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emochosoluvr · 18 days ago

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𝐉𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑’𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐄 ⚜

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒. jester!Gojo x lady!Reader, historical AU – medieval, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, banter, eventual smut [MDNI], dubcon, loss of vírginity, ôrgasm denial, overstimúlation, edgīng, glove used as makeshift gag, böndage, Gojo talks you through it, fíngering, cûnnilíngus, finger sucking, cúm swallowing, sqûírting, exhibítionísm, voyeûrísm, crëampîe, table séx, library séx, couch séx, pantry séx, balcony séx, ridíng, máting press, sorta fwb, arranged marriage, angst (w/ implied happy ending), forbidden love, etc etc

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓. 16.2k

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄. thank you for 4k cuties!! accept this as a gift, sorta, idk, this was actually a request; also, this was my first time writing for Gojo, and . . . NEVER again, i tell you. i shan't write for this man EVER again *wipes tears* i'm way more used to writing the big bad wolf Sukuna // available on ao3 // dividers by @/aquazero

Jesters could do many things.

They could dance and sing and laugh. They could read through your deepest fears, your desires, your wants, and exploit them—all in the name of fun. They could write poems, tell tales, play songs; but beneath all their cunning smiles, hidden under their costume and glory, all jesters were but men. Pigs of mud; scum of the earth. Mortals; males; humans.

All jesters were men—plain, stupid men—but not Gojo Satoru.

Not your Gojo Satoru.

No, he was different: he was a piece of shit. In the beginning, at least.

Now, originally, he was a slave—captured from the raidings of a nearby kingdom and thrown into the dungeons. It was unfortunate, really, and you pitied him. But not everyone did. At first, many royal advisors of the king’s court opted for throwing the young boy into a brothel, because they took one good look at his sea-blue eyes, and decided he would be extremely successful for the kingdom as an escort.¹ But, luckily, the king saw wit and potential in the kid, and, instead of throwing him into a brothel, threw him right into the royal court, where he served, from then on, as a jester.

¹ Prostitute.

He was only fourteen when he earned his role as a professional entertainer, and only, still, fourteen when he escaped eternal damnation as a slave.

‘Twas the lives of boys like him, Gojo was just lucky enough to be a pretty boy.

Not like that was relevant, anyway. Because, although he was four years your junior, he still managed to cause twice as much trouble compared to the average toddler. He was a jester, sure, but he was more than just mockery and tomfoolery. He played pranks even during the most serious occasions, and teased the ladies of the royal court endlessly.

Crude, deviant jokes.

Twisted mind games.

Insults vile enough to bring tears down the victim’s eyes.

He did it all, with little to no remorse. Actually, scratch that, no remorse—none, at all.

Gojo Satoru was a mischievous kid, probably the most mischievous jester of the kingdom. He joked around and teased just about everyone, but he directed most of his obscenities towards you. All six years he had been at the castle, the castle where you resided at as a lady, he was nothing but a menace to you. A bully, if you could even say that.

He pulled your hair, laughed in your face at your evident frustration, occasionally stepped on the trains of your dresses, stole food from your plates, and often dared to interrupt your conversations with other ladies you had befriended at the castle. You did not like Gojo, not one bit.

The only time you had ever felt an emotion lacking loathing towards the now twenty-year-old was when you became acquainted at his first appearance in the royal court. When he was brought in before the king, who sat solemnly on his throne, Gojo did not want to live. His parents had been murdered, house had been ransacked, and old life destroyed. You could not blame him. But the king offered him a new life, a life as a jester.

Gojo was fourteen years old; he was alone, cold, hungry, and he decided to start anew.

Perhaps the reason Gojo was so skilled at being an entertainer was because the only way the boy had ever learned how to cope with his misfortunes was with humor. He masked his sorrows every day he sang and danced and joked with the royal court, and maybe—maybe the reason why he poked fun at you the most often was . . . because you were the only one who noticed.

He was a talented man, but his talents were directed towards rather foolish acts. He wrote and played ballads dedicated to poking and making fun of you. He plucked his instruments as annoyingly and horridly as humanly possible just to rile you up and see you either storm out the room in rage or struggle to hold yourself back from slapping his smug smile right off his impossibly handsome face. Besides music, he also wrote poems: poems full of love and poems full of hate (more often than not, pointed to you).

There was not a word in the language you spoke that could describe how much you loathed hearing Gojo’s irritatingly smooth voice or the sound of his lute.²

² An instrument.

You were practically seething right now, as you were sharing gossip with the other ladies over your usage of embroidery as a pastime, because the only gossip you could hear was the horrible plucking of strings in the other room. It seemed you were the only one bothered by the noise. Damned was that silver-haired oaf, you silently cursed to yourself, fingers twitching whilst you interlaced your thread.

“Agnes, dear, you know, I hear there shall be a festival during the spring times,” began a red-haired woman, otherwise known as Bridgette. She was a built woman, and was taller than most of your fellow ladies. She married, became widowed, and was now alone, though she was still jolly. You wondered if your future would be the same. “In the villages, of course.”

“Oh?” Agnes asked, coughing. “Do tell.”

The eldest woman of the room, Bridgette, began relaying all the information she possessed from overhearing maidservants in their respective corridors to Lady Agnes, a raven-haired, arguably sickly thin woman. Agnes was perhaps one of your closest friends at the castle, and you had known of her since the two of you were but adolescents. She liked spring festivals, because the smell of florals always brought the color back to her pale, sunken face.

“It will be a delight, I’m sure. After all, all festivals are delights. Say, Eleanor,” added Bridgette, as she turned her rosy-cheeked face to the blonde woman sitting just beside you, “have you heard any more about the ball from any of the chevaliers³?”

³ Knights.

“Oh, I—yes . . . I remember, the ball, the one next week?” asked Eleanor. She was a meek, lithe woman; wife to a knight. A quiet, stuttering creature she was, but, nevertheless, you admired her for her humorously contradicting elegance and modesty.

“The day after the morrow,” you said, clarifying, having decided to distract yourself from the awful playing of the lute next door by conversing amongst the rest of the ladies.

“The day after the morrow . . .” Eleanor repeated, before her face lit up. “Oh! yes, I see. The ball after the morrow . . . Oh, well, in that case—Bridgette, I do have some news.”

The ladies seated around the wooden table instantly leaned more into the conversation, their embroidery and weaving having come to either a stop or a slow in order to focus on the words which would leave Lady Eleanor’s lips. Even Agnes, the least social of the ladies, seemed intrigued by the highly anticipated ball which would surely bring a variety of guests flocking from each kingdom.

“Well, bless me!” exclaimed Bridgette, her hand on her bosom. “Color me intrigued.”

Eleanor cleared her throat. “Plenty of the knights and calvary will be there, as they always are. I hear some merchants are also attending, in pursuit of business and the sellings of oh-so splendid dresses. Sires, lords, nobles, sirs. There will be many royals, I’m sure, but—”

“Princes?” interrupted Bridgette. “What about princes?”

Eleanor blushed, embarrassed from being cut off. “A-plenty,” was what she ultimately replied with.

“Oh! my word. There will be just so many princes to dance with! Think of the conversations one could have with a foreigner. Think of how different their customs are. How attractive they could be compared to the hounds that, here, we call men.”

Lady Bridgette went on and on with her exclamations, her excitement showing itself as her face continued to redden impossibly with each sentence she spoke.

Even someone as unsociable as Agnes blushed a bit, and you, too, also seemed to grin a little at the idea of men, other than Gojo, pestering you for change. But, speaking of the man, at the bringing of attention towards the amount of single men that would be attending the ball, the playing and strumming of the lute had come to an abrupt stop.

There were no more incorrect notes, no more out-of-tune strings, and no more laughter echoing throughout the halls. Perhaps the jester had finally decided to leave you alone.

Perhaps.

“Perhaps” was the key-word here, because, at the moment you even suggested such a ridiculous idea, of course, the playing had to resume. The lute was picked up, and, once more, Gojo continued his horrible music, but, this time, much more quicker-paced and, as if to add some flair, in a staccato fashion.

It would be useless to say you were not left alone for the rest of the evening, because it came with no surprise. None, at all.

***

The day of the ball arrived much earlier than you felt it, but that was no coincidence, for, with the seemingly increased amounts of times Gojo bothered you throughout the waiting time, you were just about ready for, quite literally, anything else.

The hall was filled with bustling crowds of men and women. Candelabras were lit, servants walked with trays of assorted treats, guests lined the walls, and princes and nobles rushed in through the gates and doors like a great wave. The king had ordered for such a grand ball in celebration of his recent victories on the battlefield, and there was no denying the grandeur of the spectacle.

Ladies dressed in their best attires, men buttoned their coats to the top, and knights slung ribbons and swords at their waists.

You weren’t always one for affairs that served their purpose as opportunities to meddle, (such as balls), but you couldn’t resist the event of seeing so many new faces, especially since you were approaching the time to be wed. Well, it didn’t matter, really; in the instance that you failed to find a beau, the king would surely bring in a favor for you, whether you wished for it yourself, or not.

On the other hand, it seemed princes weren’t the only men attending the ball, which, in this case, was as unfortunate as fortunes could get. Because, lo and behold, Gojo, clad in a purple motley,⁴ was present at the hall where the ball was to take place.

⁴ Costume of a jester.

How foolish you were to think that, for once in your life, you could be free of the moronic man-child. But, of course! you could never. You two resided in the same royal court, after all; it could only be expected that the notorious jester would be in attendance alongside more agreeable guests.

The silver-haired man took full strides until he was just one pace away from you, leaning down into a deep bow as he kissed the back of your palm, his eyes staring up at you all the while, almost hypnotic, they seemed.

You did not smile, opting for scoffing instead, though you did not immediately pull your hand away from his. “Go bother someone else, Gojo.”

“Feisty, I like it.”

“This is not a joking matter, I mean it. I’m here to have fun, as are other people. Which, speaking of, I’m sure there are plenty of women who would be more than willing to throw themselves into your arms as we speak.”

Gojo did not respond for a moment, but you did not take it as an opportunity to exit the scene. Perhaps you should have, when he said, with an unfamiliar tone, “And you?”

“. . .Pardon?”

“Are you a woman who’s willing to throw herself into my arms?”

“I am a woman who is busy, Gojo. Enjoy the ball.”

Your words were spoken like a parent tired of scolding a child an indefinite number of times, but Gojo did not let them cut deep into his heart, and before you could pick up the train of your gown and walk away, he took your hand once more, stopping you.

“A dance,” he implored, looking into your eyes. “One dance with my fair lady.”

You almost laughed at the poor attempt for a joke, your lips curving upwards into a smile. “My hand has already been promised to another man.”

“Promised . . . for a dance,” he repeated, as if reassuring himself of something. “—Correct? Nothing more?”

You let your fingers gradually slip from Gojo’s grasps. “You really are a silly man, aren’t you? Oh, well, I guess it cannot be helped.” You grinned, laughing to yourself at the strange exchange that had just taken place, before walking elsewhere.

It was true. Your hand was promised to another. Another man. A prince. He had asked for a dance with you as soon as his eyes met yours just moments before, and, who were you to decline him? After all, there was no one else you could’ve imagined as a more agreeable partner, for the first round, at least.

He was of a foreign land to the North, was what you learned during conversation you held during your waltz together. Of the name Rilian Atkinson, the prince was a tanned, lean man. With brown hair that sat under his gleaming coronet,⁵ there was no mistaking of his patronymic name and title.

⁵ A simple version of a crown, worn due to its lesser weight.

He spoke nothing short of how royalty would, and you found your cheeks warming numerous times whenever he made a joke you could not understand, seeing as a lady such as you was not at-level with someone so high in rank and respect. You could only feign soft laughter and forced smiles. But, luckily, when it came to keeping up a reputation, you were not particularly bad at playing the part of a respectable lady of court, and you were almost certain you had Prince Rilian fooled by a false image.

Now, don’t start getting the wrong ideas.

You were fond of the man, you learned—during waltzing with him, and his hands were softer than most, so you held no hostility. His manners were inarguably adept; he was proper, acted with more respect than anything else, and was, perhaps, the only man in a while that had you wanting to excuse yourself, taking consecutive trips to the nearest mirrors in order to fix your jewelry or touch up your hair.

It was almost embarrassing, come to think of it. The way he managed to make you laugh despite your not understanding any of his jokes, because, funny enough, his mannerisms and tone were enough to make you want to praise him for his complex, sophisticated humor, and, above all, you felt ashamed of yourself had you done otherwise.

He twirled you, he turned you, he dipped you; all with such ease and skill—he was the most enjoyable dance partner you had ever had.

Despite your pleasures during the first round of the waltz, there were others who were . . . not so fortunate.

Gojo, for instance, had been leaning against a pillar in the corner, a frown on his face and his arms crossed over his chest throughout his sulking and seething. Maybe he was upset because you declined him, maybe he disliked the way you looked over his offer so casually, but, in any way, he refused to dance with any other women, and ignored the ladies that approached him whilst the troubadours⁶ performed.

⁶ Poet-musicians.

He often scoffed to himself, complaining about how he could write much better love songs than the hired entertainers, which was a silly thought, because the only reason he was free to dance instead of play music, was because he opted out of entertaining at this specific ball in hopes of being able to dance with a certain . . . someone.

Gojo was not woeful for long, though—albeit it felt that way to him—because, by the time he felt he had harnessed the wrath of a thousand suns, it was then time to change partners.

You were en route to chat up some ladies about your dance with a prince, when, quite out of the blue, the silver-haired jester had stepped in your way, interrupting your train of thought and forcing your steps to come to a halt as he stood before you, eyes gleaming and smile plastered.

He did not need to say another word more before your expression moved into a bothered one, contrasting the moony eyes you had been wearing prior to his approach.

“Are you going to attempt and ask me to dance a second time?”

“Are you going to say ‘No’ a second time?” he bit back.

Yes, you would have declined him again, but God’s graces were not on your side at the moment, for you felt like a punished sinner when the king, too, had begun to approach you and Gojo with a drunk look on his old, worn face.

Your lips were open to offer rejection towards the jester, but the king was much swifter in his speaking. “Jester. Lady.” He nodded, acknowledging you both in greeting with the cocking of his head. “It seems a rare pair has made its way onto the ballroom floor,” he laughed, a harmonious sound.

Your cheeks grew warm at his assumption. His Majesty was certainly getting the wrong idea at the sight of his most youthful lady, and his most mischievous jester, gathered together during a rather conspicuous setting. Oh, God, upon your word! this wasn’t what it looked like. The opposite, really.

“Well, most certainly, Your Majesty,” replied Gojo, playing along. He shot a grin your way, obviously aware of your distress, but paid no further mind. “You wouldn’t believe the lengths I had to go to in order to get a lady as beautiful as her—” (He gestured to you) “—to dance with a lowly jester such as I.”

The king laughed. “Many love poems were written, I assume?” he joked.

“Your Majesty is as insightful as always.”

The furrow of your brows grew deeper and deeper, the crease in your forehead making its public debut. Could Gojo get any more dishonest? you scoffed, but couldn’t find it in yourself to deny his claims. After all, the king had been rooting for the two of you since Gojo became a young man, and you couldn’t, just, defy His Majesty, per se . . .

“Ha! I’m glad to hear it, Satoru. Much charm you have, to aim for a lady.” The king patted the jester on the back.

“I’ve only learned from the best,” said Gojo, which earned another hearty laugh from the older man, attracting the eyes of the many guests around you three.

They talked like father-and-son. In a way, you thought it to be almost wholesome.

“Well, young lovebirds, since it seems you two are just about ready to dance, I’ll be on my way,” began the king, looking between you and the taller man in purple. “Don’t let Gojo cause any trouble, yeah?” His Majesty added, joking, as he turned to face you before making his exit, walking towards his wife and other company of the like.

You stood silent, stunned at the exchange. You had not uttered a single syllable throughout that, and you could not fathom the fact that Gojo had just manipulated his way into gaining your hand for a round of dancing. Surely, he was only here to ruin your evening. That was the only purpose he served.

“You heard the man,” said Gojo, as he turned to you with an expression lacking empathy. “Shall we?”

You gave Gojo your hand, begrudgingly—or, was it that he took your hand? you did not know.

“Shall we?” you repeated, shivering at the cold of Gojo’s palm. “If it was in my favor, we shan’t. But, alas, it is not. And I have no choice but to dance with an oaf such as you.”

Gojo led you to the center of the room, where there was more open space, and began a slow pace for a waltz as he stepped and stepped to the side.

There was practically smoke coming out from your ears as Gojo twirled you, and you could barely pay attention to where you were moving your feet from how agitating the sound of Gojo’s voice was to your ears. Your eyes met the ground and stayed there; you could not face the jester without wanting to rip his head off his neck (err, well, you wanted to do that, anyway).

“An oaf such as I?” he repeated, feigning offense. “My lady, you are as cruel as they come—pretending to hate me and all. I’ll give you a little advice, it’s a lot more fun pretending to love me.” He grinned, adding a small, “Pretend or not,” under his breath.

“You think I’m pretending to hate you? Oh, please. Were you dropped on the head as a baby?” You finally relented to meet Gojo’s eyes, as you laughed tauntingly in his face.

“Perhaps. But, dropped on the head or not, it wouldn’t change the fact I have never danced with a lady more beautiful than—”

You did not let him continue, and stared at him humorously. “Now, you’re just fooling around.”

He leaned down to meet your level, sea-blue eyes staring back at you with intent as he spoke—his voice loose and sultry. It made your head spin.

“Is that what you wish for, my lady?”

***

You had been sitting at a desk, alone, for only five minutes—five minutes—before the silver-haired jester, as mischievous as always, strolled into the room, seemingly having predicted your whereabouts (or, maybe, he had memorized the variety of locations you visited on a weekly basis).

The ball where you two danced together had occurred, by now, a week ago, and it rarely entered your train of thought; but, still, it sent shivers up your spine every time you thought about it. You couldn’t shake off the feeling that that ball wouldn’t be the last dance you shared with the man—he was vermin enough normally, but at a public space such as a ball? where anyone could spot you two? Even death would be more pleasant for you.

“I always thought these things were ridiculous,” began Gojo, childishly, as he walked over to where you sat just to poke and jab at your hennin.⁷ He stood behind you, his lean, tall figure casting a shadow over the book you had been reading just moments before his presence found itself interrupting.

⁷ A headdress worn by women of nobility—best known for its cone shape.

You rolled your eyes, a scowl on your powdered face, but you did not stop the man’s curious, pestering hands. “It’s not like your cap and bells⁸ are any better.”

⁸ A fool’s cap; the bells were intended for informing people of the jester’s entrance.

“Pfft, now that is where you are wrong, my dearest lady—they are way better.”

You sighed, eyes casting downwards as you crossed your arms over your gown’s bodice, leaning against the back of your chair. “Gojo, what are you doing here?”

“Hanging out. With my friend.”

“Even you know better than I do that we are far from friends.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t be that way, my lady. Sure, we’re friends,” he grinned, wiggling his eyebrows. “Pals, even! am I right, or am I right.” He laughed, the sound of it bouncing around the walls of the study. “Who am I kidding—We’re best buds!”

His voice sounded insane, but his merry words were even more deranged. You wondered if, by any chance, “Has the jester found himself drunk this evening?”

“Drunk?” he repeated, entering your line of view. He approached the desk from opposite to where you sat, his face leaning down to peer into your eyes as his palms pressed against the dark wood of the table, as if he were interrogating you. “Me? Me, drunk?”

The blue of his eyes was so bright at this moment that it would’ve blinded you, had it not entirely creeped you out, instead.

“That’s what I said, yes.” While you may have found it difficult not to waver beneath his intense stare, you did not find it impossible . . . Okay, maybe just a little bit.

“You think I am . . . drunk?”

You blinked, nearly breaking under Gojo’s deep gaze. It seemed his eyes would never leave yours. “You are acting strange. Why would I not?”

Gojo pulled back, and a sigh of relief left your lips at his backing away after being mere centimeters from your face.

“I don’t understand women,” he began, voice smooth and clear as he spoke. A deck of cards had appeared in his hands, seemingly out of thin air, and he shuffled them, performing arm-spreads and cardistry with no difficulty, at all.

“I really don’t. I don’t understand why, every time I speak to you, you pull away, and act like I’m crazy, or joking, or . . . or drunk!” He raised his hands up in exasperation—the cards discarded, fluttering and falling to the ground in heaps, as if feathers.

“You’re a jester, aren’t you? I have no reason to take your words as you mean them. Why, you’re a boy, Gojo. Hardly a man, if I ever knew one.”

The jester raised a brow at the sound of your voice, before snapping his fingers. Another deck of cards suddenly appeared between his digits, identical to the fallen ones. Now, any ordinary civilian would’ve called it magic, but you knew how good Gojo was with his hands and card tricks and such, and thought almost nothing of it.

“You wouldn’t think that if you saw me without my motley.⁴”

⁴ Costume of a jester.

The jester spoke so seriously, as if he were mad at you, but you only found humor in his argument.

“Without your motley . . . ?” you repeated, unable to decide whether he was referencing the act of undressing, or the act of being in normal (non-jester) apparel.

“My lady, I am a man. Twenty years of age, I dare say. Beneath my cap and bells, behind my poems and songs, I am not a child. You cannot tell when you look at my face?”

You smiled, setting down your literature. “You are quite defensive of your manhood, I see.”

“Would my lady rather I display it?”

“Your lady would rather her jester sit down and deal in cards already, instead of standing there like a fool.”

If Gojo had come in the study to interrupt your reading and disturb your evening, the least he could do was keep you entertained. And, besides, seeing him perform all his flashy card tricks reminded you of the last time you played, which was far behind in the past.

“Like a fool?” Gojo laughed, seating himself in a chair across from you, before resting his feet on the table and crossing his legs—one over the other. You frowned at his lack of propriety. “It is what I do best.”

“And what you do worst is keep me waiting!” you whisper-shouted, leaning your upper-half over the desk. “Shall I wait for you to shuffle, or are you incapable of that, as well?”

“My lady is so impatient today,” Gojo teased, feigning a yawn as he interlaced his fingers behind his head, leaning backwards. “But, if you want to shuffle . . .” he continued, a strange glint in his eyes, “come and get it.”

The cards were between his index- and middle-finger; he wiggled them, before your eyes but behind his head, in an almost derogatory manner, as if daring you to seize the cards. And dared you did.

Huffing, you sat up from your chair, the legs scraping the floor as you went, before marching over to where Gojo sat, his demeanor composed and cool as he awaited the gracing of your presence. There was a strangeness in the air about him as he finally let his legs drop from the desk, but you ignored the conscience gnawing at you.

Gojo wore a lopsided grin on his face, eyes shining wildly, and you swore, if he wasn’t so highly regarded by the king, you would’ve slapped him right then and there, but, either way, you probably wouldn’t have, because you had other priorities, like retrieving the deck of piquet⁹ the jester was currently holding for ransom.

⁹ A two-player card game.

Standing just centimeters before him, the gown of your dress brushing up against his legs, you tried and tried to reach upwards and grab the cards from Gojo’s hand, but he kept dodging you, either switching the hand with which he held the deck, or moving the cards further behind him.

You did not meet his eyes, for you know they would be full of mockery, but you could feel the heat rising to your cheeks, nonetheless. From embarrassment and frustration, or from being so close to the jester, you did not know.

“Gojo! Ugh, you . . . Give me that!”

You made one last, final attempt.

Stretching your arm out as far as you could, you reached over for the deck, again, and, to your surprise, and to all your efforts, you got it! But you also fell over, because your other hand was not holding onto anything until it was too late, and you landed in Gojo’s lap. And, while you were now holding onto something, it probably wasn’t your best move.

You were now sitting on Gojo’s lap, cards in one hand, Gojo’s collar in the other. Huh.

“I—”

You couldn’t think of what to say. And, apparently, neither could Gojo. While your eyes stayed upon the starched fabric being clenched between your fingers, Gojo’s eyes met the side of your face, the side you were not concealing by sitting at a slight angle.

“So desperate to get up close and personal, aren’t you?” He spoke up first, the hand that caught you coming up to rest on the small of your back.

“I fell. I simply fell. It was nothing short of an accident—you must be mistaken to think otherwise.”

“My lady, you don’t have to be embarrassed. I’m sure the king will understand your attraction to an oaf such as I.”

You scoffed at his allusions, releasing his collar (something you should have done much, much earlier), before turning away from Gojo’s watchful gaze, a huff slipping past your lips.

“Don’t be stupid.”

The position which the two of you held was scandalous, if anything. Your legs were beside Gojo’s, straddling him as the lengths of your dress fanned out beneath you, covering his lower half with ease. It was a scene straight from a sonnet¹⁰, except he was not your knight in shining armor, for he was your fool, instead.

¹⁰ A fourteen-line poem.

“Stupid?” he repeated. “That’s an interesting way to describe a man enamored.”

“What—?”

He cut you off. “I mean, you could’ve at least called me ‘besotted.’”

It did not take much strength for Gojo to turn you back around, his arms maneuvering you, seating you on his lap at an angle so that you could not avoid his eyes ever again. Your front was pressed right up against his chest, cards long forgotten about and hands perched upon his shoulders.

“. . .” You could not form a sentence as long as you held eye contact with the jester beneath you. You couldn’t even remember what occured for the two of you to end up in such a predicament.

Your cheeks flamed, and your blinks came in either pairs or trios.

“Do you want to kiss me?” began Gojo, abruptly, his tone casual (almost humorous), crystal-blue eyes boring into yours. “Or should I just go for it?”

You blinked, having not yet registered his words, but it didn’t matter—his question, your answer (or lack of); neither of those mattered, because he kissed you, anyways. Or was it you who first leaned in? All the same, either way.

Cool, ice-cold lips met yours in a chaste kiss, and you slowly snaked your arms around Gojo’s neck as you kissed back, shyly, almost hesitantly. You had never kissed anyone before. Hell, sitting in a man’s lap was frightening enough, but kissing? You prayed for God’s forgiveness seemingly simultaneously.

You didn’t expect Gojo’s lips to taste so . . . sweet, like a pastry. Err, well, it wasn’t like you ever imagined what they would taste like, ahem . . .

But it was like—like you were suddenly possessed by an entity. Before either of you knew it, simple short, innocent kisses turned heated, zealous, as if there were something more.

It was raw, it was full of feeling, and it was from the heart. Perhaps all the tension and frustration in the air had turned you both into insatiable animals, too far gone for mere kisses to soothe your aches and desires.

“Nngh . . .”

“Hahh—”

“Fuck. Pardon me, my lady, for I am no better than a man.” Gojo’s words acted as a warning, one you did not take.

You sighed into his kisses, eyes closed and squeezed tight. “Are you apologizing?”

“Do you . . . mmm . . . want me to?”

You whimpered as Gojo sucked on your bottom lip, hands running down your back, playing with the ribbons of your dress. “I think—I think you know what I want.”

“What a smart girl.”

More kisses, more kisses, more kisses. Your lips were swollen and bitten and nipped from his assaults, but it felt so . . . good, you had never known a similar feeling.

“Gojo—”

“Mm, don’t call me that,” he spoke, in a shamelessly sensual tone. He sounded so pathetic, like he was begging, albeit he knew full well you would listen to whatever he asked any other way. “No more. God, no more.”

His words slipped out between every kiss you two shared. It was sloppy, and clumsy; to say it made you feel warm inside was an understatement.

You pushed at his chest, repeatedly, whilst the two of you claimed each other’s lips, but he only let you go so you could catch your breath. He was going to get his fill in the end, anyway.

Gojo looked down at you from where you sat on his lap, hair a mess and dress disheveled. You had never looked so beautiful in his eyes, and he was sure to let you know that when he peppered kisses on every inch of skin left revealed by the neckline of your gown.

His lips trailed upwards towards your clavicle, tickling your skin as he went, and you slapped a hand over your mouth at the sounds that his kisses alone managed to pull out of you. It was embarrassing.

“Don’t call me by that name.” Kiss. “I implore you, my lady.” Kiss. “It’s—” Kiss. “—degrading.” Kiss.

“Your name? it’s, nnghh, degrading?”

His arms tightened around your waist, but he did not stop his kisses. You were like a dove trapped in a cage, bound within Gojo’s grasps. “That you would call me by my surname—is degrading.”

“I, ahhnn . . . don’t understand.”

Gojo looked up at you, before rising to his full height, loosening his grip on your middle, and, as he did so, putting a temporary pause on his making of love-bites upon your skin.

“Call me a fool, my lady—all you want, and I won’t protest. But call me Satoru. Your Satoru. Your Gojo, your jester, your oaf, your Satoru, and yours alone.”

You would’ve swooned from his declarations right then and there, had it not been for his tone of voice, which contradicted the sweetness of his words to a high degree.

Anyway, it wasn’t like Gojo was expecting you to fall so soon after deliberately going to great lengths to argue, ignore, and hate him all these past years. But, that was okay! All’s well that ends well. Or, at least, until Gojo decided to lift you up by the waist, standing up from his seat and setting you on the surface of the table which you occupied before he entered the room.

You shuddered from the amount of control he had over you, cowering before him. Even so, his laugh was a melodious ballad; too bad it wasn’t any less cruel-sounding.

“Don’t tell me my dear lady is shy,” he purred, lips against your ear as he spoke, before tilting your chin upwards to meet his eyes.

“I—You . . . Just when did you give yourself away before marriage?”

“Ehh, can’t remember. Let’s just say,” began Gojo, in a languid tone, “the maidservants here have really taught me a thing or two. And I’m not talking about playing cards.” He wiggled a singular card between his fingers, dauntingly, in front of your eyes, before bringing it closer to your lips.

You wondered whether he would make you bite down on it, because you suspected a moron like him would do such, but just a millimeter before it made contact with your swollen lips, Gojo let the piquet⁹ card slip from his grasps and fall to the floor. Instead of the card, it was Gojo’s index- and middle-finger that ended up between your teeth.

⁹ A two-player card game.

Gojo had this look on his face as he stared down at you; it was ravenous, almost, and your cheeks warmed as you looked up at him from beneath your lashes—eyes doe and wide.

“Come on, pretty,” he cooed. “Don’t make me wait. I know what you’re thinking.”

You swallowed, hard, before taking his fingers between your lips, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked on the digits. You couldn’t fathom the ache that it brought to your core when you heard the squelching of saliva and spit, the paint of your lips smudging all over as Gojo’s fingers reached deep within your mouth.

A breathy moan slipped past your kiss-bitten lips, and you failed to suppress the dazed, far-gone expression on your face as your eyes crossed, rolling into the back of your head. Oh, God, this was terrible, terrible! you thought, though you did nothing to prevent it.

“You can try and pretend you hate me all you want, but your body knows better, doesn’t it?”

“Mnngh . . .”

Gojo laughed. “Your body knows better? Ha! who am I kidding—I know better.”

You sucked continuously on Gojo’s fingers, their length long enough to make you gag as they hit the back of your throat, knocking out all the wind in you. There were tears pricking at your eyes, and you struggled to whimper out a coherent response.

“Awwh, I almost feel bad.” Gojo leaned down to meet your level. “Mouth too full to call me a mere boy now, is it? Gonna take back what you said, pretty girl? or should I have you choke some more?”

“Nnghh . . . Hahh.”

Your nails clawed at the wood beneath you, white knuckles clenching and unclenching repeatedly. Goodness, you had never hated jesters so much.

Perhaps Gojo was also a mind reader, as well, because not even a second after you finished that thought, he gave the roof of your mouth a small tap, and gestured for you to release his fingers. Which was what you did.

A string of saliva connected the tips of his fingers to your lips, parted ever so slightly, when he removed his digits from your mouth. You couldn’t look anywhere but his fingers; they seemed to draw you in, even as Gojo ended the trail of saliva in one short movement, before bringing his hand down your bodice, fingertips brushing against the fabric of your dress.

You shivered, even as your body warmed.

Watch, watch, watch. You could do nothing but watch Gojo. You did not know what he was going to do, you did not know what you were going to do, you just knew you wanted whatever it was Gojo was planning. Fuck, maybe the jester wasn’t the only one besotted.

“You’re awfully silent about this, my lady.”

“Whatever can I say?”

Gojo laughed, lifting the bottom edges of your dress to your knees, revealing bare skin to cool air. “I was expecting you to stop me.”

You met Gojo’s eyes when he looked down at you. “Nothing I say could stop you.”

“Because I know you don’t want me to stop.”

The jester leaned down to meet your eye-level as he spoke, before closing the distance between you two just as he had done earlier, lips meeting yours in a fervent, heated kiss, whilst his dominant hand, his right one, toyed with the lace of your dress teasingly, before trailing up your thigh. His hand was cool to the touch, leaving goosebumps rising on your skin and the hair on your neck standing up.

Thinking back, you had always imagined him to be the warm-blooded type, but no, Gojo was as cold as the snow which rivaled the silver of his hair. Which was strange, considering how warm he made you feel from the taste of his lips and the touches of his hands.

His mouth was on yours, one hand gripping the flesh of your hip and the other trailing up between your legs, right where you felt the most warmth.

“Do you . . . mmph . . . ever wonder where I get all my ideas for my poems and ballads?” he questioned, between kisses.

“Never.”

“Funny.”

You sighed into the kiss, succumbing to Gojo’s caresses and the ticklish sensations you felt from his fingertips brushing against your undergarments.

“I don’t see you laughing,” you quipped, holding the sides of Gojo’s face between your hands as you pulled away from the kiss, staring at him earnestly.

“You don’t see a lot of things.”

And then his lips were back on yours.

But that wasn’t what took your breath away. Well, it was part of it. Only part of it.

While the silver jester had been occupying your mouth with his own, his hand had been trailing up your thighs, thumbing your clit through the thin, lame excuse of panties you had on, all the while. He had been applying pressure to, and toying with the puffy lips of your aching cunt, which dripped and soaked profusely through the material of your undergarment. To say it was crude was an understatement.

You only noticed his advances on your lower half when Gojo pinched your clit, eliciting a loud, scandalous cry to be ripped out from between your kiss-bitten lips.

It was rough, and harsh, but still, nonetheless, gave you more pleasure than it did pain.

“Nngh, ahh . . . !”

You may have mewled then, but you writhed and whimpered even more when he finally pushed your panties to the side, slipping two fingers into your cunt with ease, seeing as your slick was useful enough as a lubricant. You never forgot the sound it made, the squelching of your wetness, Gojo’s fingers reaching past your rings of resistance and curling deep within your cunt.

It was so strange.

Gojo kissed you even harder now that he had two fingers deep inside your pussy, shushing your cries and moans as you squirmed around, uncomfortable.

His index- and middle-finger, the two digits that had previously been in your mouth, the ones you had been sucking on, were now moving inside your cunt, curling and scissoring your insides like nothing you had ever felt before.

When the jester finally pulled his mouth off of yours, he let you rest your head on his shoulder, whispering into your ear with that unmistakably smooth voice of his as you mewled and moaned, never being set free from his fingers, still buried deep inside your cunt.

“This . . . is called fingering. You like it, don’t you, my lady? God, if only you could feel how tight your little walls are.” He talked you through his movements and assaults on your poor, little pussy. It was invigorating as much as it was aggravating. “Fuck, ‘m never letting you go after this.”

You choked on your sobs, clawing at Gojo’s back. “S-Satoru . . . I—nngh!”

“Where’s all that attitude you had earlier, pretty girl? Not so frustrated now that you have two fingers up your cute pussy, huh?”

You could only let out a moan in response.

There was a coil building up in your stomach; you felt warm all over and your eyes squeezed shut as Gojo’s fingers curled with expertise, his pace quickening with each second that passed. They were long, and large, could barely fit a third in your cunt even if he tried—courtesy of the size difference between you two.

He was knuckles deep inside of you; each time you looked down to meet where he entered and exited repeatedly through your pussy had you squeezing your thighs together, forcing (unbeknownst to you) his fingers to reach even greater depths within you.

“Hahh, ‘Toru—! . . . It feels . . .”

You whined like a puppy. It was degrading how submissive he had made you within the course of twenty minutes or so.

“D’you want to cum? Is that it? Wanna cum on your jester’s fingers, sweet girl?” he cooed, mockingly.

Crying out, nodding profusely, you wrapped your arms around Gojo’s neck, pressing the two of you impossibly closer as your sobs turned to hiccups and the coil in your lower belly tightened unbearably.

Perhaps it was the additional friction from your hardened nipples pressing against Gojo’s chest that brought you over the edge as you came with a final cry and your juices released onto Gojo’s hands, his fingers dripping with your cum as he kept his fingers inside of you even after you came, continuing to curl and scissor without remorse.

“A-ahh . . . nngh . . .”

Your first orgasm hit you like a chaise and four. His name left your lips like a prayer, eyes rolling into the back of your head, thighs shaking.

“I really hope you don’t think we’re done here, my lady,” said Gojo, hot breath fanning against your ear.

“Satoru . . . What—What do you mean?”

“My lady, what I mean is I’m going to fuck you now.”

Those words were what made you open your eyes, looking up at the jester. “You’re going to, what?”

Gojo leaned down to meet your level, your faces too close to differentiate where your breath ended and where his started. “I’m going to show you just how mistaken you were to call me a mere boy.”

And that he did.

The silver-haired jester had you on your back within seconds, the cold wooden surface of the desk sending shivers down your spine as Gojo took his sweet, sweet time spreading your legs before him, as if preparing a feast.

You never imagined yourself losing your virginity so early on, and you were almost certain all your ancestors would be looking down at you for not waiting till marriage, but would it really count if it was only casual?

“I’m surprised we’ve gotten this far,” Gojo said, letting out a breathy laugh as he looked down at you. Hair splayed all over the desk in disarray, gown disheveled, ribbons undone, your cunt dripping with ache and want. It sent blood rushing down to his dick.

“Why are you surprised, jester?”

He wore a lopsided grin on his face, looking all smug and satisfied with himself. “Thought you hated me a little more to refuse my cock, is all.”

“Who says I still don’t hate you?”

“Her.”

And then that motherfucker spat on your cunt.

When Gojo decided he would be able to fit at least the tip of his cock in you, he hoisted your legs up, slipping them over his shoulders and pushing his cock into your cunt in one short thrust, (though it didn’t feel very short) . . .

He was both long and thick, girthy, with veins that twitched and sent bolts of pleasure shooting through you.

The head of his cock was big, and thick, sure, but the rest of it was even bigger. Slapping a hand over your mouth, you tried (and failed) to suppress the pornographic noises that left your lips left and right.

“Ahh, ‘Toru! Not so . . . Not so rough, nngh . . .” You whined, throwing your head back against the table beneath you, though you weren’t complaining.

“Well, would you look at that,” began the jester, as he slowed his thrusts down to look at where your pussy swallowed his cock to the base, thumb moving down to spread your puffy lips even further apart. “Biiiig stretch.”

Your gummy walls clenched down on his cock, and you clawed at the desk, nails leaving permanent marks upon the wood.

“Nngh, a-ahh! Gojo, you’re—!”

You saw stars when the head of Gojo’s cock kissed your cervix, reaching even deeper within you than his fingers had.

The silver-haired jester leaned down, his body overshadowing yours as he held both of your hands down beside each side of your head, interlacing your fingers together as he moved to whisper in your ear. “I thought I told you not to call me that. Does my lady not know how to listen?”

“No, S-Satoru, nngh! I didn’t mean to—I didn’t mean to—! Ahh . . . !”

You weren’t the only whose body had an evident reaction when Gojo began his thrusts with a rougher, more ruthless pace. Even the jester was one to groan in your ear, laying all of his weight on top of you as he forced your body to fold in half, thighs and legs infinitely spread out as your slippers, true to their name, began to slip off your feet with the way your body shook and writhed and jerked with every thrust, hitting the carpeted floor with a soft thud.

Back arching, tits pressing up against Gojo’s chest, your throat soon grew dry and parched as you continued to moan like some lousy prostitute.

“This is . . . hahh, called a mating press,” said Gojo, as his hips pistoned against the flesh of your ass, cock bottoming out just to re-enter with a table-rocking thrust. “God. Dirty, little cunt’s fucking swallowing my cock alive, huh. Must really enjoy it from this position, my lady.”

“S-Satoru! ‘tis so d-deep . . . I—I can’t, nngh.”

You wondered whether you would need to visit an apothecary from the way Gojo was just relentlessly battering and rearranging your insides. Upon your word, you could feel him in your guts.

Gojo grunted and groaned in your ear, cock continuing to slam into your poor pussy with abandon. It seemed he couldn’t keep his composure, either, despite seeming so put together. Perhaps he had been waiting too long for this moment.

Opening your eyes and tilting your head downwards ever so slightly, you could see the way his cock was almost twice the size of your entrance, yet all the wetness and slick that had gathered there earlier was enough to enable Gojo to thrust in and out of you with ease.

Everything about the man was just so . . . big. He was tall, lean, and his cock was no different. Despite his fingers having loosened you, it was still a miracle he managed to make it fit—the size of his cock was almost monstrous, and was, indubitably, able to be considered as a weapon, if anything.

The stretch was delicious, but burned like hell.

Pounding into you, rutting against your used cunt, Gojo held himself above you as he, himself, whimpered as if he were the one taking a cock two times too big. No, make that three.

“Hahh . . . Cunt’s squeezing me like a damn vice,” he groaned. “God, still so fuckin’ tight.”

“Mmph, n-nghh, ahh—!”

“Never letting you hide this pussy from me ever again. Fuck, I . . . Hahh, gonna make you take it at least twice a day, now.”

You mewled and whined, tits bouncing and spilling from the top of your dress, courtesy of the combined erraticness and harshness of his thrusts.

“Gotta—nngh, make you used to this cock . . . Fuck—!”

You came hard when Gojo’s cock kissed your cervix for the umpteenth time, the coil in your lower belly unraveling as your cunt weeped white tears, dripping down your thighs as Gojo’s release followed suit only moments later. His cock pumped you full of warm, white seed, filling your womb excessively as the rest gushed out from between your puffy, swollen lips, sliding down the curve of your ass before staining the fabric of your gown.

Stuffed to the hilt, filled to the brim.

“O-ohh . . . Hahh, nngh—!”

“Is this enough for displaying my manhood?” asked Gojo, quoting you, a sly smile on his face as he ran a hand through his tousled hair.

God, you hated him.

For interrupting your evening, for ruining your dress, and for only giving you seconds to collect your breath before his cock was, once again, hard as a rock and thrusting into you from a different angle.

It was as if his first orgasm was completely non-existent; I mean, you could barely speak from how dry your throat was, (never mind moan), and this man was already up and running, fucking his excess cum back into you?

Preposterous.

***

You and Gojo had been having . . . an affair, for a while, now.

Had it been three weeks, or three months, or, even, three years, you did not know. Neither of you knew.

Gojo had ruined you ever since that night in the study. Your innocent dynamic consisting of mere banter and bullying had developed into a relationship of endless hostility, so much so, that after an unbearable amount of tension ensuing, it evolved into a sort of . . . acquaintance. Okay, that wasn’t the right word for it, but it sounds better compared to “affair,” right?

In essence, the both of you had grown closer. Well, that was inevitable. Because the jester now knew what you looked like under your gowns, and you knew whether the carpets matched the drapes or not, but, all the same.

Gojo was like a deviant; he was insatiable.

You two had begun to sneak around together. Sex was daily, once or twice a day, but you two also—what did Gojo call it?—hung out. Sort of. But it was still mainly sex.

Most often, it was due to tensions bursting during nasty arguments, which would end up with both of you locking yourselves in a common room, making inappropriate usage of the couches and lounge. Gojo would bend you over an armrest, or sit you on his lap, bouncing you on his cock as he used the skirt of your dress to conceal where your bodies became one.

Then, came the gardens.

You sometimes gave excuses to your fellow ladies in order to take a breather, using taking a walk through the gardens as a way to meet up with Gojo during the day. If anyone spotted the two of you together outside, it would only look as if you were chatting or linking arms. But then, whenever you two found an open opportunity, you would seize it and embrace, making out under the glaring sun and the shade of oak trees, hidden away from any lurking eyes.

It was kind of odd, to be honest, but you had found, after Gojo took your innocence, that you were addicted to whatever feeling he gave you. Whether it be lust, or want, or desire—they’re all different, believe me. You wanted, Gojo gave; Gojo wanted, you gave. It was how the two of you worked. But it was always casual, never serious.

Just like when the two of you fooled around under tables during supper, giving each other soft touches and pinches and rubs, completely unbeknownst to anyone else sitting around you two, (albeit you couldn’t say the rush of exhibitionism didn’t send a shock to your core). It was always for fun. Always for fun.

Likewise, your newly found “enemies-turned-friends with benefits” dynamic never prevented Gojo from being the devil he was. In fact, it made him worse.

That son of a bitch just loved to make completely unrefined, vulgar jokes. In front of others, he made sexual innuendos, hinting to one of the ladies of the royal court possibly entertaining secret relationships with an unknown other. Though he was careful to never let any further clarifications slip, he always brought up the topic at least once every public gathering, which usually led to surrounding nobles beginning to even question the idea, which was ridiculous in itself.

Even behind closed doors, the silver-haired jester was still the same. But, you couldn’t decide whether that was for the worst or not . . . Every time you thought you were finally able to strike up a civil, appropriate conversation with the man, Gojo always ruined it by twisting your words and making highly crass allusions, which was, perhaps, what you disliked the most (mainly because you always understood his references, which, more often than not, brought heat to your cheeks).

And, from the way everything was beginning to unravel, it seemed today would be no different.

You had been sitting at a desk (a different desk, not the one you lost your virginity on); you were writing—a letter to your cousin, and Gojo had been silently sitting across from you, like an obedient child.

The jester was sat with his elbows on the table, hands interlaced as he rested his face in the middle of where his fingers connected. He was “admiring” you, as he had said earlier, and promised, because you made him promise, to not disrupt your writing like he had all those previous occurrences whenever the two of you spent quiet time, like this, together.

Gojo was silent, but not silent for long, and you sighed when you caught sight of a grin forming on his lips.

“However long do you plan on writing to your . . . who was it, again? cousin.”

“I believe that is of no importance to you, jester,” you replied. “I didn’t invite you to watch me write, after all.”

Gojo’s eyes watched your every move, from the way you held your quill, to the way you paused whenever you were stuck on what word to use (in those cases, he would give you suggestions), and even to the way you looped your Y’s and G’s and J’s. He prided himself on, supposedly, knowing you so well. And, if you weren’t so used to his strange, almost childish behavior, you would’ve deemed him frightening.

“When was it a crime to accompany a maiden?” he laughed, wiggling his brows, tone humorous. “Eh, doesn’t matter. It’s not like I came here to watch you write, anyway—I’m only here to watch you.”

“. . .Satoru, don’t be creepy.”

You chastised him like an adult would a child; those were the moments that reminded you of the comparison between your ages. But it also reminded you of how much closer the two of you had gotten; you could speak to each other so freely now.

“Scolding me, . . . huh. You gonna start taking the reins, too, now, my lady? If it’s in the bedroom, I can’t say I’m opposed to the idea.” You couldn’t count the amount of times Gojo had laughed this afternoon. “God, I’m getting excited just thinking about it.”

You spoke without taking your eyes off your letter. “You’re so crude sometimes.”

“You like me this way.”

Dipping your quill into its inkwell,¹¹ you looked up, just to see blue eyes boring into yours. You did not respond.

¹¹ A small jar containing ink.

“Not even denying it anymore, my lady?” he pressed.

“You wouldn’t believe it if I tried.”

“Because I know you would be lying,” he said, in a sing-song tone as he leaned in, face only inches away from yours. “Isn’t that right?”

“No,” you began, putting away your quill and rolling up your parchment; “in fact, you’ve never been more incorrect in your life.” You sat up as you spoke, and moved to leave the room, never meeting Gojo’s eyes, albeit you knew they trailed after your figure.

“Yeah?”

He sat up immediately after you, the sound of his steps following yours as you made your exit, out into the hallway in search of a carrier pigeon.¹² Gojo made notice to avoid stepping on your gown, whistling as he walked behind you, like a dog following its owner.

¹² A breed of pigeon domesticated for delivering messages over long distances.

“That is what I said. Now, if you’ll please excuse me,” you continued, turning around for a brief moment to address Gojo, “I’ll be on my way.”

The jester did not let you go far before he caught up; now, you two were walking side-by-side. Gojo was a fast walker, which came naturally due to his tall stature, but it was evident he forced himself to slow his pace down in order to match yours.

“My lady is so rude,” he teased. “Leaving me behind, all by my lonesome?”

“. . .”

“Am I worth so little to you? Who do you think I am?”

You stopped, turning to face Gojo. “Who?” you repeated. “Do you mean, do? Because I don’t—I don’t think of you, Gojo.”

“Oh, come on. I know my lady’s thought of me at least once.” He grinned. “I mean, look at this face.” (He jabbed a thumb at himself) “How can you see this, and not stay up late at night, thinking about it.”

You gave him a side-glance. “You’re so pompous, ‘Toru.”

He grinned at hearing you use his first name, never mind his nickname, in such an open hallway, which highly increased the risk of anyone overhearing your usage of familiarities.

Leaning down to whisper in your ear as you two began to walk again, he said, in that smooth voice of his, “Am I wrong, though? I’m sure you would be lying if you told me you didn’t think about me during your most private, intimate moments. You probably sit on your bed, nightgown all bunched up at your waist, with your fingers buried in your tight, little cunt as you try to recreate what only I can give you; but it’s never as good as the real deal. I’m right, aren’t I?”

You froze, face burning as your hands balled into fists at your side, and Gojo snickered. He always had a knack for riling you up.

“Upon my word, you—you bastard! What is . . . Ugh, what, in heaven’s name, is your problem!”

You shoved at Gojo’s chest, weakly, before storming off, down the hallway, a crease on your forehead.

You really, really couldn’t understand why Gojo was like this. Why he just loved to tease you all the time, why he liked to belittle you, call you names. Although it upset you, this was only a minor argument in comparison to your many feuds. He was as bad as the rest of them.

The sound of your footsteps reverberated throughout the servants’ corridor (which you and Gojo frequented in efforts to conceal your meetings), and you could tell the jester was right at your feet when you decided to whirl around, the skirt of your gown flowing as you turned to face Gojo.

“Don’t, Gojo. Don’t follow me.” You looked up at him with intent; you did not yield when a light flickered in his eyes, as he stared back down at you.

“C’mon, pretty girl, it was just a joke . . . or an assumption,” he muttered that last part, beneath his breath; and you rolled your eyes, tightening your grip on the letter in your left hand. “You’re not really mad at me, are you?”

“Yes, I am mad! Why can’t you see that your words affect people?”

You took a step backwards, clutching your pearls (A/N: lmfao), but Gojo took two forwards.

Raising his arms up in surrender, Gojo continued to take a step or two every time you moved, matching you.

“Don’t be that way, my lady. You know I’m only ever kidding.” His smile was hypnotic, voice spellbinding, and you nearly broke.

But the moment you knew you were fucked was when you felt your back hit the wall behind you, and Gojo seemed to know, too, because he laughed in your face.

“Nowhere else to run, my lady?”

You two stood only centimeters apart, the tip of Gojo’s nose nearly touching yours as he leaned down to your level, eyes staring you down.

You shuddered, feeling hot breath fan against your skin. “Fuck you.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

You thought he was going to kiss you—you two were really close, after all—but, he didn’t. Gojo reached behind you, hand turning the doorknob of a pantry (one you had not even noticed during your little dispute), before pushing the both of you in, making sure to avoid any lurking eyes. You squirmed and pushed back, but Gojo was stronger. He locked the door of the pantry within record timing, before turning to face you.

You were stumbling over yourself when Gojo first pushed you in, but you were now backed up against one of the four walls of the pantry, finding purchase with your palms on the wall behind you, chest heaving as you gave the jester a grave look.

“Gojo, I’m going to give you ten seconds to get me out of here before I kill your court-fool ass.”

The jester walked forward, closing the distance between you two. Tilting your chin upward with his index-finger, he met your glare with calm sea-blue eyes as he asked, all cool and composed, “You’ve been such a brat today—what’s got your panties in such a twist?”

There was a hint of a laugh in his tone, and you snapped, “Gojo!” — just about having had it with the man.

“Me? Hm, well, I can’t say I don’t plan on it.”

You couldn’t remember when you had dropped your letter, but it certainly still wasn’t in your hands by the time Gojo had kissed you. Rough, raw; Gojo had you backed up against the wall as he ran his hands down the bodice of your gown, his mouth on yours, breaths turning ragged.

You weren’t going to let Gojo get away with anything, but it wasn’t like kissing him was a crime, per se. You were just . . . relieving your temper, for a bit.

“Does this—mmrph—mean I’m off the hook now, my lady?” he murmured, against your lips.

“. . .Not even close.”

“This attitude of yours is seriously getting to be a problem,” said Gojo, between each kiss he gave you. “Oughta loosen up a bit before that scowl turns permanent, darling.”

You kissed him with teeth, your hands giving a purposeful tug to his silver hair after yanking off his cap and bells,⁸ which fell to the cobblestone floor of the pantry with a resounding thud.

⁸ A fool’s cap; the bells were intended for informing people of the jester’s entrance.

“I’d advise you to stop speaking, jester,” you chided, pulling away for a moment’s breath or two. Gojo rested his forehead on yours, looking down at you as you spoke. “—Before you lose your head.”

Gojo scoffed, humoring you. “You love my face too much for that.”

“I love your silence just as much.”

“I would say the same to you, but . . .” Gojo’s voice trailed off as one of his hands wandered down your arm, removing your glove with ease as you shuddered beneath him. “I like hearing your pretty cries, too.”

There was a split-second from between your insults and jabs at the man, to the transition of said-man parting your lips with little to no care, shoving a glove into your mouth as a makeshift gag.

You whimpered and cursed, thrashing around as Gojo held your arms pinned to the wall by your elbows, keeping them lowered; but all your protests came out muffled, and the jester could only laugh at your disposition.

“Mmm, mm—mmph!”

“It won’t be as bad if you stop fighting it, my lady. Have faith in your jester, won’t you?” Gojo looked like a saint as he spoke, but even God knew he was closer to the Devil, himself, than anything.

Using your gown’s girdle belt as bondage for your wrists, Gojo soon had you completely at his mercy.

“Mmph . . . Mmm, mm, mmph—!”

He didn’t listen, didn’t even try to.

Then, the jester did something he had never done before, ever—he knelt down in front of you. On his knees, he looked as handsome as ever, but, you knew, his almost princely smile was only for show.

You squirmed and wriggled around in your restraints and gag, but none of that stopped Gojo from lifting up your gown, throwing a leg of yours over his shoulder as he licked a stripe up your inner thigh. His tongue was warm, wet, and you shivered.

Looking up at your figure from where he knelt, eyes meeting yours from beneath white lashes, Gojo asked, with that unforgettable voice of his, “Scared?”

The front of your gown was totally out of place, lifted and bunched up at your waist, nearly enveloping Gojo as he kissed the skin revealed to him. The jester, ever the playful one, hooked a thumb around the waistband of your panties, before tugging them downwards, cold air hitting the wetness of your core almost immediately.

You blinked. Once, twice, thrice.

“What a pretty sight, huh. Shame I’m the only one who gets to enjoy it.”

Gojo laid a kiss on your clit; you shuddered, twitching, and then he slipped his tongue between your folds, tasting the growing sweetness of your cunt with every second that passed.

If your wrists weren’t restrained behind your back, you would’ve slapped a hand over your mouth, but the glove was working just fine muffling the lewdness of your sounds—thank God, the jester had finally used his intellect for something.

Tongue probing deeper and deeper, lips attached to your clit, sucking, there wasn’t a spot Gojo left unattended to. But, upon your word, since when was his tongue this long!

The whole of it was sensational. You were shaking within twenty seconds of his mouth’s assault, and if you weren’t so out-of-tune from his tongue licking stripes up your cunt, plunging and pumping deep inside of you, sucking on your pussy as your slick dripped and dripped down his chin, perhaps you would have noticed the sharpness of his teeth that just so happened to graze, ever so slightly, at your puffy, swollen lips.

“Still mad at me?” he asked, mouth full of pussy. “Where’d all that attitude go, Miss Untouchable.”

That bastard, you cursed, sliding down the wall as you kicked and cried out, thighs clenching around Gojo’s face as he continued to eat you out with not a care of the world.

You couldn’t count the amount of times you had thrown your head back against the cobblestone wall, muffled mewls and moans leaving your lips from behind the glove shoved in your mouth. Why on earth did this feel so good? you wondered, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“A-Ahh . . . Mm, nngh!”

Your hips bucked forwards, forcing the tip of Gojo’s nose to end up further buried between your folds. You nearly screamed from how cold his skin was; the contrast between it and his tongue was almost unbelievable.

Never had you ever wanted to pull on the jester’s hair more than you did now.

But you couldn’t.

Your lower stomach grew hotter and hotter, and tears pricked at your eyes whilst Gojo’s tongue only dove deeper and deeper. There was a knot forming in your belly, and you squirmed endlessly, spit and saliva and drool soaking the glove stuffed in your mouth without a second thought.

“You want to cum, don’t you?” Gojo’s sea-blue eyes flitted upwards from where he kneeled between your legs, his voice as sensual as ever.

You nodded profusely, eyes blinking back tears as you tugged at your restraints.

Gojo licked a stripe up your clit, laying a kiss at the end of it, and you almost came right then and there, the feel of his tongue simply too much for you to handle any longer, but Gojo’s grip on your thighs tightened, forbidding your release, and you whimpered.

“Only good girls get to cum on my tongue. Have you been a good girl?” he cooed, mockingly. “Nah.”

Your orgasm was so close, yet so far. You pressed your thighs together, seeking any friction to bring you past your high, but Gojo’s hand kept your legs spread, cunt dripping with ache and want.

“Mmmph! Hahh, n-nngh—ahh . . .”

Gojo wasn’t lapping at your cunt anymore. He had completely put his mouth on halt, and was instead using his thumb to apply small amounts of pressure to your clit. Emphasis on “small.” Your lips were puffy and swollen—Gojo could tell it physically hurt you to have your orgasm denied, but he only laughed.

His thumb gave you small slips of bliss, but they were never enough to fully bring you over the edge. It was frustrating enough to be tied up, but to be forbade from cumming? You needed a break.

Your legs were shaking so much you could have been mistaken for an innocent fawn. Gojo continued to thumb at your clit without an ounce of mercy; it drove you insane. And, by insane, I mean, “digging-your-nails-into-your-skin,” insane.

The last straw was when Gojo reached up to remove the glove from your mouth, throwing it onto the floor with a plop! sound. You were so distracted you didn’t even realize you could then speak, but when you did, you didn’t hold back.

“Satoru, I swear, to all things heavenly, I will kill you once I’m out of here.” Your chest heaved as you took in breaths of air, thighs still quivering. “You’ve been nothing but the biggest jerk I have ever fancied.”

“Dunno. Have I? Or, are you just mad I’m finally doing something about your little . . . attitude.”

Slick dripped from Gojo’s chin as he spoke, looking up at you, and you almost forgot why you were mad in the first place.

“Don’t be coy, I know you’re—o-oh! Nngh, mm . . .”

You went cross-eyed when Gojo finally attached his lips to your clit again, sucking at your sweet spots with a newly-founded intent.

Gojo’s tongue plunged into depths deep within your cunt once again, curling and curling, and you could feel the coil in your stomach tighten, ever the more closer to an orgasm. Then, there came the squelching of your cunt, the lewd sounds escaping your lips following suit, and your wetness coating Gojo’s face with a glossy, sheen layer.

You only realized how good of an idea the use of a glove as a makeshift gag was when you finally came on the silver-haired jester’s tongue with a loud cry, back sliding down the cobblestone wall.

“A-Ahh . . . Hahh, ‘Toru—! Nnngh, mm, ahhn . . .”

Tongue lapping at the juices and hot liquid that your cunt weeped, Gojo didn’t let a single drop go to waste as he kept his mouth on your clit all the while. He was indulging all your sweetest, most sensitive spots even after you came—the stimulation soon becoming too much to handle as you grinded against Gojo’s face, riding out your high with heavy sighs and heavy breathing.

You were so sensitive you could’ve cried. Gojo flicked the puffiness of your lips with his tongue, and before you knew it, he was stealing yet another orgasm out of you, only a few minutes after the first one.

“I can’t help myself, beautiful,” he murmured, lips still attached to your clit. “Just tastes so good . . .”

More sucking, kissing, licking; Gojo absolutely ravaged you, as if he were eating a full-course meal after a month-long campaign¹³ with a cavalry—and then came your third orgasm, or, so you assumed; it was . . . different.

¹³ A military operation in the objective of a specific thing, or, in this case, a knights’ operation.

It wasn’t cum, no, it was something more clear, and sheen. The sensation was different, too—you could tell. It ripped obscene vulgarities from your throat. It was . . .

“Well, would you look at that?” Gojo laughed, leaning back to admire his handiwork. “Made my lady squirt. About time, actually. Was beginning to doubt myself for a moment there.”

“Nngh . . . ‘T-Toru—I . . . !”

You had been wriggling for a while, now, and only a few moments after you reached bliss, was when the girdle belt finally fell from your wrists, releasing you from your binds. The sound of it hitting the floor was deafening, and a light bulb finally switched on in your brain—you remembered. You remembered now, and because of that, you needed to leave.

Gojo let the skirt of your gown fall back down as he stood back up, making sure to tuck your dirtied panties into a back pocket of his as he rose to his full height.

“Gonna curse me out now, my lady? Take off my head?” he teased, offering a shit-eating grin.

You patted your gown, smoothing it down in efforts to alleviate your disheveled appearance as much as you could.

“Don’t act smart.”

“You don’t like smart men?”

Since when was his voice this tempting . . .

You avoided his eyes as you spoke, otherwise you would have broken. “I like . . . when you leave me alone.”

And then you hurried away. Out of the pantry, out of the servants’ corridor—you left with wobbly legs, but left, nonetheless. The jester was still standing at the doorway of the pantry when you turned around for a quick glance.

“My lady, you dropped your letter on the floor,” Gojo added, from behind you, calling your name. Damn, he was inviting even if he didn’t mean to be.

Gojo’s voice was loud, and could have, possibly, been heard throughout the servant corridors. But you did not turn back, didn’t even stop to consider the idea. It was nothing, you told yourself, you could just write another letter. Parchment was parchment, after all.

You had already lost a glove, a girdle belt, your panties, and your dignity. Paper? was nothing.

***

In all honesty, you didn’t want to put an end to the affair you and Gojo possessed; you just . . . you were getting married. You were betrothed to a man (a man whom you had never met), and your marriage had already been arranged by the king and his advisors. It would be nothing short of scandalous—not to mention, unchaste. You were committing adultery, after all.

An affair was one thing, but infidelity?

You had some morals left, at least.

Now, refraining from extramarital activity was hard enough, but avoiding the jester? Nearly impossible.

You refused to look him in the eye after that incident, because of how awkward it was (but mainly because you knew you would fold). You, just, couldn’t bear the thought of some other feeling besides unvirtuous lust rising within yourself—normally, you would’ve labeled your relationship with Gojo as “just for fun,” but now that you were engaged to another man? (And not by choice, nonetheless.) It made you wonder whether you really did think of Gojo without sparks of animosity.

Admitting you . . . loved him? Admitting he paid you more attention than any other man? and, that, you enjoyed his attention? No. Impossible.

He was a jester, after all; he was supposed to give the ladies attention! Or, that’s what you told yourself whenever you began to suspect his love poems weren’t only for entertainment.

You were forced (rather, you forced yourself) to take different routes around the castle if it meant you could avoid Gojo. At supper, you waited for the jester to seat himself before you sat down at whatever chair was farthest from his (you made sure he was unable to kick your feet from beneath the table). And, at times where it seemed impossible to take different routes, you either shut yourself in your bedchambers, or took to reading in hidden nooks inside the library.

On an evening during your second week of your pseudo vow to celibacy, you were outside on your balcony, combing through your hair beneath the moonlight’s gaze.

It was dark out—most nobles had already gone to bed and knights were deployed into hallways to keep watch of the castle, but you enjoyed the quietness that tarried late in the evenings, and didn’t usually slip under the covers until the clocks had struck midnight.

Wind from the East whirled past your face, and, dressed in only a flimsy, light negligee, it was only natural that you shivered. Alongside the company of the moon and wind, there also came the noises of animals, scurrying around underneath the balcony, playing with their mates, snoring; the list went on and on.

All in all, you were never truly alone, even if you felt you were.

The wind howled once more, and you heard the crunching of leaves and another, more distinct, strange noise coming from down below. You didn’t like looking downwards—some could say you had a sort of fear of heights, especially with how high up your balcony was—but, the sounds of tonight seemed to be . . . louder than usual.

Overcome with curiosity, you peered over the balcony railing, with your hairbrush in-hand, to get a good look at what animals were still awake at this time.

You cooed when you saw a pair of rabbits play-fighting, their scuts¹⁴ wagging. “Awh!”

¹⁴ Tails belonging to rabbits.

“Cute, am I right?”

At the sound of someone else’s voice, especially when you should’ve been alone, you immediately dropped your hairbrush, a thud! playing out as the tool landed on the floor of your balcony.

You turned around instinctively, clutching your pearls at the sight of the jester standing only a few paces away, at the opposite end of the balcony.

Before you put a pause to your little affair, Gojo only ever met you here, on the balcony, if it meant climbing up the vines on the brick walls of the castle, because it would mean hell if anyone caught sight of him slipping through the doors of your bedchambers; and, judging by his disheveled appearance, he had done just that.

“Expecting me, my lady?”

“Goodness! Gojo—Gojo, do you have any idea how late it is?” you exclaimed, a hand over your beating heart as you took several steps closer, standing on your tiptoes as you cradled Gojo’s face in your hands, examining the cuts and scars he had acquired from suffering through the pricking of thorns.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop calling me that?” he quipped, though his tone held no real malice—he looked down at you as you held his face, and appeared almost relieved at the physical contact after two agonizingly long weeks without it.

You looked up, peering into the blue of his eyes. “What . . . in heaven’s name, are you—?”

“Doing here?” He cut you off, finishing your sentence for you as he deadpanned. “I could ask you the same thing. Admit it, you’ve been avoiding me. The past weeks you’ve always been with either the ladies, burying yourself in mountains of books, or . . . or here!—locking yourself up in your bedchambers. I haven’t been able to speak a single word to you.”

“I . . .”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, in a matter-of-fact fashion. “Why have you been avoiding me?”

“. . .”

You didn’t know what to do; the only thing you were certain of, was that you absolutely refused to answer him—at least, not yet. So, you did the one thing you were good at.

Throwing away your pride, (and since Gojo’s face was already in your hands), you stood up on your tiptoes once again and kissed him.

Kissed him like you meant it, like he meant it. Kissed him with however little spirit you had left in you, with however much emotion you held towards that man. You kissed him, earnestly, lips pressing against his in a chaste kiss that, obviously, turned heated only seconds later.

But, in full honesty, with this you finally realized how much you had really missed the jester—not just his kisses, the addictive, sweet taste of his lips, or the way his hands flew down to your hips within moments; but, you missed him. You missed Gojo: Gojo Satoru.

He filled plenty of aches you never knew you had, and, when he kissed you back without even a second’s hesitation, you almost wanted to kill yourself for how stupid you were to have had the audacity to actually deprive this man of the one good thing he loved during his entertaining of the royal court.

“Abstinence,” he asked, looking down at you once you pulled away, “really? That’s what you’re doing to punish me?”

“Gojo, I—Satoru, that’s . . . not what I’m doing. Please, believe me, I’m . . .” Stammering over your words, you blinked several times, refusing eye contact with the man.

Before your hands could drop from his face back down to your sides, Gojo caught your wrists just as they trailed down his chest, holding you closer to himself as he whispered in your ear, nipping playfully at your earlobe.

“You’re, what? Uninterested in jesters all of a sudden? Found a prince for yourself? Celibate, even?” He laughed, albeit the sound of it was nothing but dry. “Now’s a pretty bad time for that, wouldn’t you say so?”

Now was a bad time for that, you thought to yourself.

Biting your lip with your face turned to the side, you swallowed the lump in your throat, resting your palms on Gojo’s chest.

“Satoru, I’m . . . engaged, now. We can’t . . .” You struggled to even utter the syllables of the word ‘engaged.’ “We can’t continue seeing each other without it being wrong.”

Gojo didn’t even look surprised when you revealed your hand was promised to another man. I mean, with the quiet time he had had on his hands as of late, he probably went through a couple of possible explanations for your sudden vow of silence towards anything that had to do with him and himself.

“Will you look at me?” he sighed, tone lowered to a pathetic plea.

“That wouldn’t—wouldn’t change anything,” was what you answered with, turning your head to look up at Gojo’s eyes. It was funny; they seemed to shine less under the moonlight, considering one would ordinarily assume otherwise.

“You seem to not understand me, my lady.” Gojo picked up a lock of your hair, bringing it to his lips to kiss—his white lashes fluttering. “I don’t want you to stand here and tell me you won’t go along with the marriage. I want you to stand here and tell me you will go with marrying another.”

“W-What—?”

“But only whilst you look me in the eyes, my lady.” Gojo let your hair drop from his hand as he moved to hold your cheek, instead. “Look me in the eyes, and tell me you’ll marry him—he, who has won your heart.”

You looked away, your voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t, Satoru.”

“Why can’t you?”

“Because, it would be a lie . . . It’s not he who has won my heart . . .”

“Then, who?”

You turned back, facing Gojo, but you did not answer his question. “Satoru, I’m—I’m afraid.”

“You’re afraid,” he repeated, as if telling you. “You’re afraid because our affair; you and me; us—it’s wrong. Simply wrong, you know that, and, yet, you don’t want it to end, do you?”

Gojo leaned down as he spoke, but when you tried pushing his face away, he barely budged.

“I’m a woman betrothed, Satoru. It’s immoral.”

“My lady, you’re not wrong. You are a woman betrothed, but I am a jester who has fallen for an engaged woman. Have you no pity for me?” The question seemed almost humorous, in a way, but you didn’t laugh.

You shook your head. “None.”

“What do you have for me, then?”

You sighed, giving in to your heart, and your eyes softened as you gazed upwards at the silver-haired jester.

“Must I say it?”

Gojo grinned, the mischief returning to his eyes. “You can show it,” he said.

And then you threw your arms around his neck, pulled him down, and kissed him, until your mind went stupid, insane, absolutely dumb; because that was how it always was with kissing Gojo Satoru—he made you sick for love. He made you ache for it, for him, for anything, at all, that had to do with the certain six-foot-something fool of a man.

That was the night you confessed your requited love towards Gojo for the first time (even if it was nonverbal). That was the night your lover took you on the balcony for the first time—or, well, it wasn’t the first time, but it was the first time you two were, actually, making love—spending a night together; together-together.

That night was a blur.

One moment you two were embracing, reveling in what the both of you had been missing out on for the past fortnight; the next, well, Gojo had you bent over the balcony railing; and, after that, you were being backed up against the doors of your bedroom which led out towards the balcony.

Clothes had already been shed en route—your lame excuse for a nightgown lay shredded on the balcony floor, alongside Gojo’s motley⁴ and his cap and bells,⁸ which were both in a similar, if not equal, state (hey, you could be impatient, too).

⁴ Costume of a jester.

⁸ A fool’s cap; the bells were intended for informing people of the jester’s entrance.

The night was long, but that didn’t mean you stopped before sunrise, no. You two went on even after the break of dawn, and, when you did (eventually) lay down to sleep and awake, you were with sore muscles and a different kind of ache between your legs. But your heart soared, and your head spun—all but for one jester.

You were afraid of love, and you were promised to another man. But Gojo, your Gojo, made it all better; and that was how the two of you came to be lovers.

***

The two of you had already been in a secret relationship together—hell, one could even argue it had never even stopped. But, it was different now that you knew your little affair had developed into something . . . more, per se. It was thrilling, knowing that, even with all the show you two had to put on in front of crowds: arguing, banter, cursing; your nights would all end the same, with Gojo sliding under your covers when it came time to sleep.

However, not everything had changed.

The both of you still rendezvoused in hidden corridors and servant hallways—plenty of times, even. Hiding under oak trees was also still a thing, given the amount of shade and quiet provided.

And, anywho, there were also new additions to the dynamic of your relationship with Gojo. Instances where you two were this close to getting caught in scandalous, compromising situations soon grew . . . quite frequent, really. Gojo liked to hide under the skirts of your gowns whenever someone entered the room you two occupied, and he found it even more fun when it meant he could keep you entertained down there while you spoke with your unwanted company up there.

If it wasn’t becoming apparent, Gojo couldn’t have cared less if someone was in the room—he would’ve kept toying with your clit or reaching knuckles-deep inside of your cunt, anyway.

He also didn’t care much about going out on a limb just for some . . . fun. The two of you played a variety of risky games together, games that could end up with the whole royal court finding out about your affair, but it was fun, nonetheless. Like, trying to find each other within crowds at masquerade balls, for example; it was an event which had all guests covering their faces, so approaching someone by mistake was quite a sight to see. The time of Carnival¹⁵ came with a lot of entertainments, but masks were definitely one of them.

¹⁵ A time of feasting and celebration before Lent.

However, aside from all your risqué escapades, you and Gojo also showed your intimacy in subtle ways. You had never noticed it prior, but even before your affair went into full-bloom, Gojo had made a habit of matching his everyday costumes to your everyday gowns. He matched the color of your fabrics, and, if possible, matched the patterns, too. He did this with every color—every color except for white, because you never wore white.

You had told him once, perhaps during one of those nights the two of you spent watching the stars, that you held a strange sort of detestation towards the color. You didn’t know why, truthfully, you just . . . you weren’t a fan of blank, empty canvases.

Gojo had no problem with that, really. It was much easier to pick colorful flowers than it was to find white ones. Oh, yeah, before I can forget, the jester had a particular pastime of picking you bouquets—only ever the most beautiful and fragrant flowers, of course.

In his own words, “It would be a crime worthy of punishment to give my lady anything less than the best.” Yeah, he was a dork—a dork who played footsies with you during supper; but he was your dork, nonetheless.

Well, he was, up until the day your arranged marriage was supposed to take place.

Gojo didn’t like talking about it, and for the fortnight that had passed after you both confessed to each other, he had not brought up the subject of it once. Whenever you did, he began to talk of something else. Whenever someone was bringing it up during a public gathering, Gojo would drag you away from the crowd, off to another pantry or library.

It wasn’t Prince Rilian you were marrying: it was actually a lord; still, Gojo hated whichever man it was.

He liked to say, joking (or not), “It’s a shame he couldn’t find his own woman. Had to arrange a marriage like a pussy. You wouldn’t marry someone like that, would you? A bitch-boy who had no game?” And then he would laugh. “Nah, you’re more into real men.”

You were. He was right. But, who were you, a lady and her lover, otherwise known as the jester of the royal court, to defy the king and his advisors? . . . No one. And that’s exactly why, on the day of your wedding, Gojo had climbed up your balcony just as he had done before, a countless number of times.

Gojo had heard you were taking a few minutes to yourself, alone, on your balcony, before the ceremony; and wasn’t even a second hesitant about trying, attempting, to persuade you into eloping. He was a jester: he was supposed to be irrational, but this was, perhance, his most unbelievable joke yet.

“Well, you’re dressed up today. What’s the occasion?”

Gojo was standing two paces behind from where you stood, hands perched on the balcony’s railing.

You didn’t turn around when you heard the sound of his footsteps approaching, but you were forced to, when he spun you around.

“Please, don’t joke about this,” you pleaded, eyes sorrowful as Gojo held you.

“Oh, trust me. I do not find anything about this funny—especially not the part where you forgot to tell me you were getting married today.”

You turned away from Gojo’s eyes, your veil trailing far behind you. “I can assure you, . . . I didn’t know the date was already officially set until hours ago.” You wanted to whisper, I thought we had more time, but you didn’t.

Gojo stared at you like a child admiring the stars, lifting your veil to examine your painted face—it made him sad, the way he knew how much you hated the color white, and how empty it was, just like your eventual false vows to a man you barely knew.

Blushing brides were supposed to be blushing, Gojo thought; not on the verge of tears.

“Will you think of me when you stand at that altar?” he began, a silence following before he continued. “Will you wish it were my name you were vowing your life to?”

“G-Gojo,” you stammered, “please—”

“So we’re back to a title basis? I’m just ‘Gojo’ to you, again?”

“I didn’t want this, I . . .”

“I wouldn’t be in the crowds, my lady, if you were wondering. You won’t see my face and you won’t hear my voice objecting.”

“But—”

“But you don’t want to get married,” said Gojo, cutting you off, “I know. So run away. Run away with me.”

“Satoru, I . . . It’s not as easy as you think it is.”

Gojo took your gloved hand in his, and kissed it. He kissed the left hand, on the ring finger. “I don’t think it’s easy. I just think it’s right. Don’t you agree? So, please, my lady, don’t make vows you do not mean.”

Sure, jesters could do many things. Jesters could be many things. But this one—this one just happened to be the love of your life.

9K notes · View notes

emochosoluvr · 1 month ago

Text

test drive

how quickly can the world's fastest driver crash straight into your heart?

synopsis: who would've thought the stranger you meet on vacation would turn out to be four time F1 racing champ, Ryomen Sukuna? or that your summer fling would stretch into the fall? or maybe forever?

pairing: f1 driver!Sukuna x f!Reader

content: mdni, smut and angst and fluff, f1 au, strangers to lovers, sukuna is first driver for Ferrari, gojo and geto cameos, unprotected piv sex, full nelson, brat taming, prone bone, pulling out, phone sex, mutual masturbation, pining, yearning, he's actually incredibly in love with you and SUCH an idiot, jealousy, happy ending

art by @winterrbluess !! special thanks to everyone who shared useful info about f1 racing <33

You didn't know who he was the first time you fucked him. Didn't think to look too long past the pink hair and rough exterior, the pretty ink coloring his tanned skin and the lean muscles rippling underneath his shirt.

In hindsight, that was probably why he liked you.

It wasn't until the second week that you picked up on something being just a little off. You were on vacation. He said he was too. Everything was just casual, days drinking in dingy bars and nights eating at hole-in-the-wall restaurants mostly just for some pretense to pretend this was a whirlwind relationship and not just hot and handsy hookups in his hotel room. He kissed you like he liked you, held you like you were someone to savor. Listened to you talk about your life across the table and indulged you in desert instead of rushing you back to bed.

Then someone snapped a photo of him, a bright flash in the dark corner booth, girls giggling.

You never saw their face, but they'd seen his.

Honestly, you tried to convince yourself it was just because he was hot.

But two days later, your friend sent you a link to some tabloid plastering your picture on the front page.

Ryomen Sukuna spotted with mystery girl?

It only took one search to unravel the rest.

When he mentioned he mostly traveled for work? F1 Racing on weekends in championship cups. Which you guessed was what he meant when he said he liked cars. But what man didn't?

Why the fuck would you assume some guy you met at the beach would be the current first driver's seat for fucking Ferrari?

You didn't know shit about the sport. Or well, any sport.

Strangely enough, you still felt almost betrayed, something stinging at the fact he hadn't bothered to bring it up. You didn't think you were special, or that this was serious. But you didn't like feeling stupid either.

"You're glaring," He commented, stuffing his face full of some high protein meal meant to keep his physique up, a black compression shirt clinging to his chest like he'd come from the gym.

"Okay," You shrugged, picking at your own food.

He picked a place with hardly any people today. No one to catch him with a nobody.

"Are you gonna be a brat all night?" He sighed, dropping his fork and scowling back at you.

"Maybe," You shrugged again, glancing away from him to stare at the cash register. Your wallet was in your purse, the temptation to get up to pay for your half and go getting stronger by the second.

"Fine," He grunted, taking one last big bite before tossing too much cash on the table. You guessed he could do that with how much he was getting paid to drive dangerously and toe the line with death. "Want me to fuck that attitude out of you?"

For all his skills, he still hadn't managed to do that two rounds later.

Both of you panting and sweaty, one palm pressing down on the slight bulge of your stomach where his cock was currently thrusting and the other pressing your thighs up higher, folded into a mean full nelson.

"Fuck, you feel me there?" He groaned, biting yet another bruising hickey into your neck while you nodded weakly.

Your limbs ached, feeling more like accessories than body parts by now, a doll for him to fuck, a way to blow off steam before you both returned to your real lives. His cock stretched you out with each searing pump, splitting you open so his kisses and rough reassurances could stitch you back together.

He stalled inside you with his tip smashed against that spongy spot in the back, holding it there just to make you squirm in his arms. His nose grazed against your ear, his breath warm on your skin before he murmured softly, "Stop holding out on me."

"Oh, a-am I annoying you?" You breathlessly teased, and his little huff sent a shudder through you when he tried to push himself in deeper, that extra inch or two leaving your hips struggling to break free and jolt from him, already filled to the brim and about to spill over.

"You keep runnin' from me," He grunted, and in two blinks, he was switching positions, rolling you over on your stomach and pushing your back into a pretty arch before climbing back over you to prone bone.

Shoving his cock in and pinning you to the mattress with his weight, one of his big hands pressing down on the nape of your neck while he bottomed back out inside you.

"S-Sukuna," You gasped, but then he was leaning down and his mouth was on yours, claiming you with a bruising kiss.

"Again," He practically growled against your lips, his canines nipping at them.

"What?" You blinked, the desire still coiling in your stomach and the cum leaking down your legs and even just the scent of his cologne sticking to the sheets starting to melt the confusion from your mind on how you felt about him..

"Say my name again," Sukuna demanded, barely disguising his own moan when he slammed into you. All your muscles were tense, everything oversensitive already, flying so high you were pretty sure you'd crash any moment.

"Ego maniac," You muttered instead, and he readjusted to deliver a harsh spank across your ass, the pain quickly converting to pleasure when you gasped and squeezed around him.

But then he refused to move, buried to the hilt and not budging.

Sukuna didn't say anything. He didn't have to. He was waiting on you.

You were just as stubborn as he was though, biting your lip and hiding your face in the pillow to try to wait him out, counting on him being impatient or getting pissed off. His cock was throbbing inside you, begging to move, your clit aching for relief of it's own.

But you were both two idiots who couldn't admit what you wanted. Even if it was each other.

"I can stay like this all night, sweetheart," He murmured in your ear, dark and dangerous and delicious.

"Me too," You mocked back, adding a fake yawn and cradling your head over your forearms like you might fall asleep in this position.

He bent first. Or maybe he'd convinced himself he could make you break.

And yeah, amidst the blur of blunt thrusts and love bites, you did end up crying his name more than once when he lifted your hips enough to slip one hand under to play with your clit while he used the angle to practically abuse your poor g-spot, slamming into it every time with damn near surgical precision. Chuckling at the way you whined and shuddered, clenching desperately around his huge cock until he was abruptly pulling out and cumming on your back in thick spurts.

You showered together in silence.

Him passing you the soap and you washing his hair, his arms wrapped around your waist for extra warmth. He draped the towel around you afterwards, and you used an extra one to dry off his hair. Falling asleep in bed tracing the tattoos on his face.

In the morning?

You woke up before him, creeping out of bed to get dressed as quietly as possible.

He still hasn't told you about his career. Or anything really about himself outside the barest of basics. You resigned yourself to keeping the biography you'd read through about him the day before to yourself. What was the point of telling him you knew who he was when you wouldn't see him again?

Your vacation was over. Not wasted, but you were leaving more wistful than when you arrived, a deep and uncomfortable knot tangled in your stomach staring at the handsome man sleeping on the bed and the wrinkled sheets and blanket next to him where you should be.

You would go home. Go back to work and sleeping in your own bed and cooking your own meals until maybe you found some nice, normal guy to settle down with.

He'd go back to bigger and better things. Fucking models instead of a random girl he just happened to meet on his break. Too busy to be with someone like you anyway.

"Where are you going?" Sukuna grunted, scowling as he sat up in bed, running his fingers through his soft hair.

"I've got a flight to catch," You murmured, fixing the strap of your dress and hurrying to collect the last of your things you'd left here over the past two weeks of fucking.

"Oh."

You didn't say anything else, shoving an extra pair of panties from under his bed inside your purse, but it meant getting close enough that he reached out to touch you, fingers ghosting over your hip.

"If I paid, would you stay another day?" He asked, and you really had no clue what the fuck to make of that. His dark eyes had softened, shades of purple ringed underneath them, but they weren't harsh, didn't threaten to cut you down.

It didn't feel like the type of casual sex where you couldn't talk about your personal lives when he stared at you like that.

"I have to go back to work," You mumbled, wishing you didn't just as much as you wished you wouldn't miss him.

"I'll call you."

You didn't believe him.

But three days later, when you were curled up in bed and hating how empty it was, how cold it felt, your phone rang.

"Hi," You breathed, answering on the fourth ring after getting over your surprise.

"Hey," Sukuna grunted.

The phone calls became a common thing. Some weeks every day, others where you barely heard from him at all. But he tried though, even if it was just for a few minutes at a weird time. You answered even if it was at one in the morning or afternoon, forcing yourself to stay awake or sneaking out to the bathroom at work to hear his voice.

He begrudgingly admitted what his job actually was after a couple weeks, downplaying it to just racing. If it wasn't for the odd hours and the short calls, you had a feeling he would've tried to skip over the subject entirely. You tried to accept it. Asked if he'd be weirded out if you looked him up or watched his races. Sukuna's whatever wasn't exactly reassuring.

But it was pretty easy to piece together that he lived and breathed racing.

He'd been born into it. Karted as a kid and grown up behind the wheel.

You guessed you were the only thing in his life that was just for himself, outside of all of that.

"You sound stressed," You commented, cuddling a pillow to your chest and suppressing a yawn. There wasn't a real routine to this, but after a few months, you'd gotten comfortable with his calls instead of spending all day nervous and stressed over them.

"Gojo's trying to take my seat," Sukuna scoffed. He rarely talked about this sort of stuff with you, barely brought it up, so you knew it was bothering him much more than he let on. He never opened up, not the way most people did, just dropping occasional bits of information that you had to stitch together with what was publicly available.

Unsupportive family, a more rough upbringing than the rest of his competitors, rivalries that'd started long before he ever qualified for F1. Despite everything, he'd still won the world championship four times in six years, the past two consecutive wins.

"I mean, can he do that?" You asked, unsure how exactly those sort of decisions were made. You knew Gojo was still a couple years younger than Sukuna, but probably his biggest competitor. Rumors had started to swirl about the white-haired pretty boy moving to a different team next year after his contract was up.

"Over my dead fuckin' body.'

A lump too large for you to choke down bubbled up in your throat, a newfound fear you'd recently discovered after looking up clips of him racing in your free time. The idea of his crashing or doing something reckless and getting himself killed had implanted itself in your head no matter how many times you tried to shake it out.

"You still there?" He grunted.

"Yeah, I am," You swallowed hard, doing your best to force those thoughts down too.

"What are you doing?" Sukuna asking sounded more like demanding, but his voice had taken on a different quality now. Darker, more hoarse. In desperate need of relaxing.

"I'm in bed," You admitted, rolling flat on your back in anticipation.

"And?"

"I'm wearing your favorite pair of panties," You murmured, face flushing already.

"And you weren't going to send me a picture?' He tch-ed.

"One second," You muttered, readjusting to open your camera and try to pose, despite how unnatural it felt. You snapped a few photos, then flipped the camera around, pulling up your loose t-shirt to take a couple more pictures of your tits, careful to make sure your face wasn't in frame.

They were immediately marked as seen once they were delivered.

"Fuck," He murmured, and you could hear the sharp inhale he sucked in.

"Do I get one too?" You giggled, heat already starting to pool between your thighs at the idea of him touching himself to you.

He hung up, a request to video chat almost immediately popping up instead. You nervously accepted, fixing your hair and chewing on the inside of your cheek before flipping the camera down to where your panties were clinging to your skin, slipping a hand down between your thighs teasingly.

"Sukuna?" You said, the picture on the other side grainy as it connected before you got the view of him stroking his pretty cock, his huge hand furiously pumping up-and-down over the thick veins, his tip almost as pink as his hair.

"It should be you here," He grumbled, his voice cutting out for a second afterwards.

"Yeah? You just miss fucking me?" You softly laughed, your heart straining in your chest at the rough timber of his voice.

"Wanna see your face," He gritted his teeth, like it was something difficult to confess.

You didn't want him to see you blush, but he was hard to say no to, harder to convince yourself you wanted whatever scraps of him he offered to you.

Hesitantly, you flipped the camera around to your face, and he let out a hoarse moan, his hand working faster, sloppy strokes that didn't match his usually calculated precision.

"Touch yourself for me," He muttered, all gravelly.

"You're gonna talk me through it?" You teased, and the sound he made was half a scoff and half a chuckle.

"Whatever my brat wants."

It was embarrassing how much you wanted to just be his.

You slowly pressed two fingers over your clit through the lace of your panties, making slow circles over the fabric just for extra friction.

"Should I flip the c-camera?" You asked, your breath hitching as you increased the pressure, thighs tense as you watched him jerk off, not sure if it was pre-cum or lube making his hands so slick.

"No," He huffed. "Need to see your face when you cum."

A flash of heat washed over you, your inhales starting to get shaky, your fingers twitching as you began trembling with each harsh circle you traced.

You scrunched your eyes shut, reclining your head back against your pillow and struggling to focus.

"Eyes on me, pretty," He chuckled, and you whined, pouting at him when you peeked them back open, barely able to hold yourself together staring at his cock on screen as you picked up the pace. Wishing it was your hand instead of his and his instead of yours, wishing for him to just be here instead of countries away, for him to fuck you the way he had months ago.

"Are you gonna cum for me, baby?" You murmured, his hand twitching and stalling for a second while he made some hissing sound, like he barely stopped himself from finishing them and there.

"Jus' waiting for you first," He growled, and you could practically hear his clenched jaw. Watching the veins of his cock pulse, the way it twitched at every little flicker of your expression, imagining how it'd feel in your mouth or buried deep in your cunt. You gasped a little, the pressure building and teetering on the verge of snapping, your hips arching up to chase the high. "Close, princess?"

His voice shoved you over.

Headfirst and falling hard as you unravelled in front of him, your common sense snapping with it when you moaned his name, murmuring something about how much you liked him and hoping he didn't hear it. He was cumming too, coating his strong, sturdy fingers white.

You were both breathless, coming back down in the same comfortable quiet you shared in person.

"You make a cute face when you cum," He eventually said, and you couldn't decide if it was a compliment or just him mocking you in some casually cruel way.

Sukuna was a hard man to understand. But you guessed that was by design. He didn't want anyone to know him.

"Do I?" You dryly asked, yawning out loud this time.

"Would I say it if you didn't?" He grunted.

"You just like to tease me," You complained halfheartedly, curling back up on your side.

"So?"

You shrugged, too tired to offer a better response tonight.

"I'll get you plane tickets. There's a race I want you to come to next month," He grunted, confident that you wouldn't say no.

"Seriously?" You hesitated, hoping it wasn't written on your face.

"Yeah," He insisted, like he was exasperated he had to reiterate it.

There was another race next weekend, but you wondered if maybe he'd just be too busy for you then. Or what other reason he had to wait for the one next month.

"Okay, sure, I guess. Um, I'll request off from work," You mumbled, a faint fluttering starting to stir in your stomach at the realization you might be seeing him again soon.

"Good."

Somewhere along the way, all the lines between friend and girlfriend had gotten blurred.

In your head, the dim hope that maybe he offered to fly you out was to make whatever this was official.

But when you tuned into watching his press conference the next Thursday for his upcoming race?

You hadn't realized how clearly he'd draw the boundaries back. It was stupid. Him scowling as some reporter baited and asked him a question about if there was a special someone supporting him or cheering for him before he rolled his eyes and said he wasn't in a relationship so they should stop asking.

Ouch.

You didn't watch any of the races. Ignored his two-sentence text where he didn't even apologize for being too busy to talk. Didn't answer his call two nights later.

He sent a bunch of questions marks in response.

Which might've made you laugh if you weren't already crying for getting too attached when you knew better.

The next day you'd send a congratulations message for him winning or placing or whatever the fuck he'd done, giving some excuse for being too busy with your own work to chat.

You went a week without calling. Barely replying to his texts hours afterwards, trying to untangle him from your heart.

Gojo, the guy in the second Ferrari seat, posted photos of them together though, ones that got plastered on a bunch of stupid sports news sites you'd forgotten to turn off notifications for, ones where they were at some club you'd never be able to get into, pretty girls next to them, diehard fans, apparently.

So when one of your coworkers asked you on a date?

You said yes.

Got dressed up, put on your makeup and plastered a bandaid over your heart. He picked you up with flowers in hand, waiting outside while you hurried to put them in a vase before walking back out with a shy smile.

"You look gorgeous," Geto hummed, a warm hand pressed against your back as he lead you to the car.

"Thank you," You blushed, but you couldn't tell if the butterflies in your stomach were fluttering or being stabbed.

Geto was a smooth-talker, all soft-spoken words that soothed your blistered disposition and dreamy eyes it'd be easy to lose yourself in. So why couldn't you?

The date was picture perfect. Not a detail out of place.

But when he dropped you back off, you couldn't bring yourself to invite him inside. You let him kiss you, his lips soft and tasting like wine as he caressed your cheek.

"I'd like to take you out again sometime," He murmured, apparently not put off by your reluctance. "I had fun tonight."

"Yeah?" You asked, wondering if maybe you needed more time to move past the man still lingering on your mind.

"Yeah."

You watched through a window as he drove away.

Changing into pajamas before digging your phone out of your purse, planning on scrolling through videos before you saw two missed calls and six missed texts.

You'd only read through a few of Sukuna demanding to know why you weren't talking to him before he was calling again.

Your thumb hovered over the button before you begrudgingly answered him. "Hello?"

"God, do you know how long I've been trying to call you?" He gritted his teeth, clearly annoyed already.

"Sorry," You shrugged. "I was on a date."

"A date?" Sukina was about to blow a fuse. That one vein that sometimes throbbed on his forehead was probably about to explode.

"Yeah?" You hummed, unbothered.

"That's not funny," He scoffed.

"Good thing I'm not joking," You sighed, walking around to fiddle with the flowers now sitting pretty in your vase, fingers grazing over the individual petals.

"What the fuck?" He huffed.

"Is there a problem with that?" You asked, walking the line between being an asshole and being apathetic. "I mean, didn't you just say you weren't in a relationship?"

"Shit, you saw that? I'm sorry, it's not like that, just look-"

Yeah, shit.

"It's fine, I get it, you play by a different set of rules than the rest of us, right? My fault for thinking I meant more." You accepted the blame because there was nothing else you could do with it.

Everything else hurt.

"It does mean more," His voice was low, like it took all his pride to admit it.

"Uh-huh," You dismissively nodded, tucking your phone between your ear and your shoulder.

"Did that prick even treat you right?" He grumbled, having an easier time hating someone else than focusing on his issues.

"He brought me flowers. Paid for my dinner. I had fun," You offered the smallest details, just enough to irritate him. To rub salt in his wound too.

"Are you going to see him again?" He asked, acidic and harsh.

"Maybe."

The silence was heavy this time, thick with tension and crackling with some charge you could feel even when he was in a different country.

"Don't."

"Why?" You genuinely asked this time.

"Give me a chance," He grumbled, before reluctantly murmuring, "Please."

"I'll think about it," You hummed noncommittally.

"Just, get on the plane, okay? I'll take care of everything else." Sukuna was probably scowling even when he was begging you.

The next night there was a ridiculously large bouquet of flowers delivered to your door along with your favorite food, and you didn't need to read the card attached to the flowers to know it was all from him. But you read it anyway.

I'm not letting you go. Sukuna.

You hadn't quite believed it until he'd actually managed to pick you up from the airport a couple weeks later, surely missing some kind of practice or press event, a sign made with your name on it. You almost didn't recognize him when he had on a hoodie and dark shades, probably trying to go unnoticed.

But the second he saw you, he was walking fast over to you, pulling you into him with a crushing hug, like he needed to know you were real.

That you hadn't given up on him yet.

He kissed you the second you got into the passenger seat of his car, his hands in your hair and his mouth on yours, trying to memorize your taste again after so long.

"I was an asshole," He admitted.

"Yeah," You scoffed.

"Sorry," He gruffly apologized. "I thought you knew."

"Knew what? That you're a dick? Or that you don't want people to know about us?" You sarcastically murmured between kisses, and he was hurrying to pull you onto his lap, his hands on your ass and his mouth trailing down your throat.

"That I'm an idiot in love with you," He grunted, and you froze, completely stiff as his sturdy thighs tensed underneath you.

"Don't be stupid," You huffed, refusing to believe him.

"Too late," He chuckled, his teeth sinking in to leave a light love bite above your collarbone. "Gonna show you off all weekend long."

And Sukuna rarely said anything he didn't mean.

His hands refusing to leave your waist when he showed you around the paddock, introducing you as his girlfriend and grumbling when he got dragged into media events.

"So you're actually real, huh?" A cheeky voice teased, aligning an arm around your shoulder while you sipped on an overpriced drink Sukuna had insisted on getting you.

You shoved Gojo off, recognizing him from voice alone.

"I'm Satoru Gojo," He grinned, sticking his hand for you to shake.

You didn't get to shake it before Sukuna returned from talking to their team principal, your boyfriend swatting his hand away from you.

"No touching my girl," He grunted.

"Are you his girl?" Gojo pouted, pushing out a plush, pink bottom lip. "Come on, you could do better, this guy's such a buzzkill."

You thought Sukuna was going to punch him.

"Are you trying to say you're better?"

"Don't fuckin' answer that," Sukuna scowled at him, pulling you back and leading you somewhere else, maybe to show you his real car up close like he'd promised on the way over.

It was prettier in person, a dark shade of red and sleek design. He ran his hands over it, pride glinting in his eyes.

And it kinda terrified you still, to picture him inside that death trap, but you liked watching him in his element, the way it seemed to be a second skin to him.

"Eyes on me out there," He murmured.

You don't think your eyes left him once the rest of the weekend.

In the haze of heated touches or when he was on the circuit, watching on the screen and unable to rip your attention away. He drove with the same control that he lived with - like he couldn't die.

No one was surprised when he took the top spot this time.

What did was him going to you first after he won. Kissing you in front of the crowd and picking you up in a tight hug.

Instead of an after-party, he dragged you back to his hotel room, pulling you back on top of his lap, already tugging your dress up and shoving your panties aside to push himself in after fingerfucking you stupid on the ride over. Your head was a little dizzy from the champagne he popped, your giggle turning into a gasp as his thick tip grinded up into you.

"Easy," You laughed, his fingers squeezing your sides as he guided you up-and-down slowly, savoring each second of being inside you.

"Can't I get my trophy?" He complained with a huff, brows furrowed together as he dragged you back down on his dick, distracting you from the stretch with a long kiss.

"I'm your trophy?" You giggled again, tilting your head back for him to decorate your throat with more hickies.

"My favorite one," He taunted, holding your hips in place and groaning at the way you squeezed around him.

He wasn't used to taking anything slow, but he was trying for you.

"What'd you think?" Sukuna asked as you tangled your fingers through his hair.

"Of what?" You hummed, relaxing into his touch.

"Everything. Did you like it?" He cocked his head to the side, leaning back against the bed's headboard and pulling you closer. The VIP lanyard still dangling around your neck bounced with the force, but you laughed. You were still nervous, still anxious and unsure of how it'd be to adjust to long-distance and what life with him meant. But the past few days had been a high you didn't want to give up.

Sukuna was someone you didn't want to give up.

His hands settled on your waist instead, enjoying being ridden for once instead of in the driver's seat.

"I like you."

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emochosoluvr · 1 month ago

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long hair choso 🩶

ac: rednoki0

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emochosoluvr · 1 month ago

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what happens when satoru gojo fakes vulnerability and someone responds with actual care?

a/n: reader using a male avatar so she doesn't get underestimated and satoru using a female avatar to scam his way through life is literally the silliest dynamic i’ve ever cooked up. like hello??? gender who??? one’s silently carrying the whole server with raw skill and the other’s sobbing in sparkles for loot he doesn’t even need. peak clownery. I LOVE THEM.

satoru didn’t play the game to be noble. he played to win.

he lounged on a mossy ledge in aethergate online’s emerald forest, legs swinging above luminous roots, beams of late afternoon light dripping through the tree canopy like syrup. his avatar—a petite girl with tousled silver hair in a wispy bob, watery blue eyes wide with a kind of fragile wonder—sat delicately beside him, barefoot, skirts artfully dirtied, wand trembling in her small hands. she looked like she’d burst into tears if you so much as raised your voice.

and she was him.

he’d picked the flattest chest size the game allowed, for maximum "innocent lost fairy" effect. her voice—filtered through a pitch-tuned modulator—was airy and lilting, like a tearful anime side character two seconds from fainting. her idle animations were rigged to sparkle when she wasn’t doing anything. a helpless deer stuck in traffic. a damsel in distress.

who also happened to be capable of obliterating an elite raid squad with one broken staff and an accidental crit chain.

in real life, satoru slouched deep into his gaming chair, hoodie collar bunched beneath his chin, white hair curling in a sleepy cloud around his head. his bangs hung low over a pair of gleaming, mischief-fueled eyes behind the visor. he stretched, knuckles cracking, before lazily adjusting the mic attached to his cheek. a bowl of half-finished cereal sat nearby, forgotten. his room glowed faintly with neon strips and a flickering holographic map of the game world plastered to one wall.

he was, objectively, the worst.

and today, he was feeling particularly theatrical.

the forest shimmered around him—twilight casting gold against the thick moss, background players flitting through with cloaks trailing behind, the soft ding of system notifications blending into birdsong. a sprite child NPC chased a floating pet butterfly near the stream, while two players argued over loot nearby, their chat bubbles popping like comic panels. satoru squatted in an overgrown fox den, triggering a scripted ambush, and let a swarm of level thirty wolves drag his health bar down to red. he screamed through his girl voice like a starlet in an old movie. “aah~ not againnn~ i’m sooo scaaared~ someone heeelp~!”

just in time, the brush behind him rustled.

you stepped out.

no fanfare, no slow-mo entrance. just calm, heavy steps. armored boots pressed moss flat as you walked into the fray, blade already swinging. three clean arcs. no wasted motion. the wolves fell without even a snarl. your avatar—broad-shouldered, practical, with short dark hair and a jawline like it was carved by someone very tired—stood tall against the dappled light.

satoru’s avatar blinked slowly up at you. perfect mark.

he mashed the sparkle emote.

“waaah~ thankyuuuu~ i was totally gonna diiie~ you saved meee~ teehee~”

you stared. then crouched, dropping a low-tier potion by his feet.

his real grin stretched wide. “ehhh? you’re sooo nice~ i ran out of everythiiing~ do you maybe have a few moreee?”

you paused. then dropped three more. silent.

he squealed for real. in real life, he kicked his feet against the desk.

“i love you,” he breathed through the mic, voice mod still on. but you just nodded once.

and left.

or tried to. satoru scrambled after you like a glittery barnacle. every time you stopped to check your map, his dainty avatar would sit cross-legged behind you, hands folded in her lap. if you set traps, he’d walk directly into them with the most tragic whimper you’d ever heard.

you always helped.

he couldn’t believe how easy it was.

on the third day, he managed to scam your epic raid-earned sword out of you with a long, high-pitched plea and a sparkly spin.

“n-noo~ i feel sooo baddd~ i’m scamming youuu~!!!” he cried, while pressing confirm before you could blink.

and you just... nodded.

no mic. not once had he heard your voice.

but you always turned to face him. always healed him. always gave a little wave at the end of a dungeon. sometimes you’d do a silly dance emote if he pretended to cry hard enough.

he was on top of the world.

until the boss hunt.

he was half-tempted to ghost you when the invite came in. but... he liked the attention. and the freebies. so he showed up, sparkles and all. actually tried a little. even dodged once or twice.

afterward, when the rare loot dropped, he waited for you to start dividing it.

instead, you traded it all to him. the legendary cloak. the mount egg. the enhancement cores. he stared at the trade window, then at your avatar. you stood still, like a sentry carved from obsidian.

his fingers hovered over the confirm button.

“w-wait, are you sure? i don’t— i don’t deserve all this—”

he flicked on the sparkle emote again, panicking.

but you only bowed gently. then waved.

then disappeared.

he stared at the empty space where your avatar had been.

“…what the hell,” he muttered, voice modulator still on.

then, real voice: quiet, almost pouting. “what the hell.”

he sat down in the same mossy spot, skirt fluttering in the still forest air. around him, players sprinted past in the distance, gear clinking, birds chirped lazily, a low-level bard sang off-key to a party of two, while an animated slime NPC bounced in slow circles nearby. the world went on, coded and infinite.

satoru stayed frozen.

then, slowly, he typed.

“did u mean to give me all that stuff?”

an hour passed. the sky dimmed from golden dusk to violet evening. fireflies blinked in and out between fern leaves. his cereal had gone completely soggy.

then:

“yes. u looked happy.”

his visor fogged a little. his fingers paused on the keyboard.

he didn’t log off for another four hours. just sat there, tiny legs swinging off the ledge, face pink.

slightly smiling.

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emochosoluvr · 1 month ago

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The End Came Quietly

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You always thought there’d be more time. And then there wasn’t.

☣ Pairings: Gojo x f!Reader ☣ Content warnings + tags: 18+ MDNI: Modern AU, graphic violence, blood/gore, death, pandemic themes, survivalist trauma, body horror/zombie content, grief, PTSD elements, eventual sexual content (smut), emotional codependency, slow-burn romance, implied mental health struggles, scenes of panic and mass hysteria. Note: This is a zombie apocalypse AU with heavy themes of loss, fear, and survival. Please read responsibly. Art by: @hunnismokah

It was supposed to be a normal Friday. A shared drink. A half-hearted lesson plan. A night that ended with laughter and the warmth of something unspoken. But beneath the quiet hum of city lights and soft conversation, something else is starting to stir. Something no one was ready for.

Before the Outbreak...

The bell above the café door gave a cheerful jingle, one that didn’t quite match the way your feet dragged across the threshold. You were greeted by the warm scent of espresso and something sugary from the back oven in the kitchen. The door swung shut behind you, and you shook off the afternoon chill still clinging to your coat sleeves.

It had been a long week.

Outside, the sun was starting its slow descent behind the trees, casting gold across the sidewalks and blooming dogwoods. April had arrived with its usual false promises—warm afternoons and chilly mornings, sunshine interrupted by surprise downpours. But the air smelled like spring, and after a full day of high schoolers flinging paint water and half-done assignments at you, you were grateful to be anywhere that didn’t smell like tempera and teenage BO.

Spring always hit the hardest—with testing season creeping in, senioritis flaring up, and half the student body either skipping or sick. The halls had been unusually quiet today, a stark contrast to the usual end-of-week chaos. A few students had come to class coughing and pale, eyes ringed with exhaustion, and more than a handful were sent home early. “Flu season”, the principal had said. Nothing to panic about.

Still, there was something in the air. A strange kind of stillness. Just out of mind and sight.

But then you spotted him. And as usual, the weird tension in your chest eased just a little.

Satoru Gojo was impossible to miss—legs already kicked out casually in the corner booth of your favorite café, that tiny tucked-away place just a few blocks from campus. His sunglasses—always a little ridiculous indoors—were pushed up onto his head, holding back the snow-white mess of his hair. One arm draped lazily along the back of the seat. his tie slanted and half-loosened like it had surrendered sometime around fourth period. His white dress shirt was wrinkled from a day of chalkboard battles, sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing those ridiculously toned forearms—always a little unfair.

He glanced up from his phone the second the bell rang, grinning when he saw you.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” he said. “Was starting to think I’d have to brave the staff happy hour alone.”

You snorted and rolled your eyes, sliding into the booth across from him. “You mean the happy hour where Mr. Kato gets a little too drunk and trauma dumps about his divorce? Yeah, I’ll have to pass.”

He chuckled, shutting off his phone. “Shame. I was hoping he’d get to the part where he blames Mercury retrograde again.”

You laughed softly and leaned back, letting your bag slump against the booth beside you. “Long day?”

“Meh,” he shrugged. “Had one kid fall asleep in the middle of a pop quiz, and I had to mediate a debate between two juniors about whether or not time is real.”

“That’s what happens when you teach physics to high schoolers with dying attention spans.”

He pointed a finger at you. “Hey. My class is life-changing. I’m shaping the youth of tomorrow.”

“I heard someone call you ‘Daddy Gojo’ in the hallway today.”

He looked far too pleased. “See? Life-changing. Inspirational, even.”

You groaned, waving a hand at the barista—but your smile gave you away.

The café was warm and cozy in the late afternoon haze. The smell of cinnamon and espresso curled around you like a blanket. The radio behind the counter crackled faintly as one of the baristas switched between songs, eventually settling on a local news broadcast.

You barely noticed it at first—just white noise under Satoru’s voice as he rambled about a pop quiz half his class failed.

“—and then this kid tries to tell me the gravity equation is fake because he saw a video online where a guy floated using magnets and ‘positive energy.’ I swear I lost five IQ points just listening. Do you know the restraint it took not to throw the chalkboard eraser at him?”

You grinned. “Character development. I’m proud of you.”

He shot you a wink. “Growth.”

Then the voice on the radio sharpened, slipping into focus. The newscaster’s voice was calm but clipped, professional in the way they always sound when they’re trying not to cause alarm.

“…continuing reports of a highly contagious flu-like virus spreading through multiple districts, now confirmed in several major cities throughout the northern states. The CDC has not yet declared a formal warning, though officials are still advising caution over concern. Symptoms include fever, confusion, increased aggression, and—”

The barista over and twisted the knob again, cutting the voice off mid-sentence. Indie guitar strumming replaced it, light and vaguely mournful.

You glanced toward the speakers, frowning. “That’s the third report I’ve heard this week. Creeping me out a little bit.”

Satoru hummed, seeming almost unfazed. “Had a kid puke in the hallway this morning. And like, not normal sick. Eyes glazed over, couldn’t string a sentence together. Nurse sent him home. Plus, there were like four more absent.”

You made a face, grimacing. “Gross.”

“High school,” he said with a shrug. “The pinnacle of human civilization.”

“It’s odd though, a bunch of my kids were home sick this week too,” You paused, stirring your drink. “You don’t think it’s…”

He just gave you another lazy shrug, leaning back into the seat. “It’s probably just the media overhyping it. Or underplaying it to avoid panic. Depends on the day.”

“Comforting,” you muttered.

Your drinks arrived—yours iced, his hot—and you both sat back into the booth like the week had hit you all at once. There was something familiar in the way your knees almost touched under the table, the way your hands brushed when you reached for sugar packets, the way neither of you said anything about it.

You and Satoru had been work friends for three years. The kind that lingered after staff meetings, shared lunches behind closed classroom doors, and quietly grew into something you never named. He taught physics. You taught art. Your classrooms were just down the hall. You saw him more than you saw your family (though they lived across the country).

And if you sometimes thought about what it might be like if things were different, if he wasn’t just your coworker… well. You tried not to think about it too much.

Mostly.

“You doing anything tonight?” he asked casually, reaching for his phone on the table to check the time.

“Other than grading sixty sketchbook pages and spiraling into dread? No plans.”

He smirked. “Hot.”

You snickered.

“I was gonna knock out a lesson plan. Unless—” He paused, glancing at you through those pretty white lashes. “You wanted to come by and help me? I could make dinner.”

You arched a brow. “You? Cook?”

He pressed a hand to his chest, sticking out his bottom lip in a pout. “I’m wounded. Really.”

“You can’t even use a microwave. I saw you burn leftovers in the breakroom last semester.”

“That was a fluke,” he said, pointing at you. “I make a killer carbonara. No boxed pasta. Fresh garlic. Wine. Candles, if you’re lucky. You can bring your grading and judge my seasoning. Mutual suffering.”

You blinked at him, caught off-guard by the sudden edge in his voice—teasing, yes, but there was something underneath it, too. Something a little more…honest. Hope? And you’d be fully lying if you said you weren’t tempted by the idea. But still, you were hesitant, watching the way he stirred his coffee just to keep his hands busy. His eyes didn’t quite meet yours for a moment too long, almost like he was nervous.

“...I’ll come,” you said at last, “And I can bring wine.”

His grin broke across his face like sunrise, warm and pleased. “It’s a date, then. I’ll distract you with food and charm.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth twitched. “Not a date.”

“Definitely a date.”

You didn’t bother correcting him.

The grocery store was busier than usual.

You hadn’t expected that. Normally, it was quiet on Friday evenings—just a few parents grabbing frozen dinners, some tired college students filling baskets with packs of ramen and cheap beer. But today? The fluorescent aisles buzzed with movement. Carts clattered. Someone knocked over a display of canned soup near the front of the store, and nobody had bothered to pick it up.

You pulled your jacket tighter around you as you wandered into the wine section.

Satoru had invited you to dinner. At his place. He’d said it like a joke, like he always did, but something about the way he wouldn’t quite meet your eyes had made your heart skip ten times over. You didn’t know what it meant. Maybe it didn’t mean anything at all. Just two friends casually hanging out. But you were here, trying to pick a bottle of wine, so…maybe it did?

You stared at the shelves for a long time. Too long.

Did you go fancy? Something dry and red, with a label that looked intimidatingly French? Or did you grab the cheap rosé with the screw cap and cartoon strawberries on the front? That felt more like you. But what did he like? He seemed like the type who pretended to like wine but would absolutely drink whatever you put in front of him with zero judgment or care.

Unless he was trying to impress you…

You groaned quietly and reached for your phone to Google “carbonara wine pairing,” then quickly put it back when you noticed someone coughing near your shoulder.

A woman in a dark coat passed you in the aisle, pushing a half-empty cart. She was wearing a surgical mask over her face. Another man near the end of the aisle blew his nose into a napkin, loudly, then dropped it onto the floor without looking back. You grimaced and stepped away instinctively.

You hadn’t noticed it at first, but now that you were paying attention, you could hear it everywhere—coughs, sniffles, a few people rubbing at their foreheads or necks. The pharmacy line stretched halfway down the frozen section, winding past the overstocked shelves of NyQuil and vitamin C packets. Maybe it was flu season.

Your fingers hovered indecisively between a mid-range cabernet and a chilled bottle of sweet riesling.

You were probably overthinking this. About the wine. About him. About the eerie tension crawling under your skin.

You grabbed the riesling.

It felt safer, somehow. Like a comfort wine.

And maybe, just maybe, the night wouldn’t turn out how you expected—but it would still be something.

You moved toward the self-checkout, trying not to look at the mask-wearing stranger in line ahead of you, or the clerk discreetly wiping down the touchscreen with a Lysol-soaked rag.

You stood in front of his apartment door for a full ten seconds before knocking, then immediately regretted how awkward it sounded. Too timid, like you were nervous or something (but let’s be real, you were).

Your palms were sweating. Which was stupid, because this wasn’t a date. He’d even said so. Jokingly. Sort of. Maybe.

You stepped back, clutching the wine bottle tighter in both hands. Your heart hadn’t stopped fluttering since you left the store. You’d gone home to change—twice, maybe three times—and eventually settled on something simple, but cute. A soft-knit sweater, a denim skirt, your hair brushed out just the way you liked it. Makeup light, but noticeable. You were comfortable, but… you’d tried. You were definitely trying.

The door opened before you could overthink it anymore.

Satoru stood there barefoot in sweatpants and a black t-shirt stretched just enough across his shoulders to be distracting. His hair was even messier than earlier, like he’d raked his hands through it a dozen times in nervous anticipation—not that he’d ever admit it. And his eyes widened for just a split second before he leaned against the doorframe like he hadn’t just been caught prepping himself—and somehow, he was still unfairly attractive.

“Well damn,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “You clean up nice. You sure you’re not here for a real date?”

You raised the wine bottle in greeting. “You’re lucky I came at all. I almost turned around twice. But I come bearing gifts.

“Perfect. I’ll pretend I didn’t spend twenty minutes debating if I should light candles or not.”

You stepped inside as he shut the door behind you, the quiet click somehow louder than it should’ve been.

His place was cozy in that just-cleaned-by-a-man-who-rarely-cleans kind of way—counters wiped, dishes suspiciously absent from the sink. You caught a glimpse of a suspiciously well-folded dish towel and a lit candle on the windowsill. It smelled like garlic and buttery, something slightly toasty in the air.

“You cleaned,” you said, trying not to sound too smug.

He closed the door behind you. “I have standards.”

“I bet you Febreze’d the couch.”

“Okay, I have high standards.”

You walked slowly into the kitchen, tucking your hair behind your ear as you took in the sight of pans already heating on the stove, a mess of ingredients spread across the counter like a cooking show gone rogue. The TV in the living room was still on, playing something low-volume and newsy in the background.

You heard words like “confirmed cases” and “containment zones” and “doctors urging caution,” but you let the noise slide past you as he followed you.

Satoru caught you looking. “I figured ambiance was important. Y’know—candlelight, doom, and carbonara.”

You gave him a look. “What are you even watching?”

He glanced toward the screen, squinting. “I dunno. Something about infection rates in Illinois. I tuned out when they started talking about politics. You want to drink while we cook?”

You nodded and handed him the bottle of wine. He grabbed two glasses from the cabinet and passed you one.

As he poured, you leaned back against the counter, pretending to read the recipe on his phone. “So, what stage of the plan are we in? Boil water and pray?”

He shot you a look over his shoulder. “Contrary to popular belief, I am not a helpless bachelor. I know how to boil water.”

You leaned against the counter, “The real question is: does it taste good?”

“That’s why you’re here,” he said, tapping the glass. “Wine first, judgment later.”

“Alright, Chef Gojo. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The kitchen filled with the soft sounds of bubbling sauce and clinking utensils. You stood beside him, hips just barely brushing, pretending not to notice when his hand grazed yours as you reached for the pepper. He handed you a spoon to stir while he grated cheese—way too much, if you were honest, but he looked proud of it.

“Carbonara’s about trust,” he said seriously. “You can’t scramble the eggs. Gotta let the heat do the work.”

You shot him a side glance. “Is that how you teach physics? Through metaphors and bravado?”

He smirked. “If bravado gets me tenure, then yes.”

He talked as you both cooked—about a freshman who thought birds were a government plant, about the vending machine that ate his dollar during his free period, about how he thought the new chem teacher might be a lizard in a lab coat.

You listened, laughing more than you probably should’ve, letting the rhythm of it lull you into something warm. Comfortable. Familiar in a way that felt dangerous.

At one point, your shoulders bumped.

He didn’t move away. Neither did you. But when he spoke, it surprised you, “You smell good.”

Your pulse flickered. “It’s my shampoo.”

He nodded solemnly. “Tragic. And here I thought you were trying to impress me.”

You nudged his side with your elbow. “I’ll impress you when we grade your lesson plan.”

He responded with a noise like he was in pain. “Don’t ruin the vibe.”

The dinner turned out… surprisingly good.

You sat across from him on his slightly-too-small dining table, plates half-empty, wine glasses slowly draining. The news still played in the background, but neither of you really listened anymore. You’d caught something about rising hospital admissions, but it all felt distant. Like it was happening in another country, to someone else.

Here, in this little apartment, there was pasta and laughter and the warm, slow burn of something inching closer.

And you wanted this bubble to last.

“Shocked you didn’t poison me,” you said between bites.

“I said I’d cook, not kill,” he replied. “Though if you did die, you’d at least go out happy.”

You rolled your eyes, hiding a smile behind your glass.

After dinner, you helped carry the dishes to the sink, rinsing them while he dried.

At some point, your hand brushed his again—just a whisper of contact, knuckle against knuckle—and for a breathless second, neither of you moved. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, something unreadable in them. Then he looked away, clearing his throat too quickly, like he needed to cut the moment short before it could mean more.

“Alright,” he said, trying for lightness. “Ready to ruin my lesson plan with your artistic insight?”

“Only if you’re ready to admit Newton was dramatic.”

“Oh, he totally was.”

Half an hour later, you were curled into the corner of his couch with your legs tucked under you, notebook balanced on one knee. He was sprawled sideways across the other end, holding a pen and staring at a half-blank page like it had personally offended him.

“What if I just… didn’t teach anything next week?” he asked.

“You mean like every other week?”

He gasped in a sort of mock betrayal. “Wow. The disrespect in my own home.”

You tossed a pillow at him. He caught it with one hand, grinning.

“I could do kinetic energy demos with that giant slingshot in the gym,” he said.

You gave him a look of disbelief. “And definitely get fired.”

“Or promoted. Depending on the student casualty rate.”

You laughed, nudging his foot with yours.

For a while, you both worked in tandem—him scribbling down notes, you doodling in the margins of his lesson plan, both of you half-focused. The distance between you felt charged but never crossed, like a stretched rubber band that neither of you wanted to snap.

The wine was sweet and the room was warm and the world—just outside this space—was beginning to unravel.

But here, for now, there was only soft music, quiet laughter, and the familiar ache of almost.

You hadn’t meant to stay this long. Really.

You realized it only when the soft buzz of your phone lit up beside the empty wine glass on the coffee table. The screen glowed with the time—well past midnight—and your stomach dipped. Not from dread, but from that slow, sinking awareness that the night had to end.

The lesson plan had turned into half-doodles and nonsense diagrams, your notebook now abandoned on the coffee table. The last sips of wine sat forgotten in your glasses. The TV had long since gone quiet, flickering muted footage of a press conference you weren't paying attention to. Some official with worried eyes and a too-tight tie was saying something about “nationwide monitoring” and “recommendations for isolation.” You barely registered it.

But you knew you had to go.

You shifted on the couch, untucking your legs from under you. The movement made you realize just how warm and relaxed you’d become—your limbs lazy, your head pleasantly foggy from wine and laughter and something quieter that had been humming in your chest all evening. Full of pasta and too much laughter. You hadn’t laughed like this in a while.

“I should head out,” you said softly, voice barely above the hum of the muted TV.

Satoru didn’t answer right away.

He looked at you from the other end of the couch, like he hadn’t processed the words. Like he’d been hoping you’d forget you had to leave. His pen rested loosely in his hand, forgotten above a doodle of a poorly drawn Newton with laser eyes.

“You sure?” he asked eventually, voice low.

You gave him a small smile, reaching for your phone. “Yeah. Before I fall asleep and end up drooling on your couch.”

He smirked. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s happened on that couch.”

You gave him a look.

“Okay, okay. I’m joking. Mostly.”

You stood slowly, smoothing your hands down your sweater, feeling a tiny rush of nerves again—like the kind you’d felt before knocking on his door. Like something might still happen if you stayed too long. If you said too much.

He stood too, stretching in a lazy arc that somehow managed to show off his shoulders and his waistline. You refused to stare.

“Let me call you a ride,” he said, already pulling out his phone.

You waved him off, half-laughing. “I can do it—”

“You’ve had two glasses of wine and that weird girly one you made me try.” He pointed an accusing finger. “You’re tipsy, and I’m not letting you drive, period.”

You rolled your eyes, giving him a mock glare, but didn’t argue. “Fine. Bossy.”

“Protective,” he corrected, giving you that sideways, crooked smirk again—the one that always made you feel like the only person in the room.

As he tapped in the address, you glanced around the room again. The dimmed lighting, the soft sounds from the muted TV, the way the half-finished notebook still sat on the table like the two of you were just taking a break, not saying goodbye. It all felt…comfortable. Safe.

You didn’t want to leave yet. You just didn’t know what staying would mean.

“They’ll be here in five,” he said, glancing up at you again. “Black sedan. License ends in 92.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, feeling the silence stretch a little too long between you. You were unsure of what to do with your hands now, settling on tucking them into your sleeves, chewing lightly on the inside of your cheek.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then he stepped closer.

Slowly. Carefully. His hand lifted—hesitated for just a second—and then tucked a piece of hair behind your ear.

His fingers brushed your skin, just barely, but it was enough to send a shiver down your spine. He didn’t move away immediately, either. His hand lingered near your jaw, like he was debating whether to say something else. Do something else.

“You’ve got…” he gestured vaguely, “...paint or pen or something on your temple. Probably from doodling.”

You laughed, a little breathless. “Occupational hazard.”

The moment settled into stillness again.

Then, like a spell breaking, he stepped back and grabbed your coat from the back of the couch. He held it out for you, one hand gently opening it like he’d done it a thousand times before. Like it was something he wanted to do. Always a gentleman.

You turned so he could help you into it, and when his hands brushed your shoulders to adjust the fabric, your breath caught for a second. The softest contact—but still enough to make you aware of how close he was. How close he’d been all night.

He opened the door without a word.

The hallway outside was quiet, the chill of the night air seeping in through the doorway like a gentle reminder that this wasn’t actually a dream.

You turned to look at him, backlit by the warm light of his apartment.

“Thanks for dinner,” you said. Your voice felt steadier than you expected.

“Thanks for coming.” His tone was softer now. No jokes. No smirks. Just sincerity.

You hovered there in the doorway for a beat too long, fingers tightening on the strap of your bag.

Then, as you turned to step into the hallway, he spoke again—quiet, a little rushed even.

“Text me when you get home?”

You looked back at him, nodding. “Yeah. I will.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just looked at you like he was trying to memorize something—your face, your voice, the shape of you in his hallway light.

Like he didn’t want to miss anything.

And you didn’t want to give him the chance to.

He gave you a small smile in return. “Okay. Good.”

The ride was already waiting, headlights cutting soft beams through the street outside. You stepped out into the night, the cool air rushing against your skin where his hands had been a moment ago.

It made you ache a little.

Not from cold—but from the absence.

You walked down the steps slowly, glancing back just once.

And he was still standing in the doorway.

Still watching you.

And when you buckled yourself in, you saw him raise a hand in a lazy wave, like he was trying not to look as reluctant as he felt.

And you could only smile, because you didn’t want the night between you to end either.

Even after the car pulled away from Satoru’s place and the city lights started to blur past your window, you stayed tucked into the corner of the backseat, arms wrapped loosely around yourself. The radio played softly—some low acoustic song you didn’t recognize—but it felt like background noise to the buzzing in your head.

You kept replaying it.

His voice. His eyes. The soft brush of his fingers behind your ear.

The way he looked at you like there was something more sitting just at the edge of his mouth—something he wanted to say but didn’t.

Your phone buzzed just as you were stepping into your apartment.

let me know when you're home, yeah?

You smiled at the screen, suddenly self-conscious even in the silence of your entryway.

home safe. thanks again for dinner, chef gojo. and for… everything else

You sent it before you could overthink, tossed your phone on the couch, and let out a long breath.

Your apartment felt too quiet.

Still, even.

Like the kind of quiet that came before a storm, or a scream.

But you shook the thought off.

The night still clung to your skin, warm and sweet and a little wine-heavy, so you peeled off your sweater and skirt and traded them for an old t-shirt and cotton shorts. Barefoot, you padded into the kitchen, cracked open the freezer, and pulled out a pint of chocolate ice cream.

You didn’t bother with a bowl. Just grabbed a spoon and walked back to the living room, kicking the blanket off the couch and flopping down sideways.

The TV glowed soft and blue in the dimness, casting shadows across your walls as some half-watched rom-com murmured in the background.

You weren’t watching it, though. Not Really.

Not when your brain was too busy playing a highlight reel of everything from the past six hours.

The wine. The pasta. The lesson plan. The look in his eyes when he asked you to text him. The way he hadn’t closed the door until your ride was fully gone down the street.

You weren’t sure when it had happened—when the friendship shifted.

But it had.

Something felt different now, and it scared you. In a good way. In the way that made your stomach dip and your chest feel like it was floating in air.

You scooped another bite of ice cream, let it melt slowly on your tongue, and curled deeper into the cushions.

You meant to just rest your eyes for only a second.

But the movie kept playing. The room got darker.

You didn’t even notice the first low, distant sound—like a tremble in the sky. You didn’t see the flash of movement through your living room blinds. The helicopters passed overhead just a few miles south, heading toward the city center in tight formation. Low. Fast.

You didn’t hear the sirens.

What you did hear was the sound of your phone shrieking.

A sharp, mechanical blaring—louder than any ringtone, jarring and high-pitched. You jolted upright, breath caught in your throat, and grabbed blindly for your phone as it lit up the room with a red glow.

EMERGENCY ALERT CDC WARNING – CONTAGIOUS VIRAL OUTBREAK DETECTED STAY INDOORS. AVOID ALL CONTACT. AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS.

Your heart was pounding behind your ribcage.

You barely had time to sit up fully before the television stuttered—screen flickering once, twice, before it went black with a soft click.

Then it returned.

Not your movie. Not static.

A black screen. White block letters. The same that appeared on your phone.

EMERGENCY BROADCAST SYSTEM STAND BY FOR LIVE ADDRESS

Your ice cream slid off the couch and hit the floor with a soft thud, but you didn’t notice.

A man appeared on-screen, sitting stiff behind a podium. He looked…wrong. Face pale, hands gripping the edge of the table like he might fall forward. His tie was off-center. A bandage peeked from beneath his sleeve.

He didn’t blink enough either.

“This is a national emergency,” he began, voice shaking slightly. “All citizens are advised to remain inside their homes. Do not attempt to travel. Do not engage with anyone displaying symptoms of disorientation, fever, or violent behavior.”

You stared, still half-curled under your blanket, but no longer warm. No longer relaxed.

You weren’t thinking about Satoru anymore.

You weren’t thinking about dinner, or lesson plans, or his hands brushing your shoulders.

Your world had just cracked open.

And the worst part was:

You didn’t even know it yet.

Author's Note: SO, this wasn't supposed to come out for awhile, but I've been rewatching The Last of Us and I was feeling inspired, so now you're being fed yet another fic. For this one, I think the updates are going to be a bit slower, just because I'd like to finish TSaH first before jumping into a longer fic.

As always my lovelies, if you enjoyed, a repost is always appreciated!

And let me know if I should make a taglist, if anyone is interested!

@fati27ma

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emochosoluvr · 1 month ago

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This is what I imagine when reading nerdjo fanfics

Art credits @nekozuu_ from instagram

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emochosoluvr · 1 month ago

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★ SOFT AS IT BEGAN ⋆ 01. THE REAPING.

district four’s only victors—satoru gojo, dazzling and deadly, and you, cunning and stubborn—are dragged back into the arena for the quarter quell. with the capitol watching and a rebellion brewing, the hunger games are no longer just about survival. they’re about trust, betrayal, and the unresolved past that still burns between you.

★ pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader ★ tags: romance, angst, eventual smut, action, slow burn, hurt/comfort. the hunger games!au, dystopian!au, enemies to lovers!au. this chapter contains: alcohol consumption, profanity, death & violence, blood. ★ word count: 6.2k

ao3 ⋆ series masterlist

District Four didn’t have much to offer, but there was always the beach, and the sun, and the sand. Satoru could collect seashells if he wished—he had a pile of them already, in the corner of his bedroom. He didn’t have to work. The Capitol provided him that luxury, at the expense of twenty-three lives.

He could spend his days ambling over the soft, golden sand of the strip of coast right outside the Victor’s Village and drink himself to oblivion. If Satoru lived alone in the Victor’s Village, he might’ve.

Small joys in such a cruel, cold world.

He wasn’t the only victor District Four had to its name. There was you, who won the Hunger Games right after he did. He had mentored you, taught you all the right ways to play the Capitol crowd and win favours. He had honed your cunningness and cleverness, and helped you survive in the arena. You weren’t his favourite tribute—the twelve districts had to send one boy and one girl, each; he had favoured your fellow tribute—and truth be told, Satoru had had no idea what he was doing. It was his first time being a mentor, after all.

Your victory was a fluke.

It had been five years since your Hunger Games, and six years since his. This year marked the 75th Hunger Games—a grim anniversary draped in spectacle. Seventy-five years since the thirteen districts of Panem had dared to rise against the Capitol. Seventy-five years since the thirteenth had been razed to ash and silence. The thought was droll, in a bleak, bitter sort of way. Nothing in Panem ever changed. Only the methods of punishment grew more inventive.

On the morning of the Reaping, Satoru rose before the sun did and made his way to the beach.

He could’ve slept in. Reaping Day was the one day the people of the districts were granted a few extra hours of sleep—if they could manage it. The ceremony itself wouldn’t begin until the afternoon, when the Capitol’s cameras were in position in the district square and the selection of the tributes was broadcast live to all of Panem. But Satoru knew that sleep rarely came to anyone on this day. Not to the children. Not to the families who might lose them. And not to the victors who knew exactly what it meant.

He walked barefoot down to the shoreline, sand still cool against his feet. The sea stretched endlessly before him, indifferent and eternal, like it had been watching all this time and simply chose not to intervene. He envied it, sometimes—the sea’s freedom. Its refusal to care.

The Victor’s Village sat far enough from the rest of District Four that the sounds of waking life didn’t reach him here. Satoru could almost believe, if only for a moment, that there were no Hunger Games; no Capitol; no Reaping. Just the salt air, the breeze tugging at his shirt, and the slow pull of the waves crashing onto the shore.

He was crouched in the sand, fiddling absently with a broken piece of sea glass when he heard footsteps.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asked dryly, not looking up.

Your voice came from just behind him. “Didn’t even try.”

He stood slowly, brushing the sand from his hands and tucking the sea glass into his pocket. The two of you hadn’t spoken much in recent months—not since the last Games. He didn’t like you much, though it was a stupid thought to entertain. You’d done what you did to survive, the same as he had, and yet, every time he closed his eyes, all he could picture was his best friend lying prone on the arena’s ground, while you stood over his dead body.

You stepped closer, the crunch of sand underfoot sounding louder than it should’ve in the morning hush. The wind carried the scent of salt and seaweed, tangling through your hair and tugging at the hem of your jacket. You stopped beside him, arms crossed. He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. You looked older than he remembered, but so did he. The Hunger Games did that to a person.

“I ran into Pearl last week,” you said. “The new Peacemaker whose husband works for the Gamemakers.”

Satoru resisted the urge to snort. A Peacemaker, in charge of maintaining discipline in the districts, married to a Gamemaker who lived in the Capitol and worked on creating the Hunger Games, was an odd pair, at least by his standards.

Instead, he exhaled slowly, dragging a tired hand through his hair. “You’re going to have to be more specific. This new batch of Peacemakers is nothing more than a bunch of rich bastards with too many opinions.”

“She was drunk,” you continued, ignoring his jab. “I think she told me something I wasn’t supposed to hear.”

“Go on.”

“It’s the Quarter Quell—”

“I know that,” Satoru snapped.

The Quarter Quell, held every twenty-five years, was a special edition of the Hunger Games. This year would be the third Quarter Quell. In the words of President Snow, they were designed specially to keep the memory of the districts’ rebellion fresh in each generation’s mind.

“Just get to the damn point,” he said.

“She said that the Quarter Quell would be different this year. Something symbolic.” Your lips curled into a sneer at that. “A return to the Games’ original purpose. A reminder that no one’s truly safe—not even us. She said that this time, they’d be reaping from the pool of victors.”

His eyes narrowed. “That’s just Capitol talk. They love theatrics.”

“Do you really think the Capitol would joke about this?”

Yes, he wanted to say, but truthfully, it was hard to decipher between what was true and what was a lie when it came to the Hunger Games. Like trying to differentiate between poison and nectar when both looked the same and smelled sweet.

Satoru finally turned to face you, the morning light catching the pale glint in his eyes. You didn’t flinch—or perhaps, didn’t allow yourself to—but he suspected that it had always unsettled you, the way he looked at people like he was trying to peel back their skin just to see what was underneath.

“So you think it’s real,” he said.

“I think the Capitol would never waste a good opportunity for cruelty,” you said.

He stared at you for a long moment, like he was trying to find a lie in your face. He wouldn’t. Not about this, at least. A gull cried overhead, its shadow skating across the sand. You shifted your weight, arms tightening around your frame. The breeze whipped your hair into your face, but you made no move to push it away.

You both knew the rules. District Four had only two victors. If the Capitol wanted a show—wanted irony, cruelty, symmetry—then of course they’d make you two fight. Mentor and tribute. Killer and survivor. The boy who taught you how to win, and the girl who used it to kill the person he loved most.

“You should’ve let me die,” you murmured, turning to the sea. Your eyes scanned the horizon like the ocean might offer a different reality. Foolish, Satoru thought. The sea was unforgiving, no matter how adept you were at staying afloat.

“I tried,” Satoru said.

“Not hard enough,” you said.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. You weren’t worth the effort.”

But the venom in his voice wasn’t convincing. You both knew what it was: guilt, calcified into something meaner over time.

The sun rose higher, casting everything in amber. Soon, the district would stir. Faces would fill the square. Two names would be drawn, and for once, no children would be volunteered as tributes.

Satoru didn’t often indulge in alcohol during the day. The numbing haze it offered was tempting—too tempting, most days—but he liked his senses sharp. A victor inebriated was about as useful as a tribute dead. And dead was something he still wasn’t ready to be.

He’d left the beach not long after you’d spoken. The words still sat heavy on his chest, like water in his lungs, refusing to drain. That was three hours ago.

Now, he sat in one of the Victor’s Village’s garishly upholstered armchairs—Capitol chic, which was to say it was both uncomfortable and absurd. Deep maroon with golden trim, stiff in the wrong places, and far too elaborate for a man who still slept on the left side of the bed, because the right side used to be occupied by somebody else.

Shoko dropped a packet of nicotine patches onto the glass coffee table between them. The foil crinkled; it landed beside his half-finished glass of dark liquor, casting a warped reflection in the amber. Their ritual was familiar: Capitol alcohol for black market medicine. She never asked why he drank. He never asked who she was patching up in the alleys near the docks.

He also didn’t have the heart to tell her that he wouldn’t have any use for her exchanged goods after today.

“You should be getting ready,” Shoko said, pulling back her brown hair into a knot at the nape of her neck.

“For what? A glorified roll call?” he said.

“For someone who’s about to be paraded in front of the entire district, you’re unusually morose.”

He picked up his glass and tipped it towards her. “Must be the company.”

“And here I thought we were friends,” said Shoko, deadpan.

They were. Or, at least, they were what passed for friends after the Games: two people bound not by warmth or laughter, but by the quiet understanding of what survival cost. Shoko hadn’t set foot in an arena, but she had pieced enough broken bodies back together to know the rules didn’t end when the cannon fired. If anything, they only got worse. She was the last thread tying him to who he was before—before the arena, before the fame that stank of blood and nightmares, before he lost his best friend.

Satoru, for all his evasions and sardonic grins, hadn’t dared cut that thread yet.

He didn’t respond, just leaned forward to pour another finger of liquor into his glass. The liquid sloshed slightly, but his hand wasn’t trembling. He couldn’t allow it to. Shoko’s gaze drifted to the window. Outside, the cobbled streets of Victor’s Village gleamed under the Capitol-mandated maintenance—fresh flowers, freshly-polished plaques, marble clean enough to reflect light. An illusion of peace, gilded and enforced.

“Where’s the victor girl?” she asked.

“Do I look like her babysitter?” he snarked.

“I’ll never understand why you can’t forgive her,” Shoko said slowly, shaking her head. “Poor thing.”

Satoru stayed quiet. If he said something now, it would be only out of anger, and he didn’t want his last words to Shoko to be something he didn’t mean. He lifted his glass and drained it in one gulp, then stood up just as the first of the district bells began to toll.

“You ought to go,” he told her, “or they’ll punish you for being late.”

“And they won’t punish you?”

He smiled faintly. “Victor’s privilege.”

Shoko didn’t move. She stared at him with the same expression she wore when inspecting a wound she knew she couldn’t stitch closed—measured, resigned, maybe even a little angry at the fact that she cared at all.

“You keep hiding behind that title like it protects you,” she said.

“It does,” Satoru replied.

The second bell rang, lower than the first, echoing across the district. Outside, the shadows of Peacekeepers could be seen filing into position, lining the walkways between the manicured hedges. It was a parade for the Capitol cameras, all pageantry and propaganda. The returning victors, the new tributes, and, hidden underneath them all, the reminder: you can survive the Games, but you’ll never leave them.

Shoko stepped around the coffee table, retrieving the nicotine patches. She tore one open and handed it to him, hesitating only a little. “Here. In case you decide you want to live a little longer.”

He took it without a word and slid it into the pocket of his jacket. Their eyes met once, briefly, the tiniest amount of affection they would allow themselves to show to each other.

“Don’t let them twist her into you,” she said quietly, turning around to the door.

Satoru didn’t reply.

He waited until the door shut behind her, until her footsteps disappeared down the pristine path. Then, slowly, he turned toward the tall mirror by the fireplace. The Capitol had commissioned it, of course—tall and ornate, trimmed with a frame of curling leaves and thorns dipped in gold. His reflection looked out of place in it. Older than he should be. Less victorious than they claimed.

He tugged at the collar of his jacket and stared himself down.

Forgive you? No, not yet.

The third bell chimed, sharp and final.

Satoru Gojo stepped out the door with a smile plastered on his face.

The streets of District Four were deceptively beautiful.

Stone-paved and sun-warmed, they twisted lazily along the coastline, lined with whitewashed cottages and storefronts draped in netting and dried coral. Bougainvillea climbed the walls, fuchsia and silver-white against the salt-stained brick. Wind chimes made of driftwood and shell danced in the breeze, their soft clatter mingling with the distant crash of waves. Wooden boats bobbed in the harbour, their sails furled tight, hulls painted in colours once bright but long faded by the sun. If someone passed through the district quickly enough, they might even call it peaceful.

Satoru knew better.

Every flower was trimmed for the Capitol’s cameras. Every cottage window was scrubbed clean; every storefront was made to look quaint but never poor. It was curated beauty, scrubbed clean of anything that might offend the Capitol’s delicate sensibilities.

Every child was trained for the sea, and then—inevitably—for war. District 4 was a district of fishermen, yes, but it was also a district of Careers. A place where kids learned to wield spears before they learned to read, where swimming and fighting were taught in the same breath, and discipline came in the form of bruises and bent knees.

There was pride here—too much, perhaps. Pride in strength. Pride in surviving. Somewhere along the line, that pride in survival had turned into pride in bloodshed, and now it was hard to tell one from the other.

And yet, for all their training and tradition, District 4 had only two victors to its name. Two, in over seventy years of Games. It was a quiet disgrace, a smudge against the reputation they’d worked so hard to polish. The Capitol never said it aloud, but the resentment was there, simmering beneath their sugar-sweet praise. Their tributes were supposed to be killers, paragons of grace and brutality, but most died with their throats slit in the first few days.

When the Capitol looked at you and Satoru, it looked with expectation. Pressure. Hunger. You weren’t just victors; you were proof that District Four could produce something lethal. The Capitol wouldn’t let you forget it, and it was evident in the way the Peacekeepers trailed you and Satoru as you made your way to the square.

So, no. He didn’t buy the pretty picture. He’d come to loathe it and love it, in equal parts.

“Is it weird that I feel… relieved?” you asked, looking down. Your boots scuffed against the cobblestone.

“Relieved that no kid has to die this year?” Satoru said, his voice low. “No. That’s not weird.”

Last year, it was Junpei and Mai Zen’in. The year before that, the mayor’s daughter and the butcher’s son. The year before that, it had been the twins from the cliffs, Reika and Ren. They’d held hands as they climbed into the transport, matching defiant stares fixed on the cameras. Satoru may not have seen eye-to-eye with you, but in this, as the only mentors your district had to offer, you were jointly determined. It was cruel, the way the Capitol spun the twins’ narrative. There was nothing more tragic than siblings being put in a bloodbath and forced to kill each other.

You and Satoru did all you could to ensure their survival. They’d died anyway—Reika on the second day with an arrow to the heart; Ren lasted three more before he threw himself off a ledge rather than be cornered.

Ten tributes in the five years since yours, two more since his. Satoru remembered them all. Names, faces, screams. He kept them catalogued like wounds, sharp and painful. You didn’t forget your district’s dead—not when their ghosts walked the streets in the form of little siblings, grieving mothers, empty chairs at dinner tables.

He glanced sideways at you, eyes catching the tremble in your jaw. You didn’t say anything, but he could tell this wasn’t just about relief. It was guilt, too. You’d won. They hadn’t. Satoru knew perfectly what that felt like.

You exhaled. “They always look so small when they’re called. Doesn’t matter how tough they act, how many knives they’ve trained with. They always look like kids.”

“Didn’t we?” Satoru said.

He didn’t mean for it to come out as cruel as it did. You flinched, just barely, but he saw it: a crack in your composure, hairline thin, quick as lightning. Satoru looked away. The breeze picked up, bringing with it the sharp tang of brine and the distant screech of gulls. Somewhere in the harbour, a rope hit a mast with a dull clack clack clack, rhythmic and lonely.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You did,” you said quietly. “But it’s fine.”

It wasn’t, not really. But what else was there to say? You had looked like kids. You’d been eighteen—too innocent, too young, bruises blooming purple down your arms after weeks of Career training. Satoru remembered seeing you on stage beside him, hands clenched into fists, mouth pressed into a line like you’d rather spit than smile. It had been his first year as a mentor, and despite his Games having left him shaken already, it was your Games that truly wiped any traces of joy from his mind.

“The twins’ mom still leaves candles by the pier,” you said. “Every month. Two. One pink, and one blue.”

“Yeah. I know,” Satoru said.

The hill began to slope downward, toward the square. The stage always felt out of place here—too polished, too clean. Like someone had taken a piece of the Capitol and dropped it into the heart of District 4 without bothering to see whether it fit. The wood was sanded smooth, gleaming under the afternoon sun, and the Capitol banners draped behind it fluttered; red silk, gold trim, all show. Two glass bowls were placed on pedestals, and normally, they’d be filled to the brim with narrow slips of paper. This time, there was only one piece of paper in each. A microphone was placed between them, tall and thin.

Children were already gathered below, arranged by age, corralled behind thick ropes like livestock awaiting auction. Girls to the left, and boys to the right. The youngest looked terrified, faces drawn tight with fear at their first ever Reaping. The older ones stood stiff-backed, trying to appear braver than they felt. To the side stood those who had outgrown the age for the Games: men and women with sunburnt faces and wind-bitten hands who stood with their arms crossed tightly.

The Peacekeepers led you and Satoru down the path, in between the girls and boys. The children looked at him, wide-eyed and stricken; the older ones stared at him with more wariness. He looked away, fingers curling into fists inside the pockets of his jacket. The Head Peacekeeper—the new one, who’d inadvertently let slip the secret about this year’s Hunger Games—nudged you both up the stage. Satoru stood with his hands behind his back, the bitter taste of judgement and expectation lodged in his mouth like rot.

The metallic clatter of heels against the stage broke the silence. The Capitol’s escort for District Four ascended with a flourish.

Coral was her name, and she’d been the conductor of the Reaping since Satoru was born. She was dressed in seafoam and pearl, hair coiled into a towering spiral that mimicked the curl of a nautilus shell, the tips dipped in shimmering silver. The strands were woven through with glinting beads and wire shaped like sea creatures—delicate crabs, jewelled anemones, and a single translucent fish pinned just above her ear. Her lipstick was the same shade of a coral reef just before it bleached. Her lashes batted with forced warmth, eyes bright beneath a mask of powder and paint.

“What a fucking clown,” he heard you mutter under your breath. Satoru snorted and disguised it as a cough. There was no love lost between you both and Coral. Your disdain for each other only seemed to multiply with each new Reaping.

The Capitol, he thought grimly, had a twisted sense of humour. A woman named Coral for the district by the ocean. It was almost funny, if it weren’t so cruel. Everything about her was an imitation of the sea—costume over understanding, performance over truth. She smiled as if she hadn’t just flown in on a private hovercraft to announce death in front of children.

“Welcome, welcome!” she trilled into the microphone, loud and obnoxious, in that strange Capitol accent of hers. “District Four, it is always a pleasure. Happy Hunger Games—and what a special occasion this year’s Reaping promises to be!”

The crowd murmured. You cursed at her quietly once more. Satoru bit back his smile; you were providing some amusement, at least, before Coral announced the inevitable.

“This year marks the Seventy-Fifth Annual Hunger Games,” she continued. “And as you all know, every twenty-five years, we celebrate a Quarter Quell—a commemorative twist designed to remind us of the sacrifices that brought us peace.”

Her voice lifted slightly on the word peace, as if it were something alive, fluttering in the air like the Capitol’s gaudy banners. Satoru fought the urge to look at you, because if he did, he might laugh, and if he laughed, he might get shot.

Coral stepped back from the microphone, flourished a glittering envelope from her sleeve, and held it up.

“With the approval of President Snow,” she announced, “it is my honour to read the card that was sealed in this envelope seventy-five years ago by the original founders of Panem, to be opened today.”

She opened the envelope with a dramatic flick of her fingers.

“On the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Hunger Games,” she read, “as a reminder that not even the strongest among us can overcome the Capitol… the tributes will be reaped from the existing pool of victors.”

Gasps rippled through the square. Some of the children whimpered. A few of the older teenagers exchanged wide-eyed looks of disbelief. A boy—not even thirteen, probably—turned to the boy next to him and whispered something frantic, something like what does that mean? only to get knocked on the back of his head by the nearest Peacekeeper.

Satoru didn’t blink. The performance had begun.

Coral gave the crowd a moment to process. She nodded solemnly, as if she actually gave a shit, and spread her arms.

“As District Four has only two living victors, there will be no draw today,” she said. “No need for names. By default… our tributes for the Seventy-Fifth Annual Hunger Games will be Satoru Gojo—” she paused, smiling as though his name was something to be treasured—“and…”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you muttered, and, grabbing Satoru’s hand, you stepped forward, nudging Coral out of the way.

“What are you doing—”

“People of District Four,” you said loudly, ignoring Satoru’s flabbergasted glare and Coral’s protest. “We are your victors. We survived the Hunger Games. We were supposed to look after those who were sent in after this, and in this—in this, I regret to say, we’ve failed.”

Coral’s mouth opened in shock, but no words came out. Her wide eyes flicked between you and Satoru, who still hadn’t moved, his hand slack in yours. The crowd had quieted, like someone had pulled a thread too tightly—and now, everything was still, holding its breath.

You stepped forward once more.

“We failed them,” you continued. “We smiled for the cameras and waved from our trains and made speeches written by people who never saw a child die. We survived—and then we disappeared into the Victor’s Village, and the comfort and silence it gave us.”

Satoru could feel Coral’s fury simmering behind you, the way her breath turned short and shallow. She was probably already thinking of how this would look to the Capitol. What it would cost.

He didn’t care, and neither did you.

Satoru looked out at the people of District Four—his people. He saw the girl in the front row with the callused hands and the storm-coloured eyes. He saw the old man with the limp, gripping the hand of a child too young to understand what you were saying. He saw Shoko, standing to the side, her eyes wide and her mouth parted slightly. He saw grief.

He saw fear.

“We’re not proud of what we’ve become,” you said. “We were kids when they threw us into the arena. But we came back. And I—I can’t live with pretending that what’s happening now is normal. I won’t.”

There was a rustle behind you, the shift of fabric as Satoru finally stepped up. He raised his free hand—not waving, not saluting. Just open, trembling slightly; he was unsure what gesture could ever be right here.

“I—” he started, then stopped, and cleared his throat. “What she said. All of it.”

Someone in the crowd let out a choked laugh, but it was the kind that came too close to crying.

“I used to think,” Satoru said, steadier now, “that surviving was enough. That if I could just get through it, I’d earn the right to be left alone. But the truth is, we’re not alone—and we never were.”

His hand squeezed yours.

“And maybe we don’t have power,” you said. “Not compared to the Capitol. But we have voices. And I think—I think we should start using them. Before it’s too late.”

It was the old man with the limp who acted first, his eyes fixed on you both. His hand, weathered by time, trembled as he brought his thumb to his lips; then, slowly, he moved his hand across his chest before lifting it outward, palm open, towards you and Satoru.

The old sailors’ farewell. Satoru remembered being a child and playing at the docks when some of the older fishermen taught him about it. It was the gesture made to those who were being sent to sea, with long voyages ahead—a gesture for them to come back, safe and sound, with tales of joy and abundance. No one had ever used it since Panem was created.

Like a stone being dropped into still water, others in the crowd began to mirror him. One by one, people raised their hands to their lips, then pressed them to their hearts, before lifting them towards you. It spread like wildfire, like the way a spark can catch in dry grass. He didn’t know if it was a sign of solidarity or defiance, but at that moment, it didn’t matter.

It was a rebellion all the same.

The crack of a rifle split the air like lightning.

The old man, his back straight despite his age, crumpled to the ground in a spray of blood. His limp body collapsed as a single shot rang out from a Peacekeeper’s rifle. His grandchild, confused and scared, began to wail, covered in his grandfather’s blood.

The child’s wail cut through the stunned silence like a blade, sharp and raw and impossibly small. For a second—maybe two, maybe ten—no one moved. You were frozen behind him, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, like you couldn’t believe what you’d just seen.

Neither could he.

The blood seeped quickly across the stone, impossibly red against the grey, reaching the child’s shoes.

Screams tore through the square. People surged backwards, pushing and tripping over one another. Mothers grabbed their children, elders stumbled, younger ones shouted in protest and disbelief. Some tried to run. Some simply stood there, lost in horror.

Satoru tried to jump off the stage, acting before he could think, arms outstretched towards the child, towards the body, but strong arms grabbed him and held him back.

“Get off me—let go—” he snarled, teeth bared like an animal. You were shouting too, your voice cracking as you fought the Peacekeeper trying to drag you away.

“You killed him! He was unarmed!” you screamed, writhing, kicking, doing everything you could to make them hurt. “He saluted us! That’s all he did!”

“Let go of her!” Satoru roared, lunging towards you, twisting violently, only for the butt of a gun to slam into his gut. He doubled over with a groan, teeth clenched, and still, they carried him away.

The Peacekeeper holding Satoru grunted, pulling his arms behind his back with bruising force. “Enough.”

“No,” Satoru spat. “Don’t you dare fucking tell me that. That was a child’s grandfather—”

“Stand down or we shoot again.”

That made Satoru freeze.

You were still thrashing behind him, a wild thing burning in the sunlight, but when he said your name—just once, low and urgent—you met his eyes, and you stilled. Not because you were afraid, but because you understood.

They would kill someone else. A child. You. Him.

“Take them,” the Head Peacekeeper barked.

They dragged him from the platform. Somewhere in the distance, someone cried for help. Somewhere else, someone shouted murderer.

But he wasn’t allowed to look. He wasn’t allowed to stop. Your feet caught on the steps as the Peacekeepers forced you down them. Satoru was only a few feet behind you, but it still felt like miles. His hair was falling into his eyes, his back bent slightly where the rifle butt poked into him. Still, he fought against every hand that tried to hold him still, even if it was more subdued now.

The child’s sobs followed him like a phantom.

The doors of the Justice Building yawned open before him, all pale marble and clean lines and hollow promises. The air inside was colder than it had any right to be, and it swallowed the sunlight in an instant.

You were shoved into a corridor, Satoru beside you now, guards on either side. You looked at him. Your lip was split where one of the Peacekeepers had hit you in your struggle. Satoru was sure he didn’t look any better; the scratches nicked on his cheeks stung.

“I saw it,” he said, hoarse. “I saw his hand.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “So did I.”

“He was saying goodbye.”

“He was hoping we’d come back.”

The guards didn’t care. They didn’t speak; they merely kept moving you forward, step after step, deeper into the building, deeper into the Capitol’s grasp.

Satoru closed his eyes and imagined the frail, lifeless body of that old man. He was going to be sick. He thought about the years they’d all lived through, about everything that had brought them to this point. All those people who had died before them, who had given up their lives just for the chance of a better one.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You and he weren’t supposed to be this.

He turned to look at you again, and for the first time in five years, he felt that familiar feeling creeping in—the feeling that no matter how much he wanted to fix things, he couldn’t.

“You’re okay,” he muttered, more to himself than you. But it felt like a lie. He didn’t know what was happening anymore.

The Peacekeepers shoved you inside a room. “Sit,” one of them ordered gruffly. “We’re receiving orders from the Capitol soon.”

Satoru had forgotten that the Reaping was always being broadcast live to everyone in the country. His head hurt. Numbly, he moved to the nearest chair—some old, stiff wooden thing—and collapsed onto it.

Did you know what you’d done?

You didn’t sit. Your arms were still trembling, and the moment the door clicked shut behind the last guard, it was like all of it—everything he’d swallowed down to keep from screaming—came clawing its way back up.

“You shouldn’t have said anything,” Satoru said.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You shouldn’t have—you shouldn’t have said anything about using our voices, or—” He was staring at the floor, hands pressed against his mouth like he was trying to physically hold back everything he wanted to say. “We should’ve just let the Reaping happen like it always does.”

“He was shot in front of us. He saluted us, and they shot him—”

“Because of us!” Satoru exploded, finally looking up at you, eyes wild and bloodshot. “We incited this! You think President Snow won’t twist this into some Capitol propaganda? You think he won’t use that child’s face?”

You shook your head. “So you’d rather we be their good little Victors again? Keep our heads down while they murder people in the square?”

“I’d rather you stay alive!” he snapped. “I’d rather not be left alone, all over again.”

The silence that followed was thick and ugly. He dropped his gaze again, chest heaving like the fight had drained him of all the air in the room.

The door opened once more.

“What an entertaining little lover’s spat,” a voice sang out mockingly, clapping slow, deliberate hands. “Really, I should’ve brought popcorn.”

Satoru’s gaze snapped up.

Coral pouted, sickly sweet, leaning against the doorframe. “Unfortunately for you both, the fun’s over. We must leave immediately. President Snow wants to see you.”

Neither of you needed to ask why. Both of you already knew.

Satoru rose slowly from his chair, his shoulders stiff and aching. You walked out first, following Coral out of the Justice Building.

“Chin up, darlings!” Coral tossed a cruel smile over her shoulder. “After all, it’s not every day you start a rebellion on live television.”

After the Reaping—if it could even be called that—the crowds had emptied. What remained were scorch marks on the stone, drops of blood already dying in the last light of the day, and the haunting echo of that child’s sobs still ringing in Satoru’s ears.

You walked ahead of him, shoulders squared, back straight, silent. Peacekeepers flanked you both, rifles in hand, boots smacking against the concrete.

The train that would take you to the Capitol loomed just ahead, lacquered ink-black. It wouldn’t be his first time boarding this very train, but, with his pulse pounding in his throat, Satoru desperately hoped it’d be his last.

“Satoru!”

He turned instinctively. He knew that voice. It had raised him, fed him, scolded him. He’d known it since he was a boy too small to reach the docks without running.

Reiko and Ren’s mother, Midori, was pushing her way through the barrier, eyes glassy. A Peacekeeper stepped forward to stop her, but she ducked under his arm and threw herself in front of Satoru.

She looked older now, greyer and more wrinkled than he remembered. The toll of losing both her children at the same time had not failed to leave its scar on her. Satoru felt a lump form in his throat; he’d been too ashamed to look her in the eye, ever since he had broken his promise of keeping her children safe. But her hands were still strong when they grabbed his, shoving something into his palm, curling his fingers around it before anyone could see.

“You listen to me,” she hissed, close enough that only he could hear. “This was your mother’s. She would have wanted you to have it.”

Satoru opened his fist. A golden pin, drawn in the shape of a mockingjay—a muttation created by the Capitol—rested in his palm, warm from her hands.

“I kept it hidden all these years,” she whispered. “Don’t let them take you too.”

A Peacekeeper barked something unintelligible and shoved her backward. Before Satoru could react, the Peacekeeper who’d tried to stop her from reaching Satoru stepped forward and struck her hard across the face with the back of his hand. The sound echoed down the platform like thunder.

She crumpled to the ground, blood at the corner of her mouth.

“No—” Satoru lunged forward, but two Peacekeepers grabbed him, dragging him towards the train. “Let me go! She didn’t do anything!”

You were screaming now, too, struggling against the grip on your arm, reaching for him.

The doors were already sliding open.

The last thing Satoru saw before he was shoved into the train was Midori’s body being dragged away, her feet scraping against the concrete. The door slammed shut behind him.

“Fuck!” Satoru twisted away from the Peacekeepers holding him, chest heaving, eyes fixed to the window. His hands were shaking. He tucked the pin into his pocket, trembling. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck—”

You wrenched him by his shoulders, forcing him to face you instead. Your lip was bleeding again. “Look at me.”

“They—”

“Get your fucking act together, Satoru,” you said.

He nodded once. Again. Closed his eyes, and hid the shaking of his hands by fisting his fingers together in his jacket pockets.

The Capitol was waiting. Satoru found himself hoping—perhaps foolishly—that the odds, no matter how bleak, would be in his favour.

a/n: thanks for reading! sorry for such a short first chapter, but i wanted to use this as a prologue of sorts. rest assured that all the future chapters will be much, much longer :) thank you to @mahowaga for beta reading & letting me ramble about this fic with her ♡

art credit: _3aem

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