than it should for sitting in a chair. He had to close his eyes for a moment to collect himself. Bodhi knew he was protective of you, maybe even a little obsessed with you but god damn if he wasn’t in love with you. Bodhi's heart sang from the feeling of your lips against his body. And he hates to admit it but for a second he thought about what your lips would feel like against his leg without pants blocking your way. After taking the moment to collect himself he clears his throat pulling your attention back to him. 

The way you bat your eyes at him in anticipation causes him to clear his throat yet again. “I know you were joking but just don’t do that again ok baby?” He chuckles softly at the way your eyes widen and cheeks flush even brighter while casting your eyes downward in hopes to hide the shock you are feeling. There is nothing Bodhi loves more than seeing that shy bashful smile grace your lips all because of him.

“Where the hell is she?” Cuirs talons curled into the wet stone as Bodhi's voice rang out across the flight field. The grey clouds unleashed gallons of freezing droplets of rain upon every rider. Constricting leathers tightened with their newfound water weight. Across the blurred Bodhi could make out the red and brown dragon that was a part of your group but the emerald green scorpion tail dragon he was so used to seeing was nowhere to be found. Everyone from the training exercise had returned. Everyone but you. Time seemed to slow to a screeching halt as Bodhi took in the field before him. Short quick breaths pounded against his ribcage. Panic raised with bail in the back of his throat. “No..no” A panicked gasp of air cut off his train of thoughts. He was the only person who hadn’t dismounted. “Xaden! Garrick!” Bodhi could hear the raw desperation in his voice, he knew that other riders had heard it too, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when everyone had returned but you. He would follow you to the end of the world without you ever having to ask him. It was no surprise to his two closest friends that he was willing to bring the wrath of the professors upon himself by defying orders and heading back out. He would do anything to find you. And if he found you- no he wouldn’t let himself think about that. 

The terror gripping his voice propelled his friends back to their own dragons. Both men had done a quick scan of the field and knew what was wrong. They would have known without even having to look. Bodhi never lost control of himself no matter what. Unless it involved you, then all bets were off. Bodhi couldn’t control his protective instincts even when he tried. So he stopped trying. 

Just as Garrick and Xaden were about to remount the powerful distinct sound of dragon wings could be heard approaching from a distance. Only one thing could be possible. You were returning with Aella. Once again time seemed to slow down. Minutes felt like hours. Every second that passed felt like a lifetime. The fall of rain seemed to double within seconds blurring his vision even more than it already was. Howling wind whipped the rain in all directions forcing other riders to lower their heads or raise their arms to at least protect their faces. Bodhi did neither. He wouldn’t not when the sound of wind being beaten into submission by powerful and strong wings could be heard from mere miles away. You were coming. He could feel it in his bones. It had to be you- there was no other possibility for Bodhi. Finally there was a shadow of a dragon and the vice grip his ribs had on his lungs loosened allowing him to take a deeper breath just by a fraction. Green. He saw green. It was a muted green but it was green nonetheless. 

Dark grey heavy clouds limited his visibility but he knew what he saw. Rain was being pelted down towards the earth with the force of Aellas wings. Bodhi was a part of those that were in Aellas path but he could not care less. Not if that meant you were safe. He would stand under the frozen dagger feeling rain for his whole life if that meant you were safe. Gracefully Aella landed in the middle of the flight field where most of the other dragons had previously occupied it. He was moving before he even knew he was. He was on Cuir one moment and the next he was sliding down his own green dragon without an ounce of grace. “Y’n!” The waiver in his voice didn’t stop, no, it traveled throughout his whole body. The waiver transformed into different things. Trembling hands, burning eyes from unshed tears and lungs that were on fire from how quickly he was running towards you. 

Something was wrong. If anyone possed elegance and grace even in the world of dragon riding it was you. The clumsy tumble down Aellas leg combined with the way you landed with a thud forcing you to roll onto your shoulder to prevent yourself from breaking a bone was anything but normal for you. Sharp painful breaths pumped his legs faster. He had to be faster. He couldn’t get to you soon enough. After what couldn’t have been more than two minutes Bodhi was finally in front of your bent over body. You were tipped over at the hips facing the ground. Both of your elbows rested upon your legs while you cradled your head in your heads. Something was wrong. Without thinking Bodhi unraveled your body forcefully crashing your body into his chest. “Thank god you are ok. I thought…. I thought you were.” Bodhi couldn't bring himself to say the words, not when his eyes burned and his lungs ached and he couldn’t stop the way his hands were shaking. “Are you ok?” He pulled your body away from his slightly to scan your body for injuries. Subconsciously his hands moved to cup your cheeks. “What's wrong baby? I need to know so I can help. But you gotta tell be baby.” Whispered words tumbled from his lips causing your eyes to meet his. Wordlessly you gripped his hands and pulled them away from his face. Silently he watched as you unzipped your flight jacket and pulled the side of your shirt up exposing a large bleeding gash decorating your skin.

“Who did this to you?” It wasn’t a question. It was a demand. Nobody touched you. Nobody dug their dragger along your skin and didn’t pay for it. Bodhi was going to kill whoever did this to you. That was a promise. Bodhi was unable to pull his eyes away from your side as he spoke. “Sweetheart we need to get you to the healers, ok?” Your silence forced his eyes back towards yours. Water was pooling on your waterline and your lips where shaking in pain. Tenderly he pulled you back into his chest. One of his hands found purchase in your sopping wet hair while the other rested upon your neck. “It’s ok I’ve got you baby. I’ve got you. I won’t let anything like this happen to you again I promise.” 

Bodhi hadn’t moved from the chair in his room. He couldn’t bring himself to, not when you were laying in his bed. Sleep had pulled you away from him. Not that he could blame you of course. He would never blame you. “Bo?” Your quiet voice pulled his attention away from his plot for revenge and onto you. “Yeah sweet girl?” He matched his voice to yours not wanting to destroy the peaceful environment that your presence had created. Outside his window it was pitch black but inside of his room warm flickers of light bounced around the room casting you in a beautiful light. Granted you were always beautiful in his eyes but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t enjoy what was before him. Wordlessly you watched as he made his way over to his bed. He perched himself on the edge of the bed right by your hip.  Your watchful eyes traced his movement until you couldn’t. His hands where once again in your hair. Carefully he moved his hand down until it rested on your neck. He couldn’t help himself from touching your cheek. Lightly his thumb ran back and forth against your cheek.

“Will you lay with me?” His room was not warm by any means but suddenly it felt like a hundred degrees warmer and he felt the blood rise to his face. He was sure that there was a flush to his face. He had laid in bed with you a thousand of times before so he wasn’t sure why he was suddenly nervous. Deep down he knew why. Some part of your relationship with him had changed and he wasn’t sure what that meant. He wasn’t sure if he had to prepare to mourn all the ways he wished he could of had you. Swallowing the lump in his throat he glances out the window and follows the path of a raindrop along the window until he couldn’t follow it anymore. Turning back to your he finds your sharp eyes already resting upon him. Forcefully he cleared his throat once more before answering. “Of course, you never have to ask me that.” His voice wasn’t a whisper but it wasn’t normal speaking volume either.

Gently he pulls back the blanket helping you scooch over in the bed making more space for him before he climbed in. With a wince you pull yourself up and pat the pillow behind your head. Expectantly you look at him. A laugh falls from his lips “You could of just said you wanted to use my arm as a pillow you know that right?” The shake of his head does nothing to move his smile. “Why would I do that? You should know this by now.” Your words floated into the space above him. “You’re right I should know better.” This time it's a huff of air that leaves you instead. Bodhi missed the sound of your laugh but he knew it would be too painful for you to laugh at the moment so he enjoyed what he had. “Obviously I’m always right.” Your words were cut off with a wince. Bodhi went to push himself up so he could help you move but you shook your head and placed your palm on his chest. 

Following your silent command he lays back down to his previous position, A soft grunt and a heavy sigh of relief later you were pressed against his side. One of your legs crossed against his chest and the other rested against his leg. Your head rested on his chest right above his heart. He waited until you were comfortable to move. Softly he moves to rest one hand below the cut on your side while the other finds its way to your bare leg. Absentmindedly his thumb begins to rub patterns along your leg. A few minutes of silence had passed before your voice filled the room. “Bo?” Slowly he opens his eyes to find yours are already looking at him. “Yeah?’ His eyes traced over your face while you fought to find the right words. He always knew you were stunning but here in his room with the gentle light dancing upon your face, your beauty took his breath away. “What happened out there Bodhi? The use of his first name caught his attention before the rest of your words did. You only used his first name when you were serious. “Huh?” 

 The words tumbled out of his lips before he could even stop them. Internally he cringes at his answer. “What happened out there with you? I’ve never seen you like that before. You were so- so panicked. You never panic.” Bodhi knew in this moment that it was now or never. He had been so close to telling you out on the flight field but he couldn’t not when you desperately needed to be seen by the healers. Bodhi sucked in a deep breath in hopes of calming his nerves. It did not. “I panicked because it was you. You hadn’t come back. Everyone was back but you and just the thought alone of something having happened to you worried me sick. But then you finally showed up, right as I was about to go searching you for and at first all I felt was relief. Until I watched you dismount from Aella and then the fear took over all over again. I could tell something was wrong but I didn’t know what it was and all I could think about was something finally taking you from me. And I… I can’t stand that thought. It makes me sick.” Bodhi's words came to a stop but still you said nothing. You could tell that there was more he wanted to say, more he needed to say, but he needed the space to find the right words. Without realizing it you had begun to rub soothing circles on bodhi's chest. Bodhi felt the warmth of your hand against his chest. The gentle comforting touch of your hand upon him was more than he could ask for. 

“I am so in love with you. I have been for years. I could never bring myself to tell you. I worried about what it would do to our relationship but after seeing you like that. I can’t hold it in anymore.” Bodhi's hand encased yours pulling it to rest on his cheek but he didn’t remove his hand. If this is the last time he gets to have you like this he was going to take every  moment presented to him. “I love you. And I understand if you don't feel the same. But I can;t keep it in anymore. I am so incredibly in love with you.” A beat of silence passed while your eyes bounce between his lips and eyes. Finally after what felt like forever a laugh rang out into the once silent room. Out of all the reactions Bodhi was expecting this was definitely not one of them. His raised eyebrow did all the talking for him. 

“Oh Bo.” A sigh mixed with a breathless laugh tumbled from your lips. “We are such idiots. I am in love with you too. I have been since I met you but I never said anything because I was worried about it not working out.” A laugh of disbelief rumbled in his chest. He removed his hand from your wrist to rub his eyes for a long moment before laughing again. He pulled his hand down his face before placing it back on your thigh. “I can’t believe this. I have been on the verge of losing my mind for a year and a half because I was worried just for this to happen.” Bodhi shakes his head in disbelief once more. Even though he wished he had known this information earlier he didn’t mind. Not if it meant what he hoped it did. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?” Giggling, you lightly shook your head. Even though the movement was gentle it was enough to push a few hairs into your face. Without thinking he pulled his hand away from your leg and brought it out from the blanket to push your hair behind your ear. God he could never get used to the sight in front of him. 

A bashful smile painted your face along with a deep blush. “I was way too nervous to tell you first.” Your answer pulled a laugh from the two of you. After a few seconds both of your laughter had died down leaving silence to fill its space instead. “So I should have grown a pair and done it first a long time ago is what you're saying.” The slight shrug of your shoulders didn’t match the coy smile you were sporting. “You said it not me.” Once again you shrugged not before laughing again. This time it was against the pec of his chest. “So I should always make the first move, is what I’m hearing?” Quickly you glanced up to find his eyes already upon you. Shifting you move to hide more of your face in his chest but he doesn’t let you get far. “I mean if that's how you feel that it then sure.” Bodhi knew when you got shy you tried to hide from prying eyes but fortunately for him he wasn’t subject to the same rules as everybody else. Softly his hand finds its rightful place against your cheek and neck. The gentle guide of his hands pulls your face up to his. You watch as his eyes drop to your lips before coming back up. “Well if that's the case then you won’t have any problem with this.” Bodhi lifted himself while bringing your face closer to his. With one last look at your eyes wide in surprise he closes his own eyes when he felt the softness of your lips against his own. Slowly your lips found a rhythm against Bodhis and he swore there was no better feeling in the world than this. 

Finally when both of you ran out of air did you pull away from each other. Bodhi was watching you when your eyelids finally peeled apart from each other. “I think you should do that again just so I can make sure there is no problem.” The laugh that tumbled out of Bodhi was loud and full of joy. He could feel the smirk on his face but he made no move to stop it. Not when you were looking at him like that. Right before your lips met his .That laugh that he loved graced the room once again. He would hate to cut off the laugh that he loves so much but the feel of your lips against his takes priority.

[bandgie]

if kill for you to expand on your freeuse jeongin drabble if it sparks joy🙏🏽🙏🏽 overstimming him while he's having a full blown conversation god fuck i Need him

There's nothing really interesting on your phone. Same memes, same trends, and same format. The only thing that gives you some enjoyment is Jeongin sitting besides you.

He's doing the same thing. It's common for you two to spend some quality time together on the phone. The only difference is that while one hand scrolls mindlessly on the screen, the other palms your lover through his sweats.

Jeongin is used to this. He really is. A constant erection is nothing new. Sometimes you'll let him cum, other times you don't. He doesn't mind what you allow. He just likes how your palm squeeze his tip before stroking back down to the base.

If you peek to the side, you'll be able to see a little wet spot. You can see him twitching, adjusting his hips just slightly so you can touch the underside of his cock. Yet, his face doesn't give away what his body does at all. Set jaw, eyes locked in on his screen, and not so much as an open-mouth to let out quiet moans.

You're thinking of how to make him squirm when the door to his room cracks open.

"Jeongin. Are you busy?"

It's Chan. His unruly hair peeks from the door as he peers in, noticing your presence besides his young friend.

Then he sees your hand.

"Oh- My bad-"

"What is it, Hyung?" Jeongin clicks his phone off. You hear it land softly on the other side of the bed as he gives his leader full attention. "You can come in."

You touching Jeongin like this is nothing out of the normal, but that doesn't mean the other guys are completely used to it. They know your arrangement. They know how Jeongin likes to be... used despite his members being around.

But standing there, watching your manicured hands slowly pump his clothed cock is completely different.

Chan rushes in and shuts the door before he can think twice. He just needs to tell Jeongin something and he'll be out of your hair.

But seeing his reddening ears and nervous eyes gives you an idea.

"I was just, uh, going through the recordings and I think we have to redo your part. I was messing with the instrumentals and everyone's vocals sound off-key now. I think we should..."

He's saying something... important. Jeongin can see the determined look in his Hyung's eyes and he can hear the serious tone, but your hand. Your hand suddenly applies pressure.

You squeeze harder than you normally would, tugging upwards to wrap your fingers around his cock and rub. The motion mixed with the rough material of his sweats feels muted, but still good.

His hips buck in the air. Jeongin opens his mouth in a silent moan before settling back down and ignoring that shit-eating grin on your lips.

"So uh, you have to...rerecord my part?" It's breathless. He's breathless. Your fingers move from his cock to the band of his sweatpants. You move underneath them and push past his coarse hair to his cock, naked and hot to the touch.

And when you wrap around the base, you waste no time in pumping him. The soft slick of his pre-cum sound the room and it doesn't take long before he breathes a moan.

"...and it shouldn't take long. I was thinking of trying to- Ayen-ah...are you even listening?"

It feels good. Has a handjob ever felt this good? Jeongin doesn't really know. He doesn't even remember. Everything is so warm, so wet. Your pumping hand is restricted from his bottoms, but there's something unbelievably arousing seeing the outline through his sweats.

The fabric moving quickly, slipping down his waist. He can see the bones of your hand, flexing and curling around his leaking cock.

Oh shit. "What? Y-yeah. Um...now?"

When he looks at Chan, he's semi-shocked to see him looking at his crotch. He shouldn't be too surprised though. You look so pretty, almost innocent, stroking your boyfriend. Your legs are crossed, breasts pushed together from your hand working overtime. There's a terrible smile on your lips, eyes glistening with Jeongin can only label as euphoria when you continue to stroke him.

And when Jeongin lowers his gaze, he sees the tent in Chan's pants.

Now it's Chan who isn't listening. He's staring. He's thinking how smooth Jeongin's cock must feel. He's imagining how big it would look in your fist.

You're playing with his tip. Even his sweats on, Chan can tell. Jeongin is writhing, throwing his head back and sucking in his bottom lip to keep from groaning. He can hear the slick, he can see it. Your other hand drops your phone and pulls down the remaining of Jeongin's sweats, revealing his boxers.

He's absolutely drenched.

Then you stop. No slowing down, no last jerk, just an abrupt yank from your hand.

Even Chan whines from the sudden loss.

Jeongin groans. His chest heaves like he wasn't breathing, and when he finally lifts his head up, Chan can see that he wasn't. His face is red, flushed with pink and dripping his sweat from the side.

He looks like he wants to say something. Jeongin does. He wants to beg you to keep going. He could feel the orgasm on his tongue. You could feel the leaking of his release, but just when you felt him pulsing, you stopped.

Fuck. You love that dark look in his eyes.

You bring your hand to your eyes, inspecting the pre-cum dribbling down your fingers.

You pop a digit in your mouth and nod your head to Chan. "Guess you two should get to work then."

[elyxir1zz]

★ — Between the lines - part 10

CW : meanie sevika, artist reader, hockey player vi and sevika, modern au, highschool shenanigans, cheating, sex, dark themes, love triangle, lesbians, quickies

A/N : FINAL CHAPTER SHES DONE

You didn’t go to school for a week after the breakup. Your mom didn’t push you, and honestly, you were grateful for that. Facing everyone felt like an impossible task, especially knowing Sevika was out there, making her single status known. When you finally did drag yourself back to class, it felt like every pair of eyes in the hall was on you. The whispers weren’t subtle either. Everyone seemed to know about Sevika hooking up with random girls all week, and the weight of it crushed you even more.

At home, things weren’t any better. Even a month later, you still clung to her jacket at night, sleeping with it bundled up in your arms like it was a lifeline. Her scent was fading, but you refused to admit it. If you couldn’t have her, at least you had the memories. You told yourself you were starting to get over her. You could think about her without crying—sometimes. But the truth was, the pain hadn’t gone away; it had just burrowed deeper.

Your self-harm started to spiral again. Blaming yourself for the breakup, for not being enough, became a vicious cycle. The day your mom walked in and saw you in the act was a turning point—one you weren’t ready for. You’d forgotten to lock your door, and the horrified look on her face made your stomach drop. She blamed herself, and though you tried to assure her it wasn’t her fault, she wouldn’t hear it. After a long, tearful conversation, she arranged for therapy. You weren’t thrilled at first, but slowly, it started to help. Things weren’t perfect, but the numbness began to fade.

One afternoon, while you were lying in bed scrolling through your phone, your mom called for you from downstairs.

“What?!” you yelled, not bothering to move.

When she didn’t respond, you groaned, tossing your phone aside. Dragging yourself out of bed, you trudged down the hall, rubbing your eyes.

“Mom? What did you—oh.”

You stopped mid-step, your breath catching as you looked down the staircase. Standing in the foyer were Jinx, Mel, and Vi’s girlfriend, Caitlyn. Jinx grinned up at you, waving with exaggerated enthusiasm.

“Hey, bitch!” she called out, as if this were the most normal thing in the world.

Your mom stood beside them, smiling nervously, clearly unsure how you’d react.

Later, you found yourself standing in your room with the three girls. Jinx was already digging through your closet, muttering comments to herself about your clothes, while Mel and Caitlyn sat on your bed. Caitlyn looked poised and calm, while Mel studied you with a calculating expression, like she was trying to piece you together.

“Sorry, but... why are you here?” you finally asked, tilting your head, arms crossed.

“Prom dress shopping,” Mel said with a small smile, brushing some imaginary lint off her pants.

“This is Caitlyn, by the way,” Jinx added, holding up one of your oversized band shirts against her chest and spinning to look in the mirror.

“Hi,” Caitlyn greeted you with a polite smile.

You blinked. “Prom? Not my thing. Besides, it’s not even a real prom. It’s my junior one, and all we’re doing is crashing the seniors’ party.”

Jinx turned to you, still holding your shirt. “You don’t want to see Sevika?” she teased, her grin mischievous.

“Yep,” you replied flatly, crossing your arms tighter.

Jinx giggled at how quick you were to shut it down, but Mel frowned slightly, leaning forward. “You need to show the school that you’re okay without her,” she said, her voice gentle but firm.

“I am okay without her,” you said sharply, though the defensive tone betrayed you.

The three of them exchanged a look—a silent, knowing exchange that made your stomach twist 

“What?” you groaned, already bracing yourself for whatever plan they had in mind.

You sighed, flipping through the dress rack absentmindedly, the silky fabrics and glittering embellishments barely registering in your mind. Across from you, Jinx was lazily leaning against the opposite side of the rack, twirling a hanger between her fingers. Mel and Caitlyn stood in front of the full-length mirror, holding dresses against themselves, exchanging silent glances for approval.

“What’s the theme again?” Mel asked, turning slightly, a raised brow silently asking if the deep burgundy dress she held was cute.

“Um... prom?” You tilted your head, offering a half-hearted shrug.

“I think it’s masquerade,” Jinx chimed in, shifting her weight on one leg.

“We have to wear masks?!” You groaned, dragging a hand down your face.

“Fun!” Caitlyn giggled, rifling through the racks with renewed enthusiasm. “I’m going for a royal vibe.”

“I like that,” Mel nodded approvingly. “I might go for something regal too.” She flicked through a few hangers before pulling out a deep sapphire gown.

Jinx glanced at you, her usual playful smirk faltering when she noticed the way your shoulders slumped, your fingers idly tracing the fabric of a random dress. “What’s wrong?” she asked, tilting her head.

You sighed, shaking your head as if to brush off the feeling. “Nothing—just... me and Sevika used to talk about skipping prom together.” The words left your lips in a quiet murmur, your gaze dropping to the floor.

Jinx stilled. It was brief, just a fraction of a second, but you caught it—the way her expression froze before she quickly masked it with a grin. “Oh,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck, her tone suddenly unsure.

Before you could press her on it, a sharp gasp interrupted the moment.

“OH MY GOD,” Mel practically shouted, causing both you and Jinx to whip your heads toward her.

She held up a black gown, the fabric shimmering under the store lights. It had a thigh-high slit, a corset bodice, and off-shoulder sleeves dusted with delicate glitter.

“This would look amazing on you,” Caitlyn beamed, her eyes full of excitement as she turned to you.

“Oh, I don’t know if that—”

“Too late! Put it on!” Jinx cut in, snatching the dress from Mel and practically shoving you into the dressing room before you could protest.

“Are you sure—” you tried weakly, but she had already yanked the curtain shut.

Outside, Caitlyn giggled as she returned to her own search. Mel’s phone buzzed, drawing her attention away from the dresses. She glanced at the screen, and her expression shifted slightly.

“Who is it?” Jinx raised an eyebrow, still distractedly flipping through the dresses.

Mel hesitated before looking up. “It’s Sevika. She wants to know how she’s doing.”

Sevika’s POV

Sevika never cried.

Not real tears, not since her mother died. Sniffles? Maybe. A glassy-eyed moment here and there? Sure. But never the kind of gut-wrenching, soul-crushing sobs that left a person feeling hollow. Until she saw the look in your eyes that night.

She cried on the ride home. She cried into her pillow, into the darkness of her room, into the loneliness she had chosen for herself. She stopped eating regularly, barely touching the meals she ordered. Instead, she poured herself into the gym, pummeling the punching bag until her knuckles bruised.

And then came the flings.

Random girls. Random nights. Nothing that lasted more than a few hours, just enough to make her feel something—or maybe to feel nothing at all. When she wasn’t with them, she found herself spending more time with Vi, mostly because she knew it meant she wouldn’t run into you.

Vi introduced her to new people. Golden boy Jayce Talis, his genius boyfriend Viktor. Sevika thought Jayce would be unbearable, but surprisingly, he was easygoing. Relaxed. Smoked a little too much pot, which made him tolerable in her book. Mel was there too. The first few times they were in the same room, the tension was suffocating, but eventually, they got over their past.

Then there was Jinx.

Loud. Unfiltered. Chaotic.

She didn’t like Sevika. That much was obvious. But strangely, she didn’t hate her either. She understood why Sevika had broken up with you, even if she thought it was the stupidest thing she’d ever heard.

The group sat in Jayce’s finished basement, a space that looked more like a recording studio than a hangout spot. Jinx, Caitlyn, and Mel were curled up on the L-shaped couch, scrolling through their phones. Jayce and Vi were strumming on guitars, while Viktor tapped lazily at the drum set.

Sevika sat across from them, her phone in hand, her thumb hovering over your Instagram profile.

“Sevika? Sevika!” Vi called out, snapping her fingers. “What is she doing over there?”

Jinx peered over, catching a glimpse of the screen before rolling her eyes. “She’s stalking her Instagram again.”

Sevika jerked her phone away. “Leave me alone.”

Vi groaned, standing up and yanking the phone from Sevika’s hands before she could react. “Hey!”

“We didn’t invite you over just so you could wallow in self-pity.” Vi shoved the phone into her back pocket. “Let’s get your mind off her.”

She scanned the room before her eyes landed on an extra bass guitar propped against the wall. Her smirk widened.

“Can’t you play bass?”

Sevika groaned. “Vi, no.”

Jayce’s eyes lit up. “What?! You play? Sevika, stop holding out on us!” He grabbed the guitar, practically shoving it into her hands.

“I’m not very good,” she muttered, but her fingers found the chords with ease. She hesitated for a moment before playing a complex riff, her movements fluid, practiced.

When she finished, silence filled the room.

Then Viktor grinned. “That was incredible.”

“You should totally join our band,” Jayce added excitedly.

Sevika scoffed. “I graduate in a month.”

Jayce looked disappointed but nodded. “Still, you should keep playing.” He gestured to the guitar.

She hesitated before holding it closer to her chest. For the first time in weeks, she smiled. Not a smirk. Not a fake grin. A real smile.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

Then Jinx’s phone rang.

She answered, and as soon as she said your name, Sevika’s head snapped up.

Vi raised an eyebrow. “Still wondering how she’s doing?”

Sevika exhaled, rubbing her face. “I just... I just wish I knew.”

Mel smirked, glancing at Caitlyn.

“What if we took her prom dress shopping?” she suggested.

Sevika blinked. Then, for the first time in weeks, she let out a breath of laughter.

“You’d do that?”

Mel crossed her arms. “I remember when you ripped my heart out. She could probably use some friends.”

Caitlyn giggled. “I think it’s a brilliant idea.”

"You've been in there for almost fifteen minutes! What the hell are you doing, marrying the dress?" Jinx's impatient voice rang from the other side of the curtain.

You stood frozen in front of the mirror, staring at your reflection. The dress was stunning—more than stunning. It clung to you in all the right places, the thigh slit daring, the neckline bold. You looked... different. Confident. Powerful. But at the same time, exposed. Vulnerable.

"It's kinda—" you started, trying to find the right words, but before you could finish, the curtain was yanked open.

"Oh my god, I'm sure it looks great—" Jinx's words died mid-sentence as her eyes swept over you. She blinked once. Then twice. "Oh."

You turned quickly, your face heating up. "Jinx!"

"I'm kinda... attracted to you right now," she teased, her voice light but her expression betraying a flicker of something else—something almost genuine.

Your cheeks burned. "Shut up," you mumbled, crossing your arms as Mel and Caitlyn approached.

Mel's eyes widened as she took in the sight of you. "Damn," she said, a slow smile tugging at her lips.

Caitlyn, on the other hand, gasped, her mouth falling open. "Oh my god, it's so sexy!" she practically squealed, grabbing your hand and spinning you slightly so she could see every angle.

You avoided their gazes, shifting uncomfortably. "I don't know... isn't it a bit too much?"

Jinx scoffed, placing her hands on her hips. "Too much? Babe, if anything, it’s not enough."

"You look like a goddess," Caitlyn insisted, stepping back to admire you. "This is the kind of dress that makes people stop and stare."

Mel smirked knowingly. "It’s the kind of dress that makes ex-girlfriends reevaluate their life choices."

You stiffened at that, the mention of Sevika tugging at the part of you that still ached. “This isn’t about her,” you said quickly.

Mel shrugged. “No, it’s about you. And you? You look incredible.”

Jinx nudged your arm. “C’mon, just admit it. You feel hot, don’t you?”

You hesitated, looking back at your reflection. The person in the mirror wasn’t the heartbroken girl who spent weeks in bed. She wasn’t the girl Sevika left behind. She was someone new.

Your fingers brushed against the fabric at your waist, and for the first time in a while, you felt... good. Maybe even powerful.

A small smile tugged at your lips. “Yeah,” you admitted softly. “I think I do.”

Jinx whooped triumphantly, throwing an arm around your shoulder. “Hell yeah, you do! Now, let’s find you some heels”

Mel grinned. "And a mask to complete the look."

Caitlyn clapped her hands together.

You sighed, sprawled out horizontally on your bed, you scrolled absentmindedly on your phone. Prom was only a few hours away, and you were waiting for your newfound friend group to arrive and help you get ready. You hadn't seen Sevika in a while—maybe your brain had finally started blocking her out, or maybe it was because ever since you posted that picture of your dress on Instagram, Sevika had been actively avoiding you. Every time she caught even a glimpse of you in the hallways, it took everything in her not to crumble, so she simply made sure to never be where you were.

The door to your room suddenly burst open, hitting the wall with a thud.

Jinx yelled out your name, dramatically throwing herself on top of you, her head landing on your back. Mel and Caitlyn strolled in behind her, much calmer but equally amused.

"Are you excited for everyone to lose their minds tonight?" Jinx giggled, tilting her head to look at you upside down.

"About that—I’ve been feeling kinda sick—" you tried, one last desperate attempt to escape prom.

"Shut up. You're going," Jinx interrupted flatly, sitting up and giving you a pointed look.

Mel snickered as she walked over to the bed, flipping her bag upside down and dumping an explosion of makeup products across your sheets.

You blinked at the mess. "What... is this?" you asked, eyeing the chaos.

Jinx grinned, practically bouncing. "I think we got your shade right!"

Caitlyn was already seated in front of your full-length mirror, focused on applying her own makeup with precision. "It took a while," she added, inspecting a palette, "but we did our research."

Mel smirked, settling down beside Caitlyn. You picked up a gel eyeliner from the pile, turning it over in your fingers. A memory surfaced—Sevika, sitting behind you, steadying your hand as she guided the liner along your lash line, her voice low and amused as she teased you for flinching.

You exhaled sharply, shaking the thought away. Jinx, oblivious to your moment of hesitation, was rummaging through your closet, sifting through jewelry and accessories.

"Hey, did you end up renting a limo?" Mel asked Caitlyn, raising an eyebrow.

Caitlyn sighed, rolling her eyes at her reflection. "No. Everything was already booked up by the time I checked."

Before anyone could respond, her gaze flickered to the mirror—and her eyes immediately widened. Behind her, Jinx was standing in only a t-shirt and underwear. But not just any underwear.

"Jinx, what the hell is that?!" Caitlyn snapped, turning around to fully look at her.

Mel, who had already noticed, snorted, covering her mouth as Jinx wiggled her hips side to side. The underwear had giant googly eyes stuck on them.

"Too much?" Jinx asked innocently, her face breaking into a mischievous grin.

You burst out laughing. "Is that how you're planning to seduce Ekko?"

"Obviously," Jinx said proudly, flipping through the dresses she brought. She pulled out a blue dress splattered with rainbow paint—something she clearly customized herself. "And it's gonna work."

Mel shook her head with a smirk. "You're insane."

"Thank you," Jinx chirped, shimmying into her dress without a care.

You rolled your eyes and turned back to your vanity, picking up a brush and starting on your makeup, making sure to match it perfectly to your dress. As you focused, you could hear the chatter and laughter behind you, the energy in the room infectious. For the first time in a long while, you felt something other than heartbreak. 

The four of you stepped into the prom venue, the music pulsing through the grand hall. The dim lighting, accented by twinkling chandeliers and fairy lights, cast a dreamlike glow over the crowd. Everyone was adorned in masks, making it hard to tell who was who unless they had distinct features you’d memorized.

Jinx and Caitlyn wasted no time disappearing into the sea of people, no doubt off to find their dates. Mel, however, lingered at your side, her presence grounding you as you both drifted toward the punch table.

"Did Sevika come?" you asked, keeping your voice even, though your fingers gripped the rim of the table a little too tightly. If anyone would know, it was Mel.

She sighed, already regretting what she was about to say. "Yeah, I think so," she admitted, pouring herself a cup of punch. You mirrored her movements, your hand slightly unsteady.

"You gonna talk to her?" Mel asked, not looking at you as she stirred her drink absentmindedly.

You coughed, bringing a hand to your mouth to cover your sudden nerves. "Uhhh—"

"Sounds about right," Mel said flatly, smirking at your hesitation before taking a sip of her drink.

You frowned, guilt creeping in. "Mel... I'm sorry—"

Before you could finish, an arm wrapped around your shoulders. "Literally everyone is staring at you," Jinx giggled into your ear, her voice playful.

You blinked, suddenly hyper-aware of the lingering gazes around the room. People whispered, some admiring, others simply intrigued. You looked breathtaking tonight, and you weren’t used to this kind of attention.

Jinx felt you tense up and immediately reached into her purse, pulling out a tiny shooter bottle. "You want one?" she asked, already pressing it into your hand before you could refuse.

"Jinx, what the fuck," you laughed, but took it anyway, twisting the cap off and downing it in one go.

"Relax!" she cheered, shaking you playfully before planting a quick, exaggerated kiss on your cheek. Then, with a wink, she twirled around and disappeared into the crowd.

You rolled your eyes, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand as you shot Mel an exasperated look. She giggled, raising her cup in mock salute.

The music changed then, shifting from upbeat rhythms to something slower, smoother. The opening notes of a familiar song filled the space, and couples instinctively gravitated toward the dance floor. The shift in atmosphere was almost instant—lights dimmed slightly, and the soft, romantic glow of golden bulbs flickered over masked faces as pairs swayed together.

You exhaled, ready to make some excuse to step away, but then you felt it.

A presence.

You didn’t have to look to know who it was. The heat of someone standing close behind you, the faintest scent of something familiar—something that made your chest ache.

Sevika.

You turned slowly, and there she was. Masked, but unmistakable. The sharp cut of her suit, the way she held herself, the way she looked at you as if the entire world had narrowed down to just this moment.

Your breath caught in your throat.

"Hey," she said, her voice low, hesitant.

"Hey," you echoed.

Mel, ever the observant one, smoothly excused herself, slipping into the crowd without a word.

Neither of you spoke for a long second, the air thick with everything left unsaid. The song played on, and people moved around you, but Sevika’s gaze never wavered.

"You look..." she trailed off, exhaling sharply through her nose as if frustrated with herself. "You look stunning."

Your heart stuttered. "Thanks. You clean up pretty well yourself."

A beat of silence.

Then—

"Can I have this dance?"

Your stomach flipped. For a moment, you considered saying no, walking away before the night could take you places you weren’t sure you were ready to go. But when she extended her hand, you found yourself reaching for it before you could stop.

Her grip was warm, steady.

She led you onto the dance floor, her other hand hesitantly resting on your waist. The touch was light, as if she thought you might pull away. But you didn’t. Instead, you let your hands settle on her shoulder, the music guiding your movements.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

It was easier this way—just moving, just existing in this stolen moment under the soft glow of the lights. Her thumb brushed against your waist absentmindedly, like muscle memory, and you hated how much you missed it.

"Did you—" Sevika cleared her throat, adjusting her grip slightly. "Did you want to skip this thing together? Like we talked about?"

You let out a small, breathy laugh. "I thought about it."

Her lips quirked up slightly, but there was something sad in her expression. "So why didn’t you?"

You swallowed. "I think... I just wanted to prove to myself that I could do this without you."

A flicker of something crossed her face, but she only nodded. "And? Can you?"

Your fingers tightened slightly against her shoulder. "I don’t know yet."

The song was nearing its end. You knew the moment wouldn’t last forever.

"Do you miss me?" she asked, barely above a whisper.

You closed your eyes briefly, exhaling. "Yeah," you admitted, voice just as soft.

Sevika was quiet, her jaw tightening. But then she did something unexpected—she let go of your hand and reached up, hesitating before her fingers lightly traced the edge of your mask, as if memorizing the shape of you.

Your breath hitched.

"I miss you too," she said.

Mel and Jinx leaned against one of the tables, arms crossed, watching the two of you stay frozen in place even after the song had changed. The tension between you and Sevika was so thick it could be cut with a knife, but neither of you made a move to step away.

Jinx smirked, holding her hand out expectantly.

Mel groaned, rolling her eyes as she pulled a folded-up twenty from her clutch and slapped it into Jinx’s palm.

"Loser," Jinx chirped, stuffing the money into her bra with a smug grin.

"I totally thought it was gonna take longer," Mel grumbled, stomping her foot against the ground in mild frustration.

Jinx shrugged, eyes still locked on you and Sevika. "What can I say? The heart wants what it wants."

Mel huffed, watching as Sevika finally—reluctantly—dropped her hands and stepped back, but not before giving you one last look. It was a look Mel knew all too well.

“This isn’t over,” Mel muttered under her breath.

Jinx laughed. "Nope. Not even close."

Sevika exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl into the night air as she twirled the cigarette between her fingers. The cool evening breeze brushed against her skin, carrying the distant sounds of laughter and music from the prom she had just escaped. Her mask now rested on top of her head, forgotten.

She sighed, bringing the cigarette to her lips, taking a slow drag. The burn in her lungs was sharp, and she coughed, cursing under her breath as she tried to stifle it.

"It's fine. I already saw it," her father’s voice cut through the quiet.

Sevika stiffened slightly but didn’t turn to look at him as he stepped out of the house, the screen door creaking behind him. He lowered himself onto the porch stairs beside her, taking the cigarette when she wordlessly passed it to him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the quiet hum of crickets and the occasional distant car passing by.

Then, his voice broke the silence.

"Listen, I know you're planning on cutting me off as soon as you're able to."

Sevika tensed. Her fingers twitched against her knee, but she said nothing, her gaze locked onto the peeling paint of the wooden steps beneath them.

Her father took a slow drag of the cigarette, letting out a deep exhale before continuing.

"And I get it," he said. "I haven't exactly given you a reason to stick around."

She swallowed hard, jaw tightening.

He sighed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "But listen… You don’t have to take the scholarship if you don’t want to."

Sevika’s head snapped up, her eyes wide in disbelief.

"What?" she muttered, almost thinking she misheard him.

He turned his head slightly, finally looking at her. "I mean it," he said, his tone unreadable. "If it’s not what you want… then don’t force yourself into it just because you think you have to."

Sevika stared at him, struggling to process his words. For so long, she had felt like her future was already set in stone—a path she had to walk whether she wanted to or not.

But now… she wasn’t so sure.

Sevika’s grip tightened on the fabric of her suit , her mind racing. She had spent so much time convincing herself that the scholarship was her only way out, the only option that made sense. And yet, hearing those words from her father—the man she had been so sure didn’t care—sent a ripple of doubt through her.

She scoffed, shaking her head. “Since when do you care about what I want?”

Her father took another drag from the cigarette, his expression unreadable. “Since I realized I’d rather you hate me for the things I did… than for forcing you into something you don’t want.”

She frowned, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. There was no sarcasm in his tone, no passive-aggressive remark waiting to follow. Just honesty. And that scared her more than anything.

She looked away, her fingers digging into her palm. “I don’t even know what I want,” she muttered.

Her father sighed, flicking the cigarette into the yard. “Then take your time and figure it out. But don’t waste your life trying to prove something to people who don’t deserve it.”

Sevika stayed quiet, the weight of his words pressing down on her. She had spent so much time trying to outrun her past, trying to prove she was more than the mistakes that haunted her. But for the first time, she wondered—who was she proving it to?

Before she could respond, a car parked in her driveway. Your car. You step out and look at her with concern in you eyes

The sight of you made her breath hitch, her heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with the nicotine still buzzing in her veins. You were still in your prom dress, the mask hanging loosely in your hand. Your hair was slightly tousled from the night, and under the porch light, you looked ethereal.

Your eyes flickered between Sevika and her father before settling on her, uncertainty clouding your expression. “Hey.”

Her father gave a knowing smirk as he stood up, patting Sevika’s shoulder. “I’ll leave you two to it,” he said, disappearing into the house without another word.

Silence settled between you both as you hesitated at the bottom step. “You left,” you finally said, your voice softer than she expected.

Sevika exhaled, rubbing the back of her neck. “Didn’t think anyone would notice.”

You scoffed lightly, shaking your head. “Of course I noticed.”

She glanced away, guilt twisting in her stomach. “Prom isn’t really my thing,” she admitted, trying to play it off.

You stepped up onto the porch, standing just a foot away from her now. “Then why’d you come?”

Sevika swallowed hard. She could lie, say she was just there for the group, say it didn’t mean anything. But as she looked at you, standing there in that stupidly beautiful dress, she knew there was no point in pretending.

“For you,” she finally admitted.

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Then, before she could second-guess herself, she stood up, holding out a hand.

“Dance with me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Sevika hesitated. “There’s no music.”

You smirked, pulling your phone from the small clutch you carried, tapping the screen before a soft melody filled the quiet night air. A slow song.

Sevika chuckled under her breath, shaking her head. “You planned this, didn’t you?”

You shrugged. “Maybe.”

She sighed, but she didn’t resist when you took her hand, leading her a few steps away from the porch. The grass was cool beneath her shoes as you placed a hand on her shoulder, her other hand resting at your waist.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke. You just swayed, the dim porch light casting long shadows as the music surrounded you.

Sevika’s heart pounded, her fingers twitching against your waist. “I’m sorry,” she finally murmured.

You looked up at her. “For what?”

“For… everything,” she admitted. “For hurting you. For not—” She exhaled, shaking her head. “For being a coward.”

You were quiet for a moment before squeezing her hand. “I won’t lie… it hurt,” you admitted. “But I think… I get it now.”

She met your gaze, something tightening in her chest. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “You were scared. And maybe… I was too.”

Sevika swallowed hard, her thumb grazing over your knuckles. “Do you think it’s too late?”

“For what?”

“For us.”

Your lips parted slightly, your eyes searching hers. Then, slowly, you smiled. “Only if we let it be.”

Sevika let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, a small smile tugging at her lips as she pulled you in just a little closer, her lips pressing against yours

2 years later

Sevika leaned against her motorcycle, arms crossed over her chest, her sharp eyes scanning the quiet rest stop. The neon light above the convenience store buzzed faintly, casting a dim glow on the pavement. She exhaled, her breath visible in the crisp night air, fingers tapping idly against the leather of her jacket.

The sound of the door swinging open pulled her from her thoughts. You stepped out, grinning, a plastic bag in one hand and a folded pamphlet in the other. The worn leather jacket she had given you still clung to your frame, a sight that made something warm settle in her chest.

“I got a map!” you announced proudly, waving it in the air.

Sevika arched a brow, smirking as she pushed off the bike. “We have GPS, you know.”

You stopped in front of her, unfolding the paper with exaggerated care. “Souvenir,” you corrected, a playful glint in your eye.

She let out a quiet chuckle, reaching over to take it from you. “Let me guess… you can’t read it?”

You huffed, watching as she traced a path with her finger. “We’re here,” she pointed at the middle of nowhere, then dragged her finger to your destination. “And New York is about seven hours that way.”

You sighed dramatically. “That’s forever.”

Sevika shook her head, laughing as she swung a leg over the bike. “Come on, drama queen.”

You slid in behind her, wrapping your arms around her waist and resting your head against her shoulder. The scent of leather and faint cigarette smoke clung to her, grounding you.

“Getting tired?” you murmured. “Can I drive?”

Sevika let out a low laugh, starting the engine. “Absolutely not.”

You pouted, but as the motorcycle roared to life beneath you, sending vibrations through your chest, you tightened your hold on her. The open road stretched ahead, the city waiting in the distance, but for now, it was just the two of you.

@vyvvycg @drinkdawudda @jiungmcvv @half-of-a-gay @savedforlaterr @armyswag93

[multific]

A Day of Love in the Gardens

Emperor Caracalla x Reader

Summary: A quiet day with your husband was rare. 

The grand halls of the palace usually stood in quiet, but now were alive with echoes of laughter. 

You stood at the edge of the chamber, your gaze fixed on Emperor Caracalla as he crouched on the polished marble floor. 

It was one of the better days when his illness seemed to disappear as his eyes were clear.

Sitting on his shoulder was Dondus, his mischievous pet monkey, conversing triumphantly while tugging at the golden clasp on Caracalla’s cloak.

“Dondus, you little tyrant,” Caracalla said with mock severity, though the amused smile tugging at his lips gave him away. “Do you find joy in making me look ridiculous?”

Dondus tilted his tiny head, his intelligent eyes gleaming before he leapt from Caracalla’s shoulder toward you. 

With practised ease, you caught him midair, cradling him gently as he snuggled against your neck, his tiny hands grasping at the fabric of your gown.

“Always so dramatic,” you teased Caracalla, stroking Dondus' soft fur. “He’s only after that brooch because it’s shiny.”

“Or because he’s plotting with you to test my patience,” Caracalla said before standing up and brushing off his robes. “Though I must admit, you’ve managed to charm him in a way even I can’t.”

You chuckled, adjusting Dondus in your arms. 

“We both enjoy keeping you on your toes.”

Caracalla stepped closer, his intense gaze softening as he reached out to run a hand gently down Dondus' back. 

“You have a way of enchanting everyone in this palace, even a monkey with an appetite for mischief.” His tone dropped, becoming more tender. “Including me.”

Your breath caught as his fingers brushed yours briefly before he withdrew his hand. 

“You’re flattering me, Emperor Caracalla,” you murmured, though the warmth spreading through your chest betrayed how much his words meant to you.

“Is it flattery if it’s true?” he asked, his voice low.

Before you could answer, Dondus chirped excitedly, climbing out of your arms and onto Caracalla’s shoulder. Caracalla sighed but didn’t move to stop him, instead tilting his head to rest against his monkey.

“We should take him to the gardens,” you suggested. “He needs to burn off some energy, and the fresh air would do us good too.”

Caracalla nodded.

“Lead the way, My Love.”

The gardens were bright under the golden afternoon sun. 

Dondus darted between trees and bushes, occasionally returning with a leaf or twig, proudly presenting his “treasures” to you.

Of course, you took everything he gave to you so graciously. 

You sat on a stone bench beneath an oak tree, and Caracalla joined you, his arm brushing against yours. 

“I never imagined a day like this,” he admitted, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

“A day like what?” you asked, turning to him.

“A day where the world feels... light,” he said, his gaze distant for a moment before focusing on you. “When I’m with you, the weight of the empire and my illness doesn’t seem so crushing.”

Your heart swelled at his confession. 

“You deserve moments like this, Calla. Moments to just be yourself, not the Emperor.”

“And you give me those moments,” he said, his eyes locking onto yours. “You’ve brought peace to a heart that has known little of it.”

Before you could respond, Dondus reappeared, clutching a small flower in his tiny hands. With a delighted chatter, he climbed onto your lap, holding the bloom up to you.

“For me?” you asked, accepting the flower with a smile. “You’re too kind, Dondus.”

Caracalla laughed, reaching over to ruffle the monkey’s fur. “It seems I have competition for your affections.”

“Don’t worry,” you teased, leaning closer to Caracalla. “You’ll always have the upper hand. Dondus can’t kiss me, after all.”

Caracalla’s eyes gleamed with amusement and love. 

“Is that so?” he murmured, his voice dropping as he closed the distance between you.

His lips brushed yours softly, the kiss warm and tender. 

When you finally pulled away, Dondus chirped, hopping onto Caracalla’s shoulder as if to demand attention.

“Jealous, are we?” Caracalla said with a chuckle, lifting the monkey off his shoulder and placing him gently on the ground.

You laughed, resting your head against Caracalla’s shoulder as Dondus scampered off to climb a nearby tree. 

The three of you stayed in the garden until the sun dipped low.

And as the first stars appeared, Caracalla turned to you, his gaze soft but steady. 

“You’ve given me more than I ever thought I could have," he whispered.

You smiled, your hand intertwining with his. “And I’ll keep giving it to you, for as long as you’ll let me.”

“Forever, then,” he whispered, pulling you into his arms into a tight hug.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[madthetruemad]

There is No Law that Emperors Must be Fair

Emperor ! Jing Yuan x Princess ! Reader

Chapter 23 | Day of Rest

You are set to marry the Emperor, Jing Yuan. In order to break the engagement, you stage an accident and fake having amnesia. But now, your own cruel, cold, and distant fiancé, who seemed to not want anything to do with you, is now acting all lovey dovey!

Fic Masterlist

The trip home was relatively quick. Though, you spent most of it sleeping.

However, once home Boothill had promised his weapons to you and said that if you ever needed him, then he would be by your side, to which you were quite thankful for. As for Gepard, he kept looking at you strangely, as if he wanted to say something, but didn’t have the courage to.

Until you just about snapped at him as you two walked to your father’s throne room.

“What is it, Gepard?! You’re driving me crazy with all your staring! Usually you would say something by now.”

He finally, finally looked away from you, “I’m sorry…”

You frowned at him, but any questions you had for him died in your throat when you walked into the throne room.

Sunday sat on your father’s throne, his elbow propped up on the arm of the throne whilst his chin rested in his palm and his legs crossed at his ankles as he stared you down.

“Princess, I’m so happy you could make it.”

“B- but- but how?”

A part of you wanted to believe this was another illusion, but with the way you r father was standing next to Sunday, you knew that he was really in front of you.

You went to take a step back, but Gepard had grabbed a hold of your arms and pushed you forward so you were directly in front of him.

“How indeed…”

You swallowed, “I thought- I thought you said you needed Blade and the keys…”

Sunday smirked down at you from his place from the throne, “you really need to stop being so naïve, princess. It’s starting to get easy to trick you.”

“Then-“

“I never needed a new body to revive as I would have just used my old one as it was already partially ascended into an aeon it didn’t rot nor decay which allowed my soul to travel back into it.”

“And the keys?”

“Those weren’t for me. They were for Jing Yuan. His power was locked away when I was gone.”

“Then why did Blade and Dan Heng want to steal the keys so bad?!”

“They knew their Emperor wouldn’t unlock his power himself, so they thought they would have to do it for him.”

“I don’t… I don’t understand.”

Sunday motioned you to come up to the throne whilst dismissing both your father and Gepard, and as you watched them leave, neither would look back at you. You wondered if it was shame or regret that kept them from looking back.

So, you stepped forward, and when you were close enough Sunday brought you into his lap. The hand that was running through your hair was anything but comforting.

“Tell me everything that you lied about,” you whispered quietly.

“When I was disposed of and sealed away Jing Yuan knew that his power would be too great and sealed it away in hopes that when he tears through the world it wouldn’t leave such big scars, but of course, Jing Yuan was still so powerful. So, your father and others have snuck around in the darkness to reawaken me in hopes of saving them.”

“When did you reawaken?”

“Guess.”

You thought for a moment as your head rested against his chest, “when Gepard came to the castle.”

“Look at how smart you are.”

You resisted the urge to hit him, “the why send the key that Jing Yuan needs? Why-?”

You stopped yourself. The answer was already there as Sunday, with his free hand brought out a similar key that used to be around your neck.

“That one was a fake… this is the real one. Once I came back, I immediately started to prepare to bring you back here. I planned to either have Feixiao do it by force, to have Gepard sneak you away, or something else entirely. Though, Jing Yuan letting you go himself was certainly a surprise.”

“Why did you want me to befriend Blade?”

“Both to throw you off and to lie to you, but… I also felt he was a good friend in the first life you had.”

“How many allies do you have?”

Sunday stopped petting your hair then and moved to tilt your chin up to look up at him, “as many nations and countries that Jing Yuan has conquered. His search for you was his very downfall.”

You closed your eyes, but his hold on you was starting to hurt.

“Open your eyes, I want to see you fully,” he softened his grip on you, “so, princess, any more questions for me?”

You thought everything over. How it was Jing Yuan manipulating time, how Sunday played you for a fool, how you don’t even know who your allies are, and how… how you’ll die in this life too.

“Will it hurt?”

You noticed how his gaze softened, “your death will be quick, I can promise you that much.”

"Then put me to rest."

[salsakiyoomi]

higuruma should've known better than to pick the lawyer's life.

the work before him never seemed to relent, piling over and threatening to spill over ; contract, briefs, motions and the likes.

he rubs his temples, a dull ache in his head that had become close to second nature, something he has grown familiar enough with.

 — there were always more files to skim through and more cases to solve.

it was never ending.

then there was you.

you moved silently around the office, ever the lingering force that always kept higuruma grounded to real life and not spiraling into whatever he had at hand.

you've been around for years now, starting as a mere assistant to the beginning of your lawyer life, and overtime you've become essential to him — not just for work, but for the way you always seemed to know what he needed before he ever did.

“you should go home.” higuruma says as you stand in the doorway of his office, leaning against the doorframe with your arms crossed, “it's already late and over work hours.”

“so should you.” you say smoothly, the words simple on your tongue but heavy on his heart — not in a bad way, but in the way that seemed to make his stomach flip whenever you were there to look out for him, be it big or small gestures, it always seemed to make the butterflies erupt in his guts.

“what's keeping you up so late anyway?” you ask, moving around his office to clean up the files and paper scrambled everywhere.

“the tanaka case.” he sighs, leaning back in his chair, watching as you swiftly move around his office, “their corporate structure is a nightmare to untangle. plus, i keep finding discrepancies in the financial reports that need addressing." he says, gesturing vaguely at the stack of documents piled high on his desk.

“i’m sure it can wait until tomorrow, no?” you say, locking eyes with him with a gentle smile on your face.

his eyes drop to your lips, gaze lingering on your goddamn beautiful smile that always seems to make his heart jump in his throat before he nods reluctantly.

“you're probably right,” he admits, standing up and stretching, “i’ll figure out the loose ends tomorrow.” he says, walking over to where you are tidying up his office.

“good,” you hum, stacking away the documents before turning to face him, “let's go?”

“yeah.” he says and the both of you walk out of the office and head towards the elevator.

the elevator ride is silent, albeit, comfortable silence, you keep stealing glances at higuruma, taking in his appearance — the curve of his nose and his serious expression, his dark hair disheveled from running his hands through it and his tie loose around his neck.

god, he was so handsome.

he catches you looking and raises an eyebrow questioningly, “what?”

“nothing.” you immediately say, looking away with a slight blush creeping to your cheeks.

he watches you avert your eyes, his heart beating overtime in his chest yet his expression remains as stoic as always, this time, he's the one staring at you, his eyes trailing all over your body.

his gaze drops to take in your curves, your waist, and long legs that are accentuated by the black pencil skirt you wore.

he realizes he’s never looked at you that way before — sure, he liked you for your personality and the way you always seemed to uplift his day, and he knew you were beautiful, he just didn't take time to appreciate that beauty.

he swallows hard as the elevator pings, signaling that you've reached the lobby, and he pushes down the thoughts and feelings as the both of you walk out to the parking lot.

“well, i guess this is where we part.” you say, a smile on your face before waving him goodbye and heading off.

higuruma doesn't know what came over him in that moment — perhaps it was god’s will for him, or perhaps it was the whiskey he had earlier finally taking its effect in making him bold because he was taking a step forward and grabbing onto your arm, spinning you around to face him.

your eyes widen in shock, and you feel your heart hammering in your chest, little did you know, higuruma’s heart was hammering in his chest as well, because oh god he did not think this through — what the hell was he supposed to say now?

“thank you.” he blurts out after a moment and at your raised eyebrow, he elaborates further, “for being here, for keeping me grounded when i get lost in work.”

“...you're welcome.” you say shyly, flattered and higuruma notices the slight blush that tints your cheeks. 

“go out with me?” he blurts out once more — god, what was up with the sudden boldness that overcame him?”

you blink, once, then twice before your blush deepens — no way this was real, he was seriously asking you out?

“like…on a date…as a couple.” he elaborates more, and he can't help but feel that this was a very stupid move.

“yes.” you say almost immediately and higuruma's heart soars.

“i'd love to go out with you.” you say, a gentle smile on your lips and he can't help but feel his cheeks heat up.

“great.” he says, his hand leaving your arm as he straightens up in an attempt to regain his composure, “saturday, seven pm? enzo's?”

you laugh, “sounds great to me, i'll see you then.”

he smiles at the sound of your laugh, it was like music to his ears, “see you then.”

higuruma watches as you walk away, not believing that this is real but soaking in the feeling because it was indeed real.

and for once in his life, higuruma thinks that the lawyer life isn't so bad, because at least he got to meet you.