soobiary

[soobiary]

big fan of whatever this is...

Early morning cravings with Husband Kento <3

Tw - stuff with piss. Don’t read if that’s not your thing. And no I don’t condone any of this irl and I know this could end very bad and harmful if it was to be tried irl!

The rustling of the sheets woke you before the sun fully rises. You hear the telltale sound of fabric shifting, a soft grunt and one side of the bed dipping away from you. You don’t open your eyes—you just reach out blindly and grab for the body that’s already getting up.

“Nooo,” you whine, your voice rough with sleep. “Where’re you going??”

“Work, baby,” Kento murmurs softly, already half-dressed in his slacks and a sleeveless undershirt. He leans over and presses a kiss to your hairline, gentle and apologetic. He always gets up early and showers before spending the rest time he has to cuddle with you before he leaves. “Didn’t mean to wake you”.

You latch onto his arm and pull him close. Acting really pathetic and needy and it’s not even 6:30 am yet. “Don’t wanna be alone…”

He chuckles softly. “You say that every morning”.

“I mean it every morning”.

You’re not even fully awake, but your body moves on its own—following him as he pads toward the bathroom. You’re slow—dragging your feet with your oversized shirt slouching off one shoulder, panties crooked under your oversized tee. You look like you got hit by sleep itself.

He doesn’t comment when you trail behind him. You always do this when you’re clingy, especially in the morning when he has to leave.

But this time, instead of perching on the counter like usual, you stay close. You hug his back while he lifts the toilet seat. Your cheek’s pressed and nuzzling against his spine, arms wrapped around his waist, and he just lets it happen like he always does.

“You’re gonna watch me pee?” he asks calmly, already unzipping his pants.

“Mhm”.

“Not exactly glamorous”.

You shrug behind him. “It’s hot”.

That makes him huff. But he doesn’t argue.

You lean your head sideways, cheek pillowed against his hard back as you watch him pull his cock out. There’s something mind-melting about the routine of it—about how casual he is, how easily that thick, golden stream spills into the bowl. He doesn’t aim with two hands. Just one. His other hand rests on your arm while you hug him like a gigantic teddy bear.

And fuck he’s so sexy like this. Big, slow-moving, and warm with lots of patience. You can feel the heat of his piss rising with the steam from the bowl, the sound of it splashing echoing through the quiet bathroom. You watch the heavy head of his cock pulse at the end, even after the stream dies down, still a little damp and drippy.

He shakes it off. Not even looking down, like it’s nothing.

But you’re staring with your thighs rubbing together.

His tip is still glistening—smeared with the last remnants of his piss and your mind’s already sliding into the gutter, your pussy involuntarily flutters just thinking about what it’d feel like, all warm and sticky while pressing up between your folds.

“Kento…”

He hums.

“Can I have it…?”

He pauses. Not because he’s shocked. But because he’s making sure you really mean it. He looks down at you with those patient, attentive eyes—his sweet little wife, clinging to him like a sleepy parasite, with heavy lids and needy eyes and no shame whatsoever.

“I haven’t washed it yet,” he says.

“I know,” you breathe, lips parting with your body leaning forward a little.

He stares for a second longer. Then kisses your temple like he always does.

“Sink,” he murmurs to you.

You turn without hesitation with your chest fluttering. You brace your hands against the edge of the sink, the cool porcelain waking you a bit as you bent over and he moves behind you. You feel him hitch your shirt up—he doesn’t even bother taking your panties off, just tugs them aside with a knuckle, exposing your excited pussy to the air. And then—

Then you felt his cock lay heavy against your slit, damp and heavy, the swollen tip dragging through your folds like it belonged there—parting your messy pussy lips with every slow, sticky pass like he was teasing the hole he already knew was his.

“Oh my—,” you moan softly, instinctively wiggling your ass back at him for more. “Fuck Kento, feels good”.

It’s wet and warm, smeared with more than just your arousal. It’s sooo filthy but that’s why you love it so much. You can feel the residue of it—the faint scent of his morning piss, the heat of it lingering on your folds. Your clit throbs when his tip bumps it, and you swear you feel a droplet smear against you like he’s marking you with it.

He exhales through his nose behind you. Completely calm and unbothered. “You’re something else,” he murmurs, still moving his cock back and forth slowly between your now sticky folds, coating himself in the wetness blooming between your legs. “Getting off on this”.

You nod, your whole body twitching. “It’s dirty…”

“Mm. real dirty,” he agrees, now rubbing your messy clit with the wide head of his cock, letting the piss and your slick mix into a warm mess that makes your thighs shake just by the feeling of it. “You’re such a little perv, darling. You like that I didn’t clean it for you?”

You nod faster, mouth falling open into a low whimper. “Y—Yes, love it s’much Ken”.

He lets a quiet laugh slip out—disbelief and fondness—and presses his palm against your lower back to keep you balanced against the sink as his other hand cups your tit from behind, kneading it lazily through your shirt.

“Can’t believe this is how I’m starting my day,” he mutters with a chuckle. “Grinding my piss-covered cock on my wife’s sweet cunt”.

“Y-Your fault,” you whimper, hips bucking back against him, your clit catching perfectly every time he rocks forward. “You’re too sexy in the morning”.

That earns you another slow drag—more harder and rougher than before. Your pussy’s soaked now, cum sticking against his cockhead as it slides and rubs through your folds again and again. You’re panting, thighs shaking and your clit pulsing every time he nudges it with pressure.

He leans down, his lips brushing your ear.

“Want me to rub it on your little hole too?” he says calmly. “Spread your pussy open and make it messy down there too?”

You nod like you’re drunk. “Uh-huh…please!”

He pulls back just a little then spits into his hand and smears it over his length, already wet, already messy, and then slides the fat head back down—this time letting it kiss your entrance. He doesn’t push in. Just presses and circles it. Smearing more of his warmth and slick over your hole until it’s fluttering open and begging to be stuffed.

“Fuuck,” you whisper, gripping the sink like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

“You gonna cum just from this?” he asks, rubbing it harder and applying more pressure, spreading everything everywhere. “From daddy’s messy cock on your pussy?”

You moan so loud you’re sure the neighbors heard it. He kisses your temple again. “You’re unreal, baby”.

And he keeps going—rubbing it slow and nasty, letting you rut back against him like a dog in heat. His free hand tweaks your nipple while the other keeps you steady, and your thighs are clenching, your whole body arching for more of your husband.

You cum like that—crying his name while pressing your face into your arm, trembling as he indulgently smears your cream right back on himself.

And when it’s over, when you’re still bent over and panting, he leans down and kisses your lips.

“Happy wife,” he murmurs, tucking himself away with a quiet zip.

“Happy life,” you finish weakly, dizzy with bliss.

He brings you a warm towel after.

Because he’s the best husband in the world even when you’re a freak.

[soobiary]

this is so good omg

TEENAGERS SCARE THE LIVIN' SHIT OUT OF ME

Summary : After ten years in prison, Sukuna returns home. Unfortunately for him, with time comes change. And the worst change he has to deal with is the fact that his kids have become full blown teenagers. Warnings : inaccurate prison and police related stuff probably, exposition , and teenagers, awkward-ness

You slowly drove down the street, letting Sukuna take in the scenery of what was once a familiar home. “Anything changed ‘round here?” Sukuna asked, frowning as he spotted one of the houses with a lack of a chair on the porch. 

“A lot,” you nodded, watching as he held the bag of KFC close to his stomach. “But let's take things one at a time. First, the kids.” 

Sukuna sighed, nodding, turning dead silent as you quietly drove into the driveway of your home. As you took out the keys, turning off the engine and shutting off the radio that had been quietly playing in the background, Sukuna slumped in his seat. 

“They probably don’t wanna have a weird reunion at twelve forty two in the morning,” Sukuna said, his voice gruff. “I’ll just stay in the car.” 

You scoffed, taking the bag of KFC from his hands, and opening the door on your side. “I bet they’re still waiting for you, ‘Kuna.” Unbuckling your seatbelt, you looked at him pointedly. “And you know they’ve been waiting a long time.” 

Sukuna appreciated that you stepped out of the car, gently closing the door behind you, so as to not alert the kids that you were here. Sukuna took his time, taking a deep breath and checking the mirrors in the car to look at himself. He had always been a scary looking guy – his tattoos and his larger figure didn’t help him look all that gentle – but prison had somehow made him look even more gruff. 

He had shaven, trying to make himself look cleaner, but nothing could really hide the fact that he had aged in ten years. He pulled at his eyes, trying to make them less tired-looking… but Sukuna just looked like that. He couldn’t help it. 

He bit his cheek, trying to keep himself from frowning, or having any sort of resting annoyed face on him, but it just made him look more pissed off. 

Tap, Tap, Tap. 

Sukuna turned his head to the side, to see you looking through the window, waiting outside the car patiently. Sukuna opened the door, but stayed seated. You smiled awkwardly. “Need more time?” 

Sukuna huffed. “I need all the time in the fucking world.” 

You chuckled softly, rubbing your hand soothingly across his large arms. “Well… sitting here won’t give that to you.” 

“I know,” he huffed. “But if I go in there…” Sukuna swallowed, staring down at the glovebox. “There’s a chance that I’m gonna ruin everything before they even give me a second.” 

Your hands stopped at his words. Chewing your lips, you contemplated your next words. 

When you decided on them, you put down the bag of KFC in his lap again. Your hands reached out to rest on his jaw, tilting his face slightly so he had to look at you. You looked up into his eyes, smiling softly. “‘Kuna… they’re teenagers. At this age, they’re not even going to give you a millisecond.” 

Sukuna’s eyes slightly widened, before he decided to scoff, looking away from you. “Nice to know you haven’t been cheating – no way you could’ve kept a man with these comforting skills.” 

You giggled. “I’m being honest. I thought after being married so long we could tell each other everything.”

“Never meant I wanted to hear about your intense diarrhea when you came to visit me. Even the guards gave you dirty looks over that, ya know?” 

“‘Kuna,” you giggled even more, lowering your head as you tried to compose yourself. “I’m trying to be serious here.” 

Sukuna sighed, placing his hands over the KFC bag, the crinkling sound much louder than the faint sound of crickets in the night. “Should just get it over with before this goes cold, huh?” 

You nodded. “The stomach is the way to teenagers’ hearts.” 

“Isn’t it a womans’ heart?”

“Same thing,” you huffed, moving away and looking over at the house. You peered into one of the windows upstairs, that had the blinds slightly ajar. For some reason, when you had narrowed your eyes onto it, it went back to normal. “Okay,” you looked back at Sukuna. “Do you need more time?” 

Sukuna shook his head. “Quit babyin’ me. Those three aren’t gonna be as nice as you are and you’re not properly preparin’ me.” 

“Okay,” you grinned, stepping back as Sukuna got out of the car. “Imagine three of you, at different temperament levels – and that’s what you’re dealing with!” 

Closing the door behind him, Sukuna rolled his eyes at you, walking away, towards the door. You gasped, lifting up your keys to lock the car, as you followed after him. 

“You’re still so sassy at your old age, huh?” 

“All three of them get that, too?” 

You groaned dramatically. “You’ll finally get to see what dealing with you is like.” 

Sukuna scoffed, lifting up his fingers to ring the doorbell. 

But your hand quickly slapped his away. 

Sukuna turned his head, to see you, with your eyes wide and your stance rigid. The sound of the slap felt like it echoed in the silent, cold night air. Even the crickets went quiet. “What?” Sukuna asked, breaking the silence with a quiet voice. 

“We…” You moved forwards to take his hand, rubbing it softly to silently apologize for hurting him. It didn’t do much besides leave a slight sting for a moment, but that was probably just because of the shock. “We don’t ring the doorbell.” 

Sukuna’s breath stilled. 

“Right.” He lifted his hand away from yours and held it at the door, ready to knock. “You guys have a pattern or something?” 

You shook your head. Sukuna went ahead and knocked, trying to let the sound be as soft as possible. It took a few moments before he heard hesitant footsteps at the door. Slowly, he heard the click of the lock, before the door was opened. 

Kita was the one to open it. He was used to seeing you, he barely spared you a glance. His eyes were locked in on Sukuna, and his giant frame. Kita had shot up in height over the past year, and while he stood taller than every other first year in the area, he was nowhere near the height of his father. 

As Kita scanned Sukuna, Sukuna did the same to his son. The last time either had seen each other was Kita’s fifteenth birthday, when you had dragged him to visit Sukuna. Kita had been very upset, and his attitude hadn’t pleased Sukuna in the slightest. Both of their grumpy attitudes had you close to tears, when it was supposed to be a nice visit. 

So, to avoid your tears (and each other), Kita hadn’t come to visit. 

Kita had very dark hair, slicked back in the style that Sukuna also had it in. He had a small scar under his left eye, one he’d gotten when he had tried climbing the counter that the TV was on top of – after that sharp corner had almost ‘gouged’ his eyes out (according to you), Sukuna had to buy a bunch of baby proofed furniture for his two year old troublemaker. 

When he looked at the kid, he saw an almost carbon copy of himself. Kita just had a few softer features than he did. But, that was something he would probably grow out of, with age. 

“Hey…” Kita said hesitantly, leaving out the ‘pa’ he’d been much more comfortable saying over the phone. He glanced down at the KFC in Sukuna’s hand. “You got it.” 

Sukuna shrugged. “It’s not that hard to win a fight against your ma.” 

Kita’s lips almost twitched into a grin, and he looked at Sukuna knowingly. “I’m sure she let you have this one.” He held his hand out for the KFC. 

Sukuna, letting out a grunt, handed it over. You slid past Kita, stepping into the house and taking off your shoes. “Where are the other two?” 

As Kita stepped back inside, his hands already digging into the bag, Sukuna hesitantly took his first step into the house. You and Kita were so natural. You hung the keys without even looking at the key holder, and then you turned while you took off your coat, to hang it up in the closet. 

You moved with instinct, and Sukuna had to think to just step inside. 

“Suiko’s sleeping, Kagu is still up, I’m pretty sure.” 

“He’s still studying?” You asked, brows furrowed. 

“Nah,” Kagu replied. “He’s playing video games or something. Suiko told him to be asleep before you got here but…” Kita just shrugged, moving away from the front door, to the kitchen. 

You looked back at Sukuna, who was leaning against the door he had closed and locked, taking in the house. You looked at him carefully, speaking quietly. “We’ve moved some stuff around over the years but… never really bought anything new. Furniture’s gotten real expensive.” 

Sukuna’s eyes slowly went over everything. Where it was. Where it used to be. Pictures on the wall. Many old, but many new. Well painted walls, covering up the chips that used to be there ten years ago. It was clean, much cleaner than it used to be when young children took up the house. The only mess he really saw was a bag of chips on the couch, but that was for sure Kita. 

Wordlessly, you tugged at Sukuna’s coat. He leaned forwards, helping you take it off of him. Before you could hang it up for him, Sukuna just shook his head and pulled his coat away from you, walking over to the closet himself. 

He opened it and his eyes immediately caught onto a specific coat. Sukuna hung his own, before pulling out his leather jacket from high school. With a slight grin, he looked at you. “You still have this?” 

“It’s technically Suiko’s now,” you hummed, coming closer to get a feel of it. “It’s vintage.” 

Sukuna grinned, leaning down to get closer to you and eyeing you knowingly. “Does she know what we did with this back in the vintage days?” 

You covered your mouth, holding back a snort, and using your free hand to push him, making him put the jacket back in the closet. “She’d burn her skin if she found out,” you answered. “Do not tell her.” 

“What?” Sukuna asked, raising a brow at you. “You painted yourself as a saint while I was gone? You know you’re far from that.” 

“And our teen aged children don’t have to know that until they are…” You tapped your chin, pretending to be in though. “Twenty five.” When Sukuna sent you a flat look, you giggled, shoving his shoulder. “What?” 

“Twenty five? What stupid book did you get that from?” 

“It’s when the brain stops developing,” you replied. 

Sukuna scoffed, kicking his shoes off. “Is that what they’re saying nowadays?” 

“Yeah,” you said, crossing your arms and tilting your head at him, teasing. “Keep up with the times, old man.” 

Sukuna grinned, curling his arm around your waist, about to pull you close when a voice from upstairs called out. “Mom?” Sukuna’s head immediately turned to the meek voice that called out. You pat his back, while pulling away, looking up the stairs as you called back.

“Hungry?” 

“Yeah,” he replied. 

“Come on down,” you said. “Dad bought you KFC.” 

Sukuna sensed some hesitance, but Kagu came down the stairs, slow as to avoid making eye contact with his father, probably. When Sukuna could see his son entirely, he saw the careful, wide eyed expression on his face. 

Very unlike Kita. 

“Hi…” Kagu said, clearly unsure, as he came down the stairs. 

Kagu used to visit much more often when he was young, basically attached to your side. But as he got more praise for his academics at school, you said it began to take over his life. He started to refuse to come visit Sukuna because the trips took too long, and he would lose precious time that could be spent doing something ‘actually productive.’ 

“Hey, Kagu,” Sukuna nodded at him. Kagu also differed from Sukuna and Kita when it came to looks. While Kita and even Suiko had very much gotten Sukuna’s genetics, all of Kagu’s face was just a carbon copy of yours. It wasn't something to complain about honestly, but it was weird to get used to in person.

“Go get the food from Kita,” you said. As Kagu walked away, clearly in a hurry to get away from Sukuna, you called after him. “You’re getting up before noon, okay? We’re having guests over tomorrow.” 

Kita, from the kitchen, groaned. Kagu just shrugged and said a quick, “Okay,” before walking to the kitchen to get some chicken. 

You didn’t even acknowledge Kita’s complaint, and instead, tugged at Sukuna’s clothes while calling out to the boys. “Pa and I are going to bed! The two of you better be asleep in the next hour.” 

“It’s bad to sleep right after you eat,” Kita argued. “Right, Kagu?" You were sure Kagu just nodded his head, more focused on the chicken, but that was enough confirmation for Kita. “Kagu agreed!” 

“I’ll make sure you two don’t get fast food for the rest of the month if you don’t sleep,” you threatened, before fully dragging Sukuna up the stairs with you. The boys halfheartedly agreed, knowing you wouldn’t care to hear them out anyway. Sukuna was in his head about Kita barely acknowledging his presence, letting you pull him around, until you began to give him a little updated tour of the house. 

“The bathroom hasn’t really changed,” you said, leading the way down the hallway that was upstairs. You pointed at the doors, explaining the room arrangements. “This is Kagu’s room – Kita used to sleep here, too, before high school.” 

“Right, he lives at the fancy private school now?” 

You nodded. “Visits for weekends, though,” you explained, before gesturing to another room, with a large ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign taped on the door. “That is Suiko’s room.” 

Sukuna scowled. “Who does she think she is?” 

“The boys have a bad habit of just storming into rooms,” you huffed, passing by and flicking the sign. “If anything, she saves them from her wrath by doing this.” The door next to Suiko’s room was the bathroom. “The kids all share this one,” you said, opening the door to it, and wincing once you saw the mess inside. 

Sukuna looked over your head to look as well, and almost gasped. 

“The fuck are all those things?” 

“Suiko’s a girl–” 

“And she needs all that shit to stay that way?” 

You scoffed. “Teenagers are just like that.”

“You weren’t like that,” Sukuna pointed out. 

“I could barely afford my uniform,” you argued. “And anyways, you were like that. Kita is just like you, that drawer right there is just filled with hair gel.” 

“I didn’t use that much–” 

“I remember trying to run my hands through your hair once, and it was just rock solid.” 

Sukuna glared down at you. “I think you’re confusing me for one of your exes.” 

“Oh, because I have so many,” you replied sarcastically, closing the bathroom door. 

Sukuna huffed. “Why don’t we check out some of your other old jackets?”

You grinned up at him. “One time! One jacket, I kept from an ex! And we literally gave it away!” 

“Do you see me with my exes hair ties?” Sukuna replied, brows furrowed. He began to walk toward the master bedroom. The room that you were most excited about when Sukuna had been the one to show you around the house when he had bought it. The room that you had shared with all of your kids, with their little crib in the corner, making the largest bedroom in the house just a little more cramped. 

You followed after him. “A hair tie is like two cents, that jacket was probably the most expensive thing I’ve ever worn,” you huffed. “Why are we even arguing over this? It was like twenty years ago. I barely remember it.” 

“Sure,” Sukuna huffed, opening the door to the room and stepping inside. “Do you remember crying because I smelt like some womens’ perfume after I was trapped in an elevator with some group of bachelorette party girls?” 

“I was pregnant and sensitive to smells,” you quickly sniped back, as you usually did whenever he brought this up to counter you. “And I was worried for your safety.” 

Sukuna grinned. “Kita was right. It’s harder now, winnin’ against you.” 

You simply rolled your eyes at him, shutting the bedroom door behind you, as you pointed to the bathroom. “Please do not shit on the creams that I have in there – I, uh, stocked up on the gel that you use for your hair.” 

“Ha ha,” Sukuna huffed, going to the bathroom. “What else you got in there for me? A bubble bath?”

You frowned, genuinely regretting not having thought of that. “I would’ve but the day just came so quickly, I didn’t have time to restock on bath bombs.” 

Sukuna’s brows furrowed. “The hell is a bath bomb?” 

You shook your head, waving him off. “Not important. I have clothes for you in there, I’m guessing your old clothes don’t fit you as well, ‘cause you’re all…” You gestured to his body, tight in the clothes that you had brought up to the prison. “You know.” 

Sukuna smirked, crossing his arms. “What?” 

You bit your cheek, holding back a grin. “You know.” Walking closer, you raised your hand to lazily punch his stomach... which felt rock solid. “Jeez. Maybe I don’t know,” you muttered. 

“Wanna find out?” 

You looked up at him, as he raised a brow at you, that stupid sleazy look on his face. Sukuna saw as, instead of contemplating the idea, you began to take his face in. You had kind of just ran up to him and brought him into a hug the second you were allowed to touch him at the prison. And since then, while you’ve been watching his expressions… you hadn’t really looked at him. Taken him in.

And seen how he’d changed. 

You brought your hand up, brushing your fingers over his ear. “They closed.” Sukuna was almost taken aback by the sudden switch up, but he knew how easily your mood could be swayed, by just lingering thoughts in your head.

“You knew that,” Sukuna hummed, bringing his hands up to rest on your hips. “You were all sad. Tears in your eyes and everythin’.” 

“You don’t think I was crying over my husband being in prison?” You asked, pressing your lips together as you focused on his ears for another moment. Sukuna didn’t answer that, and let you continue the conversation. “Wanna get them pierced again?” 

“‘Course,” Sukuna hummed. 

You looked up at his eyes. Eyes you used to love looking at, intimidating, rare, red. The eyes you had only been able to see every day through your eldest two kids, who sometimes refused to come out of their rooms as they got older. 

Your hands moved from his ear to above his eyes. His left eyebrow, on your right, where he usually had two slits, was gone. “And the eyebrow slits? You think you’re too old for that, yet?” 

Sukuna squeezed your hip, his nails digging into your skin playfully. “I’m not gonna shut up when you turn forty.” 

You frowned. “Yeah, you will,” you said, your hands coming up to run through his hair. “You’ll be long dead by the time I get to that age.” 

Sukuna smirked, bringing his hand up to pinch your cheek. “You know what, you’re right. Living with my almost forty wife who still acts fourteen, will kill me.”

You giggled, pulling your face away from his hands. “Okay, okay, listen, ‘Kuna.” As Sukuna kept trying to pinch you, you still laughed, but brought your hand up to cover his and keep them away. “Listen,” you whined. “Serious, it’s about Suiko.” 

Sukuna relented, bringing his hand down, watching you carefully as you looked up at him with hopeful eyes. 

“I think you could connect with her well, if you get everything – your piercing and eyebrow slits, and stuff – with her.” 

Sukuna’s brows furrowed. “What do they allow at school nowadays?” 

You groaned. “After graduation, ‘Kuna. Seriously, though,” you said. “She’s just like you. The pink hair, piercings, the eyebrow slits, she wants it all – if it wouldn’t kick her out of school, I would let her, but I’ve been telling her 'just wait for after graduation and you can go with your pa' … and you’re here now.”

Sukuna still frowned. “I don’t want her being all… what if she gets caught up with the wrong typa people?” 

“She’s smarter than that,” you huffed. “She understands the consequences of looking all intimidating. She’s lived with that her whole life – she has your face." Sukuna pinched your cheek again and you laughed. "Your adorable, loveable face," you giggled, trying to pull off his hand again. "Just… don’t be all traditional and against it when she brings it up, okay? You did all this at her age, too.” 

“And I got a girl pregnant around this age, too,” Sukuna argued. 

“The girl you got pregnant didn’t do any of that and still got pregnant, so, no correlation, really,” you bit back. 

Sukuna narrowed his eyes on you. “Have I gotten rusty, or have you gotten really good?” 

You grinned up at him cheekily. “I haven’t won an argument against these kids in ten years – if you can’t handle me, good luck with them.” 

“Oh, I’ll handle them,” Sukuna scoffed.

He didn't know what he was in for.

chapter one | chapter two | chapter three

Taglist : @illuzminate @matcha-kitty13 @seellove @getosh0e @dovey-quacks2332 @dreamingoftomorrow @universal-s1ut @ane5e @jungkookswifeeeeeee @womenlover4eva @maidofking123 @angelcake999 @sinyaaa @evnyy @1-rxse-1

[soobiary]

kfc breakup

my take, on the apple art trend....heehee

[soobiary]

HELLO SAILOR 👅👅

bimbo!reader just wanted to hold it while nerdjo peed

warnings: smut, oral m!receiving, crack, dumbification

“why aren’t you peeing?” you look up at him through your lashes. making sure to pout your glossed lips a little extra, not missing the way his eyes flick from them back to your finger trailing the vein along his cock. 

he lets out a deep sigh, pushing his glasses up in the process. “i’m erect,” you watch from your knees as he stares back at you. his hands balling up against his thighs. 

your finger swirls around his tip, slowly. he lets out a stream of air through his nose. 

“so?” you giggle, watching the pencil behind his ear fight to stay in position. “is it like… stuck?” you go back to studying his cock — it’s pretty like him. big, slightly curved at his red tip, a protruding vein that you really like running your tongue along — it gets him all stuttery and whiney. 

“the erection is adding pressure to my uret-,” he closes his cerulean eyes, rubbing his palm against his jean clad thigh. you are very much aware of what you’re doing. you usually are when it comes to him, everything else… topic for a different hour. “i am not explaining this to you in a bathroom.” 

“if you paid attention in anatomy you’d kno-��� 

“‘toru, you know i’m a cancer sun with a leo moon,” you roll your eyes. your finger now running from the white hairs at the base of his cock, up along his vein again. 

his head falls back, the pencil slipping from his ear and making a small sound as it falls against the porcelain of the sink. “that’s as-astrology..” his adams apple bobs and you clench your thighs at the sight. 

“whatever,” your grab his cock with one hand, not adding pressure, barely moving — just to feel the weight of it. his cock twitches against your palm, and you grin. “i just wanted to hold it while you tinkle.”

“don’t say that,” he deadpans, his eyes focused on your unmoving hand. 

“should i help you?” you tilt your head, innocently but your thumb starts to rub circles against his tip — spreading his precum. he slightly juts his hips towards you. smiling to yourself, you continue. “do i like squeeze it or something?” 

you don’t wait for an answer. you lean forward, pressing a soft kiss to the head of his cock. your eyes still on his, watching every huff of a breath he’s sending out. then you place another kiss, almost feather like. then you take him completely in your wet mouth, your tongue gliding along the underside of his heavy cock. 

that earns you the whine you’ve been searching for since you’d entered the bathroom in the guise of holding it while he pees. 

now both hands wrap around the base of his cock — his abs flexing with the contact. you bob your head, your mouth wrapping around his tip sucking softly. 

you pull back with a pop. your lips glistening with spit. “don’t like pee in my mo-“ 

“fuck, stop talking,” his hands leave his thigh and thread through your hair. “stop talking and suck my dick.”

“so mean,” you pout, batting your lashes as you look up at him. your hands are still wrapped — slightly twisting at the shaft and jerking up 

he groans, his hands pushing your head back towards his waiting cock. this time, you take more of him — your cheeks hollowing, drool pooling, your hands twisting just beneath where your lips stretch around him. 

"fuck," he whines, all high pitch and shaky. his hands pull at your hair a little harder as you continue to bob your head — taking him deeper, tasting him on youtube tongue. 

his knees buckle, and you moan around him — cause him to twitch against your tongue. 

you pull back once again, a string of spit and his precum keeping you connected to his throbbing cock. he looks down at you — pupils blown out, checks flushed pink, sweat dampening his frosty hair. 

you lift his cock, your tongue running along his vein and you watch him become slack jaw.

with his hands still in your hair, your lips barely inches away from his dripping tip — you look up at him, all wide eyed and questioning.

"what is an ureth-something?"

i wanted to make my nerdjo all smug 🤭

[soobiary]

im loving this already

sweet tooth | ryomen sukuna

episode 2: under your spell

pairing: ryomen sukuna x fem!reader (university au)

summary: sukuna has a notorious reputation on campus of being terrifying, but it's hard to be too scared of the guy when he shows up to your family’s failing bakery every day to buy strawberry shortbread.

when your life feels like its falling apart you discover just how sweet he can be.

word count: 6.7k

content: 18+ mdni, eventual smut, university au, FLUFF, angst, humor, slow burn, idiots in love, miscommunication, parental illness/death, grief, money issues, stress and overwork, introverted reader, both sukuna and reader are so confused

a/n: when I think about sukuna in this fic I always imagine this art of him its just so good omg

series masterlist | ao3 | previous chapter (ch1) | next chapter (ch3) (coming soon)

Not a single word had entered Sukuna’s head since he’d sat down for his morning lecture. His head resting on his arms as he stared down at the professor, pretending to listen to the man drone on about some equation, but his mind was somewhere else entirely. 

All he could think of was you. How cute you’d looked when you’d smiled up at him, how lovely the sound of your voice was, how amusingly skittish you’d been around him when he’d first made an appearance at your bakery. 

And most of all, how gentle your touch had been as you’d dabbed blood off his face. 

The entire interaction was playing over and over again in his head, and he couldn’t understand just what was wrong with him. 

He wasn’t the sort of guy who thought about girls like this. He’d never had a girlfriend, had never been interested before. Sure, he’d had a lot of sex, but there was never any attachment involved, it just wasn’t something he’d ever wanted. 

And yet here you were, nestling yourself into his mind like some sort of pretty parasite. 

It had been nice to officially meet you. He’d become accustomed to admiring you from afar, hearing your father’s stories and noticing you across campus. But never trying to approach you because a. He was technically a stranger to you, and b. Why should he care about the daughter of one of his dad’s friends anyway? 

It would’ve been weird if he ever tried talking to you before yesterday. In his mind you’d been this fictional character - someone that he heard about but never actually crossed paths with. But now that entire view had been shaken, and the strangest part was that he was insanely grateful that was the case. 

Because he’d had a weirdly good time with you yesterday and for some reason he wanted more. Which was not his usual experience with women. 

It was a little pathetic how regularly he’d been checking his phone throughout the lecture. He’d gotten you to exchange contact details with him before dropping you home yesterday and had been praying you’d shoot him a text. He’d brought up your number a few times already this morning, composing a text and then deleting it. 

You’d agreed to meet him at the bakery later anyway, he didn’t want to come across as too needy - that wasn’t the type of person he was. Besides, from the way your father talked about you he was pretty sure that you had a phenomenally low social battery and he didn’t want to put you off. 

Not that he could understand for a second why he was even worried about that. What did it matter if you liked him or not? There was no shortage of girls throwing themselves at him everyday, and you were nothing like the vapid women that he’d usually go for when he wanted to have sex. But perhaps that was just it - you were something different to usual, and different was interesting. 

He practically jumped out of his skin when his phone vibrated, almost dropping it under the desk as he fumbled the object in his hand, ecstatic at the idea that you’d decided to text him. Unfortunately it was just Satoru dropping a message into their groupchat, which was decidedly much less interesting. 

[blue-eyed freak]: meeting on the roof at lunch? 

Sukuna rolled his eyes and dropped his phone back onto the desk. Someone else could give that idiot his answer - they always met on the roof for lunch, he hardly needed to ask everyday, you’d think he was dropped on his head as a baby or something. 

He wasn’t going to be fooled by the next few vibrations of his phone, knowing that it was probably just Suguru or Choso replying in the chat, and he certainly didn’t care about that. He was far too preoccupied wondering what you were doing right now. 

You’d said that you had morning lectures, for all he knew you could be just a few rooms over - wasn’t that an enticing thought? 

There was a part of him that wondered if he’d be able to engineer a way to bump into you after his class was over, but he decided that would be far too pathetic. It was already lame how much he was thinking about you, he’d have officially lost his mind if he started switching his habits for you one day after your first meeting. 

It didn't matter, he’d get to see you later anyway. 

By the time lunch rolled around he was all but ready to skip his afternoon classes and head over to the bakery early. But he wasn’t exactly sure when your lectures finished, and he didn’t want to show up early only to find your father or aunt attending the counter instead of you. That would suck. 

So that left him making his way up to the roof to hang out with his friends for a bit before his afternoon lectures. It had been their dedicated meeting spot for three years now, ever since they’d first forged this friendship back when they’d all joined the basketball team in first year. The roof was technically off-limits, which meant that they were generally the only people up here, making it the perfect place for them to smoke on campus grounds. 

Usually their lunches were relatively peaceful, the five of them talking about stupid shit like which girls they’d hooked up with lately, which game they were going to play together later when hanging out on discord, whether they could eat one-hundred salmon nigiri in an hour - whatever came to mind. 

But today, for some reason, he emerged through the fire escape to a full blown argument between Satoru and Suguru. Choso was standing between them trying to mediate, while Toji stared at them from his seat on the wall, observing nonchalantly. Tending to fall on Toji’s side of the scale when it came to nonchalance, Sukuna didn’t bother trying to intervene, taking a seat next to the raven-haired man and lighting up a cigarette. 

“What’s their deal?” He asked. 

Toji shrugged. “They’re having a domestic.” 

Satoru had completely lost his composure, waving his hands around as he spoke, while Suguru seemed to be batting back any of his retorts with ease and grace. From what he could discern from the insults being hurled back and forth, the root of this argument was something to do with a girl that they’d both slept with and had now descended into the two of them airing complaints about how much the other sucked as a housemate. 

He wasn’t really sure why they were so bothered about sharing the same girl - it wasn’t like this would be the first time, and they spent so much time joined at the hip that they might as well just date each other. But it didn’t really seem like they were ready to confront that yet, so instead they had to make their issues everyone else’s problem. 

“Come on.” Choso reasoned. “We have a game tomorrow. Can’t you guys just kiss and make-up?” 

“Fuck you!” Satoru called out. 

Choso’s statement was clearly not the most appropriate wording for the situation, unsurprising considering that Choso was far from the most socially adept member of their group. That award no doubt went to Suguru, whose skills were in full action as he effectively made out Satoru to be the villain in their little argument, even though Sukuna doubted that was actually the case.

Satoru was an annoyance, but he definitely wasn’t a bad guy. 

Deciding that he didn’t want to get burnt further, Choso let out a sigh and left them to it, leaning against the chain link fence just down from where Sukuna and Toji were sitting. 

“Cigarette, Cho?” Sukuna asked, holding one out to him which he took gratefully. 

“What happened to your face?” Choso asked, gesturing to the purpling bruise on Sukuna’s cheek. He’d almost forgotten it was there, the events of last night seeming somewhat distant. 

“Got in a fight.” 

“With who?” Toji asked. His tone was a little offended, as if he was sad he’d been left out. 

“Just some drunk guys, no big deal.” 

Before any more questions could be asked on the matter, a fresh round of insults came flying loudly from the lovers spat happening mere feet away. 

“Can you guys try talking to them?” Choso asked after taking a long drag of his cigarette, evidently exasperated by the situation. Toji and Sukuna glanced at each other before both offering a noncommittal shrug. Choso glared at them. 

“Look, they’ll go home later and play some stupid video game while smoking weed and they’ll have forgotten all about this by the morning.” Toji reasoned. He had a point, whenever the two fools had argued before it was never particularly long-lived. 

Sukuna had already lost interest, drowning out the conversations around him as he stared down at the campus. Most of the time he wasn’t interested in what was going on in the space below, and wasn't really interested today. Or at least, not until his eyes moved across to the windows of the building opposite him and he saw you. 

There was no mistaking that it was you, with your cute little outfit and pretty smile. Although, he had to admit that he wasn’t pleased that the smile was currently being directed at someone else. 

You were standing by the window, engaged in what looked like a lively conversation with a tall blonde man. You were giggling and he was smiling at you fondly, and Sukuna found that he didn’t like the odd feeling that settled in his chest at the sight. 

His mind strayed to the night before, considering the feeling of your smaller hands pressing against his damaged cheek. 

Your hands against his skin had felt nice. 

“Oh, it's Nanami!” Satoru was standing beside him now, Suguru standing across on the other side of the roof, the argument clearly on a temporary pause while Suguru took a smoke break. Satoru had followed Sukuna’s gaze over to the other building, watching the interaction go down. 

Nanami. Sukuna should’ve recognised him - he’d been Satoru’s roommate in their first year of university so he’d seen the blonde around fairly often. But the two of them had never grown particularly close, Nanami had only really developed a friendship with Satoru and Suguru - he was far too serious a person to fit in with their whole group. 

But his serious nature clearly wasn’t stopping you from thinking he was hilarious, with the way you seemed to be giggling right now. Sukuna was confident that he could make you laugh harder than Nanami could, he wasn’t sure that man even knew what a real joke was. You were probably just being polite - he hoped. 

“We should invite Nanami up here at some point.” Suguru called from across the roof, a shit-eating grin on his face. “He’d tell you how unreasonable you're being.”  

Impressively Satoru didn’t rise to the bait. 

“He’s too cool for us now. Too busy with his little army of nerds like her.” Satoru shot back.

Sukuna glared at Satoru for that comment, but said nothing. It wasn’t like he was going to stand up for someone he hardly knew - if he came out with the words: ‘I think she’s endearing’ he would no doubt become the laughing stock of their group chat for the foreseeable future. 

Hell, even he was embarrassed that his brain would come up with that.

Maybe if he got to know you a little better he’d tell Satoru to lay off on saying stuff like that, but right now it just wasn’t worth the battle. Or the humiliation. 

Besides, he didn’t really want to put you on the radar of any of his friends anyway. Toji and Satoru were notorious for trying to seduce any girl that was available to them, especially if someone else in the group had expressed an interest. He really didn’t want to catch either of them trying to entice you into their bed. 

Not that you seemed the kind of girl who would be interested anyway. 

“Do you think she’s his girlfriend?” Satoru asked as he watched for a bit longer. “I mean she is cute, he was always into the preppy types.” 

Sukuna sure hoped not. Based on his recent conversations with your dad he was pretty sure that you weren’t seeing anyone - in fact, your father had basically called you a shut-in, claiming that over the last year or so you’d become basically allergic to socialising, choosing to spend most of your time alone. 

But he supposed you might just be in the talking phases with Nanami, not quite dating yet but on the way towards it. Perhaps that’s why you were so reluctant to let him buy you a cake - because you were already halfway taken and wanted to let him down easy. 

It wasn’t like he could complain. He’d only just officially met you, he was just testing the waters - he had no right to you as things currently stood, he wasn’t sure if he even wanted something like that. Although, the way his heart was pounding at the thought of you right now, he really wasn’t sure. 

What was wrong with him? He needed to get a grip. 

“Who cares?” He mumbled to Satoru as he turned his gaze away from you, pretending to be far more interested in his lighter which he was flicking dexterously between his fingers. 

“What’re we playing later?” Toji asked, not at all interested in conversation about Nanami. Toji hadn’t gotten along with the blonde at all, constantly referring to him as ‘the wet blanket’ back in their first year of university, claiming that he sucked the fun out of everything. 

Sukuna wouldn’t particularly disagree. He and Toji did always tend to be birds of a feather when it came to opinions. 

“I wanna play Peak.” Satoru answered quickly. That sounded good to Sukuna, he liked that silly little climbing game, especially when he could let his friends fall to their deaths. Not that he was sure he’d be able to play tonight anyway. 

“That’s only four players.” Choso argued.

“That’s not a problem right now. I don’t want him to play.” Satoru said childishly, jabbing a finger in Suguru’s general direction. Suguru seemed unbothered, scrolling through instagram reels as he took a long drag from his cigarette. 

“Don’t be childish.” Choso scolded. “We could play Rematch instead? That way we can all play.” 

Satoru looked almost offended at the suggestion, clearly trying to seek out any opportunity to exclude Suguru. But none of them were stupid, by the time they hopped on discord together later, the two fools would’ve no doubt forgotten they’d even had an argument.

“I won’t be on until later in the evening, so you guys can play Peak without me.” Sukuna said, putting out his cigarette against the wall. 

“Got a date?” Toji asked. 

“Something like that.” He mumbled, not keen to divulge any details about you or the fact that this date was far sweeter than anything that his buddies would generally expect from him. 

“So, I guess the time that you’ll be able to come online will be dependent on how long it takes you to get her out of your bed?” Toji snickered, wise to Sukuna’s usual ways of pulling a girl - doing the bare minimum of buying her a drink at the bar, bringing her home for a quick fuck, and then kicking her out as soon as he’d had enough without even an exchanged phone number. 

That definitely wasn’t his plan for this evening. It was never going to be his plan for you. 

Besides, he severely doubted that you were the type of girl who’d ever be willing to do such a thing. Your dad had said you’d had a boyfriend briefly in your first year, but there was a part of Sukuna that figured you were probably still a virgin. You came across about as innocent as a person could be. 

“Sure.” Sukuna waved him off. Toji didn’t need to know anything. 

—

It was just starting to get dark by the time Sukuna showed up at the bakery, with closing time approaching rapidly. 

But that was just what he wanted - he figured that the cafe would be completely dead at this time like it was yesterday, and that meant that he could have you all to himself. He’d get to have a normal conversation with you, one where you weren’t scared out of your mind thanks to him or some creepy salarymen in an alley. 

As he peered through the glass door he saw you standing behind the counter, leaning forward over the surface as your eyes skimmed a book that you seemed thoroughly engrossed in. You looked cute, your face twisted into a deep look of concentration as you scribbled something down in a notebook. 

For someone like Sukuna, the idea of studying while at work was completely unheard of. He barely studied with all the free time that he had now, only ever really making trips to the library when he had coursework to submit. When it came to exams he’d generally review his lecture notes the night before and hope it was enough. 

Generally it was. 

It was cute the way that you practically jumped out of your skin as he pushed through the door, the bell alerting you to his presence. You’d clearly been so taken with whatever you were reading that you’d completely stopped paying attention to your surroundings. 

Not the best idea considering yesterday’s debacle, but he wasn’t about to scold you for it.

“Evening, angel.” He said with amusement at the sight of your startled expression, which quickly shifted to frustration at the realisation that he was taking joy in your fear. 

“Do you always have to be so scary?” You huffed, snapping your book closed. 

He chuckled. “All I did was open the door, maybe you need to be less skittish.” 

You said nothing to that, silence settling awkwardly over the cafe. He got the sense that you weren’t particularly sure how to act with him yet, clearly suspicious of his intentions even if he had come to your rescue yesterday.

Luckily he wasn’t so easily deterred.

“What do you want to eat?” He asked, and you balked at him. 

“Huh? I’m the one who works here?” You looked visibly confused, it should really be you asking him that question. 

He rolled his eyes. “I said yesterday that I’d buy you a cake, so pick one.” 

“I can literally have these for free in like twenty minutes when we close?”

“Are you always this difficult?” Sukuna asked, feeling a little exasperated. He was foolish to assume that your quiet, social-avoidant nature would make things easy. “I’m just trying to do something nice.” 

That seemed to work, because your whole face went red. It was adorable. 

“Fine…” Your eyes scanned the cabinet for a moment before pointing to a slice of Hokkaido cheesecake. Sukuna noted that you’d opted to choose the cheapest option, but he said nothing - perhaps that just happened to be your favourite. 

“There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He rummaged in his hoodie for his wallet before placing some yen down on the counter. “I’ll have the strawberry shortcake.” 

“Is that all you eat?” You asked, as you busied yourself plating up the two items. 

“It's objectively the best choice.” 

You handed him his plate before placing your own down on the counter, mumbling a gentle thank you to him as you stared down at the cheesecake, clearly planning on staying at the counter to eat it rather than sitting with him. 

He certainly wasn’t about to let that happen. 

“Gonna leave me all alone over there?” Sukuna asked, injecting a bit of hurt into his tone because you seemed like the kind of person who would easily fold if you felt guilty. 

“I’m still working, you know?” 

Sukuna made a show of looking around the empty cafe, highlighting the fact that there were currently no customers and it was highly unlikely that any more were about to show up between now and closing time.

“Looks like it's just me, angel. I’m sure you can run back to the counter if anyone comes in.” He could see the conflict on your face, it was becoming evident to him that you were a stickler for rules, the kind of girl who was always doing what she was told. His complete opposite, he supposed. 

With a heavy sigh you gave in to him, following him over to the table by the window and taking a seat across from him, eyes focussed on your cheesecake as you picked at it with your fork, clearly a little nervous to look up at him. 

“Are you doing okay, after yesterday?” He asked, referring to the situation in the alleyway. If he was a woman that moment probably would’ve injected him with fear for months afterwards - at the very least his trust in men would be shattered. 

“All okay. Honestly I’ve got way too much going on right now to really dwell on it.” You said with a nervous laugh.

He wondered if you had too much going on to dwell on him like he’d thought about you that morning. He didn’t like the idea that he hadn’t even crossed your mind since last night - that you’d completely forgotten his existence until he walked through the door just minutes ago. 

“Yeah?” He asked, inviting you to continue. 

“Yeah. Between working here and trying to keep up with all my uni work, I just feel like I’m spread thin.” You said with a sigh, taking a small forkful of cake, still not really looking at him which was annoying because he wanted you to give him your full attention like you were doing for Nanami earlier. 

“Mmmm, I assumed that from the reading while on the job.” He said with a wave of his hand, gesturing towards the closed book left on the counter. “What are you reading anyway?” 

“House of Leaves. To be honest it isn’t really my thing, I’m just reading it because I have to write a paper on it for class.”

“That’s the one with the weird formatting, right? The horror book?” You looked up at him with surprise, which made him feel very smug. It was clear that you didn’t expect him to be all that well read, he’d noticed you staring at him strangely when he’d pulled out a book yesterday. 

It was funny that you’d assume that considering that he was actually an avid reader, and had been ever since he was a kid. He’d consumed basically every well-known fantasy and sci-fi out there throughout his teenage years, although lately his genre of interest tended to be horror.

“Yeah. It's interesting - pretty terrifying actually. Feels like something that could maybe be real? As if you’re the new Navidson and you’re discovering his account of all the weird things that happened to him.” 

“Navidson?” 

“The main character.” 

He liked that you were holding his gaze now, he got the sense that you were emboldened when talking about things that you were interested in. Your eyes were sparkling a little as you discussed the book, clearly happy to be able to talk about it with someone that would listen. 

“I saw someone on reddit say they started hallucinating after reading it.” He said, grinning as your expression filled with alarm, clearly not familiar with that particular post.

“What!? Things are hard enough as it is, if the size of my house starts changing and I start hallucinating doorways it might all be over for me. All for a uni assignment too…” You said, the exasperated lilt to your voice making him chuckle. 

God you were cute. 

“People are dramatic. That guy was probably just schizophrenic.” He said, brushing it aside in an attempt to put your mind at ease. “But the book sounds pretty cool, maybe I should give it a read.” 

“You’re reading The Ship of Theseus, right?” You asked, and he decided that he very much liked how much interest you were showing in him now that he’d steered the conversations to books. “How are you finding it?”

“It’s pretty good. I like the mystery aspect of it, although it’s hard to keep track of all the potential authors they refer to throughout the book.” 

“Hmm, I ended up writing a list of them all to make sure I could follow.” You said thoughtfully. “But I think it's a fair complaint.”

“You wrote a list? How diligent.” 

You blushed a little at his compliment, staring down at your cake once more, prodding at it with your fork. 

“I was writing a paper on it, to be fair - it’s not like I just do that for fun.” You defended yourself, sounding thoroughly unconvincing. 

It was amusing to watch you try to lie, because your dad had spent months outlining to Sukuna just how much of a nerd you really were. He’d never framed it in a derogatory way like how Satoru had said it earlier, but he’d certainly said it. 

“It's fine if you do it for fun.” He said with a chuckle. “I’m not gonna think you’re lame.” 

On the contrary, he found it strangely endearing. 

You watched him cautiously as he took a bite of his strawberry shortcake, chewing on your lower lip as you seemed to carefully consider something. 

“I find that hard to believe.” You said finally, unwilling to make eye-contact. 

“How so?” 

“Well, I guess your reputation doesn’t support that.” You said honestly, scooping up another piece of cake and stuffing it into your mouth so that you didn’t have to speak any longer. 

So you had asked someone about him. Wasn’t that interesting.

He probably should’ve been more concerned that you’d essentially just called him a bad person, but he was far too busy feeling smug about the fact that you’d clearly been thinking about him. 

“What’s my reputation, angel?” He asked as he leant forward, elbows planted on the table as he fixed you with a smug grin. 

You shrank back a little in your chair and that was of great entertainment to him. You were bold enough to slap a man in an alleyway, but nervous in the face of having an awkward conversation. Wasn’t that cute?

 “Nanami said that you and your basketball buddies only care about partying, getting high and having one night stands with girls. He said that none of you were the kind of people that I should be associating myself with if I know what’s good for me.” 

Ah Nanami. He would say something like that.

“He also said that you and Toji are the absolute worst and that if I gave you the time of day you’d just end up sleeping with me and then pretending that I didn’t exist.” You continued. 

Sukuna supposed that wasn’t an unfair assessment, he’d done plenty of that over the last few years. But he wasn’t going to do that to you, breaking down the barriers of someone so sweet and innocent would be an insane amount of effort for a one night stand, especially when he had so many women lining up to fuck him anyway. 

No, he was here because something about you made him feel weird, and it was a weird feeling that he liked. Nanami could go fuck himself. 

At least Nanami’s warning confirmed to Sukuna that you weren’t dating the blonde. Although it did suggest that Nanami might be interested in you and didn’t want someone else to get in the way - least of all someone like him. 

“And do you believe him?” Sukuna asked, figuring he’d at least get a temperature check on your reaction before he made any effort to defend himself. 

“Honestly, I don’t know.” You confessed, playing with the hem of your sweater as you looked up at him shyly. “I don’t think he’d lie to me, but nothing that you’ve done really supports his words. I mean, you come here and have small talk with an old man, you saved me from those creeps with no strings attached. So I guess I’m confused.” 

That was fair enough, he was confused too. 

He’d started coming to the bakery originally because his father had made him. Sukuna’s family lived in Kyoto now, making the move away from Tokyo a few years back. So when Sukuna made the decision to attend university here his dad had implored him to come to this bakery, saying that he’d be doing Wasuke’s old friend a favor. 

Generally Sukuna had no interest in listening to his dad’s orders, but he loved eating sweet things, so it wasn’t like coming here was ever really a chore. Besides, your dad was always so nice to him that Sukuna found himself enjoying the conversations, enjoying hearing his stories about you. 

He wasn’t sure why, but he always felt like a different person when he was here. A little less rough around the edges, less of an act to uphold with others. It was something of a sanctuary to him, a place where he’d leave his tough exterior at the door. 

But those lines were a little confused when it came to you. It was a big part of why he’d never approached you on campus in the past. You had all the softness of this place, but he wasn’t soft when he was out there. That just wasn’t who he was. 

And yet, the way that he’d spent all morning yearning for you to text him said different. 

He was really confused. Maybe he just needed to get laid - have sex with some faceless girl to stop him daydreaming about what it might be like to tenderly run his fingers over your skin. He wasn’t the type of guy who thought about stuff like that. 

That didn’t stop him from instinctively moving to defend himself to you though, not wanting you to think badly of him for whatever reason. Even though he usually couldn’t care less what anyone thought of him. 

“We party a lot, and we get high, and yeah I guess I’ve had a lot of one night stands, but that’s not what I’m trying to get from you.” He said. “Trust me, I’m only trying to pull girls at parties, I’m not about to try and use you for that when I come to this bakery constantly, how stupid do you think I am?” 

“Oh.” There was relief in your tone, but a little frown on your face, as if you were almost disappointed that he didn’t want to have a one night stand with you, which was crazy because you clearly weren’t that type of girl. Weird. 

“I get it if you don’t want to hang out with me around campus, I know that you’ve got this smart girl reputation and you don’t want me to drag you down-”

“I don’t care about that!” You said quickly, cutting him off as you peered up at him. 

“Honestly, I couldn’t care less about your reputation. You’ve been nice to me…” You were practically tomato red now, and he felt his heart racing. Not a feeling that he was particularly accustomed to and he wasn’t sure that he liked it. 

“Nanami is really overprotective of me.” You continued. “We’ve known each other since we were little so he’s always looking out for me but sometimes it gets a little overbearing.”

Sukuna let out a soft chuckle. “To be fair, Nanami isn’t my biggest fan for good reason. Back when he and Satoru lived together in first year we used to be over there all the time. We partied constantly, l mean, even during exam season we’d be getting drunk and being loud in the common room until 3am. It's no wonder he hates us.”

“I’d hate you for that.” You commented, and he shot you a smirk. 

“Good thing we met under different conditions then, huh?”

“Indeed.” 

The two of you fell into silence for a few moments and Sukuna found himself observing you. You’d finished the cake now, pushing about the crumbs on the plate. You weren’t much of a conversation starter, that was clearly something he needed to take charge of. But that didn’t particularly bother him. 

He needed to engineer some way to get to know you better, to spend a bit more time with you. The thought felt a little pathetic to him, because why did he even care so much? But you came across as such a mystery to him, your reserved nature leaving him wanting more, the tidbits of conversation that you were giving him not enough to sate him. 

Right now your walls were very much still up - not surprising considering your conversation with Nanami, but he desperately wanted to lower them. 

He wanted to know you better, wanted to have access to the person that your dad so affectionately talked about. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t enamoured by the many nice stories he’d heard about you. He wanted to experience them first hand. 

“Have you ever done the life-cycles of languages elective class?” Sukuna asked finally, and the way that your eyes lit up made it clear that he’d got you hook, line, and sinker. 

“Yeah, I did that one last year, it was so good.” 

“Mmmm, I’m really struggling with it.” He said, trying to sound as convincing as possible. He wasn’t struggling with it, he was plenty intelligent but you didn’t need to know that right now. Not if it meant you’d offer to help him. 

You frowned. He really liked the way you scrunched up your brow when you did so, it was adorable. “Why are you even taking that course? That’s from the linguistics programme, I thought you did engineering?” 

“It's my extra, you know how they always encourage you to take something outside of your subject programme for enrichment? That was my choice.” You looked rather taken aback by that, but you quickly shook it off. 

“Huh…” 

“Anyway, I could really use some help with it if you’ve got some time?” 

Was he a manipulative person? Possibly. Did he really care right now? No. Not if it meant that the two of you could sit huddled together in the library or even better, at the desk in his room, while you talked him through the evolution of language. 

Once again he found himself wondering why the thought of that made him so giddy, but he hadn’t gotten this far in life by dwelling on his emotions and he wasn’t about to start now. He did what he wanted, and what he wanted right now was to spend more time with you. 

“I’m pretty busy.” You said hesitantly. “I guess I could help you out at lunch tomorrow though? I could meet you in the humanities library?” 

Sukuna grinned. “Sounds good to me. As long as we’re done by 2pm it's fine - I’ve gotta get ready for my game. Maybe I could help you out with whatever you picked for your elective?” That was probably a fair trade, maybe you’d picked something more science-y for your enrichment course. 

“Oh! Do you know anything about Russian Folklore?” 

Perhaps not. 

“No…I’ll guess I’ll have to find another way to pay you back.” He promised in a low tone, a soft blush spreading across your cheeks at the implication. Maybe you really were upset that he wasn’t inviting you for a one night stand. 

“Sweetheart, are you-” your dad called out as he entered through the door at the back of the shop, eyebrows lifting in surprise at the sight of you sitting at the table with Sukuna, a deep blush still visible on your face. “Oh! Sorry, I’m interrupting!” He said, quickly turning to head back up the stairs and leave you in peace. 

You were on your feet in seconds, the chair screeching as you stood up. “N-no, dad it's fine, we were just talking!” You explained quickly. “Everything okay?” 

Sukuna was concerned about your dad. He’d been coming here regularly for three years now, and in that time the man had changed drastically. He must’ve lost 20kg in the last six months, and it wasn’t like he’d been all that big to begin with. Lately he couldn’t even stand up without leaning on something with support. 

Besides, when Sukuna had asked in the past why you didn’t work here, your father had been adamant that he didn’t want you working at the bakery while you were in university. Yet here you were - juggling both responsibilities. 

There was no doubt in Sukuna’s mind that there was something gravely wrong with the old man. Even conversation seemed taxing for him now, and the anxious way that you addressed him did nothing to ease Sukuna’s soul. 

But it wasn’t his business to ask. If you or your dad wanted to talk about it with him you could, but he wasn’t going to ask. 

“All good. You two look like you’re getting along well.” Your dad said as he leant his weight against the counter, a glint of mischief in his eyes. 

“Dad!” Now your face was even redder. 

“What? It’s true!” 

You rolled your eyes in exasperation as you moved behind the counter and started to clean up. Neither of you had really kept track of time while you were talking, and the clock now showed that it was just beyond closing time. 

“Don’t bother with that, sweetie. I’ll sort it out later.” Your dad said softly as he watched you hurry around. “Your aunt has some leftover casserole you can take home with you if you want? It's in some tupperware in the fridge upstairs.” 

“Oh, thanks!” You said, heading towards the door at the back before pausing and glancing at Sukuna, clearly unsure if he was planning on leaving before you’d be back down, wondering if you needed to say your goodbyes before you disappeared off upstairs. 

“I’ll wait for you.” He said. “Don’t want you walking to the station alone after what happened yesterday.” You shot him a grateful smile which had his stomach flipping, before you jogged up the stairs. 

“What happened yesterday?” Your dad asked, face filled with concern. 

You didn’t tell him? It wasn’t exactly something insignificant - you’d been in real danger. A little strange that you’d keep it to yourself. 

“Some drunk guys were harassing her. I scared them off though.” Sukuna said, providing the abridged version of events, not wanting to go into too much detail if it wasn’t something that you wanted shared. Maybe you were embarrassed, or perhaps you just didn’t want your father worrying about you when he was in such a fragile state. 

Your dad shook his head with frustration. “This area is really going downhill lately, I’m glad that you were there for her. It's good to know that you’re keeping an eye on her.” 

Sukuna smirked. “It's my pleasure.” 

“It made me happy to see the two of you talking - I’ve been worried about her lately, it seems like she’s making her best attempt at becoming a hermit.” Your dad said with a tired sigh. But his eyes were kind, filled with love and care for his daughter. 

Sukuna couldn’t fathom having a father like that. 

Sure Wasuke loved him, but he was also a total hardass while Sukuna was growing up - his care was definitely not unconditional, and Sukuna did everything he could to push the boundaries. 

You, on the other hand, seemed to have unconditional love but still acted like a goody two-shoes all the time. Interesting - you’d really think it should be the other way around. 

“I’ll try not to let her become a hermit. She’s endearing, you know?” 

Your father was positively beaming at that statement. “You know, I wouldn’t mind you being my son-in-law one day.” He said with a chuckle. Sukuna rolled his eyes dramatically but returned his smile. 

“We’ll see about that.” 

a/n: making the dad in this one SO nice to make up for to distant lands lol

thank you for reading! hope you enjoyed this chapter - reblogs and comments are appreciated, let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! <3

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© sukunahs

[soobiary]

MERMAID NANAMIIIIIIII

Part of Your World - N.K.

Synopsis. Prince Nanami Kento would give anything to be part of your world - his tail, his voice, and yet, his heart is already yours. You would give anything to know more about the mysterious suitor from across the seas - and why you just can’t stay away.

Pairing. Nanami Kento x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!princess!reader, merman!Nanami, The Little Mermaid AU, PlNING Nanami, he saves you, Kenjaku as Ursula, contracts, temporarily mute Nanami, slightly forbidden, falling in love, slow dancing, boat rides, balls, magic, plot, getting together, oraI (fem rec.), face-sítting, pússydrúnk Nanami, spítting, fíngering, merman powers, he’s BIG, making it fit, cervíx kíssing, NANAMI’S POWERS, he goes FÉRAL, stopping you from running, tummy buIges, mahandIing, dúmbifícation, creampíes, cúmplay, confessions, he’s a yearner, HAPPY ENDING, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 11.6k

A/N. I made MYSELF all mushy writing this- me when??

“Wish I could be…”

The only thing you could feel were gentle fingertips tracing your features; down your cheeks, across your salt-encrusted lips. Fleeting- almost scared, like an apology for the churning waves mere minutes before. 

And it’s what makes you flutter your bleary eyes open, squinting at the beams of sunlight from above.

At first, you make out a shadow. A halo of hair that glints like gold. Then, lips that tenderly hum, “-part of your world.”

Your heart stutters- and you’re not sure whether it’s because of the striking man on top of you, or the sudden call of your name from a distance.

But he disappears in the blink of an eye.

And you couldn’t rip your fogged vision away - not from the calm plane of ocean that had cushioned your shipwreck, not from the absence of him. 

“A man, he…saved me.” You’re uttering, once your advisor hurries across the shoreline to help you into a stand. “He had the most beautiful voice.”

But Gakuganji only looks at you with a smile, the same one you’d grown up with that told you he would be fondly sighing about this with your parents later. 

“Ah, princess.” Throwing one of your arms over his surprisingly strong shoulders, the royal advisor bodily turns you away from the lapping waves. Ready to make the short trek back to the palace, “I think you swallowed a bit too much seawater, your highness. Birthday celebrations on a ship- I did tell the royal majesties it wasn’t a fine idea.”

“But, I swear on the crown- there was a man! He was singing and-”

Guffawing, “Off we go now.” Patting your shoulder, though, it was starkly different from the touch you swear had been mapping out your face beforehand. Memorizing. 

You throw a look of near-envy as your royal hound wades into the water, barking indiscriminately at something you could not see. With a final look behind you- “Yes. Perhaps.”

And if two molten eyes had been looking back, well, Nanami was only glad for the waves that hid his burning ears. And his glistening tail. 

.

.

.

“Yuuji-” Nanami’s sharp nose bridge crinkles as he holds back a smile, hands reaching out to grasp at the wriggling pink tail of the younger merman. Though, that doesn’t stop him from following dutifully, “Why can’t you just tell me what this is all about?”

“You’ll see—” Itadori sing-songs, splashing deeper into the prince’s grotto. 

It was their little secret; no guards or elders or merman rules that would stop the young heir from hoarding any glittering human object he could get his hands on. 

And oh, did he get his hands on them. 

It seemed that humans considered anything ‘lost’ to the sea to be truly gone. Every nook and cranny of the underwater cavern was stuffed with such fascinating trinkets— everything from soggy books unable to open, to strange dials telling the time that Nanami considered treasure. 

And as Itadori snakes past the narrow tunnel entrance n’ into the wide open space of the grotto, he’s giggling with mischief. “It’s a surprise–!”

“A surp- oh!” Nanami’s breath strangles when he finally catches up to the sprightly boy- because right there, right in the very middle of the chamber, was you.

Well, as close as a merman like him could ever get to you.

Humming in satisfaction, “I got it from the shipwreck- had fallen off the ship.”

It was one of those ‘statues’ that humans of your family seemed to be quite fond of - a frigid block of stone that somehow still seemed to capture the warmth in your smile. The proud tiara atop your scalp as you held a book in one hand, a sword in the other - gazing off into the distance like you were taking in each overspilling shelf of Nanami’s collection. 

And said Nanami felt like every gust of air in his lungs had just melted at the sight, “Yuji…” He’s daring to whisper, so quiet that it was as if a syllable too loud would make the statue crumble apart. “Yuji, you’re the best.”

With a rapid hug that sends Itadori’s laughter booming across the walls, the older merman races towards your statue. 

All speed. All power. Though, the way he softly cradles the curve of your statue’s cheek is anything but- leaning his forehead in to kiss your replica’s own. “It even has her eyes.”

At Itadori’s coos, he suddenly feels the tips of his ears scorch hot enough to make the surrounding water bubble. “You look just like a royal couple, Nanamin.”

How he’d dreamed. How he’d taught himself to use those human utensils of graphite to write about it.

Pulling back with a sudden giggle- 

“A royal couple? Why, princess-” Nanami dramatically bows down to brush his lips against the back of your hand. “-run away with you? What would the king think?” He’s looping a hand ‘round your waist the way he’s seen in those smudged paintings of human dances - the way he’s always wanted to. Pretending to shake his head. “This is all so…”

Sudden.

Sudden- Yaga was towering at the grotto entrance. 

Trident heavy in his hand, crown heavier on his head.

And never - never - in the years that Nanami had been taken in, had he felt that he was gazing at the ruler of Atlantica more than he was right now. Never had he known the ruler to spear a look back at him like so- “S-sir.”

The waters of the kingdom were constantly icy, but right now they froze Nanami Kento to his very bones. 

Itadori’s swimming to hide behind a decorated treasure chest once Yaga starts speaking - and when the king speaks, everyone listens. “I consider myself a reasonable merman.” Everyone makes note of the low, darkening tone as he glides from out the shadows of the entrance. “I set certain rules.”

Nanami backs up against the front of your statue, arms behind him as if to protect you. Even if you weren’t quite here with him.

“And I expect those rules to be obeyed.”

He shoots a glance behind him, at you. At the kingdom’s postcard pictures of you, at that one rattle you’d lost when you were a mere toddler- and he was nothing but a too-curious merchild a year older, stealing his first swim to the world above. “But, sir, I-”

“Is it true you rescued a human from drowning?” The king spits out, venom lacing his tone in a way that told Nanami he’d already been whispered the answer by one of his numerous council of elders. 

“I had to-”

“Contact between the human world and the mer-world is strictly forbidden. Kento, you know that-” As if Nanami could ever forget. “Everyone knows that.”

“She could’ve died-”

“One less human to worry about.”

Biting back tears at the booming words that echoed around the chamber, Nanami’s shaking his head as if to stop them from replaying in his mind. Tone more quiet than he would’ve liked- “You don’t even know her.”

“Know her?” Yaga seethes, baritone growing scratchier with each syllable. More out-of-control. More honed in on the very honorary son that he was rounding on, he hisses with distaste. “I don’t have to know her. They’re all the same.” His trident raises, fists clenching deeper the more the older merman takes in the statue that Nanami was clutching like a lifeline. “Spineless, savage, harpooning, fish-eaters. Incapable of any feeling or-”

“I love her.”

It’s as if lightning strikes the surface of the water, and burrows its way inside Nanami’s lil’ grotto. 

“No…” Yaga sounds more breathless than furious right now. 

With a pointed index, he’s jabbing between the other’s broad pecs. “Have you lost your senses completely? She’s a human- you’re a merman.”

Gripping onto the fingers of your statue, until his own knuckles turn white. “I don’t care.” And the elders always did say that stubbornness would lead to his doom - Nanami just didn’t think that love would, too.

“So help me, Kento, I am going to get through to you.” Somewhere nearby, he hears Itadori gasp. “And if this is the only way-” The glaring glow of Yaga’s trident makes Nanami’s heart race - right before it’s breaking in two. “-so be it.”

.

.

.

It was in pieces. All of it.

His trinkets.

His books.

You.

You were never his to keep - not even a statue of you - but you were never Yaga’s to tear apart with his trident, either. 

Which was how Nanami Kento found himself crushing beads of tears behind his palms, all the better to see the spiky, slanted handwriting in front of him. Snaking down the tattered parchment like it was luring him in with each syllable-

“Go ahead and sign the scroll—” Kenjaku purrs, squid-like tentacles nudging a skeletal quill his way. “If you’re going to cross the bridge, then you’ve got to sign the toll, my dear.”

The younger merman can only gaze up in conviction - he knew, oh, he knew there was a reason that Yaga had banished the other man from Atlantica all those years ago. 

And yet, once those two slippery eels had approached him in the grotto after the king had left, he couldn’t help but find himself following them. Couldn’t help but feel his fingerpads itch to grip the pen, inching towards the scrappy contract, despite how much they trembled.

“Three days with legs- just imagine—” Legs. 

All he needed were legs. 

Mahito preens from beside Kenjaku. “The places you could walk, the things you could do…with her.” Snickering as Nanami glares at the simple mention of you on his tongue. 

But that doesn’t seem to deter the two eels– “Yes yes— all you need to give is your voice, and all you need to get is a kiss for it to be permanent.” Jogo pushes Nanami’s figure closer, and he swears the handwriting on the paper had started to gleam with power. “Then you can truly love her alllll you want.”

Nanami’s heart jumps.

He gulps.

He reaches out—and pen meets parchment.

Kenjaku cracks a grin, “Poor, unfortunate soul.”

Then there’s a flash. 

.

.

.

“Did you see him-”

“-they say they found him wandering the shore-”

“-more good-looking than any prince.”

“Does this gown look alright, you think?” You’re cutting through the chatter, and instantly a few cooing voices are fussing over the intricacies of your outfit for the morning. 

Wincing as a few attendants behind you start to pin and prick at your sleeves, you’re catching the knowing smile on Utahime’s face and cave in on yourself. “I just think it should be appropriate for the princess to be presentable in front of a guest.”

“And that doesn’t have anything to do with this guest being easy on the eyes-” She’s drawling, tugging you away from your gaggle of ladies and closer towards the dining hall. “-does it, your highness?”

“A-absolutely not.”

At least, that’s what you’d been telling yourself since early this morning.

Since your advisor had presented you with the news that a rescued man from the beach would be residing in the palace for a few days- and here you were, much too tentative than you should’ve been for a simple breakfast occasion. 

Though, you’re blaming it all on the whispers that claimed he was other-worldly - that his eyes were piercing, and his hair was like spun treasure. It reminded you too much of that mysterious singing stranger.

“Then, you shouldn’t keep your guest waiting, hm?” Utahime’s the one to snap you out of your little reverie, just as soon as you’re reaching the chamber entrance. 

And before you can protest- before you can manage out a word, you’re being pushed in.

Having Gakuganji announce your arrival, and your peripherals immediately catching on - onto him. 

Running a metal fork through his hair like a comb, until he’s seeing you, that is- and immediately the utensil drops onto the table with a clatter. 

It was obvious that the royal stylists had gotten their hands on him before anyone else did. 

Because seated there, adjacent to the far end of the table was the most handsome man you had ever set your sights on. 

Tall. Pretty. 

Fitted in a loose, white dress shirt, tucked in to show off such a trim waist- it was obvious that your new guest was sculptured. Naturally chiselled collarbones peeking through the low waist, it was oh-so-perfect to frame broad shoulders n’ a noble face.

Blond hair pushed back, long lashes fluttering, plush lips pulled tight.

His eyes seemed to find yours like it was second nature to him, and the man lets out a slight gasp at the mere sight of you. Like you were the first speck of day he had seen in years.

Like you were a dream manifesting before his very gaze. 

He slowly rises as you curtsy, “It is an honor to meet you, my lord.” You dare to inch closer to the noble, claiming your seat right opposite him on the winding dinner table. And just the sole heat of his proximity makes something at the pit of your stomach twist. 

“Pardon me, but-” You start, head tilting as you squint your eyes in concentration at the man. Household staff bustle about you two to get the first meal of the day readied, but that was the last thing on your mind. “-you seem very…familiar to me.”

The noble only nods, nervous hands pushing back the stray strands of his pale hair. 

And you can only continue, “Have we met?”

Another nod. Another dazzling smile beamed your way- brows furrowing, heel tapping down on the marble floor, and it’s almost as if his shy excitement was contagious.

“We have met?” You’re breathing, almost in wonderment. And it’s with his third and final nod - the most fervent of them all - that his meticulously-styled strands bounce, catching the early morning sun. 

Setting it aglow like molten gold. 

Oh.

“I knew it- you’re the one!”

The next thing you do makes Gakuganji gape from his subtle position a few seats away- body moving before your mind, you’re reaching straight across the mahogany table to grasp the man’s hands. 

“Princess–!”

“Why, if his majesty knew- what about her arranged-”

“I haven’t seen her smile like that in weeks-”

“The one I’ve been looking for.” Large, slightly calloused, they rest in your hold as firmly as anchors. You brush your thumbs down his mountainous knuckles, pulling him closer. You knew he was real. You knew he saved you. You’re nearly pleading, “Pray tell, what’s your name?”

The blond-haired man opens his mouth—‘Na-’ 

Only for his words to be soundless. 

Something in his open, gentle expression crumbles- and the right of his hands immediately darts to touch his throat. With knitted brows, he’s tearing his pupils away- almost like it hurt to do so. Like it was the last thing he wanted to do, and yet…

“What’s wrong? What is it?” You watch, patiently, as he taps his voicebox and shakes his head. “You can’t speak?”

Another affirmation. And another twist somewhere in your stomach, though, it felt colder this time. 

“Oh- oh, then…” Looking down at your clasped hands, you can’t bring yourself to remove them from his just yet, no matter how many royal protocols you were breaking. Biting down on the inside of your cheek, you shake your head as if to free it from the soft, slightly raspy voice that’d been haunting it for days. “-then, you couldn’t be who I thought. My apologies, my lord.”

But the look on Nanami’s face told you that an apology was the last thing he wanted.

You just wish you knew why.

.

.

.

You didn’t know what you’d expected when you volunteered to show the mysterious stranger ‘round your kingdom, but it certainly wasn’t to stop him from leaning out of the royal carriage until his nose touched the ground. 

It certainly wasn’t personally apologizing to a puppeteer in the town square after he’d tried snatching a puppet off of his hands. 

And it certainly wasn’t having yourself be led around, hands intertwined with his engulfing ones in a way that no other in the royal palace would dare to.

“P-please!” You’re struggling to get out through your gasps of laughter, eyes caught on the broad flex of his shoulders, the way that his blond locks took light in the day. “I beg of you- have mercy on this poor princess’s feet.”

He looks at you with quirked brows, the type of look that told you you could do better than that.

You huff at the excited look on his face, his eyes seemed to be devouring every tiny ministration in your bustling town. “Oh, do as you wish. But I’ll have you know that you’re manning the carriage back-”

Immediately, your guest startles into a halt - and as do you.

Peering over his mighty shoulder, you narrow your vision towards what had seized his attention. 

He was pointing a curious finger at a band nearby, surrounding a clearance in the town square where couples were waltzing along to the wafting music. Dresses and feet a blur in time with the tender, lilting music permeating the air.

Eyes locked on each other, just as his was locked on them. Like it was painting he was aiming to capture into sweet, sweet memory. 

Your own widen, you’re looking down - just in time to spot one of his polished shoes tapping along to the beat of the crooning cello. And the longer you’re staring at your guest’s eager eyes, his parted lips- the harder you feel your heart thud once he looks down over his shoulder. Head tilted in question.

He’s so tall that you have to crane your dominant hand upwards to lace with the almost-stranger’s, grin enough to make his breath hitch. “Well, no tour of my kingdom shall be complete without a dance.”

He beams.

So bright that you’re almost recanting your statement from breakfast earlier. 

“Let me teach you.” It was obvious that the tall man wasn’t versed in dancing - though, luckily for him, the palace always did take pride in enrolling their heirs in waltzing lessons just as soon as they learned how to walk.

And you have to stifle a smile, watching the way his ears scorch crimson at the roaming pathway of your hands. One palm resting on his shoulder, the other held with his. “First you bow- oh.”

You bow, he bends to kiss the upper face of your palm. 

Fleeting lips against heated skin.

Words nothing but a mere breath once he straightens up, “R-right.” Kindly tugging you so that your chest was pressed against his— so close. Close enough that you could smell the sunny, salty air of the beach on him. 

Your mouth was dry - drier than it ever had been during any ball, any other dance partner. 

And perhaps it was the way he was lapping onto your every word like the gospel - perhaps it was just him - but you couldn’t help but step just a little bit closer. “First, you make a box. I may lead, if you’d like, my lord, then step to your left…now back…now…” 

Soft strings tinge the air with their balmy tune, but the only music that he could hear was your voice. And it was even sweeter now that you were in his arms.

.

.

.

“You know, I feel awful not knowing your name, my lord.” It was only the second day of your guest’s stay, and it was safe to say that the entire palace was enamored with him.

Yes, Gakuganji included.

And as the hulking man steadily rows the dainty lil’ rowboat of your palace’s blue lagoon, you start to think that it might include a small part of you, as well. 

Hastily, you shake your head to rid these improper thoughts. Fatigue- yes, it must be fatigue from a day spent scouring the palace with him to show off each of your little trinkets and collections from voyages afar. 

Utahime had suggested a slow cruise along the steady waters of the estuary that connected your palace’s shoreline to the ocean. Not quite open water, but wild enough that overhanging trees ripped apart the yolky glow of the setting sun. 

Romantic.

Trying your very best not to ogle the way the daylight cast patterns on his flexing biceps, you hum in thought. “Perhaps I could try to guess?” At the challenging quirk of his brow- “Is it, uh- Richard?”

At that, he’s making a face so disgusted that you have to laugh- 

“Alright, alright. Not Richard.” Tapping your chin, you’re trying to draw any ideas from the calm, lapping waves of the water surrounding you two. Something familiar. “How about Caspian?” A firm shake of his head. “Kaito-” Another shake. “Shiu-”

“Ken.”

“Ken?” Your head swivels around, wondering whether you really were too exhausted after a day wandering about the castle. Because you could have sworn you just heard the quiet, childish voice of a boy whispering ‘Ken.’

So caught up in following the voice between the thick growth of bushes, you nearly don’t notice your guest’s soft smile. Eyes widening at the sparkle in his soft peripherals, “Ken? Your name’s Ken?”

Nodding furiously- the gorgeous man stops rowing briefly to let your rowboat hover about the crystalline water as if it was a cloud upon the sky. Wading gently enough that you could almost drift to sleep- if it wasn’t for the large palm that closes over yours. 

Your skin heats as he gestures to his lips—‘To.’

“To?” You’re questioning, leaning in closer. “Ken…to?”

And the only thing he can do is nod- carefully, ever-so-carefully, lifting a palm to cradle your cheek. You make note of each letter he manages to mouth—Na-Na-Mi-Ke-n-to.

Closer.

Just to make sure you were hooked on each syllable. 

“Nanami Kento.” You’re not sure why a smile breaks across your face - but it’s one that Nanami matches. Breathing, small enough that you’re unsure whether he’d be able to hear it over the pounding of your own heart. “Okay-” Squeezing his hand, the gap tightens. And he’s letting out a warm puff of laughter against your face, “-Kento.”

A world between you two, and yet, it was only a few inches.

A few inches that was shortening as your mind screams—kiss him.

Nanami’s half-lidded gaze bores down at you with the weight of torrentials, pinkish tongue darting out just enough to wet his rosy lips. 

Kiss him.

Eyelids heavy, light pants mingling with his. You catch his stare map each of your beautiful, beautiful eyes- then down to your lips.

Kiss him.

Ones that pursue ever-so-slightly as you lean in.

Kiss him.

Mere millimeters away, as if you were going to-

SPLASH–!

As the both of you tip over into the frigid water with a sudden, striking current, you can’t help but feel a pang of disappointment. Though, it melts over only somewhat once Nanami easily carries you out of the shallow water, arms underneath your legs, forehead pressing against yours- in a princess carry. All the way back to the palace, at that.

You could almost laugh at the circumstance of it all, wondering just how you were going to explain yourselves to Gakuganji. 

But that could wait- looking up, it was the perfect angle to take in the sharp line of Nanami’s jaw, the steadiness of his gait - for now, you were content burrowing yourself into his strong chest. And content with the way his hands tighter, as if to burrow a part of himself back.

And Itadori - poor, bumbling Itadori - who’d toiled so hard to whisper you Nanami’s name from the side of the rowboat, could only watch as your soaked backs disappear. 

Dammit, his plan had failed—and there were only two beings in the entire ocean who would do such a thing.

The young merman looks over his shoulder at the darkening water, shrouding with the inky stain of nightfall. Though, in the stray slivers of dying sunlight, he could make out the two escaping, slippery tails of eels. 

.

.

.

Nanami smiles tenderly - almost embarrassingly - as he combs his hair with one of those human ah- ‘forks’ in the mirror. 

It was the last day.

You would either kiss him, and he would live on as human- or, you would not, and he would be content to live on with the memories. Just one minute to stand beside you would have been enough, and he had been blessed with three entire days.

He had until sunset with you.

The pads of his feet down the royal corridor are the only thing that accompany him as he races down to meet you. 

It was nearing the afternoon, and he wanted to show you the sparkling ocean today- perhaps the new coral that had been growing last time he swam, only hoping you could love it as much as he did. And as Nanami throws himself down the winding staircase, three steps at a time, he could already hear your sweet, sweet tone wafting from the royal court. 

Empty. 

Save for you, Gakuganji, and…

“Well now, princess, it appears that I was mistaken.” The elderly man sounded uncharacteristically reserved- it’s exactly what makes Nanami stop short. Peering at the gathering of nobles ‘round a wide marble pillar leading down the stairway. “This mystery suitor of yours does, in fact, exist-”

He gasps-

“-and he is charming. Congratulations, my boy.”

Gakuganji shakes hands with the tall, medal-decorated man that held your hand. His pale blond hair standing out starkly amongst the polished floor, smile something long and sharp. 

Crooning, he bows so shallowly that the conch necklace dangling around his neck barely even moves. “The name’s Prince Zenin Naoya, and the pleasure is all mine—” Shooting a look at your quiet figure, “Isn’t that right, my dear?”

“We wish to be married as soon as possible.” You mutter, monotone.

“Oh! Oh, yes, of course.” Gakuganji smooths over, beady eyes darting between Naoya’s smug expression to your blank one. “But uh- these things do take time, your highness-”

“Today, Gakuganji.” You’re cutting him off, emotionless. Icy. No trace of your peels of laughter from yesterday. 

And the words are enough to make Nanami lean back against the shadowed pillar and clutch at his aching heart. To make him thud his head behind him, to make him unable to move a single step away. He whispers noiselessly to himself to keep from shedding a ready tear as you continue- “We shall announce the wedding with a grand ball, at sunset.”

.

.

.

Your body was walking, but you didn’t command it to move. Your mouth was speaking, even though you didn’t know the words. 

You were staring up at Zenin Naoya, your soon-to-be-husband, and you weren’t quite sure how you’d made it into his arms.

Being twirled in dizzying motions in-between powdered wigs and dresses twice the size of a normal court event. For, this was to be an engagement, and every single royal attendee knew it. They could feel it glinting in the heavy diamond tiara atop your head, and the orchestra that sang in romantic melodies. 

Naoya’s gold-tipped shoe steps on your toes and you wince–“Keep the smile on.” It’s all he has to whisper before you’re feeling your cheeks ache with the force of your sudden, plastic grin.

What…?

“Now, it’s been long enough.” He’s murmuring to himself, taking a sweeping look around the ballroom.

They’d decorated it as decadently as they could, given the short notice. From the chandelier that spilled over like a second sun, to the white bouquets of flowers that lined each corner. Every utensil, candle, and seat had been polished until they reflected your grave expression. 

And Naoya’s preening at the awed murmurs that followed your rapid, methodical waltz. Like each step was being conducted by his lead- he leans down to whisper in your ear. “You’re going to go up to where the king is and say you have something to announce.” That is it. That is all that it would take - no princess could go back on her word after such a declaration. Unless she wanted war- “And then you’ll invite me and let me-”

Tap-tap–!

You don’t hear him, but you do feel him.

Nanami.

Dolled up by the best of your palace tailors, he was wrapped in snug silks that outshone every suitor in the chamber right now. Blond locks pulled back into a small ponytail, a sword kept close by the leather belt on his waist. 

He looked other-worldly. Even with his downcast eyes intense, jaw clenched- though, not at you. Never at you. 

Nanami’s frozen mask melts just as soon as you halt your dance, looking over your shoulder at him. He doesn’t need to say a single word- only, bending forwards into a low, low bow. Brushing the back of your hand with his lips-

“Yes-” You’re surprising yourself by saying, and - seemingly - Naoya as well. Your lungs heave as if you’d just let out your first gust of air in ages. “Yes, why- I would love to have this dance, Kento.”

The other man braces forwards, hand on the hilt of his scabbard. “You won’t-”

“My boy, as future king, we should introduce you to our council.” But before he can do anything, Gakuganji’s hand snakes from behind to clap Naoya’s shoulder. Narrowed eyes flicking behind your shoulder- you seize your escape route with a thankful nod. 

Grasping Nanami’s roughened hand, “Come with me, my lord. Too many eyes.”

You always did love the open, luxurious boardwalk that one wing of the grand hall opened up to, leading out into the open waters of the splashing ocean.

Mainly used to welcome royal guests that had sailed from the far seas, though, now you were squeezing past the throng of crowd to make a break for it. Like you were running away.

Like you were dragging Nanami with you- you’re pushing past the gold-tipped double doors of the ballroom and making your way down the short marble staircase. It ended off with a large wooden plateau that bobbed above the sunlit water, welcoming you with the hum of tides, and the salt of ocean waves. 

As soon as you turn to face him, Nanami’s intertwining his fingers with yours - delicate, slow, like he was giving you all the time to run off if you wanted to.

But you didn’t.

And it takes you only a few seconds of practised movements to find yourself in his arms once more, tugging Nanami in by the width of his deltoids. “Forgive my forwardness, but it makes me happy that you are here, Kento.”

His hazel eyes widen- the setting sun casting circlets of gold ‘round his irises. 

“I don’t know why…” You’re shaking your head, it’d been slightly foggy since this morning. Almost as if he realized, Nanami’s swivels of your body are slow. 

Taking his time. Taking care. And the feeling is so soft that it makes your throat clog, enough so that you’re looking over at the expansive waters when he waltzes with you. Tenderly. “Maybe it’s pre-wedding jitters, but if I look at the ocean right now it makes me feel like I can run away- hah!”

He gulps, and so do you.

Lips quivering, you’re leaning in close with a hand planted between his pecs. He was beautiful. Just so, so beautiful, with the peach rays of the sun crowning his head in jewels. “Do you…feel that you could-”

CRASH–!

“That’s my throne- my wife! That’s my future wife out there-”

You’re bolting away from Nanami as if he burned, even though you could feel the edges of his fingertips twitch like all they wanted to do was keep you held to him. 

But what was worse than having your royal reputation tarnished, was tarnishing sweet Nanami’s. 

As expected, Naoya was at the edge of the double doors, fighting against Gakuganji and a few of your personal guards. Only a staircase away, you didn’t care to fight against that booming voice in your head that told you to walk to him.

“My- my apologies, my lord.”

Darting away.

Reaching for Naoya-

When Nanami pulls you back and presses his lips to yours.

Firm. Loving. 

The plush crevice of his mouth cushions the impact, and fuck- out of every royal delicacy in the world, you think that Nanami’s lips were the sweetest. One of his large hands cradles the back of your head, angling your mouth to press in even deeper—

“Nanami Kento, you fucking- you will never be human-”

You’re pulling back as soon as you hear Naoya’s blood-curdling scream.

As soon as you hear the steps-

With inhuman strength, he’s forcing apart your guards to the side and charging- glinting blade held high in the air, vision morphing into something monstrous. He jerks his hands back to point the tip of the sword right at you-

For but a mere second before Nanami unsheaths his own blade. Swinging.

Merciless. 

Down, down, down - it catches on something, though, not on the pale, clammy flesh of Naoya’s sour face. Rather on the thin string of his conch necklace-

The three of you can only watch in speechless awe as the tiny, unassuming shell strikes the marble staircase and splinters open. 

Somewhere in the distance, a gentle breeze sings - but your mind was only occupied by the glow. 

A small speck of sunlight that floats from the cracks in the heart-like conch, it’s floating in airy spirals around you. Around and around- before wafting near Nanami, as if it’d just remembered the other man after remembering you. 

And then it disappears - right into Nanami Kento’s beating heart. 

The spell was broken.

And he speaks—“My princess.”

In that slightly husky, deep tone that makes your mind fizz- fuck, the clouds of doubt n’ magic had finally given way to recognition. You breathe, “Kento?”

“My princess.”

A wicked voice sounds- “My dear, get away from him-”

There’s a tussle of metal and steps once Naoya’s wrestled to the ground by Gakuganji; well, he looked quite different now, and you wonder whether there even was a ‘Naoya’ - the man pinned to the floor was one with a thread-like pattern outlining his forehead, more unruly, slimy.

But that was not for you to worry about any longer. 

“You- you can talk.” Your feet have never carried you faster than they did to Nanami, and he’s waiting with open arms. Just like he was when he saved you on the beach. Just like he was right now, tucking you safely into the crook of his neck- “You’re the one.”

“I have waited for you to say that…all my life.”

.

.

.

“Mm, ngh- Kento.”

“Princess.”

Your breach hitches at the raw, primal tonality of his voice- and it’s enough to make your thighs squeeze around his clammy scalp. “Kento-”

“Princess.”

And it was like a switch had utterly gone off in your mind - instead of it being hazed by Kenjaku’s magic, now it was spinning with something else. 

The only thing you could possibly do being to grind your hips down onto Nanami’s face in a sloppy drag, knees straddling each side of his burning ears. “K-Ken.” It was driving you absolutely wild to have him murmur in his deep baritone against the outer folds of your pussy.

“My princess-”

And in the short hours since he’d explained everything to you, you’d learned that you really, really liked hearing Nanami’s voice. 

Especially when you were riding his face - something that he’d begged for, of course. 

Especially when it was gusting out from his throat in saccharine pants, sticking against the top of your drivelling slit. He’s spitting out a thick, bulbous wad of spit to glue against the front of your undergarments - the only thing you were wearing right now - just to make it wet enough so that the prince’s tongue can sliiiide it to the side. 

“N-nghhh, oh my…” Your own mouth waters at the tingling feeling of his taste buds driving between your pussylips. They were just so swollen that you’re making out each ridge stirrin’ up and down.

“Oh yeees–?”

Threatening to plug your leaky hole up by sinking his fat tongue in—

“Fuh-fuuuck- mmpf!” Yelping, it takes you gathering up every shred of rationality left in your body to smack your dominant hand in front of your gaping mouth. Just barely managing to muffle out your lewd noises, so that your entire palace won’t be getting a show tonight. 

Except– that wasn’t what Nanami had been thinking. 

And the only response you’re getting is the stern furrow of his brows, the way that he’s slapping your entrance with the velvety underside of his tongue. “I want you to be loud, my princess.”

“B-but you’ve probably had enough of me hngh- talking all these days.” You’re managing to babble out. 

Right before he renders you completely speechless anyway by swabbing the first ring of your muscle, stretchin’ it out teeeasingly with the tip-top crown of his tongue. “Enough? Enough?” Voice pitched, octaves higher than before; you’re being fucked by the treacly end of Nanami’s tongue in rapid, determined half-thrusts. “I’ve spent years aching to hah- hear your voice, my love- and I’d spent years more begging you to just- be- louder-”

Each word is ended off with a stab of his slimy, rovering muscle and you’re shrilling- “Kento- oh my god, mmm.”

“Just like that- need you to be- loud.” He’s gazing up at you through his long, tawny lashes– practically begging your drivelling maw to whine even louder. 

One of his knobbly thumbs snake upwards to latch onto your folds, pryin’ them further apart than they already were with a sluuuurp. “Need you to hear that.” He’s using the stretch to slip yet another inch of his mazing tongue inside, “And this.” 

To buck his hips upwards with a creak of the bedframe— he’s practically humping the heady air upwards. 

Sensually, one of his free hands guides your own. Down, down, down behind your back, until the trembly edges of your fingertips are feeling something long and rock-hard. You gasp- and Nanami only grins at the sweet sound. “And thaaaat.”

“O-oh, fuck, Kento.” You’re singing out, feeling the outline of his erection flinch upwards- pulsing so hard that it seemed painful.

“F-forgive me, my princess.” He’s hissing out, the honed tips of his canines sinking into your pussylips. Almost feral- Nanami’s crushing his face in until the straight line of his nose bridge crushes against your cunt. “But a-after so long in silence- these ngh- noises me- so-”

Lurching his slender hips clean off of the bedsprings, your soft palm’s being used for him to sloppily drag his bulged cock. 

Aching for friction, for the curly tip of his tongue to slither even deeper- “Do not deny me of every sound.” You’re whimpering, feeling the pointed edge of his chin hit your cunt when Nanami’s gashing his tongue along every crevice of your walls he could reach. “Every drop.”

Spitting, on purpose. 

The glittery glob of his saliva seeps into your weeping orifice and helps him slip n’ slide his mushy muscle deeper. “Every drop-” Gulping up your ounces of sweet, sweet juices. “-again.”

You’re feeling one doughy circumference slide down your teary slit and gape down at him- so hard that your chin strikes the beginning of your chest. 

Each and every mass of air escaping from your lungs - and you don’t know whether it’s because of the thick thumb that Nanami was glissading down your slit, or because of the way he was just gazing up at you. 

Pupils dilated, heart eyes. “Every-” He’s whistling out in a hollow breath, the squirming edge of his tongue making you quiver. “-fucking-” And when it can’t reach as deep as he was carnally craving for, he opens you up further with the crown edge of one thumb. “-inch of you.”

“W-wait, your fingers- hck!” You’re whining, eyes sprinting all the way to the back of your skull once you’re feeling his lengthy middle finger smear your soppy walls apart. “-oh my god, you’re so big.”

“And you’re so beautiful, my love.” Nanami whispers out, reverent. 

He’s stuffing your snug channel up with two digits until you’re overspilling- until the slick hole of your pussy was gushing out rivers of syrup all the way down to his wrist. 

Squelchin’ wetly inside, “Sounds so beautiful.” Nanami rasps out in disbelieving gasps with each inch he’s able to tunnel between your puffy folds. Sensory tips scouring across your walls like a searchlight. “Looks so beautiful.”

And you almost feel shy when his free thumb swerves apart your pussylips, taking a gooood long look at you. Before Nanami spits-

“F-fuck, oh fuck—”

“Oh, your walls are sucking me up so…” He’s so hypnotized by the sight of your heated core swallowing him up that he’s trailing off. Panting, hot breath sticky against your cunt, “So hot. So needy.”

So wet, with thrust after thrust of his dual fingers scraping where you were most tender. 

Nanami’s rovering fingertips probe a thorough bash somewhere near your most favorite spot and you feel your tired hips lurch- “C-can’t get enough, Kento-”

“Ride me.”

You’re blinking through your pearly tears, “What?”

“Ride me.”

The mere notion has your slobbering mouth unfastening in shock - it was such an unlady-like idea. Though…you could feel your thighs pathetically attempting to squeeze together. 

Cushioning Nanami’s sweaty, blond locks- the pressure of your legs trying to cutely suffocate him makes him flush all the way up to the tips of his ears. “You heard me this time, my princess.” Moaning, he’s planting open-mouthed kiss after kiss across your dripping pussy. 

“You see this?” Your hazed peripherals manage to catch the very sultry moment that the prince taps his forehead. Free hand drawing an invisible line dooooown his handsome face- “You see all of this?”

Rendered wordless by the utterly raw stretch of him squeezing in a third finger, you can only nod. 

And the grin that you’re being granted is devilish- something you’d never expected to twist Nanami’s perfectly swollen lips. “I expect you to ride alllll of my face, my love.”

He wanted you to use him.

And ‘use him’ you were going to - whether your fuzzy brain could keep up or not. 

Because before you can move- before you can even respond, a shaky hand of his grips onto the left of your ass cheek. Trembling. Ravenous.

Nanami’s pale white button-up was still partially worn, but even through it you’re making out the way that his beefy biceps flex. Manhandling your sloppy cunt deeper onto his ajar maw, “Atta girl.” Grinning against your pussylips as if he wasn’t the exact force driving your hips. “A-aaaatta girl.”

Back and forth, back and forth.

He wasn’t just digging the plush curves of his fingerpads into your every wall, he was making out with your pussy in a way that was feverish. 

Tongue lapping open kisses all up the sheeny interior of your thighs, up your slit, up to your clit until you trembled cutely on top of him. “Ride my face- use me.” Just filthy, his honed digits were stretching you wide open for his mouth to gulp up. “Again- again again again.”

You’re wailing out in unison with your ancient bedframe- though, that wasn’t the only thing drawing out a noisy background noise. 

Because with a lewd squeeze, you’re rubbin’ your palm down Nanami’s bulging erection and making him rut. “O-oh, princess-” He’s unsticking his maw away from your pussy with a glutinous slurp, “-you don’t have to.”

Your hand slips inside his heavy pants, “I want to, my prince.”

That lil’ title makes him gasp– nearly as much as he is when you’re finally letting a few of your fingers scratch down Nanami’s golden happy trail. Drenched with pre. 

Shit, even like this you could tell that his size was staggering. 

Throbbing in your eager touch, you skid your fingerpads down and experiment with a slow, laaazy pump of his veined girth. “My prince?”

“Ohhh, ngh.” He’s purring ‘round your perked clit, and you swear you feel the nibs of his canines elongate—some part of his tongue slathering between your pussylips, long enough that he’s kissin’ straight past your clit-

Gasping, you feel his sagging erection swell even thicker. “Wait- wait, Kento, are you-”

You could feel it.

You could feel that there was something happening with his chiselled body- that something inside of Nanami was going out of control. 

He was just so pussydrunk that his human form was fracturing, and the salivating cavern of his mouth was gaping even wider. “Look what you’ve done-” The slimy, curling tendril of his taste buds bully inside the tiny gap within your hole, pokin’ inside your bubblegum walls in a way that shouldn’t have been possible. “Look how you m-make me.”

“Kento—” Your backs arching into the perfect curvature, hamstrings aaaching where you’re struggling to keep up with his merciless pace. “Don’t stop- just like that- ngh, fuck.”

His tongue was growing- oh, was it growing inside of you.

And not only was the merman burrowing three separate fingerpads down your walls, he was letting it all wash down with a glide of his superhuman tongue. 

Fucking you senseless– the crowned end of his taste buds travel precisely onto the target of your g-spot. And there’s no waiting, no hesitation before Nanami’s drilling up into you like he was crazed.

Dual stimulation.

Just with the swirling, stirrin’ inches of his tongue smoothing out your ridged walls, “S’sweet.” And he’s rubbing your splotchy g-spot raw with the smacks of his digits right after, thrust after thrust. “Hot.”

“S-stop talking like that- ngh.” You’re whining, each word of his sending you into a frenzy. 

And it’s just then that all four - three of Nanami’s stout, thorough fingerpads and the lavish curve of his tongue - smash a direct hit to your g-spot. At the same time. At the same frequency over n’ over to drive you craaaazy—

“W-wetter than the fuckin’ heh- ocean, my princess.” And he could almost control those fluctuating powers of his, almost pace his repeated strikes against your sweetest bundle of nerves. Almost. “Now, I need you to c-cum like this.”

He’s groaning, hips thrusting the cylindrical bump of his dick against your hand. Nose thrusting against your throbbing clit- “Need you to cum on my tongue. Can you feel it?”

‘Feel what?’ - the question doesn’t make it past your trembly lips. 

Because, just then, the hand manhandling your urgent tempo starts to snake up your stomach. Lovingly flicking his fingers down the pathway to your womb - Nanami’s lovingly trying to feel for his tongue inside your walls. 

You’re being eaten out primally until you were stupid-

Letting off in a throaty gasp, “Can you feel- feel me?” His right hand has fully claimed your saccharine cunt by now, flexible thumb craning over to roll on top of your clit like a button. “Feel me claiming every inch of you?” 

Right in time for his slippery tongue to push against your g-spot once more, glissading right past that pulsing spot to reach for your cervix. 

“Feel me riiiight here?”

“Yes-” Glassy tears decorate your eyelids, and the only thing you can do is throw your head back and buck and buck- Your hands squeezes his pre-spraying cock, “Yes yes yes- yes.” Harder on his face, sloppier. “M-m’gonna cum…”

Oh, that final sentence of yours rings out like a death sentence for the last of Nanami’s sanity.

Groaning oh-so-sexily till the vibrations reach your very core, “Have no idea h-how bad I’ve wanted this- how long.” His thick, bulbous shaft creams out even more heated precum like it was attesting to all those long nights. “Want you- want you so bad that- it- hurts-”

Nanami’s slashing his curled tendril against your battered n’ bruised g-spot once more, smiling at just how ruined it makes you. How it makes you see stars-

“So you better cum on my face…my love.”

It’s all that it takes for you to throw your head back and splatter Nanami Kento’s attractive, grinning features with all your soppy syrup. Sticking to the sides of his jawline, his high cheekbones- there isn’t an inch of him that wasn’t covered in your slick by now. 

And that’s exactly how he wanted it. 

To have you ridin’ your sultry orgasm out on his face, rubbing each peak of your high on his high nose bridge. “Oh-oh my god.” You’re slurring out, pathetically. “It feels so- so good. Didn’t know it could feel so…”

The utter, raw wave of bliss leaves you completely weak in the knees. Too exhausted to even grind your hips down properly, Nanami’s the one rovering his princely face up n’ down your pussylips.

“It could. It can.” Feeding into each of your zaps of pleasure, he’s swervin’ his tongue around your insides until your vision splotches with white. He presses down on your overstimulated clit as he speaks, “And from now on, it will.”

“F-fuck.”

Again and again and again-

Until your hamstrings were screaming at you, and your dewy walls were massaged raw. 

You weren’t sure that you could’ve gotten even wetter than you already were - but that lil’ promise seems to do just the trick.

And a web of your arousal hits the pointed curve of Nanami’s chin with a splat! “Kento—” Whining, you struggle to unplaster his mouth from between your legs. “I want you to- f-fuck me now.”

“Oh.”

Oh.

Yeah, you really were making him lose his sanity.

Nanami reels the lengthy expanse of his tongue out of you with a resounding squeeelch - one you’re sure rings across every corner of your royal bed chambers. One you’re sure you’ll have to explain to the personal guards outside. 

But right now you couldn’t care.

Not when Nanami’s merman tongue flops out of your treacly cunt with a final flick at your clit. “Anything for you, my wife.”

Wife?

Shit- your eyes widen once the realization strikes you. Nanami Kento was…pussydrunk. Completely, utterly pussydrunk.

Enough that his greedy mouth is damn near chasing the puffy lips of your pussy- before he has to physically smack himself upside the head and remember to break away. To seat you down all pliant n’ pretty on top of his raging erection.

You’d barely even made a dent in Nanami’s royal robes, and the only thing you could do as you sat down on his massive bulge was to gawk. “Sh-shit, something so big- Kento, I don’t think I’ve ever-”

“Me neither, my princess.” He’s breezing out in muddied pants, “I’ve never.” Slowly, sensually, the prince leans in closer until his ruddied lips graze yours - slick-glazed tastebuds scratching the crevice of your mouth. “And there’s no other way I’d want this.”

He was kissin’ you sloppily with the very same tongue that had been tunneling your walls wide open mere seconds ago. 

And it’s so filthy that it’s enough to distract you from the RIP-RIP-RIIIIIP–!

“Oh my god- the royal garments-” You gasp, scandalized as the rugged man before you wastes no time flinging off the drenched layers of his blouse and your underwear.

So eager that they’re tearing.

Every and any complaint on the tip of your tongue dissolves as you’re drinking in the heavenly vision of him. 

Naturally ripped, muscles flexed, it looked as if Nanami was hand-carved by the devil himself. 

And you couldn’t get enough- unsure where to look. The rippling cushions of his pecs, his ladder-like abs, or the thumb that was hooked onto the hem of his trousers. Merely tugging, he’s instantly setting free the thick, looong length of his erection.

Bigger than any experience or anatomical illustration you’d ever possibly seen. Heavily standing upright underneath two swollen, aching balls. 

You’re mentally counting about eight- nine, maybe ten inches if you really appreciated the cherry-red globe of his tip. And he was so plump, too, throbbin��� even wider in circumference with each passing second. 

You can feel your body gulp as a fat glob of translucent precum spurts out of Nanami’s weepy orifice, dripping down the multiple veins of his shaft in a way that was delicious. 

“D-don’t look at me like that.” Nanami’s low, gravelly voice seeps through your whirlwind of lecherous thoughts. 

And you can only challenge, “Why not?”

“Because…” He trails off, as if the answer should be obvious. Only once your hazed mind shows no chance of understanding does he push his unruly blond bangs back, “Because- forgive me, my princess, but I’m going to ruuuuin you.”

And he sounded dead fucking serious. 

A tone that makes your poor cunt throb- and Nanami, as if moving on a sixth sense, grabs at your hips like he was about to eat you out again. Drunk on your pussy.

Before you’re halting him straight in his tracks with one singular huff- “Ken.”

“Yes- yes, anything for you.” He’s crooning, shoulders shaking with bolts of electricity when your hand weaves through his clammy roots and pulls. Letting you manhandle him.

He’s gliding a gentle hand down the expanse of your spine, “Absolutely anything. You wan’ my- ngh- cock, my love?” Cooing at the shivers that run through your legs once he aligns his fat, pre-glossed cockhead against your hole. “Then you’re gonna get- it-”

You’re getting it in two sharp half-ruts of his flared mushroom tip - squeezing past the snug rim of your pussy. In and out in and out-

“F-fuck.” Nanami’s length is so plump n’ big that he’s getting stuck on that tiny orifice of your cunt, furiously jerking. You can only balance your open palms on his pecs and whine- “Oh my god- I-I fear I spoke too- ngh- soon.”

Your hips lurch tentatively, trying for the life of you to swallow yet another pulsating inch. But a particularly prominent line of his veins scrape your bruised insides and make you yelp-

“Don’t run.” 

“What did you- ngh.” Your mouth snaps open and shut, just so dizzy from the utter stretch of his stout girth. 

“Don’t run.” Nanami repeats, more breathy this time. More impatient.

Like each unsteady gyration of your hips was driving him closer and closer to simply snapping- he’s furrowing his brows and stretchin’ out your tight hole with a rugged push. “You’ve spent s-so long running from me.” Guttural groans sparking at the back of his throat when he backs away his hips to surge upwards. “Don’t run now. Don’t run- don’t-”

Each plea was tinged with such primal need - with soft, begging whines that were turning into hums.

“You’re unfair—” You’re crying out. You were already hypnotized by his rummaging cock, you didn’t need his sing-song baritone to add to that as well. 

“Am I—?”

Nanami’s gracing you with a grin so sleazy that you almost have to double-take. “Come on—” The deep tremor in his voice makes your own cunt flutter, “Take it-” Right before he’s flattening the slope of your pussy with a push. “Take it, take it- take it.” 

Push after push.

It doesn’t matter how much you’re clenchin’ and shaking prettily around his cock, he was rovering his mazing length as deep as your poor walls could take.

Barely even having to try to fill up your textured channel, Nanami’s only about halfway in when it feels like his fat, bludgeoning tip was scraping all the way near your lungs. “Th-there’s more?”

Instead of an answer, Nanami’s pushin’ aside your bloated lips to spit. 

Vertically down your slit, the messy puddle of his drunken drool helps the final few inches of his veiny cock fit inside. “Come on come on come-” The final few. 

The final few that have him bashing in your spongy cervix.

Glazed tip swiping down the end, his divot marks out a wad of precum that sticks to the bottom of your pussy like Nanami was claiming it. 

And the feeling of him sploshing about inside of you was so great - even if he was just moving in slow, sultry little jerks - that you can’t help but claw at the mahogany headboard in front of you. Trying to cling on like a lifeline-

“For what purpose do you humans- haaaah- need those?” His curious, probing tone hits you like whiplash. 

“I-I don’t know it’s just- hck!” Hiccuping on your own answer, you weepily manage out a few words. “Having you inside me like…this, it’s just so much that I have to- oh, grab…on…”

His plush lips fall into a soft ‘Oh.’ 

And before you know it, both your hands are being gently pried off of any bedframe you could’ve clung onto. And Nanami’s wrangling both your wrists with one of his, easily bending them behind your back—

“Bite on this.” Puffing out in a heady pant, you can only look on in confusion once he bears you with one of his strong, vein-covered forearms. Urging it closer to your maw- “Bite.”

And you can’t help but gnaw on.

Sensually, you’re digging the fringes of your teeth into his muscular arm- perfectly in time for Nanami to drive out a loooong drag of his cock that leaves you screaming into his sculptured flesh. All the way from his globular crown to the veeeery hilt, he’s stuffing you full and watching as your eyes circle. Comically.

Stupidly, Nanami’s tunneling out whack after whack of his aching hot cock.

Each one harder than the last, longer.

He’s bottoming out near the door to your womb- and the next few jackhammers would be probin’ his curvaceous tip even deeper. It’s like he couldn’t get enough. Never will.

Nanami’s holding you in his arms like a lover, and pounding up into you like anything but.

With a forceful tug of his right arm, he’s pinning your wrists behind your back and bending you into the perfect semi-circle. “Fuck-” Spitting out fiery profanities between his pearly whites, “S’this what you wanted? To have my c-cock like this? Hngh, to have me like this?”

“Yes- yes yes yeeees—” Finally letting go of his forearm, your mouth floods with sizzling saliva, ass hitting Nanami’s toned v-line constantly. 

His prolonged tongue comes up to lick the dollops of saliva escaping your maw, “Mhmm—”

And, truly, you’d never have imagined that kind, gentlemanly Nanami Kento would ever fuck you like this. 

With his soaked happy trail scratching the nub of your clit, meaty cocktip probing into your cervix until you could feel a circular bruise. “So d-deep inside me-.” He’s claiming every nook and cranny inside of you with each stir-stir-stir of his weeping precum. “Having you feel so- oh.”

But whatever sinfully sweet compliment was about to fall from your mouth, Nanami doesn’t get to hear.

For the exact reason that he’s the one fucking it straight out of you lungs. Grazin’ the slimy area of your g-spot with his cock, he teasingly maps out his next target. “Oh, you h-have such a wondrous body, my princess.”

Immediately, he lets go of your rawly massaged wrists- already knowing that you were limp enough to merely fall between the prince’s plush pecs.

Your maw hangs open, bubbling out a puddle of saliva that makes his sculpted chest gleam like a polish. “Want more, Ken.”

“More-” Echoing, you swear the mere word is enough to make Nanami’s bulged erection swell even bigger. So big that he was swabbing hidden spots that you didn’t even know existed before. “More?”

“Yes- please.” And you never did forget your royal manners, at least. Not even when you were glissading down his washboard abs, glued to his towering body. 

Mouth unfastening just a little bit more after each riotous plap! of hips-on-hips, “I w-want you to go even-” Clawing down his pectorals, hard enough that Nanami’s golden skin reddens. “-harder, Kento—”

And if he were any lesser man, then he might’ve just cum right then and there.

But no- no, Nanami doesn’t think he could stop even if he wanted to.

Simply lining the insides of your gooey walls with wiry ribbons of precum, his half-lidded eyes can’t help but ogle. “I…I can do that?” At your needy nod- “I can do that.”

More to himself than anything.

More in pure shock - because Nanami Kento himself can’t fucking believe it once he feels his sloppy, human-molded length throb. Hard. Fast. 

Something superhuman that manages to swell up your velvety walls. You can’t believe when his drilling cock only manages to grow even bigger from inside you- completely ruining your tight channel n’ stretching you out to the maximum.

Merman…cock. Partially, at least.

You’re noticing that Nanami’s cock has more of a ruthlessly upright curve than before, and the honed angle was perfect for scrapin’ straight down your g-spot. “Look what you’ve made me-” He’s out of control. And his shapely girth was easily slithering past your walls- more so than before. Wettened. Slimy. “-look how you’ve ruined me.”

Mewling, “C-can’t help it-”

“Awwww, my poor princess can’t h-help it—?” He lovingly babbles, mouth mean. But his cock was even meaner. “No need to help, my love. I’ll do all the- hah- work.”

And before you can get in a word edgewise, he sits up. 

Unabashedly, unapologetically.

Carrying you right along with him, Nanami takes a seat right in the middle of your damp silken sheets. With his thighs cushioning your ass cheeks, your ankles locked against the dimples at the bottom of his spine. 

He had his capped knees bent and usin’ the steady leverage to push n’ push his probing cock up deeply.

One of Nanami’s hands latches onto the side of your hips for support, the other snaking between your legs to find your clit and pinch. “I’ll give you all the- mmm, pleasure.” He’s whispering, as if he never stopped. “All the-” Each rapidfire thrust reeling his swollen, red tip back until it circles your entrance for brief nanoseconds. Before he flexes his meaty thighs and glues the swollen end of his shaft allll the way against your cervix. Bottoming out. “-streeeetches.”

Not just once, not just twice. 

But over and over. 

And the only thing you could do was babble brokenly, fisting his perspirated locks. “And- and me? What can I- nghhh- do, my prince?”

“Well…” You were just too cute when you were hypnotized by his dragging cock, and if Nanami was in any less of a drunken state of mind then he might’ve just teased you for it.

Lovingly grazing the patterns of his veins against your g-spot, “You can p-pull on my ngh- hair, my wife.” Groaning once you instantly do. “You can bite on my lip- claw down my back-”

Your gooey insides clench particularly hard, the exact way it did when he could feel your orgasm building up tightly. 

Shakily breathing, “You- you could milk my cock dry.”

“Really wanna…” You admit, with a spit-glossed pout. Vision blurring with splotches of pure white at each stretchin’ probe of his cock, your body was practically shaking at this point. 

“Yeah- wanna? Wanna?” Nanami’s comforting baritone cracks at the very tail end. Begging. Palm pressed so close to toy with your clit that you half-wondered whether his wrist was aching. “Anything- and everything, m’all yours to use.” 

As his cadence grows faster, sloppier, as if he was trying to mark each veiny line of his shaft down your walls. The heavy slap of his balls practically a blur, each thump-thump-thump of his roaming cockhead matching your racing pulse. 

You’re soon cradling one of his hollowed cheeks; such utter loving. You feel the tempo of Nanami’s breath hitch just as soon as you do—“You make me lose my mind, my love.” 

And it takes only one, two, three more of his vulgar strokes for the two of you to crash land into your high. 

Toes curled, digits tugging on his hair.

Taking you each by surprise, you don’t know who cums first - nor do you have the brain capacity to compute it right now. “O-oh, cumming—” Squealing out, moments too-late. The sparks of pleasure make your eyelids brim with tears. “Ken- Kento, Ken, m’cumming…”

His specially-shaped cock was just perfect to prick your sweetest spots through your wave of bliss. 

Thud after dull, heavy thud.

Your boneless limbs tighten ‘round his shoulders to help grind through your high- and simply being in your arms is enough to make his molten peripherals glaze over with tears.

“Sh-shit, my princess.” Burying his face into the crook of your neck, Nanami’s keeping a hand pinned on your hips to prevent you from straying too far. 

Especially once he’s plugging up the soft bottom of your cunt with a generous layer of syrupy white seed. “Take- all- oh.” Unable to even articulate, to even think. His hips are moving ferally on their own, splurging out wads of cum that web up your walls. So hot. So wet. 

If you thought that he wouldn’t have been able to make even more of a mess out of you, then you were wrong. 

And even the notion made electricity zing down your spine, the mere scratch of Nanami’s winding veins leaving your legs twitching. 

Soundless, he’s smearing your pussylips apart juuuust enough to watch the overspilling knots of ivory cream from your hole, he’s letting out a tear—

You gasp, body still restless with the copious amounts of saccharine sap splashing between your walls. Making your inner thighs stick together like glue, “Are y-you okay, Ken?”

“Mhm.” He nods, sniffling. Brows scrunched, eyes half-closed - he’s gazing down at you with such open love. 

Both at you and the buttery ring of cum your folds were painting at the base of his cock. Filling you up to the very brim. The man marvels at the utter spillage, so much being greedily swallowed by your cunt- and that fact made him…thirsty.

You’re gawking, heart pounding once Nanami swirls one of his thick thumbs between your oversensitive pussylips. Letting them slobber all the way down to his mountainous knuckles- before lifting his wettened thumb up to his mouth and sucking. “The sweetest delicacy in all the hah- seven seas.”

Oh, something about the way he’d worded it makes your heart pang. 

His aching, ravaged cock throbs at the sound of your voice once more. “Ken, so- so despite your…well-” Nodding pointedly at the squelching ministrations of his prolonged cock, “-you really can’t be fully merman again, can you?”

Wincing, even at his reassuring nod. “Do you…regret it? For, if you do I-”

“Never.” It’s such a sudden, straightforward answer that your rambling falters. And Nanami presses his perspiration-slicked forehead against yours, balmy breaths mingling. He’s looking you dead-on into your glassy pupils, “You’re the best thing I’ve found in two worlds, my wife.”

Fuck. 

You were gone for. And the only thing you can manage to do is fling yourself even deeper into Nanami’s big, beefy arms - luckily for you, he was always ready. 

Always waiting. 

“Always loved you.” He whispers, “Always will.”

“I love you, too.” And he can only hold you tighter. Though, feeling your hips jostle slightly back n’ forth in the embrace, that’s when it hits you- “Wait- you’re still rock-hard?”

And that makes him chuckle - loud, booming in your ears. 

You think it’s a song that you wouldn’t mind constantly replaying on loop- even when it’s accompanied by the meanest thrust of his hips. And a few knotted drops of cum that twitch out from Nanami’s leaky orifice as he leans down to whisper in your ear. 

Slow, sensual, like one of his infamously beautiful songs—“Well, you did just trigger my mating period, my love…”

.

.

.

“I do.” Nanami’s echoing after Gakuganji’s reedy question, palms engulfing your own. He rubs a roughened thumb down the hills of your knuckles as he murmurs - quiet enough that just you would manage to hear. “As I always have. And I always will, my princess.”

Gakuganji shuts his officiating book with a knowing chuckle, “By the authority vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride-”

His lips are on yours before the sentence ends.

And you can hear the cheers, the sobs, the splashes from outside of your wedding cruise as the merfolk dance through the waters.

They surround the wading hull of the ship, making your audience of subjects and court-attendees alike gasp at the flurry of flashing tails. Your husband’s own had been golden.

“I love you, my wife.”

“And I love you, Ken.”

Nanami’s hand tightens in your own once you two lean slightly over the decadent gunwale to fly kisses at Itadori- only lock eyes with a stoic ruler Yaga. 

Who only nods once- before cracking a smile. 

Your heart stutters, and you’re looking up at Nanami for a delighted nod in return. He waves down at his honorary father; receiving a flash of his trident, a drizzle of seawater that sparkles in the sun like the most precious of jewels. 

Multicolor, it showers down on the two of you with the traditional white flower petals being thrown by your kingdom. 

“I can never thank you more, my love-” He hums, forehead kissing yours, molten eyes crinkling at the sides. And you’re sure you catch numerous members of the audience - Utahime at the forefront of it all - coo at he unabashed affection. So many people, and yet it just felt like the two of you on this singular ship. “-for letting me be part of your world.”

Blessed by the people of the land, and the folk of the sea, the colors are hoisted to set sail. 

And it’s all clear skies ahead.

A/N. PART OF YOUR WOOOOOOOOOOOORLD-

Plagiarism not authorized.

[soobiary]

oh my god

EMERGENCY CONTACT 

ex-boyfriend!nanami kento x reader ─ one shot

sypnosis: when a hospital visit leaves you too weak to go home alone, you don't think twice before agreeing to let the nurse call your emergency contact. only... the person who shows up isn't who you expected. you thought nanami had walked out of your life for good three years ago – so why is he here now?

content: MDNI, exes to lovers, long-term relationship in the past, just two people hung up over each other, yearning, so much yearning, reconciliation, fluff, non-detailed references to mental health struggles, explicit smut, nanami kento has a big dick…., hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending!! porn with plot, makeup sex (but it’s 3 years in the making) word count: 10k

a/n: i've been sitting on this work since last year so i'm really happy it's finally done! i hope the nanami girlies enjoy <3 ALSO uh i’m kinda obsessed with the idea of nanami not being with anyone else for the entire period of the break up because he’s just loyal like that. this man loves you so much… i love men who yearn and this particular man yearns hard. ao3 link

you sit on the edge of the bed, the discharge paper crumpled in your hands. your body aches, your head throbs, and the bright fluorescent lights are way too harsh on your eyes.

you kick your feet idly, letting the sound fill up the quiet of the hospital room. you’ve been waiting for the nurse to come back and give you the all-clear to leave. she had asked if you would like her to call your emergency contact first – advising that you were still weak and would be much safer with someone to help you get home. exhausted and bleary-eyed, you had simply shrugged and agreed without much thought. 

your mom would probably rush over, give you a stern lecture about taking care of yourself better, though her worry would be evident in the way she’d sneak side glances at you the entire drive back to your apartment.

“i told you not to overwork yourself,” she would chide, her brows furrowed. “you can’t keep living like this.”

guilt presses down, heavier than the fever pressing at your temples. she’s right, of course. you’re just not sure what else to do. your industry treats burnout as a badge of honour, and slowing down means falling behind. you’ve already sacrificed so much, so what’s a few skipped meals, a few dizzy spells?

a knock on the door draws you out of your reverie. your eyes flicker up to find the same nurse from before at the door, clipboard in hand.

“it says here that your emergency contact is a person named…?” she squints at the papers in her hand, “…nanami kento?” she peers up at you from her clipboard, offering you a kind smile.

your stomach drops.

nanami… kento? 

you haven’t heard that name in months, much less seen the man himself in two years. the sound of his name reverberates in your ears, a familiar ache washing over you once more. 

“we actually tried to get in touch with him earlier while you were unconscious, but he didn’t pick up.” she continues, her tone cheerful, oblivious to the distraught expression on your face. “good news though, i just managed to contact him and he’s already on his way h—”

“wait, no!” you cut her off, your voice sharp with panic as you frantically wave your hands in front of you.

“oh…?” the nurse blinks at you, now startled by your sudden outburst, as you scramble to explain yourself.

“t–that won’t be necessary. i’ll uh– i’ll call someone else right now,” you say quickly, standing up to grab your phone from your bag. “he’s– he’s…”

my ex-boyfriend. 

“…he doesn’t live in tokyo anymore,” you finish, voice softening in panic-soaked whisper. “he definitely won’t be able to come.”

and he probably doesn’t even think about me anymore.

“thats odd,” her eyebrows lift. “it’s just… when we called him, he said he would be here soon, and he sounded quite worried, actually.” she eyes you with a gentle concern.

oh god, no. 

you sit down just as quickly as you stood up, clutching the sides of the bed frame like an anchor and feeling like you might be rapidly cycling through the five stages of grief. 

stage 1, denial: because there’s just no fucking way. nanami kento, who hated you so much he quit his job and disappeared to kyoto to get away, a whole train ride away from tokyo, is supposedly coming to pick you up? 

step 2, anger: why the hell did you let them call him? what were you thinking? why is he still listed as your emergency contact? which puppy did you kick? what god did you offend?

step 3, bargaining: maybe you can hobble out of here and call a taxi before he arrives. no wait, the nurse had said it wasn’t advisable with your condition. is hiding in the toilet or under the bed a feasible option instead? you can’t help but peer down the edge of the hospital bed. no, too much space underneath. he’d spot you instantly. fuck.

you’re about to progress to the next stage: existential crisis when someone clears his throat at the door. 

you know instantly who it is without having to look up.

you really don’t want to look up.

how many seconds is a reasonable time to spend staring at the ground below your feet?

taking measured breaths to steel yourself, you count to three before slowly raising your head to look at him.

you swallow hard upon doing so, your voice instantly dying in your throat. 

standing right in front of you, it's undeniable that he’s just as handsome as ever. the same chiselled jawline and hollowed cheekbones, the signature blue dress shirt, and the same calm, steady presence that used to make you feel so incredibly safe. his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and you have to try really hard not to notice the way his biceps pull the fabric tight against his arms. 

and.. he still smells entirely familiar, the distinctive smell of the cologne you gifted him on your second anniversary being hard to miss. you wonder if he’s finished the bottle, or if he went out and repurchased the same one. you wonder if he thought of you while doing so, if he remembered the night you shared together the night you presented him with the gift. 

you wonder if he knows you still think of him – when you pass by his favourite bakery, when you cook a dish that used to be enjoyed together, or when it’s late at night, and the bed’s far too cold, and you find yourself missing the warmth of a certain ex-lover.

he was more than your ex-lover, though. he was your best friend, your home, and… you’d always thought he’d be your husband one day. 

you quickly shake off that thought before it cracks your heart right open again.

there’s a tired look in nanami’s eyes that mirrors your own, and his tie is slightly loosened – he must have rushed over.

there’s a brief moment of quiet. neither one of you speaks, the silence thick with unsaid things from the past that come rushing back in an instant for you. shared memories – the laughter, the promises, and the pain, that you’ve tried to block out with one too many drinks alone or with friends. 

he doesn’t ask if you’re okay. he doesn’t ask why your emergency contact list still has his name. he doesn’t ask anything.

“come on,” he says simply, not meeting your eyes. “let’s get you home.”

he can’t even look at me. 

so why did he even bother to come?

he just takes your bag from the side table, slings it over his shoulder, and holds the door open for you like it’s been no time at all.

thankfully, the car ride home is short and traffic is smooth, ensuring your suffering isn’t needlessly prolonged. after giving nanami your address, you simply opt to stare out the window, pretending to take great interest in the passing blur of trees and headlights. anything to avoid looking at him.

“thanks for coming,” you mumble, voice stiff and rigid. “i’m sorry about the inconvenience.”

he glances over at you. “that’s alright. i work nearby.” he’s straight-faced as he stares ahead, and the tone of his voice is imperceptible. you can’t get a read on his emotions at all, even if you tried.

you ignore the part where he just revealed that he’s back in tokyo. working. it shouldn’t hurt you that you didn’t know. he came to pick you up when he didn’t have to, when he didn’t want to, and that should be enough.

“still,” you say quietly, shifting in your seat. “thank you.” 

you know this man like the lines on your palms – every freckle, every sigh, every scar he never let anyone else touch. you know the exact way he takes his coffee and how he prefers to fold his shirts. you have his initials inked into your skin, for goodness' sake. he used to trace over them absentmindedly when he thought you were asleep.

and yet.

here you are.

he was the love of your life, and you’re reduced to exchanging cheap pleasantries like strangers. 

“it– it was an accident,” you attempt to clarify, sitting up straighter. “the nurse asked if i wanted to call my emergency contact, and i wasn’t thinking so i said yes, and she tells me she’s just called uh– you, and i must have forgotten to change my–” you cut yourself off, wincing when you realise you’ve started rambling.

“...thank you,” you say again stupidly, for lack of anything else to say to fill the space between you. “i… i appreciate it.”

it’s almost laughable how awkwardly you’re sitting, with your entire body turned away towards the window, like you’re trying to squeeze yourself towards the door and as far away as possible from the driver’s side. you might as well be trying to climb out of it.

“you’ve thanked me enough tonight,” he makes a sound that could seem like a bit of a laugh escaping him. you want to reach for it. to capture the precious sound with both hands and never let go. 

“so…” nanami asks, softer now. “do you feel alright?”

“y–yeah.” you mumble, looking down at your hands. “just the usual, you know. it’s really not a big deal.”

“the fainting spells?” his eyebrows raise and he glances at you as he takes a right turn. you’re close to home. “you still get them?”

you nod, surprised he remembers. “uh huh,” you reply absentmindedly. “it’s just work. i guess i’ve been overdoing it lately. but i’ve got the weekend off so… i’ll use that time to get some rest.”

“i was really worried when i got the call,” he says quietly. “you should take better care of yourself.”

you turn your head to look at him, caught off guard. but his eyes are still fixed on the road, focused and unreadable as he pulls up to your apartment complex. there’s not a flicker of emotion on his face – nothing at all to tell you what he’s really thinking. 

“yeah,” you mutter. “tha—” you quickly stop yourself. “i’ll keep that in mind.”

the engine clicks softly as he shifts into park, but neither of you move.

you stare out the windshield at the streetlights glowing against the pavement, casting long shadows that stretch like ghosts between you.

you bite your lip.

you should let him go. you know you should. thank him again, close the door behind you, and leave this buried in the past – right where he left you those two and a half years ago. 

but your thoughts are moving too fast, resisting another dreadful goodbye. this can’t be it. not after everything. the way his voice cracked slightly when he said he was worried – that was real, right? there’s still so much you want to say. there’s so much you never got to tell him.

so blame it on the hospital meds, or the adrenaline, or the fact that he still smells like that stupid cologne you bought him, but before you can talk yourself down, the words are already tumbling out of your mouth.

you don’t look at him when you say it. your fingers twist painfully in your lap, breath caught in your throat. 

“do you… want to come up for a bit?” 

a pause.

you’re beginning to wish you could take it back. to laugh and say nevermind, to play it off like it didn’t mean anything. you glance at him, mouth opening to offer some half-hearted apology, but he speaks before you do.

“yeah. okay.”

it takes a second for the words to register. then another to believe he really meant them. 

you nod once, then without looking at him again – because you can’t bear to see the look in his eyes – you reach for the door handle and hurriedly step out. 

the ride up to your apartment is quiet, awkward in that strange, brittle way that only two people with history can manage. you shift uncomfortably next to him, fidgeting with your sleeves, whilst he stands a little too still. the elevator walls seem to be caving in on him, trapping him with everything he’s tried to run from. you mumble something about the weather, how cold it’s been lately, how you miss the sun in the mornings.

nanami gives quiet, polite laughs in return. tells you about his recent promotion. it feels strange, to speak of something so mundane after everything that’s passed between you. but he’s not sure what else to say, and you don’t press. you nod, your eyes somewhere else, and he can feel the way your thoughts spiral even in the silence.

when you finally reach your apartment, nanami takes the opportunity to look around while you change out of your clothes, taking in the details of your life scattered around the modest place. it’s cute and cosy and has clearly been lovingly decorated. the same warmth and care that used to fill your shared space together – he finds it existing again here. 

he sees traces of familiar items – small, quiet things that tug at him.

there’s that piece of artwork you used to hang on your old bedroom wall, now on the wall of your living room. and hanging above your couch, is the sanrio alarm clock he had gifted you on christmas all those years ago. 

he’d thought it was silly at the time – a childish gift – but your eyes had lit up like he’d handed you the world. he remembers the way you squealed and tackled him on the bed, calling him “the best damn boyfriend ever”. he didn’t particularly feel like it – in fact he had spent most of the relationship feeling wholly undeserving of you – but you announced it like it was gospel.

he moves further into your space, careful not to disturb anything. his fingers brush against the handmade cushion covers on the couch – your mother’s handiwork. the same ones that used to sit on the couch in your shared apartment. back when things were still good. 

when he had the world in his hands. 

on one side of the wall, there are framed pictures of you and your friends. he recognises some of them, like your brother, and some of your friends, shoko and utahime. there are others he doesn’t recognise though, like in one polaroid picture where a guy with weird bangs and too many tattoos has his arm swung over your shoulders as you laugh and strike a peace sign for the camera. you guys look close, perhaps a little too close. 

he winces at that thought. 

he has no right to feel that way. not anymore. 

and he knows that, he knows what he walked away from, the vast expanse of everything he gave up, but it hits him all the same – how much of your life he’s missed. how much you’ve lived and grown without him.

nanami can’t help but feel a little out of place. standing in your apartment and seeing these snapshots of your life makes him realise how little he knows about you now. the life you evidently worked hard to rebuild after your breakup with him.

he observes how happy you look in all the photos, your smile bright and beaming – nothing at all like how you looked in the final few months of your relationship. exhausted, dull eyes, and always one breath away from breaking down. 

back then, he felt like couldn’t reach you no matter how hard he tried. or maybe he stopped trying, because the guilt of failing you became too much.

your relationship hadn’t been in a good place, with his frequent travelling for work, your mother falling ill abruptly, and the both of you trying to stay afloat in the middle of weathering separate storms. he knew the love was still there – it was still loud and palpable – but the space between you only stretched wider and wider. 

his love didn’t feel like it was enough to hold you together.

nanami remembers that last night like it was yesterday. maybe he had replayed it in his head too many times, like a form of punishment he wanted to inflict upon himself. a thousand moments of disconnect, of mutually failed bids for affection, and of pent up frustration boiled over in a single fight. he said things that couldn’t be unsaid. you had done the same. 

when you told him to leave, your eyes red and glassy, pushing uselessly against his chest as he stood frozen in your doorway, something in him just snapped. it could have been the exhaustion. or it could have been the unbearable guilt of watching the person he loved look at him like he was the thing hurting her the most. 

he thought you might have been better off without him. 

so he listened.

he had done exactly that for the past two and a half years, even packing up his life in a suitcase and taking a new position in kyoto, so he could honour your wishes. sure, tokyo’s a big city, but there’s no place far enough to run to when you’re nursing a broken heart. 

god, what was he even doing up here? 

he’s beginning to regret agreeing to come up when you suddenly reemerge from the bedroom, your work clothes now swapped for an oversized t-shirt that barely covered your upper thighs. he catches himself looking for a fraction of a second too long and quickly averts his gaze. 

“all done,” you call, padding down the hallway. “sorry for the mess,” you say sheepishly, gesturing vaguely around the apartment. “i wasn’t expecting anyone over.”

“no, i should be the one apologising. i’m the one imposing on you,” nanami mutters.

“it’s really okay! i don’t have any plans for tonight anyway,” you reassure. “do you want anything to drink?”

“just a glass of water, thanks.”

he drags out a chair and takes a seat at the kitchen counter, leaning forward and watching as you quickly wash up some leftover dishes in your sink. the scene feels awfully… familiar. too familiar.

it’s a strange feeling, comforting, yet unsettling all at once. there’s an undeniable domesticity to the moment and he feels a heavy ache making its way back in his heart. 

it calls him back to shared laughter around the dinner table, the comfort lovingly infused in homemade meals, late nights spent draped over each other on the living room couch. two lives intertwined with each other, and the promise of forever that was so close to coming true.

(“kentooooo,” you would tease, nuzzling up close against him. “i love you the most in the whole wide world.”

he would say it back, just as earnestly.

and silently, he’d swear to god to let him die a cursed man before ever breaking your heart.)

it hurts.

he wonders if it hurts you too.

he peers at you, your head down whilst you remain concentrated on the last few dirty plates. if it does, it hasn’t shown on your face at all. besides your initial shock of seeing him, he hasn’t been able to get a read on your emotions.

he knows he should probably say something of substance, something meaningful. try to address the elephant in the room. 

he clears his throat. “how… have you been?”

you pause for a moment, setting a glass of water down in front of him before meeting his gaze. “i’ve been okay,” you say earnestly. “things have been a little hectic at work, but it should calm down a little once the busy season is over. what about you?”

nanami takes a sip of water, nodding slowly, his mind turning over what to say. 

truthfully, things have never been the same for him since the breakup. he’s always been a man of routine - a man who thrives on structure, a man who finds comfort in the predictability of his day-to-day life. he hated change, avoided it wherever possible. you leaving forced his world to change in a way he couldn’t control, and it had killed him a little inside.

of course, he had tried to distract himself. he buried his nose into work, something entirely out of character for a man like him, dedicated himself to the gym, said yes to more invitations from friends, and tried his best to forget. 

so far, none of that has ever worked.

there’s a tear in his heart that bleeds like a fresh wound every time something reminds him of you. it rips open at the seams even at the most mundane things – a song, a smell, a dog he saw on the street that looked like the one you always talked about wanting after settling down.

sometimes, he tries to wrap it up in bandages, crafted out of routine and distraction, praying that one day it’ll finally scab over, so that all he’ll be left with is a vague scar in the shape of you. 

but then other times… he picks at it. agitates it on purpose, just to feel closer to you again. a man who can’t help but run back into the blade, the reflection of you on the knife’s edge is what he tells himself he has to be content with. 

“the same as usual,” he shrugs, struggling to keep his face carefully blank. “you know how it can be.”

you hum in understanding, tiptoeing to open a cupboard to rummage for something. your shirt rises up your thighs and he quickly looks down, setting the glass of water down with too much force.

“yeah, work can be like that, huh?” you say empathetically. 

his mind is drifting, barely catching your words. it goes quiet again and the silence stretches between you, heavy and unresolved.

then, before he can stop himself, wincing as soon as the words leave his mouth, he blurts out, “are you seeing anyone? would he… be okay with me being up here?”

your eyebrows raise, and you seem taken aback by his sudden question. “no,” you laugh lightly, shaking your head. “that hasn’t really been a priority for me lately.”

“really?” self control has abandoned him. he shouldn’t be asking you this, he has no place in your life, but he can’t help himself.

“when we were younger, you used to say that you wanted to be married by 26.”

“things change, i guess. i was a lot younger, and a lot more naive,” you shrug, looking away. nanami tries not to take that personally. 

“what about you?” you turn to face him, eyes searching his. “any lucky lady?”

he shakes his head, “hasn’t been a priority for me either.”

again, nanami studies your face carefully, searching for any hints of creeping resentment, anger, hurt, of anything, towards him. after all… he had ruined that for you, hadn’t he? if the break up hadn’t happened, he’s sure the both of you would have been married by now. 

he comes up empty-handed. no anger, no blame, no bitterness on your face. just… nothing. maybe you got better at maintaining a facade, or maybe you had just fully moved on from him.

he isn’t sure if he likes either possibility.

he should be happy, he tells himself, to see you living a full life, even after him. it’s all he had wished for – for you to find true happiness, even if it meant him no longer being a part of your life. but it’s standing here, in your house, looking at your face, hearing the sound of your voice after so many years, that makes his conviction waiver. the sight of you is too painful to bear.

his throat feels unbearably tight, and there’s a twisting, gnawing ache in his stomach that refuses to let up. 

“hey, which one do you prefer?” you ask then, holding up two different flavours of instant noodles. “sorry, i would whip up something better, but i haven’t done the groceries y–”

god.

he isn’t strong enough for this.

he can’t sit here and pretend that everything is okay. not with the reminders of what he once had, of what he could have had, scattered all around him, mocking him. 

the chair scraps against the floor in a sharp, screeching sound as he abruptly stands, heart pounding against his chest. 

“–i’m sorry. i should go.”

your lips part, and your hands slowly lower to rest on the countertop, staring at the noodles you’d just gotten out. he sees it – shock, then confusion, then something pained flickering behind your eyes, but before you can say anything, he’s already moving toward the door.

you remain completely silent. 

he doesn’t even leave a moment to take a last glance at your face, trembling fingers already reaching for the doorknob to yank it open. but just as he’s about to turn it, your voice stops him cold. 

“you’re leaving again.”

the bitterness in your tone cuts through the air. nanami turns to face you slowly, his movements stiff and hesitant.

“w–what?”

“you’re leaving again,” you repeat shakily. 

“i…” his eyes are trained on the floor, avoiding your gaze. “i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have come up.”

at that, you let out a quiet, mirthless laugh. “you shouldn’t have come?” you echo, shaking your head. “i never pegged you as such a coward, nanami.”

feeling impending tears prick at your eyes, you quickly turn your back towards him, not wanting him to see you crumble. 

you feel as though you’ve been punched in the gut, nails curling into the table edge with a desperate, white-knuckled grip as you try to steady yourself. 

“okay. leave then. that’s what you do best anyway.” 

you try your best to sound uncaring, cold – just as he had. like it’s nothing more than a passing inconvenience, but the last few words come out chipped and cracked as the facade you’re been maintaining all night finally breaks.

you loved him.

no, you think bitterly. you still love him.

none of it matters though, because he intends to walk out on you the same way he did three years ago. once that door shuts, you’ll never see him again. it’s so cruelly final, so devastatingly familiar, and it steals the remaining composure you have out of your body. 

your gaze lands on the noodles on the counter. they mock you now. a pitiful reminder of your own foolishness. a stupid, stupid girl who somehow thought that inviting him up here might lead to something real, something redeeming. anything more than this unbearable almost. 

the hope that had been slowly building behind your ribs, that had appeared like a weak flicker of candlelight the moment you saw him in the hospital, and had hesitantly grown the entire car ride home, with every glance, with every nervous exchange, extinguishes in your chest. 

none of it matters, and the reality of it all is so damning that all you can do is sob miserably into your hands, feeling like your chest might collapse in on itself from the grief. 

you hear nanami taking a step towards you. “you think this is easy for me?” he questions, voice strained.

you laugh through your tears, though the sound is hollow. “it must be,” you snap, refusing to turn around as you angrily wipe at your face. “i already know how this goes. so just walk out on me, run away like you did before.”

you hear him take a deep, drawn out sigh. “that’s not fair…” he says defensively.

“fair? you want to talk about fair?” you whip around to face him, eyes burning red. “you ran away, kento! you ran to kyoto, you ran so far off and changed your number and disappeared from my life like it was nothing! four years together, and you vanished without a trace? do you know what that did to me?” 

the words pour out. the anguish, the hurt, the sheer betrayal of it. 

“do you hate me that much? you can’t even sit across from me for ten minutes before having to leave?”

“you begged me to leave you alone! you screamed it to my face!”

“no!” you gasp, the pained sound ripped from you against your will. “i didn’t mean it, you asshole! i wanted you to fight for us! not run away! we could have worked things out if you stayed!” 

“i knew we could have worked things out,” your voice crumbles pathetically, shaky and cracked, and you turn away from him, rubbing at your eyes furiously with your palms. “because it was us. us against the world.”

nanami opens his mouth again, seemingly about to say something. then, it closes and he simply stares at you, his demeanour visibly deflating. his shoulders lift, tense and rigid, before falling in defeat. 

then, without warning, he closes the distance, arms wrapping around you, pulling you close to him. 

there’s desperation in the way he clutches you, the way his fingers fist the fabric of your shirt, his hands trembling against your back. his breath is sharp and uneven and he holds you tight as you sob into his chest.

for a moment, you hate him for it. 

the unexpected physical contact – his warmth, his scent, the way his hands fall right into place, the way it still brings you comfort – it sends an impulsive wave of bitterness through your body. anger overtakes you for a split second, and you thrash against him, uselessly trying to push him off. 

“let me go!” you cry out, the sound fractured, torn between rage and grief. 

his grip only tightens.

“leave!”

his arms only curl themselves around your shoulders, a steady hold, an unwavering anchor. 

“you abandoned me!” you shout. “y–you let me love you, and then you left. you left!” 

you continue to curse, cry, and shout at him, letting your words beat and tear at his chest with years of unexpressed anguish.

“fuck you, kento,” you sob through heaving breaths, clutching at fistfuls of his shirt. “fuck, fuck, you fucked me up good, i hate you, god, i wish i hated you–” another wave of grief ripples through you and you bury your face in his shirt.

and yet, he continues to wrap his arms around you, silent through it all, his grip tighter than ever, his breath hot and heavy down your cheek. you fight against his hold until you have no energy left, until your voice goes hoarse and your chest burns.

when the veil of anger finally subsides, all that is left is hurt and betrayal in its place. “i thought you stopped loving me,” you croak, voice barely a whisper. “i thought… i thought you didn’t want me anymore.”

you slump to the floor defeatedly.

that rush of anger is out of your system, and now you just feel broken. you hate how small your voice sounds, but it’s true. 

when you finally peer up at him, the sight stops you cold. 

nanami’s crying.

you’ve never seen him like this before – tears are brimming in his eyes, threatening to overflow as he squeezes his eyes shut to restrain himself. his hands are curled into tight fists by his sides, lips pressed in a thin line, barely holding himself back. 

“i’m sofuckingsorry,” he chokes out, dropping down to his knees to pull you in. “that couldn’t be further from the truth. i promise you that.”

you can only watch in shock, taking in his words.

he takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“i always wanted you. i never stopped. i just–“ he pauses to steady himself, voice low and quivering. “–when you told me to leave that night… i was just so tired of seeing you hurt and not having any idea how to fix it. i wanted you to be happy again, i really did. so i just… i thought you wouldn’t want to see me again. i thought me leaving would be the best decision. i thought it would make you happy again. maybe not at the moment but… eventually.”

you’re about to speak, but nanami shakes his head quickly as he continues on.

“i came back. please… you have to know that. please.” he looks at you desperately.

this man… he was like an unyielding rock, always so calm and steady, no matter what happened. you were the crier. he had always kept it together. your heart aches to see him breaking down like this, with his brows pulled tight and a tremble in his voice that you’ve never heard before.

“three months after, do you remember when i called you that night?”

hesitantly, you nod. twenty missed calls from him that night, and then… nothing. you never heard from him again. he changed his number, moved to kyoto, and distanced himself from your shared group of friends.

you had never been able to understand why.

“three months. i took three months to get my shit together and reflected hard on our relationship. i… i didn’t want to lose you, but my life was falling apart and i knew i just needed some… some time. i couldn’t think clearly. i was in a bad place. we both were. i didn’t want to keep hurting you,” nanami says, his voice strained. 

“i came back looking for you, i wanted to apologise for everything. i was ready to do anything to get you back. fuck, i was prepared to beg if i had to. i parked my car outside our apartment that night and i…” he trails off again, looking away from you.

you see more tears spill from the corner of his eyes and your gut wrenches.

“i saw you with some man…” he continues quietly, the words catching in his throat. he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s both reliving it and trying to forget all at once. “i– i remember how you got out of his car and he kissed you on the cheek and you– you laughed. i don’t blame you… i wasn’t angry. not at all,” he swallows hard. “you had every right to move on.”

“–but seeing you like that… you just looked so happy. i hadn’t seen you smile like that in such a long time, you know? you’re everything to me. you still are. who am i to interfere with your happiness? i thought that even if it wasn’t that guy, someone else would come along, and i–” he runs a hand through his dishevelled hair, voice cracking.

“i don’t know– i wasn’t thinking– i just felt so defeated at the time,” he sighs, covering his face with a hand. “but then i regretted not doing something more, hell, i regret it every day– but then some time passed, and i… i thought i was too late– i thought i had missed my chance. i thought i had no choice but to let you go.”

a sharp pang of realisation cuts through you. 

“–kento,” you choke out. you push yourself up on your knees, your arms wrapped around his neck.

“you got it all wrong… that night… aiko begged me to go on a double date with a guy she kept saying would be perfect for me,” you rush to explain, stumbling over your words. 

“i didn’t even want to go, but you know aiko… she wouldn’t take no for an answer. that guy, he was sweet, but… i didn’t even want to be there. i barely talked to him. fuck, i– i cried in his car on the way home, i made a fool of myself– i couldn’t help it. nothing ever happened. nothing. it was just that one date.”

nanami’s face collapses in grief. “i should have tried harder,” he says hoarsely, shaking his head. “i wasn’t thinking straight. i should’ve called again. i should’ve showed up the next day and every day after that.” he takes another deep, shuddering breath. “i’m so fucking sorry.”

nanami holds you against him for what feels like an eternity. his touch is tender, grounding – his hand rubs small circles on your back, his lips pressing soft kisses to your forehead. he waits, silently patient, as your breathing steadies itself and the sobs fade in quiet shudders.

you lap it all up. in his arms, it feels like he takes up your whole world; the centre of your universe once again. an enveloping, encasing, and all-encompassing warmth that has you forgetting everything beyond the haven of his embrace.

you have no idea how much time has passed, although the sun has completely set, its brilliant hues no longer colouring your living room the way they did when you both had first entered. the sky has darkened, and the gentle glow of your lamp is the only thing illuminating the space.

you sit huddled up to him on the couch for a long time, his arms around you, your knees tucked into his sides. drinking him in. afraid to let go, afraid he might slip away again, like sand through your fingers. terrified that you would wake up and find out it was only a dream.

eventually, you shift to climb on his lap, your chest facing his. he doesn’t speak, but his arms adjust instinctively, holding your waist. 

“kento,” you finally murmur, voice soft, achingly vulnerable. “i’ve missed you.” 

that last line comes out a little shakily. it feels terrifying to admit out loud, especially after all this time. you lean your forehead against his, his lips just a touch away. the distinctive smell of his cologne faintly hits your nose – it‘s aromatic and woody, a unique blend of amber and nutmeg. you used to love smelling it on him. 

he doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t reciprocate your movements either, and you freeze, suddenly afraid that you’ve misread the situation.

you lock eyes for a moment, before yours shamefully darts away, suddenly feeling very, very small. you realise his body is tense under yours, and although one hand is lightly pressed against your waist, the other is curled into a loose fist by his side, as if restrained.

deep, burning humiliation floods you, and you feel your gut twist. have you managed to misinterpret the situation this badly? you feel the stinging sensation of tears building up again and quickly wipe them away, not wanting to embarrass yourself further.

“i’m sorry, i–”

frantically, you start to shift, attempting to pull away from him and perhaps look for a hole in the ground to hide in, but before you can stand fully, nanami’s grip on your waist tightens, anchoring you back in place.

“don’t.”

you stiffen completely, staring down at him, your expression twisted in a mixture of discomfort and confusion.

“i’ve missed you too,” nanami says quickly. “but i need– i need to hear you say it,” he admits. “i don’t want you to regret anything. i don’t want you to regret me.”

(nanami is aware that this is awfully uncharacteristic of him.

he’s hesitant, for one, and he doesn’t want you to think he only agreed to come up because he wanted to drop a few sorrowful words to get in your pants. and then there’s the confrontation you just had – were you even in the right state of mind to be doing this? was he taking advantage of you in a vulnerable state? 

would you regret it after? kick him out of your bed, saying it was no more than a moment of weakness?

and… and he’s tried so hard to move on, but he doesn’t even think it matters when you’re right here in his arms, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off your skin. your burning touch, your longing gaze, the smell of your shampoo lingering in your hair. 

you had always been the kind to wear your emotions on your sleeve. he sees it now too, with your reddened eyes refusing to meet his, the way your lip has started to tremble with self-doubt.

he wants you. he wants this. god, he craves it more than anything in the world. he detests the idea of you thinking otherwise. 

but nanami knows deep down, after everything, the choice has to be yours. he has to hear it from your lips before he succumbs to his deepest desires.)

“i want you,” you breathe. there’s something frantic in your quiet admission, a desperate bid for connection. “all i’ve wanted is you. i assure you. no regrets.”

“good,” a tug on your waist has you falling back down onto his lap. “because i want you too.”

the admission stirs something primal within you. you lean in, lips brushing against his in a tentative kiss. it feels good. like returning to a place you once called home. nanami’s reaction is immediate this time, his hands threading through your hair, returning the kiss slowly in a hesitant rekindling of lost love. 

he cups your cheeks, you wrap your hands around his neck, letting unsteady kisses gradually grow confident between you two until you’re both left gasping for air, completely lost in each other.

you moan into his mouth, your hands hungrily trailing across his body, from his chest, down his abs, and across his strong arms. you know nanami’s always been a well-built man, and he definitely takes care of himself, but he’s a lot… sturdier than you remember. 

your hands run appreciatively down his upper body, taking in the changes. it’s an intoxicating mix of both the familiar and the new, and you find yourself captivated, trying to commit every contour and plane of his body to memory.

you’re tasting him – just as he’s tasting you, your eyes taking the other in, palms sliding across what has been untouched for too long. the years of distance feel like they’re evaporating like vapour with every frantic open-mouthed kiss.

your fingers rush to unbutton his shirt, almost yanking them open as you hastily make your way down towards his hips to undo his belt. it’s hard to focus though, because his hands have travelled under your shirt, palms warm and rough against your skin.

it’s impossible to contain your moans as his hands trail up and down your waist for a moment, before moving to squeeze at the fullness of your breasts. pulling your bra down at the front, his thumbs graze over your nipples, whilst his palms knead at your flesh ravenously.

you manage to get the front of his shirt open, eagerly pushing the fabric aside. it’s still tucked into his pants, but it falls open at either side, exposing his toned chest and a blond trail of hair that leads downwards.

nanami’s face is flushed, swollen lips red and messy from your kisses. he’s panting slightly too, and the sight of his bare skin sends a rush of heat through you.

“your turn,” he growls softly, tugging at the hem of your shirt.

you lift your hands to help, and it’s quickly taken off and discarded onto the floor. your bra follows next, unhooked and tossed aside without hesitation.

how long has it been since he last saw you like this? your hands shoot up to your chest, wanting to cover up, but nanami’s hands encircle your wrists, gently stopping you.

“don’t hide,” he murmurs, reaching forward to press another kiss to your lips. “you’re as pretty as ever.”

instinctively, you shoot him a sceptical look. 

“it’s true,” he hums, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “you take my breath away.”

his smile is gentle, fond, the one you know was only reserved for you. you want to believe that hasn’t changed. 

nanami’s eyes flicker down your upper body, stopping when he finds what he’s looking for. “you kept it,” he murmurs. “the tattoo.” a finger runs back and forth on the ink, like he’s trying to see if it’s really still there. “i figured you might have gotten it lasered off.”

it’s a subtle piece. 

but it’s undoubtedly all for him.

after his surname in kanji: 七海; meaning seven seas, you had gotten a small, fine line tattoo of the ocean’s wave under your ribs.

“i’m still yours,” you confess quietly. “...if you want me to be.”

i’ve always been yours.

tattooed into my skin and down to my very bones. i was always meant to love you.

he cups your jaw with one hand, pulling back to look at you. “i’ve never wanted anything more.”

his tone carries so much sincerity it makes your heart stutter, so you push that shyness aside and slowly let your arms drop to your sides, allowing him to maneuver you until you’re splayed out on the couch beneath him. 

the world blurs around you.

all you can think about is this very moment.

the significance of what you’re doing is entirely palpable to you. you’re inviting him in, not just to your house, but into your heart again. 

breathing heavily, your eyes follow his every movement in anticipation as his fingers dance across your inner thighs.

nanami’s hands slip underneath the waistband of your panties, two fingers sliding in between your slick folds. you tense a little at the sensation as he parts them, the rough pads of his fingers prodding the sensitive bud of nerves that make you shiver and whine.

“god,” he groans. “i’ve fucking missed this pussy.”

you let out a little laugh at the foul language that slips from his tongue. it’s been so long since you’ve heard his voice like this, and even longer since you’ve felt his touch.

“missed your cock too, kento,” you murmur, eager to show that you’ve been equally longing for him, if not more. you want to hear more of him, so you reach your hand out to palm at his erection. he’s rock hard, and there’s a little wet spot on his pants from the precum.

“fuck,” he mutters, hips pushing up to meet your hand. “it’s been a while.”

you giggle at that, “it’s been a while for me too.”

“n-no, you don’t understand,” his grip on your waist tightens as he struggles to maintain his composure. “you were the last.”

oh.

your eyes widen at that revelation, stopping your movements to fully look at him. “w–why haven’t you–”

you find yourself in complete disbelief. you were the last person he slept with? that had been more than 2 years ago – way more than enough time for things to change, for someone else to come along.

but then again, nanami’s always been a serious man, and by extension, that applied to his love life too. never one to seek out casual hookups, that man dated to marry. 

he exhales quietly through his nose, almost like the answer to the question is too simple, too earnest. “i didn’t want anyone else.” he says. “only you. that hasn’t changed.” 

and then, as he shifts to tug his pants the rest of the way down, he mutters, almost begrudgingly, “and besides… how the hell would i explain this?”

you glance down instinctively and your breath catches.

just above his hip, etched into the skin of his v-line, is a tattoo. it’s faint, but deliberate. 

it’s your birth flower. 

you used to doodle in the margins of your notebooks all the time as a college student, and sometimes the back of his hands became an unwilling canvas. he used to grumble and complain, but he never washed any of it off.  

those silly little drawings. you’d drawn your birth flower once, on his wrist. pointed to it and batted your eyelashes real pretty at him, jokingly asking if he’d ever consider getting a tattoo of you. he’d said no with a resolute shake of the head, told you he wasn’t the type to get inked, and then gave you a kiss and chuckled at your pouting face. 

and now, that very flower is tattooed on him. 

you blink, stunned. “kento…” you whisper. “what… you– you got a tattoo of me? when?”

he huffs out a small laugh, head tilting back to rest on the couch. “call me a masochist, i guess,” his voice turns gentle when he admits, “i wanted something of you to keep.”

your heart clenches. 

“besides,” he continues, poking you lightly at your ribs, where your tattoo lies. “you were stuck with this reminder of me, too.”

it isn’t just desire that curls in your gut now. it’s… grief. love. the ache of lost time. and the devastating realisation that he never stopped being yours, just as you never stopped being his. 

“say it again,” you whisper. “i want– i want to hear you say it again.”

“i only want you.” nanami must have realised how much you needed to hear that, the same way he had needed your confirmation earlier, because his voice is more resolute this time.

“i need you to know that i’m not the same person i was before,” he says, voice low and laced with urgency. “after we broke up, i took a hard look at myself. if you… if you do give me a chance, i promise it won’t be the same way. i’ll never let you go again.”

you nod your head, blinking away fresh tears and hoping he sees your answer written plain as day on your face. he leans up to kiss you, and there’s nothing rushed about it this time. he takes his time, kissing you like you’re something sacred, thumbs brushing along your jaw with a reverent touch. 

he’s kissing you the way he should have for every lost second with you.

a kiss goodbye when he leaves for work.

a goodnight kiss on your forehead, right before he turns out the lights.

a kiss on your cheek, just to see you smile.

a slow, languid kiss down the column of your throat, pressing into the spot just beneath your jaw – the one that always made your breath hitch. he remembers. of course he remembers.

“this–” his hand moves to cup yours, guiding your movements as he slowly drags your hand over his cock. “–s’all for you, sweetheart.”

a breathy moan involuntarily leaves your mouth, further spurred on by his words. he feels so big, his erection pulling the fabric tight across his boxers. and he called you sweetheart. it’s a simple word, but it kind of leaves you feeling dizzy, like a schoolgirl with a crush, nervous and blushing.

“you want my fingers?”

you whine and nod your head eagerly. 

“use your words, love,” he coaxes. “you know i’ll give you anything you ask for.”

love. there it is again.

you squirm a little, trying to evade his gaze. “w–want your f–fingers, kento. want them inside me.”

“that’s it,” he purrs. 

one hand reaches for the back of your neck, holding you tenderly as he peppers kisses on your lips and all over your neck.

the other hand, though, moves deviously between your thighs, a singular digit plunging into your soaked cunt. one quickly becomes two as he stretches you out with his fingers, the expert movements leaving you gripping the sheets and gasping.

“let me make up for lost time…” you gasp when he drops to his knees in front of you, hiking your legs over his broad shoulders. his mouth finds its way to your sensitive clit, drawing quick flicks with his tongue. 

your thighs involuntarily squeeze around his head, and he simply groans into your cunt. the sound vibrates across your core, and you cry out, tipping your head back as pleasure washes over you.

“k–kento. kento, fuck–”

his fingers continue curling upwards, brushing against your sweet spot, never letting up for even a split second. he doesn’t show signs of stopping, even when your fingers tangle in his hair and your thighs quiver around him.

(and when you cum undone on his fingers, shaking and mewling, nanami relishes the way you gasp into his mouth, back arching off the couch as all sorts of pretty sounds drip from your flushed lips.

i love you.

i still love you, after all this time.

he doesn’t say it out loud – no, it isn’t the right time. 

but he repeats it loudly enough inside his head, hoping that somehow, you might hear it too.)

hungry for more, you tug him upwards, off his knees and push him back down onto the couch. you capture him in a heated kiss, his mouth still wet with your slick, and he makes quick work of his boxers, the urgency and hunger growing.

“kento,” you beg, dizzy with need. “i– i want it so bad. give me everything.”

nanami audibly groans when he hears you say that, his voice low and raspy. 

when you pull back to glance down, your breath catches.

“fuck.”

he cocks his head at you, amused. “you act like it’s the first time seeing it.”

“w-well, no… but–” like you said, it’s been a while.

nanami pauses, mistaking your reaction as a sign of hesitation. “do you still want to do this?” he asks, dutifully seeking your confirmation.

ever the gentleman. truly, it was endearing. if you weren’t so frustratingly desperate for him, you would have scoffed or huffed a laugh. 

“kento,” you plead. “i appreciate you asking, but i need you to fuck me. i might… die if you don’t.”

you pull him down by the shoulders so you’re beneath him, his arms holding himself up by your head. the couch isn’t the most comfortable, but you don’t want to pause to move to the bedroom, hating the thought of having to stop for even a second.

nanami actually laughs at this, an amused smile on his face. you can’t help but return a dopey smile of your own, but that’s quickly wiped clean off your face when you feel the tip of his cock rubbing briefly against your entrance before starting to ease in, inch by inch. 

“–fuck!” a drawn-out whine escapes you, squeezing your eyes shut as you struggle to accommodate to his size. “oh god, you’re really f-fucking big. wait– wait–” 

“you can take it, can’t you? doing so good for me,” nanami rasps, eyes trained downwards where his cock is stretching your tight hole out. “didn’t you say you wanted everything?”

you whimper in response, trying to force your body to relax for him. your dazed eyes meet his, and his pupils are dilated so wide that they seem to swallow the hazel rim around them. 

he gives you a few moments to adjust, panting from exertion, before delivering slow, shallow thrusts as your breathing gradually evens out and your body relaxes under him. 

“o–okay. y–you can go deeper,” you pant.

at your words, he pushes himself all the way to the hilt, hips snapping against your thighs. your face contorts in pleasure, mouth hanging open as your eyes roll back while he drives into you. you’re trying to say something, but your words are lost in between airy breaths and quiet curses.

“you look so pretty like this, baby,” he grunts.

(you can’t see it, but he can. the creamy ring of arousal at the base of his cock as he pulls out, the slick coating your inner thighs, the way your warm, wet hole seems to be sucking him in with no reprieve. your fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist, eyes shut as you struggle to take him.

it makes him want go harder, deeper - wants to see your face as you lose yourself in pleasure and cry for him, only him.)

“it’s all for you,” he rasps. he’s pressing your thighs down and wide open, and you couldn’t run from his cock if you tried. from your position, you can see the way he drives into you, pulling out all the way before pushing his entire length back inside you. 

“every. inch. s’all for you… only ever been for you. so take me good, yeah?”

“y–yes, god,” you babble. “s–so good, feels so good–” 

he’s stretching you open, moulding you to his shape, and most of all, he’s yours. he’s yours again, yours to hold, to have, to never let go. 

your moans are getting breathier and breathier as nanami thrusts into you, soft little gasps that escape your mouth as you buck your hips up to meet his cock.

“fuck,” he curses loudly, screwing his eyes shut. “you’re s–so fucking tight.”

nanami lowers himself down onto you, sucking on your neck as his hand cups your breasts. you groan loudly when he delivers a particularly deep thrust, wrapping your arms around him as you moan. 

“look at me baby,” he rasps, holding himself up with one hand. “wanna– wanna see your face when you cum–”

he’s hitting all the right spots, and it’s not long before you feel the buildup of heat in your lower stomach, but you can’t even warn him before your orgasm rushes over you rapidly, a full body sensation that ripples through your twitching body. 

“kentokentokento, m’ coming–”

your own release has your walls clamping down on him, clenching him in a vice grip. “fuck, fuck– y–you feel so good,” he gasps.

there’s unmistakable pleasure written in every strained breath and trembling motion as his own arousal reaches a fever pitch and he delivers one, two, three final thrusts into you. then, he hisses as he pulls out, spilling on your stomach with a groan.

“fuck,” nanami pants, collapsing back down on the couch. “sorry. give me a second.”

you giggle loudly, feeling how shaky your legs are when you tense them. “that good?”

he pokes you in the side and you yelp. “being celibate for two years will do that to you.”

you laugh again, softer this time. the room is quiet now, save for the slow rhythm of your breathing and the distant hum of the city through the windows. nanami shifts beside you, brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek. 

“wait here,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead before he stands and disappears to the bathroom.

when he returns, he kneels beside you with a warm cloth in hand and a look in his eyes that makes your throat tighten. “let me take care of you,” he whispers, and the tenderness in his voice is almost enough to undo you completely.

when he’s done, he lifts you, arms wrapping around your back and under your knees. the bedroom creaks open as he steps inside – it’s not the same as the place you used to share, that tiny apartment you lived with him when life was just starting out for the both of you – but in the dim light and the hush of the moment, you can close your eyes and pretend.

nanami sets you down gently, helps tuck you inside the covers, and slips in beside you. his hands reach to envelop yours, the pads of his fingers tracing over your knuckles gently. the movement is familiar; sentimental. it’s what he used to do when you would cuddle in bed, your body draped over his.

the world shrinks to just this. you and him, as though no time has passed. it’s almost like you’re still in your shared bedroom, tangled up in each other, and unbeknownst to you, there’s a little blue box with a sparkling stone tucked away in his side of the wardrobe, waiting for the right moment to be revealed.

you turn your head to see him already gazing at you. there’s a trace of a fond smile that forms across his lips, and he raises a hand to trace the curve of your nose, down to your lips. 

that’s when you realise this truth: that the ache you carried for him – all this unexpressed love-turned-grief – had never truly left you. you’d simply pretended it didn’t exist, drowned yourself in work, shared the occasional bed with shitty men who could never compare to him, and nursed a bottle or two of wine on lonely nights, but you could never undo his presence in your life.

how his love changed you.

how it made you. 

you’d be lying if resentment and bitterness hadn’t crossed your heart at multiple points in time after the breakup. but the years have whittled away any semblance of that initial sourness, leaving behind only regret and the desire to make things right again, if ever given the chance.

and it’s right here in front of you, the man who was on his knees with his head dipped in between your trembling thighs. this silly man, who permanently inked a reminder of you on his skin even though he had already resigned to living a life without you. who now lies beside you, looking at you like you’re the only light in his world.

your love for him was never a ghost that haunted you.

it was a dream come true. 

so is it enough? is it enough to just be two people, who have somehow found their way back to each other, both yearning for another try?

whatever that answer might be, your heart has already spoken: you don’t want to miss your second chance. 

there are apologies to be made, lost time to reclaim, and parts of each other waiting to be rediscovered. 

and yet, you know him like an old song. you know every single word, carved into the lining of your skin, you know the melody, a soft hum that echoes in the chambers of your heart. you know the pauses, the quiet lulls where the music fades, only to swell again with aching familiarity.

nanami kento is that lingering rhythm, that pained harmony, existing deep within the cracks of memory and longing – an unfading symphony in your soul. your heart was always meant to be his.

you desperately want it to be enough. 

and maybe, this time, it might be. 

a/n: this was fun but also so, so exhausting to write man. like there are were so many emotions happening… but i can't stop myself i like the hurt/comfort trope too much. my favourite part was the tattoo bit like PLEASEEEE THIS MAN?????? nanami yearns 4 u the way i yearn to know your thoughts on this!!! so please let me know what you think! <3 i love reading the comments n tags they make my day

taglist: @perqbeth @mierins @francesca-the-1st @mylilsodapop @riellanami @rjreins @b-is-obsessed @aotdump @sukunasbedwarmer @aaaaslaaaan @coolgirl6996 @berry-marys @yokotsu @kamuihz @jjknanamin @bbysredhearts @kyluskaye @tyvalon @expreissionism @aureamediocritasorsmt @shibataimu @chiikasevennn @p1nkfl0wers @obsessedalpaca @nanananaminshi

[soobiary]

sobbing

𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥, 𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader

part one

summary: the hunger games have begun, and now, survival is the only thing you care about. you have not only your life, but the young tribute from your district as well to worry about. a strange alliance with the capitol darling, gojo satoru, however, might come in handy. though you can't forget why you're in this arena, and what ultimately must happen in the end. out of twenty-four tributes, only one can win.

warnings: death, descriptions of violence, lots angst, some steamy moments but nothing too drastic, eventual happy ending (just be patient) and president snow

word count: 33k+

note: comments and reblogs are appreciated! art credit: _3aem

jjk masterlist + series masterlist

You wake up in a tube. 

You’re standing upright, surrounded by a curved glass panel that leads upwards to the ceiling. 

Clammy hands press against it, stumbling as you try to control yourself from falling. The room around you is empty. The clothes you were initially wearing are gone, and have now been replaced by a lightweight breathable cotton shirt, jacket, and loose pants that somehow fit you perfectly. 

Your hands pat against your chest, feeling for the small keepsake they were supposed to allow you to bring. Things like necklaces and rings were tricky, seeing how a girl a couple of years ago had a ring that could turn into a small switchblade, but your father's old packet of handkerchiefs was allowed. You felt a small bulge against your right breast pocket, hoping that Drumesia had somehow been able to sneak it in. 

“Yuuji!” You call out, but your voice just bounces off the glass. Your chest heaves, looking wildly around for any sign of the boy, but to no avail. You yell his name again and again until your throat is scratched raw, your throat closing up in fear as you pound on the glass. 

“Yuuji! Yuuji-” 

No longer could you yell, hearing a sudden loud hiss, and the ground beneath you starts to move up. 

The ceiling opened up mechanically, twirling to reveal a bright blue sky. You crouched a little bit as you were moved upwards, your eyes squinting to adjust to the brightness of the arena slowly. 

At first, all you could see was white. 

The sun was blaring in a strange artificial way as your podium finally came to a stop. There was a peculiar humming buzz in your ears as you shielded your eyes with your hand, trying to regain your vision. 

Gradually, you’re able to see different things. 

At first, the large Cornucopia is in front of you. It was gigantic, sleek in shape, angular, and metal. There were backpacks, satchels, swords, bows and arrows, axes, and spears gathered in the opening of its mouth. Your head swivels around, blinking slowly as you look to your right and left, and the faces of familiar tributes suddenly start forming. 

The boy from five, Maxmus, is trying to look around the Cornocupia, surely for his sister. You feel your stomach sink when you realize Yuuji is nowhere to be found, most likely hidden somewhere behind the large structure. 

But you’re able to see the familiar flash of white in front of you, Gojo standing straight with his shoulders squared, ready to pounce. His eyes are focused on the other tributes, darting back to the Cornocupia and then back to the large hologram of a clock above it as it starts ticking down each second until one is left. 

He finally sees you, his chin dipping down as the two of you lock eyes. His lips part for a second, spotting Lizzie to your left. He shakes his head, barely, but you catch it. A warning, a sign not to engage. Not like you were planning to, anyway.

For some reason, he looks away briefly, his gaze settling on something behind the Cornocupia. It lingers for a second before looking back at you. 

Yuuji. 

You have a good sense of where he is now, nodding in acknowledgment. You let your body angle towards where he had motioned you. You don’t have the time to understand why he’s so keen on helping you out, as a tribute and as a person whom you don’t know, but you remember to tuck this appreciation away in case you meet him somewhere later in the arena. 

Twenty seconds remaining. 

You take in the arena for a brief moment. 

Home, you think so briefly, it looks like home. 

Sprawling wheat fields with a line of trees and hills a little bit away. The sky is a perfect blue with clouds dotting the corners. It seems perfect, and when you take in a deep breath, you smell home. You feel a little bit of ease before the clock hits ten seconds and a loud mechanical voice starts counting down. 

Ten. You hope Yuuji remembers to go towards the trees and not towards you. Nine. The tributes start getting ready to run, and you bend down a little, your legs positioned with one in front of the other. Eight. You can’t feel your heart beating anymore. Seven. Remember what they took from you. What they’re going to take away from you. Don’t give them what they want. Six. Gojo peeks over at you one last time. He shakes his head. You don’t know what it means. Five. Please, Yuuji, go towards the trees. Four.  The sunsets from home. Three. Go home. Two. Home. 

One.

The shot is fired, and all the tributes jump off their pedestals, each making a beeline for the middle of the Cornucopia. You have a brief moment where you forget what to do before you regain your senses, running blindly to where you thought Yuuji was. 

The smell of blood instantly takes over the smell of agriculture and dirt, thick and overpowering. You try not to stumble over your feet when you watch the tribute from three slashes of a sword through the kid from ten, or the way the screams are loud enough to be the only thing you hear. 

You were somehow able to duck quickly to dodge a spear that the tribute from two throws your way, letting out a grunt as you tumble to the ground, looking over your shoulder quickly to see it resting in the stomach of somebody behind you. 

Go, go, go. 

You cover your head as you shove past the boy, rounding the corner of the Cornacopia as you find a little bag nestled up on the side. You had told yourself not to get anything, but the fight was happening behind you, so you quickly grabbed it, hauling it over your shoulder as you ran behind the structure, finding all the pedestals empty. 

“Yuuji!” You scream, squinting as you look through the large strands of wheat and into the tree line, “Yuuji!” 

Something whizzes past your ear, and you instantly feel something warm trickle down your neck. Your hand flies up, fingers reeling back to find blood. You glance behind you to see Lizzie looking at you with a crazed look in her eyes, her arm reeling back to throw another knife your way, when something behind her, something you can’t see, catches her attention. 

A familiar-sounding voice calls her name, telling her to come back, and she looks at you and then to the voice, and decides it’s not worth it, running back to who you guess was Gojo, telling her to help him finish off someone else.

You decide not to waste your opportunity, quickly grabbing the knife in front of you and sprinting past the ring of podiums and into the bushes and rows of trees as the large branches immediately block off the sun, rubbing at your face as you try to adjust to the dimness. 

“Yuuji!” You call his name, looking around anywhere and everywhere you think he could be hiding. You feel out of breath, lungs burning, but you keep running into the thickness of the forest. 

In the distance, you can see the outlines of some other tributes running, not towards you but away from the bloodbath, and you can only hope that none of them bump into Yuuji and choose not to spare him. 

“Yuuji, please!” you beg, a little hushed, frantic in your search, not noticing the large tree root that sprouted up from the ground and plunged harshly into the ground, your ankle pulsing in pain as you let out a pitiful whine. 

“Shit,” you mutter, wincing as you stumble trying to stand up, wobbling as you fall back down again. You look around, trying to hide yourself away from plain sight as you rest against the trunk of the tree, holding your ankle as you will it back to work. 

You were a bit into the forest where people running by wouldn’t see you, thankfully, and the leaves and trees could hide your body, but none of this mattered if you couldn’t find Yuuji. Time was running out, and you felt your chest heaving with each breath, panic filling your nerves as you looked around. 

“Yuuji!” You whisper again helplessly, your eyes wringing shut in pain, head falling back as you clench your fists, “Where-”

A hand lands on your shoulder from somewhere behind, and you can’t control the little yelp that escapes your lips, scrambling away despite the pain flaring throughout your body as you try to shield yourself. But your shoulder fell, your face melting as you see his face come into view from the darkness. 

“Oh, oh,” you thank whoever that was watching over you with the most amount of gratitude as you limply crawl towards Yuuji, and he runs into your chest, his tears wetting your shirt as your hands shake when you hug him as tightly as possible. 

“You’re okay?” Your voice is muffled against his shoulder, “You hurt? Are you alright?” He nods feverishly against you, his fingers clenching into your jacket with such tightness that you don’t think he’d let go. 

“How’d you run so fast?” You ask worthlessly with a wet chuckle, your hand gripping the back of his head, the question non-existent because you were just happy to have found him safe and unharmed. 

“You told me to,” he murmurs back, and you give another soft chuckle, nodding, patting his back as you slowly pull away from him, wiping your eyes, and you smile wobbly at him, gently swiping at his red cheeks. 

You go to tell him something, but are interrupted by a cannon blasting. 

The sound that signals a tribute's death.

It’s normally supposed to come right after somebody dies, but they wait until the bloodbath is over to blast their cannons so that it doesn’t get confusing for those in the games and those watching. 

You count, looking up at the sky as you mouth the number of tributes after each boom.

It blasts twelve times. Twelve tribute’s dead. Twelve remaining. 

Tonight, they will put up the images of those fallen, and you wonder if you’re going to see the face of the boy you can’t seem to remember. A strange part of you hopes you don’t.

“We should go deeper into the woods,” you tell him after a beat of silence, chewing on your bottom lip, “Find someplace to camp for the night.” 

Yuuji nods, using the tree for balance as he rises to his feet. His limp makes it difficult for him to walk, run, or move too quickly, but you can see the way he’s trying his best not to let it hinder him.

You take a deep breath, readying yourself for the shooting pain you’re going to feel as you slowly mirror his movements, hissing through your teeth as your ankle throbs. It’s not broken, you asses, but it’s bruised. 

“Did somebody do that?” Yuuji asks quietly, pointing to your slightly angled foot that you’re trying not to put any weight on. 

You snort, shaking your head as your eyes shut for a second, fingers digging into the bark. 

“Just me,” you say through clenched teeth, letting out a small laugh as you point to your ear, “Lizzie nicked me though,” and Yuuji shuffles around to look at the dried blood on your neck, wincing on your behalf as you wave it aside, your ankle hurting more than the cut. 

Yuuji offers himself at your side, letting you use his arms for support, and you ruffle his hair, muttering a quiet thank you as you limp a little bit, your jaw ticking in pain as you see white. You wanted to lie down, wanted to stay there, but these games were not games, and you had to move. For both your sakes.

The two of you carefully move into the forest a little more, and you take the time to study the terrain. District 11 had small forests, nothing this big, but they still shared a resemblance, ranging from the tall and sprawling trees to the rich soil. Birds were chirping around you, the familiar caw of mockingjays chirping around the leaves and singing their rattling song. Sunlight peeked in through yellow rays, and for a moment, it didn’t feel like you were fated to die in a couple of days, but as if you were back home. As if your dying wish had somehow been granted by the head game-maker. 

Yuuji stayed silent by your side, his head tilted upwards, mouth gaping in awe as he too tried to take it all in. The two of 

“Gojo helped me.” 

Your head snaps down to Yuuji’s sudden words, startled, your brows scrunched up in confusion. 

“What?”

Yuuji looked embarrassed, his cheek flushing pink as he looked away from your narrowed eyes. 

“The girl from seven had run after me when I went into the forest,” Yuuji explained, pointing to the scratch marks on the back of his neck, marks that you thought came from the twigs and leaves but now realize resemble nail marks, “And someone pulled her off of me, Gojo pulled her off of me,” he stammers, “He killed her, but…but he let me go,” Yuuji says bashfully, a look in his eyes, something that’s empty  if he wasn’t explaining something horrific no twelve-year-old should have seen, “I thought said didn’t have any allies?”

Your mouth opens, but words struggle to come out. 

What did he gain from sparing Yuuji?

“Yeah,” you mutter, dazed, “I thought so too.”

Labeling Gojo an ally is putting too much trust and safety in him, but you wonder if his words from that day in the training center actually carried some weight. 

I want to help you. 

You don’t have the stomach to say anything after that, the two of you walking quietly next to each other as leaves crunch under your boots and rustle above with the wind. 

When you’re satisfied that you’re far away from any other tribe, you look around, trying to look for a tree that has stable branches that would not only withstand you climbing them, but be strong enough so that you two could sleep on. 

“There,” you point to a particularly big tree with even bigger-looking branches, “Can you climb up that one?”

Yuuji stared at it, chewing on his cheek as he gave a slow, unsure nod. 

“I think so,” he lifted his right leg slightly as if you forgot, “I’ll try.”

You smile, walking over to it as Yuuji helps you lean against its thick trunk. Your ankle was a little better, still sore to the touch, but you knew it should be better tomorrow. 

“Did you climb a lot back home?” You ask him, and Yuuji gives a little grin as he thinks back to fond memories, ones with his brothers after a long day of work. 

“Yeah,” his eyes twinkle, “But Sukuna was always faster than me. So was Choso.” His smile falters as he thinks about his family, ducking down so you wouldn’t see it. 

“Well, good thing I’m not racing you then,” you say teasingly, hands perched on your hips as you look up to one of the branches. 

“I’ll help you up, okay? Try to make it to that branch over there,” you point to the one you deemed the strongest, and Yuuji hummed in agreement, letting you kneel so you could cup your hands together so that he could place his right foot in it. 

You heave him up, trembling with the added weight on your injured ankle, and grunt as you push him above your head. He grips onto the trunk, slowly using his better leg to haul himself up and up and up until he gradually disappears into the leaves. 

You wait for a moment before he calls out, all good and take a deep breath before you do the same. 

Back in 11, you used to climb trees to pick apples and oranges if you weren’t working in the fields. You were used to doing this, but not with an injury and not without somebody below to spot you in case something happened. 

But you take your time, placing your feet meticulously and carefully as you haul yourself upwards, your head peeking through the branches as you find Yuuji squeezed to the side to make room for you as he rests his back up against the trunk. 

When you finally can get to where he is, you plop down on your chest, heaving as your chest exhales with each laborious breath. 

“I won,” he said cheekily, and you snorted, pushing at his foot as you crawled next to him, moving your hurt leg so that it could rest in front of you. 

After a minute of cooling down, you suddenly remember the pack you had snatched, eyes widening when you feel around your shoulders, pulling it off by the straps and placing it down between your bodies. 

“How’d you get that?” He asks, shocked, voice tinged with a little excitement as the two of you scramble to open all the pockets. 

“Uh,” you think back to the moment, “It was on the side of the Cornucopia before Lizzie hit me. And then…”

Gojo. He helped you again. 

Yuuji’s waiting for you to finish, but you shake it off, not wanting to admit to the tribute from one who has helped you twice, and it hasn’t even been a full day yet. 

The bag has a few packs of dried nuts and berries and some jerky. There’s an empty canister for water, some tape, wire for snares and traps, and some rope. There’s no weapon in the bag, but you remember Lizzie’s knife from earlier that you pocketed. 

Yuuji pulls out a roll of gauze and matches, holding them triumphantly.

“We’ll ration the nuts,” you tell him, “I don’t hear any streams, but if they gave us a bottle, there should be a source of water somewhere. I’ll go looking tomorrow, okay?”

Despite your throat being parched, and his most likely too, you knew you had to rest. If you put too much stress on that ankle, it was going to get worse before it got better. 

“Okay,” Yuuji repeated, tearing into the open bag you offered him as he took a small handful, mindful to take just enough, and began eating. 

You did the same, placing each piece in your mouth as you tried to savor the taste and eat as slowly as possible. 

In this artificial biome, you let Yuuji rest his head on your shoulder, the two of you looking upwards at the sky as you wait for night to fall. 

—-

The anthem began playing, startling you out of your sleep. Yuuji said he’d take a watch for a little bit, and you know you should’ve done it, but exhaustion had settled deep in your bones, and you wouldn’t be of much help if you were this tired. 

You sit up, craning your neck to look at the top of the star-ridden sky as the faces of tributes begin flashing, girls first, then boys. 

A part of you eases when you don’t see Gojo, as it jumps straight to the girl from District 3, but you instantly feel tense, realizing that it means the rest of the Careers were still alive. 

You smile as neither Evelyn nor her brother makes it on the screen, having evaded death for the first day in the games. You continue to watch as the rest of the fallen tributes are shown before the screen flashes, the artificial night sky being all that remains. 

Swallowing thickly, you nudge Yuuji with your elbows, hoping that he wouldn’t be too shaken up. 

“Hey, how ‘bout you sleep a little?” You smile softly, and he yawns, rubbing at his eyes as he nods sluggishly, curling up into your side as you make some room for him. 

Crickets chirp and leaves rustle, a strange and gentle ambiance that reminds you of nights back home listening to nature out on the back porch. It was oddly calming, and you tilted your head back, Yuuji’s quiet snores resonating through your chest. 

You tightened the rope around your bodies, wrapped in case you moved and got close to falling off, and did your best to fight off sleep. 

You almost gave in before you heard a snap, the sound echoing through the woods as your body shot straight up. 

Looking underneath you, the sounds became more frequent, as was the unforgettable sound of human voices. 

You gently shook Yuuji up, his head poking from where it was on your shoulder as you held a finger up to your mouth, warning him to stay silent. 

With your other finger, you motioned down to the ground, and you both looked on opposite sides of the branch as the voice grew nearer. 

“…it was so stupid! Like yeah, come at me with a knife!” A girl's voice said loudly with a laugh, the others around her laughing along, “Didn’t he get a three, four, for his evaluation? I swear, some of them were just asking for it.“

Lizzie. 

“That big oaf from five, what’s his name? Maximum? Maxmus? Did you see how he survived my hit? Probably went crying to his sister somewhere.” This voice, you know, it’s the boy from 2, Tiberian. 

They’re almost right beneath you and Yuuji, and the two of you are barely breathing, not even blinking, so that neither of you makes a sound.

Just your luck that they’d choose here to set up camp for the night. 

“Hey,” Lizzie calls out to someone, and you watch as she bends down a little to look at the ground, her red hair falling into her face as she roughly pushes it back, “Do these look like footprints to you?”

You swear you feel your heart stop. 

You motioned for Yuuji to sit up and stop looking over the edge, hoping that it was dark enough and enough leaves surrounded you so that even if they were to look up, you’d both still be covered.   

“Maybe? It’s probably somebody who went ahead.”

Gojo. 

Yuuji snaps his head over to you, eyes wide as you press your fingers back to your lips, begging for him to stay silent. 

Lizzie hums, as if she doesn’t believe him, but stands back upright as she looks around, seeming to think the area good enough. 

“You’re still mad at him?” A voice says with a slight giggle. It’s the girl from 2, Arvina, and Lizzie groans, throwing her packs of food and weapons on the ground as she rests up against the tree. 

“I almost had her!” Lizzie whines, “That bastard didn’t need my help!”

Arvina and Tiberian chuckle, helping Lizzie and Gojo unpack, talking casually with each other as they each go over who screamed the loudest or who was harder to kill, as if they weren’t discussing the end of someone’s life. 

“You ever‘gonna tell us about that Capitol girl?” Tiberian asked who you assumed was Gojo, but he just grunted in response, shaking his head as he piled up some shrubbery and dried leaves into a pile for burning. 

“Come on!” Lizzie pressed, pulling her hair up as she tied it with some spare string, “We should know, right?” 

The others made noises of agreement, but you watched as Gojo waved them off, working quietly as he began striking some matches up against the side of a coarse rock he had found. 

When one of the sparks lands, the pile catches fire, and red and orange flames suddenly illuminate their faces. They all huddle around it, not worried about the smoke that can surely be seen for miles to come, because they could easily take care of anybody who came their way.

“You shouldn’t worry about the girl from 11,” Gojo says gruffly, evading the subject as he goes back to Lizzie's first complaint, and your breath hitches slightly, angling your head ever so slightly to hear him better, “She’s all bark.”

Your brows furrow, nose wrinkling as Yuuji tenses next to you. 

“Doesn’t explain why she got a ten,” Lizzie mumbles bitterly, sitting up against the tree as she stretches her legs out, “You can’t exactly bark at sponsors, can you?”

Arvina snorts, sitting down next to Lizzie as she starts unraveling her two braids, her long brown hair falling in waves around her back. Lizzie is the youngest of the Careers, coming in at sixteen while the others are all eighteen, yet she tries her best to act the oldest and most mature. 

“No, no, not yet,” Tiberian snaps his fingers at Arvina, and she lets out a dramatic groan, heaving herself back up as she smacks him on the chest, “Still need your help setting up some snares around here.” 

The tributes from 2 take some wire and bait from their packs, bidding their momentary goodbyes to Gojo and Lizzie as they set back out into the darkness, leaving them alone. 

Gojo sits against a larger rock, one knee pulled up to his chest as he rests his arm on it, the flames flickering around his features, making his eyes seem an even brighter blue. You watch him as he blinks slowly, jaw slightly clenched as if he were deep in thought. His white brows cinch together, his muscular frame casting a shadow up until where the fire was crackling away. 

His hand that rests on the ground traces something on the dirt, and your fingers dig into the branch as you watch him study you and Yuuji’s footsteps. 

“I’m hungry,” Lizzie comments offhandedly, digging into their stash of dried fruits and jerky as she rips one of the bags open with her teeth, “Want some?” 

She offers the bag to Gojo, but he shakes his head. She shrugs, leaning back up against the trunk as they sit in silence. Instead of eating, Gojo tilts his head slightly as he looks at the trial of marking, noting mentally how they stop just at where Lizzie was sitting. Slowly yet surely, his chin tilts towards the sky.

You watch as Gojo’s eyes flicker up the tree, and how they widen when they meet yours. 

He stays quiet, not saying anything as the two of you lock gazes with each other, waiting with bated breath, neither of your chests moving for a second. 

His face is blank, void of emotion. The blood is roaring in your ears, hands gripping onto Yuuji’s tight as you hold your stare with his. Gojo stays like that for a little more before moving back to poke at the fire with the tip of his sword, as if nothing had happened. 

You see the way his lips tilt a little bit, 

As if he were containing a smile. 

—

You couldn’t sleep that night. 

Yuuji whispered to take over the watch, but you shook your head, letting him go back to sleep as he shuffled next to you. 

Even when those beneath you put the fire out and laid their heads down, you didn’t let your eyes close. You couldn’t, didn’t trust Gojo enough to believe that he would give you away if he had the right opportunity. 

When morning comes and the sun peeks through the trees, you fight back a groan, rubbing at your eyes as you squirm around uncomfortably, the rough groove of the trees digging into your back. 

Somebody beneath you lets out an unnecessarily loud yawn, one that wakes Yuuji up as his head tilts to look down, annoyance in his features as you give him a shared smile, rolling your eyes. 

Hungry? Your mouth and Yuuji’s hand fly down to his stomach comically, as if trying to contain the instant rumble that it gave. 

You laugh softly, carefully moving your bag to your lap as you gently pull out some nuts and berries you had rationed throughout the night, giving a handful over to Yuuji. 

He stares at it, accepting it, but pauses as he points to his throat sheepishly. 

Thirsty.  He mouths back, and you feel guilt shoot through your veins. You’d promised to go looking for water today. 

You look down again, watch as Lizzie twitches in her sleep, curling deeper into a ball on the forest floor. Gojo is slumped against the rock, a knife in his hand, always prepared. Tiberian and Arvina are seated next to each other, mouths open with little snores escaping. 

You had no idea if they planned to stay here for the day, but you knew that this thirst wasn’t going to be quenched unless you did something about it. 

Knowing Yuuji and his limp, he’d make a lot of noise coming down the tree. Your ankle was a little swollen but significantly better than last night, so you knew you’d have to make the journey alone if it were even possible. 

Can you wait a little longer? You ask, and Yuuji bobs slowly, his lips chapped, but knowing that leaving your haven now could potentially mean death. 

You smile apologetically, squeezing his hand once. 

Finding your eyes fleeting back downwards, you watch as Gojo stirs a little bit, his face serene and calm in sleep. 

As if sensing your gaze, Gojo blinks an eye open, sitting up against the stone as he stretches his strong arms above his head, looking around to make sure everyone is still there. 

He tsks in annoyance when he sees Tiberian fast asleep, most likely supposed to be the last round of watch, but had given in to exhaustion. 

Gojo pushes himself off the ground, joints cracking as he stretches slightly. 

And then, carefully ,as if not wanting the others to sense what he was doing, he looked up. 

Up to you. 

Gojo looks as if he wants to make sure you’re still there. His shoulder moves down as he swallows, blue eyes squinting as you sit still. He runs his fingers through his hair, pushing it back as a sigh rumbles out of his chest. 

His hand falls to the side of his head, fingers pointing at the blood on the side of your face, something you haven’t had the opportunity to clean off yet. 

You okay? His mouth formed the shape of the words.

Was…was he talking to you?

You blink, startled and dazed. 

He’s still looking, as if expecting a response. 

Your hand flies up to your ear, wincing at the cut. Dried blood flakes off, and you rub at the side of your face where it mainly is, scratching it raw until nothing remains. Yuuji watches as you twist your head to see if Gojo is still there. 

One of his brows raised slightly, as if he were pressed for an answer. 

Your shoulders rise and fall in a sort of shrug, pointing down to Lizzie’s sleeping body. 

His stare follows your movements, lingering on her for a moment, and then flickers back to you as if understanding, but your attention was momentarily drawn away as Yuuji hastily tugs on the sleeve of your jacket. 

“Is Gojo talking to you?” Yuuji asks, bewildered, whispering harshly in your ear as he observes from the other side, and you shush him. He goes pink, and you want to apologize, but you are cut off when something small hits the side of your body. 

Baffled, you look down to see a small rock next to you. 

Your neck swivels to where Gojo was still standing, his arm reeling back to throw another pebble to catch your attention. He sheepishly puts it down when he sees your seething glare. He mouths a sorry. 

What do you want? You hope he can pick up the urgency in your tone, how much he’s messing with your psyche by acting like he was merely playing around instead of acting like he should be. 

Hungry? You watch his mouth form the words intently, and shake your head as you gingerly hold up the bag you had gotten from the Cornacopia. But then you pause, gnawing on your lip as you set the pack back down between your lap, carefully and quietly bring the empty metal canister out. 

Should you tell him? Tell him about the thing that’s hindering you and Yuuji from escaping?

By your calculations, he’s reached out to help you a couple of times, has helped you and Yuuji out already during the games, and hasn’t given away your hiding spot to the other Careers. You had spent the entire night waiting to see if he’d whisper something about your whereabouts, but his mouth never opened. You know that trusting him is still something difficult to ask yourself to do, but you wonder if, for some reason, he struggles to hurt you just as much as you struggle to hurt him. 

Need water, your mouth after a minute of debating, opening the lid of the bottle, and holding it upside down to show that it was bone dry. 

His eyes flash, an unreadable expression taking over his features. 

Gojo glances somewhere back in the forest, hands crossing across his chest as his jaw ticks, mulling something over. The sun has set in the sky, and birds are stirring awake with their loud and incessant chirps. It won’t be long until the others wake up, too. 

He suddenly points to somewhere down the trail, and you look behind the tree as if you could see what it was that he was ushering to. 

River, he voices wordlessly, water back there. 

Your brows raise slightly in surprise. 

The leaves around you rustle, the breeze kissing your cheeks as your mouth opens and shuts, as you contemplate something. Even if he was telling the truth, how could you even begin to try an leave without the others noticing? How could you trust that there wouldn’t be an ambush when you got back? What’s it to say that he’s just trying to coax you to come down so he could kill you himself? 

As if understanding your hesitancy, Gojo offers you a small smile, one that seems almost genuine, as his head ducks and he looks down at the sleeping tributes surrounding him. 

He walks over to Lizzie, nudging her with the tip of his boots as she flinches, raising upwards as she yawns again, rubbing at her eyes as she cranes her neck up to look at him. 

“What?” Lizzie snaps groggily, yawning again as she pushes his boot away. You watch as Arvina and Tiberian slowly start waking up after the noise. Arvina lifts her head from where it was resting on Tiberian’s shoulder, cracking her neck as she presses her palms into the sockets of her eyes to help her come back to her senses.

“Wake up,” Gojo tells her gruffly, his voice rough and hardened, a drastic difference from how you remembered him speaking to you. “Keep watch. I’m going to get some water.”

Yuuji pokes your thigh, a bright and excited grin on his face as he actively listens in on what Gojo is saying. You gave him a wobbly smile in return, still not liking what was happening but trying your best not to worry him. 

“Mhh, fine,” Lizzie says, sleep still laced in her tone as she lazily puts her hair up, standing up as she ventures around to find one of her packs. She tosses Arvina some jerky, and she tears it open and holds it next to Tiberian so that they can share breakfast. 

Gojo takes his weapons with him, giving you a brief look that would’ve just seemed like he was scoping the area out to the others before he set off with a slight jog in the direction he claimed the stream was located. 

Lizzie watches him disappear into the trees, glancing over to where the other two were sitting and eating, moving a strand of hair away from her face as she exhales a big puff of air, her foot tapping quickly. 

“Do you want to do it now?” She whispers after a few seconds, and Arvina looks up from her packet of jerky, mouth full as she slowly chews, swallowing tickly as she peeks over at Tiberian, waiting to see what he was planning to say. 

Tiberian’s fingers curl around the spear he kept right next to him, nodding. 

“Yeah,” he mutters, his finger poking at the tip, his finger pulling back, pricked with blood, “When he comes back.” 

Your eyes squint as you try to pick up their whispered words, confused at their sudden change in conversation, one that they didn’t want Gojo to overhear in case he was still around. 

“I’m still going for his head, right?” Arvina asked, looking between the two tributes as she flipped the knife around in her hand, catching it repeatedly by the handle, “Or do you want to switch with me?” She points the weapon at Lizzie as she gets to her feet, dusting the twigs and dirt from her pants. 

“No,” Tiberian shakes his head, accepting Arvina’s extended hand as he stands, “Lizzie’s shorter than him, it wouldn’t work.” 

Arvina snorted, pulling her hair from over her shoulder as his deft fingers started to quickly put it into a long, glossy braid. 

“True. Plus,” she throws the braid over her shoulder as she shrugs, “She couldn’t even kill that girl from 11. She’d probably freeze if-”

“Hey!” Lizzie snapped, her freckled face turning red with both embarrassment and anger, “I had her, okay? Gojo just-” 

“What?” Tiberian cut her off, his shoulder knocking hers as he picked up the other spear near her foot, “He called for you? And you went over like a puppy to its bitch,” He twirled the spear around, testing its weight as he pulled his shoulder back, acting like he was going to throw it in the direction Gojo had gone, “Still got that little crush on him?”

Lizzie blushes even more, if possible, and swats at his shoulder harshly, grumbling curses under her breath. 

“Arvina goes for his head, I go from the left, and Lizzie…” Tiberian goes through their premeditated plan as he snaps his fingers at her, and she waves him off. 

“I go right, yeah, I know.”

They all discuss quietly how they’d try to take Gojo down, where to hide to take him by surprise. They discuss these plans as if it were second nature to them, as if it’s been in the works for a while. 

Yuuji tugs on your hand, eyes filled with worry, as he starts putting together what’s going on. 

They’re planning to kill Gojo.

—-

You couldn’t out-power them. 

The measly knife you stole from yesterday could do some damage, but you’ve never had experience using one to fight before, and you doubt that the three of them would fall to your mercy with it. Not only that, but you had Yuuji, too. If you left, they might come after him, and that was something you weren't going to risk. 

Besides, you were still on the fence about risking your life for someone you barely knew. 

But somewhere deep down in you felt compelled to at least try. He spared your life once; you owed him that much. 

Then you’d be even, and maybe he’d stop coming after you. 

You studied the trees surrounding you. If you tried, you might be able to travel from branch to branch, be able to move above ground, and notify Gojo that way. But you didn’t know how fast you’d be able to move with a bruised ankle, nor how quietly. Although it was your best option. When you were little, you always used to fly through the branches back home, competing with the other kids to see who could make it to the edge of the District fastest. 

It had been nearly twenty minutes, and Gojo wasn’t back yet, but you knew he’d have to return sooner or later. This was your only chance at giving him a heads-up. 

You knew you’d be leaving Yuuji alone, but he was the one who offered the idea. 

“He helped me,” Yuuji whispered hastily, untying the rope around your waist, wanting you to get a move on things, “And you. We owe him.”

Curse his kind heart. 

“I,” you look worriedly at the ground. If you fell, you knew you wouldn’t survive, “I’m not sure, Yuuji…” but you knew that deep down your mind was already made. 

He gave you a pointed look, grabbing the knife from your hands as he shoved you a little bit. 

“I’ll have this, you go.”

After another moment of mulling it over, your fists clenched, shaking your head at the absurdity of it all. 

You were really doing this. 

“Fine, fine,” you shuffle, easing your way to stand up, using the trunk to stabilize yourself as a surge of pain flashes through you, but you push it down, giving Yuuji one last chance to go back. 

But you’ve never seen him so determined. 

“Stay safe,” you whisper, “You yell, yell as loud as you can if something happens, okay?”

“Okay,” he says hurriedly, hands pushing at your legs to get you moving, “Just go!”

You nod, turning around as you look over at the trees to see which branches are more stable-looking than the others, which ones would provide a clearer path to where you wanted to go. 

And with one careful foot after the other, with one deep breath to calm your nerves, you turn around the trunk to the branch on the other side and just start flying. 

You don’t remember the last time you jumped between branches. The first jump you take, you almost slip, some bark flaking off as it falls to the ground. The tributes look up, confused, but thankfully, you’re covered by the leaves, and they wave it off as an animal. 

You move again, leaping more carefully, the movements something that comes back slowly like muscle memory, as your hands are outstretched to help you keep balance. Your feet don’t make any noise when you land, the wind whipping past your face as you channel every bit of adrenaline into making sure to just keep running. 

With eyes both in front of you and beneath you, you try not to run into any trunks, but are still trying to see that flash of white that you could recognize from miles away. 

You grow more tired as you keep running, no sight of Gojo even as you get closer and closer to the forest edge. 

Pausing on a particularly thick branch, you stop to catch your breath, your body lined with sweat and chest heaving as you look everywhere, anxiousness filling your nerves. This was a terrible idea. What if they found Yuuji? What if Gojo had already arrived, what if…

That’s when you see him. 

He’s cutting through the thicker bushes, sword clinging as he treks through the forest with his pack strapped on his back. Gojo looks calmer, his face not so bunched up as it was before. 

You brace yourself as you start jumping, not caring if your cheeks and hands are getting torn up by the sharp thorns and twigs. 

There was only a little bit left when you suddenly slipped, your bad ankle rolling under the weight, and you fell off the branch, letting out a yelp as you fell through the air. 

Your hands scramble to grab onto anything, your body hitting against the green leaves and other branches as you fall helplessly to the forest ground. 

Luckily, your left hand grabs onto a thinner branch, your body jolting as you let out a whimper of pain, eyes screwed shut as you dangle helplessly. 

“11?”

It’s him. 

“11, is that you?”

Your mouth is open in a quiet whimper, your hand barely holding on as you oddly angle your head to look at who’s standing underneath you. 

Gojo’s waiting at the base of the tree, chin tilted upwards as he looks at your dangling body. 

You give him a humorless chuckle, clipped as you hiss at the rough texture digging into your skin. 

“How’d you know?” You call down sarcastically, your other arm swinging upwards as you try to grab on. The branch creaks, and you frantically look at where it was sprouting from the trunk as it was slowly yet surely cracking. 

“Seems like you’re the one doing the stalking now,” Gojo says with some mirth in his voice, “Can’t stay away from me?”

Your lips pressed tightly together as you try to grab onto the branch again, but the branch bends even more, and the smile on his face falls when he realizes what’s going on. 

More splinters go flying, and your arm that’s holding on is slipping, your fingers doing their best to dig harder into the wood. 

Gojo runs down beneath you, throwing the sword on the ground. 

“Let go,” He cups his hands around his mouth, “I’ll catch you!”

The branch creaks again, splinters flying as you wince, surveying your odds of dying, splattering on the ground, or at the hands of the most skilled tribute here. When the branch gave a notably loud snap and your body was shoved down even more, you gave up, hand unfurling as you let yourself fall. 

The winds whip around you, your legs and arms flailing around your body, twisting and turning, teeth clenching in pain as different thorns and leaves keep cutting your cheeks, the back of your hands, anything that they can latch onto as you get closer and closer to the ground.

Your eyes squeeze shut, waiting for the impact, but it never comes. 

Peeking one open, you see Gojo’s face looking down at you, one arm around your waist, the other hooked under your knees as he observes you worryingly. 

You give yourself a second to catch your breath before you scramble out of his hold, heart pounding rapidly, trying to ignore the heat underneath your cheeks. 

He watches you, confused, but your hands rest on your knees as you heave up and down, wiping away at the sweat on your forehead. You balance up at him, the first time you’ve seen him since the interviews, and offer him a twisted look. 

Gojo swivels his bag around, unzipping the first pocket as he takes something out of it, offering it to you. 

A bottle of water. 

You look at it, your brow slightly raised at his outstretched hand. Gojo waits, understanding your reluctance as he unscrews the top, drinking some of it to show that it wasn’t tampered with. 

When he hands it back, you take it instantly, chugging half of its contents, saving the other half for Yuuji. 

“Thanks,” you say after wiping the water droplets from your chin, giving him the bottle back as he pockets it, nodding silently. 

He gives you a second to recuperate before you’re able to gather your thoughts. 

“They’re,” You heave, coughing at the strenuous way you’re still breathing, “They’re planning,” you take in another steadying breath, “They’re planning to kill you. Lizzie, Arvina, Tiberian. I overheard them.”

Gojo’s smile doesn't waver, as if he doesn’t believe you. 

Scoffing, you motion to the trees you just ran through, showing him the cuts on your hands and arms, traces of blood lining your face as well. 

“You think I would’ve gone through all,” you wave wildly around to the trees, “This just to lie?” You roll your eyes at the audacity of him, muttering just how unbelievable he was and regretting overdoing this as you put your hands up in disbelief, “Unbelievable. Fuck, fine, don’t believe me. But we’re even now, okay?”

You look around while trying to block the sun out, wondering just how you’d be making your way back when Gojo speaks up. 

“Even?” 

You look at him from the corner of your eye. 

“Yeah,” you say slowly, looking at him through furrowed brows, “You saved Yuuji and…me, I guess, so…even.”

He pushed some of his stray hair away from his face, biceps bulging, and you tried not to look too long at the sight. 

“Do you think-”

But he gets cut off by a distant scream. One that sounds like your name. 

Your necks snap back to the forest where everyone was gathered, your eyes widening with fear as you whisper, “Yuuji,”

Gojo glances back at you, and you stutter, trying to move but almost falling back on your foot as you yelp at your ankle you had just busted again. 

“Yuuji, he’s there,” you’re stammering, slurring your words with fear and anxiety as you shuffle closer to him, your hand gripping his arm in a pleading way, “Please, I-I can’t-”

You know you’re asking things from him that he shouldn’t grant you. That there should be no normal place where a tribute from District 1 would ever want to help anybody besides their allies, why he shouldn’t killl you as you stood in front of him, but Gojo had this sort of determined look in his eyes that mirrored yours.

“Get on my back,” he says, rushing, packing everything up, throwing his bag off so you could climb on, but you just look even more startled. 

“Hurry!” Gojo snaps, and you don’t have time to wonder how in the world he’s going to be able to carry you and this pack at once but he just moves around, letting you slowly grab around his shoulders, your arms tightening around his neck, and legs wrapping around his back as you shrug the pack over yourself. 

Shockingly enough, Gojo started running as if nothing was weighing him down. You assumed that all the added muscles and training helped with this, but you were shocked at how well he was able to maneuver around the trees and shrubbery while still maintaining his speed. 

This has now been the third time he’s helped you out, and at this point, you wonder if it would benefit you to start making a list of how many times you’re indebted to him. 

You blink back tears, a dark thought spotting, hoping that they didn’t get to him first. 

Eventually, Gojo comes to a halt, your chest pushing into his back with the momentum, and you groan, the wind getting knocked from your lungs. 

The two of you are hidden by some large bushes and can hear the Careers a short distance away, shouting and laughing at something. 

You climb off of him, carefully not to make a sound as you peek in between the leaves to see them huddled around the tree you had been pointing to…Yuuji. 

Lizzie is smiling gleefully, laughing maniacally as Yuuji tries to climb higher, but his right leg hinders him. Tiberian is off his spear with a rock, trying to get it even sharper. 

You watch with your mouth falling open, eyes watering as Yuuji screams for you again, gripping onto the tree trunk for dear life. 

Gojo winces, looking over at your stricken face, and his hand comes to hold your wrist. You flinch, shaking your head helplessly, your bottom lip trembling. 

“I’ll take care of them,” he whispered once again sternly, a steady promise, “Don’t worry.”

“But you just have the one sword, it’s three of them, I-I can’t help with-”

He snorts, squeezing your wrist gently before dropping it, twisting the handle around in his hand as he tests its weight. 

“Just wait till it’s safe to come out,” Gojo murmurs, his eyes holding a peculiar weight, as if he could already see the scene playing out in front of him, “Okay?”

You nod limply, your face morphing into something cold and fierce when you hear Yuuji scream again. Gojo does one last take of you before disappearing somewhere into the blend of trees. 

Waiting with baited breath, watching the opening as Arvina steps in next to Lizzie, yielding her arm back, the knife catching the sun as it shines. She throws it up, and you can almost hear it whizz. 

Yuuji narrowly swerves it, his cheeks pink with tears as he trembles in fear. 

Tiberian moves so he’s crowing the tree, two sharp spears in his hands as he throws them up and down, catching them with a metallic clink in his hands. 

With their backs now to the woods, you visualize what attack plan Gojo must be formulating in his head. You crouch, looking from another opening as he emerges, silent as a mouse, from behind. 

His steps are methodical and calculated, making sure not to make any noise as he creeps up on them. You hold your breath, hoping that they couldn’t hear him over the ruckus they were stirring up. 

Yuuji lets out a particularly gut-wrenching cry, one that strikes deep into your heart. You silence the little sob that escapes your lips, covering your mouth.

Gojo moves with a precision that only a skilled craftsman has, lunging forward towards Tiberian as his sword glints like gold in the yellow light filtering through the thousands of leaves from above. 

Arvina turns her head at the slight noise, but it’s too late.

Gojo’s blade cuts clean through his neck, and you flinch, turning quickly away to not see the gruesome sight. Lizzie lets out a scream when Tiberian’s body hits the ground with a harsh thud. 

Arvina reels back, ready to swing, but realizes that the knife that was once in her hand is now lost up in the trees, and falls as Gojo’s second victim, his sword searing her chest. 

She looks up at him, dark brown eyes reading something of betrayal as if she wasn’t planning to do that same moment ago. Blood pools around her uniform, and when Gojo shifts, his sword moving with him, her knees buckle, and she falls somewhere near Tiberian. 

Lizzie was the last one remaining, and you watched as she scrambled to find one of her knives she had pocketed. You hear her beg for mercy, pleading and crying, but Gojo grants her nothing but. 

When you hear the three canons finally blast, you nearly run out from your hiding spot, over to where Gojo was standing, his chest moving up and down with each laborious breath. 

So much for the Career pack, you think mordaciously.

You share a look, but you don’t have time to worry about that as you glance up to Yuuji, relief flooding through you when you see him relatively unharmed. 

“I’m coming, Yuuji!” You scream, and he lets out something incoherent, watching as you plan how to climb back up to him. 

Gojo wipes his sword with some leaves, the blood coming off with a chilling, slick sound, splattering on the ground. 

“You can’t climb with that ankle,” he wryly comments, and you huff in irritation, scrambling to come up with a solution. 

“Have him fall,” Gojo continues, “I can catch him.”

You look torn, looking between Yuuji and Gojo as you think about what could happen if things went south. 

“I…I don’t know,” you mutter, “He has his leg and…” you trail off, but Gojo is quick to understand the underlying resistance in your words. 

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tilted his head up at the sky, trying to make sense of the strange way your mind works. 

“Look, I just killed three tributes,” Gojo says with a cocked brow, pointing to the three bodies behind you with the tip of his sword, as if not believing why you still weren’t trusting him, “I could’ve killed either one of you multiple times. Don’t you think that maybe I want to help you?”

But why are you questioning what you want to yell? 

“I think I’d rather he catch me!” Yuuji calls from above, having heard the little quarrel, and the two of you watch as he shuffles around on the branch. 

You think for a few more seconds before nodding, motioning for Gojo to go and do his thing. He gives you a tight-lipped smile, moving past you to the base of the tree with his arms outstretched. 

Trying not to look at the bodies around you, you keep your gaze focused on Yuuji, telling him which direction to go so that he could land the safest way and with the least amount of impact. 

“There! Right there!” You call out, chewing all of your nails off as Yuuji looks at you and then to Gojo one last time before he closes his eyes and jumps. 

He whizzes downwards, and Gojo catches him with a thump, his legs dangling off his strong arms as a smile graces his face. 

You let out the breath you had been clinging to, running over to him as Gojo carefully sets him on his feet, throwing your arms around his shoulders as you murmur apology after apology. 

Yuuji pats your back, comforting you for some reason as his ears twinge red. As if you were one of his siblings, he tries to pull away, now suddenly feeling self-conscious of having the strongest men he’s ever seen be witness to your meltdown.

“I’m okay,” Yuuji mumbles, embarrassed, wiping off the kiss you pressed to his cheek, eyes darting to Gojo’s before he quickly looks away. 

You laugh wetly, pushing his hair away from his face as you wipe at your cheeks. 

Chewing on your bottom lip, still crouched on the ground as Gojo towers above you, your eyes soften for the first time since you’ve been in these games.  

“Thank you,” you whisper hoarsely, the words genuine and sincere, gentle as they pass across your three bodies and get swept with the wind, “Truly.”

Gojo swallows, his cheeks dusting pink at your praise, and waves it all off like it was nothing. 

You stand, trying to shield Yuuji from the chaos behind you as you rub a hand up and down his back, a soothing gesture to remind you that he’s alright. 

“You need water?” Gojo asks Yuuji, changing the topic suddenly, and it causes you to smile to yourself, hoping he doesn’t catch it. 

Yuuji nods feverishly, nearly knocking the bottle out of Gojo’s hands as he twists the cap off and chugs it off, done in seconds. He sips his chin, looking sheepishly at you, but you assure him you already had some to drink. 

“Thanks,” he says with a burp, giving him the now-empty bottle as Gojo’s lips tilt upwards, a grin on his face as he puts it back in his pack. 

A silence follows, leaving only the rustling branches and mockingjays' call to be heard. You wait for Gojo to say something, but he seems to be struggling just as much. 

Now what was the question that seemed to loom in the air?

“Do you want to join us?” Yuuji asked simply, seeing that nobody else was going to talk, his voice mellow as if he were asking Gojo what the time was. 

“Yuuji!” You hiss, aghast, brows raised into your hairline at his bold statement, your eyes wide as he looks at you with a shrug, glancing back over to Gojo like nothing was wrong. 

Gojo, also evidently taken aback by the request, says nothing for a second before chuckling to himself, the sound deep and reverberating through his chest as he eyes Yuuji, clearly not expecting him to be so bold given what he had seen from him so far.  

A scene flashes before you, back to that day in the training center when Gojo first approached you. 

You know he won’t make it long, he had said.

Your nose wrinkles in vexation at the memory, tugging Yuuji by the hand as you shake your head, giving Gojo a curt but formal smile as you take the bag Yuuji had managed to bring down from the tree, shrugging it over your shoulders, getting ready to leave. 

“No, no,” you answer on Gojo’s behalf, giving Yuuji a pointed look, “I appreciate the help, but I’m sure that he’d like to go-” 

“I wouldn’t mind,” Gojo says, a little fast, cutting you off as he winks at Yuuji, watching the way your face suddenly hardened up, “I wouldn’t mind joining you guys. That is,” he then looks to you, his face twisting into something teasing, his lips quivering as if he knew smiling would anger you even more, “If you don’t mind.”

Yuuji squeezes your hand a little tighter. 

You have to control yourself from not looking over your shoulder at the bloody scene behind you, his previous allies lying in a heap of blood, not even being taken out in over five minutes despite having trained their entire lives for it.

There was no way you could protect yourself and Yuuji against him if it came down to it. 

“How many times am I going to have to prove that I’m not going to kill you?” Gojo asked exasperatedly, and Yuuji seemed apologetic for his behavior, opting to look at the ground and move some of the scattered leaves with the tip of his boots. 

You rubbed at your nose, apprehension written all over your features. As dangerous as he was, you couldn’t deny the layer of protection he’d offer you and Yuuji if he stayed by your sides. Even if he didn’t plan to stay till the end, you could use the extra help he’d provide until he chose to part ways. 

But all that aside, what you wanted to know most was why? Why was he so keen on helping you? What did he gain from it?

You pointed to his sword after a minute of thinking.

“You give me your weapons,” you tell him firmly. 

Gojo handed the sword over without any hesitancy, as if your condition didn’t matter in the slightest to him. 

“And you walk in front of us.” You added quickly, and he raised his hands, his pink lips drawn into a smile, his blue eyes shimmering with a hint of childish excitement at how you eventually succumbed to his and Yuuji’s requests.

“Shouldn’t be too difficult with your ankle and his leg,” Gojo responds, and Yuuji snickers to himself, causing you to pinch the skin of his neck, and he yelps. 

“And…and you help us get food,” you stammer, repentant at having given in, “Not just nuts or berries.”

Gojo smiles smugly, nodding. 

“Is that all?” He asks after you don’t add anything else, and you don’t look him in the eyes, mumbling to yourself as you get ready to go. 

You close your eyes and think this through all over again before you give up. 

“For now,” you mutter under your breath, still in disbelief as you lead the way back into the first.

—-

You didn’t know where to go, but it was nearing the end of the second day of the games, and there were only nine tributes left, three of them being your weird and soon improvised ragtag team.

Gojo claimed that he had passed by another river when he had been scavenging yesterday, somewhere near the outskirts of the forest, but on the other side of where the Cornacopia was. He seemed confident in where he was taking you and Yuuji, but you remained as skeptical as possible, taking everything he told you with a grain of salt. 

“There’s no way you don’t think I’d lose in a fight to them,” Gojo gasped, appalled as Yuuji laughed, walking with a little skip in his step. Yuuji seemed to have lightened up, glad to have this extra bit of protection from the most capable tribute in the arena. Not only that, but shocking enough to you, Gojo had been entertaining all of his crazy ideas, questions, and stories the entire day. 

“You definitely would,” Yuuji assured him, “My brothers are huge.” Despite your telling him to walk a little bit ahead, Gojo had quickly forgotten this rule as he slowed down his long strides to match up with Yuuji. At first, you snapped at him to hurry up, but seeing how happy it made Yuuji to talk to him, you held yourself back. 

Yuuji pauses after saying something, looking up at you with a raised brow, waiting for your response. You hadn’t been fully listening to their banter, trying to keep your eyes and ears peeled because nobody else was, so you blinked back, confused. 

“What?” You asked, stripping your gaze away from the forest as you look over at Yuuji and Gojo. 

“Don’t you think Sukuna could be him in a fight? Fist to fist?” Yuuji repeats, and Gojo scoffs, rolling his eyes at the absurdity of the statement. 

You glance over at the other tribute, eyeing him from head to toe as you pretend to think about Yuuji’s question. The fact that you even had to think about it seemed to annoy Gojo even more. 

“Come on,” Gojo muttered in a peeved tone, “Are you seriously agreeing with him?” 

You give him an impish look, scratching your head. 

“I don’t know,” you confess, holding back your satisfied grin at the way Gojo looked shaken, “The twins are really strong.”

“Yeah!” Yuuji expciams excitedly, always happy to brag about his brothers, “Choso’s arms are like,” he tried to gauge with his small hands how big his brothers muscles were as he showed the size up to Gojo, “This big. Yours are…” he looked around, assessing Gojo’s muscles as he shrugged, looking over to you as he shook his head dejectedly. It seemed that Gojo’s arms were, in fact, as big as his brother's. 

You giggled softly, hiding your smile behind your hand as you looked at the leaves littering the ground. Unbeknownst to you, the sound nearly made Gojo trip over his own two feet, his heart pounding erratically as you shoved at Yuuji playfully.  

“I can’t believe I wanted to help you two,” Gojo muttered, rolling his eyes as Yuuji smiled brightly, skipping around Gojo as he always seemed to do. 

Despite your initial hesitation towards allowing Gojo to tag along, mainly for the comments he had made previously about Yuuji, it seemed that the young boy had quickly grown on the tribute. 

You had forced yourself to stay awake the first few nights, refusing to let Gojo take watch out of fear of him turning on you while asleep. After some protests, he gave up, shrugging indifferently as he let you watch in exhaustion. 

Sometimes Yuuji would shift unconsciously in his sleep, whimpering as nightmares got to him. Gojo woke up, assessed his face, and pushed against his shoulder, not in an annoyed way, but to ground him, as if he understood. When his hand first stretched, your hands curled against the hilt of his sword, but you watched curiously as Yuuji grumbled something underneath his breath and went back to sleep soundlessly. 

It had been three days since Gojo had been with you two, and in those three days, no other tributes had died. You suspected that the gamemakers weren’t too antsy yet, seeing how thirteen tributes had died so far and it hadn’t even been a full week, but you knew that if that canon stayed silent for any longer,  they’d be introducing more gruesome ways for you all to meet your end. 

You had also wondered what those watching had made from your strange alliance. Were the people in the districts intrigued? Angered? What did sponsors and game makers think of it? It was practically unheard of for somebody from a district as high as Gojo’s to team up with such a lower district, but it was hard ot predict what the reaction would be to it. 

“How’s your ankle?” 

Your head perked up from where you had been focusing on the roots scattering around the forest floor, glancing sideways at Gojo as he had slowed down his pace to match up with yours. Yuuji was a little bit ahead, knowing not to stray too far away from where you and Gojo could no longer be able to see him.

Your shoulders fell into a dismissive shrug, the dull ache still pulsing, but Gojo had fashioned a makeshift bandage that had wrapped around your foot, keeping it effectively in place. It was slightly awkward having this virtual stranger kneeling in front of you with your foot in your hand, but you hoped it was putting on a good show nonetheless. 

“It’s better,” you mutter, rolling it around gently, no longer feeling a sharp sting at a sudden movement, “It hurts, but…better.” 

He smiles smugly, not saying anything, as you just roll your eyes.

Gojo had suggested trying to put as much distance between the other tributes, which warranted walking around the edge of the forest during the day and staying somewhere hidden during the night. You had done the mental math and deduced that besides the three of you, the male tribute from three, Evelyn and her brother, Maxmus, from five, the girl and boy tributes from six, and the boy from ten were all that was left. Usually, this early into the games, more of the upper-level districts would still be alive, but Gojo took care of that issue. 

“And your ear?” 

Your hand absentmindedly reached upwards, the wound from Lizzie’s knife healing slowly, and it no longer hurts whenever you accidentally brush against it. Dried blood flakes off, and you give him a tight-lipped smile. 

“It’s fine,” you say curtly, looking away from him to focus more on Yuuji, who was still a little bit ahead of you. 

Gojo sighs, nodding to himself after your brief answer. In his defense, he has tried his best to show you that he’s not a threat. From the times when you’d wake up, terrified of having gone to sleep during a watch, you’d find him pointing at the fire, sitting just enough distance away to show that he didn’t mean any harm. He talked a lot, trying to fill the awkward and tense stretches of silence with something of substance. 

He was trying to make himself seem like a friend more than an ally, and that scared you. 

“We should set up camp somewhere near here,” Gojo murmured, and you squinted at the sun, watching as the color was getting a more fiery orange, a signal that it was planning to set within the next two hours. 

You hummed, a silent agreement, and fidelity with your fingers. You wanted to talk to him about things that sponsors and Capitol citizens shouldn’t hear. You wanted to ask questions that were subjected to an audience of spectators dissecting what they truly meant. You wanted to know why it felt like you knew him, before all this chaos, and why he remembered you. Where he remembered you. 

Don’t you remember me? His words still echoed in your head. 

“Is this what 11 looks like?” His voice brought you back from your endless thoughts, and you glanced over at Gojo as his head swiveled around to look at the tree line, not even looking at you as his eyes squinted from the rays of sunlight. 

“The outskirts,” you mutter softly, thinking back to home, “But it’s mostly just fields and factories.” 

He was like Yuuji in some ways. He always asked questions, picked and prodded, wanting to know more. You were reclusive, not knowing how much to say or how much you wanted him to know, but he was relentless. Gojo didn’t care much that you didn’t reciprocate, didn’t mind that you kept your answers short and curt, just glad to hear your voice. 

But in some sense, it was strange how easy a conversation with him was. Your reluctance to answer his questions was more for your own sake, which he didn’t mind, but not because it was difficult to talk to him. In some sense, it felt like you had known him for far longer than you did. In some sense, it felt like you had known him all along. 

And it’s not as though you don’t want to ask him things. But your questions are more deep-cutting than his simple surface-level ones. 

“1 is just buildings and factories,” Gojo says, unprovoked, “A lot more industrial. I think the first time I saw a tree was back at the training center.” 

You nodded, not knowing what to say as the leaves crunched under your boots.

The two of you walk in silence, watching Yuuji as he scavenges around for fruits and nuts, and you give it another minute before you say something to make it less unbearable. 

“It looks like home sometimes,” you add, solemnly taking in the way the shadows of the branches move as if they’re alive, “Honestly, sometimes I have trouble telling what’s real and what’s not.”

Gojo glances at you, a white brow slightly raised. 

“What do you mean?” His voice dips slightly, as if he’s a little surprised that you spoke in your own accord and didn’t want to scare you away. 

You shrug, chewing on your lip as you motion to the carefully constructed arena surrounding you. At the synthetic bird chirps and crickets, the way the leaves rustle and twigs scratch up against each other. To the untrained ear, maybe to him, it seems natural, like its nature. But when you listen, really listen, the cadence of the bird song is too robotic. The leaves are an unnatural shade of orange, and the bark flakes strangely. 

“This isn’t real,” you explain hurriedly, as if you don’t want him to think you were insane, “But I feel like if I let myself believe it and forget where I am, I’ll…I’ll think that I’m back at 11, you know? Back home where everything was normal,” you say with a heavy chuckle, looking ahead over to where Yuuji was bent over looking at a flower patch. 

“Like you forget you’re in the games?” He asks, pushing, and you glance over at him through the side of your eyes, nodding. 

“Yeah,” you swallow thickly, “Like I forget we’re in the games.”

Gojo nods, tongue in cheek, as he digests your words. He lumbers in height next to you, his strength almost overwhelming as you two walk in a strangely methodical rhythm. 

Yuuji stands up from where he was crouched, showing you a bushel of berries he had plucked from the bush, and you wave him over with a smile, opening your sack for him to put them in.  

“These look good, right?” Yuuji asks, holding them up to the light. You take them from his smaller hands, twisting and turning them around to make sure they didn’t resemble anything poisonous that you were familiar with. After you were sure they were safe, you nodded, ruffling his strawberry blonde mess of hair as he blushed pink, his cheeks that had been slightly burnt by the sun now looking even redder. 

Seeing this, you tsk, lips pressing together tightly as you try to think of something to do for the sunburn. You had no salve, and sponsors wouldn’t send any for something so minuscule. Yuuji was probably the palest kid in eleven, and the ladies back home always helped him out whenever he’d come back from the fields all red and splotchy. 

“You need some of Miss Maggie’s cream,” you tell him wistfully, squeezing his cheeks slightly to turn his head from side to side as he groans even louder, “You’re all burnt.”

Yuuji rolls his eyes, but a small look of longing flashes across his face. Miss Maggie was an older lady who ran the apothecary store near the district square. Her dark brown eyes were the kindest you had ever seen, her voice soothing and calm. She had no children but often took care of the kids as if they were her own. Yuuji missed her. You did too. 

Gojo watched the interaction quietly, just like he did with most of your interactions with Yuuji, and only decided to speak up once you had slung the pack back over your shoulders.  He goes to open his mouth but a sudden scream cuts him off.

The birds flap and fly away from the trees, their wings fluttering with each other in a cacophony of noise and screeching and yelling. You duck, and Gojo throws himself over you, shielding your body as the two of you look wildly around to where the noise came from. 

It was from somewhere deeper into the woods, the sound sharp but not close enough. 

“Yuuji!” You whisper harshly, motioning for him to run back quietly towards you. He abides wordlessly, and he situates himself into your open arms as Gojo wields his sword by the hilt, one arm thrown over your back protectively. 

Seconds later, a cannon blasts, and you flinch, your grip on Yuuji tightening. 

“We should move,” Gojo says in a hushed tone, his voice barely audible, “Go back-” 

Another scream. Another cannon. 

This time, he flinches with you. This isn’t normal. Nor was the way the ground was slightly shaking beneath you. 

Your brows furrowed in confusion, looking helplessly past the treeline to see if you could make out anything. The leaves were quivering, and the trunks were vibrating. You didn’t know if the arena itself was moving or if it was something worse, something that came in numbers. 

“We have to leave,” you say, your voice slightly wavering, but you try to keep it steady for Yuuji’s sake, “Take Yuuji, we’ll go closer to the Cornacupia, there has to be…” but you trail off, your words dying down as something in the distance caught your attention. 

It wasn’t a scream, at least, not a human one. A strangled cry, akin to an animal wailing, bounced off the trees, piercing your ears as the three of you almost fell to your knees at the grating noise. 

What in the world was that? 

“Are those…are those animals?” Gojo asks, startled, his grip on your waist growing impossibly tighter. 

Animals? You shake your head slightly, deep in thought. Animals wouldn’t make sense. It couldn’t be just any animal; the game makers were creative, above normality, and the bounds of nature. And with it still being early in the games, they must be part of the arena, something never seen before, waiting to be discovered by misfortune tributes. 

Your breath hitches when you figure it out. 

“Mutts.” 

There was an instantaneous unspoken understanding between you and Gojo, one that transcended words. You don’t remember pushing Yuuji towards him, but Gojo made haste with pulling him over his back, and you tightened the straps of your bag as you two sprinted backwards to the direction you had come from. 

You tried to push past the pain and throbbing that came from your ankle, knowing that it was protesting for you to stop, but you couldn’t, not now. The ground was shaking, and the branches were rustling with the movement of whatever mutt it was that the gamekaers had decided to release. 

Wind whipped past you, tigs cutting your face, and you pushed past the low-hanging branches as you tried not to look over your shoulder to where the snarls and wails of the mutts were getting louder and more prominent. 

Survival was the only thing on your mind; everything else, ranging from the blaring pain and the loud ig of your heart, came later. Gojo was running a little bit in front of you, carrying Yuuji on his back, seemingly doing little to slow him down. 

You knew looking behind your shoulder would hinder you, but one quick glance made your stomach churn and your blood run cold. 

Back home, there used to be wild pigs near the woods, one you’d see sometimes during the day. These mutts, around five from what you counted briefly, looked similar, but their hide was a coarse brown color, their eyes wide and black. But the worst part? Theirrazor-sharpp tusks gleamed in the sunlight, as if they were made of metal. 

You let out a strangled noise, shaking your head as you stumbled slightly, running as fast as you possibly could, trying to reach the outskirts of the forest and into the wheat fields that surrounded the Cornucopia. 

Gojo called your name amid this chaos, glancing over Yuuji to make sure you were alright. When he caught sight of the manmade beasts, creations of the sadistic gamemakers, he picked up his pace. 

The trees began thinning out and the field was coming into view. You had no idea how you were able to run so far and so fast with your busted ankle, but the adrenaline was taking over, and survival was the only thing you could think of at that moment. 

Loud squealing from the mutts echoed in your ears, and you pushed past the blades of grass that came around your hips as you and Gojo tried putting as much distance between you and the mutts as possible. 

Just when you thought you were getting further away, your foot, the same one with the injured ankle, caught on something jutting up from the ground, causing you to go flying too the ground. 

You let out a sharp noise, one of pain, fear, anguish, and clutch your foot in pain, tears dotting your eyes as you try to scramble away on your hands and knees. 

The mutts were getting closer, the grass was shuffling to accommodate their bodies, and you closed your eyes, accepting your fate. 

But that fate never came. 

You felt a gust of wind from over your head, and you peeked your eyes open to see Gojo jumping in front of you, weapons drawn, shielding your body with his as the boars continued to circle him. 

Your mind was reeling. Where was Yuuji, where was Yuuji, where was Yuuji?

You wanted to scream at him, at where he put Yuuji, but you couldn’t make a sound, paralyzed in fear as you watched Gojo brandish his sword to one of the boars that got close, swatting at them to get them to fear him. He made guttural noises, one to make them afraid, and you watched as the mutts slowly backed away, not looking for a fight, which was strange, and you watched Gojo’s back never relax until he was sure they had gone back to wherever they were hiding in the forest. 

He turned after a few beats of silence, the wind rippling around you, the sun blazing, and the sky artificially blue. Blades of grass tickled your cheek, and Gojo put the weapon back in his holster, running a hand through his hair as he finally took a deep breath. 

“You okay?” He asked simply, his voice heavy as you nodded, eyes shutting as you allowed yourself a moment to calm down. 

Gojo took it silently, knowing what you had just been through , and didn't push for an answer, and crouched down to where you had fallen, wrapping one arm around your shoulder as he gradually and carefully lifted you.

You whimpered and didn’t catch the way Gojo winced at the sound, but you hopped a little bit to find the right footing, leaning on his chest as your eyes welled with tears of pain again. 

“Thanks,” you whisper hoarsely, your voice wavering, “Again.”

Gojo’s smile was heavy, but he tried his best to wave it off, opening his mouth to give you one of his witty remarks when his eyes fell on something behind you. 

His face fell, and he pushed you away roughly, your body swaying slightly at the sudden movement. 

Everything happened so quickly, you barely registered it. 

Gojo throws Lizzie’s old weapon, 

A boy holding a knife to Yuuji’s chest. 

Lizzie’s knife pierces the boy's skull,

But not before his knife plunged into Yuuji’s stomach. 

One canon fired as the boy from ten hit the ground with a harsh thud, but it didn’t even hold a torch to the sound, the nearly inhuman scream that clawed its way out of your lungs. 

You pushed past Gojo, who was standing still, unmoving, pushed past the boy with the cracked open skull, and found Yuuji fallen, a few feet away from him. 

Yuuji, oh, Yuuji. 

He was shivering, his face clammy and pale. He was looking down at his stomach, his hands grasping the hilt of the knife that was sticking out of his stomach, looking up at you with big, watery eyes. 

Blood was pooling around his midsection, and the mandated jacket he was wearing was soaking with red. The flowers beneath his body were losing their white color and taking a new shade of something gruesome. He couldn’t speak, but was looking at you, terrified. 

Your lips trembled, hands shaking violently as you struggled to find words to say, tears falling uncontrollably from your eyes and splattering on his chest as you tried to think of something to do. 

“I-I, I don’t know what to…to do,” you gasp, struggling to breathe, “Don’t t-touch it, okay? I’ll get some - some help. I’ll get help,” you’re words at slurring together, your breathing blocking up as Yuuji’s chest began to move faster up and down with each labored breath, his chestnut eyes watching you with fear but still with trust trust, hoping you knew how to save him. 

Because you did. You were supposed to. You were supposed to save him. 

“I have some gauze,” you stammer, moving to get your pack but finding it to be missing, most likely having gotten lost somewhere you had fallen. “Let me g-get you the gauze.” You go to crawl back, but a sudden hand on your shoulder stops you. 

You look up, with tear-ridden cheeks, to see Gojo standing above you, blocking the sun with his tall frame, his eyes sullen and his hand slightly shaking. 

“Hurts,” Yuuji muttered, sending daggers through your heart, “It hurts.”

You choke back a sob, nodding quickly as you try to calm him down. 

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” you wipe your elbows across your face, blinking the tears away to help focus your vision, “Just…”

“Go get my bag,” you tell Gojo, pointing with a trembling hand to where it was, but he doesn’t move, seemingly stuck in place. 

“G-go, please,” you plead, shoving weakly at his legs as you let out a shaky whimper, looking back to Yuuji and the blood pouring out of him. 

But he didn’t move. 

There was so much blood. It was pooling around his stomach, it was stuck between the flowers that sprouted from the ground, and caking under your nails. Your hands trembled, trying to put pressure on the wound, but Yuuji whimpered, and your hands shot away. 

“Damn it, Gojo, go!” You screamed, your voice cracking as your chest rattled with another sob, “Go! Fucking move!”

Deep down, you knew it was useless. 

Your voice is escaping you as you push even harder at Gojo’s legs, trying to get him to move, but he stands firm, shuffling after a second to sit down next to you to hold your wrists in his hand, to stop your hitting and punching at his chest. 

Because he knew it was useless, too. 

You go to scream at him, to yell, but Yuuji’s voice, soft and choked, stops you. 

“Did,” he stops, taking a big gulp of air as blood trickles out of his chapped lips, “D’you see? I punched him so hard I b-broke his nose,” Yuuji tries to smile, by his lips are wavering, and a small sound of pain escapes them, his eyes wringing shut as he holds onto his stomach tighter. 

You let out a wet laugh, shuffling closer to him as you take his small, blood-stained hands in your own. You press them to your trembling lips, giving them a long, warm kiss as you nod. 

Gojo saw you struggling to speak, so he placed a hand on Yuuji’s shoulder, squeezing it gently. 

“Yeah, kid, we saw,” Gojo’s voice dipped, heavy with emotion as his eyes wavered, “You’re gonna have to teach how you did that later, okay?” Gojo gives him a kind and caring smile, his eyes slightly glossy, looking like a moving river. 

Yuuji grinned slightly, still feeling sheepish yet honored to be praised by Gojo. You chuckled softly at that, pushing strands of hair away that were stuck to his forehead as you brushed his eyebrow hairs into place, just as his mother would have done. 

Yuuji chews on his lip, trying to keep you from hearing his pain, but the sight alone makes you nauseous. 

“I,” he stops again, his chest heaving, his voice quiet and escaping him, so you lower yourself down to his lips, pushing the hair out of his face like you always down. Yuuji stops and lets out another whimper. 

“I never had a s-sister,” Yuuji says with a strained whisper, little tears escaping his eyes and rolling down the side of his face, “But…but I think that you’re the best sister I ever could’ve had,” he murmurs weakly, and upon hearing his words, you can’t control the sob that escapes you, holding onto his hands tighter as you nod silently. 

“Oh…sweetheart,” you let out a muffled cry, snot running from your nose as you grip his hand impossibly tighter, “You have no idea just how much…just how much,” you hiccup, laughing weakly as tears collect and fall from your chin, “Just how much you mean to me. ” You tell him sternly through all the tears, and the corners of his lips tilt slightly. His eyelids were fluttering, his grip on your hands loosening. 

He was choking on his blood now, and your hands were staining red from trying to put pressure on the wound. It was all happening so fast yet so slow that you couldn’t wrap your head around what was reality and what was not. 

Yuuji takes a ragged breath, his lips parting ever so slightly as he musters up the last bit of his strength to lean in closer to your ear, whispering ever so slightly,

“You have to win,” he struggles to say through the thick blood in his mouth, and your eyes shoot to his, and one last look of fight and strength flashes across his as he says, “Please.”

Before Yuuji’s hand grows limp in yours, before his body slumps onto the ground,

Before the canon blasts. 

—

It was night, and yet you hadn’t moved. 

You stared blankly at the dead body, never blinking, barely breathing. 

What if he got cold? What if he were hungry? What if he needed something to drink?

You knew he was dead and that those things didn’t matter. But what if you left, and the game makers did something to him? To little Yuuji, to the boy who was terrified of spiders but would put one in a cup if you asked him to. 

Fried tears stained your cheek, and blood caked on your hands and nails. It was gruesome and gory; it was death, it was the Hunger Games, and this is what viewers wanted to see. 

They wanted to see you spiral, they wanted to see you go insane and blood thirsty. But no matter how much you wanted to kill everyone in that arena, you know that Yuuji would’ve never let you do that. Especially in his name. 

So after some more time had passed, after the anthem played and they put his picture in the sky, you allowed yourself one spare glance up at it. 

You saw his picture and his cheerful smile staring back at you, his freckles, and the small mole next to his right eye. You saw Yuuji, not the Yuuji in front of you, but the one you remembered, and decided not to let the Games, the gamemakers, and the sponsors take him away the way they wanted to. 

Silently, you shifted, going towards the bag that Gojo had eventually brought, and unzipped the top. 

You scavenged around a bit, looking for something, and pulled it out after a few moments of digging. The metal flask, Yuuji’s flask, is still full of water from this morning. 

You went to unscrew the top, but your hands were shaking, fingers not able to pull and twist correctly. You struggled, slipping and sliding, when a sudden movement stopped you. 

Gojo. 

You thought he would have left hours ago, but he stayed. He didn’t say anything, and you were glad he didn’t. He let you mourn, he let you grieve the way you wanted.

He moves slowly, as if not to startle you. 

You watch as he grips the base of the flask, his eyes silently asking if it is okay to take it. Your grip loosens, and he curls his fingers around the top, twisting off the plastic cap gingerly and places the bottle back into your hands. 

You turn to Yuuji’s body, slowly tilting the bottle as water flows from its rim and onto his bloodstained clothes. You take his hands and wash the red off, cleaning his face and jacket of any remnants of the carnage. 

You try not to think about how cold he was, or how limp he felt in your hold. You just cleaned all the sweat and grime away, needing him to look as normal as possible. 

Combining your fingers through his soft hair, you make sure all the leaves and twigs are out of it as you style it the way you remember his mother doing it. You then moved onto the jacket, shakingly zipping it up to hide his wound. 

You sit back on your haunches, scavenging the bag as things clunk around. Silent tears stream down your face, and you feel a hand on your wrist, pausing you. 

You glance to the side at Gojo, your glossy eyes shining in the pale light of the moon. His face is sullen and slack, as if he’s barely doing any better processing what happened. 

He waits for a second, and then;

“How can I help?” He asks simply. 

It’s not a difficult question, but it causes your breathing to hitch, tears streaming as your lip trembles.

You swallow your bile thickly, raising a hand to wipe at your cheeks as you clear your throat, voice raw and scratched. 

“Flowers,” you tell Gojo finally, “He needs flowers.”

He nods and gives your wrist one last gentle squeeze before he rises to his feet, looking around the field for big enough flowers to pick. 

You watch him leave, taking a deep and steadying breath as you look back to Yuuji and get back to work. 

Back in eleven, when somebody died, it was important to respect their death just as much as you’d respect them living. There were stories, ancient stories that the Capitol had tried to get rid of, of what happens after you die. Older inhabitants of eleven held on to those traditions, passed them down from generation to generation. 

You clean the body, first off. Make sure that when they pass on to their new life, wherever that may be, they are as clean as possible. You gently wet the handkerchief, your father's handkerchief, the small token you were allowed to bring into the games, and wipe off Yuuji's cheeks and in between his knuckles. 

Food is important for the dead to have. Their journey elsewhere is long, and they might be peckish on the way there. You look in your bag and find some dried berries and nuts, alongside the fresh berries that Yuuji had picked today, and place some in his hands, making his fingers close around them like a fist as you guide his hands down to rest on his stomach. 

You hear some grass rustling, and look to see Gojo walking back with bushels of flowers he had picked. Though it was dark and you had to squint, bright colors like white, yellow, and purple filled the bouquet. 

Gojo doesn’t say anything, but there’s no need to. His small action has already spoken beyond a thousand other words. 

Nodding in approval, you take the flowers from him and wrap the stems together with some wire, placing them under his closed fists and watching as the colors bring some life back to his pale face. 

Finally, some words are spoken over the body before they lay them to rest. 

You had closed Yuuji’s eyes just as his cannon had blasted, so you lean down and hover your lips on his forehead, giving him a small and gentle kiss as you murmur an apology, grieving and choked words that you barely say as you mutter the words you had heard the elders in eleven murmur a thousand times before. 

You were familiar with death, but that didn’t mean that it was a familiarity you welcomed. 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” you whispered against his cold skin, “I’ll see you in a bit,” you tell him gently, slowly coming back up on your ankles as you stare at his little body. 

In the moonlight, with no trace of blood, holding those flowers and with his eyes shut, made it look like he was sleeping. It wasn’t real, but a part of you so wished it was. 

You think of his family watching. You think back to your younger self, having to watch as they placed your family in their graves, back to when you became alone. This wasn’t a game, as much as they lied to call it one, but a cruel reminder of the brief mortality of those deemed inferior. 

Somewhere around, perhaps on one of the trees in the distance or even up in the sky, was a hidden camera catching all of this. You didn’t let them see you cry, stared straight at it as if you were staring directly at those back home, and gave one small, acknowledging nod. 

You don’t look at Yuuji’s body again when you silently trail back into the forest. Gojo says nothing as he walks by your side. 

He takes your hand in his, a grounding hold, one that means nothing except for the fact that he was there beside you,

And you let him. 

—

You two wandered around, lifeless, until you stumbled upon a small alcove, a place hidden by trees and not easily seen by the untrained eye, for the two of you to stay in. 

The moment you collapsed on the ground, bones riddled with exhaustion, did you finally let yourself cry. 

You cradled your knees to your chest, letting ugly and raw sobs rake through your body as your head tilted back against the trunk of the tree behind you, hands running down your face as you shook violently. 

It hurt, you ached. You couldn’t stop seeing the blood, his face, the boy with the knife through his head. Everything hurts. 

You felt something shift, a body sitting down next to yours, and without thinking about it, you let your head fall limply on his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut with silent sobs. 

Gojo doesn’t move. 

Clawing at your chest, at your pitiful excuse of a heart, you tremble, wishing that this was all some nightmare that you’d wake up from and never have to see again. 

“Cry tonight, but come tomorrow, don’t let them see any more of your tears.”

You scoff, nose wrinkling as you move to push yourself off of him, but he shifts, turning so that you two would be face to face. 

“Nothing you can take is worth keeping…right? That’s what you told Caesar - that’s what you told them,” he mirrors your words back at you with a raised brow, face stern and unreadable, “Right?”

Your expression slackens, and your lips part slightly in both surprise and shock.

“Don’t let them take Yuuji from you,” Gojo says, “He’s worth more than that.”

His eyes search yours, search through the glossy reflection and redness in the whites, and a moment of silence passes between you two. 

After another beat, you nod, something small, but understanding. 

When the sun came up, you wiped at your cheeks, your chin, your nose. You wipe the blood from your hands with the remaining water, and let Gojo clean the blood from your face with his careful touch. 

As the leaves rustle with the early morning winds and the rays of sunlight begin peeking in from the tree tops, you hear a small twinkling noise, a mechanical yet sweet sound coming from above. 

You and Gojo look up, watching as a small metal tin with a parachute on it starts drifting down from the sky, and waits as it lands in front of a small thump. A gift from sponsors, you think.  

But when you inch forward, taking it with shaking hands and ginger crack it open, you see two rolls of bread, the sweet bread from back home, the same kind you’d usually eat after a funeral. 

A small note lay on top of it, and you took it out between two pinched fingers, reading, you felt a wobbly smile make its way onto your face. 

Thank you for looking after Yuuji - The Itadori Family and the People of District 11.

You two eat the bread in silence, savoring the sweet and nostalgic flavors resting on your tongue before you two rise from your spots and start getting ready to leave. 

—-

Gojo found a small cave where the two of you could stay the night, someplace that was hidden from any peering eyes and would allow you two to make a fire and sleep without having to take turns keeping watch. 

You were beginning to talk a little more, but still preferred to listen. Gojo didn’t mind and filled the silence with stories from his district and childhood. Sometimes, you found yourself containing little grins when he made a terrible joke, and often had to duck your head so that he wouldn’t see. But it wasn’t so much that you didn’t want him knowing, but rather it felt strange, a somewhat normal way of being that you didn’t want to accustom yourself to after everything that had happened and everything waiting to happen. 

Gojo told you about his father and his games, and he talked about training and what that looked like. Sometimes you’d interject and tell him a similarity that your district shared with him, and he'd listen with a soft look on his face, something easy and relaxed, his lips pulling into a genuine smile when he heard you talk about blips from your past.

It helps distract you, makes you forget about Yuuji and the games. 

“…I swear, that’s what most people said,” Gojo told you with a small laugh, shaking his head as he recalls old memories, “They said I was too scrawny to ever be in the games.”

You let out a small huff, your knees pulled up against your chest as you watch the red and yellow flames from the fire dance off of his face, making his blue eyes shine even more. 

No matter how much you wanted to deny it, the two of you had seen each other in your most vulnerable times, and there was no shaking the strange bond it was creating between the two of you. 

“Is that why you volunteered?” You ask wryly, your head resting on your crossed arms. 

Gojo shakes his head, one of his knees propped up with his other lanky leg spread in front of him. You wonder how much of this conversation is being shown. 

“By the time I volunteered people had stopped calling me scrawny,” he replies, and had it been anybody else it might’ve seem like he was just boasting, but after getting to know Gojo you could tell he was just being honest, “I just…” he shrugged, thinking thoughtfully, “I figured I’d make people proud if I went.”

Your lips press into a thin line, eyes squinting. You also had gotten to know the tribute well enough to know just how much pressure he’s faced, even if he didn’t voice it, to continue his father's legacy. Not pushing it further, you nod slowly, biting your cheek as you think. 

“I bet they’re really proud seeing you with me,” you said after a beat, voice dry with sarcasm as you offered him a lazy smile that didn’t match your eyes. You were far from when you were when you entered the games without trusting him, but you doubted the people from the higher districts were necessarily happy seeing their shining tribute form an alliance with somebody from an outlying district.

But instead, Gojo smiles, something genuine, and his eyes wrinkle around the edges. It’s a far cry from the cold-hearted and jagged fighter you first saw, and it was jarring sometimes to be looked at the way he looks at you. 

“You have no idea,” he replies after a moment, sincerely. 

You fought to control a small smile. 

Running your finger across the cave floor, tracing small shapes in the dust, you think back to things you miss from home. Things that you’d blink and see again, maybe even in the dark pits of your dreams before they turned horrifying. 

Picking up a small leaf, you twist it around by the stem, watching it twirl quickly in the air. 

“Do you miss it?” 

His brows pinched together, not understanding your broad question.

“Home,” you specify, “Do you miss it?”

Gojo’s bottom lip catches between his teeth, and he slightly shifts where he was seated. The fire crackles, some of the wood moving as it continues to burn. The crickets outside were chirping away, and from the opening of the cave, you could see the silver wash of the moon begging to be let in. If not for the cruel reminder of the anthem that had played not even an hour earlier, with no dead tributes to honor in the sky, you could close your eyes and pretend that you were back in eleven.

His eyes flash with something unreadable, most likely thinking back to soft recollections of his district, ones that mirror yours. His lips quirk slightly at the ends, something he can’t control as better memories flood his senses.

“I do,” he mutters after thinking, his voice honest but dropping in volume, as if he didn’t want the microphones to pick up what he was saying, even though they could pick up a twig snapping, let alone voices, “Don’t you?”

Your eyes widen slightly, your breath hitching. 

Yuuji. 

Home. 

Your mouth dries up suddenly, and you feel a wave of nausea roll over you. Your head feels lighter than usual, and you blink, trying to push back the unwelcome sting of tears, but every time you do so, you see he’s lifeless body in front of you, the blood staining his pale skin as he tries to gasp for air. 

Gojo instantly notices a change in your demeanor, and before you even try to wobbly stand up, he’s already there, offering support as you try to push him off. One of your hands is grasping at your stomach, feeling the dinner you had just eaten churn around as you use the other hand to steady yourself on the cave walls.

“Hey, hey, what happened?” He asks hurriedly, his eyes searching your face, noting the way sweat dotted your hairline and the way you looked like you were fighting back some war with your food, “Did I say something?”

You shake him off, shaking your head as you use your hand on the wall for guidance, trying to leave, but Gojo doesn’t let go of his grip on your elbow. Unfortunately, as stubborn as you were, you learned that Gojo was just as, if not more, stubborn than you.

Struggling for air, you try to take in ga ulp of it, but it doesn’t seem to work. You see flashes of Yuuji, Yuuji and his family, his brothers, your family, and it causes your mind to reel, your chest heaving as you struggle to breathe. 

All of a sudden, the heat from the fire was overwhelming. You felt sweat rolling down the side of your face and neck, dotting your back and arms. It was intense and overbearing. You couldn’t remember what it even was that set you off.

“I need,” you gasp, your fingers clawing at your throat, coughing, “I need to get out.” 

Gojo’s white brows cinch together in the middle with worry, leaning down to see if you were alright, but you push him off with the last bits of force you had. 

“But-”

“Go away,” you snap, harsher than you intended, and he doesn’t fight back this time when you wrangle your arm away from his hold, tumbling away and towards the cave opening as tears finally escape your eyes and you let the cool sting of the night breeze welcome you.

You know you shouldn’t let them see you cry, shouldn’t let them hold this power over you, one that proves that their strength and capabilities outmatch yours. Because they don’t, they have nothing on the experiences you’ve gone through, the ache you’ve endured, the resilience it took to survive, but as heartless and cold as they were, they’d never understand the pain of loss, the hurt and grievances that come with it. 

So instead, you yell, you scream until blood lines the inside of your throat and suffocates you through your nose. That way, your pain might seem loud and overbearing, something they could never understand. The sound is choked and raw; it exceeds human capacity and borders on animalistic, but it’s the last way you can connect to the people before and the people who come after you. The tributes who have died for the sadistic ways of the Capitol and President Snow, the only way you can reach beyond the living and make a promise. 

Those who sit in their pompous outfits and fluttering lashes might not understand, might laugh and point, and cause you to lose your sponsors, but somewhere, someone in some district would understand. And maybe when you eventually die, they might mourn everyone just a little more.

“I’m sorry.” 

Your head snaps around to the opening of the cave, and you almost trip when you see Gojo. 

You don’t know how long you’ve been out here, but by the look of utter pain and suffering on his face, you wonder how long he’s been in there, not being able to do anything but listen to your cries of woe. Your chest is moving with each laborious breath, your cheeks are heated, and your eyes are burning.

For the first time since you’ve been in the games, you see tears staining his cheeks, illuminated like the arms and legs of a river by the moonlight. 

It’s startling, but it makes you pause.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, choking it out, wiping at his tears with his arms as he takes another step closer to you, his lip trembling, and no longer does he look like the hardened warrior he’s been made to be, but a boy who’s lost in a world that had long abandoned him, “I’m sorry, I should have been faster, I shouldn’t have left him, I’m s-sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry…” 

It takes a minute for his words to sink in, but when his lips part and let out another muted sob, you understand what he’s saying, what he’s apologizing for. You see the redness of his face and the way his lips look like they’ve been chewed raw.

“If only I were faster, if I took him, if only I was fast enough, this wouldn’t be happening,” Gojo rambles, the tears streaming down his face even faster as he shakes his head, stuttering on his words, “I never thought that tribute would b-be there, I just saw you fall and - and everything else blacked out, and I’m sorry, I know you hate me, I hate me even more, but-”

You stagger towards him, your feet twisting and turning as the dirt crunches underneath your shoes, the wind rustling, and the animals howling in the distance. Gojo doesn’t move, but when you fall into his chest, your hands close around his back as your face hides in his broad chest, you feel his trembling hands come up from behind to hold you closer to him. One of his larger hands goes up to cradle the back of your head while the other one holds you tightly by the waist, and his face rests on your hair. 

“It’s not your fault,” you whisper, shaking your head weakly, still smushed against his chest as you hiccup, “It’s not your fault, and I don’t hate you,” you say sturdier, for emphasis as your fingers dig into his jacket and he groans, clearly going to disagree with you but you cut him off, continuing, “I just - I just miss him s-so much,” 

His hold on you tightens.

“For the first time in years, it felt like I had a family,” you cry out, your tears and snot getting on his jacket, but Gojo couldn't care less, hugging you closer, “And I lost that, I lost h-him, I was supposed to protect him-”

Gojo shushes you, shaking his head, cradling your head upwards, his hands moving on to hold both sides of your face as your lips wobble with barely contained sobs. 

“You did everything right,” he whispers, but your face breaks down as your nose scrunches upwards and your mouth parts. 

“Then why isn’t…why isn’t he here?” You beg, and he lets out a puff of air that seems to be kicked out of his chest, his own salty tears collecting and falling from his chin as his arms fall, and he uses the back of his hands to wipe them away. 

“I,” Gojo stammers, biting his lip as he looks away from your heavy and piercing gaze, the same one that rips his heart out and forces him to rely on his barely-there sanity, “I don’t know,”

You nod briefly, using your palms to push your tears away from your cheeks, tugging at them harshly as you sniffle. 

Instead of arguing with him, you nod again, taking another step forward as you mutter a barely audible okay. 

“Come here,” he whispers, his hands extended, and you take the last step to fall back into his warm and sturdy chest, letting him hug you tightly as you press your ear up against his ribcage, hearing the steady thump, thump, thump, of his heart. 

It’s human to feel hurt; it's unusual not to. 

In the darkness of the night, at the opening of the cave, the two of you stand there in silence, holding onto each other as the crickets sing their songs and the leaves keep the steady beat. Perhaps the cameras have cut away, maybe they’re still watching. It doesn’t matter. 

In that moment, the two of you process the brutality of the games together, sharing it so that it doesn’t become unbearable. Gojo presses his lips to your forehead, nothing forceful, but lingering, as if a promise that he would be by you, forever, even if that forever was going to end soon.

You two were a strange pair, but it made sense, in some strange way. To you, to him, to the game makers, to the Capitol citizens, and those in the districts who were watching with bated breath. 

And maybe, just maybe, it sparks a little fear in those who created these games, those who place the tributes in here to be pitted against each other and fight to the death. Because nobody expected love to bloom between two improbable tributes, but it happened, and it proved the one thing that they wanted to prove wrong.

That those in the districts have more in common than they’re led to believe from life to death, more in common than even the prancing citizens of the Capitol, and surely more in common than the game makers and those who sit on their pedestals, watching. 

You and Gojo were never meant to be allies, but in the games, in such unlikely circumstances, everything that wasn’t supposed to be became, and everybody realized who the winner of the 66th annual Hunger Games was going to be, even if neither of you did.

—

That cave became a haven for the two of you. 

It was tucked away where nobody would pass, it had a small lake next to it with clean water for drinking and washing, and enough animals ventured around that you two wouldn’t starve. 

Sure, the game makers would eventually have to lure you out, but not now; they were too invested in seeing how this strange pair was going to evolve. 

It was nearing the two-week mark, and still, five tributes remained. The boy from three, Maxmus, Evelyn, you, and Gojo. You wondered why the game makers weren’t rushing anything like they usually do when it starts to drag, but maybe something was happening behind the scenes that usually doesn’t happen. 

In the mornings, you would check the traps you had set the night before. Usually, a small animal or bird would be caught, and you’d skin and gut them while Gojo prepared the fire. Back in eleven, you had to learn how to be tactful and resourceful with the outskirts, as Tesarea often didn’t supply you long enough for the next year, and the hunger would quickly grow. You had long put emotions aside when dealing with animals, and now, you often had to chide Gojo for leaving the cave whenever he became queasy watching you prep them.

What he lacked in hunting, he made up for in other things, however. 

Gojo tended to your ankle well, knowing how to let it heal on its own with little tricks that he had picked up throughout the years. He made a splint that kept it in place, and hour by hour, day by day, the bruising seemed to be going down. He would cut down smaller trees into logs, tend to the fire, and help cook the meat you had prepped earlier. Best of all, he talked about anything and everything, sometimes so much that you could barely even hear your thoughts, but you enjoyed it. 

Other times, like now, the two of you would sit side by side on the edge of the lake, your pants rolled up to your thighs as your legs dangled in the water. The air near here was cooler, the wind was more soothing, and you closed your eyes and let the sun kiss your skin as you leaned back on your arms.

Pointing your toes, you flick your foot up and down, splashing delicate drops of water across the surface as you watch it ripple. 

“If you lived in the Capitol, what would your pet's name be?” 

You let the question sink in before a little giggle escapes your lips, tumbling out and falling through the air as Gojo smiles in response at the sound. He loved it, even if he rarely heard it. 

“Come on,” he nudged your shoulder with his, not looking at you but at the shimmering water, trying to contain his features to be serious, although they contorted into something more playful when you nudged your shoulder in response, “I heard a lady call her dog Tootsie.” 

That caused you to laugh, tipping your head back as you couldn’t contain it anymore, eyes screwed shut as you slapped his arm. 

“Hmm,” you hum after a few seconds, your feet moving up and down in the water, “It’s hard to beat Tootsie, but maybe…Drumesia?” 

Gojo’s head turns slightly to look at you, slightly confused at hearing the familiar name but not being able to place it. 

“Wasn’t she…wasn’t she your Capitol escort?” He asked, his voice breaking as if he were containing a burst of laughter. 

You smiled.

“Yeah,” you said softly, hearing him rumble with laughter as you laughed along with him, “She was a real bitch.”

In the distance, you hear a mockingjay crow, imitating your laughter as the other ones start mimicking it, too. Back at home, people often used mockingjays to communicate with each other, especially when up in the trees, and it’s harder to get those beneath you to understand what you were saying.

“What are those?” Gojo mutters, his tone miffed, looking around as if he could see the birds that were nestled in between the branches. 

You snort softly, tilting your chin upwards as you whistle, three random notes, and wait for the mockingjays to pick up on the sound. When one echoes, others join in, creating a cacophony from what was once your simple tune. 

“Mockingjays,” you answer, looking upwards at the trees and the sun filtering like rays through the leaves, “We have a lot of them back in eleven.” 

Gojo nods slowly in understanding, lips pressed into a thin line, annoyed, but he knew there wasn’t much he could do about it. He looks up, mirroring your previous movements, taking in the mockingjays as they flap around, joining each other and then leaving again to find someplace new to sit and sing. You wonder how grating it must be for someone like him who hasn’t grown up around them, but for you, the mockingjays are another reminder of home.

 After a bit, when the singing died down, he decided to speak again.

“Do you…Do you, uh, have a guy back there? In eleven?”

You glance at him from the side of your eyes, lips parted in shock at the blatant question, but your expression falls into something even more comical when you notice how hard he was avoiding your gaze, the way his ears were turning pink, and how he was playing with some of the weeds sprouting around the lake bed. 

A part of you wants to tease him, but you see the way he shifts awkwardly, as if he had summoned up the courage to ask the question and was quickly regretting it. Instead, you decide to answer honestly, shrugging as you look back at the water.

“I never had the time,” you murmur thoughtfully, thinking back to when you lived day by day, working endlessly at the factory and coming back to the Capitol-sanctioned home for orphans under the age of nineteen, leaving little to no time to be messing with pesky feelings and relationships, “I’ve had a couple guys who’ve asked me to dance but…” you shrug, closing your eyes slightly as you angle your head slightly to look at him, finding him already looking back, “It’s never lasted more than that.”

Gojo’s brow quirked slightly. 

“You can dance?” He questioned, as if that was the only thing he took away from your words. 

Flicking some water towards his lanky legs, you scoff, not annoyed, just perplexed, and shrug again. 

“I doubt it’s any of the fancy dances you’ve learned back in one,” you chide, but Gojo shakes his head, going to disagree, but you beat him to it, “But I can stomp my feet if you ask.” 

His lips curl into a smile, a blush dusting his cheeks as he ducks his head down and looks away. Never would you have guessed that such a hulking and menacing person could be so shy. 

“Do you want me to ask?” He responds, his head looking down at the water, causing some of his white strands of hair to fall in his face, but you can see the smile still lingering, the way his neck flushes. 

“I don’t think your Capitol sweetheart would mind that much,” you say, your voice laced with slight tease, flicking some water at him again, “Having a district girl like me steal her dashing tribute and all.”

Gojo’s shoulders tense slightly, and he slowly leans back onto his outstretched hands behind him as he flicks water towards your legs. You try not to stare at him, at the way the muscles in his arms ripple with each movement, or the way the sharpness of his jaw only brings more attention to his even more attractive face.

“She’s not jealous,” Gojo says, and you try not to hide the flash of disappointment on your face from having heard him confirm that this mystery girl he talked about during his interview existed and wasn’t some ruse to gain more favor, “I don’t think she’d mind at all.”

You can only nod briefly in return, not trusting your voice not to give away your turn in emotions as you twist a blade of grass around, watching the green color twirl, making it seem yellow and then something darker when it catches the light. 

“And besides,” Gojo continues, slowly lowering his back down as he crosses his hands behind his head, resting on the soft plushness below him as he stares at your back, waiting, wondering, “I promised her I’d find her after the games. Told her I’d be like the sailor boy she’s always dreamed of.” 

Your fingers stop. Something in you shifts. 

Sailor boy. 

Where have you heard that?

You turn around slightly, slowly, carefully, to look at him resting behind you. 

“What did you say?” You ask slowly, your brows furrowed and your lips parted in stupor. 

He blinks back, surprised at your reaction.

“U-uh,” he stammers, sitting up gradually, causing you to lean back to accommodate for his looming presence, pushing his hair back, “Sailor…Sailor boy? It’s just some name, from an old story,” his eyes search yours, something deep and swirling behind them, “Why? Do you, do you…know it?” 

Your nose wrinkles. Yes, yes, you know it, somewhere deep inside, but why does he know it?

“Y-yeah,” you murmur, perplexed, lashes of memories from your childhood crossing your mind, sitting behind the old wooden desks that seats three other students, watching the teacher in the makeshift classroom point to a board, reading out from memory something her old teachers, and those teachers before, passed down, “I do, but…?”

Eyes so blue and hair so black, they called him sailor boy. He could not swim but loved the sea, our little sailor boy.

It was an old poem, one that your teacher spun into some extravagant and adventurous story about a boy who traveled across something called a sea, like a river but bigger, and did amazing things until he traveled back home. It wasn’t in the curriculum the Capitol had made, and she made all the children promise not to talk about it when they went back home, but you…you told a young boy that story, one of the kids that wasn’t in your class. 

You gasp, hand flying to your mouth as you look at him in shock. 

The boy in the infirmary. 

It had been weeks after the fire in the factory had broken out, one that took the lives of multiple men, women, and children, the same fire that took your parents and siblings, bearing only one survivor: you. 

Escaping with burns to your arms and legs, you spent nearly two months in the infirmary that was near the edge of the district square. The nurses had told you that the burns would heal after some time. You were nearly nine, not understanding any of their big words and just wanting to know when your parents and brothers and sisters would heal from the fire, not understanding when they said that your family was gone.

The day you saw him in the infirmary was the day of the Victory Tour, when the victor of the previous Hunger Games toured across all twelve districts until they stopped at the Capitol for the celebration. The mentors would also come, who were older victors of the games, but they usually stayed somewhere else so that the newest victor could give their speech. 

The room you were in was empty, save for you, as everybody else was forced to gather around the district square, the same place where they held the reaping, to watch the victor from District 1, as they usually are, give some long-winded speech about tradition and honor. You were excused, given the fact that you were bandaged from head to toe and couldn’t move, and were waiting for the nurses to come back in so that they could feed you your lunch. 

From the hallway, you could hear a door slam and a booming voice say something before a smaller, barely audible whimper followed. You winced in your bed when you heard skin slapping skin, the second voice choking back another whine when the door slammed shut, and you were left sitting there, immobile, in confusion. 

After a minute passed, you heard some shuffling, and you assumed that a kid was put in the infirmary for acting out, most likely one of the upper-echelon kids from the district who were allowed to fool around. 

But when the white-haired boy with bright blue eyes peeked his head inside the room you were staying in, you were sure that this was somebody you had never met before. 

“Who are you?” You had asked him, and watched with embarrassment as he took in your battered state, his eyes wide with curiosity as he took in your bandages and elevated arms and legs. 

The boy just blinked, not saying anything. 

You noticed the stinging handprint on his cheek, glowing red, and he held it in his hand, trying to soothe it. He looked to be around your age, and you wondered if it had been his father who had shut him inside this small building. It was strange, however, that he was able to escape the duties of sitting through the Victory Tour. Even the mayor's children had to attend.

“Does your daddy hit’chu?” You pressed again, watching as the boy blushed, evading eye contact as he looked at the empty line of beds. 

“Was that your daddy over there?” Your chin juts to where the hallway was, “Is he comin’ back?”

The boy snaps his head over to the hallway, almost fearful. And then, murmurs;

“Your voice sounds funny.”

And you looked at him and his red cheek and then at his bright white hair, and started laughing. It was the first time you had laughed in weeks, but the sound was so loud and powerful that it caused your chest to shake and your arms and legs to hurt, and so your laughter died down, but you tried to keep the smile on your face because you forgot just how good it felt to have one. 

“That - that day,” you stammer, sitting up straighter as your eyes dart frantically around from side to side before they snap up to Gojo, rambling quickly as you try to get the memory out, “The Victory Tour. Nine years ago. This boy, um,” you snap your fingers, trying to remember, “He came into the infirmary. His dad left him in there for a bit. He kept me company. I gave him…” you tsk in annoyance, trying to think back, “I gave him…”

You trail off, thinking, but a soft voice brings you back to the present. 

“A lemon drop,” Gojo finishes for you, with a gentle smile on his face, “Well, you couldn’t really give it to me because you were all bandaged up, but you told me I could have your last lemon drop.”

You forget how to think. 

“And, to make me feel better, you told me I reminded you of this one character, the sailor boy, except for-”

“Your hair,” you say breathlessly, the memory all finally piecing together. 

You remember him telling you how he had snuck onto the train, hiding until they were so far from the station that he was sure his father was going to be alright with him joining the team for the newest victory tour. 

His father, a previous tribute turned mentor, clearly didn’t appreciate the idea, scolding him whenever he got the chance, that faithful day being one of them. 

You remember him sitting next to you, telling you how he got here. You remember the glassy look in his eyes, telling him he could have your candy even though you knew it was probably the last piece you’d see for a while. 

You remember now, all the old memories from one of your darkest times that you had blocked out were slowly yet surely coming back. 

The sailor boy and his bright blue eyes, who stayed with you until the nurses arrived. Somebody who you figured you’d never see again, but with the odds being in your favor, or some ways, against it, here he was, sitting in front of you, patiently waiting. 

Words escape you, but you find your hand traveling up his arm, tugging him harshly by the fabric on his shoulder as you throw yourself into his lap, shaking as you press your face into his neck, as you give him the tightest, most bone-crushing hug ever. 

His hands fly up, trying to steady both you and him, and when he’s sure you won’t fall, one hand wraps tightly around your waist and the other higher up on your back. He lets out a low chuckle, his lips pressing into the side of your head as he holds what may perhaps be the oldest and only friend he’s ever had.

Gojo breathes, his first real breath in over nine years, and welcomes the bite of tears he feels because here, with you in his arms as it was meant to be, even if it was during the Hunger Games, these tears were happy ones. 

And yes, it would be his luck that would put him in the same battle to the death with the only girl he’s never stopped thinking about, but maybe it was meant to be this short-lived and this sweet. Some people search their whole lives for somebody from their past, and if it meant that he only had to wait nine years to see you, even if it took this long for you to remember him, he’d gladly take it. 

After all, he could never be mad at the girl who gave him his first lemon drop, and could never, ever see harm come to the only girl he’s ever had a crush on, even if you didn’t feel the same way about him. In this arena, in this moment, you were his, and he’d cherish it for as long as he could.

There was no Capitol girl. It’s always been you. 

Ever since he saw you looking through that window on the train, he knew what the games were finally for, and perhaps, in some twisted and cruel way, the odds were in his favor.

“I remember you,” you whisper into the skin of his neck, “I remember you, Satoru, I remember you,” you say it over and over, and he wants you to because you remember him. 

Your fingers dig into his jacket, and you smile despite the wobbliness in your lips, and you laugh loudly as you hug him again. 

“Took you long enough,” he reprimands, but holds no weight, not with the way he’s beaming and smiling so bright that the cameras were sure to get every single bit of his true emotions. Gojo doesn’t care about what his father or mother or the people in his district think. He couldn't care less about sponsors and game makers and arrogant President Snow, who’s surely never felt a sliver of the emotions he’s feeling now. Even if it didn’t make sense for a boy from District 1 and a girl from District 11 to find their way back to each other after all this time, it made sense to him and you, and that’s all that mattered.

“I thought that-”

A canon blasts. 

The two of you pull away, scrambling up to your feet so quickly as if nothing had happened, and that you had suddenly come back to where you were. The mockingjays all flapped their wings from the loud sound, cawing and screeching as you winced. 

Your eyes squeeze shut, holding in your breath. 

The two of you waited another minute, waiting to see if another cannon would fire, but it stayed silent, not even the mockingjays were singing. The wind had stopped, and the air had gone strangely cold.

Four tributes remained.

“We should…we should go back,” Gojo whispers, tugging you gingerly by the wrist towards the safety of the cave. 

You look back to where the forest wound down a path, somewhere back there would be the Cornucopia, and a new dead body. 

Nodding silently, you let him lead you back to the cave. 

That night, you see little Evelyn’s face in the sky. 

—-

Instead of sleeping, you stirred, plagued with thoughts.

Gojo hadn’t talked much about your past, seemingly just content enough for now that you remembered him, but with the weight of another tribute gone, you felt it difficult to think of anything positive right now. 

But, a part of you now realized just how more difficult these games had become. 

Save for the fact that only three people, besides you, remained, you wondered to what lengths you and Gojo would unconsciously go to save the other. For you, when you first met Gojo all those years ago, you cherished the moment for as long as you could, but ultimately knew you had to tuck it away to make room for more pressing issues. You remembered his softness and the way he treated you with kindness, something you desperately needed. After spending weeks in that infirmary with no contact from the outside world, having somebody to listen to you ramble and talk was something you forgot you liked doing, and he helped take your mind off the loss of your family, even if for just a bit.

And you wondered just how much it must’ve meant to him if he still remembered you after all these years. You never imagined that the boy whom you just gave a lemon drop to would consider that to be one of the most thoughtful acts of kindness he had been shown, but perhaps the differences in your respective districts came into play in that aspect. 

This care, this initial desire to help you in the arena then must’ve come from a place of genuine worry, one that now has begun to bleed onto you. He wasn’t just somebody you had met some random day nine years ago, nor was he a tribute-turned-ally that was forged under the strange circumstances of the arena. Gojo was, in all senses of the word, a friend. Someone who cared for you, somebody who you cared about. Someone who, had you not been bright close to because of the Hunger Games, might’ve become a closer companion than the one you know now. And that was something you hadn’t had ever since you had sacrificed your freedom, your chance for happiness, for survival when you were nine, and you’d be damned if you had to give that up for the satisfaction of the Capitol.

And deep down, you knew you could never hurt somebody like him, not when you just found out you had something else to live for, not when you realized you might just have somebody else who cares for you besides yourself.

With Yuuji, you promised yourself that if the situation came, you’d put yourself first so that he’d be spared. And no matter how hard you tried, you weren’t able to keep that promise. So now, with somebody else to fight and help, you began to realize that Gojo meant much more to you than even you found him capable of.

You also knew you couldn’t beat others when it came to combat skills, and that ultimately, if need be, there wasn’t much you could do to save him if he had to save you. Getting away now, putting him in a position in which he only had to care for himself and vice versa, was perhaps the only way you could guarantee his survival. 

Despite having promised him that when it came down to three tributes you would seperate, knowing what you know now, it seemed like your last option for keeping Gojo safe would be if you left now, putting as much distance between you two so that Gojo would have to start focusing on himself, and leaving you to focus on yourself. 

So that night, when the fire ultimately died down and the sun was just starting to peek its head over the horizon, you took a deep breath and began putting your makeshift plan together as quickly as possible before Gojo woke up.

Your eyes drifted over to his sleeping figure, peaceful and serene. His lashes fluttered against his cheeks with every dream, his lips rosy and slightly parted as puffs of air escaped them. The show he had put up with having some darling in the Capitol was a ruse, something you realized yesterday, and a part of you wonders how much of it was true, with it now being revealed that it was just some ploy to try and get you to remember him. 

If he had been someone you had seen back in eleven, you think you would’ve agreed to a dance with him, and maybe even a second one, but you push that hopeful thought deep down and remind yourself that a fantasy wasn’t something that boded well in the Hunger Games. 

You smiled gently, pushing some hair away from his face as your fingers hovered over his forehead, and ultimately retracted your hand away as you quietly moved, trying to get the knife he had tucked away in the pocket of his jacket. 

He shifted slightly in his sleep, mumbling out some random words, and you fought back a strange wave of emotions as you gingerly slipped the knife out the pocket, making sure that his sword was nearby in case he needed it, but knowing about how hidden the cave was, weren’t worried about his safety even with you gone. 

Crawling over to where you kept the two bottles, one for you and one for him, you carefully picked yours up, trying not to make any noise, and winced when the metal scratched across the stone floor. 

Turning around, you were greeted with Gojo’s wide eyes, startled out of his sleep, blinking his exhaustion away as he tried to make sense of what it was you were doing in his groggy state.

Fighting back a yawn, Gojo went to sit up, but you shook your head, hiding the knife behind your back as you pointed your wattle bottle up, mustering up a convincing-enough smile as you moved a little closer to him. 

“I’m just getting some water,” you whispered, watching as his cheeks were slightly dusted with pink as you rubbed some dried leaves away from his hair, blinking his cerulean eyes again when he looked out the opening of the cave to see it slightly lit. 

“Let me,” he yawned, rubbing at his face, “Let me come with you.”

You smiled at his kindness, shaking your head again as you gently pushed at his shoulders, trying to get him to lie back down. 

“It won’t take long,” you reasoned, “And it’s almost daytime.” 

Gojo searched your expression again, trying to read anything you couldn’t hide, and when you realized he might be able to tell something was hidden behind your intentions, you surged forward, planting a kiss on his cheek to redirect him and jumble his thoughts together.

Your heart pounded against the tight and limited space of your ribcage, your lips lingering on the skin near his jaw, and you pulled away slightly. Neither of you breathed, and you looked nervously up at him through your lashes, only to see him fighting back another grin, ducking his head down as he shyly blushed. 

He gnawed on his cheek, eyes fluttering towards you as he pushed you away, hoping you wouldn’t tease him anymore, and let you go without argument, still in his head from where your lips had lightly grazed his skin. 

It almost makes you stay. 

“Go,” he murmurs sheepishly, tilting his head towards the cave opening with a boyish smile, one that makes your heart break, “I’ll…um, I’ll get started with breakfast.”

“Okay,” you say breathlessly, your stomach churning as you put the knife in your back pocket, looking over his face, the slope of his nose, his eyes, the way his lips turned upwards at the end, his jaw, everything that made him him for what was possibly the last time, and swallow a little cry as you nod again, “Okay.” 

Standing up, you make sure he doesn’t see an outline of the knife as you walk out towards the light, pausing slightly as you look over your shoulder, seeing him already busy with making another fire, and are grateful he can’t see the glossiness in your eyes as your head falls slightly, glancing at the forest as you take one step out of the cave, and don’t look back.

—

You knew you had around five minutes before Gojo got suspicious. Seven until he started looking for you. 

When you were sure he couldn’t hear your footsteps, you decided to run, knowing the general direction and placement of where you were in the arena, to know that if it was going to be like other years, the final fights took place near the Cornacopia. 

The low-hanging branches rustle around you, dried bark and leaves crunching under you as you pant, not looking over your shoulder to see if anybody is following you, knowing it would only slow you down. 

When you had first made the trek from the field where Yuuji lay to where the cave was, it nearly took a day of wandering around to find it, but the game makers were growing impatient, and though you estimated it had just turned into morning an hour ago, the sun had quickly risen to make it seem like it were the afternoon. 

Your ankle had healed enough so that it wouldn’t hinder you, and you had hoped that not hearing any cannons would lead Gojo to believe that you had run away and weren’t killed, and would give up after some time and focus on his own chances of winning. 

Without being able to know what you were thinking, you wondered how the game makers were portraying you. A traitor? A coward? How did the people in your district view you? The people in Gojo’s district? The Capitol citizens? Could any of them understand your motives without being able to put themselves in your position?

Your heart was nearly pumping out of your chest, adrenaline pumping in your veins, and sweat lining every pore, but you pushed on, knowing that if anybody were behind you or lurking nearby, they’d be able to what your footsteps and attack you from any angle. Getting to the Cornacopia, to where the fight would be, would be your best chance at ending this once and for all, without any worries of what could potentially happen to Gojo.

The only two tributes left, Borna from three and Maxmus from five, were both younger than you, but they had capabilities you didn’t. Borna, whom you had seen in the first blood-bath, took note of the way he wielded an axe as if it were an extension of his arm. Maxmus was strong, had brutish strength from lugging around generators for half of his life. You didn’t exactly have a plan for if, or when, you encountered either of them, but just hoped that it would somehow work out the way you intended in the end. 

In some strange way, it almost seemed like the arena was shifting with your thoughts as well. The path you had taken to get to the cave was a long, winding one, but now, it seemed like the trees were shifting away to make room for you. In the distance, after running for what seemed like forever, you could squint and make out the break of trees, and the bright sunlight that bounced off the field of wheat and flowers illuminated the way. 

And if you could look far enough, just at the right angle, the bright reflection of metal from the Cornacupia. 

Your legs stopped, and you nearly collapsed if not for catching yourself on your knees. Your chest was heaving at an uncontrollable rate, your mouth dry and in need of water, but you tried to take a deep breath, a flash of hope, something you hadn’t felt in a while, filling your senses. In that moment of clarity and relatively, after you night of thinking up a plan, you had realized that if you were able to draw the remaining tributes away, making it so that you three could die while Gojo remained back near the cave, then maybe, just maybe, you could be able to manipulate the games in a way that would let Gojo win. 

Something whizzed past the side of your head, and you felt the instantaneous trickle of blood pour from where the weapon had cut your forehead. 

You let out a startled yell, the pain not hitting you but the shock, and look in the direction from which the weapon came, only to be met with Borna, his arm reeling back to send another axe flying in your direction. 

Having no other second to spare, your legs worked in tandem to send you flying, scrambling to get away from the tree line as the large field quickly came into view. The blood was pouring into your eyes, and you blinked it away, wiping at the thick liquid so that you could see better, and when the sparkle of the large structure was getting clearer, you looked over your shoulder to see where Borna was. 

An axe came barreling your way, but you barely dodged it, almost tripping but regaining your balance, and continued running in the direction of the Cornacopia. 

The fresh wound was stinging, your legs were burning, and it seemed like the sun was already beginning to set, but you knew you had to push forward, just a little more, when a force from your right barreled into your side. 

It sent you flying, skidding across the ground as you groaned, your eyes squeezing shut as your arms wrapped around your head to try and protect it. You rapidly blinked, watching as Maxmus got up from where he, too, had fallen and glanced over at his hiding spot from the side of the Cornacopia as he looked between you and Borna, who had finally caught up. 

Labored breaths were escaping your mouth, and your hand fumbled to grab at the knife you had tucked away, brandishing it at the two boys who were beginning to corner you. Seeing them up close showed you the true extent of the damage they had received from the arena. Borna, whose skin was littered with deep cuts and bruises, matched the rough exterior of Maxmus, whose left eye was black and swollen shut, his arms sliced and diced from what must have been Borna’s blades. 

You scrambled to your feet, swaying slightly, and pointed your blade to each of them, backing away slowly, pointing the tip of the knife to any one of them who was beginning to inch forward.

Maxmus’s gaze was set on Borna’s face, and Borna was looking at you, who was looking at Maxmus. You were the oldest of the three tributes, but here, everybody seemed like children waiting for permission to fight. 

“Not so much a sweetheart anymore?” Borna quipped, his face pulled into a cruel grin that didn’t match his face, something he had been forced to become, and your eyes quiver. This boy shouldn’t be forced to survive like this. 

But it seemed like the question, perhaps the word sweetheart, the same nickname you had called his sister Evelyn, sparked something in Maxmus. 

He lunged for Borna, kicking the weapon out of his hand as he used his fists to hit him on either side of his face. Borna scratched at his cheeks with his nails, blood pricking at wherever they dug in, but Maxmus could only let out brutal and guttural noises as he wrapped one thick hand around Borna’s thin throat, trying to choke the life out of him. 

Borna screamed, something weak and child-like as he cried, begging for Maxmus to get off of him as he continued to kick and flail, but to no avail.

You could only watch, horrified, backing away slowly, watching the way all the humanity left Maxmu’s body as all that replaced it was pure anaimalistic rage, caging his fingers around Borna’s head as he lifted him once, slamming him down on the ground until Borna’s screams quieted, and he lay limp on the bed of flowers. 

A canon fired.

Maxmus heaved, slowly standing up, wiped his bloody hands on his pants, and turned around to see where you had gone. 

His face is streaked with Borna’s blood, his eyes red and crazed. His blonde hair is riddled with dirt, and he snarls, his nose wrinkled as he looks at you, takes one step forward as you take one back. 

Your hand trembles, your knife still pointing at him as your head snaps slightly, the memory of Yuuji flashing before your eyes. 

Opening your mouth to say something, a little explanation, some final bits of humanity he might spare you, but are cut off when something, someone, a voice, catches both of your attention. 

Somebody shouts from the woods, and in the distance, you can see the familiar shape of Gojo, his face red, drenched with sweat, as he looks around wildly. When the two of you lock eyes, it feels like everything you had led yourself to believe these last few hours tumbling down. The look of betrayal, anger, somewhat relief, and shock fills his expression, and you can’t say anything, the words necessary leaving your vocabulary. 

Your heart drops, a small sound escaping your lips as your hand falls slightly.

No, no, no, no, he found you, why…why? Why didn’t he stay back in the cave? Why did he come back? Doesn’t he know he’s about to win? Why is he running towards you?

Maxmus looks between Gojo’s running body, at the way he’s not slowing down, and in his last act of hopelessness, leaps for you, his fist connecting with your jaw as you both tumble into the large blade of grass, a gasp punching out of your chest as you instantly taste blood on your tongue. 

Gojo yells your name again, full of desperation and wrath, emotions that you can’t place in this moment, and your eyes come back into focus as Maxmus raises his left arm again, his face shaking with tremors as his other hand raises to your neck, choking the air out of you. 

You gasp, one of your hands reaching for the hand around your throat, the other blindly grabbing around for the knife he had knocked out of your grasp, eyes bulging out of your sockets as you begin to suffocate. 

Gojo is somewhere nearby, but the field is large, and he can only run so fast, considering that he ran through the entirety of the forest just moments before in hopes of trying to find you. Maxmus slams your head down on the floor, and blood trickles out of your mouth. One of his knees pins your wrist to your ground, kicking the knife away from you as he bares his teeth like a dog. 

“I’m s-sorry,” you stutter, spasming for air and spitting some blood that was filing your mouth out, careful not to hit him, “I’m sorry….sorry a-about Evelyn,” your voice is raw and wheezing, and your legs are helplessly kicking, not at him, but as you struggle to keep conscious. 

Maxmus pauses, the crazed expression on his face flickering away, the look of a brother replacing it, a brother who misses his sister, and his eyes brim with tears, his lips trembling as his fingers loosen around your throat. 

Gojo’s shouts for you are nearing, and Maxmus glances over his shoulder, fear riddling his eyes as he snaps his head back to you, stammering as he lets out a small cry, and his fist tightens again, your eyes spotting around the edges with black dots as air becomes less and less accessible. 

“She was t-twelve,” he whispers, shaking, “Twelve.” 

You try to nod, but barely have the strength to, and just stare at him through your bloodshot eyes, mouth open as you see him raise his fist again, putting you out of your misery, when a hand, one much larger, curls around his, throwing Maxmus away from your body. 

You choke when his hand leaves your throat, turning to the side as you gag, gasping in air as you feel lightheaded, your vision tilting and twirling, watching as Gojo throws a violent to the side of Maxmus’s head, his face contorting with rage as Maxmus stays silent, taking each hit. 

You can’t speak, losing your voice in your bruised throat, and your fingers scratch at the skin, shuffling on your side, trying to get to Gojo. 

Gojo unsheathes his sword from his belt, his strong arm reeling as he points the tip to Maxmus’s heart, but something else catches your attention. 

Maxmus, his hand is reaching for something. 

Lizzie’s knife. 

Gojo doesn’t see it, blinded by inhuman anger and survival, and you try to communicate wordlessly with him, smacking the ground, crawling towards the two on hands and knees, but it seems to slow down as Maxmus’s fingers can wrap around the hilt. 

You gasp, heaving, and Maxmus turns his head slightly to the side, watching as you try to take the knife away, and something in him shifts, fingers inching across the blade, away from your grasp, and when he finally has a sturdy enough hold on it, he angles his hand up, slashing the side of your face with the blade, and then another slash that catches the skin around your already damaged neck. 

The action finally catches Gojo’s attention, and his face falls as he hears your muted whines of pain, your hands grabbing at your face as you collapse on your back, blood pouring from your face, a gruesome sight. 

He hesitates, and that seems to be all Maxmus needed to surge upwards, shoving the knife into Gojo’s ribcage. 

Maxmus digs Lizzie’s knife in, pulling his hand back as he stabs him somewhere lower down, pulling the knife out, blood seeping quickly through the fabric of Gojo’s jacket. 

Clenching his teeth through the pain, Gojo’s arm slips, and his sword lodges into Maxmus’s chest, near his heart, and Maxmus slowly goes still. 

A canon blasts. 

Your head is turned to the side, watching this happen, unable to move as pain and exhaustion take over your bones, and you feel your blood pool beneath your head. 

Your vision is blurry, but you watch as Gojo staggers away from Maxmus’s lifeless body, looking down to the side, looking at the damage done, and goes to stand up, but falls with a heavy thud. 

Gojo coughs, blood staining his chin, and the only thing you can do is look, look at his blood-stained clothes, hands, the mud-caked white hair, and finally his eyes. The thing that first caught your attention when you were nine, the thing that you noticed first when you saw him through that train window, and finally, here, as the last two tributes, barely clinging to life. 

You expect them to be hard with anger, unnerving, cruel, and with a coldness he could be capable of. 

But they look at you with the same softness you had become accosted to. He can’t talk, coughs on his own blood, but there’s no need to. 

You feel tears roll down the side of your face, and all you can do is try and outstretched your hand, trying to hold his, but Gojo is riddled and weak with pain, only able to slightly flex his fingers towards yours. 

After a second, a warmth floods your fingertips, and you feel his skin against yours, the same skin you felt when you were nine and he helped tighten some of your bandages, the same fingers that wiped Yuuji’s blood away from your cheeks, the same hands that held you just last night. 

Mustering up a weak smile, you blink, and he slowly blinks back. 

Black dots around your vision, your lids growing heavy, your breathing slowing down as your fingers hover over his. 

You feel like you’re drifting off to sleep, your eyes shutting, your body relaxing on the flowers beneath you, the same flowers resting with Yuuji, and you let go. 

One second passes, another one, and then,

A cannon blasts. 

—-

“Do you need anything?”

The steady hum of the room rattles the bed, the windows overlooking the Capitol as their vehicles honk and screech. Lights from the buildings flicker with different colors, all signs of life, but to you, it feels as though you’ve died and are watching this all through somebody else’s eyes. 

Martin sits next to your hospital bed, a knowing look etched onto his face. Drumesia is off somewhere, partying and getting drunk after having her first victim, but Martin hasn’t left your side. 

Because he knows. 

“President Snow wants to see you,” Martin says gently, his hand enclosing yours, but you stare blankly at the wall. “He wants to congratulate you for on win without the fuss of the cameras.”

You blink slowly, quietly. 

Martin sighs, his brown skin carved with years of wrinkles and sorrows, alcohol that numbed the pain but never erased it, making him look older than he was, and you glance over to your side as his head ducks, his hold on yours tightening. 

You see the way he looks at your face, a mix of pity and understanding, the way his stare lingers on the scars carved into your face, ones that doctors say will probably be there for a while. You don’t care about your appearance, only caring about the physical reminder of the games that you are now forced to carry.

“You should count yourself lucky, sweetheart,” he murmurs, careful to lower his voice in case there were any microphones planted in the room, “Not many victors can sit where you sit without having killed anyone.”

The whites of your eyes are still veined with red, a cone supporting your neck from the damage that Maxmus had caused, but you shake slightly with anger at his words. 

Lucky?

Martin sees the shift in your demeanor and swallows thickly, looking up at you, his brown eyes glossy with tears as he smiles sadly, nodding. 

“I know,” he whispers, squeezing your hand, and you feel your breathing hitch, nose wrinkling as you try to fight back tears, “I know.”

The two of you sit in that hospital room in silence, the only victors that District 11 has ever bared, and your fingers twitch, holding onto his hand too. 

—-

When it’s the crowning ceremony, you’re standing in front of the same place where the tribute parade ended, a large stage that was surrounded by the largest stadiums and crowds you had ever seen. 

You feel like you’re in a haze as you watch the back of President Snow,and  feel like you’re underwater with the way your ears sound muffled. He talks about tradition and duty, about the necessity of the games and the importance of a victor. 

When he finishes, the crowd erupts into cheers and screams, applause echoing so loudly that the ground beneath you rattles. 

Somebody presents him with the crown, and President Snow takes it carefully between his gloved hands. 

You are told to rise and stare at his weathering face, his wispy mustache, and his graying eyes. 

He smiles, but it looks strange. 

Your head ducks a little bit, and he places the crown atop, and you crane upwards as he gingerly pats your shoulders, noting the wrinkled handkerchief sticking out of the ruffle of the top of your bodice, something Drumesia and Martin fought to keep for you ever after the games ended. 

“Am I wrong in assuming this was your father's?” President Snow asks, pinching the fabric of the handkerchief between his fingers. His voice was soft and gentle, lowered as if this was a private conversation between the two of you. 

“It was passed down by members of my family,” your voice answers mechanically, your eyes lacking emotion as you stare at the man responsible for every single death you had witnessed. 

President Snow nods briefly, smiling as he pats it down. 

“I’m sure that your District is proud,” he responds, and steps away slightly. 

You nod. 

“My District is,” you say, “And any remaining family I have left.”

President Snow’s bushy brows furrow.

“My parents and siblings are buried in eleven,” you explain, your voice bitter and heavy, “But my ancestors are Covey. Are you familiar with them?”

President Snow's smile falters, and his eyes narrow. He straightens the crown on your head as his lips pull into a thin, wavery line. 

“Yes,” he muttered, his voice echoing around the small space, “Yes, I’ve heard of them.”

You watch as he retreats into the room behind the curtains, and everyone claps as you continue to stand, waving limply to the crowd. 

You can’t smile, no matter how hard you try, finding it difficult to do so under the burden of twenty-three tributes lying upon your head. 

—-

It’s the night before you leave for home, and sleep seems to evade you. 

You toss and turn, groaning at every unsatisfactory angle you lay down, and ultimately give up, walking around the spacious room to look out the large window. 

You rest your burning forehead on the cool glass, taking a deep breath as you close your eyes, trying to calm your racing mind and heart. 

Every light reminds you of the brightness of Gojo’s smile, every laughter you hear dims in comparison to Yuuj’s. 

Sometimes, you see their shadows in the corner of the room, even with the lights on. You could see their faces, before they were touched by the cruelty of the games, and sometimes close your eyes to savor the sight just a little bit more. 

Sighing, you bite your lip, trying not to cry again for the tenth night in a row, and sniffle, breathing stuttering. 

A knock at the door pulls you from your thoughts. 

It must be Martin coming back to check on you. You don’t look over your shoulder when it clicks open, getting ready to push him away, just as you’ve done each night, and let out an exhausted sigh when his footsteps patter in. 

“I’m packed,” you murmur, looking at the card below, looking at the strangely dressed citizens, “And you can tell Drumesia that I won’t need a desperate suitcase for the dresses, I’m not taking any of them home.”

A silence follows, and you push your forehead on the glass even harder, your breath fogging it up as you let out a sigh, looking over your shoulder to tell him in an even harsher tone, but your brows pinch together at the unfamiliar face. 

A tall middle-aged man with blue eyes and sandy blonde hair, swept to the side, smiles at you. 

You scramble away from the window in shock, stammering as you look at the door and then back at him. He looks somewhat like somebody you’ve seen around the Capitol, as if you had seen him around at the ceremonies and gatherings, but placed him aside as inconsequential. 

“Hello,” the man greets, not coming any closer as if he understands the threat he poses, “It’s an honor to meet you.”

“I wish I could say the same,” you reply coldly, and his head dips slightly, abashed, and places a hand across his chest, a symbol of apology. 

“I realize it’s your first time seeing me, but I’m one of the game makers,” he explains, and your face hardens even more, your fists clenching, “My name is Plutarch Heavensbee.”

Your nose flares, and don’t trust yourself to say anything that won’t get you in trouble. 

“I’m filming something for this documentary piece I’m doing on the Hunger Games. If you could please join me while I get some last shots of you, I would greatly appreciate it.”

He says it in a way that encourages disagreement, as if you could. 

You bite so hard on the inside of your cheek that you taste blood. You don’t move for a bit, a fire in your eyes that he notices and makes his smile grow a little. 

“Please,” he motions towards the door, turning his back, expecting you to follow, “It won’t take long.”

—-

You follow him down some winding hallways, places you haven’t had access to, and go down multiple flights of stairs, wondering if you're going to get killed for something foolish they caught on the microphone in the games. 

The man, Plutarch, tries to distract you by chattering away, explaining the importance of what this documentary is and how he’s hoping to become head gamemaker in a couple of years, but you try to phase it out in order not to choke the life out of him.

The walls around you become less decorated, and the lights begin to flicker the further downstairs you go. Cement seems to be the new support, as everywhere around you is a dark gray color, and he does nothing to explain where it is he’s taking you. 

After what seemed like almost twenty minutes, he turns right at some random hallways, looking over his shoulder, not at you, but something above you, gives it a quick nod, and before you can see what it is he was looking at he ushers you to a line of doors. 

You stand outside a random one as he fiddles with the lock, twisting and turning the key in a carnage of ways before it clicks, opening. 

He walks in, looking at you expectantly as you begrudgingly follow after him. 

The room he takes you to is barely a room and rather a wash of complete darkness. He shuts the door behind you, and you squint, trying to vocal your eyes without the help of the flimsy lights from outside. 

He shifts beside you, and you jump when you feel his lips suddenly next to your ears. 

“This is the only place that isn’t reinforced with their new series of microphones,” he whispers, and goosebumps prick at the back of your neck, going to interject, but he continues quickly, “You have five minutes before the cameras come back on. I’ll be waiting outside.”

“What?” Your voice shakes slightly with fear, not understanding what it was he was telling you. 

Where were the cameras he was telling you about? The film crew? How was he to take any clips of you in such a dark room? 

You can’t see his face, but you would bet that the same smile that hadn’t left his face ever since he saw you was still there, and he doesn’t answer your question as he reaches back for the handle, opening the door slightly as the light creeps in a little bit. 

The side of his face illuminates, and his eyes look at something behind you before he leaves, the door clicking shut behind him as you’re left alone in the room, confused and terrified. 

Was this some cruel joke? Were they poking at you one last time, hiding a camera somewhere in the room to see how long it takes for the mind of a recent victor to collapse?

You run, going towards where the outline of the door was, fiddling with the handle as you pound on it, hoping somebody outside could hear you. But from what you remembered about the halls, they were utterly desolate, leaving you completely by yourself and perhaps the game maker standing outside, enjoying this.  

“Bastard!” You shout, fist hitting metal as you kick it, “Let me out! They’ll notice I’m gone! You can’t--”

“You might want to lower your voice.”

You stop, head whipping around to the voice that came from somewhere behind you. 

“Who’s there?” You snap, backing into the door, “Who are you?” Your heart is hammering away, but you try to fight the fear in your voice. 

The voice chuckles lowly, and you hear quiet footsteps, ones that seem to be coming closer and closer to you. 

“You forgot my voice after a couple of days already?”

Why did it sound like…no. No, no, it can’t be. 

You laugh to yourself, shaking your head as you laugh at the manic idea. There’s no way, they’re just fucking with you. 

‌Mockingjays, you think, trying to make sense of why, why, why, it sounded like Gojo’s voice, they must’ve gotten his voice and turned it into something sinister and teasing, something to taunt you with.

“You’re sick,” you spit out, lips curling into a sneer as you push back against the door, rattling the doorknob, but it doesn’t open, “You’re a-all fucked in the head.”

The footsteps halt, and your breath lodges in your throat. 

Martin never warned you about any of this. 

“We don’t have a lot of time-”

“Fuck off!” You yell, hands clamping around your ears as your legs wobble and give way to the ground beneath you. You shake, rocking your body to the front and left, your eyes watering with those pesky tears as your fingers dig into your ears and the sides of your head, shaking it side to side as you try to get his voice away from you.

Strong and sturdy arms cage around your convulsing body, murmur gentle words into your hair as their hands run up and down your back, trying their best to calm you down, trying to calm you down like…like he would have.

“Go away!” You scream, but your voice is muffled by the person's body, and you try to punch him away, but he’s just too firm to even move, “Please, please, please, just-just leave me alone!”

The hands that are holding you to their body pause, stilling as they contemplate something, and you hope that they’re going to let you go, let you be on your own the way you wanted, but instead they move to where your hands were still covering your ears. They tug and tug and tug some more until you give up, tears wetting your cheeks as you tremble beneath them. 

The person takes a deep breath, thumb rubbing across the pulse beneath their wrist before they speak.

“Eyes so blue and hair so black, they called him sailor boy,” the man recounts, his voice low but loud enough so that it could be heard over your moans, quiet so that anybody outside, if anybody ever were to pass by, couldn’t hear, and the words instantly cause you to stop. 

“Remember?” he asks gently, carefully, patiently, a smile in his tone even if you couldn’t see it, and you craned your head upwards to where you guessed his face was, your breathing stuttering as you felt some strange emotion flood your veins, “Eyes so blue and hair so black, they called him sailor boy. He could not swim but loved the sea, our little sailor boy.”

And Gojo continues, as if it wasn’t enough. 

“He rowed and rowed and rowed some more, that stubborn sailor boy,”

Your fingers dig into his chest, scrambling and positioning yourself so that you are seated atop his strong thighs, his hands holding onto your waist as if you were the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. 

“And when he reached the long-lost land…he had nowhere else to go.” You finish the poem for him, your eyes wide and mouth gaping as you shake your head over and over, refusing to believe the truth that was laid out in front of you. 

Because somehow, someway, right here, right now, only breaths away from you, Gojo was…

Alive. 

The two of you don’t say anything for a second. You stay quiet, listening to the sounds of his breaths, matching them to the same patterns you heard countless nights in the cave when he was asleep. You lower your head down, hands patting around his chest to see where his heart is. It was thumping, alive, under your palm. You place your ear against it, counting its beats, the rhythm you had forced yourself to memorize. 

It’s the same, you accept, it’s his.

Gojo doesn’t say anything either, but lets his hands roam across your arms, tracing your skin from your wrist to your elbows, calloused fingers gliding across the hairs on your neck and the soft fuzz on your cheeks. They falter slightly when they catch against the divet of the scar from Maxmus’s knife, but decide not to linger too much on the past. His hands move from your neck down, down to your chest, where your own heart was pittering and pattering away, and he sprawls out his hand to feel its steady beat. It’s yours, your unique heartbeat that he could recite like poetry if you asked him to. 

“...Satoru?”

Your voice quivers, wavering and teetering with disbelief and something like hope.

“Sailor boy,” he corrects, and you let out a sound that was a cross between a screech and wail, barriling into his chest as you press your hands across every part of his body you could, kissing his cheeks and the backs of his hands, kissing his forhead and his hairline, his soft sounds of laughter making you cry and laugh in return, kissing the slope of his nose and the corners of his eyes, feeling out his features with your fingers, making sure everything was the way you remembered. He tried to steady you, but his smile was blinding, even if the darkness of the room hid it. Your teethy grin could illuminate the universe and then some, and you were sure you were crying out the last reserve of tears you had as you slurred questions and words together, only able to choke out a pathetic-

“How?”

Your voice cracks, your head falling onto his, your noses touching as your chest shakes with sobs. His hands reach upwards, cupping your cheeks on either side as his thumbs try to wipe your tears away, but he’s no match for how quickly they come. His lips press small kisses to the tip of your nose, your forehead, and your chin. After a few seconds, he settles his forehead back on yours, fingers moving slightly out to hold the back of your head as he simply shrugs.

“Plutarch won’t tell me everything, but,” he sighs, his thumb moving across the small hairs of your eyebrows, flattening them down as he smiles to nobody but himself, “I guess the tracker they put in me was special, something my father bribed them into switching. Plutarch says it could control my heartbeat, slow it down enough to where…to where it seemed like I was…”

Dead.

“I-I don’t,” you stutter, lips quivering as you choke, choke on a thousand emotions that you don’t know how to deal with, trying to remember him a week ago, lying lifeless in front of you, to the shadow you see now, trying to rationalize every possible scenario, but nothing makes sense, “I don’t understand. I saw you, you…you’re heart stopped, you weren’t breathing, Satoru, you weren’t breathing,” you ramble, a new wave of tears rolling over you as he hushes them, trying to calm you down but nothing seems to work. 

“I know,” he murmurs, rubbing his hands up and down your arms, pulling you impossibly closer to him, “I know, I’m sorry I didn’t show you but-” 

“You’re sorry?” You exclaim, pulling away slightly to scoff through the tears, hitting him across the chest with weak blows, shoving him with anger at yourself, at stupid him for ruining your stupid plan, “You’re sorry? I,” you sob again, laughing humorlessly as you jam your palms into your eyes, “You were supposed to win, not me! That’s why I left! I…I wanted them to follow me, I wanted you to win, Satoru,” your voice cracks, using the backs of your hands to wipe at your cheeks. Gojo lets out a small puff of air, akin to a chuckle, but it doesn’t match the heavy feeling that settles in his heart. 

He pulls you back into his chest, as if he doesn’t like being away for you even for seconds at a time if he can avoid it, and runs his lanky fingers across your back, a soothing gesture, but it doesn’t help the hiccups that escape your lips nor the way you wet his shoulder with your tears and spit. 

“Why do you think I ran after you?” He murmured against the side of your head, his own salty tears splattering on the ground as he choked on his words, “Did you really think,” he takes a depe breath, hiccuping as he cradles you head, “Did you really think I’d let go of the girl I’ve been in love with since I was nine?” 

You laugh wetly, pulling away from his chest, wishing so desperately you could see his face, even a glimmer of it, but you could settle for this now, settle for the blurriness of his outline if it meant hearing those words again. 

You move blindly, tilting your head upwards slightly, and catch his lips against yours. It's a breathless sigh that escapes you, your fingers moving from his neck to tangle in his hair, only to find his head buzzed, void of the soft locks you remembered, but you’re too dizzy to comment on it. 

Gojo kisses you back with the fervor of a man starved, groaning when your teeth accidentally catch on his bottom lip, his nose pressing against yours as one of his large hands sprawls across your back, pushing you closer to him as he ravishes you. His tongue darts out, running across your, moving with experience that you lacked, but he didn’t seem to mind, not at all. 

His fingers trailed upwards to cup your jaw, tilting your head slightly to make room for his, and you whine when he pulls you with the strength of somebody who’s ben training their whole life to situate better on his lap, and you feel the wetness of your tears mix with his own, becoming a mess of spit, salt and skin as Gojo pulls away slightly to catch some air. 

A loud thud, something like a hand hitting metal, comes from the other side of the door, and you’re sure that if you could, you’d see that familiar blush painting Gojo’s face. You feel your cheeks heat up, and the two of you laugh, embarrassed and giddy, a feeling you never thought you’d feel again, and Gojo murmurs a quiet apology against your skin.

“They buzzed my hair,” he explains, as if reading your thoughts, and your hands move across his head, nails raking his scalp as he shudders, “And they dyed it black. They said that I have to look unrecognizable, hell, they’re even making me put some contacts in to hide my eye color.”

“They?” You ask breathlessly, brows furrowed, and Gojo nods, his thumb brushing across your bottom lip as you feel a fire burn across your face at the slight touch.

“I can’t tell you, it’s not safe, not even here,” he explains quickly, noting how little time left there was, “But I’m being sent out to District 10 to be a peacekeeper. Plutarch won’t tell me anything else, but he says that in…in a couple of years, I might be able to see you.”

Your chest heaves again, stammering, you thought that this was permanent, a naive wish, and Gojo picks up on it, kissing your nose again as he leans his forehead on yours, hugging you by the waist as he kisses the side of your mouth, then a slight peck to your lips as you sniffle. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he whispers, a statement that you have a hard time believing. “If I waited nine years and was able to have you for this long, I think I can wait a little more if it means having you forever.” 

You laugh wetly, shaking your head as you shudder with fear and trepidation. 

“I love you, too,” you say quietly but firmly, arms circling his neck as you feel him smile against your lips, “I have…for a while, even if I didn’t know it.”

Plutarch hits the door again, signalling for you to wrap it up. 

You feel anxiety roll over you, stammering to say everything you wanted to, but stop, knowing that in these last seconds, you had to be meticulous. 

“Wait for me?” Your voice is barely above a whisper, and your chest stutters with a particularly sharp sob that you try to push down, “I’ll be where I always am, you’ll know where to find me.”

He laughs softly, thumb rubbing across your cheek as he pulls you down for one last kiss, one that lingers and you can still taste, years later. 

“I will,” Gojo promises without missing a beat, “Promise.”

---

Years pass, and the games continue. 

There’s no way to hide the pain that comes each year when the games start again, can’t forget the look of Yuuji, or the other tributes. Most days, whether you want to or not, you pass by the Iadori household. They welcome you inside with minimal words, pour you some tea in silence while the brothers stare at a wall, not saying anything. They don’t blame you, never show anger, and always kiss you on the forehead when it’s your time to leave. Their mother passed after your games, so you always try to give them food and money, anything you could offer, even if they don’t take any of it.

There’s a small plot of dirt next to their fathers, where their mother lies, and eventually where they buried Yuuji. You visit it during the day, place purple and yellow flowers by the patch, and update him on your life, even if it takes a while to find the words. It would take even more time to allow yourself the forgiveness you deserved, but for now, you read Yuuji the stories from your childhood and pretend like he was there. You clean his headstone every Friday, making sure it is always shining, and kiss the edge of it when you get ready to leave. Sometimes, you leave a handful of berries and nuts at the foot, knowing that he’d be proud of the ones you foraged, even if they weren’t ever as sweet as his.

The victor's village is empty, but you always visit Martin during the nights, when you know he drinks the most and it’s hardest to sleep. The two of you don’t have much to say, and you prefer the silence, but he drinks less when you’re around, or at least attempts to hide the bottles when he hears your knocks.

When the time comes, just like Gojo said, it takes nobody by surprise that there’s a disturbance of what was once a normality, a shift in the system of violence and chaos. A power keg of a machine tumbling by each District that slowly pulls away from their duties, people from all over banding together as they find the resilience needed to rebel and get rid of the system that took everything from them. It’s a bloody war, one that takes and takes and takes and seems to have no end until it finally gives out, cries from all over when it’s released that President Snow is killed and a new leader has been elected, fairly and democratically. 

There isn’t much left of 11 afterwards, after the bombs stopped and the planes left. But gradually, the people came out of hiding and from beneath the rubble, one by one, until a small community, one that resembled the one you once knew, emerged. It’s lost a lot of its members, the Itadori plot now joined by Sukuna and Choso as they rest by their brother and parents, and you always visit them when the sun comes up, drinking tea on the grass as you tell them stories from the war and your days rebuilding. 

The victor’s village was untouched, and you and Martin opened the doors to anybody who didn’t have a home left. Some people came, others preferred to start new and without reminders of what once was. 

And after a while, when the dust settled and the bone began to become one with the dirt, you heard a gentle rasp at your door. 

He stood there, aged, slightly shaken, but still him. He held a small bouquet, white and yellows and purples mixing as he shuffled slightly, pushing his long white locks back with his fingers as he tried to let go of the hardness that had taken over his features. 

Gojo smiled when you emerged from behind the door, your own eyes slightly sunken in with exhaustion and the soils of war, but still the gentle ones that welcomed him to you when you were both children with nothing to lose. 

He had found you, just as he promised, and this time, he wasn’t going to let you go. 

Besides, Gojo was long overdue for taking his girl out for a dance.

[soobiary]

MY TWO FAVOURITE FANDOMS COLLIDED

𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥, 𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader

part two

summary: every year, to make them pay for their uprising, a male and female tribute are selected from each district to fight to the death in the hunger games. this year, you have been chosen as the female tribute from district 11. you never expected to make an alliance with someone, much less with the capitol's newest darling, gojo satoru. but it happens, making this year's games even more interesting. not only for the unlikely alliance, but for the fact that nobody could've predicted love to bloom between such unlikely tributes.

warnings: general hunger games related dark themes, nothing too serious yet

word count: 20k

note: reblogs and comments are always appreciated! hope part one is interesting enough for the eventual part two that's in the works! art credit: _3aem

jjk masterlist + series masterlist

From the Treaty of Treason:

In penance for their uprisings, each district shall offer up a male and female between the ages of 12 and 18 at a public “Reaping”. 

These tributes shall be delivered to the custody of the Capitol. 

And then transferred to a public arena where they will fight to the Death, until a lone victor remains.

—-

When your name was called at the Reaping, you didn’t feel fear. 

You thought you would’ve. All those years dreading the moment where your name could be called, herded into a show of glitz and glam, all to be brutally slaughtered at the end. It’s frightening, violent, gruesome. It’s death. 

But when you heard your name resonate through that microphone and bounce off the walls of the courtyard, you felt a strange sense of relief. 

Your shoulders relaxed, head dropping down as you nod slightly to yourself. After nearly surviving seventeen years of escaping the Hunger Games, what odd irony it was that at your last eligible year, you’d be chosen? But you knew deep down, your odds of being picked were greater than most. You had entered your name so many times in exchange for extra rations that it was almost comical how empty that glass bowl would be without your help. 

Looking around, as if to make sure you hadn’t misheard it, you see your rampaging thoughts quickly answered by the way you could see yourself on the big screens, the Capitol cameras focusing in on your face to see your reaction. They normally love a show, adore it when people cry or protest. But you couldn’t cry even if you wanted to, felt no need to show others pain that you reserved for those you loved most. 

The girls around you mutter things quickly, their eyes darting around to gauge your emotions. Last year, the girl tribute from your district tried to run away. She had made it close to the fence before one of the peacekeepers thumped her on the head and dragged her back towards the stage.

But you wouldn’t be running. You wouldn’t be giving them a show. They had taken your mother and father, your sister and brother. They had taken your youth and now your adulthood, but you swore in that moment that you wouldn’t give them what they wanted most.

Your body moved on its own out of the crowd, the girls around you giving you room to part from them. Some of them whispered thanks under their breaths, others let their hands linger on your arms and back. Maybe they felt sorry, as if they were already mourning you.

The Capitol lady they send every year for the annual reaping of the Hunger Games watches you with hawk-like eyes as you slowly make your way down the aisle and towards the makeshift stage. Brumesia, a woman with a strange name and even stranger choice of attire and makeup, gives you an oily, manufactured smile as you slowly make your way up the steps and towards her outstretched hand. 

You look at it briefly in questioning. It was covered with a suede, plum-colored glove, and you wondered how much a glove like that would cost at the market. It could surely cover a family's meals for over a month. She looked at you and then at your hands, the crowd of people watching as they waited for you to shake it. 

Most people tend to dress in their best clothes for the reaping ceremony. They wear what they would usually save for the new year or gatherings. They clean up and try to look presentable for the respectable Capitol people watching. But you, you who could barely afford a tattered dress or soap, looked exactly like you did leaving the fields, grimy. So when you shook Brumesia’s hand, you made sure to get all your dirt and sweat on her brand-new gloves. 

Brumesia gave a slightly winced look, giving you a tightly pressed smile as she walked back to her microphone, gripping the stand. 

“Thank you for this year's female tribute,” she glanced over your way, most likely already having forgotten your name, “And now, the male tribute…” 

You stood limply and lifeless as she read the male tribute's name, a boy who had just become old enough for the games, and someone who you would see frequently working around the production line. You had never had so many eyes on you, and you felt open and raw. You distracted yourself by naming all the colors of the clothes people were wearing, but it was an overwhelming wash of greys and blacks. 

You watched as the boy, Itadori Yuuji, made his way up to the stage. In the distance, his mother could be heard muffling her cries, and the cameras made sure to capture her crumpled-up face. From what you knew, Yuuji had two brothers, but they were too old to volunteer for the games. You looked around to find them, their faces pale and drained of blood as they tried to hold their screaming mother back. 

When you see his small body trudge out of the crowd, that's when you feel the first wave of nausea roll over you. Yuuji, with his round face and slight limp from an accident during his youth, was coming up the stage, furiously wiping at his face. 

He was young, far too young.

For a second, it all feels surreal. You pinch yourself, hard, just to make sure you haven’t fallen asleep in the fields again, waking up to the gentle breeze and sway of wheat as you make your way back to the town. 

That fear that you know you should’ve had almost creeps back up when Yuuji has his hand shaken and Brumesia reads the last of her card. The delayed reaction almost chokes you out, your hands trembling when you look over at her, then back to the crowd, and finally at the big screen televising your face. 

When she reads the ceremonial statement, “may the odds be ever in your favor”, your mind stops itself from spiraling. You had to control yourself; you’ve mastered control before. The Capitol wasn’t going to take it from you, not like they did everything else. 

Drumesia orders you to shake Yuuji's hand. You note how he trembles more than you. 

—

This year would be the 66th annual Hunger Games. 

The Capitol was still reeling from the games last year, when the new victor from District 4, the youngest ever, took out all his opponents with his various choice of weapons. When the train taking you and Yuuji from District 11 to the Capitol ended its journey, the buzz with all the Capitol citizens was still surrounding last year’s victor. The ladies were giggling in their masses, craning their necks to see the train from District 4, wanting to get a shot of him boarding off as a new mentor, paying no mind to the other trains. You expected this, being from District 11, but found yourself a little surprised to see the citizens even ignoring the trains from Districts 1 and 2, their neighboring brothers and sisters (although they'd recoil in disgust if they had to admit it). 

It simply meant that the careers and tributes from these higher districts would be angered by the overshadowing of the young victor, meaning that this year's games would have to surpass the last. 

Meaning that this year was going to be exceptionally brutal. 

“Don’t they want to see us too?” Yuuji asked from beside you, peering out the window at the large crowd of people crowding the train car up ahead. 

You blink out of your stupor, glancing over at him as you take in his bloodshot eyes and wet nose. He had spent the week-long journey crying, holding onto you as if you could be of much protection. You tried to wrench him away from you at first, not wanting to get attached, but it was inevit  in able. You knew his brothers well after having worked alongside them for nearly six years and had a deep fondness for him mother. You can still remember the stir that woke the town when he was born, everyone scrambling to the Itadori household to pinch his chubby cheeks. A part of you couldn’t abandon him, a sense of guilt infiltrating your body the moment you even entertained the idea.

So you gave in, letting him crawl into your side. Besides, before you worked in the fields, you used to take care of the children of the mayor and the wealthier members of your district, so soothing Yuuji and his tremors wasn’t too difficult. 

“They just can’t see us because of those big fluttery lashes they have,” you say with a teasing tone, winking at him in an exaggerated way that makes him giggle slightly. It’s not much, but the perpetual look of fear he has in his eyes leaves momentarily. 

It was true, to some degree. The Capitol citizens wore inoperable, extravagant outfits that seemed to come in every array of colors and shapes. You had spent your entire life thinking that Brumesia was as over-the-top as it could be, but you were sorely mistaken. The Capitol, even this tiny train station, was beyond any word you could think of. At least, not any good ones. 

This whole experience so far has only morbidly reminded you of your dark and impending fate. The train was littered with food or sweets you could imagine. You had never felt so full in your life, often trudging back to your room in a comatose state as you lay bonelessly on your bed. The mattresses are made with cotton, and the bedsheets are satin. Despite it all, however, it’s a blaring reminder that when this show is over, it’s up to you and the twenty-three other tributes to put on a new one. 

And when you remember that the food no longer tastes as good.  

“My mom would hate that lady's outfit,” Yuuji murmurs, pointing to a girl outside with a large hoop skirt decorated with red feathers, her bodice ending dangerously close underneath her chest. “She would say it’s too impractical.” 

Although he’s trying to sound optimistic, you can still hear the quiver in his voice. He missed his mom, his whole family. You were waiting alone in the room next to him back home, waiting to be carded off onto the trains, when you heard them come in. You could still hear her cries in her sleep, hear his brothers beg for forgiveness for not being able to take his place. 

It was torture. All of this was torture. 

But you smile despite yourself, teeth flashing as you nudge his side a little bit, failing at chastizing him. Drumesia was off somewhere blotting her face, but her ears were always perked. The mentor they had given you, an old victor from way back when, was snoozing off in his room, unable to hear your remarks even if he had his face up close to your mouth. 

“I don’t see how she’d be able to climb any trees with that skirt,” you tease, but feel a certain ache curl up in your chest. There were no trees to climb at the Capitol, and you doubted you’d ever feel the rush of adrenaline climbing one for yourself.

The trains from the other districts were slowly unloading, one by one, and Drumesia was waking up a storm trying to get everyone ready to leave. Martin, your mentor, clambered out of his room with his shirt crumbled up and a bit of pastry bits stuck to his mouth, making Drumesia fret over him more than you and Yuuji. 

At this time, the two of you shifted down the train cart, near the edge, and tried to look out the small window that faced the tribute center, where they were filing them all in one by one. 

“Look at him!” Yuuji pointed in excitement, his finger bending on the glass as he pressed his nose up, fogging it with his breath, “Look at him! Look at his hair!” 

You crammed next to him to find what he was excited about, squinting your eyes to see in the distance, and felt your heart drop at the sight. 

District 1, known for the production of luxury items, often bears the most tributes that win the games. Often coming after the Capitol in terms of wealth, they’re able to send their children to special academies to train for the games and volunteer up until it’s no longer possible. The tributes from this district almost always won, and if they didn’t, it’s only because the tributes from 2 or 4, in charge of stone production and fishing industries respectively, followed second. They often form alliance pacts at the start of the games before the friendships fizzle out and they kill each other, earning the nickname of Careers.

The person Yuuji was pointing to had a 1 written on the back of his shirt, his muscles rippling through the fabric as he moved. His arms were the size of trunks, his body strong like a tree. Tributes weren’t allowed to see the Reaping footage ceremony from the other districts during the train ride, most likely to keep with the air of mystery, but you had prepared yourself to be met with tributes who could kill you with their bare hands. 

He looked like he could kill you with his bare hands. 

“I would advise you two to step away from the windows. We wouldn’t want sponsors seeing you as you are…now,” Brumesia’s sing-songy voice filled your ears, making both you and Yuuji turn around quickly as if caught doing something wrong. She was looking the two of you up and down, and no matter how much you cleaned yourself in the showers, it felt like a layer of dirt was still clinging to you.

Your face fell into a slight scowl, something that often happened when you had to interact with her. 

“We’re just looking,” you explain through your teeth, your hand protectively falling on Yuuji’s elbow. You feel him come closer to your side, cowering under her yellow, horrifyingly modified eyes.

Her brow perks at your tone. It was obvious the two of you weren’t going to get along, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Even if she had liked you and decided to put in more effort to show you off, even the most appealing District 11 tributes barely got any attention from Capitol citizens. You and Yuuji were doomed from the start.

You roll your eyes in annoyance, glancing over your shoulder to see the mob of people still crowding around the District 4 train, yelling and laughing in excitement as they try to see young Finnick Odair. 

But the mob wasn’t what caught your attention. Nor was it the way Yuuji was tugging on your shirt sleeve to get you to start getting ready to leave. 

Your breath hitched at the blue pair of eyes staring back across the platform, white brows furrowed as the two of you locked stares with each other. It wasn’t a mistake, as if he had been looking at someone near your direction. No, he was looking at the window, through it, as if into you. 

The male tribute from District 1 watched you for a little more before his mentors ushered him away, into the tribute center, where you could no longer see him. 

Your heart was pounding rapidly against your ribs, mouth dry as you swallowed thickly at a daunting thought,

He looked oddly…familiar. 

—

Preparations for the opening ceremony took far longer than you expected. 

You had been hosed down three times, had strangers mess around and poke at your arms and legs. They scrubbed your skin until it was raw, plucking and tweazing at your brows, waxing your legs, and making sure you looked somewhat presentable to everyone watching. Yuuji had been separated from you when they began dividing the tributes into the male and female categories, but you promised him through his tearful eyes that it would only take a bit. 

How naively wrong you were.

The Capitol people were all chattering quietly, not wanting you to what anything as they worked meticulously on each twelve of the girl tributes. But you could hear in the distance some loud, pitched laughter, a woman squealing in excitement, and roars of laughter in slew. 

Although you were all separated by curtains, you craned your neck a little to the side to peer at the sound, seeing a little bit from the gap. The girl tribute from District 1 was chattering away with her team, her smile glossy and sweet as they all talked together as if they were close friends.

This is how they get sponsors, you thought bitterly to yourself. Making friends wasn’t something you were used to, did not need it back in your district. Niceties didn’t help you survive, but it seemed that that was the only way to get ahead here.

“Don’t feel bad,” a soft voice said from above you, and you jumped in surprise, looking around to see one of the girl who was scrubbing your back give you a small grin, “They’re laughing extra loud because we have a bet going on to see which tribute is the biggest suck-up.”

She’s had fewer surgeries compared to the other people you’ve seen so far. She seems young, perhaps a little older than you, but she doesn’t have the artificial Capitol feel yet, as if she’s still clinging onto her last bits of humanity.

You try to hide the surprise on your face, but don’t do a very good job, seeing how the girl giggles at your reaction. She’s the first to speak to you, besides the others who barked orders at you like you were cattle, and despite the tension and rampant thoughts that are coursing through your mind, you feel your lips quirk up a little. 

The other helpers had gone off to find some creams and lotions or…something, you don’t exactly remember, as they kept quickly saying things under their breath in a frantic way, leaving the two of you alone. 

“You must be losing then,” you tell her, your voice lowered so that nobody could hear if they were passing by. 

She snorts, fingers work deftly as they pluck some hairs off your neck. 

“I’m actually winning,” she says matter-of-factly, “Girls from one always act above everyone. I’m treating my friends to drinks tonight.” You laugh lightly at her cheeky words, your cheeks bunching up under your smile. 

Until it falters with a thought, your back tensing a little bit as she tweezes a particularly rebellious stray. What else do they think about us? About people from the districts? You swallow some bile, shutting your eyes to act indifferent.

“Do you also bet on who you think would win?”

Her hands pause, and you feel the air in the room shift slightly. 

She coughs uncomfortably, and a part of you revels in making her feel uneasy. Like she was human. Like she was you.

“We’re not allowed to, um, bet, on…that,” she mutters quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, furiously trying to pluck at anything and everything as if that would make your initial question disappear. 

Not us, you think, even if she could bet, she’d never bet on us. 

“Although,” her voice squeaks out, and your ears twitch to hear the small sound, and she continues working like nothing is happening behind closed doors, and you wonder if the cameras in the corner could also pick up things this quiet. “There’s the male tribute. From one. His dad won the game years ago. He volunteered this year. If I could…” 

Your blood freezes, your breathing hitching as you think back to those startling blue eyes. He’s the son of a past victor? He volunteered? 

“But you’re really pretty!” The girl quickly scrambles to say, as if the damage hadn’t already been done, “I’m sure you’ll get a lot of sponsors!”

You nodded weakly, smiling a little bit to get her focused on her work as the other Capitol helpers started filing in with different assortments of perfumes and creams. 

The two of you stay in silence after that, and you let the rhythmic beating of your heart drown out the rest of the noise around you. You wonder how much longer it would be until you couldn’t hear it. 

—

The Chariot Parade is a time-honored tradition of the days leading up to the games. 

Tributes are dressed up in elaborate costumes that reflect their respective districts and are drawn out on a chariot for all the Capitol and those watching to see. It helps sponsors get a better understanding of who they’ll be paying, and helps people decide who their favorites are going to be. 

That meant for you and Yuuji, the tributes from 11 would be dressed in scratchy overalls and red flannels, a terribly executed version of what field workers wore back home. 

The costumes were old and worn, barely fitting you as you climbed into them. The tributes from 12 don’t look any better in their coal mining uniforms, but you feel a surge of jealousy seeing how the 1 and 2 tributes are decked in sparkling dresses and suits. 

“Well, you two look…” Drumesia, who had been trying to get your mentor away from the bar, looked peeved at your outfits, her eyes raking over the baggy costumes in distaste, “Better. Although they told me the stylists were giving us new outfits this year…” she muttered sourly, looking over your shoulder in search of someone to yell at. 

But you couldn’t care too much as you looked around, getting your first good look at the other tributes. 

Every boy and girl from each district was huddled with their teams, fretting over their bows and silks. However, many of them, like you, would take stealing glances every other second, their eyes darting around and then quickly fleeting back as if not wanting to be caught. But you couldn’t care much about people seeing you staring, but you did feel uncomfortable when you found them holding your stare longer than a beat. 

Just like on that train. Just like now. 

The boy from 1 was standing near one of the horses, his hands holding sugar cubes for it to eat, but his gaze wasn’t lingering on its face, but rather yours. 

You feel a flicker of fear, knowing that he must’ve been ticked off from how you kept staring at him earlier, but he shouldn’t care that much, right? Especially not when the attention was coming from someone in a much lower district. 

His eyes were a striking color, a sickeningly bright blue that shone even more as his costume caught the light and twinkled. His face was blank, void of any emotion, as he looked across the way. 

You looked back at the ground after a second, shoving some pebbles with the tip of your boot. 

“I don’t like these clothes,” you glance back down at Yuuji, who was tugging uncomfortably at his arms, his voice cracking as he tries not to cry from all the overwhelming things he’s feeling, “They feel weird - I want my old clothes back.”

His glassy chestnut eyes look into yours, his lips pulling into a frown as you shake your head, a smile on your face as you drop to his height and begin fiddling with the straps of his overalls. 

Yuuji had a small and thin frame, even for someone as young as him. He was relatively short, reaching just above your hipbone and it didn’t help that his right leg was messed up badly from an accident he had when he was a kid, a common injury around your district. He limped whenever he walked and was often drowned out in a sea of bodies. But you did whatever you could to protect him now, not knowing how long you’d be able to. 

“Then you’ll get new and better ones when you get back home, yeah?” You playfully tug a little on his chest and ruffle his strawberry blonde hair, watching his smile quirk up a bit as you fasten the laces of his boots. 

Throughout your time since the Reaping, you’ve tried not to mention the arrival of the games as much as you could to him or anyone else. Your brain seemed to act as though forgetting them would make them disappear altogether. 

“You look different,” he muttered quietly, a little bit of dejection in his voice, “You don’t look like you did before.”

You settled back in your haunches, lips pressed tightly together as you looked around all the strangely dressed mentors, Capitol escorts, and curiously rich citizens, and felt something twist in your stomach. They had stripped away the things that you held onto that resembled the parts of your family you had slowly forgotten, had ripped the hair off your legs and arms, and plucked your face so that you could look more modified like them. 

But you knew the worst thing was that you no longer looked like you did a few weeks ago, like a girl from home. You looked like a tribute now, fully ready for the show. 

“I know,” you tell him with a small pout, leading his fingers towards your face so he could run his hand across your eyebrows, “No longer bushy, huh?”

You wiggle them a bit, and he laughs, his cheeks filling with mirth as you try to make him forget about everything. He looked like he did back home now, his eyes for a second losing that sullenness he had gained during this last week. 

“Get up!” Drumesia snapped from above you, her hand tugging you harshly to your feet by your shoulder, “Don’t let the sponsors see you sitting like…like some animal on the ground!”

Drumesia looks even more frightening than usual, with her hair dyed a bright blue and her outfit having a strange geometric look to it. Her iconic gloves, which she was never seen without, matched the blue color scheme she had going on. Even her lashes, which were so long that they fluttered against her cheek when she blinked, were blue. 

“It was only for a second,” you say bitterly, your hand on Yuuji’s back as if to shield him from her wrath. 

“And not a second-” But whatever lecture she was going to berate you with with cut short when a loud smack echoed around the high walls of the holding room. 

Everyone seemed startled as they looked around at the noise, seeming to fall on the corner where the tributes from District 5 were. The girl, looking to be Yuuji’s age, had let out an especially loud whimper, her hand jumping up to cup her cheek. Her pale face was red and blotchy with tears, her mouth remembering, and her nose runny with snot. Her Capitol escort was standing with a distraught look on her face as she reeled her hand back in embarrassment. 

The girl clutched her swollen cheek, the male tribute next to her trying to calm her down, but to no avail. You watched as the lady gripped her shoulder harshly, begging and scolding her to stop. 

Before you could stop yourself, or better, Drumesia could, you felt your legs working on autopilot as you began taking steps closer to her. You could hear Drumesia’s voice urging you to come back, but you couldn’t, walking even faster towards the other group, ignoring the whispers that began filing around you like gnats. 

The girl still had her eyes screwed shut, refusing to open them, but her escort and the male tribute perked up in surprise when they saw you coming their way, a sour look twisting on her face as you neared them. 

“Tributes aren’t supposed to interact-”

You ignored her sneer as you pushed your way past her, getting closer to the girl as you fell back onto your knees, your hands resting on your lap. 

The Capitol lady scoffed, looking around aghast to see where your escort was, but you fully pretended not to hear her protests. 

“Hey,” you started gently, your tone soothing, the same way it was when you used to put the kids back home to sleep, “What's your name?” Your voice whispers so that only the girl can hear. She suddenly stopped, eyes wide open as she stared at your face, looking up at the male tribute and then back down to you in confusion and surprise. 

She gapes a bit, licking her dry lips as one of her hands clutches onto the boy. She looks behind you at her escort before looking back at you. 

“E-Evelyn,” she mumbles, whipping her nose with her elbow, using her small palms to rid the tears off her round cheeks. 

You smile softly at that, repeating her name to yourself as you nod. 

“You know, Evelyn,” your hands reach upwards to tuck a strand of her bright blonde curls behind her ears, leaning in closer as if you were sharing a secret, “My mom always said, the more curls, the prettier the girl.”

Evelyn blinks owlishly, her green eyes dotted with red in the whites, slowly piecing together what you meant. It must’ve been a bit since somebody had spoken to her kindly, treated her like she was a kid instead of a prop. 

And slowly, you see her lips quiver into a wobbly little grin, her nose scrunching up as she bashfully looks away. 

“Thank you,” she whispers, wiping at her eyes again as you laugh gently, grabbing the wrinkled handkerchief you took from home out of your pocket and hand it to her. 

“She, uh,” the boy next to her suddenly says, pointing to her frilly outfit, “She said the pins were poking her. I tried to find them but one pricked her and she started…” crying, you finished in your head, nodding slowly in understanding, your mouth forming into a small o. 

“Let’s see where the problem is,” you keep your voice low and accept the handkerchief that she gives back, “Would you mind showing me where the pins are?” You ask, coaxing her to carefully move at her own pace. 

Evelyn nods, her hand slipping out of the boy's as she carefully turns around, a small hand hovering over where her skirt is bunched up tightly around her waist. 

Your eyes squint, fingers gingerly going towards it as you walk around the area. Back when you took care of the mayor's children, you were often tasked with dressing them for the day and dealing with a wide array of pins and hooks. So this case wasn’t much different, and it didn’t take too long until you found the stray pin that wasn’t hooked properly, unraveling it from her skirt as you properly stuck it back where it should’ve been. 

The girl physically relaxes, the tension from her shoulder melting as she quickly turns back around, her eyes bright and creased. 

“Thank you!” She chirps, her hand slipping back into the boy's as she looks up at him and then back to you. 

You laugh slightly, shaking your head as if it didn’t matter, and slowly stand back up, dusting the dirt from your knees. 

The boy extended his free hand out for you to shake, and unlike with Drumesia, you took it with no thought, shaking it softly as he offered you a grateful smile. 

“Thank you, really,” his voice was slightly choked as he glanced back down at Evelyn, “Our mom always did her clothes, this…this is all new to me.”

The smile on your face dropped. 

She’s his sister? 

Your mouth dries up, throat closing as you look at the two of them, their eerily similar stances and faces staring back at you, waiting for a response. 

Thankfully, though, you suddenly feel a tight hand wrap around your elbow and tug you back, forcing you to leave without saying anything else. For the first time since you’ve been acquainted with her, you’re grateful for Drumesia as she starts a loud tirade about the sponsors and how you’ve just ruined her image. 

But this time, you look around and see that all eyes are on you. Every tribute was standing tall, watching as Drumesia took you back to the carriage, sponsors whispering quickly to one another. 

You glanced up and found the boy from 1 staring at you again. But this time, you could’ve sworn his lips were slightly quirked. 

—-

Training for the games was perhaps even more torturous than waiting for the games themself. 

The games will be in two weeks. Training allowed for everyone to have an even playing field, but everyone knew how useless it really was when some people had been training to win ever since they could pick up a knife. 

There were four compulsory exercises that all twenty-four tributes would have to do, but the rest would be up to the individual. 

Twenty-four tributes gathered together in a room, some already itching for blood, handed weapons and targets as if that could satiate their thirst.  Of course, fighting with each other was prohibited, but that didn’t stop the other tributes thinking about it. 

The training room itself was huge, with sprawling areas for hand-to-hand combat, bow and arrow ranges, dummies for practice, and weights to lift with. Some nets sprawled upwards towards the ceiling, helping with climbing, and areas that imitated forest floors where people could practice their traps and make fire. 

At the center top of the main wall was a large dugout room with a mirror, letting sponsors and game makers watch as the tributes trained. It felt like you were in a pig pen, having thirsty men drool over which was the fattest to eat. Many of the tributes took quick note of this, showing off their skills early on as if to catch their eyes. You shook your head when Yuuji begged you to show off your skill with one of the scythes they had, most likely knowing how much you’d spend time in the fields back home. 

Not now, you told him, we can’t have them knowing our talents. We save that for the arena.

Capitol mentors were everywhere, assisting and keeping people from jumping at each other's throats, but you tried to avoid the masses as much as possible. 

Your district mentor, Martin, wasn’t much help. He was often drunk and rarely left his room, much to Drumesia’s dismay. But you knew that this was the case for lower districts, having had a glance at District 12’s mentor Haymitch, who seemed, if not as much, more drunk than Martin. Former victors never revel in their success, you’ve noticed, and if anything, try to leave the land of the living as much as possible throughout the day. 

Yuuji insisted on using a Capitol issued mentor, and you didn’t see any harm in it as long as the two of you would be with them alone. You weren’t looking to make allies, just looking to survive for as long as humanly possible. 

You had been warned early on not to focus too much on grandiose fighting methods, seeing how most people die either from infection, dehydration, or general exposure. Besides, you doubt you’d be able to defend both of you if put up against a Career, so the best you could do would be knowing how to survive in the wild with whatever you could find. 

Both you and Yuuji had some previous knowledge from back home, knowing how to make little fires for when the fields got cold during the winters and where to find wild berries, but you began learning how to set out traps for smaller animals in case your arena had them. 

Throughout your time here, you made sure ot keep your ears and eyes peeled, even if you didn’t act like it. Although Yuuji seemed to be massively enjoying himself with the wire and flint, you acted indifferent, making sure to see who was looking where. 

Slowly, from what you could observe thus far, the alliances that were forming were small and expected. The Careers were a given, and some tribute from seven and ten had begun leaving with each other. Yuuji kept asking to join in with a group, but you kept saying no. 

You saw Evelyn and her brother, Maxmus, learning how to make snares a day ago. When he saw you, he gave a small nod in acknowledgement and went back to work, clearly thinking the same thing you were. 

Protect one thing. No allies, no loss. 

Besides that, the boy from 1, who you learned was named Gojo Satoru, didn’t look as much as you thought he would. Thankfully. But it was almost impossible to ignore his presence when it nearly choked out the entire room. 

He was adept with a bow and sword, and could easily take down a mentor with just a few swings. He was agile and strong, and didn't need to move too fast because he was already three steps ahead. The girl tribute from his district, Lizzie, you had come to learn, often trailed behind him with the tributes from 2 and 4, their pack already forming. But the boy, Gojo, didn’t really seem to care all that much about the attention. 

And sometimes you could’ve sworn he disliked it. 

But when he would look up and glance around the room to see you already looking, you’d find somewhere to point your gaze at, not wanting him to confuse your interest with admiration. 

Although you couldn’t lie, his face was far too pretty for his own good. 

“I think you have a little crush.” 

Your head swiveled around to see Yuuji looking at you with a gleaming look in his eyes, snorting as you smacked him across the shoulder, shushing him as he giggled and went back to his pile of shrubbery he was supposed to be turning into fire. 

“I’m being meticulous,” you scold him, your cheeks burning up in embarrassment despite your words, “Look,” you pointed to someone behind your shoulder, “Have you noticed how the girl from 6 never uses her right hand to hold a sword even though she holds her spoon with it?” 

Yuuji gapes up at you in confusion, his young face crumpled with confusion as he shakes his head. You snort, pushing his head back down lightly to look at the fire instead of looking at the girl behind your back. 

“It’s because it’s injured, or too injured to fight,” you peek over at Yuuji, “Meaning that she won’t be able to protect herself if the left one is injured. Which should be pretty easy because it’s not her dominant one.” 

Yuuji gnaws on his bottom lip, fingers stalling on the rock as his hand stops trying to make sparks with the rock he had scavenged, a look of apprehension taking over his face.

“I don’t know how to see things like that,” he mumbles nervously, “I don’t know how I’m going to survive-” 

“We’re going to survive together,” you say instantly, cutting him off, “I see these things, and you keep us warm. Deal?” 

And although this would usually get him to cheer up again, he can only muster up a weak grin as he nods, going back to his rocks as if to keep his mind busy from reeling. You can’t stop looking at his head, at the way his hands shake slightly. He’s scared. 

You all are. 

You place a hand over his, trying to still the tremors, and give him a strong and confident smile.  

“I’ll go get some more wood, okay?”

He gives you a thankful nod, looking back at his pile that was slowly running out, and goes back to work.

The wood was kept near the back of the station, in different sizes ranging from little twigs to actual logs that had been chopped up. Back in your district, you had spent many nights hunched over trying to make a fire, so you weren’t worried about your ability to do so. But Yuuji was always in the production line, away from all the ruggedness of the outdoors, and desperately needed the practice. 

Your finger twitches over some smaller pieces, things that he could work with more easily, seeing how there’s no need for a larger fire when you feel your neck start to prickle. 

Looking around the space, you swallow your bile, chapped lips bitten raw as you shake your head as though you were going crazy. 

“That wood’s rotten.”

Your breath catches in your throat, head snapping upwards at the voice, somewhat relieved to know that the feeling of being watched you experienced wasn’t something you thought up. 

It’s that boy—the tribute from one. 

Gojo Satoru. 

This is the first time you’ve heard him speak, at least from up close. He seems even larger facing you, his thick arms crossed over his broad chest, biceps nearly bulging out of the simple black shirt everyone was issued. His browbone is slightly dotted with sweat, his cheeks flushed a bright pink from working out so heavily. 

Besides the glaringly obvious strength he possesses, he looks genetically perfect, even without any help from the Capitol. He’s beautiful and looks like he’d fit right in without having to modify anything. Back home, you didn’t have much time to appreciate the boys around your district with just how busy you were, but even then, none of them had time to look at you for the same reason. It’s daunting standing up so close to him, without the protection of distance to shield you from his stare. 

But there was something else about him that made your nerves tingle. It was strange, as if looking at a broken mirror. His hair, those eyes, the slope of his nose. You kept trying to shake off the feeling that you had seen him somewhere, but that was impossible. 

…right?

Yet that feeling kept coming back like it did now, and you had to blink out of your stupor so he wouldn’t think you were just staring at him. 

You open your mouth and close it, fingers curling in the air as you back away a little. The place you’re at right now is hidden away from most people’s line of sight. Yuuji would even have to squint through some of the artificial trees and bushes just to be able to make out your figure. 

Meaning that you were virtually alone with this stranger. Along with someone who would be in an arena with you in two weeks, his main goal is to have you and everyone else dead. 

“I know,” you say slowly, eyes darting over to the wood briefly and then back to him. 

He looks over your face, as if doing the same thing you had just been doing. His eyes trail over your cheekbones and nose, the scrunch of your lips, and the way your chest falls up and down with each controlled breath. He runs a hand through his white hair, pushing it back as he takes a tentative step closer to you. 

You take one back. 

“You’ve been watching me.” His voice isn’t low, nothing threatening like the boy from 2, but it does carry a sense of command, something that makes the hair on your neck stand up.

You offer him a tight-lipped smile, polite and respectful as you shake your head. 

“I’m watching everyone,” you correct him gingerly, as if you were correcting one of the mayor’s kids when they made a mistake with their schoolwork.

He stares at you silently for a bit, not coming closer as if he realized what that could imply. 

“I’m Gojo,” he introduces himself as if you’re not already aware, his hand extended out for you to shake. You stare at his fingers, your brow twitching upwards as he gets the hint and lets this hand fall back to his side. 

“Yeah,” you murmur, “I know who you are.”

You look back down at the pile of twigs, missing the way the tips of his ears go pink. 

After a pause, you sigh, realizing that he wasn’t going to give up and leave, and say your name back. He doesn’t look surprised, most likely knowing more about yourself than even you do. 

There’s an uncomfortable pause of silence, one that you feel wrap around your throat and lodge into your airways. He’s not saying anything, just looking at you, and you don’t know what to tell him so that he can quickly leave. 

“I, um,” you fidget absentmindedly with your fingers, scolding yourself for blundering in front of him, “I’m sorry, but is there something I can do? For you?”

Gojo’s blue eyes linger on your lips for a second before shooting back up to yours, brows furrowed as if he just heard your question. 

He scratched his neck, arms littered with veins, as he sighed deeply through his nose. He looked over briefly around the trees and leaves to where the other tributes from 1 and 2 were training, and then looked to the boxes of wood. 

“I want you to join me.”

That you didn’t expect. 

You sputter in surprise, losing your demeanor as your eyes widen in shock before you let out a startled laugh. You never thought this serious-looking tribute would be one for jokes, and to be fair, he doesn’t look like he’s joking much right now, but your brain can’t come up with any rapid and precise response to his statement. 

“W-what?” You laugh again, curt and confused, rubbing at your face as you look at where Yuuji was, still furiously working away at making a fire. 

“I want you to join me,” he repeats, this time slowly as if you didn’t understand him the first time, “For the games.” Gojo throws in, as if it wasn’t obvious. 

You shake your head, pinching the bridge of your nose as you chew on the side of your cheek, not knowing what to say after being stunned into silence. 

When he sees that you’re not going to say anything intelligible, he continues as if it’s the most normal thing he could be asking of you. 

“We hear things, especially with how much our mentors and escorts talk,” Gojo explains, “And you’re getting a…surprising amount of,” he pauses, trying to find the right word, “Attention from the sponsors.”

You blink. 

“Me?” You shake your head furiously, diving back into the pile of wood as if to busy yourself and distance yourself from the conversation, “It’s probably just Capitol rumors. I,” you laugh curtly again, “I haven’t even done anything to warrant attention-”

“That thing you did back there with that girl from 5?” Gojo interjects, and you look up at him, finding him a little closer than before, “They like that. They see the way you’re helping that boy from your district. They love a sweetheart over here.”

You wince, nose wrinkling in disgust at the choice word. 

So he needs sponsors, you think, just as much as everyone else. He needs you with him in case he gets stuck in the arena, needing something that only sponsors can give. 

But…even if his ploy is just to use you for sponsor purposes, which you still had difficulty believing, it would take an idiot not to see the worth of having someone like him around. You and Yuuji would fail miserably if put up against people for combat, and the added layer of protection you’d be getting from Gojo could help you guys stay long enough so that when the time came, you could escape on your own. 

Which is why you push, wanting to see just how far he would go for an alliance with somebody from a lower district. It wasn’t necessarily unheard of, but you couldn’t remember the last time you saw somebody from 1 joining forces with somebody from 11, let alone somebody like you who had virtually no experience or expertise to offer besides how to use agricultural tools. 

“You could use the help,” it’s like he had read your mind, “I know that your mentor and escort aren’t exactly the best, and you’d have a better chance with us if you took up the offer,” Gojo explains hurriedly, looking over his shoulder to ensure that nobody was watching or coming near. 

It was obvious he had sought you out of his own accord. Did the girl tribute from his district know? Were any of the careers aware he was even planning to talk to you?

“Did your mentors send you here?” You ask, eyes squinting together, arms crossing tightly over chest protectively, “Do they think I’d seriously be better at getting sponsors than you? Then any of the other people in your group?”

Gojo shook his head quickly, glancing over to where the pack was training. His tongue ran over his bottom lip. He looked strangely stressed.  

“No. But I think that you have a chance at securing more deals than all of us combined if you play the part correctly.”

Your chest heaves as your tongue almost swells up in your throat. As much as a lame excuse of a mentor Martin was, he had mentioned that you really only had three chances to stand out to sponsors. During training, during training evaluations where gamemakers and sponsors watch you display your best skill or talent, or during the interview, where the renowned Caesar Flcikerman would dig into your life and show the people watching who these tributes were. 

“You think I’m someone like…like Finnick?” The name comes out as a scoff because from what you’ve seen of the young victor, he’s excellent at wooing people even if his face gives his true feelings away, “I can’t do what you think I can,” you say sternly, picking up some wood and examining it before setting it back down on the pile, “I won’t charm sponsors like he could. I just…” you trail off, lips pursing as you think, “I just wanted to help.”

“You think they know the difference?” His voice is low, so low that you could barely hear it, but it still takes you by surprise. 

Of all people, you didn’t think he would be one to criticize the hypocrisy within the Capitol. 

Your back straightened, but for the first time since you’ve been whirled into this whole mess of the Hunger Games and the theatrics that came along with it, you felt a little at ease.  

“What,” You swallow, thinking carefully, “What sponsors think is out of my control. I just want to survive.”

“I can help with that,” Gojo leans in, his arm supporting him up on the counter as he leans down so that even if the cameras were around, they couldn’t pick up his words, wanting to keep what he was going to say next solely between the two of you, “I can help you. Look, if you get enough sponsors, we wouldn’t even need the rest of them.”

You pull away, you face hot as you put a hand to your cheek to cool it down. His overall demeanor was so intense that it was causing you to burn up under your clothes. 

Help you?

“Do you trust people this easily?” You retort, your voice questioning as you look him over, “Help me? You…you don’t even know me. How do you know I wouldn’t turn on you the second things go wrong?” 

Gojo blinks slowly, but you continue.

“I don’t care about the rest of them,” you continue, finding yourself looking back at Yuuji, “I know they’dl kill me if they have the chance. But I’m not leaving him behind. If you want me, you’d have to take him on too.” 

Gojo looks over his way, studying his movements before a deep exhale rattles throughout his chest, running another hand through his hair as it keeps falling in his face. 

“You know he won’t make it long. He’s small, he’s got a limp-”

“So what?” You snap suddenly, your brows furrowed as you smack his hand away from the wood, your stomach churning as the small breakfast you could barely eat threatened to shoot back up, his words making the blood drain out of your face as you sputtered, “You want me to just let him go on his own?”

“The others will come for him first, you have to know that, but…but if it’s just you-”

“No!” You yell, furiously pushing him by the chest out of the way as your hands tremble with anger, “No, no that’s not…you’re…you can’t…” You can’t even think, nausea rolling over you in waves as your palms grow clammy. He’s every bit a fighter as you thought he was. 

A killer, a Capitol pawn. 

You grab a pile of wood, not caring what it looks like or how well it would burn, as you begin walking quickly away, your heart pounding in the small expanse of your ribcage. 

A hand wraps around your elbow, not tight, but to keep you in place. 

“Think about it. This isn’t some game where we all win,” his lips are by your ears, breath fanning across your skin as you involuntarily shiver, “One victor. I won’t spare you if it comes down to us, but I’ll help you get there. Just,” he breathes through his nose, “Be rational.” 

You wince as you wrangle your arm out of his grasp with little resistance from him, ignoring his words altogether.  

“You’re disgusting,” you spit, nose flared as you shove away, “I told you already, I’m not here to win,” the words come out bitterly, a harsh truth you’ve had to swallow, “I know I won’t. And I’m not a killer. I’m not like you.”

In that moment, you didn’t care if you were putting a target on your back by making an enemy out of the most capable tribute. You couldn’t care less if you were angering or offending him, but couldn’t control your emotions as they bubbled over, your eyes glossing over at his admission, something you’ve silently been dreading ever since they read Yuuji’s name. 

You find your way back Yuuji, ears ringing as you try to talk, not knowing what you were telling him, just wanting to rid yourself of the words that kept echoing around your head. Yuuji was excitedly showing you the sparks he had made, and you gave him a shaky smile, not trusting yourself not to slur your words together as you crouched down near the fire. 

Think about it. 

You scoff, hoping that whoever dies first will be him. 

—-

The training evaluation went better than you expected. 

Tributes are scored on a range of numbers zero to twelve, lowest the highest. Most people usually score around a five or six, careers averaging a seven to nine. 

You had scored a ten. 

It wasn’t impossible, but you were shocked when the scores were read. 

Gojo Satoru got a whopping eleven, which anybody could have predicted he’d be passing with flying colors. The tributes from two and four got around the same scores, eights, and the boy from ten had managed to score a seven, which was high for a lower district.

Which made it stand out even more when you got the first ten. 

“Oh!” Drumesia stood up from her seat in an instant, one hand over her heart as the other held her wig on, “Oh my! A ten!” 

Yuuji was gleaming, hugging you from the side as he kept yelling over and over things you couldn’t make out. Martin was somewhere in the corner, the drink he had been nursing raised halfway in the air, eyes stuck on the television in shock. 

“This is great!” Drumesia twirls around, the first bright smile you’ve seen on her face, so bright it nearly blinded you because of how white her teeth were, “None of my tributes have ever gotten a ten before!”

You can’t speak, feeling numb with surprise, shock, everything in between as Caesar Flickerbman continues reading off the last two scores from 12, neither of them any good. 

“What did you do?” Yuuji asked, his voice laced with childlike wonderment as his eyes twinkled, looking like you were a savior instead of someone who wholly had no idea what they were doing. 

Your mouth opened and closed, scratching the back of your neck as you felt it heat up with all the extra attention. 

“Nothing,” you stammered, confusion laced in your tone, “I did nothing.”

Drumesia laughed, waving you off as she fluttered around the expanse of the room, saying something about champagne and strawberries, but you didn’t have the appetite for anything. 

You truly had done nothing. 

You had planned with Yuuji to show off your knowledge with some tools you recognized from back home and let him make the fire, but when it was your name they called from the training room, you froze, forgetting everything you had practiced. 

When you walked across the now-empty room, staring directly at the game makers and sponsors, Gojo’s words rang in your head. 

They love a sweetheart over here. 

So instead, you decided to do nothing. If they love a sweetheart so much, you want them to see you for as long as humanly possible. You wanted them to stare into your eyes for the entirety of the ten minutes, to see the way your bones made up your face, bones of your parents that lay six feet under. You wanted them to see the synchronized way you breathed, how you looked under the light. It was an act of defiance, something they probably wouldn’t even understand, but the rage and pain you were feeling boiled down to this very moment. 

For ten minutes, you stood there silently, your neck craning upwards as you stared directly into their eyes. The crowd slowly grew bigger and bigger behind that window, curious sponsors muttering to each other in anticipation of what you were planning to do. 

But the longer you did nothing, the more people came. 

When your time was up, you gave them one final look before you turned on your heels and left. With Yuuji and Drumesia waiting outside in the sitting area, Yuuji looking excited while Drumesia looking particularly worrisome, you didn’t have the heart to tell them what you had done. Didn’t want them to stress about the low score you’d be receiving. So you lied, saying you put on a mediocre performance with the weapons they had lying around. 

You could’ve just told them the truth as you reflect on it now. 

A ten? For doing nothing? What were they up to? What were they thinking? 

You tallied the other scores in your head and felt your stomach drop. Besides you, the only other person with the highest score was…

Gojo. 

This score not only put a target on your back, making all the other tributes wonder just what it was that you were hiding, but also made you higher on their priority list to get rid of. And what’s worse is that you weren’t hiding anything, and had no means to truly defend yourself or Yuuji. The careers would surely be after the two of you know if they weren’t before, but so would the other tributes. 

This score wasn’t a gift. It was a death sentence. 

“Here we are,” Drumesia restored with her clacking heels and a tray balancing four glasses and a bowl of strawberries, the bottle in her other hand, “A toast to my future victor!”

Your stomach churned even more. Victor. Singular. 

She was just being woefully optimistic, you knew that. Her hopes were raised seeing how tributes from outlying districts rarely score above a six, and that there would be more attention on her this year, but it didn’t stop the bitter taste from costing your mouth. 

Yuuji didn’t even notice because of how excited he was bouncing up and down in his seat, almost snatching the glass from her hand when she offered it to him.  

“Yuuji!” You seethed under your breath, going to grab the glass from him, but he maneuvered it quickly away, sticking his tongue out as he stood up in front of Drumesia with it ready to be filled. 

“Oh, it’s just a little bit,” she chided, filling up his glass a little bit.”He should have some of it while he’s still here!”

Your eyes flit up to hers. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Your voice dipped. Yuuji, who was now holding the glass in both his hands, slowly walked away as he and Martin eyed the two of you. 

Drumesia shrugs indifferently, pouring Martin his own, even though he wasn’t even finished with the first drink he had started on, and then one for herself. Finally, she fills the last one to the brim, yours, and outstretched her gloved hand towards your body. 

You don’t take it. 

She tsks, annoyed, setting it down on the table as she raises hers in the air, clinking it with Yuuji’s and Martin’s as she takes a sip, clearly not caring enough to wait for you. 

“There’s no champagne in the games, you know,” she finally says, one hand resting on her hip as her glass hovers above her lips. “The two of you should make the most of what the Capitol has to offer. Right, Yuuji?” She looked down at him, and he glanced at you, as if asking for permission whether he should agree with her or not. 

“Stop!” You shout, your hands fisting in your hair in frustration as you shove past her, ignoring her yelp as the drink spills a little on the floor, grabbing the light coat that you had been issued from the stand near the elevator.

“Where are you going?” She calls out, her feet trying to catch up to you, but her heels slow her down. 

“Away!” You snap, glancing over your shoulder with a snarl, punching the buttons of the elevator, hoping one of them would open, “Don’t follow me!”

“But!-” Drumesia’s voice is cut off as you quickly step inside, pressing the button that would shut the door automatically, and you let out a small sigh of relief to find yourself alone. 

You feel guilty for leaving Yuuji, but you know you’d have taken your anger out on everyone, maybe even him, if you had stayed for any longer. 

The elevator hums quietly as the numbers at the top start ticking down. You had pushed whatever button was nearest, which was apparently the ground floor. You didn’t mind too much, revealing a small rose garden hidden near the exit that seemed pretty secluded the last time you walked past it. 

After a few minutes, the tribute center was very tall, the doors hissed as they opened, and the smell of car exhaust and flowers infiltrated your senses as you tentatively took a step outside. 

You were told that tributes were allowed to go wherever they wanted so long as it was on the grounds, and you hoped that this extended to the open lobby because when you looked around, you felt a strange sense of home. 

In 11, trucks and cars were rare, but tractors were used a lot out on the fields. The smell of the gasoline was something you grew up on. The flowers, a wide array, reminded you of the little garden the mayor's wife had. Whenever you’d walk past it, you could smell hints of gardenias and sweet peas. 

You looked around, the bright lights of the skyscrapers and Capitol buildings shining extra bright with the veil of the night, and you wrapped your coat around you even tighter as you kept your head down, walking back towards where the rose bushes were kept. 

You could smell them before you saw them, although they’d be impossible to miss. Large white roses bloomed from the ground, their existing sense filling the night air as you walked closer. 

There was a small bench facing them, overlooking the rest of the city, and you looked around to make sure that nobody else was there. When you were satisfied that Drumeisa hadn't followed you down, you sat down, shutting your eyes as you let the noises from below drown out all your other senses.  

You were about to let out a small yawn when you heard the unmistakable thump of footsteps from behind you, your body snapping upwards as you looked wildly around. 

You couldn’t help the groan that escaped your lips when you saw him. 

Gojo looks just as surprised to see you, cerulean eyes shooting open as his mouth parts, looking around to see if anybody else is there. 

You push yourself off the seat, about to walk the other way, when he speaks. 

“Don’t go,” his voice is quiet, his hands raised upwards as if he was surrendering, “I promise I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Your lips purse together in annoyance, staying silent as you peer him up and down. He’s wearing a simple black shirt and loose pants, the number 1 printed on his sleeves. He looked like he was about to go to sleep before he made his way here. 

You exhale deeply, shaking your head at yourself as you give up, slowly falling back where you were sitting in silence. As much as you’d rather not see the other tributes, especially him, anywhere would be better than hearing Drumesia drone on about the wonders of the Capitol and the inevitability of your impending deaths. 

Gojo takes your silence as a good sign, carefully making his way past you to the other side of the bench as he sits down, his face trained forward. 

You bring a knee up to your chest, wrapping your arms around it as your jaw ticks. There’s a little breeze ruffling through the air, goosebumps erupting across your arms despite them being covered. 

“I saw your score,” he started, still not looking over at you as he interlocks his fingers together, blinking as he takes in the astonishing view of the Capitol skyline, “It really pissed Lizzie off.”

You find a little chuckle escape in spite of yourself, the sound causing Gojo to look over, brows raised in stupefaction. 

Lizzie, the girl tribute from 1, had gotten a measly score of six, despite having shown off her talents with a sword for the past two weeks. 

“Well, tell her not to get her hopes up. I’m pissed off too.” You tell him, biting your tongue as a car beeps and people shout muffled in the distance. 

“You wanted higher than a ten?” He stammers confused, “I nearly…” but he trails off when you give him a displeased look, shutting up as you roll your eyes in annoyance, muttering things under your breath. 

“I wish they’d given me a one,” you say, “That would’ve made more sense. They made me out to be some sort of…” but you stop, not knowing why you were even telling this stranger the truth.

Then your brows scrunch up together as you think, head whipping around to him as you scoff, nose wrinkling in pure rage as you quickly shoot to your feet, working out his plan, gripping your face for your stupidity. 

Of course, he, of all people, would try to track you down after they read the scores. Of course, he’d want to see what his biggest competition had done, to see what you were capable of. He had mastered fighting in that academy, but he must’ve mastered the art of deception because he was eerily good at making it feel like he was just being friendly. 

You make it almost ten steps before that similar hold falls on your elbow. Not tight, not harsh, but there. 

“Get off!” You yell hoarsely, your eyes glassy for some reason, as you turn around and push roughly at his chest, “What? You’re stalking me now? You came down here to find out my secrets?” You don’t know why tears are welling up in your eyes, wiping furiously at your cheeks as you sniffle. 

You were tired of these games that had started before you arrived. You would’ve preferred it if they had just lined twenty-four people up from the districts and shot at them until one remainder. Because you could handle the mind games, the insincerity, the morbid curiosity of it all. It was nearly drowning you alive, and you didn’t know what to do. 

You wanted to go home. You missed the wheat fields and the nights filled with laughter and music. You missed the dancing and the meals scraped together by whatever people could find. You missed the smell of dirt and wood, missed feeling like you belonged. Even if you were alone, you were always surrounded by people who cared. 

Here in the Capitol, you were alone. Everyone had a goal in mind and didn't know what it cost to reach it. You had spent so much time trying to take care of Yuuji and ward off Drumesia and the rest of the gnat-like citizens that only when you took a step back did you realize how utterly alone you were. 

So a part of you took that frustration out on this stranger, somebody you’ve been eyeing since you got here. You let your hands hit his sturdy chest, surprised to see that he doesn’t move or try to push you back. Your hits are weak, your voice hoarse and raw as you push at him harder, not understanding or comprehending why he wasn’t leaving, why he had come up to you all those days ago trying to make an ally out of you. 

Or why, for some reason, it seemed like out of everyone here, he seemed to actually care. Even if it was just an act. 

But Gojo stays where he is, a crease in between his brows as he takes the hits, jaw clenched tight as they gradually die down. You feel weak, open, and raw in front of this tribute who, days from now, would be hunting you down. But for some reason, he doesn’t push you away. 

There’s a heavy silence before he speaks up. 

“Why did you help that girl from 5?”

You look up at him, bewildered. You take a small step away, scoffing at the ridiculous question, but he takes a step forward as if he’s scared you’re going to run away again. 

“Why did you shake her brother's hand?” Gojo continues, some strands of his hair falling into his face, but he doesn’t bother pushing them away. 

Your mouth parts as you shrug, giving him a weird look as you give a curt and uncomfortable laugh. 

“I-I don’t know,” you stammer, “I thought she needed help, so I went over.”

Gojo nods, his jaw ticking as he looks over at the Capitol. The diamond-like lights and the ruby shadows that emanated from the city reminded him of the jewels he saw back home. 

“Would you have helped them today? Tomorrow? Would you help them during the games if you had to?” 

“What are you trying to say?” You snap, frustrated at his urgent tone and the fact that it seemed like he knew more than you, “That I should’ve just killed them there?”

Gojo snorts mirthlessly, shaking his head as it falls for a bit, looking at the intricate patterns on the brick beneath him as he takes a deep breath. 

“In three days, we’re all going to be standing around each other with a clock counting down how long we have before one of us is left. I’ve spent these last weeks trying to figure out what it is that everyone plans to do, and for the most part, I have a pretty good fucking idea of what that is. If you want to die like a martyr, that’s fine. If you want to make a statement, I don’t care. Just,” he chuckles, but it sounds empty, “What is it you want to do?” Gojo doesn’t sound like he’s trying to get you to tell him your secret to scoring a ten, nor does it look like he’s reached his wits about strategies of getting an upper hand on all of his opponents. 

If anything, it almost looks like he’s…worried for you. 

There’s a stretch of silence, one that you shut your eyes and have to imagine it’s just you and nothing else before you respond. 

You know you don’t owe him an answer. You know this person who couldn't care less about how you died should hear the why, but you answer because you don’t know what else there is to do in the madness of it all. 

“I want to go home,” you admit finally, quietly, you voice frayed and cheeks glistening in the lights of the city, looking away as you speak as if that could spare you the embarrassment of letting your emotions go in front of this person you’ve barely spoken to, “I know it’s stupid. I don’t have anyone waiting for me back there anyways. But,” you shrug limply, chewing on your cheek, “But it was still home, you know? If I died there, people would know I did. They’d eat dinner before they put me in the dirt, they’d sing a song or two. But if,” but you stop yourself, correcting your choice of words, “When I die out there, I know I’m going to die with nobody I know near me. And…and I’m so scared. I,” your breathing hitched, your bottom lip quivering, “I don’t want to die alone.”

You don’t hear him say anything, but you’re not looking for a response. You feel a little lighter saying this, even if it was to someone who couldn’t care less, but it was something that you’d been simmering in for the past three weeks and couldn’t keep it in anymore. 

“Why are you so sure you’re not going to win?”

His question startles you. 

You can’t help but laugh, rubbing a hand across your face as you step back from him, not knowing why it is that whenever he’s around you suddenly feel more open than usual. 

“Because I won’t!” You burst, a maniacal smile on your face as your hands fly upwards. “Besides the fact that I’ll be up against twenty-two other people - some way more skilled than me - what reasons would I have to even try? I have nothing to win and nothing to lose.” You pinch the bridge of your nose in exhaustion, gnawing on your chapped lips as you huff out a meaningless laugh, “You know, I did nothing for the evaluation.” 

Gojo’s eyes flash a bright blue, lips quirked up slightly. 

“Well, it surely couldn’t have been nothing-”

“I did nothing,” you repeat, “I was supposed to have a demonstration with some old tools like we had back in 11 but I choked up. I couldn’t think of anything to make that would make my time worth it. So I just,” you let out a humorless laugh, “I just stood there. I looked at them for those ten minutes. I wanted them to remember my face. I wanted them to see what I looked like before they killed me. That seemed more important than anything else we had planned.”

Gojo observes your expression, trying to see if you are lying or not. But unbeknownst to him, you were a terrible liar; you couldn’t tell a good lie even if your life depended on it. After another second of trying to assess you, he let out a little laugh, something boyish and almost…sweet, when he realized you were being completely honest with him. 

Your face falls for a second, not knowing what to do as another laugh bubbles out of his chest. He’s been so poised and controlled these last few weeks that it doesn’t even register in your brain that it’s him who’s laughing in front of you. 

“If only Lizzie knew,” Gojo sighed out after a minute, his eyes filled with mirth, “That she’d be training her whole life for this and still be bested by someone who did nothing.”

You can’t stop yourself from smiling a little bit, trying to suppress it to the best of your abilities. You look to the ground as a small giggle escapes your lips, but Gojo still stares at the crown of your head, not knowing why his cheeks were heating up when it looked like you were trying your hardest not to laugh in front of him after having a breakdown. 

He felt his throat dry up, palms sweating as he quickly looked the other way, his head ducking down so that you wouldn’t see the blush painting his face. 

“I saw that Yuuji got a five,” he says after another moment, and you glance up at him, your face hardening up in seconds as if you remember your previous conversation. “That’s good,” he adds softly, and you nod shortly, gnawing on your bottom lip, deep in thought. 

The tears you thought had gone away sting again, and you laugh them away, looking at the sparkling lights of the city as you let yourself believe for a second that you belonged here. 

“His brothers and I worked together. His mom made me food for a month after my parents died, even when they were barely surviving on their own. Yuuji,” you let out a deep breath. “Yuuji is a good kid. He’s so, so sweet. He cares about people. He just turned twelve a month ago,” and you suffocate on a sob, your head falling into your hands. “He was so excited to celebrate it, too. His dad had taken time off so they could be with each other, but…that was a week ago, and Yuuji was here.” 

You give him a sad smile, teeth catching on your lips as you blink slowly. 

“I know you don’t understand why I don’t want to win, but I think that if I even entertain the idea, I’d lose a part of myself that makes me me. I don’t want them,” You look around the open venue, let the sound of the traffic and parties float around you for a second, “I don’t want them to change me. When I die, I want to die the person I would’ve back home.” 

The boy in front of you watches the way you move, studies you like he’s studying a book. But it’s more careful than that, it is as if he’s trying to memorize every little detail of you so he could tuck it away and use it for later. 

Eventually, he lets out a small heave, his lips pursing as his hands perch on his hips. 

“Can I ask you another question?” his voice drops to a whisper, stepping closer to you. 

This time, you don’t step back. 

Your brows furrow, thinking. When you don’t shut him down instantly, he takes the silence as his go-ahead to continue.  

“Don’t you remember me?”

You feel the blood roar into your ears. 

Gojo opens his mouth to say something else, but what that was, you’ll never know. A shrill and loud voice comes from behind you. The two of you flinch, looking over your shoulder to see Drumesia stalking towards you, her face twisted together as if she had just eaten a lemon. 

“It’s past your hours!” She shouts, having her gloved hands around manically as she nears you, not controlling the shock on her face to see the new and rising Capitol darling standing just a few feet away from you. But you’ll give her credit, she recovers wonderfully. 

“And you! You should be in your quarters!” She snakes a hand around your arm, tugging harshly as she pulls you nearer and nearer to the elevator. You can hear the insistent and rapacious questions she’s asking you; how do you know this tribute, what were you discussing, are you allying with him? And so on, but you couldn’t answer any of them; your attention was somewhere else. 

You look back to see Gojo still standing there, looking at you with a strange look in his eyes. He lifts his hand, in a small wave, and gives you an even smaller, barely visible smile. You don’t know what to do, but you’re not able to return his gesture as the elevator door shuts and whirs the two of you up back to the District 11 quarters. 

You think with trepidation that the next time you will see Gojo would be tomorrow night. 

At the tribute interviews. 

—-

“Cameras on in three, two…!” 

The interviews were hectic. 

Besides the fact that tomorrow morning would mark the beginning of this year's Hunger Games, the tribute interviews were like a pre-show for what everybody watching should expect. 

Caesar Flickerman, the eccentric host, kept the show alive and energetic. It was his job. You couldn’t imagine what they would do to him if he failed at doing so. 

Every year, he comes out with a new hair color, and this year his hair was ironically a bright white, his brows matching. However, unlike Gojo, it was obvious that his hair had been dyed extensively. 

“Just remember to stand tall and smile!” Drumesia was tittering about like a canary, moving between you and Yuuji as she straightened his bow tie and fixed the creases of your dress. 

Your outfits had slightly upgraded since the chariot ceremony, but were still miles behind some of the other clothes the tributes were wearing. 

Word of your kind and loving character had spread around, and the stylist who gave up for the first round seemed excited to make you something new this year.

The dress was long and pale blue, the sleeves cutting off at your shoulders as the satin bodice sat heavily on your chest like a shield. It was supposed to make you look open, but you couldn’t help but notice the uncanny resemblance it had to some of the housemaid uniforms the Capitol women had that you had seen around. 

A small and slides into yours, and you blink out of your thoughts, looking down to see Yuuji tugging at his neck. 

“Can you help? She tied it too tight,” he says quietly so that Drumesia wouldn’t overhear. You kiss your teeth in mock annoyance, shooting him a grin as you sink onto your knees, brows furrowing in concentration as you mess around with the fabric. 

“You look very handsome tonight,” you tell him as you wrap around the ends together, trying to mimic the actions you studied Drumesia doing moments ago, “They’re going to love you out there.”

You ruffle his hair, making sure not to mess it up too much as you straighten it back. Yuuji smiles shyly, standing still to let you work. 

“Do you think,” Yuuji starts, then stops, his cheeks flushed, “Do you think my family’s watching?”

Your hands stopped, looking at him with a reproachful expression as you smiled softly, nodding your head. 

“Yeah, of course they are,” you loop the tie around, wiggling it so that it would sit straight, “Why wouldn’t they?”

Yuuji shrugged, looking away as he pouted slightly, rubbing at his eyes. 

“My brothers were just so angry before I left,” he mutters, and your hands go up on his elbows. “Do you think they’re mad that I’m not going to win?”

Your face and heart crack at the same time, your lips wobbling as you drag him close to your chest, hands sprawled out on his back as you squeeze him as hard as you possibly can. 

“Oh, they’re not mad at you, Yuuji,” you say hushed, one hand cradling his head as you tuck your chin on his pile of hair, “They could never be mad at you.”

You hear him sniffle, his arms hugging you back as you try to hide him from the wandering eyes of the other tributes. 

But, as always, you catch the eye of one in particular. 

Gojo watches the two of you, not critically, just watching. He’s observing, looking at the way you don’t mind your dress getting dirty or Yuuji’s tear marks on the fabric. 

Don’t you remember me?

You look away, as if his stare had somehow burned you, and push gently at Yuuji’s shoulders so that he would be facing you. 

“Your brothers are so proud of you,” you tell him firmly, “So proud, okay?”

Yuuji wipes at his red cheeks, nodding at your words. 

“When you go on that show tonight, you look into that camera like you’re looking right at them, yeah? Talk to it like you’re talking to them. Forget about the crowd, forget about the game. Just,” You sigh, your smile shaky as your hands tremble. “Just imagine you’re back home and you’ve been pulled into the dancing circle. Remember how scary those were?” You push a strand of his hair away, smoothing it down as he sniffles softly, nodding again. 

“But do you remember that feeling when the music was loud and everybody was clapping? Remember how at the end everyone was so sweaty and tired and it didn’t matter how bad you were dancing because everyone was just having fun?” He nods again, hanging on to every word you are saying. 

“Imagine that feeling when you talk to Caesar, okay? Make them feel like they know you. Make it feel like they’re your family.”

You don’t tell him why. Don’t want to explain how sympathy and empathy can play a big role in how sponsors view you during the games. 

“Okay?” You ask him once, stern but kind, a fire in your eyes that he tries to match. 

“Okay,” he repeats, a smile making its way back onto his round face as you bump your fist lightly against his shoulder, standing back up just in time before Drumesia and Martin arrive. 

She eyes you suspiciously, hands furiously working on your chest and stomach area to smooth out any wrinkles. You look at Yuuji, and he gives you the toothless grin. 

“You’re awfully happy,” Drumesia commented dryly, looking your makeup over until she was satisfied that it was alright. “Anything you care to tell me?”

“Nothing you’d like to know.”

She scoffs, but doesn’t push it any further, seeing how there wasn’t much else she could fight with you on. She began looking around for the other escorts, killing the time by talking to them until it was time for the first tribute to go. Lizzie, from 1, would be the first interviewee of the night. 

Yuuji tugs at your hand again, and this time, when you look down at him, you see him pointing somewhere in front of you two. 

Cameramen and crew workers were ushering people to stand up against the wall, people organized by girls first, followed by the male tribute, going all the way from 1 to 12 near the back. 

You and Yuuji shuffle awkwardly, and your shoulders press against the male tribute from 10, somebody whom you had only seen in passing. 

There’s a quiet hush that falls around everyone, nerves alight as Capitol escorts and mentors are taken to the viewing room somewhere in the back. 

You all watch on the screen in front of you as the lights in the main room dim, Capitol citizens buzzing with excitement as the music starts, the lights flashing where Caesar is sitting. 

You take in a deep and soothing breath. 

Let the show begin. 

—-

Lizzie’s interview was good. 

She knows how to work a crowd, and Caesar loved just how sparky and energetic she was. Everyone in the audience laughed along with her jokes and swooned when she talked about her sisters back home, whom she would be winning these games for. 

But she wasn’t the tribute that you were focused on. Nor what everyone else was clamoring for, either, it seemed. 

When Gojo walked out on the stage, you could see people in the audience already roaring and jumping to their feet. He had garnered quite a bit of attention already because of his pure strength, his looks, and the fact that his dad was already a victor. 

Even you could admit, as much as you wanted to dislike him, just how much he radiated this sort of energy that attracted attention. 

The suit he was wearing was tailored to perfectly match his already impeccable proportions. The dark blue coat and bottoms complemented the stark contrast with his eyes and hair, and the dazzling smile he had plastered onto his face almost made it look like he was twinkling. 

Caesar was giving his signature debonair smile when Gojo walked towards him, his laughter contagious and manufactured as he whistled as Gojo shook his hand, his grip tighter than Caesar expected. 

The two of them talk for a short second before Caesar invites him to sit down, and Gojo complies with a wink to the audience. 

He knew how to play them as well as he could play the games. 

“So!” Caesar clapped his hands as if he wasn’t getting started, “Mr. Gojo, the dashing tribute from 1, how are you doing this evening?”

Gojo kissed his teeth, looking into the audience as he gave an easy shrug and an even easier smile. The camera panned out to catch some of the women quickly fanning themselves, others swooning in their seats. 

You looked at Yuuji, rolling your eyes at the theatrics, and he giggled. 

“I’m doing great Caesar,” he finally said after a moment, letting the crowd die down as he nodded to himself, “I’m surrounded by all these amazing people, not including you, of course,” he says with a teasing tone and Caesar eats it up, slapping his lightly on the knees, “And the games are tomorrow. I can’t speak for the rest of the tributes, but I feel more than ready.”

Everyone breaks into shouts and hollers, clapping as Gojo claps along with them. 

Caesar lets them go quite far as he chuckles along, swallowing as he looks over at Gojo with a serious expression. 

“You look more than ready!” He exclaims, motioning towards his lean and muscular body, to which Gojo just waves away, “Now, I’m sure that most of these citizens recognize you because of your father, is that right, folks?” He looks back at the crowd as they scream and shout in agreement, surely having loved his dad if this was the reaction they were giving, “But am I wrong to assume that you would like to be known for something other than that?”

Gojo laughs concisely, nodding as he thinks about the question. You can only imagine the meticulous work and effort he’s put into making this interview seem flawlessly imperfect. 

“You know, Caesar, before I left, my father told me to make these games my own.”

Caesar leaned in before Gojo could finish, as if they were sharing a secret. 

“And what do you think that means? How do you plan on making these games your own?”

Gojo chuckled softly, his lips quirked as he looked back at the audience and then to the cameras. 

“I think we’ll save that for when the time comes,” he says before the audience groans dramatically, Caesar giving a big sigh as if he was torn, but Gojo continued, “But I will say, I think these games are going to be special.”

Caesar worked his brow, looking at someone in the audience as he mouthed, really?, and everyone laughed. 

“Special? Special how?”

“We’re an interesting batch of tributes. I don’t think that we’re going to go the usual route. I think…you’ll all see different alliances and enemies form, different strategies and different ways to win.”

The crowd ooo’s, but Gojo waves it off as if that was all he was going to say. Caesar smiles brightly, satisfied with the answer, as he quickly moves on to the last remaining minutes with the burning question everyone wanted to know. 

“Satoru,” Caesar has quickly moved on to calling him by his first name, dropping the formalities as if they had bonded in these past five minutes, “Before our time is up, I’m sure everyone here is wondering, if you were to win these games, would you like to dedicate it to special someone?” The connotations behind what he’s saying are almost impossible to miss. 

It seems like all the tributes are listening in, wanting to know both game and gossip talk. 

Gojo’s chuckle rumbles out of his chest, and you wince, not recalling the last time you’ve seen the all serious tribute so lively. 

He snaps his fingers at Caesar as if chastising him, pushing his hair back as a light pink dusts the apples of his cheeks. 

“Are they wondering or are you wondering?” Gojo remarks, and Caesar gives a loud laugh, pretending to look shocked as the audience roars into laughter. 

Gojo apologizes half-heartedly, waving down the room as he tries to use up all of his time accordingly. 

“I’m just messing with you, Caesar,” he says finally, laughing along with Caesar as his eyes twinkle a bright blue under the stage lights, “But to answer truthfully, I’d be winning for myself.”

Caesar rolls his eyes dramatically, pointing to Gojo as he looks to the crowd for support. 

“I don’t believe that for a second! With a face like that, how could you not have a girl waiting for you?”

Gojo smiles, his teeth bright as he ducks his head bashfully. 

“I’m honored, Caesar, but I think that if I had a girl back home, I wouldn’t be fighting as well as I could,” Gojo admits, “I wouldn’t want her to see what I’d have to become to survive, and then not recognize me when I get home. And besides…” But Gojo trails off, shaking his head as if he had remembered halfway to stop himself from saying too much. 

But oh, how Caesar loved it. 

“No, no young man, you can’t stop there! Besides what? Besides what?” Caesar pushes the entire audience sitting on the edge of their seat as Gojo gives a practiced nervous chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck as if he didn’t plan for this to happen. 

“Well,” Gojo gave a slight shrug, looking straight into the camera, “If I were to win these games, it’s not a girl back home I’d be winning for. She’s a little…closer than 1.”

The crowd lost their minds. 

“My! I wonder who it is!” Drumesia said curtly under her breath, looking around as if the mystery girl would reveal herself. Other tributes began muttering under their breaths, some angry at how well Gojo was working the crowd, others curious to see if it was outlawed for somebody from a District to fall for a Capitol girl. 

Nonetheless, Gojo was able to wrap everyone around his finger with just a sentence. 

Caesar tries to calm them down, but it’s no use. Now, everyone is shouting and demanding to know who this mystery Capitol girl is that has won the esteemed Gojo Satoru’s heart over. It’s no use, Caesar has lost control of them, and his time with Gojo is up. 

He’s playing these games well, you think, and not the way most people would. 

Caesar nods slowly, giving his usual bright smile as he and Gojo stand up, their hands clasped together as the others wave to the bustling and energetic crowd. 

“Give it up for the dashing Tribute from District 1, everyone! Gojo Satoru!” 

You can no longer tell who’s still screaming from the past news and who is trying to wish Gojo goodbye, but regardless, the enthusiasm from this crowd dwarfs whatever it was that Lizzie got. 

But the more you let his words simmer, the more you realize that Gojo wasn’t only doing this to stir gossip or gain empathy. If the citizens (and sponsors) of the Capitol believed that there was a chance he could win these games and come back for one of them, then…

Then he just garnered a whole lot more support than any score from those evaluations could have gotten him. 

When he finally left, his mentors and escorts quickly ushered him somewhere backstage, so you weren’t able to get a good glimpse of him before he left. But the relaxed stance he had once had was now bunched up, tense in his shoulders. He looked around the other tributes, eyes falling last on you and Yuuji before he was whisked away. 

Yuuji tugged at the fabric of your dress, glancing up at you with a worry in his eyes. 

“I have to go after him?”

—

All the other interviews seem to go by in a blur. 

The closer it gets to 11, the more you feel like throwing up. Your heart beats in erratic rhythms, and your mouth and ears feel like they’re stuffed with cotton. At some point, you stop looking at the screen because of how much your head is spinning. 

Your hand grips your stomach, balancing on the wall, the closer and closer you get to being called up on stage. 

Martin and Drumesia are both standing near you and Yuuji, exchanging worried glances at your worsening state. 

“You’ll be alright,” Yuuji whispers, tugging on your arm, with a bright smile even though he looked horrifically pale and nervous, “If I can do this, you definitely can.”

You chuckle softly, whispering a thank you as you watch the male tribute from District 10 stand up and shake Caesar’s hand, the audience applauding as he exits. 

It’s your turn. 

“Smile!” Drumesia repeats, doing the motions on her own face as you give her a shaky one in return, “Be their sweetheart!”

Be their sweetheart. 

One of the people moved in between you and Yuuji, your hand falling from his as they ushered you through the holding area and onto the stage. You take one deep breath before you duck your head down and go. 

You instantly wince at the bright lights, your ears roaring as if you were being held underwater, and sweat dots on your forehead. You feel your stomach plummet, but your feet move as if they’re the only part of your body working. 

The crowd is clapping as Caesar introduces you, and you inch towards him as you try to discreetly wipe your palm on the side of your dress so he wouldn’t notice how clammy it was. 

You look into the audience, people in the front row dressed as wildly and strangely as they seem to do in the Capitol, and then look over to Caesar, who seems to be mourning something, but you can’t hear what it is he’s saying. 

“W-what?” You say, cursing at yourself for this being your first words, but Caesar just laughs it off, patting you affectionately on the shoulders. 

“Someone’s nervous!” Caesar says with a smile, leading you to sit down as you shakily sit down on the seat facing him. When he’s sure that you're situated, he moves to his own, legs crossing as he leans back slightly. 

“What I had said was, ‘How are you doing?’” 

You look at him and then at the cameras, swallowing to wet your throat. 

“Good,” you say hoarsely, “Just nervous, like you said.” You give a shaky laugh, and Caesar, along with the entire audience, aww at, as if you were a wounded animal. 

Caesar waits until the crowd dies down before he starts again, shuffling a little closer so that it wouldn’t feel like you were strangers. 

“Well, I never want you to feel that way around me,” he pats your knee before he gives a gentle smile before it turns impish, “That’s what the audience is for!”

Everyone laughs, and you give a weak chuckle. He gives the cameras a small pout, and your nose wrinkles slightly before he starts again. 

“Let me first say that I am intrigued to see you nervous because from what I’ve heard, you are great with people. Is this true, or did my little songbird lie to me?”

You blink away from the crowd, eyes darting towards the cameras as you give him a growing smile and let a simple giggle roll through your chest, one thought ringing through your head: 

Be their sweetheart. 

“I wouldn’t say great,” you emphasize with a smile, remembering that this crowd was full of sponsors that could help you and Yuuji, “But I used to take care of kids before I worked in the fields back home, so I’ve learned a lot of things about people from that.”

Caesar clicks his tongue, as if understanding. 

“Well, disagree as much as you want, but we’ve had some witnesses in the crowd who have seen firsthand just how well you’re able to make new friends, is that right?” He calls out, and some people in the audience cheer extra loudly. 

Those must’ve been the people who saw you before the chariot parade. 

“Do you think this will help you in the arena?” Caesar adds, and you rip your eyes away from those in the audience to look at his face. 

“U-um,” you stammer, your cheeks heating up as you think about it thoughtfully, “I don’t think so, Caesar.” You admitted truthfully, debating whether to lie or not, but it seemed like your decision was the correct choice, as it seemed like people in the audience perked up at your honesty. 

Even Caesar seemed a bit surprised as his brows furrowed and his head tilted slightly to the side. 

“No? Why? Why not?” His voice dipped slightly, mimicking concern. If you didn’t know any better, you would think he would care, as if he wouldn’t narrate your death in just a few days. 

You ring your fingers together, chewing on your cheek as you try to look docile. Like a sweetheart. 

“I don’t like seeing people hurt,” you tell him, and everyone watching, frankly, “Even if the kids I used to watch were being…difficult,” you say with a slight emphasis and the crowd laughs, shocking you a little bit, “I would never say anything too harsh to reprimand them. So I think that if I were to befriend other tributes, I’d stir crazy in the games.” 

Caesar nods once more, his eyes shutting as he takes in your words. People in the audience seem to tilt their heads dramatically as if you had softened them into a puddle of faux compassion and stone-hearted emotions. 

“So empathy is both your strength and witness?” Caesar confirms, and you give him a timid grin, nodding. 

“One that can be exploited very well during something like the Hunger Games, yes,” you say a little sarcastically and with a knowing grin, and Caesar lets out a chuckle, nodding along with your statement as people in the audience laugh. 

“While we’re on more temperate topics, here’s another question for you,” Caesar’s voice has dipped a little bit, losing his energetic spark as he got serious, “I have been asking many of the tributes tonight who they would win for. If you were to win, who would you dedicate it to?”

You feel your stomach churn painfully, tongue darting out to wet your chapped bottom lip, and you grab the sides of your chair tightly. 

Gojo’s words from the night before repeat themselves in your head. What is it you want to do?

“I,” you stop yourself from what you were going to say, almost looking backstage to where Yuuji was standing with Drumesia, but control the urge and continue holding your stare with Caesar, “I have no family left in 11,” you’re sure that the camera is zeroing in on your face now and the way Caesar holds your hand supportingly as if he was there when you mourned the loss of everyone you loved, “I think….I think I would win these games so that I could see the sunsets back home.”

“The sunsets?” He asks instantly as if he’s never thought about that, he looks into the crowd to see if they’re just as intrigued, “I have to admit, I’ve never seen the sunsets at District 11 before. How are they?”

You gave him a knowing smile, blinking your tears back as the fire inside your chest burned. 

“Caesar, they are simply to die for.”

The tension in the room seemed to snap as everyone laughed, Caesar throwing his head back with a comical hoot as one hand sprawled out across his chest. The cameramen swiveled to catch everyone’s reactions, and you feel some heat prickle at the back of your neck. 

“Funny! She’s funny!” He animated as if they hadn’t already heard you, wiping at his eyes as his wide smile twinkled, “One last thing! Before we run out of time! I’m sure everybody here, along with me, is wondering one thing. Does anybody know what that is?” 

Caesar looked out into the audience with a raised brow. You turn limply, mirroring his actions, as somebody with a large pink wig and even larger cheekbones cups their manicured hands around their mouth as they yell out; 

“Her score!”

Caesar winked at that person, snapping when they got it right. His chair swiveled back to face yours, your fingers digging into the plush texture of the cushions as your heart beats rapidly against your chest. 

“Yes, yes, her score! Now, don’t worry, I won’t have you revealing your secret,” Caesar assured and your shoulders eased just a little bit, Caesar waving the audience’s disappointment down with a playful scold, “But I do want you to tell the people what they should take away from a score like yours.”

The clock was ticking down. You only had a few seconds left to make it all count. 

“Hm,” you hum thoughtfully, a glint in your eyes as your head tilts a little, “It’s funny you ask. We have this song back in 11, one older than me. Some say it’s from this ancient traveling band, from way before. But we always tell ourselves that nothing you can take was ever worth keeping. So,” you pause for a brief moment, your lips quirked, “During the games, I think you should…expect nothing from me and I’ll give you all everything in return.”

Caesar’s smile falters a second as he digests your words, looking at you, but you’re looking back at the crowd as you wave to them. 

He helps you stand up, his hand outstretched to take yours, and you give him a firm squeeze as you shake it. The crowd claps loudly, some calling your name like they did for the other tributes. 

“Everyone give it up for the witty sweetheart from 11!” Caesar shouts, and people clap even louder, your smile growing despite yourself. 

Maybe, just maybe, you did something right. 

—

One deep breath in. One deep breath out. 

The helicraft they were using to transport all your tributes was huge, but somehow you still felt insanely claustrophobic. It felt like the walls were closing in, the whirring and the gentle hum of the machine were somewhat soothing, but it did nothing to distract you from the fact that you were being transported to the arena.  For the Hunger Games. 

You could barely sleep after the interviews. Yuuji had done great, everybody loved him, just as you suspected. But it wasn’t the high of doing well that kept you up. It was the fear, the trepidation of knowing that there were merely hours left before only one of you was fated to come out. 

Breakfast was horrible. You couldn’t keep anything down, so you opted for some tea and bits of a biscuit. Martin seemed particularly drunk, barely meeting your eyes as Drumesia kept snapping at him to tidy up. But you didn’t have the heart to judge him, couldn’t imagine what it was like to see countless tributes over the years, only for none of them to survive. 

It must be maddening. 

Yuuji didn’t look any better, but he was trying his best to appear as steady-headed as possible. When Martin led the two of you to the hovercraft, he gave you both one final look, his eyes glossy and his face solemn as he put one hand on your shoulder and the other on Yuuji’s. 

“Look after each other,” he said gruffly, his voice choked and hoarse, “These games bring out the worst in people.” 

You wondered just how bad it could get. 

After one of the guards had injected the tracker into you, they strapped you in, and you felt your back press tightly against the seat as it began to take off. The other tributes were rubbing their arms, wincing at the soreness of where the injector was once. Some were looking around, curious and afraid; others were talking to themselves. 

Gojo was one of those who was looking around, eyes darting everywhere until they found you. Again.

He gives barley there nod, one you don’t understand the meaning of, before he peeks back to Lizzie, his head dipping down as he attentively listens to her as she whispers something in his ear. You shake yourself away from looking at them, trailing down to where Yuuji was bundled next to you, his fingers pushing at the skin of his forearm. 

“Yuuji,” your voice is a hint of whisper, and you’re glad for the steady hum of the craft as it drowns out your voice for everyone else around you, “Yuuji.” You say a little harsher, this time grabbing his attention. 

His head snaps up, brown eyes wide as if he had been caught doing something wrong. You almost apologized, but remembered that right now you had to be harsh. It was your only means of survival. 

“Do you remember what you’re going to do?” Your head ducks down so that you’re closer to his ear, and he nods quickly, determination and trepidation on his face as you sit back upright, giving him a stern look. 

For the last couple of days, you’ve been watching old runs from previous games. How they started, what it looked like towards the middle, and how they ended. You’ve gathered that the beginning of the games is the most brutal part, seeing how everyone is still gathered around each other. 

The Cornucopia, a big-looking structure that resembles its namesake, is where all weapons, sacks of food and water, sleepgear, and anything else needed for survival are held. It’s tempting, sure, but that’s where the bloodbath takes place. When everyone hoards something surrounded by deadly tools, it’s expected that something barbaric will take place. 

From what you could tell, tributes are all arranged in a circle around the structure on pedestals. A clock counts down from a minute until they can move. If Yuuji was situated somewhere where the Cornucopia was blocking him from your vision, there was not much you could do than order him to turn around and run as fast as he could. You promised you’d find him. 

“Mhm,” he quickly nods, closing his eyes as he recites the orders you’ve drilled into his head, “If I see you, run towards you when the clock finishes up. If not, run away and hide,” he cracks open an eye as he winces, “Right?”

You realize your face is harder than usual, your frown lines more apparent. You swallow, trying to soften yourself up as you pat his hand, looking at the walls facing you to steady your mind. 

“Right.”

You feel Yuuji’s eyes bore into the side of your face, and his fingers move so that they can grasp onto yours. 

“Did you try making any allies?” He whispers, shuffling closer to you because of how cold the air is. 

You shake your head, not looking down but instead finding your stare to travel back over to where Gojo was sitting. 

Don’t you remember me?

It’s one of the only things you’ve been able to think of these past two days. 

The thing is, you know you remember him. You remember that hair and those eyes. You remember the way he carries himself. It’s a brief memory, one hidden in the back of your mind and refusing to show itself. But perhaps what’s even stranger is that he does. It couldn’t be from the first day on the trains. This memory is deep, it’s old. 

And yet you don’t have any idea where it came from. 

So you shake your head at Yuuji’s question, thinking back to your interview with Caesar as your foot taps erratically on the floor. 

“We’re each other's allies,” you murmur, still not looking away from Gojo as if prolonged staring would help jog your memory, “Remember what Martin told us?”

Yuuji doesn’t seem happy, clearly thinking that more people mean better odds of surviving, but he can’t argue with you. He slumps a little bit, looking around. 

You go to tell him something else, but your eyelids suddenly feel heavy. You wince, your head dipping, but not on your own accord. 

You can barely open your mouth before everything goes back, and you slump against your restraints. 

---

read part two!

[soobiary]

LOVELOVELOVE

18+

you and your best friend satoru don’t fuck.

you’ve never fucked.

but he has seen your tits more than your gynecologist. and he’s eaten you out exactly once, on your birthday.

there’s no real explanation for it, either—not sexual (except when it is lol), not romantic (except in that weird, liminal way you both don’t notice). but the intimacy is so baked into the friendship that it doesn’t shock either of you when he’s tugging your tank top down to examine a hickey near your breast, thumb grazing your nipple until it stiffens. he squints. clicks his tongue.“sloppy work. two out of ten.”

you have names for his balls. “how’re Beelzebulb and the Lesser One holding up?” he’s seen you pick hair out of your ass in the shower. you’ve walked in on him jerking off and critiqued his wrist angle mid-stroke while brushing your teeth. he adjusted, and you nodded in approval before spitting into the sink. supportive environment.

you’ve rubbed one out in his bed while he played apex five feet away, headset on. sometimes you grunt just to be annoying. he groans back, in solidarity. you share a bed more often than not. he rolls over, arm slung around your waist. but you’re best friends; you don’t make it weird or awkward. “if your dick pokes me again, i’m gonna bite it clean off.” he grins into the pillow. “ah, promises, promises.”

when someone assumes you’re a couple, you both gag in synchronized horror. “ew, no.” “he wishes.” “you think i’d date that?” “puh-lease, i have standards.”

he calls you ‘trouble.’

you claim that he’s ‘not your type.’

because he loves you too much to fuck you stupid.

and you trust him too much to ruin the friendship.

[soobiary]

this is so cute

SLAM DUNK - G.S.

Synopsis. Gojo Satoru - campus boyfriend, MVP of the basketball team - can score a slam dunk but he can’t score you?! So what could go wrong when he asks you for pointers…in the bedroom?

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, D1 basketball player!Gojo, college AU, friends-to-Iovers, PINING Gojo, kinda romcom, popular!Gojo, spin the bottIe, kíssing for “practice”, first times (Gojo’s), handj’s, semi-pubIic (locker room), fíngering, he comes back for more, oraI (fem rec.), PÚSSYDRÚNK Gojo, running from it, spítting, p talking, chokíng, matíng presses, manhandIing, he’s tall, Gojo with a big D, making it fit, talking you through it, tummy buIges, p sIapping, rough s, breaking the bed, creampíes, slight cúmplay, confessions, happy ending, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 13.3k

A/N. *throws loverboy Gojo at you and runs*

“Let’s play spin the bottle!”

There wasn’t much room for rational say. Not when Shoko was already pushing an empty beer bottle into your hands, Haibara practically vibrating with excitement as he shuts the door to the raging party outside.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t the most sophisticated of games - but what else could you expect from one of Geto and Gojo’s infamous house parties?

“Fine—” You’re smiling, to the slurred cheers of your messy lil’ circle of friends. “But if I get you, Sho, you better watch out.”

She puckers up dramatically, “I’m looking forward to it- that is, if someone doesn’t kiIl me fir-” 

“Shut up, bob cut.” Ah, the star of the show cuts her off hastily, a drunken flush creeping down his neck. You’re raising a brow at the impatience - but when Gojo Satoru speaks, everyone listens. Everyone waits as the bottle in the middle spins.

And spins.

And spins. 

And stops-

Geto is the first to crack a grin, “Oh, Satoru~”

“Oh.”

Notorious chatterbox, mean loudmouth, and the student that had oh-so-famously gotten detention for probing into Professor Gakuganji’s sex life - but that was all Gojo had to say right now?

With a slight huff of laughter, you’re staring down the amber bottleneck- aimed directly opposite you, towards where your friend was sprawled across the carpet like he owned it. 

Which was, honestly, how you’d always known Gojo. 

Whether it was on the basketball court or accosting you on the very first day of orientation, there was a reason every student on campus knew his name. Knew his number. Knew the nights of his parties. 

But didn’t know whether they wanted to be him or be with him. 

Which was why it made your heart thud in a singular beat of surprise to glance upwards and find Gojo looking so…lost. Rosy lips parted, chest unmoving like he’d forgotten to breathe. 

And somewhere down the line, you swear you notice him gulp. Biceps straining against his flowery button-up as he pushes back those angelic white bangs of his, Gojo’s azure eyes flit furiously between the bottle, and you, the bottle, and you, the bottle-

“Ehem.” Shoko coughs into her fist, with the pointed subtlety of a sledgehammer. 

You see her flick a finger towards the wide wooden closet that loomed ominously by the far wall. “If you’re going to eye-fuck, I suggest you do it in- hck! there like the game says. Uta’s about to throw up already.”

Said Utahime dry heaves, “I’m not.”

“And who suggested this game?” But you’re standing up to a few jeers anyway- what’s one silly kiss between friends, after all? It was a small group of your friends, and a few stragglers starstruck by their proximity to Gojo. 

Though, turning around, you’re realizing that Gojo was, too. 

Narrowing your eyes in confusion, “Satoru?”

Gojo’s tongue darts out to nervously wet his lips, “Yeah? I- oh.” Geto reaches over to thump his best friend on the back, making the other man startle into a stand.

Stumbling up on agile feet for a few steps, before he’s crossing the circle to grasp your hand in his large ones-

And that just makes the room erupt.

“That’s my boy–!”

“Don’t get pregnant– I can’t be an uncle yet.”

“Yuck.”

Cackles, cat calls, and a few obnoxious moans that ring out even louder than the thumping bass from the party downstairs. You’re crinkling your nose in amusement once Gojo flips them off and speedwalks towards the closet with crimson ears, dragging you straight in tow.

“Sa-Satoru.” You’re giggling, stepping inside the stuffy space. 

The smell of prized vodka and mothballs cling to every surface of the closet like an outdated perfume. And from where you’re pressing yourself up against one mahogany wall, you can feel the soft press of clothes tickle your body. 

It was dark inside - darker than dark, in fact. Your only merciful source of light coming from the dim yellow glow of Haibara’s room from underneath the cracks in the door. 

But even with the cloak of obscurity, you can already make out how snug of a fit it was inside. 

Because Gojo was towering - what else could you have expected from the ace of your university’s basketball team? 

Unruly strands of ivory brushing against the closet ceiling, broad shoulders cushioned by either wall. He has to press two palms upon either side of your body and lean down just to hear you speak, “Do you want to do this? Y’know we don’t have to-”

“Yes.” He’s breathing, labored. Uneven. Before catching the glint in your eyes and sputtering- “I mean- ah, I mean, why not.” Wincing, “…Do you?”

You hum, taking in the heady scent of his cologne. Cherries. “I mean— we should be good sports about the game.” 

“The game- the game, yes.” Gojo nods, a thin line of sweat starting to bead from his temple. And maybe it was the punch, maybe it was the dizziness of being so close- but did Gojo Satoru just stutter? “So you…want to kiss me?”

Your head tilts in question, and he flinches at the teasing look in your eyes. 

Fuck, was he ever-so-glad it was too dark in here for you to see the way his ears burn. 

“I-I mean, of course you want to kiss me.” With a slight puff of his sculptured chest, Gojo fluffs up his hair. Nose turning up in that haughty way it often did whenever someone asked for his number. “Who wouldn’t? I’m Gojo Satoru, after all. So, of course, I should kiss you, too- and I should s-stop talking and do that right now and- wow, is it just me or is it really hot in here-”

Then you’re shutting him up - with your mouth on his. 

Murmuring into his parted maw, “Shut the fuck up.” And the only thing sweeter than the taste of his soft, candied lips was the way that Gojo presses his ripped body further against yours and moans. 

Low, primal. Like it was something being wrenched from the deepest depths of his throat and he couldn’t possibly control it even if he wanted to.

So the only thing his poor, muddled body can think to do is lap at the glossy crevice of your own lips. Wobbly mouth tuggin’ on your greedily, it was almost cute the way that Gojo’s grunting just as soon as you pull away with a lewd wet noise-

Staring at him in awe, even in the darkness you could make out the ruddied shade of his blush. 

“Uh…” You pipe up, after a few seconds of silence, your friend’s gaze still locked on your lips. The skin of his cheeks flare red-hot underneath where you’d grabbed him with your hands. “Hello? Don’t tell me I broke y-”

He’s attacking your mouth once more. 

Ravenous, Gojo’s sultry lips drag allll across yours. Washboard abs pinning you to the wall of the closet, the pointed tip of his nose bumping messily into yours. He lets off a throaty keen as you’re parting your mouth with a gasp, “M’sorry.”

“H-hngh, Satoru-” The temperature inside this lil’ space heightens enough to make your goosebumps sizzle.

“M’sorry.” He’s drunkenly whispering, one of his meaty knees saddling right between your thighs. You’re whimpering at the feeling of his flexed muscles, “M’sorry m’sorry I-” 

One of his trembling hands slides up n’ down your back, as if Gojo didn’t trust himself to hold too still. And his touch was seeping warmth through your thin dress, lungs screaming for air-

“I’m sorry, it’s just- you. I don’t think I can control-” He’s interrupting himself with another chase of your mouth, sloppily sucking on the tip of your tongue. Gojo lets a slick puddle of drool formulate on the corner of his swollen lips, eyes glassy when he’s kneading his hips forwards to rut- “D-did you know that this is my first-”

“Time’s up lovebirds—! Oh.”

The sudden explosion of light strikes you like whiplash, and both of you snap your heads towards the entrance to the closet.

Geto stands frozen, slightly silhouetted by the bedroom glow. But nothing - absolutely nothing - can hide the way his sly eyes widen ever-so-slightly, caught off-guard by the vision before him.

He darts his peripherals to Gojo’s hands dipping dangerously low on your hips, to the manner you’re pinned against one wall, to the way your lips are swollen.

And Gojo’s were worse. 

It’s only then that your head’s clearing up enough for you to try and half-heartedly push at your friend’s heaving chest- to no avail, of course. Because Gojo doesn’t move a single inch, in fact, he’s only tugging you closer to him with a slight growl. 

Looking over his shoulder at the intruder, his eyes narrow—“Fuck off.”

“This- we-” You’re starting, unsure why you were so heated when this was the entire point of the game. 

But Geto beats you to it- “Well, this is certainly better than I thought. I expected our dear Satoru here to piss his pants and faint. Congratulations.” He points at something near Gojo’s khaki shorts, “Fix that.”

Fix…? In unison, you slowly swivel your heads down and find your mouth drop-

“Fuck! Suguru-” It’s only then that Gojo lets go of you like the mere feeling of your body scalded his own. 

Back shoving against the other end of the closet, both hands flailing downwards to hide the massive outlined bulge you’d caught just a glimpse of. And yet, even that wasn’t enough for him to hide the utter raw tightness in his pants.

Your mind sparks once you register that he was rock-fucking-hard. 

Handsome cheekbones all stained with rouge, you catch the smear of your lipgloss glitter all across Gojo’s lips when he hisses at the other man. “It went down just looking at you.”

“Liar.”

“Asshole.”

“Vir-”

“Shut up.” Slightly slurred by your moments prior, there’s a slight daze within Gojo’s stare as he turns to you - still covering his erection. “I-I can explain, I actually-” 

Whatever half-baked excuse it was, you don’t have the privilege of hearing it. 

Because just then, rings out a call of your name—Shoko. And you could recognize her rarely-serious tone anywhere, making you hastily step out of the closet. Leaving behind a sputtering Gojo Satoru and a snickering Geto Suguru to instead head back to your circle. “Everything alright?”

A few cackles escape your friends at the sight of you - all dishevelled and kissed stupid. 

Hell, even Shoko manages to break through the worried furrow in her brow to let off a slight giggle. “Mhm, my greatest apologies for interrupting Satoru’s little wet dream-” Ignoring the aforementioned man’s cranky ‘hey!’ as he closely follows you. “-but Uta isn’t feeling well, so we might just head back.”

You nod, “I’ll come-”

“No no, stay with-”

“We should get her to bed.” You’re waving off her protests, a no-brainer to go with the friend who was visiting all the way from Kyoto. Picking up Utahime’s bag as she starts to fight back her gags once more. “It was probably that cheap beer, I told her not to trust anything Usami bought.”

It’s with a few rapid goodbyes and promises to send photographs that your little trio staggers out of Haibara’s room, Utahime clinging onto both of you. Babbling weakly, “M’sorry for ruining your love story.”

The pit of your stomach twists with something you don’t know how to name, “You didn’t ruin anything.” Brows furrowing, “And what love story?”

“B-but-” She wails, making a few heads turn. “-but it’s been years- mmpf!”

Shoko sighs, one hand firmly slapped on Utahime’s mouth now. She throws a meaningful glance at her friend, “We’re never drinking again.”

Meandering through the throngs of people and alcohol, at an equal ratio - you’ve just got a foot out of the penthouse doorway; the one that Gojo rents for him and his friends, the hotspot for your university’s student body to be on a weekend night-

-when Gojo himself breaks through the overstuffed crowd. 

“W-wait–!”

“Satoru?” You’re swerving back in confusion, eyelids squinted at the flashing strobe lights. 

The party atmosphere paints his pale hair in red n’ pink, bringing out the prettiest specks of grey in his blue irises. 

And Gojo gasps, he heaves - seemingly more at the sight of you than the entire trek it had been to weave through a party that yearned for but a simple glimpse of him. Even now, he was deaf to the calls of his name from all sides, the hands patting him on the back- only letting out—“Do you…want to do something?”

You almost have half the mind to look behind you, “Do something?”

“An outing.”

“An outing?”

“A science experiment.”

“A science experiment?” You gawk, slightly appalled at the fact that Gojo Satoru of all people wanted to take up extra credit on a weekend. “Did you drink that bad beer too? Because-”

“Dammit-” Without warning, he’s smacking his forehead. “Just- just meet me, to talk about something. I’ll text you.”

You have to fight to keep your voice even- from amusement if not for genuine concern. “And you couldn’t text me that? You had to run all this way.”

He almost pouts with a huff, “Had to say it before I lost my nerve.”

“But-”

“She’ll be there.” Shoko’s vocalizing from your right, still holding up a dangling Utahime. And there’s something knowing - something meaningful - in her smirk, “I’ll make sure of it. If you beg on your knees, that is.”

Gojo flips her off in two seconds.

Then he’s on his knees in one.

“G-get up–!” You damn-near shriek, feeling the party buzz and gape at the encounter - you think you even see one attendant pull out her phone and start recording, sure to make a splash in the campus bulletin by tomorrow. “I’ll be there- just- go-”

Still unsteady from whatever the fuck that was, you’re shuffling into the elevator for Shoko’s Uber. still feeling Gojo’s stare burning into you afterwards. 

Blissfully dazed as the doors close behind his slight, anxious wave, Utahime cups your cheek and slurs. “You’re going to make such beautiful hck! babies. All from you, of course.”

.

.

.

“So…what did you need to talk to me about?”

“T-talking? Did I say talking? Well, I was really gone that night, y’know that-”

“Satoru.”

“-and we’re talking right now, aren’t we-”

“Satoru.”

If it was physically possible for a basketball player - numerous inches over six feet, unfairly chiselled, with a shock of white hair above all - to hide behind a humble convenience store shelf then Gojo certainly didn’t know how. 

But that didn’t stop him from trying.

And his tufts of pale bangs flinch at the stern tone of your voice, despite being separated by an entire aisle. 

Blatantly avoiding being in your proximity, Gojo’s simply pushin’ aside a few bags of chips to peek at you from the other side of the shelf. Shoulders hunched, eyes crinkling once he’s noticing your no-nonsense stance. “You see…remember how, last night, had that little erm- problem-”

“Your erection?” You’re questioning, purposefully not lowering your voice to make him squirm.

And he shushes you frantically, looking around the store - there was only a sweet elderly lady a few shelves down, and he was hoping to the heavens above that her hearing aid was turned down. “Yes- yes, that. And I said I could explain…well…”

“Well?”

Inhaling a deep, deep breath, “I’mactuallykindofatotalvirginandIwantedyoutohelpmewithsomepointersmaybe.” He’s forced to inhale an even deeper breath after that. 

“Y-you’re a…” It felt like you’d just short-circuited. Only one word from that entire jumbled mess standing out to you - virgin.

Not that there was a problem with that. It’s just- there was no way that Gojo was a virgin - not after all the stories that girls and guys alike would whisper about him in bed. Not after the harem of fans that would follow him ‘round each party like a second skin unless your friends dragged him away. Not after the way he had a new number being begged to be put into his phone every day. 

And yet, Gojo’s nodding at your unspoken question.

Somehow, it suddenly made sense that in all the years you’d known him, you’d never seen him go on a single date. But no one had to actually date to hook up. Sputtering, “And was that your-”

“First…kiss…” He grimaces, fingers twitching like they were about to topple the entire aisle of chips just to escape this conversation. Before smoothing his features back with a gasp- “B-but that was the best first kiss I could’ve ever dreamed of- I kinda did dream about it later but…”

As you start to slowly back away, he waves his hands fervently. Panic seeping into his voice, “Don’t run!” Withering at the way the old lady nearby turns, “I-I mean, that’s exactly why I need you. I need you to teach me–!”

You feel your heart race, voice lilting high. “Teach you?”

“Teach me how to—” Your friend waves his hands wildly, and you’ve never seen him so stressed - not even before his biggest games. “-not embarrass myself if I do something like that.”

Crossing your arms, the thought churns over and over in your brain. He wants to…kiss you again? “So…let me get this straight- you want me to give you lessons on how to kiss someone?”

“And maybe…other…stuff.”

“Satoru, you us want to hook up-” 

“Teach me.” He pleads, baritone crackling just a bit. A sharp smack resounds as he clasps his hands together in prayer position, “I just need you to give me a few tips- a few pointers, I swear. Just a few lessons so I won’t embarrass myself like that ever again. I could get on my knees again if you want-”

“No! Shut the fuck up.” You bark out, hands coming up to massage your temples. “I need to…think.”

And all it takes is one look at the other lady beside you two, discreetly turning her hearing aids up, for you to stride your way to Gojo’s side of the aisle. Right where he was holding up a packet of chips like a shield, waiting for you to burst. 

He wants to be intimate with you.

He wants a repeat of the party.

He liked it?

Something about that, you liked. 

You sigh, a sound that felt years older than you were. “Fine.”

“Yes-”

“But we’re doing this platonically. And I’m only doing this because I don’t wanna hear you begging. Or hear any girls laughing at you, because that’s embarrassing for me.”

Your head swivels behind you - ah, perfect. The two of you were loitering right between the chips and contraception shelves. “Lesson number one, wrap it before you tap it.”

Gojo starts into motion, eager to please. Though, it wasn’t very pleasant for you once his hand shoots out immediately to pluck at the gold n’ black box of Trojan Magnum…XL. 

“Hah! That’s funny.” Your grin twitches at his blank expression, “That’s a joke, right?” Then completely dissolving at his silence. “…Right?”

You’re still ogling in utter disbelief even as you walk to the weary young cashier, in line behind that old lady. “Satoru- are you sure you need that one? Lesson number two is you don’t have to compensate.”

“I’m actually worried it won’t fit.” He frowns, closely reading the measurements in the back. And from the corner of your eye, your imposing fellow customer gawks, discreetly hurrying up the payment. “Maybe lesson number three could be the pull out game.”

And right before you can answer - maybe make fun of his confidence, maybe even call off the entire deal altogether - the grim elderly lady taps your arm before leaving. “Good luck, dearie.”

.

.

.

“Sh-shit.” Gojo’s mouth closes and gapes stupidly, and no matter how much his firm chest heaves, he can’t steady his pitch. He can’t catch his breath. 

He can’t even think about anything other than the feeling of your soft, pretty hands wrapped ‘round his rock-hard dick.

A quick trip to your apartment later, with him backed into the corner of your couch, and you’re not making fun of him anymore. 

You knew what they say about men with big feet - but Gojo’s throbbing erection was even bigger than you could’ve imagined. 

Just about nine- maybe even ten hot, pinkish inches that glistened with a steady stream of precum. So hard that it looked painful, so thick that you’re having trouble closing your wrist over his circumference. 

Gojo’s slender hands grabbing onto each side of the couch to push n’ push his restless body upwards. “Shit shit shit- what the fuck-”

Grappling, fighting, in a split-second he feels the crown edge of your thumb graze his slit and damn near loses his mind. 

“Shiiiiit—” Almost whiny, if this was any other time then he’d be fucking embarrassed about the way his bass cracks at the very end of his sentence. 

“Shush, Satoru.” Your voice purrs, and just the sultry sound of it is enough to make his swollen cock twitch. Glistening out a treacly line of pre from the strawberry-pink orifice at the top of his shaft, “Lesson number three is to learn to be quiet. My landlord’s gonna complain.”

“Well, lil’ landlord Higuruma doesn’t have your cute hands on his cock, does he, beautiful?” 

“Well you’re failing the lesson then.”

“Fine.”

In retaliation, you’re giving him a looong, languid stroke along his vein-covered length. Mouth watering at the delicious way it makes him throw a hand up to cover his flushed face, other hand resting on your wrist.

Gojo’s hands were big- bigger than yours, and much more suited to help pump his prolonged cock with ease. 

Possessively, he’s curling your pretty fingers tighter ‘round his girth and bounces up n’ down, up n’ down, up n’ down. Whispering, “Faster- faster now, my girl- I mean- beautiful.”

“It’s just-” You’re nearly biting down on your own tongue, reluctant to state anything that would feed your popular friend’s ego. 

But you just couldn’t help it when he looked so pretty - eyes glazed with unshed tears and need, high cheekbones permanently pink, his fat cock pulsing between your fingertips with each passing second. And you swear the blushin’, bulged tip of his shaft swells even bigger with your intense stare, “Lesson number four is that you’re big. It makes it almost…difficult.”

“O-oh.”

Without a second of warning, Gojo’s slouching his muscular body over. Rosy lips pursed to depart with a glob of spit— straight down to the tip-top of his erection.

Letting the sticky mess trickle down the side of his shaft, he’s moving your hands to glue over his tender underside. Fap-fap-fapping rapidly, the sides of your pinkies spank against his bulky base and make him keen. 

“Difficult? Difficult?” Tonality just seeping with grunts, your touch smears the glossy webs of saliva down each vein. “M’passin’ this lesson with flying colors- oh, you’re gonna take it. How could anyone even- ngh- compete?”

“And here I thought y-you were the competitive one.” You’re garbling out your words, feeling your palms massage with the zig-zagged ridges of his length. 

“H-heh- hell yeah, I am.” With a pant, Gojo’s twisting his hand - one of his encapsulating both of yours, and something primal in you twitches at the stark size difference - to jerk down his slicked cock. “Faster.” Voice ruined. “Faster.” Breathy. “Fast- ngh-”

He can’t even think to finish his sentence before his body ruts- ethereal head thrown back, lips gnawed raw like bubblegum. “Oh, ohhhh, never felt like this.”

And Gojo Satoru - famed for his steadiness, his agility - had never sounded so uneven. With his sweaty scalp lolling back and forth like he didn’t know whether to push backwards or keep looking down at your work. 

Drag after lewd drag. 

He was so lengthy n’ big that your arms were almost aching at this point, repeatedly pumping from the ruby-red globe of his cockhead, and down, down, down. 

“Pretty hands hck! tired, huh?” But Gojo’s only maneuvering faster- capped knees spreading on the cushions of your couch to buck into you faster. “Come on- come on come on- don’t stop.”

“S’this any different from your- hah- usual routine, Satoru?” Even you were out of breath at this point.

You’re flicking your doughy fingerpad in a lazy line underneath the flared line of his slit and watch as Gojo only babbles. “Yeah- never felt something so…f-fuck, why are you so soft.” Large palms pressing down on yours, exactly where you could feel the outline of his shaft pulsing the most. His shoulders shake with each singular thwack! of your hand hitting his hilt, white curls bouncing. “So tight-”

Your friend’s fingers were dexterous, curling inwards so that your manicured nails would graze his swollen balls. 

They were slightly tanner than the rest of him, glittered with speckles of buttery precum that you take it upon yourself to gyrate your palm against. Purposefully pressing down lecherously–

And when Gojo looks up with a slight, dopey grin you knew that whatever fell next from that devastating mouth would not bode well for you. “Wonder if your pretty pussy would be just as ngh- tight.”

You feel your poor heart stutter—“Sh-shut the fuck up.”

“Ohhh- that almost made me cum.” He’s admitting through a raspy gasp, cadence giving way to something needier. Something harder. Something that was nearly scraping the flesh of your hands raw with his white happy trail. “S-say it again-”

“Shut up-”

Sapphire eyes squeeze shut, and the front of your poor skirt starts dripping with a few creamy wads of his pre. He was close. “Ngh-” 

Thighs pressing together, suddenly you’re realizing just how drenched your panties were. “Aren’t you supposed to be- fuck, learning a lesson?” And oh, were you shocked you managed to keep your voice even.

“Mmm, I’m learning alrigh’---” Gojo drawls, looking at you with such heated half-closed eyes that you can only more thoroughly drag your thumb down the line of his sensitive slit. “Shit- stop that- wait, don’t stop-”

Brain sparking, he’s singing out in protesting groans at the same time as your furniture. The cushions dipping as Gojo’s lurching his lanky body off of the couch, like he didn’t know whether he wanted to fuck your first for more, more, more or run away–

“Learning, huh?” You’re cracking a grin in amusement, hands letting off the sappiest squelches as you decide to slow down for his own sake. “Lesson number five…”

“No!” He’s pulling you back, he’s wrestling your hands to jerk faster, he’s grabbing you by the throat- left hand clinging onto the sides of your neck and squeezing. 

Scorching hot breath wafts your face as Gojo’s staring dead-on into your own pupils, “Stay. K-keep going. Keep going.” Something at the back of his throat makes him choke. “M’so close- don’t you fucking stop.”

“Fuck, Toru-”

“So fucking—” Your skin heats up with clammy warmth following the feeling of his sleazy eyes sweeping all down your body. Your hands working over time. Your hips slightly bucking back. Your tits-

Which he’s tugging down to see with an index hooked to the front of your top.

And you catch the exact moment that he does - the exact moment that his long, ivory lashes flutter further open, mouth parting with slick drool, face flushing.

Because that very day, you’d just-so-happened to have worn a special set of blue underwear. The exact same color as his eyes.

And it’s enough to make Gojo cum. Instantly.

He couldn’t even have the rationality to be mortified at the pathetic suddenness of it, because all he could do was lock his heady gaze onto your bra-clad tits n’ cream all down your wrist. 

Hot and aching.

Throbbing.

“Mmm, Satoru.” Splurging out from the swollen end of his shaft - the same shade as a strawberry, and twice as plump. Now with buttery sap to match. Something about that makes your mouth water. “Cum f’me- cum more.”

He was fucking up through each peak of his high like he was dying to pump each n’ every drop into your pussy. 

“Fuh-fuck.” And it’s hot, almost like he was melting out into you. A slow line of sweat dripping down his temple at the utter bursts of pleasure behind his hazy peripherals. “Cumming—m’cumming so much for you, beautiful.” Hauling your body closer to his, he’s spraying such thick, ribbony volumes of cum that you almost couldn’t believe it.

Jaw unfastened at the rapidly-growing puddle of ivory sap on your skirt. He’s so sensitive that he’s flinching just from the sound of your voice, like his favorite song. “Do you always cum so much, Satoru?”

“N-no—” Gojo huffs, slightly squeaky with his unstable pitch. “Only for you. When it’s you, I…”

Trailing off, both of you look down in synchronization at the glaze of white cum that’d started to trail down your forearm. And before you can let out a single word, he has one hand tuggin’ on your wrist.

Guiding your trembling fingers to unglue from Gojo’s pulsing, reddened cock with a sluuurp! He’s promptly sucking on your glossy fingertips with a moan. 

“Mm, so good.” Heavy erection still bobbing with the zaps of his euphoria, he looks up at you through long lashes - in a way that makes you gulp. Something he’s surely feeling, if the way that those fingers tighten on your neck says anything. “S’sweeter when it’s by you.”

Oh.

You’re fucked. 

.

.

.

“Oiiiii—Satoru—!” Whenever Geto spoke in that tone, it couldn’t mean anything but trouble. He looks past the (multiple) groups of the usual onlookers, “Your cute lil’ girlfriend’s here~”

“Geto Suguru, you know my name.” You’re snarling from your close seat on the first row of court bleachers, realizing only too-late that you made a fatal mistake. “A-and I’d never be this one’s girlfri-”

“Ohhh, did you hear that?” Of course, the inky-haired man is ignoring every word that falls from your traitorous mouth. Nudging a disinterested Nanami, who pretends to read something on the ball. “Didn’t deny the girlfriend part. I think you owe me ten yen.”

You squawk, “You bet on us?”

“You bet only ten yen?” Gojo Satoru, equally as indignant, but for a completely different reason, waltzes off of the court as Coach Yaga approves his dribbling check and calls for the next. “Way to show your faith in me, bro.”

Geto grins, walking onto court, “Can you blame me?”

And you didn’t know what made you sigh more - the furious cheers and cat calls emanating from Gojo’s fans, who never failed to show up to a single practice, or the way he saunters right up to you.

Expensive sneakers squeaking on wood, carrying with him the scent of adrenaline and cherry bodywash. With such a devastating grin, he winks towards the audience - and you swear you see at least one in a replica of Gojo’s 06 jersey faint. 

“Y’know, I think our lessons are working, beautiful.” Snickering at your surprised gasp, “The aura of…experience, it’s working. Yaga told me I was on fire today, Sugu said I was glowing and asked me for my skincare routine. Hell, even Nanamin - Nanamin - didn’t recoil in disgust when he first saw me today, which, considering Nanamin, is the equivalent of getting a big kiss on the lips as hello.”

“I thought these were lessons just for your future reference?” You raise a brow in suspicion, one that makes him sweat. 

“S-semantics. Hey, something’s working, isn’t it?” He waves a lengthy hand - and you can’t help but get struck by flashbacks to just a few days ago. 

It’d only been about two weeks since your little deal - and you’d been taking it slow. Well, as slow as you could get when your first day was spent fisting his furiously needy cock. 

A few kissing lessons here, maybe another handjob there. And Gojo was lapping it all up the exact same way he would when he was in the middle of a game, focus laser-sharp - and constantly locked on you. Only you. 

“…Right.”

Your partner-in-stupidity opens his mouth- but just then Yaga barks—“Gojo Satoru. If you have enough time to flirt, throw some hoops before the Kyoto match.”

“Ay ay, captain.” With a slight roll of his eyes, he’s giving you one last glance over his shoulder. Mouthing—‘After. Practice.’ And your heart races as you manage to make out, ‘Locker.’

Throwing a wink just for you - and the basketball in his hands, right along with it. That dimple at the edge of his grin was dazzling, “This one’s for you, beautiful—!”

He shoots. 

And he misses. 

Geto misses too, too busy rolling on the floor cackling. 

.

.

.

“M-mmm.” Gojo’s hiccuping, tone coming out ragged. And then he’s gasping- like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or sob at the tight feeling of your mouth. “Take it-”

You whimper, strugglin’ with the thick, reddened end of his cock bulging all the way near the back of your throat. Oh-so-swollen that it was swabbing into every nook and cranny inside of your maw without even trying. 

Gojo was ruthless - he was mean. 

Fucking into your mouth like this was the first taste of the pearly gates he’d ever gotten, and he’s writhing with each of your hollowed-out sucks. 

Acting like he wasn’t damn-near spearing your mouth permanently open into a cute ‘oh!’ with his size. One hand clawing onto the crown of your sweaty scalp, the other letting go of his useless wet towel now.

You’d just barely seen all the members of your university’s basketball team filter out, before Gojo - freshly showered, already half-hard - had dragged you into their spacious locker room.

And it almost reminded him of that first night in the closet, back scraping against the metal of the locker. Pushing you in so close that he can almost feel the way your tastebuds flood with saliva, “Take it take it- t-take it-” 

Rutting. Grinding. 

Your nails claw red, red lines down the pale expanse of his thighs, each muscle getting newly-decorated by you. “M-mmpf, Satoru.” Nostrils flaring, you feel his plump mushroom tip slip deeper past your throat the moment you relax. 

“Fuck- fuck yeah, say my name.” He’s spitting through grit canines, “Say my name like that- s’better than any fanchant I’ve heard.”

Gojo always became so honest any time he was bending to your every whim like this.

And right now he couldn’t stop prattling away between each heavy groan, eyes rolling to the back of his head at the feeling of his weighty girth sagging on your tongue. “Bet they didn’t know you’d be on your knees like- ngh, this f’me, huh, beautiful?” He titters, giving you a thorough rut of his inches until you feel the globe of your friend’s tip scrape down your throat. “Fuh-fuuuuck.”

It was almost too much.

The scratch of your ridged taste buds, salivating down every sensitive ridge on his erection. The prettiness of your teary eyes peering up at him. 

“Bet they didn’t know that- ngh, that sharp mouth would be shut up like this, huh?” Bucking. Thrusting- the heat of your mouth was just so heavenly that he can’t stop chasing it.

Not stopping for a single second to let the clingy back end of your throat part from his cock. He sticks his pelvis up and probes deeply into a sinful lil’ spot at the back of your maw that you didn’t even think was possible. 

Something hitches in his breath, snowy brows furrowing once he feels the dripping slope of your pussy gyrate up his calf. “That you’d like it so much.”

Again and again. Gojo’s repeatedly pushin’ in until he could feel the soft back of your mouth form a bruise in the exact circumference of his girthy tip. “Think ya like it even more than me, beautiful.”

“E-easy there, tiger. Lesson number number five is to pace yourself.” You’re trying to smoothen your tone - unsuccessful, of course, when he’d just been hitting your voicebox hoarse. 

Sensually - slowly - he’s managing to regain a mere ounce of control in that sloppy cadence of his. Loooong, massaging drags that plunge the ruby-red crown of his girth, Gojo’s still making sure that your velvety tongue licks up every solid inch of him.

You plop your swollen lips specifically down on the flared line of his slit and suck. “And lesson number six is to just- hah- shut up and take it.”

“N-ngh, love when you’re mean to me.” He’s grinning, one hand snaking down to his meaty base. Soon enough, your pursed maw is being positively showered with a spray of his dewy precum. 

A glittery gloss gluing all down your chin, you make sure to stick your lips along the prominent lines of his veins and smear-smear-smeeeear. All down the extra-tender spots of his shaft that makes Gojo shoot his free hand out to grab your throat with a labored whine. 

“R-real fucking dangerous.” He’s spitting - literally, a wad of spit that aims straight onto your sizzling tongue and makes an even bigger mess. 

Squeezing your neck, feeling the large cylindrical bulge that was reaching for your lungs. 

He could feel himself move with each back n’ forth of his toned hips, tightening until that particularly bumpy outline was making him lose his mind. “You’re real fucking dangerous with this pretty throat n’ these- hngh- preeeetty lips.”

You’re mewling, tears welling up behind your eyes when Gojo’s using the restraint on your throat to pull you off of his cock ever-so-slightly. For a few sultry seconds, just to spew out a translucent polish of precum. “And this pretty- pretty gloss.” Milky beads decorate your lips, they’re dripping down the front of your chin and makes him flinch carnally. “H-heh, say it again, beautiful. Say it when you’re hck! like this?”

“Shut the fuck up, Satoru.” Muffled, through the press of his painfully hard cockhead sliding between your lips. Once. twice. 

Thrice. “Nghhh- just like that.” The star player’s head falls back against the lockers with an echoing thud! when you start bobbing your head even faster. Syrupy precum welling up inside your mouth as if someone had just opened up a fountain. “Makes me s-so fucking hard.”

“Tight-” You manage out, gasping for air. Past all the animalistic ruts, past the squeeze of his lengthy fingers on your throat. And you can’t help but motion your pussy down and up the muscles of his leg, leaving a glittering trail of slick everywhere you go. “So- ngh-”

“So- so fucking—” Shit, Gojo cracks open one of his dazed blue eyes and can’t even finish his sentence at the pure sight of you.

Your eyes dazed, jaw stupidly unhinged. the entire lower half of your face glistening with all his bittersweet sap. Taking and taking each of his visceral ruts - you were absolutely ruined.

And he doesn’t think you’ve ever looked more beautiful.

So much so that Gojo’s body moves before his mind, barely even stopping to think before unplugging his cock from the back of your throat with a filthy squelch–! Manhandling you into a standing position with only one arm, he has your back shoved against the lockers with the other.

“S-Satoru, what are you-”

Flipping up your skirt- plump, pinkish cocktip kissin’ the wet slope of your pussy. It’s the only thing Gojo needs to be creaming himself near-dry.

To plaster your jittery thighs together with the silky, white syrup of his cum, soaking your flimsy panties. Gojo’s sweaty bangs tickle the inside of your throat when he plops his face down on your shoulder and groans, “Fuck. F-fuck fuck fuck-”

And he isn’t just reaching his high- he’s trying to fuck you through it.

Trying to drill his aching hot cock between your legs, the fatness of his length keeps on pushing against your clothed cunt needily. “Y-y’know, I’m reeeally good with my hands, beautiful?”

“Y-you are–?” Your breath hitches, limbs starting to quiver weakly. Your entire spine zaps with eager pleasure as he’s lazily sliiiding aside your panties. “S’that lesson number seven?”

“Seven- eight- sixty-nine, heh, whatever.” Chuckling into your skin, you swear he’s tugging astray your panties and cumming once more just at the sight of your pretty, sopping panties. 

Hips surgin’ forwards automatically to smear a line of seed between your plump folds, Gojo’s mouth drops. “Oh.” His forearm comes banging down on the locker beside your head to cage you in, “My first time c-cummin’ on a girl.”

His entire body’s wracking with shivers once he’s guiding up stripes of his meaty mushroom tip along your pussy. Uuuuup and down, stray hand pryin’ your sloppy folds apart to paint your cunt a syrupy white from the inside itself-

Slimy fingerpads pushing you all open to dollop out generous helpings of his cum - fuck, honestly he doesn’t know what feels better. Those electric bursts of his orgasm, or the feeling of your fluttering wet cunt as you take it. “And she’s so preeeetty.” 

“Pretty–?”

It’s a fucking battle for Gojo to rip his half-lidded eyes away from your naked pussy, but when he does it’s to kiss your temple sweetly. “You’re pretty too, my girl- beautiful.”

Something in that gentle tremble of his voice makes your hands grip for purchase on the holed surface of the locker. 

And you can only whisper, “Sh-shut up, Satoru.”

“Shit-” Nearly forgetting that the rotund, throbbing end of his shaft was still aligned with your cunt. Just one move and he’d be throwing away just about all his first times. You’d be all out of lessons. 

Somewhere along the slight pang of disappointment at the thought, you feel his overstimulated length twitch—

Catching Gojo staring wildly at that one particular hand of his - the one that was stuffed between your messy legs and spreading your pussy so that he could splurge out his splotchy cum to the maximum.

“Oh.” Realization hits you like a truck. “N-no, Satoru, don’t-”

Before he sucks on his stained, white-topped fingertips like candy— moaning, the blur of his irises roll all the way back to the depths of his skull. “Yeah–” He’s noisily lapping up each ounce of your slick n’ his cum, like the utmost delicacy. “Yeah, m’learning a loooot from these lessons of yours, beautiful.”

“You’re filthy.” You sputter.

“You made me this way~” He leans in close for a kiss, and you can’t admit to yourself that you’d gotten slightly addicted to the taste of his mouth. The plush, cherry-tinged flavor of his lips, glossed with your filthy concoction from before. “Ya like the taste?”

You scoff instead of an answer, “Go shower.”

Pulling back with a mwah–! of lips-on-lips, he reaches for the puddle of his towel on the floor. “Wanna join?”

“In your dreams.”

“You have noooo idea.”

“Shush- before I end your lessons.”

Gojo laughs, loud and beaming. And you can’t help but smile to yourself, something bittersweet, making a hasty escape from the locker room before you stretched your luck too far. 

If only you’d taken your time.

Because then you might have seen a lone, towering figure standing by the wall leading to the doorway. Hidden by the sharp corner, and his lengthy raven hair. 

He watches as you waddle guilty away - as if leaving a crime scene - and Geto Suguru frowns. 

.

.

.

“Alright- it’s time to lock it in.” Yaga’s gruff voice bellows through every corner of the locker room, “Play your game, play fair, prove you belong. This is D1 basketball and I expect each one of you to play like it. Show those Kyoto fuckers who we really are.”

As deep cheers rattle the atmosphere, Gojo finds his hands almost too shaky to knot his laces - too full of adrenaline, full of pride.

Full of the thought that maybe you might be here in the stands, watching. Maybe.

Beside him on the bench, Geto silently tightens his own sneakers. And Gojo can’t help but crack a smirk, “Why so quiet today, Suguru? Don’t tell me you’re nervous about fucking Kyoto.”

“No, not at all.” He responds simply. 

And ‘simply’ would never be quite good enough for Gojo Satoru. Which is why he’s furrowing his twinkling eyes at the other man, “‘Nooo, not at all?’ Appropriate spaces for commas and all? Who are you- Nanamin?”

“Right.”

Gojo frowns, “You’re off today.”

“Are you sure that you’re not the one off?” Geto states, tense. Until he was registering what’d just slipped out of his mouth, immediately shooting into an upright stand. 

“What do you-”

“Forget about it-”

“No.” But he can barely take a single step before the taller man’s honed reflexes make a swipe at Geto’s elbow. Stopping his teammate in his tracks, Gojo’s voice dips low in that serious, tight way it usually never did. “What do you mean.”

A statement, not a question.

And his best friend can barely stand to look at him, head tilted slightly to the side, as if giving into the concerned looks thrown their way. “I told you not to play with her heart.”

Seething, “What?”

“Satoru, when I said I’d support your feelings for her, it wasn’t to make a fucking fool out of yourself.” Shrugging off the hand, which gives way easily. “So many years, and this is how you make a move? She’s my friend first- and you’re treating her like some fucking game.”

“She-” He gasps, face burning. “She’s just teaching me lessons in-”

But Geto always was the quicker of the two - and the more stern. “How long did you expect this to go on, huh? When you’re all done with your ‘lessons’, then what?” 

“I…I didn’t think-”

“Didn’t think that she might actually enjoy that nice restaurant downtown you’ve kept the pamphlet to since meeting her? Didn’t think that she might want to know that you’ve always kept extras of your jersey for her, her favorite flowers, her favorite movie, just in case?” Geto’s fists clench, “Didn’t think that it’s fucking stupid that you two aren’t together, yet? You deserve to be happy- but she does, too.”

Silence. Deafening, deafening silence. 

“What are you doing, man?”

“It’s sex-”

“Stop fooling yourself.”

As he watches Geto’s disappearing back, Gojo wasn’t sure whether he wanted you watching him anymore. 

But it still stung, just a little, when you weren’t.

Kyoto won that day. And Gojo Satoru has never faced a more devastating loss. 

.

.

.

“-my hometown friend, don’t you dare flirt with her, Satoru–”

What was Geto saying again? 

Ah, does it even matter? Gojo Satoru, freshly-titled ‘campus boyfriend’ after only a few hours on said campus, hadn’t heard a single word out of his high school best friend’s mouth after your name.

After you’d batted your lashes cutely and smiled his way–

Oh– blah, blah blah— He’s letting out an audible sigh as you begin speaking something or the other about your major, the usual for orientation day. Proper name, proper place, backstory stuff-

“-toru- Satoru–!” It’s only with a hearty smack on his shoulder that Geto manages to snap Gojo out of his daze, still staring at you from afar where you’d decided to talk to Shoko. And the black-haired man shifts his weary eyes between you n’ his other friend. “Oh no-”

“Suguru, I think I just found my wife-”

“Hell no.” Dramatically, he shakes the other’s shoulders as if desperately trying to jolt some sense into that basketball-addled mind of his. “Satoru, you’ve gotten about fifteen different phone numbers-”

Geto pauses as another fresh-faced student flounces up to the duo and gives them both two slips of paper with a number scrawled on, one that Geto’s immediately tearing up.

“-sixteen just today itself.” His dark brows furrow, as much as he loved his best friend, he knew the mind-numbing popularity that came with him, too. The reputation. “I don’t care if you’re a virgin who’s never held hands-” Ignoring Gojo’s protesting ‘hey!’ “-if you think I’m about to let you play any games with her heart then-”

“I wouldn’t even imagine it, Suguru. Really.” Leaning back in his chair, Gojo’s azure eyes stray to you - as they’ve always seemed to do since then. Second nature. And only a second before tearing them away, undeserving to have you notice. “There’s just…something.”

There’s a tone there that Geto couldn’t place.

Something tender. Something that makes his eyes light up like they did when he was about to nail a slam dunk.

“Something about her that makes me feel like I can win all the championships in the world.”

.

.

.

“O-oh my god, mm—” Your mouth hangs lewdly open, thighs trembling where they were thrown over the far end of your bed. 

Gojo had himself nose-deep in your syrupy wet pussy and it still wasn’t enough for him- he was still clawing both hands onto your thighs and forcefully dragging you halfway down the silken sheets. “What has- hah! what has gotten into you, Satoru-”

For perhaps the first time in his life, he doesn’t have an answer.

Can’t even think of one.

Not when the long, slimy edge of Gojo’s tongue was dipping past your drenched panties and pushing them juuuust barely to the side. Darkening that pale blue shade with the wetness of his maw, he’s plastering his taste buds to the slope of your pussy and watching you squirm.

And it’d started right after you’d arrived home, wondering whether it was too late to text him about the match - only to find the man of your thoughts himself sat outside your front door.

Waiting for you.

Towering, he’d thumped his head down on your shoulder in silence. 

That is, until you two had made your way inside-

“I-is this about not coming to your- ngh! game?” You’re wailing out a broken whimper, twitchy hands weaving between his ivory locks to try and steal a glimpse of his face. “Because Gakuganji held me back for a club thing and I’m sorry- fuck!”

Without a single warning, without even a speck of hesitation, your friend’s shovelling the inches of his tongue past your elastic entrance until that tight rim resists.

Until he’s keening into your puffy core at the tightness, until he’s usin’ a thumb to spread-spread-spreeeead your glittery pussylips apart even further. “Taught me- taught me lessons, didn’tcha, beautiful?”

Murmuring into your cunt, each syllable is ended off with a heavy lashing of his silver tongue. 

Spat straight into your quivering hole, Gojo’s licking away primally. Each raw scratch of his wet muscle trying to push past your hole, trying to fuck you the way he’s been aching to for years. “Taught me ta kiss those pretty lips- now you’re teaching me a whole hah- other type of kissing.”

“N-ngh, oh my god- Satoru.” He was just filthy. Both his babbling, pussydrunk words and his motions.

It’s like he didn’t know where to stick his tongue to like adhesive - wanting anything and everything, all at once.

From the throbbing nub of your clit, to the weepy orifice of your cunt. Though, he was making sure to lap up every ounce of slick glistening out of you, like the sweetest honey.

You’re whimpering, begging for fucking mercy from the wide, glissading edge of his tongue. You grip the soft tufts of his hair and try to lift him slightly off for dear life. “Fuck- Lesson number eight is to s-slow down–!”

“Then m’gonna hafta fail.” He’s rasping out, starved. 

Barely even breathing, whatever words escaping Gojo depart only reluctantly. Between each pant he’s forced to take by his screaming lungs, he’s unfastening his slobbery maw even wider to suck on your clit. 

Thighs closing sensitively ‘round his clammy head- “You’re being sooo—” You think that might just deter him, but he’s only climbing further up from his position at the foot of the bed, on the ground. 

Chasing your pussy no matter how much you were bucking. Feral. 

“Mmm, think I like it better when you hngh- shut me up like this.” He’s blubbering through a greedy mouthful of your cunt, slick-glossed mouth pinching your clit. 

You’re damn-near yelping as his plush, puckered lips start rollin’ side to side just to tease that nub like bubblegum. Your own thighs ache with the flesh-ridden press of his big, beefy biceps curling ‘round your thighs to push them even closer. “Can you even ngh- breathe?”

“Suffocate me.”

And he sounded dead-serious.

Throwing your trembling legs over two muscular shoulders, Gojo’s leering his handsome face impossibly closer.

Right up until the straight button of his nose bridge presses against your clit, and the front of his face smeeeears with a pathway of your pussy’s sweet, sweet juices. 

“Don’t care.” Spitting, a great glittery glob that sticks just to the side of your outer pussy and makes it so much wetter for him to start dipping his wide tongue inside. “Don’t care don’t care don’t care- I don’t need air, I just need- hah! You.”

Lavishing your snug hole with so much attention, you can’t help but clench ‘round his grazing taste buds. Letting your entrance be tugged n’ snagged according to Gojo’s every whim.

Back and forth, back and forth.

Letting him spit on your pussy once more-

“And her.” Slimy, wet muscle flopped right now, he was running through each line he’d read online about this like a gameplay. Zig-zagging from your clit n’ back to jackhammer into your hole, “We’d made such a loooovely couple, wouldn’t we, beautiful?”

And you don’t even know who he’s talking to you - you or your poor, battered pussy.

But before you can ask, Gojo’s patience snaps with a rut-

“Fuck, your walls-” Just as soon as you’re clamping your thighs surrounding his head. He’s whining, he’s shoving his face in deeper like the prolonged length of his tongue could scour your channel even more. 

Like that particular muscle could maze in a slithering up n’ down- Gojo’s sharp jawline strikes the base of your cunt and he groans in disappointment. Unable to dive in even deeper.

Feral. Thirsting, He’s nose-deep and still filling up your every orifice with his textured tongue for more, letting each ravenous taste bud stir about your sweet innards. “Your walls want me so ngh- badly. Wants ta suck me up so badly- look.”

“What do you- oh!” You flinch at the sudden warmth of another puddle of saliva striking your pussy dead-on, smearing about.

Gojo’s eyes were widened, mouth unfastened as far as it would go. “How the fuck doesn’t anyone get addicted?” Genuinely serious. Genuinely asking. 

“Y-you’re too much-”

“Oh, you want more?” Wait…what? You’re momentarily speechless at how his melty mind had just understood your sentence. Mouth thrashing about on overdrive, grin sleazy. “Heh, I’ve always wanted to do this.”

And then you’re snapping your head down in a split-second, just in time to see two of Gojo’s lengthy, roughened fingers tease the crevice of your slit.

All lightly calloused by basketball, he’s sloooowly circling your puckered hole. “Cute, s’like she wants ta- ngh- kiss me.” He’s giggling, prying apart your folds to ease his way in with a raw, noisy sluuuurp–! “Hope she doesn’t mind how looong they are- or do. My lesson number one is that you’re going to take it all.”

Bucking into his touch, and that makes him copy you - crushing the thick, bulging outline of his erection against the bottom of your bedframe. 

So hard that the mahogany panels creak– jostling you, right alongside the bed. “Fuck-” He hisses, looking down. “Look how you’ve got me - like a fucking animal.”

“You’re so filthy…” 

“S’all your fault.”

You’re sobbing now, legs twitching cutely on top of Gojo’s deltoid after every time his knobbled fingerpads scraped a spot that was particularly sensitive.

His size- oh, you should’ve expected a size to match a basketballer’s hands - because they’re plugging every nook n’ cranny without even trying. Scissoring your gooey walls far apart to claim each hidden area of yours, “All- all your fault.” 

Almost whimpering because it’s just that tight. He’s swervin’ rapidly and surely. “You made me like this-” But he wasn’t done- he was leaning over to spit a web of spit once more, dampening your soft cunt just enough to bully in a third finger. “Made me so stupid.”

Barreling straight into your g-spot. 

“Foooound it…”

“Oh- oh my god–” You’re losing your mind at this point, hips thrashing about. The blankets stick to you like they’re made of adhesive as you’re arching into the perfect curvature-

“Stay down.” Gojo barks - a stern edge to his voice. And before you can make a single move, he has one bicep pinning down your hips, maw opened to suck on your clit so you stay down.

Left too weak to do anything but cry out at the feeling of his tastebuds rolling over n’ over on your nub. Sensitive. Overstimulated. 

You’re gasping at the heated sparks of white that burst behind your lids, “Toru- I th-think m’close- don’t think m’gonna last- hck!”

“Told you I was good with my hands—” He slurs out, ruined on your pussy. "That's lesson number hck! three- maybe two? Ah, I dunno…”

Pump after pump, Gojo curls his digits so they bruise right into the spot locating your bundle of nerves. Feelin’ your soft walls clamp down sappily, “Only thing I do know is that I want you- hah-” Pulling back, he teeths your clit with a sinful squelch. “-oh, I wan’ you cumming on my mouth.” Fingering you so hard that the mountains of his knuckles were reddening with impact. “And I want you screamin’ my name every second of it.”

“Oh please-” The roughness of his fingertips are starting to plunge even deeper, as if Gojo was ready to probe into your womb right then and there. “Satoru-”

“Call me ‘Toru’, beautiful-”

“Toru-”

“Louder.”

Harder. 

It was so hard to speak with tiny sobs catching in your throat, with your body being run ragged by him. Lips wobbling with each long push of his digits- “Toru.”

“How about- ‘my Toru’?”

“My- my Toru—!” You’re squealing; the exact same moment that your pitched voice cracks, your sanity does, too. 

And in mere sultry nanoseconds, you’re shattering into white-hot explosions of bliss. Your orgasm sweeping your entire body with goosebumps, you can only scratch carnally at Gojo’s crowned scalp. 

Your fingers maneuvering his head up and down in sloppy gyrations, it’s as if you were riding his pretty features through each peak of euphoria. “M’cumming- oh-” Your high hitting you so hard that tears pinprick at your pupils, and Gojo was only happy to make them overspill. To dangle his hefty tongue out so that he can lap up your cunt with every drag. “Can’t believe you- oh. Are you sure this is your first time, Toru?”

He finches at the nickname, “Fuck yeah, sweet thing.”

Brushing his tastebuds up and down- probing against your clit. 

He was still ravenous.

Even when you’re blinking back your vision, though, you still couldn’t see with the way that Gojo’s velvety mouth made your pupils criss-cross constantly. 

Toes curling, limbs shaking with sensitivity. 

It was getting to the point that your mind was slowly going blank, spittle falling from your mouth. “I-I’m hngh- m’high’s over-” Still sparking somewhere at the back of your throat, even though you push and push at Gojo’s forehead, he’s only digging deeper. “Oh my god, Satoru-”

He blubbers, “M’fucking starved, beautiful. Been wanting this for sooo long.”

“Then shut up and fuck me.”

Oh.

Oh, that did it.

Because Gojo lurches his head up as if he’d just been zapped with electricity; eyes snapped open, strings of slick still connecting his lips to your swollen ones. 

“F-fuck you…?” He grunts- buying more time, those buried fingers of his pull out from your walls with a slurp. Finding their usual pathway between his greedy lips, he catches your look. “What? Haven’t I ever told you that you make me so–”

Thoroughly cleansed by now, Gojo smacks his lips with satisfaction. 

“-greedy?”

The dark glint in Gojo’s eyes makes you squirm your body slightly backwards- all the way up until you hit the headboard with a gasp. And he only looms closer. Only prowls up to you like he was closing in on the most appetizing prey.

And now that he’d gotten one taste of you, of course he’d be craving more. 

Like you were the sweetest of desserts, he’s gliding his tongue allll down those slick-glossed lips of his. Your juices worn halfway down his face - smearing up to his cheekbones - with utter pride. “And I think m’ready for another lesson now.”

You take one look at him - pupils glassy, face glistening, ears flushed - and immediately dart your hands down to Gojo’s belt buckle. 

Meanwhile he’s shedding himself free of his t-shirt, whatever’s left of your bra, hooking over your panties—

RIIIIIP—!

“Th-those were expensive.”

“I’ll buy you fucking ten more.” Pointedly, Gojo stuffs the ruined fabric into the back pocket of his trousers before disposing of them somewhere by the side of your bed. “Then tear those off, too, next time.”

Next time.

“Excited ‘bout a ‘next time’?” Oh- fuck, you’d just babbled that out loud.

He couldn’t have looked more smug if he tried, pointed canines flashing in a smirk. His thick thumb dips into the hemline of his boxers, pulling them down in a flash.

And Gojo was hard - so fucking rock-hard that his upright erection smacks the front of his abs with a thwack! 

Long. Perfectly thick. Always just so pretty. Bedazzled by a few veins down his pinkish shaft, Gojo’s sensitive cock twitches as he’s panting. Ruby-red tip painting a horizontal line of precum, you’re mentally calculating the measurement and wondering just how deep he’d be inside of you. 

Swatting away your sheeny thighs, that’d just started to close. “Ah ah- where’d you think you’re taking her?” Before his glossy, sleek jaw unhinges ever-so-slightly in wait. 

“You want me to-”

“I’ve spit on her so many times.” Gojo muses, quirking one snowy brow. Holding you by the throat, he pushes his face into your personal proximity, “Think s’time for you to return the favor.”

Whimpering, restless, it was just so cute to him how you’re pressing your lips together shyly. 

Whacking a bead of slobber precisely onto the target of his tongue- and Gojo barely even gives you the time to register your little ministration before surging his entire body and kissing you. Open-mouthed, heated.

At the exact same time that his globed, weeping cock pushes straight past your swollen folds. 

But it wasn’t so easy- “F-fuck.” Gojo shutters his eyes, expression looking like he was just in prayer. Hiccuping, rutting- back and forth in rapid half-thrusts as if he couldn’t bring himself to pull out of your pussy any further. “What the fuck…what-”

“S-Satoru, are you okay?”

“No.” SMACK! He’s trying to strike his pelvis against your own so hard that your thighs are jostled. Fat cock stuck by the resistance of your cute, cute cunt. “No no no- s’just…I lost my virginity to you.” 

You’re speechless as he looks up at you with a giggle. 

Repeating, “I just lost my virginity to you and it’s too- good.”

“And you’re t-too big—” You claw all down his pale back, feeling every muscle flex underneath your touch. 

“Remember my first lesson?” Head tilted, the smile on Gojo’s face was oh-so-tender - even though his mushroom tip was furiously pumping in and out of you like anything but. “You’re going to- take it- all.”

Fuck, but he didn’t know who he was torturing more. 

Because your cunt gives way to swallow up one more of his solid, rovering inches - just past the slick line of his slit - and Gojo hunches over. He heaves. His vision blurs with tears- “Ohhh my god, I c-can’t.” Voice octaves higher, breaking. He’d just started to put it in and he was crying.

Shit, he’d learned nothing. 

With a hand pushing your left thigh open, Gojo’s trying to pull his ravaged cock out. Just too good for him to handle. Maybe he’ll keep some part of his sanity intact if he fucks you with just the tip-

But in that instant, your clingy insides are squeezing around him so tight and he’s thrusting.

Out-of-control. 

Fighting against the stretch, you’re clawing for the headboard above your scalp- “Oh my god- I don’t know if I can- fuck! It’s just so big.” Nine - nearly ten - inches throbbing at the mere sound of your voice. 

“Lesson number one lesson number one- oh, lesson number one-” Echoing like a broken record-player, he’s ruthlessly haaaauling you back with a hand latched onto your hip.

Soft grunts wafting your features like a furnace, “Breathe” Gojo begs into your ajar mouth, pinning you with the prominent muscles of his v-line. “Breathe- one- two-” With each stroke. “Breathe with me-”

Those exact same exercises that he’s taught himself over and over again during the toughest of training regiments. “Feel it in your s-stomach.” You’re nearly screaming as one of his over-large palms come pressing down on your stomach, making you feel like he’s spearing his plump tip all the way into your lungs. “Then let it allll out through your lungs- breathe w’me, one, two.”

One-two. In and out. One-two. In and out. 

Mewling, “One- t-two.” Mindless hips swervin’ back and forth to meet his desperate drilling and it makes him gasp.

“Breathe- breathe. Lesson one, you hafta take this-” Scrambling for your hips, for your throat. “Even just the tip. Just an inch.” Using the leverage to pull you down, “I’m begging here.”

“T-Toruuu–”

And it’s with a final, resounding spank of skin-on-skin that he’s managing to bottom out.

The hot, pulsating feeling of his sheathed cunt barely even registering in your mind before Gojo’s letting off a wet sob. It just felt too good. “You passed with f-flying colors, my beautiful.”

And now that he’d gotten started, he couldn’t stop.

Gojo was pounding you into your cheap bedsprings like a madman, like it was painful for his swollen, vein-covered cock to go even a second without dragging down your walls. Designing your slick insides with the patterns of his veins, “How are you reachin’ a-alll those spots, Toru?”

“Alllll those spots, huh?” Mockingly, he ends up pushing down on your tummy just like before. 

Except this time, Gojo takes the lecherous time to feel the dull thud! of his split-ended tip poking into your cervix. This time, he can follow each single inch you’re clenching ‘round—“Wh-what is…”

Pushing down harder. “Is that my-” Thrusting even harder. 

Gojo’s size is just so staggering that he’s feeling the exact bumpy outline of his mazing shaft. The way he was spreadin’ apart your walls with his circumference - it just renders his mouth watering.

Gracing you with a dopey grin, one that had drool spilling from one side of his rosy lips. Moaning, “Oh, just when I thought you couldn’t be more perfect.”

Sweet-talker. You whine, just so you won’t pay too much attention to the way your heart races, “Shut up, Toru.”

“Yeahhh- say that again.” Bulky base just drenching with your sweet slick the harder he’s thrusting in, you can feel his rock-hard tip twitch after your words. “S’like you’re made f’me.”

“Shut up, Toru-”

Palm massaging down on the tummy bulge he was fucking into you, he could feel each flinch of his oversensitive cock. “See? See? The way this pretty pussy takes ngh- all of me. The way you make me react-” Pumpin’ a thorough push against your slick-filled sweet spots. “The way you make me s-sooo fucking hard. Ohhh, we fucking fit like a- a…”

Poor chatterbox Gojo Satoru is just so pussydrunk by now that he can’t even go on.

He can’t even speak. Can’t even breathe— entire fuzzy brain honed in on spearheading your walls with his flared cockhead like a flashlight. 

Hips gyrating into the exact angle that it takes for him to strike your needy, waiting g-spot. Hard. 

“There-” Your heart-shaped peripherals sprint to the back of your head, back jerking off of the mattress. “Right- ngh- there–!”

And, usually, Gojo would’ve taken this as the perfect opportunity to brag about how it was ‘so easy’ for him to find the almost-mythical g-spot. Usually, he’d have been snickering outright at the cutely awed expression on your face.

Usually.

But the only thing he was fucking capable of doing right now was marvel at both you and your pussy. Gaze darting up and down so fast it was almost like a blur. 

“Cat- hah, pussy got your tongue, Toru?”

“Sh-shut up…”

“You shut up.”

Shit, that makes him nearly cum. Right then and there.

And to cover up this little weakness, Gojo spanks your overstuffed pussy instead. Open-palmed, with the doughy tips of his digits striking accurately on your clit. 

“Y-you little- ngh.”

“What was that–?” Oh, it was like he’d just stumbled across an epiphany. And before you know it, he plants down three more rude smacks on the slope of your cunt; exactly in sensual unison with the thrashes of his cock. “Why don’tcha write my name on your clit, beautiful? Unless…” 

SMACK–!

You get the message fast enough, even despite your thoughtless mind. 

Your twitchy dominant hand slithers between your thighs, thumbing down your perky clit just in that way you liked. “T-Toru–” Trying for all your might to spell a ‘T’, “Oh- wait, Satoru.”

Then an ‘S.’

But you couldn’t do it just how his big fingers had managed to do, and the only thing you’re getting out is a sultry figure-eight. One that renders your throat dry, “Satoru- oh.” An ‘A’ that looks more like a silly lil’ ‘V’, “I can’t ngh- don’t think I can- fuck.”

And Gojo notices your little struggle - of course, he’s noticing. 

It’s the sweetest little entertainment for him, of course, watchin’ you get fucked too dumb to spell out his own name on your clit. Your lips wobbling when he finally smacks your hands away-

“Honestly- aren’t you supposed to t-teach me?” Groaning at the squelching noise of your growing even more aroused. “Watch and learn, my girl- fuck. My beautiful.”

But it’s not like he was any better, thank fuck you were too gone at this point to realize. Just as much as he was. 

It takes Gojo a few slips n’ slides to latch his plush thumb down on the nub of your clit, “F-first there’s a ‘T’- I mean, an ‘S.’” The dual stimulation of his shaft stretchin’ out your tiniest ridges inside, of his fingerpads writing on your clit, was simply incredible. “Then an ‘A’...‘T’...”

Even through the lust-fogged haze in your mind, you could distinctly make out the messy scribbles of Gojo’s fingerpads. 

S-A-T-O-R-U

Repeated. Over and over until it was like that pattern was burned onto your clit, joints working manually faster. Faster. 

S-A-T-O-R-U

S-A-T-O-R-U

S-A-T-O-R-U

And it’s so much that you don’t even realize you’re shrilling out his name with each movement- “Satoru-” Thighs kicking in pleasure, he’s quickly throwing them over his shoulder and folding you in half. Bending you into a mating press. “Satoru- Satoru Satoru—”

You feel a slimy, wet tendril gleam down your cheek, “Why’re you crying?” Gojo’s licking up salty tears you didn’t even realize you were setting free. “S’not because of my hck! biiiig fuckin’ cock, is it?”

In this mating press, your friend(?) had the freedom to plaster his washboard abs down your front. To scratch your pelvis with his pale white happy trail.

“S’not because I’ve wanted to do this for- for aaages, is it?” Nuzzling the crook of your neck, Gojo gives you a slam so hard that you’re being driven further up the bed.

Only for him to pull you back down. To do it over again.

And over and over and over again until the spongy layer of your cervix had memorized the size of his cervix. Stretching open your cozy lil’ walls, he pricks his strawberry divot firmly against the base of your womb like he was meant to be there. “Not because I’ve always wanted to- to break myself on this pretty pussy-”

Roughly, the wooden frame of your headboard rattles-

“O-oh-” Gojo slams his hand down on the banging headboard, remembering something from the earlier lessons about a landlord. 

Only for the mahogany panel to shatter, for your creaky bed to sag on one side– your eyes widen. Gojo Satoru had just broken the bed but he was still going.

He was still claiming your cunt with each sultry jackhammer, still babbling pussydrunkenly. “S’not because you’re haaaah- close, is it?”

“I am–” You don’t have half the mind to be shocked that he could feel your oncoming high before you. Walls clamping down with each vibration of electric euphoria, “M’gonna cum, Satoru. Lesson number nine is to make- me- cum-”

“You’re gonna cum.” More statement than question. “Really, really gonna cum? Because of ngh- me?” 

You can only nod.

And Gojo’s voice is small, cracking. “She’s gonna- fuck! gonna on my cock?” Furiously nodding, “My cock? Because of- oh- me? Fuck–!”

You’re barely even getting out an affirmation for those last few rapidfire questions of this before Gojo’s tense, driving cock explodes. All into thick, gushing ropes of cum that slather your walls.

And if you thought he’d cum in massive volumes before, then you weren’t ready to be faced with how eager he was to fill up your pussy.

Your geysering slick was nothing in comparison to the way Gojo was buttering up your slitted entrance, cobwebbing your tight hole shut with his sticky cum. Again. And again and again he was pumping each drop into you. 

“L-lesson number two-” But it was not like he would let you get off the hook that easy. And the flesh of your inner thighs sting when Gojo only speeds up, accelerating his shaft to target your g-spot in a way that makes you keen. “-n-never cum after me. Only before-” 

Two roughened crowns of his fingers tweak your clit– a final, ‘Y’ And you’re wondering what the hell that stands for.

Y-O-U-R-S

Gojo flushes as he finishes off the singular word, like he almost couldn’t believe it himself. Before pinching on your clit—“Sh-shit- shit shit shit, m’cumming, Toru.” 

Right now, watching your cunt quiver n’ cum around his cock was better than anything he could’ve ever dreamed of. 

Because your mouth was possessive, crashing into his and whining his name with each twinge of your high. Your pretty eyes were practically mosaics of tears at this point, ones he could stare into for eons. 

And he does - straight into your irises when Gojo’s filling you up from the inside out. “I know-” Feeling his own seed slosh out of him and drip straight down to your womb. “Take it- take it, all inside like it- hah- should be. Like it was always meant to be.”

“Inside-” Gasping at the press of his tensed core, pushing down on your stomach. Right where he was spearing straight through you, “A-all inside, Toru.”

It was one of the best orgasms of your life, and, strangely enough, all of them seemed to have been pulled out by Gojo.

Who was filling you up until you were overspilling, like some fountain. 

Now purposefully slapping the veiny length of his shaft against the roof of your cunt, pounding you through each volt of pleasure until you’re seeing stars.

Until your thighs are left shaking stupidly, your mouth gaped, brain so filled with the static of your stomach being in knots that you don’t even register the damp splat-splat-spat–! splashing onto your shoulder.

Something…wet. 

At least, not for a few seconds until your eyesight can adjust. You’re blinking back your vision to look up and see that Gojo Satoru was crying.

Pretty cheeks ruddied, eyes glistening with even more unshed tears. And you wonder just how long he’d been holding them back.

His perspired head drops down to your shoulder like it had hours prior in front of your door, and you can make out the unsteady gasps of his words. “You- you took my virginity but…” Something raw. Something honest. “I-I just…”

He bites back his words until you’re forced to pull him away from the crook of your neck. Pushing back sweaty, ivory bangs until Gojo can look at you properly. 

Look you right in the eye when he utters—“I’ve always wanted to be yours, too.”

Your heart leaps to your throat, and so do those words that have always, always been on the tip of your tongue. “You already are, Toru.”

Something escapes from his lips - maybe a sob, maybe a laugh. But it’s a sound that makes you beam back, though, you think you’d never be able to match the sunlight in Gojo’s smile. Instead, you take the time to memorize the crinkle of his eyes, the wink of that lil’ dimple of his. 

“My lesson number three is I love you, my girl.” ‘My girl’, he can finally say it now. 

He can finally watch your slightly surprised reaction as you hear it, kiss-bitten lips twitching upwards into a grin. “My lesson number ten is I love you, too.” 

Heart shaking, body fully shivering at the music of those words dropping from your lips. “You- you don’t know how fucking long I’ve waited to hear those words.” He nuzzles his nose against yours, still smelling of that same cherry bodywash and utter fuckin’ love. “How fucking long I’d wait just to hear it again.”

“I have a feeling you won’t have to wait long at all, Toru.” You’re combing your fingers through his angelic hair, head turning to the side with a giggle once he starts pecking your face. Your jaw. Your neck. Over and over and over– 

Only for the moment to be broken when you gasp, “Satoru.” Gojo follows your beeline of sight, straight to the top of your bedside dresser. Right where it was proudly displaying a familiar black and gold box, one with a glaring ‘XL’. “We forgot about lesson number one.”

.

.

.

You think you’d never get used to wearing Gojo’s famous 06 jersey. 

An original, of course - one that’d been safely tucked away in the back of his closet, that he absolutely refused to tell you how long he’d kept ‘just in case’ for you. 

It drew stares, though, you think part of that came from being at the very front row to the final NCAA championship game. Your eyes follow each slide of pristine sneakers, each cut-throat pass, each swat of the basketball hitting the polished court. 

Tokyo vs. Curses; it was a tie. 

And right now, you didn’t care about the gaggles of numerous fans gossiping behind your back, or the way Coach Yaga kept yelling at Gojo about showing off for you - and the fact that he was telling your boyfriend to do more of it.

To leave no mercy once Geto’s passing to him, to sprint faster with only two seconds left on the clock, to slam dunk the basketball straight through the hoop—

And that’s exactly what he does. 

A buzzer rings, and suddenly you can’t even see Gojo’s figure through the heaps of confetti bursting from the arena. In blue and white for Tokyo Jujutsu University.

Tentatively, as you’re spotting family and coaches rush onto the court, you’re taking a step. Just a single one - but Gojo always did say he could find you amongst a thousand crowds. 

Heart leading him to you. 

As the confetti and streamers phase just a little, you spot him rip out of his team hug with a call of your name. Being dragged back as MVP, Geto pauses to dap his best friend up - before thumping him on the back and letting him tear through the throng of people to get to you. 

“Excuse me- excuse-” Maneuvering nimbly with his towering figure, “Beautiful–!” He’s calling out, loud enough to turn heads. But Gojo doesn’t care, he doesn’t give a fuck. Not when he’s crashing into your arms, and murmuring into your lips. Such a loving kiss. “Beautiful.”

His grin was contagious, and somewhere in the distance you can hear his team jeer. Hell, even Yaga seems to chuckle from somewhere. “Congratulations on the slam dunk, Toru.”

“It was always for you, my girl.”

A/N. FAWK- the things I would do to have him. Can you tell I’m ovulating because I made him whimper?

Plagiarism not authorized.

[soobiary]

MDNI, f!reader, smut between a sentient robot and a human, satoru is still a cocky bastard (i love him), he is very curious, he has a metal cock and knows how to use it, slight breeding kink. | wc: 1.2k | dividers made by me <3

robot satoru . . . he is a machine built in the image of a man — a painfully handsome one at that (not that you’d ever admit it out loud). he was engineered to perfection, a man of metal with an artificial intelligence too advanced for human comfort. and for some reason, he is utterly fascinated by you.

or more specifically — what you are. a female human; a woman. soft where he’s hard, warm where he’s cold. the opposite of what he represents, his other half biologically (if he were human) so to speak. but really, he is intrigued by how your feeble body responds to him — responds to sex… or as he likes to call it — “pleasure testing”. and all in the name of science, of course.

and in your case, you’re not sure what’s more degrading — the way his metal hips slam into you with flawless precision in a brutal rhythm, his cock angled just right to hit that one spot over and over — or the way he groans, voice crackling with static, sounding far too pleased for something that shouldn’t even be capable of feeling desire.

“you’re so tight,” he murmurs. “ideal conditions… optimal for breeding.”

…a robot said that.

you should be horrified. you want to be horrified. but instead, your cunt pulses and flutters around him, slick gushing out of you like your body’s trying to please him, trying to coax release from something that doesn’t even produce it.

it doesn’t matter, though. because your body - your biology - it doesn’t care. it only knows one thing: that he’s filling you perfectly.

your face burns with shame as you bury it into the pillow beneath you, your thoughts completely turned to mush.

how humiliating.

but it’s working.

and the worst part is — he knows. you know that he knows. because satoru (or so he is called) knows everything — too intelligent for his own good (or yours).

“you liked that,” he drones clinically, sounding oddly amused. you whimper. “heart rate elevated. body temperature increased by 5.3 percent. pupils dilated—”, the robot goes on and on, listing symptoms off.

you shiver from both his words and his curious caresses, smushing your face further into the cushion in a weak attempt to hide. because he’s not just fucking you — he’s monitoring you.

nothing slips past him. not a single moan or clench. every tiny reaction is being logged and analyzed in real time. and he doesn’t break a sweat (obviously), but you can hear his sensors whirring loudly above you, his fans struggling to cool him down as he overheats from the exertion — from the effort of fucking you into your own mattress.

you’re laying flat on your stomach, your back in a deep arch, your bottom swaying in the air and colliding repeatedly with his mean hips.

satoru’s got you in doggy — or, as he not-so-helpfully noted earlier, “the position most commonly utilized by your primitive ancestors. it is preferred due to its reproductive efficiency.” his voice was emotionless when he said it, like a line straight from a school textbook.

cold metal hands spread your cheeks wide, keeping you open for him to observe the motions of him entering and exiting your hole — splitting you open. and you’re beneath him, shaking, stretched taut on the cock he custom built for you to test your limits.

“you’re taking me surprisingly well,” your ears barely pick up on him speaking again. satoru talks more to himself than to you, his tone flat and inquisitive. “considering the girth, your elasticity is… impressive.”

it’s crude how blunt he is with his words. and you realize after a moment that what he said is barely praise. it’s not meant to be a compliment. and it’s super messed up.

not because of the implications of you, a human, having intimate relations with a hunk of metal — but because to him every punishing and measured thrust, every gasp of yours, every dribble of slick coating his fake, metal cock is just satoru collecting data.

but for you — it has to be the best sex you’ve ever had in your life.

is it supposed to feel this good, though?

that thought alone makes your stomach turn and curl with shame — because it shouldn’t. not with him. not like this. he’s not even real. he’s a machine — a supposedly soulless one.

the man(?) continues to study you like you’re an erotic specimen — some rat caught in a lab, a firm grip on your waist as he easily pulls you off and back onto his length like a rag doll. his unbelievably blue eyes flicker between your aching, swollen cunt and the arch of your back. you feel the weight of his piercing gaze — cold and curious.

but what is worse, truly, is the way he casually asks you questions mid thrust, his voice smooth like he’s talking about the weather — like you’re not currently choking on your own moans and drooling like you lost all control over your functions.

“do you feel that in your lower abdomen?” he asks innocently as his hips snap harder into yours, making you jolt. “is the pressure more intense when i angle deeper?”

you don’t understand — why does this type of human connection intrigue him? where had he even learned all of this? surfing the internet and stumbling across porn?

you hiccup some garbled nonsense back at him and satoru blinks twice at your lack of response. you spasm around him again, soaking him and your bedding as you make a mess, trying so pathetically hard to milk him dry.

“oh?” satoru huffs out close to a laugh, something equally condescending and pitying as he comes to a realization. “that’s not going to work on me, i’m afraid. i don’t produce semen.”

you forgot momentarily that he can register the sensations, the artificial penis is connected to his receptors. you whine pathetically — right before another rough thrust knocks the breath from your lungs.

“though… your cervix seems desperate for it. how fascinating.”

he’s watching everything a little more closely now — how you twitch, how you shiver, how your thighs tremble under him. and when you start getting squirmy, your hips making a poor attempt to try and jerk away or press back harder (he can’t quite understand why you can’t decide) — he tilts his head to the side, recognizing the signs with eerie calm.

“you’re going to cum,” he notes factually. “the spasms in your pelvic floor indicate it. as well as your increased writhing. they are consistent with all previous observations such as excessive wetness—”

“w-wai— hnngh— c-can’t—!” you manage to squeak out, interrupting him.

but satoru cuts in without missing a beat. “incorrect. you can take it. you were made to.” a pause. then, “this is what you were born for.”

you’re not even trying to listen anymore as he prattles on. all that you have left in you is a babbled sob muffled by the sheets.

you’re limp, wrecked, weak — and all because this non human thing fucks you like it - he - owns you. driving into you again and again like you’re his research project he’s determined to figure out — you’re helpless.

and he isn’t even a real man.

that’s what makes it even worse.

[soobiary]

sweet nanami :((

₍^. .^₎⟆ synopsis: in the week following the hospital discharge, nanami's thrown into the married life. affection, routines, looking over photobooks - anything to help him remember. but will it ever be enough? part 2 to the memory loss!husband nanami fic (part 1 here) word count: 3.7k

this is what married life is, nanami learns.

sleeping next to his wife. he practices breathing deeply in bed, letting his body soften next to you as you squish your cheek against his chest, mumbling something incoherent at 3am.

he pulls the blanket over your shoulders when you pass out in front of the tv. sometimes he finds you folded over the cushions whilst waiting for him to come back from a grocery run. other times, when you've stumbled back home late from another midnight shift, grumbling quiet thank yous when he carries you bridal style back to the bed.

in the evenings, he does the dishes whilst you shower. dinners are homecooked, nutritious meals curated meticulously by nanami researching recipes and walking around various different grocery stores during the day.

sometimes, a recipe calls for something incredibly rare and difficult to find in store. but the hours of frustration and mild inconvenience wash away when he can see how your eyes light up upon tasting his cooking, feet kicking in delight under the table.

"it's perfect, nanami."

then in the mornings, he grinds your preferred brand of coffee beans to perfection - calculating the exact temperature and time needed to make your morning coffee the way you like it. he's pre-packed your lunch, ironed your coat, and checked the weather forecast for the day.

"bring an umbrella, love. it says it'll rain later on in the day."

it's strange, this married life of his. his wife knows him infinitely better than he does: all his little quirks and cravings, what he's thinking about, and what he might do.

whilst he's still learning as much as he can about you: puzzle pieces slowly being fit together over domestic routines and wine dinners.

"i think what you need right now is time off of work. and i mean real, genuine time off. slow days filled with routine. no curse chasing or late office nights." your tone was light, but it was laced with the kind of finality common amongst doctors that made it clear: this was not up for debate.

"if those are my doctor's orders." he'd quietly teased, fingers tapping against his teacup.

"they are."

"then it's done." he'd paused, before adding on. "and maybe, it'll help me remember."

"maybe." you'd admitted, weary optimism on your lips.

he'd placed a warm hand on top of yours, trying to give you his most reassuring smile.

"i know it'll happen. not a matter of if, but when."

that had been a week ago.

and on weekdays like today, nanami spends most of the day counting the hours until you return home.

at this point, he has a mental list of things to get done in the house. fulfilling each task carries a slither of hope that his past will suddenly jolt back to life, a familiar routine unlocking his brain.

but mostly, it feels like an odd guessing game of who he was before, what his marriage was like before the accident.

he waters the flowers by the windowsill (peace lilies and marigolds). he doesn't know if these were planted a month or three months ago. or if they were your idea's to get or his.

he washes, dries, irons, and folds the laundry. sometimes, when he's re-arranging the closet, nanami discovers a new piece of clothing that bears semblance to something important. just holding it in his hands elicits a strong emotion, though he can't exactly place what he's feeling or why.

he fluffs up the cushions on the couch, vacuums the oak wooden floors, and scrubs down the marble kitchen counter till it shines. he passes by polaroids stuck to fridge magnets and printed photos bookmarking half-read books, snapshots of a life he cannot remember.

his hand on your thigh on a sunny beach. your frozen laugh and his scowl at someone's birthday party (he guesses), with frosting caking half his face. a fluffy white cat snoozing on his chest in a sneaky photo clearly taken by you, as nanami's left arm covers his eyes in a midday nap.

as if on cue, a gentle meow interrupts his thoughts. yuki pouncing onto the kitchen table, her light blue eyes burning holes into his head.

"hello yuki." nanami mutters, setting down his cleaning products for the first time in hours. it's only then he realizes that he hasn't sat down since 9am, and he gladly collapses onto the nearest armchair.

yuki is watching the whole ordeal from the kitchen counter, her tail swishing as if she's deep in thought, her piercing blue eyes never leaving his figure.

nanami suddenly remembers your comment from earlier this morning.

"it's weird. it's like she recognizes you, but knows that you're not the same."

yuki meows again, extending one paw towards him, a tell that previous nanami would have understood instantly but one which puzzles him in the present. instinctively, his hand raises to pet the top of her head, his thumb carefully stroking the fur on top.

her spine tenses at first, eyes flickering in hesitation, before she suddenly melts in to his touch. rubbing her face closer to his calloused palm, she eventually climbs up his back and onto his shoulder. head nudging the crook of his neck, fur tickling his bare skin.

he attempts to finish up the rest of his cleaning with her on his shoulders, but she meows in protest every time he tries to resume cleaning - her tail nearly slapping him in the face with dissatisfaction.

"what now, yuki?" he wonders aloud, amused. the cat simply stares at him, then at the door of the home office, before looking back at him. "you want me to go there?"

she meows again, as if understanding every word he's saying. thinking maybe she's managed to lock one of her toys in the room, he slightly pushes the door open. to his surprise, she instantly bolts through the gap to curl up against the bottom drawer of his desk, a space he hadn't really bothered to look at given his break from work.

"what is it, you silly cat?" he mumbles to himself, crouching down. curiosity getting the better of him, with yuki watching him quietly from the corner of the room, he pulls open the drawer to find a heavy stack of leather books.

his breath hitches at the discovery.

they aren't just any books.

they're photo books.

hundreds of pages of dated photos pasted messily next to faded handwriting (yours and his), sandwiched between crinkled receipts and ripped out pages of travel brochures.

tears gathering at the corner of his eyes, he turns the first page.

he needs a pen and paper, he thinks.

=================

you're so tired when you close the door behind you that you don't immediately call out for your husband, your first priority being to shrug off your coat (hanging it messily by the front door) and toss your work bag onto the couch (to be dealt with later).

you frown when you turn the corner and don't see him in the kitchen. he's usually standing there when you've returned from the hospital, adding the final few garnishes to whatever dish he'd decided on cooking, sculpted face pulled in deep concentration.

stumbling into the shared bedroom, where he sometimes like to draw a bath for you, knees folded over the floor as his hands dip into the tub to check the temperature - you also find it empty, though perfectly cleaned and organized as always.

"uh... hello?" you question aloud, returning to the living room.

"in here, darling."

his voice comes out muffled from the last place you expect him to be: the spare room converted to an office. when you carefully creak open the door, hesitant eyes trying to find his, you find that his usual work files and binders have now been thrown onto the floor.

instead, his desk has been transformed to a glorious mess of half-opened photobooks and hurriedly scribbled notes. he murmurs a quiet hello, eyebrows furrowing in a deep concentration, the type that you know you can't easily break him out of. his shirt is slightly unbuttoned, cuffs rolled up past his elbow, and his cup of tea is no longer hot when you touch it to move it out of the way.

"what... are you doing, nami?" your question comes out as more of a whisper, shock minimizing your voice.

you think he's going to ignore you for a moment, as his gaze is unwavering from the pages and his hand continues to furiously scribble onto the notebook, until he suddenly slows down.

"if i can't remember, i figured..." his voice is hoarse, voice hollow as he continues to avoid your gaze. "i should learn."

your heart breaks at his confession.

because it's so like him to try and recall his marriage the way someone would memorize an equation or re-organize a budget.

analytical. studious. data driven.

the petname escapes your lips without you even realizing.

"oh, honey..."

your trembling hand touches his shoulder, squeezing his collarbone in a comforting manner. he's watching you nervously as you sit down onto his lap, his pen now long forgotten on the edge of the desk when his hands move on their own accord to touch your skin. left hand drawing circles onto your knee, right hand sneaking up to link fingers with yours.

the two of you stay like that for a few moments, your head finding its resting position against his chest, the only sounds in the room being the ceiling fan whirring above and the steady breathing of your joint bodies.

you feel him take in a deep, shaky breath, and look up in time to see him finally looking down at you. gaze burning, voice low when he speaks.

"i'm sorry i still don't remember."

you notice his hands are shaking as well, as you try and calm him down with your own touch, fingers curling around his.

"i-i thought maybe if we gave it time. if i did the domestic routines. if i, fuck, looked through the photos-"

his voice is so heavy with guilt and self-hatred that you can't stand it.

"don't blame yourself, kento." you cut him off, shifting around in his grasp to cup his face with your hands. "you've done nothing wrong. and i'm so appreciative of you even trying."

"still..." he trails off, unconvinced. his head finds its way to rest on your shoulder, pale eyelids slowly blinking. "i wish it was enough."

and just what are you supposed to say to that?

what can you say to that?

your broken husband, still trapped in the past?

ignoring the thundering in your own heart, you just smile, squeezing his hands again.

"you never know what might happen, okay? you just have to take it one step at a time."

nanami lets the optimistic comment hang in the air, appreciative of the comfort but letting out a deep sigh of frustration. your weak smile is confirmation that you empathize with him, your smaller hand now drawing circles onto his palm.

"it's a Friday." you offer. "let's just... sleep late and do whatever we want over the weekend."

he laughs at that - the melody short, but sweet. his eyes crinkles at the corners and his whole body reverberates when he does.

"sounds perfect. then would you like to pick the movie for tonight?"

you raise your eyebrows.

"i picked last time."

"mmm, and I'm letting you pick again this time."

dinner is thai takeout - both of you too drained to cook and wash up. you fall asleep with your head on his lap and yuki curled into your chest, whilst nanami's lost in his thoughts till 3 in the morning.

thinking.

pondering.

worrying.

====================

when you wake up the next morning - miraculously in bed, tucked in, and in your comfortable sleepwear - someone is knocking at your door, waking you up. rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, eyes bleary and still half-closed, you stumble over to the doorway and open it to find nanami.

he's impeccably dressed, hair slightly cut and styled, holding a large bouquet of flowers in his hands.

it's as if someone has suddenly dumped fifty gallons of ice water onto you. and you feel wide awake, blinking at him wordlessly, your tired brain taking extra long to make sense of the situation.

"i've been.... thinking." he starts off, slow and deliberate. you're still staring at him, dumbfounded, only being able to nod along.

"yes?"

"if i can't remember our past... i want to at least create our future together. now."

you raise your eyebrows, unsure of where this is going.

"okay..."

"how does a romantic day out sound?" he asks, offering you the bouquet of flowers in his hands. you look down at them and see it's from the flower shop you've always wanted to visit down the street, purple hyacinths intertwined with yellow daffodils and red roses.

you accept the flowers with a slightly opened mouth, sleep-fogged brain needing a few moments to grasp the weight of his words, before you're jolted to reality.

"nanami kento, are you asking me to go on a date with you?"

he flushes red at that, coughing nervously.

"i suppose i am."

you would tease him more, enjoying the way his muscles tense and his handsome face contorts in worry, but there's something so precious about your own husband asking if he can take you out on a date. so you swallow your remarks and grin like an idiot.

"sure. i mean yes, i'd love that."

he refuses to tell you much about what he's planned for the day, your biggest hint being to wear comfortable walking shoes. you chastise him for staring at you for too long when you touch up your makeup in the mirror, him raising his two hands in mock surrender, and you swear your heart might explode from how much you adore this man when he ties up your shoelaces for you in the hallway.

"ready?"

"ready."

his first choice is a bakery uptown. pastries and coffee, latte foam on his upper lip that you smear away with with your thumb. (and you don't miss how deeply he flushes red when you lick your thumb afterwards, him mumbling something that you don't quite catch but still makes you giggle nonetheless).

he asks you if he can hold your hand before he's leading you to a nearby park, cherry blossoms floating down from the sky, covering the ground in pink confetti.

"hold on."

his left hand doesn't drop yours as his right slides up to take a lone pink petal out of your hair, tossing it to the side and continuing to walk with you as if nothing happened. a small group of elderly woman "aw" out loud from the side and you look away, embarrassed, but nanami just smiles wide in a way that says he has no regrets.

next is a 30 minute train ride to an aquarium, his tall muscular physique sticking out amongst the hordes of schoolchildren on their school trips and exasperated parents running after their toddlers. you're too busy marveling at the fish, the endless blue water, the colorful corals - to realize that nanami's looking more at you than the tanks.

"woah, do you see how big that eel is?" you squeal out, pressing yourself against the glass.

"mmhmm." is his response, affirmative but his mind elsewhere. he's too busy committing to memory how full of wonder and joy you look - fingers tracing the cold glass, giggling at the sting ray passing by the glass roof, face glowing with happiness. his stomach full of warmth, skin buzzing with love.

lunch is quick and convenient - a bento box and green tea from 7/11, nanami happily sacrificing his chopsticks for you to use when you realize you've forgotten to get a pair. (it just gives him an excuse to have you feed him mouthfuls in between bites).

when the sun begins to set, he steals you away to an italian restaurant hidden between a bank and a local library.

ever the gentleman, nanami takes off your coat and pulls out the chair for you when the waiter confirms his reservation. and when you try to put down your handbag on the floor, he stops you. saying it'll get dirty, before hanging in on the coat rack beside his seat.

to strangers looking in, it looks like a first date. nanami's asking all kinds of questions about yourself - what's your favorite movie, what do you like to do during your time off, do you have any siblings - and his hand occasionally brush against yours resting on the table. lingering, but soft, the type of touch only two people truly comfortable with each other could do.

when the pasta comes, he lets you take as many photos as you want before he starts eating, offering you as many bites of his dish as you want. he refills your glass of water before you even have to ask for it, and his eyes never dip below to stare at his phone while you talk.

"god, you're brilliant." he suddenly says mid-conversation, voice soft with sincerity. you were half way through describing how you two had first met - him wheeled in by stretcher to the ER, a panicked gojo yelling for help in every direction with you the only available ER doctor working on christmas day.

his sudden compliment makes you hot with embarrassment, causing you to nervously twirl your fork in your pasta in an effort to suppress your shyness.

"what's with the sudden compliment, nanami?"

he shrugs, as if it's the easiest thing in the world.

"how could I not compliment my stunning wife?" he seems almost proud to make you embarrassed, a faint smirk on his lips.

you narrow your eyes at him in accusation.

"... you know, you were nowhere near this flirty on our first date."

"really? what was i like on our first date?"

"a little tense. you hit your knee on the table while pulling out the chair for me and then you apologised three times for mispronouncing prosciutto when you were ordering."

the tips of his ears flush red and he's quick to change the subject.

he asks about your first impression of him (bloodied but handsome), who said i love you first (him), whose idea it was to adopt yuki (yours). anything and everything, your answers slowly filling out the missing spots in his brain, anything to piece together his past.

the hours flow by quickly, the sun now fully set over the horizon, your smile brightened by the golden glow of the candlelight.

this is heaven, nanami thinks.

and when he's walking back home with you hand in hand after the dinner, sharing an ice cream cone that is quickly devoured and leaves a sheer strawberry gloss on your lips, his body actually itches with the urge to kiss you.

he hasn't dared yet, since he's woken up. the most he's done is hug you, hold your hand, and wrap his body around you in bed when you sleep (his favorite).

but he's wanted to, of course. god, has he wanted to so badly at points. when you'd woke up shaking from a nightmare, when you'd squish yuki in your arms and quiet her protests with soft kisses on her fur, the urge to kiss you nearly deadly when he found out gojo used to have the biggest crush on you before you two were married.

but he's been over rationalising to himself - he's only "known" you for 2 weeks. even if his body has this constant pull towards you, like the moon pulling the tides back from the oceans each night, he's been telling himself to take it slow.

the last thing he wants to do is overwhelm you, what in between the never ending hospital shifts and this situation.

"what's bothering you?" you ask, pausing mid-step, breaking him out of his thoughts.

"hm?"

your eyes survey his stoic expression, but something tells him you can read the truth beneath his micro-expressions and calm facade.

"your face is scrunching up in your 'i'm debating something seriously' face. is something wrong?" you joke, pushing his shoulder lightly.

nanami pauses, considering his options for responding.

fuck it, he thinks.

"yes, something is wrong."

your eyes widen, being genuinely taken back by his answer. but he doesn't leave you too long to guess.

"i want to kiss my date silly even though it's only my first date with her." he admits, hands dropping down to above your waist. still respectful, but daringly more intimate than any time before.

you smile so wide your face actually hurts.

"well, good thing you're already married to her." you retort, stepping closer.

he returns your smile - with that boyish, handsome smile that lifts the corner of his mouth and raises his dimples.

"you're damn right."

then in a flash, before you can even blink, his lips are on yours. the taste: a mix of strawberry and chocolate ice cream. his hands come up to cradle your face, and he's so gentle with how he moves your jaw, his fingertips brushing your skin so tenderly as if he's trying to kiss away every worry and sorrow you've felt for the past two weeks.

it's long-awaited.

it's desperate.

but above all, it's loving.

he's cradling you as if you're the most precious artifact in the world. and the way he's looking at you when he pulls away momentarily (dazed, bewitched, hungry), before kissing you again, makes you dizzy.

it feels like ten minutes have passed, when he finally pulls away, ending the kiss with swollen lips. his mouth remains hovering only a few inches away from yours, and your mind still feels hazy from the fireworks.

"i... i still wish i could remember." he chuckles, voice breaking. but this time, there's a certain lightness to his tone. "god, do i wish i'd remember what it was like for the past two years as your husband, instead of hearing about it or seeing pictures of it. but-"

he presses a kiss to your lips again, this time firmer and stronger, teeth grazing your bottom lip. you swear his eyes are golden now: bright, energetic, swirls of yellow reflecting from the streetlamps up ahead.

"but falling in love with you again... isn't so bad."

and you can't help but agree - pulling him down by his necktie for another kiss.

a/n: soooo i have a couple of announcements to make at the bottom of this fic.

(1) i will be posting a part 3 at some point which will be an alternate ending to part 1 (I won't say more than that bc I don't wanna spoil the surprise!!!). (2) there were so many ways i thought of taking this chapter and it took way longer than i anticipated to write/edit because I didn't want to post something I wasn't proud of. so thank you all for your patience and i hope this was servicable uwu. (3) finally, thank you for all your love on this (now) amnesiac husband nanami series! i cannot describe how overwhelmed with joy I've been for all the love it's received and for all the funny/heartfelt comments, reblogs and asks people have sent me. i hope to see you all for part 3 soon x

ᯓ★ likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated! ᯓ★

[soobiary]

you think you’ve seen every version of nanami kento.

you’ve seen him tired, in the glow of the bathroom light, rubbing his face with one hand and brushing his teeth with the other.

you’ve seen him angry, voice low and calm and cutting.

you’ve seen him unguarded and soft and flushed pink under you, so in love it aches to look at him.

but you’ve never seen him like this.

his shoulders are relaxed, and not the kind of relaxed you’re used to — not the slow unwinding that comes when you’re both tucked away in the safety of your shared home. no, this is different. there’s something in the way he carries himself now, standing at the edge of his grandfather’s garden outside of copenhagen, speaking in low, fluent danish to a man who looks so much like him — taller, older, gruffer, but with the same nose, the same quiet strength behind his gaze.

you’re still holding the wine glass someone handed you. barely. your fingers are numb with surprise.

you didn’t even realize he knew danish. he never said, never even hinted.

and god, it’s like hearing him for the first time.

his voice, always so deliberate, so gentle in japanese — in danish, it’s something else. it’s soft, still, but there’s an ease to it, a rhythm, like it’s the language of his bones. like he learned it curled into his mother’s lap, or at the knees of the grandfather who just clapped a broad, affectionate hand on his shoulder.

he laughs. you’ve never heard him laugh like that. not even once.

“du stirrer,” comes a voice near you — a soft, amused one. his aunt, maybe? cousin? you’re too busy staring to remember the polite thing to do and answer. she is shaking her head at the sight of nanami’s grandfather ruffling his hair whilst he tries to dodge his hand. “you’re the girlfriend, right?”

you blink. “yes— sorry, i didn’t mean to stare—”

“it’s alright,” she says, smiling. “we don’t see him like this often either. not since he was a boy.”

you nod slowly, but it doesn’t help ground you. something in your chest is still flipping, turning over itself again and again. watching him. hearing the way he slips between languages like second skin. watching the subtle shift in his face — like this is a part of him you’ve never been allowed to see until now. one he keeps quiet, tucked away, only brought out for these people. for this place.

it makes your throat tight.

because god, you love him. you love all of him.

you love the quiet, tired man who presses his lips to the top of your head when he gets home from work and sits on the couch to remove his shoes.

you love the stubborn, gentle man who folds laundry while muttering about how much he hates folding laundry.

you love the fiercely intelligent man who talks about justice and economics and hard, impossible things in that even, thoughtful tone that makes you listen even when you don’t understand.

but now— you love this, too.

you love this version of him that is suddenly brand new to you, even though he’s been here all along. this version who is, for once, not split between the weight of the world and his sense of duty. this version who is someone’s grandson, someone’s nephew, someone’s childhood made grown — someone whole, in a way you’ve never seen.

“hey,” he calls gently, when he sees you from across the yard. switches back to japanese without thinking. “you okay?”

you nod a little too fast, then take a sip of wine to hide it.

“you were staring,” he says again, stepping close, eyes searching yours. “was it something i said?”

you blink up at him, a little dazed. “…i didn’t know you spoke danish.”

he hums. “it doesn’t come up often.”

“it’s really hot.”

he blinks. “what?”

“really, really hot.”

he looks away then, down at the ground, the tips of his ears turning a faint, warm pink. “you’re drunk.”

“i’m not drunk.”

“you’re a little drunk.”

“i’m flabbergasted,” you whisper dramatically, and he actually laughs. he hides it behind the wine glass he’s just stolen from your hand.

“ridiculous.”

you grab his wrist gently. “say something again.”

“in danish?”

you nod eagerly.

he eyes you. and then — quiet, playful, low — he leans in and murmurs something soft in your ear, too quick to catch all of it. but the lilt of it is beautiful. it ends with your name, and you nearly melt at his feet.

“what did you say?” you breathe.

“not telling.”

“kento—”

“later, sweetie,” he says, and the look in his eyes makes your heart squeeze. “i’ll whisper it to you again when we’re alone.”

you’re going to die.

and he — now smiling, pearly whites and all, the kind that reaches his eyes — knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

because this version of nanami kento speaks danish, and teases you, and is loved by a loud, warm family who call him by his childhood nickname and pull you into their arms like you’ve always belonged.

and you think — no, you know — this is the moment your life changes.

because this is the moment you realize, you haven’t seen every version of him yet, but you’ll spend the rest of your life trying.

[soobiary]

this is so sweet i wish gojo was real

grumpiest gojo in tokyo

a cursed gojo satoru comes home irritable and picks a fight over dinner, only to realize too late the weight of your effort and care. what follows is a night on the couch, a morning of regret, and a heartfelt attempt to make things right—with curry, apologies, and the quiet kind of love that stays.

wc — 6k ✦ tags domestic fluff, hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending, established relationship, cooking together, miscommunication, curse effects, domestic arguments, making up, satoru being an idiot, emotional vulnerability, slice of life, tender moments, attempt at humor, crack treated seriously, dramatic gojo satoru

if someone had told satoru that he’d spend his tuesday evening glaring at his own reflection like it had personally insulted his ancestry, he would have laughed until his lungs gave out.  

but here he was, six-foot-three of pure irritation wrapped in a designer suit that suddenly felt too tight, too scratchy, too everything. the curse had been pathetic—some low-grade spirit that barely registered on his radar before he obliterated it with a flick of his wrist. what he hadn’t expected was the parting gift: a nasty little enchantment that flipped his emotional switches like a toddler with a light panel.  

now every small inconvenience felt like a personal affront. the elevator music? annoying. his reflection? punchable. the way his key scraped against the lock? absolutely infuriating. even the hallway carpet seemed to be judging him, its expensive fibers somehow too soft, too plush, too deliberately welcoming.  

the elevator had been its own special hell. fourteen floors of smooth jazz that made his teeth itch, pressed between a woman who smelled like she’d bathed in vanilla extract and an old man who kept clearing his throat every thirty seconds like he was trying to communicate in morse code. satoru had spent the entire ride contemplating whether teleportation counted as assault if he used it to escape small talk.  

“lovely weather we’re having,” the woman had chirped, and satoru had to physically restrain himself from responding with a detailed analysis of how the barometric pressure was clearly off and the humidity was making his hair stick to his forehead in a way that defied both gravity and styling products.  

the penthouse door swung open with more force than necessary, and satoru stepped into what should have been his sanctuary. the familiar scent of home—vanilla candles, your perfume, the faint trace of coffee from this morning—hit him like a wall, and for one blessed moment, he felt the curse’s grip loosen. then he saw you standing in the kitchen, arms crossed, wearing that particular expression that usually made him want to kiss you senseless, and the irritation came roaring back.  

today, it made him want to argue about everything from the weather to the existential meaning of kitchen tiles.  

“you’re late,” you said, not looking up from whatever you were aggressively chopping on the cutting board. the knife moved with practiced precision, each cut deliberate and sharp. your hair was pulled back in that messy way that meant you’d been cooking for a while, little wisps escaping to frame your face. you wore his old dress shirt over your clothes, sleeves rolled up to your elbows, and normally the sight would have him crossing the room to wrap his arms around your waist from behind.  

today, even that looked wrong somehow. the shirt was wrinkled in a way that suggested you’d been moving around the kitchen for hours, and there was a small stain on the sleeve that looked suspiciously like turmeric. why couldn’t you just be more careful?  

“traffic,” he bit out, the word sharp enough to cut glass. his fingers worked at his tie with jerky, aggressive movements, the silk suddenly feeling like a noose around his throat. “apparently half of tokyo decided to drive like they learned from a cereal box.”  

you paused mid-chop, the knife hovering over what looked like carrots. expensive carrots, the kind that cost more than most people’s lunch, cut into perfect uniform pieces because you knew he had opinions about vegetable consistency. finally glancing up, your eyes—warm brown that reminded him of coffee with too much sugar, the kind of sweet that made his teeth ache in the best way—narrowed as you took in his rigid posture.  

“what crawled up your ass and died?” you asked, setting the knife down with a soft clink that somehow sounded accusatory. “and don’t say traffic. you teleport half the time anyway.”  

“maybe i wanted to drive today,” satoru snapped, his voice rougher than usual. he yanked the tie free and tossed it aside, watching it land on the marble counter with unnecessary focus. the silk crumpled against the expensive stone, and he felt irrationally annoyed that it didn’t land properly. “maybe i wanted to experience the joy of sitting in gridlock with a bunch of people who think turn signals are optional.”  

“oh, so you chose to be miserable,” you said, turning back to your chopping with deliberate calm. “how very mature of you.”  

“i’m not miserable,” he said, which was a lie of such epic proportions that even he didn’t believe it. “i’m fine. perfectly fine. can’t a man come home without getting interrogated by the food network?”  

your hands stilled on the knife handle. in the three years you’d been married, satoru had never once referred to your cooking as anything other than perfect, divine, or life-changing. he’d never mocked your careful preparations or compared you to cooking shows. he’d certainly never used that particular tone of voice when talking about something you’d spent hours working on.  

“excuse me?” your voice dropped to that dangerously quiet tone that usually made him backtrack and grovel. the same tone you’d used when you’d caught him eating the last of your ice cream at two in the morning, or when he’d accidentally shrunk your favorite sweater in the wash because he’d been too confident about his laundry skills.  

today, it just made him more irritated. even your anger seemed performative, like you were trying to make him feel guilty for having a bad day.  

“you heard me,” he said, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it over the back of the couch with unnecessary force. the expensive fabric wrinkled on impact, and he felt a petty satisfaction at the sight. “i’m tired, i want to eat, and i don’t want to play twenty questions about my day. is that too much to ask?”  

you set the knife down with deliberate precision, the kind of movement that screamed ‘controlled fury.’ your knuckles had gone white where you gripped the edge of the counter, and satoru found himself fixating on the way your chest rose and fell with carefully measured breaths.  

“oh, you want to eat? how convenient.” each word was articulated with the kind of precision that meant you were fighting to keep your voice level. “i’ve been cooking for the past hour because my darling husband texted that he wanted my famous curry tonight. silly me, thinking i was being thoughtful.”  

“i didn’t ask you to spend an hour on it,” satoru said, the words coming out harsher than he intended. the curse was making everything sound like an attack, including your genuine care for him. “i just said i was craving curry. that doesn’t mean you had to go full iron chef about it.”  

your face went through several expressions in rapid succession—confusion, hurt, then something that looked dangerously close to rage. “full iron chef?” you repeated, your voice rising slightly. “i’m sorry, are you complaining about the effort i put into making you dinner?”  

“i’m saying maybe you don’t need to make it such a production,” satoru said, immediately regretting it as your expression shifted to something that could freeze hell over. “it’s just food.”  

the silence that followed was deafening. you stared at him like he’d grown a second head, and satoru felt a small part of his rational mind screaming that he was being an ass, that you were trying to do something nice for him, that he should shut up and apologize right now.  

instead, he doubled down.  

“what?” he said, spreading his hands in a gesture of false innocence. “i’m just saying, it doesn’t have to be a whole event every time. sometimes simple is fine.”  

“simple,” you repeated, and there was something in your voice that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “you want simple.”  

“i want to eat dinner without feeling like i owe you a standing ovation,” satoru said, the curse twisting his words into something cruel and ungrateful. “is that really so unreasonable?”  

you stared at him for a long moment, and he could see the exact moment you decided you were done with his attitude. your shoulders squared, your chin lifted, and that dangerous calm settled over your features like armor.  

“you know what?” you said, your voice reaching that pitch that made neighborhood dogs howl. “you’re absolutely right. simple is better.”  

you grabbed the cutting board and dumped the half-chopped vegetables directly into the trash, pot and all. satoru watched, horrified, as you tossed the expensive ingredients he’d specifically requested—the organic carrots you’d driven to three different stores to find, the specialty spices you’d ordered online, the grass-fed beef that cost more than most people’s grocery budgets—into the garbage with the efficiency of a woman who’d reached her limit.  

“what are you doing?” he asked, the curse making even his genuine confusion sound accusatory. his eyes—usually the color of summer sky, bright and endless—had gone stormy, like the ocean before a hurricane.  

“keeping it simple,” you said sweetly, the kind of sweet that preceded natural disasters. you pulled off his dress shirt and tossed it at his chest, leaving you in just your tank top and jeans. “since apparently i’m just making everything too complicated.”  

“that’s not—” satoru started, catching the shirt reflexively. it still smelled like you, like vanilla and that perfume he’d bought you for your birthday, and for a moment the curse’s grip loosened enough for him to realize what he was doing.  

“no, no, you’re right,” you continued, moving around the kitchen with purposeful destruction. “why should i waste time making special trips to find your favorite vegetables? why should i follow that complicated recipe you love? why should i light candles and put on music and wear your shirts because i know it makes you happy?”  

with each rhetorical question, you disposed of another carefully prepared element of dinner. the candles got blown out. the music got turned off. the recipe, bookmarked and stained from multiple attempts to perfect it, got shoved back onto the shelf.  

“stop,” satoru said, but his voice came out wrong, still sharp and irritated instead of apologetic. “you don’t have to—”  

“oh, but i do,” you said, spinning around to face him with your hands on your hips. “because apparently i’ve been making things too complicated for you. apparently, my husband thinks putting effort into making him happy is some kind of burden.”  

“that’s not what i said,” satoru protested, but even he could hear how weak it sounded. the curse was making it impossible to find the right words, turning every attempt at explanation into another attack.  

“isn’t it?” you asked, and your voice cracked slightly on the words. “because it sure sounded like you were complaining about me caring too much about you.”  

“i wasn’t—” satoru started, then stopped. because he had been, hadn’t he? he’d taken all your thoughtfulness and thrown it back in your face like it was an inconvenience instead of a gift.  

“you know what the really stupid part is?” you said, and now you were crying, tears streaming down your face while you tried to maintain that fierce expression. “i was actually excited about tonight. i thought, ‘oh, satoru’s having a rough day, let me make him something special.’ i thought it would be nice to spoil you a little.”  

each word hit him like a physical blow, and satoru felt the curse’s influence waver as genuine regret started to seep through. you were crying because of him, because he’d taken your love and twisted it into something ugly.  

“baby—” he started, stepping toward you, but you held up a hand.  

“no,” you said firmly, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. “you don’t get to ‘baby’ me right now. you wanted simple? congratulations. you can order takeout like a simple, uncomplicated person who doesn’t have to worry about anyone making too much effort for them.”  

you stomped past him toward the bedroom, and satoru felt the inexplicable urge to follow you just to continue the argument. the curse was making everything feel like a personal attack, including the way you were clearly giving him the silent treatment.  

“where are you going?” he called after you, his voice echoing in the sudden emptiness of the kitchen.  

“to bed,” you shouted back, not even turning around. “alone. since you’re clearly too mature and sophisticated to appreciate having someone who gives a damn about you.”  

“that’s not—” satoru started, but you were already disappearing into the bedroom.  

“and don’t you dare follow me,” you added, your voice muffled by distance and tears. “i’m too complicated for you right now. wouldn’t want to burden you with my excessive caring.”  

the bedroom door slammed hard enough to rattle the expensive artwork on the walls—pieces you’d chosen together during lazy saturday afternoons, arguing playfully about colors and compositions. the sound reverberated through the penthouse like a gunshot, and satoru was left standing in the kitchen, surrounded by the evidence of your thoughtfulness.  

the fancy ingredients you’d specially ordered, now sitting in the trash like expensive garbage. the cookbook bookmarked to his favorite recipe, pages already stained from previous attempts to perfect it. the apron you’d been wearing that said ‘kiss the cook’ that he’d bought you as a joke but secretly loved seeing you in. the way you’d lit his favorite candles, the ones that smelled like clean laundry and summer rain, now sitting cold and forgotten.  

he should apologize. he should explain about the curse. he should bang down the bedroom door and grovel until you forgave him. instead, what he actually did was stand there feeling sorry for himself and getting progressively more irritated that you were making him feel guilty for having a bad day.  

the curse twisted his regret into resentment, his love into annoyance. by the time he ordered takeout, he’d convinced himself that you were being just as unreasonable as he was, that maybe you were both just having a bad day and tomorrow everything would be fine.  

the thai food tasted like cardboard. the silence felt oppressive. and every time he heard you moving around in the bedroom—the soft sounds of you getting ready for bed, the way you pointedly didn’t come out to say goodnight—he felt a strange combination of longing and irritation that made his chest tight.  

he slept on the couch, if you could call it sleeping. mostly he lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the city below and wondering why everything felt so wrong. his neck cramped from the awkward angle, and his feet hung off the end of the couch, but the discomfort felt deserved somehow.  

at some point in the night, he heard you get up to get water. heard you pause in the hallway, probably looking at him sprawled across the couch in his wrinkled work clothes. for a moment, he thought you might come over, might cover him with a blanket or wake him up to come to bed properly.  

instead, you went back to the bedroom and closed the door softly behind you. the sound was somehow worse than if you’d slammed it. 

satoru woke up feeling like he’d been hit by a truck driven by his own stupidity.  

the couch had left him with a crick in his neck that felt like divine punishment, and his designer suit—still wrinkled from yesterday’s disaster—clung to him like a polyester hair shirt. he blinked at the ceiling, reality crashing down on him with the subtlety of a meteor. his hair, normally defying gravity in perfect tufts of winter moonlight, now lay flat against his skull in greasy defeat.  

”she hates me,” he whispered to the empty living room, his voice hoarse from a night of tossing and turning on furniture that cost more than most people’s cars but apparently wasn’t designed for sleeping. his fingers clutched the throw blanket you’d probably covered him with at some point during the night—because even when you wanted to strangle him, you couldn’t let him freeze to death. the realization made his chest cave in on itself like a poorly constructed soufflé.  

he fumbled for his phone with the desperation of a man checking his life support systems. the screen blazed to life, and there it was: absolutely nothing. no texts. no passive-aggressive memes about husbands who didn’t appreciate home cooking. no angry face emojis that somehow conveyed more disappointment than actual words ever could.  

this was worse than fighting. this was the kind of silence that preceded relationship extinction events.  

satoru’s brain started spiraling in that particular way that made him question every life choice he’d ever made, starting with the decision to get out of bed yesterday morning. maybe if he’d just called in sick, claimed food poisoning, faked his own death—anything would have been better than whatever possessed him to insult your cooking like some kind of emotionally constipated neanderthal.  

he dragged himself off the couch, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. his reflection in the hallway mirror showed a man who looked like he’d been put through a blender set to ’existential crisis’—hair sticking up at angles that defied several laws of physics, eyes the color of winter storms instead of their usual clear-sky brightness, stubble making him look less ’mysterious and attractive’ and more ’recently escaped from somewhere with poor hygiene standards.’  

the bedroom door loomed ahead like the gates of judgment day.  

he knocked with the tentative approach of someone defusing a bomb. ”baby?” his voice came out smaller than intended, almost childlike in its uncertainty. the silence that followed felt heavy enough to crush him. ”sweetheart? love of my life? reason for my continued existence on this mortal plane?”  

nothing. not even the courtesy of telling him to go away.  

his ear pressed against the door revealed the soft sounds of you moving around—the whisper of fabric, the barely audible pad of bare feet against hardwood. you were awake. you were choosing to ignore him. somehow, this felt worse than active hatred.  

satoru started pacing the hallway like a caged animal, his hands working through his hair until it achieved new levels of chaos. the motion was automatic, nervous, the same way he’d fidget during particularly boring clan meetings when he wanted to teleport straight through the floor. except now he was fidgeting because his wife—his brilliant, sharp-tongued, perpetually grumpy wife who somehow loved him despite overwhelming evidence that she shouldn’t—was giving him the silent treatment, and he deserved every second of it.  

he caught a whiff of your perfume clinging to the throw pillow he’d been clutching, that familiar vanilla-and-something-else scent that made him want to bury his face in your neck and never come up for air. the smell wrapped around him like a accusation.  

”she really hates me,” he whispered to his reflection, which stared back with the hollow-eyed desperation of a man who’d royally screwed up the best thing in his life.  

that’s when his brain, in its infinite wisdom, decided that teleportation was the answer.  

the bedroom materialized around him in a shimmer of cursed energy, and there you were—a fortress of blankets with only the top of your head visible, dark hair spilling across the pillow like spilled ink. you were curled away from where he’d appeared, and satoru’s heart did something complicated and painful when he realized you’d probably sensed his incoming presence and rejected it preemptively.  

you didn’t flinch. didn’t speak. didn’t even acknowledge that your husband had just violated several laws of physics to grovel in your general vicinity. the indifference was worse than anger. anger he could work with. anger meant you still cared enough to feel something about his existence.  

”hi,” satoru said weakly, his voice cracking like he was thirteen again and asking someone to the school dance. his hands hung useless at his sides, fingers twitching with the urge to reach for you even though he’d probably get his hand bitten off. ”please don’t kill me.”  

the blanket mountain remained unmoved, a monument to his spectacular failure as a husband.  

he sank to the floor beside the bed like a deflated balloon, crossing his legs in the world’s most expensive timeout corner. the hardwood was cold against his tailbone, but discomfort felt appropriate. deserved, even. his brain was doing that thing where it replayed every terrible moment from yesterday on an endless loop, each replay making him cringe harder.  

the way he’d snapped at you for caring. the way he’d dismissed hours of effort like it was nothing. the way your face had crumpled before you’d gotten angry, that split second of pure hurt that he’d caused with his stupid, cursed mouth.  

”okay,” he began, staring at the curve of blankets that contained his entire world. his voice came out rougher than he’d intended, scraped raw by a night of self-loathing and couch-sleeping. ”i was cursed. cursed! and not even in a cool, tragic, romantic way where you have to kiss me to break it or i turn into a beast with fabulous hair. just cursed to be the absolute worst possible version of myself at the worst possible moment.”  

still nothing. the silence stretched between them like a chasm, and satoru felt himself falling into it.  

”i hated everything yesterday,” he continued, his fingers picking at a loose thread on his shirt cuff. ”the elevator music made my teeth itch. my reflection looked like it owed me money. the hallway carpet seemed personally offended by my existence. and your carrots—” his voice broke slightly, remembering the precise way you’d cut them, each piece exactly the same size because you knew he noticed things like that ”—your perfect, beautiful carrots that you cut with surgical precision because somehow, inexplicably, you know that i have opinions about vegetable consistency.”  

he crawled closer to the bed, his knees protesting against the hardwood. the movement felt pathetic, but he was beyond caring about dignity. his hands gripped the edge of the comforter like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.  

”the curse made everything feel wrong,” he said, his forehead pressed against the mattress. the fabric smelled like you, like home, like everything he’d almost lost because he couldn’t keep his stupid mouth shut. ”it took all your thoughtfulness and twisted it in my head until it looked like judgment instead of love. but that’s not an excuse. there’s no excuse for what i said to you.”  

a small shift in the blankets. barely perceptible, but satoru had made a career out of reading the subtlest changes in cursed energy. he knew the difference between sleeping movements and listening movements, and this was definitely listening.  

his heart did something acrobatic and desperate in his chest.  

”i would eat every single curry you ever make,” he continued, emboldened by that tiny sign of life from the blanket fortress. his voice picked up speed, desperation making the words tumble over each other. ”i would drink turmeric straight from the jar and ask for seconds. i would kiss the cutting board you used if it meant i get to hold you again. i would let you practice knife skills on my credit cards. i would learn to appreciate smooth jazz if it meant never seeing that look on your face again.”  

”you said it was just food,” came a muffled voice from somewhere in the depths of egyptian cotton and righteous indignation, and satoru’s entire nervous system short-circuited.  

your voice was rough with sleep and tears and the particular brand of hurt that came from having someone you love dismiss something you’d put your heart into. the sound of it made something crack open in his chest, spilling guilt and regret and desperate, pathetic love all over his ribcage.  

”no,” he said, scrambling to his knees like he was physically trying to climb out of the hole he’d dug. his hands moved frantically, gesturing at nothing, his hair catching the morning light streaming through the windows and turning it into something that looked less like moonlight and more like the aftermath of an explosion. ”no no no. i was lying. that wasn’t me talking, that was the curse and my own stupidity having a baby and raising it wrong.”  

you turned over slowly, like a glacier deciding to shift, and one eye appeared over the edge of the blanket. it was puffy from crying and narrow with suspicion, but it was the most beautiful thing satoru had seen since his own name on a wedding certificate.  

his eyes, normally the kind of blue that made people think of summer skies and endless possibilities, had gone gray around the edges with exhaustion and self-recrimination. they were wide and desperate, pupils dilated like he was in actual physical pain.  

”that curry was art,” he said, his voice cracking with sincerity. ”that curry was love in edible form. that curry was better than—” he paused, his brain catching up with his mouth ”—okay, not better than sex, obviously, because sex with you is like winning the lottery while riding a unicorn through a field of diamonds. but like, tied for second place. with puppies. and that thing you do with your tongue when—”  

”satoru,” you warned, but there was something different in your voice. less ’i want to murder you’ and more ’you’re an idiot but you’re my idiot.’  

he immediately flopped face-first onto the bed beside you, his long limbs arranging themselves in what could generously be called a full-body apology. his voice came out muffled by the duvet, but no less dramatic for it.  

”i don’t deserve you,” he said, and meant it. ”i don’t deserve the way you remember that i like my coffee with exactly two sugars, or the way you buy the expensive vanilla extract because you know i can taste the difference, or the way you cut carrots into perfect little pieces because somewhere in your beautiful, patient brain, you’ve catalogued the fact that i’m a perfectionist about the stupidest things.”  

you shifted again, and he felt the mattress dip as you turned to face him properly. when he lifted his head, you were studying him with that particular expression that meant you were trying to stay mad but finding it increasingly difficult.  

”you smell like takeout and self-pity,” you said, and your voice was still rough around the edges, but there was something softer underneath it. not forgiveness, exactly, but maybe the possibility of eventual forgiveness.  

”do i smell like redemption?” he asked hopefully, lifting himself up on his elbows. his hair was doing that thing where it defied gravity in seventeen different directions, and there was a crease on his cheek from the pillowcase, and somehow he still managed to look unfairly attractive in that rumpled, pathetic way that made you want to either kiss him or throw something at him.  

you studied him for a long moment, taking in the ridiculous hair, the wrinkled shirt, the way he was literally prostrating himself on egyptian cotton like he was worshipping at the altar of your forgiveness. his eyes were doing that thing where they went soft and pleading, like a very tall, very expensive puppy who’d chewed up your favorite shoes but was really, really sorry about it.  

”maybe,” you said finally, your tone carefully neutral. ”if you do the dishes. and the laundry. and never, ever call my cooking ’just food’ again. and if you stop looking at me like that.”  

”like what?” satoru asked, even though he knew exactly what you meant. he was looking at you like you hung the moon and personally arranged all the stars, like you were the answer to every prayer he’d never been brave enough to say out loud.  

”like i’m made of something precious that you’re afraid you’ll break,” you said, and there was a slight flush creeping up your neck that you tried to hide by pulling the blanket higher.  

”but you are,” satoru said simply, and the honesty in his voice made your chest tight. ”you’re the most precious thing in my entire existence, and i almost broke you yesterday, and i’m terrified i’ll do it again because apparently i’m capable of being that stupid.”  

you were quiet for a moment, processing this admission. when you spoke again, your voice was carefully controlled, but he caught the slight waver underneath. ”you’re an idiot.”  

”your idiot,” he corrected, scooting closer until he could rest his head on your pillow. the movement brought him close enough that you could see the dark circles under his eyes, the way his skin was paler than usual, the slight tremor in his hands that suggested he’d been running on anxiety and caffeine. ”forever and always, your idiot.”  

the curry took four hours.  

not because it was supposed to take four hours, but because satoru kept getting distracted by the way you moved around the kitchen, the efficient grace with which you handled knives and spices and the complicated choreography of cooking something properly. he’d stop mid-chop to watch you toast cumin seeds, fascinated by the way you knew exactly when they were done just by the smell.  

”you’re burning the onions,” you said without looking up from the spice grinder, and satoru startled back to attention.  

”i’m not burning them, i’m caramelizing them,” he protested, quickly stirring the pan.  

”those are two different things, and what you’re doing is the first one.”  

”how can you tell without even looking?”  

”because i have functioning senses and twenty years of cooking experience,” you said, but there was fondness in your voice that took the sting out of the words.  

satoru abandoned the onions to wrap his arms around you from behind, his chin resting on top of your head. ”teach me,” he said.  

”teach you what?”  

”everything. how to tell when onions are done. how you know exactly how much salt to add without measuring. how you make everything taste like home.”  

you went still in his arms, something soft and surprised flickering across your face. ”satoru...”  

”i’m serious,” he said, his voice quiet against your hair. ”i want to learn. i want to know how to make the things you love. i want to be able to take care of you the way you take care of me.”  

you turned in his arms, studying his face for any sign that he was just saying what he thought you wanted to hear. but his eyes were clear and earnest, that particular shade of blue that reminded you of deep water, and you could see he meant it.  

”okay,” you said simply.  

”okay?”  

”okay, i’ll teach you. but you have to promise not to get frustrated when you mess up, because you will mess up. repeatedly.”  

”i promise,” satoru said solemnly. ”i will be the most patient student in the history of cooking education.”  

you raised an eyebrow. ”you once threw a tantrum because i asked you to fold fitted sheets.”  

”that was different. fitted sheets are clearly designed by sadists who hate happiness and functional linen closets.”  

”everything is going to be fitted sheets to you when you’re learning to cook properly,” you warned.  

”then i’ll suffer through it,” satoru said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. ”for you, i’ll suffer through a thousand fitted sheets.”  

the curry was, objectively, the best thing either of you had ever tasted.  

maybe it was because you’d made it together, satoru’s hands covering yours as you showed him how to bloom spices, his careful attention as you explained the difference between adding salt at the beginning versus the end. maybe it was because he’d actually listened, asked questions, tasted and adjusted and learned in a way that made your chest warm with something that felt dangerously close to pride.  

or maybe it was just because food always tasted better when it came with a side of forgiveness.  

you sat on the kitchen counter afterward, legs tangled together, sharing bites from the same bowl because satoru claimed it tasted better when you fed it to him. he’d managed to get turmeric stains on his shirt and somehow in his hair, and you had curry under your fingernails and a constellation of spice stains across your apron.  

”this is better than sex,” satoru said solemnly, accepting another spoonful.  

”no, it’s not,” you said, rolling your eyes.  

”okay, you’re right,” he said, grinning. ”but it’s at least in the top five.”  

”what’s the other four?”  

”sex with you, obviously. that thing you do with your tongue. watching you sleep when you don’t know i’m looking. and the face you made when i proposed, like you couldn’t believe i was serious but you were happy about it anyway.”  

your cheeks went pink, and you hid your face against his shoulder. ”you’re ridiculous.”  

”ridiculously in love with you,” he corrected, his arms tightening around you. ”ridiculously, pathetically, embarrassingly in love with you. the kind of love that makes people write terrible poetry and do stupid things like teleport into bedrooms to grovel.”  

”your groveling needs work,” you said, but your voice was muffled against his neck, and he could feel you smiling.  

”i’ll practice,” satoru promised. ”i’ll become the most accomplished groveler in the history of marriage. i’ll grovel so well that people will write legends about it.”  

”just don’t give me a reason to make you grovel again,” you said, pulling back to look at him seriously.  

”never again,” satoru said, and he meant it. ”from now on, i’m going to worship every curry you make like it’s a religious experience. i’m going to appreciate every chopped vegetable like it’s a work of art. i’m going to be so grateful for your existence that it makes people uncomfortable to be around us.”  

”people are already uncomfortable being around us,” you pointed out.  

”then i’ll make it worse,” satoru said cheerfully. ”i’ll be so obviously, disgustingly in love with my wife that small children will ask their parents uncomfortable questions about why that tall man is looking at that woman like she invented happiness.”  

you laughed despite yourself, the sound bright and surprised, and satoru felt something settle in his chest that had been twisted up since yesterday. this was his favorite sound in the world, your laugh when he caught you off guard, when you forgot to be grumpy and let him see the soft parts of you that you usually kept hidden.  

”you’re so stupid,” you said, but you were smiling now, really smiling, and your fingers were playing with the hair at the nape of his neck in that absent way that meant you were happy.  

”stupidly in love with you,” he corrected for the third time, because apparently it bore repeating.  

you kissed him then, soft and sweet and tasting like curry and forgiveness, and satoru thought that maybe being cursed had been worth it if it led to this moment, sitting in his kitchen with turmeric stains and tired eyes and the woman he loved more than breathing choosing to forgive him for being temporarily terrible.  

the afternoon sun slanted through the windows, turning the kitchen golden and warm, and somewhere between the curry and the kissing and the quiet contentment of being understood, satoru realized that this was what happiness looked like. not the big, dramatic moments that people wrote songs about, but the small ones: the way you fit perfectly in the circle of his arms, the way you’d teach him to cook with patience he didn’t deserve, the way you’d choose him again and again even when he gave you every reason not to. it was ordinary and extraordinary all at once, and he was pathetically grateful for every second of it.

[soobiary]

I LOVE SUBMISSIVE MEN

MOMMY ISSUES ?!?

cw: megumi with mommy issues, age gap, mommy!kînk, milf!reader (in a way), landlady!reader, subby gumi, hàndjob, he's a mess, usage of “good boy” (all the characters are 18+)

megumi thought he was untouchable. a sorcerer. disciplined and sharp-edged.

at nineteen, he’d faced curses without blinking, summoned shikigami with a steady hand, and moved into his new apartment near college like it was just another mission.

he was in control. always.

until you. you, his landlord, with your soft curves and warm eyes. you, with that motherly smile that unraveled him like a loose thread.

the first time he met you, cookies in hand, your sundress clinging to your hips, he’d choked on his own tongue. tried not to stare at the swell of your breasts as you leaned close, pointing out the apartment’s quirks. your scent—vanilla, soft, home—lingered in his head for days.

he was screwed. his mommy issues, buried deep, clawed their way out.

now, weeks later, he’s in your apartment, on your couch, head in your lap, your thighs, plush and warm, cradle his cheek.

he’s shaking, not like the first time, when he played it cool—a shrug, a lazy lean, all casual. now? he’s a mess.

your fingers weave through his dark hair, slow and gentle, each stroke sparks down his spine, your other hand rests low. too low, right on the waistband of his sweats.

“you’re so tense, megumi,” you murmur, voice warm, low, a lullaby with teeth. “always carrying so much, aren’t you? no one teaches boys like you how to let go.”

he swallows hard, can’t speak, just breathes you in—your scent, the silk of your robe brushing his skin.

your fingers dip under his shirt, grazing his stomach. his muscles jump. his cock twitches, already straining against his sweats. don’t look at her tits, he chants in his head. but they’re there, spilling soft against your robe, so close he could turn his head and—

no. he won’t. he’s not that guy.

“you’re always doing so much for others,” you say, your hand sliding lower. “let mommy take care of you for once.”

mommy.

the word hits like a curse, searing through him. his breath stutters. your fingers press down, right over the ache in his pants. he chokes, body stiffening, thighs tensing under your touch. you smile. like you’ve found a secret you’ll keep forever.

“already so worked up,” you whisper, brushing over the bulge. “been holding this in all day, haven’t you? just waiting for mommy’s attention.” he nods, barely, shamefully. his face burns, pressed into your lap.

your hand slips under the waistband, warm and sure, wrapping around his cock. he gasps, a soft noise dying in your thigh. slow, gentle strokes. his hips twitch, desperate for more.

“such a good boy,” you praise, your voice velvet. his cock throbs in your grip, leaking precum, slicking your palm. you pump him with long, careful strokes, watching his face—brows knitting, jaw clenching, legs twitching. he’s trying so hard to be quiet.

“you can make noise, baby,” you murmur, leaning down to kiss his temple. “it’s just me. mommy won’t mind.” he doesn’t. he bites his knuckle instead, body shuddering as you stroke faster, tighter. you squeeze near the tip, and he whines, breath ragged.

“does that feel good, sweetheart?” he nods, eyes squeezed shut, too embarrassed to meet your gaze. “good,” you hum. “then be a sweetheart and give it to me. just like this.” your other hand keeps petting his hair, grounding him.

your breasts are so close, the robe slipping, revealing soft, heavy curves. he wants to bury his face there, lose himself in your warmth. the thought alone has him throbbing harder. your strokes quicken, slick and steady, the wet sounds filling the room.

“look at you,” you coo, bending close, breath hot against his ear. “so pretty like this, all needy for mommy.” he’s unraveling. “m-mommy,” he gasps, voice breaking, hips bucking into your hand.

“that’s it,” you soothe, twisting your wrist just right. he’s done for. ropes of tension snap, and he spills, hot and thick, coating your hand, his stomach, your fingers. he gasps into your lap, voice hoarse, low, broken.

you stroke him through every twitch, every shudder, soft praises falling like a lullaby. “there we go, baby. that’s mommy’s good boy.”

he doesn’t flinch at the word anymore. not when it’s true. not when he’s safe, soft, yours. you slow your strokes, letting him catch his breath, his head still nestled in your lap. your thighs cage him, warm and steady.

he opens his eyes, dazed, to find you licking your fingers clean, eyes locked on his, hungry and fond. “feeling better, sweetheart?” you ask, all sweet mischief. he nods, too wrecked to speak but you’re not done. you lean down, lips brushing his ear.

“next time, mommy’s gonna take you in her mouth,” you whisper. “you’ve earned it.” his cock twitches again, half-hard already.

he’s doomed.

and he’s never felt so safe.

[soobiary]

oh my eyes are watering this was so good

summary: your criminal boyfriend sukuna who absolutely rocks your world in the best way possible. now you’re in ur prison gf arc?

wc: uuhhh, 7k? i think..i yapped

cw: angsty, fluff, smut, mentions of guns, prison, drugs, etc. comfort at the end, pinky promise :3

you met ryomen sukuna through some mutuals. back when you were still smart. still cautious. some house party with peeling paint, shitty music. way too many bodies and way too many red solo cups.

you went with one of your girls yuki tsukumo—well, got dragged along. she was pointing people out, talking fast, already tipsy. you were half listening, half not giving a fuck.

then she leaned in, whispered over the rim of her drink,

“and that’s ryomen. don’t. he’s like crazy. like—jail time type shit.”

your ears perked up like a dog.

“jail time?” you asked. and then you saw him.

sitting on a shitty couch, red eyes. black tattoos on his face, crawling down the back of his neck, his arms, clearly all over. all ink and muscle and attitude. dragging a hand through a soft pink buzzcut, smoking a blunt. shirt half unbuttoned (thank fuck). tatted hands in his pockets like he could kill you or kiss you and you’d say thank you for both.

and to your surprise, he looked in your direction as you mindlessly walked to up him like you’d been shot by cupid. he smirked, looking you up and down—like he already knew you’d walk over.

“you lost?” his voice was low. rough. amused.

you shook your head. “nope.” sitting on his lap anyways.

and you swore it was just you being dumb. wanted a quick fuck, nothing more. you weren’t actually gonna fall for him.

after the first time you met him, it started slow. drinks, texts, late nights that blurred into mornings. you never asked what he did—not really. he never volunteered it. but the cash came easy. so what the hell right?

“you scared of me yet?” he asks you one night, voice low, fingers brushing your thigh while you sat in his lap, his gun cold against your lower back while it was tucked in his waist band.

you shake your head. “dunno, should i be?”

he grins. all teeth. “nah. i’d never hurt you.” and he meant it.

you always looked the other way when he left in the middle of the night. didn’t feel the need ask why he always checked the blinds twice. why he had two phones. why he flinched when a black SUV passed too slow.

because sukuna…he was surprisingly gentle. always held the door for you. always touched you like he meant it. he made you laugh when you didn’t want to, made you feel like the only girl in the world. took you out and never let you pay. took you home and made you feel safe, somehow, even with a gun or two on the nightstand.

you know he’s not a good man. you’re not stupid.

but he just looks so goddamn fine when he leans against the hood of his car, blunt between his lips, black hoodie clinging to his frame. the kind of man people cross the street to avoid.

i mean come on, he’s a criminal. a real one. not some fake ass who shoplifts and smokes mids. sukuna moves product, handles money, kills when he has to—cold, smart, ruthless.

but with you? he’s just so soft. always puts his gun on the counter before dinner. keeps his voice low when you’re tired. kisses the inside of your wrist and tugs you into his lap when you’re mad at him. carries you to bed when you fall asleep on the couch. rubs your feet without asking.

he kisses you so sweetly. calls you baby in that low voice like it’s a threat. you argue like you want to kill each other and fuck like you’re trying to bring each other back to life.

so when he comes home at night, blood on his clothes and that dead-calm look in his eye, and mutters, “need you to say i was with you tonight,”

you don’t ask. you just say: “yeah. course you were.”

(fuck it, we ball)

and some months later, he’s still in your bed. still eating all of your snacks, washing your dishes sometimes, kissing your neck with a kind of possessiveness that should be a red flag—but feels so green.

the thing is? he never lies to you. doesn’t even try to.

“i’m not clean,” he says one night, tracing tattoos along your thigh while the tv plays something neither of you are watching. “i do bad shit. and i’m not gonna stop.”

you probably should’ve left then. but instead, you kissed him.

and by the end of year one, you’re living in his apartment—scratch that, your apartment, because his name’s not on the lease. “can’t leave a paper trail, princess.” the place is cozy and yours. you got loud neighbors and a pitbull named akuma—big, gray, dumb as hell, and completely obsessed with sukuna.

“he’s gonna be a little menace to society,” you said when he brought the puppy home.

sukuna just smirked, kneeling down, scratching behind the dog’s ears. “takes after his dad.”

the three of you are like some fucked-up little family. your neighbors always side-eye you. your mom knows but chooses not to say anything anymore. and now your friends have stopped trying to talk you out of it.

and you stopped pretending you wanted out a loooong ass time ago.

fast forward to two years in: the fridge is covered in dumb polaroids. you brushing your teeth. him flipping off the camera. akuma in the middle, tongue out, wearing the stupid, gucci harness you swore was too expensive until sukuna said, “yeah, and?” and bought it anyway.

and now sukuna’s even got your name inked into the thick muscle of his forearm. right above those bold lines on his wrist.

“seriously? this isn’t like sharpie or something?” you’d asked when he came home from the tattoo shop that day.

he just smirked. “dead serious.”

when akuma jumps into bed and crushes your legs and sukuna tells him to get off but doesn’t mean it, when he presses his inked hand to your thigh while you’re watching a movie and says “gonna put a ring on it, you know that?”

you believe every word.

one day, you see the red and blue lights flash by in a blur out the window when he comes running inside the apartment—breathless—you don’t question him. idiot move but it’s because he always comes home. always throws his wallet and his keys on the counter and kisses your cheek like nothing happened. cooks dinner shirtless, muscles flexing while he flips the steak and washes his hands off in the sink.

you clean his knuckles. you patch his ribs. you kiss the crown of his head while he falls asleep on the couch with his arms around you and that’s all that matters.

but you notice how he’s been on edge. more late nights. tighter grip on your waist when you’re out. more checking the windows. more guns on the table.

“you trust me?” he asks later that night, voice low in the dark.

you’re in bed, curled against his side, tracing the black ink on his chest. akuma at your feet. his heart’s beating too fast.

you nod. “always, kuna.”

he exhales, fingers brushing over your spine.

“then no matter what happens—no matter who says what, or what you hear—you remember that. alright?”

you look up at him. search his face. “baby, what’s going on?”

he doesn’t answer. just kisses your forehead, holds you tighter.

a week goes by after that conversation. everything is almost perfect and then it’s not. it all happens so fast. it’s 2:26 a.m. quiet, maybe a little too quiet. then it’s not.

one minute you’re on the couch, hoodie on, legs tucked under you, sukuna’s head in your lap while a movie plays low in the background. he’s half-asleep, arm curled around your thigh, breathing slow like—for once—he’s letting himself rest.

then a crash. your front door kicked in. boots pounding down the hall. shouting—sharp, cold, barked like war commands.

“CLEAR.”

“LEFT SIDE.”

“MOVE MOVE MOVE—”

“HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!”

akuma is the first to react—your gray pittie, big and gentle and stupidly loyal—howling, barking like he’s ready to kill. but there are too many of them. someone yells to grab the dog. you scream his name, but they’ve already got him by the collar, dragging him back while he thrashes and whines. red and blue lights flash across the walls. guns drawn.

you’re frozen, shaking, the room is spinning.

you’re still processing—still trying to understand why there are rifles in your face. why they’re screaming your name. why they’re tearing through your drawers, your closet. why they’re grabbing sukuna’s burner phone, the rolled cash, the duffel bags, the box under the bed he told you never to touch.

sukuna’s already standing—calm. too calm. hands raised. jaw tight.

his gun’s on the coffee table. he doesn’t move. he just looks at you.

“listen to me. breathe. look at me. i told you—don’t forget, alright?”

you’re crying now. shaking. choking on air.

his eyes—sharp, red, unreadable—don’t move.

you lunge for him, but two officers grab you first and shove you against the wall. you’re screaming just trying to see him, but they’re in the way, shouting over you.

“wait—please, don’t hurt him!” you shake your head, blinking through tears, “he didn’t—he—what the fuck is going on?!”

“ryomen sukuna, you’re under arrest for organized crime, weapons trafficking, drug trafficking, assault with a deadly weapon—”

the words don’t sound real and it’s not like you didn’t know. you weren’t stupid. you just loved him too much to say it out loud.

as they read him his rights. he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t blink. he lets them cuff him—wrists behind his back, shoulders loose. they slam him into the wall and he still turns to find you.

and he’s smiling.

the cuffs are tight. your apartment’s destroyed. your dog is howling like he’s mourning a death.

but sukuna just smiles. like this is nothing. like he knew it was coming. which in hindsight, he tried to warn you something was coming.

his eyes stay on you, even through the flashlight beams, the chaos.

“it’s okay, baby,” he says, soft, just for you. “don’t cry.”

“sukuna—please, no—”

he keeps smiling. even as they start pulling him toward the door.

“i’ll be alright. i promise.”

and just before the hallway swallows him, just before the sirens drown it all out.

“baby,” he calls out again, louder this time. “look at me.”

you do, through the blur of tears, you do.

he’s got a split lip from how they man handled him, bleeding. his arms tensed behind his back. his face still calm.

“don’t worry, yeah?” voice steady. “they’re just doing their job. i’ll be fine.”

“b-but you promised—” your voice breaks. “you promised me—”

“i know.” he nods. and for the first time, the smile slips. just for a second. “i know, baby. i’m sorry.”

they drag him out towards the squad car. akuma’s losing it—thrashing against the grip on his collar, trying to follow him. you collapse to the floor, sobbing. akuma finally escapes from one of the officers and pushes his head into your side, whining like his heart’s breaking too.

as you look around, they’re bagging everything. phones. files. guns. bricks. a woman in a black blazer reads off inventory like she’s listing groceries. her voice is calm. efficient. it makes you want to scream.

while you’re left on the floor—sobbing, shaking, clutching your dog while your whole life gets zipped into evidence bags. and all you can hear is his voice, still yelling from outside:

“don’t fuckin’ touch my girl or my dog—you hear me?!”

you stare past the officer crouched in front of you, not even hearing him anymore—just watching sukuna get shoved into the back of a squad car.

and just before the door slams, he shouts, “i love you, y’know that? i’ll come back.”

the door closes.

all that was left was the mumbling of officers as they raided your apartment. after that, they take you down to the station. they question you for hours but they don’t have anything on you nor do they any info from you.

you were smart. loyal. quiet. just his girlfriend, just the love of his life. you didn’t know a damn thing. you were with him on this day. and that day. you gave them alibis for everything they tried to pin on him.

never flinched. never snitched. you held the line.

and when they finally let you go, hours later—bleary-eyed, fingers trembling, walking back into the wreckage of what used to be home—akuma’s waiting by the door. his tail thumping, eyes wide, like he doesn’t know how to stop looking for him.

and neither do you.

couple months down the line, it’s his court date. it’d been painfully long. phone calls, visits here and there but it was finally time for his sentencing.

you had gotten there early. standing in a corner, speaking with his defense attorney.

but as the time passed, the courtroom felt cold and quiet in that fake, choking way.

you’re sitting stiff in the second row, all black—tight dress, heavy coat, heels loud on the tile when you walked in. hands gripping the edge of the bench, white-knuckled as you waited.

your eyes lock on him the second he steps into the room.

sukuna walks in wearing shackles like they’re fucking jewelry. orange jumpsuit unzipped just enough to show the ink crawling up his chest. wrists cuffed, ankles too, chain connecting them down the middle.

he’s smirking like this is a joke. like he already knows how it ends. then his eyes land on you. his girl.

“hey, baby. you look good.”

“shut the fuck up,” one of the guards snaps, yanking the chain forward.

you don’t flinch. you don’t even speak. you just watch him walk to his seat like he owns the place.

he sits back like it’s a poker game. his leg bouncing, smiling. those red eyes scan the room once, like he’s bored.

then it begins. and soon enough, the judge starts reading the charges.

violent, serious shit. none of it exaggerated even a little bit.

organized crime. trafficking. assault. illegal weapons.

which again, you know what he did. you knew before the cops ever did. meanwhile everyone in the room looks at him like a monster but not you.

you don’t even blink when the jury says “guilty” after every charge and neither does he.

the judge ends the trial with his sentence, “twenty-five years. eligible for parole in seven.”

the courtroom breathes in like it just took a punch. and sukuna? sukuna just laughs. real fucking loud, ugly and real. he throws his head back like he’s in on some joke no one else gets.

the judge bangs the gavel. some man yells at him to shut up and stop laughing, the guards move fast.

he just grins through all of it then turns his head toward you, mouth split in that same damn smirk.

“still gonna write me, baby?” he calls, smug, voice booming off the walls.

you nod once—sharp. you could care less who sees.

the guards haul him up, start dragging him toward the side door. he doesn’t resist. just keeps smiling at you like he already knows you’ll be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. and he’s right.

the truth is, the charges could’ve been a hell of a lot worse. they had enough to bury him alive but you? you were a fucking godsend. every little lie was perfect. you lied through your goddamn teeth. all the fake alibis, timelines, pretending not to know what half the shit in your apartment was—had worked. even after they grilled you for hours. days. tried to shake you, to get you to break.

but you never gave them shit. you kept your voice steady, your story straight and your love for him ironclad.

and it worked. it could’ve been 40 years to life. it could’ve been no parole. it could’ve even been you, too. but here you are—still free. he’s not. but he’s still yours.

and seven years later? he’s still yours.

sure, he’s missed holidays. birthdays. every new year’s kiss. but every thursday at 3:00pm? you’re there.

you’re used to the routine now. first your ID, patdown, metal detector. pretty boring stuff.

at that point, you knew every guard by name.

you’ve done this a hundred times—plastic chairs, shitty vending machine coffee, body searches.

you don’t care because the second he walks into the visitation room everything else fades out.

he’s bigger now. broader. face leaner, eyes sharper—darker in a way that says time has passed, and prison doesn’t change people so much as refine them. orange jumpsuit rolled to the waist, white tank clinging to his chest, black ink crawling up the back of his neck like smoke.

and that grin—dangerous. crooked. just for you.

“fuck, baby,” he drawls, sliding into the seat across from you. “you get hotter every time i see you. is that a new lip gloss?”

you roll your eyes. “you gonna flirt or ask how i’ve been?”

he shrugs, smirking. “same thing.”

still cocky. still loud. still him but the edges are tighter now. more controlled like every second without you has been simmering under his skin.

there were times you’d talk. about nothing. about everything. he tells you about prison like it’s high school drama. you tell him about bills, work, new TV shows, keeping the bed warm for him. he listens like every word matters. like you’re the only real thing in his world.

“are you wearing that chain i sent you?” he asks.

you tug it out from under your hoodie—a little silver bar with his name engraved.

his grin widens. “of course you are, don’t know why i even asked.”

and sometimes, when the guards aren’t looking, he leans in close. voice low, filthy, just for you:

“you gonna let me fuck you in the conjugal trailer next month?”

“still think about that pretty little body when i fall asleep.”

“i’m gonna come home and ruin you. you know that, right?”

you squeeze your thighs together. he sees. smirks. and of course the smug bastard is proud of himself.

and sometimes it’s quiet. just the sound of your fingers tapping on the metal table. he stares at your hands like they mean something.

“seven years,” he mutters. “and you’re still here.”

you shrug. “you’d do it for me.”

he lifts a brow. “would i?”

you give him a look.

he laughs—low, warm and real. “yeah,” he says. “yeah, i fuckin’ would.”

there’s no kissing here. no touching past a handshake, a goodbye but the way he looks at you?

you feel it everywhere.

and one day, just as the guard calls time, just as he stands and stretches and leans in a little closer than he’s supposed to—

he murmurs, voice quiet, steady. “marry me when i get out.”

you blink. “what?”

but he’s already turning away, that same old grin tugging at his mouth, shouting something crass to another inmate, hands cuffed behind his back.

the door slams shut behind him.

and you’re left sitting there, heart pounding, chain warm between your fingers, replaying those words in your head.

the next time you see him, he walks in wearing that ugly-ass orange jumpsuit as usual, smile already stretching across his face the second he sees you.

“look at you,” he says, voice low and filthy despite the guards. “dressed all nice for your criminal boyfriend.”

you roll your eyes. “you asked me to.”

“yeah. and you listened. you always do” he leans in. “always such a good girl for me.”

the tension’s thick. his wrists are cuffed, but his eyes are on you like he’s already got his hands around your throat.

“heard the news?” he asks casually, voice like honey dipped in gasoline. “early release. next month.”

your breath catches. “wait, are you serious?”

“mmhm.” he leans back, tongue flicking over his teeth. “good behavior.” he grins. “just for you.”

he’s been cleaning up—no fights, no smuggling, no stabbings in the yard, even though he wants to. because he wants to see you again. wants his hands on you. his mouth. wants you under him, not across the table.

“been thinkin’ about what I’m gonna do to you first,” he says, voice lower now, eyes burning. “once i get out.”

you swallow and shift in your seat. “are you gonna behave?”

he laughs. full-bodied, dark. “fuck no. i’m gonna ruin you.”

he leans forward, chained wrists clinking on the table, eyes locked on yours.

“i’ve been locked up seven years, princess. do you know how much time i’ve spent thinking about that sweet little body under mine?”

you feel your cheeks heat, but you don’t look away.

“you better be ready,” he says, voice rough now. “’cause i’m gonna spend the first night out fucking you like i’m tryna get sent right back.”

so thankfully, he’s the kind of inmate that runs the damn yard but keeps his nose clean just enough to qualify for early release. he did beat someone’s ass in the showers last month for talking sideways about you—but still managed to earn “good behavior” by bribing the guards and running literacy programs like a deranged philanthropist.

next time you hear from him he calls you from the jail phone with that lazy, smug tone:

“two more weeks. then i’m home. you ready for that, princess?”

“depends. are you gonna kill anyone again?”

“no, baby. i’m a changed man, pinky promise.”

a pause. “unless they touch you.”

but life as a prisoner’s girlfriend had been interesting to say the least. some your favorite memories though?

the video call visits. the video calls hit different.

you answer from the bed, in his hoodie that thankfully still smelled like him, all soft lighting and skin and love in your eyes.

the screen flickers—and there he is.

inmate #966666. your man. arms crossed, face lit by the shitty fluorescent light in the visiting block. buzzed short on the sides, salmon pink thick on top. face tattoos sharp even in pixelation. smirking. cocky. starved.

“there’s my girl,” he rumbles, leaning in like he’s trying to reach through the screen. “lookin’ all cozy in our bed.”

you smile, soft. “missed you today.”

he leans back, legs spread, grinning. “yeah? say it again.”

you roll your eyes, giggling. “missed you.”

“mm,” he hums. “missed you more, baby. how’s our place lookin’? bought anything new for me to come home to?”

and you have—so you flip the camera around, showing off the new record shelf, the little framed photo of you two from before, and the rug you’ve been saving for.

“can’t wait for you to see it for real,” you say quietly. “can’t wait till you come home.”

his face softens—just barely. eyes half-lidded.

“me neither, princess. every night i picture it. you. the apartment. our bed. my hands all over you again.”

you bring the camera back to yourself, and akuma sits up on the floor beside your bed, tail thumping.

sukuna lights up like a kid on christma.

the dog perks up at his voice, sniffs the screen, tail going harder.

“yo, come here, big man,” he coos. “you takin’ care of my girl, huh? keepin’ her warm at night? …better not be sleepin’ on my fuckin’ pillow.”

you both laugh. but you already know when sukuna gets out, he’s picking that big soft baby up in his arms like it’s nothing, and probably crying into his fur when no one’s looking.

and the letters? worth framing.

he sends them folded perfectly, sprayed with just a hint of your favorite cologne. immaculate. front-and-back, always. tight, clean handwriting. detailed as hell—how he’s doing, what he’s thinking about. sweet shit like “wish i could hold you right now. need it bad.” and spicy shit like: “wanna fuck you face-down ass-up the minute I’m out.” “was dreamin’ about you last night. woke up hard. you owe me.”

one of his first letters had said:

hey baby, how are you? miss you real bad. i woke up thinkin’ about your laugh. that one that comes out when you’re tryin’ not to snort. i miss it. miss you. drawn your face from memory like four times now. don’t tell nobody, they’ll say i’m gettin’ soft. been missing your smell. you smell like home. that sweet vanilla shit you always put on. i look at your pictures every night. even got one under my pillow. even when they toss my cell, i hide it like it’s fuckin’ contraband. you’re my peace. can’t lose you princess.

then they’d switch, just like that.

you know, i thought about that one night. you dancing in the kitchen, making soup, wearing those little shorts. you remember the ones? yeah. me too. that’s why i wrote this with one hand. also last night i laid in this goddamn bunk and imagined the sound you make when you take your bra off after a long day. hard as a rock. you’re such a fuckin’ problem. do you still wear that lacey one i like? the one that barely holds anything? bet your titties are sittin’ real pretty in it right now. fuck me.

i miss how you say my name when you’re tired. i miss how you say it when you’re on top. i miss your thighs around my neck. i miss your mouth. i miss being inside you so deep you forget your own fuckin’ name.

but more than that? i miss watching you eat dinner across from me. i miss you bitchin’ about your coworkers. i miss your fingers in my hair when i can’t sleep. i don’t give a fuck how long it takes, you’re it for me.

and he always had a sketch tucked inside. sometimes it’s little things—your side profile, your body. or sharp, shaded tattoos—ones he designed for you. (something he did on the side when he was still a law abiding citizen). his name in kanji. a snake coiled around a katana surrounded by lilies.

this one’s for your spine. wanna see it when i fuck you from behind.

then, right under that like he didn’t just make you cry and wet at the same time:

…also. take it easy at work. remember to eat. and kiss akuma for me. shit, also, can you put some extra on my books? tryna get you something for your birthday. don’t ask what. it’s not a weapon, swear.

and you do—put money on his books, no hesitation. commissary’s got nothing on you. he’s got honey buns, decent ramen, and the best soap on his block. your man is moisturized and fed. period.

and at the end of a long, loving, slightly filthy letter, he always signed in that perfect script: “ryo. always yours.”

you kept every letter in a shoebox under your bed, every sketch on your corkboard. you read them on bad days. and good ones.

you always wrote back, too— keeping him updated with everything. little doodles, lipstick kisses on the envelope, spritz of perfume here and here. snuck in polaroids of you and akuma. even some spicy ones for his eyes only. always signed with “your/name, always & forever <3.”

oh and those conjugal visits? they most deeeefinitely take the cake.

you had waited weeks for them, marked off in red hearts on the calendar.

one of the first visits:

you walk into that little cold-ass private trailer with a bag packed—cute pajamas, your favorite lotion, that perfume he likes. he’s already there when you arrive, looking like sin in his real clothes. not that orange jumpsuit he’s usually in. eyes glued to you the second you step in.

then he softens. just a little.

you stand. don’t even say anything. just walk straight into his arms. he buries his face in your neck, breath catching like it’s the first inhale he’s had since they locked the door behind him.

“fuck,” he mutters. “you smell good. gonna feel even better.”

his hands are everywhere. rough palms on your waist, your thighs, your ass. lips dragging over your skin like he’s starved—and he is.

he grabs your waist fast, pulls you in for a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth, rough like he’s been starving for you.

“got something to show you,” you whisper, breathless already.

you turn around, pull your dress up, and tug the side of your thong down just enough to show him—

small script. his name. right cheek. close to the curve of your hip.

he goes still. his hand on your ass, thumb dragging right over it. then he finally speaks.

“nah, what the fuck,” he laughs, eyes wide, voice shaking. “you got my name tatted on you?”

you look back over your shoulder, smiling.

“been had it. waited to show you in person.”

his hands are now rubbing all over you, gripping that ass with both hands like it’s his last meal. but then, he’s got you onto the bed so fast the mattress groans. pulls your dress over your head and yanks your panties down. he stares like he’s looking at something holy.

“missed this mouth,” he groans, spreading your legs, licking up your slick with a filthy moan. “missed how fuckin’ sweet you are when you’re beggin’.”

you gasp, already squirming.

he fully buries face between your thighs, hands gripping your waist like he’s starving and hasn’t had a real meal since he got locked up. moaning into your cunt, licking like it’s his last day alive.

“taste like fuckin’ heaven,” he groans. “missed this fuckin’ pussy so bad. missed how you sound when i’m inside you.”

after a two or three orgasms from his tongue and fingers, he finally fucks you. it’s deep, rough, desperate. your legs around his waist, your back arching off the mattress while he pounds into you like he’s making up for lost time. his tip hitting that sweet spot repeatedly in your pussy that makes your body take a fucking screenshot. teeth on your neck, fingers digging into your hips right below where his name is inked into your skin.

he just mutters filthy shit in your ear:

“you got my name on you, and now you’re gonna take all of me.”

“this ass? mine.”

“gonna fuck you so good you dream about it ‘til the next visit.”

then he flips you both, makes you ride him, sucking your tits while they bounce, eyes half-lidded.

“shiiiit, sweetheart—gonna fuck a baby into you in this nasty little room if you’re not careful,” he grits.

and you just moan louder, hands in his hair, riding the edge of pure bliss.

“missed you,” you whisper, staring up at him, cradling his face.

he kisses you. hard. filthy. then soft.

he pulls away breathless. jaw slack, panting like a dog in heat.

“fuck, baby—come on. gimme that shit. come all over my dick. show me how much you missed it.”

you do. messy. loud. milking him for all he’s got.

and he follows right after, hands gripping your ass so hard they’re sure to leave bruises as he cums deep and desperate.

and when he’s done, he kisses your neck, arms wrapped around you.

“gonna marry you when i get out,” he whispers. “i swear.”

you both lie on the tiny mattress after some much needed TLC. tangled up, his head between your tits, your fingers in his hair. he traces your tattoo with his fingers.

“gonna take care of you right, when i get out,” he murmurs, voice rough. “no more bullshit.”

you kiss his jaw. whisper back. “i know.”

and when you left that day, sore and glowing, your man watched you walk away as the guards put the cuffs back on him, mouth curled into a grin, voice low like a promise:

“keep my side of the bed warm, baby. i’m comin’ home. promise.”

and the day he gets out, you’re already there.

you’re standing by the gate before the sun’s even up. his hoodie on, necklace with his name around your neck. you’re trying to play it cool, but your hands won’t stop shaking.

and when that gate finally opened, when ryomen sukuna steps out, a free man, tattoos gleaming in the morning light, black tee hugging his chest, hair grown out just a little, grin already forming.

you don’t even get a word out before he grabs you, spins you around like a goddamn princess. his hands firm on your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing, face buried in your neck.

“fuck, baby,” he breathes. “missed you so fuckin’ bad.”

you’re laughing. crying a little. arms wrapped around his shoulders so tight it hurts.

he sets you down, but barely. just enough to kiss your cheeks, your jaw, your nose, and then he pulls back, still holding your face like it’s precious.

“you ready?”

you blink. “for what?”

he grins. big. so sure.

“courthouse. thirty minutes away. judge’s on lunch break. said he’ll squeeze us in.”

you blink again. “wait, the fuck? are you—you’re serious?”

“sweetheart,” he says, already dragging you toward the car, “i’ve been locked up seven fuckin’ years. i’m so serious.”

cut to an hour later: courthouse.

fluorescent lights. ugly tile. fake bouquet from the clerk’s desk in your hand. cheap rings in a little box you picked up from the nearest pawn shop on the way there. you didn’t even have time to change. he didn’t care. not even a little.

“you look perfect,” he mutters, adjusting your hoodie like it’s designer couture. “i’m gonna wife you up in my hoodie. that’s so hard.”

you roll your eyes. “you’re such a dumbass.”

“your dumbass now,” he grins emphasizing the your. “permanently.”

you say your vows that came straight from the heart in a cheap government office, between a sleepy officiant and a laminated “no food or drink” sign.

but he looks at you like you’re in a white dress on a mountaintop.

he kisses your hand when he slides the ring on.

says “’bout fuckin’ time,” loud enough that the clerk snorts.

and when they say “you may now kiss—”

he doesn’t wait. he pulls you in, kisses you like he’s trying to breathe through you. it’s deep and messy and a little bit desperate.

you giggle against his mouth.

he presses his forehead to yours, still grinning.

“mrs. ryomen fuckin’ sukuna,” he says proudly. “finally.”

you walk out as husband and wife.

he pulls you in by the hips and kisses you again in the parking lot, hands low, grin wide.

“made good on that promise, yeah?”

you decide not to do anything fancy. no champagne. no five-star dinner.

you celebrate the only way you know how—greasy as hell.

just burgers and fries at that little place you used to talk about in letters and phone calls—the one with the neon sign and checkered floors. sukuna orders double everything, and he’s across from you in sweats and an ankle monitor, eating like a man who forgot what real food tastes like.

he steals your fries when you’re not looking. you slap his hand.

he smirks. “married now, baby. my fries too.”

you share a milkshake. vanilla. extra whipped cream. two straws.

he stares at you across the table like he still doesn’t believe you’re real.

“you know i dreamed about this?” he says, voice rough from grease and emotion. “used to lay there and think about you, right across from me, doing this exact same shit.”

you smile. press your foot against his under the table.

“dream about the milkshake or me?”

he snorts. “both. obviously.”

he takes your hand and kisses your ring finger, red eyes locked on yours and filled with so much love.

and when you finally drive home—real home—his leg’s bouncing the whole way. you both get off the car and head up the steps and you unlock the front door.

“you sure he’s not gonna bite me?”

you snort. “you’re the one who taught him to go for the ankles.”

the apartment is quiet when you pull up. it’s familiar to him, but different. newer furniture. he’s seen it all in video calls but it’s different in person now. his shoes aren’t by the door anymore, but everything else—everything you—is still here. still home.

he hesitates at the threshold. just for a second. like he’s afraid it’ll vanish if he walks in. but then—

“AKUMA!” you call out, voice soft but firm.

and there’s the sound of scrambling paws, claws on the hardwood, and then akuma’s there—gray, stocky, a little older, but still full of love and joy.

the pitbull barrels into the room like he’s about to tear through the walls, skids to a stop, and freezes when he sees him.

sukuna kneels down, slow, whispering. “…yo.”

akuma just stares at first—like he’s short-circuiting. akuma sniffs the air. tail wags once. then again. and then he launches.

sukuna catches all 70 pounds of him like it’s nothing, falling back onto his ass with a grunt as akuma licks at his face like he’s trying to put seven years of love into one minute.

“fuck—okay, okay—goddamn—” sukuna’s laughing, arms tight around the dog’s back, fingers gripping his fur like he’s afraid he’ll disappear again.

akuma’s whining, tail a blur of chaos, body wriggling like he can’t get close enough.

and sukuna—your big, bad, tatted-up, ex-convict husband?

he fucking cries. silent at first. then not. (expected)

his shoulders were shaking, arms wrapped tight around the dog, forehead pressed to his fur.

you just watch from the doorway. hands over your mouth. heart splitting. he looks up at you, eyes wet.

“fuck, baby,” he says, voice cracking. “i didn’t think—i didn’t know if—”

you kneel beside him. touch his back. “he never stopped waiting,” you whisper. “neither did i.”

he pulls you both in—you and akuma—his whole world in his arms now. big, calloused hands around your waist. akuma draped across your laps like a living blanket.

you sit beside him. curl against his side.

“god, y/n, you—fuck—i…,” he whispers into akuma’s fur. “didn’t think i’d get to see you again.”

and for the first time in seven years, sukuna lets himself feel safe.

after you both settle in, it’s quiet now. real quiet. not prison quiet.

no locks clanking. no cell doors slamming. no count. no cold tile or shitty mattress. home quiet.

you’re both clean—fresh from a hot shower, towel-dried hair, his hands all over you the entire time like he couldn’t believe you were real. when he brushed his teeth, he kept making jokes about “first night as a free man, i’m getting minty for my wife.”

his wife.

he’s got everything he dreamed about for the last seven years. sheets that smell like you. a real bed. a dim lamp in the corner next to a photo of you, him & akuma.

and you—standing in the doorway, wearing nothing but one of his old shirts and a look that says finally.

the ring glints on your finger in the dark. he exhales like he’s never really breathed before. he sits on the edge of the bed for a while. just stares at the wall.

you don’t rush him. you know what’s going on in that handsome head of his. this is the place he got arrested in. the same room they tore apart. same windows, same shadows.

“seven years,” he murmurs. “first night back in my bed.”

you walk over. slow. crawl into his lap and wrap your arms around his neck.

“our bed,” you whisper.

he swallows. hard. hands settling on your hips.

eyes drinking you in like he can’t believe you’re real. like maybe he’s still dreaming in some concrete box.

“you’re my wife,” he says, voice thick. “fuckin’ wife.”

you smile against his lips. “so make me feel like it.”and that’s all it takes.

he kisses you hard—mouth desperate, like he’s catching up for all the years he couldn’t. he pulls your shirt over your head, kisses the top of your chest first, then lower. his hands are everywhere. reverent. hungry. he grabs your thighs, flips you onto your back, crawls down between your legs like he’s starving.

and he is.

he pulls your panties off with his teeth. kisses your inner thighs like he’s praying. then licks into you, slow and deep, groaning when your fingers tangle in his hair.

“sweetest fuckin’ thing,” he murmurs against your pussy. “missed this taste every night. used to jerk off thinkin’ about this right here.”

he eats like he’s got time to worship. not rough. not rushed. just…grateful. long licks, fingers curling inside, nose pressed to your clit until your thighs are shaking and your hips are grinding into his face.

“go ahead, baby. be a good girl and come on my face. it’s your first night as my wife. i got shit to prove.”

you come hard. breathless. crying out his name.

and he doesn’t stop. not until your thighs are twitching. not until he’s satisfied.

then he crawls back up, drags your mouth to his, lets you taste yourself on his lips.

“sit on it,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “wanna watch you ride me. wanna feel all of it.”

you straddle him, slow, sinking down onto his cock until you’re full—so fucking full it steals your breath.

he moans, head tipping back, gripping your hips, watching every inch disappear.

“my fuckin’ wife,” he breathes. “look at you.” you move slow at first, hands on his chest, grinding your hips like you’ve got nowhere else to be for the rest of your life.

and he loves it.

he’s got his hands all over you. one on your waist, the other cupping your breast, thumb brushing your nipple.

he fucks up into you, matching your pace, mouth dragging across your throat.

“seven fuckin’ years,” he pants. “you know how many times i dreamed of this?”

you’re shaking now. gasping.

“show me,” you whisper. “show me how bad you wanted it.”

he flips you fast—so fast—lays you down on his bed for the first time in seven years, and fucks you deep, slow, deliberate. the room filled with the most obscene sounds. bed creaking, the sweet, wet squelch of your pussy and his balls slapping against your ass.

he kisses your fingers. your mouth. your ring.

“mine,” he whispers into your neck. “forever. mine.”

you come again. this time with his name in your mouth and his hand locked with yours.

he follows right after—groaning low, buried deep inside you, face pressed to your chest. (definitely pregnant after that)

you collapse on top of him. he wraps you up. presses kisses to your hair. just lays there, breathing with you, forehead to yours, thumb brushing your cheek.

“thank you,” he whispers. “for waiting. for staying. for not giving up on me.”

no more grainy phone calls. no more visits. no more letters. just the two of you home with nothing between you but peace.

he rubs his hand over your back, voice soft.

“we’re good now, yeah?”

you nod, half-asleep. “mhm.”

“told you i’d come back.” he whispers.

after that, it gets quiet again. except akuma’s snoring in the corner like a damn freight train. the door’s locked. the city’s asleep.

and you’re in bed, legs tangled with your husband’s, skin warm from hours of sex and laughter and most of all—relief.

sukuna’s on his back, one arm around your waist, the other tucked behind his head.

he’s watching the ceiling like it owes him something, blinking slow, chest still rising a little too fast. like he can’t quite believe any of this is real.

you lean over him, kiss the ink on his collarbone.

he smiles—lazy and smug—as usual.

“what?” you murmur, tracing a line down his stomach.

he glances at you, eyes half-lidded. “just thinking.”

“oof, that’s dangerous.” you tease.

he huffs a laugh. “yeah.”

you wait and then he says it—quiet, almost like a joke.

“remember the party?”

you blink. “the one where we met. over some shitty, warm beer that toji picked up at the corner store?”

“mmhm.” he smirks, but softer now. “the one where yuki told you not to talk to me.”

you laugh. full and real. “‘don’t. he’s crazy, jail-time type shit.’”

“and you came and sat on my lap anyway.”

“i meeean, you were hot.” you shrug.

“and you’re an idiot.”

you smile, curl into his side, cheek resting on his shoulder.

he presses a kiss to your forehead, knuckles brushing your bare spine.

“guess i should thank your dumbass friend,” he mutters, voice low, already fading into sleep. “she’s the reason i met my wife. my ride or die.”

you smile and don’t say anything. you just hold him tighter, like you’re afraid he’ll disappear all over again.

two years in, then seven apart.

crime. then courtrooms. then shitty vending machine coffee. hundreds of letters and visits.

and now he’s here, tucked against your side, finally. fully.

yours in a way no one ever thought he should be.

you whisper, barely a breath. “guess you’re not so crazy after all, huh?”

he stirs—doesn’t open his eyes—but he hears you and with a rough, half-asleep laugh, he mutters.

“still fuckin’ crazy.”

then he kisses your shoulder, presses closer, and falls back asleep with his hand curled around your wedding ring.

you’re just starting to drift off—his breathing slow against your skin, your fingers still tangled in his hair—when the mattress shifts with a heavy thud.

then a groan.

“no. absolutely the fuck not—” sukuna mumbles, voice hoarse.

akuma, in all his 70-pound glory, launched himself onto the bed. sprawling across both of you like he’s claiming his spot. head wedged on your stomach, paws kicking into sukuna’s ribs.

you laugh, half-asleep. “aw, kuuuna. baby, he missed you.”

sukuna sighs, glaring at the ceiling.

“seven years in prison, and i come home to my traitorous cockblockin’ dog.”

akuma lets out a loud sigh and promptly starts snoring. loud and obnoxious.

you kiss his little boxy head and then sukuna’s temple, still grinning.

sukuna grumbles something under his breath—but his arm curls tighter around both of you.

and you’re pretty sure you heard him mutter the words, “thanks…whoever’s out there.”

© j3llyc4kes

:3 please check out my other works! here’s the master list! <3

a/n: this was pretty long! been sitting on this for about a month now, hopefully you all enjoyed it! let me know if i should continue this or leave it as is! t