I wonder who I would be today if I didn’t develop an obsession with fanficion when I was 11

GENUIS BILLIONAIRE PLAYBOY PHILANTHROPIST

synopsis: being the personal assistant (and fucktoy) to one of the world's most famous men used to be amazing. until half the city's villains realized you meant more to him than just his average employee. even if gojo didn't seem to figure it out for himself - until you quit. but instead of taking care of yourself, another version of him swoops in to save the day. older. wiser. hotter. can your gojo win you back? or will you choose a different life - and universe?

pairing: iron man!gojo x assistant!reader x alt. universe!gojo

wc: 4-5kish (inspired by this drabble)

content: mdni. smut. angst. plot with porn. mutual pining. jealousy. gojo is down bad. but also a hot mess lmfao. emotional constipation. unprotected piv sex. creampies. complicated feelings. more tags will be added. gorgeous gojo art above is by @rezijellyfish

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"You can't just quit."

"I don't know why you thought I was joking," you muttered, scooping up your stuff and neatly stacking it in boxes as you let out a low exhale.

His hands were on your hips. Wrinkling your skirt as they slid down your thighs, sneaking under the tight fabric as he whined in your ear. "Don't do this to me."

"Gojo," you huffed at him, shaking your head as you tried to grab your hand, struggling to summon the willpower to pry his rough fingers off of you. They used to be soft. Used to be tender. His touches had been so gentle back then, barely breezing over your skin when he leaned in.

But that was before.

Before the suit.

A thousand near-death experiences ago.

You were both different now.

"I hate it when you call me Gojo," he complained, thumb catching the band of your panties.

"I can't," you swallowed hard, throat constricting as you twisted away from him.

"We're a team," he coaxed, even though it sounded like it physically hurt him to say it. Attempting to convince you to stay like you hadn't made your mind up a couple hospital trips ago.

Where they plucked glass out of your skin from a shattered window you happened to be near during one of his rescue attempts. Or maybe it was the one where they had to stitch up a cut you'd gotten slicing ropes off around your ankles when you saved yourself.

At some point, it had started to sink in that there would come a day where you wouldn't be able to save yourself. That he would come - but he would come too late.

Being by Gojo's side was a death sentence.

"I need time," you lied, shrugging your shoulders as you lifted the box and walked out of his office door. You didn't think a few weeks would change your mind. Months either. Even if you knew you'd miss him every second. "I'm sorry."

"Fine," he called out, and you knew he wouldn't chase you.

His stupid pride would never let him do it - even if the heart he had left wanted to.

"I don't need you," he added, and you didn't know who he was trying to convince.

Him? Or you?

You guessed it didn't matter.

You still almost bawled on the way home at the bitter understanding that it was really over.

Wiping away tears with the back of your hand, sniffling as you carried your box of stuff up to your front door, twisting the key in the lock as you tried to tell yourself that this was for the best.

That this way, you'd live.

You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from crying even more, pushing open the front door and dropping the box almost immediately as you leaned back on the solid wood to shut it the moment you were inside. About to slide down the surface and let yourself mourn what could've been when your bleary eyes opened - and you belatedly realized someone else was standing inside your living room.

"Gojo," you breathed, barely understanding what was in front of you as your not-boss stepped forward. He wasn't wearing the same clothes as before, his business casual attire traded for a quite frankly filthy iron suit. "Did something happen? What are you-"

His helmet pulled back, but his face was different.

It was still him. But also not him.

White little scars littering his skin, those familiar blue eyes hardened and harsh as they settled on your face. Meeting your stare with an intensity that sorta terrified you.

"Satoru?" Your voice trembled, and you were reaching for the door knob, something inside you screaming to run. But before you could even move, he was bridging the distance, cool metal fingers cupping your face - and then he was kissing you.

Hot and hungry, sucking on your bottom lip like he had to taste your cherry chapstick, groaning into your mouth as his tongue slipped between your lips. Maybe you should've pushed him off, but it felt nice to be kissed like that. With warmth.

And when he pulled back, it was pure want in his fevered stare.

"I need you."

div cr: @/tsumiinum

insatiable habits | ryomen sukuna

pairing: hard dom!sukuna x sub!reader (x soft dom!satoru)

summary: panicked that sukuna is starting to lose interest in your dom/sub relationship, you turn to drastic measures to regain his attention by flirting with another man

word count: 7.4k

content: 18+ mdni, smut, sugar daddy sukuna, dom/sub dynamics, established relationship, age gap (sukuna is older), full-time BDSM arrangement, hard dom!sukuna, insecurity, jealousy, catching feelings, piv, anal, threesome, spanking, blow jobs, degradation, fingering, edging, humiliation, reader is a freak, sukuna is harsh but cares deeply about reader, satoru is just happy to be there

a/n: this is the same reader as this dom!sukuna one shot I did a while ago, so you can get more context to their relationship there if you want it!

Really, it was his own fault you’d acted out. 

He hadn’t had much time for you lately, always busy with work, always tired whenever he made it home. Sure, he’d still fuck you most evenings, but it would be quick and vanilla - nothing more than him fulfilling a need before passing out in bed. 

There’s been no play - no tying you up for hours on end, no spanking, no threatening, no locking you up overnight in the dog crate for misbehaviour. Hell, for the last few weeks you’d even had the privilege of spending every single night in his bed, a reward that you’d previously had to fight to earn. 

And as much as your complaints might sound insane to most normal people, Sukuna’s recent kindness was driving you up the wall. 

You were bored. You missed the thrill. You missed his genuine attention. 

Until the Last Arrow.

- Attack on Titan x Hunger games au

Part I

Jean Kirstein x Reader

Enemies to lovers | Slow burn | Angst | 18+

Word count 15.3k

Summary: You know how to survive. Jean knows how to piss you off. Thrown into the Hunger Games as complete strangers, the two have no reason to trust each other, and every reason to stay apart. But the arena has a way of turning enemies into allies. And sometimes, the person you never expected to survive with becomes the one you can’t bear to lose. Until the Last Arrow. 𓂃۶ৎ

⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹

The Reaping.

The morning of the Reaping always came too quietly. No bells. No warning. No great announcement from the Capitol echoing through the streets. Just sunlight slipping through the thin curtains of your bedroom window, warming the floorboards inch by inch as the morning crept into your room. For a few seconds after waking, you forgot. You stared blankly at the ceiling, still caught somewhere between sleep and consciousness, listening to the familiar sounds of your home. The clatter of dishes downstairs. Your mother’s footsteps. The faint creak of the old floorboards beneath your father’s weight.

Someone coughing. The kettle beginning to whistle. Normal sounds. Safe sounds. You closed your eyes again. Just for a moment…then you remembered what day it was. Your eyes opened. The Reaping. You remained beneath the blankets for another few seconds, staring at the ceiling. Every year, people told themselves the same thing. It won’t be me. You had heard it since you were little. You had said it yourself. Everyone did. There were too many names in that glass ball for yours to possibly be chosen. That was what you told yourself.

Eventually, you forced yourself out of bed. The floor was cold beneath your feet. You pulled on the simple dress your mother had laid out the night before. It wasn’t anything special. Nothing in your house was. The fabric had already been worn by someone else before it reached you, and one of the seams had been repaired twice. Your mother had washed it carefully anyway. She always did things like that. You stood in front of the small mirror and attempted to tame your hair with your fingers. It refused to cooperate. You sighed. A soft knock came from your door.

“You’re awake?” Your mother’s voice. “Yeah.” She opened the door slightly. Her eyes immediately found you. For a moment, neither of you said anything. She smiled. It wasn’t quite a real smile. “You look beautiful.” You laughed softly.“Mom.” “What?” “It’s a dress I’ve worn three times.” “Four.” You turned toward her. “Four?” She nodded solemnly. “Four.” You smiled. She walked into the room and began fixing your hair herself. You sat quietly while her fingers worked through the tangles. When you were younger, she’d done this every morning. You’d sit between her knees while she braided your hair before school, complaining that she pulled too hard.

She’d always tell you to stop squirming. You hadn’t stopped. She hadn’t stopped braiding your hair. Some things had remained the same. Your eyes met hers through the mirror. She looked tired. Older than she had yesterday. You reached up and caught her hand. “Mom.” She stopped. “I’m okay.”Her expression softened. “I know.” “You don’t have to worry.” She looked at you for a long moment. Then she leaned down and kissed the top of your head. “I’m your mother. That’s what I do.” You smiled faintly. “I love you.”Her fingers tightened around your shoulder. “I love you too.”

She finished your hair. Then she stepped away. “Come eat.”You followed her downstairs. Your father was already sitting at the table. He looked up when you entered. For a second, his face softened. “There she is.” You smiled. “Morning.”“Morning, sweetheart.” Your younger sibling was sitting beside him, still half asleep, their cheek pressed against the table. You walked over and gently tapped their shoulder. “Wake up.” They groaned. “No.” “You’ll miss breakfast.” “I don’t care.” “You said that yesterday.” “I meant it yesterday.”You laughed quietly. Your father shook his head. “Leave them alone.” “They’re going to sleep through the Reaping.”“They’re not going.” You looked at him. He paused. “Too young.”

Your smile faded slightly. Right. Of course. You hadn’t thought about it. Your eyes moved toward the window. Outside, the streets were already beginning to fill. People were dressed in their best clothes. Children were being pulled along by their parents. Nobody was smiling. You turned back to the table. Your mother placed a plate in front of you. It wasn’t much. Bread. Eggs. A little fruit. You stared at it. “You made all this?” “Of course.” “You didn’t have to.” “I wanted to.” You picked up a piece of bread. Your father watched you. “Eat.” “I am.” “You’ve been staring at it.” “I’m appreciating it.” He snorted. “You always did have a strange way of appreciating things.” You smiled.

Then you tore the bread in half. You placed the larger piece on your younger sibling’s plate. They looked at it. Then at you. “You don’t want it?” “I’m full.” Your father immediately noticed. “You haven’t eaten anything.” “I ate earlier.” “You did not.” Your mother gave him a look. He sighed. You laughed softly. “Seriously. I’m okay.” Your father looked at you. Really looked at you. Then he reached across the table and squeezed your hand. “Whatever happens today…” He stopped. Your mother looked down. Your sibling suddenly became very interested in their plate. You swallowed. Your father continued quietly.

“Whatever happens today, remember that we love you.” Your chest tightened. You smiled anyway. “I know.” He squeezed your hand once more. “And you come home.” You looked at him. “I will.” You said it so easily. Like it was a promise you could make. Like coming home was a choice. Like the Capitol couldn’t take that from you. Your father smiled. “Good.” You reached across the table and took your mother’s hand too. Then your sibling’s. For a few seconds, all four of you sat like that. Connected. Quiet. Together. You wished you could freeze the moment. You didn’t know why. Maybe some part of you already understood that mornings like this were precious.

You finished breakfast. You helped your mother clear the dishes despite her insisting you didn’t have to. You washed the plates. Your father dried them. Your sibling complained about being forced to help. You laughed at them. Your mother smiled. For a few minutes, the Reaping didn’t exist. There was only your family. Your home. Your hands covered in soap. The familiar warmth of the kitchen. Then the clock struck the hour. Everything stopped. Your mother looked toward the clock. Your father lowered the dish towel. Your sibling went silent. You dried your hands.

“It’s time.” Nobody answered. You walked to the front door. Your mother followed. Your father came behind her. Your sibling remained near the table. You looked back. “Come here.” They shook their head. “Just come here.” They slowly walked toward you. You crouched and pulled them into your arms. They wrapped their arms around your neck. You held them tightly. “I’ll see you later.” They didn’t answer. You pulled back. Their eyes were wet. You brushed your thumb beneath one of them. “Hey.” They sniffled. “You promised.” “I know.” “You said you’d come home.” “I will.” They nodded. You kissed their forehead. Then stood. Your mother was crying. You immediately walked over and hugged her.

She held you so tightly it almost hurt. You didn’t complain. You just held her. Your father stood beside you. When your mother finally let go, he stepped forward. His arms wrapped around you. You closed your eyes. For one moment, you allowed yourself to be afraid. Then you pulled away. “I love you.” Your father nodded. “We love you.” You looked at them one last time. Then you opened the door. The morning air was cool. The street outside was crowded. People were already walking toward the town square. You stepped onto the road.

Your mother called after you. You turned. She smiled through her tears. You smiled back. Then you began walking. You didn’t know it yet, but this would be the last morning you ever spent with your family as the girl who had simply gone to breakfast. By nightfall, you would be a tribute. And somewhere far beyond your district, another name would be drawn. Jean Kirstein. A boy you’d never met. A boy who had no idea you existed. A boy who would eventually become the one person in the arena you couldn’t bring yourself to kill.

But for now, you were only walking. Toward the square. Toward the stage. Toward the glass bowl filled with thousands of names. And toward the moment your life would change forever.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

The walk to the square felt shorter than it should have. You had walked this road hundreds of times. You knew every crack in the pavement, every crooked fence, every house with flowers growing beneath its windows. You knew which shopkeepers would be standing outside to watch the procession and which families would stay behind their curtains until the Peacekeepers forced them out. Today, everything looked different. The streets were crowded. Mothers fixed collars and smoothed skirts. Fathers stood rigidly beside their families, their faces carefully blank.

Nobody spoke very loudly. Nobody laughed. The closer you got to the square, the tighter the crowd became. You kept your hands folded in front of you, your fingers occasionally brushing against one another. Your heart hadn’t stopped racing since you left home. You tried not to think about the glass bowls. You tried not to think about the names. You tried not to think about the possibility that your own name might be inside one of them. When you reached the square, Peacekeepers directed everyone into their assigned sections. You were separated from your family almost immediately.

You turned your head. Your mother was standing several rows away. Your eyes found hers. She gave you a small smile. You returned it. Then a Peacekeeper motioned for you to move forward. You obeyed. Your district’s tributes were being organized near the front. You recognized most of the faces. Some were people you had known since childhood. Others you had only seen around town. Everyone looked terrified. Then you noticed something strange. There were people standing near the stage who didn’t belong to your district. You frowned. They weren’t dressed like the others.

Their clothes were more elaborate. Their skin tones, accents, and features varied. Some were accompanied by unfamiliar officials. You looked around. There were several of them. Tributes. But not from here. You had heard rumors. Everyone had. The Capitol had begun selecting tributes from outside the traditional districts for this year’s Games. Special selections. Foreign tributes. People chosen specifically for the event. You didn’t know why. You didn’t particularly care. Not yet. Your attention drifted across the group. Then you saw him. He was standing several places away from you.

A young man. Around your age, you thought. Maybe a little older. He stood with his hands loosely clasped behind his back, looking toward the stage with an expression that was almost bored. Almost. He was handsome. Annoyingly so. Ash brown hair fell messily across his forehead, almost a shade of pink to it. There was something sharp about his features that made him stand out even among the unfamiliar faces. He didn’t look particularly frightened. Or at least, he didn’t look like he wanted anyone to know that he was. A Peacekeeper said something to him. The young man turned his head.

“Oui.” The word was quiet. His accent was unmistakable. French. You looked away. You had never met a French person before. Not in person, anyway. You had heard the language occasionally on Capitol broadcasts, but hearing it spoken so close was different. The boy glanced toward you. You caught his eye. For a moment, neither of you looked away. His eyes traveled over you briefly. Not disrespectfully. More like he was trying to figure out who you were. Then his eyebrows lifted slightly. You looked away first. You didn’t know why. Perhaps because today wasn’t a day for staring at strangers. Perhaps you didn’t want to give yourself another thing to think about.

The stage came into view. Two large glass bowls stood beneath the Capitol banners. One for the girls. One for the boys. Your stomach twisted. You swallowed. A woman stepped onto the stage. Her clothes were extravagant. Too extravagant. Bright fabric. Glittering jewelry. A smile that didn’t belong on a day like this. The crowd became completely silent. You could hear the wind. You could hear someone breathing beside you. You could hear your own heartbeat. The woman smiled. “Welcome!” You stared at her. She began speaking about honor. About sacrifice. About tradition. You stopped listening. Your gaze moved over the crowd.

Your mother. Your father. Your sibling. You found them again. Your mother’s hands were clasped tightly against her chest. Your father stood beside her. Your sibling looked terrified. You smiled at them. Small. Reassuring. I’m okay. You mouthed the words. Your mother nodded. The woman on the stage approached the first glass bowl. The crowd held its breath. She reached inside. Her hand moved through the slips of paper. You couldn’t breathe. She pulled one out. Slowly. Carefully. The paper unfolded. The woman’s eyes scanned the name. Then she smiled.

“Y/n Y/l/n”

Your heart stopped. For one impossible second, you didn’t understand. You stared at the stage. The world seemed to tilt. Someone near you gasped. Your mother made a sound. Not quite a scream. Not quite a sob. Your father’s face went completely white. Your sibling started crying. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t hear anything anymore. The woman’s voice seemed impossibly far away. “Y/n.” She said your name again. “Please, come forward.” Your feet remained planted. You stared at the stage. The glass bowl. The Capitol banners. The woman smiling. Your family. Everything around you became distant. Muted. Unreal.

Your heart pounded violently against your ribs. No. You couldn’t think. No. Someone touched your shoulder. A Peacekeeper. “Move.” Your body finally responded. One foot. Then another. You began walking. Your mother’s voice broke through the silence. “Y/n!” You turned your head. She was crying. You smiled at her. You tried to smile. It came out trembling. Your father pushed forward against the crowd. A Peacekeeper blocked him. Your sibling was crying harder now. You wanted to go back. You wanted to run to them. You wanted to tell them you were sorry. You wanted to tell them everything would be okay.

But you didn’t know if it would. You kept walking. Step after step. Toward the stage. Toward the woman who had just taken your name from a glass bowl. Toward the life you had been promised only moments ago. As you climbed the stairs, you glanced toward the other tributes. Your eyes found the French boy again. You didn’t know his name yet. He was staring at you. And for the first time since his arrival, the cocky expression had disappeared completely from his face. He looked at you differently now. Not like a stranger. Not like a rival. Like someone who had just watched another person realize they were going to die.

His lips parted. A quiet word escaped him. “Putain…” You didn’t know what it meant. You only knew the way he said it. Softly. Almost like he was sorry. Then the woman on the stage smiled at you. “Welcome.” You stood beside her. The crowd stared. Your hands trembled at your sides. You looked out toward your family one last time. Your mother’s hand was pressed over her mouth. Your father’s eyes were wet. Your sibling was crying. You wanted to memorize them. Every detail. Their faces. Their clothes. The way they stood. The way your mother looked at you.

Because suddenly, you were terrified that these memories might be all you had left. The woman turned toward the second bowl. “And now, our male tribute.” You looked down. You couldn’t watch. You couldn’t breathe. You could only wait. And somewhere beside you, the French boy straightened. His jaw tightened. The woman reached into the bowl. Her fingers moved through the papers. Then she pulled one free. She unfolded it. Looked at the name. And smiled.

“Daniel Moreau.”

Your eyes snapped upward. No. Not him. Of all the boys in your district. Not him. A murmur moved through the crowd. You knew Daniel. Everyone did. You had grown up with him. You had gone to the same school. Played in the same streets when you were children. You’d even sat beside him in class for several years. And you couldn’t stand him. Daniel had always been cruel in the casual way some people were. He liked making people uncomfortable. He teased anyone he thought was weaker than him, laughed when someone stumbled, and seemed to take particular pleasure in making sure everyone knew he was stronger, faster, and better than them.

He had once shoved your younger sibling into a puddle simply because he could. You’d hit him for it. Your father had been furious when he found out. Daniel had laughed. He had always laughed. Now he stood somewhere near the middle of the boys’ section, staring at the stage. For the first time in your life, he didn’t look amused. The Peacekeepers began motioning for him to come forward. Daniel didn’t move. “Daniel.” He finally stepped out. His face was pale.

He walked through the crowd with his shoulders stiff, avoiding everyone’s eyes. When he reached the stairs, he glanced toward you. You expected the usual smirk. There wasn’t one. He climbed the steps. He stopped beside you. For a few seconds, neither of you spoke. You looked straight ahead. He breathed heavily through his nose. Then, quietly: “Well.” You looked at him. He gave a humorless little laugh.“Guess it’s us.” You stared at him. He looked toward the crowd. “Could be worse.” Your eyebrows lifted. “Could it?”He glanced at you.

For half a second, the old irritation flashed between you. Then he looked away. “Don’t start.” You almost laughed. That was the problem. He did know you. And you knew him. You knew the way he rubbed his thumb against his palm when he was nervous. You knew he talked louder when he was embarrassed. You knew he hated being laughed at. You knew he had a temper. And you knew, despite everything, that he was terrified. You looked back toward your family. Your mother was crying openly now. Your father had one arm around your sibling. You swallowed.

Daniel followed your gaze. “Your family?” You nodded. He looked toward his own. His parents stood rigidly among the crowd. His mother had both hands clasped over her mouth. Daniel looked away almost immediately. Neither of you spoke. The woman on the stage began explaining the rules. You barely heard her. You had heard them before. Everyone had. Twenty-four tributes. One arena. One victor. You stared at the crowd. Twenty-four. You looked around. There were unfamiliar faces scattered among the selected tributes.

People from other countries. People who had been chosen specifically for this year’s Games. Your eyes briefly found the French boy again. He was standing farther away now, among the other special selections. He wasn’t looking at you anymore. He was listening to the stage with his jaw clenched. You wondered what it was like to be chosen from another country. To be taken from somewhere you’d never even heard of. To be placed among strangers who didn’t speak your language. For a moment, you felt sorry for him. Then you looked at Daniel beside you.

And the feeling disappeared beneath your own fear. You were both being led away. You were both going to the same place. The Capitol didn’t care who you were before today. It didn’t care that Daniel had been someone you grew up with. It didn’t care that you hated him. It didn’t care that your mother was crying. It didn’t care that somewhere in France, a family was probably mourning a son they had barely gotten to say goodbye to.

You were all tributes now. And somewhere beyond the square, the Capitol was already waiting. Daniel leaned slightly toward you. “Hey.” You looked at him. His voice was quieter than usual. “Don’t die.” You stared at him. It was such a strange thing to hear from him. You almost smiled.“You either.” He nodded. Then the Peacekeepers stepped forward. And together, you and Daniel were escorted from the stage.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

The moment you stepped off the stage, there was no time to say goodbye. No final embrace. No last words. No chance to run to your family and hold them one more time. Peacekeepers surrounded you before you could even turn around. “Move.” You looked back. Your eyes met your mother’s. She pressed her hand against her heart. You did the same. It was all you were given. Then the Peacekeeper pulled you forward. The doors of the Justice Building closed behind you. And just like that, your old life was over.

You and Daniel were escorted through the streets without a word. People stood along the sidewalks watching you pass. Some cried. Some stared. Others looked away. You couldn’t blame them. You didn’t look back. The train station was only a short distance from the square. The train waiting for you didn’t look real. It was enormous. Polished metal. Dark glass. Clean enough that you could see your reflection in the side. You had never been inside one before. You barely had time to stare before a Peacekeeper opened the door.

“Get in.” You climbed aboard. Daniel followed. The doors shut behind you. The sound echoed through the carriage. You flinched. Then the train began moving. You didn’t feel it at first. You stood there, staring through the window as your district slowly began slipping away. The streets. The houses. The shops. The fields. Your home. Everything became smaller. Then disappeared. You sat down. Daniel dropped into the seat beside you. For once, he wasn’t talking. His elbows rested on his knees, his hands clasped together.

He stared at the floor. You looked out the window. Neither of you said anything. The silence lasted several minutes. Then you heard voices. Laughter. A lot of it. You looked toward the other end of the carriage. Several of the foreign tributes were gathered around one of the tables. And that boy was at the center of them. You recognized him immediately. He was wearing a loose shirt with the sleeves pushed up his forearms, his ash brown hair still falling messily over his forehead. The pink was less visible now under the florescent lights. He looked completely comfortable. Almost too comfortable. He was leaning back in his chair, one arm resting casually over the back of it while he talked.

Everyone was listening. Even the adults. A girl sitting across from him laughed. “I am telling you,” he said, his heavy French accent making certain words sound completely different, “you cannot go to France and expect the food to be bad.” Someone laughed. “I never said it was bad.” “You implied it.” “I said French food is overrated.” He placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “Overrated?” The girl laughed again. “Yes.” He shook his head. “Mon dieu.” A boy beside him grinned. “You’re offended?” “I am French. Of course I am offended.” The table erupted into laughter.

He smiled smugly. You watched for another moment. He was good at this. Good at making people laugh. Good at keeping everyone’s attention. He seemed completely unaffected by what had happened earlier. You knew better. Nobody could be that calm. Not really. You looked away. Daniel was watching too. “Foreign tribute.” “Obviously.” Daniel scoffed. “He thinks he’s something.” You glanced at him. “You’ve been here ten minutes.” “And?” “You already hate him?” “I don’t like his face.” You almost smiled. “That’s fair.”

Daniel looked at you. “You don’t like him either.” “I don’t know him.” “You don’t have to.” You looked back toward the table. He was still talking. You couldn’t understand everything he said because his accent was so heavy, but he spoke English well enough. Every now and then, though, French slipped into his sentences. A quiet “bon.” A muttered “putain.” A quick “d’accord.” The other tributes seemed to find it entertaining. You found yourself listening despite yourself. Then his eyes moved across the room. They landed on you. For a second, he looked at you. You immediately looked away. Outside, the landscape blurred past. You closed your eyes. Your family came back to you immediately. Your mother’s face. Your father’s hand. Your sibling’s tears. Your chest tightened. You opened your eyes. The train continued forward. You didn’t know where you were going. You didn’t know what waited for you at the end of the tracks.

Dinner was unlike anything you had ever seen. The table was covered in food, not just enough food, but too much. More than your entire family could have eaten in a week sat in front of you as though it were nothing. Roasted meat, fresh bread, vegetables glazed in butter, fruit you had never seen before, and desserts arranged beautifully on silver trays filled every inch of space. You didn’t know where to begin. Across the table, the French boy apparently had no such problem. He had been eating since everyone sat down. “Try this,” one of the tributes said, pushing a dish toward him. He took a bite, his eyebrows lifting. “Not bad.” “Not bad?” He swallowed. “I said it’s good.” “You’re impossible.” He smiled. “I know.” The table laughed.

He leaned back in his chair, completely at ease, somehow managing to make himself the center of attention again. He told stories about France, some probably exaggerated, which you could tell by the way his mouth curved whenever someone believed him. He talked about places he’d visited, girls he’d kissed, arguments he’d gotten into. Every story somehow made him look better, and every story ended with someone laughing. He was good at it. Too good. “Then the man tells me I cannot park there,” Jean said, his accent thickening as he became more animated. He gestured with his fork while talking. More laughter followed, and Jean grinned, looking completely comfortable, confident, like this was some strange vacation rather than a train carrying him toward an arena where he would have to fight for his life.

You watched him from across the table, and for a moment he caught your eye. You looked away immediately. You had no interest in getting involved. Instead, you focused on your plate, taking a small piece of bread, then some fruit. You didn’t have much of an appetite. The room continued buzzing around you, voices, laughter, silverware clinking, His voice rising above the rest. Then something changed. It was so subtle you almost missed it. Jean had stopped talking. Someone else at the table was still speaking, but Jean wasn’t listening anymore. His eyes had moved toward the windows.

You followed his gaze. Outside, the world passed in a blur. Dark fields, trees, occasional lights from distant towns, everything disappearing almost as quickly as it appeared. Jean stared through the glass, and his expression changed. The smug smile was gone. His shoulders stiffened, his fingers tightened around the edge of the table, and his eyes were no longer playful. They were distant, worried, almost frightened. You stared at him. He looked younger like that. Not the confident boy who had spent the entire evening making everyone laugh, but just a boy, one being taken somewhere he might never leave.

Someone said his name. He didn’t respond. “Jean?” He blinked, his head turning. For half a second, the fear was still there. Then it vanished almost instantly. His shoulders relaxed, and his mouth curved into that familiar arrogant smile. “Hmm?” “What were you looking at?” He glanced toward the window, then back at them. “Nothing.” The person laughed. “You were staring outside.” Jean shrugged. “It’s boring.” Someone made another joke, and Jean laughed, leaning back as the conversation continued. And just like that, he was back, the smile, the jokes, the confidence, the arrogance.

You looked at him differently now. Not because you liked him, you didn’t. If anything, you found him more irritating. But you understood something. Jean was a liar. Not the kind of liar who lied to hurt people, but the kind who lied because the truth was too frightening to show. You watched him laugh at something someone said, his smile looking effortless. But now that you’d seen beneath it, you couldn’t unsee it. Every time he smiled, you wondered whether it was real. Every time he joked, you wondered what he was hiding. Every time French slipped from his mouth, you wondered if he was saying something he didn’t want anyone else to understand.

You looked back down at your plate. You didn’t know him. You weren’t his friend, and you weren’t going to become his friend. He was just another tribute, just another person sitting at the table. And yet, for the first time that evening, you didn’t think of Jean as arrogant. You thought of him as scared. You just didn’t know that he was going to become very good at hiding it, and you didn’t know that, eventually, you would become one of the only people he stopped hiding it from.

The dinner eventually began to quiet. One by one, the tributes started disappearing from the table. Some went to their rooms, while others stayed behind, continuing quiet conversations with their mentors. You remained where you were for a little longer, staring at the untouched food on your plate. You still couldn’t bring yourself to eat much. The entire evening felt wrong, the food, the clothes, the train, the people laughing around you. Everything was too comfortable, too normal, as though you weren’t being carried toward an arena.

You finally pushed your chair back, and Daniel stood a moment later. “You going to bed?” he asked. “Probably.” He followed you out of the dining room, and you walked down the hallway toward the rooms they’d assigned you. For a while, neither of you spoke. Then Daniel cleared his throat. “So…” You glanced at him. “What?” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “When we get there…” You waited. “You know. The Games.” “I know what the Games are.” “I mean…” He hesitated, then looked at you. “We should stick together.” You stopped walking. Daniel took another step before realizing you weren’t beside him anymore. He turned. “What?”

You stared at him. “No.” His eyebrows furrowed. “No?” “I want to go alone.” He gave a short laugh, like he thought you were joking. “You’re serious?” “Yes.” “Why?” You continued walking. “Because I don’t know what you’re going to do.” Daniel followed. “You know me.” “Exactly.” He frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?” “You’ve spent your entire life picking fights with people.” “That doesn’t mean I’d pick a fight with you.” “You don’t know that.” He stared at you. “You really think I’m going to kill you?” You stopped again. “I think if it comes down to you or me, you’re going to choose yourself.”

His expression changed, and he didn’t immediately argue, because he knew you were right. You continued quietly. “And I’d do the same.” Daniel looked away, and for once, he didn’t have a smart answer. You reached your door, and he remained in the hallway. After a moment, he said quietly, “So that’s it?” You looked at him. “What do you want me to say?” “I don’t know.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I thought maybe…” He stopped. You waited. He sighed. “Never mind.” You watched him walk away, and you didn’t call him back. You couldn’t afford to. Not here. Not anymore.

You opened your door and stepped inside. The room was enormous. A bed larger than anything you’d ever slept in sat in the center. There was a private bathroom, a wardrobe filled with clothes, and a window stretching almost from floor to ceiling. You stared at it all, then closed the door. The silence that followed was deafening. You walked to the window. Outside, the world was completely dark. You could barely make out anything beyond the reflection of your own face. You touched the glass. Your family was somewhere behind you now, hundreds of miles away. You wondered if your mother was still awake, if your sibling had finally stopped crying, if your father was pretending everything would be fine.

You swallowed. Then you heard footsteps. You turned. The hallway outside was quiet. You opened the door slightly. Jean. He was walking past, and he didn’t notice you at first. Then he stopped. His eyes moved toward the open door, toward you. For a second, neither of you spoke. His expression was different, no smirk, no audience, no performance. His eyes were tired, and you noticed the faint redness around them. He looked away first. “Bonne nuit,” he said quietly. You didn’t know what it meant.

He continued down the hallway, and you watched him disappear around the corner. You closed the door. You still didn’t know him. You didn’t know where he came from, why he had been chosen, or what kind of person he really was. But you were beginning to understand something. He was pretending.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Morning came before you were ready for it. A knock sounded against your door, and you sat up slowly, not moving for a moment until you remembered, the Games. You dressed quickly and followed the attendants through the train, nobody explaining much, only telling you to sit, so you did. The train continued forward for another hour before the landscape outside the windows began to change. The fields disappeared first, then the small towns, then the forests, until buildings began appearing in the distance. At first, you thought they were factories, but they weren’t. They were enormous structures of glass and steel, towering higher than anything you had ever seen. You leaned closer to the window as the train moved faster, more buildings appearing, then more, until suddenly… The Capitol.

You had heard about it your entire life, seen photographs and broadcasts, but none of it prepared you for seeing it in person. Your mouth parted slightly as the city stretched farther than you could see, towering buildings covered in bright colors rising into the sky. Giant screens covered entire sides of structures, displaying advertisements and smiling Capitol citizens, while vehicles moved through the streets in numbers you had never seen before. Everything was bright, everything was clean, everything was impossibly beautiful, and somehow, it made your stomach turn. People crowded the streets, thousands of them dressed in colors you couldn’t even name, their hair styled into impossible shapes, their faces painted and decorated. They were cheering. Cheering for you. For the other tributes.

You stared through the glass as a woman on the street screamed when she saw the train, pointing as others followed, the crowd surging toward the station. You slowly sat back, having expected silence, having expected people to look at you like you were going to die, but instead, they looked excited. The train began slowing, and Jean’s voice carried from somewhere behind you. “Putain…” You turned slightly to see him standing near the window on the opposite side of the carriage, and for once, he wasn’t smiling. He was staring at the Capitol, his eyes moving over the towering buildings, the crowds, the screens, the lights. He looked stunned.

Then someone called his name. Jean turned, and his expression immediately changed. The familiar smirk returned as he said something to the person beside him in French, earning a laugh. There it was again, the mask. You looked away. The train finally stopped, and the doors opened. The noise hit you immediately, screaming, music, cameras, thousands of voices blending together. You froze as you saw people everywhere, Capitol citizens pressed against barriers, waving signs with the tributes’ names, some crying, others laughing, all calling out to you for reasons you didn’t understand. You had never met them. A camera was shoved toward your face and you flinched, only for a Peacekeeper to step between you and it. “Keep moving.” You obeyed.

You stepped onto the platform and the crowd erupted, your ears ringing as you looked around in disbelief. A woman with bright purple hair was screaming your name, you had never told her your name, while a man held a sign with your face painted across it. You looked away, unable to understand any of it. You were being celebrated. For what? For possibly dying? Some people screamed out how beautiful you were. You were amazed by this. They were treating you like a celebrity, though you were about to fight for your life. Daniel stepped out behind you, looking just as overwhelmed. “Jesus…” he muttered, though you barely heard him over the noise.

The other tributes emerged one by one, and Jean came out several places behind you. Immediately, the cameras found him. “JEAN! JEAN KIRSTEIN, OVER HERE! LOOK THIS WAY!” He turned toward them and smiled, of course he did, lifting one hand casually as the crowd screamed louder. Jean laughed, said something in French that made a reporter laugh, and you realized he knew exactly how to handle them. You watched him for a moment before someone shouted your name again. You turned instinctively, a camera flashing so brightly you squinted, then another flash forcing you to lower your gaze. You hated this. A Peacekeeper guided you toward the waiting vehicles as the crowd continued to roar, excited, entertained, alive with you at the center of it.

As you walked, you looked back once. Jean was surrounded by cameras, laughing, smiling, talking, completely comfortable. But then, for less than a second, his eyes met yours through the crowd. The smile disappeared. You saw it again, that same fear, that same uncertainty you had seen on the train. Then someone called his name, and his face changed. The smile returned. You looked away. You were beginning to understand him. His full name rang through your mind. Jean Kirstein was very good at pretending. And the Capitol had just given him the largest audience he’d ever had.

The vehicles carried you deeper into the Capitol. You watched the city through the window until the buildings became too tall to see their tops. You still couldn’t understand how so many people could live in one place. Everything seemed excessive, the streets, the buildings, the lights, even the people. Eventually, the vehicle stopped in front of a massive building surrounded by Peacekeepers. The doors opened. “Out.” You stepped onto the pavement. Inside, everything became quieter. The screaming crowds disappeared behind thick walls. You were separated almost immediately, moved through a series of rooms where people checked your clothing, your hair, your shoes. You were given your ceremonial gear. It wasn’t armor, not exactly. It was meant to resemble the clothing you would eventually wear in the arena, but cleaner, newer, almost untouched.

You looked down at yourself, dark fabric, sturdy boots, protective pieces around your arms and shoulders. Everything fitted closely enough that you could move without restriction, but there was something unsettling about it. It looked like something made for fighting. You had spent your entire life wearing clothes because you needed them. This was different. This was clothing designed for a spectacle. A door opened. “Come.” You followed. The other tributes were already gathering. Daniel stood near the wall, adjusting one of the straps across his chest, looking uncomfortable. “You okay?” you asked quietly. He looked at you. “Do I look okay?” You almost smiled. “No.” “Good.” You stood beside him as more tributes entered, some talking, others silent, some terrified, some excited. Then Jean walked in.

Your eyes moved toward him without meaning to. He was wearing the same style of gear as the rest of you, though somehow it looked more natural on him. His sleeves were pushed slightly up, his boots tied tightly, his hair half up back from his face with several strands already falling loose again. He looked around the room. “Putain…” Someone beside him laughed. “What?” Jean gestured toward the room. “They couldn’t make this place less depressing?” The other tribute laughed. Jean smiled. There he was again, the cocky French boy. He walked over to his group, immediately slipping into conversation. You watched him for a moment, then looked away. A Peacekeeper opened the large doors at the end of the room. “Line up.” Everyone moved.

You were placed among the tributes from your district. Jean was several positions away. You stood straight, hands at your sides. The doors opened. Music flooded the room. Then you were moving. The procession carried you out into the Capitol. The crowd erupted. Thousands of people lined the streets, screaming, waving, throwing flowers, calling names. You could barely hear yourself think. You kept your eyes forward, your heart hammering against your ribs, cameras following every movement. You didn’t know where to look, so you looked straight ahead. Daniel walked beside you. “This is insane.” You barely heard him. Then the crowd suddenly became louder. You looked toward the tributes farther ahead, Jean. People were screaming his name. He smiled, raised one hand, and the crowd went wild. He laughed, completely at home, turning toward one of the cameras and saying something in French.

You rolled your eyes. Of course they did. He was exactly the kind of person they would adore, beautiful, confident, foreign, loud, easy to watch. You kept walking. Then Jean’s gaze shifted. For a moment, his eyes found yours. His smile stayed in place. You stared ahead, refusing to react. But as the procession continued, you caught him looking again. This time, you looked back. He raised one eyebrow, almost challenging you. You looked away. You didn’t care. At least, that’s what you told yourself. The procession eventually reached the center of the Capitol. A massive stage waited ahead, the tributes arranged in rows. The crowd continued cheering as you stood beneath the bright lights, heat pressing against your skin.

You looked out at thousands of faces, smiling, laughing, waiting. Then you understood. This wasn’t a funeral. To them, it was a celebration. The Games hadn’t even begun, and already, you were entertainment. You swallowed. Somewhere beside you, Jean muttered quietly in French. You couldn’t make out the words, but you saw his expression. For just a second, the smile vanished. Then the cameras turned toward him. And the smile returned. The crowd wouldn’t stop screaming. At first, you assumed they were simply excited by the entire procession. Then you realized they were calling specific names. You looked toward the crowd and saw people holding more signs. You didn’t understand it. You hadn’t done anything. You hadn’t even spoken to most of these people, yet they were cheering as though they already knew you.

A Peacekeeper stepped toward your group. “You four. Forward.” You looked around, at you, Jean, and two other tributes who had somehow captured the Capitol’s attention during the procession. You hesitated, but the Peacekeeper gestured impatiently. “Move.” You stepped forward, and Jean came with you, followed by the other two tributes. The four of you were positioned at the front of the stage while the rest of the tributes remained behind. The screaming became deafening, and you stood stiffly, unsure what you were supposed to do. A photographer stepped forward. “Closer together!” You glanced around, but nobody moved. “Closer!” You shifted slightly toward the others, and Jean moved too. Then the Peacekeeper looked at the four of you again. “Closer.” You barely had time to react before Jean’s hand settled against your waist. You stiffened as his palm pressed warm against your side, his fingers spreading slightly as he pulled you closer. His hand was large, covering almost your whole side.

You turned your head, but he wasn’t looking at you. His face was turned toward the cameras, wearing that same confident smile. Still, his hand tightened around your waist once, just once, a small squeeze. You looked at him, and his eyes flickered toward yours. There was no smirk, no amusement, just a brief, almost apologetic look that seemed to say I’m sorry. You understood immediately. He didn’t want to touch you any more than you wanted him to; he was only doing what they demanded. So you didn’t pull away. You turned back toward the cameras. “Beautiful!” “Look this way!” “Smile!” The flashes began, one after another, and you tried to keep your expression as a soft smile while Jean looked like he had been doing this his entire life. His smile widened, his chin lifted slightly, and the crowd screamed louder. You glanced at him again, he looked ridiculous, and somehow, annoyingly, he looked good. You immediately looked away.

The photographer kept shouting directions. “Jean, closer to her!” Jean obeyed, his arm tightening around your waist as another flash went off. You felt his fingers squeeze lightly again, another silent apology. You didn’t know why that surprised you. He was an asshole, cocky, someone who clearly loved attention, but apparently not completely inconsiderate. The photograph was taken, then another, then another. Eventually, the Peacekeeper stepped forward. “That’s enough.” Jean’s hand immediately left your waist, the warmth disappearing as you took a small step away from him. He didn’t say anything, and neither did you.

The four of you were moved back into formation as the crowd continued screaming. You looked out at them, still unable to understand why they liked you. You had done nothing. You hadn’t smiled, hadn’t waved, hadn’t performed. Maybe that was exactly why. You looked real, and perhaps in a city built entirely on pretending, that was enough. Beside you, Jean’s smile remained fixed, but you noticed the way his jaw tightened and the way his fingers flexed at his side after he pulled his hand away. He was still pretending, but now you were beginning to recognize the difference between the performance and the boy underneath it.

The ceremony ended eventually. The crowd continued cheering long after the four of you were separated and led away from the stage. You were taken back inside the building. The doors closed. The noise disappeared. For the first time in hours, there was silence. You stood in the hallway with the other tributes, surrounded by Peacekeepers. Nobody spoke. The excitement of the crowd seemed impossible now. Like it had happened to someone else. A Peacekeeper approached you. “Come.” You followed. You were taken through another series of corridors, then another set of doors.

The further you went, the quieter everything became. Eventually, you were standing in front of a small room. The Peacekeeper opened the door. “Inside.” You stepped in. There was a bed. A sink. A small table. Nothing else. You looked back. The door closed. You were alone. Your heart began beating faster. You walked toward the sink. Your reflection stared back at you. For a moment, you didn’t recognize yourself. You touched your face. Your hands were shaking. You lowered them. “No.” The word came out barely above a whisper.

You couldn’t fall apart. Not yet. You looked down at your clothes. The same gear from the ceremony. The same boots. The same protective pieces. Only now there were no cameras. No cheering. No crowds. No one pretending this was something beautiful. It was just you. And the Games. A voice came through the speaker above you. “Tributes, prepare yourselves.” Your stomach dropped. You stepped away from the sink. Another voice. “Five minutes.” You closed your eyes. Five minutes. You thought about home.

You imagined the kitchen. The old table. Your mother’s hands. Your father’s voice. You swallowed hard. Then you thought about the arena. You had studied maps. You had listened to stories. You knew the basics. The Cornucopia. Supplies. Weapons. Water. Food. Shelter. The strongest tributes would rush toward the center. The ones who knew what they were doing would get weapons. The ones who didn’t… You stopped yourself. You didn’t want to finish that thought. The speaker crackled again. “One minute.” Your heart was pounding so hard it hurt. You stepped toward the center of the room. A circular platform waited there. You stepped onto it. A Peacekeeper appeared behind the glass. The platform began moving. Up. Slowly. You stood completely still. Your breathing became shallow.

The walls around you disappeared. Then, Light. You stepped into the arena. For one second, you couldn’t understand what you were seeing. It was enormous. Trees stretched into the distance. A wide field surrounded the center. The sky above you was painfully blue. Birds were flying overhead. Everything was beautiful. Almost peaceful. Then you saw the Cornucopia. It sat in the center of the field. Metal gleaming beneath the sunlight. Weapons scattered around it. Backpacks. Water. Food. Supplies. Everything you needed. Everything everyone else needed. And surrounding it.. The tributes.

You looked around. Twenty-four people stood on their platforms. You recognized some faces. Others were strangers. Your eyes moved through the crowd. Daniel. He was several platforms away. He looked terrified. You met his eyes. Neither of you waved. Neither of you smiled. Then you looked farther. Jean. He was standing completely still. His face was blank. No smile. No smirk. No cocky expression. Nothing. You watched him for a moment. His chest rose and fell rapidly. His hands were clenched at his sides. Then his eyes lifted. He looked across the arena. And found you. For a second, you stared at one another. You wondered if he was thinking the same thing you were.

This is real.

A voice echoed across the arena. “Tributes…” You looked toward the sky. A countdown appeared on the massive screen above the Cornucopia. Sixty seconds. Your heart nearly stopped. You looked around. You began calculating. Distance. Weapons. Trees. Escape routes. You had to move. You couldn’t stay here. You couldn’t fight everyone. You needed a weapon. Something small. Something you could carry. Your eyes landed on a knife near the edge of the Cornucopia. Too far. You looked again. A bow. Your breath caught. There. Not far from the edge. A bow with a quiver beside it. Your weapon.

Your chance. You looked toward the trees. If you could get there.. The countdown began. Thirty seconds. Your legs tensed. Twenty. Your breathing slowed. Ten. You lowered your center of gravity. Nine. Some people started to cry. Eight. Seven. You could hear people breathing. Six. Five. Four. You looked toward the bow one last time. Three. Two. One. The sound exploded. Everyone moved. You ran. The field erupted into chaos. People screamed. Weapons clashed. Someone fell. You jumped quickly, avoiding clashing with them on the ground. You met the floor again and kept running. You didn’t look. You sprinted toward the bow. A tribute reached for it at the same time. You grabbed it first.

Your fingers closed around the wooden curve. The familiar weight settled into your hand. You ripped the quiver from the ground. Then you ran. A weapon struck the earth behind you. You ducked. Something flew past your head. You didn’t stop. You ran toward the trees. You heard someone shouting. You didn’t know who. You didn’t care. Your lungs burned. Your legs screamed. You reached the tree line. You threw yourself behind the first large trunk you found. You pressed your back against it. Your breathing came in sharp, desperate gasps. You listened. Screaming. Running. Weapons. Then.. Silence.

Not real silence. The kind that came after violence. You slowly lifted your head. Through the trees, you could see the Cornucopia. Bodies lay scattered across the grass. You swallowed. You tightened your grip on the bow. You had survived the first minute. But the Games had only just begun. And somewhere on the other side of the arena, Jean Kirstein was still alive. You didn’t know whether that was good or bad. You didn’t know if you’d see him again. You didn’t know if you’d have to kill him. You only knew that when you had looked at him on those platforms, you had seen the same fear you’d noticed on the train.

For once, there had been no audience. No smile. No performance. Just Jean. Terrified. And somehow, despite everything, you found yourself hoping he had made it into the trees too. You stayed beneath the trees for several minutes before you allowed yourself to move. Your back remained pressed against the trunk, bow held tightly in your hand as you listened. Nothing. No footsteps approaching. No voices calling out. No branches snapping nearby. Only the distant sounds of the arena, a scream, then another, something metallic striking against something else, then silence.

You waited longer, not knowing how long it had been, before finally pushing yourself away from the tree. You moved deeper into the forest slowly and carefully, keeping your body low and stepping around fallen branches rather than over them. Every few feet, you stopped to listen. You didn’t know what the Gamemakers had put in here, or which direction the other tributes had gone, or who was hunting and who was hiding. You only knew you needed somewhere to disappear.

The forest grew denser the farther you went, the trees closing in and blocking out more of the sunlight. Moss covered the rocks beneath your feet, and thick roots twisted through the ground. You followed a narrow incline upward until you noticed a dark opening between two enormous rocks. You stopped. A cave, though not much of one. The entrance was partially hidden by thick vegetation and jagged stone, and you almost missed it. You crouched and looked inside. Darkness. You pushed aside some leaves and saw there was barely enough room to squeeze through. After glancing behind you and seeing no one, you lowered yourself to the ground and crawled inside.

The opening was tighter than you expected, your shoulders scraping against stone as you pulled yourself forward inch by inch. For a moment, you wondered if you had made a mistake, but then the passage widened. You stopped and looked around as the space opened into a small chamber. It wasn’t large, but it was enough, you could lie down, you could sit, and from the entrance, no one would see you unless they knew exactly where to look. You exhaled slowly, feeling something close to relief for the first time since the Games began.

You crawled farther inside and set your bow and quiver beside you, then looked toward the entrance. The narrow passage would make it difficult for anyone to reach you, only one person able to fit through at a time. That mattered. You could defend this place. You could sleep here, maybe. You ran your hand over the stone beside you, cold, damp, uncomfortable, but safe. Safe was enough. You sat there for several minutes before realizing you had no water, no food, and almost no supplies. The bow and arrows wouldn’t keep you alive forever. You needed to go back. Not yet. You waited and listened as time passed slowly, until the distant sounds of the arena faded and the screams stopped. The fighting had ended, at least for now. You couldn’t stay hidden forever. You needed supplies.

You crawled back through the narrow passage and emerged carefully. The forest looked different now, the sun lower and shadows stretching between the trees. After a moment, you began moving toward the Cornucopia, staying low and stopping every few steps to listen. The closer you got, the stronger the smell became, smoke and blood. You swallowed hard and pushed through the last line of trees.

The field was almost unrecognizable. Bodies were scattered across the grass, some near the Cornucopia, others farther away. Weapons, backpacks, water containers, and food were strewn everywhere, everything you needed. Your stomach twisted as you stared at it, not wanting to go out there, not wanting to see who was dead, not wanting to know. But you needed supplies. You tightened your grip on your bow and stepped out slowly and quietly, keeping your eyes moving from one body to the next. One. Two. Three. You didn’t recognize them. A backpack sat several feet away, and you started toward it, until a twig snapped behind you. You froze, your heart slamming against your ribs as you turned slowly. Nothing. Only trees. You waited. Nothing moved. You breathed again.

Then you heard footsteps, farther away. You crouched immediately, pulling an arrow from your quiver and setting your fingers against the string. You waited. The footsteps stopped. Whoever was out there was watching, but you couldn’t see them, and you couldn’t know if they could see you. Your heart pounded as you slowly reached for the backpack, your fingers closing around the strap. You pulled it free and ran. You sprinted back toward the trees without looking behind you, not stopping until the forest swallowed you again. Only then did you slow, pressing your back against a tree and opening the bag. Water, dried meat, a small packet of grain, bandages, a fire starter, and a thin blanket. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

You closed the bag and looked back toward where you had come from. The Cornucopia was hidden now. You wondered who had been watching you, and if they were still there. And despite yourself, another thought crossed your mind. who else survived?

You thought about Daniel, then the other tributes, and then, briefly, almost against your will, Jean. You didn’t know why his face came to you, maybe the fear you had seen in his eyes before the Games, maybe the way he had disappeared into the chaos, or maybe just the question of whether the boy who had spent the train ride pretending not to be afraid had survived the first day. You pushed the thought away. It didn’t matter. You had to survive. You turned toward the deeper forest and disappeared into the trees. By the time you made it back to the cave, the sun was beginning to disappear. The forest had turned darker and colder. You crawled through the narrow entrance, pulling the backpack behind you, and once you were inside, you dragged the leaves back over the opening as best you could. Darkness swallowed you whole.

You sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, before looking at your supplies: water, food, bandages, a fire starter, and a blanket. You counted everything twice, then a third time, because you couldn’t afford to waste anything. You opened the water and took one small drink, then stopped yourself. It wasn’t enough, but it had to be. You wrapped the bottle tightly and placed it beside you, then ate a small piece of dried meat. It was tough and salty, and you chewed slowly as you thought about home, your mother’s cooking, warm bread, fresh food. You swallowed hard and forced yourself not to think about it anymore.

Pulling the blanket around your shoulders, you tried to ignore the cold of the cave and the ache in your body. Every muscle in your legs burned from running, and you leaned your head against the stone, almost convincing yourself you might be able to sleep. Then- BOOM. You jolted upright, your heart slamming against your ribs. The cannon echoed through the arena. You stared toward the entrance, and after a minute, another cannon sounded. You closed your eyes. Someone was dead. You didn’t know who. You pulled your knees toward your chest, and then another cannon rang out. BOOM.

You started counting, not because you wanted to, but because you couldn’t stop yourself. Four. Five. Six. The cannons continued throughout the evening, sometimes minutes apart, sometimes longer, each one twisting your stomach tighter. You didn’t know the people dying. Some you’d never even spoken to. But each cannon meant there was one less person in the arena, one less person who could kill you. And still, you hated hearing them. Eventually, the arena grew quiet, and a strange sound echoed through the trees. You crawled out at this point, wondering what was happening. You looked up as the sky changed and a massive screen appeared above the arena. The Capitol anthem began playing, and you knew what came next, the faces.

You crouched a bit farther outside, unable to see the full screen through the trees but able to hear the announcer clearly. One face appeared, then another, then another. You recognized some, while others meant nothing to you. Then. You froze. Daniel. His face filled the screen, and your breath caught in your throat. You stared, because he was dead. You hadn’t wanted to travel with him. You hadn’t trusted him. You had told him you wanted to go alone, and now he was gone. You lowered your head, your chest feeling strangely heavy as you remembered him sitting beside you on the train, his stupid comments, his nervous laugh, the way he had asked if you would stick together. You had said no.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words barely audible. Then another face appeared. You didn’t recognize them. Then another. And another. The portraits continued until the final face disappeared, the anthem ended, and the screen vanished, leaving only darkness again. You remained sitting there for a long time, you didn’t know how long, before eventually pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. You thought about your family, wondering if they had watched, if your mother had seen Daniel’s face, if she had been watching the screen hoping yours wouldn’t appear.

You closed your eyes, exhausted, needing sleep, but every time you began drifting off, another sound pulled you back, a branch snapping, leaves shifting, the wind moving through the trees. You quickly slipped back into the cave. You opened your eyes each time you heard movement until eventually exhaustion won, and you fell asleep sitting against the stone. You didn’t know how long you had been asleep when something woke you. A sound, faint, almost impossible to hear. You opened your eyes but didn’t move, listening carefully. Nothing. Then, a voice, somewhere beyond the cave. You couldn’t make out the words. Slowly, you reached for your bow, your fingers wrapping around it as you pulled an arrow from the quiver. Another sound came, closer this time. A man speaking quietly. And then you heard it, French.

Your entire body went still. You couldn’t understand what he was saying, but you knew the voice. Jean. You slowly crawled toward the entrance, pushing aside the leaves just enough to see through the darkness. The forest was almost completely black. You held your breath. There, a shadow moved between the trees. You tightened your grip on the bow. The figure stopped. You couldn’t see his face, couldn’t tell if he was looking toward you. Then his voice came again, soft and frustrated. “Putain…” You recognized it immediately. Jean. He was alive. Your first instinct was relief, and you immediately hated yourself for feeling it. You didn’t know him. You had no reason to care. He was another tribute, another person who could eventually become your enemy. You should have been hoping he was dead.

Instead, you sat in the darkness with an arrow drawn, silently watching him disappear between the trees. You lowered the bow. You didn’t call out. You didn’t follow him. You simply watched until he was gone. Then you crawled back into the cave and lay down, but you couldn’t sleep anymore. Because now you knew something you hadn’t known before. Jean Kirstein was still alive. And for some reason, you were glad. The next day, you finally forced yourself out of the cave. You didn’t want to. Every instinct in you told you to stay hidden. The cave was small and uncomfortable, but it was somewhere no one knew to look. Outside, the forest was full of people who wanted you dead. But you couldn’t stay there forever. Your stomach was already beginning to ache from hunger, and your water wasn’t enough. You needed more.

You tied the backpack securely around your shoulders and took your bow with you. The quiver rested against your back, the arrows shifting quietly with every step. You moved slowly, much slower than you had the day before. Every sound made you stop, a bird taking flight, leaves moving in the wind, a branch cracking beneath your own foot. You hated how afraid you were. You had always been brave. At home, you had walked through the forest alone, hunted, climbed trees, slept outside. But this wasn’t home. Here, anything could be waiting behind the next tree.

You continued deeper into the forest, searching the ground as you walked for anything edible, berries, mushrooms you recognized, anything. You found a few small berries and crouched beside them, inspecting each one carefully before picking them and placing them into a small fold of cloth. Then you continued. After nearly an hour, you heard running water and stopped immediately. Water. Your mouth had already begun to feel dry. You followed the sound carefully until the trees opened slightly, revealing a stream running through the forest, clear, shallow. You stared at it, nearly running toward it, but instead crouched behind a tree.

Someone was there. A tribute. They were sitting beside the water with their back partially turned toward you. Their shirt had been removed, and a strip of fabric was wrapped tightly around their abdomen, blood already seeping through it. They were hurt badly. You watched them struggle with the cloth, trying to tighten it around themselves, staying completely still. They hadn’t noticed you. You could leave. You should leave. Then the tribute suddenly looked toward the trees. You ducked lower, your hand moving toward your bow, but nothing happened. The tribute turned back toward the stream, exhausted, lifting their hands to their face.

Then something struck them hard. The sound echoed through the trees as their body collapsed beside the water. You froze, fingers tightening around the bow, not even seeing where it came from. You waited. Nothing. Then footsteps, slow, deliberate. Someone was coming. You pressed yourself against the tree, not breathing. The footsteps stopped near the body. You couldn’t see the person, only their shadow moving between the trees. Then silence. You waited. Seconds passed. Then a cannon sounded. BOOM. You flinched, eyes closing briefly. Another death. The figure disappeared. You remained hidden, not moving. Not yet.

Then something else happened. A rustling came from farther upstream. You slowly looked toward the sound as a body emerged from between the trees, stumbling once before collapsing. Their head hit a rock hard, blood followed. The current caught them, and you stared in horror as the water carried them downstream. Their body floated past you slowly, silently, until it disappeared around the bend. Another cannon sounded. You swallowed and waited. One minute. Two. Three. Nothing. The forest remained quiet.

You finally looked toward the tribute beside the stream. The backpack. You had noticed it immediately, lying only a few feet from their body. You needed it. Your heart hammered as you looked around again. Nothing. You stepped out from behind the tree. One step, then another. Your bow remained raised as you kept your eyes on the surrounding forest. Nothing moved. You reached the body, refusing to look at their face, your eyes fixed on the backpack. You crouched, grabbed the strap, and pulled. The bag came free. You immediately stood and backed away. Then another cannon sounded somewhere in the distance. You froze, looking toward the trees. Still nothing. You turned and ran.

You didn’t stop until you were deep enough into the forest that the stream was no longer visible. Only then did you slow. Your chest rose and fell rapidly as you dropped to your knees and pulled the backpack from your shoulders. Your hands were shaking as you opened it. Food. Water. Bandages. A small knife. Cloth. Tweezers. Some rope. A handful of dried fruit. You stared. It was more than you’d had before. You should have felt relieved. Instead, you looked back toward the direction of the stream, still seeing the body floating away in your mind. You closed your eyes. You hadn’t killed them. But you had taken what they had left behind. You weren’t sure if that made you feel better or worse.

You forced yourself to stand. Survival was becoming less about what you wanted to do and more about what you were willing to do. You secured the backpack again, then looked up through the trees. A camera was hidden somewhere above you. You knew they were watching. The Capitol was watching you take a dead person’s belongings. You wondered what they thought, whether they were cheering, whether they liked you more now. You hated the thought. You turned away from the camera and started walking. You didn’t notice the figure watching you from much farther away. A pair of eyes followed you between the trees.

He had seen everything. He hadn’t intervened. He hadn’t called out. He simply watched you disappear into the forest. Then he looked down at the blood soaking through the makeshift bandage around his own leg. His jaw tightened. And he disappeared behind a tree. You didn’t notice him at first. You were too focused on getting back. The backpack was heavier now, filled with supplies you desperately needed, and you kept one hand on the strap as you moved between the trees. You were almost back. Almost.

You recognized the large split tree ahead, then the rocks, then the slope. You slowed. Your cave was close. You crouched, moving through the brush until you reached the familiar cluster of trees. You stopped. Something felt wrong. You listened. Nothing. You turned your head slightly. A faint sound came from behind you. A footstep. You spun around, your bow already in your hands. You drew the string back in one smooth motion, the arrow pointed directly between his eyebrows. He froze.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Your breathing picked up. Your chest rose and fell. He stood several feet away, partially hidden between the trees. His hair was damp with sweat, and his face looked pale. And now that you were closer, you could see why, his right thigh was bleeding badly. An arrow was lodged directly in the middle of it, and he had wrapped a strip of cloth around the wound, but it was soaked through with blood. Your eyes flickered toward it, then back to his face. He looked at the arrow pointed between his eyebrows. His lips parted slightly, then somehow a faint smile appeared.

“Bonsoir.” You didn’t lower the bow. “Why are you following me?” You spoke softly. His smile faded slightly. “I was not following you.” “You were.” “I was walking.” “Behind me.” Jean glanced toward the trees behind you, then back at you. “Coincidence.” You stared at him. “You expect me to believe that?” He shrugged. “Perhaps.” Your fingers tightened around the bowstring. “Stop moving.” “I am not moving.”“You were.” You stared at him. Even bleeding that badly, he still had to be arrogant. You looked at his leg again. Blood continued to seep through the cloth.

“You’re hurt.” Jean looked down at his thigh as though he’d forgotten. “Ah.” “That’s an arrow.” “Yes.” “I can see that.”“Good.” You narrowed your eyes. “Why didn’t you pull it out?” He looked at you. “Would you like to try?” You didn’t answer. Jean shifted his weight slightly, his face tightening for just a second before the expression disappeared. You noticed. Of course you did. He was doing it again, pretending. You lowered the bow by only an inch. “You followed me because you saw where I was going.” Jean was quiet. That was answer enough. “You saw my cave.” You said quieter. He looked toward the rocks. “Yes.” Your grip tightened again. “You can’t stay here.”

“I know.” “Then leave.” He looked at you, and for once he didn’t have a quick answer. His breathing was heavier now, his face even paler, and you noticed the way his fingers pressed against the cloth around his thigh. “You’re going to bleed out.” Jean’s eyebrows lifted. “That seems dramatic.” “You’re bleeding through your bandage.” He glanced down. “Do you have anything to treat it?” “No.” “Water?” “A little.”“Food?” He shook his head. You stared at him. He stared back. The silence stretched. Then he gave you a small, tired smile. “So.” You didn’t respond. “You are going to shoot me?” Your eyes stayed on his face. “I haven’t decided.” Jean nodded slowly. “Fair.”

His French accent was heavier now, his voice less confident than it had been on the train. You lowered the bow slightly, not enough to trust him, just enough to breathe. “Why didn’t you take the backpack?” Jean looked confused. “What?” “At the stream.” His expression changed. “You saw me?” You didn’t respond, now knowing he was there the whole time. He looked away. “You were there.” He looked back at you. “I was going to take it.” “But you didn’t.” “No.” “Why?” Jean hesitated, then his eyes dropped briefly toward his injured leg. “I couldn’t.” There it was. The truth. No joke, no smug smile, just a frightened, exhausted boy who had been running through the forest with an arrow buried in his thigh.

You stared at him, then looked toward the cave. Jean followed your gaze. “I know where you sleep.” Your eyes snapped back to him. “I know.” “I won’t tell anyone.” “You expect me to trust you?” “No.” His answer was immediate, and it caught you off guard. Jean leaned slightly against the tree behind him. “I wouldn’t trust me either.” You stared at him. For once, there was no arrogance in his voice. Then he looked at your bow. “Could you stop pointing that at my head?” “No.” A tired laugh escaped him. “Worth asking.” Then his leg buckled. Jean caught himself against the tree, jaw clenched. You instinctively stepped forward, then stopped yourself. He looked at you. You looked at his leg. Blood was dripping onto the ground.

“You’re going to die if you keep walking.” “I am aware.” “You need the arrow out.” “Yes.” “You need to clean the wound.”“Yes.” “You need bandages.” You stared at him. You lowered your bow completely. Neither of you spoke. You knew what you were considering. You knew how stupid it was. Letting another tribute into your hiding place could get you killed. Helping him could get you killed. Trusting him could get you killed. But leaving him here meant almost certain death. You sighed. “Can you walk?” Jean straightened, pride answering before his body. “Of course.” He took one step. His face immediately tightened.

You raised an eyebrow. Jean looked at you. “Perhaps slowly.”You sighed. You turned toward the cave. “Come on.” Jean stared at you. “You’re serious?” You glanced over your shoulder. “I didn’t say you could live there.” He smiled faintly. “Of course not.” “You stay at the entrance.” “D’accord.” “And you don’t touch my things.” “I won’t.” “And if you try anything…” You lifted the bow. Jean nodded. “I understand.” You turned back toward the cave. After a moment, you heard him following, slow footsteps, a slight limp. You didn’t look back. But you could hear his breathing behind you.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Nightfall was beginning to settle over the arena by the time you reached the cave. The forest had turned almost completely blue beneath the fading light, and shadows stretched between the trees. The temperature had dropped enough that you could see the faintest mist when you breathed. You crawled through the narrow opening first, then looked back. Jean was crouched at the entrance, staring at the passage. “You’re going to have to crawl.” He looked at the opening, then at you. “Wonderful.” “You wanted to come.” “I am beginning to question that decision.”

You moved farther inside, and after a moment you heard him behind you. The stone scraped against his shoulder, followed by a sharp breath. You turned your head. Jean had stopped, his hand pressed against the rock, his eyes squeezed shut. The arrow in his thigh had caught against the narrow passage. “Don’t move,” you whispered. He opened his eyes. “I wasn’t planning to.” He carefully shifted his leg, another quiet breath escaping him. You watched him struggle through the last few inches before he finally reached the wider chamber and sat down heavily against the stone. His head tipped back, his eyes closed.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You crawled farther inside and pulled the leaves back over the entrance. The last bit of daylight disappeared. You reached into the backpack and took out the fire starter, then gathered a few thin sticks from the ground and broke them into smaller pieces. You struck the fire starter once, a spark appearing but dying immediately. You tried again, and this time a tiny flame caught. You fed it carefully until several small sticks were burning. It wasn’t much, just enough light to see and enough warmth to keep the darkness from becoming complete.

You sat across from Jean. He was still breathing heavily, his head against the wall, eyes closed. His hair almost completely fallen out of the ponytail he had it in. You opened the backpack and pulled out the bandages, clean cloth, water, and your knife, laying everything out in a careful line. Then you reached up and pulled your hair back, tightening it again and again so nothing would get in the way. Jean opened one eye. “What?” “Nothing.”

You rolled your eyes and looked at his leg. The silence returned, uncomfortable and uncertain. Neither of you knew what to say, and perhaps that was better. Conversation wasn’t smart. You were two tributes trapped inside a tiny cave, one with a weapon, the other with an injury. Trust was a luxury neither of you could afford. You reached toward the makeshift bandage around his thigh.“You’re going to remove it?” Jean asked. “Yes.” He nodded. You carefully untied the cloth. The moment you loosened it, his breathing changed and his jaw tightened. You slowly pulled the fabric away, revealing it soaked through with blood, and set it aside. Then you looked at the wound.

Your stomach turned. The arrow had gone deep, very deep. The shaft protruded from the center of his thigh, surrounded by bruised, swollen skin. “Bad?” he asked. His eyes shut tightly. “Very.” “Good.” “Why is that good?” “At least you’re honest.” You ignored him, taking your knife and carefully cutting higher up the side of his pants to expose more of the injury without moving the arrow. Jean watched the stones above, the small veins that had shadows dancing around from the fire. “Don’t move.” “I know.” “I mean it.” “Yes.” You cut more fabric away. Stopping where his boxers started. You reached for the water, and Jean’s eyes followed your hand. You poured a small amount onto a clean piece of cloth, then looked at him. “This is going to hurt.”

He gave a tired smile. “I gathered.” You pressed the cloth gently against the skin around the wound, and he inhaled sharply, his fingers digging into the stone beside him. “I’m sorry,” you said before you could stop yourself. His eyes flickered toward you, and you immediately looked back at the wound. You cleaned around the injury as carefully as you could. The fire crackled softly between you while outside the forest remained completely dark. Every now and then, a distant sound traveled through the trees, a bird, a branch, something moving. Neither of you spoke, but the silence between you had changed. It wasn’t quite hostile anymore. It was cautious, uncertain.

You continued working while Jean stared at the small fire, his expression blank. Then, very quietly, he murmured something “J'ai cru que j'allais mourir.” You looked up. “What?” He shook his head. “Nothing.” “You keep doing that.” “Doing what?” You didn’t respond. He looked at you for a second, then back at the fire. “Habit.” You didn’t understand the phrase, but you didn’t care enough to bother. You returned your attention to his leg. The arrow still hadn’t moved, and you had no idea how you were going to get it out. Judging by the way Jean was avoiding staring at it, he didn’t either. You both knew the same thing.

You stared at the arrow. You picked up a clean piece of cloth and folded it several times. Jean watched you. “What is that?” “Put it in your mouth.” His eyebrows lifted. “Excuse me?” He looked at the cloth, then at you. “You think I am going to bite you?” “I think you’re going to scream.” His mouth opened, then closed. You stared at him until he gave a small, reluctant smile. “Fair.” He took the cloth from your hand and placed it between his teeth. You shifted closer, your left shoulder now beside his right, you sat on your knees. You could feel the warmth of his body despite the cold air in the cave. Jean’s breathing had already become uneven as you looked at the arrow again.

“I need you to stay still.” He nodded. You reached for the clean cloth you’d prepared, you’d need it immediately, because the moment the arrow came out, the wound would bleed, a lot. You positioned yourself beside his leg, your heart pounding. You didn’t want to do this, but you had to. You looked at Jean, and his eyes met yours. For the first time since you’d met him, there was no trace of arrogance in them. He looked scared. Really scared. You lowered your voice. “I’m going to count to three.” He nodded once. You placed one hand firmly around the shaft, your other hand holding the cloth ready. “Don’t move.” He nodded again. You took a breath. “One.” Jean’s fingers curled against the stone. “Two.” His eyes squeezed shut. “Three.” You pulled.

Jean screamed. The sound tore through the cave. He bit down hard on the cloth, muffling most of it, but the pain was still unmistakable. His entire body jerked, and his hand shot out instinctively, his fingers closing around your shoulder hard enough that his nails dug into your skin through your clothing. You felt the pressure immediately, but you didn’t pull away, you couldn’t. You shoved the clean cloth against the wound as blood rushed beneath it. Jean’s breathing came in ragged, broken gasps, his hand still on your shoulder, his grip tightening as you could feel his fingers trembling. “Jean.” He couldn’t answer, his eyes still squeezed shut. You saw a tear leave his eye. “I know,” you said, pressing harder. “It’s out.” He swallowed against the cloth, his forehead dropping forward. For several seconds, neither of you moved. His hand was still gripping your shoulder, his nails digging into you, until he seemed to realize it a moment later and his fingers loosened.

He looked at you worried, knowing that probably hurt your shoulder. Tears falling freely down his cheeks now. You shook your head. “Don’t worry about it.” You kept pressure on the wound as Jean finally pulled the cloth from his mouth and sucked in a breath, his head resting against the stone. “Jesus Christ…” His voice was barely above a whisper. You glanced at him. “That bad?” He looked at you as though you had just asked the most ridiculous question imaginable. “Yes.” Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escaped you. Jean stared. “You’re laughing?”

Jean stared at you for a moment, then a weak, exhausted smile appeared. “Putain…” You shook your head. “You’re still annoying.” He closed his eyes again. “And you’re still here.”You looked down at the wound, and for some reason, that statement stayed with you. You were still here. So was he. For tonight, at least, that was enough.

You kept the pressure against his thigh until the bleeding finally began to slow. Then you wrapped the clean bandage around his leg, once, twice, then again, pulling it tight enough to hold everything in place before tying it carefully. You checked the edges for any blood beginning to seep through. Jean watched you through half-lidded eyes. He was still crying quietly, not sobbing, just tears slipping down his cheeks while he tried to breathe through the lingering pain. Every few seconds, his face tightened as another wave of it passed through him. You pretended not to notice. Maybe he pretended you didn’t. You reached into the backpack and pulled out some dried meat. “Eat.”

Jean looked at it for a moment before taking it from your hand almost immediately. He ate quickly, too quickly, as though he hadn’t had a proper meal since the Games began. You watched him finish one piece and reach for another without hesitation. You didn’t stop him. He swallowed, breathing heavily through his nose, then quietly murmured, “Je n’ai pas de fournitures.” You waited. Jean looked at you. You stared back. He blinked, seemingly realizing you were waiting for him to translate. “I have no supplies,” he said breathlessly. You glanced toward the backpack. “You don’t have anything?” He shook his head. “Not anymore.”

Your eyes moved to the food in his hand, then to his freshly bandaged leg before returning to his face. “How long have you been like this?” Jean hesitated. “Since yesterday.” Your eyes widened slightly. “You’ve had an arrow in your leg since yesterday?” He shrugged weakly. “I was busy.” You stared at him. “You’re an idiot.” A faint smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Probably.” He took another bite. You looked away before he could catch you staring.

You were quiet for a moment, staring at the small fire between you. Then your eyes moved toward the narrow entrance of the cave. “You can sleep here.” Jean stopped chewing. He looked at you. “What?” “You heard me.” “You’re letting me stay?” You shrugged, trying to make it seem like it wasn’t a big decision. “You’re injured. You won’t make it very far.” His expression softened. “Merci.” You looked away. “Don’t make me regret it.” Jean nodded. “I won’t.” You began gathering the remaining supplies, putting them back into the backpack. You expected him to simply sit there, but when you looked up, Jean was already moving closer.

Before you could ask what he was doing, his arms came around you. You froze. Jean hugged you. It wasn’t long. It wasn’t tight. It was simply a tired, grateful embrace, his body warm against yours as he rested his chin briefly near your shoulder. You didn’t know what to do. Your hands remained awkwardly at your sides. Jean murmured quietly, his voice rough from exhaustion. “Tu m’as sauvé la vie, American Girl.” You didn’t understand the first part. But you understood the nickname. “American Girl?” He pulled back slightly, looking at you. A faint smile appeared. “American Girl no?” You stared at him. “You’re weird.” He gave a quiet laugh. “And you saved my life.”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you looked toward the fire. You weren’t going to acknowledge the hug. You weren’t going to acknowledge the strange warmth that had settled somewhere in your chest. You certainly weren’t going to acknowledge that, for the first time since the Games began, having another person beside you didn’t feel entirely frightening. You reached forward and carefully moved the burning sticks apart. The small fire began to fade. One by one, the flames disappeared until only glowing embers remained. The cave fell into darkness. You lay down on one side of the small chamber.

Jean settled beside you. There wasn’t much room. Your shoulders touched. Neither of you moved away. You could feel the warmth of him beside you, hear his breathing gradually becoming slower as exhaustion took over. You stared into the darkness. You were still in the Hunger Games. People were dying outside. The Capitol was watching. Could they see you now? Lying with this tribute Someone you barely knew? Someone you were supposed to eventually see as an enemy. Yet, as you closed your eyes, Jean’s shoulder remained pressed against yours. For tonight, neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. You simply slept beside each other in the darkness, shoulder to shoulder, while the dying embers of the fire slowly faded between you.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Late into the night, a scream tore through the forest. You woke instantly, your eyes snapping open as the sound echoed between the trees. It was high-pitched, frightened, unmistakably young. Then came the cannon, the sound shaking through the cave. You sat upright, your heart pounding violently against your chest. For a few seconds, you couldn’t move. You stared toward the narrow entrance, listening to the silence that followed. Another person was dead. A girl.

You pulled your knees closer to your chest, trying to steady your breathing. Beside you, Jean shifted. His breathing was still slow with sleep, his injured leg stretched carefully beside him. His face was relaxed in a way you’d never seen before, no smirk, no arrogance, no carefully practiced confidence. Just Jean. Still half asleep, he murmured something softly, “Calme-toi, mon amour.”

You froze. You didn’t understand the words, but his tone was gentle, reassuring. You looked down at him. His eyes remained closed, he hadn’t really woken up. His hand shifted slightly against the ground, searching instinctively for something before falling still again. You stared at him. He trusted you, enough to sleep beside you, enough to let his guard down completely. You thought about the boy you’d seen on the train, the cocky French tribute who had everyone laughing, the boy who seemed to love being watched, the boy who smiled whenever cameras were pointed at him. This wasn’t that boy. This was someone who had been bleeding for an entire day, someone who had cried quietly while you treated his wound, someone who had hugged you because you had saved his life, someone who was now sleeping beside you as though, for the first time since the Games began, he believed he was safe.

Your expression softened. You reached over carefully, your fingers brushing through his hair and moving a loose strand away from his forehead. Jean barely reacted, he only breathed out softly and shifted his head slightly against the stone. You left your hand there for another moment, then slowly pulled it away. You looked toward the entrance again. The arena was silent. You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. You didn’t know if Jean would be able to walk, if you would find food, if another tribute would discover the cave, or whether keeping Jean alive was going to save you or eventually get you killed. You didn’t even know what you were supposed to do next. All you knew was that, tonight, you weren’t alone.

You lay back down beside him, your shoulder finding his again. Jean remained asleep. You closed your eyes. Tomorrow could take everything from you, but tonight, you let yourself rest.

———————————————————————————

┆　┆　┆　┆　┆

┆　┆ ࣪ ˖☆ ࣪⭑┆ ݁˖ .☆ . ݁ ˖

☆⊹ ࣪ ┆ ˖ ࣪　⊹ ࣪ ★ ⋆.˚ ⊹ ࣪

࣪ ˖⋆˚★ ₊ ⊹　 ࣪˖ ࣪ ₊ ࣪ ˖　

. ݁　⊹ ࣪ ˖　　　 ࣪ ˖

　　. ݁　　　 ݁

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Taglist 𓂃۶ৎ @mrskamikazekaito @minnnp @gooner7000 @alebrasil0101 <3333

notes - °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.

Hopefully this is accurate… I haven’t watched the Hunger Games since it was in theatre’s.. 😭 please let me know if something needs to be tweaked or anything!!

sukuna's toxic ex-gf!reader tries to scare off rebound!toji!

every man gets his wish (alt. ending)

You weren't built for stability.

Some days you suspected that something was fundamentally screwed up with you.

Other days you only gave a shit about proving everything everyone else said about you wrong.

Which, uh, would be easier if your boredom in your newfound domestic bliss was about to prove your ex-boyfriend embarrassingly correct.

You wanted to dump your rebound.

What fun was fucking his landlord when you weren't sure you even wanted him back anymore? When Sukuna didn't even say sorry for your fight - and only intervened when he thought you were about to have sex with someone else?

Still, you didn't want to actually dump Toji, not when you couldn't even come up with a single excuse to justify it.

So you did what you do best.

Sabotaged every good thing you had going for you.

You told yourself it was going to end eventually anyway. Refused to feel shitty when you sent a text message at two in the morning swearing that your period was late. Letting the assumption hang there rather than outright saying it.

A guy like him would run for the hills. Throw five hundred dollars at you before disappearing for good.

You could be single again. And a few hundred bucks richer.

What could go wrong?

Your phone ringing two seconds later for starters.

"I'm coming over," his gruff voice murmured over the line, stifling a yawn as your brain went fucking blank. No, no, that wasn't how it was supposed to go-

"You don't-" You started, stuttering out a protest that it didn't even sound like he heard judging by the rustle of clothes and the jingle of keys on the other end of the line.

"I'll pick up a test on the way."

Damn it.

He was standing outside your door twenty minutes later. Dark hair hanging in his face, a quiet storm swirling behind his green-eyed stare as he held up the plastic bag.

Sukuna probably would've shoved it at you. But before. you could just yank it out of his grip, Toji was wrapping his beefy arms around you, squeezing you in a hug that felt like it should be reserved for something real.

Something more than a simple rebound.

"If it's positive, we'll figure it out," he muttered, hesitation etched into his shallow promise. Like he had no fucking clue how, but somehow meant it anyway.

You already knew it wouldn't be.

But you still felt stuck in going through the whole thing, setting the test on the bathroom counter afterwards like your birth control wasn't still under the sink. Cracking open the door to find him chewing on his bottom lip and pacing the hall.

"You know, I don't, like, expect you to stay," you awkwardly said, thrown off kilter by his...kindness? It was easier with your ex. To pick fights and pounce. To match mean words and start arguments to keep him at arm's length.

You didn't know what to do with someone that seemed immune to your insanity.

"My girlfriend thinks she might be pregnant, where the fuck else would I be?" He sarcastically grunted, the scar across his mouth twitching.

"What if I don't want to be your girlfriend anymore?" You huffed at him, a sprinkle of shame starting to sink in despite your attempt to hang onto your pride. Puffing out your chest and folding your arms across your chest as you shrugged before he even asked why or what the fuck.

"No," he deadpanned.

No was not a word in your vocabulary.

No didn't make fucking sense.

Staring at him blankly, blinking as your mouth fell open, unable to calculate a comeback that would get you what you wanted.

"What did you-"

Before you even finished, Toji brushed past you, picking up the test on the counter and frowning at the results.

"Not pregnant," he announced, but you were still squinting at him, trying to decipher what the hell was going on in his head.

"Why do you sound disappointed?" You gawked at him.

"Think it'd be hot to knock you up," he shrugged, dropping the test in the trash before bridging the distance between you in a few seconds flat. "Lock you down."

"Are you trying to say you want to baby trap me?" You almost laughed at the absurdity of it. "You know I'd be an awful mother."

You were easily irritated. You had no patience. You only had maternal instincts when it came to your cat.

Toji chuckled at you, his calloused hands closing in on your waist and hoisting you up, half-slinging you over his shoulder to carry you back into your bedroom. "You're not as scary as you think you are."

"I really did throw an air fryer at my ex," you blurted out, squirming in his grip as you tried to fight the fear that he might not care how crazy you were.

He just laughed harder.

"Did it hit him?" He asked, carefully laying you out on your mattress like you were fragile, pulling your thighs down to the edge of the bed.

"No," you admitted, biting your bottom lip. "He ducked."

"We can work on your aim," he casually muttered, getting on his knees and sliding his rough palms across your thighs.

"I was trying to break up with you," you continued, nose scrunching up as the heat in your core coiled tight at his touch.

"I know," he shrugged apathetically. "I don't accept."

For the first time in your life, you were dumbfounded.

Toji might not be explosive like Sukuna. Had no interest in tugging at your strings and pulling at your buttons until you blew a fuse.

But you were starting to think you might've met your match in a different way as he slipped your panties off.

One that was a lot more terrifying as both the masks you plastered on started to crack.

You weren't the perfect angel you tried to make him think you were.

And he clearly wasn't the easy forgettable fuck you pinned him as when he pushed two thick digits deep in your sick folds, ripping a gasp from the back of your throat.

"Now," he started, lazily swirling them around with a smirk. "Who's your boyfriend?"

You bit your lip, unable to lie to yourself and say that part of you didn't find his devotion intoxicating. That you didn't want someone to want you like that.

"You."

div cr: @pixopix

baby daddy! rafe series masterlist

masterlist tag list rafe masterlist

rafe cameron x maybank! female reader

summary:

years after your toxic relationship with rafe ended, you’re coparenting your daughter together and trying to be friendly with one another. being a dad has changed rafe for the better—and feelings still linger for you both. a series of interconnected one shots

warnings:

smut (18+), former toxic relationship, parenthood, family drama, mom reader, ex boyfriend/baby daddy rafe, check individual posts for more

a/n:

hello from 2026 sage! these were some of the first fics i wrote after making this blog and getting back into writing after years, so i hope they’re not too terrible 😅 i’m hoping to write more for them this year!

❀- contains smut

posting order

i like the way you kiss me ❀

birthday cake

me and your mama

thankful ❀

please don’t go, i love you so

toxic

(not so) silent night ❀

chronological order

toxic

thankful ❀

birthday cake

i like the way you kiss me ❀

me and your mama

please don’t go, i love you so

(not so) silent night ❀

frat!sukuna crashing out over gojo trying to steal his baby mama!

frat!sukuna wouldn't say he baby trapped you.

because apparently, the whole trap part didn't fucking work in the first place.

if it did, you wouldn't be letting rival frat president!gojo buy you groceries and grin at you like he couldn't wait to get in your panties. freak just wanted to try your fucking breast milk.

the white-haired idiot had no interest in changing diapers or pushing around strollers or burping a four-month old only to end up with a trail of spit down his shirt.

but noooooo, it seemed like you still thought he would make a better boyfriend than the actual father of your child.

sure, okay, it wasn't like the two of you had ever officially dated. but fucking in the bathroom at frat parties was and going out for breakfast together the morning after was kinda close? besides, you were supposed to come to him all doe-eyed and distraught with a pregnancy test in hand to let him lock you down for good and become future father of the year. not just retreat and run away - right into the arms of a waiting buffoon with nothing better to do than beg for your attention.

he'd been trying to step up. but someone wouldn't stop getting in the goddamn way.

sukuna knew you used to tutor him. he just hadn't known how borderline obsessed gojo was with you.

intercepting his calls, pretending to be you over text, trying to tell him the wrong times for appointments and pick ups, everything possible in his power to put himself firmly between the two of you. you didn't even believe him when he tried to tell you either.

rolling your eyes and swearing that satoru would never.

you were naive. a little awkward. the shy sort that got all agitated at the slightest bit of attention. sukuna liked the way you flushed just from a few words, how you refused to meet his stare unless you were laid bare beneath him, biting your lip or burying your face into his collarbone when he groaned your name.

so how the hell had a guy like satoru gojo sunk his claws into you right under his nose?

"he just wants to fuck you," sukuna gritted his teeth, trying not to actually growl when you slid into the booth across from him - all while mr. moron who snuck in walked over to the barista with your baby strapped to his chest.

"i think you're projecting," you muttered under your breath, arching up an eyebrow and swirling a straw around the drink sukuna already ordered you. your favorite.

"i never said i didn't," he sharply retorted, holding his chin up high like it wasn't eating him fucking alive seeing you act like a married couple with gojo when that was supposed to be him.

"come on, it's not like you're actually interested anymore," you murmured, shaking your head as you sighed at him.

"what the fuck are you talking about?" he frowned, brows furrowed tight.

"you're surrounded by sorority girls most weekends," you shrugged, as if he wasn't trying to spend every night you'd let him at your place taking night shifts with his son. "and i just had a baby."

"did he fucking say something to you?" he snapped, squinting accusingly at gojo before swiveling his head back to you.

you were all flustered, your cute face scrunching as you scoffed and motioned for him to lower his voice, "it's common sense. we're not together. of course you're sleeping with other girls. it's fine, i-"

"no, no, i'm-" he protested, but you weren't finished, awkwardly mumbling that it wasn't like the two of you were ever something serious anyway.

"satoru asked me to be his girlfriend yesterday," you added, shoulders sheepishly bobbing up. "so, you know, if you decide to date around too, it's not gonna be weird or anything."

"did you say yes?" he gawked, grinding his molars as he debated on banging his own head against the wall of the cafe.

"well, not yet," you mumbled, tilting your head to the side. "but i'm-"

"you two talkin' about me?" your not-boyfriend chuckled, grinning as he returned with a bag filled with muffins and croissants and whatever else filled with sugar he could find on the menu.

you opened your mouth to speak, but then you abruptly glanced down at your chest, mouth pressing together as you sighed and slipped out of the booth, holding your arm's out to take your baby back. his baby back. "i think i'm about to start leaking. i'm gonna go feed him out in the car."

sukuna almost said that no one would give a shit if you fed him in here. but he knew you better. knew you'd never be comfortable with that - so he bit his tongue, not exactly pleased at the prospect of spending the next twenty minutes sitting here with gojo waiting for you to come back.

"her tits look fuckin' great, don't they?" satoru chirped the second you slipped out the door, loudly opening the bag and popping the first thing he pulled out into his mouth.

"shut the fuck up," sukuna snapped at him, scowling as he resisted the urge to strangle him.

the asshole was just trying to ragebait him.

and it was unfortunately working a little too well.

"can i ask you something?" gojo grinned, crumbs falling to the table as he spoke with a full mouth.

"no," sukuna automatically replied.

"what would you do if i gave your son a sibling?"

crazy in love | ryomen sukuna

chapter 9: it's nothing new

pairing: serial killer!sukuna x reader

summary: sukuna has loved you since you were in high school, and when he finally gets his chance with you, four years after graduation, he's the perfect boyfriend.

he treats you like you're worth more than the entire world, devoted solely to you, committed to keeping you healthy and happy in his arms for all eternity.

if only he wasn't killing people behind your back.

word count: 11k

content: 18+ mdni, smut, dub-con, dark content, rough sex, yandere sukuna, obsession, stalking, murder, blood, gore, manipulation, deception, unhealthy dynamics, jealousy, cheating (reader cheats on her bf with sukuna), sukuna is awful in this but he's good to reader exclusively, fic takes place in the early 2000s, horror, trauma and ptsd, discussion of sexual assault, pregnancy, delusion, toxic relationship, major character death

a/n: what's the worst couple in the world up to THIS week?? enjoy the finale everyone <3

masterlist | ao3 | previous chapter

The barrel of the gun pointed at him had Sukuna’s red eyes widening in surprise. 

He wasn’t sure if he was hurt or amused by how quickly you’d scrambled under the pillow to grab the item, holding it up in his direction with trembling arms. Your face was a picture of anxiety - brows knitted together in concern, sweat beading on your forehead, your teeth scraping against your lips. 

“Don’t come any closer,” you whispered. 

summer nights with Sukuna are the worst.

you were in nothing but your underwear and a sports bra. every window in your house was wide open, every fan you could find was running, although there was no point seeing that all they did was push in more warm air.

you’ve been tossing and turning in bed for the past three hours. the darkness of the night meant absolutely nothing temperature wise, you were still scorching up. sweat clung to every inch of your body, as well as another, larger, heavier, and hotter body.

“ryo get OFF”

“mmm” his sleepy whines vibrated against your neck. how the hell he even managed to fall asleep in this heat, let alone the added body heat that was living between the two of you.

this heat was already irritating you, with sukunas added heat you could feel yourself going ballistic.

“Ryo i swear to god.” you tried pushing down on his shoulders, but it was no use. pushing and shoving did absolutely nothing, his grip on you was steady, even in his sleepy state. this was it. you were going to die of heatstroke, under your massive boulder of a boyfriend.

“m’stop pushin’ me woman.”

“ryomen. it is too fucking hot for your fatass to be on top of me like this.” silence rang out for a few moments, only to then be cut by sukunas snores.

there was no way you were ever gonna be able to sleep like this, so you had to find another way.

“Sukuna move yer ass I needa piss.” he groaned, but still rolled off of you. finally. it was like breathing for the first time.

you stood up from the bed and crept out of the bedroom, making sure to close the door, and plopping on the living room couch. it wasn’t much different from the heat from your bed, yet the slight temperature difference provided you a nice moment of relief.

until it was ruined approximately ten minutes later, by a big fat, scorching hot, log plopping on top of you.

“Sukuna.”

“fuckin’ liar.”

“Sukuna get off of me I’m so serious.” your eyes were near tears at this point, the heat only bringing out your frustrations even more.

“alright alright calm down woman, and go get dressed.” your big lug of a man sat up and leaned back into the couch.

“what? why?”

“I got us a hotel room.”

“Ryo-“

“yes there’s air conditioning. now hurry, cus I ain’t sleeping without holdin’ on to my woman.”

first post on here... kinda nervous

Big boy Reiner overstimulating himself just so you can use him

─ ˚₊⊹ᰔ Overstimulation, breeding, rei has a big dick!

“That’s it baby…ride your dick it’s all–fuck! It’s all yours…” he grunted weakly, big hands gripping your waist as if that’ll help him not roll his eyes to the back of his skull.

For the past hour you’ve riding him like he’s your own personal dildo.

Was this what he envisioned when you asked if he can help you destress? Hell no. Was he complaining? Hell no.

“You’re so big baby, can feel you in my tummy…” you sighed out as you kept bouncing, falling in love with the way his fat tip kept hitting that spot just right. The outline of his bulge rutting into you just turned on you even more.

You could only see the white parts of Reiner’s eyes as he tried his best to keep going for you. He already came from a quick, low effort blowjob beforehand. (Can you blame him? He’s really been missing you lately) and despite the fact that his dick felt raw, the feel of your cunt squeezing and clenching onto him, your juices leaking down to his balls and onto the soaked sheets, made his dick rise up again. He fucking loved being used by you.

“Fuck fuck fuck! M’cumming Rei!” your cunt spasms around him again and he couldn’t help but let out a deep, guttural moan from his hoarse throat as he gripped your hips while also gripping the sheets.

“A-ahh ohh fuck!” strings of moans filled the room as Reiner filled you up for the third time again. His hips were bucking into you, his face was flushed red with sweat coating his forehead and—was he crying?

Despite big boy being heavily spent from those, his load of cum remained as thick as ever. Guess those breeder balls never run out.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚⊹ — Clearing my drafts out. Too lazy 2 go and pickup my laptop at the store… (◞‸◟；)

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

꩜ ʀʏᴏᴍᴇɴ ꜱᴜᴋᴜɴᴀ

・・・・・ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ

➶ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴡᴇ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ꜱᴀʏ [ꜰʀᴀᴛ!ᴋᴜɴᴀ x ᴄʜɪʟᴅʜᴏᴏᴅʙꜱꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ]

➶ ᴀᴘᴏᴄᴀʟʏᴘꜱᴇ [ᴜɴᴅᴇʀɢʀᴏᴜɴᴅʙᴏxᴇʀ!ᴋᴜɴᴀ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ - ꜱᴏᴜʟᴍᴀᴛᴇ ᴀᴜ]

・・・・・ᴏɴᴇ-ꜱʜᴏᴛꜱ

➶ ᴡɪᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴛᴡɪꜱᴛᴇᴅ ʀᴏᴀᴅ [ᴜɴᴄʟᴇ!ᴋᴜɴᴀ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ]

・・・・・ᴅʀᴀʙʙʟᴇꜱ

➶ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴀ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ | ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅɴ’ᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜᴋᴜɴᴀ ᴡᴏɴ’ᴛ ʟᴇᴛ ɪᴛ ɢᴏ [ꜰʀᴀᴛ!ᴋᴜɴᴀ]

➶ ꜰᴏᴜʀ ᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ ꜱᴜᴋᴜɴᴀ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴄᴏɴꜰᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ | ꜰᴏᴜʀ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴄᴏɴꜰᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴꜱ, ꜱᴡᴀʟʟᴏᴡᴇᴅ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴇᴀʀ ᴛʜᴇᴍ [ꜰʀᴀᴛ!ᴋᴜɴᴀ]

➶ ʙᴀʙʏ, ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴄᴏʟᴅ ᴏᴜᴛꜱɪᴅᴇ | ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜᴋᴜɴᴀ ᴘʀᴇᴘᴀʀᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴀɴɴᴜᴀʟ ᴅʀɪᴠᴇ ʜᴏᴍᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴄʜʀɪꜱᴛᴍᴀꜱ, ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʀᴀᴅɪᴛɪᴏɴ ɪꜱ ᴇᴀꜱʏ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ [ꜰʀᴀᴛ!ᴋᴜɴᴀ - xᴍᴀꜱ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟ]

➶ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ | ɢʟɪᴍᴘꜱᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ʀʏᴏᴍᴇɴ ꜱᴜᴋᴜɴᴀ’ꜱ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴀ ʙᴏʏꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ [ꜰʀᴀᴛ!ᴋᴜɴᴀ]

☼ ꜱᴀᴛᴏʀᴜ ɢᴏᴊᴏ

・・・・・ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ

➶ ɪᴛ ᴀɪɴ'ᴛ ᴍᴇ ʙᴀʙᴇ [ꜰʀᴀᴛ!ɢᴏᴊᴏ x ᴀᴠᴏɪᴅᴀɴᴛ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ]

・・・・・ᴅʀᴀʙʙʟᴇꜱ

➶ ᴄʀᴏꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪɴᴇ | ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴇʀɪᴏᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴀᴛᴏʀᴜ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ʜɪᴍ ᴀɴʏᴍᴏʀᴇ [ꜰᴡʙ!ꜰʀᴀᴛᴊᴏ]

➶ ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱʏ, ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱʏ | ꜱᴀᴛᴏʀᴜ ᴡᴀꜱ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱ ᴛʏᴘᴇ. ᴡᴇʟʟ, ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ʏᴏᴜ. [ꜰᴡʙ!ꜰʀᴀᴛᴊᴏ]

✴︎ ᴛᴏᴊɪ ꜰᴜꜱʜɪɢᴏʀᴜ

・・・・・ᴏɴᴇ-ꜱʜᴏᴛꜱ

➶ ʙʀᴏᴏᴋʟʏɴ ʙᴀʙʏ [ᴏʟᴅᴇʀ!ᴛᴏᴊɪ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ]

・・・・・ᴅʀᴀʙʙʟᴇꜱ

➶ ʙᴜʟᴋɪɴɢ ꜱᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ [ʙᴜʟᴋɪɴɢ!ᴛᴏᴊɪ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ] | ɪᴛ'ꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ꜱᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ, ʙᴜʟᴋɪɴɢ ꜱᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ!

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ @bambismoon ᴀʟʟ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ʀᴇꜱᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ! ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ / ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ / ʀᴇᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴇ / ᴍᴏᴅɪꜰʏ / ᴘʟᴀɢɪᴀʀɪᴢᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ!

ˋ°•*⁀➷ ɴᴏɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʀᴛ ᴜꜱᴇᴅ ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ; ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ ᴄʀᴇᴅɪᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴡɴᴇʀꜱ!

everything we didn't say - masterlist

frat!kuna x childhoodfriend!reader

series synopsis | you’ve known ryomen sukuna practically your whole life. through the years that turned childhood into something messier, softer, harder to define. hot-headed, reckless and steady in all the ways you shouldn’t need him to be. and lately, you can’t tell if he’s crossing the line or if you’re meeting him halfway. [mdni 18+]

chapters

｡𖦹°‧ prologue

｡𖦹°‧ one

｡𖦹°‧ two

｡𖦹°‧ three

｡𖦹°‧ four

｡𖦹°‧ five

｡𖦹°‧ six

｡𖦹°‧ seven

｡𖦹°‧ eight

｡𖦹°‧ nine - coming soon

｡𖦹°‧ ten - tbd

｡𖦹°‧ eleven - tbd

｡𖦹°‧ twelve - tbd

｡𖦹°‧ thirteen - tbd

｡𖦹°‧ fourteen - tbd

｡𖦹°‧ fifteen - tbd

one-shots

｡𖦹°‧ only a dream | you have a dream you shouldn’t have and sukuna won’t let it go ｡𖦹°‧ four times sukuna almost confessed | four almost confessions, swallowed before you could hear them ｡𖦹°‧ baby, it's cold outside | you and sukuna prepare for your annual drive home for christmas, where tradition is easy and feelings are not (christmas special)

｡𖦹°‧ every breath you take | glimpses of ryomen sukuna’s first time being a boyfriend

playlist

credits - dividers by @/uzmacchiato - art unknown but lmk if u know!

apocalypse - masterlist

undergroundboxer!kuna x reader [soulmate au]

series synopsis - in a world where soulmates were real, fate ties you to ryomen sukuna like some cruel and twisted joke. where people felt their soulmates in soft touches and quiet comfort, all you’ve ever known was phantom pain, sleepless nights, and a violent rage that didn’t belong to you. by the time you finally meet the man ruining your nervous system, the city already knew him as its most feared underground boxer. how would you survive? [mdni 18+]

chapters

⚡︎ ⋆.˚ prologue

⚡︎ ⋆.˚ one - no surprises

⚡︎ ⋆.˚ two - cigarette smoke

⚡︎ ⋆.˚ three - tbd

⚡︎ ⋆.˚ four - tbd

⚡︎ ⋆.˚ five - tbd

⚡︎ ⋆.˚ six - tbd

no taglist!

credits: art by @/cinaillus | divider by @/uzmacchiato

ONE WISH WILLOW.

— yuta okkotsu. x f!reader.

Warnings: NONCON, DUBCON, MDNI, coercion, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, slight breeding kink, fingering, cunnilingus, forced orgasms, cumming inside, obsessive themes of violence(?), threats against reader, reader tries taking her own life, so much plot with porn, yuta snaps in and out after the wish is made & there's an indicator for real yuta's dialogue sort of like an easter egg? 👀, slight angst maybe(?), DD;DNE. + not proofread. If you're uncomfortable, please feel free to block me or filter the tags.

WC: 15k.

A/N: this fic is just merely inspired from the concept of one wish willow since I've been obsessed with obsession tbh, though there are some references to the film in terms of a few dialogues in this fic, and just saying I despise bear with my entire heart so yeah. this also felt like I rushed it but maybe not idk there's 15k words, it was supposed to be short but I uhm got carried away, been working on this since July 6th, sorry for the delay :(.

The distinct chatter of the crowd faded into the background of the party, people socializing and chatting away, which you observed from a distance for a bit before you grabbed the drink that was placed on the bar counter, you took a sip nervously before chugging the entire thing down, feeling the alcohol burn your throat as it goes down.

You cannot bear to be sober right now.

Things weren't the same anymore after you lost your grandma a few months ago, you cherished her deeply— her having been the only one who raised you since you were born. Although she passed away naturally due to old age, it still left a void in you, she was the one that raised you after all.

You miss her especially on nights like these, when you're out and about, knowing you have no one to go back to home to.

“You should really go easy on the drinks.” A smooth and soft voice snaps you out of your thoughts, you blink a few times, recollecting yourself before you look at the source.

⚔︎ midnight yearning for megumi - 1:07 am

you knew the opposite genders couldn’t be in one dorm room together at jujutsu high, but did that stop you? no!

you grabbed your phone from your nightstand and quietly stared at your boyfriends message dms. which prompts out a sigh of yearning for the grumpy man.

you: megs? …

you huff out what seems to be a sigh but can be heard as a scoff. losing hope as 3 minutes pass by without a reply. okay sure 3 minutes might not seem like a long time but! it sure feels like it staring up at the ceiling in silence and on top of missing your boyfriend!!

brrrr! brrrr! brrrr!

your eyes widen immediately. shooting to grab your phone that’s currently lightened up from the relentless vibrating.

“baby?” you softly purr out. not meaning to sound desperate but ultimately failing.

“why are you awake?” my goodness how you missed that smooth and sultry voice. now deep, laced with a bit of sleepiness which laid a blessing upon your ears.

“miss you.. can i come see you?” you practically whined into the phone. your muscles beginning to release their tensions once you heard the one voice who never failed to rid your body of its aches.

he paused. there was a string of silence, which consisted of him burying his palm over his pressed lips. flustered from your words, the sheer want in your tone making him gulp as his body turns hot.

“yeah… just don’t let anyone see you.” to be honest even he was starting to miss you. the long, strenuous missions gojo had made him do was starting to rip him away from your time together.

springing out of bed, you rushed to put on a hoodie to cover the tank top you almost always sleep in which barely reaches your belly button.

you carefully open your door and look around while shutting it behind you. your footsteps are silenced as you swiftly made it past the girls dorms to the boys, following the familiar path that guides you to the cause of your yearning. you softly knocked on his door and waited until you heard slight shifting, gulping in anticipation.

he swiftly opened the door and pulled you in by your waist before anyone could see you, closing the door.

your arms immediately embraced the familiar warmth that often engulfed you. almost rare now that he’s climbing the rank grades which means he’s receiving more strenuous missions.

“missed you so much, megs..” you murmured softly into the crook of his neck. bringing you impossibly closer to him with the grip around your waist, he buries his nose into you and unconsciously inhales your comforting scent. humming in response.

you both trail off to his bed. your hoodie discarded onto his chair, the chair that you usually see megumi in when he’s teaching himself academics rather than gojos combat.

feeling him mumble something into your chest, your hands stop their movement in his hair.

“hm? did you say something?” he only nuzzles further into your plump chest, his grip tightening around your waist.

“m’sorry..” his voice was low, almost sad?

“sorry for what, baby?” your chest slightly tightens at his tone but he’s so cute when he gets like this!

“we haven’t.. been together for a bit.” he peers up from your chest to look into your shocked eyes, earning a blush from him. you could only smile softly at him and cup his face in the palm of your hands, leaning in to kiss him as if he were the most precious thing to be handled which he is.

“you’re so sweet.” you say pulling back, getting cuteness aggression mid-kiss. how can someone be so to themself but filled with shyness that makes you wanna litter kisses all over his face.

and you do. which makes him turn redder and redder with each kiss coming in contact with his skin. he grumbles but doesn’t make any attempt to pull you away, only sighing after the kiss-craze dies out from you. hiding his flushed face, he shoves your face into his neck. you almost didn’t catch his next words, barely above a whisper

“…i missed you too.”

a/n saw an edit where megumi was sexc af now i want both his daddy AND him

gordon ramsay husband!sukuna (before you have kids) but he’s absolutely insufferable when you’re the vip in cursed kitchen. he’s been yelling nonstop at the blue team ever since they served you raw meat—your favorite cut nonetheless.

“gojo, if you don’t get your shit together, I’ll rip your apron off myself!” he yells at the poor white-haired boy. “yes, chef!” is all the younger man replies with.

then, he goes over to the red team who absolutely botched your dessert. “I said make her mango sticky rice, not serve her cum!” your husband scowls, pinching his temple in pure frustration. “kamo! it looks like you fuckin’ jacked off on this!” he sighs.

“stop! stop!” he shouts, lifting both of his large arms up. the sleeves of his white chef’s jacket rolls down to his elbows, revealing his tattooed wrists. god, this pink-haired brute surely is delectable… even more so now that he’s fuming. “does everyone have a stick up their ass tonight?!” he says towards the kitchen.

the restaurant stills. no one dares to breath or go near sukuna. the whirring of the blenders fade out, and the flames are put out from under each pot and pan. “you’re here to cook, not sit on your ass and look pretty! my wife’s here for fuck’s sake!”

then, in the corner of his ruby eyes, he sees a certain brunette, about to slip out the tense room. “ieiri, if you take another step, I’ll throw you out with gojo,” he threatens. in response, she sighs and goes back to her station.

“anyone else wanna act like shitheads?” he glares while crossing his beefy arms—one forearm over the other to really accentuate his large features.

“no, chef!” nanami was first to yell.

“what was that?!” sukuna almost screams. “no, chef!” everyone says in unison. “good, get to cookin’!”

after the whole kerfuffle, he walks on over to your table, near the blue kitchen. “how was your meal?” he asks with a smile—it looks weird on his face, like it’s not supposed to be there, so you laugh in response. “it was good,” you say. “though, it’d be better if the head chef wasn’t yelling so much.”

he sits beside you and the cushion dips under his weight. “well, sweetheart, the head chef needs to yell at the incompetent fools that dare enter.”

you roll your eyes. “y’know, if we ever have kids, you can never yell at them, okay?”

“where’s that coming from?” he stifles a boarish laugh.

you shrug. “just thought of it,” you reply. “I don’t want our kids to think their father is an unforgiving man when he’s actually just strong.”

his cheeks turn a little pink at your sweet words. “okay,” he says and you smile, giving his cheekbone a little peck for agreeing. he turns away for a moment, hoping the cameras don’t capture the moment. unfortunately for him, they do.

🗒️: how many more until this becomes gordon ramsay x reader fics?

more gordon ramsay husband!sukuna - repost from @wkbsrco