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[zhihuie]

"Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you."

(commissions open!)

[nezuscribe]

𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥, 𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader

summary: every year, to make them pay for their uprising, a male and female tribute are selected from each district to fight to the death in the hunger games. this year, you have been chosen as the female tribute from district 11. you never expected to make an alliance with someone, much less with the capitol's newest darling, gojo satoru. but it happens, making this year's games even more interesting. not only for the unlikely alliance, but for the fact that nobody could've predicted love to bloom between such unlikely tributes.

warnings: general hunger games related dark themes, nothing too serious yet

word count: 20k

note: reblogs and comments are always appreciated! hope part one is interesting enough for the eventual part two that's in the works!

jjk masterlist + series masterlist

From the Treaty of Treason:

In penance for their uprisings, each district shall offer up a male and female between the ages of 12 and 18 at a public “Reaping”. 

These tributes shall be delivered to the custody of the Capitol. 

And then transferred to a public arena where they will fight to the Death, until a lone victor remains.

—-

When your name was called at the Reaping, you didn’t feel fear. 

You thought you would’ve. All those years dreading the moment where your name could be called, herded into a show of glitz and glam, all to be brutally slaughtered at the end. It’s frightening, violent, gruesome. It’s death. 

But when you heard your name resonate through that microphone and bounce off the walls of the courtyard, you felt a strange sense of relief. 

Your shoulders relaxed, head dropping down as you nod slightly to yourself. After nearly surviving seventeen years of escaping the Hunger Games, what odd irony it was that at your last eligible year, you’d be chosen? But you knew deep down, your odds of being picked were greater than most. You had entered your name so many times in exchange for extra rations that it was almost comical how empty that glass bowl would be without your help. 

Looking around, as if to make sure you hadn’t misheard it, you see your rampaging thoughts quickly answered by the way you could see yourself on the big screens, the Capitol cameras focusing in on your face to see your reaction. They normally love a show, adore it when people cry or protest. But you couldn’t cry even if you wanted to, felt no need to show others pain that you reserved for those you loved most. 

The girls around you mutter things quickly, their eyes darting around to gauge your emotions. Last year, the girl tribute from your district tried to run away. She had made it close to the fence before one of the peacekeepers thumped her on the head and dragged her back towards the stage.

But you wouldn’t be running. You wouldn’t be giving them a show. They had taken your mother and father, your sister and brother. They had taken your youth and now your adulthood, but you swore in that moment that you wouldn’t give them what they wanted most.

Your body moved on its own out of the crowd, the girls around you giving you room to part from them. Some of them whispered thanks under their breaths, others let their hands linger on your arms and back. Maybe they felt sorry, as if they were already mourning you.

The Capitol lady they send every year for the annual reaping of the Hunger Games watches you with hawk-like eyes as you slowly make your way down the aisle and towards the makeshift stage. Brumesia, a woman with a strange name and even stranger choice of attire and makeup, gives you an oily, manufactured smile as you slowly make your way up the steps and towards her outstretched hand. 

You look at it briefly in questioning. It was covered with a suede, plum-colored glove, and you wondered how much a glove like that would cost at the market. It could surely cover a family's meals for over a month. She looked at you and then at your hands, the crowd of people watching as they waited for you to shake it. 

Most people tend to dress in their best clothes for the reaping ceremony. They wear what they would usually save for the new year or gatherings. They clean up and try to look presentable for the respectable Capitol people watching. But you, you who could barely afford a tattered dress or soap, looked exactly like you did leaving the fields, grimy. So when you shook Brumesia’s hand, you made sure to get all your dirt and sweat on her brand-new gloves. 

Brumesia gave a slightly winced look, giving you a tightly pressed smile as she walked back to her microphone, gripping the stand. 

“Thank you for this year's female tribute,” she glanced over your way, most likely already having forgotten your name, “And now, the male tribute…” 

You stood limply and lifeless as she read the male tribute's name, a boy who had just become old enough for the games, and someone who you would see frequently working around the production line. You had never had so many eyes on you, and you felt open and raw. You distracted yourself by naming all the colors of the clothes people were wearing, but it was an overwhelming wash of greys and blacks. 

You watched as the boy, Itadori Yuuji, made his way up to the stage. In the distance, his mother could be heard muffling her cries, and the cameras made sure to capture her crumpled-up face. From what you knew, Yuuji had two brothers, but they were too old to volunteer for the games. You looked around to find them, their faces pale and drained of blood as they tried to hold their screaming mother back. 

When you see his small body trudge out of the crowd, that's when you feel the first wave of nausea roll over you. Yuuji, with his round face and slight limp from an accident during his youth, was coming up the stage, furiously wiping at his face. 

He was young, far too young.

For a second, it all feels surreal. You pinch yourself, hard, just to make sure you haven’t fallen asleep in the fields again, waking up to the gentle breeze and sway of wheat as you make your way back to the town. 

That fear that you know you should’ve had almost creeps back up when Yuuji has his hand shaken and Brumesia reads the last of her card. The delayed reaction almost chokes you out, your hands trembling when you look over at her, then back to the crowd, and finally at the big screen televising your face. 

When she reads the ceremonial statement, “may the odds be ever in your favor”, your mind stops itself from spiraling. You had to control yourself; you’ve mastered control before. The Capitol wasn’t going to take it from you, not like they did everything else. 

Drumesia orders you to shake Yuuji's hand. You note how he trembles more than you. 

—

This year would be the 66th annual Hunger Games. 

The Capitol was still reeling from the games last year, when the new victor from District 4, the youngest ever, took out all his opponents with his various choice of weapons. When the train taking you and Yuuji from District 11 to the Capitol ended its journey, the buzz with all the Capitol citizens was still surrounding last year’s victor. The ladies were giggling in their masses, craning their necks to see the train from District 4, wanting to get a shot of him boarding off as a new mentor, paying no mind to the other trains. You expected this, being from District 11, but found yourself a little surprised to see the citizens even ignoring the trains from Districts 1 and 2, their neighboring brothers and sisters (although they'd recoil in disgust if they had to admit it). 

It simply meant that the careers and tributes from these higher districts would be angered by the overshadowing of the young victor, meaning that this year's games would have to surpass the last. 

Meaning that this year was going to be exceptionally brutal. 

“Don’t they want to see us too?” Yuuji asked from beside you, peering out the window at the large crowd of people crowding the train car up ahead. 

You blink out of your stupor, glancing over at him as you take in his bloodshot eyes and wet nose. He had spent the week-long journey crying, holding onto you as if you could be of much protection. You tried to wrench him away from you at first, not wanting to get attached, but it was inevit  in able. You knew his brothers well after having worked alongside them for nearly six years and had a deep fondness for him mother. You can still remember the stir that woke the town when he was born, everyone scrambling to the Itadori household to pinch his chubby cheeks. A part of you couldn’t abandon him, a sense of guilt infiltrating your body the moment you even entertained the idea.

So you gave in, letting him crawl into your side. Besides, before you worked in the fields, you used to take care of the children of the mayor and the wealthier members of your district, so soothing Yuuji and his tremors wasn’t too difficult. 

“They just can’t see us because of those big fluttery lashes they have,” you say with a teasing tone, winking at him in an exaggerated way that makes him giggle slightly. It’s not much, but the perpetual look of fear he has in his eyes leaves momentarily. 

It was true, to some degree. The Capitol citizens wore inoperable, extravagant outfits that seemed to come in every array of colors and shapes. You had spent your entire life thinking that Brumesia was as over-the-top as it could be, but you were sorely mistaken. The Capitol, even this tiny train station, was beyond any word you could think of. At least, not any good ones. 

This whole experience so far has only morbidly reminded you of your dark and impending fate. The train was littered with food or sweets you could imagine. You had never felt so full in your life, often trudging back to your room in a comatose state as you lay bonelessly on your bed. The mattresses are made with cotton, and the bedsheets are satin. Despite it all, however, it’s a blaring reminder that when this show is over, it’s up to you and the twenty-three other tributes to put on a new one. 

And when you remember that the food no longer tastes as good.  

“My mom would hate that lady's outfit,” Yuuji murmurs, pointing to a girl outside with a large hoop skirt decorated with red feathers, her bodice ending dangerously close underneath her chest. “She would say it’s too impractical.” 

Although he’s trying to sound optimistic, you can still hear the quiver in his voice. He missed his mom, his whole family. You were waiting alone in the room next to him back home, waiting to be carded off onto the trains, when you heard them come in. You could still hear her cries in her sleep, hear his brothers beg for forgiveness for not being able to take his place. 

It was torture. All of this was torture. 

But you smile despite yourself, teeth flashing as you nudge his side a little bit, failing at chastizing him. Drumesia was off somewhere blotting her face, but her ears were always perked. The mentor they had given you, an old victor from way back when, was snoozing off in his room, unable to hear your remarks even if he had his face up close to your mouth. 

“I don’t see how she’d be able to climb any trees with that skirt,” you tease, but feel a certain ache curl up in your chest. There were no trees to climb at the Capitol, and you doubted you’d ever feel the rush of adrenaline climbing one for yourself.

The trains from the other districts were slowly unloading, one by one, and Drumesia was waking up a storm trying to get everyone ready to leave. Martin, your mentor, clambered out of his room with his shirt crumbled up and a bit of pastry bits stuck to his mouth, making Drumesia fret over him more than you and Yuuji. 

At this time, the two of you shifted down the train cart, near the edge, and tried to look out the small window that faced the tribute center, where they were filing them all in one by one. 

“Look at him!” Yuuji pointed in excitement, his finger bending on the glass as he pressed his nose up, fogging it with his breath, “Look at him! Look at his hair!” 

You crammed next to him to find what he was excited about, squinting your eyes to see in the distance, and felt your heart drop at the sight. 

District 1, known for the production of luxury items, often bears the most tributes that win the games. Often coming after the Capitol in terms of wealth, they’re able to send their children to special academies to train for the games and volunteer up until it’s no longer possible. The tributes from this district almost always won, and if they didn’t, it’s only because the tributes from 2 or 4, in charge of stone production and fishing industries respectively, followed second. They often form alliance pacts at the start of the games before the friendships fizzle out and they kill each other, earning the nickname of Careers.

The person Yuuji was pointing to had a 1 written on the back of his shirt, his muscles rippling through the fabric as he moved. His arms were the size of trunks, his body strong like a tree. Tributes weren’t allowed to see the Reaping footage ceremony from the other districts during the train ride, most likely to keep with the air of mystery, but you had prepared yourself to be met with tributes who could kill you with their bare hands. 

He looked like he could kill you with his bare hands. 

“I would advise you two to step away from the windows. We wouldn’t want sponsors seeing you as you are…now,” Brumesia’s sing-songy voice filled your ears, making both you and Yuuji turn around quickly as if caught doing something wrong. She was looking the two of you up and down, and no matter how much you cleaned yourself in the showers, it felt like a layer of dirt was still clinging to you.

Your face fell into a slight scowl, something that often happened when you had to interact with her. 

“We’re just looking,” you explain through your teeth, your hand protectively falling on Yuuji’s elbow. You feel him come closer to your side, cowering under her yellow, horrifyingly modified eyes.

Her brow perks at your tone. It was obvious the two of you weren’t going to get along, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Even if she had liked you and decided to put in more effort to show you off, even the most appealing District 11 tributes barely got any attention from Capitol citizens. You and Yuuji were doomed from the start.

You roll your eyes in annoyance, glancing over your shoulder to see the mob of people still crowding around the District 4 train, yelling and laughing in excitement as they try to see young Finnick Odair. 

But the mob wasn’t what caught your attention. Nor was it the way Yuuji was tugging on your shirt sleeve to get you to start getting ready to leave. 

Your breath hitched at the blue pair of eyes staring back across the platform, white brows furrowed as the two of you locked stares with each other. It wasn’t a mistake, as if he had been looking at someone near your direction. No, he was looking at the window, through it, as if into you. 

The male tribute from District 1 watched you for a little more before his mentors ushered him away, into the tribute center, where you could no longer see him. 

Your heart was pounding rapidly against your ribs, mouth dry as you swallowed thickly at a daunting thought,

He looked oddly…familiar. 

—

Preparations for the opening ceremony took far longer than you expected. 

You had been hosed down three times, had strangers mess around and poke at your arms and legs. They scrubbed your skin until it was raw, plucking and tweazing at your brows, waxing your legs, and making sure you looked somewhat presentable to everyone watching. Yuuji had been separated from you when they began dividing the tributes into the male and female categories, but you promised him through his tearful eyes that it would only take a bit. 

How naively wrong you were.

The Capitol people were all chattering quietly, not wanting you to what anything as they worked meticulously on each twelve of the girl tributes. But you could hear in the distance some loud, pitched laughter, a woman squealing in excitement, and roars of laughter in slew. 

Although you were all separated by curtains, you craned your neck a little to the side to peer at the sound, seeing a little bit from the gap. The girl tribute from District 1 was chattering away with her team, her smile glossy and sweet as they all talked together as if they were close friends.

This is how they get sponsors, you thought bitterly to yourself. Making friends wasn’t something you were used to, did not need it back in your district. Niceties didn’t help you survive, but it seemed that that was the only way to get ahead here.

“Don’t feel bad,” a soft voice said from above you, and you jumped in surprise, looking around to see one of the girl who was scrubbing your back give you a small grin, “They’re laughing extra loud because we have a bet going on to see which tribute is the biggest suck-up.”

She’s had fewer surgeries compared to the other people you’ve seen so far. She seems young, perhaps a little older than you, but she doesn’t have the artificial Capitol feel yet, as if she’s still clinging onto her last bits of humanity.

You try to hide the surprise on your face, but don’t do a very good job, seeing how the girl giggles at your reaction. She’s the first to speak to you, besides the others who barked orders at you like you were cattle, and despite the tension and rampant thoughts that are coursing through your mind, you feel your lips quirk up a little. 

The other helpers had gone off to find some creams and lotions or…something, you don’t exactly remember, as they kept quickly saying things under their breath in a frantic way, leaving the two of you alone. 

“You must be losing then,” you tell her, your voice lowered so that nobody could hear if they were passing by. 

She snorts, fingers work deftly as they pluck some hairs off your neck. 

“I’m actually winning,” she says matter-of-factly, “Girls from one always act above everyone. I’m treating my friends to drinks tonight.” You laugh lightly at her cheeky words, your cheeks bunching up under your smile. 

Until it falters with a thought, your back tensing a little bit as she tweezes a particularly rebellious stray. What else do they think about us? About people from the districts? You swallow some bile, shutting your eyes to act indifferent.

“Do you also bet on who you think would win?”

Her hands pause, and you feel the air in the room shift slightly. 

She coughs uncomfortably, and a part of you revels in making her feel uneasy. Like she was human. Like she was you.

“We’re not allowed to, um, bet, on…that,” she mutters quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, furiously trying to pluck at anything and everything as if that would make your initial question disappear. 

Not us, you think, even if she could bet, she’d never bet on us. 

“Although,” her voice squeaks out, and your ears twitch to hear the small sound, and she continues working like nothing is happening behind closed doors, and you wonder if the cameras in the corner could also pick up things this quiet. “There’s the male tribute. From one. His dad won the game years ago. He volunteered this year. If I could…” 

Your blood freezes, your breathing hitching as you think back to those startling blue eyes. He’s the son of a past victor? He volunteered? 

“But you’re really pretty!” The girl quickly scrambles to say, as if the damage hadn’t already been done, “I’m sure you’ll get a lot of sponsors!”

You nodded weakly, smiling a little bit to get her focused on her work as the other Capitol helpers started filing in with different assortments of perfumes and creams. 

The two of you stay in silence after that, and you let the rhythmic beating of your heart drown out the rest of the noise around you. You wonder how much longer it would be until you couldn’t hear it. 

—

The Chariot Parade is a time-honored tradition of the days leading up to the games. 

Tributes are dressed up in elaborate costumes that reflect their respective districts and are drawn out on a chariot for all the Capitol and those watching to see. It helps sponsors get a better understanding of who they’ll be paying, and helps people decide who their favorites are going to be. 

That meant for you and Yuuji, the tributes from 11 would be dressed in scratchy overalls and red flannels, a terribly executed version of what field workers wore back home. 

The costumes were old and worn, barely fitting you as you climbed into them. The tributes from 12 don’t look any better in their coal mining uniforms, but you feel a surge of jealousy seeing how the 1 and 2 tributes are decked in sparkling dresses and suits. 

“Well, you two look…” Drumesia, who had been trying to get your mentor away from the bar, looked peeved at your outfits, her eyes raking over the baggy costumes in distaste, “Better. Although they told me the stylists were giving us new outfits this year…” she muttered sourly, looking over your shoulder in search of someone to yell at. 

But you couldn’t care too much as you looked around, getting your first good look at the other tributes. 

Every boy and girl from each district was huddled with their teams, fretting over their bows and silks. However, many of them, like you, would take stealing glances every other second, their eyes darting around and then quickly fleeting back as if not wanting to be caught. But you couldn’t care much about people seeing you staring, but you did feel uncomfortable when you found them holding your stare longer than a beat. 

Just like on that train. Just like now. 

The boy from 1 was standing near one of the horses, his hands holding sugar cubes for it to eat, but his gaze wasn’t lingering on its face, but rather yours. 

You feel a flicker of fear, knowing that he must’ve been ticked off from how you kept staring at him earlier, but he shouldn’t care that much, right? Especially not when the attention was coming from someone in a much lower district. 

His eyes were a striking color, a sickeningly bright blue that shone even more as his costume caught the light and twinkled. His face was blank, void of any emotion, as he looked across the way. 

You looked back at the ground after a second, shoving some pebbles with the tip of your boot. 

“I don’t like these clothes,” you glance back down at Yuuji, who was tugging uncomfortably at his arms, his voice cracking as he tries not to cry from all the overwhelming things he’s feeling, “They feel weird - I want my old clothes back.”

His glassy chestnut eyes look into yours, his lips pulling into a frown as you shake your head, a smile on your face as you drop to his height and begin fiddling with the straps of his overalls. 

Yuuji had a small and thin frame, even for someone as young as him. He was relatively short, reaching just above your hipbone and it didn’t help that his right leg was messed up badly from an accident he had when he was a kid, a common injury around your district. He limped whenever he walked and was often drowned out in a sea of bodies. But you did whatever you could to protect him now, not knowing how long you’d be able to. 

“Then you’ll get new and better ones when you get back home, yeah?” You playfully tug a little on his chest and ruffle his strawberry blonde hair, watching his smile quirk up a bit as you fasten the laces of his boots. 

Throughout your time since the Reaping, you’ve tried not to mention the arrival of the games as much as you could to him or anyone else. Your brain seemed to act as though forgetting them would make them disappear altogether. 

“You look different,” he muttered quietly, a little bit of dejection in his voice, “You don’t look like you did before.”

You settled back in your haunches, lips pressed tightly together as you looked around all the strangely dressed mentors, Capitol escorts, and curiously rich citizens, and felt something twist in your stomach. They had stripped away the things that you held onto that resembled the parts of your family you had slowly forgotten, had ripped the hair off your legs and arms, and plucked your face so that you could look more modified like them. 

But you knew the worst thing was that you no longer looked like you did a few weeks ago, like a girl from home. You looked like a tribute now, fully ready for the show. 

“I know,” you tell him with a small pout, leading his fingers towards your face so he could run his hand across your eyebrows, “No longer bushy, huh?”

You wiggle them a bit, and he laughs, his cheeks filling with mirth as you try to make him forget about everything. He looked like he did back home now, his eyes for a second losing that sullenness he had gained during this last week. 

“Get up!” Drumesia snapped from above you, her hand tugging you harshly to your feet by your shoulder, “Don’t let the sponsors see you sitting like…like some animal on the ground!”

Drumesia looks even more frightening than usual, with her hair dyed a bright blue and her outfit having a strange geometric look to it. Her iconic gloves, which she was never seen without, matched the blue color scheme she had going on. Even her lashes, which were so long that they fluttered against her cheek when she blinked, were blue. 

“It was only for a second,” you say bitterly, your hand on Yuuji’s back as if to shield him from her wrath. 

“And not a second-” But whatever lecture she was going to berate you with with cut short when a loud smack echoed around the high walls of the holding room. 

Everyone seemed startled as they looked around at the noise, seeming to fall on the corner where the tributes from District 5 were. The girl, looking to be Yuuji’s age, had let out an especially loud whimper, her hand jumping up to cup her cheek. Her pale face was red and blotchy with tears, her mouth remembering, and her nose runny with snot. Her Capitol escort was standing with a distraught look on her face as she reeled her hand back in embarrassment. 

The girl clutched her swollen cheek, the male tribute next to her trying to calm her down, but to no avail. You watched as the lady gripped her shoulder harshly, begging and scolding her to stop. 

Before you could stop yourself, or better, Drumesia could, you felt your legs working on autopilot as you began taking steps closer to her. You could hear Drumesia’s voice urging you to come back, but you couldn’t, walking even faster towards the other group, ignoring the whispers that began filing around you like gnats. 

The girl still had her eyes screwed shut, refusing to open them, but her escort and the male tribute perked up in surprise when they saw you coming their way, a sour look twisting on her face as you neared them. 

“Tributes aren’t supposed to interact-”

You ignored her sneer as you pushed your way past her, getting closer to the girl as you fell back onto your knees, your hands resting on your lap. 

The Capitol lady scoffed, looking around aghast to see where your escort was, but you fully pretended not to hear her protests. 

“Hey,” you started gently, your tone soothing, the same way it was when you used to put the kids back home to sleep, “What's your name?” Your voice whispers so that only the girl can hear. She suddenly stopped, eyes wide open as she stared at your face, looking up at the male tribute and then back down to you in confusion and surprise. 

She gapes a bit, licking her dry lips as one of her hands clutches onto the boy. She looks behind you at her escort before looking back at you. 

“E-Evelyn,” she mumbles, whipping her nose with her elbow, using her small palms to rid the tears off her round cheeks. 

You smile softly at that, repeating her name to yourself as you nod. 

“You know, Evelyn,” your hands reach upwards to tuck a strand of her bright blonde curls behind her ears, leaning in closer as if you were sharing a secret, “My mom always said, the more curls, the prettier the girl.”

Evelyn blinks owlishly, her green eyes dotted with red in the whites, slowly piecing together what you meant. It must’ve been a bit since somebody had spoken to her kindly, treated her like she was a kid instead of a prop. 

And slowly, you see her lips quiver into a wobbly little grin, her nose scrunching up as she bashfully looks away. 

“Thank you,” she whispers, wiping at her eyes again as you laugh gently, grabbing the wrinkled handkerchief you took from home out of your pocket and hand it to her. 

“She, uh,” the boy next to her suddenly says, pointing to her frilly outfit, “She said the pins were poking her. I tried to find them but one pricked her and she started…” crying, you finished in your head, nodding slowly in understanding, your mouth forming into a small o. 

“Let’s see where the problem is,” you keep your voice low and accept the handkerchief that she gives back, “Would you mind showing me where the pins are?” You ask, coaxing her to carefully move at her own pace. 

Evelyn nods, her hand slipping out of the boy's as she carefully turns around, a small hand hovering over where her skirt is bunched up tightly around her waist. 

Your eyes squint, fingers gingerly going towards it as you walk around the area. Back when you took care of the mayor's children, you were often tasked with dressing them for the day and dealing with a wide array of pins and hooks. So this case wasn’t much different, and it didn’t take too long until you found the stray pin that wasn’t hooked properly, unraveling it from her skirt as you properly stuck it back where it should’ve been. 

The girl physically relaxes, the tension from her shoulder melting as she quickly turns back around, her eyes bright and creased. 

“Thank you!” She chirps, her hand slipping back into the boy's as she looks up at him and then back to you. 

You laugh slightly, shaking your head as if it didn’t matter, and slowly stand back up, dusting the dirt from your knees. 

The boy extended his free hand out for you to shake, and unlike with Drumesia, you took it with no thought, shaking it softly as he offered you a grateful smile. 

“Thank you, really,” his voice was slightly choked as he glanced back down at Evelyn, “Our mom always did her clothes, this…this is all new to me.”

The smile on your face dropped. 

She’s his sister? 

Your mouth dries up, throat closing as you look at the two of them, their eerily similar stances and faces staring back at you, waiting for a response. 

Thankfully, though, you suddenly feel a tight hand wrap around your elbow and tug you back, forcing you to leave without saying anything else. For the first time since you’ve been acquainted with her, you’re grateful for Drumesia as she starts a loud tirade about the sponsors and how you’ve just ruined her image. 

But this time, you look around and see that all eyes are on you. Every tribute was standing tall, watching as Drumesia took you back to the carriage, sponsors whispering quickly to one another. 

You glanced up and found the boy from 1 staring at you again. But this time, you could’ve sworn his lips were slightly quirked. 

—-

Training for the games was perhaps even more torturous than waiting for the games themself. 

The games will be in two weeks. Training allowed for everyone to have an even playing field, but everyone knew how useless it really was when some people had been training to win ever since they could pick up a knife. 

There were four compulsory exercises that all twenty-four tributes would have to do, but the rest would be up to the individual. 

Twenty-four tributes gathered together in a room, some already itching for blood, handed weapons and targets as if that could satiate their thirst.  Of course, fighting with each other was prohibited, but that didn’t stop the other tributes thinking about it. 

The training room itself was huge, with sprawling areas for hand-to-hand combat, bow and arrow ranges, dummies for practice, and weights to lift with. Some nets sprawled upwards towards the ceiling, helping with climbing, and areas that imitated forest floors where people could practice their traps and make fire. 

At the center top of the main wall was a large dugout room with a mirror, letting sponsors and game makers watch as the tributes trained. It felt like you were in a pig pen, having thirsty men drool over which was the fattest to eat. Many of the tributes took quick note of this, showing off their skills early on as if to catch their eyes. You shook your head when Yuuji begged you to show off your skill with one of the scythes they had, most likely knowing how much you’d spend time in the fields back home. 

Not now, you told him, we can’t have them knowing our talents. We save that for the arena.

Capitol mentors were everywhere, assisting and keeping people from jumping at each other's throats, but you tried to avoid the masses as much as possible. 

Your district mentor, Martin, wasn’t much help. He was often drunk and rarely left his room, much to Drumesia’s dismay. But you knew that this was the case for lower districts, having had a glance at District 12’s mentor Haymitch, who seemed, if not as much, more drunk than Martin. Former victors never revel in their success, you’ve noticed, and if anything, try to leave the land of the living as much as possible throughout the day. 

Yuuji insisted on using a Capitol issued mentor, and you didn’t see any harm in it as long as the two of you would be with them alone. You weren’t looking to make allies, just looking to survive for as long as humanly possible. 

You had been warned early on not to focus too much on grandiose fighting methods, seeing how most people die either from infection, dehydration, or general exposure. Besides, you doubt you’d be able to defend both of you if put up against a Career, so the best you could do would be knowing how to survive in the wild with whatever you could find. 

Both you and Yuuji had some previous knowledge from back home, knowing how to make little fires for when the fields got cold during the winters and where to find wild berries, but you began learning how to set out traps for smaller animals in case your arena had them. 

Throughout your time here, you made sure ot keep your ears and eyes peeled, even if you didn’t act like it. Although Yuuji seemed to be massively enjoying himself with the wire and flint, you acted indifferent, making sure to see who was looking where. 

Slowly, from what you could observe thus far, the alliances that were forming were small and expected. The Careers were a given, and some tribute from seven and ten had begun leaving with each other. Yuuji kept asking to join in with a group, but you kept saying no. 

You saw Evelyn and her brother, Maxmus, learning how to make snares a day ago. When he saw you, he gave a small nod in acknowledgement and went back to work, clearly thinking the same thing you were. 

Protect one thing. No allies, no loss. 

Besides that, the boy from 1, who you learned was named Gojo Satoru, didn’t look as much as you thought he would. Thankfully. But it was almost impossible to ignore his presence when it nearly choked out the entire room. 

He was adept with a bow and sword, and could easily take down a mentor with just a few swings. He was agile and strong, and didn't need to move too fast because he was already three steps ahead. The girl tribute from his district, Lizzie, you had come to learn, often trailed behind him with the tributes from 2 and 4, their pack already forming. But the boy, Gojo, didn’t really seem to care all that much about the attention. 

And sometimes you could’ve sworn he disliked it. 

But when he would look up and glance around the room to see you already looking, you’d find somewhere to point your gaze at, not wanting him to confuse your interest with admiration. 

Although you couldn’t lie, his face was far too pretty for his own good. 

“I think you have a little crush.” 

Your head swiveled around to see Yuuji looking at you with a gleaming look in his eyes, snorting as you smacked him across the shoulder, shushing him as he giggled and went back to his pile of shrubbery he was supposed to be turning into fire. 

“I’m being meticulous,” you scold him, your cheeks burning up in embarrassment despite your words, “Look,” you pointed to someone behind your shoulder, “Have you noticed how the girl from 6 never uses her right hand to hold a sword even though she holds her spoon with it?” 

Yuuji gapes up at you in confusion, his young face crumpled with confusion as he shakes his head. You snort, pushing his head back down lightly to look at the fire instead of looking at the girl behind your back. 

“It’s because it’s injured, or too injured to fight,” you peek over at Yuuji, “Meaning that she won’t be able to protect herself if the left one is injured. Which should be pretty easy because it’s not her dominant one.” 

Yuuji gnaws on his bottom lip, fingers stalling on the rock as his hand stops trying to make sparks with the rock he had scavenged, a look of apprehension taking over his face.

“I don’t know how to see things like that,” he mumbles nervously, “I don’t know how I’m going to survive-” 

“We’re going to survive together,” you say instantly, cutting him off, “I see these things, and you keep us warm. Deal?” 

And although this would usually get him to cheer up again, he can only muster up a weak grin as he nods, going back to his rocks as if to keep his mind busy from reeling. You can’t stop looking at his head, at the way his hands shake slightly. He’s scared. 

You all are. 

You place a hand over his, trying to still the tremors, and give him a strong and confident smile.  

“I’ll go get some more wood, okay?”

He gives you a thankful nod, looking back at his pile that was slowly running out, and goes back to work.

The wood was kept near the back of the station, in different sizes ranging from little twigs to actual logs that had been chopped up. Back in your district, you had spent many nights hunched over trying to make a fire, so you weren’t worried about your ability to do so. But Yuuji was always in the production line, away from all the ruggedness of the outdoors, and desperately needed the practice. 

Your finger twitches over some smaller pieces, things that he could work with more easily, seeing how there’s no need for a larger fire when you feel your neck start to prickle. 

Looking around the space, you swallow your bile, chapped lips bitten raw as you shake your head as though you were going crazy. 

“That wood’s rotten.”

Your breath catches in your throat, head snapping upwards at the voice, somewhat relieved to know that the feeling of being watched you experienced wasn’t something you thought up. 

It’s that boy—the tribute from one. 

Gojo Satoru. 

This is the first time you’ve heard him speak, at least from up close. He seems even larger facing you, his thick arms crossed over his broad chest, biceps nearly bulging out of the simple black shirt everyone was issued. His browbone is slightly dotted with sweat, his cheeks flushed a bright pink from working out so heavily. 

Besides the glaringly obvious strength he possesses, he looks genetically perfect, even without any help from the Capitol. He’s beautiful and looks like he’d fit right in without having to modify anything. Back home, you didn’t have much time to appreciate the boys around your district with just how busy you were, but even then, none of them had time to look at you for the same reason. It’s daunting standing up so close to him, without the protection of distance to shield you from his stare. 

But there was something else about him that made your nerves tingle. It was strange, as if looking at a broken mirror. His hair, those eyes, the slope of his nose. You kept trying to shake off the feeling that you had seen him somewhere, but that was impossible. 

…right?

Yet that feeling kept coming back like it did now, and you had to blink out of your stupor so he wouldn’t think you were just staring at him. 

You open your mouth and close it, fingers curling in the air as you back away a little. The place you’re at right now is hidden away from most people’s line of sight. Yuuji would even have to squint through some of the artificial trees and bushes just to be able to make out your figure. 

Meaning that you were virtually alone with this stranger. Along with someone who would be in an arena with you in two weeks, his main goal is to have you and everyone else dead. 

“I know,” you say slowly, eyes darting over to the wood briefly and then back to him. 

He looks over your face, as if doing the same thing you had just been doing. His eyes trail over your cheekbones and nose, the scrunch of your lips, and the way your chest falls up and down with each controlled breath. He runs a hand through his white hair, pushing it back as he takes a tentative step closer to you. 

You take one back. 

“You’ve been watching me.” His voice isn’t low, nothing threatening like the boy from 2, but it does carry a sense of command, something that makes the hair on your neck stand up.

You offer him a tight-lipped smile, polite and respectful as you shake your head. 

“I’m watching everyone,” you correct him gingerly, as if you were correcting one of the mayor’s kids when they made a mistake with their schoolwork.

He stares at you silently for a bit, not coming closer as if he realized what that could imply. 

“I’m Gojo,” he introduces himself as if you’re not already aware, his hand extended out for you to shake. You stare at his fingers, your brow twitching upwards as he gets the hint and lets this hand fall back to his side. 

“Yeah,” you murmur, “I know who you are.”

You look back down at the pile of twigs, missing the way the tips of his ears go pink. 

After a pause, you sigh, realizing that he wasn’t going to give up and leave, and say your name back. He doesn’t look surprised, most likely knowing more about yourself than even you do. 

There’s an uncomfortable pause of silence, one that you feel wrap around your throat and lodge into your airways. He’s not saying anything, just looking at you, and you don’t know what to tell him so that he can quickly leave. 

“I, um,” you fidget absentmindedly with your fingers, scolding yourself for blundering in front of him, “I’m sorry, but is there something I can do? For you?”

Gojo’s blue eyes linger on your lips for a second before shooting back up to yours, brows furrowed as if he just heard your question. 

He scratched his neck, arms littered with veins, as he sighed deeply through his nose. He looked over briefly around the trees and leaves to where the other tributes from 1 and 2 were training, and then looked to the boxes of wood. 

“I want you to join me.”

That you didn’t expect. 

You sputter in surprise, losing your demeanor as your eyes widen in shock before you let out a startled laugh. You never thought this serious-looking tribute would be one for jokes, and to be fair, he doesn’t look like he’s joking much right now, but your brain can’t come up with any rapid and precise response to his statement. 

“W-what?” You laugh again, curt and confused, rubbing at your face as you look at where Yuuji was, still furiously working away at making a fire. 

“I want you to join me,” he repeats, this time slowly as if you didn’t understand him the first time, “For the games.” Gojo throws in, as if it wasn’t obvious. 

You shake your head, pinching the bridge of your nose as you chew on the side of your cheek, not knowing what to say after being stunned into silence. 

When he sees that you’re not going to say anything intelligible, he continues as if it’s the most normal thing he could be asking of you. 

“We hear things, especially with how much our mentors and escorts talk,” Gojo explains, “And you’re getting a…surprising amount of,” he pauses, trying to find the right word, “Attention from the sponsors.”

You blink. 

“Me?” You shake your head furiously, diving back into the pile of wood as if to busy yourself and distance yourself from the conversation, “It’s probably just Capitol rumors. I,” you laugh curtly again, “I haven’t even done anything to warrant attention-”

“That thing you did back there with that girl from 5?” Gojo interjects, and you look up at him, finding him a little closer than before, “They like that. They see the way you’re helping that boy from your district. They love a sweetheart over here.”

You wince, nose wrinkling in disgust at the choice word. 

So he needs sponsors, you think, just as much as everyone else. He needs you with him in case he gets stuck in the arena, needing something that only sponsors can give. 

But…even if his ploy is just to use you for sponsor purposes, which you still had difficulty believing, it would take an idiot not to see the worth of having someone like him around. You and Yuuji would fail miserably if put up against people for combat, and the added layer of protection you’d be getting from Gojo could help you guys stay long enough so that when the time came, you could escape on your own. 

Which is why you push, wanting to see just how far he would go for an alliance with somebody from a lower district. It wasn’t necessarily unheard of, but you couldn’t remember the last time you saw somebody from 1 joining forces with somebody from 11, let alone somebody like you who had virtually no experience or expertise to offer besides how to use agricultural tools. 

“You could use the help,” it’s like he had read your mind, “I know that your mentor and escort aren’t exactly the best, and you’d have a better chance with us if you took up the offer,” Gojo explains hurriedly, looking over his shoulder to ensure that nobody was watching or coming near. 

It was obvious he had sought you out of his own accord. Did the girl tribute from his district know? Were any of the careers aware he was even planning to talk to you?

“Did your mentors send you here?” You ask, eyes squinting together, arms crossing tightly over chest protectively, “Do they think I’d seriously be better at getting sponsors than you? Then any of the other people in your group?”

Gojo shook his head quickly, glancing over to where the pack was training. His tongue ran over his bottom lip. He looked strangely stressed.  

“No. But I think that you have a chance at securing more deals than all of us combined if you play the part correctly.”

Your chest heaves as your tongue almost swells up in your throat. As much as a lame excuse of a mentor Martin was, he had mentioned that you really only had three chances to stand out to sponsors. During training, during training evaluations where gamemakers and sponsors watch you display your best skill or talent, or during the interview, where the renowned Caesar Flcikerman would dig into your life and show the people watching who these tributes were. 

“You think I’m someone like…like Finnick?” The name comes out as a scoff because from what you’ve seen of the young victor, he’s excellent at wooing people even if his face gives his true feelings away, “I can’t do what you think I can,” you say sternly, picking up some wood and examining it before setting it back down on the pile, “I won’t charm sponsors like he could. I just…” you trail off, lips pursing as you think, “I just wanted to help.”

“You think they know the difference?” His voice is low, so low that you could barely hear it, but it still takes you by surprise. 

Of all people, you didn’t think he would be one to criticize the hypocrisy within the Capitol. 

Your back straightened, but for the first time since you’ve been whirled into this whole mess of the Hunger Games and the theatrics that came along with it, you felt a little at ease.  

“What,” You swallow, thinking carefully, “What sponsors think is out of my control. I just want to survive.”

“I can help with that,” Gojo leans in, his arm supporting him up on the counter as he leans down so that even if the cameras were around, they couldn’t pick up his words, wanting to keep what he was going to say next solely between the two of you, “I can help you. Look, if you get enough sponsors, we wouldn’t even need the rest of them.”

You pull away, you face hot as you put a hand to your cheek to cool it down. His overall demeanor was so intense that it was causing you to burn up under your clothes. 

Help you?

“Do you trust people this easily?” You retort, your voice questioning as you look him over, “Help me? You…you don’t even know me. How do you know I wouldn’t turn on you the second things go wrong?” 

Gojo blinks slowly, but you continue.

“I don’t care about the rest of them,” you continue, finding yourself looking back at Yuuji, “I know they’dl kill me if they have the chance. But I’m not leaving him behind. If you want me, you’d have to take him on too.” 

Gojo looks over his way, studying his movements before a deep exhale rattles throughout his chest, running another hand through his hair as it keeps falling in his face. 

“You know he won’t make it long. He’s small, he’s got a limp-”

“So what?” You snap suddenly, your brows furrowed as you smack his hand away from the wood, your stomach churning as the small breakfast you could barely eat threatened to shoot back up, his words making the blood drain out of your face as you sputtered, “You want me to just let him go on his own?”

“The others will come for him first, you have to know that, but…but if it’s just you-”

“No!” You yell, furiously pushing him by the chest out of the way as your hands tremble with anger, “No, no that’s not…you’re…you can’t…” You can’t even think, nausea rolling over you in waves as your palms grow clammy. He’s every bit a fighter as you thought he was. 

A killer, a Capitol pawn. 

You grab a pile of wood, not caring what it looks like or how well it would burn, as you begin walking quickly away, your heart pounding in the small expanse of your ribcage. 

A hand wraps around your elbow, not tight, but to keep you in place. 

“Think about it. This isn’t some game where we all win,” his lips are by your ears, breath fanning across your skin as you involuntarily shiver, “One victor. I won’t spare you if it comes down to us, but I’ll help you get there. Just,” he breathes through his nose, “Be rational.” 

You wince as you wrangle your arm out of his grasp with little resistance from him, ignoring his words altogether.  

“You’re disgusting,” you spit, nose flared as you shove away, “I told you already, I’m not here to win,” the words come out bitterly, a harsh truth you’ve had to swallow, “I know I won’t. And I’m not a killer. I’m not like you.”

In that moment, you didn’t care if you were putting a target on your back by making an enemy out of the most capable tribute. You couldn’t care less if you were angering or offending him, but couldn’t control your emotions as they bubbled over, your eyes glossing over at his admission, something you’ve silently been dreading ever since they read Yuuji’s name. 

You find your way back Yuuji, ears ringing as you try to talk, not knowing what you were telling him, just wanting to rid yourself of the words that kept echoing around your head. Yuuji was excitedly showing you the sparks he had made, and you gave him a shaky smile, not trusting yourself not to slur your words together as you crouched down near the fire. 

Think about it. 

You scoff, hoping that whoever dies first will be him. 

—-

The training evaluation went better than you expected. 

Tributes are scored on a range of numbers zero to twelve, lowest the highest. Most people usually score around a five or six, careers averaging a seven to nine. 

You had scored a ten. 

It wasn’t impossible, but you were shocked when the scores were read. 

Gojo Satoru got a whopping eleven, which anybody could have predicted he’d be passing with flying colors. The tributes from two and four got around the same scores, eights, and the boy from ten had managed to score a seven, which was high for a lower district.

Which made it stand out even more when you got the first ten. 

“Oh!” Drumesia stood up from her seat in an instant, one hand over her heart as the other held her wig on, “Oh my! A ten!” 

Yuuji was gleaming, hugging you from the side as he kept yelling over and over things you couldn’t make out. Martin was somewhere in the corner, the drink he had been nursing raised halfway in the air, eyes stuck on the television in shock. 

“This is great!” Drumesia twirls around, the first bright smile you’ve seen on her face, so bright it nearly blinded you because of how white her teeth were, “None of my tributes have ever gotten a ten before!”

You can’t speak, feeling numb with surprise, shock, everything in between as Caesar Flickerbman continues reading off the last two scores from 12, neither of them any good. 

“What did you do?” Yuuji asked, his voice laced with childlike wonderment as his eyes twinkled, looking like you were a savior instead of someone who wholly had no idea what they were doing. 

Your mouth opened and closed, scratching the back of your neck as you felt it heat up with all the extra attention. 

“Nothing,” you stammered, confusion laced in your tone, “I did nothing.”

Drumesia laughed, waving you off as she fluttered around the expanse of the room, saying something about champagne and strawberries, but you didn’t have the appetite for anything. 

You truly had done nothing. 

You had planned with Yuuji to show off your knowledge with some tools you recognized from back home and let him make the fire, but when it was your name they called from the training room, you froze, forgetting everything you had practiced. 

When you walked across the now-empty room, staring directly at the game makers and sponsors, Gojo’s words rang in your head. 

They love a sweetheart over here. 

So instead, you decided to do nothing. If they love a sweetheart so much, you want them to see you for as long as humanly possible. You wanted them to stare into your eyes for the entirety of the ten minutes, to see the way your bones made up your face, bones of your parents that lay six feet under. You wanted them to see the synchronized way you breathed, how you looked under the light. It was an act of defiance, something they probably wouldn’t even understand, but the rage and pain you were feeling boiled down to this very moment. 

For ten minutes, you stood there silently, your neck craning upwards as you stared directly into their eyes. The crowd slowly grew bigger and bigger behind that window, curious sponsors muttering to each other in anticipation of what you were planning to do. 

But the longer you did nothing, the more people came. 

When your time was up, you gave them one final look before you turned on your heels and left. With Yuuji and Drumesia waiting outside in the sitting area, Yuuji looking excited while Drumesia looking particularly worrisome, you didn’t have the heart to tell them what you had done. Didn’t want them to stress about the low score you’d be receiving. So you lied, saying you put on a mediocre performance with the weapons they had lying around. 

You could’ve just told them the truth as you reflect on it now. 

A ten? For doing nothing? What were they up to? What were they thinking? 

You tallied the other scores in your head and felt your stomach drop. Besides you, the only other person with the highest score was…

Gojo. 

This score not only put a target on your back, making all the other tributes wonder just what it was that you were hiding, but also made you higher on their priority list to get rid of. And what’s worse is that you weren’t hiding anything, and had no means to truly defend yourself or Yuuji. The careers would surely be after the two of you know if they weren’t before, but so would the other tributes. 

This score wasn’t a gift. It was a death sentence. 

“Here we are,” Drumesia restored with her clacking heels and a tray balancing four glasses and a bowl of strawberries, the bottle in her other hand, “A toast to my future victor!”

Your stomach churned even more. Victor. Singular. 

She was just being woefully optimistic, you knew that. Her hopes were raised seeing how tributes from outlying districts rarely score above a six, and that there would be more attention on her this year, but it didn’t stop the bitter taste from costing your mouth. 

Yuuji didn’t even notice because of how excited he was bouncing up and down in his seat, almost snatching the glass from her hand when she offered it to him.  

“Yuuji!” You seethed under your breath, going to grab the glass from him, but he maneuvered it quickly away, sticking his tongue out as he stood up in front of Drumesia with it ready to be filled. 

“Oh, it’s just a little bit,” she chided, filling up his glass a little bit.”He should have some of it while he’s still here!”

Your eyes flit up to hers. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Your voice dipped. Yuuji, who was now holding the glass in both his hands, slowly walked away as he and Martin eyed the two of you. 

Drumesia shrugs indifferently, pouring Martin his own, even though he wasn’t even finished with the first drink he had started on, and then one for herself. Finally, she fills the last one to the brim, yours, and outstretched her gloved hand towards your body. 

You don’t take it. 

She tsks, annoyed, setting it down on the table as she raises hers in the air, clinking it with Yuuji’s and Martin’s as she takes a sip, clearly not caring enough to wait for you. 

“There’s no champagne in the games, you know,” she finally says, one hand resting on her hip as her glass hovers above her lips. “The two of you should make the most of what the Capitol has to offer. Right, Yuuji?” She looked down at him, and he glanced at you, as if asking for permission whether he should agree with her or not. 

“Stop!” You shout, your hands fisting in your hair in frustration as you shove past her, ignoring her yelp as the drink spills a little on the floor, grabbing the light coat that you had been issued from the stand near the elevator.

“Where are you going?” She calls out, her feet trying to catch up to you, but her heels slow her down. 

“Away!” You snap, glancing over your shoulder with a snarl, punching the buttons of the elevator, hoping one of them would open, “Don’t follow me!”

“But!-” Drumesia’s voice is cut off as you quickly step inside, pressing the button that would shut the door automatically, and you let out a small sigh of relief to find yourself alone. 

You feel guilty for leaving Yuuji, but you know you’d have taken your anger out on everyone, maybe even him, if you had stayed for any longer. 

The elevator hums quietly as the numbers at the top start ticking down. You had pushed whatever button was nearest, which was apparently the ground floor. You didn’t mind too much, revealing a small rose garden hidden near the exit that seemed pretty secluded the last time you walked past it. 

After a few minutes, the tribute center was very tall, the doors hissed as they opened, and the smell of car exhaust and flowers infiltrated your senses as you tentatively took a step outside. 

You were told that tributes were allowed to go wherever they wanted so long as it was on the grounds, and you hoped that this extended to the open lobby because when you looked around, you felt a strange sense of home. 

In 11, trucks and cars were rare, but tractors were used a lot out on the fields. The smell of the gasoline was something you grew up on. The flowers, a wide array, reminded you of the little garden the mayor's wife had. Whenever you’d walk past it, you could smell hints of gardenias and sweet peas. 

You looked around, the bright lights of the skyscrapers and Capitol buildings shining extra bright with the veil of the night, and you wrapped your coat around you even tighter as you kept your head down, walking back towards where the rose bushes were kept. 

You could smell them before you saw them, although they’d be impossible to miss. Large white roses bloomed from the ground, their existing sense filling the night air as you walked closer. 

There was a small bench facing them, overlooking the rest of the city, and you looked around to make sure that nobody else was there. When you were satisfied that Drumeisa hadn't followed you down, you sat down, shutting your eyes as you let the noises from below drown out all your other senses.  

You were about to let out a small yawn when you heard the unmistakable thump of footsteps from behind you, your body snapping upwards as you looked wildly around. 

You couldn’t help the groan that escaped your lips when you saw him. 

Gojo looks just as surprised to see you, cerulean eyes shooting open as his mouth parts, looking around to see if anybody else is there. 

You push yourself off the seat, about to walk the other way, when he speaks. 

“Don’t go,” his voice is quiet, his hands raised upwards as if he was surrendering, “I promise I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Your lips purse together in annoyance, staying silent as you peer him up and down. He’s wearing a simple black shirt and loose pants, the number 1 printed on his sleeves. He looked like he was about to go to sleep before he made his way here. 

You exhale deeply, shaking your head at yourself as you give up, slowly falling back where you were sitting in silence. As much as you’d rather not see the other tributes, especially him, anywhere would be better than hearing Drumesia drone on about the wonders of the Capitol and the inevitability of your impending deaths. 

Gojo takes your silence as a good sign, carefully making his way past you to the other side of the bench as he sits down, his face trained forward. 

You bring a knee up to your chest, wrapping your arms around it as your jaw ticks. There’s a little breeze ruffling through the air, goosebumps erupting across your arms despite them being covered. 

“I saw your score,” he started, still not looking over at you as he interlocks his fingers together, blinking as he takes in the astonishing view of the Capitol skyline, “It really pissed Lizzie off.”

You find a little chuckle escape in spite of yourself, the sound causing Gojo to look over, brows raised in stupefaction. 

Lizzie, the girl tribute from 1, had gotten a measly score of six, despite having shown off her talents with a sword for the past two weeks. 

“Well, tell her not to get her hopes up. I’m pissed off too.” You tell him, biting your tongue as a car beeps and people shout muffled in the distance. 

“You wanted higher than a ten?” He stammers confused, “I nearly…” but he trails off when you give him a displeased look, shutting up as you roll your eyes in annoyance, muttering things under your breath. 

“I wish they’d given me a one,” you say, “That would’ve made more sense. They made me out to be some sort of…” but you stop, not knowing why you were even telling this stranger the truth.

Then your brows scrunch up together as you think, head whipping around to him as you scoff, nose wrinkling in pure rage as you quickly shoot to your feet, working out his plan, gripping your face for your stupidity. 

Of course, he, of all people, would try to track you down after they read the scores. Of course, he’d want to see what his biggest competition had done, to see what you were capable of. He had mastered fighting in that academy, but he must’ve mastered the art of deception because he was eerily good at making it feel like he was just being friendly. 

You make it almost ten steps before that similar hold falls on your elbow. Not tight, not harsh, but there. 

“Get off!” You yell hoarsely, your eyes glassy for some reason, as you turn around and push roughly at his chest, “What? You’re stalking me now? You came down here to find out my secrets?” You don’t know why tears are welling up in your eyes, wiping furiously at your cheeks as you sniffle. 

You were tired of these games that had started before you arrived. You would’ve preferred it if they had just lined twenty-four people up from the districts and shot at them until one remainder. Because you could handle the mind games, the insincerity, the morbid curiosity of it all. It was nearly drowning you alive, and you didn’t know what to do. 

You wanted to go home. You missed the wheat fields and the nights filled with laughter and music. You missed the dancing and the meals scraped together by whatever people could find. You missed the smell of dirt and wood, missed feeling like you belonged. Even if you were alone, you were always surrounded by people who cared. 

Here in the Capitol, you were alone. Everyone had a goal in mind and didn't know what it cost to reach it. You had spent so much time trying to take care of Yuuji and ward off Drumesia and the rest of the gnat-like citizens that only when you took a step back did you realize how utterly alone you were. 

So a part of you took that frustration out on this stranger, somebody you’ve been eyeing since you got here. You let your hands hit his sturdy chest, surprised to see that he doesn’t move or try to push you back. Your hits are weak, your voice hoarse and raw as you push at him harder, not understanding or comprehending why he wasn’t leaving, why he had come up to you all those days ago trying to make an ally out of you. 

Or why, for some reason, it seemed like out of everyone here, he seemed to actually care. Even if it was just an act. 

But Gojo stays where he is, a crease in between his brows as he takes the hits, jaw clenched tight as they gradually die down. You feel weak, open, and raw in front of this tribute who, days from now, would be hunting you down. But for some reason, he doesn’t push you away. 

There’s a heavy silence before he speaks up. 

“Why did you help that girl from 5?”

You look up at him, bewildered. You take a small step away, scoffing at the ridiculous question, but he takes a step forward as if he’s scared you’re going to run away again. 

“Why did you shake her brother's hand?” Gojo continues, some strands of his hair falling into his face, but he doesn’t bother pushing them away. 

Your mouth parts as you shrug, giving him a weird look as you give a curt and uncomfortable laugh. 

“I-I don’t know,” you stammer, “I thought she needed help, so I went over.”

Gojo nods, his jaw ticking as he looks over at the Capitol. The diamond-like lights and the ruby shadows that emanated from the city reminded him of the jewels he saw back home. 

“Would you have helped them today? Tomorrow? Would you help them during the games if you had to?” 

“What are you trying to say?” You snap, frustrated at his urgent tone and the fact that it seemed like he knew more than you, “That I should’ve just killed them there?”

Gojo snorts mirthlessly, shaking his head as it falls for a bit, looking at the intricate patterns on the brick beneath him as he takes a deep breath. 

“In three days, we’re all going to be standing around each other with a clock counting down how long we have before one of us is left. I’ve spent these last weeks trying to figure out what it is that everyone plans to do, and for the most part, I have a pretty good fucking idea of what that is. If you want to die like a martyr, that’s fine. If you want to make a statement, I don’t care. Just,” he chuckles, but it sounds empty, “What is it you want to do?” Gojo doesn’t sound like he’s trying to get you to tell him your secret to scoring a ten, nor does it look like he’s reached his wits about strategies of getting an upper hand on all of his opponents. 

If anything, it almost looks like he’s…worried for you. 

There’s a stretch of silence, one that you shut your eyes and have to imagine it’s just you and nothing else before you respond. 

You know you don’t owe him an answer. You know this person who couldn't care less about how you died should hear the why, but you answer because you don’t know what else there is to do in the madness of it all. 

“I want to go home,” you admit finally, quietly, you voice frayed and cheeks glistening in the lights of the city, looking away as you speak as if that could spare you the embarrassment of letting your emotions go in front of this person you’ve barely spoken to, “I know it’s stupid. I don’t have anyone waiting for me back there anyways. But,” you shrug limply, chewing on your cheek, “But it was still home, you know? If I died there, people would know I did. They’d eat dinner before they put me in the dirt, they’d sing a song or two. But if,” but you stop yourself, correcting your choice of words, “When I die out there, I know I’m going to die with nobody I know near me. And…and I’m so scared. I,” your breathing hitched, your bottom lip quivering, “I don’t want to die alone.”

You don’t hear him say anything, but you’re not looking for a response. You feel a little lighter saying this, even if it was to someone who couldn’t care less, but it was something that you’d been simmering in for the past three weeks and couldn’t keep it in anymore. 

“Why are you so sure you’re not going to win?”

His question startles you. 

You can’t help but laugh, rubbing a hand across your face as you step back from him, not knowing why it is that whenever he’s around you suddenly feel more open than usual. 

“Because I won’t!” You burst, a maniacal smile on your face as your hands fly upwards. “Besides the fact that I’ll be up against twenty-two other people - some way more skilled than me - what reasons would I have to even try? I have nothing to win and nothing to lose.” You pinch the bridge of your nose in exhaustion, gnawing on your chapped lips as you huff out a meaningless laugh, “You know, I did nothing for the evaluation.” 

Gojo’s eyes flash a bright blue, lips quirked up slightly. 

“Well, it surely couldn’t have been nothing-”

“I did nothing,” you repeat, “I was supposed to have a demonstration with some old tools like we had back in 11 but I choked up. I couldn’t think of anything to make that would make my time worth it. So I just,” you let out a humorless laugh, “I just stood there. I looked at them for those ten minutes. I wanted them to remember my face. I wanted them to see what I looked like before they killed me. That seemed more important than anything else we had planned.”

Gojo observes your expression, trying to see if you are lying or not. But unbeknownst to him, you were a terrible liar; you couldn’t tell a good lie even if your life depended on it. After another second of trying to assess you, he let out a little laugh, something boyish and almost…sweet, when he realized you were being completely honest with him. 

Your face falls for a second, not knowing what to do as another laugh bubbles out of his chest. He’s been so poised and controlled these last few weeks that it doesn’t even register in your brain that it’s him who’s laughing in front of you. 

“If only Lizzie knew,” Gojo sighed out after a minute, his eyes filled with mirth, “That she’d be training her whole life for this and still be bested by someone who did nothing.”

You can’t stop yourself from smiling a little bit, trying to suppress it to the best of your abilities. You look to the ground as a small giggle escapes your lips, but Gojo still stares at the crown of your head, not knowing why his cheeks were heating up when it looked like you were trying your hardest not to laugh in front of him after having a breakdown. 

He felt his throat dry up, palms sweating as he quickly looked the other way, his head ducking down so that you wouldn’t see the blush painting his face. 

“I saw that Yuuji got a five,” he says after another moment, and you glance up at him, your face hardening up in seconds as if you remember your previous conversation. “That’s good,” he adds softly, and you nod shortly, gnawing on your bottom lip, deep in thought. 

The tears you thought had gone away sting again, and you laugh them away, looking at the sparkling lights of the city as you let yourself believe for a second that you belonged here. 

“His brothers and I worked together. His mom made me food for a month after my parents died, even when they were barely surviving on their own. Yuuji,” you let out a deep breath. “Yuuji is a good kid. He’s so, so sweet. He cares about people. He just turned twelve a month ago,” and you suffocate on a sob, your head falling into your hands. “He was so excited to celebrate it, too. His dad had taken time off so they could be with each other, but…that was a week ago, and Yuuji was here.” 

You give him a sad smile, teeth catching on your lips as you blink slowly. 

“I know you don’t understand why I don’t want to win, but I think that if I even entertain the idea, I’d lose a part of myself that makes me me. I don’t want them,” You look around the open venue, let the sound of the traffic and parties float around you for a second, “I don’t want them to change me. When I die, I want to die the person I would’ve back home.” 

The boy in front of you watches the way you move, studies you like he’s studying a book. But it’s more careful than that, it is as if he’s trying to memorize every little detail of you so he could tuck it away and use it for later. 

Eventually, he lets out a small heave, his lips pursing as his hands perch on his hips. 

“Can I ask you another question?” his voice drops to a whisper, stepping closer to you. 

This time, you don’t step back. 

Your brows furrow, thinking. When you don’t shut him down instantly, he takes the silence as his go-ahead to continue.  

“Don’t you remember me?”

You feel the blood roar into your ears. 

Gojo opens his mouth to say something else, but what that was, you’ll never know. A shrill and loud voice comes from behind you. The two of you flinch, looking over your shoulder to see Drumesia stalking towards you, her face twisted together as if she had just eaten a lemon. 

“It’s past your hours!” She shouts, having her gloved hands around manically as she nears you, not controlling the shock on her face to see the new and rising Capitol darling standing just a few feet away from you. But you’ll give her credit, she recovers wonderfully. 

“And you! You should be in your quarters!” She snakes a hand around your arm, tugging harshly as she pulls you nearer and nearer to the elevator. You can hear the insistent and rapacious questions she’s asking you; how do you know this tribute, what were you discussing, are you allying with him? And so on, but you couldn’t answer any of them; your attention was somewhere else. 

You look back to see Gojo still standing there, looking at you with a strange look in his eyes. He lifts his hand, in a small wave, and gives you an even smaller, barely visible smile. You don’t know what to do, but you’re not able to return his gesture as the elevator door shuts and whirs the two of you up back to the District 11 quarters. 

You think with trepidation that the next time you will see Gojo would be tomorrow night. 

At the tribute interviews. 

—-

“Cameras on in three, two…!” 

The interviews were hectic. 

Besides the fact that tomorrow morning would mark the beginning of this year's Hunger Games, the tribute interviews were like a pre-show for what everybody watching should expect. 

Caesar Flickerman, the eccentric host, kept the show alive and energetic. It was his job. You couldn’t imagine what they would do to him if he failed at doing so. 

Every year, he comes out with a new hair color, and this year his hair was ironically a bright white, his brows matching. However, unlike Gojo, it was obvious that his hair had been dyed extensively. 

“Just remember to stand tall and smile!” Drumesia was tittering about like a canary, moving between you and Yuuji as she straightened his bow tie and fixed the creases of your dress. 

Your outfits had slightly upgraded since the chariot ceremony, but were still miles behind some of the other clothes the tributes were wearing. 

Word of your kind and loving character had spread around, and the stylist who gave up for the first round seemed excited to make you something new this year.

The dress was long and pale blue, the sleeves cutting off at your shoulders as the satin bodice sat heavily on your chest like a shield. It was supposed to make you look open, but you couldn’t help but notice the uncanny resemblance it had to some of the housemaid uniforms the Capitol women had that you had seen around. 

A small and slides into yours, and you blink out of your thoughts, looking down to see Yuuji tugging at his neck. 

“Can you help? She tied it too tight,” he says quietly so that Drumesia wouldn’t overhear. You kiss your teeth in mock annoyance, shooting him a grin as you sink onto your knees, brows furrowing in concentration as you mess around with the fabric. 

“You look very handsome tonight,” you tell him as you wrap around the ends together, trying to mimic the actions you studied Drumesia doing moments ago, “They’re going to love you out there.”

You ruffle his hair, making sure not to mess it up too much as you straighten it back. Yuuji smiles shyly, standing still to let you work. 

“Do you think,” Yuuji starts, then stops, his cheeks flushed, “Do you think my family’s watching?”

Your hands stopped, looking at him with a reproachful expression as you smiled softly, nodding your head. 

“Yeah, of course they are,” you loop the tie around, wiggling it so that it would sit straight, “Why wouldn’t they?”

Yuuji shrugged, looking away as he pouted slightly, rubbing at his eyes. 

“My brothers were just so angry before I left,” he mutters, and your hands go up on his elbows. “Do you think they’re mad that I’m not going to win?”

Your face and heart crack at the same time, your lips wobbling as you drag him close to your chest, hands sprawled out on his back as you squeeze him as hard as you possibly can. 

“Oh, they’re not mad at you, Yuuji,” you say hushed, one hand cradling his head as you tuck your chin on his pile of hair, “They could never be mad at you.”

You hear him sniffle, his arms hugging you back as you try to hide him from the wandering eyes of the other tributes. 

But, as always, you catch the eye of one in particular. 

Gojo watches the two of you, not critically, just watching. He’s observing, looking at the way you don’t mind your dress getting dirty or Yuuji’s tear marks on the fabric. 

Don’t you remember me?

You look away, as if his stare had somehow burned you, and push gently at Yuuji’s shoulders so that he would be facing you. 

“Your brothers are so proud of you,” you tell him firmly, “So proud, okay?”

Yuuji wipes at his red cheeks, nodding at your words. 

“When you go on that show tonight, you look into that camera like you’re looking right at them, yeah? Talk to it like you’re talking to them. Forget about the crowd, forget about the game. Just,” You sigh, your smile shaky as your hands tremble. “Just imagine you’re back home and you’ve been pulled into the dancing circle. Remember how scary those were?” You push a strand of his hair away, smoothing it down as he sniffles softly, nodding again. 

“But do you remember that feeling when the music was loud and everybody was clapping? Remember how at the end everyone was so sweaty and tired and it didn’t matter how bad you were dancing because everyone was just having fun?” He nods again, hanging on to every word you are saying. 

“Imagine that feeling when you talk to Caesar, okay? Make them feel like they know you. Make it feel like they’re your family.”

You don’t tell him why. Don’t want to explain how sympathy and empathy can play a big role in how sponsors view you during the games. 

“Okay?” You ask him once, stern but kind, a fire in your eyes that he tries to match. 

“Okay,” he repeats, a smile making its way back onto his round face as you bump your fist lightly against his shoulder, standing back up just in time before Drumesia and Martin arrive. 

She eyes you suspiciously, hands furiously working on your chest and stomach area to smooth out any wrinkles. You look at Yuuji, and he gives you the toothless grin. 

“You’re awfully happy,” Drumesia commented dryly, looking your makeup over until she was satisfied that it was alright. “Anything you care to tell me?”

“Nothing you’d like to know.”

She scoffs, but doesn’t push it any further, seeing how there wasn’t much else she could fight with you on. She began looking around for the other escorts, killing the time by talking to them until it was time for the first tribute to go. Lizzie, from 1, would be the first interviewee of the night. 

Yuuji tugs at your hand again, and this time, when you look down at him, you see him pointing somewhere in front of you two. 

Cameramen and crew workers were ushering people to stand up against the wall, people organized by girls first, followed by the male tribute, going all the way from 1 to 12 near the back. 

You and Yuuji shuffle awkwardly, and your shoulders press against the male tribute from 10, somebody whom you had only seen in passing. 

There’s a quiet hush that falls around everyone, nerves alight as Capitol escorts and mentors are taken to the viewing room somewhere in the back. 

You all watch on the screen in front of you as the lights in the main room dim, Capitol citizens buzzing with excitement as the music starts, the lights flashing where Caesar is sitting. 

You take in a deep and soothing breath. 

Let the show begin. 

—-

Lizzie’s interview was good. 

She knows how to work a crowd, and Caesar loved just how sparky and energetic she was. Everyone in the audience laughed along with her jokes and swooned when she talked about her sisters back home, whom she would be winning these games for. 

But she wasn’t the tribute that you were focused on. Nor what everyone else was clamoring for, either, it seemed. 

When Gojo walked out on the stage, you could see people in the audience already roaring and jumping to their feet. He had garnered quite a bit of attention already because of his pure strength, his looks, and the fact that his dad was already a victor. 

Even you could admit, as much as you wanted to dislike him, just how much he radiated this sort of energy that attracted attention. 

The suit he was wearing was tailored to perfectly match his already impeccable proportions. The dark blue coat and bottoms complemented the stark contrast with his eyes and hair, and the dazzling smile he had plastered onto his face almost made it look like he was twinkling. 

Caesar was giving his signature debonair smile when Gojo walked towards him, his laughter contagious and manufactured as he whistled as Gojo shook his hand, his grip tighter than Caesar expected. 

The two of them talk for a short second before Caesar invites him to sit down, and Gojo complies with a wink to the audience. 

He knew how to play them as well as he could play the games. 

“So!” Caesar clapped his hands as if he wasn’t getting started, “Mr. Gojo, the dashing tribute from 1, how are you doing this evening?”

Gojo kissed his teeth, looking into the audience as he gave an easy shrug and an even easier smile. The camera panned out to catch some of the women quickly fanning themselves, others swooning in their seats. 

You looked at Yuuji, rolling your eyes at the theatrics, and he giggled. 

“I’m doing great Caesar,” he finally said after a moment, letting the crowd die down as he nodded to himself, “I’m surrounded by all these amazing people, not including you, of course,” he says with a teasing tone and Caesar eats it up, slapping his lightly on the knees, “And the games are tomorrow. I can’t speak for the rest of the tributes, but I feel more than ready.”

Everyone breaks into shouts and hollers, clapping as Gojo claps along with them. 

Caesar lets them go quite far as he chuckles along, swallowing as he looks over at Gojo with a serious expression. 

“You look more than ready!” He exclaims, motioning towards his lean and muscular body, to which Gojo just waves away, “Now, I’m sure that most of these citizens recognize you because of your father, is that right, folks?” He looks back at the crowd as they scream and shout in agreement, surely having loved his dad if this was the reaction they were giving, “But am I wrong to assume that you would like to be known for something other than that?”

Gojo laughs concisely, nodding as he thinks about the question. You can only imagine the meticulous work and effort he’s put into making this interview seem flawlessly imperfect. 

“You know, Caesar, before I left, my father told me to make these games my own.”

Caesar leaned in before Gojo could finish, as if they were sharing a secret. 

“And what do you think that means? How do you plan on making these games your own?”

Gojo chuckled softly, his lips quirked as he looked back at the audience and then to the cameras. 

“I think we’ll save that for when the time comes,” he says before the audience groans dramatically, Caesar giving a big sigh as if he was torn, but Gojo continued, “But I will say, I think these games are going to be special.”

Caesar worked his brow, looking at someone in the audience as he mouthed, really?, and everyone laughed. 

“Special? Special how?”

“We’re an interesting batch of tributes. I don’t think that we’re going to go the usual route. I think…you’ll all see different alliances and enemies form, different strategies and different ways to win.”

The crowd ooo’s, but Gojo waves it off as if that was all he was going to say. Caesar smiles brightly, satisfied with the answer, as he quickly moves on to the last remaining minutes with the burning question everyone wanted to know. 

“Satoru,” Caesar has quickly moved on to calling him by his first name, dropping the formalities as if they had bonded in these past five minutes, “Before our time is up, I’m sure everyone here is wondering, if you were to win these games, would you like to dedicate it to special someone?” The connotations behind what he’s saying are almost impossible to miss. 

It seems like all the tributes are listening in, wanting to know both game and gossip talk. 

Gojo’s chuckle rumbles out of his chest, and you wince, not recalling the last time you’ve seen the all serious tribute so lively. 

He snaps his fingers at Caesar as if chastising him, pushing his hair back as a light pink dusts the apples of his cheeks. 

“Are they wondering or are you wondering?” Gojo remarks, and Caesar gives a loud laugh, pretending to look shocked as the audience roars into laughter. 

Gojo apologizes half-heartedly, waving down the room as he tries to use up all of his time accordingly. 

“I’m just messing with you, Caesar,” he says finally, laughing along with Caesar as his eyes twinkle a bright blue under the stage lights, “But to answer truthfully, I’d be winning for myself.”

Caesar rolls his eyes dramatically, pointing to Gojo as he looks to the crowd for support. 

“I don’t believe that for a second! With a face like that, how could you not have a girl waiting for you?”

Gojo smiles, his teeth bright as he ducks his head bashfully. 

“I’m honored, Caesar, but I think that if I had a girl back home, I wouldn’t be fighting as well as I could,” Gojo admits, “I wouldn’t want her to see what I’d have to become to survive, and then not recognize me when I get home. And besides…” But Gojo trails off, shaking his head as if he had remembered halfway to stop himself from saying too much. 

But oh, how Caesar loved it. 

“No, no young man, you can’t stop there! Besides what? Besides what?” Caesar pushes the entire audience sitting on the edge of their seat as Gojo gives a practiced nervous chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck as if he didn’t plan for this to happen. 

“Well,” Gojo gave a slight shrug, looking straight into the camera, “If I were to win these games, it’s not a girl back home I’d be winning for. She’s a little…closer than 1.”

The crowd lost their minds. 

“My! I wonder who it is!” Drumesia said curtly under her breath, looking around as if the mystery girl would reveal herself. Other tributes began muttering under their breaths, some angry at how well Gojo was working the crowd, others curious to see if it was outlawed for somebody from a District to fall for a Capitol girl. 

Nonetheless, Gojo was able to wrap everyone around his finger with just a sentence. 

Caesar tries to calm them down, but it’s no use. Now, everyone is shouting and demanding to know who this mystery Capitol girl is that has won the esteemed Gojo Satoru’s heart over. It’s no use, Caesar has lost control of them, and his time with Gojo is up. 

He’s playing these games well, you think, and not the way most people would. 

Caesar nods slowly, giving his usual bright smile as he and Gojo stand up, their hands clasped together as the others wave to the bustling and energetic crowd. 

“Give it up for the dashing Tribute from District 1, everyone! Gojo Satoru!” 

You can no longer tell who’s still screaming from the past news and who is trying to wish Gojo goodbye, but regardless, the enthusiasm from this crowd dwarfs whatever it was that Lizzie got. 

But the more you let his words simmer, the more you realize that Gojo wasn’t only doing this to stir gossip or gain empathy. If the citizens (and sponsors) of the Capitol believed that there was a chance he could win these games and come back for one of them, then…

Then he just garnered a whole lot more support than any score from those evaluations could have gotten him. 

When he finally left, his mentors and escorts quickly ushered him somewhere backstage, so you weren’t able to get a good glimpse of him before he left. But the relaxed stance he had once had was now bunched up, tense in his shoulders. He looked around the other tributes, eyes falling last on you and Yuuji before he was whisked away. 

Yuuji tugged at the fabric of your dress, glancing up at you with a worry in his eyes. 

“I have to go after him?”

—

All the other interviews seem to go by in a blur. 

The closer it gets to 11, the more you feel like throwing up. Your heart beats in erratic rhythms, and your mouth and ears feel like they’re stuffed with cotton. At some point, you stop looking at the screen because of how much your head is spinning. 

Your hand grips your stomach, balancing on the wall, the closer and closer you get to being called up on stage. 

Martin and Drumesia are both standing near you and Yuuji, exchanging worried glances at your worsening state. 

“You’ll be alright,” Yuuji whispers, tugging on your arm, with a bright smile even though he looked horrifically pale and nervous, “If I can do this, you definitely can.”

You chuckle softly, whispering a thank you as you watch the male tribute from District 10 stand up and shake Caesar’s hand, the audience applauding as he exits. 

It’s your turn. 

“Smile!” Drumesia repeats, doing the motions on her own face as you give her a shaky one in return, “Be their sweetheart!”

Be their sweetheart. 

One of the people moved in between you and Yuuji, your hand falling from his as they ushered you through the holding area and onto the stage. You take one deep breath before you duck your head down and go. 

You instantly wince at the bright lights, your ears roaring as if you were being held underwater, and sweat dots on your forehead. You feel your stomach plummet, but your feet move as if they’re the only part of your body working. 

The crowd is clapping as Caesar introduces you, and you inch towards him as you try to discreetly wipe your palm on the side of your dress so he wouldn’t notice how clammy it was. 

You look into the audience, people in the front row dressed as wildly and strangely as they seem to do in the Capitol, and then look over to Caesar, who seems to be mourning something, but you can’t hear what it is he’s saying. 

“W-what?” You say, cursing at yourself for this being your first words, but Caesar just laughs it off, patting you affectionately on the shoulders. 

“Someone’s nervous!” Caesar says with a smile, leading you to sit down as you shakily sit down on the seat facing him. When he’s sure that you're situated, he moves to his own, legs crossing as he leans back slightly. 

“What I had said was, ‘How are you doing?’” 

You look at him and then at the cameras, swallowing to wet your throat. 

“Good,” you say hoarsely, “Just nervous, like you said.” You give a shaky laugh, and Caesar, along with the entire audience, aww at, as if you were a wounded animal. 

Caesar waits until the crowd dies down before he starts again, shuffling a little closer so that it wouldn’t feel like you were strangers. 

“Well, I never want you to feel that way around me,” he pats your knee before he gives a gentle smile before it turns impish, “That’s what the audience is for!”

Everyone laughs, and you give a weak chuckle. He gives the cameras a small pout, and your nose wrinkles slightly before he starts again. 

“Let me first say that I am intrigued to see you nervous because from what I’ve heard, you are great with people. Is this true, or did my little songbird lie to me?”

You blink away from the crowd, eyes darting towards the cameras as you give him a growing smile and let a simple giggle roll through your chest, one thought ringing through your head: 

Be their sweetheart. 

“I wouldn’t say great,” you emphasize with a smile, remembering that this crowd was full of sponsors that could help you and Yuuji, “But I used to take care of kids before I worked in the fields back home, so I’ve learned a lot of things about people from that.”

Caesar clicks his tongue, as if understanding. 

“Well, disagree as much as you want, but we’ve had some witnesses in the crowd who have seen firsthand just how well you’re able to make new friends, is that right?” He calls out, and some people in the audience cheer extra loudly. 

Those must’ve been the people who saw you before the chariot parade. 

“Do you think this will help you in the arena?” Caesar adds, and you rip your eyes away from those in the audience to look at his face. 

“U-um,” you stammer, your cheeks heating up as you think about it thoughtfully, “I don’t think so, Caesar.” You admitted truthfully, debating whether to lie or not, but it seemed like your decision was the correct choice, as it seemed like people in the audience perked up at your honesty. 

Even Caesar seemed a bit surprised as his brows furrowed and his head tilted slightly to the side. 

“No? Why? Why not?” His voice dipped slightly, mimicking concern. If you didn’t know any better, you would think he would care, as if he wouldn’t narrate your death in just a few days. 

You ring your fingers together, chewing on your cheek as you try to look docile. Like a sweetheart. 

“I don’t like seeing people hurt,” you tell him, and everyone watching, frankly, “Even if the kids I used to watch were being…difficult,” you say with a slight emphasis and the crowd laughs, shocking you a little bit, “I would never say anything too harsh to reprimand them. So I think that if I were to befriend other tributes, I’d stir crazy in the games.” 

Caesar nods once more, his eyes shutting as he takes in your words. People in the audience seem to tilt their heads dramatically as if you had softened them into a puddle of faux compassion and stone-hearted emotions. 

“So empathy is both your strength and witness?” Caesar confirms, and you give him a timid grin, nodding. 

“One that can be exploited very well during something like the Hunger Games, yes,” you say a little sarcastically and with a knowing grin, and Caesar lets out a chuckle, nodding along with your statement as people in the audience laugh. 

“While we’re on more temperate topics, here’s another question for you,” Caesar’s voice has dipped a little bit, losing his energetic spark as he got serious, “I have been asking many of the tributes tonight who they would win for. If you were to win, who would you dedicate it to?”

You feel your stomach churn painfully, tongue darting out to wet your chapped bottom lip, and you grab the sides of your chair tightly. 

Gojo’s words from the night before repeat themselves in your head. What is it you want to do?

“I,” you stop yourself from what you were going to say, almost looking backstage to where Yuuji was standing with Drumesia, but control the urge and continue holding your stare with Caesar, “I have no family left in 11,” you’re sure that the camera is zeroing in on your face now and the way Caesar holds your hand supportingly as if he was there when you mourned the loss of everyone you loved, “I think….I think I would win these games so that I could see the sunsets back home.”

“The sunsets?” He asks instantly as if he’s never thought about that, he looks into the crowd to see if they’re just as intrigued, “I have to admit, I’ve never seen the sunsets at District 11 before. How are they?”

You gave him a knowing smile, blinking your tears back as the fire inside your chest burned. 

“Caesar, they are simply to die for.”

The tension in the room seemed to snap as everyone laughed, Caesar throwing his head back with a comical hoot as one hand sprawled out across his chest. The cameramen swiveled to catch everyone’s reactions, and you feel some heat prickle at the back of your neck. 

“Funny! She’s funny!” He animated as if they hadn’t already heard you, wiping at his eyes as his wide smile twinkled, “One last thing! Before we run out of time! I’m sure everybody here, along with me, is wondering one thing. Does anybody know what that is?” 

Caesar looked out into the audience with a raised brow. You turn limply, mirroring his actions, as somebody with a large pink wig and even larger cheekbones cups their manicured hands around their mouth as they yell out; 

“Her score!”

Caesar winked at that person, snapping when they got it right. His chair swiveled back to face yours, your fingers digging into the plush texture of the cushions as your heart beats rapidly against your chest. 

“Yes, yes, her score! Now, don’t worry, I won’t have you revealing your secret,” Caesar assured and your shoulders eased just a little bit, Caesar waving the audience’s disappointment down with a playful scold, “But I do want you to tell the people what they should take away from a score like yours.”

The clock was ticking down. You only had a few seconds left to make it all count. 

“Hm,” you hum thoughtfully, a glint in your eyes as your head tilts a little, “It’s funny you ask. We have this song back in 11, one older than me. Some say it’s from this ancient traveling band, from way before. But we always tell ourselves that nothing you can take was ever worth keeping. So,” you pause for a brief moment, your lips quirked, “During the games, I think you should…expect nothing from me and I’ll give you all everything in return.”

Caesar’s smile falters a second as he digests your words, looking at you, but you’re looking back at the crowd as you wave to them. 

He helps you stand up, his hand outstretched to take yours, and you give him a firm squeeze as you shake it. The crowd claps loudly, some calling your name like they did for the other tributes. 

“Everyone give it up for the witty sweetheart from 11!” Caesar shouts, and people clap even louder, your smile growing despite yourself. 

Maybe, just maybe, you did something right. 

—

One deep breath in. One deep breath out. 

The helicraft they were using to transport all your tributes was huge, but somehow you still felt insanely claustrophobic. It felt like the walls were closing in, the whirring and the gentle hum of the machine were somewhat soothing, but it did nothing to distract you from the fact that you were being transported to the arena.  For the Hunger Games. 

You could barely sleep after the interviews. Yuuji had done great, everybody loved him, just as you suspected. But it wasn’t the high of doing well that kept you up. It was the fear, the trepidation of knowing that there were merely hours left before only one of you was fated to come out. 

Breakfast was horrible. You couldn’t keep anything down, so you opted for some tea and bits of a biscuit. Martin seemed particularly drunk, barely meeting your eyes as Drumesia kept snapping at him to tidy up. But you didn’t have the heart to judge him, couldn’t imagine what it was like to see countless tributes over the years, only for none of them to survive. 

It must be maddening. 

Yuuji didn’t look any better, but he was trying his best to appear as steady-headed as possible. When Martin led the two of you to the hovercraft, he gave you both one final look, his eyes glossy and his face solemn as he put one hand on your shoulder and the other on Yuuji’s. 

“Look after each other,” he said gruffly, his voice choked and hoarse, “These games bring out the worst in people.” 

You wondered just how bad it could get. 

After one of the guards had injected the tracker into you, they strapped you in, and you felt your back press tightly against the seat as it began to take off. The other tributes were rubbing their arms, wincing at the soreness of where the injector was once. Some were looking around, curious and afraid; others were talking to themselves. 

Gojo was one of those who was looking around, eyes darting everywhere until they found you. Again.

He gives barley there nod, one you don’t understand the meaning of, before he peeks back to Lizzie, his head dipping down as he attentively listens to her as she whispers something in his ear. You shake yourself away from looking at them, trailing down to where Yuuji was bundled next to you, his fingers pushing at the skin of his forearm. 

“Yuuji,” your voice is a hint of whisper, and you’re glad for the steady hum of the craft as it drowns out your voice for everyone else around you, “Yuuji.” You say a little harsher, this time grabbing his attention. 

His head snaps up, brown eyes wide as if he had been caught doing something wrong. You almost apologized, but remembered that right now you had to be harsh. It was your only means of survival. 

“Do you remember what you’re going to do?” Your head ducks down so that you’re closer to his ear, and he nods quickly, determination and trepidation on his face as you sit back upright, giving him a stern look. 

For the last couple of days, you’ve been watching old runs from previous games. How they started, what it looked like towards the middle, and how they ended. You’ve gathered that the beginning of the games is the most brutal part, seeing how everyone is still gathered around each other. 

The Cornucopia, a big-looking structure that resembles its namesake, is where all weapons, sacks of food and water, sleepgear, and anything else needed for survival are held. It’s tempting, sure, but that’s where the bloodbath takes place. When everyone hoards something surrounded by deadly tools, it’s expected that something barbaric will take place. 

From what you could tell, tributes are all arranged in a circle around the structure on pedestals. A clock counts down from a minute until they can move. If Yuuji was situated somewhere where the Cornucopia was blocking him from your vision, there was not much you could do than order him to turn around and run as fast as he could. You promised you’d find him. 

“Mhm,” he quickly nods, closing his eyes as he recites the orders you’ve drilled into his head, “If I see you, run towards you when the clock finishes up. If not, run away and hide,” he cracks open an eye as he winces, “Right?”

You realize your face is harder than usual, your frown lines more apparent. You swallow, trying to soften yourself up as you pat his hand, looking at the walls facing you to steady your mind. 

“Right.”

You feel Yuuji’s eyes bore into the side of your face, and his fingers move so that they can grasp onto yours. 

“Did you try making any allies?” He whispers, shuffling closer to you because of how cold the air is. 

You shake your head, not looking down but instead finding your stare to travel back over to where Gojo was sitting. 

Don’t you remember me?

It’s one of the only things you’ve been able to think of these past two days. 

The thing is, you know you remember him. You remember that hair and those eyes. You remember the way he carries himself. It’s a brief memory, one hidden in the back of your mind and refusing to show itself. But perhaps what’s even stranger is that he does. It couldn’t be from the first day on the trains. This memory is deep, it’s old. 

And yet you don’t have any idea where it came from. 

So you shake your head at Yuuji’s question, thinking back to your interview with Caesar as your foot taps erratically on the floor. 

“We’re each other's allies,” you murmur, still not looking away from Gojo as if prolonged staring would help jog your memory, “Remember what Martin told us?”

Yuuji doesn’t seem happy, clearly thinking that more people mean better odds of surviving, but he can’t argue with you. He slumps a little bit, looking around. 

You go to tell him something else, but your eyelids suddenly feel heavy. You wince, your head dipping, but not on your own accord. 

You can barely open your mouth before everything goes back, and you slump against your restraints. 

---

a/n: there will be a part two! it's in the works, and it'll definitely have more romance in it (and angst)! I also don't use taglists, so I'm sorry to anyone who was asked to be on this one!

[egglain]

toji loves head.

problem is, "head" means something a lil different to the man.

most men are happy to get anything. half-hearted tongue, a wad of spit-- hell, even hot air on their frenulum. they'll nut and cherish it, get off to the mere thought of a warm mouth around their pathetic dicks.

not toji zen'in.

he's not ungrateful. he'd never say no to a blow, even a quick one.

but he's got refined tastes.

he's used to the good stuff, spoiled for years by a wife who could spell his name backwards with her tongue.

nosing at his taint, tugging on his dick, and mouthing at his nuts are necessary.

"throat it. c'mon. throat that fuckin’ dick." a big hand pressed your head down, nose bumping pubes. "don't gag. pussy."

throats weren't made to stretch this way-- if his girth wasn’t enough, his length had your throat spasming, fighting to reject the intrusion.

"swallow."

you tried, blinking back the tears stinging behind your eyelids.

the suction of your throat coaxed a groan from him, couch creaking as his head fell back against the cushions.

“that’s the stuff.”

toji locked his big legs around your head, his fat thighs possibly the most expensive noise-cancelling headphones you’ve ever worn.

he’d clench until your ears rang and blood rushed to your head. then, slowly, he’d release.

it was dizzying.

like this, you couldn’t be focused on anything but him.

not like you could have been anyways.

he’d pull out just to shove your face into his nutsack, shiny and slick with spit.

“gentle now. nice n’ slow for me. open wide.”

he’d sit with his balls in your mouth ‘til the weight of each scrote was burnt on your tongue, until the ache in your jaw was seared into your mind.

a calloused hand stroked his length slow, base to mid-shaft. deep breaths kept him steady, enjoying the sight of you stone-still at his feet.

then, he shifted.

slow jerks of his hips, signalling for you to move.

you traced them with your tongue, wrapping and caressing in languid strokes.

his cock twitched in his grasp. veins strained against knuckles as fat fingers squeezed his base.

“suck on ‘em.”

while you slipped a nut in your mouth, his hand sped up. the firmness of his grip had his nutsack bouncing in tandem, fapping against your face.

you felt, more than heard, the groan that tore through him.

“fuck. ‘m gonna bust.”

he was no two-pump chump but christ. you’d be the death of him.

pulling his thighs open, you slipped down lower, nosing at his taint.

heavy balls slapped against your forehead as he jerked his cock harder, hissing out at the sensation.

“shit. holy fucking hell.”

two fingers prodded gently at his perineum as you looked up, sticking your tongue out to tease his nuts.

blown pupils met yours.

and he was done for.

“fuck—“

thick cum dribbled down his shaft, weaving between his big fingers in fat teardrops.

his warm seed hit your forehead, dripping down the slope of your brow, some caught by your cheeks.

spit and semen mixed on your tongue, salty and bitter, collecting under your tongue. strings of spit leaked slowly, falling to your thighs below.

green eyes watched it through, fixated on how he was painting you in his colours, in his scent.

toji loved head.

but this was something else altogether.

something he couldn’t let go of anytime soon.

[confessionsandcreampies]

sex ban for the jjk boys 🙂‍↕️

— gojo satoru - “this is why you’re not allowed on top”

you’re crawling down the hallway in a bathrobe, legs trembling, and gojo’s just chilling at the kitchen counter like he didn’t just ruin your entire existence.

“need help, princess?” he grins, sunglasses still on, hair tousled.

“i need an exorcist,” you growl. “you rode me like a bull and moaned into my ear.”

he tilts his head. “you said you wanted me on top for once.”

“you bounced like a porn star and then asked me why i was crying.”

he licks his spoon. “because you were happy?”

you throw a banana at him. “sex ban. seven days. or i’ll go into cardiac arrest.”

he gasps. “that’s like… a lifetime in horny years.”

now he’s getting worse. stretching on the couch, legs spread. walking around shirtless. moaning on purpose just to piss you off. “oops. guess the blindfold fell off. wanna help me find it? naked?” you’re going to explode before the ban ends and he knows it.

— fushiguro toji - “you treat my body like a weapon”

you’re wheezing and clutching the headboard. whole body sore like you ran a marathon barefoot. toji’s just grinning, towel around his neck, finishing a water bottle. still naked.

“you okay, sweetheart?”

you try to sit up. you can’t. “you flipped me like a pancake mid-thrust.”

he smirks. “gotta keep you guessing.”

“you said, ‘shut up and take it.’ then bit me.”

“you sounded so cute when you squealed.”

you glare. “sex. ban. or i’m putting you in a muzzle.”

he chuckles. “you’re the one who keeps saying, ‘harder, daddy’. i’m just accommodating.”

now he’s working out in the bedroom shirtless, grunting loudly, purposely letting sweat drip down his abs.’“oh no,” he’ll say. “my towel slipped. you gonna punish me, sweetheart?” …you end up breaking the ban. on the weight bench.

— nanami kento - “you should be arrested for what you did”

nanami’s cleaning his glasses at the breakfast table while you shake next to him, nursing your bruised thighs and your pride.

“you called me ‘a filthy little professional stress relief toy’ and then apologized while still pounding me.”

nanami hums. “you were very tight. i assumed you enjoyed it.”

“i bit the pillow. it ripped.”

he sips his coffee. “we should replace that.”

“sex. ban. until further notice.”

he calmly sets his cup down. “that’s unfortunate.”

you squint. “you’re taking this too well.”

he does until day 2. now he’s leaning over your shoulder at the office, whispering filth in your ear like it’s just casual conversation. “i keep picturing how your thighs shake when you come. are you wet now?” you scream. he smirks. ban? broken.

— fushiguro megumi - “you’re not supposed to be this good at it”

you’re curled up in bed, thighs shaking, and megumi is in the corner of the room looking like a fucking saint. but he’s not.

“you said you didn’t know what you were doing,” you groan.

he glances at you, deadpan. “i don’t.”

“you fucked me like a seasoned sorcerer of sin. you kept your face blank while destroying my cervix.”

he shrugs. “you said to go deeper.”

“i didn’t say disappear into my womb like a fucking curse technique.”

“you were dripping all over my cock.”

you throw a pillow at him. “sex. ban. five days.”

megumi nods like it’s a punishment for him, but he keeps finding ways to accidentally brush against your ass, lean too close when reaching past you, or stare just a little too long at your mouth. by day 3, you’re begging. he smirks for the first time ever. “told you i’d break you.”

— itadori yuji - “you almost made me go blind”

you’re limping through the dorm hallway, gripping the wall like an old man. yuji’s chasing after you, panicked. “are you okay?? did i hurt you??”

you spin on him, pointing accusingly. “you came in me three times and then asked if i wanted to do reverse cowgirl. i can’t see straight.”

he winces. “i got excited…”

“you called me your ‘sweet little fleshlight’—yuji. yuuujiiii.”

“i said it once!”

“you said it while sobbing from how good my pussy felt.” you collapse onto the couch. “sex ban. four days. and i mean it.”

yuji pouts. follows you around like a lost puppy. licks his lips when you wear shorts. accidentally moans when brushing past you. by the end of day 2, he’s fully lost it. begging, hands shaking. “can i just eat you out, please? i miss the taste.” you crumble and then sob on his face.

— inumaki toge - “you made me speak.”

you’re staring at him, dazed. legs spread and pussy pulsing. toge’s panting. sweat dripping down his neck. he’s still inside you.

you whisper, hoarse, “you… talked.” he wipes his lips and smirks. “what the fuck was that, toge?! you said—you said actual words.”

he leans down, kisses your cheek, and murmurs, “so tight, i can’t think straight.”

you scream into the pillow. “sex ban. you’re unhinged. you’ve betrayed me.”

he just tilts his head, all fake innocent. now he’s teasing you constantly. whispering tiny, filthy phrases with his cursed speech filter.

“drip.”

“clench.”

“soak.”

you’re vibrating like a toy on the edge of combustion. he signs you to break the ban or he’ll tell you to cum. you break down sobbing.

[thefranchise4]

Stormi Maya 🤤

[lilirae00]

Drinks and Paige

Summary: One-shot: Azzi has a little too much to drink and the other UConn girls don’t know what else to do except to call Paige, who’s in Dallas. 

Word Count: 6.6k

Warnings: drinking, alcohol, drunk Azzi, light mention of gagging/vomiting

Masterlist

—

Azzi hadn’t planned on going out.

It was two weeks before the season started, and there were still early practices, team meetings, shooting drills that left her arms heavy and sore. 

But Caroline had insisted. One last hurrah before we lock in, she’d said, pleading with those big eyes that always got her in trouble.

So Azzi had caved.

Now she found herself perched on a cracked barstool at Ted’s, surrounded by her teammates—Ice, Jana, KK, Sarah, Caroline—who were all determined to make the night count. The bar was packed with other students cramming in one last round before the season’s grind. Music thumped just enough to rattle the glasses.

Azzi nursed her second drink carefully, already feeling the heat in her cheeks. She wasn’t a big drinker. Never had been. She liked to be in control of her body—her mind. She didn’t like the slip, the way alcohol made her laugh too loud, her thoughts too soft.

But tonight was different. It felt… final.

Her last season at UConn. Her last months with this exact group of girls—teammates who had become family. Every inside joke, every late-night bus ride, every pre-game ritual was winding toward its inevitable end. Soon she’d be gone, off chasing the next thing. 

A new city. A new team. A new life.

And even though she was ready, even though she was excited—there was a lump in her throat she couldn’t swallow down. Something about tonight felt like a goodbye dressed up in glitter and music and laughter.

She glanced at Caroline who was leaning over the bar to order another round of shots, waving her credit card like she owned the place. Azzi shook her head, lips twitching despite herself.

Her phone buzzed in her back pocket. She fished it out, thumb tapping the screen.

Paige: “Behave at Ted’s, superstar.”

Azzi: “No promises. Love you.”

Her chest squeezed in that annoying, familiar way. Paige was in Dallas, time zones apart, finishing up her rookie season, probably already in bed with an ice pack on her knee. Azzi missed her with the kind of ache that felt cellular.

And not just in the I-want-to-hear-your-voice way. It was deeper than that. She missed Paige in the fabric of her everyday life—in the locker room banter, in warmups, in the walk from class to the practice facility. 

She missed the way Paige used to flick rubber bands at her during film sessions, the way she’d lean over during stretches and whisper some stupid joke that would make Azzi laugh when she was trying to be mad.

UConn without Paige wasn’t just quieter—it was lonelier. Paige was the reason she came here in the first place. Back when everything was still only possibility and nerves, it had been Paige’s voice that pulled her forward, told her it would all be okay. That they’d do it together. And for a while, they did.

But now Azzi was finishing what they’d started—alone. And some days it felt like she was holding it all in her hands just a little too tightly, like if she loosened her grip even for a second, the whole thing would slip through her fingers. 

She was proud, of course. This team, this season—it mattered. But there was a part of her that still looked to the bench, half-expecting to see Paige there, chewing her nail, bouncing her knee, mouthing encouragement across the court.

She wasn’t. She wouldn’t be again.

And the weight of that hit harder than the alcohol ever could.

“HEY.”

The shout snapped Azzi out of her thoughts like a slap. She blinked and looked up, just in time to see Caroline’s grinning face appear inches from her own, her dark hair frizzing wildly around flushed cheeks. A shot glass was shoved into her hand before she could react.

“For Captain Fudd!” Caroline declared, voice too loud, eyes too bright.

Azzi frowned. “I’m literally sitting right here.”

“Exactly!” KK called from across the room, raising her own drink with a crooked smile. “You’re here. You don’t get to be sober tonight. Cheers!”

The girls around them whooped in agreement, a blur of limbs and laughter, the music pulsing behind it all like a second heartbeat.

Azzi exhaled through her nose, letting a dramatic roll of her eyes speak for her. But her fingers curled obediently around the warm glass anyway, cool liquid sloshing against the rim.

She could feel Caroline watching her, waiting for the spark of competitiveness to kick in. It always did.

Azzi raised her glass with practiced ease and clinked it against Caroline’s. The sound was small but sharp, a tiny crack in the soft bubble of nostalgia and melancholy she’d been floating in seconds ago.

“To the end,” Caroline said, quieter now. Something flickered in her eyes—something real beneath the buzz.

Azzi didn’t answer. She just knocked the shot back.

The burn hit her tongue first, then her throat—fast and hot and mean. Her face twisted instinctively as she swallowed, hissing through her teeth as the alcohol seared a path to her stomach.

Caroline laughed and smacked her shoulder like she’d just scored a three. “There she is!”

Azzi coughed and wiped the back of her hand over her mouth, already regretting it. 

If she was being honest, she only ever really liked drinking when Paige was around. Paige, who always made sure she ate first. Who never let her take a shot without water right after. Who kept a steady hand on the small of her back in crowded rooms. Who would tuck her into bed and pull her shoes off if she got too tipsy to remember how.

With Paige, drinking felt safe. Easy. Like something she could surrender to.

But tonight, everything felt looser—unraveled at the edges. The room was too warm, too bright. Her chest still ached from the weight of memories she hadn’t meant to unpack. And Paige was still hundreds of miles away, asleep in a different bed, under a different roof, in a different life.

Azzi didn’t feel safe tonight. She just felt exposed.

And when someone passed her another shot, she took it without asking.

—

They lost track of rounds after that.

Someone stole the aux from the bar. Ice started a chant that had the whole table in stitches. KK told a story about a freshman trying to sneak into practice that had Azzi snorting drinks through her nose.

For a while, it was easy.

She let herself laugh. Lean into Caroline’s shoulder. Forget about the weight she’d been carrying since summer.

But then it got fuzzier.

Caroline ordered another round.

Azzi blinked at the glass like it was foreign.

“Carol… I’m good,” she mumbled.

But Caroline wasn’t listening. She was too busy heckling Ice about her shitty pool skills.

Azzi tried to set the drink down, but Jana nudged her. “C’mon, Captain. One more for good luck.”

She made a face. But she picked it up.

It didn’t take much. It never did.

—

Half an hour later, Azzi realized the room was tilting.

It wasn’t spinning fast—more like swaying, like the floor was a dock and she’d just stepped off a boat. 

A strange, slow kind of vertigo that made her feel detached from reality. Her vision pulsed softly at the edges. The lights overhead were too bright, and someone had turned the music up, or maybe it just felt louder in her skull.

Caroline was laughing at something KK said, her voice cutting through the noise in sharp bursts, but it sounded like it was coming from the other end of a tunnel. Azzi blinked, slow and heavy, trying to bring everything back into focus. 

The heat in her cheeks had spread down her neck, into her chest. Her pulse throbbed behind her eyes, in her jaw, even in her teeth.

She pressed a shaky hand to her forehead, fingertips cool against the fever of her skin.

“Hey, Az,” Caroline’s voice drifted through the fog, a little closer this time. “You good?”

Azzi turned toward her, eyes glassy and unfocused. There was a half-second where she just blinked, not recognizing the concern on her friend’s face. Then she let out a breathy hiccup and gave a crooked, too-late smile. “M’fine.”

Caroline’s brow creased. “Uh-huh.”

The lie hung limp in the air between them.

Azzi tried to swallow around the lump rising in her throat, but her lower lip was already betraying her—quivering like a fault line about to give way. 

The heat behind her eyes burned now, threatening to spill over. She blinked hard, willing the tears back. Willing her body to get it together.

KK noticed before anyone else. “Shit,” she said under her breath. “Is she crying?”

Azzi sniffed, immediately turning away, shoulders stiff. “No.”

But her voice cracked, and the denial collapsed with it.

“Azzi…” Caroline’s hand found her shoulder—gentle, grounding, careful not to make it worse. Her palm was warm, steady against the chaos that had taken over Azzi’s body.

Azzi hiccupped again. And this time, the tears came. Hot, shameful, unstoppable. They streaked down her cheeks before she could pretend to blink them away.

“I want Paige,” she choked out, her voice hoarse and small.

KK flinched like she’d been slapped. “Aw, fuck.”

Caroline didn’t say anything at first. She just squeezed her shoulder, her own expression folding with empathy. “Baby girl,” she murmured. “Paige is in Dallas. Remember?”

Azzi’s face crumpled. “I know,” she slurred, breath stuttering out of her lungs like it hurt to let go. “But I want her. I want… I want her to come get me.”

The last word cracked in two as it left her lips.

Her breath hitched. Her whole frame shook.

She sounded like a kid again—like the younger version of herself who had only ever known comfort as something that smelled like lavender lotion and Paige’s hoodie and soft, dry hands on her back.

Caroline reached for her, rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades. “It’s okay. You’re okay. We’ve got you, Az.”

But Azzi wasn’t listening. She let out another sob, tried to swallow it down, but her stomach turned. Fast.

“No. She always comes. She always—”

And then she gagged.

Her hand flew to her mouth.

“Shit! Move!” KK barked, already halfway to her feet.

They scrambled. Azzi staggered to stand, her legs rubbery and barely cooperating. Her face was flushed, soaked with tears, and her stomach was already rebelling. 

They barely got the door open before she was bent over on the sidewalk, vomiting into the night.

Caroline crouched beside her without hesitation, one hand bracing Azzi’s back, the other holding her hair up and away from her face. She murmured soft, meaningless things while Azzi sobbed and apologized between ragged, dry heaves.

“I’m sorry,” Azzi gasped. “I’m so—God, I’m sorry—”

KK hovered nearby, helpless. Her eyes were wide, her hands balled into fists.

“Paige is gonna fucking murder us,” she muttered under her breath.

Caroline didn’t argue.

Because deep down, she knew it was true.

—

The Uber driver pulled up and gave them a look like he was rethinking every decision that had led to this moment. His eyes flicked over Azzi’s slumped frame, the way her legs tangled with Caroline’s as she half-lay, half-sat on the curb. 

There was a second—just a second—where Caroline was sure he was about to lock the doors again and pull off without them.

But he didn’t. And thank God, because Azzi was barely upright.

Her head lolled onto Caroline’s shoulder, cheek pressed against her jacket. Her face was damp, flushed, and streaked with tear-salt. She mumbled things under her breath—strings of half-thoughts and emotional confessions that made everyone in the car want to crawl out of their skin.

“I want her,” she whispered, words slurring at the edges. “I want Paige. Tell her… tell her to come get me.”

Her voice broke like glass.

Caroline’s stomach twisted. She kept rubbing slow circles on Azzi’s arm, the only thing she could think to do.

“I know, Az,” she said softly. “I know. She’s not here tonight, but we’ve got you. You’re safe, okay?”

But Azzi shook her head. Small. Fragile. Desperate.

“No. I need her,” she cried, voice thick with tears. “I just… I just want her. Please.”

From the front seat, KK glanced back with wide eyes. Caroline caught the look and shook her head once, barely perceptible. They had no idea what to say. None of them did.

Because Azzi never asked for anything.

She was the sturdy one. The composed one. The one who picked others up when they fell apart. Seeing her like this—crumbling, helpless, unraveling—it felt like watching a skyscraper sway. A pillar cracking down the center.

When they pulled up outside the apartment, the night air hit them like a slap—cool and too quiet after the tension in the car. 

Caroline climbed out first and reached back to coax Azzi forward, looping an arm under her ribs to guide her. Azzi staggered, her steps uneven, her weight heavy but somehow still fighting the help.

Inside the apartment, it was worse.

Azzi whined when they tried to steer her toward the bathroom, tugging against Caroline’s grip like a toddler refusing bedtime.

“No. Wait—” Her voice caught. “Call Paige. Please.”

Jana froze in the doorway, her mouth pressed into a thin line. Ice’s hands stilled on the back of the couch.

Caroline’s voice softened to a hush. “She’s not here, babe. She’s in Dallas. You remember that, right?”

Azzi’s face crumpled all over again, her features folding in on themselves as tears spilled freely. “She always comes when I need her,” she whispered, eyes wild. “She’s supposed to come get me.”

Caroline’s heart cracked for the hundredth time that night.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know she does.”

But Azzi wasn’t finished. Her breath came in short, uneven pulls.

“I want her so bad,” she choked. “Her hands… her mouth… everything. I miss her body.”

KK let out a strangled cough. “Jesus CHRIST, Azzi.”

Jana blinked like she’d been slapped. “Okay, okay, whoa. We HEARD you. Calm down.”

Ice looked like she wanted to vanish into the nearest closet.

Caroline bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to laugh through her tears. She smoothed a hand through Azzi’s damp hair, her tone full of exhausted affection. “Okay, babe. Maybe keep the commentary to yourself. We got the message. Loud and clear.”

But Azzi just shook her head harder, tears dripping down her chin. “I just want her, Carol,” she sobbed, the words hitching in her throat. “No one else. Just Paige.”

That was it. The final blow. Caroline pulled her close, cradling the back of her head and pressing her cheek into Azzi’s hair. She didn’t care that Azzi was sweaty or crying or completely falling apart.

“I know,” she murmured, voice raw. “She’d be here if she could. I promise you.”

Azzi’s sob rattled through her chest like it was trying to escape. She sagged into Caroline, her body trembling.

KK wiped under her eyes and mumbled, “Fuck. Paige is gonna end us.”

“Can you just get water and towels?” Caroline shot back, her voice sharp enough to sting. “Please?”

KK and Jana bolted, grateful to be given a task.

Caroline gently steered Azzi toward the bathroom, step by step, speaking to her in low murmurs. But Azzi stumbled after the first few feet, breath hitching again. She gagged once, dry and painful, and then froze.

“Okay,” Caroline soothed, guiding her down to the tile floor beside the toilet. “Just breathe. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Azzi folded onto the floor, arms limp at her sides, head falling back against the wall. Her hair clung to her forehead in damp strands. Her breathing was ragged, wet, and shallow.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Caroline crouched beside her, brushing sweaty curls away from her face.

“For what?”

Azzi blinked at her, red-eyed and destroyed. “For not being okay without her.”

Caroline’s breath caught.

She wrapped her arms around Azzi’s trembling shoulders, rocking them both gently. Her voice cracked against her hair.

“You’re allowed to need her, Az,” she whispered. “She knows you need her. She loves that you need her. And she’d be here if she could. I swear to God.”

Azzi let out a sound that wasn’t even a sob anymore—just a wrecked, broken exhale that dragged everything inside her down with it.

Caroline held her tighter.

She knew what she had to do next.

Caroline’s fingers trembled as she fumbled for Azzi’s phone in the front pocket of her sweats. It took two tries to wedge it free. Her other hand stayed on Azzi’s back, steady and firm, grounding them both.

Azzi was still crumpled beside the toilet, folded in on herself. Her shoulders hitched with every breath, each one shuddering and uneven. The sobs had slowed but not stopped, coming in wrecked little waves that she didn’t even try to hide anymore. 

Her hair clung to her forehead, damp and tangled, and she hadn’t spoken in minutes—hadn’t even tried to push them away. She just stayed there, shaking.

Caroline glanced toward the bathroom doorway where KK stood frozen, pale and useless. Her voice cracked. “Can you get a wet rag?”

KK blinked like she’d just been woken up. “Yeah. Yeah, on it.” She disappeared down the hallway at a sprint.

Caroline looked back at the screen, thumb hovering. Paige’s name stared back at her from Azzi’s Favorites list, glowing steady like a lifeline.

She didn’t ask permission. Just hit FaceTime.

It only rang twice.

Paige’s face filled the screen—soft lighting, a couch in the background, takeout container balanced on her lap. Her blonde hair was twisted into a high, loose bun, strands falling around her face. She looked relaxed. Happy, even.

“Hey, baby—oh. Hey, Carol, what’s up?”

Then she heard it.

The ragged sound of crying. The weak gag from off screen. Paige’s entire body snapped into focus like a rubber band recoiling. Her brows pinched, and the smile vanished instantly.

“Is that Azzi?” Her voice sharpened. “Caroline. What the fuck is going on?”

Caroline’s throat was already raw. She shook her head, guilt thick and burning. “She’s… she’s sick. She drank too much. Paige, I’m so sorry. She was fine, and then she just—she’s a mess.”

Paige’s jaw tightened. Her voice dropped into that low, dangerous register Caroline had only heard a handful of times. “Put me on her. Now.”

Caroline didn’t argue. She shifted down beside Azzi again, cradling the phone close as she crouched low. The screen trembled slightly in her hand as she angled it toward Azzi’s crumpled body.

Azzi didn’t even lift her head at first. Her face was blotchy, red and streaked with tears, lips parted and trembling. Her breath came in small, shallow bursts. But when she finally turned and caught a glimpse of the screen, something flickered in her expression.

“Paige…” she whispered, hoarse and broken.

Paige’s voice changed instantly. She leaned closer to the camera, all steel gone, replaced with a kind of desperate tenderness. “Hey. Hey, baby. Look at me.”

Azzi’s chin wobbled. Her mouth opened like she was trying to say something else, but all that came out was another sob. She curled in tighter.

“I’m sorry,” she cried softly.

Paige’s breath hitched, sharp and barely controlled. “No. No, baby. You don’t have to be sorry. Just breathe, okay? You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

Azzi tried to inhale but it caught in her throat. Her body shuddered with the effort.

“Come on, deep breath,” Paige said gently. Her voice had that coaxing edge now, like she was guiding a child through a panic attack. “You can do it. I wish I was there. God, Azzi, I wish I was there. But Caroline’s got you. You trust her?”

Azzi gave the tiniest nod, the motion barely there. A sob slipped out with it anyway.

Caroline swallowed the lump in her throat and pressed the phone a little closer. “She’s here. We’ve got her.”

KK returned with the cold rag, kneeling beside them. Caroline took it with a murmured thank you and laid it gently against the side of Azzi’s neck. Azzi flinched at first, but didn’t pull away.

Paige watched all of it with laser focus. Her eyes tracked every move, lips parted like she was holding back a thousand words.

Then her expression shifted.

“Caroline,” she said, voice tight.

Caroline looked up. “Yeah?”

“You know she can’t drink like that. She’s a lightweight. You’re supposed to look out for her when I’m not there.”

The guilt rushed in hot and immediate.

“I know. I know, Paige, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—none of us thought it’d get this bad.”

Paige closed her eyes for a second, breathing through her nose. When she looked up again, her face had softened—but the worry was etched in deep.

“I know you didn’t. I’m not mad, I just…” Her voice cracked. “Please. Take care of her for me. Like I would.”

Caroline nodded hard. “I will. I promise.”

Paige turned her gaze back to Azzi, and her voice dropped into something so gentle, it felt like a touch.

“Hey,” she whispered. “I love you.”

Azzi’s whole face twisted. “Love you too,” she cried.

“I’m not hanging up,” Paige said. “I don’t care how long it takes. I’m staying with you, baby.”

Azzi nodded, leaning into Caroline’s side. Her body sagged like she was finally allowing someone else to hold the weight.

Paige’s voice was a whisper now. “We’re gonna get you through tonight. One step at a time.”

And she did.

She stayed on FaceTime the entire time Azzi was sick. She stayed while Caroline stripped off Azzi’s sweat-soaked clothes and got her changed into oversized UConn gear. 

She stayed while KK and Jana rotated in and out of the room with water bottles and crackers and extra towels. She stayed while Azzi drifted in and out of consciousness, sniffling, muttering Paige’s name like a prayer.

And when Azzi finally passed out with her head in Caroline’s lap, eyes red and lips parted, Paige just watched. Silent. Still.

Because if she couldn’t hold her, if she couldn’t wrap her arms around her and rub circles into her back and kiss the top of her head like she always did—then this was the next best thing.

And Paige wasn’t going anywhere.

—

Azzi woke up slow, heavy-limbed and disoriented, like her entire body had been filled with wet sand. 

Her mouth tasted like cotton and regret—dry and sour and clinging. The inside of her skull pulsed with an insistent, miserable throb that settled right behind her eyes and thudded in rhythm with her heartbeat.

She blinked blearily toward the window. The blinds were crooked, letting in strips of cold, overcast light that painted the room in tired gray. Her throat was raw. Her tongue felt thick. Every muscle in her body ached like she’d been run over.

She groaned softly, pressing her face into the pillow. For one blissful second, she tried not to remember.

But then it came back.

The bathroom floor. Her knees on cold tile. The burn of tears down her cheeks. Caroline’s voice saying it was okay. Paige’s voice through the phone—calm, steady, far away—telling her to breathe.

Azzi flinched, shame curling in her gut like spoiled milk.

“Hey.”

Caroline’s voice drifted in from the doorway, soft and careful.

Azzi turned her head slowly. One eye cracked open.

Caroline stood holding a glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol, like some kind of hungover fairy godmother. Her expression was kind, unreadable, just the right amount of tentative. She looked like she’d been up all night too.

Azzi’s voice was a croak, gravel dragged across pavement. “Kill me.”

Caroline let out a breathy, tired laugh. It sounded too light to be real—more relief than amusement. She crossed the room and sank down on the edge of the bed, handing over the water.

Azzi pushed herself upright with a low grunt, each movement stiff and resistant like her body was punishing her. The sudden change in elevation made her stomach lurch, but she managed a slow sip, willing herself not to gag.

She could feel Caroline watching her. That calm, quiet gaze that didn’t miss anything.

“Don’t you dare start apologizing yet,” Caroline said gently, before Azzi even opened her mouth.

But Azzi’s lips wobbled anyway. Her voice cracked around her next word. “Carol…”

Caroline shook her head, firm but soft. “No. Don’t. We’re good. We’re all good.”

Azzi’s throat tightened. She scrubbed a hand across her face, trying to get her emotions back under control. “I was such a mess.”

Caroline’s face softened, something maternal flickering there. She reached out and rested her hand on Azzi’s knee, grounding her.

“You were drunk. And sad. And missing your girl. That’s not a crime, Az.”

Azzi looked down at her lap, the water glass shaking just slightly in her hand. “I kept asking for her.”

Caroline nodded, quiet and without judgment. “Yeah. You did.”

Azzi swallowed hard. Her voice went smaller. “I don’t usually let it get like that. I don’t want to be that needy. I just—I couldn’t stop.”

Caroline’s expression turned fierce, protective. “Hey. Stop that. She’s your person, Azzi. You’re allowed to need her. That’s the whole point.”

Azzi blinked hard, but the tears welled up anyway. She sucked in a ragged breath through her nose.

Caroline squeezed her knee again, this time with a kind of reverence. “You should know… she stayed on FaceTime all night. Wouldn’t hang up. Not until you were asleep.”

Azzi’s chest cracked wide open. Her breath caught. She brought a hand to her mouth like she could physically hold back the wave building in her throat.

“She did?” The words came out fragile, barely more than a whisper.

Caroline nodded, her voice soft. “She watched you breathe, dude. I tried to get her to log off once you passed out, but she wouldn’t. Said she’d know if you needed her. Said if she couldn’t come get you herself, this was the closest thing.”

Azzi closed her eyes tight. One tear slipped free, tracking down her cheek in silence.

Caroline didn’t rush her. She just kept her hand steady on Azzi’s leg, thumb rubbing in slow, calming circles.

“I’m not telling you that to make you feel worse,” she said, voice warm and even. “I’m telling you so you remember exactly who you’ve got.”

Azzi let out a long, broken exhale. “God, I love her so much it’s pathetic.”

Caroline snorted, watery-eyed. “She’d say the same about you, you know.”

Azzi huffed out something between a sob and a laugh. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, dragging it across her skin without much care.

She inhaled deep—shaky, but fuller than before—and looked over at Caroline with glassy eyes. “Thanks,” she said quietly.

Caroline just smiled. “Always.”

Once Caroline stepped out to give her a minute, the room fell quiet. Azzi sat there in the rumpled sheets, still clutching the half-empty glass of water, heart aching in that sharp, quiet way only Paige could manage to trigger—just by loving her so much.

She reached for her phone on the nightstand. The screen was littered with missed messages, but she didn’t look at them yet. 

She opened her messages and tapped on Paige’s name, her thumbs still clumsy and slow.

Azzi: I’m awake

Azzi: still feel like garbage but I’m okay

Azzi: I love you

The dots appeared before she even locked the screen.

Paige: thank god.

Paige: baby i’ve been checking my phone every 5 seconds

Paige: I’ve got practice this morning but i’ll call you the second i’m done

Paige: you sure you’re okay?

Azzi smiled softly, her head falling back against the headboard. Her body still ached and her eyes were raw, but the knot in her chest loosened just a little.

Azzi: Carol took good care of me

Azzi: still wish you were here though

She stared at the message for a beat, thumb hovering like she might delete it. The last thing she wanted was to make Paige feel guilty. None of this was her fault. 

Paige would’ve moved mountains to be here—Azzi knew that in her bones. But still. 

The ache lingered. The hollow spot beside her in bed, the silence that followed every sob last night, the way her body instinctively reached for comfort and found nothing but crumpled sheets. 

She missed her like air. Like something vital. 

But she’d already asked for so much last night—too much, maybe. So she didn’t say any of that. Just turned her phone face down and blinked hard at the ceiling, willing herself not to cry again. 

Paige: me too baby

Paige: so bad

Paige: don’t move from that bed until i can see your face later

Paige: and don’t even THINK about skipping lunch

Paige: i love you

Azzi exhaled through her nose, heart warm and sore all at once.

Azzi: love you more. talk soon?

Paige: always.

Azzi set the phone down beside her and closed her eyes.

—

A day later, Azzi was feeling… better. Not perfect. Not completely clear. But better.

The worst of the hangover was gone. The shame had dulled to a wince instead of a full-body cringe. Caroline had refused to let her sulk too long, dragging her out for coffee runs and early gym sessions.

Now it was late afternoon. The apartment was messy with leftover takeout boxes, empty Gatorade bottles, and KK’s giant sneakers that no one knew how she managed to lose in the middle of the floor.

Azzi was curled into the corner of the couch in sweatpants, watching Ice and Jana argue over which of them cheated at Uno last night. KK was loudly insisting she had won fair and square while Caroline just snickered from the arm of the chair.

Azzi let herself laugh, quietly, the sound feeling good in her chest.

That’s when a knock echoed from the front door.

The room stilled instantly—like someone had hit mute on the world. The laughter faded. The hum of the TV vanished under the sudden hush.

Jana twisted toward the sound, brows drawing together. “Was someone else coming over?”

Azzi frowned, her heart ticking up a notch. “No… not that I know of.”

KK, halfway through opening another bottle of Gatorade, grunted. “I got it.” She tossed the cap on the counter and dragged herself upright, grumbling as she padded toward the door with the heavy steps of someone expecting a delivery or a neighbor complaining about the noise.

She yanked it open without ceremony.

And froze.

Azzi noticed the shift immediately—KK’s whole body locked, shoulders stiff. Her expression flickered from confusion to something more rattled. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

“Uh… Azzi?” KK’s voice cracked, unsteady in a way that made Azzi’s stomach drop. “It’s… it’s for you.”

Azzi didn’t even get the chance to ask before a figure moved past KK, cutting through the doorway like a storm.

Paige.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t pause. She just stepped through the threshold with a quiet urgency that made the whole room tilt.

Her eyes—sharp, wide, wild with worry—landed on Azzi and never moved again. It was like nothing else existed. Like she’d taken one look and finally, finally remembered how to breathe.

Azzi’s body reacted before her brain could catch up. She surged to her feet, breath snagging in her throat. Her chest tightened with something fierce and desperate and relieved all at once.

She had barely taken a step when Paige was already moving toward her, and then they collided—arms wrapping tight, bodies folding into each other like magnets finally allowed to touch. 

Azzi didn’t even care that her breath hitched or that her knees almost buckled. Paige held her through it.

There were no words. Just the soft sound of Azzi’s exhale breaking against Paige’s shoulder. Just the way Paige buried her face in Azzi’s neck and inhaled like she could live off the smell of her skin alone. 

Around them, the room stayed silent. But no one looked away.

When they finally pulled back just enough to see each other, Paige’s eyes were wet. Her hands still held Azzi like she was afraid to let go, as if Azzi might disappear if she blinked.

“Jesus Christ,” Paige rasped, voice raw and uneven, barely more than a breath. “I leave for five fucking minutes and you forget how to handle your liquor?”

Azzi huffed out a weak laugh, the sound cracked and watery. “Shut up,” she whispered, but the tears were already spilling again, tracing down her cheeks without permission.

Paige kissed her forehead hard, arms still cinched tight around her waist. Like she needed to feel Azzi’s heartbeat against her own to believe she was okay.

Then Paige’s eyes lifted, scanning the room, her expression shifting. The softness in her face pulled taut. Her gaze sharpened just enough to make KK take an instinctive step back.

“You were supposed to take care of her,” Paige said, and though her tone stayed quiet, it held an edge that sliced through the room.

KK flinched, eyes wide. “I know,” she murmured. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”

Paige cut her off without raising her voice. “You know she’s a lightweight.”

KK nodded miserably, her usual swagger gone. “Yeah. I know. I’m sorry, P.”

Paige’s gaze moved slowly across the others—Caroline, Ice, Jana—all of them suddenly still, all of them looking a little like kids caught doing something wrong.

“All of you,” she said evenly.

Jana’s mouth twisted. She lifted her hands, palms up. “We know,” she said, guilt thick in her voice. “We fucked up. We’re sorry.”

Ice looked like she wanted to sink through the floor.

Paige stared at them for another beat, and then let out a rough, exhausted sigh. The fire in her eyes dimmed a notch.

“God. I’m not even that mad,” she muttered, her voice fraying at the edges. “I know you didn’t do it on purpose. I just…” She shook her head once, jaw clenched. “Fuck. I wasn’t here.”

Caroline stepped forward, careful and deliberate. Her hand landed gently on Paige’s arm, grounding. “We’re really sorry, Paige,” she said, her voice thick with regret. “We pushed her too far. It won’t happen again.”

Paige studied her for a second longer, then exhaled through her nose. She opened one arm and let Caroline hug her, finally letting her guard drop just a little.

“Thank you for taking care of her,” Paige murmured into her shoulder.

KK shuffled over and threw her arms around both of them with a grumble. “Fucking scary-ass girlfriend,” she muttered, but it was affectionate.

Paige let out a tired snort. “Takes one to know one.”

Jana and Ice stepped in for quick, awkward hugs before grabbing their bags and jackets, the energy in the room shifting to a quiet, respectful retreat. No one wanted to be in the way anymore.

Caroline lingered at the door. She looked back at Azzi with a soft, knowing smile. “You good?”

Azzi wiped at her face, still holding tightly to Paige’s hand. She nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

The door clicked shut behind them.

Azzi’s shoulders sagged the second it did, like she’d been holding herself upright through sheer force of will. But Paige didn’t give her time to collapse.

She pulled Azzi right back in, arms tightening like she could press all the broken pieces back together.

“Hi,” Paige breathed into her hair, her voice cracking with all the things she couldn’t say.

Azzi let out a wet laugh, pressing her forehead against Paige’s. “Hi.”

Paige kissed her then—slow and tender, nothing hungry about it. Just the quiet, steady press of lips that had missed each other more than they could ever say aloud.

When they finally broke apart, Azzi pulled back enough to study her face. “How the hell are you here?”

Paige’s mouth twitched into a soft smile, though her eyes were still tired. “Got two days off. Hopped the first flight I could. Had to see you.”

Azzi’s throat tightened. “Paige…”

Paige shook her head, brushing her thumb across Azzi’s cheek. “Don’t. Don’t apologize. I wanted to come. You scared the shit out of me, baby.”

Azzi looked down, fingers curling into Paige’s hoodie. “But you have to leave tomorrow?”

Paige nodded, her hand still cupping Azzi’s cheek. “Tomorrow night. But I’d fly across the world even if it meant I only got thirty minutes with you.” Her voice softened even further. “Don’t you know that by now?”

Azzi let out a broken laugh that turned into another sob. She leaned into Paige like gravity had shifted and pulled her there.

Paige kissed the tear off her cheek.

“Bedroom,” she whispered, not as a command—just a gentle suggestion.

Azzi didn’t argue. She just tugged Paige’s hand and led her down the short hallway, feet moving on instinct.

They collapsed onto the bed together like two halves of a puzzle slotting back into place. Paige curled around her, legs tangled, arms wrapped tight. 

Azzi buried her face in Paige’s chest, inhaling the familiar scent of her shampoo and skin.

Paige rested her chin on Azzi’s head, her voice low and fraying. “Never want you crying like that again. Not for me.”

Azzi let out a shaky breath. “Just don’t want to need you so much.”

Paige’s arms squeezed tighter. “But you can need me,” she whispered fiercely. “That’s the deal.”

Azzi didn’t answer, but she nodded against Paige’s chest, finally letting herself sink into the safety of her.

They stayed like that for a long time, wrapped in the quiet hum of the room—the soft click of the radiator, the low buzz of people walking by outside, the even rhythm of shared breath.

Eventually, Paige shifted, just enough to tilt Azzi’s chin up with two fingers.

“Look at me,” she said, voice low and sure.

Azzi blinked slowly, eyes still puffy, still shining. Paige’s mouth curved into that soft, familiar grin—the one that always made Azzi’s stomach do a somersault. 

“You didn’t think I flew all the way here just to cuddle, did you?”

Azzi let out a laugh that broke in the middle, and rolled her eyes. But her fingers were already twisting in Paige’s shirt, tugging her closer.

Then she paused, a fuzzy memory resurfacing.

“Oh god,” she groaned, cheeks going scarlet. “I think I told them I wanted your body.”

Paige grinned, teeth flashing. “You definitely did. Ice told me. And honestly? Highlight of my week.”

Azzi let out a mortified groan and buried her face in Paige’s neck. “Shut up.”

Paige chuckled, her lips brushing Azzi’s temple. “Not a chance.”

Azzi’s voice came out low and sly, muffled against Paige’s neck.

“Well… you did say you’d always take care of me.”

Paige pulled back just enough to kiss her—slow and certain, like she had nowhere else to be. “I did,” she whispered, her voice thick with feeling. “And I meant it.”

Azzi’s hands slid under Paige’s hoodie, seeking warmth and skin. Paige responded, pulling her sweatshirt off in one smooth motion, their bodies already slotting together like muscle memory.

A quiet breath. The rustle of clothes. Fingers tracing familiar paths.

A whispered “C’mere.”

A sigh.

And the quiet certainty that even 1600 miles apart, they’d always find their way back to each other.

[desvyn]

smut mdni

You’re riding him slow, skin slick and breath catching with every roll of your hips. His hands grip your waist, guiding your movements — needy, grounding. You're both on the edge, your moans soft and low as the heat coils tighter in your belly.

Then his phone rings. Loud. Insistent.

You freeze instinctively, blinking as the real world tries to crawl in — but his hand slides up, palm firm before it slaps the side of your thigh. Not hard, but sharp enough to jolt you.

“Keep going,” he murmurs, voice rough, already picking up the phone with the other hand. “Don’t stop.”

Your eyes widen, but your body obeys — bouncing just a little faster now, even as heat blooms where he struck you. He answers the call, his tone casual, unaffected, like he isn't buried deep inside you.

You try to quiet the whimper caught in your throat, one hand flying up to cover your mouth — but he catches it midair, dragging your wrist down.

“No hiding,” he mouths, smirking up at you with that infuriatingly calm expression. “Be good.”

You try — you try to stay quiet. But the soft moans spill out, uncontrolled, every sound a threat to expose you. His voice stays level, too steady for someone being ridden within an inch of his life.

But his eyes are locked on you. And that look alone? It sends you over.

𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐕𝐘𝐍 | Don't try to be me, you can't.

[squidsinashirt]

Very @realrocketboy / @thunderbird-3-best-bird

Basically what you see when he loses you at the store, with the soundtrack of “Gordo? Gordo? Gordooooo?”

bounce bounce

[fallout-lou-begas]

watching video game challenge runs where they try to beat a platformer game without jumping is so funny because they'll be like "well after performing six frame-perfect tricks in a row and abusing the object memory glitch to generate enemies from four levels ago for us to bounce off the tops of so that we can cross a single gap, we're immediately met with a wall that we can't get over without jumping" and you'll literally think well that's not fair. why would the developers put that wall in the way like that

[vosling]

Charlie: 'Be so goofy that no one ever takes you seriously […] Let it take over. Let Troy guide you.' Troy Betteridge: 'Are you sure about that? Because any time I "go with the flow," I end up back in the mansion bouncing on a [Troy: fucking/Ty: blasted] trampoline. If I'm going to accomplish anything, I can't do whatever Troy feels like doing.'

Spotify -> woe.b 195 -> [16:16] ▶️

Troy Betteridge: 'Oh… there is going to be bouncing' TROYS HOUSE I DON'T WANNA PLAY GAMES //but I// bounce high when I'm on a trampoLIIIIIIINE

I love that Troy Betteridge complained to Charlie about having to bounce with the Troys all the time but once they were in the trampoline room, he outright refused to stop bouncing for Stinky's Key Information.

[bigdickmenace]

So bouncy!😋

DMs open to submissions📥

[dork-a-doodle]

I’ve always wanted to draw what I think the various Deltarune weapons look like, and I figure why not start with the swords!

The Twisted Sword - The Axes - The Scarfs - The Rings

[gayestcowboy]

big things happening on twitter

[orangeflavored-lifesavermint]

This! This is something I've been thinking about since Trump got diagnosed with that disorder I can't remember the name of. People are getting excited saying "that's what he gets for being evil! Haha!" But it is soooo important to remember that disability dose not exist as a punishment. When you mock an evil person with said disability, or even claim that they deserve it, you are only hurting other disabled persons. Not Trump. Donny boy dose not gaf if you think he deserves to suffer, but others who have the same issues might. Same for attractiveness. Elon musk is not evil because he "ugly", he's evil despite it all.

Be nice, and be careful with your words. If you find yourself celebrating someone you don't like suddenly becoming disabled, evaluate why you feel that way. Is it really because you hate them, or is it thinly veiled abelism?

STOP LINKING ATTRACTIVENESS WITH MORALITY (“notice how the person with the bad opinion is ugly?”)

STOP LINKING WEIGHT WITH MORALITY (“lmao look how fit all the people with Good Opinion are, Person I Hate is Fat”)

STOP LINKING AGE WITH MORALITY (“people with Good Opinion just don’t age I swear!”)

STOP LINKING HEALTH WITH MORALITY (“Well xyz health problem is what Person I Hate gets for being shitty!”)

STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT