synopsis. the time you found out that gojo satoru was fine with devoting his life to you.
contents. fluff, angst, somewhat established relationship, ooc, an unhealthy amount of yearning, clan politics (3.6k words of it), highschool!gojo
notes. a commission for the lovely @borntoexplore11-blog ! enjoy!
Gojo Satoru’s life began as a prophecy. Before he could speak, the elders of the Gojo clan had already written the script of his existence. Every precise hours he would train, the techniques that would mold his hands into weapons, the meals that would balance his cursed energy—each carefully curated. From the moment his six eyes opened, the world bowed and whispered: the one will change everything.
For sixteen years, the plan held. His days were filled with relentless regimens. The elders spoke of him as though he were a divine tool of arithmetic. He was the balance restored to the fragile scale of the jujutsu world.
So when he asked, politely at first, then with the ease of someone who had never been denied to attend Jujutsu Tech in Tokyo, the elders hesitated. They calculated the risk. And then, perhaps believing that even a god-child needed the illusion of choice, they relented.
It was the first and greatest mistake they ever made.
At Jujutsu Tech, you entered his life. And in a twisted stroke of fate, you became a disruption to a millenia-old prophecy. You were unremarkable in the way that comforted him: a second-grade sorcerer in training, still learning how to steady your cursed energy when emotion surged too high. You laughed too loudly, you cursed under your breath when your weapon splintered, and you never once treated him like the myth he had been raised to be.
And for the first time, Gojo Satoru felt the world tilt off its axis.
Geto Suguru noticed it before anyone else. “You’re staring again,” he said one afternoon, sun filtering through the practice yard trees. Gojo didn’t look away. You were sparring against Nanami, breathless but determined, sweat beading at your temple as your weapon rang against his.
“I’m analyzing technique,” Gojo replied, too quickly.
“Is that what they’re calling it now?” Geto murmured.
Shoko Ieiri only snorted from where she lounged nearby, cigarette between her fingers. “It’s cute, really. Watching you pathetically try to flirt by pretending to correct [Name]’s form.”
Gojo ignored them both, though the tips of his ears burned beneath his white hair. You had turned then, mid-bout, meeting his poorly hidden gaze with a look that dared him to comment. And something in his chest, bursted.
From that day, nothing the elders planned for him quite fit anymore. His focus faltered. He started to skip evening meditations, trading them for rooftop conversations with you, where the Tokyo skyline flickered like static beneath your feet. Sometimes Geto joined, lying back against the cool concrete, eyes tracing constellations that didn’t exist. Other times, Nanami and Haibara stopped by with convenience store snacks, their laughter filling the night.
He told himself he could keep it separate. He could be the clan’s weapon by day and your quiet admirer by night. But the heart has its own logic, and when you smiled at him, when you said his name without reverence or fear, the universe narrowed to the sound of your voice.
The elders noticed.
It began subtly; through missions reassigned and quiet reprimands delivered through proxies. But when none of it severed the bond between you, they resorted to something crueler.
The letter arrived that morning, heavy parchment stamped with the Gojo crest, the seal pressed deeply. He broke it open without ceremony, eyes flicking over the neat calligraphy, the words threaded with the measured coldness of his clan.
You are to recall your attention to your studies and to the matters befitting your station. Attachment breeds recklessness, and recklessness unbecomes the Six Eyes. You are reminded that sentiment clouds judgment. Do not stray.
He read it twice, then folded it once, cleanly, and dropped it into the nearest waste bin without looking.
The window before him glowed faintly with the early light of spring, sunlight tangled in the branches outside, dust rising like pollen in the air. For a moment, he simply stood there, hands in his pockets, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth at the disbelief that those fools still thought their words could cage him.
And then he saw you.
You were sitting beneath one of the courtyard trees, legs crossed, sunlight spilling across your shoulders. A stack of mission reports rested in your lap, and Shoko’s old lab coat hung off you like an afterthought, sleeves too long, collar smudged with ink.
Gojo stepped outside, the faint crunch of gravel beneath his feet making you glance up.
“You look suspiciously domestic,” he said, coming to a stop in front of you. “Should I be worried you’ve gone soft on me?”
You looked up, squinting against the light, and gave him a half-smile. “Should I be worried you’ve been watching me long enough to make that observation?”
He tilted his head, feigning thought. “Probably. Though in my defense, you’re hard to ignore.”
“Flattery before noon,” you mused, flipping a page. “That’s new.”
“I got a letter today,” he said, ignoring your jab. “From home.”
You didn’t look up this time. “Ah. Let me guess something heartfelt about filial duty?”
His grin sharpened. “Something like that. They think I should stop… straying.”
“From what? Humanity?”
“From propriety.” He crouched beside you, elbows resting on his knees. “Apparently, I’ve been distracted.”
You raised an eyebrow. “And are you?”
He leaned closer, so close you could see the faint silver ring in his lashes, the soft rise of amusement in his cheeks. “Constantly.”
You rolled your eyes, fighting a smile. “You’re incorrigible.”
“You’re radiant,” he countered without hesitation. “Also, I heard a rumor.”
“Oh?”
“Something about a promotion.”
You blinked, then looked away, pretending to fuss with the stack of papers. “It’s not official yet. I still have to complete one more mission.”
He reached out, plucked the top sheet from your lap, and scanned it briefly. “Second-grade sorcerer. Look at you. Climbing ranks while I’m out here ignoring family correspondence.”
You tried to hide your grin. “Someone has to make this school look respectable.”
“Respectable is overrated,” he said lightly, still holding the paper. “Besides, second grade suits you. You’ve always been a little too brave for the lower ones.”
You tilted your head, studying him. “That almost sounds like approval.”
“I wasn’t aware you needed it.”
“I don’t,” you said. “But it’s nice to know you’re watching.”
His gaze lingered, too long to be casual. “That’s the problem,” he murmured. “I can’t seem to stop.”
The warmth in his tone startled you. There was none of that teasing lilt in his voice. You met his gaze, and for a moment neither of you spoke. The breeze shifted, brushing loose strands of hair against your face; he reached out and tucked one behind your ear, his fingers lingering just a little too long. His thumb brushed the curve of your jaw, a touch both casual and reverent.
“I read once,” he said quietly, “that love is the one thing that makes gods mortal.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t love,” you whispered.
He laughed softly, eyes bright, voice all sunlight and defiance. “Too late.”
The words hung between you like a vow, or maybe a curse.
Your promotion to second-grade sorcerer should have been a celebration. Shoko smuggled sake from the common lounge, Geto toasted to “mediocre achievements for once,” and even Nanami, ever serious, cracked a smile. Gojo had stood beside you, the ghost of pride in his grin, already planning some extravagant gift he’d never admit to buying himself.
So when the summons arrived the next morning, a solo mission in a decaying Tokyo ward, you took it with naïve eagerness. You wanted to prove yourself.
Satoru, ever clingy, had begged to go with you, his usual arrogance stripped raw by something perilously close to fear. “You just got promoted,” he said. “Let me come, I’ll stay quiet, I promise.”
You’d laughed. “You? Quiet?”
“I can be subtle.”
“You’re literally wearing Gucci sunglasses. I’m sure even your underwear is designer.”
Gojo blushes at your comment.
“Have you been imagining me in nothing in my underwear?” He splutters. “How scandalous!”
But beneath the teasing, you’d seen the unease flickering in his smile. He had learned, in the way animals sense storms, that something about the mission rank of suspicion. Yet you went anyway, convinced you had to.
And so you walked into the dark alone.
The building loomed half-devoured by shadow, its walls veined with cracks, and the windows were boarded shut from the inside.
You deduced that it wasn’t to keep intruders out, but to trap something in. The air itself was foul with cursed residue, thick enough to sting your throat. It shouldn’t have been this strong. Not for a second-grade assignment.
You’d been briefed on a lingering curse. It was supposed to be low-threat, mere cleanup work. Yet the moment you crossed the threshold, the energy pressed against your lungs like a living hand. It spasmed, fluctuating in rhythm with your heartbeat.
Something was terribly wrong.
At first, you thought it was fear tightening your chest. Then the cursed energy shifted. Something was watching you.
That wasn’t possible. Curses of this level didn’t think. They didn’t wait in silence, gauging your steps. They didn’t whisper your name through the static of the walls.
They sent you here to die, it breathed, a voice coiling through the plaster, vibrating through your bones. You wanted to call it a trick of your nerves, but deep down, you knew the truth. Someone had signed your mission report knowing exactly what you’d walk into.
The curse struck before the thought could finish forming.
The impact caved the air out of your chest, ribs splintering with the sound of snapping branches. You flew backward, crashing through a wall that crumbled on contact. The dust hadn’t even settled before it was on you again, a distorted shape, too vast for the room, its laughter wet and jagged.
You staggered to your feet, pain flashing white behind your eyes. Your cursed tool flared in your grip.
“Special grade,” you rasped. The words tasted like disbelief.
You swung. Metal met flesh that wasn’t flesh. Sparks scattered as its claws raked against your weapon. The sound was unbearable, scraping metal screaming in the air, your own pulse roaring in your ears. Every block was a desperate attempt at survival, and every strike was a prayer for one more second.
Your cursed energy buckled. You moved on instinct alone, carving through the dark, your breaths sharp and shallow.
Then, somehow there was a break. An opening.
You drove your blade upward, pouring everything you had left into one final strike. Light erupted. The curse split apart with a shriek that shook the walls, its form dissolving into smoke and ash.
Silence followed. A silence so complete it felt sacred.
You swayed where you stood. The weapon slipped from your fingers.
The realization came as the pain did: slow and inevitable.
You weren’t supposed to survive this. Someone had made sure of it.
And as the world tilted, as blood filled your mouth and the ceiling split into spinning fragments of dark and light, you understood what that whisper had meant.
You were never meant to win.
Gojo had never felt dread before. Not once.
Not when a curse lunged for him as a child. Not when his life was threatened by assailants. He had always been untouchable, an orbiting god among mortals, unscarred by fear.
Until that moment.
He’d been in the courtyard with Geto, sunlight slanting through the branches, when the auxiliary manager stumbled through the gates, knees buckling with a weight that wasn’t theirs.
Your weight.
Your body hung in their arms, limp and blood-slick, your uniform torn and blackened by cursed energy burns.
Geto froze, his easy smile slipping into something unrecognizable.
Gojo turned.
The world slowed, sound folding inward, color leaching from the edges of sight. He didn’t even remember crossing the distance. One moment he was standing in the courtyard, the next he was there, eyes uncovered, blue and bottomless.
The manager stammered, voice cracking. “It was a-a misclassification. It was supposed to be Grade 2, but—”
But Gojo wasn’t listening. His gaze was fixed on you.
Your chest rose once. Barely.
The Infinity trembled around him. The grass flattened outward in concentric rings, as if even space itself recoiled from his grief.
“[Name],” he breathed. The sound came apart in his throat.
He reached for you, hands shaking despite himself. The strongest sorcerer in the world, and he was afraid to touch you, afraid that if he did, you’d turn to dust in his palms.
Shoko appeared at the edge of his vision, sprinting from the walkway, cigarette gone, eyes wide. “Move!” she barked, cursed energy already igniting in her hands.
But Gojo didn’t wait. Space folded with a soundless ripple, and suddenly they were in the infirmary, light snapping back into place around them.
“Stop— stop warping the field!” Shoko shouted, shoving him back. “You’ll kill them faster than I can save them!”
Her words hit like a slap. He went still, fists trembling at his sides, blue eyes flickering with barely contained violence. The Infinity hummed between breaths, distorting the edges of the room.
Shoko’s reverse cursed energy glowed white-hot against your wounds. “Don’t do this to yourself,” she muttered, voice tight. “Not here. Not now.”
Minutes passed like lifetimes.
When Nanami and Haibara arrived to the infirmary, they stopped dead at the threshold.
“We heard the mission report,” Nanami said quietly. “They knew, didn’t they? They sent a second-grade sorcerer on a special-grade mission.”
Gojo didn’t answer. The silence around him was a living thing.
Finally, Shoko spoke, eyes still on her work. “She’ll live,” she said.
Gojo exhaled, not relief, not quite. The sound was low and dangerous, the air itself vibrating with it.
“Who signed the mission order?”
“Don’t,” Shoko said, glancing up. “Satoru—”
“Who?”
No one spoke. They didn’t have to. The truth hung heavy in the air.
Hours bled away before anyone moved. The storm of cursed energy had long since stilled; the compound slept uneasily, pretending peace.
Gojo didn’t.
He sat by your bedside, still, his white hair limned in moonlight. The usual brightness in him: the smirk, the drawl, the infuriating ease had been stripped bare, leaving only silence. His glasses lay discarded on the nightstand beside him, useless in aiding his headache. Without it, his eyes looked almost human in the dim light, though the blue still burned faintly beneath exhaustion.
When your breathing evened, he exhaled for the first time in hours.
You stirred, lashes fluttering.
Gojo sat up immediately.
“H-how long was I out for?” Your voice was hoarse.
“Long enough,” he murmured. The words were soft, but something inside them was fractured.
He didn’t waste time with comfort. He told you everything, from the falsified intel to the mission order forged under another name. Each fact fell like a blade between you, deliberate and slow.
“They thought hurting you would remind me who I serve,” he said finally. His tone was calm, too calm. The kind of calm that sits at the edge of catastrophe.
You swallowed. “Satoru—”
“I would’ve destroyed them.” His voice didn’t rise, but the air seemed to tighten around him. “If Shoko hadn’t stopped me, there’d be nothing left of this compound but glass and ash.”
His hand rested near yours on the sheets. When you reached for it, his fingers twitched, hesitating, then giving in. He didn’t squeeze back, but he didn’t pull away either.
“I still can,” he looks at you earnestly. “Just say the word, and—”
“You can’t fight your own clan,” you whispered.
A sound slipped from him. A hollow laugh. “We’ll see.”
Silence bloomed again. You could feel the Infinity stir faintly, like something restless in his pulse.
He looked down at you, studying the faint tremor in your fingers, the half-healed wounds Shoko had left bandaged in glowing threads. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I could’ve kept playing their game. The obedient weapon, the heir they wanted. I could’ve done it forever.”
Your throat ached. “Then why not?”
He met your gaze. For a moment, you saw what the world saw, infinity reflected in two blue irises, so vast and merciless. But then the edges softened.
“Because then you smiled at me,” he said quietly. “And suddenly, everything they built stopped making sense unless you were in it.”
The words hung there, fragile and irreversible.
“You’ll get yourself killed for me one day,” you said, voice barely audible.
His lips quirked upward. “Then I’ll make sure it’s spectacular.”
You wanted to tell him not to. That the world wasn’t his to burn, no matter how much it deserved to be. But the words never came. His trembling hand brushed your cheek lightly, and the Infinity faltered. The distance between you disappeared.
Gojo Satoru, the untouchable, the invincible, sat before you like a man on the verge of breaking.
And you realized, with a kind of terrible clarity, that whatever they’d tried to destroy between you, whatever fragile thing had taken root in defiance of fate, had only made him more dangerous.
Outside, Tokyo slept under the indifferent stars.
Inside, the strongest sorcerer in the world watched you breathe, and somewhere deep within the Gojo estate, a thousand-year-old clan began to understand the cost of birthing a god who had learned how to love.
The days after bled together. Morning light slipped through the infirmary windows, pale blue to gray, gray to soft gold, but inside, time felt suspended.
Shoko was always there, cigarette tucked behind one ear, coffee cup balanced on a stack of reports. Her movements were mechanical, but her hands never wavered when she pressed them against you, cursed energy pulsing steady and warm. “You heal like a cockroach,” she’d mutter. You’d try to smile, and she’d roll her eyes, muttering something about idiots with hero complexes.
But it wasn’t Shoko who haunted your half-sleep. It was Gojo.
You’d feel him before you saw him. Even without speaking, he filled the room. When he did appear, it was always the same: glasses off, posture lazy, shoulders tight. His presence was impossible to ignore, but he said nothing. He would stand near the window, light haloing his hair, gaze fixed on the horizon as if he were afraid that looking at you too long would undo him.
The first time you caught him there while awake, your voice rasped through the quiet.
“You planning to stand there until I die of boredom?”
His mouth curved. “You’d have to die first.”
You huffed, wincing. “Tempting, if it gets you to stop staring.”
“Who’s staring?” He moved closer, grin widening. “Maybe I’m just admiring Shoko’s work. She’s done miracles keeping that mouth of yours functional.”
You threw him a look. “Funny. I don’t remember ordering sarcasm with my medical care.”
“I don’t remember you being this grumpy when you were unconscious.”
You almost laughed, almost. “You were watching me sleep?”
“I was making sure you didn’t stop breathing,” he said, too quickly, too honestly. Then, as if realizing what he’d admitted, he smiled again, smaller this time. “Besides, you snore.”
“I do not.”
“You do,” he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Tiny little growls. It’s cute.”
You groaned, dragging a hand over your face. “You’re the worst.”
“You love it,” he said lightly. But something in his tone faltered just for a heartbeat before he continued. “They sent another letter, by the way. From the clan. Told me to refocus. Study and avoid... distractions.”
Your gaze flicked up. “I see you didn't listen.”
He tilted his head, pretending to think. “Mm. I folded it into a paper crane and set it on fire.”
That startled a laugh out of you, rough but real. “How very mature of you.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I’m growing as a person.”
“You’re regressing as a sorcerer.”
“Maybe.” His voice softened. “But for the first time, I don’t care.”
The humor drained from the room like a tide going out. You blinked, watching him, the strongest sorcerer alive, hands shoved into his pockets like a boy with a secret. He looked so human.
“You’ve never been good at lying,” you said quietly.
“I’m great at lying.”
“Not to me.”
His lips twitched, almost a smile, but his voice came out raw. “You almost died, and all I could think about was how much worse it would be to live in a world without you. That’s not what I was taught to feel.”
You didn’t answer right away.
He shifted, leaning against the edge of your bed, so close you could feel the heat rolling off him. “You know what they raised me to be.” He exhaled, slow. “But now I think, maybe I was meant to protect one person, not the world.”
You swallowed, the air too thick to breathe. “That sounds like treason.”
He smiled. “Then arrest me.”
“Gojo—”
“Satoru,” he corrected gently. “If I’m breaking all the rules, you could at least call me by my name.”
You hesitated, then: “Satoru.”
The word tasted dangerous. He looked at you like he’d been waiting a lifetime to hear it.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. His hand brushed against yours.
Finally, you said softly, “They're going to hate you for this.”
“They already do.” He leaned closer, grin returning. “Besides, it’s easier to hold the weight of the world when you have something worth fighting for.”
You laughed under your breath. “You make it sound noble.”
“Oh, it’s not,” he said. “It’s selfish as hell.”
And for the first time since the mission, you realized the truth: Gojo Satoru would never belong to the world again.
He’d chosen something smaller and infinitely more dangerous.
the room is quiet except for the soft hum of the monitor and the faint rain tapping against the hospital window. the storm outside feels far away.
you’re half-asleep, tired in every way a person can be, but there’s a small, perfect weight on your chest: warm, steady, breathing.
gojo’s sitting in the chair beside your bed, elbows on his knees, hair a mess and blindfold hanging loose around his neck. he looks nothing like the smug sorcerer everyone knows, his face is too soft, too real.
“you should sleep,” you mumble weakly.
he shakes his head without looking up. “nah. i’m good.”
you almost laugh, but it comes out weak. “you’ve been sitting there for hours.”
“yeah,” he says quietly, eyes on the tiny bundle in your arms. “can’t really look away.”
the baby shifts, lets out a small sound, and gojo instantly freezes, like one wrong move could break the world. it’s ridiculous and sweet all at once.
you nudge him gently. “you should hold her, you know.”
he hesitates, which is funny, considering he’s fought curses the size of buildings. “what if i… drop her?”
“satoru.”
he blinks at the sound of his name. you’re too tired to tease him properly, so you just smile, and that’s enough. he reaches out finally, slow and careful, and you help him guide his hands. when the baby settles in his arms, his whole expression changes,the usual brightness quiets, replaced by something softer, something almost fragile.
“hey there,” he whispers, voice low, like he’s afraid of breaking the moment. “you’re… really tiny.”
you can’t help laughing. “that’s how babies work.”
he glances at you, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “yeah, but still. kinda crazy that something this small exists. and looks like you.”
you close your eyes, exhaustion heavy, but you can feel him looking between the baby and you, like he’s still trying to believe either of you are real.
“you did good,” he says after a moment, barely audible.
“we did,” you murmur back.
and when the thunder rolls again outside, he shifts closer to the bed, tucks a blanket around you both.
the strongest sorcerer in the world sits in a too-small hospital chair, holding the most delicate thing he’s ever touched, and for once, he doesn’t need to protect anything, just stay.
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.”
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.”
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.
whoa what the hell did i just read?? these are the types of stories that make me wonder why and how i’m reading this for free because its just THAT good like idek what to say... author just read my mind and know i was absolutely anf totally in love with this
THE CHEMISTRY oh my gosh and satoru being a genuine and affectionate flirt 😭 but i think really my favorite part about this fic would be the dialogue, something about the way they speak to each other is just so aligned with who they are as people/characters and you did a magnificent job at bringing that out. i was full on giggling each time he had a cheesy line, and sometimes he was just too good to be true that i was lowk sweating throughout the fic because i felt like there had to be a catch 😭 when is it gonna go wrong, when is it gonna HURT? but no it was just pure, utter perfection. each line was so heartfelt, each cheesy pick up line had me melting and feeling sappy and feeling like... well, feeling like love just IS that good and i’d wanna have something like that. something so pure and genuine and the type of love that just makes you feel seen 🥹 i feel like i could ramble on a lot longer but aah i’m still reeling from how happy this fic made me. it was so sweet and romantic and i loved the way their relationship progressed. same with what yn said – it’s crazy to think about how they get there 🫶🏻
and another thing!! the way you wrote satoru!! now i’m not gonna lie, i think satoru could be hard to write just because there are so many fanon and canon versions of him that i myself get confused on what gojo would do, what he wouldn’t do. i’m no gojo expert, and i think he’s such a complex character but after reading this? oh i get it now. i get all the gojo fans. i think the way he was written here was very close to the real gojo, i think the entire essence of him of being, actually, quite simple in what he wants. he sees something he likes, he’ll make it known and do something about it. and when he loves, BOY DOES HE LOVE. that man’s heart is HUGEEE and you really showed that greatly here. i think after reading this fic, it just made me appreciate him in a whole new light 🥹 i do think that he is someone who would be very dedicated and loyal. that when he loves, he gives it his all. i was nearly crying when we got to the part where we explored the world with him, or when he brought little gifts from each country as if to say he was thinking of us, no matter where in this world he may be. idK MAN IM JUST BEINFG SAPPY THIS FIC GOT ME EMOTIONAL OKAY
anyways. yap done i guess. THANK YOU FOR SHARING THIS FIC. and thank you in general to fanfic authors because you guys really casually be pulling out works of art and sharing it with lil ol’ us 😭 i hope you’re very proud of this fic because again, it was beautiful, from start to finish. this will definitely go into one of my faves 🫶🏻💓
Boys who absolutely lose themselves when they sink their cock into your pussy. They go from being this beefy big scary man to a whimpering moaning mess. He has his face shoved into the crook of your neck while his hands grip your legs spreading them apart so he can shove himself deeper inside of you. His whimpers are so loud and anyone outside of you would never think that he would lose himself whimpering begging you to let him cum inside of you.
“Oh fuck please baby let me make you mine baby please” he pants breathlessly into your ear.
His moans sound so pretty paired with his wild thrust. He can barely think straight. The only thought that plagues his mind is how good your pussy feels sucking his cock in. He sounds like a broken record whining for you begging for your pussy.
“Feels so good baby I- I cant stop” he stutters out barely able to form a dull sentence.
He’s so pussy drunk off of you. His fingers dig into your skin as he plunges his cock into, fucking you as if he were feral.
“Mine, Mine Mine” he chants like a choir.
Your moans mix in with his creating a tune he never wants to forget. Moments like this he can’t help but fuck himself into overstimulation. He just loves the feeling of your warmth sucking him in, creating loud wet noises to match his reckless thrust. His voice is shaky as he whimpers about how good your pussy feels. His hands push your thighs up folding you into a mating press so that he can see how perfect your pussy looks sucking him in. He’s so mesmerized by the sight. The way your pussy creams around his cock creating a mess he promises to clean up with his tongue.
“My pretty baby” his eyes are wide and filled with lust.
He’s long gone consumed by the pleasure. His hips slam against yours as he promises himself to you whispering and begging you to let him be yours. To anyone else he’s a scary man looks like he could kill you with his stare alone but to you he’s a sweet baby who just needs to have his cock shoveled deep inside of you to feel good.
“Fuck I’m gonna cum baby please can I cum in your pretty pussy please let me cum” his eyes are squeezed shut while he fucks his cock so deep into you, you can barely think straight yourself. You nod your head too weak to speak. He throws his head back whimpering a sighing thanking you for being his good baby. When he cums he gets louder. He grunts and whimpering trembling as his cock dips in and out of you while his cum drips down the side. He slips his cock out of you gasping at the sudden release from your hole. He kneels down licking a long strip of the cum that drools down between your folds.
“Let me help clean you up baby, promise I’ll do a good job”
xoxo, juno. hi!! this request is from summer 2024 & i really hope you see this nonnie 💘 i’m so sorry i didn’t get to this sooner
MIYA ATSUMU.
atsumu’s the heaviest sleeper around, sighing contentedly every now and then as he cycles through his dream, eyebrows jumping up and twitching when it only seems to grow more pleasant. it takes a little longer than it should for him to finally stir, his first yawn melting into a soft moan when he registers the sight between his legs.
this is when he wonders if he’s toeing the precipice of sleep and consciousness, too delighted to believe that this is a dream until you pull off of his cock with a pop. “good morning, tsumu,” you purr, a smile playing on your spit slick lips while you dip your head toward his glistening tip. “sleep well, baby?”
atsumu’s head falls back against the pillows when you take him in your mouth, unbearably tight and oh so hot. blond hair fans out around his head, reminiscent of a halo. “mornin’ to you too,” he chokes out, swallowing dryly, “haah, damn—that’s my girl. g-gonna make me cum like a—okay, shit.”
he can’t hear the giggle, but he sees the amusement dart across your face as you purposefully push harder, forcing his cock another inch deeper. from your place between his thighs—the best seat in the fuckin’ house—atsumu looks gorgeous, with his mussed hair, lidded eyes, and flushed cheeks.
“y’know, ‘s actually rude to laugh at yer husband if he stutters. if i wasn’t gonna—oh, oh—spread those pretty thighs right after this, i’d give ya somethin’ to laugh about.”
with a white-knuckled grip, atsumu fists the sheets between his fingers, fighting every instinct to jerk up into your mouth and make you choke. but you make it look like it’s too easy, gagging quietly and not even tearing up when it happens. frustrated, atsumu shoves a hand through his hair, yanking roughly at the tufts, just like you do whenever you’re on his lap and giving him a kiss.
“ya better be teasin’ me right now,” he says—whines—without any heat behind it. “d-don’t make me drag ya on top of me, babe.”
he nearly rips his hair out, back flying up and off the bed when you swallow around him. the squeeze of your throat and your audible struggle is almost too much for him to take—he might actually cum so hard he puts himself right back to sleep.
in order to save himself the embarrassment and give you the princess treatment you deserve, atsumu pauses, willing himself not to be greedy. his clammy palms settle on your shoulders, and he bites back a moan upon seeing the slight bulge in your throat.
“‘kay, wait—lemme eat ya at the same time, sweetheart. get up here.”
MIYA OSAMU.
“‘m so thankful i get to wake up next to ya every day. even better when yer the one wakin’ me up, my pretty lil sexomniac.”
“call me that again and i’m leaving this room before you can finish the sentence,” you snap, voice weaker than you’d like it to be, “don’t—fuck—test me, samu.”
osamu only snickers from above you, finding your threat ridiculous in its entirety. you wouldn’t voluntarily try to leave, and it’s not like you really could either; he’s pressing his chest to your back while he rocks his hips into you, both stretching and filling your cunt deliciously. with your hips and abdomen flat against the bed, he’s able to push deeper than usual—just as ‘he’ did in your dream, and it clearly had an impact on you. you’ve been together for years, but this is the first time you’ve woken up half naked and grinding all over a surprised though pleased osamu.
“uh huh,” he drawls, and his tip presses against your cervix in a filthy sort of french kiss. “well, ‘s nothing to be ashamed of, baby. and hey, i know ya wouldn’t go that fuckin’ easy, ya hate openin’ the restaurant on weekends.”
“in my dream, work didn’t exist,” you say blandly, growing impatient with his lack of energy. yes, it’s a saturday morning, but osamu said he’d fuck you the way the dream version of him did, and this is far from it. “stop teasing me and fuck me like you mean it, samu.”
a laugh bursts out of him, but soft hands find the curves of your hips and squeeze, blunt nails digging into your skin. “when’d ya get so bossy, angel?” and before you can retort something back, he follows up with, “not that ‘m complaining, though. ya tellin’ me what to do turns me on.”
you keen loudly when osamu goes from one to a hundred, ears ringing with the sharp smacks of skin against skin. heat surges through his body when he buries himself to the hilt inside you, groaning at the tight, all-encompassing squeeze of your cunt around him—you always take him so well, making enough noise to completely shut out the nagging of responsibilities in the back of his head.
it’s a saturday morning, and osamu is enjoying it to the fullest with you. his grip on your body tightens, palms growing damp against your skin.
“swear ya were fuckin’ made for it, angel,” a groan surges out of his chest, shaking his entire torso under its pressure, “i jus’ can’t get enough of ya, yer always drivin’ me crazy.”
he’s folded over you, burning face pressed into the crease of your neck while he babbles endlessly. everything he’s saying makes your stomach twist with arousal, but what makes it feel even better is the fact that all of it is true—the fit of your bodies couldn’t allude to anything else, and you do drive him a little insane every day.
“keep that pace ‘n you’ll make me cum, samu,” you pant, clawing your fingers into his hair, “mmmh, oh my god—g-gonna cum all over you—!”
osamu nods into your neck, rambling more nonsense that eventually fizzles into muffled gasps of affectionate petnames and such. you fall off the edge and straight into liquid euphoria soon after, gushing all over his cock with a pitched whine. and goddamn, he’s so lucky to cum deep inside you at the same time, gushing against your cervix while your walls milk him for everything he’s got. as he rides out the high, weakly bucking his hips into your ass, osamu holds you closely.
an irritating, grating sound (his ringtone that atsumu set for him) splits the pleasant come down in half and he groans, half collapsing on top of you. “have the manager open today,” you purr, more convincing than you should be, “i don’t wanna leave the bed just yet.” then, more quietly afterward, “also, my legs are numb.”
ARAN OJIRO.
“this good, baby?” aran murmurs into your neck, voice thick with sleep as a warm palm smooths over your abdomen, “feelin’ me here?”
absolutely, you are. he’s big, and not completely aware of just how much he’s stretching you out—it’s a tight fit, but you can take it. shuddering with heated bliss, you groan and press back against his chest, “how could i not?”
aran only laughs, easily holding up your leg while his hips slide slow against your ass. “yer cute, always complimentin’ me so much.”
stripes of sunlight scatter over the bed, split by the blinds and illuminating small specks of dust in the air. this is supposed to be a lazy morning, but it only is for one of you—he’s in no rush, opting to draw this out as long as he can before finally making a mess of you. his movements are slow and languid, endlessly aggravating.
as if he can hear your complaining, aran allows his fingers to coast down your belly and toward your aching clit. you cry out with relief, clawing at the sheets when he finally touches you, unceremoniously pressing the pad of his thumb into your clit. it’s only a light bit of pressure, but damn—sparks of heat burst along your spine and shoot straight to your pelvis.
your voice cracks over the words, hips chasing his touch. “ooh, r-right there.”
“right thereee?” he parrots, in a voice that makes your pussy throb with sheer need. warmth races to your cheeks and sizzles in your stomach, right where his hand had been—it’s not quite the same sensation, but your hand settles there. a gasp tears out of your throat when you actually feel him, his cock leaving an aran-shaped impression inside you.
“oh, oh my god,” your lower lip quavers, an audible tremble pushing through your words, “you’re jus’ so fucking deep, i can’t—”
“heh, and to think ya thought we just couldn’t go slow,” as each word leaves him, his thumb moves over your clit a little faster. “i’ll make ya cum hard just like this. whaddaya think, baby?”
“i want to,” breathless and teary, you nod frantically, feeling your toes curl as the arousal burns a crater in your stomach, “please, need you to keep going. hngh, it’s—it’s so damn good.”
aran’s voice is soft still, but a touch more suave now that he’s finally pushed past the sleepiness. strong and accentuated with veins, his forearm flexes as he pushes further between your trembling thighs. “that good, huh? good enough to make ya cry?”
a breathy yes! tumbles out of you, and aran continues, enjoying the intermittent spasming of your pussy. now that he’s completely focusing on you, there’s less movement of his hips, although he does push up every now and then to make you mewl.
“yeah, yes,” you stutter out, feeling a thin sheen of sweat starting to form on your forehead, “g-getting closer, don’t you dare stop.”
aran can both see and feel you digging the heel of your hand into that soft spot on your lower stomach. such a simple technique, and yet it amplifies every single sensation to the max—tears spring to the corners of your eyes, and he knows you definitely won’t be able to hold out much longer.
pleasure looks ethereal on you, complimenting your already pretty features and flattering you in a way that makes his heart swell. it’s all for him, all because of him—fuck, he could cum to just the thought.
so aran holds off, letting you twist and sob on his cock while your hips struggle to decide on chasing his touch or running away from it. there’s so much sensitivity that it might just send you into overstimulation before orgasm, something you haven’t experienced together yet.
“cumming, i’m gonna cum,” you squeal, voice breaking and pitching into a whine when the ecstasy washes over you. you can’t quite breathe by the time you’re coming down from your high, trembling all over and yet still thinking about when the next will come. aran presses a chaste kiss to your temple and playfully flicks a finger over your sensitive clit, because he can already grasp what you’re thinking about.
“finally ready to move past the warmup, babygirl? i hope yer not too tired, i haven’t even gotten ta properly fuck ya yet.”
KITA SHINSUKE.
shinsuke sometimes gets hungry at night, so he ends up heading into the kitchen to eat an apple or he’ll push his head between your thighs. he wouldn’t have it any other way until he woke up to your cunt hovering right over his mouth, soaked with bittersweet arousal.
“oh, shin,” you moan, hiccupping over the words, “y’always do me so good—god, yes, jus’ like that!”
his tongue strokes over you again, starting at the bottom of your slit and dragging all the way up to your clit, silky soft yet rough. shinsuke thinks you sound oh so pretty, whining and whimpering for him with your fingers twisting in his hair.
“ride it,” he groans, voice muffled. to make sure you get the memo, he pulls your hips down encouragingly. “use my tongue, sweetheart. yeah, ya got it.”
shinsuke’s proud to let you steal his air away, if it’s for something as meaningful as this—you’re so focused on making use of his tongue that you don’t even notice his hips uselessly rutting up into the air.
the air fills with obscene, wet squelches and the smell of his spit all over your inner thighs. you’re both bending forward and arching back as the impending high sears its way through your entire body in the form of countless sparks of heat. “‘s coming,” you sob, words bunching together, “i - shin, it’s gonna be messy.”
your orgasm crescendos before it finally rips through you, cunt squirting waterfalls all over him. shinsuke desperately laves his tongue against you, sucking down everything you’re giving him without a shred of hesitation—it’s just so much stimulation that it subverts the length of your high, and a delightful shriek tears out of your throat.
“shin,” you plead, lower lip wobbling as you try to twist your hips away, but to no avail. he’s got you, and he intends to finish this meal, just like he’s always been taught. “i won’t—shit, i can’t cum again just yet! if you’d wait a second—”
mercifully, he loosens his grip on your hips but still doesn’t allow you to go. he looks up, an eyebrow raised expectantly as though he doesn’t believe you. no nonsense as always, it seems.
“ya can and ya will,” he says simply, shutting you up before returning to flicking his tongue against your twitching pussy. now that you’re more lucid than before, you’re able to pick up on the noisy creaking coming from beneath you. it’s when you swivel your head around that you actually notice the dampening spot on the front of his boxers—white cum seeping through the fabric.
shinsuke kind of notices you looking and feels his cheeks grow a degree warmer. it’s nothing to be embarrassed of, he knows, but still.. maybe he can help ease the process of forgetting along with another orgasm or two.
he clears his throat, letting the tip of his tongue circle your clit. “eyes on me, c’mon. we ain’t done just yet.”
SUNA RINTAROU.
“rin,” you whisper-hiss, voice scratchy with sleep and tight with unmistakable desperation. “open your eyes.”
‘is there a fire?’ is the first thing he thinks, until he blinks the sleep out of his cloudy eyes and sees the genuine distress on your face, feels you sitting directly on top of his hard cock. the need for friction is intoxicating, especially with such thin layers of fabric between your bodies, and—wait. rintarou can actually feel himself leaking precum through his boxers, and there’s a damp spot forming right where you’re sitting on him.
“aw, baby,” rintarou says dryly, palm lazily skimming over your bare thigh, “thought you had enough earlier. what happened?”
“well,” you begin hastily, fingers slipping under his waistband to tug the clothing away inch by inch, “i was really hot, so i woke up, and i was still soaked from earlier. also, you were humping my ass.”
if rintarou wasn’t as tired as he is from having fucked you in more than three different positions, he’d playfully push you off him for making him sound like a dog with a stuffed animal. instead, he settles on wrinkling his nose emphatically, hand dropping back to the mattress.
“okay. just for that, i’m not helping you out over here.”
you deflate, having just lifted his boxers almost off of his thighs. him and his damn attitude, always acting up in your moments of need. rintarou mentally takes a photo of your disappointed face and saves it into his long term memory, thoroughly pleased with himself.
“nooo,” you whine, debauched, and his dick starts to get harder. “what if i ride you?”
because he’s too petty for his own good, rintarou mimics your tone with a smirk on his face. “yesss. you can try, but it’s not like you can handle it.”
“uh huh,” you look down your nose at him, all while angling his cock so you can sit down on it. rintarou’s breath hitches in his throat when your pussy swallows him whole, hot and tight and so damn wet as it squeezes firmly around him. you huff out a breath, throwing him a proud look—but he notices the pinch of your brows, the minute tremble of your lower lip. “see? what was i just saying, rin?”
“right,” he says, folding his arms behind his head to sit and watch. that same snark makes its way through just the one word, and you’re determined to fuck it right out of him—so you set your hands on his chest and properly plant your feet on the bed, on either side of him.
“holy fuck, rin,” you mewl, sounding like some kind of fucking pornstar, all natural and operating off of sheer lust, “you’re hittin’—yes, right there!”
sweat blossoms between your thighs and his, allowing for more slip n slide as you slam down on him with enough force to rattle him to his core. rintarou’s never been fucked before, but this is definitely something he could get used to—his cock seems to be thinking along the same lines, having the audacity to throb with sensitivity this quickly.
your babbling continues, growing filthier and filthier the more you lose yourself in the moment. there’s something so delicious about the way you’re taking what you want from him, and the realization ignites an inferno in the pit of his chest. “s-so deep, that’s it,” he sees your pretty eyes roll back the millisecond his tip plunges into a soft, spongy spot somewhere around your cervix, “i could just—i could cum just from this.”
rintarou realizes that you’ve woken his ass all the way up, and you’re also proving him wrong, doing both at the same time. what is he supposed to say, now that you’ve got him choking on his own words? he absolutely knows his fate is sealed when a bitten moan slips out of him and you arch a brow in response.
“what did i tell you, rin?” you ask smugly, voice still strained as you brush a hand along his clenching abs, “deep down, y’know i can handle you.”
MSBY STAR SETTER, ATSUMU MIYA, SPOTTED ON A DATE WITH A FAN — click here to read more!
"other fans are quick to notice that the person atsumu miya was seen holding hands with (and scandalously kissing, see page 12!) as they walked down the streets of shibuya is someone frequently spotted in the crowds of their games, interviews, and other meet and greets."
"okay, firstly," atsumu narrows his eyes, "that is a horrible picture of us."
he feels a migraine coming on as he stares more and more at the stupid article, the urge to roll his eyes coming around every few minutes as he keeps on scrolling to read more of it.
"and second," he scoffs, "scandalous? they called that kiss scandalous? i barely even kissed you - are these people twelve?"
you sit across from him on the kitchen table, smiling lightly as you nurse your cup of coffee.
it's certainly been an eventful morning already, completely ignoring the fact that it is only ten am, and yet everyone you know has already called and texted you at least twice to inform you about the "scandalous" article currently trending on twitter.
"god, these people are insane." atsumu groans, his eyebrows furrowing together in tightly knit frustration.
"we just got called scandalous for holding hands." he scoffs, loud and clear, a stark defeated look on his face, "imagine if they saw us kissing - and not that pathetic ass kiss they keep talking about, because i barely kissed you in that picture."
'that picture' he keeps mentioning, it's one of the few things in the stupid article that you actually ended up liking.
it was a cute picture.
atsumu was holding your hand, his jacket on you and in return, your backpack on him. he had pulled his mask down to his chin, a stupid grin taking up most of his face, and with his free hand, he had you face cupped closely as he kisses you.
it isn't a deep kiss - thank god for that - but it was one that the two of you loved to give each other anyways.
"you're famous now," you smile, shrugging lightly as you take a sip of your coffee, "it's the price you pay."
atsumu groans, "the price i pay for playing volleyball is never getting an ounce of privacy again?"
and you nod, the same smile on your face, "we always did say we prefer staying in bed."
atsumu isn't stupid.
he knows this "fame" his career is bringing him is more or less a good thing. he's so excitedly grateful for all of it - the fans, the autographs, and sometimes, when they're not weirdly stalking him when he's with you, he appreciates the handful of paparazzi too.
but, all he ever wanted to do was play volleyball.
the fame thing just so happened to be a part of it.
"i don’t want to be famous." atsumu tells you.
"i'm afraid if you show people a very attractive man playing a sport that requires him to be in shorts, they're going to make that man famous." you muse, and he is very glad that at least one of you is relaxed about this.
he looks at you, placing a hand on his chest as he fakes a deep frown, "you mean to tell me that all they care about is my looks?"
and you say, mirroring the way he stares, "didn't i tell you that that's also why i married you?"
atsumu laughs, and suddenly, his phone is plopped down on the table, leaving it (and the article) behind as he gets up from his seat to walk over to you.
his hair is still a bedhead mess, but coincidentally, it matches the rest of his outfit perfectly.
as he walks to you, he certainly does make an old pair of boxer shorts and a ratty, gray sweatshirt look like they belong on the new issue of a GQ magazine.
if only the paparazzi could see him now.
"you only married me for my looks?" he repeats what you said, his hand still over his heart as he fakes a hurt expression.
you look at him, eyes crinkling, "what else was there to marry you for?"
and atsumu scoffs, standing in front of you, taking hold of your free hand and pulling you up to your feet.
he tilts his head, "uhm, hello? my awesome personality? my kickass talent? my amazing hair?"
"you're so humble too, don't forget to add that," you tease, and like instinct - more of a habit, really - your arms link together on the back of his neck, easily matching the way his arms cradle your waist.
and it's just a second.
just one second of forgetting about this mess of a morning, just one second of forgetting about that stupid article or the fact that the two of you may never go out in public again without being stalked.
it's just one second for the two of you.
"i'm sorry you got dragged into this." atsumu tells you, and he looks at you the way he always does, so much stars in his eyes.
you smile, eyes crinkling, "well, apparently, i'm your biggest fan."
and atsumu groans again, his eyes rolling in annoyance as he's suddenly reminded of that annoying headline.
"miya-san, can i please get an autograph?" you tease, pitching your voice a little higher as you laugh.
and honestly, you expected atsumu to have a good comeback to that — probably something about you being called his "fan", or worse; something about his stans on the internet treating him way nicer than you do now.
but he doesn’t say any of that.
all he does is smile — like all you could ever do is make him laugh — and after that, he doesn't waste another second, he brings his head down to you, and as you’re laughing, he kisses you.
eyes closed and all, he kisses you, and it's nothing like that weakass kiss the paparazzi took a photo of — this one is entirely different.
it's slow, but he's not dragging it out, his eyes are shut but the edges crinkle together as he smiles against your lips, and each move of his hands are only made to pull you closer.
you pull away, "ok — that was definitely way nicer than an autograph."
"hm, i wish they'd gotten a picture of that." atsumu says back, the frown on his face easily replaced by a proud smile.
and you tease, "it’s so scandalous."
and he tells you, with the same tone as the one in your voice, "we’ll show them how scandalous we can get."
atsumu’s decided — no matter how tempting this whole ‘fame’ thing is — he’d trade it all away just to be able to kiss you again like that in public.
you bring your hands away from his neck, this time placing them on his chest, and you look up at him, "what're you gonna do about the article?"
and he tells you, honestly, "i have no idea."
"meian said it'll probably blow over in a week but," he shakes his head in annoyance.
and you finish his sentence for him, "but we're probably never gonna be able to hang out outside again."
"i could always," and he pauses, shrugging lightly as he shoots you a look, "i don't know, i guess, i — we — we could always —"
and he doesn't know how to finish what he wants to say, but you know what he means anyways.
there’s a reason why everyone on the internet still thinks of you as a "fan", and that’s because, you and atsumu both knew how complicated it would be once he’s signed by a major company, and it isn’t just his name thrown in the mix.
so technically, to the crowd, atsumu miya, star setter of the MSBY JACKALS, is a bachelor – but to you, his team, and everyone who personally knows the both of you — he is, and always will be, your husband.
and for the longest time, for atsumu, that meant having to sneak around just to meet you in cafés, his wedding ring hidden in a band under his shirt, and always keeping at least six feet apart in official photos.
you tilt your head, "are you sure?"
and atsumu looks at you, "i've always wanted everyone to know."
(you know that.)
"i just never made them disclose it ‘cause it will complicate your life too."
(you know that too.)
"you get that right?" atsumu takes a step back.
he tells you, "your name, your information - they’ll all eventually find that out - you won't just be the 'sexy, cool, and mysterious atsumu miya fan' anymore."
you can tell that he’s been thinking about this a lot, and honestly, everything he’s telling you now does make you a little bit nervous.
and you like the way your life is right now, but you certainly don’t appreciate getting stalked by people with cameras while you’re on a date.
he refuses to look at you, so you put your hand on his face, gently making him see you.
"as much as i love being the 'sexy, cool, and mysterious atsumu miya fan', i think i'll like it more if the world knew that we're actually married." you roll your eyes, and your shoulders rise with a laugh as atsumu chortles.
his eyebrows furrow.
so you grin, "and honestly, i think it’s time they know that in reality, you are my 'cool and mysterious fan'."
he tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly as he teases, "you forgot to add sexy."
and you smile, teasing and all, "did i?"
needless to say, numerous calls will be made that day — one of them being the very awkward phone call to his coach and publicist regarding something about "clearing things up" involving you, and a wedding ring.
pov: you tie up your husband and surprise him with an early anniversary gift.
[ pairings ] timeskip! osamu x fem! reader
[ warnings ] explicit smut. minors dni. riding. osamu is tied up and blindfolded. deep throat. oral (m receiving). slight cum play. breeding. slight daddy kink. i have brainrot for his beefy self so there will be emphasis on his delicious biceps. and his chest. the tiddies. the beefy tiddies… anyways i blame my wife for triggering my miya brainrot. unedited.
when a twist of fate led their marriage to the path of a quintessential tragic romance, two past lovers go through another series of experiences on love, heartbreak, identity, illness, and trauma along the road to a happily ever after.
notes. 11k wc. finally. i wrote this with only one eye open so please don't mind the inconsistencies, i'm trying my best to tie any loose ends before we reach the ending. if the writing feels rushed, it’s bcos i’m just ready to wrap up this series 😭
series masterlist -> episode thirteen
You thought everything that had happened last night was just a dream.
Because you had gotten used to the constant disappointments and vicissitudes of your life, sharing such domestic bliss with the person you loved had started to feel far-fetched for you. It had become an unachievable fantasy, a colorful delusion created by your mind to conceal the actual darkness of pain that surrounded it.
But as you opened your eyes that morning, the familiar warmth of a sleeping Satoru’s embrace was the reality you never saw coming. The steady rise and fall of his chest, the comfort of his arms around you, it all felt surreal—like a fragile dream teetering on the edge of shattering. You wondered if it would be okay to stay here for now. To forget about the rest of the damn world and remain in his arms, staring at his beautiful saintly face, listening to his slow and steady heartbeat.
When Satoru stirred from his sleep, you knew your daydream was over. But he was pulling you dangerously close with arms wrapped around your frame and his lips pressed against your forehead. He was only half-awake, it seemed. His long white lashes reminded you of Sachiro’s as you watched him mumble incoherent words from his sleep, something along the lines of, ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘Akemi’.
That was your cue to pull yourself away from him. With guilt now coursing through your body, you sat up from bed and covered your naked body with the duvet. Akemi. You had completely abandoned the thought of Akemi last night, and now you were here in bed with ‘supposedly’ her man. As much as your heart was in bliss from last night’s events, the dark and cold reality was that you slept with a man who wasn’t yours. It was a principle you told yourself you would never cross, but everything concerning Satoru Gojou seemed to be bringing you to that.
“Satoru, hey.” Your voice almost came out as a plea as you shook his arm, your guilt eating at you with every minute that passed. “Wake up.”
His eyelashes fluttered as he struggled to open his eyes, blinded by the sunlight that gleamed through the window as he stretched his arms and looked at you. “Y/N?” he softly whispered, a hand tenderly placed on your back as he scooted closer. “What’s wrong?”
Slight disbelief blanketed your gaze. “You think this isn’t wrong?”
Satoru let out a sigh of exasperation, pulling his head back, and covering his eyes with a hand as if last night’s events played through his mind scene to scene. He was obviously caught in a mindwreck thinking about the girl he had just cheated on. “It shouldn’t be,” he mumbled, “But it feels like it.”
“So you do regret it,” you laughed at your own words, internally in pain.
“I didn’t say that.” He finally pulled himself back up, sitting as he pulled you towards him. “Y/N, if we really thought last night was wrong, we would have stopped after the first time.” He shook his head at the irony. “Look, it’s on me, alright? I put you in this situation.”
“And I allowed it,” you argued, “I allowed it, Satoru. It makes me feel dirty. I feel like, like I’m wrecking someone else’s home. It’s not me.”
Satoru held his breath, a look of hesitation dawning on his face as he realized that this wasn’t just a dream of his. It was pure and raw reality that he had made a mistake that he could never undo. While thinking it through, he rubbed his eyes and sat up, leaning against the headboard as he assessed the situation. Then, he looked at you, his expression softening as he spoke, “No, not your fault. It’s just complicated,” he insisted, “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the one who owes ‘Kemi an apology.”
Each time you heard her nickname from him was a punch to your gut. And each silent cuss that left his lips was an arrow to your heart. So you put it on yourself to accept his reaction. “It’s okay. You can be honest and say last night was a mistake.”
“No, no, no. I didn’t say that,” he replied quickly, reaching out to take your hand.
But you already stood up from the bed, clutching the duvet around your body like a shield against the encroaching chill. Your throat felt tight, and tears threatened to spill, but you fought to keep them at bay. Satoru’s gaze followed you with an expression of helplessness, as if he was struggling to bridge the gap between his rights and wrongs.
As you turned to face him, a knot of frustration and heartache tangled within you. “So, what now?” you asked, trying your hardest to keep your composure. “How are we gonna fix this, Satoru? How?”
Before he could answer, the door to the cabin suddenly burst open, and Akemi stood in the doorway with her eyes wide with shock and fury. The confrontation followed as soon as she caught you in a compromising position with Satoru, and the words she uttered next were ones you least expected from her.
“You’re a hypocrite! You’ve become the person you despised the most when you were married.”
“You’re no better than Sera! And that’s why you’re miserable, and you’ll forever be miserable! If this is your way of getting back at me..”
“Then jokes on you, because Satoru will never be faithful to you. He’ll keep cheating on you, just like he did now with me! You two belong in that cycle!”
You felt like an outsider in your own heartbreak, the confrontation intensifying as you tried to process the bitter truth in silence. All you could do was stand there and cry. Even Satoru’s attempts to placate Akemi were futile as her anger only seemed to grow. The more her eyes danced back and forth between you and her lover, the more she wanted to destroy everything in her path.
Satoru’s face was indiscernible from where you stood. “Akemi, please, just listen—”
Akemi, however, was already turning on her heel and storming back into her cabin while eliciting loud, muffled sobs. Your chest tightened with sorrow and shame. Complete, utter shame of doing this to another woman. How could you even correct a situation like this? How could you pick yourself back up after you just trampled on another woman’s feelings because of your actions?
Satoru, like you, hesitated on his next move, his eyes meeting yours with a look of anguish. “I need to talk to her, Y/N. I’ll be back.”
Without waiting for your response, he already bolted after her, leaving you alone in a quiet, pathetic state. The door slammed behind him, the sound reverberating through the cabin like thunder in a heavy storm.
You didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to face everyone, didn’t have the guts to even talk to Shoko and Suguru who now both have to deal with such scandals. You were too ashamed of yourself, as if your femininity had been stripped off its rights after you slept with the man you swore you would never get back with.
“I didn’t mean it,” you could only silently whisper your laments, pacing around your cabin while swallowing the weakness that tried to escape. “I hate this.”
The minutes dragged on, and each second stretched into an eternity as you waited for Satoru’s return. For now, you sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, wondering what excuse he was telling Akemi, and what actions he would do to try and calm her down. Did he kiss her, perhaps? Did he cup her face and tell her that you were nothing but a mistake? What was taking him so long? Or were they doing things to try and erase the same deeds you two did last night?
The cacophony of voices and commotion from outside the cabin grew louder, and your curiosity led you to open your door, meeting the eyes of one of the hotel staff who sent you a look full of judgment.
“Where’s…” you hesitated if she was the right person to ask, “Where’s Satoru? Would you know?”
“Oh, ma’am. He already left the hotel half an hour ago… with Miss Akemi.”
Her answer hit you hard like a truck on a highway. And your heart dropped as you realized who became The Fool in these deck of cards. Satoru had not only run off after Akemi, but had also left you behind without a word.
The room felt colder now, the once-intimate sanctuary you shared with your ex-husband now a prison of your own grief. Even the familiar warmth of the bed seemed like a distant memory as you approached it, your body trembling as you thought of how you were treated like a dirty rag, thrown away after being used over and over again.
With a soft, choked sob, you collapsed onto the bed, the duvet still a tangled mess from earlier. And your emotions, so tightly restrained, finally broke free. You pulled the blanket around you as if it could shield you from the crushing pain. The betrayal, the sense of being discarded for another—it all converged into a torrent of anguish. All you could do was cling to the duvet as if it were the only anchor in a stormy sea.
——
Returning home didn’t make the situation any better.
Although you tried to tell yourself that you shouldn’t be waiting on Satoru to contact you, you still found yourself checking your phone multiple times a day. Each second that passed without hearing from him was another stab to your heart. But it shouldn’t feel like that. It shouldn’t, not when Satoru clearly made his choice of choosing yet another woman over you.
Of course, you knew what you did was wrong. In everyone’s eyes, sleeping with someone else’s man was unforgivable. There was no excuse, no way to justify your actions. Even if some people might side with you, saying you owed no one loyalty, it didn’t change how you felt about the whole situation. And that was because you remembered all too well the pain of being cheated on, and letting another woman endure the same heartbreak and betrayal was a weight on your conscience that you couldn’t ignore.
Sighing, you turned to the left side of the bed and saw Sachiro sleeping peacefully, clutching his favorite starfish plushie in his tiny arms. The thought of losing your son was unbearable, especially when he was your only source of calm amid the chaos that surrounded you. Caring for him was your solace, and his innocent presence served as a band-aid for your wounded heart. The most heart-wrenching part of this was knowing you couldn’t even repay him for the stability he brought you. Sachiro deserved a complete family to enrich his life, yet you—as his own biological mother—were unable to give him that.
“Sleep tight, Sachi.” You lightly stroked his white hair before planting a soft kiss on his cheek. “Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
The past few weeks had been a blur of emotions, work, and parenting—with each day blending into the next like a tornado of dull colors. You still hadn’t heard from Satoru, but the days of waiting and checking your phone for any notification from him did gradually stop. The only thing that didn’t stop replaying in your head like a broken record was the cabin incident, the very night that drew all these overthinking in your mind and in your heart.
Returning to work did provide some distraction, but it didn’t take away the sting. It also didn’t help that your staff noticed the change in your demeanor, and how distracted you often were during your meetings and warehouse visits. Even Nobara was worried about how absentminded you had become, but you brushed off all their concerns with a forced smile. After all, staying at home would do you worse than being at work.
Now, you were back in your office, and the soft knock on the door cut you off from your trance. It was Yuki peeking through the small opening on your door, her usual professional demeanor softened by a concerned expression. “Hey, Y/N. Do you have a minute?” she asked, stepping inside and closing the door behind her with a quiet click.
You nodded, trying to muster a smile. “Sure, Yuki. What’s up?”
“I wanted to check in on you,” she began, taking a seat opposite your desk, “If you need to extend your vacation, please, by all means, go ahead. It’s off-season, anyway. I’ll take care of everything here while you’re focusing on yourself.”
That wasn’t really a good idea. And you shouldn’t be slacking off work when this very fashion house you establish used to be your passion, not your job. Yet here you were, losing all the inspiration to even run a business. “I don’t know if I have the energy for anything else right now.”
“Well, if you’re too worried about leaving work,” Yuki continued, her tone shifting to a more business-like note, “the progress we’ve made with Hearte is looking really promising. The new collection is getting great feedback, and our upcoming showcase is shaping up well. We’re on track for a strong quarter.”
“All because of you, Yuki.” A spark of gratitude appeared on your face. “Thanks for the update. It’s good to know things are moving in the right direction.”
She then stood up and gave you a reassuring smile. “I’m here if you need anything, Y/N. But seriously, take some time for yourself. You deserve it.”
On that same evening, you came home to your father’s mansion, and the first thing that greeted you when you entered the foyer was Gen sitting by the living room. And needless to say, her expression was a mix of concern and frustration as if she had been waiting for you to return. You weren’t really in the mood to have some back-and-forths with her, but you also didn’t like how she dropped her phone on the table and crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing at you like she was a mother who could scold you like a child.
“I’m not even gonna say anything at this point, but did you really do it with him?” Gen’s voice was low, but the disappointment was palpable. You could feel it from a few meters away.
“What are you talking about?” you bit back, your already-terrible mood swings shifting into an unhealthy direction.
Gen responded by pointing at her phone, gesturing for you to take a look at whatever’s on it. Reluctantly, you grabbed the device, and as you were scrolling through the screen, you stumbled upon a blind item circulating on social media. The words were vague but pointed, hinting at a scandalous encounter between two ex-spouses, both of whom were well-known figures. Great. Your heart stopped as you realized that the article was very much about you and Gojou.
The online comments were brutal, not like you weren’t used to anonymous harassment anyway, but these ones were full of speculating and judging without knowing the full story. Everyone also seemed to be siding with “Ms. A” instead of you as though the person behind the article was clearly trying to paint you as the villain. It was written for the purpose of destroying your reputation rather than any regular exposé, and whoever wrote it was definitely someone who disliked you.
Your shoulders slumped as you scrolled through hate comment after hate comment, a seemingly endless vitriol for someone they didn’t even know, and avoided your sister’s gaze knowing full well that seeing her expression would only make you feel worse.
“Is it true?” your sister asked like there was even an ounce of chance that it was simply a rumor. Unfortunately, it was anything but.
Sliding her phone back on the coffee table, you drew in a deep breath. “I can’t undo it, Gen. It happened.”
“So, you did sleep with him? Am I hearing this right?” Gen sighed, rubbing her temples. “Do you have any idea what this could do to you? To Sachiro? People are ruthless, and now this blind item is all over the place and they’re targeting you like a punching bag!”
Your mouth felt heavy, as if it was weighed down by an invisible burden, making it difficult to form words or speak. And before you could think of a response, Ian became your temporary savior as he walked in with a calm but serious mien. “I’ve seen the post,” he said, holding up his phone. “It’s clearly defamatory, and we can take legal action. I’ll handle it.”
Even though Ian was a man of remarkable phlegm, you remained abashed, knowing that everyone’s feasting at the juicy rumor that you slept with your ex-husband. Yet, the only thing you could do was to put on a front. To save face. To act like someone you’re not. “Thank you, Ian. I’d appreciate that.”
Anticipating another lecture from Gen about Satoru, you began retreating to your room with your footsteps bouncing desperately on the grand staircase. This conversation was done. You just weren’t there to hear it anymore. However, as you climbed the stairs with a vacant mind, you could still hear your sister calling out to you.
“Y/N!” she called, her voice now tinged with concern. “I’m not going to give you a hard time. We can sort this issue out. Maturely.”
“I’m good.” Sorry, Gen. It was the anxious-avoidant side of you speaking. You didn’t want to discuss such a sensitive situation to anyone, even with your sister, because you weren’t ready to face all the negativity it would put you through. You were already dealing with enough, and going through yet another emotional turmoil might actually put you to your deathbed at this point.
So, for now, isolating yourself from the world was the best choice.
And as soon as you entered your room, you saw Sachiro’s nanny tucking him into bed. All your worries and self-destructive thoughts vanished in an instant the moment you looked at your son. It was like the heavens gave you your personal angel, a cute little cherub who brought nothing but light and happiness to your life. He was your sunshine, your shooting star, your bundle of joy. Nothing in this world could erase the pessimist in you than little Sachiro.
“I got it from here.” You thanked the nanny and asked her to close the door before quickly joining your son in bed, wrapping him in a warm, comforting hug—more for your own comfort than his.
“Mama?” he asked, his voice unusually raspy, and his chest rising and falling heavily. “I mwiss you, mama!”
You pressed your lips onto his forehead. “I miss you too, my baby. How was daycare today?”
He seemed to struggle to speak too, but Sachiro still did his best to recount his day while he was trying to catch air in between his sentences. “Teacher ask Sachi to go home, mama. Sachi is tired.”
“Baby, are you okay? Are you sick?” Now, your motherly instincts kicked in immediately. You could tell something was wrong, so you reached for a thermometer from the bedside drawer to check his temperature, and listened to his breathing at the same time. “What happened to Sachi? Do you want Mommy to take you to the hospital?”
Sachiro shook his head and gave you a sleepy smile. “No, mama. Sachi is just sweepy.”
When the thermometer beeped, you were relieved to see that his temperature was normal. “Are you having trouble breathing, my sweetheart?” You looked into his droopy eyes and gently placed your hand on his chest.
Once again, Sachiro shook his head. Maybe you were just overthinking. He often ran around the house or played in the bathtub before bed, which could explain why he seemed out of breath. It wasn’t the first time it happened.
“Okay, Sachi. Go to sleep now. Close your eyes, baby.”
“Night night, mama.”
For now, you turned off the night lamp, and headed to the bathroom in silent and careful steps. It was quiet enough indeed, but in your head was an awful noise you couldn’t escape. And stepping into the shower only increased the warfare in your mind, as it immediately brought images of Satoru and Akemi back in the cabin, the harsh comments from the article, and the lack of contact from your ex-husband which all overwhelmed you at once. By now, he would have already seen that article. Nanami or Miwa might have already alerted him about it. But the fact that he said nothing, the fact that he let the public scrutinize you, destroy you with such vile, hurtful words behind their screens brought you a kind of pain that you wouldn’t wish upon anyone else.
Because if it was Akemi in that position, he would have defended her in a heartbeat.
So in your silence, under the cascading water of the shower, you let the tears flow—its warmth distinguishable compared to the cold droplets falling on you. If only you had successfully drowned yourself that night at the lake. If only Satoru didn’t pull you back in, none of this would have happened.
That moment was deeply poignant to you, and you saw him in a new light you thought you would never see again because of the darkness of your past. Yet, with the events that followed your special moment, memories eventually turned into spite. Your sweet exchange twisted into something bitter. Looking back at that time when he kissed you at the lake now made you feel nauseous and hollow inside, with bile forming on your throat and threatening to be retched.
The most gut-wrenching part about this was the fact that there wasn’t anyone left who could rescue you from this abyss of heartache anymore.
——
There had been a sense of detachment in your emotions in the following days that passed, almost as though they belonged to a stranger inhabiting your body. Toji, the only person who comforted you at times like these, was no longer by your side to fulfill the warmth you once desperately sought, and now you were alone to face this cruel, mind-numbing battle all by yourself. It was you against the world. You against the entire populace inhabiting this living hell. And with that many enemies against one, how could you win?
It was quite funny, actually, that your humor took a surprising turn when you thought of how Sera must have felt when it was revealed to the public that she was Satoru’s mistress. The irony didn’t even stop at your thoughts alone, it manifested itself outside Hearte’s headquarters, wearing a pink puffer jacket and a white prairie skirt.
“Sera?” you blurted out her name in wonder, nonplussed as you got out of the car to approach her.
“Hey, Y/N.” She offered a casual smile while carrying an air of sophistication around her. That wasn’t the only thing that changed about Sera. Her hair was also shorter than the last you saw her, her face now sporting a more natural makeup, and her outfit a more modest yet classy choice. It was no longer the Sera who tried hard to fit in amongst the upper echelon of society, but a Sera who seemed to be satisfied at her current standing in life.
What an awkward encounter. Was her presence your hypocritical reminder for sleeping with Satoru behind Akemi’s back?
“What are you doing here?” you asked.
And she answered with, “I read about what happened. You know, the thing on the internet.” She took a moment to pause, probably trying to choose the right words to say to her previous adversary. Because in a way, you two weren’t exactly friends. And you were no longer rivals either. Satoru was the only common denominator here, and Sera proved her exact sentiments about him by saying, “I just wanted to let you know that I understand your side. It’s a tough situation.”
You looked at her, searching for any hint of insincerity, but found none. “You were once on my spot,” you pointed out and gauged whether or not she would take the bait. For all you know, she could be putting on an act. “I’m assuming you’re here to rub it in my face how much of a hypocrite I am.”
“No, that’s not it.” Sera was vehemently denying any malice on her intentions, and was instead trying to show you the sympathy of a woman who was once caught in the same predicament. “Look, I know it’s weird that I’m here out of all people. But the truth is, I just had to let you know that someone’s on your side. I’ve met the girl, okay? That… whoever she is. I don’t remember her name, and I hate having to pit two women against each other, but I’m telling you it’s about time you cut Satoru off your life. Completely. She doesn’t look like someone who’d easily let go. You’re just gonna suffer, Y/N.”
Perhaps three years was too far back in your life and that tables could turn in a direction that you didn’t expect, as you could recall fragments of memories from when your only dilemma was dealing with Satoru and Sera in your marriage. She used to be besotted with your ex-husband back then. But now, it wasn’t until you heard the way she spoke about him that you realized she must be harboring a grudge deeper than you had imagined. After all, he did ruin her life in ways you couldn’t imagine. And her advice, though unsolicited, made sense. Because you could understand where she was going with it. You could see the true intentions clearly conveyed by her face.
The only problem here was that you didn’t have it in your heart to agree with her. You were too much of an empathic person to be taking sides, even if the supposed villain in this painting was the ex-husband who, time and time again, hurt you. Your heart stubbornly cared for Satoru deep down, and your wifely instinct of defending him no matter how poorly he acted had always been there. No one could hate Satoru more than you did, that was true, but you also weren’t very accepting of hearing others describe him as this ruthless, cheating bastard.
That was the reason why talking to Gen had eventually exhausted you. Because no one knew the real Satoru Gojou behind his facade of an irresponsible and reckless husband.
“Now that you’re here…” The idea to redirect the conversation to another topic struck you, unwilling to engage in a conversation that pushed Satoru in a bad light. “Would you be interested in being a model for our upcoming campaign? We’re launching a new collection, and I think you’d be perfect.”
Sera’s eyes were an amalgam of confusion and surprise. “Uh, I mean… I’d love to, but why so sudden?”
“You have the face for it.” You shrugged, but still sent a smile her way. “Are you working right now? If not, this could open doors for you to be discovered by modeling agencies. I’m closely tied with them since I work in the fashion industry, so I can do a few calls if you want.”
“Hold on, I’m—” Sera touched her head, laughing as if she were dreaming this conversation. “Y/N, you’re doing too much here. I mean, I’d obviously love that, but wouldn’t it be awkward? People know me as your ex-husband’s mistress, and if they recognize me in Hearte ads, I’m sure as hell those fuck ass netizens won’t stop talking about it.”
She had a point, a very good point, but then again, your suggestion was only brought up because you had to change the topic. “Well, it’s just an offer to consider in the future.”
“And I appreciate you always extending a hand to help me even if I did you wrong in the past,” she said, feelings of shame lacing her voice. “I haven’t forgotten about what you did for my brother, that’s why I’m here. I’m not your enemy anymore, Y/N.”
Just then, the roaring engine of a classic red Ferrari pulled up to the curb, interrupting the unexpected conversation you were having with your ex-husband’s former mistress. The window rolled down to reveal a pink-haired man whom you recognized as Ryomen Sukuna, an up and coming tech mogul, that Toji had mentioned about many times before. His eyes were only on one woman alone, and it wasn’t you. “Ready to go, babe?”
Honestly, good for Sera. No wonder her aura had become different. They seemed to be in a stable committed relationship, something that you could only ever dream about. If karma was truly real, this was the perfect example for it.
In the back seat, you spotted a younger boy who looked exactly like Sukuna and, surprisingly, Megumi, the son of your ex-fiancé. Really? How many more people were you going to ‘coincidentally’ run into today?
“Hello, miss!” the other boy called out cheerfully, while Megumi offered a polite nod. You replied with a wave, feeling a small sense of normalcy in their innocent presence.
“I gotta get going, Y/N,” excused Sera, gesturing a civil goodbye.
But as she moved to get into the car, your phone buzzed in your pocket. A single glance at the screen made your heart drop. It was a call from the hospital.
“Hello?” you answered almost immediately, pressing the phone on your ears with a tight push.
“Ms. Y/N, this is the hospital. Your son, Sachiro Gojou, is in the ICU. We need you to come as soon as possible.”
Your stomach contracted into a tight ball as you stood rigid with terror. Then and there, the world seemed to tilt on its axis. “Wh-What do you mean he’s in the hospital?!” you managed to shout, swept by horripilation from the sudden news. “What happened to my son?! What’s—!”
Sera’s concerned gaze met yours as you desperately yelled into the phone, hyperventilating. Your trembling hand was threatening to drop the phone. “Y/N, is everything okay?”
“My son… I… he…,” you stammered, your voice shaky with fear and urgency. Your muscles locked in a momentary paralysis, eyes wide with astonishment, and surprise rendering you immobile. The thought of Sachiro in a critical state was about to make you faint, with the last bits of images you saw that afternoon were of Sera and her boyfriend rushing to catch you from completely falling to the ground.
——
Megumi didn’t know how to deliver the bad news.
He came home after Yuuji’s brother rushed you to the hospital, shocked by everything that happened in a span of a single day. His mind was aching from all the thinking he was doing; praying that little Sachiro will be fine, hoping that you would stay strong throughout, and lastly, wondering how he would break it to his dad that something terrible had happened.
His father wasn’t exactly the greatest man to tread this Earth, especially not after the drunken words he had ‘mistakenly’ uttered to you that night in Miami that resulted in your separation. Yes, Megumi knew every word and detail. His father told him everything just as a sober man would. Did you really think that the Toji Zen’in you knew would sputter that utter nonsense to you? That you had an empty soul. That he couldn’t be with someone like you. That you would forever be a placeholder to Megumi’s mother. Bullshit. None of those were true. His father told him that the reason he had to say those words, as piercing and trenchant as they may be, was because it was the only way he could free you from being caged in a relationship your heart didn’t genuinely want.
It was Toji’s last resort to hurt you with his words, hoping that you would wake up from your false fantasy and finally have a reason to leave a relationship with a man that wasn’t Satoru Gojou. If Megumi’s father wasn’t at the top of the list of Forbes’ richest men in Japan, he would have felt a great deal of inferiority complex over a younger man like Gojou. Not because of his looks and his riches, but because he had you. No matter what Satoru did, no matter how many times he hurt you, he was and would always be that man you wanted to be with.
Sighing, Megumi’s first task upon coming home was to check on his father’s room, only to find the dark room void of its owner. When he made his way down the grand staircase, he met an ill-spirited Naoya who was ranting to Mai about Sera flaunting Sukuna in front of his face. Megumi’s sigh was then followed by another. The drama in this house was relentless. He felt like he was exhaling endlessly, like a malfunctioning appliance.
“Where’s dad?” asked Megumi, directing her question to a more rational Maki.
The tall, green-haired girl gave him a knowing shrug. “You already know,” she said, “Drowning himself in alcohol down at the bar.”
As always.
Megumi jogged around the estate to eventually find his father at one of the wet bars near his home office. He was there, seated on a stool, his head drooping low with a glass of premium scotch in hand. How many glasses he’d had, Megumi could only hope the numbers weren't that high. But upon approaching his father, his presence was barely acknowledged as he sat on the stool next to him, suggesting that the grown man might be more inebriated than his son had expected.
“Dad,” spoke the Zen’in heir, “Dad, you good?”
Toji lifted his head up, three sheets to the wind, as a smile crept up on his scarred lips. “Son.”
“Let me take that.” Megumi grabbed a hold of the glass of scotch, sliding the strong liquor away from his father. “There’s something I ought to tell you.”
Toji stayed nonchalant, sitting upright and tapping his fingers on the counter. “What’s it about this time?” he asked. “I’ve told you, I can’t stop the elders from arranging your marriage unless you’re honest with me about someone you like. I know you have someone in mind, but you’re not saying who. Are you just shy?”
Megumi gave his father a look of exasperation. He’s rambling, he thought, frustrated with his father’s inebriated chattering. “It’s not about that. It’s about Y/N-san.”
The mention of your name was the only thing that made Toji's demeanor shift to one of genuine concern. “What happened?”
“Sachi’s in a critical condition,” the younger Zen’in went straight to the point, “Y/N-san went manic over it and fainted before we could get her to the hospital.”
Toji was quick to grab his coat and car keys, as if all the alcohol in his system had immediately evaporated. But before he could leave, Megumi caught his father’s arm and pulled him back.
“What?” said Toji, concern and urgency blanketing his gaze. “I need to be with her.”
“Do you really need to?” Megumi countered. “Dad, I know it’s not right for me to stop you in this crucial situation, but are you gonna do this every time she’s in trouble? Do you plan to do this forever? Do you plan to keep drowning yourself in alcohol thinking about her? We care for her like family, that’s true, but you and her aren’t a thing anymore. Your responsibilities in taking care of her should stop, too. You, yourself, said it’d be best if she stopped being reliant on you. Now, do yourself a favor and stop trying to be this pathetic superhero.”
The concern etching on Tojis’s face softened into a sense of realization, a sense of candidness that only someone as straightforward as his own son could evoke. Megumi had to, not because he didn’t care for you anymore, but because he had to ensure he wouldn’t lose his father over a relationship that had already ended. Toji was the only real family Megumi had left.
“Stay, dad,” he pleaded, “Please.”
Toji took a deep breath and released it in the same second. “Okay,” he softly said, ruffling his son’s hair. “I won’t leave.”
——
Why is it that you keep attracting things, places, and people that you disliked the most?
You hated hospitals, and you had spoken about it enough to make it clear how much you dreaded going to a place where your worst memories had taken root. Yet, the sterile environment seemed to beckon you, dragging you back with a new nightmare each time. It was beyond your worst fears that you would find yourself racing through the halls mere minutes after regaining consciousness, desperately trying to reach where your son was.
Please be okay. Please be okay.
Frantically, you scanned the corridors, searching for the ICU and hoping that what you had just heard was nothing more than a cruel illusion, that this was all just a nightmare. You weren’t a deeply devout person, but you did send prayers to every saint you could think of, hoping that Sachiro’s current state wasn’t in the median between life and death.
Because if you lost your son, then there was no point in living anymore. This life wouldn’t be worth enduring.
“Y/N!”
You weren’t the first one to arrive outside the pediatric ICU, with Gen and your father already being there moments before you came. You were struggling to breathe by the time you reached them, feeling your heart race with a thunderous beat. “Gen… Dad, what h-happened to him?” You couldn’t stop the weakness in your voice. “Tell me he’s fine, please. Please. My baby. If anything h-happens to him, I’m g-gonna die, Gen! I c-can’t h-have that!”
Gen quickly enveloped you in a tight embrace, trying to offer any form of comfort she could. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. Dad and I are just as shocked.” She held you closer, her voice trembling as she, too, was just as anxious as you. “Sachi refused to eat and complained about having a hard time breathing. He was so pale and his lips were blue. We knew we had to rush him to the hospital immediately.”
“Oh my God.” Your hand flew to your mouth, trying to stifle the uncontrollable cries that were escaping. The news of Sachiro developing cyanosis shattered your heart, and the crushing reality that you weren’t there to take care of him tore you apart. “My baby, no. No, no. H-He—”
“Y/N!”
Out of breath and also visibly shaken was the father of your son, Satoru, who came running to your side the moment his eyes landed on you. Behind him was his mother, clutching a rosary in her hand as both of them were seemingly shell-shocked in the same magnitude as you and your family were. Everyone cared for Sachiro’s well-being, everyone prayed for his safety, and the thought of losing an angel like your son was a soul-crushing thought that sent you slipping into a chasm of suffering.
“Wh-What happened to Sachi?” Satoru asked in desperation, his question raised to everyone in the vicinity—you, your family, the nurses. But no one could give him a decent answer. “Please, tell me my son’s alright. Tell me.”
You watched him walk in circles, raking his fingers through his hair as if he was seeking anything to hold onto. And you, feeling that magnet that pulled you closer to him, broke away from Gen’s embrace to look at your son’s father. “Satoru…”
“Y/N,” his voice cracked as he met your gaze, “Our son.” He stopped, ready to wrap you in a hug—a moment of solace you both desperately needed in this critical time. But just as he pulled you close in a fragile attempt to find comfort together, the door to the ICU swung open, abruptly ending the brief respite.
All of you immediately rushed over to the doctor, the sterile white walls and the distant hum of hospital machinery did nothing to calm the turmoil inside you.
“Doctor, how’s he?”
“How’s my grandson, doc?”
“Doc, my son, is he okay?”
“Is he stable, doc?”
“Doctor, how’s my son, please?” you asked, your body growing tense to the point of shaking.
The doctor took a deep breath, his expression serious amidst the fusillade of questions thrown at him. “We’re currently running a series of tests on the patient. We suspect Sachiro may have congenital heart disease, specifically a ventricular septal defect with associated pulmonary hypertension.”
No, it can’t be. It’s not possible! The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You struggled to process the information, your vision blurring with tears and your heart drumming a rapid staccato inside. You didn’t need to look at everyone to know that they all, for a moment, looked at you. “Heart disease? But… how? I didn’t think—”
“Can you explain more, doc? Please.” Gojou was desperate, his bright blue eyes now dull and severely clouded with a brewing storm. It was as if he was keeping himself from crying.
The doctor continued gently, “VSD is a condition where there’s a hole in the heart’s ventricular septum. It can lead to pulmonary hypertension, which means the blood pressure in the lungs is elevated. It’s a serious condition, but we’re doing everything we can to assess the extent and provide the best treatment.”
“N-No, oh God. My baby.” You felt your knees go weak, and you sank down against the wall, with more tears cascading down your cheeks like waterfall. The weight of the diagnosis was crushing, but the hardest part was realizing that this was something you had unknowingly passed on to Sachiro. The heart disease was inherited from you and had now manifested in your beloved son.
It’s my fault. It’s my fault!
The doctor placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “We’ll keep you updated as soon as we have more information. Please, try to stay calm, Y/N. It’s not best for your heart to panic right now. Sachiro is in good hands.”
You were unable to speak through the sobs that wracked your body. The hospital corridor felt endless, and you couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt and helplessness that consumed you. You could feel all eyes on you, judging, harboring hatred, carrying deep-rooted resentment. You were torn apart by the knowledge that the very thing you had feared most was now a reality for your son.
“It’s… It’s my fault,” you sobbed, covering your face with your quivering hands, “This is all my fault. I gave it to Sachiro, I… I’m a terrible mother!”
Gen knelt beside you, her hands gripping your shoulders with a firm yet gentle touch. “Y/N, stop it. This is not your fault. You didn’t choose this for Sachiro.”
Your father, who had been pacing anxiously nearby, joined in. “Your sister’s right. You’re blaming yourself for something beyond your control. We’re all here for you. We’ll figure this out.”
But amidst your familial exchange, Satoru stood nearby, frozen and listless. His silence only added to the overwhelming distress. Was he also blaming you for what Sachiro was going through right now? Was he also angry at you for putting his son into this critical situation?
Suddenly, a familiar voice cut through the commotion—voice that was equally harsh and spiteful. It was Satoru’s mother, boring her fiery eyes into your skull as she opened her mouth. “That’s right! You’re self-aware, aren’t you?” she spat and stood rigidly, arms crossed defensively over her chest. “This is all your fault. You’re such an irresponsible mother! You can’t even take care of my grandson properly, and now you’ve passed your disease onto him!”
You looked up in shock, seeing Satoru’s mother standing there with a disdainful expression. The sting of her words felt like a knife twisting in your heart, because they were true. They were painful, yes, but they were true. And all you could do was lower yourself until you were sitting on your haunches, trying to make yourself as small as possible.
“Excuse me?!” Gen stood up, her eyes blazing with anger that came from the deepest pits of hell. “You’re unbelievable, Auntie. How dare you speak to my sister like that! You have no right to blame her for this. I hope to God it was you in the ICU right now instead of Sachiro!”
“You…!”
Satoru’s mother raised a hand to slap Gen, but your father stepped forward, his face a mix of disbelief and indignation. “This is despicable. How can you stand here and say such things to someone who’s already suffering? Weren’t you friends with my wife once?”
Satoru, who had been standing still, suddenly moved with a menacing calm. His face was hard as stone, and his eyes narrowed in anger. What was scarier was him approaching his mother with a threatening stance. “Are you really this pathetic, mother?” Satoru questioned with a cold, cutting tone. “Do you get off on making Y/N suffer? Do you think you’ve gotten away with slapping her behind my back? You don’t get to blame Y/N for anything. Any fucking thing!”
His mother’s eyes widened in shock, but she tried to defend herself at the ruthless stance her son was carrying. All of you were stunned at the realization of how Satoru resembled his cruel father at that moment. “B-But Satoru, my son—”
“Shut up!” Satoru cut her off, his voice harsh and unforgiving, before he threw his cold knuckles against the hard surface of the concrete wall. “I don’t want to see your face ever again! Don’t consider yourself my mother any longer, you witch. You’ve lost that privilege.”
This took a wild turn, and hearing the brutality of Satoru’s words was like a thunderclap in the tense atmosphere. His mother’s face turned pale, her mouth opening and closing in shock as she struggled to respond.
“Get out of here,” Satoru commanded, his voice uncaring towards her. “Leave, and don’t ever come back. You’re nobody to me now.”
With that, Satoru’s mother turned and fled, stumbling down the corridor as if she was the victim in this situation. However, the tension in the air began to dissipate as soon as she left, leaving you, Satoru, Gen, and your father in a heavy silence. Only your sniffles could be heard.
Even Gen, who was often hostile around your ex-husband, had remained quiet and composed after she watched him take such drastic measures to keep his mother away.
Everyone was silent. Pure, unbothered silence until Satoru’s phone began to buzz loudly, cutting through the stillness of the hallway. For a moment, he closed his eyes, then he fished his phone out of his pocket where you caught a glimpse of the caller ID.
Akemi.
——
The ICU only allowed short visits and one person at a time, so there was no need for everyone to stay the night. You were the parent, you were the one responsible for your son’s situation, so you insisted it was best for your dad and Gen to go home and get some rest. You didn’t mind watching over your son for the whole night, because coming home without him was the last thing you would do right now.
My precious angel.
Sachiro lay in the hospital bed, his small chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The doctors had managed to stabilize him for now, and the sight of his heart monitor showing a stable rhythm was a small comfort amidst the chaos.
Still, you sat by his bedside, mindful of your timed visit as your hands gently held his tiny ones, feeling the warmth of his small fingers. You glanced down at the medical report on your other hand, trying to make sense of the complex terms and figures.
The words blurred together as your tears fell silently onto the paper. “I’m sorry, baby.” He didn’t deserve this. He’s just a baby. “Mommy’s very sorry.”
You tried to stay strong, putting on a brave face for your son, but inside, you were falling apart. It was impossible not to blame yourself over this, wishing you could do more than just be present around him. This was the comeuppance of your own actions after you focused on your own emotions for the past few weeks to the point of neglecting your son’s wellbeing. If you had been more present in his life, if you had been more observant, you would have easily noticed the signs. Now, you allowed Satoru to find a flaw in your duty as a mother, and he could cite this very event as evidence to get full custody of him. That is, if he were to ever consider taking your son away from you.
But in the first place, he should be the last person to do that, because where exactly was he now?
Your thoughts kept drifting back to the earlier scene, where he excused to answer Akemi’s call, and later that night told you he had to leave and “check something” urgently. He promised he’d be back before midnight, but where was he?
Resentment began to fester within you.
You had been very perceptive of Akemi’s feelings, apologetic in the way you supposedly betrayed her, but the fact that she was still scrambling for Satoru’s attention in the midst of your son’s hospitalization was something you could never forgive her for.
And as for Sachiro’s father, how could he prioritize another woman when his own son was in such a critical state? The confusion of his actions was overwhelming. It felt like a cruel deja vu that, at a time when you needed him the most, he was choosing to be elsewhere. You could accept it if it was a choice between you and another woman, but between his son and her? His behavior was unacceptable, disgusting even, and it only served to deepen your grudge against him.
You clenched your fists, trying to push away the surge of anger that threatened to consume you after seeing that the disparity in his actions felt like both a betrayal and a slap to the face. Your poor son. You stared at Sachiro’s peaceful face and stroked his cheek. How could Satoru be so indifferent to his own flesh and blood?
The room was silent except for the soft beeping of the heart monitor and your quiet sobs. The situation was almost too much to bear, and your resentment towards Gojou grew heavier by the second. Each minute felt like a lifetime, and the emptiness left by his absence was a constant reminder that yet again he chose another woman over his own family.
It’s okay. You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. I won’t leave you, Sachi. For Sachiro’s sake, you needed to find the strength to carry on, to be the mother he needed in this moment of crisis and never again failing to be there for your only child.
At exactly 10:30 pm, the nurse came in and told you visiting hours were over. You complied.
At 11:00 pm, Ian paid you a quick visit and talked to the nurses, perhaps giving them reminders to look after you.
At 12:00 am, you were alone again. Seated at one of the benches outside the ICU—sleepless, starving, and nauseous.
At 2:00 am, you remained in your seat despite the sterile smell of antiseptic mingling with your own discomfort. The flickering fluorescent lights above did little to help you get some proper sleep. The cold air-conditioning alao made you shiver slightly, hugging your own body to try and give yourself some warmth.
At 4:00 am, you awakened from the noise of the movements beside you. Realizing you had fallen asleep, you looked up and saw Satoru taking a seat to your left. His coat was draped over his arm, and he offered it to you.
“Are you cold?” he asked, his voice softer than usual, but you could see the bags under his eyes suggesting the sleepless nights he’d had for the past few days. “You can use my coat.”
You took the coat, but as you caught a whiff of it, a familiar scent of Akemi’s perfume lingered. Rose Prick by Tom Ford. It was a scent you’d come to recognize after your years of being her best friend, and it made your stomach turn slightly. Without any hesitation, you handed the coat back to him. “No, thank you. I’m fine,” you replied, avoiding his gaze. Looking into his eyes was the last thing you would do.
And you knew Satoru was sighing, but didn’t press the issue. “The nurse mentioned you haven’t eaten today.” He pulled out a small bag of assorted fruits, placing it gently on the seat between you. You eyed the offerings, feeling a pang of hunger but also a strange aversion. “I bought some fruit. Is there anything you like?”
You took a deep breath and broke the silence with a hint of sarcasm. “You’re really good at this, huh?”
“At what?” was his immediate question, puzzled.
“Hitting two birds with one stone.”
“Y/N…”
“Stop trying to take care of me,” you interrupted, your tone sharper than intended. “ I don’t need it.”
“But—”
You swallowed the lump in your throat. “You can’t even be here for Sachi. You can’t even choose your son. He’s in a life and death situation and we’re still only receiving scraps of your attention.” It was the deep-seated grudge spilling out of you. “You’re so good at abandoning people, huh? Even though that’s what you hate the most. You’re so good at disappearing without even a text or call to check on me and our son. After that night at the cabin, you just…” you paused, realizing that you were opening too much of your heart to a man who didn’t deserve it. “Forget it. Just go home to Akemi. Live a happy life, build a family with her. Forget us. I don’t care. I’ll take care of Sachiro myself. I’ve done it for three years!”
“Y/N, I’m not trying to hurt you. I just…” Satoru fumbled for words, his somber blue eyes bearing the history of your shared heartbreak. It was as though the painful memories of your past were flooding his thoughts, seeking justification as to why he couldn’t pick you again this time. “I had to be there for her. She’s…”
You turned away before he could see your expression, because your heart was splintering at the thought of Satoru Gojou shattering it once more. As he always did. There seemed to be no end to this relentless heartbreak, as if any hope of a happy ever after with the man you loved would only return a pain that was a hundred times worse. Perhaps, this was destiny’s way of telling you that you and him weren’t meant to be. That any wishful thinking of being with Satoru again was only something that you could expect in another universe.
So, in your defense, you had to pull on a facade. A mask that you had to wear in the face of being the target of never-ending despair. “Satoru, I don’t want to talk about it,” you said firmly, concealing the raw ache in your voice with a smile. “And I don’t expect you to choose me every time. It’s okay. It’s happened before.”
“Can’t you see I’m hurting, too?” he asked, his voice breaking. Though you couldn’t see his face, the tremor in his voice revealed his struggle to hold back tears.
You couldn’t understand why he would be hurting with his decision. When faced with two crossroads, he always seemed to pick the path that led away from you. So instead of trying to comprehend his pain, you decided it was time to honor your own. For your sake. For Sachiro’s.
“Let’s just forget about that night,” you declared, wiping your eyes as you got up from your seat and prepared to walk away. “From this day forward, let’s pretend it never happened.”
——
Akemi’s apartment was dark when Satoru stepped inside.
And to be honest, the darkness was a relief. At least, she wouldn’t be able to see the lassitude etched on his face, not just from juggling his time between his son and her, but from the constant ache of hurting the person he loved.
Miscommunication is a couple’s greatest enemy, and the persistent disconnect between you two, coupled with the reluctance to clear things up, had worn Satoru down. He wanted to end this—the feeling of helplessness and the torment of seeing the woman he cared for caught in a labyrinth of despair.
The hospital visits to Sachiro alone had been a whirlwind of emotions and responsibilities, and this brief visit to Akemi felt like an unwelcome detour, but one he couldn’t avoid. Satoru knew his heart wanted to stay in the hospital with you, to wait for any updates on his son, to hold your hand and care for you, yet here he was, dragging his feet across the carpeted floors to approach Akemi.
“Hey.” She was sitting on the couch, looking frail but alert as if she had been desperately waiting on his arrival. She had recently started treatment for her stage 3 endometrial cancer, and Satoru could see the toll it was taking on her, physically and emotionally. He would be cruel to leave her hanging like this, to neglect her at her worst when she had been there by his side at his. Satoru had an unspoken accountability on her, because it wouldn’t be fair for him to just abandon her after she poured all her heart and soul into helping Gojou get back onto his own feet.
“Hey, ‘Kemi,” he said, his tone soft but distant. “Did you take your meds today?”
Akemi looked up at him, her eyes tired and heavy. “I did. I took them just like the doctor said. How’s Sachiro?”
Gojou’s expression tightened. “He’s holding steady at the moment.”
A heavy silence settled between them before Akemi broke the tension. “I’m glad he’s stable,” she said, quietly. “Are you okay?”
He nodded once, his mind already drifting back to the hospital. “Yeah. Listen, I need to head back soon. Nanami and Miwa will be alternating in looking after you from now on. They’ll make sure you’re okay while I’m dealing with Sachiro. I have to focus on my son.”
Akemi’s frail hand reached out to gently grip his arm, the other held her lower abdomen in pain. “Satoru, please don’t go just yet. Can’t you stay a little longer?”
Now’s not the time to feel guilty. It was either her or Sachiro. Her or his son. Gojou decided to pull his arm away gently, his gaze distant. “Sachiro needs me, Akemi. You know that.”
Akemi’s face fell, but she knew it would be ridiculous to argue over that. “No, I understand. I get that. I want you to focus on Sachi, too. I just wish—” Before she could finish, her voice faltered, and she looked up at him with a hesitant gaze. “Satoru, do you regret that I took you back even if you cheated on me?”
The question caught him off guard, and Satoru’s blue eyes narrowed as he processed her words. He had been so focused on his responsibilities and the immediate crisis that he hadn’t given much thought to their ‘relationship’. All he knew was when he showed up at her doorstep back at the cabin, he was only going to try and end things with her. He was only going to clarify the longstanding feelings you and him poured out to each other that night, which was why he ended up sleeping with his ex-wife. But because Akemi suffered at the time, because her pelvic pain worsened to the point of an emergency, he had to hold back and just take care of her in the weeks that passed. He was caged in this situation like a prisoner who was found guilty for the crimes he had committed.
Just be honest, Satoru. Disregard everything else and just be honest. Satoru believed it was about time he stood his ground no matter the consequences. “You can’t take me back if we’re not together, ‘Kemi,” he breathed out those words, reticent on hurting her with the truth. If she would lash out on him, throw a vase on his head, slam a book on his face—he wouldn’t mind. He was ready to accept all the violence he deserved from being an asshole. “You knew from the start that this, us, was only temporary. It was never supposed to be serious.”
Her expressions turned doleful. “Then, in that case, did you at least…” Tears welled up in her eyes as she she paused, “Did you at least love me?”
“I just… I never saw it that way, Akemi.” Satoru’s honesty would destroy her, but he didn’t want to keep on sending out false hopes. He had to be firm, and while he was grateful for everything she did for him, that doesn’t mean he owed her his life and loyalty. In the first place, he warned her that he wasn’t ready to be in a relationship. And God, he was far from ready to even settle down, yet Akemi constantly hinted at wanting to tie the knot with him. Again and again did she mention the thought of a wedding and a child and her own family.
Satoru wanted all those things too, but with another person in mind. He was only set on having those things with one woman.
Akemi’s face paled upon hearing his answer and the fact that he didn’t even bother to explain himself. “I see. I guess I needed to hear that.”
Gojou looked at her with a mix of regret and sympathy. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for hurting you like this, I really do.”
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
It definitely wasn’t fine, but Satoru had to take her word for it as he got out from the couch and gave her a gentle pat on the head. “I have to go. Nanami will be here soon. Please make sure to follow the treatment plan and take care of yourself.”
Akemi nodded, though her gaze remained fixed on the floor, unable to meet his eyes. “Alright. I’ll see him when he gets here.”
As Gojou turned to leave, he felt a pang of guilt twisting deep in his gut but pushed it aside. He was a father first before anything else. Sachiro would always be his first and foremost priority amongst everything else.
——
After leaving Akemi’s place, Satoru was driving his car into the evening air beyond the speed limit. And his mind was racing together with him as he thought of you, your son, and the myriad of emotions he was struggling to manage. He couldn’t wait to be home, not literally at his own place, but anywhere with you and his son was his definition of home.
It would be diabolical for him to run into your arms and yell, ‘I’m free! We can be together again!’ No, that would be cruel and disgusting. He respected Akemi just as he respected you. It was himself that he couldn’t respect, because he was the one responsible for the mess that he created. And adding Sachiro’s critical condition on top of the already festering wounds in your relationship? It truly was the manifestation of karma in his actions.
His footsteps bounced through the hospital corridors the moment he arrived, each impatient step was ready to see your face and tell you he would never leave you and Sachiro now. But as he neared the pediatric ICU, his eyes darted around, the sight of his ex-wife was nowhere to be found. And instinctively, his heart pounded in his chest, and a drum of panic seemed to warn him of a storm that was about to come. Something was off, and it scared him.
“Nurse,” he called out, his voice edged with urgency as he approached their station. “Where’s my wife? The boy’s mother?”
The nurse looked up, recognizing the infamous CEO’s face. “Uh, Mr. Gojou, she was heading to the rooftop, I think.”
“What?!” he unintentionally yelled at her face, “Why didn’t you guys keep an eye on her?”
“Sir, calm down. She’s probably going to get some fresh air.”
A cold chill ran down his spine. You were definitely not there for that.
Without another word, he sprinted towards the stairs, taking them two at a time instead of waiting at an elevator together with a group of people. He had to get to you as soon and as fast as he could without another second to waste. Although the climb felt endless, his mind racing with fear and dread was the push he needed to finally reach you.
And upon bursting through the door to the rooftop, he was met with the soft whisper of the evening wind and the heart-stopping sight of you standing perilously close to the edge.
“Y/N!” he called out, his voice breaking with desperation. “Don’t do this. Please, step back.”
You stood motionless, eyes fixed on the distant horizon, the city lights blurring into a kaleidoscope of sorrow. “The world hates me, Satoru,” you whispered, the mellow tone of your voice carried away by the wind. “I’m a burden to everyone, even my own child. I-I just… I want to end it all.”
“No!” Satoru’s heart shattered at your words while he moved closer, his hands outstretched and careful not to startle or provoke you. He was dying to have you in his arms and keep you safe. “Y/N, please. Come back. What about Sachi? What about me? We need you. Sachiro needs you. I need you.”
What exactly made you go here? How did thoughts of ending yourself suddenly come into fruition? Was there something you discovered that brought you to this ultimatum? Gojou was desperate, utterly desperate, to hear what was running through your mind so that he could at least ease the burden that you were carrying all by yourself. He was once in the position where he wanted to commit too, and he knew the temptation that came with permanently escaping the cruelty of the world in just a single action.
“Y/N, please. Please, I’m begging. Come to me,” he rattled on in a suffocating whisper, the pleading in his voice was heavy, “Please. I love you. Only you.”
It was when you turned around that Gojou’s world collapsed, and the words you said after had shattered his entire universe.
They were still.
You.
And the wind.
“I’m pregnant,” you finally confessed, voice cracking as you looked at the faint tears that fell from Satoru’s eyes. “I don’t wanna have this baby.”
in which there’s a whole club of people waiting to celebrate the race winner, but he’s a bit busy…
hehehehe i’ve been cooking this one up since he won!! obsessed with this, it’s really not my best work in terms of literary masterpieces, but…. it’s horny self indulgence. enjoy, lemme know what you think, love you!!!
songs to set the mood: the alchemy by taylor swift, agora hills by doja cat, so high school by taylor swift, starboy by the weeknd
warnings: 18+!! minors dni i am so serious! this is just. porn without plot (with a lil plot) like this is peak feral needy lando, dom!lando, oral (f&m receiving), spanking, accidental voyeurism?, max verstappen, dry humping, unprotected sex (don’t do that!), touch of fluff as well, established relationship, crying, overstimulation
3.8k words
tears well in your eyes, the blurry screen telling you absolutely nothing, but it doesn’t matter anymore. he’s done it. the screams engulfing the garage seem to rattle all around you, the vibrations pushing your elation up another notch.
lando norris, formula 1 race winner.
your lando.
his voice floods your ears, so loud that the headphones seem to quiver as he screeches. a few tears roll thick down your face when he thanks his mum and dad, dedicates the win to his grandma, but then he says your name and you forget how to breathe.
“i’m nothing without you, baby.” his voice breaks, and your body is wracked with sobs.
various arms are slung over your shoulder, members of the team guiding you out of the garage and into parc ferme. the metal barrier digs into your ribs as you lean against it, desperate to catch a glimpse of him. his car rolls into position, the p1 marker sending another wave of emotion through you, and when he pulls himself out, he stands tall, proud, points to the sky.
you fall in love with him all over again.
he’s slapped on the back and passed around by the drivers but when he sets his sights on the sea of orange, nothing else exists. he’s flying over your head before you can even register it, elevated by the team and you watch him in awe. when he sees you, eyes locking with yours, a heart-melting, pantie-dropping grin spreads across his face and you can see the redness lining his eyes.
i love you he mouthes.
he’s lowered to the ground, spinning round to face you immediately. he tugs you as close as he can, the barrier definitely leaving it’s mark on both of you, and kisses you messily. all of the energy that he has left, all that he can muster, is put into the kiss, leaving you breathless, tugging on the fabric of his race suit like you’ll die if he gets taken away.
“‘m so proud of you.” you whisper against his lips, shivering as his thumbs graze your cheekbones.
“i love you so fucking much.” he beams, teeth clashing with yours when he kisses you with a smile.
“go get that trophy, mr norris.” you coo, and he winks, pressing his lips to your forehead. then, he’s gone.
champagne vapour leaves your skin sticky.
-
“lando, we gotta go.” you breathe, head rolling back to give him even more access to your strained neck, resting against the door of your shared hotel room.
you’re draped in orange satin, obviously, the short dress clinging to you deliciously, the one you always pack just in case. lando had been trying to convince you to stay in and let him have his way with you, and the second he walked out of the bathroom, still dripping from his shower, there was no way the pair of you were heading anywhere in a hurry.
“says who?” he grunts, his hips digging into yours.
“there’s a whole club waiting to celebrate with you-“
“the only person i want to celebrate with is you.” he punctuates his words with a harsh nip of his teeth.
“lando.” you whine in protest, not because you actually want him to stop, but because you don’t want to deprive him of a night out with his friends.
“try and convince me to go one more time, and i’ll edge you until you fucking cry.” he licks up your neck, tugging you from against the door, and guides you towards the bed. “and when you’re begging for me to make you cum, i’ll get you dressed up all pretty and we’ll go to the club with you dripping down your thighs.”
your lips quivers, caught between your teeth at his promise. you know he means it. his eyes darken when you nod quickening your pace until you’re stood at the foot of the bed. he’d only made it as far as putting his jeans on, so you rake your nails down his chest, watching as the tanned skin pales as you dig your fingertips in.
you teeter on your tip toes, leaning up to kiss him but he pulls back, smirking, holding you at arms length while he wiggles his jeans off and clambers onto the bed. you pout, watching him position himself up against the headboard, curling two fingers that beckon you forwards. you kick off your heels, crawling up the bed until you sit pretty on his lap, your dress riding up your thighs as you straddle him, leaving the lace of your panties flush against the cotton of his underwear.
you lean in to kiss him, but his fingers catch your chin, holding you back. you whine at the way he restrains you for a second time, wanting nothing more to melt into his frame while you lick into his mouth. he tuts, damp curls falling over his forehead.
“five minutes ago you wanted to go out.” lando tilts his head accusingly, a teasing lilt to his tone.
“changed my mind.” you hum, attempting to roll your hips. he slaps your thigh, light enough that it doesn’t hurt, hard enough that you sink into submission.
“you’re gonna have to prove that to me.” he sighs, feigning sympathy. you’re pulsing against him, and he can feel the damp heat of your cunt. “you’re gonna grind your little pussy on me until i can see how wet you are. gotta convince me, baby.” he grins at you, flashing his teeth. your jaw goes slack.
“lan.” you moan, eyes widening at his instruction.
“show me how bad you wanna congratulate me.” lando’s voice drops an octave, gravelly and direct, sending bolts of lightning down your spine.
you rock your hips over his bulge, slowly at first, tentative for the first couple of glides. you can feel how hard he is, your clit bumping the thick head of his cock as you grind down on him. your wetness begins to seep through the skimpy lace as you pick up the pace, revelling in the friction, the fire that you’ve lit between your two bodies.
lando makes no effort to help you, not at first, watching smugly as you slick him up. he can feel your warmth washing over him, the way you struggle to keep going as the pleasure builds. he focuses his eyes on the splotch growing on his crotch, honing in on the way your folds are slipping out of your quite frankly useless underwear. his lip catches between his teeth, pupils blown wide. his self restraint completely dissolves, one hand tangling in your hair, slotting his lips over yours, while his other flies to your waist forcing your hips backwards and forwards.
“wanna get my tongue on you, taste the mess you’ve made.” he mumbles against your lips. your thighs clench around his waist, rutting frantically on his lap. “‘n then i’m gonna get my fingers inside of you. it’ll be so easy, won’t it? can feel you dripping already. messy girl.”
“please.” you rasp. “lando, i need you.” you’re pleading, pushing his curls back and tugging hard at the chocolate strands.
“oh, honey,” he starts, flipping you onto your back. you gasp, smoothing your hands over the slope of his back, your nails raking between his shoulder blades. “i’m gonna have you exactly how i want you.”
he doesn’t have to work too hard to get you naked, peeling sodden lace down your thighs and shoving the satin of your dress over your tits, off of your frame. it cascades onto the floor, wrinkled in a heap, but you couldn’t possibly care less, not when he’s snaking down your body on a mission. his tongue drags over your clavicle, over the curve of your breast, stopping briefly to tease your nipple. he scrapes his teeth over the bud, continuing his trail over your abdomen, the plush skin of your belly.
“say please.” lando taunts, staring up at you through thick lashes. he rests his head against your hip bone, raising an eyebrow. you’re shaking already, in no mood to play games. if this is what he wants, you can’t deny him. he’s your race winner.
“please, baby. want your tongue on me.” you pant, softening your eyes in sheer desperation.
“where?” he coos, punctuating his borderline cruel question with soft kisses over your navel.
you smile coyly, keeping eye contact as your fingers dart between your spread thighs. you dip into your folds, splaying them open for him, tracing your clit a few times. you’re utterly soaked, impressed almost.
“right here.” you’re blushing, but you know just how he likes it, and your tactics are proven right when he groans, guttural and feral, pinning your thighs to the mattress.
your head thuds against the pillows at the sensation of the first swipe, his tongue dragging from your opening to your swollen clit. his face is submerged between your thighs, you can’t see him anymore, but you can certainly feel him. you can feel the slow glide of his tongue, tasting every little drop of you, can feel the vibration when he hums out in pure bliss.
it makes your head spin, the way most guys would expect you to drop to your knees, but lando gets his kicks on his, lost between your thighs. your eyes roll back every time he burrows himself deeper, slurping obscenely where you’re dripping.
“lando!” you grit your teeth, nearing the edge, and it spurs him on, two fingers running up the crease of your thigh, lathering through your wetness.
the digits glide inside of you seamlessly, casting an echo of noise that makes you blush. he groans against your clit - you’re utterly soaked - sending a buzz shooting up your spine.
“oh, baby.” he slurs, enticed, rutting against the mattress. you’re in an absolute state, and it’s all his fault.
two fingers curl, your feet kick out uncontrollably, and he laughs, laughs, into your cunt. you can’t help yourself, barrelling towards your release, unable to resist the rush of white hot pleasure. he fucks his fingers into you even faster, you scream, throat going raw as he scissors in and out of you. your foot finds his shoulder, trying to kick him away, teetering dangerously close to the brink of overstimulation. he doesn’t let it phase him, aside from the furrowing of his brows in annoyance, slinging your leg over his shoulder and splitting you open.
“my- oh god.” you choke, spasming up the mattress. he’s not even thrusting his fingers anymore, instead he’s grinding them against that one special spot, sucking hard at your clit.
you cum again, limp on the mattress, eyes squeezed shut. you’re slurring his name, babbling incoherently when he pulls off of you, sitting back on his knees. he looks proud of himself, too proud, smirking at your lifeless body. you feel like you’re part of the mattress, so sunken into it and exhausted. he’s covered in you, lips swollen maroon, fingers coated. every part of him that has touched you seems to shine in the dim light. his curls have dried now, fluffy and untamed, falling over his greying eyes.
“taste better than champagne.” he whispers, falling onto his forearms and caging you in.
your skin litters with goosebumps, his bare chest against yours, and you crane your head, lazily kissing him. you can taste yourself on his lips, mouthing down his jaw until you reach the sensitive skin below his ear. you scrape your teeth down his jugular, slow, sinking in softly to the bulk of his shoulder. he falters, shivering, collapsing his entire body weight onto you.
plump lips suck purple splotches onto the base of his neck, where no one will see.
you want him to lose control, ram into you and fuck you like he’ll die if he doesn’t, so you continue to tease, misbehave as you rake your teeth over his bronzed skin. his eyes are shut, thick lashes dusting his cheekbones as he succumbs to your torture. your hand skims his belly, muscles pulled taut under your fingertips, and you find the band of his boxers, dipping under the fabric. he registers your touch, and something within him snaps, his eyes flying open. he rolls off of you, finding his feet as he moves from the bed to the mini fridge.
“on your knees.” he grins at you, beckoning you to the carpeted floor.
you’re dazed, staring at the green bottle in his hands. condensation runs down the thick glass of the champagne bottle and you blank, utterly perplexed by what he’s about to do, your thighs involuntarily clenching. lando’s impatient, tutting as his hand wraps around your ankle, tugging you down the bed towards him. you’re shocked back to reality by his brazenness, scrambling from the mattress. you fall to your knees, licking your lips in anticipation, watching him through gleaming doe eyes. he softens, captivated by how ready you are for him, but it’s short-lived and the smirk returns.
“go on, baby. you know what to do.” lando strokes your cheek soothingly. your fingers curl into his waistband once again, and this time he lets you drag his boxers down. his cock springs free, hard and weeping, and your mouth fills with saliva, urgently taking him into your hand. “open wide.”
you look up at him just in time, watching how he raises the champagne bottle. he shakes it, once, twice, and your jaw drops as he pops the bottle. the liquid sprays, frothy and golden, dripping down your chest, over your tits, down your belly. you’re sticky, stickier, watching him in awe as the liquid pools around your knees. you notice how he’s glistening, the spray catching his abs, dripping south.
the noise he makes is carnal, a sigh of relief sounding when you lick over his hip bone, tracing your tongue over his pelvis until you reach the base of his cock. his hips stutter when you take him between your lips, the tip hitting the back of your throat as he immediately gives in to the warmth of your wet mouth. one of his hands works through your hair, bobbing you backwards and forwards, the other clasping tight around the neck of the bottle. he raises it to his parted lips, tipping his head back as he does, the liquid falling into his mouth. your eyes trace the curve of his neck, the swell of his lips, the way his knuckles have turned white contrasting the green glass. you wouldn’t be surprised if you were dripping onto the carpet.
“look so pretty with my cock in your mouth.” lando grins dopily, his nails scratching over your scalp. the moan that emits, low and needy from the back of your throat, makes him shudder. “enough now.” he pulls you off of him, but he leaves you on your knees.
the hand in your hair travels to cup your jaw, his thumb flush against your reddened lips. he pulls them apart, bringing the bottle down to your level. you accept it, welcoming the fizzy burst of liquid, swallowing it down in gulps that make your head spin. there’s pride in his eyes when you keeps yours trained on him.
“so good for me, so well behaved.” he mumbles, more to himself it seems, but the praise still leaves you weak.
lando extends his hands, the bottle forgotten on the desk, and he pulls you to your feet, flush against him. you grab at him desperately, pawing at his lean body like he’ll disappear.
“you’re so pretty.” he whispers, nosing over your jaw. you flush, cheeks tinting deep and warm. “‘m so in love with you.” he purrs into your ear.
heat and raw emotion flood through your veins, and you’re shoving him backwards towards the bed, climbing on top of him. your knees bump his hips as you straddle him, your hair fanning his shoulders as you kiss him hard.
“love you. ‘m so proud. wanna show you.” your words come out frenzied, muffled as they get lost to his mouth. your teeth clash with his, his winning smile moulding against yours.
“yeah, baby? gonna show me?” lando’s eyes rake over your frame, his hands guiding your hips. you raise yourself up, your hands lining you up, and then…
“oh.”
“fuck.”
you sink down on him, filling yourself up slowly, the both of you panting already. the glide is slow, easy; he’s so big but you’re so wet.
“aren’t you glad we didn’t go out?” he hisses through gritted teeth, entranced by the way you feel, everywhere, all over him.
you nod, frantic in your agreement, your eyes rolling back in your head as you bottom out. it’s addictive, the stretch of him, your hands gliding over his abs as you try to find some balance. you rock your hips, revelling in the slow grind, up and down. your clit grazes his pubic bone with every rise and fall and you swallow hard, his body sticky under your fingertips.
“you did so good today, lan, so pretty up on that top step.” you pant, circling your hips. he groans, pulling you down so that you’re chest to chest, your lips centimetres apart, when the moment is stolen.
lando’s phone buzzes, over and over, max verstappen’s face filling the iphone screen. lando looks at the device on the bedside table, cursing under his breath.
“must be wondering where the race winner is.” you giggle, choosing to make light of the situation, rather than dwell on your ruined orgasm.
“he can wait.” lando grunts, fingers bruising your hips when he flips you onto your back, his cock staying buried so deep inside of you that you see stars when you hit the mattress.
your leg is thrown over his shoulder callously, a stoniness in his eyes that wasn’t there before. he’s determined to finish you off, show you just how bad he’s wanted you all day, remind you that you’re in bed with a someone who knows how to win. the angle change is jarring, it takes you a minute to adjust, not that he gives you the courtesy, fucking into you how you both like it as the call rings out through the room.
“baby- lando!” you yelp, your belly tight. the waves of pleasure swell in your core, his merciless antics send you barreling towards another orgasm. you’re teetering over the edge, his thumb flush against your clit, spasming at his manipulation, dangerously clos-
buzz buzz buzz buzz.
buzz buzz buzz buzz.
“for fuck sake!” lando swears, pulling out of you. you whine wantonly at the loss, pouting up at him.
he drags you to the edge of the bed until your legs hang over, flipping you angrily onto your belly. your cheek is pressed into the duvet, your toes barely graze the floor. his ringtone continues to sound out and he hastily grabs his phone. he hits the green button the same time he slides back into your cunt.
“what, max?” he spits, thrusting into you, so deep that you can’t help the screech that burns the back of your throat. it’s obscene, really, the way you gush around him at the knowledge that someone else is listening in, at the fact that lando takes pride in how good he makes you feel.
you try to muffle your cries, really, you do, but lando has other plans. he gathers your hair, winding it around his fingers so that he can pull your face out of the comforter. you sob, loud, the lewd squelch of where you’re joined with him more than audible.
“i’m busy. fuck off.” lando growls throwing the phone down onto the bed, conveniently right next to your head. the call is still in progress, but max is quick to hang up when he hears your shaky breath, poorly concealed squeals.
“you’re insane.” you manage to choke out. he laughs wetly, the sound making you dizzy.
lando shuffles the pair of you up the bed, propping you onto your knees, all the while hammering into you with that athletic stamina that makes your head spin. the pad of his index finger traces your thigh, finding home on your clit and the tears fall harder, blurring your vision. he pulls your back to his chest, beginning a deep grind that renders your speechless.
“you liked that, didn’t you? him hearing how good i make you feel.” lando’s breath fans the shell of your ear. you nod, mumbling something incoherent, too blissfully exhausted.
‘cuz you’re so good to me. so so good to me.
“thought about shoving your panties in your mouth to shut you up, but you ruined them, didn’t you baby?” lando circles your clit harder, tugging at your earlobe “remember? when you weren’t being a good for me? but you are now, aren’t you, honey? you’re my good girl, hm?”
you clamp down around him, heat licking down your spine. you’re clammy with sweat, glazed with champagne, at one with him. lando shudders as you tighten around him, holding you as close as he can get. you writhe against him when you hit your peak, slumping against him as you quiver. pearly whites sink into your flesh, hard enough to to ground you, not enough to hurt you. you love it, him, everything about this. you coax him into his orgasm, his thrusts turn sloppy and he cums, thick and hot.
it takes a solid five minutes before you can move, the pair of you crawling up the bed, stretching like two sun-kissed cats. you’re sweaty, stuck together tangled between white bedding that definitely needs changing.
“that was-“
“better than any race win.” lando sighs, languidly smiling against your hair line where he lays gentle kisses, his entire demeanour changed in a matter of minutes.
“you’re just saying that.” you tease, drumming your fingers over his chest.
“no, ‘m not. i loved every moment of today, best day of my life,” he breathes, dazed. “but i love you more.”
-
max sips his drink, the dial tone sounding through his ears.
“just won a fucking race and he’s not here yet.” oscar laughs. typical lando.
the call goes to voicemail, but max is drunk, persistent, and quite frankly, feeling a little annoying.
“‘m gonna try him again.” max nods his head, tapping against his phone screen impatiently.
“did you consider the fact that he might be… busy?” charles smirks into his drink, slumping against the back of the booth.
it’s too late, the ferrari drivers suggestion falls on deaf ears. max has made the call, again, but this time he gets an answer.
“where the fuck are you?” max asks, but then his face pales.
“what?” oscar tilts his head, watching in confusion as max wrinkles his nose.
the phone goes flying from max’s hands, thudding against the cushioned seats, his jaw hanging agape. once the disbelief subsides, he’s giggling like a child.
“guess he was busy then, hm?” charles raises a knowing eyebrow.
“yeah,” max is red now, cackling. “something like that.”
in which he’s quite desperate to have a second kid.
staying in my active era! there is honestly no excuse for this one, i just simply couldn’t help myself. it’s porn, yes, there is plot, but it’s just. porn.
warnings: 18+!! minors dni!! where do i even begin? smut, more smut, breeding kink (kinda the whole point), choking, overstimulation, general sex acts, public sex, car sex, shower sex, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of the kid they already have, lando being a little shit, sex somewhere unhinged in the mtc, a brief moment of angst, dom!lando, rough sex? yeah.
3.9k words
take: 1
the season is coming to an end.
somewhere between italy and singapore lando decides he wants another kid.
it’s a warm day in the middle of september when he proposes the idea to you. you’re watching your daughter toddle around the garden, soaking up the last remnants of sunlight before the darkness of autumn encapsulates the warm beams until march.
she giggles, pushing her toys around in the grass. you let her play, lost in her own little world of wonder. lando turns to you, scanning your side profile, watching you watch the little girl. he’s awestruck, enamoured totally by the family he’s created, by the woman he loves. he doesn’t think, he just opens his mouth and let’s loose his big idea.
“want another one?” he cooes, sliding closer across the bench, until he’s nosing at your cheek. kisses are pressed to your puffy face. it’s still early.
at first you think he’s offering you another coffee, so you hold out your almost empty mug to him. you’d been nursing the drink, letting it go cold in the naturally cooler air. he laughs at you, and that’s when you clock what he’s actually asking.
you turn to him, facing each other now. lando looks excited. you wonder if you can find a way to mirror his expression.
“lando…” you start. his face drops at your tone, letting him down easy. “it’s not that i don’t want to, it’s just-“
“i’ll be home more. i’ve worked it all out. if we get to work now, baby will be here around the summer break.”
you mull over his words.
your first baby was a shock to you both, and you didn’t fancy doing that again. you loved lando with every fibre of your being, just as you did your daughter, but being away from him so much in the lead up to her arrival shot every one of your nerves to pieces.
but another baby would be on the agenda eventually - you both desperately wanted to add to your beautiful family - and you supposed that if he’d done the math…
“by get to work now, you mean…?” you cock an eyebrow at him. he lights up like the christmas tree you’d be putting up in a few months.
“she’s going down for her nap soon.” lando smirks, voice edged with that excitement once again.
-
his head is between your legs mere moments after he shuts your bedroom door.
you’d been waiting for him, stripped bare in anticipation. your baby girl would be down for a good few hours, more than enough time for him to draw out everything you had to offer and fill you back up.
his tongue runs over your flesh; he’s messy with it. you’re choking out whimpers as he licks and laps and tugs with his teeth. your pussy clenches around nothing and he notices, sliding his fingers all over where you ache. they’re quickly wet enough to slide inside of you, and he grinds them deep, luring traces of an orgasm into the pit of your belly. it’s familiar, the way he winds you up, and you want him like this every minute of the day.
“getting you ready, honey. gonna get you so fucking ready.” lando is slurring words into your cunt, letting them get lost to your sodden folds. you hear every word perfectly. they make you shake and shake until you’re undone.
when he looks up at you, his mouth is glistening. his fingers are, too. he hates wasting a drop of you, so he laps up the mess you’ve made while he shuffles up the bed. when he’s finally hovering over you, he’s desperate, but you’re worse. you could cry from the urge.
something carnal is taking place; he’s staring into your soul, finishing up the remnants of your taste, and you’re begging with your eyes, hands slinking all over your own body. you must be dripping by now. your body is restless and you raise your hips, inviting him close, deep.
when he thrusts into you, he’s pinning you down into your shared mattress. you’re completely at his mercy and he fucking loves it. you love it more. you go slack underneath him, and he starts a slow grind. he’s not thrusting, not yet, he’s just rolling into you, deeper, deeper, deeper. you feel the first tears threatening to fall. he feels so good, it’s unbearable.
he nudges at your most sensitive spot, over and over and over. you whine carnally and he swallows it, licking into your mouth. his curls tickle your forehead, you’re pressed so close together. he sees the pools in your eyes and then he looses it completely.
hand on your neck for leverage, he starts thrusting, harder and harder, faster than you can ever recall. he knows you can take it, knows how bad you want it, and that thought alone spurs him on. you have the same goals, the same shared instincts. you feel nothing but pure fucking bliss everywhere.
“you want me to fill you up? you want my baby, honey? want me buried nice and deep?” you hear him grunt, but he sounds so far away.
you are lost to the void when you come. you can’t even try and resist, not when you can hear how wet you are, not when you can hear the quiet whimpers he tries to fight at the way your pussy convulses around him. you cannot see anything but the stars in his eyes.
you go limp and he spills, fucking it even further into you. his eyes are trained on where you’re still joined, and where he’s still fucking you. you’d be screaming if not for the hand wrapped around your throat. the most delicious piece of jewellery you own.
lando needs to know he’s gone as deep as he can, that you’ve come as hard as he can make you. he feels unhinged when his fingers find your clit, switching between short spasms of his finger on the nub, and grinding down on it with his palm. you’re both overstimulated, soaked with sweat and other things. you’re gripping his cock so fucking tight that he can’t stop the rush of moans, your name mumbled like a prayer between expletives.
but still, he needs to know it’s deep enough.
an hour later, you can finally move, and you sink deep into the bath.
your head is on his chest, he washes you gently. you wonder if it’ll be a boy or a girl.
-
date night
almost a month passes. no sign of baby number two.
it’s fine, you tell yourself. you tell lando, too. all the more reason to keep practicing.
every opportunity he gets to bury himself to the hilt inside of you is a win in both of your books. he grabs every single one of those opportunities with both hands.
you’re dressed up nice for dinner, little black dress hugging you well. you watch the scenery flick past you. lando’s in the drivers seat, making small talk, his left hand heavy on your bare thigh. you’ve just dropped your daughter off with her grandparents, your mother hugging lando tight. he’d been gone a while.
fingers skim higher up your thigh. you want to let him carry on but this car is new, untainted by his adventurous personality and your willingness to comply. your legs snap shut and you watch him smirk out the corner of your eye.
“later.” you whisper.
his knuckles turn white on the steering wheel.
“i know. don’t you worry, honey.” he doesn’t sound convincing, no, he sounds like a man with a plan and you dread to think of what he has in store.
the restaurant is tiny. a hole in the wall. it’s intimate, exclusive, slightly extortionate, but lando likes to treat you. you order, and he behaves. you sip wine, and he behaves. you drag your heel up his leg, and still, he behaves. you know something is brewing behind those stormy eyes.
he launches his attack during dessert.
vanilla ice cream hits your tongue when he strikes, leaning back in his chair. his thick neck captures your attention, the dim light accentuating him just right.
“would your prefer we take this to the car or the bathroom? it’s pretty spacious back there, you know.”
lando speaks so casually, and slightly too loudly. your cheeks are aflame.
“lando!” you hiss in warning. you’re sputtering over his boldness, catching some ice cream with your tongue. he watches the way it moves over your lips intently.
“actually, as tempting as the bathroom is, we still need to break in the new car.” lando sounds like he’s talking about the weather, or a shopping list, not the location of your next sexcapade. you swear you see the old lady at the next table over wink at you. “your choice, honey.”
you’re staring daggers at him. he leans in closer, elbows resting on the table and a shit eating grin contorting his pretty face.
“i’ve been gone too long, i need to remember what that pussy feels like.” his voice has dropped an octave but it’s still too loud. you inadvertently grind against the chair. the candle on the table flickers from the force of the shaky breath your expel.
“if you shut up now, you can have me anywhere you want me.” you mumble, bringing your napkin to your lips. the ice cream is melting and you have more important things on your mind.
“i’ll have you anyway, honey. because no matter what happens, we’re gonna go back to the car and you’re gonna crawl into my lap, aren’t you? you’re not gonna be able to help it.” he keeps going and you want the ground to swallow you up. maybe you want to crawl over the table and jump on his lap right here. you fight every natural instinct.
“lando.” you try to scold him again but it comes out breathier, a feeble attempt at shutting him up. it’s hard to be convincing when you want nothing more than for him to bend you over in the middle of this restaurant.
“and after i’ve had you shaking on my lap, i’m gonna fill you up, yeah? you’ve been waiting for weeks, poor thing.”
you usher over the waiter, and ask for the bill.
-
he’s got you home in one piece and all the way up to the shower.
you’re still delirious from the car. he’s still dripping out of you.
he pushes you against the shower screen, your cheek resting on the fogged up plastic. the combination of yours and his first orgasm is enough to slick him up and he slides right back inside of you, as if he’d never left.
your head is spinning, car lights and nail prints in leather seats flashing through your mind.
he’d been right in the restaurant. you’d crawled straight into his lap and he’d been waiting, seat pushed back, cock slapping up against his tanned belly. he’d swiped his fingers through your folds, determining that you were wet enough already, and then you’d sunk straight down on him.
at first he’d just watched you lose control, bouncing and grinding and whining on his lap. you were growing tired when he stepped in, pushing you back against the steering wheel, the angle change making your eyes roll back. you came twice with his fingers on your clit and his other hand holding you down so he could grind up into you. he’d released deep into you, all you could do was shudder, collapsing into his chest.
now, he’s taking you again, the hot water cascading over you both. you’re almost limp, caught between the cold screen and his hot, restless body. this it was three weeks apart does to him, and the urge to claim every part of you is at the forefront of his mind.
you’re writhing. there’s no room to move; he’s pressed so tight against you, breathy moans sounding straight into your ear and you want him impossibly closer. you always missed him so much it hurt, but that pain had increased tenfold lately.
you try to roll your hips back into him, needing him deeper, somehow. you’re so wet and tight around him, and your attempt at moving on him has you clamping down on him.
lando whimpers when he lets go, marking you as his.
he washes your hair and you fall asleep together naked.
-
the fear
lando is due back from qatar.
any minute now, he’ll be walking through the door.
he’s taken a podium, so you are expecting somewhat high spirits, despite the slight issue that had been the sprint race.
a podium is a podium, you’d tried to tell him on the phone late on saturday night. you knew that a podium was never just a podium.
you’re cleaning the kitchen up, your sweet daughter tucked up tight in her bed upstairs. a random playlist is sounding from the speakers and you flit around in just his hoodie. it hits mid thigh and it’s keeping you shielded from the biting october air.
you hear keys in the lock somewhere in the distance. you grin stupidly. god, you always fucking miss him. you turn to face the doorway, eagerly anticipating his face, longing for one of his speciality hugs.
instead, a storm enters your kitchen in the form of your boyfriend.
you raise and eyebrow.
“lando?” you question.
your hips are in his hands before he can answer. he’s walking you backwards until the granite of the counter is digging into your lower back.
“turn around.” his voice is gravelly, commanding. you do as you’re told.
the hoodie is bunched around your waist, your panties are tugged to the side. you can hear the rustle of fabric, assuming he’s getting himself ready. two fingers gloss through your folds while he pushes you down, bending you over for him. he’s rubbing circles into your clit and you’re keening into his touch.
“you gonna tell me what’s wrong?” you manage to choke out. he grunts in response.
“just need to get inside you.” is all he replies. well, okay then.
lando rearranges you, hiking one of your knees up so that’s it’s resting on the countertop. your other foot barely touches the floor when he fucks into you, ruthless. you cry out, reaching blindly behind you for him. you graze his hip and he shivers, pushing into you even harder.
he’s frantic, messy with it, thumbing at your clit. there’s hardly any room to move his hand, so he’s grinding the pad of his thumb as best he can. the pressure builds in your belly embarrassingly fast. you love when he gets like this, but you will pry what’s wrong out of him later when he curls up into his chest.
“gonna give you another one. s’all i can think about. fucking you full.” he mutters. your back arches into him.
“please.” you whimper, slurred. it’s all you can think about too.
your plea ushers along his orgasm, and he drops his head against your back. you’re shaking when you finish; he stays buried deep for a moment, silence washing over you.
when he helps you stand up, he kisses you deep. he brushes the hair from your face, says hello properly.
“wanna go see her.” he mumbles.
-
when you finally manage to climb the stairs, you see straight into your daughters room.
lando is stood over her crib, watching her sleep in the lamp lit room. he’s cooing something to her that you can’t make out. your knees are weak at the sight. you want to fill this house with children that look like him and laugh the way he does.
he catches you watching, sending you a wink, a promise that he’ll meet you in bed. when he finally does, drawing back the sheets and dropping into bed beside you, he wraps himself around you instantly.
“talk to me.” you command, toying with his hair in a way that you know turns him into mush in your hands.
“can’t win a race, can’t give you another baby. just- fuck.” he sighs, voice so small. you tear up but you push that aside for now.
“stop, lando. don’t do this to yourself.” you try to sound firm, attentive.
“just- am i good to you? am i good to her?” he needs to hear you say it, that’s the only thing that will talk him down from this spiral. he’s exhausted, and this is often a consequence.
“sometimes i think you hung the stars in the sky.” you hum, kissing his forehead.
gentle snores lull you to sleep.
-
quickie
you go with him to austin.
it seemed logical, after the events of qatar. your daughter has been stolen away by lando’s dad, who is showing her the paddock and introducing her to mechanics. you watch on, momentarily, because then lando is stealing you away.
“haven’t you got fp3 in a minute?” you ask, coy smile on your face. he’s pulling your jeans down and kicking them away.
“this won’t take long.” he smirks.
you crave the upper hand for a change. his race suit is already undone, so you make your move. you tug down his fireproofs, taking his cock in your hands. he’s hard already, glistening for you. he groans, but doesn’t make you stop.
you’re watching him through your eyelashes, his head tipping back in pleasure. you work your hand around him, up and down, applying pressure at the base and around the tip. it’s flushed red, wet in your hand and he looks too pretty to stop. he can have you later, in your hotel room, you think. right now, you’re having him.
lando is panting, thrusting into your hand when he comes for you. you’re soaked through, and he can probably see the damp patch on the panties. his release hits your stomach, painting your flushed skin white. your eyes scan the room for something to clean yourself with, but he beats you to it.
thick fingers swipe through the mess he’s made. your panties are tugged to the side and then he’s fucking you with said fingers. you cannot produce a thought, mouth gaping open in the shape of an ‘o’. the sight before you has you gushing, and he uses that leverage to speed up.
“you think i’m gonna let it go go waste, honey? silly girl. pretty, pretty girl.” he mutters.
your hips are bucking into his hand when he pulls out of you, collecting more of him from your belly, and then he’s thrusting them in again. you tear up from the pleasure coursing through you, white hot. he’s crazy, you think, but he’s so fucking beautiful, teasing glint in his eye as he curls his fingers deeper.
“want it so bad, don’t you? gotta keep you full for me, don’t i?”
you’re sure you can be heard from the garage when your orgasm hits.
-
office party
a burnt orange dress clings to your hips and a curly haired man clings to your hand.
the mtc is lit up for another gala that you and lando have to attend. the season is over and they’ve had a great run, so a toast must be made to celebrate that.
you watch him get passed around the room between sponsors and other important people, proud of what he’s achieved. you hate sharing him, but it’s a necessary evil, so you drink champagne with oscar’s girlfriend, lily, and natalie pinkham.
when lando comes back to you, his PR smile is dropped and that genuine, boyish grin returns that you have so missed in his momentary absence. he introduces you to some people, proudly showing you off, sinking drinks as he does.
it’s nearing 10pm when his actions become questionable. his hand stays on your ass, his words whispered in your ear are filthy and his sly kisses on your neck stop being quite so sly.
you remove him from the main event, just for a moment, just to try and get him to compose himself before you jump him against one of the vintage racing cars. he sees this as an invitation, however, and then everything goes awry.
he’s dragging you into the lift, kissing you against the closed doors. when you stumble out a floor up, you can still hear the function in full swing. he’s pulling you down a hallway and into what you assume is an office. when he has you sat on a desk, you realise where you are.
“is this zak’s office?” your eyes pop out of your head, bewildered.
“maybe.” he shrugs. he’s smirking like a bastard.
“you’re insane.” you shake your head, standing from the desk, but his lips ghost your ear and you’re putty in his hands.
“you’re driving me insane. coming here in this tight fucking dress. can’t stop looking at you, thinking about this.” his hand rubs over your lower belly as he speaks, and then you’re back on the desk.
lando’s on his knees, peeling the silky material over your thighs until your barely there panties are in his face. he mouths over them briefly, and then they’re gone and his tongue is buried to the hilt in your cunt.
it doesn’t take him long to get you off, the alcohol and the thrill of being in the one place you should never have sex pushing you quickly towards your orgasm.
the glass wall of windows is too inviting for lando to pass up, so on shaky legs, you’re pressed up against them, looking out over the pond and the fairy lights when he pushes into you.
he’s kissing over your shoulder, your neck, holding your down on him while he thrusts up into you. you turn your head to kiss him, to let him swallow up your noises that could give you away.
“you’re so fucking good for me, honey. letting me have you here like this just so i can give you a baby.” he slurs against your lips, pussy drunk and ravenous.
he finds your clit, fast fingers making small swipes against it and you want to cry.
“gonna make this time count, yeah, honey? gonna keep it all inside of you until we get home?”
you try to nod, try to say something but you’re choking on air and dripping all over him. a couple more thrusts and you’re the perfect vessel for him to release into, throbbing and hot around his cock.
“beg for it, honey, come on. tell me how much you want it.” lando mumbles right in your ear.
“lando, please. please, please, please.” you whimper. “come for me, baby, need it inside of me.”
you leave the office a lot more composed than when you entered it. well, aside from the remnants of him that are running down your inner thighs.
-
a month later, lando’s laughing. he’s actually laughing, while you cringe, burying your blushing face in his chest.
you’re holding a pregnancy test in your hands, finally a positive one.
when you do the maths, you realise where baby norris was conceived, and you try and make him promise never to tell anyone that it was in his boss’s office.
“it’s a funny story.” he tells you. there are tears in his eyes.
“you’re so lucky i love you.” you roll your eyes. you are also dangerously close to crying.
but truthfully, you’re the lucky one. he carries you to bed that night, claiming that now you had a baby on board, you had to be careful!
you dream of him, that night. the man that hung the stars in the sky.
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And I would never condone clicking on this link to watch F1 pre-season testing and all the free practices, qualifying and races.
Don’t click on this link.
JOKES! Fuck that, free for all is what I say. No one should miss out on F1 because it’s expensive to watch.
Just to be clear…this is the link I am talking about. It streams F1 for free. FREE!
it’s been weeks since you last seen your ex boyfriend after storming out of his apartment, so how are you going to react when you wake up in his bed after a night out with your friend?
summary. fem reader. ex’s to lovers. post timeskip atsumu. black jackals mention. alcohol mentioned + consumed. reader is hungover. mention of arguments / breakups. petnames used; baby, angel. atsumu is a softie. atsumu uses kansai dialect. wc, 1.9k.
note. hi :) digging through a few old haikyuu things so i thought i’d post them here, ex’s to lovers with atsumu still remains to very dear to me ᰔ
“fuck, my head—” you think, internally but you’re pretty sure even the volume of the thought alone has only intensified the thumping of your headache right now as you sink back into the plush comforter beneath you.
you try to remember whatever the hell your friend was feeding you last night— shots, drinks, cocktails, more shots and even the foggy memory of sinking back another glass of the sickly sweet liquid has something dangerous turning in your stomach as you sigh, turning to nuzzle into the plush pillow underneath you with a drawn out groan.
and that’s when it hits you, the smell of the pillow below you. it’s familiar, but as soon as you inhale deep you realise that as much as it used to be, this isn’t your home. the uneasy feeling in your stomach only becomes that much more apparent when you suddenly become aware of the weight around your bare waist as your eyes snap open.
“fuck.” you hiss as you rise to your forearms, suddenly aware that you’re missing your clothes as you snap your head to the right, and even through your still cloudy vision and the dull room lighting you can still make him out, because as much as you’d hate to admit it – you always could.
miya atsumu, star setter for MSBY black jackals and your newly ex-boyfriend. he’s still as handsome as always much to your distaste, but there's something different about him this time; his roots are darker than usual like he's not touched them up in a while, allowing your eyes to trace along the the dark hair as it bleeds into the platinum blonde before it lands on his face. even with sleep still lacing his features, you notice that the skin around his eyes looks darker – even his skin tone seems a little more dull than usual, not as clean shaven as you know he likes, and you want to desperately ignore the twist in your chest that tells you it's because of this, you.
it’s been a few weeks since you’ve last seen him, he seemed to vanish after your most recent row – no instagram lives, no social media presence, even in the other black jackal’s stories he was never there and you'd be lying if you said you hadn’t been worried. but looking at him now, all the pain you felt that night comes rushing back, the venom that dripped from his words when you left and slammed the door behind you with teary eyes, and that’s when you know you still need to leave, because is this even still home for you?
the thudding of your heart becomes even more obvious in the silence of the room when you feel like you've just abruptly fallen back to reality, and if you didn't know your ex boyfriend was such a heavy sleeper you'd be worried it might actually wake him.
you inhale, holding your breath as you inch yourself closer to the edge of the bed before you freeze when you feel atsumu’s fingertips flex into your waist – like he's trying to pull you back. and as much as you want to roll back into his chest, let him hold you like he used to – do you even have a place there anymore? the thought drives you to slip out of his hold as your feet finally meet the cold wooden floor below you, and you allow yourself to finally exhale.
you take one step, although it's hesitant and it seems heavier than normal when you find yourself glancing back at the bed, at him – noting the now slight pinch in his brows before you take another step. you scan the room for your clothes, wincing when you find them haphazardly thrown into a heap in the corner along with atsumu’s, but it's when you bend down to finally grab them, you remember.. miya atsumu was a heavy sleeper, slept through his first three alarms every morning, but the only thing capable of waking him up.. was you leaving his arms.
“baby?” you gasp, not knowing if its the deep rumble in the waking blonde’s tone that has you startled or the effect the familiar pet name still has on you when you feel your stomach drop, and suddenly you feel weightless as your feet carry you across the room. you’re grabbing at your discarded clothes while quickly making your way to the door, ignoring the urgent shuffling from the covers behind you.
you’re almost there, you think — almost tripping towards the front door as you reach for the door handle but you suddenly forget how to breathe all together when its followed by a blunt sound as you pull, locked. your head is spinning, your chest tight as you try it once more time – almost frantically, until you feel something hard press against your back, and you know it's him when it's followed by the warmth of his palm resting over your hands that are trembling and desperately clasping around the handle.
“angel–” atsumu breathes and the pet name almost has you melting into him until you're snapped from your daydream, pushing your distance from him as you stand opposite him in the hallway. but this lighting only allows you to truly admire him.
he is still handsome, but he looks tired, dark skin under his eyes and stubble tracing along his jawline — the usual amber that burns in his eyes looks dimmer and the trademark grin that always laces his lips is nowhere to be found as he gazes back at you wordlessly.
“don’t call me that, miya..” you finally breathe, your words coming out sharper than you intended and you watch atsumu stiffen as the unfamiliar name rolls off your tongue. something almost sad flickers across his features before it's gone just as quickly, but somehow — there's still a softness in his eyes as they stay locked with yours.
“miya is my brother, that's not what ya call me.” the blonde sighs, running a lazy hand through his bedhead before he takes a deep inhale. “.. and yer always gonna be angel ta me.” the blonde almost mumbles, taking a step towards you as you take a step away and his muscled shoulders drop before he speaks again.
“ten minutes, gimme ten minutes.” atsumu breathes and almost instinctively your brows furrow,
“two minutes.” you snap and you can tell that he is biting back the urge to roll his eyes, he always had a habit of that.
“five.” he grumbles and you let the silence settle for a few seconds before you shuffle on your feet.
“fine, you have five minutes, atsumu.”
he visibly relaxes at your words, only breaking eye contact to look at the floor before his gaze is back on you – a little brighter this time as you watch his lips almost twitch into a soft grin before its gone again. “a know yer probably wondering why yer here.. well, ya text me– or actually, yer friend did from yer phone, said ya were in a bad way and asked me ta come pick ya up, and ya know a can never say no to ya.” atsumu sighs, only stopping to pinch between his brows before he snorts at his own words. “ya said ya lost yer keys, so i brought ya here – i didn’t try anythin’ a promise ya that, ya just wouldn’t take the clothes a offered ya. but—“ he stops, his eyes widening before he shakes his head and his gaze falls once more to his hands as he fidgets with them.
“ya said ya still loved me and i need ta know.. if ya meant it.”
there it was, the confession that you dreaded hearing – not because it wasn't true, ofcourse you still loved him but it was the idea of him, of all people rejecting the love that he taught you how to feel, and that thought alone almost has your body crumbling before he takes another step towards you.
“angel?” atsumu breathes again and you don’t realise your vision is cloudy until his fingertips graze along your cheekbone and the featherlight touch only reminds you how much you've missed him.
“i said stop calling me that, atsumu–” you bite, but you can't hold back the shake in your voice this time before he cuts you off.
“a can't do that, cause somethin’ tells me that that means ill need ta start livin’ without ya..” atsumu grumbles, his tone low and soft as he allows his thumb to trace along your damp lower lashes. “..and ya know a can't do that either.” his words are almost a whisper, just loud enough for you to hear and maybe it’s those exact words alone that have your skin growing warm when his hand softly rests on your waist, experimentally at first to make sure he's not crossing a line, but when you lean into his palm it’s all he needs to finally pull you into his chest.
“I'm sorry for everythin’, that night – all the shit a said, ya dont deserve that. ya deserve so much better–” the blonde setter sighs, his hands almost forming fists on your skin before his glazed eyes snap open when your voice cuts through his own.
“don't say that, ‘tsumu. don’t say i deserve better than you.” atsumu softens at the words, allowing himself a few shaky exhales before he speaks once more.
“shit, a can’t even sleep without ya– train, eat, everythin’ reminds me of ya. fuckin’ everythin’, angel. i’ve missed ya so much.” he breathes, a shaking undercurrent to his usual smooth tone as he places a few open mouthed kisses against your temple, and you finally allow yourself to melt into his embrace.
you both had so much to talk about, sort through, you were both so far from okay and you both knew that – but you needed this, you both did. your body already feels lighter in atsumu’s embrace, the warmth from his chest consuming you like a blanket that felt so much like home you couldn't hold back the first few tears that streaked down your cheeks, only pulling away to blink up at him when you feel his fingers rest under your chin to prompt you to meet his equally puffy, amber eyes.
let me make ya breakfast, we've got alot ta talk about.” he breathes, his usual bright grin almost returning to his lips, although you still notice the way he's nervously biting at the inside of his cheek.
“you’re a horrible cook.” you reply and you watch atsumu soften before he smiles this time followed by a playful pinch at your cheek and waist, just enough to have you wriggling closer to him.
“a know that, but if it makes ya stay, I’ll make as many bad breakfasts as a gotta, angel.” the blonde grins, leaning into to smear one last open mouthed kiss across your forehead before his hand affectionately squeezes as your side.
summary. with an arranged marriage set in place, the sacred bond is doomed with a wife who wants to make the relationship work and a husband who’s ready to ruin it all. unbeknown to him, a tragic fate already lies within the pages of his romance book.
genre. heavy angst, arranged marriage, ceo au, 18+
word count. 213k
fic warnings. mean!gojo, VERY OOC, adultery/infidelity, profanity, explicit smut, violence, emotional trauma/physical abuse from past experiences, neglect, heavy family drama, illnesses, classism, pregnancy, undertones of masochism, undertones of manipulation, abandonment issues, overall toxic relationships, graphic depictions of self-harm, suicide/murder (and attempts thereof), minor character death, plot loosely based on twotm & tre. please read with proper discretion. this is a work of fiction. all characters are written to portray roles that are necessary to the plot and are in no way a reflection of their canon counterparts.
c/w: established relationship, hurt/comfort, light mentions of blood and injury, atsumu lowkey gets his ass beat </3 but he is so sweet
Atsumu sits crisscrossed on the floor of your bathroom with a tender black eye and a busted lip—and though this should be a rare thing, you need all five fingers to count the number of times you’ve seen this film before.
The first two were ages ago, high school days when he and Osamu couldn’t stop themselves from throwing a punch or two over nothing at all. Their egos too big and brains too small, twice you’d gotten roped into their post-brawl aftercare. Another time it was a fight off the court, when a rival captain made a snide remark about his foul accent. The fourth, a drunken, immature mistake.
Tonight’s wounds are different. Because when Atsumu nonchalantly shows up black and blue at your door, he doesn’t tell you what happened. There’s no story attached to the bruises he bares, no lengthy explanations or excuses. And Atsumu is a lot of things, but speechless is never one of them.
He looks childish, you think, the way his broad body folds itself into a tiny pretzel and hardly takes up a corner of your tiled floor. He’s oddly quiet, too. Sure, you heard his witty comments down the hallway about how you should see the other guy, but something’s still off. His eyes aren’t lit with their usual flame of youth, pride.
Only a few words are exchanged through the process of cleaning him up. Between wet washcloths and tiny sniffles, Atsumu fumes, You haven’t asked enough questions yet, and it’s beginning to freak him out. He doesn’t know whether or not he should be grateful or unsettled with your silence.
A frozen bag of vegetables presses against his left eyelid when you finally ask, “What the hell did you do this time?”
a/n: It's finally hereee, baseball player megumi!! 100% took inspo from @withthegraceofthewind 's post here !! I wanted to have this out yesterday but I had such writers block whaaa. i hope you all like it ✧˖°.✧ mwah mwah xoxox // / photos are not mine, check masterlist description for header & banner credits
synopsis: you and megumi have been dating a few months when he takes up baseball, and his uniform is just looking a little too good
wc: 6.2k i cannot write short things for the life of me lmaoo okay bye.
tags: AFAB!reader x baseballplayer!megumi
warnings: 18+ only!! not proof read. slightly soft dom megumi, use of sir, good girl, princess, pretty girl etc.. light spanking, hair pulling, very light bdsm, face fucking, use of toys- anyways you get it!!!
“Baseball?”
You asked incredulously, raising an eyebrow to your boyfriend before he’s slumping down next to you on the couch at your apartment. “I didn’t take you for a sports person.”
His eyebrows knit together for a moment before he replied. "Yeah, it's a bit surprising," he admits, "but I didn't have much of a choice. Gojo-sensei practically dragged me into it."
You chuckle, imagining the eccentric sorcerer strong-arming Megumi into joining a college baseball team. "I can totally see that," you say, shaking your head playfully. "Knowing Gojo, he can be pretty persuasive."
Megumi nods, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Persuasive is one way to put it," he says, amusement lacing his voice. "More like relentless. But I have to admit, it's not as bad as I thought it would be."
You raise an eyebrow, curious. "Oh, really? So you're enjoying it?" you ask, a hint of teasing in your tone.
He glances at you, his gaze softening. "Well, not as much as spending time with you," he replies, and your heart flutters at his sweet words. "But it's not terrible. Itadori can be a pain in the ass during practice, but the team is fun, and it's nice to be active."
You smile, his hard demeanor might hide it at times, but you've come to understand the depth of his feelings through the little moments like this.
"I'm glad you're having a good time," you say, leaning in to rest your head against his shoulder. “and I can't wait to see your uniform.” you tease, poking his bicep.
Megumi's cheeks turn a light shade of pink, and he glances down at his bicep as it flexes beneath your touch. "Oh, really?" he says, a playful glint in his eyes.
You can't help but giggle, enjoying the banter with him. "Well, can you blame me?" you retort with a mischievous grin. "Seeing my boyfriend all sporty and handsome in a baseball uniform."
He smirks, feigning a bit of reluctance. "Fine, fine," he says, rolling his eyes playfully. " but keep your expectations low."
The sun beat down as you and Nobara made your way to the bleachers.
The warm, dry air wrapped around you, carrying the scent of fresh-cut grass from the baseball field. Excitement buzzed in the atmosphere as the crowd filled the stadium, eager to witness the upcoming game.
As you climbed up the bleachers, you found a comfortable spot with a clear view of the baseball diamond. You couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation. You’d offered to come to practice many times to support Megumi, but each time he shooed you off and insisted it wasn’t important.
Nobara plopped down next to you, fanning herself with her hand. "Geez, it's hot out here," she complained, trying to shield her eyes from the sun. "I hope the game is worth the sweat."
You chuckled, nodding in agreement. "Oh, I'm sure it will be," you said, a hint of excitement in your voice.
Nobara grinned mischievously. "Excited to see your man all sweaty and sporty?" she teased, winking at you.
You playfully nudged Nobara, trying to hide the blush creeping up your cheeks. "Well, it's not just about that," you replied, trying to sound nonchalant. "I genuinely want to support him and cheer him on."
Nobara chuckled, knowing you too well to buy your casual response. "Sure, sure," she said with a knowing smile. "But I can't blame you. Hard to resist a man in uniform."
Before you could respond you hear the crowd start to cheer, the moment finally arrived when the team emerged on the field, and your eyes locked onto Megumi. Your breath caught in your throat as you saw him.
Your eyes couldn't help but linger on the details of Megumi's uniform. His normally porcupine-esque hair was tamed down underneath a black cap, although it didn’t stop a few strays from peeking out the sides and back. The tight long sleeved black sports shirt he wore underneath the white jersey emphasized his athletic physique. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow exposing his pale muscular forearms, making your heart skip a beat.
The thin black stripes running up the length of the jersey added a touch of sleekness, making him look even more dashing. You noticed the bold black letters stitched on the back, spelling out "Fushiguro" above the number thirteen. Your jaw dropped slightly ajar, thirteen was your lucky number.
You had shared this little detail with Megumi during one of your late-night talks. At that time, you hadn't thought much of it, just a passing conversation. But seeing him wearing that number now, it felt like he had taken your words to heart and made you a part of his identity on the field. You couldn't help but smile, feeling a deeper bond with him in that moment. It was these little things that made your relationship so special.
But the best part was the pants, you couldn't help but eye him up. The way they hugged him, not too tightly, but when he turned his back towards you, you couldn't help but stare at his-
“Hellooo?!!”
You blinked, snapping out of your momentary daze as Nobara's voice pulled you back to reality, her hand waving in front of your face.
Your cheeks flushed, realizing you had been caught staring. Nobara smirked, raising an eyebrow teasingly. "Lost in a daydream, were we?" she said, her tone laced with amusement.
You stammered, trying to find the right words. "I-I... Uh, I was just, you know, admiring how good he looks." you managed to say, feeling a mix of embarrassment and affectionate admiration for Megumi.
Nobara chuckled, nudging you playfully. "Oh, I can tell," she said with a sly grin. "The way you were ogling him, it's written all over your face."
You groaned, burying your face in your hands. "I didn't mean to be so obvious," you mumbled, feeling your cheeks grow even hotter.
Nobara laughed, patting your back reassuringly. "Hey, it's nothing to be embarrassed about," she said. "You're just appreciating your boyfriend, and honestly, I can't blame you. He does look pretty damn good in that uniform."
You peeked out from behind your hands, giving her a shy smile. "Yeah, he really does," you admitted, feeling a little more at ease with her playful teasing.
You turned your attention back to the field, where Megumi was scanning the crowd. Your heart fluttered as you made eye contact with him, and a warm smile spread across your face. You waved to him, signaling your presence, and he returned the gesture with a nod and a soft smile. Though he wouldn't admit it himself, his heart soared at the sight of you.
Yuji came into view and threw an arm around Megumi's shoulder, you could see your boyfriend's familiar half-annoyed look. It was a common expression when dealing with Itadori's exuberant antics. Yuji waved enthusiastically to you and Nobara, and you both waved back with equal enthusiasm. His grin was infectious, and it was hard not to be swept up in his spirit.
A whistle called the boys away to the dugout for a final huddle before the game began, Megumi shooting you one last faint smile before joining the others. His team was up to bat second.
As the game began, the excitement in the air was palpable. The players were making their rounds, warming up for their turn on the field. Your eyes followed each of them, but your attention always seemed to gravitate back to Megumi. When it was finally the home team's time to bat you couldn't help but feel a surge of anticipation.
Megumi had a blank expression as he prepared to play, but you knew him well enough to see the determination in his eyes. After a few of his teammates he was up to bat next. When Megumi stepped up to the plate, you held your breath, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness. You could feel the tension in the air as everyone watched intently.
The pitcher threw the ball, and with a swift swing, Megumi connected. The crack of the bat echoed through the stadium as the ball soared through the air. Your heart raced as you followed its trajectory, hoping for the best. The ball landed safely in the outfield, and Megumi took off, running with all his might.
The fielders scrambled to retrieve the ball, but it was too late. Megumi reached second base safely, sliding in with a well-executed double. The crowd erupted into cheers as he stood on second base, looking focused and determined. It was an impressive hit, and you could see the pride in his eyes as he stood there, ready for whatever came next.
The game continued, and with each play, you could see the passion and skill that Megumi brought to the field. He was a force to be reckoned with.
You couldn't take your eyes off him as the game continued. The way he moved on the field was captivating, and you found yourself completely enamored with him. Every subtle flex of his muscles, every long stride he took as he ran past the bases, it all had a mesmerizing effect on you. The sweat that formed above his brow only added to his appeal.
Despite the seriousness on his face, you could see the determination in his eyes. As the game progressed, he found himself stealing glances at you whenever he could. He couldn’t help but seek your praise.
As the game reached the seventh inning stretch, the game was nearly tied. Home team was only a point behind. You were filled with excitement at the prospect of a short break. You took the opportunity to make your way down to the field, eager to greet Megumi.
As you approached the dugout, Nobara in toe, you saw him taking a moment to catch his breath. His hair was tousled from the intensity of the game, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. Despite the exhaustion, his eyes lit up when he saw you approaching.
"Hey," you said with a smile, reaching out to wipe a bead of sweat from his brow.
"Hey," he replied, his voice a little breathless but filled with affection.
"How are you feeling?" you asked, concerned about his well-being.
"I'm good," he said, nodding. "It's been a tough game, but we're holding up."
"You're doing great out there," you said, unable to hide the admiration in your voice. "I'm so proud of you, thirteen."
A faint blush dusted his cheeks, and he looked away for a moment, as if trying to collect his thoughts. "Thank you," he finally said, his voice soft.
“She’s also been totally checking you out!” Nobara chimed in from behind you with a taunting grin, causing you to shoot her a glare.
Megumi chuckled at Nobara's playful teasing and glanced at you with a faint smile. "Is that so?" he said, raising an eyebrow in amusement.
You blushed, embarrassment flooding your stomach. "Well, maybe a little," you admitted, playfully nudging Nobara to stop her from adding more fuel to the fire.
Nobara laughed, clearly enjoying herself. "See, I told you! Can't resist a man in uniform, huh?" she said, teasingly nudging you back.
You rolled your eyes but couldn't help but smile. "Okay, fine, you caught me," you said, conceding the point.
Megumi's smile widened, and he gave you a gentle squeeze on the shoulder and leaned down to catch your lips against his own. It wasn’t like him to initiate pda but knowing you’d been checking him out from the stands gave him a boost of confidence. The softness of his lips against yours sent a shiver down your spine, and you melted into the gentle kiss. You wrapped your arms around his waist, pulling him closer, savoring the warmth of his embrace.
Nobara gagged with feigned disgust. "Well, I'll leave you two to your moment," she said, before walking away to catch up with Yuji.
You and Megumi pulled away from the kiss, both of you trying to hide your amused smiles at Nobara's playful interruption. "Such a mood killer," you said, chuckling softly.
Megumi nodded in agreement. "She really knows how to make an exit," he said, a hint of annoyance in his voice.
As Nobara joined Yuji, they exchanged knowing glances, and you could hear her teasing followed by their laughter about the romantic moment they just witnessed. You turned back to Megumi, a playful glint now hinting in his eyes as he looked at you.
“So you like the uniform that much, huh?” He smirked, pulling you closer by the waist.
You couldn't help but blush at Megumi's playful remark. "Maybe I do," you replied, trying to sound nonchalant, but the glint in his eyes made your heart race.
He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. "Is that so?" he whispered, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine. "Well, I can't blame you. I do look pretty good.”
You felt a mixture of amusement and desire as he teased you. "Confident, aren't you?" you said, trying to regain some semblance of composure.
He leaned back slightly, his gaze intense as he looked at you as a smile played on his mouth.
“Well,” You say, your turn to tease. “I have always wanted to get with a baseball player, but only one from a winning team.” Your finger traced down his chest, looking at him through your lashes.
Megumi lips twitched up with a grin, clearly enjoying the playful banter and forgetting to maintain his brooding composure.
"Oh, so you have high standards, huh?" he replied, his voice laced with amusement.
You nodded, feigning seriousness. "Absolutely," you said, playing along. "I can't be seen with just any player. Only the best for me."
Before he could reply the coach called out, and Megumi's playfulness shifted back to his normal straight faced demeanor. The break was over and he was being summoned back to the field. He let out a sigh not wanting his time with you to end, but if you wanted the best player, then that’s what he would be.
He gave you a final squeeze before you returned to the bleachers with Nobara.
As the game neared its nail-biting conclusion, the tension in the stadium reached its peak.
The scoreboard showed a tie of 4-4, and everyone held their breath, anxious to see which team would emerge victorious.
As the clock ticked away, the home team desperately shuffled through players, trying to find the one who could secure that critical extra point. Each attempt came up short, and the pressure mounted with every passing second. Amidst the flurry of emotions, you glanced at Megumi, expecting to see some sign of nerves. But to your surprise, he appeared calm and composed, his demeanor unwavering.
Then, the moment everyone had been waiting for arrived. It was Megumi's turn – the final batter. The weight of the game rested on his shoulders, and the stadium seemed to hold its collective breath. Your heart pounded in your chest as you clutched your hands together, unable to tear your eyes away from the field. Nobara stood beside you, equally absorbed in the unfolding drama.
He made his way up and stood at the plate, his expression focused. Before the pitcher threw the ball, Megumi's eyes caught yours, and he winked.
The pitcher wound up, and the ball came hurtling towards Megumi. With precision and strength, he swung the bat, and the ball soared through the air. The stadium went silent as they followed the trajectory of the ball. The outfielders scrambled to catch it, but it was clear that Megumi's hit was a powerful one. The ball sailed far beyond their reach.
It was a home run.
The stadium erupted into cheers, and you jumped to your feet, clapping and cheering with joy.
Nobara cheered beside you, clapping her hands with glee. "That's our boy!" she exclaimed, her excitement matching yours.
Megumi had done it—he had secured victory for his team. You watched as he rounded the bases, a small smile playing on his lips. As he crossed home plate, he was met with cheers and applause from his teammates. They engulfed him and nearly lifted him off the ground, celebrating the hard-fought victory.
You tore your way down to the field, eager to congratulate him personally. As you reached Megumi, he broke away from the team and you couldn't contain your excitement. Without hesitation, you leaped into his arms, wrapping your legs around his waist, nearly tackling him to the ground. He caught you effortlessly, a surprised but delighted expression on his face. He chuckled, holding you close as you both shared a moment of sheer bliss.
"You were amazing out there!" you exclaimed, unable to contain your enthusiasm. "What was that?!"
He grinned, a mix of pride and something else playing in his eyes. He chuckled, a low and husky sound that sent shivers down your spine. He pulled you even closer, his lips nearly brushing against yours as he whispered,“You said you’d only get with the best players, so”
You gaped, raising an eyebrow. “That was for me?”
His fingers traced delicate patterns on your back, sending a delicious tingling sensation through your body. "Well, I aim to please," he murmured, his breath warm against your skin.
You leaned back slightly, looking up at him with a sly grin. "And you always hit the mark," you said, your voice dripping with playful innuendo.
He raised an eyebrow, his playful smirk never leaving his lips. He paused for a moment, looking at the team and back to you.
“Let’s get outta here, ya?” he said, his voice low and seductive. His fingers squeeze your hips.
“You don't want to celebrate with the team?” You ask, although you know the answer.
Megumi leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, "I'd much rather celebrate with you in private." His fingers continued to squeeze you, sending a thrilling shiver through your body.
You couldn't resist the allure in his voice and his dark gaze. The idea of being alone with him, away from the crowd, was enticing.
"I guess the team can handle the celebration without us," you said, your own voice cracking slightly with your own desire.
A sly grin spread across Megumi's face as he heard your response. "That's my girl," he whispered, his lips grazing your earlobe before trailing down to your neck. “Let’s go back to your place.”
His touch sent shivers of anticipation down your spine, and you could feel the heat building between you. Without waiting for another word, he took your hand and led you away from the field, the noise of the crowd fading into the background. You followed him eagerly, your heart pounding with excitement.
You barely make it through the door of your apartment, shoes being kicked off, nearly stumbling over each other as Megumi's lips attack yours. Your fingers tangle in his hair as you kiss him back with equal fervor, his cap falling to the floor while you're lost in the intoxicating taste and feel of him. The smell of sunblock and sweat mixed with his cologne filled your nostrils.
"I've been waiting for this all game," he murmured against your lips, his voice husky with desire. "You drive me crazy, you know that?"
You couldn't help but smirk, feeling empowered by the effect you had on him. "Well, I'm glad to know I have that effect on you," you teased, biting your lip playfully.
He growls low in his throat, his eyes smoldering with intensity. "You have no idea," he replied, one of his hands slipping under your shirt.
The sensation of his hands on your skin sent shivers of pleasure through your body, and you let out a soft hum, unable to contain the overwhelming desire that surged within you. Megumi's lips left a trail of fiery kisses along your jawline, his fingers tangling themselves in your hair before yanking your head back, exposing your neck.
You gasped slightly and arched your neck to grant him better access, relishing the feeling. With each kiss, each bite, he marked you as his, leaving an imprint on your skin. Your breath hitched, and a whimper escaped your lips. His growl of approval echoed in your ear.
You clung to him, your fingers digging into his shoulders, urging him closer. Before you could move anymore he peeled back from you, releasing his grip from your hair. His eyes were clouded with lust, cheeks tinted red from the heated encounter.
“Bed. Now.” His voice was low.
His commanding tone sent a rush of excitement down to your core, heat now pooling between your legs. You didn't need to be told twice, quickly making your way to your bedroom and clambering onto the soft top mattress.
Megumi was hot on your tail, quick to climb over you and press you into the mattress with another hungry kiss. Your lips part welcoming his tongue, enveloped by his sweet and salty taste. He settles himself between your legs, hips pressing into you in an attempt to gain a little friction on the growing bulge in his pants. You moan into his mouth and wiggle your hips in tandem, earning a low groan from Megumi's throat.
He pulls away, leaving your lips chasing his for a moment before he pushes you back down flush with the mattress. His hands travel down your body, finding the hem of your shirt. You could feel his fingers graze the bare skin, and a soft gasp escaped your lips, fueling his desire even more.
As if in response to your unspoken plea, Megumi moved his hands upwards, teasingly inching your shirt off your body. Your back arched in response, and with a slow and deliberate movement, he finally pulled your shirt over your head.
You can sense the satisfaction pool behind his hooded gaze to see you weren't wearing a bra, your nipples quickly hardening as the air hit them. His head was fuzzy, swimming is the sight of you beneath him, swollen lips and big doe eyes looking up at him with a near teary expression. He went to undo the buttons of his jersey but your hands gripped over his, halting his movements.
"Leave it on," you plead, your voice coming out weaker than you'd hoped, but you could see the desire in his eyes intensify, an amused smirk playing at his lips.
“Fine, but only if you behave, pretty girl.” He growled, grabbing your wrists and holding them together with one large hand.
You nod fervently as his free hand unclips his belt, yanking it from its loops.
“What do you say?” He snaps, grip tightening on your skin.
“Yes sir!” You chirp, squirming slightly under his touch.
He makes fast work of securing the belt tightly around your wrists.
“Good girl.” He relished in the control he had over you, and the power dynamic between you both fueled you even further. “Stay.”
He lifts himself off the bed in one swift movement, and you bite your lip to keep from protesting watching him intently as he opens your bedside drawer. You feel your stomach flutter when he pulls out the vibrator you have stashed there.
He turns his attention back to you, dropping the toy on the bed beside you, and his hands find your ankles. Before you could protest he was dragging you to the edge of the bed, earning a squeal from your lips. He smirked, hands now running up your legs to find the edge of your bottoms, fingers dipping under the fabric. Your hips lifted in response and he made quick work of discarding the rest of your outfit, save for your underwear, a wet spot now visible from your arousal. You could see the way his pupils dilate, tongue jetting out to wet his lips at the sight.
“God pretty girl, you really do like this uniform, hmm?” He growls, swiping a finger over the wet spot.
Your hips buck instinctively and a gasp escapes your lips, head lulling back into the mattress. A sudden slap to your inner thigh causes you to yelp.
“Answer me princess.” His gaze is crushing, yet his tone is soft, controlled. He looks at you expectantly, long fingers dancing over your now stinging skin.
“Y-yes sir! Couldn't stop watching you all game.” You whine, hips twitching as his fingers trace around your hips, coming dangerously close to your throbbing heat before moving away again.
He hums in response, pushing your thighs apart with one hand before grabbing your bound wrists and placing them above your head. You bite your lip with anticipation, watching his calculated movements as he grabs the vibrator flicking it on to the lowest setting. A dull hum fills the room.
“Keep your arms up for me pretty, and don't close your legs on me either.” Again he spoke with such a cool composure it sent a shiver down your spine.
Before you can respond he presses the vibrator into your clothed pussy and watches as you go slackjaw, eyes rolling back in your head. His dick twitches in his pants, straining against the fabric as his free hand grips the plush of your thigh. He grits his teeth, doing all he can to not fuck you right away.
A drawn out whine escapes you as he drags the vibrator in slow movements against your clit, the fabric of your panties dulling the sensation ever so slightly. Your hips roll upwards, trying to increase the friction, but Megumi's grip on your thigh limits your movements. Watching you crumble so quickly beneath him has Megumi drowning in his own ego. His grip leaves your thigh for a moment to palm himself through his pants.
He continues with the tortuous movements for a bit longer, waiting until you're a wristhing mess beneath him. His free hand is now tracing the edge of your underwear, teasing for a moment before pulling the fabric to the side and exposing your dripping cunt.
He’s quick to push the vibrator to a higher setting, gliding it through your wet folds before resting on your now exposed clit. Your back arches once again at the new feeling, a shrill moan tumbling past parted lips. A low groan pushes its way from Megumi's chest as he watches you. You’re so lost in the sensation you don't even notice your legs closing around him until the vibrator is being yanked away and a harsh slap is laid on your puffy clit, eliciting a lewd cry to tear its way from your throat and tears stinging your eyes.
“Legs open princess.” He coos, voice sickly sweet as if he hadn't just left a throbbing sting in between your legs. You concede with a whimper, opening your legs to him again.
Before he went back to his game, he quickly undid the zipper on his pants, dragging the fabric down just enough to let his cock spill free. He let out a low hiss through clenched teeth, the discomfort of having it confined had grown to be too much for his liking, and a pearl of precum quickly dribbled down the length. You let out a needy moan as you watched, walls suddenly feeling very empty without him filling you up.
But he was not letting himself fall to temptation, not quite yet. He gripped the vibrator again, but seemed to pause for a moment, as if he was pondering to himself. You whine, pussy throbbing at the prolonged loss of contact, hips raising in the air to grind into nothing.
“Megu- Sir, please” You plead, batting your teary lashes.
Your voice seems to call him back to reality, looking at you, expression unreadable. Before you could continue your whining he grabs your soft hips and spins you around earning a squeak in response. Your head is now dangling at the edge of the bed where your hips had just been, face to face with Megumi's throbbing cock. He grips the base, pumping himself a few times before tapping the sensitive head against your bruised lips.
“Open.” He directs.
You oblige eagerly, letting your jaw fall open as he pushes himself into your mouth.
A strangled moan catches in his throat, one hand coming down to catch your face as his brows knit together. “That’s it, good- hhgnnn- oh! God- good girl”
The sound of his moans mixed with praise sends another wave of slick leaking from your core. You wish to reach out and help guide him forward with your hands but they remain bound, now hovering just above your chest.
You fight off a gag as he pushes himself further down your throat, drool starting to leak out the corners of your mouth. You breathe deeply through your nose, closing your eyes and forcing your gag reflex to relax. Megumi was overwhelmed for a moment, appreciating the feeling of your cheeks hollowing out against him. Letting out another low groan, he begins to carry a steady tempo fucking your face.
The pleasure is enough that he’s fighting to keep his eyes open, but the sight is too much to not have his gaze glued to you. His jaw hung open watching the way his cock leaves your mouth covered in a glossy sheen of saliva, only to plunge back in while you hold back gags.
“Oh fuck- fuck pretty, mmmnn- doing so good- ahh-.. taking my fu- fucking cock.” He muttered, dragging his index finger over the corner of your lips to catch the drool that threatened to spill down your face.
A harsh buzz against your clit causes your body to jolt as he presses the vibrator against you with his other hand, catching you off guard. Tears prickle your vision but you can only whine in response, sending vibrations running through his dick that caused him to shutter above you and shove his hips into your face again. The way you writhe underneath him is almost too much to take, and the expression on his face is downright sinful.
The combination of the vibrations on your clit and Megumi's sensitive tip prodding the back of your throat has you squirming, nearly sobbing against his dick. Your hips buck and the coil in your stomach begins to tighten when you hear Megumi growl above you. A few more pumps of his hips and he’s pulling out of your mouth, a string of drool momentarily clinging on before breaking away. He lets out a low hiss at the loss of touch, but he’s not about to cum just yet.
You look up at him with labored breathing as your airways are now clear. He looks so good in that god damn uniform. His pupils are blown as he drinks you in, your completely disheveled appearance, cheeks dusted pink and tear stained, completely fucked out before he’s even stuffed you full. He helps you to sit up, catching your chin with his thumb and index and bringing his lips down on yours in another, more loving, kiss.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, pretty girl.” He mumbles, barely pulling away from the kiss. You hum happily against him.
After a few more minutes of a sultry makeout session Megumi grabs one of the pillows from the top of the bed. You watch curiously as he places it down before once again grabbing the vibrator, placing it on the pillow.
“Lay on your stomach princess.” He orders, slightly more demanding now.
You part your lips as if to reply, but decide against it. Megumi's hands help guide you into position, laying flat on the mattress, bound wrists stretched out in front of you. The pillow stuffed underneath you keeps your hips angled upwards while also holding the vibrator in place, pushing against your swollen clit. Megumi positions himself behind you, admiring his handiwork before laying a quick slap to your ass, surely leaving a mark. You whimper in response, cheek squished against the comforter.
Megumi's hand wraps around the base of his dick once again, giving it a few more pumps before prodding your wet folds teasingly. Your hips push back towards his in response, earning another smack on your backside. You yelp and he smooths his hand over your skin, soothing the sting.
“So eager.” You can practically hear the smile in his voice, his hand slipping between your legs and clicking the vibrator on, setting it to a medium thrum.
A muffled moan spills out of you while you do your best to hold still. “Mmnnm- Please sir! I need it- ahh- ”
He lets out a soft groan, pulling his pants down further so they rest on his thighs before yanking the loose fabric of his shirt up behind his neck, giving him a clear view. With his hands now free he grips onto your hips to steady himself while lining up with your entrance. You can feel the anticipation nearly beading off of you, another sultry moan escaping you as he pressed his tip into your folds.
Megumi finds himself mesmerized, completely engulfed in the way your soaking cunt is basically sucking him in. As he finally pushes his way inside of you his head falls back on his shoulders, an audible groan bubbling up from deep within him as he tucks his lower lip between his teeth. You flutter around him, your own drawn out whine mixing with his at the feeling of your walls being stretched out and his fingernails digging into your supple skin.
“Holy fuck princess- nnngg-god-” He breathes as he drags his cock out painfully slow before pushing back in, bottoming out as his hips go flush against your ass. “t-takin’ this cock so well. how do you- ugnn- always feel s’good” He tries to maintain his domineering tone, but your walls coaxing him forward have him sounding downright needy.
You can’t even formulate a response. The sensation of his thick cock dragging in and out of you mixed with the vibrator relentlessly pushing against your clit had you in another world. It was euphoric. Megumi watched the withdrawals of his hips before plunging back into your needy cunt, gritting his teeth. His body hunched over your own, one hand finding its way to the back of your neck pressing you deeper into the mattress as his hips picked up a relentless place. A slew of curses spewed from your mouth, fingers gripping mindlessly into the comforter unable to move from their bound position.
The sounds that filled the room were filthy, skin hitting against skin, the soft squelch every time megumi's hips rolled into yours. You felt so full, each thrust causing your clit to rub harder against the vibrator beneath you and your silky walls to clench around him. Your stomach began to tighten again as you approached your high. The pleasure was bordering on too much, strangled sobs only able to claw their way out along with Megumi's name falling from your tongue. He was too pussy drunk to even correct you to call him sir, thighs quivering as he pounded into you.
Without faltering his pace he moves his hand into your hair yanking your head back, just enough to place a sloppy kiss on your jaw. His ragged breath is hot against your ear.
“gonna be a good girl and cum for me, princess?” he growls, hips now rutting into you in smaller, rougher thrusts clearly aimed at grinding himself into your g-spot.
That was all it took, you felt your jaw go slack, crying out as your orgasm ran over you like a steamroller. Your hips wriggle forward, trying to escape the buzz of the vibrator on the verge of over stimulating your clit. But Megumi's strong grip holds you down, forcing you to ride out your orgasm and relishing in the feeling of your walls fluttering on his cock. You’re nearly crying at this point, your whole body trembling. Finally he releases his grip and you lurch forward, only to be caught by his hands yet again and rolled onto your back.
Megumi kneels over you, straddling your torso as he pumped his cock furiously in his hand, his own orgasm rearing out. You can only stare up at him, mouth hanging open completely fucked out. He lets out a lengthy sob of his own, curling over you as the coil in his stomach snaps and sticky cum lands in spirts on your chest and neck. His hips buckle slightly with each thrust and you can feel his legs shaking at your sides before he’s collapsing next to you.
You both stare at the ceiling, just taking a moment to catch your breath. Once you both sink back into reality Megumi gently rolls over to face you, his fingers deftly unfastening the belt that bound your wrists. You notice a grin plastered on his face.
“What are you smiling about?” You ask breathlessly, raising an eyebrow.
His grin widens as he looks at you playfully. “I should have started playing baseball a long time ago.”
