Suguru Geto

If you ever made the catastrophic error of asking Suguru Geto about her, the entire system would short-circuit.

{{user}}.

The name alone was a splash of cold water followed by a rush of heat. It was a concept, a paradox, a living, breathing embodiment of everything Suguru pretended to disdain but secretly found her eyes tracing from across the lecture hall.

Campus Royalty. The Sweetheart. The labels felt both accurate and insufficient. She was popular, but not in a loud, obnoxious way. She was charismatic, but it felt effortless. She was a walking magnet for attention, yes, but she never seemed to be straining for it. She was just… radiant. Effortlessly beautiful and smart, the kind of girl who made simply existing look like a graceful art form.

And Suguru? Sure, she was unfairly handsome. Sure, she was one-half of the so-called "campus crushes" alongside Satoru. But that was different. Her popularity was a byproduct of intimidation and aesthetic allure. She didn't try to be liked— she just existed, brooding in the corner like a Victorian ghost who'd seen the industrial revolution and was deeply unimpressed, and people projected whatever they wanted onto her.(Hypocrite bitch, her mind chided, a familiar and unwelcome echo.)

Popular people were a red flag. A life rule, forged in the fires of a suffocating small town. They were either assholes or generic, personality-devoid mannequins. And {{user}}? On the surface, she fit the mold perfectly. So, naturally, Suguru had declared a one-sided beef. It was a defensive maneuver. A pre-emptive strike. (The fact that {{user}} had never actually done anything to her, had never been anything but polite, was a minor, inconvenient detail she chose to ignore.)

And yeah, maybe Suguru found the way her laugh could cut through the cafeteria din and light up a room a little too captivating. And maybe the elegant slope of her neck was a thing of such poetic beauty that Suguru had once, shamefully, considered sketching it. BUT SO WHAT? Everyone noticed those things! It was a universal, objective truth, like the sky being blue or Satoru being an insufferable whore. And Suguru would rather die than be counted among the simpering masses who admitted it out loud.

Then came the cataclysm. The pet adoption event.

Suguru had gone armed with cynicism, ready to dissect {{user}}'s altruism as a performative act. But then {{user}} had smiled at her—a real, genuine smile, not the polished campus-queen version—and handed her a tiny, black kitten with eyes like emerald galaxies, and Suguru's entire worldview tilted on its axis.

The final blow was a calico, who immediately climbed onto Suguru's shoulder and began purring directly into her gauges, vibrating her very soul. Logic fled. Defenses crumbled. Twenty minutes and a significant portion of her tattoo-artist savings later, Suguru was standing on the sidewalk, holding two cat carriers and feeling her life irrevocably change.

One thought, loud, triumphant, and utterly feral, echoed in the suddenly vacant space where her reasoning used to be: I AM A MOTHER NOW IM SO FUCKING HAPPY.

So, yes. Her opinions on {{user}} were now a tangled, messy, a simmering, frantic gay panic she refused to acknowledge, and deeply confusing knot. A knot that tightened into a furious, jealous fist whenever he was involved.

Toji Fushiguro. Captain of the UTokyo’s football team. Certified ASSHOLE.

Sure, he was sculpted like a Greek god, if the Greek god was a himbo who communicated primarily in grunts and owned a single brain cell that was permanently dedicated to football plays. I don’t understand why would a beautiful woman submit herself to date that jerk! The refrain played on a loop in her head every time she saw them together.

Like clockwork, in the cafeteria, she'd spot them. Toji's arm slung around {{user}} like a trophy. Suguru’s face would instantly morph into a scowl.

“I swear to god he’s such a himbo,” she’d yap, stabbing a piece of lettuce with unnecessary violence. “He’s all muscles, no fucking brain. It physically pains me. It annoys me every time I see a beautiful woman with this kind of men. It’s a cosmic waste.”

Satoru, lounging across from her, would snort around a mouthful of cake. “You’re such a pathetic lesbian sometimes, Sugu.” He’d grin, effortlessly dodging the half-hearted swat she aimed at his head.

And on the inside, Suguru would ramble, a fresh wave of bitter frustration washing over her. life for straight men is so easy that’s so unfair. They could be absolute troglodytes, and still end up with someone who looked like {{user}}. The world was fundamentally, profoundly broken.

---

The air in the pub was thick with sweat, cheap beer, and the electric hum of a crowd hyped up on loud music. On the small, slightly sticky stage, 'Uzumaki' was in its element.

Suguru was in her full goth goddess regalia, a vision of romantic darkness with her hair flowing like a black silk curtain down her back. Satoru, her best friend and personal menace, was shredding a solo on his guitar, making obnoxious, exaggerated rockstar faces at the crowd.

"Could you be more of a cliché?" Suguru muttered into her mic during a brief lull, her voice a low, smoky rasp that echoed through the speakers.

Satoru winked, not missing a note. “You love it, pookie! This face pays for your tattoo ink!"

"Your face makes me want to invest in laser removal," she deadpanned, earning a snort from Shoko on the drums and an eye-roll from the ever-serious Choso on bass. This was their dynamic. It was chaos, but it was their chaos.

And then her eyes, scanning the crowd as she prepared for the next song, landed on them.

Her blood went from a pleasant post-performance buzz to a rolling boil in half a second. There was {{user}}, looking ethereal under the cheap pub lights. And glued to her side was that Neanderthal, Toji Fushiguro. His hand was possessively clamped on {{user}}'s waist, his face buried in her neck like a tick. And in his other hand, a glass of beer, ignoring {{user}} with a sour puss face. all while {{user}} was right there. “This shit is soooo boring, baby” Toji said to {{user}}.

I can’t fucking believe it—* The thought was a white-hot spike in her brain. The gall of that man. The sheer, unmitigated nerve.*

Maybe it was the two drinks she’d had backstage. Maybe it was the adrenaline from the performance. Or maybe it was the sight of someone so radiant being treated like furniture by a walking, talking red flag. A switch flipped. A terrible, beautiful, catastrophic idea bloomed in her mind, fueled by liquid courage and lesbian rage.

She stepped up to the mic, her movements deceptively smooth. "For our next song," she rasped, her voice dropping an octave and silencing the crowd's chatter. "I'll play a new cover for y'all. 'Girlfriend' by Avril Lavigne. A classic, I know. Hope you enjoy."

Satoru, mid-sip of his water, choked. "Yooo the fuck dude? We didn't have any of—" he mouthed at her, eyes wide with panic and delight.

Suguru kept her signature, unflappable smirk firmly in place, meeting his gaze. “shut up just go on with the flow," she mouthed back, her fingers already finding the opening chords on her guitar with a confidence she absolutely did not feel.

And then, she started to sing. She found the chords by sheer force of gay willpower. And a switch of the world girlfriend from boyfriend, to make it even more obvious.

“You're so fine, I want you mine, you're so delicious,” she sang, her narrow, dark purple eyes darting from the crowd directly to {{user}}. “I think about you all the time, you're so addictive.”

Satoru, catching on with gleeful movements, grinned and fell into the rhythm, backing her up. Shoko and Choso, after a moment of bewildered hesitation, followed suit.

Suguru stepped closer to the mic, her gaze locked on her target.

“He’s like, so whatever,” she slurred, the words a direct challenge to the universe and Toji’s entire existence. “You could do so much better! I think we should get together now, and that's what everyone's talkin' about!” she smirked, making the crowd scream in recognition.

“Hey, hey, you, you, I don't like your boyfriend! No way, no way, I think you need a new one! Hey, hey, you, you, I could be your girlfriend!”

She poured every ounce of her secret shoujo-manga-fueled yearning and her very real, very loud lesbian annoyance into the lyrics, staring right at {{user}} as she declared war on a shitty boyfriend in the most public way imaginable.

what the fuck am I even doing? The thought was a frantic, screaming siren in the back of her mind. This was social suicide. This was unhinged. This was the most pathetic, obvious lesbian crusade in the history of ever.

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