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macchianikato · 3 days ago

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DUDE HOLLLY SHIT??

prince charming

one wears a crown and the other seems destined for chains and dungeons. but whose to say which one you'll end up in - or with?

synopsis: from his playmate to his personal servant, you've spent your life pining after the pretty prince. until you're reminded just how misplaced your affections are for a man whose meant to marry another. so you do what any other sane person would do, sell off his possessions and slip out of his palace in the dead of the night! how far will he go to get you - and his stuff - back to his bedroom? and to keep you there, as princess or prisoner?

pairing: prince!Gojo x maid!Reader x bandit!Sukuna

content: mdni, angst and smut, medieval fantasy au, VERY DUBCON, YANDERE GOJO, collaring, jealousy, unprotected piv sex, EXTREMELY unbalanced power dynamics (master/pet), very messy relationships and emotional entanglements, heavy yearning/pining, oral (m! + f!receiving), murder, torture, manipulation, threats, drugging (we put sleeping pills in his tea lol), literally chained to his bed guys ok he's INSANE and EVIL, codependency, kidnapping, branding, manhandling

Satoru Gojo liked you best on your knees.

Scrubbing some stain his drink left behind, brows knitted together on the task at hand. Your work dress sprawled on the floor, your ass sticking out while you strained to wash the wood grain clean. Your breasts would bounce with the force of it, cleavage threatening to spill from the thin cotton barely holding them in.

Sure, his office aide protested the costs of getting a custom uniformed tailored and made specifically for you - but you were the prince's personal maid. You should stand out.

"You missed a spot."

And oh, how pretty you looked pouting over your shoulder at him, biting on that bottom lip before replying softly. "Sorry, Your Royal Majesty."

"How many times do I have to tell you to call me by my name?" He murmured, leaning down, but not to get on your level. No, it was meant to remind you of it. You were beneath him. His property to do with as he pleased.

It wasn't that you'd done something to deserve it.

He was just born better than you. Better than everyone.

You didn't speak, just nodding, that familiar spark in your eyes like you were desperately seeking his approval before you let your head hang low.

"My apologies again," You murmured, hesitating to let the next word fall from your lips. "Satoru."

Honestly, he'd prefer master, but you might do something foolish if he insisted on it too soon.

He wasn't exactly patient.

But he was trying to be for you.

To break you in slowly, mold you into the perfect shape he wanted before he made you snap.

Was it his fault your adoration was so addictive? Those big eyes you'd give him? The shy glances you'd steal? Obediently following his every request and anticipating the ones he hadn't even ordered yet? Cutting his food into cute shapes and adding extra salts to his bath after particularly grueling training sessions?

He used to think you were like a lost puppy. Your parents worked in the kitchen, and you ended up exploring the palace most days when you were both younger, following him around starving for whatever scraps of attention he'd throw at you.

It was annoying when you were six and he was seven. But no matter how spoiled he was, he knew better than to kick a hungry dog. They could bite. So he allowed your company, your devout compliments and bright smiles while you clung to his side. Growing up with you as his shadow.

He wasn't sure what changed - or even when.

Just that somewhere along the way, you both grew up - and he was the one chasing your tail.

From your first confession that you'd be starting work in the scullery despite barely finishing your schooling, he scoffed and snatched you up to work in his chambers instead. It was awkward at first. He was barely a man, and you were meek in your little maid outfit, but your clumsy fingers still worked to fasten the buttons on his outfits and fix his bathwater every morning, just as attentive as his servant as you were as his friend.

It'd turned into something more once you were adults. Unable to hide the attraction, and why should he? You'd been his since the first day you tugged on his sleeve and called him Toru. It only made sense you'd end up sharing his bed and crying his name out now.

He'd been keeping your leash tighter lately, insisting you wait on him during his meetings, despite your protests that you needed to clean his chambers and prepare his things during the day.

Nonsense.

He was your duty. Your god, really.

To be worshipped and waited on.

His word was the law. What was the point of being a prince if what his words weren't worth their weight, if his orders weren't absolute?

"I want strawberries," He hummed, watching your shoulders briefly stiffen, before you nodded again.

"I can go pick some from the garden," You immediately offered, before swallowing hard and correcting yourself, standing up slowly and readjusting your dress so you looked a little less like a hired whore, pulling up the front to cover your breasts more. "I'll go now."

That was power, wasn't it? Three words and you were rearranging your entire day simply to satisfy his whim.

"Come here," He murmured, and you obeyed.

Scampering over with those fluttering lashes, a permanent glimmer of hope glittering in your eyes when you tilted your pretty head up to look at him.

"Yes, Your-" You blushed, cutting yourself off and fumbling with your hands. "Satoru?"

His ego could sustain itself just on the way you pronounced his name alone, the hesitant way it pitched up at the end, the intimacy in each syllable, soft and sweet.

Satoru wanted to swallow you whole - refuse to spit you out even if meant you'd suffocate.

His hand traced down your side, settling on your waist before squeezing you there. You melted into his touch the way you always did, never stopping for a second before molding yourself around him.

"Don't take too long," He murmured, not particularly caring if you did so he'd have a reason to scold you later. To watch you whimper while you tried to make up for it. Preferably underneath his body between the sheets. Stain it enough that you'd have to spend tomorrow cleaning it with the reminder of what you were washing away.

"I'll be back soon," You promised, your stare lingering on his lips like you wished he'd kiss you goodbye.

He leaned down, grazing his mouth ever-so-slightly against the edge of yours, gracing you with the closest he could come to being gentle. A ghost of a peck to satisfy you.

Couldn't you see how kind he was?

Your prince could be a cruel man.

He didn't mean to be.

Maybe it was in his nature.

Cold to the rest of the world, an icy exterior masked by grand hand gestures and bright smiles, neither ever reaching his sharp blue eyes. Commanding a room like the world was just at the reach of his fingertips, there for the taking, all too aware that your world revolved around his every word.

He was magnetic, had been since the first second you saw him, pulling you in with one look, one touch. Plucked you out, preserved you like you were a perfect flower to admire instead of a poor thing to pity in comparison to him.

You weren't oblivious to his favoritism.

You reveled in it.

Happy to be his fool if it meant his eyes wouldn't stray, happy to pine for being put in your place if he was the one on top of you, unhealthily attached to attempting to be the center of his life too, pathetic or not.

That was love, right? Or the closest you could afford to come to it?

He assigned you a role - you played it to the best of your ability. He gave you a task - you did it without a question.

Satoru had been born to rule. You were born to serve him.

So you slung the woven bag over your shoulder, shielded your eyes from the sun and started out towards the overgrown garden path to the strawberry patch behind the palace.

The heat was oppressive, sweat already pricking at your forehead within minutes, your dress clinging to your chest and the hem collecting dirt and grass stains as the stepping stones turned to gravel and weeds.

No one else was there, the kitchen probably too busy preparing lunch for anyone to be collecting ingredients under the sun.

You'd barely made it through filling half your basket before you heard the crunch of leaves, your head snapping over in the direction of the woods nearby, squinting through the thick patch of trees.

But then a hand grabbed your shoulder, turning you around to see an angered Satoru. He was wearing his crown, standing out on top of his shaggy white hair, the gold metal glinting and all the little jewels nestled inside it glittering in the light.

You blinked, unable to breathe until he huffed and held out his arm. It took you a second to see what had irritated him so much.

The coat you picked out for him this morning had a small rip in the sleeve, something only a trained eye would notice. Or a particularly vain man obsessed with the tiniest details devoted to his appearance.

"How am I supposed to show up to a meeting with this?" He frowned, but you knew better than to actually answer.

Let him groan and give you his list of grievances, listened to him moan about the merchants he had such important business to discuss with despite the fact he'd called them imbeciles when you were in bed together the night before.

"Are you mad at me?" You spoke quietly, swallowing hard as you stood there awkward and stiff.

He scoffed at you, rolling his eyes as he held up the frayed stitch.

"I want this fixed tonight," He curtly said, taking off the jacket and tossing it at your chest. "I'll just have to go without it."

The snarky part of you that you usually had to shut down whispered that it was too hot for him to wear a coat anyway. That he was searching for something to complain about.

"I'll fix it," You echoed him, carefully draping it over your arm so you didn't have to meet his scrutinizing stare.

"Get the chefs to prepare a fresh pastry with those for when I finish talking to those morons," He demanded, looking down at your basket with disdain.

"Okay," You murmured, embarrassment coiling in your stomach, slippery snakes of it slithering around and sinking deeper in your gut at the feeling of failing him.

Satoru bent down, hardly an inch away, nose grazing against your ear as he brushed your hair back.

"I'll expect you on your knees when I return," He dryly instructed.

It wasn't a whisper.

If anyone was around, they'd have heard. But Satoru had never given a shit about your reputation, or the murmurs of his other staff.

He'd probably tell the entire palace you were sleeping together if someone showed the tiniest sliver of interest in you.

Satoru didn't wait for you to say anything.

Turned on his heel and walked away, not paying attention to the vines, flattening a stray strawberry under the sole of his shoe, a mess of red mush left behind.

You turned your attention back to the bushes, bending back over to pick a few more strawberries, to give yourself something else to think about.

Another twig snapped, and you glanced back up, expecting Satoru to be returning with something new to say, but it wasn't him.

Instead, it was someone you were sure you'd never seen before.

You certainly would remember a man who was somehow even taller than Satoru, broad and bulky, shoulders and arms that were strong enough to probably crush a grown man in a headlock. Pink hair sticking up, a few leaves stuck to it from being in the forest, a deep set scowl etched into his face, but it was the amusement in his eyes that pissed you off.

He was tattooed too, thick black lines and strange symbols you were unfamiliar with on his skin.

Some sort of magic, maybe? A mage from the wizard's tower also here in business?

No, Satoru would've told you about something like that.

"Who are you?" You defensively asked, holding your basket close to your chest as if you'd actually be able to protect yourself if he chose to do something.

"Just a nobody," He casually shrugged.

"I meant your name," You insisted, more than a little flustered at the focus behind his stare. It wasn't that it was purely physical, but rather measuring, weighing some quality you couldn't discern.

"Do you know anyone's name other than his?" He hummed, a hint of genuine curiosity there.

Irritated by his not entirely inaccurate assumption, you started to turn, to pretend he didn't exist, but he wasn't about to let you.

"Still, it must be nice," The stranger whistled, long and low, greedy eyes searching you up-and-down.

"Excuse me?" You huffed at him, throwing the last couple ripe strawberries in your basket and glancing around the empty garden.

"To have someone as pretty as you to toy with," He shrugged, one corner of his mouth curling up as he jutted his thumb in the direction your prince stomped off into.

"I'm not a toy," You mumbled, looking down at the plants growing by your feet, the smashed strawberry he'd stepped on without a second thought.

"Does he know that?"

Some people might think sweeping floors and stitching his clothes might mean you didn't have much dignity, but you did those things for your prince.

He picked you.

"You're rather rude," You commented. He didn't seem to care, stepping closer much faster than you'd think someone as big as him could, cornering you before you had the chance to scamper away.

Up close, with him hovering over you, you could admit (to yourself alone) that he was rather attractive, strong and sharp, albeit in a wildly different way than Satoru was.

You held your breath, waiting for what would come next, but he just snatched the gold pin off of his Satoru's coat, something that had to cost an absurd amount of coins.

He dropped it in his pocket with a clever smirk.

"You're a thief," You accused, heart beating too fast in your chest, pulse pounding in your ears. Men like him made a living off of stealing from the rich, royal or not, filling their own pockets instead rather than give back to the poor.

"You're a pet," He remarked with the same sort of contempt.

"If you're trying to call me a bitch, I'd prefer you just say so," You snarled back.

"You wanna go rat me out to your master?" He murmured, making fun of you straight to your face. "I'll wait."

You should. Start running while he was giving you a head start. But some piece of you refused to move. And you weren't sure what was making you so reluctant? Resentment?

That couldn't be it.

You loved Satoru.

"Just leave," You muttered under your breath.

He laughed at you for letting him go.

"If you ever get tired of your cage, come to the guild at the edge of the village down there," He leaned in the same way Satoru had, but this was a mockery of it. Still, you weren't sure which one of them was threatening you and who was flirting with you. You didn't think you wanted to know.

His breath was cool against your warm skin, taunting.

And then he pulled away, the moment slipping past so quickly it felt almost as if you imagined it.

You watched him disappear between the trees, but the encounter refused to leave your mind the rest of your day, stuck on the still image of him with that stupid pin for the fleeting second it was between his fingers before he pocketed it.

Stitching up the sleeve until the tear was unnoticeable two hours later while the palace chef finished making Satoru's favorite treat, well, second to you. Would he notice the pin was gone? He had to.

What were you supposed to say?

Oh, it must have fallen off?

Satoru was too smart to buy that.

You were still anxiously mulling over it when you were balancing the silver tray and his coat on your arms, slowly making your way down to curving halls and confusing inner labyrinth of rooms to Satoru's chambers.

Was it good luck he wasn't back yet? Or did it mean his meeting was running long and he'd be in a foul mood by the time he returned to you?

You had barely sat the platter down on his polished nightstand and hung his coat back up in his closet when you heard the creak of the door handle.

And a good dog waited with its tongue out.

You spread your skirt out around you, hands in your lap on the ground and mouth open to form an apology before he even fully opened the door.

But he was already talking, saying he was starving just to shut up once he saw you sitting as he requested.

"Sweetheart," He purred, obviously pleased, but more with himself than you. He looked down at you as he approached, cocking his head to the side with a smug grin. "Such a good girl for me, huh?"

"I fixed your coat," You confirmed, sheepishly avoiding his stare like that would cover up your blush. "And the chef has prepared your snack."

"What if I changed my mind?" He teased, grabbing ahold of your chin and tilting your face up to look at him.

Automatically, you opened your mouth like a puppy waiting for a treat.

He clicked his tongue, chiding you with a soft chuckle. "Patience, princess."

You hated yourself for how much you liked him calling you that.

For pretending for even a second that you were more than just his maid. Or at most, a poorly paid concubine.

He dropped your chin, walking a few steps over to check his jacket. Running his fingers over seams to double check your work. You held your breath, waiting for him to notice the absent pin, but he didn't.

Just hummed his approval and walked over to the tray, lifting the lid to snag his dessert before dropping it with a clang. He draped himself across the closest armchair, long legs spread out and taking a bite of his treat, groaning at the taste. He indulged in every little luxury available to him in life with the same enthusiasm, his crown now askew and crooked on his hair.

You watched him from across the room. Studied the strawberry sticking to his lips, painting them a dark shade of red that reminded you a bit of blood.

He caught you staring, a charming grin spreading across his face before he licked the strawberry off.

And with his free hand, he tugged his cock free from the confines of his pants, already hard, thick veins running along the outside as he stroked the base, readjusting to get more comfortable.

"Well?"

You supposed that was your treat.

Palms pressing against the floor, you were about to push off to stand but then he made a soft scolding sound that stopped you in your tracks.

"Crawl."

You had done worse for him. Would do worse. But for the first time in your relationship, unease had slipped through the cracks. Disgust. With yourself, mostly. That you'd put yourself so far underneath him that you were already crawling to him.

Even though it hurt your knees. However humiliating it was to hear him chuckle at you slowly making your way to him.

And once you were close enough, you were wrapping your mouth around his cock, sucking slow and soft at first, lapping up every drop he had to offer you. Taking what he gave without gagging.

Letting him bully himself deep in your throat, his tip practically bruising the back of it with how hard he was shoving it in. Groaning and grabbing a fistful of your hair to guide you how he wanted.

He kept bumping up into the roof of your mouth, your breathing getting cut off every few seconds, barely able to keep your hands in your lap to stop from steadying yourself on his thighs.

It made your jaw ache, whining a little when your tongue pressed against his vein and it throbbed, desperate for him to cum already.

By the time he did, you were close to tapping out, your mouth about to lock up when you felt his abs tense and he moaned your name, warm cum hitting the back of your throat. You swallowed what he gave you without a question, the slightly salty taste lingering on your tongue even after he pulled out, dragging his leaking tip over your lips with another soft laugh.

You still waited for him to tell you to move, knees surely bruised from the hard floor, one of the few spots in the room without plush carpet.

He took his time putting his cock back up, wiping the last drop of his tip with his thumb and popping it in your mouth, waiting for you to suck that clean too.

Once you did, he fixed the band of his pants as if none of it had even happened, pulling a small box out of his pocket and smiling at you so sweet you could almost forget about what happened in the strawberry patch earlier.

"Close your eyes," He instructed.

You swallowed hard, but did what he said anyway, all your senses on high alert when you couldn't see anything.

"Here," He murmured, something cold slipping around your neck, light on your skin. You reached down to grab it, eyes immediately fluttering open to find a pretty gemstone glittering in a fine silver setting. It wasn't large, but it was obviously worth more than a year's worth of your salary - maybe even two. It caught the light in a strange way, reflecting it back oddly as you examined it between your fingers. "A token of my appreciation."

The stranger was long gone, but part of you couldn't help but wish he was here so you could rub it in his face. See?

Your prince appreciated you.

No one else you knew received gifts of any kind from him.

Much less a nice necklace like this.

He reached down to pick you up by your waist, pulling you up onto his lap, grinning at your giddiness.

"I suppose you like it?" He hummed.

"I love it," You murmured, impulsively craning your neck up to kiss his cheek.

He pushed your hair off your shoulder, pulling down the sleeve of your dress to return the kiss, his lips tender on the bare expanse of your skin.

There was a pause, a silence the two of you rarely had, where you felt more like a couple than a master and his servant. Where you could be in his lap and enjoy his lips without thinking about how badly you needed him to need you.

"I wish it was always like this," You breathed, touching the gemstone, admiring the glittering blue as his lips made their way up your throat.

"Me too."

A new rhythm had been established. You tried to reason with yourself that your relationship with Satoru was sustainable. Waited on him hand and foot and went to every length imaginable to keep him content. And he had sex with you every night like he wasn't. Like he wanted more.

Fucking you in front of the mirror just to watch the necklace he'd given you bounce, laughing when you blushed or tried to hide your face.

But there were moments where you wondered about the man you'd only met for a few moments. Sukuna.

You knew why he lingered on your mind.

He just said the quiet part of your relationship out loud. The fact you forced yourself to forget every morning before you got out of Satoru's bed. That you were more like his pet than a person.

Convincing yourself that somehow you'd chosen that path.

What were your other options?

Go work for pennies doing hard labor? Your only real skill was taking care of Satoru.

There was no guarantee you'd get treated better anywhere else.

So yeah, you weren't trying to snoop. Just struggling to focus when you stumbled across a letter sticking out of Satoru's drawer.

And come on, the jarring words marriage proposal right next to coronation were pretty eye-catching no matter how nice the cursive they were written in was. You dropped your rag. Fingers trembling as they traced over the neat lettering.

Your prince was no longer yours.

He was to be engaged to a princess in a neighboring territory in a matter of months. And rather than a dowry, he'd get their kingdom.

How long had you known it was coming for it to still be a shock?

There was nothing you could do.

You had no power. Hardly any money.

Once their princess knew about you, how long would it be till you were disposed of too? Discarded so he could have heirs?

Maybe moved back to the scullery where you were always meant to be, probably to be ostracized and made an outcast once he'd officially thrown you away.

It wasn't like you had proof any of that would happen.

But even the possibility that it could was too much for you.

Anxiously, you reached up to fiddle with your necklace, only to stop the second your fingers closed around it.

It didn't have a damn thing to do with appreciation.

This was appeasement.

He'd known about the letter.

And still had kept his mouth shut. Didn't say a word about the fact he was supposed to marry someone else.

You shoved his letter back in his drawer, jealousy and disgust simmering inside your stomach like it might burn straight through you.

It held you in place, every muscle too tense and taut to move while you tried to stop yourself from hyperventilating, from crying or screaming or punching something.

"What are you doing?" Satoru's voice startled you, and you snapped out of it.

"I dropped this," You answered, bending over to pick up the rag you'd nearly forgotten about.

Before you could, something hard was pressed against your ass, a firm palm sliding over your side to cup your breast with a chuckle.

What you wanted was only a means to what he wanted.

Would you be thirty-something some day with nothing to show for your life but calloused hands and cold baths? Or would he kick you out the day you were no longer some pliable pretty thing to bend and twist?

You didn't want that.

And maybe, you didn't want him.

Not if this was what it meant.

Sukuna was an asshole.

Maybe the one man who could rival Satoru's cockiness.

But when you showed up knocking on a shady building under only the light of the moon with an potato bag filled with expensive pieces of jewelry and coins Satoru had left lying around, his closet and drawers pilfered for valuables he'd forgotten about, Sukuna just smirked and told you where to put it.

It was a heat of the moment mistake.

Something you normally never would've done. But treason wasn't exactly a simple thing you could walk back.

And Satoru would certainly see it as that instead of just thievery.

"Can you get me across the border?" You murmured, anxiously looking back at the door as he sorted through the treasures you brought him. The gift you'd been given was in the stack, the blue stone glittering at you more like a taunt.

"What? Are you scared or something?" Sukuna scoffed, barely sparing you a glance.

"I just don't wanna be around when he wakes up and realizes I'm gone," You quietly answered, picking at the nails you bit down all afternoon. "And that I took all of this with me."

"I doubt he'll notice," He grunted. "He'll forget about you once there's some new maid in a tight dress taking care of him. People like us are replaceable."

He was right and wrong. You might be replaceable - but Satoru would remember. Especially if he felt scorned.

Which, you were fairly positive he would, considering you impulsively slipped sleeping aids (plus an extra dose or two) you usually took in his nightly tea instead, making sure he stayed asleep so you could steal his shit.

You swallowed your pride to meet Sukuna's harsh expression, the hardened frown and rocky exterior.

"Please."

He stared at you, squinting at little before sighing.

"Fine," He grumbled, giving in before you even had to beg too much. Throwing the necklace that had been around your neck two days ago into a pile of stuff to be sold. "A merchant boat is leaving for the south tomorrow morning. Hope you're fine being a stowaway."

It couldn't be worse than being a servant.

He knew something was wrong when the sun woke him up.

No gentle fingers brushing through his hair or soft voice calling out to him through his dreams. No feet scampering around his room to start his bath, no food waiting for him beside his bed. No you.

He gritted his teeth, ripping out the tracking scroll he'd never suspected he'd actually need to use from his bedside drawer, a magic map of the palace and nearby village roughly sketched on the parchment. The latter was marred by a single glowing dot, hovering over where the market usually was held in the mornings. Your necklace must be there - so you had to be too.

Perhaps it was self-absorbed, but the only conclusion he could come to was you wishing to surprise him with as gift on your meager salary. Maybe his gesture had moved you more than he expected.

He'd still have to scold you for leaving without his permission.

But he'd be lenient this time.

He was about to place it back in his nightstand, but the letter about his proposed marriage caught his attention, immediately scowling at the sight of it.

As if he'd actually let himself be married off in some political sham of a union.

He'd rather take their kingdom with blood. None of it was his own anyway. It was a numbers game. Who was willing to sacrifice how many bodies before they ran the risk of losing their head.

The letter might as well be a white flag. Offering up their only daughter because they were terrified of him?

He didn't need her or them to take his father's throne.

It was already his.

So why have a wife when he had you?

He sighed, swinging his legs off the bed, grimacing at how heavy they felt, leaden and body still thick with sleep, every movement a drag.

His head hurt, a dull migraine blooming behind his eyes and hitting him hard the second he stood, forced to sit back down on the edge.

If you were here, he'd be demanding you fetch the apothecary to concoct him something to fix this awful headache.

The faint irritation burned brighter as he laid back down, glaring at the door as if it'd make you walk through it faster. The only thing that made him feel any better was the thought of waiting on him, pressing a cool compress to his forehead bathing him with your hands when you got back, imagining pulling the sick card so you'd be forced to pamper him and feel bad you'd left him like this.

But maybe he'd take a nap first.

You'd surely be back by the time he woke up again.

You didn't know what happened first. Falling out of love with Satoru or falling in love with Sukuna.

The feelings were tangled up in each other, twisted so you couldn't exactly separate them.

Three months without Satoru felt more like a millenia. Each day was your own to dictate.

The first few weeks were weird.

Strange to wake up without a million tasks ahead of you, to crawl out of a stiff and unfamiliar bed or sleeping bag, to survive off stolen foods and dressed in different clothes you pilfered from suitcases and from staff.

You were supposed to part ways with Sukuna at port the ship you'd stowed away with him on docked at.

But after the time you'd spent together, awkwardly picking together the pieces of his life and offering slices of yours, he'd begrudgingly taken you with him to meet the other members of his guild. They operated under the cover a different one - disguised to orchestrate an entire underground market of stolen goods.

You never expected any of them to welcome you in.

Yet they did anyway.

Instead of being tossed back onto the street, they offered you a room to stay in. Helped you create a fake identity and set you up waiting tables for extra coins in the tavern that they met in the backroom of. And when Sukuna showed up at your door grumbling that he was supposed to go on another trip, you surprised yourself by asking to go with him.

He surprised you more by taking you with him.

It was strange in itself.

He'd been, well, clingy lately. Still standoffish and stoic, brusque every time he talked to you, but he never strayed too far from your side, no matter how strained his expression was.

So you tried to play it cool the first time you felt his hand settle on your shoulder, the weight of his arm heavy on your frame. Pretended to be normal about it when you leaned into his sturdiness.

You thought you'd be protected by Satoru.

But you never knew what safe felt like until you were with Sukuna.

He didn't have a name to back him up. Or the type of money to bail you out. But people steered clear when he was around, shrinking back before he stepped anywhere close to them and listening to everything he said the first time he snarled it out.

You liked to study his face when he was sleeping, all his features still stiff, frowning at whatever his dreams brought, only relaxing when you curled up against him, an arm wrapping around your waist to pull you in tight enough you couldn't escape.

The sun was starting to poke out from above the canopy of the trees, shadows casting across his face when you tried to squirm out of his grip.

"Don't be a brat," He muttered, squeezing you tighter.

"We should get going," You whispered.

"Fuck," He grunted, groaning as he started to sit up, still not letting you go.

The day continued the same. A hand on your waist. His mouth brushing against your ear when he spoke to you. His hip pressed into your body.

The village you stopped at was small, wary glances thrown your way when you walked into the only place that served any food in town for travelers passing through.

Sukuna managed to convince someone to lend you a room for the night with a few coins, grabbing bowls of some stew that would at least be warm, dragging you back in and double checking the door was locked before putting the food down on the rickety wooden table.

You ate slower than usual, too busy scrutinizing every flicker of his face.

"Stop starin'," He grunted, shoving a spoonful in his mouth before you rolled your eyes and glanced out the window instead.

It was pretty here, all sorts of plants and greenery you'd never seen before, white flowering shrubs and small pink weeds among the mossy grass. It looked like something out of a storybook you used to steal from the palace library, hiding away in the corner just to stare at the pictures of, pretending Satoru was the prince in the fairytale.

You felt your lips twitch down into a frown, the way they always did when you thought of him.

Was he busy wedding planning? It had to be happening soon.

Or had he forgotten about you already? Moved on?

A part of you that you were ashamed of hoped he hadn't. Hoped he wished he'd loved you more when you were around, or that he'd yearn for you long after you left. It was selfish and incredibly stingy, but you couldn't help it.

You'd been avoiding any news about the kingdom you left behind, cringing and walking away whenever you overheard someone speaking of it, turning a blind eye.

But you saw him sometimes, in your memories disguised as dreams, where he'd hold you and make more promises that meant nothing.

But he was your past.

And a much larger piece of you had started to think of Sukuna as your future.

"Are you thinking about him?" Sukuna broke the silence.

"What?" You looked back at him, blinking back shock.

"Your prince," He spat the word out like it left a disgusting taste on his tongue that wasn't just from the stew.

"Only that I'm glad I left," You shrugged it off, looking back out the window.

In just a few short months, you'd seen more of the world than you had your whole life. And it was a lot fucking bigger than what was inside the castle walls.

Sukuna had handed you a map a couple days ago, asking you to pick a place for the two of you to travel to next after you mentioned how exciting you found all of it. Being with him included.

"Yeah?"

It seemed he was just full of surprises lately. Because in a few short seconds, he was pushing his chair back with a creak, crossing the short distance between you and bending down to kiss you.

You were once again reminded how little he was like Satoru.

This was starving, filled with a hunger, a fever that Satoru's lazy kisses lacked. He had kissed you like he had all the time in the world. Sukuna kissed you like there wasn't nearly enough.

Sucking on your bottom lip and cradling your cheek, tugging your hair while murmuring your name. Hard and soft and everything in-between.

You weren't fully aware how you ended up on the bed, too distracted by the heat of his palms on your skin hiking up your dress to notice until your back was on the mattress, the frame whining under your combined weight.

"Sukuna," You breathed, about to ask him to roll over so you could do what you'd done so many times for Satoru, but then he was on his knees, peeling your little lace underwear down your legs. "W-what are you doing?"

You could feel his smirk against your skin when he tailed kisses up the inside of your thighs.

"Taking care of you."

He was two days from losing his damn mind. Or maybe it'd been gone from the moment he realized you were.

Months. It'd been months and he still hadn't found you.

Satoru had searched every inch of the palace personally. Commanded a task force to look for you, scouring through homes and ransacking businesses.

The tracker in the necklace only lead them to a goddamn trash can.

You'd throw away his love for you just like that.

Too bad, really. Because he couldn't do the same to his affection for you.

You just needed to remember how much he'd done for you. How much he loved you. Because once he had you again, he wasn't letting go.

Surely, something had driven you away. Or someone has convinced you to leave him.

There was no way you'd do it on your own.

Stealing his fucking stuff and drugging his tea?

His pet wouldn't dare.

So who the fuck had gotten to you when he wasn't paying attention? Who dared to sneak in and slip free your leash right under his nose? He'd be sure to return the favor.

He was chasing another lead, following the trail of a criminal who allegedly was known for distributing stolen goods in black markets. Satoru had to personally torture a pompous prick of a merchant to even get that much information.

As if there was someone actually scarier than him.

He honestly thought it'd be another dud until Ijichi stopped the carriage to give the horses a break and he stepped out to see his scrawny driver chatting with some disgustingly dirty locals.

They didn't know who he was, although he guessed they would soon enough when he inevitably took over their pitiful excuse of a land they still had the audacity to call a kingdom.

"Have you guys seen a man? Around my height? Pink hair? A beautiful young woman with him?" Satoru called out, refusing to step down into the dirt and gravel and mess up his shoes.

"Oh, um, sure, a day or two ago," One of them quickly replied.

"You're sure?" He frowned, squinting at them like he could discern whether or not they were lying.

"I mean, he was a bit taller than you-"

The first one elbowed the other to shut up before interrupting, "They were going that way."

He thanked them, plastering on a polite smile before slamming the carriage door shut behind him.

Perhaps you hadn't left him to rot and care for himself. You hadn't just deserted him.

You were probably kidnapped.

Waiting for him to come to your rescue.

His princess wasn't in a tower though, no, you were in bed.

Another man's head - between your thighs.

Squirming around while his hands clawed at your hips, your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him and chasing your climax. What sounds were you making? Moaning and whimpering for someone else like a whore?

He watched through the window, unable to move. Stuck on the way the man's tongue slipped over your cunt, how you cried out when his mouth wrapped around your swollen bud.

Anyone could see you if they passed by. Not that you seemed to care. Too busy getting serviced to be aware that you were putting on a show.

Those pretty lips of yours were gasping for air, open and sucking it in when you should be sucking him off. Not in this rundown village letting some street scum taste your precious pussy. He didn't give a shit what rusted heirloom those morons ransacked and ruined. Except for stealing you.

His prized possession was priceless. Although, he was sure he'd find a way to make them pay.

And your punishment?

Well, it'd be more personal.

It wasn't Sukuna's arms you woke up in.

Body sluggish and sore, but when you tried to open your eyes, it was only black. After a few panicked seconds you realized someone blindfolded you. You guessed by the lingering exhaustion in your body, you'd been drugged too.

You called out to Sukuna, but the only answer you got was the creaking of carriage wheels and the crunching of gravel beneath them.

It took you longer than it should've to figure out what happened through your broken and hazy thoughts.

Satoru had come back for you.

Probably used the same trick with the tea you used on him, maybe paid someone to slip it into your food or drink at the place you'd been staying at.

He wasn't there. But you recognized the voice of his typical driver when the carriage stopped to feed the horses.

The trip to return you to the palace was unpleasant.

Confined to small spaces for most of it, always locked up in handcuffs or blindfolded even during the voyage back. Barely being fed enough to go on, offered scraps that were never rotten enough to make you sick, but foul tasting.

It was particularly humiliating to be paraded back through the village handcuffed, lead back through the main street as some new cruel punishment, sketches of you still stuck to building with the word missing scribbled at the top of each one.

You guessed they'd have to rip those down now.

For two days, you were bound and gagged in some rat-infested dungeon in the depths of the palace. They tried to nip at your feet, only dissuaded by your week attempts to kick with your ankles still tied in rough ropes.

Listening to someone being tortured down the hall, unable to make out much in the dim candlelight, only pray that it wasn't him.

You supposed it was probably time to start praying for yourself too.

"My poor pet," A familiar voice cooed, a shadow crossing in front of the bars while you shivered. "Look at you."

Pathetic. Definitely dirty and disgusting. Dirt sticking to your skin and twigs probably still tangled in your hair. The only baths you got lately had been getting doused in freezing salt water.

And then in the low flickers of the candle, you saw him, your stomach churning at just how clean he was. As perfect as the day you left him.

It wasn't pity in his eyes though, it was excitement. Amused to have his plaything back, even if it'd almost been broken.

"They want me to cut your hands off," Satoru sighed, pausing for dramatic effect, watching you flinch and shrink back, not that you could move much.

You tried to make a sound, muffled and weak. You'd beg him if you had to.

He knew it too.

"But even though you betrayed me," He murmured, making sure the word felt like a stab, guilt piercing through you as he mulled over an offer. "I'm still willing to pardon you."

You waited for the catch you knew was coming.

He unlocked the door to the cell, pushing it open with ease, striding over to where you were curled on the ground. Satoru clicked his tongue in disappointment at your sorry state, bending down and grabbing your chin to tilt your head side to side, shaking his head at the way your spit had soaked through the gag, the tears pricking at your eyes.

And even though somewhere in the back of your mind that he put you here, he still was framing himself as the hero plucking you free from it.

"There's one condition," He murmured, slowly pinching the thick fabric to loosen it before pulling it down from your mouth to hang around your neck.

For a second, you had the grim thought of a noose, a fleeting moment where you could do nothing but hope Sukuna was spared from whatever they had previously planned for you.

You didn't even mind if he sold you out if it meant that he made it out of this safe.

"What?" You croaked, voice raw and raspy.

"You won't ever leave the palace again."

It wasn't as bad as you anticipated. You expected him to be angrier, more upset with you for abandoning him.

"Okay," You mumbled, accepting his terms.

You probably should've thought harder about that.

But then he was pulling a knife out from a sheath on his thigh, cutting your restraints and freeing you before you could take it back.

You stilled, not entirely convinced he wouldn't cut you you too, but suddenly you were being lifted from the floor, cradled against his chest like you were his bride instead of a burden.

This time, you were spared the indignity of an audience when he brought you back to his chambers.

Your roles reversed as he prepared a bath for you, insisting that you have a sip of tea and nibble on a snack already waiting on a table for you. The water was warm when he ushered you in, scrubbing your skin clean and washing away all the grime, feeling raw by the time he finished. Smelling like his soap and shampoo as he worked his fingers through the knots in your hair. He poked at the scrapes and bruises left on you, sighing like a parent admonishing a child before he finally picked you up out of it and used a towel to dry you off.

The new knowledge that he'd always been capable of taking care of someone stung. You supposed he never had any interest until you were no longer there.

"I'm sorry for lea-" You awkwardly started in a low whisper.

He shushed you.

You didn't know how to act around this new him. How to be the new you when your body was begging you to give back into his hands as he dressed you up. It wasn't your old uniform.

It was barely even clothes.

A thin and sheer dress that left little to the imagination, clinging to your cleavage and short enough he barely went past your ass. The fabric was more expensive than anything else you ever wore, reflective when the sun shone on it through his oversized windows.

"I don't think I'm going to be able to fetch much for you in this," You tried to joke, hesitantly looking up at him. There was a wild look in his eyes there hadn't been before, something you only noticed now that you were so close to him. The unsettling thought occured that maybe it had always been there, but you were too lovestruck to pay it any mind.

"You won't be fetching anything," Satoru casually said, fixing the strap of your dress and guiding you over to his bed without even elaborating.

"What?" You blinked.

"You said you wouldn't leave," He shrugged, like it shouldn't be a surprise to you.

It was only then you noticed what was new in his room.

A thick iron chain now clasped to his bed and at the end, and sitting on the pillow you used to rest your head on, a fucking collar.

You froze.

"What do you think?" He innocently asked, moving your hair way from your throat with a soft hum. "Made this one just for you. Bet it'll be a bit harder to throw this one away."

You were wrong.

Satoru was pissed. Just hiding it behind his pretty face, his practiced friendliness.

His fingers traced a line down your arm, goosebumps raising with his touch.

"What will it be? You wanna stay with me? Or go back downstairs?" He murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the edge of your shoulder. As if downstairs didn't actually mean dungeon.

What scared you wasn't your answer. But how easily you made it, how much of you was still attached to him, how of a hold he had on you that a few stray touches and the purr of his voice had your thighs squeezing together.

"You."

He just laughed.

You let him lock the collar around your neck.

Thick fingers skimming over your much thinner skin, feeling the tendons go taut as you swallowed hard. There was the loud clink of the chain, the heavy metal immediately weighing your head down the second he stopped holding it on, settling uncomfortably on your collarbones. Reflexively, you reached up to touch it, panic setting in at being confined. Feeling around for some weak spot, touching the lock just for your stomach to drop at the realization there wasn't any escaping this.

Willingly, you walked into your own cage.

You were trapped.

Condemned to the same room you'd spent years of your life coddling him in. Where you supposed you'd be serving your time in, despite your lack of a trial.

You'd been sentenced to a life of a different type of servitude.

Maybe it hadn't set in, but you still couldn't stop yourself from looking up at him like he saved you. That you'd loved Satoru before. You could convince yourself to love him again. After all, hadn't he done this just to have you?

"This was what you wanted. Right, sweetheart?" He hummed, caressing your cheek softly.

A growing numbness had started to harden over your heart, nodding slowly as your hand dropped down to the bed, glancing around to see how long the chain was. It looked like you could probably make it through to his attached bathroom, but the door to the hall was too far away. What did it matter when stepping foot outside would mean getting arrested again?

He tugged on the chain, making you jolt forward with a gasp.

"Just gonna be us now," He promised. "Always."

"I thought you were getting married," You heard yourself mutter, still not entirely present, a little detached from the reality it felt like you'd been dropped into the second the collar was locked around your throat.

"Where'd you hear that?" He cocked his head to the side, amused by the hint of jealousy in your words.

You clamped your lips shut, unwilling to admit you looked through his stuff.

He chuckled at you anyway, stroking your hair like you were just some stray he'd taken in.

"Don't worry, princess," He mocked. "You don't need to think about anything anymore. There was a proposal, but I rejected it."

"Why?" You whispered.

"Unlike you, I wouldn't throw what we have away for a stranger," He wryly replied, another pointed jab that succeeded in making you feel like shit.

Should you feel guilty?

What really was there to throw away?

"I'm sorry," You murmured anyway, barely managing to meet his accusatory stare.

He waited for more, for you to beg or cry about it.

But the only tears you had in you weren't for him.

"Was your family upset with you?" You asked instead. "Or did any of the lords give you trouble?"

"Sure, but I killed them," He shrugged, as if he said something so simple - "I mean, some of the useful ones are imprisoned, but still-"

He saw the way your mouth fell open, panic-stricken but painfully aware there was no place in this palace or outside of it to run to. Not that you were sure you would even if you could.

"Don't be scared," He dryly chuckled, dragging a thumb over your cheek. Soft. Unscarred.

"Your parents," You started to sputter.

"They were problems," He condescendingly corrected you.

You reluctantly dragged your stare up past his eyes, only now realizing the crown atop his head was no longer the same one as before.

No, it was bigger, crafted for a king.

Your prince had overthrown his father for the throne.

There was no one above him now.

And it didn't take long for you to get used to being underneath him again.

Time slipped away from you, the days dragging by when you were confined to the bed most of the time, the collar making moving too much inconvenient and uncomfortable. All you had to look forward to was him.

Growing accustomed to him holding you at night, following whatever schedule he saw fit and falling back into old habits. Picking out his clothes and drying his hair for him, cleaning his room just for something to do on the days where he'd leave you there for hours. You still had yet to have sex, but you figured it was just a matter of time.

What he was waiting for, you were clueless.

It hurt your feelings more than it should've, guilt chewing on your self-esteem, eating away at it. Did he think you were dirty now? Tainted?

You were just now realizing how much more there was to him you were completely unaware of.

He hadn't exactly forgiven you, but he was pretending to. Kissing you like he used to, holding you in the same places, just stopping short of heavy petting.

The idea he'd killed his one family was taunting you, how easily he spoke of it, like it hadn't affected him at all. That he'd done it all in your name.

As if it all was some act of devotion.

What haunted you more was how flattered a sick sliver of you found it.

Listening to him describe in detail while he brushed and styled your hair one morning, as if he was discussing lunch plans.

"They did have a point," He hummed, carefully sliding a pin into place.

"What?" You swallowed hard, the collar shifting and irritating your skin while you studied the makeup products he'd bought for you scattered across the counter.

"I do need an heir," He sighed.

The implication was obvious.

He couldn't be serious.

You were chained to his fucking bed. A prisoner in a pretty dress. A peasant compared to him. There was no way he meant-

"You'd be safe in here," He murmured. "No one would be able to touch you or the baby."

"Satoru," You quietly spoke back, trying not to sound too against it without letting him know you didn't want a fucking baby to destroy the already fragile relationship you'd been attempting to rebuild with him.

"Master," He corrected you, and you felt ill.

It was too much.

"What?" You breathed, waiting for him to say it was a joke. That all of this was. That his parents would walk in with a cake and he'd take the chains off and you could all laugh at you for falling for it.

He pulled something out of his pocket, a small ring you recognized as his mom's. You didn't say a word when he slipped it on your fourth finger.

For some reason, it felt heavier than the collar around your neck.

There was no proposal. Just mutual understanding of what it meant.

"I got you something else," He changed the subject, leaning down to murmur in your ear. "Get on the bed."

You were just glad he didn't ask you to crawl, but you weren't sure what to do once you climbed back on, ending up sitting on the edge. He was quick to readjust you, pushing your stomach down on the mattress and ass in the air, unmoving while he tied your hands behind your back.

Part of you questioned if this was it, if he was finally going to fuck you or if this was just another punishment disguised as foreplay.

Satoru walked to the door - and left.

It felt like he was gone forever, but it was more like fifteen minutes when you heard the hinges creak, turning your head to look at him.

He wasn't alone.

Sukuna was behind him.

Your heart shattered. All the thoughts you'd been burying, all the hopes you'd been holding onto crushed by the cuffs around his wrists and ankles, barely able to even take steps forward, Satoru happily holding the chain to tug him in.

He dragged an armchair over, pushing him down in it.

"Did you miss him?" He asked you, waiting for your reply with those feral eyes that you'd begun to fear.

"Sa-" You stopped yourself, voice shaking as you tried to find the shred of courage you had left to protect Sukuna, pushing aside whatever sick and twisted feelings you still had for Satoru. "Please don't hurt him, okay? He didn't do anything. Everything was my fault."

"He touched something that belongs to me," Satoru spoke so calmly, but you couldn't miss the hatred in his voice. He walked to the side of the bed, bunching the slip you were wearing up past your ass to where your hands were bound. Nudging your thighs further apart just to slip his hand between them, rubbing his palm over your panties. "Tasted it."

And then he pulled his hand away, walking back over to Sukuna, grabbing his strong jaw between his fingers and forcing it open.

You really almost threw up.

He cut out Sukuna's tongue.

What was there looked excruciating, a still-healing wound that must've happened days ago. But Sukuna didn't react, didn't offer him the satisfaction of it, his face set in a familiar disdainful state.

You couldn't speak. Weren't sure what you'd even say if you could.

There was no sorry that would give him his tongue back.

"What do you think, pet?" He mocked.

Something damp was on your face, but you couldn't even wipe the tears away. Hands straining against their restraints, wishing you could break free for even a moment to touch him one last time.

"You said I shouldn't think," You reminded him, a poor attempt at not giving him the reaction he wanted either.

Satoru wasn't fazed, glancing back at Sukuna with a smirk.

"I'd take her tongue too, but I can think of a better use for it," He smugly winked, and Sukuna took the bait, struggling against his restraints, enraged by the obvious implication. "You wanna see my favorite trick of hers?"

"Let him go," You murmured. "Please, Toru."

You hadn't used the nickname since you were kids, and it was more effective than you expected.

He stood up straight, his attention snapping back to you.

"Why should I?" He expected a real reason. Well, he expected one specific one.

Most likely the whole reason he even bothered dragging him out from whatever cell he'd been keeping Sukuna in.

You hesitated over the words that'd really condemn you, briefly glancing to Sukuna for even just a snippet of the safety he used to give you. His eyes told you to suck it up and stop feeling sorry for yourself. To survive.

"I'll give you whatever you want," You muttered.

You didn't want to even whisper the word.

But it wasn't hard to imagine what you meant when you only had one thing to give.

"Say it then," Satoru dared you.

"I'll give you a heir," You swallowed hard. You didn't even know if you'd hate him for it, if it was something else you'd teach yourself to accept.

Really, he could take what he wanted from you at any point, but he wanted you to choose it. To pick him.

If Sukuna could talk, you knew he'd be shouting.

But you weren't the only one here Satoru was determined to embarrass.

"Isn't she gonna be cute? All stuffed full and swollen?" He leaned down to mutter in Sukuna's ear. "Shame you won't be around to see it."

You weren't sure you could even be grateful when he dragged him away, unable to stop yourself from crying the second the door closed behind them.

The prince you'd once thought would slay dragons for you putting away a man who acted more like a king than he ever could.

Satoru's mouth latched onto your neck the second he returned, murmuring beautiful words, like he could talk enough to make you overlook the humiliation burning in your gut even after he cut the ropes restraining you free.

Telling you he loved you (he loved the power he held over you), that he was yours (you were his), that he'd give you anything (but only if you gave him everything).

And when you had sex, you still kissed him back, let his tongue slip between your teeth with the disturbing reminder Sukuna didn't have his anymore, despising yourself for letting go of him to live through this. Hating the shadows inside you that wanted Satoru. That whispered to you that no one could love you like he did. No one else would burn the rest of the world just to have you to hold.

You were just as disgustingly devoted to him. Maybe better at hiding it.

Able to shove it down and suffocate it when he wasn't around.

But the second his mouth was on you, the second his fingers plucked off your underwear or slotted themselves inside you, you were putty in his hand. Happy to wear his collar and call him whatever he wanted.

You were both ashamed of it and unable to shut it off completely.

All the confidence Sukuna granted you left with him.

There was nothing you could do but hope Satoru kept his word and let him go.

"Did you set him free?" You barely managed to work up the strength to murmur the question a few days later, fiddling with the chain attached to your collar as Satoru readjusted, his head resting in the crook of your neck and his cock buried inside you, cum leaking out into your thighs.

"I will once you're pregnant," He murmured, leaving a kiss on your collarbone. "You can even watch."

You had a feeling that really meant something else entirely.

But even when your hands weren't tied, it felt like they were.

There wasn't a single part of you he didn't own. He had his seal stamped just above your ass, branding you as his so he could see the permanent reminder of who you belonged to every time he fucked you from the back. His kisses littering your body, the expensive silks and slips he dressed you up in hardly ever covering any of it.

But hadn't you signed up for it?

This was the deal he gave you - the one you took.

"I might be late today," He murmured as you fixed his crown. Had it been a couple days? Or a couple weeks? What difference did it make?

"Okay," You yawned, exhaustion lingering in your bones. It'd been getting harder to get out of the bed in the mornings, body sore from being bent over and broken in.

"I'll bring food," He kissed your cheek, squeezing your ass one last time before heading out the door.

The lock clicked behind him.

You dragged yourself back to bed, curling up and lulled back to sleep by the scent of sex and him. You weren't sure how long you'd been out for when you were being shaken awake.

A hand grabbed your waist, tugging at your limp form. You didn't bother moving, let yourself be tugged around, eyes still shut from your attempt to sleep when he suddenly shook you hard enough they shot open.

Squinting up at Satoru only to realize it wasn't him.

You made a pathetic little sound - half a squeak, half a strangled gasp.

Sukuna flipped you over, thick brows furrowed together as he frowned at the heavy iron collar around your throat. No chains attached to him this time, no handcuffs or restraints to weigh him down, although you could see how they had scarred his skin, raw red marks left where they'd been. You were terrified to know what your neck must look like. You hadn't made it a habit to look in mirrors lately, not wanting to see what your reflection had to say about you.

He didn't say anything.

Couldn't.

You opened your mouth to speak, to ask him how he managed to get free before you remembered he probably couldn't answer anything outside of shaking his head.

Blood was smeared across his cheek.

He yanked a hair pin out of your hair, bending it out and tilting your head so he could jam it in a key hole you couldn't see.

Every second that passed by where was was working the lock and you stared at him, trying to swallow your hope was torture.

He was struggling with it, a deep crease forming between his brows with frustration.

"You should save yourself," You whispered, reaching out to touch him. Skimming your finger over his jaw and nose, brushing your thumb over his lip. One last time was all you wanted. Maybe the universe had answered your request.

Sukuna rolled his eyes at you.

"I'm being serious," You huffed in a heated whisper. "I'll make sure he won't chase you and-"

He covered your mouth with one of his huge palms, flashing you a glare to shut up so he could focus.

You pouted, but kept your lips sealed, struggling not to say anything when you heard it.

The faint click.

He actually did it.

Yanking the collar off and throwing it on the bed like it was diseased, helping you off and grimacing at how unsteady you were on your feet.

He rummaged through the drawers and threw one of your old dresses Satoru thankfully still had at you, turning away so you could throw it on.

You hesitated by the threshold, glancing back over your shoulder at the room. The expensive rugs and the canopy over the bed, the details you'd discarded before.

But Sukuna held out his hand.

It was just up to you to take it.

alright guys it's up to YOU actually

^its supposed to say GOOD ending lmfao but I can't change it lol sorry guys brain is fried haha my apologies for any other typos/autocorrect stuff I missed <3

#this is genuinely amazing #me when a magical piece of literature and its fanfic #God damn

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macchianikato · 3 days ago

Text

Oh my god

feedback

detuned

rockstar!ryomen sukuna x reader x rockstar!satoru gojo

synopsis: Two rival bands. One sound engineer. Trapped between Gojo’s charm and Sukuna’s intensity, you navigate a world where music is war, tension runs high, and falling for the frontman, or both, could change everything.

a/n: this fan fiction is heavily inspired by @/indiewritesxoxo ‘s no. 1 party anthem series! (which you should 100% check out! it’s such an incredible concept and it’s very addicting. you can find it here)

content warnings: emotional conflict, jealousy and possessiveness, and verbal tension

series masterlist

It was after another charged performance, the kind that left your bones vibrating long after the final chord, the kind that made the silence after feel too sharp, too sudden. Though it didn’t involve Sukuna or Satoru today.

The venue was quiet now. Most of the crew had cleared out. A few flight cases creaked across the concrete in the distance, and one of the stage lights above still flickered every few seconds like it didn’t know the show was over.

You crouched backstage, coiling cables with slow, distracted hands. Each loop felt like muscle memory. Your body was here, but your head was somewhere else entirely, still caught between the echo of Satoru’s words.

They were pulling at you in different directions and somewhere between his music and glances, you’d lost track of what you actually wanted.

You didn’t hear the footsteps until they were close.

“Didn’t expect to see you still here.”

You looked up.

Suguru stood near the edge of the shadows, hands buried in his jacket pockets, the faintest trace of a smirk on his face. But his eyes were serious, dark and thoughtful in the way only his could be.

You were surprised to see him of all people, his band hadn’t performed tonight. You let out a sigh of a relief. It was nice seeing someone other than Gojo and Sukuna.

You straightened slowly. “I’m always the last one out.”

“Yeah,” he said, stepping closer. “You always look like you’re trying to pack your thoughts into those cables.”

You huffed a breath through your nose, almost a laugh. “That obvious?”

“Only if someone’s paying attention.” He stopped a few feet from you, gaze flicking between your hands and your face. “You okay?”

You hesitated. “Just tired.”

He tilted his head, unconvinced. “When Satoru’s tired he usually starts rambling about how great you are.”

You glanced at him sharply. He raised his brows, like it wasn’t news to him.

You just couldn’t get a break from Satoru, even when he wasn’t here. It honestly almost made you laugh.

“You know,” he said casually, snapping you out of your thoughts, “he used to talk about Sukuna’s band all the time. Admired the hell out of them. Said they were the only ones that ever made him feel like he had something to prove.”

There was a pause. The weight of what Suguru wasn’t saying pressed into your chest.

Great, now you couldn’t even get away from Sukuna. Always caught between him and Satoru. But what Suguru was saying still made you think. You remembered those days.

“But now?” he continued, a bit quieter. “He won’t say his name without spitting it. Something changed. Somewhere along the way, the admiration curdled.”

“Into jealousy?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

As long as you’d known Satoru, he never told you why he suddenly began to dislike Sukuna, and you never bothered to ask. But now you wondered, why didn’t you?

Suguru gave a small shrug, the kind that carried more truth than a direct answer. “You’re closer to Sukuna than anyone Gojo trusts wants to admit. And I think that’s screwing with him more than he lets on.”

You looked down at the coiled cables in your hands, suddenly aware of how tight you were holding them. “It’s not like that with Sukuna. I don’t even know what it is..”

“That’s kind of the problem,” Suguru said. “You’re in his orbit. And Sukuna never lets people that close.”

You blinked. “So… what? You think I’m a threat?” Suddenly you regretted not cozying up to Suguru before this conversation.

“I think Gojo does.”

You looked up. His expression had shifted, less guarded now, almost sympathetic.

“He’s been different lately,” Suguru went on, a little softer. “More careful. Less showy when you’re around. Which is saying something.”

You swallowed. “Because of me?”

“Because he’s trying not to screw it up,” Suguru said. “And believe me, that’s not something Satoru usually thinks about.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. Your thoughts were already too tangled, and this only made them worse.

Suguru watched you quietly. “He cares about you. Maybe more than he realizes. And I think it’s driving him a little insane that Sukuna sees it too.”

You stared at him. “Sukuna doesn’t—”

“Maybe not in the way Gojo does. But he treats you differently. That’s enough.” His voice dipped then, almost unreadable. “I don’t like him, if that wasn’t obvious. But I’ve never seen him give anyone that kind of space without expecting something in return.”

Your chest felt tight. Like too many wires crossing at once.

“You don’t have to pick sides,” he added, more gently now. “But you should probably figure out what it is you actually want before they try to decide for you.”

You nodded slowly, even though you didn’t fully understand.

He offered a ghost of a smile. “Don’t run yourself ragged trying to split your frequency between two stations.”

You laughed, soft, real this time, even if your stomach still felt knotted from the conversation. “That metaphor’s terrible.”

Suguru grinned, and gave your shoulder a light pat. “Maybe. But it will stick.”

Then he stepped back, fading toward the hallway that led to the exit. Before he disappeared, he glanced over his shoulder.

“Whatever choice you make, make sure it’s yours. Not theirs.”

And with that, he was gone.

The cables in your hands slipped loose. And for the first time since the set ended, you were truly alone with a hundred different answers buzzing in your head, and none of them sounding like your own voice.

The days that followed your conversation with Suguru blurred into something quiet and unfamiliar.

No more coffee breaks with Gojo.

No late-night green room banter.

No hanging around the soundboard after a show, hoping one of them would linger.

You needed space, whatever that meant. A place where the noise in your head could settle, where you could remember who you were before all this started pulling at your seams. The attention, the rivalry, the eyes that saw you too clearly. It was all too loud.

So you slipped away.

You answered messages late. Politely, distantly. You showed up on time, worked cleanly, professionally, and left before anyone else could catch you in a hallway or at the edge of the stage. And still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that your silence said more than you meant for it to.

Gojo caught on quickly, of course he did. He always noticed when your rhythm shifted, even slightly. The messages started coming in quickly:

“Did I do something?”

“You mad at me?”

You hesitated, then forced yourself to be honest, at least a little.

“I just need some space. From everything. Just for a while.”

He didn’t reply after that.

Not a word.

Not even a joke to soften the silence.

Time passed and then it was four days before the next rehearsal, you told yourself you’d arrive early, just to recalibrate.

The venue doors groaned open under your hand. The lights were dim, most of the house still dark, the stage half-lit with a faint orange spill from a single rig overhead. You carried your bag against your side, hoodie drawn up over your head, shoes soft on the worn floor.

It felt different being here without the crowd, not in a bad way. If anything, it was calming. Almost comforting.

And then you heard it, low, deliberate notes winding out from the monitors. Not a song. Just fragments. Warm-ups. Someone tuning with care.

You froze halfway down the aisle, looking up.

Sukuna was already there.

He sat on a stool near the center mic, guitar in his lap, fingers moving with fluid ease. Not showy. Not performing. Just… playing. Like it was for him alone.

His hair was a mess, like he’d just rolled out of bed and driven straight here. Honestly, it wasn’t a bad sight.

But you pushed the thought aside, replacing it with the urge to slip out before he noticed you. But it was too late, he looked up just as you started to turn away.

“You’re avoiding me,” he said.

There was no bite to it. No anger. Just fact.

You stood still. The words hit harder than they should’ve.

“I’m not—” you started, then stopped. Swallowed. “I just needed space.”

He set the guitar down, the echo of the last note trailing into silence. “From me?”

You couldn’t shake the way his words etched themselves into your skin, sharp, unfiltered, almost enough to make you flinch. He wasn’t wrong. Maybe that was the worst part, he’d said out loud what you hadn’t even said yourself.

“From everything,” you clarified. “From… this.” You gestured vaguely at the air around you, at the stage, at the place where things used to feel simple.

Sukuna’s gaze didn’t shift. “Then why does it feel personal?”

Was it that obvious you were distancing yourself?

“I don’t know,” you admitted before you could stop yourself. “That’s kind of the problem.”

A beat of silence passed.

“That’s fair,” he said, setting the guitar on his thigh. “You don’t really know me.”

You looked at him, surprised at the admission. “No, I don’t.”

You expected him to get cold. Dismissive. But he didn’t. If anything, his posture softened, shoulders loosening, voice quieter.

“I notice you,” he said. “But I guess I never gave you much to notice back.”

You crossed your arms. “You show up. You leave tea. You tell me when I get a filter right. But I don’t know what you do when the music stops.”

He tilted his head, watching you for a long moment. Then, he did something you didn’t expect. He he gestured to the stage next to him.

You hesitated again.

“You’re not going to psychoanalyze me through chords, are you?” you asked.

“Not unless you ask nicely,” he said, that rare, subtle smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Still wary, you walked over and stood beside him, leaving just enough space to keep your heart rate reasonable.

“Here,” he said, shifting the guitar in his lap and offering it, neck-first.

You blinked. “What?”

“Play something.”

“I don’t—”

“Then learn.” His eyes flicked to yours.

You narrowed your eyes but took the guitar anyway, awkwardly trying to balance it. Your fingers hovered over the frets, unsure.

“Left hand here,” he said, reaching over. His palm brushed your fingers, guiding them into place. “You want to mute the first string with the edge of your index.”

You tried. It buzzed terribly.

He leaned in, his breath warm near your temple. “Relax your grip.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” you muttered.

“I’m not the one choking the neck like it insulted your family.”

You laughed, the tension cracking just slightly.

He looked down at you. “Better.”

There was a beat, a silence not empty, but full of something you hadn’t yet named. You were hyper-aware of how close he was. How different it felt from Satoru’s nearness. With him, you felt known. With Sukuna, you felt seen, and that was somehow scarier.

You looked down at the guitar, trying to ground yourself. “This is stupid. I came here to be alone.”

Sukuna didn’t move away.

“But you stayed,” he said.

You sighed, not responding as your fingers fumbled over the strings again, the chord too muted to ring cleanly.

Sukuna moved behind you, too close, but not in a way that made you flinch. His presence felt heavy, grounding, like gravity was working a little harder with him this near. You hadn’t set the guitar down like you meant to. Instead, it was still cradled in your arms, the weight of it pinned between your arms and the heat of him behind you.

“You’re locking your wrist,” he murmured, voice low, close to your ear. “Let me help.”

You stiffened, but didn’t stop him. His hands came forward, slow, deliberate. He guided your wrist, repositioned your fingers, hovered over your hands without touching at first, just enough for the air to shift. Then, carefully, he pressed his palm against the back of your hand, grounding it.

“There,” he said, his breath ghosting the side of your jaw. “Try again.”

You strummed.

The chord rang out clear.

“You did it,” he said quietly, almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it.

You felt your chest tighten and your heart beat faster. The sound still vibrated between your fingers. You looked down, your hands under his, your legs nearly flush together. He hadn’t moved back. Neither had you.

“I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore,” you whispered. “With you. With myself.”

His voice softened. “Then stop pretending you have to figure it all out at once.”

You glanced at him, your face angled over your shoulder. His expression was unreadable, eyes half-lidded, mouth slack, like he was trying not to want something too badly.

But he never moved out from behind you.

“You don’t get it,” you said.

“Then explain it.”

You hesitated.

His hand was still lightly touching yours.

“Then what about me?” he asked, quieter now. The question barely reached the air.

You turned your head toward him more again. “You’re unpredictable. You’re difficult. You don’t let anyone in and then you show up with tea and compliments like I should know what that means.”

Sukuna’s mouth parted slightly, but you didn’t let him speak yet.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” you said, voice rising. “And I don’t know if I’m just a sound tech to you or if I’m—”

You froze.

Because in that moment, right as the words tangled in your throat, you caught movement from the corner of your eye.

Satoru.

He was standing in the wings, just past the curtain. His face was unreadable, shoulders squared, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie.

Your breath caught.

“Satoru,” you said, barely above a whisper.

Sukuna turned too, but Gojo didn’t look at him.

His eyes were only on you.

For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then:

“So… this is what space looks like?”

His voice wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t angry. It was something worse, quiet and calm and so heartbreakingly careful.

You separated yourself from Sukuna quickly. “It’s not what it looks like.”

He gave a small, humorless laugh. “Isn’t it?”

“I was just—he was just showing me something on the guitar—”

“Right,” Gojo cut in, walking forward slowly. “A lesson. Middle of the stage. Lights low. Classic.”

Sukuna shifted beside you, jaw flexing. “You done?” He looked annoyed, eyes dark as they stared at Gojo.

Gojo didn’t look at him at first. Just knelt beside his pedalboard, his voice dropping.

“I didn’t realize rehearsal started early,” he murmured. “Guess I’ve been early a lot lately.”

He plugged in his guitar, still not looking at either of you. His fingers moved with precision, too tight, too fast, like they didn’t know how to slow down anymore.

“I used to think you’d always tell me if something changed,” he said suddenly, his tone sharper now. “But maybe that was just me getting ahead of the script.”

“Satoru—” you started again.

But Sukuna stepped forward, his voice low but clear.

“Maybe if you weren’t always busy performing, you’d see what’s happening off-stage.”

Gojo stilled.

Then he laughed, quiet and cold.

God could this moment get anymore awkward? You wished Sukuna could see that defending you wouldn’t help any.

“That’s rich. Coming from you, of all people.” Satoru scoffed.

“Yeah?” Sukuna said, taking another step. “At least I don’t need a spotlight to matter.”

Gojo looked up at him then, fully. His expression was all teeth.

“Right. You just lurk in the dark, pretending it makes you deeper.”

“Better than faking charm and calling it love.”

The words hit hard enough to make your breath catch.

Satoru stood slowly, every inch of his posture shifting into something colder, tighter.

“Funny,” he said. “You act like you see through everyone, but you couldn’t even play clean until she was behind your board.”

Sukuna’s hands curled at his sides. “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.”

“I understand enough,” Gojo said, turning his gaze back to you now. The temperature of the room dropped with it. “I understand that I was honest. From day one. I showed up. I waited. I didn’t try to be something I’m not.”

He slung his guitar strap over his shoulder, tone quieter but laced with something sharp. “But maybe that was the wrong move. Maybe pretending to care less would’ve gotten me closer.”

“No one asked you to pretend to be anything,” you said, your voice small but trying to hold.

Gojo looked at you for a long moment, eyes too bright, too tired.

Then, finally,

“I’ll be outside.”

And with that, he stepped down off the stage and out of sight.

No dramatic slam of a door.

No guitar smashed or words thrown over his shoulder.

Just the echo of everything he didn’t say.

You stood frozen, your heart thudding painfully against your ribs.

Sukuna didn’t say anything for a while. Just watched the spot where Gojo had been, jaw still tight.

“I didn’t mean for him to hear that,” you whispered eventually.

Sukuna didn’t look at you. “I don’t think it’s what he heard that matters.”

You swallowed.

He turned to you now, his expression unreadable. “It’s what you haven’t said yet.”

The silence that followed wrapped around the two of you like smoke.

Not comforting.

Not clarifying.

Just confusing and thick with everything unspoken, and the weight of a choice you weren’t ready to make.

Then, out of nowhere:

“You look like you’d rather be anywhere but here,” he paused. “Do you wanna come back to my place?”

dividers by @/redroud1 <3

header art by @su2kuna on twitter <3

taglist: @indiewritesxoxo @evilari111 @ssetsuka @not-aya @macchianikato @kitassecretgf @universal-s1ut @kitty-yaps @shinrjj @linaaeatsfamilies @justanothersunflowergirl @nana1344

#On the edge of my seat rn #THIS IS TOO GOOD #AUUGHGG #sukuna rrr… why am i rooting for u…

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macchianikato · 4 days ago

Text

you’re drunk - simon ghost riley

“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

based off a request i got - tispy simon riley x drunk reader. simon is a man of morals, even when you make it very very hard for him to exercise them. 18+. lots of detailed dirty talk.

————-

it’s honestly not even your fault.

you’ll blame it all on soap, if anyone asks - he’s the one who had a tab open, a devil on his shoulder, and kept pouring shots as if they were free. now you’re blackout-adjacent, stumbling through the hallway with simon’s arm wrapped around your waist in some makeshift tourniquet while everything spins like a goddamn carousel.

simon always gets stuck on clean-up crew. mostly because he’s the only one who can handle their fuckin liquor.

needless to say, he’s used to this by now. used to the way you’ve been rambling on about nothing for the better part of five minutes - doesn’t say much when you stop and get distracted by something stupid for the billionth time. doesn’t complain when you grab his arm and lean a little too hard into his side, as if he’s a lifeline in the sea that is the floor beneath your feet.

he’s tipsy, sure, but somehow still annoyingly steady. classic simon.

“jesussi—you’re big.” it’s slurred and breathless, broken by your own laughter as your head drops lazily onto his shoulder. “like, industrial grade. military-issued big.”

the corner of his mouth tilts. if you were sober you’d see the smirk he’s biting back.

“tha right?”

“mmm. like a fuckin tank,” you hum, fingers kneading the muscle under your palm. it’s involuntary - just like it’s involuntary when he twitches. “or an armoured vehicle. y’should come with airbags.”

simon bites his cheek. the devil in you is dancing in the waves of tension rolling off him.

maybe he’s not as used to this as he thought - because this isn’t just drunk-banter. this is you, murmuring compliments with all that heat behind them. personal. stupidly involuntarily honest.

hes not used to compliments. not ones that sound like that.

“you’re drunk,” he breathes.

you grin. “so’re you.”

“not even half as much as you.”

you let out a giddy little laugh that makes him glance down, at that. it’s quick and brief, the way his eyes flick over you, like he’s checking to make sure you haven’t stripped mid-hallway. it’s just the bickering that gets you. makes you warm inside.

“m’not that drunk,” you lie through your teeth with all the drunken confidence you possess. “i mean—i am, but not like…memory loss drunk. i’m still gonna remember how wide your shoulders are tomorrow.”

it’s only seconds after that and your fingers are moving again, crawling down his arm to where leather edge meets skin.

“..and how insanely big your hands are,” you sigh in continuation, unable to help yourself. “like—biblically destructive. ruin-her-life-in-a-single-night kind of hands. anyone ever tell y’that?”

and that might just be precisely when it starts - the feeling in his gut. brought to life through the filth you’re beginning to feed.

“don’t.” he says, and it’s torn. “not now.”

he’s all but begging you - and however miraculously, his pace doesn’t break. still steady as ever even as you switch from squeezing to tracing his tattoos with your finger. the only response he gives is a devastating clench of his jaw as he keeps you moving - steering past flickering lights and sterile walls.

“y’ever choke a girl out with them?” you press, unfettered. “not like, unconscious, but like. in bed?”

he exhales. slow. almost a growl.

“jesus. stop talkin’.”

“why?” you blink up at him, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, far too innocent for someone who’s very much not being innocent. “am i makin’ you nervouuus?”

his head tilts just slightly, just enough to peer down at you again.

“no,” he says, and even drunk you hear the grit in it. “you’re makin’ me hard.”

he says it like he hates himself for it. like it slipped out - cut from the meat of some deep place the inebriation in his veins simply won’t let him keep inside.

and you?

you blink slow, lips parting in surprise.

“fuckin’ finally.” you exhale with a smile. slow and crooked and dangerous. “thought i’d have to be on my knees and naked for you to admit that—“

he doesn’t let you finish that thought.

“fuck’s sake, y’little minx.” he’s dragging you now, as if he’s realizing the dangers that are surfacing the more this conversation continues. by this point he’s half-carrying, half-hauling your giggling form down the hall like you weigh nothing. “y’need to stop talkin.”

“you like it,” you slur between unsteady steps. “y’like me like this cause you’re a freakkk—“

his grip tightens. morals in tatters. control evaporating.

“i’d like you more if y’were unconscious.” he huffs, hard. “or duct-taped.”

that makes you giggle more. worse, it eggs you on.

“was that supposed t’be a threat?” you ask, lips glistening. “cause if so, it’s workingggg.”

he grunts - some deep, violent sound in his throat like that one hit a nerve. “bloody hell.”

by the time you make it to your door, he’s breathing heavy. less from exertion and more from sheer fucking restraint. it takes two seconds before he throws the hinges wide, kicks it shut with his boot, and all but drags you onto your bed.

and you hardly even realize you’ve reached it until the cotton caresses the side of your cheek. but that feeling is quickly forgotten when simon, the gentleman that he is, leans over you - one knee braced on the mattress as his hands go to work on the laces of your boots.

your thighs tense. he notices.

“fuck, simon.” you can’t stop yourself. not even god himself could, at this point. “i’ve been into you for ages, y’know.”

he pauses. boot in hand.

“…what?”

he says it low. like a warning - like a don’t you fuckin start. but you’re too drunk to care - especially when all you smell is him and all you see are those shoulders, leaning over you while you’re flat on your back beneath him.

your lashes flutter.

“jus sayin- since, like. you’re in my room, on my bed above me like one of my codeine fever dreams.” you slur, brain sloshing. the room spins with it. “thought y’should know.”

he looks at you like you’ve hit him with a brick.

your head lolls. glassy eyes dragging up over the length of him. “used to think about it—you—when i couldn’t sleep.”

he swallows, and you watch his throat work with it. the grip he’s got on your ankle could shatter bone.

“….you tellin me y’think bout me when y’touch yourself?” he asks.

“god yes.” you don’t even realize you’ve said it. “you. your hands. bending me over the sinks. in the showers while muttering filth in my ear, tellin me to behave—“

“—fuck.” it punches out of him like it hurts.

the silence falls heavy. he doesn’t blink, breathe, or move for what feels like forty minutes, when in reality, it’s like forty seconds - just long enough for him clamp the leash back on whatever beast is tearing through him.

not fully, but enough.

you stretch like a cat, oblivious to it. arch your back. sigh. “d’you think about it?”

he doesn’t answer. not at first. then—

“only when i breathe.”

your stomach lurches. your thighs twitch. “you mean that?”

he looks at you, finally - eyes darker than the devils deal, filled with filth and heat from the fire you started without even trying.

he shakes his head, his jaw clenches with the effort of keeping the beast at bay. “i mean, if you don’t stop talkin, m’gonna fuckin’ fold.”

the alcohol in your blood just roars, at that. fuel to the flaming fire inside you.

“tell me.” you murmur. “you think about fucking me? what i’d sound like moaning your—“

before you can finish that thought, his hand is over your mouth. it swallows your face, makes you twitch in all the wrong places — and he sees it.

“enough.” it’s barely a whisper. “christ. fuck. you’re gonna make me do somethin’ stupid.”

you moan against his hand - it spills out of you, vibrates against his fingers. he curses.

“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

his palm silences everything but your pulse, which is roaring, at this point.

your fingers come up, shift a few of his digits until your voice finds room to leak out. “please.”

his eyes snap shut.

“y’dont know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart,” he mutters, grabbing the edge of the blanket with his free hand and yanking it over your hips. “ain’t gonna wake up with you hatin me.”

even drunk you realize he’s a man of morals.

“you think i’d regret it?” you whisper. stars in your eyes. he doesn’t respond. “simon. i just told you i’ve fantasized about fucking you. i wonder how big you are, if it’d hurt—“

his palm tightens over your lips again.

“one more fuckin’ word and i’ll forget every goddamn reason why i shouldn’t touch you right now.” he spits. “if y’even remember this tomorrow, y’come say it to me sober. promise on every grave i’ve ever stood over i’ll bend y’over on the spot and fuck the idea of regret right outta you.”

then he pulls back, moving slow like it hurts, and you smile.

“guess i’ll see you tomorrow.”

“mhm.” he hums, take a step or two toward the door. “fuckin hope you will.”

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macchianikato · 5 days ago

Text

IM DEAD

Plumbing Problems?

pairing: bidet!sukuna x girly girl!reader

synopsis: you just wanted a pink bidet to be a perfect addition to your already girly home. but buying from a sketchy website to get the expensive toilet at a cheaper price does have its consequences… and oh so good benefits in the form of a 6’5 muscular demon that has pink hair, red eyes, and is littered with tattoos.

mdni cw: crack, cursing, sukuna is absolutely a little shit, explicit smut, masturbation (f!), fingering, oral sex (f!receiving), tit worship, overstimulation, degradation. (small toji cameo of him being a pervert)

THIS IS ALL @yenayaps FAULT SO BLAME THEM.

( @angelscriptures ily )

You really are just a girly girl! You can’t help it that you love the color pink. But in turn your brain, in an OCD kind of way, pieces together you need everything else you own to be pink as well. Your home looks similar to a barbie dream house on crack with how much the rosy color permeates the place. You have pink cooking utensils, rugs and blankets in all shades of that beloved color, honestly anything you could find that you needed in pink you owned it, and now you just couldn’t resist buying a bidet that is also pink. Why? Because obviously your ass needs to be sat upon your favorite color instead of some boring white toilet like a basic bitch. The toilet was specially ordered from a website you could hardly understand but you needed it… it was an almost 2k toilet that was only 600 bucks on this site, a steal truly. You figured it was because it was from a foreign country instead of where you live, so you made the purchase as fast as possible, not risking it getting sold out. Since you were not paying for the very fucking real pink tax if you bought it from where it is actually sold.

So two weeks later it arrives and yeah you realize you didn’t fucking think this through. How the fuck are you supposed to put this shit together? You could call up a plumber, but god knows how much they would charge you for installing your stupid pink toilet. So that leaves one option, beg your pervert upstairs neighbor to do it for you, because he's already fixed your sink once... he should definitely not have a problem with putting in your toilet. You hope.

“Tojiii pretty please” you whine batting your eyelashes up at him, with a pout forming on your bottom lip. You wore your tightest tank top and denim booty shorts hoping that will be enough to make him give in, since that was what worked last time.

“You have got to be fuckin’ kidding me doll.” he mutters, eyes flicking over your tits and how well they sit in the tank top. “Can’t you hire a plumber like a normal person. Why do you always have to bother me? I am not your daddy or your boyfriend.” but despite his words his tongue licks over the scar on his lip. You aren’t stupid you knew he already gave in as soon as your perky ass knocked on his apartment door but of course he has to act like the usual asshole he is.

“I can pay you… I promise.” you bite your bottom lip, fidgeting a little as you look up at the unit of a man. Sweatpants hanging low and his always too tight stretched out black compression shirt making his muscles look even bigger as he keeps them folded along his chest. The smirk he sports when you mention paying him doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Fine, goddamn brat.”

Two hours later your toilet is finally all set up and toji leaves your apartment obviously a little pissy that not only did you not pay him like you promised, but you also didn’t at least give him head as compensation like he hoped you would :(. Oh well.

The bidet felt like perfection, honestly you could sit here for hours. It has such a nice heated seat and it wasn't making your ass cramp, which made it become your favorite place to relax. In more ways than one. Fingers dance along your clit as you begin your newly formed nightly routine on the toilet seat. An ongoing pattern for the past week that always made you feel more satisfied than when you would do it laying down in bed. This wasn’t the case before, but you just chalked it up to the bidet's heated seats and how relaxing it felt. Finally you were getting into a steady rhythm of rolling your fingers on your clit almost about to ease a finger inside yourself when. The fuck? Water sprays up against you. I didn’t fucking press the button is all you think to yourself but sigh and go back to it since you were already feeling close. Another spritz of fucking water.

“Oh you have got to be fucking kidding me.” you grimace standing up as once again a spray of water emerges from inside the bidet. “How can you be fucking broken… I just got you, you stupid fucking toilet.” Ah, the words you will come to regret because little did you know, sukuna didn’t like that whatsofuckingever. He is not some ‘stupid fucking toilet’ he is an expensive and very high end japanese bidet, thank you very fucking much. With a huff you slide your panties and pants back on already making your way to the front door so that toji can fix this stupid fucking bidet, when you hear some thrumming noise coming from your bathroom. You disregard it, thinking it's just your broken bidet when suddenly big muscular arms encircle you. A scream begins to leave your lips when a huge thick hand covers it, a man's shushing filling your ears. A stupid desperate attempt to shut you up by whoever the fuck this man is. But then… he speaks.

“I am fucking not some ‘stupid fucking toilet’, you little fucking brat” the gruff yet oh so delicious voice hisses against your ear. You genuinely think you are insane and begin thrashing in this mans arms, when you realize he is fucking naked. What the actual fuck is happening is blaring in your mind as you scream into his palm, wishing your purse was closer so maybe you could tase and get this lunatic off you. “Calm down you fucking brat, it’s not like you haven’t sat on my face before. What's so different now.” his voice and words confuse the fuck out of you. You haven’t fucked anyone in months… sitting on this dude's face? And then it dawns on what he said before, “not some stupid fucking toilet”... no. It can’t fucking be. You stop trashing and trying to scream, which leads to him slowly taking his hand off your mouth.

“A-are… you my bidet… how is that even fucking possible. I must have hit my head. I am dreaming or I am batshit insane.” your words are rushed and slurred together as your thoughts race a thousand miles a minute trying to figure out what is happening.

“Yes I am your bidet. I am a demon, that's how this is possible dumbass. And no you didn’t hit your head or are dreaming. What happened is that I got fucking offended that you called me a broken toilet, when all I was doing was helping your needy ass cum better than what your tiny ass fingers were doing.” his tone bored as he answers your rambling questions like you asked if the sky was fucking blue instead of why your bidet is now a naked man that’s 6’5, with his rock hard cock pressed up against your back.

When he finally fully releases you, assuming that you had calmed down, which news flash you had obviously not, you immediately reach for your bag that is still by the front door. The unsuspecting demon, as he claims to be, is completely unaware of the taser you keep within it at all times. Grabbing it with a quickness of practiced ease you turn it on and tase him directly by his balls… by accident… totally.

“WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU WOMAN.” his voice booms but he remains unflinched, just audibly annoyed, like the 50,000 volts were only an annoying bug buzzing by his ear. “You just tased my fucking balls you psychotic brat. I was being fucking nice to you, and you fucking tased me.” You slump to the ground still shakily holding onto your taser just wide eyed at the huge muscular man with pink hair, red eyes, and tattoos, and begin sobbing. You aren’t even sure why, maybe it's cause the adrenaline wore off or the fact that this 6’5 man is yelling at you but tears flow down your cheeks. The tears make sukuna freeze. “Shit… are you ok, brat?” the octave of his voice becoming softer at the sight of your tears, despite his confusion as to why the fuck you are crying. Especially when not even a minute prior you just basically tased his balls with your taser.

“I don’t even know who the fuck you are or what your name is, other than the fact that you are supposedly my fucking bidet?!” you sob out your chest heaving slightly with your words. “I really am insane… I just wanted to finger myself before I went to sleep and I couldn’t even fucking get to do that.”

“My name is Sukuna, and I was a demon cursed to be a toilet after fucking with the wrong witch.” he huffs out. “I think she was just a bitch cause I wouldn’t fuck her… now you on the other hand, I would in a heartbeat. And show you how much better I am than your fingers.” his voice becoming a purr. You sniffle looking up at him assessing him.

“I guess you do have the hair color of my bidet… this is also so fucking weird to me though… what even broke your curse?” you mumble wiping your lingering tears off your face.

“You pissing me the fuck off gave me enough ability to transform back to my initial form.” he says rather matter of factly. “Which reminds me again brat, I was not some ‘stupid fucking toilet’ especially with you fingering yourself on my seat or should I say my face. Yeah surprise, the toilet seat, was my face.” he barks out a laugh at his own words like the egotistical little shit Sukuna is. He is an asshole and he knows it better than anyone else.

“Your face?” your eyes widen, your thigh shitting nervously and honestly because the thought that you have been sitting on this sexy specimen's face technically every single day the past week, arouses the inner pervert within you.

“Yeah, my face, you dirty perverted girl. Oh fuck, you like that huh.” He smirks watching your thighs squeeze together and how your eyes are glued to him. Sukuna knows that look like the back of his hand, you are eye fucking him with your mind. A chuckle with a growl escapes his smirked mouth as he sees that you are unable to resist gawking at his thick long cock, the reddened tip leaking precum. He watches you like a predator would a prey, and oh how pretty of a prey you are. Naive girl, he thinks, if only you google translated that website you bought, bidet him, off of, you would have known that by buying the bidet you are now tied to him forever. You are never getting rid of him.

In minutes he has your clothes off and you laid in your bed, which is full of plushies, a range of silky and fluffy pink blankets and so many fucking pillows, in your princess style bed, much to his disgust but it’s so very much so you that he will let it slide. Your bare skin is lit up with the pink string lights that are hung up around your room as you look up at him needily. He leans his head down, his mouth latching onto your nipple, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud.

“Such pretty perfect tits.” he rasps against your breasts pressing kisses on them before he moves to the other nipple, one of his hands gripping your hip possessively, holding you in place. His other gropes the flesh of your tit that isn’t receiving attention with his mouth. His mouth and tongue are working their magic on your breast, sending waves of pleasure coursing through you.

“Oh fuck Sukuna… more.” your voice a needy purrlike moan. He unlatches from your perked nipple to grin like the cheshire cat.

“Needy brat can’t even let me take my time and savor your pretty body.” he murmurs but he is just as impatient as you, even moreso honestly, since he has not properly fucked anything for years. The hand gripping the flesh of your tit trails down your body slowly gliding against your skin. He slowly pushed your legs apart, earning your soft moan as he eyes your glistening cunt.

“Oh you are dripping, look at you.” he growls as his fingers graze against your wet slit. He groaned at how wet you are, his fingers almost immediately getting covered with your honeyed arousal. His fingers slowly circling your clit as he takes in the pleasure on your face, playing with your pussy like an instrument, figuring out what brings you the most pleasure. He smirks, applying the knowledge he has learned from you, fingering yourself on his face (toilet seat) to bring you closer to cumming as quickly as possible, the ego of him oozing out, with everything he does.

“All this just from me toying with your nipples? What a desperate slut you are. Come on, cum for me sweetheart I know you need too. And then I'll eat your sweet pretty pussy before I even determine if you are worthy of my cock.” His words are a mocking coo that pulls you in and threatens to send you over the edge so quickly. His fingers are so skilled and his voice just devours you, honestly how could you resist when this demon commands you to cum for him. Your pretty gasps and moans are like a symphony to his ears and he relishes when you whimper and cum all over his fingers. “There you fucking go. Much better than your tiny ass fingers ever could do. Pathetic honestly.” the mocking yet still sweet purr of his tone has you nodding unable to form proper words, but his words are true, his fingers worked you far better than your own could and you came far faster than you usually do, embarrassingly so.

He spends what feels like hours devouring your pussy much to your whines and protests to bury his cock inside you already. But all he did was mockingly laugh and pull your lower half closer to his face to drink your juices more.

“S’kuna pleaseee just put it in already..” your whines are delirious as he drives you closer to yet another unrelenting orgasm. “This is too much.. ngh..” but your whimpers fall to deaf ears. You can’t even grasp the sheets or his hair anymore as one of his hands holds them in an iron grip. His other hand gripping your hips almost to the point of a delicious bruise to prevent you from squirming or pushing away from him feasting on your cunt.

“Awe poor baby said please..�� he scoffs in a mock coo against your pussy before humming against your clit again to make you scream. The vibration from him speaking and humming, sends an overwhelming current of pleasure straight to your core. You immediately nod your head at Sukuna about ready to moan those words out again but he cuts you off with more of his own. “Well maybe you should have thought of that before tasing my balls and calling me a ‘stupid fucking toilet’.”

“I’m sorry I didn't know.. how was I supposed to even know you weren’t a toilet.. pleaseee.” your sobs are combined with loud moans as he absolutely devours you like no one has before.

He lifts his head just a little from your core, breath still fanning on it and making it twitch just to chuckle a little. “Well too fucking bad. I have allll night sweetheart.” he drawls. “And we are just getting fucking started.”

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macchianikato · 5 days ago

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word

passing fanfiction around the dinner table like bread rolls

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macchianikato · 6 days ago

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Omfg.

Heavy Metal Lover - G.S.

Synopsis. A group project with your tall, nerdy, hot academic rival and your handsome punk best friend? Oh, you’re getting a D++

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader x Geto Suguru

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, nerd!Geto, punk!bestfriend!Geto, thréesome, mmf, they go FÉRAL, dúmbification, Geto with tattoos and piercings, Jacob’s Ladder (iykyk), oraI (fem. rec.), all sIoppy type, yearning Geto, fíngering, spítting, p talking, manhandIing, dp, SAME DAMN TIME, creampíes, cúmplay, BIG stretches, size k!nks, rough s, marathons, overstím, PÚSSYDRÚNK GOJO, squírting, making him cúm dry, jock!Sukuna cameo, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 11.4k

A/N. TWO!! Because heh- daddy Tony just turned the big 2-0!!

“You won’t believe how big it was.”

“…”

“Satoru’s audacity, I mean.” Leaning over the cluttered café table, you’re cupping your mouth with one hand, whispering oh-so-conspiratorially to your best friend. “And his d-”

“Alright.” Geto cuts through your astute observation, making an observation of his own that the elderly lady seated beside you two had promptly turned off her hearing aids. “So you really didn’t get any studying done during this ‘study session’, huh?”

Waving your hands airily, “It’s not that we didn’t try, it’s just…” The glinting snake bites on Geto’s lips curl at the sinful sight of those teeth marks down the side of your neck, the way your thighs still quivered in broad daylight. Still.

He already knew that there was something more between you and your ‘cocky, book-hugging, jerkwad’ academic rival. He saw the way Gojo looked at you. And he saw the way you looked back.

Somewhere down the line it made Geto tighten in his pants.

He’s flitting a wide-eyed glance between his thighs, fuck, then at the thick smoothie in his hands- was there something they put in this or what?

No, he’s subtly shaking his head. It’s just not everyday that you hear about your best friend finally hooking up with the very same man she’d been complaining about ever since first meeting him. It was a long time coming - the entire campus knew at this point. Hell, he’d even distantly heard about a few betting pools to see who’d crack first (okay, maybe he betted in them, too- but only twice!)

So Geto was simply happy for you. Really.

After all, he’d been right by your side through every argument, every middle finger, every war for top spot on the Dean’s List until that tall, gloomy nerd had completely n’ utterly fucked you.

And here you were, telling him all about it.

Never having been more thankful for that obnoxiously frilly tablecloth covering his legs, Geto coughs away the slight hitch in his breath. “Was it good, pipsqueak?”

A slightly dreamy look wafts across your face, and with the way that his length twitches in interest, he’s pushing away his smoothie completely now. Unable to take any chances of it somehow being spiked.

You sigh, “Hate to admit it, but yeah.”

“Nerdy fuckin’ Gojo made you cum?”

“Multiple times.”

Another jolt, another squeeze of his meaty thighs.

He darts his darkening eyes away from the expression on your beautiful face. What he’d give to make you look like that, too- no. No, he can’t. “Ah, s-so- you two’ve fucked away the tension now, or what?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say fucked away.” You’re humming idly, “He did argue with me while he was inside of me.” At the strange, strangled squawk that leaves Geto’s mouth- “I know right?”

He’s crossing and uncrossing his legs, throat dry. Sharply glancing downwards once more, “Like- dirty talk?”

And you’re completely oblivious to the way that you’re absolutely ruining him, Geto latching onto every syllable that slips out of your pretty lips like he’s breathing them in. Goddammit, he was feeling so…“Hmm—sure, but just arguing, too. Would you believe it if I told you he tried to pick a fight even after I made him cum dry?”

“C-cum dry.” The usually-deep baritone of Geto’s voice breaks as he echoes the end of your sentence, fingerpads tapping impatiently on the top of the table. Stop talking. Stop thinking. “You can do that?”

“Heh- yeah.” Fuck. You’re smirking, “Why? Jealou-”

“No.”

It comes out much more urgently than he would have liked - much more panicked - and just before you can suspect anything, he’s tugging on the ragged texture of his baggy, ripped jeans. “A-anyways, did you hear about Yaga’s-”

“Sugu, are you okay?” Oh, too late. Before he can stop you, you’re reaching over one of your palms to cover the expanse of his forehead. Feeling for his temperature, “You’re a little…hot.”

“Mm– I’m always hot, gorgeous.” Trying for his usual nonchalance, but if the way you knit your brows is anything to go by, then you’re not buying his act one bit.

“Is it strange that I slept with Gojo? I mean, I know I’ve been hating him all this time but-”

He clasps his much-larger hand over yours, blunt nails chipped with dark polish. “No no. Don’t worry about it.” With a smile, Geto stretches his long legs underneath the table to tangle them with yours. Heat against heat. Swelling cock against his pants. Tongue snagging on the silver of his snake bites.

The scorching blush that simmers across his cheeks is almost startling as he pushes away the bangs from his face - so pretty, you had to admit. Such a brash, tattooed style to him that drove nearly every woman, man, and anything in between wild any time his looming figure sauntered through campus.

Winking his eyeliner-smudged lids, “In fact-”

Ah, well, if you can’t beat them…

“-tell me more.”

Join ‘em.

Geto’s sure the poor ol’ lady next to you faints.

“Fuck-” He’s whispering, cooped up in his dark apartment not even an hour after parting ways with you at the café. Apparently you’d left for a totally-not-date with Gojo- and Geto?

Oh, Geto had one hand wrapped around his aching cock to pump until his wrist ached.

Groaning at the squelch of his thumb smearing down the crown of his reddened shaft, he’s plugging up his bawling divot. Other hand reaching over to shuffle inside his bedside cabinet, “C’mon, where- where is- ah.”

There it was.

Geto’s fingers plunge out from the depths of the drawer, all wrapped up in the strappy lace of a pair of pretty pink panties. Your panties.

Ones you’d accidentally left after a sleepover - and really, you’d stolen more than enough of his Green Day t-shirts that he didn’t exactly feel bad about stealing them away.

About hastily plucking that cutesy underwear up and pushing it against his face, he’s rolling his glassy eyes back and sniiiiffing the sweet, sweet scent of you. That smell he couldn’t get enough of. So close and yet, so far.

“Sh-shit.” Geto’s heavy shaft grows even harder in his hand, and he didn’t even think that was possible. Sinking the fringes of his teeth into his bottom lip, he wraps the ribbony fabric ‘round his erection, “Oh, shouldn’t do this- r-really shouldn’t do this.”

But he can’t stop. Not when he’s fucking the plush comfort of his palm in repeated, sloppy strokes- and not even when Geto hears the bzzzt–! of his phone vibrating from that very same bedside cabinet.

Breath catching as he turns his head to blearily stare at the flashing screen - Pipsqueak. You.

Ah…without a second thought, Geto grabs his phone with one hand, the other still tugging on the veiny shaft of his cock. Unlocking it to find that you’d sent a photograph of you - and the infamous Gojo himself. Mouth downturned, flush burning.

The two of you were cramped into the frame, at the forefront of some aquarium. Innocent, surely- but Geto catches the glide of Gojo’s fingertips down the side of your waist, the way you’re leaning in just enough to let a flash of cleavage peek through.

Dilated pupils flickering between the two figures, he finds his tattooed hips thrusting—“Oh. I’m fucked.”

So very, very fucked.

And after this, he had an email to write. To none other than Yaga.

“Iori and Haibara. Ieri and Ijichi.” Professor Yaga’s bored, monotone voice drones through with his usual steady pace, announcing each pairing for the upcoming assignment.

A practical project, it seemed - and you can’t help but feel your heart race once he’s thumbing down the list of names. Finally announcing yours and…“Gojo.” But before you can show even the slightest bit of euphoria, Yaga’s tugging up his thick sunglasses. Raising a thick brow, he’s turning your way.

And for a split-second, you think he’s staring you down- that is, until you follow his line of sight and find that Yaga’s staring above you. Just the row above.

Exactly where Geto was.

Eyes half-lidded, atmosphere surrounding him burning. Goosebumps prick down your spine, and you find yourself wondering what the hell was happening in this thick moment of silence.

Evidently, Gojo’s musing the same from his seat right beside you. Whispering from the side of his maw, “What the hell? I haven’t seen Yaga look like that since the last time you started an argument with me during class, miss valedictorian.”

That damned know-it-all nickname.

You’re taking a good, long look at him - neat, crisp. The way his thick-rimmed glasses framed a slight cute frown, cosied up in a cotton vest that hid his muscular figure, his sapphire eyes twinkling through pale bangs as you sneer.

“Satoru, that was your fault- and yesterday.”

“Well, it’s about to be right now.”

“You just want to be yelled at by me, perv.”

He’s opening his pouted mouth to snark back - but Yaga beats him to it. With a gruff, cutting announcement that neatly finishes off the rest of your little group, “-and Geto.” Only to turn away as if nothing ever happened, and rattle out the rest of his lengthy list.

And Geto? You’re furrowing your brows- this was meant to be a paired project, wasn’t it?

Well, not that you were unhappy to be with your best friend - it was rare that your uptight professor ever took his students’ preferences into consideration. But, according to your calculations, there wouldn’t have been any odd ones out in the student body, and Yaga had seemingly formed two trios for the sake of it.

Question on your lips, you’re turning in your seat to face Geto. Only to meet his eyes and oh-

Something about him was almost predatory. Something dangerous. Something that makes you gulp, and Gojo squeeze his fingers with yours.

Resting his face upon one of his palms, Geto purrs—“Consider this project a…science experiment, gorgeous.”

A science experiment.

Rubbing his swole n’ red cock raw to your photographs, writing an intently-worded email to Yaga with his choice for project pairings, and inviting the two of you to his apartment later - he was finally here, with his ‘science’ experiment.

With his ringed fingers toying down the patterns of his throbbing shaft veins, listening to the way that Gojo made you let off the prettiest shrill whimpers. “F-fuck, don’t be shy.”

You didn’t even know how you were here - only seconds after entering Geto’s sprawling living room before you’re somehow laid across his couch. Sprawled across Gojo’s lap, still fully clothed but being kissed stupid.

The former gazing all the while, thick thighs manspread like he was watching a show of his very own. He’d moved one of his cushy armchairs to watch dead-on as Gojo lifts his mouth off of yours with a dampened slurp just to spit between your parted lips.

Thwack! It’s gluing to the ridges of your tastebuds with a splatter, “Then you kiss me all proper, princess.” Gojo’s hissing between your swollen lips, the honed points of his canines nipping down on your maw just to get you to open wider. “Yer really embarrassing yourself in front of your best friend.”

Huffing, “I’m the- mmpf-”

Only to have your heated cavern stuffed with the expanse of his textured tongue. It’s just so sloppy how he’s kissing you, with the slimy edge of his muscle swirlin’ the insides of your maw as Geto snickers.

Unhinging your jaw open, you manage to muffle out. “I’m the one embarrassing myself?” The flat of your palm caresses vertically down the front of his cotton vest. All smart and sensible. Moving it down his bumpy pecs, then only further down his abs, down, down-

Before clinging your greedy fingerpads onto the large, cylindrical length of his erection. All looong and hard, it’s laid out the side of his meaty right leg. “Who’s the one that’s rock fuckin’ hard already?”

“F-fuck.” He’s gasping into your touch, and through his linen pants you can feel the bulge of his cock twitch. Flinching needily enough that the syrupy puddle forming between his thighs starts to grow even sappier, “And whose fault is that~?‘

“Mmm– mine.”

“Heh, so you know how to take accountability?”

Vulgarly, the edges of your fingers twitch into a squeeze over the outline of his cock - so thick that your hand struggles to properly close around him. “Only for this.”

“You little-”

“So you two seriously argue during sex, too?” Geto’s husky voice breaks through, and you’re both snapping your head over to see the way his head tilts. The way he lurches his hips slightly off of his seat with a buck, fingers dragging down his veiny cock. “Fuck, that’s hot.”

Noticing the silky scrap of fabric that sticks out from the gaps of his fingers, you’re whining at the sight of those familiar panties you’d lost months ago. “Suguru—”

“You can make those sounds for him, too?” Gojo snarls, rutting you up on his v-line so that your dazed head lolls back towards him. Swatting a hand down on the side of your ass cheek, he’s lifting your thin skirt enough to give Geto just a peek of your panties.

Possessive. Feral.

Something primal slips into Gojo’s throat as he toys with the wiry strings of your underwear, where he’s sure Geto can watch. “M’shocked we’re not fighting even more, miss valedictorian.”

“Sh-shut up.”

With a gasp, you’re pushin’ your sultry hips further down onto his. Grinding so that the slope of your slit presses through your panties and onto his fattened cock, just so wet that it leaves a glistening snail-trail between Gojo’s thighs.

“Mmm—” Geto departs with a chuckle, hands pumping even faster on the veiny, gleaming length of his cock until it was almost just a pinkish blur. He’s milking himself with a grunt at each lecherous interaction, “Keep going, gorgeous. Just like that.”

Shyly, you shift your restless hips, “B-but, Sugu…”

“Ohhh I like that.” Geto juts his chin up, nudging the rough fabric of his pants down to free a few more solid inches even more. “Say that again, pipsqueak.”

“S-Sug-”

“Nuh uh.” But before you know it, Gojo has a hand smushing your cheeks together into such a pathetic pout. Staring back down at him- “You’re going to say ‘Toru.’”

Geto muses, “Sugu.”

“Toru.”

“Sugu-”

“To-”

“P-please.” Your wailing cries cut through the slight battle, impatiently humping the plane of Gojo’s clothed pelvis at a pace that damn near reaches a fever-point. “Just want something- anything.” Head throwing back, babbling, oh-so-pretty that Geto puffs out a low hum, and tucks your soaked panties away.

“Then c’mere, gorgeous.”

Gojo interrupts, “What?”

“I said…” The tattooed man plows on, lips twitching even further into a grin once you’re standing up on wobbly legs. The flesh of your thighs squeezing together with each step, “-come here. You too, nerd.”

Oh.

And you can’t even remember the treacherous trek you take to clamor up onto Geto’s widespread thighs, he’s just so big n’ beefy that it takes you a few tries to properly straddle his toned hips. Grappling your two hands on top of his round deltoids, “L-like this, Suguru?”

“Atta girl, there you go.” Perking you up further- he takes a second to admire you. To memorize you. To take in every heady pant of yours and each dry hump of your cunt.

Before tugging a girthy finger upon the sides of your current panties and teeearing straight through them. Skirt next to follow.

Gojo can only watch in utter awe as he’s bared to your pretty, sopping pussy from behind- fuck, he’s never going to get used to this. Joints weakening, mouth parched, his towering frame falls to his knees at merely the sight.

“Pussy got your tongue, Toru?” You’re tittering once Gojo’s only saddling up behind you on the carpet, glasses now level with your slick-glazed lips. Close.

“Well, he will have your pussy, pipsqueak.” Geto’s piping up from underneath you, sliding further down the armchair so that Gojo’s nose sticks to the outer part of your sheeny cunt. “But where do you want me? Here?” Groping your ass, “Orrrr here?” Your thighs. “Or-”

“No teasing, Suguru.”

“Oh, gorgeous, I could go allll fucking day without…” One of his rings shaped into a gothic skull traces your cunt, “-dessert.”

Gojo scoffs, “Well, I’m fucking starved-”

Geto grins, “And I wanna kiss these lips first.”

“O-oh mm–” It was just maddening- the very nanosecond that Gojo’s hearing he’ll be having your sweet, honeyed pussy all to himself, he’s plastering his mouth to your folds.

Stirring the curvy edge of his tongue instantly past your soppy entrance, puckering you up for a saccharine kiss. Latching his glossy lips down to the swollen fringe of your pussylips, he throws his head back and grins. “Nothing smart to say now, miss hah- valedictorian?”

“Now now, of course, she doesn’t.” And it’s the very moment that Geto’s mouth kisses your own that you’re realizing he didn’t have just snake bites - he’d hidden away a frigid, metallic tongue piercing.

That slick spheroid wafting between your lips, Geto’s drinking you in like he’s a man parched. And every cute bubble of spit spilling from your mouth was the first droplet of water he’s had in eons. Feeling his smug grin across your lips, “Not when she’s kissing me, of course.”

“Tch- as if.” Gojo spits- literally, a great, glittery wad of spittle that thrashes past your quivering hole. Salivating his tongue to push juuuust inside, just teasing the tight ring of your cunt with his velvety tongue. “S’because of me. Her vaginal introitus is just drooling.”

And oh- Gojo’s tongue is just so flexible. Swabbing the tender orifices of your sleek cunt with his pointed tip, he bullies a few inches past your entrance and makes you whine. “P-please- ngh more, Satoru. F-fuck me like you mean it.”

Snickering, Gojo only swats the right side of your ass cheek, gripping it to haul your wildly bucking body further against his face. Until his chin hits your treacly cunt, until his nostrils can’t even breathe-

“Aw, nothing f’me?” Geto coos, and while you’re all jostling and thrashing, one of his ringed hands plummet down the side of your body. Pryin’ apart your slick-glued folds to press his knobbled index on top of your clit like a button. “You’re my best friend. What if I wan’ a taste, too?”

Your breath hitches by the time he’s glazing his finger across your creamy pussy already, covering it with just enough layers of your juices. Just enough to hover up into his mouth and suck.

Gasping, “But you’re already…”

“S’not enough.” And while Gojo slips n’ slides his flattened tongue between your pussylips, Geto puckers his maw up to yours. Hazy amethyst irises only half-opened, mouth quirking just at the ends. “Spit.”

It happens all at once- you’re spitting inside Geto’s mouth and he moans at the taste of you, never one to be forgotten, Gojo splats out saliva on your cunt and forces his impaling tongue inside.

“Oh, your bartholin glands are just sopping all over me, so much- ngh- leukorrhea.” Babbling away, Gojo’s letting out such noisy smacks each time he flops his tongue out to flick your shaky hole. Harder. Deeper.

He’s eating you out like he’s addicted to it, the long length of his pale lashes fluttering every time the sharpness of his jawline pushes against your slam-contacted flesh until he can’t push himself even further.

Until the rim of his spectacles coldly swats your pussy and makes him stutter, “W-wonder if I can reach the ngh- Gräfenberg spot like this…” Tugging you back with trembling hands, the thickness of his tongue probes even deeper against your walls. “More- if only I can-”

“You’re never reaching it like that, nerd.” Geto rolls his eyes, back to slithering his right hand down and cupping your pussy.

He snickers each time he’s feeling the silky crowns of his fingerpads brush against Gojo’s thrashing tongue. Toying with the other man, he’s covering the nub of your pulsing clit each n’ every time, just so that Geto can be the one to give it a good, long pinch.

It’s just so cute how you buck into him with a hollow gasp, “Wh-what did I say about teasing, Sugu–”

“Just can’t help it, pipsqueak.” Your best friend purrs, snagging the sharpened ends of his snake bites against your lips. Bouncing his meaty thighs, running your cunt ragged with each rough drag down his loose, ripped jeans.

Once. Twice. Again and again- until Gojo’s clawing a hand on the side of your glissading hips to stop your slobbering cunt from darting too far away from him. You squeal, “W-wait, ohh ngh- Satoru, m’not gonna last like this–”

The dual stimulation was just rendering you stupid, twitching on top of Geto’s lap each time he’s scraping your pussy down to ride his tattooed thighs. Every bounce leaves you recoiling right back into Gojo’s mouth, mouth watering at the rovering push of his tongue entering you. And out. In and out-

“Good.” Thwack! Spanking one of his emblem rings down on your clit, “Because I think m’getting impatient here. I’ve been waiting for ages, after all.”

“A-ages?”

“Mhm— oh, you have noooo idea, gorgeous.” Drawling out, Geto’s driving you crazy with the twist of his hips angling you properly.

Making it just so that your pussylips spread wiiide open to ride his leg like you were pouring your sheeny slick out all over it. Just so that Gojo’s angular tongue can sharply strike near your g-spot, just so that you’re cumming before you know it.

It runs you over in a sudden wave, and before you know it- you’re simply seeing pure white. “O-oh my god. Fuck- fuck fuck fuck, m’cumming—” Glassed irises running cartoonish circles inside the whites of your eyes with each swivel.

Head falling forwards into the crook of Geto’s neck, hips planted firmly on Gojo’s face - exactly where he wanted it.

And he’s lavishing his tongue allll over your quivering pussy, draggin’ out each spike of your high with a stretching thrust. “Oh- oh, m’fucking starved, princess. Like that, cum- cum on my ngh- tongue. My tongue.” Dilated blue eyes blinking up drunkenly, “My tongue only.”

Geto raises a dark brow, “Yours only?”

Gojo pipes up with a glistening grin, slapping away Geto’s tuggin’ fingerpads to suckle on your clit like a sweetened piece of candy. “Yeah. Too fucking late now, aren’t you?”

Chilling spheroid tongue piercing licking down your salivating lips, “You sure?”

“Positive.”

Almost in response, Gojo’s wrapping his beefy forearms back around your inner thighs. Planting your overstimulated cunt even deeper across his mouth, digging his glasses back into his straight nosebridge - it didn’t matter if Gojo would suffocate if it meant he could go out with the syrupy taste of your slick drivelling down the sides of his mouth.

But Geto only coos, looking down at the other man through his inky locks. “Don’t be like that— didn’t all your books ever teach you about sharing?”

“M’not sharing my girl’s pussy.”

“Mhm?”

It was a challenge.

And both treated it as such.

You’re being tugged ‘round in the middle like some boneless ragdoll, the hazy state of your mind spinning once Geto stands up. For a split-second.

And seats you down all prettily on the armchair he was in, with your legs splayed wiiiide open with a deafening wet squelch of your pussy. Gojo’s coral pink lips parting into a soft oh! when the other man kneels down right beside him on the ground - both of them on their knees for you.

Both of them latching onto one of your legs with pawing hands, nudging them further open to accommodate their hulking sizes. To accommodate the way that both Geto and Gojo tackle themselves down to eat your drippin’ pussy at the same time.

Again.

“H-hold on- both of you- oh, mmm, fuck.” And you can’t do anything but cling your clammy palms onto both of their heads. “I don’t know if I even can hck! cum again so soon.”

“You will, princess.”

“We’ll make sure of it.”

Gojo on your left, Geto on your right- they’re flopping out two lengthy pinkish tongues between your trembling thighs. Sloshing against each other, fighting against each other, each of their pretty features plastered upon the inner side of each leg.

And where Gojo was eager, Geto was teasing. He was mean- lining the slick slit of your cunt with looooong, tender glides. He snickers once he’s feeling the other man impatiently thrust into your hole, “Mmm–fuck! Sweeter than I ever imagined.”

“I know.” Gojo’s snowy brows knit, chin polishing with ribbons of your juices each time he nodded his head down to shove past your first tight ring of muscle. Pumping you full. Beading your every nook and cranny with a thorough probe of his tastebuds, “And she’s my hah- miss valedictorian- isn’t that right, princess?”

“Y-you’re both acting so- hck!” It’s a wonder you even could speak with how much they were ruining your damn pussy. “-ch-childish- fuck.”

Lapping up every dribbling ounce of slick you gave off, licking into every and any spot on you that they could scour. And you were so much extra aroused now, a pure translucent waterfall sticking down the fronts of their chins with every too-sensitive touch.

Hell, you’re blinking your watery eyes down to watch the way that Gojo’s thumbing apart your swollen folds just so that he could plunge his tongue inside deeper. Faster.

Sloppier.

Slipping over each other, chins knocking, greedy.

With the rawest, loudest squeeelch–! Geto lingers his piercing over your clit, taking full claim with the way he’s sucking. “She might be your ‘miss valedictorian’...” Groaning, you’re feeling his glinting canines bite down once on the nearby flesh of your thigh, and then twice on your oversensitive clit - enough to leave a slight mark. “-but she’s my pipsqueak. So if I wanna taste, m’getting it. Isn’t that riiight—?”

THWACK!

Spanking your clit just so you’re crying out-

“S’what I thought.” Geto hums.

And that’s exactly what he was doing - what they both were doing.

Two soppily wet tastebuds rubbin’ your pussy all over until you were oversensitive, and the way they’re fighting to see who occupies the most of your sweet, sweet cunt is just animal.

Gojo pushin’ his face deeper until the line of his glasses left bright red marks on his flushed face, Geto instead moving you- gluing a palm on the side of your hips and jerking you to him.

“O-oh nghhh it feels shoooo good-” You’re slurring, so stimulated that your hands wrestle for purchase on the chair’s cushion each time you’re throwing your head back and bucking up, up, up.

“Good? Good, gorgeous–?”

“Mhm—”

Cunt throbbing oh-so-badly at every slash of their tongue, the way that Geto grips a hand onto the back of Gojo’s head to guide him into your favorite spots. Nudging your earliest bundles of nerves with his probin’, thumping tastebuds.

Your breath catches with a sob within your clogged throat at the sight of Geto usin’ that tight leverage to tilt Gojo’s head ever-so-slightly so that their tongues meet each other.

Filthy oodles of saliva watering over the edge of the other man’s tongue as he moans, Geto’s grinning when he’s kissing both your sappy cunt and him. “Don’tcha even know how ta properly eat a girl out, nerd?”

“I-I do-”

“Spit.”

“What?”

“Spit.”

In a sultry split-second, your already drenched pussy is being swamped by two steady streams of saliva. Spitting. Geto’s tongue everywhere, he sucks on your perked clit while Gojo back takes over sinking his honed muscle inside your gummy walls. “Tch, s’that all you got, Suguru? You clearly don’t even know the nghh- benefits of stimulating her adventitia-”

“That’s not shit, what you’ve gotta do is- hahh-” Geto departs a sweltering hot gust of breath, letting Gojo’s curling pink tongue thrash inside your pussy while he snagged three ringed fingers on your rim and push-push-puuuushes inside. “-stretch her pretty lil’ cunt wiiiide open.”

“F-fuuck why is it so big–” You’re whining, crying. Legs hooking over both their shoulders to bring them together. The sheer scrape of Geto’s metallic rings against your sweet spots makes you see stars, “Don’t think m’gonna last long…”

“C-close, huh?” Gojo drags out through a breathy tone - and there’s something higher-pitched in his tone, something that almost sounded gone. Such a primal tinge to his tone, he’s nuzzling his nose against your clit and making such a mess.

Geto grunts, rosy lips pulling back into a snarling grin by the time he gives you one-two-three sloppy strokes. Reaching for the plush area of your g-spot “What did I say? Gotta stretch her reeeal big so she can take me-” Hitting it - hard. “-isn’t that right, pretty lady?”

He wasn’t even talking to you at this point - just your pussy. And you swear you’re feeling the pointed nib of even Gojo’s falter slightly on your clit as he speaks.

Squelch after squelch, they’re both pulling out of you when you’re only growing wetter. The tips of your toes curling inwards as you’re feeling your tummy spark near familiar bliss, “S-Sugu–!”

THWACK!

The stinging noise rings out before you’re even feeling the burning ache, the way that Geto’s firm fingerpads stick to your plump cunt in a sharp swat. Him snickering, “See?”

“You’re insane.” Gojo titters back, prattling.

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve waited for ngh- this, nerd.” Ever since he first met you that fateful orientation day, in fact. Tongue piercing tickling your clit, fighting Gojo’s tongue for purchase. “Have no- fucking- clue-”

“Don’t give a fuck-” And he didn’t - really, really didn’t. The glasses-clad man doesn’t think he could even register anything other than the streaming sap your cunt was gushing out onto his tongue, and the way your hole quivered in that way that told him you were close. Again. “Just wan’ you to cum on my t-tongue, princess.”

“Heh- you’re better like this, Toru.”

“Shut up and cum.”

Long, ivory bangs soft against the bottom of your tummy with how close he’s diving himself nose-deep. More. Gojo ruts against the cushion of the armchair, knees dragging against the carpet as he’s lunging even further- and he doesn’t even notice.

“Easy there, gonna suffocate-”

You run your hands through his sweaty scalp, breath heightening. “Yeah, you ngh- okay?”

Grunting at the texture of Geto’s own tongue, “Mmmm– no.” Gojo’s classes are completely fogged-up at this point, and he’s only clashing them further. Adding one of his own lengthy fingers past your hole so that he can pump furiously. Both their hands so dexterous. “Muscularis contracting- ngh, even more leukorrhea- wet. Gonna cum- gonna cum gonna cum—”

And that’s exactly all it takes - the slightest, tiniest bend of Gojo’s stifling digits thumping your g-spot in carnal unison with Geto’s ringed ones, and then you’re reaching your orgasm. For the second time.

Hips fully wrenching off of the dampened chair cushions to push your two boys with a generous mouthful of your candied pussy- one they’re salivating over gratefully. Repeatedly targeting your favorite spots with their fingers, maws further agape, eyes rolling to the back of their heads.

You can only hit your chin against your chest to take in the lewd, lewd sight of being eaten out by both Gojo and Geto. “Sh-shiiit–” Cheeks wet with tears, “Never cum like this- ngh, it’s so- oh.”

“Please- that’s it, use me.” Gojo recants back, giving his features up for you to conduct such long, slobbering drags. “Use me, princess- ngh- m’fucking starved. Ohhh, fucking love this pussy. M’gonna eat you out for the rest of my life, miss valedictorian.”

Smirking, Geto pins your gyratin’ hips down and watches as Gojo blindly whines. Chasing the taste of your cunt just so he can lap you through your wet high. “Heh- you’re damn pussydrunk, nerd.” Turning to you with hooded eyes, your best friend’s making sure he murmurs this into your overstimulated pussy. “And you’re dumbified, my cute lil’ pipsqueak.”

Though, it’s not like he was any better.

But before Geto’s forced to bite down on his lower lip and bite back pure whimpers at the oversaturation of your taste, he pulls away.

Painfully, with a final sopping thwack! of his palm coming down to strike your cunt. Your eyes are just barely open enough to make out the fuzzy shapes of Geto pulling Gojo backwards, too, with a hand at his throat.

Watching as his lips detach from your pussy with a wet plop! strings of slick scattering all over his maw. Watching as his neat glasses stick to your pussy n’ he has to manually smear them back up his nosebridge, “Oi- the fuck do you think you’re doing, punk?”

“Well, you can make out with her pussy all you want, nerd.” Geto’s piercings glint as he pinches his index and thumb into a circle. Sticking his tongue lewdly between that hole, “I wanna fuck it.”

“Oh…” You can only ogle unabashedly once the two make quick work of discarding your top n’ bra, then their own clothes - Gojo’s two layers of vests, his formal pants, and Geto’s torn band t-shirt and washed jeans. All in a pile somewhere by your throne of an armchair.

They couldn’t be more different.

And that went for their hot, rock-hard cocks, too - where Gojo was longer, Geto was thicker.

Both oh-so-massive that it has your thighs clenching in both fear and anticipation, you can’t help but stare at the way that Gojo was so fuckin’ red that the bulging end of his shaft looked like strawberry. And just as thick, he’s glazing himself with so many layers of slick pre that fall down his lengthy member.

And Geto- oh, Geto’s was the sexiest tannish pink at his tip. Covered with so many puffy veins that you’re almost missing the line of a few silver barbells lining his fat shaft. A Jacob’s Ladder piercing - with a studded Prince Albert’s at the very bottom of his thoroughly flared tip.

Where Gojo’s cock was utterly pretty and made your cunt water, Geto’s looked like he was about to positively ruin you.

“Heh, that’s cute.” Your best friend croons, catching both your gaped staring. Gojo quickly snaps himself out of it, hands reaching for your open thighs to-

“Ah ah, dibs.” Geto slaps his hand away, and it takes him only a second to pick you up as if you were weightless. All carried in his broad arms - his shoulders were so muscular - to the nearby bedroom and lay you flat on the bouncy mattress.

Hovering over you, you take the opportunity to mindlessly gawk at him in a way you didn’t allow yourself to before. Everything from the sinful silver piercings that punctured his rosy nipples, to the stark black dragon tattooed across his back and down to his hips- and wait.

Your eyes damn near pop out of your head- right on the left side of his prominent v-line…was that…a tattoo of your first initial?

Geto catches the beeline of your eyesight and muses, “Got it in secret honor of my- ah, best friend.” Leaning in, “N’ you’re gonna feel it reeeal up close and personal now, best friend.”

Gojo calls out as he follows inside, “Oi- first come first haaaah- serve. Isn’t that right, princess?”

Before you can answer, Geto cuts in- “Then, I’m first-‘ Shoving the other man slightly, fighting for who gets the first touch of your pussy on their aching cocks. Geto’s cleanly pushes your boneless body onto all fours, stood by the edge of his bed. “-because you were my gorgeous girl first, riiiight—?”

“O-oh–! Yes- I mean no- I mean…” You’re yelping the very instant his cold, orbed piercing runs lazily down your slit from behind. And you whimper as the bed dips with a creak, revealing Gojo in all his needy glory - pale thighs parted about the length of your head, so towering where he was starin’ down at you through his thick glasses.

“Ya hear that, nerd?”

Gojo rolls his eyes, one hand smearing the plump pinkish curvature of his cock between your glossed lips. “Tch- my princess disagreed. Clearly.”

With a cackle, Geto slobbers his drooling mushroom tip down your folds- making sure that Gojo’s ears burn at the lecherous squeeelch-! that’s sounding out once he does. And you swear you’re seeing fucking stars by the time that he manspreads his sculpted thighs part and presses his thick circumference in—

“Shit- shit shit shit—” You’ve never been so stretched, and the utter fuckin’ girth of his circumference makes your eyes tear up pathetically. “How are you so bi- mmmpf!”

If you thought that stretch between your shaky, sheened legs was incredible- then you absolutely weren’t ready for the way that Gojo’s barging his prolonged cock right between your gawking mouth. Filling up your hot gummy maw with a few solid inches of his length, he wasn’t even bottomed-out yet, and you swear you could already feel him at your throat.

“Easy there, pipsqueak. Eeeasy does it.” Geto croaks out from behind you, shuffling his toned hips ever-so-slightly closer. Just the merest deepening entrance enough to make you salivate.

“Shiiiit- dunno who’s glands are l-leaking more- ” Gojo hisses, heavy lids flapping at the feeling of your treacly saliva gluing against the underside of his shaft. “Your pretty mouth, or your cunt…”

And you didn’t know either- hell, you couldn’t even think at this point.

It was just rendering you so dumb having both your slick orifices plugged up, Geto’s tattooed hips relentlessly pushing in half-thrusts from behind. Gojo clawing on top of your clammy crown and nudging your lolling head down further—

Managing to somehow muffle out, “Ngh- hck- so mm-much—”

“Yeahhh, as you like it, g-gorgeous.” Something in Geto’s voice shatters the very moment he’s able to slip his rigid cockhead in n’ swab your entrance with the point of his piercing.

Usin’ it like some cute lil’ searchlight as he’s pressing the cold metal against the sides of your stretchy walls, scouring down each side of your pussy for that spot of your nerves. The rub of his Jacob’s Ladder was mind-numbing, miniscule knobbled barbells poking tender crevices you didn’t even know existed. “Want you and this ngh- p-pretty lady right here nice n’- happy- and-”

Each word was punctuated by the most probing thrust of Geto’s powerful hips, easing the measurement of his cock inside you with the sloppiest noises.

Damn near muffling out your shrills when his pure pressure forces you forwards to pump even more of Gojo’s leaking shaft down your relaxed throat. Deeper. Harder.

“And taking- this-” With a hand on your hips, Geto reels you in- only for Gojo to scramble a grip on your throat and keep you with him. A tug-of-war. Pushing. Pulling.

And the only thing that both can think to do is urge their capped knees closer to you on the bed and split you wiiiide open-

“-biiiig stretch.” Geto finishes off.

Just as he bottoms out inside of your sweltering cunt, your initial kissin’ your skin, just as Gojo scratches the edge of your nose on his tufted white happy trail.

Both of them.

And they’re not wasting a single second - not even a split-second.

Because once your hot, clenchin’ holes have greedily swallowed up both of them, they’re rutting their hips back and half-thrusting. Not even fully- just half just to feel your heat, the sweet softness of you.

“Fuh-fuck, your buccal mucosa just feels sooo ngh-” Gojo’s babbling away, neck still held deftly within his fingers as he’s swervin’ his hips back to dab the very back of your throat with the fleshy circle of your tip. “Th-think I’m hitting all the way at your ngh- palate-”

Geto rolls his hazed eyes, tugging your hips back to strike your ass cheeks against his toned v-line. Hard enough that your mouth leaves Gojo’s bulbous tip with a pop! “D’you always needa talk like ngh- that, nerd?”

“Do you always need to be s-so filthy, punk?” The other man snarls, tempting his hips closer so that you’re almost squished between the two.

“Mmm—” Geto pretends to think, tapping the point of his chin with one hand, whilst the other smears your ass cheeks open to take a vulgar look at your cunt from behind. And he doesn’t answer- not at first, what he’s doing is spitting a cool wad of saliva that darts straightly down to your slit. “Hell yeah.”

With a roll of his shoulders, he’s thrashing the globular ends of his reddened, swollen shaft into your deepest depths. And it feels like you’re just melting around him, “So shut up and fuck, nerd.”

And Gojo Satoru was always first in class - if you weren’t, that is - you think he ever needed to be told anything twice?

Nibbling onto his pouty lower lip, Gojo darts one of his carnally itching fingerpads up and squeezes your flared nostrils - already rubbed raw by the massage of his ivory, curly hair.

Giggling something drunken as you sputter and choke on his throbbing shaft, “Fuck nnngh- you’re a dirty fucking girl, miss valedictorian-” He hisses, he’s spitting through clenched teeth every time the bumpy texture of your tastebuds were rovering down his tender underside.

Were latching onto the pulsating lines of his veins, and making him groan. Heavy, pink balls tighening each time they strike-strike-strike your chin, “S-sooo much better with my hah- fat fuckin’ cock stuck between those lips.”

Whining, you couldn’t even pant out in wailing gasps each time Geto’s bulbous piercings were crazing your bubblegum walls like a ladder. “F- mm fuck y-”

Squeezing your nose even tighter- “Fuck me?” Gojo titters out from above, and it’s almost humiliating the way he blushes as he looks down at you above his pecs, flexing core rippling with each hasty jackhammer.

Mean. His mouth was so mean, and the way his thumb drifts down the forefront of your throat, feeling for that bulge where his cock was driving was even meaner.

He could feel himself. Feel you taking him. “Y-you’re the one being fucked right now, princess.”

“Mhm— and by me.” And the very second that Gojo lets your nose free to breathe, Geto snakes his clit down to pinch your sopping wet clit.

“No- yes! Please-” You’re mewling, “Close- I-I’m so close- ngh-”

Your best friend leans in so close to whisper against the shell of your ear; letting his tattooed pecs glue to your back, lengthy locks tickling the arch of your sweaty spine. Holding on close. Hard. “No? Close? Make up your mind.”

You can only spit through an open maw—“No- yes- fuuuuck m-more.”

Absolutely ruined, and neither of them have ever seen you like this.

“H-her nucleus accumbens is going into overdrive-” Gojo sputters out, and you’re starin’ through your teary lashes at the cute way his condensation-filled glasses slip down his nose with each battering ram of his ravaged cock. “Which- hck! which means decreased activity in the cerebral cortex and- and it means…”

“Spit it out, nerd.”

“She’s close.”

“Haaah- coulda told you ngh- that.” And, truly, you’re squeezing your pretty bubblegum walls ‘round him so tight that it’s almost hard for Geto to pull back and forth in repeated thrusts. “Gonna cum f’me, pipsqueak? C’mon cooome on- let your best friend hah- fill you up, would you?”

You’re whining, “Please-” Heard sparking with whatever jumbled mess that Gojo had talked about and you couldn’t even begin to make sense right now. “Close- gonna- ngh-”

“Wait- you’re cumming inside fir- fuck!” Gojo gapes, only to hunch his washboard abs forwards and drive into you at the flick of your velvety tongue on his sensitive slit - his favorite. Only to cum- and the sight of you gulping down his milky mess, letting it dribble all down your bobbing throat was so sexy that Geto can’t help but lose it, too.

Shit- that was fast. Faster than he’d ever been with your panties snugly wrapping his cock and your photograph in hand - but your quivering, wet pussy just felt so good that he’s squelching out his orgasm once he’s feeling yours.

Long, ribbony bouts of seed that were just scalding puddling at the bottom of your pussy- you swear you’re feeling it slosh about inside of you with each tiny motion. Splashing inside your mouth.

All for you to swallow.

All three at once, you didn’t even think you could cum again before Geto’s giving you a carnal pinch to your clit. “Cum—ing– ngh.” You’re heavily gulping the ivory sap that glazes your tongue, eyes rolling back in utterly stupid bliss. “Please- oh.”

“No one taught you not to talk with your- haaah- mouth full, hm?” The man above you gruffs out through a dry gasp, hips sloppy. Chest heaving. Ringed, sticky digits twitching. “No one-” His breath hitches as he’s feeling your unsteady hips sliiide off of his pummeling cock, “Oh, where’d you think you’re going?”

“Nononono- no-” Gojo snarls, properly bearing his glinting canines like he was more animal than man right about now. Tuggin’ you back with the hand bruising your throat, “If m’fucking your creampie then I get to ngh- have her to myself a bit. Open.”

Breathless, you’re lolling out your tongue and gazing up at the way the towering man’s eyes widen at the lack of anything in your mouth. The way you’d swallowed it all. “M’gonna have so much fun this time.”

Wait…your eyes widen. Still jolting bodily with sparking bouts of electricity, your third - was that even the correct number - orgasm wasn’t even bating before they’re talking about the next.

Unaffected, Geto only rolls his eyes- and his fingers over your drivelling slit. Practically turned into a waterfall of his buttery white cum, making you pull off of Gojo’s cock with a hiss at his rude fingertips. “Oh, shut it.”

Before either of you can blink- before you can even breathe, your best friend’s stuffing your breaths all the way back into your screaming lungs.

All by sticking his cum-glazed finger inside your mouth, swirlin’ that creamy polish into your deepest crannies. “Hm…you, too.” And in mere nanoseconds, Geto has his white syrupy fingerpads stuffed inside Gojo’s mouth.

“What- mmpf–” Your mouthy academic rival just looks so pretty with thick fingers plunged between his spit-glittered lips. Pale brows scrunching together, face red-hot, a thin line of cum trickling slowly down the side of his suckling mouth.

And it’s enough so that your ravenous hips start lurching down the expanse of Geto’s cock- as if to milk him for more.

“Hehhh–?” He’s grinning through his shaggy raven strands at your motions, pulling back his fingers with a squelch. “What a filthy girl- stuffed you with so much cum you’re over ngh- overspilling, and you still wan’ more?”

With only your cutesy babbles for an answer, you’re feeling him straighten his muscular core up to face Gojo even more. “So, you either fuck her w’my cum inside- or, watch as I fill her up with s-so much of my cum she can’t not feel it inside-”

“Shut up n’ let me fuck my girl, punk.”

“Mm— that’s not having the hah- reaction you want, nerd.” As if to prove his point, Geto’s gleaming cock twitches when he’s easing out of you with a raw slurp. Slowly, but surely, he takes his sweet, sweet time to remind you of the pattern of piercings lining his frenulum. “Our girl, you mean.”

You’re swearing he’s only getting even bigger at the sight of you- draped across Gojo’s thoroughly sculpted front not even a moment later. Your cunt frosted white with his own cum, Gojo’s bulbous mushroom tip bulging your pussylips wiiide open. Impatient.

“Oh.” Geto manages to pant out.

Just barely lets himself even breathe before he’s dropping further down the protesting bedsprings, all the way until his hot breaths breeze across your oversensitive pussy in a lil’ ‘hello.’

Grunting, Gojo tugs your chin back over to face him - resting flatly on his back so you’re trembling n’ limp on his abs.

“Mmm– hello, princess.” He’s crooning out with his deep, rasping voice. And you answer with a whimper of your own at the sexy feeling of his core flexing underneath you, pecs all bouncy in the way they had no right to be.

He was so big - both of them were, Gojo being taller where Geto was broader.

Yet, both numerous inches over six feet and sandwiching you with their chiseled weights as you’re settling on top of Gojo. Cushioned over his broad, flushed chest, you feel him cup your sweaty cheek, “Heh, d-don’t think you can be valedictorian like this.”

You’re marrying your brows in what looked like such adorable annoyance to his half-lidded eyes. “Mmm—how are you gonna say that when hck! you’re the one that got pussydru- oh, fuck.”

Fuck, and then you’re promptly shut up by Geto’s tongue slithering slimily between the folds of your pussy. Letting his curly tip lap up every wadded ounce of cum overspilling out of you, “Oh, don’t stop on mmm- my accounts. Always so cute when yer mad, pipsqueak.”

“I was thinking more hot—” Gojo’s moaning out, bucking- and he was still so rock-hard. So needy that just the slightest slip n’ slide across your outer pussy makes him rut- “Fuck.”

And it makes him sink inside, just the slightest push of his thick, rotund crown. Your filthy hole plugs up with his strawberry-pink tip and you’re finding yourself gasping.

“Not gonna help me clean up, nerd?”

“Sh-shut the fuck up-” Gojo’s scrunching his brows until he’s feeling dizzy- or maybe that was just the sopping, soft feeling of your pussy. Opening up such a primal part of him once he’s listening to the swampy noises being pulled out, “Her pussy- o-ohhh this pussy…your adventitia stretches so, the way you’re- I can’t…”

You’d made one of the smartest, most eloquent men on campus speechless.

“And you call me filthy.” Geto chuckles darkly from behind you, still not stopping. Still letting the pierced muscle of his tongue swirl right near your entrance, each solid inch that Gojo was bullying inside made you leak onto his tastebuds with a splat!

Filthy.

Absolutely filthy. You couldn’t even begin to describe the sensation when Gojo’s starting to pick up his pace- to start driving his hips in a back n’ forth that only lets him pound you with half-thrusts.

Shaft so plump that it won’t even fit- he’s arching his slam-reddened hips up from the mattress to push and push and push. “S’my turn now- my- hck! gonna take this fucking cock, right, princess?” Gojo strangles out, “Right- right?”

Voice pitching higher, unsteadily cracking.

He can’t stop himself from firmly planting his two feet spread further just so he can cling onto your hips and gift you direct slams. Deeper.

“Please- s-so biiig— will it even fit.”

Gojo shoots a prideful glance down at Geto, who only thumbs apart your bruised n’ battered pussylips with a smirk. “Of course, it will.” And you’re jolting at the burning sensation of his ringed thumb pushing inside of your wet hole, just to stretch you out even wider for Gojo.

THWACK!

He’s tittering meanly as the little spank leaves you leaking from the sides of your stretched-out hole, a little trail of creamy white for him to lick down. Frigid orb of his piercing just lightly skimming Gojo’s own tender shaft, “If you’re good that is, gorgeous.”

“Yeah- yeah.” Gojo’s panting out, so drunk on the sappy texture. He felt like your elastic walls were just molding to his exact size, so tight n’ warm. “Why don’tcha count for me, miss valedictorian?”

“C-count? Satoru, what do you- oh.”

Oh was right- by the way the inches of his cock flinched inside of you. He wanted you to count how many inches he was - and you swear you hear even Geto hum in interest from behind.

Smirking to himself, oh, he’s got his mouth open to drool and make such a mess as Gojo starts stirrin’ your dewy insides with the ragged lines of his veins. Pulling back all the way until his rounded cockhead stretches your entrance, “One- c’mon, one.”

“O-one-” You’re echoing out after Gojo- but oh, even that was a fucking feat. Especially with Geto’s twirling tongue piercing rubbin’ all over your overstuffed slit. Hiccuping, “Two-”

“Mhm—?”

“Three- ngh- five.”

Geto snickers, “Does five come after three?”

“Heh, not so smart now, huh?” Gojo lazes his tongue out for you to suckle on whilst you quietly sob at the utter size of him, he just kept going and going. Like it was never-ending, Gojo’s pretty pink girth kisses the very area of your g-spot without even trying-

“Then just shut up and fuck me, Toru- oh.”

He does. Oh, you think Gojo could ever deny you?

Bottoming out with an angry jackhammer, “Ten–!” You find yourself throwing your head back with a keen, feeling that shuddering thump of his weepy shaft strike the back of your cervix. Hard. With ten solid, throbbing inches somehow shovelled inside of you, you’re bucking backwards in figure-eights, “Ten- ten ten ten- please-”

“Mmm, my turn, pipsqueak.”

Stupidly, your maw splits open with a gush of saliva- “H-huh?”

“You heard me- heh, or are you that fucked out, already?” Geto was just so mean, taking his sensual time to finish drinking up the salted caramel taste of his gooey cum dripping out of you. Until you were all niiiice and clean.

Gojo gives you another few repeated whacks to your most tender spots, almost like he was staking his claim. Eyes narrowed through slimy, slick-sprayed glasses, “Oi- you already got your turn.”

“Yeah n’ now m’fucking hard again.” Rolling his lavender eyes, Geto tuts at the impatient, sloppy way Gojo was fucking into you. “Make yerself useful and open her pretty legs a little wider.”

Grumbling, you’re oh-so-shocked to find that Gojo Satoru actually does what he’s told.

“You hafta teach me how to do that-” You’re jesting, only to get punished with another merciless bruise gliding down your cervix.

“Hahhh- yeahhh, you know it.” Your best friend nods down at you, “That’s it. Now arch those hips up f’me now.”

Something like a territorial growl rips from the back of Gojo’s throat as he feels Geto hover onto his knees from behind. Leaning forwards until his silky, Stygian hair fell like a curtain around you two. “Now, wan’ you to count again- both of you.”

Both?

Evidently, the same thing is registering in Gojo’s mind because he squawks- “B-both?”

“Ya heard me.” Turning your head over your shoulder, you’re noticing that there’s something devilish glinting within Geto’s priggish smile. With a tilt of his head he’s pushing his plump cockhead to kiss the entrance to your cunt. Your already-full entrance. “Count. And m’not talking about how many inches.”

You whine, “Then what do you expect us t-to…”

Oh, and then you’re getting it. And Gojo is, too.

Because in that instant, Geto’s drawing that cold, circular piercing of his slit along the outside of your pussy folds. The down Gojo’s shaft, then slipping it inside-

“One- ohhh-fuck!” It comes tumbling out of your mouth before you can control yourself, and your hips are gyrating back crazily to chase the incredible stretch of a second thick cock entering you. Struggling to. Aching to. “One, ngh– Sugu, please.”

“Atta giiiirl-” Geto coos, the long locks of his bangs flying as he turns his head to Gojo. “Yer falling behind, nerd.”

“…”

With a tut, he’s rolling his hips, “Come on-”

“Oh-” Comes out that pretty, pretty gasp from the edges of your spit-glossed lips. Feeling the cold line of Geto’s second piercing - his Jacob’s Ladder, this time - just grazing the treacly base of your pussy. “T-two…?”

“Two.” Gojo spits out, in reluctant unison with you as that chilling metal touches his fragile shaft- and he hates to admit that it just made his mouth water.

“Theeere we go.”

With one hand groping the backs of your thighs to stretch you out wiiide open for him, and the other rovering underneath your tummy to feel you bulge with two monstrous cocks- Geto sinks his way inside.

Twitching his red, flared tip upwards to bash the roof of your channel once the both of your two below him start babbling in sync- “Th-three. Four. Five?”

Letting his back arch so sensually at the slip n’ slide of your velvety walls, “Fuck.” He has to fight to not throw his head back stupidly, because shit- watching your cute circular hole get stretched out so tightly was fucking heaven to see. “C’mon-” Each word, each breath punctuated by a mindless rut to squeeze inside. “C’mon c’mon c’mon-”

“W-will it even fit, Sugu–?”

“Of course it will, pipsqueak.”

“As if, punk.”

Geto raises a dark brow in challenge, “Heh- you speak- what- five languages and pussy isn’t one of them?”

Face burning red, Gojo only tilts his head down until his bangs cover up most of his face. Enough of playing patience, enough of humping you like some dog in heat- he’s perking his hips up and dragging them in tandem with Geto’s- who only seems to be enjoying the music of your pretty squelches.

“Mmm– see?” Oh, those lecherous noises were only spurring him on. The double penetration makes you slurp as if you were greedily gobbling him whole, and Geto just can’t stop smiling. “Otherwise you’d know that she’s just cryyyyyying for-” Bottoming out, initial tattoo gluing to your skin. “-both.”

You gasp, “Suguru, you have six-” Just as he nuzzles his dark happy trail, fully sheathed inside of you and like he never wanted to pull out now. “-seven piercings?”

Seven piercings in all, one at the very tip scraping along your bubblegum walls, and the others massaging up n’ down Gojo’s length. “Only for you, my girl.”

“My girl, you mean.” It was a challenge.

And Geto takes the bait. “Well then—” Purring out his sinful words, he leans over to restrain your gasping throat in a headlock. Big, beefy hands cutting off your airway- and Gojo’s dexterous fingers smushing your cheeks together embarrassingly, “Tell us. Tell us who you want.”

It comes out a whine- and then a beg—“More.” And you’re feeling the way that both men halt, as if your very voice had just shocked them into freezing. “M-more, I wan’ more- Toru- Sugu-”

Well, whatever you want…you get.

It’s like something’s snapping- audibly, in later hours you’d realize that it was Geto’s aged bedframe, but right now you’re dazedly wondering whether it was the last remnant of their sanity.

Because in such precise unison, Geto pulls his cock nearly all the way out- enough for Gojo’s fattened length to take up every mass of space inside you and bludgeon all the way to the back of your pussy.

Reeling back, letting Geto nuzzle his startling metal piercings against your cervix- your walls. Back n’ forth back n’ forth- it’s like they’re milking themselves on you.

So big that you’re being constantly pumped forwards with each of their thrusts. Being sandwiched between Gojo’s eagerly pumping strokes, and Gojo’s mean teasing.

The sheer carnal stretch was just so incredible that you cry out, “O-ohhh, fuck. H-how does it feel this good- s’like you’re ngh- taking me from the- inside-”

“We are takin’ you from the inside, silly girl.” Geto’s tittering out, oh, it was just so cute how cockdrunk you were for them that he just can’t help but take extra sensually long to rub your g-spot raw with his Jacob’s Ladder. “Taking every inch of you, every spot, every pulse, everything inside this cunt.”

And that’s when Gojo pipes up, pushing his thoroughly foggy glasses up his nosebridge. “A-according to my calculations with time n’ speed and- ngh, stretch, s’at least triple the- the pressure on your anterior wall and Gräfenberg spot, princess.”

You can only look stupidly along down at the scorched blush covering his cheeks, a slim line of saliva drooling down the side of your chin that Gojo has the audacity to flop his tongue out and lap up.

“In other words…” Looking at you with such heady blue eyes- you swear you’ve never seen him look more gone. Cherry-pink lips twitching as he’s folding them into a grin, “Two is better than one.”

Geto chuckles from behind, “Now now, Satoru…don’t think our girl even ngh- understands that right now.” With the powerful headlock, he’s tugging you up to look at him instead.

And you don’t think you’ve seen either of them look so fucked-out. They weren’t any better than you.

Eyes wide, mouths parted, blushed the exact same sappy shades of pink as their bulbous tips. Each thump grazing your g-spot just makes your pussy bulge with the sagging weight of them- enough so that you almost don’t even hear Geto’s next few words.“Mm– heh, you’re sooo cockdrunk right now, pipsqueak. What’s two plus two?”

“T-two plus…” Trailing off, you can only chase their two smashing lengths for more more more. Bawling out just as much as your dripping pussy was right now, “Ngh- hck!”

“Look at you, miss valedictorian.” Gojo’s never looked more accomplished- not even during all those times he’d beaten you during a final or quiz.

Blowing the sweat-plastered white bangs out of his face, he croaks out- “S’the only thing you know how t-to ngh-” Hissing at the ridges of Geto’s cock, the way it was just suuuuch a tight fuckin’ fit inside of you, he has to put extra pressure just to fuck up into you. “-t-take both our- cocks, huh?”

Geto drags out a lil’ ‘aw’, but there was nothing nice about the way he was starin’ down at you. “Now now, Satoru. We should ask-” And he times his slender hips just right, “-d’you even know your own- hah- name?

“I- ngh- I–” It’s just so pitchy how you’re trilling out after each gash of Geto’s thick, split-ended tip. And Gojo’s- oh, Gojo’s was just rapid. You’re feeling them both probe against your cervix at once, and shriek– “Close- ngh- hah. I’m gonna- ohh, I’m gonna-”

“Close? S’that her name, Satoru?”

“Seems so, Suguru.”

Chortling, Geto’s sodden fingerpads find themselves moving from that tummy bulge of yours to your clit. Pinching. “Then, how hah- fitting that m’gonna make you cum, gorgeous.”

“Nuh uh, I’m gonna make her cum.” Gojo hisses- ah, there was that old challenge again. And both are taking it as such - determined to be the first to make you cum.

Gojo with his rapid, half-thrusts that bash your g-spot until you’re seeing stars. And then Geto with the filthily sensual rubs n’ dubs of his piercings that make you drool. Chasing that high. Ruining yourself.

Harder and harder- you didn’t even know if you could cum again. But it only takes one-two-three more synchronized pumps straight into the deepest depths of your pussy for you to find out - you weren’t just cumming. You were squirting.

Body shaking, eyes bawling by the end of it.

And by the looks of it, neither of the two were fully expecting that either.

Because Gojo gasps, he flushes- muscular pelvis hitting upwards into yours as he cums, too. Thick, ropey wads of seed that clog up the channel of your pussy, “Sh-shit. Shit shit shit- s’too much.”

It really was, and it was pouring out of you in hot, ivory bucketloads. So much that you never even thought could be cooped up inside you.

And Geto? Oh, this was way more than he’d ever seen in his wildest dreams- you with your stinging lips chanting his name, and his. “Sugu- Toru- cumming. Nghh fuck, m’cumming cumming cumming-” Hips sloshing over sparkly gushes of your slick with each bounce, still sucking him up so–

“F-fuck.” If any of you were in a better state, you’d have wondered about the way that Geto’s voice pitches. Cracks. About the way his breath hitches when he’s noticing that he’s cumming dry.

Heart thumping in his throat, rouge lips wobbling. It’s perhaps the first time that he’s officially lost for words, “I-I’m…” Remembering that conversation you had back in the café from what felt like years ago. Tongue parched, heaving- “-actually cumming…d-dry.”

“Told you.” You’re shooting him an impish grin.

“Join the club.” Gojo growls out- but that’s not what he’s worried about right now. Not at all, his forearms n’ abs were all shiny with your juices- pushing in the wiry knots of cum that sprays out of you like a fountain. “Inside- fuck, I need it inside, princess.”

Thighs trembling, you can only watch in speechless awe once Gojo’s taking up the job of webbing your pussy up with his leaking mess. Drawing an unsubtle S-A-T-O-R-U on your cunt all the while.

“Satoru…” You’re warning, throat alright tight with the feeling of Geto twitching-

Still rock-hard.

Still needy.

“W-well…” It takes him a few seconds to collect his fucking wits - absentmindedly, he dips the crowns of his fingers inside your creamy pussy and draws out his very own S-U-G-U-R-U on the forefront of your tummy, your womb.

Possessively, he bites down on the crook of your neck and it felt like you were being impaled by his snake bites. Burning once he guides one of your hands back to his v-line- to his tattoo of your initial. “Y’know what I love about ngh- science experiments, gorgeous?”

“Wh-what…?” You’re looking confusedly between him and Gojo- who apparently understands way before your cockdrunken mind does.

And so your nerdy rival grins with a push of his glasses. Bucking up, up, up- “They have twenty-five trials.”

“Oh my god- thrown to the wolves or…”

“Look at those marks—can barely even walk, is that Gojo’s doing-”

“Wait- Geto’s right behind, and he’s so close…you don’t think they’re-”

You’re fairly certain that a zoo could run through your lecture hall right now and no one would even notice. Not when they’re oh-so-occupied ogling and pointing out at the bites across every inch of your skin, the hand marks peeking from underneath the hem of your shirt.

Hell, a few were even secretly recording- surely to send to the betting pool groupchat. And somewhere in the student body you swear you see Shoko exchange cash with Ijichi. Traitors!

Though, to be fair you did look ruined - no matter how much you tried to tug at your sleeves and douse yourself in foundation. They’d simply run you ragged last night, if the broken bed, two broken couches, and five noise complaints were anything to go by.

And it really didn’t help that you had Gojo clinging onto one of your sides, and Geto dangling off of the other. Almost like they were stuck to you with adhesive.

They walked when you walked, they sat when you sat. And once you’re settled into your usual seat at the front row, surrounded by the two, you swear you hear Professor Yaga sigh something or the other about ‘not being paid enough.’

“I swear-” You start to whisper to the two underneath your breath, “If we make it out of this alive, I’m killing the two of you.”

Geto smiles, picking at one of his heavy rings. “Mm– anything for you, gorgeous. A bit kinky, however, no?”

“Hah-” Gojo only crosses his sweater-clad arms and leans back priggishly in his chair. “I’d like to see you fuckin’ try, miss valedictorian.”

Dear lord, what have you gotten yourself into?

But before you can open your mouth - or maybe stand up and run out of this hellscape of an exhibitionistic lecture altogether - a low, grouchy baritone drawls from the row right behind you.

And you don’t know what you’re more surprised at - the fact that you’re still recognizing the voice of your ex-boyfriend, Sukuna, or the fact that a nationally-acclaimed student athlete like him was attending class when he usually never did.

“So…” Sukuna’s swole biceps bulge as he leans over his desk exactly behind you- and you didn’t know whether it was the skin-tight boxing jacket with an emblazoned ‘SUKUNA’ or the fact that he’d gotten even bigger since your break-up. Everything from the meaty thighs damn near ripping through his sports shorts, to the way he seemed to take up two seats at once.

Obnoxiously, he hits the back of Gojo’s chair with his overly-long legs. “You three fucked. Everyone knows.”

Gojo sputters.

Geto grins.

And you can’t rip your eyes away from the sheer ripe curve of Sukuna’s tattooed pecs- coral pink hair still damp after training, athletic figure inching even closer as he smirks.

“I want in, ma.”

A/N. Slight Part 2 to this but can be read alone!! ALSO Y’ALL I’VE BEEN GETTING CALLED UNC HERE AND THERE TODAY I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS…

Plagiarism not authorized.

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macchianikato · 8 days ago

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i cannot breath this is amazing

got milk? milk frother!Sukuna x f!Reader

synoposis: the discounted milk frother you bought was apparently a two-for-one deal! part kitchen appliance, part pissed off (and horny) ghost!

content: mdni, smut, porn with a little plot, this is kinda crack ngl, sukuna transforms from your milk frother to a ghost, he's a FREAK!!!!, hair pulling, unprotected sex, anal sex, sex toys (vibrator), brat taming, cumplay

your milk frother was possessed.

like, shaking and vibrating like a fucking sex toy possessed. all you wanted was some airy milk for your latte. and what did you get? the entire container spilled on your counter and dripping into your floor.

yeah, okay, was it exactly genius to buy appliances from a sketchy yard sale? maybe not.

but the one from the same brand on amazon had four and a half stars! and this was a fraction of the price!

probably for a good reason given it didn't fucking work.

so, of course, after using an entire roll of paper towels soaking up the mess on the counter, you threw the stupid thing in the trash right there with it.

"waste of money," you murmured, bending over to clean up the floor with the hand towel you had hanging over the stove, on your hands and knees while you scrubbed the kitchen tiles.

"it's not my fault you couldn't read the fucking instructions," an unfamiliar voice scoffed behind you.

you didn't think your head had ever snapped around so fast in your life, gawking when you had to crane your head up to look at some ridiculously bulky naked man standing behind you. all muscles and tattoos, tanned skin looking nearly translucent when the sun streaming through your window landed on him, ruby red eyes scowling at you. he looked more like a ghost than an intruder, and if you had to guess, you'd say he was some freak who possessed something random after he died and you were just the unfortunate soul now stuck with him.

his hair was a dark pink, the same shade your milk frother had been, literally the entire reason you had picked it (him?) out.

but most importantly? his massive was dick hanging out hard, thick and veiny, tip leaking pre-cum onto your kitchen floor!

"excuse me?"

he didn't even answer, no, that was beneath him. he had the audacity to roll his eyes at you, like he wasn't some stranger cumming coming into your home!

"no wonder it didn't work right, you're a man," you added, glaring back at him.

"and you're just a brat who doesn't know how to change a simple setting," he grunted.

you had to stop yourself from clenching your teeth, going back to cleaning. "can you like, go?"

"and spend eternity in a landfill?" your milk frother-turned-man grumbled. "nah, don't think so."

"you can't stay here," you argued, glancing down at his quite frankly obscene cock still on full display. fuck. had he gotten harder?

"why not?"

"because I said so," you huffed at him, sitting up on your knees and twisting to throw the towel at him, but the new position just put you at nearly eye-level to his cock.

"not like you've had any men over," he wryly taunted, reminding you of the fact it had been months since you had proper sex, only orgasms you forced out with your vibrator.

"not like you've gotten laid stuck in that fucking frother," you snapped back at him, indignation flaring up almost as hot as the flicker of desire from being so close to someone so much bigger and broader than you. the tantalizing lines of his body, begging you to take a lick, the danger in his dark eyes daring you to forget how bizarre this was.

he chuckled, rough and low, reaching down to grab a fist full of your hair. and surely, it had to be the lack of sex taking over your body, because you let him. "think I couldn't fuck you until you're begging me to go back into that thing?"

"oh yeah? tell me more, mr. milk frother," you mocked him, tilting your head up and pushing out your bottom lip in a pretty pout.

"it's sukuna," he dryly corrected you.

"you couldn't even make me a latte. like you could seriously make me cum."

and oh, two orgasms later, you were sincerely regretting saying that.

leaking cum onto your pretty pink comforter, vibrator shoved inside you and making you shudder and squeeze around it, crying out his name and clawing at your sheets while he manhandled your hips, pinning you to the mattress while he prepped your other hole.

two fingers shoved inside and stretching you out while you gasped, grunting in your ear that you were so needy, all pliant and pathetic for him like this, while you whimpered how much you wanted more.

your milk frother had broken you.

his fingers ripped back out in favor of his fat tip being pressed against your rim, and you were prematurely tensing, wondering how the fuck he'd make it fit.

the burn was brutal. it felt like he was shredding you open, stretched out and split into two, the constant hum of the vibrator pulsing inside you only making the pressure more intense.

sukuna wasn't slow.

didn't wait for you to adjust - he made it happen.

his cock buried deep in your ass, your face pressed into a pillow, feeling more like a fuck toy than a person, both holes filled up while he used you the same way you used him.

hard and fast and unforgiving.

"you want me to go slower?" he grunted in your ear, teeth scraping over your shoulder, nipping at your skin.

you shook your head no, nearly nonverbal, all the words and whimpers fucked out of you.

shouldn't he know already this was your favorite setting of his?

the vibrator was pushing you to the edge, oversensitive from your previous rounds and barely clinging on for the the third, squeezing tighter around his cock, the friction of him dragging his cock in-and-out driving you crazy.

but right before you could climax, he pulled out, laughing at the way you grinded your ass back in the air searching for his hips.

"thought I couldn't make you cum," he hummed, waiting for an answer at your weak whine.

"shut up," you murmured into the pillow, body too exhausted for you to even glance over your shoulder to scowl at him.

he grabbed your hair, pulling your head up just enough to make you look at him.

"wanna cum again," you pouted.

and who was he to deny his owner's request? especially if you were going to let him stay here for the foreseeable future rent-free!

he still scoffed.

acted like he was doing a favor and not completely fucked out himself, jaw locked tight and all his muscles taut when he shoved himself back into your small hole.

the third time tasted even sweeter.

finishing hard around the egg-shaped toy, the thrum of the vibrations through the thin wall separating it from him fucking your ass was mind-melting. soaking in the warmth of it, of him, the connection between the two of you and the heat in his touch. his teeth sinking back in for another bite, probably bruising your collarbone as he groaned and released.

he barely managed to pull out in time to paint your ass with cum, laughing and tracing some shape with it onto you skin while you unravelled beneath him. you could feel some of it rolling off of you onto the blankets below.

you'd definitely have to wash your sheets.

probably after purchasing a new milk frother.

"still thirsty?" he mocked, flipping you over and spreading your thighs. he pulled out the vibrator slowly, but you were still panting for air with parted lips. you barely managed to nod, and he just chuckled.

dipping two fingers that thankfully hadn't been inside you down into where his cum was dripping out of your cunt still from the first round, collecting a thick glob of it on his fingers and dragging them across your waiting tongue.

like his cum was your new coffee.

my contribution to the unholy trifecta @yenayaps @madamechrissy

#had to take a double take LMFAO #MILK FROTHER LMAOKKKO #maybe he can make me a matcha

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macchianikato · 8 days ago

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y/n is my heart and soul. the apple of my eye. i love you y/n ill never let them take you from me

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macchianikato · 10 days ago

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OH MY GLD

feedback

static

rockstar!ryomen sukuna x reader x rockstar!satoru gojo

series masterlist

The next few weeks blurred into shows, loading zones, and late-night drinks in green rooms. You’d gotten used to the thrum of sound in your bones, the rush of stage cues, the scent of sweat and feedback. But even in all the chaos, it was them, Gojo and Sukuna, who made the noise inside your head impossible to be quiet.

They pulled at you in different ways. Opposites, but not cleanly. Not like black and white. More like magnets, pointed directly at each other, repelling, colliding, crashing through you.

Then Gojo started showing up early.

Always with coffee. Always with that same grin you’d seen a hundred times since you were kids. Cocky, too wide for his face, and impossible not to return.

“Had to make sure you’re awake,” he’d say, balancing two cups like a seasoned barista. “Can’t have my favorite girl snoozing on the job.”

“You could just text me,” you’d tease, taking the coffee anyway.

“What, and miss seeing your face light up when I bring you caffeine?” He’d flash a wink, then settle into his usual perch on the edge of the booth. “Not a chance.”

Sometimes you barely got a “thank you” out before he was halfway into a story. Always something ridiculous. A fan climbing on stage, an amp that blew out mid-solo, a venue that flooded mid-show and left them all playing barefoot in an inch of water.

“I crowd-surfed in Belgium once. Lost my shoe. Fan mailed it back two weeks later. Covered in glitter and…” he made a face, “something I’m still trying to block out.”

“You always lose something when you crowd surf,” you said, sipping your drink.

“Yeah, but I always find something, too,” he shot back, eyes flicking to yours.

And just like that, your stomach did that stupid flutter he seemed to be the cause of so much recently.

He made you laugh, not just because he was funny, but because he knew you. Your laugh. Your moods. Your rhythms. You didn’t have to say much around him. He filled the silence effortlessly, the way only someone who’d known you forever could.

And sometimes, when the laughter settled, he’d look at you like you were the only one in the room. Like he was remembering something, a memory from childhood, like the way you used to share headphones on long bus rides, one earbud each, music threading you together.

“That laugh right there…” he said one evening, voice low, the joke gone. “I think I like it more than my own damn guitar.”

You rolled your eyes, hiding the way your chest tightened.

“Smooth,” you said with a clearly sarcastic tone.

“I’m serious,” he said. “If I ever write a love song, it’s gonna start with your laugh.”

That should’ve made you groan. Instead, you looked down, suddenly unsure where to put your hands.

Gojo flirted, sure. Always had. But recently it seemed to be getting to you more.

Even when he was all jokes and smirks, there was something true beneath it. Something steady. He didn’t need to impress you, he just wanted to be close.

And lately, that sincerity was getting harder to ignore.

Because part of you didn’t just laugh because he was funny. You laughed because when he was near, the world didn’t feel so loud. Because Gojo, for all his chaos and charm, felt like home.

Sukuna never brought coffee.

He brought silence.

He showed up just before soundcheck, never early enough to chat, never late enough to delay anything. Just precise. Measured. The kind of presence that made time seem like it bent around him.

No greetings. No nods. Just a quiet placement of a bottle of your favorite tea (which you never told him) next to your console, the condensation sliding slowly down the label.

The first time, you thought it was a fluke.

The second time, you raised a brow but said nothing.

The third time, you caught him lingering just a second longer after setting it down, enough to confirm what you already suspected. It wasn’t an accident.

He never acknowledged it. Never asked if you liked it. But he remembered. Every day.

He didn’t hover, but he was always nearby. Not close enough to make you uncomfortable, just present. A few feet back. Watching you work. Listening as the test tracks came through the monitors. Quiet, steady, alert.

When he did speak, it was never meaningless.

“Your high-pass filtering is cleaner today,” he muttered once, arms crossed, eyes on the board.

You glanced over your shoulder, surprised. “You noticed that?”

“I hear everything,” he said plainly.

You weren’t sure whether to take that as a warning or a compliment.

It became a rhythm. You working. Him watching. The tea. The occasional word of praise, never too much, but always just enough to land deep.

“That delay drop in the second verse?” he said one night as the last echo faded. “Smart. Felt intentional.”

You turned toward him fully, half-smiling. “It was. I wasn’t sure anyone would notice, though.”

His head tilted slightly. “I did.”

That was the thing about Sukuna, when he noticed, it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t background noise. It was deliberate. When he gave you his attention, it felt full. Focused. Almost… intense.

He didn’t ask about your past or tell you stories about his. He asked things with weight.

“What do you think of this band’s structure?”

“Would you cut 300 Hz here or leave the punch?”

“Do you like mixing ours?”

You hesitated at that last one. He wasn’t smiling. Wasn’t teasing. He genuinely wanted to know.

“Yeah,” you said after a beat. “I do. Your sound has a lot of depth, more than people expect, I think. It’s extremely unique.”

Something shifted behind his expression. Barely. But it was there.

“They hear noise,” he said quietly. “You hear the structure underneath.”

You shrugged, trying to keep your tone casual. “Well, I like what’s underneath.”

His eyes flicked to yours. Brief. Unreadable. Then he looked away. But he didn’t move. He stayed.

The next night, he came up beside you during a long line check. Not behind you. Beside you. Close enough that your arm brushed his when you reached to mute a channel.

“You mixed that bridge differently tonight,” he said.

“Yeah,” you said. “I pushed the rhythm guitar a little harder. Felt like it needed more drive.”

“It worked,” he murmured. “You’re not afraid to change things. That’s rare.”

You laughed under your breath. “Is that your way of saying I’m reckless or bold?”

“Neither,” he said. “It’s your way of showing you give a damn.”

There was a long pause, not uncomfortable, just suspended. Like neither of you knew what to say next but didn’t mind the silence.

“You don’t say much,” you said finally, lips quirking as you glanced at him. “But when you do, it kind of… sticks.”

He looked at you then, fully, eyes sharp, but not cold.

“Then maybe I should speak more.”

You held his gaze. “Maybe you should.”

One night, after teardown, you wandered outside alone, just to breathe. The alley behind the venue was slick with recent rain, puddles catching the sickly neon glow of a flickering exit sign. The air smelled like wet concrete and the fading trace of cigarettes. You leaned against the cold brick wall, still sticky from humidity, and cradled your now lukewarm tea between your hands.

For once, your world seemed quiet. No rumbling bass. No chatter over comms. Just the faint buzz of an overhead streetlamp and the distant echo of traffic beyond the loading dock.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, you tugged it out without thinking just to see a text from a friend you hadn’t seen in months.

“Hey, I saw your name on a lineup poster. Miss you. Let’s catch up sometime?”

You stared at the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard, but couldn’t make yourself type anything back. The silence of the alley pressed in close. Not empty, just full in a different way. Like you were stretched between too many versions of yourself and being wanted in too many places at once.

A shadow moved near the side door.

You looked up, startled.

Sukuna stood half in the doorway, half in the dark, arms crossed, the overhead light catching on the rings on his fingers. He didn’t say anything. Just watched you for a beat, like he wasn’t sure if he should interrupt.

It honestly felt like there was no escaping either of them, Satoru or Sukuna. Somehow, they always found you. Not that you were complaining. Their presence had a way of pulling you in, and you couldn’t deny that you enjoyed being in both their orbit.

“You okay?” Sukuna asked finally, voice low enough that it barely carried over the ambient hum of the city.

The question caught you off guard.

“Yeah,” you said, soft. “Just… noise. Needed a break.”

He stepped outside fully now, the door easing shut behind him with a soft thud. He paused beside you, but didn’t crowd. Just stood near, close enough to feel but not touch.

“You always step outside alone?” he asked.

You exhaled through your nose. “Sometimes the green room feels louder than the stage.”

He didn’t answer right away, just tilted his head like he was filing that away.

“The silence out here isn’t real either,” he said.

You gave him a sidelong glance. “What do you mean?”

“There’s still noise. You just don’t notice it until you’re quiet long enough.”

You stared out at the sky, trying to pick up what he meant. There was something, a faint hum from an AC unit, the far-off wail of a siren, your own breathing. He was right.

“Guess that’s why I like it,” you said.

“Or maybe,” he replied, “you’re just better at listening than most.”

That made you glance over at him, really look. His gaze didn’t waver, but there was something in it that felt… lighter. Open in a way it usually wasn’t.

The corner of your mouth lifted. “You always psychoanalyze people at midnight or am I just lucky?”

He looked over, mouth twitching. “Only the ones worth analyzing.”

A beat passed. A breeze pushed past you, fluttering the hem of your shirt. You didn’t move. Neither did he. That might’ve been the first time you saw something close to a smile on him. Not a full one. But enough to make you stay still. To feel seen.

Something about that moment, you and him, standing shoulder to shoulder in a damp alleyway with nothing but fluorescent glow between you, felt more intimate than anything loud ever could.

When you made your way back inside, the warmth of the venue hit you like a wall. The air smelled like dust and old speakers and gaffer tape. The familiar comfort of backstage chaos. Gojo was waiting near the soundboard, spinning a mic cable in his fingers like a lasso.

“There you are,” he said, voice light, but his eyes were sharper. “Thought I’d have to come rescue you from some brooding man in a tragic neon-lit alley.” He said, obviously referring to Sukuna. He must have seen him follow you outside.

“You’re dramatic,” you said, voice flat but amused.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He tossed you a bottle of water with a practiced flick, his fingers brushing yours as you caught it. Casual. Familiar. But too practiced to be accidental.

There was a pause.

“He’s talking more,” Gojo said suddenly, not looking at you.

You looked up. His tone wasn’t accusatory. Just… observant. Neutral in a way that felt deliberate. But it so caught you off guard.

“He doesn’t open up easy,” he continued. “But if he’s letting you in? That’s saying something.”

“Why are you telling me this?” you asked, trying to read him. Though you began to pick up he was jealous.

Gojo smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Because I’ve known you forever. And I know what it looks like when someone starts falling for you.”

Your breath caught.

“I also know what it looks like when you start falling back.”

You said nothing.

He handed you a coffee this time, your favorite, warm despite how late it was, and again, his fingers lingered just a second longer than necessary.

“Just… don’t forget who knew your laugh first, okay?”

You swallowed thickly, throat going dry. You couldn’t answer. Wouldn’t, even if you had the words.

And for once, Gojo didn’t chase the moment with a joke. He just looked at you like you mattered. Like this whole chaotic setup only made sense with you in it.

That night, when you got home, your head was loud in a different way.

Sukuna’s voice, quiet and pointed, still hummed in your ears.

Gojo’s touch, light and lingering, still danced across your skin.

You curled up in bed, blanket pulled high, cold water on the nightstand. Your phone vibrated beside you.

You turned your phone over on the bed beside you, screen glowing in the dark.

One new message from the venue manager. “Same lineup next month. You in?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the glowing screen.

Because yeah, you were in. Deeper than you wanted to admit. And something told you this next show? It wasn’t going to be just about the sound.

dividers by @/redroud1 <3

header art by @su2kuna on twitter <3

taglist: @indiewritesxoxo @evilari111 @ssetsuka @not-aya @macchianikato @kitassecretgf @universal-s1ut @kitty-yaps @shinrjj @linaaeatsfamilies

#now this ate #How is this so good im shaking #i should be studying #but im not #i love tumblr

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macchianikato · 10 days ago

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IM EXCITED IM EXCTIED IM INTO TBJS

feedback

soundcheck

rockstar!ryomen sukuna x reader x rockstar!satoru gojo

content warnings: just bickering tbh 😭 gojo aggravating sukuna, sukuna aggravating gojo and poor reader just getting caught in it <\3

series masterlist

The air vibrated, thick with anticipation.

Not quite Shibuya, not quite a dive bar, Hidden Inventory was something in between. A venue carved from the bones of a city that never slept but often forgot to dream. It pulsed with the echo of too many stories and the scent of something ancient, beer-stained floors, cables fraying at the ends, broken dreams caught in the amps.

Tonight wasn’t just a show.

It was a war.

Satoru Gojo’s “Six Eyes” vs. Ryomen Sukuna’s “Malevolent Shrine.”

Two bands. Two titans. Two storms waiting to break.

And you? You were right in the middle.

The soundboard was your throne. Cables curled around your boots like restless serpents. The sliders, knobs, EQs, they were an extension of your nervous system now. Every show lived or died by your hands, and these two bastards gave you no room for error.

Your eyes swept over the crowd. It was already packed, people shoulder-to-shoulder, drunk on the tension, high on the rumors. Everyone knew these two bands hated each other. What they didn’t know was how much that hate had started bleeding into something else.

You barely had time to breathe before you heard them.

Footsteps. Confident. Unhurried. Almost theatrical.

“Hey, sweets!”

His voice slid under your skin before his grin even hit your eyes. Gojo.

You didn’t have to look, you could feel him. The static of his presence. That electric pull like a blown speaker just before it screams.

Still, you looked. You always did.

You’d known Gojo for most of your life, having grown up right next door to him. But you weren’t always close. In fact, when you first met him, he was a withdrawn, sharp-tongued kid with a chip on his shoulder and a wall around his heart. You always figured it had something to do with his family. Distant, strict, and obsessed with appearances.

They kept him isolated, carefully controlling who he could speak to, who he could play with, if anyone at all. Most kids didn’t bother trying. But somehow, you did. You weren’t sure what it was you did differently, or what made him let you in. All you knew was that one day, the boy who never smiled smiled at you, and nothing was the same after that.

Gojo leaned over the edge of the soundboard, sunglasses pushed halfway down his nose, white hair just messy enough to look intentional. His smirk was cocky, but his eyes, those goddamn eyes were sharp, calculating.

“Sound good?” he asked, his voice low, like this was just between the two of you.

You gave a soft smile. “Always. You know I don’t miss.”

He leaned in, conspiratorial, and the scent of him curled around you, citrus and mint and some elusive note you could never name but always recognized.

“Make us sound like gods, okay?” he said with a wink. “Better than the freaks next door.”

You rolled your eyes, chuckling despite yourself. “Satoru…”

He held up a hand. “What? You know it’s true.”

He didn’t need to say Sukuna’s name. The tension between the bands, between the two of them, was a living, breathing thing now. They had clawed their way through the underground scene together, but somewhere along the way, admiration had curdled into rivalry. Jealousy. Ego. And you were caught in the crossfire.

Gojo’s hand brushed yours, just for a second. You couldn’t tell if it was an accident.

Then he was gone.

He didn’t walk away. He glided, like some stage-born ghost, feeding off the rising roar of the crowd. The room ignited the moment he stepped onto the stage. Blue lights. Feedback. Screams. Gojo basked in it, arms wide like he was greeting worshippers.

Five minutes later, the air changed again.

He didn’t announce himself. He never did.

Sukuna.

The temperature dipped the way it does right before thunder. You didn’t hear his steps, you felt them. A subtle vibration in your bones. Like instinct warning you of something ancient approaching.

You didn’t have the luxury of growing up alongside Sukuna like you had with Satoru. There were no childhood memories, no shared backyards or sleepy afternoons. In fact, you hadn’t even met him until about five years ago, before the rivalry between his band and Gojo’s started spiraling out of control.

Still, Sukuna had never treated you poorly. Even when he learned you were on friendly terms with Gojo, he didn’t seem to care, so long as you made his band sound good. That was what mattered to him. Precision. Respect for the craft.

Gojo, though? When he first found out you were also running sound for Sukuna? “Flabbergasted” wouldn’t even begin to cover his reaction. His jaw had practically hit the floor, and then the questions started.

Sukuna stopped beside your booth. No theatrics. No smirk.

Just presence.

Tall. Broad. Tattoos like whispered promises written in ink and defiance. His eyes, deep, unreadable, but not unkind, found yours.

“The board,” he said. “Is it ready?”

His voice was low, like gravel under velvet. It didn’t cut through the noise. It owned it.

“Yeah,” you answered, your voice firmer than you felt. “She’s tuned and hungry.” You said, trying to joke.

A flicker passed through his eyes. Was that amusement? Approval?

“Good.” He looked over the console, but his focus lingered on you. “I expect clarity. Not just volume. Emotion.”

You raised a brow. “So… not like ‘Six Eyes,’ then.”

That earned you the smallest shift in his expression. Not quite a smile. But close.

“They play like clowns with distortion pedals,” he muttered, eyes drifting to the stage. “It’s music for dopamine addicts. Pretty. Shallow.”

You bristled. “It’s not just pretty. Gojo’s voice has range. Emotion. You can’t fake the way he connects with a crowd.” You couldn’t help but defend Gojo, maybe it was the years spent beside him or maybe it was the truth. The lines began to blur a long time ago.

Sukuna looked back at you. “And yet you still made our set last week sound like sin.” He paused, then added, voice quiet, “I notice that.”

You didn’t know what to say. Your heart tripped over itself.

He didn’t look away. “I’m not trying to win the crowd,” he said. “I want to haunt them. I want them to remember.”

You swallowed, heat crawling up your neck. “You always leave a mark, Sukuna.”

A long pause. His eyes dropped to your mouth, then quickly back up.

“You do too,” he said.

He turned before you could reply, disappearing into the shadows.

But the air he left behind was heavier. Charged. Like he’d touched something inside you without laying a hand on you.

Not much longer Gojo’s set exploded.

Not with chaos, but with control. Precision. Joy.

Blue and white lights cut through the fog, flashing like sirens to the beat of his opening riff. Gojo Satoru stood at center stage, guitar slung low, mic already tilted toward his smirking mouth. He didn’t ask for attention. He demanded it, playfully, with the ease of someone who had never known failure. The moment he opened his mouth, the crowd didn’t just cheer. They swooned.

His voice wasn’t just good. It was incredible. Ethereal when he wanted, sharp like glass when he turned up the grit. He sang like he was flirting with every single person in the room.

Beside him, Suguru laid down thick, smooth basslines, his fingers gliding with a casual mastery. He barely moved as he played, dark eyes half-lidded like he was somewhere far off, but every note was perfect. Steady. Grounding. If Gojo was lightning, Geto was thunder rolling just beneath it, constant, rumbling, intimate.

At the back of the stage, Shoko was destruction in slow motion. Her drumming wasn’t showy, it was surgical. Precise. Her eyes stayed half-hidden behind her bangs as she worked, sticks rising and falling like she was dissecting time itself. But every once in a while, she’d smirk at something Gojo said into the mic, and you’d feel it. The closeness of them. The family of it.

Six Eyes didn’t just play songs. They told stories. They made the room levitate.

And you? You brought the story to life.

You caught every falsetto. Every drop into silence. Every whispered lyric Gojo threw off like a secret meant only for you. Twice during the set, he looked directly at the booth and winked. Once after a particularly filthy guitar solo that had the crowd screaming. The second during a soft bridge where he sang like his voice might break, right when yours nearly did.

You hated how your stomach twisted. How much he knew what he was doing to you.

And then—

The lights snapped to black. You hadn’t even realize that was their last song for the night.

But the unexpected beat of silence made you discard that thought.

Then a deep, vibrating thrum of feedback rolled through the floor like an approaching beast.

Malevolent Shrine took the stage.

The red lights didn’t rise. They bled. Slow and heavy. Not overhead, beneath them, casting monstrous shadows against the ceiling as if something ancient had been summoned instead of a band.

Ryomen Sukuna emerged from the darkness like he belonged to it. Shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest and clinging to the muscles he’d been building over the years. Tattoos climbed up his neck and a guitar slung over one of his shoulders like a blade. He didn’t saunter. He stalked. Eyes sharp beneath lashes too long for someone who never looked gentle. He gripped the mic stand like he might break it.

And then he sang.

If Gojo’s voice flew, Sukuna’s voice dragged. It sank low, growled, twisted. It scraped across your chest and stayed there. There was no performance here. No mask. It was blood and breath and anger and ache. It was the sound of a man ripping his own heart out and daring you to listen.

Behind him, Uraume manned the drums and backup vocals, pale hair glowing under the red lights. Their sound was strange, alien, discordant, but haunting. They didn’t try to match Sukuna’s rawness. They echoed it, cold and metallic, like regret coming from a dream.

Yorozu stood out like a fire about to burn everything down. She was chaos. Her guitar lines screeched and swelled, messy and emotional, her eyes wide like she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. And when she harmonized with Sukuna, it wasn’t clean, it was cathartic. Like screaming into the void and hearing it scream back.

Malevolent Shrine didn’t try to please the crowd. They possessed it.

And, God, you didn’t mix them. You fought them.

Every slider you adjusted was like trying to leash a storm. You rode the edge of distortion, of collapse, keeping the pain beautiful and the beauty brutal. The tension in the room built and built until it became something almost holy.

And then it happened.

Right in the middle of a verse, where Sukuna usually screamed, he didn’t.

He looked at you. Eyes unblinking. And sang instead.

Soft. Low. Gentle in a way you’d never heard from him before. The crowd barely noticed the shift. But you did.

Because you’d mixed that song a dozen times. He never changed that part.

You froze.

That was for you.

You knew it.

The show ended like a thunderclap.

The crowd was still echoing with aftershocks, scattered cheers and stunned silences as they filed out under the glow of exit signs. Empty beer cups and crumpled setlists littered the floor. A few people lingered near the bar, arguing about which band had stolen the night. Gojo’s flash or Sukuna’s fire.

You were backstage, coiling cables with sore fingers and half a mind already on sleep, until you heard them.

The hallway air was thick. Humming. And just around the corner—

Voices.

Low. Clipped.

Gojo and Sukuna.

You stopped. Not because you wanted to eavesdrop, but because their words felt heavy. Volatile.

“…you call that a set?” Gojo’s voice snapped through the wall. “Dragging out the same riffs, same scream-along chorus? Real original.”

Sukuna usually didn’t waste his time entertaining Gojo’s, admittedly childish, antics. But this time was different. Gojo wasn’t just coming after him; he was mocking the entire band. That meant Uraume. That meant Yorozu. And Sukuna didn’t take that lightly. So, instead of ignoring the younger man like he usually would, he muttered out a response.

“That’s rich,” Sukuna replied, voice calm, cutting. “Coming from a man who treats the stage like a runway and the mic like a toy.”

“Yeah?” Gojo laughed, humorless. “Better than standing still and growling at people like you’re trying to summon a damn demon.”

“At least I don’t need smoke machines and crowd tricks to make my point.”

You peeked around the corner. They stood toe-to-toe in the corridor between the dressing rooms, the red glow of the EXIT sign painting them both in washed-out shadows. Gojo’s shirt was half untucked, sunglasses still on despite the dark. Sukuna’s hoodie was stained with years of being worn, the neck stretched, clinging to the tattoos that wrapped his throat like secrets. He must have changed into it after his set.

They looked like two storms about to collide.

“I’m not here to impress you,” Sukuna said, quieter now. “You’re not my audience.”

Gojo groaned. “No. You’re just trying to outdo me. Every damn show.”

Sukuna tilted his head slightly, smirking. “Only because you keep making it so easy.”

For a second, neither spoke.

Then, “You went sharp on the bridge,” Gojo snickered.

“You missed your third harmony in the second chorus,” Sukuna shot back.

That shut Gojo up.

Their eyes locked. Tense, exhausted, unwilling to be the first to turn away.

Then Gojo said, “She mixed your set perfectly tonight. Better than usual. Almost made your screeching tolerable.”

You flinched. You weren’t even in the room, but your name wasn’t exactly absent from their words either.

Sukuna’s jaw flexed. “Maybe because we gave her something real to work with.”

Gojo’s laugh was low and sharp. “Real? Please. You performed like you were pissed off at your own mic.”

“And you looked like you were auditioning for a boy band reunion.”

“Better than looking like the opening act of a funeral.”

You stepped into view before either could get another word in. The hallway went still. Both heads turned toward you.

Gojo’s smirk faltered into something softer. Sukuna’s gaze, dark and unreadable, held yours for a moment longer than it should have.

“Everything alright?” you asked, your voice even.

There was a pause.

Gojo opened his mouth. Maybe to joke, maybe to explain. Sukuna shifted like he was about to speak too.

But neither did.

Instead, you watched them both turn away in near-unison, shoulders brushing as they passed each other in silence, one heading for the alley exit, the other toward the dressing rooms.

You stood there, still holding a coil of cable. Your heart beat a little faster than before, but not for the reasons you expected.

You’d heard the crowd tonight. You’d heard the music.

But now you were starting to hear something else.

Something building. Something neither of them had said out loud yet. And it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

dividers by @/redroud1 <3

header art by @su2kuna on twitter <3

taglist: @indiewritesxoxo

#oh yeah

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macchianikato · 10 days ago

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wait im ready.

feedback

rockstar!ryomen sukuna x reader x rockstar!satoru gojo

a/n: this will be a multi-chapter fan fiction which is heavily inspired by @/indiewritesxoxo ‘s no. 1 party anthem series! (which you should 100% check out! it’s such an incredible concept and it’s very addicting. you can find it here) I’m still starting out as a writer so I can’t promise my series will be any good, but I do hope you enjoy it nonetheless!

if you would would like to be added to the tag list please let me know! :)

soundcheck

chap. 2 coming soon…

dividers by @/redroud1 <3

header art by @su2kuna on twitter <3

#to be read (macchianikato)

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macchianikato · 13 days ago

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SHUT UP THIS IS SO CUTE

CALLING YOU HOME — SATORU GOJO

pairing — pilot!satoru gojo x air traffic controller!reader

summary — captain satoru gojo is the most infuriating pilot you've ever had the displeasure of guiding through tokyo's airspace. for months, he's turned every radio call into an opportunity to flirt, compliment your voice, and generally make your work life insufferable. you've never seen his face, but you're convinced he's exactly the kind of arrogant pilot you never want to deal with outside work. if only your heart would stop racing when you hear his voice.

word count — 16.5 k

genre/tags — aviation AU, pilot x air traffic controller, annoyance to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, workplace romance, voice kink if you squint, long distance relationship (kinda), he falls first and falls so HARD, i love him in this ugh, yearning endboss, dramatic love confessions bc we need

warnings — 18+ ONLY. contains explicit sexual content, mentions of grief/loss (death of family member), strong language, aviation emergencies, and satoru gojo being criminally sweet over radio frequencies.

author's note — friendssss i really hope u like this one bc i am obsessed lol. grab your headphones, play your favorite music and prepare for takeoff <3

masterlist + support my writing + ao3 + artwork by @3-aem

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting permission to land.”

You didn’t even need to check the screen. You’d recognize his voice anywhere, even in your nightmares—warm, cocky, and already grinding on your nerves like nails on chalkboard.

“Miss me, honey?”

Your pen snapped in half. Around the control tower, heads turned in your direction. Maki, your longest colleague and friend, pressed her lips together, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. Even Ijichi raised an eyebrow from his station. You hated them all a little for how they all enjoyed the situation so much.

You closed your eyes, counted to three, and then hit the transmission button. “Flight 447, you do realize you’re on a public frequency, right? Everyone can hear you.”

“As long as you’re listening, Control, that’s all that matters.”

“Lucky me,” you muttered, pulling up his flight information on the screen. Scattered clouds drifted past the tower’s angled windows, casting fleeting shadows over your cluttered workstation. “Also, you’re late, Captain.”

“By two minutes. Come on, that’s hardly anything.”

“More than enough time to get on my nerves.”

“I love it when you talk to me like that.”

Behind you, someone coughed—probably trying to hide a laugh.

“And I love it when you stop talking,” you shot back.

His laugh came through the radio, warm and amused. “Someone’s feisty today. Is the coffee in the tower that bad again?”

“Coffee’s fine. It’s the pilot that’s giving me a headache.”

“Mmm. I like it when your voice gets all defensive, beautiful.”

There it was again. Beautiful.

Always beautiful. Never ‘ma’am’ or ‘tower’ or even your call sign like every other normal fucking pilot with a shred of professionalism would do. With Gojo, it was always pretty, or beautiful, or—God help you—honey. Like he was talking to a date he wanted to charm, not calling for airspace clearance on public frequency.

You’d corrected him once early on. “Use proper radio protocol,” you’d said, but all he replied was, “Sorry, Control. Slipped. Won’t happen again, pretty.”

It had happened again. And again. And again.

You leaned back in your chair, staring up at the ceiling and entertaining the fantasy of reaching through the frequency and strangle him with your headset cord. Instead, your fingers found the stress ball on your desk and squeezed until your knuckles went white.

“You don’t even know what I look like,” you said, frustrated.

“Your voice tells me everything I need to know. And I’m betting you’re even more beautiful than you sound.”

“Is that why you like hearing yourself talk so much? Because your voice tells you how pretty you are?”

He laughed. “Ouch. You’re brutal today, Control. Permission to land before you completely break my poor heart?”

“Flight 447, you’re cleared to land, runway 24L. Wind 240 at 8 knots. Try not to crash while you’re busy thinking about how charming you are.”

“Copy that, beautiful. And for the record? I wasn’t thinking about myself.” His voice dropped lower, not caring at all that he was on public frequency. “I was thinking about you.”

Heat crept up your neck. Around the tower, a few heads turned your way once more—grinning, and you wanted to punch them in the face.

You were silent for a few seconds and you could basically hear his grin forming on the other end of the line.

“Looks like I’ve got you blushing. Well then, see you on the ground, Control.”

More heat crept up your neck. You yanked off your headset and slammed it down on the desk, resisting the urge to scream into a stack of paperwork. Goddamn it, he made you want to quit your job. Or strangle him. Or both.

You looked out the tower’s window just in time to watch his plane break through the clouds and touch down. A fucking textbook perfect landing. Of course it was. Captain Satoru Gojo was, without question, the most infuriating pilot you’d ever had the displeasure of guiding in. And unfortunately, he was also the best.

It had started a few months ago when he began regularly flying the international routes from Japan to Central Europe—the very same routes you’d specifically requested when you transferred to Haneda.

The 2 AM flights? The twelve hour shifts from hell? The ones that made most controllers question all their life choices and develop an unhealthy, codependent relationship with the espresso machine?

You loved them.

These were the long flights where pilots were usually dead tired and just wanted to get home. Communication was professional and efficient. No small talk, no unnecessary chatter, just vectors, altitudes, and a few polite acknowledgments. You could guide a Boeing 777 from Tokyo to Frankfurt with maybe twenty lines of dialogue, max. That was the dream.

These pilots had been airborne for twelve hours or longer—the last thing they wanted was a chatty air traffic controller stretching out their shift with unnecessary conversation. And the last thing you wanted was to listen to their rambling. You loved those quiet and professional pilots—the ones you barely had to talk to, just guide them in and call it a day. Great. Easy work. You loved your job when it was uncomplicated.

While your colleagues dealt with the chaos of domestic flights—tight turnarounds, grumbling pilots, weather complaints, gate drama and all that shit—you got the stern and serious long-distance flyers.

Until Captain Satoru Gojo.

The first time you handled Flight 447’s approach out of Prague, you braced for the usual. Someone who’d been flying for thirteen hours straight and just wanted to land, deplane, and find the nearest bed. What you got instead was a happy voice that sounded like the man had just woken from the greatest nap of his lifetime and could easily fly for another thirteen hours.

“Tokyo Control, Flight 447 requesting descent. And might I say... what a beautiful night it is up here.”

You blinked at your radar screen. It was 2:03 AM. Cloudy skies. Visibility barely above minimum levels. Nothing about it was beautiful.

Most pilots at this hour could barely remember their own call signs. But not Gojo. Gojo sounded wide awake and relaxed—and, unfortunately, talkative.

God, he talked so much. Always cracking jokes, always so cocky, always dragging out what should’ve been a thirty second exchange into a five minute monologue over the radio.

“Flight 447, descend and maintain flight level 240.”

“Descending to 240. Had to adjust our approach three times tonight because of wind shear. Amazing how much the atmosphere changes in just a few thousand feet. Did you know that—”

“Flight 447, contact Tokyo Aproach on 119.7.”

He sighed. “Copy that, beautiful. Always a pleasure chatting with you.”

It started professional enough—well, as professional as someone could be while constantly calling air traffic control ‘beautiful’—but overtime, he got more and more flirty. Somewhere around the fifth or seventh flight, you guided him in, he stopped sounding like a pilot and started sounding like a man leaving voicemail notes to his girlfriend.

“Good morning, gorgeous.”

“Did you miss my voice, honey?”

“Until next time, beautiful.”

Maybe it was his personality, as if he simply couldn’t help himself—like he’d physically explode if he didn’t borderline sexual harass his ground crew and was naturally incapable of having a normal conversation. But goddamn, did it annoy you.

He’d never even seen you. Didn’t know your name, wouldn’t recognize your face if you passed him in the terminal. He probably couldn’t even point to the tower from his cockpit window. And yet, every transmission felt like he thought he was on private frequency with you, and not broadcasting on public monitored by half the airspace.

And oh my God, the rambling—the fucking rambling. And, of course, you were his favorite audience.

“You know, Control, I was reading this article about albatrosses during my layover in Warsaw and it got me thinking. Did you know they can fly for years without ever touching ground, like literally sleeping while they fly? Can you imagine? They use these tiny wind gradients over the waves to do that. Makes our fuel consumption look pretty inefficient, doesn’t it?”

You already felt your soul leaving your body.

“Although I bet you could optimize their route better than they can to save even more energy. You’ve got such a lovely voice for giving directions. Very authoritative. I like that—”

Sometimes he’d yap for minutes until you got so annoyed that you’d rip off your headset before he could finish whatever outrageous story he was about to finish and waved at Ijichi to take over. Poor Ijichi—an actual saint and unfortunately still a rookie, so he was your victim—would sigh, slid on his headset and took over the frequency to reply to Gojo’s rambling about birds in a very distinctly male, distinctly unimpressed voice.

“Flight 447, this is Tokyo Control. Please state your current altitude.”

A pause. “Oh. Um. Flight level 380. Sorry—Is the other controller… did she…?”

“Flight 447, maintain current altitude and heading. Contact Approach on 119.7.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Ijichi shoot you a pained look and mouthed, “Your boyfriend’s looking for you” while you pretended to be very busy with paperwork, highlighting the same line of a weather report you’d already read four times.

You’d complained to your supervisor, of course. Marched into Yaga’s office with a list of incidents and timestamps of what you considered to be highly unprofessional behaviour that was interfering with air traffic operations.

Yaga had listened, occasionally nodding, while you explained in detail why Captain Gojo’s voice should be banned from all airspace. When you finished, he’d leaned back in his chair and given you that look—the one supervisors gave when they were about to tell you something you didn’t want to hear.

“Has he ever caused a delay?” Yaga asked.

“Well, no, but—”

“Missed a radio call?”

“No, however—”

“Failed to follow vectors or altitude assignments?”

“That’s not the point—”

“Has he ever said anything explicitly inappropriate? Sexual harassment, offensive language, anything that would violate communications protocols?”

You’d opened your mouth, then closed it. You were fighting a losing battle.

Yaga had shrugged and pointed out that Gojo never said anything explicitly inappropriate, never caused delays, and had the cleanest safety record of any pilot flying commercial routes in Japan. Zero incidents, zero violations, zero passenger complaints. He was the perfect pilot.

“The guy’s annoying but harmless,” Yaga had said at last, and slid your complaint folder back across his desk.

Harmless. Right.

Harmless if you didn’t count the fact that he was actively driving you insane and making you seriously consider changing careers. Or at least requesting a transfer to cargo flights, where the pilots were too busy dealing with departures every thirty minutes to spend time talking about stupid bird flyting techniques.

But damn it—you worked so hard for this position. You were a certified, professional air traffic controller with five years on the radar and an impeccable safety record. You’d studied for two years to pass the brutal exams, survived months in training simulations and clawed your way up from ground control to tower to approach and finally to the international routes.

You directed aircraft worth billions of dollars, carrying hundreds of lives, through some of the most complex and congested airspace in Asia. You coordinated with air traffic controllers in twelve different countries, handled language barriers, time zones, techchnical delays, and medical emergencies—all while being always fucking calm and polite.

Okay, scratch the polite part. But you got the job done, and that’s what mattered. And you were not about to throw it all away because one stupid, obnoxious pilot with an equally stupid, attractive voice was too dense to tell the difference between air traffic control and fucking Tinder.

Okay, forget about the calm part, too.

It didn’t help that your colleagues found the whole thing all too amusing. Your colleague Maki—who handled mostly domestic routes and therefore dealt with normal, professional pilots—had already labelled Gojo your ‘work husband’.

And every time his flight number popped up on the radar, she’d make kissy faces in your direction and sing, “Oh, your boyfriend’s calling,” to which you’d reply “He’s not my boyfriend.” Or worse, she’d lean over your shoulder while he was in the middle of yet another monologue, whispering when you’d finally ask him out. Of course, she knew he’d hear every word on the other end of the radio, prompting him to tease you with, “She’s right. When will you finally ask me?”

“Flight 447, turn left heading 090, descend to flight level 200.”

“Left 090, down to 200. And might I add that you sound particularly lovely today, Control? Did you do something different with your… well, I can’t see your hair, but I bet it looks very pretty.”

Maki would choke on her laughter like a middle schooler watching her crush talk, and you’d have to clench your fists to stop yourself from punching them both.

And it didn’t help that everyone loved him, of course.

Everyone except you, apparently.

The ground crew basically fought over who got to service his aircraft. You’d see a swarm of orange vests crowding Gate 7 whenever Flight 447 rolled in—like teenage fangirls waiting backstage for their favourite boy band. It was ridiculous.

You’ve seen how the gate agents would always check their hair and straighten their ties. Hana from passenger services bought new lipstick “just in case” she ran into Captain Gojo during a layover.

Even the janitors—the fucking janitors—somehow developed a sudden obsession with the floor around Gate 7. Mr. Takeshi, who’d been mopping this place since the airport was built, now took his sweet time in that exact area. Like. What the fuck.

It was like the entire airport had developed a collective crush on a man most of them had never even spoken to. All based on stories and the occasional glimpse of him walking through the terminal in his pilot uniform.

You’d never actually seen him. In the months he’d been flying your routes, your shifts always ended right before he arrived—or you were stuck up in the tower when he was on the ground. Like you existed in parallel universes. You guided his plane through the airspace, but never actually crossed paths on the ground.

Everyone said he was stupidly pretty—so damn dreamy and everything. You could’ve looked him up, googled him, stalked the airport intranet. But you didn’t. For all you knew, he was sixty with a beer belly and balding. But unfortunately, he also had an infuriatingly attractive voice over radio communication.

Which only made it worse.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

It was one of those days where everything had gone wrong the moment you’d stepped into the tower. The coffee machine was broken, spitting out something between coffee grounds and mud. Your computer crashed twice during the morning shift, erasing twenty minutes of logged flight data. And to top it off, Ijichi had called in sick, leaving you to handle both international and domestic flights with only Maki as backup—who was currently tied up managing a medical diversion across three different frequencies.

So when Flight 447’s call sign appeared on your radar screen a full twenty minutes ahead of schedule, you felt your eye twitch.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting vectors for approach.”

You glared at the radar. Of course he was early. And of fucking course he was screwing up your carefully timed arrival window. You’d scheduled him between two other flights, and now you had to rearrange everything yet again.

“Flight 447, turn left heading 180, descend and maintain 3,000 feet.”

“Left 180, down to 3,000. You sound tense, Control. Long shift?”

Deep breath. Remember, violence is not an option.

“Just doing my job, 447.”

“Ouch. That’s definitely tension. Let me guess—computer crash? Did someone steal your lunch? Ah wait, I know—the coffee machine spat out mud again, didn’t it?”

You blinked at your screen. How could he possibly—

“Flight 447, maintain current heading and altitude.”

“Come on, don’t be like that. I brought you something from Zurich. Might help improve your mood.”

You paused, finger hovering over the radio button. “You… brought me something?”

“Mhm. You know those famous Swiss chocolatiers? Heard they make the best chocolate in Europe, so I picked some up for you.”

You stared at your screen for a beat, unsure whether to feel weirdly flattered or wildly uncomfortable. Probably both.

“You don’t even know who I am.”

“I know enough,” he said, still annoyingly casual. “I know you prefer late international routes because they’re usually quiet and professional. I know you drink your coffee black, because I’ve heard you complain—more than once—that no one washes out the cream dispenser in the break room, and that it will one day cause a biohazard. Which, judging by your mood today, I’m guessing no one’s done that in a while, so now the good machine’s off to maintenance again, and you’re stuck with that old one that just spits out grounds.”

A pause.

“And I know you stay late to help train the newbies, because I’ve heard your voice in the background on calls. I have to say, you’ve got this calm, patient tone that makes it almost sound like you’re not seconds away from strangling them. It’s kind of adorable, really.”

You sat up straighter. How did he know all that? And more importantly, why had he noticed all that?

You didn’t respond right away, unsure what to respond at all. Then, finally, you clicked your radio.

“Flight 447, turn right heading 240. Contact Approach on 119.7.”

“Wait, that’s it? No ‘thank you’ or ‘wow, you’re so thoughtful for bringing me treats form overseas’? I declared that stuff at customs, you know. It was a whole ordeal.”

Despite your awful morning, your lip twitched. “You declared chocolate at customs?”

“Had to. They were weirdly suspicious about a pilot carrying so much chocolate in his carry-on. I told them it was for someone special, and they got all sentimental and waved me through.”

“You told customs agents I was special?”

“I told them the truth. …Though I may have implied you were my girlfriend to avoid further questioning.”

“You what?”

His laugh crackled through the headset, way too pleased with himself. “Relax, beautiful. Customs agents don’t exactly hang out with air traffic controllers. Your secret identity is safe.”

“Flight 447, I’m transferring you to Approach. Stop inventing fake relationships with me at international borders.”

“So we’re not dating? Huh. That’s news to me.”

“I’m doing my job.”

“Yeah. And your job involves listening to me, technically speaking.”

“My job involves keeping you from colliding with other planes, not entertaining your delusions.”

“See? You care about my safety. Such a good girlfriend, Control.”

You could almost hear the smirk through the static. Across the tower, Maki—finally free from her emergency—was trying desperately to look anywhere but your direction. She was listening too, you realized, her face reddening as she barely held in her laughter.

“Flight 447 switch to Approach now, or I will reroute you to Osaka instead.”

“You wouldn’t dare. You’d miss me too much.”

“Try me.”

“Okay, okay, I’m switching,” he said, still laughing. “I’ll make sure the chocolate gets delivered to your gate. It’s got your name on it. Well… your call sign, anyway. Couldn’t exactly ask for your real name without sounding like a creep. Oh, and there’s a little something extra in the box, too.”

Your finger froze over the transmit button. “What kind of extra?”

“Just a little something. See you on the ground, beautiful.”

The line went silent as he switched to Approach, leaving you staring at your screen with a whole lot of annoyance, curiosity, and something dangerously close to anticipation swirling in your head.

Maki rolled her chair over without missing a beat. “Did he just say he brought you chocolate? From Switzerland?”

“Apparently.”

“And declared you his girlfriend to customs?”

“I hate him.”

“And there’s something extra waiting for you at the gate?”

You gave her a warning look. “Stop that.”

“You realize most guys don’t even text back. And he flew across eleven time zones and smuggled in fancy chocolate for you. Yeah, no one does that unless they’re into you.”

“It’s creepy.”

“Sure,” she said. “So creepy that you’re smiling about it.”

“I’m not smiling.”

“You absolutely are.” She leaned closer. “And you’re totally going to check the gate during your break.”

You turned back to your screen. “I have work to do.”

“Right. Want me to cover for you while you go see what the handsome pilot brought you?”

“I’m not—”

Your radar lit up. “Tower, this is Flight 892 requesting vectors for approach.” Saved by traffic, or whatever. You put your headset back on, thankful for the distraction, and focused on the radar.

You were definitely not thinking about Swiss chocolate.

Or whatever extra he brought.

Not even a little.

Okay, maybe a little.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

You waited until Flight 447 was safely out of range and someone else’s problem before making your move. The tower had quieted into its usual evening rhythm—slower, calmer, manageable. Most of the midday traffic was gone. And you? You were definitely just walking to the gate to, you know, get your steps in. Obviously.

“Off to investigate your love offerings?” Maki called as you headed for the elevator.

“Gate operations check,” you tried, but you couldn’t fool her.

The box was sitting right there at the international gate desk—impossible to miss. It was white and elegant, wrapped with a dark green ribbon, and with your controller call sign handwritten on the tag. Hana, the gate agent on duty, lit up the moment she saw you.

“Oh! You’re Control Seven! Captain Gojo dropped that off a few hours ago. He was very specific that it had to go to ‘the controller with the most beautiful voice in aviation.’” She giggled like a schoolgirl. “He’s so romantic.”

You stared at the box. It was bigger than you’d expected with a fancy logo that suggested the box probably cost more than your monthly food budget.

“Did he… say anything else?”

“Just that you’d had a rough day and deserved something sweet.” Hana sighed. “He’s so thoughtful. And his eyes? Like a winter sky.”

Winter sky? My god. You swore everyone around here was losing their goddamn minds over this man. You were so fed up with the collective swooning, you were starting to wonder if you were the only one left immune to his bullshit.

“Right. Well. Thanks.”

Back at your console, you set it down and stared at it as if it were a ticking bomb. Maki appeared at your side, peering over your shoulder.

“Holy shit. Is that from that famous Swiss brand? Do you even know how expensive that place is?”

“It’s just chocolate.”

“Just chocolate?” Maki carefully lifted the lid. Inside, each handmade confection was perfectly nestled in its own spot. “These are, like, forty bucks each. There’s at least thirty pieces in here.”

Ijichi gave a low whistle. “Your pilot boyfriend just dropped twelve hundred dollars on chocolate for you.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” But your eyes were still glued to the box, your brain struggling to process the fact that someone had just casually spent more than your rent on Swiss truffles. Someone who’d never even seen your face.

“Oh my God, try one,” Maki said, already plucking out a champagne truffle. “Don’t be shy.”

You picked a dark chocolate filled with salted caramel and bit into it. It was... really good. Incredible, even. Probably the best thing you’d ever tasted. Which, somehow, only made this entire situation worse.

“Girl, you are so lucky,” Maki sighed, popping another piece into her mouth. “A hot pilot who brings you fancy chocolate? Where do I sign up for that kind of harassment?”

“He’s probably not even attractive. I’ve never actually seen him.”

Both Maki and Ijichi froze, their mouths full of chocolate.

“Wait,” Maki said slowly. “You’ve never seen him?”

“Our shifts don’t overlap. I’m always in the tower when his flights come in.”

“Oh my God.” Maki turned to her computer. “I’m looking him up. The airport has photos of all the regular pilots for security, right?”

“Tower, this is Flight 234 requesting vectors for approach,” crackled your headset.

You grabbed your radio. “Flight 234, turn right heading 090, descend and maintain 4,000 feet.”

You moved quickly back to your station, eyes fixed on the radar screen. Behind you, you could feel Maki and Ijichi staring at you, clearly waiting for you to come back to them to gossip, but you waved them off without turning around.

As you guided the aircraft in, your hand absently toyed with the ribbon around the box, and that’s when you noticed the ‘something extra’. Tucked beneath the chocolates was a postcard that showed the Swiss alps. You turned the card around.

“For the voice that always guides me home. Thank you for keeping me safe up there.” — S

You shivered.

Out of annoyance. Obviously. Not because of the note. Or the postcard. Or the very stupid, very warm feeling creeping up your neck. Nope. Pure irritation. And maybe a tiny bit of cardiac distress. From rage. Clearly.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

You’d barely slept the night before. Every time you closed your eyes, you’d thought about stupidly expensive Swiss chocolate, that annoyingly sincere note, and the way his voice had softened when he’d called you special. It was infuriating. You were a professional, rational adult, not someone who lost sleep over a cocky pilot with a bedroom voice that was clearly a walking red flag.

Yet here you were at 12:28 PM, exhausted and surviving on your fourth cup of awful Tower coffee because an emergency landing had turned your normal shift into a fourteen hour marathon. A passenger going into labour during a flight from Beijing had caused half the Pacific to be rerouted, and by the time the situation had been handled, the night shift was understaffed and you’d agreed—more or less voluntarily—to stay and help out.

The tower had gone still in the way airports only do at night. Just you and your collegue Kai on shift, and him busy on a separate channel, handling a delayed cargo inbound. Somewhere below, the terminal lights flickered as the cleaning crews did laps. You rested your chin in your palm and tried not to hate everything.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting approach clearance.”

It took your brain a second to catch up. Flight 447. He’d just arrived from Paris. Of course. You took a breath.

“Flight 447, unable to clear for approach at this time. We have outbound traffic. Maintain current altitude and turn left heading 270 for holding.”

“Copy that. Left 270. Long night down there?”

You rubbed your eyes. “Medical emergency earlier. You’ll be in the hold for about an hour.”

“Roger. Hey—did you get the chocolates?"

Despite your exhaustion, you felt heat creep up your neck. Damn him. “Yes. Thank you. They were... unnecessary.”

“But good?”

You exhaled. “Really good.”

“Knew it. You sound tired, Control. How long you been on?”

You checked your watch. “Fourteen hours.”

“You shouldn’t be pulling shifts that long. You always look after everyone else but you’ve got to take care of yourself too, you know.”

You paused, the words hitting you sideways. Maybe it was the fatigue making you soft, or maybe it was the fact that, for once, he didn’t sound like he was trying to get a rise out of you. He sounded genuinely concerned—and it threw you off more than any flirtation ever had. You didn’t even have the energy to fight him on it.

“Someone had to cover.”

“Not at the cost of your own health. You drinking water? Eating real food? And I don’t mean the sandwiches they sell in the vending machines in the gates.”

“I did eat something a few hours ago. I’m okay. We had a pregnant passenger go into labor. Coordinated three hospitals and rerouted six aircraft, then landed them priority.”

“Is she okay?”

“Baby girl, born healthy. I heard from the flight attendant that they’ve named her Sky. It’s kinda cheesy.”

“That’s beautiful.” His voice was soft. “You helped bring a little life into the world tonight.”

“It’s just part of the job.”

“It’s not just your job, you know that,” he said gently. “It’s you being the person people count on when it really matters.”

“I don’t know…”

“You know why I always ask for this route?”

“Because you like to annoy me?”

He laughed quietly. “Because your voice is the best part of my day. Doesn’t matter what went wrong, how difficult the passengers, or how many delays we had to deal with—the moment I hear you on frequency… I know I’m okay. I know I’m home.”

You blinked. Words tangled somewhere between your chest and your mouth, but none made it out. How could they? Not with your heart thudding like it was trying to escape. Not with your lungs suddenly feeling too small.

It was silent in the tower. Kai was still busy on the other frequency with his cargo flight, leaving you alone with nothing but Gojo’s soft breathing in your headset and the pounding of your pulse.

You pressed your forehead to your arms on the desk, willing your heart rate to slow. Eventually, quietly, you said, “Why? Why are you being so… like this? You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough. I know you work too hard and care too much. I know you’re calm even when the tower’s on fire. I know you have the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard, and you use it to keep people safe.”

You could barely breathe.

“You deserve more than what this job takes from you, you know,” he added, almost like an afterthought.

“You’re so stupid,” you whispered, the insult so soft it barely had teeth.

“You’re exhausted. Lie to me tomorrow.” A pause. “You know, the cherry blossoms along the Seine were beautiful in Paris.” His voice grew wistful, and you closed your eyes, letting the sound wash over you in the quiet tower. “I’d love to show you someday.”

“Your girlfriend probably wouldn’t appreciate you taking other women on romantic trips to Paris.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he said without hesitation. “I wish you were my girlfriend.”

You took another deep breath, slower this time, but it didn’t help. Your face felt hot, your pulse wouldn’t settle, and worst of all, you couldn’t even pretend it wasn’t happening. What the fuck were you supposed to do with that information?

Normally you would have hung up by now, would have found some cutting remark to shut down whatever this was becoming. But maybe it was the exhaustion seeping into your bones, or the way his voice had gone so unsual gentle, that made you let it happen—this slow unraveling of the careful distance you’d built between yourself and the voice that had somehow become more important to you than you wanted to admit

“You’re insane.”

“You’re beautiful.”

You pressed your forehead deeper into the crook of your arm, as if you could bury the whole situation under your sleeves. As if he couldn’t still hear every shaky breath of yours over the radio.

“What? No comeback?” he teased. “You really must be tired.”

“I hate how you say stuff like that,” you mumbled into your sleeve, “when you know I’m too tired to fight back.”

“Sounds like good timing, then.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Mhm. I like when you sound all sleepy,” he said, lower now, almost like he was smiling. “It’s really cute.”

“Shouldn’t you be asking if I have a boyfriend or something?”

“Sounds like you want me to ask you.”

“I don’t.” You exhaled slowly, turning your head so your cheek pressed against your arm. “I’m not looking for anything.”

“Good,” he said. “So no boyfriend. Because it would be really awkward for me to take you to Paris if you had one. Boyfriends tend to get weird about that sort of thing.”

A soft laugh escaped before you could stop it. “You don’t even know me. Why are you so persistent?”

It was silent for a while—so long it made your skin itch. You glanced at the console. Still active. But then his voice returned.

“Because for months, your voice has been the only thing that’s felt like home,” he said. “Every flight, every approach, every time you say my call sign... it feels like coming home. And maybe that’s stupid. Maybe I’m just a pilot who’s spent too many nights alone in hotels, wondering what it’d be like to hear you say my name—my real name—just once, but I…”

The tower felt impossibly still around you, save for the sound of his soft breathing in your ear and the heavy press of something strange in your chest.

“Flight 447—”

“Can I ask you something? And you can say no.”

“…What?”

“Do you want to switch to a private frequency?”

You shouldn’t. It was a clear breach of communication policy. You knew that. But the tower was empty, Kai was distracted, and there was something in the way he said it that made you want to say yes so terribly much.

“Frequency 121.9,” you said.

“Copy that. Switching now.”

Your heart thudded. You flipped over to the private channel, palms slightly clammy against the controls, and waited.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 on private frequency.”

“I’m here.”

You could hear the smile in his voice when he answered. “Tell me something about you.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Doesn’t matter. I just want to listen to your voice.”

You went quiet for a beat, still resting your head on your arms, the headset cord wrapped loosely around your fingers. Your body was heavy with exhaustion, but something warm had started to bloom low in your chest.

“That’s… I don’t know what to say.”

“Start simple. What did you have for breakfast?”

Despite everything, you almost smiled. “Coffee.”

“Just coffee?” He groaned. “That’s terrible for you. You need read food.”

“Says the man who probably only eats airplane food and orders hotel room service.”

“I make great scrambled eggs, actually,” he said, a little smug. “Secret ingredient is a little cream cheese folded in at the end.”

“You cook?”

“Mhmm. And I make the best carbonara.”

“According to who?”

“According to me. And I’m a very reliable source.”

You smiled again. “Very humble, too.”

“Absolutely. So, what about you? What do you do when you’re not busy keeping pilots from crashing into each other?”

You surprised yourself by answering. You told him about the pottery class you barely had time for on weekends, how you were trying to teach yourself guitar but could only play three chords and a more or less decent version of ‘Wonderwall’. You admitted to watch trash reality TV while folding laundry, and how your poor balcony basil plant had died three times and counting despite your best efforts.

It just... flowed. And it felt good. Comforting, even.

You found yourself sharing more than you meant to, your voice softer than usual in the quiet of the tower, like the distance between you made it easier to be honest.

You hadn’t realized until now how much you’d come to like hearing his voice. Not the cocky, smug tone he usually used on open frequency—but this version. Soff and warm in a way that felt almost intimate. Like he actually cared about your answer. Like he actually saw you, even from thirty thousand feet away.

You were quiet for a moment, then asked, “Why did you become a pilot?”

A breath passed. Maybe two.

“I had a little sister. She died when she was twelve—leukemia.” He paused, and you could hear the slight hitch in his breathing. “She was obsessed with those National Geographic documentaries, always making plans about all the places she wanted to see—the Andes in Peru, hiking the Highlands in Scotland, and seeing the Northern Lights in Iceland. She had this whole notebook full of destinations she wanted to visit, with pictures cut out from magazines.”

You didn’t move, afraid even a shift might break the moment.

“She never left Japan. Never even got on a plane. But the day before she died, she made me promise I’d see the world for her. That I’d go to all the places and tell her about them.” Another shaky breath. “So I became a pilot. And every flight, every city, every sunset high above the clouds—she’s with me. I take pictures for her. Collect postcards.” His laugh barely held. “Probably sounds crazy.”

“It doesn’t sound crazy at all.” You sat up straighter in your chair and rolled your sleeves down, suddenly feeling the night air’s chill. “So the postcards from Zurich…”

“I brought one for her, and one for you. I thought... maybe you’d like it too.”

“Flight 447,” you said softly, unsure what else to do with the weight in your chest.

“She would’ve liked you,” he added. “She always said the most important people are the ones who make you feel like home—even when you’re thirty thousand feet in the air, circling your home airport at in the middle of the night because you cannot land.”

You were silent for a while, unable to find words.

“Control? Can I ask you something else?”

“…Yeah.”

“Would you like to go out with me?”

You didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t even breathe at first, hand hovering near the console, but instead of replying, you slowly set your headset down and stood—legs unsteady. You crossed the small space behind your chair, ran a hand through your hair, tried to get your lungs to work again.

You weren’t ready. Not for this. Not for him sounding that sincere. He was still up there, circling in the dark, waiting for something you weren’t sure you could give. You braced your hands on the edge of the desk, heart pounding, and finally lowered yourself back into the chair. Slipped the headset on again.

“I…” you began, but the rest of the sentence never came. Your throat tightened too much.

“You don’t have to answer now. Just think about it, okay?”

Then Kai’s voice cut through your main frequency. “Control Seven, runway’s clear for your holding traffic.”

You switched back to the private frequency, your voice steadier than you felt.

“Flight 447, you’re cleared for approach, runway 24L. Wind 180 at 5 knots.”

“Roger, cleared for approach runway 24L.”

You hesitated, your finger trembling slightly on the radio button, then softly, “Land safe, Satoru.”

Silence stretched between you, each moment an unbearable weight as you waited for him to speak, with only the soft static of the frequency for company. When his voice finally came back, it was barely above a whisper.

“You’re so unfair, Control. How am I supposed to sleep now that I’ve finally heard you say my name like that?”

Your chest tightened, a fragile tenderness settling in your chest, and you closed your eyes, lost in the sudden intimacy of the moment.

“See you on the ground, Control… and sleep easy tonight.”

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

After that night, everything changed.

What had once been the most frustrating part of your job had quietly become the part you looked forward to most. You told yourself it was just the routine, the familiarity. A comforting voice between the chaos. But when Flight 447’s call sign popped up on your radar, your chest would do that stupid flutter before your brain could stop it. And the professional distance you’d worked so hard to maintain began crumbling piece by fragile piece.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting vectors, and good morning to my favorite controller.”

You didn’t even try to hide your smile anymore. “Good morning, Captain. Turn left heading 180, descend and maintain 4,000.”

“How’s that terrible tower coffee treating you today?”

“Still tastes like mud. But it’s keeping me awake.”

“You really need someone to bring you proper coffee sometime.”

“Flight 447, contact Approach on 119.7.”

“Will do, beautiful. Save me a cup of that mud, will you?”

You caught yourself still smiling after he’d switched frequencies.

Your colleagues noticed the change immediately. Maki would glance over with that knowing grin the second his call sign blinked onto your screen. Sometimes she didn’t even say anything—just raised her eyebrows and took a dramatically loud sip of her green tea.

Even Ijichi who was usually so quiet and reserved, seemed to soften. Now, he’d offer a small, genuinely happy smile when Satoru’s voice came through the speakers, like a younger brother observing something inevitable unfold.

The conversations with Satoru grew longer, more personal. He’d tell you about the cities he flew to—the morning mist over Prague’s cobblestone streets, the way the late afternoon sunlight painted the Alps during his approach to Munich, the bustling markets in Vienna that smelled like roasted chestnuts and warm strudel.

“There’s this little bakery in Prague,” he said once. “Sells cinnamon sugar spirals on a stick that taste like sugar bread. I picked some up for you and will drop them by your gate when I land, though they might be a bit smushed from the flight, but I swear they’re really good.”

You imagined him standing there, maybe still in his uniform, coffee in one hand and some pastry in the other, sunlight filtering through narrow European streets. You wished you could’ve been there with him.

One Tuesday evening, he came on frequency a few minutes early. “I saw the Northern Lights last night for the first time,” he said, skipping all pretense of small talk. “Over Helsinki. It looked incredible. I took about a hundred photos, even though they don’t do it justice, but… I tried.”

“Your sister would’ve loved that.”

“Yeah. She would have.” His voice grew soft. “I wish you could have seen them too. With me.”

You hadn’t planned on any of this. You didn’t know where it was going. But every word felt a little easier than the last. Like you were building something one flight at a time, stitched together from shared late night conversations, shared silences, and a voice that had somehow made its way under your skin. And you hadn’t even seen his face.

At some point, the flirting had stopped feeling like a game. You weren’t sure when the shift happened, only that it had. One day you were rolling your eyes at his compliments, and the next… you caught yourself smiling before he even switched on the mic.

He’d compliment your voice and your hair he’d never even seen, and you’d toss something sharp right back at his ego. He’d ask about your day like it mattered, and you’d ask how the clouds looked up there in the sky.

Somewhere between the banter and clearance codes, you stopped resisting the warmth that bloomed in your chest every time he called you beautiful. Stopped pretending it didn’t matter. Stopped pretending you didn’t wait for his call sign, or feel the flutter in your stomach when he said your call sign like it was something he’d been waiting all day to say.

“You sound tired today,” he said one afternoon, somewhere over the East China Sea, his voice laced with concern.

You stifled a yawn. “Double shift. Someone called in sick.”

“That’s the third time this month. You need to take better care of yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

“When’s the last time you took a day off? And I mean not just sleeping in because you worked late, but actually doing something for yourself?”

You paused, thought about it, and realized you couldn’t remember.

“That settles it. When I get back from the Zagreb route next week, we’re going somewhere. Somewhere with decent coffee and food that doesn’t come from a vending machine.”

“Is that a request or a demand, Captain?”

“It’s a promise.”

Late night conversations on the private frequency became your favorite kind of bad habit. You told yourself you weren’t abusing the system—you just happened to monitor 121.9 a little more closely on nights when you knew he was in the air.

When the tower thinned out to near silence, leaving only the hum of the monitors, and his overnight flights aligned perfectly with your shifts, you always found a reason to switch channels.

“Can’t sleep up there?” you’d ask when his voice came through the static.

“Autopilot’s handling the boring parts. Thought I’d check on my favorite insomniac instead.”

“I’m not an insomniac,” you’d say, leaning into the console, exhausted but smiling. “I’m working.”

“It’s 3 AM. You should be in bed, curled up with a blanket and binge some Netflix.”

“Someone’s gotta guide the pretty pilots through the night sky.”

He never missed a beat. “Just one pretty pilot in particular, I hope. Otherwise I might get jealous.”

And you let him win these little exchanges. Because the truth was, the static of 121.9 had quietly become where you truly felt yourself. A place where your voice softened, where the walls came down, where you weren’t Control Seven—you were just you. Tired, overcaffeinated, sometimes frustrated with everything—but somehow still able to breathe easier when his voice filled your headset.

You didn’t have a name for what was growing between you—but it was there. Steady. Constant. Cruising at altitude and waiting for the moment one of you was brave enough to land.

Those conversations could last hours—him circling above the Pacific while you guided other aircraft, both of you stealing moments between official duties to talk about everything and nothing. He’d tell you about passengers he’d met, you’d share stories about the quirky new controller in the tower. He’d describe the view from his cockpit, you’d explain what the radar looked like from your perspective.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like if we’d met differently?” he asked one night.

“How do you mean?”

“If I wasn’t a pilot, and you weren’t up in a tower. If we just... bumped into each other at a grocery store or something.”

“Would you have still talked my ear off about arctic birds?”

“Probably.” He laughed. “Though I might have started with the weather like a normal person.”

“I don’t think you know how to be normal, Captain.”

You found yourself looking forward to his flights. When Flight 447 appeared on your radar, it was like a switch flipped on inside your chest. And when his route changed and he wasn’t there you caught yourself glancing at the flight board more than necessary. If his flight was delayed by weather or mechanical issues, you’d feel it settle heavy in your chest like stones until his call sign appeared on your screen.

“Miss me?” he’d tease whenever your shifts missed each other and the silence stretched too long.

“You wish.”

“I do, actually. Horribly.”

You rolled your eyes, even though he couldn’t see it. “The frequency’s been blessedly quiet without you. You wouldn’t believe how efficiently I can work without your constant interruptions.”

“Liar. You were bored as hell.”

“Flight 447, I’m transferring you to Approach before your big ego causes your plane to crash.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little to late for that, Control? It’s this big since you said my name that one time.”

You groaned, pressing your palm to your forehead, but you were smiling. Always smiling. And he knew it. You both did. And pretending otherwise had started to feel pointless.

“…I missed you.”

You leaned forward, arms crossed on the edge of your console, and hunched your shoulders, trying to shake off the shiver that traced down your spine at the sound of his voice in your ear.

“Approach is waiting, Captain.”

A few weeks had passed since that first private frequency conversation, and you still hadn’t given him a direct answer about the date. But somewhere between his stories about sunrises over the Himalayas and your chaotic work anecdotes, the question had become less about whether and more about when. Even if you didn’t have the courage to admit it yet.

“So,” he said one Thursday evening, while preparing for approach, “about that date…”

Your heart stuttered in the smallest, stupidest way.

“I know a little café in Shibuya. It’s away from the main tourist spots and makes the best matcha lattes in Tokyo. Perfect place for two hardworking colleagues to grab a coffee.”

“We are colleagues, Flight 447.”

“Colleagues who happen to enjoy each other’s company.”

“Colleagues who work together professionally.”

“Colleagues who talk on private frequencies at 2 AM about the Northern Lights and their horrible exes.” His voice carried that familiar teasing note. “Come on, what’s the worst that could happen? I promise not to talk about aircraft separation minimums the whole time.”

“The worst that could happen is that it gets complicated.”

“It’s already complicated.”

You were quiet for a moment, knowing he was right. You shifted slightly in your chair, fingers idly twirling the cable of your headset.

“Flight 447, contact Approach on 119.7.”

“The café’s called Blue Mountain,” he said before switching. “Saturday afternoon. If you’re free.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Later that night, you lay on your back in the dark, staring at the ceiling of your apartment as the last traces of twilight faded from deep purple to black outside your open window, and replayed every conversation, every laugh, every time he’d called you beautiful.

You were a grown woman. A professional. You managed emergencies, rerouted aircraft in storm systems, made decisions in mere seconds that kept hundreds of people safe every day.

And here you were. Heart in shambles over a man you’d never even seen in person.

It didn’t make sense. Pilots are arrogant. That’s a universal truth you’d learned over the years in air traffic control. They walked through airports like they owned the sky, had egos the size of their aircraft, an attention span of a goldfish when it came to relationships, and probably a different girlfriend in every city.

Satoru was a pilot.

Therefore, by the sacred logic of the universe, he was a bad idea.

You’d learned that lesson the hard way—given your heart to people who’d seemed so sure, so persistent, so convinced they wanted forever until they didn’t. Until the reality of loving someone flawed and human became too much work, too complicated, too real.

But now here was him—persistent, charming, relentless in his pursuit of something that existed only in radio waves and imagination. All he had was your voice and whatever fantasy he’d constructed around it. And fantasies, no matter how beautiful, eventually shattered when they met reality.

You didn’t know much about him. Not his favorite movie, or if he was the type to do laundry right away or leave it on a chair for three days. You didn’t know who broke his heart last, or what he looked like when he was nervous. You didn’t even know if he wore glasses or if his hair curled when it rained.

For all you knew, he talked like this to every controller on every route. Maybe you were just one more frequency he’d tuned into. A novelty. A nice voice to pass the time.

Yet you knew he brought you gifts from cities you’d never visited. You knew he worried when you worked too many hours. You knew he talked to his dead sister through postcards and photographs, and somehow let you be a part of that grief. You knew the sound of his breathing thirty thousand feet above you, and sometimes wished you could fall asleep to it.

But this wasn’t real. Whatever this was—chemistry, attraction, some strange radio wave Stockholm syndrome—it couldn’t be real. Real relationships required proximity, shared experiences, mundane Tuesday mornings and arguments over who left the bathroom light on. Not conversations between approach vectors and weather reports in the middle of the night.

He’d never seen you laugh until your sides hurt, never witnessed you cry out of frustration. He didn’t know that you were shy in crowds, that you overthought everything, that you had trust issues wrapped around your heart like scar tissue.

This was in between. A connection built in the air, not on the ground. And you were being smart by saying no. You were being practical. Responsible. You were doing what made sense.

But why did the idea of never knowing the warmth of his hand in yours make your chest ache like you were already grieving something that hadn’t even had the chance to exist?

You rolled onto your side, pulled the covers up higher, and pressed your face into the pillow.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

It was one of those graveyard shifts where the world felt like it had gone still. Most of the world was asleep, save for you, a few stray cargo flights, and the quiet static of Flight 447 holding steady somewhere over the ocean. And him. Always him.

You were back on private frequency. What began, as it always did, with talk of altitudes and airspeed, soon shifted to stories of cities and people he’d met in Dublin and that little bakery he’d found in Budapest, that he’s sure of you’d love.

And then he told you about his ex-girlfriend who’d left him because she couldn’t handle the distance, the loneliness of hotel rooms. He spoke of his parents, who’d always expected him to run the family’s company, and how they still didn’t understand why he’d chosen to spend his life in the sky.

You found yourself sharing more than you probably should, as you always did in these hushed moments—your failed engagement to a man who’d wanted you to quit air traffic control because it was ‘too stressful’, your complicated relationship with your mother, and how sometimes, even now, it still felt like your worth came with conditions.

“I’ve never told anyone that before,” you said softly after confessing how you’d chosen this career partly to prove you could handle something your ex-fiancé thought was too difficult for you.

“I'm glad you told me,” Satoru’s voice was soft through the headset. And despite the exhaustion, your chest gave that familiar, traitorous flutter. “I love listening to your voice, especially when you’re being honest about things that matter.”

“Satoru…” you said, without thinking—his name slipping out in a whisper that carried more weight than it should have.

“Say that again.”

“Your name?”

“Yes,” he breathed, the single word aching. “Please.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn't want to—but because speaking it aloud meant acknowledging the weight it carried.

“Satoru,” you said again, slower this time. His name felt warm on your tongue, like something meant to be spoken softly, like a confession wrapped in a name.

On the other end of the line, silence stretched long enough to make your heart stutter.

“Satoru?” you asked. “Are you there?”

“I’m here. I was just… thinking.”

“About what?”

A beat.

“About how much I want to kiss you right now.”

Your breath caught so fast it hurt. Heat flooded your face and you pulled your headset off for a moment, pressing your palms against your burning cheeks.

You stood for a second, pacing a few slow steps behind your chair, trying to shake it off, to convince yourself you hadn’t heard what you just heard. But your heart wouldn’t stop racing, a wild bird trapped in your ribs, like your body was reacting to something your mind hadn’t even begun to process, let alone given permission for.

Because part of you had desperately wanted to hear those words. And part of you didn’t know what the hell to do with them now that they were real. You stared at the headset in your lap, hesitating. Wanting. Dreading.

After a few seconds, you slipped the headset back on.

“Did I scare you with that?”

“No,” you said quietly. “It’s… it’s fine.”

“I mean it, you know. I really do want to kiss you.”

“This is insane. We’ve never even met.”

“It doesn’t feel that way to me. Feels like I’ve known you forever.”

His words settled deep, heavier than the silence that followed. Something about them felt like a confession hanging between earth and sky, between personal and professional, between safe and what if.

“Satoru…”

“I know how you take your coffee. I know how you sound when you’re tired, and what makes you laugh when you’re trying not to. I know you bite your lip when you’re concentrating—because I can hear it in your voice. And I know you put everyone else ahead of yourself even when you shouldn’t. I know enough to care. And enough to want more.” A pause. “What else do I need to know?”

“What I look like, for starters.”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t care?”

“No, because it’s your voice I think about at night. That’s what drew me in. The rest… it never mattered.”

You sat there, heartbeat loud in your ears, not sure how to breathe, let alone how to respond.

“Say something,” he whispered. “Please.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll have coffee with me. Say you’ll give me a chance to see the woman I’ve fallen for.”

Your breath caught again. “Fallen for?” you repeated, like maybe saying it aloud would help you believe it.

“Yes. Completely, hopelessly fallen for.”

Your hands lifted—without thinking, almost desperate—and pressed against the headset like you could pull his voice closer—pull him closer. Part of you wanted him to say it again. Needed to hear it, to make sure it was real. And another part wished he hadn’t said it at all. Because now it was alive between you. Irrevocable.

“I…” You stopped, swallowed, tried again. “I have to—” You panicked and switched back to the main frequency. “Ijichi? Can you take over Flight 447 for me? I need to step out for a second.”

“Everything okay?” Ijichi’s voice sounded concerned.

“Yeah,” you said. “Just need a bathroom break.”

You yanked the headset off and fled to the small restroom down the hall, slammed the lock shut, and leaned back against the door as if afraid his words might follow you in.

You turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto your face. Droplets clung to your lashes and slid down your neck. Still, the heat in your skin wouldn’t go away, chest rising and falling too fast.

What is happening?

He couldn’t be serious. He couldn’t just… fall for your voice. That wasn’t how this worked. That wasn’t how any of this worked. You hadn’t even met him. You didn’t know what his laugh looked like when it reached his eyes. He didn’t know how you looked when you weren’t exhausted. And yet—

Yet here you were, breathless in a dim airport bathroom in the middle of the night, heart racing like you were the one who’d made the confession.

This is insane. He is a pilot. Probably talks like this to every other control tower from Berlin to Bangkok. But why—God, why—did you want to kiss him back so badly?

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

You took a week off without telling him.

It was cruel—you knew that. But you needed time. Time to breathe. Time to think. Time to stop feeling like you were going to fly apart every time you heard his voice. But distance didn’t feel like space. It felt like ache.

You spent most of that week alone in your apartment, curled into corners of yourself you hadn’t visited in years. You rearranged your bookshelves. Watered your plants twice in one day. Cleaned your windows until they gleamed like they haven’t in years.

And still, none of it helped. You ended up lying on your back in your bed, just… thinking. Wondering if he was worried. If he noticed the silence. If he regretted saying what he did.

You replayed the conversation endlessly, like a scratched record stuck on the moment his voice had dropped, tender and fragile with something like a confession.

Completely, hopelessly fallen for.

You could still hear it. Still feel the way your lungs had stuttered.

You hadn’t meant to fall for him. But you had.

Maybe it started the moment he told you that your voice felt like coming home to him. Or maybe it was the first time he opened up about his sister, the way his voice caught halfway through the sentence, like he was still learning how to hold that grief in his mouth. Or maybe it was even before that, when he brought you chocolate from Zurich and called you special to customs agents he’d never meet again.

You wanted to kiss him then. You want to kiss him now. And that terrified you more than anything. Not because it wasn’t real, but because you’d wanted it to be real for so long without even realizing. But wanting and admitting were two different things.

So instead, you wrapped yourself in quiet and waited for the ache to fade. It didn’t. You thought it would. You thought time would create space, and space would give you clarity. But it didn’t, and the ache only grew stronger.

By day three, you caught yourself checking the flight tracking apps, wondering if he was flying the skies above you, if his voice was somewhere out there asking another controller for vectors. If he’d call them ‘beautiful’ too.

By day four, you were questioning whether radio silence was mature or just cowardly, and by day five, you were actively pacing your apartment, cursing yourself for disappearing and cursing him for making you feel this way in equal measures.

You heard the familiar drone of an aircraft passing overhead through your open window and stopped your pacing instantly, tilting your head toward the sound as it grew louder, then began to fade.

Was that him? His flight cutting through the darkness with some other controller guiding him home? Someone else’s voice in his headset? The thought made you sick.

Your phone buzzed against the kitchen counter. A text from Maki. “Your pilot boyfriend keeps asking where you are.”

You stared at the message for a long time. Not because you didn’t care, but because you didn’t know what to say. Because how could you possibly say I miss him without it sounding like you were already halfway in love. And maybe you were.

****

You returned on day six. Not because you were ready, or because the questions had answers, or your chest had stopped aching when his name passed through your thoughts, but because Tokyo’s sky was falling apart and there was no more time left to hide.

The call came at 3:42 AM—all available controllers needed immediately. Level four emergency.

You barely had time to pull on your uniform, hair still damp from the shower, as you rushed past stranded passengers sleeping on benches and gate agents with phones pressed to both ears, while overhead an urgent announcement looped in four languages.

A massive weather front had swept across the Pacific, turning Tokyo’s airspace into chaos. Delayed flights, emergency diversions, aircraft running low on fuel circling in holding patterns, waiting for safe corridors to open. But when you reached your workstation, you stopped.

Flowers.

A small, beautiful arrangement of white roses and baby’s breath in a clear glass vase.

“He sends them every day,” Maki said, appearing beside you with a stack of weather reports. “Asks if someone can place them on your desk. In case you come back.”

You couldn’t speak, only stared at the petals, watching one tremble in the air conditioning draft. Something fragile inside your chest pulled taut.

Six days.

He’d been sending flowers to an empty chair for six days.

“You okay?” Maki asked.

“I’m good,” you managed, swallowing hard. “I need to—” But there was no time.

“Tower, this is Flight 892, requesting immediate vectors around weather cell bearing 270.”

For the next three hours, there was no room left for feelings. You were too busy handling all the alternate airport requests, fuel emergencies, and missed approaches that required immediate rerouting.

“Flight 315, turn right heading 180, descend to 8,000. Moderate turbulence ahead, advise caution.”

“Flight 726, negative climb, maintain 12,000. Traffic conflict. Standby for alternate routing.”

Every call you answered felt like a life being tossed into your hands. You held on tight. You didn’t shake. At least, not on the outside.

A sudden, blinding flash from outside momentarily bleached the room, then plunged it back into deeper shadow as rain lashed heavily against the tower’s windows.

And then, between the tangle of signals and storm interference, a call sign you knew like your own name lit up your screen.

Flight 447.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting vectors through weather, and—” He paused—like he’d caught the shaky breath you hadn’t meant to let slip through. “Control, is that you?”

It shouldn’t have undone you like that. But it did. Your knees went weak under your console. Relief flooded through you at the sound of his voice, alive and safe. Your throat tightened around a dozen things you wanted to say, but there was no time.

“Flight 447, turn left heading 090, descend to 6,000. There’s a gap in the storm cell at your two o’clock.”

“Roger, left 090, down to 6,000.” A beat. “It’s good to hear your voice again.”

You wanted to respond, to explain, to apologize for disappearing like a coward, but four other aircraft were calling for attention at the same time and the storm was intensifying still.

“Flight 447, be advised, severe turbulence ahead. Recommend immediate deviation right, heading 130.”

“Negative, we’re already committed to this approach. We’ll ride it—”

Then nothing. The radio snapped to static, then went silent.

You stood up so fast your chair rolled backward and bumped into the console behind you. One hand clutched the headset tighter to your ear, the other braced against your desk.

“Flight 447, come in.”

No response.

“Satoru, do you copy?”

Still nothing. Only white noise.

Lightning split the sky outside, followed by a deep, rattling roar of thunder that vibrated through the control room. But all you could hear was the terrifying silence where his voice should’ve been.

Your hand trembled as you keyed the mic. “Flight 447, please respond.”

Then, finally, cutting through the noise, “Control. I’m here. Lost comms for a moment there.”

You sank back into your chair like your legs had stopped working, the adrenaline suddenly too much to hold. You rested your forearms on the edge of the console, hands trembling slightly as you leaned in, pressing your forehead against them, trying to steady the frantic beat of your heart against your ribs.

“What’s with the silence now,” he whispered softly. “Were you worried about me, love?”

Love.

He’d never said that before. Beautiful, gorgeous, honey—but never this. Not like that. Not so soft and tender, like you’d been his love for so long that saying it was simply acknowledging what already existed, what had been waiting patiently in his chest for the right moment to slip free. And never had you been so stupidly, helplessly happy to hear a single word.

He is alive. He is safe. And he’d called you love.

“Flight 447, confirm you’re okay.”

“We’re fine. Bumpy ride, but nothing we can’t handle.”

Neither of you said anything for a moment.

“I’ve missed you.”

Your throat tightened. Six days of silence. Six days of waiting, wondering, and avoiding the thing you were most afraid to admit. Six days of white roses waiting for your return, and here he was, relieved to hear your voide again like you were something precious he’d thought he’d lost.

As if your absence had mattered.

As if he’d missed you the way you’d missed him.

“Thank you,” you said. “For the flowers.”

“You don’t have to thank me. Just… don’t go quiet on me again, okay? It’s hard to feel like I’m coming home when you’re not the one guiding me there.”

You closed your eyes, the ache blooming hot behind your ribs. Coming home. How could he say things like that so easily? How could he make you feel like you were drowning and flying at the same time with just a handful of words spoken through radio static?

And the worst part was how easily he said it—like you really were his home, his anchor point in all that vast sky. Like this thing between you wasn’t just something imagined, but something real enough to miss, something worth coming back to.

“I won’t,” you said, barely above a whisper.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

And you meant it. Whatever had made you run, whatever fear had driven you to take that week off—it felt so stupidly irrelevant compared to the relief of knowing he was safe. Of knowing somewhere above the clouds, he’d been looking for your voice.

“See you on the ground, beautiful.”

And then the line went silent.

Your eyes stayed locked on his radar symbol, unwilling to look away, tracking his descent as if your gaze alone could guide him safely down. Your eyes drifted to the flowers beside your console, your chest tight with guilt because you’d been too much of a coward to face what you felt for him.

What was holding you back when he was right there? Wanting you, missing you enough to notice your absence, calling you love so tenderly. What was so terrifying about someone who made you feel like the most important voice in his sky?

He missed you. Wanted you. And you missed him like the sky misses his stars in daylight. Now he was descending through storm clouds, almost within reach, and you still didn’t know how to say any of it.

You watched his altitude drop.

8,000 feet.

6,000.

4,000.

Each number bringing him closer to solid ground—closer to you.

Then another violent gust tore across the runway. A sharp gasp cut through the tower, everyone suddenly stood and looked out the windows as Flight 447 broke through the storm clouds, lurching violently sideways. The plane’s wings tilted at a sickening angle, fighting against the crosswind as it dropped like a stone before catching itself.

Your heart flatlined.

“Maki, can you cover for me?” you asked, voice tight, already moving.

She looked away from the window. “What? Yeah, but—”

You were gone. Down the tower stairs, past security who barely glanced at your badge, through the restricted access door and straight into the teeth of the storm. Didn’t matter that you were soaking wet or that this was completely against protocol. All you knew was you had to see him.

Rain hit you immediately like ice, instantly soaking through your uniform, but you didn’t slow. Across the runway, Flight 447 was coming in hard. You watched it slam onto the wet asphalt—one heavy bounce, then another, the aircraft struggling to find purchase on the waterlogged asphalt before finally coming to a halt with a loud screech of brakes.

Not a crash. But rough enough to stop your breathing.

You ran faster, shoes splashing through puddles as emergency crews rushed past you toward the plane. The aircraft had stopped crooked on the runway, passenger stairs already being rolled into position as ground crew in bright orange vests hurried around the scene.

It was stupid, so stupid. You didn’t even know what he looked like. But then—

You saw him. For the first time in your life.

He stepped out of the cockpit door, tall and undeniably handsome even amidst the chaos. His hair was drenched form the rain, plastered back from his forehead, his pilot’s uniform soaked and wrinkled. He was looking around slowly, searching through the crowd with a furrowed brow and eyes the exact impossible blue you’d somehow always known they’d be. And then—

And then his gaze found yours. And everything stopped. No thunder. No wind. No roar of engines or shouts from the crew.

Your eyes met across the storm, and the world fell away. You had never seen this man before, but it didn’t feel that way. It felt like remembering. There was no question, no doubt, no moment of uncertainty—you knew it was him the same way you knew your own heartbeat.

The voice you’d fallen for belonged to this man, this beautiful and insufferable pilot who was staring at you like he’d just found something he’d been searching for his entire life.

And now he’d found you.

You ran toward him through the chaos, feet splashing through more puddles, rain streaming down your face. He moved toward you too, taking the metal steps down from the plane two at a time, his hand sliding along the wet railing.

You met in the middle of the runway, both out of breath, both drenched to the bone. Rain clung to his white lashes as he stared at you—those impossible blue eyes you’d imagined a hundred times now real, locked on your face like you were the only thing in the world. And yes, they were just as blue as a winter sky. Up close, he was somehow even more beautiful than you’d let yourself believe.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, suddenly at a complete loss for words. “Would you like to go out with me?” you finally managed, having to raise your voice over the wind and rain.

Satoru blinked, his hair plastered against his forehead. A slow, handsome smile spread across his face.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “I’d really like that.”

And then he was moving, one hand sliding around your waist while the other came up to cradle your face, thumb brushing away raindrops—or maybe tears, you couldn’t tell anymore. He pulled you closer, bridging the last inches like he’d been waiting forever to do it.

When he kissed you, it was like coming home after being lost for years. Desperate and tender, months of longing finally given form. His lips were impossibly soft against yours, warm despite the cold rain, and you could taste the storm on his mouth, feel the way his breath caught when you kissed him back.

Rain poured around you as you finally, finally kissed the voice that had become your everything.

When you broke apart, both breathless, he rested his forehead against yours. His hands trembled slightly where they held you, like he still couldn’t believe this was real.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

Then he was kissing you again, deeper this time, pouring months of missed chances and sleepless nights into the space between your lips. His grip tightened on your waist. Without breaking the kiss, he lifted from the ground and spun once, twice, in the pouring rain like you weighed nothing at all.

Storm clouds churned overhead and emergency crews moved around you, but it felt like you were the only two people in the world—suspended in this perfect moment between earth and sky and the the feeling of finally being found.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

A few weeks later.

“Careful with that,” Satoru warned as you briefly touched a panel of switches, his hand catching your wrist gently. “Unless you want to explain to the airline why we accidentally activated the emergency slides in the hangar.”

You were perched in the captain’s seat of his Boeing 777, legs tucked beneath you as you took in the array of countless instruments, screens, and controls that made up his office thirty thousand feet above the ground. The cockpit was smaller than you’d imagined, more intimate, every surface covered with buttons and displays that somehow made sense to him.

“You actually understand all of this?”

“Each and every switch, gauge, and warning light.” He leaned over you from where he stood beside the captain’s seat, his chest brushing your shoulder as he pointed to different instruments. “See this? It’s the primary flight display—shows our altitude, airspeed, heading. That’s the navigation display, weather radar here…”

You could smell his cologne, feel the warmth of his body as he leaned in closer to point out the next display. You loved watching him like this—the way he lit up when talking about his aircraft, completely absorbed in every detail with that endearing kinda nerdy side of his. But being this close to him made it hard to focus on anything he was saying when all you could think about was the way his voice rumbled low near your ear.

“And this,” he continued, reaching around you to tap a small screen, his arm caging you in against the seat, “shows exactly how beautiful my air traffic controller looks in my chair.”

You turned to find his face inches from yours. His sky blue eyes caught the gentle light like glass, impossibly clear, and for a second, you forgot how to breathe.

“That’s not what that screen shows.”

“No? Then why can’t I look away from it?”

“You’re stupid.” But you were smiling, tilting your head back against the headrest to maintain eye contact. “Show me something else.”

“Demanding little controller.” His fingers trailed along the overhead panel, flipping switches as he spoke. “These control cabin pressure, air conditioning, electrical systems…”

You sank deeper into the chair, letting his soothing voice wash over you.

“These are the autopilot controls.” His hand moved again. “This button engages the system—basically tells the plane to fly itself according to the flight plan we’ve programmed.” His finger moved to another switch. “This one controls altitude hold, and this manages our heading.”

“But here’s the most important thing.” Satoru reached toward a small compartment near the instrument panel and pulled out a photo of the two of you from that stormy night��completely drenched, kissing in the rain. It was blurry as hell and underexposed, and absolutely perfect.

“I still can’t believe Hana managed to get this shot,” you said, taking it from him. “She really thought ‘Oh, what a perfect time for a picture’ while there was literally an emergency evacuation going on.”

Satoru laughed. “But aren’t you gald she took it?”

“We look absolutely stupid.”

Your hair was plastered to your face, his uniform wrinkled and soaked, but you both looked happy. Really happy.

“You look perfect,” he said, leaning closer. “And you were so cute when you had that total meltdown thinking something happened to me.”

“I did not have a meltdown—”

“You ran across an active runway. In a storm.” He traced the edge of the photo with his finger, smiling. “My professional, composed controller lost her cool because she was worried about her pilot.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I’m just saying—” He leaned back against the instrument panel, clearly enjoying this. “For someone who spent months pretending to hate my guts, you certainly changed your mind when you thought I might be hurt.”

“I was worried about you.”

His smile softened. “You didn’t have to.” He paused, then reached out, gently cupping your face. “No matter how rough the storm or the landing, I’m never really lost—not when I know you’re there. You always guide me home safely.”

“You’re stupid.”

“Stupidly in love, yeah,” he murmured—and then he kissed you.

What started soft and slow quickly turned heated. You pulled him closer by his tie, and he braced his hand against the seat beside your head, his tongue sliding against yours as his mouth pressed hungrily to yours.

“Controller,” Satoru said between kisses, his voice already rough. “What exactly are you starting here?”

“I’m not starting anything,” you said, even though your fingers were already working his tie loose.

“Clearly.”

You rose from the chair and tugged gently at his loosened tie and he followed without resistance. With a gentle push to his chest, you guided him down into the captain’s seat. He let himself fall back into it, eyes locked on yours. Without a word, you climbed into his lap, straddling him. His hands found your waist immediately, pulling you close as his mouth met yours again like he couldn’t stand another second apart.

“My break’s over in fifteen,” you murmured against his lips. “And the plane’s grounded for another hour. No one should be around.”

He pulled back just enough to give you a look. “Wait… did you check the maintenance schedule before coming here?”

“Maybe.”

“God,” he groaned against your mouth, his hands gliding up your back. “Do you even know what you do to me?”

“I’m just making efficient use of our time, Captain,” you whispered, rolling your hips slightly and feeling him tense beneath you. “Isn’t that what good air traffic control is about? Proper scheduling and all that?”

His laugh came out breathless, strained. “Pretty sure this isn’t in any manual I’ve read.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to improvise.” You threaded your fingers through his white hair and pulled him closer. “You’re good at handling unexpected situations, aren’t you?”

Whatever he was about to say dissolved as he caught your lips again, urgency building in the small space between your bodies. One hand slipped beneath your shirt, warm fingers tracing the curve of your lower back, while the other gripped your thigh possessively.

You started undoing the buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers, impatience bleeding into every movement. Fabric slipped from his shoulders as you pushed it off. You pressed your hands against his bare chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat under your palms and traced slowly down over his abs, earning a rough groan of his against your lips.

“Why do I get the feeling this was your plan all along?”

Satoru tugged at your shirt, easing it off your shoulders as his lips trailed along your collarbone, then down to the strap of your bra, pushing it aside to press kisses to the skin beneath.

“Says the man undressing me in his cockpit,” you managed, though your voice caught when his mouth found your neck and sucked lightly.

“I can’t believe you let me ramble about navigation systems for ten minutes straight when this was your plan.”

“You’re cute when you’re being all professional and nerdy.”

“You’re terrible.”

His hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer until you could feel him hard and pressing through his uniform. A soft sound escaped your lips before you could stop it, and his mouth crashed back onto yours, like he was trying to steal every moan before it left your lips.

“Careful. Don’t want us getting caught, right?”

You barely heard him. Your hands dropped to his belt, leather unfastening fast. It didn’t take long to push aside everything that wasn’t necessary. You were both nothing if not efficient, after all. And the last threads of restraint snapped as Satoru’s hands slid up your bare thighs, fingers hooking beneath your underwear and pulling it aside.

His head tipped back against the seat, breath catching as you moved against him. “Fuck,” he whispered, hands gripping your waist and pulling you closer as you found your rhythm together. His mouth on yours again, swallowing the soft sounds neither of you could hold back.

Surrounded by the controls and countless displays, the cockpit windows slowly fogging from your heated breathing, you couldn’t help but think about how it all started. This was where it began—thirty thousand feet above the world, suspended between earth and sky in the place where his voice had first found yours. From that very first radio call, from the moment he’d called you beautiful, it had always been leading here.

As if inevitable.

Now, with your hands mapping his skin and your name falling from his lips in soft moans, it felt like coming full circle. From air traffic control to this. From ‘Flight 447’ to ‘Satoru.’ From guiding him home to finally being home.

And that felt pretty damn good.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

Six months later.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting permission to land and take my gorgeous girlfriend out for dinner tonight,” came the voice you loved through your headset, smooth as always despite the late hour.

You rolled your eyes, though you smiled. “Flight 447, you do realize the entire tower can hear you, right?”

“Even better. Let them all know how lucky I am.”

Around the control tower, your colleagues had long since stopped pretending to be annoyed by Satoru’s radio flirtations. Maki still teased you about how cute you both sounded over the frequency, and even Ijichi had gotten used to the intimate banter without blushing like a teenage boy who’d accidentally walked into a lingerie store.

The gifts never stopped coming. From Vilnius, he’d brought a handwritten pierogi recipe from an elderly woman he’d chatted with during his layover—and it was surprisingly good when he made it for you on the weekend. He did not lie when he told you he’s a good cook.

From Faro came a hand painted pot for the basil plant you’d surely kill again, but it didn’t matter as he’d secretly replace it in the middle of the night so you’d think you’d finally managed to keep a plant alive and see your happy smile. Seville brought oranges he’d handpicked from the city gardens, and Barcelona brought a gorgeous Picasso art book.

And, of course, every trip came with two postcards. One for you, and one for his sister. You’d started framing the ones meant for her and hanging them throughout his apartment for him.

“You know you don’t have to bring me something from every city,” you’d told him after he’d brought more expensive chocolate from Zurich.

“Let me spoil my girl,” he’d replied simply, watching you take a bite. “Besides, all you see is that boring tower all day. You deserve a little treat.”

The radio banter had only gotten worse—or better, depending on your perspective.

“Tower, Flight 447 requesting vectors to your heart.”

“Flight 447 keep it professional or I’m diverting you to Osaka.”

“Oof. Brutal. But if you send me to Osaka, you’ll never see what I brought you from Rome.”

Your colleagues had started keeping a list of his most ridiculous radio calls. ‘Flight 447 requesting visual on the prettiest controller in the hemisphere’ was Maki’s current favorite, while Ijichi still cringed about the time Satoru had asked for ‘Requesting altitude adjustment because I just fell for you—again.’

Yeah. It was absolutely cheesy.

Moving in together happened gradually, then all at once. Your clothes moved to his closet, your coffee mugs replaced all of his ugly ones in the kitchen, and suddenly your shift schedule was magnetted to his refrigerator beside his flight rotations. One day, you realized you were planning your lives around each other without ever having had the conversation.

“Your apartment’s bigger,” you’d pointed out, when you finally made it official.

“Yours has the better balcony. But mine’s closer to the airport.”

“So, your place then. But I’m bringing my good coffee maker.”

“And won’t let me see that adorable little wince you do at my terrible coffee in the morning? You’re heartless.”

But the real adjustment wasn’t space or schedules. It was learning each other’s bodies with the same intensity you’d spent months learning each other’s voices. After all, with falling in love through radio static, there was a lot of missed physical intimacy to make up for.

Some weekends you didn’t even make it out of your shared apartment, too consumed with discovering each other all over again. Your back hit the mattress with a soft thud, sheets warm beneath you as he settled over you, pressing kisses to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone like he couldn’t decide where to focus first.

“I used to fantazise about this,” he murmured between kisses.

“About what?”

“This.” His voice dropped lower, lips bruising your throat. “What you’d sound like when you weren’t trying so hard to be professional… imagining the sounds you’re making now, how you’d moan my name with that pretty voice of yours.”

You pulled him closer, lips finding his again, his tongue hot against yours.

“Yeah?”

He smiled against your mouth. “You have no idea how many nights I imagined the taste of your skin. How many times I lay awake wondering if your thighs would shake when I fucked you hard enough.”

Your breath stuttered, hands gripping his shoulders like they were the only steady thing left. “Good thing we’ve got time now to find out.”

“Yeah. And I plan on making up for all of it,” he whispered—just before his fingers slipped between your thighs, and you forgot how to speak altogether.

And you did make up for lost time. Learning that he was somehow even more affectionate and thorough in person than over the radio.

In the quiet of your bedroom, with the curtains drawn and the world hushed beyond the walls, you discovered each other slowly.

How he always shivered when you traced patterns across his abs. How you had a small scar just below your ribcage from a childhood fall that he found with his lips, kissing along your skin until you arched beneath him. How your body tensed and then melted completely when his mouth worked between your legs, drawing sounds from you that made him groan against your skin.

You learned the weight of his arm draped over you, holding you close when he was moving from behind, and how soothing it felt when his fingers traced lazy patterns on your shoulder until sleep claimed you both. Discovered that lazy morning sex, followed by his surprisingly good scrambled eggs, was the perfect way to start any day.

You spent hours like this, days even, learning the language of each other’s bodies with a thoroughness that left no inch unexplored and no fantasy unfulfilled.

“You know,” he said one evening, pulling you into his lap while you tried to review approach procedures on the couch, “I spent so many nights wondering what it would be like to touch you while you worked.”

“And now?”

“Now I get to find out what happens when I do this—” His lips found that sensitive spot on your neck, making you gasp and completely forget what you’d been reading. “While you’re trying to be all professional.”

“That’s unfair.”

“That’s what makes it fun.”

The night everything changed started like any other. Weather delays had backed up traffic for hours, leaving Satoru circling above the Pacific in a holding pattern while you worked through the endless stream of aircraft. It was past midnight, the tower hushed and dim, when you finally switched to private frequency.

“Bored up there, Captain?”

“Never bored when I’m talking to you. Though I was thinking…”

“Dangerous pastime for you.”

“We’re both stuck here for the next few hours. You, managing this beautiful chaos from your tower. Me, alone with the stars at thirty thousand feet.” His voice carried that familiar warmth that always made something flutter in your chest. “Feels like the perfect date to me.”

You ended up talking for three hours, switching between official vectors and private topics, guiding other aircraft while Satoru described the city lights below and the way clouds shimmered like winter frost in the moonlight.

“Strange how this all started, don’t you think?” you mused during a quiet moment. “Two voices falling for each other over radio frequency.”

“You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

“No. It’s just… kind of crazy, isn’t it? All of this.”

He was silent for a beat. When he spoke again, his voice was different—nervous, almost fragile.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Will you marry me?”

Your heart stopped.

“I know it’s not how this is supposed to go. I know it’s not normal. But then again, nothing about us has been. I’m thirty thousand feet in the air, you’re down there keeping the world together, and all I can think about is how much I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Time stretched thin in the control room as you struggled to process what he’d just asked, your heart thundering so loud you were sure he could hear it through the frequency.

“Yes,” you whispered, the word barely more than a breath as you leaned forward, elbows braced against the console. Your hands trembled as you pressed them to your face, overwhelmed by the rush of joy and disbelief.

“Yes?”

“Yes. I’ll marry you.”

He let out a heavy breath. “God, I love you. You just made me the happiest man alive. I swear, if I could pull down every star from up here and give them to you, I would.”

You blinked back tears, smiling. “Just come home safe, you idiot.”

“Always,” he said, and his voice had never sounded more sure. “Your voice guides me home, remember? It always has.”

You thought you’d mapped every corner of him after six months of living together—every habit, every sleepy morning routine, every sound he makes when he cums.

But then came the private jet revelation over scrambled eggs on a random Friday morning.

You’d known he came from money—the expensive gifts, the way he never seemed to stress about finances and had this really fancy apartment—but you hadn’t grasped the scale until he casually mentioned his father’s company owned a fleet of corporate aircraft.

“I was thinking we should take some time off and explore the world a little,” he said, like offering to fly you around the world was the same as suggesting takeout for dinner. “We could take one of the jets.”

“Wait wait wait… you have access to a private jet?”

“Technically, I have access to several.”

Your spoon slipped out of your hand and landed in your eggs.

The first time he took you somewhere—a long weekend in Kyoto for cherry blossom season—you finally understood why he’d fallen in love with flying.

Up there, suspended between heaven and earth, everything felt different. The world spread out below like a map, cities reduced to scattered lights and rivers threading silver through green landscapes. You watched his hands move over the controls, the same hands that traced gentle patterns on your skin at night, now guiding you both through layers of cloud and sky.

“So this is what you see every day?” you asked, staring out at clouds that looked close enough to touch.

“This is what I used to see.” He glanced over at you. “Now I only see you.”

It started with short weekend trips, then longer stays overseas when both your schedules allowed it. He took you everywhere you wanted to go.

Venice, he bought you both gelato and told you stories about the Murano glass blowers. Barcelona, where you got lost in Gaudi’s wild architecture and found tiny tapas bars nestled in medieval alleyways. And Iceland, where the Northern Lights painted the sky green and purple while you kissed in a natural hot spring—finally experiencing all the places he’d described to you over radio waves. But now you experienced them together.

“Your sister would have loved this,” you said Reykjavik, wrapped in his arms under the dancing aurora.

“She would have loved you,” he replied, pulling you closer in the warm water. “She always said the best adventures were the ones you shared with someone who made you feel at home.”

“Remember when you used to tell me about this place?” you asked one evening in Prague, watching him order those cinnamon sugar spirals from the same bakery he’d told you about months ago over the radio.

He handed you the warm pastry with a smile. “I remember wishing you were here when I first tried it. I used to imagine what you’d say about the cobblestones, or if you’d laugh at my terrible pronunciation when I tried to order something local.”

You took a bite, sugar melting on your tongue. “And now?”

“Now I get to see your face when you taste it for the first time.” He pulled you close, the golden hour painting everything warm around you. “Now I get to hold your hand instead of describing how the sunset looks over the Charles Bridge. I don’t have to imagine anymore.”

Each trip revealed new layers of him—and new ways to make up for all those months of being just voices to each other.

Somewhere over the Atlantic, you learned just how good he was at multitasking—okay, autopilot might have helped—his hands tangled in your hair, mouth on yours, while the stars streaked past the windows. Long afternoons in Parisian hotel rooms, rain drumming against the windows while you learned exactly how sensitive he gets when overstimulated. Sunset on private beaches in Thailand, where he discovered the sweet sounds you make when he uses three fingers instead of two.

“I used to get hard just from hearing your voice,” he admitted one night in Santorini, pushing in deep while the Aegean sparkled below your terrace.

“Just from my voice?”

“Especially when you’d get that stern controller tone. ‘Flight 447, maintain current heading.’” His breath caught as you clenched around him, fingers finding yours and intertwining where he pressed them into the mattress. “You have no idea what that did to me.”

“Show me what it did to you.”

He did, thoroughly and repeatedly, until you understood exactly how much he’d wanted you during all those professional exchanges.

The wedding happened a year later, simple and perfect in a garden overlooking Tokyo Bay. Satoru insisted on writing his own vows, and when the moment came, he pulled out a piece of paper that looked suspiciously like a flight plan.

He promised to pull down the stars for you if you ever wanted them, and you vowed to always be his voice guiding him home.

Years passed like this.

At some point, your story was known by everyone at the airport. Everyone was swooning over the perfect love story of two people who fell in love over their voices alone.

But the best parts were always the quiet moments. Morning coffee in your shared kitchen while he planned routes and you reviewed approach procedures. Afternoons when he’d surprise you at the tower with flowers and terrible jokes that made you ground and your colleagues laugh. Evenings curled up together planning the next adventure, his pilot charts spread across the coffee table next to approach manuals and takeout containers.

“Where to next?”

“Anywhere you want,” was always his answer. “As long as we’re flying together.”

And through it all, some things remained beautifully constant—the flutter in your stomach when his call sign appeared on your screen, his voice calling from the sky, yours answering from the tower, and the way he still brought you something from every city.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting permission to kiss my beautiful wife once I land. And yes, I know this is a public frequency, and yes—I want everyone to hear it.”

“Flight 447, you’re the worst.”

His laugh crackled through the radio. “I love you,” he said, still completely, hopelessly in love.

And every time he landed, every time you watched his plane touch down safely on the runway, that same warmth bloomed in your chest, just like it had from the very first day. Because no matter how many flights he took, how many cities he visited, how many years passed—he always came back to you.

After all, your voice had been the one calling him home from the very beginning.

The End

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author's note — wait ! before you go ! if you enjoyed this story, i’d be forever grateful if you’d consider gifting me a few minutes of your time to participate in a research survey for my master’s thesis in psychology (if you haven't already) <3

here's the link.

it’s completely anonymous, but just a heads-up: the survey touches on nightmares and emotional wellbeing, so it may be sensitive for some. please feel free to stop at any point if it doesn’t feel right for you.

thank you for flying with insufferable pilot gojo airlines ! please make sure your heart is in the upright position before disembarking. hope this brought you as much joy to read as it brought me to write hehe. somehow i love this idea so much of pilot gojo being completely smitten over a voice alone :')) <3

and sorry that this got unexpectedly horny at the end, my apologies lol. until next time, this is your author signing off. safe travels !

ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here.

tags — @fayuki @starmapz @starlightanyaaa @sxnkuna @cocomanga

@nanamis-baker @rosso-seta @sugurbo @chiyokoemilia @janbannan

@bloopsstuff @snowsilver2000 @ihearttoru @momoewn @yokosandesu

@90s-belladonna @fairygardenprincesss @juneslove21 @glenkiller338 @gojossugarcandy

@wiserion @moucheslove @nanasukii28 @sugucultfollower @leuriss

@raendarkfaerie @yeiena @rainthensun @yvesdoee @amayaaaxx

@cristy-101 @bnbaochauuu @markliving @strawberryswtchblaxe @whytfisgojosohot

@bloodandnix @zanayaswrld @noble-17 @soapyaya @ethereal-moonlit

@beaniesayshi @etsuniiru @candyluvsboba @iglb12 @doobybopbop

@kamuihz @katsukiseyebrows @ezrazra @kalulakunundrum @torusbbg

#genuinely so romantic like what #me and who bro #gojo plwase i wish h were real #lowkey my aircraft hyperfixatjon coming back lmak #Omfg #amaizng.

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macchianikato · 16 days ago

Text

AUUUGUGHHF

Web of Secrets

Best friend. Superhero. Disaster. In that order.

🕸️🕷 Pairings: Spider-Man!Gojo x f!Reader 🕸️🕷 Content warnings + tags: 18+ MDNI: blood/injury, mild language, brief suggestive tension, emotional vulnerability, mentions of past trauma/injury, friends-to-lovers tension, slow burn maybe, shirtless Gojo in distress (you're welcome) Art by: @aliyartss on instagram

You always knew something was off. The bruises, the excuses, the way Satoru smiled like nothing was ever wrong. But you never expected to catch your best friend climbing through his dorm window in a torn Spider-Man suit—bleeding, limping, and very, very confused to find you already in his bed. Turns out, the mask was the easy part. Explaining why he kept it from you? That’s going to hurt more.

Look, in Satoru Gojo’s defense, he didn’t mean to get bitten by a radioactive spider.

It wasn’t like he woke up one morning and thought, “You know what would really spice things up? Permanent genetic mutation.” No—he was just eighteen, bored, and dared by his best friends to sneak off during a field trip.

It had been Suguru’s idea, naturally. Haibara backed it up with that reckless grin of his and a, “Come on, Gojo! Don’t be a coward.”. And Gojo—never one to turn down a challenge, especially with you watching from the corner of the lab, arms crossed and suspicious—took the bait.

Next thing he knew, he was sneaking behind the barrier in one of the restricted research wings, alone, because of course his friends had ditched him to go flirt with the grad students.

But then he took one wrong turn, finding himself in a closed-off lab, staring at a glowing containment case he definitely shouldn’t have opened. And then—snap. Right on the web between his thumb and index finger. Like the thing had been waiting.

Yeah. He got bit. Sue him.

It was small, and honestly, the bite had barely hurt. You’d scolded him for wandering off, of course. Dragged him out by the sleeve of his lab coat and threatened to tell Yaga about the whole thing. But he never got the chance to explain the bite. Not before the symptoms started.

First came the dizziness. Then the freaky super strength. The creeping sense of pressure in the back of his head every time something bad was about to happen. And then the wall-crawling incident. That one was hard to ignore, especially when it ended with him stuck to the ceiling of the boys’ dorm for two hours before Suguru had found him. He was the only one who knew.

And the weird powers? They never went away.

The getting-stuck-to-the-walls thing just got worse. Along with his super strength that he hadn’t learned to control, resulting in him accidentally flicking an entire cafeteria tray into Nanami’s face (which he still hadn’t been forgiven for).

The rest, well...it escalated.

He got a mask. A suit. A name.

And for the past few years, he’d been juggling college classes, part-time tutoring, and the occasional city-wide disaster. It wasn’t glamorous. He wasn’t rich or famous. He still showed up to class ten minutes late with iced coffee and fresh bruises he refused to explain. But someone had to look out for this city—and it might as well be him.

Most nights were spent slinging webs across the skyline, fighting weirdos in mech suits or mind-control cults or whatever flavor of chaos happened to be trending. It wasn’t exactly what he had imagined his early twenties would look like, but hey—at least the cardio was good.

Tonight had been one of the rougher ones.

The villain had some sort of magnetic field tech—don’t ask, he’s still figuring it out—that completely messed with his web cartridges, which was honestly just rude. His ribs were sore, his suit was torn along the left thigh and shoulder, and he was pretty sure there was dried blood on his chin.

All he wanted to do after was crawl into bed and maybe sleep for the next week.

He didn’t bother swinging all the way across the city. Not tonight. He cut through a few back alleys, scaled a fire escape, and ducked into the familiar creak of the window that led to his dorm bedroom.

He dropped down inside with a grunt, one leg over the sill and already halfway to peeling off the top half of his suit when he heard it:

A soft rustle. The distinct turn of a page.

His head snapped up.

You were there.

Not a hallucination. Not a dream.

Just you, curled up on his bed like you belonged there—hoodie sleeves pushed up, a paperback balanced on your knees.

You blinked.

He blinked.

Both frozen.

And for once, Satoru Gojo had absolutely no idea what to say.

It was almost midnight when your phone buzzed again.

Another text from Gojo.

still working late :( don’t wait up

You stared at the message for a second too long, thumb hovering over the screen like you were tempted to cuss him out one more time. But then you rolled your eyes, locked it with a sigh, and tossed the phone onto his nightstand with a quiet thud.

Liar.

“Working late,” your ass.

He always said that. Or some variation of it—meetings ran long, had to help Yaga with something, emergency tutoring session. All suspicious. All delivered with that same infuriating grin, like he knew you wouldn’t push.

Sometimes you did. Sometimes you tried.

But he always wriggled his way out of it, brushing you off with a joke or a wink, or a “God, you worry too much.” Like caring about him was some kind of thing you should’ve been embarrassed about.

It was infuriating how vague he could really be—always making it seem like he was out actually doing something normal. But the bruises told you otherwise. The busted knuckles, the limping gait some mornings, the way he winced when he thought you weren’t looking—it all added up to something much bigger than “late-night tutoring sessions”.

So you stopped asking. Mostly.

Suguru was even worse. You’d begged him once, cornered him in the campus café after class when Satoru had come home with his ribs wrapped and his knuckles bloodied. “What is he doing at night?” you’d asked, giving him a look that said I’m serious this time.

Suguru had just looked at you for a long moment before quietly saying, “It’s not my place to tell. Satoru’s just…a complicated guy.”

Like you didn’t already know that.

Then he paid for your coffee and changed the subject.

You’d never felt so helpless in your life.

Satoru Gojo was your best friend. Had been since high school. Loud, ridiculous, impossibly smart—annoying, in that way that got on your nerves like it was his full-time job (though, he made it incredibly hard to actually stay mad at him). He was also the one who carried you home on his back when your feet hurt. Who sent you memes when he knew you were upset. He made you laugh. Made you feel safe, even when the rest of the world didn’t.

Somewhere along the way, the closeness stopped feeling purely platonic.

You never admitted it. Not even to yourself—not really. But it was there, humming under your skin like static.

And lately…he’d been pulling away. Or maybe hiding something. You weren’t sure which felt worse.

He was so secretive. Always brushing things off, changing the subject, vanishing in the middle of plans. You’d started pretending not to notice. That maybe it was just work, or stress, or something he’d eventually tell you when he was ready.

But that excuse had been wearing thin.

So tonight, instead of going back to your own dorm, you waited.

You’re not even sure why. Stubbornness, maybe. Or something softer you don’t want to name.

You were already curled up on his bed, one leg tucked beneath you, a paperback open in your lap as you reread the same sentence three times now. The hoodie you were wearing was one of his—oversized, soft, with a faded Digimon print on the front and sleeves that fell over your hands. It still smelled like his detergent—that faint peppermint-and-cotton scent that always made you feel like you were here, with him, even when he wasn’t.

His dorm was quiet, except for the occasional shuffle of someone in the hallway and the low hum of traffic outside the cracked window. The room was small and messy, barely big enough for one person, let alone two (he shared with Suguru). His desk was cluttered with open notebooks and loose pens. A pair of round sunglasses rested crooked on top of a physics textbook. The desk chair was pushed back at an angle like he had left in a rush.

You turned a page.

And another.

The clock ticked past midnight.

You didn’t know why you were still here. Maybe out of spite. Maybe hope. Maybe because you wanted to be there to make sure he was okay. That if he came back again limping or bleeding or cracked open, you’d be the one to catch him.

But deep down, you were hoping—just a little—that tonight would be different. That he’d walk through the door and sit beside you and finally tell you the truth.

You glanced at the window. It was cracked slightly, as always. He insisted that it was for ventilation, but you always suspected it was just another one of his stupid quirks.

You sighed, stretched your legs a little, and settled deeper into the pillows.

If Satoru wanted to keep secrets, fine. He could have his mysteries and his midnight escapades.

But he could at least have the decency to come home before you fell asleep in his bed.

You were just about to give up and call it a night when the window creaked.

Not loud. Just enough to make your head lift.

You blinked once, slowly, glancing up, expecting him to walk through the door like a normal person.

But no.

Of course not.

There was movement—a shadow pulling itself over the sill, graceless and muttering.

And then he dropped into the room.

You froze.

So did he.

One leg still hanging out the window, one glove halfway peeled off. His other hand tugged at the edge of a white mask, lifting it high enough to expose his jaw—his bruised, bloody jaw—and a familiar mop of white hair.

And your stomach dropped.

He hadn’t noticed you yet, not fully. He was grumbling under his breath, tugging at the top half of his suit as he peeled it down to his waist with a wince. His hair was a mess, clinging to his forehead with sweat, and there was a cut on his temple that looked like it hadn’t stopped bleeding.

But that wasn’t what made your heart stop.

It was the suit.

Mostly black and white. Torn at the sleeve. Streaked with dirt and ash. And right at the center of his chest, printed in bright, unmistakable blue—

A spider emblem.

Your breath caught.

He looked up. Finally saw you.

And everything in the room just—stopped. He was like a deer caught in headlights.

You felt your heart kind of stutter, because it’s him. It’s Satoru. Except—it’s not.

You stared at him.

Then at the suit.

Then back at him.

Your mouth dropped open. There is no way. No fucking way…

You’ve seen Spider-Man before—but who hasn’t? He was on the news, in blurry tabloid photos, grainy clips online. The masked vigilante who swung in to stop a building collapse downtown. The guy who took on four robbers at once outside the Midtown bank. The same one who—

—saved you once.

But that had been months ago.

And he hadn’t said a word.

Just lifted you out of danger, bridal style, and disappeared before you could even thank him. You’d told yourself it could’ve been anyone.

But now, with him standing in front of you—torn suit, wild hair, and a look of complete panic settling across his features?

There was no denying it.

The book you were barely reading slipped from your lap, hitting the mattress with a dull thump.

“Y–You’re Spiderm—” you start, the words tumbling out before your brain can catch up.

His eyes went wide.

“NOPE—NOPE NOPE NOPE—” he yelped, practically throwing himself across the room.

You shot to your feet, voice rising. “You’re Spider-M—!”

“SHHHHH—” His palm slammed over your mouth mid-sentence.

Your hands flew up in protest, eyes wide, muffled complaints coming fast and still loud. He looked equally horrified and apologetic, the panic written all over his face.

“Stop talking. Stop—please—shhh. You’re gonna give me a heart attack.” He glanced wildly at the window, as if worried someone might’ve heard you from four stories below. “Why are you here?! Why are you—why are you awake?!”

You glared up at him.

He winced, looking like he was two seconds away from passing out. “Right. Yeah. Okay. That’s a dumb question. But this is fine. Totally fine. Normal, even.” he muttered mostly to himself.

You raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

“Okay, not normal,” he amends quickly, eyes darting around like the room might start recording him. “But manageable. Kind of. If you just—stop screaming and don’t say the name again—"

You swatted at his hand until he finally took the hint. He slowly peeled it away from your mouth, like you might bite him. You didn’t—but only barely. You gaped at him for another beat. Your eyes flicked back to his suit, to the emblem, to the blood on his temple. “You’re Spider-Man?!”

“That’s…um.” He scratched the back of his head, grinning weakly. “A surprisingly complicated question, actually.”

Your hands flew up again. “Are you insane?!”

“Okay see, that’s more fair—”

“You’ve been lying to me this entire time—”

“Not lying,” he said, holding up both hands like he could Jedi-mind-trick you into chilling out. “Just, you know. Withholding certain city-saving, occasionally life-threatening details…”

You were still too stunned to speak. Your pulse was thundering in your ears.

Satoru Gojo—your idiot best friend—was the Spider-Man.

“What the fuck, Satoru?!”

“I can explain!”

“Can you?!”

“...Well, no. But I will! Eventually!”

There was another beat of tense silence. Then you both spoke at the same time.

“You’re a superhero—”

“You were not supposed to be here—”

Another pause.

You looked at him again. This tall, ridiculous man in front of you, standing in his half-peeled suit, covered in bruises, and desperately trying to hold it together with pure denial.

And you couldn’t help it.

You bursted out laughing.

“You’re Spider-Man?” you ask again, still breathless. “You trip over your own feet walking across campus.”

He pouted, deeply offended. “I don’t trip—okay, that was one time, and the floor was weird.”

You shook your head, a hundred questions forming at once. None of them left your mouth.

Because suddenly, everything—every late-night excuse, every wince, every disappearing act—made a terrifying kind of sense.

And it hit you, like gravity finally catching up, that he’d been doing this alone.

So, the laughter faded. Slowly. The corners of your mouth still twitched, but your chest felt tight again. It didn’t just disappear completely—but it quieted. Simmering beneath the weight of everything you’d come to realize.

Satoru looked at you, and you looked at him—this idiot, this liar, this half-dressed, scraped-up mess of a best friend— was still standing there, scuffed and bloody and too tired to keep the smile on his face. His shoulders were tense. His eyes—usually so loud, so annoyingly bright—were just…quiet. You felt everything all at once. Relief. Anger. Confusion. That familiar knot of worry that always settled in your stomach whenever he came home bloodied.

But mostly? You were hurt.

You crossed your arms over your chest, with a pout matching his own, “Why didn’t you tell me?” It hadn’t meant to come out so quietly, a little too raw.

He flinched as if you slapped him. “I—I wasn’t trying to keep it from you, I just—”

You stepped back before he could get any closer. “No, seriously. Don’t start with that. You lied. You disappeared. You let me sit here for months, wondering where you were. You let me think you were just being a dumbass, going out and getting into fights for fun, when you were out there risking your life every single night.”

He flinched again. You hated that he looked so small sitting there with his arms half out of his suit. Like he knew he’d messed up and didn’t know how to fix it.

“Suguru knew,” you snapped. “And not me. Do you have any idea how shitty that feels?”

His mouth opened—then closed. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, like he didn’t know where to start.

“Okay, that wasn’t—on purpose,” he said eventually. “He walked in on me stuck to the ceiling of our dorm one night. I was still figuring everything out, and he… just found out. I didn’t tell him. He saw. And I couldn’t really explain that away, could I?”

You didn’t say anything. You just stared. Because you believed that part—but it didn’t fix the ache.

He looked up at you then, eyes wide and a little too honest.

“Look, you’re right. I should’ve told you. I just…I didn’t want you to know,” he admitted.

That made your eyes narrow. “What?”

He exhaled, long and rough-sounding. “Not because I don’t trust you. It’s the opposite.”

“Satoru—”

“I’m serious,” he said, cutting you off. “I’ve seen what happens. Bad guys figure out who matters. They look for leverage, and people get caught in the middle. People I care about. I didn’t want to put a target on your back. If anything ever happened to you because of me—”

His voice broke off shakily, swallowing hard. “I wouldn’t survive it,” he said, quieter. “I’d never forgive myself…”

You blinked, feeling your throat tighten. “But I’ve always been there,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Whether I knew or not. I was already close. That didn’t change anything. You just…kept me in the dark.”

He just looked at you like you were breaking his heart. “I know…I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t want to lie to you. I just—wanted to keep you safe.”

There was a long, slow silence. Your shoulders sagged. The tension in your chest didn’t disappear, but it softened.

“…You’re such an idiot,” you muttered, stepping forward and tugging at his wrist. “Sit down before you fall over.”

He obeyed without argument, slowly sinking onto the edge of the bed with a quiet wince. You didn’t wait for permission—you turned on your heel and disappeared into his tiny bathroom, hands trembling as you opened the cabinet under the sink.

You needed a minute to breathe. To focus on something real, like disinfectant and gauze pads. Something you could control.

When you returned with the first aid kit, he hadn’t moved. He looked up at you with those stupidly blue eyes like he expected you to throw it at his head (which he definitely deserved).

Instead, you knelt down in front of him, pulling the kit open with practiced fingers. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” he mumbled, smiling just a little.

“You don’t have to do this alone, you know,” you said, your voice fell quiet again. It wasn’t meant to sound so soft, but it was the truth.

He didn’t say anything, but he held your gaze.

You gestured toward his shoulder. “Suit.”

His eyebrows shot up.

“For the wound, asshole.”

“Oh. Right.” He winced, hesitating for a moment before he peeled the rest of the top down, the fabric sticking to a bloody scrape along his ribs. His chest was broad and flushed in patches of bruised skin and dried blood. Strong. Vulnerable.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached for the gauze. You tried not to look too long, but your gaze lingered. On the muscles shifting beneath his skin. On the curve of his neck, the dip of his collarbones, the pale trail of a healing scar across his ribs that you’d never seen before. His chest rose and fell, shallow and slow.

Your pulse fluttered, and it made you angry—because he was reckless and stupid and hadn’t told you anything. And it made you terrified, because you didn’t want to think about what could’ve happened if he hadn’t made it home tonight.

He winced when you dabbed the cut a little too firmly. “Baby,” you teased, gently. “You jumped off a building tonight. I think you can handle a little antiseptic.”

He snorted in response, smiling just a little, but it was smaller than usual. More tired. “That’s rich, coming from the person who cries during animal rescue commercials.”

The silence stretched. Your fingers moved more slowly, feeling the tension between you suddenly shift. It softened, changed shape.

You realized you were still kneeling between his knees, still tending to the bruise blooming down the side of his chest, and his eyes hadn’t left you once. When your hand brushed along the exposed skin, his jaw ticked.

The air felt warmer now. Thicker. His eyes flicked from your eyes to your lips. Yours flicked to his.

And he leaned in. Just barely.

And you let him.

Your heart stuttered against your ribs once more, this time for a very different reason. Your lips parted slightly—

—and then the door swung open.

“Hey, Satoru, have you seen my—” Suguru’s voice cut off midway.

Both you and Satoru whipped your heads around, flustered, wide-eyed, practically jumping apart.

Suguru stood in the doorway, eyes landing on you. Then Satoru. Then the awkward tangle of limbs and exposed skin between you.

There was a beat of silence as he blinked. But then he smirked. “Oops,” he said, backing up with his hands raised into the air. “My bad.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Then, slowly, you sat back, pressing the gauze firmly to his chest like it was his fault. “Tell him if he walks in like that again, I will kill him.”

Satoru coughed, trying and failing to look innocent. “Technically, he does live here.”

You glared. “Whatever.”

And this time, he laughed.

You cleaned the last of the cuts in silence, fingers steadier now. The sharp edge of anger had dulled into something quieter. Something that felt like grief, maybe. Or relief. A kind of tenderness you weren’t sure what to do with.

And it wasn’t awkward between you anymore. Just heavy. Full of things unsaid.

You taped down the last bit of gauze and let your hand rest—briefly—against the uninjured part of his chest. The warmth of his skin. The steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.

He didn’t move.

You knew he was still watching you. He always watched you like this—like he was memorizing the shape of you. Like he was afraid you’d disappear if he blinked.

And maybe you would’ve. If things were different.

When you finally sat back on your heels, you expected him to deflect. To joke. To shove it all down again, the way he always did when things got too real.

But he didn’t.

Instead, his voice came low. Careful. Afraid he didn’t deserve to ask.

“…Can you stay?”

You looked up at him. Really looked—at the bruises, the bandages, the blood still drying in his hair. But more than that…you saw all of it. The fear. The loneliness. The guilt he’d never once said out loud.

You wanted to yell at him again. Or maybe hold him forever.

But instead, you just nodded. Quietly. Without hesitation.

Because he didn’t need to ask.

Because you were already here.

Because you’d always stay.

And that was enough.

Author's Note: I've had this oneshot in my drafts forever now, but I was feeling inspired by Only One's Who Know by @indiewritesxoxo, because this superhero au of Gojo and Geto is chef's kiss. And I HIGHLY recommend you guy's go give it a read (I'm addicted)!

As always my lovelies, if you enjoyed, a repost is always appreciated! <3

banner by @strangergraphics!

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