clqxuds

[clqxuds]

REMEMBER ME IN SUMMER — SATORU GOJO

pairing — one night stand!satoru gojo x fem!reader

summary — six months ago, you left satoru gojo's apartment before sunrise, thinking you'd never see him again. now, trapped in a beach house for a weekend with mutual friends, you're forced to face the man who doesn't seem to remember that night—or does he? between shared walls, heated touches, and games of pretend, you're starting to think maybe one night wasn't enough after all. but in a house full of friends, some things are better left in the past… right?

word count — 9.5 k

genre/tags — beach house AU, summer romance, one night stand to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, tension, awkward reunions, friends gathering, miscommunication, beach vibes, satoru is a little menace in this one

warnings — 18+ ONLY. contains explicit sexual content, alcohol consumption, all characters aged up (mid 20s), language

author's note — hi everyone ! this fic came out of nowhere, and i literally wrote it in three days, but i really love the idea and the summer vibes in this one, even tho i wrote it while it was literally snowing outside, but somewhere on earth it's summer rn, so why not post it lol. hope you enjoy this mess of a summer romance story as much as i enjoyed writing it ! <3 (credit/art)

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The last person you expected to see in Okinawa was Satoru Gojo.

Yet there he was, lounging on the deck of the beach house like he belonged there, white hair catching the sunlight as he laughed at something someone had said. Your heart tumbled over itself as memories of that night six months ago flooded back unbidden.

"You okay?" Maki nudged you with her elbow. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

More like the ghost of past bad decisions. "I'm fine," you managed, gripping your weekend bag tighter. "Wasn't expecting so many people."

The beach house was supposed to be a simple weekend getaway with close friends. But somewhere between planning and execution, it had turned into a "friends of friends" situation to fill the eight-bedroom house Okkotsu's family had offered.

"Yeah, Yuta's cousin's boyfriend invited some people to fill the space," Maki explained, completely unaware of your internal crisis. "That's Satoru over there, by the way. He's actually pretty fun once you get past the whole—" She gestured vaguely at all of him.

You wanted to laugh. Or cry. Maybe both. Because you were already very familiar with how "fun" Satoru Gojo could be.

Six months ago, you'd met him at a bar in Tokyo. He'd been charming and gorgeous, all easy smiles and playful banter. One drink had turned into several, flirting had turned into kissing, and kissing had turned into...

Well.

You'd slipped out of his apartment before dawn, leaving nothing but a lipstick stain on his collar and a dip in his pillow. It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time. You weren't looking for anything serious, and someone like him definitely wasn't the settling down type.

Now, watching him chat lively with your friends like the universe's cruelest joke, you wondered if you should have at least left your number.

"Girl," Maki waved her hand in front of your face. "You sure you're okay?"

Before you could answer, Satoru looked up. His eyes met yours across the deck, and for a moment, your heart stopped. 

But there was no recognition in those sea blue eyes. No hint that he remembered the way you'd gasped his name in the dark, the way his hands had traced every inch of your skin, the way he'd whispered "stay" against your shoulder just before you'd fallen asleep.

He just smiled politely, the same smile he’s probably giving everyone else too, and went back to his conversation.

Right. Of course he didn't remember. You were probably just one in a long line of one-night stands for someone like him. The thought shouldn't hurt as much as it did.

"Come on," Maki said, tugging you towards the house. "Let's get settled in before the others arrive.”

Up close, the beach house was even more impressive. A sprawling three-story mansion of white stone and floor-to-ceiling windows that caught the afternoon light like rippling water, a wraparound veranda with a cozy sitting area led to a private path down to the beach, lined with swaying palms and colourful flowers.

Inside, the house opened into a huge room with soaring ceilings and an open floor plan that made the space feel endless. Ocean views followed you everywhere through the massive windows, and the whole place smelled of salt and lemon.

"The bedrooms are upstairs," Maki said as she led you up a floating staircase. "Most of them are on the second floor, but there are two master bedrooms on the third."

The universe, it seemed, had a twisted sense of humor. Not only did you have to spend the weekend pretending you didn’t know how Satoru's brows draw together when he'd cum, but your room ended up right next to his—the two largest bedrooms on the top floor, sharing a wall and a connecting balcony. Of course.

Your room was bigger than your entire apartment in Tokyo, with a king-size bed draped in soft white linens. One wall was entirely glass, offering an unobstructed view of the ocean, while the other walls were decorated with pictures and minimalist art.

"My god, the view’s amazing!" Maki gushed and threw open the balcony doors. The sound of waves immediately filled the room, along with fresh, salty ocean air. "You can see the whole beach from here." 

But you were too busy staring at the wall next to you, where a door that must lead to Satoru's room was hidden behind a cupboard. You could hear muffled movement from his room, the sound of his laugh drifting through the wall that suddenly felt far too thin and your mind helpfully supplied memories of other sounds he could make, and you wondered if it was too late to fake some sudden illness and go home.

"Yeah," you said, dropping onto the edge of the bed. "Amazing."

Maki flopped down beside you, bouncing slightly on the plush mattress. "I know I've been here like five times already with Yuta, but it never gets old." She rolled onto her stomach and rested her chin on her hands. "Usually it's just us and his family, maybe a few cousins. This is the first time we're doing a friend group thing."

You tried to focus on her words instead of the sound of suitcases being wheeled into the room next door. "How long have you and Yuta been coming here?"

"Since we started dating three years ago. His family does this whole summer tradition thing." She smiled. "First time I came, I was so nervous I barely left the room. Now it feels like a second home." She sat up, crossing her legs. “And since his parents said we could use it this weekend, we thought why not invite friends.”

Through the wall, you could hear male voices chatting and laughing, followed by the sound of a door sliding open. Probably the balcony doors. Your shared balcony. Where he could walk past your windows at any time.

“You’re okay with this, right? Yuta’s friends are actually really fun once you get to know them. Especially Satoru, even tho he can be a pain in the ass.” Your stupid heart tumbled over itself once more at his name. "And single, if you're interested. I could—"

"No!" The word came out louder than intended, and you heard the conversation next door pause briefly. Lowering your voice, you added, "I mean, no thanks. Not really looking for anything right now."

Maki gave you a strange look. "You sure you're okay? You've been weird since we got here."

"Just tired from the drive," you lied and stood up. "Maybe I'll take a quick shower before everyone else arrives."

"Okay..." She didn't sound convinced but got up anyway. "I should go find Yuta anyway, make sure he's not letting Satoru destroy any of Yuta's mum's favourite vases."

You waited until she left before falling with your face first onto the bed with a groan. Perfect. Not only did you have to spend the weekend next door to your one night stand who might or might not remember you, but now your best friend was trying to set you up with him.

Through the wall, you heard Satoru laugh at something, the sound familiar enough to make your chest ache. 

It was going to be a very long weekend.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 

You'd barely finished unpacking when Yuji burst into your room without knocking. "Hey! We're setting up a net for beach volleyball. You in?"

"Ah, I don't really—"

"Everyone's playing!" He was already on his way back to the door. "Even Megumi, and you know how he is about fun."

Before you could form a proper excuse, Maki appeared behind him. "Come on, it'll be fun, the sun is out and it’s better than hiding up here all afternoon."

And that's how you found yourself trudging down to the beach, trying to convince yourself this was fine. Totally fine. Just a fun game of volleyball with friends. Nothing to worry about.

But then the boys started stripping off their shirts. It was like watching some ridiculous scene out of Top Gun as they all shed their shirt in the afternoon heat. But it was Satoru who made your brain go silent completely. 

He pulled his shirt off, and suddenly you were having vivid flashbacks to exactly how that toned chest felt under your hands. The sun caught his hair like a halo, and when he stretched his arms over his head, the muscles in his back shifted in ways that should not make your knees so weak, but here you were, rooted to the spot, your pulse racing as if it had a mind of its own.

"You're staring," Maki whispered next to you.

"I'm not," you said, even though you definitely were. How could you not? It was like someone had taken every beach volleyball scene from every summer movie ever and combined them into one ridiculous moment.

Teams were forming, and with an uneven number, you volunteered to sit this round out. Not that you were particularly eager to participate in the first place. You were perfectly happy watching from the safety of your beach towel, where the risk of accidentally brushing against Satoru's unnecessarily perfect body was thankfully minimized.

The game started, and it quickly became clear that everyone was taking it way too seriously, as Satoru and Yuji seemed to be in some sort of competition to see who could spike the ball more impressively. 

"Show off," you muttered to yourself as Satoru delivered a rather dramatic jump serve, the ball landing dangerously close to your foot. But he must have heard you, because he caught your eye with a wink that made your stomach flutter. "Like what you see?"

"I've seen better," you said before you could stop yourself.

His eyebrows shot up and a slow smile spread across his face. "Have you now?"

Oh god. Were you flirting? This was definitely flirting. You needed to stop staring at the way sweat was making his skin glisten and focus on... literally anything else.

"Pay attention!" Nobara yelled, and Satoru barely managed to dodge the ball she'd spiked directly at his head.

The game continued, growing more competitive with each round. You had to admit, it was entertaining watching your friends become more and more dramatic with each point. One of Yuta’s cousins and Yuji had some sort of rivalry going on, while Maki and Nobara were trash-talking each other.

But it was Satoru who kept drawing your attention. The way he moved was almost unfair and you found yourself following the drops of sweat as they made their way down his neck, remembering how that skin had tasted under your tongue.

"Incoming!"

You looked up just in time to see the volleyball heading straight for your face. Before you could react, Satoru dove in front of you and caught the ball just inches from your nose. The movement sent him sprawling across your legs, his face entirely too close to yours.

You blinked at him for a few moments, then whispered, "Thank you.” But the words came out too soft, almost like they had that night in Tokyo when he'd helped you into a taxi and then convinced you not to take it and instead come home with him.

Time seemed to slow, the crashing waves and voices of the others fading into white noise as Satoru's eyes met yours. For a moment, something flickered in those blue depths—a flash of recognition, perhaps even remembrance. 

His breath caught, barely noticeable, and his hand on your leg tightened ever so slightly. You watched his eyes, saw the exact moment his gaze dropped to your lips, and suddenly you were back in that Tokyo bar, both of you caught in that same magnetic pull.

"You're welcome," he said, his voice so low that only you could hear it. There was something in his tone, a hint of question, like he was trying to place a hazy dream. His thumb brushed against your skin, possibly by accident, possibly not, sending shivers up your spine.

The moment stretched, taut as a bowstring, thick with shared memories—memories you weren't even sure he had. Then someone yelled "Dinner!" from the direction of the house, and the spell broke.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟  

The sun was setting by the time everyone had showered and gathered around the huge dining table on the deck. Fairy lights twinkled overhead and the sound of the waves could be heard in the background as the chaos of fifteen people trying to organize a meal unfolded.

You'd taken extra care getting ready, telling yourself it was just because of the salt and sand, not because of the way Satoru had looked at you on the beach. You'd chosen a light summer dress that happened to be the exact shade of blue as his eyes—pure coincidence, of course—and had let your hair dry naturally in the sea breeze.

Yuta ended up ordering way too much from the local seafood restaurant, you concluded as you surveyed the spread of food on the table. 

You ended up squeezed between Maki and Megumi, which should have been a relief. Instead, you found yourself very aware of Satoru sitting directly across from you, his hair still slightly damp from his shower, wearing a loose white linen shirt that he should really button up and stop teasing the entire table with glimpses of his toned chest.

"Pass the crab?" he asked, and when you handed him the plate, your fingers brushed. The contact sent a shiver through you, and you could have sworn you saw his breath catch. But then he was turning to laugh at something Yuji said, and you were left wondering if you'd imagined the whole thing.

"—and then he just fell face first right into the sand!" Yuji was saying, gesturing wildly with his chopsticks. "You should have seen it!"

"We were all there, literally two hours ago," Megumi deadpanned.

"The game was rigged anyway," Nobara said, reaching for another plate of grilled shrimp. "You can't put Mr. Perfect over here on a team and expect it to be fair." She jerked her thumb in Satoru's direction.

"What can you do?" Satoru said, his eyebrows knitted together, but a grin played on his lips. "I just happen to be naturally gifted." And then his eyes caught yours once more across the table. 

Heat crept up the back of your neck as you remembered how he'd felt when he'd sprawled across your legs, his skin sun warm and slightly sandy. How his touch had lingered just a fraction too long to be casual. 

Something had changed in his expression, so subtle that anyone else might have missed it. But you'd spent hours that night memorizing his faces. His smirk when he had you right on the edge, his soft smile when you were trembling beneath him, the way his eyes darkened just before he—

Maki snorted. "Yeah, sure." And you looked over at her, breaking the eye contact before you could do something stupid like climb across the table and find out if he tasted as good as you remembered.

When the dinner was over, Nobara suggested to play drinking games, truth or dare to be specific, to which "What are we, fifteen?" Megumi commented but Maki already chimed in with "Never have I ever" and so it was decided.

Your stomach dropped. The last thing you needed was a drinking game where people confessed their secrets. Especially with the way Satoru kept looking at you, like he was one memory away from connecting dots you really didn't want connected.

"I think I'll pass," you said, pushing your plate away. "The sun really did take it out of me."

You gathered your plates and the sound of the others setting up their drinking game followed you into the kitchen—Yuji's voice carrying over everyone else's as he argued about rules, Nobara shouting something about "no questions about exes," and Megumi's long drawn out sighs.

A salty ocean breeze swept into the kitchen through the open wall of windows overlooking the water as you rinsed your plate. "You know," a voice came from behind you, making you jump, "I was starting to think you hate me."

Your heart skipped a beat. You didn't need to turn around to know it was Satoru—would recognize that voice anywhere, had spent months trying to forget how it sounded when it was rough after he’d cum. But you turned anyway, finding him leaning against the doorframe and the kitchen suddenly felt so much smaller. 

"What?" The word came out embarrassingly breathless.

"Let me rephrase, for someone who doesn't hate me, you're doing an impressive job of avoiding me."

"I'm not avoiding you.” You turned back to the sink. "I'm doing dishes."

"Sure. The dishes." His voice got closer, and you could feel the heat of him just behind you. "Though I have to wonder why someone would work so hard to avoid someone they've never met before."

Your hands stilled under the running water. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You've barely looked at me all day." He was close enough now that you could smell his perfume that had lingered on your clothes for days after that night. "Want to tell me what I did to deserve the cold shoulder? Because usually, I at least remember if I've pissed someone off."

Your heart pounded so loudly you were sure he could hear it, but at the same time the irony of his words made you want to laugh. "You haven't done anything," you said, which was technically true. He hadn't done anything wrong. Except maybe be too good in bed and then forget about it entirely.

"No?" His voice dropped lower, and you could feel his breath on your neck. "Then why—" He cut himself off. "Wait. Have we met before?"

You spun around, hands dripping water onto the floor. The motion brought you chest to chest with him, trapped between his body and the counter. "No," you said, too quickly, way too quickly. "Definitely not."

"You sure about that? Because you seem familiar—"

"Must just have one of those faces."

He moved closer still, one hand braced on the counter beside your hip, effectively caging you in. "Is that so? Because I’m sure I’d remember a pretty one like yours." You felt your breath catch in your throat, every nerve in your body screaming. He was going to kiss you, wasn't he? You should probably do something. Like move. Or breathe.

But then he simply stepped back, his smile widening. "Sorry. Must have mistaken you for someone else,” he said and the loss of his warmth felt like whiplash, leaving you cold despite the summer heat that still lingered in the air. You watched him retreat towards the door, casual as anything, like he hadn't just turned your world sideways.

Through the open door, laughter spilled in from the deck, breaking the spell that had held you captive. Satoru paused in the doorway for a moment, silhouetted against the warm light from outside, before disappearing back into the noise of your friends.

You stayed at the sink, trying to convince yourself that the heat in your cheeks was just from the summer air and ignoring the way your heart refused to settle in your chest. What had just happened? You had no idea. But one thing was painfully certain.

This weekend was going to be a long one.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟  

Next morning, you decided to get up early and have your coffee on the beach before anyone else was awake. Sleep had been hard to come by anyway, with too many thoughts of certain one night stands keeping your mind racing. 

Dawn was just beginning to break over the horizon, painting the sky in orange and gold watercolours and the ocean stretched out before you, quiet and calm, each small wave catching the early light like diamonds.

You'd wrapped yourself in an oversized cardigan against the morning chill, bare feet buried in sand that was still cool from the night before. And of course, because the universe hated you, that's when Satoru appeared.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked, settling into the sand beside you without invitation.

You clutched your coffee mug tighter. "Something like that."

"Yeah, me neither." He stretched his long legs out in front of him, and you definitely didn't notice how his shorts rode up slightly, definitely weren't thinking about how those thighs had felt under your hands. "Keep having these weird dreams."

"Oh?"

"Mmm." As he turned to look at you, the rising sun painted his profile gold, catching his eyelashes. There was something different about him in this light — softer somehow, more like the man who'd asked you to stay than the one who'd cornered you in the kitchen last night. "About a girl in a black dress. Red lipstick. The most amazing laugh I've ever heard."

Your heart stopped.

"Funny thing is," he continued casually, "I can never quite see her face in the dreams. But I remember how she tasted. How she felt pinned beneath me. How she clenching around my fingers. How she said my name when she—"

"Stop," you whispered.

"Why?" His voice was softer now. "Because you don't want to talk about that night? Or because you thought I wouldn't remember?"

You stared at the ocean, unable to meet his gaze. "You didn't seem to yesterday."

"Don’t be stupid. I recognized you the moment you walked into the beach house."

Your coffee nearly slipped from your hands. "What?"

"Did you really think I wouldn't remember the girl who stole my favourite shirt on her way out the door?"

Heat flooded your cheeks, you totally forgotten about the shirt. "Then yesterday, in the kitchen—"

"I wanted to see how long you'd keep pretending." He smiled, the bastard had the audacity to smile at you when he revealed that he was playing you the whole time. "You're cute when you're nervous, you know that?”

"You're mocking me."

"Mocking you?" His eyebrows rose. Then he leaned closer to you, but you still refused to look at him. "I spent six months trying to find the girl with the kind of laugh that makes you feel drunk just hearing it, who left before I could ask for her number—" 

"It was just one night," you interrupted.

"Was it? Because I distinctly remember asking you to stay."

"I couldn't."

"Couldn't? Or wouldn't?"

You finally met his gaze fully, and immediately wished you hadn't. Because he was looking at you the same way he had that night. He was enjoying this, wasn't he? Playing with you, teasing you, making you feel like a flustered schoolgirl. 

"Does it matter?" you asked.

"You're really a bit slow, aren't you?"

You wanted to protest, to tell him exactly what you thought of his arrogant everything, but then Maki's voice carried across the beach, "Breakfast! Come and get it before Yuji eats everything!"

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟  

The breakfast table was just as chaotic as the dinner the night before. Fifteen people crammed around the table had that effect, especially with Yuji already piling his plate high with pancakes while Nobara complained about him taking too many. 

You'd barely settled into an empty chair when Satoru slid into the seat next to you, as if he hadn't just admitted that he'd been playing jokes on you the whole day before. 

"Can you pass me the syrup?" he asked innocently, but there was nothing innocent about the way his thigh pressed against yours under the table. 

You handed him the bottle without looking at him, trying to focus on pouring your coffee without spilling it everywhere. Which was made all the more difficult when his hand found your knee under the table.

"So what's everyone's plans for today?" Maki asked, passing around a plate of fresh fruit.

You tried to concentrate on the conversation, you really did. But Satoru's hand was inching higher up your thigh, and your brain was shorted out. You kicked him under the table, aiming for his shin.

He didn't even flinch, just smiled wider and continued whatever conversation he was having with Megumi about later activities, all while his fingers danced along the hem of your shorts. You felt a sudden surge of heat, definitely not from the summer sun.

"You okay?" Nobara asked suddenly. "You look a bit flushed."

"Fine!" Your voice came out higher than intended as Satoru's fingers skimmed just slightly under the edge of your shorts. "Just... hot."

"It is pretty warm this morning," Satoru agreed, his tone perfectly pleasant even as his thumb pressed into that sensitive spot on your inner thigh that he somehow remembered. The bastard. You kicked him again, harder this time.

"Did someone just kick the table?" Maki looked around suspiciously.

"Must have been the wind," you said stupidly.

You grabbed his wrist under the table, intending to push his hand away, but he just interlaced his fingers with yours and kept them there on your thigh. It was like he was asserting dominance, staking his claim, and you were suddenly trapped.

"Hey, are you sure you're okay?" Yuji asked through a mouthful of pancakes. "You're acting weird."

"Totally fine," you managed. "Just didn't sleep well."

"Hmm, me neither," Satoru chimed in, his voice all false innocence. "Must be all these weird dreams I keep having." You dug your nails into his hand in warning, but he just squeezed your hand in response, his grip tightening.

"Dreams?" Nobara asked.

"Oh, you know," Satoru began thoughtfully, "the kind that keep you up all night, thinking about... things that got away."

You were going to murder him. Slowly. Possibly with the butter knife you were currently gripping way too tight.

"That's... weirdly poetic for you," Maki said, raising an eyebrow.

"You wouldn't want to know,” he replied, and you felt his fingers inch just slightly higher once more, making you jump and bang your knee on the table.

"Jesus, what is wrong with you two this morning?" Nobara asked, looking between you and Satoru.

Under the table, you finally managed to grab his hand in yours and hold it still. But that backfired when he started playing with your fingers instead, his thumb brushing across your knuckles in a way that made you gasp. You definitely wanted to kill him. Right after you figured out how to breathe normally again.

"So, beach day? I wanna go snorkelling," Yuji said, thankfully drawing attention away from whatever was going on under the table, and everyone agreed. JJust then, Satoru freed his hand from yours and placed it back on your knee before trailing it up your thigh. 

Okay, nope this had to end now.

"I need more coffee," you announced abruptly, standing up so fast your chair scraped against the deck.

"I'll help," Satoru offered, already rising.

"No!" The word came out too sharp, making everyone look at you strangely. "I mean, I'm good. Thanks."

You practically fled into the kitchen, your skin still tingling where he'd touched you. Through the window, you could see him chatting with the others, looking completely unaffected while you were here trying to remember how to make your heart beat normally.

When is this weekend going to end?

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟  

"You sure you're okay?" Maki asked, swimming up beside you. "You've been weird all morning. Is the sun too much?"

"I'm fine," you said for what felt like the hundredth time today. "I’m not used to be around so many people."

The water was crystal clear, stretching out in various shades of blue that seemed to go on forever. Everyone had eagerly jumped into snorkeling, with Yuji and Nobara already in a heated competition about who could spot the most fish.

You adjusted your mask for the tenth time, trying to focus on anything except how good Satoru looked in just swim shorts. He was a few meters away, the sunlight catching the droplets of water that clung to his ridiculously toned shoulders.

My God. You needed distance. You needed space to breathe, to think, to do anything other than stare at him.

"If you say so." Maki didn't look convinced. "But tell me if something’s bothering you, okay?"

If only she knew. "Sure."

"Guys, come look at this!" Yuji called from where he was floating near some corals. "Rainbow fish!" 

Everyone swam over to where he was pointing, and you had to admit, the sight was beautiful. Countless colourful fish swam through the coral, creating a vibrant palette under the water.

You followed the fish as a sudden pressure against your calf made you flinch. Satoru. He had brushed against your leg. It could have been an accident, a mere consequence of the crowded water, but somehow, it felt like anything but. You knew better. Nothing about Satoru was ever accidental.

You drifted slightly away from the group, desperately needing to put some distance between yourself and Satoru. The vibrant corals blurred into streaks of colour as you swam further from the group, the shouts of Yuji and Nobara fading.

The water a bit away from them was deeper, a darker shade of blue. As you peered down, you noticed the sandy ground was dotted with small stones, and a different kind of life seemed to thrive here. Sea anemones swayed gently in the current, and schools of silver fish, smaller than the ones near the reef, darted in and out of the anemones.

You floated on your back for a moment, gazing up at the sky, a vast expanse of pale blue flecked with fluffy white clouds as the sun warmed your face. It was so peaceful, and you were happy for the small pause amidst the chaos of the house.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

You startled at Satoru's voice right behind you, nearly inhaling water through your snorkel. He'd somehow managed to swim up without you noticing, and now he was close enough that his arm brushed yours in the water.

"What are you doing?" you hissed, pulling your snorkel out.

"I know a better spot.” He nodded towards a more secluded area around the curve of the beach. "If you're interested."

You glanced back at the others, but they were all absorbed in whatever Yuji had found. "I don't think—"

"Come on," he said, already swimming away. "Don't you trust me?"

"Not even a little bit." But found yourself following him anyway.

He led you around a small outcropping of rocks, the current tugging gently at your fins, to a quieter part of the reef. His hand on your arm gently guided you through the water. The water here was somehow even clearer, as if a veil had been lifted, revealing a breathtaking underwater scenery with colourful coral formations that created a labyrinth of archways and caverns with small fish swimming in between.

"How did you—"

"I came here earlier this morning," he said, treading water close to you. "While you were pretending to ignore me after breakfast."

"I wasn't—" You cut yourself off as he dove under the surface, the sunlight playing across his back as he swam deeper.

You followed him down, your breath taken away by the sight. This part of the reef was like something out of a documentary. Swarms of tropical fish swirled around you in ribbons of colour, and the coral itself seemed to shine in the filtered sunlight.

When you surfaced, Satoru was watching you with an annoyingly knowing smile. "Worth following me?"

"It's alright," you said, trying to sound unimpressed even though you were anything but.

He laughed. "You're still trying to play hard to get?"

"I'm not playing anything."

"No?" He swam closer, close enough that you could see droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes. "Then why did you follow me here?"

"To see the fish.”

"The fish." His voice was amused. "Sure. That's why you've been watching me all morning?"

"I have not—"

"You know," he cut you off, moving even closer, his body brushing against yours in the water. "You're pretty when you get all flustered. Just like that night in Tokyo. Same flush you had when I made you cum three times.”

Ha? Had he been keeping count or what? You frantically tried to replay that night in your head — there was the first time against his apartment door, then on the kitchen counter, and... oh god, he was right. The bastard had been counting. The smirk on his face told you he knew exactly what you were thinking about.

You splashed water at him. "We are not talking about Tokyo."

He wiped water from his face, grinning. "No? Should we talk about this morning instead? About how you nearly jumped out of your skin when I touched your—"

You dunked him mid-sentence.

He came up spluttering, pushing wet hair from his eyes. "Okay, I probably deserved that."

"You definitely deserved that."

But he laughed, and despite yourself, you found yourself laughing too. There was something infectious about him, something that made it hard to keep your walls up, dissolving your defenses with unnerving ease, like mist beneath the morning sun.

"We should head back," you said finally. "Before they come looking for us."

"Probably," he agreed, but made no move to leave. Instead, he floated closer, until his chest pressed against yours. "Or we could stay here a bit longer. I could remind you of all the other ways I can make you wet."

Heat flooded your body. "Satoru..."

"Yes?" His hands found your waist under the water, pulling you flush against him. One thigh slipped between yours, and you had to bite back a gasp at the friction. "You know, I still remember exactly how you sound when you're trying not to moan my name."

"We can't." But your body betrayed you, arching into his touch as his fingers skimmed along your ribs, dangerously close to your breast.

"Can't?" His lips ghosted over your lips, his thumb tracing circles on your hip under the water in a way that made you think of how those fingers had felt inside you. "Or are you afraid you won't be able to keep quiet this time?"

Before you could answer, Nobara's voice carried across the water. "Where did you guys go?"

You pushed away from him quickly, already swimming back towards the group. "Coming!"

"This isn't over," he called after you, and you could hear the smile in his voice.

"It never started!" you shot back, but you were smiling too.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟  

Satoru spent the rest of the afternoon driving you absolutely insane.

After snorkeling, he'd positioned his beach towel suspiciously close to yours, spending an unnecessary amount of time applying sunscreen to his chest and arms. His movements were deliberately slow, borderline pornographic, fingers sliding over muscle in a way that had you remembering exactly how those muscles had felt flexing under your tongue. 

You knew without a doubt he was putting on a show for you—every movement a reminder of how those arms had looked braced above you as he'd fucked you against his apartment door, how they'd felt pinning your wrists to his sheets.

During lunch, he'd somehow ended up next to you again, his bare thigh pressed hot against yours under the table like this morning had taught him nothing. Except this time, his hand didn't just rest on your knee. It spent the entire meal tracing patterns up your thigh, fingertips dancing dangerous close to where you'd been aching for him.

Your breath caught every time his hand "accidentally" slipped under the hem of your shorts, remembering how those fingers had curled inside you, how they'd made you beg.

The afternoon beach volleyball rematch was even worse. He kept finding excuses to touch you—steadying you with a hand on your waist when you stumbled in the sand (the same way he'd gripped your hips while taking you from behind), reaching around you to grab the ball (his breath hot on your neck like when he'd whispered how good you felt around him), his chest pressing against your back, closer than needed (making you remember how it felt to be pressed between him and that apartment door).

But dinner? Dinner was pure torture.

He'd shown up freshly showered, hair still damp and tousled in that way that made your fingers itch to grab it (like you had when he was between your thighs), wearing a dark blue linen shirt that he hadn't bothered to button properly once more and spent the entire meal finding new ways to make you squirm.

He'd catch your eye across the table and slowly lick sauce off his thumb, making you remember exactly how that tongue had felt when he'd spread you open. When passing dishes, his fingers would brush against yours unnecessarily long, making you shiver. At one point, he'd stretched his arms above his head, his shirt riding up to reveal his lower abs that had you gripping your fork so hard your knuckles turned white.

He knew exactly what he was doing, too—you could tell by the smug look on his face throughout the whole dinner. 

Thankfully, no one else seemed to notice anything amiss. They were all too busy with their own conversations, completely oblivious to the way he was systematically dismantling your sanity with nothing more than glances and touches.

Every time you thought you'd gotten yourself under control, he'd do something else — run his fingers through his hair the same way he had when you'd been on your knees in front of him, or bite his lip in a way that had you crossing your legs under the table. By dessert, you were a mess of sexual frustration and murderous impulses. 

He was enjoying this, the bastard. Testing your control, seeing how far he could push before you broke. And the most infuriating part? 

It was working. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟  

After dinner, everyone wandered into the living room in various states of food induced laziness. You'd barely managed to claim a corner of the big couch when Nobara disappeared into the kitchen, returning with an armful of wine bottles and a certain look in her eye that spelled trouble.

"No one move," she announced, setting the bottles on the coffee table. "I have an idea."

"Your ideas usually end with someone crying," Megumi commented from his spot on the floor.

"Or arrested," Maki added helpfully.

"Or both," you muttered, trying to ignore how Satoru had somehow appeared in the armchair closest to your corner of the couch. He'd rolled up his sleeves during dinner, forearms on full display, and you were having a hard time not staring at his fingers. Fingers that you knew from experience felt so good in your mouth to keep you from—

"Never have I ever!" Nobara's voice cut through your dangerous train of thought. A collective groan rose from the group.

"Not again," Megumi said, already trying to get up.

"Sit your ass down," Nobara commanded, pushing him back down. "We're bonding."

"We bonded plenty last night," you Yuta tried, but Nobara was having none of it and before you knew it, everyone agreed.

"Okay, I'll start easy," Yuji said, clearly excited despite his earlier protests. "Never have I ever cheated on a test."

Several people drank, including Satoru—and you, okay let’s be real. 

The questions started innocent enough. Never have I ever broken a bone. Never have I ever been arrested. Never have I ever dyed my hair. But as the wine flowed, the questions got progressively more suggestive.

"Never have I ever kissed someone of the same gender," Maki said, and half the circle drank. "Never have I ever faked it," was Nobara's contribution, and several people groaned but drank.

You were starting to feel a bit hazy, the wine making everything feel warm and soft around the edges. Which was dangerous, because Satoru kept looking at you like he was remembering exactly how you'd sounded that night when you definitely hadn't been faking anything.

"Never have I ever," one of Yuta’s cousins announced then, "had sex with someone in this room." For a moment, no one moved. Then Yuta and Maki drank, of course. And then Satoru raised his own glass slowly and took a long sip.

"Who?" Nobara shrieked, looking around the circle. "Satoru just drank, so someone else here has to—" Her gaze swept over everyone suspiciously.

"Someone's lying," Maki sang, already tipsy enough to find this hilarious. "Come on, fess up!"

You kept your face carefully neutral, even as you felt Satoru's eyes burning into you. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Not this time.

"Maybe it was before any of us knew each other," Yuji suggested, but Nobara shook her head.

"No way. Look at his face!" She pointed accusingly at Satoru. "He's got that look. You know, that 'I know something you don't know' look."

Satoru just smiled lazily from his armchair, swirling the wine in his glass. "Maybe I just like keeping you all guessing."

"You're a dumbass," Nobara said, but the group's attention was already shifting as Yuji launched into the next question, something about falling asleep at work.

You released a breath you hadn't realized you were holding, but made the mistake of glancing at Satoru and he gave you a look that sent a shiver of heat through you over his wine glass. 

God, you were going to murder him. Slowly. Painfully. Preferably with the very wine glass he was currently smirking into. 

Who did he think he was, just casually drinking like that, nearly exposing everything? He could have at least warned you, given you some sign he was about to blow up your secret. But no, he'd just taken that deliberate sip, probably getting hard on watching you squirm as you tried to keep your poker face. 

That sick bastard.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟  

Sleep was impossible. You'd been tossing and turning for hours, replaying the day's events in your mind—from that moment in the ocean to his deliberate almost-reveal during the game. The walls of this fancy beach house seemed paper thin at night, every small sound amplified in the darkness.

That's how you heard his door open around 2 AM, followed by quiet footsteps heading downstairs.

You waited a few minutes, telling yourself you were just thirsty, that going downstairs for water had nothing to do with knowing he was maybe down there. The wooden steps creaked softly under your bare feet as you made your way down.

Silvery moonlight streamed through the massive windows, creating silver patterns on the marble countertops of the kitchen. Satoru stood at the island, drinking water from a glass, looking unfairly handsome in just sleep shorts and a wrinkled t-shirt.

"Couldn't sleep?" he whispered when he spotted you.

"What's your game, Satoru?" You kept your voice equally low, padding closer. "That thing earlier? During never have I ever?"

"Game? I'm not the one who was afraid of drinking".

"Because unlike you, I don't feel the need to announce our business to everyone."

He set his glass down, turning to face you fully. "Our business? So you admit there's something to announce?"

"That's not—" You caught yourself before your voice could rise. "What are you trying to achieve here? With all the—" you gestured vaguely, "touching and teasing and almost exposing everything?"

He stepped closer, and suddenly the kitchen felt way too small, even though it was like three times the size of your Tokyo apartment. "Maybe I just want everyone to know that night wasn't as casual for me as you seem to think it was."

You felt the weight of his words settle in the quiet kitchen, heavy with meaning you weren't prepared to unpack while moonlight caught his features in a way that made him look softer, almost vulnerable.

"What are you talking about? It was only one night."

"Was it?" He moved closer, until you had to tilt your head back to keep eye contact. "Because I remember asking you to stay. I remember waking up to an empty bed and spent the next six months thinking about why you left."

"I... you were just saying that in the moment. People say lots of things in the moment."

"Do they?" His hand came up to brush a strand of hair from your face. "Is that why you ran? Because you thought I didn't mean it?"

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore how your skin prickled where he'd touched you. "Satoru..."

"You know what I think?" His voice dropped even lower, barely a whisper in the quiet kitchen. "I think you're scared. Not of me, but of the fact that you wanted to stay too."

"That's not—" But the words died in your throat as his thumb traced your jawline.

"Then why are you down here?" He was close enough now that you could feel the heat of his body against yours. "If it was just one night, just something casual, why did you follow me down here in the middle of the night?"

The counter pressed against your back—when had you started backing up?—and Satoru's arms came to rest on either side of you, caging you in. Position achingly familiar, reminding you of how this all started six months ago.

"I was thirsty," you said. You did not even believe yourself as you said it.

His laugh was barely a breath against your skin. "Liar."

And then his mouth was on yours, and god, you'd forgotten how good he was at this. His lips were soft but demanding, one hand sliding into your hair while the other gripped your hip, forcing you close against him. You gasped into the kiss, and he took the opportunity to deepen it, his tongue against yours in a way that made you forget your own name.

It was different from that first night—less urgent, but somehow more intense. He kissed you like he was trying to prove a point, like he was laying claim to every moment you'd denied him these past six months. His teeth caught your lower lip, and you had to bite back a whimper, too aware of the sleeping house above.

"Still want to pretend this is nothing?" he whispered against your mouth, and you could feel his smile when your only response was to pull him back down for another kiss.

His hands slid down to grip your thighs, lifting you onto the counter. You wrapped your legs around his waist, drawing him closer as his mouth moved to your neck, kissing your throat just the way you like it, just the way he somehow remembered.

"Someone could come down," you breathed, even as your fingers tangled in his hair.

"Then I guess you'll have to be quiet." His teeth grazed your skin, making you shiver. "Think you can manage that? Because I distinctly remember you being quite vocal last time."

You tightened your grip on his hair in return, but that just made him groan softly against your throat. "You're stupid."

"Mm, that's not what you said in Tokyo." His hands slid higher under your shirt, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. "In fact, I remember you saying some very different things—"

You cut him off with another kiss, partly to shut him up and partly because you needed his mouth on yours like you needed air. His fingers teased along your ribs, your back, your thighs, touching you everywhere except where you desperately wanted him to.

But then his fingers found the edge of your underwear, and you had to bite his shoulder to keep from moaning as he slid his fingers inside you, making you cum all over his fingers in seconds—just like that night in Tokyo.

You were done, dizzy, breathless, clinging to him as he stripped your shorts and underwear down your legs. He pushed one leg up your chest as he lowered you back down onto the marble kitchen counter, your other leg still wrapped around his waist. His forehead pressed against yours as he thrust inside, hard, slow, perfect angle—just like that night in Tokyo.

He tossed you around, manhandled you, fucked you against the fridge, threw you onto the couch and fucked you there too. He whispered your name, his voice husky against your ear, every letter a caress, even as he picked up pace, even as his hand closed around your throat, even as you bit into the pillow below to muffle your screams as he made you cum again. Multiple times. In various positions. Using his own cum as a lube for the next round—just like that night in Tokyo.

Afterwards you laid outside on the veranda in a big chair you both shared, gazing up at the stars scattered across the deep velvet sky, countless and impossibly bright. A second later his lips found yours and another second later you were on top of him, underwear pushed to the side and your head thrown back as he watched you chase your release on his dick—just like that night in Tokyo.

And his hand found yours, intertwining your fingers as he ate you out on the stairs just before you wanted to go back to bed, but he wouldn't let you, making you cum again before he carried you off to the laundry room to fuck you one last time for sure good mesure—just like that night in Tokyo.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟  

Morning came way too early, sunlight streaming through windows you'd forgotten to close. Every muscle in your body ached in the most pleasant way, reminding you of exactly how many surfaces you and Satoru had christened last night. 

Yeah. You were definitely going to be feeling this for days. You winced slightly as you sat up — apparently kitchen counters weren't the most ergonomic choice for certain activities, or the stairs, or the laundry room, or... Okay, we get it.

When you finally made it downstairs, moving perhaps a bit more strangely than usual, Satoru was already at the breakfast table. Because of course he was, looking absolutely perfect and fullyfull rested in a fresh shirt, casually sipping his coffee like he hadn't spent half the night making you bite down on your fist to keep quiet.

"Well, someone looks rough," Nobara commented as you lowered yourself carefully into a chair. "Too much wine last night?"

You caught Satoru hiding a smirk behind his coffee cup. The bastard didn't even have the decency to look tired.

"Something like that," you muttered, reaching for the coffee pot and trying not to wince at the stretch. Your thighs burned in protest of the movement, and you could swear you saw Satoru's smile widening at your slight grimace.

"Must have been some wine," Nobara said, eyeing you suspiciously. "I don't remember you drinking that much during the game."

"Are you sure you're okay?" Yuji asked, looking concerned. "You're walking kind of funny."

"I'm fine, really," you managed. "Too much wine, that’s all."

Maki, who sat next to you, leaned in closer. "Your 'too much wine' is showing," she whispered, pointing to your collarbone. Your hand flew to your neck, suddenly remembering all the attention Satoru had paid to that area—especially that moment on the stairs when you'd begged him to finish what he'd started before anyone heard them, while he sucked a very dark bruise right above your collarbone.

You quickly buttoned up your cotton shirt higher, but from Nobara's growing grin, it was too late. But thankfully, no one commented on it.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟  

The rest of Sunday passed in a lazy haze, with everyone moving a bit slower thanks to varying degrees of wine headaches. Most of the day was spent sprawled out on beach chairs, hiding behind sunglasses and drinking coconut water that Yuta swore would help with hangovers (but, in fact, did not).

You dozed on and off under an umbrella, trying not to think about how your body still ached in several places from the night before, and enjoyed your last day in Okinawa before you'd return to work on Monday.

When evening rolled around and it was time to pack up, the house became a chaos of suitcases and forgotten phone chargers once more. You were struggling with your bag next to your car, trying to figure out the best angle to lift it into the trunk without stressing your still sore muscles, when Satoru suddenly appeared and took it from your hands without a word.

"I can manage," you protested, but he was already lifting it into your trunk with an effortless ease that really shouldn't be as attractive as it was.

"I'm sure you can," he said, closing your trunk with a soft thud. "But maybe I just want an excuse to do this." 

Before you could ask what 'this' was, he pressed a small folded piece of paper into your palm. You opened it to find a phone number written in his surprisingly neat handwriting.

"Since you didn't stay for it last time," he said softly.

"What makes you think I'll use it?"

"Because this time, you want to stay just as much as I want you to." He leaned closer, his voice dropping so only you could hear. "Besides, I believe we still have a few surfaces in my apartment left to explore."

You shoved his shoulder. "Stop." 

He caught your hand before you could push him again. "Use it. Please?" His voice held a note of softness, an unexpected tenderness that made your heart ache with a strange longing. You nodded, tucking the paper safely into your back pocket.

"Still not announcing anything to everyone tho," you warned as Maki called out that they were ready to leave.

"Yet," he said with an eye roll. Then, before you could react, he pulled you in for one last kiss. It was slower, deeper this time, his hands cupping your face as he kissed you, as if he was afraid he might forget the feel of your lips.

"Someone could see us," you whispered against his lips, even as your fingers curled into his shirt.

"I don't care," he murmured, one hand sliding down to your waist to draw you closer. "Let them see." He kissed you again, shorter this time but no less intense. "Besides, they'll find out soon enough when I take you to this little ramen place in Shibuya I've been wanting to show you."

You pulled back slightly. "Oh? Someone's confident about getting a second date."

"Third, technically," he said. "If we're counting Tokyo. And that thing against the washing machine last night."

"Those don't count.”

"Then I guess I'll have to make the next one special. Maybe dinner first. Then I can show you my apartment. Properly this time, not just the entrance hall and kitchen counter."

"Is that your way of asking me out?"

"That's my way of saying I'm not letting you disappear for six months again." He pressed a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Use my number this time, yeah?"

"Satoru!" Yuji's voice carried across the driveway. "Stop making out and help me with these bags!"

Satoru laughed against your lips, stealing one more kiss before reluctantly pulling away. "Think about it. The ramen place. My apartment. All the surfaces we haven't used yet."

"Go help Yuji," you said, pushing him away even as you smiled. "Before he comes over here."

"Call me," he said, walking backwards with that stupidly handsome smile. "Or I'll just have to show up at your office. Make a big scene. Maybe bring flowers. Really embarrass you in front of all your coworkers."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me!" He finally turned then to help with the bags, leaving you to shake your head, your lips still tingling from his kisses.

The drive home felt different somehow. Every now and then, your hand would drift to your pocket, fingers brushing over the folded paper with his number, making sure it was still there as the familiar roads back to Tokyo stretched ahead.

The beach house grew smaller in your rearview mirror until it disappeared completely, taking with it the memories of lazy afternoons under the summer sun and heated nights. But other things lingered—the ghost of his lips against yours, the warmth of his hands, the way he'd looked at you like you were something worth waiting for.

Maybe you'd call him tomorrow. Or maybe you'd wait a day or two, just to prove you could. But knowing you, you'd likely message him the moment you set foot in your apartment.

A smile tugged at your lips as you pulled onto the highway, the setting sun painting the sky in strokes of rose and  lavender. Whatever happened next, one thing was for sure — this weekend had changed everything.

And maybe, just maybe, that wasn't such a bad thing.

masterlist + support my writing

author's note — and that's a wrap on our beach house summer story ! thank you so much for reading :)) & thank you again to @/nanamis-baker for beta reading !!

for anyone wondering, yes, she kept the shirt. and yes, he definitely noticed when she wore it to their first proper date to that ramen spot in shibuya.

if you enjoyed this fic, please feel free to leave a comment or reblog. it means so much !! until next time. stay thirsty hydrated, my friends <3

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

© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.

[clqxuds]

BLOODLINE

───✦ DILF! GOJO X READER

♡ summary: sure, the food looked good, but you were eyeing a completely different meal. good thing satoru is always happy to serve! p1

♡ wc: 6.2k

♡ content warnings: fem! babysitter! reader, dilf! older! gojo, age gap, groping, best friends brother (bfb), divorced, babysitting, mention of kids, breéding kink, big díck gojo, mating press, reader is down bad, meeting family, overstim, unprotected, water guns, hot tub, multiple rounds implied, established relationship, p in v, creampíes, praise. this is p2; however, this can be read separately.

♡ a/n: happy 1k!!! ヾ( ˃ᴗ˂ )◞ -`♡´-

The summer heat pressed down like a thick blanket, the kind that made the air hum and your skin prickle the second you stepped outside. But the smell of sizzling ribs and chlorine from the pool brought it all back— sticky-sweet childhood summers when you were younger. When Satoru was just your best friend’s annoyingly hot older brother.  

Now?  

Now, he was leaning over the grill, his white hair pushed back with a careless hand, his broad shoulders emphasized by the floral patterns of his Hawaiian shirt. Fatherhood had softened him in some places, the curve of his waist where your hands fit just right. He turned, catching you staring, and flashed you that famous million-dollar smile. “Took you long enough.”  

You adjusted your hoop earrings—the ones he’d picked out a few months ago. You walked over, the grass warm under your sandals. “Had to make sure I looked good for your little fan club.” You nodded toward his aunties and cousins sipping wine coolers under the umbrella.  

He huffed a laugh, swiping a thumb over the condensation of his pop before pressing it to the back of your neck. You gasped at the cold, but his hand lingered, rough and warm.  

“They ain’t the ones I’m tryna impress,” he murmured. You scoffed, wiping the water from off of the can off of your neck. His arms found their way around your waist, pulling you into a kiss. He smelled like meat and charcoal. You stepped back, smoothing your skirt as the heat from his touch lingered longer than you’d admit. Satoru’s eyes flicked down, shameless and smug, before he reached out and pulled you into him, just enough for a hug. Not one of those awkward side things, either. Full arms. Real warm. Real secure. His palm flattened between your shoulders, the other sliding briefly down your back before letting go. He kissed your cheek, right near the edge of your jaw. A blink-and-you-miss-it thing. Quick. Careful. Nevertheless, it still had your stomach flipping.

“That’s all I get?” you murmured, pretending to pout.

His grin was slow. “Tryna behave, baby. Kids around.”

You glanced at the little cousins running around with water guns and sticky red fingers, then back at him. “For once.”

He held his hands up like he deserved a medal. “Personal.”

You snorted and stepped away, catching your reflection in the glass door for a second as you adjusted your hoops. 

“Gonna go say hey,” you said, nodding toward the circle of lawn chairs where the aunties and older cousins were parked with drinks and gossip.

Satoru smirked, flipping the patty with one hand. “Good luck.”

“I don’t need luck. I already know half of them.”

“Exactly. That’s why I said good luck.”

You shook your head and walked off, your sandals making soft thuds against the patio stone. The sun was beating down, catching on your skin in a way that made you feel a little glossy, like you’d been kissed by heat instead of just surviving it. Your shoulders rolled back naturally, not on purpose, but you knew how to move when people were watching. Especially his people.

“There she is!” someone called out, loud and sweet.

You smiled before you even saw who it was. Mari, Satoru’s cousin on his dad’s side. She stood up and pulled you into a quick hug, plastic cup in one hand, acrylics catching the light like little prisms. “Girl, you look cute. That outfit? Adorable. Make sure to send me where you got that top,” she whistled, getting easily distracted as one of the kids hit their uncle with a water gun. 

“Ohhh, is that who I think it is?” one of the aunties said, voice lilting with curiosity.

You smiled respectfully. “Hi, long time.”

“Mhm, very long,” another said, tilting her sunglasses to get a better look at you. “You’ve grown up, haven’t you?”

“Trying to,” you said, the corner of your mouth pulling up. “It’s really good to see everyone.”

Mari gave you a once-over—not shady, just thorough, like cousins do. “Last time we saw you, Sae was hopping between you and Veronica,” she laughed, reminiscing at his birthday party. 

A few of them laughed, and you smiled with a small shake of your head. “That was some time ago,”

“C’mon, take a seat, it's too hot to be standing around.” Mari patted down on the seat next to him, facing the pool. It was far enough away not to be in the range of water. You smiled, taking a seat, knowing what this trap entailed. 

You barely sat down before Mari smirked over her wine cooler. “So. You and Satoru, huh?"

You took the drink she offered. “Yeah."

Auntie Lynn—who was really just Utahime’s 34-year-old cousin—nearly choked on her wine cooler. "Oh, we definitely need to hear this."

You shrugged, playing it cool. “Ain’t much to tell. He needed a babysitter. I needed a job. Then one day it just clicked.” You summarized not giving too much to run with. 

“And the rest is biblical." Mari finished, cackling.  

You tipped your can at her. “Exactly."

Mari fake-gagged. “Ugh. Y’all are disgusting now."

You lifted your drink in salute. “Gotta give the people what they want.”

Auntie Lynn leaned over from her lawn chair, her sunglasses pushed halfway down her nose. “And now he's a family man with matching slides.” 

“Mmm,” Mari hummed like a warning, sipping her wine cooler. “They don’t need encouragement.”

You just smiled, easily. “Ask him, not me. I was minding my business.”

“Sure,” Utahime said behind you, her voice bone-dry. “That’s what you call it.”

You turned just in time for her to slide into the open seat next to you, elbow knocking against yours like muscle memory. Her hair was piled high and pinned with a claw clip that was definitely more for aesthetics than hold. She glanced at your half-finished drink and took a sip like it was hers.

“This is gross,” she said.

You shrugged. “That’s why I gave it to you.”

She huffed and stretched her legs out, resting her ankles on the edge of Mari’s chair without asking. “You look good. That skirt is doing numbers.”

“You helped me pick it.”

“And I take full credit,” she said. “You’re lucky I like you, walking around here in that little cardigan like you’re not corrupting the family function.”

“Corrupting?” Mari raised a brow. “You see how he looked at her?”

Utahime grinned, devil in her molars. “Like he’s tryna figure out if the grill’s hot enough to sear his sins away.”

You groaned. “Can y’all let me live?”

“No,” they said in unison, and honestly, you walked into that one.

The sun had started to dip just slightly, the heat easing from sharp to slow-baked. Someone’s uncle had taken over the grill now, moving with the solemn concentration of a man who believed turning ribs too early was a moral failing. The smell of it drifted over everything—sweet smoke, char, the kind of heat-kissed glaze that clung to your throat even before the first bite.

You stood eventually, pulled by instinct more than anything, and wandered toward the long table by the house. A makeshift buffet had taken shape—foil-covered pans, heavy with good intentions. You peeled one back, letting the steam hit your face. The mac and cheese had that kind of top you had to break through—baked golden, speckled with edges just this side of burnt. A scoop of potato salad waited in the corner, yellow and thick like someone’s auntie refused to measure a single thing. You grabbed a plate and filled it like you’d been here before, because you had. Long enough to know which dishes were made by people who used their elbow to stir and which ones came from store-bought containers, and shame.

Sae padded up beside you on unsteady legs, one hand gripping the hem of your skirt.

“Hungry?” you asked, already bending to scoop him into your hip. His curls were soft with leftover sunscreen, and he smelled like chlorine and apple juice.

He nodded solemnly, sticking two fingers in his mouth. “’Keese?”

You blinked. “Cheese?”

He smacked his lips. “Mmm.”

You fixed him a little plate, half mac, half string beans, soft enough to mush with a plastic fork. He leaned into you while you fed him, opening his mouth like a baby bird and humming after every bite.

“That’s my boy,” Satoru called, sauntering over, all proud grins and sun-tanned forearms. He had barbecue sauce on his knuckles and a smudge on his cheek that made him look too good for your own peace of mind.

“Your boy just betrayed you,” you said. “He asked me for mac and cheese.”

“Traitor,” he said, leaning down to kiss Sae’s forehead anyway. “A soft little backstabber.”

Sae giggled, crumbs around his mouth.

“Don’t worry,” Utahime said, appearing at your other side with a water balloon in hand. “I’m gonna make sure he earns his redemption arc.”

You glanced at her. “You’re not.”

“Oh, I am,” she said, crouching to meet Sae at eye level. “Listen here, tiny menace. You see your daddy?”

Sae looked over.

“Throw this at him.”

She held out the balloon like it was a sacred relic.

Sae’s fingers closed around it, and he gasped like it was treasure.

You sighed. “I’m not going to be the one explaining this to Satoru when he gets soaked.”

“I am,” Utahime said cheerfully. “With evidence. And probably more balloons.”

Before you could stop him, Sae charged forward on his little legs and—miraculously—threw it almost directly at Satoru’s shins. The splash was glorious.

Satoru jumped. “What the-!”

Utahime was already keeled over laughing. “Get his other leg, baby! He’s limping!”

“You’re evil,” you told her.

“Excuse me,” she said between cackles, “I’m building the next generation.”

But you were too busy laughing, shoulders shaking, one hand on your hip as you wiped Sae’s hands clean.

It wasn’t long before the music picked up again. Something familiar, something loud enough to make people rise without thinking.

‘The Wobble’ came on like a spell, and suddenly the lawn was a dance floor.

You saw the signs before it hit—someone shouting “Ayeeee!”, a chair tipping over, a beer can abandoned mid-sip. And in the middle of it all, Satoru stretched like he’d just clocked into work.

You watched him ease into the groove, shoulders swaying, his hips keeping perfect time. It wasn’t even cocky, not at first—just smooth. Like his body remembered the beat before his mind caught up. A little shoulder roll. A perfectly timed pivot. He knew the steps, sure. But he made them look good.

Your cheeks hurt from smiling.

Utahime elbowed you. “Go. He’s showing off.”

You laughed, already stepping into the grass. “He’s about to be real mad when I outdance him.”

He caught your hand just as you joined him, spinning you in like you were a part of the beat. People whistled. His palm skimmed the small of your back. You rolled your hips, shoulders snapping to the left, then the right. He kept pace easily, one hand warm at your waist, the other pointing at you dramatically like the two of you were the only ones there.

Your breath was quick when the song ended, and so was his.

“Still think you can lead?” you asked.

He gave you that grin—the slow, corner-of-the-mouth one. “Only if you let me follow sometimes.”

You rolled your eyes before getting distracted by a group of kids screaming and ducking behind pool floaties like it was warfare. You barely had time to lean back before—

SMACK.

Cold.

Soaking wet.

You looked down. A balloon had exploded right at your hip, drenching your skirt and the edge of your cardigan. You blinked, and across the yard, one of Satoru’s cousins—maybe eight, maybe demon—froze mid-laugh, realizing they’d missed their target.

“My bad!” the kid yelled. “I was aiming for Uncle Satoru!”

You stood slowly, peeling wet fabric from your thigh. “Oh, I know.”

Satoru was already grinning, leaning over to snag a towel off the patio railing. “Looks like you gotta change, sweetheart.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I’m starting to think you planned this.”

He handed you the towel and lowered his voice. “If I had planned it, you wouldn’t be coming back down.”

You sucked your teeth and turned away before your smile gave you away, making your way into the house. 

The house was mostly quiet—cooler inside, humming with the low buzz of central air and the faint echo of music filtering in from the yard. You kicked off your shoes near the mat. Your tube top had lost the fight too, clinging heavy with cold water and humiliation. Upstairs, the bedroom was dim and cool, the curtains drawn just enough to let the sun slant through in ribbons. Cool to the touch. You peeled off the ruined outfit, tossing the soaked clothes into the clothing bin. 

You could still hear Utahime laughing through the window. Opening the drawer for something else to wear, muttering, “This is why I don’t play with children.” You dug around until your fingers closed around what you were looking for. 

The dress was still folded like a secret between your numerous tank tops and shirts. After drying off, you pulled it over your body, slow, careful. It hugged like it knew you. You adjusted the neckline, turned in the mirror, and pulled your thankfully dry cardigan over your arms. You gave yourself one last look. Head high. Lip gloss still intact. 

The air was thicker now, lazy with smoke and sun. You heard the music first—Return of the Mack this time, someone’s uncle shouting “Ayyye!” like it was his wedding day again. Then came the sharp whistle.

“Y’all. Look who just had a whole transformation!”

You glanced over.

Mari had turned around fully in her lawn chair, oversized sunglasses halfway down her nose, drink sloshing in one hand.

“Okay, body,” she said, real loud, real shameless. “Tell the truth, you went inside and steamed that dress first.”

You laughed, but your face burned. “I got ambushed with a water balloon!”

“That’s what they’re calling it now?” said one of the older cousins—Maya, you thought, sipping on a melted pina colada slushie. “Auntie Lynn said Satoru’s aim’s been off since you got here.”

You gave a tight smile and made your way back toward the chairs, past where a few little kids were crouched behind lawn chairs plotting revenge, and Mari was waving you over like she couldn’t stand being right.

“Listen, we knew you were cute,” Mari said, patting the seat next to her, “but I didn’t realize you were stepping out here looking like that.”

“It was supposed to be backup clothes,” you said, smoothing your cardigan over your arms. “Not a runway.”

“Please. This is exactly why Satoru grilled the ribs like his life depended on it. He’s trying to husband you.”

Mari, still sipping her pink drink, chimed in. “And it’s working.”

“Mmmhmm,” said another auntie—one you hadn’t met properly yet, but she looked like she had known Satoru before he started wearing Digimon pajamas. “He ain’t grilled like that since Sae’s birthday. That was the last time she came over, too, huh?”

“Don’t start conspiracies,” you said, trying to hide your smile. “Y’all worse than the blogs.”

“Baby, the blogs wish they had our sources,” Maya said. “We've been watching Gojo men fall in love since ’87.”

“Every single one,” Mari nodded solemnly. “Started with the ribs. Ended with matching pajamas by Christmas.”

“Oh, look who finally came down dressed like she’s about to steal someone’s man,” Utahime said, coming to take a peek at what you changed into. 

You laughed. “Girl, please. I already did.”

Sae immediately dropped the water gun and waddled over to you, arms lifted. “Up!”

You picked him up again, letting his forehead rest against your shoulder as he patted your chest like he was proud of you. You smoothed his curls back gently, bouncing him on your hip.

“Utahime,” you said, “you cannot weaponize this child just to bully his father.”

“He deserves it. He told everyone at work that I ate Lunchables for dinner.”

“You do eat Lunchables for dinner.”

“Not the point.”

She took a sip of her drink, leaned over to tickle Sae’s foot, and then raised an eyebrow at your outfit. “This dress is trouble. Let me guess—Skims?”

You smirked. “Black maxi. Soft lounge.”

“God help us all,” she muttered. “Satoru’s about to forget his son’s name.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks heating. No need getting shy now, it's not like he hasn't seen the dress before. 

Utahime leaned in. “You’re lucky I love you. If I didn’t, I’d fight you and that dress.”

You laughed, looking away—but then your eyes caught him. You turned with Sae still in your arms and scanned the yard. Sure enough, Satoru was posted up by the speaker now, squatting to mess with the Bluetooth. He noticed you immediately—eyes dragging from the top of your cardigan to the curve of your waist, lips twitching like he couldn’t stop the thought if he tried.

The bass buzzed through the ground as he hit a button, and the music shifted again—something slower, smoother. You recognized it on the first few beats: Can’t Get Enough by Tamia.

He turned around, caught you watching. Didn’t say anything, just smirked, “That man has been inching closer all day,” Auntie Lynn whispered beside you.

“Not y’all doing commentary,” you muttered.

Maya grinned. “You gonna get up and dance or what?”

Before you could even answer, Satoru strolled up and held his hand out—no words, just the grin and that cocky head tilt like he knew you wouldn’t say no.

“Please don’t trip,” Mari whispered like it was church.

You took his hand, handing Sae over to the impatient Utahime, heart ticking louder than the bass, and let him guide you toward the makeshift lawn dance floor. Satoru’s hand found your hand, “You always know how to make an entrance,” he said low, near your ear.

“They need to practice with Hime.”

He smiled. “Looked good wet.”

You rolled your eyes, biting your cheek. “We’re dancing. Not flirting.”

“Why not both?”

You didn’t answer. Just let him pull you in closer, following the steps with the line in front of you. The song curled around you, familiar, warm. His fingers traced circles low on your back, thumb grazing skin where your cardigan had slid a little, messing up your rhythm just a little. You were breathless. Not from the dancing. Just from him.

Just then—

Splat. 

A stream of water shot out on the lawn next to Satoru’s foot. He didn’t flinch. You jumped back with a curse.

You both looked over at the bushes where Sae and Utahime were hiding, barely. Satoru shook his head slowly, deadpan. “Betrayed. By my own blood.”

Utahime stood up, dusting off her knees. “I didn’t teach him that,” she said, grinning. “I taught him to aim. Different.”

Sae squealed and shot a second one, this one weaker, arcing and landing with soft droplets at Satoru’s feet.

“Your days are numbered,” Satoru called out, pointing at his son like he was delivering a curse.

You covered your mouth to hold in your laugh, but it escaped anyway. Sae started giggling wildly and ran straight for you, latching onto your leg like a safe zone. Utahime followed behind him with a shrug and a mischievous smirk.

By the time the sun dipped low enough to kiss the treetops, the party had started peeling off in layers—coolers closed, paper plates stacked high, lawn chairs folded with lazy thuds. Little kids, sticky and exhausted, were passed off to parents. Someone passed around the last slice of pie like it was gold.

“You sure you don’t need help cleaning up?” Mari asked, already slinging her purse over her shoulder.

“Nah,” Satoru waved her off, Sae still perched on his hip. “I got it.”

Mari gave you a look. The lingering look. The “I know what’s about to happen here” look.

You raised a brow. “What?”

She smirked. “Nothing. Just… don’t fall in the pool. That dress looks like it’d melt.”

You opened your mouth to fire back, but she was already walking away, waving dramatically over her shoulder. “Love y’all!”

You shook your head, watching as her car backed down the driveway. One by one, tail lights blinked out into the dusk.

Utahime was last. She stayed behind to help toss out juice boxes and herd kids into the right shoes, her ponytail now messy and damp with sweat.

She hugged you tightly before she left. “Text me if he gets on your nerves.”

“I’ll have you on speed dial.”

She grinned. “I got water balloons in the trunk, just say the word.”

Then she bent low, pressing a quick kiss to Sae’s chubby cheek. “Bye, little traitor. Auntie loves you.”

Sae waved a sleepy hand, half-awake against Satoru’s chest.

And then it was just the three of you. The house, quiet now except for the faint buzz of cicadas and the soft clink of bottles being gathered.

You looked around at the backyard, the scattered plastic cups and deflated balloons, the abandoned towels and water guns. It was like the air had exhaled. Satoru shifted Sae in his arms. The toddler’s eyes were barely open.

“Gonna put him down,” Satoru said softly, voice lowered like instinct. “You okay out here?”

You nodded, brushing hair out of your face. “Yeah. I’ll finish up the cups.”

He started toward the sliding door but paused, glanced back. “Hey.”

You looked up.

“You were really beautiful today.”

You blinked, a smile tugging at your mouth. “Thanks.”

“No, I mean—like, stupid beautiful,” he said, stepping backward through the doorway, still watching you. “You looked like… if I wasn’t careful, I’d mess around and fall.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “Go put your kid to bed.”

He grinned and disappeared into the house.

You finished collecting the last of the cups and wine cooler bottles, stacking them into the recycling bin by the deck. The sky was deepening into that thick purple-gray, and the first stars blinked out above the rooftops. The smell of charcoal still lingered, warm and faint and familiar.

Ten minutes later, you heard the door slide open again.

“Alright,” Satoru called, voice lower now, stripped of the daytime teasing. “Baby’s out. Long gone. Dreamin’ about mangoes or whatever.”

You turned toward the sound of his voice. He was barefoot, shirt open and hanging loose now, a towel draped over his shoulder. His chain caught the porch light. The way he was looking at you—like he still hadn’t gotten enough—made your pulse jump.

“You coming with or are you gonna leave me in there alone like some abandoned housewife?”

You snorted. “Housewife is crazy.”

“Hot tub’s on. Clean. Eucalyptus soak thing Utahime gave me. Don’t look at me like that—she said it’d help me stop smelling like daycare and tired.”

“Eucalyptus?” 

Satoru grinned. “Don’t act like you don’t like it when I’m in my spa era.”

“Gimme a sec.” You shook your head, laughing as you walked away from him. 

You slipped inside the house without waiting for a reply. Upstairs, you opened the familiar bottom drawer in his dresser—your drawer—and pulled out the bikini you kept there for pool days and last-minute sleepovers. Black, simple, but nothing modest about it. You changed quickly, tied your hair up to avoid getting wet. 

By the time you stepped outside, the sky had fully darkened. That golden-pink haze had cooled into navy blue, stars just beginning to press through the summer night. The backyard looked different in the dark, lit now by the soft uplights built into the stone, casting glows across the hedges and bouncing faintly off the water’s surface.

The hot tub steamed in the corner. Satoru was already in, arms spread over the edge. You dropped your towel on the chaise. He didn’t try to hide the way his eyes dragged over you, head tipping back for a second like he was trying to be respectful but failing anyway.

You sank into the water with a quiet sigh. Heat curled around your legs, your waist, settling under your chest as you leaned in beside him. 

“You trying to impress me?”

Satoru slipped into the hot tub with a quiet hiss. “I’ve been trying. All day.”

You stepped down after him, the warm water wrapping around your legs as you sank in. It was deeper than you expected, clean, quiet. The sound of the pool filter hummed faintly in the background. He stretched out, arms resting behind you along the edge. Your knee brushed his. Neither of you moved away.

“Bet you think this is real smooth, huh?” you asked.

“It is smooth,” he said, voice low now. “What’s not smooth is me trying to kiss you in front of Auntie Lynn while she’s holding a White Claw.”

You laughed under your breath. “She’d never let you live it down.”

“I know. That’s why I didn’t.”

He shifted closer. Your leg touched his again. This time, he kept it there.

“She kept giving me looks all day,” you said.

“Half of ‘em were for me. You should’ve seen how she grilled me before you even got there.”

You glanced over. “About what?”

He shrugged. “Whether I’m serious. Whether I’m messing with you. Whether I understand what I got.”

“And?” you asked.

Satoru looked at you for a long moment, eyes steady. “I told her I do.”

You went quiet. Not awkward—just thoughtful.

A bubble popped at the surface between you. The backyard was still, the house dark behind you, except for one lamp in the living room. The porch light glowed, soft and low.

“Told me not to mess up what I have.” He looked down at you, his cerulean eyes reflecting the crystal blue water. 

You let him hold it. Not tight. Just enough.

“Then don’t.”

He nodded. “I’m trying.”

“I see that.”

He leaned in a little, close enough to speak right near your cheek. “And you? You trying too?”

You turned your head just enough for your eyes to meet his. “I showed up, didn’t I?”

His breath caught. Not in a dramatic way, just in that shift. He reached out, thumb brushing the outside of your thigh just above the water. “You did more than show up.”

You held his gaze. Everything slowed. The candlelight flickered behind him. Somewhere inside the house, the fridge hummed, and the air conditioning clicked on. It all felt far away.

You leaned in first. Just a little mesmerized by the way his hair appeared slightly blue.

Your lips touched. Quiet. Real. Not hurried or practiced. The kind that didn’t need to be chased, because it was already there. The hot water lapped at your skin as you settled deeper into the tub, the steam curling between you and Satoru in lazy tendrils. He leaned back against the edge, arms spread wide along the rim, watching you with that slow, knowing smirk. The porch light caught the droplets clinging to his collarbones, the water making his skin glisten.

You shifted closer, your knee brushing his under the surface. His lips were warm, a little sweet from the drink he'd been nursing earlier. You sighed into it, letting yourself melt just a fraction. His fingers tightened slightly in your hair, angling your head just how he wanted it. His tongue brushed against yours, and your breath hitched. He hummed, low and pleased, like he'd been waiting for that exact reaction.

His other hand found your waist, dragging you forward until you were straddling his lap, the water sloshing around you. Your thighs bracketed his hips, the heat of him pressing against you in a way that made your head spin. You rocked forward instinctively, and his grip on your neck tightened.

"Fuck," he muttered against your lips. "Do that again." You did, slower this time, grinding down just to feel him groan. His hands slid down your back, pulling you even closer, until there was no space left between you.

His mouth moved to your jaw, then your throat, teeth grazing just enough to make you whimper. "Satoru-" His name came out breathless, half a plea, half a warning- but he only hummed against your skin, the vibration sending a shiver down your spine. His hands slid lower, fingers tracing the dip of your waist before gripping your hips, guiding your movements in slow, deliberate motions.

"That's it," he murmured, lips brushing your ear. "Just like that."

The water made everything slick, effortless-your bodies moving together in a rhythm that felt as natural as breathing. His fingers dug in just enough to leave marks, possessive in a way that made your stomach tighten. You could feel him, hard and wanting, pressed against your bikini bottoms with every roll of your hips. 

The night air was warm, but his touch was hotter. His mouth trailed lower, teeth scraping the curve of your shoulder before he sucked lightly, leaving a mark that would bloom purple by morning. You arched into him, nails scraping down his chest, and he groaned, low and rough.

"You gonna let me take care of you?" he asked, voice thick. You didn't answer- just rocked against him harder, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps. He chuckled, but it was strained, his own control fraying. The steam curled between you, thick and lazy, as Satoru's hands slid up your sides, his thumbs brushing the underside of your bikini top. His touch was deliberate, unhurried-like he was savoring the way your breath hitched when he traced the edge of the fabric.

"You always wear this damn thing just to torture me," he murmured, lips grazing the shell of your ear. His voice was rough, but his fingers were slow, teasing the tie at the back of your neck.

You arched into him, water sloshing as your hips pressed against his. "Maybe I just like watching you try to behave."

He huffed a laugh, warm against your throat.

"Yeah? How am I doing?"

"Horrible."

His teeth caught your earlobe, sharp enough to make you gasp. "Guess we’ll have to change that."

The knot gave way under his fingers, and the fabric loosened, slipping down just enough to bare your skin to the night air. He didn't pull it off- just let it hang there, his knuckles brushing the swell of your breasts as he palmed you through the damp material. His touch was firm, possessive, but not rushed. Like he knew exactly how much you could take before either of you broke. 

You rocked against him again, and this time, his grip tightened, holding you still. "Patience," he chided, voice low. His other hand slid into your hair, fisting just enough to tilt your head back.

"You're always in such a hurry."

The water made everything slick, his skin hot where it pressed against yours. You could feel the way his breath stuttered when you rolled your hips, the way his fingers flexed against your waist. 

His mouth found yours again, hungry this time. You moaned into it, and he swallowed the sound, his hand sliding from your hair to your throat, thumb pressing just under your jaw. Not hard. Just enough to make you feel it.

"You're so fucking pretty like this," he muttered against your mouth. His other hand finally tugged the bikini top free, letting it float away in the water. His palm skimmed up your ribs, calloused and warm, before cupping your breast, his thumb circling your nipple in slow, maddening strokes. You whimpered, arching into his touch, but he held you firm, his grip just shy of rough.

His lips trailed down your throat, sucking a mark into the tender skin above your collarbone. "Just let me take my time."

The water lapped at your waist, the heat of it nothing compared to the way his hands burned against you. His mouth moved lower, teeth scraping over your nipple before he took it into his mouth, hot and wet and perfect. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, and he groaned, the vibration sending a shock of pleasure straight to your core.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark, his lips swollen from kissing. "Am I good enough for you now?” 

__

The sheets were soaked beneath you, twisted and damp with sweat, your thighs trembling as Satoru pulled back, deliberate-only to slam back into you with enough force to knock the breath from your lungs. His pelvis ground against your ass, the impact sending a shockwave of pleasure up your spine, your fingers clawing at the mattress for purchase.

"You're so perfect—" your voice was wrecked, raw with need, his hand pressing into the small of your back, forcing your spine into a sharper arch. The angle made him impossibly deeper, his cock stretching you so full you could feel every thick inch, the swollen head of him dragging against that sweet, spongy spot inside you with every thrust.

Your cunt clenched around him, greedy, needy, as if your body was desperate to keep him buried inside you forever. A broken moan tore from your throat as he groaned your name, the sound rough and filthy, vibrating through your skin like a live wire.

"That's it," he growled, his free hand sliding around to your clit, fingers rubbing rough, relentless circles just the way you liked. His touch was electric, sending sparks skittering up your nerves, your hips jerking against his hand as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your gut. "We were made for each other, baby."

He was right, so right.

Your body knew it, your cunt pulsing around him in frantic little flutters, your thighs shaking as he fucked into you with deep, punishing strokes. The slap of skin on skin was obscenely loud in the dim room, the wet, slick sounds of him driving into you only making you hotter, your cheeks burning with the knowledge of just how messy you were for him.

"Gonna come?" His voice was rough, his fingers working your clit faster, his thrusts turning sharper, more erratic. "Do it. I'm all here for you." 

You shattered.

Your orgasm ripped through you like a lightning strike, your back bowing off the bed as you screamed his name, your walls clamping down around him in desperate, rhythmic pulses. He didn't stop-just kept pounding into you, chasing his own release, his grip on your hip bruising as he fucked you through it, his breath hot against your ear.

"One more," he demanded, his thrusts turning sloppy, his cock twitching inside you. "Give me one more—"

You sobbed, oversensitive, your body trembling from the sheer overload of sensation-but you obeyed. Another wave crashed over you, weaker but no less intense, your cunt fluttering around him as he groaned, his hips stuttering before he finally pulled out-just enough to spill hot and thick over your ass, his cum painting your skin in sticky, glistening stripes.

For a second, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the wet drip of his release sliding down your thighs. A small, shameful part of you ached with the loss of him, wishing he hadn't pulled out, wishing he'd taken the risk, fucked a baby into you, marked you in a way that lasted. 

He didn't give you time to breathe. One second, you were gasping beneath him, his cum cooling on your skin-the next, he was hauling your legs over his shoulders, his cock sliding back inside with a filthy, wet slurp, your spent cunt still fluttering around him.

"Fuck," you whimpered, your back arching off the bed as he bottomed out, his pelvis grinding against your oversensitive clit. The pleasure was almost too much, your nerves alight, your body still thrumming from your last orgasm.

"Look at you," he murmured, his blue eyes dark with hunger as he loomed over you, his white hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. His biceps flexed as he braced himself above you, his chest heaving, his abs taut with the effort of holding back. "Taking me so good."

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue sliding against yours as he started moving again, slow, deep, each thrust dragging against your walls in a way that had your toes curling.

"Love you," he breathed, his forehead pressed to yours, his hips never stopping. "Fuck-love you so much."

The words wrecked you.

Not just because of the way he said them-fervent, desperate, like they'd been clawed out of him-but because of the way his hands cradled your face, the way his thrusts turned almost reverent, like he was trying to brand himself into you.

You came again, sobbing, your nails raking down his back as pleasure tore through you, your cunt milking him in helpless little pulses.

You were ruined. By the 3rd time your thighs were sticky, your cunt aching, your lips swollen from kissing. But Satoru wasn't done. He rolled you onto your side, pulling you back against his chest, his cock already hard again as he slid inside from behind.

"Last one," he promised-for the fifth time-his teeth scraping your shoulder as his hand slid between your thighs, his fingers finding your sensitive clit. "Stay with me."

You did.

You always would.

♡ gojopied ©2025 do not copy, edit, plagiarize, put into AI, repost, or translate any of my work.

[clqxuds]

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  

© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.

[clqxuds]

Down, Boy

You find him half-dead on the side of the road; one look at him and you know he isn't human. You take care of him for a while, but he starts exhibiting strange behavior. He takes a strong liking to you and begins to get restless. You come to realize that no matter how obedient or quiet he is, he really is just a needy feral beast.

°ໂ2.5k+ words, domestic, mimicking behavior, handjob->blow job, dry humping, he's kind of pathetic, light humiliation, degradation, reader is stern but indulgent, doggy, kntting, no condom(wrap it!), pet names, plot(kinda), dubcon(just to be safe), etc.ໂ°

It had rained the night before. The trail was slick with rotting leaves, branches heavy and dripping above your head. Your boots sunk with every step, mud swallowing the soles like a warning. You almost didn’t see him.

At first, you thought it was a dead animal. Still, tangled in bush, half-covered in muck and pine needles. But then the shape registered—arms, legs, a human torso curled on its side like a child, one shoulder scraped raw where the skin met gravel.

You stopped mid-step. Heart thudding. Reached for the small knife clipped to your belt.

Then he moved.

A twitch—fingers flexing, clawing weakly at the earth. He turned his face up toward you, and your breath caught.

Not quite human. His eyes glowed faintly, the color of swamp water. His lips were split, dry and bloodied. Hair long and matted. Strips of cloth clung to his hips, barely covering him. There were gashes on his back. Deep ones.

"Shit," you muttered.

He made a noise—low, rasping. His eyes stayed locked on you. Wide, unblinking, wild with pain and something else. Something needy.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” you said slowly, crouching.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch either. Just watched you with an expression like you're the first warm thing he’d seen in years.

You pulled your jacket off and draped it over him. He let out a soft sound—almost like a sob—but didn’t move away.

His body was burning up under the cold fabric. Feverish.

“You’re gonna die out here,” you said, mostly to yourself. “Stupid choice.”

Still no words. But his fingers twitched again—toward you. You paused. Then reached down, curling your hand around his wrist.

He sighed like he’d been waiting for that touch forever.

⋆ ˚

He didn’t weigh much.

You expected him to be heavier, but his limbs were all wiry muscle and sharp bones under skin too thin, too warm. Carrying him was awkward, not hard—he clung to you without making a sound, breath hot against your throat, chest heaving shallowly as you hiked back toward the cabin.

The whole way, he didn’t say a word.

Didn’t ask where you were going. Didn’t beg or resist. Just held on. Like a dying thing too tired to fight anymore.

The cabin door creaked open with a groan. You nudged it with your boot and stepped inside, the cold snapping off the back of your neck. The woodstove was out. You set him down on the couch, still wrapped in your jacket, and went straight for the firewood.

He watched you.

Didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just followed you with those swamp-green eyes like he needed you in his line of sight at all times or he’d stop breathing.

Once the fire was lit and crackling, you knelt beside him.

“I need to clean you up,” you said, voice low. “You’re bleeding all over my damn blanket.”

Again, no answer. Just that stare.

You peeled the soaked jacket off and winced. His chest and stomach were a mess of bruises and lacerations. Something had really done him in. The slashes weren’t clean—some looked like claws, others like bites. Not animal. Not human, either.

You got a bowl of warm water and some rags. Peroxide. Thread and needle. Sat down beside him and got to work.

He didn’t flinch when you touched him. Didn’t wince at the sting of antiseptic. Just watched you, lips parted, eyes tracking every movement of your hands like your care was a language he didn’t understand but wanted to memorize.

“You’re a quiet one,” you muttered, dabbing blood from his collarbone. “Probably how you ended up half-dead on a trail. Quiet and stupid.”

A soft breath escaped him. Not a laugh. Not quite. But close.

You looked up. His eyes were glistening. Not from pain.

“Don’t cry,” you said, sharper than you meant to. “Not like I’m doing this for you. I don’t need a corpse in my woods.”

His lips moved then. Barely.

“…you smell good.”

You stilled.

“What?”

He blinked slowly. “Warm.”

Your fingers flexed on the rag. You exhaled and turned back to the wound on his side.

“Don’t get weird,” you muttered. “You’re not staying long.”

But he just watched, quiet and pliant as you sewed his skin shut—like even your insults were holy. Like every second near you was a gift he didn’t deserve.

—

The storm had rolled in overnight. Thick fog clung to the windows like breath, and the trees outside groaned under the weight of cold rain. Inside the cabin, it was quiet—just the crackle of fire and the occasional creak of settling wood.

You stood at the stove, frying pan in hand, flipping eggs and watching the yolks settle. Bacon sizzled beside them, curling at the edges.

You could feel him watching behind you.

He sat at the little table by the window, knees drawn up, blanket wrapped loosely around his shoulders. Bare-chested. Bruises fading, skin still too pale. Hair damp from the wash you'd forced him to take that morning. He hadn’t said much—he rarely did—but his eyes followed you like always.

Hungry. Not just for food.

“Smells good,” he murmured.

His voice was always like that now—low, hoarse, careful. Like every word had weight. Like he didn’t want to speak unless you earned it.

You set the plate in front of him and handed him a fork.

He didn’t move to take it.

Instead, he looked up at you like he didn’t know what to do. Like the offering was too much. Hands curled in his lap, knuckles strained.

“You are gonna eat, right?” you asked, crossing your arms.

“…if you feed me.”

You raised a brow.

“Don’t push it.”

His eyes dropped instantly. “Sorry.”

That got you. That quiet apology, small and raw and not manipulative—just true. It sat heavy in your chest.

You sighed, pulled the chair out beside him, and sat down.

“Fine. But this is the first and last time.”

You picked up the fork and speared a bite of egg, holding it up. He leaned forward without hesitation—mouth open, slow, careful. His lips brushed the fork, and he hummed softly when he chewed.

You watched him swallow. Watched his lashes flutter.

“Good?”

He nodded.

You fed him another bite. Then another. He never looked away from your face. Even when you weren't looking directly at him, his gaze never wavered—like the food was just a means to stay close.

“Why do you look at me like that?” you asked softly, feeding him a piece of bacon.

He blinked. “Like what?”

“Like I’m gonna disappear.”

He chewed slowly. Licked a bit of yolk from his lip.

“…because you could.”

Your throat tightened. You shoved the last bite toward his mouth more roughly than necessary.

“Eat.”

He did. But when you set the fork down and stood to grab another plate for yourself, his hand caught your wrist.

Not hard. Not demanding. Just… asking.

“Thank you,” he whispered, eyes wide. “For helping me.”

You stared down at him, heartbeat slow and heavy.

“Don’t make me regret it,” you said flatly.

But you didn’t pull away.

⋆ ˚

You woke up to the sound of breathing that wasn’t yours.

Shallow. Close.

Your fingers curled around the knife under your pillow out of habit before your brain caught up with the familiarity of it. The warmth near your leg. The slow, anxious inhale.

You turned your head.

He was on the floor beside the bed, curled up on a blanket like some half-starved dog. Watching you.

Not asleep.

Just watching.

Again.

“How long have you been there?” you asked, voice flat.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes searched your face like he was trying to memorize it in the dark.

“…Since you came to bed.”

You sighed, rubbing at your eyes. “Boy, you have your own damn couch.”

“You’re safer this way,” he said. “I can tell if something comes for you.”

There was no reasoning with that. Not the way he said it. Like he really believed there was something coming—something worse than him.

You sat up, blanket falling from your chest. His gaze dropped for a moment, but not with lust. With reverence.

You could almost feel the weight of his stare on your collarbone.

“Get back on the couch,” you muttered.

He didn’t move.

Instead, he whispered, “I like being close.”

Your jaw tensed.

But you didn’t force him. Not this time.

You laid back down, turned your body away from him, and tried to ignore the way his breathing steadied as soon as you did. How the air shifted—less like fear, more like worship.

⋆ ˚

A few days passed like that.

He was good. Quiet. Obedient. He followed your rules—washed when you told him to, ate everything you fed him, stayed inside even when the woods called to him through the windows. He stayed close. Always close.

Until one afternoon, when you came back from town.

You dropped your pack by the door. The cabin was too quiet. The fire was low.

“Hey,” you called, stepping inside. “You better not be bleeding on the rug again.”

No answer.

Then you heard the floorboard creak—just past the kitchen.

You moved slowly. Quiet. The air felt wrong.

When you turned the corner, you stopped cold.

He was standing by the sink. Wearing one of your shirts.

It hung loose on him, neck stretched, sleeves too short. He was barefoot. Damp—like he’d just showered. His hair was combed down, parted like yours. His expression blank, but his eyes—

His eyes were glowing.

You didn’t speak. Just stared.

His lips moved, mimicking the way yours had curled that morning when you tied your boots.

“I wanted to see,” he murmured. “What it felt like. Being you.”

Your pulse climbed.

“You think that’s normal?” you said, voice like ice. “Digging through my clothes? Copying me?”

His fingers clenched at his sides. He looked ashamed. Or scared. You couldn’t tell which.

“…I want to understand you,” he said. “If I can be more like you, maybe you’ll keep me.”

That last part?

It didn’t sound pathetic.

It sounded sad.

He wasn’t trying to scare you. He didn’t even seem aware of how disturbing it was.

He just wanted to stay.

Even if it meant becoming you.

It didn't get any better. He stopped asking before following you from room to room. You’d shift in your chair—he’d shift too. You’d open a drawer—his eyes would follow your hands like they were divine. You’d sigh, and he’d mimic it seconds later like he could feel what you felt, even when you didn’t say a word.

But tonight—it snapped.

You had just stepped out of the bathroom, towel clutched to your chest, steam curling around your shoulders. You were tired. The hot water had done nothing to ease the tension that built up from his staring, his watching, the constant pressure of his presence brushing too close, too often.

He was in your bedroom again.

Sitting on the edge of your bed like he belonged there.

“Get out,” you said without looking at him. “I’m not in the mood.”

But he didn’t move.

You felt him rise behind you as you dug through your drawer. The heat of him at your back, chest bare, breath unsteady.

“I am,” he whispered.

You froze.

His hand touched your shoulder—light, trembling. Like he didn’t know whether to worship you or break you open just to crawl inside.

“I can’t—” His voice cracked. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t want you. I do everything you ask. I sit by your bed like a dog, I eat when you feed me, I let you touch me when you clean my wounds—”

“You let me?” you snapped, whipping around, eyes hard.

He flinched, but didn’t back away.

“I need you,” he said hoarsely. “You don’t get it—I don’t know who I am anymore if I’m not touching something that belongs to you.”

You shoved past him, heart racing.

He grabbed your wrist.

Not hard—but with intent. His fingers curled, grounding himself on your skin.

“Please,” he whispered. “I won’t ask again. Just—just let me have something. Let me touch you. Let me show you that I can be what you need too.”

You stared at him.

Wild, half-naked, shaking.

His jaw trembled. “You belong to me, don’t you? Just a little?”

You didn’t flinch.

You didn’t soften either.

He looked wrecked—eyes glassy, lips parted, hand still trembling around your wrist like you were his only lifeline. He didn’t know how to hide anything. His need sat open on his face like a wound.

You stepped into him.

And kissed him.

Just once.

Quick. Firm. Your hand at his jaw, mouth warm but unyielding, like you were closing a circuit instead of offering comfort.

When you pulled back, his mouth chased yours.

You stopped him with a look.

“Go to bed,” you said.

He blinked, dazed.

You stepped back and watched him swallow it. Watched him obey.

Barely.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━���━━━━━━━

The woods behind the cabin were overgrown and quiet. You made him chase you through tall grass and loose trails, laughing as he stumbled, panting like a beast that hadn’t tasted meat in days.

He was fast—stronger now—but never caught you unless you let him. And sometimes you did. Just enough for him to grab your arm, breathe hard against your throat.

Then you’d twist away.

“Down, boy,” you’d mutter.

He’d drop to one knee like he couldn’t help it.

Like his body was wired to obey you even when his hunger told him to tear your clothes off.

⋆ ˚

You went straight to the shower when you came back—sweaty, flushed, loose with adrenaline. He tried to follow you in, but one look was enough to send him sulking back down the hall.

When you opened your bedroom door, he was waiting again.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders tense, jaw clenched, eyes blazing.

“I need you,” he said.

It wasn’t a whisper this time.

“I need you. Now. I’ve done everything. I’ve waited—I’ve let you tease me. You kissed me, you let me sleep in your bed, you call me names like you don’t know what it does to me—”

You raised a hand and he stopped.

Stewing in the silence.

You walked right past him. Grabbed a fresh shirt from your dresser. Looked over your shoulder once, and said:

“No.”

Then left him there. Hard, desperate, too strung out on want to move.

He didn’t talk to you for an hour.

Didn’t look at you either.

Just stayed curled up in the corner of the room like a pet thrown outside.

You waited until it was dark before you got up and went to him. Watched the way he tried not to lift his head. The way his throat bobbed when he heard your steps.

You ruffled his hair. No apology.

Then started cooking.

His favorite. The only thing he ever asked for more than once.

You didn’t have to look when you heard him get up.

Didn’t even blink when he appeared in the doorway, standing there with bare feet and glassy eyes, watching like he couldn’t decide whether to bite you or beg.

His voice was low, rough around the edges. “You’re not mad?”

You stirred the pot.

“No.”

“But you left.”

“You needed to cool off.”

“I need you,” he bit, hands fisting at his sides. “You don’t get it—I can’t—you’re all I think about, you smell so good, you taste—”

You turned your head just enough to see him, lifting a brow.

That shut him up fast.

But he didn’t leave.

He came in slow, circling behind you. No more talk. Just breath—hot, wet, frantic—against the back of your neck. You felt the shift before he touched you. The way his body lost its rhythm, gave into instinct.

Then—

His hips pressed flush to your ass.

His dick was already hard, straining through his pants.

He thrust once. Slow.

Twice. A little harder.

You didn’t stop him.

Didn’t help him either.

He grabbed your hips, fingers trembling, and started grinding in earnest. Ragged, animalistic, dragging his clothed dick up against you again and again like his brain had short-circuited.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “Feels—feels s’good—oh my god—please. Please just let me, I—I can’t—”

You rolled your eyes.

“You really can’t control yourself for five minutes, can you?” you muttered, letting him use you, body staying still as he rutted into your backside with frantic, shallow thrusts.

He whined. Actually whined.

You smirked.

“You really are just an animal, huh?”

A low, ragged groan vibrated from his chest. He rutted harder—slow, desperate. His head came down and layed on your shoulder, breath heavy and hot against your neck.

“You’d fuck me right here if I let you.”

"Mhmm," he managed to hum, still grinding into you.

He started to pant.

“You wouldn’t even last a minute, would you?”

You turned your head, barely glancing at him. “You’re so filthy. I thought you were a good boy, baby.”

He growled at you words, grip tightened at your waist.

Hips stuttering, breath catching, face probably twisted into something obscene behind you.

“Fuuuuck—fuck—oh my god—thank you, thank you, I needed—”

You felt him start to shake.

And then he came.

Hard.

Hot through his pants, his whole body curling around yours, pressing tighter as he spilled in his clothes with a broken, needy sob.

You didn’t turn around.

You just stirred the food, like he hadn’t just humped you like a dog and made a mess of himself on your ass.

“Dirty boy,” you said, calm, low. “Go clean yourself up.”

You heard him whimper.

“Then come eat.”

⋆ ˚

He came back ten minutes later.

Showered. Damp hair. Clean clothes.

But his face was still flushed, eyes holding so many mixed emotions, hands slightly shaking like the shame hadn’t washed off. He sat down at the table across from you, eyes flicking up, then down, then up again—starving, but not just for food.

You placed the bowl in front of him, slow and steady.

He didn’t say a word like he hadn’t just stained himself moaning your name under his breath.

But you watched him.

You watched the way his hand trembled slightly as he reached for the spoon.

The way he kept stealing glances at you, hungry and anxious, like he thought you might still be mad—or worse, like you might do nothing at all.

“You always eat so fast,” you said, voice smooth as cream.

He froze.

Chewed slow.

Swallowed.

“…sorry.”

“I didn’t say stop,” you added. “It’s cute. Like you’re afraid I’ll take it away.”

He blinked. A small sound caught in his throat.

You leaned your elbow on the table, resting your cheek in your palm.

“And earlier? That was cute too.”

His entire face shifted.

You tilted your head. “Making a mess in your pants like that. Just from a little pressure.”

He put his utensil down, hands balling into fists in his lap.

“Stop,” he whispered.

“Oh? Is that too much for your dirty little brain?” you murmured. “You hump me like an animal and now you want to pretend you’re shy?”

“I said stop,” he snapped, low and trembling.

You smiled, slow and sharp.

Silence stretched between you. His jaw clenched. His breath was shallow, like he didn’t know if he wanted to scream or fall to his knees.

Then—

You asked it.

Calm. Quiet.

Like it was nothing.

“What are you?”

His eyes shot to yours. “What…?”

You didn’t blink, just stared for a second longer than usual. “You heard me.”

He stared at you, frozen. Something in him recoiled—but something else thrummed. Deep. Dark. Animal.

“I don’t know,” he whispered, voice cracking.

You leaned in just a little, watching his pupils swell.

“You’re not human.”

“No.”

“But you’re not just some beast either.”

He shook his head slowly, lips parted, like the words had nowhere to go.

“I’m yours,” he said finally. “That’s all I know.

The words hung in the space between you.

“I’m yours.”

You let them sit. Heavy. Undeniable.

He was trembling, barely breathing—waiting to see if you’d reject it. Laugh. Walk away.

You didn’t.

You sat back in your chair, eyes never leaving his face. And softer now, more curious than cruel, you asked: “…Is that all you want to be?”

He blinked, chest rising and falling faster now. His lips parted, but nothing came out at first.

Then: “I don’t know what else I can be.”

You watched him carefully. He wasn’t lying.

“Do you remember anything? Before I found you?”

His jaw tensed. Shoulders too.

“I remember pain,” he said. “I remember running. Hunger. And hands—people—trying to cut something out of me. Like I wasn’t supposed to have it.”

“What?”

He shook his head.

“I don’t know. Something inside. Something that made me wrong.”

That quiet hung between you again. Thicker this time.

You took a slow breath, eyes drifting over his features—how human they seemed, and how they weren’t. The eyes were too still. The mouth too soft when he looked at you like that, worshipful and wrecked all at once.

You stood.

He flinched slightly like he thought you might leave again. But you didn’t.

You moved around the table and stood beside his chair, fingers brushing lightly against his shoulder.

“I don’t want you to be nothing,” you said. “Even if you think you’re mine.”

He tilted his head back to look at you. His eyes were glassy again—but not just from need.

“…Then what do you want me to be?”

You didn’t answer right away.

You just stared at him, slow and searching, like maybe there was something hiding behind his ribs that you hadn’t noticed before.

“Something real,” you said at last. “Something more than just needy and obedient.”

You leaned down.

Brushed a hand over his hair.

“I think whatever they tried to take from you… it’s still in there.”

He exhaled, sharp and shaky, like the words hurt somewhere deep.

Like they freed something too.

“Are you going to help me find it?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You straightened. That same calm edge in your voice returned—but softer, tempered by something else. “I already started.”

⋆ ˚

The rest of dinner passed in a strange hush.

He kept glancing at you like he was trying to memorize the air between you. Like he didn’t quite trust that the moment was real—him, fed and wanted, not punished for needing more.

He finished the last bite slowly, his breathing still a little uneven. And when you stood to clear the plates, he followed with those same shadow-smooth movements, always one step behind, silent.

When you turned to face him in the doorway of the kitchen, he froze.

You studied him—warm and glowing under the low light, but his eyes looked wrong. Glossy. Dilated. His skin flushed, like the warmth was under his flesh and leaking out.

You reached up and cupped his cheek with your palm.

He leaned into it instantly.

"Come to bed with me," you said, voice low, calm.

His breath caught. His knees nearly did too.

You pressed a kiss to his forehead. It was hot—too hot.

He didn’t speak. Just nodded.

⋆ ˚

Later, you woke in the dark.

Your chest ached slightly—something heavy pressing you down.

You shifted.

Something moved.

There was a sound. A low, needy moan.

You blinked awake to find him curled between your thighs, head resting on your lower belly, arms caging your hips.

Sweat dampened his hair. His shirt clung to his back, soaked. His whole body trembled—small, helpless, uncontrollable tremors like something was trying to crawl out of his skin.

"H-Hey," you murmured, pushing your hand into his hair. "You okay?"

He groaned.

Not in pain.

It was… needy.

He rocked into you subtly, hips twitching against the mattress, breath coming in ragged bursts.

"You're burning up," you whispered, concern creeping in. "You might have a fever—"

"No," he choked out.

Your fingers stilled in his hair.

He shook his head against your body, breath hot where it hit the inside of your thigh.

“It’s not— I’m not sick. It’s heat. I know what it is now.”

You tensed slightly, confused. “Heat?”

He whimpered, the sound pitiful, but his body was grinding.

"I thought it was just obsession—just you—but it's in my blood. My skin. I need," he panted, teeth gritted.

“You should’ve told me,” you said, hand sliding to his shoulder. “Before it got this bad.”

“I didn’t know,” he snapped, but it was breathless, wet. “Didn’t know it would feel like this. Like—like I’m going to split open just to crawl into you.”

The silence between you stretched again, hot and trembling.

Then you whispered: “Get up.”

He froze.

You guided him up your body with firm hands until his face hovered above yours, wild and flushed and desperate.

“Let’s cool you down,” you said. “Before you burn a hole through me.”

You didn’t tell him what you were about to do.

You just slipped your hand between your bodies, your palm warm and steady against the thick, pulsing heat straining in his pants.

He choked out a sound—half whimper, half sob—and buried his face in the crook of your neck. You felt his breath catch, his body go stiff.

“Shhh,” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”

You rubbed him through the fabric first, slow circles that had his hips twitching, his teeth sinking into your skin like he was trying not to fall apart. The bulge was hot—unnaturally so—and soaked at the tip where his arousal leaked freely.

“I can’t—” he rasped, but you cut him off with a shush again, stroking him now, firm and sure.

“Yes, you can. Just relax.”

He whimpered again and rocked his hips up, greedy. Needy.

“Please,” he panted. “Please touch it—please, I’ll be good, I’ll—”

You slipped your hand under the waistband.

He cried out.

Not loud, but broken. Like it hurt to be given this.

You wrapped your fingers around him and started to pump, slow and tight. He was thick, flushed hot, every vein pulsing against your grip.

“I'm not gonna let you fuck me,” you murmured against his ear, lips brushing the shell. “But I’ll help you. Just this once.”

He was trembling. Writhing. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth open, too far gone to speak now.

You shifted down and dragged his pants down with one hand. His dick sprung free, slick and twitching.

“Stay still,” you said, and he whimpered again, so obedient, even now.

You leaned in and took him into your mouth.

He nearly screamed.

His hands scrabbled for something to hold, finally settling in your hair, but he didn’t pull—he just trembled, lips mouthing your name over and over like a prayer.

You bobbed your head slowly, letting your hand do most of the work, saliva and precum making the slide wet and easy. He was panting, gasping, and when he got too close, too wild, you pressed your palm against his lower belly and held him down.

He jerked—twitched—then came with a broken moan, hips bucking helplessly, spilling down your throat with so much heat it almost burned.

You stayed there a second longer, swallowing him down, soft and calm, until he stopped shaking.

Then you pulled away.

“Dirty boy,” you murmured, wiping your mouth on the back of your hand as you looked up at him.

He blinked at you, dazed, wrecked, tears drying in the corners of his eyes.

You leaned in and kissed his cheek.

“Go clean yourself up,”

Two days pass.

You try to keep things normal—whatever that means, with a creature like him under your roof, one who pants when you touch his arm and whines when you leave the room. But his restraint is slipping. Badly.

He follows you everywhere now.

Not just quietly like before. Not just waiting in the doorway or sitting nearby.

No—he’s pressed to you, constantly.

When you fold laundry, he’s behind you, rubbing himself against your ass with soft, desperate ruts. When you sit on the couch, he climbs into your lap and noses at your neck, whimpering like you’re the only air he can breathe.

The worst is when you cook. Something about seeing you over the stove drives him mad—he paws at you, breathing heavy, rutting his hips against your thigh until you shove him off with a sharp, “Down.”

And still he stares at you with wet eyes like a scolded dog in heat, leaking into his boxers, throbbing with the weight of it.

You try to hold the line.

But his need is growing.

Worse, it’s mutating into something more feral.

At the store, it becomes undeniable.

He walks behind you, head low, hoodie pulled up, his steps wrong—off-balance and twitchy like his body can’t decide what to do with itself.

He breathes through his mouth, short and fast, and stares at everyone like they’re a threat.

Or a witness.

You catch him staring at your legs. Then your hips. Then the slope of your throat when you tilt your head to grab a jar from the shelf.

His eyes go black.

"You're sweating," you mutter under your breath, touching his arm. "You okay?"

He leans into your touch like he’s starving. “Can we go home? Please.”

You check out fast.

⋆ ˚

The second the door closes behind you, he snaps.

You don’t even get your shoes off.

He lunges—no hesitation—grabs your waist and slams you into the nearest wall with a desperate growl muffled into your shoulder.

“Hey—!” you gasp, startled.

But he’s already rutting against you—grinding with the force of a man drowning.

“Need you,” he pants. “Please—I can’t—I’ve been good, haven’t I? I’ve been so good—”

You shove at his shoulders, but he’s bigger than you, heavier, and right now he’s stronger too. Not hurting you—just wild.

“Calm down,” you hiss.

“I can’t,” he moans. “Smell you—touched you all day—I need—”

He grabs your face, kissing you hard—sloppy, wet, messy—and you taste the frustration on his tongue, the days of aching and whining and trembling.

You break the kiss, panting. His dick is grinding against your stomach through his sweats, thick and leaking.

“Animal,” you mutter.

He nods.

“Yours,” he whines, breath shaking. “Please let me—please—”

Your grip tightens in his hair.

And for a second, you consider it.

You shove him back, hard. Not enough to hurt—but enough to tell him: no.

And that does it.

His eyes widen, something unhinges in his chest—and he breaks.

With a snarl, he lunges forward, lifts you like you weigh nothing, and starts toward the bedroom with a single, choked, "I'm sorry—I'm sorry—I can't—"

"Put me—down!" you snap, but your body’s already reacting—heat flooding your thighs, breath caught behind your teeth. Because you've never seen him like this. Not completely.

Not gone.

He kicks the door open.

Throws you on the bed.

You're scrambling up on your elbows to shout at him again when he grabs your legs and drags you back down to the edge of the mattress. His strength is brutal. He flips you over like you're nothing and shoves your hips up until you're on your knees, spine arched, face pressed into the blanket.

“Don’t think you can act like that,” he pants, “push me away—smell like that—and expect me not to—”

He tears your bottoms down. Snaps the waistband in his rush. You try to turn your head, say something—anything—but he’s already there.

Behind you.

Hot, flushed, leaking.

You feel the weight of it on your ass, thick and heavy, dragging over your skin.

“F-fuck—‘s too much—” he groans.

You flinch as his dick—not just long, but wide, too wide—grinds against your entrance. Wet with slick and precum. Hot like a fever.

You reach back blindly, touch his hip. “You’re gonna stretch me too much—”

“I know,” he whimpers, voice ragged with guilt and craving. “I’ll go slow—I’ll—fuck, I can’t—I’m sorry—sorry—”

He doesn’t go slow.

He grabs your hips and thrusts in hard, stuffing the tip past your entrance, and your breath leaves you.

"Shit—!" you cry, fingers clawing at the blanket as your body stretches wide to accommodate him. It hurts—but good, deep, sharp, searing with pressure.

He keeps moving.

Not all the way in—just these shallow, frantic thrusts, rutting at your entrance like an animal trying not to break its toy.

His voice is cracked and frantic.

“I missed it—I missed your heat—I missed your smell—don’t tell me no again—please—”

His teeth found your neck, biting, sucking, leaving bruises blooming like dark flowers under your skin.

You’re dripping.

His size swallowed you whole, filled every inch until you thought you’d cry from the stretch.

He slams forward again—deeper this time—and you swear the breath gets knocked right out of your lungs.

"You're—so big—" you gasp.

"Yeah?" he pants, delirious. "Too much? H-hurts, doesn't it? You're too small—fuck, you’re perfect—"

He’s shaking.

Your legs tremble from how deep he’s hitting. Your pussy flutters around him, trying to mold to the impossible stretch.

"H-hey, slow down" you rasp.

He didn’t listen. His hips snapped into you fast and brutal, driving inside you with a hunger that knocked the breath out of your lungs. The room smelled like sweat and something bittersweet and him—feral, real, and alive.

His hands slammed down on either side of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. The force pinned you to the bed.

You swallowed hard, chest heaving, legs spreading wide for him.

He slammed into you faster—deeper. The stretch burned, the fullness screamed, but you clenched tight around him, dragging out his groans like prayers.

He pulled you back by your hair and kissed you then—hard, wild—tongue sliding over your lips, teeth grazing your jaw.

Then—

You feel it.

The swell.

Thick and round, nudging the edge of your cunt, threatening to lock you together.

He groans into your back. “Let me—let me knot you—need it—need to stay.”

You jerk away. "You knot me, and you’re gonna rip me."

He moans like your voice is pleasure, grinding harder, chasing it anyway.

His hands roamed your body, claws scraping skin as he fucked you with a desperate, filthy worship that made you feel like a goddess—and like prey all at once.

He spoke, voice broken, “please—please let me cum inside you.”

You nodded, tears stinging your eyes, chest tight. “Cum for me.”

His dick throbs. He’s leaking inside you, dripping down your thighs. His forehead presses into your shoulder blade. He huffs, shudders

Then snaps his hips forward once, hard—and goes still.

You feel it.

Heat floods inside you. You gasp as his load pours in—thick, heavy, and never-ending—while his body trembles above yours.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck,” he groans, humping in place, locked against you with a needy whimper.

You glance back, breathless, flushed, and say coolly: “Tch, unbelievable.”

He flinches like it hit.

You reach back and give his hair a tug. “Go clean yourself up.”

He breathes hard against your skin, dazed.

Then you add, voice sharp but indulgent—

"Then we'll try something new.”

Dividers by @elleisdesigning

All works © liliacwiine 2025. Do not modify, plagiarize, or repost my work. 

[clqxuds]

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

masterlist + support my writing + ao3

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  

© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.

[clqxuds]

PILLOW TALK

synapses -> short, smutty fics following popular p☆rn plots

ft. (separate!) Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Toji, Sukuna, Choso, Ino

warnings -> language, kissing, SMUT! p in v, unprotected sēx, creampies, oral (M), ‘FAKE’ stepcest, inappropriate usage of props, dubcon?, ice play, praise/degradation, stranger sēx, voyeurism, public sēx, age gap, taboo relationships, cheating, spanking, tîtty worship/play, gagging, minors do not interact

a.n Posting this for a second time (thx tumblr for deleting the first) + I therefore added the maturity label :(

SATORU GOJO -> ICE (S)CREAM

It was a hot and sunny day, and you were sweaty and in need of something cold, luckily there was an ice cream van just up ahead, blaring a sweet tune, so happily you bounced over to it.

Standing in the van was a white haired man, who was wearing round sun glasses and pastel button up top. "Hey, what can I get for you?" He asked, sending you a wink over the lense.

You felt your body react to the wink - and your brain short circuited for a second before you managed to find your voice again. Clearing your throat, you spoke up, "I'd like a waffle cone, please."

"Got ya!" The man spun around, before rummaging in one of his freezers and pulling out the packeted sweet treat. "That will be 260 yen."

You nodded, before reaching a hand into your pocket and fishing out a few coins, it was far from enough. "Uh, I don't have enough money on me. Is there any other way I can pay you back?" 

The man raised an eyebrow, a sly smile tugging at his face as he leaned in a little closer. His eyes scanned over you up and down in a way that made your brain overheat. "Well... there is one way you can pay me back."

"How? I'll do it! I really want the ice pop." You gasped, staring at the slight blue that peeked over his black glasses.  His eyes widened at your eagerness, as if he was shocked at your reaction, but an amused chuckle slipped passed his lips.

"Well, aren't you something special, you really want this ice cream huh?" He asked, leaning against the counter, "and you said you'll do anything for it?"

You eagerly nod, watching a sinister grin split his lips. He stepped around the counter, now standing much closer, towering over you. You had to tilt your head back a little to look him in the eyes.

"Good girl." The smile on his face, coupled with the nickname, makes your heart beat race and you feel warmth begin to pool in your core.

And maybe that's how you found yourself in the cramped van, the shutters shut, bent over the deep freezer. His arms were pressed around you from behind, caging you between the hard freezer and the warm expanse of his chest. You could feel his breath on your neck, the heat of his body seeping into your own.

As he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous, and you swore you shivered under his gaze. "Are you ready to hold up your end of the bargain, sweetie?"

"Yes." You whine, feeling your thin panties being peeled away from your dripping cunt.

His breath hitched as you responded, "That's a good girl." He purred, his hands roaming over your hips, pulling you closer. The cold metal of the freezer pressed into your skin, making you gasp at the difference in temperatures. "Do you promise not to be too loud?" You nod again.

The man— Gojo, that's what his name tag read, unsheathed the cold treat, the red, white and blue flavours glittering with ice crystals. He grabbed your hair and yanked your head back before the tip of the ice pop pressed against your lips.

He chuckled at your immediate obedience. "Such a good girl for me," He cooed, running his cold fingers along your inner thigh. "Now, open up for me."

The coolness of the ice-pop contrasting against your burning skin, sending a shiver up your spine. The sweetness of the red, white, and blue flavors swirled on your tongue, a strange mix on your taste He watched you intently as you eagerly took into your mouth - his eyes darkened with an almost animalistic hunger.

His tongue grazed your ear, his voice a low whisper, "You're doing so good for me." Gojo murmured as he heard you sucking on the cold treat, slowly pulling down his zipper.

The sound of his zipper, and the sudden shift in dynamics, made your eyes flutter as you pulled away from the snack, eyes going wide with surprise and...excitement.

"No, sweet girl. Keep sucking." He purred. You moaned when you felt his leaking tip push at your folds, instinctively your knees buckled.

Your mouth fell open when Gojo pushed the ice pop further past your lips, the weight of it pushed on your tongue, causing you to gag, though it was nothing to the sting you felt between your legs, cunt stretched open on Gojo's thick and veiny cock.

"Yeah—shit—sweet girl, she's taking me so well." He groaned, hand shoving you forward, chest pushed against the cold glass of the freezer. His hand let go of the ice pop, still wedged between your lips and pulled at your top, exposing your breasts.

"Mmph!" You moan, eyes clenching when Gojo pulled his hips back before slamming them back into you, cock bullying your right cunt. The sweet ice melted on your tongue, slowly slipping from your lips.

His hand tightened around your hips, squeezing the flesh there. "Fuh...fuck! So tight—so tight!" Gojo babbled, thighs slapping against yours. Sweat trickled down his forehead, his chest heaved as moans fell from his lips.

"So deep! Feel so full!" You whimper, your body both hot and cold, from the sun and freezer. Your eyes snapped shut when his cock-head nudged against that one sponges spot within you.

"Shit! She's squeezing—fuck!—me, can't last much longer!" Gojo's tough hands gripped your hips harder, his cock momentarily slipped out before he turned you around, your back knocking against the freezer before you yelped when Gojo rammed himself back in.

Your legs dangled over the edge, discarded, leaving you almost stationary. Heat bubbled in your lower tummy, your fingers dug into the glass, and your toes curled. "Ah—! Ah—! Can feel you deep! So deep!" You mewl, squirming and writhing.

"Y-Yeah? Gonna stuff you full of my cream, heh— fuck!" Gojo gasped. His fingers snatched up the melting ice pop as he eyed your bouncing tits. He grinned, canines sharp before he brought the ice pop to your nipples, pressing the cold ice to them.

"S-So cold!" You whimper, clenching harder around Gojo, finding the cold feeling on your sensitive nipples pleasurable. "Don't stop!"

Gojo swirled the treat around your nipples, watching the red and blue drip down the mounds of your breasts. His jaw slowly fell open, ice pop stilling before louder, slutty moans fell from his pink lips. "I can't hold on... I'm gonna cum!"

"Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" You whine, for no particular reason, back arching as you felt the coil in your belly tighten. "'M...'m gonna cum too!"

Your eyes crossed and you choked on a moan, feeling your cunt gush, cumming hard around his cock.

"Shit!" Gojo's fingers dug into your skin and his thrusts became sloppy before he spilled his cum deep inside your womb, nearly falling over himself.

With sluggish movements, he pulled out. Your cunt squeezed out the mixed seed, dripping it onto the floor.

Gojo gave you a quivering grin, finger pushing the cum back into you. "Your ice pop is payed for now, don't be scared to come by again."

SUGURU GETO -> HELP ME DOC!

You've been feeling not like yourself, at first you ignored the aches and pains, but eventually it became unbearable. So much so you needed to make a doctor appointment. Now you lay on the doctors table, just as your doctor walked in— Doctor Geto, who's muscles squeezed his scrubs, and his stethoscope wrapped around his broad shoulders.

"Alright miss, I'm going to need you to lay back on the table. I'll be pressing gently on spots on your body, and you tell me when it hurts, alright?"

"Alright." You nod, kicking your feet up to lie on the blue doctor table, eyes watching as your doctor walk over.

"Good girl." He hums, his lips curving up in a half-smile. He sets the stethoscope around his neck, fingers already reaching out to take your hand in his. He lifts your hand up, gently running his fingers along it "Your hands feel fine. No broken bones, that leaves the rest of your body that's in pain."

He slowly runs his fingers up your wrist and arm, then up your neck, checking your circulation and pulse.

He hums, moving on to pressing his fingers into your collarbone and shoulders, as he slowly works his way down your chest.

You had to fend off the first thoughts as you felt his palms move closer to your breasts, greedily wanting him to touch them, but knew that was unprofessional.

He hums, letting his fingers dig into your skin as he works in circles on the various spots on your chest. He was being a bit harder than he needed, but he couldn't help it. You were just...too beautiful, and your body was just too perfect, and he just needed to get his hands on you.

A gasp ripped from your throat when his fingers pressed into your sensitive nipples.

Geto hummed, noticing your gasp. He pauses at the sound, eyes flickering up to meet yours. "Did that hurt?"

"A little, but it's not where I'm sore the most." You say, honestly. Your bottom lip was caught between your teeth when his fingers pinched your nipples before they slid off.

A small smile tugged at his lips when he heard your honesty. "Then where are you sore the most?" He asked, his tone smooth as his fingers continued their lazy journey down your front.

"Lower." You murmur.

"Can I move your shirt?"

"Well, you know what's best, Doc." You say, lifting up sprightly to give him the freedom to.

Geto smiled, watching your shirt lift up and revealing your stomach. He slowly pushes your shirt the rest of the way up, slowly taking in the sight of your soft skin as it's slowly revealed to him.

"You're beautiful..." He says, his voice just above a murmur.

His hands run along the newly exposed skin, fingers tracing the dips of your waist, and the valleys of your hips. He hums, hands lingering on your hip bone and moving to the front of your pants, slowly reaching for the button.

"You said you're sore." He murmured.

You nod. "You're almost there where I hurt." You tell him, leaning on your hands as you arch your back, subconsciously pushing your tits in his direction.

His hands pause, fingers just hovering at the button. He swallows hard, a small, amused smile on his face. "Oh really?" He muses, fingers slowly starting to undo the button.

You nod again. "Mhm, it's really sore, Doc." You slowly raise your hips, encouraging him to take your pants off.

As he pushes your pants and your underwear down, he hums again, his eyes slowly traveling up your body. "Poor thing, all sore...and I've yet to take a look at your body to see where the soreness is coming from...You do tend to work yourself a bit too much."

Your cunt glistens under the bright lights, arousal dripping against your puffy folds. "Please help me, Doctor?"You whine.

A small smile flickers on his face as he lets out a soft, almost amused scoff. "Of course. I'm a doctor. It's my job." He brings you close, leaning back down a bit to run his hands along your inner thighs. "Now, where do you hurt, exactly?"

He slowly ran his fingers along your inner thighs, almost gently, and he swallows hard. He didn't want to admit it, but his own pants were a bit tighter now.

He was just doing his job, checking your inner thighs for soreness, and nothing else.

"Here? Or here?"

You gently reach a hand out and take his wrist, before guiding his fingers to your aching core, gasping when he pushed.

"There."

His eyes widened a bit, and he's suddenly quiet. He sucks in a breath, not letting it out until a moment after. The look on his face was still professional, as he tried not to show the effect you were having on him. He swallows hard, taking a moment before slowly starting to run his fingersalong your slippery folds.

Geto hums before stepping back. "I might need to use my sonograph* to get closer look outside, and... use my fingers to feel if anything's wrong and perhaps momentarily get rid of the ache." He said, reaching into a glove box and pulling out a pair of blue, latex gloves.

sonograph* machine used to look into the womb/baby (ie. ultrasounds)

As he puts on the blue latex gloves, he looks back down at you-eyes meeting yours. He hums, a small smile on his face.

"Don't worry, it's going to feel a bit different."

His gloved hands gently spread your legs a bit more, and he slowly runs his gloved fingertips along your inner thighs, trying hard not to get distracted.

"As long as it will help." You reply, watching as he picked up his sonograph and then a bottle of the lubricating gel.

He hums, his eyes still on your face as he takes the lubricant. The room was filled with a comfortable silence, he trying his best to keep looking at your face, and not the way your body was spread out in front of him as he readied the sonograph.

"Now, relax." He said softly.

You settle back onto the bed. Geto stepped forward before he squirted some of the blue gel onto the tip of the sonograph, the little black screen off to the side buzzed to life.

As he gently places the tip of the wand against you, the small, black screen comes to life, and he hums, just watching the read out.

Geto tried to keep his hand steady, but you notice the occasional twitch—and the way he's slightly biting on his tongue.

"I'm going to slowly massage my fingers into you, let me know if it hurts more."

You just reply with a hum, looking at the screen and seeing a grey image come to life. Your eyes widen as you feel his finger poke at your hole before it began to sink in, an involuntarily moan tumbling from your lips.

He immediately stopped, hearing your moan. His eyes flick up to look at you, a surprised little look on his face.

"Already?" He said softly, looking at you. "I barely started."

"N-No, it was helping sorry. It felt nice." You tell your doctor, feeling flushed.

He hums, a small smile on his face as his attention flickers back to the screen at the sound of your apology. "Oh don't apologize for that. It's natural."

He gently continues to massage his fingers in and out of you, watching the screen, the look on his face growing more and more satisfied.

"You know, a lot of people usually have to wait a moment before they feel any real relief. But you already feel a bit of relief, huh?"

You just nod your head. Geto smirked down at you before a second finger pushed at you, slowly joining the other.

"Feeling a little less sore now?" He watches your facial as it morphed into one of pleasure.

"It's still a little sore." You whine, hips bucking into his hand.

Geto sighed, scissoring his fingers in and out of you. "Hmm, well you do seem a little tight, it might need something to stretch it out further."

Your back arched as you slowly rocked yourself onto his fingers. "O-Okay, if you think so-o." You whined, lips falling open, and hole weeping onto his fingers.

He slid his fingers out from you and placed the sonograph off to the side briefly, before his fingers hooked onto his scrub pants, and pulled, freeing his erection.

His cock was thick, and huge, and it was perfect for your aching cunt. He took a step towards your open legs, grabbing your ankles and pulling you towards him, cock bobbing between your thighs. "I'm just going to see if this will help."

Geto gave you a small smile before his cock nudged at your folds, then he thrusted forward, slowly feeding your cunt his cock. "Ngh— it's helping a lot more." You mewl, gripping onto the thin layer of paper layer out underneath you.

"That's good," he hummed, before picking the sonograph machine up and placing it on your lower tummy, immediately, you saw a fuzzy, grey image of his cock nestled in your cunt on the small screen, watching as it moved when he gyrated his hips. "I can feel you getting looser, this must be working."

You let out a shattered gasp, mind hazing over as your doctor fucked you better, feeling the ache subdue and replaced by a delicious heat that licked up your thighs. "Mmph, you're so...good doctor. Should come to you more o-often."

"Indeed, I haven't had a patient like you come here before, so maybe if I—shit!—if I see what works to heal you, I can help others."

You could see the way his tip nudged at your cervix wall, stimulating you to an early orgasm. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" You loudly moaned, it was a surprise that no other doctor had rushed in to see the commotion. "It's still sore!" You whined, looking at your doctor through teary eyes.

"Greedy girl, have I not given your cunt enough?" Your doctor snarled before he placed a thumb on your puffy clit and rubbed at it.

Your jaw almost dislocated with how wide you opened it, tongue falling out. "Fuck!—Shit! There! Right there!" You cried, Mike going completely numb as your body succumbed to the pleasure. "P-Please, Doc. I think I'm already gonna cum! It feels funny!"

"There we go, you can cum on my cock. It will most likely help your... situation." Geto told you, purple eyes glancing at the tv screen and visibly seeing your walls convulse.

"Fuck!" You drew out the scream that ripped from your throat as you squirted, the clear liquid bursting from you and drenching your doctor.

"Sh-Shit, I'm going to give you my... my special medicine, okay?" Geto moaned, hips stilling before thick, creamy ropes of his cum ribboned from him.

The small screen had shown the milky liquid fill your cavity, and how you were stuffed full. "Thank you, Doctor," you softly spoke, wincing when he pulled out and no longer feeling the ache. "I feel so much better."

"That's good, I do expect to see you again. Maybe next week?"

KENTO NANAMI -> TEACHER TEACHER!

You were on the brink of failing, and the future didn't seem that bright, at least, not in Mr Nanami's class. You needed a way to get good grades, and you'd do anything for them.

"Please, sir, is there anything I can do to get a distinction?" You ask, your previous test paper clutched in your hands, scribbled in red with a big, fat F.

He looks up at you, his gaze unwavering. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Anything?" he repeats lowly, leaning back in his chair, eyeing you intently.

You frantically nod. "Yes, sir. Anything at all!" You try to give him a smile, trying your best to coax him in giving you an opportunity.

You almost missed the way the corner of his mouth twitched up. Nanami let out a sigh, before he hooked a finger into his tie and pulled at it, loosening the material. "Come here." He instructed, motioning towards his side of the desk.

He spun on his chair to face you before standing up, towering over you. Nanami shot out a hand and cradled your chin, you were momentarily taken aback, but you soon melted into him.

It was hard not to, he was your deathly gorgeous teacher, he always smelt so good, and his physique was impeccable.

His thumb moved to gently rub against your bottom lip. "Since you want this grade so badly, there is one thing you can do," he said, his eyes peering at you through his glasses. "Be a good girl and get on your knees for me, please."

Your breath hitched in your throat but with a firm nod you sank to your knees, his hand still holding your chin tightly.

He was so tall, he could practically look down on you from here. Nanami let out a hum.

"Now what, sir?" You asked, your hands wresting on your thighs as you sat back onto your calves, knees digging into the floor.

"Open your mouth for me." he responded, his voice was low, like a velvety murmur.

For a brief moment, you hesitated before your lips fell open. God forbid if another teacher walked in, but you desperately needed that good grade.

He hummed, his smile was ever so slight, as his eyes focused on your lips. It was mesmerizing to watch him. He then ran his thumb over your lip, gently rubbing against the now exposed flesh.

Nanami had to suppress a shiver at the look of you, on your knees for him, so willing and pliable for him. He was almost tempted to just make a mess of your pretty face right then and there.

"Now stick your tongue out for me, sweet girl."

Obediently, your tongue lolled out, brushing his thumb. You heard your teacher curse under his breath before his thumb delved into your mouth.

You felt his muscles tense, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He had to keep his breathing steady, he didn't want to frighten you but oh, the sight of you, on your knees, mouth open, tongue out, waiting for what he gave you - it was near the edge of what he could contain.

Nanami swallowed, and the pad of his thumb moved against your tongue, a low hum escaping him.

"There you go, such a good girl. Now, keep it out like that, okay?" You were only able to nod. Nanami kept his thumb in your mouth as he sat back down on his chair, moving it in a way that his legs were on either side of you.

He looked down at you, his gaze almost hungry. His thumb slowly ran across your bottom lip again, before he pulled it from your mouth. Nanami hummed, satisfied with your compliance.

"Good, good girl, such an obedient little thing you are, so willing to please your teacher."

He brought his hand up, the back of his fingers gently tracing your cheek, his thumb rubbing against your chin.

"Do you want to know what good girls get?"

"Yes, sir." You mutter softly, before his thumb went back to roll against your thumb.

He chuckled, his eyes tracing your face, the way you were sitting, the way you looked up at him, the way your voice was so submissive and sweet, it got him every time. The way your mouth still looked so wet from him.

He let out a sigh, his thumb leaving your chin before he rested you gently between his legs. "Good girls get rewarded." He said lowly, his other arm coming forward, his fingers gently threading through your hair, gently pulling your head upwards so you were looking up at him, his face inches from yours.

Your ears caught sound of a zipper being pulled down. Nanami pulled his zipper down, watching as your eyes flicked down to see what he was doing.

"Eyes up here, sweet girl." He said, tugging on your hair, pulling your head back up, until you were looking him in the eyes.

The hand in your hair then trailed down, his knuckles tracing your jaw, his fingers then gently gripping your chin. He hummed lowly, his eyes flicking down to your mouth.

"Open it again for me."

Your mouth fell open again, trying your hardest not to look at what Nanami's other was doing, and it was proving to be difficult. He let out chuckle at your obvious struggle. Your attempts at not looking at what he was doing was adorable and endearing to him. You tried so hard to be good, it made him want to reward you more.

His hand that was on your chin moved to rub his fingers against your bottom lip, his other hand still resting on your shoulder.

Nanami hummed, watching as your tongue began to slowly push against his fingers, almost like you were begging for what he was doing.

Then you heard clothes ruffle, and soon you were face to face with your teachers throbbing cock, leaking and begging for you to wrap your mouth around it.

But this was highly unprofessional, and forbidden, and it made you want to continue.

"I'm going to use that pretty mouth, is that fine? It is the way to a good grade." Nanami said, his hand still gripping your hair whine his other gradually began to pump his cock.

"I'll do it." You replied, voice muffled as you spoke around his thumb.

"Good girl," he praised, angling his cock to your gaping lips. You gasped when his tip nudged at your lips, your tongue instinctively licking at his mushroom tip, Nanami cursing under his breath. "Yeah, just keep your mouth open."

He removed his hand from you. Nanami settled back onto his chair and placed both hands on his armrests, letting you take control.

Slowly, you moved and wrapped your hand around his thick shaft, mouth enclosing around the tip and suckling on his leaky tip, salty pre-cum mixing with your saliva.

You began to sink your mouth lower onto him, mouth stretching out as you took more of him. You had to stop briefly when he hit the back of your throat, causing you to gag, but you pushed through before raising your head.

"Shit, sweetheart. Doing really good." Nanami said through gritted teeth, hissing when you sucked harder.

You tried to look at him, wanting to see his reactions, but it was just so hard! Tears pricked at the corners of your eye, your one hand moving down to massage at his balls.

Nanami thrusted up, too immersed in how good you were at sucking cock, what a slut—that's what Nanami thought.

Spit dribbled from your lips and down his cock, tracing the veins as it went and his balls were heavy in your hand.

Your eyes screwed shut, you were fully trying to focus on getting that good grade... that's the only reason you were doing this.

"Mmph, hmm!" You moaned, a harsh and stinging throb pulsated between your legs.

"You're doing so—so good. Maybe I'll give you a C—!" He groaned, fists balling at his sides.

If you could pout, you would, at least it wasn't a fail. Your free hand snuck between your legs and massaged your cunt through your stockings and panties, needing to relive that ache.

"I can't last long, it's been... a while. Just keep sucking and I'll—I'll!" He groaned loudly, before his cum spilled from him, filling your mouth. Greedily and hungrily you gulped it all down before detaching your lips, some spilling out as you coughed and heaved.

"Did I...did I do good?" You asked, rubbing at your sore lips, other hand dropping from your lower ones.

"Mhm, really good, sweetheart. But if you want a higher grade, you should come see me more after classes."

TOJI FUSHIGURO -> THERE'S A LEAK!

The sink in your kitchen has been making funny noises, and whenever you try turn it on, it sprays water directly at you.

Obviously you had to call a plumber.

What you didn't expect was a tall, muscled man with smooth, black hair and a small scar on his lip, whose name tag read: Toji.

Now he was on his back, looking up into the sink, legs spread and thick arms reaching into your pipes.

You were leaning against a cupboard near him, watching him work. He moved himself forward, his dark eyes flicked up to you, meeting your gaze for a moment before looking back down at the pipe he was holding. His eyes moved over you, taking in your whole form, lingering on the curves of your body.

"You could give me a hand, y'know." He said, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

You quirk an eyebrow. "Sure, what do you need help with?" You ask.

He smirked at that, before gesturing to the pipe he was holding. "I need some help holding it steady. This thing's a pain to handle alone." He looked expectantly up at you, that smirk still on his face.

You let out a soft sigh before walking over to him. "What do you need me to hold?" You bend down, giving your pervy plumber a good view at your tits.

He had to stop himself from whistling, his smirk widening as he watched you bend over. He knew you knew what you were doing, and he was enjoying the view.

"Just hold the pipe steady from underneath." He said, his eyes still lingering on your chest.

"I can't reach all the way there." You frown, seeing that you'd have to almost crawl on top of him to hold the loose pipe.

Toji shot you a smirk. "So it seems, come sit on my lap. It's the only way." He purred.

He didn't wait for you to respond, his hands quickly taking hold of your waist as he pulled you onto his lap, his strong thighs enveloping vou. He wrapped an arm around your waist, holding you in place against him.

His eyes had darkened, a smirk on his lips. "Much better..."

You would have thought he had stolen one of your pipes and shoved it deep in his pockets, but no... he was just that big!

You quickly got rid of those thoughts before moving forward, reaching to hold the pipe he needed you to hold.

Toji’s breath hitched as you slid closer, his arm pulling you even tighter against him. He had to bite down on his lip to keep himself from groaning at the feeling of you against him. When he spoke, his voice was rough, low. "That's right, hold it like that."

You soon grabbed the pipe and held it, though you don't know how your plumber was able to focus with you almost fully parallel on him.

His grip on your waist was bruising, his hands holding you tightly as he tried to focus on the pipe. But it was difficult, with you sat so close to him. He could feel the heat of your body, the press of your curves against him, and it was making it hard to think about anything other than how much he wanted you. He gritted his teeth, his jaw flexing as he forced himself to speak. "You're doing good, keep holding it like that..."

His eyes flicked to your face, taking in your expression as you focused on holding the pipe. He liked what he saw, the way you looked, leaned over his lap like that. He couldn't help but feel a stirring in his lower stomach, the feeling of you so close, and he had to bite back a low growl.

He was trying to act nonchalant, trying not to show how affected he was by you, but it was getting harder and harder to hold it all in.

"You're doing great," he repeated. "Just stay just like that."

"You know... it would bad if my husband came home and saw me. Are you sure this is alright?" You ask, looking down at the handsome man below you.

"Your husband?" He smirked up at you, his tone a mix of amusement and irritation. "Yer married?" He tightened his grip on your waist, his eyes roaming over your body as he spoke. "And how would yer husband feel, watching ya, leaned over my lap like this?"

"Oh he'd be really mad." You spoke softly.

"Even more mad if I do this?" The man raised his hips and ground them into yours, causing you to groan and almost drop the pipe. He felt you react to his movement, the soft sound that came from you made a low growl rumble in his chest.

"Oh, I bet he would be."

He leaned forward, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke, his voice low and rough. "I wonder what else I could do to make him jealous..." he murmured.

You didn't miss the devious look in his eyes, and you didn't pull out of this little game you two had. "He'd be mad if you touched me more... touched me further."

He liked the look in your eyes, the way you played along with him. He hummed in agreement, his hands moving down to your hips, holding you against him. "Oh, I'm sure he would be."

One of his hands moved to the hem of your shirt, slowly lifting it up, exposing more and more of your skin. "Very, very mad." "So mad." Toji had to stifle a groan when you let him lift your shirt, and when he saw your exposed breasts, so soft, needing his rough hands to play with them.

His grip on your hips tightened as he looked over your exposed skin, his eyes lingering on your breasts. He had to force himself to keep his touch light, just enough to tease you, to make you shiver and whimper.

But he was doing a very bad job of holding back. “Yeah... he'd definitely be mad." He was breathing heavily now, his hands roaming over your tits, calluses brushing your taut nipples, making soft sighs fall from your lips.

"I really want to upset him, and I'd do whatever it takes." You murmured, finger running along the waistband of his pants.

Toji smirked up at you, canines as sharp as the jagged scar on his lip. "I can think of a few ways, just lift your hips quickly, sweet thing." He said, watching as you raised your hips so he could pull his work pants down.

His black underwear went along with it, and out sprung the thickest, girthy-est and meatiest cock you had ever seen. Your eyes followed it as it swayed like a pendulum.

"Ya think you can take it? Shit, your husband probably has a pencil dick." Toji chuckled, eyeing the small bit of drool on your lip.

"You're so big. I don't know if it can fit." You whine, hand moving to his cock's base, frowning when your fingers were no where near touching.

"Sure it can, just need to see that juicy pussy and push it in. Trust me, ma. I'm a pussy professional."

His fingers went to your thin leggings, and 'riiippp', tore a hole right over yours. His fingers snuck in, feeling your bare folds glide on his fingers.

"You weren't even wearing panties, you slut. Probably always wanted to be fucked by the plumber, dirty girl." He purred, pulling his fingers away to grab his cock.

"Are you sure this is safe? I don't want to go to the doctor with any sort of pain." You huff, slowly sitting down on Toji's cock, feeling it stretch your cunt open deliciously.

"Don't worry, ya can take it. I know she's wet enough for this dick, isn't she?" Toji spoke to your pussy, feeling it clench around as you sunk further and further down onto him, your face contorting into one of pleasure.

"Never felt s-someone as big as you, hah. Not even my husband can stretch me out like this." You whine, feeling as if you were going to be torn into two. Your hands push on his tummy when he bottoms out, the both of you groaning out in unison.

"Quit yer yapping and let me fuck this pussy dumb. Might leave ya in a pile of my cum for yer husband to see."  Toji smirked before he's thrusting up into you, already reaching the tip of your cervix.

"Oh—! Mhm, mhm! Let him see how someone actually f-fucks me! Want your cum so bad." You arch your back to grind down on him, your lips fell open and wanton moans left them.

"Barely know me and wants my cum. Such a silly slut ya are," Toji's hand whips out to slap your tits, watching them jiggle and you moan. "Oh, ya like that? What a whore."

His palms swat away at your breasts, watching as they began to saturate in a flushed colour as they took more slaps, now sensitive and sore.

Your legs are bent underneath you, and you use your knees bend and move to meet Toji's thrusts. There's a soft 'pap' sound that's ongoing the more you two fuck.

His balls are cushioned under the curve of your ass, slowly filling with his cum. One of his hands goes back to the pipes while the other is now of your ass, hitting it until it turns the same shade as your tits, even through your leggings.

There's a white ring that had dripped down to the base of Toji's cock. His fingers are digging into your ass. "Fuck, ma. Yer gripping me real tight. Might need ya to call me if there are any other leaks other than this fucking pussy. Ya can call me when yer stupid husband is—fuck!— home, need him to see how to treat a s-slut." Toji groans, mouth ajar as huffs and moans slip.

"Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh fuck! I need to cum so badly! I can feel I need to—!" You threw your head back when Toji's thick fingers were rubbing fast and hard at your clit. Your toes curled against your wooden floors and you moaned.

"Already? Guess that's what happens when I unclog a pipe, she gets leaky. Heh, get i-it?" He jokes, watching as your muscles tense, falling forward onto him.

He forgets the pipes and shoots a hand out on the counter so you don't hit your head. Your tits are bouncing on his face, and Toji groans, his thrusts getting weaker.

"Cock's so good! I'm gonna—aww fuck—! Need to c-cum! I—ah—! Fuck!" Your nails dug into his pecs as you creamed around his cock, body spasming as you came, hard.

"Yeah, there yer go. Needta knock up—shit—! Gonna fill her up nice and good!" Toji groans, feeling his thighs shake before he's busting his hot and sticky load deep into your cunt. The feeling had you shiver.

When both your orgasms died down, Toji still had you sit prettily on his lap, cock still nestled in your gummy walls, clogging his cum inside while you hold the pipe, allowing Toji to finish.

After he was done, you begrudgingly slide off, feeling your shared cum drip out from you. You clench your thighs, having no leggings or underwear to hold it. "So, how much do I owe you for fixing my pipes?" You ask the man.

Toji slides out from where he is, wet stain over his pants. "Don't worry, sweet thing. Won't charge ya, but I might next time when I come fix yer shower, can hear it leaking from here." He sent you a wink, before grabbing his tool box, and leaving you stunned and flushed.

RYOMEN SUKUNA -> CHEERLEADER!

Sukuna, the captain of the football team, can't help but watch as you cheer them on. Tiny skirt flapping as you bounced, tits jiggling in the tight cheer top you wore. He played his game extra well, to impress you. He even went up to you, and said he needed to speak to you, in private.

That's why you were in the men's changing room. Sitting on one of the benches while Sukuna came out the shower, shiny and glazed with water, and boy did he look good.

"What did you need to speak to me about?" You asked, feeling your fingers curl around your pom-poms, trying so hard not to ogle at the captain.

He wiped a hand through his wet, pink hair, tattoos stretching as he did, before humming. "You know, I was watching you cheer today, and I didn't think you were as quick and flexible as all the other girls."

He walked towards you, letting the towel sit low on his waist. Even though you had just seen him fully dressed earlier, seeing him only in a towel made you realise just how toned his muscles were.

His eyes locked on yours as he stopped right in front of you. "I mean, there's some improvements that can be made."

"But I think I'm flexible. I can do all the tricks they want us to, doesn't that matter?" You ask, turning to face him.

He hummed again, moving right closer to you. You could his towering figure even better now. "Yes, but what if I think that you need extra practice?" He asked, crossing his arms. That made his biceps look more prominent, the bulge of it obvious as he stared down at you.

"I practice almost every day." You huff.

Sukuna chuckled. A sly smirk was on his face as he looked you up and down. He moved one of his hands to your chin, pulling it up so you'd look at him properly. "How about you show me some more, doll, hm? A private session." He spoke with a low, husky voice. It sent shivers down your spine as he pulled his hand away, watching you expectantly.

You nod. "Yes, I'll prove that I'm flexible and you're making it up," You snark, before standing up. You walked a few steps away, while Sukuna sat down. "Okay, I'll do a kick up," you kick your leg up, ankle above your head before it dropped down. "And now a pike." You jump, bending at the waist as you reach out and touch your toes.

He watched you in intrigue. Eyes not leaving you for a second, just completely focused on you. His elbows rested in his knees while he watched you, a very small smirk on his lips. "Pretty flexible, I'll give you that, but can you do a split?" He asked, knowing full well that would be a challenge.

"Yes, it's a pretty easy thing to do." You throw your pom-poms down before you allow your weight to drop, one leg stretched behind you while the other in front.

When you got down into the split, he had to stop himself from raising his brows in surprise. He didn't expect you to be able to do it. The position of you on the ground, legs like that... his mind started to think of stuff. But he snapped out of it.

He stood up so he was towering above, his foot was next to your hand as he watched you. 'Well, I do have a special form of practicing... if you wanted to try that?" He asked, with a smirk. You slowly got up, fixing your little skirt before walking over. "Hmm, okay. I guess we can try that if it will help me get more flexible."

Sukuna stood up and walked around behind you, placing a hand at the small of your back so you didn't move when he knelt down. He pushed your shoulders down, making you lean forward. "You need this to stretch your hamstrings." He started to stretch your leg out, pushing your ankle down so your foot was flat on the floor.

He pushed you forward some more, making you grab onto the back of your knees for support. The position made you look extra flexible. "Feel any stretch?" He asked behind you, he kept pushing you down more to see just how flexible you could be... just to see how much you could take.

"Only a little, it's not bad." You hum, staring straight at the floor.

He moved one hand to your other foot, so he was pushing on both knees and ankles, making you stay there, just as flexible as you were. He pressed a little harder, stretching you out more. The position was getting even lower and he liked it. "You sure? You don't feel anything stretching there?" He asked, in a playful manner.

You just hum.

He kept this position for a few minutes, before standing up and letting you stretch out your legs. "Seems like you are pretty flexible... but we won't know until we see your other stretches." He walked back in front of you, arms still crossed as he looked down at you. "Can you do a middle split?" He asked, now wanting to see you do that.

"Yes but l'm not the greatest at it, I might need to hold onto something when I go down, that's all."

"Sure, I'll spot you for that. I got your back..." He moved behind you and knelt back down, putting one hand on your lower back and the other grabbed you under your thigh. That made you spread your legs out more, putting them in a split position, letting him stretch you out. Your legs glided on the floor before you were sat.

You sat down, a small shiver running down his spine. Sukuna let go as he watched you, a bit of a smirk on his lips.

The position of you between his legs and down on the floor like this was making him think of some stuff. He shook his head quickly. He moved in front of you, crouching down to look at you. "Maybe we should move onto the next form of stretching? It'll help out the most." He said, in a low husky voice.

You nod and got up. "Okay... if you know what's best."

Sukuna licked his bottom lip. "Alright, I'll need you to lay on your back before lifting yourself and balancing on your hands on feet, I know it's basic but it is a flexibility test after all."

Sukuna stood and backed up a little, as you got in the correct position. He smirked a little as he knelt just in front of you, watching how flexible you were. You were pretty damn flexible... but he needed to make sure. Especially with all these dirty thoughts running through his head. He walked around until he was between your legs, staring at your tummy while your head was hidden behind your shoulders. "Very well, but there's one more thing I'll need to stretch out."

"What's that?" You asked, raising your chin to see him better.

Sukuna smirked, fingers reaching out to play with the fabric of your skirt, slowly inching it up to expose your spoiled panties— were you already wet?

He saw the small damp spot in your panties, making him smirk a bit. He moved his hand to your thighs, rubbing them. "I need this part to stretch as well..." he said in a husky voice.

You gasp, almost collapsing in on yourself but were able to keep steady. "A-Are you sure I need to be stretched out there? I don't understand why."

He hummed a little, fingers still rubbing your thigh. The wet spot was becoming more damp as he looked at it. "I would say it's a very tight area, and needs a lot of stretches..." he said, as if he meant it. Clearly it was just an excuse.

You sigh out. "Okay, you can...stretch me out there." You let your head drop down, feeling blood rush to your cheeks.

He hummed softly. He was surprised at how quickly you were to change your mind, but not complaining about it. He put his hands on your waistband, giving a small tug, but not pulling on them. He glanced up at you, making sure he wasn't pushing you too far.

When Sukuna saw no complaint, he let your skirt settle at your hips before his fingers moved to your underwear, waiting no time to push them aside.

You heard something fall, feeling the material drop at your feet before you felt skin touch your thighs— his thighs.

Gulping, you raise your head back up, eyes bulging when you saw Sukuna's thick, long cock bob between your legs.

"Just relax, doll face. Just gonna stretch you out real nice." He hummed, grabbing onto your thighs while his dripping tip pushed at your folds. Your hips roll up onto his when he pushed in, it was a real stretch, your cunt ached as it accommodated to Sukuna's massive size.

"Mm, you're stretching me out so much! I don't think it can fully fit!" You whine, mouth agape when Sukuna pushed himself further into you.

"Don't be daft, it will fit. We'll make it." He rounded his hips back before shoving himself fully into you with one thrust, sending you into a cacophony of nonsense, spewing out stuff like 'too full' or 'too big!"

Sukuna was deep inside you, his fat tip nudging at the small opening of your cervix with little strain. He watched as your cunt gripped him, his cock getting shiny with your arousal, and a barely noticeable bulge in your tummy.

"Can feel you stretching out better now. You were way too tight." Sukuna said, hips thwacking yours, the sound bouncing off the lockers.

Your toes curled. Blood rushed to your head, making you feel faint. "P-Please can we find a new posi...tion. I'm feeling lightheaded." You whine, vision blurring.

"It's just how good my dick is stretching you, but alright, I suppose." Sukuna pulled out, watching as you collapse before getting up.

He walked over to the bench again and sat down, waiting for you to follow.

Once you were near him, he grabbed at your wrist and pulled you onto him. His cock finding your puckering hole again and shoving itself in. "Aah! Give me a warning!" You moaned your complaint.

"Yeah, yeah. Just bounce on this dick, let me see you out those hips to use." He huffed.

You raised a leg, placing your foot on the bench before you bucked your hips, riding Sukuna. Your brows pinched up, and your lips poured as you continued to stretch around his monstrous girth.

Sukuna's eyes were trained on the way your skirt bounced, your tits pressed up against his pecs and the faces and noises you were making. No wonder why his whole football team was lusting over you.

His hand wrapped around your neck, his sheer strength alarmed you as he pushed you back, only holding you by your neck and hip before he began to fuck up into you. "Gripping me like a god damn slut. Does it turn you on? Being fucked by your football captain in the locker room? Anyone could walk in."

Your mouth fell open, and your tongue slipped out. The sight was utterly pornographic. "Gah—! Hah—! I feel so good!" You blabbered, arching your back and forcing Sukuna deeper into your cunt.

"Maybe I should have my boys see how flexible you are for themselves—fuck—have you real stretched out then." Sukuna groaned, fingers digging into your flesh.

He was able to balance you in his grip around your neck while his other hand snaked down and shoved your top up, exposing your bouncing tits.

"W-Wait! I need to pee!" You whined, trying to warn him.

However, Sukuna wasn't inexperienced and knew what that meant. "Just go now, gonna have you squirt on this dick."

He sat back, grabbing a leg and throwing it before twisting you around, your back facing him.

Instinctively, you grabbed your legs, all while being used like a doll. "You sure? I'm not into p—."

"Just take the fucking piss, slut. You're gonna squirt." He growled, feeling you tense up before your moans crescendoed in octaves before a clear stream sprayed out from you, it was more pleasurable than cumming.

"Oh! Just like that! So good—so good!" You whined, watching as your squirt wet your thighs and the floor below.

"Squirted and I didn't play with your clit, what a sensitive play thing." Sukuna smirked, grabbing into your hips harder before his pace began to accelerando. His sharp canines sunk into the flesh on your shoulder before he was cumming deep inside your cunt.

Just then, the door opened and in filed the rest of the football team, who didn't pay you a single glance, like you weren't there.

Sukuna whistled, sliding you off and placing you next to him. "You boys want a turn? She still needs more stretching out."

CHOSO KAMO -> WHAT ARE YOU DOING STEPBRO!

Your mother had recently married a new man—Kenjaku, now landing you with three step-brothers. Two of which were an utter nuisance, while the third was more calm, and you seldomly saw, but when you did, there was a lingering tension between the two of you, something that shouldn't happen.

Yet you two couldn't help yourselves, ogling each other over the dinner table, actions going unaware by the rest of your family.

You couldn't help yourself— he looked good. Inked stripe across his nose, his hair tousled, his dark and ringed eyes looking you up and down like you were a piece of meat, yet he remained as poised as ever.

You two had never really spoken to each other, your first encounter was a mere introduction, but it felt different, like you had some sort of connection. He was the eldest of the three brothers, a man who was so easy to look at, you began to wonder what it would be like to touch him.

The way he seemed to ogle you at the dinner table, you began to wonder if he had those same thoughts, or were you just imaging things? He seemed to have become less focused during dinner, his eyes were focused solely on you, he barely paid attention to the conversation between his other two brothers, and the rest of the family. It was as if he had become distracted by something, or someone.

He still held onto his calm, unbothered aura, but it began to feel different, like his stare was becoming more intense, he was studying you.

You needed to know if he felt the same, or if you were misjudging the whole situation, so you pick up you spoon, after dessert was brought out, and dip it into the small bit of caramel sauce before bringing it to your lips. Your eyes found Choso's again while your lips wrapped around the edge of the small spoon, trying your best to seductively lick it off.

Choso watched you intensely as you began to lick the spoon, watching how you did things so gently, as you glanced his way.

He almost looked bothered, like he was struggling to keep his composure, his breath hitched ever so slightly.

He tried to quickly return his focus back to the conversation, to seem like everything was fine, but his stare often shifted back to you, he was completely enamored by the subtle action you did.

Your mother only notice you, reaching a hand out to lightly wack your arm. "That's not how you use a spoon, and where are your manners?

You snapped your head towards your mother, your eyes growing slightly wide as she commented, you had completely forgot you were surrounded by other people, your mom even wacked your arm.

You tried to play it off, laughing slightly before putting the spoon down, acting like you were embarrassed. All your doing was for him anyways.

He still remained unbothered, watching the whole conversation between your mother and you, his eyes trailing down your form.

You could feel your heart race faster, you knew exactly who you were doing this for, and you wanted his eyes always on you, you desired for that moment—-Your brothers began to bicker, throwing slight insults at eachother, but he wasn't paying attention, his eyes remained focused on you, taking in your every move, like you were the only one alive in the room.

Then, dinner concluded, and while everyone had rushed off into their rooms, you were left to wash the dishes, even in the darkness of your house, except for the warm, flickering light in the kitchen.

The house felt oddly silent, your family had retired to their rooms, leaving you to clean up. You were doing as you usually did on dinner night.

You couldn't help but notice the kitchen wasn't completely dark, the light gently illuminated the room, as you stood at the sink, in front of the window. You had washed dishes for about five minutes, then suddenly, you weren't alone anymore.

He was here...Choso...

He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, just as calm as ever, his eyes trailed up and down your body, taking in everything. You could feel his gaze burn into you—he slowly walked towards you, taking his time to approach.

He stayed quiet for a couple moments, simply observing you as you washed the dishes, eventually you felt a gentle coldness on your waist, his hands rested against you, but his touch felt like it burned at the same time.

Choso had come behind you, not saying a word, his chest pressing against your back, as he reached for the sponge in your hand.

“Let me wash the dishes for you." His voice was soft, though you could hear the slight gravel in it, and how husky it was... it felt like he was so close. His breath fanned against your neck, as his chest was pressed against your back.

You allowed him to properly take the sponge, while his other hand snuck around as he washed the dishes, leaving you trapped.

It felt like you were completely trapped, his hands worked rather fast with scrubbing the plates, leaving you locked in place. He kept you pinned against the sink, his breath slightly quickened, and you could feel his heartbeat, beating gently. He kept his body pressed against yours.

Choso worked quickly, scrubbing away at the dishes, you were the only thing on his mind. He wanted to do this for you, he wanted to be the only one to do this for you, to have this closeness with you.

Soon, he was finished with the dishes, he gently rinsed them underneath the water, he shut the water off, the gentle splashing sounds stopped, but he didn't pull away.

He stood closely behind you, feeling every breath against your neck.

"Thank you, Choso. You didn't have to." You spun around, gasping when you realised just how close you two were, close enough to count his eyelashes on his purple ringed eyes—was it makeup?

You'd never know.

He remained close, his hand rested on the sink behind you, trapping you between him and the counter. His eyes gazed down at you, before he glanced at your lips, then back at your eyes.

"I wanted to." He spoke softly again, he could hear his own heartbeat in his ears, his eyes lingered on your lips for quite some time.

You just hum, leaning back onto the sink. "Still, you didn't have to." He stepped forward a bit, he had you practically caged in with his body, he tilted his head towards you. He could tell you felt flustered, yet he only got closer, closing any bit of space between the two of you.

His eyes trailed back down to your lips, he could hear his own thoughts, begging for a kiss.

He glanced back up at your eyes again, it felt like his own were begging, pleading, asking for permission, he knew what he was doing, yet he waited, he didn't wanna cross any boundaries you didn't want to cross. His breathing became slightly deeper, he could smell the soft scent of your shampoo, it was addicting.

Slowly, hesitantly, you slid a hand up his torso before it nestled on his collar area, your breathing grew heavy, and you batted your eyelashes. "It was very kind of you."

A small hint of a smile tugged his lips, he leaned his head down a bit, feeling the soft touch of your hand against his chest.

Choso had a soft expression on his face, though all he could focus on was your eyes, he liked the look you gave him, and that made his heart race. You were so pretty, and he was so close to doing something he had been thinking of non-stop.

His fingers gently tapped against the counter, he wanted to reach out and hold you, but he kept his self control. He glanced down at your lips again, the gentle touch of your hand against his chest, you were driving him insane. His breaths were heavier, the temptation to lean in and kiss you was overwhelming.

He was doing everything in his power to control himself, his self control was running thin, his breath was uneven now, he glanced between your eyes and lips constantly. He couldn't handle what kept building up inside, he needed to do something, but he didn't want to do anything until you wanted the same.

He was so close to you, he was practically leaning over you, completely blocking you in the sink.

The tips of his black hair brushed your forehead, and you were soon gazing up into his eyes, breath mingling with his own. "I wish you weren't my step brother." You whispered, craning your neck so your noses could touch.

Choso couldn't help himself, his head was empty, his thoughts were gone, he felt like his heart had stopped when you said that. He shut his eyes for a moment, just feeling the touch of your skin against his.

His head nodded a bit, he pressed his nose against yours, like a small act of intimacy. He had wanted you, he wanted you ever since he saw you. “...Me too."

Choso was a patient man, he never did anything rash, he never went too fast, but you were pushing him past his limits.

His hands were close to touching you, but he kept fighting it, his knuckles began to turn white as he gripped the edge of the counter. He wanted you, all of you, but he held in all his urges, he still wanted your permission.

You let your eyes flutter shut, moving closer until your lips ghosted over his. "But that doesn't mean anything to me. I want you, Choso."

The words you spoke were like music to his ears, all of his self control was gone, it was thrown away in seconds. His eyes shut completely, and slowly he gave in as he leaned into your lips, he pressed his lips against yours, and gently kissed you.

This felt like a wave of pure bliss, the moment he had been desperate for had finally happened, his hands had gently grabbed your waist. He kissed you softly, but the passion was very clear.

Then, the kiss began to grow feverish. Choso's hips were grinding into yours, your arms were wrapped around his neck and your teeth and tongues clashed.

That kiss was enough to break the dam, it was like he had unleashed some sort of demon, and now he was starving for you. In this moment, he was desperate for you. He had never felt this way, and he would do anything for this feeling.

Choso was trying his best to control himself, yet his urges only grew as he gently bit your lip.

Testing, his hands firm on your hips, spun you around, his groin grinding into your ass before his lips found yours, letting out whimpers into the kiss.

Choso was completely out of breath from these kisses, you had him completely captured, yet his hands were still gentle, but now his grip was firmer, his fingers pressing into your waist. He moved his hips gently at first, getting used to the feeling of you against him.

He wanted you, more than words could ever express, but you had him so weak, desperate.

You shifted your hips back, bumping back into his, a gasp left his lips. You moved a hand to grip his jaw, pulling him deeper into the kiss, even though your neck began to ache. "You can fuck me, Cho. I know you want to."

It was like those words had broken him, like he couldn't hold back anymore.

Choso took those words as you wanted him too, and he groaned, he took in a sharp breath, and grabbed your hips. He bit down lightly on your jaw, before kissing down your neck.

God, the things you had him feeling, it was like he had no strength left, you really had him addicted, hooked.

His hands were all over you, over your tummy, your back, your breasts, he left you panting.

He did everything he could, he left no part of you untouched, his hands roamed over every inch of your body, he wanted you, and he was not letting you go. He only broke away for air, his breaths heavy and shaky. He kissed down your neck, leaving small hickeys as if they were a mark of his possession of you.

"We...shouldn't be... doing this." He breathed, tongue lapping away at your neck while you began to shimmy your pants down.

Choso was so conflicted, between his thoughts and the pleasure you gave him. He couldn't help himself, like he was stuck in a trance, and he couldn't break out.

His breaths were heavy and quick, yet the sounds he would make were desperate as he did his best to hold himself back, to hold it in. Yet his hands gripped your waist, he was already trying to hold himself back from pinning you down right there.

"We shouldn't," your pants fell, leaving your underwear exposed, you bent forward, grinding your hips into his prominent bulge in his pants. "Doesn't mean we can't."

His breaths were uneven, he leaned in, and bit his lip in an attempt to hold in any noise as you grinded against him. He was so tempted, to shut everything else away and just go for it. He was struggling to stay quiet, just thinking of all the things he wanted to do to you. He tried to get closer to you, his hands moved up to feel you, to take in the shape and feel of your curves.

"What if someone hears?" Choso groaned, hoping no one came to see what the noise was, his hips bucking into yours.

He was struggling, and so were you. He was desperate, he needed you as close as possible, and his hips bucked into yours, but he tried to keep it quiet, but the sounds he was making and was trying to hold in.

He was really struggling to be quiet.

"They won't, I promise. I need you, so badly. I've been thinking dirty thoughts about you, Choso." You whimpered, feeling Choso's fingers move up your thigh and press where you need him most. The words fell right into his ears, and he groaned in response. Choso was trying to keep his voice quiet, but his voice was husky, and it felt like you were pushing him closer to the edge. He needed more of you, more of this.

He needed it.

He was getting desperate, his hands roaming, touching, wanting. He pressed against you more, but it wasn't enough, he was getting lost on you, his thoughts and his desires.

His fingers caressed against you, his ring and thumb rubbing against the fabric, but he was trying to keep himself together. His fingers were desperate, his breathing was shaky, god, he wanted to take you right here, right now.

"I've been having thoughts about you too. Ah—I feel so bad, but I can't help it." It was almost like Choso lost all consciousness as he pushed his pants down, throbbing, leaking, dripping cock springing out.

He was so in the moment, the thoughts that filled his mind were filled with you, how he could only think about you, and wanting to give himself to you fully. His breaths were heavy, and his thoughts started to become more sinful, he wanted to give you everything he had to give. He felt like he was losing himself.

He could feel just how you affected him, like there was no stopping now. He had never felt this way before, so desperate, so consumed by someone else.

Choso’s hands held your chest, and he leaned down to take your neck, he couldn't stop his movements, he had been wanting this so badly. He was getting closer to losing control, his lips kissing the side of your neck.

"We shouldn't be doing this. We shouldn't be doing this..." Choso chanted over and over, hips bucking into yours, sucking harder onto your neck. He needed this.

Quickly, you pushed your panties down, then bent over the sink, exposed cunt against Choso's balls. "Please, Cho? Need it so bad."

He tried to hold back, he really did, but the sounds you made, those words... the way you pressed into him, his mind was going blank. His hands roamed up and down your body, like he was studying you, touching all your curves.

He could feel you, he needed you, he needed something from you that he had never wanted before. He was so desperate for anything

You moved a hand behind you, finding Choso's cock and pumping it. "F-Fine, I'll give you what you—hah—! want." Choso grabbed his cock from you, before craning it until the tip hooked onto your puckering hole. He shifted his weight on his feet while his hands held your hips.

With one thrust, he sheathed himself inside your gummy walls. "Fuck, Cho. You're so big." You whine, feeling your body rock as Choso gently but firmly fucked you.

"You're so tight—hah—! if I knew you felt this good, maybe I would've done s-something sooner." Choso groaned, hips picking up the pace as he got lost in the feeling of you. His teeth sunk into his lower lip, wet sounds ricocheted off the kitchen cabinets.

He moved both hands down to your tummy before cupping them, he then raised you by your tummy, gravity pulling down, which provided a toe curling pressure to build as it forced you to feel his cock deeper in your guts.

"Cho! Cho! You're so deep! Oh fuck!" You mewl, throwing your head back in pleasure. Your lips fell open and loud moans, family long gone from your worry, and you chanted his name.

"Y-Yeah, pretty girl. Guess I am—oh fuck—!" Choso gasped, his fingers snaking down to your neglected and throbbing clit while he strongly still pushed up into your tummy.

Your chest was pushed against the counter, cheek as well, as you took Choso's fat cock in your cunt, bullying it relentlessly. His fingers strum your clit, thighs quivering at the same rhythmic pace.

"Can't last...long. Need to cum in this pussy...the best pussy I've—!" Choso doesn't get to finish his sentence before he's finishing inside you, spilling his seed until there's no more space. With a grunt, he pulls out, watching his cum drip onto the floor. "Oh fuck, I'm so sorry. You didn't even—."

"Cho, it's fine. I still enjoyed it." You reassure, even though you were somewhat upset.

You watched choso nibble his lip before shaking his head. "No, it's not. I still want you to cum, but I'm a little spent...oh! I know." He is quick to grab you again, spinning you around and picking you up before you're sat on the counter.

His hands are pushing your legs apart, and his head is diving between your legs, hungrily lapping at your used and abused cunt. "Ch-Cho, what are you doing?" You asked, hands going to his head.

"Can't have you not cum, pretty. Plus I've been imagining this for a while now." He murmured into your skin, the sound sending vibrations through your clit.

Choso's lips kissed away at your clit, the tips of his teeth gently grazing it every now and then. Your fingers were messing up his hair, the dark roots askew now. Your heels dug into the cabinets below as you shifted your hips, bring Choso deeper into you.

"Ah fuck, Choso! You're really g-good!" You whine, feeling him hum.

Drool dribbled down his chin, the wet and slurping sounds were loud at this time of night. "Please cum for me, pretty girl... need to have you cum." Choso said softly, moving his head to stroke your clit with his tongue, dipping into your hole with every stroke.

"I am! I'm gonna cum! Fuck this is so so wrong, but so right! Ah—!" You threw your head back as you came on Choso's tongue, the boy drinking it all up as you came undone.

Soon you settled into a soft mess of pants, watching Choso stand up and wipe at his chin, still between your legs. "You did so well, pretty," he kissed your head, lips staying on your skin. "And I can't lie, I don't want this to be the last time we do something like this."

You nod, leaning into his touch. "Me too."

And just then, you heard footsteps. 

INO TAKUMA -> GOOD COP BAD COP!

You thought you could get away with your petty crime of stealing, but as you sped off in your hijacked car, blue and red lights flickered behind you. With a grumble you pull over, watching as a police officer with shaggy brown hair and what appeared to be a beanie walked over, baton in hand— for the incase.

You nervously bit your lip as he drew closer, until he was right by your door.

He bent down, knocking on your window.

With a raised brow he motions with the baton for you to roll down the window, the other hand holding onto the strap of his weapon. After your moment of hesitation you finally roll the window down, and he peers in. "Do you know why I pulled you over?" He asked with a stern voice.

You give him your best smile. "No, officer. Was I speeding? I thought I was well in the speed limit." You pout.

Ino’s eyes flicked to your lips as you spoke, and he cleared his throat, a low grumble as he tapped at his notepad. "Well I know for a fact that this car is registered as stolen, that being the very reason l pulled you over. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that? Would you?" He said in a skeptical tone.

You feign a gasp. "Oh, no. I borrowed this car from a friend. I can call them or something." You lie.

He lets out a soft chuckle, raising a brow at you with a teasing smirk. "Oh-borrowed huh? From a friend? Then you won't mind me coming around the car right? To see the license plate and such? It'd just be for the report." He said but his voice had something like a challenge in it. He was definitely trying to call your bluff.

You gulped. "U-Uh, sure. You can do your job." You give him a nervous chuckle.

He nods, before walking round back and checking the plate on the license, and writing things down in a notepad before checking the front plate, coming to the side of the car, and gently tapping his baton at your side window.

"Mind if I take a peek inside, make sure you aren't hiding any contraband?" He asked. Fuck, he's onto you. Why did the police officer have to do his damn job? You just give him a slow nod.

Unlatching the door and swinging it open, he slowly crouched down, peeking his head inside from the open door. "Go ahead and raise your hands for me, please. And make sure nothing is hidden in your bra, or even pants. Would you do that for me miss?" He mused, as he gently tapped the baton at your seat.

You let out a sigh, unbuckling your seat belt and opening the door before getting out, then raising your hands. "How am I supposed to prove I'm not hiding anything with my hands up?"

"I don't know, let's start with a pat down hm?" Ino said, his voice teasing. Moving the baton under your chin he gently tilted your head up before lifting you and pinning you against the car, running his gloved hands down your body. From thighs, back to your chest.

The police officer was really touchy, and you didn't mind, maybe it would help him get off your case. Once his hands reached your chest he tapped at your chest lightly, before moving to your sides, then down your back and to your thighs again. It was a rather thorough check, you wondered what the reason was behind it, as he patted his palms down your outer thighs.

"All clear back there." He said with a smirk, before pulling away, and gently pushing you against the car again. "Now your front please."

You slowly spin around, hands still raised.

Ino’s hands went to the car first. Checking the door, then windows, before moving to your thighs again, and patting up your inner legs slowly. Until his hands were just outside that special area, before moving up to your hips. "I can't be too gentle ma'am, so forgive me." He teased as his hands reached your shirt, patting against your mid-section now.

As he finished with your shirt, tapping at your chest again. "Lift your shirt for me, please. I still need to do your lower area." He said.

It was surely protocol, but you flushed.

"I'm not...wearing anything underneath." You said, voice soft

Ino just smirked. "It's just protocol, ma'am. I won't stare too long, just need a quick check."

Something about his gaze made you feel hot and bothered, so you slowly grab the ends of your top and lift, exposing your bare breasts.

His smirk turned a bit wider as you lifted your shirt, as he kept looking, and gently touched your skin, slowly running his hands down just above your pants. "Just making an inspection. You know, contraband and all." He mused.

Ino was about to let you go when he saw the shiny gun next to your seat, hie had he not seen that before?

With a sudden realization he reached for the gun, quickly pulling it out. "Oh look, a gun? That's an interesting piece of contraband you've got here ma'am. Care to explain?" He mused, his teasing tone gone, replaced by a tone more serious.

You felt sweat bead on your forehead as you dropped your top. "I didn't even know that was there! Probably my friend's...his car after all."

He raised a brow, chuckling softly as he took out his handcuffs. "Oh? I see. I guess then, that you wouldn't be opposed to me cuffing you. So you won't suddenly run off?" He smiled at you, as he waited for your reply.

Your mouth fell open in shock. "C-Cuff me? But I'm innocent" As you spoke he gently tapped the handcuffs at your cheek, chuckling softly.

"Oh? Are you? Because with that gun next to the seat your pretty little ass was sitting on, I beg to differ. I'm going to have to take you in for questioning, and I'm afraid I'll have to cuff you, if you happen to run off. " He tutted softly.

"Unless you want something to happen to you?"

You felt him turn you around, forcibly having you bend over the hood of your car before the cold metal was wrapping around your wrists. "Please? I'll do anything to be let go."Tapping you on the shoulders lightly, he chuckled at your plead. "Anything huh?" He hummed, looking at your wrists.

"Well... I might have a way for you to be let go. But that all depends on what you're willing to do for it." He purred the last part softly.

"I'll do it! Just what is it?" You plead.

"Hm..." he hummed. A smirk tugged at his lips as he gently nudged his baton between your thighs, tapping you between them lightly. "I'm sure you'd know. You see... I could simply take you to the station and put you behind a cell. You'll probably have to make a court case for this gun, have a fine, or more. Or... You do a favor for me." He hummed the last line.

You aggressively nod against the hood of your car. "I'll do your favour..."

Ino smirked. "Alrighty then, I'll just need you to stay still, unless you want to go to the station?" He asked, watching you shake your head. "Good girl, now all I'm gonna do is use this pretty cunt, then you'll be as free as a bird." He purred, fingers pulling your pants down.

You gasp when you felt the cold night air brush your ass and cunt, that was embarrassingly wet. You heard Ino tut behind you.

"My, my, what a bad girl you've been, wet already and all I did was cuff you, and pat you down? Dirty girl. Might need to see that pretty pussy more." Ino said.

You felt something hard push and spread your folds, you had not heard his zipped and it felt different.

Realisation dawned on you—he was going to use his baton. The cold metal made you shiver as it prodded at your hole, your eyes widened when you felt it breach your cunt, sinking in about three inches before it was pulled right out, a string of your arousal attached to it before it snapped and broke.

You couldn't even prepare for the impact until a stinging pain blossomed from your right ass cheek.

"Mhm, so far everything checks out, but I'll need a deeper investigation." Ino murmured before chucking his baton into your car. You heard him fumble around with his belt until his pants fell, Ino tugged at his boxers and his cock spring free. Flushed tip and veiny.

You heard him hum to himself as he grabbed your hips, his tip pressing where you needed him most.

You moaned as he pushed himself in, before his hips were stuttering back the thrusting forward. Your eyes snapped shut as he fucked you, his cock stretching you out, your cunt spasming around him.

"O-Oh, yeah. Why does the naughtiest one have the best pussy? Ah, shit!" Ino moaned, hips snapping into yours.

His fingers found the chain of your handcuffs before pulling at it. His one foot then raised to rest on the ledge by your tire, now fucking you at a new angle.

Anyone could drive by and see the horror of a police officer fucking a criminal, the thought had you clenching and your mouth forming a small 'o'.

A static beep came from Ino's walkie-talkie, with a whimper of a complaint, he pushed the button. "This is Officer Takuma, o-over...yeah...mhm!...suspect is detained, over." He groaned when the officer on the other end stopped talking, now throwing his head back as he savoured your warm cunt around his dick.

"Hah—oh—! Do you f-fuck all criminals you catch?" You ask, feeling drool dribble from your lips and onto your car, your wrists crying out in pain.

"No...just you, naughty girl. Though I might need to pay you special visits in prison—aww fuck— keep you in line." Ino let out pants, watching the way your cunt ate his dick.

You moaned loud, the sound almost hurt your throat when his hands slapped your ass, this time with his bare hands. Ino's fingers dug into your hips hard as he fucked you, his thick cock stretching your cunt to its limits. His balls slapped against your wet, puffy clit, eliciting pornographic sounds.

Sticky arousal leaked from your cunt and onto your car and his balls, making them slick.

Plapping and schlupping noises echoed into the night as you felt the coil in your tummy tighten, and Ino's balls to grow heavy with seed.

"Ohh...ah! I'm gonna cum—fuck! I'm gonna cum!" You shriek, feeling white voltage soar through your veins as you orgasmed, your nails scraping the painted layer of your car.

"Fuck—! Me too, I'm gonna cum in this—shit!—pussy, need to make you a cute, mommy inmate—fuck!" Ino shuddered as he came, cum pumping into your cervix and womb, feeling you to the brim with his milky cum.

He didn't stop his thrusts until he ran dry, before he dropped his leg and pulled out, cum oozing from your puckering hole that was stretched open to his size.

Ino helped you pull your pants up, cum coating your underwear, before his, before he tugged at your handcuffs. "Come on, time to lock up the slut."

[clqxuds]

in another life, i would make you stay a gojo satoru (fix it) fic

pairing ⸺ reincarnated!gojo x reincarnated!reader

summary ⸺ you are a sorcerer, married to your husband who bears the burden of being the strongest. firsthand, you watch the love of your life fall apart, the world burdening him until, finally, he dies at the hand of sukuna. as you watch him through the broadcast, you blankly volunteer to be next and you die, praying to whatever merciful god out there that, in another life, you and satoru get the happy ending you both deserved— until you wake up from your dream, gasping. why the hell was your dream so vivid? you were some sort of magician? with a smoking HOT husband? and why the fuck does the guy that's ten minutes late to the first day of lectures look EXACTLY like him?

warnings ⸺ eventual smut fluff and angst (the holy trinity of aashi longfics), hurt/comfort, reincarnation fic, basically you and gojo have a miserable life in canon and get reincarnated into a modern au where i fix everything and give you the romcom you deserve, canon typical violence, jjk manga spoilers, mentions of blood and injury, major character death, fem reader implied

a/n i'll see u at the end :3

December 23, 2018.

“How do you feel?”

The both of you lay, side by side on the grass as you stared into the sky. The only sounds that surrounded you were the occasional rustle of leaves, the hum of the late afternoon cicadas, and the soft, almost inaudible rise and fall of your breathing.

The stars were really bright that day.

The sounds of nature were even more tangible in the absence of traffic. After the culling games had roped in both non-sorcerers and sorcerers alike, no one went out, so the roads were all virtually empty.

Satoru frowns thoughtfully, in a way that makes his nose scrunch up. His fingers play through your hair absentmindedly as he comes up with a response. With the way he’s thinking, your heart aches to tell him that you want his honest feelings, his doubts and fears, not some fake image he perpetually paints on for the rest of the world. You temper the urge.

“Fighting Megumi is gonna be…weird,” he says finally, with a sigh. “I’m just glad the real pain in the asses are out of the way.”

You remember the day he had come back from killing the higher ups. There was still blood matting his face and hair, dried and flaking. His eyes had long lost their light, and when you had got him alone in your shared room, grabbed a washcloth to wash his face. While you made sure none of the blood was still there, he had asked: Did I do the right thing?

It had taken three face towels to clean it all. The others had gotten soaked too quickly.

He continues. “I’ve been walking toward changing the system for so long, I forgot how to want anything past it.”

You tilt your head to look at him. His eyes are on the sky, as if trying to memorize every cloud.

“You can still want things,” you murmur. “Even now.”

What is left unsaid from you is, You can run away with me.

It’s a pipe dream at best. He was born with the shackle of the six eyes, born in the prison called The Strongest. Running away from it all was as possible as it was for Sisyphus to escape the burden of rolling the rock forever.

At your words, he huffs out a laugh and turns his head just slightly, eyes meeting yours. The blue of them is softer in this light, dusk and gold turning them the color of worn glass. “I do,” he says. “I want a stupid house with a stupid yard and a dumb dog who only listens to you.”

You laugh, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes. “The dog would accidentally eat your god-awful heap of chocolates and drop dead.”

“Okay, then maybe not a dog then,” he accedes. “I could do with a cat. Just don’t confiscate my chocolates.”

Your voice is a bit stuffy when you reply with, “I would never.”

“Good,” His smile is crooked now, warm. “If I had all the chocolates and the cakes you bake for the rest of my life, I would die a happy man.” 

“You already have those, Satoru,” you laugh wetly. 

“Yeah, but I want grocery lists and laundry days and boring Tuesday nights. Not endless mission reports. God, I’m definitely not going to miss the paperwork,” he groans, and his tone would sound petulant to anyone else; to you, it’s a reminder of how he’s been worked to the bone.

You roll closer to him, forehead brushing against his temple. “We’ll have all of it.”

There’s a beat of silence. The wind rustles through the trees again. He closes his eyes and breathes it in, like he’s trying to make a home of it. You can’t help but look at his serene face and think,

I love you.

It goes unsaid.

Then, “You’ll wait for me?” he asks, almost like a joke.

You turn to him, gaze softening as it lingers on the line of his jaw, the sweep of his lashes, the eyes you’ve loved in a thousand different lights. He’s so beautiful it aches—like something out of a dream or a poem scribbled by a lonely poet on a dirty street, staring up at a beauty wistfully peering out of a window of a high tower.

“Always.”

December 24, 2018.

He looks like he’s watching the sky again.

You are staring down at the shape of him broadcasted through Mei Mei’s crows. The ground is soaked, and the sky doesn’t seem to know whether to rain or just stay gray. His eyes are open.

But you know better. And still, you wait.

Around you, there’s chaos. Your students, in disbelief, are talking loudly but it’s as if everyone around you is talking underwater, none of their words comprehensible. You feel someone shake you, but you’re still staring.

His eyes aren’t closed, but he looks peaceful.

The air thrums with cursed energy, of people in utter shock, and with fear so thick it could choke.

But all you can think about is a stupid patch of wildflowers blooming in your yard. They would’ve been his favorite color—blue, like his eyes when he was teasing you. Like his eyes when he told you he wanted a dumb dog and boring Tuesday nights.

You were going to plant them for him every spring.

You were going to make him cakes every time he forgot his own birthday.

You were going to grow old together.

Instead, you’ll be the one laying flowers on his grave. Alone.

“I’ll go,” you say.

It’s too quiet. Someone protests. You don’t even hear who.

“I said I’ll go.”

You’re already stepping forward. The fight is miles away but it doesn’t matter—you’ll find it. You’ll find Sukuna. You’ll follow the stench of blood and ruin until it leads you to him. 

You know your death is imminent, but there is nothing left to want anymore. Because a future without Satoru is no future at all.

As you make your way through Shinjuku rapidly, you can’t help but think of Yuji—his eyes wide and boyish, despite everything—as he shoved a flyer into your hand and told you to try that ramen shop with him once this was all over.

You remember Megumi’s ginger candies, the ones you had to keep hidden or Gojo would eat them all in one go. They’re still sitting in a dish by the kitchen window.

You remember Shoko’s voice when she said, “Just come back alive, okay?”

You remember Nanami, and Utahime, and Nobara. You remember every stupid, beautiful person you’ve ever loved.

You love them, but love doesn’t always save you; instead, it makes you walk straight into the fire.

Your life had begun when Satoru had saved you from that lonely, dark prison you were forced into; you remember how you had thought that he was akin to a glowing deity, descended from heaven to be your savior. A discarded animal like you, made to believe you were human again by this savior.

So it feels right, in a terrible, sacred way, that your life should end with him, too.

When you finally spot Sukuna, you put up a good fight, but anyone who watches you knows you are resolved, have accepted your fate and prefer death. You don’t scream or cry when it happens; you stare at his face when your body is cleaved into spilling your blood like an endless dam.

You just think: I kept my promise.

I waited.

Then, as you feel everything growing darker and darker, there’s only one thought left, just a silent prayer to whatever god that might still be out there:

Let us try again.

Please—let us try again.

…

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

You wake up from your dream, gasping.

The noise your alarm makes is an unfriendly wake-up call; in your furious effort to locate your phone—which has found itself nestled in your messy blankets—you notice your roommate, Maki, blearily shifting. You madly search to minimize the yelling you’re going to get from her later in the day (you’re already cooked by this point), until silence blankets the room once more.

It’s only until your phone is silenced that you register how fast your heart is beating. Then, when you trudge over to the personal bathroom you and Maki share and flick the light switch, you see that tears had flowed down your cheeks in your sleep.

What a weird fucking dream.

One to have on your first day of classes for the semester, too. You squint at your reflection, the fluorescent light doing your sleep-addled eyes no favors as you grudgingly get ready, brushing your teeth and washing your face and all that. You don’t know why it was so vivid. 

From the dredges of your mind, you first recall the flashing light beams and carnal violence in the destruction of the city, and then you. Were you some kind of magician? It was kind of like…Winx Club, but you weren’t a cunty fairy in cute clothes. Something about sorcerers, so maybe Harry Potter? Hunter X Hunter?

You spit out the frothy mix of your saliva and the mouth freshener. So ridiculous. You couldn’t even blame stress for the weird fanfiction at this point—classes haven’t even started.

Memories of the dream ebb and flow as you try hard to remember what else had occurred as you wipe your face. Gazing upon the white of the moisturizer you’re dabbing on your skin, a flash of white suddenly resurfaces.

Gojo.

A violent feeling overcomes your chest at the name, and you think you’re having a heart attack with the way it clenches like you’re almost about to weep in longing of a beloved. You gasp, cupping the left side of your chest as you try to lower your heart rate.

What hurts most of all is the searing pain, like a spiral of thinly corded string has branded itself on your ring finger. In your rush to look up in the mirror to see what could be hurting you, you don’t notice the red glow it forms. What you see in the see in your reflection surprises you: you’re crying again.

Tears have fully started streaming down your face with the pain, carving wet valleys on your cheeks as they went. After your heart rate slows down, you frown while looking down at your hands. Why were they shaking?

You repeat the name numerous times in your brain, each time causing you to physically tweak. Gojo, Gojo, Gojo, and then resurfaces Satoru, Satoru, Satoru—

It’s after the tenth time you repeat his name that your body seems to calm itself down and get accustomed to whatever emotional shock that coursed through your name after you mentioned his name. His name originally came up because you remember the main person in your dream: the white-haired man. He was the reason you decided to confront that…three armed man? Or did he have four arms? Regardless, you basically offed yourself after he died because you loved him, or something. With the way your body seems to physically shake at the sheer thought of his name, as if the utter image of longing, love may not have been enough to describe what you felt.

Realizing that you’ve drifted off at reminiscing sleepily, you start, as if suddenly animated. You pat your skin, setting in the final step of your skincare routine. Then, you click on your phone screen to check the time.

And notice immediately that you are going to be late.

Then ensues you scrambling to your room, putting on your clothes, tripping on the floor in the process, getting a sleepy glare from Maki that has doubly certified that you are getting a scolding, and then finally making it out the door. The somewhat cool fall weather hits your face as you walk on the pavement, checking your clock repeatedly to ensure it hasn’t hit 9am yet. 

When you make it into the lecture, you realize that it is packed. There aren’t many seats—it is a gen ed class after all, something on some ancient history, and you notice two empty seats, side-by-side, tucked away in the corner of the lecture room. You have to carefully maneuver yourself down the seats.

Navigating the maze of limbs and backpacks, you mumble a series of "excuse me’s" and "coming through’s" until you squeeze past two guys—a stern-looking blond with glasses that scream "salaryman thirst trap" and a loud brunet beside him. Reaching your target, you slide into the seat that leaves an empty one between you and the blond. You’re very pleased about the extra breathing room.

Maybe today won’t be so bad after all.

You prepare your supplies to take notes on the first (of many) syllabus reviews to come. In the meantime, you’re privy to hearing the mumble and grumble of people around you; it’s only when a throat clears itself at the head of the class do you see a man—probably the professor of this class, Yaga—who has the slides already up. Ancient East Asian History is branded on the big white screen in bolded, black Arial font. Clearly, graphic design was not his passion.

His voice projects through the mic and is fairly deep and resonant, so it’s clear to everyone, despite the number of people in the room, that class is starting. As expected, the next slide is titled “What is Ancient East Asian History?” 

“Let’s delve deeper into what I mean by East Asian. Asia is a subcontinent that’s home to a diverse set of cultures, and even so in East Asia…”

As Yaga speaks, time ebbs and flows around you. The monotonous sounds of papers flipping, pens scratching on paper, and the clicking of keyboards surrounds you. You can’t help but think the fluorescent lights, harsh and white, had to be designed to keep students from falling asleep, because their intensity paints the lecture hall in this weird lighting. The mood created by it is something akin to the filter horror movies perpetually have on—vivid, but cold and dark. Like when you’ve been up for too long to the point that you don’t know if it’s night, or morning, because it’s still dark out. Then, dawn breaks, the sun enveloping the sky in its warmth.

Suddenly, the heavy set of doors that serve as your lecture hall’s entrance open loudly—louder than someone who is sheepishly entering late. Instead of the usual indifference reserved for a fellow student who had slept in, the room ripples with murmurs and giggles, shattering the silence that had settled—save for Yaga’s lecturing.

You don’t look at first. You look at Yaga, who is pinching the bridge of his nose as he mutters, “In Japanese culture, punctuality is a form of respect—something we are clearly still learning.”

You don’t turn. You don’t need to. But, like a current pulling you under, your gaze follows the crowd’s. And you see him.

Gojo.

Suddenly, your heart clenches violently, and you can only help but gasp hoarsely and shut your eyes. If you didn't, streams of tears would flow down your face once more. You couldn’t help but swear internally; you had thought you had conditioned yourself to be stable at the mention of his name. 

But, almost as if it’s subconscious, you wrench your eyes open, desperate to view the boy. You’d assume something apologetic, maybe. Rushed. Someone with their hood up, mumbling an excuse as they shuffle into the shadows of the back row. But this—

This is someone who walks like he knows the sound of his own footsteps matters. His ivory hair is tussled, like he had just rolled out of your dream. He looks a bit younger than he did when you had seen him, but his eyes are the same unmistakable brilliant, cerulean color.

Now, he’s making his way down the stairs, skipping every third one with his long legs. Something leaves his lips, and it’s something humorous—depending on how girls and guys around him laugh, a shared sense of adoration in their eyes. You can only help but watch as he comes closer and closer to you, and you remember belatedly that the seat next to you is the only empty one in the whole lecture hall.

Yaga huffs and rolls his eyes, crossing his arms in barely concealed annoyance. “Nice of you to join us, Gojo.”

Gojo lifts a hand in a lazy wave. “Yaga, you ever tried finding parking on this campus?” The lecture erupts in barely muted half-sleepy giggles. 

It’s only when a particularly loud high five he receives—by the brunet in your row—that you break out of your reverie and turn to your laptop, flustered. Any attempt to act nonchalant would be funny as if the thing that’s wrong with you—that invisible thing—hasn’t been rippling violently inside your gut the moment you laid eyes on him. Like your body has just been handed proof. Like a wound cracking open in slow motion.

He’s approaching, long legs trying to get through the sheer amount of people to where the empty seat next to you was, and when he’s there, right next to you, you shouldn’t look up.

But you do.

When your eyes meet his, something ancient and awful coils in your throat. A shiver, not of fear, but of recognition so buried it aches.

Pearly teeth and bright blue eyes glistening. A breathless, “Hi.”

And the invisible string, that had spiraled and corkscrewed itself into the jumble it was, pulls—until it is straight and wrung tight. You don’t know this boy. You’ve never seen him before.

So why does it feel like your heart just remembered how to break?

Your throat is dry, but you manage out a “Good morning.”

You turn back to your desk, your fingers quivering. By your side, he’s moving and rummaging through the contents of his backpack quite noisily, one that can be heard throughout the lecture hall if one were to tune out Yaga’s droning. In curiosity of seeing what was taking him so damn long to find, you turn your head slightly, and notice the heaps of wrappers—all pastel colored and bright, like candy and dessert wrappers—that his backpack is almost suffocated with. Then, he pulls out his laptop, opens it, and resumes the game of Run 3 he had paused beforehand.

Respectfully, what the fuck.

As if sensing your stare, he turns to you until meeting your eyes; you were caught. Like a deer caught in headlights, you helplessly stare back at him, heat creeping up your neck, and his gaze leaves your eyes to look at your lips, which you were biting.

Then, he leans in slightly—you also inching yourself back because why is he getting so close and why is your heart beating so fast—and whispers, “Do I know you?”

You’ve never seen him outside of the weird dream you had, and it would’ve been weird to admit that you’ve dreamed about him. “No, I don’t think you do,” you whisper back, voice hoarse.

His lips quirk in response, but, to your dismay, he doesn’t retract. His brows furrow while he stares at your face, as if deep in thought, and nods, flirtatiously saying, “Makes sense. I feel like I wouldn’t have forgotten you if I had met you.”

Despite the cheesy line, heat creeps up your neck, and you can’t help but bitterly look down at your desk after giving him a quiet, “No, I don’t we have. I’m sorry.” If he flirted with a stranger like this, dream you must’ve had a really hard time as his wife. Shameless.

And thus the lecture runs its course. Throughout, you’re tense, the heat of his presence never letting you relax. You feel every movement of his fingers, his forearms, as he played his games or typed miscellaneous things that you didn’t see because you were physically forcing yourself to stare at the lecture slides, back ramrod straight.

It’s only until his leg starts shaking that you start feeling…weird. His reaction is completely normal; you don’t blame him, because Yaga’s been going over the syllabus’ section of projects and how you can’t change project partners for over thirty minutes. But it’s the fact that a steady wave of nausea is building up inside you, until a sharp piercing sensation overwhelms your head.

Then, a vision.

It’s hazy, as if projected on cloudy water. A shaking leg, clad in what seems like uniform pants, underneath a small wooden desk. Then, a hand reaches out to yours, grasping it firmly, and you feel a weird sense of nausea once more. However, it’s not the same feeling you’ve been feeling since your dream—instead, it’s a stomach upturning feeling of being teleported somewhere.

A bed.

It’s a small one, in a room that resembles a dorm. The hand grasping yours isn’t simply grabbing your hand; it’s now trailing up your sock-covered ankle, up your calves, and then under your skirt—

The murky vision gets even murkier until you can’t register anything anymore. Then, you suddenly return, the fluorescent lights being the first thing you register after the weird deja-vu-memory thing. The feelings you felt from the vision linger, including overwhelming feelings of euphoria, lust, and sheer happiness that bloom in your heart warmly, like a flower in fresh spring.

You’re so distraught from the complicated jumble of feelings that have thrusted themselves upon you that you don’t hear Yaga say his concluding words. It’s the jarring, obnoxious screech! of the chair next to you—Gojo’s—that you jump to your senses and realize half of the students have left. 

Thus, you hurriedly pack your things and book it the fuck out of there because you would rather die than be the last person to leave class, lest Yaga think you were staying behind to talk to him. You’ve had more than your fill of East Asian Studies today.

Maybe it’s best if you avoid Gojo, lest you slip up. The dream—and the weird reactions your body seems to be having in his presence—are too…peculiar. If something happened, you wouldn’t know how to recover.

In your haste, you don’t realize you’ve left something behind, nor did you hear the “Wait! You forgot….this” that Gojo had called out to you, staring at the object in his hand—and your retreating back—with a complicated expression.

next. the aftermath (soon!)

a/n short chapter, but this series is going to contain a mixture of: a lot of crack and fluff, yearning (as always, yall know me), and debilitating angst ("who did this to you??" oh i loved writing the angst) and crazy reunion sex. comment down below to be added to the taglist!!

to be clear, unless otherwise indicated, reader is getting these moments from the past as "migraines" / flashes / dreams.

TAGLIST P1:

@nithica @rh-tg1 @tbzzluvr @spookytyphoonfire @vsynical

@totallyuniquenut @yamiyas @nishayuro @nariminsstuff @starmapz

@sylusonlylove @purplemint @elliesndg @gggellaa @arabellasolstice

@arrozyfrijoles23 @yeehawbrothers @that-one-lightskin @candyluvsboba @avaults

@iheartkhloe @angelcherrry @madamechrissy @xxemmarldxx @lovenbesos

@liveforkny @nattie-smack @cherryredribbons @introvertatitsfinest @starlightoru-gojo

@hyori2 @gxldencloset @l0v3m3m0re @cuntysaurusrex @nanamineedstherapy

@oikawasxx @littlemisspoets-blog @anuncalledbridge @watermelonmuntchers @zeyno-14

@k-kkiana @nanamiskentos @kviwi @evawts @forest-nymph420

@bontensh0e @viiennie @blossomedfloweroflove @6isek @dreamssfyre

[clqxuds]

The fall

Hockey AU Simon 'Ghost' Riley

Pairing: Hockey Player! Simon Riley x Figure Skater! Reader

Summary: Simon had never been one for grand displays of affection, but when you take a nasty fall during your competition, he finds himself breaking his own rules.

Word count: 770

Warnings: none really, just a short fluffy blurb.

Simon had never been to one of your competitions before. Not because he didn’t want to—hell, he’d watch you tie your skates for hours if he could—but because your relationship had been under wraps. His career in the NHL, your growing success in figure skating… it had been easier to keep things quiet. But now, after months of secrecy, the world knew.

Simon sat in the stands, cap pulled low, arms crossed over his broad chest as he tried to ignore the cameras sneaking glances his way. His teammates had given him hell about coming—some teasing, some genuinely surprised he’d sit through something that wasn’t about smashing into people at high speeds.

Simon wasn’t nervous. Not in the way most people got. He’d taken hits from guys twice his size, had teeth knocked loose, and played through injuries that would put others out for weeks.

But this? Sitting in the stands of a figure skating competition? This had his shoulders tight. The rink wasn’t set up the way he was used to—no hard-checking, no boards rattling, no brutal speed or body slams. Just an expanse of smooth ice, twinkling under the bright lights, waiting for you.

The moment your name was announced, the restless energy inside him sharpened.

You skated onto the ice with effortless grace, your expression poised, focused, like you weren’t thinking about the thousands of eyes on you. Simon knew better. He knew how much pressure you put on yourself, how much work went into making something this difficult look effortless.

You caught his gaze as you moved to your starting position, and the briefest hint of a smile tugged at your lips.

Simon exhaled.

And then the music started.

You moved like water, fluid and controlled, your blades carving elegant arcs into the ice. He’d seen you practice a hundred times, had even let you teach him some of the simpler moves when you insisted he had the balance for it. (He didn’t, but he liked the excuse to let you get your hands on him.)

The crowd was quiet except for the soft crescendos of the music, and Simon found himself caught in the rhythm of your movements, the way your arms extended, the way you spun with impossible precision.

It happened fast.

One second, you were setting up for a jump. The next, your blade caught wrong, and instead of landing gracefully, you went down hard.

Simon was on his feet before he even registered moving. The sharp crack of your body hitting the ice sent a sickening jolt through him. The crowd collectively gasped, but Simon barely heard them over the blood rushing in his ears.

You didn’t get up right away.

His gut twisted.

Come on, love. Get up.

The medical team was already moving and Simon shoved past anyone in his way, his long strides eating the distance. By the time he reached the ice’s edge, you were pushing yourself up, wincing, cradling your wrist.

Relief crashed through him, so strong it almost made him dizzy.

“You alright?” His voice was gruff, louder than he meant. You blinked up at him, dazed but breathing.

“Simon?”

“Yeah, sweetheart. ‘M right here.”

The officials hesitated, unsure whether to let him any closer, but he didn’t give them a choice. His feet hit the ice without a second thought, and suddenly, the only thing that mattered was you.

You tried to shake it off, but he could see the way you were favoring your arm, how your expression was tighter than it should be.

“Can you stand?”

“I—I think so.”

“Let me help.”

And just like that, Simon Riley—cold, ruthless on the ice, known for brutal hits and not giving a damn about anyone in his way—was kneeling beside you, his hands gentle as they helped you up.

The crowd murmured, cameras flashing, but Simon didn’t give a shit.

All that mattered was that you were standing.

Your good hand tightened in his hoodie, and even through the fabric, he could feel your fingers trembling. “I—I didn’t finish.”

“Don’t care,” he murmured, voice low enough for only you to hear. “You did good, love.”

You swallowed, and for the first time since your fall, your lips twitched upward. “You’re making a scene.”

Simon scoffed. “Let ‘em stare.”

He slipped an arm around you, steadying you as you stepped off the ice together.

“Scared the bloody hell outta me.”

“You? Scared?”

“Terrified.” His hands slid over your waist, steady, grounding. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Maybe you hadn’t finished your routine. Maybe you didn’t win tonight.

But you had him.

And Simon Riley never let his girl fall alone.

[clqxuds]

WE WILL SURVIVE

- - CHAPTER 6 - -

Ghost x reader Description: Ghost searches for Reader after their argument. Genre/Warnings: zombie apocalypse AU, Ghost x fem!reader, survivor!reader, angst, POV change, filler chapter WC: 1k

My Masterlist

** Oh? What is this you ask? Could it finally be?? a new chapter?! Yes. Yes, it is. Finally, I got Chapter 6 complete! Still iffy about how this one turned out but I NEEDED a Ghost POV chapter so bad. Please forgive my hiatus I actually had a chapter almost done when I came up with this one and I've been working on 6, 7, and 8 for some time... Just completely out of order and flopping between the three... So, anyway here is this, next one might be short as well but 8 will be HECTIC and looong so hopefully it makes it up to y'all. Also, yay!!(or not?) Ghost is back!! Teehee. Enjoy. (BTW My taglist somehow ended up a whole mess. So, if you are on there by mistake OR missing, please let me know thanks.) If you'd like to be added/removed from the taglist please, let me know.

<< PART 1 / << PART 5

*GHOST POV*

“Bloody hell.”

Ghost murmurs under his breath, standing in the middle of the empty master bedroom he’d left you in just a short while ago.

She couldn’t have stuck around a few more bloody minutes?

He thought to himself. He dragged a hand down the rough material of his mask. You as well as your things had vanished.

It's been less than an hour since I left her behind. She couldn't have gotten far.

Ghost searched the neighboring houses for you. His heavy boots flattened the unkempt grass.

Clearly, she didn’t need me if she took off so soon.

When he'd left, he had some time to reflect on your argument and how he’d stormed out. Thinking that maybe he had been a bit harsh. Which is what led him to turn around, backtracking to the house you’d been searching together. But now you were gone.

Why am I wasting my time? Not like she’s my responsibility. Besides, she can survive on her own. If she doesn’t… that’s not my problem.

Ghost knew the cost of caring for people, he didn't need attachments. Not anymore. He made that mistake before and wasn't going to shoulder that burden again.

He continued back into town, the mantra repeating in his mind, hoping to squash the guilt that pooled in his gut.

It’s fine. It’s fine… She’s fine.

The sun had set by the time Ghost reached the roof of a shopping center. He’d swept the shops clearing each corner before laying out all his gear to repack, minimizing the load and ensuring he only had necessities.

As he finished organizing his supplies Ghost took a much-needed smoke break.

The stale cigarette burned his lungs as he inhaled the smoke, leaning on his elbows over the ledge of the building.

The night was quiet. Trees rustled softly in the wind. The swirling smoke dispersed quickly as he blew it out into the night. The metallic tang lingered on his tongue.

For a moment he had no thoughts on his mind, successfully ignoring the gnawing guilt he’d been feeling all evening.

Until a distant car alarm caught his attention. It was faint, almost inaudible. Ghost chopped it up to one of the infected bumping a car on the freeway.

But then, a gunshot shattered the silence. Echoing across the empty streets.

“What the…”

He muttered, His scowl deepening as he scanned the dark road below. The night consumed the sky, leaving no light save for the cherry end of the cig burning away between his fingers.

Can’t be her. She only has a pistol—it wouldn’t sound like that.

He took another drag, forcing away the thought.

The second shot came quickly. Then a third.

The gnawing guilt crept back in stronger than before.

What if it is her? What if she’s in trouble?

He paused listening for another shot, but it never came. Finally, as the faint sound of the car alarm ceased, the worry poking at the back of his mind became too much.

“Damnit.”

He grumbles. He flicks the cigarette butt on the ground and snuffs it out with the toe of his boot. He pushed off the ledge Before gathering his things, abandoning his plans to camp there for the night, and headed towards the road again to investigate the shots.

Ghost is on the freeway when he spots you, perched on top of a truck, legs tucked under you, looking bored.

Immediately the tightness in his chest is replaced by relief and His grip on his bag loosens. Though he’d never admit it he was relieved to see you alive.

Your features were illuminated by a faint light as he looked you over. To his surprise, you seemed lighter somehow, not anxious or scared like he’d expected… as you had been before.

At least now he could follow through on his plan. Bring you through the city, get some supplies, find a safe place for you to settle in, and he’d be on his way.

He took a few more steps forward and opened his mouth to call your name but, froze when the figure of a man appeared beside you. Hands on his hips in a casual manner.

Ghost sunk low behind a nearby car taking cover in the darkness. His knees brushed the cracked asphalt.

His relief changed to irritation as he watched your interaction. You slid down off the roof of the truck and the man’s hand found its way to your back in a comforting gesture of familiarity.

The man turned, closed the door, and rounded to the back end of the truck. When he pulled himself to sit on the tailgate, that’s when Ghost got a glimpse of the man’s face.

“Graves.”

He growled. The name fell from his lips like a curse. It had been what felt like ages since he’d seen him. Ghost was in disbelief; he hadn't expected Graves to still be alive let alone have stuck around here.

Ghost couldn’t deny his anger; he’d lost daylight searching for you. He’d come all the way out here, in the dark, following gunshots because he was worried about you.

You were the problem.

He was losing his head because of you. Helping you on that road made you an obligation. You begged and cried, pleading with him to stick together, And for what?

He was torn with what to do now. On one hand, it bothered him, you being with Graves. But, at the same time, you were no longer his to care for. Although he didn’t exactly trust him, Graves was a capable man, and you’d have better odds sticking with him than going it alone.

And Ghost is too prideful to come crawling back with an apology, groveling at your feet to come back with him. Why drag you along with him when obviously you were more comfortable with Graves? As far as he was concerned you had gotten exactly what you wanted.

He watched for a few more moments. The wind carried the sounds of your light-hearted chatter.

What was it about Graves that left you in such a relaxed state? How did you not feel this safe with him? Ghost was always about caution and precision, but here Graves was hardly paying attention to your surroundings, and you seemed fine with it.

As you and Graves settled into the bed of the truck, likely to camp out for the night, Ghost sighed. You didn’t need him anymore, and he no longer needed to feel guilty.

Now, he too had what he wanted… He was alone.

PART 7 >>

Tag list

@yourfavbabigirl @keiraslayz @dcnocap207 @dustycrusty09 @jupiternighties @misspendragonsworld @etherealinthewoods @shadowcompanygirl @one-really-annoying-tree-rat @ghostieghoul711

[clqxuds]

The End Came Quietly

Next >>

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

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

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

Before the Outbreak...

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

It had been a long week.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shot you a wink. “Growth.”

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

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

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

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

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

You made a face, grimacing. “Gross.”

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

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

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

“Comforting,” you muttered.

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

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

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

Mostly.

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

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

He smirked. “Hot.”

You snickered.

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

You arched a brow. “You? Cook?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Definitely a date.”

You didn’t bother correcting him.

The grocery store was busier than usual.

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

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

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

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

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

Unless he was trying to impress you…

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

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

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

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

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

You grabbed the riesling.

It felt safer, somehow. Like a comfort wine.

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

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

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

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

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

The door opened before you could overthink it anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I bet you Febreze’d the couch.”

“Okay, I have high standards.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At one point, your shoulders bumped.

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

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

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

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

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

The dinner turned out… surprisingly good.

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

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

And you wanted this bubble to last.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, he totally was.”

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

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

“You mean like every other week?”

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

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

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

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

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

You laughed, nudging his foot with yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you knew you had to go.

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

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

Satoru didn’t answer right away.

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

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

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

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

You gave him a look.

“Okay, okay. I’m joking. Mostly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then he stepped closer.

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

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

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

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

The moment settled into stillness again.

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

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

He opened the door without a word.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Text me when you get home?”

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

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

Like he didn’t want to miss anything.

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

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

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

It made you ache a little.

Not from cold—but from the absence.

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

And he was still standing in the doorway.

Still watching you.

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

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

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

You kept replaying it.

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

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

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

let me know when you're home, yeah?

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

home safe. thanks again for dinner, chef gojo. and for… everything else

You sent it before you could overthink, tossed your phone on the couch, and let out a long breath.

Your apartment felt too quiet.

Still, even.

Like the kind of quiet that came before a storm, or a scream.

But you shook the thought off.

The night still clung to your skin, warm and sweet and a little wine-heavy, so you peeled off your sweater and skirt and traded them for an old t-shirt and cotton shorts. Barefoot, you padded into the kitchen, cracked open the freezer, and pulled out a pint of chocolate ice cream.

You didn’t bother with a bowl. Just grabbed a spoon and walked back to the living room, kicking the blanket off the couch and flopping down sideways.

The TV glowed soft and blue in the dimness, casting shadows across your walls as some half-watched rom-com murmured in the background.

You weren’t watching it, though. Not Really.

Not when your brain was too busy playing a highlight reel of everything from the past six hours.

The wine. The pasta. The lesson plan. The look in his eyes when he asked you to text him. The way he hadn’t closed the door until your ride was fully gone down the street.

You weren’t sure when it had happened—when the friendship shifted.

But it had.

Something felt different now, and it scared you. In a good way. In the way that made your stomach dip and your chest feel like it was floating in air.

You scooped another bite of ice cream, let it melt slowly on your tongue, and curled deeper into the cushions.

You meant to just rest your eyes for only a second.

But the movie kept playing. The room got darker.

You didn’t even notice the first low, distant sound—like a tremble in the sky. You didn’t see the flash of movement through your living room blinds. The helicopters passed overhead just a few miles south, heading toward the city center in tight formation. Low. Fast.

You didn’t hear the sirens.

What you did hear was the sound of your phone shrieking.

A sharp, mechanical blaring—louder than any ringtone, jarring and high-pitched. You jolted upright, breath caught in your throat, and grabbed blindly for your phone as it lit up the room with a red glow.

EMERGENCY ALERT CDC WARNING – CONTAGIOUS VIRAL OUTBREAK DETECTED STAY INDOORS. AVOID ALL CONTACT. AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS.

Your heart was pounding behind your ribcage.

You barely had time to sit up fully before the television stuttered—screen flickering once, twice, before it went black with a soft click.

Then it returned.

Not your movie. Not static.

A black screen. White block letters. The same that appeared on your phone.

EMERGENCY BROADCAST SYSTEM STAND BY FOR LIVE ADDRESS

Your ice cream slid off the couch and hit the floor with a soft thud, but you didn’t notice.

A man appeared on-screen, sitting stiff behind a podium. He looked…wrong. Face pale, hands gripping the edge of the table like he might fall forward. His tie was off-center. A bandage peeked from beneath his sleeve.

He didn’t blink enough either.

“This is a national emergency,” he began, voice shaking slightly. “All citizens are advised to remain inside their homes. Do not attempt to travel. Do not engage with anyone displaying symptoms of disorientation, fever, or violent behavior.”

You stared, still half-curled under your blanket, but no longer warm. No longer relaxed.

You weren’t thinking about Satoru anymore.

You weren’t thinking about dinner, or lesson plans, or his hands brushing your shoulders.

Your world had just cracked open.

And the worst part was:

You didn’t even know it yet.

Author's Note: SO, this wasn't supposed to come out for awhile, but I've been rewatching The Last of Us and I was feeling inspired, so now you're being fed yet another fic. For this one, I think the updates are going to be a bit slower, just because I'd like to finish TSaH first before jumping into a longer fic.

As always my lovelies, if you enjoyed, a repost is always appreciated!

And let me know if I should make a taglist, if anyone is interested!

@fati27ma

[clqxuds]

Urban Legend

shape shifter/wendigo!Leon S. Kennedy x fem!reader - NSFW

warnings: 18+ minors DNI, monsterfucking, dirty talk, mentions of cannibalism, threats, CNC, rape fantasy, rape talk, oral (f receiving), impromptu thigh job lol, biting, blood kink, multiple creampies, fingering, overstimulation, belly bulge, cum inflation, breeding kink, double penetration in one hole

not proofread ✌️ it’s all made up and the points don’t matter 😜

I literally had to stop myself from writing so sorry if the ending is sudden/lame 😝

“There’s no way that it’s real,” you scoff into your phone.

“Then why was it in the newspaper, huh?” Your friend’s voice sounds tinny on the other end, letting you know you’ll be out of range soon. 

“To sell them, duh,” you laugh, “hey listen, I’m about to lose service so I’ll talk to you on Monday.”

“Call me if anything happens!” her concern makes you smile to yourself. 

“Will do, bye!”

You lock your phone and slide it back into your pocket. A quick glimpse of a chimney in the treeline lets you know you’re almost to the cabin. It’s just a small little one bed, one bath place deep in the middle of the woods. Your parents moved and left the place to you, so you’re not able to come out as much as you like so it’s a little more rundown than in previous years. 

You have to park at the bottom and make the mile long hike up the mountain in order to reach it. There’s an ATV parked in the shed for any emergencies, but you’ve made the trek all these years without any issues so fingers crossed this will just be another year in the bucket. 

Stepping up onto the small porch, you pull out the spare key and unlock the door. A branch snaps off in the woods and you shoot a look over your shoulder. Your friend’s nervousness seems to be rubbing off on you. Rolling your eyes, you turn back to open the door. 

“There’s no such thing as werewolves anyways,” you mutter under your breath. 

She gave you a quick breakdown of the last several month’s events while you talked to her on your walk. She told you there’s been missing livestock for weeks until suddenly a few local parishioners went missing after service and were found brutally mutilated days later. Attacks have been gradually ramping up, peaking around the full moon especially (which just happens to be the weekend you decided for a mini vacation at the cabin, go figure). 

The locals believe in some old wives tales about a werewolf returning every hundred years. You think it’s kinda cute they hold onto such old superstitions, but it’s more than likely some bobcat or mountain lion that’s come down due to deforestation in the area. 

You let these thoughts wash over you as you bustle around the cabin; you get everything in place and mentally thank your dad for putting up solar panels years ago. Those paired with the propane tank and generator outside means you won’t be without hot running water or lights. 

Once you’re all settled in, you decide to make something quick and simple for dinner before relaxing in front of the fireplace. Stretching out on the beat up couch, you scrunch your toes in the thick fuzzy socks you love to wear this time of year and flip open the book you brought with you. You’ve just found the most comfortable position for reading, becoming more engrossed page by page when a loud thudding knock rings out from your door. You jump at the sound and scowl over at the door. 

Another knock happens and you close your book, making sure your bookmark is securely tucked in the pages, and raise up. Quietly walking to the door, you peek out of the peephole and see an injured man slumped against the porch railing. Your heartbeat quickens and you watch as he raises a tired hand to knock on the door again. Glancing around the area yields nothing but trees and the dusky twilight. 

You tiptoe away and grab the rifle out of the gun safe next to the fireplace. As you walk back over, the man knocks once more. 

“How can I help you?” You call out from your side of the door, gazing back through the peephole. 

The man tilts his face up, fringe falling away for you to make out a strong jawline. 

“I-I was attacked and n-need help,” he winces, arm hugging his middle where you can see blood seeping through his shirt, “some kinda w-wild animal. I just need a phone or a first aid kit. Please, miss.” 

You pause, eyes glancing down to the gun in your hands. On the off chance he’s faking, well he won’t be for long.

“What’s your name?” You call out, pulling your phone from your pocket. 

“Leon. Leon Kennedy,” he grunts, clenching his waist.

You type it out in your notes as well as a text message just to be on the safe side and lock your phone again. Unbolting the heavy door, you pull it open, gun at your side. 

He glances down at the weapon and back up to you, a small grin pulling at the corners of his mouth before pain pinches his expression. 

“Promise I don’t bite.”

You gesture forward and he takes a staggering step before pausing. 

“Are you coming in or what?”

He grimaces and takes another halting step, “Yeah, just hurts to move.”

You shift on your feet, debating with yourself before setting the gun down and stepping forward. 

“I’ll help you,” you murmur, taking his other arm and placing it over your shoulders. 

You angle him in the doorway first and help him hobble over to a chair near the fire. 

“Thank you,” he breathes out a sigh of relief before groaning, “cut me pretty deep.”

You walk over to pick up the gun and move it back to the safe. Making your way to the bathroom, you pull the first aid pack from under the sink and walk over to your impromptu guest. 

“Can you take your shirt off?”

“Shouldn’t you buy me dinner first,” he jokes, but stiffly slips his shirt over his head. 

You smile sardonically and snap open the bag, “I usually don’t harbor strange men on my days off, so I guess I don’t quite know the protocol.”

He laughs but it ends in another pained groan, hand pressing against the clawed marks across his ribs. 

“Shit, that might need stitches,” you frown, pulling out the disinfectant. 

Once you clean off the area, you notice it’s not as deep as you thought.

“Luckily we didn’t need to use the quick clot,” you smear antibacterial ointment over the wounds and pull out the gauze. 

He hums but doesn’t say anything; his blue eyes haven’t moved from your face the entire time you’ve been ‘doctoring’ him. 

“Thank you for this, I really thought I was gonna be wandering the woods for hours,” he finally speaks as you tape a bandage across his ribs and wrap it with the gauze (to be on the safe side you murmur to him). 

“Well, tomorrow, we can ride the ATV down and call a friend or the local ranger since you were attacked by an animal,” you zip up the first aid kit and grab all the rubbish to toss in the trash. 

He nods, “Okay.”

“You’ll be sleeping on the couch,” you point to the old upholstered couch in question, “it’s not big but it’s better than the floor.”

His eyes flick from the couch back to you, “I appreciate it. Better than being outside, ya know.”

He quirks a smile at his own words and you give a tight one in response. 

Sitting down in the chair across from him, you give him a quick once over, “Are you okay though? Like I’m not doctor, but I can help you down the mountain to my car if you really need one.”

He shakes his head, a softer smile pulling at his lips, “No, I’m good. Thanks though.”

“What happened?”

“I have a place out here and decided to go for a walk and an asshole jumped out of the bushes and nicked my ribs, knocked me down. I got a little disoriented and wound up over here. I could hear it following me up until I reached your porch.”

You rub your arms and gaze over to the front door, “Did you see what it was?”

“Some kinda wolf I think,” his brows furrow as he thinks back, “big for a wolf though.”

His expression clears as he looks back at you, “You live here?”

Shaking your head, you drop his gaze to look into the fireplace, “No, just a weekend getaway. Shitty job and even shittier neighbors getting on my nerves, so here I am.”

He laughs, “You don’t love your job?”

“No, not really,” a small smile crosses your face turning back to him, “does anyone?”

Leon shrugs before hissing from jostling the wound, “Mine’s not so bad. I work security.”

“Ahh, any place I know?” 

He shakes his head, “It’s local.”

You hum in reply and glance at your watch. 

“Well, I’m going to head to bed,” you stand and make your way back to the gun safe, pulling out the rifle again, “not to be rude, but I don’t know you from Adam so if you need to get my attention, I highly stress knocking and waiting for me to reply.”

His gaze doesn’t move from your face, “Read you loud and clear, miss.”

“Bathrooms through there, kitchen is there,” you point at each in turn, but with the open floor plan it would be hard for Leon to miss any of this, “I’ll probably wake up pretty early and make coffee. Then we’ll head down, okay?”

He nods along with you, “Okay, I’ll see you in the morning then.”

You walk over to the bedroom and right before the door snaps shut, Leon calls out to you. 

“Goodnight!”

“Goodnight,” you parrot, giving one last look to the stranger now sitting on your couch. 

His eyes seem to reflect the firelight making you shiver. In a blink, everything seems normal making you think you only imagined it. Closing the door all the way, you slide the lock in place and crawl into bed, leaning the rifle next to your nightstand. 

He says he lives nearby but you’ve been coming to this cabin for most of your life and have never heard of any neighbors. It’s one of the reasons why your parents bought this place, the seclusion of not having anyone around for miles. He’s just really suspicious to you, even if he is cute. 

You eventually drift off, eyes trained on the door until they’re slipping shut. A loud jarring sound from the living room wakes you with a jerk. Raising up your hand hovers over your gun. A loud muffled curse makes you deflate a little. Leaving your warm bed, you unlock and open your bedroom door a crack to see Leon kneeling over the chair he must’ve ran into. 

“You okay?” You call out making him jump, head jerking around to the sound of your voice. 

“Yeah,” he clears his throat, “I sorta tripped. Sorry to wake you up.”

You shrug and step out, making your way over to the kitchen, “Shit happens.”

Leon watches you as you grab a bottle of water from the fridge. 

“You seem really interesting,” he tosses out as you drink your water, “it’s kinda refreshing.”

“No offense Leon, but this is super weird for me,” you blatantly state, squinting at him, “in all my time being up here, I’ve never run into anyone else.”

“I was attacked,” he gestures to his ribs, “and I walked around for a while before finding you. It’s not like I was hiding out for you.”

He laughs suggesting it’s a joke, but there’s a ring of truth to his words that makes your hair stand on end. You eye the block of knives to your left. 

Once he realizes you’re not laughing, he tapers off, a queer little smile tugging at his lips. 

“I think I’ve spooked you,” he sighs, placing his chin in his palm as it rests against the chair, “didn’t mean to, miss.”

Using the excuse of sitting your bottle down on the counter, you side step closer to the knives. 

A grin stretches wide across his face, “Those won’t do you any good.”

Your fingernails dig into the soft meat of your palms as you level a flat look at the man in front of you. 

“And why not, Leon?”

He tilts his head, fringe shifting until only one blue eye can be seen, “Because they’re not sharp enough, silly.”

By the time your fingers wrap around the handle of a butcher’s knife, four sharp claws are wrapped around your neck, thumb digging into your jaw to tilt your head up. Your brain stutters, trying to comprehend what you’re even looking at now. 

He’s monstrous, blocking out the light completely, his body towering above your frame by a couple of feet, not including the curled ram horns protruding from his head. From what little you can see, you’re grateful for the dark. He chuckles a low warbling sound that has your heart rate kicking into overdrive. 

“You’re very interesting,” you feel a cold press of something hard and smooth against your ear, “think I’ll keep you for myself.”

He drags you closer to the fire and you catch a flash of an animal skull in place of a face before he turns away and in a blink he looks human as he did earlier tonight. 

He smiles at you, “Gotta remember not to scare you too much.”

With all the insanity that has taken place in the last few minutes, you find yourself blurting out the first thing that comes to mind.

“You weren’t even hurt, you asshole. Made me waste my first aid gauze.”

Surprise crosses Leon’s features before he’s smiling again, too wide to be human. You can see his pupils are slitted now, like a cat’s.  

“Yes, very interesting,” he chuckles, facing off against you and blocking any access to the bedroom (and your gun), “and you’re right.”

Under his breath you catch the words, “fucking Chris.”

You purse your lips, “If I go missing, they’re going to come looking for me. They’ll know your name.”

He sits you down on the couch taking a seat next to you. Leon’s excited by your words, eagerly leaning into your space. 

“You’re just full of surprises,” his teeth are longer now, needle sharp as he speaks, “and so clever. I like you already. I don’t plan on killing you.”

You snort, “Sure, and all of those locals just fell down and hurt themselves to death?”

He laughs, a sharp bright sound that makes your chest flutter.

“Oh, well they had it coming to them. Needed to eat,” his eyes reflect in the low light, “you’re such fun.”

He leans forward and breathes in causing goosebumps to race down your arms, “You make me want things. Things I haven’t thought of in a long, long time.”

Confusion pinches your brows together, “How old are you? Wait, is Leon even your real name?”

“You ask such silly questions,” he pouts, “and yes, it is. Why? Think I should have something like Cthulhu?”

You huff a laugh at how offended he sounds but bite down the smile as soon as Leon lights up from your amusement. 

“You’re a tough cookie to crack,” he presses more into your space making your skin prickle, “think I know a way to get you to like me.”

He pulls back and tugs his shirt off and with a small flex of his arms, rips the clothing in half. You can’t help but stare at him. When you patched him up hours ago, you had a fleeting appreciation of his body and now it flares back up as your eyes trace his pecs down to the happy trail disappearing under the band of his jeans. 

After tearing the shirt again, he wraps a torn piece around your wrists and ties it off. You try twisting your arms, but it does nothing except pinch the skin. Embarrassingly, your clit pulses at the feeling of being tied up like this. 

Next, Leon strips you both down quickly; his eyes hungrily raking down your nude body as he removes each piece of clothing.  Feeling self conscious, even in front of a monster, you shift your arms to cover yourself. He grabs your biceps, blue cat eyes flashing with heat, and yanks them back up. 

“Let me have my fill,” he gnashes his teeth, sharp points drawing your eye, “look at how soft you are, all that lovely unmarked skin…”

His voice trails off as he runs his hands down your arms to your breasts. 

“Sweet little nipples that need sucked…”

You shiver as he tweaks your nipples until they’re stiff and sensitive. He runs his hands over your soft stomach and hips. One hand grips the fat of your waist and the other teasingly rubs across your mound. 

“And a fat wet pussy that needs licked.” 

You shudder at those words, thighs subconsciously parting for him as he grins wickedly into your eyes. 

“Yeah that’s what she needs, huh? A sexy cunt that just needs to be stuffed full with a big fat cock.”

A whine slips past your lips and you go hot all over with embarrassment, toes curling against the soft rug. 

“S-shut up, fucking perv.”

He laughs, a distorted chime that reminds you of a bell, and leans forward to nose against your jaw, kissing your cheek. 

“Mmm, I’ll enjoy every second of this. You’re so feisty,” he kisses down to your neck, “which means this pussy is gonna taste so good. Especially when you cum.”

You glare at him but can’t stop the slick leaking down your thighs from his words and touches. It’s your darkest fantasy come true; you’ve gotten off to the thought of someone forcing themselves on you more than you’d like to admit. And now this weird creature is going to have his wicked way with you; it makes your pussy thrum in anticipation. 

His hands distort into claws in front of your eyes; the fingers are multi jointed in the strangest of ways, skin discolored and skeletal with nails long and sharp, digging into your waist roughly making you suck in a breath. His teeth and eyes are still abnormal, but so far that’s the extent. 

“What are you?” you murmur, eyes wide as they move back down to his strange hands. 

He shrugs easily, “I’m me,” grinning mischievously he presses on, “wanna see something?”

Before you can say anything he sticks out his pink tongue. It unfurls from his mouth, long and thick with a rough bumpy texture. He laughs and pulls it back into his mouth. 

“Gonna show you how fun it can be,” he kneels down in the floor, between your parted thighs, “god, you smell fucking fantastic.”

He drools a line of spit down onto the hood of your clit making your cunt throb with arousal. 

“Yeah, you may say you don’t like it, but look how fucking messy this pussy is,” he sighs happily, laying his head onto your thigh to gaze up at you, “I’m gonna make you feel so good, little human.”

He kisses your cunt sweetly making your hips jump up. 

“So sensitive,” he growls, eyes luminous as he glances back up to your face, “gonna enjoy this.”

He buries his face into your pussy, slurping and groaning as he licks into your hole. 

“Such a fat pussy,” he grunts, mouth moving up to suckle your clit, “fat little pussy that’s gonna cum all over my tongue.”

You whimper, hooking your legs over his shoulders making him laugh at you. 

“You like that? Like that I wanna eat this sweet pussy until you’re creaming my face?”

“Fuck,” you moan, head tossed back as he dives back into licking and kissing your pussy. 

It should gross you out, turn you off, anything, other than wanting to have this monster eat you out. You blame it on your brain just giving into the craziness that’s happening. Hell, maybe you’ll wake up and this will all have been some kind of fever dream. 

You grind against his mouth and his thick rough tongue fucks up into your clenching hole, fluttering against your walls and stretching your cunt wide like a cock would. Reaching down, your fingers grip into his hair, using it as an anchor as you hump down onto his tongue. 

With a rumbling purr deep within his chest, you feel his hair shift as his horns grow out of his skull. Hesitantly, you move from his silky hair to the rough texture of his horns. You gently wrap your fingers around the base and he humps the air. 

“Grip’em,” he murmurs, eyes bright, sharp teeth nipping the meat of your thigh, “think we’ll both like it.” 

A shuddering whine leaves your lips as you grasp his horns and rock against his greedy mouth. He groans, the vibration thrumming through your cunt making more slick ooze from your hole. He pulls away to lick a broad stripe up your cunt, bumpy tongue lapping slowly at your clit making your thighs shake. 

With a rumbling growl, he buries his face into your pussy lips, tongue pressing into your drippy hole. You shift your wrists as the binding bites into your skin while you grip his horns. He purrs and rubs his head back and forth so his nose rolls across your swollen clit. Whining softly, you buck upward, grinding yourself against his mouth. 

More slick oozes from your cunt and he slips his tongue into your pulsing walls before licking his way up to your pudgy clit. Leon bites your pussy lips, sucking the skin roughly before letting go. He kisses the hood of your clit and across your mound before biting down on where your cunt meets your thigh. 

Letting go, he moves back to running his bumpy tongue through your slick folds. You arch off the couch and into his warm rough mouth as he keeps licking and sucking at your cunt until you’re crying out. 

“You’re gonna make me cum,” you pant, tugging his horns before grasping his hair. 

He hums and sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue licking over the swollen bud as you moan softly. Right on the brink, he pulls his mouth away, sticky strings of saliva connecting to your pussy lips as he denies you your orgasm. 

You narrow your eyes at him as he pulls away, his slitted pupils expanded as they move up from your glistening cunt to your pinched expression. 

He grins and the sharp teeth make your clit throb.  Gripping your arms, he slips your hands over his head to wrap around his neck. Moving up your body, he kisses you messily, tongue licking into your mouth greedily. You whimper to taste yourself on his lips. 

His claws slide down your ribs making your breath stutter, exhaling a gasp as they wrap around your waist. 

“So soft,” he murmurs, “just wanna sink my claws in you over and over.”

He slips his hands underneath your ass and lifts you up, standing to his full height where your head nearly brushes the roof of the cabin. Turning, he sits down on the couch with you in his lap.  

“You seem rather human,” you mutter, eyes taking in his body as you straddle his waist, legs tucked on the outside of his thighs. 

“Easier to enjoy a soft thing like you when I’m like this,” he laughs, clawed hands digging into the meat of your hips.

“It’s just surprising,” you shrug, arms still tied around his neck. 

His eyes gleam white before settling back into their usual blue; he shifts on the couch before a smooth cat like tail slips from behind his body to wrap around your waist. 

“Better?” A smug look crosses his face. 

You hold back the laugh bubbling at the base of your throat; maybe you’ve lost your mind, maybe this is some weird hallucination brought on by whatever you ate, but a monster trying to impress you before fucking your brains out is something you never would have dreamt in your wildest fantasies. 

“What about your face earlier?”

He rolls his eyes, “That’s so boring. Don’t you wanna see if I have two cocks or something?”

This time you do laugh, a small sound that you quickly stifle under his gaze. He jostles you as he pulls you down onto his bulge making your breath hitch from the sheer size of him. 

“The answer is yes by the way,” his grin widens at the same time as your eyes do, tail tightening around your middle in excitement. 

Burying his face in your neck, he mutters, “You seriously smell so good.”

His fingers move down and tease across your swollen clit, parting your pussy lips to drag slick up from your hole all around your bud. He lets go to remove his pants (which you’re not even sure how they’re still on), having you raise up on your knees as he shoves them down and off. 

Once you settle back down on his lap one of his dripping cocks is sandwiched between your pussy lips and the other presses against the front of your mound, uncut head smearing precum on your abdomen, making you clench around nothing. From the looks of this one, both are thick and long, definitely bigger than anything you’ve had before. 

“Eyes are up here,” his snarky tone pulls your attention back up to his face. 

You shake your head, “How—“

“One at a time, silly,” he nips your neck, “then once you’re stretched enough, we can try both.”

His voice drops a lower octave, “But you’ve also got two holes that we can try out, too.”

Your eyes flutter as your cunt oozes slick all over his cock making him laugh.

“You’re really interesting,” he sloppily kisses your neck, “never had someone so excited before. Usually have to rape their little cunts in their sleep.”

You whimper and he raises up to smirk at you. 

“Were you hoping for the same thing? Mmm, all half asleep as I stuff that pussy,” he purrs in your ear, “too tired and weak to push me off as I rape this tiny hole til I’m pulling out and covering you with cum.”

You grind down against his cocks as your nails digs into the back of his neck making him smile into the feeling. 

“You’re such fun,” he tilts his head, eyes glittering, “just for that I’ll give you a little treat.”

Your mouth drops open in shock as he changes between one blink to the next; his entire face morphs to that of a smooth animal skull, bright eyes flaring from the empty eye sockets. He bares his teeth at you in what you hope is a smile. 

“Ta da!” His voice comes out distorted and echoey, octave low and strange. 

A high keen slips past your lips as he eases the head of one of his cocks into your cunt. 

“You’re so wet,” he praises, “god, ‘m so lucky to get a little freak like you.”

You want to argue against him, but it’s hard when this monster is slowly sinking his fat dick into your spasming hole, stretching you out so good. 

He pauses when he’s only halfway inside, holding you still with his huge hands until you’re squirming. 

“Please,” you whisper, frustration making tears bead your lash line. 

“Awww,” he coos at you, “since you’ve been so good, I guess you can have it all.”

And with that, he drops you down on his lap like a stone, cock bullying all the way into your cunt until the fat tip is bruising your cervix making you wail. 

“Too rough?” He smirks. 

You nod and slump against his chest. 

“Must like it,” he mocks, “this pussy is gripping me so tight, don’t know if I can pull out.”

You shudder and drool on his pecs as his cock kicks inside your overly full pussy. His other cock drips precum all over your lower abdomen from where it’s sandwiched between you two. 

“Untie me,” you’re able to slur out, slowly tugging your arms over his head. 

He squints at you (or the skull seems to insinuate squinting) and uses a claw to slice through the tattered shirt binding your wrists. 

Sighing, you rotate your hands before placing them on his chest and dragging them down. You watch as his muscles jump and twitch under your smooth palms. Finally, you cup the base of his other cock and slowly pull down the foreskin. You drool a line of spit down onto the head and precum blurts from the tip of his dick.

He snarls and pulls out only to roughly fuck back into your pussy. Whimpering, you’re only able to loosely grip his second cock as he jackhammers into your soaked cunt. 

“Sensitive, huh,” you murmur, eyes half lidded as they gaze up into his skull face. 

He whines at your words, grinding his tip hard against your cervix making your eyes roll back, “Been so long since a pretty thing wanted to play with me.”

Your hands grip his cock and begin to jerk him off firmly, spitting down on his tip to make it wet and messy. 

His tail, which you forgot about, slips lower down on your waist and lightly teases across your clit. 

“Oh,” your eyes move from his slackened jaw down to watch his soft tail slowly tap and rub across your swollen clit. 

Your cunt squeezes around his cock rhythmically as he teases your bundle of nerves until you’re rocking against him. His claws let go of your hips to wrap around your thighs, spreading you open until he can see his cock pounding into your drippy hole.  

His tail helps you lean back some so he can leverage his hips into rolling thrusts up into your pussy. Your hands shakily keep stroking his other cock,completely  covered in spit and precum. 

His tail smacks across your clit and your orgasm hits you hard. Your toes curl and spine arches as your cunt clenches down on his thick cock like a vice, milking him until it must hurt but he only groans in pleasure. Your hands go slack and he grabs them to toss over his broad shoulders. 

He presses his mouth right against your ear, low baritone making your cunt spasm and clench around his fat cock. 

“Gotta pull out, little human,” he chuckles when you whine, “mmm, I’ve got to cause if I cum in you, we’ll be mated. And you wouldn’t want that, would ya?”

Your nails dig into his shoulders hard enough to pierce his skin and he purrs, “Unless you want me to fill up this sexy little pussy and keep you forever.”

You bounce what little you can down onto his dick, hands moving up to his horns to grab onto them. Feeling cockdrunk and unhinged, you swivel your hips to fuck him harder, wanting everything he has to give.

“Wanna feel it,” you sigh as he sinks his sharp teeth into your shoulder, “fill me up, Leon.”

He growls, a loud inhuman sound that makes your skin crawl and a bolt of fear spike through the arousal. Instead of letting go, you grind down even harder, pussy feeling sore and sensitive. 

“You want me to cum inside you?” He sounds pained and when he tilts back up his skull face has morphed into the one he wore earlier that night.

“Uh huh,” you pant and bring up one of your hands to cradle his jaw, hips swiveling down to prevent him from pulling out, “or are you all talk?”

In a flash, he has your back on the couch as he pins you down in a mating press, legs pressed open wide by his clawed hands. 

He snaps his teeth in your face, “You don’t even know what it means to be bred, do you? I’ll have this fat cunt stuffed so full you’re dripping my seed for days. You’ll beg for it constantly, needing me to breed your cute little hole cause you feel so empty.”

You whine, hands coming up to wrap around his horns again, “Promise?”

He growls low in his throat and smashes your mouths together, his sharp teeth  cutting your bottom lip so the taste of blood flavors your kisses. 

“Promise,” he mutters against your mouth before licking up the blood tinging your lips. 

“Gonna mate you all the time,” he mumbles against you as he pistons his hips deep into your swollen pussy, “have you cumming on my cock until you can’t even think anymore.”

You moan and pull him back in for more sloppy kisses, “Please, please, Leon, cum in my pussy.”

His second cock’s weeping so much precum, your stomach is a sticky mess, but it just makes you squeeze down on the cock inside you even more. Leon has flipped some switch in your brain because you feel like you’ll die if he doesn’t spill inside you.

“You promised me both,” you pout, tears clinging to your lashes as his cock presses into your cervix, “promised to stuff me with both.”

He groans brokenly, hips shuddering as he bucks into you one last time, spilling his thick load deep into your cunt at the same time his other cock spurts rope after rope of hot thick cum all over your body, jizz shooting all the up to your chin. 

He groans like an animal you’ve never heard of as he dumps load after load into your pussy until it’s spilling out around his fat cock. 

“Mated,” he sounds happy as he sinks his teeth into your neck making you scream out.

He pulls back with bloody teeth and that’s the last thing you see before passing out. 

~*~*~*~

The warm slant of sunlight from the bedroom window shines into your eyes and you roll over with a grumble. You raise up quickly once you remembered where you were, only to see Leon lounging on the bed next to you eating a bowl of cereal as he watches the small portable tv on the dresser. 

“These movies are so dumb,” he scoffs, digging into your Count Chocula cereal, “they always go overboard on the transformations.” 

Your bleary eyes squint at the small screen and see what looks to be The Thing and you frown at him. Pushing yourself up, you slump against his side, body feeling overly sore (the same as your sensitive cunt). 

“That better not be the last of it,” you mumble against his arm, making him turn his bright eyes over to you. 

“No, but good morning, little mate,” he purrs, setting the bowl down on your nightstand so he can roll over on top of you to pin you down to the bed. 

You whimper and arch up into the soft kisses he presses against your neck. The blanket slips down to his waist as he grinds his cocks against your needy pussy. He eases the head of one of them inside your hole, making you sigh and wrap your legs around his waist. 

“Gotta fill you up again,” he chuckles, “sucking me in like I didn’t spend all night pounding this little pussy.”

“Leon,” you whine, nails scratching red lines down his back and making his hips thrust into you. 

He fucks you slow and soft, rutting into your pussy as his other cock is sandwiched between your thighs. 

“Perfect,” he sighs happily, “can’t wait to give you both.”

Eyes fluttering, you moan and pull him down fully on top of you, his heavy weight squishing you into the mattress. He growls and snaps his hips harder, the sound of his balls slapping against your ass makes you clench down on him. 

“First pussy I’ve ever got to creampie,” he coos against your ear, “so taboo to mate a human, but damn if I don’t love fucking this tight cunt. S’all mine now, I own this tight little pussy.”

His words wring your first orgasm of the day from your sore body, pussy walls fluttering as you cum around his fat cock. He moans low in his throat, hips rabbiting harder against you as he chases his own climax. 

His blunted human teeth bite down on your neck as he buries his cock as deep as he can in your pussy, pumping his load right against your cervix as his other cock spills wet and hot between your legs. 

“Fuck,” you whimper, clit pulsing as he stuffs you to the brim and paints your thighs white with his thick cum.  

He pulls away with a grunt and snuggles into your side. With a soft giggle, he nuzzles against the bite mark he left on your shoulder. 

“Can’t wait to show you off. Chris is gonna eat shit,” he crows in your ear before kissing your jaw. 

“Chris?” you tiredly ask, twisting to look at the top of Leon’s head. 

“Yeah he’s the asshole who scratched up my ribs. He’s a part of what you humans would call my pack,” he leans up to kiss you on the lips, “don’t worry, I’ll introduce you after you’re settled in.”

“What?” You frown. 

“I’ve got a place not too far from here,” he gushes, eyes shining excitedly, “you’re gonna love it. It overlooks the river and everything.”

“You have a house?” Your brain feels like it’s lagging behind. 

“Of course, silly,” he kisses your neck again, “you’ll come live with me. I’ll take care of you, never have to worry about a thing.”

“Quit my job and just move out here?”

“It’s not like you liked it anyway,” he rolls his eyes before climbing on top of you, pinning you down again. 

His cocks rub against your cunt making you whimper. 

“I’ll take such good care of you,” he murmurs before kissing you, strange tongue licking into your mouth. 

Whining, you suck on the thick muscle as he rocks against you, cunt oozing creamy slick and cum all over your thighs. 

“Keep you forever,” he groans, pulling back to prop his weight on his forearms, “got me addicted to this little human pussy already. Definitely not letting you go.”

A high pitched moan slips from your lips as he slips the head of both of his cocks into your cunt. 

“Mmm, can’t fit quite yet but we’ll get there,” he laughs, “let me just slip the tips in for now.”

Your thighs tremble as he rocks the first few inches of each cock into your used cunt. He relaxes on top of you, letting your pussy cockwarm his dicks as he bites and kisses at your neck. He moves up to kiss you, all wet and messy, making you whimper and cling to him. 

It doesn’t take long before you’re rocking against him, slowly fucking the heads of his cocks in and out of your stretched pussy.  He sighs and purrs into your kisses as he tongue fucks your mouth. You can feel as his teeth change against your lips, sharp points digging into the sensitive skin. 

He works you for what feels like hours, just slowly sinking inch by inch into your spasming hole. His precum and your slick have soaked your thighs all the way to the bedspread underneath. It’s a wet mess between your thighs, but all you can feel is the pleasurable pain of being too full. 

“Never had someone take both like this,” he rumbles happily, nosing against your jaw, “god, what a perfect fucking pussy. You’re taking me in so well, such a good fucking girl.”

You hiccup a whine at the praise, walls fluttering against the stretch of his dicks. 

“Yeah? Like being my good girl,” he nips at your earlobe, “you’re the best I’ve ever had, so fucking lucky. Can’t believe I own a slut who likes being DP’d.”

Your nails dig harshly into his back as your toes curl, his words making you burn hot all over. 

“Like that?” He mocks, “like that I own you and your pretty pussy?”

His tail slips between your bodies to spank your clit making you cry out and  rock against him harder. 

“Leon,” you slur out, tears slipping from your eyes due to overstimulation.

With a groan, he buries both cocks to the hilt inside of your clenching heat. Your pussy feels stretched to the limit, overwhelmed by the sheer size of both of his dicks. You gasp and mewl, feeling like you can’t breathe from being stuffed so full. 

“Shh, shhh, I’ve got you,” he kisses your cheek, “taking me so well. Tight little cunt just made for me, huh?”

Not able to think, you just babble out nonsensical words, feeling on the edge of another orgasm. It’s not going to take much to make you cum. 

“Aww did I fuck you stupid?” He laughs, “wet little pussy just can’t handle me can she?”

His tail smacks across your pudgy clit and your orgasm slams into you, making you squirt around his cocks, too spread open to clamp down as tight as usual. 

“Oh fuck me,” he hisses, grinding himself deeper, making you wail as you continue to gush around him. 

“Got your cute little pussy to squirt,” he moans excitedly, “fuck, that’s so hot.”

He growls and you watch as his eyes shine before his body shifts into that monstrous form you saw last night. He’s huge, caging you in with his skeletal and strangely jointed body. You whimper and move your hands up from digging into his shoulders to the horns coming out of the skull he’s wearing now. 

He pulls out only to bully his fat cocks back into your well used pussy. Eyes rolling back at the pleasure he’s wringing from your body, you moan and grip his horns tighter making him buck harder into you. A few more thrusts and you’re cumming again with a weak cry, pussy walls fluttering and milking Leon’s dicks. 

“My mate,” his distorted voice rumbles, hips fucking roughly into your spasming hole, “gonna breed your little pussy, fill you up with my hot cum.”

All you can do is mewl and whimper underneath his body, feeling as he fucks harder and harder into your cunt until he’s finally burying himself all the way inside. His tips knock and rub against your cervix which set off fireworks behind your eyes as you cum one last time. 

Hot thick spurts of cum shoot out and quickly stuff your pussy full. Your abdomen looks bloated from how much Leon’s pumping inside your body. He’s snarling against your neck as he humps your pussy, dumping load after load into you until it’s dripping out around his balls. 

You must black out cause the next thing you know, you’re leaning against Leon’s chest in the bath. Whimpering, you weakly grasp onto the hand he has trailing across your stomach. 

“Finally awake,” he chuffs against your hair, “how do you feel?”

“Sore,” you croak out, throat feeling scratchy. 

One of his hands clasps yours while the other slides across your hip to your swollen pussy. 

“Leon,” you whine, “I can’t.”

“Shhh,” he kisses the side of your head, “let me make you feel good, my perfect little mate.”

His fingers quickly tease and rub across your sensitive clit until you’re rocking your hips up with the motion. 

“There we go, good girl,” he sighs, “let me play with that cute pussy. Feels so good to have my fingers on your little clit, huh?”

“Mm hmm,” you arch back into his chest, thighs parted until they’re touching the sides of the bathtub. 

“Want me to slip inside? Want my cocks to stuff you full of cum again?”

Your body feels molten with the arousal pounding through your veins. He shifts and both cocks are pressed against your cunt between your thighs. 

“‘M always so hard around you,” he whines in your ear, “you smell too fucking good, wanna eat you up.”

You shudder as his sharp teeth press against your neck, fingers dipping into your cunt to trail back up and smear slick across your pudgy clit. 

“Come on, I know you can cum for me,” he kisses your neck softly. 

In next to no time, your thighs shake as an orgasm crests and sweeps through your tired body, making you tense all over before going totally limp against Leon’s body. 

“Good girl,” he purrs against your back, hands rubbing at your waist, “can’t wait to take you home.”

Humming, you relax, letting the warm bath lull you into a sleepy state. Leon goes off on a tangent about introducing you to everyone as soon as possible as well as moving you into his house. While you listen to him talk about your new home, you think to yourself that being mated to a monster like Leon isn’t the worst thing in the world. 

divider: @firefly-graphics

[clqxuds]

★ STRAWBERRIES AND CIGARETTES. all the times gojo desperately wants to kiss you, and the one where he finally does.

ft. satoru gojo x reader.

warnings — loser!reader / popular!gojo. smoking, kissing + making out. consumption of alcohol, mentions of sex, lots of cheesy banter. sato is a man down bad ! slow-burn kinda but mostly just very sfw fluff :p

(呪術廻戦) : note — 7k words + in my fluff era again awooga

୨୧ ⌞ act one: strawberry shampoo. ⌝

gojo rarely sees you. not often, truly. in class is different, but even then, it's infrequent.

you always wear a bored, distant look, as if you'd rather be anywhere but here. he suspects you simply don't care. the professor's words wash over you, in one ear and out the other.

most people don't notice your frequent absences. gojo does. he always does. the empty seat at the back of the room never escapes his eye.

it feels emptier, too, despite your quiet nature. he's unsure why. why he's so captivated by you. but when you are present, he stares. trying to be subtle, yet desperate to memorize every detail: the curve of your lashes, the perceived softness of your lips.

perceived softness, he should clarify. gojo isn't a creep. he doesn't spend every waking moment fantasizing about kissing you. (only every other waking moment.)

he knows you know he exists. you've exchanged words a few times, straddling the line between acquaintance and stranger. it's odd, but he finds a strange peace when you converse.

you're funny, kind, caring. a good listener, with a voice like honey he could listen to all day. god, he loves your voice. he wishes you'd speak more. if you did, people would listen. there's a lilt in your voice that makes him.

he's your opposite. you keep to yourself, wired earbuds always in. gojo has friends — many friends. he thrives on company and conversation.

he's got his whole crew: nanami, shoko, geto, haibara, utahime. even toji and sukuna, on a good day.

academically, he's a powerhouse. top of the class, loaded with extracurriculars, tests always returned with a perfect score.

and you? you're number two. he's certain you could be first, but you simply don't care. no ambition to be the best, no need to prove yourself.

you're just… there. you show up, ace your exams, and leave. he'd be threatened by the competition, but you don't seem to want it. he doubts you even realize how close you are to taking his spot.

it's infuriating. so much potential, so little drive.

yet, it's utterly enticing. you're enticing.

it's a shock when he pulls into the gas station in the dead of night, needing kikufuku because geto devoured the last of it, and there you are. perched on the ledge behind the worn building.

he doesn't see your face at first, but he recognizes the leather angel kiss bag you practically live with, adorned with sonny angels and charms.

the grocery bag falls limply in his hand. he takes a few steps, stopping just behind you. he calls your name out, quiet and hesitant, a rare tone for gojo. there's a crinkle of foil from you, and you turn, startled.

"gojo?" you inquire, head tilted.

"uh, hey," he manages a gentle smile. "what're you doing here?"

a small smile touches your lips. "hi. i could ask you the same."

the white-haired boy chuckles. "dickhead roommate ate all my snacks."

your quiet laugh is beautiful, he thinks. "yeah? well, i ran out of cigarettes." you place one between your lips. sliding over on the ledge, you offer a silent invitation, which he accepts.

you're close. the scent of your saccharine strawberry shampoo fills his senses.

"want one?" you offer. he shakes his head. gojo doesn't smoke, rarely drinks. instead, he watches you inhale, then exhale, wispy gray curls dissolving into the dark.

the silence between you is mellow, not awkward. in the dim streetlamp glow, your lips look coated in strawberry-red gloss, leaving a stain on the white of the cigarette.

"sure you don't want a hit?" you ask, sensing his heavy, focused gaze.

and because he'd do anything at the sound of that voice, he nods, changing his mind.

satoru gojo has game, no doubt. one hundred percent. he's smooth with women, but you're not just any woman. you're you, and with you, his game dissolves. all his past charm feels irrelevant, meaningless.

it's just you. you and him. he's not sure how to navigate it, and his attempt only leaves him embarrassed.

his eyes fix on the red smudge. he presses his own lips directly onto that spot. this isn't even a kiss, but an odd euphoria floods him, as if he's never kissed anyone before.

gojo's eyes flutter shut. he takes a quick, deep inhale, lasting only seconds before he's spluttering, coughing. a dry, charcoal-like feeling enters his lungs, leaving his throat dry. "jesus," he winces, handing it back.

you giggle, not teasing, but amused. he echoes the sound, and you both dissolve into laughter.

at two in the morning, everything's funny. your hands brush his as you take the cigarette.

"a— are you okay?" you ask, trying to compose yourself.

"yeah!" he clears his throat. "i mean, yeah. yes. i'm good."

"never smoked?"

"nah. coach would kill me," he chuckles, and you hum. sometimes, he forgets he's that picture-perfect, well-rounded student. in these moments, everything else fades.

"yeah," you say, meeting his gaze. his eyes are already on you.

"yeah," he repeats, smiling.

and then he remembers your closeness. his heart, if it ever slowed, races. should he do it?

should he kiss you?

you're so sweet, so pretty, right there — so close. he leans in, instinctual, like his body is drawn to yours.

and maybe you're leaning in, too?

just like that, gojo doesn't have time to tell, because his phone rings, a bleary call from his confused roommate.

just like that, the moment shatters. gojo pulls back, farther than before. the sweet scent of your shampoo vanishes, the press of his thighs against yours, knees knocking, gone.

you wave goodbye. he waves goodbye.

and just like that, you're back to being the girl in his class. the girl behind the gas station.

୨୧ ⌞ act two: pro-bono deals. ⌝

gojo doesn't see it coming. he knows you're here often enough, a quiet fixture in the library's familiar hum. there's not much he knows about you, not really, but what little he's gathered, he clings to like scripture.

he knows you like to read. that's a given.

he knows the cute thing you do with your nose when you're deep in thought, a slight scrunch, lips pursed just so.

he knows you hate writing in pen. he offered you one once, when you were caught without anything to write with, but you’d asked for a pencil instead. something about being accident-prone, you'd said.

he knows your handwriting is god-awful, an illegible scrawl that makes him abandon any idea of feigning interest in your notes as an excuse to talk. he figures it’s because your brain moves faster than your hands can keep up.

he knows you like flowers, sometimes catching you pausing by the daisies near the fountain on the way to class.

these little things, these quiet quirks you have, he catalogues them meticulously. they're important to him, these small habits you might not even notice yourself.

it's what makes it so real, so tangible. it makes him feel like he knows you, as pathetic as that might sound.

what you don't like is studying. so, when he sees your nose buried deep in the familiar green shade of a physics textbook, he's got every right to be a little lost. for the entire two and a half years he's known you, gojo has never seen you go out of your way to study.

he shifts his weight, from one foot to another. he could let you be, let you work. or, he could… work with you? would that even be okay? after a dreadful moment of hesitation, he slides into the seat beside you.

you’re surprised to see him; it seems like you always are, when it’s him. nonetheless, a smile touches your face, so it’s a pleasant surprise. "gojo, what's up?"

"just… reading through things, studying for finals," he says, watching you close the book. "you don't mind if i sit here, right?"

"no, not at all," you assure him, waving off his mild concern. "i might go crazy reading this dumb thing alone, anyways."

gojo laughs, and your heavy sigh turns into a little chuckle. "don't like physics?"

"don't like science," you correct, slumping in your seat. you click and un-click your pen, groaning, "it's so boring."

"sounds about right coming from a literature major." he hopes you don't focus on how he knows your major. it seems to be alright, though, because you know his.

playfully, you raise your brows. "seriously, i have no idea how you're planning on doing that for the rest of your life."

"you're not bad at it, are you? i mean, based on, like, your scores and… stuff."

"no. i guess not. all my absences are catching up to me, though, and i'm a little behind."

he supposes it makes sense for you to be struggling a little, at least. he's not sure how you do it in the first place, managing to pass at all without any visible effort. sure, gojo's smart, but he's not that smart. he wouldn't say he's envious, but he wishes he had that ability.

the words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them. "well, i could help you out," he offers. it comes out as more of a question, which he hates himself for. he also wishes he were more confident around you.

your eyes light up. "really? because field theory's kinda killing me." your gaze flickers from your notes to him, a little skeptical. you’re just not sure why he's hanging out with you in the first place, much less willing to, like, tutor you.

"yeah. if you want," his voice is a little less tentative, this time around.

"like… pro-bono?"

gojo chuckles. "sure. if you're up for aiding me in psychoanalyzing othello."

"you know what?" you ask, sticking your hand out. "deal."

he can't help the grin that spreads across his face, and he accepts your handshake. "deal."

your hand feels soft in his, and the mere touch makes him shiver. gojo inhales quietly, his eyes briefly glancing down to your lips.

it's the same strawberry-colored gloss. like a man down bad, all he can wonder is if it tastes like it, too.

୨୧ ⌞ act three: to get or not to get (some). ⌝

"i think we need to get you laid," shoko remarks, rather casually, the words cutting through the bass and chatter of geto's party. it makes gojo choke on his drink, a cheap beer in a red plastic cup, his grip tightening around it.

geto seems entirely too amused by this, a low laugh rumbling in his chest. "shit, sho, look at him, all red."

"shut up," he seethes, an unnatural flush creeping up his neck. he can feel the heat on his cheeks, a testament to his unexpected embarrassment.

she sighs, a faux melancholy. "poor guy. the clenched jaw tells me all i need to know."

"i don't— alright," gojo groans, quickly giving up. it's useless to argue with them when they're like this. "go ahead, abuse me like the great friends you are."

swirling her vodka with a straw, shoko snorts. "we are good friends, trying to save you from your newfound virginism."

"she's right," geto says pointedly, leaning forward. "you're like a male nun."

weakly, gojo repeats himself, "shut up." just as he’s reaching for his phone, a girl walks by. short dress, long legs, a smile that’s less friendly, more predatory, aimed straight at him. at some point, she would’ve been his ideal type, the kind of easy distraction he gravitated toward.

now? now, he doesn't even bat an eye. shoko looks at geto, a silent communication passing between them. geto looks at shoko. gojo glances up from his pocket, catching the sly, knowing looks his friends are giving him.

"or… maybe he's already getting some," geto nods, a mix of betrayal that he wasn't told and grudging impressment in his voice.

"you dog," shoko chuckles, nudging his arm with her elbow. "c'mon, who?"

"it's not— i'm not—"

geto sighs, "i didn't know we'd be around for the 'someone tied him down' era."

"guys—" he tries to interrupt, but then you walk by. his world narrows, the party noise fading to a dull hum. as if on instinct, his eyes get dreamy, following your path. his world stops, along with time itself, and gojo freezes, completely captivated.

they follow his line of sight, their gazes landing onto where he's looking. no, staring.

if he wasn't caught so off guard by shoko's low whistle, a sharp, clear sound in the sudden quiet of his world, he would have had a second to figure out why you were even here. "damn," she laughs, a genuine, unburdened sound. "if you fumble her, i call dibs."

"...didn't expect that. how do you even know her?" geto asks, a note of surprise in his voice.

"uh, she's in humanities with us," he says, a little annoyed that his friend, who shared classes with you, hadn't noticed you. he can’t imagine that possibility, especially not when you’re all gojo can seem to notice.

shoko squints, like she's trying to recall a distant memory. "oh, yeah. i think i've seen her, sometimes. doesn't she ditch, like, a lot?"

gojo shrugs. "i guess."

"i'm with geto. i wouldn't have pegged that, but congrats."

"it's not like that! we're just…" he’s about to say friends, but the word feels foreign, ill-fitting. he’s not even sure if you're that.

"no, no," geto shakes his head, a knowing smirk on his face. "sex is always great, man."

"we're not—"

the brown-haired girl cuts him off, her attention already elsewhere. "speaking of sex, i think i'm gonna have a go," she murmurs, vaguely gesturing to a pretty, curvy redhead across the room. downing the rest of her drink in one gulp, she's off before either of them gets a word in.

and, because god is good, a group of people walk in through the front door, and geto, ever the host, goes to greet them; it is his party, after all.

gojo sighs, weary, the weight of his friends' teasing momentarily forgotten. then he remembers: you're here. he’s practically racing away from the spot he's in, a desperate, though he hopes nonchalant, attempt to find you. had he been hallucinating? was he so crazy about you that he was now seeing you everywhere? oh, god.

gojo doesn't get any further with his worries, because someone runs into his back.

oh. oh, wait. the familiar, faint scent of strawberry shampoo. he turns around, heart already beating faster, a frantic rhythm against his ribs, when he sees you.

"jesus, i'm sorry. i didn't even see you." you look up, your eyes meeting his, and your apologies vanish into thin air, replaced by a soft, surprised expression. "oh, my god, hi."

"hey," he says, his voice a little breathy, holding his breath as if he’s scared to move, worried you'll simply vanish like a mirage.

"isn't it crazy how we keep running into each other?" you giggle, a light, melodic sound, blowing a strand of hair out of your face.

"yeah, um, small world," gojo nods, straining a smile that feels more like a grimace. you give him a funny look, a slight tilt of your head, but thankfully leave it. "i didn't think this was really your scene?"

your shoulders slump, and you sigh, a familiar weariness in the sound. "it's not. my friend dragged me here, and then left to go have trashy sex with a trashy guy."

"oof," he winces, a sympathetic grimace. "that's alright. you can always stick with me, you know." the words tumble out, hopeful and a little desperate.

you put a hand on his arm, a feather-light touch that sends a jolt through him, sighing in relief. "once again, you're my savior. i'm stuck here until she's," you pause, a flicker of distaste on your face, "done."

"ah, well, if it's trashy sex with a trashy guy, it'll probably not be too long." he rubs the back of his head, a nervous habit. "i wouldn't mind if it isn't, though. i like talking to you," he admits, the confession coming out a little sheepish.

"oh," you say, your cheeks flushing so slightly he almost misses it. "thanks. i mean, me, too."

"yeah." there's a beat of comfortable silence between you two, the thumping of bass from downstairs filling the quiet space. "say, uh, wanna go upstairs?"

your eyes go a little wide, a startled deer caught in headlights, and gojo quickly backpedals. "to talk. it's— it's just loud, here."

you nod, a slow, deliberate movement, sighing in either relief or disappointment (he can't tell, but he desperately hopes it's the latter).

his fingers tentatively lace with yours, a hesitant connection, and he pulls you gently past bodies of people swaying to the music. he leads you into a less crowded room, a quieter haven, and shuts the door behind him. the muffled bass is a distant thrum now. "isn't this much nicer?"

"definitely, yeah." you take a seat on the edge of the bed, a quick, almost imperceptible glance around to ensure it's clean. "so… how's your day been?" it sounds awkward, a little stilted, and he's glad that he’s not the only one.

taking a seat beside you, a comfortable, close distance, he smiles, "good. very good. you?" he looks right into your eyes, letting the sincerity of his words reach you.

you return the smile, a soft, hesitant curve of your lips, debating whether or not to scoot closer. "s'okay. better, now."

"i know you don't like parties, but on that scale, how's this one been? be nice, i helped set it up," he warns, a playful glint in his eyes.

"it's good. i appreciate the lukewarm beer."

he holds his hands up, defensive. "see, i told geto to get more coolers. that part's not on me."

"okay, then, what part's on you?" you ask, crossing your arms, a hint of playful challenge in your tone.

"uh, i did the…" he frowns, trying to remember his own contributions to the party prep. "i taste-tested all the snacks. does that count?"

you snort, a small, endearing sound. "did you eat all of them, too? 'cause there weren't any left when i got here."

"i," a pause, a hint of guilt in his voice, "might have had a little more than i was supposed to, but those cookies were really good. so was the kikufuku."

"there was kikufuku?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"not anymore," he admits, a wry grin on his face. "that, i did finish."

laughing, a genuine, unforced sound, you tilt your head, "what parties have kikufuku?"

"the really, really cool ones."

"is that right?"

"would i ever lie to you?" his voice is teasing, but there's something else there, too.

"hm, maybe not," you hum, making a show of inspecting his features, your gaze lingering on his eyes. "you do have a really honest face."

"you have a really pretty one," he retorts, the words escaping before he can think better of them. it takes you a second to process, a faint blush dusting your cheeks. him, too, because… did he just say that? was that bad? he can't, for the love of god, read your face.

your mouth opens, a soft parting of your lips, but you're robbed of a chance to respond, because a couple barges into the room, their laughter loud and jarring. gojo flinches, startled. huffing, he says, "occupied!"

it's shoko and the redhead. shoko's eyes flit from you to gojo, a silent apology passing between them before she quickly steers the redhead back out of the room, shutting the door. god, out of all his friends,

he wouldn't have expected her to be the cock-block. well, at least someone's getting some.

୨୧ ⌞ act four: nepo-baby v. broke barista.⌝

the gentle chime of the bell above the door echoes through the quiet café, a familiar melody that always brings a sense of calm to satoru.

he pushes the door open, the scent of rich, freshly brewed coffee washing over him, a comforting aroma that instantly eases the tension he hadn’t realized he was carrying. he lets out a small, almost imperceptible sigh of contentment.

this, to him, is the best place to be.

his sunglasses, a constant fixture even indoors and in the dead of winter, are perched precariously on the bridge of his nose. he knows he probably looks a little eccentric, a touch out of place, but he doesn't care.

gojo’s soft, white hair, perpetually threatening to fall into his startling blue eyes, drifts gently across his forehead. with a practiced flick of his wrist, he rakes it back, the cool air a stark contrast to the warmth of the café.

he steps towards the counter, his fingers drumming a silent rhythm against the smooth, polished surface. his order was always the same, a creature of habit in a world that constantly shifts and changes around him, a small anchor of predictability.

“hi,” a soft voice says, breaking him out of his reverie. gojo’s eyes fix on the meticulously arranged cookies in the display case, and he’s caught between the choice of chocolate chip or macadamia nut.

chocolate, duh.

“hey, could i—” his gaze finally shifts up, and he locks eyes with the barista. but, because god really does have favorites, it’s not just any barista, it’s you.

he’s caught off-guard, seeing you, though he really shouldn’t be. not after having run into you unplanned this many times, already. it’s almost comical at this point.

“damn,” he shakes his head, a smile of disbelief slowly spreading across his face. “are you playing a trick on me?”

“god, no,” you laugh, a clear, bright sound. a few stray strands of hair escape from beneath the café’s branded hat, and you brush them out of your face with a practiced motion.

your smile is a little lopsided, charmingly imperfect, and he notices your apron is slightly askew, a testament to what must have been a busy morning.

“i come here all the time. don’t tell me i’ve been missing you… somehow, like, every single time,” he pouts, a playful whine in his voice.

“no, no. don’t worry, i’m new. i started yesterday. apparently, i’m more broke than i realized,” you confess, a wry smile touching your lips.

he nods in understanding, giving you a look of genuine sympathy. “yeah, i get it.”

“oh, do you, rich boy?” you tease, your gaze playfully raking over his expensive sunglasses, then his wrist to his watch, and finally the glint of a gold chain peeking from beneath his shirt. i

t’s not a secret that gojo is loaded, the son of gojo enterprises’ founder. he’s always gone out of his way to be humble about it, part of why he works so hard.

“yeah, yeah,” he waves you off, a dismissive flick of his hand. "speaking of, you gonna mess up my drink, newbie?"

"oh, haha. did you lose your stick? because i think i know where it went." you quip back.

gojo snorts, motioning to the register. “caramel macchiato, please. extra sugar.”

“aw, elitist baby can say please.” you pause, a faint wrinkle forming between your brows. “wait, did you say extra sugar?” you ask, making a face as you reach for a plastic cup and a sharpie. he nods, feeling his face flush under your intense, slightly disgusted gaze. “you know it’s already, like, super sweet, right?”

in return, he nods again, a little sheepish. gojo watches you scribble his name down on the side of the cup, your handwriting the same scrawl it always is. he shuffles to the end of the counter, waiting to receive his order.

your movements are a little clumsy, a novice’s hesitation in your hands, and you have to pause to remember the steps for making the drink. he even sees you gag, just a little, when adding the extra thing he’d gone out of his way to tell you.

“enjoy the, uh, macchiato.” you can't help the slight grimace as you push the cup across the counter. the smell alone was overwhelmingly sweet, amplified tenfold by the extra sugar he’d requested.

“you’re laughing. don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” he grins, a flash of white teeth against his pale skin, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“nah, i think i’ll be knocking,” you giggle, shaking your head, a slight shiver running through you. “but, if that’s what you like, you do you.”

there's a beat of silence, and gojo watches you attention momentarily shift to a spilled sugar packet near the display. "we really should start planning our run-ins," he chuckles, his fingers brushing yours for a fleeting moment as he grabs the cup.

"they wouldn't be run-ins, then," you correct, a sly lilt in your voice.

"i… wouldn't mind that." the words are soft, almost a murmur, but loaded with intent.

the universe has a weird way of pulling people together, doesn't it?

୨୧ ⌞ act five: she loves me, she loves me not.⌝

gojo goes out of his way to plan this. he knows it's not a date, and he probably shouldn't pretend it is one. you had taken him up on his offer to hang out sometime, and he wanted it to be perfect.

you don't deserve anything less than that.

to anyone on the outside, he's sure it does look like a date. it feels like one, at least, if that counts. gojo picked you up, he dressed nice, you dressed nice, and he drove you to the park for a nice picnic. all of it sounds date-like, especially the part where he told you that you looked very cute today.

and, especially the part where he frantically back-pedaled, telling you; wait, you look cute today, but you look cute everyday. he doesn't just mean today.

and, especially, especially, how you'd teased him about it after. so, yeah, forgive him if he's having a hard time differentiating a platonic meetup and a not-so-platonic date.

gojo's picking off the petals on the daisy he's holding, hoping you don't notice how he's mentally playing she loves me, she loves me not. he glances at the small pile of discarded petals, then back at you, a soft smile playing on his lips.

you weave the stem of a flower into another, your brows furrowed in concentration on the crown you're making for him. "how long should i make this? you do have a really big head."

"hey, that's insulting. my head is perfectly normal-sized," he huffs, feigning offense, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. he leans closer, trying to get a better look at your handiwork. "are you sure you know what you're doing over there?"

"positive," you retort, not looking up. you wrap what you've got so far around his head, the cool petals a gentle press against his temple. "yep, definitely needs to be longer. see?"

"okay, rude." he pulls away slightly, inspecting the half-finished crown. "i'm starting to think you're just trying to wound my feelings."

you sigh, a dramatic, mournful sound. "truth hurts, right?" you glance up, your eyes locking with his, a gentle warmth in their depths. "this is really nice, by the way. i'm really glad we're doing this."

"me, too. feels a lot less rushed, compared to just seeing you around. not that i mind seeing you around," he quickly adds, the words tumbling out a little too fast, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

you smile, a soft, genuine curve of your lips. "yeah, i get it. you picked a nice spot. the gardens are so beautiful, i can't believe i've never been here before," you say, looking around at the vibrant roses beside you, your gaze lingering on their soft petals.

"you just wait, then, i've got a whole roster, baby." he means the pet-name as a joke, a casual endearment, but the sudden flicker in your gaze has his breath hitching, a silent question forming in his mind.

"you make me sound like your girlfriend," you laugh, the sound light and airy, a small puff of air escaping your lips.

"i bet you'd like that, huh?" he teases, pushing his luck, and you respond by playfully throwing a torn-off stem at him, which he easily dodges.

rolling your eyes at him, you scoff. "i just meant all this. you're really nice to me." your voice softens towards the end, a subtle shift in tone that he notices.

"well, yeah, we're," he hesitates, the word catching in his throat, "friends." sure, he's glad that you're even that, that you tolerate his presence, but it's still disappointing, only that.

"mm, friends," you repeat, the word echoing his own slight disappointment. he wonders if that's a similar ache he hears in the tone of your voice.

"what? you fallin' for me?" he asks, playing it off as a joke, a lighthearted jab, but, god, he wishes. he so, so desperately prays that a tiny part of it is true.

"oh, shut up," you huff, but the warmth on your cheeks contradicts your words, a tell-tale flush that brings a hopeful flutter to his chest.

he tilts his head at you, intently studying the familiar sparkle in your eyes, the way they crinkle slightly at the corners when you're amused.

taking one of the remaining daisies, he gently tucks it behind your ear, his fingers brushing against the soft skin of your neck. "you should call me satoru."

"yeah? okay, then, shut up, satoru." the corners of your mouth quirk upwards, a small, knowing smile.

he plucks off the last petal. she loves me.

୨୧ ⌞ act six: stay, little valentine, stay.⌝

"i hate valentine's day, you know," you frown, slumping down in the bakery's chair. the place smells sweet, a comforting blend of buttered croissants and something faintly fruity, like berries.

"of course you would. you're single," he remarks, casually, playing with the crinkly wrapping paper of his straw.

"you're single, too, gojo."

he points a finger at you, raising his perfectly sculpted eyebrows. "yeah, but that's different. i'm at peace with it."

shoving his index finger away, you whine, "what, like you aren't sick of seeing love-sick couples sucking each other's faces off, all day?"

well, he won't admit it (to you, at least), but he's mostly just been imagining what it would be like if those love-sick couples were you two.

before he can come up with a lame excuse, an employee, a young guy with a chipped name-tag stops by, checking in to see if you need anything else. "just letting you know, it's all half-off for couples today," they say, their tone far too cheery for your liking.

you say, "oh, no, we're not—" at the exact same time gojo says, "sure. another blueberry muffin, please. two, actually."

"are you crazy?" you whisper harshly at him, leaning across the table, your eyes wide with disbelief. "we're not even a couple." unbothered, he shoves your face away, a playful flick of his wrist.

instead, he smiles brightly at mark, and audaciously winks at you. "a couple of those strawberry tarts, too. my girlfriend here has a real sweet tooth."

your voice is strained, a desperate attempt to salvage the situation. "he's exaggerating. just the muffins, please."

with a click of their pen, they're telling you that you're an adorable couple, then walking off, already distracted by another customer.

"see? adorable. i'm already winning 'em over." gojo leans back in his chair, a smug look on his face.

you shoot him a look, a mix of exasperation and reluctant amusement. "winning who over? the employee? or me, into wanting those things? besides, i didn't even need any."

"first, who said it was for you?" he retorts, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "second, it's half-off. it'd be a shame if we didn't take advantage of it."

"right," you laugh, shaking your head. he might be going crazy, but he's really fond of the idea that at least one person thinks you're dating. and, sure, that doesn't make it real, but it's a step closer.

"you know," he says, taking a sip of his smoothie (your smoothie, he stole it from you and you said nothing, which he considers a victory), "i think we'd make a good couple."

"oh? what makes you so sure?" you challenge, raising an eyebrow.

"think about it. i'm the brains, you're the… well, you're pretty good at complaining. we balance each other out," gojo claims, with a confidence that has you kicking his shin from under the table.

"ow! seriously?" he yelps, rubbing his leg.

"oh, is that your sales pitch? my top quality is complaining? how charming." you deadpan, crossing your arms.

"it's a very enthusiastic quality. plus, you'd never have to open jars again. or reach for things on high shelves. i'm basically a human step-stool with great hair." he gestures to his impeccably styled white locks.

"so, your criteria for a good relationship is purely utilitarian? i'm good for complaining and you're good for opening jars?"

"and looking good. don't forget that. i'm the eye candy. every couple needs eye candy. you can be good at appreciating my eye candy."

you fight the urge to stick a fork in his eyes. "right, because all i do is sit around and appreciate your god-given good looks."

"besides," he continues, ignoring your sarcasm, "that guy bought it. means we look pretty couple-y, right?"

you stare at him, a flat, unimpressed look on your face. "or, it means he's being paid minimum wage, and couldn't care less."

"you would know, broke ass." another swift kick, and he hisses, pouting exaggeratedly.

"excuse me?" you huff. "minimum wage or not, that man is doing his job. unlike you, who's just freeloading off my good reputation."

he nods, as if he's genuinely considering this profound statement. "good reputation? for hating valentine's day? that's quite the legacy."

defensively, you sit up straighter. "it's a very respectable stance! and i'm not broke. i just appreciate a good discount. like you, apparently, considering you just scammed a bakery employee into thinking we're an item."

he choose not to address you, taking a moment to meticulously tear the paper of the straw in half. "on the other hand," gojo says, eyes fixed on his paper dissection, "if you weren't single, you'd be far less grouchy all the time."

"you already said that," you huff, deadpan.

"it still holds true," he nods, finally looking up, a serious expression on his face.

snorting, you tilt your head up, looking at the cracks in the ceiling. "so… you're suggesting i need to get a boyfriend? are you also suggesting the boyfriend is… you? just to not be grouchy? okay, well, what if i prefer to be grouchy? what if that's, like, my thing?"

"not necessarily." he almost says yes, but catches himself. "but you should know, i'd make a gas boyfriend," he insists, puffing out his chest playfully.

"good to know," you hum, snatching your drink back. when you take a sip from exactly where he did, his heart does a little flip in his chest, a secret, happy flutter.

gojo clicks his tongue. "and, also, impossible. no one prefers to be grouchy. you're just… unfulfilled. a boyfriend would bring joy, sunshine, spontaneous acts of adoration. less frowning, more smiling."

"these are high standards to hold to yourself. or, like, this hypothetical boyfriend. also, i like the grouch. i think it's kind of like my core trait." you tap your chest, a definitive statement.

"that is such a sad, sad trait to base yourself off."

"oh, please," you scoff, rolling your eyes. "like the rich daddy's boy thing you have going on is any better."

he holds his hands up, defensive, but a grin splits his face. "well, one of us is paying for lunch, and the other isn't. you know, because she's broke." mildly offended, you kick him. again.

"hey! quit doing that. anyways, my point is, i've got all day to change your mind about valentine's."

"all day? what if i'm busy?" you challenge, a playful glint in your eye.

"nah. you wouldn't be here with me, if you had plans." he says it with absolute certainty.

he doesn't know it yet, but, yeah, even if you did have plans, you'd still ditch them for him.

୨୧ ⌞ act seven: strawberries and cigarettes always taste like you.⌝

gojo's phone died a little while back, and he has no idea what time it is. it doesn't really matter, though, not when he's walking in the dim-lit street with you, not when it feels like this moment will last forever.

he pulls you behind that same, tattered, gray building, the gas station he saw you at just a couple months ago. it looks the same, save for the dumpster that's against the bushes instead of the wall.

"oh, shit," he laughs, the sound a little breathless. "it smells rank back here."

you plop down on the familiar concrete ledge, scrunching your nose in agreement. "don't even start, you're the one who dragged me here. for your stupid matcha cravings."

pulling him down next to you, his shoulder bumps against yours. "wait, wait," you murmur, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of your pocket. holding a flame to the end, you cup your hand to keep the tiny light from going out in the faint breeze.

there's an odd feeling that passes through him, not quite nostalgia, when he sees that identical stain of strawberry-colored gloss on the end your lips are over.

"remember the last time i tried to smoke one?" he asks, a small, knowing grin on his face.

"yeah," you giggle, your shoulders shaking slightly as the smoke hits your lungs. "you almost died."

he's a little flustered, denying it immediately. "i did not almost die."

"close enough, you started choking and everything. wanna try again?" you ask, holding it near him, the lit tip glowing orange in the dim light. he eyes it, then looks back at you, a challenge in his gaze.

"damn, you tryna kill me?" he teases, but his voice is softer than he intends.

you lean closer, a pretty smile on your face that makes his voice catch. "would i get your money, if i did?"

his lips part, a hesitant breath escaping him, and you slip the cigarette between them. he can faintly smell the sweetness of the red. it's barely there, a ghost of a scent, but it's enough.

"relax," you hum, your voice a low, soothing sound. "you don't need to be so tense, it's just me."

but that's the thing — it's just you. just you and him, here again, alone in the quiet hum of the night. you're so close, invading all of his senses, leaving him breathless. how is he even supposed to think straight?

he, hesitant, inhales the smoke. he lasts hardly any longer than last time, turning away and breaking into a coughing fit, his shoulders shaking with the effort.

"oh, my god," you wheeze, patting his back, a mixture of concern and amusement in your touch. "careful. you're not supposed to suck in that much. just a puff, sato." the nickname, soft and intimate, has him blushing, and he has to duck his head, hiding his flushed face.

"one more time, or are you tapped out?" you ask, your voice still laced with laughter.

"one more," he breathes, tilting his head up to take in a smaller stroke. it's easier this time, irritates his throat less. he has to clear his chest, a low rumble, but he doesn't start writhing on the floor, so it's a win.

"oh, look! you did it," you smile, your eyes sparkling, and you gently pat his cheek. he wants to respond, but all he can manage is to lean into your touch. you don't move your hand, but stay cupping his face instead, your thumb stroking his cheekbone.

"hey, pretty," he whispers, his voice thick, feeling his breath mingle with yours in the cool night air.

you scoot closer, virtually pressed flush against him, and the sudden warmth of your body sends a jolt through him. "hi." his heart is beating loudly against his ribcage, a frantic drum, and he's afraid you can hear it.

gojo watches your eyes glaze over, a hazy, soft look, and how your long lashes flutter against your skin. you clutch his shirt, your fingers digging into the fabric, and your noses brush against his. and in a moment of a burst of raw courage, he presses his lips against yours.

it's not patient, but it's still loving, desperate in its urgency. it's clumsy, rather, messy, because both of you have been waiting too long for this to happen. your teeth clash against his, a soft click, as your lips, almost silkenly soft, move against his.

he tastes the faint sweetness of strawberries, a hint of something smoky and intoxicating. his hand, warm and firm, cups the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss.

the other hand fixes on your waist, keeping you there, pressed flush against him, as if he fears you might disappear.

it's awkward at first, tentative, because he's all too focused on the frantic butterflies that loop through his stomach, a dizzying swarm. it's like he's never kissed another person before, like he's forgotten how to. it was like his first one. his right one.

when he pulls away, you're panting little breaths, needing air, foreheads pressed together, your eyes still hazy. gojo presses another gentle kiss to the top of your hair, his nose nuzzled there, inhaling your scent.

you taste like strawberries and cigarettes.

unofficial permanent taglist: @jeonwiixard, @mia-can-yap-too did u guys know this is the longest fic ive ever written i should get head in the gc <33 big thanku to @mia-can-yap-too for beta reading i cannot be trusted to go back and do that myself i will cry also tagging myleslover @shokocide bc ur long fics inspire me + idk how u do it but share the talent !!! gatekeeping is bad incorrect buzzer

[clqxuds]

Mayday Mayday Chapter Two: Effective Fire

(Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Medic "Fix" Reader)

Part Six of Snowblind

Rating: Mature Themes Wordcount: 4.8k Tags: Slow Burn, Whump, Blood and Injury, Active Combat Scenarios, Teammates to ??? to Lovers, Angst, Banter Warnings: Crashes, Descriptions of blood and injury A/N: Special thank you to @okaycoldplay @gazs-blue-hat , @laeilaps , and @vampirekilmerfic for the research and development of this installment! and thank you to everyone still reading despite the large gap in updates.

In the darkness of the desert, you engrave in your soul the names of the dying and the damned.

You set to work quickly, assessing the men injured in the crash laid down beside each other against the gritty earth. It’s slow, slogging work, working in near total darkness. Ghost had punched out the lone red blinking beacon from the helicopter lest it betray your position, and as a result you work only through the scant illumination of the flashlight held by the pale-faced private next to you. You try to refrain from snapping at him when his hand wavers and you pause your hands over the limp forms of his brothers.

There’s no way around it. It’s bad. It’s...really bad.

Aside from Ghost and his concussion, there’s four more soldiers wounded, not including the pilots. Fractures, contusions, and shrapnel laced wounds litter the debris-strewn space around you. Groans and scarcely stifled cries seem to be the only sound aside from the lonely, cold wind that travels through the valley.

You try your best to push aside any thoughts of impending attack, narrowing your focus down to the flesh and bone under your hands. The flashlight illuminates seeping pools of red under some of the bodies, and as fast as you work it doesn’t seem to stem the tide of crimson that you know will haunt you for days to come.

Both pilots are concussed, out cold, and you think it’s for the best. If they awoke to the state of themselves, it would be far more agonizing. The pilot has a broken right leg, the thing bent at a horribly awkward angle that had one of the other marines swear a sacrament at just the sight. Shrapnel litters down his waist to his calf, and somewhere between it all you think you feel a fractured rib that belays a tender, weakening heartbeat that flutters with every red ooze from his wounds.

You try your best to make him comfortable, and quietly attach a black tag to his jacket to signal his chances of survival. There’s only so much you can do, and silently you pray that if he does pass, that at least it’s without pain.

His co-pilot isn’t much better. 

When you go to attach a black tag to him, the marine behind you shoots out to catch your wrist. In the sloping glow of the flashlight, his eyes are pleading.

“Please.” Is all he offers, quiet and forlorn. “He’s…my friend. Please.”

You regard him with sad eyes, but quietly nod and begin to work on the unconscious man who had saved your lives.

The shattered windshield sliced through his upper arm, where a tourniquet now cinches the vein tightly as you work to apply bloodstop to the worst of the gashes. There’s a piece of debris lodged in his stomach that you work desperately to treat, thanking whatever higher power that be that the object itself stops most of the blood flow. You use a good amount of your supplies on him, ensuring your assistant holds aloft your one and only fluid bag to try and ease the strain on his body despite the blood loss. He’s covered in your own jacket to try and keep him warm as he shivers, a tell-tale sign of shock. The cold that bites your skin is nothing compared to the silent dread that pools low and dark in your stomach. He's deathly pale, and you assign the marine to watch over him and the other pilot, to guard them if and when you should be found.

Down the line, your next man is unconscious, bleeding from his head and arm broken, but otherwise whole and in one piece. He’s a boyish sort, you think as you wipe the blood free and use butterfly stitches for the gash on his forehead. He still hasn’t shed a soft roundness of baby fat on his cheeks, and you can’t help but think how young he is to be out here, prone in the dark desert sand.

He rouses just as you finish working on him, startling and grasping at your sleeve in a sudden panic.

“Easy.” You soothe, laying a hand flat on his chest as he tries to raise his head. “Try not to move. You’re okay.”

You catch his eyes by the light of the flashlight. They look lost, but then they find you, blink, before he slips away again. His heart pulses steadily under your hand. You squeeze his hand just one, hoping he feels it before he goes still again.

Beside him is a corporal who seems to babble in delirium as you carefully inspect his pupils and wrap gauze around his head. His left arm has debris engraved into it, not nearly as bad as the pilots, but no doubt requiring a careful operation the second you land back at base.

If you land back at base.

You try not to think about that either.

The corporal talks in circles, no doubt severely concussed but at least halfway lucid. You catch him drifting more than once, shaking him awake and telling him to keep talking unless he falls asleep. He chokes back a sob when you wrap a tourniquet around his upper arms, biting his lip so hard it bleeds but offering no other complaint. When you tell him, breathless but firm nonetheless, that he’s going to be okay, you find him smiling at you through heavy eyes.

Your designated assistant, a flint-eyed man with dark hair who goes by ‘Smit’ bends to assist you with each man, each of you easily slashing the straps of the plate vests and discarding them to the side so you can inspect the unevenly rising chest of each man. A second holds the flashlight as you work, illuminating the scarlet slashed over their forms that you rapidly try to stem.

“Hang on for me, soldier. Keep breathing.” You murmur to the marine under your hands, and then to your new assistant: “Hold down on the gauze. Keep a steady pressure. Let me know the second his breathing changes. Understood?”

“Yes sir- er, ma’am.”

With each new wound, each new injury, you do inventory on your existing supplies- not nearly enough to deal with a situation of this caliber. Gunshot wounds, flash-bang concussions, these were routine for you. This, where the crash constitutes a disaster zone, you feel the weight of your quick decisions sink heavily into your shoulders.

The pilot is the first to go.

Martinez, the man designated to watch over him, quietly signals you over. You feel the pilot’s pulse flutter under your fingers, your other hand quietly holding him as he lets out several long, slow breaths and then goes forever still.

“He saved our lives.” The marine tells you solemnly as you cover his face. “I’ve never seen a pilot come back like that from a tailspin. We...”

He trails off. You know he doesn’t need to finish the thought.

We should all be dead.

A hollowness burrows deep and aching into your chest. You wish you had time to indulge it.

“Take his jacket.” You quietly offer. “See if you can warm up the co-pilot.”

“Yes ma’am.”

You rise to your feet and pace away for a moment, lingering between the soft perimeter of the crash and the injured men contained within it. It takes a few breaths to settle your heartbeat, and you wonder if you should feel more grief than you do- if it is a reflection on yourself that you learned to blunt your inward pain so long ago.

You look up to the sky. There’s still no stars.

In the darkness, you watch the massive, prowling shape of Ghost pace the perimeter like a wolf protecting the corpse of felled prey. Beneath him, lain flat against the sand, the marines keep a silent, steady watch for the smallest indication of enemy movement. You can barely make out the outline of your lieutenant, his figure blurring into shadow like a wraith. When he senses your eyes on him and turns, you can make out the shock of white from his mask.

“We lost one.” You tell him quietly as you approach, careful to keep your voice quiet from the nearby soldiers. Ghost seems to have expected this, for he nods, silent as he considers.

“Dust-off is on standby.” He relays back to you, voice dipping so low it feels like it vibrates the earth beneath your feet. “They’re waiting for the area to clear before they send another chopper.”

You grimace, mouth pressing into a line. Right. Of course the base is waiting to make sure there’s no more RPGs in the zone before they can send a team to your position. Knowing procedure, it could be up to a day before you see help.

Ghosts eyes watch you as you process this information, trying to run the numbers on the supplies in your field kit, trying to prioritize who’s wounded and who may not return home.

“Sorry.” You offer suddenly, and you sense Ghost still, tilt his head at you.

“I jinxed it, I think.” You offer, more to yourself than to him, and you wonder how much of the stress is getting to your head. “With it being a good night for a hunt and all.”

It takes Ghost a moment to digest this, but eventually he huffs and shifts away from you.

“Hunt’s not over yet, Fix.” He tells you simply, and you think in the darkness he somehow sounds bemused. You blink at that, always surprised by how Ghost can take a situation such as this and simply compartmentalize, offer a scant bit of humor with the confidence that he, at least, will survive.

You wonder, quietly in his shadow, if you’ll make it home despite all this.

You shake the thought as soon as it appears. There’s no time to entertain it, and as you snap your gloves off and slide on a fresh pair, returning to your makeshift triage.

A sound.

There’s a current that runs through the remaining members of the team around you as you all seem to catch it at the same time. Distant, a low thrum that sounds for just a moment before the desert goes silent once more.

Then again, louder.

You can’t discern where it is at first, ears straining to track whatever it was- another chopper, a truck, or...something else.

Then, to the east.

“3 o’clock.” Ghost states just loud enough for the circle of marines scattered around the site to hear, and there’s a flurry of movement as the team situates itself to face the oncoming threat. You can hear it now- the distant churning of an engine choked by sand as it draws closer. “NVGs on. Now.”

You follow the order automatically, hearing the whine of your goggles as they come to life and throw the world into a sickly green light.

“Fix.” Ghost snaps as you try and squint in the darkness to make out distant, blurry shapes of the oncoming forces. “On your weapon. Now.”

You don’t hesitate, quickly snatching your weapon from near the row of fallen men and murmuring a few quiet orders to your assistants there. It takes all of five seconds for you to reappear at Ghost’s side, lowering yourself to the ground alongside him as he flattens himself, opening his scope to peer into the horizon.

You see them now, in the distance. Two trucks together, and as they draw closer you see the forms of men with weapons held aloft as they rapidly close in on your position.

“What’s the call, Ghost?” One of the sergeants besides you asks, fingers tapping nervously on his weapon. You feel it, the frenetic, taut energy that courses like an electric current between you all. Holding its breath, starved of air, waiting until the moment the first bullet signals destruction.

“Not yet.” Ghost replies, eerily calm. “Wait until they’re in range. Conserve your ammo, there may be more.”

You shudder to think of that, already finding your stomach wind tighter every moment the trucks grow closer. You can already tell you’re outnumbered. There has to be twenty men at least, and as they near you hear them begin to raise their voices in the darkness in battle cries that pull taut at the low, cold coil of your gut.

You don’t allow yourself to think what may become of this- gazing into the scope of an enemy for a single heartbeat before everything goes dark.

Forever.

“Hold steady, lads.” Ghost murmurs, voice a deathly low roll in his chest.

The group draws closer, unloading from the truck, weapons out. They must not see you in the dark. Maybe they think you all died in the crash, bodies lying prone and scattered in the sand amidst the wreckage of the helicopter.

“Not yet.” Ghost intones quietly as the men from the truck grow closer, cautiously approaching the edge of your perimeter. “Set your targets.”

You choose a man in the middle of the group, both hands on a soviet-era rifle as dust billows at his feet. He’s less than thirty paces away from you, and with each heartbeat he takes another step towards the crosshairs of your trigger.

He’ll kill you, given the chance.

Ghost is silent beside you, body taut, entirely still. He doesn’t even seem to breathe. if you didn’t know better, you’d think he was a corpse.

Twenty paces.

Fifteen.

You see it happen in just a moment. A man pauses at the edge of the group as he looks directly at you on the small rise towards the crash. He raises a shout.

He drops dead before he can finish.

Your eardrums ring as the men around you wordlessly unleash a hailstorm of bullets on the group. You watch five men go down in the first few seconds, unable to lift their weapons before they drop. The remaining open fire on your position blindly, bullets burying themselves into the dirt with puffs of dust. Gunfire explodes across your vision like fireworks as you open fire, tracking shapes in the shadows and deftly squeezing the trigger after them.

They’re trying to find you in the dark, and it’s difficult with your group spread apart as it is, perched on a low rise that offers a semblance of cover to shield you. There’s shouts that echo in the darkness, panicked, angry, offering orders that are cut short by the sound of a gunshot.

You watch as a man retreats to the cover of one of the trucks, and moments later the engine starts, and the vehicle begins to roll towards you with increasing speed.

“TAKE OUT THE TRUCK.” Ghost orders over the chaos at you, head not turning for even a moment as he focuses his sights.

You have a momentary pause as to why it isn’t Ghost trying to take the shot. He’s always been a better sniper than you, so how-

You watch him take aim at a man fleeing in the direction of the truck.

and miss.

“FIX!!” Ghost bellows, thunderous, and you lock on to the front wheel swerving in the dirt. You take a breath, and a split second later your shoulder jolts with the impact of your rifle, and you watch the rubber of the tire spin into shreds. Yet the truck continues, swerving erratically in your direction. It raises a burst of panic in the men around you, who open fire on the truck as it closes in, all while its passengers take aim at you all.

You watch a body down the line jolt, then go still.

“Anderson!!” One of the corporals hollers, and before you can scream at him to stay where he is, he foregos his weapon in favor of reaching for his teammate.

He screams as his body jerks, cries as he collapses onto his side.

You have no time to look, unleashing your ammo at the truck’s other front wheel in a desperate bid to slow it down before resorting to firing upon the driver. He jerks before slumping forwards, twisting the heel so the truck goes careening off course and away from your sight range.

“They’re flanking us!”

You don’t move unless it would give away your position, instead trying to track the targets in front of you before turning your attention to your side. That is, until you realize-

“Ghost-” You bark, voice cracking. “The injured-”

The truck disappeared towards the broken tail that shelters your comrades.

“Stay put.” Ghost snarls as a bullet pings off the dirt between you, making you flinch. “If you get up, you’re as good as dead.”

You try not to let your hands shake as you focus through your scope again, tracing the remaining five or six targets that flee back towards the other truck. In the chaos of trying to take down the vehicle headed towards you, they’ve gotten a head start, and rapidly begin to reach the edge of your firing range. You try to lock onto them, catching one by the shoulder as he stumbles, then goes down with your next shot. Yes his comrades manage to reach the truck ahead of him, piling in and backing up away from the range of your weapons.

“They’re retreating!” A voice rises beside you.

“They’re getting away.” Ghost growls back, ceaselessly firing upon the truck in an effort to slow it as it withdraws.

There’s gunfire to your right now, and at last you twist towards it, army-crawling in the direction of your wounded patients.

“They’re hidden behind the truck.” A voice tells you, shielded by the mangled helicopter tail. He ducks, crouching, as a bullet pings off the metal.

The wounded are on the other side.

Yet when you try and jolt forward, around, trying to reach for them, you’re hauled back by the straps of your tac vest.

“I said-” Ghost growls in your ear as you all but fall back into the heavy plane of his broad chest. “Stay. put.”

You didn’t realize you were shaking until you were in his arms. The adrenaline bites hard and sour on the underside of your tongue, chest heaving and brain working into overdrive as you force yourself to freeze, process his words.

“Think.” Ghost tells you, breathless enough that you think you might have imagined it.

You blink, trying to reroute the synapses of your thoughts to listen to him, to obey this order he’s given you. You remind yourself it’s Ghost’s voice that has guided you through darkness, through blood and sin, through your own undoings and towards the light of survival. Now, with souls of others cupped preciously in the palms of your hands, you will yourself once more to listen to his guiding clarion.

With you still sprawled back against him, Ghost reaches one massive arm around you to your front. You think he’s about to secure you, roll you out of the way, only for him to deftly pluck your one grenade from the front of your vest. With hardly any effort, Ghost uncaps it right before your eyes...

and hurls it in the direction of the truck.

There’s a pause as it clatters somewhere into the front seat, followed by a shout-

BOOM-!!

Debris erupts upwards, rains down on you. The world spins, rings around you for a moment, and you scrunch your eyes to try and grimace through it. Eventually it fades, and you feel a body pressed to yours shift, one arm looped around your front slowly retreating as you’re released.

He’s still holding you.

For a moment you feel your brain short-circuit, torn hopelessly between utter bafflement at Ghost’s proximity to you, and the reminder of your task at hand. Awkwardly, you cough and scramble to detangle yourself from Ghost, who eases slowly away from you, giving you space.

“All clear!” One of the marines nearby yells in the silence that follows. You glance back at Ghost, crouched as you are by the wrecked helicopter tail. The white of his skull mask flashes luminescent green under your night vision, shadows dancing from the fire of the truck. He nods at you in a silent affirmation- ensuring he’s covering you as you dart for the wounded.

You keep low as you crawl towards the forms of your fallen comrades, grabbing the first man you can and dragging him backwards until one of the other marines assists you. There’s smoking forms hidden behind the truck not far off, one of them moving and moaning wordlessly in pain.

You manage to get everyone behind cover from the truck, not yet looking to see if they’ve been further injured, focused instead on the perimeter, looking for future threats.

“Sergeant.” A marine quietly offers next to you, and you turn, look into his eyes.

The man you’re still holding- clutching onto his tac vest straps by a death grip. He’s dead.

“It’s Martinez.” He whispers solemnly. The one you’d left to defend his brothers. He’s still holding the IV bag.

It takes a few moments for the thing inside your chest to awaken- that dark beast that howls in anger and sorrow. It draws upwards, clawing viscous and sinister at your inside, and as you stare into the blank eyes of Martinez it growls in low tones words of grief and fury at you’d been unable to save him.

That you’d failed.

You release the body like you’ve been electrocuted- muscles a live wire as you try to control your shallow breathing. Blood rushes in your ears. The world dizzies you with shades of green.

“Fix.”

You turn, eyes wild, almost careening into Ghost behind you. He catches you by your elbow, steadies you silently. The warmth from his gloved hands bleeds through, and somehow you find your balance.

You almost want to shield the fallen soldier behind you, trying to hide the act of failure you’ve committed. Yet when you try, Ghost’s grip on your arm remains tight, as if somehow anticipating your movement.

“Think.” His voice echoes again in your mind.

Your throat is a hard, bitter scrape of air as you swallow, steady yourself.

“Who’s injured?” You ask the survivors gathered around you.

“Anderson is dead.” A voice intones, quiet and grieving. “Smit is gone too.”

Three men including the pilot. Three men you failed to save. Three souls to haunt you.

You stare up at Ghost, trying to make out his expression despite the night vision. You wonder if he still feels grief despite everything. You wonder if you respect him for that.

Over his shoulder, light in the distance.

He blinks, follows your gaze.

More trucks. Distant, but closing in. Hyenas come to pick off the wounded survivors.

“Dig in.” Ghost tells the team, releasing you so abruptly the world spins. “We’ve got enemy reinforcements inbound.”

Yet as you focus in on the convoy headed in your direction, you see just how many reinforcements Ghost speaks of.

Three cars. You’ll be overrun.

“Ghost, we need to retreat.” The marine sergeant tells him roughly. “We can’t hold this position.”

“Retreat to where?” Ghost snaps back, never taking his eyes off the convoy. “We hold here.”

“There’s buildings north of us, they look abandoned-”

“We won’t make it. Not with the trucks.”

He’s right. Even if you didn’t carry the wounded, in which Ghost would have to haul you to withdraw himself, there’s just no way you can make it to a cover without the trucks catching up and encircling you all, cutting off any escape- or chance at survival.

“Reload.” Ghost declares when the sergeant goes quiet of protests. “Inside the chopper, wounded first.”

The men echo a chorus of acknowledgments, moving around you. Yet you remain rooted to where you stand, gazing at Ghost, at the convoy, at the starless sky.

You’ve lost three men. Now more enemies come to reap the souls of those who have lived. You need to retreat, to fight, to protect the men you’ve been tasked with, to ensure your own survival.

Think, he said.

Think, Fix.

Think.

The answer comes before you can second guess yourself.

“We need to blow up the chopper.”

The men around you freeze, turn to look at you. The air feels stale in your lungs, heartbeat stuttering, but under their eyes you force yourself to repeat your words.

“We need to rig the chopper to explode- and retreat.”

Ghost stares at you wordlessly. You expect him to snarl at you, to reprimand you, but instead he simply watches, waits for you to speak.

Listening. Perhaps even trusting.

You swallow hard, settling yourself where you stand before speaking again.

“We have demolition charges for the bunker. We can set them on the chopper, wait until the trucks get close, withdraw and then set them to go off. It’ll give us time to take the wounded and hike to a better position.”

It’s quiet in the moments after you speak.

Then:

“That’s crazy.” The marine sergeant offers in utter disbelief. Then, quieter: “It could work.”

Ghost’s eyes haven’t strayed from you. You lock onto them, quiet. Pleading. Trusting.

“It would take a crack shot to explode the package at that distance in the dark.” Is the only thing he offers. Yet the silent message is clear.

Can you do it?

For a single, suffocating moment doubt threatens to choke the hope from your chest, obfuscating it in a noxious cloud of self loathing and hatred. Instead, you square your shoulders, look at Ghost’s eyes, pupils blown wide and dark under the starless sky.

“I can do it.”

Ghost holds your stare. The trucks in the distance grow closer.

“Pack up.” He barks, turning. “Wounded take priority. Take what you can, leave the rest. I want the charges on the nose of the chopper, and whatever ammunition is left after reloading. Wounded at the front, the rest of you watching our six. MOVE!!”

You fall in line, a flurry of activity as you rapidly check the wounded men, hauling those who can stand to their feet, taking the weapons of the men who carry those who can’t. You watch as the marine sergeant and two more secure charges to the front of the chopper near the fuel tank, working quickly as the rest of you pass them, headed up the rise.

You can hear the engines of the trucks now, roaring with sand choked valves as they close in.

“Move. Move!” You urge the men ahead of you, hanging towards the rear as Ghost takes up the tail of your group. You watch the lights of the trucks near the forms of their fallen comrades as you reach the top of the hill. They swiftly pass them, firing several shots into the sky as they near the crash site.

You plant yourself at the top of the rise, rock and dirt digging into your stomach as you focus through your scope, swinging your sights from the rapidly encroaching convoy towards the exposed charges. Ghost hovers at your back as the men hike past him, encouraged by their sergeant. You know if this doesn’t work, if you shoot too soon or too late, it will be an early grave for you all.

“Not yet.” Ghost tells you, observing as the trucks begin to eclipse the former perimeter where you’d been laying only minutes ago. You steady your breathing, forcing your heartbeat to slow, loosening your hands on your rifle and then slowly tightening it once more. You keep your finger off the trigger.

The trucks pass the perimeter.

Not yet.

The trucks creep up on the helicopter tail.

Not yet.

The trucks pass by the burning wreckage of the other truck.

Your finger lays on the trigger. You focus on the demolition charges.

Deep breath in.

Quietly, from behind you:

“Now.”

You squeeze the trigger just once, and at the exact moment that the trucks come up parallel to the nose of the bird, you watch as the charges explode. It takes a moment for the heat to burn a hole through the fuel tank, but then a second, larger explosion alights and deafens you with the sound of its ignition. The force of it momentarily rocks you backwards, and it's only Ghost that manages to keep you steady as the shockwave briefly rolls over you both.

When you open your eyes, you see the three trucks gone. Engulfed in the inferno.

Clear.

“Bloody fuckin hell.” Ghost breathes beside you, observing the carnage with an expression far from unimpressed. “Bloody good shot, sergeant.”

You’re so stunned by the blast you almost miss the praise, blinking even as Ghost grabs you by your arm and hauls you to your feet beside him.

“Thank you. Sir.” You manage at last, still gazing down at the flames. The rifle in your grip feels too heavy. Then: “Holy shit.”

“Keen observation.” Ghost remarks dryly, but there’s an undercurrent of something else to his voice. Something that sounds almost relieved. Pleased. “Let’s get moving.”

He turns, and you follow in his shadow. Behind you, the blaze of your destruction alights you in fiery warmth.

He hikes higher into the hills.

You follow him.

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[clqxuds]

Seeking Whom He May Devour (1)

dragon hybrid!Bakugou x fem!reader

warnings: there's some suggestive talk lol bt it's tame for now.

WC: 3.8K

a/n: So here's something I've been working on for YEARS lol. Don't get too excited idk if I will even be able to like keep going with this. i would like to but for now I'm actually kinda proud i was finally able to complete this bit.

Something is watching you. 

There’s natural order in the animal kingdom, the food chain. The hunt calls to all, predator and prey alike. You know this, you’re more than aware of it. Nine years spent studying animal behavior, the logistics of the hunt are more than a lesson to you, it is your livelihood. 

Now more so than ever. 

You are being hunted. 

Your blood is cold in your veins, your heart races and each wavering breath is an insult to Death. Which breath will be my last? you wonder. You’ve watched a spider stalk its prey, a tiny little beetle living blissfully unaware of the danger. But you know how its story will end. 

How you wish you could be as naïve as the beetle, because knowing you will die is much worse. 

The predator stretches its limbs prepared to strike whom it has been seeking.

Your consciousness hangs in the vast darkness. It isn’t the dark that’s the worst part. It's loneliness. The bitter loneliness. Knowing that no matter how much you raise your voice to call out to someone, they will not hear. 

Because no one is here with you. 

You are dead. 

At least, that’s your first thought. 

Something is picking at your fingers, pinching and pulling at the skin. You open your eyes and it hurts as you stare up into what you recognize as the clear night sky. The salt water has dried your eyes and it hurts to blink, but you flutter your lashes desperately to moisten your eyes and get a look of your surroundings. 

Everything sounds muffled around you and within the first breath you take, you’re coughing and pushing water from your lungs. Your throat burns, like millions of tiny cuts line the delicate skin of your esophagus. Each burning breath you inhale feels worse than the next, yet you become more alive as you try to even your breathing. 

It takes a few minutes for your eyes to adjust and take in your surroundings but when you do, a ripple of fear washes through you. 

You’re alone, sitting washed ashore on an otherwise empty beach. On one side of you the vast blue ocean with crashing waves and not a boat in sight and on the other, a thick curtain of trees and shrubs similar to plants you’d find in a jungle temperate zone. 

The pinching on your fingers and skin you find are from birds who were happy to find a feast in your seemingly dead carcass. One lands next to your feet, hops over to examine you and pecks at your toes. You screech and pull away from it. 

“I AM NOT DEAD!” You squeal and it sounds more like a thankful declaration. 

You’re not dead, though you think you probably should be. You wrack your brain for any memories you had before waking up here but there are none. Just darkness. Something shifts loudly in the dense wall of jungle behind you.

The huge lush green leaves move menacingly as whatever it is that’s stomping through the forest gets closer and closer to the beach. 

Something is watching you. 

A crack of a branch in the distance confirms that fact and you whip around in the darkness, wet hair slapping your cheeks. It's too dark, the canopy of trees overhead lends no moonlight for you to see two inches in front of your face. 

Maybe going into the jungle to hide wasn’t the best idea. 

You try to calm your breathing or at least quiet it so you can hear if something is approaching. There’s rushing water nearby, a waterfall perhaps? 

Insects are buzzing around your ear, licking at the sweat drenching your neck and dripping down your tank top. Your eyes swivel back and forth desperately, your grip tightens on the handle of the tree branch you’ve taken up as a weapon.

Another crack of a tree limb rips through the tense air, closer now, but behind you. Whatever it is, it’s circling you. Predators only circle what they’re about to attack and consume, after they’ve run down its stamina. 

You tremble on exhausted legs, your breathing increases as adrenaline and fear sends blood rushing to all of your limbs. You’re stuck in place though, not able to run like you want or scream like you want. Whatever it is that’s coming for you, will have you. 

Heavy footfall is behind you, it's close, so close the hairs on the back of your neck stand with the static of its perilous grip. Judging from the sound, it’s bipedal and a low growl from above your head tells you it’s big, towering over your tiny frame. Something drags on the ground—a tail perhaps— it sounds heavy as it scrapes through the dirt and rocks on the jungle floor. 

You don’t dare turn around, afraid to look upon the beast that has captured you in its clutches, certain to swallow you whole.The smell hits you first as it continues to creep up behind you, a warm breath bathes you and it smells of death and fresh meat.

 A tingle slips up your spine as it breathes heavy air on you, wisps of your hair blowing and sticking to your perspiring lips. It sniffs you and you clench your eyes shut, standing stiller than a statue. 

Your mind filters through what to do should you be approached by a wild animal. Your chances for all of the options have passed. The creature is here now and it wants you. The only thing you can think of is to intimidate it, or show no fear. 

You feel it sniff you again and hear it shift away, certainly perplexed by your foreign scent. You take the opportunity to gather your courage, take a deep breath and spin around to look into the eyes of your stalker. 

What you see makes no sense. It’s a man. Or maybe not a man. It can’t be. It’s covered in scales down its arms and legs. It’s tall, almost 9 or 10 ft, with unruly ash blonde hair, or is it fur? Sharp fangs hang down from the menacing snarl of its lips, and it has what looks like hands, an appendage you’d call a thumb if the anatomy of this creature were human, and clawed feet that resemble a beast you’ve only ever heard about in fairytales. You look into the beast’s eyes, they’re glowing a bloody red, pupils thin slits as his brow—yeah it has expressive furry  brows the same color as its hair—furrow in confusion. 

When you realize that you’re only able to see its features in the dark because it’s glowing a warm bioluminescent orange glow from spots along its back, your fear melts and fascination takes over. You continue to stare into its eyes and you glower to hold the intimidation and pray that it backs off. You watch its pupils slowly morph into full black circles as you continue to stare. And then what it does next, blows your mind and you’re sure, you must’ve actually died back on the beach. 

It speaks. In a language you cannot understand. 

You run. 

Trees and branches slap and slice away at your face and thighs as you stumble through the dark forest. Adrenaline drives your muscles harder, blood pumping through your limbs as every neuron in your brain screams at you to flee. The voice is above your head, keeping pace with you as you sprint but you don’t dare stop. 

Still its voice rumbles in your head, raspy, growly, dangerous. Whips of the leathery branches cut deep into your skin but you cannot feel the pain. The adrenaline masks it, pushing your body to the brink of exhaustion, yet never stopping. 

The creature is in pursuit behind you, or is it still above you? Is it flying? You saw the wings, you’re sure of it. How can it see you beneath the thick canopy of trees? Can it see you in the darkness? 

Your foot sinks into a deep pool of water and thick mud, a marsh of some kind slowly sucking in your feet and pulling you to its depths. You wriggle frantically, hearing the rushing wind of the flapping wings stagger above your head. 

Tears flow down your cheeks now as you desperately try to pull yourself free. You’re going to die here in this jungle. You’re going to die and no one will ever remember you. 

No one speaks about the fear, perhaps because those that have felt it have never been able to recall it. How foolish you were to believe you were the apex predator. There is always something bigger, always something stronger and faster and hungrier. 

You are being hunted. Your blood is cold in your veins, your heart races and each wavering breath is an insult to Death. Which breath will be your last? You wonder. You’ve watched a spider stalk its prey, a tiny little beetle living blissfully unaware of the danger it’s in. in a controlled environment, you know how its story will end. 

How you wish to be as naïve as the beetle, because knowing you will die is ten times worse. 

The creature above you swoops down closer. You hear it land behind you as your body sinks into the wet thick mud. You don’t turn around, too afraid to face your certain doom. 

Branches snap underneath its weight as it slowly gets closer. You hear the low growl in its chest as it bends down to sniff the top of your head. The predator stretches its limbs, prepared to strike whom it has been seeking.

And for the first time since washing up on this strange island, you scream, so sharply your head goes numb. Your body tires from the running and fighting and you give in to darkness, your last breath shuddering in the night.

When you wake, you’re cold. The ground below you is cold and wet and sticky. Your cheek presses against the cold stone and little pebbles are sticking to your cheek as you stir into consciousness. It’s dark, still way too dark for you to see where you are. Your head is pounding, your limbs are sore and you don’t think you can stand without stumbling. 

You feel around the dark space, your fingers brush over rocks and pebbles, a few branches with leaves, and something long and hard, maybe a club of some kind? Your fingers close around the knobbed end of it and you pull it toward you. You’re not sure what it is but one thing’s for sure, you can use this as a weapon. 

You lift your face off of the cold slippery rocks, the shuffling from your body echoes and you conclude you must be in some sort of cave. The air you fill your lungs with is musty and humid. It smells like the wet stifling air of the jungle but another scent lingers.

It’s strange, your mind can’t pinpoint the exact scent but you know you’ve smelled it before. Whatever the scent is, it sends a shiver up your spine and every thing in your brain screams at you. 

This scent means “danger.” 

You tighten your grip on the club as you slowly make your way into a sitting position. You squint into the darkness, trying to let your eyes adjust before you attempt to find a way out. There’s a constant rushing, like water falling from somewhere and an even breeze that sounds a little like someone or something is breathing. 

Slowly you get to your feet, and hold the club with both hands. The handle feels sticky, and as you pull your hand away from it, your hand is covered in a sticky sap like substance. You quickly slip your shoes off and plant your bare feet on the cool stone beneath you.

 A cave must have an exit. You rise, keeping the club raised above your head to strike anything that would get in your way. You take a step forward and your foot kicks a thin hollow log; the sound of it echoes through the cave. 

Holding your breath, you wait for anything to come out of the darkness. When nothing comes, you take another wary step forward. With one hand out in front of you to feel around, you slowly make your way to what you assume is deeper into the cave. 

There’s nothing in front of you, you try to keep your breathing low and quiet but the unknown and what might be waiting for you in the darkness makes your heart speed up. 

You touch something smooth but hard. Could it be the smooth stone of the cave wall? Is it a dead end? Should you turn around and go another way? 

All of your questions come to a halt when you feel your hand rise and fall dramatically, almost as if the cave wall is breathing. The cave is suddenly lit with a warm golden glow coming from the creature standing in front of you. 

It’s sitting, blocking the path and what looks like the mouth of the cave further down the path behind it. Huge bat-like wings stretch out to make itself bigger and you instantly stumble back and fall as you gaze up at the thing in fright. 

The breath leaves your lungs when you peer down at what you thought was a club or stick. Instead, held tight in your grasp is what looks like a bone, a human bone, stripped of skin and meat and tissue. Your hands are covered in sticky dark red blood and as you toss the bone away from you, you ready yourself for whatever this creature may do to you. 

It growls and huffs out a breath as it surveys you, tilting its head and speaking–or what you assume must be speaking– in some weird language you don’t recognize. It sounds angry, or at the very least annoyed. Its voice is harsh and deep and growly. It gestures to you as it speaks and you stare up in confusion before you finally shake yourself out of your stupor.

Is it trying to communicate with you? Why? Why would it be speaking to you if it’s meant to eat you. Predators don't chat up their dinner before it eats it. You tilt your head and lock eyes with the thing. Slowly, you shake your head and enunciate precisely.

“I don’t know what you’re saying to me. I…I can’t understand you.” 

The creature huffs again and rolls its eyes. It throws its arms up as if saying you’re hopeless and for some reason all the fear you carried flips into rage. Is this thing fucking judging you? As if you’re supposed to know what this weird unknown creature is seemingly yelling at you?  

“Oh sorry if I’m wasting your time not knowing some made up language!” you yell back at it. Sarcasm. You’re stranded on an island with some unknown creature trying to communicate with you and is surely going to try to eat you at some point, and you’ve just decided to be sarcastic with it. Beautiful.

You stand and put your hands on your hips, glaring at the creature. It’s best to make yourself seem big too, like you won’t back down. It hasn’t moved to harm you yet, which means it probably doesn’t see you as a threat. But maybe you can trick it into thinking you are the apex predator here. 

It turns back toward you and flashes you a stunned look. It looks almost offended, raising its eyebrows in awe while snarling and showing its fangs and gums. 

Good. Be stunned you big lizard man…thing, you think to yourself. 

Wait. It looks…stunned? 

This thing is showing emotion which means it's not like any other animal you’ve come across. As it moves closer to you, narrowing its eyes and sniffing you again you remain perfectly still. It reaches a clawed hand out and grabs your throat so tightly, no air can pass through your windpipe and you’re struggling under its tight grip. It lifts you off the ground, bringing you closer to its face. Your feet dangle as it holds you up.  

You gasp and try to inhale but the relief of breathing never comes. It’s choking you. This thing is choking you and you are going to die. Your eyebrows pull together, your eyes water and you desperately claw at its hand around your throat. 

You wheeze and whimper, veins popping out of your forehead and eyes bulging as you blink in and out of consciousness. Is this how it will kill you? Choking you before it tears you apart? 

One single tear rolls down your cheek and with the last of your strength you stare the thing in the eyes. Its eyes seem the most human thing about it. They glow a deep red in the darkness, curiosity swimming in the irises like fish circling a pond. 

As you peer into them you feel as if you’re penetrating its mind. There’s some sort of faint connection between you and the monster as you stare. Your eyes plead with it to let you go and somehow you think it understands. 

“...please…” you wheeze.

Suddenly it releases its grip and you fall to the floor coughing. It stares at you for a long time as you try to regain your breath. Then it grabs your face again, and brings your lips to meet its lips. The kiss—if that’s what this is supposed to be— is searing, almost painful, yet sensual and erotic. 

As its tongue plunges into your mouth, you’re only aware of how hot and good it feels. It makes warmth and arousal flow through your body, sends tingles to the tips of your toes and hardens your nipples. As its long tongue flicks wildly around your mouth, it feels as if it’s searching for something. 

Your mind is clouded and then a sharp pain rips through your head. It feels as if something is being wedged into your mind. When the pain feels like it’ll be too great the monster pulls back from you. 

When it backs away, its mouth seems to be smoking and you wipe away its spit and taste on your tongue. You sputter, trying to catch your breath as you cower and scoot away from him. You wrap your arms around yourself but you glare at him with a deadly expression.

“Don’t you fucking touch me again,” you spit between coughs and wipes of your mouth. You ignore the way the tingling in your limbs settles into your stomach. Heat pools between your legs and you wonder if it’s a side effect of what this thing just did to you. It bends down to sniff you again, snorting and frowning at your scent.

When it’s done, it leans back to take in your stance and then, it grins a shit eating grin, sharp fangs and gums exposed from under it’s lip like it’s impressed with your threatening remark. 

“Well well. You’re a tough lil thing arentcha?” 

You don’t say anything. In fact, you’re completely in shock. It’s speaking and you can understand it now. How is that even possible? Could it have been because you were too afraid to realize he’d been speaking in English? No, you’ve put too much effort into trying to stay focused on your survival since being shoved into this fucked up situation.

Its pupils dilate again as they focus on you. It licks its lips in the darkness, smacking loudly as it growls and steps closer. Something shifts in the area where its genitals would be if there were anything there… 

Except now…now there is something there. Your eyes widen as the hint of something peaks out behind a long slit that you just noticed. It otherwise looks flat and smooth in the area where its reproductive organs would be if it were human. 

But now the area is glistening, a bioluminescent viscous liquid leaks from the flaps of skin protecting something thick and twitching. You stare at it, trying to make sense of what you’re seeing and when it clicks you meet its scarlet gaze again. 

No. Not it. His. 

You can hardly believe the look on his face. He looks…well to put it frankly his expression reminds you of those fuckboy frat guys you used to try your hardest to avoid back when you were an undergrad. Those idiots who brag about how big their dicks are and parade around campus thinking they should be praised for it. 

The monster’s expression screams “Like what ya see?” and it pisses you off. Who the hell does this guy—if you can call him that— think he is? You avert your eyes quickly, trying to keep them on anything but his groin. 

“S’alright. I like when they’re tough. Makes it less boring,” his voice echoes in the cave and it feels as if the ground below you is rumbling from his voice alone. 

You take a deep breath. Logic. That’s what you need right now. Quick thinking and logic, that will get you out of this. This thing, whatever he is, is poised like he wants to eat you. However if that were true, he would’ve eaten you while you were asleep, the bones scattered around tell you that much. 

But there’s still the question of how you got here. If there’s no one else here that can only mean he brought you here. 

But why?

“Y…you could speak English that entire time?” you stamer out. Communicating with him seems like your best bet. If he hasn’t eaten you and he brought you to this cave, perhaps he wants something from you, something  other than for you to be his meal. If you can give it to him, maybe he’ll let you go? 

“I’m speakin’ whatever you just shared with me little lamb,” he asserts, reaching a hand out to grab your face again. He turns your head roughly, inspecting the cuts and bruises. Licking his lips again as if he’s a hungry dog waiting to be given permission to partake in his treat. 

What does he mean, shared with him? You raise an eyebrow as he squeezes your cheeks. Is…is that what he was doing when he kissed you? It makes no sense. He couldn’t have learned an entirely new language just from kissing you. 

Then again, he is a half man half lizard creature standing before you. There’s nothing logical about this situation in the slightest. 

Perhaps it’s time to throw logic out the window.

Thanks for reading!

[clqxuds]

Malfunction (Optimus Prime X Human!Fem Reader)

Summary: A strange Cybertronian signal infiltrates Optimus’s systems, overriding his usual restraint and amplifying his sensory responses. Every sound, every touch, every thought of you sends unbearable waves of pleasure through his frame. He resists at first—but when you touch him, even accidentally, his control snaps.

Warnings: AI corruption, Size Difference, smut, curse words, transformer x human sex, rough sex, rough oral sex (female receiving), overstimulation, brutal thrusting, breeding, full penetration, degradation, forced stretching, desperate Optimus, slight dub con, dirty talk

The strange Cybertronian signal has been affecting Optimus all day, his body tense, his voice thick with static-laced restraint. You notice the way his optics flicker whenever you get too close, the way his massive hands flex as if he’s holding himself back.

"Something… is wrong," he finally confesses, voice strained. "Every sensation is… amplified. You—" His optics darken, tracking the way you shift under his intense gaze. "I cannot focus when you are near."

And then, you make a mistake.

You touch him.

The instant your fingers graze his heated plating, a deep growl erupts from his chassis. His entire frame shudders, and his massive hands shoot out, grabbing you, caging you against him. His optics burn into you, his vents cycling erratically.

"You shouldn’t have done that." His voice is low, almost dangerous, thick with something primal.

Before you can react, he’s lifting you—effortlessly, as if you weigh nothing—pressing you against the cool metal wall of the Autobot base. The size difference is staggering; his body dwarfs yours completely, his massive frame surrounding you, pressing you down, trapping you in his overwhelming presence.

"I can’t stop," he groans, his servo sliding under your clothes, fingers dragging roughly over your bare skin. His touch is hot, desperate, as if he’s memorizing every inch of you. "I need to taste you."

He doesn’t wait for permission.

You gasp as he lowers you, his enormous frame sinking down, positioning you exactly where he wants you. His optics flicker, scanning you with predatory intent as he spreads you open, his thick digits gripping your thighs.

And then—his mouth.

His glossa (Cybertronian tongue) is bigger than it should be, hot and flexible, pressing against your aching heat in long, devastating strokes. The size difference makes everything overwhelming—his sheer power, the way he holds you in place, how easily he could devour you whole if he wanted to.

"So small… so fragile… and yet you take it so well," he groans, voice vibrating through your core.

His grip tightens, his massive hands keeping you spread open as he ravages you, his pace rough, insatiable. His deep growls send shockwaves through your body, his mouth working you open with relentless precision.

He’s too big, too strong, too much, and yet you can’t stop screaming his name.

He doesn’t stop when you come. He doesn’t even slow down. If anything, the taste of you only makes him hungrier. His deep, reverberating purr vibrates through you as he buries his face deeper between your thighs, dragging another orgasm out of you before you’ve even recovered from the first.

"Again," he commands, voice dark and wrecked with need. "You’re not done yet."

Your overstimulated whimpers only make him more desperate, his grip tightening as he devours you, utterly addicted to the sounds you make, to the way you break under his touch.

By the time he finally pulls back, you’re trembling, your body wrecked from the intensity of his mouth. But Optimus isn’t done. Not even close.

His massive fingers stroke over your slick thighs, spreading you wider, his optics dark with hunger. His vents stutter as he towers over you once again, his sheer size pressing down on you.

"That was only the beginning," he growls, his massive form caging you against the wall. "Now… let’s see how much more you can take."

The sheer heat of him makes you shudder. His panel shifts with a mechanical hiss, and fuck, he’s huge. Thick, ridged plating lined with Cybertronian biolights, far too big for a human body—yet he’s determined to make you take it anyway.

"You’re going to stretch for me," he rasps, pressing the tip against your slick entrance, the difference in size making you whimper. "It’s going to hurt, little one… but you’ll take it."

He doesn’t ease in. He forces his way inside.

A strangled cry rips from your throat as his massive shaft pushes in, spreading you wider than should be possible. The stretch is unbearable, your body resisting, but Optimus doesn’t stop. His grip on your hips tightens, pinning you down as he forces every thick inch inside.

"Look at you," he groans, voice laced with raw lust. "So fucking small, struggling to take my cock."

You claw at his plating, nails scratching uselessly against the metal, but he only laughs, a deep, dark sound vibrating through you.

"Hurts, doesn’t it?" he mocks, thrusting another inch inside, making you scream. "You wanted this, didn’t you? You wanted to be fucking ruined by me."

The stretch is unbearable, your body too tight, but the pleasure is just as overwhelming. He’s grinding against nerves you didn’t even know existed, forcing your body to adjust to his impossible size.

"Pathetic little human," he growls, voice thick with static-laced pleasure. "Crying like you can’t take it— but look at you. You’re dripping all over my cock, sucking me in like a desperate little whore."

Your mind is spinning, your body overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of being filled so completely. Every slow, brutal thrust forces another choked gasp from your lips.

And then—he starts moving for real.

Optimus doesn’t hold back. Once he’s inside, once he feels the way you squeeze around him, something snaps.

"I’m done being gentle."

His grip tightens, and then he slams into you.

The impact knocks the breath from your lungs, your body jerking against the wall as he drives his cock in deep, his sheer strength keeping you pinned. The brutal stretch is too much, your mind dissolving into raw pleasure as he pounds into you with reckless force.

"Fucking take it," he snarls, thrusting harder, his metal body unyielding, slamming you into the wall with every brutal snap of his hips. "You’re mine. Made to take my cock. Nothing else fucking matters."

His engine roars, his frame shaking with the effort of holding back from completely breaking you. But even as he ruins you, he keeps talking, his deep, growling voice making you clench around him.

"Listen to yourself," he huffs, pressing his forehead against yours, optics locked onto your wrecked expression. "Whimpering, crying— and yet you keep spreading your legs for me. You love this, don’t you? You love being fucking wrecked by something this big."

You can’t even speak. Every rough, punishing thrust sends shockwaves through your body, your nails digging into his plating.

"You were made for this," he groans, his pace brutal, his thick shaft stretching you past your limit. "Made to be fucking bred by me."

That’s what finally breaks you.

Your orgasm slams into you with blinding force, your body spasming around him, clenching so tight he growls, his own movements turning ragged. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow down. He fucks you through it, overstimulating you until you’re sobbing from the pleasure.

"I’m not done," he growls, pressing his forehead against yours. "Not until I’ve filled you. Not until you’re leaking with my transfluid, dripping with proof that you belong to me."

His movements grow desperate, his thrusts turning animalistic, his deep moans vibrating against your skin. He’s close—his vents stuttering, his fingers bruising your skin as he slams into you with reckless force.

"Gonna fill you up," he groans, thrusting deep. "Gonna fucking ruin you."

You’re still shaking from your first orgasm when his final thrust slams inside, his entire frame locking up. His grip tightens, and then—heat.

Liquid metal warmth floods your core as he comes, a deep, wrecked growl tearing from his throat. His overload is violent, his entire frame trembling as he pumps you full, his transfluid so much that it leaks out, dripping down your thighs.

He doesn’t move for a moment, his massive frame shuddering. Then, his grip loosens, and he pulls out, watching with dark optics as his thick release spills from your stretched, ruined hole.

"Look at that," he murmurs, his fingers gathering the mess between your thighs. "So full of me."

Even now, his optics burn with hunger.

"I hope you’re not too tired," he warns, voice dark and dangerous. "Because I’m not nearly finished with you."

[clqxuds]

tongue on loving wound; masterlist

alpha! simon "ghost" riley x fem!omega!reader | alternate universe to In Limbo | omegaverse!au | read on AO3 | pinterest board

Simon Riley has a keen sense of smell that's kept him alive working for John Price and his illicit business, and it's a sense that's not easily fooled. But when he comes across you, an omega who has no distinct smell except for the lingering aroma of something much too sickeningly familiar, he finds himself infatuated. Little does he know, there's something else lurking in the depths of your silage, something that will leave him wrapped around your very fingers.

a/n: this is an alternate universe to my story In Limbo. you don't need to read the story to understand it, but there might be some references you won't recognize. please heed the warnings on each chapter; overall, there are themes of violence, minor gore, death, and heavy smut that comes along with omegaverse universes

a gift to @bi-writes who planted this idea in my brain ages ago on discord <3

Part One Part Two

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

[clqxuds]

adrenaline

────── ryomen sukuna

⤷ formula one driver!sukuna who takes an interest on a shy reporter.

tw: doggy, daddy kink (slight) oral (male female receiving), mating press, breeding kink, spanking, not proofread, MDNI

got inspired by this beautiful work here, go show some love <3 @to00fu

it was loud — overwhelmingly so. the roar of engines echoed off the narrow streets of monte carlo as you arrived at the circuit de monaco, badge swinging around your neck, notebook clutched to your chest. your team had sent you to cover the monaco grand prix, one of the crown jewels of the formula 1 calendar. it was your first time at a live event of this scale, and your assignment? try to score an interview with none other than ryomen sukuna — two-time monaco winner, three-time berlin champion, and the most elusive driver on the grid.

he wasn’t known for giving interviews. in fact, most in the press pen described him as cold, cocky, and unreachable. but still, if you could manage to get him to speak to you — really speak — it would be a game-changer for your career.

“hey, you ready?” your coworker called from the media shuttle. “we’ve got to be in the press briefing before the pre-race prep starts.”

you nodded quickly, adjusting your press lanyard, and followed the flow of reporters into the media center. inside, the buzz was palpable. you took your seat, legs crossed tightly, foot tapping against the floor. you were trying to calm your nerves, but your eyes kept drifting toward the door.

and then, the room shifted.

cheers and whistles broke out as sukuna entered. you stood instinctively, craning your neck to get a glimpse — and there he was. tall, broad-shouldered in his fitted team suit, race cap pulled low over his sharp eyes. he didn’t wave or acknowledge the room, just walked in with the quiet authority of a man who knew he didn’t need to try.

your throat dried. he was stunning. the kind of stunning that made your cheeks burn as you forced your gaze back to your notes. inappropriate thoughts crept in anyway. you pressed your knees together, trying to shake them off.

one by one, the journalists posed their questions. sukuna’s replies were short, clipped, sometimes sarcastic. he didn’t suffer fools — or flattery. and then it was your turn.

you stood, heart hammering. he watched you as you rose — not dismissively, but with interest, eyes following the way you clutched your notes like a lifeline.

“i was wondering,” you began, voice just steady enough, “about the profile picture you use across your social media — the one with you and your father in the small f1 kart. was he your inspiration to race?”

there was a beat of silence. a few reporters chuckled. someone scoffed. but sukuna didn’t. instead, he gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. he twisted the cap onto his water bottle and looked straight at you. “my dad was everything. i learned to race to make him proud,” he said, and for a second, his voice softened.

you nodded, lips curling into a smile, and sat down — your heart doing laps faster than any car on the grid. the rest of the questions blurred together. you could feel his eyes on you now and then, sharp and unreadable.

engines revved in the pit lane as the sun dipped lower over monte carlo’s harbor. the race was chaos and choreography all at once — twenty cars weaving through the tight hairpins and unforgiving chicanes, the scream of the v6 turbo engines reverberating off the grandstands.

you watched from the media zone, gripping your headset as the final laps unfolded. overtakes were rare in monaco, but sukuna was a master of precision. when he made his move into the nouvelle chicane, it was clean and lethal — the kind of move that made commentators lose their minds.

and then, the checkered flag waved. sukuna had won.

the crowd erupted. flares lit up. and the press surged forward.

“come on!” your coworker shouted, already pushing toward the media scrum gathering by parc fermé. reporters crowded around the victorious driver, shouting over one another. microphones flashed. cameras clicked.

you tried to move forward — but it was impossible. the mob was too thick, too loud.

“watch out!” someone yelled, but too late — another reporter shoved past you, knocking you off balance.

you stumbled forward, straight into someone’s chest. strong arms steadied you. a hand curled around your wrist. it was him. security started to react, but sukuna raised a hand, waving them off. his eyes — sharp and amused — scanned your face.

“you again, sweetheart?” he said low enough for only you to hear. his thumb brushed gently across the inside of your wrist. or maybe you imagined that part. you weren’t sure. he was close — so close it was dizzying.

he leaned in, lips near your ear. “if you’re serious about that interview,” he murmured, “meet me at the hotel hermitage. room 1801. nine o’clock. reception will let you up.”

and just like that, he walked away, ignoring the press, his team, everyone else.

your coworker caught up to you, wide-eyed. “what did he say?!” you blinked, still stunned. “he said… my questions were soft.” you lied, smiling to yourself.

you didn’t know if you’d go, but it might just be your shot.

you stared at the clock in your hotel room: 8:52 p.m.

you had paced the suite five times, changed your outfit twice, and debated texting your editor a dozen more. was this a mistake? would he even remember he invited you? your press pass lay on the nightstand, staring back at you like a dare.

by 8:57, you were in the elevator heading to the 18th floor of hotel hermitage. the hallway was quiet, plush carpet soft under your shoes. everything smelled like expensive cologne and fresh linen. it felt like the kind of place where secrets were expected — and kept.

you knocked on the door marked 1801.

no response.

you hesitated, lifting your hand again — but the door cracked open.

he stood there, Ryomen Sukuna — hair still wet, towel slung around the back of his neck, a few droplets of water catching the light as they slid down his bare chest. tattoos sprawled across his torso, wrapping around his arms, ink trailing over defined muscle and disappearing under a pair of low-sitting black lounge shorts. no shirt. just heat. and skin. and ink.

he looked completely unbothered by his own state of undress.

“you’re early,” he said, voice gravelly — not annoyed, but amused.

you tried to say something — anything — but your words got lost somewhere between the towel on his neck and the line of his collarbone.

he tilted his head slightly. “you coming in or just going to stare?” you stepped inside before you embarrassed yourself further.

the suite was dimly lit, with soft light coming from the floor lamps and the glow of monaco’s coast beyond the balcony windows. there was a half-open bottle of wine on the table near the couch, two glasses already waiting — like this had been a plan from the beginning.

you turned back toward him just as he closed the door. he didn’t move to get dressed. didn’t apologize for it, either.

“so,” he said, walking over to the wine. “you’re here for your big scoop?”

“you invited me,” you managed to say, even if it came out smaller than you intended. he poured the wine slowly. “i know.” he stated lowly, his eyes casually drifting at you, his muscles flexing with every move.

he handed you a glass, and when your fingers brushed his — warm skin, damp from the shower — it felt like a jolt of something you couldn’t name.

“well?” he said, lowering himself onto the couch. “ask your questions.”

you sat across from him, notebook in your lap more for show than purpose. your pen hovered midair, mind trying to chase the professionalism you were supposed to have walked in with. he sipped his wine, eyes never really leaving yours — studying, waiting.

you cleared your throat. “okay. first question… you’ve raced this circuit five times now. do you still get nervous before a big start?”

he leaned back, one arm draped over the back of the couch, the towel shifting slightly on his neck. “not really. nerves are a waste of energy. you either trust yourself, or you don’t.”

you nodded, scribbling something down even if it was just to give your hands something to do. “right. uh… who do you think your biggest rival is this season?”

“depends. on paper?” he took another sip. “probably hajime. but mentally? no one.”

you smiled despite yourself. “cocky.”

“confident,” he corrected smoothly. “if you don’t believe you’re the best out there, you’re already behind.”

you made a small noise of agreement, then flipped the page — pretending you weren’t hyperaware of the way his muscles shifted every time he moved. “okay, let’s talk personal life.”

his brow lifted. “now we’re getting interesting.”

you hesitated. “are relationships hard for you, given the lifestyle?”

he didn’t answer right away. instead, he let the silence settle, then said slowly, “they’re not hard. they’re just not built to last.”

you glanced up at him. “why not?”

“because most people don’t want the truth,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “they want a version of you that makes them feel better about themselves.” your pen paused.

he leaned forward slightly, gaze sharper now. “you ask a lot of curious personal questions.”

“it’s my job,” you replied, trying to match his tone.

“sure,” he said. “or maybe you just want to know what kind of women i like.” your breath caught — not because he was wrong, but because of how plainly he’d said it. your silence stretched too long, and his smirk deepened.

“want me to answer that?”

you swallowed. “wouldn’t that be off the record?”

“maybe,” he said, voice dipping low. “maybe not.” your fingers tightened slightly around your pen. “i’m not uncomfortable.”

“didn’t say you were,” he murmured, leaning in a little more, elbows resting on his knees now, glass dangling from one hand. “but you haven’t moved since i brought it up.”

you met his eyes — steady, unreadable. “so? what kind of women do you like?”

he smiled, slow and deliberate. “ones who ask bold questions with their voice shaking.”

you exhaled — not quite a laugh, not quite a breath — and before you could respond, he tilted his head, voice dropping even lower.

you couldn’t seem to tear your eyes away from him. his gaze was magnetic — intense, and unwavering.

“you sure you’re still here for the article?” his voice was low, but there was no mistaking the challenge in his words.

you blinked, caught off guard. “i’m… i’m here for the interview,” you said, trying to steady your nerves, but the line between professional and personal was blurring fast.

he didn’t smile this time, his gaze sharpening as he leaned in, his voice dropping lower. “you know,” he said, his tone almost teasing now, “i don’t usually invite people to my room for just a ‘chat.’”

your heart pounded in your chest, and you could feel the weight of his stare. you weren’t sure if you wanted to step back or closer, but his next words made it all the more complicated.

“tell me,” he murmured, his voice rough but controlled. “after all the questions you’ve asked about everyone else, you haven’t told me much about you.”

his eyes flicked to yours, dark and assessing. “you want to know what kind of woman I like? it’s simple: someone who knows what she wants.” his words were heavy with meaning, lingering in the air.

you swallowed hard. you had no idea where this conversation was going, but you felt your body respond to the shift in energy. it was no longer about the interview, or the questions.

“maybe you’d like me to show you,” he said, leaning closer. there was no mistaking it now. his breath was warm against your skin, and the air felt thick, charged with something undeniable. “or do you prefer to just keep asking?”

this was it. this was the moment you’ve been fantasizing about ever since you’ve laid eyes on him. you lean closer to him, his winey breath on your skin. “i guess, no,” you took a small breath, “i want you to show me, what you like.”

he smirked, his hand removing your glass from your trembling fingers. his face was closer to yours, his other hand wrapping itself around the back of your neck pulling you closer as he captured your lips with his. your stomach erupted, goosebumps rising on your skin as you found your brows furrowing into the kiss.

you placed your hands on his cheeks pulling further toward you, his body lying you down on the couch as he took place above you, careful with his movement without breaking away.

“tell me what you want beautiful and it’s yours,” he whispered into the kiss, “it’s all yours, god.”

you wrapped yourself around him, separating your face from him, face red and flushed. “i want you, please, sukuna,”

without a second wasted, sukuna grabbed your body pulling you up from the couch, his bulge rubbing against your clothed cunt. your hips attempted to get a better feel, pressing yourself closer to him but it was all cut to an end when you were thrown onto his bed.

“so needy,” he chuckled throwing off his towel with a tug, “you want me that bad huh?” he grinned removing his shorts, revealing his swollen tip. your mouth drooled at the sight, his inked body, his beautiful muscles and his aching cock. you couldn’t help but crawl to him, your bottom lip tugged under your teeth as you reached to grab him.

you wrapped your lips around the tip, tasting the salty pre-cum, and he groaned, one hand tangling in your hair. you took him deeper, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing as you worked him, but he wasn’t patient. how could he when your throat felt so good. he thrust into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat, making you gag. tears pricked your eyes, but the sound of his low, filthy moans made your cunt drip onto the sheets.

“fuck, that’s it,” he moaned, fucking your mouth with slow, deliberate thrusts. “take every inch baby that’s it.”

you moaned around him, the vibrations making him curse, his grip tightening. he pulled out suddenly, leaving you gasping, spit dripping down your chin. “not yet,” he said, hauling you to your feet and pushing you back . “i wanna feel that tight little pussy first.”

he shoved your body to his liking, face-down, ass up, pulling down your skirt and panties down. the cool air coming from the open windows hit your slick folds, making you shiver, but then his hand cracked against your ass, the sting blooming into heat that made your clit throb. “look at this perfect ass,” he muttered, spanking you again, leaving red handprints. “begging to become one of my trophies.”

“please,” you whimpered, spreading your thighs wider, desperate. “sukuna…”

he chuckled, caressing your soft skin, leaning down to kiss it. “you gon’ be a good girl and take all of daddy?” he taunted. your cunt throbbed, giving him all the answers he needed. sukuna teased your slit with his tip before thrusting into you, one long stroke that stretched your pussy to accommodate his girth. your lips parted, letting out an ecstatic gasp as your gripped onto the silk sheets. his balls were slapping against your clit, the trimmed hair brushing against your skin.

“you feel so good, mhm so fucking good,” he grunted, hands gripping your hips as the wet, obscene sounds of your pussy taking him filled the suite. sweat slicked your skin, his chest pressing against your back as he leaned down, biting your shoulder before kissing it, his mouth trailing from your blades to your neck.

his thrusts pushed you over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you, your cunt spasming around his cock as you screamed his name. he couldn’t stop, fucking you through it, chasing his own release. “gonna fill you up sweetheart,” he mumbled almost whimpering, his cock rubbing against your warm insides before spilling himself inside you.

your head fell heavy on the pillows, body trembling as his weight pinned you to the bed, his cock still buried inside you. your breaths were ragged, the room spinning, cum and sweat staining the sheets.

you whimpered painfully as he pulled out, cum leaking from your tired pussy. a sight for sore eyes, he thought.

it wasn’t until you felt his tongue on you that you realized he wasn’t done yet, lapping at the mixture of both his and your orgasms, moaning as he made out with your folds.

“couldn’t help but have a taste, fuck” his voice sent vibrations to your clit, your hand grabbing his head from behind as best you could to guide him through your climax.

he chuckled at your attempt, “don’t got anymore questions f’me?” he spat on your folds before plunging his fingers, toying with you. “don’t get all shy on me now, not after how you treated my cock,” a trail of moans was your answer, hips bucking as you rushed yourself to come.

“oh yeah i can feel that, gonna come again for daddy baby? yeah?” your nodding was rapid, toes curling as you allowed yourself to be overwhelmed by your orgasm.

“daddy… coming,” you whispered, breath shaky. he would be lying if he didn’t enjoy seeing you like that, calling him daddy, letting him do as he pleases. but then it hit him, he still hasn’t seen your fucked out face.

he smeared your juices all over your cunt, lubing you to prepare you for his hardened cock again. with a simple tug he flipped you over, legs on his shoulders as he dug in, capturing your yelp in his mouth, this time going faster.

you grabbed onto his shoulders, legs wrapping around him to keep him close. he knew he wouldn’t last long, how could he when you were squeezing him like that. he reached to your buttoned shirt, ripping it open, the sounds of your buttons scattering on the floor.

sukuna looked down at you, your soft voice expressing how good he is making you feel. he smirked, his fingers pulling down your bra to be mesmerized by your tits, his hungry mouth unable to resist latching on them.

“oh my god fuck, sukuna… sukuna shit!” your fingers were now in his hair, your nipples respectively getting sucked and played with. “fill me up again, felt so good to have your cum,” you begged, eyes filling with tears.

“never say no to a win,” he chuckled, his face dropping next to yours as he buried his face next to yours, your legs unconsciously letting go of him as your body began shaking, vision getting cloudy.

he moaned in your ear, his skin slapping against yours a few last times before he let himself loose inside you once again.

“you better mention how much i love the adrenaline rush i get in your article sweetheart.”